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 PuhlijrhrJ I'Y Verrur.iJl.i'Jj.'irin-'^ieoX
 
 THE 
 
 WORKS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 COLLECTED 
 
 By Mr, tick ell. 
 
 m 
 
 WITH A 
 
 COMPLETE INDEX. 
 
 IN SIX VOLUME S. 
 
 >e>9t-©< 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR VERNOR AND HOOD; JOHN WALKER; CUTHHLI. 
 
 AND MARTIN; W. J. AND J, RICHARDSON; LONGMAN 
 
 AND REES; R. LEA; AND J. AND A. ARCH. 
 
 T. Maiden, Printer, Sherbourn-Lans. 
 
 1 804.
 
 TO THE 
 
 RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 JAMES CRAGGS, 
 
 Esquire, 
 
 HIS MAJESTY'S PRINCIPAL SECRETARY 
 OF STATE. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 X Cannot wish that any of my writings should 
 last longer than the memory of our friendship, 
 and therefore I thus publicly bequeath them to 
 you, in return for the many valuable instances of 
 your affection. 
 
 That they may come to you with as little dis- 
 advantage as possible, I have left the care of 
 them to one, whom, by the experience of some 
 years, I know well qualified to answer my inten- 
 tions. He has already the honour and happiness 
 of being under your protection; and, as he will 
 very much stand in need of it, I cannot wish him 
 better, than that he may continue to deserve the ' , 
 favour and countenance of such a patron. 
 
 a 2
 
 iv DEDICATION. 
 
 I have no time to lay out in forming such com- 
 pliments, as would but ill suit that familiarity be- 
 tween us, which was once my greatest pleasure, 
 and will be my greatest honour hereafter. Instead 
 of them, acceptofmy hearty wishes, that the great 
 reputation you have acquired so early, may in- 
 crease more and more : and that you may long 
 serve your country with those excellent talents, 
 and unblemished integrity, which have so power- 
 fully recommended you to the most gracious and 
 amiable Monarch that ever filled a throne. May 
 the frankness and generosity of your spirit continue 
 to soften and subdue your enemies, and gain you 
 many friends, if possible, as sincere as yourself. 
 When you have found such, they cannot wish 
 you more true happiness than I, who am, with 
 the greatest zeal, 
 
 Dear Si r. 
 
 Your most entirely affectionate Friend, 
 
 And faithful obedient Servant, 
 
 J. ADDISON. 
 
 June 4, 
 J719.
 
 THE 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 J OSEPH ADDISON, the son of Lancelot Ad- 
 dison, D. D. and of Jane, the daughter of Na- 
 thaniel Gulston, D. D. and sister of Dr. Wilham 
 Gulston, Bishop of Bristol, was born at Milston, 
 near Ambrosebury, in the county of Wilts, in the 
 year 1671. His father, who was of the county of 
 Westmorland, and educated at Queen's College 
 in Oxford, passed many years in his travels 
 through Europe and Africa, where he joined, to 
 the uncommon and excellent talents of nature, a 
 great knowledge of letters and things; of whicli 
 several books published by him are ample testi- 
 monies. He was Rector of Milston, above-men- 
 tioned, when Mr. Addison, his eldest son, Avas 
 born ; and afterwards became Arch-deacon of 
 Coventry, and Dean of Lichfield. 
 
 Mr. Addison received his first education at the 
 Chartreux, from whence he M'as removed very 
 early to Queen's College in Oxford. He had 
 been there about two years, when the accidental 
 sight of a paper of his verses, in the hands of Dr. 
 Lancaster, then Dean of that house, occasioned 
 his beina: elected into Mao;dalen Colleoe. He em- 
 ployed his first years in the study of the old Greek 
 and Roman writers, whose language and manner 
 he caught at that time of life, as strongly as
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 other young people gain a French accent, or a 
 genterl air. An early accjuaintance with the 
 classics is what may be called the good-breed- 
 ing of poetry, as it gives a certain gracefulness 
 which never forsakes a mind that contracted it 
 in youth, but is seldom or never hit by those who 
 would learn it too late. He first distinguished 
 himself by his Latin compositions, published in 
 tlie Musce AngUcame, and was admired as one of 
 the best authors since the Augustan age, in the 
 two Universities, and the greatest part of Europe, 
 before he was talked of as a poet in town. There 
 is not, perhaps, any harder task than to tame the 
 natural wildness of wit, and to civilize the fancy. 
 The generality of our old English poets abound 
 in forced conceits, and affected phrases ; and even 
 those who are said to come the nearest to exact- 
 ness, are but too often fond of unnatural beauties, 
 and aim at something better than perfection. If 
 Mr. Addison's example and precepts be the oc- 
 casion, that there now begins to be a great de- 
 mand for correctness, we may justly attribute it 
 to his being first fashioned by the ancient models, 
 and familiarised to propriety of thought and chas- 
 tity of style. Our country owes it to him, that 
 the famous Monsieur Boileau first conceived an 
 opinion of the English genius for poetry, by pe- 
 rusing the present he made him of the Mu8(£ An- 
 gUcame. It has been currently reported, that this 
 famous French poet, among the civilities he 
 shewed Mr. Addison on that occasion, affirmed, 
 that lie would not have written against Perrault, 
 ha<l he before seen such excellent pieces by a mo- 
 dern hand. Such a saying would have been im- 
 pertinent and unworthy Boileau, whose tlispute 
 with l\Trault turned chiefly upon some passages 
 in the ancients, which lie rescued from the mis- 
 interpretations of his adversary. The true and na-
 
 PREFAC*. vii 
 
 tural compliment made by him, was, that th^se 
 books had given him a very new idea of Eng- 
 lish politeness; and that he did not question but 
 there were excellent conipositions in the rative 
 language of a country that possessed the Roman 
 genius in so eminent a degree. 
 
 The first English performance made public by 
 him, is a short copy of verses to Mr. Drytien, with 
 a view particularly to his translations. 'Ihis was 
 soon followed by a version of the fjurth Geori»ic 
 of Viro'il, of which Mr. Drvden makes very ho- 
 nourahle mention in the postscript to his own 
 translation of all Virgil's Works ; wherein I have 
 often wondered that he did not, at the same time, 
 acknowledsre his oblio-ation to Mr. Addison, for 
 giving him the Essay upon the Georgics, prefixed 
 to Mr. Dryden's translation. Lest the honour of 
 so exquisite a piece of criticism should hereafter 
 be transferred to a wrong author, I have taken 
 care to insert it in this collection of his works. 
 
 Of some other copies of verses printed in the 
 miscellanies while he was young, the largest is 
 An Account of the greatest English Poets; in the 
 close of Mhich he insinuates a design he then had 
 of going into holy orders, to which he was 
 strongly importuned by his father. His remark- 
 able seriousness and modesty, which might have 
 been urged as powerful reasons for his choosing 
 that life, proved the chief obstacles to it. These 
 qualities, by which the priesthood is so much 
 adorned, represented the duties of it as too 
 weighty for him ; and rendered him still the more 
 worthy of that honour, which they made him de- 
 chne. It is happy that this very circumstance lias 
 since turned so much to the advantaoe of virtue and
 
 ^^li p!ip:face. ♦ 
 
 religion, in the cause of winch he has bestowed 
 his labours the more successfully, as they were his 
 voluntary, not his necessary employment. Tlie 
 world became insensibly reconciled to wisdom 
 and goodness, when they saw them recommended 
 by him with at least as much spirit and elegance, 
 as they had been ridiculed for half a century. 
 
 He M'as in his twenty-eighth year, when his. in- 
 clination to see France and Italy was en courao-ed 
 by the p;reat Lord Chancellor Somers, one of that 
 kind of patriots, who think it no waste of the 
 public treasure to purchase politeness to their 
 country. The poem upon one of King William's 
 campaigns, addressed to his Lordship, was re- 
 ceived Avith great humanity, and occasioned a 
 message from him to the author to desire his ac- 
 quaintance. He soon after obtained, by his inte- 
 rest, a yearly pension of three hundred pounds 
 from the Crown, to support him in his travels. If 
 the uncommonness of a favour, and the distinc- 
 tion of a person who confers it, enhance its value, 
 nothing could be more honourable to a young 
 man of learning, than such a bounty from so 
 eminent a patron. 
 
 How well Mr. Addison ansM'cred the expectations 
 of my Lord Somers, cannot appear bettei', than 
 from the book of Travels he dedicated to his Lord- 
 ship at his return. It is not hard to conceive 
 Avhy that performance was at first but indifferently 
 relished by the bulk of readers, who expected an 
 account, in a common way, of the customs and 
 policies of the several governments in Italy, re- 
 tlections upon the genius of the people, a map 
 of their provinces; or a measure of their build- 
 ings. How were tbey disaj)p'Mnted, when, in- 
 stead of sueh j)articulars, they were presented
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 with a journal only of poetical travels, with re- 
 marks on the present picture of the country, com- 
 pared with the landscapes drawn by classic authors, 
 and others the like unconcerning parts of know- 
 ledge ! One may easily imagine a reader of plain 
 sense, but without a fine taste, turning over 
 these parts of the volume, which make more than 
 half of it, and wondering how an author, who 
 seems to have so solid an understanding, Avhen 
 he treats of more weighty subjects in the other 
 pages, should dwell upon such trifles, and give 
 up so much room to matters of mere amusement. 
 There are, indeed, but few men so fond of the 
 ancients, as to be transported M'ith every little 
 accident, which introduces to their intimate ac- 
 quaintance. Persons of that cast may here have 
 the satisfaction of seeing annotations upon an 
 old Roman poem, gathered from the hills and 
 vallies where it was written. The Tyber and the 
 Po serve to explain the verses that were made 
 upon their banks; and the Alps and Appennines 
 are made commentators on those authors to whom 
 they were subjects so many centuries ago. Next 
 to personal conversation with the writers them- 
 selves, this is the surest way of coming at their 
 sense: a compendious and engaging kind of cri- 
 ticism, which convinces at first sight, and shews 
 the vanity of conjectures made by antiquaries at 
 a distance. If the knowledge of polite literature 
 has its use, there is certainly a merit in illustrat- 
 ing the perfect models of it; and the learned 
 world will think some years of a man's life not 
 mis-spent in so elegant an employment. I shall 
 conclude what I had to say on this performance, 
 by observing, that the fame of it increased from 
 year to year ; and the demand for copies was so 
 urgent, that their price rose to four or five times 
 Vol. I. b
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 the original value before it came out in a second 
 edition. 
 
 The Letter from Italy to my Lord Halifax 
 may be considered as the text upon which the 
 book of Travels is a large comment, and has been 
 esteemed by those who have a relish for antiquity, 
 as the most exquisite of his poetical performances. 
 A translation of it by Signior Salvini, professor of 
 the Greek tongue at Florence, is inserted in this 
 edition ; not only on the account of its merit, but 
 because it is the language of the country which is 
 the subject of this poem. 
 
 The materials for the Dialogues upon Medals, 
 now first printed from a manuscript of the author, 
 were collected in the native country of those coins. 
 The book itself was begun to be cast into form at 
 Vienna, as appears from a letter to ]\Ir. Stepney, 
 then minister at that court, dated in November, 
 170f2. 
 
 # 
 
 Some time before the date of this letter, Mr. 
 
 Addison had designed to return to England, when 
 
 he received advice from his friends, that he was 
 
 pitched upon to attend the army under Prince 
 
 Eugene, who had just begun the war in Italy, as 
 
 secretary from his Majesty. But an account of 
 
 the death of King William, which he met with at 
 
 Geneva, put an end to that thought; and as his 
 
 hopes of advancement in his own country were 
 
 fallen with the credit of his friends, who were out 
 
 of power at the beginning of her late Majesty's 
 
 rcio;n, he had leisure to make the tour of Ger- 
 
 many in his Avay home. 
 
 He remained for some time, after his return to 
 England, without any public employment, which
 
 PREFACE. xi 
 
 lie did not obtain till the year 1704, wine n the 
 Duke of Marlborough arrived at the highest pitch 
 of glory, by delivering all Europe from slavery, 
 and furnished Mr. Addison with a subject wor- 
 thy of that genius which appears in his Poem 
 called The Campaign. The Lord Treasurer Go- 
 dolphin, who was a fine judge of poetry, had a 
 sight of this work, when it \vas only carried on 
 as far as the applauding simile of the Angel; and 
 approved the poem, by bestowing on the au- 
 thor, in a few days after, the place of Commis- 
 sioner of Appeals, vacant by the removal of the 
 famous Mr. Locke to the council of trade. 
 
 His next advancement was to the place of Un- 
 der Secretary, which he held under Sir Charles 
 Hedges, and the present Earl of Sunderland. 
 The Opera of Rosamond was written while he pos- 
 sessed that employment. What doubts soever 
 have been raised about the merit of the music, 
 which, as the Itahan taste at that time began 
 wholly to prevail, was thought sufficiently inex- 
 cusable, because it was the composition of an 
 Englishman. The poetry of this piece has given as 
 much pleasure in the closet, as others have af- 
 forded from the stage, with all the assistance of 
 voices and instruments. 
 
 The Comedy called The Tender Husband ap- 
 peared much about the same time, to which Mr. 
 Addison wrote the Prologue. Sir Richard Steele 
 surprized him with a very handsome dedication 
 of this play, and has since acquainted the public, 
 that he owed some of the most taking scenes of it 
 to Mr. Addison. 
 
 His next step in his fortune, was to the post of 
 Secretary under the late Marquis of WhartoDj 
 
 b 2
 
 xii PREFACE. 
 
 Avho was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland 
 in the year 170.9. As I have proposed to touch 
 but very hghtly on those parts of his Hfe which 
 do not regard him as an author, I shall not en» 
 large upon the great reputation he acquired by 
 his turn to business, and his unblemished inte- 
 grity, in this and other employments. It must 
 not be omitted here, that the salary of Keeper of 
 the Records in Ireland was considerably raised, 
 and that post bestowed upon him, at this time, 
 as a mark of the Queen's favour. He was in that 
 kingdom when he first discovered Sir Richard 
 Steele to be author of The Tatler, by an observa- 
 tion upon Virgil, which had been by him com- 
 municated to his friend. The assistance he oc- 
 casionally gave him afterwards in the course of 
 the paper, did not a little contribute to advance 
 its reputation; and upon the change of the mir 
 nistry, he found leisure to engage more constantly 
 in that work, which, however, was dropped at 
 last, as it had been taken up, without his par- 
 ticipation. 
 
 In the last paper, which closed those celebrated 
 performances, and in the preface to the last vo- 
 lume, Sir Richard Steele has given to Mr. Ad- 
 dison the honour of the most applauded pieces in 
 that collection. But as that acknowledsrment 
 was delivered only in general terms, without 
 directing the public to the several papers, Mr. 
 Addison, who was content with the praise ari- 
 sing from his own works, and too delicate to take 
 any part of that which belonged to others, after- 
 wards thought fit to distinguish his writings in 
 the Spectators and Guardians, by such marks 
 as miglit remove the least possibility of mistake 
 in the most undiscerning readers. It was neces- 
 sary that his share in the Tatlers should be ad-
 
 PREFACE. xiii 
 
 justed in a complete collection of his works; for 
 which reason Sir Richard Steele, in compliance 
 with the request of his deceased friend, delivered 
 to him by the editor, was pleased to mark with 
 his own hand those Ta tiers which are inserted in 
 this edition, and even to point out several, in 
 the writing of which they both were concerned. 
 
 The plan of the Spectator, as far as it regards 
 the feigned person of the author, and of the se- 
 veral characters that compose his club, was pro- 
 jected in concert with Sir Richard Steele. And, 
 because many passages in the course of the work 
 would otherwise be obscure, I have taken leave 
 to insert one single paper, written by Sir Richard 
 Steele, wherein those characters are drawn which 
 may serve as a Dramatis Perso7iai, or as so many 
 pictures for an ornament and explication of the 
 whole. As for the distinct papers, they were 
 seldom or never shewn to each other by their re- 
 spective authors, who fully answered the promise 
 they had made, and far out-went the expectation 
 they had raised, of pursuing their labour in the 
 same spirit and strength with which it was be- 
 gun. It would have been impossible for I\Ir. 
 Addison, who made little or no use of letters sent 
 in by the numerous correspondents of the Spec- 
 tator, to have executed his large share of this 
 task in so exquisite a manner, if he had not in- 
 grafted into it many pieces that had lain by 
 him in little hints and minutes, Mdiich he from 
 time to time collected, and ranged in order, and 
 moulded into the form in which they now appear. 
 Such are the Essays upon Wit, the Pleasures of 
 Imagination, the Critique upon Milton, and some 
 others, which I thouoht to have connected in a 
 continued series in this edition; though they were 
 at first published with the interruption of writings 
 
 b 3
 
 xiv PREFACE. 
 
 on different subjects. But as sucli a scheme 
 would have obliged me to cut off several graceful 
 introductions andcircumstances, peculiarly adapted 
 to the time and occasion of printing them, I durst 
 not pursue that attempt. 
 
 The Tragedy of Cato appeared in public in the 
 year 1713, when the greatest part of the last act 
 was added by the author to the foregoing, which 
 he had kept by him for many years, lie took 
 up a design of writing a play upon this subject, 
 when he was very young at the University, and 
 even attempted something in it there, though not 
 a line as it now stands. The work was performed 
 by him in his travels, and retouched in England, 
 M'ithout any formed resolution of bringing it 
 upon the stage, until his friends of the first qua- 
 lity and distinction, prevailed M'ith him to put 
 the last finishing to it, at a time M'hcn they 
 thought the doctrine of lil)erty very seasonable. 
 It is in every body's memory, with what applause 
 it was received by the public ; that the first run 
 of it lasted for a month; and then stopped, only 
 because one of the performers became incapable 
 of acting a principal part. The author received 
 a message, that the Queen would be pleased to 
 have it dedicated to her ; but as he had designed 
 that compliment elsewhere, he found himself 
 obliged by his duty, on the one side, and his 
 honour on the other, to send it into the world 
 without any dedication. The fame of this Tra- 
 gedy soon spread through Europe; and it has not 
 only been tianslated, but acted, in most of the 
 languages of Christendom. The translation of it 
 into Italian, by Signior Salvini, is very well known ; 
 but I have not been able to leai ri, whether that of 
 Signior Valetta, a .young Ncai)olitan nobleman, 
 has ever been made public.
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 If he had found time for the writing of another 
 tragedy, the death of Socrates would have been 
 the story. And, however unpromising that sub- 
 ject may appear, it would be presumptuous to 
 censure his choice, who was so famous for raising 
 the noblest plants from the most barren soil. It 
 serves to shew, that he thought the whole labour 
 of such a performance unworthy to be thrown 
 away upon those intrigues and adventures, to 
 which the romantic taste has confined modern 
 tragedy ; and, after the example of his predeces- 
 sors in Greece, would have employed the drama 
 " to wear out of our minds every thing that is 
 mean, or little; to cherish and cultivate that hu- 
 manity which is the ornament of our nature ; to 
 soften insolence, to sooth affliction, and to sub- 
 due our minds to the dispensations of Provi- 
 dence."* 
 
 Upon the death of the late Queen, the Lords 
 Justices, in whom the administration was lodged, 
 appointed him their Secretary. Soon after His 
 Majesty's arrival in Great Britain, the Earl of 
 Sunderland beino- constituted Lord Lieutenant of 
 Ireland, Mr. Addison became a second time Se- 
 cretary for the affairs of that kingdom ; and was 
 made one of the Lords Commissioners of Trade, 
 a little after his Lordship resigned the post of 
 Lord Lieutenant. 
 
 The paper called the Freeholder, was under- 
 taken at the time when the rebellion broke out in 
 Scotland. 
 
 The only works he left behind him for the 
 public, are the Dialogues upon Medals, and the 
 
 * Spectator, No, 39- 
 b 4
 
 jwvi PREFACE; 
 
 Treatise upon the Christian lU'ligion. Some ac- 
 count has been aheady given of the former, to 
 which nothing is now to be added, except that a 
 great part of the Latin quotations were rendered 
 into English, in a very hasty manner, by the 
 Editor, and one of his friends, who had the 
 good-natb-re to assist him during his avocations of 
 business. It was thought better to add these 
 translations, such as they are, than to let the 
 work come out unintelligible to those who do not 
 possess the learned languages. 
 
 The scheme for the Treatise upon the Christian 
 Religion was formed by the author about the end 
 of the late Queen's reign ; at which time he care- 
 fully perused the ancient writings which furnish 
 the materials for it. His continual employment in 
 business prevented him from executing it till he 
 resigned his office of Secretary of State ; and his 
 death put a period to it, when he had imperfectly 
 performed only one half of the design; he having 
 proposed, as appears from the introduction, to add 
 the Jewish to the Heathen testimonies, for the 
 truth of the Christian history. He was more as- 
 siduous than his health would well allow in the 
 pursuit of this work; and had long determined to 
 dedicate his poetry also, for the future, wholly to 
 religious subjects. 
 
 ~r 
 
 Soon after he was, from being one of the Lords 
 Commissioners of Trade, advanced to the post of 
 Secretary of State, he found his health impaired 
 by the return of that asthmatic indisposition 
 which continued often to atllict him during his 
 exercise of that employment, and at last obliged 
 him to beg His Majesty's leave to resign. His 
 iVecdoin from the anxietv of business so far re- 
 established his health, that his fiien<ls briX'Vn to
 
 PREFACE. xvii 
 
 hope he might last for many years ; but (whether 
 it were from a Hfe too sedentary, or from his 
 natural constitution, in which was one circum- 
 stance very remarkable, that, from his cradle, he 
 never had a regular pulse) a long and painful re- 
 lapse into an asthma and dropsy deprived the 
 world of this great man, on the 17th of June, 
 1719. He left behind him only one daughter, 
 by the Countess of Warwick, to whom he was 
 mairied in the year 1716. 
 
 Not many days before his death, he gave me 
 directions to collect his writings ; and at the same 
 time committed to my care the Letter addressed 
 to Mr. Craggs, (his successor as Secretary of 
 State,) wherein he bequeaths them to him as a 
 token of friendship. Such a testimony, from the 
 first man of our age, in such a point of time, 
 will be, perhaps, as great and lasting an honour 
 to that gentleman, as any even he could acquire 
 to himself; and yet is no more than was due from 
 an affection, that justly increased towards him, 
 through the intimacy of several years. I cannot, 
 without the utmost tenderness, reflect on the kind 
 concern with which Mr. Addison left Me as a 
 sort of incumbrance upon this valuable legacy. 
 Nor must I deny myself the honour to acknow- 
 ledge, that the goodness of that great man to 
 me, like many other of his amiable qualities, 
 seemed not so much to be renewed, as continued, 
 in his successor ; who made me an example, that 
 nothing could be indifferent to him which came 
 recommended by Mr. Addison. 
 
 Could any circumstance be more severe to me, 
 while I was executing these last commands of 
 the author, than to see the person, to whom his 
 works were presented, cut off in the flower of his
 
 xvm 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 age, and carried from the high office wherein 
 he had succeeded Mr. Addison, to be laid next 
 him in the same grave ! I might dwell upon such 
 thoughts as naturally rise from these minute re- 
 semblances in the fortune of two persons, whose 
 names probably will be seldom mentioned asunder, 
 while either our language or story subsist, were I 
 not afraid of making this Preface too tedious ; 
 especially since I shall want all the patience of 
 the reader, for having enlarged it with the fol- 
 lowing verses.
 
 TO THE 
 
 RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 THE 
 
 Earl of Warwick^ &c. 
 
 1 F, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd, 
 
 And left her debt to Addison unpaid ; 
 
 Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, 
 
 And judge, oh, judge, my bosom by your own. 
 
 What mourner ever felt poetic fires! 
 
 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: 
 
 Grief unaffected suits but ill with art. 
 
 Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
 
 Can I forget the dismal night, that gave 
 My soul's best part for ever to the grave ! 
 How silent did his old companions tread, 
 By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, 
 Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, 
 Through rows of warriors, and through walks of 
 
 kings ! 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; 
 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; 
 The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate pay'd; 
 And the last words, that dust to dust convey'd ! 
 While speechless o'er thy closing grave mt bend, 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend ! 
 Oh, gone for ever, take this long adieu; 
 And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montagu!
 
 XX 
 
 To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine ; 
 A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; 
 Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 
 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. 
 If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part, 
 May shame afflict this alienated heart ; 
 Of thee forgetful if I form a song, 
 JMy lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, 
 My griefs be doubled, from thy image free, 
 And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee. 
 
 Oft let me range the gloomy iles alone, 
 ^(Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown,) 
 Along the walls where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallow'd mould below : 
 Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; 
 In arms who triumphVl, or in arts excell'd ; 
 Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
 Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood ; 
 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given ; 
 And saints, who taught, and led the way to 
 
 heaven. 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
 Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey 'd 
 A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade. 
 
 In what new region, to the just assign'd, 
 What new employments please th' unbody'd mind? 
 A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky. 
 From world to world, unweary'd does he fly ; 
 Or curious trace the long laborious maze 
 Of heaven's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze ? 
 Does he delight to hear bold Seraphs tell 
 How Michael battled, and the Dragon fell ? 
 Or, mixt with milder Cherubim, to glow 
 In hymns of love, not ill essay 'd below?
 
 XXI 
 
 Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, 
 A task well suited to thy gentle mind ? 
 Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, 
 To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend ! 
 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, 
 When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, 
 In silent whisp'rings purer thoughts impart, 
 And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; 
 Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 
 'Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. 
 
 That awful form (which, so ye heavens decree, 
 Must still be lov'd, and still deplor'd by me) 
 In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, 
 Or, rous'd by fancy, meets my waking eyes. 
 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, 
 Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my 
 
 sight; 
 If in the stage I seek to sooth my care, 
 I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there : 
 If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 
 His shape o'er takes me in the lonely grove: 
 'Twas there of Just and Good he reason'd strong, 
 Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious 
 
 song; 
 
 There patient shew'd us the wise course to steer, 
 A candid censor, and a friend severe ; 
 There taught us how to live ; and (oh I too high 
 The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. 
 
 Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures 
 
 grace, 
 Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race, 
 Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears, 
 O'er my dim eye-balls glance the sudden tears ? 
 How sweet were once thy prospects, fresh and fair, 
 Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air ! 
 
 2 . ■
 
 XXII 
 
 How sweet tlie glooms beneath thy aged trees, 
 Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze ! 
 His image thy forsaken bowers restore ; 
 Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; 
 No more the summer in thy gloom's allay'd, 
 Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. 
 
 From other ills, however Fortune frown'd, 
 Some refuge in the Muse's art I found : 
 Reluctant now I touch the trembling string ; 
 Eereft of him who tauo'ht me how to sinar. 
 And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, 
 Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 
 Oh ! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, 
 And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) 
 The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, 
 And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song ! 
 
 These works divine, which, on his death-bed 
 
 laid, 
 To thee, O, Craggs, th' expiring Sage convey'd ; 
 Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame ; 
 Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim. 
 Swift after him thy social spirit flies, 
 And close to his, hovv^ soon ! thy coffin lies. 
 Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall teir 
 In future tongues : each other's boast ! farewell. 
 Farewell ! whom join'd in fame, in friendship 
 
 try'd. 
 No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. 
 
 THOMAS TICKELL.
 
 SPECTATOR.
 
 THE 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 I 
 
 No. 1. THURSDAY, MARCH 1, 1710-1 L 
 
 No?i fummn ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem 
 Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 HAVE observed, that a reader seldom peruses a 
 book with pleasure, till he knows whether the Maiter 
 of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or cho- 
 leric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other 
 particulars of the like nature, that conduce very 
 much to the right understanding of an author. To 
 gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a 
 reader, I design this paper and my next as prefa- 
 tory 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 trou- 
 ble of compihng, 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, 
 according to the tradition of the village where it 
 lies, was bounded by the same hedges and ditches 
 in Wilham the Conqueror's time that it is at present, 
 and has been delivered down from father to son 
 whole and entire, without the loss or acquisition of 
 a single field or meadow, during the space of six 
 hundred jears. There runs a story in the family, 
 that when my mother was gone with child of me 
 about three months, she dreamt that she was brought 
 
 Vol. I. B
 
 2 SPECTATOR. no. i. 
 
 to bed of a judge : whether this might proceed from 
 a law-suit which was then depending in the family, 
 or my father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot 
 determine ; for I am not so vain as to think it pre- 
 sao-ed anv dio'nity that I should arrive at in my 
 future life, though that was the interpretation which 
 the neighbourhood put upon it. The gravity of my be- 
 haviour at my very first appearance in the world, and 
 all the time that 1 sucked, seemed to favour my mo- 
 ther's dream ; for, as she has often tokl me, I threw 
 away my rattle before I was two months old, and 
 would not make use of my coral till they had taken 
 away the bells from it. 
 
 As for the rest of my infancy, there being no- 
 thing in it remarkable, 1 shall pass it over in silence. 
 I find that, during my non-age, I had the reputa- 
 tion of a very sullen youth, but was always a fa- 
 vourite of my school-master, who used to say, ' that 
 my parts were solid, and would wear M'elL' I had 
 not been Ions; at the Universitv, before I distin- 
 guished myself by a most profound silence ; tor 
 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 ^\'hole life. Whilst I was in this learned body, 
 I applied myself with so much diligence to my stu- 
 dies, that there are very few celebrated books, 
 cither in the learned or modern tongues, which I 
 am not acquainted with. 
 
 Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to 
 travel into foreii>'n countries, and therefore left the 
 University with the character of an odd, unaccount- 
 able fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I 
 Mould but shew it. An insatiable thirst after knoM'- 
 ledge carried me into all the countries of Europe 
 in which there was any thing new or strange to be 
 seen : n^iy, to such a tk-gree was my curiosity raised, 
 that," liaving read the controyersies of some great
 
 NO. 1. SPECTATOR. 3 
 
 men concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I made a 
 voyage to Grand Cario, on purpose to take the 
 measure of a pyramid ; and as soon as I had set 
 myself right in that particular, returned to my na- 
 tive country with s'reat 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 nie ; of whom my next paper shall give a 
 more particular account. There is no place of ge- 
 neral resort, wherein I do not often make my ap- 
 pearance. 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. Sometimes I smoke 
 a pipe at Child's, and whilst I seem attentive to no- 
 thing but the postman, overhear the conversation 
 of every table in the room. I appear on Sunday 
 nights at St. James's Coffee-house, and sometimes 
 join the little committee of politics in the inner 
 room, as one who comes there to hear and improve. 
 My face is likewise very well known at the Grecian, 
 the Cocoa-Tree, and in the Theatres both of Drurv- 
 Lane and the Hay-Market. I have been taken for 
 a merchant upon the Exchange for alcove these ten 
 years, and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly 
 of stock 'jobbers at Jonathan's : in short, v.iierever 
 I see a cluster of people, I alwa3^s 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 
 mankind, than as one of the species ; by which 
 means I have made myself a speculative statesman, 
 soldier, merchant, and artizan, without ever med- 
 dling with any practical part in life. I am very well 
 versed in the therorv of a husband or a father, and 
 
 */ 1 • 1 
 
 can discern the errors in the oeconomy, busmess and 
 diversion of others, better than those who are en- 
 gaged in them ; as standers-by discover blots, which 
 are aot to escape those who are in the game. I 
 
 B 2 .
 
 4 SPECTATOR. no. i. 
 
 never espoused any party with violence, and am re- 
 solved to observe an exact neutrality between the 
 Whigs and Tories, unless 1 shall be forced to de- 
 clare myself by the hostihties 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 pre- 
 sent in this paper. 
 
 I have given the reader just so much of my history 
 and character, as to let him see I am not alto- 
 gether unquahfied for the business I have under- 
 taken. As for other particulars in my life and ad- 
 ventures, 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 mv own taciturnity; and since I have 
 neither time nor inchnation 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 shovdd be in the possession of a silent 
 man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a 
 sheet-full of thoughts every morning, for the benefit 
 of my contemporaries ; and if I can any way con- 
 tribute to the diversion or improvement of the coun- 
 try in which I live, I shall leave it, when I am sum- 
 moned out of it, M'ith the secret satisfaction of 
 thinking that I have not lived in vain. 
 
 There are three very material points which I have 
 not spokeu to in this paper; and Mhich, for several 
 important reasons, I nmst keep to myself, at least 
 for some time: I mean an account of my name, my 
 age, and my lodgings. I must confess, I would 
 giatify my reader in any thing that is reasonable ; 
 hut as for these three particulars, though I am sen- 
 sible they might tend very much to the embellish- 
 ment of my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution 
 of comnmnicating them to the public. They would 
 indeed draw me out of that obscurity whicJi I have
 
 KO, 2. 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 enjoyed for many years, and expose me in public 
 places to several salutes and civilities, which have 
 been always very disagreeable to me ; for the great- 
 est pain I can suffer, is the being talked to, and 
 being stared at. It is for this reason likewise, that 
 I keep my complexion and dress as very great 
 secrets ; though it is not impossible, but I may make 
 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. However, as my friends have en- 
 gaged me to stand in the front, those who have a 
 mind to correspond with me, mav direct their letters 
 to the SPECTATOR, at Mr. Buckley's, in Little 
 Britain. For 1 must further acquaint the reader, 
 that though our club meets only on Tuesdays and 
 Thursdays, we have appointed a committee to sit 
 every night, for the inspection of all such papers as 
 may contribute to the advancement of the public 
 weal. 
 
 No 2. FRIDAY, MARCH 2. 
 
 ■^st alii sex 
 
 Et plures, uno condamant ore- 
 
 Juv. 
 
 HE first of our society Is a gentleman of Worces- 
 tershire, 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 Sir 
 Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in 
 his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his 
 
 B3
 
 6 SPECTATOR. no. 2. 
 
 good sense, and arc contradictions to the manners 
 of the world, only as he thinks the world is in the 
 wrong. However, this humour creates him no ene- 
 mies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy ; 
 a,nd 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 per- 
 verse 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 
 at his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Daw- 
 son in a public coffee-house for calling him young- 
 ster. But being ill used by the above-mentioned 
 widow, he was very serious for a year and a half; 
 and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at 
 last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and 
 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 hu- 
 mours, he tells us, has been in and out twelve times 
 since he first wore it. 'Tis said Sir Roger grew 
 humble in his desires after he had forgot this cruel 
 beauty, insomuch that it is reported he has treciuent- 
 ly offended in point of chastity with beggars and 
 gypsies : but this is looked upon by his friends ra- 
 ther as matter of raillery than truth. He is now in 
 his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and heart}- ; 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 : w hen 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;
 
 NO. 2. 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 that he fills tlie chair at a quarter-session witli 
 great ahilities, and three months ago gained univer- 
 sal applause hy explaining a passage in the game 
 act. 
 
 The p'entleman next in esteem and authority 
 among us, is another bachelor, who is a member of 
 the Inner Temple ; a man of great probitr, Avit, and 
 understanding ; but he has chosen his place of re- 
 sidence rather to obev the direction of an old hu- 
 moursome father, than in pursuit of his own inclina- 
 tions. 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 stae'e. Aristotle and Lono-inus are 
 much better understood by him than Littleton or 
 Coke. The father sends up eyery post questions re- 
 lating to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in the 
 neighbourhood; all which questions he agrees with an 
 attorney to answer and take care of in the lump. He 
 is studying the passions themsehes, when he should 
 be enquiring into the debates among men which 
 arise from them. He knows the argument of each of 
 the orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but not one 
 case in the reports of our own courts. No one ever 
 took him for a fool ; but none, except his intimate 
 friends, know he has a Q-reat 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 httle too just for the age he hves in ; he 
 has read all, but approves of very few. His fami- 
 liarity with the customs, manners, actions, and 
 writino-s, 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 : exactly at five he passes through 
 New-Inn, crosses through Russel-Court, and takes 
 a turn at Will's till the pTay begins : he has his shoes 
 rubbed and his perriwig powdered at the barber's as 
 you o-o into the Rose. It is for the s,ood of the 
 
 B4
 
 8 SPECTATOR. no. 2. 
 
 audience when he is at a play, for the actors have an 
 ambition to please him. 
 
 The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew 
 Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the city 
 of London ; a person of indefatigable industry, 
 strong reason, and great experience. His notions of 
 trade are noble and generous; and (as every rich man 
 has usually some sly way of jesting, w^hich 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 it is a stu- 
 pid and barbarous way to extend dominion by arms ; 
 for true po^er 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 na- 
 tion ; and if another, from another. I have heard 
 him prove, that diligence makes more lasting acqui- 
 sitions than valour, and that sloth has ruined more 
 nations than the sword. He abounds in several fru- 
 gal maxims, amongst which the greatest favourite is, 
 *' A penny saved is a pcnn}' got." A general trader 
 of good sense, is pleasanter company than a general 
 scholar ; and Sir Andrew having a natural unaffect- 
 ed eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse gives 
 the same pleasure tliat wit would in another man. 
 He has made his fortunes himself; and says that 
 England may be richer than other kingdoms, by as 
 plain methods as he himself is richer than otiier 
 men ; though at the same time I can say this of him, 
 that there is not a point in the compass but blows 
 home a ship in which he is an owner. 
 
 Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain 
 Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good under- 
 standing, but invincible modesty. He is one of 
 those that deserve very well, but are very aukward 
 at putting their talents within the observation of 
 such as should take notice of them. He was some 
 years a ca|)tain, and behaved himself with great 
 gallantry in several engagements and at sevcrj^l
 
 NO. 2. SPECTATOR. 9 
 
 sieges ; but having a small estate of liis own, and 
 being next lieir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way 
 of hfe in which no man can rise suitably to his merit, 
 who is not something of a courtier as well as a sol- 
 dier. I have heard him often lament, that in a pro- 
 fession where merit is placed in so conspicuous Or 
 view, impudence should get the better of modesty. 
 When he has talked to this purpose, 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 re2;ular behaviour, are 
 in themselves obstacles to him that must press 
 through crowds, who endeavour at the same end 
 with himself, the favor of a commander. He will, 
 however, in his way of talk, excuse generals for not 
 disposing according to mens desert, or enquiring 
 into it : for, says he, that great man who has a 
 mind to help me, has as many to break through to 
 come at me, as I have to come at him : therefore he 
 will conclude, that the man who would make a 
 figure, especially in a military way, must get over 
 all false modesty, and assist his patron against the 
 importunity of other pretenders, by a proper as- 
 surance in his own vindication. He says it is a civil 
 cowardice to be backward in assertino; what vou 
 ought to expect, as it is a mihtary fear to be slo\\^ in 
 attackino- when it is vour dutv. With this candour 
 does the gentleman speak of himself and others. 
 The same frankness runs throuo-h all his conversa- 
 tion. The milita*^^ 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 command men 
 in the utmost degree below him; nor ever too obse- 
 quious, from an habit of obeying men highly above 
 him. 
 
 But that our society may not appear a set of hu- 
 mourists unacquainted witli the gallantries and plea- 
 sures of the ao-e, we have amontr us the o-allant ^Vill 
 Honeycomb, a gentleman wlio, according to hi$
 
 10 SPECTATOR. no. 2. 
 
 years, should be in the dechne of hfe, but having 
 ever been ver}^ 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, of a 
 good height. He is very ready at that sort of dis- 
 course with which men usually entertain women. 
 He has all his life dressed very well, and remembers 
 habits as others do men. He can smile when one 
 speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows the 
 historv of everv mode, and can inform you from 
 ■which of the French king's wenches our M'ives and 
 dauo'hters had this manner of curHns* their hair, 
 that way of placing their hoods ; whose frailty was 
 covered by such a sort of petticoat, and whose va- 
 nity to shew her foot made that part of the dress so 
 short in such a vear : 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 occa- 
 sion, he will tell you when the Duke of ]\Jonmouth 
 danced at court, such a w^oman was then smitten, 
 another was taken M'ith him at the head of his troop 
 in the Park. In all these important relations, he has 
 ever about the same time received a kind glance or 
 blow of a fan from some celebrated beauty, mother 
 of the present Lord such-a-one. If you speak of a 
 young connnoner that said a lively thing in the 
 liouse, he starts up, " He has good blood in his 
 veins : Tom ]\Iirabel bc2:ot him : the roi>uc cheated 
 me in that afiair : that young fellow's mother used 
 me more like a dog than any woman I ever made 
 advances to." This way of talking of his very 
 much enlivens the conversation among us of a more 
 sedate turn; and I find there is not one of the com- 
 pany, but myselF, who rarely speak at all, but 
 speaks of him as of that sort of man \\lu) is usually 
 called a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude 
 his chaiacter, m here Momen are not concerned, he 
 is an honest wortliv man.
 
 NO. 3. SPECTATOR. 11 
 
 I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom 
 I am next to speak of, as one of our company ; for 
 he visits us but seldom ; but when he does, it adds 
 to every man else a new enjo3'ment of himself, tie 
 is a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of general 
 learning, great sanctity of life, and the most exact 
 breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very- 
 weak constitution, and consequently cannot accept 
 of such cares and business as preferments in his 
 function would oblige him to : he is therefore, 
 amono- divines, what a chamber-counsellor is amonp; 
 lawyers. The probity of his mind, and the inte- 
 grity of his life, create him followers, as being elo- 
 quent or loud advances others. He seldom intro- 
 duces the subject he speaks upon; but we are so far 
 gone in years, that he observes when he is among 
 us, an earnestness to have him fall on some divine 
 topic, which he always treats with much authority, 
 as one who has no interests in this world, as one 
 who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and 
 conceives hope from his decays and infirmities. 
 These are my ordinary companions, 
 
 (j:^' Though this paper, in former editions, is not marked with any 
 letter of the word CLIO, by which Mr. Addison distinguished his 
 pertormances, it was thought necessary to insert it, as containing 
 characters of the several persons mentioned in the wliole course of 
 this work. 
 
 No. 3. SATURDAY, ]\IARCH 3. 
 
 Et qiioi quisquefere stadin devinctvs adhccret : 
 j4ut qiiibus in rebus DiuUum sumusante murati: 
 Atqiie in qiifi ratione fuit contenta viagis mens ; 
 In aomiiib- cadan pkrumqiie vidcmur obirc 
 
 LuCR. L. 4. 
 
 JL N" one of my late rambles, or rather speculations, 
 I looked into the great hall where the Bank is kept, 
 and was not a little pleased to see the directors, se-
 
 12 SPECTATOR. no. 3. 
 
 cretaries, and clerks, with all the other members of 
 that wealthy corporation, ranged in their several 
 stations, according to the parts they act in that just 
 and regrular oeconomy. This revived in my memory 
 the many discourses Avhich I had both read and 
 heard concerning the decay of public credit, with 
 the methods of restoring it, and which, in my opi- 
 nion, have always been defective, because they have 
 always been made with an eye to separate interests, 
 and party principles. 
 
 The thoughts of the day gave my mind employ- 
 ment for the whole night, so that I fell insensibly 
 into a kind of methodical dream, m hich disposed all 
 my contemplations into a vision or allegory, or what 
 else the reader shall please to call it. 
 
 ISIetho Light I returned to the great hall, where I 
 had been the morning before, but, to my surprise, 
 instead of the company that I left there, I saw to- 
 wards the upper end of the hall a beautiful virgin, 
 seated on a throne of gold. Her name (as they told 
 me) was Public Credit. The walls, instead of being 
 adorned with pictures and maps, were hung with 
 many Acts of Parliament written in golden letters. 
 At the upper end of the hall was the Magna Charta, 
 with the Act of Uniformity on the right hand, and 
 the Act of Toleration on the left. At the lower end 
 of the hall was the Act of Settlement, Mhich was 
 placed full in the eye of the virgin that sat upon the 
 throne. Both the sides of the hall were covered with 
 such Acts of Parliament as had been made for the 
 esta!)lishment of ])uhlic fuuds. The lady seemed to 
 set an unspeakable value uj)on these several pieces of 
 furniture, insomuch that she often refreshed her eve 
 with them, and often smiled with a secret j)Ieasure, 
 as she looked upon them ; but, at the same time, 
 shewed a very particular uneasiness, if she saw any 
 thing approaching that miglit hurt them. She ap- 
 peared, indeed, inlinitely timorous in all her be- 
 haviour ; and, whether it was from the delicacy of
 
 NO. 3. SPECTATOR. 13 
 
 her constitution, or that she was troubled with va- 
 pours, as I was afterwards told by one who I found 
 was none of her well-wishers, she changed colour, 
 and started at every thing she heard. She was like- 
 wise (as I afterwards found) a greater valetudinarian 
 than any I had ever met with, even in her own sex, 
 and subject to such momentary consumptions, that, 
 in the twinkling of an eye, she would fall away from 
 the most florid complexion, and the most healthful 
 state of body, and wither into a skeleton. Her re- 
 coveries were often as sudden as her decays, inso- 
 much that she would revive in a moment out of a 
 wasting distemper, into a habit of the highest health 
 and vigour. 
 
 I had very soon an opportunity of observing these 
 quick turns and changes in her constitution. There 
 sat at her feet a couple of secretaries, who received 
 every hour letters from all parts of the world, which 
 the one or the other of them was perpetually reading 
 to her ; and according to the news she heard, to 
 which she was exceedingly attentive, she changed 
 colour, and discovered many symptoms of health or 
 sickness. 
 
 Behind the throne was a prodigious heap of bags 
 of money, which were piled upon one another so 
 high, that they touched the ceiling. The floor, on 
 her right hand and on her left, was covered with 
 vast sums of gold that rose up in pyramids on either 
 side of her : but this I did not so much wonder at, 
 when I heard, upon inquiry, that she had the same 
 virtue in her touch, which the poets tell us a Lydian 
 king was formerly possessed of; and that she could 
 convert whatever she pleased into that precious 
 metal. 
 
 After a little dizziness, and confused hurry of 
 thought, which a man often meets with in a dream, 
 methought the hall was alarmed, the doors flew 
 open, and there entered half a dozen of the most 
 hideous phantoms that I had ever seen (even in a
 
 14 SPECTATOR. no. 3. 
 
 dream) before that time. Thev came in two bv two, 
 thougli matched in the most dissociable manner, and 
 mingled together in a kind of dance. It would be 
 tedious to describe tlicir habits and persons, for 
 which reason 1 shall only inform my reader, that the 
 first couple were Tyranny and Anarchy ; the second 
 were Bigotry and Atheism ; the third, the genius of 
 a commonweaUh and a young man of about twenty- 
 two years of age, whose name I could not learn. He 
 had a sword in his right hand, which in the dance 
 he often brandished at the Act of Settlement ; and 
 a citizen, who stood by m^e, whispered in my ear, 
 that he saw a sponge in his left hand. TJie dance 
 of so many jarring natures put me in mind of the 
 sun, moon, and earth, in the Rehearsal, that 
 danced together for no other end but to ecHpse one 
 another. 
 
 The reader will easily suppose, by what has been 
 before said, that the lady on the throne v/ould have 
 been ahnost frighted to distraction, had she seen 
 but any one of the spectres ; what then must have 
 been her condition ^lien she saw them all in a 
 body ? She fainted and died away at the sight. 
 
 Et 7ieqiiejam color est misto candore rubori ; 
 JSIec Tif^or, et vires, et quce modb visa placebmit ; 
 
 N(x corpus remauet 
 
 Ov. Met. Lib. 3. 
 
 There was a great change in the hill of money 
 l)ags, and the heaps of money ; the former shrink- 
 ing, and falling into so many empty bags, that I 
 now found not above a tenth part of them had been 
 fdled Mith money. The rest that took up the same 
 space, and made the same figure as the bags that were 
 really filled M'ith money, had been blown up M^th air, 
 and called into my memory the bags full of wind, which 
 Homer tells us his hero received as a present from 
 i'l'>)his. The great heaps of gold, on either side the 
 throne, now appealed to be oidy heaps of paper, Qr
 
 NO. 5. SPECTATOR. 15 
 
 little piles of notched sticks, bound up together in 
 bundles, like Bath faggots. 
 
 Whilst I M^as lamenting this sudden desolation 
 that had been made before me, the whole scene va- 
 nished : in the room of the frightful spectres, there 
 now entered a second dance of apparitions very 
 agreeably matched together, and made up of very 
 amiable phantoms. The first pair was Liberty, with 
 Monarchy at her rio'ht hand ; the second was Mo- 
 deration leading in Religion ; and the third, a per- 
 son whom I had never seen, with the genius of 
 Great Britain. At the first entrance the lady re- 
 vived ; the bags swelled to their former bulk ; the 
 pile of faggots, and heaps of paper, changed into 
 pyramids of guineas: and, for my own part, I was 
 so transported with joy, that I awaked ; though, I 
 must confess, I would fain have fallen asleep again 
 to have closed my vision, if I could have done it. 
 
 No. 5. TUESDAY, MARCH 6. 
 
 Spec latum admissi risum teneafis ? 
 
 HoR. 
 
 J\n opera may be allowed to be extravagantly 
 lavish in its decorations, as its only design is to 
 gratify the senses, and keep up an indolent atten* 
 tion in the audience. Common sense, however, re- 
 quires, that there should be nothing iu the scenes 
 and machines which may appear childish and ab- 
 surd. How would the wits of King Charles's time 
 have laughed to have seen Nicolini exposed to a 
 tempest in robes of ermin, and sailing in an open 
 boat upon a sea of pasteboard ? What a field of 
 raillery would they have been let into, had they 
 been entertained with painted dragrons sj)itting 
 wild-fire, enchanted chariots drawn by Flanders
 
 16 SPECTATOR. no. 5. 
 
 marcs, and real cascades in artificial landscapes I 
 A little skill in criticism would inform us, that sha- 
 dows and realities ought not to be mixed together 
 in the same piece ; and that the scenes which are 
 designed as the representations of nature, should be 
 filled with resemblances, and not with the things 
 themselves. If one would represent a wide cham- 
 pain country filled with herds and flocks, it would 
 be ridiculous to draw the country only upon the 
 scenes, and to croud several parts of the stage with 
 sheep and oxen. This is joining together incon- 
 sistencies, and making the decoration partly real 
 and partly imaginary. I would recommend what I 
 have here said, to the directors, as well as to the 
 admirers, of our modern opera. 
 
 As I was walkin«- in the streets about a fortnioht 
 ago, I saw an ordinary felloM^ canying a cage full 
 of little birds upon his shoulder ; and, as 1 was 
 wondering with myself what use he would put them 
 to, he was met very luckily by an acquaintance, 
 who had the same curiosity. Upon his asking him 
 what he had upon his shoulder, he told him, that 
 he had been buying sparroMs for the opera. Spar- 
 rows for the opera! says his friend, licking his lips ; 
 what, are they to be roasted ? No, no, says the 
 other; they are to enter towards the end of the first 
 act, and to fly about tlie stage. 
 
 This strange dialogue aM'akened my curiosity so 
 far, that 1 immediately bouglit the opera, by which 
 means 1 peiceived the sparrows were to act the part 
 of singing-birds in a delightful grove; though, 
 upon a nearer incpiiry, I found the sparrows put tiie 
 same trick upon the audience, that Sir Martin Mar- 
 all practised upon his mistress ; for, though they 
 flew in sight, the music proceeded from a concert of 
 flagelets and l)ir(l-calls which were planted behind 
 the scenes. At the same time I made this discovery, 
 I found, by the discourse of the actors, that there 
 were great designs on foot for the improvement of
 
 \ 
 
 NO. 5. SPECTATOR. 17 
 
 the opera; that it had heen proposed to break down 
 a part of the wall, and to surprise the audience with 
 a party of an hundred horse ; and that there was 
 actually a project of bringing the New River into 
 the house, to be employed in jetteaus and water- 
 works. This project, as I have since heard, is 
 postponed till the summer season ; when it is 
 thought the coolness that proceeds from fountains 
 and cascades will be more acceptable and refreshing 
 to people of quality. In the mean time, to find out 
 a more ao-reeable entertainment for the winter sea- 
 son, the opera of Rinaldo is filled with thunder and 
 lightning, illuminations and fire-works ; which the 
 audience may look upon without catching cold, and 
 indeed without much danger of being burnt ; for 
 there are several engines filled with water, and ready 
 to play at a minute's warning, in case any such ac- 
 cident should happen. However, as I have a very 
 great friendship for the owner of this theatre, I 
 hope that he hath been wise enough to insure his 
 house before he would let this opera be acted 
 in it. 
 
 It is no wonder that those scenes should be very 
 surprising, which were contrived by two poets of 
 different nations, and raised by two magicians of; 
 different sexes. Armida (as we are told in the ar- 
 gument) was an Amazonian enchantress, and poor 
 Signior Cassani (as we learn from the persons repre- 
 sented) a Christian conjurer; (Mago Christiano.) I 
 must confess I am very much puzzled to find how 
 an Amazon should be versed in the black art ; or 
 how a good Christian (for such is the part of the 
 magician) should deal with the devil. 
 
 To consider the poets after the conjurers, I shall 
 give you a taste of the Italian, from the first lines of 
 his preface : Eccoti, benigno lettore^ tin parto di poche 
 sere, che se hen nato di notte^ non I perd aborto di 
 tenebre, ma si fard cotioscere jiglio d^ Apollo co?i qual-* 
 che raggio di Farnasse, ' Behold, gentle leadei', the 
 
 Vol. I . C
 
 18 SPECTATOR. no. 5. 
 
 birth of a few evenings, whicli, though it be the off- 
 spring of the night, is not the abortive of darkness, 
 but will make itself known to be the son of Apollo, 
 with a certain ray of Parnassus.' He afterwards 
 proceeds to call Mynheer Hendel the Orpheus of our 
 age, and to acquaint us, in the same sublimity of 
 stile, that he composed this opera in a fortnight. 
 Such are the wits to whose tastes we so anibitiously 
 conform ourselves. The truth of it is, the finest 
 writers among the modern Italians express them- 
 selves in such a florid form of words, and such 
 tedious circumlocutions, as are used by none but 
 pedants in our own country ; and at the same time 
 fill their writings Mdth such poor imaginations and 
 conceits, as our youths are ashamed of before they 
 have been two years at the university. Some may 
 be apt to think that it is the difference of genius 
 which produces this difference in the works of the 
 two nations ; but, to shew there is nothing in this, 
 if we look into the writings of the old Italians, such 
 as Cicero and Virgil, we shall find that the English 
 writers, in their way of thinking and expressing 
 themsehes, resemble those authors much more than 
 the modern Italians pretend to do. And as for the 
 poet himself, from \\hom the dreams of this opera 
 are taken, 1 must entirely agree with Monsieur Boi- 
 leau, that one verse in Virgil is worth all the clin- 
 quant or tinsel of Tasso. 
 
 Put to return to the spairows ; there have been so 
 many flights of them let loose in-this opera, that it is 
 feared the house will never get rid of them ; and that 
 in other plays they will make their entrance in very 
 wrong and inqnoper scenes, so as to be seen flying 
 in a lady's l)e(l-eliamber, or perching upon a king's 
 throne; besides the inconveniences which the heads 
 of the audience may sometimes suffer from thcju. 
 I am credibly inlormed, that there Mas once a design 
 of casting into an opera the story of Whittington 
 and ills cat, and that in order to it, tliere had been
 
 tio. 7. SPECTATOR. 19 
 
 got together a great quantity of mice; but Mr. Rich, 
 the proprietor of the playhouse, very prudently con- 
 sidered, that it would be impossible for the cat to 
 kill them all, and that consequently the princes of 
 the stao-e mi"*ht be as much infested with mice, as 
 the prince of the island was before the cat's arrival 
 upon it ; for which reason he would not permit it to 
 be acted in his house. And indeed I cannot blame 
 him: for, as he said very well upon that occasion, I 
 do not hear that any of the performers in our opera 
 pretend to equal the famous pied piper, who made 
 all the mice of a great town in Germany follow his 
 music, and by that mecms cleared the place of those 
 little noxious animals. 
 
 Before I dismiss this paper, I must inform ray 
 reader, that 1 hear there is a treaty on foot with 
 London and Wise (who ^v^ll be appointed gardeners 
 of the playhouse) to furnish the opera of Rinaldo 
 and Armida with an orange-grove ; and that the next 
 time it is acted, the singing birds will be personated 
 by tom-tits : the undertakers being resolved to spare 
 neither pains nor money for the gratification of the 
 audience. 
 
 No. 7. THURSDAY, MARCH 8, 
 
 Somnia, terrores magicos, miracnla, sagaSf 
 NoctuDtus lemxires, ■portent aqiie Thessala rides. 
 
 IIOR. 
 
 vJToiNG yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, 
 I had the misfortune to find his whole family very 
 much dejected. Upon asking him the occasion of 
 it, he told me that his wife had dreamt a strange 
 dream the night before, which they were afraid por- 
 ■ tended some misfortune to themselves or to their 
 children. At her coming into the room, I observed 
 a settled melancholy in her countenance, which I 
 should have been troubled for, had I not heard from 
 
 C 2
 
 20 SPECTATOR. no. 7. 
 
 whence it proceeded. We were no sooner sat down, 
 but, after having looked upon me a httle while, ' My 
 dear,' says she, turning to her husband, ' you may 
 now see the stranger that was in the candle last 
 night.' Soon after this, as they began to talk of 
 family aftairs, a little boy at the lower end of the 
 table told her, that he was to go into join-hand on 
 Thursday. 'Thursday!' says she. ' No, child, if it 
 please God, you shall not begin upon Childemnas- 
 day : tell your writing-master that Friday will be 
 soon enouoh.' I was reflectina; with myself on the 
 oddness of her fancy, and wondering that any body 
 would establish it as a rule to lose a day in every 
 week. In the midst of these my musings, she de- 
 sired me to reach her a little salt upon the point of 
 my knife, which I did in such a trepidation and hurry 
 of obedience, that I let it drop by the way ; at which 
 she immediately startled, and said it fell towards 
 her. Upon this I looked very blank ; and observing 
 the concern of the whole table, began to consider 
 myself, with some confusion, as a person that had 
 brought a disaster upon the family. The lady how- 
 ever recovering herself, after a little space, said to 
 her husband, with a sigh, ' ]\Iy dear, misfortunes 
 never come single.' My friend, I found, acted but 
 an under part at his table, and being a man of more 
 good-nature than understanding, thinks himself 
 obliged to fall in with all the passions and humours 
 of his yoke-fellow. * Do not you remember, child,' 
 says she, ' that the pigeon-house fell the very after- 
 noon that our careless wench spilt the salt upon the 
 table?' ' Yes,' says he, ' My dear; and the next post 
 brought us an account of the battle of Almanza.* 
 The reader may guess at the figure I made, after 
 having done all this uiischief. 1 dispatched my din- 
 ner as soon as I could, with my usual taciturnity; 
 when, to my utter confusion, the lady seeing me 
 (juitting my knife and fork, and laying them across 
 one another upon my plate, desired me that I would
 
 NO. 7. SPECTATOR. 21 
 
 humour her so far as to take them out of that figure, 
 and place them side by side. What the absurdity 
 was which I had committed I did not know, but I 
 suppose there was some traditionary superstition in 
 it; and tlierefore, in obedience to the lady of the 
 house, 1 disposed of my knife and fork, in two 
 parallel lines, which is the figure I shall always lay 
 them in for the future, though I do not know any 
 reason for it. 
 
 It is not difficult for a man to see that a person 
 has conceived an aversion to him. For my own part, 
 I quickly found, by the lady's looks, that she re- 
 garded me as a very odd kind of fellow, with an un- 
 fortunate aspect. For which reason I took my leave 
 immediately after dinner, and witlidrew to my own 
 lodgings. Upon my return home, I fell into a pro- 
 found contemplation of the evils that attend these 
 superstitious follies of mankind ; hoM' they subject 
 us to imaginary afflictions, and additional sorrows, 
 that do not properly come within our lot. As if the 
 natural calamities of life were not sufficient for it, 
 we turn the most indiiferent circumstances into mis- 
 fortunes, and sufirer as much from trifling accidents, 
 as from real evils. I have known the shooting of a 
 star spoil a night's rest : and have seen a man in love, 
 grow pale, and lose his appetite, upon the plucking 
 of a merry-thought. A screech-owl at midnight 
 has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers : 
 nay, the voice of a cricket has struck more terror 
 than the roaring of a lion. There is nothing so in- 
 considerable, which may not appear dreadful to an 
 imagination that is filled ^\'ith omens and prognos- 
 tics. A rusty nail, or a crooked pin, shoot up into 
 prodigies. 
 
 I remember I was once in a mixt assembly, that 
 was full of noise and mirth, ^\dlen on a sudden an 
 old woman unluckily observed there were thirteen 
 of us in company. This remark struck a panic ter- 
 ror into several who were present, insomuch that 
 
 C 3
 
 22 SPECTATOR. NO. 7. 
 
 one or two of the ladies were going to leave the 
 room ; but a friend of mine taking notice that one 
 of our female companions was big with child, af- 
 firmed, there were fourteen in the room, and that, 
 instead of portending one of the company should 
 die, it plainly foretold one of them should be born. 
 Had not my friend found out this expedient to break 
 the omen, I question not but half the women in the 
 company Mould have fallen sick that very night. 
 
 An old maid, that is troubled M'ith tlie vapours, 
 produces infinite disturbances of this kind among 
 her friends and neighbours. I know a maiden aunt 
 of a great family, who is one of these anticjuated 
 Sibyls, that forebodes and prophecies from one end 
 of the year to the other. She is always seeing ap- 
 paritions, and hearing death-M^atches ; 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-ach. Such an extra- 
 vagant cast, of mind engages multitudes of people, 
 not only in impertinent terrors, but in supernu- 
 merary duties of life; und arises fiom that fear and 
 ignorance M'hich are natural to the soul of man. 
 Tht horror M'ith A\'hich ye entertain the thoughts of 
 death, (or indeed of any future e\'il,) and the uncer- 
 tainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind with in- 
 numerable apprehensions and su8.picions, and conse- 
 (piently dispose it to the observation of such ground- 
 less prodigies and predictions. For as it is tlie 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 su- 
 perstition. . . 
 
 For my o\rn part, I should be very much troubled 
 were I endoMcd M'ith this diviuino- (lualitv, tliouiili 
 it sJunild inl'onu me truly of .every tliiiu>" that can 
 beta! me. I would not anticipate the relisli of any 
 }ia))j)iucss, nor feel the weight of any misery, be- 
 fore it actually arri\eK.
 
 Ko. 8. SPECTATOR. 23 
 
 I know but one way of fortifying my soul against 
 these gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that 
 is by securing to myself the friendship and protec- 
 tion of that Being who disposes of events, and go- 
 verns futurity. He sees at one view, the whole 
 thread of my existence ; not only that part of it 
 which I have already passed through, but that Avhich 
 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 advan- 
 tage. Though I knoAT neither the time nor the 
 manner- of the death I am to die, I am not at all so- 
 licitous about it; because I am sure that he knows 
 them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and 
 ssupport me under them. 
 
 .u 1 
 
 No. 8. FRIDAY, IMARCH 9- 
 
 At Venus ohsciiro gradientes acre sepsit, 
 Et viulto uthulce circum deu fudit amictit, 
 Cernere lie quis eos ViRG. 
 
 X SHALL here communicate to the world a couple of 
 letters, which I believe will give the reader as good 
 an entertainment as any that 1 am able to furnish 
 him with, and therefore shall make no apology for 
 them. 
 
 * TO THE SPECTATOR, &c. 
 
 * STR, 
 
 * I AM one of the directors of the society for the 
 reformation of manners, and therefore think myself 
 a proper person for your correspondence. I have 
 thoroughly examined the present state of religion in 
 Great Britain, and am able to acquaint you with the 
 predominant vice of every market- town in the whole 
 
 C 4
 
 24 SPECTATOR. no. 8. 
 
 island. I can tell you the progress that virtue has 
 made m all our cities, boroughs, and corporations ; 
 and know as well the evil practices that are com- 
 mitted in Berwick or Exeter, as what is done in my 
 own family. In a word, Sir, I have my cor- 
 respondents in the remotest parts of the nation, 
 who send me up punctual accounts, from time to 
 time, of all the little irregularities that fall under 
 their notice in their several districts and divisions. 
 
 ' I am no less acquainted with the particular 
 quarters and regions of this great town, than with 
 the different parts and distributions of the whole 
 nation. 1 can describe every parish by its impieties, 
 and can tell you in which of our streets lewdness 
 prevails, which gaming has taken the possession of, 
 and where drunkenness has got the better of them 
 both. When I am disposed to raise a fine for the 
 poor, I know the lanes and alleys that are inhabited 
 by common swearers. When I would encourage the 
 hospital of Bridewell, and improve the hempen ma- 
 nufacture, I am very well acquainted with all the 
 haunts and resorts of female nioht-walkers. 
 
 ' After this short account of myself, I must let 
 you know, that the design of this paper is to give 
 you information of a certain irregular assembly wliich 
 I think falls very properly under your observation, 
 especially since the persons it is composed of are 
 criminals too considerable for the animadversions of 
 our societv. I mean, Sir, the midnioht mask, Mhich 
 has of late been very frequently held in one of the 
 most conspicuous parts of the town, and which I 
 hear will be continued with additions and improve- 
 ments. As all the persons M'ho compose this law- 
 less asseml>ly are masked, m'c dare not attack any 
 of them in our May, lest m'c should send a woman 
 of quality to Bridewell, or a peer of Great Ihitaiu 
 to the Counter ; besides, that their numbers are so 
 very great, that I am afraid they would be able to 
 rout our whole fraternity, though we were accom-
 
 iio. 8. ' SPECTATOR. 25 
 
 panied with all our guard of constables. Both these 
 reasons, which secure them from our authority, 
 make them obnoxious to yours; as both tbeir dis- 
 guise and their numbers will give no particular per- 
 son reason to think himself affronted by you, 
 
 ' If we are rightly informed, the rules that are 
 observed by this new society, are wonderfully con- 
 trived for the advancement of cuckoldom. The 
 women either come by themselves, or -are intro- 
 duced by friends, who are obliged to quit them, 
 upon their first entrance, to the conversation of any 
 body that addresses himself to them. There are 
 several rooms where the parties may retire, and, if 
 they please, shew their faces by consent. ^\'his- 
 pers, squeezes, nods, and embraces, are the inno- 
 cent freedoms of the place. In shoit, the whole 
 design of this libidinous assembly seems to termi- 
 nate in assignations and intrigues; and I hope you 
 will take effectual methods, by your pubhc advice 
 and admonitions, to prevent such a promiscuous 
 multitude of both sexes from meeting together in 
 so clandestine a manner. I am 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 and fellow labourer, 
 
 T. B.' 
 
 Not long after the perusal of this letter, I re- 
 ceived another upon the same subject; which, by 
 the date and style of it, I take to be written by 
 some young Templar. 
 
 ' Middle Temple, 1710-11. 
 'sir, 
 ' Whent a man has been guilty of any vice or 
 folly, I think the best atonement he can make for 
 it, is to warn others not to fall into the like. In 
 order to this, I must acquaint you, that some time 
 in February last, I went to the Tuesday's masque- 
 rjade. Upon my first going in, I was attacked by 
 half a dozen female quakers, who seemed willing to
 
 25 SPECTATOR. no. §. 
 
 adoptme For a brother; but, upon nearer examina- 
 tion, I found they were a sisterhood of coquettes dis- 
 guised in that precise habit. I was soon after taken 
 out to dance, and, as I fancied, by a woman of the first 
 quahty, for she was very tall, and moved gracefully. 
 As soon as the minuet was over, we ogled one another 
 through our masques ; and as I am very well read in 
 "Waller, I repeated to her the four following verses 
 out of his poem of Vandyke. ' :; n- 
 
 . ' i ' I ' 
 
 The heedless lover does not know 
 Whose eyes they are- that vvound Tiirti so ; 
 But, confounded with thy art, ' 
 
 Inquires her name that has his heart. 
 
 ic 
 
 I pronounced these words with such a languish- 
 ing air, that I had some reason to conclude I had 
 made a conquest. She told nie that she hoped my 
 face was not a-kin to my tongue; and looking upon 
 her watch, I accidentallv discovered the fioure of a 
 coronet on the back part of it. 1 Avas so transported 
 with the thought of such an amour, that I plied her 
 from one room to another with all the gallantries I 
 could invent; and at leno-th brought thino-s to so 
 ha])py an issue, that she gave me a private meeting 
 the next day, without page or footman, coach or 
 equipage. My heart danced in raptures; but I had 
 not lived in this i>olden dream above thire davs, 
 before 1 found good reason to wi.^h that I had con- 
 tinued true to my laundress. I Jiave since heard, 
 by a very great accident, that this fine lady does 
 not live far from Covent-Garden, and that I am not 
 the first cully whom she has passed herself upon for 
 a countess. 
 
 " Thus, Sir, you see how I have mistaken a 
 Cloud for a Juno ; and if a on can make any use of 
 this adventure, for the benefit of those who may 
 possibly be as vain yoimg coxcombs as myself, 1 db 
 most heartily give you leave. I am, sir. 
 
 Your most humble admirer, 13. L."
 
 Ko.'9' SPECTATOR. 27 
 
 . I design to visit the next masquerade myself, in 
 the same habit I wore at Grand Cairo ; and till then 
 shall suspend my judgment of this midnight enter^ 
 tainment. 
 
 No. 9. SATURDAY, MARCH 10. 
 
 . Tigris agit rahidd cum figride pacem 
 
 Perpctuam, sccvis infer se convenit ursis. 
 
 Juv. 
 
 IVxan is said to be a sociable animal, and, as an 
 instance of it, we may observe, that we take all oc- 
 casions and pretences of forming ourselves into those 
 little nocturnal assemblies, which are commonly 
 kiiown by the name of Clubs. When a set of men 
 find themselves agree in any particular, though 
 never so trivial, they establish themselves into a kind 
 of fraternity, and meet once or twice a week, upoii 
 the account of such a fantastic resemblance. I know 
 a considerable market- to\vn, in which there was a club 
 of fit men, that did not come together (as you may 
 well suppose) to entertain one another with spright- 
 liness and wit, but to keep one another in counte- 
 nance: the room where the club met was something 
 of the largest, and had two entrances ; the One by a 
 door of a moderate size, and the other by a pair of 
 folding doors. If a candidate for this corpulent 
 club could m^ake his entrance through the first, he 
 "\vas looked upon as unqualified ; but if he stuck in 
 the passage, and could not force his a\ ay through 
 it, the folding doors Avere immediately thrown open 
 for his reception, and he was saluted as a brother. 
 I have heard tliat this club, though it consisted but 
 of fifteen persons, weighed above three ton. 
 
 In opposition to this society, there sprung up 
 another composed of scare-crows and skeletons, 
 who being very meager and envious, did all they
 
 28 SPECTATOR. no. 9. 
 
 could to thwart the designs of their bulky brethren, 
 whom they represented as men of dangerous prin- 
 ciples; till at length they worked them out of the 
 favour of the people, and consequently out of the 
 magistracy. These factions tore the corporation in 
 pieces for several years, till at length they came to 
 this accommodation; that the two bailiffs of the 
 town should be annually chosen out of the two 
 clubs ; by which means the principal magistrates 
 are at this day coupled like rabbits, one fat and 
 one lean. 
 
 Every one has heard of the club, or rather the 
 confederacy, of the Kings. This grand alliance 
 was formed a little after the return of King Charles 
 the Second, and admitted into it men of all qua- 
 lities and professions, provided they agreed in this 
 sir-name of King, which, as they imagined, suffi- 
 ciently declared the owners of it to be altogether 
 untainted with republican and anti-monarchical prin- 
 ciples. 
 
 A Christian name has likewise been often used as 
 a badge of distinction, and made the occasion of a 
 club. Xbat of the George's, which used to meet at 
 the sign of the George, on St. George's day, and 
 swear ' Before Georoe,' is still fresh in everv one'si 
 memory. 
 
 There are at present in several parts of this city, 
 what they call Street-Clubs, in which the chief in- 
 habitants of the street converse together every 
 night. I remember, upon my inquiring after lodg- 
 ings in Ormond-street, the landlord, to recommend 
 that quarter of tlie town, told me, there was at that 
 time a very good club in it : he also told me, upon 
 farther discourse with him, that two or three noisy 
 country sciuires, who were settled there the year be- 
 fore, had considerably sunk the price of house rent; 
 and that the club (to prcv^ent the like inconveniences 
 for the future) had thoughts of taking every house 
 that became vacant into their own hands, till thev
 
 so.g. SPECTATOR. 29- 
 
 had found a tenant fit for it, of a sociable nature, 
 and good conversation. 
 
 The Hum-Drum Club, of which I was formerly 
 an unworthy member, was made up of very honest 
 gentlemen, of peaceable dispositions, that used to 
 sit together, smoke their pipes, and say nothing till 
 midnight. The Mum Club (as I am informed) is 
 an institution of the same nature, and as great an 
 enemy to noise. 
 
 After these two innocent societies, I cannot for- 
 bear mentioning a very mischievous one, that was 
 erected in the reign of King Charles the Second : 
 I mean, the Club of Duellists, in M'hich none was to 
 be admitted that had not fought his man. The pre- 
 sident of it was said to have killed half a dozen in, 
 single combat; and as for the other members, they 
 took their seats according to the number of their 
 slain. There was hkewise a side-table for such as 
 had only draM'n blood, and shewn a laudable am- 
 bition of taking the first opportunity to qualify 
 themselves for the first table. This club, consisting 
 only of men of honour, did not continue long, most 
 of the members of it being put to the sword, or 
 hanged, a little after its institution. 
 
 Our modern celebrated clubs are founded upon 
 eating and drinking, which are points wherein most 
 men agree, and in which the learned and illiterate, 
 the dull and airy, the philosopher and the bufibon, 
 can all of them bear a part. The Kit-Cat itself is 
 said to have taken its original from a mutton-pye. 
 The Beef-steak and October Clubs, are neither of 
 them averse to eating and drinking, if we may form 
 a judgment of them from their respective titles. 
 
 When men are thus knit together, by a love of 
 society, not a spirit of faction, and do not meet to 
 censure or annoy those that are absent, but to enjo}'' 
 one another; when they are thus combined for their 
 own improvement, or for the good of others, or at 
 least to relax, themselves from the business of th^
 
 so SPECTATOR. NO. 9. 
 
 day, by an innocent and chearful conversation; there 
 may be something very useful in these httle institu- 
 tions and estabhshments. 
 
 I cannot forbear concluding this paper Mith a 
 scheme of laws that I met with upon a Avail in a 
 little ale-house: how I canie thither, I may inform 
 my reader at a more conv^enient time. These laws 
 were enacted by a knot of artizans and mechanics, 
 Avho used to meet every night ; and as there is some- 
 thing in them which gives us a pretty picture of low 
 hfe, I shall transcribe them word for word. 
 
 Rules to be observed in the Two-penny Club, erected 
 in this place for the preservation of friendship and 
 good 7ieighbuurhood. 
 
 I. Every member at his first coming in shall lay 
 down his tMo-pence. 
 
 II. Every member shall fill his pipe out of his 
 own box. 
 
 III. If any member absents himself, he shall for- 
 feit a penny for the use of the club, unless in case 
 of sickness or imprisonment. 
 
 IV. If any member swears or curses, his neie-h- 
 uour may give him a kick upon the shins. 
 
 V. If any member tells stories in the club that 
 are not true, he shall forfeit for every third lie an 
 half- penny. 
 
 VI. If any memberstrikes another Avrongfully, he 
 5.hall pay his chd) for him. 
 
 VII. If any member brings his wife into the club, 
 he shall pay for whatever she drinks or smokes. 
 
 VIII. If any member's wife comes to fetch him 
 home from the club, she shall sjjcak tohim without 
 the door. 
 
 IX. If any member calls another cuckold, he 
 f>hall be turned out of the chxh. 
 
 X. None shall be achnitted into the club that is 
 vf the sauje trade with any member of it.
 
 510. 10. SPECTATOR. 31 
 
 XL None of the club shall have his clothes or 
 shoes made or mended, but by a brother member. 
 
 XI I. No Nonjuror shall be capable of being a 
 member. 
 
 The morality of this club is guarded by such 
 wholesome laws and penalties, that I question not 
 but my reader will.be as well pleased with them, as 
 he would have been with the Leges Convivales of Ben 
 Johnson, the regulations of an old Roman club 
 cited by Lipsius, or the rules of a Symposium in an 
 ancient Greek author. 
 
 No. 10. JNIONDAY, MARCH 12. 
 
 KoH aliter quam qui adverso vixjlamine lemhum 
 Retnigiis subigit : si brachia forte remisit, 
 Atque ilium in prceceps prono rapit alveus avmi. 
 
 VlRO. ' 
 
 It is with much satisfaction that I hear this great 
 city inquiring day by day after these my papers, 
 and receiving my morning lectures Avith a becoming 
 seriousness and attention. My publisher tells m€, 
 that there are already three thousand of them dis- 
 tributed every dav : So that if I allow twenty' 
 readers to every paper, which I look upon as a mo- 
 dest computation, I may reckon about threescore 
 thousand disciples in London and Westminster, 
 who I hope will take care to distinguish themselves 
 from the thoughtless herd of their ignorant and in- 
 attentive brethren. Since I have raised to myself 
 so great an audience, I shall spare no pains to make 
 their instruction agreeable, and their diversion use- 
 ful. For which reasons I shall endeavour to enliven 
 morality with wit, and to temper wit with morality, 
 that my readers may, if possible, both ways find 
 their account in the speculation of the day. And 
 to the end that their virtue and discretion may not
 
 52 SPECTATOR. NO. lo. 
 
 be short, transient, intermitting starts of thought, I 
 have resolved to refresh tlieir memories from day to 
 day, till I have recovered them out of that despe- 
 rate state of vice and folly into which the age is 
 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 inliabit among men ; and I shall be am- 
 bitious 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 re- 
 conmiend these my speculations to all well-regu- 
 lated families, that set apart an hour 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 swalloMcd up 
 and devoured those of the iEgyptians. I shall not 
 be so vain as to think, that where the SPECTATOR 
 appears, the other public 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 ignorance, passion, and 
 prejudice, than such as naturally conduce to intlame 
 hatreds, and make enmities irreconclleable ? 
 
 In the next place, I would recommend this paper 
 to the daily perusal of those gentlemen whom I can- 
 not but consider a^s my good brothers and allies ; I 
 mean the fralrrr.ity of Spectators, who live in the 
 world without b.aving any thing to do in it ; and 
 either by the affluence of their fortunes, or laziness
 
 NO. 10. SPECTATOR. 33 
 
 of their dispositions, have no other business with 
 the rest of mankind, but to look upon them. Under 
 this class of men are comprehended all contempla- 
 tive tradesmen, titular physicians, Fellows of the 
 Royal Society, Templars that are not given to be 
 contentious, and statesmen that are out of business : 
 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, Mdiom I have lately called the Blanks 
 of Society, as beino; altoo-ether unfurnished with 
 ideas, till the business and conversation of the dav 
 has supplied them. I have often considered those 
 poor souls with an eye of great commiseration, 
 when I have heard them asking the first man they 
 have met Avith, whether there was any news stirring, 
 and bv that means o-atherino; too'ether 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 this paper, and to promise 
 them that 1 will daily instil into them such sound 
 and wholesome sentiments, as shall have a o-ood 
 effect on their conversation for the ensuing twelve 
 hours. 
 
 But there are none to whom this paper will be 
 more useful, than to the female M'orld. I have often 
 thought there has not been sufficient pains taken ia 
 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 
 
 Vol, I. D
 
 54 SPECTATOR. no. to. 
 
 sex than to the species. The toilet is their 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 toyshop, so great a fatigue makes them unfit 
 for any thing else all the day after. Their more se- 
 rious occupations are sewing and embroidery, and 
 their greatest drudgery the preparation of jellies and 
 sweetmeats. 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 orna- 
 ments of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and res- 
 pect, as well as love, into their male beholders. I 
 hope to increase the number of these by publishing 
 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 
 time, as I would fain give some finishing touches to 
 those which are already the most beautiful pieces in 
 liuman nature, I shall endeavour to point out all 
 those imperfections that are the blemishes, as well 
 as those virtues which are the embellishments, of the 
 sex. In the meanwhile 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 hinderance to business. 
 
 I know several of my friends and well-wishers are 
 in great pain for me, lest I should not be able to 
 keep up the spirit of a paper m hich I oblige myself 
 to furnish everv dav : but to make them easy in 
 this particular, I Mill promise them faithfully to give 
 it over as soon as I grow dull. This I know will be 
 matter of great raillery to the small wits ; who wili 
 •freqiicntly put me in mind of my promise, desire
 
 NO. 12. SPECTATOR. 35 
 
 me to keep my word, assure me that it is high time 
 to give over, with many other Uttle pleasantries of 
 the hke nature, which men of a Httle smart genius 
 cannot forbear throwing out against their best 
 friends, when they have such a handle given them 
 of being Avitty. But let them remember that I do 
 hereby enter my caveat against tliis piece of raillery. 
 
 No. 12. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14. 
 
 Vtteres avias tibi de pulmone revello. 
 
 Pers. 
 
 X1.T my coming to London, it was some time be- 
 fore I could settle myself in a house to my liking. 
 I was forced to quit my first lodgings, by reason of 
 an officious landlady, 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 1 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 1 was melancholy, I thought it was high time 
 for me to be gone, and accordingly took new lodg- 
 ing's that verv nioht. About a week after, I found 
 my jolly landlord, who, as I said before, was an 
 honest hearty man, had put me into an advertise- 
 ment 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. 13. fishmonger in the 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 
 
 D2!
 
 36 SPECTATOR. no. 1 2. 
 
 knowing my name, this accident of my life was 
 never discovered to this very day. 
 
 I am wow settled ^^■ith a widow woman, who has 
 a great many children, and complies with my humour 
 in every thing. I do not remember that Ave have 
 exchanged a word together these five years ; my 
 coffee comes into my chamber every morning with- 
 out asking for it ; if I want fire, I point to my chim- 
 ney ; if water, to my bason ; upon which my land- 
 lady nodds, as much as to say she takes my meaning, 
 and immediately obeys my signals. She has like- 
 wise modelled her family so well, that when her 
 little boy offers to pull me by the coat, or prattle in 
 my face, his elder sister immediately calls him off, 
 and bids him not disturb the gentleman. At my 
 first entering: into the familv, I was troubled with 
 the civility of their rising up to me every time I 
 came into the room ; but my landlady observing 
 that upon these occasions I always cried pisJiy and 
 went out again, has forbidden any such ceremony 
 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 busi- 
 ness or discourse of the family. The maid will ask 
 her mistress (though I am by) whether the gentle- 
 man is ready to go to dinner, as the mistress (who 
 is indeetl an excellent housewife) scolds at the ser- 
 vants 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 
 any other domestic animal, and am as little suspect- 
 ed of telling any thing that I hear or see. 
 
 I renu ni])er last "winter there were several young 
 girls of the neighbourhood sitting about the fire with 
 my landlady's daughters, and telling stories of spirits 
 and apj)aritions. Upon my opening the door, the 
 young women broke off their discourse; but my land- 
 lady's daughters telling them that it was nobody but 
 the gentleman, (for that is the name that 1 go by in
 
 N-o. 12. SPECTATOR. 37 
 
 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 moonhght : 
 and of others that had been conjured into the Red 
 Stfa, for disturbing peoples' rest, and drawing their 
 curtains at midnight, with many other old womens' 
 fables of the like nature. As one spirit raised ano- 
 ther, 1 observed that at the end of every story the 
 whole company closed their ranks, and crowded 
 about the hre. I took notice in particular of a 
 little boy, ^ho was so attentive to every story, that 
 I am mistaken if he ventures to go to bed by him- 
 self this twelvemonth. Indeed they talked so long, 
 that the imao-inations of the wliole assemblv were 
 manifestly crazed, and, I am sure, will be the worse 
 for it as long as they Vive. 1 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 1 did not look paler than 1 used to do. 
 This put me under some apprehensions that I should 
 be forced to explain myself, if I did not retire ; for 
 M'hich reason I took the candle in my hand, and 
 went up into my chamber, not without wondering 
 at this unaccountable weakness in reasonable crea- 
 tures, that they should love to astonish and terrify 
 one another. Were I a father, I should take a 
 particular care to preseive my children from these 
 little horrors and imaginations, which they are apt 
 to contract when they are young, and are not able 
 to shake oif Mhen thev are in years. I have knoM'n 
 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 
 ao-ainst a batterv of cannon. There are instances 
 of persons who have been terrified, even to distrac- 
 
 D3
 
 58 SPECTATOR. no. 12. 
 
 tion, at the figure of a tree, or the shaking of a 
 buUrush. 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, ^vc 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 in the motto of my paper,) and extin- 
 guish those impertinent notions which we imbibed at 
 a time that we were not able to judge of their ab- 
 surdity. 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 establish to ourselves an interest in Him 
 who holds the reins of the whole creation in his 
 hands, and moderates them alter such a manner, 
 that it is impossible for one being to break loose upon 
 another, without his kno\\ ledge and permission. 
 
 For my own part, I am apt to join in opinion 
 with those who believe that all the reoions of na- 
 ture swarm with spirits; and that we have multi- 
 tudes of spectators on all our actions, when we 
 think ourselves most alone : but, instead of terrify- 
 ing myself with such a notion, I am wondei fully 
 pleased to think that 1 am ahvays engaged with such 
 an innumerable society, in searching out the won- 
 ders of the creation, and joining in the same con- 
 cert of praise and adoration. 
 
 Milton has finely described this mixed commu- 
 nion of men and spirits in paradise; and had doubt- 
 less his eye upon a verse in old Ilcsiod, which is 
 almost word for word the same m ith his third line in 
 the following passage : 
 
 -Nor think, thoiioli men were none. 
 
 That heav'n wnuld wiint >|)rcfai<irs, God want praise; 
 Millioris of spiritual cri-aliin's walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep :
 
 Ko. 13. SPECTATOR. 39 
 
 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'nly touch of instrumental sounds, 
 In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 
 Divide the night, ,and lift our thoughts to heav'n. 
 
 No. 13. THURSDAY, MARCH 15. 
 
 Die mihi, si fuens tu ko, qtialis ens ? 
 
 Mart. 
 
 HERE is nothing that of late years has afforded 
 matter of greater amusement to the town, than 
 Signior Nicohni's combat with a lion in the Hay- 
 market, which has been very often exhibited to the 
 general satisfaction of most of the nobility and gen- 
 try in the kingdom of Great Britain. Upon the first 
 rumour of this intended combat, it was confidently 
 affirmed, and is still believed, by many in both gal- 
 leries, that there would be a tame lion sent from the 
 Tower every opera night, in order to be killed by 
 Hydaspes. This report, though altogether ground- 
 less, so universally prevailed in the upper regions of 
 the playhouse, that some of the most refined po- 
 liticians in those parts of the audience, gave it out 
 in whisper, that the lion was a cousin-german of the 
 tyger who made his appearance in king William's 
 days, and that the stage would be supplied with lions 
 at the pubHc expence during the whole session. 
 Many likewise were the conjectures of the treatment 
 which this lion was to meet with from the hands of 
 Signior Nicolini: some supposed that he was to sub- 
 due him in recitativo, as C)rpheus used to serve the 
 wild beasts in his time, and afterwards to knock him 
 
 D 4
 
 40 SPECTATOR. no. 13. 
 
 on the head; some fancied that the Hon would not 
 pretend to lay his paws upon the hero, by reason of 
 the received opinion, that a lion will not hurt a 
 virgin. Several, Avho pretended to have seen the 
 opera in Italy, had informed their friends, that the 
 lion was to act a part in High Dutch, and roar tM'ice 
 or thrice to a thorough-bass, before he fell at the 
 feet of Hydaspes. To clear up a matter that was so 
 variously reported, I have made it my business to 
 examine whether this pretended lion is really the 
 savage he appears to be, or only a counterfeit. 
 
 But before I communicate mv discoveries, I must 
 acquamt the reader, that, upon my walking behmd 
 the scenes last winter, as I was thinking on some- 
 thing else, I accidentally jostled against a monstrous 
 animal that extremely startled me, and, upon my 
 nearer survey of it, appeared to be a lion rampant. 
 The lion seeing me very much surprised, told me, 
 in a gentle voice, that I might come by him if I 
 pleased; 'for,' says he, 'I do not intend to hurt 
 anybody.' I thanked him very kindly, and passed 
 by him : and in a little time after saw him leap upon 
 the stage, and act his part with very great applause. 
 It has been observed bv several, that the lion has 
 changed his manner of acting twice or thrice since 
 his first appearance; which will not seem strange, 
 when I acquaint my reader, that the lion has been 
 changed upon the audience three several times. The 
 first lion was a candlc-snutfer, who, being a fellow 
 of a testy, choleric temper, overdid his part, and 
 would not suffer himself to be killed so easily as he 
 ought to have done ; beside, it was observed of 
 him, that he grcM' more surl}' every time he came 
 out of the lion ; and having dropt some M^ords in 
 ordinary conversation, as if he bad not fought his 
 best, and that he suffered liimsclfto be thrown u])on 
 his hack in the scuffle, and that he would wrestle 
 with Mr. Nicolini for Mhat he pleased, out of his 
 lion's skin, it was thought ])roper to discard bin);
 
 Ko. 13. SPECTATOR. 41 
 
 and it is verily believed, to this day, that had he 
 been brought upon the stage another time, he would 
 certainly have done mischief. Besides, it was ob- 
 jected against the first lion, that he reared himself 
 so high upon his hinder paws, and walked in so erect 
 a posture, that he looked more like an old man than 
 a lion. 
 
 The second lion was a tailor by trade, who be- 
 longed to the playhouse, and had the character of 
 a mild and peaceable man in his profession. If the 
 former was too furious, this was too sheepish for his 
 part; insomuch, that, after a sliort modest ualk upon 
 the stage, he would fall at the first touch of Hy- 
 daspes, Avithout grappling with him, and giving him 
 an opportunity of shewing his variety of Italian 
 trips. It is said, indeed, that he once gave him a 
 rip in his flesh-coloured doublet; but this was only to 
 make work for himself, in his private character of a 
 tailor. 1 must not omit that it was this second lion 
 who treated me with so much humanity behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, a 
 country gentleman, ^\ho does it for his diversion, 
 but desires his name may be concealed. He says, 
 very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he does 
 not act for gain ; that he iiululges an innocent plea- 
 sure in it ; and that it is better to pass away an 
 evening in this manner, than in gaming and drink- 
 ing : but at the .same time says, \\'ith a very agree- 
 able raillery upon himself, tliat if his name should 
 be known, the ill-natured woild might call him, 
 ' the ass in the hon's skin.' The gentleman's temper 
 is made out of such a happy mixture of the mild 
 and the choleric, that he outdoes both his predeces- 
 sors, and has drawn too-ether o-reater audiences than 
 have been known in the memory of man. 
 
 I must not conclude my narrative, without taking 
 notice of a groundless report that has been raised to 
 a gentleman's disadvantage, of wliom I nuist declare
 
 4t SPECTATOR. no. 13. 
 
 myself an admirer; namely, that Signior Nicolini 
 and the Hon have been seen sitting peaceably by one 
 another, and smoking a pipe together behind the 
 scenes ; bv which their enemies would insinuate, 
 that it is but a sham combat which they represent 
 upon the stage: but upon inquiry I find, that if any 
 such correspondence has passed between them, it 
 was not till the combat Mas over, Avhen the lion was 
 to be looked upon as dead, according to the re- 
 ceived rules of the drama. Besides this is what is 
 practised every day in \\'estminster-hall, where no- 
 thing is more usual than to see a couple of lawyers, 
 who have been tearing each other to pieces in the 
 court, embracing one another as soon as they are 
 out of it. 
 
 I would not be thought, in any part of this re- 
 lation, to reflect upon ISignior Nicolini, who in act- 
 ing this part only complies with the wretched taste 
 of his audience; he knows very well, that the lion 
 has many more admirers than himself; as they say 
 of the famous equestrian statue' on the Pont-Neuf 
 at Paris, that more people go to see the horse than 
 the king who sits upon it. On the contrary, it 
 gives me a just indignation to see a person whose 
 action gives new majesty to kings, resolution to 
 heroes, and softness to lovers, thus sinking from the 
 greatness of his behavioui-, and degraded into the 
 character of a London 'prentice. I have often wished 
 that our tragedians would copy after this great mas- 
 ter in action. Could they make the same use of 
 their arms and legs, and inform their faces with as 
 significant looks and passions, how glorious would 
 an Knglibh tragedy appear with that action which 
 is cajjable of giving dignity to the forced tlioughts, 
 cold conceits, and unnatural expressions of an Italian 
 0})era! In the mean time, 1 have related this com- 
 l)at of the lion, to shew what arc at present the 
 reigning entertainments of the politer part of Great 
 liritain.
 
