/A- -^/.r^C ■ ^,^' W^^ rO' ^^= ^d^ cy\^ oS-' Q-, ", o. ''^T^T^\^^' '",.- -■aW ^^0^ !#//': -^^ fc^^ ^l»VVc^ "■ ^^^ ^- iiic - .<^ %. ^^<^^ 9d. ".T.s ^\# ^^ /SM' %^'' -^ ^ »|ii s^ A&^ ^VX>-JZ/-^ x^ ^:^^»;\ "^^^ «%' -^^ 0, ^ vl \* .V '•%4iM^ v." ,"9^ T^ 0^ 6>- 4.& ^^^ 4 ^ . ^i^ S^^ THE Select British Essayists EDITED BY JOHN HABBERTON. / THE SELECT BRITISH ESSAYISTS. A Series planned to consist of half a ■ dozen' volumes, comprising the Represen- tative Papers of The Spectator, Tatlej^, Guardian, Rambler^ Lotmger, Mirror, Looker- On^ etc., etc. Edited with Intro- duction, and Biographical Sketches of the Authors, by John Habberton. This series has been planned to preserve, and to present in a form at once attractive and economical, the permanently valuable portions of those stan- dard productions of the Essayists, which, as well for the perfection of their English style, as for the sterling wofth of their matter, are deservedly perennial. SPECTATOR. TATLER. il7i prt $1.25. f^ / ^ The Spectato R {SELECTED PAPERS.) ADDISON AND STEELE WITH INTRODUCTORY ESSA Y AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES JOHN HABBERTON 55^0 iv NEW YORK: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, 4th Avenue and 23d Street. 1876. r \3^'' 3^^ Copyright, 1876, by G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS. MC> INDEX NO. OF Original subject. author, page PAPER. I. Addison, description of Addison. i 1 88. Approbation, the love of. , Steele. 142 158. Beau, a letter from Steele. 124 87. Books for women Steele. 93 27. Character, the formation of Steele. 45 631. Cleanliness, influence of 277 584. Chinese Story, a Addison. 249 585. " " Addison, 253 592. Critics, the faults of Addisott. 257 163. Contentment, desirability of Addison. 129 574. Contentment, profit of Addison. 244 79. Coquetry Steele. 86 16. Correspondents, hints to Addison. 32 99. Courage and Honour Addison. 97 66. Daughters, education of Steele. 69 25. Death, the fear of Addison. 43 104. Decency, the preservation of Steele. 103 201. Devotional Spirit, the Addison. 14^ 15. Display, influence of, on womankind Addison. 28 225. Discretion, the dividing line between wise men and fools Addison. 159 438, Disagreeable Persons i .Steele. 204 569. Drunkenness Addison. 241 34. Editors, duties of , , , , „ Addison. 55 INDEX. NO. OF ORIGINAL SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGH PAPER. 4. Editor of Spectator, his method Steele. 1 1 262. Editor of Spectator, his aims Steele. 175 179. *' " " Addison. 135 302, Emilia, the character of Brouic. 182 ,507. Falsehood, frequency of Addison. 232 68. Friendship Addison. 72 143. Friends, the rights of Steele. 121 356. Forgiveness, the glory of Addison. 196 346. Generosity, often comes from carelessness instead of liberality Steele. 192 196. Good-natm"e, the benefits of Steele. 144 43. Handicraft, a, the value of Steele. 60 126. Honest Men, association of, for mutual defence. .Addison. 109 408. Human Nature, its contradictions Pope. 200 162. Irresolution Addison. \2.l 483. Judgment, private, usually uncharitable Addison. 224 601 . Kindness, obstacles to Grove. 264 158. Ladies' Society, neglect of, by best men Steele. 124 33. Letitia and Daphne Steele. 49 79. Library for Women Steele. 86 142. Love-letters, some old Steele. 115 625. Lovers' questions answered 273 53. Male Lovers, reformation of Steele. 65 381. Mental Prostitution, a base form of Addison. 19S 128. Men and Women, counterparts of each other. . .Addison, no 231. Modesty, a guard of virtue Addison. 183 458. Modesty, the standard of Addison. 209 622. Obscure Men, the merits of 270 247. Orators, female Addison. 247 71. Passion and Purity Steele. 77 629. Place-hunter, strange qualifications of 275 312. Pain, the uses of Steele. 189 73. Praise, the love of. . . , Addison. 88 NO. OF OKIGINAC SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE PAPER. 504. Prejudice and passion, one duty towards 239 354. Peepers, bad effect of Steele. 193 105. Pedants, men of the world the worst. . . ". Addison. 105 7. Providence, trust in Addison. 18 85. Readings, accidental Addison. 91 459. Religion, its two principal divisions Addison. 213 494. Religion, sorrowful forms of Addison. 229 594. Scandals, results of 260 20. Starers Steele. 36 23. Satire, bad effects of Addison. 40 51. Stage, the immorality of the Steele. 62 9. Spectator, who should read it Addison. 19 2. Spectator Club, its members described Steele. 5 248. Society, our duty to Steele. 173 12. Solitude, pleasures of Addison. 23 172. Talents, misapplication of Steele. 131 222, Talented Men, frequent failure of Steele. 155 157. Teachers, raistakes^of Steele. 122 208. Theatrical Performances, debasement of Steele. 150 446. " " " Addison. 207 loi. Time, the effect upon excitements Addison. 100 286. True Gentility, its nature Steele. 179 479. Unhappy Marriages, peculiarities of Steele. 219 243. Virtue, the beauty of Addison. 165 464. Wealth and Poverty, advantages of each Addison. 217 530. Will Honeycomb, marriage of Addison. 236 270. World, the, withdrawal from , Steele. 177 219. Worldly Honors, instability of Addison. 152 185. Zeal, to be examined closely Addison. 137 INTRODUCTORY. In offering to the public a series of selections from noted collections of English Essays, the editor is but doing a work which many abler men have agreed should be done by some one, but which each one of them has made haste to decline when his own competence for the task was suggested. In the absence of special selections, many of the gentlemen referred to have earnestly urged the reading of the original collections ; but neither the enthusiasm nor the logic which was embodied in these special pleas has sufficed to perceptibly increase the de- mand for full sets of the Spectator, Tatler, Rambler, etc., or to seriously disturb the dust under which the sets in public and private libraries repose. Ti-ue, there is a tolerably well-authenticated story that a certain inmate of a penitentiary (under life sentence) has read the entire set, and a vague tradition exists that a light-house keeper once enjoyed the same experience ; but rotation in office is not a fact well enough established to justify us in hop- INTRODUCTORY. ing that many men will enjoy the advantages of the library of the light-house referred to, while the legal ob- stacles which conspire to keep men of intellect outside of penitentiary walls, make it extremely improbable that the example of the cultured convict can be frequently fol- lowed. Aside from all other excuses, that of the great volume of the entire collection is everywhere offered and accepted. Intelligent men who find no time to read the magazines, and see the inside of the Bible and Shake- speare so seldom that they are likely to attribute Job's sayings to Hamlet, and to give King Lear credit for some of the sorrowful passages in Ecclesiastes, can hardly be expected to attack many-volumed collections of the wis- dom of an age which enjoyed neither the advantages of railroads, . universal suffrage, nor the Associated Press. Yet many men and women have been found who would read and enjoy single papers by Addison, Steele, or John- son, if their attention were specially called to them ; the present editor therefore ventures to invite general atten- tion to certain papers which have in this manner reached appreciative readers, and to other papers which seem to him to be equally attractive. •Heeding the adage that "in a multitude of counsellors there is safety," the editor consulted sundry readers of the Spectator as to what portions he should offer the pub- INTR on UC TOR Y. lie as fair representatives of the entire collection. The persons whose advice was asked were selected with what the editor flatters himself was great skill, for among them were men of almost every cast of mind. The result, however, was not encouraging : were this volume to con- tain all that each of these advisers suggested, it would be an entire reproduction of the Spectator : — were omissions made according to the collective advice rendered, only the title-page, dedications, table of contents, and. index would reach the reader's eye. The editor has therefore been obliged to select such papers as seemed to him most likely to interest the greatest number of readers. Far from desiring that the reader shall be perfectly satisfied with the papers presented herein, the editor confesses to a secret hope that many persons, to whom the complete Spectator has heretofore been like the Bible, — a book Avhose volume and antiquity demanded a respect which should never degenerate into familiarity, — may be driven, by the incompleteness of this collection, to explore at will the pages of the entire work. In dropping several hundred papers, but few of which were destitute of grace and wisdom, the editor has held to heart the spirit of the saying, " You may lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink." Of the six hundred papers published under the title of the Spectator^ INTRODUCTORY. nearly one-sixth consisted of excellent and exhaustive literary criticisms whose length makes it impossible that they shall be read by any one who is not a special student of the authors considered. Of the remaining papers, nearly one-half are upon habits and follies which died with their day, and of which only the curious care to read. To omit the Roger de Coverley papers from any edition of the Spectator ^ is a crime somewhat akin to that of dismissing Hamlet from the play which bears his name ; but the papers devoted to the model old knight have al- ready been published in a volume by themselves, whereas the present series is designed to contain only what the reading public might not easily find elsewhere. A few papers, in which vices not unknown to the present age are vigorously attacked, are excluded for the sole cause that their diction is, while never indecent, too plain to suit ears accustomed to the wisely guarded speech of to- day. The extracts, mostly from Latin writers, which precede the original papers, have been omitted for the sake of space ; most of them are pithy in themselves, but have not necessarily a connection with the papers,' — for Addison and Steele, like many a good preacher, often took texts merely for the purpose of having a definite j)oint of departure. Although we have not given all that remains after the omissions alluded to have been made, INTRODUCTORY. the mass of the readers for whose use this volume is pre- pared, will hardly complain that we have selected un- fairly. Before habitual readers of the Spectator^ how- ever — those who know every original paper by its date, its number, and the quotation at its head — we can only plead guilty of sacrilege, desecration, butchery, or what- ever they in their wrath may denominate our offence, and humbly offer, in extenuation, the nature of our in- tent. Joseph Addison, to whose contributions the success of the Spectator is mainly due, was born on May-day, 1672. He came of good stock, apparently ; his father, the Dean of Lichfield, was noted for his ability at college, and was a theological writer of some reputation. Addison' s grand- father, also, was a clergyman. Entering King^s College, Oxford, at the age of fifteen, Addison was so successful in his classical studies that he became famous for the excellence of his Latin poetry. Previous to entering the university he studied at Charter-house School, and made there the acquaintance of his future literary partner, Richard Steele. Addison had intended to follow the ex- ample of his progenitors and take holy orders ; but while he never lost his taste for teaching morality and religion, the charms of a life purely literary seem to have with- held him at first from fulfilling an intention from which " INTRODUCTORY. it is said he was afterward dissuaded by an eminent states- man. In his twenty-third year he wrote a poem, upon one of King WilHam's campaigns, that gained him a pen- sion of ;^3oo a year, which amount made him quite in- dependent, financially. With the death of King William, Addison lost his pension, and for a year or two his pros- pects were unenviable. But again his pen came to his rescue; the victory of Blenheim was gained by Marlbo- rough in 1 704, and the government sought for a poet to do justice to the subject. Addison was recommended for the task, and succeeded so well that he was appointed Commissioner of Appeals, and two years later, Under- Secretary of State. His pen was freely used in the service of the government, and no one can doubt that it was the ablest advocate through which the Crown appeared in the press. In 1709 Steele started the Tatler, which'was succeeded by the Spectator and the Guardian ; to each of these periodicals Addison was by far the strongest contributor. Addison's last literary work of consequence consisted of his defence of the government, published in the Freeholder in 1715-16. In his forty-fourth year he married the Dowager Coun- tess of Warwick, with whom it is believed he lived un- happily ; four years later he died at Holland House. When dying he sent for his step-son, the young Earl of INTRODUCTORY. Warwick, to show him with what peace a Christian could die. Among the most appreciative persons of large reading, a sense of reluctance, founded upon sad experience, ac- companies the proper curiosity which is felt as to the per- sonality and character of authors. Addison's life, how- ever, was as pure as his pages, and that too in an age when personal purity was extremely unpopular. Upon only two points has his character even been criticised. It has been said that he was jealous of Pope, but this charge has but slender foundation. It is undoubtedly true that he sometimes drank too much wine, but it should be remembered that he lived in a day when total abstinence was an unheard-of virtue. But so faultless was Addison in all other respects, that even a habit which was not considered reprehensible among other men, seemed a fault in Addison. Johnson, than whom Addi- son has no more devoted admirer, tries to explain this habit in a manner which should not reflect discredit upon its victim. He says : " It is not unlikely that Addison was first seduced to excess by the manumission which he obtained from the servile timidity of his sober hours. He that feels oppression from the presence of those to whom he knows himself superior, will desire to set loose the powers of conversation : and who, tha.t ever asked succor IN TROD UCTOR Y. from Bacchus, was able to preserve himself from being enslaved by his auxiliary ? " Addison's style has been admired and coveted by every MTiter who came after him. Dr. Johnson, whose own style had all the complexity of the Latin without any of its peculiar grace, was the author of the oft-quoted saying, " Whoever wishes to attain an English style, famihar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostenta- tious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison." Johnson's description of Addison's humor is simply perfect. "His humor, which, as Steele observes, is peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never outsteps the modesty of nature, nor raises mer- riment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity that he can hardly be said to invent, yet his exhibitions have an air so much orig- inal that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the pro- duct of imagination." The same author, alluding to what was the real secret of Addison's permanent influence upon the world, says : " It is justly observed by Tickell, that Addison employed wit on the side of virtue and reHgion. He not only made the proper use of wit himself, but taught it to others ; and from his time it has been gener- INTRODUCTORY. ally subservient to the cause of reason and of truth. He has dissipated the prejudice that had long connected gaiety with vice, and easiness of manners with laxity of principles. He has restored virtue to its dignity, and taught innocence not to be ashamed. This is an eleva- tion of literary character above all Greek, above all Ro- man fame. No greater felicity can genius attain, than that of having purified intellectual pleasure, separated mirth from indecency, and wit from licentiousness ; of having taught a succession of writers to bring elegance and gaiety to the aid of goodness : and if I may use ex- pressions yet more awful, of having tii7'7ied many to right- cousness^ — "As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confi- dently followed. His rehgion has nothing in it enthusias- tic or superstitious ; he appears neither weakly credulous nor wantonly sceptical ; his morality is neither danger- ously lax nor impracticably rigid. All the enchantment of fancy and all the cogency of argument are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest — the care of pleasing the Author of his being." Richard Steele, the editor, and after Addison the prin- cipal contributor to the Spectator, was born in 1671, grad- uated at Oxford, and entered the army as ensign in the Guards. In 1709 he projected the Tatler, which aimed at and achieved a radical reform in the journalism of the INTRODUCTORY. day — a topic to which we shall soon revert. In 1713 he was elected to the House of Commons, from wdiich body he was expelled, a year later, for using his journalistic pen too freely. The expulsion does not seem to have done him any harm, for we find him within a year Surveyor of the Royal Stables, Governor of the Royal Company of Comedians, a knight, and a member of the House once more. He was a voluminous and able writer ; but his first book. The Christian Hero, which was written for the pur- pose of reclaiming its author from dissolute habits, was an utter failure, if judged according to its design. He pos- sessed many noble natural qualities, and was in spirit and work a reformer of high order : in his age, however, per- sonal character was a term of only Pickwickian signifi- cation, and — entirely unlike the way of our own good era — the man who worked for the public purity was seldom held to account for his own. His married life, like that of his literary partner, was unhappy ; he married twice, find- ing neither time a wife who was intellectually his peer, or who, on the other hand, could understand how to expect true affection from a man who was apparently powerless against physical temptations of any sort. Whatever may have been Steele's lapses from propriety and virtue, there is no dolibt that in his letters he showed evidences of a tender, yearning affection, which a woman of active sym- INTRODUCTORY. pathies should have been able to translate and nirn to ac- count : there is also ample evidence that he exhibited intirmity of purpose to a degree which would have dis- couraged any one but an angel. Steele's nature is so transparent, that it is easy to imagine that he chose his companions by his eye rather than his mind, and that sad as his conjugal relations seem to have been, the person principally to blame was that warm-hearted, susceptible, morally reckless individual, Steele himself. The time has passed when it was considered the proper thing for such glorious beings to be, like Avild beasts, in the custody of keepers who were held responsible for their condi- tion ; yet it is impossible to make Steele's acquaintance, through his writings, without being conscious of an in- tense regret that so lovable a nature should have lacked the moral support and assistance of sympathetic compan- ionship. For the sake of his reputation, Steele is unfortunate in having constantly to be contrasted with Addison. His motives in writing for the Tatler and Spectator were iden- tical with Addison's; both wished to improve the man- ners and morals of the day ; and though Steele's papers do not always compare favorably with those of Addison, there are some of them which Addison could scarcely ex- cel. Unlike his partner, he was without a settled Hterary INTRODUCTORY. style ; but in whatever manner he wrote, he never neg- lected to display a great amount of spirit and excel- lent taste. While Addison was trying, with his Cato, to lead the theatre-going public from low comedy to noble drama, Steele boldly attempted to raise the tone of com- edy itself. Hazlitt says of his plays, that '■'• they were the first that were written expressly with a view not to imitate the manners, but to reform the morals of the age." For Addison's ability Steele had the liveliest appreciation, and the frequent occasion he found for writing in Addi- son's own vein shows, besides his own rare adaptive- ness, in what esteem he held the style of his greatest con- tributor. Of the remaining contributors to the Spectator hui little need be said. Hughes, Budgell, Byrom, Brome, Grove, Tickell, Parnell, Henry and others contributed papers to the Spectator, but none of them attained to the excellence of Steele and Addison. THE PERIODICAL ESSAYISTS. The purpose and effect of the early periodical essay- ists is but imperfectly understood by the present genera- tion. There are now living many people who can recall the time when the newspapers of America and England INTR OD UC TOR V. printed only news and political leaders : in the days of the essayists, the periodical literature of England would have been comparatively readable had its imperfections been unmixed Avith graver faults. By the very smallness of their number, newspapers were important partisan mouthpieces, either for or against the government ; their support came more from subsidies and special grants than from subscribers and advertisers ; there was there- fore no commercial limit to prosiness even of their polit- ical papers. They contained no matter which was purely literary, and they were diverting only when they indulged in personalities — a species of writing in which the early newspaper partisans of England excelled even the ablest revilers who have made American Presidential campaigns endurable to the vulgar mind. Reviews, magazines, and literary weeklies such as to-day offer speedy and pleasing antidotes to the respectable citizen who has unknowingly absorbed partisan views from his favorite daily, were then almost unknown, and of those few which existed it can safely be said that the antidote was almost as unendurable as the poison. In society there was no lack of wit, humor, gayety, raillery, satire, sarcasm ; but all these faculties were in the service either of partisan- ship or licentiousness. That there were many people who could appreciate writings of moral tone and literary INTR OB UC TOR Y. tendencies was proved by the reception given to the Tal- ler and its successor ; but they, like the intelligent public elsewhere, showed their refinement by their dumbness and inaction. Attractive books for the unprofessional reader were but few in number : intellectual tastes were supposed to exist only among university graduates ; so pedantry naturally came to be a bookmaker's virtue. Many excellent special works on morality and religion were published in those days : let those communities which nowadays freely read such books, bestow fitting blame on the English people of two centuries ago who never read them except upon compulsion. Outside the pale of the Church no one held up natural and Christian virtues for admiration, and manners were supposed to concern only those persons who were in elegant society. To such a community the appearance of the Taller, a very small tri-weekly sheet containing a brief abstract of important news, but devoted principally to morality, manners, and general social interests, must have ap- peared a startling innovation. In the Speclalor, which immediately succeeded the Taller, Steele showed his confidence in the public, by stopping his news depart- ment, and letting a single essay constitute the whole of each issue. In size and in typographical appearance the Spectalor compared unfavorably with the feeblest INTR OD UC TOR V. papers of its day, but it attained at once an excellent circulation. In the tenth paper of the Spectator we are told that three thousand copies were sold daily, while of certain issues of later date as many as twenty thousand copies were sold. Dr. Fleetwood wrote to the Bishop of Salisbury that the daily sale amounted to fourteen thou- sand copies j while Steele himself says, in a late number, that of the reprints of the earlier papers, by volumes, nine thousand of each volume were purchased. These reports go to show that the journalists and wits of the day had underrated the quality of the tastes pos- sessed by intelligent Londoners. There is no doubt that the contributors to Steele's periodical purposely wrote with more simplicity than they would have observed had they been writing for the eye of their own associates, but the measure o'f public inteUigence is not to be taken according to the capacity of the said public for large words and involved sentences. Little as the people had previously read English books, there is no evidence that Addison's numerous papers on Paradise Lost, in which he taught the readers of the Spectator how to enjoy and appreciate a poem which few newspaper readers of the present day are capable of enjoying, were less pop- ular than those on lighter subjects. Steele made his subscribers acquainted with Pope, Dryden, Swift, and INTRODUCTORY. other writers who had previously been read by few but schoolmen ; while it is not improbable, even, that Addi- son did more than the clergy to persuade men to read the Bible for other purposes than that of quieting conscience. The Guardian^ started by Steele after the close of the Spectator^ was ideally a better paper than either of its predecessors. It never beca-me as able a journal as the Spectator^ but its contents were more pleasingly diversified. Steele was a true editor, so far as^ the selecting and se- curing a variety of contributions makes the editor. Be- sides Addison, Parnell, Hughes, Budgell, and others who had contributed to the Spectator, Steele secured papers for the Guardian from Gay and Bishop Berkeley, and even, according to one editor, from good Dr. Watts. Why Steele abandoned editorial work does not appear. Certainly it was not because of competition, for no one else ventured to publish a similar periodical. People read and reread the bound volumes of the Tatler, Specta- tor, and Guardian for nearly forty years, with no other periodical essayist to distract their minds. Suddenly that literary Hercules, Dr. Johnson, seized his pen, wrote an humble prayer, and began tlie publication of the Ram- bler. Even then, people did not drop Addison and Steele ; Johnson was an appreciative admirer of Addison, INTRODUCTORY. as we have already indicated ; but so unyielding was his own character, that Addison's influence never modified the great lexicographer's solemnity or his fondness for large words. Doubtless, some EngHshmen believed themselves, when they suggested that polysjdlables were crowded into the Rambler to compel the purchase of the Dictionary, which was then about to appear. Be- tween its verbal and mental weight the Rambler was slow in gaining readers among a people accustomed to the simplicity, grace, and humor of Addison ; but although only about five hundred copies of each issue were sold, the stout-hearted, thick-headed old man published steadily, tAvice a week, for two years, and printed but five papers fi'om other writers. It is a strange fact that of these five, one is by a novelist — Richardson, the author of Sir Charles Grandison and Clarissa Harlowe — and the other four by women. The Rarnbler gained reputation with age; during the author's own lifetime ten editions of the collected papers were sold in London alone. On the merits of the Rambler there is as discouraging adver- sity of opinion as upon the identity of " Junius." No critic of real or assumed brilliancy has felt himself fully established until he has had a fling at the Rambler. And yet there are men of fine intellect who work them- selves into a state of great enthusiasm while speaking of INTR OD UCTOR Y. the moral and intellectual force of this too much neg- lected book. It is the habit to judge books according to the measure of ease and deHght which is experienced during a consecutive reading of their entire contents : subjected to this test, the Rambler became simply unen- durable ; but men who read it only in such fragmentary manner as they do other solid books, gain much enjoy- ment from it. A few months after the discontinuance of the Rainbler, Dr. Hawkesworth started the Adventure,}'^ with Johnson for his principal assistant. To one who has first read the Rambler, the Advefiturer seems light and elegant : it is certain that criticism had stung Johnson into modifying his style as much as he could, while Hawkesworth wrote more in the manner of Addison than any other English essayist has done. Started soon after the Adi^enturer^ and surviving it three years, was the Worlds which speedily 1 ecame popular. In its columns there was but little at- tention paid to either religion or morality. Gifford says the World was started "by a knot of fantastic coxcombs, to direct the taste of the town ; " the purpose assigned was well accomplished, but the quality of the wit, satire, irony, and taste displayed in the columns of the World show that the fantastic coxcombs " were men of excellent powers of expression," Among the contributors were INTRODUCTORY. Lord Lyttelton (the projector), Edward Moore, Horace Walpole^ Chesterfield, the Earls of Bath and Cork, Richard Cambridge, who was one of the few literary men of means and elegant leisure ; Jenyns, and Other men of mark in that day. Moore, the editor, died just after pre- paring the concluding paper for the World, which, oddly enough, wittily announced that the discontinuance of the periodical was owing to the death of the editor ! It is not to be wondered at tliat this coincidence led Ches- terfield to remark that it " induces us to wish that death may be less frequently included among the topics of wit." Contemporary with the World was the Connoissezir, started by George Colman (the Elder) in 1754, when its projector was but twenty-two years of age. Although hardly equalling in literary polish its rival, it was the wit- tier sheet of the two. In 1758 Dr. Johnson began the publication of the Idler, as a department of the Univer- sal Chronicle. By this means of publication the Idler reached many more readers than it could have done if published by itself : the author has grown more genial, too^ and though perhaps no less given to long words of Latin derivation, his style was less ponderous and more popular in the Idler than in the Rambler. The Observer was started in 1783 by Cumberland, who was its sole contributor. The editor was a man of INTRODUCTORY. much culture, broad views, fine powers of expression, and would even in our own day have conducted with credit as good a literary journal as we possess. He was enough of a philanthropist to plead for a better feeling toward the Jews ; this alone is cause for regret that his mantle has found no fit shoulders upon which to fall. The Looker-on contained many excellent essays ; while the Mirror and the Lounger^ both pubUshed in Scotland during the last quarter of the eighteenth century, and with editors and contributors who successfully preserved their incognito, exerted upon manners and morals an excellent influence which was not confined in its oper- ation to Scotch society alone. Besides the periodicals alluded to, there are others, of equal age, which in spite of great ability are not popular. The canon of the " British Classics " is as solemnly re- spected as that of the King James Bible, and the conser- vative souls who have it in charge have not thought while to arrange an apocrypha of doubtful essayists. As a consequence of this neglect, at least one noble series of papers, to wit, Addison's Freeholder, is but little read even by the author's own admirers. The effect of these old books is in every way delightful upon such latter-day readers as have chanced to make their acquaintance. Excellent as are many of our current INTRODUCTORY. periodicals, we search most of them in vain for the rare facihty of expression, the gradual development of thought, the finish of taste, the earnestness of argument^ and di- rectness of statement which characterized the leism'ely editors who had no facilities for learning bad Enghsh, iio schooling in sophistry, no personalities to issue or answer, and no demon of over-work to turn intention to naught. These old periodicals are read more largely than most people suppose, and by a very different class from that to which the possession of such books is gen- erally attributed. The most graceful and powerful of American essayists read them frequently, and urge them upon others with more earnestness than they have ever manifested when speaking of any other writers. Aside from their historical and literary merits, these old writers, as Hazlitt happily says, attract and charm because they " take note of our looks, words, thoughts and actions, show us what we are and what we are not, play the whole game of human life over before us, and by making us enlightened spectators of its many-colored scenes, en- able us. if possible, to become tolerably reasonable agents in the one in which we have to perform a part." THE SPECTATOR. Thursday, March i, 1711. I HAVE observed, that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure, till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric dis- position, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right un- derstanding of an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I design this paper and my next as prefatory discourses to my following writings, and shall give some account in them of the several persons that are engaged in this work. As the chief trouble of compiling, digesting, and correcting, will fall to my share, I must do myself the justice to open the work with my own history. I was born to a small hereditary estate, which, accord- ing to the tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the same hedges and ditches in William the Conqueror's time that it is at present, and has been de- livered down from father to son, whole and entire, with- out the loss or acquisition of a single field or meadow, during the space of six hundred years. BRITISH ESSAYISTS. During my nonage I had the reputation of a very sul- len youth, but was always a favourite of my schoolmaster, who used to say, ' that my parts were solid, and would wear well.' I had not been long at the university, before I distinguished myself by a most profound silence ; for, during the space of eight years, excepting in the public exercises of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity of an hundred words ; and indeed do not remember that I ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life. Whilst I was in this learned body, I applied myself with so much diligence to my studies, that there are very few celebrated books, either in the learned or the modern tongues, which I am not acquainted with. Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to travel into foreign countries, and therefore left the university, with the character of an odd unaccountable fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I would but shew it. An insatiable thirst after knowledge carried me into all the countries of Europe, in which there was any thing new or strange to be seen \ nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that, having read the controversies of some great men concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage to Grand Cairo on purpose to take the measure of a pyramid : and, as soon as I had set myself right in that particular, returned to my native country with great satisfaction. I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am frequently seen in most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my select friends that know me ; of whom my next paper shall give a more particular THE SPECTATOR. account. There is no place of general resort wherein I do not often make my appearance. Sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of politicians at Will's, and listening with great attention to the narratives that are made in those little circular audiences. Some- times. I smoke a pipe at Child's; and, whilst I seem attentive to nothing but the Postman, overhear the con- versation of every table in the room. I appear on Sun- day nights at St. James's coffee-house, and sometimes join the little committee of politicks in the inner room, as one who comes there to hear and improve. jNIv face is like- wise ver)^ well known at the Grecian, the Cocoa-tree, and in the theatres both of Drury-Lane and the Haymarket. I have been taken for a merchant upon the Exchange for above these ten years, and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's. In short, wherever I see a cluster of people, I always mix with them, though I never open my lips but in my own club. Thus I live in the world rather as a Spectator of man- kind, than as one of the species, by which means I have made myself a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of a husband, or a father, and can discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in them ; as standers-by discover blots, which are apt to escape those who are in the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am re- solved to observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself by BRITISH ESS A YISTS. the hostilities of either side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker on, which is the character I intend to preserve in this paper. I have given the reader just so much of my history and character, as to let him see I am not altogether unquali- fied for the business I have undertaken. As for other particulars in my life and adventures, I shall insert them in following papers, as I shall see occasion. In the mean time, when I consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin to blame my own taciturnity ; and since I have neither time nor inclination to communicate the fulness of my heart in speech, I am resolved to do it in writing, and to print myself out, if possible, before I die. I have been often told by my friends, that it is pity so many useful discoveries which I have made should be in the possession of a silent man. For this reason, there- fore, I shall publish a sheet-full of thoughts qy^yj morn- ing, for the benefit of my contemporaries ; and if I can in any way contribute to the diversion, or improvement of the country in which I live, I shall leave it, when I am summoned out of it, with the secret satisfaction of think- ing that I have not lived in vain. There are three very material points which I have not spoken to in this paper ; and which, for several important reasons, I must keep to myself, at least for sometime : I mean, an account of my name, my age, and my lodgings. I must confess I would gratify my reader in any thing that is reasonable ; but as for these three particulars, thougli I am sensible they might tend very much to the embel- lishment of my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution THE SPECTATOR. of communicating them to the public. They would in- deed draw me out of that obscurity which I have enjoyed for many years, and expose me in public places to several salutes and civilities, which have been always very dis- agreeable to me ; for the greatest pain I can suffer, is the being talked to, and being stared at. It is for this rea- son, likewise, that I keep my complexion and dress as very great secrets ; though it is not impossible but I may niake discoveries of both in the progress of the work I have undertaken. After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall in to-morrow's paper give an account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in this work ; for, as I have before intimated, a plan of it is laid and concerted (as all other matters of importance are) in a club. Friday, Ma?'ch 2, 171T. The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcester- shire, of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. 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 Sh* Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his behaviour, but his smgularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the man- ners of the world, only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him no enemies, BRITISH ESSAYISTS. 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 Etherege, 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 tem- per being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards. 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, ha-s been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. * ^ 45- « He is now in his fift3^-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 THE SPECTATOR. 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 pur- suit 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. * 4f * * 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 cus- toms, manners, actions, and writings of the ancients, makes him a very delicate observer 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. The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Free- port, a merchant of great eminence in the city of Lon- don : 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 w^ay to ex- 8 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. tend 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 an 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, among 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 per- spicuity of his discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He has made his fortune him- self; 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 Sen- try, a gentleman of great courage, good understanding, but invincible modesty. He is one of those that deserve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents within the observation of such as should take notice of them. He was some years a captain, and behaved him- self with great gallantry in several engagements and at several sieges ; but having a small estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Koger, 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 THE SPECTATOR. is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence should get the better of modesty. When he has 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 be- haviour are in themselves obstacles to him that must press through crowds, who endeavour at the same end with himself, the favour of a commander. He will, how- ever, in his way of talk, excuse generals for not dispos- ing 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 1 have^ to come at him ; therefore, he will conclude, that a 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 vindication. 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 gentle- man speak of himsdf 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 overbearing, though accustomed to com- mand men in the utmost degree below him ; nor ever too obsequious, from an habit of obeying men highly above him. But that our society may not appear a set of humour- ists, unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of BRITISH ESSAYISTS. the age, we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman, who, according to his years, should be in the decline of his life ; but having ever been very careful of his person, and always had a very easy fortune, time has made but very little impression, either by wrinkles on his forehead, or traces in 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 re- members habits, as others do men. He can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows the history of every mode, and can inform you from which of the French kmg'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 such a year. In a 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 and 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. ■«• 4f 4f * This way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among us of a more se- date 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. 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 THE SPECTATOR. 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 had the misfortune to be of a very weak constitution, and, conse- quently, cannot accept of such cares and business as preferments in his function would oblige him to ; he is therefore among divines, what a chamber-counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind and the in- tegrity of his life create him followers, as being eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the subject he speaks u]:on ; 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 in- firmities. These are my ordinary companions. Monday, MlwcJi 5, 1711. An author, when he first appears in the world, is very apt to believe it has nothing to think of but his per- formances. With a good share of this vanity in my heart, I made it my business these three days to listen after my own fame. 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 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. abroad in the morning ; how utterly they are at a stand, until they are set a-going by some paragraph in a news- paper. 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 con^ cerned himself with no one breathing, should be very little liable to misrepresentation ; and yet I remember I vi^as once taken up for a Jesuit, for no other reason but my profound taciturnity. It is from this misfortune, 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 pleas- ures of retirement in a more exquisite degree than he possibly could in his closet ; the lover, the ambitrous, and the miser, are followed 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.' The working of my own mind is the general entertain- ment of my hfe : I never enter, into the commerce of discourse with any but my particular friends, and not in public even with them. Such an habit has perhaps raised in me uncommon reflections ; but this effect I cannot communicate but by my writings. As my pleasures are almost wholly confined to those of the sight, I take it for a peculrar happiness that I have always had an easy THE SPECTATOR. 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 consider- able share of these my speculations 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 afifection. Upon this occasion I think it but reasonable to declare, that, whatever skill I may have in specula- tion, 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 assemblies ; 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 specu- 14 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. lations, 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 infi- delity in -friendship, or villany in business. For this great and good end, all breaches against that noble passion, the cement of society, shall be severely ex- amined. 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 very busy Spectator. , Wednesday, March 7, 1711. 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 reputa- tion of wit and sense, than of 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 imi- tation of the rest of mankind. For this reason. Sir Roger was saying last night, that THE SPECTATOR. 15 he was of opinion none but men of fine parts deserve 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 admoni- tions 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 ca- pacities. 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 en- joys the satisfaction of luxury, of wealth, of ambition, he has lost the taste of good-will, of friendship, of inno- cence. Scarecrow, the beggar in Lincoln' s-inn-fields, who disabled himself in his right leg, and asks alms all day to get hiixiself a warm supper and a trull at night, is not half so desj^ticable a wretch as -such a man of sense. •» * * * Every man who terminates his satis- factions 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,! continued he, 'for the loss of public and private virtue, we are be- holden to your men of parts forsooth ; it is with them no matter what is -done, so it is 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 circumstance 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 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. 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 agree- able to the dictates of reason, of religion, of good-breed- ing ; w^ithout 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 intentively 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 pol- ish our understandings, and neglect our manners, is of all things the most inexcusable. Reason should govern pas- sion ; but, instead of that, you see, it is often subservient to it ; and as unaccountable as one would think it, a wise man is not always a good man.' This degeneracy is not only the guilt of particular persons, but also at some times of a whole people ; and perhaps it may appear upon ex- amination tliat 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 considering the application of them. By this means it becomes a rule, not so much to regard what we do, as how we do it. But this false beauty will not pass upon men of honest minds and true taste. Sir Richard Blackmore says, with as much good sense as virtue, ' It is a mighty shame and dishonour 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 THE SPECTATOR. 17 and angelic faculties, is the most odious being in the whole creation.' He goes on soon after to say very gen- erously, 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 ap- pears in public ; and whoever does not proceed upon that foundation, injures his country as fast as he succeeds in his studies. When modesty ceases to be the chief orna- ment of one sex, and integrity of the other, society is upon a wrong basis ; and we shall be ever after without rules to guide our judgment in what is really becoming and orna- mental. 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 intri- cate ; when we pursue the other, our passage is delightful, and what we aim at easily attainable. I do not doubt that 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 ourselves 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 ? BRITISH ESS A YISTS. Thursday, March 8, 1711. I KNOW a maiden aunt of a great family, who is one of those antiquated Sibyls, that forbodes and prophesies from one end of the year to- the other. She is always seeing apparitions, and hearing death-watches ; and was the other day almost frightened out of her wits by the great house-dog that howled in the stable at a time when she lay ill of the tooth-ache. Such an extravagant cast of mind engages multitudes of people, not only in imperti- nent terrors, but in supernumerary duties of life ; and arises from that fear and ignorance which are natural to the soul of man. The horror with which we entertain the thoughts of death (or indeed of any future evil), and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind with innumerable apprehensions and suspicions, and con- sequently dispose it to the observation of such groundless prodigies and predictions. For as it is the chief concern of wise men to retrench the evils of life by the reasonings of philosophy ; it is the employment of fools to multiply them by the sentiments of superstition. For my own part, I should be very much troubled were I endowed with this divining quality, though it should in- form me truly of every thing that can befal me. I would not anticipate the relish of any happiness, nor feel the weight of any misery, before it actually arrives. I know but one way of fortifying my soul against these gloomy presages and terrors of mind; and that is, by THE SPECTATOR. 19 securing to myself the friendship and protection of that Being who disposes of events and governs futurity. He sees, at one view, the whole thread of my existence, not only that part of it which I have already passed through, bat that which runs forward into all the depths of eternity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to his care ; when I awake, I give myself up to his direc- tion. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to him for help ; and question not but he will either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it ; because I am sure that he knows them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and support me under them. Monday, March 10, 1711, It is with much satisfaction that I hear this great city inquiring day by day after these my papers and receiving my morning lectures with a becoming seriousness and attention. My publisher tells me, that there are already three thousand of them distributed every day : « * * « « Since I have raised to myself so great an audience, I shall spare no pains to make their instruc- tion agreeable, and their diversion useful. For which reasons I shall endeavour to enliven morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality, that my readers may, BRITISH ESSAYISTS. if possible, both ways find their account in the specula- tion of the day. And to the end that their virtue and discretion may not be short, transient, intermitting starts of thought, I have resolved to refresh their memories from day to day, till I have recovered them out of that desperate state of vice and folly into which the age has fallen. The mind that lies fallow but a single day, sprouts up in follies that are only to be killed by a constant and assiduous culture. It was said of Socrates, that he brought philosophy down from heaven, to inhabit among men ; and 1 shall be ambitious to have it said of me, that I have brought philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses. I would, therefore, in a very particular manner recom- mend these my speculations to all well-regulated families, that set apart an hour in every morning for tea and bread and butter ; and would earnestly advise them for their good to order this paper to be punctually served up, and to be looked upon as a part of the tea equipage. Sir Francis Bacon observes, that a well-written book, compared with its rivals and antagonists, is like Moses's serpent, that immediately swallowed up and devoured those of the Eg3qDtians. I shall not be so vain as to think, that, where the Spectator appears, the other pub- lic prints will vanish ; but shall leave it to my reader's consideration, whether it is not much better to be let into the knowledge of one's self, than to hear what passes in Muscovy or Poland ; and to amuse ourselves with such writings as tend to the wearing out of ignorance, pas- THE SPECTATOR. sion, and prejudice, than such as naturally conduce to in- flame hatreds, and make enmities irreconcilable. In the next place, I would recommend this paper to the daily perusal of those gentlemen whom I cannot but consider as my good brothers and allies ; I mean, the fraternity of Spectators who live in the world without having any thing to do in it ; * * -ss- « in short, every one that considers the world as a theatre, and desires to form a right judgment of those who are the actors on it. There is another set of men that I must likewise lay a claim to, whom I have lately called the blanks of society, as being altogether unfurnished with ideas, till the busi- ness and conversation of the day has supplied them. I have often considered these poor souls with an eye of great commiseration, when I have heard them asking the first man they have met with, whether there was any news stirring ; and by that means gathering together materials for thinking. These needy persons do not know what to talk of till about twelve o'clock in the morning ; for by that time they are pretty good judges of the weather, know which way the wind sits, and whether the Dutch mail be come in. ■ As they lie at the mercy of the first man they meet, and are grave or impertinent all the day long according to the notions which they have imbibed in the morning, I would earnestly entreat them not to stir out of their chambers till they have read tliis paper; and do promise them that I will daily instil into them such sound and wholesome sentiments, as shall have a good efi'ect on their conversation for the ensuing twelve hours. BRITISH ESSAYISTS. But there are none to whom this paper will be more useful than to the female world. I have often thought there has not been sufficient pains taken in finding out proper employments and diversions for the fair ones. Their amusements seem contrived for them, rather as they are' women, than as they are reasonable creatures; and are more adapted to the sex than to the species. The toilet is their great scene of business, and the right adjusting of their hair the principal employment of their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribands is reckoned a very good morning's work ; and if they make an excursion to a mercer's or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue makes them unfit for any thing else all the day aftqr. Their more serious occupations are sewing and embroidery, and their greatest drudge r}^ the preparation of jeUies and sweet- meats. This, I say, is the state of ordinary women ; though I know there are multitudes of those of a more elevated life and conversation^ that move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and virtue, that join all the beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and respect, as well as love, into their male-be- •holders. I hope to increase the number of these by pub- lishing this daily paper, which I shall always endeavour to make an innocent, if not an improving entertainment, and by that means at least divert the minds of my female readers from greater trifles. At the same tinie, as I w^ould fain give some finishing touches to those which are already the most beautiful pieces in human nature, I shall endeavour to point out all those imperfections that are the blemishes, as well as those virtues which are the em- THE SPECTATOR. bellishments, of the sex. In the mean while, I hope these my gentle readers^ who have so much time on their hands, will not grudge throwing away a quarter of an hour in a day on this paper, since they may do it without any hindrance to business. Wednesday, March 14, 1711. At my coming to London, it was some time before I could settle myself in a house to my liking. I was forced to quit my first lodgings, by reason of an officious land- lady, that would be asking me every morning how I had slept. I then fell into an honest family, and lived very happily for above a week ; when my landlord, who was a jolly good-natured man, took it into his head that I wanted company, and therefore would frequently come into my chamber to keep me from being alone. This I bore for two or three days ; but telling me one day that he was afraid I was melancholy, I thought it was high time for me to be gone, and accordingly took new lodg- ings that very night. About a week after, I found my jolly landlord, who, as I said before, was an honest hearty man, had put me into an advertisement of the Daily Courant, in the following words : 'Whereas a melancholy man left his lodgings on Thursday last in the afternoon, and was afterwards seen going towards Islington ; if any one can give notice of him to R. B,, fishmonger in the 24 BRITISH ESSA YISTS. Strand, he shall be very well rewarded for his pains.' As I am the best man in the world to keep my own counsel, and my landlord the fishmonger not knowing my name, this accident of my life was never discovered to this very day. I am now settled with a widow woman, who has a great many children, and complies with my humour in every thing. I do not remember that we have exchanged a word together these five years : my coffee comes into my chamber every morning without asking for it; if I want fire, I point to my chimney ; if water, to my basin ; upon which my landlady nods, as much as to say she takes my meaning, and immediately obeys my signals. She has likewise modelled her familv so well, that when her little boy offers to pull me by the coat, or prattle in my face, his eldest sister immediately calls him off, and bids him not to disturb the gentleman. At my first entering into the family, I was troubled with the civility of their rising up to me every time I came into the room ; but my land- lady observing that upon these occasions I always cried Pish, and went out again, has forbidden any such cere- mony to be used in the house ; so that at present I walk into the kitchen or parlour without being taken notice of or giving any interruption to the business or discourse of the family. The maid will ask her mistress (though I am by) whether the gentleman is ready to go to dinner, as the mistress (who is indeed an excellent housewife) scolds at the servants as heartily before my face as behind my back. In short, I move up and down the house, and enter into all companies with the same liberty as a cat or THE SPECTATOR. any other domestic animal, and am as little suspected of telling any thing that I hear or see. I remember last winter there were several young girls of the neighbourhood sitting about the fire with my land- lady's daughters, and telling stories of spirits and appari- tions. Upon my opening the door the young women broke off their discourse, but my landlady's daughters telling them that it was nobody but the gentleuian (for that is the name which I go by in the neighbourhood as well as in the family), they went on without minding me. I seated myself by the candle that stood on a table at one end of the room; and, pretending to read a book that I took out of my pocket, heard several dreadful stories of ghosts as pale as ashes that had stood at the feet of a bed, or walked over a church-yard by moon-light, and of others that had been conjured into the Red-sea, for disturbing people's rest, and drawing their curtains at midnight; with many other old women's fables of the like nature. As one spirit raised another, I ol)served that at the end of every story the whole company closed their ranks, and crowded about the fire. I took notice in particular of a little boy, who was so very attentive to every story, that I am mistaken if he ventures to go to bed by himself this twelvemonth. Indeed they talked so long, that the imaginations of the whole assembly were manifestly crazed, and I am sure will be the worse for it as long as they live. I heard one of the girls, that had looked upon me over her shoulder, asking the company how long I had been in the room, and whether I did not look paler than I used to do. This put me under some 26 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. apprehensions that I should be forced to explain myself if I did not retire ; for which reason I took the candle in my hand, and went up into my chamber, not without wondering at this unaccountable weakness in reasonable creatures, that they should love to astonish and terrify one another. Were I a father, I should take a particular care to preserve my children from these little horrors of imagination, which they are apt to contract when they are young, and are not able to shake off when they are in years. I have known a soldier that has entered a breach, affrighted at his own shadow, and look pale upon a little scratching at his door, who the day before had marched up against a battery of cannon. There are in- stances of persons who have been terrified, even to dis- traction, at the figure of a tree, or the shaking of a bull- rush. The truth of it is, I look upon a sound imagination as the greatest blessing of life, next to a clear judgment and a good conscience. In the mean time, since there are very few whose minds are not more or less subject to these dreadful thoughts and apprehensions, we ought to arm ourselves against them by the dictates of reason and religion, 'to pull the old woman out of our hearts,' (as Persius expresses it) ^ «■ * * * and extin- guish those impertinent notions which we imbibed at a time that we were not able to judge of their absurdity. Or, if we believe, as many wise and good men have done, that there are such phantoms and apparitions as those I have been speaking of, let us endeavour to estabfish to ourselves an interest in Him who holds the reins of the whole creation in his hand, and moderates them after such THE SPECTATOR. 27 a manner, that it is impossible for one being to break loose upon another without his knowledge and permission. For my own part, I am apt to join in opinion with those who believe that all the regions of nature swarm with spirits ; and that we have multitudes of spectators on all our actions, when we think ourselves most alone : but instead of terrifying myself with such a notion, I am wonderfully pleased to think that I am always engaged with such an innumerable society, in searching out the wonders of the creation, and joining in the same consort of praise and adoration. Milton has finely described this mixed communion of men and spirits in paradise ; and had doubtless his eye upon a verse in old Hesiod, which is almost word for word the same with his third line in the following passage : ' Nor think, though men were none, That heav'n would want spectators, God want praise : Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and M^hen we sleep ; All these with ceaseless praise his works behold Both day and night. How often from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to other's note, Singing their great Creator? Oft in bands, While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, With heav'hly touch of instrumental sounds, , In full harmonic number join'd, their songs Divide the night and lift our thoughts to heav'n.' Parad. Lost. 2 8 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. ' Saturday, March 17, 1711. When I was in France, I used to gaze with great as- tonishment at the splendid equipages, and party-coloured habits of that fantastic nation. I was one day in particu- lar contemplating a lady that sat in a coach adorned with gilded cupids, and finely painted with the Loves of Venus and Adonis. The coach was drawn by six milk-white horses, and loaded behind with the same number of powdered footmen. Just before the lady were a couple of beautiful pages, that were stuck among the harness, and, by their gay dresses and smiling features, looked like the elder brothers of the little boys that were carved and painted in every corner of the coach. The lady was the unfortunate Cleanthe, who afterwards gave an occasion to a pretty melancholy novel. She had, for several years, received the addresses of agentle- man, whom, after a long and intimate acquaintance, she forsook, upon the account of this shining equipage, which had been offered to her by one of great riches, but a crazy constitution. The circumstances in which I saw her, were, it seems, the disguises only of a broken heart, and a kind of pageantry to cover distress ; for in two months after she was carried to her grave with the same pomp and magnificence, being sent thither partly by the loss of one lover, and partly by the possession of another. I have often reflected with myself on this unaccount- able humour in womankind, of being smitten with every thing that is showy and superficial ; and on the number- THE SPECTATOR. 29 less evils that befal the sex from this light fantastical disposition. I myself remember a young lady that was ^■ery warmly solicited by a couple of importunate rivals, who, for several months together, did all -they could to recommend themselves by complacency of behaviour and agreeableness of conversation. At length, when the competition was doubtful, and the lady undetermined in her choice, one of the young lovers very luckily bethought himself of adding a supernumerary lace to his liveries, which had so good an effect that he married her the very week after. The useful conversation of ordinary women very much cherishes this natural weakness of being taken with out- side and appearance. Talk of a new-married couple, and you immediately hear whether they keep their coach and six, or eat in plate. Mention the name of an absent lady, and it is ten to one but you learn something of her gown and petticoat. A ball is a great help to discourse, and a birth-day furnishes conversation for a twelvemonth after. A furbelow of precious stones, an hat buttoned with a diamond, a brocade waistcoat or petticoat, are standing topics. In short, they consider only the drapery of the species, and never cast away a thought on those ornaments of the mind that make persons illustrious in themselves and useful to others. When women are thus perpetually dazzling one another's imaginations, and till- ing their heads with nothing but colours, it is no wonder that they are more attentive to the superficial parts of life, thaii tliQ solid and substantial blessings of it. A girl who has been trained up in this kind of conversation, is BRITISH ESS A YISTS. in danger of every embroidered coat that comes in her way. A pair of fringed gloves may be her ruin. In a word, lace and ribands, silver and gold galloons, with the like glittering gewgaws, are so many lures to women of weak minds or low educations, and, when artificially displayed, are able to fetch down the most airy coquette from the wildest of her flights and rambles. True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise ; it arises, in the first place, from the enjoyment of one's self ; and, in the next, from the friend- ship and conversation of a few select companions ; it loves shade and solitude, and naturally haunts groves and fountains, fields and meadows ; in short, it feels every thing it wants within itself, and receives no addition from multitudes of witnesses and spectators. On the contrary, false happiness loves to be in a crowd, and to draw the eyes of the world upon her. She does not receive any satisfaction from the applauses which she gives herself, but from the admiration which she raises in others. She flourishes in courts and palaces, theatres and assemblies, and has no existence but when she is looked upon. Aurelia, though a woman of great quality, delights in the privacy of a country life, and passes away a great part of her time in her own walks and gardens. Her husband, who is her bosom friend and companion in her solitudes, has been in love with her ever since he knew her. They both abound with good sense, consummate vir- tue, and a mutual esteem ; and are a perpetual entertain- ment to one another. Their family is under so regular an economy, in its hours of devotion and repast, employ- THE SPECTATOR. 31 ment and diversion, that it looks like a little common- wealth within itself. They often go into company, that they may return with the greater delight to one another ; and sometimes live in town, not to enjoy'it so properly as to grow weary of it, that they may renew in them- selves the relish of a country life. By this means they are happy in each other, beloved by their children, adored by their servants, and are become the envy, or rather the delight, of all that know them. How different to this is the life of Fulvia ! she consid- ers her husband as her steward, and looks upon discre- tion and good housewifery as little domestic virtues un- becoming a woman of quality. She thinks life lost in her own family, and fancies herself out of the world, when she is not in the ring, the playhouse, or the drawing- room. She lives in a perpetual motion of body, and rest- lessness of thought, and is never easy in any one place, when she thinks there is more company in another. The missing of an opera the first night, would be more afflict- ing to her than the death of a child. She pities all the valuable part of her own sex, and calls every woman of a prudent, modest, and retired hfe, a poor-spirited unpolished creature. What a mortification would it be to Fulvia, if she knew that her setting herself to view is but exposing herself, and that she grows contemptible by being con- spicuous ? I cannot conclude my paper, without observing, that Virgil has very finely touched upon this female passion for dress and show, in the character of Camilla ; who, though she seems to have shaken off all the other weak- 3 2 BRIl VSII ESS A VIS TS. nesses of her sex, is still described as a woman in this par- ticular. The poet tells us, that, after having made a great slaughter of the enemy, she unfortunately cast her eye on a Trojan who wore an embroidered tunic, a beau- tiful coat of mail, with a mantle of the finest purple. ' A golden bow,' says he, 'hung upon his shoulder; his gar- ment was buckled with a golden clasp, and his head cov- ered with an helmet of the same shining metal' The Amazon immediately singled out this well-dressed war- rior, being seized with a woman's longing for the pretty trappings that he was adorned with. This heedless pursuit after these glittering trifles, the poet (by a nice 6oncealed moral) represents to have been the destruction of his female hero. Monday, March 19, 1711. I HAVE received a letter, desiring me to be very satiri- cal upon the little muff that is now in fashion ; another informs me of a pair of silver garters buckled below the knee, that have been lately seen at the Rainbow coffee- house in' Fleet-street ; a third sends me an heavy com- plaint against fringed gloves. To be brief, there is scarce an ornament of either sex which one or other of my cor- respondents has not inveighed against with some bitter- ness, and recommended to my observation. I must therefore, once for all, inform my readers, that it is not my intention to sink the dignity of this my paper with re- THE SPECTATOR. 12> flections upon red-heels or top-knots, but rather to enter into the passions of mankind, and to correct those de- praved sentiments that gav^e birth to all those little ex- travagances which appear in their outward dress and be- haviour. Foppish and fantastic ornaments are only in- dications of vice, not criminal in themselves. Extinguish vanity in the mind, and you naturally retrench the little superfluities of garniture and equipage. The blossoms will fall of themselves, when the root that nourishes them is destroyed. I shall therefore, as I have said, apply my remedies to the first seeds and principles of an afl'ected dress, without descending to the dress itself; though at the same time I must own that I have thoughts of creating an oflicer under me, to be entitled The Censor of Small Wares, and of allotting him one day in a week for the execution of such his office. An operator of this nature might act under me, with the same regard' as a surgeon to a physician ; the one might be employed in healing those blotches and tumours which break out in the body, while the other is sweetening the blood and rectifying the con- stitution. To speak truly, the young people of both sexes are so wonderfully apt to 'shoot out into long swords or sweeping trains, bushy head-dresses or full bottomed periwigs, with several other incumbrances of dress, tljat they stand in need of being pruned very frequently:, lest they should be oppressed wdth ornaments, ^and overrun with the luxuriancy of their habits. I am much in doubt, whether I should give the preference to a qiiaker that is trimmed / 34 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. close and almost cut to the quick, or to a beau that is loaden with such a redundance of excrescences. I must therefore desire my correspondents to let me know how they approve my project, and whether they think the erecting of such a petty censorship may not turn to the emolument of the public ; for I would not do any thing of this nature rashly and without advice. There is another set of correspondents to whom I must address myself in the second place • I mean, such as fill their letters with private scandal, and black ac- counts of particular persons and families. The world is so full of ill-nature, that I have lampoons sent me by people who cannot spell, and satires composed by those who scarce know how to write. By .the last post in par- ticular I received a packet of scandal which is not legible; and have a whole bundle of letters in women's hands that are full of blots and calumnies, insomuch that when I see the name Caelia, Phillis, Pastora, or the like, at the bottom of a scrawl, I conclude of course that it brings me some account of a fallen virgin, a faithless wife, or an amorous widow. I must therefore inform these my correspondents, that it is not my design to be a publisher of intrigues and cuckoldoms, or to bring little infamous stories out of their present lurking holes into broad day- light. If I attack the vicious, I shall only set upon them in. a body ; and will not be provoked by the worst usage I can receive from others, to make an example of any particular criminal. In short, I have so much of a Draw- cansir in me, that I shall pass over a single foe to charge whole armies. It is not Lais or Silenus, but the harlot THE SPECTATOR. 35 and the drunkard, whom I shall endeavour to expose ; and shall consider the crime as it appears in a species, not as it is circumstanced in an individual. I think it was Caligula, who wished the whole city of Rome had but one neck, that he might behead them at a blow. I shall do out of humanity, what that emperor would have done in the cruelty of his temper, and aim every stroke at a collective body of offenders. At the same time 1 am very sensible that nothing spreads a paper like private calumny and defamation ; but as my speculations are not under this necessity, they are not exposed to this tempta- tion. In the next place, I must apply myself to my party correspondents, who are continually teasing me to take notice of one another's proceedings. How often am I asked by both sides, if it is possible for me to be an un- concerned spectator of the rogueries that are committed by the party which is opposite to him that writes the letter. About two days since, I was reproached with an old Grecian law, that forbids any man to stand as a neuter or looker-on in the divisions of his country. How- ever, as I am very sensible my paper would lose its whole effect, should it run into the outrages of a party, I shall take care to keep clear of every thing which looks that way. If I can any way assuage private inflammations, or allay public ferments,- 1 shall apply myself to it with my utmost endeavours ; but will never let my heart reproach me with having done any thing towards increasing those feuds and animosities that extinguish religion, deface government, and make a nation miserable. 36 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. ^ What I have said under the three foregoing heads wijl, I am afraid, very much retrench the number of my corre- spondents. I shall therefore acquaint my reader, that if he has started any hint which he is not able to pursue ; if he has met with any surprising story which he does not know how to tell ; if he has discovered any epidemical vice which has escaped my observation, or has heard of any uncommon virtue which he would desire to publish ; in short, if he has any materials that can furnish out an innocent diversion, I shall promise him my best assist- ance in the working of them up for a public entertain- ment. Friday, Ma?'cJi 23, 1711'. Among the other hardy undertakings which I have proposed to myself, that of the correction of impudence is what I have very much at heart. This in a particular manner is my province as Spectator ; for it is generally an offence committed by the eyes, and that against such as the offenders would perhaps never have an opportunity of injuring in any other way. The following letter is a complaint of a young lady, who sets forth a trespass of this kind, with that command of herself as befits beauty and innocence, and yet with so much spirit as sufficiently expresses her indignation. The whole transaction is per- formed with the eyes^ and the crime is no less than em- ploying them in such a manner, as to divert the eyes of THE SPECTATOR. 37 others from, the best use they can make of them, even looking up to heaven. ' SIR, 'There never was (I believe) an acceptable man, but had some awkward imitators. Ever since the Spectator appeared, have 1 remarked a kind of men, whom I choose to call Starers ; that without any regard to time, place, or modesty, disturb a large company with their impertinent eyes. Spectators make up a proper assembly for a puppet-show or a bear-garden ; but de- vout supplicants and attentive hearers are the audience one ought to expect in churches. I am. Sir, member of a small pious congregation near one of the north gates of this city ; much the greater part of us indeed are females, and used to behave ourselves in a regular attentive manner, till very lately one whole aisle has been dis- turbed by one of these monstrous starers : he is the head taller than anyone in the church; but for the greater advantage of exposing himself, stands upon a hassock, and commands the whole congregation, to the great an- noyance of the devoutest part of the auditory; for what with blushing, confusion, and vexation, we can neither mind the prayers nor sermon. Your animadversion upon this insolence would be a great favor to, ' Sir, your most humble servant, ' S. C I have frequently seen of this sort of fellows, and do not think there can be a greater aggravation of an 38 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. offence, than that it is committed where the criminal is protected by the sacredness of the place which he violates. Many reflections of this sort might be very justly made upon this kind of behaviour ; but a starer is not usually a person to be convinced by the reason of the thing ; and a fellow that is capable of shewing an impu- dent front before a whole congregation, and can bear being a public spectacle, is not so easily rebuked as to amend by admonitions. If, therefore, my correspondent does not inform me, that within seven days after this date the barbarian does not at least stand upon his own legs only, without an eminence, my friend Will Prosper has promised to take an hassock opposite to him, and stare against him in defence of the ladies. I have given him directions, according to the most exact rules of optics, to place himself in such a manner, that he shall meet his eyes wherever he throws them. I have hopes that when Will confronts him, and all the ladies, in whose behalf he engages him, cast kind looks and wishes of success at their chauipion, he will have some shame, and feel a little of the pain he has so often put others to, of being out of countenance. It has, indeed, been time out of mind generally re- marked, and as often lamented, that this family of Starers have infested public assemblies : and I know no other way to obviate so great an evil, except, in the case of fixing their eyes upon woman, some male friend will take the part of such as are under the oppression of im- pudence, and encounter the eyes of the Starers w^here- ever they meet them. While we suffer our women to be THE SPECTATOR. 39 thus impudently attacked, they have no defence, but in the end to cast yielding glances at the Starers : and in this case, a man who has no sense of shame has the same advantage over his mistress, as he who has no re- gard for his own life has over his adversary. While the generality of the world are fettered by rules, and move by proper and just methods, he who has no respect to any of them, carries away the reward due to that pro- priety of behaviour, with no other merit but that of having neglected it. I take an impudent fellow to be a sort of outlaw in good breeding, and therefore what is said of him no nation or person can be concerned for. For this reason, one may be free upon him. I have put myself to great pains in considering this prevailing quality which we call impudence, and have taken notice that it exerts itself in a different manner, according to the different soils wherein such subjects of these dominions, as are masters of it, were born. Impudence in an Englishman is sullen and insolent ; in a Scotchman, it is untractable and rapacious ; in an Irishman, absurd and fawning. As the course of the world now runs, the impudent Englishman behaves like a surly landlord, the Scot like an ill-received guest, and the Irishman like a stranger, who knows he is not welcome. There is seldom any thing entertaining either in the impudence of a South or North Briton ; but that of an Irishman is always comic. A true and genuine impudence is ever the effect of ignorance without the least sense of it. -x- * « * Those who are downright impudent, and go on with- 40 BRITISH ESSAYISTS, out reflection that they are such, are more to be tolerated, than a set of fellows among us who profess mipudence with an air of humour, and think to carry oft' the most in- excugable of all faults in the world, with no other apology than saying in a gay tone, ' I put an impudent face upon the matter.' No ; no man shall be allowed the advanta- ges of impudence, who is conscious that he is such. If he knows he is impudent, he may as well be otherwise ; and it shall be expected that he blush, when he sees he makes another do it. P'or nothing car atone for the want of modesty ; without which, beaut) is ungraceful, and wit detestable. Tuesday, March 27, lyir. There is nothing that more betrays a base ungen- erous spirit, than the giving of secret stabs to a man's reputation. Lampoons and satires, that are written with wit and spirit, are like poisoned darts, which not only in- flict a wound, but make it incurable. For this reason I am very much troubled when I see the talents of humour and ridicule in the possession of an ill-natured man. There cannot be a greater gratification to a barbarous and inhuman wit, than to stir, up sorrow in the heart of a private person, to raise uneasiness among near relations, and to expose whole families to derision, at the same time that he remains unseen and undiscovered. If, besides the accomplishments of being witty and ill-natured, a man THE SPECTATOR. 41 is vicious into the bargain, he is one of the most mis- chievous creatures that can enter into a civil society. His satire will then chiefly fall upon those who ought to be most exempt from it. Virtue, merit, and every thing that is praiseworthy will be made the subject of ridicule and buffoonery. It is impossible to enumerate the evils which arise from these arrows that fly in the dark ; and I know no other excuse that is or can be made for them, than that the wounds they give are only imaginary, and produce nothing more than a secret shame or sorrow in the mind of the suffering person. It must indeed be confessed, that a. lampoon or a satire do not carry in them robbery or murder ; but at the same time, how many are there that would not rather lose a considerable sum of money, or even life itself, than be set up as a mark of in- famy and derision ? And in this case a man should con- sider, that an injury is not to be measured by the notions of him that gives, but of him that receives it. Those who can put the best countenance upon the outrages of this nature which are offered to them, are not without their secret anguish. I have often observed a passage in Socrates' s behaviour at his death, in a light wherein none of the critics have considered it. That ex- cellent man, entertaining his friends, a little before he drank the bowl of poison, with a discourse on the immor- tality of the soul, at his entering upon it says, that he does not believe any the most comic genius can censure him for talking upon such a subject at such a time. This passage, I think, evidently glances upon x\ristophanes, who writ a comedy on purpose to ridicule the discourses 42 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. of that divine philosopher. It has been observed by many writers, that Socrates was so Httle moved at this piece of buffoonery, that he was several times present at its being acted upon the stage, and never expressed the least resentment of it. But with submission, I think the remark I have here made shows us, that this unworthy treatment made an impression upon his mind, though he had been too wise to discover it. For my own part, I would never trust a man that I thought was capable of giving these secret wounds ; and cannot but think that he would hurt the person, whose reputation he thus assaults, in his body or in his fortune, could he do it with the same security. There is indeed something very barbarous and inhuman in the ordinary scribblers of lampoons. An innocent young lady shall be exposed for an unhappy feature : a father of a family turned to ridicule for some domestic calamity : a wife be made uneasy all her life for a misinterpreted word or action : nay, a good, a temperate, and a just man shall be put out of countenance by the representation of those qualities that should do him honour : — so pernicious a thing is wit, when it is not tempered with virtue and hu- manity. I have indeed heard of heedless inconsiderate writers, that without any malice have sacrificed the reputation of their friends and acquaintance to a certain levity of tem- per, and a silly ambition of distinguishing themselves by a spirit of raillery and satire : as if it were not infinitely more honourable to be a good-natured man than a wit. THE SPECTATOR. 43 Where there is this Httle petulant humour in an author, he is often very mischievous without designing to be so. For which reason I ahvays lay it down as a rule, thaa an indiscreet man is more hurtful than an ill-natured one ; for as the one will only attack his enemies and those he wishes ill to, the other injures indifferently both friends and foes. ********* As this week * is in a manner set apart and dedicated to serious thoughts, I shall indulge myself in such specu- lations as may not be altogether unsuitable to the season ; and in the mean time, as the settling in ourselves a chari- table frame, of mind is a work very proper for the time, I have in this paper endeavoured to expose that particular breach of charity which has been generally overlooked by divines, because they are but few who can be guilty of it. Thursday, March 29, 1711. The fear of death often proves mortal, and sets people on methods to save their lives, which infallibly destroy them. This is a reflection made by some historians, upon observing that there are many more thousands killed in a flight than in a battle ; and may be applied to those multitudes of imaginary sick persons that break their con- stitutions by physic, and throw themselves into the arms * The week before Easter. 44 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. of death, by endeavouring to escape it. This method is not only dangerous, but below the practice of a reason- able creature. To consult the preservation of life, as the only end of it ; to make our health our business ; to en- gage in no action that is not part of a regimen, or course of physic; are purposes so abject, so mean, so unworthy human nature, that a generous soul would rather die than submit to them. Besides, that a continual anxiety for life vitiates all the relishes of it, and casts a' gloom over the whole face of nature ; as it is impossible we should take delight in any thing that we are every moment afraid of losing. I do not mean, by what I have here said, that I think any one to blame for taking due care of their health. On the contrary, as cheerfulness of mind and capacity for business are in a great measure the effects of a well- tempered constitution, a man cannot be at too much pains to cultivate and preserve it. But this care, which we are prompted to, not only by common sense, but by duty and instinct, should never engage us in groundless fears, melancholy apprehensions, and imaginary distem- pers, which are natural to every man who is more anxious to live than how to live. In short, the preserva- tion of life should be only a secondary concern, and the direction of it our principal. If we have this frame of mind, we shall take the best means to preserve life, with- out being over solicitous about the event; and shall ar- rive at that point of felicity which Martial has mentioned as the perfection of happiness, of neither fearing nor wishing for death. THE SPECTATOR. 45 In answer to the gentleman, who tempers his health by ounces and by scruples, and instead of complying with those natural solicitations of hunger and thirst, drowsiness or love of exercise, governs himself by the prescriptions of his chair, I shall tell him a short fable. Jupiter, says the mythologist, to reward the piety of a certain countryman, promised to give him whatever he would ask. The countryman desired that he might have the management of the weather in his own estate. He obtained his re- quest ; and immediately distributed rain, snow, and sun- shine among his several fields, as he thought the nature of the soil required. At the end of the year, when he ex- pected to see a more than ordinary crop, his harvest fell infinitely short of that of his neighbours. Upon which (says the fable) he desired Jupiter to take the weather again into his own hands, or that otherwise he should utterly ruin himself. Saturday, March 31, 1711. There is scarce a thinking man in the world, who is involved in the business of it, but lives under a secret impatience of the hurry and fatigue he suffers, and has formed a resolution to fix himself, one time or other, in such a state as is suitable to the end of his - being. You hear men every day in conversation profess that all the honour, power, and riches, w4iich they propose to them- selves, cannot give satisfaction enough to reward them 46 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. for half the anxiety they undergo in the pursuit or possession of them. While men are in this temper (which happens very frequently), how inconsistent are they with themselves? They are wearied with the toil they bear, but cannot find in their hearts to relinquish it ; retire- ment is what they want, but they cannot betake them- selves to it. While they pant after shade and covert, they still affect to appear in the most glittering scenes of life. But sure this is but just as reasonable as if a man should call for more lights, when he has a mind to go to sleep. Since then it is certain that our own hearts deceive us in the love of the world, and that we cannot command ourselves enough to resign it, though we every day wish ourselves disengaged from its allurements ; let us not stand upon a formal taking of leave, but wean ourselves from them while we are in the midst of them. It is certainly the general intention of the greater part of mankind to accomplish this work, and live according to their own approbation, as soon as they possibly can. But since the duration of life is so uncertain, and that has been a common topic of discourse ever since there was such a thing as life itself, how is it possible that we should defer a moment the beginning to live according to the rules of reason ? The man of business has ever some one point to carry, and then he tells himself he will bid adieu to all the vanity of ambition, * * * * but the ambitious man is entangled every moment in a fresh pursuit, and the lover sees new charms in the object he THE SPECTATOR. 47 fancied he could abandon. » It is, therefore, a fantastical way of thinking, when we promise ourselves an alteration in our conduct from change of place and indifference of circumstances ; the same passions will attend us wher- ever we are, till they are conquered ; and we can never live to our satisfaction, in the deepest retirement, unless we are capable of living so in some measure amidst the noise and business of the world. I have ever thought men were better known by what could be observed of them from a perusal of their private letters, than any other way. My friend, the clergyman, the other day, upon a serious discourse with him concern- ing the danger of procrastination, gave me the following letters from persons with whom he lives in great friend- ship and intimacy, according to the good breeding and good sense of his character. The first is from a man of business, who is his convert : the second, from one of whom he conceives good hopes : the third, from one who is in no state at all, but carried one way and another by starts. 'Sir, ' I KNOW not with what words to express to you the sense I have of the high obligation you have laid upon me, in the penance you enjoined me of doing s6me good or other to a person of worth every day I live. The station I am in furnishes me with daily opportuni- ties of this kind : and the noble principle with which you have inspired me* of benevolence to all I have to deal with, quickens my application in every thing I undertake. 48 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. When I relieve merit from discountenance ; when 1 assist a friendless person ; when I produce concealed worth ; I am displeased with myself for having designed to leave the world in order to be virtuous. I am sorry you decline the occasions which the condition I am in might afford me of enlarging your fortunes ; but know I contribute more to your satisfaction, when I acknowledge I am the better man, from the influence and authority you have over, 'sir, 'Your most obliged and most humble servant, R. o; * SIR, ' I AM entirely convinced of the truth of what you were pleased to say to me, when I was last with you alone. You told me then of the silly way I was in ; but you told me so, as I saw you loved me, otherwise I could not obey your commands in letting you know my thoughts so sincerely as I do at present. I know "the creature, for whom I resign so much of my character," is all that you said of her ; but then the trifler has something in her so undesiguing and harmless, that her guilt in one kind disappears by the comparison of her innocence in another. Will you, virtuous men, allow no alteration of offences ? Must dear Chloe be called by the hard name you pious people give to common women ? I keep the solemn promise I made you, in writing to you the state of my mind, after your kind admonition ; and will endeavour to get the better of this fondness, which makes me so much her humble servant, that I am almost ashamed to sub- scribe myself yours, 'T. D.' fin THE SPECTATOR. \^ 'sir, * There is no state of life so anxious as that of a man who does not live according to the dictates of his own reason. It will seem odd to you, when I assure yoLi that my love of retirement first of all brought me to court ; but this will be no riddle, when I acquaint you that I placed myself here with a design of getting so much money as might enable me to purchase a handsome retreat in the country. At present my circumstances enable me, and my duty prompts me, to pass away the remaining part of my life in such a retirement as I at first proposed to myself; but to my great misfortune I have entirely lost the relish of it, and should now return to the country with greater reluctance than I at first came to court. I am so unhappy, as to know that what I am fond of are trifles, and that what I neglect is of the great- est importance : in short, I find a contest in my own mind between reason and fashion. I remember you once told me, that I might live in the world, and out of it, at the same time. Let me beg of you to explain this para- dox more at large to me, that I may conform my life, if possible, both to my duty and my inclination. ' I am your most humble servant. Saturday, Ap7'il 7, 1711. A FRIEND of mine has two daughters, whom I will call Letitia and Daphne : the former is one of the greatest 3 50 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. beauties of the age in which she lives ; the latter no way remarkable for any charms in her person. Upon this one circumstance of their outward form, the good and ill of their life seems to turn. Letitia has not, from her very childhood, heard any thing else but commendations of her features and complexion, by which means she is no other than nature made her, a very beautiful outside. The consciousness of her charms has rendered her insup- portably vain and insolent towards all who have to do with her. Daphne, who was almost twenty before one civil thing had ever been said to her, found herself obliged to acquire some accomplishments to make up for the want of those attractions which she saw in her sister. Poor Daphne was seldom submitted to in a debate wherein she was concerned ; her discourse had nothing to recommend it but the good sense of it, and she was always under a necessity to have very well considered what she was to say before she uttered it ; while Letitia was listened to with partiality, and approbation sat in the countenances of those she conversed with, before she communicated what she had to say. These causes have produced suitable effects, and Letitia is as insipid a com- panion as Daphne is an agreeable one. Letitia, con- fident of favour, has studied no arts to please : Daphne, despairing of any inclination towards her person, has de- pended only on her merit. Letitia has always something in her air that is sullen, grave, and disconsolate. Daphne has a countenance that appears cheerful, open, and un- concerned. A young gentleman saw Letitia this winter at a play, and became her captive. His fortune was such THE SPECTATOR. • 51 that he wanted very httle introduction to speak his senti- ments to her father. The lover was admitted with the utmost freedom into the family, where a constrained behaviour, severe looks, and distant civilities, were the highest favours he could obtain of Letitia ; while Daphne used him with the good humour, familiarity, and innocence of a sister : insomuch that he would often say to her, ' Dear Daphne, wert thou but as handsome as Letitia ! — ' She received such language with thut ingenuous and pleas- ing mirth which is natural to a woman without design. He still sighed in vain for Letitia, but found certain relief in the agreeable conversation of Daphne. At length heartily tired with the haughty impertinence of Letitia, and charmed with the repeated instances of good-humour he had observed in Daphne, he one day told the latter, that he had something to say to her he hoped she would be pleased with — ' Faith, Daphne,' continued he, ' I am in love with thee, and despise thy sister sincerely.' The manner of his declaring himself gave his mistress occasion for a very hearty laughter. — ' Nay,' says he, ' I knew you would laugh at me, but I will ask your father.' He did so ; the father received his intelligence with no less joy than surprise, and was very glad he had now no care left but for his beauty, which he thought he could carry to market at his leisure. I do not know any thing that has pleased me so much a great while, as this conquest of my friend Daphne's. All her acquaintance congratulate her upon her chance-medley, and laugh at that premedi- tating murderer her sister. As it is an argument of a light mind_, to think the worse of ourselves for the imper- 52 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. fections of our persons, it is equally below us to value ourselves upon the advantages of them. The female world seem to be almost incorrigibly gone astray in this particular ; for which reason I shall recommend the fol- lowing extract out of a friend's letter, to the professed beauties, who are a people almost as unsufferable as .the professed wits : — ' Monsieur St. Evremond has concluded one of his essays with affirming, that the last sighs of a handsome woman are not so much for the loss, of her life as of her beauty. Perhaps this raillery is pursued too far ; yet it is turned upon a very obvious remark, that woman's strong- est passion is for her own beauty, and that she values it as her favourite distinction. From hence it is that all arts, which pretend to improve or preserve it, meet with so general a reception among the sex. To say nothing of many false helps and contraband wares of beauty, which are daily vended in this great mart, there is not a maiden gentlewoman of a good family, in any county of South Britain, who has not heard of the virtues of May-dew, or is unfurnished with some receipt or other in favour of her complexion ; and I have known a physician of learning and sense, after eight years' study in the University, and a course of travels into most countries of Europe, owe. the first raising of his fortunes to a cosmetic wash. ' This has given me occasion to consider how so uni- versal a disposition in womankind, which springs from a laudable motive, the desire of pleasing, and proceeds upon an opinion, not altogether groundless, that nature may be helped by art, may be turned to their advantage. THE SPECTATOR. And, methinks, it would be an acceptable service to take them out of the hands of quacks and pretenders ; and to prevent their imposing upon themselves, by discovering to them the true secret and art of improving beauty. ' In order to this, before I touch upon it directly, it will be necessary to lay down a few preliminary maxims : viz. ' That no woman can be handsome by the force of fea- tures alone, any more than she can be witty only by the help of speech. ' That pride destroys all symmetry and grace ; and affectation is a more terrible enemy to fine faces than the small-pox. ' That no woman is capable of being beautiful, who is not incapable of being false. ' And, That what would be odious in a friend, is defor- mity in a mistress. ' From these few principles, thus laid down, it will be easy to prove, that the true art of assisting beauty, con- sists in embellishing the whole person by the proper orna- ments of virtuous and commendable qualities. By this help alone it is, that those who are the favourite work of nature, or, as Mr. Dryden expresses it, the porcelain clay of human kind, become animated, and are in a capacity of exerting their charms : and those who seem to have been neglected by her, like models wrought in haste, are capable, in a great measure, of finishing what she has left imperfect. ' It is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of that sex, which was created to refine the joys and soften the cares of humanity, by the most agreeable participation, to con- 54 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. sider them merely as objects of sight. * * * How much nobler is the contemplation of beauty, height- ened by virtue, and commanding our esteem and love, while it draws our observation ! How faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette, when compared with the real loveliness of Sophronia's innocence, piety, good- humour, and truth ! virtues which add a new softness to her sex, and even beautify her beauty. That agreeable- ness, which must otherwise have appeared no longer in the modest virgin, is now preserved in the tender mother, the prudent friend, and the faithful wife. Colours artfully spread upon canvas may entertain the eye, but not affect the heart ; and she, who takes no care to add to the nat- ural graces of her person any excelling qualities, may be allowed still to amuse, as a picture, but not to triumph as a beauty. '■ When Adam is introduced by Milton, describing Eve in Paradise, and relating to the angel the impressions he felt upon seeing her at her first creation, he does not rep- resent her like a Grecian Venus, by her shape or features, but by the lustre of her mind which shone in them, and gave them their power of charming : *' Grace was in all hei- steps, heav'n in her eye. In all her gestures dignity and love ! " ' Without this irradiating power, the proudest fair one ought to know, whatever her glass may tell her to the contrary, that her most perfect features are uninformed and dead. THE SPECTATOR. 55 ' I cannot better close this moral, than by a short epi- taph written by Ben Jonson, with a spirit which nothing could inspire but such an object as I have been describ- ing : " Underneath this stone doth lie As much virtue as could die ; Which when alive did vigour give To as much beauty as could live." ' I am, Sir, your most humble servant, ' R. B.' Monday, April 9, 1711. The club of which I am a member, is very luckily composed of such persons as are engaged in different ways of life, and deputed, as it were, out of the most conspicuous classes of mankind. By this means I am furnished with the greatest variety of hints and materials, and know every thing that passes in the different quarters and divisions, not only of this great city, but of the whole kingdom. My readers too have the satisfaction to find that there is no rank or degree among them who have not their representative in this club, and that there is always somebody present who will take care of their re- spective interests, that nothing may be written or pub- lished to the prejudice or infringement of their just rights and privileges. I last night sat very late in company with this select 56 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. body of friends, who entertained me with several remarks which they and others had made upon these my specu- lations, as also with the various success which they had met with among their several ranks and degrees of readers. Will Honeycomb told me, in the softest man- ner he could, that there were some ladies (but for your comfort, says Will, they are not those of the most wit) that were offended at the liberties I had taken with the opera and the puppet-show ; that some of them were likewise very much surprised that I should think such serious points as the dress and equipage of persons of quality proper subjects for raillery. He was going on, when Sir Andrew Freeport took him up short, and told him, that the papers 'he hinted at had done great good in the city, and that all their wives and daughters were the better for them ; and farther added, that the whole city thought themselves very much obliged to me for declaring my generous intentions to scourge vice and folly as they appear in a multitude, without con- descending to be a publisher of particular intrigues and cuckoldoms. ' In short,' says Sir Andrew, '' if you avoid that foolish beaten road of falling upon aldermen and citizens, and employ your pen upon the vanity and lux- ury of courts, your paper must needs be of general use.' Upon this my friend the Templar told Sir Andrew that he wondered to hear a man of his sense talk after that manner ; that the city had always been the province for satire ; and that the wits of King Charles's time jested upon nothing else during his whole reign. He then showed, by the examples of Horace, Juvenal, Boileau, THE SPECTATOR. 