 Ko. 15. SPECTATOR. 43 
 
 Audiences have often been reproached by writers 
 for the coarseness of their taste: but our present 
 grievance does not seem to be the want of a good 
 taste, but of common sense. 
 
 No. 15. SATURDAY, MARCH IT. 
 
 Panu letes capiunt animos- 
 
 OvlD. 
 
 W HEN I was in France, I used to gaze with great 
 astonishment at the splendid equipages and party- 
 coloured habits of that fantastic nation. I was one 
 day in particular 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 bv 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 smihng features, looked hke the elder 
 brothers of the little bovs that were carved and 
 painted in every corner of the coach. 
 
 'Hie lady was the unfortunate Cleanthe, M'ho af- 
 terwards oave an occasion to a prettv melancholv 
 novel. She had, for several years, received the ad- 
 flresses of a gentleman, whom, after a long and in- 
 timate acquaintance, she forsook, upon the account 
 of this shining equipage, which had been ofiered to 
 her by one of great riches, but a crazy consti- 
 tution. The circumstances in which I saw her were, 
 it seems, the disguises only of a broken heart, and 
 9, kind of pageantry to cover distress ; for in two 
 months after she was carried to her orave with the 
 same pomp and magnificence; being sent thither 
 partly by the loss of one lover^ and partly by the 
 possession of another.
 
 44 SPECTATOR. no. 15. 
 
 I have often reflected with myself on this unac- 
 countable humour in womankind, of being smitten 
 with every thing that is showy and superficial ; and 
 on the numberless evils that betai the sex from this, 
 light fantastical disposition. I myself remember a 
 3^oung lady that was very warmly solicited by a 
 couple of importunate rivals, who, for several months 
 together, did all they could to recommend them- 
 selves, by complacency of behaviour, and agree- 
 ableness of conversation. At length, when the com- 
 petition 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 M'eek after. 
 
 The usual conversation of ordinary women very 
 much cherishes this natural weakness of being taken 
 with outside and appearance. Talk of a new-mar- 
 ried couple, and you immediately hear whether they 
 keep their coach and six, or eat in plate. Mention 
 the name of an a-bsent 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 fur- 
 nishes c<mversation fur a twelvemonth after. A fur- 
 below of precious stones, an hat buttoned with a 
 diamond, a Jn-ocade waistcoat or petticoat, are stand- 
 ing topics. In short, they consider only the dra- 
 pery of the species, and uc \ cr cast away a thought 
 on those ornaments of the mind that make persons 
 illustrious in themselves, and useful to others. \\ hen 
 women are thus perpetually dazzling one another's 
 imaginations, and Idling their heads with nothing 
 ])ut colours, it is no wonder that they are more at- 
 tentive to the su])erlicial parts of life, than the 
 solid and substantial blessijigs of it. A girl, who 
 has been trained n]) in this kind of conversation, is 
 in danger of every end)roidered coat that comes in 
 lier wav. A pair of fringed gloves may be her ruin. 
 In ;i uord, lace and ribiiiids, silver and gold gal-
 
 NO. 15. SPECTATOR. 4$ 
 
 loons, with the hke glittering gewgaws, are so many 
 lures to women of weak minds and low educations, 
 and, Avhen 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 friendship and conversation of a i'ew select 
 companions : it loves shade and solitude, and natu- 
 rally haunts groves and fountains, fields and mea- 
 dows : 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 Mdiich she gives 
 herself, but from the admiration which she raises in 
 others. She flourishes in courts and palaces, thea- 
 tres and assemblies, and has no existence but Avhen 
 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 g-ardens. 
 Her husband, who is her bosom friend, and compa- 
 nion in her solitudes, has been in love vv'ith her ever 
 since he knew her. They both abound with good 
 sense, consummate virtue, and a mutual esteem ; and 
 are a perpetual entertainment to one another. Their 
 family is under so regular an economy, in its hours 
 of devotion and repast, employment and diversion, 
 that it looks like a little commonwealth within itself. 
 They often go into company, that they may return 
 with the greater delight to one another ; and some- 
 times live in town, not to enjoy it so proj)crly, as to 
 •grow weary of it, that they may renew in themselves 
 the rcUsh of a country life. By this means they are 
 happy in each other, bcio^-ed by their children,
 
 46 SPECTATOR. no. 15. 
 
 adored by their servants, and are become the envy, 
 or rather the dehght, of all that know them. 
 
 How different to this is the life of Fulvia ! She 
 considers her husband as her steward, and looks 
 upon discretion and good house\v^ifery as little do- 
 mestic virtues, unbecoming a woman of quality. 
 She thinks life lost in her own famjlv, 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 restlessness 
 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 afflicting 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 re- 
 tired life, a poor-spirited, unpolished creature. 
 What a mortification would it be to Fulvia, if she 
 knew that her setting herself to view, is but ex- 
 posing herself, and that she grows contemptible by 
 being conspicuous ! 
 
 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 Ca- 
 milla ; who, though she seems to have shaken off 
 all the other weaknesses of her sex, is still described 
 as a woman in this particular. The poet tells us, 
 that, after having made a great slaughter of the 
 enemy, she unfortunately cast her eye on a Trojan, 
 who w ore an embroidered tunic, a beautiful coat of 
 mail, with a mantle of the finest purple. ' A golden 
 l}o\\',' says he, 'hung upon his shoulder; his gar- 
 ment Avas buckled with a golden clasp ; and his head 
 covered with an helmet of the same shining metal.* 
 1 he Amazon immediately singled out this well-dressed 
 warrior, being seized with a woman's longing Kot 
 tlie pretty trappings that he was adorned M'ith: 
 
 Tutumque incanta per agnicn 
 
 J'aiiiineu jtrccdce ct spoliorum ardcbat annire.
 
 NO. 16. SPECTATOR. 47 
 
 This heedless pursuit after these glittering trifles, 
 the poet (by a nice concealed moral) represents ta 
 have been the destruction of his female hero. 
 
 No. 16. MONDAY, MARCH 19. 
 
 Quid lentm alqiie decens, euro ct rogo, et ovmis in hoc sum. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 T HAVE received a letter, desiring me to be very 
 satirical 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 a heavy complaint against fringed gloves. To 
 be brief, there is scarce an ornament of either sex 
 which one or other of my correspondents has not 
 inveighed against with some bitterness, and recom- 
 mended to my observation. I must therefore, once 
 for all, inform my readers, that it is not my inten- 
 tion to sink the dignity of this my paper with re- 
 flections npon red-heels or top-knots, but rather to 
 enter into the passions of mankind, and to correct 
 those depraved sentiments that give birth to all those 
 little extravagancies which appear in their outward 
 dress and behaviour. Foppish and fantastic orna- 
 ments are only indications of vice, not criminal in 
 themselves. Extinguish vanity in the mind, and 
 you naturally retrench the little superfluities of gar- 
 niture and equipage. The blossoms will fall of 
 themselves, when the root that nourishes them is 
 destroyed. 
 
 I shall therefore, as I liave said, apply my reme- 
 dies to the first seeds and principles of an affected 
 dress, without descending to the dress itself; though 
 at the same time I must own, that I have thoughts 
 of creating an officer luider me, to be entitled, ' The
 
 48 SPECTATOR. 1^.16. 
 
 Censor of small Wares,' and of allotting him one 
 clay in a week for the execution of such his office. 
 An operator of this nature might act under me, with 
 the same reo'ard as a surireon to a physician; that 
 one might be employed in healing those blotches 
 and tumours which break out in the body, while 
 the other is sweeteninir the blood, and rectifyins" the 
 constitution. 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 perriwigs, with seyeral other in- 
 cumbrances of dress, that they stand in need of 
 being pruned very frequently, lest they should be 
 oppressed with ornaments, and over-run with the 
 luxuriance of their habits. I am much in doubt, 
 whether I should give the preference to a Quaker, 
 that is trimmed 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 corres- 
 pondents to let me know hoAV tbey approve my pro- 
 ject, and whether they think the erecting of such a 
 petty censorship my not turn to the emolument of 
 the public; for I M'ould not do any thing of this 
 nature rashly, and without advice. 
 
 'inhere is another set of correspondents to whom I 
 must address myself in the second place; I mean, 
 such as fdl their letters with private scandal, and 
 black accounts of particular persons and families. 
 The world is so full of ill-mature, that I have lampoons 
 sent me by people who cannot spell, and satires 
 composed by those who scarce knoM' how to Mrite. 
 By tbe last post in particular, I received a packet of 
 scandal which is not legible; and have a M'hole 
 bundle of letters in M'omens' hands that are full of 
 blots and calumnies, insomuch, that when I seethe 
 jiame of Cculia, Phillis, Pastora, or the like, at the 
 bottom of a scrawl, I conclude of couise that it 
 brings me some account of a fallen virgin, a faith- 
 less w'li'c, or an amorous widow. I must therefore
 
 Ko. 16. SPECTATOR. 49 
 
 inform these my correspoiKlents, tliat it is not mv 
 design to be a publisher of intrigues and cuckol- 
 doms, or to bring httle infamous stories out of their 
 present larking holes into broad day-light. If I 
 attack the vicious, I shall only set upon them in a 
 body ; and Avill not be provoked by the wor^t usage 
 I can receive from others, tomake an example of 
 any particular criminal. In short. I ha\T so much 
 of a Drawcansir in me, that I shall pass over a sin- 
 gle foe to charge whole armies. It is not Lais or 
 Silenus, but the harlot and the drunkard, whom I 
 shall endeavour to expose ; and shall consider the 
 crime as it appears in a species, not as it is circum- 
 stanced in an individual. I think it was Cahgula, 
 who M ished the whole city of Rome had but one 
 neck, that he might behead them at a blow. I 
 shall do out of humanity, vvhat that emperor would 
 have done in cruelty of his temper, and aim every 
 stroke at a collective body of offenders. At the 
 same time I 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 temptation. 
 
 In the next place I must apply myself to my party 
 correspondents, who are continually teazing me to 
 take notice of one anothers' proceedings. How 
 often am I asked by both sides, if it is possible for 
 me to be an unconcerned 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 whh an old Grecian law, that 
 forbids anv man to stand as a neuter or a looker-on 
 in the divisions of his country. HoMCver, 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 inllam- 
 mations, or allay pubhc ferments, I shall apply my- 
 
 Vol. I. E
 
 50 SPECTATOR. no. i6. 
 
 self to it with my utmost endeavours ; but M'ill never 
 let my heart reproach me, with having done any 
 thmg" towards increasing those feuds and animosi- 
 ties that extinguish religion, deface government, 
 and make a nation miserable. 
 
 What 1 have said under the three foregoing heads, 
 will, I am afraid, very much retrench the number 
 of my correspondents : I shall therefore acquaint my 
 reader, that if he has started any hint which he is 
 not able to pursue, if he has met M'ith any surpris- 
 ino- storv M'hich he does not know how to tell, if he 
 has discovered any epidemical vice which has es- 
 caped my observation, or has heard of any uncom- 
 mon 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 
 assistance in the working of them up for a public 
 entertainment. 
 
 This paper my reader Av^ill find was intended for 
 an answer to a multitude of correspondents; but I 
 hope he will pardon me if I single out one of them 
 in particular, who has made me so very humble a 
 request, that I cannot forbear complying with it. 
 
 * TO THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 'sir, March, 15, 1710-11. 
 
 ' I AM at present so unfortunate, as to have no- 
 thing to do but to mind my own business; and 
 therefore beg of you, that you will be pleased to put 
 me into some small post under you. 1 observe that 
 you have appointed your printer and publisber to 
 receive letters and advertisements for the City of 
 London; and shall think myself very much ho- 
 noured by you, if you will aj)[)oint me to take in 
 letters and advertisenu^nts for the City of Westmin- 
 Hter ajid the Duchy of Lancaster. Though 1 cannot
 
 NO. 18. SPECTATOR. 51 
 
 promise to fill such an employinent with sufficient 
 abilities, I Anil endeavour to make up with industry 
 and fidelity what I want in parts and genius. I am, 
 
 SIR, 
 
 your most obedient servant, 
 
 Charles Lillie." 
 
 No. 18. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21. 
 
 -Eqnifis qnoquejam migraxit ah aiire xohtptas 
 
 Omnis ad incertos oculos, et gaudia vana. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 A T is my design in this paper to deliver down \:o 
 posterity a faithful account of the Italian Opera, 
 and of the gradual progress which it has made upon 
 the English Stage; for there is no question but our 
 great grand- children will be very curious to know 
 the reason why their forefathers used to sit together 
 like an audience of foreigners in their own country, 
 and to hear whole plays acted before them in a 
 tongue which they did not understand. 
 
 Arsinoe was the first opera that gave us a taste 
 of Italian music. The great success this opera met 
 with, produced some attempts of forming pieces upon 
 Italian plans, which should give a more natural and 
 reasonable entertainment than what can be met with 
 in the elaborate trifles of that nation. This alarmed 
 the"* poetasters and fiddlers of the town, who were 
 used to deal in a more ordinary kind of ware ; and 
 therefore laid down an established rule, which is re- 
 ceived as such to this day, ' That nothing is ca- 
 pable of being well set to music, that is not non- 
 sense.' 
 
 This maxim was no sooner received, but we im- 
 mediately fell to translating the Italian Operas; and 
 as there was no great danger of hurting the sense of 
 those extraordinary pieces, our authors would often 
 
 E 2!
 
 5a SPECTATOR. no. i8. 
 
 make words of their own, Avhich were entirely fo- 
 reign to the meaning of the passages they pretended 
 to transhite; their chief care heing to make the 
 numbers of the English verse answer to those of the 
 Italian, that both of them might go to the same 
 tune. Thus the famous song in Camilla, 
 
 Barbara si Nintendo, &c. 
 
 ' Barbarous woman, yes, I know your meaning/ 
 
 which expresses the resentments of an angry lover, 
 was translated into that English lamentation, 
 
 Frail are a lover's hopes, &c. 
 
 And it was pleasant enough to see the most refined 
 persons of the British nation dying away and lan- 
 guishing to notes that were filled with a spirit of 
 i-age and indignation. It happened also very fre- 
 quently, where the sense was rightly translated, the 
 necessary transposition of words which were drawn 
 out of the phrase of one tongue into that of another, 
 made the music appear very absurd in one tongue, 
 that was very natural in the other. I remember an 
 Italian verse that ran thus word for word, 
 
 * And turn'd my rage into pity ;' 
 
 which the English for rhyme sake ti'anslated, 
 
 ' And into pity turn'd my rage.* 
 
 By this means the soft notes that were adapted to pity 
 in the Italian, fell upon the word rage in the English ; 
 and the angry sounds that were tuned to ragem the 
 original, were made to express p/V?/ in the translation. 
 It oftentimes hrijjpened likewise, tliat the finest notes 
 in the air fell upon the most insignificant words in 
 tlie sentence. I have known the word and pursued 
 through the whole gamut, have been entertained with 
 many a melodious the ; and have heard the most 
 beautiful graces, ijuavers, and divisions bestowed upon 
 then, fur, and from; to the eternal honour of our 
 English particlci.
 
 ^0, i8. SPECTATOR. 63 
 
 The next step to our refinement, was the introduc- 
 ing' of Italian actors into our opera; who sung their 
 parts in their own language, at the same time that 
 our countrymen performed theirs in our native tongue. 
 The king or hero of the play generally spoke in Ita- 
 lian, and his slaves answered him in English. The 
 lover fre({uently made his court, and gained the heart 
 of his princess, in a language which she did not un- 
 derstand. One would have thought it very difficult 
 to have carried on dialogues after this manner with- 
 out an interpreter between the persons that conversed 
 together ; but this M'as the state of the English stage 
 for about three years. 
 
 At leno-th the audience "Tew tired of understand- 
 mg half the opera ; and therefore, to ease themselves 
 entirely of the fatigue of thinking, have so ordered it 
 at present, that the whole opera is performed in an 
 unknown tono-ue. We no lono'er understand the 
 language of our own stage ; insomuch that I have 
 often been afraid, when I have seen our Italian perfor- 
 mers chatterino-in the vehemence of action, that they 
 have been calling us names, and abusing us among 
 themselves; but I hope, since Av^e do put such an 
 entire confidence in them, thev will not talk ao-ainst 
 us before our faces, thouoh they mav do it with the 
 •same safety as if it were behind our backs. In the 
 mean time, I cannot forbear thinkins; how naturally 
 an historian who writes two or three hundred years 
 hence, and does not know the taste of his wise fore- 
 fathers, will make the following reflection : ' In the 
 beginning of the eighteenth century, the Italian 
 tongue was so well understood in England, that 
 operas were acted on tlie public stage in that lan- 
 
 One scarce knows how to be serious in the confu- 
 tation of an absurdity that shews itself at the first 
 sight. It does not want any o-reat measure of sense 
 to see the ridicule of this monstrous practice; but 
 what makes it the more astonishing, it is not the taste 
 
 E 3
 
 54 SPECTATOR. no. i8. 
 
 of the rabble, but of persons of the greatest poUte- 
 ness, which has established it. 
 
 If the ItaHans have a genius for music above the 
 EngHsh, the Englisli have a genius for other per- 
 formances of a much higher nature, and capable of 
 giving the mind a much noljler entertainment. 
 Would one think it was possible (at a tim.e when an 
 author lived that Mas able to write the Phsdra and 
 Hippolitus) fo;- a people to be so stupidly fond of the 
 Italian opera, as scarce to give a third day's hear- 
 ing to that admirable tragedy? ]\Iusic is certainly a 
 very agreeable entertainment; but if it would take 
 the entire possession of our ears, if it would make 
 us incapable of hearing sense, if it would exclude 
 arts that have a much greater tendency to the refine- 
 ment of human nature ; I must confess I would 
 allow it no better quarter tlian Plato has done, who 
 banishes it out of his commonwealth. 
 
 At present, our notions of music are so very uncer- 
 tain, that we do not know what it is we like ; only, 
 in general, v.e are transported with any thing that is 
 not English : so it be of a foreign growth, let it be 
 Italian, French, or High Dutch, it is the same thing. 
 In short, our English nmsic is quite rooted out, and 
 nothing yet planted in its stead. 
 
 ^\'hen a royal palace is burnt to the ground, every 
 man is at liberty to present his plan for a new one ; 
 and though it be but indifterently put together, it 
 may furnish several hints that mav be of use to a 
 good architect. I shall take the same liberty in a 
 following pj'.per, of giving my opinion upon the 
 subject of music; which 1 shall lay down only in a 
 pr(iblcniatical manner, to be considered by those 
 who are masters in the art.
 
 NO. 21. SPECTATOR. 55 
 
 No. 21. SATURDAY, MARCH 24. 
 
 -Loom est et pluribus nmbris, 
 
 HoK. 
 
 JL AM sometimes very much troubled, when I re- 
 flect upon the three great professions of Divinity, 
 Law, and Physic ; how they aie each of them over- 
 burdened with practitioners, and filled with multi- 
 tudes of ino-enious o-entlemcn that starve one ano- 
 ther. 
 
 AVe may divide the clergy into generals, field- 
 officers, and subalterns. Among the first we may 
 reckon bishops, deans, and arch-deacons. Among 
 the second are doctors of divinity, prebendaries, 
 and all that wear scarfs. The rest are compreliendcd 
 under the subalterns. As for the first class, our 
 constitution preserves it from any redundancy of 
 incumbents, notwithstanding competitors are num- 
 berless. Upon a strict calculation, it is found that 
 there has been a great exceechng of late years in the 
 second division, several brevets having been granted 
 for the converting of subalterns into scarf-oiiicers ; 
 insomuch that within my memory the price of lust- 
 ring is raised above two-pence in a yard. As for the 
 subalterns, they are not to be numbered. Should 
 our clergy once enter into the corrupt practice of 
 the laity, by the splitting of their freeholds, they 
 would be able to carry most of the elections in 
 Englantl. 
 
 The body of the law is no less encumbered with 
 superfluous members, that are like V^irgil's army, 
 which he tells us was so crowded, many of them had 
 not room to use their weapons. This prodigious 
 society of men may be divided into the litigious and 
 peaceable. Under the first are comprehended all 
 those who are carried down in coach-fulls to West- 
 minster-hall, every morning in term-time. IMartial's 
 
 E4
 
 56 SPECTATOR. no. 21. 
 
 description of this species of lawyers is full of 
 humour : 
 
 Iras et verba locant. 
 
 Men that hire out their words and anger ; that are 
 more or less passionate according as they are paid for 
 it, and allow their client a quantity of wrath pro- 
 portionahle to the fee which they receive from him. 
 I must however observe to the reader, that above 
 three parts of those whom I reckon among the liti- 
 gious, are such as are only quarrelsome in their 
 hearts, and have no opportunity of shewing their 
 passion at the bar. Nevertheless, as they do not 
 know what strifes niay arise, they appear at the 
 hall every dav, that thev mav shew themselves in a 
 readiness to enter the lists, whenever there shall be 
 occasion for them. 
 
 The peaceable lawyers are, in the first place, many 
 of the benchers of the several inns of court, Avho 
 seem to be the dignitaries of the law, and are en- 
 dowed with those qualifications of mind that accom- 
 plish a man rather for a ruler than a pleader. These 
 men live peaceably in their habitations, eating once 
 a day, and dancing once a year, for the honour of 
 their respective societies. 
 
 Another numberless branch of peaceable lawyers, 
 are those young men v. ho being placed at the inns 
 of court in order to study the L'ims of their country, 
 frequent the play-house more than ^\^estminster-hall, 
 and are seen in all public assemblies, except in a 
 court of justice. I shall say nothing of those silent 
 and busy multitudes that are employed within doors, 
 in the drawing up of writings and conveyances ; 
 nor of those greater numl)ers that palliate their want 
 of business with a pretence to such chamber-prac- 
 tice. 
 
 l\\ in the third place, \\q look into the profession 
 of physic, we shall lind a most formidable body of 
 jncn : the sight ot them is enough to make a man
 
 NO. 21. SPECTATOR. 57 
 
 serious ; for we may lay it down as a maxim, that 
 when a nation ahoimds in physicians, it grows thin 
 of people. Sir William Temple is very much puz- 
 zled to find out a reason why the northern hi\'e, as 
 he calls it, does not send out such prodigious 
 swarms, and over-run the world with Goths and 
 A'^andals, as it did formerly ; but had that excellent 
 author observed that there were no students in phy- 
 sic among the subjects of Ihor and Woden, and 
 that this science very much flourishes in the north 
 at present, he might have found a better solution 
 for this difficulty than any of those he has made 
 use of. This bodv of men, in our own countrv, 
 may be described like the British army in Ccesar's 
 time : some of them slay in chariots, and some on 
 foot. If the infantry do less execution than the 
 charioteers, it is because thev cannot be carried so 
 soon into ail quarters of tlie town, and dispatch so 
 much business in so short a time. Besides this body 
 of regular troops, there are sti-agglers, who, Avitliout 
 beino- dulv listed and enrolled, do infmite mischief to 
 those M'ho are so unluckv as to fall into their hands. 
 
 There are, besides the above-mentioned, innu- 
 merable retainers to physic, v-ho, for want of other 
 patients, amuse themselves with the stifling of cats 
 in an air-pump, cutting up dogs alive, or impaling 
 of insects upon the point of a needle for microsco- 
 pical observations ; besitles those that are employed 
 in gathering of weeds, and the chacc of butterflies : 
 not to mention the cockleshell-merchants and sjMder- 
 catchers. 
 
 When I consider hov/ each of these professions 
 are crowded with nudtitudes that seek their live- 
 lihood in them, and how. many men of merit there 
 are in each of them, Mho may be rather said to be 
 of the science, than the profession ; I very much 
 -wonder at the humour of parents, Mho v.ill not ra- 
 ther chuse to place their sons in a May of liie where 
 an honest industrv cannot but thrive, than in stations
 
 ^8 SPECTATOR. no. 23. 
 
 where the greatest probity, learning, and good 
 sense, may miscarry. How many men are country 
 curates, that might have made themselves aldermen 
 of London, by a right improvement of a smaller 
 sum of money than what is usually laid out upon a 
 learned education! A sober frugal person, of slender 
 parts, and a slow apprehension, might have thrived 
 in trade, though he starves upon physic ; as a man 
 v/ould be well enough pleased to buy silks of one 
 whom he would not venture to feel his pulse. Va- 
 gellius is careful, studious, and obliging, but withal 
 a little thick-skulled ; he has not a single client, but 
 might have had abundance of customers. The mis- 
 fortune is, that parents take a liking to a particular 
 profession, and therefore desire theh* sons may be of 
 it. Whereas, in so great an affair of life, they 
 should consider the o-enius and abilities of their 
 children, more than their own inclinations. 
 
 It is the great advantage of a trading nation, 
 that there are very few in it so dull and heavv, m ho 
 may not be placed in stations of life, which may 
 give them an opportunity of making their fortunes. 
 A well regulated commerce is not, like law, physic, 
 or divinity, to be overstocked with hands ; but, on 
 the contrary, flourishes by multitudes, and gives em- 
 ployment to all its professors. Fleets of merchant- 
 men are so many scjuadrons of floating shops, that 
 vend our M^arcs and manufactures in all the markets 
 of the world, and tind out chapmen under both the 
 tropics. 
 
 No. 23. TUESDAY, MARCH 27. 
 
 Sinif afrnx Vvlscni.s, ncc tcli conspicif v.ifjurwi 
 yluctonm, iicc quo sc ardens immUicic possit. 
 
 VlUG. 
 
 1 HERE is nothing that more betrays a base unge- 
 nerous spirit, than the giving of secret stabs to a
 
 NO. 23. SPECTATOR. " 59 
 
 man's reputation. Lampovons and satires, that are 
 written with wit and spirit, are like poisoned 
 darts, which not only inflict a wound, but make it 
 mcurable. 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 pri- 
 vate person, to raise uneasiness among near rela- 
 tions, and to expose whole families to derision, at 
 the same time that he remains unseen and undis- 
 covered. If, besides the accomplishments of being 
 witty and ill-natured, a man is vicious into the bar- 
 gain, he is one of the most mischievous creatures 
 that can enter into a civil society. His satire will 
 then chiefly fall upon those who ought to be the 
 most exempt from it. A'irtue, merit, and every 
 thing that is praise-worthy. Mill be made the sub- 
 ject of ridicule and buffoonery. It is impossible to ' 
 enumerate the evils which arise fi'om these arrows 
 that fly in the dark ; aufl 1 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 soirow 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 marks of infamy or derision ? And in 
 this case a man should consider, 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 them, 
 are not without their secret ano-uish. I have often 
 observed a passage in Socrates's behaviour at his 
 death, in a hght wherein none of the critics have 
 considered it. That excellent man, entertaining his
 
 60 SPECTATOR. no. 23. 
 
 friends, a little before he drank the boMl of poison, 
 with a discourse of the immortality of the soul, at 
 his entering upon it says, that he does not believe 
 any the most comic genius can censure him for talk- 
 ing upon such a subject at such a time. This pas- 
 sage, I think, evidently glances upon Aristophanes, 
 who writ a comedy on purpose to ridicule the dis- 
 courses of that divine philosopher. It lias been ob- 
 ser^-ed by many writers, that Socrates was so little 
 moved at this piece of buffoonery, that he was se- 
 veral 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 shews us that tliis unworthy treatment made 
 an impression upon his mind, though he had been 
 too wise to discover it. 
 
 When Julius Ctcsar was lampooned by Catullus, 
 he invited him to a supper, and treated him with 
 such a generous civility, that he made the poet his 
 friend ever after. Cardinal Mazarine gave the same 
 kind of treatment to the learned Quilk't, who had 
 reflected upon his eminence in a famous Latin poem. 
 The cardinal sent for him, and, after some kind ex- 
 postulations upon what he had written, assured him 
 of his esteem, and dismissed him with a ])romise of 
 the next good abbey that should fall, which he ac- 
 cordingly conferred u])on him in a few months after. 
 This hatl so good an effect upon the author, that he 
 dedicaterl the second edition of his book to the car- 
 dinal, alter having expunged the passages Avhich 
 had ii'iven him offence. 
 
 Sextus Quintus was not of so generous and for- 
 giving a temper. Upon his l)eing made pope, the 
 statue of" Pasrjuin was one night dressed in a very 
 dirty shirt, Mith an excuse written under it, that he 
 was forced to M'car foul linen because his laundicss 
 was made a j)rincess. 'J his was a rcHection upon the 
 pope's sister, \\li(), before the promotion ol" lur bro- 
 ther, was in tho^.c mean circumstances that Pasquiji
 
 NO. 23. SPECTATOR. 61 
 
 represented her. As this pasquinade made a great 
 noise in Rome, the pope ottered a considerable sum 
 of money to any person that should discover the 
 author of it. The author, relying upon his hoUness's 
 generosity, as also on some private overtures which 
 he had received from him, made the discovery him- 
 self; upon which the pope gave him the reward he 
 had promised ; but at the same time, to disable the 
 satirist for the future, ordered his tongue to be cut 
 out, and both his hands to be chopped off. Aretine 
 is too trite an instance. Every one knows that all 
 the kings in Europe were his tributaries. Nay, there 
 is a letter of his extant, in \\hich he makes his 
 boasts that he had laid the Sophi of Persia under 
 contribution. 
 
 Though, in the various examples which I have 
 here draM-n together, these several great men be- 
 ha\'ed themselves very differently towards the v/its 
 of the age who had reproached them ; they all 
 plainly shewed that they were very sensible of their 
 reproaches, and consequently that they received 
 them as very great injuries. For my own part, I 
 would never trust a man that I thought w^as ca- 
 pable of giving these secret wounds ; and cannot 
 but think that he would hurt the person, whose re- 
 putation he thus assaults, in his body or in his for- 
 tune, could he do it with the same seciuity. There 
 is indeed somethino; verv 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, Avhen it is not tempered \\ ith virtue 
 and humanitv.
 
 62 SPECTATOR. no. 23. 
 
 I have indeed heard of heedless inconsiderate 
 writers, that m ithoiit any malice have sacrificed the 
 reputation of their friends and acquaintance, to a 
 certain levity of temper, and a silly ambition of 
 distinguishing themselves by a spirit of raillery and 
 satire : as if it were not infinitely more honourable 
 CO be a good-natured man than a wit. Where there 
 is this little petulant humour in an author, he is 
 often verv mischievous without desio-nina,- to be so. 
 For Avhich reason 1 always lay it down as a rule, 
 that an indiscreet man is more hurtful than an ill- 
 natured one; for as the latter will only attack his 
 enemies, and those he wishes ill to; the other in- 
 jures indifterently both friends and foes. I cannot 
 forbear, on this occasion, transcribing a fable out 
 of Sir Roger L'Estrange, Adiich accidentally lies be- 
 fore me. ' A company of waggish boys were watch- 
 ing of frogs at the side of a pond, and still as any 
 of them put up their heads, they'd be pelting them 
 down again with stones.' 'Children,' says one of the 
 frogs, ' you never consider that though this may be 
 play to you, 'tis death to us.' 
 
 As this week is in a manner set apart and dedi- 
 cated to serious thoughts, I shall indulge myself in 
 such speculations as may not be altogether unsuit- 
 able to the season; and in the mean time, as the 
 settling in ourselves a charitable frame of mind is a 
 work very proper for the time, I have in this paper 
 endeavoured to expose that particular breach of cha- 
 rity, which has been generally over-looked by divines, 
 because there are but few mIio can be guilty of it.
 
 jjo. 25. SPECTATOR. 65 
 
 No. 25. THURSDAY, AIARCH 29. 
 
 Mgrescitque medendo. 
 
 VlRG. 
 
 A HE following letter will explain itself, and needs 
 no apology. 
 
 'sir, - 
 
 * I AM one of that sickly tribe who are commonly 
 known bv the name of Valetudinarians; and do 
 confess to you, that I first contracted this ill habit 
 of body, or rather of mijid, by the study of physic. 
 I no sooner began to peruse books of this nature, 
 but I found my pulse was irregular; and scarce ever 
 read the account of any disease, that I did not fancy 
 myself afflicted with. Doctor Sydenham's learned 
 treatise of fevers threw me into a lingering hectic, 
 which hung upon me all the while I was reading that 
 excellent piece, I then applied myself to the study 
 of several authors, who have written upon phthisi- 
 cal distempers, and by that means fell into a con- 
 sumption ; till at length growing very fat, I v.as in 
 a manner shamed out of that imagination. Not 
 long after this I found in myself all the symptoms of 
 the gout, except pain; but was cured of it by a 
 treatise upon the gravel, written by a very ingeni- 
 ous author, who (as it is usual for physicians to 
 convert one distemper into another) eased me of the 
 gout by giving me the stone. I at length studied 
 myself into a complication of distempers; but, ac- 
 cidentally taking into my hand that ingenious dis- 
 course written by Sanctorius, I was resolved to di- 
 rect myself by a scheme of rules which I had col- 
 lected from his obser\'ations. The learned world are 
 very well acquainted with that gentleman's inven- 
 tion ; who,- for tbe better carrying on of his experi- 
 ments, contrived a certain mathematical chair, which
 
 64 SPECTATOR. no. 25. 
 
 was so artificially hung upon springs, that it would 
 weigji any thing as well as a pair of scales. By this 
 means he discovered how many ounces of his food 
 passed by perspiration, what quantity of it was 
 turned into nourishment, and how much went away 
 by the other channels and distributions of nature. 
 
 ' Having provided myself ^vith this chair, I used 
 to study, eat, drink, and sleep in it ; insomuch that 
 I may be said, for these three last years, to have 
 lived in a pair of scales. I compute myself, Avheii 
 I am in full health, to be precisely two hundred 
 weight, falling short of it about a pound after a 
 day's f^rst, and exceeding it as much after a very 
 full meal ; so that it is my continual employment 
 to trim the balance between these two volatile 
 pounds in my constitution. In my ordinary m.eals 
 1 fetch myself up to two hundred weight and half a 
 pound ; and if after having dined I find myself fjill 
 short of it, I drink just so much small-beer, or eat 
 such a quantity of bread, as is sufficient to make me 
 Aveight. In my greatest excesses I do not transgress 
 more than the other half pound; which, for my 
 health's sake, I do the first Monday in every month. 
 As soon as I find myself duly poised after, dinner, I 
 walk till I have perspired five ounces and four 
 scruples ; and when I discover, by my chair, that I 
 am so far reduced, I fall to my books, and study 
 away tlnre ounces more. As for the remaining 
 parts of the pound, I keep no account of them. I 
 do not tline and sup by the clock, but by my chair; 
 for when that informs me my pound of food is ex- 
 hausted, I conclude myself to be hungry, and lay in 
 another with all diligence. In my days of absti- 
 nence I lose a pound and an half; and on solemn 
 fasts, am two ijound-s lighter than on other days in 
 the year. 
 
 * 1 allow myself, one night with another, a quar- 
 ter of a pound of sleep M'ithin a few grains more or 
 less; and if upon my rising I find that 1 have not
 
 NO. 25. SPECTATOR. 65 
 
 consumed my whole quantity, I take out the rest in 
 my chair. Upon an exact calculation of what I ex- 
 pended and received the last year, which I always 
 register in a book, I find the medium to be two 
 Imndred weight, so that I cannot discover that I am 
 impaired one ounce in my healtli during a whole 
 twelvemonth. And yet, Sir, notwithstanding this 
 my great care to ballast myself equally every day, 
 and to keep my body in its proper poise, so it is 
 that I find myself in a sick and languishing con- 
 dition. My complexion is grown very sallow, my 
 pulse low, and my body hydropical. Let me there- 
 fore beg you, Sir, to consider me as your patient, 
 and to give me more certain rules to walk by than 
 those I have already observed, and you m ill very 
 much oblige ' Your humble servant.' 
 
 This letter puts me in mind of an Italian epitaph 
 written on the monument of a Valetudinarian; 
 Stavo ben, ma per star megUo, sto qui : which it is 
 impossible to translate. 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 observ- 
 ing 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 
 constitutions by physic, and throw themselves into 
 the arms of death, by endeavouring to escape it. 
 This method is not onlv dano-erous, but below the 
 practice of a reasonable creature. To consult the 
 preservation of life, as the only end of it, to make 
 our health our business, to engage 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 im- 
 
 VoL. I. F
 
 66 SPECTATOR. no. 25. 
 
 possible we should take delight in any thing that 
 we arc every moment afraid of losing. 
 
 I do not mean, by what 1 have here said, that I 
 think anv 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 mucli 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 ne- 
 ver engage us in groundless fears, melancholy appre- 
 hensions, and imaginary distempers, which are na- 
 tural to every man who is more anxious to live, than 
 how to live. In short, the preservation 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, without be- 
 ing over solicitous about the event ; and shall arrive 
 at that point of feUcity which ]\Iartial has mentioned 
 as the perfection of happiness, of neither fearing nor 
 wishing for death. 
 
 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, oovcms himself bv the 
 prescriptions of his chair, I shall tell him a short 
 fable. Jupiter, says themythologist, 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 
 on his own estate. He obtained his request, and 
 immediately distributed rain, snow, and sunshine, 
 among his several fields, as he thought the nature 
 of the soil required. At the end of tlie year, when 
 he expected to see a more than ordinary crop, liis 
 harvest fell infinitely short of that of his neighbours. 
 Upon which (says tlie fable) he desired Jupiter 
 to take the weather again into his own hands, 
 or that otherwise he should utterly ruin himself.
 
 NO. 26. SPECTATOR. 67 
 
 No. 26. FRIDAY, MARCH 30. 
 
 Pallida mors itquo pulsat pede pavpenim tabernas, 
 
 Regiimqiie turres. beafe Sexfi, 
 Fitie summa brexis spem >ios vetat iiichoare longam : 
 
 Jam te premet nox, fabuheqiie manes, 
 
 Et domus exilis Plutonia ■ 
 
 IIou. 
 
 VV HEN I am ill a serious humour, I very often 
 walk by myself in Westminster Abbey ; "vvhere the 
 gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is 
 applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the 
 condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill 
 the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather 
 thouo'htfulness, that is not disao-reeable. I yester- 
 day passed a whole afternoon in the church-yard, 
 the cloisters, and the church, amusino- myself with 
 the tomb-stones and inscriptions that I met with in 
 those several reo-ions of the dead. i\Iost of them 
 recorded nothing else of the buried person, but that 
 he was born upon one day, and died upon another: 
 the whole history of his life being comprehended in 
 those two circumstances, that are common to all man- 
 kind. I could not but look upon these registers of ex- 
 istence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of 
 satire upon the departed persons, who had left no 
 other memorial of them, but that they were born, 
 and that they died. They put me in mind of se- 
 veral persons mentioned in the battles of heoric 
 poems, who have sounding names given them, for 
 no other reason but that they may be killed, and 
 are celebrated for notliing but being knocked on 
 the head. 
 
 r?vavxo» Ttf Miooflcl T£, Qt^atXo^ov Tt, 
 
 UOM. 
 
 ClaucumquCf Medontaque, Thersilockumque. 
 
 VlRO. 
 
 F 2
 
 <5S SPECTATOR. no. ^6, 
 
 The life of these men is finely described in holy 
 writ by ' the path of an arrow,' which is immediately 
 closed up and lost. 
 
 Upon my going into the church, I entertained 
 myself with the digging of a grave ; and saw in every 
 shovel-ful of it that was thrown up, the fragment 
 of a bone or skull intermixt with a kind of fresh 
 mouldering earth, that some time or other had a 
 place in the composition of an human body. Upon 
 this, I began to consider with myself what innumer- 
 able mxdtitudes of people lay confused together un- 
 der the pavement of tliat ancient cathedral ; how 
 men and women, friends and enemies, priests and 
 soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were ciTimbled 
 amongst one another, and blended together in the 
 same common mass; how beauty, strength, and 
 youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay 
 undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of 
 matter. 
 
 After having thus surveyed this great magazine 
 of mortality, as it were in the lump, I examined it 
 more particularly by the accounts Avhich I found on 
 several of the mon\iments Mhrch are raised in every 
 quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were 
 covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it 
 were possible for the dead person to be acquainted 
 with them, he would blush at the praises which his 
 friends have bestowed upon him. There are others 
 so excessively modest, that they deliver the charac- 
 ter of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew, and 
 by that means are not understood once in a twelve- 
 month. In the poetical quarter, I found there were 
 poets who had no monuments, and monuments 
 which had no poets. I observed indeed, that the 
 present war had filled the church with many of these 
 uninhabited monuments, m Inch had been erected to 
 the meniory of persons w hose bodies were perhaps 
 l)urie(l in the plains of Ijlenheim, or in the bosom 
 of the ocean.
 
 NO. 26. SPECTATOR. €9 
 
 I could not but be very much delighted with se- 
 veral modern epitaphs, which are written with great 
 elegance of expression and justness of thought, and 
 therefore no honour to the living as well as to the 
 dead. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea 
 of the ignorance or politeness of a nation, from the 
 turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, 
 they should be submitted to the perusal of men of 
 learning and genius, before they are put in execu- 
 tion. Sir Cloudesley Shovel's monument has very 
 often o-iven me o-reat offence : instead of the brave 
 rough English Admiral, which was the distinguish- 
 ing character of that plain gallant man, he is repre- 
 sented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed 
 in a long periwig, and reposing himself upon vel- 
 vet cushions under a canopy of state. The inscrip- 
 tion is answerable to the monument ; for, instead of 
 celebrating the many remarkable actions he had per- 
 formed in the service of his country, it acquaints 
 us only with the manner of his death, in which it 
 was impossible for him to reap any honour. The 
 Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for want of ge- 
 nius, shew an infinitely greater taste of antiquity 
 and politeness in their buildings and works of this 
 nature, than what we meet with in those of our 
 own country. The monuments of their admirals, 
 Avhich have been erected at the public expence, re- 
 present them like themselves ; and are adorned with 
 rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with beautiful 
 festoons of sea-weed, shells, and coral. 
 
 But to return to our subject. I have left the re- 
 pository of our English kings for the contemplation 
 of another day, when I shall find my mind disposed 
 for so serious an amusement. I know that enter- 
 tainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and 
 tlismal thoughts in timorous minds, and gloomy 
 imaginations ; but, for my own part, though I am 
 always serious, I do not know what it is to be me- 
 
 E3
 
 70 SPECTATOR. ko. 2«. 
 
 lancholy ; and can therefore take a view of Nature 
 in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same plea- 
 sure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By 
 this means I can improve myself with those objects 
 which others consider with terror. When I look 
 upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy 
 dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beauti- 
 ful, every inordinate desire goes out ; when I meet 
 with the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone, my 
 heart melts with compassion ; when I see the tomb 
 of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of 
 grieving for those Avhom we must quickly follow : 
 when 1 see kings lying by those who deposed them, 
 when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or 
 the holy men that divided the world with their con- 
 tests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and asto- 
 nishment on the little competitions, factions and 
 debates of mankind. When I read the several dates 
 of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and 
 some six hundred years ago, I consider that great 
 day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and 
 make our appearance together. 
 
 No. 28. IMONDAY, APRIL 2. 
 
 -^-Neqiic semper arcum 
 
 Ten (lit Apollo. 
 
 Hon. 
 
 1 SHALL here present my reader with a letter from 
 a projector, concerning anewothcc, wliich he thinks 
 may very much contribute to the embcUishmeut of 
 the city, and to the driving barl^arity out of our 
 streets. I consider it as a satire upon projectors in 
 general, and a lively picture of the whole art of 
 mfKJern criticism.
 
 Ko. 28. SPECTATOR. 71 
 
 *' SIR, 
 
 tt 
 
 Observing that you have thouorhts of creat- 
 ing certain officers under you, for the inspection of 
 several petty enormities which you yourself cannot 
 attend to ; and finding daily absurdities hung out 
 upon the sign-posts of this city, to the great scan- 
 dal of foreigners, as well as those of our own coun- 
 try, who are curious spectators of the same ; I do 
 humbly propose, that you would be pleased to make 
 me your superintendent of all such figures and de- 
 vices as are or shall be made use of on this occasion ; 
 with full powers to rectify or expunge whatever I 
 shall find irregular or defective. For v/ant of such 
 an officer, there is nothing like sound literature and 
 good sense to be met with in those objects that are 
 every where thrusting themselves out to the eye, 
 and endeavouring to become visible. Our streets 
 are filled Avith blue boars, black swans, and red 
 lions ; not to mention flying pigs, hogs in armour, 
 with many other creatures more extraordinary than 
 any in the deserts of Afric. Strange ! that one who 
 has all the birds and beasts in nature to chuse out 
 of, should live at the sign of an E?is Ration'is ! 
 
 *' My first task therefore should be, like that of 
 Hercules, to clear the citv from monsters. In the 
 second place I would forbid, that creatures of jar- 
 ring and incongruous natures should be joined to- 
 gether in the same sign ; such as the bell and the 
 neat's-tongue, the dog and gridiron. The fox and 
 goose may be supposed to have met ; but what has 
 the fox and the seven stars to do together ? And 
 when did the lamb and dolphin ever meet, except 
 upon a sign-post ? As for the cat and fiddle, there 
 is a conceit in it, and therefore I do not intend that 
 any thino- I have here said should aftect it. I must 
 however observe to you upon this subject, tliat it is 
 usual for a young tradesman, at his first setting up, 
 to add to his own sign that of the master whom he 
 served ; as the husband, after marriage, gives a place 
 
 F4
 
 72 SPECTATOR. no. 28. 
 
 to his mistress's arms in his own coat. This I take 
 to have given rise to many of those absurdities 
 which are committed over our heads ; and, as I am 
 informed, first occasioned the three nuns and a hare, 
 Avhich we see so frequently joined together. I would 
 therefore establish certain rules for the determining- 
 how far one tradesman may give the sign of another, 
 and in what cases he may be allowed to quarter it 
 with his own, 
 
 '' In the third place, I would enjoin every shop 
 to make use of a sign which bears some affinity to 
 the wares in which it deals. What can be more in- 
 consistent, than to see a bawd at the sign of the 
 angel, or a taylor at the lion ? A cook should not 
 live at the boot, nor a shoe-maker at the roasted 
 pig ; and yet, for want of this regulation, I have 
 seen a goat set up before the door of a perfumer, 
 and the French king's head at a sword-cutler's. 
 
 " An ingenious foreigner observes, that several of 
 those gentlemen who value themselves upon their 
 families, and overlook such as are bred to trade, 
 bear the tools of their forefathers in their coats of 
 arms. I will not examine how true this is in fact : 
 but though it may not be necessary for posterity 
 thus to set up the sign of their forefathers, I think 
 it highly proper for those who actually profess the 
 trade, to shew some such marks of it betbre their 
 doors. , 
 
 " When the name gives an occasion for an inge- 
 nious sign-post, I would likewise advise the owner 
 to take that opportunity of letting the world know 
 who he is. It would have been ridiculous for tlie 
 ingenious Mrs. Salmon to have lived at the sign of 
 the trout ; for which reason she has erected before 
 her house the figure of the fish that is her namesake. 
 Mr. Jk'll has likewise distinguished himself by a de- 
 vice of the same nature : and here, vSir, I must beg 
 leave to observe to you, that this particular iigiirc 
 of a bell has given occasion to several pieces of wit
 
 Ko. 28. SPECTATOR. 73 
 
 in this kind. A man of your reading must know 
 that Abel Drugger gained great applause by it in the 
 time of Ben Johnson. Our apocryphal heathen god 
 is also represented by this figure ; which, in con- 
 junction which the dragon, makes a very handsome 
 picture in several of our streets. As for the Bell 
 Savage, which is the sign of a savage man standing 
 by a bell, 1 was formerly very much puzzled upon 
 the conceit of it, till I accidentally fell into the read- 
 ing of an old romance translated out of the French, 
 which gives an account of a very beautiful woman 
 Avho was found in a wilderness, and is called in the 
 French, La Belle Sauvuge, and is every where trans- 
 lated bv our countrvmen, The Bell Savao-e. This 
 piece of philology will, I hope, convince you that I 
 have made sign-posts my study, and consecjuently 
 cjualified myself for the employment which I solicit 
 at vour hands. But, before I conclude mv letter, I 
 must communicate to you another remark which I 
 have made upon the subject with which I am now 
 entertaining you, namely, that 1 can give a shrewd 
 2'uess at the humour of the inhabitant bv the sio-n. 
 that hangs before his door. A surly choleric fellow 
 generally makes choice of a bear, as men of milder 
 dispositions frequently live at the lamb. Seeing a 
 punch-bowl painted upon a sign near Charing-cross, 
 and very curiously garnished, with a couple of 
 angels hovering over it, and squeezing a lemon into 
 it, I had the curiosity to ask after the master of the 
 house, and found, upon enquiry, as I had guessed 
 by the little agrimens upon his sign, that he Mas a 
 Frenchman. I know, Sir, it is not requisite for me 
 to enlarge upon these hints to a gentleman of your 
 great abilities; so humbly recommending myself to 
 your favour and patronage, 
 
 I remain, &c. 
 
 I shall add to the foregoing letter another, which 
 came to me by the same penny-post.
 
 74 SPECTATOR. no. 29. 
 
 *' From my own Apartment near Charing- Cross. 
 
 " HONOURED SIR, 
 
 " Having heard that this nation is a great en- 
 courager of ingenuity, I have brought with me a 
 rope-dancer that was caught in one of the woods 
 belonging to the Great Mogul. He is by birth a 
 monkey; but swings upon a rope, takes a pipe of 
 tobacco, and drinks a glass of ale, like any reason- 
 able creature. He gives great satisfaction to the 
 quality; and if they will make a subscription for 
 him, I will send for a brother of his out of Hol- 
 land that is a very good tumbler; and also for ano- 
 ther of the same family, M'hom I design for my 
 merry-andrcM', as being an excellent mimic, and the 
 greatest droll in the country where he noM^ is. I 
 hope to have this entertainment in readiness for the 
 next M'inter; and doubt not but it Mill please more 
 than the opera or puppet-show. I will not say that 
 a monkey is a better man than some of the opera 
 heroes; but certainly he is a better representative of 
 a man than the most artificial composition of wood 
 and wire. If you will be pleased to give me a good 
 word in your paper, you shall be every night a 
 spectator at my show for nothing. 
 
 " I am, &c." 
 
 No. 29. TUESDAY, APRILS. 
 
 -Scrmo liugud conciniiiis vtraque 
 
 Huacior : ut Chio nota si commista I'alcnii est. 
 
 llOK. 
 
 1 HEUH, is nothing that has more startled our Eng- 
 libh audience, than the Italian rtcitafivo at its fust 
 entrance upon the stage. People were wonderfully 
 sur{)rise(l to hear generals singiug the MT)rd of com- 
 mand, and ladies (lelivering messages in music. Our 
 countrymen could not forbear laughing when they 
 lieard a lover chanting out a billet-doux, and even 
 the superscription of a letter set to a tune. The
 
 NO. 29. SPECTATOR. 75 
 
 famous blunder in an old play of ' Enter a king and 
 two fidlers solus,' was now no longer an absurdity; 
 when it was impossible for a hero in a desert, or a 
 princess in her closet, to speak any thing unac- 
 companied with musical instruments. 
 
 But hov.'ever this Italian method of acting in 
 recitativo might appear at first hearing, I cannot but 
 think it much more just than that which prevailed 
 in our English opera before this innovation : the 
 transition from an air to recitative music beino- more 
 natural, than the passing from a song to plain and 
 ordinary speaking, which was the common method 
 in Purceli's operas. The only fault I find in our 
 present practice, is the making use of the Italian 
 recitativo ^\'ith Ens-lish words. 
 
 To go to the bottom of this matter, I must ob- 
 serve, that the tone or (as the French call it) the 
 accent of every nation in their ordinary speech, is 
 altogether different from that of every other peopk'; 
 as we may see even in the VV^elsh and Scotch, m ho 
 border so near upon us. By the tone or accent, I 
 do not mean the pronunciation of each particular 
 AV'ord, but the sound of the whole sentence. Thus 
 it is very common for an English gentleman, when 
 he hears a French tragedy, to complain that tlie 
 actors all of them speak in a tone; and therefore he 
 very wisely prefers his own countrymen, not con- 
 sidering that a foreigner complains of the same tone 
 in an EngHsh actor. 
 
 For this reason, the recitative music in every Ian- 
 guage, should be as different as the tone or accent 
 of each language; for otherwise, what may pro- 
 perly express a passion in one language, will not do 
 it in another. Every one who has been long in 
 Italy, knows very well, that the cadences in tlie re- 
 citativo bear a remote affinity to the tone of their 
 voices in ordinary conversation; or, to speak more 
 properly, are only the accents of their language 
 made more musical and tuneful.
 
 76 SPECTATOR. no. 29. 
 
 Thus the notes of interrogation, or admiration, 
 in the Italian music, (if one may so call them,) which 
 resemble their accents in discourse on such oc- 
 casions, are not unlike the ordinary tones of an 
 English voice when we are angry ; insomuch that I 
 have often seen our audiences extremely mistaken 
 as to what has been doing upon the stage, and ex- 
 pecting to see the hero knock down his messenger, 
 when he has been asking him a question; or fancy- 
 ing that he quarrels with his friend, when he only 
 bids him good-morrow. 
 
 Eor this reason the Italian artists cannot agree 
 with our English musicians, in admiring Purcell's 
 compositions, and thinking his tunes so wonderfully 
 adapted to his words ; because both nations do not 
 always express the same passions by the same sounds. 
 
 I am therefore humbly of opinion, than an Eng- 
 lish composer sho\dd not folloM^ the Italian recitative 
 too servilely, but make use of many gentle devi- 
 ations from it, in compliance with his own native 
 Inuguage. He may copy out of it all the lulling 
 softness and ' dying fails,' (as Shakespear calls them,) 
 but should still remember that he ought to accom- 
 modate himself to an English audience; and by hu- 
 mouring; the tone of our voices in ordinarv conver- 
 sation, have the same regard to the accent of his 
 own language, as those persons had to theirs whom 
 he professes to imitate. It is observed, that several 
 of the singing birds of our om'u country learn to 
 sweeten their voices, and mellow the harshness of 
 their natural notes, by practising under those that 
 come from warmer cHmates. In tiie same manner I 
 would allow the Itahan oj)era to lend our EngHsh 
 music as uuuh as may grace and soften it, l)ut 
 never entirely to annihilate and destroy it. Let the 
 infusion be as strong as you please, but still let the 
 sid>je(t matter of it be English. 
 
 A composer should lit his music to the genius of 
 the j)e()i>le, and consider that the delicacy of hear*
 
 NO. 2g. SPECTATOR. 77 
 
 ing, and taste of harmony, has heen formed upon 
 those sounds which every country abounds with : 
 in short, tliat music is of a relative nature; and 
 what is harmony to one ear, may be dissonance to 
 another. 
 
 The same observations which I have made upon 
 the recitative part of music, may be appUed to all 
 our sono's and airs in o-eneral. 
 
 Signior Baptist Lully acted like a man of sense in 
 this particular. He found the French music ex- 
 tremely defective, and very often barbarous : how- 
 ever, knowing the genius of the people, the hu- 
 mour of their language, and the prejudiced ears he 
 had to deal with, he did not pretend to extirpate the 
 French music, and plant the Italian in its stead; but 
 only to cultivate and civilize it with innumerable 
 o-races and modulations which he borrowed from the 
 Italian. By this means the French music is now per- 
 fect in its kind ; and when you say it is not so good 
 as the Italian, you onl}^ mean that it does not please 
 3^ou so well, for there is scarce a Frenchman who 
 would not wonder to hear you give the Italian such 
 a preference. The music of the French is indeed 
 very properly adapted to their pronunciation and 
 accent, as their whole opera wonderfully favours the 
 genius of such a gay airy people. The chorus in 
 which that opera abounds, gives the parterre fre- 
 quent opportunities of joining in concert with the 
 stao-e. This inclination of the audience to sins: 
 along with the actors, so prevails with them, that I 
 have sometimes known the performer on the stage 
 do no more in a celebrated song, than the clerk of 
 a parish church, who serves only to raise the psalm, 
 and is afterwards drowned in the music of the con- 
 gregation. Every actor that comes on the stage is a 
 beau. The queens and heroines are so painted, that 
 they appear as ruddy and cherry-cheeked as milk- 
 maids. The shepherds are all embroidered, and ac- 
 quit themselves in a ball better than our English
 
 78 SPECTATOR. no. 31. 
 
 dancing-masters. I have seen a couple of rivers ap- 
 pear in red stockings ; and Alpheus, instead of hav- 
 ing his head covered with sedge and bull-rushes, 
 making love in a fair full-bottomed periwig, and a 
 plume of feathers ; but with a voice so full of shakes 
 and quavers, that I should ha^•e thought the mur- 
 murs of a countrv brook the much more ao-recable 
 music. 
 
 I remember the last opera I saw in that merry 
 nation was the Rape of Proserpine, where Pluto, to 
 make the more tempting figure, puts himself in a 
 French equipage, and brings Ascalaphus along with 
 him as his valet de chambre. This is what we call 
 folly and impertinence ; but what the French look 
 upon as gay and polite. 
 
 I shall add no nu)re to Mhat I have here offered, 
 than that music, architecture, and painting, as well 
 as poetry and orator}^, are to deduce their laws and 
 rules from the general sense and taste of mankind, 
 and not from the principles of those arts themselves ; 
 or, in other words, the taste is not to conform to the 
 art, but the art to the taste. iVIusic is not designed 
 to please only chromatic ears, but all that are capa- 
 ble of distin<juishini>' harsh from disaoreeable notes. 
 A man of an ordinal y ear is a judge whether a pas- 
 sion is expressed in ])roper sounds, and Avhether the 
 melody of those soundb be more or less pleasing. 
 
 No. 31. THURSDAY, APRIL 5. 
 
 Sit mihifas audita loqui ! 
 
 VlRG. 
 
 J-iAST night, upon my going into a coffee-house 
 not far from the IJay-market Theatre, I diverted 
 myself for above half an hour with overhearing the 
 discourse of one, who, by the shabbincss of his
 
 NO. 31. SPECTATOR. 79 
 
 dress, the extravagance of his conceptions, and the 
 hurry of his speech, I discovered to be of that spe- 
 cies M'ho are generally distinguished by the title of 
 projectors, lliis gentleman, for I found he was 
 treated as such by his audience, was entertaining a 
 whole table of listeners with the project of an opera, 
 which he told us had not cost him above two or three 
 mornings in the contrivance, and which he was 
 ready to put in execution, provided he might 
 find his account in it. He said, that he had ob- 
 served the o-reat trouble and inconvenience which 
 ladies were at, in travelling up and down to the 
 several shows that are exhibited in different quar- 
 ters of the town. The dancing monkies are in one 
 place; the puppet-show in another; the opera in a 
 third : not to mention the lions, that are almost a 
 whole day's journey from the politer part of the 
 town. By this means people of figure are forced to 
 lose half the winter after their comins: to town, be- 
 fore they have seen all the strange sights about it. 
 In order to remedy this great inconvenience, our 
 projector drew out of his pocket the scheme of an 
 opera, entitled, The jLxpedition of Alexander the 
 Great ; in which he had disposed all the remarkable 
 shows about town amono- the scenes and decora- 
 tions of this piece. The thought, he confessed, was 
 not originally his own, but that he had taken the 
 hint of it from several performances which he had 
 seen upon our stage ; in one of which there was a 
 raree-show ; in another a ladder-dance ; and in 
 others a posture-man, a moving picture, with many 
 curiosities of the hke nature. 
 
 This Expedition of Alexander opens with his con- 
 sulting the Oracle at Delphos, in which the dumb 
 conjurer, who has been visited by so many persons 
 of quality of late years, is to be introduced as telling 
 him his fortune : at the same time Clench of Barnet 
 is represented in another corner of the temple, as 
 ringing the bells of Delphos, for joy of his arrival.
 
 80 SPECTATOR. no. 31. 
 
 The tent of Darius is to be peopled by the ingenious 
 Mrs. Sahnon, where Alexander is to fall in lov^e 
 with a piece of wax-work, that represents the beau- 
 tiful Statira. When Alexander comes into that coun- 
 try in which Quintus Curtius tells us the dogs were 
 so exceeding fierce that they would not loose their 
 hold, though they were cut to pieces limb by limb, 
 and that they would hang upon their prey by their 
 teeth Ashen they had nothing' but a mouth left, 
 there is to be a scene of Hocklev in the Hole, in 
 which is to be represented all the diversions of that 
 place, the bull-baiting only excepted, which cannot 
 possibly be exhibited in the theatre, by reason of 
 the low ness of the roof. The several woods in Asia, 
 which Alexander must be supposed to pass through, 
 will oive the audience a siy;ht ofmonkies dancino- 
 upon ropes, Avith the many other pleasantries ot that 
 ludicrous species. At the same time, if there chance 
 to be any strange animals in town, a\ hether birds or 
 beasts, they may be either let loose among the 
 woods, or driven across the stage by some of the 
 country people of Asia. In the last great battle, 
 Pinkethman is to personate king Porus upon an ele- 
 phant, and is to be encountered by Powell, repre- 
 senting Alexander the Great, upon a dromedary, 
 which nevertheless Mr. Powell is desired to call by 
 the name of Bucephalus. Upon the close of this 
 great decisive battle, when the tw o kings are tho- 
 roughly reconciled, to shew the mutual friendship 
 and good correspondence that reigns between them, 
 they both of them go together to a puppet-show, in 
 which the ingenious J\lr. Powell, junior, may have 
 an opportunity of displaying his whole art of ma- 
 chinery, for the diversion of the tw^o monarchs. 
 Some at the talde urged, that a puppet-show was not 
 a suitable entertainment for Alexander the (ireat; 
 and that it might be introduced more properly, if 
 we suppose the conqueror touched upon that part of 
 India, which is said to be inhabited by the Pigmies.
 
 Ko. 31. SPECTATOR. 81 
 
 But this objection was looked upon as frivolous, 
 and the proposal immediately over-ruled. Our pro- 
 jector further added, that, after the reconcihation 
 of these two kings, they might invite one another 
 to dinner, and eitlier of them entertain his guest 
 Avith the German artist, Mv. Pinkethman's heathen 
 gods, or any of the like diversions, which shall then 
 chance to be in vogue. 
 
 This project was received with very great applause 
 by the whole table. Upon which the undertaker 
 told us, that he had not yet communicated to us 
 above half his design ; for that Alexander being a ' 
 Greek, it was his intention that the whole opera 
 should be acted in that language, which ^y•ds a 
 tongue he Avas sure would wonderfully please the 
 ladies, especially Avhen it was a little raised and 
 rounded bv the Ionic dialect; and could not but be 
 acceptable to the whole audience, because there are 
 fewer of them who understand Greek than Italian. 
 The only difficulty that remained, was, how to get 
 performers, unless we coidd persuade some gentle- 
 men of the Universities to learn to sing, in order to 
 qualify them for the stage : but this objection soon 
 vanished, when the projector informed us, that the 
 Greeks were at present the only musicians in. the 
 Turkish empire, and that it would be very easy for 
 our factory at Smyrna to furnish us every year with 
 a colon}^ of musicians, by the opportunity of the 
 Turkey fleet. 'Besides, (says he,) if we want any 
 single voice for any lower part of the opera, Law- 
 rence can learn to speak Greek, as well as he does 
 Italian, in a fortnio-ht's time.' 
 
 The projector having thus settled matters, to the 
 good liking of all that heard him, he left his seat at 
 the table, and planted himself before the fire, whei e I 
 had unluckily taken my stand for the convenience 
 of overhearing Mhat he said. Whether he had ob- 
 served me to be more attentive than ordinar}', 1 
 cannot tell, but he had not stood by me above a 
 Vol. I. G
 
 82 SPECTATOR. no. 34. 
 
 quarter of a minute, when he turned short upon me 
 on a sudden, and catching me by a button of my 
 eoat, attacked me very abiiiptly after the foUownng 
 manner. * Besides, Sir, I have heard of a very ex- 
 traordinary genius for music that hves in Switzerland, 
 who has so strong a spring in his fingers, that he 
 can make the board of an organ sound like a drum ; 
 and if I could but procure a subscription of about 
 ten thousand pounds every winter, 1 would under- 
 take to fetch him over, and oblige him by article$ 
 to set every thing that should be sung upon the 
 English stage.' After this he looked full in my face, 
 expecting I would make an answer ; when, by good 
 hick, a gentleman that had entered the Coffee-house 
 since the projector applied Ifimself to me, hearing 
 him talk of iiis Swiss compositions, cried out with 
 a kind of laugh, ' Is our music then to receive further 
 hnprovements from Switzerland ?' This alarmed the 
 projector, who immediately let go my button, and 
 turned about to answer him. I took the opportu- 
 nity of the diversion which seemed to be made iu 
 favour of me, and laying down my penny upon the 
 bar, retired with some precipitation. 
 
 No. 34. MONDAY, APRIL 9. 
 
 -■panit 
 
 Co^natis maculis siniilis fcra- 
 
 Juv. 
 
 hi: club of wliich I am a member, is very luckily 
 composed of such persons as are engaged in different 
 Ivays 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 (juarters and {li\isi()ns, not only of this 
 great city, but of tlie whole kingdom. ^Jy r^ader^
 
 NO. 34. ' SPECTATOR. 83 
 
 too have the satisfaction to find, that there is ho 
 rank or degree among them who have not thei'r re- 
 presentative in this cbjb, and that there is always 
 somebody present who Avill take care of their re- 
 spective interests, that nothing may be written di- 
 pubHshed to the prejudice or infringement of theii* 
 just rights and privileges. 
 
 I last night sat very late in company with this 
 select body of friends, who entertained me with se- 
 veral remarks which they and others had made upoA' 
 these my speculations, as also with the various suc- 
 cess which they had met with among their several 
 ranks and deo-rees of leaders. Will Honevcomb 
 told me, in the softest manner he could, That there 
 were some ladies (but for your comfort, says Will, • 
 thev are not those of the most wit) that were of- 
 fended at the liberties I had taken with the opera 
 and the puppet-show; that some of them were like- 
 wise 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 further added, That the whole city 
 thought themselves very much obliged to me, for 
 declaring my generous intentions to scourge vice 
 and folfy 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 luxury of courts, your paper musfe 
 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 tlie 
 province for satire; and that the wits of King 
 
 G 2
 
 84 SPECTATOR. no. 34. 
 
 Charles's time jested upon nothing else during liis 
 whole reign. He then shewed, by the examples of 
 Horace, Juvenal, Boileau, 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 areat an excursion, in attackino- se- 
 veral persons of the inns of court ; and 1 do not 
 believe you can shew me any precedent for your be- 
 haviour in that particular.' 
 
 JNIv o-ood friend Sir Rooer de Coverley, who had 
 said nothing all this while, began his speech with a 
 jfish I and told us. That he wondered to see so 
 many men of sense so very serious upon fooleries. 
 'Let our Q-ood friend (savs he) attack every one that 
 deserves it. I would only advise you, INIr. Spectator, 
 (applying himself to me,) to take care how you med- 
 dle 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.' 
 
 Ca}>tain Sentry spoke very sparingly on this occa- 
 sion. ^V hat he said was only to commend my pru- 
 deuce in not touching upon the army, and advised 
 uie to continue to act discreetly in that point. 
 
 By this time I found every subject of my specula- 
 tions was taken aw ay from me by one or otiier of 
 the club; and began to think myself in the contlition 
 of the good man that had one wife who took a dis- 
 like to his grey hairs, and another to his black, till 
 ])y their plucking out what each of them had an 
 aversion to, they left his head altogether bald and 
 naked. 
 
 While I was thus musing with myself, my worthy 
 fiiend the clergymau, wbo, very luckily for me, 
 was at the club that night, undertook my cause. 
 He told us, that he womkrcd any order of persons
 
 Ko. 34. SPECTATOR. 85- 
 
 should think themselves too considerable to be ad- 
 vised : that it Avas not quality, but innocence, 
 which exempted men from reproof: 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 aggravate 
 the pains of poverty, if it chiefly exposed those 
 Avho are already depressed, and in some measure 
 turned into ridicule, bv the meanness of their con- 
 ditions and circumstances. He afterwards proceeded 
 to take notice of the great use this paper might 
 be of to the public, by reprehending those vices 
 which are too trivial for the chastisement of the law, 
 and too fantastical for the cognizance of the pulpit. 
 He then advised me to prosecute my undertaking 
 with chearfulness, and assured me, that whoever 
 might be displeased with me, I should be approved 
 by all those whose praises do honour to the persons 
 on whom they are bestOMcd. 
 
 The whole club pays a particular deference to the 
 discourse of this gentleman, and are drawn into 
 what he says, as much by the candid ingenious 
 manner with which he delivers himself, as by the 
 strenii'th of aro-ument and force of reason which he 
 makes use of. Will Honeycomb nnmediately 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 Andrew gave up 
 the Citv with the same frankness. The Templar 
 Avould not stand out ; and was followed bv Sir 
 Roger and the Captain ; who all agreed that I should 
 be at liberty to carrv the war into what quarter I 
 pleased ; provided I contmued to combat with cri- 
 minals in a body, and to assault the vice without 
 hurting the person. 
 
 This debate, which was held for the good of man- 
 kind, put me in mind of that which the Roman 
 Triumvirate were formerly eno-aged in for their de- 
 
 G '^ 

 
 80 SPECTATOR. no. 35. 
 
 structlon. 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, fur- 
 nished 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 Avhatever degree or 
 rank of men they may be found, I shall be deaf 
 for the future to all the remonstrances that shall be 
 r^ade to me on this account. If Punch grows ex- 
 travagant, I shall reprimand him very freely : if the 
 stage becomes a nursery of folly and impertinence, 
 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 intreat every particular person, who 
 does me the honour to be a reader of this paper, 
 never to think himself, or any of his friends or ene- 
 mies, aimed at in what is said : for I promise him 
 never to draw a faulty character which does not fit at 
 least a thousand people; or to publish a single paper, 
 that is not Mritten in the spirit of benevolence, and 
 with a love to mankind. 
 
 No. 33. TUESDAY, APRIL 10. 
 
 liisu inepto res incptior niillu est. 
 
 Maiit. 
 
 Among all kinds of writinj]:, there is none In 
 Ayhich authors are more apt to miscarry than in 
 works of Immour, as tlicre is none in whicli tbcv are 
 more ambitious to excel. It is not an imagination 
 tiliat teems wi.th monsters, an head that is filled with 
 extravagant conceptions, which, is capable of fur-
 
 NO. 35. SPECTATOR. 8/ 
 
 nishing the world with diversions of this nature ; 
 and yet if we look into the productions of several 
 M'riters, who set up for men of humour, M^hat wild 
 irregular fancies, what unnatural distortions of 
 thought, do we meet with ! If they speak nonsense, 
 they believe they are talking humour ; and when 
 thev have drawn toQ;ether a scheme of absurd incon- 
 sistent ideas, they are not able to read it over to 
 themselves without laughing. These poor gentle- 
 men endeavour to gain themselves the reputation 
 of wits and humourists, by such monstrous conceits 
 as almost qualify them for Bedlam ; not considering 
 that humour should always lie under the check of 
 reason, and that it re(iuii-es the direction of the 
 nicest judgment, by so much the more as it indulges 
 itself in the most boundless freedoms. There is a 
 kind of nature that is to be observed in this sort of 
 compositions, as well as in all other ; and a certaiiii 
 regularity of thought which must discover the writer 
 to be a man of sense, at the same time that he ap- 
 pears altogether given up to caprice. For my part, 
 when I read the delirious mirth of an unskilful au- 
 thor, I cannot be so barbarous as to divert myself 
 with it, but am rather apt to pity the- man^ than to 
 laugh at any thing he writes. 
 
 The deceased IVfr. Shad well, who had himself a 
 great deal of the talent which I am treating of, re- 
 presents an empty rake, in one of his plays, as very 
 much surprised to hear one" say that breaking of 
 M'indows was not humour ; and I question not but 
 several English readers will be as nmch startled to 
 hear' me affirm, that many of those raving incohe- 
 rent pieces, which are often spread among us, under 
 odd chimerical titles, are rather the offsprings of a 
 distempered brain, tlian Avorks of humour. 
 
 It is indeed much easier to describe w hat is not 
 humour, than what is ; and very difficult to define 
 it otherwise than, as Cowley has done Mat, by ne- 
 gatives. \Veic 1 to give my own notions of it, I 
 
 G4^
 
 88 SPECTATOR. no. 35. 
 
 v/oukl deliver them after Plato's manner, in a kind of 
 allegory, and by supposing Humour to be a person, 
 deduce to him all his qualifications, according to the 
 following genealogy. Truth was the founder of the 
 family, and the father of Good Sense. Good Sense 
 was the father of Wit, who married a lady of a col- 
 lateral line called Mirth, by whom he had issue Hu- 
 mour. Humour therefore being the youngest of 
 this illustrious family, and descended from parents 
 of such different dispositions, is very various and 
 unequal in his temper : sometimes you see him put-, 
 ting on grave looks and a solemn habit, sometimes 
 airy in his behaviour, and fantastic in his dress ; in- 
 somuch, that at different times he appears as serious 
 as a judge, and as jocular as a Merry- Andrew. But 
 as he has a great deal of the mother in his constitu- 
 tion, whatever mood he is in, he never fails to make 
 his company laugh. 
 
 But since there is an impostor abroad, who takes 
 upon him the name of this young gentleman, and 
 would willingly pass for him in the Avorld, to the 
 end that vv^ell-meaning persons may not be imposed 
 upon by cheats, I would desire my readers, Avhen 
 they meet with this pretender, to look into his pa- 
 rentage, and to examine him strictly, whether or no 
 he be remotely allied to Truth, and lineally descend- 
 ed from Good Sense ; if not, they may conclude 
 him a counterfeit. They may likewise distinguish 
 him by a loud and excessive laughter, in which he 
 seldom gets his company to join with him. For as 
 'J'rue Humour generally looks serious, Avhile every 
 body laughs al)out him ; False Humour is always 
 laughing, whilst every body about him looks serious. 
 I shall only add, if he has not in him a mixture of 
 both parents, that is, if he would pass for the off- 
 spring of Wit without Mirth, or Mirth without Wit, 
 you may conclude him to be altogether spurious, 
 and a cheat.
 
 NO. 35. SPECTATOR. 89 
 
 The impostor of M'hom I am speaking, descends 
 originally from Falsehood, who was the mother of 
 Nonsense, who was brought to bed of a son called 
 Frenzy, w^ho married one of the daughters of Folly, 
 commonly known by the name of Laughter, on 
 whom he be2:ot that monstrous infant of M'hich I 
 have been, here speaking. 1 shall set down at length 
 the genealogical table of False Humour, and, at the 
 same time, place after it the genealogy of True 
 Humour, that the reader may at one view behold 
 their difterent pedigrees and relations. 
 
 Falsehood. 
 
 Nonsense. 
 
 Frenzy. — Laughter. 
 
 False Humour. 
 
 Truth. 
 
 Good Sense. 
 
 Wit. — Mirth. 
 
 Humour. 
 
 I might extend the allegory, by mentioning se- 
 veral of the children of False Humour, who are 
 more in number than the sands of the sea, and 
 might in particular enumerate the many sons and 
 danf>hters which he has bes'ot in this Island. But 
 as this would be a very invidious task, I shall only 
 observe in general, that False Humour differs from 
 the True, as a monkey does from a man. 
 
 First of all, He is exceedingly given to little apish 
 tricks and buffooneries. 
 
 Secondly, He so much delights in mimickry, that 
 it is all one to him whether he exposes by it vice and 
 folly, luxury and avarice ; or, on the contrary, 
 virtue and wisdom, pain and poverty. 
 
 Thirdlv, He is wonderfuUv unluckv, insomuch 
 that he will bite the hand that feeds him, and en- 
 deavour to ridicule both friends and foes indiffe-
 
 90 SPECTATOR. no. 37. 
 
 rcntly. For having but small talents, he must be 
 merry where he cmi, not where he should. 
 
 Fourthly, Being intirely void of reason, he pur- 
 sues no point either of morality or instruction, but 
 is ludicrous only for the sake of being so. 
 
 Fifthly, Being incapable of having any thing but 
 mock-representations, his ridicule is always personal, 
 and aimed at the vicious man, or the writer ; not at 
 the vice, or at the writing. 
 
 I have here only pointed at the whole species of 
 false humourists ; but as one of my principal designs 
 in this paper is to beat down that malignant spirit 
 which discovers itself in the writings of the present 
 age, I shall not scruple, for the future, to single 
 out any of the small wits, that infest the world with 
 such compositions as are ill-natured, immoral, and 
 absurd. This is the only exception which I shall 
 make to the general rule I have prescribed myself, 
 of attacking multitudes ; since every honest man 
 ought to look upon himself as in a natural state of 
 war with the hbeller and lampooner, and to annoy 
 them wherever the}^ fall in his way. This is but re- 
 taliating upon them, and treating them as they treat 
 others. 
 
 No. 37. THURSDAY, APRIL 12. 
 
 Non ilia colo cahthisre Minerva: 
 Ftimincaa assueia manus. 
 
 VlllG. 
 
 OoME months ago, my friend Sir Roger, being in 
 the country, inclosed a letter to me, directed to a 
 certain lady whom I shall here call by the name of 
 Leonora, and as it contained matters of consecpience, 
 desired me to deliver it to her with my own hand. 
 Accordingly I waited upon her ladyship pretty early 
 in the morning, and was desired by her Moman to 
 walk into her lady's library, till such time as she
 
 xo. 37, SPECTATOR. 9 1 
 
 was in a readiness to receive me. The very sound 
 of a Lady's Library gave me a great curiosity to see 
 it ; and as it was some time before tlie lady came to 
 me, I had an opportunity of turning over a great 
 many of her books, which were ranged together in 
 a very beautiful order. At the end of the foUos 
 (which were finely bound and gilt) were great jars 
 of China placed one above another in a very noble 
 piece of architecture. The quartos were separated 
 from the octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which 
 rose in a delightful pyramid. The octavos were 
 bounded by tea-dishes of all shapes, colours and 
 sizes, which were so disposed on a M'ooden frame, 
 that they looked like one continued pillar indented 
 with the finest strokes of sculpture, and stained with 
 the greatest variety of dyes. That part of the li- 
 brary which was designed for the reception of plays 
 and pamphlets, and other loose papers, was inclosed 
 in a kind of square, consisting of 4)ne of the pret- 
 tiest grotesque works that I ever saw, and made up 
 of scaramouches, lions, monkies, mandarines, trees^ 
 shells, and a thousand other odd figures in China- 
 v/are. In the midst of the room was a little Japan 
 table, with a quire of gilt paper upon it, and on 
 the paper a silver snufi^'-box made in the shape of a 
 little book. I found there were several other coun- 
 terfeit books upon the upper shelves, which were 
 carved in wood, and served only to fill up the num - 
 ber, like tao-ots in the muster of a reoiment. I Avas 
 wonderfully pleased with such a mixt kind ot fur- 
 niture, as seemed very suitable both to the lody and 
 the scholar, and did not know at first whether I 
 should fancy myself in a grotto, or in a library. 
 
 Upon my looking into the books, I found there 
 were some few: which the lady had bought for her 
 own use, but that most of them had been got to- 
 gether, either because she had heard them praised, 
 or because she had seen the authors of them. Among
 
 92 SPECTATOR. no. 37. 
 
 several that I examined, I very well remember these 
 that follow. 
 
 Ogilby's Virgil. 
 
 Dryden's Juvenal. 
 
 Cassandra. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Astrsea. 
 
 Sir Isaac Newton's Works. 
 
 The Grand Cyrus; with a pin stuck in one of the 
 middle leaves. 
 
 Pembroke's Arcadia. 
 
 Locke of Human Understanding; with a paper of 
 patches in it. 
 
 A Spelling-book. 
 
 A Dictionary for the explanation of hard words. 
 
 Sherlock upon Death. 
 
 The fifteen Comforts of Matrimony. 
 
 Sir William Temple's Essays. 
 
 Father IMalbranche's Search after Truth, translated 
 into English. 
 
 A book of Novels. 
 
 The Academy of Compliments. 
 
 Culpepper's I\I id wifery. 
 
 The Lady's Calling. 
 
 Tales in Verse by Mr. Durfcy: bound in red 
 leather, gilt on the back, and doubled down in 
 several places. 
 
 All the Classic Authors, in M'ood. 
 
 A set of Elzevir's, by the same hand. 
 
 Clelia: which opened of itself in the place that 
 describes two lovers in a bower. 
 
 Baker's Cbronicle. 
 
 Advice to a Daughter. 
 
 The new Atalantis, with a Key to it. 
 
 Mr. Steele's Christian Hero. 
 
 A Prayer-book; with a bottle of Hungary water 
 by the side of it. 
 
 Dr. Sache\ crcU's Speech.
 
 NO. 37. SPECTATOR. 93 
 
 Fielding's Trial. 
 
 Seneca's Morals. 
 
 Taylor's holy Living and Dying. 
 
 La Ferte's Instructions for Country Dances. 
 
 I was taking a catalogue in my pocket-book of 
 these, and several other authors, when Leonora en- 
 tered, and, upon my presenting her with the letter 
 from the Knight, told me, with an unspeakable 
 grace, that she hoped Sir Roger was in good health- 
 I answered yes ; for I hate long speeches ; and after 
 a bow or two retired. 
 
 Leonora was formerly a celebrated beauty, and is 
 still a verv lovely woman. She has been a widow 
 for two or three years, and being unfortunate m her 
 first marriage, has taken a resolution never to ven- 
 ture upon a second. She has no children to take 
 care of, and leaves the manairement of her estate to 
 my good friend Sir Roger. But as the mind na- 
 turally sinks into a kind of lethargy, and falls 
 asleep, that is not agitated by some favourite plea- 
 sures and pursuits, Leonora has turned all the 
 passions of her sex into a love of books and retire- 
 ment. She converses chiefly with men, (as she has 
 often said herself,) but it is only in their writings; 
 and admits of very few male visitants, except my 
 friend Sir Roger, whom she hears with great plea- 
 sure, and without scandal. As her reading has lain, 
 very much among romances, it has given her a very 
 particular turn of thinking, and discovers itself even 
 in her house, her gardens, and her furniture. Sir 
 Roger has entertained me an hour together with a 
 description of her country seat, which is situated in 
 a kind of wilderness, about an hundred miles dis- 
 tant from London, and looks like a little enchanted 
 palace. The rocks about her are shaped into ar- 
 tificial grottoes, covered Avith woodbines and jessa- 
 mines. The woods are cut into shady walks, twisted 
 into bowers, and filled with cages of turtles. The
 
 94 SPECTATOR. no. 37. 
 
 springs are made to run among pebblev<4, and by that 
 means taught to murmur very agreeably. They are 
 likewise collected into a beautiful lake, that is in- 
 habited by a couple of swans, and empties itself by 
 a little rivulet which runs through a green meadow, 
 and is known in the family by the name of The pull- 
 ing Stream. The Knight likewise tells me, that this 
 lady preserves her game better than any of the 
 gentlemen in the country. ' Not (says Sir Roger) that 
 she sets so great a value upon her partridges and phea- 
 sants, as upon her larks and nightingales. For she 
 says that every bird which is killed in her ground, 
 will spoil a concert, and that she shall Certainly miss 
 him the next year.' 
 
 AVhen I think how oddly this lady has improved 
 by learning, I look upon her with a mixture of ad- 
 miration and pity. Amidst these innocent entertain- 
 ments which she has formed to herself, how much 
 more valuable does she appear than those of het 
 sex, who employ themselves in diversions that ar6 
 less reasonable, though more in fashion ! What im- 
 provements would a woman have made, who is so 
 susceptible of impressions from what she reads, had 
 she been guided to such books as have a tendency to 
 enlighten the understanding and rectify the pas- 
 sions, as well as to those Avhich are of little more 
 use than to divert the imagination ! 
 
 Rut the manner of a lady's employing herself use- 
 fully in reading shall be the subject of another 
 paper, in which I design to recommend such par- 
 ticular books as may be proper for the improvement 
 of the sex. And as this is a subject of a very nice 
 nature, I shall desire my correspondents to give n\6 
 their thoughts upon it.
 
 NO. 39. SPECTATOR. 95 
 
 No. 59. SATURDAY, APRIL 14. 
 
 Multa fero, ut placem genus irritahile vatunty 
 Cum scribo 
 
 HOR. 
 
 j^s a perfect tragedy is the noblest production of 
 human nature, so it is capable of giving the mind 
 one of the most delightful and most improving en- 
 tertainments. ' A virtuous man (says Seneca) strug- 
 gling with misfortunes, is such a spectacle as gods 
 might look upon with pleasure ;' and such a pleasure 
 it is which one meets with in the representation of a 
 well-written tragedy. Diversions of this kind wear 
 out of our thoughts every thing that is mean and 
 little. They cherish and cultivate that humanity 
 which is the ornament of our nature. They soften 
 insolence, sooth affliction, and subdue the mind to 
 the dispensations of Providence. 
 
 It is no wonder therefore that in all the polite na- 
 tions of the world, this part of the drama has met 
 with public encouragement. 
 
 The modern tragedy excels that of Greece and 
 Rome, in the intricacy and disposition of the fable; 
 but, what a Christian writer would be. ashamed to 
 own, falls infinitely short of it in the moral part of 
 the performance. 
 
 This I may shew more at large hereafter; and iix 
 the mean time, that I may contribute something to- 
 wards the improvement of the English tragedy, I 
 shall take notice, in this, and in other following 
 papers, of some particular parts in it that seem h- 
 able to exception. 
 
 Aristotle observes, that the Iambic verse in the 
 Greek tongue was the most proper for tragedy ; be- 
 cause at the same time that it lifted up the discourse 
 from prose, it was that which approached nearer to 
 it than any other kind of verse. ' P'or, (says he, ) vve
 
 96 SPECTATOR. no. 39. 
 
 may observe that men in ordinary discourse very 
 often speak Iambics, without taking- notice of it.' 
 We may make the same observation of our Enghsh 
 blank verse, wliich often enters into our common 
 tliscourse, though we do not attend to it, and is 
 such a due medium between rhynie and prose, that 
 it seems wonderfidly adapted to tragedy. I am 
 therefore very much offended when I see a play in 
 in rhyme ; which is as absurd in English, as a tra- 
 gedy of Hexameters would have been in Greek or 
 Latin. The solecism is, I think, still greater in 
 those plays that have some scenes in rhyme, and 
 some in blank verse, which are to be looked upon 
 as two several languages; or where we see some par- 
 ticular similies dignified Avith rhyme, at the same 
 time that every thing about them lies in blank verse. 
 I w^ould not, however, debar the poet from conclud- 
 ing his tragedy, or, if he pleases, every act of it, 
 with two or three couplets, \\bich may have the 
 same effect as an air in the Itahan opera after a long 
 recitativo, and give the actor a graceful exit. Be- 
 sides that we see a diversity of numbers in some 
 parts of the oldy tragedy, in order to hinder the car 
 from beino- tired with the same continued modula- 
 tion of voice ; for the same reason I do not dislike 
 the speeches in our English tragedy that close with 
 an htmistic, or half verse, notwithstanding the 
 person who speaks after it begins a new verse, with- 
 out filling up the precciling one ; nor abrupt pauses 
 and breakings-off in the middle of the verse, when 
 they humour any j^assion that is expressed by it. 
 
 Since 1 am uj)()n this subject, I nuist ()l)scrve, that 
 our EngiiNh poets have succeeded much better in 
 the style than in the sentiments of their tragedies. 
 Their language is very often noble and sonorous, but 
 the sense either \ery trifling, or very connnon. On 
 the contrary, in the ancient tragedies, and indeed 
 in those of Corneille and Kacine, though the expres- 
 sions are very great, it is the thought that bears
 
 NO. 39. SPECTATOR. 97 
 
 them up and swells them. For my own part, I pre- 
 fer a noble senthnent tliat is depressed with homely 
 language, infinitely before a vulgar one that is blown 
 up with all the sound and energy of expression. 
 Whether this defect in our tragedies may arise from 
 want of genius, knowledge, or experience in the 
 writers, or from their compliance with the vicious 
 taste of their readers, who are better judges of the 
 language than of the sentiments, and consequently 
 relish the one more than the other, I cannot deter- 
 mine. But I believe it might rectify the conduct 
 both of the one and of the other, if the writer laid 
 down the whole contexture of his dialogue in plain 
 English, before he turned it into blank verse ; and 
 if the reader, after the perusal of a scene, would 
 consider the naked thought of every speech in it, 
 when divested of all its tragic ornaments. By this 
 means, witliout being imposed upon by words, we 
 may judge impartially of the thought, and consider 
 Avhether it be natural or great enough for the person 
 that utters it, whether it deserves to shine in such a 
 blaze of eloquence, or show itself in such a variety 
 of lights, as are generally made use of by the writers 
 of our English tragedy. 
 
 I must in the next place observe, that when our 
 thoughts are great and just, they are often obscured 
 by the sounding phrases, hard metaphors, and 
 forced expressions, in which they are cloathed. 
 Shakespear is often very faulty in this particular. 
 There is a fine observation in Aristotle to this pur- 
 pose, which I have never seen quoted. * The expres- 
 sion (says he) ought to be very much laboured in 
 the inactive parts of the fable, as in descriptions, 
 similitudes, narrations, and the hke ; in which the 
 opinions, manners and passions of men are not re- 
 presented ; for these (namely, the opinions, man- 
 ners and passions) are apt to be obscured by pom- 
 pous phrases, and elaborate expressions.' Horace, 
 who copied most of his criticisms after Aristotle, 
 
 Vol. I. H
 
 98 SPECTATOR. no. 39. 
 
 seems to have had his eye on the foregoing rule, in 
 the following verses : 
 
 Et fragicus plerximqne doht sennont pedestri. 
 Telephus et Peleiis, cvm pauper et e.xul vterque, 
 Projicii ampullas et sesqvipcdalia terba, 
 Si curat cor spectantis tetigiase quereld. 
 
 Tragedians too lay by their state, to grieve. 
 Peleus and Telephus, exil'd and poor, 
 Forget their swelling and gigantic words. 
 
 Ld. Roscommon. 
 
 Among our modern English poets, there is none 
 who was better turned for tragedy than Lee ; if, in- 
 stead of favouring the impetuosity of his genius, he 
 had restrained it, and kept it within its proper 
 bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited to 
 tragedy, butfrequently lost in such a cloltd of words, 
 that it is hard to see the beauty of them : there is 
 an infinite fire in his works, but so involved in smoke, 
 that it does not appear in half its lustre. He fre- 
 quently succeeds in the passionate parts of the tra- 
 gedy, but more particularly where he slackens his 
 efforts, and eases the style of those epithets and 
 metaphors, in which he so much abounds. What 
 can be more natural, more soft, or more passionate, 
 than that line in Statira's speech, where she describes 
 the charms of Alexander's conversation ? 
 
 Then he would talk : Good Gods ! how he would talk ! 
 
 That unexpected break in the line, and turning 
 the description of his manner of talking into an 
 admiration of it, is inexpressibly beautiful, and 
 wonderfully suited to the fond character of the per- 
 son that speaks it. There is a simplicity in the 
 words, that outshines the utmost pride of expression. 
 
 Otway has folloMcd nature in the language of his 
 tragedy, and therefore shluca in the passionate parts 
 more than any of our P^ngllsh poets. As there is 
 something familiar and domestic in the fable of his 
 tragctly, more than in those of any other poet, he
 
 jNo. 40. SPECTATOR. gg 
 
 lias little pomp, but great force, in his expressions. 
 For which reason, though he has admirably suc- 
 ceeded in the tender and melting part of his trage- 
 dies, he sometimes falls into too great a familiarity 
 of phrase in those parts, which, by Aristotle's rule, 
 ought to hav^e been raised and supported b}^ the 
 dignity of expression. 
 
 It has been observed by others, that this poet has 
 founded his trao-edv of ^^enice Preserved on so wrono- 
 a plot, that the greatest characters in it are those of 
 rebels and traitors. Had the hero of his play dis- 
 covered the same good qualities in the defence of 
 his country, that he shewed for its ruin and subver- 
 sion, the audience could not enough pity and admire 
 him : but as he is now represented, we can only say 
 of him what the Roman historian says of Cataline, 
 that his fall would have been glorious (si pro putrid 
 sic concidisset) had he so fallen in the service of his 
 country. 
 
 No. 40. MONDAY, APRIL \G. 
 
 Jc ne forte putes me, quoefacere ipse reaisem, 
 Cum rtcte tractant alii, laudnre maligue ; 
 Jlle per extentum fttnem vnhi posse videtur 
 Ire poet a, mcum qui pectus bianiter angit, 
 Irritat, mulcet, Jalsis terroribus implet, 
 Ut magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Afhenis, 
 
 HoR- 
 
 1 HE English writers of tragedy are possessed with 
 a notion, that when they represent a virtuous or in- 
 nocent person in distress, they ought not to leave 
 him till they have delivered him out of his troubles, 
 or made him triumph over his enemies. This error 
 they have been led into by a ridiculous doctrine in 
 modern criticisms, that they are obliged to an equal 
 distribution of rewards and punishments, and an 
 impartial execution of poetical justice. Who were 
 
 H 2
 
 100 SPECTATOR. NO. 40. 
 
 the first that established this rule I know not ; but I 
 am sure it has no foundation in nature, in reason, or 
 in the practice of the ancients. M'e find that good 
 and evil happen alike to all men on this side the 
 grave ; and as the principal design of tragedy is to 
 raise commiseration and terror in the minds of the 
 audience, we shall defeat this great end, if we always 
 make virtue and innocence happy and successful. 
 ^Vhatever crosses and disappointments a good man 
 suffers in the body of the tragedy, they will make 
 but small impression on our minds, when we know 
 that in the last act he is to arrive at the end of his 
 wishes and desires. When we see him cnoaa'cd in 
 the depth of his afflictions, Ave are apt to comfort 
 ourselves, because we are sure he will find his way 
 out of them ; and that his grief, how great soever 
 it may be at present, will soon terminate in gladness. 
 For tliis reason the ancient writers of trao'edv treated 
 men in their plays as they are dealt with in the 
 woild, by making virtue sometimes happy, and 
 sometimes miserable, as they found it in the fable 
 which they made choice of, or as it might affect 
 their audience in the most agreeable manner. Aris- 
 totle considers the tragedies that Avere written in 
 cither of these kinds, and observes, that those 
 which ended unhappily, had always pleased the peo- 
 ple, and carried away the prize in the public disputes 
 of tbc stage, from those that ended happily. Ter- 
 ror and commiseration leave a pleasing anguish in 
 the mind ; and fix the audience in such a serious 
 comj)osure of thought, as is much more lasting and 
 delightful, than any little transient starts of joy and 
 satisfaction. Accordingly, we find that more of 
 our Kngiish tragedies have succeeded in which the 
 favourites of the audience sink under their calami- 
 ties, than those in w hicli they recover themselves 
 out of them. The best plays of this kind are the 
 Orphan, Venice Preserved, Alexander the Great, 
 'Jhecjdosius, All for Love, Oedipus, Oroonoko,
 
 NO. 40. SPECTATOR. 101 
 
 Othello, &c. King Lear is an admirable tragedy of 
 the same kind, as Shakespear wrote it; but as it is 
 reformed according to the chimerical notion of poe- 
 tical justice, in my humble opinion it has lost half 
 its beauty. At the same time I must allow, that 
 there are very noble tragedies, which have been 
 framed upon the other plan, and have ended hap- 
 pily ; indeed most of the good tragedies, which 
 have been written since the startino; of the above- 
 mentioned criticism, have taken this turn ; as the 
 Mourning Bride, Tamerlane, Ulysses, Phaedra and 
 Hippolytus, with most of Mr. Dry den's. I must 
 also allow, that many of Shakespear's, and several 
 of the celebrated tragedies of antiquity, are cast in 
 the same form. I do not therefore dispute against 
 this way of writing tragedies, but against the cri- 
 ticism that would establish this as the only method ; 
 and by that means would very much cramp the 
 English tragedy, and perhaps give a wrong bent to 
 the oenius of our writers. 
 
 The tragi-comedy, which is the product of the 
 Eno-lish theatre, is one of the most monstrous in- 
 ventions that ever entered into a poet's thoughts. 
 An author might as Avell think of weaving the ad- 
 ventures of ^neas and Hudibras into one poem, 
 as of writing such a motley piece of mirth and sor- 
 row. But the absurdity of these performances is so 
 very visible, that I shah not insist upon it. 
 
 The same objections which are made to tragi-co- 
 medy, may in some measure be applied to all trage- 
 dies that have a double plot in them; which are 
 likewise more frequent upon the English stage, than 
 upon any other : for though the grief of the audi- 
 ence, in such performances, be not changed into 
 anotlier passion, as in tragi-comedies, it is diverted 
 upon another object, which weakens their concern 
 for the principal action, and breaks the tide of sor- 
 row, by throwing it into different channels. This 
 inconvenience, however, may in a great measure be 
 
 H 3
 
 102 SPECTATOR. NO. 40. 
 
 cured, if not wholly removed, by the skilfid choice 
 ot' an iinder-plot, which may bear such a near re- 
 lation to the principal design, as to contribute to- 
 wards the completion of it, and be concluded by 
 the same catastrophe. 
 
 There is also another particular, which may be reck- 
 oned amono' the blemishes, or rather the false beau- 
 ties, of our English tragedy : I mean those particular 
 speeches Avhich are commonly known by the name 
 of rants. The warm and passionate parts of a tra- 
 gedy are always the most taking M'ith the audience; 
 for M'hich reason we often see the players pronounc- 
 ing, in all the violence of action, several parts of the 
 tragedy which the author writ with great temper, 
 and designed that they should have been so acted. 
 I have seen Powell very often raise himself a loud 
 clap by this artifice. The poets that were acquamted 
 with this secret, have given frequent occasion for 
 such emotions in the actor, by adding vehemence to 
 M'ords where there was no passion, or inflaming a 
 real passion into fustian. This hath filled the mouths 
 of the heroes with bombast ; and given them such 
 sentiments, as proceed rather from a swelling than a 
 greatness of mind. Unnatural exclamations, curses, 
 vows, blasphemies, a defiance of mankind, and an 
 outraging of the gods, frequently pass upon the 
 audience for toweringthoughts, and have accordingly 
 met with infinite applause. 
 
 I shall here add a remark, which I am afraid our 
 tragic writers may make an ill use of. As our 
 heroes are generally lovers, their swelling and blus- 
 tering upon the stage very much recommends them 
 to the fair part of their audience. The ladies arc 
 wonderfully pleased to see a man insulting kings, or 
 afrVonting the gods, in one scene, and throwing 
 himself at the feet of his mistress in another. Let 
 liim iK'have himself insolently towards the men, and 
 abjectly towards the fair one, and it is ten to one 
 but he proves a favourite of the boxes. Dryden and
 
 I 
 
 .KC. 40. SPECTATOR. 103 
 
 Lee, in several of their tragedies, have practised 
 this secret M'ith good success. 
 
 But to shew how a rant pleases beyond the most 
 just and natural thought that is not pronounced with 
 vehemence, I would desire the reader, when he sees 
 the tragedy of (Edipus, to observe how quietly the 
 hero is dismissed at the end of the third act, after 
 having pronounced the following lines, in which 
 the thought is very natural, and apt to move com- 
 passion. 
 
 To you, good gods, I make my last appeal; 
 
 Or clear my virtues, or mv crimes reveal. 
 
 If in the maze of fate I blindly run, 
 
 And backward tread those paths I sought to shun, 
 
 Impute ray errors to your own decree : 
 
 jNIy hands aie guilty, but my heart is free. 
 
 Let us then obser\'e with what thunder-claps of 
 applause he leaves the stage, after the impieties and 
 execrations at the end of the fourth act ; and you 
 will wonder to see an audience so cursed and so 
 pleased at the same time. 
 
 O that as oft I have at Athens seen 
 
 (JVhere, by the way^ there zvas no stage till many 
 years ajter (EdipusJ 
 
 The stage arise, and the big clouds descend; 
 So now in very deed, I might behold 
 This pond'rous globe, and all yon marble roof. 
 Meet like the hands of Jove, and crush mankind, 
 Vox all the elements, &C. 
 
 ADVERTISEiMENT. 
 
 Having spoken of Mr. Powell, as sometimes raising 
 himself applause from the ill taste of an audience; 
 I must do him the justice to own, that he is ex- 
 cellently formed for a tragedian, and, when he 
 pleases, deserves the admiration of the best judges; 
 as I doubt not but he will in the Conquest of 
 ISIexico, which is acted for his own benefit to- 
 morrow nioht. 
 
 H4
 
 104- SPECTATOR. no. 42. 
 
 No. 42. WEDNESDAY, APRIL 18. 
 
 Garganum mitgire pufes nemus aut mare Tuscum, 
 Tanlo cum strepitu ludi specfantur, et artes, 
 Diviticeque peregrince ; qiiibus ablitus actor 
 Cum stetit in sctua, concurrit dextera laevce. 
 Dixit adhuc aliquid ? Nil sane. Quid placet ergo f 
 Lana Tarentino violas imitata veneno. 
 
 Hon. 
 
 JYristotle has observed, that ordinary writers of 
 tragedy endeavoured to raise terror and pity in their 
 audience, not by proper sentiments and expressions, 
 but by the dresses and decorations of the stage. 
 There is something of this kind very rediculous in 
 the Enghsh theatre. When the author has a mind 
 to terrify us, it thunders; when he would make us 
 melancholy, the stage is darkened. But among all 
 our tragic artifices, I am the most offended at tliose 
 which are made use of to inspire us with magnificent 
 ideas of the persons that speak. The ordinary me- 
 thod of making an hero, is to clap a huge plume 
 of feathers upon his head, Mhich rises so very 
 high, that there is often a greater length from his 
 chin to the top of his head, than to the sole of his 
 foot. One would believe, that m'C thought a great 
 man and a tall man the same thinu'. This verv much 
 embarrasses the actor, Mho is forced to hold his 
 neck extremely stiff and steady all the while he 
 speaks; and notwithstanding any anxieties which he 
 pretends for his mistress, his country, or his friends, 
 one may see by his action, that his greatest care and 
 concern is to keep the plume of feathers from fal- 
 ling off his head. Eor my own part, M'hen I see a 
 man uttering his comj)laints under such a mountain 
 of feathers, I am apt to look upon him rather as an 
 unfortunate lunatic, than a distressed hero. As 
 these superfluous ornamcuts upon the head make a
 
 NO. 42. SPECTATOR. 105 
 
 great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur 
 from those additional incumbrances that fall into 
 her tail : I mean the broad sweeping train that fol- 
 lows her in all her motions, and finds constant em- 
 ployment for a boy who stands behind her to open 
 and spread it to advantage. I do not know how 
 others are affected at this sight, but, I must con- 
 fess, my eyes are wholly taken up with the page's 
 part ; and as for the queen, I am not so attentive 
 to any thing she speaks, as to the right adjusting of 
 her train, lest it should chance to trip up her heels, 
 or incommode her, as she walks to and fro upon the 
 stage. It is, in my opinion, a very odd spectacle, 
 to see a queen venting her passion in a disordered 
 motion, and a little boy taking care all the while 
 that they do not ruffle the tail of her gown. The 
 parts that the two persons act on the stage at the 
 same time, are very different : the princess is afraid 
 lest she should incur the displeasure of the king her 
 father, or lose the hero her lover, whilst her attend- 
 ant is onlv concerned lest she should entano-le her 
 feet in her petticoat. 
 
 We are told, that an ancient tragic poet, to move 
 the pity of his audience, for his exiled kings and 
 distressed heroes, used to make the actors represent 
 them in dress and clothes that were threadbare and 
 decayed. This artihce for mo\'ing pity, seems as: 
 ill contrived, as that we have been speaking of, to 
 inspire us with a great idea of the persons introduced 
 npon the stage. In short, I would have our con- 
 ceptions raised by the dignity of thought and sub- 
 limity of expression, rather than by a train of robes, 
 or a plume of feathers. 
 
 Another mechanical method of making great 
 men, and adding dignity to kings and queens, is to 
 accompany them with halberts and battle-axes. 
 Two or three shifters of scenes, with the two candie- 
 snuffers, make up a complete body of guards upon 
 the English stage ; and, by the addition of a few
 
 106 SPECTATOR. no. 42. 
 
 porters dressed in red coats, can represent above a 
 dozen legions. I have sometimes seen a couple of 
 armies drawn up together upon the stage, when the 
 poet has been disposed to do honour to his generals. 
 It is impossible for the reader's imagination to mul- 
 tiply twenty men into such prodigious multitudes, 
 or to fancy that two or tliree hundred thousand 
 soldiers are fighting in a room of forty or fifty yards 
 in compass. Incidents of such a nature should be 
 told, not represented. 
 
 • ■ Non tameii iiifus 
 
 Digna geri protnes in seen am : m>iUaquc folks 
 Ex oculis, qu(£ max narrttjacundia pnrsens. 
 
 IIOH. 
 
 Yet there are things improper for a scene, 
 Which men of jiKlgment only will relate. 
 
 Lu. RoSCOMiMON. 
 
 I shall therefore, in this particular, recommend to 
 my countrymen the example of the French stage, 
 where the kings and queens always appear unat- 
 tenrled, and leave their guards behind the scenes. 
 I should likewise be glad if we imitated the French 
 in banishing from our stage the noise of drums, 
 trumpets, and huzzas; which is sometimes so very 
 o-reat, that when there is a battle in the Hay-market 
 Theatre, one may hear it as far as Charmg-cross. 
 
 I have here only touched upon those particulars 
 which are made use of to raise and aggrandize the per- 
 sons of a tragedy ; and shall shew in another paper, 
 the several expedients which are practised by au- 
 thors of a vulgar genius, to move terror, pity, or 
 admiration, in their hearers. 
 
 The taylor and the painter often contribute to the 
 success of a tragedy more than the poet. Scenes 
 affect ordinary minds as much as speeches, and our 
 actors are very sensible, that a well-dressed play has 
 sometimes brought them as full audiences, as a well- 
 written one. 'i\\v Italians have a very good ])hrase 
 to express this art of imposing upon the spectators
 
 jio. 44. SPECTATOR. 107 
 
 by appearances: they call it the Fourheria della 
 scena; ' The knavery or trickish part of the drama.' 
 But, however the show and outside of the tragedy 
 may work upon the vulgar, the more understanding 
 part of the audience immediately see through it, and 
 despise it. 
 
 A good poet will give the reader a more lively idea 
 of an army or a battle in a description, than if he 
 actually saw them draw^n up in squadrons and bat- 
 talions, or eno^ao;ed in the confusion of a fio-ht. 
 Our minds should be opened to great conceptions, 
 and inflamed w^ith glorious sentiments, by what the 
 actor speaks, more than by what he appears. Can 
 all the trappings or equipage of a king or hero, give 
 Brutus half that pomj) and majesty which he receives 
 from a few lines in Sliakespear? 
 
 No. 44. FRIDAY, APRIL 20. 
 
 Tu, quid ego et populiis mecum desideref, audi. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 x\moxg the several artifices which are put in prac- 
 tice by the poets to fill the minds of an audience 
 with terror, the first place is due to thunder and 
 lightning, which are often made use of at the de- 
 scending of a god, or the rising of a ghost, at the 
 vanishing of a devil, or at the death of a tyrant. 
 I have known a bell introduced into several trage- 
 dies with good effect; and have seen the whole as- 
 sembly in a very great alarm all the Avhile it has been 
 rino-in<>-. But there is nothino- which deli2:hts and 
 terrifies our English theatre so much as a ghost, es- 
 pecially when he appears in a bloody shirt. A 
 spectre has very often saved a play, though he has 
 done nothing but stalked across tlie stage, or rose 
 through a cleft of it, and sunk again without speak-
 
 lOS SPECTATOR. no. 44. 
 
 ing one word. There may be a proper season for 
 the several terrors ; and vvhen they only come in as 
 aids and assistances to the poet, they are not only 
 to be excused, but to be applauded. Thus the sound- 
 ing of the clock in Venice Preserved, makes the 
 hearts of the ^dlole audience quake; and conveys 
 a stronger terror to the mind, than it is possible for 
 words to do. The appearance of the ghost in Ham- 
 let is a master-piece in its kind, and wrought up 
 with all the circumstances that can create either at- 
 tention or horror. Hie mind of the reader is won- 
 derfully prepared for his reception by the discourses 
 that precede it : his dumb behaviour, at his first en- 
 trance, strikes the imaoination verv strono-iy • but 
 every time he enters, he is still more terrifying. 
 Mho can read the speech with which young Hamlet 
 accosts him, without trembling? 
 
 Hor. Look, my Lord, it comes ! 
 
 Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! 
 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd ; 
 liring with thee airs from Ileav'n, or blasts from Hell; 
 Be thy intent wicked or charitable ; 
 Thou com'sl in such a questionable shape, 
 That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet, 
 King, father, royal Dane. Oh ! answer me, 
 Let me not burst in ignorance; but toll 
 Why thus thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death, 
 Have burst their cearnients ? why the sepulchre, 
 Wherein wc saw thee quietly inurn'd, 
 Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws 
 To cast thee up again? What may this mean ? 
 Ihat thou, dead corse, again in complete steel 
 llevisit'st thus tiic glimpses of the moon, 
 Making night hideous ? 
 
 I do not therefore find fault with the artifices above- 
 mentioned, when they are iutro(hu-('d A\itb .skill, 
 and accompanied by proj)ortionable sentiments and 
 expressions in writing. 
 
 For the moving of pity, our prineij)al machine is 
 the handkerchief; and indeed, in our conunon tra- 
 gedies, we should not know \ cry often thai the per-
 
 NO. 44. SPECTATOR. 109 
 
 sons are In distress by any thing they say, if they 
 did not from time to time apply their handkerchiefs 
 to their eyes. Far be it from me to think of banish- 
 ino' this instrument of sorrow from the stao-e : I 
 know a traQ-edv could not subsist without it: all 
 that I would contend for, is, to keep it from being 
 misapplied. In a word, I would have the actor 3 
 tongue sympathize with his eyes. 
 
 A disconsolate mother, with a child in her hand, 
 'has frequently drawn compassion from the audience, 
 and has therefore gained a place in several tragedies. 
 A modern writer, that observed how this had taken 
 in other plays, being resolved to double the distress, 
 and melt his audience twice as much as those before 
 him had done, brought a princess upon the stage 
 with a little boy in one hand and a girl in the other. 
 This too had a very good effect. A third poet being 
 resolved to out-write all his predecessors, a few years 
 iiixo introduced three children, with s>Teat success ; 
 and, as I am informed, a young gentleman, who is 
 fully determined to break the most obdurate hearts, 
 has a tragedy by him, where the first person that 
 appears upon the stage, is an afflicted widow in her 
 mourning weeds, with half a dozen fatherless chil- 
 dren attendino- her, like those that usually hanar 
 about the figure of charity. Tlius several incidents 
 tbat are beautiful in a good writer, become ridicu- 
 lous by falling into the hands of a bad one. 
 
 But among all our methods of moving pity or ter- 
 ror, there is none so absurd and barbarous, and that 
 more exposes us to the contempt and ridicule of our 
 neighbours, than that dreadful butchering of one 
 another, which is so very frequent upon the English 
 stage. To delight in seeing men stabbed, poisoned, 
 racked, or impaled, is certainly the sign of a cruel 
 temper: and as this is often practised before the 
 British audience, several French critics, who think 
 these are grateful spectacles to us, take occasion 
 from them to represent us a.s a people tlxat delight
 
 no SPECTATOR. Ko. 44. 
 
 in blood. It is indeed very odd, to see our stage 
 strewed with carcases in the last scene of a tra- 
 gedy; and to observe in the ward-robe of the play- 
 house, several daggers, poinards, wheels, bowls tor 
 poison, and many other instruments of death. Mur- 
 ders and executions are always transacted behind 
 the scenes in the PVench theatre, which in general 
 is very agreeable to the manners of a polite and 
 civilized people: but as there are no exceptions to 
 this rule on the French stage, it leads them into ab- 
 surdities almost as ridiculous as that which falls un- 
 der our present censure. I remember in the famous 
 play of Corneille, written upon the subject of the 
 Horatii and Curiatii, the fierce young hero who had 
 overcome the Curiatii one after another, (instead of 
 being congratulated by his sister for his victory, 
 being upbraided by her for having slain her lover,) 
 in the height of his passion and resentment, kills 
 her. If any thing could extenuate so brutal an 
 action, it would be the doing of it on a sudden, be- 
 fore the sentiments of nature, reason, or manhood, 
 could take place in him. However, to SLVoid public 
 blood-shed, as soon as his passion is wrought to its 
 height, he follows his sister the M'hole length of the 
 stage, and forbears killing her till they are both 
 withdrawn behind the scenes. I must confess, had 
 he murdered her before the audience, the indecency 
 might have been greater; but as it is, it appears 
 very unnatural, and looks like killing in cold blood. 
 To give my opinion upon this case, the fact ouglit 
 not to have been represented, but to have been told, 
 if there was any occasion for it. 
 
 It may not be unaccej)table to the reader, to see 
 how Sophocles has conducted a tragedy under the 
 hke delicate circumstances. Orestes was in the 
 same condition with Ilandct in Shakespear, his mo- 
 ther having murdered his father, and taken pos- 
 .session of liis kingdom in conspiracy with her adul- 
 terer. That young prince therefore, being deter-
 
 NO. 44- SPECTATOR. Ill 
 
 mined to revenge his father's death upon those who 
 filled his throne, conveys himself hy a beautiful 
 stratagem into his mother s apartment, with a reso- 
 lution to kill her. But, because such a spectacle 
 would have been too shocking to the audience, this 
 dreadful resolution is executed behind the scenes: 
 the mother is heard calling out to her son for mercy ; 
 and the son answering her, that she shewed no mercy 
 to his father : after Avhich she shrieks out that she 
 is wounded, and by what follows we find that she is 
 slain. I do not remember that in any of our plays 
 there are speeches made behind the scenes, though 
 there are other instances of this nature to be met 
 with in those of the ancients: and I believe my 
 reader will agree with me, that there is something 
 infinitely more affecting in this dreadful dialogue 
 between the mother and her son behind the scenes, 
 than could have been in any thing transacted before 
 the audience. Orestes immediately after meets the 
 usurper at the entrance of his palace; and by a very 
 happy thought of the poet avoids killing him be- 
 fore the audience, by telling him, that he should live 
 some time in his present bitterness of soul before he 
 would dispatch him, and by ordering him to retire 
 into that part of the palace where he had slain his 
 father, whose murder he would revenge in the very 
 same place Avhere it was committed. By this means 
 the poet observes that decency which Horace at- 
 terwards established by a rule, of forbearing to 
 commit parricides or unnatural murders before the 
 audience. . 
 
 Nee coram populo natos Medea trucidet. 
 
 Let not Medea draw her murdering knife. 
 And spill her childrens blood upon the stage. 
 
 The French have therefore refined too much upon 
 Horace's rule, who never designed to banish all kinds 
 of death from the stao-e ; but onlv such as had too 
 much horror in them, and which would have a bet-
 
 112 SPECTATOH. NO. 44. 
 
 ter effect upon the audience when transacted behind 
 the scenes. I would therefore recommend to my 
 countrymen the practice of the ancient poets, who 
 were very sparing of their public executions, and 
 rather chose to perform them behind the scenes, if 
 it could be done with as great an effect upon the 
 audience. At the same time I must observe, that 
 though the devoted persons of the tragedy were 
 seldom slain before the audience, which has gene- 
 rail}' something ridiculous in it, their bodies were 
 often produced after their death, which has always 
 in it something melancholy or terrifying ; so that 
 the killing on the stage does not seem to have been 
 avoided only as an indecency, but also as an im- 
 probability. 
 
 Kec pueros coram populo Medea tnicidet ; 
 Aut liumana palam coquat exta nejarius Atreits ; 
 Aut in aiem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in aiiguem. 
 Quudcunque ostendis vuhi sic, iitcrtdulas odi. 
 
 IIoR. 
 
 Medea must not draw her murd'ring knife, 
 Nor Atreus iheie his horrid feast prepare. 
 Cadmus and Progne's metamorphosis, 
 (She to a swallow turn'd, he to a snake,) 
 And whatsoever contrailicts my sense, 
 1 hate to see, and never can believe. 
 
 Ld. Roscommon', 
 
 I have now g'one throu<>li the several dramatic in- 
 ventions which arc made use of by the ignorant 
 poets to supply the place of tragedy, and by the 
 skilful to im])rove it ; some of M'hicli I could wish 
 entirely rejected, and tbe rest to be used with cau- 
 tion. It would be an endless task to consider co- 
 med\' in the same liiiht, and to mention the innu- 
 merable shilts that small w its put in practice to raise 
 a laugh. Jiullock in a short coat, and N orris in a 
 long one, seldom i'ail of this effect. In ordinary 
 comedies, a broad and a nanow brinnned hat are dif- 
 ferent chaiacters. Sometimes the wit of the scene 
 lies in a shoulder-belt, and sometimes in a pair of
 
 NO. 45- SPECTATOR. IIS 
 
 whiskers. A lover running about the stage, M'ith 
 his head peeping out of a barrel, was thought a very 
 good jest in King Charles the Second's "time, and 
 invented by one of the first wits of that age. But 
 because ridicule is not so delicate as compassion, 
 and because the objects that make us laugh, are in- 
 finitely more num.erous than those that make us 
 weep, there is a much greater latitude for comic 
 than tragic artifices, and by consequence a much 
 greater indulgence to be allowed them. 
 
 No. 45. SATURDAY, APRIL 21. 
 
 Natio Co^nccda est 
 
 Juv. 
 
 J. HLRE is nothing which I more desire than a safe 
 and honourable peace, though at the same time I 
 am veiy apprehensive of many ill consequences that 
 may attend it. I do not mean in regard to our po- 
 litics, but to our manners. What an inundation of 
 ribands and brocades will break in upon us ! What 
 peals of laughter and impertinence shall we be ex- 
 posed to ! For the prevention of these great evils, I 
 could heartily Avish that there was an act of parlia- 
 ment for prohibiting the importation of French fop- 
 peries. 
 
 The female inhabitants of our Island have already 
 received very strong impressions from this ludicrous 
 nation, though by the length of the war (as there 
 is no evil which has not some good attending it) 
 they are pretty well v/orn out and forgotten. I re- 
 member the time Avhen some of our well-bred coun- 
 try-women kept their J^det de Chainhre, because for- 
 sooth, a man was much more handy about them than 
 one of their own sex. I myself have seen one of 
 these male Abio'ails tripping about the room with a 
 
 Vol. I. " 1
 
 114 SPECTATOR. no. 45. 
 
 looking-glass in his hand, and combing his lady's 
 hair a "whole morning together. Whether or no there 
 was any truth in the story of a lady's being got with 
 child by one of these her handmaids, I cannot tell ; 
 but I think at present the whole race of them is ex- 
 tinct in our own country. 
 
 About the time that several of our sex were taken 
 into this kind of service, the ladies likewise brought 
 up the fashion of receiving visits in their beds. It 
 was then looked upon as a piece of ill-breeding for a 
 woman to refuse to see a man because she was not 
 stirring ; and a porter would have been thought un- 
 fit for his place, that could have made so aukward 
 an excuse. As I love to see every thing that's new, 
 I once prevailed upon my friend Vv^ill Honeycomb to 
 carry me along with him to one of these travelled 
 ladies, desiring him, at the same time, to present 
 me as a foreigner who could not speak English, that 
 so I might not be o])liged to bear a part in the dis- 
 course. The lady, though willing to appear undrest, 
 had put on her best looks, and painted herself for 
 our reception. Her hair appeared in a very nice 
 disorder, as the night-gown which M'as thrown upon 
 her shoulders was ruffled M'ith great care. For my 
 part, I am so shocked with every thing which looks 
 immodest in the fair sex, that 1 could not forbear 
 taking off my eye from her when she moved in her 
 bed, and was in" the greatest confusion imaginable 
 every time she stirred a leg or an arm. As the co- 
 (piets, who introduced tliis custom, grew old, they 
 left it oft^ by degrees ; well knowing that a woman 
 of threescore may kick and tumble her heart out, 
 without making any impressions. 
 
 Semi)ronia is at present the most perfect admirer 
 «f the French nation, but is so modest as to admit 
 her visitants no farther than her toilet. It is a very 
 odd sight that beautiful creature makes, when she 
 is talking politics with her tresses flowing about her 
 iliouldevs, and examining that face in the glass.
 
 NO. 45- SPECTATOR. 115 
 
 which does such execution upon all the male stand- 
 ers-hy. How prettily does she divide her discourse 
 between her woman and her visitants 1 What 
 sprightly transitions does she make from an opera, 
 or a sermon, to an ivory comb or a pin-cushion I 
 How have I been pleased to see her interrupted in 
 an account of her travels, by a message to her foot- 
 man ; and holdins; her tono-ue in the midst of a 
 moral reflection, by applying the tip of it to a 
 patch ! 
 
 There is nothing which exposes a woman to great- 
 er dangers, than that gaity and airiness of temper, 
 which are natural to most of the sex. It should be 
 therefore the concern of every wise and virtuous 
 woman, to keep this sprightliness from degenerating 
 into levity. On the contrary, the whole discourse 
 and behaviour of the French is to make the sex 
 more fantastical, or (as they are pleased to term it) 
 more awakened, than is consistent either with vir- 
 tue or discretion. To speak loud in public assem- 
 blies, to let every one hear you talk of things that 
 should only be mentioned in private, or in whisper, 
 are looked upon as parts of a refined education. At 
 the same time, a blush is unfashionable, and silence 
 more ill-bred than any thing that can be spoken. In 
 short, discretion and modestv, which in all other 
 ages and countries have been regarded as the great- 
 est ornaments of the fair sex, are considered as the 
 ingredients of narrow conversation, and family be- 
 haviour. 
 
 Some years ago I was at the tragedy of INIacbeth, 
 and unfortunately placed myself under a woman of 
 quality that is since dead ; who, as I found by the 
 noise she made, was newly returned from France. A 
 httle before the rising of the curtain, she broke out 
 into a loud soliloquy, 'When will the dear Avitches en- 
 ter?' and immediately, upon their first appearance, 
 asked a lady that sat three boxes from her, on her 
 right hand, if those witches were not charming 
 
 12
 
 115 SPECTATOR. no. 45. 
 
 creatures ! A little after, as Betterton was in one of 
 the finest speeches of the play, she shook her fan at 
 another lady, m ho sat as far on her left hand, and 
 told her with a whisper, that might be heard all 
 over the pit, we must not expect to see Balloon to 
 night. Not long after, calling out to a young ba- 
 ronet by his name, who sat three seats before me, 
 she asked him whether Macbeth's -wife >vas still 
 alive ; and before he could give an answer, fell a 
 talking of the ghost of Banquo. She had by this 
 time formed a little audience to herself, anxl fixed 
 the attention of all about her. But as 1 had a mind 
 to hear the play, I got out of the sphere of her im- 
 pertinence, and planted myself in one of the re- 
 jnotcst corners of the pit. 
 
 This pretty childishness of behaviour is one of 
 the most refined parts of coquetry, and is not to be 
 attained in perfection, by ladies that do not travel 
 for their improvement. A natural and unconstrain- 
 ed behaviour has something in it so agreeable, that 
 it- is no M'ondcr to see people endeavouring after it. 
 But at the same time, it is so verv hard to hit, when 
 it is not l)orn Muth us, that people often make them- 
 selves ridiculous in attempting it. 
 
 A verv inocnious French author tells us, that the 
 ladies of the court of France, in his time, thought 
 it ill-breeding, and a kind of female pedantry, to 
 pronounce an hard word right; for Avliich reason 
 they took frequent occasion to use hards, that they 
 might shew a politeness in murdering them. He 
 faillier adds, that a lady of some (piality at court, 
 having accidentally made use of an hard word in a 
 proper place, and pronounced it right, the whole 
 assembly was out of countenance for her. 
 
 I must however be so just as to oWn, that there 
 are many ladies who have travelled several thousands 
 of miles without l)eing the worse for it, and have 
 brouglit home with them all the modesty, discretion, 
 ;ind good sense, that they went abroad with. As, on
 
 NO. 46. SPECTATOR. 117 
 
 the contrary, there are great niimhers of travdkd. 
 ladies, who have hvecl all their days witliin the 
 smoke of London. I have known a woman that 
 never was out of the parish of St. James's betray 
 as many foreign fopperies in her carriage, as she 
 couJd have gleaned up in half the countries of 
 Europe. 
 
 No. ^Q. MONDAY, APRIL 23. 
 
 1^011 bene junct arum discordia semina rerum. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 V? HEN I want materials for this paper, it is my 
 custom to go abroad in quest of game : and when 
 I meet any proper subject, I take the first oppor- 
 tunity of setting down an hint of it upon paper. 
 At the same time I look into the letters of my cor- 
 respondents, and if I find any thing suggested in 
 them that may afford matter of speculation, I Hktt^ 
 wise enter a minute of it in my collection of mate- 
 rials. By this means I frequently carry about me a 
 whole sheet full of hints, that would look like a 
 rhapsody of nonsense to any body but myself: there 
 is nothing in them but obscurity and confusion, 
 raving and inconsistency. In short, they are my 
 speculations in the first principles, that (like the 
 world in its chaos) are void of all light, distinction, 
 and order. 
 
 About a week since there happened to me a very 
 odd accident, by reason of one of these my papers 
 of minutes which I had accidentally dropped at 
 Lloyd's Coffee-house, where the auctions are usually 
 kept. Before I missed it, there Avas a cluster of 
 people who had found it, and were diverting them- 
 selves with it at one end of the coffee-house : it had 
 raised so much laughter among them before I had 
 observed what they were about, that I had not the 
 
 I 3
 
 118 SPECTATOR. no. 46. 
 
 courage to own it. The boy of the coffee-house, 
 when they had done ^\ith it, carried it about in his 
 hand, asking every body if they had dropped a 
 written paper ; but nobody challenging it, he was or- 
 dered, by those merry gentlemen who had before 
 perused it, to get up into the auction-pulpit, and 
 rea I it to the whole room, that if any one would 
 own ii, they might. The boy accordingly mounted 
 the pulpit, and with a very audible voice read as 
 follows. 
 
 MINUTES. 
 Sir Roger de Coverley's country seat — Yes, for I 
 hate long speeches — Query, if a good Christian may 
 be a conjurer — Childcrmas-day, Salt-seller, House- 
 dog, Screech-owl, Cricket — Mr. Thomas Inkle of 
 London, in the good ship called the Achilles. Ya- 
 rico — JEgrescitque medeiido — Ghosts — The Lady's 
 Library — Lion by trade a taylor — Dromedary cal- 
 led Bucephalus — Equipage the Lady's suinmi(??i bonum 
 — Charles Lilly to be taken notice of — Short face a 
 relief to envy — Redundancies in the three profes- 
 sions — King Latinus a recruit — Jew devouring an 
 ham of bacon — Westminster-abbey — Grand Cairo — 
 Procrastination — April Fools — Blue Boars, Red 
 Lions, Hogs in armour — Enter a King and two 
 fidlers sotus — Admission into the Ugly Club- 
 Beauty, how improveablc — Families of true and false 
 humour — The parrot's school-mistress — Face half 
 Pict half British — No man to be an hero of a tragedy 
 under six foot — Club of Sighers — Letters from 
 Flower-pots, Elbow-chairs, Tapestry figures. Lion, 
 Thunder — The IjcII rings to the puppet-show — 
 Old Woman with a beard married to a smock faced 
 Boy — My next coat to be turned u() with blue — 
 F'able of Tongs and Cnidiron — Flower Dyers— 
 The Soldier's Prayer — Thank ye for nothing, says 
 the (jallv-i)ot — Paetolus in stock int>s, with uolden 
 clocks to them — Bamboos, Cudgels, Drum-sticks — 
 Slip of my Landlady's eldest daughter — The black
 
 NO. 46. SPECTATOR. 1 19 
 
 mare with a star in her forehead — The harber's pole — ■ 
 Will Honeycombe's coat-pocket — Caesar's behaviour 
 and my own in parallel circumstances — Poem in 
 patch-work — Nulli grams est percassus Achilles — 
 The Female Conventicler — The Ogle-master. 
 
 The reading of this paper made the whole coffee- 
 house very merry : some of them concluded it was 
 written by a madman, and others by fomebody that 
 had been taking notes out of the Spectator. One, 
 who had the appearance of a very substantial citi- 
 zen, told us, with se\eral politic winks and nods, 
 that he wished there was no more in the paper than 
 what was expressed in it ; that, for his part, he 
 looked upon the Dromedary, the Gridiron, and the 
 Barber's-pole, to signify something more than what 
 is usually meant by those words ; and that he 
 thought the coffee-man could not do better, than to 
 carry the paper to one of the Secretaries of State. 
 He further added, that he did not like the name of the 
 outlandish man with the golden clock in his stock- 
 ings. A young Oxford scholar, who chanced to be 
 with his uncle at the coffee-house, discovered to us 
 who this Pactolus w^as ; and by that means turned 
 the whole scheme of this Avorthy citizen into ridi- 
 cule. While they were making their several con- 
 jectures upon this innocent paper, I reached out my 
 arm to the boy, as he v/as coming out of the pulpit, 
 to give it me ; which he did accordingly. I'his 
 drew the eyes of the whole company upon me ; but, 
 after havino- cast a cursory o-lance over it, and 
 shook mv head twice or thrice at the readino; of it, I 
 twisted it into a kind of match, and lighted my pipe 
 vnth it. My profound silence, together with the 
 Steadiness of my countenance, and the gravity of 
 my behaviour during this M'hole transaction, raised 
 a very loud laugh on all sides of me ; but as I 
 had escaped all suspicion of being the author, I 
 Was very well satisfied, and applving myself to 
 
 14
 
 120 SPECTATOR. no. 46. 
 
 my pipe and the Post-man, took no further notice 
 of any thing that passed about me. 
 
 ]\Iy reader will tmd, that I have already made use 
 of above half the contents of the foregoing paper ; 
 and will easy suppose, that those subjects \vhich are 
 yet untouched, were such provisions as I had made 
 for his future entertainment. But as I have been 
 unluckily prevented by this accident, I shall only 
 give him the letters which relate to the two last hints. 
 The first of them 1 should not have published, were 
 I not informed that there is many an husband who 
 suffers very much in his private aflairs by the in- 
 discreet zeal of such a partner as is hereafter men- 
 tioned ; to w^hom 1 may apply the barbarous in- 
 scription quoted by the bishop of Sahsbury in his 
 travels ; Dum nimia jna est, facta est impia. 
 
 ' SIR, 
 
 'I AM one of those unhappy men that are 
 plagued with a gospel-gossip, so common among 
 dissenters, (especially friends.) Lectures in the 
 morning, church-meetings at noon, and prepara- 
 tion sermons at night, take up so much of her time, 
 'tis very rare she knows what we have for dinner, 
 unless when the preacher is to be at it. With him 
 come a tribe, all brothers and sisters it seems ; while 
 others, really such, are deemed no relations. If at 
 any time I have her company alone, she is a mere 
 sermon popgun, repeating and discharging texts, 
 proofs, and applications, so perpetually, that how- 
 ever M'eary I may go to bed, tlie noise in my head 
 will not let me sleep till towards morning. The 
 misery of my case, and great numbers of such suf- 
 ferers, plead your pity and speedy relief ; otherwise 
 must expect, in a little time, to be lectured, preach- 
 ed, and prayed into Mant, unless the happiness of 
 being sooner talked to death prevent it.' 
 
 ' I am, ^c.
 
 140. 47. SPECTATOR. 121 
 
 The second letter, relating to the Ogling Master, 
 
 runs thus : 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * I AM an Irish gentleman, that have travelled 
 many years for my improvement; during M'hich 
 time I have accomplished myself in the whole art of 
 ogling, as it is at present practised in all the polite 
 nations of Europe. Being thus qualilied, 1 intend, 
 by the advice of my friends, to set up for an ogling- 
 m aster. I teach the church oole in the morninir, 
 and the playhouse ogle by candle-light. I have also 
 brought over with me a new flying ogle ht for the ring, 
 which I teach in the du^k of the evening, or in any 
 hour of the day by darkening one of my windows. 
 I have a manuscript by me called The complete 
 Ogler, which I shall be ready to shew you upon any 
 occasion. In the mean time, I beg you will pub- 
 lish the substance of this letter in an advertisement, 
 and you will very much oblige, 
 
 'your's. Sec* 
 
 No. 47. TUESDAY, APRIL 24-. 
 
 Ride si sapis 
 
 Mart. 
 
 IVxr. IIobbs, in his discourse of human nature, 
 which, in my humble opinion, is much the best of 
 all his works, after some very curious observations 
 upon laughter, concludes thus : ' the passion of 
 laughter is nothing else but sudden gloiy arising 
 from sudden conception of some eminency in our- 
 selves by comparison with the infirmity of others, 
 or with our own formerly : for men laugh at the past 
 follies of themselves when they come suddenly to
 
 122 SPECTATOR. no. 4j. 
 
 remembrance, except they bring with them any- 
 present dishonour.,' 
 
 According to this author, therefore, when we 
 hear a man laugh excessively, instead of saying he 
 is very merry, we ought to tell him he is very proud. 
 And indeed, if we look into the bottom of this mat- 
 ter, we shall meet with many observations to con- 
 firm us in his opinion. Every one laughs at some 
 body that is in an inferior state of folly to himself. 
 It was formerly the custom for every great house in 
 England to keep a tame fool dressed in petticoats, 
 that the heir of the family miglit have an oppor- 
 tunity of joking upon him, and diverting himself 
 with his absurdities. For the same reason idiots are 
 still in request in most of the courts of Germany, 
 where there is not a prince of any areat maQ:nifi- 
 cence, who has not two or three dressed, distin- 
 guished, undisputed fools in his retinue, whom the 
 rest of the courtiers are always breaking their jests 
 upon. 
 
 The Dutch, who are more famous for their in- 
 dustry and application, than for wit and humour, 
 hang up in several of their streets what they call the 
 sign of the Gaper; that is, the head of an idiot 
 dressed in a cap and bells, and gaping in a most 
 immoderate manner: this is a standing jest at Am- 
 sterdam. 
 
 Thus every one diverts himself with some person 
 or other that is below him in ])oint of understiind- 
 ing, and triumphs in the superiority of his genius, 
 whilst he has such objects of derision before his 
 eyes. I\Ir, Dennis has very well expressed this in a 
 couple of humorous lines, which are part of a 
 translation of a satire in Monsieur Boileau. 
 
 Thus one fool lolls his tonpiic out at another, 
 And shakes his empty noddle at his brother. 
 
 Mr. llobhs's reflection gives us the reason why 
 the insignificant people above-mentioned are stirrers
 
 NO. 47. SPECTATOR. 123 
 
 up of laughter among men of a gross taste: but as 
 the more understanding part of mankind do not 
 find their risibility affected by such ordinary objects, 
 it may be worth the wliile to examine into the several 
 provocatives of laughter in men of superior sense 
 and knowledge. 
 
 In the first place I must observe, that there is a 
 set of merry ch-olls, whom the common people of 
 all countries admire, and seem to love so well that 
 they could eat them, according to the old proverb; 
 I mean those circumforaneous wits whom every 
 nation calls by the name of that dish of meat which 
 it loves best. In Holland they are termed Pickled 
 Herrings; in France, Jean Pottages; in Italy, Mac- 
 caronies; and in Great Britain, Jack Puddings. 
 These merry wags, from M'hatsoever food they re- 
 ceive their titles, that they may make their au- 
 diences laugh, always appear in a fool's coat, and 
 commit such blunders and mistakes in every step 
 they take, and every word they utter, as those who 
 listen to them would be ashamed of. 
 
 But this little triumph of the understanding, un- 
 der the disguise of laughter, is no where more 
 visible than in that custom which prevails every 
 where among us on the first day of the present 
 month, when every bodv takes it in his head to 
 make as many fools as he can. In proportion as 
 there are more follies discovered, so there is more 
 laughter raised on this day than on any other in the 
 whole year. A neighbour of mine, who is a haber- 
 dasher by trade, and a very shallow conceited fel- 
 low, makes his boasts, that, for these ten yeais suc- 
 cessively, he has not made less than an hundred April 
 fools. Mv landlady had a fallino- out with him about 
 a fortnight aoo, for sendino; every one of her chil- 
 dren upon some ' sleeveless errand,' as she terms it. 
 Her eldest son went to buy an halfpenny worth of 
 inkle at a shoemaker's : the eldest dauQ-hter was (lis- 
 patched half a mile to see a monster ; and, in short,
 
 124 SPECTATOR. NO. 47. 
 
 the Avhole family of innocent children made April 
 fools. Nay, my landlady herself did not escape 
 him. This empty fellow has laughed upon these 
 conceits ever since. 
 
 This art of Avit is well enough, when confined to 
 one day in a twelvemonth; but there is an in- 
 genious tribe of men sj)rung up of late years, who 
 are for making- April fools every day in the year. 
 These gentlemen are commonly distinguished by the 
 name of Biters; a race of men that are perpetually 
 employed in laughing at those mistakes M'hich are 
 of their own production. 
 
 Thus we see, in proportion as one man is more re- 
 fined than another, he chuses his food out of a 
 lower or higher class of mankind ; or, to speak in 
 a more philosophical language, that secret elation 
 and pride of heart which is generally called laugh- 
 ter, arises in him from his comparing himself with 
 an object below him, whether it so happens that it 
 be a natural or an artificial fool. It is indeed very 
 possible, that the persons we laugh at may, in the 
 main of their characters, be much wiser men than 
 ourselves; but if they would have us laugh at them, 
 they must fall short of us in those respects which 
 stir up this passion. 
 
 I am afraid I shall a])pcar too abstracted in my 
 speculations, if I shew, that when a man of wit 
 makes us laugh, it is by betraying some oddncss or 
 infirmity in his own character, or in the representa- 
 tion which he makes of others ; and that m hen we 
 laugh at a brute, or even at an inanimate thing, it 
 is at any action or incident that bears a remote ana- 
 logy t(; some blunder or absurdity in reasonable 
 creatures. 
 
 But, to come into common life, I shall ]kiss by 
 the consideration of those staoe coxcombs that are 
 able to shake a whole audience, and take notice of a 
 particular sort of men mIio are sucli inovokcrs of 
 mirth in convcrsalion, that it is impossible for a
 
 NO. 50. . SPECTATOR. 125 
 
 club or merry-meeting to subsist without them ; I 
 mean those honest gentlemen that are always ex- 
 posed to the wit and raillery of their well-wishers 
 and companions ; that are pelted by men, women, 
 and children, friends, and foes ; and, in a word, 
 stand as Butts in conversation, for everv one to 
 shoot at that pleases. I know several of these Butts 
 who are men of wit and sense, though, by some odd 
 turn of humour, some unlucky cast in their person 
 or behaviour, they have always the misfortune to 
 make the company merry. The truth of it is, a 
 man is not qualified for a Butt, who has not a good 
 deal of wit and vivacity, even in the ridiculous side 
 of his character. A stupid Butt is only fit for the 
 conversation of ordinary people: men of M'it require 
 one that will give them play, and bestir himself in 
 the absurd part of his behaviour. A Butt with these 
 accomplishments frequently gets the laugh on his 
 side, and turns the ridicule upon him that attacks 
 him. Sir John Falstaff was an hero of this species, 
 and gives a good description of himself in his ca- 
 pacity of a Butt, after the following manner; ' Men 
 of all sorts (says that merry knight) take a pride to 
 gird at me. The brain of man is not able to invent 
 any thing that tends to laughter more than I invent, 
 or is invented on me. 1 am not only witty in mv- 
 self, but the cause that wit is in other men/ 
 
 No. 50. FRIDAY, APRIL 27. 
 
 Nwiquam aliud natura, aiiud sapientia dixit. 
 
 Juv. 
 
 W HEN the four Indian kings were in this country 
 about a twelvemonth ago, I often mixed with the 
 rabble, and followed them a whole day togethei*, 
 being wonderfully struck with the sight of every
 
 126 SPECTATOR. no. 50. 
 
 thing that is new or uncommon. I have, since their 
 departure, employed a friend to make many en- 
 quiries of their landlord, the upholsterer, relating to 
 their manners and conversation, as also concerning 
 the remarks which thev made in this countrv: for, 
 next to the forming a right notion of such strang- 
 ers, I should be desirous of learning vhat ideas 
 they have conceived of us. 
 
 The upholsterer finding my friend very inquisitive 
 about these his lodgers, brought him some time 
 since a little bundle of papers, which he assured 
 him were written by King Sa Ga Yean Qua Rash 
 Tow, and, as he supposes, left behind by some mis- 
 take. These papers are now translated, and con 
 tain abundance of very odd observations, which I 
 find this little fraternitv of kind's made durino- their 
 stay in the Isle of Great Britain. I shall present 
 my reader with a short specimen of them in this 
 paper, and may perhaps communicate more to him 
 hereafter. In the article of London are the follow- 
 ing words, which, without doubt, are meant of the 
 church oi" St. Paul. 
 
 ' On the most rising part of the town there stands 
 a huge house, big enough to contain the whole na- 
 tion of which 1 am king;. Our 2,-ood brother E Tow 
 O Koam, king of the Rivers, is of opmion it was 
 made by the hands of that great God to whom it is 
 consecrated. The kings of Granajah, and of the 
 Six Nations, believe that it was created with the 
 .earth, and produced on the same day with the sun 
 and moon. Ihit for my omu part, by the best infor- 
 mation that I could get of this nuitter, I am apt to 
 think that this prodigious ))ile was fashioned into the 
 shape it now bears by sevTral tools and instruments, of 
 M hich they have a wonderful variety in this country. 
 It was probably at first an huge mis-shapen rock that 
 grew upon the top of the hill, which the natives of 
 the coimtry (after having cut it into a kind of re- 
 gular figure) bored and hollowed with incredible
 
 Ko. 50. SPECTATOR. 127 
 
 pains and industry, till they have wrought in it all 
 those beautiful vaults and caverns into which it is 
 divided at this day. As soon as this rock was thus 
 curiously scooped to their liking, a prodigious num- 
 ber of hands must have been employed in chipping 
 the out-side of it, which is now as smooth as the 
 surface of a pebble ; and is in several places hewn 
 out into pillars, that stand like the trunks of so many 
 trees bound about the top with garlands of leaves. 
 It is probable that when this great work was begun, 
 which must have been manv hundred years ao-o, 
 there was some religion among this people ; for they 
 give it the name of a temple, and have a tradition 
 that it was designed for men to pay their devotions 
 in. And indeed, there are several reasons which 
 make us think, that the natives of this country had 
 formerly among them some sort of worship ; for 
 they set apart every seventh day as sacred : but 
 upon my going into one of these holy houses on 
 that day, I could not observe any circumstance of 
 their devotion in their behaviour : there was indeed 
 a man in black who was mounted above the rest, 
 and seemed to utter somethino- with a o-reat deal of 
 vehemence ; but as for those underneath him, in- 
 stead of paying their worship to the deity of the 
 place, they were most of them bowing and curt- 
 seying to one another, and a considerable number 
 of them fast asleep. 
 
 The queen of the country appointed tv, o men to 
 attend us, that knew enough of our language to make 
 themselves understood in some few particulars. But 
 we soon perceived these two were great enemies to 
 one another, and did not always agree in the same 
 story. We could make a shift to gather out of one 
 of them, that tliis island was very much infested 
 with a monstrous kind of animals, in the shape of 
 men, called Whigs ; and he often told us, that he 
 hoped we should meet with none of themi in our
 
 128 SPECTATOR. no. 50. 
 
 way, for that, if we did, they would be apt to knock 
 us down for being kings. 
 
 Our other interpreter used to talk very much of a 
 kind of animal called a Tory, that was as great a 
 monster as the Whig, and Mould treat us as ill for 
 being foreigners. These two creatures, it seems, 
 are born with a secret antipathy to one another, and 
 engage ^\•hcn they meet as naturally as the elephant 
 and the rhinoceros. But as we saw none of either 
 of these species, we are apt to think that our guides 
 deceived us with misrepresentations and tictions, 
 and amused us with an account of such monsters as 
 are not really in their country. 
 
 "'Jhcse particulars we made a shift to pick out 
 from the discourse of our interpreters, which we put 
 together as well as we could, being able to under- 
 stand but here and there a word of what they said, 
 and afterwards made up the meaning of it among 
 ourselves. The men of the country are very cun- 
 ning and ingenious in handicraft works ; but Avithal 
 so very idle, that we often saw young, lusty, raw- 
 boned fellows carried up and down the streets in 
 little covered rooms by a couple of porters, who 
 are hired for that service. Their dress is likewise 
 very barbarous, for they almost strangle themselves 
 about the neck, and bind their bodies M'ith many 
 ligatures, that we are apt to think are the occasion 
 of several distempers among them, which our coun- 
 try is entirely free from. Instead of those beautiful 
 feathers Avith which m'c adorn our heads, they often 
 buy up a monstrous bush of hair, -which covers 
 their heads, and falls down in a large fleece below 
 the middle of their backs ; with which they walk up 
 and down the streets, and are as proud of it as if it 
 was of their own ofrowtli. 
 
 *' We were invited to one of their public diversions, 
 where wa hoped to have seen the great men of their 
 country iinining down a stag, or pitching a bar, that 
 we might ha\ c discovered who were the persons of
 
 NO. 50. SPECTATOR. 129 
 
 the greatest abilities among them; but, instead of 
 that, they conveyed us into an huge room, hghted 
 up with abundance of candles, where this lazy peo- 
 ple sat still above three hours, to see several feats of 
 ingenuity performed by others, wlio it seems were 
 paid for it. 
 
 *' As for the women of the country, not being- 
 able to talk A\dth them, we could only make our 
 remarks upon them at a distance. They let the 
 hair of their heads grow to a great length ; but as 
 the men make a great show with heads of hair that 
 are none of their own, the women, who they say 
 have very fine heads of hair, tie it up in a knot, 
 and cover it from being seen. The women look like 
 angels, and would be more beautiful than the sun, 
 were it not for little black spots that are apt to break 
 out in their faces, and sometimes rise in very odd 
 figures. I have observed that those httle blemishes 
 wear off very soon ; but when they disappear in one 
 part of the face, they are very apt to break out in 
 another, insomuch that I have seen a spot upon the 
 forehead in the afternoon, which was upon the chin 
 in the morning." 
 
 The author then proceeds to shew the absurdity 
 of breeches and petticoats, with many other curious 
 observations, which I shall reserve for another oc- 
 casion. I cannot, however, conclude this paper 
 without taking notice, that amidst these wild re- 
 marks, there now and then appears something very 
 reasonable. I cannot hkewise forbear observing, 
 that we are all guilty in some measure of the same 
 narrow May of thinking, which we meet with in this 
 abstract of the Indian Journal, M-hen we fancy the 
 customs, dresses, and manners, of other countries 
 are ridiculous and extravagant, if they do not re* 
 semble those of our own. 
 
 Vol. I. K
 
 130 SPECTATOR. no. 55. 
 
 No. 55. THURSDAY, MAY 3. 
 
 lioscunfur Domini' 
 
 -Intus, et injecore ocgro 
 
 Pers. 
 
 IVJLosT of the trades, professions, and ways of liv- 
 ing among mankind, take their original either from 
 the love of pleasure, or the fear of want. The 
 former, when it becomes too violent, degenerates 
 into luxiirv, and the latter into avarice. As these 
 two principles of action draw different ways, Per- 
 sius has gwen us a very humorous account of a 
 young fellow who was roused out of his bed, in order 
 to be sent upon a long voyage by Avarice, and af- 
 terwards over-persuaded and kept athome b}' LiLxury. 
 I shall set down at length the pleadings of these 
 two imaginary persons, as they are in the original, 
 ■W'ith ]\Ir. Dryden's translation of them. 
 
 Mane, piger, stertis: surge, inqwit Ateritia ; eja 
 
 Surge. Negas ? instaf. Surge iuquit. Kon quco. Surge. 
 
 Et quid agam'? Rogitasf Saperdas achehe Ponto, 
 
 Casforeum, stuppas, hebeiivm, thus, hibrica Coa. 
 
 Tolle recejis primus piper e siticnte camelo. 
 
 Verte aliquid ; jura. Sed Jupiter audiet. Eheu ! 
 
 Baro, rcgusfatum digito terebrare salinum 
 
 Content us parages, si liiere cum Jove fendis. 
 
 .Jam pueris pellem succinct us et anophorum apfas; 
 
 Ocyns ad naxem. Nil obstat quin trabe xasid 
 
 JEgcum rapias, nisi sulers Luxuria ante 
 
 Saducfum moncat ; Quh deinde, insane ruis ? Quo ? 
 
 Quid /ibi vis ? Calido svb pec tore mascula bit is 
 
 Jnluinuif, quam non e.rlinxerit urna cicutce ? 
 
 Tun mare iransilias? Tibi tortd cannabc fulto 
 
 CiCna sit in transtro ? Veientanumque rubellum 
 
 T.thalet rapida luesuni pice sessi/is obba ? 
 
 Quid petisV C/t nummi, qos hie quincuncemodesfo 
 
 Nutrieras, pergant nvidos sudare deunces ? 
 
 Indulge geiiio : carpamus duhia ; nostrum est 
 
 Quod xivis ; ci?tis, it manes, ct fabulajics, 
 
 Vive memor lethi: Jugit hora. Hue quod loquor, inde est. 
 
 En quid agis ? Duplici in diversum scinderis hamo, 
 
 Jiunccine, an hunc scqucris ? •
 
 NO. 55- SPECTATOR. 131 
 
 Whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap, 
 When thou would'st take a lazy morniug's nap, 
 Up, up, says Avarice. Thou snor'st again, 
 Stretchest thy limbs, and yawn'st, but all in vain ; 
 The rugged tyrant no denral takes ; 
 At his command ih' unwillina; sluggard wakes. 
 What must I do? (He cries.) What? (says his lord,) 
 Why ri-^e, make ready, and go straight aboard : 
 With fish, from Euxine seas, thy vessel freight; 
 Flax, castor, Coan wines, tlie precious weight 
 Of pepper, and Sabean incense, take 
 With thy own hands from the lir'd camel's back, 
 And with post-haste thy I'unning markets make. 
 Be sure to turn the penny ; lie and swear ; 
 'Tis wholesome sin. — But Jove, thou say'st, will hear.— 
 Swear, fool, or starve ; ior the dilemma's even : 
 A tradesman thou ! and hope to go to Heav'n? 
 
 Resolv'd for sea, the slaves thy baggage pack, 
 Each saddled with his burden on his back : 
 Nothing retards thy voyage now, but he, 
 That soft voluptuous prince, call'd Luxury ; 
 And he may ask this civil question : Friend, 
 What dost thou make a-shipboard ? to what end ? 
 Art thou of Bethlem's noble college free? 
 Stark, staring mad, that thou would'st tempt the sea ? 
 Cubb'd in a cabin, on a mattress laid. 
 On a brown George, with lousy swabbers fed ; 
 Dead wine, that stinks of the Borachio, sup 
 From a foul jack, or greasy maple cup ? 
 Say, would'st thou bear all this, to raise thy store 
 From six i'th' hundred to six hundred more ? 
 Indulge, and to thy genius freely give ; 
 For, not to live Ht case, is not to live: 
 Death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour 
 Does some loose remnant of thy life devour. 
 Live while thou liv'st ; for death will make us all 
 A name, a nothing but an old wife's tale. 
 Speak ; wilt thou Avarice or Pleasure chuse 
 To be thy Lord ? Take one ; and one refuse. 
 
 When a government flourishes in conquests, and is 
 secure from foreign attacks, it naturally falls into 
 all the pleasures of luxury ; and as these pleasures 
 are very expensive, they put those who are addicted 
 to them upon raising fresh supplies of money, hy 
 all the methods of rapaciousness and corruption ; 
 so that avarice and luxury very often become one 
 
 K 2
 
 132 SPECTATOR. no. 55, 
 
 ' complicated principle of action, in those whose hearts 
 are wholly set upon ease, magnificence and pleasure. 
 The most elegant and correct of all the Latin histo- 
 rians observes, that in his time, when the most 
 formidable states in the world were subdued by the 
 Romans, the republic sunk into those two vices of 
 a quite different nature, luxury and avarice ; and 
 accordingly describes Catihne as one who coveted 
 the wealth of other men, at the same time that he 
 squandered away his own. This observation on the 
 commonwealth, when it was in its height of power 
 and riches, holds good of all governments that are 
 settled in a state of ease and prosperity. At such times 
 men naturally endeavour to outshine one another in 
 pomp and splendour, and having no fears to alarm 
 them from abroad, indulge themselves in the enjoy- 
 ment of all the pleasures they can get into their pos^ 
 session ; which naturally produces avarice, and an 
 immoderate pursuit after wealth and riches. 
 
 As I was humouring myself in the speculation of 
 these two great principles of action, I could not 
 forbear throwino; mv thou2,hts into a little kind of 
 alicgoiy or fable, with which I shall here present 
 my reader. 
 
 There were two very powerful tyrants engaged in 
 a perpetual war against each other : the name of the 
 first was Luxury, and the second. Avarice. The 
 aim of each of them was no less than an universal 
 monarchy over the hearts of mankind. Luxury had 
 many generals under him, Avho did him great ser- 
 vice, as Pleasure, Mirth, Pomp, and Fashion. Ava- 
 rice was likewise very strong in officers, being faith- 
 fully served by Hunger, Industry, Care, and Watch- 
 fulness : he had likewise a privy-counsellor mIio was 
 always at his elboM^, and whispering souuitbing 
 or other in his ear : the name of this privy-conn- 
 s( lloi- was PoNcrtv. As A\arice conducted himself by 
 the counsels of Povert}', his antagonist was entirely 
 guided by the dictates and advjce of Plenty, who 
 •yvas his first counsellor and minister of state, that
 
 NO. s5' SPECTATOR. 133 
 
 concerted all his measures for him, and never de- 
 parted out of his sight. While these two great ri- 
 vals were thus contending for empire, their con- 
 quests were very various. Luxury got possession of. 
 one heart, and Avarice of another. The father of a 
 family would often range himself under the hanners 
 of Avarice, and the son under those of Luxury. 
 The wife and hushand would often declare them- 
 selves on the two different parties : nay, the same 
 person would very often side with one in his youtli, 
 and revolt to the other in his old age. Lndeed, the 
 wise men of the world stood neuter: hut, alas ! their 
 numhers were not considerable. At length, when 
 these two potentates had wearied themselves with 
 waging war upon one another, they agreed upon an 
 interview, at which neither of their counsellors 
 were to he present. It is said that Luxury began 
 the parley, and, after.having represented the endless 
 state of war in which they were engaged, told his 
 enemy, with a frankness of heart which is natural 
 to him, that he believed they two should be very 
 good friends, were it not for the instigations of 
 Poverty, that pernicious counsellor, Avho made an 
 ill use of his ear, and filled him with groundless 
 apprehensions and prejudices. To this Avarice re- 
 plied, that he looked upon Plenty (the first minister 
 of his antagonist) to be a much more destructive 
 counsellor than Poverty, for that he was perpetually 
 suggesting pleasures, banishing all the necessar)'' 
 cautions against want, and consequently under- 
 mining those principles on which the government of 
 Avarice was founded. At last, in order to an ac- 
 commodation, they agreed u])on this preliminary, that 
 each of them should immediately dismiss his privy- 
 counscilor. When things were thus far adjusted to- 
 wards a peace, all other differences were soon accom- 
 modated, insomuch that for the future thev resolved 
 to live as good friends and confederates, and to 
 share between them whatever conquests were made 
 
 K 3
 
 134 SPECTATOR. no. 56. 
 
 on either side. For this reason, we now find Luxury 
 and Avarice taking possession of the same heart, 
 and dividing the same person between them. To 
 which I shall only add, that since the discarding of 
 the counsellors above-mentioned, Avarice supplies 
 Luxury in the room of Plenty, as Luxury prompts 
 Avarice in the place Poverty. 
 
 No. 56. FRIDAY, MAY 4. 
 
 Felices errore sua- 
 
 LUCAN. 
 
 H£ Americans believe that all creatures have 
 souls ; not only men and women, but brutes, vege- 
 tables, nay, even the most inanimate things, as- 
 stocks and stones. They believe the same of all the 
 works of art, as of knives, boats, looking-glasses; 
 and that as any of these things perish, their souls 
 go into another world, which is inhabited by the 
 ghosts of men and women. For this reason they 
 always place by the corpse of their dead friend, a 
 bow and arrows, that he may make use of the souls 
 of them in the other world, as he did of their 
 wooden bodies in this. How absurd soever such an 
 opinion as this may appear, our European philoso- 
 phers have maintained several notions altogether as 
 improbable. Some of Plato's followers, in particular, 
 when they talk of the -w orld of ideas, entertain us 
 with substances and heings no less extravagant and 
 chimerical. Many Aristotelians have likewise spo- 
 ken as unintelhgihly of their substantial forms. I 
 shall only instance Alhertus Magnus, who, in his 
 dissertation upon the load-stone, observing that fire 
 M ill destroy its magnetic virtues, tells us that lie 
 took ))articular notice of one as it lay glowing 
 amidst an heap of burning coals, and that he per-
 
 NO. s6, SPECTATOR. 135 
 
 ceived a certain blue vapour to arise from it, which 
 he beheved might be the substantial form, that is, in 
 our West-Indian phrase, the soul of the load-stone. 
 
 There is a tradition among the Americans, that 
 one of their countrymen descended in a vision to 
 the great repository of souls, or, as we call it here, 
 to the other world ; and that upon his return, he 
 gave his friends a distinct account of every thing he 
 saw among those regions of the dead. A friend of 
 mine, whom I have formerly mentioned, prevailed 
 upon one of the interpreters of the Indian kings, to 
 enquire of them, if possible, what tradition they 
 have among them of this matter ; which, as well as 
 he could learn by those many questions which he 
 asked them at several times, was in substance as 
 follows. 
 
 The visionary, whose name was Marraton, after 
 having travelled for a long space under an hollow 
 mountain, arrived at lenoth on the confines of this 
 world of spirits ; but could not enter it by reason 
 of a thick forest made up of bushes, brambles, and 
 pointed thorns, so perplexed and interwoven with 
 one another, that it was impossible to find a passage 
 through it. Whilst he was looking about for some 
 track or path-way that might be worn in any part 
 of it, he saw an huge lion couched under the side 
 of it, Avho kept his eye upon him in the same pos- 
 ture as when he watches for his prey. The Indian 
 immediately started back, whilst the lion rose with 
 a spring, and leaped towards him. Being wholly 
 destitute of all other weapons, he stooped down to 
 take up an huge stone in his hand ; but, to his in- 
 finite surprise, grasped nothing, and found the sup- 
 posed stone to be only the apparition of one. If he 
 was disappointed on this side, he was as much 
 pleased on the other, when he found the lion, which 
 had seized on his left shoulder, had no power to 
 hurt him, and 'was only the ghost of that ravenous 
 creature which it appeared to be. He no sooner got 
 
 K 4
 
 136 SPECTATOR. no. s^- 
 
 rid of his impotent enemy, but he marched up to 
 the wood, and, after having surveyed it for some 
 time, endeavoured to press into one part of it that 
 was a httle thinner than the rest; when again, to 
 his great surpri.se, he found the bushes made no 
 resistance, but that he walked througli briers and 
 brambles with the same ease as through tlie open 
 air; and, in short, that the whole wood was no- 
 thing else but a M'ood of shades. He immediately 
 conchided, that this huge thicket of thorns and 
 brakes Avas designed as a kind of fence or quickset 
 liedge to the ghosts it inclosed ; and that probably 
 their soft substances mi"'ht be torn by these subtle 
 points and prickles, which were too weak to make 
 any impressions in flesh and blood. With this 
 thoLio'ht he resolved to travel throuo-h this intricate 
 wood ; when by degrees he felt a gale of perfumes 
 breathing upon him, that grew stronger and sweeter 
 in proportion as he advanced, lie had not pro- 
 ceeded much further when he observed the thorns 
 and briers to end, and give place to a thousand 
 beautiful green trees, covered with blossoms of the 
 finest scents and colours, that formed a wilderness 
 of sweets, and were a kind of lining to those ragged 
 scenes which he had before passed througli. As he 
 Avas coming out of this delightful part of the wood, 
 and entering upon the plains it inclosed, he saw se- 
 veral horsemen rushing by him, and a little while 
 after heard the cry of a pack of dogs. iJe had not 
 listened long before lie saw the apparition of a milk- 
 white steed, with a young man on the back of it, 
 adxancing upon full stretch alter the souls of about 
 an hundred beaj»les that were luintim>- down the 
 ghost of an hare, Mhich ran away before them with 
 an unspeakable swiftness. As the man on the milk- 
 white steed came by liini, lie looked u]K)n him very 
 attentively, and found him to be the young juince 
 Nicharagua, who died about half a year before, 
 and, by reason of his great virtues, was at that
 
 Ko. 56. SPECTATOR. 137 
 
 time lamented overall the western parts of America. 
 
 He had no sooner got out of the wood, but he 
 was entertained with such a landscape of tlowry plains, 
 greeu meadows, running streams, sunny hills, and 
 shady vales, as Avere not to be represented by his 
 own expression, nor, as he said, by the concep- 
 tions of others. This happy region was peopled 
 with inn.umerable swarms of spirits, who applied 
 themselves to exercises and diversions accordino- as 
 their fancies led them. Some of them were tossing 
 the figure of a coit ; others were pitching the shadow 
 of a bar; others were breaking the apparition of a 
 horse ; and multitudes employing themselves upon 
 ingenious handicrafts with the souls of departed 
 utensils ; for that is the name Avhich in the Indian 
 lano;ua<ie thev 2:ive their tools when thev are burnt 
 or broken. As he travelled through this delightful 
 scene, he was ver}^ often tempted to pluck the 
 flowers that rose every where about him in the 
 greatest variety and profusion, having never seen 
 several of them in his own countrv : but he (luicklv 
 found that though they were objects of his sight, 
 thev were not liable to his touch. lie at leno-th 
 came to the side of a o'reat river, and beino- a o-ood 
 fisherman himself, stood upon the banks of it 
 some time to look upon an angler that had taken a 
 great many shapes of fishes, which lay flouncing up 
 and doMii by him. 
 
 I should have told my reader, that this Indian 
 had been formerly married to one of the greatest 
 beauties of his country, by whom he had several 
 children. This couple were so famous for their love 
 and constancy to one another, that the Indians to 
 this day, M'hen they give a married man joy of his 
 wife, wish that thev mav live too-ether like Marraton 
 and Yaratilda. Marraton had not stood long by 
 the fisherman when he saw the shadow of his be- 
 loved Yaratilda, Avho had for some time fixed her 
 eye upon him, before he discovered her. Her arms
 
 138 SPECTATOR. no. 56. 
 
 were stretched out towards him, floods of tears ran 
 doAvn her eyes ; her looks, her hands, her voice, 
 called him over to her; and at the same time seemed 
 to tell him that the river was impassable. Who can 
 describe the passion made up of joy, sorrow, love, 
 desire, astonishment, that rose in the Indian upon 
 the sight of his dear Yaratilda ? He could express it 
 by nothing but his tears, which ran like a river 
 down his cheeks as he looked upon her. He had 
 not stood in this posture long, before he plunged 
 into the stream which lay before him ; and finding 
 it to be nothing but the phantom of a river, walked 
 on the bottom of it till he arose on the other side. 
 At his approach Yaratilda flew into his arms, whilst 
 ]\Iarraton wished himself disincumbered of that 
 body which kept her from his embraces. After 
 many questions and endearments on both sides, 
 she conducted him to a bower which she had dres- 
 sed with her own hands with all the ornaments that 
 could be met with in those blooming regions. She 
 had made it gay beyond imagination, and was every 
 day adding something new to it. As Marraton 
 stood astonished at the unspeakable beauty of her 
 habitation, and ravished Avith the fragrancy that 
 came from every part of it, Yaratilda told him that 
 she was preparing this bower for his reception, as 
 well knowing that his piety to his God, and his 
 faithful dealing towards men, would certainly bring 
 him to that happy place, whenever his life should be 
 at an end. She then brought tM^o of her children 
 to him, who died some years before, and resided 
 with her in the same delightful bower; advising him 
 to breed up those others which were still with him 
 in such a manner, that they might hereafter all of 
 them meet together in this hapi>y ])lace. 
 
 The tradition tells us farther, that he had after- 
 wards a siirht of those dismal hal)itations which are 
 the portion of ill men after death ; and mentions 
 several molten seas of gold, in which were plunged
 
 NO. S7' SPECTATOR. 139 
 
 the souls of barbarous Europeans, who put to the 
 sword so many thousands of poor Indians for the 
 sake of that precious metal. But having ah'eady 
 touched upon the chief points of this tradition, 
 and exceeded the measure of my paper, I shall 
 not give any further account of it. 
 
 No. 57. SATURDAY, MAY 5. 
 
 Quern prtestare potest mulier galcata pudorem 
 
 QuceJ'ugit a sexii ? 
 
 Jur. 
 
 VV HEN the wife of Hector, in Homer's Iliads, dis- 
 courses with her husband about the battle in which 
 he was going to engage, the hero, desiring her to 
 leave that matter to his care, bids her go to her 
 maids, and mind her spinning : by which the poet 
 intimates, that men and women ought to busy 
 themselves in their proper spheres, and on such 
 matters only as are suitable to their respective sex. 
 
 I am at this time acquainted with a young gentle- 
 man who has passed a great part of his life in the 
 nursery, and, upon occasion, can make a caudle 
 or a sack-posset better than any man in England. He 
 is likewise a wonderful critic in cambric and muslins, 
 and will talk an hour together upon a SM'eetmeat. 
 He entertains his mother everv nio-ht with obser- 
 vations that he makes both in town and court : as 
 what lady shews the nicest fancy in her dress ; what 
 man of quahty wears the fairest wig; who has the 
 finest linen, who the prettiest snuff-box, with many 
 other of the like curious remarks that m.ay be made 
 in good company. 
 
 On the other hand, I have very frequently the op- 
 portunity of seeing a rural Andromache, Nvho came 
 up to town last winter, and is one of the greatest
 
 140 SPECTATOR. no. 57. 
 
 fox-hunters in the country. She talks of hounds 
 and horses, and makes nothing of leaping over a 
 six-bar gate. If a man telis her a waggish story, 
 she gives him a push with her hand nT jest, and 
 calls hhn an impudent dog; and if her servant neg- 
 lects his business, threatens to kick him out of the 
 house. I have heard her, in her Avrath, call a sub- 
 stantial tradesman a lousy cur; and remember one 
 day, when she could not think of the name of a 
 person, she described him, in. a large company of 
 men and ladies, by the fellow A\'ith broad shoulders. 
 If those speeches and actions, which in their own 
 nature are indifferent, appear ridiculous when they 
 proceed from the wrong sex, the faults and imper- 
 fections of one sex transplanted into another, ap- 
 pear black and monstrous. As for the men, I shall 
 not in this paper any further concern myself about 
 them; but as I would fain contribute to make 
 woman-kind, winch is the most beautiful part of 
 the creation, entirely amiable, and we-ar out all 
 those little spots and blemishes that are apt to rise 
 among the charms which nature has poured out 
 upon them, I shall dedicate this paper to their ser- 
 vice. The spot which I m'ouM here endeavour to 
 clear them of, is that party rage which of late years 
 has very much crept into their conversation. This is, 
 in its nature, a male vice, and made up of many 
 angiy and cruel passions, that are altogether re- 
 pugnant to the softess, the modesty, and those 
 other endearing cpiahties which arc natural to the 
 fair sex. Women are found to temper mankind, 
 and sooth tliem into tenderness and compassion; 
 not to set an edge upon their minds, and blow up 
 in them tliose passions Mhicli are too apt to rise of 
 their own accord. When I have seen a |)retty mouth 
 uttering cahuniiies and invectives, what would I 
 not have given to luive sto|)|)ed it? liow have I 
 been troid)led to see some of the finest features in 
 tlie world grow pale, and tremble with party rage I
 
 NO. 57. SPECTATOR. 141 
 
 Camilla is one of the o-reatest beauties in the British 
 nation, and yet values herself more upon being the 
 virago of one party, than upon being the toast of 
 both. The dear creature, about a week ago, en- 
 countered the fierce and beautiful Penthesilea across 
 a tea-table ; but in the height of her anger, as her 
 hand chanced to shake with the earnestness of the 
 dispute, she scalded her fingers, and spilt a disli of 
 tea upon her petticoat. Had not this accident broke 
 off the debate, nobody knows where it would have 
 ended. 
 
 There is one consideration which I would earn- 
 estly recommend to all my female readers, and 
 which, I hope, will have some weight with them. 
 In short, it is this, that there is nothing so bad for 
 the face as party zeal. It gives an ill-natured cast 
 to the eye, and a disagreeable soureness to tlie look ; 
 besides, that it makes the lines too strong, and 
 flushes them worse than brandy. I have seen a 
 woman's face break out in heats, as she has been 
 talking against a great lord, whom she had never 
 seen in her life ; and indeed never knew a party 
 woman that kept her beauty for a twelvemonth. 
 I would therefore advise all my female readers, as 
 they value their complexions, to let alone all dis- 
 putes of this nature ; though, at the same time, I 
 Avould give free liberty to all superannuated mo- 
 therly partizans to be as violent as they please, since 
 there will be no danger either of their spoibng their 
 faces, or of their gaining converts. 
 
 For my own part, I think a man makes an odious 
 and despicable figure, that is violent in a party ; 
 but a woman is too sincere to mitio"ate the fury of 
 her principles with temper and discretion, and to 
 act with that caution and reservedness which are re- 
 quisite in our sex. When this unnatural zeal gets 
 into them, it throws them into ten thousand heats 
 and e^vtravagancies ; their generous souls set no 
 bounds to their love, or to their hatred ; and whe-
 
 142 SPECTATOR. no. 57. 
 
 ther a Whig or Tory, a lap-dog or a gallant, an opera 
 or a puppet-show, be the object of it, the passion, 
 while it reigns, engrosses the whole woman. 
 
 I remember when Dr. Titus Oates was in all his 
 glory, I accompanied my friend Will Honeycomb 
 in a visit to a lady of his acquaintance : we were no 
 sooner sat down, but, upon casting my eyes about 
 the room, I found in almost every corner of it a 
 print that represented the doctor in all magnitudes 
 and dimensions. A little after, as the lady was dis- 
 coursing my friend, and held her snuif-box in her 
 hand, who should I see in the lid of it but the doc- 
 tor. It was not long after this, that she had occa- 
 sion for her handkerchief, which upon the first 
 opening discovered amiong the plaits of it the figure 
 of the doctor. Upon this my friend Will, who 
 loves raillery, told her, that if he was in Mr. True- 
 love's place (for that was the name of her husband) 
 he should be made as uneasy by a handkerchief as 
 ever Othello was. ' I am afraid, (said she,) Mr. 
 Honeycomb, you are a Tory : tell me truly, are 
 you a friend to the doctor or not?' Will, instead of 
 making her a reply, smiled in her face, (for indeed 
 she was very pretty,) and told her, that one of her 
 patches was dropping off. She immediately ad- 
 justed it, and looking a little seriously, 'Well, (says 
 she,) III be hanged if you and your silent friend 
 there are not against the doctor in your hearts : I 
 suspected as much by his saying nothing.' Upon 
 this she took her fan into her hand, and upon tlie 
 opening of it again displayed to us the figure of 
 the doctor, who was placed with great gravity 
 among the sticks of it. In a word, I found that 
 the doctor had taken possession of her thoughts, 
 her discourse, and most of her furniture ; but find- 
 ing myself pressed too close by her (jucstion, I 
 winked upon my friend to take his lca\'e, which 
 he did accordingly.
 
 NO. 58. SPECTATOR. 143 
 
 No. 58. MONDAY, MAY 7. 
 
 Ut pictura, poesis erit 
 
 HOR. 
 
 l\ OTHING is SO much admired, and so little under- 
 stood, as wit. No author that I know of has writ- 
 ten professedly upon it : as for those who make any 
 mention of it, they only treat on the subject as it 
 has accidentally fallen in their way, and that too in 
 little short reflections, or in general declamatory 
 flourishes, without entering into the bottom of the 
 matter. I hope therefore I shall perform an accept- 
 able work to mv countrymen, if 1 treat at iarg-e 
 upon this subject ; which I shall endeavour to do in 
 a manner suitable to it, that I may not incur the 
 censure which a famous critic bestows upon one 
 who had written a treatise upon the sublime in a 
 low groveling stile. I intend to lay aside a Mdiole 
 week for this undertaking, that the scheme of my 
 thoughts may not be broken and interrupted ; and 
 I dare promise mvself, if mv readers will <>:ive me a 
 Aveek's attention, that this great city will be very 
 much changed for the better by next Saturday 
 night. I shall endeavour to make what I say intel- 
 ligible to ordinary capacities ; but if my readers 
 meet with any paper that in some parts of it may be 
 a little out of their reach, I would not have them 
 discouraged, for they may assure themselves the 
 next shall be much clearer. 
 
 As the great and only end of these my specula- 
 tions is to banish vice and ignorance out of the ter- 
 ritories of Great Britain, I shall endeavour as much 
 as possible to establish among us a taste for polite 
 writing. It is Avith this view that I have endea- 
 voured to set my readers right in several points rela- 
 ting to operas and tragedies ; and shall from time 
 to time impart my notions of comedy, as I think
 
 144. SPECTATOR. no. 58. 
 
 they may tend to its refinement and perfection. I 
 find by my bookseller, that these papers of criticism, 
 with that upon humour, have met Avith a more 
 kind reception than indeed I could have hoped for 
 from such subjects ; for which reason I shall enter 
 upon my present undertaking with greater chearful- 
 ness. 
 
 In this, and one or two following papers, I shall 
 trace out the history of false wit, and distinoiush 
 the several kinds of it as they have prevailed in dif- 
 ferent ages of the world. This I think the more 
 necessary at present, because I observed there were 
 attempts on foot last winter to revive some of those 
 antiquated modes of wit that have been long ex- 
 ploded out of the commonwealth of letters. There 
 were several satires and panegyrics handed about in 
 acrostic, by which means some of the most arrant 
 undisputed blockheads about the town began to 
 entertain ambitious thoughts, and to set up for po- 
 lite authors. I shall therefore describe at length 
 those many arts of false wit, in which a writer does 
 not shew himself a man of a beautiful genius, but 
 of ffreat industry. 
 
 The first species of false wit which I have met 
 with, is very venerable from its antiquity, and has 
 produced several pieces which have lived very near 
 as long as the Iliad itself: I mean those short 
 poems printed among the minor Greek poets, Mhich 
 resemble the figure of an vgg, a pair of wings, an 
 ax, a shepherd's pipe, and an altar. 
 
 As for the first, it is a little oval poem, and may 
 not improperly be called a scholar's (;i^<y. I w oukl 
 endeavour to hatch it, or, in more intelligible lan- 
 u:uai»:e, to translate it into Eniilish, di<l not I find 
 the interpretation of it \Try dilhcult ; for the autjior 
 seems to have heen more intent upon the figure of 
 his poem, than uj)on the sense of" it. 
 
 The jjair of w ings consists of twelve verses, or 
 rather feathers, cycry verse decreasing gradually in
 
 NO. 58. SPECTATOR. 145 
 
 its measure accordino- to its situation in the wino*. 
 The subject of it (as in the rest of the poems which 
 follow) bears some remote affinity with the figure, 
 for it describes a God of Love, who is always pamtcd 
 with Avings. 
 
 The ax methinks would have been a good figure 
 for a lampoon, had the edge of it consisted of the 
 most satirical parts of the work ; but as it is in the 
 original, I take it to be nothing else but the poesy 
 of an ax which was consecrated to ]\Iinerva, and 
 was thought to have been the same that Epeus made 
 use of in the building of the Trojan horse ; which 
 is a hint I shall leave to the consideration of the 
 critics. I am apt to think that the poesy was writ- 
 ten originally upon the ax, like those which our 
 modern cutlers inscribe upon their knives ; and that 
 therefore the poesy still remains in its ancient shape, 
 though the ax itself is lost. 
 
 The shepherd's pipe may be said to be full of 
 music, for it is composed of nine different kinds of 
 verses, which by their several lengths resemble the 
 nine stops of the old musical instrument, that is 
 likewise the subject of the poem. 
 
 The altar is inscribed with the epitaph of Troilus, 
 the son of Hecuba ; wdiich, by the way, makes 
 me beheve, that these false pieces of wit are much 
 more ancient than the authors to whom they are 
 generally ascribed ; at least I will never be per- 
 suaded, that so fine a writer as Theocritus could 
 have been the author of any such simple works. 
 
 It was impossible for a man to succeed in these 
 performances who was not a kind of painter, or at 
 least a designer : he was first of all to draw the out- 
 line of the subject which he intended to write upon, 
 and afterwards conform the description to the figure 
 of his subject. The poetry was to contract or dilate 
 itself according to the mould in which it was cast. 
 In a word, the verses were to be cramped or ex- 
 tended to the dimensions of the frame that was pre- 
 
 VoL. I. L
 
 146 SPECTATOR. no. 58. 
 
 pared for them, and to undergo the fate of those 
 persons whom the tyrant Procrustes used to lodge 
 in his iron bed : if they were too short, he stretched 
 them on a rack ; and if they were too long, chop- 
 ped off a part of their legs, till they fitted the 
 couch which he had prepared for them. 
 
 Mr. Dryden hints at this obsolete kind of wit in 
 one of the following verses in his Mac Plecno ; which 
 an English reader cannot understand, who does not 
 know that there are tliose little poems abovemen- 
 tioned in the shape of wings and altars. 
 
 Choose for thy command 
 
 Some peaceful province in Acrostic hind ; 
 
 There may'st thou wings display, and altars raise, 
 
 And torture one poor word a thousand ways. 
 
 This fashion of false wit was revived by several 
 poets of the last age, and in particular may be met 
 A\'ith among Mr. Herbert's Poems ; and, if I am 
 not mistaken, in the translation of Du Partas. I 
 do not remember any other kind of work among 
 the moderns which more resembles the performances 
 I have mentioned, than that famous picture of King 
 Charles the Eirst, which has the whole book of 
 Psalms written in the lines of the face and the hair 
 of the head. When I was last at Oxford I perused 
 one of the whiskers ; and was reading the other, 
 but could not go so far in it as I would have done, 
 by reason of the impatience of my friends and 
 fellow-travellers, who all of them pressed to see 
 such a piece of curiosity. I have since heard, that 
 there is now an eminent writino-mastcr in town, 
 who has transcribed all the Old Testament in a full- 
 Ijottomed periwig ; and if the fashion should in- 
 troduce the thick kind of wiii's which were in 
 vogue some i'cw years ago, he promises to add two 
 or three suj)ernum('rary locks tliat sh,all contain all 
 the Aj)0crypha. He designed this wig originally for 
 King William, having disj)o,sed of the two books of 
 Kiiigs in the two forks of the foretop ; but that glo*
 
 NO. 59. SPECTATOR. 147 
 
 rious Monarch dyino- before the wio- was finished, 
 there is a space left in it for the face of any one 
 that has a mind to purchase it. 
 
 But to return to our ancient poems in picture, I 
 would humbly propose, for the benefit of our mo- 
 dern smatterers in poetry, that they would imitate 
 their brethren among the ancients in those ingenious 
 devices. I have communicated this thought to a 
 young poetical lover of my acquaintance, who in- 
 tends to present his mistress with a copy of verses 
 made in the shape of her fan ; and, if he tells me 
 true, has already finished the three first sticks of it. 
 He has likewise promised me to get the measure of 
 his mistress's marriage finger, with a design to 
 make a poesy in the fashion of a ring which shall 
 exactly fit it. It is so very easy to enlarge upon a 
 good hint, that I do not question but my ingenious 
 readers v/ill apply what I have said to many other 
 particulars ; and that we shall see the town filled in 
 a very little time with poetical tippets, handker- 
 chiefs, snuff-boxes, and the like female ornaments. 
 I shall therefore conclude with a word of advice to 
 those admirable English authors who call themselves 
 Pindaric writers, that they would apply themselves 
 to this kind of wit without loss of time, as beino- 
 provided better than any other poets with verses of 
 all sizes and dimensions. 
 
 No. 59. TUESDAY, ]\IAY 8. 
 
 Operosc nihil agimt. 
 I Sen. 
 
 A HERE is nothing more certain than that every 
 man would be a wit if he could ; and, notwithstand- 
 ing pedants of pretended depth and solidity are apt 
 to decry the writings of a polite author, as flash- 
 
 L2
 
 148 SPECTATOR. no. 5^, 
 
 and froth, the}'' all of them shew upon occasion, 
 that they would spare no pains to arrive at the cha- 
 racter of those whom they seem to despise. Fof 
 this reason we often find them endeavourino; at 
 works of fancy, which cost them infinite pangs in 
 the production. The truth of it i», a man had bet- 
 ter be a galley slave than a wit, were one to gain 
 that title by those elaborate trifles which have been 
 the inventions of such authors as were often masters 
 of great learning, but no genius. 
 
 In my last paper I mentioned some of these false 
 wits among the ancients, and in this shall give the 
 reader two or three other species of them, that 
 flourished in the same early ages of the world. The 
 first I shall produce are the Lipogrammatists, or let- 
 ter-droppers, of antiejuity, that would take an ex- 
 ception, without any reason, against some particu- 
 lar letter in the alphabet, so as not to admit it once 
 into a whole poem. One Tryphiodorus was a great 
 master in this kind of writing. He composed an 
 odyssey, or epic poem, on the adventures of Ulysses, 
 consisting of four-and-twenty books, having en- 
 tirely banished the letter A from his first book, 
 which was called Alpha (as lucus a non lucendo) be- 
 cause there was not an Alpha in it. His second 
 book was inscribed Beta, for the same reason. In 
 short, the poet excluded the whole four-and-twenty 
 letters in their turns, and shcM-ed them, one after 
 another, that he could do his business without 
 them. 
 
 It must have been very pleasant to have seen this 
 poet avoiding the reprobate letter, as much as ano- 
 ther would a false quantity, and making his escape 
 from it througb the several Greek dialects, M'hen he 
 was pressed with it in any ])articular syllable. For 
 the most ai)t and eleu,ant word in the M'hole lan- 
 guage was rejected, like a diamond with a flaw- in 
 it, if it appeared blemished with a wrong letter. I 
 ihall only observe upon this head, that if the work
 
 NO. 59. SPECTATOR. 149 
 
 I have here mentioned had heen noAv extant, tlie 
 Odyssey of Tryphiodorus, in all probabiUty, would 
 have been oftener quoted by our learned pedants, 
 than the Odyssey of Homer. What a perpetual 
 fund would it have been of obsolete words and 
 phrases, unusual barbarisms and rusticities, absurd 
 spellings and complicated dialects ! I make no ques- 
 tion but it would have been looked upon as one of 
 the most valuable treasuries of the Greek tongue. 
 