57 and the best writers of every age, that the follies of the stage and court had never been accounted too sacred for ridicule, how great soever the persons might be that patronized them. ' But after all,' says he, ' I think your raillery has made too great an excursion in attacking sev- eral persons of the inns of court ; and I do not believe you can show me any precedent for your behaviour in that particular.' My good friend Sir Roger de Coverley, who had said nothing all this while, began his speech with a pish ! and told us, that he wondered to see so many men of sense so very serious upon fooleries. ' Let our good friend,' says he, ' attack every one that deserves it : I would only advise you, Mr. Spectator,' applying himself to me, * to take care how you meddle with country squires. They are the ornaments of the English nation ; men of good heads and sound bodies ! and, let me tell you, some of them take it ill of you that you mention fox-hunters with so little respect.' Captain Sentry spoke very sparingly on this occasion. What he said was only to commend my prudence in not touching upon the army, and advised me to continue to act discreetly in that point. By this time I found every subject of my speculations \7as taken away from me, by one or other of the club ; and began to think myself in the condition of the good man that had one wife who took a dislike to his grey hairs, and another to his black, till, by their picking out what each of them had an aversion to, they left his head altogether bald and naked. 3* 58 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. While I was thus musing with myself, my worthy friend the Clergyman, who, very luckily for me, was at the club that night, undertook my cause. He told us, that he wondered any order of persons should think them- selves too considerable to be advised: that it was not quality, but innocence, which exempted men from re- proof : that vice and folly ought to be attacked wherever they could be met with, and especially when they were placed in high and conspicuous stations of life. He further added, that my paper would only serve to aggra- vate the pains of poverty, if it chiefly exposed those who are already depressed, and in some measure turned into ridicule, by the meanness of their conditions and circum- stances. He afterwards proceeded to take notice of the great use this paper might be of to the public, by repre- hending those vices which are too trivial for the chastise- ment of the law, and too fantastical for the cognizance of the pulpit. He then advised me to prosecute my un- dertaking with cheerfulness, and assured me, that, who- ever might be displeased with me, I should be approved by all those whose praises do honour to the persons on whom they are bestowed. The whole club pay a particular deference to the dis- course of this gentleman, and are drawn into what he says, as much by the candid ingenuous manner with which he delivers himself, as by the strength of argument and force of reason which he makes use of. Will Honey- comb immediately agreed, that what he had said was right ; and that, for his part, he would not insist upon the quarter which he had demanded for the ladies. Sir THE SPECTATOR. 59 Andrew gave up the city with the same frankness. The Templar would not stand out; and was followed by Sir Roger and the Captain ; who aH agreed that I should be at liberty to carry the war into what quarter I pleased, provided I continued to combat with criminals in a body, and to assault the vice without hurting the per- son. This debate, which was held for the good of mankind, put me in mind of that which the Roman triumvirate were formerly engaged in for their destruction. Every man at first stood hard for his friend, till they found, that by this means they should spoil their proscription : and at length, making a sacrifice of all their acquaintance and relations, furnished out a very decent execution. Having thus taken my resolutions to march on boldly in the cause of virtue and good sense, and to annoy their adversaries in whatever degree or rank of men they may be found ; I shall be deaf for the future to all the remon- strances that shall be made to me on this account. If Punch grows extravagant, I shall reprimand him very freely. If the stage becomes a nursery of folly and im- pertinence, I shall not be *afraid to animadvert upon it. In short, if I meet with any thing in city, court, or country, that shocks modesty or good manners, I shall use my utmost endeavours to make an example of it. I must, however, entreat every particular person who does me "the honour to be a reader of this paper, never to think himself, or any one of his friends or enemies, aimed at m what is said : for I promise him never to draw a faulty character which does not fit at least a thousand people ; 6o BRITISH ESSAYISTS. or to publish a single paper, that is not written in the spirit of benevolence and with a love to mankind. Thursday, ApiHl 19, 1711. There are crowds of men, whose great misfortune it is that they were not bound to mechanic arts or trades ; it being absolutely necessary for them to be led by some continual task or employment. These are such as we commonly call dull fellows ; persons, who for want of something to do, out of a certain vacancy of thought, rather than curiosity, are ever meddling with things for which they are unfit. You may observe the turn of their minds tends only to novelty, and not satisfaction in any thing. It would be disappointment to them to come to certainty in any thing, for that would gravel them^ and put an end to their inquiries, which dull fellows do not make for information, but for exercise. I do not know but this may be a very good way of accounting for what we frequently see, to wit, that dull fellows prove very good men of business. Business relieves them from their own natural heaviness, by furnishing them with what to do ; whereas business to mercurial men is an interruption from their real existence and happiness. Though the dull part of mankind are harmless in their amusements, it were to be wished they had no vacant time, because they usually undertake THE SPECTATOR. 6i something that makes their \^'ants conspicuous, by their manner of supplying them. You shall seldom find a dull fellow of good education, but if he happens to have any leisure upon his hands, will turn his head to one of those two amusements for all fools of eminence, politics, or poetry. The former of these arts is the study of- all dull ■ people in general ; but when dulness is lodged in a person of a quick animal life, it generally exerts itself in poetry. One might here mention a few military writers, who give great entertainment to the age, by reason that the stupidity of their heads is quickened by the alacrity of their hearts. This constitution in a dull fellow gives vigour to nonsense, and makes the puddle boil, which would otherwise stagnate. The British Prince, that cele- brated poem which was written in the reign of king Charles the Second, and deservedly called by the wits of that age incomparable, was the effect of such an happy genius as we are speaking of From among many other distichs no less to be quoted on this account, I cannot but recite the two following lines : ' A painted vest prince Yoltager had on. Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won,' Here, if the poet had not been vivacious, as well as stupid, he could not, in the warmth and hurry of non- sense, have been capable of forgetting that neither prince Voltager, nor his grandfather, could strip a naked man of his doublet; but a fool of a colder constitution would have staid to have flead the Pict, and made buff of his skin, for the wearing of the conqueror. 62 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. To bring these observations to some useful purpose of life, what I would propose should be, that we imitated those wise nations, Avherein every man learns some handi- craft-work. Would it not employ a beau prettily enough, if, instead of eternally playing with a snuff-box, he spent some part of his time in making one ? Such a method as this would very much conduce to the public emolu- ment, by making every man living good for something ; for there would then be no one member of human society, but would have some little pretension for some degree in it, like him who came to Will's coffee-house, upon the merit of having writ a posy of a ring. Saturday, April 2^, 1711. 'MR. SPECTATOR, ' My fortune, quality, and person are such, as render me as conspicuous as any young woman in town. It is in my power to enjoy it in all its vanities ; but I have, from a very careful education, contracted a great aversion to the forward air and fashion which is practised in all public places and assemblies. I attribute this very much to the style and manner of our plays. I was last night at the Funeral, where a confident lover in the play, speaking of his mistress, cries out — " Oh that Harriot ! to fold these arms about the waist of that beauteous, struggling, and at last yielding fair ! " Such an image as this ought by no means to be presented to a chaste and regular audience. I expect your opinion of this sentence, THE SPECTATOR. (^Z and recommend to your consideration, as a Spectator, the conduct of the stage at present with relation to chas- tity and modesty. ' I am Sir, ' Your constant reader and well-wisher.' The complaint of this young lady is so just, that the offence is gross enough to have displeased persons who cannot pretend to that delicacy and modesty of which she is mistress. But there is a great deal to be said in behalf of an author. If the audience would but consider the difficulty of keeping up a sprightly dialogue for five acts together, they would allow a writer, when he wants wit, and can't please any otherwise^ to help it out with a little smuttiness. I will answer for the poets, that no one ever writ bawdry for any other reason than dearth of invention. When the author cannot strike out of himself any more of that which he has superior to those who make up the bulk of his audience, his natural recourse is to that which he has in common with them ; and a description which gratifies a sensual appetite will please, when the author has nothing about him to delight a refined imagination. It is to such a poverty we must impute this and all other sentences in plays, which are of this kind, and which are commonly termed luscious expressions. This expedient to supply the deficiencies of wit has been used more or less by most of the authors who have succeeded on the stage. « * «- « When a poet flags in writing lusciously, a pretty girl can move lasciviously, and have the same good consequence for the author. Dull poets in this case use their audiences, as 64 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. dull parasites do their patrons ; when they cannot longer divert them with their wit or humour, they bait their ears with something which is agreeable to their temper, though below their understanding. Apicius cannot resist being pleased, if you give him an account of a delicious meal ; or Clodius, if you describe a wanton beauty : though at the same time if you do not awake those inclinations in them, no men are better judges of what is just and deli- cate in conversation. But, as I have before observed, it is easier to talk to the nian, than to the man of sense. It is remarkable that the writers of least learning are best skilled in the luscious way. * * * * If men of wit, who think fit to write for the stage, in- stead of this pitiful way of giving delight, would turn their thoughts upon raising it from such good natural impulses as are in the audience, but are choked up by vice and luxury, they would not only please, but befriend us at the same time. If a man had a mind to be new in his way of writing, might not he who is now represented as a fiiie gentleman, though he betrays the honour and bed of his neighbour and friend, and lies with half the women in the play, and is at last rewarded with her of the best char- acter in it ; I say, upon giving the comedy another cast, might not such a one divert the audience quite as well, if at the catastrophe he were found out for a traitor, and met with contempt accordingly? There is seldom a person devoted to above one darling vice at a time ; so that there is room enough to catch at men's hearts to their good and advantage, if the poets will attempt it with the honesty which becomes their characters. THE SPECTATOR. 65 There is no man who loves his bottle or his mistress, in a manner so very abandoned, as not to be capable of relishing an agreeable character, that is no way a slave to either of those pursuits. A man that is temperate, gener- ous, valiant, chaste, faithful, and honest, may, at the same time, have wit, humour, mirth, good-breeding, and gal- lantry. While he exerts these latter qualities, twenty occasions might be invented to show that he is master of the other noble virtues. Such characters would smite and reprove the heart of a man of sense, when he is given up to his pleasures. He would see he has been mistaken all this while, and be convinced that a sound constitution and an innocent mind are the true ingredi- ents for becoming and enjoying life. All men of true taste would call a man of wit, who should turn his ambi- tion this way, a friend and benefactor to his country; but I am at a loss what name they would give him who makes use of his capacity for contrary purposes. Tuesday, May i, 1711. My correspondents grow so numerous, that I cannot avoid frequently inserting their applications to me. 'MR. SPECTATOR, ' I AM glad I can inform you, that your endeavours to adorn that sex, which is the fairest part of the visible creation, are well received, and like to prove not unsuc- 66 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. cessful. The triumph of Daphne over her sister Laetitia,* has been the subject of conversation at several tea-tables where I have been present ; and I have observed the fair circle not a little pleased to find you considering them as reasonable creatures, and endeavouring to ban- ish that Mahometan custom, which had too much pre- vailed even in this island, of treating women as if they had no souls. I must do them the justice to say, that there seems to be nothing wanting to the finishing of these lovely pieces of human nature, besides the turning and applying their ambition properly, and the keeping them up to a sense of what is their true merit. Epicte- tus, that plain honest philosopher, as little as he had of gallantry, appears to have understood them, as well as the polite St. Evremont, and has hit this point very luck- ily. " When young women," says he, " arrive at a certain age, they hear themselves called mistresses, and are made to believe, that their only business is to please the men ; they immediately begin to dress, and place all their hopes in the adorning of their persons ; it is therefore," contin- ues he, " worth the while to endeavour by all means to make them sensible, that the honour paid to them is only upon account of their conducting themselves with virtue, modesty, and discretion." ' Now to pursue the matter yet farther, and to render your cares for the improvement of the fair ones more effectual, I would propose a new method like those appli- cations which are said to convey their virtue by sympa- * This refers to the relation in a previous paper. THE SPECTATOR. 67 thy ; and that is, that in order to embeUish the mistress, you should give a new education to the lover, and teach the men not to be any longer dazzled by false charms and unreal beauty. I cannot but think that if our sex knew always how to place their esteem justly, the other would not be so often wanting to themselves in deserving it. For as the being enamoured with a woman of sense and virtue is an improvement to a man's understanding and morals, and the passion is ennobled by the object which inspires it ; so, on the other side, the appearing amiable to a man of a wise and elegant mind, carries in itself no small degree of merit and accomplishment. I conclude, therefore, that one way to make the women yet more agreeable is, to make the men more virtuous. ' I am. Sir, your most humble servant, 'R. B.' 'Sir, ' This is to let you understand that I am a re- formed starer, and conceived a detestation for that prac- tice from what you have writ upon the subject. But as you have been very severe upon the behaviour of us men at divine service, I hope you will not be so apparently partial to the women, as to let them go wholly unob- served. If they do everything that is possible to attract our eyes, are we more culpable than they for looking at them ? I happened last Sunday to be shut into a pew, which was full of young ladies in the bloom of youth and beauty. When the service began, I had not room to kneel at the confession, but as I stood kept my eyes from wandering as well as I was able, till one of the young 68 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. ladies, who is a Peeper, resolved to bring down my looks and fix my devotion on herself. You are to know, sir, that a peeper works with her hands, eyes, and fan ; one of which is continually in motion, while she thinks she is not actually the admiration of some ogler or starer in the congregation. As I stood utterly at a loss how to be- have myself, surrounded as I was, this peeper so placed herself as to be kneeHng just before me. She displayed the most beautiful bosom imaginable, which heaved and fell with some fervour, while a delicate well shaped arm held a fan over her face. It was not in nature to com- mand one's eyes from this object. I could not avoid taking notice also of her fan, which had on it various figures, very improper to behold on that occasion. There lay in the body of the piece a Venus, under a pur- ple canopy, furled with curious wreaths of drapery, half- naked, attended with a train of Cupids, who were busied in fanning her as she slept. Behind her was drawn, a satyr peeping over the silken fence, and threatening to break through it. I frequently offered to turn my sight another way, but was still detained by the fascination of the peeper's eyes, who had long practised a skill in them to recal the parting glances of hei beholders. You see my complaint ; and hope you will take these mischievous people, the peepers, into your consideration. I doubt not but you will think a peeper as much more pernicious than a starer, as an ambuscade is more to be feared than an open assault. 'I am, Sir, your most obedient servant.' THE SPECTATOR. 69 Wednesday, May 16, 1711. The two following letters are upon a subject of very- great importance, though expressed without any air of gravity. ' to the spectator, 'sir, ' I TAKE the freedom of asking your advice in behalf of a young country kinswoman of mine, who is lately come to town, and under my care for her education. She is very pretty, but you can't imagine how unformed a crea- ture it is. She comes to my hands just as nature left her, half finished, and without any acquired improvements. When I look on her, I often think of the Belle Sauvage mentioned in one of your papers. Dear Mr. Spectator, help me to make her comprehend th^ visible graces of speech, and the dumb eloquence of motion ; for she is at present a perfect stranger to both. She knows no way to express herself but by her tongue, and that always to signify her meaning. Her eyes serve her yet only to see with, and she is utterly a foreigner to the language of looks and glances. In this I fancy you could help her better than any body. I have bestowed two months in teaching her to sigh when she is not concerned, and to smile when she is not pleased, and am ashamed to own she makes little or no improvement. Then she is no more able now to walk, than she was to go at a year old. By 7o BRITISH ESSAYISTS. walking, you will easily know I mean that regular but easy motion which gives our persons so irresistible a grace as if we moved to music, and is a kind of disengaged fig- ure ; or, if I may so speak, recitative dancing. But the want of this I cannot blame in her, for I find she has no ear, and means nothing by walking but to change her place. I could pardon too her blushing, if she knew how to carry herself in it, and if it did not manifestly injure her complexion. ' They tell me you are a person who have seen the world, and are a judge of fine breeding ; which makes me ambitious of some instructions from you for her improve- ment : which when you have favoured -me with, I shall farther advise with you about the disposal of this fair for- ester in marriage ; for I will make it no secret to you, that her person and education are to be her fortune. I am. Sir, ' Your very humble servant, ' Celimene.' ' Sir, ' Being employed by Celimene to make up and send to you her letter, I make bold to recommend the case therein mentioned to your consideration, because she and I happen to differ a little in our notions. I, who am a rough man, am afraid the young girl is in a fair way to be spoiled : therefore, pray, Mr. Spectator, let us have your opinion of this fine thing called fine breeding ; for I am afraid it differs too much from that plain thing called good breeding. 'Your most humble servant.' THE SPECTATOR. 71 The general mistake among us in the educating our children is, that in our daughters we take care of their persons, and neglect their minds ; in our sons we are so intent upon adorning their minds, that we wholly neglect their bodies. It is from this that you shall see a young lady celebrated and admired in all the assemblies about town, when her elder brother is afraid to come into a room. From this ill management it arises, that we fre- quently observe a man's life is half spent before he is taken notice of ; and a woman in the prime of her years is out of fashion and neglected. The boy I shall consider upon some other occasion, and at present stick to the girl : and I am the more inclined to this, because I have several letters which complain to me, that my female readers have not understood me for some days last past, and take themselves to be unconcerned in the present turn of my writings. When a girl is safely brought from her nurse, before she is capable of forming one simple notion of any thing in life, she is delivered to the hands of her dancing-master ; and with a collar round her neck, the pretty wild thing is taught a fantastical gravity of be- haviour, and forced to a particular way of holding her head, heaving her breast, and moving with her w^hole body ; and all this under pain of never having a husband, if she steps, looks, or moves awry. This gives the young- lady wonderful workings of imagination, what is to pass between her and this husband that she is every moment told ofj and for whom she seems to be educated. Thus her fancy is engaged to turn all her endeavours to the ornament of her person, as what must determine her good 72 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. and ill in this life ; and she naturally thinks, if she is tall enough, she is Avise enough for any thing for which her education makes her think she is designed. To make her an agreeable person is the main purpose of her parents ; to that is all their cost, to that all their care directed ; and from this general folly of parents we owe our present numerous race of coquettes. These reflections puzzle me, when I think of giving my advice on the subject of managing the wild thing mentioned in the letter of my correspondent. But sure there is a middle way to be fol- lowed ; the management of a young lady's person is not to be overlooked, but the erudition of her mind is much more to be regarded. According as this is managed, you will see the mind follow the appetites of the body, or the body express the virtues of the mind. Cleomira dances with all the elegance of motion im- aginable ; but her eyes are so chastised with the simpli- city and innocence of her thoughts, that she raises in her beholders admiration and good-will, but no loose hope or wild imagination. The true art in this case is, to make the mind and body improve together; and if possible, to make gesture follow thought, and not let thought be em- ployed upon gesture. Friday, May i8, 1711. One would think that the larger the company is in which we are engaged, the greater variety of thoughts and THE SPECTATOR. subjects would be started in discourse ; but instead of this, we find that conversation is never so much straitened and confined as in numerous assemblies. When a multi- tude meet together upon any subject of discourse, their debates are taken up chiefly with forms and general posi- tions j nay, if we come into a more contracted assembly of men and women, the talk generally runs upon the weather, fashions, news, and the like public topics. In proportion as conversation gets into clubs and knots of friends, it descends into particulars, and grows more free and communicative ; but the most open, instructive and unreserved discourse, is that w^hich passes between two persons who are familiar and intimate friends. On these occasions, a man gives a loose to every passion and every thought that is uppermostj discovers his most retired opinions of persons and things, tries the beauty and strength of his sentiments, and exposes his whole soul to the examination of his friend. Tully was the first who observed that friendship im- proves happiness and abates misery, by the doubling of our joy, and dividing of our grief; a thought in which he hath been followed by all the essayers upon friendship that have written since his time. Sit Francis Bacon has finely described other advantages, or, as he calls them, fruits of friendship; and, indeed, there is no subject of morality which has been better handled and more ex- hausted than this. Among the several fine things which have been spoken of it, I shall beg leave to quote some out of a very ancient author, whose book would be re- garded by our modern wits as one of the most shining 4 74 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. tracts of morality that is extant, if it appeared under the name of a Confucius, or of any celebrated Grecian philosopher : I mean, the little apocryphal treatise, in- titled The Wisdom of the Son of Sirach. How finely has he described the art of making friends, by an obliging and affable behaviour ; and laid down that precept, which a late excellent author has delivered as his own, That we should have many well-wishers, but few friends ! ' Sweet language will multiply friends ; and a fair speaking tongue will increase kind greetings. Be in peace with many, nevertheless have but one counsellor of a thousand.' With what prudence does he caution us in the choice of our friends ! And with what strokes of nature (I could almost say of humoar) has he described the behaviour of a treacherous and self-interested friend ! ' If thou wouldest get a friend, prove him first, and be not hasty to credit him : for some man is a friend for his own occasion, and will not abide in the day of thy trouble. And there is a friend, who, being turned to enmity and strife, will dis- cover thy reproach.' Again, ' Some friend is a compan- ion at the table, and will not continue in the day of thy affliction : but in thy prosperity he will be as thyself, and will be bold over thy servants. If thou be brouglit low, he will be against thee, and hide himself from thy face.' What can be more strong and pointed than the following verse ? ' Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take heed of thy friends.' In the next words he particularises one of those fruits of friendship which is described at length by the two famous authors above-mentioned, and falls into a general euloguun of friendship, which is very just as THE SPECTATOR. 75 well as very sublime. ' A faithful friend is a strong defence ; and he that hath found such an one, hath found a treasure. Nothing doth countervail a faithful friend, and his excel- lency is unvaluable. A faithful friend is the medicine of life ; and they that fear the Lord shall find him. Whoso feareth the Lord shall direct his friendship aright ; for as he is, so shall his neighbour (that is his friend) be also.' I do not remember to have met with any saying that has pleased me more than that of a friend's being the medi- cine of life, to express the efficacy of friendship in healing the pains and anguish which naturally cleave to our exist- ence in this world ; and am wonderfully pleased with the turn in the last sentence, that a virtuous man shall as a blessing meet with a friend who is as virtuous as himself There is another saying in the same author, which w^ould have been very much admired in an heathen writer : ' Forsake not an old friend, for the new" is not compar- able to him : a new friend is as new wine ; when it is old thou shalt drink it with pleasure.' With what strength of allusion and force of thought has he described the breaches and violations of friendship ! — ' Whoso casteth a stone at the birdsj frayeth them away ; and he that up- braideth his friend, breaketh friendship. Though thou drawest a sword at a friend, yet despair not, for there may be a returning to favour. If thou hast opened thy mouth against thy friend, fear not, for there may be a reconciliation ; except for upbraiding, or pride, or dis- closing of secrets, or a treacherous wound ; for, for these things every friend will depart.' We may observe in this and several other precepts in this author, those little 76 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. familiar instances and illustrations which are so much admired in the moral writings of Horace and Epictetus. There are very beautiful instances of this nature in the following passages, which are likewise written upon the same subject: 'Whoso discovereth secrets, loseth his credit, and shall never find a friend to his mind. Love thy friend, and be faithful unto him ; but if thou bewray- est his secrets, follow no more after him : for as a man hath destroyed his enemy, so hast thou lost the love of thy friend ; as one that letteth a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou let thy friend go, and shalt not get him again ; follow after him no more, for he is too far off ; he is as a roe escaped out of the snare. As for a wound it may be bound up, and after reviling there may be a reconciliation ; but he that bewrayeth secrets, is without hope.' Among the several qualifications of a good friend, this wise man has very justly singled out constancy and faithfulness as the principal : to these, others have added Virtue, knowledge, discretion, equality in age and for- tune, and, as Cicero calls it, • Moimm cofnitas,' 'a pleas- antness of temper.' If I were to give my opinion upon such an exhausted subject, I should join to these other qualifications a certain equability or evenness of behav- iour. A man often contracts a friendship with one whom perhaps he does not find out till after a year's conversa- tion ; when on a sudden some latent ill-humour breaks out upon him, which he never discovered or suspected, at his first entering into an intimacy with him. There are several persons who in some certain periods of their THE SPECTATOR. lives are inexpressibly agreeable, and in others as odious and detestable. Martial has given us a very pretty pic- ture of one of this species, in the following epigram : * Difificilis, facilis, jucundus, acerbus es idem, Nee tecum possum vivere, nee sine te.' Epig. xii. 47. * In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow, Thou'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow ; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee, ' It is very unlucky for a man to be entangled in a friend- ship with one, who, by these changes and vicissitudes of humour, is sometimes amiable and sometimes odious ; and as most men are at some times in an admirable frame and disposition of mind, it should be one of the greatest tasks of wisdom to keep ourselves well when we are so, and never to go out of that which is the agreeable part of our character. Tuesday, May 22, 1711. The entire conquest of our passions is so difficult a work, that they who despair of it should think of a less difficult task, and only attempt to regulate them. But there is a third thing which may contribute not only to the ease, but also to the pleasure of our life ; and that is, refining our passions to a greater elegance than we re- 78 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. ceive them from nature. When the passion is Love, this work is performed in innocent, though rude and unculti- vated mindg, by the mere force and dignity of the object. There are forms which naturally create respect in the beholders, and at once inflame and chastise the imagina- tion. Such an impression as this gives an immediate ambition to deserve, in order to please. This cause and effect are beautifully described by Mr. Dryden in the fable of Cymon and Iphigenia. After he has represented Cymon so stupid, that ' He whistled as he went, for want of thought ; ' he makes him fall into the following scene, and shows its influence upon him so excellently, that it appears as natural as wonderful : * It happen'd on a summer's holiday, That to the greenwood- shade he took his way ; His quarter-staff, which he could ne'er forsake, Hung half before, and half behind his back. He trudg'd along, unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought. * By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain'd, The deep recesses of the grove he gain'd ; Where in a plain, defended by the wood, Crept thro' the matted grass a crystal flood. By which an alabaster fountain stood : And on the margin of the fount was laid (Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid. Like Dian and her nymphs, when, tir'd with sport. To rest by cool Eurotas they resort : The dame herself the goddess well express'd, Not more distinguish' d by her purple vest. THE SPECTATOR. 79 Than by the cliarmhig features of her face, And e'en in slumber a superior grace ; Her comely limbs compos'd with decent care, Her body shaded with a slight cymarr ; Her bosom to the view was only bare : The fanning wind upon her bosom blows, To meet the fanning wind the bosom rose ; The fanning wind and purling streams continue her repose. ' The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes, And gaping mouth, that testify 'd surprise ; Fix'd on her face, nor could remove his sight, New as he was to love, and novice in delight : Long mute he stood, and leaning on his staff, His wonder witness'd with an idiot laugh ; Then would have spoke, but by his glimm'ring sense First found his want of words, and fear'd offence : Doubted for what he was he should be known, By his clowm-accent, and his country-tone.' But lest this fine description should be excepted against, as the creation of that great master Mr. Dryden, and not an account of what has really ever happened in the world, I shall give you verbatim the epistle of an enamoured footman in the country to his mistress. Their surnames shall not be inserted, because their passion demands a greater respect than is due to their quality. James is servant in a great family, and Elizabeth waits upon the daughter of one as numerous, some miles off her lover. James, before he beheld Betty, was vain of his strength, a rough wrestler, and quarrelsome cudgel-player ; Betty, a public dancer at maypoles, a romp at stool-ball : he always following idle women, she playing among the peasants; he a country bully, she a country coquette. So BRITISH ESSAYISTS. But love has made her constantly in her mistress's cham- ber, where the young lady gratifies a secret passion of her own, by making Betty talk of James ; and James is become a constant waiter near his master's apartment, in reading as well as he can, romances. I cannot learn who Molly is, who it seems walked ten miles to carry the angry message which gave occasion to what follows : 'TO ELIZABETH. 'my dear BETTY, May 14, 171 1. 'Remember your bleeding ' lover, who lies bleeding at the wounds Cupid made with the arrows he borrowed at the eyes of Venus, which is your sweet person. ' Nay more, with the token you sent me for my love and service offered to your sweet person ; which was your base respects to my ill conditions ; when, alas ! there is no ill conditions in me, but quite contrary ; all love and purity, especially to your sweet person ; but all this I take as a jest. ' But the sad and dismal news which Molly brought me struck me to the heart, which was it seems, and is, your ill conditions for my love and respects to you. ' For she told me, if I came forty times to you, you would not speak with me, which words I am sure is a great grief to me. ' Now, my dear, if I may not be permitted to your sweet company, and to have the happiness of speaking THE SPECTATOR. 8 1 with your sweet person, I beg the favour of you to ac- cept of this my secret mind and thoughts, which hath so long lodged in my breast, the which if you do not accept, I believe will go nigh to break my heart. ' For indeed, my dear, I love you above all the beauties I ever saw in all my life. ' The young gentleman, and my master's daughter, the •Londoner that is come down to marry her, sat in the ar- bour most part of last night. Oh, dear Betty, must the nightingales sing to those who marry for money, and not to us true lovers ! Oh, my dear Betty, that we could meet this night where we used to do in the wood ! ' Now, my dear, if I may not have the blessing of kissing your sweet lips, I beg I may have the happiness of kissing your fair hand, with a few lines from your dear self, presented by whom you please or think fit. I be- lieve, if time would permit me, I could write all day ; but the time being short, and paper little, no more from your never-failing lover till death, ' James .' Poor James ! since his time and paper were so short, I that have more than I can use well of both, will put the sentiments of his kind letter (the style of which seems to be confused with scraps he had got in hearing and reading what he did not understand) into what he meant to ex- press. ' DEAR CREATURE, ' Can -you, then, neglect him who has forgot all his recreations and enjoyments, to pine away his life in 4* BRITISH ESS A YISTS. thinking of you ? when I da so^ you appear more amiable to me than Venus does in the most beautiful description that ever was made of her. All this kindness you return with an accusation, that I do not love you : but the con- trary is so manifest^ that I cannot think you in earnest. But the certainty given me in your message by Molly, that you do not love me, is what robs me of all comfort. She says you will not see me : if you can have so much cruelty, at least write to me, that I may kiss the impres- sion made by your fair hand. I love you above all things, and, in my condition, what you look upon with in- difference is to me the most exquisite pleasure or pain. Our young lady, and a fine gentleman from London, who are to marry for mercenary ends, walk about our gardens, and hear the voice of evening nightingales, as if for fashion sake they courted those solitudes, because they have heard lovers do so. Oh Betty ! could I hear these rivulets murmur, and birds sing, while you stood near me, how Httle sensible should I be that we are both servants, that there is any thing on earth above us ! Oh ! I could . write to you as long as I love you, till death itself James. N. B. — By the words ill-condition, James means — in a woman, coquetry ; in a man, inconstancy. Thursday, May 24, 1711. * * « -Sf * * The passion for praise which is so very vehement in the THE SPECTATOR. ^Z fair sex, produces excellent effects in women of sense, Avho desire to be admired for that only which deserves admiration : and I think we may observe, without a com- pliment to them, that many of them do not only live in a more uniform course of virtue, but with an infinitely greater regard to their honour, than what we find in the generality of our own sex. How many instances have we of chastity, fidelity, devotion ! How many ladies distinguish themselves by the education of their children, care of their families, and love of their husbands, which are the great qualities and achievements of womankind ! as the making of war, the carrying on of traffic, the administra- tion of justice, are those by which men grow famous, and get themselves a name. But as this passion for admiration, when it works ac- cording to reason, improves the beautiful part of our spe- cies in every thing that is laudable ; so nothing is more destructive to them when it is governed by vanity and folly. What I have therefore here to say, only regards the vain part of the sex, whom for certain reasons, which the reader will hereafter see at large, I shall distinguish by the name of idols. An idol is wholly taken up in the adorning of her person. You see in every posture of her body, air of her face, and motion of her head, that it is her business and employment to gain adorers. For this reason your idols appear in all public places and assem- blies, in order to seduce men to their worship. The play- house is very frequently filled with idols ; several of them are carried in procession every evening about the ring, and several of them set up their worship even in churches. 84 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. They are to be accosted in the language proper to the Deity. Life and death are in their power ; joys of heaven, and pains of hell, are at their disposal : paradise is in their arms, and eternity in every moment that you are present with them. Raptures, transports, and ecsta- sies are the rewards w^hich they confer: sighs and tears, prayers and broken hearts, are the offerings which are paid to them. . Their smiles make men happy ; their frow^ns drive them to despair. * * * It would be as difficult a task to reckon up these differ- ent kinds of idols, as Milton's was to number those that were known in Canaan, and the lands adjoining. Most of them are worshipped, like Moloch, in fires and llames. Some of them, like Baal, love to see their votaries cut and slashed, and shedding their blood for them. Some of them, like the idol in the Apocrypha, must have treats and collations prepared for them every night. It has indeed been known, that some of them have been used by their incensed worshippers like the Chinese idols, who are whipped and scourged when they refuse to com- ply with the prayers that are offered to them. I must here observe, that those idolaters who devote themselves to the idols I am here speaking of, differ very much from all other kinds of idolaters. For as others fall out because they worship different idols, these idola- ters quarrel because they worship the same. The intention therefore of the idol is quite contrary to the wishes of the idolater ; as the one desires to confine the idol to himself, the whole business and ambition of the other is to multiply adorers. This humour of an THE SPECTATOR. 85 idol is prettily described in a tale of Chaucer. He re- presents one of them sitting at a table with three of her votaries about her, who are all of them courting her favour, and paying their adorations. She smiled upon one, drank to another, and trod upon the other's foot which was under the table. Now which of these three, says the old bard, do you think was the favourite .^ In troth, says he, not one of all the three. The behaviour of this old idol in Chaucer, puts me in. mind of- the beautiful Clarinda, one of the greatest idols among the moderns. She is worshipped once a week by candle-light, in the midst of a large congregation, gener- ally called an assembly. Some of the gayest youths in the nation endeavour to plant themselves in her eye, while she sits in form wdth multitudes of tapers burning about her. To encourage the zeal of her idolaters, she bestows a mark of her favour upon every one of them, before they go out of her presence. She asks a question of one, tells a story to another, glances an ogle upon a third, takes a pinch of snuff from the fourth, lets her fan drop by accident to give the fifth an occasion of taking it up. In short, every one goes away satisfied with his success, and encouraged to renew his devotions. An idol may be undeified by many accidental causes. Marriage in particular is a kind of counterapotheosis, or a deification inverted. — When a man becomes familiar with his goddess, she quickly sinks into a w^oman. Old age is likewise a great decayer of your idol. The truth of it is, there is not a more unhappy being than a superannuated idol, especially when she has contracted S6 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. such airs and behaviour as are only graceful when her worshippers are about her. Considering therefore that in these and many other cases the woman generally outlives the idol, I must re- turn to the moral of this paper, and desire my fair readers to give a proper direction to their passion for being ad- mired ; in order to which, they must endeavour to make themselves the objects of a reasonable and lasting admira- tion. This is not be hoped for from beauty, or dress, or fashion, but from those inward ornaments which are not to be defaced by time or sickness, and which appear most amiable to those who are most acquainted with them. Thursday, May 3T, 1711. I HAVE received very many letters, of late from my female correspondents, most of whom are very angry with me for abridging their pleasures, and looking severely upon things in themselves indifferent. But I think they are extremely unjust to me in this imputation. All that I contend for is, that those excellences, which are to be regarded but in the second place, should not precede more weighty considerations. The heart of man deceives him in spite of the lectures of half a life spent in dis- courses on the subjection of passion ; and I do not know why one may not think the heart of woman as unfaithful to itself. If we grant an equality in the faculties of both sexes, the minds of women are less cultivated with pre- THE SPECTATOR. 87 cepts, and consequently may, without disrespect to them, be accounted more liable to illusion, in cases wherein natural inclination is out of the interest "of virtue. 1 shall take up my present time in commenting upon a billet or two which came from ladies, and from thence leave the reader to judge whether 1 am in the right or not in think- ing it is possible fine women may be mistaken. The following address seems to have no other design in it but to tell me the writer will do what she pleases, for all of me. *MK. SPECTATOR, ' I AM young, and very much inclined to follow the paths of innocence : but at the same time, as I have a plentiful fortune and am of quality, I am unwilling to re- sign the pleasures of distinction, some little satisfaction in being admired in general, and much greater in being be- loved by a gentleman whom I design to make my hus- band. But I have a mind to put off entering into matri- mony till another winter is over my head, which (whatever, musty Sir, you may think of the matter) I design to pass away in hearing music, going to plays, visiting, and all other satisfactions which fortune and youth, protected by innocence and virtue, can procure for, * Sir, your most humble servant, 'M. T. ' My lover does not know I like him, therefore having no engagements upon me, I think to stay and know whether I may not like any one else better.' BRITISH ESSAYISTS. I have heard Will Honeycomb say, ' A woman seldom writes her mind but in her postscript.' I think this gen- tlewoman has sufficiently discovered hers in this. I will lay what wager she pleases against her present favourite, and can tell her, that she will like ten more before she is fixed, and then will take the worst man she ever liked in her life. There is no end of affection taken in at the eyes only; and you may as well satisfy those eyes with seeing, as controul any passion received by them only. It is from loving by sight, that coxcombs so frequently succeed with women ; and very often a young lady is be- stowed by her parents to a man who weds her as inno- cence itself, though she has, in her own heart, given her approbation of a different man in every assembly she was in the whole year before. What is wanting among women as well as among men, is the love of laudable things, and not to rest only in the forbearance as such as are re- proachful. How far removed from a woman of this light imagina- tion is Eudosia ! Eudosia has all the arts of life and good-breeding with so much ease, that the virtue of her conduct looks more like instinct than choice. It is as little difficult to her to think justly of persons and things, as it is to a woman of different accomplishments to move ill or look awkward. That which was, at first, the effect of instruction, is grown into an habit ; and it would be as hard for Eudosia to indulge a wrong suggestion of thought, as it would be to Elavia, the fine dancer, to come into ^ room with an unbecoming air. But the misapprehensions people themselves have of THE SPECTATOR. their own state of mind, is laid down with much discern- ing in the following letter, which is but an extract of a kind epistle from my charming mistress Hecatissa, who is above the vanity of external beauty, and is the better judge of the perfections of the mind. 'mk. spectator, ' I WRITE this to acquaint you, that very many ladies, as well as myself, spend many hours more than we used at the glass, for want of the female library, of which you promised us a catalogue. I hope, Sir, in the choice of authors for us, you will have a particular regard to books of devotion. What they are, and how many, must be your chief care ; for upon the propriety of such writings depends a great deal. I have known those among us who think, if they every morning and evening spend an hour in their closet, and read over so many prayers in six or seven books of devotion, all equally nonsensical, with a sort of warmth, (that might as well be raised by a glass of wine, or a dram of citron,) they may all the rest of their time go on in whatever their particu- lar passion leads them to. The beauteous Philautia, who is (in your language) an idol, is one of these votaries ; she has a very pretty furnished closet, to which she retires at her appointed hours. — This is her dressing room, as well as chapel ; she has constantly before her a large looking-glass ; and upon the table, according to a very witty author, ** Together lie her prayer-book and her paint, At once t' improve the sinner and the saint." 90 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. ' It must be a good scene, if one could be present at it, to see this idol by turns lift up her eyes to heaven, and steal glances at her own dear person. It cannot but be a pleasing conflict between vanity and humiliation. When you are upon this subject, choose books which elevate the mind above the world, and give a pleasing indiffer- ence to little things in it. For want of such instructions I am apt to believe so many people take it in their heads to be sullen, cross, and angry, under pretence of being abstracted from the affairs of this life, when at the same time they betray their fondness for them by doing their duty as a task, and pouting and reading good books for a week together. Much of this I take to proceed from the indiscretion of the books themselves, whose very titles of weekly preparations, and such limited godliness, lead people of ordinaiy capacities into great errors, and raise in them a mechanical religion, entirely distinct from morality. I know a lady so given up to this sort of devo- tion, that, though she employs six or eight hours of the twenty-four at cards, she never misses one constant hour of prayer, for which time another holds her cards, to which she returns with no little anxiousness till two or three in the morning. All these acts are but empty shows, and, as it were, compliments made to virtue ; the 'mind is all the while untouched with any true pleasure in the pursuit of it. From hence I presume it arises, that so many people call themselves virtuous, from no other pretence to it but an absence of ill. There is Dulci- anara, the most insolent of all creatures to her friends and domestics, upon no other pretence in nature, but THE SPECTATOR. that (as her silly phrase is) " no one can say black is her eye." She has no secrets, forsooth, which should make her afraid to speak her mind, and therefore she is imper- tinently blunt to all her acquaintance, and unseasonably imperious to all her family. Dear Sir, be pleased to put such books in our hands, as may make our virtue more inward, and convince some of us, that, in a mind truly virtuous, the scorn of vice is always accompanied with the pity of it. This and other things are impatiently expected from you by our whole sex ; among the rest by, ' Sir, your most humble servant, 'B. D.' Thursday, June 7, 1 7 1 1. It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see any printed or written paper upon the ground, to take it up and lay it aside carefully, as not knowing but it may con- tain some piece of their Alcoran. I must confess I have so much of the Mussulman in me, that I cannot forbear looking into every printed paper which comes in my way, under whatsoever despicable circumstances it may ap- pear ; for as no mortal author, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things, knows to what use his works may some time or other be applied, a man may often meet with very celebrated names in a paper of tobacco. I have lighted my pipe more than once with the writings of a prelate ; and know a friend of mine, who, for these several years, has converted the essays of a man of 9 2 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. quality into a kind of fringe for his candlesticks. I re- member in particular after having read over a poem of an eminent author on a victory, I met witli several frag- ments of it upon the next rejoicing day, which had been employed in squibs and crackers, and by that means celebrated its subject in a double capacity. I once met with a page of Mr. Baxter under a Christmas-pye. Whether or no the pastry-cook had made use of it through chance or waggery, for the defence of that su- perstitious viande, I know not ; but upon the perusal of it, I conceived so good an idea of the author's piety, that I bought the whole book. I have often profited by these accidental readings, and have sometinies found very curious pieces that are either out of print, or not to be met with in the shops of our London booksellers. For this reason, when my friends take a survey of my library, they are very much surprised to find upon the shelf of folios, two long band-boxes standing upright among my books ; till I let them see that they are both of them lined with deep erudition and abstruse literature. I might likewise mention a paper-kite, from which I have received great improvement ; and a hat-case, which I would not exchange for all the beavers in Great Britain. This my inquisitive temper, or rather impertinent humour of prying into all sorts of writing, with my natural aversion to loquacity, gives me a good deal of employment when I enter any house in the country; for I can't for my heart leave a room, before I have thoroughly studied the walls of it, and examined the several printed papers which are usually pasted upon them. * * * THE SPECTATOR. 