 I find likewise among the ancients, that ingenious 
 kind of conceit which the moderns distinguish by 
 the name of a Rebus, that does not sink a letter, 
 but a whole word, by substituting a picture in its 
 place. When Caesar was one of the masters of the 
 Roman mint, he placed the figure of an elephant 
 upon the reverse of the public money ; the word 
 Caesar signifying an elephant in the Punic language. 
 This was artificially contrived by Cfcsar, because it 
 Avas not lawful for a private man to stamp his own 
 figure upon the coin of the commonwealth. Cicero, 
 Avho was so called from the founder of his family, 
 that was marked on the nose with a little wen like a 
 vetch (which is cicer in Latin) instead of Marcus 
 Tullius Cicero, ordered the words Marcus Tulli us, 
 with the figure of a vetch at the end of them, to be 
 inscribed on a public monument. This was done 
 probably to show that he was neither ashamed of 
 his name or family, notwithstanding the envy of 
 his competitors had often reproached him with both. 
 In the same manner we read of a famous building 
 that was marked in several parts of it with the 
 fio-ures of a froo- and a lizard : those words in Greek 
 having been the names of the architects, wbo, by 
 the laws of their country, were never permitted to 
 inscribe their own names upon their works. For 
 the same reason it is thought, that the forelock of 
 the horse in the antique-equestrian statue of JNlarcus 
 Aurelius, represents at a distance the shape of an 
 owl, to intimate the country of the statuarv, who, 
 
 L3
 
 150 SPECTATOR. no. 59. 
 
 in all probability, was an Athenian. This kind of 
 wit was very much in vogue among our own country- 
 men about an age or two ago, who did not prac- 
 tise it for any oblique reason, as the ancients above- 
 mentioned, but purely for the sake of being witty. 
 Among innumerable instances that may be given of 
 this nature, I shall produce the device of one Mr. 
 Newberry, as I find it mentioned by our learned 
 Camden in his remains. Mr. Newberry, to repre- 
 sent his name by a picture, hung up at his door the 
 sign of a yew-tree, that had several berries upon it, 
 and in the midst of them a great golden N hung 
 upon a bough of the tree, which, by the help of a 
 little false spelling, made up the M'^ord N-ew-berry. 
 
 I shall conclude this topic with a Rebus, Mhicli 
 has been lately hewn out in free-stone, and erected 
 over two of the portals of Blenheim House, being 
 the figure of a monstrous lion tearing to pieces a 
 httlc cock. For the better imderstandino- of m hich 
 device, I must acquaint my English reader, that a 
 cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the 
 same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is an 
 emblem of the luiglish nation. Such a device in so 
 noble a pile of building looks like a pun in an he- 
 roic poem ; and I am very sorry the truly ingenious 
 architect would sufter the statuary to blemish liis 
 excellent plan with so poor a conceit : but I hope 
 what I have said M'ill gain quarter for the cock, and 
 deliver him out of the lion's paw. 
 
 1 find likewise in ancient times the conceit of mak- 
 ing an echo talk sensibly, and give rational answers. 
 If this could be excusable in any writer, it would 
 be in 0\id, where he introduces the echo as a nymph, 
 before she A\as worn away into nothing but a voice. 
 The learned ]"'rasnius, though a man of wit and 
 genius, has conqxised a dialogue upon this silly kind 
 of device, and made use of an echo who seems to 
 hav(,' been a very extraordinary linguist, for she 
 answers the person she talks with in Latin, Greek,
 
 NO. 59- SPECTATOR. 151 
 
 and Hebrew, according as she found the syllables 
 which she was to repeat in any of those learned lan- 
 ffuao-es. Hudibras, in ridicule of this false kind of 
 wit, has described Bruin bewailing the loss of his 
 bear to a solitary Echo, who is of great use to the 
 poet in sev^eral distichs, as she does not only repeat 
 after him, but helps out his verse, and furnishes him 
 with rhymes. 
 
 He rag'd, and kept as heavy a coil as 
 Stout Hercules tor loss of Hi/ las ; 
 Forcing the vallies to repeat 
 The accents of his sad regret. 
 He beat his breast, and tore his hair, 
 For loss of his dear crony Bear, 
 That Echo, from the hollow ground, 
 His doleful wailings did resound 
 IMore wistfully, by many times. 
 Than in small Poets sj)lay-foot rhymes, 
 That make her in their rueful stories. 
 To answer to Int*rogatoi"ies, 
 And most unconscionably depose 
 Thin'Ts of which she nothing knows : 
 And when she has said all she can say, 
 ■ 'Tis wrested to the lover's fancy. 
 Quoth he, O whither, wicked Briibi, 
 
 Art thou fled to my Echo, Ruin f 
 
 I thought th' hadst scorn'd to budge a step 
 
 For fear— (Quoth Fxho) Marry guep. 
 
 Ami not here to take thy part ? 
 
 Then what has quell'd thy stubborn heart ? 
 
 Have these bones rattled, and this head 
 
 So often in thy quarrel bled? 
 
 Nor did I evf r winch or grudge it, 
 
 For thy dear sake ? — (Quoth she) Mwn budget. 
 
 Think'st thou 'twill not be laid i' th' dish, 
 
 Thou turn'st th}^ back ? Quoth Echo, Pis/i, 
 
 To run from those th' hadst overcome 
 
 Thus cowardly? Quoth Echo, Mum. 
 
 But what a-vengeance makes thee fly 
 
 From me too as thine enemy ? 
 
 Or if thou hadst no thought of me. 
 
 Nor what I have cndur'd for thee, 
 
 Yet shame and honour might prevail 
 
 To keep thee thus from turning tail : 
 
 For who wou'd grudge to spend his blood in 
 
 Hiij honor's cause? Quoth she, A pudding. 
 
 L 4
 
 152 SPECTATOR. , no. 60. 
 
 No. 60. WEDNESDAY, MAY 9. 
 
 Hoc est quod palles ? cur qiiis 7ion prandeat, hoc est 9 
 
 Per. Sat. 3. 
 
 OEVERAL kinds of false wit that vanished in the 
 refined ages of the world, discovered themselves 
 again in the times of monkish ignorance. 
 
 As the monks were the masters of all that little 
 learning which was then extant, and had their whole 
 lives entirely disengaged from business, it is no 
 wonder that several of them, who wanted genius for 
 higher performances, employed many hours in the 
 composition of such tricks in writing as required 
 much time and little capacity. I have seen half the 
 .Eneid turned into Latin rhymes by one of tlie 
 Beaux Esprits of that dark age ; who says in his 
 preface to it, that the ^neid wanted nothing but 
 the sweets of rhyme to make it the most perfect 
 "work in its kind. I have likewise seen an hymn in 
 hexameters to the Virgin Mary, which filled a whole 
 book, though it consisted but of the eight follow- 
 ing words : 
 
 Tot, tibi, sunt, Virgo, dotes, qnot, sidera, ccclo. 
 ' Thou hast as many virtues, O virgin, as there are stars in heaven.' 
 
 The poet rung the changes upon these eight seve- 
 ral words, and by tliat means made his verses al- 
 most as numerous as the virtues and the stars which 
 thev celebrated. It is no wonder that men who had 
 so much time upon their hands, did not only re- 
 store all the auticpiated pieces of false wit, but en- 
 riched the world with inventions of their own. It 
 was to this age that we owe the production of Ana- 
 grams, which is nothing else but a transmutation 
 of one word into another, or the turning of the 
 same set of letters into different words; which may 
 change night into day, or black into white, if
 
 [ 
 
 NO. 6o. SPECTATOR. 153 
 
 Chance, who is the goddess that presides over these 
 sorts of composition, shall so direct. I remember a 
 witty author, in aUusion to this kind of writing, 
 calls his rival, who (it seems) was distorted, and 
 had his limbs set in places that did not properly be- 
 lono- to them, ' The Anaoram of a Man. ' 
 
 When the anasirammatist takes a name to work 
 Upon, he considers it at first as a mine not broken 
 up, which will not shew the treasure it contains till 
 he shall have spent many hours in the search of it : 
 for it is his business to find out one word that con- 
 ceals itself in another, and to examine the letters in 
 all the variety of stations in which they can pos- 
 sibly be ranged. I have heard of a gentleman who, 
 when this kind of wit was in fashion, endeavoured 
 to gain his mistress's heart by it. She was one of 
 the finest women of her age, and known by the 
 name of the Lady Mary Boon. The lover not being 
 able to make any thing of Mary, by certain liberties 
 indulged to this kind of writing, converted it into 
 Moll ; and, after having shut himself up for half a 
 year, with indefatigable industry produced an ana- 
 gram. Upon the presenting it to his mistress, who 
 was a little vexed in her heart to see herself degraded 
 into Moll Boon, she told him, to his infinite sur- 
 prize, that he had mistaken her surname, for that it 
 was not Boon, but Bohun. 
 
 -Ibi ojnnis 
 
 Ej'usus labor- 
 
 The lover was thunder-struck with his misfortune, 
 insomuch, that in a little time after he lost his 
 senses, which indeed had been very much impaired 
 by the continual appUcation he had given to his 
 anagram. 
 
 The Acrostic was probably invented about the 
 same time with the anagram, though it is impossible 
 to decide whether the inventor of the one or the 
 other were the greater blockhead. The simple
 
 154 SPECTATOR. no. 6o. 
 
 acrostic is nothing but the name or title of a person 
 or thing made out of the initial letters of several 
 verses, and b}^ that means written, after the manner 
 of the Chinese, in a perpendicular line. But besides 
 these, there are compound acrostics, -when the prin- 
 cipal letters stand two or three deep. I have seen 
 some of them where the verses have not only been 
 edged by a name at each extremity, but have had 
 the same name running down like a seam through 
 the middle of the poem. 
 
 There is another near relation of the anagrams and 
 acrostics, which is commonly called a Chronogram. 
 This kind of wit appears very often on many mo- 
 dern medals, especially those of Germany, when 
 they represent in the inscription the year in which 
 they were coined. Thus we see on a medal of 
 Gustavus Adolphus the following words, ChhIstVs 
 DuX EiiGo trIVMfhVs. If you take the pains to 
 pick the figures out of the several words, and range 
 them in their proper order, you will hnd they 
 amount to MDCXVVVH, or' l6i>7, the year in 
 which the medal was stamped : for as some of the 
 letters distinguish themselves from the rest, and 
 over-top their fellows, they are to be considered in 
 a double capacity, both as letters and as figures. 
 Your laborious German wits will turn over a Avhole 
 dictionary for one of these in<>-enious devices. A 
 man would think they were searching after an apt 
 classical term; but, instead of that, they are looking 
 out a word that has an L, an M, or a I), in it. 
 When therefore we meet with any of these inscrip- 
 tions, we are not so nmch to look in them for the 
 thought, as for the year of the Lord. 
 ' T\\L' Routs-Rimez were the favourites of the 
 French nation for a whole age together, and that at 
 a time when it abounded in wit and learning. i hey 
 were a list of Mords that rhyme to one another, 
 drawn up by another hand, and given to a poet, 
 who was to make a poem to the rhymes in the same
 
 NO. 6a SPECTATOR. 155 
 
 order that they are placed upon the Hst : the more 
 uncommon the rhymes were, the more extraordi- 
 nary was the genius of the poet that could, accommo- 
 date his verses to them. I do not know any greater 
 instance of the decav of wit and learnins; amona^ 
 the French (which generally follows the declension 
 of empire) than the endeavouring to restore this 
 foolish kind of wit. If the reader will be at the 
 trouble to see examples of it, let him look into the 
 T\Q\v Mercure Gallant ; where the author every month 
 gives a hst of rhymes to be filled up by the ingeni- 
 ous, in order to be communicated to the public in 
 the Mercure for the succeeding' month. That for 
 the month of November last, which now lies before 
 me, is as follows. 
 
 — _-- Law'iers 
 
 -_-----.-. — Guerriers 
 
 .__ _.-_ Musette 
 
 -___ — ,-_,-_ L'hsctte 
 
 — --- Ccmrs 
 
 .__ Etendars 
 
 - — _--- — -_- Houlette 
 Eoktie 
 
 One would be amazed to see so learned a man as 
 JMenage talking seriously on this kind of trifle in 
 the following passage. 
 
 ' Monsieur de la Chambre has told me, that he 
 never knew what he was going to write when he took 
 his pen into his hand; but that one sentence always 
 produced another. For my own part, I never knew 
 what I should Avrite next when I was makino; verses. 
 In the first place I got all my rhymes together, and was 
 afterwards perhaps three or four months infilling them 
 up. I one day shewed JNIonsieur Gonibaud a com- 
 position of this nature, in which among others I had 
 made use of the four following rhymes, Amaryllis, 
 Phyllis, I\Iarne, Arne, desiring him to give me his 
 opinion of it. He told me immediately, that my
 
 156 SPECTATOR. no. 60. 
 
 verses were good for nothing. And upon my ask- 
 ing his reason, he said, hecause the rhymes are too 
 common ; and for that reason easy to he put into 
 verse. Marry, says I, if it be so, I am very well 
 rewarded for all the pains I have been at. But, by 
 Monsieur Gombaud's leave, notwithstanding the 
 severity of the criticism, the verses were good.* 
 Vide ]\Iekagtana. Thus far the learned Menace, 
 whom I have translated word for word. 
 
 The first occasion of these bouts-rimez made them 
 in some manner excusable, as they Avere tasks which 
 the French ladies used to impose on their lovers. 
 But when a grave author, like him above mentioned, 
 tasked himself, could there be any thing more ridi- 
 culous ? Or would not one be apt to believe that the 
 author played booty, and did not make his list of 
 rhymes till he had finished his poem ? 
 
 I shall only add, that this piece of false wit has 
 been finely ridiculed by ]\Ionsieur Sarasin, in a 
 poem entitled, La Defaite des Bouts-Rimez : ' The 
 Rout of the Bouts-Rimez.* 
 
 I must subjoin to this last kind of wit, the double 
 rhymes, Avhich are used in doggerel poetry, and ge- 
 nerally applauded by ignorant readers. If the 
 thought of the couplet in such compositions is good, 
 the rhyme adds little to it; and if bad, it w'xW not 
 be in the power of the rhyme to recommend it. I 
 am afraid that great numbers of those M'ho admire 
 the incomparable iludibras, do it more on account 
 of these doggerel rhymes, than of the ])arts that 
 really deserve admiration. I am sure I have heard 
 the 
 
 and 
 
 Pulpit, «lriim ecclesiastic, 
 
 Was beat with list instead of a stick ; 
 
 Then; was an ancient sage philosopher, 
 ^Vho had read Alexander Ross over ; 
 
 more frcijuently (piotcd, than the finest pieces of 
 wit in the whole poem.
 
 NO. 6t. SPECTATOR. 157 
 
 No. 6U THURSDAY, MAY la 
 
 Non equidem studeo, bullatis iif mi/ii nvgis 
 Pagina turgescaiify dare pondus idonea fumo. 
 
 Peus. 
 
 X HERE is no kind of false wit which has been so 
 recommended by the practice of all ages, as that 
 which consists in a jingle of words, and is compre- 
 hended under the general name of punnmg. It is 
 indeed impossible to kill a weed which the soil has 
 a natural disposition to produce. The seeds of 
 punning are in the minds of all men ; and though 
 they may be subdued by reason, reflection, and good 
 sense, they will be very apt to shoot up in the 
 greatest genius, that is not broken and cultivated by 
 the rules of art. Imitation is natural to us, and 
 when it does not raise the mind to poetry, painting, 
 music, or other more noble arts, it often breaks out 
 in puns and quibbles. 
 
 Aristotle, in the eleventh chapter of his book of 
 Rhetoric, describes two or three kinds of puns, 
 which he calls Paragrams, among the beauties of 
 good writing, and produces instances of them out 
 of some of the greatest authors in the Greek tongue. 
 Cicero has sprinkled several of his works with puns ; 
 and in his book where he lays down the rules of 
 oratory, quotes abundance of sayings as pieces of 
 wit, which also, upon examination, prove arrant puns. 
 But the age in which the pun chiefly flourished, was the 
 reign of King James the First. That learned Monarch 
 was himself a tolerable punster, and made very few 
 bishops or privy counsellors that had not some time 
 or other signalized themselves by a clinch, or a co- 
 nundrum. It was therefore in this age that the pun 
 appeared with pomp and dignity. It had before 
 been admitted into merry speeches and ludicrous 
 compositions, but was now delivered with great gra-^
 
 158 SPECTATOR. no. 6i. 
 
 vity from the pulpit, or pronounced in the most so- 
 lemn manner at the council table. The greatest au- 
 thors, in their most serious Avorks, made frequent 
 use of puns. The sermons of Bishop Andrew s, and 
 the tragedies of Shakespear, are full of them. U he 
 sinner m as punned into repentance by the former, as 
 in the latter nothing is more usual than to see a hero 
 weeping and quibbling for a dozen lines together. 
 
 I must add to these great authorities, which seem 
 to have given a kind of sanction to this piece of 
 false wit, that all the writers of rhetoric have treated 
 of punning with very great respect, and divided the 
 several kinds of it into hard names, that are reckoned 
 among the figures of speech, and recommended as 
 ornaments in discourse. I remember a country 
 schoolmaster of my acquaintance told me once, that 
 he had been in company "with a gentleman whom he 
 looked upon to be the greatest Paragrammatist 
 among the moderns. Upon enquiry, I found my 
 learned friend had dined that day with Mr. Swan, 
 the famous punster ; and desiring him to give me 
 some account of I\Ir. Swan's conversation, he told 
 me that he 2:enerallv talked in the Paranomasia, that 
 he sometimes gave into the Ploce, but that in his 
 humble opinion he shined most in the Antanaclasis. 
 
 I must not here omit, that a famous University of 
 this land was formerly very much infested with 
 puns; but whether or no this might not arise from 
 the fens and marshes in Mhich it was situated, and 
 M-hich are now drainerl, I must leave to the deter- 
 mination of more skilful naturalists. 
 
 After this short history of ])unning, one would 
 wonder how it should be so entirely banished out 
 of the learned world, as it is at present, especially 
 since it had found a place in the writings of the 
 most ancient polite authors. To account for this, 
 we nmst consider, that the first race of authors, 
 who were the ureat heroes; in writinu:, Mere desti- 
 tutc of all rules and arts of criticism; aiul for that
 
 NO. 6i. SPECTATOR. 159 
 
 reason, though they excel later writers in greatness 
 of genius, they fall short of them in accuracy and 
 correctness. The moderns cannot reach their beau- 
 ties, but can avoid their imperfections. When the 
 world was furnished with these authors of the first 
 eminence, there grew up another set of writers, who 
 gained themselves a reputation by the remarks 
 which they made on the works of those who pre- 
 ceded them. It was one of the employments of 
 these secondary authors, to distinguish the several 
 kinds of wit by terms of art, and to consider them 
 as more or less perfect, according as they were 
 founded in truth. It is no Avonder, therefore, that 
 even such authors as Isocrates, Plato, and Cicero, 
 should have such httle blemishes as are not to 
 be met with in authors of a much inferior cha- 
 racter, who have written since those several ble- 
 mishes were discovered, I do not find that there 
 M'as a proper separation made betMcen puns and 
 true wit by any of the ancient authors, except 
 Quintilian and Longinus. But when this distinc- 
 tion was once settled, it was very natural for all men 
 of sense to agree in it. As for the revival of this 
 false wit, it happened about the time of the revival 
 of letters ; but as soon as it was once detected, 
 it immediately vanished and disappeared. At the 
 same time there is no question, but as it has 
 sunk in one age, and rose in another, it will again 
 recover itself in some distant period of time, as 
 pedantry and ignorance shall prevail upon v/it and 
 sense. And, to speak the truth, I do very much 
 apprehend, by some of the last winter's produc- 
 tions, which had their fets of admirers, that our 
 posterity will in a few years degenerate into a race 
 of punsters : at least, a man may be very excusable 
 for any apprehensions of this kind, that has seen 
 Acrostics handed about the town with great secrecy 
 and applause ; to which I must also add a little epi- 
 gram called the Witch's Prayer, that fell into verse
 
 160 SPECTATOR. no. 61. 
 
 when it was read either backward or forward, ex- 
 cepting only that it cursed one way, and blessed 
 the other. When one sees there are actually such 
 painstakers among our British wits, who can tell 
 what it may end in ? If we must lash one another, 
 let it be with the manly strokes of wit and satire ; for 
 I am of the old philosopher's opinion, that if I must 
 suffer from one or the other, I would rather it 
 should be from the paw of a lion, than the hoof of 
 an ass. 1 do not speak this out of any spirit of 
 party. There is a most crying dulness on both 
 sides. I have seen Tory acrostics and Whig ana- 
 grams, and do not quarrel with either of them be- 
 cause they are Whigs or Tories, but because they 
 are anagrams and acrostics. 
 
 But to return to punning. Having pursued the 
 history of a pun from its original to its downfal, 
 I shall here define it to be a conceit arising from the 
 use of two words that agree in the sound, but differ 
 in the sense. The only way therefore to try a piece 
 of wit, is to translate it into a different language : 
 if it bears the test, you may pronounce it true ; 
 but if it vanishes in the experiment, you may con- 
 clude it to have been a pun. In short, one may 
 say of a pun as the countryman described his 
 nightingale, that is, vox et pi^ceterea nihil ; a sound, 
 and nothing but a sound. On the contrary, one 
 may rtjiresent true wit by the description which 
 -Aristcnetus makes of a fine woman ; when she is 
 drcsbcd, she is beautiful; when she is undressed, she 
 is beautiful : Or, as Mercer us has translated it more 
 emphatically, Induiturj formosa est : Exuitur, ipsa 
 J'onna est.
 
 NO. 62. SPECTATOR. 161 
 
 No. 62. FRIDAY, MAY 11. 
 
 Scribendi recte sapere est et prlnciphnn et sons. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 IMr. Locke has an admirable reflection upon the 
 difference of wit and judgment, \vhereby he endea- 
 vours to shew the reason why thev are not always 
 the talents of the same person. His words are as 
 follow : ' And hence, perhaps, may be given some 
 reason of that common observation, that men who 
 have a great deal of wit, and prompt memories, have 
 not always the clearest judgment, or deepest reason. 
 For wit lying most in the assemblage of ideas, and 
 putting those together with quickness and variety, 
 wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, 
 thereby to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable 
 visions in the fancy ; judgment, on the contrary, 
 lies quite on the other side, in separating carefully 
 one from another, ideas Avherein can be found the 
 leat difference, thereby to avoid being mis-led by 
 similitude, and by affinity, to take one thing for 
 another. This is a way of proceeding quite con- 
 trary to metaphor and allusion ; wherein, for the 
 most part, lies that entertainment and pleasantry of 
 wit which strikes so lively on the fancy, and is 
 therefore so acceptable to all people.' 
 
 This is, 1 think, the best and most philosophical 
 account that I have ever met with of wit, which 
 e-enerallv, thou oh not alwavs, consists in such a 
 resemblance and congruity of ideas as this author 
 mentions. I shall only add to it, by way of expla- 
 nation, that every resemblance of ideas is not that 
 which we cah wit, unless it be such an one that 
 gives delight and surprise to the reader : these two 
 properties seem essential to wit, more particularly 
 the last of them. In order therefore that the re- 
 semblance in the ideas be wit, it is necessary that 
 
 Vol. I. M
 
 102 SPECTATOR. ko. 62. 
 
 the ideas should not he too near one another in the 
 nature of tilings ; for where the likeness is obvious, 
 it gives no surprise. To compare one man's singing 
 to that of another, or to represent the whiteness of 
 any object by that of milk and snow, or tbe variety 
 of its colours by those of the rainbow, cannot be 
 called wit, unless, besides this obvious resemblance, 
 there be some further con"ruitv discovered in the two 
 ideas that is capable of giving the reader some sur- 
 prise. Thus M'hen a poet tells us, the bosom of his 
 mistress is as white as snow, there is no M'it in the 
 comparison ; but when he adds, with a sigh, that 
 it is as cold too, it then grows into wit. Every 
 reader's memory may supply him with innumerable 
 instances of the same nature. For this reason, the 
 similitudes in heroic poets, who endeavour rather to 
 fill the mind with great conceptions, than to divert 
 it with such as are new and surprising, have seldom 
 any thing in them that can be called wit. Mr. 
 Locke's account of wit, with this short explanation, 
 comprehends most of the species of wit ; as meta- 
 phors, similitudes, allegories, a^nigmas, niottos, 
 parables, fables, dreams, visions, dramatic writings,, 
 burlesque, and all the method of allusion : and there 
 are many other pieces of wit (how remote soever 
 . they may appear at first sight from the foregoing 
 description) which upon examination will be found 
 to agree with it. 
 
 As true wit generally consists in this resemblance 
 and congruity of ideas, false wit chiefly consists in 
 the resemblance and congruity sometimes of single 
 letters, as in anagrams, chronograms, lipograms, 
 and acrostics : sometimes of syllables, as in echoes 
 and doggerel rhymes : sometimes of words, as in 
 puns and (juibbles ; and sometimes of whole sen- 
 tences or poems, cast into the iignres of eggs, axes,, 
 or altars : nay, some carry the notion of wit so far, 
 as to ascribe it even to external mimickry • and to
 
 NO. 62. SPECTATOR. 1^3 
 
 look upon a man as an ingenious person, that can 
 resemble the tone, posture or face of another. 
 
 As true wit consists in the resemblance of ideas, 
 and false wit in the resemblance of words, accord- 
 ing* to the foregoing instances ; there is another 
 kind of wit, which consists partly in the resemblance 
 of ideas, and partly in the resemblance of words ; 
 which, for distinction sake, I shall call mixt wit. 
 This kind of wit is that which abounds in Cowley, 
 more than in any author that ever wrote. Mr. 
 Waller has likewise a great deal of it. Mr. Dryden 
 is very sparing in it. Milton has a genius much 
 above it. Spencer is in the same class with Milton. 
 The Italians, even in their epic poetry, are full of 
 it. Monsieur Boileau, who formed himself upon 
 the ancient poets, has every where rejected it with 
 scorn. If we look after mixt ^vit amono- the Greek 
 writers, we shall find it no where, but in the epigram- 
 matists. There are indeed some strokes of it in the 
 little poem ascribed to Musasus, which by that, as 
 well as many other marks, betrays itself to be a 
 modern composition. If Ave look into the Latin 
 writers, we find none of this mixt wit in Virgil, 
 Lucretius, or Catullus ; very little in Horace ; but a 
 great deal of it in Ovid ; and scarce any thing else 
 in JMartial, 
 
 Out of the innumerable branches of mixt v>it, 
 I shall chuse one instance which may be met with 
 in all the writers of this class. The passion of love 
 in its nature has been thought to resemble fire ; for 
 which reason the words fire and flame are made use 
 of to signify love. The witty poets therefore have 
 taken an advantao-e from the doubtful meanins: of 
 the word fire, to make an infinite number of witti- 
 cisms. Cowley observing the cold regard of his 
 mistress's eyes, and at the same time their power of 
 producing love in him, considers them as burning- 
 glasses made of ice ; and finding himself able to 
 live in the greatest extremities of love, concludes 
 
 jNI <1
 
 164 SPECTATOR. no. 6^. 
 
 the torrid zone to be habitable. Wlien his mistress 
 has read his letter written in juice of lemon by 
 holding it to the fire, he desires her to read it over 
 a second time by Love's flames. When she weeps, 
 he wishes it were inM ard heat that distilled those 
 drops from the limbec. When she is absent, he is 
 beyond eighty ; that is, thirt^^ degrees nearer the 
 pole than when she is with him. His ambitious love 
 is a fire that naturally mounts upwards ; his happy 
 love is the beams of heaven, and his unhappy love, 
 flames of hell. When it does not let him sleep, it is 
 a flame that sends up no smoke ; when it is opposed 
 by counsel and advice, it is a fire that rages the 
 more by the wind's blowing upon it. Upon the 
 dvino- of a tree in which he had cut his loves, he 
 observes that his written flames had burnt up and 
 w^ithcred the tree. When he resolves to give over 
 his passion, he tells us that one burnt like him, for 
 ever dreads the fire. His heart is an .^tna, that, 
 instead of Vulcan's shop, incloses Cupid's forge in iL 
 His endeavouring to drown his love in wine, . is 
 throwing oil upon the fire. He would insinuate to 
 his mistress, that the fire of love, like that of the 
 sun, (which produces so many li\ing creatures,) 
 should not only Marm, but beget. Love in another 
 place cooks pleasure at his fire. Sometimes the 
 poet's heart is frozen in every breast, and sometimes 
 scorched in every eye. Sometimes he is droMned in 
 tears, and i)urnt in love, like a ship set on fire in the 
 middle of the sea. 
 
 The reader may observe in every one of these in- 
 stances, that the poet mixes the qualities of fire 
 with those of lf)ve ; and in the same sentence speak- 
 ing of it both as a passion, and as real fire, surprises 
 the reader with those seeming resemblances, or con- 
 tradictions, that make uj> all the M'it in this kind of 
 writing. Mixt wit theiefore is a composition of pun 
 and true wit, and is more or less ])erfect as the re- 
 semblance lies in the ideas, or in the Mords : its
 
 NO. 62. SPECTATOR. 165 
 
 foundations are laid partly in falsehood, and partly 
 in truth : Reason puts in her claim for one half of 
 it, and extravagance for the other. The only pro- 
 vince therefore for this kind of wit, is epigram, or 
 those little occasional poems that in their own nature 
 are nothing else but a tissue of epigrams. I cannot 
 conclude this head of mixt Avit, without owning 
 that the admirable poet out of whom I have taken 
 the examples of it, had as much true wit as any 
 author that ever writ ; and indeed all other talents 
 of an extraordinary genius. 
 
 It may be expected, since I am upon this subject, 
 that I should take notice of Mr. Dryden's defini- 
 tion of wit ; which, with all the deference that is 
 due to the judgment of so great a man, is not so pro- 
 perly a definition of wit, as of good writing in ge- 
 neral. Wit, as he defines it, is " a propriety of 
 words and thoughts adapted to the subject." If 
 this be a true definition of wit, I am apt to think 
 that Euclid was the greatest wit that ever set pen to 
 paper : it is certain there never was a greater pro- 
 priety of words and thoughts adapted to the sub- 
 ject, than what that author has made use of in his 
 Elements. I shall only appeal to my reader, if this 
 definition agrees with any notion he has of wit. If 
 it be a true one, I am sure Mr. Dryden was not 
 only a better poet, but a greater M'it, than Mr. 
 Cowley ; and \"irgil a much more facetious man 
 than either Ovid or Martial. 
 
 Bouhours, whom I look upon to be the most pe- 
 netrating of all the Trench critics, has taken pains 
 to shew, that it is impossible for any thought to be 
 beautiful which is not just, and has not its founda- 
 tion in the nature of things : that the basis of all 
 wit is truth ; and that no thought can be valuable, 
 of which good sense is not the ground-work. Roi- 
 leau has endeavoured to inculcate the same notion 
 in several parts of his writings, both in prose and 
 verse. This is that natural way of writing, that 
 
 M 3
 
 166 SPECTATOR. no. 62. 
 
 beautiful simplicity, which we so much admire in 
 the compositions of the ancients ; and which no- 
 body deviates from, but those Avho want strength 
 of genius to make a thought shine in its own na- 
 tural beauties. Poets who want this strength of 
 genius, to give that majestic simplicity to nature, 
 which we so much admire in the works of the an- 
 cients, are forced to hunt after foreign ornaments, 
 and not to let any piece of wit of what kind soever 
 escape them. I look upon these writers as Goths 
 in poetry, who, like those in architecture, not being- 
 able to come up to the beautiful simpHcity of the old 
 Greeks and Romans, have endeavoured to supply 
 its place with all the extravagancies of an irregular 
 fancy. Mr. Dryden makes a very handsome observa- 
 tion on Ovid's writing a letter from Dido to /Eneas, 
 in the following words : " Ovid (says he, speaking of 
 Virgifs fiction of Dido and /Eneas) " takes it up 
 after him, even in the same age, and makes an an- 
 cient heroine of Virgil's new-created Dido ; dic- 
 tates a letter for her just before her death to the un- 
 grateful fugitive ; and, very unluckily for himself, 
 is for measuring a sword with a man so much su- 
 perior in force to him on the same subject. I think 
 1 may be judge of this, because 1 liave translated 
 both. The famous author of the Art of Love has 
 nothing of his own ; he borrows all from a greater 
 master in his own profession, and, vhich is worse, 
 improves nothing which he finds ; nature fails him, 
 and being forced to his old shift, he has recourse to 
 witticism. This passes indeed with his soft ad- 
 mirers, and gives him the preference to Virgil in 
 their esteem." 
 
 Were I not supported by so great an authority as 
 that of Mr. Dryden, I should not venture to ob- 
 serve, that the taste of most of our English poets, 
 as well as readers, is extremely Gothic, lie (juotes 
 Monsieur Segrais for a threefold distinction of the 
 readers of poetry : in the first of which he compre-
 
 NO. 62. SPECTATOR. I67 
 
 hends the rabble of readers, whom he does not treat 
 as such with regard to their quahty, but to their 
 numbers, and the coarseness of their taste. His 
 words are as follow: " Segrais has distinguished the 
 readers of poetry, according to their capacity of 
 judging, into three classes. (He might have said 
 the same of writers too, if he had pleased.) In 
 the lowest form he places those whom he calls Les 
 Petits Esprits ; such things as are our upper-gallery 
 audience in a play-house; who like nothmg but the 
 husk and rind of wit ; prefer a quibble, a conceit, 
 an epigram, before solid sense, and elegant expi-es- 
 sion : these are mob readers. If Virgil and Mar- 
 tial stood for parliament men, we know already who 
 would carry it. But though they make the greatest 
 appearance in the held, and cry the loudest, the 
 best on't is, they are but a sort of French Huguenots, 
 or Dutch boors, brought over in herds, but not na- 
 turalized; who have not lands of two pounds per 
 annum in Parnassus, and therefore are not privileged 
 to poll. Their authors are of the same level, fit to 
 represent them on a mountebank's stage, or to be 
 masters of the ceremonies in a bear-garden: yet 
 these are they who have the most admirers. But it 
 often happens, to their mortification, that as their 
 readers improve their stock of sense, (as they may 
 by reading better books, and by conversation with 
 men of judgment,) they soon forsake them." 
 
 I must not dismiss this subject without observing, 
 that as i\Ir. Locke, in the passage above-mentioned, 
 has discovered the most fruitful source of wit, so 
 there is another of a quite contrary nature to it, 
 Avhich does likewise branch itself out into several 
 kinds. For not only the resemblance, but the oppo- 
 sition, of ideas does very often produce wit; as I 
 could shew in several little points, turns, and an- 
 titheses, that I may possibly enlarge upon in some 
 future speculation. 
 
 jNI 4
 
 168 SPECTATOR. no. 63. 
 
 No. 63. SATURDAY, MAY 12. 
 
 Humano capifi certicem pictor equinam 
 Jiingere si relit, et varias inducere plvmas 
 Undiqiie col'afis membris, lit turpiter ntrnm 
 Desinat in piscem mulier formosa supenie ; 
 Spectatum. admissi risum teneatis amici ? 
 Credife, Fiwites, isti tabula: fore Hhrum 
 Persimilem, cirjus, lelut legri somnia, vanx 
 
 Finguntur species 
 
 IIOR. 
 
 It is very hard for the mind to disengage itself 
 from a subject in M^hirh it has been long employed. 
 The thoughts will be rising of themselves from time 
 to time, though we gi^T them no encouragement; 
 as the tossings and fluctuations of the sea continue 
 several hours after the winds are laid. 
 
 It is to this that I impute my last night's dream, 
 or vision, which formed into one continued allegory 
 the several scliemes of wit, m hether false, mixed, or 
 true, that have been the subject of my late papers. 
 
 iVIcthought I was transported into a country that 
 Avas filled with prodigies and enchantments, governed 
 by the Goddess of Falsehood, and entitled the Re- 
 gion of False Wit. There was nothing in the fields, 
 the woods, and the rivers, that appeared natural. 
 Several of the trees blossomed in leaf-gold, some of 
 them produced bone-lace, and some of them pre- 
 cious stones. The fountains bubbled in an opera 
 tune, and were filled M'ith stags, wild boars, and 
 mermaids, that lived among the waters ; at the 
 same time that dolphins and several kinds of fish 
 played upon the banks, or took their pastime in the 
 meadows. The birds had many of them golden 
 beaks, and liuman voices. 'J'he flowers perfumed 
 the air with smells of incense, and)ergrease, and 
 pidvillos; and were so interwoven M'ith one another, 
 that they grew up in pieced of embroidery. The
 
 NO. 63. SPECTATOR. I69 
 
 winds were filled with sighs and messages of distant 
 lovers. As I was walking to and fro in this en- 
 chanted wilderness, I could not forhear breaking 
 out into soliloquies upon the several wonders which 
 lay before me, when, to my great surprise, I found 
 there were artificial echoes in every walk, that, by 
 repetitions of certain words M'hich I spoke, agreed 
 with me, or contradicted me, in every thing I said. 
 In the midst of my conversation ^vith these invisible 
 companions, I discovered in the centre of a very 
 dark grove, a monstrous fabric built after the Gothid 
 manner, and covered with innumerable devices in 
 that barbarous kind of sculpture. I immediately 
 Avent up to it, and found it to be a kind of heathen 
 temple consecrated to the God of Dulness. Upon 
 my entrance I saw the deity of the place dressed in 
 the habit of a monk, with a book in one hand, and 
 a rattle in the other. Upon his right hand was In- 
 dustry, with a lamp burning before her; and on his 
 left, Caprice, with a monkey sitting on her shoulder. 
 Before his feet there stood an altar of a very odd 
 make, which, as I afterguards found, was shaped in 
 that manner to comply with the inscription that sur- 
 rounded it. Upon the altar there lay several offer- 
 ings of axes, wings, and eggs, cut in paper, and 
 inscribed with verses. The temple was tilled with 
 votaries, who applied themselves to different diver- 
 sions, as their fancies directed them In one part 
 of it I saw a regiment of Anagrams, who were con- 
 tinually in motion, turning to the right or to the 
 left, facing about, doubling their ranks, shifting 
 their stations, and throwing themselves into all the 
 figures and counter-marches of the most changeable 
 and perplexed exercise. 
 
 Not far from these was a body of Acrostics, made 
 up of very disproportioned persons. It was disposed 
 into three columns, the officers planting themselves 
 in a line on the left hand of each cohimn. The 
 officers were all of them at least six feet high, and
 
 170 SPECTATOPl. NO. 63. 
 
 made three rows of very proper men ; but the com- 
 mon soldiers, who filled up the spaces between the 
 officers, were such dwarfs, cripples, and scarecrows, 
 that one could hardly look upon them without 
 laughing". There were behind the Acrostics two or 
 three files of Chronograms, which differed only from 
 the former, as their officers were equipped (like the 
 figure of Time) with an hour-glass in one hand, and 
 a scythe in the other, and took their posts pro- 
 miscuously among the private men whom they com- 
 manded. 
 
 In the body of the temj)le, and before the very 
 face of the deity, methought I saw the phantom of 
 Tryphiodorus and Lipogrammatist, engaged in a 
 ball \vith four-and-twenty persons, who pursued him 
 by turns through all the intricacies and labyrinths of 
 a country dance, without being able to overtake 
 him. 
 
 Observing several to be ^'ery busy at the western 
 end of the temple, I encjuircd into what they Mere 
 doing, and found there was in that quarter the 
 areat maoazine of Rebuses. These were several 
 things of the most different natures tied up m 
 bundles, and thrown upon one another in heaps 
 like fagots. You might behold an anchor, a 
 night-rail, and a hobby-liorse, bound up together. 
 One of the workmen .seeing me very much sur- 
 prised, told me, there was an infinite deal of M'it 
 in several of those bundles, and that he would ex- 
 plain tliem to me if 1 j)leased : I thanked him for his 
 civility, but told him I was in very great haste at 
 that time. As 1 was going out of the temple, I ob- 
 served in one corner of it a cluster of men and 
 AV'omcn laughing very heartily, and diverting them- 
 selves at a game of crambo. I heard several double 
 rhymes as I passed by them, which raised a great 
 deal of mirtli. 
 
 Not far from these was another set of merry 
 people, engaged at a diversion, in which the whole
 
 NO. 63. SPECTATOR. .171 
 
 jest was to mistake one person for another. To give 
 occa-sion for these ludicrous mistakes, they were di- 
 vided into pairs, every pair being covered from head 
 to foot with the same kind of dress, though per- 
 haps there was not the least resemblance in tiieir 
 faces. By this means an old man was sometimes 
 mistaken for a boy, a woman for a man, and a 
 Black-a-Moor for an European, which very often 
 produced great peals of laughter. These I guessed 
 to be a party of Puns. But being very desirous to 
 get out of this world of magic, which had almost 
 turned my brain, I left the temple, and crossed over 
 the fields that lay about it with all the speed I could 
 make. I was not gone far before I heard the sound 
 of trumpets and alarms, Avhich seemed to proclaim 
 the march of an enemy ; and, as I afterwards found, 
 was in reality what I apprehended it. There ap- 
 peared at a great distance a very shining light, and 
 in the midst of it a person of a most beautiful as- 
 pect: her name was Truth. On her right-hand 
 there marched a male deity, Mdio bore several quivers 
 on his shoidders, and grasped several arrows in his 
 hand : his name was Wit. The approach of these 
 two enemies filled ail the territories of False Wit 
 with an unspeakable consternation, insomuch that 
 the goddess of those regions appeared in person upon 
 the frontiers, with the several inferior deities, and 
 the different bodies of forces which I had before 
 seen in tlie temple, who were now drawn up in ar- 
 ray, and prepared to give their foes a warm recep- 
 tion. As the march of the enemy was very slow, it 
 gave time to the several inhabitants who bordered 
 upon the regions of Falsehood to draM^ their forces 
 into a body, with a design to stand upon their 
 guard as neuters, and attend the issue of the combat. 
 I must here inform mv reader, that the frontiers 
 of the enchanted region, which I have before de- 
 scribed, were inhabited by the species of mixed wit, 
 who made a very odd appearance v.hen they were
 
 172 SPECTATOR. no. 63. 
 
 mustered together in an army. There were men 
 whose bodies were stuck full of darts, and women 
 whose eyes were burning-glasses : men that had 
 hearts of fire, and women that had breasts of snow. 
 It would be endless to describe several monsters of 
 the like nature that composed this great army; 
 which immediately fell asunder, and divided itself 
 into two parts ; the one half throwing themselves 
 behind the banners of Truth, and the other be- 
 hind those of Falsehood. 
 
 The Goddess of Falsehood was of a gigantic sta- 
 ture, and advanced some paces before the front of 
 the army ; but as the dazzling light, Avhich flowed 
 from Truth, began to shine upon her, she faded in- 
 sensibly; insomuch that in a little space she looked 
 rather like an huge phantom, than a real substance. 
 At length, as the (Joddess of Truth approached still 
 nearer to her, she fell away entirely, and vanished 
 amidst the brightness of her presence ; so that there 
 did not remain the least trace or impression of her 
 figure in the place where she had been seen. 
 
 As at the risinir of the sun the constellations "tow 
 thin, and the stars go out one after another, till the 
 M'hole hemisphere is extinguished ; such was the 
 vanishino- of the ""oddess: and not onlv of the ""od- 
 dess herself, but of the whole armv that attended 
 her, which symathized with their leader, and shrunk 
 into nothing, in proportion as the goddess disap- 
 peared. At the same time the whole temple sunk ; 
 the fish betook themselves to the streams, and the 
 wild beasts to the woods ; the fountains recovered 
 their murmurs, the birds their vocies, the trees 
 their lea\ es, and the flowers their scents, and 
 the whole face of nature its true and genuine ap- 
 pearance. Though I .still continued asleep, 1 fan- 
 cied myself as it were awakened out of a dream, 
 when I saw this region of ])rodigies restored to 
 woods and rivers, fields and meadows.
 
 NO. 68. SPECTATOR. 173 
 
 Upon the removal of that wild scene of wonders, 
 which had very much disturbed my imagination, I 
 took a full survey of the pesons of Wit and Truth ; 
 for indeed it was impossible to look upon the first 
 without seeing the other at the same time. There 
 was behind them a strong and compact body of 
 figures. The Genius of Heroic Poetry appeared 
 with a sword in her baud, and a laurel on her head. 
 Tragedy Avas crowned with cypress, and covered 
 with robes dipped in blood. Satire had smiles in 
 her look, and a dagger under her garment. Rhe- 
 toric was known by he thunderbolt ; and Comedy 
 by her mask. After several other figures, Epigram 
 marched up in the rear, Avho had been posted there 
 at the beginning of the expedition, that he might 
 not revolt to the enemy, whom he was suspected to 
 favour in his heart. I was very much awed and de- 
 lighted with the appearance of the God of Wit; 
 there was something so amiable and yet so piercing 
 in his looks, as inspired me at once with love and 
 terror. As I was gazing on him to my unspeakable 
 joy, he took a quiver of arrows from his shoulder, 
 in order to make me a present of it ; but as I was 
 reaching ■ out my hand to receive it of him, I 
 knocked it against a chair, and by that means 
 
 aw 
 
 aked. 
 
 No. 68. FRIDAY, MAY 18, 
 
 Nos duo turba siimus 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 vJxE would think that the larger the company is 
 in which we are engaged, the greater variety of 
 thoughts and subjects would be started in discourse; 
 but, instead of this, we find that conversation is 
 never so much strained and confined as in numerous 
 assembhes. When a multitude meet together upon
 
 174' SPECTATOR. no. 68. 
 
 any subject of discourse, their debates are taken up 
 chiefly with forms and general positions : nay, if 
 we come into a more contracted assembly of men 
 and women, the talk generally runs upon"^ the wea- 
 ther, 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 
 which passes between two persons Mho are familiar 
 and intimate friends. On these occasions, a man 
 givTS a loose to every passion, and every thought 
 that is uppermost, discovers his most retired opi- 
 nions 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 M'ho observed, that friendship 
 improves happiness, and abates misery, by the doub- 
 ling of our joy, and dividing of our grief; a thought 
 in which he hath been ibllowed by all the essayers 
 upon friendship that have written since bis time. 
 Sir Francis Bacon has finely described other advan- 
 tages, or, as he calls them, fruits of friendship ; 
 and indeed there is no subject of morality which has ' 
 been better handled and more exhausted 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 Mould be re- 
 "•arded by our modern M'its as one of the most shin- 
 ing tracts of morality that is extant, if it aj)peared 
 under the name of a Confucius, or of any celebrated 
 Grecian j)hilos()pher : I mean the little apocryphal 
 treatise entitled, The Wisdom of the SonofSirach. 
 How finely has he described the art of making 
 friends, by an obliii:in<>; and affable behaviour ! and 
 laid down that precept winch a late excellent author 
 lias delivered as his own ; That m e should have 
 many M'eH-wi.^hers, but few friends. ' Sweet language 
 will multiply friends; and a fair speaking tongue
 
 NO. 68. SPECTATOR. 175 
 
 will encrease kind greetings. Be in peace with 
 many, nevertheless have but one counsellor of a thou- 
 sand.' With what prudence does he caution us in 
 the choice of our friends! and with what strokes of 
 nature (I could almost say of humour) has he de- 
 scribed the behaviour of a treacherous and self- 
 interested friend ! ' If thou would'st 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 
 discover thy reproach.' Again, ' Some friend is a 
 companion 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 brought low he will be against thee, and 
 hide himself from thy face.' What can be more 
 strong and pointed than the following verse ? ' Se- 
 parate thyself from thine enemies, and take heed of 
 thy friends.' In the next words he particularizes 
 ane of those fruits of friendship which is described 
 at length by the two famous authors abovemen- 
 tioned, and falls into a general eulogium of friend- 
 ship, which is very just, as well as very sublime. 
 ' A faithful friend is a strong defence; and he that 
 hath found such an one, hath found a treasure, 
 Notbin"' doth countervail a faithful friend, and his 
 excellency is unvaluable. A faithful friend is the 
 medicine of life ; and they that fear the Lord shall 
 find him. \A'hoso feareth the Lord shall direct his 
 friendship aright ; for as he is, so shall his neigh- 
 bour (that is, his friend) be also.' I do not remem- 
 ber to have met with any saying that has pleased me 
 mOre than that of a friend's being the medicine of 
 life, to express the efficacy of friendship in healing 
 the pains and anouish which naturallv cleave to our 
 existence in this world ; and am wonderfully pleased 
 M'ith the turn in the last sentence ; That a virtuous 
 man shall as a blessing meet with a friend who is as
 
 1 76 SPECTATOR. no. 68. 
 
 virtuous as himself. There is another saying in the 
 same author, which would have been very much 
 admired in an heathen writer : ' Forsake not an old 
 friend, for the new is not comparable to him : a 
 new friend is as new wine ; when it is old thou shalt 
 drink it with pleasure.' With what strength of al- 
 lusion, and force of thought, has he described the 
 breaches and violations of friendship ! ' Whoso 
 castcth a stone at the birds, frayeth them away ; 
 and he that upbraideth his friend, breaketh friend- 
 ship. 1 hough thou drawest a sword at a friend, 
 yet despair not, for there may be a returning to fa- 
 vour. Jf thou hast opened thy mouth against thy 
 friend, fear not, for there may be a reconciliation ; 
 except for upbraiding, or pride, or disclosing of se- 
 crets, 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 
 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 SLd)ject: 'Whoso 
 discovereth secrets, loseth his credit, and shall ne- 
 ver find a friend to his mind. Love thy friend, and 
 be faithful unto him; but if thou bcM'ravest his se- 
 crets, 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, ibr he is 
 too far oft'; he is as a roe escaped out of the snare. 
 As for a wountl, it may be bound up ; and after re- 
 viling there may be reconciliation ; but he that 
 bewrayeth secrets, is without hope.' 
 
 Among the several (jualifications of a good fiiend, 
 this wise man has very justly singled out constancy 
 and faithfulness as the principal: to these, others 
 have added viitue, knowledge, discretion, equality
 
 xo. 68. SPECTATOR. 177 
 
 in age and fortune, and, as Cicero calls it, morum 
 comitas, a pleasantness of temper. If I were to give 
 my opinion upon such an exhausted subject, I 
 should join to these other qualifications a certain 
 aequability or evenness of behaviour. A man often 
 contracts a friendship with one whom perhaps he 
 does not find out until after a year's conversation ; 
 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 pe- 
 riods of their lives are inexpressibly agreeable, and 
 in others as odious and detestable. Martial has 
 given us a very pretty picture of one of this species 
 in the following epigram : 
 
 Dijficilis, fncilis, jucimdiis, nccrhus est idem, 
 i\'ec tecum possum titere, nee sine te. 
 
 In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow, 
 Thou'rt such a touchy, te^ty, pleasant fellow ; 
 Hast so much wit, and mii th, and spleen, about thee, 
 There is no living with tliee, nor without thee. 
 
 It is very unlucky for a man to be entangled in a 
 friendship with one, who, by these changes and vi- 
 cissitudes of humour, is sometimes amiable and some- 
 times odious : and as most men are at sometimes in 
 an admirable frame and disposition of mind, it should 
 be one of the greatest tasks of wisdom to keep our- 
 selves well when we are so, and never to go out of 
 that which is the agreeable part of our character. 
 
 Vol. I. N
 
 178 SPECTATOR. no. 6g. 
 
 No. 69. SATURDAY, ]\IAY 19. 
 
 Hicscgcfes, iUic reniuiif feiicius nvce. : 
 ylrborci fletusaUhi, ahjiie bijussa virescunt 
 Grnmiua. Nonnc rides, eroccos ut Tmoliis adores, 
 India mil tit chur, moUes sua tluira Snhcei ? 
 At Chaltjbcs niidi ferru/ii, lirosaqiie Pontns 
 Castorca, Eliadum pahnas Epiriis equarmu? 
 Continao has Icgrs (efernaqiie focdera certis 
 Imposuit n at lira locis 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 1 HERE is no place in the town which I so much 
 love to fretiuent as the Royal Exchange. It gives 
 me a secret satisfaction, and, in some measure, gra- 
 tifies my vanity, as I am an Enghshman, to see so 
 ricli an assembly of countrymen and foreigners con- 
 sulting together upon the private business of man- 
 kind, and making this metropolis a kind of empo- 
 rium for the whole earth. I must confess I look 
 upon higli Change to be a great council, in which 
 all considerable nations have their representatives. 
 Factors in the trading world are what ambassadors 
 are in the politic world ; they negotiate aifairs, con- 
 clude treaties, and maintain a good correspondence 
 ])etween those wealthy societies of men that are di- 
 vided from one anotlier by seas and oceans, or live 
 on the <liiferent extremities of a continent. I ]la^•c 
 often been pleased to liear disputes adjusted between 
 an inhabitant of Japan and an aldernum of London, 
 or to sec a subject of the Great Mogul entering into 
 a league with one of the Czar of JMuscovy. I am 
 infinitely deliiihted in mixing with these several mi- 
 iiisters of commerce, as they arc distinguished by 
 their diftei ent walks and <lifit'erent languages : some- 
 times I am justled among a ixxly of Arminians ; 
 sometimes I am lost in a crowd of Jews ; and some- 
 times make one in a groiipe of Dutchmen. I am a 
 Dane, Swede, or I'renchman, at dillercnt times ; ov
 
 NO. 69. SPECTATOR. . 179 
 
 rather fancy myself like the' old philosopher, M^ho, 
 upon being- asked what countrymaa he was, replied, 
 that he was a citizen of the world. 
 
 Though I very frequently visit this busy multi- 
 tude of people, I am known to nobody there but my 
 friend Sir Andrew, who often smiles upon me as he 
 sees me busthng in the crowd, but at the same time 
 connives at my presence w^ithout taking any furtlier 
 notice of me. There is indeed a merchant of Egypt 
 who just knows me by sight, having formerly re- 
 mitted me some money to Grand Cairo ; but as I 
 am not versed in the modern Coptic, our conferences 
 go no further than a bow and a grimace. 
 
 This grand scene of business gives me an infinite 
 variety of solid and substantial entertainment. As 
 I am a great lover of mankind, my heart naturally 
 overflows with pleasure at the sight of a prosperous 
 and happy multitude, insomuch that at many public 
 solemnities I cannot forbear expressing my joy with 
 tears that have stolen down my cheeks. For this 
 reason I am wonderfully delio-hted to see such a 
 body of men thriving in their own private fortunes, 
 and at the same time promoting the public stock : 
 or, in other words, raising estates for their oAvn fa- 
 milies, by bringing into their country whatever is 
 M^anting, and carrying out of it whatever is super- 
 fluous. 
 
 Nature seems to have take particular care to dis- 
 seminate her blessino-s amono- the different rcoions 
 of the world, w'ith an eye to this, mutual intercourse 
 and traffic among mankind, that the natives of the 
 several parts of the globe might have a kind of de- 
 pendance upon one another, and be united together 
 by their common interest. Almost ev^ry deo-ree 
 produces something peculiar to it. The food often 
 grows in one country, and the sauce in another. 
 The fruits of Portugal are corrected by the products 
 ofBarbadoes : the infusion of a China plant sweetened 
 with the pith of an Indian cane. The Philippine 
 
 N 2
 
 180 SPECTATOR. no. 6g, 
 
 Islands give a flavour to our European bowls. The 
 single dress of a woman of quality is often the pro- 
 duct of an hundred climates. The muif and the 
 fan come together from the different ends of the 
 earth. The scarfe is sent from the Torrid Zone, 
 and the tippet from beneath the Pole. The brocade 
 petticoat rises out of the mines of Peru, and the 
 diamond necklace out of the bowels of Indostan. 
 
 If we consider our own country in its natural 
 prospect, without any of the benefits and advan- 
 taocs of commerce, what a barren uncomfortable 
 spot of earth falls to our share! Natural historians 
 tell us, that no fruit i^rows orio'inallv amono- us, 
 besides hips and haws, acorns and pig-nuts, with 
 other delicacies of the like nature; that our chmate 
 of itself, and without the assistance of art, can make 
 no further advances towards a plum than to a sloe, 
 and carries an apple to no greater a perfection than a 
 crab : that our melons, our peaches, our figs, our 
 apricots, and cherries, are strangers among us, im- 
 ported in different ages, and naturalized in our 
 English gardens; and that they would all degenerate, 
 and fall away into the trash of our own country, if 
 they were Mholly neglected by the planter, and left 
 to the mercy of our sun and soil. Nor has trailftc 
 more enriched our vegetable world, than it has im- 
 ])r()ved the whole face of nature among us. Our 
 ships are laden with the harvest of every climate : 
 our tables are stored with s}>ices, and oils, and wines; 
 our rooms are filled with jjyramids of China, and 
 adorned with the workmanship of Japan : our morn- 
 ing's draught comes to us from the remotest corners^ 
 of the earth: we repair our bodies by the drugs of 
 America, and repose ourselves under Indian cano- 
 pies. My friend Sir Andrew calls the vineyards of 
 Trance our garden : the Spice Islands our hot-beds : 
 the Persians our silk-weavers, and the Cliinese our 
 potters. Nature indeed furnishes us M'ith the bare 
 >iecessaries of life, but traffic gives us a great \dr
 
 a?o. 69. SPECTATOR. 181 
 
 riety of what is useful, and at tlie same time sup- 
 plies us with every thing that is convenient and or- 
 namental. Nor is it the least part of this our hap- 
 piness, that whilst we enjo}'' the remotest products 
 of the north and south, we are free from those ex- 
 tremities of \reather whicli give them birth; that our 
 eyes are refreshed with the green helds of Britain, at 
 the same time that our palates are feasted with fruits 
 that rise between the Tropics. 
 
 For these reasons there are not more useful mem- 
 bers in a commonwealth than merchants. They 
 knit mankind togetlier in a mutual intercourse of 
 good offices, distribute the gifts of nature, find M'ork 
 for the poor, and wealth to the rich, and magni- 
 ficence to the great. Our Englisli merchant con- 
 verts the tin of his own country into gold, and ex- 
 changes his wool for rubies. The Mahometans are 
 clothed in our British manufactures, and the inha- 
 bitants of the Frozen Zone warmed with the fleeces 
 of our sheep. 
 
 When I have been upon the Change, I have often 
 fancied one of our old kings standing in person, 
 where he is represented in effigy, and looking down 
 upon the wealthy concourse of people with which 
 that place is every day filled. In this case, how 
 would he be surprized to hear all the languages of 
 Europe spoken in this little spot of his former do^ 
 minions, and to see so many private men, who in 
 his time would have been the vassals of some power- 
 ful baron, negociating like princes for greater sums 
 of money than were formerly to be met with in the 
 royal treasury ! Trad^, without enlarging the Bri- 
 tish territories, has given us a kind of additional 
 empire : It has multiplied the number of the rich, 
 made our landed estates infinitely more valuable than 
 they were formerly, and added to them an accession 
 of other estates as valuable as the lands themselves, 
 
 N 3
 
 182 \ SPECTATOR. no. 70. 
 
 No. 70. MONDAY, MAYS]. 
 
 Jnterdvm vulgns rectum videf. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 W HEN I travelled, I took a particular delight in 
 hearing the songs and tables tiiat are come from fa- 
 ther to son, and are most in voii'ue anion o- the com- 
 mon people of the countries through Mdiich I passed ; 
 for it is impossible that any thing should be univer- 
 sally tasted and approved by a multitude, though 
 thev are only the rabble of a nation, which hath not 
 in it some peculiar aptness to please and gratify the 
 mind of man. Human nature is the same in all rea- 
 sonable creatures; and whatever falls in with it, will 
 meet with admirers among readers of all qualities 
 and conditions. Moliere, as m'C are told by Mon- 
 sieur Bolieau, used to read all his comedies to an 
 old woman who was his house-keeper, as she sat 
 with him at her M'ork by the chimney corner ; and 
 could foretel the success of his play in the theatre, 
 from the reception it met at his lire-side : for he tells 
 us the audience always followed the old woman, and 
 never failed to laugh in the same place. 
 
 I know nothing which more shews the essential 
 and inherent perfection of simplicity of thought, 
 above that which I call the Gothic manner in writ- 
 ing, than this ; that the first pleases all kinds of 
 palates, and the latter only such as have fornied to 
 themselves a wrong artificial taste upon little fanci- 
 ful authors and writers of ej)igram. Homer, A'^irgii, 
 or Milton, so far as the langiiage of their poems is 
 understood, will please a reader of ])lain common 
 sense, m ho wonld neither relish nor comprehend an 
 epigram of Martial, or a ]K)em of Cowley : so, on 
 the contrary, an oidinaiy song or ballad, that is the 
 delight of the common people, cannot fail to please 
 all such readers as arc not unciualilied for the enter-
 
 NO. 70. SPECTATOR. 183 
 
 tainment by their affectation or ignorance; and the 
 reason is plain, because the same paintings of nature 
 which recommend it to the most ordinaiy reader, 
 will appear beautiful to the most refined. 
 
 The old song of Chevy-Chase is the favourite 
 ballad of the common people of England ; and Ben 
 Johnson used to say, he had rather have been the 
 author of it than of all his works. Sir Philip Sid- 
 ney, in his Discourse of Poetry, speaks of it in the 
 following words : ' I never heard the old song of 
 Piercy and Douglas, that I found not my heart 
 more moved than with a trumpet ; and yet it is sung 
 by some blind CroM^der with no rougher voice than 
 rude stile ; which being so evil apparelled in the 
 dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, Avhat would 
 it work, trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pin- 
 dar ?' For my own part 1 am so professed an admirer 
 of this antiquated song, that I shall give my reader 
 a critic upon it, without any further apology for so 
 doing. 
 
 The greatest modern critics have laid it down as 
 a rule, that an heroic poem should be founded upon 
 some important precept of morality, adapted to 
 the constitution of the country in which the poet 
 writes. Homer and Virgil have formed their plans in 
 this view. As Greece was a collection of many 
 governments, who suffered very much among them- 
 selves, and gave the Persian Emperor, mIio was 
 their common enemy, many advantages over them 
 by their mutual jealousies and animosities, Homer, 
 in order to establish among them an union, which 
 was so necessary for their safety, grounds his poem 
 upon the discords of the several Grecian Princes 
 who were enu-aoed in a confederacv against an 
 Asiatic Prince, and the several advantages which 
 the enemy gained by such their discords. At the 
 time the poem we are now treating of was written, 
 the dissensions of the Barons, who were then so 
 many petty princes, ran very high, whether they 
 
 N 4
 
 1S4 SPECTATOR. no. 70. 
 
 quarrelled among themselves, or with their neigh- 
 bours, and produced unspeakable calamities to the 
 country : the poet, to deter men from such unna- 
 tural contentions, describes a bloody battle, and 
 dreadful scene of death, occasioned by the mutual 
 feuds which reigned in the families of an English 
 and Scotch nobleman : that he designed this for the 
 instruction of his poem, we may learn from his 
 four last lines, in which, after the example of the 
 modern tragedians, he draws from it a precept for 
 the benefit of his readers. 
 
 God save the King, and bless the land 
 
 In plenty, joy, and peace; 
 And grant hencetorth that foul debate 
 
 'Twixt noblemen may cease. 
 
 The next point observed by the greatest heroic 
 poets, hath been to celebrate persons and actions 
 which do Ijonour to their country : thus ^'^irgifs 
 hero was the founder of Rome, Homer's a Prince 
 of Greece ; and for this reason Valerius Flaccus and 
 Statins, who Avere both Romans, might be justly 
 derided for having chosen the expedition of the 
 Golden Fleece, and the Avars of Thebes, for the sub- 
 ject of their epic writings. 
 
 The poet before us, has not only found out an 
 hero in his own country, but raises the reputation 
 of it by several beautiful incidents. Tlie English 
 are the first who take the field, and the last m ho 
 (juit it. The English bring only fifteen hundred to 
 the battle, and the Scotch two thousand. The 
 English keep the field with fifty-three : the Scotch 
 retire with iifty-five : all the rest on each side being 
 slain in battle. Jhit the most remarkable circum- 
 stance of this kind, is the different manner in which 
 the Scotch and English Kings receive the news of 
 this fight, and of the great mens deaths who com- 
 mauflcd in it.
 
 < 
 
 N o. 70. SPECTATOR. 1 85 
 
 This news was brought to Edinburgh, 
 
 Where Scotland's King did reign, 
 That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
 
 Was with an arrow slain. 
 
 Oh heavy news, King James did say ; 
 
 Scotland can witness be, 
 I have not any captain more 
 
 Of such account as he. 
 
 Like tidings to King Henry came 
 
 Within as short a space. 
 That Piercy of Northumberland 
 
 Was slain in Chevy-Chase. 
 
 Now God be with him, said our King, 
 
 Sith 'twill no better be, 
 I trust I have within my realm 
 
 Five hundred good as he. 
 
 Yet shall not Scot nor Scotland say 
 
 Bui I will vengeance take, 
 And be revenged on them all 
 
 For brave Lord Piercy 's sake. 
 
 This vow full well the King perform'd 
 
 After on Humble-down; 
 In one day fifty knights were slain, 
 
 With lords of great renown. 
 
 And of the rest of small account 
 Did many thousands dye, &c. 
 
 At the same time that our poet shews a laudable 
 partiality to his countrymen, he represents the Scots 
 after a manner not unbecoming so bold and brave a 
 people. 
 
 Earl Douglas on a milk-white steed, 
 
 Mo^t like a Baron bold, 
 Rode foremost of the company, 
 
 Whose armour shone like gold. 
 
 His sentiments and actions are every way suitable 
 to an hero. One of us two, says he, must die. I 
 am an earl as "vvell as yourself, so that you can have 
 no pretence for refusing the combat : however, says 
 he, 'tis pity, and indeed M'ould be a sin, that so 
 many innocent men should perish for our sakes ; 
 rather let you and I end our quarrel in single fight.
 
 186 SPECTATOR. no. 70. 
 
 Ere thus I will out-braved be, 
 
 One of us two sl)all iiie. 
 I know thee well, an Earl thou art, 
 
 Lord Piercy, so am I. 
 
 But trust me, Piercy, pity it were, 
 
 And great oft'ence, to kill 
 Any of these our harmless men, 
 
 For they have done no ill. 
 
 Let thou and I the battle try, 
 
 And set our men aside. 
 Accurst be he. Lord Piercy said, 
 
 hy whom this is deny'd. 
 
 When these brave men had distinguished them- 
 selves in the battle, and in single combat with each 
 other, in the midst of a generous parley, full of he- 
 roic sentiments, the Scotch Earl falls ; and with his 
 dyinir words encouraoes his men to revenoe his 
 death, representing to them, as the most bitter cir- 
 cumstance of it, that his rival saw him fall. 
 
 With that there came an arrow keen 
 
 Out of an English bow, 
 Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart 
 
 A deep and deadly blow; 
 
 Who never spoke more words than these, 
 
 Eight on my merry men all, 
 For why, my life is at an end, 
 
 Lord Pieicv sees mc fall. 
 
 t 
 
 Alcrry men, in the language of those times, is no 
 more than a chearful word for comj)anions and fcl- 
 low-sokHcrs. A passage in the elcventli book of 
 Yirgifs yEncids is very much to be admired, where 
 CamiUa, in her last agonies, instead of wcej>ing over 
 the wound siie had received, as one might ha\e ex- 
 pected from a warrior of her sex, considers only 
 (like the hero of whom we are now speaking) how 
 the battle should be continued after her death. 
 
 Turn sic exfjtran.s, S)-c. 
 
 A gathering mist o'erclouds her chearful eyes, 
 And from iier clieeks the rosy colour flies; 
 Then turns to her, whom, of her female train. 
 She trusted most, and thus she speaks wilh pain.
 
 NO. 70. SPECTATOR. 187 
 
 Acca, 'tis past ! he swims before my sight, 
 Inexorable death ; and claims his right. 
 Bear my last words to Turnus ; fly with speed, 
 And bid him timely to my charge succeed : 
 Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve. 
 Farewel. 
 
 Turnus did not die in so heroic a manner : thougli 
 our poet seems to have had his eye upon Turnus's 
 speech in the last verse. 
 
 Lord Piercy sees me fall. 
 
 ■Vicisti, et victum tendere palmas 
 
 Ausonii videre- 
 
 Earl Piercv"s lamentation over his enemv is o-e- 
 neroLis, beautiful, and passionate. I must only 
 caution the reader not to let the simplicity of the 
 style, vrhich one may well pardon in so old a poet, 
 prejudice him against the greatness of the thought. 
 
 Then leaving life, Eail Piorcy took. 
 
 The dead man by the hand, 
 And said, Earl Douglas, for thy life 
 
 Would 1 had lost my land. 
 
 O Christ! my very heart doth bleed 
 
 With sorrow for thy >.ake ; 
 For sure a more renowned knight 
 
 Mischance did never take. 
 
 That beautiful line, taking the dead man by the 
 hand, will put the reader in mind of -^neas's be- 
 haviour towards Lausus, whom lie himself had 
 slain as he came to the rescue of his aged father. 
 
 At vero at xiiltum vidit morientis, et ura, 
 
 Ora modis Aiichiaiades paUentia niiris : 
 
 Ingemuit rniserans graiifer, dextrumque tetendit, &c. 
 
 The pious prince beheld young Lausiis dead ; 
 
 He griev'd, he wept ; then grasp'd his hand, and said, 
 
 Poor helpless youth ! what praises can be paid 
 
 To worth so great ! 
 
 I shall take another opportunity to consider the 
 other parts of this old song.
 
 188 SPECTATOR. no. 72. 
 
 No. 72. WEDNESDAY, ]MAY 23. 
 
 — Genus immorfale manct, mnlfoaque per annos. 
 
 Stat J or tuna, et avi numerantur avorum. 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 llAviNG already given my reader an account of 
 several extraordinary clubs, both ancient and modern, 
 I did not design to have troubled hiin M'ith any 
 more narratives of this nature; but I have lately 
 received information of a club which I can call 
 neither ancient nor modern, that I dare say will be 
 no less surpiisi ng to my reader than it was to my- 
 self; for winch reason I shall connnunicate it to 
 the public as one of the greatest curiosities of its 
 kind. 
 
 A friend of mine complaining of a tradesman 
 "wlio is related to him, after having represented him 
 as a very idle, worthless fellow, who neglected his 
 family, and sj)ent most of his time over a bottle, 
 told me, to conclude his character, that he M'as a 
 number of the Everlasting Club. So very odd a 
 title raised my curiosity to encpiire into the nature 
 of a club that had such a sounding name; upon 
 which mv friend <>;ave me the followino- account. 
 
 'The Everlasting Club consists of a hundred mem- 
 hcrs, who divide the m hole tMcnty-four hours among 
 them in such a manner, that the club sits day and 
 night from one end of the year to another; no party 
 T)resuuiinj>' to rise till thev are rcIicAcd bv those who 
 arc in course to succeed them. IjV this means a 
 member of the Everlasting Club never wants com- 
 pany; for though he is not upon duty liimself, he 
 is sure to find some who are; so that if he be dis- 
 posed to take a whet, a nooning, an evening's 
 tlraught, or a bottle after midnight, he goes to the 
 club, and finds a knot of friends to iiis mind.
 
 no. 72. SPECTATOR. 189 
 
 * It is a maxim in this club, that the steward never 
 dies: for as they succeed one another by way of 
 rotation, no man is to quit the great elbow-chair 
 which stands at the upper end of the table, till his 
 successor is in readiness to fill it; insomuch that 
 there has not been a Sede vacante in the memory of 
 man. 
 
 'This club was instituted towards the end (or, as 
 some of them say, about the middle) of the Civil 
 Wars, and continued v/ithout interruption till the 
 time of the Great Fire, which burnt them out, and 
 dispersed them for several weeks. The steward at 
 that time maintained his post till he had like to 
 have been blown up with a neighbouring- house, 
 (which \\ as demohshed in order to stop the fire,) 
 and would not leave the chair at last, till he had 
 emptied all the bottles upon the table, and received 
 repeated directions from the club to withdraw him- 
 self. This steward is frequently talked of in the 
 club, and looked upon by every member of it as a 
 greater man than the famous captain mentioned ia 
 my Lord Clarendon, who was burnt in his ship be- 
 cause he would not quit it without orders. It is 
 said that towards the close of 1700, being the great 
 year of jubilee, the club had it under consideration, 
 whether they should break up, or continue their 
 session ; but, after many speeches and debates, it 
 was at length agreed to sit out the otlier century. 
 Tliis resolution passed in a general club JSemine 
 iontradicente. ' 
 
 Having given this short account of the institu- 
 tion and continuation of the Everlasting Club, I 
 shall here endeavour to say something of the man- 
 ners and characters of it several members, which I 
 shall do according to the best lights I have received 
 in this matter. 
 
 It appears by their books in general, that since 
 their first institution, they have smoaked fifty tons 
 <pf tobacco, drank thirty thousand butts of ale, one
 
 IDO SPECTATOR. no. 72. 
 
 thousand hogsheads of red port, two hundred har- 
 rels of brandy, and a kilderkin of small beer : there 
 has been likewise a great consumption of cards. It 
 is also said, that they observe the law in lien John- 
 son's club, which orders the fire to be always kept in 
 (focus pet'erinis esto) as well for the convenience of 
 lighting their pipes, as to cure the dampness of the 
 club room. Ihey have an old woman in the nature 
 of a vestal, whose business it is to cherish and per- 
 petuate the hre, which burns from generation to 
 generation, and has seen the glass-house fires in and 
 out above an hundred times. 
 
 The Everlastino- Club treats all other clubs with 
 an eye of contempt, and talks even of the Kit- Cat 
 and ()6tober as of a couple of upstarts. Their or- 
 dinary discourse (as much as I l>ave been able to 
 learn of it) turns altogether upon such adventures 
 as have passed in their own assembly; of members 
 ^vho have taken the glass in their turns for a MTck 
 together, without stirring out of the club; of others 
 Avho have smoaked an hundred pipes at a sitting; of 
 others who have not missed their morniui>-"s drauoht 
 for twenty years together : sometimes they sj)eak in 
 raptures of a run of ale in King Charles's reign; 
 and sometimes reflect with astonishment upon games 
 at whist, Mhich have been miraculously recovered 
 by members of the society, when in all human pro- 
 bability the case was desperate. 
 
 They delight in several old catches, which they 
 sin<2: at all hours to encourai^e one another to moisten 
 their clay, and grow immortal by drinking; A\ith 
 many other edifying exhortations of the like nature. 
 
 There are four general clubs held in a year, at 
 which times they fill up vacancies, appoint waiters, 
 confirm the old fiie-maker, or elect a new one, set- 
 tle contributions for coals, pi})es, tobacco, and other 
 necessaries. 
 
 'fhe senior member has out-lived the whole club 
 twice over, and has been drunk with the grand- 
 fathers of some of the present sitting members.
 
 NO. 73. SPECTATOR. 191 
 
 No. 73. THURSDAY, IMAY 24. 
 
 — Dea cerfe ! 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 It is vcrv stranw to consider, that a creature like 
 man, who is sensible of so many weaknesses and im- 
 perfections, should be actuated by a love of fame; 
 that vice and ignorance, imperfection and misery, 
 should contend for praise, and endeavour as much 
 as possible to make themselves objects of admiration. 
 
 But, notwithstanding man's essential perfection is 
 but very little, his comparative perfection may be 
 very considerable. If he looks upon himself in an 
 abstracted light, he has not much to boast of; but 
 if he considers himself with regard to others, he may 
 iind occasion of glorying, if not in his own virtues, 
 at least in the absence of another's imperfections. 
 This o-ives a different turn to the reflections of the 
 wise man and the fool. The first endeavours to 
 shine in himself, and the last to outshine others. 
 The first is humbled by the sense of his own infir- 
 mities, the last is lifted up by the discovery of 
 those which he observes in other men. The wise 
 man considers what he wants, and the fool what he 
 abounds in. The wise man is happy when he gains 
 his own approbation, and the fool when he recom- 
 mends himself to the applause of those about him. 
 
 But however unreasonable and absurd this passion 
 for admiration may appear in such a creature as 
 man, it is not wholly to be discouraged; since it 
 often produces very good effects ; not only as it re- 
 strains him from doino- anv thino- which is mean and 
 contemptible, but as it pushes him to actions which 
 are great and glorious. The principle may be de- 
 fective or faulty, but the consequences it produces 
 are so good, that, for the benelit of mankind, it 
 ought not to be extinguished.
 
 W^ SPECTATOR. no. 73. 
 
 It is observed by Cicero, that men of the greatest 
 and the most shining parts are the most actuated by 
 ambition ; and if we look into the two sexes, I be- 
 lieve we shall find this principle of action stronger in 
 women than in men. 
 
 1 he passion for praise, which is so very vehenient 
 in the fair sex, produces excellent effects in women 
 of sense, who desire to be admired for that only 
 which deserves admiration: and 1 think we may ob- 
 serve, without a compliment 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 
 lionour, than what we find in the generality of our 
 own sex. How many instances have M^e 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 woman- 
 kind ! as the making of war, the carrying on of 
 tratific, the administration of justice, are those by 
 which men grow famous, and get themselves a 
 name. 
 
 But as this passion for admiration, when it works- 
 according to reason, improves the beautiful part of 
 our species in every thing that is laudable ; so no- 
 tliing is more destructive to them when it is governed 
 by ^■anity and folly. AVhat I ha\e therefore here to 
 say, only regards the \'ain part of the sex, whom, 
 for certain reasons, which the reader will hereafter 
 see at large, 1 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 
 bovdy, air of her face, and motion of her head, 
 that it is her business and employment to gaia 
 adorers. For this reason your Idols appear in all 
 pid^lic places and asscnd)lies, in order to seduce 
 nieii to their worship. The playhouse is very fre- 
 c|i!cnt1y filled with Idols; several of them are car- 
 ried in procession every evening about the ring, and
 
 NO. 73. SrECTATOR. IQS 
 
 several of them set up their worship even in churches. 
 They are to be accosted in the language proper to 
 the Deit}\ 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 mo- 
 ment that you are present with them. Raptures, 
 transports, and ecstacies, are the rewards which they 
 confer : siglis and tears, prayers and broken hearts, 
 are the offerings which are paid to them. Their 
 smiles make men happy ; their frowns drive them to 
 despair. I shall only add under this head, that 
 Ovid's book of The Art of Love is a kind of 
 heathen ritual, which contains all the forms of wor- 
 ship which are made use of to an Idol. 
 
 It would be as difficult a task to reckon up these 
 different kinds of Idols, as Milton's was to number 
 those that were known in Canaan, and the lands 
 adjoining. IMost of them are worshipped, like Mo- 
 loch, in lire and flames. Some of them, like Baal, 
 love to see their votaries cut and slashed, and shed- 
 ding their blood for them. Some of them, like the 
 Idol in the Apocrypha, must have treats and col- 
 lations prepared for them every night. It has in- 
 deed 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 
 comply with the prayers that are offered to them. 
 
 I must here observe, that those idolaters who de- 
 vote themselves to the Idols I am here speaking of, 
 differ verv much from all other kinds of Idolaters. 
 For as all others fall out because they worship dif- 
 ferent Idols, these idolaters quarrel because they 
 worship the same. 
 
 The intention therefore of the Idol is quite con- 
 trary to the wishes of the idolater ; as the one de- 
 sires to confine the Idol to himself, the whole busi 
 ness and ambition of the other is to multiply ador- 
 ers. This humour of an Idol is prettily described 
 in a tale of Chaucer: he represents one of them 
 
 Vol. I. O
 
 194 SPECTATOR. no. 73. 
 
 sitting at a table uith three of her votaries about 
 her, M'ho 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 vhich 
 vas under the table. Now which of these three, 
 savs the old bard, do vou think vas the favourite? 
 ' In troth, (says he,) not one of all the three.' 
 
 The behaviour of this old Idol in Chaucer, puts 
 nVe in mind of the beautiful Clarinda, one of the 
 greatest Idols among the moderns. She is worship- 
 ped once a week by candle-light in the midst of a 
 large congregation, generally called an assembly. 
 Some of the gayest youths in tbe nation endeavour 
 to plant themselves in her eye, while she sits in 
 form with multitudes of tapers burning about her. 
 To encourage the zeal of her idolaters, she bestows 
 a mark (5f her favour upon every one of them be- 
 fore they go out of her presence. She asks a ques- 
 tion of one, tells a story to another, glances an ogle 
 upon a third, takes a pinch of snuif from the fourth, 
 and 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 at the same canonical hour that 
 day seven-night. 
 
 An Idol may be unclcified by many accidental 
 causes. ]\Iarriagc, in particular, is a kind of counter- 
 apotheosis, or a deification inverted. ^Vhcn a man 
 becomes familiar with his goddess, she quickly sinks 
 into a woman. 
 
 Old ao-c is likewise a oreat decaver of vour Idol : 
 the truth of it is, there is not a more unhappy being 
 than a suj)crannuated Idol, especially when she has 
 contracted such airs and behaviour as are only 
 graceful when her worshippers are about her. 
 * Considerino- therefore that in these and manv other 
 cases, the woman generally outlives the Idol, I must 
 return to tlie moral of this paj)er, and desire my 
 fair readers to give a proper direction to their passion
 
 NO. 74. SPECTATOR. 195 
 
 for being admired : in order to -which, they must 
 endeavour to make themselves tlie objects of a rea- 
 sonable and lasting admiration. This is not to be 
 hoped for from beauty, or dress, or fashion ; but 
 from those inward ornaments Avhich are not to be 
 defaced by time or sickness, and which appear most 
 amiable to those who are most acquainted with them. 
 
 No. 74. FRIDAY, I\IAY 05. 
 
 Pendent opera interrupta- 
 
 VlRG. 
 
 JLn my last ]Monda3''s paper I gave some general 
 instances of those beautiful strokes which please the 
 reader in the old song of Chevy-Chase ; I shall here, 
 according to my promise, be more particular, and 
 shew that the sentiments in that ballad are extremely 
 natural and poetical, and full of the majestic sim- 
 plicity which we admire in the greatest of the an- 
 cient poets : for which reason I shall quote several 
 passages of it, in which the thought is altogether 
 the same v.'ith what we meet in several passages of 
 the iEneid. Not that I would infer from thence, 
 that the poet (whoever he was) proposed to himself 
 any imitation of those passages, but that he was 
 directed to them in o-eneral bv the same kind of 
 poetical genius, and by the same copyings after n(i- 
 ture. 
 
 Had this old song been filled -vvith epigrammatical 
 turns and points of wit, it might peihaps have 
 pleased the M-rong taste of some readers ; but it 
 would never have become the delioht of the common 
 people, nor ha^•e warmed the heart of Sir Philip 
 Sidney like the sound of a trumpet ; it is only na- 
 ture that can have this effect, and please those 
 tastes Avhich are the most unprejudiced, or the most 
 
 O 2
 
 195 SPECTATOR. no. 74. 
 
 refined. I must however beg leave to dissent from 
 so great an authority as that of Sir Philip Sidney, 
 in the judgment which he has passed as to the rude 
 style and evil apparel of this antiquated song ; for 
 there are several parts in it, where not only the 
 thought, but the language, is majestic, and the num- 
 bers sonorous ; at least, the apparel is much more 
 gorgeous than many of the poets made use of in 
 Queen Elizabeth's time, as the reader will see in 
 several of the following quotations. 
 
 What can be greater than either the thought or 
 the expression in that stanza ? 
 
 To drive the deer with hound and horn 
 
 Earl Piercy took his way : 
 1'he child may rue that was unborn 
 
 The hunting of that day ! 
 
 This way of considering the misfortunes which tliis 
 battle woidd bring upon posterity, not only on those 
 who were born immediately after the battle, and 
 lost their fathers in it, but on those also who pe- 
 rished in future battles which took their rise from 
 this quarrel of the two Earls, is wonderfully beauti- 
 ful, and conformable to the way of thinking among 
 the ancient poets. 
 
 Audiet pugnas litio parentum 
 Kara juveutus. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 What can be more sounding and poetical, or resem- 
 ble more the majestic simplicity of the ancients, 
 than the following stanzas ? 
 
 The stout Earl of Northumberland 
 
 A vow to God did make, 
 His pleasure in the Scottish woods 
 
 Three summer days to take, 
 
 With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 
 
 All chosen men of mii^lit, 
 Who knew lull well, in time of need, 
 
 To aim their shafts aright.
 
 no. 74. SPECTATOR. 197 
 
 The hounds ran swiftly thro* the woods 
 
 The nimble deer to take, 
 And with their cries the hills and dales 
 
 An echo shrill did make. 
 
 Vocat insenti clamore Cit/iceron 
 
 Taygetique canes, domitrixqiie Epidaurm equorum : 
 Et vox assensu nemorum i/igeminata remugif. 
 
 Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 
 
 His men in armour bright; ■ "• 
 
 Full twenty hundred Scottish spears, 
 All marching in our sight ; 
 
 All men of pleasant Tividale, 
 Fast by the river Tweed, &c. 
 
 The country of the Scotch warriors described in 
 these two last verses has a fine romantic situation, 
 and affords a couple of smooth words for verse. If 
 the reader compares the foregoing* six lines of the 
 song with the following Latin verses, he will see how 
 much they are written in the spirit of Virgil. 
 
 Adxersi campo apparmt, hastasque rednctis 
 Profendiitit longe dextris ; et spkiila vibrant : 
 Quique altum Prceneste viri, quique ana Gabince 
 Jimonis, gelidumque Anienem, et roscida riiis 
 
 Hernica saxa colunt : -qui rosea rura Vdini, 
 
 Qui tcrricce horrentes rupes, montemque Severum, 
 Casperiamque colunt, Forulosque et Jiumen Himeilce : 
 Qui Tiberim Fabarimque bibunt.- 
 
 But to proceed : 
 
 Earl Douglas, on a milk-white steed, 
 
 Most like a Baron bold, 
 Rode foremost of the company. 
 
 Whose armour shone like gold, 
 
 Turmis lit antevolans tardum prcecesserat agmen, ^c. 
 ndisti, quo Turnus equo, qtiibus ibat in armis 
 Aureus ■ 
 
 Our English archers bent their bows, 
 
 Their hearts were good and true ; 
 At the first flight of arrows sent, 
 
 Full threescore Scots they slew, 
 
 03
 
 198 SPECTATOR. no. 74. 
 
 They clos'd full fast on ev'ry side, 
 
 No slackness there was found ; 
 And many a gallant gentleman 
 
 Lay gasping on the ground. 
 
 With that there came an arrow keen 
 
 Out of ail English bow, 
 Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart 
 
 A deep and deadly blow. 
 
 iEneas was woimded after the same manner by an 
 unknown hand in the midst of a parley. 
 
 Has inter voces, media inter talia verba, 
 Ecce viro stridcns alls allapsa sagitta est, 
 Jncertum qud pulsa manu 
 
 But of all the descriptive parts of this song*, there 
 are none more beautiful than the four following- 
 stanzas, which have a great force and spirit in them, 
 and are filled with very natural circumstances. The 
 thought in the third stanza was never touched by 
 any other poet, and is such an one as would have 
 shined in Homer or in Viroil. 
 
 So thus did both these nobles die, 
 
 Whose courage none could stain: 
 An English archer then perceiv'd 
 
 The noble Earl was slain. 
 
 He had a bow bent in his hand, 
 
 Made of a trusty tree, 
 An arrow of a dolh-yard long 
 
 Unto the head drew he. 
 
 Against Sir Hugh INIontgomery 
 
 So right his shafi he set. 
 The gra} -goose wing, that was thereon, 
 
 In his heart-blood was wet. 
 
 This fight (lid last from break of day 
 
 Till setting of the sun ; 
 For when they rung the evening bell, 
 
 The ballle scarce was done. 
 
 One may observe likewise, that in the catalogue of 
 the slain, the author has foikjwed the exanii)le of 
 the greatest ancient poets, not only in giving a long
 
 NO. 74. SPECTATOR. 199 
 
 list of the dead, but by diversifying it with little 
 characters of particular persons. 
 
 And with Earl Douglas there was slain 
 
 Sir Hugh Montgomery ; 
 Sir Charles Carrel, that from the field 
 
 One foot would never fly : 
 
 Sir Charles Murrel of Ratclitf too, 
 
 His sister's son was he ; 
 Sir David Lamb, so well esteem'd. 
 
 Yet saved could not be. 
 
 The familiar sound in these names destroys the 
 majesty of the description : for this reason I do not 
 mention this part of the poem, but to shew the na- 
 tural cast of thought which appears in it, as the 
 two last verses look ahiiost like a translation of 
 Virgil. 
 
 -Cadit et RipJieus jiistissimits wins 
 
 Qui fiiit ill Tcucris et servant issimus cEqui, 
 Diis aliier risiim est. 
 
 In the catalogue of the English who fell, Withering- 
 ton's behaviour is in the same manner particularized 
 very artfully, as the reader is prepared for it by that 
 account which is o-iven of him in the beo'innino; of 
 the battle ; though I am satisfied your httle buffoon 
 readers (who have seen that passage ridiculed in 
 Hudibras) will not be able to take the beauty of it ; 
 for which reason I dare not so much as quote it. 
 
 Then stept a gallant squire forth, 
 
 Witheiington was his name, 
 Who said, I would not have it told, 
 
 To Henry, our King, for shame, 
 
 That e'er my captain fought on foot, 
 And I itood looking on. 
 
 We meet Avith the same heroic sentiments in 
 Virgil. 
 
 Kofi pndet, RiitiiH, cunctis pro taJibus vnam 
 Objectarc animarii f iiianeronc an viribus cequi 
 Non simiiis- ? 
 
 04
 
 200 SPECTATOR. no. 81. 
 
 What can be more natural, or more moving, than 
 the circumstances in which he describes the beha- 
 viour of those women who had lost their husbands 
 on this fatal day ? 
 
 Next day did many widows come, 
 
 Their husbands to bewail ; 
 They wash'd their wounds in brinish tears, 
 
 But all would not prevail. 
 
 Their bodies, bath'd in purple blood, 
 
 They bore with them away : 
 They kiss'd them dead a thousand times 
 
 When they were clad in clay. 
 
 Thus we see how the thoughts of this poem, Avhich 
 naturally arise from the subject, are alM^ays simple, 
 and sometimes exquisitely noble ; that the language 
 is often very sounding, and that the whole is written 
 with a true poetical spirit. 
 
 If this song had been written in the Gothic man- 
 ner, which is the delight of all our little wits, whe- 
 ther writers or readers, it Arould not have hit the 
 taste of so many ages, and have pleased the readers 
 of all ranks and conditions. I shall only beg par- 
 don for such a profusion of Latin quotations ; which 
 I should not have made use of, but that I feared 
 my own judgment would have looked too singular 
 on such a subject, had not I supported it by the 
 practice and authority of Virgil. 
 
 No. 81. SATURDAY, JUNES. 
 
 Qi/alis iihl auflifn rciiantmn nuinnvrr (igris 
 
 IJurniit ill /nacuia.s 
 
 Statius. 
 
 /jLBouT the middle of last winter I Mcnt to see an 
 opera at the 'J'heatre in the Ilay-markct, wlirre I 
 could not but take notice of two |);irtics of \ery fine
 
 Ko. 81. SPECTATOR. 201 
 
 women that had placed themselves in the opposite 
 side-boxes, and seemed drawn up in a kind of battle 
 array one against another. After a short survey of 
 them, I found they were patched differently; the 
 faces, on one hand, being spotted on the right 
 side of the forehead, and those upon the other on 
 the left. I quickly perceived that they cast hostile 
 glances upon one another ; and that their patches 
 were placed in those different situations, as party- 
 signals to distinguish friends from foes. In the 
 middle boxes, between these two opposite bodies, 
 were several ladies who patched indifferently on 
 both sides of their faces, and seemed to sit there 
 with no other intention but to see the opera. Upon 
 enquiry I found, that the body of Amazons on my 
 right hand were Whigs ; and those on my left, To- 
 ries : and that those who had placed themselves in 
 the middle-boxes were a neutral party, whose faces 
 had not yet declared themselves. These last, how- 
 ever, as I afterwards found, diminished daily, and 
 took their party with one side or the other ; insomuch 
 that I obser^'ed in several of them, the patches, 
 which were before dispersed equally, are now all 
 gone over to the Whig or Tory side of the face. 
 The censorious say, that the men whose hearts are 
 aimed at, are very often the occasions that one part 
 tf the face is thus dishonoured, and lies under a 
 kind of disgrace, while the other is so much set off 
 and adorned by the owmer; and that the patches 
 turn to the right or the left, according to the prin- 
 ciples of the man who is most in favour. But Mhat- 
 ever may be the motives of a few fantastical co- 
 quettes, who do not patch for the public good so 
 nmch as for their own private advantage, it is cer- 
 tain, that there are several M'omen of honour who 
 patch out of principle, and with an eye to the in- 
 terest of their country. Nay, I am informed that 
 some of them adhere so stedfastly to their party, and 
 are so far from sacrificing their zeal for the pubHc
 
 202 SPECTATOR. no. 8i. 
 
 to their passion for any particular person, that in a 
 late draught of marriage articles, a lady has stipu- 
 lated with her husband, that whatever his opinions 
 are, she shall be at Uberty to patch on which side 
 she pleases. 
 