93 Saturday, y//;^^ 9, 1711. Looking over the late packets of letters which have been sent to me, I found the followmg one : 'MR. SPECTATOR, ' Your paper is part of my tea-equipage ; and my servant knows my humour so well, that calling for my breakfast this morning (it being past my usual hour), she answered, the Spectator was not yet come in ; but that the tea-kettle boiled, and she expected it every moment. Having thus in part signified to you the esteem and ven- eration whicii I have for you, I must put you in mind of the catalogue of books which you have promised to recommend to our sex ; for I have deferred furnishing my closet with authors, till I receive your advice in this particular, being your daily disciple and humble ser- vant, Leonora.' In answer to my fair disciple, whom I am very proud of, I must acquaint her and the rest of my readers, that since I have called out for help in my catalogue of a lady's library, I have received many letters upon that head, some of which I shall give an account of. In the first class, I shall take notice of those which come to me from eminent booksellers, who every one of them mention with respect the authors they have printed, and consequently have an eye to their own advantage more than to that of the ladies. One tells me, that he 94 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. thinks it absolutely necessary for woman to have true notions of right and equity, and that therefore they can- not peruse a better book than Dalton's Country Justice. Another thinks they cannot be without the Complete Jock- ey. A third, observing the curiosity and desire of prying into secrets, which he tells me is natural to the fair sex, is of opinion this female inclination, if well directed might turn very much to their advantage, and therefore recom- mends to me Mr. Mede upon the Revelations. A fourth lays it down as an unquestioned truth, that a lady cannot be thoroughly accomplished who has not read the secret Treaties and Negociations of the Marshal d' Estrades. Mr. Jacob Tonson, junior, is of opinion, that Bayle's Dictionary might be of very great use to the ladies, in order to make them general scholars. Another, whose name I have forgotten, thinks it highly proper that every woman with child should read Mr. Wall's History of Infant Baptism : as another is very importunate with me to re- commend to all my female readers The Finishing Stroke ; being a Vindication of the Patriarchal Scheme., 6^r. In the second class, I shall mention books which are recommended by husbands, if I may believe the writers of them. Whether or no they are real husbands or per- sonated ones, I cannot tell, but the books they recom- mend are as follows : — A Paraplirase on the History of Susafina'; Rules to keep Lent ; The Christian's Over- throw prevented; A Dissuasive from the Flay-hduse ; The Virtues of Canphire, with Directions to make Cam- phire Tea ; The Pleasures of a Country Life ; The Government of the Toiigue. A letter dated from THE SPECTATOR. 95 Cheapside desires me that I would advise all young wives to make themselves mistresses of Wingate' s Arith- metic, and concludes with a Postscript, that he hopes I will not forget The Countess of Kent s Receipts. I may reckon these ladies themselves as a third class among these my correspondents and privy-counsellors. In a letter from one of them, I am advised to place Phara- mond * at the head of my catalogue, and, if I think proper, to give the second place to Cassandra.* Coquetilla begs me not to think of nailing women upon their knees with manuals of devotion, nor of scorching their faces with books of housewifery. Florella desires to know if there are any books written against prudes, and entreats me, if there are, to give them a place in my library. Plays of all sorts have their several advocates : All for Love is mentioned in about fifteen letters ; Sophonisba, or Hannibars Overthrow, in a dozen ; Mithridates, Ki?ig of Pontiis, has many friends ; Alexander the Great and Au- renzebe have the same number of voices ; but Theo- dosius, or the Force of Love, carries it from all the rest. I should, in the last place, mention such books as have been proposed by men of learning, and those who appear competent judges of this matter ; and must here take oc- casion to thank A. B., whoever it is that conceals himself under those two letters, for his- advice upon this subject. But as I find the work I have undertaken to be very diffi- cult, I shall defer the executing of it till I am farther ac- * Two French Romances. 96 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. quainted with the thoughts of my judicious contempora- ries, and have time to examine the several books they offer to me ; being resolved, in an affair of this moment, to proceed with the greatest caution. In the mean while, as I have taken the ladies under my particular care, I shall make it my business to find out in the best authors, ancient and modern, such passages as may be for their use, and endeavour to accommodate them as well as I can to their taste ; not questioning but the valuable part of the sex will easily pardon me, if from time to time I laugh at those little vanities and follies which appear in the behaviour of some of them, and which are more proper for ridicule than a serious censure. Most books being calculated for male readers, and generally written with an eye to men of learning, makes a work of this nature the more necessary ; besides, I am the more encouraged, because I flatter myself that I see the sex daily improving by these my speculations. My fair readers are already deeper scholars than the beaus. I could name some of them who talk much better than several gentlemen that make a figure at Will's ; and as I frequently receive letters from the fine ladies and pretty fellows, I cannot but observe that the former are superior to the others, not only in the sense, but in the spelling. This cannot but have a good effect upon the female world, and keep them from being charmed by those empty coxcombs that have hitherto been admired among the women, though laughed at among the men. THE SPECTATOR. 97 Saturday, June 23,1711. The club, of which I have often declared myself a member, were last night engaged in a discourse upon that which passes for the chief point of honour among men and women ; and started a great many hints upon the subject, which I thought were entirely new. I shall therefore methodize the several reflections that arose upon this occasion, and present my reader with them for the speculation of this day ; after having premised, that if there is any thing in this paper which seems to differ with any passage of last Thursday's, the reader will con- sider this as the sentiments of the club, and the other as my own private thoughts, or rather those of Pharamond. The great point of honour in men is courage, and in women chastity. If a man loses his honour in one ren- counter, it is not impossible for him to regain it in another ; a slip in a woman's honour is irrecoverable. I can give no reason for fixing the point of honour to these two qualities, unless it be that each sex sets the greatest value on the qualification which renders them the most amiable in the eyes of the contrary sex. Had men chosen for themselves without regard to the opinions of the fair sex, I should believe the choice would have fallen on wis- dom or vii'tue ; or had women determined their own point of honour, it is probable that wit or good nature would have carried it against chastity. Nothing recommends a man more to the female sex than courage ; whether it be they are pleased to see one who 5 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. is a terror to others fall like a slave at their feet, or that this quality supplies their own principal defect, in guard- ing them from insults and avenging their quarrels ; or that courage is a natural indication of a strong and sprightly constitution. On the other side, nothing makes a woman more esteemed by the opposite sex than chas- tity ; whether it be that we always prize those most who are hardest to come at, or that nothing besides chastity, with its collateral attendants, truth, fidelity, and con- stancy, gives the man a property in the person he loves, and consequently endears her to him above all things. I am very much pleased with a passage in the inscrip- tion on a monument erected hi Westminster-abbey to the late duke and duchess of Newcastle : ' Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the lord Lucas oi Colchester; a noble family, for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous.' In books of chivalry, where the point of honour is strained to madness, the whole story runs on chastity and courage. The damsel is mounted on a white palfrey, as an emblem of her innocence ; and, to avoid scandal, must have a dwarf for her page. She is not to think of a man, until some misfortune has brought a knight-errant to her relief. The knight falls in love ; and, did not gratitude restrain her from murdering her deliverer, would die at her feet by her disdain. However, he must waste many years in the desert, before her virgin-heart can think of a surrender. The knight goes off, attacks every thing he meets that is bigger and stronger than himself, seeks all opportunities of being knocked on the head, and after THE SPECTATOR. 99 seven years' rambling returns to his mistress, whose chas- tity has been attacked in the mean time by giants and tyrants, and undergone as many trials as her lover's valour. In Spain, where there are still great remains of this romantic humour, it is a transporting favour for a lady to cast an accidental glance on her lover from a window, though it be two or three stories high ; as it is usual for the lover to assert his passion for his mistress in single combat with a mad bull. The great violation of the point of honour from man to man, is giving the lie. One may tell another he drinks, blasphemes, and it may pass unresented ; but to say he lies, though but in jest, is an affront that nothing but blood can expiate. The reason perhaps may be, be- cause no other \'ice implies a want of courage so much as the making of a lie ; and therefore telling a man he lies, is touching him in the most sensible part of honour, and indirectly calling him a coward. I cannot omit un- der this head what Herodotus tells us of the ancient Per- sians, that, from the age of five years to twenty, they in- struct their sons only in three things, to manage the horse, to make use of the bow, and to speak truth. The placing the point of honour in this false kind of courage, has given occasion to the very refuse of man- kind, who have neither virtue nor common sense, to set up for men of honour. An English peer, who has not been long dead, used to tell a pleasant story of a French gentleman that visited him early one morning at Paris, and after great professions of respect, let him know that BRITISH ESS A YISTS. he had it in his power to obhge him ; which, in short, amounted to this, that he beUeved he could tell his lord- ship the person's name who jostled him as he came out from the opera; but, before he would proceed, he begged his lordship that he would not deny him the honour of making him his second. The EngHsh lord, to avoid being drawn into a very foolish affair, told him that he was under engagements for his two next duels to a couple of particular friends. Upon which the gentleman imme- diately withdrew, hoping his lordship would not take it ill if he meddled no farther in an affair from whence he himself was to receive no advanta2;e. Tuesday, y/z/Zd' 26, 1711. According to sir Isaac Newton's calculations, the comet that made its appearance, in 1680, imbibed so much heat by its approaches to the sun, that it would have been two thousand times hotter than red-hot iron, had it been a globe of that metal ; and that supposing it as big as the earth, and at the same distance from the sun, it would be fifty thousand years in cooUng, before it recovered its natural temper. In the hke manner, if an Englishman considers the great ferment into which our political world is thrown at present, and how intensely it is heated in all its parts, he cannot suppose that it will cool again in less than three hundred years. In such a tract of time it is possible that the heats of the present THE SPECTATOR. age may be extinguished, and our several classes of great men represented under their proper characters. Some eminent historian may then probably arise that will not write recentibus odiis (as Tacitus expresses it) with the passions and prejudices of a contemporary author, but make an impartial distribution of fame among the great men of the present age. I cannot forbear entertaining myself very often with the idea of such an imaginary historian describing the reign of Anne the first, and introducing it with a preface to his reader, that he is now entering upon the most shining part of the English story. The great rivals in fame will be then distinguished according to their re- spective merits, and shine in their proper points of light. Such an one (says the historian), though variously repre- sented by the writers of his own age, appears to have been a man of more than ordinary abilities, great appli- cation, and uncommon integrity : nor was such an one (though of an opposite party and interest) inferior to him in any of these respects. The several antagonists who now endeavour to depreciate one another, and are cele- brated or traduced by different parties, will then have the same body of admirers, and appear illustrious in the opinion of the whole British nation. The deserving man, who can now recommend himself to the esteem of but half his countrymen, will then receive the ap'probations and applauses of a whole age. Among the several persons that flourish in this glori- ous reign, there is no question but such a future historian, as the person of whom I am speaking, will make mention BRITISH ESS A YISTS. of the men of genius and learning, who have now any figure in the British nation. For my own part, I often flatter myself with the honourable mention which will then be made of me ; and have drawn up a ])aragraph in my own imagination, that I fancy will not be altogether unlike what will be found in some page or other of this imaginary historian. " It was under this reign," says he,*" that the Spectator published those little diurnal essays which are still extant. We know very little of the name or person of this author, except only that he was a man of a very short face, ex- tremely addicted to silence, and so great a lover of knowl- edge, that he made a voyage to Grand Cairo for no other reason but to take the measure of a pyramid. His chief friend was one sir Roger de Coverley, a whimsical country knight, and a Templar, whose name he has not transmitted to us. He lived as a lodger at the house of a widow-woman, and was a great humorist in all parts of his life. This is all we can affirm with any certainty of his person and character. As for his speculations, not- withstanding the several obsolete words and obscure phrases of the age in which he lived, we still understand enough of them to see the diversions and characters of the English nation in his time : not but that we are to make allowance for the mirth and humour of the author, who has doubtless strained many representations of things beyond the truth. For if we interpret his words in their literal meaning, we must suppose that women of the first quality used to pass away whole mornings at a puppet- show : that they attested their principles by their patches : THE SPECTATOR. that an audience would sit out an evening to hear a dramatical performance written in a language which they did not understand : that chairs and flower-pots were in- troduced as actors upon the British stage : that a pro- miscuous assembly of men and women were allowed to meet at midnight in masks within the verge of the court ; with many improbabilities of the like nature. We must therefore in these and the like cases suppose, that these remote hints and allusions aimed at some certain follies which were then in vogue, and which at present we have not any notion of. We may guess by several passages in the speculations, that there were writers who endeavoured to detract from the works of this author ; but as nothing of this nature is come down to us, we cannot guess at any objections that could be made to his paper. If we consider his style with that indulgence which we must show to old English writers, or if we look into the variety of his subjects, with those several critical dissertations, moral reflections." * ^ # * The following part of the paragraph is so much to my advantage, and beyond any thing I can pretend to, that I hope my reader will excuse me for not inserting it. Friday, June 29, 1 7 1 1 . It would be a noble improvement, or rather a recovery of what we call good-breeding, if nothing were to pass I04 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. amongst us for agreeable which was the least transgres- sion against that rule of life called decorum, or a regard to decency. This would command the respect of man- kind, because it carries in it deference to their good opin- ion, as humihty lodged in a worthy mind is always attend- ed with a certain homage, which no haughty soul, with all the arts imaginable, will ever be able to purchase. Tully says, virtue and decency are so nearly related, that it is difficult to separate them from each other but in our im- agination. As the beauty of the body always accom- panies the health of it, so certainly is decency concomi- tant to virtue. As beauty of body, with an agreeable carriage, pleases the eye, and that pleasure consists in that we observe all the parts with a certain elegance are proportioned to each other; so does decency of behav- iour which appears in our lives, obtain the approbation of all with whom we converse, from the order, consistency, and moderation of our words and actions. This flows from the reverence we bear towards every good man, and to the world in general ; for to be negligent of what any one thinks of you, does not only show you arrogant but abandoned. In all these considerations we are to distinguish how one virtue differs from another. As it is the part of justice never to do violence, it is of modesty never to commit offence. In this last particular lies the whole force of what is called decency ; to this purpose that excellent moralist above-mentioned talks of decen- cy ; but this quality is more easily comprehended by an ordinary capacity, than expressed with all his eloquence. This decency of behaviour is generally transgressed THE SPECTATOR. 105 among all orders of men ; nay, the very women, though themselves created it as it were for ornament, are often very much mistaken in this ornamental part of life. It would methinks be a short rule for behaviour, if every young lady in her dress, words, and actions, were only to recommend herself as a sister, daughter, or wife, and make herself the more esteemed in one of those charac- ers. The care of themselves, with regard to the families in which women are born, is the best motive for their being courted to come into the alliance of other houses. Nothing can promote this end more than a strict pre- servation of decency. * «• * * Saturday, Ju7ie 30, 1 7 1 1 . My friend Will Honeycomb values himself very much upon what he calls the knowledge of mankind, which has cost him many disasters in his youth ; for Will reckons every misfortune that he has met w^ith among the women, and every rencounter among the men, as parts of his education ; and fancies he should never have been the man he is, had he not broke windows, knocked down constables, and disturbed honest people with his mid- night serenades. * * * * « The engaging in adventures of this nature Will calls the studying of mankind ; and terms this knowledge of the town, the knowledge of the world. Will ingeniously con- fesses, that for half his life his head ached every morning 5* lo6 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. with reading of men over-night ; and at present comforts himself under certain pains which he endures from time to time, that without them he could not have been ac- quainted with the gallantries of the age. This Will looks upon as the -learning of a gentleman, and regards all other kind of science as the accomplishments of one whom he calls a scholar, a bookish man, or a philoso- pher. For these reasons Will shines in mixed Company, where he has the discretion not to go out of his depth, and has often a certain way of making his real ignorance appear a seeming one. Our club however has frequently caught him tripping, at which times they never spare him. For as Will often insults us with the knowledge of the town, we sometimes take our revenge upon him by our knowledge of books. He was last week producing two or three letters which he writ in his youth to a coquette lady. The raillery of them was natural, and well enough for a mere man of the town ; but very unluckily, several of the words were wrong spelt. Will laughed this off at first as well as he could ; but finding himself pushed on all sides, and es- pecially by the Templar, he told us with a little passion, that he never liked pedantry in spelling, and that he spelt like a gentleman and not like a scholar. Upon this Will had recourse to his old topic of showing the narrow-spirit- edness, the pride, and ignorance of pedants ; which he carried so far, that, upon my retiring to my lodgings, I could not forbear throwing together such reflections as occurred to me upon that subject. THE SPECTATOR. 107 A man who has been brought up among books, and is able to talk of nothing else, is a very indifferent compan- ion, and what we call a pedant. But methinks, we should enlarge the title, and give it every one that does not know how to think out of his profession and particular way of life. What is a greater pedant than a mere man of the town ? Bar him the play-houses, a catalogue of the reigning beau- ties, and an account of a few fashionable distempers that have befallen him, and you strike him dumb. How many a pretty gentleman's knowledge lies all within the verge of the court ? He will tell you the names of the princi- pal favourites^ repeat the shrewd sayings of a man of quality, whisper an intrigue that is not yet blown upon by common fame ; or, if the sphere of his observations is a little larger than ordinary, will perhaps enter into all the incidents, turns, and revolutions in a game of ombre. When he has gone thus far, he has shown you the whole circle of his accomplishments, his parts are drained, and he is disabled from any farther conversation. What are these but rank pedants ? and yet these are the men who value themselves most on their exemption from the ped- antry of colleges. I might here mention the military pedant who always talks in a camp, and in storming towns, making lodg- ments and fighting battles from one end of the year to the other. Every thing he speaks smells of gunpowder ; if you take away his artillery from him, he has not a word to say for himself. I might likewise mention the law pedant, that is perpetually putting cases, repeatnig the io8 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. transactions of Westminster-hall, wrangling with you upon the most indifferent circumstances of life, and not to be convinced of the distance of a place, or of the most trivial point in conversation, but by dint of argu- ment. The state pedant is wrapt up in news, and lost in politics. If you mention either of the kings of Spain or Poland, he talks very notably ; but if you go out of the Gazette, you drop him. In short, a mere courtier, a mere soldier, a mere scholar, a mere any thing, is an in- sipid pedantic character, and equally ridiculous. Of all the species of pedants, which I have mentioned, the book pedant is much the most supportable ; he has at least an exercised understanding, and a head which is full, though confused, so that a man who converses with him may often receive from him hints of things that are worth knowing, and what he may possibly turn to his own advantage, though they are of little use to the owner. The worst kind of pedants among learned men are such as are naturally endued with a very small share of com- mon sense, and have read a great number of books with- out taste or distinction. The truth of it is, learning, like travelling, and all other methods of improvement, as it finishes good sense, so it makes a silly man ten thousand times more insufferable, by supplying variety of matter to his impertinence, and giving him an opportunity of abounding in absurdities. THE SPECTATOR. 109 Wednesday, July 25, 1 7 1 1 . In my yesterday's paper I proposed that the honest men of all parties should enter into a kind of association for the defence of one another, and the confusion of their common enemies. As it is designed this neutral body should act with a regard to nothing but truth and equity, and divest themselves of the little heats and preposses- sions that cleave to parties of all kinds, I have prepared for them the following form of an association, which may ex- press their intentions in the most plam and simple manner. ' Wcj whose names are hereunto subscribed, do solemnly declare, that we do in our consciences believe two and two make four; and that we shall adjudge any man what- soever to be our enemy who endeavours to persuade us to the contrary. We are likewise ready to maintain with the hazard of all that is near and dear to us, that six is less than seven in all times and places ; and that ten will not be more three years hence than it is at present. "We do also firmly declare, that it is our resolution as long as we live to call black black, and white white. And we shall upon all occasions oppose such persons that upon any day of the year shall call black white, or white black, with the utmost peril of our lives and fortunes.' Were there such a combination of honest men, who without any regard to places would endeavour to extirpate all such furious zealots as would sacrifice one half of their country to the passion and interest of the other ; as also such infamous hypocrites, that are for promoting BRITISH ESSAYISTS. their own advantage under colour of the pubhc good ; with all the profligate immoral retainers to each side that have nothing to recommend them but an implicit submis- sion to their leaders ; we should soon see that furious party-spirit extinguished which may in time expose us to the derision and contempt of all the nations about us. A member of this society that would thus carefully employ himself in -making room for merit, by throwing down the worthless and depraved part of mankind from those conspicuous stations of life to which they have been sometimes advanced, and all this without any regard to his private interest, would be no small benefactor to his country. * 4f * -SS- * * * It gives me a serious concern to see a spirit of (party) dissension in the country ; not only as it destroys virtue and common sense, and renders us in a manner barba- rians towards one another, but as it perpetuates our ani- mosities, widens our breaches, and transmits our present passions and prejudices to our posterity. For my own part, I am sometimes afraid that I discover the seeds of a civil war in these our divisions. Friday, July 2 7, 1 7 1 1. Women in their nature are much more gay and joyous than men :, whether it be that their blood is more refined, their fibres more delicate, and their animal spirits more THE SPECTATOR. light and volatile ; or whether, as some have imagined, there may not be a kind of sex in the very soul, 1 shall not pretend to determine. As vivacity is the gift of wo- men, gravity is that of men. They should each of them therefore keep a watch upon the particular bias which na- ture has fixed in their minds, that it may not draw too much, and lead them out of the paths of reason. This will certainly happen, if the one in every word and action affects the character of being rigid and severe, and the other of being brisk and airy. Men should beware of being captivated by a kind of savage philosophy, women by a thoughtless gallantry. Where these precautions are not observed, the man often degenerates into a cynic, the woman into a coquette ; the man grows sullen and mo- rose, the woman impertinent and fantastical. By what I have said, we may conclude, men and wo- men were made as counterparts to one another, that the pains and anxieties of the husband might be relieved by the sprightliness and good-humour of the wife. When these are rightly tempered, care and cheerfulness go hand in hand ; and the family, like a ship that is duly trimmed, wants neither sail nor -ballast. * * « 4f * 4f « As in our species the man and the woman are joined together for life, and the main burden rests upon the for- mer. Nature has given all the little arts of soothing and blandishment to the female, that she may cheer and ani- mate her companion in a constant and assiduous applica- tion to the making a provision for his. family, and the educating of their common children. This however is BRITISH ESSAYISTS. not to be taken so strictly, as if the same duties were not often reciprocal, and incumbent on both parties ; but only to set forth what seems to have been the general in- tention of Nature, in the different inclinations and endow- ments which are bestowed on the different sexes. But whatever was the reason that man and woman were made with this variety of temper, if we observe the conduct of the fair sex, we find that they choose rather to associate themselves with a person who resembles them in that light and volatile humour which is natural to them, than to such as are qualified to moderate and counterbalance it. It has been an old complaint, that the coxcomb car- ries it with them before the man of sense. When Ave see a fellow loud and talkative, full of insipid life and laugh- ter, we may venture to pronounce him a female favourite. Noise and flutter are such accomplishments as they can- not withstand. To be short, the passion of an ordinary woman for a man is nothing else but self-love diverted upon another object. She would have the lover a wo- man in every thing but the sex. I do not know a finer piece of satire on this part of womankind, than those lines of Mr. Dryden, • ' Our thoughtless sex is caught by outward form, And empty noise ; and loves itself in man.' This is a source of infinite calamities to" the sex, as it frequently joins them to men who m their own thoughts are as fine creatures as themselves, or, if they cha.nce to be good-humoured, serve only to dissipate their fortunes, inflame their follies, and aggravate their indiscretions. THE SPECTATOR. 113 The same female levity is no less fatal to them after marriage than before. It represents to their imagina- tions the faithful, prudent husband, as an honest, tracta- ble, and domestic animal ; and turns their thoughts upon the fine gay gentleman that laughs, sings, and dresses so much more agreeably. As this irregular vivacity of temper leads astray the hearts of ordinary women in the choice of their lovers and the treatment of their husbands, it operates with the same pernicious influence towards their children, who are taught to accomplish themselves in all those sublime perfections that appear captivating in the eye of their mother. She admires in her son what she loved in her gallant ; and by that means contributes all she can to perpetuate herself in a worthless progeny. The younger Faustina was a lively instance of this sort of women. Notwithstanding she was married to Marcus Aurelius, one of the greatest, wisest, and best of the -Ro- man emperors, she thought a common gladiator much the prettier gentleman ; and had taken such care to accomplish her son Commodus according to her own notions of a fine man^ that, when he ascended the throne of his father, he became the most foolish and abandoned tyrant that was ever placed at the head of the Roman empire, signalizing himself in nothing but the fighting of prizes, and knocking out men's brains. As he had no taste of true glory, we see him in several medals and statues which are still extant of him, equipped like a Hercules, with a club and a lion's skin. I have been led into a speculation by the characters I 114 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. have heard of a country-gentleman and his lady, who do not live many miles from sir Roger. The wife is an old coquette, that is always hankering after the diversions of the town ; the husband a morose rustic, that frowns and frets at the name of it. The wife is overrun witli affecta- tion, the husband sunk into brutality. The lady cannot bear the noise of the larks and nightingales, hates your tedious summer-days, and is sick at the sight of shady woods and purling streams ; the husband wonders how any one can be pleased with the fooleries of plays and operas, and rails from morning to night at essenced fops and tawdry courtiers. Their children are educated in these different notions of their parents. The sons follow the father about his grounds ; while the daughters read volumes of love-letters and romances to their mother. By this means it comes to pass, that the girls look upon their father as a clown, and the boys think their mother no better than she should be. How different are the lives of Aristus and Aspasia ! The innocent vivacity of the one is tempered and com- posed by the cheerful gravity of the other. The wife grows wise by the discourses of the husband, and the lius- band good-humoured by the conversations of the wife. — Aristus would not be so amiable were it not for his Aspa- sia, nor Aspasia so much to be esteemed were it not for her Aristus. Their virtues are blended in their children, and diffuse through the whole family a i)erpetual spirit of benevolence, complacency, and satisfaction. THE SPECTATOR. 115 Monday, August 13, 171T. The following letters being genuine, and the images of a worthy passion, I am willing to give the old lady's admonition to myself, and the representation of her own happiness, a place in my writings. 'August 9, 171 1. 'aiR. SPECTATOR, ' I AM now in the sixty-seventh year of my age, and read you with approbation ; but methinks you do not strike at the root of the greatest evil in life, which is, the false notion of gallantry in love. It is, and has long been, upon a very ill foot ; but I, Avho have been a wife forty years, and was bred in a way that has made me ever since very happy, see through the folly of it. In a word, Sir, when I was a young woman, all who avoided the vices of the age were very carefully educated, and all fantastical objects were turned out of our sight. The tapestry-hangings, with the great and venerable simplicity of the scripture stories, had better effects than now the loves of Venus and Adonis, or Bacchus and Ariadne, in your fine present prints. The gentleman I am married to made love to me in rapture ; but it was the rapture of a Christian and a man of honour, not a romantic hero or a whining coxcomb. This put our life upon a right basis. To give you an idea of our regard one to another, I en- close to you several of his letters, writ forty years ago, when my lover ; and one writ t'other day, after so many years' cohabitation. ' Your servant Axdromache.' 1 1 6 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. *' August 7, 1671. " MADAM, '' If my vigilance, and ten thousand wishes for your welfare and repose, could have any force, you last night slept in security, and had every good angel in your attendance. To have my thoughts ever fixed on you, to live in constant fear of every accident to which human life is liable, and to send up my hourly prayers to avert them from you ; I say, Madam, thus to think, and thus to suffer, is what I do for her who is in pain at my ap- proach, and calls all my tender sorrow impertinence. You are now before my eyes, my eyes that are ready to flow with tenderness, but cannot give relief to my gushing heart, that dictates what I am now saying, and yearns to tell you all its achings. How art thou, oh my soul, stolen from thyself ! how is all thy attention broken ! My books are blank paper, and my friends intruders. I have no hope of quiet but from your pity. To grant it would make more for your triumph. ' To give pain is the tyranny, to make happy the true empire of beauty. If you would consider aright, you would find an agreeable change in dismissing the attendance of a slave, to receive the complaisance of a companion. I bear the former, in hopes of the latter condition. As I live in chains with- out murmuring at the power which inflicts them, so I could enjoy freedom without forgetting the mercy that gave it. " I am, MADAM, "Your most devoted, most obedient servant." THE SPECTATOR. 117 ' Though I made him no declarations in his favour, you see he had hopes of me when he writ this in the month following. *' September 3, 1671. " MADAM, ''Before the light this morning dawn'd upon the earth I awak'd, and lay in expectation of its return, not that it could give any ncAv sense of joy to me, but as I hop'd it would bless you with its cheerful face, after a quiet which I wish'd you last night. If my prayers are heard, the day appeared with all the influence of a merci- ful Creator upon your person and actions. Let others, my lovely charmer, talk of a blind being that disposes their hearts ; I contemn their low images of love. I have not a thought which relates to you, that I cannot with confidence beseech the All-seeing Power to bless me in. May He direct you in all your steps, and re- ward your innocence, your sanctity of manners, your pru- dent youth, and becoming piety, with the continuance of his grace and protection. This is an unusual language to ladies ; but you have a mind elevated above the giddy notions of a sex insnared by flattery, and misled by a false and short adoration into a solid and long contempt. Beauty, my fairest creature, palls in the possession ; but I love also your mind : your soul is as dear to me as my own ; and if the advantages of a liberal education, some knowledge and as much contempt of the world, joined with the endeavors towards a life of strict virtue and re- ligion, can qualify me to raise new ideas in a breast so well-dispos'd as yours is, our days will pass away with Ii8 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. joy; and old age, instead of introducing melancholy prospects of decay, give us hope of eternal youth in a better life. I have but few minutes from the duty of my employment to write in, and without time to read over what I have writ, therefore beseech you to pardon the first hints of my mind, which I have expressed in so little order. " I am, DEAREST CREATURE, " Your most obedient, most devoted servant." 'The two next were written after the day of marriage was fixed. " September 25, 1671. '•MADAM, "It is the hardest thing in the world to be in love, and yet attend business. As for me, all that speak to me find me out, and I must lock myself up, or other people will do it for me. A gentleman asked me this morning, 'What news from Holland ; ' and I answered, ' She is ex- quisitely handsome.' Another desired to know when I had been last at Windsor ; I replied, ' She designs to go with me.' Pr'ythee allow me at least to kiss your hand before the appointed day, that my mind may be in some composure. Methinks I could write a volume to yon ; but all the language on earth would fail in saying how much, and with what disinterested passion, "I am ever yours." ( "September 30, 1671 "DEAR CREATURE, J seven in the morning. " Next to the influence of heaven, I am to thank you that I see the returning day with pleasure. To pass THE SPECTATOR. 1 19 my evenings in so sweet a conversation, and have the es- teem of a woman of your merit, has in it a particularity of happiness no more to be expressed than returned. But I am, my lovely creature, contented to be on the obhged side, and to employ all my days in new endeav- ours to convince you and all the world of the sense I have of your condescension in choosing, "madam, '' Your most faithful, most obedient humble servant." ' He was, when he writ the following letter, as agree- able and pleasant a man as any in England. '* October 20, 1671. " MADAM, '* I BEG pardon that my paper is not finer, but I am forced to write from a coffee-house where I am at- tending about business. There is a dirty crowd of busy faces all around me talking of money, while all my ambi- tion, 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 1 owe that many noble ideas are continually affixed to my words and actions : 'tis the natural effect of that gener- ous passion to create in the admirers some similitude of the object admired; thus, my dear, am I every day to improve from so sweet a companion. Look up, my fair one, to that Heaven which made thee such ; and join with me to implore its influence on our tender innocent hours, and beseech the Author of love to bless the rites BRITISH ESSAYISTS. he has ordained, and mingle with our happiness a just sense of our transient condition, and a resignation to his will, which only can regulate our minds to a steady en- deavour to please him and each other. " I am, for ever, your faithful servant." ' I will not trouble you with more letters at this time ; but if you saw the poor withered hand which sends you these minutes, I am sure you will smile to think that there is one who is so gallant as to speak of it still as so welcome a present, after forty years' possession of the woman whom he writes to. "Madam, "June 20, 171 i. * "I HEARTILY beg your pardon for my omission to write yesterday. It was no failure of my tender regard for you; but having been very much perplexed in my thoughts on the subject of my last, made me determine to suspend speaking of it until I came myself. But, my lovely creature, know it is not in the power of age, or misfortune, or any other accident which hangs over human life, to take from me the pleasing esteem I have for you, or the memory of the bright figure you appeared in when you gave your hand and heart to, '' MADAM, " Your most grateful husband, and obedient servant." THE SPECTATOR. Tuesday, August 14, 1711. It is an unreasonable thing some men expect of their acquaintance. They are ever complaining that they are out of order, or displeased, or they know not how, and are so far from letting that be a reason for retiring to their own homes, that they make it their argument for goming into company. What has any body to do ^vith the accounts of a man's being indisposed but his ph3'si- cian ? If a man laments in company, where the rest are in humour enough to enjoy themselves, he should not take it ill if a servant is ordered to present him with a porringer of caudle or posset-drink, by way of admonition that. he go home to bed. That part of life which we ordi- narily understand by the w^ord conversation, is an indul- gence to the sociable part of our make ; and should incline us to bring our proportion of good-will or good-humour among the friends we meet with, and not to trouble them with relations which must of necessity oblige them to a real or feigned afifliction. Cares, distresses, dis- eases, uneasinesses, and dislikes of our own, are by no means to be obtruded upon our friends. If we would consider how little of this vicissitude of motion and rest, which we call life, is spent with satisfaction, we should be more tender of our friends, than to bring them little sor- rows which do not belong to them. 6 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. TWURSBAY, AtlgUSf ^o, 1 71 1. I MUST confess I have very often with much sorrow be- wailed the misfortune of the children of Great Britain, when I consider the ignorance and undiscerning of the generality of schoolmasters. The boasted liberty we talk of is but a mean reward for the long servitude, the many heart-aches and terrors to which our childhood is exposed in going through a grammar-school. Many of these stupid tyrants exercise their cruelty without any manner of distinction of the capacities of children, or the intention of parents in their behalf. There are many excellent tempers which are worthy to be nourished and cultivated with all possible diligence and care, that were never de- signed to be acquainted with Aristotle, Tully, or Virgil ; and there are as many who have capacities for under- standing every word those great persons have writ, and yet were not born to have any reHsh of their writings. For want of this common and obvious discerning in those who have the care of youth, we have so many hundred unaccountable creatures every age whipped up into great •scholars, that are for eve^ near a right understanding, and will never arrive at it. These are the scandal of letters, and these are generally the men who are to teach others. The sense of shame and honour is enough to keep the world itself in order without corporal punishment, much more to train the minds of uncorrupted and innocent children. It happens, I doubt not, more than once in a year, that a lad is chastised for a blockhead, when it is THE SPECTATOR. 123 good apprehension that makes him incapable of knowing what his teacher means, A brisk imagination very often may suggest an error, which a lad could not have fallen into, if he had been as heavy in conjecturing as his mas- ter in explaining. But there is no mercy even towards a wrong interpretation of his meaning ; the sufferings of the scholar's body are to rectify the mistakes of his mind. I am confident, that no boy who will not be allured to letters without blows will ever be brought to any thing with them. A great or good mind must necessarily be the worse for such indignities ; and it is a sad change, to lose of its virtue for the improvement of its knowledge. ********* Seneca says, after his exalted way of talking, ' As the immortal gods never learnt any virtue, though they are endued with all that is good ; so there are some men who have so natural a propensity to what they should follow, that they learn it almost as soon as they hear it.' Plants and vegetables are cultivated into the production of finer fruits than they would yield without that care : and yet we cannot entertain hopes of producing a tender con- scious spirit into acts of virtue, without the same methods as are used to cut timber, or give new shape to a piece of stone. It is wholly to this dreadful practice that we may attri- bute a certain hardiness and ferocity which some men, though liberally educated, carry about them in all their behaviour. To be bred like a gentleman and punished like a malefactor, must, as we see it does, produce that 124 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. illiberal sauciness which we see sometimes in men of let- ters. It is methinks a very melancholy consideration, that a little negligence can spoil us, but great industry is neces- sary to improve us ; the most excellent natures are soon depreciated, but evil tempers are long before they are exalted into good habits. To help this by punishments, is the same thing as killing a man to cure him of a dis- temper ; when he comes to sutler punishment in that one circumstance, he is brought below the existence of a ra- tional creature, and is in the state of a brute that moves only by the admonition of stripes. Friday, ^z/^z/j-/ 31, 1711. Out of a firm regard to impartiality, I print these let- ters, let them make for me or not. ' MR. SPECTATOR, * I HAVE observed through the whole course of your rhapsodies (as you once very well called them) you are very industrious to overthrow all that many your superiors, who have gone before you, have made their rule of writing. I am now between fifty and sixty, and had the honour to be well with the first men of taste and gallant- ry in the joyous reign of Charles the Second. We then had, I humbly presume, as good understandings among us as any now can pretend to. As for yourself, Mr. THE SPECTATOR. 125 Spectator, you seem with the utmost arrogance to under- mine the very fundamentals upon which we conducted ourselves. It is monstrous to set up for a man of wit, and yet deny that honour in a woman is any thing else but peevishness, that inclination is 'not' the best rule of life, or virtue and vice any thing else but health and dis- ease. We had no more to do but to put a lady in a good- humour, and all we could wish followed of course. Then, again, your Tully, and your discourses of another life, are the very bane of mirth and good-humour. Pr'ythee don't value thyself on thy reason at that exorbitant rate, and the dignity of human nature ; take my word for it, a setting-dog has as good reason as any man in England. Had you (as by your diurnals one would think you do) set up for being in vogue in town, you should have fallen in with the bent of passion and appetite ; your songs had then been in every pretty mouth in England, and your little distiches had been the maxims of the fair and the witty to walk by ; but, alas ! Sir, what can you hope for, from entertaining people with what must needs make them like themselves worse than they did before they read you? Had you made it your business to describe Corinna charming though inconstant ; to find something in human nature itself to make Zoilus excuse himself for being fond of her ; and to make every man in good com- merce with his own reflections ; you had done something worthy our applause : but indeed, Sir, we shall not com- mend you for disapproving us. I have a great deal more to say to you, but I shall sum it up all in this one remark — In short. Sir, do you not write like a gentleman. ' I am, Sir, your most humble servant. ' 126 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. ' MR. SPECTATOR, ' The other day we were several of us at a tea-table, and according to custom and your own advice, had the Spectator read among us. It was that paper wherein you are pleased to treat with great freedom that character which you call a woman's man. We gave up all the kinds you have mentioned, except those who, you say, are our constant visitants. I was upon the occasion commissioned by the company to write to you, and tell you, "that we shall not part with the men we have at present, until the men of sense think fit to relieve them, and give us their company in their stead." You cannot imagine but that we love to hear reason and good sense better than the ribaldry we are at present entertained with, but we must have company, and among us very inconsiderable is better than none at all. We are made for the cements of society, and came into the world to create relations amongst mankind ; and solitude is an un- natural being to us. If the men of good understanding would forget a little of their severity, they would find their account in it ; and their wisdom would have a pleas- ure in it to which they are now strangers. It is natural among us, when men have a true relish of our company and our value, to say every thing with a better grace : and there is, without designing it, something ornamental in what men utter before women, which is lost or neg- lected in conversations of men only. Give me leave to tell you. Sir, it would do you no great liarm if you your- self came a Httle more into our company : it would cer- tainly cure you of a certain positive and determining THE SPECTATOR. 127 manner in which you talk sometimes. In hopes of your amendment, ' I am, Sir, your gentle reader. ' Wednesday, September 5, 1711. Irresolution on the schemes of life which offer them- selves to our choice, and inconstancy in pursuing them, are the greatest and most universal causes of all our dis- quiet and unhappiness. When ambition pulls one way, interest another, incHnation a third, and perhaps reason contrary to all, a man is hkely to pass his time but ill who has so many different parties to please. When the mind hovers among such, a variety of allurements, one had better settle on a way of life that is not the very best we might have chosen, than grow old without determining our choice, and go out of the world as the greatest part of mankind do, before we have resolved how to live in it. There is but one method of setting ourselves at rest in this particular ; and that is, by adhering steadfastly to one great end as the chief and ultimate aim of all our pursuits. If we are firmly resolved to live up to the dictates of rea- son, without any regard to wealth, reputation, or the like considerations, any more than as they fall in with our principal design, we may go through life with steadiness and pleasure ; but if we act by several broken views, and will not only be virtuous, but wealthy, popular, and every 128 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. thing that has a value set upon it by the world, we shal^ live and die in misery and repentance. One would take more than ordinary care to guard one's self against this particular imperfection, because it is that which our nature very strongly inclines us to ; for if we examine ourselves thoroughly, we shall find that we are the most changeable beings in the universe. In respect of our understanding, we often embrace and reject the very same opinions ; whereas beings above and beneath us have probably no opinions at all, or at least no waver- ings and uncertainties in those they have. Our superiors are guided by intuition, and our inferiors by instinct. In respect of our wills, we fall into crimes and recover out of them, are amiable or odious in the eyes of our great Judge, and pass our whole life in offending and asking pardon. On the contrary, the beings underneath us are not capable of sinning, nor those above us of repenting. The one is out of the possibilities of duty, and the other fixed in an eternal course of sin, or an eternal course of virtue. There is scarce a state of life, or stage in it which does not produce changes and revolutions in the mind of man. Our schemes of thought in infancy are lost in those of youth ; these too take a different turn in manhood, until old age often leads us back into our former infancy. A new title or an unexpected success throws us out of our- selves, and in a manner destroys our identity. A cloudy day or a little sunshine, have as great an influence on many constitutions as the most real blessings or misfor- tunes. A dream varies our being, and changes our con- THE. SPECTATOR. 129 dition while it lasts ; and every passion, not to mention health and sickness, and the greater alterations in body and mind, makes us appear almost different creatures. If a man is so distinguished among other beings by this infirmity, what can we think of such as make themselves remarkable for it even among their own species ? It is a very trifling character to be one of the most variable beings of the most variable kind, especially if we consider that He who is the great standard of perfection has in him no shadow of change, but, ' is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.' Thursday, September 6, 1711. Inquiries after happiness, and rules for attaining it, are not so necessary and useful to mankind as the arts of consolation, and supporting one's self under affliction. The utmost we can hope for in this w^orld is contentment ; if we aim at any thing higher, we shall meet with nothing but grief and disappointments. A man should direct all his studies and endeavours at making himself easy now, and happy hereafter. The truth of it is, if all the happiness that is dispersed through the whole race of mankind in this world were drawn together, and put into the possession of any single man, it would not make a very happy being. Though, on the contrary, if the miseries of the whole species were fixed in a single person, they would make a very misera- ble one. ****** 6* 130 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. A disappointment in love is more hard to get over than any other ; the passion itself so softens and subdues the heart, that it disables it from struggling or bearing up against the woes and distresses which befal it. The mind meets with other misfortunes in her whole strength ; she stands collected within herself, and sustains the shock with all the force which is natural to her ; but a heart in love has its foundation sapped, and immediately sinks under the weight of accidents that are disagreeable to its favourite passion. If the affliction we groan under be very heavy, we shall find some consolation in the society of as great sufferers as ourselves, especially when we find our com- panions men of virtue and merit. If our affiictions are light, we shall be comforted by the comparison we make between ourselves and our fellow-sufi"erers. A loss at sea, a fit of sickness, or the death of a friend, are such trifles when we consider whole kingdoms laid in ashes, families put to the sword, wretches shut up in dungeons, and the like calamities of mankind, that we are out of countenance for our own weakness if we sink under such little strokes of fortune. For my own part, \- question not but our souls in a separate state will look back on their lives in quite another view than what they had of them in the body ; and that what they now consider as misfortunes and disappointments, will very often appear to have been es- capes and blessings. THE SPECTATOR. Monday, September 17, 1711. There can be no greater injury to human society than that good talents among men should be held honourable to those who are endowed with them without any regard how they are applied. The gifts of nature and accom- plishments of art are valuable but as they are exerted in the interests of virtue, or governed by the rules of honour. We ought to abstract our minds from the observation of any excellence in those we converse with, till we have taken some notice, or received some good information of the disposition of their minds ; otherwise the beauty of their persons, or the charms of their wit, may make us fond of those whom our reason and judgment will tell us we ought to abhor. When we suffer ourselves to be thus carried away by mere beauty, or mere wit, Ommamante, with all her vice, will bear away as much of our good-will as the most inno- cent virgin or discreetest matron ; and there cannot be a more abject slavery in this world, than to doat upon what we think we ought to condemn. Yet this must be our condition in all the parts of life, if we suffer ourselves to approve any thing but what tends to the promotion of what is good and honourable. If we would take true pains with ourselves to consider all things by the light of reason and justice, though a man were in the height of youth and amorous inclinations, he would look upon a coquette with the same contempt or indifference as he would upon a coxcomb. The wanton carriage in a 132 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. woman would disappoint her of the admiration which she aims at ; and the vain dress, or discourse of a man, would destroy the comeliness of his shape, or goodness of his .understandmg. I say the goodness of his understanding ; for it is no less common- to see men of sense commence coxcombs, than beautiful women become immodest. When this happens in either, the favour we are naturally inclined to give to the good qualities they have from nature, should abate in proportion. But however just it is to measure the value of men by the application of their talents, and not by the eminence of those qualities ab- stracted from their use ; I say, however just such a way of judging is, in all ages as well as this, the contrary has ]:)revailed upon the generality of mankind. How many lewd devices have been preserved from one age to another, which had perished as soon as they were made, if painters and sculptors had been esteemed as much for the purpose as the execution of their designs ? Modest and well-governed imaginations have by this means lost the representations of ten thousand portraitures, filled with images of innate truth, generous zeal, courageous faith, and tender humanity ; instead of which, satyrs, furies, and monsters are recommended by those arts to a shameful eternity. The unjust application of laudable talents is tolerated in the general opinion of men, not only in such cases as are here mentioned, but also in matters which concern ordinary life. If a lawyer w^ere to be esteemed only^as he uses his parts in contending for justice, and were im- mediately despicable when he appeared in a cause which THE SPECTATOR. he could not but know ^yas an unjust one, how honour- able would his character be ? And how honourable is it in such among us, who follow the profession no other- wise, than as labouring to protect the injured, to subdue the oppressor, to imprison the careless debtor, and do right to the painful artificer ? But many of this excellent character are overlooked by the greater number ; who affect covering a weak place in a client's title, diverting the course of an inquiry, or finding a skilful refuge to palliate a falsehood ; yet it is still called eloquence in the latter, though thus unjustly employed : but resolution in an assassin is according to reason quite as laudable as knowledge and \\asdom exercised in the defence of an ill cause. Were the intention stedfastly considered, as the meas- ure of approbation, all falsehood would soon be out of countenance : and an address in imposing upon mankind would be as contemptible in one state of life as another. A couple of courtiers making professions of esteem, would make the same figure after breach of promise, as two knights of the post convicted of perjury. But conversa- tion is fallen so low in point of morality, that, as they say in a bargain, ' let the buyer look to it ; ' so in friendship is the man in danger who is most apt to believe. He is the more likely to suffer in the commerce, who begins with the obligation of being the more ready to enter into it. But those men only are truly great, who place their ambition rather in acquiring to themselves the conscience of worthy enterprises, than in the prospect of glory which 1 3 4 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. attends them. These exalted spirits would rather be secretly the authors of events which are serviceable to mankind, than, without being such, to have the public fame of it. Where therefore an eminent merit is robbed by artifice or detraction, it does but increase by such en- deavours of its enemies. The impotent pains which are taken to sully it, or diffuse it among a crowd to the injury of a single person, will naturally produce the contrary effect ; the fire will blaze out, and burn up all that at- tempt to smother what they cannot extinguish. There is but one thing necessary to keep the possession of true glory, which is, to hear the opposers of it with patience, and preserve the virtue by which it was acquired. When a man is thoroughly persuaded that he ought neither to admire, wish for, or pursue any thing but what is ex- actly his duty, it is not in the power of seasons, persons, or accidents, to diminish his value. He only is a great man who can neglect the applause of the multitude, and enjoy himself independent of its favour. This is indeed an arduous task ; but it should comfort a glorious spirit that it is the highest step to which human nature can ar- rive. Triumph, applause, acclamation, are dear to the mind of man ; but it is still a more exquisite delight to say to yourself, you have done well, than to hear the whole human race pronounce you glorious, except you yourself can join ¥/ith them in your own reflections. A mind thus equal and uniform may be deserted by little fashionable admirers and followers, but will ever be had in reverence by souls like itself. The branches of the oak endure all the seasons of the year, though its leaves I THE SPECTATOR. 135 fall off in autumn ; and these too will be restored with the returning spring. Tuesday, September 25, 1711. I MAY cast my readers under two general divisions, the mercurial and the saturnine. The first are the gay part of my disciples, who require speculations of wit and humour; the others are those of a more solemn and sober turn, who find no pleasure but in papers of morality and sound sense. The former call every thing that is serious, stupid ; the latter look upon every thing as impertinent that is ludicrous. Were I always grave, one half of my readers w^ould fall off from me : were I always merry, I should lose the other. I make it therefore my endeavour to find out entertainments for both kinds, and by that means perhaps consult the good of both, more than I should do, did I always wTite to the particular taste of either. As they neither of them know what I proceed uj)on, the sprightly reader, who takes up my paper in order to be diverted, very often finds himself engaged unawares in a serious and profitable course of thinking ; as, on the contrary, the thoughtful man, who perhaps may hope to find something solid, and full of deep reflection, is very often insensibly betrayed into a fit of mirth. In a word, the reader sits down to my entertainment without knowing his bill of fare, and has therefore at least the pleasure of hoping there may be a dish to his palate. BRITISH ESSAYISTS. I must confess, were I left to myself, I would rather aim at instructing than diverting ; but if we will be use- ful to the world, we must take it as we find it. Authors of professed severity discourage the looser part of man- kind from having any thing to do with their writings. A man must have virtue in him, before he will enter upon the reading of a Seneca or an Epictetus. The very title of a moral treatise has something in it austere and shock- ing to the careless and inconsiderate. For this reason several unthinking persons fall in my way, who would give no attention to lectures delivered with a religious seriousness or a philosophic gravity. They are ensnared into sentiments of wisdom and virtue when they do not think of it ; and if by that means they arrive only at such a degree of consideration as may dis- pose them to listen to more studied and elaborate dis- courses, I shall not think my speculations useless. I might likewise observe, that the gloominess in which sometimes the minds of the best men are involved, very often stand in need of such little incitements to mirth and laughter, as are apt to disperse melancholy and put our faculties in good humour. To which some will add that the British climate, more than any other, makes entertain- ments of this nature in a manner necessary. If what I have here said does not recommend, it will at least excuse the variety of my speculations. I would not willingly laugh but in order to instruct, or if I some- times fail in this point, when my mirth ceases to be instructive, it shall never cease to be innocent. A scru- pulous conduct in this particular has perhaps more merit THE SPECTATOR. 137 in it than the generality of readers imagine. Did they know how many thoughts occur in a point of honour, which a discreet author in modesty suppresses ; how many strokes of raillery present themselves, which could not fail to please the ordinary taste of mankind, but are stifled in their birth by reason of some remote tendency which they carry in them to corrupt the minds of those who read them : did they know how many glances of ill- nature are industriously avoided for fear of doing injury to the reputation o another ; they would be apt to think kindly of those writers who endeavour to make themselves diverting without being immoral. One may apply to these authors that passage in Waller : 'Poets lose half the praise they would have got. Were it but known what ihey discreetly blot.' As nothing is more easy than to be a wit, with all the above-mentioned liberties, it requires some genius and invention io appear such without them. Tuesday, October 2, 171T. There is nothing in which men more deceive them- selves than in what the world calls, zeal. There are so many passions which hide themselves under it, and so many mischiefs arising from it, that some have gone so far as to say it would have been for the benefit of man- kind if it had never been reckoned in the catalosjue of 138 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. virtues. It is certain, where it is once laudable and pru- dential, it is an hundred times criminal and erroneous ; nor can it be otherwise, if we consider that it operates with equal violence in all religions, however opposite they may be to one another, and in all the subdivisions of each religion in particular. We are told by some of the Jewish rabbins, that the first murder was occasioned by a reHgious controversy ; and if we had the whole history of zeal from the days of Cain to our own times, we should see it filled with so many scenes of slaughter and bloodshed, as would make a wise man very careful how he suffers himself to be actuated by such a principle, when it only regards matters of opinion and speculation. I would have every zealous man examine his heart thoroughly, and I believe he will often find, that what he calls a zeal for his rehgion is either pride, interest, or ill- nature. A man, who differs from another in opinion, sets himself above him in his own judgment, and in several particulars pretends to be the wiser person. This is a great provocation to the proud man, and gives a very keen edge to what he calls his zeal. And that this is the case very often, we may observe from the behaviour of some of the most zealous for orthodoxy, who have often great friendships and intimacies wath vicious immoral men, provided they do but agree wdth them in the same scheme of belief The reason is, because the vicious believer gives the precedency to the virtuous man, and allows the good Christian to be the worthier person, at the same time that he cannot come up to his perfections. THE SPECTATOR. 139 This we find exemplified in that trite passage which we see quoted in ahnost every system of ethics, though upon another occasion : — ' Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor — ' Ovid. Met. vii. 20. * I see the right, and I approve it too ; Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue.' Tate. On the contrary, it is certain, if oiu: zeal were true and genuine, we should be much more angry A\dth a sinner than a heretic ; since there are several cases which may excuse the latter before his great Judge, but none which can excuse the former. Ill-nature is another dreadful imitator of zeal. Many a good man may have a natural rancour and malice in his heart, which has been in some measure quelled and subdued by religion ; but if it finds any pretence of breaking out, which does not seem to him incon- sistent with the duties of a Christian, it throws off all restraint, and rages in its full fury. Zeal is therefore a great ease to a malicious man, by making him believe he does God serv^ice, whilst he is gratifying the bent of a per- verse revengeful temper. For this reason we find, that most of the massacres and devastations which have been in the world have taken their rise from a furious pre- tended zeal. I love to see a man zealous in a good matter, and es- pecially when his zeal shows itself for advancing morality, 1 40 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. and jTomoting the happiness of mankind. But when I find the instruments he works with are racks and gibbets, galleys and dungeons ; when he imprisons men's persons, confiscates their estates, ruins their families, and burns the body to save the soul, I cannot stick to pronounce of such a one, that (whatever he may think of his faith and religion) his faith is in vain, and his religion unprof- itable. After having treated of these false zealots in religion, I cannnot forbear mentioning a monstrous species of men, who one would not think had any existence in nature, were they not to be met with in ordinary conversation : I mean, the zealots in atheism. One would fancy that these men, though they fall short in every other respect of those who make a profession of religion, would at least outshine them in this particular, and be exempt from that single fault which seems to grow out of the im- prudent fervours of religion. But so it is, that infidelity is propagated with as much fierceness and contention, wrath and indignation, as if the safety of mankind de- pended upon it. There is something so ridiculous and perverse in this kind of zealots, that one does not know how to set them out in their proper colours. They are a sort of gamesters, who are eternally upon the fret though they play for nothing. They are perpetually teas- ing their friends to come over to them, though at the same time they allow that neither of them shall get any thing by the bargain. In short, the zeal of spreading atheism is, if possible, more absurd than atheism itself. Since I have mentioned this unaccountable zeal which THE SPECTATOR. 1 41 appears in atheists and infidels, I must farther observe, that thev are likewise in a most particular manner pos- sessed with the spirit of bigotry. They are wedded to opinions full of contradiction and impossibility, and at the same time look upon the smallest difficulty in an article of faith as a sufficient reason for rejecting it. Notions that fall in with the common reason of mankind, that are conformable to the sense of all ages and all nations, not to mention their tendency for promoting the happiness of societies or of particular persons, are ex- ploded as errors and prejudices; and schemes erected in their stead that are altogether monstrous and irrational, and require the most extravagant credulity to embrace them. I would fain ask one of these bigoted infidels, supposing all the great x^oiiits of atheism, as the casual or eternal formation of the world,* the materiality of a thinking substance, the mortality of the soul, the fortui- tous organization of the body, the motions and gravitation of matter, with the like particulars, were laid together and formed into a kind of creed, according to the opinions of the most celebrated atheists ; I say, supposing such a creed as this were formed, and imposed upon any one people in the world, whether it would not require an in- finitely greater measure of faith, than any set of articles which they so violently oppose. Let me therefore advise this generation of wranglers, for their own and for the pub- lic good, to act at least so consistently with themselves as not to burn with zeal for irreligion, and with bigotry for nonsense. 142 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. Friday, October 5, 1711. He is a very unhappy man who sets his heart upon being admired by the multitude, or affects a general and undistinguishing applause among men. What pious men call the testimony of a good conscience, should be the measure of our ambition in this kind ; that js 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 charac- ter of the person who commends you 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 re- ceive his kindness as he is a good neighbour in society, and not as a good judge of your actions in point of fame and reputation. The satirist said very well of popular praise and acclamations, ' 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 approbation of the gener- ahty of mankind ; and a man of virtue should be too delicate for so coarse an appetite pf 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 yes- terday uttered in conversation ; ' I know,' said a gentle- man, ' 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 THE SPECTATOR. 143 any in him which can possibly appear to me,' This thought could not proceed but from a candid and gener- ous spirit ; and the approbation of such minds is what may be esteemed true praise : for with the common race 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 reputa- tion. 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 Lace- daemonians, 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 enterprise. They would have the commemoration of their actions be transmitted by the purest and most un- tainted memorialists. 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 histo- rians. 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 gratification worthy an heroic spirit. The applause of the crowd makes the head giddy, but the attestation of a reasonable man makes the heart glad. What makes the love of popular or general praise still more ridiculous is, that it is usually given for circum- stances 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 hand, and put into 144 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. 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. Monday, October 15, 1711. *MR. SPECTATOR, ' There is a particular fault which I have ob- served in most of the moralists in all ages, and that is, that they are always professing themselves, and teaching others, to be happy. This state is not to be arrived at in this life ; therefore I would recommend to you to talk in an humbler strain than your predecessors have done, and, instead of presuming to be happy, instruct us only to be easy. The thoughts of him who would be discreet, and aim at practicable things, should turn upon allaying our pain rather than promoting our joy. Great inquietude is to be avoided, but great felicity is not to be attained. The great lesson is equanimity, a regularity of spirit which is a little above cheerfulness and below mirth. Cheerfulness is always to be supported if a man is out of pain, but mirth to a prudent man should always be acci- dental. It should naturally arise out of the occasion, and the occasion seldom be laid for it ; for those tempers who want mirth to be pleased, are like the constitutions which THE SPECTATOR. I45 flag without the use of brandy. Therefore, I say, let your precept be, ' Be easy.' That mind is dissolute and ungoverned which must be hurried out of itself by loud laughter or sensual pleasure, or else be wholly unactive. ' There are a couple of old fellows of my acquaintance who meet every day and smoke a pipe, and by their mu- tual love. to each other, though they have been men of business and bustle in the world, enjoy a greater tran- quillity than either could have worked himself into by any chapter of Seneca. Indolence of body and mind, when we aim at no more, is very frequently enjoyed ; but the very inquiry after happiness has something restless in it, which a man who lives in a series of temperate meals, friendly conversations, and easy slumbers, gives himself no trouble about. While men of refinement are talking of tranquillity, he possesses it. ' What I would by these broken expressions recommend to you, Mr. Spectator, is, that you would speak of the way of life which plain men may pursue to fill up the spaces of time with satisfaction. It is a lamentable cir- cumstance, that wisdom, or, as you call it, philosophy, should furnish ideas only for the learned ; and that a man must be a philosopher to know how to pass away his time agreeably. It would therefore be worth your pains to place in a handsome light the relations and aflinities among men, which render their conversation with each other so grateful, that the highest talents give but an im- potent pleasure in comparison with them. You may find descriptions and discourses which will render the fireside of an honest artificer as entertaining as your own 7 146 BRITISH ESSAYISIS. club is to you. Good-nature has an endless source of pleasures in it ; and the representation of domestic life, filled with its natural gratifications, instead of the neces- sary vexations which are generally insisted upon in the writings of the witty, will be a very good office to society. ' The vicissitudes of labor and rest in the lower part of mankind make their being pass away with that sort of relish which we express by the word comfort ; and should be treated of by you, who are a spectator, as well as sucfi subjects which appear indeed more speculative, but are less instructive. In a word, Sir, I would have you turn your thoughts to the advantage of such as want you most ; and show, that simplicity, innocence, industry, and tem- perance, are arts which lead to tranquillity, as much as learning, wisdom, knowledge, and contemplation. I am, ' Sir, your most humble servant, ' T. B.' Saturday, October 20, 171 1. It is of the last importance to season the passions of a child with devotion, which seldom dies in a mind that has received an early ti.ncture of it. Though it may seem extinguished for a while by the cares of the world, the heats of youth, or the allurements of vice, it generally breaks out and discovers itself again as soon as discretion, consideration, age, or misfortunes have brought the man to himself. The fire may be covered and overlaid, but cannot be entirely quenched and smothered. THE SPECTATOR. 147 A state of temperance, sobriety, and justice, without devotion, is a cold, lifeless, insipid condition of virtue ; and is rather to be stiled philosophy than religion. De- votion opens the mind to great conceptions, and fills it with more sublime ideas than any that are to be met with in the most exalted science ; and at the same time warms and agitates the soul more than sensual pleasure. It has been observed by some writers, that man is more distinguished from the animal world by devotion than by reason, as several brute creatures discover in their actions something like a faint glimmering of reason, though they betray in no single circumstance of their behaviour any thing that bears the least affinity to devotion. It is cer- tain, the propensity of the mind to religious worship, the natural tendency of the soul to lly to some superior being for succour in dangers and distresses, the gratitude to an invisible superintendent which rises in us upon receiving any extraordinary and unexpected good fortune, the acts of love and admiration with which the thoughts of men are so wonderfully transported in meditating upon the divine perfections, and the universal concurrence of all the nations under heaven in the great article of adoration, plainly show that devotion or religious worship must be the effect of a tradition from some first founder of man- kind, or that it is conformable to the natural light of rea- son, or that it proceeds from an instinct implanted in the soul itself For my part, I look upon all these to be the concurrent causes : but which ever of them shall be as- signed as the principle of diviiTe worship, it manifestly points to a Supreme Being as the first author of it. 14B BRITISH ESSAYISTS. I may take some other opportmiity of considering those particular forms and methods of devotion which are taught us by Christianity ; but shall here observe into what errors even this divine principle may sometimes lead us, when it is not moderated by that right reason which was given us as the guide of all our actions. The two great errors into which a mistaken devotion may betray us, are enthusiasm and superstition. There is not a more melancholy object than a man who has his head turned with a religious enthusiasm. A person that is crazed, though with pride or malice, is a sight very mortifying to human nature ; but when the dis- temper arises from any indiscreet fervours of devotion, or too intense an application of the mind to its mistaken duties, it deserves our compassion in a more particular manner. We may however learn this lesson from it, that since devotion itself (which one would be apt to think could not be too warm) may disorder the mind, unless its heats are tempered with caution and prudence, we should be particularly careful to keep our reason as cool as pos- sible, and to guard ourselves in all parts of life against the influence of passion, imagination, and constitution. Devotion, when it does not lie under the check of rea- son, is very apt to de enerate into enthusiasm. When the mind finds herself very much inflamed with her devo- tions, she is too much inclined to think they are not of her own kindling, but blown up by something divine within her. If she indulges this thought too far, and humours the growing passion, she at last flings herself into imag- inary raptures, and ecstasies ; and when once she fancies THE SPECTATOR. 149 herself under the influence of a divine impulse, it is no wonder if she slights human ordinances, and refuses to comply with any established form of religion, as thinking herself directed by a much superior guide. As enthusiasm is a kind of excess in devotion^ super- stition is the excess not only of devotion, but of religion in general, according to an old heathen saying, quoted by Auius Gellius, '■ Religentem esse oportet^ religiosum ?iefas;* ' A man should be religious, not superstitious.' For, as that author tells us, Nigidius observed upon this passage, that the Latin words which terminate in osus generally imply vicious characters, and the having of any quality to an excess. An enthusiast in religion is like an obstinate clown, a superstitious man like an insipid courtier. Enthusiasm has something in it of madness ; superstition of folly. Nothing is so glorious in the eyes of mankind, and ornamental to human nature, setting aside the infinite advantages Avhich arise from it, as a strong, steady, mas- culine piety ; but enthusiasm and superstition are the w^eaknesses of human reason, that expose us to the scorn and derision of infidels, and sink us even below the beasts that perish. Idolatry may be looked upon as another error arising from mistaken devotion ; but because reflections on that subject would be of no use to an English reader, I shall not enlarge upon it. ISO BRITISH ESSAYISTS. Monday, October 29, 1711. I HAVE several letters from people of good sense, who lament the depravity or poverty of taste the town is fallen into with relation to plays and public spectacles. A lady in particular observes, that there is such a levity in the minds of her own sex, that they seldom attend to anything but impertinences. It is indeed prodigious to observe how little notice is taken of the most exalted parts of the best tragedies in Shakspeare ; nay, it is not only visible that sensuality has devoured all greatness of soul, but the under-passion (as I may so call it) of a noble spirit, Pity, seems to be a stranger to the generality of an audience. The minds of men are indeed very differently disposed ; and the reliefs from care and attention are of one sort in a great spirit, and of another in an ordinary one. The man of a great heart and a serious complexion is more pleased with instances of generosity and pity, than the light and ludicrous spirit can possibly be with the highest strains of mirth and laughter. It is therefore a melan- choly prospect when we see a numerous assembly lost to all serious entertainments, and such incidents as should move one sort of concern excite in them a quite contrary one. In the tragedy of Macbeth, the other night, when the lady, who is conscious of the crime of murdering the ■ king, seems utterly astonished at the news, and makes an ' exclamation at it, instead of the indignation which is nat- ural to the occasion, that expression is received with a loud laugh. They were as merry when a criminal was TFIE SPECTATOR. 15I Stabbed. It is certainly an occasion of rejoicing when the wicked are seized in their designs ; but 1 think it is not such a triumph as is exerted by laughter. You may generally observe, that the appetites are sooner moved than the passions. A sly expression, which alludes to bawdry, puts a whole row into a pleasing smirk ; when a good sentence that describes an inward sentiment of the soul, is received with the greatest coldness and indifference. A correspondent of mine, upon this sub- ject, has divided the female part of the audience, and ac- counts for their prepossession against this reasonable de- light, in the following manner : '' The prude,' says he, ' as she acts always in contradiction, so she is gravely sullen at a comedy, and extravagantly gay at a tragedy. The coquette is so much taken up with throwing her eyes around the audience, and considering the effect of them, that she cannot be expected to observe the actors but as they are her rivals, and take off the observation of the men from herself. Besides these species of women, there are the Examples, or the first of the mode. These are to be supposed too well acquainted with what the actor is going to say to be moved at it. After these one might mention a certain flippant set of females who are mimics, and are wonderfully diverted with the conduct of all the people around them, and are spectators only of the audi- ence. But what is of all the most to be lamented, is the loss of a party whom it would be worth preserving in their right senses upon all occasions, and these are those whom we may indifferently call the innocent, or the unaffected. You may sometimes see one of these sensibly touched 1 5 2 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. with a well-wrought incident ; but then she is immediately so impertinently observed by the men, and frowned at by some insensible superior of her own sex, that she is ashamed, and loses the enjoyment of the most laudable concern, pity. Thus the whole audience is afraid of let- ting fall a tear, and shun as a weakness the best and wor- thiest part of our sense.' Saturday, November lo^ 1711. There are but few men who are not ambitious of dis- tinguishing themselves in the nation or country where they live, and of growing considerable among those with whom they converse. There is a kind of grandeur and respect which the meanest and most insignificant part of mankind endeavoured to procure in the little circle of their friends and acquaintance. The poorest mechanic, nay, the man who lives upon common alms, gets him his set of admirers, and delights in that superiority which he enjoys over those who are in some respects beneath hiui. This ambition, which is natural to the soul of man, might, methinks, receive a very happy turn ; and, if it were rightly directed, contribute as much to a person's advan- tage, as it generally does to his uneasiness and disquiet. The truth is, honours are in this world under no regu- lation ; true quality is neglected, virtue is oppressed, and vice triumphant. The last day will rectify this disorder, THE SPECTATOR. 153 and assign to every one a station suitable to the dignity of his character. Ranks will be then adjusted, and pre- cedency set right. Methinks we should have an ambition, if not to advance ourselves in another world, at least to preserve our post in it, and outshine our inferiors in virtue here, that they may not be put above us in a state which is to settle the distinction for eternity. Men in scripture are called strangers and sojourners upon earth, and life a pilgrimage. Several heathen, as well as Christian authors, under the same kind of meta- phor, have represented the world as an inn, which was only designed to furnish us with accommodations in this our passage.- It is therefore very absurd to think of set- ting up our rest before we come to our journey's end, and not rather to take care of the reception we shall there meet, than to fix our thoughts on the Iinle conveniences and advantages which we enjoy one abuve another in the way to it. Epictetus makes use of another kind of allusion, which is very beautiful, and wonderfully proper to incline us to be satisfied with the post in which Providence has placed us. We are here, says he, as in a theatre, where every one has a part allotted to him. The great duty which lies upon a man is to act his part in perfection. We may indeed say, that our part does not suit us, and that we could act another better. But this, says the philosopher, is not our business. All that we are concerned in is to excel in the part which is given us. If it be an improper one, the fault is not \xi us, but in Him who has cast T54 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. our several parts, and is the great disposer of the drama. The part that was acted by this philosopher himself was but a very indifferent one ; for he lived and died a slave. His motive to contentment in this particular, re- ceives a very great enforcement from the above-mentioned consideration, if we remember that our parts in the other world will be new cast, and that mankind will be there ranged in different stations of superiority and pre-emi- nence, in proportion as they have here excelled one another in virtue, and performed in their several posts of life the duties which belong to them. There are many beautiful passages in the little apocry- phal book, intitled The Wisdom of Solomon, to set forth the vanity of honour, and the like temporal blessings which are in so great repute among men, and to comfort those who have not the possession of them. It repre- sents in very warm and noble terms this advancement of a good man in the other world,, and the great surprise which it will produce among those who are his superiors in this. ' Then shall the righteous man stand in great boldness before the face of such as have afflicted him, and made no account of his labours. When they see it, fthey shall be troubled with terrible fear, and shall be amazed at the strangeness of his salvation, so far beyond all that they looked for. And they repenting and groan- ing for anguish of spirit, shall say within themselves, This was he whom we had sometime in derision, and a prov- erb Qf reproach. We fools accounted his hfe madness, and his end to be without honour. How is he numbered THE SPECTATOR. 155 among the children of God, and his lot is among the saints ! ' If the reader would see the description of a life that is passed away in vanity and among the shadows of pomp and greatness, he may see it very finely drawn in the same place. In the mean time, since it is necessary, in the present constitution of things, that order and distinc- tion should be kept up in the world, we should be happy, if those who enjoy the upper stations in it would endeav- our to surpass others in virtue as much as in rank, and by their humanity and condescension make their superi- ority easy and acceptable to those who are beneath them ; and if, on the contrary, those who are in meaner posts of life would consider how they may better their condition hereafter, and, by a just deference and submission to their superiors, make them happy in tliose blessings with which Providence has thought fit to distinguish them. Wednesday, November 14, 171 1. 'MR. SPECTATOR, ' There is one thing I have often looked for in your papers, and have as often wondered to find my- self disappointed ; the rather because I think it a subject every w^ay agreeable to your design, and, by being left unatterapted by others, it seems reserved as a proper em- ployment for you ; 1 mean, a Disquisition, from whence it proceeds that men of the brightest parts and most com- 156 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. prehensive genius, completely furnished with talents for any province in human affairs, such as by their wise lessons of economy to others have made it evident that they have the justest notions of life, and of true sense in the con- duct of it — from what unhappy contradictious cause it proceeds that persons, thus finished by nature and by art, should so often fail in the management of that which they so well understand, and want the address to make a right application of their own rules. This is certainly a prodigious inconsistency in behaviour, and makes much such a figure in morals, as a monstrous birth in naturals ; with this difference only, which greatly aggravates the wonder, that it happens much more frequently : and what a blemish does it cast upon wit and learning in the gen- eral account of the world ? And in how disadvantageous a light does it expose them to the busy class of mankind, that there should be so many instances of persons who have so conducted their lives in spite of these transcen- dent advantages, as neither to be happy in themselves, nor useful to their friends ; when every body sees it was entirely in their own power to be eminent in both these characters ? For my part I think there is no reflection more astonishing than to consider one of these gentlemen spending a fair fortune, running in every body's debt without the least apprehension of a future reckoning, and at last leaving not only his own children, but possibly those of. other people, by his means, in starving circum- stances ; while a fellow, whom no one would scarce sus- IDect to have a human soul, shall perhaps raise a vast estate out of nothing, and be the founder of a family THE SPECTATOR. 157 capable of being very considerable in their country, and doing many illustrious services to it. That this observa- tion is just, experience has put beyond all dispute. But though the fact be so evident and glaring, yet the causes of it are still in the dark ; which makes me persuade my- self, that it would be no unacceptable piece of entertain- ment to the town to inquire into the hidden sources of so unaccountable an evil. ' I am, Sir, your most humble servant.' What this correspondent wonders at has been matter of admiration ever since there was any such thing as human life. Horace reflects upon this inconsistency very agreeably in the character of TigelliuSj'whom he makes a mighty pretender to economy, and tells you, you might one day hear him speak the most philosophic things im- aginable concerning being contented with a little, and his contempt of every thing but mere necessaries j and in half a week after spend a thousand pounds. When he says this of him with relation to expense, he describes him as unequal to himself in every other circumstance of life. And, indeed, if we consider lavish men carefully, we shall find it always proceeds from a certain incapacity of possess- ing themselves, and finding enjoyment in their own minds. %;J< H^ H^ ■^ H< ♦ '¥■ ^ This loose state of the soul hurries the extravagant from one pursuit to another ; and the reason that his expenses are greater than another's is, that his wants are also more numerous. But what makes so many go on in this way to their lives' end is, that they certainly do not know how 158 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. contemptible they are in the eyes of the rest of mankind, or rather, that indeed they are not so contemptible as they deserve. Tully says, it is the greatest of wickedness to lessen your paternal estate/ And if a man would thoroughly consider how much worse than banishment it must be to his child, to ride by the estate which should have been his had it not been for his father's injustice to him, he would be smitten with the reflection more deeply than can be understood by any but one who is a father. Sure there can be nothing more afflicting than to think it had been happier for his son to have been born of any other man living than himself. It is not, perhaps, much thought of, but it is certainly a very important lesson, to learn how to enjoy ordinary life, and to be able to relish your being without the trans- port of some passion, or gratification of some appetite. For want of this capacity, the world is filled withwhetters, tipplers, cutters, sippers, and all the numerous train of those who, for want of thinking, are forced to be ever ex- ercising their feeling or tasting. It would be hard on this occasion to mention the harmless smokers of tobacco and takers of snuff. The slower part of mankind, whom my correspondent wonders should get estates, are the more inmiediately formed for that pursuit. They can expect distant things without impatience, because they are not carried out of their way either by violent passion or keen appetite to any thing. To men addicted to delights, business is an inter- ruption ; to such as are cold to delights, business is an entertainment. For which reason it was said by one who THE SPECTATOR. ' 159 commended a dull man for his application, ' No thanks to him ; if he had no business, he would have nothing to do.' Saturday, November 17, 1711. I HAVE often thought if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of the wise man. and that of the fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a perpetual train of vanities which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some and communicating others ; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion, however, has no place in private conversation between intimate friends. On such occasions the wisest men very often talk like the weakest ; for indeed the talking with a friend is nothing else but thinking aloud. TuUy has therefore very justly exposed a precept de- livered by some ancient writers, that a man should live with his enemy in such a manner as might leave him room to become his friend ; and with his friend, in such a man- ner that, if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which re- gards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very prudential \ but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of discretion, and would i6o BRITISH ESSAYISTS. cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Be- sides tljat when a friend is turned into an enemy, and, as the son of Sirach calls him, ' a bewrayer of secrets,' the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who confided in him. Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action, and is like an under-agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary con- cerns of life. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion ; it is this indeed which gives a value to all the rest, which sets them at work in their proper times and places, and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence ; virtue itself looks like weakness ; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice. Nor does discretion only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with, and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the con- versation, and gives measures to the society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Poly- phemus in the fable, sfrong and blind, endued with an THE SPECTATOR. i6i irresistible force, which for want of sight is of no use to him. Though a man has all other perfections, and wants dis- cretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world ; but if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular "station of life. At the same time that I think discretion the most use- ful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attain- ing them : cunning has only private selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. Dis- cretion has large and extended views, and, like a well- formed eye, commands a whole horizon : cunning is a kind of shortsightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things- at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it : cun- ning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life : cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out after our immediate interest and wel- fare. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good understandings : cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves, and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the 1 62 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. mimic of discretion, and may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider Avhat will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or hap- piness which are reserved for him in another world, lose nothing of their reality by being placed at so great a dis- tance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He considers that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity apjDroach nearer to him every moment, and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For this reason he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ulti- mate design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most distant as well as the most immediate effects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it consistent with his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immor- tality, his schemes are large and glorious, and his con- duct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how . to pursue it by proper methods. * * * * THE SPECTATOR. 163 Saturday, November 24, 1711. A JUST and reasonable modesty does not only recom- mend eloquence, but sets off every great talent which a man can be possessed of. It heightens all the virtues which it accompanies ; like the shades in paintings, it raises and rounds every figure, and makes the colours more beautiful, though not so glaring as they would be Avithout it. Modesty is not only an ornament, but also a guard to virtue. It has a kind of quick and delicate feeling in the soul which makes her shrink and withdraw herself from every thing that has danger in it. It is such an exquisite sensibility, as warns her to shun the first appearance of every thing which is hurtful. I cannot at present recollect either the place or time of what I am going to mention ; but I have read some- where in the history of ancient Greece, that the women of the country were seized with an unaccountable melan- choly, which disposed several of them to make away with themselves. The senate, after having tried many expe- dients -to prevent this self murder, which was so frequent among them, published an edict, that if any woman what- ' ever should lay violent hands upon herself, her corpse should be exposed naked in the street, and di'agged about the city in the most public manner. This edict immediately put a stop to the practice which was before so common. We may see in this instance the strength of female modesty, which was able to overcome the vio- 1 64 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. lence even of madness and despair. The fear of shame in the fair sex, was in those days more prevalent than that of death. If modesty has so great an influence over our actions, and is in many cases so impregnable a fence to virtue ; what can more undermine morality than that politeness which reigns among the unthinking part of mankind, and treats as unfashionable the most ingenuous part of our behaviour ; which recommends impudence as good-breed- ing, and keeps a man always in countenance, not be- cause he is innocent, but because he is shameless ? Seneca thought modesty so great a check to vice, that he prescribes to us the practice of it in secret, and ad- vises us to raise it in ourselves cipon imaginary occa- sions, when such as are real do not offer themselves ; for this is the meaning of his precept. That when we are by ourselves, and in our greatest solitudes, we should fancy that Cato stands before us and sees every thing we do. In short, if you banish Modesty out of the world, she carries away with her half the virtue that is in it. After these reflections on modesty, as it is a virtue ; I must observe, that there is a vicious modesty, which justly deserves to be ridiculed, and which those persons very often discover, who value themselves most upon a well-bred confidence. This happens when a man is ashamed to act up to his reason, and would not upon any consideration be surprised in the practice of those duties, for the performance of which he was sent into the world. Many an impudent libertine would blush to be caught in a serious discourse, and would scarce be able to show his THE SPECTATOR. 165 head, after having disclosed a rehgioiis thought. De- cency of behaviour, all outward show of virtue, and ab- horrence of vice, are carefully avoided by this set of shamefaced people, as what would disparage their gaiety of temper, and infallibly bring them to dishonour. This is such a poorness of spirit, such a despicable cowardice, such a degenerate abject state of mind, as one would think human nature incapable of, did we not meet with frequent instances of it in ordinary conversation. Saturday, December 8, 1711. I DO not remember to have read any discourse written expressly upon the beauty and loveliness of virtue, with- out considering it as a duty, and as the means of making us happy both now and hereafter, I design therefore this speculation as an essay upon that subject ; in which I shall consider virtue no farther than as it is in itself of an amiable nature ; after having premised, that I under- stand by the word virtue such a general notion as is affixed to it by the writers of morality, and which by devout men generally goes under the name of religion, and by men of the world under the name of honour. Hypocrisy itself does great honour, or rathe? justice to religion, and tacitly acknowledges it to be an ornament to human nature. The hypocrite would not be at so much pains to put on the appearance of virtue, if he did 1 66 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. not know it was the most proper and effectual means to gain the love and esteem of mankind. We learn from Hierocles, it was a common saying among the heathens, that the wise man hates nobody, but only loves the virtuous. Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to show how amiable virtue is. ' We love a virtuous man,' says he, ' who lives in the remotest parts of the earth, though we are altogether out of the reach of his virtue, and can receive from it no manner of benefit.' Nay, one who died several ages ago, raises a secret fondness and benevolence for him in our minds, when we read his story : nay, what is still more, one who has been the enemy of our country, provided his wars were regulated by justice and humanity, as in the instance of Pyrrhus whom Tully mentions on this occasion in opposition to Hannibal. Such is the natural beauty and loveliness of virtue. Stoicism, which was the pedantry of virtue, ascribes all good qualifications of what kind soever to the virtuous man. Accordingly Cato, in the character Tully has left of him, carried matters so far, that he would not allow any one but a virtuous man to be handsome. This indeed looks more like a philosophical rant than the real opinion of a wise man ; yet this was what Cato very seriously maintained. In short, the Stoics thought they could not suflficiently represent the excellence of virtue, if they did not comprehend in the notion of it all possible perfection ; and therefore did not only suppose that it was transcen- dently beautiful in itself, but that it made the very body THE SPECTATOR. 167 amiable, and banished every kind of deformity from the person in whom it resided. It is a common observation, that the most abandoned to all sense and goodness, are apt to wish those who are related to them of a different character : and it is very observable, that none are more struck with the charms of virtue in the fair sex, than those who by their very ad- miration of it are carried to a desire of ruining it. A virtuous mind in a fair body is indeed a line picture in a good light, and therefore it is no wonder that it makes the beautiful sex all over charms. As virtue in general is of an amiable and lovely nature, there are some particular kinds of it which are more so than others, and these are such as dispose us to do good to mankind. Temperance and abstinence, faith and de- votion, are in themselves perhaps as laudable as any other virtues ; but those which make a man popular and be- loved, are justice, charity, muniiicence, and, in short, all the good qualities that render us beneficial to each other. For this reason even an extravagant man, who has noth- ing else to recommend him but a false generosity, is often more beloved and esteemed than a person of a much more finished character, who is defective in this particu- lar. The two great ornaments of virtue, which show her in the most advantageous view^s, and make her altogether lovely, are cheerfulness and good-nature. These gen- erally go together, as a man cannot be agreeable to others who is not easy within himself. They are both very re- quisite in a virtuous mind, to keep out melancholy from BRITISH ESSAYISTS. the many serious thoughts it is engaged in, and to hinder its natural hatred of vice from souring into severity and censoriousness. If virtue is of this amiable nature, what can we think of those who can look upon it with an eye of hatred and ill-will, or can suffer their aversion for a party to blot out all the merit of the person who is engaged in it ? A man must be excessively stupid, as well as uncharitable, who believes that there is no virtue but on his own side, and that there are not men as honest as himself who may dif- fer from him in political, principles. Men may oppose one another in some particulars, but ought not to carry their hatred to those qualities which are of so amiable a nature in themselves, and have nothing to do with the points in dispute. Men of virtue, though of different in- terests, ought to consider themselves as more nearly united with one anothefr, than with the vicious part of mankind, who embark with them in the same civil con- cerns. We should bear the same love towards a man of honour who is a living antagonist, which Tully tells us, in the forementioned passage, every one naturally does to an enemy that is dead. In short, we should esteem virtue though in a foe, and abhor vice though in a friend. I speak this with an eye to those cruel treatments which men of all sides are apt to give the characters of those who do not agree with them. How many persons of undoubted probity and exemplary virtue, on either side, are blackened and defamed ! How many men of honour exposed to public obloquy and reproach ! Those, therefore, who are either the instruments or abettors in THE SPECTATOR. 169 such infernal dealings, ought to be looked upon as per- sons who make use of religion to promote their cause, not of their cause to promote religion. Thursday, December 13, 1711. We are told by some ancient authors that Socrates was instructed in eloquence by a woman, whose name, if I am not mistaken, was Aspasia. I have indeed very often looked upon that art as the most proper for the female sex ; and I think the universities would do well to con- sider whether they should not fill the rhetoric chairs with she-professors. It has been said in the praise of some men, that they could talk whole hours together upon any thing ; but it must be owned, to the honour of the other sex, that there are many among them who can talk whole hours together upon nothing. I have known a woman branch out into a long extempore dissertation upon the edging of a petticoat, and chide her servant for breaking a china cup in all the figures of rhetoric. Were women admitted to plead in courts of judicature, I am persuaded they would carry the eloquence of the bar to greater heights than it has yet arrived at. If any one doubts this, let him but be present at those debates which frequently arise among the ladies of the British Fishery.* The first kind therefore of female orators which I shall * Billingsgate. lyo BRITISH ESSAYISTS. take notice of, are those who are employed in stirring up the passions ; a part of rhetoric in which Socrates his wife had perhaps made a greater proficiency than his above-mentioned teacher. The second kind of female orators are those who deal in invectives, and who are commonly known by the name of the Censorious. The imagination and elocution of this set of rhetoricians is wonderful. With what a fluency of invention, and copiousness of expression, will they en- large upon every little slip in the behaviour of another ! With how many different circumstances, and with what variety of phrases, will they tell over the same story ! I have known an old lady make an unhappy marriage the sub- ject of a month's conversation. She blamed the bride in one place ; pitied her in another ; laughed at her in a third ; wondered at her in a fourth ; was angry with her in a fifth ; and, in short, wore out a pair of coach-horses in expressing her concern for her. At length, after having quite exhausted the subject on this side, she made a visit to the new-married pair, praised the wife for the prudent choice she had made, told her the unreasonable reflec- tions which some malicious people had cast upon her, and desired that they might be better acquainted. The censure and approbation of this kind of women are there- fore only to be considered as helps to discourse. A third kind of female orators may be comprehended under the word Gossips. Mrs. Fiddle- Faddle is perfectly accomplished in this sort of eloquence ; she launches out into descriptions of christenings, runs divisions upon an head-dress, knows every dish of meat that is served up THE SPECTATOR. 171 in her neighborhood, and entertains her company a whole afternoon together with the wit of her little boy before he is able to speak. The coquette may be looked upon as a fourth kind of female orator. To give herself the larger field for dis- course, she hates and loves in the same breath ; talks to her lap-dog or parrot ; is uneasy in all kinds of weather, and in every part of the room. She has false quarrels and feigned obligations to all the men of her acquaint- ance ; sighs when she is not sad, and laughs when she is not merry. The coquette is in particular a great mistress of that part of oratory which is called action, and indeed seems to speak for no other purpose, but as it gives her an opportunity of stirring a limb or varying a feature, of glancing her eyes or playing with her fan. As for newsmongers, politicians, mimics, story-tellers, with other characters of that nature which give birth to loquacity, they are as commonly found among the men as the women ; for which reason I shall pass them over in silence. I have been often puzzled to assign a cause why wo- men should have this talent of a ready utterance in so much greater perfection than men. I have sometimes fancied that they have not a retentive power, or the fac- ulty of suppressing their thoughts^ as men have, but that they are necessitated to speak every thing they think ; and if so, it would perhaps furnish a very strong argument to the Cartesians for the supporting of their doctrine that the soul always thinks. But as several are of opinion that the fair sex are not altogether strangers to the arts 172 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. of dissembling and concealing their thoughts, I have been forced to relinquish that opinion, and have therefore en- deavoured to seek after some better reason. In order to it, a friend of mine, who is an excellent anatomist, has promised me, by the first opportunity, to dissect a wo- man's tongue, and to examine whether there may not be in it certain juices which render it so wonderfully voluble or flippant, or whether the fibres of it may not be made up of a finer or more pliant thread; or whether there are not in it some particular muscles which dart it up and down by such sudden glances and vibrations ; or whether, in the last place, there may not be certain undiscovered channels running from the head and the heart to this little instrument of loquacity, and conveying into it a per- petual afi[iiience of animal spirits. Nor must I omit the reason which Hudibras has given, why those who can talk on trifles speak with the greatest fluency ; namely, that the tongue is like a race-horse, which runs the faster the lesser weight it carries. Which of these reasons soever may be looked upon as the most probable, I think the Irishman's thought was very natural, who after some hours' conversation with a female orator told her, that he believed her tongue was very glad when she was asleep, for that it had not a mo- ment's rest all the while she was awake. I must confess I am so wonderfully charmed with the music of this little instrument, that I would by no means discourage it. All that I aim at by this dissertation is, to cure it of several disagreeable notes, and in particular of THE SPECTATOR. i73 those little jarrings and dissonances which arise from an- ger, censoriousness, gossiping and coquetry. In short, I would have it always tuned by good-nature, truth, discre- tion, and sincerity. Friday, December 14, 1711. There are none who deserve superiority over others in the esteem of mankind, who do not make it their endeav- our to be beneficial to society ; and who, upon all oc- casions 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 placed them in conspicuous stations of life, are indispensably obliged to exert some noble in- clinations for the service of the world, or else such ad- vantages become misfortunes, and shade and privacy are a more eligible portion. Where opportunities and in- clinations are given to the same person, we sometimes see sublime instances of virtue, which so dazzle our im- aginations, 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 merQ poverty, not only to do things worthy, but heroic. The great foundation of civil virtue is self- 1 74 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. denial ; and there is no one above the necessities of hfe, 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. * * % * % ^ % 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 Provi- dence, which are actuated by a secret celestial influence to undervalue the ordinary gratifications of wealth, to give comfort to an heart loaded with affliction, to save a falling family, to preserve a branch of trade in their neighbourhood, and give work to the industrious, pre- serve 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 THE SPECTATOR. ' I75 sent this billet to an eminent trader under difficulties to support himself, in whose fall many hundreds besides himself, 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 mercantile honest style in which it was sent : ' SIR, ' I HAVE heard of the casualties which have involved you in extreme distress at this time ; and know- ing 3^ou 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.' ******** Monday, December 31, 171 1. I THINK myself highly obliged to the public for their kind acceptance of a paper which visits them every morn- ing, and has in it none of those seasonings that recommend so many of the writings which are in vogue among us. I 76 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. As, on the one side, my paper has not in it a single word of news, a reflection in poUtics, nor a stroke of party ; so, on the other, there are no fashionable touches of infidelity, no obscene ideas, no satires upon priest- hood, marriage, and the like popular topics of ridicule, no private scandal, nor any thing that may tend to the defamation of particular persons, families, or societies. There is not one of those above-mentioned subjects that would not sell a very indifferent paper, could I think of gratifying the public by such mean and base methods. But, notwithstanding I have rejected every thing that sa- vours of party, every thing that is loose and immoral, and every thing that might create uneasiness in the minds of particular persons, I find that the demand of my papers has increased every month since their first appearance in the world. This does not perhaps reflect so much honour upon myself as on my readers, who give a much greater attention to discourses of virtue and morality than ever I expected or indeed could hope. When I broke loose from that great body of writers who have employed their wit and parts in propagating vice and irreligion, I did not question but I should be treated as an odd kind of fellow, that had a mind to ap- pear singular in my way of writing : but the general reception I have found convinces me that the world is not so corrupt as we are apt to imagine ; and that if those men of parts who have been employed in vitiating the age had endeavoured to rectify and amend it, they needed not to have sacrificed their good sense and virtue to their fame and reputation. No man is so sunk in vice and THE SPECTATOR. ignorance but there are still some hidden seeds of good- ness and knowledge in him ; which give him a relish of such reflections and speculations as have an aptness to improve the mind and to make the heart better. I have shown, in a former paper, with how much care I have avoided all such thoughts as are loose, obscene, or immoral ; and I believe my reader would still think the better of me, if he knew the pains I am at in qualifying what I write, after such a manner that nothing may be interpreted as aimed at private persons. For this reason, when I draw any faulty character, I consider all those persons to whom the malice of the world may possibly apply it, and take care to dash it with such particular cir- cumstances as may prevent all such ill-natured applica- tions. ■» * * * Wednesday, Jamia7'y 9, 1712. Did mankind but know the freedom which there is in keeping thus aloof from the world, I should have more imitators than the powerfullest man in the nation has fol- lowers. To be no man's rival in love, or competitor in business, is a character which if it does not recommend you as it ought to benevolence among tliose whom you live with, yet has it certainly this effect, that you do not stand so much in need of their approbation, as you would if you aimed at it more, in setting your heart on the same things which the generality doat on. By this 1 78 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. means, and with this easy philosophy, I am never less at a play than when I am at the theatre ; but indeed I am seldom so well pleased with the action as in that place ; for most men follow nature no longer than while they are in their night-gowns, and all the busy part of the day are in characters' which they neither become, or act in with pleasure to themselves or their beholders. It is so mean a thing to gratify a loose age with a scan- dalous representation * of what is reputable among men, not to say what is sacred, that no beauty, no excellence in an author ought to atone for it ; nay, such excellence is an aggravation of his guilt, and an argument that he errs against the conviction of his own understanding and conscience. Wit should be tried by this rule, and an au- dience should rise against such a scene as throws down the reputation of any thmg which the consideration of religion or decency should preserve from contempt. _ But all this evil arises from this one corruption of mind, that makes men resent offences against their virtue less than those against their understanding. An author shall write as if he thought there was not one man of honour or woman of chastity in the house, and come off with ap- plause : for an insult upon all the ten commandments with the little critics is not so bad as the breach of an unity of time or place. Half wits do not apprehend the mis- eries that must necessarily flow from a degeneracy of manners; nor do they know that order is the support of society. * * * * * Theatrical. THE SPECTATOR. i79 Sallies of imagination are to be overlooked, when they are committed out of warmth in the recommendation of what is praiseworthy ; but a deliberate advancing of vice, with all the wit in the world, is as ill an action as any that comes before the magistrate, and ought to be received as such by the people. Monday, January 28, 17 12. 'York, Jan. 18, 1711. 'MR. SPECTATOR, ' I PRETEND not to inform a gentleman of so just a taste, whenever he pleases to use it ; but it may not be amiss to inform your readers that there is a false delicacy as well as a true one. True delicacy, as I take it, consists in exactness of judgment and dignity of senti- ment, or, if you will, purity of affection, as this is opposed to corruption and grossness. There are pedants in breed- ing as well as in learning. The eye that cannot bear the light is not delicate but sore. A good constitution ap- pears in the soundness and vigour of the parts, not in the squeamishness of- the stomach ; and a false delicacy is affectation, not politeness. What then can be the stand- ard of delicacy but truth and virtue ! — virtue, which as the satirist long since observed, is real honour ; whereas the other distinctions among mankind are merely titular. Judging by that rule, in my opinion, and in that of many I So BRITISH ESSAYISTS. of your virtuous female readers, you are so far from de- serving Mr. Courtly' s accusation, that you seem too gentle, and to allow too many excuses for an enormous crime which is the reproach of the age, and is in all its branches and degrees expressly forbidden by that religion we pretend to profess ; and whose laws, in a nation that calls itself Christian, one would think should take place of those rules which men of corrupt minds, and those of weak understandings, follow. I know not any thing more pernicious to good manners than the giving fair names to foul actions : for this confounds vice and virtue, and takes off that natural horror we have to do evil. An innocent creature, who would start at the name of strum- pet, may think it pretty to be called a mistress, especially if her seducer has taken care to inform her, that a union of hearts is the principal matter in the sight of Heaven, and that the business at church is a mere idle ceremony. Who knows not that the difference between obscene and modest words expressing the same action, consists only in the accessory idea, for there is nothing immodest in letters and syllables. Fornication and adultery are modest words ; because they express an evil action as criminal, and so as to excite horror and aversion ; whereas words representing the pleasure rather than the sin, are for this reason indecent and dishonest. Your papers would be chargeable with something worse than indeli- cacy, they would be immoral, did you treat the detesta- ble sins of uncleanness in the same manner as you rally an impertinent self-love and an artful glance ; as those laws would be very unjust that should chastise murder THE SPECTATOR. i8i and petty larceny with the same punishment. Even delicacy requires that the pity shown to distressed indi- gent wickedness, first betrayed into and then expelled the harbours of the brothel, should be changed to detes- tation, when we consider pampered vice in the habita- tions of the wealthy. The most free person of quality, in Mr. Courtly' s phrase, that is, to speak properly, a woman of figure who has forgot her birth and breeding, dishonoured her illations and herself, abandoned her virtue and reputation, together with the natural modesty of her sex, and risked her very soul, is so far from de- serving to be treated with no worse character than that of a kind woman, which is doubtless Mr. Courtly' s mean- ing, (if he has any,) that one can scarce be too severe on her, inasmuch as she sins against greater restraints, is less exposed, and liable to fewer temptations^ than beauty in poverty and distress. It is hoped, therefore, Sii*, that you will not lay aside your generous design of opposing that monstrous wickedness of the town, whereby a multi- tude of innocents are sacrificed in a more barbarous man- ner than those who w^ere offered to Moloch. The un- chaste are provoked to see their vice exposed, and the chaste cannot rake into such filth without danger of de- filement, bat a mere spectator may look into the bottom, and come off without partaking in the guilt. The doing so will convince us you pursue public good, and not merely your own advantage ; but if your zeal slackens, how can one help thinking that Mr. Courtly' s letter is but a feint to get from a subject in which either your own, or the private and base ends of others to whom you are BRITISH ESSAYISTS. partial, or those of whom you are afraid, would not en- dure a reformation ? ' I am, Sir, your humble servant and admirer, so long as you tread in the paths of truth, virtue, and honour.' Friday, February 15, 1712. I READ what I give for the entertainment of this day with a great deal of pleasure, and publish it just as it came to my hands. I shall be very glad to find there are many guessed at for Emilia. 'MR. SPECTATOR, ' If this paper has the good fortune to be honoured with a place in your writings, I shall be the more pleased, because the character of EmiHa is not an imaginary but a real one. I have industriously obscured the whole by the addition of one or two circumstances of no consequence, that the person it is drawn from might still be concealed ; and that the writer of it might not be in the least suspected, and for some other reasons, I choose not to give it in the form of a letter ; but if, besides the faults of the composition, there be any thing in it more proper for a correspondent than the Spectator THE SPECTATOR. 183 himself to write, I submit it to your better judgment, to receive any other model you think fit. ' I am, Sir, ' Your very humble servant.' There is nothing which gives one so pleasing a pros- pect of human nature, as the contemplation of wisdom and beauty : the latter is the peculiar portion of that sex which is therefore called fair ; but the happy concurrence of both these excellences in the same person, is a charac- ter too celestial to be frequently met wdth. Beauty is an overweening self-sufficient thing, careless of providing itself any more substantial ornaments ; nay so little does it consult its own interests, that it too often defeats itself, by betraying that innocence which renders it lovely and desirable. As therefore virtue makes a beautiful woman appear more beautiful, so beauty makes a virtuous woman really more virtuous. Whilst I am considering these two perfections gloriously united in one person, I cannot help representing to my mind the image of Emilia. Who ever beheld the charming Emilia without feeling in his breast at once the glow of love and the tenderness of virtuous friendship ? The unstudied graces of her be- haviour, and the pleasing accents of her tongue, insensi- bly draw you on to wish for a nearer enjoyment of them ; but even her smiles carry in them a silent reproof to the impulses of licentious love. Thus, though the attractives of her beauty play almost irresistibly upon you, and cre- ate desire, you immediately stand corrected, not by the • severity, but the decency of her virtue. That sweetness BRITISH ESSAYISTS. and good-humour, which is so visible in her face, natur- ally diffuses itself into every word and action : a man must be a savage, who, at the sight of Emilia, is not more inchned to do her good, than gratify himself. Her per- son, as it is thus studiously embellished by nature, thus adorned with unpremeditated graces, is a fit lodging for a mind so fair and lovely; there dwell rational piety, modest hope, and cheerful resignation. Many of the prevailing passions of mankind do unde- servedly pass under the name of religion ; which is thus made to express itself in action, according to the nature of the constitution in which it resides : so that were we to make a judgment from appearances, one would imagine religion in some is little better than sullenness and reserve, in many fear, in others the despondings of a melancholy complexion," in others the formality of insig- nificant unafifecting observances, in others severity, in others ostentation. In EmiHa it is a principle founded in reason, and enlivened with hope ; it does not break forth into irregular fits and sallies of devotion, but is an uni- form and consistent tenour of action : it is strict without severity ; compassionate without weakness ; it is the perfection of that good-humour which proceeds from the understanding, not the effect of an easy constitu- tion. By a generous sympathy in nature, we feel ourselves disposed to mourn when any of our fellow-creatures are afflicted ; but injured innocence and beauty in distress is an object that carries in it some thing inexpressibly moving : it softens the most manly heart with the ten- THE SPECTATOR. 185 derest sensations of love and compassion, till at length it confesses its humanity, and flows out into tears. Were I to relate that part of Emilia's life which has given her an opportunity of exerting the heroism of Christianity, it would make too sad, too tender a story : but when I consider her alone in the midst of her dis- tresses, looking beyond this gloomy vale of affliction and sorrow, in the joys of heaven and immortality, and when I see her in conversation thoughtless and easy, as if she were the most happy creature in the world. I am trans- ported with admiration. Surely never did such a philo- sophic soul inhabit such a beauteous form ! For beauty is often made a privilege against thought and reflection ; it laughs at wisdom, and will not abide the gravity of its mstructions. Were I able to represent Emilia's virtues in their proper colours and their due proportions, love or flattery might perhaps be thought to have drawn the picture larger than life ; but as this is but an imperfect draught of so excellent a character, and as I cannot, will not hope to have any interest in her person, all that I can say of her is but impartial praise extorted from me by the prevailing brightness of her virtues. So rare a pattern of female excellence ought not to be concealed, but should be set out to the view and imitation of the world; for how amiable does virtue appear thus, as it were, made visible to us,, in so fair an example ! Honoria's disposition is of a very different turn : her thoughts are wholly bent upon conquest and arbitrary power. That she has some wit and beauty nobody 1 86 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. denies, and therefore has the esteem of all her acquaint- ance as a woman of an agreeable person and conversa- tion ; but (whatever her husband may think of it) that is not sufficient for Honoria ; she waves that title to re- spect as a mean acquisition, and demands veneration in the right of an idol ; for this reason her natural desire of life is continually checked with an inconsistent fear of wrinkles and old age. Emilia cannot be supposed ignorant of her personal charms, though she seems to be so ; but she will not hold her happiness upon so precarious a tenure, whilst her mind is adorned with beauties of a more exalted and lasting nature. When in tha full bloom of youth and beauty we saw her surrounded with a crowd of adorers, she took no pleasure in slaughter and destruction, gave no false deluding hopes which might increase the tor- ments of her disappointed lovers ; but having for some time given to the decency of a virgin coyness, and exam- ined the merit of their several pretensions, she at length gratified her own, by resigning herself to the ardent passion of Bromius. Bromius was then master of many good qualities and a moderate fortune, which was soon after unexpectedly increased to a plentiful estate. This for a good while proved his misfortune, as it furnished his unexperienced age with the opportunities of evil company, and a sensual life. He might have longer wandered in the labyrinths of vice and folly, had not Emilia's prudent conduct won him over to the government of his reason. Her ingenuity has been constantly employed in humanizing his passions, and refining his pleasures. THE SPECTATOR. 187 She has showed hhn, by her own example, that virtue is consistent with decent freedoms and good-humour, or rather that it cannot subsist without them. Her good sense readily instructed her, that a silent example, and an easy unrepining behaviour, will always be more per- suasive than the severity of lectures and admonitions ; and that there is so much pride interwoven into the make of human nature, that an obstinate man must only take the hint from another, and then be left to advise and correct himself. Thus by an artful train of management, and unseen persuasions, having at first brought him not to dislike, and at length to be pleased with that which otherwise he would not have borne to hear of, she then knew how to press and secure this advantage, by approv- ing it as his thought, and seconding it as his proposal. By this means she has gained an interest in some of his leading passions, and made them accessary to his refor- mation. There is another particular of Emilia's conduct which I cannot forbear mentioning : to some, perhaps, it may at first sight appear but a trifling inconsiderable circum- stance ; but for my part, 1 think it highly worthy of ob- servation, and to be recommended to the consideration of the fair sex. I have often thought wrapping-gowns and dirty linen, with all that huddled economy of dress which passes under the general name of 'a mob,' the bane of conjugal love, and one of the readiest means imaginable to alienate the affection of an husband, espe- cially a fond one. I have heard some ladies, who have been surprised by company in such a dishabille, apolo- BRITISH ESS A YISTS. gize for it after this manner. ' Truly I am ashamed to be caught in this pickle : but my husband and I were sitting all alone by ourselves, and I did not expect to see such good company.' — This, by the way, is a fine com- pliment to the good man, which it is ten to one but he returns in dogged answers and a churlish behaviour, without knowing what it is that puts him out of humour. Emilia's observation teaches her, that as little inadver- tences and neglects cast a blemish upon a great char- acter ; so the neglect of apparel, even among the most intimate friends, does insensibly lessen their regards to each other, by creating a familiarity too low and con- temptible. She understands the importance of those things which the generality account trifles ; and considers every thing as a matter of consequence that has the least tendency towards keeping up or abating the affection of her husband; him she esteems as a fit object to employ her ingenuity in pleasing, because he is to be pleased for life. By the help of these and a thousand other nameless arts, which it is -easier for her to practise than for another to express, by the obstinacy of her goodness and unpro- voked submission, in spite of all her afiiictions and ill- usage, Bromius is become a man of sense and a kind husband, and Emilia an happy wife. Ye guardian angels, to whose care Heaven has intrusted its dear Emilia, guide her still forward in the paths of virtue, defend her from the insolence and wrongs of this undiscerning world ; at length when we must no more con- verse with such purity on earth, lead her gently hence THE SPECTATOR. innocent and unreprovable to a better place, where by an easy transition from what she now is, she may shine forth an angel of light. Wednesday, February 27, 171 2. It is a very melancholy reflection, that men are usually so weak, that it is absolutely necessary for them to know sorrow and pain, to be in their right senses. Prosperous people (for happy there are none) are hurried away with a fond sense of their present condition, and thoughtless of the mutability of fortune. Fortune is a term which we must use in such discourses as these, for what is wrought by the unseen hand of the Disposer of all things. But methinks the disposition of a mind which is truly great, is that which makes misfortunes and sorrows little when • they befall ourselves, great and lamentable when they be- fall other men. The most unpardonable malefactor in the world going to his death, and bearing it with com- posure, would win the pity of those who should behold him ; and this, not because his calamity is deplorable,' but because he seems himself not to deplore it. We suf- fer for him who is less sensible of his own misery, and are inclined to despise him who sinks under the weight of his distresses. On the other hand, without any touch of envy, a temperate and well governed mind looks down on such as are exalted with success, with a certain shame for the imbeciHty of human nature, that can so far forget I go BRITISH ESSAYISTS. how liable it is to calamity, as to grow giddy with onl/ the suspense of sorrow which is the portion of all men. He therefore who turns his face from the unhappy man, who will not look again when his eye is cast upon modest sorrow, who shuns affliction like a contagion, does but pamper himself up for a sacrifice, and contract in himself a greater aptitude to misery by attempting to escape it. A gentleman where I happened to be last night, fell into a discourse which I thought showed a good discerning in him. He took notice, that whenever men have looked into their heart for the idea of true excellence in human nature, they have found it to consist in suffering after a right manner, and with a good grace. Heroes are always drawn bearing sorrows, struggling with adversities, undergoing all kinds of hardships, and having in the ser- vice of mankind a kind of appetite to difficulties and dangers. The gentleman went on to observe, that it is from this secret sense of the high merit which there is in patience under calamities, that the writers of romances, when they attempt to furnish out characters of the highest excellence, ransack nature for things terrible ; they raise a new creation of monsters, dragons, and giants ; where the danger ends, the hero ceases : when he won an em- pire, or gained his mistress, the rest of his story is not worth relating. My friend carried his discourse so far as to say, that it was for higher beings than men to join happiness and greatness in the same idea ; but that in our condition we have no conception of superlative ex- cellence, or heroism, but as it is surrounded with a shade of distress. THE SPECTATOR. 1 91 It is certainly the proper education we should give ourselves, to be prepared for the ill events and accidents we are to meet with in a life sentenced to be a scene of sorrow : but, instead of this expectation, we soften our- selves with prospects of constant delight, and destroy in our minds the seeds of fortitude and virtue, which should support us in hcRu-s of anguish. The constant pursuit of pleasure has in it something insolent and improper for our being. There is a pretty sober liveliness in the ode of Horace to Delius, where he tells him, loud mirth or immoderate sorrow, inequality of behaviour either in prosperity or adversity, are alike ungraceful in man that is born to die. Moderation in both circumstances is pe- culiar to generous minds. Men of that sort ever taste the gratifications of health, and all other advantages of life, as if they were liable to part with them ; and, when bereft of them, resign' them with a greatness of mind which shows they know their value and duration. The contempt of pleasure is a certain preparatory for the con- tempt of pain. Without this, the mind is, as it were, taken suddenly by any unforeseen event; but he that has always during health and prosperity been abstinent in his satisfaction, enjoys in the worst of difficulties the reflection, that his anguish is not aggravated with the comparison of past pleasures which upbraid his present condition. 192 BRITISH ESS A YIS IS. Monday, ^/rz7 7, 171 2. When we consider the offices of human life, there is, methinks, 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 beneficent spirit works in a man from the convictions of reason, not from the impulses of pas- sion. 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 sacri- ficed to fools, knaves, flatterers, or the deservedly un- happy, all the opportunities of affording any future assist- ance 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 ? ' * * * 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 is less ostentatious in your- self. He turns his reconunendation of this virtue on commercial life : and, according to him, a citizen who is frank in his kindnesses, and abhors severity in his de- THE SPECTATOR. I93 mands ; he who in buying, selling, lending, doing acts of good neighbourhood, is just and easy ; he who appears naturally averse to disputes, and above the sense of little sufferings — bears a noble character, and does much more good to mankind, than any other man's fortune, without commerce, can possibly support. * * * * 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 improve- ment of their own fortunes, wherein they do not also advance those of other men who would languish in pov- erty without that munificence. ***** 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 suspected, and it is with them the same thing to expect their favour as to receive it. * * * More- over, the regard to what you do to a great man, at best is taken notice of no farther 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 tow^ards you of all men of that character (of which there are many) in the whole city. Wednesday, April i6, 171 2. *MR. SPECTATOR, • ' You have in some of your discourses described most sort of women in their distinct and proper classes, 9 194 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. as the ape, the coquette, and many others ; but I think you have never yet said any thing of a devotee. A devo- tee is one of those who disparage rehgion by their indis- creet and unseasonable introduction of the mention of virtue on all occasions. She professes she is what no- body ought to doubt she is ; and betrays the labour she is put to, to be what she ought to be with cheerfulness and alacrity. She lives in the world, and denies herself none of the diversions of it, with a constant declaration, how insipid all things in it are to her. She is never her- self but at church ; there she displays her virtue, and is so fervent in her devotions, that I have frequently seen her pray herself out of breath. While other young ladies in the house are dancing, or playing at questions and commands, she reads aloud in her closet. She says, all love is ridiculous, except it be celestial ; but she speaks of the passion of one mortal to another with too much bitterness for one that had no jealousy mixed with her contempt of it. * * * * This ostenta- tion's behaviour is such an offence to, true sanctity, that it disparages it, and makes virtue not only unamiable, but also ridiculous. The sacred writings are full of reflec- tions which abhor this kind of conduct ; and a devotee is so far from promoting goodness, that she deters others by her example. Folly and vanity in one of these ladies, is like vice in a clergyman ; it does not only debase him, but makes the inconsiderate part of the world think the worse of rehgion. I am. Sir, ' Your humble servant, ' Hotspur.* THE SPECTATOR. 195 'MR. SPECTATOR, ' Xenophon, in his short account of the Spartan commonwealth, speaking of the behaviour of their young men in the streets, says, " There was so much mod- esty in their looks, that you might as soon have turned the eyes of a marble statue upon you as theirs ; and that in all their behaviour they were more modest than a bride when put to bed upon her wedding night." This virtue, . which is always joined to magnanimity, had such an influ- ence upon their courage, that in battle an enemy could not look them in the face, and they durst not but die for their country. 'Whenever I walk into the streets of London and West- minster, the countenances of ail the young fellows that pass by me make me wish myself in Sparta : I meet with such blustering airs, big looks, and bold fronts, that, to a superficial observer, would bespeak a courage above those Grecians. 1 am arrived to that perfection in speculation, that I understand the language of the eyes, which would be a great misfortune to me, had I not corrected the testi- ness of old age by philosophy. There is scarce a man in a red-coat who does not tell me, with a full stare, he is a bold man ; I see several swear inwardly at me, with- out any offence of mine, but the oddness of my person ; . I meet contempt in every street, expressed in differ- ent manners, by the scornful look, the elevated eyebrow, and the swelling nostrils of the proud and prosperous. * * * * These things arise from a general affectation of smartness, wit, and courage. I shall do all in the power of a weak old fellow in my own de- 196 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. fence ; for as Diogenes, being in quest of an honest man, sought for him when it was in broad dayUght with a lan- tern and candle, so I intend for the future to walk the streets with a dark lantern, which has a convex crystal in it; and if any man stares at me, I give fair warning that I will direct the light full into his eyes. Thus de- spairing to find men modest, I hope by this means to evade their impudence, I am. Sir, ' Your humble servant, ' SOPHROSUNIUS.' Thursdav, April 17, 1712. I have been very often tempted to write invectives upon those who have detracted from my works, or spoken in derogation of my person ; but I look upon it as a par- ticular happiness, that I have always hindered my resent- ments from proceeding to this extremity. I once had gone through half a satire, but found so many motions of humanity rising in me towards the persons whom I had severely treated, that I threw it into the fire without ever finishing it. I have been angry enough to make several little epigrams and lampoons ; and, after having admired them a day or two, have likewise committed them to the flames. These I look upon as so many sacrifices to hu- manity, and have received much greater satisfaction from the suppressing such performances, than I could have done from any reputation they might have procured nie, THE SPECTATOR. 197 or from any mortification they might have given my ene- mies, in case I had made them pubHc, If a man has any talent in writing, it shows a good mind to forbear answer- ing calumnies and reproaches in the same spirit of bitter- ness with which they are offered. But when a man has been at some pains in making suitable returns to an enemy, and has the instruments of revenge in his hands, to let drop his wrath, and stifle his resentments, seems to have something in it great and heroical. There is a par- ticular merit in such a way of forgiving an enemy ; and -the more violent and unprovoked the offence has been, the greater still is the merit of him who thus forgives it. ********* When I hear of a satirical speech or writing that is aimed at me, I examine my own heart whether I deserve it or not. If I bring in a verdict against myself, I endea- vour to rectify my conduct for the future in those i:>articu- lars which have drawn the censure upon me ; but if the whole invective be grounded upon a falsehood, I trouble myself no farther about it, and look upon my name at the head of it to signify no more than one of those ficti- tious names made use of by an author to introduce an imaginary character. Why should a man be sensible of the sting of a reproach, who is a stranger to the guilt that is implied in it? or subject himself to the penalty, when he knows he has never committed the crime ? This is a piece of fortitude which every one owes to his own innocence, and without which it is impossible for a man of any merit, or figure, to live at peace with him- self, in a country that abounds with wit and liberty. BRITISH ESS A YISTS. Friday, May 17, 171 2. Cicero spoke of Catiline, * he lived with the sad se- verely, 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 in- stances of his complaisance 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, except it comes from a man's own temper and natural complexion ; to do it out of an ambition to excel that way, is the most fruit- less 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 des- picable. A man must be sincerely pleased to become pleasure, or not to interrupt that of others : for this rea- son it is a most calamitous circumstance, that many peo- ple 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 an heavy heart, stands excepted ; but what is here meant is, that a man should always go with incli- THE SPECTATOR. 199 nation 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 par- ticularity of its own. This is it that makes me pleased with the character of my good acquaintance Acasto. You meet him at the ta- bles and conversations of the wise, the impertinent, the grave, the frolic, and the witty ; and yet his own charac- ter has nothing in it that can make him particularly agree- able 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, he never was at a place where he was not welcome a second time. With- out these subordinate good qualities of Acasto, a man of wit and learning would be jiainfui 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 know- ing 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. « * * * BRITISH ESSAYISTS. Wednesday, June i8, 1712. * MR. SPECTATOR, ' I HAVE always been a very great lover of your speculations, as well in regard to the subject, as to your manner of treating it. .Human nature I always thought the most useful object of human reason, and, to make the consideration of it pleasant and entertaining, I always thought the best employment of human wit ; other parts of philosophy may perhaps make us wiser, but this not only answers, that end, but makes, us better too. Hence it was, that the oracle pronounced Socrates the wisest of all men living, because he judiciously made choice of human nature for the object of his thoughts; an inquiry into which as much exceeds all other learning, as it is of more consequence to adjust the true nature and measures of right and wrong, than to settle the dis- tances of the planets, and compute the times of their cir- cumvolutions. ' One good effect that will immediately arise from a near observation of human nature is, that we shall cease to wonder at those actions which nien are used to reckon wholly unaccountable ; for as nothing is produced with- out a cause, so, by observing the nature and course of the passions, we shall be able to trace every action from its first conception to its death. We shall no more ad- mire at the proceedings of Catiline or Tiberius, when we know the one was actuated by a cruel jealousy, the other by a furious ambition ; for the actions of men follow THE SPECTATOR. their passions, as naturally as light does heat, or as any other effect flows from its cause ; reason must be em- ployed in adjusting the passions, but these must ever remain the principles of action. ' The strange and absurd variety that is so apparent in men's actions, shows plainly they can never proceed immediately from reason ; so pure a fountain emits no such troubled waters. They must necessarily arise from the passions, which are to the mind as the winds to a ship ; they only can move it, and they too often destroy it ; if fair and gentle, they guide it into the harbour ; if con- trary and furious, they overset it in the waves. In the same manner is the mind assisted or endangered by the passions ; Reason must then take the place of pilot, and can never fail of securing her charge, if she be not want- ing to herself. The strength of the passions will never be accepted as an excuse for complying with them ; they were designed for subjection ; and if a man suffers them to get the upper hand, he then betrays the liberty of his own soul. 'As Nature has framed the several species of beings as it were in a chain, so man seems to be placed as the middle link between angels and brutes. Hence he par- ticipates both of flesh and spirit by an admirable tie, which in him occasions perpetual war of passions ; and, as a man inclines to the angelic or brute part of his constitu- tion, he is then denominated good or bad, virtuous or wicked : if love, mercy, and good nature prevail, they speak him of the angel : if hatred, cruelty, and envy pre- dominatCj they declare his kindred to the brute. Hence 9* BRITISH ESSAYISTS. it was that some of the ancients imagined, that as men, in this life, inclined more to the angel or the brute, so, after their death, they should transmigrate into the one or the other ; and it would be no unpleasant notion to . consider the several species of brutes, into which we may- imagine that tyrants, misers, the proud, malicious, and ill-natured, might be changed. 'As a consequence of this original, all passions are in all men, but all appear not in all : constitution, education, custom of the country, reason, and the like causes, may improve or abate the strength of them, but still the seeds remain, which are ever ready to sprout forth upon the least encouragement. I have heard a story of a good religious man, who, having been bred with the milk of a goat, was very modest in public, by a careful reflection he made on his actions ; but he frequently had an hour in secret, wherein he had his frisks and capers ; and if we had an opportunity of examining the retirement of the strictest philosophers, no doubt but we should find per- petual returns of those passions they so artfully conceal from the public. I remember Machiavel observes, that every state should entertain a perpetual jealousy of its neighbours, that so it should never be unprovided when an emergency happens ; in like manner, should the reason be perpetually on its guard against the passions, and never suffer them to carry on any design that may be destructive of its security ; yet, at the same time, it must be careful, that it don't so far break their strength, as to render them contemptible, and consequently itself un- guarded. THE SPECTATOR. 203 * The understanding being of itself too slow and lazy to exert itself into action, it is necessary it should be put in motion by the gentle gales of the passions, which may preserve it from stagnating and corruption ; for they are necessary to the health of the mind, as the circulation of the animal spirits is to the health of the body ; they keep it in life, and strength, and vigour, nor is it possible for the mind to perform its offices without their assistance. These motions are given us with our being; they "are little spirits diat are born and die with us ; to some they are mild, easy, and gentle ; to others, wayward and un- ruly, yet never too strong for the reins of reason and the -guidance of judgment. ' We may generally observe a pretty nice proportion between the strength of reason and passion ; the greatest geniuses have commonly the strongest affections, as, on the other hand, the weaker understandings have generally the weaker passions ; and 'tis fit the fury of the coursers should not be too great for the strength of the charioteer. Young men, whose passions are not a little unruly, give small hopes of their ever being considerable ; the fire of youth wall of course abate, and is a fault, if it be a fault, that mends every day ; but surely, unless a man has fire in his youth, he can hardly have warmth in old age. We must therefore be very cautious, lest, while we think to regulate the passions, we should quite extinguish them, which is putting out the light of the soul ; for to be with- out passion, or to be hurried away with it, makes a man equally blind. The extraordinary severity used in most of our schools, has this fatal effect, it breaks the spring 2 04 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. of the mind, and most certainly destroys more good ge- niuses, than it can possibly improve. And surely it is a mighty mistake that the passions should be so entirely subdued : for little irregularities are sometimes not only to be borne with, but to be cultivated too, since they are frequently attended with the greatest perfections. All great geniuses have faults mixed with their virtues, and re- semble the flaming bush which has thorns amongst lights. • Since therefore the passions are the principles of human actions, we must endeavour to manage them so as to retain their vigour, yet keep them under strict com- mand j we must govern them rather like free subjects than slaves, lest, while we intend to make them obedient, they become abject, and unfit for those great purposes to which they were designed. For my part, I must confess, I could never have any regard to that sect of philoso- phers, who so much insisted upon an absolute indifference and vacancy from all passions ; for it seems to me a thing very inconsistent, for a man to divest himself of humanity, in order to acquire tranquillity of mind, and to eradicate the very principles of action, because it's possible they may produce ill effects. ' I am. Sir, Your affectionate admirer, ' T. B.' Wednesday, July 23, 1 712. 