 I must here take notice, that Rosalinda, a famous 
 Whig partizan, has most unfortunately a very beau- 
 tiful mole on the Tory part of her forehead ; which 
 being very conspicuous, has occasioned many mis- 
 takes, and given an handle to her enemies to mis- 
 represent her face, as though it had revolted from 
 the Whig interest. But, whatever this natural patch 
 may seem to insinuate, it is well known that her 
 notions of government are still the same. This un- 
 lucky mole, however, has misled several coxcombs ; 
 and like the lianging out of false colours, made 
 some of them converse with Rosalinda in what they 
 thought the spirit of her party, when on a sudden 
 she has given them an unexpected fire, that lias sunk 
 them all at once. If Rofalinda is unfortunate in 
 her mole, Nigranilly is as unhappy in a pimple, 
 which forces her, against her inclinations, to patch 
 on the Whig side. 
 
 I am told that many virtuous matrons, who for- 
 merly have been taught to beheve that this artificial 
 spotting of the face was unhnvful, are now recon- 
 ciled liy a zeal for their cause, to what they could 
 not be prompted by a concern for their beauty. 
 This wa}' of declaring war upon one another, jnits 
 me in mind of what is reported of the tygress, that 
 several spots rise in her skin when she is angry ; or, 
 as Mr. Cowley has imitated the verses that stand as 
 the motto of this pa})cr, 
 
 -She su'd/s uif/i aiignj pride , 
 
 And cdlLsJurlh all her spol.s on crery aide. 
 
 When I was in the theatre the time above-men- 
 tioned, I had the curiosity to count the patches on 
 both sides, and found the Tory patches to be about
 
 Ko. 81. SPECTATOR. 203 
 
 twenty stronger than the Whig ; but, to make 
 amends for this small inequality, I the next morn- 
 ing found the whole puppet-show filled with faces 
 spotted after the Whiggish manner. Whether or no 
 the ladies had retreated hither in order to rally their 
 forces, I cannot tell ; but the next night they came 
 in so great a body to the opera, that they out num- 
 bered the enemy. 
 
 This account of party patches will, I am afraid, 
 appear improbable to those who live at a distance 
 frpm the fashionable world; but as it is a distinction 
 of a very singular nature, and what perhaps may 
 never meet with a parallel, I think I should not 
 have discharged the office of a faithful Sfectatou, 
 had I not recorded it. 
 
 I have, in former papers, endeavoured to expose 
 this party-rage in women, as it only serves to aggra- 
 vate the hatred and animosities that reign among 
 men, and in a great measure deprives the fair sex of 
 those pecuUar charms with which nature has en- 
 dowed them. 
 
 When the Romans and Sabines were at war, and 
 just upon the point of giving battle, the women who 
 were allied to both of them interposed with so 
 many tears and intreaties, that they prevented the 
 mutual slaughter which threatened both parties, and 
 united them together in a firm and lasting peace. 
 
 I would recommend this noble example to our 
 British ladies, at a time when their countrv is torn 
 with so many unnatural divisions, that if they 
 continue, it will be a misfortune to be born in it. 
 The Greeks thought it so improper for women to 
 interest themselves in competitions and contentions, 
 that for this reason, among others, they forbade 
 them, under pain of death, to be present at the 
 Olympic games, notwithstanding tliese were the 
 public diversions of all Greece. 
 
 As our English women excel those of all nations 
 in beauty, they should endeavour to outshine them
 
 204 SPECTATOR. no. 81. 
 
 in all other accomplishments proper to their sex, 
 and to distinguish themselves as tender mothers and 
 faithful wives, rather than as furious partizans. Fe- 
 male virtues are of a domestic turn. The family is 
 the proper province for women to shine in. If they 
 must be shewing their zeal for the pubhc, let it not 
 be against those who are perhaps of the same family, 
 or at least of the same religion or nation, but against 
 those who are the open, professed, undoubted ene- 
 mies of their faith, liberty, and country. When the 
 Komans Avere pressed with a foreign enemy, the 
 ladies voluntarily contributed all their rings and 
 jewels to assist the government under the public exi- 
 gence, which appeared so laudable an action in the 
 eyes of their countrymen, that from thenceforth it 
 was permitted by a law to pronounce public orations 
 at the funeral of a woman in praise of the deceased 
 person, which till that time was peculiar to men. 
 Would our English ladies, instead of sticking on a 
 patch against those of their OM'n country, shew 
 themselves so truly public spirited, as to sacrifice 
 every one her necklace against the common enemy, 
 what decrees ought not to be made in favour of 
 them t 
 
 Since I am collecting upon this subject such pas- 
 sages as occur to my memory out of ancient au- 
 thors, I cannot omit a sentence in the celebrated 
 funeral oration of Pericles, which he made in ho- 
 nour of those brave Athenians that were slain in a 
 figlit with the Lacedemonians. After having ad- 
 dressed himself to the several ranks and orders of 
 his countrymen, and shewn them how they should 
 behave themselves in the public cause, he turns to 
 tJie female part of his audience: ' And as for you, 
 (snys he,) I shall advise in very few words: Aspire 
 only to those virtues that are peculiar to your sex ; 
 follow your natural modesty, and think it your 
 greatest commendation not to be talked of one 
 vay or other,'
 
 NO. 83. SPECTATOR. 205 
 
 No. 83. TUESDAY, JUNE 6. 
 
 An'vnum ^'xcinxK pascit inani. 
 
 VlUG. 
 
 W HEN the weather hinders me from taking my 
 diversions without doors, I frequently make a httle 
 party with two or three select friends, to visit any 
 thing curious that may be seen under covert. ]\ly 
 principal entertainments of this nature are pictures, 
 insomuch that when I have found the weather set in 
 to be very bad, I have taken a whole day's journey 
 to see a gallery that is well furnished by the hands 
 of great masters. By this means, Avhcn the heavens 
 are filled with clouds, when the earth swims in rain, 
 and all nature wears a louring countenance, I with- 
 draw myself from those uncomfortable scenes into 
 the visionary worlds of art ; where I meet with shin- 
 ing landscapes, gilded triumphs, beautiful fices, 
 and all those other objects that fill the mind with 
 gay ideas, and disperse that gloominess which is apt 
 to hang upon it in those dark disconsolate seasons. 
 
 I was some Mceks ago in a course of these diver- 
 sions; which had taken such an entire possession of 
 my imagination, that they formed in it a short 
 morning's dream, which I shall communicate to my 
 reader, rather as the first sketch and outlines of a 
 vision, than as a finished piece. 
 
 I dreamt that I was admitted into a long spacious 
 gallery, which had one side covered with pieces of 
 all the famous painters who are now living, and the 
 other with the works of the greatest masters that 
 are dead. 
 
 On the side of the living, I saw several persons 
 
 busy in drawing, colouring, and designing ; on the 
 
 side of the dead painters, I could not discover more 
 
 than one person at work, who was exceeding slow 
 
 ' in his motions, and wonderfully nice in his touches.
 
 206 SPECTATOR. no. 83. 
 
 I -was resolved to examine the several artists that 
 stood before me, and accordingly applied myself to 
 the side of the li\ing. Ihe tirst I observed at work 
 in this part of the gallery Avas Vanity, with his hair 
 tied behind him in a ribbon, and dressed hke a 
 Frenchman. All the faces he drew were very re- 
 markable for their smiles, and a certain smirking 
 air, which he bestow ed indifterently on every age 
 and degree of either sex. The toujours gai ap- 
 peared even in his judges, bishops, and privy-coun- 
 sellors : in a word, all his men were petits maitres^ 
 and all his women coquettes. The drapery of his 
 figures was extremely well suited to his faces, and 
 made up of all the glaring colours that could be 
 mixed together ; every part of the dress was in a 
 flutter, and endeavoured to distinguish itself above 
 the rest, 
 
 On the left-hand of Vanity stood a laborious 
 workman, wlio I found was his humble admirer^ 
 and copied after him. He was dressed like a 
 German, and had a very hard name, that sounded 
 something; like Stupidity. 
 
 The third artist that 1 looked over M'as Fantasque, 
 dressed like a Venetian Scaramouch. He had an 
 excellent hand at Chimcera, and dealt very much 
 in distortions and grimaces. He would sometimes 
 affright himself with the phantoms that floM'ed 
 from his pencil. In short, the most elaborate of 
 his pieces was at best but a terrifying dream; and 
 one could say nothing more of his finest figures, 
 than that tiicy were agreeable monsters. 
 
 The fourth person I examined, was very remark- 
 able for his hasty hand, M'hich left his piece so un- 
 finished, that the beauty in the picture (which was 
 designed to continue as a monument of it to pos- 
 terity) faded sooner than in the person after M'hom 
 it was drawn. He made so much haste to dispatch 
 his business, that he neither gave himself time to
 
 NO. 83. SPECTATOR. 207 
 
 clean his pencils, nor mix his colours. The name 
 of this expeditious workman was Avarice. 
 
 Not far from this artist 1 saw anotlier of a quite 
 different nature, who was dressed in the habit of a 
 Dutchman, aud known by the name of Industry. 
 His figures were wonderfully laboured : if he drew 
 the portraiture of a man, he did not omit a single 
 hair in his face ; if the figure of a ship, there was 
 not a rope among the tackle that escaped him. He 
 had hkewise hung a great part of the wall with 
 night-pieces, that seemed to shew themseUes by the 
 candies which were lighted up in several parts of 
 them : and were so inflamed bv the sun- shine which 
 accidentally fell upon them, that at first sight I 
 could scarce forbear crying out, Fire. 
 
 The five foreo-oine: artists v/ere the most consider- 
 able on this side the Q-allerv : there were indeed se- 
 veral others whom I had not time to look into. One 
 of them, however, I could not forbear observing, 
 who was very busy in retouching the finest pieces, 
 though he produced no originals of his own. His 
 pencil aggravated every feature that was before over- 
 charged, loaded every defect, and poisoned every 
 colour it touched. Though this ^vorkman did so 
 much mischief on the side of the living, he never 
 turned his eye towards that of the dead. His name 
 was Envy. 
 
 Having taken a cursory view of one side of the 
 galler}^ I turned myself to that which was filled by 
 tbe works of those great masters that were dead ; 
 when immediately I fancied myself standing before 
 a mul^tude of spectators, and thousands of eyes 
 looking upon me at once ; for all before me ap- 
 peared so like men and women, that I almost forgot 
 they were pictures. Raphael's figures stood in one 
 row, Titian's in another, and Guido Rheni's in a 
 third. One part of the wall was peopled by Han- 
 nibal Carrache, another by Correggio, and another 
 by Rubens. To be short, there was not a great
 
 208 SPECTATOR. no. 83. 
 
 master among the dead who had not contributed to 
 the embellishment of this side of the gallery. The 
 persons that owed their being to these several 
 masters, appeared all of them to be real and alive, 
 and differed among one another only in the variety 
 of their shapes, complexions, and cloaths ; so that 
 they looked like different nations of the same 
 species. 
 
 Observing an old man (who was the same person 
 I before mentioned as the only artist that was at 
 work on this side of the galleiy) creeping up and 
 down from one picture to another, and re- touching 
 all the fine pieces that stood before me, I could not 
 but be very attentive to all his motions. I found 
 his pencil was so very light, that it worked imper- 
 ceptibly, and, after a thousand touches, scarce pro- 
 duced any visible effect in the picture on Mdiich he 
 w^as employed. However, as he busied himself 
 incessantly, and repeated touch after touch without 
 rest or intermission, he wore off insensibly every 
 little disagreeable gloss that hung upon a figure ; he 
 also added such a beautiful brown to the shades, 
 and mellowness to the colours, that he made every 
 picture appear more perfect than M'hen it came 
 fresh from the master's pencil. I could not forbear 
 looking upon the face of this ancient workman, 
 and immediately, by the long lock of hair upon his 
 forehead, discovered him to be Time. 
 
 Whether it were because the thread of my dream 
 was at an end, I cannot tell, but, upon my taking a 
 survey of this imaginary old man, my sleep left me.
 
 NO. 85. SPECTATOR. 20.9 
 
 No. 85. THURSDAY, JUNE 7. 
 
 Interdum speciosa locis, niorataqiie recte 
 Fabitla nuUias Veneris, sine pomJere et arte, 
 Valdius oblcctat populum, nieliusque inoratiir, 
 Quam versus inupes reruni, nugceque caiiorce. 
 
 Hou. 
 
 XT is the custom of the iVIaliometans, 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 contain 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 appear : 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 quality into a kind of fringe for 
 his candlesticks. I remember, in particular, after 
 having read over a poem of an eminent author on a 
 victory, I met with several fragments of it upon 
 the next rejoicing day, which had been employed 
 in squibs and crackers, and by that means cele- 
 brated its subject in a double capacity. I once 
 met with a page of iVIr. 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 superstitious viand, 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 sometimes found very curious pieces that 
 Vol. I. P
 
 210 SPECTATOR. no. 85. 
 
 are either out of print, or not to be met witli 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 litera- 
 ture. 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 tem- 
 per, 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- 
 not 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 last piece that I met with upon 
 this occasion, gave me a most exquisite pleasure. 
 My reader will think I am not serious, whenl acquaint 
 him, that the piece I am going to speak of was the 
 old ballad of the Two Children in the Wood, 'v\hich 
 is one of the darling songs of the common people, 
 and has been the delight of most Englishmen in 
 some part of their age. 
 
 This song is a plain simple copy of nature, des- 
 titute of all the helps and ornaments of art. The 
 talc of it is a pretty tragical story, and pleases for 
 no other reason but because it is a copy of nature, 
 'i'hcre is even a despicable simplicity in the verse ; 
 and yet, because the sentiments appear genuine and 
 unaffected, they are able to move the mind of the 
 most polite reader with inward meltings of humanity 
 and compassion. The incidents grow out of the 
 subject, and are such as are the most proper to 
 excite pity ; for which reason the whole narration 
 has something in it very moving, notwithstanding 
 tiic auUior of it (whoever he was) has delivered it
 
 NO. 85. SPECTATOR. 211 
 
 in such an abject phrase, and poorness of expression, 
 that the quoting any part of it would look like a 
 dcsiofn of turnins: it into ridicule. But thoup'h the 
 language is mean, the thoughts, as I have before 
 said, from one end to the other, are natural, and 
 therefore cannot fail to please those who are not 
 judges of language; or those who, notwithstanding 
 they are judges of language, have a true and un- 
 prejudiced taste of nature. The condition, speech, 
 and behaviour, of the dying parents, with the age, 
 innocence, and distress of the children, are set 
 forth in such tender circumstances, that it is im- 
 possible for a reader of common humanity not to 
 be affected with them. As for the circumstance of 
 the Robin-red-breast, it is indeed a little poetical 
 ornament; and to shew the genius of the author 
 amidst all his simplicity, it is just the same kind of 
 fiction which one of the greatest of the Latin poets 
 has made use of upon a parallel occasion ; I mean 
 that passage in Horace, where he describes himself 
 when he was a child, fallen asleep in a desert wood, 
 and covered with leaves by the turtles that took 
 pity on him. 
 
 Me fahuloscE Vulture in Appulo^ 
 Altricis extra limen Apvlur, 
 
 Ludo fatigatumcjue somno 
 
 Fronde nova puerum palumbcs 
 Texere • 
 
 • I have heard that the late Lord Dorset, who liad 
 the greatest wit tempered with the greatest candour, 
 and was one of the finest critics, as well as the best 
 poets, of his age, had a numerous collection of old 
 English ballads, and took a particular pleasure in 
 the reading of them. I can affirm the same of Mr. 
 Dryden; and know several of the most refined writers 
 of our present age who are of the same humour. 
 
 I might likewise refer my reader to Moliere's 
 thoughts on this subject, as he has expressed them 
 in the character of the ^lisantlirope; but those only 
 
 P S ■
 
 212 SPECTATOR. no. 86. 
 
 who are endowed with a true greatness of soul and 
 genius, can divest themselves of the little images 
 of ridicule, and admire Nature in her simplicity and 
 nakedness. As for the little conceited wits of the 
 age, who can only shew their judgment by finding 
 fault, they cannot be supposed to admire these pro- 
 ductions, which have nothing to recommend them 
 but the beauties of nature, when tliey do not know 
 how to relish even those compositions that, with all 
 the beauties of nature, have also the additional ad- 
 vantages of art. 
 
 No. 86. FRIDAY, JUNE &. 
 
 Heu quam difficile est crimen non prodere rultu ! 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 1 HERE are several arts Avhich all men are in some 
 measure masters of, without having been at the pains 
 of learning them. Every one that speaks or reasons, 
 is a grammarian and a logician, tliough he may be 
 wholly unacquainted with the rules of grammar or 
 logic, as they are delivered in books and systems. 
 In the same manner, every one is in some degree a 
 master of that art which is generally distinguished 
 by the name of physiognomy; and naturally forms 
 to himself the character or fortune of a stranger, 
 from the features and lineaments of his face. We 
 arc no sooner presented to any one we never saw be- 
 fore, but we are immediately struck with the idea 
 of a proud, a reserved, an affable, or a good-na- 
 tured man; and upon our first going into a company 
 ol strangers, our benevolence or aversion, awe or 
 contempt, rises naturally towards several particular 
 persons, l)cfore we have heard them speak a sijigle 
 word, or so much as know mIio they are. 
 
 Every passion gives a ])articular cast to the coun- 
 tenance, and is apt to discover itself in some feature
 
 NO. 86. SPECTATOR. 213 
 
 or other. I have seen an eye curse for half an hour 
 toa:ether, and an eve-brow call a man scoundrel. 
 Nothing is more common than for lovers to com- 
 plain, resent, languish, despair, and die, in dumb 
 show. For my own part, I am so apt to frame a 
 notion of every man's humour or circumstances by 
 his looks, that I have sometimes employed myself 
 from Charing- Cross to the Royal-Exchange in 
 drawing the characters of those who have passed 
 by me. When I see a man with a sour rivelled 
 face, I cannot forbear pitying his wife; and when 
 I meet with an open ingenuous countenance, I think 
 on the happiness of his friends, liis family, and re- 
 lations. 
 
 I cannot recollect the author of a famous savincr 
 to a stranger who stood silent in his company, 
 ' Speak, that I may see thee.' But, with submis- 
 sion, I think we may be better known by our looks 
 than by our words, and that a man's speech is much 
 more easilv diso-uised than his countenance. In 
 this case, however, I think the air of the whole 
 face is much more expressive than the lines of it : 
 the truth of it is, the air is generally nothing else 
 but the inward disposition of the mind made visible. 
 
 Those who have established physiognomy into 
 an art, and laid down rules of judging mens' tem- 
 pers by their faces, have regarded the features much 
 more than the air. Martial has a pretty epigram on 
 this subject 
 
 Ctine ruber, tiiger ore, brevis pede, lumhie Icesus ; 
 Rem magnam pncsfas, Zoile, si ho/u.is es. 
 
 Thy beard and head are of a different die; 
 Short of one foot, distorted in an eye : 
 With all these tokens of a knave complete, 
 Should'st thou be honest, thou'rt a dev'lish cheat. 
 
 I have seen a verv inoenious author on this sub- 
 ject, who founds his speculations on the supposition, 
 that as a man hath in the mould of his face a re- 
 mote likeness to that of an ox, a sheep, a Jion, an 
 
 P 3
 
 214 SPECTATOR. no. 86. 
 
 hog, or any other creature, he hath the same re- 
 semblance in the frame of his mind, and is subject 
 to those passions which are predominant in the crea- 
 ture that appears in his countenance. Accordingly, 
 he gives the prints of several faces that are of a'dif- 
 ferent mould, and by a little over-charging the like- 
 ness, discovers the figures of these several kinds of 
 hrutal faces in human features. I remember in the 
 hfe of the famous Prince of Conde, the writer ob- 
 serves, the face of that prince was like the face of 
 an eagle, and that the prince was very well pleased 
 to be told so. In this case, therefore, we may be 
 sure, that he had in his mind some general implicit 
 notion of this art of physiognomy which I have 
 just now mentioned ; and that when his courtiers 
 told him his face was made like an eagle's, he un- 
 derstood them in the same manner as if they had 
 told him, there wsls something in his looks which 
 shewed him to be strong, active, piercing, and of 
 a royal descent. Whether or no the different mo- 
 tions of the animal spirits in different passions, may 
 have any effect on the mould of the face when the 
 lineaments are pliable and tender, or whether the 
 same kind of souls require the same kind of habi- 
 tations, I shall leave to the consideration of the 
 curious. In the mean time I think nothing can be 
 more glorious than for a man to give the lie to his 
 face, and to be an honest, just, good-natured man, 
 in spite of all those marks and signatures which Na- 
 ture seems to have set upon him for the contrary. 
 'I his very often happens among those, who, instead 
 of being exasperated by their own looks, or envy- 
 ing the looks of others, apply themselves entirely 
 to the cuhivating of their minds, and getting those 
 beauties A\hich are more lasting, and more orna- 
 mental. I hiive seen many an amiable piece of de- 
 formity; and have observed a certain chearfulness 
 in as bad a system of features as ever was clapped 
 together, m hich hath appeared more lovely than all
 
 NO. 86. SPECTATOR. 215 
 
 the blooming charms of an insolent beauty. There 
 is a double praise due to virtue, when it is lodged 
 in a body that seems to have been prepared for the 
 reception of vice ; in many such cases the soul and 
 the body do not seem to be fellows. 
 
 Socrates was an extraordinary instance of this 
 nature. There chanced to be a great physiognomist in 
 his time at Athens, who had made strange discoveries 
 of mens' tempers and inclinations by their outward 
 appearances. Socrates's disciples, that they might 
 put this artist to the trial, carried him to their mas- 
 ter, whom he had never seen before, and did not 
 know he was then in company with him. After a 
 short examination of his face, the physiognomist 
 pronounced him the most lewd, libidinous, drunken 
 old fellow, that he had ever met with in his Avhole 
 life. Upon which the disciples all burst out a laugh- 
 ing, as thinking they had detected the falsehood and 
 vanity of his art. But Socrates told them, that the 
 principles of his art might be very true, notwith- 
 standing his present mistake : for that he himself 
 was naturally inclined to those particular vices 
 which the physiognomist had discovered in his coun- 
 tenance, but that he had conquered the strong dis- 
 positions he was born with by the dictates of phi- 
 losophy. 
 
 We are indeed told bv an ancient author, that 
 Socrates very much resembled Silenus in his face; 
 which we find to have been very richtlv observed 
 from the statues and busts of both that are still 
 extant ; as well as on several antique seals and j)re- 
 cious stones, which are frequently enough to be met 
 with in the cabinets of the curious. But however 
 observations of this nature may sometimes hold, a 
 wise man should be particularly cautious how he 
 gives credit to a man's outward appearance. It is 
 an irreparable injustice we are guilty of towards one 
 another, when we are prejudiced by the looks and 
 features of those whom we do not know. How 
 
 P 4
 
 216' SPECTATOR. no. 89. 
 
 often do we conceive hatred against a person of 
 worth ; or fancy a man to be proud and ill-natured 
 by his aspect, whom we think we cannot esteem too 
 much when we are acquainted witli his real charac- 
 ter! Dr. More, in his admirable System of Ethics, 
 reckons this particular inclination to take a preju- 
 dice against a man for his looks, among the smaller 
 vices in morality, and, if I remember, gives it the 
 name of a Prosopolepsia. 
 
 No. 89. TUESDAY, JUNE 12. 
 
 ■Petite hiucjuvenesqve senesqiie 
 
 Fine.m ainmo certum, miserisque viatica canis. 
 
 Cras hoc fiet. Idem eras fiet. Qt/id? quasi magnum 
 
 Nempe diem donas ; sed cum lux altera veitit 
 
 Jam cras hestcrnum consumpsimus ; ccce aliud cras 
 
 Egcrit hos annos, et semper pauhim crit ultra. 
 
 Nam quajntis prope te, quamris temone sub nno 
 
 Vertentem sese frustra sectabere canthum. 
 
 Peks. 
 
 iiLS my correspondents upon the subject of love 
 arc very numerous, it is my design, if possible, to 
 range them under several heads, and address myself 
 to them at different times. The first branch of them, 
 to whose service I shall dedicate this paper, are those 
 that have to do with women of dilatory tempers, 
 who are for spinning out the time of courtshij) to 
 an immoderate length, without being able cither to 
 close with their lovers, or to dismiss them I have 
 many letters by me filled with complaints against 
 tliis sort of women. In one of them no less a man 
 than a brother of the coiff tells me, that he liegan 
 his suit yiccsimo 710710 CaroU Seciindi before he had 
 been a twelvemonth at theTem])le; tliat he prose- 
 cuted it for many years after he was called to the 
 bar; that at present he is a scrjeant at law; and, notr
 
 NO. 
 
 SPECTATOR. 217 
 
 withstanding he hoped that matters would have been 
 long since brought to an issue, the fair one still de- 
 murs. I am so well pleased with this gentleman's 
 phrase, that I shall distinguish this sect of women 
 by the title of Demurrers. I find by another letter 
 from one that calls himself Thyrsis, that his mistress 
 has been demurring above these seven years. But 
 among all my plaintiffs of this nature, I must pity 
 the unfortunate Philander, a man of a constant 
 passion and plentiful fortune, who sets forth, that the 
 timorous and irresolute Sylvia has demurred till she 
 is past child-bearing. Strephon appears by his let- 
 ter to be a very choleric lover, and irrevocably smit- 
 ten with one that demurs out of self-interest. He 
 tells me with great passion, that she has bubbled him 
 out of his youth ; that she drilled him on to five and 
 fifty, and that he verily believes she will drop him 
 in his old age if she can find her account in another. 
 I shall conclude this narrative with a letter from 
 honest Sam Hopewell, a very pleasant fellow, who 
 it seems has at last married a Demurrer: I must only 
 premise, that Sam, who is a very good bottle com- 
 panion, has been the diversion of his friends, upon 
 account of his passion, ever since the year one 
 thousand six hundred and eighty-one. 
 
 * DEAR SIR, 
 
 ' You know very well my passion for Mrs. 
 Martha, and what a dance she has led me : she took 
 me out at the age of two-and-twenty, and dodged 
 with me above thirty years. I have loved her till 
 she has o-rown as "rev as a cat, and am with much 
 ado become the master of her person, such as it is 
 at present. She is however in my eye a very charm- 
 ing old woman. We often lament that we did not 
 marry sooner, but she has nobody to blame for it 
 but herself. You know very well that she would 
 never think of me whilst she had a tooth in her 
 head. I have put the date of my passion (Anno
 
 218 SPECTATOR. NO. 89. 
 
 Amorls trigesimo primo) instead of a poesy, on my 
 wedding-ring. I expect you should send me a con- 
 gratulatory letter ; or, if you please, an epithala- 
 mium, upon this occasion. 
 
 ' Mrs. Martha's and your's eternally, 
 
 'Sam Hopewell.' 
 
 In order to banish an evil out of the world, that 
 does not only produce great uneasiness to private per- 
 sons, but has also a very bad influence on the pub- 
 lic, I shall endeavour to show the folly of demurring 
 from two or three reflections, M'hich I earnestly re- 
 commend to the thouo'hts of mv fair readers. 
 
 Fu'st of all I would have them seriously think on 
 the shortness of their time. Life is not long enough 
 for a coquette to play all her tricks in. A timorous 
 woman drops into her grave before she has done 
 deliberating. Were the age of man the same that 
 it was before the flood, a lady might sacrifice half a 
 century to a scruple, and be two or three ages in 
 demurring. Had she nine hundred years good, she 
 might hold out to the conversion of the Jews before 
 she thought fit to be prevailed upon. But, alas ! 
 she ought to play her part in haste, when she con- 
 siders that she is suddenly to quit the stage, and 
 make room for others. 
 
 In the second place, I would desire my female 
 readers to consider, that as the term of life is short, 
 that of beauty is much shorter. The finest skin 
 wrinkles in a few years, and loses the strength of 
 its colouring so soon, that we ha\'e scarce time to 
 admire it. I might embellish this subject with 
 roses and rainbows, and several other ingenious 
 conceits, which 1 may possibly reserve for another 
 opportunity. 
 
 There is a third consideration which I would like- 
 Avise reconmund to a Demurrer, and that is the 
 great danger of her falling in love when she is about 
 threescore, if she cannot satisfy her doubts and
 
 NO. 89. SPECTATOR. 219 
 
 scruples before that time. There is a kind of latter 
 spring, that sometimes gets into the blood of an 
 old woman, and turns her into a very odd sort of 
 an animal. I would therefore have the Demurrer 
 consider what a strange figure she will make, if she 
 chances to get over all difficulties, and comes to a 
 final resolution in that unseasonable part of her life. 
 I would not however be understood, by any thing 
 I have here said, to discourage that natural modesty 
 in the sex, which renders a retreat from the first ap- 
 proaches of a lover both fashionable and graceful ; 
 all that I intend, is, to advise them, when they are 
 prompted by reason and inclination, to demur only 
 out of form, and so far as decency requires. A 
 virtuous woman should reject the first offer of mar- 
 riage, as a good man does that of a bishopric ; but 
 I would advise neither the one nor the other to per- 
 sist in refusing what they secretly appro\'e. I would 
 in this particular propose the example of Eve to all 
 her daughters, as Milton has represented her in the 
 following passage, A\'hich I cannot forbear transcrib- 
 ing entire, though only the twelve last lines are to 
 my present purpose. 
 
 Therrib he form'd and fashion'd with his hands, 
 Under his formins; hands a creature grew, 
 Manlike, but different sex, so lovely fair, 
 That what seem'd fair in all the world, seem'd now 
 Mean, or in her summ'd up, in her contain'd, 
 And in her looks, which from that time infus'd 
 Sweetness into my heart unfelt before. 
 And into all things from her air inspir'd 
 The spirit of love and amorous deliglit. 
 
 She disappear'd, and left me dark. I wak'd 
 To find her, or for ever to deplore 
 Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure : 
 When out of hope, behold her, not far off, 
 Such as I saw her in my dream, adorn'd 
 With what all earth or heaven could bestow 
 To make her amiable. On she came, 
 Led by her hcav'niy Maker, though unseen, 
 And guided by his voice, nor unintbrm'd 
 Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites;
 
 220 SPECTATOR. no. 90. 
 
 Grace was in all her steps, heav'n in her eye, 
 
 In every gesture dignity and love. 
 
 I overjoy'd, could not forbear aloud : 
 
 This turn hath made amends ; thou hast fulfiU'd 
 Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign ! 
 Giver of all things fair, but fairest this 
 Of all thy gifts, nor enviest. I now see 
 Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself .... 
 
 She heard me thus, and though divinely brought, 
 Yet innocence and virgin modest}-. 
 Her virtue, and the conscience of her worth, 
 That would be woo'd, and not unsought be won, 
 Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retir'd 
 The more desirable ; or, to say all. 
 Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought, 
 Wrought in her so, that seeing me she turn'd : 
 I foUow'd her: She was what honour knew, 
 And with obsequious majesty approv'd 
 ^ly pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower 
 
 I led her blushing like the morn- 
 
 No. 90. WEDNESDAY, JUNE 13. 
 
 ^lagnus sine viribus ignis 
 
 Incassumjurit 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 1 HF.RE is not, in my opinion, a consideration 
 more effectual to extinguish inordinate desires in 
 the soul of man, than the notions of Plato and his 
 followers upon that subject. They tell us, that 
 every passion which has been contracted by the soul 
 durin<»' her residence in the body, remains with her 
 in a separate state ; and that the soul in the body, 
 or out of the body, difiers no more than the man 
 does from himself when he is in his house, or in 
 open air. When therefore the obscene passions in 
 particular hav(; once taken root, and spread them- 
 selves in the soul, they cleave to her inseparably, 
 and remain in her forever, after the .body is cast off, 
 and thrown aside. As an argument to conlirm this 
 their <loctrine, they observe, that alcwd youth, who
 
 2^0. 90. spectator" 221 
 
 goes on in a continued course of voluptuousness, 
 advances by degrees into a libidinous old man ; and 
 that the passion survives in the mind when it is al- 
 together dead in the body : nay, that the desire 
 grows more violent, and (like all other habits) ga- 
 thers strength by age, at the same time thatlthas no 
 power of executing its own purposes. If, say they, 
 the soul is the most subject to these passions at a 
 time when she has the least instigation from the 
 bodv, we may well suppose she will still retain 
 them when she is entirely divested of it. The very 
 substance of the soul is festered with them ; the 
 o-ano-rene is o-one too far to be ever cured ; the in- 
 flammation will rage to all eternity. 
 
 In this therefore (say the Platonists) consists the 
 punishment of a voluptuous man after death : he is 
 tormented Avith desires which it is impossible for 
 jiim to gratify, solicited by a passion that has nei- 
 ther objects nor organs adapted to it : he lives in a 
 state of invincible desire and impotence, and always 
 burns in the pursuit of what he always despairs to 
 possess. It is for this reason (says Plato) that the 
 souls of the dead appear frequently in ccemiteries, 
 and hover about the places where their bodies are 
 buried, and still hankering after their old brutal 
 pleasures, and desiring again to enter the body that 
 gave them an opportunity of fulfilling them. 
 
 Some of our most eminent divines made use of 
 this Platonic notion, so far as it regards the sub- 
 sistence of our passions after death, with great 
 beauty and strengtii of reason. Plato indeed car- 
 ries his thought very far, when he grafts upon it his 
 opinion of ghosts appearing in places of burial. 
 Though, I must confess, if one did believe that the 
 departed souls of men and women wandered up and 
 down these lower reo-ions, and entertained them- 
 selves with the sight of their species, one could not 
 devise a more proper hell for an impure spirit thau 
 that which Plato has touched upon.
 
 222 SPECTATOR. no. 9©. 
 
 The ancients seem to have drawn such a state of 
 torments in the description of Tantalus, who was 
 punished witli the rage of an eternal thirst, and set 
 up to the chin in water, that fled from his lips Mhen- 
 ever he attempted to drink it. 
 
 Virgil, who has cast the whole system of Platonic 
 philosophy, so far as it relates to the soul of man, 
 into beautiful allegories, in the sixth book of his 
 .^neid, gives us the punishment of a voluptuary after 
 death, not unlike that which we are here speak- 
 ing of. 
 
 Lucent geninlibus oltis 
 
 Aurea fulcra tons, epnlcEque ante ora parata; 
 Regijico luxu ; furiarum 7naxmajuxta 
 Accubat, et manihus proJiibct confingere inevsas ; 
 Exurgitque facem attolkns, atque intonat ore. 
 
 They lie below on golden beds display'd, 
 And genial feasts with regal pomp arc made. 
 The Queen of Furies by their side is set, 
 And snatches from their mouths th' untasted meat; 
 Which if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears. 
 Tossing her torch, and thund'ring in their cars. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 That I may a little alleviate the severity of this my 
 speculation (which other^\ise may lose me several of 
 my polite readers) I shall translate a story that has 
 been ((uotcd upon another occasion by one of the 
 most learned men of the present age, as I find it in 
 the original. The reader will sec it is not foreign to 
 my present subject, and I dare say mIII think it a 
 lively representation of a person lying under the 
 torments of such a kind of Tantalism, or Platonic 
 hell, as that which we have now under consideration. 
 Monsieur Pontignan, speaking of a love-adventure 
 that happened to him in the country, gives the fol- 
 lowino; account of" it. 
 
 ' When I was in the country last summer, I was 
 often in company with a couple of charming 
 women, who had all the wit and beauty one 
 could desire in fcuiaic companions, with a dash of
 
 NO. 90. SPECTATOR. 223 
 
 coquetry, that from time to time gave me a great 
 many agreeable torments. I was, after my way, 
 in love with both of them, and had such frequent 
 opportunities of pleading my passion to them when 
 they were asunder, that I had reason to hope for 
 particular favours from each of them. As I was 
 walking one evening in my chamber with nothing 
 about me but my night-gown, they both came into 
 my room, and told me, they had a very pleasant 
 trick to put upon a gentleman that was in the same 
 house, provided I would bear a part in it. Upon 
 this they told me such a plausible story, that t 
 laughed at their contrivance, and agreed to do 
 whatever they should require of me. They imme- 
 diately began to swaddle me up in my night-gown 
 with long pieces of linen, which they folded about 
 me till they wrapped me in above an hundred yards 
 of svv'athe: my arms were pressed to my sides ; and 
 niy legs closed together by so many wrappers one 
 over another, that I looked like an Egyptian 
 !Mummy. As I stood bolt upright upon one end in 
 this antique figure, one of the ladies burst out a 
 laughing. 'And now, Pontignan, (says she,) we in- 
 tend to perform the promise that we find you have 
 extorted from each of us. You have often asked 
 the favour of us, and I dare say you are a better 
 bred cavalier than to refuse to go to bed to ladies 
 that desire it of you.' After having stood a fit of 
 laughter, I begged them to uncase me, and do with 
 me what they pleased. ' No, no, (said they,) we like 
 you very well as you are ;' and upon that ordered 
 me to be carried to one of their houses, and put to 
 bed in all my swaddles. The room was lighted up 
 on all sides ; and I was laid very decently between a 
 pair of sheets, with my head (which was indeed the 
 only part I could move) upon a very high pillow ; 
 this was no sooner done, than my two female friends 
 came into bed to me in their finest nio-ht clotheSo 
 You mav easilv o-uess at the condition of a. man that
 
 ^U SPECTATOR. no. go. 
 
 saw a couple of the most beautiful women in the 
 world undrest and a-bed with him, without being 
 able to stir hand or foot. I begged them to release 
 me, and struggled all I could to get loose, which I 
 did with so much violence, that about midnight 
 they both leaped out of the bed, crying out they 
 were undone. But seeing me safe, they took 
 their posts again, and renewed their raillery. Find- 
 ing all my prayers and endeavours were lost, I com- 
 posed myself as well as I could ; and told them, that 
 if they would not imbind me, I would fall asleep 
 between them, and by that means disgrace them 
 for ever. But alas ! this was impossible : could I 
 have been disposed to it, they would have prevented 
 me by several little ill-natured caresses and endear- 
 ments which they bestowed on me. As much de- 
 voted as I am to womankind, I woidd not pass such 
 another night to be master of the whole sex. My 
 reader will doubtless be curious to know what be- 
 came of me the next morning : VVhy, trul}^, my bed- 
 fellows left me about an hour before day, and told 
 me if I would be good, and lie still, they would send 
 somebody to take me up as soon as it was time for 
 me to rise. Accordingly about nine o'clock in the 
 mornino-, an old woman came to unswathe me. I 
 bore all this very patiently, being resolved to take 
 my revenge of my tormentors, and to keep no mea- 
 sures with them as soon as I was set at liberty ; but, 
 upon asking my old woman what was become of 
 the two ladies, she told me she believed they were 
 by tbat time within sight of Paris, for that they 
 Avent away in a coach and six before five o'clock 
 in the morning.'
 
 NO. 92. SPECTATOR. 225 
 
 No. 92. FRIDAY, JUNE 15. 
 
 Convivce prope dissentire xidcntur, 
 Fosce/ifes vario multiim diversa pahito ; 
 
 Quid dem ? quid non dem ? • 
 
 HoR. 
 
 l-^( 
 
 rooKixG OATr the late packets of letters which 
 have been sent to nie, I found the following one. 
 
 * Mr. Spectator, 
 ' Your paper is a 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 j^ou the esteem and veneration which 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 
 servant, ' 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 for help in my ca- 
 talogue of a lady's library, I have received many 
 letters upon that head, some of which I shall give 
 an account of. 
 
 In the fu'st 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 
 liave printed, and consequently have an eye to their 
 own advantage more than to that of the ladies. 
 One tells me, that he thinks it absolutely necessary 
 for women to have true notions of right and equity, 
 
 Vol. I. Q
 
 22(5 SPECTATOR. no. 92. 
 
 and that therefore they cannot peruse a better book 
 than Dal ton's Country Justice : another thinks they 
 cannot be without The Compleat Jockey : a third, 
 observing the curiosity and desire of prying into 
 secrets, M-hich he teUs me is natural to the fair sex, 
 is of opinion this female inclination, if well directed, 
 might turn \e\y much to their advantage, and 
 therefore lecommends to me Mr. IVIede upon the 
 Revelations : a fourth lays it down as an unques- 
 tioned truth, that a lady cannot be thoroughly ac- 
 complished Avho has not read The Secret Treaties 
 and Ne"ociations of the IMarshal D'Estrades. JNlr. 
 Jacob Tonson, jun. is of opinion, that Bayle's Dic- 
 tionary 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 pro- 
 per that every woman with child should read Mr. 
 Wall's History of Infant Baptism ; as another is very 
 importunate with me to recommend to all my fe- 
 male readers The Finishing Stroke; being a Vindi- 
 cation of the Patriarchal Scheme, Sec. 
 
 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 hus- 
 l)ands, or personated ones, I cannot tell, but the 
 books thev recommend are as folIoM's. A Para- 
 phrase on the History of Susanna. Rules to Keep 
 Lent. The Christian's Overthrow Prevented. A 
 Dissuasive from tlie Play-House. The Virtues of 
 Camphire, witli Directions to make Camphire Tea. 
 The Pleasures of a Country Life. The (iovcrnment 
 of the Tongue. A letter, (hitcd from Chcaj)side, de- 
 sires me that I would advise al! young wives to make 
 themselves mistresses of Wingate's Aritlinictic ; and 
 conchuk's with a postcript, tiiat he hopes 1 will not 
 forget the Countess of Kent's Receipts. 
 
 I may reckon the huhes themselves as a third class 
 among these my correspondents and privy-coun- 
 icjlors. Ill a letter from one of tiiem, 1 am ad-
 
 NO. 92. SPECTATOR. 227 
 
 vised to place Pharamond at the head of my cata- 
 logue ; 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 intreats 
 me, if there are, to give them a place in my liljrary. 
 Plays of all sorts have their several advocates. All for 
 Love is mentioned in above fifteen letters : Sophonisba, 
 or Hannibal's Overthrow, in a dozen : the Innocent 
 Adultery is hkewise highly approved of: Mithri- 
 dates. King of Pontus, has many friends ; Alexander 
 the Great and Aurenzebe have the same number of 
 voices ; but Theodosius, 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 occasion to thank A B, vvhoever 
 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 difficult, I shall 
 defer the executing of it till I am further acquainted 
 with the thoughts of my judicious contemporaries, 
 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. 
 
 Li the mean while, as I have taken the ladies 
 under my particular care, I shall make it my busi- 
 ness to find out in the best authors, ancient and mo- 
 dern, such passages as may be for their use, and en- 
 deavour 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 
 
 Q s
 
 228 SPECTATOR. no. 93. 
 
 generally written with an eye to men of learning, 
 makes a work of this nature more necessary : be- 
 sides, 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 can- 
 not 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 
 Av'orld, and keep them from being charmed by those 
 empty coxcombs that have hitherto been admired 
 among the women, though laughed at among the 
 men. 
 
 I am credibly informed that Tom Tattle passes 
 for an impertinent fellow, that Will Trippit begins 
 to be smoked, and that Frank Smoothly himself is 
 within a month of a coxcomb, in case I think fit to 
 continue this paper. For my part, as it is my 
 business in some measure to detect such as would 
 lead astray weak minds by their false pretences to 
 Avit and judgment, humour and gallantry, I shall 
 not fail to lend the best liiihts I am able to the fair 
 sex for the continuation of these discoveries. 
 
 No. 93. SATURDAY, JUNE IG. 
 
 -Spnfio /irni 
 
 Spoil 1(1/1^1(1/11 /-(scics : diim /()(/ii///iur, fiiij;cr/t i/irida 
 j'Etas : Ld/jH' (lic//i, iju(i//i vivii//iu//i c/-cdula posle/o. 
 
 IIOR. 
 
 W i: all of us complain of the shortness of time, 
 saith Seneca, and yet have much more than we 
 know what to do with. 'Our lives (says he) are 
 ^pellt cither in doing nothing at all, or in doing
 
 1^0. 93- SPECTATOR. 229 
 
 nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing tliat 
 we ought to do : we are always complaining our 
 days are few, and acting as though there would be 
 no end of them.' That noble philosopher has de- 
 scribed our inconsistency with ourselves in this par- 
 ticular, by all those various turns of expression aiid 
 thought which are peculiar to his writings. 
 
 I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent 
 with itself in a point that bears some affinity to the 
 former. Though we seem grieved at the shortness 
 of life in general, we are wishing every period of it 
 at an end." The minor longs to be at age, then to 
 be a man of business, then to make up an estate, 
 then to arrive at honours, then to retire. Thus al- 
 though the whole life is allowed by every one to be 
 short, the several divisions of it appear long and te- 
 dious. \Vc are for lengthening our span in general, 
 but would fain contract the parts of which if is 
 composed. The usurer would be very well satisfied 
 to have all the time annihilated that lies between the 
 present moment and next quarter-day. The poli- 
 tician would be contented to lose three years of his 
 life, could he place things in the posture which he 
 fancies they Avill stand in after such a revolution of 
 time. The lover would be glad to strike out of his 
 existence all the moments that are to pass aMay 
 before the happy meeting. Thus, as fast as our 
 time runs, we should be very glad in most parts of 
 our lives that it ran much taster than it does. Se- 
 veral hours of the day hang upon our hands ; nay, 
 we wish awav whole vears ; and travel through time 
 as through a country filled Mith many wild and 
 empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, 
 that we may arrive at those several little settlements, 
 or imaginary points of rest, ^\ liich are dispersed up 
 and down in it. 
 
 If we divide the life of most men into twenty 
 parts, we shall find that at least nineteen of them are 
 mere gaps and chasms, which are neither lilleil with 
 
 Q 3
 
 230 SPECTATOR. no. 93. 
 
 ^\ ith pleasure nor business. I do not, hoMTver, in- 
 clude in this calculation the Hfe of those men Mho 
 are in a perpetual hurry of affairs, but of those only 
 who are not alwa^'s engaged in scenes of action ; 
 and I liope I shall not do an unacceptable piece of 
 service to these persons, if I point out to them cer- 
 tain methods for the filling up their empty spaces of 
 life. Tlie methods I shall propose to them are as 
 follow. 
 
 The first is the exercise of virtue, in the most gene- 
 ral acceptation of the word. That particular scheme 
 which comprehends the social virtues, may give 
 employment to the most industrious temper, and 
 find a man in business more than the most ac- 
 tive station of life. To advise the ignorant, re- 
 lieve the needy, and comfort the afflicted, are duties 
 that fall in our way almost eveiy day in our lives. 
 A man has frequent opportunities of mitigating the 
 fierceness of a party; of doing justice to the charac- 
 ter of a deserving man ; of softening the envious, 
 quieting the angry, and rectifying the prejudiced; 
 which are all of them employments suited to a rea- 
 sonable nature, and bring great satisfaction to the 
 person who can busy himself in them with discre- 
 tion. 
 
 'J here is another kind of \irtue that may find em- 
 ployment for those retired hours in m hich mt are 
 altogether left to ourselves, and destitute of com- 
 pany and conversation; I mean that intercourse and 
 communication which every reasonable creature 
 ought to maintain with the gTcat Autlior of his be- 
 ing. The man who lives under an ha])itual sense 
 of the Divine P]esence, kecj)s up a perpetual chear- 
 fulncss of temper, und enjoys every moment the 
 satisfaction of thinking himself in conq)aMy with 
 liis dearest and best of friends. IJie tinic never 
 lies heavy upon him : it is inipossi]>le for him to bo 
 alone. His thoughts and ))assions are the most 
 l)usied at such liouis, when those of other men arc
 
 NO. 93. SPECTATOR. 231 
 
 the most inactive: he no sooner steps out of the 
 world, but his lieart burns with devotion, swells 
 with hope, and triumphs in the consciousness of 
 that Presence which every where surrounds him ; 
 or, on the contrary, pours out its fears, its sor- 
 rows, its apprehensions, to the great Supporter of 
 its existence. 
 
 I have here only considered the necessity of a 
 man's being virtuous, that he may have something 
 to do ; but if we consider further, that the exercise 
 of virtue is not only an amusement for the time it 
 lasts, but that its influence extends to those parts of 
 our existence which lie beyond the gra\'e, and that 
 our whole eternity is to take its colour from those 
 hours Avhich we here employ in virtue or vice, the 
 argument redoubles upon us for putting in practice 
 this method of passing away our time. 
 
 When a man has but a little stock to improve, 
 and has opportunities of turning it all to good ac- 
 count, what shall we think of him, if he suffers nine- 
 teen parts of it to lie dead, antl perhaps emplo3's 
 even the twentieth to his ruin or disadvantage ? 
 But because the mind cannot be always in its fer- 
 vours, nor strained up to a pitch of virtue, it is 
 necessary to find out proper emplo}'ments for it in 
 its relaxations. 
 
 The next method, therefore, that I would pro- 
 pose to fill up our time, should be useful and inno- 
 cent diversions. I must confess I think it is below 
 reasonable creatures to be altoo-ether conversant 
 
 • -I . . . 
 
 with such diversions as are merelv innocent, antl 
 have nothing else to recommend them, but that 
 there is no hurt in them. A\'hcthcr any kind of 
 gaming has even thus much to say for itself, I shall 
 not determine; but I think it is very wonderful to 
 see persons of the best sense passing away a dozen 
 hours together in shuttling and di\iding a pack of 
 cards, with no other conversation but w hat is made 
 
 Q 4
 
 232 SPECTATOR. no. 93. 
 
 up of a few game phrases, and no other ideas but 
 those of black or red spots ranged together in dif- 
 fered figures. Would not a man laugh to hear any 
 one of this species complaining that life is short ? 
 
 The stage might be made a perpetual source of 
 the most noble and useful entertainments, were it 
 under proper regulations. 
 
 But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably 
 as in the conversation of a well-chosen friend. There 
 is indeed no blessing of life that is any way com- 
 parable to the enjoyment of a discreet and virtuous 
 friend. It eases and unloads the mind, clears and 
 improves the understanding, engenders thoughts and 
 knowledge, animates virtue and good resolutions, 
 sooths and allays the passions, and finds employ- 
 ment for most of the vacant hours of life. 
 
 Next to such an intimacy with a particular per- 
 son, one would endeavour, after a more general con- 
 versation with such as are able to entertain and im- 
 prove those with whom they converse, which are 
 qualifications that seldom go asunder. 
 
 There are many other useful amusements of life, 
 Avhich one -would endeavour to multiply, that one 
 might on all occasions have recourse to something, 
 rather than suffer the mind to he idle, or run adrift 
 Avith any passion that chances to rise in it 
 
 A man that has a taste for music, painting, or 
 architecture, is IJke one that has another sense, 
 when compared with such as have no relish for those 
 arts. The florist, the planter, the gardener, the 
 husbandman, when they are only as accomj)lish- 
 mcnts to the man of fortune, are great reliefs to 
 a country life, and many ways useful to those who 
 are possessed of them. 
 
 But of all the diversions of life, there is none so 
 proper to fill u]) its empty spaces as the reading of 
 useful and entertaining authors. But this I shall 
 only touch upon, because it in some measure in-
 
 NO. 94. SPECTATOR. Q35 
 
 terferes with the third method, which I shall pro- 
 pose in another paper for the employment of our 
 dead inactive hours, and which I shall only men- 
 tion in general to be, the pursuit of knowledge. 
 
 No. 94. MONDAY, JUNE 18. 
 
 • Hoc est 
 
 Vkere bis, vita posse priorcfnii. 
 
 JNIart. 
 
 1 HE last method v/hich I proposed in my Satur- 
 day's paper, for filling- up those empty spaces of 
 life which are so tedious and burthensome to idle 
 people, is the employing ourselves in the pursuit of 
 knowledge. I remember Mr. Boyle, speaking of a 
 certain mineral, tells us, that a man may consume 
 his whole life in the study of it, without arriving at 
 the knowledge of all its qualities. The truth of it 
 is, there is not a single science, or any branch of 
 it, that might not furnish a man with business for 
 life, thouo'h it were much lono-er than it is. 
 
 I shall not here engage on those beaten subjects 
 of the usefulness of knowledge, nor of the pleasure 
 and perfection it gives the mind, nor on the methods 
 of attaining it, nor recommend any particular 
 branch of it, all which have been the topics of many 
 other writers ; but shall indulge myself in a specu- 
 lation that is more uncommon, and may therefore, 
 perhaps be more entertaining. 
 
 I have before shewn how the unemployed parts of 
 life appear long and tedious ; and shall here endea- 
 vour to shew how those parts of life which are exer- 
 cised in study, reading, and the pursuits of know- 
 ledge, are long, but not tedious, and by that means 
 discover a method of lengthening our lives, and at 
 the same time of turning all the parts of them to 
 our advantage.
 
 234> SPECTATOR. no. 94. 
 
 ]\fr. Locke observes, ' That we get the idea of 
 time, or duration, by reflecting- on that train of 
 ideas which succeed one another in our minds : that 
 for this reason, when we sleep soundly, without 
 dreaming, we liave no perception of time, or the 
 length of it, wliilst we sleep ; and that the moment 
 wherein we leave off to think, till the moment we 
 begin to think again, seem to have no distance. To 
 which the author adds, ' And so I doubt not but it 
 would be to a waking man, if it were possible for 
 him to keep only one idea in his mind, without va- 
 riation, and the succession of others : and we see, 
 that one who fixes his thoughts very intently on one 
 thing, so as to take but little notice of the succes- 
 sion of ideas that pass in his mind whilst he is taken 
 up with that earnest contemplation, lets slip out of 
 his account a good partot" that duration, and thinks 
 that time shorter than it is.' 
 
 AV'e might carry this thought further, and con- 
 sider a man as, on one side, sliortening his time by 
 thinking on nothing, or but a few things ; so, on 
 the other, as lengthening it, by employing his 
 thoughts on many subjects, or by entertaining a 
 quick and constant succession of ideas. Accordingly, 
 Monsieur Alallebranchc, in his Enquiry after Truth, 
 (which was pubhshed several years before Mr. Locke's 
 Essay on Human Understanding,) tells us, tJiat it is 
 possible some creatures may think half an hour as 
 long as we do a thousand years ; or look upon that 
 space of duration which mc call a minute, as an 
 hour, a week, a month, or a whole age. 
 
 This notion of Monsieur Mallcbranche is capable 
 of some little explanation from what 1 have quoted 
 out of Mr. Lr)cke; for if our notion of time is pro- 
 duced by our reflecting on the succession of ideas in 
 our mind, and this succession may be infinitely ac- 
 celerated or retarded, it w ill follow, that different 
 beings may Inive ditVerent notions of the same ])arts 
 of duration, according us their ideas, which we sup-
 
 NO. 94. SPECTATOR. ^35 
 
 pose are equally distinct in each of them, follow 
 one another in a greater or less degree of rapidity. 
 
 There is a famous passage in the Alcoran, which 
 looks as if Mahomet had been possessed of the no- 
 tion we are now speaking of It is there said, that 
 the angel Gabriel took Mahomet out of his bed one 
 morning, to gi\'e him a sight of all things in the 
 seven heavens in paradise, and in hell, which the 
 Prophet took a distinct view of : and after having 
 held ninety thousand conferences with God, was 
 brought back ao-ain to his bed. AU this, savs the 
 Alcoran, was transacted in so small a space of tune, 
 that Mahomet at his return found his bed still warm, 
 and took up an earthen pitcher (which was thrown 
 down at the very instant that the angel Gabriel car- 
 ried him away) before the water was all spilt. 
 
 There is a very pretty story in the Turkish Tales 
 which relates to this passage of that famous Impos- 
 tor, and bears some affinity to the subject we are 
 now upon. A sultan of Egypt, who was an infidel, 
 used to lau"-h at this circumstance in ^Mahomet's 
 life, as what was altogether impossible and absurd : 
 but conversing one day Avith a great doctor in the 
 law, who had the o-ift of workins: miracles, the doc- 
 tor told him he would quickly convince him of the 
 truth of this passage in the history of Mahomet, if 
 he would consent to do what he should desire of 
 him. Upon this the sultan was directed to place 
 himself by an huge tub of water, which he did ac- 
 cordingly; and as he stood by the tub amidst a 
 circle of his great men, the holy man bid him plunge 
 his head into the water, and draw it up again: the 
 king accordingly thrust his head into the water, and 
 at the same time found himself at the foot of a, 
 mountain on a sea-shore. The king immediately 
 began to rage against his doctor for this piece of 
 treachery and witchcraft; but at leno-th, knowing: 
 it was in vain to be ano-ry, he set himsclt to think 
 on proper methods for getting a livelihood in this
 
 o 
 
 ^36 SPECTATOR. no. 94. 
 
 strange country: accordingly he applied himself to 
 some people Avhom he saw at work in a neighbour- 
 ing wood; these people conducted him to a town 
 that stood at a little distance from the wood, where, 
 after some adventures, he married a woman of great 
 beauty and fortune. He lived with this woman so Ions 
 that he had by her seven sons and seven daughters : 
 he was afterwards reduced to great Mant, and forced 
 to think of plying in the streets as a porter for his 
 hvelihood. One dav as he was Avalkino- alone by 
 the sea-side, being seized with many melancholy 
 reflections upon his former and his present state of 
 life, M'hich had raised a fit of devotion in him, he 
 threw off his clothes with a design to wash himself, 
 according to the custom of the Mahometans, be- 
 fore he said his prayers. 
 
 After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner 
 raised his head above the water, but he found biim- 
 self standing by the side of the tub, with the great 
 men of his court about him, and the holy man at 
 his side. He immediately upbraided his teacher for 
 having sent him on such a course of adventures, 
 and betrayed him into so long a state of misery and 
 servitude ; but was wonderfully suiprized M'hen he 
 lieard that the state he talked of was only a dream 
 and delusion ; that he had not stirred from the ])lace 
 •where he then stood ; and that he had only dipped 
 his head into the water, and innnediatelv taken it 
 out again. 
 
 The Mahometan doctor took this occasion of in- 
 structing the sultan, that nothing was impossible 
 Avith God; and that He, Mith whom a thousand 
 years are but as one da}', can, if he pleases, make a 
 single day, nay, a single moment, appear to any of 
 liis creatures as a thousand years. 
 
 I shall leave my reader to comj)are these eastern 
 fables with the notions of those two great j)hiloso- 
 pher.^ whom I have (pu)ted in this paper; and shall 
 only, by way of application, desire him to consider
 
 Ko. gS. SPECTATOR. 237 
 
 how we may extend life beyond its natural dimen- 
 sions, by applying ourselves diligently to the pur- 
 suits of knowledge. 
 
 The hours of a wise man are lengthened by his 
 ideas, as those of a fool are by his passions : the 
 time of the one is long, because he does not know 
 what to do with it ; sols that of the other, because 
 he distinguishes every moment of it with useful or 
 amusing thoughts ; or, in other words, because the 
 one is always wishing it away, and the other al- 
 ways enjoying it. 
 
 How cliiferent is the view of past life, in the man 
 who is grown old in knowledge and wisdom, from 
 that of" him who is grown old in ignorance and 
 folly 1 The latter is like the owner of a barren coun- 
 try, that fills his eye with the prospect of naked 
 hills and plains, Avhich produce nothing either pro- 
 fitable or ornamental : the other beholds a beautiful 
 and spacious landscape, divided into delightful gar- 
 dens, green meadows, fruitful fields ; and can scarce 
 cast his eye on a single spot of his possessions, that 
 is not covered with some beautiful plant or flower. 
 
 No. 9S. nilDAY, JUNE 22. 
 
 1 
 
 Tanta est qiuvrendi cur a decori&. 
 
 Juv. 
 
 HERE is not so variable a thing in nature as a 
 lady's head-dress : within my own memory I have 
 known it rise and fall above thirtv deg-rees. About 
 ten years ago it shot up to a very great beight, in- 
 somuch that the female part of our species were 
 much taller than the men. The women were of such 
 an enormous stature, that ' we appeared as grass- 
 hoppers before them:' at present the whole sex is in
 
 238 SPECTATOR. no. 93. 
 
 a manner chvarfed, and shrunk into a race of beauties 
 that seems ahnost another species. I remember seve- 
 ral ladies, who were once very near seven feet liigh, 
 that at present want some inches of five: how they 
 come to be thus curtailed I cannot learn; whether 
 the whole sex be at present under an}^ penance which 
 we know nothing of, or whether they ]ia\c cast their 
 head-dresses, in order to surprize us with something* 
 in that kind which shall be entirely new ; or Avhether 
 some of the tallest of the sex, bein»' too cunning; 
 for the rest, have contrived this method to make 
 themselves appear sizeable, is still a secret; though 
 I find most are of opinion, they are at present like 
 trees new lopped and pruned, that will certainly 
 sprout up and flourish with greater heads than be- 
 fore. For my own part, as I do not love to be in- 
 sulted by women mIio are taller than myself, I ad- 
 niirc the sex much more in their present humiliation, 
 which has reduced them to their natural dimensions, 
 than when they had extended their persons, and 
 lengthened themselves out into formidable and gi- 
 gantic figures. 1 am not for adding to the beautiful 
 edifice of nature, nor for raising any whimsical su- 
 perstructure upon her plans: I must therefore repeat 
 it, that I am highly pleased with the coiffure now in 
 fashion, and think it shews the good sense which at 
 present very much reigns among tlie valuable part 
 of the sex. One may observe, that m omen in all 
 ages have taken more pains than men to adorn the 
 outside of their heads ; and indeed 1 very much ad- 
 mire, that those female architects, who raise such 
 v^onderful structures out of ribands, lace, and 
 wire, have not been recorded for their respective in- 
 ventions. It is certain there have been as many 
 orders in these kinds of building, as in those which 
 liave been made of marble: sometimes they rise in 
 the shape of a pyramid, sometimes like a tower, and 
 sometimes like a steeple. In Juvenal's time the
 
 NO. 98. SPECTATOR. 239 
 
 buildinir grew by several orders and stories, as he 
 has very humorously described it. 
 
 Tot prcmit ordbiibus, tot adhuc compagibus altiim 
 Jlldificat caput : Aiidromachen a f route xidebis ; 
 Fast minor est : aliam credas, 
 
 Juv. 
 
 But I do not remember, in any part of my read- 
 ing, that the head-dress aspired to so great an ex- 
 travagance as in the fourteenth century ; when it 
 was built up in a couple of cones or spires, which 
 stood so excessively high on each side of the head, 
 that a woman who was but a Pigmy ^\'ithout her 
 liead-dress, appeared like a Colossus upon putting 
 it on. IMonsieur Paradin savs, * That these old 
 fashioned fontanges rose an cU above the heatl ; that 
 they were pointed like steeples ; and had long loose 
 pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them, which 
 were curiously fringed, and hung down their backs 
 like streamers.' 
 
 The women might possibly have carried this Go- 
 thic building much higher, had not a famous monk, 
 Thomas Connecte by name, attacked it with great 
 zeal and resolution. This holv man travelled from 
 place to place to preach down this monstrous com- 
 mode; and succeeded so well in it, that as the ma- 
 gicians sacrificed their books to the flames upon the 
 preaching of an apostle, many of the women tlirew 
 down their head-dresses in the middle of his sermon, 
 and made a bonfire of them within sight of the pul- 
 pit. He was so renowned, as well for the sanctity 
 of his life, as his manner of preaching, that he had 
 often a congregation of twenty thousand people ; 
 the men placing themselves on the one side of his 
 pulpit, and the women on the other, that appeared 
 (to use the similitude of an ingenious writer) like a 
 forest of cedars with their heads reaching' to the 
 clouds. He so warmed and animated the people 
 ao'ainst this monstrous ornament, that it lav under 
 a kind of persecution ; and whenever it appeared in
 
 240 SPECTATOR. no. 98. 
 
 public, was pelted down by the rabble, who flung- 
 stones at the persons that wore it. But, notwith- 
 standing this prodigy vanished while the preacher 
 was among them, it began to appear again some 
 months alter his departure; or, to tell it in Monsieur 
 Paradin's own words, ' The women, that, like snails 
 in a fright, had drawn in their horns, shot them out 
 again as soon as the danger was over.' This extra- 
 vagance of the womens' head-dresses in that age is 
 taken notice of by Monsieur D'Argentre in his His- 
 tory of Bretagne, and by other historians, as well as 
 the person I have here quoted. 
 
 It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only 
 time for the making of laws against the exorbitance 
 of power ; in the same manner an excessive head- 
 dress may be attacked the most effectually when the 
 fashion is against it. 1 do therefore recommend this 
 paper to my female readers by way of prevention. 
 
 1 would desire the fair sex to consider how im- 
 possible it is for them to add any thing that can be 
 ornamental to what is already the master-piece of 
 Nature. The head has the most beautiful appearance, 
 as well as the highest station, in a human figure. 
 Nature has laid out all her art in beautifying the 
 face: she has touched it with vermilion, planted in 
 it a double row of ivory, made it the seat of smiles 
 and blushes, lighted it up an^ enlivened it M-ith the 
 brightness of the eyes, hung it on each side with 
 curious organs of sense, given it airs and graces that 
 cannot be described, and surrounded it with such 
 a flowing shade of hair that sets all its beauties ia 
 the most agreeable light: in short, she seems to have 
 designed the head as the cupola to the most glori- 
 ous of her Morks; and when we load it with such a 
 pile of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy the 
 symmetry of the human flgure, and foolishly con- 
 trive to call off the eye from great and real beauties, 
 to childish gew-gaws, ribbands, and boiic-lacc.
 
 NO. 99. 
 
 SPECTATOR. 241 
 
 No. 99. SATURDAY, JUNE 23. 
 
 •Ttirpi secernis Honesfiim. 
 
 llOR. 
 
 1 HE club, of which I have often declared myself 
 a member, were last nip'ht eno-ao'cd in a discourse 
 upon that which passes for the chief point of honour 
 amono- men and women: and started a o-reat many 
 hints upon the subject, Avhich I thought were en- 
 tirely ne\\^. I sliall 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 from any 
 passage of last Thursday's, the reader will consider 
 this as the sentiments of the club, and the other as 
 my own private thoughts, or rather those of Pha- 
 ramond. 
 
 The great point of honour in men is courage, and 
 in women, chastity. If a man loses his honour in 
 one rencounter, it is not impossible for him to re- 
 gain 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 qualifi- 
 cation 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 wisdom or virtue ; or had women deter- 
 mined their own point of honour, it is probable 
 that Avit or good-nature would have carried it against 
 chastity. 
 
 Nothing recommends a man more to the female 
 sex than courage; whether it be that they are 
 Vol. I. R
 
 242 SPECTATOR. no. 99. 
 
 pleased to see one who is a terror to others fall like 
 a slave at their feet, or that this quality supplies 
 their own principal defect, in guarding them from 
 insults, and avenging their quarrels, or that cou- 
 rage 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 
 chastity; whether it he that we always prize those 
 most who are hardest to come at ; or that nothing 
 besides chastity, with its collateral attendants, truth, 
 fidehty, and constancy, gives the man a property in 
 the peVsou he loves, and consequently endears her 
 to him abo\e all things. 
 
 I am very much pleased with a passage in the in- 
 scription on a monument erected in Westminster 
 Abby to the late Duke and Duchess of Newcastle: 
 * Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to 
 the Lord Lucas of Colchester: a noble family ; for' 
 all the brothers were 'valiant, and all the sisters vir- 
 tuous. 
 
 In books of chivalry, ^here 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 end^lem of her innocence : and, to 
 avoid scandal, must have a dwarf for her page. She 
 is not to think of a man, till some misfortune lias 
 brought a knight-errant to her relief. The knight 
 falls in love; and did not gratitude restrain her from 
 murdering her deliverer, he would die at her feet by 
 her disdain. However, he must waste many years 
 in the desert, bcForc her virgin heart can think of 
 a surrender. The knight goes off, attacks every 
 thing he meets that is bigger and stronger than 
 iiimseir, seeks all opportunities of being knocked on 
 the head, and after seven years randjling returns to 
 his mistress, whose chastity has been attacked in 
 tJic mean time by giants and tyrants, and under- 
 ii'one as many trials as her lover's valour.
 
 NO. 99. SPECTATOR. 24^ 
 
 In Spain, where there are stiU great reniams '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 a lover to assert his pas- 
 sion 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 whores, 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, because no other vice 
 implies a want of courage so much as the making of 
 a he ; and therefore telling a man he lies, is touch- 
 ing him in the most sensible part of honour, and 
 indirectly calling him a coward. I cannot omit 
 under this head what Herodotus tells us of the 
 ancient Persians, that from the ao'e of five vears to 
 twenty, they instruct 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 courao-e, has oiven occasion to the very 
 refuse of mankind, 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 he 
 had it in his power to oblige him; which in short 
 amounted to this, that he believed he could tell 
 his lordship the person's name who justled 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 English lord, to avoid being drawn into a 
 very foolish affair, told him that he was under en- 
 
 R g
 
 244 SPECTATOR. no. 99. 
 
 gagements for his two next duels to a couple of 
 particular friends. Upon -which the gentleman im- 
 mediately 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 ad- 
 
 vantage. 
 
 The beating down this false notion of honour, 
 in so vain and lively a people as those of France, is 
 deservedly looked upon as one of the most glori- 
 ous parts of their present king's reign. It is pity 
 but the punishment of these mischievous notions 
 should have in it some particular circumstances 
 of shame and infamy; that those who are slaves 
 to them may see, that, instead of advancing their 
 reputations, they lead them to ignominy and dis- 
 honour. 
 
 Death is not sufiicient to deter men, who make 
 it their glory to despise it; but if every one who 
 fought a duel were to stand in the pillory, it would 
 quickly lessen the number of these imaginary men 
 of honour, and put an end to so absurd a practice. 
 
 When honour is a support to virtuous principles, 
 and runs parallel with the laws of God and our 
 country, it cannot be too much cherished and en- 
 couraoed : but when the dictates of honour are 
 contrary to those of religion and equity, they are 
 the greatest depravations of human nature, by giv- 
 ing wrong aml)itions and false ideas of what is 
 g-ood and laudable ; and should therefore be ex- 
 ploded by all governments, and driven out as the 
 banc and plague of human society.
 
 Ko. 101. SPECTATOR. 245 
 
 No. 101. TUESDAY, JUNE 26. 
 
 Komuhis, et Liher pater, et cum Casfore Pollux, 
 Post ingentio facta, deorum in templa recepti ; 
 Dam terras homuiumquq, colnnt genus, aspera bclla 
 Compouunc, agros assignant, appida cofidunt ; 
 Ploraiere siiis non respondercfaiorem 
 
 Speratum nieritis. 
 
 Ho a. 
 
 Vy ENSURE, says a late ingenious author, * is the 
 tax a man pays to the public for being eminent.' 
 It is a folly for an eminent man to think of escaping 
 it, and a weakness to be affected with it. AH the 
 illustrious persons of antiquity, and indeed of every 
 age in the world, have passed through this fiery 
 persecution. There is no defence against reproach, 
 but obscurity ; it is a kind of concomitant to great- 
 ness, as satyrs and invectives were an essential part 
 of a Roman triumph. 
 
 If men of eminence m*e exposed to censure on one 
 hand, they are as much liable to flattery on the 
 other. If they receive reproaches which are not 
 due to them, they likewise receive praises which 
 they do not deserve. In a Avord, the man in an 
 high post is never regarded with an indifferent eye, 
 but always considered as a friend or an enemy. For 
 this reason persons in great stations hav'e seldom 
 their true characters drawn till several years after 
 their deaths. Their personal friendships and enmi- 
 ties must cease, and the parties they v\'cre engaged 
 in be at an end, before their faults or tbeir virtues 
 can have justice done tiiem. When writers have 
 the least opportunities of knowing the truth, they 
 are in the best disposition to tellit. 
 
 It is therefore the privilege of posterity to adjust 
 the characters of ilhistrious persons, and to set mat- 
 ters right between those antagonists, who by their 
 rivalry for greatness divided a whole age into fac- 
 
 R 3
 
 S^6 SPECTATOR. no. loi. 
 
 tions. We can now allow Caesar to be a great man, 
 without derogating from Pompey ; and celebrate 
 the virtues of Cato, without detracting from those 
 of Caesar. Every one that has been long dead has 
 a due proportion of praise allotted him, in which 
 whilst he lived his friends were too profuse, and his 
 enemies too sparing. 
 
 According to Sir Isaac Newton's calculations, the 
 last comet that made its appearance in 1580, im- 
 bibed 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 di^stance from the sun, it would be fifty thou- 
 sand years in cooling, before it recovered its na- 
 tural temper. In the like manner, if an English- 
 man considers the great ferment into -v^hich our 
 political world is throM'n at present, and hoAV in- 
 tensely it is heated in all its parts, he cannot sup- 
 pose that it will cool again in less than three hun- 
 dred years. In such a tract of time it is possible 
 that . the heats of the present age may be extin- 
 guished, and our several classes of great men repre- 
 sented under their proper characters. Some emi- 
 nent historian may then probably arise, that will 
 not Avrite recentibuii odlis, (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 describ- 
 ing- the reii>n of x^nne the First, and introducing it 
 with a preface to his reader, that he is now enter- 
 ing upon the most shining part of the English story. 
 The great rivals in fame will be then distinguished 
 according to their respective merits, and shine in 
 their proj)er points of light. Such an one, (says the 
 historian,) thongh variously represented by the wri- 
 ters of .his own fige, appears to have been a man of-;
 
 •NO. 101. SPECTATOR. 247 
 
 more than ordinary abilities, great application, 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 
 noNv^ endeavour to depreciate one another, and are 
 celebrated or traduced by several parties, will then 
 have the same body of admirers, and appear illus- 
 trious in the opinion of the whole British nation. 
 The deservino- man, who can now recommend him- 
 self to the esteem of but half his countrymen, will 
 then receive the approbations and applauses of a 
 whole ao-e. 
 
 Among the several persons that flourish in this 
 glorious reign, there is no question but such a future 
 historian as the person of whom I am speaking, will 
 make mention of the men of p-enius and learnino- Mho 
 have now anv li""ure in the British nation. For mv 
 own part, I often flatter myself with the honourable 
 mention which will then be made of me ; and have 
 drawn up a paragraph in my own imagination, that 
 I fancy will not be altogether unlike Avhat v/ill be 
 found in some page or other of this imaginary his- 
 torian. 
 
 It was under this reign, says he, that the Specta- 
 tor published those little diurnal essays which are 
 still extant. We know very little of the name or per- 
 son of this author, except only that he was a man of a 
 very short face, extremely addicted to silence, and 
 so great a lover of knowledge, 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 trans- 
 mitted to us. He lived as a lodger at the house of a 
 widow-woman, and w^as a great humorist in all parts 
 of his life. This is all we can affirm with any cer- 
 tainty of his person and character. As for his spe^ 
 culations, notwithstanding the several obsolete wortls 
 and obscure phrases of the age in which he li\ed, 
 
 R4
 
 £48 SPECTATOR. no. loi. 
 
 we still understand enouo;h of them to see the di- 
 
 CD 
 
 versions and characters of the EngUsh nation in his 
 time : not but that mt 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 morn- 
 ings at a puppet-show : that they attested their prin- 
 ciples by their patches : that an audience would sit 
 out an evening to hear a dramatical performance, 
 written in a language which they did not under- 
 stand : that chairs and floM'er-pots were introduced 
 as actors upon the British stage: that a promiscu- 
 ous assembly of men and women were allowed to meet 
 at midnight at masques within the verge of the 
 court ; with many improbabilities of the like nature. 
 We must therefore, in these and the like cases, sup- 
 pose that these remote hints and alhisions aimed at 
 some certain follies which were then in vogue, and 
 which at present we have not any notion of. We 
 may guess, by sevoral passages in the speculations, 
 that there Avere writers M'ho 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 shew to old English writers, or if we look into 
 the variety of his subjects, M'ith those several critical 
 dissertations, moral reflections, ****** 
 **#*#*###**♦*#** 
 
 The followini:'' part of the paragraph is so much 
 to my advantage, and beyond any thing I can pre- 
 tend to, that 1 hope my reader will excuse me for 
 not inserting it.
 
 NO. 102. SPECTATOR. 249 
 
 No. 102. WEDNESDAY, JUNE 27. 
 
 -Lusus anirno debent aliquando dari 
 
 Ad cogitandum melior ut redeut sibi. 
 
 X DO not know whether to call the following letter 
 a satire upon coquettes, or a representation of their 
 several fantastical accomplishments, or what other 
 title to give it ; but as it is, I shall communicate it 
 to the pubhc. It v.ill sufficiently explain its own 
 intentions, so that I shall give it my reader at length, 
 without either preface or postscript. 
 
 " INIr. Spectator, 
 "Women are armed with fans as men with swords, 
 and sometimes do more execution \v\\\\ them. To 
 the end therefore that ladies may be entire mistresses 
 of the weapon which they bear, I have erected an 
 Academy for the training up of young Women in the 
 Exercise of the Fan, according to the most fashion- 
 able airs and motions that are now practised at 
 court. The ladies who carry fans under me, are 
 drawn up twice a day in my great hall, where they 
 are instructed in the use of their arms, and exercised 
 by the following words of command : 
 
 Handle your Fans, 
 Unfurl your Fans, 
 Discharge your Fans, 
 Ground your Fans, 
 Recover your Fans, 
 Flutter your Fans. 
 
 " By the right observation of these few plain words 
 of command, a woman of a tolerable genius, who 
 will apply herself diligently to her exercise for the 
 gpace of one half year, shall be able to give her
 
 250 SPECTATOR. no. 102. 
 
 Fan all the graces that can possibly enter into that 
 little modish machine. 
 
 " But to the end. that my readers may form to 
 themselves a right notion of this exercise, I beg 
 leave to explain it to them in all its parts. When 
 my female regiment is drawn up in array, M'ith every 
 one her weapon in her hand, upon my giving the 
 word to Handle their Fans, each of them shakes 
 her fan at me with a smile, then gives her right- 
 hand M Oman a tap upon the shoulder, then presses 
 her lips with the extremity of her Fan, then lets 
 her arms fall in an easy motion, and stands in a rea- 
 diness to receive the next word of command. All 
 this is done with a close fan, and is generally learned 
 in the liist week. 
 
 " The next motion is that of Unfurling the Fan, 
 in which are comprehended several little flirts and 
 vibrations, as also gradual and deliberate openings, 
 with many voluntary fallings asunder in the Fan 
 itself, that are seldom learned under a month's prac- 
 tice. This part of the exercise pleases the spectators 
 more than any other, as it discovers on a sudden an 
 infinite number of cupids, garlands, altars, birds, 
 beasts, rainbows, and the like agreeable figures, 
 that display themselves to view, whilst every one in 
 the regiment holds a picture in her hand. 
 
 " Upon my giving the word to Discharge their 
 Fans, they give one general crack, that my be heard 
 at a considerable distance M'hen the M'ind sits fair. 
 This is one of the most difficult parts of the ex- 
 ercise ; but I liave several ladies with me, who at 
 their first entrance could not give a pop loud enough 
 to be heard at the further end of a room, who can 
 now Dischaige a Fan in such a manner, that it shall 
 make a report like a p()cket-j)ist()l. 1 have likewise 
 taken care (in order to hinder vouni»" Monien froni 
 letting off their Fans in wrong places, or unsuitable 
 occasions) to shew uj)on what subject the crack of 
 a Fan may come in properly. 1 have likewise in-
 
 NO. 102. SPECTATOR. 251 
 
 vented a Fan, with which a girl of sixteen, by the 
 help of a httle wind which is enclosed about one of 
 the largest sticks, can make as loud a crack as a 
 woman of fifty Avith an ordinary Fan. 
 
 " When the Fans are thus discharged, the word 
 of command in course is to Ground their Fans. 
 This teaches a lady to quit her Fan gracefully when 
 she throws it aside, in order to take up a pack of 
 cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a falling pin, 
 or apply herself to any other matter of importance. 
 This part of the exercise, as it only consists in tos- 
 sing a Fan with an air upon a long table (which 
 stands by for that purpose) niay be learned in two 
 days time as well as in a twelvemonth. 
 
 " When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I 
 generally let them w^alk about the room for some 
 time ; when on a sudden (like ladies that look upon 
 their watches after a long visit) they all of them 
 hasten to their arms, catch them up in a hurry, 
 and place themselves in their proper stations, upon 
 my calling out Recover your Fans. This part of 
 the exercise is not difficult, provided a woman ap- 
 plies her thoughts to it. 
 
 " The Fluttering of the Fan is the last, and indeed 
 the master-piece of the whole exercise ; but if a 
 lady does not mis-spend her time, she may make 
 herself mistress of it in three months. I generally 
 lay aside the dog-days and the hot time of the sum- 
 mer for the teaching this part of the exercise ; for 
 as soon as ever I pronounce Flutter your Fans^ the 
 place is filled with so many zephyrs and gentle 
 breezes as are very refreshing in that season of the 
 year, though they might be dangerous to ladies of 
 a tender constitution in any other. 
 
 "There is an infinite variety of motions to be 
 made use of in the Flutter of a Fan : there is the 
 angry flutter, the modest flutter, the timorous flut- 
 ter, the confused flutter, the merry flutter, and the 
 amorous flutter. Not to be tedious, there is scarce
 
 252 SPECTATOR. no. 105. 
 
 any emotion in the mind Mhich does not produce a 
 suitable agitation in the Fan ; insomuch, that if I 
 only see the Fan of a disciplined lady, I know very 
 well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes. I 
 have seen a Fan so very angry, that it would have 
 been dangerous for the absent lover who provoked 
 it to have come within the wind of it : and at other 
 times so very languishing, that I have been glad for 
 the lady's sake the lover was at a sufficient distance 
 from it. I need not add, that a Fan is either a 
 prude or coquette, according to the nature of the 
 person who bears it. To conclude my letter, I 
 must acquaint you, that I have from my own obser- 
 vations compiled a little treatise for the use of my 
 scholars, intitled. The Passions of the Fan ; which 
 1 M'ill communicate to you, if you think it may be 
 of use to the public. 1 shall have a general review 
 on Thursday next ; to which you shall be very 
 welcome if you will honour it with your presence. 
 
 " I am, &c. 
 
 P. S. "I teach young gentlemen the whole art of 
 gallanting a Fan. 
 
 N. B. " I have several little plain Fans made for 
 tliis use, to avoid expence." 
 
 No. 105. SATURDAY, JUNE 30. 
 
 ■ Id arhitror 
 
 Ad prime in -cita esse utile, 7ie quid niwis. 
 
 Tek. And. 
 
 JVIy friend Will Honeycomb values himself very 
 much upon what he calls the knowledge of mankintl, 
 which has cost him many disasters in his youtii ; for 
 Will reckons every misfortune that he has met with 
 among the women, and every rencounter among the 
 men, as parts of his education, and fancies he
 
 no. 105. SPECTATOR. 253 
 
 should never have been the man he is, had not he 
 broke windows, knocked down constables, dis- 
 turbed honest people with his midnight serenades, 
 and beat up a lewd woman's quarters, when he Mas 
 a young fellow. Tlie engaging in adventures of 
 this nature, Will calls the studvins; of mankind : 
 and terms this knovWedge of the town, the knowledge 
 of the world. Will ingenuously confesses, that for 
 half his life his head aked every morning with read- 
 ing 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 acquainted with the gallantries of the age. 
 This Will looks upon as the learning of a gentleman, 
 and regards all other kinds of science as the accom- 
 plishments of one whom he calls a scholar, a book- 
 ish man, or a philosopher. 
 
 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 M^as very natural, and well 
 enough for a mere man of the town ; but, very un- 
 kickily, 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 especially 
 by the Templar, he told us with a little passion, that 
 he never hked pedantry in spelling, and that he 
 spelt like a gentleman, and not hke a scholar : upon 
 this Will had recourse to his old topic of shewing 
 the narrow-spiritedness, the pride and ignorance, of 
 pedants, which he carried so far, that, upon my re-
 
 254- SPECTATOR. no. 105. 
 
 tiring to my lodgings, I could not forbear throwing 
 togetlier such reflections as occurred to me upon 
 that subject. 
 
 A man w ho has been brought up among books, 
 and is able to talk of nothing else, is a very indif- 
 ferent companion, and v hat we call a pedant. But, 
 niethinks, 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. 
 
 \\ hat is a greater pedant than a mere man of tlie 
 town ? Bar him the play-houses, a catalogue of the 
 reigning beauties, and an account of a few fashion- 
 able distempers that have befallen him, and you 
 strike him dumb. How many a pretty gentleman's 
 knowledo-e lies all within the verge of the court ? 
 He will tell you the names of the principal fa- 
 Ao mites, repeat the shrewd sayings of a man of 
 fjuality, Mhisper 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 per- 
 liaps enter into all the incidents, turns and revolu- 
 tions in a game of ombre. "When he has gone thus 
 far, he has shewn you the whole circle of his ac- 
 comj)lishments : his parts are drained, and he is 
 disabled from any other conversation. AV'hat are 
 these but rank pedants ? and yet these are the men 
 who vahie themselves most on their exemption from 
 the pedantry of colleges. 
 
 I might here mention the military pedant, wlio 
 always talks in a camp, and is storming toMns, mak- 
 ing lodgments, and iighting battles, from one end of 
 the year to the other. Every thing he speaks smells 
 of gunpowder ; if you take away his artillery from 
 liim, he has not a word to say for himself 1 might 
 likewise mention the law pedant, who is perpetually 
 putting (•a^es, repeating the transactions of West- 
 minster-lJall, wrangling with you u])on the most 
 indifferent circumstances of life, and not to be con- 
 vinced of the distance of a place, or of the niost
 
 NO. 105. SPECTATOR. Q65 
 
 trivial point in conversation, but l^y 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, }ou drop him. In 
 short, a mere courtier, a mere soldier, a mere 
 scholar, a mere any thing, is an insipid j^edantic 
 character, and ecjually ridiculous. 
 
 Of all the species of pedants which I have men- 
 tioned, the book-pedant is much the most support- 
 able ; he has at least an exercised understanding, 
 and a head which is fidl, though confused; so that a 
 man who converses with him, may often receive from 
 him hints of thino-s that are worth knowino- and 
 what he may possibly turn to his own advantage, 
 thou oh they are of little use to the owner. 1 he 
 worst kind of pedants among learned men, are such 
 as are naturally endued with a very small share of 
 common sense, and have read a great number of 
 books without 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 op- 
 portunity of abounding in absurdities. 
 
 Shallow pedants cry up one another much more 
 than men of solid and useful learning. To read the 
 titles they give an editor, or collator of a manu- 
 script, you would take him for the glory of the 
 commonwealth of letters, and the wonder of his 
 age ; when perhaps, upon examination, you find that 
 he has only rectified a Greek particle, or laid out a 
 whole sentence in proper commas. 
 
 They are obliged indeed to be thus lavish of their 
 praises, that they may keep one another in counte- 
 nance ; and it is no wonder if a great deal of 
 knowledge, which is not capable of making a man wise, 
 has a natural tendency to make him vain and arro-. 
 gant.
 
 ^56 SPECTATOR, no. 106. 
 
 No. 106. MONDAY, JULY 2. 
 
 -Hhic fibi copia 
 
 Manabii ad plenrim benigiio 
 Ruris honor urn opulenta coniu, 
 
 HOR, 
 
 xIaving often received an invitation from my 
 friend Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a month 
 Avith him in the country, I last week accompanied 
 him thither, and am settled M'ith him for some time 
 at his country house, where I intend to form several 
 of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is 
 very well acquainted with my humour, lets me rise 
 and go to hed when I please ; dine at his own table, 
 or in my chamber, as 1 think fit ; sit still, and say 
 nothing, without bidding me be merry. When the 
 gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only 
 shews me at a distance. As I have been walking in 
 his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of 
 me over an hedge, and have heard the knight de- 
 siring them not to let me see them, for I hated to be 
 stared at. 
 
 I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, be- 
 cause it consists of sober and staid persons ; for as 
 the knight is the best master in the world, he sel- 
 dom changes his servants ; and as he is beloved by all 
 about him, his servants never care for leaving him : 
 by this means his domestics are all in years, and 
 grown old with their master. You would take his 
 valet de chambre for his brother : his butler is gray- 
 headed ; his groom is one of the gravest men that I 
 have ever seen; and his coachman has the looks of a 
 privy-counsellor. You see the goodness of the 
 master even in the old house-dog; and in a gray pad, 
 that is kept in the stable with great care and tender- 
 ness out of regard to his j)ast services, though he 
 has been useless for several years.
 
 NO. 106. SPECTATOR. 257 
 
 I could not but observe with a great deal of plea- 
 sure, the joy that appeared in the countenances of 
 these ancient domestics upon my friend's arrival at 
 his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain 
 from tears at the sight of their old master ; every 
 one of them pressed forward to do something for 
 him, and seemed discouraged if they were not em- 
 plo3'ed. At the same time the good old knight, 
 with a mixture of the father and the master of the 
 family, tempered the enquiries after his own aifairs 
 with several kind questions relating to themselves. 
 This humanity and good-nature engages every body 
 to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of 
 tlicm, all his family are in good humour, and none 
 so much as the person whom he diverts himself 
 with : on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays 
 any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by 
 to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his 
 servants. 
 
 My worthy friend has put me under the particular 
 care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, 
 as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonder- 
 fully desirous of pleasing me, because they have 
 often heard their master talk of me as of his par- 
 ticular friend. 
 
 My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting 
 himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venera- 
 ble man, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived 
 at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty 
 years. This gentleman is a person of good sense, 
 and some learning, of a very regular life, and oblig- 
 ing conversation : he heartily loves Sir Roger, and 
 knows that he is very much in the old knight's es- 
 teem ; so that he lives in the family rather as a rela- 
 tion than a dependant. 
 
 I have observed in several of my papers, that my 
 friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is 
 something of an humorist ; and that his virtues, 
 
 XoL. I. S '
 
 258 SPECTATOR. no. 106. 
 
 as well as Imperfections, are, as it were, tinged by a 
 certain extravagance, a\ hich makes them particularly 
 his, and distinguishes them from those of other 
 men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very in- 
 nocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly 
 agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree 
 of sense and virtue would appear in their common 
 and ordinarv colours. As 1 was walkiu"; with him 
 last night, he asked me how I Hked the good man 
 whom I have just now mentioned ; and, without 
 staying for my answer, told me, that he was afraid of 
 beina: insulted M-ith Latin and Greek at his own 
 table ; for which reason, he desired a particular 
 friend of his at the University, to find him out a 
 clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, 
 of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, 
 and, if possible, a man that understood a little of 
 backgammon. My friend (says Sir Roger) found 
 me out this gentleman, who, besides the endow- 
 ments required of him, is, they tell me, a good 
 scholar, though he does not shew it. I have given 
 him the parsonage of the parish ; and because I 
 know his \alue, have settled upon him a good an- 
 nuity for life. If he out-lives me, he shall find that 
 he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks 
 he is. He has now been Avith me thirty years ; and 
 though he does not know I have taken notice of it, 
 has never in all that time asked any thing of me for 
 himself, though he is every day soliciting me for 
 something in behalf of one or other of my tenants, 
 Jiis paiisliioners. There has not been a lawsuit in 
 the parish since he has lived among them : If any 
 dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the 
 decision ; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, 
 which I think never happened above once, or twice 
 at most, they a|)peal to me. At his first settling 
 with me, I made him a present of all the good ser- 
 mons which have been printed in EiigUsh, aiul only
 
 jjo. io5. SPECTATOR. ^ 259 
 
 begged of him, that every Sunday he would pro- 
 nounce one of them in the pulpit Accordingly, he 
 has digested them into such a series, that they follow 
 one anotlier naturally, and make a continued system 
 of practical divinity. 
 