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 THE SPECTATOR. 205 so much quarter ; but I think a passionate man deserves the least indulgence imaginable. It is said it is soon over ; that is, all the mischief he does is quickly dis- patched, which, I think, is no great recommendation to favour. I have known one of those good-natured pas- sionate 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 un- derstanding call to itself all its force on such occasians, to master that sudden inclination to anger ? * * * 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 2o6 BRITISH ESSA YISTS. expecting new insults from his impertinent passions. 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 those good-natured angry men shall, in an instant, assemble to- gether so many allusions to secret circumstances, as are enough to dissolve the peace of all 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. * * * * * The next disagreeable person to the outrageous gentle- man, is one of a much lower order of anger, and he is what we commonly call a peevish fellow. A peevish fel- low 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 Pshav^, 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 fel- lows eat in good company. This degree of anger passes, forsooth, for a delicacy of judgment, that won't admit of being easily pleased ; but none above the character of wearing a peevish man's livery ought to bear with his ill THE SPECTATOR. 207 manners. All things among men of sense and condition should pass the censure, and have the protection of the eye of reason. Friday, August i, 171 2. Since two or three writers of comedy who are now liv- ing, have taken their farewell of the stage, those who suc- ceed them, finding themselves incapable of rising up to their wit, humour, and good sense, have only imitated them in some of those loose unguarded strokes, in w^hich they complied with the corrupt taste of the more vicious part of their audience. When persons of a low genius attempt this kind of writing, they know no difference be- tween being merry and being lewd. It is with an eye to some of these degenerate compositions that I have writ- ten the following discourse. Were our English stage but half so virtuous as that of the Greeks or Romans, we should quickly see the influence of it in the behaviour of all the politer part of mankind. It would not be fashionable to ridicule religion, or its professors ; the man of pleasure would not be the com- plete gentleman ; vanity would be out of countenance ; and every quality which is ornamental to human nature would meet with that esteem which is due to it. If the English stage were under the same regulations the Athenian was formerly, it would have the same effect that had, in recommending the religion, the government, and 2o8 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. public worship of its country. Were our plays subject to proper inspections and limitations, we might not only pass away several of our vacant hours in the highest en- tertainments, but should always rise from them wiser and better than we sat down to them. It is one of the most unaccountable things in our age, that the lewdness of our theatre should be so much com- plained of, so well exposed, and so little redressed. It is to be hoped that some time or other we may be at leisure to restrain the licentiousness of the theatre, and make it contribute its assistance to the advancement of morality, and to the reformation of the age. As matters stand at present, multitudes are shut out from this noble diversion, by reason of those abuses and corruptions that accompany it. A father is often afraid that his daughter should be ruined by those entertainments which were in- vented for the accomplishment and refining of human na- ture. The Athenian and Roman plays were written with such a regard to morality, that Socrates used to frequent the one, and Cicero the other. I have sometimes thought of compiling a system of ethics out of the writings of corrupt poets, under the title of Stage Morality. But I have been diverted from this thought by a project which has been executed by an in- genious gentleman of my acquaintance. He has com- posed, it seems, the history of a young fellow who has taken all his notions of the world from the stage, and who has directed himself, in every circumstance of his life and conversation, by the maxims and examples of the fine THE SPECTATOR. 209 gentleman in English comedies. If I can prevail upon him to give me a copy of this new-fashioned novel, I will bestow on it a place in my works, and question not but it may have as good an effect upon the drama as Do7i Quixote had upon romance. Friday, August 15, 1712. I COULD not but smile at the account that was yester- day given me of a modest young gentleman, who, being invited to an entertainment, though he was not used to drink, had not the confidence to refuse his glass in his turn ; when on a sudden he grew" so flustered, that he took all the talk of the table in his own hands, abused every one of the company, and flung a bottle at the gen- tleman's head who treated him. This has given me occa- sion to reflect upon the ill effects of a vicious modesty, and to remember the saying of Brutus, as it is quoted by Plutarch, that ' the person has had but an ill education, who has not been taught to deny any thing.' This false kind of modesty has, perhaps, betrayed both sexes into as many vices as the most abandoned impudence ; and is the more inexcusable to reason, because it acts to gratify others rather than itself, and is punished with a kind of remorse, not only like other vicious habits when the crime is over, but even at the very time that it is committed. Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and noth- ing is more contemptible than the false. The one guards virtue, the other betrays it. True modesty is ashamed BRITISH ESS A YISTS. to do any thing that is repugnant to the rules of right reason ; false modesty is ashamed to do any thing that is opposite to the humour of the company. True modesty avoids every thing that is criminal ; false modesty every thing that is unfashionable. The latter is only a general undetermined instinct ; the former is that instinct, limited and circumscribed by the rules of prudence and religion. We may conclude that modesty to be false and vicious Avhich engages a man to do any thing that is ill or indis- creet, or which restrains him from doing any thing that is of a contrary nature. How many men, in the common concerns of life, lend sums of money which they are not able to spare, are bound for persons whom they have but little friendship for, give recommendatory characters of men whom they are not acquainted with, bestow places on those whom they do not esteem, live in such manner as they themselves do not approve, and all this merely because they have not the confidence to resist solicitation, importunity, or example ? Nor does this false modesty expose us only to such ac- tions as are indiscreet, but very often to such as are highly criminal. When Xenophanes was called timorous, because he would not venture his money in a game of dice ; ' I confess,' said he, ' that I am exceeding timor- ous, for I dare not do an ill thing.' On the contrary, a man of vicious modesty complies with every thing, and is only fearful of doing what may look singular in the company where he is engaged. He falls in with the tor- rent, and lets himself go to every action or discourse, how- ever unjustifiable in itself, so it be in vogue among the THE SPECTATOR. present party. This, though one of the most common, is one of the most ridiculous dispositions in human nature, that men should not be ashamed of speaking or acting in a dissolute or irrational manner, but that one who is in their company should be ashamed of governing himself by the principles of reason and virtue. In the second place, we are to consider false modesty, as it restrains a man from doing what is good and laud- able. My reader's own thoughts will suggest to him many instances and examples under this head. I shall only dwell upon one reflection, which I cannot make without a secret concern. We have in England a particular bashfulness in^every thing that regards religion. A well- bred man is obliged to conceal any serious sentiment of this nature, and very often to appear a greater libertine than he is, that he may keep himself in countenance among.the men of mode. Our excess of modesty makes us shame-faced in all the exercises of piety and devotion. This humour prevails upon us daily ; insomuch that, at many well-bred tables, the master of the house is so very modest a man, that he has not the confidence to say grace at his own table ; a custom which is not only prac- tised by all the nations about us, but was never omitted by the heathens themselves. English gentlemen, who travel into Roman- catholic Countries, are not a little sur- prised to meet with people of the best quality kneeling in their churches, and engaged in their private devotions, though it be not at the hours of public \yorship. An oflicer of the army, or a man of wit and pleasure in those countries, would be afraid of passing not only for an irre- BRITISH ESS A YISTS. ligious, but an ill-bred man, should he be seen to go to bed, or sit down at table, without offering up his devotions on such occasions. The same show of religion appears in all the foreign reformed churches, and enters so much into their ordinary conversation, that an Englishman is apt to term them hypocritical and precise. This little appearance of a religious deportment in our nation, may proceed in some measure from that modesty which is natural to us ; but the great occasion of it is certainly this. Those swarms of sectaries that over-ran the nation in the time of the great rebellion, carried their hypocrisy so high, that they had converted our whole language into a jargon of enthusiasm ; insomuch that, upon the restoration, men thought they could not recede too far from the behaviour and practice of those persons who had made religion a cloak to so many villanies. This led them into the other extreme ; every appearance of devotion was looked upon as puritanical, and falling into the hands of the 'ridiculers' who flourished in that reign, and attacked every thing that was serious, it has ever since been out of countenance among us. By this means we are gradually fallen into that vicious modesty, which has in some measure worn out from among us the appearance of Christianity in ordinary life and conversa- tion, and which distinguishes us from all our neighbours. Hypocrisy cannot indeed be too much detested, but at the same time it is to be preferred to open impiety. They are both equally destructive to the person who is possessed with them ; but, in regard to others, hypocrisy is not so pernicious as barefaced irreligion. The due THE SPECTATOR. mean to be observed is ' to be sincerely virtuous, and at the same time to let the world see we are so.' I do not know a more dreadful menace in the holy writings, than that which is pronounced against those who have this perverted modesty, to be ashamed before men in a par- ticular of such unspeakable importance. Saturday, August i6, 1712. ReliCxIon may be considered under two general heads. The first comprehends what we are to believe, the other what we are to practise. By those things which we are to believe, I mean whatever is revealed to us in the holy writings, and which we could not have obtained the knowledge of by the light of nature ; by the things which we are to practise, I mean all those duties to which we are directed by reason or natural religion. The first of these I shall distinguish by the name of faith, the second by that of morality. If we look into the more serious part of mankind, we find many who lay so great a stress upon faith, that they neglect morality ; and many who build so much upon morality, that they do not pay a due regard to faith. The perfect man should be defective in neither of these particulars, as will be very evident to those who consider the benefits which arise from each of them^ and which I shall make the subject of this day's paper. Notwithstanding this general division of Christian 2 1 4 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. duty into morality and faith, and that they have both their peculiar excellences, the first has the pre-eminence in several respects. First, Because the greatest part of morality (as I have stated the notion of it) is of a fixed eternal nature, and will endure when faith shall fail, and be lost in conviction. Secondly, Because a person may be qualified to do greater good to mankind, and become more beneficial to the world, by morality without faith, than by faith with- out morality. Thirdly, Because morality gives a greater perfection to human nature, by quieting the mind, moderating the passions, and advancing the happiness of every man in his private capacity. Fourthly, Because the rule of morality is much more certain than that of faith, all the civilized nations of the world agreeing in the great points of morality, as much as they differ in those of faith. Fifthly, Because infidelity is not of so malignant a nature as immorality ; or, to put the same reason in another hght, because it is generally owned there may be a salvation for a virtuous infidel (particularly in the case of invincible ignorance), but none for a vicious believer. Sixthly, Because faith seems to draw its principal, if not all its excellency, from the influence it has upon morality ; as we shall see more at large, if we consider wherein consists the excellency of faith, or the belief of revealed religion ; and this I think is, First, In explaining and carrying to greater heights, several points of morality. THE SPECTATOR. 215 Secondly, In furnishing new and stronger motives to enforce the practice of moraUty, Thirdly, In giving us more amiable ideas of the Supreme Being, more endearing notions of one another, and a truer state of ourselves, both in regard to the grandeur and vileness of our natures. Fourthly, By showing us the blackness and deformity of vice, which in the Christian system is so very great, that He who is possessed of all perfection, and the sovereign judge of it is represented by several of our di- vines as hating sin to the same degree that He loves the sacred person who has made the propitiation of it. Fifthly, In being the ordinary and prescribed method of making morality effectual to salvation. I have only touched on these several heads, which every one who is conversant in discourses of this nature will easily enlarge upon in his own thoughts, and draw conclusions from them which may be useful to him in the conduct of his life. One I am sure is so obvious, that he cannot miss it ; namely, that a man cannot be per- fect in his scheme of morality, who does not strengthen and support it with that of the Christian faith. Besides this, I shall lay down two or three other maxims, which I think we may deduce from what has been said. First, That we should be particularly cautious of making any thing an article of faith which does not contribute to the confirmation or improvement of morality. Secondly, That no article of faith can be true and au- 2 1 6 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. thentic which weakens or subverts the practical part of religion, or what I have hitherto called morality. Thirdly, That the greatest friend of morality and natural religion cannot possibly apprehend any danger from embracing Christianity, as it is preserved pure and uncorrupt in the doctrines of our national church. There is likewise another maxim which I think may be drawn from the foregoing considerations, which is this, that we should, in all dubious points, consider any ill consequences that may arise from them, supposing they should be erroneous, before we give up our assent to them. For example : In that disputable point of persecuting men for conscience sake^ besides the imbittering their minds with hatred^ indignation, and all the vehemence of resentment, and insnaring them to profess what they do not believe ; we cut them off from the pleasures and ad- vantages of society, afflict their bodies, distress their for- tunes, hurt their reputations, ruin their families, make their lives painful, or put an end to them. Sure, when I see such dreadful consequences rising from a principle, I would be as fully convinced of the truth of it as of a mathe- matical demonstration, before I would venture to act upon it, or make it a part of my religion. In this case the injury done our neighbour is plain and evident; the principle that puts us upon doing it, of a dubious and disputable nature. Morality seems highly violated by the one ; and whether or no a zeal for what a man thinks the true system of faith may justify it, is very uncertain. I cannot but think, if our religion pro- THE SPECTATOR, duces charity as well as zeal, it will not be for showing itself by such cruel instances. But to conclude with the words of an excellent author, ' We have just enough of religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.' Friday, August 22, 1712. I AM wonderfully pleased when I meet with any pas- sage in an old Greek or Latin author that is not blown upon, and which I have never met with in a quota- tion. Of this kind is a beautiful saying in Theognis; ' Vice is covered by wealth, and virtue by poverty ; ' or, to give it in the verbal translation, 'Among men there are some who have their vices concealed by wealth, and others who have their virtues concealed by poverty.' Every man's observation will supply him with instances of rich men, who have several faults and defects that are overlooked, if not entirely hidden, by means of their riches ; and, I think, we cannot find a more natural de- scription of a poor man, whose merits are lost in his pov- erty, than that in the words of the wise man : ' There was a little city, and few men within it ; and there came a great king against it, and besieged it, and built great bul- warks against it. Now there was found in it a poor wise man, and he, by his wisdom^ delivered the city ; yet no man remembered that same poor man. Then, said I, wisdom is better than strength ; neverthless, the poor lo 2 1 8 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. man's wisdom is despised, and his words are not heard.' The middle condition seems to be the most advanta- geously situated for the gaining of wisdom. Poverty turns our thoughts too much upon the supplying of our wants, and riches upon enjoying our superfluities; and, as Cowley has said in another case, ' It is hard for a man to keep a steady eye upon truth, who is always in a battle, or a triumph.' If we regard poverty and wealth, as they are apt to produce virtues or vices in the mind of man, one may ob- serve that there is a set of each of these growing out of poverty, quite different from that whichrises out of wealth. Humility and patience, industry and temperance, are very often the good qualities of a poor man. Humanity and good-nature, magnanimity and a sense of honour, are as often the qualifications of the rich. On the con- trary, poverty is apt to betray a man into envy, riches into arrogance ; poverty is too often attended with fraud, vicious compliance, repining, murmur, and discontent. Riches expose a man to pride and luxury, a foolish ela- tion of heart, and too great a fondness for the present world. In short, the middle condition is most eligible to the man who would improve himself in virtue ; as I have before shown, it is the most advantageous for the gaining of knowledge. THE SPECTATOR. 219 Tuesday, September 9, 1712. Many are the epistles I every day receive from hus- bands 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 judg- ment 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, and half romantic. By this means we raise our imaginations to what is not to be expected in human life ; and, because we did not be- forehand think of the creature we were enamoured of, as subject to dishumour, age, sickness, impatience, or sul- lenness, but altogether considered her as the object of joy; human nature itself is often imputed to her as her particular imperfection^ or defect. I take it to be a rule proper to be observed in all oc- currences 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 consider- ing things in their right light, and as Nature has formed them, and not as our own fancies or appetites would have them. * * * * * ** * * 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 rela- BRITISH ESS A YISTS. tions ; such a lover, I say, will form himself accordingly, and adapt his mind to the nature of his circumstances. I'his latter person will be prepared to be a father, a friend, an advocate, 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 ap- plied, make a noise in the next room : on the other side, Will Sparkish cannot put on his periwig, or adjust his cra- vat at the glass, for the noise of those nurses and squall- ing brats ; and then ends with a gallant reflection upon the comforts of matrimony, runs out of hearing, and drives to the chocolate house. According as the husband is disposed in himself, every circumstance of his life is to give him torment, or pleas- ure. When the affection is well placed, and supported by the considerations 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 con- dition. He that sincerely loves his wife and family, and studies to improve that affection in himself, conceives pleasure from the most indifferent things ; while the married man, who has not bid adieu to the fashions and false gallantries THE SPECTATOR. of the town, is perplexed with every thing around him. In both these cases men cannot, indeed, make a siUier 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 pre- vailed 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 parlor 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 strug- gle for him, and bring him up to me, and repeat his obser- vation 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 hi^ coming home, and joining the time with it, was a certain 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 entertain- ment to one less turned to reflection than I was ;* but it was a pleasing speculation 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 was hardly im- proved in anything but bulk, for want of this disposition, BRITISH ESS A YISTS. silence the whole family as a set of silly women and chil- dren, for recounting things which were really above his own capacity. When I say all this, I cannot deny but there are per- verse 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 these ought to- be used sparingly ; as I remember, those are his very words ; but as it is proper to draw some spiritual use out of all afflictions, 1 should rather recom- mend 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. Ther6 are sev- eral good instructions may be drawn from his wise answers to the people of less fortitude than himself on this sub- ject. 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 horse- ; back, 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 Xan- tippe, that I bear so well your flying out in a dispute.' To another, ' My hen clacks very much, but she brings THE SPECTATOR. me chickens. They that Hve in a trading street are not disturbed at the passage of carts.' I would have, if pos- sible, a Vise man be contented with his lot, even with a shrew ; for though he cannot make her better, he may. you see, make himself better by her means. But, instead of pursuing my design of displaying con- jugal 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 what- ever 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 affec- tion suitable to it, is the completest image of heaven and hell we are capable of receiving in this life. 224 BRITISH ESS A VIS TS. Saturday, September 13, 1712. We cannot be guilty of a greater act of uncharitableness than to interpret the afflictions which befai our neigh- bours as punishments and judgments. It aggravates the evil to him who suffers, when he looks upon himself as the mark of divine vengeance, and abates the compassion of those towards him, who regard him in so dreadful a light. This humour, of turning every misfortune into a judgment, proceeds from wrong notions of religion, which in its own nature produces good-will towards men, and puts the mildest construction upon every accident that befals them. In this case, therefore, it is not religion that sours a man's temper, but it is his temper that sours his religion. People of gloomy, uncheerful imaginations, or of envious, malignant tempers, whatever kind of life they are engaged in, will discover their natural tincture of mind in all their thoughts, words, and actions. As the finest wines have often the taste of the soil, so even the most religious thoughts often draw something that is par- ticular from the constitution of the mind in which they arise. When folly or superstition strike in with this nat- ural depravity of temper, it is not in the power even of religion itself to preserve the character of the person who is possessed w^ith it from appearing highly absurd and ridiculous. An old maiden gentlewoman, whom I shall conceal under the name of Nemesis, is the greatest discoverer of judgments that I have met with. She can tell you what sin THE SPECTATOR. 225 it was that set such a man's house on fire, or blew down his barns. Talk to her of an unfortunate young lady that lost her beauty by the small-pox, she fetches a deep sigh, and tells you, that when she had a fine face she was always look- ing on it in her glass. Tell her of a piece of good fortune that has befallen one of her acquaintance, and she washes it may prosper with her, but her mother used one of her nieces very barbarously. Her usual remarks turn upon people Avho had great estates, but never enjoyed them by reason of some Haw in their own or their father's behav- iour. She can give you the reason why such an one died childless; why such an one was cut off in the flower of. his youth ; why such an one was unhappy in her mar- riage ; why one broke his leg on such a particular spot of ground ; and why another was killed with a back-sword, rather than with any other kind of weapon. She has a crime for every misfortune that can befal any of her ac- quaintance ; and when she hears of a robbery that has been made, or a murder that has been committed, enlarges more on the guilt of the suffering person, than on that of the thief, or the assassin. In short, she is so good a Christian, that whatever happens to herself is a trial, and whatever happens to her neighbours is a judgment. The very description of this folly, in ordinary life, is sufficient to expose it ; but, when it appears in a pomp and dignity of style, it is very apt to amuse and terrify the mind of the reader. Herodotus and Plutarch very often apply their judgments as impertinently as the old woman I have before mentioned, though their manner of relating them makes the folly itself appear venerable. 2 26 BRITISH ESS A VIS TS. Indeed, most historians as well Christian as pagan, have fallen into this idle superstition, and spoken of ill suc- cess, unforeseen disasters, and terrible events, as if they had been let into the secrets of Providence, and made acquainted with that private conduct by which the world is governed. One would think several of our own his- torians in particular had many revelations of this kind made to them. Our old English monks seldom let any of their kings depart in peace, who had endeavoured to diminish the power or wealth of which the ecclesiastics were in those times possessed. William the Conqueror's race generally found their judgments in the New Forest, where there father had pulled down churches and mon- asteries. In short, read one of. the chronicles written by an author of this frame of mind, and you would think you were reading an history of the kings of Israel and Judah, where the historians were actually inspired, and where, by a particular scheme of .Providence, the kings were distinguished by judgments, or blessings, according as they promoted idolatry or the worship of the true God. I cannot but look upon diis manner of judging upon misfortunes, not only to be very uncharitable in regard to the person on whom they fall, but very presumptuous in regard to Him who is supjiosed to inflict them. It is a strong argument for a state of retribution hereaftei", that in this world virtuous persons are very often unfortunate, and vicious persons- prosperous ; which is wholly repug- nant to the nature of a Being who appears infinitely wise and good in all his works, unless we may suppose that such a promiscuous and undistinguishing distribution of THE SPECTATOR. 227 good and evil, which was necessary for carrying on the designs of Providence in diis life, will be rectified, and made amends for, in another. We are not therefore to expect that fire should fall from heaven in the ordinary course of providence ; nor when we see triumphant guilt or depressed virtue in particular persons, that Omnipo- tence will make bare his holy arm in the defence of the one or punishment of the other. It is sufficient that there is a day set apart for the hearing and requiting of both, according to their respective merits. The folly of ascribing temporal judgments to any par- ticular crimes, may appear from several considerations. I shall only mention two. First, that, generally speak- ing, there is no calamity or affliction which is supposed to have happened as a judgment to a vicious man, which does not sometimes happen to men of approved religion and virtue. When Diagoras the atheist was on board one of the Athenian ships, there arose a very violent tem- pest : upon which the mariners told him, that it was a just judgment upon them for having taken so impious a man on board. Diagoras begged them to look upon the rest of the ships that were in the same distress, and asked them whether or no Diagoras was on board every vessel in the fleet. We are all involved in the same calamities, and subject to the same accidents: and, when we see any one of the species under any particular oppression, we should look upon it as arising from the common lot of .human nature, rather than from the guilt of the person who suffers. Another consideration, that may check our presump- 2 28 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. tion in putting such a construction upon a misfortune, is this, that it is impossible for us to know what are calami- ties and what are blessings. How many accidents have passed for misfortunes, which have turned to the welfare and prosperity of the persons in whose lot they have fallen ! How m,any disappointments have in their con- sequences saved a man from ruin ! If we could look into the effects of every thing, we might be allowed to pronounce boldly upon blessings and judgments ; but for a man to give his opinion of what he sees but in part, and in its beginnings, is an unjustifiable piece of rashness and folly. The story of Biton and Clitobus, which was in great reputation among the heathens, (for we see it quoted by all the ancient authors, both Greek and Latin, who have written upon the immortality of the soul,) may teach us a caution in this matter. These two brothers, being the sons of a lady who was priestess to Juno, drew their mother's chariot to the temple at the time of a great solemnity, the persons being absent who by their office were to have drawn her chariot on that occasion. The mother was so transported with this instance of filial duty, that she petitioned her goddess to bestow upon them the greatest gift that could be given to men ; upon which they were both cast into a deep sleep, and the next morning found dead in the temple. This was such an event, as would have been construed into a judgment, had it happened to the two brothers after an act of dis- obedience, and would doubtless have been represented . as such by any ancient historian who had given us an account of it. THE SPECTATOR. 229 Friday, September 26, 1712. About an age ago it was the fashion in England for every one that would be thought reUgious to throw as much sanctity as possible into his face, and in particular to abstain from all appearances of mirth and pleasantry, which were looked upon as the marks of a carnal mind. The saint was of a sorrowful countenance, and generally eaten up with spleen and melancholy. A gentleman, who was lately a great ornament to the learned world, has di- verted me more than once with an account of the recep- tion which he met with from a very famous independent minister, who was head of a college in those times. This gentleman was then a young adventurer in the republic of letters, and just fitted out for the university with a good cargo of Latin and Greek. His friends were re- solved that he should try his fortune at an election which was drawing near in the college, of which the indepen- dent minister whom I have before mentioned was gover- nor. The youth, according to custom, waited on him in order to be examined. He was received at the door by a servant who was one of that gloomy generation that were then in fashion. He conducted him, with great silence and seriousness, to a long gallery, which was dark- ened at noon-day, and had only a single candle burning in it. After a short stay in this melancholy apartment, he was led into a chamber hung with black, where he en- tertained himself for some time by the glimmering of a taper, till at length the head of the college came out to 230 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. him, from an inner room, with half a dozen night-caps upon his head, and religious horror in his countenance. The young man trembled : but his fears increased, when, instead of being asked what progress he had made in learning, he was examined how he abounded in grace. His Latin and Greek stood him in little stead ; he was to give an account only of the state of his soul ; whether he was of the number of the elect ; what was the occasion of his conversion ; upon what day* of the month, and hour of the day it happened ; how it was carried on, and when completed. The whole examination was summed up with one short question, namely, whether he was prepared for death ? The boy, who had been bred up by honest pa- rents, was frightened out of his wits at the solemnity of the proceeding, and especially by the last dreadful inter- rogatory ; so that, upon making his escape out of this house of mourning, he could never be brought a second time to the examination, as not being able to go through the terrors of it. Notwithstanding this general form and outside of reli- gion is pretty well worn out among us, there are many per- sons who, by a natural uncheerfulness of heart, mistaken notions of piety, or weakness of understanding, love to indulge this uncomfortable way of life, and give up them- selves a prey to grief and melancholy. Superstitious fears and groundless scruples cut them off from the pleasures of conversation, and all those social entertainments which are not only innocent but laudable ; as if mirth was made for reprobates, and cheerfulness of heart denied those who arc the only persons that have a proper title to it. THE SPECTATOR. 231 Sombrius is one of these sons of sorrow. He thinks himself obUged in duty to be sad and disconsolate. He looks on a sudden fit of laughter as a breach of his bap- tismal vow. An innocent jest startles him like blasphemy. Tell him of one who is advanced to a title of honour, he lifts up his hands and eyes ; describe a public ceremony, he shakes his head ; show him a gay equipage, he blesses himself All the little ornaments of life are pomps and vanities. Mirth is wanton, and wit profane. He is scan- dalized at youth for being lively, and at childhood for being playful. He sits at a christening or a marriage- feast as. at a funeral; sighs at the conclusion of a merry story ; and grows devout when the rest of the company grow pleasant. After all, Soinbrius is a religious man, and would have behaved himself very properly, had he lived when Christianity was under a general persecution. I would by no means presume to tax such characters with hypocrisy, as is done too frequently ; that being a vice which I think none but He who knows the secrets of men's hearts should pretend to discover in another, where the proofs of it do not amount to a demonstration. On the contrary, as there are many excellent persons who are weighed down by this habitual sorrow of heart, they rather deserve our compassion than our reproaches. I think, however, they would do well to consider whether such a behaviour does not deter men from a religious life, by representing it as an unsociable state, that extinguishes all joy and gladness, darkens the face of nature, and de- stroys the relish of being itself. I have, in former papers, shown how great a tendency 232 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. there is to cheerfulness in religion, and how such a frame of mind is not only the most lovely, but the most com- mendable in a virtuous person. In short, those who rep- resent religion in so unamiable a light, are like the spies sent by Moses to make a discovery of the land of promise, when by their reports they discouraged the people from entering upon it. Saturday, October ii, 1712. There is something very sublime, though very fanciful, in Plato's description of the Supreme Being; that 'truth is his body, and light his shadow.' According to this defi- nition, there is nothing so contradictory to his nature as error and falsehood. The Platonists have so just a notion of th^ Almighty's aversion to every thmg which is false and erroneous, that they looked upon truth as no less necessary than virtue to qualify a human soul for the en- joyment of a separate state. For this reason, as they recommended moral duties to qualify and season the will for a future life, so they prescribed several contemplations and sciences to rectify the understandiog. Thus Plato has called mathematical demonstrations the cathartics or purgatives of the soul, as being the most proper means It) cleanse it from error, and to give it a relish of truth ; which is the natural food and nourishment of the under- standing, as virtue is the perfection and happiness of the will. THE SPECTATOR. There are many authors who have shown wherein the malignity of a lie consists, and set forth in proper colours the heinousness of the offence. I shall here consider one particular kind of this crime, which has not been so much spoken to ; I mean, that • abominable practice of party lying. This vice is so very predominant among us at present, that a man is thought of no principles who does not propagate a certain system of lies. The coffee- houses are supported by them, the press is choked with them, eminent authors live upon them. Our bottle con-" versation is so infected with them, that a party-Ueis grown as fashionable an entertainment as a lively catch or a merry story. The truth of it is, half the great talkers in the nation would be struck dumb were this fountain of discourse dried up. There is however one advantage re- sulting from this detestable practice ; the very appear- ances of truth are so little regarded, thatHes are at present discharged in the air, and begin to hurt nobody. When we hear a party-story from a stranger, we consider whether ,he is a whig or a tory that relates it, and immediately conclude they are words of course, in which the honest gentleman designs to recommend his zeal without any concern for his veracity. A man is looked upon as be- reft of common sense that gives credit to the relations of party-writers ; nay, his own friends shake their heads at him, and consider him in no other light than as an offi- cious tool or a well-meaning idiot. When it was formerly the fashion to husband a lie, and trump it up in some ex- traordinary emergency, it generally did execution, and was not a little sei-viceable to the faction that made use 2 34 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. of it : but at present every man is upon his guard : the artifice has been too often repeated to take effect. I have frequently wondered to see men of pnobity, who would scorn to utter a falsehood for their own particular advantage, give so readily into a lie, when it is become the voice of their faction, notwithstanding they are thor- oughly sensible of it as such. How is it possible for those who are men of honour in their persons, thus to become notorious liars in their party? If we look into the bot- tom of this matter, we may find, I think, three reasons for it, and at the same time discover the insufficiency of these reasons to justify so criminal a pracdce. In the first place,- men are apt to think that the guilt of a lie, and consequently the punishment, may be very much diminished, if not wholly worn out, by the multi- tudes of those who partake in it. Though the weight of a falsehood would be too heavy for one to bear, it grows light in their imaginations when it is shared among many. But in this case a man very much deceives himself; guilt, when it spreads through numbers, is not so properly di- vided as multiplied. Every one is criminal in propor- tion to the offence which he commits, not to the number of those who are his companions in it. Both the crime and the penalty lie as heavy upon every individual of an offending multitude, as they would upon any single person had none shared with him in the offence. In a word, the division of guilt is like to that of matter ; though it may be sep- arated into infinite portions, every portion shall have the whole essence of matter in it, and consist of as many parts as the_ whole did before it was divided.. THE SPECTATOR. 235 But in the second place, though multitudes^ who join in a lie, cannot exempt themselves from the guilt, they may from the shame of it. The scandal of a lie is in a manner lost and annihilated when diffused among several thousands ; as a drop of the blackest tincture wears away and vanishes when mixed and confused in a considerable body of water ; the blot is still in it, but is not able to discover itself. This is certainly a very great motive to several party-offenders, who avoid crimes, not as they are prejudicial to their virtue, but to their reputation. It is enough to show the weakness of this reason, which palli- ates guilt without removing it, that every man who is in- fluenced by it, declares himself in effect an infamous hy- pocrite, prefers the appearance of virtue to its reality, and is determined in his conduct neither by the dictates of his own conscience, the suggestions of true honour, nor the principles of religion. The third and last great motive for men's joining in a popular falsehood, or, as I have hitherto called it, a party- lie, notwithstanding they are convinced of it as such, is the doing good to a cause which every party may be sup- posed to look upon as the most meritorious. The un- soundness of this principle has been so often exposed, and is so universally acknowledged, that a man must be an utter stranger to the principles either of natural reli- gion or Christianity, who suffers himself to be guided by it. If a man might promote the supposed good of his country by the blackest calumnies and falsehoods, our nation abounds more in patriots than any other of the Christian world. When Pompey was desired not to set BRITISH ESS A YISTS. sail in a tempest that would hazard his life, ' It is neces- sary for me/ says he, ' to sail, but it is not necessary for me to live.' Every man should say to himself, with the same spirit, ' It is my duty to speak truth, though it is not my duty to be in an office.' One of the fathers hath car- ried this point so high as to declare he would not tell a lie though he were sure to gain heaven by it. However extravagant such a protestation may appear, every one> will own that a man may say, very reasonably, he would not tell a lie if he were sure to gain hell by it ; or, if you have a mind to soften the expression, that he would not tell a lie to gain any temporal reward by it, when he should run the hazard of losing much more than it was possible for him to gain. P'riday, November 7, 1712. It is very usual for those who have been severe upon marriage, in some part or other of their lives, to enter into the fraternity which they have ridiculed, and to see their raillery return upon their own heads. I scarce ever knew a woman-hater that did not, sooner or later, pay for it. Marriage, which is a blessing to another man, falls upon such an one as a judgment. Mr. Congreve's Old Bachelor is set forth to us with much wit and humour, as an example of this kind. In short, those who have most distinguished themselves by railling at the sex in general, very often make an honourable amends, by THE SPECTATOR. 237 choosing one of the most worthless persons of it for a companion and yoke-fellow. Hymen takes his revenge in kind on those who turn his mysteries into ridicule. My friend Will Honeycomb", who was so unmercifully witty upon the women in a couple of letters which I lately communicated to the public, has given the ladies ample satisfaction by marrying a farmer's daughter; a piece of news which came to our club by the last post. The Templar is very positive that he has married a dairy- maid : but Will, in his letter to me on this occasion, sets the best face upon the matter that he can, and gives a more tolerable account of his spouse. I must confess I suspected something more than ordinary, when upon opening the letter 1 found that Will was fallen off from his former gaiety, having changed 'Dear Spec.,' which w^as his usual salute at the beginning of the letter, into 'My worthy Friend,' and described himself in the latter end at full length William Honeycomb. In short, the gay, the loud, the vain Will Honeycomb, who had made love to every great fortune that has appeared in town for above thirty years together, and boasted of favours from ladies whom he had never seen, is at length wedded to a plain country girl. His letter gives us the picture of a converted rake. The sober character of the husband is dashed with the man of the town, and enlivened with those little cant- phrases, which have made my friend Will often thought very pretty company. But let us hear what he says for himself. 238 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. 'my worthy friend, ' I QUESTION not but you, and the rest of my acquaintance, wonder that I, who have lived in the smoke and gallantries of the town for thirty years together, should all on a sudden grow fond of a country Ufe. Had not my dog of a steward ran away as he did without mak- ing up his accounts, I had still been immersed in sin and sea-coal. But since my late forced visit to my estate, I am so pleased with it, that I am resolved to live and" die - upon it. I am every day abroad among my acres, and can scarce forbear filling my letter with breezes, shades, flowers, meadows, and purling streams. The simplicity of manners, which I have heard you so often speak of, and which appears here in perfection, charms me wonder- fully. As an instance of it, I must acquaint you, and by your means, the whole club, that I have lately married one of my tenant's daughters. She is born of honest parents, and though she has no portion, she has a great deal of virtue. The natural sweetness and innocence of her behaviour, the freshness of her complexion, the un- affected turn of her shape and person, shot me through and through every time I saw her, and did more execu- tion upon me in grogram, than the greatest beauty in town or court had ever done in brocade. In short, she is such an one as promises me a good heir to my estate ; and if by her means I cannot leave to my children what are falsely called the gifts of birth, high titles, and alli- ances, I hope to convey to them the more real and valu- able gifts of birth, strong bodies, and healthy constitutions. THE SPECTATOR. 239 As for your fine women, I need not tell thee that I know them. I have had my share m their graces ; but no more of that. It shall be my business hereafter to live the life of an honest man, and to act as becomes the master of a family. . I question not but I shall draw upon me the raillery of the town, and be treated to the tune of "The Marriage-hater Matched ; " but I am prepared for it. I have been as witty upon others in my time. To tell thee truly, I saw such a tribe of fashionable young fluttering coxcombs shot up that I did not think my post of an honune de riielle any longer tenable. I felt a certain stiffness in my limbs, which entirely destroyed the jaunti- ness of air I was once master of. Besides, for I may now confess my age to thee, I have been eight-and-forty above these twelve years. Since my retirement into the country will make a vacancy in the club, I could wish that you would fill up my place with my friend Tom Dapperwit. He has an infinite deal of fire, and knows the town. For my own part, as I have said before, I shall endeavour to live hereafter suitable to a man in my station, as a pru- dent head of a. family, a good husband, a careful father ' (when it shall so happen) and as ' Your most sincere friend, and humble servant, 'William Honeycomb." Wednesday, yw/>' 7, 17 14. It is the work of a philosopher to be every day sub- duing his passions, and laying aside his prejudices. I en- 240 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. deavour at least to look upon men and their actions only as an impartial Spectator, without any regard to them as they happen to advance or cross my own private interest. But while I am thus employed myself, I cannot help ob- serving how those about me suffer themselves to be blinded by prejudice and inclination, how readily they pronounce on every man's character, which they can give in two words, and make him either- good for nothing, or qualified for every thing. On the contrary, those who search thoroughly into human nature, will find it much more difficult to determine the value of their fellow-crea- tures, and that men's characters are not thus to be given •in general words. There is indeed no such thing as a person entirely good or bad ; virtue and vice are blended and mixed together, in a greater or less proportion, in every one ; and if you would search for some particular good quality in its most eminent degree of perfection, you will often find it in a mind where it is darkened and eclipsed by an hundred other irregular passions. We meet with as different passions in one and the same soul as can be supposed in two. We can hardly read the life of a great man who lived in former ages, or converse with any one who is eminent among our con- temporaries, that is not an instance of what I am saying. But as I have hitherto only argued against the partiality and injustice of giving our judgment upon men in gross, who are such a composition of virtues and vices, of good and evil, 1 might carry this reflection still farther, and make it extend to most of dieir actions. If on the one THE SPECTATOR 241 hand we fairly weighed every circumstance, we should frequently find them obliged to do that action we at first sight condemn, in order to avoid another we should have been much more displeased with. If on the other hand we nicely examined such actions as appear most dazzling to the eye, we should find most of them either deficient and lame in several parts, produced by a bad ambition, or directed to an ill end. The very same action may sometimes be so oddly circumstanced, that it is difficult to determine whether it ought to be rewarded or punished. Those who compiled the laws of England were so sensi- ble of this, that they have laid it down as one of their first maxims, ' It is better suffering a mischief than an incon- venience ; ' which is as much as to say in other words, that, since no law can take in or provide for all cases, it is better private men should have some injustice done them than that a public grievance should not be re- dressed. This is usually pleaded in defence of all those hardships which fall on particular persons in particular oc- casions, which could not be foreseen when a law was made. Monday, ^2^/y 19, 1714. No vices are so incurable as those which men are apt to glory in. One would wonder how drunkenness should have the good luck to be of this number. Ana- charsis being invited to a match of drinking at Corinth, demanded the prize very humorously, because he was drunk before any of the rest of the company; ' for/ says 242 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. he, 'when we rim a race, he who arrives at the goal first is entitled to the reward : ' on the contrary, in this thirsty generation, the honour falls upon him who carries off the greatest quantity of liquor, and knocks down the rest of the company. I was the other day with honest Will Funnel, the West Saxon, who was reckoning up how much liquor had passed through him in the last twenty years of his life, which, according to his computation, amounted to twenty-three hogsheads of October, four ton of port, half a kilderkin of small beer, nineteen barrels of cyder, and three glasses of champagne ; besides which he had assisted at four hundred bowls of punch, not to mention sips, drams, and whets without number. I question not but every reader's memory will suggest to him several ambitious young men who are as vain in this particular as Will Funnel, and can boast of as glorious exploits. Our modern philosophers observe, that there is a general decay of moisture in the globe of the earth. This they chiefly ascribe to the growth of vegtables, which incorporate into their own substance many fluid bodies that never return again to their former nature : but, with submission, they ought to throw into their ac- count those innumerable rational beings which fetch their nourishment chiefly out of liquids ; especially when we consider that men, compared with their fellow-creatures, drink much more than comes to their share. But, however highly this tribe of people may think of themselves, a drunken man is a greater monster than any that is to be found among all the creatures which God THE SPECTATOR. 