 As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gen- 
 tleman we were talking of came up to us : and upon 
 the knight's asking him who preached to-morrow, 
 (for it M'as Saturday night,) told us, the Bishop of 
 St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the 
 afternoon. He then shewed us his list of preachers 
 for the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of 
 pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, 
 Doctor Barrow, Doctor Calamy, with several living- 
 authors who have published discourses of practical 
 divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the 
 pulpit, hut I very much approved of my friend's in- 
 sisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and 
 a clear voice ; for I v^^as so charmed with the grace- 
 fulness of his figure and delivery, as well as the dis- 
 course he pronounced, that I think I never passed 
 any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon re- 
 peated after this manner, is like the composition of 
 a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. 
 
 I could heartily wish that more of our country 
 clergy would follow this example ; and, instead of 
 wasting their spirits in laborious compositions of 
 their own, M'ould endeavour after a handsome elo- 
 cution, and all those other talents that are proper 
 to enforce what has been penned by greater masters. 
 This would not only be more easy to themselves, but 
 more edifying to the people. 
 
 S 2
 
 260 SPECTATOR. no. 108. 
 
 No. 108. WEDNESDAY, JULY 4. 
 
 Gratis anhelaiis, mult a agendo nihil agens. 
 
 As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir 
 Roger before his house, a country fellow brought 
 him a huge fish, which he told him, Mr. WiUiam 
 Wimble had caught that very morning ; and that he 
 presented it with his service to him, and intended 
 to come and dine with him. At the same time he 
 delivered a letter, which my friend read to me as soon 
 as the messenger left him. 
 
 ' Sir Roger, 
 * I DESIRE you to accept of a Jack, which is the 
 best I have caught this season. I intend to come 
 and stay with you a Meek, and see how the Perch 
 bite in the Black- River. I observed m ith some con- 
 cern, the last time I savv^ you upon the Bowling- 
 green, that your \vhip wanted a lash to it : I will 
 brino- half a dozen with me that I twisted last week, 
 which I hope will serve you all the time you are m 
 the country. 1 have not been out of the saddle for 
 six days last ])ast, having l)een at Eaton with Sir 
 John's eldest son. lie takes to his learning hugely. 
 * 1 am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 ' Will. Wimble.' 
 
 This extraordinary letter, and message that ac- 
 companied it, made me very curious to know the 
 character and ciuality of the gentleman mIio sent 
 them; Mhich I found to be as follows. Will 
 A\ imide is younger brother to a baronet, and de- 
 scended of the ancient family of the Mimbles. lie is 
 now between forty and fifty; but being l)rcd to no 
 business, and born tf) no estate, he generally lives 
 ^\ith his eldest brother as superintendant of his
 
 Ko. 108. SPECTATOR. £G1 
 
 game. He hunts a pack of dogs better tlian any 
 man in the countv, and is very famous for finding 
 out a hare. He is extremely well versed in all the 
 little handicrafts of an idle man : he makes a May- 
 fly to a miracle ; and furnishes the whole county 
 with angle-rods. As he is a good natured officious 
 fellow, and very much esteemed on accf)unt of his 
 family, he is a welcome guest at every house, and 
 keeps up a good correspondence among all the gen- 
 tlemen about him. He carries a tulip root in his 
 pocket from one to another, or exchanges a puppy 
 between a couple of friends that live perhaps in the 
 opposite sides of the county. Will is a particular 
 favourite of all the young heirs, whom he frequently 
 obliges with a net that he has weaved, or a setting- 
 dog that he has mack himself : he now and then 
 presents a pair of garters of his own knitting to 
 their mothers or sisters ; and raises a great deal of 
 mirth among them, by enquiring as often as he 
 meets them, ' how they wear?' These gentleman-like 
 manufactures, and obliging little humors, make 
 Will the darlino; of the countrv. 
 
 Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, 
 when he saw him make up to us with two or three 
 hazle-twigs in his hand, that he had cut in Sir Roger's 
 •woods, as he came through them in his way to the 
 house. I was veiy much pleased to observe on one 
 side the hearty and sincere welcome with which Sir 
 Roger received him, and on the other, the secret joy 
 which his guest discovered at siglit of the good old 
 knio-ht. After the first salutes were over. Will de- 
 sired Sir Roo-er to lend him one of his servants to 
 carry a set of shuttle-cocks, he had with him in a 
 little box, to a lady that lived about a mile off, 
 to whom it seems he had promised sucli a present 
 for above this half vear. Sir Roo'crs back was no 
 sooner turned, but honest Will began to tell me of 
 a large cock pheasant that he had sprung in one 
 of the neighbouring woods, with two or three 
 
 S 
 
 o
 
 262 SPECTATOR. no. 108. 
 
 other adventures of the same nature. Odd and un- 
 common characters are the game that I look for, 
 and most dehght in ; for M'hich reason 1 was as 
 much pleased with the novelty of the per.'.on that 
 talked to me, as he could be for his lite with the 
 springing of a pheasant, and therefore listened to 
 him uith more than ordinary attention. 
 
 In the midst of his discourse the bell rung to din- 
 ner, where the gentleman 1 have been speaking of 
 had the pleasure of seeing the huge Jack, he had 
 caught, served up for the lirst dish in a most sump- 
 tuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it, he 
 gave us a long account how he had hooked it, 
 played with it, foiled it, and at length drt-w it out 
 upon the bank, with several other particulars, that 
 lasted all the first course. A dish of wild-fowl, that 
 came after\rards, Furnished conversation for the rest 
 of the dinner, M'hich concluded \vith a late inven- 
 tion of Will's for improving the quail-pipe. 
 
 Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I 
 was secretly touched with compassion towards the 
 honest gentleman that had dined with us ; and could 
 not but consider with a great deal of concern, how 
 so good an heart, and such busy hands, were wholly 
 employed in trifles; that so nuich humanity sfiould 
 be so little beneficial to others, and so much in- 
 dustry so little advantageous to himself l^he same 
 tcmperof mind, and application to affairs, mighthave 
 recommended him to the public esteem, and have 
 raised his fortune in another station of life. What 
 good to his country or himself, might not a trader or 
 merchant have done with such useful though ordi- 
 nary C|uahfications ? 
 
 Will \\'imblc's is the case of many a younger 
 biother of a great family, m ho had rather see their 
 children starve like gentlemen, than thrive in a trade 
 or profession that is beneath their cpudity. '1 his hu- 
 mour fills several parts of Europe with pride and 
 beggary. It is the happiness of a trading nation,
 
 >io. no. SPECTATOR. 263 
 
 like ours, that the younger sons, though incapable 
 ofany hberal art or profession, may be placed in such 
 a way of hfe, as may perhaps enable them to vie 
 with the best of their family: accordingly we find 
 several citizens that were launched into the world 
 with narrow fortunes, risino- bv an honest industrv, 
 to greater estates than those of their elder brothers. 
 It is not improbable but Will was formerly tried at 
 divinity, law, or physic; and that finding his ge- 
 nius did not lie that way, his parents gave him up at 
 length to his own inventions. But certainly, how- 
 ever improper he might have been for studies of a 
 higher nature, he was perfectly well turned for the 
 occupations of trade and commerce. As I think 
 this is a point which cannot be too much inculcated, 
 I shall desire my reader to compare what I have here 
 written with what I have said in my twenty-first 
 speculation. 
 
 No. 110. FRIDAY, JULY 6. 
 
 Horror obique animoSy smulipsa silentia terrent. 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 At a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among 
 the ruins of an old abbey, there is a long walk of 
 aged elms ; which are shot up so very high, that 
 when one passes under them, the rooks and crows 
 that rest upon the tops of them, seem to be cawing 
 in another region. I am very much delighted witli 
 this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of 
 natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants 
 of his whole creation, and who, in the beautiful 
 language of the Psalms, feedeth the young ravens 
 that call upon him. I like this retirement the 
 better, because of an ill report it lies under of being 
 haunted ; for which reason (as I have been told in 
 tlie family) no living creature ever walks in it be- 
 
 S 4
 
 254- SPECTATOR. no. ho. 
 
 sides the chaplain. My good friend the hutler de- 
 sired me, with a very grave face, not to venture 
 myself in it after sun-set, for that one of the foot- 
 men had been almost frightened out of his wits, bv a 
 spirit that appeared to him in the shape of a black 
 horse M'ithout a head : to which he added, that 
 about a month ago, one of the maids, coming home 
 late that way M-ith a pail of milk upon her head, 
 beared such a rustling among the bushes that she 
 let it fall. 
 
 1 was taking a walk in this place last night be- 
 tween the hours of nine and ten, and could not but 
 fancy it one of the most proper scenes in the world 
 for a ghost to appear in. The ruins of the abbey 
 are scattered up and down on every side, and half 
 covered with ivy and elder bushes, the harbours of 
 several solitary birds, Nvhich seldom make their ap- 
 pearance till the dusk of the evening. The place 
 was formerly a church-yard, and has still several marks 
 in it of graves and burying-places. There is such 
 an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that if you 
 stamp but a little louder than ordinary, you hear 
 the sound repeated. At the same time the walk of 
 elms, with the croaking of the ravens, M-hich from 
 time to time are heard from the tops of them, looks 
 exceeding solemn and venerable. These objects 
 naturally raise seriousness and attention: and when 
 Kight iieiglitens the aMfiilness of the place, and 
 pours out her supernumary horrors upon every thing 
 in it, I do not at all M'onder tbat Mcak minds till it 
 witb spectres and apparitions. 
 
 ■Mr Locke, in his chapter of the association of 
 ideas, has very curious renuirks to shew how, by 
 the prejudice of education, one idea often intro- 
 duces into the mind a whole set, that bear no re- 
 semblance to one aiK)ther in the nature of things. 
 Among several examples of this kind, he produces 
 the following instance. ' The ideas of goblins and 
 .sprights have really no more to do with darkness
 
 NO. 110. SPECTATOR. 265 
 
 than light: yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these 
 often on the mind of a child, and raise them there 
 together, possibly he shall never be able to separate 
 them again so long as he lives; but darkness shall 
 ever afterward bring Avith it those frightful ideas, 
 and they shall be so joined, that he can no more 
 bear the one than the other.' 
 
 As I was walkino- in this solitude, where the dusk 
 of the evening conspired A\ith so many other occa- 
 sions of terror, I observed a cow grazing not far 
 from me, which an imagination that was apt to 
 startle, might easily have construed into a black horse 
 without an head: and I daresay the poor footman 
 lost his M'its upon some such trivial occasion. 
 
 My friend. Sir Roo-er, has often told me with a 
 great deal of mirth, that at his first coming to his 
 estate, he found three parts of his house altogether 
 useless ; that the best room in it had the reputation 
 of being haunted, and by that means was locked up ; 
 that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so 
 that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight 
 o'clock at night ; that the door of one of his cham- 
 bers was nailed up, because there went a story in 
 the family, that a butler had formerly hanged him- 
 self in it; and that his mother, who lived to a great 
 age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which 
 either a husband, a son, or daughter, had died. The 
 knight seeing his habitation reduced to so small a 
 compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his 
 own house, upon the death of his mother, ordered 
 all the apartments to be flung open, and exorcised 
 by his chaplain, who lay in every room one after 
 another, and by that means dissipated the fears 
 which had so long reigned in the famil}^ 
 
 I should not have been thus particular upon these 
 ridiculous horrors, did not I find them so very much 
 prevail in all parts of the country. At the same 
 time I think a person who is thus terrified M'ith the 
 imagination of ghosts and spectres, much more rea;-
 
 £66- SPECTATOR. no. no. 
 
 sonable, than one who, contrary to the reports of all 
 historians, sacred and profane, ancient and modern, 
 and to the traditions of all nations, thinks the ap- 
 pearance of spirits fabulous and groundless. Could 
 not I give myself up to this general testimony of 
 mankind, 1 should to the relations of particular per- 
 sons who are now living, and whom I cannot dis- 
 trust in other matters of fact. I might here add, 
 that not only the historians, to whom we may join 
 the poets, but likewise the philosophers of antiquity, 
 have favoured this opinion. Lucretius himself, 
 though by the course of his philosophy he was obli- 
 ged to maintain that the soul did not exist separate 
 from the body, makes no doubt of the reality of 
 apparitions, and that men have often appeared after 
 their death. This I think very remarkable: he was 
 so pressed with the matter of fact, which he could 
 not have the confidence to deny, that he was forced 
 to account for it by one of the most absurd un phi- 
 losophical notions that ever was started, lie tells us, 
 " that the surface of all bodies are perpetually fly- 
 ing off from their respecti\e bodies, one after ano- 
 ther ; and that these surfaces, or thin cases, that 
 included each other whilst they were joined in the 
 body like the coats of an onion, are sometimes seen 
 entire when they are separated from it ; by which 
 means we often behold the shapes and shadows of 
 persons who are either dead or absent." 
 
 I shall dismiss this paper with a story out of 
 Josephus, not so much for the sake of the story it- 
 self, as for the moral reflections with which the au- 
 thor concludes it, and which I shall here set down 
 in his own words. ' Glaphyra, the daughter of 
 King Arclielaus, after the deatli of her two first 
 husbands, (being married to a third, who was brother 
 to her first husband, and so passionately in love 
 with her, that he turned off his former wife to make 
 room for this marriage,) had a very odd kind of 
 dream. She fancied that she saw her first husband
 
 NO. lit. SPECTATOR. t67 
 
 coming tOAvards her, and that she embraced him 
 with great tenderness ; when, in the midst of the 
 pleasure which she expressed at the sight of him, he 
 reproached her after the follo\ving manner :' " Gla- 
 phyra, (says he,) thou hast made good the old say- 
 ing, that women are not to be trusted. Was not I 
 the husband of tliv viroinitv? Have I not children 
 by thee ? How couldst thou forget our loves so far 
 as to enter into a second marriage, and after that 
 into a third ; nav, to take for thy husband a man 
 Avho has so shamelessly crept into the bed of his 
 brother ? However, for the sake of our passed loves, 
 I shall free thee from thy present reproach, and 
 make thee mine for ever. Glaphyra told this dream 
 to several women of her acquaintance, and died 
 soon after. I thought this story might not be im- 
 pertinent in this place, wherein I speak of those 
 kings : besides that, the example deserves to be 
 taken notice of, as it contains a most certain proof 
 of the immortality of the soul, and of Divine Pro- 
 vidence. If any man thinks these facts incredible, 
 let him enjoy his opinion to himself; but let him 
 not endeavour to disturb the belief of others, M'ho, 
 by instances of this nature, are excited to the study 
 of virtue." 
 
 No. 111. SATURDAY, JULY 7. 
 
 Inltr sihas Academi qucerere rerum. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 1 HE course of my last speculation led me insen- 
 sibly into a subject upon which I always meditate 
 with great dehght; I mean the immortahty of the 
 soul. I was yesterday walking alone in one of my 
 friend's woods, and lost myself in it very agreeably, 
 as I was running over in my mind the several ara'u- 
 ments that establish this great point, which is the
 
 268 SPECTATOR. no. iii. 
 
 basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing 
 hopes and secret joys that can arise in tlie heart of a 
 reasonable creature. I considered those several 
 proofs drawn. 
 
 First, From the nature of the soul itself, and par- 
 ticularly its immateriality; which, though not abso- 
 lutely nesessary to the eternity of its duration, has, 
 I think, been evinced to almost a demonstration. 
 
 Secondly, From its passions and sentiments, as 
 particularly from its love of existence, its horror of 
 annihilation, and its hopes of immortality, with 
 that secret satisfaction which it finds in the practice 
 of virtue, and that uneasiness which follows in it 
 upon the commission of vice. 
 
 Thirdly, From the nature of the Supreme Being, 
 •whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are 
 all concerned in this great point. 
 
 But among; these and other excellent ar^'uments 
 for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn 
 from the perpetual progress of the soul to its per- 
 fection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it; 
 which is a hint that I do not remember to have seen 
 opened and improved by others who have written 
 on this subject, though it seems to me to carry a 
 o-reat ^\■eip■ht with it. How can it enter into the 
 thoughts of man, that the soul, which is capable 
 of such immense perfections, and of receiving new 
 improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into 
 nothing almost as soon as it is created? Are such 
 abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a 
 point of perfection that he can never pass : in a few 
 years he has all the endowments he is capable of; 
 and were he to live ten thousand more, m ould be 
 the same thing he is at present, ^\'ere a human 
 soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments, were 
 lier faculties to be (uU blown, and incapable of 
 farther enlargements, I could imagine it might fall 
 away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of 
 annihilation. But ran we believe a thiidNing being,
 
 ^'o. 111. SPECTATOR. ft69 
 
 that is in a perpetual progress of improvement, and 
 travelling on from perfection to perfection, after 
 having just lool^ed abroad into the works of its 
 Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite 
 goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her 
 first setting out, and in the very beginning of her 
 enquiries? 
 
 A man, considered in his present state, seems 
 only sent into the world to propagate his kind. He 
 provides himself with a successor, and immediately 
 quits his post to make room for him. 
 
 ■Hceres 
 
 Hceredon alterius, xclut u/ida siipervenit undam. 
 
 Hou, 
 
 He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver 
 it down to others. This is not surprising to con- 
 sider in animals, which are formed for our use, and 
 can finish their business in a short life. The silk- 
 worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs, 
 and dies. But a man can never have taken in his 
 full measure of knowledge, has not time to subdue 
 his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come 
 up to the perfection of his nature, before he is hur- 
 ried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being 
 make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpose? 
 Can he delight in the production of such abortive 
 intelligences, such short-lived reasonable beings? 
 Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted? 
 Capacities that are never to be gratified ? How can 
 we find that wisdom, M'hich shines througli all his 
 works, in the formation of man, without looking 
 on this world as only a nursery for the next; and be- 
 lieving that the several generations of rational 
 creatures, which rise up and disappear in such quick 
 successions, are onlv to receive their first rudiments 
 of existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted 
 into a more friendly climate, where they may spread 
 and flourish to all eternity?
 
 270 SPECTATOR. no. iiu 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and 
 triumphant consideration in rehgion, than this of 
 the perpetual progress which tlie soul makes to- 
 wards the perfection of its nature, without ever 
 arriving at a period in it. To look upon the soul 
 as going on from strength to strength, to consider 
 that she is to shine for ever ^\ ith ne\'/ accessions of 
 glory, and brighten to all eternity ; that she will be 
 still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to know- 
 ledge ; carries in it something wonderthlly agree- 
 able to that ambition which is natural to the mind 
 of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God 
 himself, to see his creation for ever beautifying in 
 his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater de- 
 grees of resemblance. 
 
 Methinks this single consideration, of the pro- 
 gress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient 
 to extinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all 
 contempt in superior. That cherubim which now 
 appears as a God to a human soul, knows very m ell 
 that the period will come about in eternity, when 
 the human soul shall be as perfect as he himself now 
 is : nay, when she shall look down upon that de- 
 gree of perfection, as much as she now falls short 
 of it. It is true, the higher nature still advances, 
 and by that means preserves his jdistance and su- 
 periority in the scale of being ; but he knows, how 
 high soever the station is of which he stands pos- 
 sessed at present, the inferior nature will at length 
 mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree 
 of glory. 
 
 With what astonishment and veneration may we 
 look into our own souls, Mhere there are such hid- 
 den stores of virtue and knowledge, such inex- 
 hausted sources ol" perfection ! ^\'e know not yet 
 what wc shall be, nor will it ever enter into the heart 
 of man to conceive the glory that m ill be always 
 in reserve for him. 'J1ie soul considered with its 
 
 Creator, is like one of those Uiathematical lines
 
 550.112. SPECTATOR. 271 
 
 that may draw nearer to another to all eternity 
 without a possibiUty of touching it; and can there 
 be a thought so transporting, as to consider our- 
 selves in these perpetual approaches to him, who is 
 not only the standard of perfection, but of hap- 
 piness ! 
 
 No. 112. MONDAY, JULY 9. 
 
 T/'/xa. PvTllAG. 
 
 X Am always very well pleased with a country Sun^ 
 day; and think, , if keeping holy the seventh day 
 were only a human institution, it v/ould be the best 
 method that could have been thought of for the 
 polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain 
 the country people would soon degenerate into a 
 kind of savages and barbarians, were there not 
 such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the 
 whole village meet together with their best faces, 
 and in their cleanliest habits, to converse Mith one 
 another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties 
 explained to them, and join together in adoration 
 of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the 
 rust of the Avhole week ; not onlv as it refreshes in 
 their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts 
 both the sexes upon appearing in their most agree- 
 able forms, and exerting all such qualities as are 
 apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. 
 A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in 
 the Church-yard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change; 
 the whole parish politics being generally discussed 
 in that place, either after sermon, or before the bell 
 rings. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger being a good churchman, 
 has beautified the inside of his church with several 
 texts of his own clausing: he has» likewise given- a
 
 272 SPECTATOR. no. 112. 
 
 handsome piilpit-clotli, and railed in the communion- 
 table at his own expence. He has often told me, 
 that at his coming to his estate, he found his parishion- 
 ers very irregular; and that, in order to make them 
 kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one 
 of them a hassoc and a common prayer-book ; and 
 at the same time employed an itinerant siniiinjr- 
 master, who goes about the country for that pur- 
 pose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the 
 Psalms ; upon which they now very much value 
 themselves, and indeed out-do most of the country 
 churches that I have ever heard. 
 
 As Sir Roo-er is landlord to the M-hoIe cono-reoa- 
 tion, he keeps them in very good order, and will 
 suffer no body to sleep in it besides himself: for if 
 by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at 
 sermon, upon recovering out of it, he stands up, and 
 looks about him ; and if he sees any body else nod- 
 ding, cither wakes them himself, or sends his ser- 
 vant to them. Several other of the old knight's 
 particularities break out upon these occasons : Some- 
 times he Mall be lengthening out a verse in the sing- 
 ing-psalms, half a minute after the rest of the con- 
 gregation have done with it; sometimes, when he 
 is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pro- 
 nounces Amen three or four times to the same 
 prayer; and sometimes stands up when every body 
 else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, 
 or sec if any of his tenants are missing. 
 
 I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my 
 old friend, in the nndst of the service, calling out 
 to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, 
 and not disturb the cono-rcg-ation. 'J'his John Mat- 
 thews, it seems, is remarkable for i)eing an idle fel- 
 low, and at that time was kicking his heels for his 
 diversion. This authority of the knight, though 
 exerted in tliat odd manner Mhich accompanies him 
 in all circumstances of life, has a very "ood effect 
 upon the parish, who arc not polite enough to sec
 
 Ko. 112. SPECTATOR. 273 
 
 any thins: ridiculous in his behaviour: besides that 
 tlie general good sense and worthiness of his cha- 
 racter, make his friends observe these httle singu- 
 larities as foils that rather set off than blemish his 
 good qualities. 
 
 As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody pre- 
 sumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. 
 The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel 
 between a double row of his tenants, that stand 
 bowing to him on each side ; and every now and 
 then enquires how such an one's wife, or mother, 
 or son, or father, do, whom he does not see at 
 church ; which is understood as a secret reprimand 
 to the person that is absent. 
 
 The chaplain has often told me, that upon a 
 catechising-day, when Sir Roger has been pleased 
 with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a bible 
 to be o'iven him next day for his encourajiement: 
 and sometmics accompanies it with a flitch of bacon 
 to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five 
 pounds a year to the clerk's place; and that he may 
 encourage the young fellows to make themselves 
 perfect in the church service, has promised, upon 
 the death of the present incumbent, v/ho is very 
 old, to bestow it according to merit. 
 
 The fair understandina,- between Sir Roo-er and his 
 chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing 
 good, is the more remarkable, because the very next 
 village is famous for the difl^'erences and contentions 
 that rise between the parson and the 'squire, who 
 live in a perpetual state of war. The parson is al- 
 ways preaching at the 'squire ; and the 'squire, to be 
 revenged on the parson, never comes to church 
 The 'squire has made all his tenants atheists and 
 tithe-stealers ; while the parson instructs them every 
 Sunday in the dignity of his order, and insinuates 
 to them almost in ever}' sermon, that he is a better 
 man tlian his patron. In short, matters are come 
 to such an extremitv, that the "squire has not said 
 
 Vol. L " T
 
 274. SPECTATOR. no. 115. 
 
 his prayers cither in public or private this half year ; 
 and that the parson threatens him, if he does not 
 mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of 
 the whole con2:re2:ation. 
 
 Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the 
 country, are very fatal to the ordinary people ; wlio 
 are so used to be dazzled with riches, that tliey pay 
 as much deference to the understandino- of a man 
 of an estate, as of a man of learnino- ; and are very 
 hardly brought to regard*any truth, liow important 
 soever it may be, that is preached to them, when 
 they know there are several men of five hundred a 
 year who do not believe it. 
 
 No. 115. THURSDAY, JULY 12. 
 
 Ut sii mens sana in corpore sano. 
 
 Juv. 
 
 JiSoDiLy labour is of two kinds; cither that which 
 a man submits to for his livelihood, or that which 
 he undergoes for liis pleasure. The latter of them 
 generally changes the name of labour for that of 
 exercise, but differs only from ordinary labonr as it 
 rises from another motive. 
 
 A country life abounds in both these kinds of 
 labour, and for that reason gives a man a greater 
 stock of health, and conse({uently a more perfect 
 enjoyment of himself, than any other May of life. 
 I consider the body as a system of tubes antl glands, 
 or, to use a more rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes 
 and strainers, litted to one another after so wonder- 
 ful a manner, as to make a proper engine for the 
 soul to woik with. This description docs not only 
 comprehend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins, nerves, 
 and arteries, but every muscle and every ligature, 
 which is a comj)osition of libres, that are so many
 
 NO. 115. SPECTATOR. ^75 
 
 imperceptible tubes or pipes interwoven on all sides 
 with invisible glands or strainers. 
 
 This general idea of a human body, Avithout con*, 
 sidering it in the niceties of anatomy, let us see how" 
 absolutely necessary labour is for the right pre- 
 servation of it. There must be frequent motions 
 and agitations, to mix, digest and separate the juices 
 contained in it, as mtU as to clear and cleanse that 
 infinitude of pipes and strainers of which it is com- 
 posed, and to give their solid parts a more firm and 
 lasting tone. Labour or exercise, ferments the hu- 
 mors, casts them into their proper channels, throws 
 off. redundancies, and helps nature in those secret 
 distributions without which the body cannot subsist 
 in its vigour, nor the soul act with chearfulness. 
 
 I might here mention the effects which this has 
 upon all the faculties of the mind, by keeping the 
 understanding clear, the imagination untroubled, 
 and refining those spirits that are necessary for the 
 proper exertion of our intellectual faculties, during 
 the present laws of union between soul and body. 
 It is to a neglect in this paiticular that we must 
 ascribe the spleen, which is so frequent in men of 
 studious and sedentary tempers, as well as the va- 
 pours, to which those of tliF other sex are so often 
 subject. 
 
 liad not exercise been absolutely necessary for 
 our well-being, nature would not have made the 
 body so proper for it, by giving such an activity to 
 the limbs, and such a pliancy to every part, as ne- 
 cessarily produce those compressions, extentions, con- 
 tortions, dilatations, and all otlier kinds of motions, 
 that are necessary for the preservation of such a 
 system of tubes and o-lands as has been before men- 
 tioned. And that vv^e miolit not want inducements 
 to engage us in such an exercise of the body as is 
 proper for its welfare, it is so ordered, that nothing 
 valuable can be procured without it. Not to men- 
 tion riches and honour, even food and raiment, are 
 
 T 2
 
 276 SPECTATOR. no. 115. 
 
 not to be come at without the toil of the hands, and 
 sweat of the brows. Providenre furnishes materials, 
 but expects that we should work tliem up ourselves. 
 The earth must be laboured before it gives its in- 
 crease ; and when it is forced into its several pro- 
 ducts, how many hands must they pass through be- 
 fore thev are fit for use ! Manufactures, trade, and 
 agriculture, naturally employ more than nineteen 
 parts of the species in tw^cnty ; and as for those who 
 are not obliged to labour, by the condition in which 
 they are born, they are more miserable than the rest 
 of mankind, unless they indulge themselves in that 
 voluntary labour which goes by the name of exer- 
 cise. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable 
 man in business of this kind, and has hung several 
 parts of his house with the trophies of his former 
 labours. The walls of his great hall are covered 
 with the horns of several kinds of deer that he has 
 killed in the chacc, which he thinks the most valu- 
 able furniture in his house, as they aiford him fre- 
 quent topics of discourse, and shew that he has not 
 been idle. At the lower end of the hall is a large 
 otter's skin stuffed with hay, which his mother or- 
 dered to be hung up in that manner, and the knight 
 looks upon with great satisfaction, because it seems 
 he was but nine years old when his doo- killed him. 
 A little room adjoining to the hall is a kind of arsenal, 
 iilled with guns of several sizes and inventions, with 
 Mhich the knight has made great havoc in the 
 Moods, and destroyed many thousands of pheasants, 
 paitridges, and woodcocks. His stable doors are 
 patched with noses that belonged to foxes of the 
 knights own hunting down. Sir Roger shewed me 
 one of them that, for distinction sake, has a brass 
 luiil struck through it, w Inch cost him about fifteen 
 hours riding, carried him thiough half a dozen 
 counties, killed him a brace of geldings, and lost 
 abo\e half his dogs. This the knight looks upon as
 
 NO. 115. SPECTATOR. ^n 
 
 one of the greatest exploits of his life. ' ■ The per- 
 verse widow, whom I have given some account of, 
 was the death of several foxes ; for Sir Roger has 
 told me, that in the course of his amours he patched 
 the western door of his stable. Whenever the wi- 
 dow was cruel, the foxes were sure to pay for it. 
 In proportion as his passion for the widow abated, 
 and old age came on, he left oft' fox-hunting; but a 
 hare is not yet safe that sits within ten miles of his 
 house. 
 
 There is no kind of exercise which I would so 
 recommend to my readers of both sexes as that of 
 riding, as there is none which so much conduces to 
 health, and is every way accommodated to the 
 body, according to the idea which I have given of 
 it. Dr. Sydenham is very lavish in its praises : and 
 if the English reader would see the mechanical ef- 
 fects of it described at length, he may find them in 
 a book published not many years since, under the 
 title of the JMcdicina Gymnastica. For my own 
 part, when I am in town, for want of these oppor- 
 tunities, I exercise myself an hour every morning 
 upon a dumb bell that is placed in a corner of a 
 room, and pleases me the more because it does every 
 thing I require of it in the most profound silence. 
 •My landlady and her daughters are so well ac- 
 quainted with my hours of exercise, that they ne- 
 ver come into my room to disturb me whilst I am 
 
 n no-mo-. 
 
 When I was some years younger than T am at 
 present, I used to employ myself in a more laborious 
 diversion, which I learned from a Latin treatise of 
 exercises, that is written with great erudition : it is 
 there called the cr-MoiJ.a-xix, or the fighting with a 
 man's own shadow; and consists in the brandishing 
 of two short sticks grasped in each liand, and loaden 
 with plugs of lead at either end. This opens the 
 chest, exercises the limbs, and gives a man all the 
 pleasure of boxing Avithout blows. I could wish 
 
 T :3
 
 278 SPECTATOR. no. 117. 
 
 that several learned men would lay out that time 
 which they employ in controversies and disputes 
 about nothing, in this method of fighting with their 
 own shadows. It might conduce very much to 
 evaporate the spleen, which makes them uneasy to 
 the public as well as to themselves. 
 
 To conclude, as I am a compound of soul and 
 body, I consider myself as obliged to a double 
 scheme of duties ; and I think I have not fulfilled 
 the business of the day, when I do not thus em- 
 ploy the one in labour and exercise, as well as the 
 other in study and contemplation. 
 
 No. 117. SATURDAY, JULY 14, 
 
 'Tpsi sibi sonviin fingimt. 
 
 VlRG. 
 
 X HERE are some opmions in M-hich a man should 
 stand neuter, without engaging his assent to one 
 side or the other. Such a hovering faith as this, 
 which refuses to settle upon any determination, is ab- 
 solutely necessary in a mind that is careful to avoid 
 errors and prepossessions. When the arguments 
 press equally on both sides, in matters that are in- 
 tlifferent to us, the safest method is to give up our- 
 .selves to neither. 
 
 It is with this temper of mind that I consider the 
 subject of witchcraft. AVhen I hear the relations 
 that are made from all parts of the world, not only 
 from Norway and Lapland, fron\ tlie Last and 
 West Indies, but from every particular nation in 
 Europe, I cannot forbear thinking that there is such 
 an iiitercouisc and commerce with evil spirits, as 
 that which we express by the name of witchcraft. 
 Rut when I consider that the ignorant and credu^ 
 lous parts of the world abound most in these rela^
 
 NO. 117. SPECTATOR. 279 
 
 tions, and that the persons among us who are sup- 
 posed to engage in such an infernal commerce, are 
 people of a weak understanding and crazed imagi- 
 nation, and at the same time reflect upon the many 
 impostures and dehisions of this nature that have 
 been detected in all ages, I endeavour to suspend 
 my belief, till I hear more certain accounts than any 
 which have yet come to my knowledge. In short, 
 when I consider the question, Whether there are 
 such persons in the Avorld as those we call witches ? 
 my mind is divided between two opposite opinions ; 
 o/rather (to speak my thoughts freely) I believe in 
 general that there is, and has been, such a thing as 
 witchcraft ; but at the same time can give no credit 
 to any particular instance of it. 
 
 I am engaged in this speculation, by some occur- 
 rences that 1 met with vcsterday, which I shall give 
 iTjy reader an account of at large. As I was Asalking 
 with my friend Sir Roger, by the side of one of his 
 woods, an old woman applied herself to me for my 
 charity. Her dress and figure put me in mind of the 
 following description in Otway : 
 
 In a close lane, as I pursu'd my journey, 
 I spy'd a wrinkled Ilag, with age grown double, 
 Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself. 
 Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall'd and red ; 
 Cold palsy shook her head ; her hands seem'd wither'd ; 
 And on her crooked shoulders she had wrapp'd 
 The tatter'd remnants of an old strip'd hanging. 
 Which serv'd to keep her carcassfrom the cold, 
 So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
 Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd 
 With diti'rent colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow, 
 And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. 
 
 As I was musing on this description, and com- 
 paring it with the object before me, the knight told 
 me, that this very old women had the reputation of 
 being a Witch all over the country, that her lips were 
 observed always to be in motion, and that there was 
 not a switch about her lioiise which her neighbours 
 
 T 4
 
 280 SPECTATOR. ko. 117. 
 
 did not believe had carried her several hundreds of 
 miles. If she chanced to stumble, they always 
 found sticks and straws that lay in the fi2:ure of a 
 cross before her. If she made any mi^stake at 
 church, and cried amen in a wrong place, they ne- . 
 vcr failed to conclude that she was saying her 
 prayers backwards. There was not a maid in the 
 parish that would take a pin of her, though she 
 should offer a bag of money with it. She goes by 
 the name of Moll White, and has made the country 
 ring with several imaginary exploits which are palmed 
 upon her. If the dairy-maid does not make her 
 butter to come as soon as she would have it, Moll 
 White is at the bottom of the churn. If a horse 
 sweats in the stable, Moll White has been upon his 
 back. If a hare makes an unexpected escape from 
 the hounds, the huntsman curses Moll White. Nay 
 (says Sir Roger) I have known the master of the pack, 
 upon such an occasion, send one of his servants to 
 see if Moll White had been out that morning. 
 
 This account raised my curiosity so far, that I 
 begged my friend Sir Roger to go with me into her 
 hovel, which stood in a solitary corner under the 
 side of the wood. Upon our first entering, Sir 
 Roger winked to me, and pointed at something that 
 stood behind the door, which, upon looking that 
 way, I found to be an old broom-staff. At the same 
 time he Avhispered me in the ear, to take notice of 
 a tabby cat, that sat in the chimney corner, Mhich, 
 as the knight told me, lay under as bad a report as 
 Moll Whire herself; for besides that Moll is said 
 often to accompany her in the same shape, the cat 
 is reported to have spoken twice or thrice in her life, 
 and to have played several })rank8 above the capa- 
 city of an ordinary cat. 
 
 I was secretly concerned to see human nature in 
 KO much wretchedness and disgrace ; but at the same 
 time could not forbear smilino- to hear Sir RoQcr. who 
 jii a little puzzled about the old woman, advising
 
 Ko. 117, SPECTATOR. 281 
 
 her, as a justice of peace, to avoid all commu- 
 nication with the Devil, and never to hurt any of 
 her neighbours' cattle. We concluded our visit with 
 a bounty, which was very acceptable. 
 
 In our return home, Sir Roger told me, that old 
 Moll had been often brought before him ibr making 
 children spit pins, and giving maids the night-mare; 
 and that the country people would be tossing her 
 into a pond, and trying experiments with her every 
 day, if it was not for him and his chaplain. 
 
 I have since found, upon enquiry, that Sir Roger 
 was several times staggered with the reports that had 
 been brought him concerning this old woman, and 
 would frequently have bound her over to the county 
 sessions, had not his chaplain with nmch ado per- 
 suaded him to the contrary. 
 
 1 have been the more particular in this account, 
 because I hear there is scarce a village in England 
 that has not a Moll White in it. When an old wo- 
 man begins to doat, and grow chargeable to a pa- 
 rish, she is generally turned into a witch, and fills the 
 whole country with extravagant fancies, imaginary 
 distempers, and terrifying dreams. In the mean 
 time the poor wretch that is the innocent occasion 
 of so many evils, begins to be frightened at herself, 
 and sometimes confesses secret commerce and fa- 
 miliarities that her imagination forms in a delirious 
 old age. This frequently cuts oif charity from the 
 greatest objects of compassion, and inspires peo- 
 ple with a malevolence towards those poor de- 
 crepit parts of our species, in whom human nature 
 is defaced by infirmity and dotage.
 
 282 SPECTATOR. ko. 119 
 
 No. 119. TUESDAY, JULY 17. 
 
 Urbem qunm dicunt Rnmajn, Melibme, piitavi 
 Stultus ego hide nosfrae similan— • 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 X HE first and most obvious reflections which arise 
 in a man ^ho changes the city for tlie country, are 
 upon the different manners of tlie people whom he 
 meets with in those two different scenes of life. By 
 manners I do not mean morals, but beliaviour and 
 good-breeding, as they shew themselves in the town 
 and in thf country. 
 
 And here, in the first place, I must observe a very 
 great revolution that has happened in this article of 
 good-breeding. Several obliging deferences, con- 
 descensions, and submissions, with many outM'ard 
 forms and ceremonies that accompany tbem, were 
 first of all brought up among the politer part of 
 mankind, who lived in courts and cities, and dis- 
 tinguished themselves from the rustic part of the 
 species (who on all occasions acted bluntly and na- 
 turally) by such a mutual complaisance and inter- 
 course of civilities. These forms of conversation 
 by degrees multiplied, and grew troulilesome ; the 
 modish world found too great a constraint in them, 
 and have therefore thrown most of them aside. 
 Conversation, like the Romish religion, was so en- 
 cumbered with shew and ceremony, that it stood in 
 need of a reformation to retrench its superfluities, 
 and restore it to its natural *>ood sense and beautv. 
 At present, therefore, an unconstrained carriage, and 
 a certain openness of behaviour, are the height of 
 good-breeding. The fasbionai)le world is groM'n 
 free and easy ; our manners sit more loose upon 
 us : notliiiig is so modish as an agreeable negligence. 
 In a word, good-breeding shews itself most, where 
 to an ordinary eye it appears the least.
 
 NO. 119. SPECTATOR. 283 
 
 If after this we look on the people of mode in 
 the country, we find in them the manners of the 
 last age. They have no sooner fetched themselves 
 up to the fashion of the polite world, but the town 
 has dropped them, and are nearer to the first state 
 of nature, than to those refinements which formerly 
 reigned in the court, and still prevail in the country. 
 One may now know a man that never conversed in 
 the world, by his excess of good-breeding. A po- 
 lite country Squire shall make you as many bows in 
 half an hour, as M^ould serve a courtier for a week. 
 There is infinitely more to do about place and pre- 
 cedency in a meeting of Justices wives, than in an 
 assembly of duchesses. 
 
 This rural politeness is very troublesome to a man 
 of my temper, who generally take the chair that is 
 next me, and walk first or last, in the front or in 
 the rear, as chance directs. I have known my 
 friend Sir Roger's dinner almost cold before the 
 company could adjust the ceremonial, and be pre- 
 vailed upon to sit down ; and have heartily pitied 
 my old friend, when I have seen him forced to pick 
 and cull his guests, as they sat at the several parts 
 of his table, that he might drink their healths ac- 
 cording to their respective quafities. Honest \Vill 
 ^V'imble, A\'ho I should have thought had been alto- 
 gether uninfected Avith ceremony, gives me abun- 
 dance of trouble in this particular. Though he has 
 been fishing all the morning, he will not help him- 
 self at dinner till I am served, \yhen wc are going- 
 out of the hall, he runs behind me ; and last night, 
 as we were walking in the fields, stopped short at a 
 stile till I came up to it, and upon my making signs 
 to him to get over, told me, M-ith a serious smile, 
 that sure I believed they had no manners in the 
 country. 
 
 There has happened another revolution in the 
 point of good-breeding, which relates to the con- 
 versation among men of mode, and M'hich I cannot
 
 284 SPECTATOR. no. 119. 
 
 but look upon as very extraordinary. It was cer- 
 tainly one of the first distinctions of a well-bred man, 
 to express every thing that had the most remote ap- 
 pearance of being obscene, in modest terms, and 
 distant phrases ; whilst the clown, who had no such 
 delicacy of conception and expression, cloathed his 
 ideas in those plain homely terms that are the most 
 obvious and natural. This kind of good manners 
 was perhaps carried to an excess, so as to make 
 conversation too stiff, formal, and precise; for which 
 reason (as hypocrisy in one age is generally suc- 
 ceeded by atheism m another) conversation is in 
 in a great measure relapsed into the first extreme; 
 so that at present several of our men of the town, 
 and particularly those who have been polished in 
 France, make use of the most coarse uncivilized 
 words in our language, and utter themselves often 
 in such a manner as a clown Mould blush to hear. 
 
 This infamous piece of good-hreeding, which 
 reigns among the coxcombs of the town, has not 
 yet made its way into the country ; and as it is im- 
 possible for such an irrational way of conversation 
 to last long among a people that make any profes- 
 sion of religion, or shew of modesty, if the country 
 gentlemen get into it, they will certainly he left in 
 the lurch. Their good-breeding will come too late 
 to them, and they will he tliought a parcel of lewd 
 clowns, while they fancy themselves talking toge- 
 ther like men of wit and pleasure. 
 
 As the two points of good-breeding, whicli I have 
 hitherto insisted upon, regard behaviour and con- 
 versation, there is a third which turns upon dress. 
 Jn this too the country are very much hehind-hand. 
 The rural beaus are not yet got out of the fashion 
 that took place at the time of the Revolution, hut 
 ride about the country in red coats and laced hats ; 
 M'hile the women in manv i)arts are still trvin<»- to 
 outvie one another in the height of their head- 
 dresses.
 
 NO. 120. SPECTATOR. 285 
 
 But a friend of mine, who is now upon tlie western 
 circuit, having promised to giv^e me an account of 
 the several modes and fashions that prevail in the 
 different parts of the nation through which he passes, 
 I shaU defer the enlarging upon this last topic till I 
 have received a letter from him, which I expect 
 every post. 
 
 No. 1^0. WEDNESDAY, JULY 18. 
 
 Equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis 
 
 Inge?i ium 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 IVXy friend Sir Roger is very often merry with me, 
 upon my passing so much of my time among his 
 poultry : he has caught me twice or thrice looking 
 after a bird's nest, and sometimes sitting an hour or 
 two together near an hen and chickens. He tells 
 me he believes I am personally acquaintetl with every 
 fowl about his house ; calls such a particular cock 
 my favourite, and frequently complains that his 
 ducks and geese have more of my company than 
 himself. 
 
 I must confess I am infinitely delighted with 
 those speculations of nature which are to be made 
 in a country-life ; and as my reading has very nmch 
 lain among books of natural history, 1 cannot for- 
 bear recollecting upon this occasion, the several re- 
 marks which I have met with in authors, and com- 
 paring them with what falls under my own observa- 
 tion ; the arguments for Providence drawn from the 
 natural history of animals being in my opinion de- 
 monstrative. 
 
 The make of every kind of animal is. different 
 from that of every other kind ; and yet there is not 
 the least turn in the muscles, or twist in the fibres, of 
 any one, which does not render thein jnore proper
 
 286 SPECTATOR. no. 12a 
 
 for that particular animal's way of life, than any 
 other cast or texture of them would have been. 
 
 The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust 
 and hunger : the first is a perpetual call upon them 
 to propagate their kind ; the latter to preserve them- 
 selves. 
 
 It is astonishino- to consider the different deo-rees 
 of care that descend from the parent to the young, 
 so far as is absolutely necessary for the leaving a 
 posterity. Some creatures cast their eggs as chance 
 directs them, and think of them no farther, as in- 
 sects, and several kinds of fish ; others, of a nicer 
 frame, find out proper beds to deposit them in, and 
 there leave them ; as the serpent, the crocodile, and 
 ostrich : others hatch their eggs, and tend the birth, 
 till it is able to shift for itself. 
 
 What can we call the principle which directs every 
 different kind of bird to observe a particular plan in 
 the structure of its nest, and directs all of the same 
 species to work after the same model ? It cannot be 
 imitation ; for though you hatch a crow under a 
 hen, and never let it see any of the works of its own 
 kind, the nest it makes shall be the same, to the 
 laying of a stick, with all the other nests of the 
 sanie species. It cannot be reason ; for were animals 
 endued with it to as great a degree as man, their 
 buildings would be as different as ours, according to 
 the different conveniencies that they would propose 
 to themselves. 
 
 Is it not remarkable, that the same temper of 
 weather Mhich raises this genial warmth in animals, 
 should cover the trees Avith leaves, and the fields 
 with grass, for their security and conceahnent, and 
 produce such infinite swarms of insects for the sup- 
 port and sustenance of their resj)ective. broods? 
 
 Is it not wonderful, that the love of the parent 
 should be so violent while it lasts ; and that it should 
 last no longer than is necessary for the preservation 
 of the young ?
 
 Ko. 120. SPECTATOR. 287 
 
 The violence of this natural love is exemplified by 
 a very barbarous experiment; which I shall quote 
 at length as I find it in an excellent author, and 
 hope my readers will pardon the mentioning such 
 an instance of cruelty, because there is nothing can 
 so effectually shew the strength of that principle in 
 animals, of which I am here speaking. "A person 
 who was well skilled in dissections, opened a bitch, 
 and as she lay in the most exquisite tortures, offered 
 her one of her young puppies, which she immedi- 
 ately fell a licking ; and for the time seemed insen- 
 sible of her own pain : on the remo^•al, she kept her 
 eyes fixed on it, and began a waihng sort of cry, 
 which seemed rather to proceed from the loss of her 
 young one, than the sense of her own torments." 
 
 But notwithstanding this natural love in brutes is 
 much more violent and intense than in rational 
 creatures. Providence has taken care that it should 
 be no longer troublesome to the parent than it is 
 useful to the young ; for so soon as the wants of the 
 latter cease, the mother withdravvS her fondness, 
 and leaves them to provide for themselves : and 
 what is a very remaikable circumstance in this 
 part of instinct, we find that the love of the pa- 
 rent may be lengthened out beyond its usual time, 
 if the preservation of the species requires it ; as we 
 may see in.birds that drive away their young as soon 
 as they are able to get their livelihood, but continue 
 to feed them if they are tied to the nest, or confined 
 within a cage, or by any other means appear to be 
 out of a condition of supplying their own necessi- 
 ties. 
 
 This natural love is not observed in animals to 
 ascend from the young to the parent, which is not 
 at all necessary for the continuance of the species : 
 nor indeed in reasonable creatures does it rise in any 
 proportion, as it spreads itself downwards ; for in all 
 family affection, we find protection granted, and fa-
 
 288 SPECTATOR. no. 120. 
 
 vours bestowed, are greater motives to love and 
 tenderness, than safety, benefits, or life received. 
 
 One would wonder to hear sceptical men disput- 
 ing for the reason of animals, and telling us it is 
 only our pride and prejudices that will not allow 
 them the use of that faculty. 
 
 Reason shews itself in all occurrences of life ; 
 M'hereas the brute makes no discovery of such a 
 talent, but in what immediately reo-ards his own 
 preservation, or the continuance of his species. 
 Animals in their o-eneration are wiser than the sons 
 of men ; but their wisdom is confined to a few par- 
 ticulars, and lies in a very narrow compass. Take 
 a brute out of his instinct, and you find him wholly 
 deprived of understanding. To use an instance that 
 comes often under observation : 
 
 A\'ith what caution does the hen provide herself a 
 nest in places unfrequented, and free from noise and 
 disturbance ! When she has laid her eggs in such a 
 manner that she can cover them, M'hat care does 
 she take in turning them frequently, that all parts 
 may partake of the vital warmth ! ^^'hen she leaves 
 them, to provide for her necessary sustenance, how 
 punctually does she return before they have time to 
 cool, and become incapable of producing an animal ! 
 In the summer you see her giving herself greater 
 freedoms, and quitting her care for above tM'o hours 
 together ; but in winter, when the rigour of the 
 season would chill the principles of life, and destroy 
 the young one, she grows more assiduous in her 
 attendance, and stays away but half the time. 
 When the birth approaches, with how much nicety 
 and attention dofs she help the chick to break its 
 prison ! Not to take notice other covering it from the 
 injuries of the weather, provichng it proper nourish- 
 ment, and teaching it to help itself; nor to mention 
 her forsakiuL*: the nest, if, after the usual time of 
 reckoning, the young one does not make its a])pear- 
 ancc. A chemical o])cratiou could not be followed
 
 xb. 120. SPECTATOR.. m- 
 
 M'ith greater art or diligence, than is seen in the 
 liatching of a chick ; though there are many otlier 
 birds that shew an infinitely greater sagacity in all 
 the forementioned particulars. 
 
 But at the same time the lien, that has all this 
 seeming ingenuity, (which is indeed absolutely ne- 
 cessary for the propagation of the species,) consi- 
 dered in other respects, is witliout the least ghmmer- 
 ings of thought or common sense. She mistakes a 
 piece of chalk for an egg, and sits upon it in the 
 same manner : she is insensible of an increase or 
 diminution in the number of those she lays : she 
 does not distinguish between her own and those of 
 another species ; and when the birth appears of ne- 
 ver so different a bird, will cherish it for her own. 
 In all those circumstances which do not carry an 
 immediate regard to the subsistence of herself, or 
 her species, she is a very idiot. 
 
 There is not in my opinion any thing more myste- 
 rious in nature than this instinct in animals, which 
 thus rises above reason, and falls infinitely short of 
 it. It cannot be accounted for by any properties 
 in matter, and at the same time works after so odd 
 a manner, that one cannot think it the faculty of 
 an intellectual being. For my own part, I look 
 upon it as upon the principle of gravitation in bodies, 
 which is not to be explained by any known qualities 
 inherent in the bodies themselves, nor from any laws 
 of mechanism, but, according to the best notions 
 of the greatest philosophers, is an immediate im- 
 pression from the first iVlover, and the divine energy 
 acting in the creatures. 
 
 Vol. I.
 
 250 SPECTATOR. no. 121. 
 
 No. 121. THURSDAY, JULY 19. 
 
 Joxis omnia plena. 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 A^s I M'as walking this morning in the great yard 
 that belongs to my friend's country-house, 1 was 
 wonderfully pleased to see the different M'orkings of 
 instinct in a hen followed by a brood of ducks. 
 The young, upon the sight of a pond, immediately 
 ran into it ; while the step-mother, with all imagina- 
 ble anxiety, hovered about the borders of it, to 
 call them out of an element that appeared to her so 
 dangerous and destructive. As the different prin- 
 ciple which acted in these different animals cannot 
 be termed reason, so when we call it instinct, we 
 mean something we have no knowledge of. To me, 
 as I hinted in my last paper, it seems the immediate 
 direction of Providence, and such an operation of 
 the Supreme Being, as that which determines all the 
 portions of matter to their proper centres. A mo- 
 dern philosopher, quoted by Monsieur Bayle in his 
 learned dissertation on the souls of brutes, delivers 
 the same opinion, though in a bolder form of words, 
 where he says, Deus est anima brutunun : ' God him- 
 self is the soul of brutes.' Who can tell what to 
 call that seeming sagacity in animals, which directs 
 them to such food a.^ is proper for them, and makes 
 them naturally avoid whatever is noxious or unwhole- 
 some r TuUy has observed, that a lamb no sooner 
 falls from its mother, but immediately, and of its 
 own accord, it applies itself to the teat. Dampicr, in 
 his travels, tells us, that when seamen are thrown 
 wpon any of tlic unknown coasts of America, they 
 never venture upon the fruit of any tree, how tempt- 
 ing soever it may appear, unless they observe that it 
 is marked m ilh the pecking of birds ; but full on
 
 NO. 121. SPECTATOR. 29 1 
 
 without any fear or apprehension where the birds 
 have been before them. 
 
 But notwithstanding animals have nothing hke 
 the use of reason, we find in them all the lower 
 parts of our nature, the passions and senses in their 
 greatest strength and perfection. And here it is 
 worth our observation, that all beasts and birds of 
 prey are wonderfully subject to anger, malice, re- 
 venge, and all other violent passions that may ani- 
 mate them in search of their proper food ; as those 
 that are incapable of defending themselves, or an- 
 noying others, or whose safety lies chiefly in their 
 flight, are suspicious, fearful, and apprehensive of 
 every thing they see or hear : whilst others, that are 
 of assistance and use to men, have their natures 
 softened with something mild and tractable, and by 
 that means are qualified for a domestic life. In this 
 case the passions generally correspond with the make 
 of the body. We do not find the fury of a lion in 
 so weak and defenceless an animal as a lamb, nor the 
 meekness of a lamb in a creature so armed for battle 
 and assault as the lion. In the same manner, we 
 find that particular animals have a more or less ex- 
 quisite sharpness and sagacity in those particular 
 senses which most turn to their advantage, and in 
 which their safety and welfare is the most con- 
 cerned. 
 
 Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms 
 with which nature has differently fortified the bodies 
 of several kinds of animals, such as claws, hoofs, 
 and horns, teeth and tusks, a tail, a sting, a trunk, 
 or a proboscis. It is likewise observed by naturalists, 
 that it must be some hidden principle, distinct from 
 what we call reason, which instructs animals in the 
 use of these their arms, and teaches them to ma- 
 nage them to the best advantage ; because they 
 naturally defend themselves with that part in which 
 their strength lies, before the weapon be formed iu 
 it ; as is remarkable in lambg, which, thougli they 
 
 Us
 
 292 SPECTATOR, no. 121. 
 
 are bred M'ithin doors, and never saw the actions of 
 their om'H species, push at those mIio approach them 
 with their foreheads, before the first budding of a 
 horn appears. 
 
 I shall add to these general observations, an in- 
 stance which Mr. Locke has given us of Providence, 
 even in the imperfections of a creature which seems 
 the meanest and most despicable in the whole animal 
 woild. ' ^Ve may, (says he,) from the make of an 
 oyster, or cockle, conclude, that it has not so many 
 nor so quick senses as a man, or several other ani- 
 mals : nor, if it had, would it in that state, and in- 
 capacity of transferring itself from one place to 
 another, be bettered by them. What good would 
 sioht and hearino; do to a creature, that cannot 
 move itself to or from the object \\herein at a 
 distance it perceives good or evil ? And M'ould not 
 quickness of sensation be an inconvenience to an 
 animal, that nmst be still where chance has once 
 placed it ; and there receive the afflux of colder or 
 warmer, clean or foul water, as it happens to come 
 to it ?' 
 
 I shall add to this instance out of Mr. Locke, 
 another out of the learned Dr. Moor, who cites it 
 from Cardan, in relation to another animal M'liich 
 Providence has left defective, but at the same time 
 has shewn its wisdom in the formation of that organ 
 In which it seems chiefly to have failed. 'What is 
 more obvious and ordinary than a mole ; and yet 
 uliat more palpable argument of Providence than 
 .she r tlie members of her body are so exactly fitted 
 to her nature and manner of life : for her dwelling 
 being under ground, where nothing is to be seen, 
 nature has so obscurely littcd her with eyes, that 
 naturalists can scarce agree Mhcthcr she liave any 
 sight at all or no. Ijut, for amends, what she is 
 capable of for her defence, and w arning oi' danger, 
 .she has \cv\ eminently conferred uj)on her ; for she 
 i^ exceeding quick of hearing. And then her .short
 
 NO. 121. SPECTATOR. 293 
 
 tail and short legs, but broad fore-feet, armed witli 
 sharp claws, we see by the event to what purpose 
 they are, she so swiftly working herself under 
 ground, and making her way so fast in the earth, 
 as they that behold it cannot but admire it. Her 
 legs therefore are short, that she need dig no more 
 than will serve the mere thickness of her body; and 
 her fore-feet are broad, that she ma}' scoop away 
 much earth at a time ; and little or no tail she has, 
 because she courses it not on the ground, like the rat 
 or mouse, of whose kindred she is, but lives under 
 the earth, and is fain to dig herself a dwelling there. 
 And she makino' her wav throuo'h so thick an ele- 
 ment, which will not vield easilv, as the air or the 
 water, it had been dangerous to have drawn so long 
 a train behind her ; for her enemy might fall upon 
 her rear, and fetch her out before she had com- 
 pleted or got full possession of her M'orks.' i 
 
 I cannot forbear mentioning jMr. Boyle's remarks 
 upon this last creature, who, I remember, some- 
 where in his Morks, observes, that though the mole 
 be not totally blind (as it is commonly thought) she 
 has not sight enough to distinguish particular ob- 
 jects. Her eye is said to have but one humor in 
 it, which is supposed to give her the idea of light, 
 but of nothing else, and is so formed, that this idea 
 is probably painful to the animal. ^Vhenever she 
 comes up into broad day, she might be in danger of 
 beino- taken, unless she were thus affected bv a lio-ht 
 striking upon her eye, and immediately warning her 
 to bury herself in her proper element. More sight 
 would be useless to her, as none at all might be 
 fatal. 
 
 I have only instanced such animals as seem the 
 most imperfect works of Nature ; and if Providence 
 shews itself even in the blemishes of these creatures, 
 how much more does it discover itself in the several 
 endowments which it has variously bestowed upon 
 such creatures as arc more or less finished and com* 
 
 U 3
 
 294 SPECTATOR. no. 121. 
 
 pleted in their several faculties, according to the 
 condition of life in which they are posted ? 
 
 I could wish our Royal Society would compile a 
 body of natural history, the best that could be 
 gathered together from books and observations. If 
 the several writers among them took each his par- 
 ticular species, and gave us a distinct account of 
 its original, birth, and education ; its policies, hos- 
 tilities, and alliances ; with the frame and texture of 
 its inward and outward parts, and particularly those 
 that distinguish it from all other animals, with their 
 peculiar aptitudes for the state of being in which 
 Providence has placed them; it would be one of the 
 best services their studies could do mankind, and 
 •not a little redound to the glory of the all- wise Con- 
 triver. 
 
 It is true, such a natural historv, after all the dis- 
 positions of the learned, would be infinitely short 
 and defective. Seas and deserts hide millions of 
 animals from our observation. Innumerable artifices 
 and stratagems are acted in the howling wilderness, 
 and in the great deep, that can never come to our 
 knowledge. Besides, that there are infinitely more 
 species of creatures which are not to be seen with- 
 out, nor indeed with the help of the finest glasses, 
 tban of such as are bulky enough for the naked eye 
 to take hold of However, from the consideration 
 of such animals as lie M'ithin the compass of our 
 knowledge, we might easily form a conclusion of 
 the rest, that the same variety of wisdom and good- 
 ness runs through the whole creation, and puts every 
 creature in a condition to provide for its safety and 
 subsistence in its ])roper station. 
 
 Tully lias given us an admirable sketch of natural 
 liistorv, in his second book, concerninu: the nature 
 of the gods; and that in a style so raised by me- 
 taphors and descriptions, that it lifts the subject 
 above raillery and ritlicule, Mhich frcepiently fall on 
 such nice observations, when tliey pass through the 
 hands of an ordinary writer.
 
 NO. 12?. SPECTATOR. Q95 
 
 No. 122. FRIDAY, JULY 20. 
 
 Co7nes jucundus in via pro vehicnlo est. 
 Pub. Syr Fuag. 
 
 jCTl Man's first care should be to avoid tlie re- 
 proaches of his own heart; his next, to escape the 
 censures of the world : if the last interferes with 
 the former, it ought to be entirely neglected ; but 
 otherwise there cannot be a greater satisfaction to an 
 honest mind, than to see those approbations which 
 it gives itself seconded b}^ the applauses of the pub- 
 lic. A man is more sure of his conduct, when the 
 verdict which he passes upon his own behaviour, is 
 thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of all 
 that know him. 
 
 My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who 
 is not only at peace within himself, but beloved and 
 esteemed by all about him. He receives a suitable 
 tribute for his universal benevolence to mankind, in 
 the returns of aftection and good-will, which are 
 paid him by ev^ry one that lives within his neigh- 
 bourhood. I lately met with two or three odd in- 
 stances of that general respect which is shewn to 
 the good old knight. He would needs carry Will 
 Wimble and myself with him to the country assizes : 
 as we v/ere upon the road, Will Wimble joined a 
 couple of plain men, who rid before us, and con- 
 versed with them for some time ; during which my 
 friend Sir Roger acquainted me with their charac- 
 ters. 
 
 ' The first of them, (says he,) that has a spaniel 
 by his side, is a yeoman of about an hundred pounds 
 a year, an honest man: he is just within the game 
 act, and qualified to kill an hare or a pheasant; he 
 knocks down a dinner with his o-un tM'ice or thrice a 
 week ; and by that means lives much cheaper than 
 those who have not so good an estate as himself. He 
 
 U 4
 
 C96 SPECTATOR. xo. 122. 
 
 would be a good neighbour, if he did not destroy so 
 many partridges : in short, he is a very sensible man ; 
 shoots flying ; and has been several times foreman 
 of the petty jury. 
 
 ' The other that rides alono- with him is Tom 
 Touchy, a fellow famous for taking the law of every 
 body. There is not one in the town where he lives 
 that he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. The 
 rogue had once the impudence to go to law with the 
 \^'idow. His head is full of costs, damages, and eject- 
 ments : he ])lagued a couple of honest gentlemen so 
 long for a trespass in breaking one of his hedges, 
 till he was forced to sell the ground it enclosed to 
 .defray the charges of the prosecution. His father 
 left him fourscore pounds a year ; but he has cast 
 and been cast so often, that he is not now worth 
 thirty. I suppose he is going upon the old business 
 of the willovv'-tree.' 
 
 As Sir Roger Aras giving me tliis account of Tom 
 .Touchy, AVill Wimble and his two companions stop- 
 ped short till we came up to them. After having 
 paid their respects to Sir Roger, Will told him that 
 Mr. Touchy and he must appeal to him upon a dis- 
 pute that arose between them. Will, it seems, had 
 been giving his fellow-travellers an account of his 
 angling one day in such a hole ; when 'J om Touchy, 
 instead of hearing out his story, told him, that 
 !Mr. Such-an-one, if he pleased, might take the law 
 of him for fishing in that part of the river. j\ly 
 friend Sir Roger heard them both, upon a round 
 trot; and after having ])aused some time, told them, 
 with an air of a man who woukl not give his judg- 
 ment rashly, that much miglit be mid on both iults. 
 They weie neither of them dissatisfied Mith the 
 knight's (leterminalion, because neither of them 
 found himself ill the m rong l)y it: upon which we 
 made the best of our way to tlie assiz( s. 
 
 U he court was sate before Sir Roger came ; but, 
 notwithstanding all the justices had taken theij'
 
 NO. 12 2. SPECTATOR. 2i)7 
 
 places upon their bench, they made room for the 
 old knight at the head of them ; who, for his repu- 
 tation in the country, took occasion to wlnsper in the 
 judge's ear, that ' he was glad his lordship had met 
 Avith so nmch good weather in his circuit.' I was 
 listening to the proceedings of the court with much 
 attention, and infinitely pleased with that great ap- 
 pearance and solemnity which so properly accom- 
 panies such a public administration of our laws, 
 when, after about an hour's sitting, 1 observed, to 
 my great surpize, in the midst of a trial, that my 
 friend Sir Roger was getting up to speak. I was in 
 some pain for him, till 1 found he had acquitted 
 himself of two or three sentences, with a look of 
 much business and great intrepidity. 
 
 Upon his iirst rising, the court was hushed, and a 
 general whisper ran among the country people, tliat 
 Sir Roger ^\'as up. The speech he made was so lit- 
 tle to the purpose, that I shall not trouble my read- 
 ers with an account of it : and I believe was not so 
 much designed by the knight himself to inform the 
 court, as to give him a figure in my eye, and keep 
 up his credit in the country. 
 
 I was highly. delighted, when the court rose, to 
 see the gentlemen of the country gathej-ing about 
 my old friend, and striving who should compliment 
 him most; at the same time that the ordinary people 
 gazed upon him at a distance, not a little admiring 
 his courage, that was not afraid to speak to the 
 judge. 
 
 In our return home we met with a very odd acci- 
 dent ; which I cannot forbear relating, because it 
 shews how desirous all who know Sir Roger are of 
 giving him marks of their esteem. When we ar- 
 rived upon the verge of his estate, we stoj^pcd at a 
 little inn to rest ourselves and our horses. The man 
 of the house had it seems been formerly a servant 
 in the knight's family ; and, to do houour to his old 
 master, had some time since, unknown to Sir Roger, 
 put him up in a sign-post before the door ; so that
 
 298 SPECTATOR. no. 122. 
 
 the knight's head had hung out upon the road about 
 a week before he himself knew an}' thing of the mat- 
 ter. As soon as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, 
 finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded 
 wholly from aftection and good-will, he only told 
 him that he had made him too high a compliment; 
 and when the fellow seemed to think that could 
 hardly be, added, with a more decisive look, that it 
 Avas too great an honour for any man under a duke; 
 but told him at the same time, that it might be al- 
 tered with a very few touches, and that he himself 
 would be at the charge of it. Accordingly they 
 got a painter, by the knight's directions, to add a pair 
 of whiskers to the face, and, by a little aggravation 
 of the features, to change it into the Saracen's Head. 
 I should not have known this story, had not the 
 inn-keeper, upon Sir Roger's alighting, told him in 
 my hearing, that his honour's head was brought 
 back last night with the alterations that he had or- 
 dered to be made in it. Upon this my friend with 
 his usual chearfulncss related the particulars above- 
 mentioned, and ordered the head to be brought into 
 the room. I could not forbear discovering greater 
 expressions of mirth than ordinary upon the ap- 
 pearance of this monstrous face, under ^\ hich, not- 
 withstanding it was made to frown and stare in a 
 most extraordinary manner, I could still discover a 
 distant resemblance of my old friend. Sir Roger, 
 upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him truly 
 if I thought it possible for people to know him in 
 that disguise. I at first kept my usual silence; but 
 upon the knight's conjuring me to tell him M'hether 
 it was not still more like himself than a Saracen, I 
 composed my countenance in the best manner I 
 could, and rpplied, 'That much might be said on 
 both sides.' 
 
 'J'hese several adventures, Mith the knight's be- 
 haviour in them, gave nu' as pleasant a day as ever 
 I met with ui any of my travels.
 
 NO. 123. SPECTATOR. S95 
 
 No. 123. SATURDAY, JULY 21. 
 
 Doctrina sed vim promote t insifatn, 
 Rectique cultus pcctora roborant : 
 Utcuiique defecere mores, 
 Dedecorunt bene nata ciilpce. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 As I was yesterday taking the air with my friend 
 Sir Roger, we were met by a fresh-coloured ruddy 
 young man, who rid by us full speed, with a couple 
 of servants behind him. Upon my enquiry who he 
 was, Sir Roger told me that he was a young gentle- 
 man of a considerable estate, who had been edu- 
 cated by a tender mother, that lived not many miles 
 from the place where we Avere. ' She is a very good 
 lady, (says my friend ;) but took so much care of 
 her son's health, that she has made him good for 
 nothing. She quickly found that reading was bad 
 for his eves, and that writino; made his head ake. 
 He was let loose amono- the woods as soon as he 
 was able to ride on horseback, or to carry a gun 
 upon his shoulder.' To be brief, I found, by my 
 friend's account of him, that he had got a great 
 stock of health, but nothing else ; and that if it 
 were a man's business only to live, there would not 
 be a more accomplished young fellow in the whole 
 country. 
 
 The truth of it is, since my residing in these 
 parts, I have seen and heard innumerable instances 
 of young heirs, and elder brothers, who, either from 
 their own reflecting upon the estates they are born 
 to, and therefore thinking all other accomplish- 
 ments unnecessary, or from hearing these notions 
 frequently inculcated to them by the flattery of 
 their servants and domestics, or from the same 
 foolish thoughts prevailing in those who have the 
 care of their education, are of no manner of use
 
 300 SPECTATOR. no. 123; 
 
 but to keep up their families, and transmit their 
 lands and houses in a line to posterity. 
 
 This makes me often think of a story I have heard 
 of two friends, Avhich I shall give my reader at 
 large, under feigned names. The moral of it may, 
 I hope, be useful ; though there are some circum- 
 stances which make it rather appear like a novel, 
 than a true story. 
 
 Eudoxus and Leontine began the world -with 
 small estates. They were both of them men of good 
 sense and great virtue. They prosecuted their 
 studies together in their earlier years, and entered 
 into such a friendship as lasted to the end of their 
 lives. Eudoxus, at his first setting out in the world, 
 threw himself into a court, where, by his natural 
 endowments, and acquired abilities, he made his M-ay 
 from one post to another, till at length he had raised a 
 very considerable fortune. Leontine, on the contrary, 
 sought all opportunities of im])roving his mind by 
 study, conversation and travel. He was not only 
 acquainted with all the sciences, but with the most 
 eminent professors of them throughout Europe. 
 He knew perfectly well the interests of its princes, 
 with the customs and fashions of their courts, and 
 could scarce meet with the name of an extraordinary 
 person in the gazettee, whom he had noteither talked 
 to or seen. In short, he had so well mixed and 
 digested his knowledge of men and books, that he 
 made one of the most accomplished persons of his 
 a.irc. During the whole course of his studies and 
 travels, he kept up a punctual correspondence with 
 Eudoxus, who often made himself acceptable to the 
 principal nun about court, by the intelligence which 
 lie received from Leontine. ^V'lR'n they were both 
 turned of forty, (an age in which, according to Mr. 
 Cowley, ' there is no dallying with life,') they de- 
 termined, pursuant to the resolution they had taken 
 in the beginning of their lives, to retire, ami i)nss 
 ihe remainder of their d.iys in the country. lu
 
 NO. 12-3. SPECTATOR. 301 
 
 order to this, they both of them married nmch 
 about the same time. Leontine, Avith his own and 
 his wife's fortune, bought a farm of three hundred a 
 year, which lay within the neighbourhood of his 
 friend Eudoxus, who had purchased an estate of as 
 many thousands. They were both of them fathers 
 about the same time ; Eudoxus having a son born 
 to him, and Leontine a daughter; but, to the un- 
 speakable grief of the latter, his young wife (in 
 V horn all his happiness was wrapped up) died in a 
 few days after the birth of her daughter. His af- 
 fliction would have been insupportable, had he not 
 been comforted by the dail}^ visits and conversations 
 of his friend. As they were one day talking toge- 
 ther with their usual intimacy, Leontine, consider- 
 ing how incapable he W^as of giving his daugliter a 
 proper education in his own house, and Eufloxus 
 reflecting on the ordinary behaviour of a son who 
 knows himself to be the heir of a great estate, they 
 both agreed upon an exchange of children ; namely, 
 that the boy should be bred up with Leontine as his 
 son, and that the girl should live with Eudoxus as 
 his daughter, till they were each of them arrived at 
 J'ears of discretion. The wife of Eudoxus, know- 
 ino- that her son could not be so advantao-eouslv 
 brought up as under the care of Leontine, and con- 
 sidering, at the same time, that he would be perpe- 
 tually under her own eye, was by degrees prevailed 
 upon to fall in with the project. She therefore took 
 Leonilla, (for that Avas the name of the girl, ) and edu- 
 cated her as her own daughter. The two friends on 
 each side had wrought themselves to such an habi- 
 tual tenderness for the children who were under 
 their direction, that each of them had the real pas- 
 sion of a father, where the title was l)ut imaginary. 
 Florio, the name of the young heir that live-d wilh 
 Leontine, though he had all the duty and affection 
 Imaginable for his supposed parent, was taught to 
 rejoice at the sight of Eudoxus,. who .visited his.
 
 302 SPECTATOR. no. 123. 
 
 friend very frequently, and Mas dictated by his na- 
 tural affection, as well as by the rules of prudence, 
 to make himself esteemed and beloved by Florio. 
 The boy was now old enough to know his supposed 
 father's circumstances, and that therefore he was to 
 make his way in the world by his own industry. 
 This consideration grew stronger in him every day, 
 and produced so good an effect, that he applied 
 himself with more than ordinary attention to the 
 pursuit of every thing which Leontinc recommended 
 to him. His natural abilities, 'which were very 
 good, assisted ])y the directions of so excellent a 
 counsellor, enabled him to make a quicker progress 
 than ordinary through all the parts of his education. 
 Before he was twenty years oi' age, having finished 
 his studies and exercises with great applause, he 
 was removed from the University to the Inns of 
 Court ; where there are very few that make them- 
 selves considerable proficients in the studies of the 
 place, who know they shall arrive at great estates 
 without them. This was not Florio's case ; he found 
 tliat three hundred a year was but a poor estate for 
 Leontinc and himself to Hve upon, so that he stu- 
 died without intermission till he gained a very good 
 insight into the constitution and laws of his country. 
 1 should have told my reader, that \A'hilst Tlorio 
 lived at the house of his foster-father, he was alwaj^s 
 an acceptable guest in the iamily of Eudoxus, where 
 he became acquainted with Eeonilhi from her in- 
 fancy. His :icquaintance M'ith her b}^ degrees grew 
 into love, which, in a mind trained up in all the sen- 
 timents of honour and virtue, became a very uneasy 
 passion, lie despaired of gaining an heiress of so 
 great a fortune, and would rather ha\'e died than 
 attempted it by any indirect methods. Eeonilla, 
 who was a woman of the greatest beauty, joined 
 with the greatest nu)(l('stv, entertained at the same 
 time a secret passion for Florio, l)ut conducted her- 
 self with so much prudence, that she never gave
 
 Ko. 123. SPECTATOR. 303 
 
 him tlie least intimation of it. Florio was now 
 engaged in all those arts and improvements that 
 are proper to raise a man's private fortune, and give 
 liim a figure in his country, but secretly tormented 
 with that passion which burns with the greatest fury 
 in a virtuous and noble heart, when he received a 
 sudden summons from Leontine to repair to him in 
 the country the next day. For it seems Eudoxus was 
 so filled with the report of his son's reputation, that 
 he could no longer withhold making himself known 
 to him. The morning after his arrival at the house 
 of his supposed father, Leontine told him that Eu- 
 doxus had something of great importance to com- 
 municate to him; upon which the good man em- 
 braced him, and wept. Florio was no sooner ar- 
 rived at the great house that stood in his neighbour- 
 hood, but Eudoxus took him by the hand, after 
 the first salutes were over, and conducted him into 
 his closet. He there opened to him the whole se- 
 cret of his parentage and education, concluding 
 after this manner : ' I have no other way left of ac- 
 knowledging my gratitude to Leontine, than by 
 marrying you to his daughter. He shall not lose the 
 pleasure of being your father, by the discovery I have 
 made to you. Leonilla too shall be still my daughter; 
 her filial piety, though misplaced, has l3een so ex- 
 emplary, that it deserves the greatest rev/ard I can 
 confer upon it. You shall have the pleasure of see- 
 ing a great estate fall to yau, which you would have 
 lost the relish of, had you known yourself born to 
 it. Continue onlv to deserve it in the same manner 
 you did before you were possessed of it. I have left 
 your mother in the next room. Her heart yearns 
 towards you. She is making the same discoveries to 
 Leonilla, which I have made to yourself.' Florio 
 was so overwhelmed with this profusion of happi- 
 ness, that he was not able to make a reply, but 
 threw himself down at his father's feet, and, amidst 
 a flood of tears, kissed and embraced his knees, ask-
 
 304. SPECTATOR. no. 124. 
 
 ing his blessing, and expressing in dumb shew, those 
 sentiments of love, duty, and gratitude, that were 
 too big for utterance. To conclude, the happy pair 
 were married, and half Eudoxus' estate settled 
 upon them. Leontine and Eudoxus passed the 
 remainder of their lives together; and received, in 
 the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of Florio and 
 Leonilla, the just rccompence, as well as the natural 
 cttc'cts, of that care Mlnch they had bestowed upon 
 them in their education. 
 
 A 
 
 Ko. 124. JIONDAY, JULY £3. 
 
 MAX who publishes his works in a volume, has 
 an infinite advantage over one who communicates 
 his writings to the world in loose tracts and single 
 pieces, ^\'e do not expect to meet with any thing in a 
 bulky volume, till after some heavy preamble, and 
 several m ords of course, to prepare tlie reader for 
 what follows: nay, authors have established it as a 
 kind of rule, that a man ought to be dull some- 
 times; as the most severe reader makes allowances 
 for many rests and nodding places in a voluminous 
 ■writer. This gave occasion to the famous Greek 
 proverb which I have chosen for my motto, ' That 
 a great book is a great evil.' 
 
 Oil the contrary, those who i)ublish their thou libts 
 in distinct sheets, and, as it were, by piece-meal, 
 have uone of tliese achantages. ^\'e must innnedi- 
 atcly lali into our sul)ject, and treat every part of 
 it in a lively manner, or our papers are thrown by as 
 <!ull and insi|)id; our matter must lie close together, 
 and either be wholly new in itself, or in the turn it 
 receives from our expressions. Were the books of 
 our best authors thus to be retailed to the public,
 
 NO. 124. SPECTATOR. 305 
 
 and every page submitted to the taste of forty or 
 fifty thousand readers, I am afraid we should com- 
 plain of many flat expressions, trivial observations, 
 beaten topics, and common thoughts, which go off 
 very well in the lump. At the same time, notwith- 
 standing some papers may be made up of broken 
 hints and irregular sketches, it is often expected 
 that every sheet should be a kind of treatise, and 
 make out in thouo-ht what it Mants in bulk: that a 
 point of humor should be worked up in all its 
 parts; and a subject touched upon in its most essen- 
 tial articles, without the repetitions, tautologies, and 
 enlargements, that are indulged to longer labours. 
 The ordinary writers of morality prescribe to their 
 readers after the Galenic "svay ; their medicines are 
 made up in large quantities. An essay writer must 
 practise in the chemical method, and give the vir- 
 tue of a full draught in a few drops. Were all 
 books reduced thus to their quintessence, many a 
 bulky author would make his appearance in a penny 
 paper : there would be scarce such a thing in nature 
 as a folio : the works of an age would be contained 
 on a few shelves ; not to mention millions of volumes 
 that would be utterly annihilated. 
 
 I cannot think that the ditiiculty of furnishing out 
 separate papers of this nature, has hindered authors 
 from communicating their thoughts to the world 
 after such a manner : though I must confess I am 
 amazed that the press should be only made use of 
 in this way by news-writers, and the zealots of par- 
 ties : as if it were not more advantageous to man- 
 kind, to be instructed in wisdom and virtue, than 
 in politics ; and to be made good fathers, husbands, 
 and sons, than counsellors and statesmen. Had the 
 philosophers and great men of antiquity, who took 
 so much pains in order to instruct mankind, and 
 leave the world wiser and better than they found 
 it ; had they, I say, been possessed of the art of 
 printing, there is no question but they would havp 
 Vol. I. X
 
 306 SPECTATOR. no. 124. 
 
 made such an advantage of it, in dealing out their 
 lectures to the public. Our common prints would 
 be of great use, were they thus calculated to dif- 
 fuse good sense through the bulk of the people, to 
 clear up their understandings, animate their minds 
 with virtue, dissipate the sorrows of a heavy heart, 
 or unbend the mind from its more severe employ- 
 ments with innocent amusements. When know- 
 ledge, instead of being bound up in books, and 
 kept in libraries and retirements, is thus obtruded 
 upon the public ; when it is canvassed in every as- 
 sembly, and exposed upon every table; I cannot 
 forbear reflecting upon that passage in the Proverbs, 
 ' Wisdom cricth a\ ithout ; she uttereth her voice in 
 the streets : she crieth in the chief place of con- 
 course, in the openings of the gates. In the city 
 she uttereth her words, saying, How long, ye 
 simple ones, will ye love simplicity ? and the scorn- 
 ers delight in theif scorning ? and fools hate know- 
 ledge ?' 
 
 The many letters which come to me from persons 
 of the best sense in both sexes, (for I may pro- 
 nounce their characters from their M'ay of writing,) 
 do not a little encourage me in the prosecution of 
 this my undertaking : besides that, my bookseller 
 tells me, the demand for these my papers increases 
 daily. It is at his instance that I shall continue mv 
 rural speculations to the end of this month ; several 
 having made up separate sets of them, as they have 
 done before of those relating to wit, to operas, to 
 j)oints of morality, or subjects of humor. 
 
 I am not at all mortified, when sometimes I see 
 my works thrown asitle by men of no taste nor learn- 
 ino-. There is a kind of heaviness and i";norance 
 that hangs upon the minds of ordinary men, Avhich 
 is too thick for kno\\ledi>e to break throuuh : their 
 souls are not to be enlightened. 
 
 -r Nox aim caia circumiolat vmhra.
 
 NO. 125. SPECTATOR. 507 
 
 To these I must apply the fable of the mole, that, 
 after having consulted many oculists for the better- 
 ing of his sight, was at last provided with a good 
 pair of spectacles ; but, upon his endeavouring to 
 make use of them, his mother told him very pru- 
 dently, ' That spectacles, though they might help 
 *' the eye of a man, could be of no use to a mole." 
 It is not therefore for the benefit of moles that I 
 publish these my daily essays. 
 
 But besides such as are moles throuoh i^inorance, 
 there are others who are moles throuoh envv. As it 
 is said in the Latin proverb, " that one man is a 
 wolf to another ;" so, generally speaking, one au- 
 thor is a mole to another author. It is impossible 
 for them to discover beauties in one another's works ; 
 they have eyes only for spots and blemishes : they 
 can indeed see the light, as it is said of the animals 
 which are their namesakes, but the idea of it is pain- 
 ful to them ; they immediately shut their eyes upon 
 it, and withdraw themselves into a wilful obscurity. 
 I have already caught two or three of these dark 
 undermining vermin, and intend to make a string of 
 them, in order to hang them up in one of my papers, 
 as an example to all such voluntary moles. 
 
 No. 125. TUESDAY, JULY 24. 
 
 Ne pueri, ne tanfa aitimis asxnescife hella : 
 Neil pafriiz -culidas in -cisccra vertite rires. 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 IVIy worthy friend Sir Roger, ^\hen we are talking; 
 of the malice of parties, very frequently tells us of an 
 accident that happened to him when he was a school- 
 boy, which M'as at a time when the feuds ran high 
 between the Round-heads and Cavaliers. This wortliy 
 knight being then but a striphng, had occasion to 
 
 X ^>
 
 308 SPECTATOR. no. 125. 
 
 enquire Avhich was the way to St. Anne's-Lane ; 
 upon which the peison whom he spoke to, instead 
 of answering his question, called him a young- Popish 
 cur, and asked him wlio had made Anne a Saint ! The 
 boy being in some confusion, enquired of the next 
 he met, which was the way to Anne's-Lane ; but 
 was called a prick-eared cur for his pains, and, in- 
 stead of being shoAvn the way, was told, that she 
 had been a Saint before he was born, and would be 
 one after he was hanged. Upon this, (says Sir 
 Roger,) I did not think fit to repeat the former 
 question, but going into every lane of the neigh- 
 bourliood, asked what they called the name of that 
 lane. By which ingenious artifice he found out the 
 place he enquired after, without giving offence to 
 any party. Sir Roger generally closes this narrative 
 with reflections on the mischief that parties do in 
 the country ; how they spoil good neighbourhood, 
 and make honest gentlemen hate one another ; be- 
 sides that they manifestly tend to the prejudice of 
 the land-tax, and the destruction of the game. 
 
 There cannot a greater judgment bcfal a country, 
 than such a dreadful spirit of division as rends a 
 government into tMO distinct people, and makes 
 them greater strangers, and more averse to one ano- 
 ther, than if they were actually two different na- 
 tions. The effects of such a division are pernicious 
 to the last degree ; not only with regard to those 
 advantages which they give the common enemy, 
 but to those ])rivate evils which they produce in the 
 heart of almost every particular person. Uliis in- 
 fluence is very fatal both to mens morals and their 
 understandings ; it sinks the virtue of a nation, and 
 not only so, but destroys even eonunon sense. 
 
 A furious party-spiiit, when it rages in its full 
 violence, exerts itself in civil wnv and bloodshed ; 
 and when it is uiulcr its greatest restraints, naturally 
 breaks out in falsehooti, detraction, calumny, and a 
 partial administration of justice. In a w6rd, it fills
 
 NO. 125. SPECTATOR. 309 
 
 a nation with spleen and rancour, and extinguishes 
 all the seeds of good-nature, compassion, and hu- 
 manity. 
 
 Plutarch says very finely, that a man should not 
 allow himself to hate even his enemies; 'because, 
 (says he,) if you indulge this passion in some occa- 
 sions, it will rise of itself in others : If you hate 
 your enemies, you will contract such a vicious habit 
 of mind, as by degrees will break out upon those: 
 who are your friends, or those who are indifferent 
 to you.' I might here observe how admirably this 
 precept of morality (which derives the malignity of 
 hatred from the passion itself, and not from its ob- 
 ject) answers to that great rule which was dictated 
 to the world about an hundred years before this 
 philosopher wrote ; but, instead of that, I shall only 
 take notice, with a real grief of heart, that the 
 minds of many good men among us appear soured 
 with party-principles, and alienated from one ano- 
 ther in such a manner, as seems to me altogether 
 inconsistent with the dictates either of reason or 
 religion. Zeal for a public cause is apt to breed 
 passions in the hearts of virtuous persons, to which 
 the regard of their own private interest would never 
 have betrayed them. 
 
 If this party-spirit has so ill an effect on, our mo- 
 rals, it has likewise a very great one upon our judg- 
 ments. We often hear a poor insipid paper or 
 pamphlet cried up, and sometimes a noble piece de- 
 preciated by those who are of a different principle 
 from the author. One who is actuated by this 
 spirit, is almost under an incapacity of discerning 
 either real blemishes or beauties. A man of merit 
 in a different principle, is like an object seen in two 
 different mediums, that appears crooked or broken, 
 however straight and entire it may be in itself. For 
 this reason there is scarce a person of any figure in 
 England, who does not go by two contrary charac- 
 ters, as opposite to one another as light and dark- 
 
 X3
 
 310 SPECTATOR. no. 125. 
 
 ness. Knowledge and learning suffer in a particular 
 manner from this strange prejudice, which at present 
 prevails amongst all ranks and degrees in the British 
 nation. As men formerly became eminent in learned 
 societies by their parts and acquisitions, they now 
 distinguish themselves by the warmth and violence 
 with which they espouse their respective parties. 
 Books are valued upon the hkc considerations : an 
 abusive scurrilous style passes for satire, and a dull 
 scheme of party-notions is called fine M-riting. 
 
 There is one piece of sophistry practised by both 
 sides, and that is the taking any scandalous story 
 that has been ever whispered or invented of a pri- 
 vate man, for a known undoubted truth, and rais- 
 ing suitable speculations upon it. Calumnies that 
 have never been proved, or have been often refuted, 
 are the ordinary postulatums of these infamous 
 scribblers, upon which they proceed as upon first 
 principles granted by all men, though in their hearts 
 thev know they are false, or at best verv doubtful. 
 When they have laid these foundations of scurrility, 
 it is no wonder that their superstructure is every way 
 answerable to them. If this shameless practice of 
 the present age endures much longer, praise and re- 
 proach will cease to be motives of action in good 
 men. 
 
 There' are certain periods of time iu all govern- 
 ments when this inhuman spirit prevails. Italy was 
 long torn in pieces by the (luelfes and Gibelines, 
 and France by those who were for and against the 
 League : but it is very unhappy for a man to be born 
 in such a stormy and tempestuous season. It is the 
 restless ambition of artful men tliat thus breaks a 
 people into factions, and draws several well-meaning 
 persons to their interest by a specious concern for 
 their country. How many honest minds are filled 
 with uncharitable and barbarous notions, out of 
 their zeal for the public good ? What cruelties and 
 outrages would tliey not commit agaijist men of an
 
 NO. 126. SPECTATOR. 311 
 
 adverse party, whom they would honour and esteem, 
 if, instead ofconsidering them as they are represented, 
 they knew them as they are ? Thus are persons of 
 the greatest probity seduced into shameful errors 
 and prejudices, and made bad men even by that 
 noblest of principles, the love of their country. I 
 cannot here forbear mentioning the famous Spanish 
 proverb, ' If there were neither fools nor knaves in 
 the world, all people avouUI be of one mind.' 
 
 For my own part, I could heartily M'ish that all 
 honest men would enter into an association, for the 
 support of one another against the endeavours of 
 those whom they ought to look upon as their com- 
 mon enemies, whatsoever side they may belong to. 
 Were there such an honest body of neutral forces, 
 we should never see the worst of men in great figures 
 of life, because they are useful to a party ; nor the 
 best unregarded, because they are above practising 
 those methods which would be grateful to tlieir 
 faction. We should then single every criminal 
 out of the herd, and hunt liim down, however 
 formidable and overgrown he might appear : on the 
 contrary, we should shelter distressed innocence, 
 and defend virtue, however beset with contempt or 
 ridicule, envy or defamation. In short, v. e shoidd 
 not any longer regard our fellow-subjects as A\'higs 
 and Tories, but should make the man of merit our 
 friend, and the villain our enemy. 
 
 No. 126. WEDNESDAY, JULY 25. 
 
 Tros Rufulusve Jiiaf, nallo discrhnine /lahcbo. 
 
 AN my yesterday's paper I propo«^c(l, that the ho- 
 nest men of all parties should enter into a kind of 
 association for the defence of one another, and the 
 
 X 4
 
 312 SPECTATOR. no. 126. 
 
 confusion of their common enemies. As it is de- 
 signed this neutral body should act with a regard to 
 nothing but truth and equity, and divest themselves 
 of the little heats and prepossessions that cleave to 
 parties of all kinds, I have prepared for them the 
 following form of an association, M'hich may express 
 their intentions in the most plain and simple manner. 
 
 ' We whose names are hereunto subscribed, do 
 solemnly declare, that we do in our consciences be- 
 lieve two and two make four ; and that we shall ad- 
 judge any man whatsoever to be our enemy, who en- 
 deavours to persuade us to the contrary. We are 
 hkewise 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 all places ; and that ten M'ill 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 hve, to call black black, and white w hite. 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 j)assion and interest 
 of the other ; as also such infamous hypocrites, 
 that are for promoting their own advantage, under 
 colour of the public good ; Avith all the profligate 
 immoral retainers to each side, that have nothing to 
 recommend them but an implicit submission to tlieir 
 leaders ; we sliould soon sec 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 tbis society, that \\ ould thus care- 
 fully employ himself in making roon\ for merit, 
 by Ihrowjng down the Mortbless and depraved part
 
 NO. 126. SPECTATOR. 313 
 
 of mankind from those conspicuous stations of 
 life to which they have been sometimes advanced, 
 and all this without any regard to his private inte- 
 rest, would be no small benefactor to his country. 
 
 I remember to have read in Diodorus Siculus, an 
 account of a very active httlc animal, which I think 
 he calls the Ichneumon, that makes it the whole bu- 
 siness of his life to break the eggs of the crocodile, 
 which he is always in search after. This instinct is 
 the more remarkable, because the Ichneumon never 
 feeds upon the eggs he has broken, nor anv other 
 way finds his account in them. Wtve it not for the 
 incessant labours of this industrious animal, ^gypt 
 (says the historian) would be over-run with croco- 
 diles ; for the .Egyptians are so far from destroying 
 those pernicious creatures, that they worship them 
 as gods. 
 
 If we look into the behaviour of ordinary par- 
 tizans, we shall find them far from resembling this 
 disinterested animal ; and rather acting after the ex- 
 ample of the wild Tartars, M^ho are ambitious of 
 destroying a man of the most extraordinary parts and 
 accomplishments, as thinking that, upon his decease, 
 the same talents, whatever post they qualified him 
 for, enter of course into his destroyer. 
 
 As in the whole train of my speculations, I have 
 endeavoured, as much as I am able, to extinguish 
 that pernicious spirit of passion and prejudice, which 
 rages with the same violence in all parties, I am still 
 the more desirous of doing some good in this par- 
 ticular, because I observe that the spirit of party 
 reigns more in the country than in the town. It 
 here contracts a kind of brutality and rustic fierce- 
 ness, to which men of a politer conversation are 
 ^^dlollv strang-ers. It extends itself even to the re- 
 turn of the bow and the hat ; and at the same time 
 that the heads of parties preserve towards one ano- 
 ther an outward shew of good-lneefling, and keep 
 up a perpetual intercourse of civilities, their tools,
 
 314 SPECTATOR. no. 12^. 
 
 that are dispersed in these outlying parts, will not so 
 much as mingle together at a cock-match. This 
 humor fills the country Mith several periodical 
 meetings of Whig jockeys and Tory fox-hunters ; 
 not to mention the innumerahle curses, frowns, and 
 whispers, it produces at a quarter-sessions. 
 
 I do not know whether I have observed in any 
 of my former papers, that my friends, Sir Roger de 
 Coverley and Sir Andrew Freeport, are of different 
 principles ; the first of them inclined to the landed, 
 and the other to the moneyed interest. This humor 
 is so moderate in each of them, that it proceeds no 
 farther than to an ao-reeable raillerv, Mhich very 
 often diverts the rest of the club. I find, however, 
 that the knight is a much stronger Tory in the coun- 
 try than in to>\'n, which, as he has told me in my 
 ear, is absolutely necessary for the keeping up his 
 interest. In all our iourney from London to his 
 house, we did not so much as bait at a Whig inn ; or, 
 if by chance the coachman stopped at a wrong 
 place, one of Sir Roger's servants would ride up to 
 his master full speed, and whisper to him, that the 
 master of the house was against such an one in the 
 last election. This often betrayed us into hard beds 
 and bad cheer ; for we were ilot so inquisitive about 
 the inn as the inn-keeper; and piovided our land- 
 lord's principles were sound, did not take any no- 
 tice of the stateness of his provisions. 'Hiis I found 
 still the more inconvenient, because the better the 
 host was, the worse ijenerallv were his accommoda- 
 tions ; the fellow knowing very well, that those 
 who were his friends, would take up with coarse 
 diet and an hard lodging. For these reasons, all 
 the while I was upon the road, I dreaded entering 
 into an house of any one that Sir Roger had aj)- 
 plauded foi- an honest man. 
 
 Since my stav at Sir Roirer's in the country, I 
 daily fmd more instances of this narrow party-hu- 
 mor. Being upon the bowling-green at a neigh-
 
 NO. 126. SPECTATOR. 515 
 
 bourino: market-town the other day, (for that is the 
 place where the gentlemen ot one side meet once a 
 week,) I observed a stranger among them, of a bet- 
 ter presence, and genteeler behaviour, than ordinary; 
 but was much surprized, that, notwithstanding he 
 was a very fair better, nobody would take him up. 
 But upon enquiry I found, that he was one who had 
 given a disagreeable vote in a former parliament, 
 for which reason there was not a man upon that 
 bowling-oreen who would have so much corre:bpon- 
 dence with him as to win his money of him. 
 
 Among other instances of this nature, I must not 
 omit one which concerns myself. Will Wimble was 
 the other day relating several strange stories that he 
 had picked up, nobody knows where, of a certain 
 great man; and upon my staring at liim, as one 
 that was surprized to hear such things in the coun- 
 try, which had never been so much as whispered in 
 the town, Will stopped short in the thread of his 
 discourse, and after dinner asked my friend Sir 
 Roo-er in his ear, if he was sure that I was not a 
 fanatic. 
 
 It gives me a serious concern to see such a spirit 
 of dissension in the country; not only as it de- 
 stroys virtue and connnon sense, and renders us in 
 a, manner barbarians towards one another, but as it 
 perpetuates our animosities, 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: and therefore cannot but bewail, as 
 in their first principles, the miseries and calamities 
 of our children.
 
 316 SPECTATOR. no. 127. 
 
 No. 127. THURSDAY, JULY 25. 
 
 Quantum est in rebus inane ? 
 
 Pers. 
 
 Xt is our custom at Sir Roger's, upon the coming 
 in of the post, to sit about a pot of coffee, and hear 
 the old knio'ht read Dver's letter ; which he does 
 Avith his spectacles upon his nose, and in an audible 
 voice, smiling veiy often at those little strokes of 
 satire, which are so frequent in the writings of that 
 author. I afterwards communicate to the knight 
 such packets as I receive under the quality of Spec- 
 tator. The following letter chancing to please 
 him more than ordinary, I shall publish it at his re- 
 quest. 
 
 ' Mr. Spectator, 
 *You have diverted the town almost a whole 
 month at the expence of the country ; it is now 
 high time that you should give the country their 
 revenge. Since your withdrawing from this j)lace, 
 the fair sex have run into great extravagancies. 
 Their petticoats, which began to heave and swell 
 before you left us, are now blown up into a most 
 enormous concave, and rise every day more and 
 more: in short. Sir, since our Momen know tbem- 
 selves to be out of the eye of the Spectator, tbey 
 will be kept within no compass. You praised them a 
 little too soon, for the modesty of their head-dresses : 
 for as the himnor of a sick person is often driven 
 out of one limb into another, tbeir superlluity of 
 ornaments, instead of being entirely banisbed, seems 
 only fallen from their heads upon their lower parts. 
 Wliat they have lost in height they make up in 
 breadth, and, contrary to all rules of architecture, 
 widen the foundations at the same time that they 
 shorten tlie superstructure. Were they, like Sj)anish 
 jennets, to impregnate by the wintl, they could not 
 have thought on a mgie proper invention, iiut ati
 
 NO. 127. SPECTATOR. SI7 
 
 we do not yet hear any particular use in this petti- 
 coat, or that it contains any thing more than what 
 was supposed to be in those of scantier make, we 
 are wonderfully at a loss about it. 
 
 ' The women ""ive out, in defence of these wide 
 bottoms, that they are airy, and very proper for 
 the season ; but this I look upon to be only a pre- 
 tence, and a piece of art ; for it is well known, we 
 have not had a more moderate summer these many 
 years, so that it is certain the heat they complain 
 of cannot be in the weather: besides, I would fain 
 ask these tender-constitutioned ladies, why they 
 should require more cooling than their mothers be- 
 fore them. 
 
 ' I find several speculative persons are of opinion, 
 that our sex has of late years been very saucy, and 
 that the hoop-petticoat is made use of to keep us at 
 a distance. It is most certain that a woman's ho- 
 nour cannot be better entrenched than after this 
 manner, in circle within circle, amidst such a va- 
 riety of out-works and lines of circumvallation. A 
 female who is thus invested in whalebone, is suf- 
 ficiently secured against the approaches of an ill- 
 bred fellow, who might as well think of Sir George 
 Etheridge's way of making love in a tub, as in the 
 midst of so many hoops. 
 
 ' Among these various conjectures, there are men 
 of superstitious tempers, who look upon the hoop- 
 petticoat as a kind of prodigy. Some will have it, 
 that it portends the downfall of the French king, 
 and observe that the farthingale appeared in Eng- 
 land a little before the ruin of the Spanish monarchy. 
 Others are of opinion, that it foretels battle and blood- 
 shed, and believe it of the same prognostication as 
 the tail of a blazing star. For my part, 1 am apt 
 to think it is a sign that multitudes are coming into 
 liie world, rather than going out of it. 
 
 ' The first time I saw a lady dressed in one of these 
 petticoats, I could not forbear blaming her in ray
 
 518 SPECTATOR. NO. 127. 
 
 own thoughts, for walking abroad when she was so 
 near her time; but soon recovered myself out of my 
 error, when I found all the modish part of the sex 
 as far gone as herself It is generally thought some 
 crafty women have thus betrayed their companions 
 into hoops, that they might make them accessary to 
 their own concealments, and by that means escape 
 the censure of the world ; as wary generals have 
 sometimes dressed two or three dozen of their friends 
 in their own habit, that they might not draw upon 
 themselves any particular attacks from the enemy. 
 The strutting petticoat smooths all distinctions, levels 
 the mother with the daughter, and sets maids and 
 matrons, wives and widows, upon the same bottom. 
 In the mean while, I cannot but be troubled to see 
 so many well-shaped innocent virgins bloated up, 
 and waddling up and down like big-bellied women. 
 
 ' Should this fashion get among the ordinary 
 people, our public ways would be so crowded that 
 we should want street-room. Several congregations 
 of the best fashion find themselves already very 
 much straightened, and if the mode increase, I wish 
 it may not drive many ordinary women into meet- 
 injrs and conventicles. Should our sex at the same 
 time take it into their heads to wear trunk breeches, 
 (as who knows what their indignation at this fem.ale 
 treatment may drive them to ?) a man and his wife 
 would fill a whole pew. 
 
 ' You know, Sir, it is recorded of Alexander the 
 Great, that in his Indian expedition, he buried several 
 suits of armour, which by his directions were made 
 much too big for any of his soldiers, in order to 
 give posterity an extraordinary idea of him, and 
 make them believe he iiad commanded an army of 
 giants. 1 am persuaded, that if one of the ])resent 
 petticoats happens to be hung up in any repository 
 of curiosities, it will lead into the same error the 
 generations that lie sonu' removes from us; unless 
 we can believe our posterity will think so disrespect-
 
 NO. 128. SPECTATOR. 319 
 
 fully of their great-grandmothers, that they made 
 themselves monstrous to appear amiable. 
 
 ' \Mien I survey this neM-fashioned rotunda in all 
 its parts, I cannot but think of the old philosopher, 
 ^dl0, after having entered into -an ^Egyptian temple, 
 and looked about for the idol of the place, at length 
 discovered a little black monkey enshrined in the 
 midst of it; upon which he could not forbear cry- 
 ing out, (to the great scandal of the worshippers,) 
 *' What a magnificent palace is here for such a ri- 
 diculous inhabitant!" 
 
 ' Though you have taken a resolution, in one of 
 your papers, to avoid descending to particularities 
 of dress, I believe you will not think it below you, 
 on so extraordinary an occasion, to unhoop the fair 
 sex, and cure this fashionable tympany that is got 
 among them. I am apt to think the petticoat will 
 shrink of its own accord at your first coming to 
 town; at least a touch of your pen will make it 
 contract itself, like the sensitive plant, and by that 
 means oblige several, who are either terrified or 
 astonished at this portentous novelty, and among 
 the rest, 
 
 ' Your humble servant, Sec." 
 
 No. 128. FRIDAY, JULY 27 
 
 Concordia discors. 
 
 Luc. 
 
 V\ OMEN 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 light and volatile ; or whether, 
 as some have imagined, there may not be a kind of 
 sex in the very soul, I shall not" pretend to deter- 
 mine. As vivacity is the gift of women, gravity is
 
 S20 SPECTATOR. no. 128, 
 
 that of men. They should each of them, therefore, 
 keep a watch upon the particular hiass which nature 
 has fixed in their minds, that it mav 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 heing rigid and 
 severe, and the other of being brisk and airy. Men 
 should beware of being captivated by a kind of sa- 
 vage philosophy, women by a thoughtless gallantry. 
 W'here these precautions are not observed, the man 
 often degenerates into a cynic, the woman into a 
 cocpictte; the man grows sullen and morose, the 
 woman impertinent and fantastical. 
 
 By what I have said we may conclude, men and 
 women were made as counterparts to one another, 
 that the pains and anxieties of the husband might 
 be relieved by the sprightliness and good -humor 
 of the wife, \yhen these are rightly tempered, care 
 and chearfulness go hand in hand; and the family, 
 like a ship that is duly trimmed, wants neither sail 
 Dor ballast. 
 
 Natural historians observe (for whilst I am in 
 tlie country I must fetch my allusions from thence) 
 that only the male birds have voices; that their 
 songs begin a little before breeding-time, and end a 
 little after : that whilst the hen is covering her eggs, 
 the male generally takes his stand upon a neigh- 
 bouring bough AV'ithin her hearing, and by that 
 means amuses and diverts her with his songs during 
 the whole time of her sitting. 
 
 This contract among birds lasts no longer than 
 till a brood of youni>' ones arises from it; so that in 
 tlie featliered kind, the cares and fatigues of the 
 married state, if I may so call it, lie princi])ally on 
 the female. On the contrary, as in our species, the 
 man and the woman arc joined together for life, and 
 the main burden rests upon the former. Nature has 
 given all the little arts of soothing and blandish- 
 ment to the female, that she may cheer and animate
 
 NO. 128. SPECTATOR. 321 
 
 her companion in a constant and assiduous appli- 
 cation to the making a provision for his family, and 
 the educating of their common children. This, 
 however, is not to be taken so strictly, as if the 
 same duties were not often reciprocal, and incum- 
 bent on both parties; but onl}' to set forth what 
 seems to have been the general intention of nature, 
 in the different inclinations and endowments 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 ob- 
 serve the conduct of the fair sex, we find that they 
 chuse rather to associate themselves with a person 
 who resembles them in that li^-ht and volatile hu- 
 mor Avhich is natural to them, than to such as are 
 qualified to moderate and counterbalance it. It 
 has been an old complaint, that the coxcomb carries 
 it with them before the man of sense. When we 
 see a fellow loud and talkative, full of insipid life 
 and laughter, we may venture to pronounce him a 
 female favourite: noise and flutter are such accom- 
 plishments as they cannot withstand. To be short, 
 tlie passion of an ordinary woman for a man, is no- 
 thing else but self-love diverted upon another ob- 
 ject; she would have the lover a woman 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. Drvden: 
 
 Our thou ditl ess sex ]< caiio-ht bv 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 in their own 
 thoughts are as fine creatures as themselves ; or if 
 they chance to be good-humored, serve only to 
 dissipate their fortunes, inflame their foUies, and ag- 
 gravate their indiscretions. 
 
 The same female levity is no less fatal to them 
 after marriage than before: it represents to their 
 
 Vol.. I. Y
 
 322 SPECTATOR. no. 128. 
 
 imaginations, the faithful, prudent husband as an 
 honest, tractable and domestic animal; and turns 
 their thoughts upon the line 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 ope- 
 rates with the same pernicious influence towards 
 their children, who are taught to accomplish them- 
 selves in all those sublime perfections that appear 
 captivating in the eye of their mother. She ad- 
 mires 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 vouno-er Faustina was a livelv instance of this 
 sort of women. Notwithstanding she M'as married 
 to Marcus Aurelius, one of the greatest, wisest 
 and best of the Roman 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 
 inan, 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 Ro- 
 man empire, siii;nalizing himself in nothing but the 
 iighting of prizes, and knocking out mens' brains. 
 As he had no taste of true glory, we see him in 
 several medals and statues, which are still extant, of 
 him, eciuipj)ed like an Hercules, with a club and a 
 lion's skin. 
 
 I have l)een led into this speculation by the cha- 
 racters I have heard of a country gentleman and his 
 ladv, M'ho do not live manv miles from Sir Roger. 
 The wife is an old coquette, that is always hanker- 
 ing after the diversions of the town ; the husband 
 a morose rustic, that frowns and frets at the name 
 of it. 'J'he wife is over-run with affectation, the 
 husband sunk into l)rutality : the lady cannot bear 
 .the noise of the larks and nightingales, hates your
 
 NO. 129. SPECTATOR. S23 
 
 tedious summer clays, and is sick at the sight of 
 shady woods and purhng streams; the husband 
 wonders how any one can be pleased witli the 
 fooleries of plays and operas, and rails from morn- 
 ing to night at essenced fops and tawdry courtiers. 
 The children are educated in these different notions 
 of their parents. The sons follov\' 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 diiferent are the lives of Aristus and Aspasia? 
 The innocent vivacity of the one is tempered and 
 composed by the chearful gravity of the other. 
 The wife grows wise by the discourses of the hus- 
 band, and the husband good-humored by the con- 
 versations of the wife. Aristus would not be so 
 amiable were it not for his Aspasia, nor Aspasia so 
 much to be esteemed were it not for her Aristus. 
 Their virtues are blended in their children, and dit- 
 fuse through the whole famih^ a perpetual spirit of 
 benevolence, complacency, and satisfaction. 
 
 No. 129. SATURDAY, JULY 28. 
 
 Vertentem scse frustra sectahere canthum. 
 Cum rota posterior curras et in axe secundo. 
 
 Peus. 
 
 VTreat masters in painting never care for drawing 
 people in the fashion ; as very well knowing that 
 the head-dress, or periwig, that now prevails, and 
 gives a grace to their portraitures at present, will 
 make a very odd figure, and perhaps look monstrous, 
 in the eyes of posterity. For this reason they often 
 represent an illustrious person m a Roman habit, or 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 SPECTATOR. no. 129. 
 
 in some other dress that never varies. I could wish, 
 for the sake of my country friends, that there was 
 such a kind of everlasting drapery to he made use 
 of hy all who li\'e at a certain distance from the 
 town, and that they would agree upon such fashions 
 as should never he liable to chan"-es and innovations. 
 For want of this standing- dress, a man who takes a 
 journey into the country, is as much surprized, as 
 one who walks in a gallery of old family pictures; 
 and finds as great a variety of garbs and habits in 
 the persons he converses with. Did they keep to 
 one constant dress, they would sometimes be in the 
 fashion, which they never are as matters are ma- 
 naged at present. If, instead of running after the 
 mode, thev would continue fixed in one certain 
 habit, the mode will some time or other overtake 
 them, as a clock that stands still is sure to point 
 right once in twelve hours: in this case, therefore, I 
 would advise them, as a gentleman did his friend 
 who was huntimi' about the whole town after a 
 rambling fellow: If you follow liim, you willuever 
 find him; but if you plant yourself at the corner of 
 any one street, Til engage it will not be long before 
 you see him. 
 
 I have already touched upon this subject, in a 
 speculation -which shews how cruelly the country 
 are led astray in following the town ; and equipped 
 in a ridiculous habit, when they fancy themselves 
 in the height of the mode. Since tliat speculation, 
 I have received a letter (which I there hinted at) 
 from a gentleman who is now on the western circuit. 
 
 ' Mr. Spectator, 
 * Bf.incj a lawyer of the Middle Temj)lc, a Cor- 
 nish man l)y birth, I generally ride the Mcstern cir- 
 cuit for my health; and as I am not intenupted 
 u ith clients, Ikinc leisure to make many obser\ations 
 that escape the notice of my fellow-travellers.
 
 NO. 129. SPECTATOR. 325 
 
 ' One of the most fashionable women I met with 
 in all the circuit Mas my landlady at Staines, where I 
 chanced to be on a holyday. Her commode was 
 not half afoot high, and her petticoat within some 
 yards of a modish circumference. In the same 
 place I observed a young fellow with a tolerable pe- 
 riwig, had it not been covered with a hat that was 
 shaped in the Ramillie cock. As I proceeded in my 
 journey, I observed the petticoat grew scantier and 
 scantier, and about threescore miles from London 
 was so very unfashionable, that a woman might 
 walk in it without any manner of inconvenience. 
 
 ' Not far from Salisbury I took notice of a jus- 
 tice of peace's lady, who was at least ten years be- 
 hind-hand in her dress, but at the same time as fine 
 as hands could make her. She was flounced and fur- 
 belowed from head to foot ; every ribbon was wrink- 
 led, and every part of her garments in curl, so that 
 she looked like one of those animals which in the 
 country we call a Friezeland hen. 
 
 ' Not many miles beyond this place, I was in- 
 formed, that one of the last year's little mufJs had by 
 some means or other straggled into those parts, and 
 that all the women of fashion were cutting their old 
 muffs in tAvo, or retrenching them, according to the 
 httle model which Avas o-ot amono; them. I cannot 
 believe the report they have there, that it was sent 
 down franked by a parliament-man in a little packet; 
 but probably by next winter this fashion will be at 
 the height in the country, when it is quite out at 
 London. 
 
 ' The greatest beau at our next county sessions 
 was dressed in a most monstrous flaxen periwig, 
 that was made in Kins: A\ illiam's reio*n. The wearer 
 of it goes, it seems, in his own hair, when he is at 
 home, and lets his wig lie in buckle for a whole 
 half year, that he may put it on upon occasion to 
 meet the judges in it. 
 
 Y 3
 
 325 SPECTATOR. no. 129. 
 
 * I must not here omit an adventure which hap- 
 pened to us in a coiuitry church upon the fron- 
 tiers of Cornwall. As we were in the midst of the 
 service, a lady, who is the chief woman of the place, 
 and had passed the winter at London with her hus- 
 band, entered the congregation in a little head- 
 dress, and a hooped-petticoat. llie people, Avho 
 were wonderfully startled at such a sight, all of them 
 rose up. Some stared at the prodigious bottom, 
 and some at the little top, of this strange dress. In 
 the mean time the lady of the manor tilled the area 
 of the church, and walked up to her pew with an 
 imspeakable satisfaction, amidst the whispers, con- 
 jectures and astonishments of the whole congre- 
 gation. 
 
 ' Upon our way from hence we saw a young fel- 
 low riding towards us full gallop, with a bob-wig, 
 and a black silken bag tied to it. He stopt short 
 at the coach, to ask us how far the judges were be- 
 hind us. His stay was so very short, that we had 
 only time to observe his new silk waistcoat, Avhich 
 was unbuttoned in several places, to let us see that 
 he had a clean shirt on, which was ruffled down to 
 his middle. 
 
 ' From this place, during our progress through 
 the most western parts of the kingdom, Ave fancied 
 ourselves in King Charles the Second's reign, the 
 people having made very little variation in their 
 dress since that time. The smartest of the country 
 squires appear still in the Monmouth cock ; and 
 when they go a wooing (whether they have any 
 post in the militia or not) they generally put on a 
 red coat. We were indeed very much surprized, at 
 the place we lay at last nioht, to meet with a gentle- 
 man that had accoutered Iiimself in a night-cap wig, 
 a coat witli long pockets and slit sleeves, and a pair 
 of shoes with high scollop tops; but we soon found 
 by his conversation, that he was a person who laughed
 
 NO. 130. SPECTATOR. 327 
 
 at the ignorance and rusticity of the country people, 
 and was resolved to live and die in the mode. 
 
 '* Sir, if vou think this account of my travels 
 may be of any advantage to the public, I will next 
 year trouble you with such occurrences as I shall 
 meet with in other parts of England. For I am in- 
 formed there are o-reater curiosities in the northern 
 circuit than in the western ; and that a fashion 
 makes its progress much slower into Cumberland 
 than into Cornwall. I have heard, in particular, that 
 the Steenkirk arrived but two months ao-o at New- 
 castle, and that there are several commodes in those 
 parts which are worth taking a journey thither to 
 
 see," 
 
 No. 130. MONDAY, JULY 30. 
 
 ■Sent per que recent es 
 
 Coincctarc jircat pnedas, et livcre rapfo. 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 J\s I was yesterday riding out in the fields with 
 mv friend Sir Roo-er, we saw at a little distance from 
 us a troop of gipsies. Upon the first discovery of 
 them, my friend was in some doubt whether he 
 should not exert the Justice of Peace upon such a 
 band of law less vagrants : but not having his clerk 
 v/ith him, a\ ho is a necessary counsellor on these 
 occasions, and fearing that his poultry might fare 
 the worse for it, he let the thought drop. But at 
 the same time gave me a particular account of the 
 mischiefs they do in the country, in stealing peoples' 
 goods, and spoiling their servants. ' If a stray piece 
 of hnen hangs upon an hedge, (says Sir Roger,) they 
 are sure to have it : if a boo- loses his M'ay in the 
 fields, it is ten to one but he becomes their prey : 
 our geese cannot hve in peace for them. If a man 
 prosecutes them with severity, his hen-roost is sure 
 
 Y4''
 
 32S SPECTATOR. no. 130. 
 
 to pay for it. They generally straggle into these 
 parts about this time of the year ; and set the heads 
 of our servant-maids so agog for husbands, that we 
 do not expect to have any business done, as it 
 should be, whilst they are in the country. I have 
 an honest dairy-maid who crosses their hands with a 
 piece of silver every summer ; and never fails being 
 promised the handsomest young fellow in the parish 
 for her pains. Your friend the butler has been fool 
 enougli to be seduced by them ; and though he is 
 sure to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon, every time 
 his fortune is told him, generally shuts himself up 
 in the pantry with an old gipsy for above half an 
 hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweethearts are 
 the things they live upon, which they bestow very 
 plentifully upon all those that apply themselves to 
 them. You see now and then some handsome young 
 jades among them : the sluts have very often M'hite 
 teeth and black eyes.' 
 
 Sir Roger observing that I listened with great at- 
 tention to his account of a people who were so en- 
 tirely new to me, told me, that if 1 Mould, they 
 should tells us our fortunes. As I was \ery well 
 pleased with the knight's proposal, we rid up, and 
 communicated our hands to them. A Cassandra of 
 the crew, after having examined my lines very dili- 
 gently, told me, that I loved a pretty maid in a 
 corner, that I was a good woman's man, with some 
 other particulars which I do not think proper to re- 
 late. My friend Sir Roger alighted from his horse, 
 and exposing his palm to two or three that stood i)y 
 him, they crumpled it into all shapes, and diligently 
 scanned every wrinkle that could be made in it ; 
 when one of them, who was older, and more sun- 
 burnt, than the rest, told him, that he had a widow 
 in his line of life : uj)()n which the knight cried, 
 ' Go, go, you are an idle baggage ;' and at the same 
 time smiled upon me. 'Jhc gij)sy finding he was not 
 displeased in his heart, told him^ after a further en-
 
 NO. 130. SPECTATOR. 329 
 
 quiiy into his hand, that his true-love was constant, 
 and that she should dream of him to-night. My 
 old friend cried pish, and hid her go on. The gipsy 
 told him that he was a bachelor, but would not be so 
 long ; and that he was dearer to somebody than he 
 thought. The knight still repeated, she was an idle 
 baggage, and bid her go on. ' Ah, master, (says the 
 gipsy,) that roguish leer of yours makes a pretty 
 woman's heart ake ; you lia'n't that simper about 
 the mouth for nothing.' The uncouth gibberish 
 with which all this was uttered, like the darkness of 
 an oracle, made us the more attentive to it. To be 
 short, the knight left the money with her that he 
 had crossed her hand with, and got up again on his 
 horse. 
 
 As we were ridina,- awav, Sir Roo-er told me, that 
 he knew several sensible people who believed these 
 gipsies now and then foret(;ld very strange things ; 
 and lor half an hour together appeared more jocund 
 than ordinarv. In the height of this o-ood humor, 
 meeting a common beggar upon the road who was 
 no conjurer, as he went to lelieve him, he found 
 his pocket was picked : tliat being a kind of palmis- 
 try at which this race of vermin ai-e very dexterous. 
 
 I mioht here entertain mv reader with historical 
 remarks on this idle, profligate people, who infest all 
 the countries of Europe, and live in the midst of 
 governments in a kind of commonwealth by them- 
 selves. But, instead of entering into observations of 
 this nature, I shall fill the remaining part of my pa- 
 per with a story which is still fresh in Holland, and 
 was printed in one of our monthly accounts about 
 twenty years ago. " As the Trekschuyt, or Hack- 
 ney-boat, which carries passengers from Leyden to 
 Amsterdam, was putting off, a boy running along 
 the side of the canal, desired to be taken in ; which 
 the master of the boat refused, because the lad had 
 not quite money enough to pay the usual fare. An 
 eminent merchant being pleased with the looks of
 
 330 SPECTATOR. no. 130. 
 
 the boy, and secretly touched M'ith compassion 
 towards him, paid the money for him, and ordered 
 him to be taken on board. Upon talking with him 
 afterwards, he found that he could speak readily in 
 three or four languages, and learned, upon further 
 examination, that he had been stolen away when he 
 was a child by a gipsy, and had rambled ever since 
 with a gang of those strollers up and down several 
 parts of Europe. It hap})cncd that the merchant, 
 ■whose heart seems to have inclined towards the boy 
 by a secret kind of instinct, had himself lost a child 
 some years before. The parents, alter a long search 
 after him, gave him up for drowned in one of the 
 canals with which that country abounds ; and the 
 mother was so afflicted at the loss of a fine boy, w ho 
 was her only son, that she died for o'rief of it. 
 Upon laying together all particulars, and examining 
 the several moles and marks by which the mother 
 used to describe the child when he was first missino- 
 the boy proved to be the son of the merchant 
 AV'hose heart had so unaccountably melted at the 
 sight of him. The lad was very well pleased to find 
 a father who Mas so rich, and likelv to leave him a 
 good estate : the father, on the other hand, M'as 
 DOt a little delighted to see a son return to him, 
 Avhom he had given up for lost, with such a strength 
 of constitution, shar})ness of imderstanding, and .skill 
 in languages." Here the printed story leaves off ; 
 but, if 1 may give credit to reports, our linguist 
 having received such extraordinary rudiments to- 
 wards a good education, was afterwards trained up 
 in every thing that becomes a gentleman ; wearing 
 off, by little and little, all the vicious habits and pra- 
 tices that he had been used to in the course of his 
 peregrinations : nay, it is said, that he has since 
 been em])loyed in foreign courts upon national busi- 
 ness, with great reputation to himself, and honour 
 to those who sent him; and that he has visited seve- 
 ral countries as a public minister, in which he for- 
 nierly \vandered as a gipsy.
 
 is-o. 131. SPECTATOR. 331 
 
 No. 131. TUESDAY, JULY 31. 
 
 ■Ipsce rursum concedite sylvaa. 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 JLt is usual for a man who loves country sports to 
 preserve the game on his own grounds, and divert 
 himself upon those that belong to his neighbour. 
 My friend Sir Roger generally goes two or three 
 miles from his house, and gets into the frontiers of 
 his estate, before he beats about in search of a hare 
 or partridge, on purpose to spare his own fields, 
 "where he is always sure of finding diversion, when 
 the worst comes to the worst. By this means the 
 breed about his house has time to increase and 
 multiply ; besides that the sport is the more agree- 
 able where the game is harder to come at, and where 
 it does not lie so thick as to produce any perplexity 
 or confusion in the pursuit. For these reasons the 
 country gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys near 
 his own home. 
 
 In the same manner I have made a month's ex- 
 cursion out of the town, which is the great field of 
 game for sportsmen of my species, to try my for- 
 tune in the country, where I have started several 
 subjects, and hunted them down A\'ith some pleasure 
 to myself, and I hope to others. I am here forced 
 to use a great deal of diligence before 1 can spring 
 anv thino- to mv mind : whereas in town, whilst I 
 am. following one character, it is ten to one but I 
 am crossed in ray way by another, and put up such 
 a variety of odd creatures in both sexes, that they 
 foil the scent of one another, and puzzle the chace. 
 My greatest difiiculty in the country is to find sport, 
 and in town to chuse it. In the mean time, as I 
 have given a whole month's rest to the cities of 
 London and Westminster, I promise myself abun- 
 dance of new game upon my return thither.
 
 532 SPECTATOR. no. 131. 
 
 It is indeed high time for me to leave the coun- 
 try, since I find the whole neighbourhood begin to 
 grow very inquisitive after my name and character : 
 my love of solitude, taciturnity, and particular way 
 of life, having raised a great curiosity in all these 
 parts. 
 
 The notions Avhich have been framed of me are 
 various : some look upon me as very proud, some 
 as very modest, and some as very melancholy. 
 Will Wimble, as my friend the butler tells me, ob- 
 serving me very much alone, and extremely silent 
 when I am in company, is afraid I h^ve killed a 
 man. The country people seem to suspect me for a 
 conjurer ; and some of them liearing of the visit 
 which I made to Moll White, will needs have it that 
 Sir Roger has brought down a cunning-man M'ith 
 him, to cure the old woman, and free the country 
 from her charms. So that the character which I go 
 under in part of the neighbourhood, is what they 
 here call a zvhife witch. 
 
 A Justice of Peace, who lives about five miles off, 
 and is not of Sir Roger's party, has, it seems, said 
 twice or thrice at his table, that he wishes Sir Roger 
 does not harbour a Jesuit in his house, and that he 
 thinks the gentlemen of the county would do very 
 well to make me give some account of myself. 
 
 On the other side, some of Sir Roger's friends 
 are afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a de- 
 signing fellow ; and as they have heard he converses 
 very promiscuously when he is in tOM'u, do not 
 know but he has brougbt down with him some dis- 
 carded Whig, that is sullen, and says nothing, be- 
 cause he is out of place. 
 
 Such is the variety of opinions which are lure en- 
 tertained of me; so tbat 1 pass among some for a 
 disafiectcd person, and among others lor a Popish 
 priest ; among some for a wizard, and among others 
 for a murderer ; and all this for no other reason, 
 thutl can imagine, but because I do not hoot, and
 
 NO. 131. SPECTATOR. 333 
 
 halloo, and make a noise. It is true, my friend Sir 
 Roger tells them that it is my way, and that I am 
 only a philosopher ; but this will not satisfy them. 
 They think there is more in me than he discovers, 
 and that I do not hold my tonn-ne for nothings. 
 
 For these and other reasons, I shall set out for 
 London to-morrow, having found by experience, 
 that the country is not a place for a person of my 
 temper, who does not love jolhty, and what they 
 call o'ood neighbourhood. A man that is out of 
 humor when an unexpected guest breaks in upon 
 him, and does not care for sacrificing an afternoon 
 to every chance comer, that will be the master of 
 his own time, and the pursuer of his own inclina- 
 tions, makes but a very unsociable figure in this 
 kind of life. I shall therefore retire into the town, 
 if I may make use of that phrase, and get into the 
 crowd again as fast as I can, in order to be alone. 
 I can there raise what speculations I please upon 
 others, without beino- observed mvself and at the 
 same time enjoy all the advantages of company with 
 all the privileges of solitude. In the mean while, 
 to finish the month, and conclude these my rural 
 speculations, I shall here insert a letter from my 
 friend Will Honeycomb, who has not lived a month 
 for these forty years out of the smoke of London, 
 and rallies me after his way upon my country life. 
 
 " DEAR SPEC. 
 
 " I SUPPOSE this letter will find thee picking of 
 daisies, or smelling to a lock of hay, or passing 
 away thy time in some innocent country diversion 
 of the like nature. 1 have, however, orders from the 
 club to summon thee up to town, being all of us 
 cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our 
 company after thy conversations v/ith ]\Ioll White 
 and Will Wimble. Pry thee don't send us up any 
 more stories of a cock and a bull, nor frighten the 
 town with spirits and \vitches. Thy speculations
 
 334 SPECTATOR. no. 135. 
 
 begin to smell confouiuledly of woods and meadows. 
 If thou dost not come up quickly, we shall con- 
 clude thou art in love with one of Sir Roger's dairy 
 maids. Service to Knight. Sir Andrew is grown 
 the cock of the cluh since he left us, and if he does 
 not return quickly, will make every mother's son 
 of us commonwealtlis men. 
 
 " Dear Spec thine eternall}^ 
 
 "Will. Honeycomb." 
 
 No. 135. SATURDAY, AUGUST 4. 
 
 Est brexitatc opus, nt currat sententia- 
 
 IIoR. 
 
 J. HAVE somewhere read of an eminent person, whd 
 used, in his private offices of devotion, to give thanks 
 to heaven that he was horn a Frenchman : for my 
 own part, I look upon it as a peculiar blessing that I 
 was born an Englishman. Among many other 
 reasons, I think myself very happy in my coamtry, 
 as the language of it is wonderfully adapted to a 
 man who is sparing of his m ords, and an enemy to 
 loquacity. 
 
 As 1 have frequently reflected on my good fortune 
 in this particular, I sliall conmumicate to the public 
 my speculations upon the English tongue, not 
 doubting but they will be acceptable to all my curi- 
 ous readers. 
 
 The English delight in silence more than any 
 other European nation, if the remarks M'hich are 
 made on us by foreigners are true. Our discourse 
 is not kept up in conversation, but falls into more 
 pauses and intervals than in our neighbouring coun- 
 tries ; as it is oljsei ved that the matter of our writ- 
 ins: is thrown nmch closer toiicther, and lies in a 
 narrower compass, than is usual in the m orks of
 
 NO. 135. SPECTATOR. 335 
 
 foreign authors : for to favour our natural tacitur- 
 nity,Nvhen we are obliged to utter our thoughts, 
 we do it in the shortest way we are able, and give 
 as quick a birth to our conceptions as possible. 
 
 This humor shews itself in several remarks that 
 we may make upon the English language. As first 
 of all, by its abounding in monosyllables, Avhich 
 gives us an opportunity of delivering our thoughts 
 in few sounds. This, indeed, takes off from the 
 elegance of our tongue, but at the same time ex- 
 presses our ideas in the readiest manner, and conse- 
 quently answers the first design of speech better 
 than the multitude of syllables, which make the 
 words of other lano-uao'es more tuneable and sono- 
 rous. The sounds of our EngUsh words are commonly 
 like those of string music, short and transient, 
 which rise and perish upon a single touch ; those of 
 other languages are like the notes of wind instru- 
 ments, sweet and swelling, and lengthened out into 
 variety of modulation. 
 
 In the next place we may observe, that where 
 the words are not monosyllables, we often make 
 them so, as much as hes in our power, by our rapi- 
 dity of pronunciation ; as it generally happens in 
 most of our long words which are derived from the 
 Latin, where we contract the length of the syllables, 
 that gives them a grave and solemn air in their own 
 language, to make them more proper for dispatch, 
 and more conformable to the genius of our tongue. 
 This we may find in a multitude of words, as 
 Liberty, Conspiracy, Theatre, Orator, &c. 
 
 The same natural aversion to loquacity has of late 
 years made a very considerable alteration in our lan- 
 o-uaire, by closino- in one syllable the termination of 
 our pn^tcrpcrfect tense, as in the words, dj'oxvnd, 
 iiYilk'd, arrro'd, for drowned, xvalked, urr'wed, Avhich 
 has very much disfigured the tongue, and turned a 
 tenth part of our smoothest words into so many 
 clusters of consonants. This is the more remark-
 
 336 SPECTATOR. no. 135. 
 
 able, because the want of vowels in our language 
 has been the general complaint of our politest au- 
 thors, who nevertheless are the men that have made 
 these retrenchments, and consequently very much 
 increased our foi-mer scarcity. 
 
 This reflection on the words that end in ed, I 
 have heard in conversation from one of the greatest 
 geniuses this age has j)roduced. I think we may 
 add to the foreo'oino- observation, the change which 
 has happened in our language, by the abbreviation 
 of several words that are terminated in e//?, by sub- 
 stituting an s in the room of the last syllable, as in 
 drmcs, nriiks, arrives, and innumerable other M'ords, 
 which, in the pronunciation of our forefathers. Mere 
 (Irozoieth, xcalketh, arriveth. l^his has wonderfully 
 multiplied a letter which was before too frequent in 
 the English tono-ue, and added to that hissiup' in 
 our lano'uajre, Avhich is taken so much notice ot by 
 foreigners ; but at the same tmic humors our taci- 
 turnity, and eases us of many superfluous syllables. 
 
 I might here observe, that the same single letter, 
 on many occasions, does the office of a w hole word, 
 and represents the His and Her of our fore-fathers. 
 There is no doubt but the ear of a foreigner, which 
 is the best judge in this case, would very much dis- 
 approve of such innovations, which, indeed, we do 
 ourselves in some measure, bv retaining the old ter- 
 mination in writing, and in all the solemn offices of 
 our religion. 
 
 As in the instances I have given, we have epito- 
 mized many of our particular woids to the detri- 
 ment of our tongue, so on other occasions mc have 
 drawn tM'o M-ords into one, which has likewise very 
 much untuned our language, and clogged it Mith 
 consonants, as um^jii't, t'ant, ,slia7i't, xto'nt, and 
 the like, for maij tiol, ct/it not, shall not, 'dill noty 
 &c. 
 
 It is perhaps this hnmor of speaking no more than 
 we needs nuist, Mhich has so miserably curtailed
 
 NO. 135. SPECTATOR. 337 
 
 some of our words, that in familiar writings, and 
 conv^ersations, they often lose all but their first sylla- 
 bles, as in mob. rep. pos. incog, and the like ; and 
 as all ridiculous words make their first entry into 
 a language by familiar phrases, I dare not answer 
 for these, that they will not in time be looked upon 
 as a part of our tongue. We see some of our poets 
 have been so indiscreet as to imitate Hudibras's 
 doggrel expressions in their serious compositions, 
 by throwing out the signs of our substantives, which 
 are essential to the English language. Nay, this 
 humor of shortening our language had once run so 
 far, that some of our celebrated authors, among whom 
 we may reckon Sir Roger L'Estrange in particular, 
 began to prune their words of all superfluous letters, 
 as they termed them, in order to adjust the spelling 
 to the pronunciation ; which would have confound- 
 ed all our etymologies, and have quite destroyed 
 our tongue. 
 
 We may here likewise observe, that our proper 
 names, Mhen familiarized in English, generally 
 dwindle to monosyllables ; whereas in other modern 
 languages, they receive a softer turn on this occa- 
 sion, by the addition of a new syllable. Nick in 
 Itahan is Nicolini; Jack, in French, Janot; and so of 
 the rest. 
 
 There is another particular in our language which 
 is a great instance of our frugality in Avords, and 
 that is the suppressing of several particles which 
 must be produced in other tongues to make a sen- 
 tence intelligible : this often perplexes the best 
 writers, when they find the relatives xvhom, which^ 
 or they, at their mercy, whether they may have ad- 
 mission or not; and will never be decided till vve 
 have something like an academy, that by the best 
 authorities and rules drawn from the analogy of lan- 
 guages, shall settle all controversies between graui- 
 mar and idiom. 
 
 Vol. I, Z
 
 33S SPECTATOR. no. 159. 
 
 I have onlv considered our kno-uace as it shews the 
 genius and natural temper of the Eng-hsli, A\hich is 
 modest, thoughtful, and sincere, and which perhaps 
 may recommend the people, though it has spoiled 
 the tongue. We might perhaps carry the same 
 thought into other languages, and deduce a great 
 part of what is peculiar to them from the genius of 
 the people who speak them. It is certain the light, 
 talkative humor of the French, has not a httle in- 
 fected their tongue, which might he shewn hy many 
 instances : as the genius of the Italians, who are 
 so much addicted to music and ceremony, has 
 moulded all their Avords and phrases to those parti- 
 cular uses. The stateliness and gravity of the 
 Spaniard shews itself to perfection in the solemnity 
 of their language ; and the hlunt, honest humor of 
 the Germans sounds hetter in the roughness of the 
 High Dutch, than it would in a politer tongue. 
 
 No. 159. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1. 
 
 -Omnem quce nunc ohducta fucnti 
 
 w 
 
 Murtates hcbdat visits tibi, ct humida ciiaim 
 
 Call gat, nubem eripiam 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 r 
 HEN I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several 
 
 oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. 
 
 Among others, I met one entitled The Visions of 
 
 ]\Jirzah, which I have read over with great pleasure. 
 
 I intend to give it to the public when 1 have no 
 
 otlier entertainment for them ; and shall begin with 
 
 the first vision, which I have translated word for 
 
 word as follows : 
 
 '' On the fifth day of the Tnoon, which, according 
 to the custom of my forefathers, 1 always keep 
 lioly, after having Mashed myself, and offered up 
 my morning devotionii, I ascended the high hills of
 
 NO. 159. SPECTATOR. 339 
 
 Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in medi- 
 tation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on 
 the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound 
 contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and 
 passing from one thought to another, Surely, said 
 I, man is but a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I 
 was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the sum- 
 mit of a rock that was not far from me, where I 
 discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a 
 musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon 
 him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon 
 it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and 
 wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpres- 
 sibly melodious, and altogether different from any 
 thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of 
 those heavenly airs that are played to the departed 
 souls of good men upon their first arrival in para- 
 dise, to wear out the impressions of their last ago- 
 nies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that 
 happy place. i\Iy heart melted away in secret rap- 
 tures. 
 
 " I had been often told that the rock before me 
 was the haunt of a genius ; and that several had 
 been entertained with music who had passed by it, 
 but never heard that the musician had before made 
 himself visible. Whcii he had raised my thoughts, 
 by those transporting airs M'hich he played, to taste 
 the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him 
 like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and, by the 
 waving of his hand, directed me to approach the 
 place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence 
 which is due to a superior nature ; and as my heart 
 was intirely subdued by the captivating strains I 
 had heard, I fell down at his feet, and wept. The 
 genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion 
 and affability that familiarized him to my imagina- 
 tion, and at once dispelled all the fears and appre- 
 hensions with which I approached him. He lifted 
 me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, 
 
 Z 2
 
 340 SPECTATOR. no. 159. 
 
 Mirzah, said he, I have heard thee in thy sohloquies: 
 follow me. 
 
 " He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the 
 rock, and placing me on the top of it. Cast thy 
 eyes eastward, said he, and tell me M'hat thon seest. 
 I see, said I, a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of 
 water rolling through it. The valley that thou 
 seest, said he, is the vale of misery ; and the tide of 
 water that thou seest, is part of the great tide of 
 eternity. What is the reason, said I, that the tide 
 I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again 
 loses itself in a thick mist at the other ? What thou 
 seest, said he, is that portion of eternity which is 
 called time, measured out h}^ the sun, and reaching 
 from the heainnin"' of the world to its consumma- 
 tion. Examine now, said he, this sea, that is thus 
 hounded m itli darkness at hoth ends, and tell me 
 what thou discoverest in it. I see a hridge, said I, 
 standing in the midst of the tide. The hridge thou 
 seest, said he, is human life ; consider it attentively. 
 Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it 
 consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with 
 several hroken arches, which added to those that 
 were entire, made up the numher about an hundred. 
 As I was countino- the arches, the o-enius told me 
 that this l)ri(lge consisted at first of a thousand 
 arches ; hut that a great flood swept away the rest, 
 and left the hridge in the ruinous condition I now 
 beheld it. I see nudtitudes of people passing over 
 it, said 1, and a black cloud hanging on each end 
 of it. — As 1 looked more attentively, I saw several 
 of the passengers dro])ping through the bridge, into 
 tlie great tide that flcnved underneath it ; and upon 
 further examination, perceived there were innumera- 
 ble trap-(h)ors that lay concealed in the l)ridge, 
 w hieh the jjassengers no sooner trod uj>on, but they 
 tell tlirough them into the tide, and immediately dis- 
 a|)peared. 'J hese hi(hlen j>it-talls were set very thick 
 at tiic entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of
 
 NO. 159- SPECTATOR. 341 
 
 people no sooner broke through the cloud, but 
 many of them fell into them. They grew thinner 
 towards the middle, but multiplied, and lay closer 
 together, towards the end of the arches that were 
 entire. 
 
 *' There were, indeed, some persons, but their 
 number was very small, that continued a kind of 
 hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell 
 through one after another, being quite tired and 
 spent with so long a walk. 
 
 " I passed some time in the contemplation of this 
 wonderful structure, and the variety of objects 
 which it presented. My heart was filled M'ith a deep 
 melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in 
 the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every 
 thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some, 
 were looking up toward the heavens in a thoughtful 
 posture, and in the midst of a speculation stuml)led, 
 and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy 
 in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, 
 and danced before them, but often, when they 
 thought themselves within the reach of them, their 
 footino- failed, and down they sunk. In this confusion 
 of objects, I observed some with scymetars in their 
 liands, and others with urinals, who ran to and fro 
 upon the bridge, thrusting serveral persons on trap- 
 doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and 
 which they might have escaped, had they not been 
 thus forced upon them. 
 
 " The o-cnius seeinsr me indulo*e myself in this 
 melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long- 
 enough upon it : take thine eyes oif the bridge, 
 said he, and tell me if thou seest any thino- thou 
 dost not comprehend. Upon looking up, What 
 mean, said I, those great flights of birds that are 
 perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling 
 upon it from time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, 
 ravens, cormorants ; and among many other feather- 
 ed creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in 
 
 Z 3
 
 342 SPECTATOR. no. 159. 
 
 great numbers upon the middle arches. These, said 
 the genius, are envy, avarice^ superstition, despair, 
 love, \vith the like cares and passions that infest 
 human life. 
 
 " I here fetched a deep sigh. Alas ! said I, man 
 was made in vain ! How is he given away to misery 
 and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up 
 in death I The genius being moved with compassion 
 towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a pros- 
 pect. Look no more, said he, on man in the first 
 stage of his existence, in his setting out for eter- 
 nity ; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into 
 which the tide bears the several generations of mor- 
 tals that fall into it. I directed my sight as I M\as 
 ordered, and (M'hether or no the good genius 
 strengthened it with a supernatural force, or dissi- 
 pated part of the mist that M'as before too thick for 
 tlie eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the 
 further end, and spreading forth into an immense 
 ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running 
 through the midst of it, and dividing it into two 
 equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of 
 it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it : 
 but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted 
 with inntimerable islands, that were covered with 
 fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand 
 little shining seas that ran among tlicni. I could 
 see persons dressed in glorious hai)its, with garlands 
 upon their heads, passing among the trees, laying- 
 down by tiic sides of fountains, or resting on beds of 
 flowers; and could hear a confused harmony of 
 singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and 
 nuisical instruments, (iladncss grew in me upon 
 the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished 
 for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to 
 those happy seats ; but the genius told me there 
 was no passage to them, except through the gates 
 of death, that I saw opening every moment upon the 
 bridge. The islands, jsuid he, that lie so fresh
 
 NO. 159. SPECTATOR. 343 
 
 and green before thee, and with which the wliole 
 face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst 
 see, are more in number than the sands on the sea- 
 shore ; there are myriads of islands behind tliose 
 which thou here discoverest, reaching further than 
 thine eye, or even tliine imagination, can extend 
 itself. These are the mansions of good men after 
 death, who, according to the degree and kinds of 
 virtue in wliich they excelled, are distributed among 
 these several islands, which abound with pleasures 
 of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the re- 
 lishes and perfections of those who are settled in 
 them : e\'ery island is a paradise, accommodated to 
 its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mir- 
 zah, habitations worth contending for ? Does life 
 appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of 
 earning such a reward ? Is death to be feared, that 
 will convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think 
 not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity 
 reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible plea- 
 sure on these happy islands. At length, said I, shew 
 me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid 
 under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on 
 the other side of the rock of adamant. The genius 
 making me no answer, I turned about to address 
 mvself to him a second time, but I found that he 
 had left me. I then turned again to the vision which 
 i had been so long contemplating, but, instead of 
 the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy 
 islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of 
 Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing 
 upon the sides of it." 
 
 The end of the first vision of Mirzah. 
 
 ^> 
 
 Z4
 
 344 SPECTATOR. no. 160. 
 
 No. 150. MONDAY, SEPTEMBERS. 
 
 Cm mens dhinior, atque os 
 
 Magna sonatunnn, des nominis hujus honorem. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 X HERE is no character more frequently given to a 
 writer, than that of being a genius. 1 have heard 
 many a httle sonnetteer called a fine Genius. There 
 is not an heroic scribbler in the nation, that has not 
 his admirers, who think him a great Genius; and as 
 for your smatterers in tragedy, there is scarce a man 
 among- them who is not cried up by one or other for 
 a prodigious Genius. 
 
 My design in this ])aper is to consider Mhat is 
 properly a great genius, and to throw some thoughts 
 together on so unconnnon a subject. 
 
 Amono* o-reat o-eniuses, those few draw the admir 
 ration of all the >\'orld upon tlieni, and stand up as 
 the prodigies of mankind, who, by the mere strength 
 of natural parts, and without any assistance of art or 
 learning, have produced works that were the delight 
 of their own times, and the wonder of posterity. 
 There appears something nobly Mihl and extrava- 
 p-ant in these "reat natural "'cniuses, that is infinitely 
 more beautiful than all the turn and polishing of 
 what the French call a Bd Esprit, by which they 
 Avould express a genius refined by conversation, re- 
 flection, and the reading of tlie most jiolite autliors. 
 The tireatest jienius which runs throusih the arts and 
 sciences, takes a kind of tincture fronj them, and 
 falls unav()i{hd)ly into imitation. 
 
 Many of thcbc great natural geniuses, that were 
 never (lisciprnud and l)rokcn by rules of art, aie to 
 be found among the ancients, aud, in particular, 
 amonir those (jf the more eastern parts of the world. 
 Homer has innumeral)le flights that \''irgil was not 
 able to reach ; and in the Old Testament we lind ser
 
 NO. 160. SPECTATOR. 345 
 
 veral passages more elevated and sublime than any in 
 Homer. At the same time that we allow a greater 
 and more daring genius to the ancients, we must 
 own that the greatest of them very much failed in, 
 or, if you will, that they were much above, the 
 nicety and correctness of the moderns. In their 
 similitudes and allusions, provided there was a like- 
 ness, they did not much trouble themselves about 
 the decency of the comparison : Thus Solomon re- 
 sembles the nose of his beloved to the tower of 
 Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus ; as the 
 comins" of a thief in the nio-ht, is a similitude of the 
 same kind in the New Testament. It would be 
 endless to make collections of this nature : Homer 
 illustrates one of his heroes encompassed with the 
 enemy, by an ass in a field of corn, that has his 
 sides belaboured by all the boys of the village with- 
 out stirring a foot for it; and another of them tos- 
 sing to and fro in his bed, and burning with resent- 
 ment, to a piece of flesh broiled on the coals. This 
 particular failure in the ancients, opens a large field 
 of raillery to the little wits, who can laugh at an in- 
 decency, but not relish the sublime in these sorts of 
 writings. The present emperor of Persia, conform- 
 able to this eastern way of thinkino- amidst a p-reat 
 many pompous titles, denominates himself the Sun of 
 Glory, and the Nutmeg of Delight. In short, to 
 cut off all cavilling against the ancients, and par- 
 ticularly those of the warmer climates, who had 
 most heat and hfe in their imaginations, we are to 
 consider that the rule of observing what the French 
 call the Bieiiseance in an allusion, has been found 
 out of latter years, and in the colder reoions of the 
 w^orld ; where we would make some amends for our 
 want of force and spirit, by a scrupulous nicety 
 and exactness in our compositions. Our country- 
 man Shakespear was a remarkable instance of tliis 
 iirst kind of great geniuses.
 
 345 SPECTATOR. no. 160. 
 
 I cannot quit this head, without observing that 
 Pindar was a great ginus of the first class, who M^as 
 hurried on by a natural fire and impetuosity to vast 
 conceptions of things, and noble sallies of imagi- 
 nation. At the same time, can any thing be more 
 ridiculous than for men of a sober and moderate 
 fancy, to imitate this poet's M^ay of writing in those 
 monstrous compositions Avhich go among us under 
 the name of Pindarics ? When I see people copying- 
 works, which, as Horace has represented them, are 
 singular in their kind, and inimitable; when I see 
 men following irregularities by rule, and by the lit- 
 tle tricks of art, straining after the most unbounded 
 flights of nature ; I cannot but apply to them that 
 passage in Terence : 
 
 •hicerta Iicrc si fu posfules 
 
 Rafionc cert a facer e, ni/iilo pfii.s agas, 
 Quam si des operant, lU cum rafionc insanias. 
 
 In short, a modern pindaric writer compared 
 with Pindar, is like a sister among the Camisars 
 compared Mith Virgifs Sibyl : there is the distortion, 
 grimace, and outward iigure, but nothing of that 
 divine impulse which raises the mind above itself, 
 and makes the sounds more than human. 
 
 There is another kind of great geniuses which I 
 shall place in a second class; not as I think them in- 
 ferior to the first, but only for distinction's sake, as 
 they are of a different kind. This second class of 
 great geniuses are those that have formed them- 
 selves by rules, and submitted the greatness of their 
 natural tak-nts to the corrections and restraints of 
 art. Such among the Greeks Mere Plato and 
 Aristotle ; among the Komans, Virgil and Tally ; 
 among the English, JNIilton and Sir Francis Bacon. 
 
 The genius in both these classes of authors may 
 be ccjually great, but shews itself after a different 
 manner. In the first it is like a rich soil in a ha])py 
 climate, that proiluces a whole wilderness of noble
 
 NO. 160. SPECTATOR. 347 
 
 plants, rising in a thousand beautiful landscapes, 
 without any certain order or irregularity. In the 
 other it is the same rich soil under the same happy 
 climate, that has been laid out in walks and par- 
 terres, and cut into shape and beauty by the skill 
 of the gardener. 
 
 The great danger in these latter kind of geniuses, 
 is, lest they cramp their own abilities too much by 
 imitation, and form themselves altogether upon 
 models, without giving the full play to their own 
 natural parts. An imitation of the best authors is 
 not to compare with a good original ; and I believe 
 Ave may observe that very few writers make an ex- 
 traordinary figure in the world, who have not some- 
 thing in their way of thinking, or expressing them- 
 selves, that is peculiar to them, and entirely tlieir 
 own. 
 
 It is odd to consider Avhat o-reat o-eniuses are some- 
 times thrown away upon trifles. 
 
 I once saw a shepherd, says a famous Italian 
 author, who used to divert himself in his solitudes 
 with tossing up eggs, and catching them again, with- 
 out breaking them : in m hich he had arrived to so 
 great a degree of perfection, that he would keep up 
 four at a time for several minutes together, playing 
 ing in the air, and falling into his hand by turns. 
 I think, says the author, I never saw a greater se- 
 verity than this man's face ; for by his M'onderful 
 perseverance and application, he bad contracted the 
 seriousness and gravity of a privy counsellor: I 
 could not but reflect with myself, that the same aS' 
 siduity and attention, had they been rightly ap- 
 plied, might have made him a greater mathematician 
 than Archimedes,
 
 348 SPECTATOR. no. 162. 
 
 No. 162. WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5. 
 
 •Sen'etiir ad mum 
 
 N 
 
 Qualis ab incept o processerit, et sibi constet. 
 
 HOR. 
 
 OTHiNG that is not a real crime, makes a man 
 appear so contemptible and little in the eyes of the 
 world as inconstancy, especially when it regards re- 
 ligion or party. In either of these cases, though a 
 man perhaps does but his duty in changing his side, 
 he not only makes himself hated by those he left, 
 but is seldom heartily esteemed by those he comes 
 over to. 
 
 In these great articles of life, therefore, a man's 
 conviction ought to be very strong, and, if possible, 
 so well timed, that M'orldly advantages may seem to 
 have no share in it, or mankind will be ill-natured 
 enough to think he does not chano-e sides out of 
 principle, but either out of levity of temper, or 
 or prospects of interest. Converts and renegadoes 
 of all kinds should take particular care to let the 
 world see they act upon honourable motives; or 
 whatever approbations they may receive from them- 
 selves, and aj)plauses from those they converse M'ith, 
 they may be very well assured that they are the scoiii 
 of all good men, and the public marks of infamy and 
 derision. 
 
 Irresolution on the schemes of life which offer 
 themselves to our choice, and inconstancy in j)Lir- 
 suing them, arc the greatest and most universal 
 causes of all our discpiict and unba])j)iness. A\'heii 
 ambition jndls one way, interest anotber, inclina- 
 tion a third, and perhai)s reason contrary to all, a 
 jnaii is likely to pass his time but ill wbo has so 
 many different parties to please. When the mind 
 liovcrs among such a vaiiety of allurements, one 
 liad better settle on a way of life that is not the
 
 NO. 162, SPECTATOR. 349 
 
 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 settino* ourselves at rest in this par- 
 ticular, and that is by adhering stedfastly to one 
 great end, as the chief and ultimate aim of all our 
 pursuits. If we are hrmly resolved to live up to the 
 dictates of reason, without any regard to MTalth, 
 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 
 thing that has a value set upon it by the world, we 
 shall live and die in misery and repentance. 
 
 One would take more than ordinarv care to o-uard 
 one's self against this particular imperfection, be- 
 cause it is that which our nature very strongly in- 
 clines us to ; for if we examine ourselves throughly, 
 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 waverings and un- 
 certainties 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 re- 
 cover 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 stao-e 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 vouth; these too take a different
 
 350 SPECTATOR. no. 162. 
 
 turn in manhood, till old ag-e often leads us into our 
 fonner infancy. A new title, or an unexpected suc- 
 cess, throws us out of ourselves, and in a manner 
 destroys our identity. A cloudy day, or a little sun- 
 shine, have as great an influence on many constitu- 
 tions, as the most real blessings or misfortunes. A 
 dream varies our being, and changes our condition 
 Mhile it lasts; and every passion, not to mention 
 he;ilth 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 va- 
 riable 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 for ever. 
 
 As this mutability of temper, and inconsistency 
 with ourselves, is the greatest weakness of human 
 nature, so it makes the person who is remarkable 
 for it, in a very particular manner more ridiculous 
 than any other infirmity w hatsoever, as it sets him 
 in a greater variety of foolish lights, and distin- 
 guishes him from himself l)y an opposition of party- 
 coloured characters', 'ihe most hunu:)rous charac- 
 ter in Horace is fouiuled upon this unevenncss of 
 temper, and irregularity of conduct. 
 
 ■Sanlita hahrhrit 
 
 tUvsur (/lit cogcrc posset. 
 Si pctficf per amicitiam pah is, alquc suam, non 
 Qiiidi/iunii proficcrct : Si col/ihiiissct , ah oro 
 U.sqiti: ud nutla citairt, 1 6 Dacvlic, inodo siniiniu 
 Voce, inodo hue resoiuit r/inc eliurdis (jiKi/iiDr iiiia. 
 t^'il irqiialc lioniini jiiil illi : Sape. xcliit qxii 
 Cnrrthat f aliens //(i.stnii : Vastvpc xelut qui 
 J iinoitis saent ferret. Ilididiat sivpe dueeiitos, 
 Siipc decern serius. Modb rr/rcs atqiir tetriirclins, 
 Uiiniia mu^na /oqiicii.\. AJudo, sit milii mciisa tripse, cf
 
 NO. 163. SPECTATOR. 351 
 
 Concha salts puri, et toga, quce defendere fri-gus, 
 Quamiis crasaa, qiieat. Decies centena dedisses 
 Huic parco paucis cvntento, qu'mque diehus 
 Nil erat in loculis. Nodes xigilabat ad ipsum 
 Mane: Diem totam steitebat. Nil fuit unquam 
 
 Sic impar sibi 
 
 HoR. Sat. 3. Lib. 1. 
 
 Instead of translating this passage in Horace, I 
 shall entertain my English reader with a description 
 of a parallel character, that is wonderfully well 
 finished hy Mr. Dryden, and raised upon the same 
 foundation. 
 
 In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: 
 
 A man so various, that he seem'd to be 
 
 Not one, but all mankind's epitome. 
 
 Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong ; 
 
 Was every thing by starts, and nothing long : 
 
 But in the course of one revolving moon, 
 
 "Was Chemist, Fiddler, Statesman, and Buffoon : 
 
 Then all foi- women, painting, rhyming, drinking. 
 
 Besides ten thousand freaks that dy'd in thinking. 
 
 Blest madman, who cou'd every hour employ, 
 
 With something new to wish, or to enjoy! 
 
 No. 163. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6. 
 
 Si quid ego adjuero, curamxe levasso, 
 
 Quce nunc te coquit, et tersat sub pectorejixa, 
 Ecquid erit pretii ? 
 
 Enn. ap. Tullium. 
 
 Jujnquiries after happiness, and rules for attain- 
 ing 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 world is contentment ; if we aim at any thing 
 higher, we shall meet with nothing but grief and 
 disappointments. A man should direct all his stu- 
 dies and endeavours at making liimself easy now, 
 and happy hereafter.
 
 S5Q SPECTATOR. Nd. 163. 
 
 Tlie truth of It is, if all the liappiness that is dis- 
 persed throiigli tlie M hole raee of mankind in this 
 world were drawn together, and put into the pos- 
 session of any single man, it would not make a very 
 happy being. I'hough, on the contrary, if the mi- 
 series of the whole species M'ere fixed in a single per- 
 son, they would make a very miserable one. 
 
 I am engaged in this subject by the following 
 letter, MJiich, though subscribed by a fictitious 
 name, I have reason to believe is not imaginary. 
 
 ' Mr. Spectator, 
 ' I am one of your disciples, and endeavour to 
 live up to your rules, which I hope will incline you 
 to pity my condition : I shall open it to you in a 
 very t'e^v words. About three years since a gentle- 
 man, whom, I am sure, you yourself would have 
 approved, made his addresses to me. Pie had every 
 thing to recommend him but an estate, so that my 
 friends, who all of them applauded his person, would 
 not for the sake of both of us favour his passion. 
 I'or my own part, I resigned myself up entirely to 
 the direction of those who knew the world nmch 
 better than myself, but still lived in hopes that some 
 juncture or other would make me ha})py in the man 
 whom, in my heart, 1 preferred to all the world ; 
 being determined, if 1 coidd not have him, to have 
 nobody else. About three months ago I received 
 a letter from him, accjuainting me, that by the death 
 of an uncle he had a considerable estate left him, 
 which he said A\as Mclcome to him upon no other 
 account, but as he hoped it would remove all dif- 
 ficulties that lay in the \uay to our mutual h;ii)piness. 
 You may m'cU suj)])Ose, Sir, with how much joy I 
 received this letter, which was foUowetl by several 
 others, filled with those expressions of love and joy, 
 wifich I verily believe nobody felt nnue sincerely, 
 nor knew better how to tlescribe, than the gentle- 
 man 1 am .speaking of. Ijut, Sir, how sluill I be
 
 NO. 163. SPECTATOR. 553 
 
 able to tell it you ! B\^ the last week's post I received 
 a letter from an intimate friend of this unhappy 
 gentleman, acquainting me, that as he had just 
 settled his affairs, and was preparing for his journey, 
 he fell sick of a fever, and died, it is impossible to 
 express to you the distress I am in upon this occa- 
 sion : I can only have recourse to my devotions, and 
 to the readinp- of eood books, for mv consolation ; 
 and as I always take a particular delight in those 
 frequent advices and admonitions which you iiive 
 the public, it would be a very great piece of charity 
 in you to lend me your assistance in this conjuncture. 
 If, after the reading of this letter, you find yourself 
 in a humor rather to rally and ridicule, than to com- 
 fort me, I desire 3'ou Avould throw it into the fire, 
 and think no more of it; but if you are touched 
 with my misfortune, which is greater than I know 
 how to bear, your counsels may very much sup- 
 port, and will infinitely oblige the aftlicted 
 
 ' Leonora.' 
 
 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 struo-oliu"; 
 or bearuig iq) agamst the woes and distresses which 
 befal it. The mind meets with other misfortunes in 
 her whole strength ; she stands collected within her- 
 self, and sustains the shock with all the force which 
 is natural to her ; but a heart in love has its foun- 
 dations sapped, and immediately sinks under the 
 weight of accidents that are disagreeable to its fa- 
 vourite passion. 
 
 In afflictions, men generally draw their consola- 
 tions out of books of morality, which, indeed are 
 of great use to fortify and strengthen the mind a- 
 gainst the impressions of sorrow. Monsieur St. 
 Evremont, M'ho does not approve of this method, 
 recommends authors who are apt to stir up mirth 
 in the mind of the readers, and fancies Don Quixote 
 
 Vol. 1. A a
 
 554 SPECTATOR. no. 163. 
 
 can give more relief to an heavy heart, than Plutarch 
 6y Seneca, as it is much easier to divert grief than 
 to conquer it. This doubtless may have its effects 
 on some tempers. I should rather have recourse to 
 authors of a quite contrary kind, that give us in- 
 stances of calamities and misfortunes, and shew 
 human nature in its greatest distresses. 
 
 If the aftliction we groan under be very heavy, 
 we shall find some consolation in the society of as 
 great sufferers as ourselves, especially when we find 
 6nr companions men of virtue and merit. If our 
 afflictions are light, we shall be comforted by the 
 comparisons we make between ourselves and our 
 fellow- sufferers. A loss at sea, fit of sickness, or 
 the death of a friend, are such trifles, when mc con- 
 sider whole kingdoms laid in ashes, families put to 
 the sword, wretches shut up in dungeons, and the 
 hke calamities of mankind, that we are out of coun- 
 tenance for our own weakness, if we sink under 
 such little strokes of fortune. 
 
 Let the disconsolate Leonora consider, that at 
 the very time in which she languishes for the loss 
 of her deceased lover, there are persons in several 
 parts of the world just perishing in a shipM'reck ; 
 others cryino- out for me rev in the terrors of a death- 
 bed repentance ; Others lying under tbe tortures of 
 an infamous execution, or tiie like dreadful cala- 
 mities ; and she will find her sorrows vanish at the 
 appearance of those which arc so much greater and 
 more astonishing. 
 
 I would further propose to the consideration of 
 my afflicted discij)le, that possibly what she now 
 looks upon as the greatest misfortune, is not really 
 nucli in itself Lor my own part, I (picstion not 
 "but our souls, in a separate state, will look back on 
 tlieir lives in (|uite another \iew, than what they 
 bad of them in tbe l)ody; and tbat wbat they now 
 consider as misfortunes and disappointments, will
 
 NO. 164. SPECTATOR. 355 
 
 very often appear to have been escapes and bles- 
 
 sings. 
 
 The mind that hath anv cast towards devotion, 
 naturallv flies to it in its afflictions. 
 
 When I was in France, I heard a very remarkable 
 story of two lovers, which I shall relate at length 
 in my to-morrow's paper ; not only because the cir-- 
 cumstances of it are extraordinary, but because it 
 may serve as an illustration to all that can be said 
 on this last head, and shew the poM^er of religion in 
 abating that particular anguish which seems to lie 
 so heavy on Leonora. The story was told me by a 
 priest, as I travelled with him in a stage-coach. I 
 shall give it my reader, as well as I can remember, 
 in his own words, after having premised, that if 
 consolations may be drawn from a wrong religion, 
 and a misguided devotion, they cannot but flow 
 much more naturally from those which are founded 
 upon reason, and established in good sense. 
 
 No. 164. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7. 
 
 lUa ; quis et me, inqnit, iniseram, et te perdidit, Orphcu ? 
 Jamquc vale : feror ingenti drciimdata noctc, 
 Invalidasque tibi tendens, lieu ! nun tna, palnias. 
 
 VlRG. 
 
 V^oxsTANTiA was a woman of extraordinary wit 
 and beauty, but very unhappy in a father, who 
 having arrived at great riches by his own industry, 
 took delight in nothing but his money. Theodosiu$ 
 was the younger son of a decayed family, of great 
 parts and learning, improved by a genteel and vir-» 
 tuous education. When he was in the twentieth 
 year of his age, he became acquainted with Con-' 
 stantia, who had not then passed her fifteenth. A? 
 he lived but a few miles distance from her father's 
 house, he had frequent opportunities of seeing her; 
 
 Aa2
 
 256 SPECTATOR. no. 164. 
 
 and by the advantages of a good person and a 
 pleasing conversation, made such an impression in 
 her heart as it was inipossihle for time to efface : he 
 was himself no less smitten with Constantia. A 
 long acquaintance made them still discover ncAV 
 beauties in each other, and bv de2:rees raised in 
 them that mutual passion which had an influence 
 on their following lives. It unfortunately happened, 
 that in the midst of this intercourse of love and 
 friendship betMcen Theodosius and Constantia, there 
 broke out an irreparable quarrel between their pa- 
 rents ; the one vahiing himself too much upon his 
 birth, and the other upon his possessions. The 
 father of Constantia Mas so incensed at the father 
 of Theodosius, that he contracted an unreasonable 
 aversion towards his son, insomuch that he forbad 
 him his house, and charged his daughter upon her 
 duty never to see him more. In the mean time, to 
 break off all communication between the two lovers, 
 who he knew entertained secret hopes of some fa- 
 vourable opportunity that should bring them to- 
 gether, he found out a young gentleman, of a good 
 fortune, and an agreeable person, whom he pitched 
 upon as a husband for his daughter. lie soon con- 
 certed this affair so well, that he told Constantia it 
 was his design to marry her to such a gentleman, 
 and that her wedding should be celebrated on such 
 a day. Constantia, mIio Mas over-aMcd Mith the 
 authority of her father, and unable to object any 
 thing against so advantageous a match, received 
 the proj)osal M'ith a profound silence, which her 
 father conunended in her, as tbe most decent man- 
 ner of a virgin's "iviu"- her consent to an overture 
 of that kind. The noise of this intended marriao-c 
 soon reached Theodosius, who, after a long tumult 
 of ])assions M'hich naturally rise in a lovers heart on 
 .Such an occasion, \\ rit the following letter to Con- 
 stantia.
 
 >.'o. 164. SPECTATOR. 257 
 
 ' The thought of my Constantia, which for some 
 years has been my only happiness, is now become a 
 greater torment to me than I am able to bear. Must 
 I then live to see you another's? The streams, the 
 fields, and meadows, where we have so often talked 
 together, grow painful to me ; life itself is become 
 a burden. May you long be happy in the world, 
 but forget that there was ever such a man in it as 
 
 ' Theodosius.' 
 
 This letter was conveyed to Constantia that very 
 evening, who fainted at the reading of it ; and the 
 next morning she Avas much more alarmed by two or 
 three messengers that came to her father's house one 
 after another, to enquire if they had heard any thing 
 of Theodosius, Avho, it seems, had left his chamber 
 about midnight, and could no where be found. 
 The deep melancholy which had hung upon his mind 
 some time before, made them apprehend the worst 
 that could befal him. Constantia, who knew that 
 nothing but the report of her marriage could have 
 driven him to such extremities, was not to be com- 
 forted: she now accused herself for having so tamely 
 given an ear to the proposal of a husband, and looked 
 upon the new lover as the murderer of Theodosius: 
 in short, she resolved to suffer the utmost effects of 
 her father's displeasure, rather than comply with a 
 marriage which appeared to her so full of guilt and 
 horror. The father seeing himself entirely rid of 
 Theodosius, and likely to keep a considerable por- 
 tion in his family, was not very much concerned at 
 the obstinate refusal of his daughter; and did not 
 find it very difficult to excuse himself upon that ac- 
 count to his intended son-in-law, who had all along- 
 regarded this alliance rather as a marriage of con- 
 Acnience than of love. Constantia had now no re- 
 lief but in her devotions and exercises of rehgion, 
 to which her afflictions had so entirely subjected her 
 mind, that, after some years had abated the violence 
 
 A a 3
 
 358 SPECTATOR. no. 164. 
 
 of her sorrows, and settled her thoughts in a kind 
 of tranquilhty, she resolved to pass the remainder 
 of her davs in a convent. Her father was not dis- 
 pleased with a resolution which would save money 
 in his family, and readily complied with his daugh- 
 ter's intentions. Accordingly, in the tw^enty-fifth 
 year of her age, while her beauty was yet in all its 
 height and bloom, he carried her to a neighbouring 
 city, in order to look out a sisterhood of nuns 
 among whom to place his daughter. There was in 
 this place a ffither of a convent who was very much 
 renowned for his piety and examplary life ; and as 
 it is usual in the Romish church for those who are 
 under any great affliction, or trouble of mind, to 
 apply themselves to the most eminent confessors for 
 pardon and consolation, our beautiful votary took 
 the opportunity of confessing herself to the cele- 
 brated father. 
 
 We must now return to Theodosius, ^\'ho, the very 
 morning that the above-mentioned enquiries had 
 been made after him, arrived at a religious house in 
 the city, where now Constantia resided ; and de- 
 sirino- that secrecy and concealment of the fathers 
 of the convent, which is very usual upon any ex- 
 traordinary occasion, he made himself one of the 
 order, with a private vow never to enquire after 
 Constantia ; whom he looked upon as given aAvay 
 to his rival upon the day on which, according to 
 common fame, their marriage was to have been 
 solemnized. Having in his youth made a good 
 progress in learning, that he might dedicate himself 
 more entiicly to religion, he entered into holy orders, 
 and in a few vears became renowned for his sanctity 
 of life, and those pious sentiments which he inspired 
 into all who conversed with him. It was this holy 
 man to whom Constantia had determined to apply 
 lierself in confession ; though neither she, nor any 
 other besides the prior of the convent, knew any 
 thing of his name or i'amily. The gay, the amiable
 
 NO. 164. SPECTATOR. 359 
 
 Theodosius had now taken upon him the name of 
 father Fiancis ; and was so far concealed in a long 
 beard, a shaven head, and a religious habit, that it 
 was impossible to discover the man of the world iii 
 the venerable conventual. 
 
 As he was one morning shut up in his confes- 
 sional, Constantia kneeling by him, opened the state 
 of her soul to him : and, after having given him the 
 history of a life full of innocence, she burst out 
 into tears, and entered upon that part of her story 
 in which he himself had so great a share. 'My be- 
 haviour (says she) has, I fear, been the death of a 
 man who had no other fault but that of loving me too 
 much. Heaven only knows how dear he was to me 
 whilst he lived, and how bitter tlie remembrance of 
 him has been to me since his death.' She here paus- 
 ed, and lifted up her eyes, that streamed with tears, 
 towards the father ; who was so moved with the 
 sense of her sorrows, that he could only command 
 his voice, which was broke with sighs and sob- 
 bings, so far as to bid her proceed. She followed 
 his directions, and in a flood of tears poured out 
 her heart before him. The father could not forbear 
 weeping aloud, insomuch that in the agonies of his 
 grief the seat shook under him. Constantia, who 
 thouo'ht the o-ood man was thus moved by his com- 
 passion towards her, and by the horror of her guilt, 
 proceeded with the utmost contrition to acquaint 
 him with that vow of virginity in which she was going 
 to engage herself, as the proper atonement for her 
 sins, and the only sacrifice she could make to the 
 memory of Theodosius. The father, who by this 
 time had pretty vvcU composed himself, burst out 
 again in tears, upon hearing that name to which he 
 liad been so long disused, and upon receiving this 
 instance of an unparalleled fidelity from one whom he 
 thought had several years since given herself up to 
 the possession of another. Amidst the interruptions 
 of her sorrow, seeing his penitent overwhelmed with 
 
 A a 4
 
 S^O SrECTATOR. no. 164. 
 
 grief, lie was only able to bid her from time to time 
 be comforted — To tell ber that her sins were forgiven 
 her — That her guilt >ras not so great as she appre- 
 hended — That she should not suffer herself to be 
 afflicted above measure. After which he recovered 
 himself enough to give her the absolution in form ; 
 directing her at the same time to repair to him again 
 the next day, that he might encourage her in the pious 
 
 resolutions she had taken, and give her suitable exhorta- 
 tions for her behaviour in it. Constantia retired, and 
 the next morning renewed her applications. Theodo- 
 sius having manned his soul with proper thoughts and 
 reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in the 
 best manner he coidd, to animate his penitent in the 
 course of life she was entering u])on, and wear out 
 of her mind those groundless fears and apprehen- 
 sions M'bich had taken possession of it ; concluding, 
 with a promise to her, that he would from time to 
 time continue his admonition when she should have 
 taken upon her the holy veil. ''J'he rules of our respec- 
 tive orders (says he) will not permit that I should 
 see you ; but you may assure yourself not only of 
 having a place m my prayers, but of receiving such 
 frequent instructions as I can convey to vou by let- 
 ters. Go on chearfuliy in the glorious course vou 
 have undertaken, and you will quick Iv find such a 
 peace and satisfaction in your mind, which it is not 
 in the y)ov>er of the world to give.' 
 
 C'onstantias lieart was so elevated with the dis- 
 course of father Francis, that the very next day she 
 entered u|K)n her vow. As soon as the solemnities 
 of her reception were over, she retired, as it is usual, 
 M'ith the abbess into her own apartment. 
 
 The abbess bad be( n informed the night before of 
 all that bad passed between Iici- noviciate and father 
 J'rancis : from whom she now delivered to her the 
 following letter. 
 
 *' As the first fiiiits of those joys and consolations 
 which you may expect from the life you are now
 
 NO. 164. SPECTATOR. 36\ 
 
 engaged in, I must acquaint you that Theodosius, 
 whose death sits so heavy upon your thoughts, is 
 still alive ; and that the father to whom you have 
 confessed yourself, was once that Theodosius whom 
 you so much lament. The love which we have had 
 for another will make us more happy in its disap- 
 pointment, than it could have done in its success. 
 Providence has disposed of us for our advantage, 
 thouo-h not accordino- to our wishes. Consider vour 
 Theodosius still as dead, hut assure yourself of one 
 who will not cease to pray for you in father 
 
 pRANCIS." 
 
 Constantia saw that the hand-Mriting agreed with 
 the contents of the letter : and upon reflecting on 
 the voice of the person, the behaviour, and, above 
 all, the extreme sorrow of the father during her con- 
 fession, she discovered Theodosius in every particu- 
 lar. After having wept with tears of joy, ' It is 
 enough, (says she. ) Theodosius is still in being ; I 
 shall live with comfort, and die in peace.' 
 
 The letters which the father sent her afterwards, 
 are yet extant in the nunnery Mdiere she resided ; and 
 are often read to the young religious, in order to 
 inspire them with good resolutions, and sentiments 
 of virtue. It so happened, that after Constantia 
 had lived about ten years in the cloister, a violent 
 fever broke out in the place, which swept away great 
 multitudes, and among others, Theodosius. Upon 
 his death-bed he sent his benediction in a very mov- 
 ing manner to Constantia ; who at that time was 
 herself so far gone in the same fatal distemper, that 
 she lay delirious. Upon the interval which generally 
 precedes death in sicknesses of this nature, the ab- 
 bess finding that the physicians had given her over, 
 told her that Theodosius was just gone before her, 
 and that he had sent her his benediction in his last 
 moments. Constantia received it with pleasure : 
 * And now, (says she,) if I do not ask any thing im-
 
 362 SPECTATOR. no. 165. 
 
 proper, let me be buried by Theodosius. J\ly vow 
 reaches no farther than the srrave. M'hat I ask is, 
 I hope, no violation of it.'' — She died soon after, 
 and was interred accorcHng; to her request. 
 
 llieir tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin 
 inscription over them to the folloMing purpose. 
 
 Here lie the l)odies of father Francis and sister 
 Constance. They were lovely in their lives, and in 
 their deaths M'cre not divided. 
 
 No. \65. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBERS. 
 
 •Si forte necesse est. 
 
 I'ingere cinctutis ?ioii exaudifa Cdhcgia^ 
 Co/itinget : dabifurquc liccntia sumpta pudentei\ 
 
 IIOK. 
 
 X HAVE often wished, that as in our constitution 
 there are several persons whose business it is to watch 
 over our laws, our liberties, and commerce, certain 
 men miuht be set apart as superintcndants of our lan- 
 C'uaii'e, to hinder any words of a foreign coin from 
 passing- an\ong- us ; and in particular to prohibit any 
 French plii-ases from becoming current in this king- 
 dom, when those of our own stamp are altogether 
 as valuable. The present M'ar has so adulterated our 
 ton one Mith strano-e words, that it Avould be im- 
 possible for one of our great-grandfathers to know 
 uhat liis ])Osterity liave been doing, were he to read 
 their exploits in a modern news-paper. Our warriors 
 are very industrious in propagating the French lan- 
 li'iiaire, at the same time that thcv arc so ghn-iously 
 successful in beating down their po^er. Our sol- 
 diers arc men of strong heads for action, and per- 
 form such feats as they are not able to cx])ress. 
 '1 hev want words in their own tongue to tell us what 
 it is they atchievc, and therefore send us o\ er ac- 
 counts of their performances in a jargon of phrases
 
 Ko. 165. SPECTATOR. 363 
 
 which they learn among their conquered enemies. 
 They ought however to be provided with secretaries, 
 and assisted by our foreign ministers, to tell their 
 story tor them in plain Eno'lish, and to let us know 
 in our mother-ton i>:ue what it is our brave country- 
 men are about. The French would indeed be in the 
 right to publish the news of the present war in 
 English phrases, and make their campaigns unintel- 
 ligible. Their people might flatter themselves that 
 things are not so bad as they really are, were they 
 thus palliated with foreign terms, and thrown into 
 shades and obscuritv : but the Eni>:lish cannot be 
 too clear in their narrative of those actions, which 
 have raised their countiy to a higher pitch of glory 
 than it ever yet arrived at, and w hich will be still 
 the more admired, the better they are explained. 
 
 For my part, by that time a siege is carried on 
 two or three days, I am altogether lost and bewil- 
 dered in it, and meet with so many inexplicable dif- 
 ficulties, that I scarce know which side has the bet- 
 ter of it, till I am informed by the tower guns that 
 the place is surrendered. I do indeed make some 
 allowances for this part of the war, fortifications 
 having been foreign inventions, and upon that ac- 
 count abounding in foreign terms. But when we 
 have won battles which may be described in our own 
 language, why are our papers filled with so many 
 unintelligible exploits, and the French obliged to 
 lend us a part of their tongue before we can know 
 how they are conquered ? They must be made ac- 
 cessary to their own diso-race, as the Britons were 
 formerly so artificially wrought in the curtain of the 
 Roman theatre, that they seemed to draw it up, in 
 order to give the spectators an opportunity of seeing 
 their own defeat celebrated upon the stage ; for so 
 Mr. Drvden has translated that verse in V'irp-il. 
 
 Purpurea intexti tollaiit aula-a Britaimi. 
 
 \Vhich interwoven Britons seem to raise, 
 
 A»ul shew the triumph tliut their shame displays.
 
 364 SPECTATOR. no. 165. 
 
 The histories of all our former Avars are submitted 
 to us in our vernacular idiom, to use the ])hrase of 
 a great modern critic. I do not find in any of our 
 chronicles, that Edward the Third ever reconnoitred 
 the enemy, though he often discovered the posture 
 of the French, and as often van{]uished them in 
 battle. 'Jhe Black Prince passed many a river M'ith- 
 out the help of pontoons, and filled a ditch with 
 faggots as successfully as the generals of our times 
 do it with fascines. Our connnanders lose half their 
 praise, and our people half their joy, by means of 
 these hard words and dark expressions in M'hich our 
 news-papers do so much abound. 1 have seen many 
 a prudent citizen, after hasing read every article, 
 enquire of his next neighbour Mhat news the mail 
 had brought. 
 
 I remember in that remarkable year when our 
 country was delivered from the greatest fears and 
 apprehensions, and raised to the greatest height of 
 gladness it had ever felt since it was a nation, I 
 mean the y^'ar of 151enheim, I had the copy of a 
 letter sent me out of the country, which was writ- 
 ten from a young gentleman in the army to his 
 father, a man of good estate, and plain sense : as 
 the letter was very modishly chequered with this 
 modern military elofjuencc, I shall present my rea- 
 der with a copy of it. 
 
 "Sir, 
 *' Upon tlic junction of the French and Bavarian 
 armies, they took post behind a great morass Mhich 
 they thought impracticable. Our general the next 
 (lay sent a party ol" horse to reconnoitre them from 
 a little hauteur at about a (juarter of an hour's dis- 
 tance from the army, mIio returned again to tiie 
 camp unobserved through several deliles, in one of 
 which they met w ith a party of French that had 
 been marauding, and made them all prisoners at 
 discretion. The day after a drum arrived at our
 
 NO. 165. SPECTATOR. 365 
 
 camp, M'ith a message Avliich he would communicate 
 to none but the general ; he was followed by a 
 trumpet, who they say behaved himself very saucily, 
 with a raessao-e from the Duke of Bavaria. The 
 next morning our army, being divided into two 
 corps, made a movement towards the enemy : you 
 "svill hear in the public prints how Ave treated them, 
 with the other circumstances of that glorious day. I 
 had the good fortune to be in the regiment that push- 
 ed the Gens d'Arms. Several French battalions, who 
 some say M-ere a Corps de Reserve, made a show of 
 resistance; but it only proved a gasconade; for, upon 
 our preparing to fill up a little fosse, in order to at- 
 tack them, they beat the Chamade, and sent us 
 Charte Blanche. Their commandant, ^vhh a great 
 many other general officers, and troops Avithout 
 number, are made prisoners of war, and will I believe 
 o-ive you a visit in England, the cartel not bcins: 
 yet settled. Not questioning but these particulars 
 will be very welcome to vou, I conjjratulate you 
 upon them, and am your mos,t dutiful son, &c." 
 
 The father of the young gentleman^ upon the pe- 
 rusal of the letter, found it contained great news, 
 but could not guess what it was. He immediately 
 communicated it to the curate of the parish, who, 
 upon the reading of it, being vexed to see any 
 thing that he could not understand, fell into a kind 
 of passioii, and told him that his son had sent him 
 a letter that was neither fish, flesh, nor good red 
 herring. ' I wish (says he) the captain may be 
 compos mentis. He talks of a saucy trunipet, and a 
 drum that carries messages. Then M'ho is this Charte 
 Blandie ? He must either banter us, or he is out of 
 liis senses.' The father, who always looked upon the 
 curate as a learned man, began to fret inwardly at 
 liis son's usage, and producing a letter which he had 
 waitten to hini about three posts before, ' You see 
 here, (says he,) when he writes for money, he knows
 
 355 SPECTATOR. no. i65. 
 
 how to speak intelligibly enough ; there is no man 
 in England can express himself clearer, M'hen he 
 vants a new furniture for his horse.' In short, the 
 old man was so puzzled upon the point, that it 
 miuht have fared ill with his son, had he not seen 
 all the prints about three days after filled with the 
 same terms of art, and that Charles only writ like 
 other men. 
 
 No. 166. MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10. 
 
 Quod nee Jovh ira, nrc ig/iis, 
 
 Nee poteritjerrumy nee edax abolerc vetiisfas. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 xxuisTOTLE tells US, that the world is a copy or 
 transcript of those ideas which are in the mind of 
 the first Being ; and those ideas v.hich are in the 
 mind of man, are a transcript of the world : to this 
 we may add, that words are the transcript of those 
 ideas which are in the mind of man, and that writ- 
 ing or printing is the transcript of words. 
 
 As the Supreme Being has expressed, and, as it 
 were, printed his ideas in the Crea,tion, men express 
 their ideas In books, which, by this great invention 
 of these latter a<»es, may last as lonii- as the i>un and 
 moon, and perish only in the general wreck of na- 
 ture, 'i hus Cow ley, in his poem on the -Resurrec- 
 tion, mentioning the destruction of the universe, 
 has those admirable lines : 
 
 Now all llie wide extended sky, 
 
 And all th' harmonious worlds on liii;li, 
 
 And Viiffil's sacred work shall die. 
 
 There is no other mctiiod of fixing those thoughts 
 which arise and (lisaj)pear in the mind of man, and 
 transmitting them to the last periods of time ; no 
 otlicr method of giving a permanency to our ideas, 
 and preserving the knowledge of any particula per-
 
 NO. 166. SPECTATOR. 3(3? 
 
 son, when his body is mixed with the common mass 
 of matter, and his soul retired into the world of 
 spirits. Books are the legacies that a great genius 
 leaves to mankind, which are delivered down from 
 generation to generation, as presents to the pos- 
 terity of those who are vet unborn. 
 