243 has made ; as indeed there is no character which appears more despicable and deformed, in the eyes of all reason- able persons, than that of a drunkard. Bonosus, one of our own countrymen, who was addicted to this vice, having set up for a share in the Roman empire, and being defeated in a great battle, hanged himself. When he was seen by the army in this melancholy situation, nothwithstanding he had behaved himself very bravely, the common jest was, that the thing they saw hanging upon the tree before them was not a man, but a bottle. This vice has very fatal effects on the mind, the body, and fortune of the person who is devoted to it. In regard to the mind, it first of all discovers every flaw in it. The sober man, by the strength of reason, may keep under and subdue every vice or folly to which he is most inclined ; but wine makes every latent seed sprout up in the soul, and show itself; it gives fury to the passions, and force to those objects which are apt to pro- duce them. When a young fellow complained to an old philosopher that his wife was not handsome, 'Put less water in your wine,' says the philosopher, ' and you will quickly make her so.' Wine heightens indifference into love, love into jealousy, and jealousy into madness. It often turns the good-natured man into an idiot, and the choleric into an assassin. It gives bitterness to resent- ment, it makes vanity insupportable, and displays every little spot of the soul in its utmost deformity. Nor does this vice only betray the hidden faults of a man, and show them in the most odious colours, but often occasions faults to which he is not naturally sub- 2 44 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. ject. There is more of turn than of truth in a saying of Seneca, that drunkenness does not produce but discover faults. Common experience teaches us the contrary. Wine throws a man out of himself, and infuses qualities into the mind which she is a stranger to in her sober mo- ments. The person you converse with, after the third bottle, is not the same man who at first sat down at table with you. Upon this maxim is founded one of the pret- tiest sayings I ever met with, which is ascribed to Pub- lius Syrus, '■ Qui ebriinn liidificat, Icedit absentem :' 'He who jests upon a man that is drunk injures the absent.' Thus does drunkenness act in a direct contradiction to reason, whose business it is to clear the mind of every vice which is crept into it, and to guard it against all the approaches of any that endeavors to make its entrance. But besides these ill-effects which this vice produces in the person who is actually under its dominion, it has also a bad influence on the mind even in its sober moments, as it insensibly weakens the understanding, impairs the memory, and makes those faults habitual which are pro- duced by frequent excesses. 1 should now proceed to show the ill-effects which this vice has on the bodies and fortunes of men ; but these I shall reserve for the subject of some future paper. Y'SiYD AY, July 30, 1 714. I WAS once engaged in discourse with a Rosicrucian about ' the great secret.' As this kind of men (I mean THE SPECTATOR. 245 those of them who are not professed cheats) are overrun with enthusiasm and philosophy, it was very amusing to hear this rehgious adept descanting on his pretended dis- covery. He talked of the secret as of a spirit which lived within an emerald, and converted every thing that was near it to the highest perfection it is capable of. ' It gives a lustre,' says he, ' to the sun, and water to the dia- mond. It irradiates every metal, and enriches lead with all the properties of gold. It heightens smoke into flame, flame into light, and light into glory.' He farther added, that ' a single ray of it dissipates pain, and care, and mel- ancholy, from the person on whom it falls. In short,' says he, ' its presence naturally changes every place into a kind of heaven.' After he had gone on for some time in this unintelligible cant, I found that he jumbled natural and moral ideas together into the same discourse, and that his great secret was nothing else but content. This virtue does indeed produce, in some measure, all those effects which the alchymist usually ascribes to w^hat he calls the philosopher's stone ; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising out of a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy imder them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands re- lated. It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and ingrati- tude towards that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the commu- nity wherein he is placed. It gives sweetness to his 246 BRITISH ESS A VIS TS. conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts. Among the many methods which might be made use of for the acquiring of this virtue, I shall only mention the two following. First of all, a man should always con- sider how much he has more than he wants ; and, secondly, how much more unhappy he might be than he really is. First of all, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one who con- doled him upon the loss of a farm. ' Why,' said he, ' I have three farms still, and you have but one ; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you than you for me.' On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider what they have lost than what they possess ; and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than on those who are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow comjmss ; but it is the humour of mankind to be always looking forward, and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honor. For this reason, as there are none can be properly be called rich who have not more than they want, there are few rich men in any of the politer nations but among the middle sort of peo- ple, who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher rank live in a kind of splendid poverty, and are perpetually wanting, -because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to outvie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense have THE SPECTATOR. 247 at all times beheld with a great deal of mirth this silly game that is playing over their heads, and, by contracting their desires, enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it will, he is a poor man if he does not live within it, and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness, but told him he had already more by half than he knew what to do with. In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty ; or, to give the thought a more agree- able turn, ' Content is natural wealth,' says Socrates ; to which I shall add, ' Luxury is artificial poverty.' I shall therefore recommend to the consideration of those who are always aiming after superfluous and imaginary enjoy- ments, and will not be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion the philosopher ; namely, that, ' no man has so much care as he who en- deavours after the most happiness.' In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much more unhappy he might be than he really is. The former consideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided with the means to make themselves easy ; this regards such as actually lie under some pressure or mis- fortune. These may receive great alleviation from such a comparison as the unhappy person may make between 2 43 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. himself and others, or between the misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. I hke the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the mainmast, told the standers-by it was a great mercy that it was not his neck. To which, since I am got into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine with him, was ruffled by his wife that came into the room in a passion, and threw down the table that stood before them : ' Every one,' says he, ' has his calamity, and he is an happy man that has no greater than this.' * * * In order to make us content with our present condition, many of the ancient philosophers tell us that our discon- tent only hurts ourselves, without being able to make any alteration in our circumstances ; others, that whatever evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which the gods themselves are subject ; whilst others very gravely tell the man who is miserable, that it is necessary he should be so to keep up the harmony of the universe, and that the scheme of Providence would be troubled and perverted were he otherwise. These, and the like considerations, rather silence than satisfy a man. They may show him that his discontent is unreasonable, but are by no means sufficient to reUeve it. They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend, who advised him not to grieve for the death of a person whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch him THE SPECTATOR. 249 again : 'It is for that very reason,' said the emperor, ' that I grieve.' On the contrary, reHgion bears a more tender regard to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of bettering his condition ; nay, it shows him that the bearing of his afflictions as he ought to do will naturally end in the removal of them : it makes him easy here, because it can make him happy hereafter. Upon the whole, a contented mind is the greatest blessing a man can enjoy in this world ; and if in the present life his happiness arises from the subduing of his desires, it will arise in the next from the gratification of them. Monday, August 23, 1714. HiLPA was one of the hundred and fifty daughters of Zilpah, of the race of Cohu, by whom some of the learned think is meant Cain. She was exceedingly bea.utiful ; and, when she was but a girl of threescore and ten years of age, received the addresses of several who made love to her. Among these were two brothers, Harpath and Shalum. Harpath, being the first-born, was master of that fruitful region which lies at the foot of mount Tirzah, in the southern parts of China. Shalum (which is to say " the planter," in the Chinese language) possessed all the neighbouring hills, and that great range of mountains which goes under the name of Tirzah. Harpath was of 2 5 o BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. haughty contemptuous spirit ; Shakun was of a gentle dis- position, beloved both by God and man. It is said, that among the antediluvian women, the daughters of Cohu had their minds wholly set upon riches ; for which reason the beautiful Hilpa preferred Harpath to Shalum, because of his numerous flocks and herds that covered all the low country which runs along the foot of mount Tirzah, and is watered by several fountains and streams breaking out of the sides of that mountain. ■ Harpath made so quick a despatch of his courtship, that he married Hilpa in the hundredth year of her age ; and, being of an insolent temper, laughed to scorn his brother Shalum for having pretended to the beautiful Hilpa, when he was master of nothing but a long chain of rocks and mountains. This so much provoked Sha- lum, that he is said to have cursed his brother in the bit- terness of his heart, and to have prayed that one of his mountains might fall upon his head if ever he came with- in the shadow of it. From this time forward Harpath would never venture out of the valleys, but came to an untimely end in the two hundred and fiftieth year of his age, being drowned in a river as he attempted to cross it. This river is called to this day, from his name who perished in it, the river Harpath : and, what is very remarkable, issues out of one of those mountains which Shalum wished might fall upon his brother, when he cursed him in the bitterness of his heart. Hilpa was in the hundred and sixtieth year of her age at the death of her husband, having brought him but THE SPECTATOR. 251 fifty children before he was snatched away, as has been already related. Many of the antediluvians made love to the young widow ; though no one was thought so likely to succeed in her affections as her first lover Shalum, who renewed his court to her about ten years after the" death of Harpath ; for it was not thought decent in those days that a widow should be seen by a man within ten years after the decease of her husband. Shalum falling into a deep melancholy, and resolving to take away that objection which had been raised against him when he made his first address to Hilpa, began, im- mediately after her marriage with Harpath, to plant all that mountainous region which fell to his lot in the di- vision of this country. He knew how to adapt every plant to its proper soil, and is thought to have inherited many traditional secrets of that art from the first man. This employment turned at length to his profit as well as to his amusement ; his mountains were in a few years shaded with young trees, that gradually shot up into groves, woods, and forests, intermixed with walks, and lawns, and gardens ; insomuch that the whole region, from a naked and desolate prospect, began now to look like a second Paradise. The pleasantness of the place, and the agreeable disposition of Shalum, who was reck- oned one of the mildest and wisest of all who lived be- fore the flood, drew into it multitudes of people, who were perpetually employed in the sinking of wells, the digging of trenches, and the hollowing of trees, for the better dis- tribution of water through every part of this spacious plantation. 2 52 BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. The habitations of Shakim looked every year more beautiful in the eyes of Hilpa, who, after the space of seventy autumns, was wonderfully pleased with the distant prospect of Shalum's hills, which were then covered with innumerable turts of trees and gloomy scenes, that gave a magnificence to the place, and converted it into one of the finest landscapes the eye of man could behold. The Chinese record a letter which Shalum is said to have written to Hilpa in the eleventh year of her widow- hood. I shall here translate it, without departing from that noble simplicity of sentiment and plainness of man- ners which appears in the original. Shalum was at this time one hundred and eighty years old, and Hilpa one hundred and seventy. ' Shalum, Master of Mount Tirzah, to Hilpa, Mistress of the Vallies. * In the 788th year of the creation. 'What have I not suffered, O thou daughter of Zilpah, since thou gavest thyself away in marriage to my rival ! I grew weary of the light of the sun, and have been ever since covering myself with woods and forests. These threescore and ten years have I bewailed the loss of thee on the top of mount Tirzah, and soothed my melancholy among a thousand gloomy shades of my own raising. My dwellings are at present as the garden of God ; every ■part of them is filled with fruits, and flowers, and foun- tains. The whole mountain is perfumed for thy recep- tion. Come up into it, O my beloved, and let us people THE SPECTATOR. 253 this spot of the new world with a beautiful race of mor- tals ; let us multiply exceedingly among these delightful shades, and fill every quarter of them with sons and daughters. Remember, O thou daughter of Zilpah, that the age of man is but a thousand years ; that beauty is the admiration but of a few centuries. It flourishes as a mountain oak, or as a cedar on the top of Tirzah, which in three or four hundred years will fade away, and never be thought of by posterity, unless a young wood springs from its roots. Think well on this, and remember thy neighbour in the mountains.' Having here inserted this letter, which I look upon as the only antediluvian billet-doux now extant, I shall in my next paper give the answer to it, and the sequel of this story. Wednesday, August 25, 1714. THE SEQUEL OF THE STORY OF SHALUM AND HILPA. The letter inserted in my last had so good an eflect upon Hilpa, that she answered in less than a twelve- month, after the following manner : '' Hilpa ^ Mistress of the Vallies, to Shalum, Master of Moufit Tirzah. ' In the 789th year oT the creation. ' What have I to do with thee, O Shalum ? Thou praisest Hilpa' s beauty, but art thou not secretly enam- 554 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. oured with the verdure of her meadows ? Art thon not more affected with the prospect of her green vaUies than thou wouldest be with the sight of her person ? The low- ings of my herds and the bleatings of my liocks make a pleasant echo in thy mountains, and sound sweetly in thy ears. What though I am delighted with the wavings of thy forests, and those breezes of perfumes which flow from the top of Tirzah, are these like the riches of the valley ? ' I know thee, O Shalum ; thou art more wise and happy than any of the sons of men. Thy dwellings are among the cedars ; thou searchest out the diversity of soils, thou understandest the influences of the stars, and markest the change of seasons. Can a woman appear lovely in the eyes of such a one ? Disquiet me not, O Shalum ; let me alone, that I may enjoy those goodly possessions which are fallen to my lot. Win me not by thy enticing words. May thy trees increase and multiply ! mayest thou add wood to wood, and shade to shade ! but tempt not Hilpa to destroy thy solitude, and make thy retire- ment populous.' The Chinese say that a little time afterwards she ac- cepted of a treat in one of the neighbouring hills to which Shalum had invited her. This treat lasted for two years, and is said to have cost Shalum five hundred antelopes, two thousand ostriches, and a thousand tuns of milk ; but what most of all recommended it, was that variety of de- licious fruits and pot-herbs, in which no person then living could any way equal Shalum. He treated her in the bower which he had planted THE SPECTATOR. 255 amidst the wood of nightingales. The wood was made up of such fruit-trees and plants as are most agreeable to the several kinds of singing-birds ; so that it had drawn into it all the music of the country, and was filled from one end of the year to the other with the most agreeable con- cert in season. He showed her every day some beautiful and surpris- ing scene in this new region of woodlands ; and, as by this means he had all the opportunities he could wish for, of opening his mind to her, he succeeded so well, that upon her departure she made him a kind of promise, and gave him her word to return him a positive answer in less than fifty years. She had not been long among her own people in the valleys, when she received new overtures, and at the same time a most splendid visit from JVIishpach, who was a mighty man of old, and had built a great city, which he called after his own name. Every house was made for at least a thousand years, nay, there were some that were leased out for three lives ; so that the quantity of stone and timber consumed in this building is scarce to be im- agined by those who live in the present age of the world. This great man entertained her with the voice of musical instruments which had been lately invented, and danced before her to the sound of the timbrel. He also presented her with several domestic utensils wrought in brass and iron, which had been newly found out for the conven- iency of life. In the mean time Shalum grew very un- easy with himself, and was sorely displeased at Hilpa for the reception which she had given to Mishpach, inso- 256 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. much that he never wrote to her or spoke of her during a whole revolution of Saturn ; but, finding that this in- tercourse went no farther than a visit, he again renewed his addresses to her ; who, during his long silence, is said very often to have cast a wishing ey.e upon mount Tirzah. Her mind continued wavering about twenty years longer between Shalum and Mishpach ; for though her inclinations favoured the former, her interest pleaded very powerfully for the other. While her heart was in this unsettled condition, the following accident happened, which determined her choice. A high tower of wood that stood in the city of Mispach having' caught fire by a flash of lightning, in a few days .reduced the whole town to ashes. Mishpach resolved to rebuild the place, whatever it should cost him ; and, having already destroyed all the timber of the country, he was forced to have recourse to Shalum, whose forests were now two hundred years old. He purchased these woods with so many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, and with such a vast extent of fields and pastures, that Shalum was now growing more wealthy than Mishpach ; and therefore appeared so charming in the eyes of Zilpah's daughter, that she no longer refused him in marriage. On the day on which he brought her up into the mountains he raised a most prodigious pile of cedar, and of every sweet smelling wood, which reached above three hundred cubits in height ; he also cast into the pile bundles of myrrh and sheaves of spikenard, en- riching it with every spicy shrub, and making it fat with the gums of his plantations. This was the burnt-offering THE SPECTATOR. 257 which ShaUim offered in the day of his espousals : the smoke of it ascended up to heaven, and filled the whole country with incense and perfume. Friday, September 10, 17 14. I DO not indeed wonder that the actors should be such professed enemies to those among our nation who are commonly known by the name of critics, since it is a rule among these gentlemen to fall upon a play, not because it is ill written, but because it takes. Several of them lay it down as a maxim, that whatever dramatic performance has a long run must of necessity be good for nothing : as though the first precept in poetry were 'not to please.' Whether this rule holds good or not, I shall leave to the determination of those who are better judges than myself ; if it does, I am sure it tends very much to the honour of those gentlemen who have established it ; few of their pieces having been disgraced by a run of three days, and most of them being so exquisitely written, that the town would never give them more than one night's hearing. I have a great esteem for a true critic, such as Aris- totle and Longinus among the Greeks ; Horace and Quintilian among the Romans ; Boileau and Dacier among the French. But it is our misfortune that some, who set up for professed critics among us, are so stupid, that they do not know how to put ten words together 258 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. with elegance or common propriety ; and withal so illite- ■ rate, that they have no taste of the learned languages, and therefore criticise upon old authors only at second- hand. They judge of them by what others have written, and not by any notions they have of the authors them- selves. The words unity, action, sentiment, and diction, pronounced with an air of authority, give them a figure among unlearned readers, who are apt to believe they are very deep, because they are unintelligible. The ancient critics are full of the praises of their contemporaries ; they discover beauties which escaped the observation of the vulgar, and very often find out reasons for palliating and excusing such little shps and oversights as were com- mitted in the writings of eminent authors. On the con- trary, most of the smatterers in criticism who appear among us make it their business to vilify and depreciate every new production that gains applause, to descry imaginary blemishes, and to prove, by far-fetched arguments, that what pass for beauties in any celebrated piece are faults and errors. In short, the writings of these critics, com- pared with those of the ancients, are like the works of the sophists compared with those of the old philosophers. Envy and cavil are the natural fruits of laziness and ignorance ; which was probably the reason that, in the heathen mythology, Momus is said to be the son of Nox and Somnus, of darkness and sleep. Idle men, who have not been at the pains to accomplish or distinguish them- selves, are very apt to detract from others ; as ignorant men are very subject to decry those beauties in a cele- brated work which they have not eyes to discover. THE SPECTATOR. 259 Many of our sons of Momus, who dignify themselves by the name of critics, are the geniune descendants of these two illustrious ancestors. They are often led into those numerous absurdities in which they daily instruct the people, by not considering that, first, there is sometimes a greater judgment shown in deviating from the rules of art than in adhering to them ; and, secondly, that there is more beauty in the works of a great genius who is igno- rant of all the rules of art, than in the works of a little genius who not only knows but scrupulously observes them. First, We may often take notice of men who are per- fectly acquainted with all the rules of good writing, and, notwithstanding, choose to depart from them on extra- ordinary occasions. I could give instances out of all the tragic writers of antiquity who have shown their judg- ment in this particular ; and purposely receded from an established rule of the drama, when it has made way for a much higher beauty than the observation of such a rule would have been. Those who have surveyed the noblest pieces of architecture and statuary, both ancient and modern, know very well that there are frequent deviations from art in the works of the greatest masters, which have produced a much nobler effect than a more accurate and exact way of proceeding could have done. This often arises from what the Italians call the gusto grande in these arts, which is what we call the sublime in writing. In the next place, our critics do not seem sensible that there is more beauty in the works of a great genius who is ignorant of the rules of art, than in those of a little BRITISH ESS A YISTS. genius who knows and observes them. It is of these men of genius that Terence speaks, in opposition to the little artiticial cavillers of his time ; ' Quorum semulari exoptat negligentiam Potius, quam istorum obscuram diligenLiam.' Prot. And. ' Whose negligence he would rather imitate than these men's obscure diligence. ' A critic may have the same consolation in the ill suc- cess of his play as Dr. South tells us a physician has at the death of a patient, that he was killed secundum artem. Our inimitable Shakspeare is a stumbling-block to the whole tribe of these rigid critics. Who would not rather read one of his plays, where there is not a single rule of the stage observed, than any production of a modern critic, where there is not one of them violated? Shaks- peare was indeed born with all the seeds of poetry, and may be compared to the stone in Pyrrhus's ring, which, as Pliny tells us, had the figure of Apollo and the nine Muses in the veins of it, produced by the spontaneous hand of nature, without any help from art. Wednesday, September 15, 17 14. Were all the vexations of life put together, we should find that a great part of them proceed from those calum- nies and reproaches which we spread abroad concerning one another. THE SPECTATOR. 261 There is scarce a man living who is not, in some de- gree, guilty of this offence ; though at the same time, however we treat one another, it must be confessed that we all consent in speaking ill of the persons who are no- torious for this practice. It generally takes its rise either from an ill-will to mankind, a private inclination to make ourselves esteemed, an ostentation of wit, a vanity of being thought in the secrets of the world, or from a desire of gratifying any of these dispositions of mmd in those persons with whom we converse. The publisher of scandal is more or less odious to man- kind, and criminal in himself, as he is influenced by any one or more of the foregoing motives. But, whatever may be the occasion of spreading these false reports, he ought to consider that the effect of them is equally preju- dicial and pernicious to the person at whom they are aimed. The injury is the same, though the principle from whence it proceeds may be different. As every one looks upon himself with too much indul- gence when he passes a judgment on his own thoughts or actions, and as very few would be thought guilty of this abominable proceeding, which is so universally practised, and at the same time so universally blamed, I shall lay down three rules, by which I would have a man examine and search into his own heart before he stands acquitted to himself of that evil disposition of mind which I am here mentioning. First of all, let him consider whether he does not take delight in hearing the faults of others. Secondly, Whether he is not too apt to believe .such 262 ^ BRITISH ESS A YIS TS. little blackening accounts, and more inclined to be credu- lous on the uncharitable than on the good-natured side. Thirdly, Whether he is not ready to spread and propa- gate such reports as tend to the disreputation of another. These are the several steps by which this vice proceeds, and grows up into slander and defamation. In the first place, a man who takes deHght in hearing the faults of others, shows sufficiently that he has a true relish for scandal, and consequently the seeds of this vice, within him. If his mind is gratified with hearing the re- proaches which are cast on others, he will find the same pleasure in relating them, and be the more apt to do it, as he will naturally imagine every one he converses with is delighted in the same manner w4th himself. A man should endeavour therefore to wear out of his mind this criminal curiosity, which is perpetually heightened and inflamed by listening to such stories as tend to the dis- reputation of others. In the second place, a man should consult his own heart, whether he be not apt to believe such little black- ening accounts, and more inclined to be credulous on the uncharitable, than on the good-natured side. Such a credulity is very vicious in itself, and generally arises from a man's consciousness of his own secret cor- ruptions. It is a pretty saying of Thales, ' Falsehood is just as far distant from truth as the ears are from the eyes.' By which he would intimate, that a wise man should not easily give credit to the reports of actions which he has not seen. I shall, under this head, mention two or three remarkable rules to be observed by the members of the THE SPECTATOR. 263 celebrated Abbey de la Trappe, as they are published in a little French book. The fathers are there ordered never to give an ear to any accounts of base or criminal actions ; to turn off all such discourse if possible ; but, in case they hear any thing of this nature so well attested that they cannot dis- believe it, they are then to suppose that the criminal action may have proceeded from a good intention in him who is guilty of it. This is, perhaps, carrying charity to an extravagance ; but it is certainly much more laudable than to suppose, as the ill-natured part of the world does, that indifferent and even good actions proceed from bad principles and wrong intentions. In the third place, a man should examine, his heart, whether he does not find in it a secret inclination to prop- agate such reports as tend to the disreputation of another. When the disease of the mind, which I have hitherto been speaking of, arises to this degree of malignity, it dis- covers itself in its worst symptom, and is in danger of becoming incurable. I need not therefore insist upon the guilt in this last particular, which every one cannot but disapprove who is not void of humanity or even common discretion. I shall only add, that, whatever pleasure any man may take in spreading whispers of this nature, he will find an infinitely greater satisfaction in conquering the temptation he is under, by letting the secret die within his own breast. 264 BRITISH ~ ESSA YI8TS. Friday, October i, 1714. The following essay comes from an hand which has entertained my readers once before : ' Notwithstanding a narrow contracted temper be that which obtains most in the world, we must not therefore conclude this to be the genuine characteristic of mankind ; because there are some who delight in nothing so much as in doing good, and receive more of their happiness at second-hand, or by rebound from others, than by direct and immediate sensation. Now, though these heroic souls are but few, and to appearance so far advanced above the grovelling multitude as if they were of another order of beings, yet in reality their nature is the same ; moved by the same springs, and endowed with all the same essential qualities; only clear, refined, and culti- vated. Water is the same fluid body in winter and in summer — when it stands stiffened in ice, as when it flows along in gentle streams, gladdening a thousand fields in its progress. It is a property of the heart of man to be diffusive : its kind wishes spread abroad over the face of the creation ; and if there be those, as we njay observe too many of them, who are all wrapped up in their own dear selves, without any visible concern for their species, let us suppose that their good nature is frozen, and, by the prevailing force of some contrary quality, restrained in its operation. I shall therefore endeavour to assign some of the principal checks upon this generous propen- THE SPECTATOR. 265 sion of the human soul, which will enable us to judge whether, and by what method, this most useful principle may be unfettered, and restored to its native freedom of exercise. ' The first and leading cause is an unhappy complexion of body. The heathens, ignorant of the true source of moral evil, generally charged it on the obliquity of matter, which, being eternal and independent, was in- capable of change in any of its properties, even by the Almighty Mind, who, when he came to fashion it into a world of beings, must take it as he found it. This notion, as most others of theirs, is a composition of truth and ^ error. That matter is eternal ; that from the first union of a soul to it, it perverted its inclinations ; and that the ill influence it hath upon the mind is not to be corrected by God himself, are all very great errors, occasioned by a truth as evident, that the capacities and dispositions of the soul depend to a great degree on the bodily temper. As there are some fools, others are knaves by constitu- tion ; and particularly it may be said of many, that they are born with an illiberal cast of mind ; the matter that composes them is as tenacious as birdlime ; and a kind of cramp draws their hands and hearts together, that they never care to open them, unless to grasp at more. It is a melancholy lot this ; but attended with one advantage above theirs, to whom it would be as painful to forbear good offices as it is to these men to perform them : that whereas persons naturally beneficent often mistake instinct for virtue, by reason of the difficulty of distinguishing when one rules them, and when the other ; men of the 12 2 66 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. opposite character may be more certain of the motive that predominates in every action. If they cannot con- fer a benefit with that ease and frankness which are neces- sary to give it a grace in the eye of the world, in requital, the real merit of what they do is enhanced by the opposi- tion they surmount in doing it. The strength of their virtue is seen in rising against the weight of nature ; and every time they have the resolution to discharge their duty, they make a sacrifice of inclination to conscience, which is always too grateful to let its followers go without suitable marks of its approbation. Perhaps the entire cure of this ill quality is no more possible than of some distempers that descend by inheritance. However, a great deal may be done by a course of beneficence ob- stinately persisted in ; this, if any thing, being a likely way of establishing a moral habit, which shall be some- what of a counterpoise to the force of mechanism. Only it must be remembered that we do not intermit, upon any pretence whatsoever, the custom of doing good, in regard, if there be the least cessation, nature will watch the op- portunity to return, and in a short time to recover the ground it was so long in quitting; for there is this differ- ence between mental habits and such as have their founda- tion in the body : that these last are in their nature more forcible and violent ; and, to gain upon us, need only not be opposed ; whereas the former must be continually re- inforced with fresh supplies, or they will languish and die away. And this suggests the reason why good habits in general require longer time for their settlement than bad, and yet are sooner displaced ; the reason is, that vicious THE SPECTATOR. 267 habits, as drunkenness for instance, produce a change in the body, which the others not doing, must be maintained the same way they are acquired, by the mere dint of in- dustry, resolution, and vigilance. ' Another thing which suspends the operations of be- nevolence, is the love of the world ; proceedin'g from a false notion men have taken up, that an abundance of the world is an essential ingredient in the happiness of life. Worldly things are of such a quality as to lessen upon dividing, so that the more partners there are, the less must fall to every man's private share. The conse- quence of this is, that they look upon one another with an evil eye, each imagining all the rest to be embarked in an interest that cannot take place but to his prejudice. Hence are those eager competitions for wealth or power ; hence one man's success becomes another's disappoint- ment ; and, like pretenders to the same mistress, they can seldom have common charity for their rivals. Not that they are naturally disposed to quarrel and fall out ; but it is natural for a man to prefer himself to all others, and to secure his own interest first. If that which men es- teem their happiness were, like the light, the same suffi- cient and unconfined good, whether ten thousand enjoy the benefit of it, or but one, we should see men's good will and kind endeavours would be as universal. " Homo qui erranti comiter monstrat viam, Quasi lumen de sue lumine accendat, facit, Nihilo minus ipsi luceat, cum illi accenderit." *'To direct a wanderer in the right way, is to light another man's 268 BRITISH ESS A VIS TS. candle by one's own, which loses none of its light by what the other gains." 'But, unluckily, mankind agree in making choice of objects which inevitably engage them in perpetual differ- ences. Learn therefore, like a wise man, the true esti- mate of things. Desire not more of the world than is necessary to accommodate you in passing through it : look upon everything beyond, not as useless only, but burdensome. Place not your quiet in things which you cannot have without putting others beside them, and thereby making them your enemies ; and which, when attained, will give you more trouble to keep, than satis- faction in the enjoyment. Virtue is a good of a nobler kind ; it grows by communication ; and so little resem- bles earthly riches, that the more hands it is lodged in, the greater is every man's particular stock. So, by pro- pagating and mingling their fires, not only all the lights of a branch together cast a more extensive brightness, but each single light burns with a stronger flame. And, lastly, take this along with you, that if wealth be an in- strument of pleasure, the greatest pleasure it can put into your power is that of doing good. It is worth consider- ing, that the organs of sense act within a narrow compass, and the appetites will soon say they have enough. Which of the two therefore is the happier man — he who, confin- ing all his regard to the gratification of his appetites, is capable but of short fits of pleasure ; or the man who, reckoning himself a sharer in the satisfactions of others, especially those which come to them by his nieans, en- larges the sphere of his happiness.^ THE SPECTATOR. 269 ' The last enemy to benevolence I shall mention is un- easiness of any kind. A guilty or a discontented mind, a mind ruffled by ill fortune, disconcerted by its own pas- sions, soured by neglect, or fretting at disappointments, hath not leisure to attend to the necessity or reasonable- ness of a kindness desired, nor a taste for those pleasures which wait on beneficence, which demand a calm and unpolluted heart to relish them. The most miserable of all beings is the most envious ; as, on the other hand, the most communicative is the happiest. And if you are in search of the seat of perfect love and friendship, you will not find it till you come to the region of the blessed, where happiness, like a refreshing stream, flows from heart to heart in an endless circulation, and is preserved sweet and untainted by the motion. It is old advice, if you have a favour to request of any one, to observe the softest times of address, when the soul, in a flush of good- humour, takes a pleasure to show itself pleased. Per- sons conscious of their own integrity, satisfied with them- selves and their condition, and full of confidence in a Supreme Being and the hope of immortality, survey all about them with a flow of good-will : as trees, which like their soil, they shoot out in expressions of kindness, and bend beneath their own precious load to the hand of the gatherer. Now if the mind be not thus easy, it is an in- fallible sign that it is not in its natural state : place the mind in its right posture, it will immediately discover its innate propension to beneficence.' 2 70 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. Friday, November 19, 1714. ' MR. SPECTATOR, ' In a former speculation you have observed that true greatness doth not consist in that pomp and noise wherein the generahty of mankind are apt to place it. You have there taken notice that virtue in obscurity often appears more illustrious in the eye of superior beings, than all that passes for grandeur and magnificence among men. 'When we look back upon the history of those who have borne the parts of kings, statesmen, or command- ers, they appear to us stripped of those outside ornaments that dazzle their contemporaries ; and we regard their persons as great or little in proportion to the eminence of their virtues or vices. The wise sayings, generous sentiments, or disinterested conduct of a philosopher under mean circumstances of life, set him higher in our esteem than the mighty potentates of the earth, when we view them both through the long prospect of many ages. Were the memoirs of an obscure man, who lived up to the dignity of his nature, and according to the rules of virtue, to be laid before us, we should find nothing in such a character which might not set him on a level with men of the highest stations. The following extract out of the private papers of an honest country gentleman, will set this matter in a clear light. Your reader will perhaps con- ceive a greater idea of him from these actions done in THE SPECTATOR. 271 secret and without a witness, than those which have drawn upon them the admiration of multitudes. " In my twenty-second year I found a violent affection for my cousin Charles's wife growing upon me, wherein I was in danger of succeeding, if I had not upon that ac- count begun my travels into foreign countries. '^ A little after my return into England, at a private meeting with my uncle Francis, I refused the offer of his estate, and prevailed upon him not to disinherit his son Ned. " Mem. Never to tell this to Ned, lest he should think hardly of his deceased father; though he continues to speak ill of me for this very reason. " Prevented a scandalous law- suit betwixt my nephew Harry and his mother, by allowing her under-hand, out of my pocket, so much money yearly as the dispute was about. " Procured a benefice for ayomig divine, who is sister's son to the good man who was my tutor, and hath been dead twenty years. "Gave ten pounds to poor Mrs. , my friend H 's w^dow. " Mem. To retrench one dish at my table, till I have fetched it up again. "Mem. To repair my house and finish my gardens, in order to employ poor people after harvest-time. " Ordered John to let out goodman D 's sheep that 2 72 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. were pounded, by night ; but not to let his fellow servants know it. " Prevailed upon M. T., Esq. not to take the law of the farmer's son for shooting a partridge, and to give him his gun again. " Paid the apothecary for curing an old woman that confessed herself a witch. " Gave away my favourite dog for biting a beggar. '' Made the minister of the parish and a whig justice of one mind, by putting them upon explaining their no- tions to one another. '^ Mem. To turn off Peter, for shooting a doe while she was eating acorns out of his hand. " When my neighbour John, who hath often injured me, comes to make his request to-morrow : " Mem. I have forgiven him. " Laid up my chariot, and sold my horses, to relieve the poor in a scarcity of corn. " In the same year remitted to my tenants a fifth part of their rents. "As I was airing to-day I fell into a thought that warmed my heart, and shall, I hope, be the better for it as long as I live. " Mem, To charge my son in private to erect no monument for me ; but not to put this in my last will." THE SPECTATOR. 273 Friday, Nove7nber 26, 1714. The love-casuist hath referred to me the following letter of queries, with his answers to each question, for my approbation. I have accordingly considered the several matters therein contained, and hereby confirm and ratify his answers, and require the gentle querist to con- form herself thereunto : ' SIR, ' I WAS thirteen the 9th of November last, and must now begin to think of settling myself in the world, and so I would humbly beg your advice what I must do with Mr. Fondle, who makes his addresses to me. He is a very pretty man, and hath the blackest eyes and whitest teeth you ever saw. Though he is but a younger brother, he dresses like a man of quality, and nobody comes into a room like him. I know he hath re- fused great offers, and if he cannot marry me he will never have any body else. But my father hath forbid him the house, because he sent me a copy of verses ; for he is one of the greatest wits in town. My elder sister, who with her good will would call me Miss as long as I live, must be married before me they say. She tells them that Mr. Fondle makes a fool of me, and will spoil the child, as she calls me, like a confident thing as she is. In short, I am resolved to marry Mr. Fondle, if it be but to spite her. But, because I would do nothing that is imprudent, I beg of you to give me your answers to 2 74 BRITISH ESS A YISTS. some questions I will write down, and desire you to get them printed in the Spectator, and I do not doubt but you will give such advice as, I am sure, I shall follow, 'When Mr. Fondle looks upon me for half an hour together, and calls me Angel, is he not in love ? '" Answer, No. ' May not I be certain he will be a kind husband, that has promised me half my portion in pin-money, and to keep me a coach and six in the bargain ? ' No. ' Whether I, who have been acquainted with him this whole year almost, am not a better judge of his merit than my father and mother, who never heard him talk but at table ? ' No. 'Whether I am not old enough to choose for myself?' No. ' Whether it would not have been rude in me to refuse a lock of his hair ? ' No. 'Should* not I be a very barbarous creature, if I did not pity a man who is always sighing for my sake ? ' No. ' Whether you would not advise me to run away with the poor man ? ' No. 'Whether you do not think, that, if I will not have him, he will drown himself?' No. THE SPECTATOR. 275 ' What shall I say to him the next time he asks me if I will marry him ? ' No. Monday, December 6, 1714. Next to the people who want a place, there are none to be pitied more than those who are solicited for one. A plain answer with a denial in it is looked upon as pride, and a civil answer as a promise. Nothing is more ridiculous than the pretensions of people upon these occasions. Every thing a man hath suffered, whilst his enemies were in play, was certainly brought about by the malice of the opposite party. A bad cause would not have been lost, if such an one had not been upon the bench ; nor a profligate youth disin- herited if he had not got drunk every night by toasting an ousted ministry. I remember a tory, who, having been fined in a court of justice for a prank that deserved the pillory, desired upon the merit of it to be made a justice of peace when his friends came into power ; and shall never forget a whig criminal, who, upon being in- dicted for a rape, told his friends, ' You see what a man suffers for sticking to his principles.' The truth of it is, the sufferings of a man in a party are of a very doubtful nature. When they are such as have promoted a good cause, and fallen upon a man un- 276 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. deservedly, they have a right to be heard and recom- pensed beyond any other pretensions. But when they rise out of rashness or indiscretion, and the pursuit of such measures as have rather ruined than promoted the interest they aim at, (which hath always been the case of many great sufferers,) they only serve to recommend them to the children of violence or folly. I have by me a bundle of memorials presented by several cavaliers upon the restoration of king Charles II. which may serve as so many instances to our present purpose. Among several persons and pretensions recorded by my author, he mentions one of a very great estate, who, for having roasted an ox whole, and distributed a hogs- head upon king Charles's birthday, desired to be provided for as his majesty in his great wisdom should think fit. Another put in to be the prince Henry's governor for having dared to drink his health in the worst of times. A third petitioned for a colonel's commission for having cursed Oliver Cromwell the day before his death, on a public bowling-green. There is likewise the petition of one who, having let his beard grow from the martyrdom of king Charles the First till the restoration of king Charles the Second, de- sired in consideration thereof to be made a privy-coun- sellor. I must not omit a memorial setting forth that the me- morialist had, with great dispatch, carried a letter from a certain lord to a certain lord, wherein, as it afterwards THE SPECTATOR. 277 appeared, measures were concerted for the restoration, and without which he verily believes that happy revolu- tion had never been effected; who thereupon humbly prays to be made postmaster-general. A certain gentleman, who seems to write with a great deal of spirit, and uses the words gallantly and gentleman- like very often in his petition, begs that (in consideration of his having worn his hat for ten years past in the loyal cavalier-cock, to his great danger and detriment) he may be made a captain of the guards. Friday, December 10, 1714. I HAD occasion to go a few miles out of town, some days since, in a stage coach, where I had for my fellow travellers a dirty beau, and a pretty young quaker woman. Having no inclination to talk much at that time, I placed myself backward, with a design to survey them, and pick a speculation out of my two companions. Their different figures were sufficient of themselves to draw my attention. The gentleman was dressed in a suit, the ground whereof had been black, as I perceived from some few spaces that had escaped the powder, which was incorporated with the greatest part of his coat : his periwig, which cost no small sum, was after so slovenly a manner cast over his shoul- ders, that it seemed not to have been combed since the year 1712 ; his linen, which was not much concealed, was daubed with plain Spanish from the chin to the lowest 2 78 BRITISH ESSAYISTS. button ; and the diamond upon his finger (which naturally- dreaded the water) put me in mind how it sparkled amidst the rubbish of the mine where it was first discovered. On the other hand, the pretty quaker appeared in all the elegance of cleanliness. Not a speck was to be found upon her. A clear, clean, oval face, just edged about with little thin plaits of the purest cambric, received great advantages from the shade of her black hood ; as did the whiteness of her arms from that sober-coloured stuff in which she had clothed herself. The plainness of her dress was very well suited to the simplicity of her phrases ; all which, put together, though they could not give me a great opinion of her religion, they did of her innocence. This adventure occasioned my throwing together a few hints upon cleanliness, which 1 shall consider as one of the half-virtues, as Aristotle calls them, and shall recom- mend it under the three following heads : as it is a mark of politeness ; as it produces love ; and as it bears ana- logy to purity of mind. First, it is a mark of politeness. It is universally agreed upon, that no one, unadorned with this virtue, can go into company without giving a manifest ofi"ence. The easier or higher any one's fortune is, this duty rises proportion- ably. The different nations of the world are as much distinguished by their cleanliness as by their arts and sciences. The more any country is civilized, the more they consult this part of politeness. We need but com- pare our ideas of a female Hottentot and an English beauty, to be satisfied of the truth of what hath been ad- vanced. THE SPECTATOR. 279 In the next place, cleanliness may be said to be the foster-mother of love. Beauty indeed most commonly produces that passion in the mind, but cleanliness pre- serves it. An indifferent face and person, kept in per- petual neatness, hath won many a heart from a pretty "slattern. Age itself is not unamiable, while it is preserved clean and unsullied : like a piece of metal constantly kept smooth and bright, we look on it with more pleasure than on a new vessel that is cankered with rust I might observe farther, that as cleanliness renders us agreeable to others, so it makes us easy to ourselves ; that it is an excellent preservative of health ; and that several vices, destructive both to mind and body, are in- consistent with the habit of it. But these reflections I shall leave to the leisure of my readers, and shall observe, in the third place, that it bears a great analogy with purity of mind, and naturally inspires refined sentiments and passions. We find from experience that, through the prevalence of custom, the most vicious actions lose their horror by being made familiar to us: On the contrary, those who live in the neighbourhood of good examples fly from the first appearances of what is shocking. It fares with us much after the same manner as to our ideas. Our senses, which are the inlets to all the images conveyed to the mind, can only transmit the impression of such things as usually surround them. So that pure and unsullied thoughts are naturally . suggested to the mind, by those objects that perpetually encompass us, when they are beautiful and elegant in their kind. O C; IQCI ,P o^ - ,^^ ^^' . ^ ^ «fe. "', o< Q. ^#^- ^^' .^" ^^^ ^ ^'z r. s^ A^ ePii S Q^, ^^' *^ °^ Q. '''^. f^/- -^^^ /^ .c3 ^. c!^ -^ ^^^ \^P.^,/ ^ V ^V .^ O :^' ^ rP^ <- .<}> -<^ '^ % ^.llfe_^' .<# .s^ rr G^' ,^ 0. Oj' '"''rd^ ^^ %. ; Vo'^ '$)0il ■^^o^ .^^5C^;.': ^ao^ •>

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