 All other arts of perpetuating our ideas continue 
 but a short time : statues can last but a few thou- 
 sand of years, edifices fewer, and colours still fewer* 
 than editices. ^lichael Angelo, Fontana, and Ra- 
 phael, will hereafter be what Phidias, Vitruvius, 
 and Apelles, are at present ; the names of great sta- 
 tuaries, architects, and painters, whose works are 
 lost. The several arts are expressed in mouldering 
 materials; nature sinks under them, and is not able 
 to support the ideas Mdiiclt are imprest upon it. 
 
 The circumstance which gives authors an advan- 
 tage above all these great masters, is this, that they 
 can multiply their originals ; or rather can m.ake' 
 copies of their works, to ^\'hat number they please, 
 which shall be as valuable as the originals them- 
 selves. This gives a great author something like a 
 prospect of eternity, but at the same time deprives 
 him of those other advantages which artists meet 
 with. The artist fmds greater returns in profit, as 
 the author in fame. A\liat an inestimable price 
 Avould a Virgil or a Homer, a Cicero or an Aristotle, 
 bear, were their works like a statue, a building, or 
 a picture, to be confined only in one place, and 
 made the property of a single person ? 
 
 If writings are thus durable, and may pass from 
 age to age throughout the Vvhole course of timcy 
 how careful should an author be of committing any 
 thing to print that may corrupt posterity, and 
 poison the minds of men with vice and error? 
 Writers of great talents, who employ their parts in 
 propagating immorality, and seasoning vicious sen- 
 timents with wit and humor, are to be looked upon 
 as the pests of society and the enemies of man*
 
 358 SPECTATOR. no. 166. 
 
 kind: they leave books behind them (as it is said 
 of those who che in distempers which breed an ill- 
 will towards their own species) to scatter infection, 
 and destroy their posterity. They act the counter- 
 parts of a Confucius or a Socrates; and seem to 
 have been sent into the world to deprave I'Aiman na- 
 ture, and sink it into the condition of brutalitv. 
 
 I have seen some Roman Catholic authors, M-ho 
 tells us, that vicious writers continue in purgatory 
 so long as the influence of their Miitings continues 
 upon posterity : for purgatory, say they, is nothing- 
 else but a cleansing us of our sins, which cannot be 
 said to be done away, so long as they continue to 
 operate, and corrupt mankind. The vicious author, 
 say they, sins after death; and so long as he con- 
 tinues to sin, so long must he expect to be punished. 
 Though the Roman Catholic notion of purgatory 
 be indeed very ridiculous, one cannot but think, 
 that if the soul after death has any knowledge of 
 what passes in this world, that of an immoral 
 writer would receive much more regret from the sense 
 of corrupting, than satisfaction from the thought of 
 pleasing, his surviving admirers. 
 
 To take off from the severity of this speculation, 
 I sliall conclude this paper with a story of an atheis- 
 tical author, who at a time m hen he lav tiani>-erously 
 sick, and had desired the assistance of a neigbour- 
 ing curate, confessed to him with great contrition, 
 that nothing sat more hea\y at his heart, than the 
 sense of his having seduced the age by his w ritings, 
 and that their evil inHuence M'as likely to continue 
 even after liis death. The curate, upon further exa- 
 mination, finding the penitent in the utmost agonies 
 of despair, and being himself a man of learning, 
 told him, that he hoped his ease was not so despe- 
 rate as he ap|)reheii(led, since he found that he Mas 
 so very sensible of his fault, and so sincerely re- 
 pented of it. llie |)enitent still urged the evil ten- 
 dency of his book to subvert all religion, and tiie
 
 NO. 166. SPECTATOR. 369 
 
 little ground of hope there could be for one whose 
 writings would continue to do mischief when his body- 
 was laid in ashes. The curate finding- no other way 
 to comfort him, told him, that he did well in being- 
 afflicted for the evil design Avith which he published 
 liis book ; but that he ought to be very thankful 
 that there was no danger of its doing any hurt. 
 That his cause was so very bad, and his arguments 
 so weak, that he did not apprehend any ill effects 
 of it. In short, that he might rest satisfied that his 
 book could do no more mischief after his death, than 
 it had done Avhilst he was living. To which he 
 added, for his further satisfaction, that he did not 
 believe any, besides his particular friends and ac- 
 quaintance, had ever been at the pains of reading it, 
 or that any body after his death would ever enquire 
 after it. The dying man had still so much of the 
 frailty of an author in him, as to be cut to the 
 heart with these consolations ; and, without answer- 
 ing the good man, asked his friends about him 
 (with a peevishness that is natural to a sick person) 
 where they had picked up such a blockhead ? and 
 whether they thought him a proper person to attend 
 one in his condition ? The curate findino- that the 
 author did not expect to be dealt with as a real and 
 sincere penitent, but as a penitent of importance, 
 after a short admonition, withdrew, not questioning 
 but he should be again sent for, if the sickness grew 
 desperate. The author, however, recovered, and has 
 since written two or three other tracts with the same 
 spirit, and, very luckily for his poor soul, with the 
 same success. 
 
 Vol. I. Bb
 
 370 SPECTATOR. no. 169. 
 
 No. 169. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13. 
 
 Sic rita erat: faciie omnes perferre ac pat? : 
 Cum qiiUnts erat cunque una, ki^ sese dedere, 
 Eorum ohsequi studlis : advorsits neniini ; 
 Kiinqi/ani pnvponeus se aliis. Ita faciUime 
 Sine inxidia iiivenia.s laudem. 
 
 Ter. And. 
 
 IVl AN is subject to innumerable pains and sorrows 
 by the very condition of humanity ; and yet, as if 
 Nature had not sown evils enough in hfe, we are 
 continually adding to grief, and aggravating the 
 common calamity, by our cruel treatment of one 
 another. Every man's natural weioht of affliction 
 is still made more heavy by the envy, malice, 
 treachery, or injustice, of his neighbour. At the 
 same time that the storm beats on the whole species, 
 we are falling foul upon one another. 
 
 Half the misery of human life mio'ht be extin- 
 guished, would men alleviate the general curse they 
 lie under, by mutual oftices of compassion, bene- 
 volence and humanity. There is nothino- therefore, 
 ^A hich Me ought more to encourage in ourselves and 
 others, than the disposition of mind Avhich in our 
 language goes under the title of good-nature, and 
 which I shall chuse for the subject of this day's 
 speculation. 
 
 Good-nature is more agreeable in conversation 
 than wit, and gives a certain air to the countenance, 
 wbich is more amiable than beauty. It shews vir*- 
 tue in the tairest light, takes oti' in some measure 
 from the deformity of vice, and makes even folly 
 and impertinence sup])t)i table. 
 
 There is no society or conversation to be ke])t up in 
 the world without good-^^ialure, or something which 
 must bear its appearance, and supply its place. For 
 this reason mankind have been forced to invent a
 
 NO. 169. SPECTATOR. 371 
 
 kind of artificial humanity, which is what we ex- 
 press by the word good-breeding. For if we ex- 
 amine thoroughly the idea of what we call so, we 
 shall find it to be nothing else but an imitation and 
 niimickry of good-nature, or, in other terms, affa- 
 bility, complaisance, and easiness of temper, re- 
 duced into an art. 
 
 These exterior shows and appearances of humanity 
 render a man wonderfully popular and beloved, 
 when they are founded upon a real good-nature; 
 but without it are like hypocrisy in religion, or a 
 bare form of holiness, which, when it is discovered^ 
 makes a man more detestable than professed implet\'. 
 
 Good-nature is o-cnerallv born with us: health, 
 prosperity, and kind treatment from the world, are 
 great cherishers of it where they find it; but no- 
 thing is capable of forcing it up, where it does not 
 grow of itself. It is one of the blessings of a happy 
 constitution, which education may improve, but 
 not produce. 
 
 Xenophon, in the life of his imaginary prince, 
 whom he describes as a pattern for real ones, is al^r 
 ways celebrating the (philanthropy or) good-nature 
 of his hero, which he tells us he brought into the 
 world with him, and gives many remarkable iu" 
 stances of it in his childhood, as well as in all the 
 several parts of his life. Nay, on his death-bed, he 
 describes him as being pleased, that while his soul 
 returned to him who made it, his body should in- 
 corporate with the Great Mother of all things, and 
 by that means become beneficial to mankind. For 
 which reason he gives his sons a positive order not 
 to enshrine it in gold or silver, but to lay it in the 
 earth as soon as the life Aras o-one out of it. 
 
 An mstance of such an overflowina: of humanity, 
 such an exuberant love to mankind, could not have 
 entered into the imao-ination of a writer, who had 
 
 not a soul filled with great ideas, and a general be-, 
 nevolence to mankind. 
 
 BbL>
 
 37Q SPECTATOR. no. i6g. 
 
 In that celebrated passage of Sallast, where Ca5sar 
 and Cato are placed in such beautiful, but oppo- 
 site lights, Ca;sar"s character is chiefly made up of 
 o'ood-nature, as it shewed itself in all its forms to- 
 wards his triends or his enemies, his servants or de- 
 pendents, the guilty or the distressed. As for Ca- 
 to's character, it is rather awful than amiable. 
 Justice seems most agreeable to the nature of God, 
 and mercy to that of man. A being who has no- 
 thing to pardon in himself, may reward every man 
 according to his Avork ; but he whose very best 
 actions must be seen with grains of allowance, can- 
 not be too mild, moderate, and forgiving. For this 
 reason, among all the monstrous characters in hu- 
 man nature, there is none so odious, nor indeed so 
 exquisitely ridiculous, as that of a rigid severe tem- 
 per in a Vv'orthless man. 
 
 This part of good-nature, however, which con- 
 sists in the pardoning and over-looking of faults, is 
 to be exercised only in doing ourselves justice, and 
 that too in the ordinary commerce and occurrences 
 of life ; for in the public administrations of justice, 
 mercy to one may be cruelty to others. 
 
 It is grown almost into a maxim, that good- 
 natured men are not always men of the most M'it. 
 The observation, in my o])inion, has no foundation 
 in nature. The greatest M'its 1 have conversed with, 
 are men eminent for their humanitv. I take, there- 
 fore, this remark to have been occasioned by two 
 reasons. First, because ill-nature among ordinary 
 observers passes for wit. A spiteful saying gra- 
 tilies so many little passions in those who hear it, 
 that it generally meets with a good reception. The 
 laugh rises upon it, and the man who utters it is 
 looked upon as a shrewd satyrist. This may ])e one 
 reason, why a great many pleasant companions 
 appear so surprisingly dull when they have en- 
 fleavoured to be merry in print; the public being 
 more just than private clubs or assemblies, in distin- 
 guishing between what isM'it and what is ill-nature.
 
 KO. 170. SPECTATOR. 273 
 
 Another reason why the good-natured man may 
 sometimes bring his wit in question, is, perhaps, be- 
 cause he is apt to be moved with compassion for 
 those misfortunes and infirmities which another 
 would turn into ri(Hcule, and by that means gain 
 the reputation of a Avit. The ill-natured man, though 
 but of ecpial parts, gives himself a larger tield to ex- 
 patiate in; he exposes the failings in human nature 
 which the other would cast a veil over, laughs at 
 vices which the other either excuses or conceals, 
 gives utterance to reflections which the other stifles, 
 falls indifferently upon friends or enemies, exposes 
 the person who has obliged him, and, in short, sticks 
 at nothing that may establish his character as a wit. 
 It is no wonder, therefore, he succeeds in it better 
 than the man of humardty, as a person Avho makes 
 use of indirect methods is more likely to grow rich 
 than the fair trader. 
 
 No. 170. FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14. 
 
 In amore hcec omnia in sunt lifia : injuries, 
 Siispiciones, inimicitice, inducice, 
 
 Belhim, pax rursum. 
 
 Ter. Eun, 
 
 U PON looking over the letters of my female cor- 
 respondents, I hnd several from women complaining 
 of jealous husbands, and at the same time protest- 
 ing their own innocence, and desiring my advice 
 on this occasion. 1 shall therefore take this subject 
 into my consideration ; and the more Avillingly, be- 
 cause 1 find that the IVlarquis of Halifax, who, in 
 his Advice to a Daughter, has instructed a wife how 
 to behave herself towards a false, an intemperate, 
 a choleric, a sullen, a covetous, or a silly husband, 
 has not spoken one word of a jealous husband. 
 
 Bb3
 
 374! SPECTATOR. no. 170. 
 
 ' Jealousy is that pain which a man feels from the 
 apprehension, that lie is not equally beloved by the 
 person whom he entirely loves.' Now, because our 
 mward passions and inclinations can never make 
 themselves visible, it is impossible for a jealous man 
 to be thoroughly cared of his suspicions. His 
 thouQ-hts hansi" at best in a state of doubtfulness and 
 uncertainty, and are never capable of receiving 
 any satisfaction on the advantageous side; so that 
 his enquiries are most successful when they discover 
 nothing: his pleasure arises from his disappoint- 
 ments, and liis life is spent in the pursuit of a secret 
 that destroys his happiness if he chance to find it. 
 
 An ardent love is always a strong ingredient in 
 this passion; for the same affection which stirs up 
 the jealous man's desires, and gives the party beloved 
 so beautiful a figure in his imagination, makes him 
 believe she kindles the same passion in others, and 
 appears as amiable to all beholders. And as jealousy 
 thus arises from an extraordinary love, it is of so 
 delicate a nature, that it scorns to take up with any 
 thing less than an equal return of love. Not the 
 warmest expressions of affection, the softest and 
 most tender hypocrisy, are able to give any satis- 
 faction, Avhere we arc not persuaded that the affec- 
 tion is real, and the satisfaction mutual. For the 
 jealous man wishes himself a kind of deity to the 
 person he loves: he would be the only pleasure of 
 her senses, the employment of her thoughts ; and is 
 angrv at every thing she -admires, or takes delight 
 in, besides himself. 
 
 PliEcdria's request to his mistress, upon his leaving 
 licr for three days, is inimitably beautiful and natural. 
 
 Cinn rriilite isto pra-se?is, ahsenx vt sies : 
 Dies, 7ioctcs(pie me antes : vie dcsideres : 
 M( suniiiits : me exfifctes : de rne cogitcf : 
 Me speres : me te nhleites : mcctim tufa sis : 
 Meusjac-iisfosiranb animus, qitando ego sum tvus. 
 
 Ttu. EuN.
 
 Ko. 170. SPECTATOR. 375 
 
 The jealous man's disease is of so malignant a 
 nature, that it converts all he takes into its own 
 nourishment. A cool behaviour sets him on the 
 rack, and is interpreted as an instance of aversion 
 or inditference ; a fond one raises his suspicions, and 
 looks too much hke dissimulation and artifice. If 
 the person he loves be chearful, her thoughts must 
 be employed on another; and if sad, she is certainly 
 thinking on himself. In short, there is no word or 
 gesture so insignificant, but it gives him a new liint, 
 feeds his suspicions, and furnishes him with fresli 
 matters of discovery: so that if we consider the 
 effects of this passion, one would rather think it 
 proceeded from an inveterate hatred than an exces- 
 sive love ; for certainly none can meet with more 
 disquietude and uneasiness than a suspected wife, 
 if we except the jealous husband. 
 
 But the great unhappiness of this passion is, that 
 it naturally tends to alienate the affection which it 
 is so solicitous to engross ; and that for these two 
 reasons: because it lavs too great a constraint on 
 the words and actions of the suspected person, and 
 ■at the same time shews you have no honourable 
 opinion of her ; both of which are strong motives 
 to aversion. 
 
 Nor is this the worst effect of jealousy ; for it 
 often draws after it a more fatal train of conse- 
 quences, and makes the person you suspect guilty 
 of the very crimes you are so much afraid of. It 
 is very natural for such who are treated ill, and 
 upbraided falsely, to find out an intimate friend that 
 vill hear their complaints, condole their sufferings, 
 and endeavour to sooth and assuage their secret re- 
 sentmcnts. Besides, jealousy puts a woman often 
 in mind of an ill thing that she would not other- 
 wise perhaps have thought of, and tills her imagi- 
 nation with such an unlucky idea, as in time "'rows 
 iamiliar, excites desire, and loses all the shame and 
 horror which might at first attend it. Nor is it "a 
 
 Bb4
 
 37^ SPECTATOR. no. 170. 
 
 wonder, if she who suffers wrongfully in a man's 
 opinion of her, and has therefore nothing to for- 
 feit in his esteem, resolves to give him reason for 
 his suspicions, and enjoy the pleasure of the crime, 
 since she must undergo the ignominy. Such pro- 
 bably were the considerations that directed the M^ise 
 man in his advice to husbands : ' Be not jealous 
 over the wife of thy bosom, and teach her not an 
 evil lesson ao-ainst thvself Ecclus.' 
 
 And here, among the other torments Avhich this 
 passion produces, we may usually observe, that none 
 are greater mourners than jealous men, when the 
 person who provoked their jealousy is taken from 
 them. Then it is that their love breaks out fu- 
 riously, and throws off all the mixtures of suspicion 
 which choked and smothered it before. The beau- 
 tiful parts of the character rise uppermost in the 
 jealous husband's memory, and upbraid him with the 
 ill usaee of so divine a creature as was once in his 
 possession; whilst all the little imperfections that 
 were befoic so uneasy to him, wear off' from his re- 
 membrance, and shew themselves no more. 
 
 We may see, by Mhat has been said, that jealousy 
 takes the deepest root in men of amorous disposi- 
 tions; and of these we find three kinds who are 
 most o\'er-run with it. 
 
 The first are those who are conscious to them- 
 selves of any infirmity, whether it be weakness, old 
 age, deformity, ignorance, or the like. These men 
 are so well accjuainted Avith the unamiable part of 
 themselves, that thev have not the confidence to 
 think they are really beloved ; and are so distrustful 
 of their own merits, that all fondness towards them 
 j)uts them out of countenance, and looks like a jest 
 upon their j)ersons. They grow suspicious on their 
 fir^t looking in a glass, and are stung M'ith jealousy 
 at the sight of a wrinkle. A handsome fellow im- 
 mediately alarms them; and every thing that looks 
 young or gay tuins their thoughts upon their \\ ives.
 
 >io. 170. SPECTATOR. S77 
 
 A second sort of men, who are most liable to this 
 passion, are those of cunning, wary, and distrust- 
 ful tempers. It is a fault very justly found in his- 
 tories composed by politicians, that they leave no- 
 thing to chance or humor, but are still for deriving 
 every action from some plot or contrivance, for 
 drawing up a perpetual scheme of causes and events, 
 and preserving a constant correspondence between 
 the camp and the council-table. And thus it hap- 
 pens in the affairs of love with men of too refined a 
 thought. They put a construction on a look, and 
 find out a design in a smile ; they give new senses 
 and significations to words and actions ; and are 
 ever tormenting themselves with fancies of their own 
 raising : they generally act in a disguise themselves, 
 and therefore mistake all outward shows and appear- 
 ances of hypocrisy in others ; so that I believe no 
 men see less of the truth and realitv of thino-s, than 
 these great refiners upon incidents, who are so won- 
 derfully subtle and over-wise in their conceptions. 
 
 Now what these men fancy they know of women 
 bv reflection, your lewd and vicious men believe 
 they have learned by experience. They have seea 
 the poor husband so misled by tricks and artifices, 
 and, in the midst of his enquiries, so lost and bewil- 
 dered in a crooked intrigue, that they still suspect 
 an under-plot in ev-ery female action ; and especially 
 where they see any resemblance in the behaviour of 
 two persons, are apt to fancy it proceeds from the 
 same design in both. These men, therefore, bear 
 hard upon the suspected party, pursue her close 
 through all her turnings and windings, and are too 
 well acquainted with the chace, to be flung off by 
 any false steps or doubles : besides, their acquaint- 
 ance and conversation has lain wholly among the 
 vicious part of womenkind, and therefore it is no 
 wonder they censure all alike, and look upon the 
 whole sex as a species of impostors. But if, not- 
 withstanding their private experience, they can gdt;
 
 378 SPECTATOR. no. 170. 
 
 over these prejudices, and entertain a favourable 
 opinion of some M^omen, yet their own loose de- 
 sires will stir up new suspicions from another side, 
 and make them believe all men subject to the same 
 inclinations Avith themselves. 
 
 Whether these or other motives are most predomi- 
 nant, we learn from the modern histories of America, 
 as well as from our own experience in this part of 
 the world, that jealousy is no northern passion, but 
 rages most in those nations that lie nearest the in- 
 fluence of the sun. It is a misfortune for a woman 
 to be born between the tropics ; for there lie the 
 hottest regions of jealousy, M'hich, as you come 
 northward, cools all along Avith the climate, till you 
 scarce meet any thing like it in the polar circle. Our 
 own nation is very temperately situated in this re- 
 spect : and if ^ve meet with some few disordered 
 with the violence of this passion, they are not the 
 proper growth of our country, but are many de- 
 grees nearer the sun in their constitution than in 
 their climate. 
 
 After this frightful account of jealousy, and the 
 -persons^ who arc most subject to it, it Mill be but 
 fair to shew by what means the passion may be best 
 allayed, aiul those who are possessed with it set at 
 ^ase. Other faults indeed are not under the wife's 
 .jurisdiction, and should, if possible, escape her ob- 
 servation : but jealousy calls upon her particularly 
 ■for its cure, and deserves all her art and application 
 in the attempt : besides, she lias this for her en- 
 'couragemcnt, that her endeavours Mill be always 
 pleasing, and that she M'ill find the affection of her 
 luisbantl rising tOMards her in proportion as his 
 "doubts antl suspicions vanisli ; for, as we have seen 
 all along, there is so great a mixture of love in 
 jealousy as is wcW worth the se|>arating. But this 
 shall be the subject of another paper.
 
 NO. 171, SPECTATOR. 379 
 
 No. 171. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15. 
 
 Credula res amor est- 
 
 OviD. Met. 
 
 xIaving in iny yesterday's paper discovered the 
 nature of jealousy, and pointed out the persons who 
 are most subject to it, I must here apply myself to 
 my fair correspondents, who desire to live well with 
 a jealous husband, and to ease his mind of its unjust 
 suspicions. 
 
 The first rule I shall propose to be observed is; 
 that you never seem to dislike in another what the 
 jealous man is himself guilty of, or to admire any 
 thing in which he himself does not excel. A jealous 
 man is very quick in his applications ; he knows how 
 to lind a double edge in an invective, and to draw a 
 satire on himself out of a panegyric on another. 
 He does not trouble himself to consider the person, 
 but to direct the character ; and is secretly pleased 
 or confounded as he finds more or less of himself in 
 it. The commendation of any thing in another, 
 stirs up his jealousy, as it shews you have a value 
 for others besides himself ; but the commendation 
 of that which he himself wants, inflames him more, 
 as it shews that in some respect you prefer others 
 before him. Jealousy is admirably described in this 
 view by Horace in his Ode to Lydia. 
 
 Qmim tu, Lydia, Telephi 
 
 Cenicem roseam, et cerea Telephi 
 Laudas brachia, vce meum 
 
 Fervens difficili bile tumet Jecur : 
 Tunc nee mens mihi, nee color 
 
 Certd sede manet ; humor et in genaa 
 Furtim lahitur ar^uens 
 
 Qudm lentis penitiis macerer ignibus. 
 
 When Telephus his youthful charms, 
 His rosy neck, and winding arms. 
 With endless rapture you reciie, 
 And in that pleasing name delight,
 
 380 SPECTATOR. no. 171; 
 
 My heart, inflam'd by jealous heats, 
 With numberless resentments beats ; 
 From my pale cheek the colour flies, 
 And all the man within me dies : 
 By turns my hidden grief appears 
 In rising sighs and falling tears, 
 That shew too well the warm desires, 
 The silent, t>low, consuming fires, 
 Which on my inmost vitals piey, 
 And melt my very soul away. 
 
 The jealous man is not indeed angry if you dislike 
 another ; but if you find those faults which are to 
 be found in his own character, you discover not 
 only your dislike of another, but of himself. In 
 short, he is- so desirous of engrossing all your love, 
 that he is grieved at the want of any charm which 
 he believes has power to raise it ; and if he finds, by 
 your censure on others, that he is not so agreeable 
 in your opinion as he might be, he naturally con- 
 cludes you would love him better if he had other 
 qualifications, and that by consequence your affec- 
 tion does not rise so high as he thinks it ought. If 
 therefore his temper be grave or sullen, you must 
 not be too much pleased with a jest, or transported 
 ■with any thing that is gay or diverting. If his 
 beauty be none of the best, you must be a professed 
 admirer of prudence, or any other quality he is 
 master of, or at least vain enough to think lie is. 
 
 In the next ])lacc, you must be sure to be free and 
 open in your conversation with him, and to let in 
 light upon your actions, to unravel all your designs, 
 and discover every secret, however trifling or indif- 
 ferent. A jealous husband has a particular aversion 
 to winks and whispers; and if he does not see to the 
 bottom of every tiling, will be sure to go beyond it 
 in his fears and suspicions, lie Avill always expect 
 to be your chief confident; and where he finds him- 
 self kept out of a secret, will believe there is more 
 in it than there should be. And here it is of great 
 concern, that you preserve the character of your
 
 NO. 171. SPECTATOR. 381 
 
 sincerity uniform, and of a piece ; for if he once 
 finds a false gloss put upon any single action, he 
 quickly suspects all the rest ; his working imagina- 
 tion immediately takes a false hint, and runs off 
 with it into several remote consequences, 'till he has 
 proved very ingenious in working out his own 
 misery. 
 
 If both these methods fail, the best way will be 
 to let him see you are much cast down and afflicted 
 for the ill opinion he entertains of you, and the dis- 
 quietudes he himself suffers for your sake. There 
 are many who take a kind of barbarous pleasure in 
 the jealousy of those who love them, that insult over 
 an aching heart, and triumph in their charms, which 
 are able to excite so much uneasiness. 
 
 Ardeat ipsa licet, tormentis gmulet amnntis. 
 
 Juv. 
 
 But these often carry the humor so far, 'till their 
 affected coldness and indifference quite kills all the 
 fondness of a lover, and are then sure to meet in 
 their turn, with all the contempt and scorn that is 
 due to so insolent a behaviour. On the contrary, 
 it is very probable, a melancholy, dejected carriage, 
 the usual effects of injured innocence, may soften 
 the jealous husband into pity, make him sensible of 
 the wrong he does you, and work out of his mind 
 all those fears and suspicions that make you both 
 unhappy. At least it will have this good effect, 
 that he will keep his jealousy to himself, and repine 
 in private ; either because he is sensible it is a weak- 
 ness, and will therefore hide it from your knowledge, 
 or because he will be apt to fear some ill effect it 
 may produce, in cooling your love towards him, or 
 diverting it to another. 
 
 There is still another secret that can never fail, if 
 you can once get it believed, and which is often 
 practised by women of greater cunning than virtue: 
 this is, to change sides for a while with the jealous 
 man, and to turn his own passion upon himself; to
 
 382 SPECTATOR. no. 171. 
 
 take some occasion of growing jealous of him, and 
 to follow the example he himself hath set you. This 
 counterfeited jealousy will bring him a great deal of 
 pleasure, if he thinks it real ; for he knows experi- 
 mentally how much love goes along with this passion, 
 and will besides feel somethino- like the satisfaction 
 of a rc\en^e, in seeino- vou undergo all his own tor- 
 tures. But this, indeed, is an artifice so difficult, and 
 at the same time so disingenuous, that it ought never 
 to be put in practice, but by such as have skill 
 enough to cover the deceit, and innocence to render 
 it excusable. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with the story of Ilerod 
 and jMariamne, as I have collected it out of Jose- 
 phus, which may serve almost as an example to 
 whatever can be said on this subject. 
 
 JMariamne had all the charms that beauty, birth, 
 wit, and youth, could give a woman; and Herod all 
 the love that such charms are able to raise in a warm 
 and amorous disposition. In the midst of this his 
 fondness for Mariamne, he put her brother to death, 
 as he did her father not many years after. The bar- 
 barity of the action was represented to Mark Antony, 
 who immediately sunnnoned Herod into Egypt, to 
 answer for the crime that was there laid to his 
 charge. Herod attributed the sunnnons to Antony's 
 desire of JMarianine, whom therefore, before his de- 
 parture, he gave into the custody of his uncle Joseph, 
 with private orders to put her to death, if any such 
 violence ^as ofhred to himself. This Joseph was 
 much delighted with IMariamnc's conversation, and 
 endeavoured with all his art and rhetoric to set out the 
 excc?>s of Herod's passion for her : but when he still 
 found her cold aiul incredulous, be inconsiderately 
 told her, as a certain instance of her lord's aifection, 
 the private ordirs he had left behind him, which 
 plainly shewed, according to Joseph's interpretation, 
 that he could neithei- live- nor die v\ illunit her. This 
 barbarous instance of ii wild unreasonable j)assion.
 
 Ko. 171. SPECTATOR. 583 
 
 quite put • out, for a time, those little remains of 
 aftection she still had for her lord : for now her 
 thoughts were so wholly taken up with the cruelty 
 of his orders, that she could not consider the kind- 
 ness that produced them, and therefore represented 
 him in her imagination, rather under the frightful 
 idea of a murderer than a lover. Herod Avas at 
 length acquitted, and dismissed by Mark Antony, 
 when his soul was all in flames for his Mariamne ; 
 but before their meeting, he was not a little alarmed 
 at the report he had heard of his uncle's conversa- 
 tion and familiarity Avith her in his absence. This 
 therefore Avas the first discourse he entertained her 
 with, in vv^hich she found it no easy matter to quiet 
 his suspicions. But at last he appeared so well sa- 
 tisfied of her innocence, that, from reproaches and 
 wranglings, he fell to tears and embraces. Both of 
 tliem wept very tenderly at their reconciliation, and 
 Herod poured out his whole soul to her in the 
 warmest protestations of love and constancy; when, 
 amidst all his sighs and languishings, she as^ked him, 
 whether the private orders he left with his uncle 
 Joseph were an instance of such an inflamed affec- 
 tion. The jealous king M'as immediately roused at 
 so unexpected a question, and concluded his uncle 
 must have been too familiar with her, before he 
 would have discovered such a secret. In short, he 
 put his uncle to death, and very difficultly prevailed 
 upon himself to spare Mariamne. 
 
 After this he was forced on a second journey into 
 •^gyp^j when he committed his lady to the care of 
 Sohemus, with the same private orders he had before 
 given his uncle, if any mischief befel himself In 
 the mean while Mariamne so won upon Sohemus by 
 her presents and obliging conversation, that she 
 drew all the secret from him Avith which Herod had 
 intrusted him ; so that after his return, when he 
 flew to her with all the transports of joy and love, 
 she received him coldly, with sighs and tears, and
 
 584 SPECTATOR. no. 171. 
 
 all the marks of indifference and aversion. This 
 reception so stirred up his indignation, that he had 
 certainly slain her with his own hands, had not he 
 feared he himself should have become the e-reater 
 sufferer by it. It was not lonsr after this, Mdien he 
 had another violent return of love upon him ; 
 IMariamne was therefore sent for to him, whom he 
 endeavoured to soften and reconcile with all possible 
 conjugal caresses and endearments ; but she declined 
 his embraces, and answered all his fondness with 
 bitter invectives for the death of her father and her 
 brother. This behaviour so incensed Herod, that 
 he very hardly refrained from striking her ; when, in 
 the heat of their (juarrel, there came in a witness, 
 suborned by some of Mariamne's enemies, who ac- 
 cused her to the king of a design to poison him. 
 Herod Avas now prepared to hear any thing in her 
 prejudice, and immediately ordered her servant to 
 be stretclred upon the rack ; who, in the extremity 
 of his tortures, coufest, that his mistress's aversion to 
 the kins: arose from something: Sohcmus had told 
 her; but as for any design of poisoning, he utterly 
 disowned the least knowledge of it. This confession 
 quickly proved fatal to Sohemus, Avho now lay 
 under the same suspicions and sentence that Joseph 
 had before him on the like occasion. Nor would 
 Herod rest here, but accused her with great vehe- 
 mence, of a design upou his life, and by his autho- 
 rity with the judges, had her publicly condemned 
 and executed. Herod soon after her death grew me- 
 lancholy and dejected, retiring from the public ad- 
 ministration of affairs into a solitarv forest, and there 
 abandoning himself to all the black considerations 
 vliich naturally arise from a passion made up of 
 love, remorse, pity, and despair. He used to rave 
 for his .Mariamne, and to call upon her in his dis- 
 tracted fits ; and in all probability would soon liave 
 foilowcfl her, had not his thoughts been seasonably 
 called off from si; sad an object by public storms," 
 which at that time very nearly threatened him.
 
 xo. 173. SPECTATOR. 385 
 
 No. 173. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18. 
 
 -Remove fera moiistra, tuceque 
 
 Saxijicos vultus, qucecunque ea, tolh Medusct. 
 
 Ov. Met. 
 
 X N a late paper I mentioned the project of an inge- 
 nious author for the erecting of several handicraft 
 prizes to be contended for by our British artizans, 
 and the influence they nfiglit have towards the im- 
 provement of our several manufactures. I have 
 since that been very much surprized by the follow- 
 ing advertisement which I find in the Post-Boy of 
 the 11th instant, and again repeated in the Post- 
 Boy of the 15th. 
 
 . "On the 9th of October next will be run for upon 
 Coleshill- Heath, in Warwickshire, a plate of six 
 guineas value, 3 heats, by any horse, mare, or geld- 
 ing, that hath not won above the value of .51. the 
 winning horse to be sold for lOl. to carry 10 stone 
 weight, if l-i hands high; if above or under, to 
 carry or be allowed weight for inches, and to be 
 entered Friday the 15th at the Swun in Coleshill, 
 before six in the evening. Also a plate of less value 
 to be run for by asses. The same day a gold ring to 
 be grinned for by men." 
 
 The first of these diversions that is to be exhibited* 
 by the lOl. race-horses, may probably have its use ; 
 but the two last, in which the asses and men are 
 concerned, seem to be altogether extraordinary and 
 unaccountable. Why they should keep running- 
 asses at Coleshill, or how making mouths turns to - 
 account in Warwickshire, more than in any other 
 parts of England, I cannot comprehend. I have 
 looked over all the Olympic games, and do not find 
 any thing in them like an ass-race, or a match at 
 
 Vol. I. C c
 
 386 " SPECTATOR. no. 173. 
 
 grinning. However it be, I am informed, that seve- 
 ral asses are now kept in body-clothes, and sweated 
 every morning upon the heath ; and that all the 
 country-fellows m ithin ten miles of the Swan grin 
 an hour or two in their glasses every morning, in 
 order to qualify themselves for the yth of October. 
 The prize which is proposed to he grinned for, has 
 raised such an ambition among the conniion people 
 of out-grinning one another, that many very dis- 
 cerning persons are afraid it should spoil most of the 
 faces in the countv ; and that a Warwickshire man 
 will be known by his grin, as Roman Catholics 
 imaoine a Kentish man is bv his tail. The Qoid ring 
 Mliich is made the prize of deformity, is just the 
 reverse of the golden apple that ^\•as formerly made 
 the prize of beauty, and should carry for its posie 
 the old motto inverted, 
 
 Dctur idriori. 
 
 Or, to accommodate it to the capacity of the com- 
 batants, 
 
 'J'he frightfiill'st grinner 
 lie the winner. 
 
 In the mean while I M'ould advise a Dutch painter 
 to he present ac this great contro\ersy of faces, in. 
 order to make a collection of the most remarkable 
 grins that shall be there exhibited. 
 
 1 must not here omit an account which I lately 
 received of one of these grinning matches from a 
 gentleman, wlio, upon reading the above-mentioned 
 advertisement, entertained a cofl'ee-house with the 
 following narrativ(s. Upon the taking of Namur, 
 amongst other i)ublic rt^joieings made on that occa- 
 sion, tlicre Avas a gold ring, given by a M'jiig 
 .fustiee of Peace, to be grinnetl ibr. The first com- 
 j)(titor that entered the lists was a black, swarthy 
 Frenchman, wlu) accidentally passed that way, and 
 being a man naturally of a withered look, and hard 
 features, promised himself good success. He was
 
 Ko. 173. SPECTATOR. 387 
 
 placed upon a table in the great point of view^ and 
 looking upon the company like Milton's death, 
 
 Grinn'd horribl}^ a ghastly smile — 
 
 His muscles were so drawn together on each side 
 of his face, that he shewed twenty teeth at a grin, 
 and put the country in some pain, lest a foreigner 
 should carry away the honor of the day ; but upon 
 a further trial, the)^ fomul he Vv^as master only of the 
 merry grin. 
 
 The next that mounted the table was a male- 
 content in those days, and a great master of the 
 whole art of grinning, but particularly excelled in the 
 angry grin. He did his part so well, that he is 
 said to have made half a dozen women miscarry : 
 but the Justice being apprised by one who stood 
 near him, that the fellow who grinned in his face 
 was a Jacobite, and being unwilling that a disaffect- 
 ed person should win the g;old ring, and be looked 
 upon as the best grinner in the county, he ordered 
 the oaths to be tendered unto him upon his quitting 
 the table, Avhich the grinner refusing, he was set 
 aside as an unqualified person. There were several 
 other grotesque figures that presented themselves, 
 which it would be too tedious to describe. I must 
 not however omit a ploughman, who lived in the 
 further part of the county, and being very lucky 
 in a pair of long lanthorn jaws, wrung his face into 
 such an hideous grimace, that every feature of it 
 appeared under a different distortion. The whole 
 company stood astonished at such a complicated 
 grin, and were ready to assign the prize to him, 
 had it not been proved by some of his antagonists, 
 that he had practised with verjuice for some da} s 
 before, and had a crab found upon him at the very 
 time of grinning; upon M'hich the best judges of 
 grinning declared it as their opinion, that he was 
 not to be looked upon as a fair grinner, and there- 
 fore ordered him to be set aside as a cheat. 
 
 Cc2 
 
 /
 
 388 SPECTATOR. no. 173. 
 
 The prize, it seems, fell at length upon a cobbler, 
 Giles G organ by name, who produced several new 
 grins of his own invention, having been used to 
 cut faces for many years together over his last. At 
 the very first grin he cast every human feature out 
 of his countenance ; at the second he became the 
 face of a spout, at the third a baboon, at the fourth 
 the head of a bass-viol, and at the fifth a pair of 
 nut-crackers. The whole assembly wondered at his 
 accomplishments, and bestowed the ring on him 
 unanimously. But, what he esteemed more than all 
 the rest, a country Mench, whom he had wooed in 
 vain for above five years before, was so charmed with 
 his grins, and the applauses Nvhich he received on 
 all sides, that she married him the week following, 
 and to this day wears the prize upon her finger, the 
 cobbler having made use of it as his wedding-ring. 
 
 This might perhaps seem very impertinent, if it 
 grew serious in the conclusion. I would never- 
 theless leave it to the consideration of those who 
 are the patrons of this monstrous trial of skill, 
 whether or no they are not guilty, in some measure, 
 of an affront to their species, in treating after this 
 manner the Human Face Divine, and turning that 
 part of us, which has so great an image impressed 
 upon it, into the image of a monkey ; whether the 
 raising such silly competitions among the ignorant, 
 proposing prizes for such useless accomplishments, 
 filling the common peoj)les' heads witli such sense- 
 less ambitions, and inspiring them M'ith such ab- 
 surd ideas of superiority and pre-eminence, has not 
 in it something immoral as well as ridiculous.
 
 NO. 177. SPECTATOR. 389 
 
 No. 177. SATURDAY, SEPTEIMBER 22. 
 
 ■Qids e/iim bonus, aut face dignus 
 
 Arcana, qualem Cereris vult esse sacerdos, 
 
 Vila aliena sibi credat mala i 
 
 Juv. 
 
 A isr one of my last week's papers I treated of good- 
 nature, as it is the effect of constitution ; I shall 
 nou^ speak of it as it is a moral virtue. The first 
 may make a man easy in himself, and agreeable to 
 others, but implies no merit in him that is possessed 
 of it. A man is no more to be praised upon this 
 account, than because he has a regular pulse, or a 
 good digestion. This good-nature, however, in the 
 constitution, A^hich Mr. Dryden somewhere calls a 
 milkiness of blood, is an admirable ground-work 
 for the other. In order therefore to try our good- 
 nature, whether it arises from the body or the mind, 
 whether it be founded in the animal or rational part 
 of our nature, in a Avord, whether it be such as is 
 entitled to any other reward, besides that secret 
 satisfaction, and contentment of mind, which is 
 essential to it, and the kind reception it procures us 
 in the world, we must examine it by the following 
 rules. 
 
 First, whether it acts with steadiness and unifor- 
 mity in sickness and in health, in prosperity and 
 adversity ; if otherwise, it is to be looked upon as 
 nothing else but an irradiation of the mind from 
 some new supply of spirits, or a more kindly circu- 
 lation of the blood. Sir Francis Bacon mentions a 
 cunning solicitor who would never ask a favour of 
 a great man before dinner, but took care to prefer 
 his petition at a time when the party petitioned had 
 his mind free from care, and his appetites in good 
 humor. Such a transient temporary good-nature as 
 
 C c 3
 
 390 SPECTATOR. no. 177. 
 
 this, is not that philanthropy, that love of mail' 
 kind, M'hich deserves the title of a moral virtue. 
 
 The next way of a man's bringing his good- 
 nature to the test, is, to consider whether it ope- 
 rates according to the rules of reason and duty : for 
 if, notwithstanding its general benevolence to man- 
 kind, it makes no flistinction between its objects, if 
 it exerts itself promiscuousl}' tOM-ards the deserving 
 and the undeservins:, if it relieves alike the idle and 
 the indigent, if it gives itself up to the first peti- 
 tioner, and lights upon any one rather by accident 
 than choice, it may pass for an amiable instinct, 
 but must not assiune the name of a moral virtue. 
 
 The third trial of good-nature will be, the ex- 
 amining ourselves, Avhethcr or no we are able to 
 exert it to our own disadvantage, and employ it on 
 proper objects, notwithstanding any little paiji, 
 want, or inconvenience, which may arise to ourselves 
 from it : in a word, whether we are M'iUing to risque 
 any part of our fortune, or reputation, our health or 
 case, for the benefit of mankind. Among all these 
 expressions of good-nature, I shall single out that 
 which goes under the general name of charity, as it 
 Consists ill relic\iiig the iiuli':»ent ; that being a 
 trial of tiiis kind which offers itself to us almost at 
 all times, and in every place. 
 
 I shosild propose it as a rule to every one, who is 
 provided with any competency of fortune more than 
 is suftk'ient tor the necessaries of life, to lay aside a 
 certain [)roportion of his income for tlie use of the 
 poor. Ibis I would look upon as an offering to Him 
 who has a right to the M'hole, for the use of those 
 whom, in the passage hereafter mentioned, he has 
 descriljcd as his own representatives upon earth. 
 At the same time we sho\ild manage our charity with 
 Such ])nulence and caution, that we may not hurt 
 onr own friends or relations, whilst we are doing good 
 to those who are strangers to us.
 
 MO. 177. SPECTATOR. S91 
 
 This may possibly be explained better by an ex- 
 ample than by a rule. 
 
 Eug-enius is a man of universal good -nature, and 
 generous beyond the extent of his fortune ; but 
 withal so prudent in the oeconomy of his affairs, 
 that M hat goes out in charity is made up by good 
 manaoeiuent. Euo;enius has what the world calls 
 two hundred pounds a year; but never values him- 
 self above ninescore, as not thinking he has a right 
 to the tenth part, which he' always appropriates to 
 charitable uses. To this sum he frequently makes 
 other voluntary additions, insomuch that in a good 
 year, (for such he accounts those in which he has 
 been able to make greater bounties than ordinary,) 
 he has given above twice the sum to the sickly and 
 indigent. Eugenius prescribes to himself many 
 particular days of fasting and abstinence, in order 
 to increase his private bank of charity, and sets 
 aside what would be the current expences of those 
 times for the poor. He often goes afoot where his 
 business calls him, and at the end of his walk has 
 given a shilling, which in his ordinary methods of 
 expence would have gone for coach-hire, to the first 
 necessitous person that has fallen in his way. I 
 have known him, when he has been going to a 
 play or an opera, divert the money which was de- 
 signed for that purpose, upon an object of charity 
 whom he has met Avith in the street ; and afterwards 
 pass his evening in a coftee-house, or at a friend's 
 fire-side, with much greater satisfaction to himself 
 than he could have received from the most exqui- 
 site entertainments of the Theatre. By these means 
 he is generous without impoverishing himself, and 
 enjoys his estate by making it the property of 
 others. 
 
 There are few men so cramped in their private 
 affairs, who may not be charitable after this manner, 
 without any disadvantage to themselves, or preju- 
 dice to their families. It is but sometimes sacrili- 
 
 C c 4
 
 392 SPECTATOR. no. 177. 
 
 cing a diversion or convenience to the poor, and 
 turning the usual course of our expences into a 
 better channel. This is, I think, not only the most 
 prudent and convenient, but the most meritorious 
 piece of charity which we can put in practice. By 
 this method we in some measure share the neces- 
 sities of the poor, at the same time that we relieve 
 them, and make ourselves not only their patrons, 
 but their fellow-sufferers. 
 
 Sir Thomas Brown, in the last part of his Religio 
 Medici, in which he describes his charity in several 
 heroic instances, and with a noble heat of sentiment 
 mentions that verse in the Proverbs of Solomon, He 
 that gi-ceth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord: " There 
 is more rhetoric in that one sentence (says he) 
 than in a library of sermons ; and, indeed, if those 
 sentences were understood by the reader with the 
 same emphasis as they are dehvered l)y the author, 
 we needed not those volumes of instructions, but 
 might be honest by an epitome." 
 
 Uliis passage of scripture is indeed wonderfully 
 persuasive ; but I think the same thought is carried 
 much further in the New 'Jestament, where our 
 Saviour tells us, in a most pathetic manner, that he 
 shall hereafter regard the cloathing oi" the naked, the 
 feechng of the hungry, and the visiting of the im- 
 prisoned, as offices done to himself, and reward 
 them accordingly. Pursuant to those passages in 
 holy scripture, I have somewhere met with the 
 epitaph of a charitable man, Mhich has very much 
 pleased me. I cannot recollect the words, but the 
 sense of it is to this purj)()se : 'What I sj)ent I lost; 
 what I possessed is left to others ; what 1 gave away 
 remains with me.' 
 
 Since I am thus insensiblv cno-aucd in sacred 
 writ, I cannot forbear making an extract of several 
 passages whicii I have always read with great delight 
 in flic book of Job. It is the account which that 
 holy man gives of his behaviour in the days of his
 
 NO. 177. SPECTATOR. 393 
 
 prosperity, and, if considered only as a human com- 
 position, is a finer picture of a charitable and good- 
 natured man, than is to be met with in any other 
 author. 
 
 " Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days 
 when God preserved me : when his candle shined 
 upon my head, and when by his hght I walked 
 through darkness : when the Almighty was yet 
 with me : when my children were about me : wlien 
 I washed my steps with butter, and the rock poured 
 out rivers of oil. 
 
 *' When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and 
 when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me : Be- 
 cause I delivered the poor that cried, and the father- 
 less, and him that had none to help him. The 
 blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon 
 me, and I caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. 
 I was eves to the blind, and feet was I to the lame : 
 I was a father to the poor ; and the cause which I 
 knew not, I searched out. Did I not weep for him 
 that was in trouble ; was not my soul grieved for 
 the poor ? Let me be weighed in an even ballance, 
 that God may know mine integrity. If I did de- 
 spise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid- 
 servant Avhen they contended with me : what then 
 shall I do when God riseth up ? and v, hen he visit- 
 eth, what shall I answer him ? Did not he that 
 made me in the womb, make him ? and did not one 
 fashion us in the womb ? If I have with-held the 
 poor from their desire, or have caused the eyes of 
 the M'idow to fail, or have eaten my morsel myself 
 alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten thereof: If 
 I have seen any perish for want of clothing, or any 
 poor without covering: If his loins have not bless- 
 ed me, and if he were not warmed with the fleece of 
 my sheep : If I have lift up my hand against the 
 fatherless when I saw my help in the gate ; then let 
 mine arm fall from my shoulder-blade, and mine 
 arm be broken from the bone. If I have rejoiced
 
 394 SPECTATOR. no. 179. 
 
 at the destruction of him that hated me, or lift up 
 myself Avhen evil foUiid him : (neither have I suf- 
 fered my mouth to sin, by wishing a curse to his 
 soul. ) The stranger did not lodge in the street ; 
 but I opened my doors to the traveller. If ray land 
 cry against me, or that the furrows likewise thereof 
 complain : If I have eaten the fruits thereof with- 
 out money, or have caused the owaiers thereof to 
 lose their life : Let thistles grow instead of wheat, 
 and cockle instead of barley.'' 
 
 No. 179. TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25. 
 
 Cciifuruc xcnioru))} agittiiit expcrfta fn/o;is : 
 Celsi pnrfcretait aimtcra pocmnta Rliaiiincs. 
 0/nne tidit punctiuii qui miscuit utile duhif 
 Lcctorem delectando, pariterque mo/ieiido. 
 
 11 OR. 
 
 JL 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 humor; the others are those of a more 
 solenm and sober turn, v/ho find no pleasure but in 
 papers of morality and sound sense. The former 
 call every thing that is serious, stupid ; the latter 
 look up every thing as impertinent that is ludicrous. 
 Were I always grave, one half of my readers would 
 full off from me : were I always merry, I should 
 lose the other. I make it therefore mv endeavour 
 to find out entertainments for both kinds, and 
 by that means pciliaps consult the good of both, 
 more than I should do, did I always Mrite to the 
 particular taste of either. As they neither of them 
 know what 1 j)roceed upon, the siirightly reader, 
 who takes up my ])apcr in order to he diverted, very 
 often finds himself cn":a«>('d unawares in a serious 
 and {)rolitable course of thinking ; as, on the cou-
 
 NO. 179. SPECTATOR. 395 
 
 trary, 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 knowino- his bill of fare, and has therefore 
 at least the pleasure of hoping there may be a dish 
 to his palate. 
 
 I must confess, were I left to myself, I would 
 rather aim at instructing than diverting ; but if we 
 will be useful to the world, we must take it as we 
 find it. Authors of professed severity discourage 
 the looser part of mankind 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 somethini>; in it austere and shockino- to 
 the careless and inconsiderate. ■ 
 
 Eor this reason many unthinking persons fall in 
 my way, who would give no attention to lectures 
 delivered with a religious seriousness, or a philoso- 
 phic 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 de- 
 gree of consideration as may dispose them to listen 
 to more studied and elaborate discourses, I shall 
 not think my speculations useless, I might likewise 
 observe, that the gloominess in udiich sometimes the 
 minds of the best men are involved, very often 
 stands in need of such little incitements to mirth 
 and laughter as are apt to disperse melancholy, and 
 put our faculties in good humor. To which some 
 Avill add, that the British climate, more than any 
 other, makes entertainments of this nature in a man- 
 ner necessary. 
 
 If what I have here said do not recommend, it 
 will at least excuse the vaYiety of my speculations. 
 I would not willingly laugh, but in order to instruct; 
 or if I sometimes fail in this point, M^hen my mirth 
 ceases to be instructive^ it shall never cease to be
 
 396 SPECTATOR. no. 179. 
 
 innocent. A scrupulous conduct in this particular, 
 has, perhaps, more merit in it than the generality 
 of readers imagine. Did they know how many 
 thoughts occur in a point of humor, which a dis- 
 creet 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, bv reason of some remote 
 tendency which they carry in them to corrupt the 
 minds of those who read them : did thev know how 
 many glances of ill-nature are industriously avoided, 
 for fear of doing injury to the reputation of another; 
 they would be apt to think kindly of those writers 
 who endeavour to make themselves diverting with- 
 out being immoral. One may apply to these authors 
 that passage in Waller, 
 
 Foots lose half the praise they would have got, 
 Were it but known what they discreetly blot. 
 
 As nothing is more easy than to be a wit with all 
 the above-mentioned liberties, it requires some genius 
 and invention to appear such M'ithout them. 
 
 W bat I have here said, is not only in regard to the 
 public, but with an eye to my particular correspon- 
 dent, who has sent me the following letter, which I 
 have castrated in some places upon these considera- 
 tions. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 " Having lately seen your discourse upon a 
 match of grinning, I cannot forbear giving you an 
 account of a whistling match, which, with many 
 others, I was entertained with about three years 
 since at the Bath. The prize was a guinea, to be con- 
 ferred uj)ou the ablest whistler; that is, on him who 
 could whistle clearest, and go through his tune 
 witliout laughing; to which at the same time he was 
 jjrovoked by the antic postures of a Merry-Andrew, 
 who was to stand upon the stage, and play his tricks 
 ill the eye of the performer. There were three com-
 
 NO. 179. SPECTATOR. 397 
 
 petitors for the guinea. The first was a ploughman 
 of a very promising aspect ; his features were steady, 
 and his muscles composed in so inflexible a stu- 
 pidity, that upon his first appearance every one 
 gave the guinea for lost. The pickled-herring, how- 
 ever, found the way to shake him ; for, upon his 
 whistling a country jig, this unlucky wag danced 
 to it with such variety of distortions and grimaces, 
 that the countryman could not forbear smiling upon 
 him, and by that means spoiled his whistle, and lost 
 the prize. 
 
 *' The next that mounted the stage was an under- 
 citizen of the Bath, a person remarkable among the 
 inferior people of that place for his great wisdom, 
 and his broad band. He contracted his mouth with 
 much gravity, and, that he might dispose his mind 
 to be more serious than ordinarv, be«;un the tune 
 of ' The Children in the Wood,' and went through 
 part of it with good success ; when, on a sudden, 
 the wit at his elbow, who had appeared wonderfully 
 grave and attentive for some time, gave him a touch 
 upon the left shoulder, and stared him in the face 
 with so bewitching a grin, than the whistler re- 
 laxed his fibres into a kind of simper, and at length 
 burst out into an open laugh. The third who en- 
 tered the lists was a footman, who, in defiance of the 
 Merry- Andrew, and all his arts, Mhistled a Scotch 
 tune, and an Italian sonata, with so settled a coun- 
 tenance, that he bore awaj" the prize, to the great 
 admiration of some hundreds of persons, who, as 
 well as myself, were present at this trial of skill. 
 Now, Sir, I humbly conceive, whatever you have 
 determined of the grinners, the whistlers ought to 
 be encouraged, not only as their art is practised 
 without distortion, but as it improves country mu- 
 sic, promotes gravity, and teaches ordinary people 
 to keep their countenances, if they see any thing 
 ridiculous in their betters; besides that, it seems an 
 entertainment very particularly adapted to the Bath,
 
 398 SPECTATOR. no. 181. 
 
 as it is usual for a rider to whistle to his horse when 
 he would make his water pass, 
 
 I am, Sir, &:c," 
 
 li 
 
 rosTSCRi]n\ 
 
 *' After you have dispatched these two important 
 points of grinning- and whistling, I hope you will 
 oblige the world with some retlections upon yawn- 
 ing, as I have seen it practised on a tw^ifth-night 
 among other Christmas gambols, at the house of a 
 very worthy «'entlcman, who always entertains his 
 tenants at that time of the year. They ya^vn for a 
 Cheshire cheese, and begin about midnight, when 
 the whole company is disposed to be drowsy. He 
 that yawns widest, and at the same time so naturally 
 as to produce the most yawns among the spectators, 
 carries home the cheese. If you handle this subject 
 as you ought, I question not but your paper will 
 set half the kingdom a } awning; though 1 dare pro- 
 mise you it will never make any body fall asleep." 
 
 No. 181. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27. 
 
 ///* lacrymis xitam damus, ct misercscimtts ultrh. 
 
 \'lRC.. 
 
 1 Am more pleased with a letter that is filled with 
 touches of nature than of w it. The following one 
 is of this kind. 
 
 " SIR, 
 
 *' Among all the distresses Mliich happen in fami- 
 lies, 1 do not remendnr that you have touched upon 
 the marriage of chihhen without the consent of their 
 parents. 1 am one of these unfortunate persons. I 
 was al)out fifteen when I took the libeity to chuse 
 for myself: and have ever since languished under 
 the displeasure of an inexorable father, who, though
 
 NO. i8i. SPECTATOR. 399 
 
 he sees me happy in the best of husbands, and 
 blessed with very fine children, can never be pre- 
 vailed upon to forgive me. He was so kind to me 
 before this unhappy accident, that indeed it makes 
 my breach of duty, in some measure, inexcusable; 
 and at the same time creates in me such a tender- 
 ness towards him, that I love him above all things, 
 and would die to be reconciled to him. I have 
 thrown mvself at his feet, and besouo-ht him with 
 tears to pardon me; but he always pushes me a\ray, 
 and spurns me fiom him : I have written several let- 
 ters to him, but he will neither open nor receive 
 them. About two years ago 1 sent my little boy to 
 him, dressed in a new apparel; but the child re- 
 turned tome crying, because he said his grandfather 
 would not see him, and had ordered him to be put 
 out of his house. My mother is won over to my 
 side, but dares not mention me to my father for 
 fear of provoking him. About a month ago he lay 
 sick upon his bed. and in great danger of his life : 
 I v\-as pierced to the heart at the news, and conld 
 not forbear going to enquire after his health. My 
 mother took this opportunity of speaking in my be- 
 half: she told him with abundance of tears, that I 
 was come to see him, that I could not speak to her 
 for weeping, and that I should certainly break my 
 heart if he refused at that time to give me his bles- 
 sing, and be reconciled to me. lie ^.\as so far from 
 relenting to\rards me, that he bid her speak no more 
 of me, unless she had a mind to disturb him in his 
 last moments ; for, Sir, you must know that he lias 
 the reputation of an honest and religious man, which 
 makes my misfortune so much the oreater. God 
 be thanked he is since recovered : but his severe 
 usage has given me such a blow, that I shall soon 
 sink under it, unless I may be relieved by any im- 
 pressions wliich the reading of tliis in your paper 
 ma}' make upon him, 
 
 " I am, &c."
 
 400 SPECTATOR. no. 181. 
 
 Of all hardnesses of heart, there is none so inex- 
 cusable as that of parents tOM^ards their children. 
 An obstinate, inflexible, unforgiving temper is odi- 
 ous upon all occasions, but here it is unnatural. 
 The love, tenderness, and compassion, which are 
 apt to arise in us, towards those who depend upon 
 us, is tbat by which the whole world of Hfe is up- 
 held. The Supreme Being, by the transcendent 
 excellency and goodness of his nature, extends his 
 mercy towards all his works ; and because his crea- 
 tures have not such a spontaneous benevolence and 
 compassion towards those who are under their care 
 and protection, he has implanted in them an in- 
 stinct, that supplies the place of this inherent good- 
 ness. I have illustrated this kind of instinct in 
 former papers, and have shewn how it runs through 
 all the species of brute creatures, as indeed the 
 whole animal creation subsists by it. 
 
 'Ihis instinct in man is more general and uncir- 
 cumscribed than in brutes, as being; enlaro-ed bv 
 the dictates of reason and duty. For if we con- 
 sider ourselves attentively, we shall find that we are 
 not only inclined to love those who descend from 
 us, but that we bear a kind of {ir^yn, or) natural 
 affection to every thing which relies upon us for 
 its good and preservation. Dependance is a per- 
 petual call upon humanity, and a greater incitement 
 to tenderness and pity than any other motive what- 
 soever. 
 
 'J'he man, therefore, who, notwithstanding any 
 pas.sion or resentment, can overcome this powferful 
 instinct, and extinguish natural affection, debases 
 his mind even below brutality, frustrates as much 
 as in him lies the great design of Providence, and 
 strikes out of his nature one of the most divine 
 principles that is planted in it. 
 
 Among innumerable arguments which might be 
 broi.ght against such an unr('asonal)le proceeding, I 
 shall only insist on one. \\\' make it the condition
 
 NO. 181. SPECTATOR. 401 
 
 of our forgivTness that we forgive others. In our 
 very prayers we desire no more than to be treated 
 by this kind of retahation. The case therefore be- 
 fore us seems to be M'hat tliey call a case i?i point ; 
 the relation between the child and father being what 
 comes nearest to that betMcen a creature and its 
 Creator. If the father is inexorable to the child 
 who has offended, let the offence be of ne\er so 
 high a nature, how will he address himself to the 
 Supreme Being, under the tender appellation of a 
 father, and desire of him such a forgi\'eness as he 
 himself refuses to grant ? 
 
 To this I might add many other religious, as well 
 as many prudential considerations ; but if the last 
 mentioned motive does not prevail, I despair of 
 succeeding by any other, and shall therefore con- 
 clude my paper with a very remarkable story, which 
 is recordcfl in an old chronicle published by Freher 
 amono; the writers of the German history. 
 
 Eginhart, who was secretary to Charles the Great, 
 became exceeding popular by his behaviour in that 
 post. His great abihties gained him the favour of 
 his master, and the esteem of the whole court. 
 Imma, the daughter of the Emperor, was so pleased 
 with his person and conversation, that she fell in 
 love with him. As she Mas one of the greatest 
 beauties of the age, Eginhart answered her with a 
 more than equal return of passion. They stifled 
 their flames for some time, under apprehension of 
 the fatal consequences that might ensue. Eginhart 
 at length resolving to hazard all, rather than live 
 deprived of one whom his heart was so much set 
 upon, conveyed himself one night into the princess's 
 apartment, and knocking gently at the door, was 
 admitted as a person w ho had something to commu- 
 nicate to her from the Emperor. He was with her 
 in private most part of the night ; but, upon his pre- 
 paring to go away about break of day, he observed 
 that there had fallen a great snow during his stay 
 Vol. I. D d
 
 402 SPECTATOR. no. 181. 
 
 with the princess. This very much perplexed him, 
 lest the prints of his feet in the snow might make 
 discoveries to the king, who often used to visit his 
 daughter in the morning. He acquainted the Prin- 
 cess Imma with his fears ; who, after some consulta- 
 tions upon the matter, prevailed upon him to let 
 her carry him through the snow upon her own 
 shoulders. It happened that the Emperor, not being 
 able to sleep, was at that time up, and walking in 
 his chamber, M'hen, upon looking through the win- 
 dow, he perceived his daughter tottering under her 
 burden, and carrvina; his first minister across the 
 snow ; which she had no sooner done, but she re- 
 turned again Avith the utmost speed to her own apart- 
 ment. The Emperor Avas extremely troubled and 
 astonished at this accident ; but resolved to speak 
 nothing of it till a proper opportunity. In the mean 
 time Eginliart knowing that what he had done 
 could not be long a secret, determined to retire 
 from court ; and in order to it, begged the Emperor 
 that he would be pleased to dismiss him, pretending 
 a kind of discontent at his not having been rewarded 
 for his long services. The Emperor would not give 
 a direct answer to his petition, but told him be 
 would think of it, and appointed a certain day 
 -v^ hen he would let him know his pleasure. He then 
 called together the most faithful of his counsellors, 
 and acijuainting them witli his secretary's crime, 
 asked them their advice in so delicate an affair. 
 Tliey most of them gave their opinion, that the 
 person could not be too severely punished mIio had 
 thus dishonoured his master. Upon the whole de- 
 bate, tlie Emperor declared it was his opinion, that 
 Eginliart's punishment Mould rather increase than 
 diminish the shame of his family, and that therefore 
 be thouglit it the most adviseable to Avear out the 
 memory of the fact, by marrying him to his daugh- 
 ter. Accordingly l\giiibart was called in, and ac- 
 ijuaintcd by the Emperor, that he should no longer
 
 NO. 183. SPECTATOR. 403 
 
 have any pretence of complaining liis services were 
 not rewarded, for that the Princess Imma should be 
 given him in marriage, with a dower suitable to her 
 quality ; which was soon after performed accordingly. 
 
 No. 183. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29- 
 
 "iJ/iAfv -^ev^sx TToWa, Xsysiv IrvfA-oitrtv o/j-oTx, 
 "l^//.£v 0' iiiT lQi\u(ji.iv, xkn^ici, ixvQria-iX^iZt. 
 
 Hes. 
 
 Jj ABLEs were the first pieces of \vit that made their 
 appearance in the world, and have been still highly 
 valued, not only in times of the greatest simplicity, 
 but among the most polite ages of mankind. Jo- 
 tham's fable of the trees is the oldest that is extant, 
 and as beautifid as any which have been made since 
 that time. Nathan's fable of the poor man and his 
 lamb is likewise more ancient than any that is. ex- 
 tant, besides the above-mentioned, and had so good 
 an effect, as to convey instruction to the ear of a 
 king without offending it, and to bring the man 
 after God's own heart to a right sense of his guilt 
 and his duty. We find ^sop in the most distant 
 ages of Greece ; and if we look into the very be- 
 ginning of the commonwealth of Rome, we see a 
 mutiny among the common people appeased by a 
 fable of the belly and the limbs, which was indeed 
 very proper to gain the attention of an incensed 
 rabble, at a time when perhaps they would have torn 
 to pieces any man who had preached the same doc- 
 trine to them in an open and direct manner. As 
 fables took their birth in the very infancy of learn- 
 ing, they never flourished more than when learning 
 was at its greatest height. To justify this assertion, 
 I shall put my reader in mind of Horace, the great- 
 est wit and critic in the Augustan age ; and of 
 Boileau, the most correct poet among the moderns : 
 
 Dd2
 
 404 SPECTATOR. no. 183. 
 
 not to mention la Fontaine, who, by this way of 
 writing, is come more into vogue than any other 
 author of our times. 
 
 Tlie fables 1 have here mentioned, are raised alto- 
 gether upon brutes, and vegetables, with some of 
 our own species mixt among them, when the moral 
 hath so required. But, besides this kind of fable, 
 there is another in M'hicli the actors are passions, 
 virtues, vices, and other imaginary persons of the 
 like nature. Some of the ancient critics will have it, 
 the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer are fables of this 
 nature ; and that the several names of gods and 
 heroes, are nothing else but the affections of the 
 mind in a visible shape and character. Thus they 
 tell us, that Achilles, in the first Iliad, represents 
 anger, or the irascible part of human nature. That 
 upon drawing his sword against his superior in a full 
 assembly, Pallas is only another name for reason, 
 which checks and advises him upon that occasion ; 
 and at her first appearance touches him upon the 
 head, that part of the man being looked upon as 
 the seat of reason. And thus of the rest of the 
 poem. As for the Odyssey, I think it is plain that 
 Horace considered it as one of these allegorical 
 fables, by the moral which he has given us of se- 
 veraj parts of it. The greatest Italian wits have 
 applied themselves to the writing of this latter kind 
 of fables ; as Spencer's Fairy-Queen is one con- 
 tinued series of them from the beginning to the 
 end of that admirable ^\ ork. If we look into the 
 finest prose authors of antiquity, such as Cicero, 
 Plato, Xenophon, and many others, we shall find 
 that this was likewise their favourite kind of fable. 
 1 shall only Further observe upon it, that the fust of 
 this sort that made any considerable (ii>uic in the 
 world, was that of Hercules meeting M'ith Pleasure 
 and \'irtue ; M'hich m as invented by Prodicus, who 
 lived before Socrates, and in the iirst dawnings of 
 j)hilosophy. He used to travel through Greece by
 
 Ko. 183. SPECTATOR. 405 
 
 \'irtue of this fable, which procured him a kind re- 
 ception in all the market-towns, where he never 
 failed telling it as soon as he had gathered an au- 
 dience about him. 
 
 After this short preface, which I have made up 
 of such materials as my memor}^ does at present 
 suggest to me, before 1 present my reader with a 
 fable of this kind, which I design as the entertain- 
 ment of the present paper, I must in a few words 
 open the occasion of it. 
 
 In the account which Plato gives us of the con- 
 versation and behaviour of Socrates the morning he 
 was to die, he tells the following circumstance. 
 
 When Socrates his fetters were knocked off, (as 
 was usual to be done on the day that the condemned 
 person was to be executed,) being seated in the 
 midst of his disciples, and laying one of his legs 
 over the other, in a very unconcerned posture, he 
 began to rub it where it had been galled by the 
 iron ; and whether it was to shew the indifference 
 with which he entertained the thoughts of his ap- 
 proaching death, or (after his usual manner) to 
 take every occasion of philosophising upon some 
 useful subject, he observed the pleasure of that sen- 
 sation which now arose in those very parts of his 
 leg, that just before had been so much pained by 
 the fetter. Upon this he reflected on the nature of 
 pleasure and pain in general, and how constantly 
 they succeed one another. To this he added, that 
 if a man of a good genius for fable, were to represent 
 the nature of pleasure and pain in that way of writ- 
 ing, he would probably join them together after 
 such a manner, that it would be impossible for the 
 one to come into any place without being followed 
 by the other. 
 
 It is possible, that if Plato had thought it proper 
 at such a time to describe Socrates launchino" out 
 into a discourse Avhich was not of a piece with the 
 business of the day, he A\'ould have enlarged upon 
 
 Dd3
 
 406 SPECTATOR. no. 183. 
 
 this hint, and have drawn it out into some beauti- 
 ful allegory or fable. But since he has not done it, 
 I shall attempt to write one myself in the spirit of 
 that divine author. 
 
 " There were two families, which from the be- 
 ginning of the world were as opposite to each other 
 as light and darkness. The one of them lived in 
 Heaven, and the other in Hell. The youngest de- 
 scendant of the first family was Pleasure, who was 
 the daughter of Happiness, who was the child of 
 Virtue, who was the offspring of the Gods. These, 
 as I said before, had their habitation in Heaven. 
 The youngest of the opposite family was Pain, who 
 was the son of Misery, who was the child of Vice, 
 who was the offspring of the Furies. The habita- 
 tion of this race of beings was in Hell. 
 
 " The middle station of nature between these two 
 opposite extremes was the earth, which was inha- 
 bited by creatures of a middle kind, neither so vir- 
 tuous as the one, nor so vicious as the other, but 
 partaking of the good and bad (jualities of these 
 two opposite families. Jupiter considering that this 
 species, commonly called Man, was too virtuous to 
 be miserable, and too vicious to be happy, that he 
 might make a distinction between the good and the 
 bad, ordered the two youngest of the above-men- 
 tioned families, Pleasure, who Avas the daughter of 
 Happiness, and Pain, M'ho was the son of Misery, to 
 meet one another upon this part of nature which lay 
 in the half way between them, having promised to 
 settle it upon both, provided they could agree upon 
 the division of it, so as to share mankind between 
 them. 
 
 " Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their 
 new habitation, but they immediately agreed upon 
 this point, that Pleasure should take possession of 
 tijc virtuous, and Pain of the vicious, part of that 
 bjjccies which was given up to them. But upon ex-
 
 NO. 183. SPECTATOR. 407 
 
 amining- to which of them any individual they met 
 with belonged, they found each of them had a right 
 to him ; for that, contrary to what they had seen in 
 their old places of residence, there was no person 
 so vicious who had not some good in him, nor any 
 person so virtuous who had not in him some evil. The 
 truth of it is, they generally found upon search, 
 that in the most vicious man Pleasure might lay 
 claim to an hundredth part, and that in the most 
 virtuous man, Pain might come in for at least two 
 thirds. This they saw would occasion endless dis- 
 putes between them, unless they could come to 
 some accommodation. To this end there was a mar- 
 riage proposed between them, and at length con- 
 cluded : by this means it is that we find Pleasure 
 and Pain are such constant yoke-fellows, and that 
 they either make their visits together, or are never 
 far asunder. If Pain comes into an heart, he is 
 quickly followed by Pleasure; and if Pleasure enters, 
 you may be sure Pain is not far off. 
 
 " But, notwithstanding this marriage was very 
 convenient for the two parties, it did not seem to 
 answer the intention of Jupiter in sending them 
 among mankind. To remedy, therefore, this in- 
 convenience, it was stipulated between them by ar- 
 ticle, and confirmed by the consent of each family, 
 that, notwithstanding they here possessed the species 
 indifferently, upon the death of every single per- 
 son, if he was found to have in him a certain 
 proportion of evil, he should be dispatched into 
 the infernal regions by a passport from Pain, there 
 to dwell with Misery, Vice, and the Furies. Or, on 
 the contrary, if he had in him a certain proportion 
 of good, lie should be dispatched into heaven by a 
 passport from Pleasure, there to dwell with Happi- 
 ness, Virtue, and the Gods. " 
 
 Dd4
 
 408 SPECTATOR. no. 184. 
 
 No. 184. MONDAY, OCTOBER 1. 
 
 Opere in longoj'as est obrepere sommnn. 
 
 HoR. 
 
 W HEN a man has discovered a new vein of hu- 
 mor, it often carries him much further than he ex- 
 pected from it. IVIy correspondents take the hint I 
 give tliem, and pursue it into speculations which I 
 never thought of at my first starting it. This has 
 been the fate of my paper on the match of grin- 
 ning, which has already produced a second paper 
 on parallel subjects, and brought me the following 
 letter by the last post. I shall not premise any thing 
 to it further, than that it is built on matter of fact, 
 and is as follows. 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " You have already obliged the world with a 
 Discourse upon Grinning, and have since proceeded 
 to Whistling, from whence you at length came to 
 Yawning; from this, I think, you may make a very 
 natural transition to Sleeping, I therefore recom- 
 mend to you for the subject of a paper the follow- 
 ing advertisement, Avhich about two months ago 
 was given into every ])ody's hands, and may be seen 
 with some additions in the Daily Courant of August 
 the ninth. 
 
 " Nicholas Mart, who slept last year in St. Bar- 
 tholomew's Hospital, intends to sleep this year at 
 tlic Cock and Bottle in Little Ih'itain. 
 
 ** Having since en(|uir('d into the matter of fact, 
 I find that the above-nientioued Nicliolas Hart is 
 every year seized with a periodical fit of sleeping, 
 which begins uj)on the fiftii of August, and ends on 
 the eleventh of the same month : That, 
 
 On the first of the month he grew dull; 
 
 On the second, appeared drowsy;
 
 uo. 184. SPECTATOR. 409 
 
 On the third, fell a yawning; 
 On the fourth, began to nod ; 
 On the fifth, dropt asleep ; 
 On the sixth, was heard to snore; 
 On the seventh, turned himself in his bed ; 
 On the eighth, recovered his former posture; 
 On the ninth, fell a stretching; 
 On the tenth, about midnight, awaked; 
 On the eleventh, in the morning, called for a lit- 
 tle small- beer. 
 
 *' This account I have extracted out of the jour- 
 nal of this sleeping worthy, as it has been fairhfully 
 kept by a gentleman of Lincoln s-Inn, who has un- 
 dertaken to be his historiogiapher. I have sent it 
 to you, not only as it represents the actions of 
 Nicholas Hart, but as it seems a very natural pic- 
 ture of the life of many an honest English gentle- 
 man, whose whole history very often consists of 
 yawning, nodding, stretching, turning, sleeping, 
 drinking, and the like extraordinary particulars, I 
 do not question. Sir, that if you pleased, you could 
 put out an advertisement, not unlike the above-men- 
 tioned, of several men of figure, that I\fr. John 
 Such-a-one, gentleman, or Thomas Such-a-one, es- 
 quire, who slept in the country last summer, in- 
 tends to sleep in town this winter. The worst of 
 it is, that the drowsy part of our species is chi( fly 
 made up of very honest gentlemen, who live quietly 
 among their neighbours, without ever disturbing 
 the pubhc peace: they are drones without stings. I 
 could heartily wish, that several turbulent, restless, 
 ambitious spirits, Avould for a while change places 
 with these good men, and enter themselves into 
 Nicholas Hart's fraternity. Could one but lay asleep 
 a few busy heads, which I could name, from the 
 first of November next to the first of May ensumo-. 
 I question not but it M^ould very much redound to
 
 410 SPECTATOR. wo. 184. 
 
 the quiet of particular persons, as well as to the 
 benefit of the public. 
 
 " But to return to Nicholas Hart: I believe, Sir, 
 you will think it a very extraordinary circumstance 
 for a man to gain his livelihood by sleeping, and 
 that rest should procure a man sustenance as well 
 as industry ; yet so it is that Nicholas got last 
 year enough to support himself for a twelvemonth. 
 1 am likewise informed that he has this year had a 
 very comfortable nap. The poets value themselves 
 very much for sleeping on Parnassus, but I never 
 heard they got a groat by it : on the contrary, our 
 friend Nicholas gets more by sleeping than he could 
 by working, and may be more properly said, than 
 e\er Homer was, to have had golden dreams. Ju- 
 venal, indeed, mentions a drowsy husband, who 
 raised an estate by snoring, but then he is repre- 
 sented to have slept what the common people call 
 dog's sleep ; or, if his sleep was real, his \v\fe was 
 aM'ake, and about her business: your pen, M'hich 
 loves to moralize upon all subjects, may raise some- 
 thing, methinks, on this circumstance also, and 
 point out to us those sets of men, Avho, instead of 
 growing rich by an honest industry, recommend 
 themselves to the favours of the great, by making 
 themselves agreeable companions in the participa- 
 tions of luxury and pleasure. 
 
 " I must further acquaint you, Sir, that one of 
 the most eminent pens in Grub-street is now em- 
 ployed in writing the dream of this miraculous 
 sleeper, which 1 hear will be of more than ordinary 
 length, as it must contain all tlie particulars that 
 arc supposed to have passed in his imaginalion dur- 
 ing so long a sleep. He is said to have gone already 
 througli three days and three nights of it, and to 
 have conijjrised in them the most remarkable ])as- 
 .sages of the four fust emj>ires of the world. If ho 
 can keep free from party-strokes, liis work may be
 
 NO. 185. SPECTATOR. 411 
 
 of use; but this I much doubt, having been in- 
 formed by one of his friends, and confidents, that 
 he has spoken some things of Nimrod with too 
 great freedom. 
 
 " I am ever, Sir^ &c.'* 
 
 No. 185. TUESDAY, OCTOBERS. 
 
 . ■ Tantame animis cmkstihus irce ? 
 
 VXKG. 
 
 HERE is nothing in Avhich men more deceive 
 themselves 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 mankind, if it had never been reckoned 
 in the catalogue of virtues. It is certain, where it 
 is once laudable and prudential, it is an humlred 
 times criminal and erroneous ; nor can it be other- 
 wise, if we consider that it operates with equal vio- 
 lence in all religions, however opposite they may be 
 to one another, and in all the sub-divisions of each 
 religion in particular. 
 
 We are told by some of the Jewish Rabbins, that 
 the first murder was occasioned by a religious con- 
 troversy ; and if we had the whole history of zeal 
 from the days of Cain to our times, we should see 
 it filled with so many scenes of slaughter and blood- 
 shed, 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 specu- 
 lation. 
 
 I would have every zealous man examine his heart 
 thorouo-hlv, and, I believe, he will often find, that 
 what he calls a zeal for his religion, is either pride, 
 interest, or ill-nature. A man who differs from
 
 412 SPECTATOR. no. 185. 
 
 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 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 with vicious, immoral men, 
 provided they do but agree with them in the same 
 scheme of belief. The reason is, because the vicious 
 believer gives the precedency to the virtuous man, and 
 alloM's the good Christian to be the worthier person, 
 at tlie same time that he cannot come up to his per- 
 fections. This ^ve find exempUfied in that trite pas- 
 sage which we see quoted in almost every system of 
 ethics, though upon another occasion; 
 
 ■Video mdiora proboque, 
 
 Deteriora sequor. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 On the contrary, it is certain, if our zeal were true 
 and genuine, we should be much more angry with a 
 sinner than a heretic ; since there are several cases 
 which inav excuse the latter before his "Teat Jud ire, 
 but none M'hich can excuse the former. 
 
 Interest is likewise a great inflamer, and sets a 
 man on persecution under the colour of zeal. For 
 this reason we find none arc so forward to promote 
 the true worship by fire and sword, as those who 
 find their i)resent account in it. But I shall extend 
 the word interest to a larger meaning than what is 
 geneially given it, as it relates to our spiritual safety 
 and welfare, as M^dl as to our temporal. A man is 
 glad to gain num])crs on his side, as they serve to 
 stiengthen him in his private opinions. iM'ery pro- 
 selyte is like a new argument for the establishment 
 of his faith. It makes him believe that his prin- 
 ciples carry conviction with them, and are the more 
 likely to be true, when he finds they are conform^
 
 NO. 185. SPECTATOR. 413 
 
 able to the reason of others, as well as his own. 
 And that this temper of mind deludes a man very 
 often into an opinion of his zeal, may appear from 
 the common behaviour of the atheist, who main- 
 tains and spreads his opinions with as much heat as 
 those who believe they do it only out of a passion 
 for God's glory. 
 
 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 inconsistent 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 service, M'hilst he 
 is gratifying the bent of a perverse revengeful tem- 
 per. For this reason we find, that most of the mas- 
 sacres and devastations which have been in the 
 world, have taken their rise from a furious pretended 
 zeal. 
 
 I love to see a man zealous in a o-ood matter, and 
 especially when his zeal shews itself for advancing 
 morality, and promoting the happiness of mankind: 
 but when I find the instruments lie works with are 
 racks and gibbets, gallics and dungeons ; when he 
 imprisons mens' 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 re- 
 ligion) his faith is vain, and his religion unprofitable. 
 
 After having treated of these false zealots in re- 
 ligion, I cannot forbear mentioning a monstrous 
 species of men, who one Mould not think had any 
 existence in nature, were they not to be met with 
 in ordinary conversation ; I mean the zealots in athe- 
 ism. One would fancy tJjat these men, though they 
 fall short in every other respect, of those who make 
 a profession of religion, would at least out-shine
 
 414 SPECTATOR. no. 185. 
 
 them in this particular, and be exempt from that 
 single fault which seems to grow out of imprudent 
 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 
 depended 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 co- 
 lours. They are a sort of gamesters Avho are eter- 
 nally upon the fret, though they play for nothing. 
 They are perpetually teazing 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 appears in atheists and infidels, T must further 
 observe, that they are likewise in a most particular 
 manner possessed with the spirit of bigottry. They 
 are wedded to opinions full of contradiction and 
 hn possibility, and at the same time look upon the 
 smallest ditficulty in an article of faith as a sufficient 
 reason for rejecting it. Notions that fall in with 
 the common reason of mankind, that are conform- 
 able 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 exploded 
 as errors and prejudices ; and schemes erected in 
 their stead, that are altogether monstrous and irra- 
 tional, and require the most extravagant credulity 
 to eu) brace them. I w oidd fain ask one of these 
 ])igotted infidels, supposing all the great points of 
 atheism, as the casual or eternal formation of the 
 world, the materiality of a thinking substance, the 
 mortality of the soul, the fortuitous organization of 
 the body, the motion and gravitation of matter, 
 with the like [)arliculars, were laid together, and 
 formed into a kind of creed, according to the opi- 
 nions of the most celebrated atheists ; 1 say, sup-
 
 NO. iSe. SPECTATOR. 415 
 
 posing such a creed as this were formed, and im- 
 posed upon any one people in the world, whether it 
 would not require an infinitely greater measure of 
 faith, than any set of articles which they so vio- 
 lently oppose. Let me therefore advise this genera- 
 tion of wranglers, for their own and for the puhlic 
 good, to act at least so consistently with themselves, 
 as not to burn with zeal for irreligion, and with 
 bigottry for nonsense. 
 
 No. 186. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBERS. 
 
 delian ipsum pctimus stultitid • 
 
 HOR. 
 
 U PON my return to my lodgings last night, I 
 found a letter from my worthy friend the clergyman, 
 whom I have given some account of in my former 
 papers. He tells me in it, that he was particularly 
 pleased with the latter part of my yesterday's spe- 
 culations ; and at the same time enclosed the follow- 
 ing essay, which he desires me to publish as the 
 sequel of that discourse. It consists partly of un-» 
 common reflections, and partly of such as have 
 been already used, but now set in a stronger light. 
 
 *' A believer may be excused by the most harden- 
 ed atheist for endeavouring to make him a convert, 
 because he does it with an eye to both their inte- 
 rests. The atheist is inexcusable who tries to gain 
 over a believer, because he does not propose the 
 doing himself or believer any good by sucli a con- 
 version. 
 
 " The prospect of a future state is the secret 
 comfort and refreshment of my soul; it is that 
 which makes nature look gay about me ; it doubles 
 all my pleasures, and supports me under all my
 
 415 SPECTATOR. no. i85. 
 
 afflictions. I can look at disappointments and mis- 
 fortunes, pain and sickness, death itself, and, what 
 is worse than death, tlie loss of those M'ho are dear- 
 est to me, with indifference, so long as I keep in 
 view the pleasures of eternity, and the state of heing 
 in M'hich there will be no fears nor apprehensions, 
 p.iins nor sorrows, sickness nor separation. Why 
 will any man be so impertinently officious, as to tell 
 me all this is only fancy and delusion ? Is there any 
 merit in being the messenger of ill news ? If it is a 
 dieam, let me enjoy it, since it makes mc both the 
 happier and better man. 
 
 '* 1 must confess I do not know how to trust a 
 man who believes neither heaven nor hell, or, in other 
 "woids, a iuture state of rewards and punishments. 
 Not only natural self-love, but reason, directs us to 
 promote our own interc'st above all things. It can 
 ne\er be for the interest of a believer to do me a mis- 
 chief, because he is sure, upon the balance of ac- 
 counts, to find himself a loser by it. On the con- 
 trarv, if he considers his own welfare in his behavi- 
 our towards me, it will lead him to do me all the 
 good he can, and at the same time restrain him 
 from doing me an injury. An unbeliever does not 
 act like a reasonable creature, if he favours me con- 
 trary to his present interest, or does not distress me 
 when it turns to his present advantage. Honour 
 and good-nature may indeed tie uj) his hands ; but 
 as these would be very much strengthened by rea- 
 son and principle, so M'ithout them they are only 
 instincts, or wavering unsettled notions, which rest 
 on no foundations. 
 
 " Inlidelity has been attacked with such good suc- 
 cess (jf late years, that it is driven out of all its 
 out-works. The atheist has not found his post 
 tenable, and has therefore retired into deism, and a 
 disbelief of rex'caled religion only. Dut the truth 
 of it is, the greatest number of this set of men, are 
 those who, for want of a virtuous education, or
 
 NO. 186. SPECTATOR. 417 
 
 examinino; the 2;roimds of religion, k-no^v so verv 
 little of the matter in question, that their infidelity 
 is but another term for their ionorauce. 
 
 " As folly and inconsiderateness are the founda- 
 tions of infidelity, the great pillars and supports of 
 it are either a vanity of appearing Vviser tiian the 
 rest of mankind, or an ostentation of courage in 
 despising the terrors of anotlier world, which have so 
 great an influence on what they call weaker minds ; 
 or an aversion to a belief that must cut them off 
 from many of those pleasures they propose to them-^ 
 selves, and fill them with remorse for many of those 
 they have already tasted. 
 
 " The o-reat received articles of the Christian re- 
 ligion, have been so clearly proved from the autho- 
 rity of that divine revelation in which they are de- 
 livered, that it is impossible for those who have ears 
 to hear, and eyes to see, not to be convinced of 
 tiiem. But were it possible for any thing in the 
 Christian faith to be erroneous, I can find no ill 
 consequences in adhering to it. The great points 
 of the incarnation and suflTerings of our Saviour, 
 produce naturally such habits of virtue in the mind 
 of man, that, I say, supposing it were possible for 
 us to be mistaken in them, the Infidel himself must 
 at least allow, that no other system of religion could 
 so eflfectuallv contribute to the hei"'htenin2: of mo- 
 rality. They give us great ideas of the dignity of 
 luiraan nature, and of the love which the Supreme 
 Jking bears to his creatures, and consequently en- 
 a'ao-e us in the highest acts of duty towards our 
 Creator, our neighbour, and ourselves. How many 
 noble arguments has Saint Paul raised from the 
 chief articles of our religion, for the advancing of 
 morality in its three great branches ! To give a sin- 
 gle example in each kind : What can be a stronger 
 motive to a firm trust and refiance on the mercies of 
 our Maker, than the giving us his Son to suffer for 
 us? AVhat can make us love and esteem even the 
 
 Vol. I. E e
 
 41S SPECTATOR. no. 186. 
 
 most inconsiderable of mankind, more than the 
 thought that Christ died for him ? Or what dispose 
 us to a stricter guard upon tiie purity of our own 
 hearts, than our being members of Christ, and a 
 part of the society of wliich that immaculate person 
 is the head ? But these are only a specimen of those 
 admirable enforcements of morality which the apos- 
 tle has dra^n from the history of our blessed 
 Saviour. 
 
 " If our modern infidels considered these matters 
 with that candour and seriousness which they de- 
 serve, we should not see them act with such a spirit 
 of bitterness, arrogance, and malice : thev would 
 not be raising such insignificant cavils, doubts, and 
 scruples, as may be started against every thing that 
 is not capable of mathematical demonstration ; in 
 order to unsettle the minds of the ignorant, disturb 
 the public peace, subvert morality, and throw all 
 things into confusion and disorder. If none of 
 these reflections can have any influence on them, 
 there is one that perhai)s may ; because it is adapted 
 to their vanity, by which they seem to be guided 
 much more than their reason, 1 would therefore 
 have them consider, that the wisest and best of men, 
 in all ages of the world, have been those who lived 
 iij) to the religion of their country, when they saw 
 nothing in it opposite to morality, and to the best 
 lights they iiad of the Divine Nature. Pythagoras's 
 first rule directs us to worship the gods as it is or- 
 dained by law, for that is the most natural interpre- 
 tation of the precept. Socrates, who was the most 
 renowned anion<>: the heathens both for wisdom and 
 
 (T* ..." 
 
 virtue, in his last moments, desired his fiicnds to 
 offer a cock to ALscuIapius ; doubtless out of a sub- 
 niissi\e deference to the established worship of his 
 country. Xenophon tells us, that his prince, (M'hom 
 he sets forth as a pattern of j)ertccti()n,) when he 
 found his death aj)|)i()aching, offered sacrifice on 
 the mountains to the Persian Jupiter, and the Sun^
 
 NO. 189. SPECTATOR. 4 19 
 
 according to the custom of the Persians ; for those 
 are the words of the historian. Nay, the Epicureans 
 and atomic al pliilosophers shewed a very remarkable 
 modesty in this particular ; for, though the being of 
 a God was entirely repugnant to their schemes of 
 natural philosophy, they contented themselves with 
 the denial of a Providence, asserting at the same 
 time, the existence of gods in general ; because they 
 would not shock the common belief of mankind, 
 and the religion of their country. 
 
 No. 189. SATURDAY, OCTOBERS, 
 
 ■ Patrice pietatis imago, 
 
 ViRG. 
 
 HE folloM'ing letter being written to my book- 
 seller, upon a subject of which 1 treated some time 
 since, 1 shall publish it in this paper, together with 
 the letter that was inclosed in it. 
 
 " Mr. Buckley, 
 " Mr. Spectator having of late descanted upon 
 the cruelty of parents to their children, I have been 
 induced (at the request of several of Mr. Specta- 
 tor's admirers) to inclose this letter, which I assure 
 you is the original from a father to his son, notwith- 
 standing the latter gave but little or no provocation. 
 It would be wonderfully obhging to the world, if 
 Mr. Spectator would give his opinion of it in 
 some of his speculations, and particularly to 
 
 (Mr. Buckley) Your humble Servant. 
 
 (( 
 
 " Sirrah, 
 
 You are a saucy audacious rascal, and both 
 fool and mad, and I care not a farthing whether 
 you comply or no ; that does not raze out my 
 
 E e 2
 
 420 SPECTATOR. no. 189. 
 
 impressions of your insolence, going about railing 
 at me, and the next day to solicit my favour : these 
 are inconsistencies, such as discover thy reason de- 
 praved. To be brief, I never desire to see your 
 face; and, sirrah, if you go to the work-house, it 
 is no disgrace to me for you to be supported there ; 
 and if you starve in the streets, I'll never give any 
 thing underhand in your behalf If I have any 
 more of your scribbling nonsense, I will break your 
 head the next time I set sight on you. You are a 
 stubborn beast. Is this your gratitude for my giving 
 you money? You rogue, I'll better your judgment, 
 and give you a greater sense of your duty to (I re- 
 gret to say) your father, &c. 
 
 '* P. S. It is prudence for you to keep out of my 
 sight; for to reproach me, that Might overcomes 
 Right, on the outside of your letter, I shall give 
 you a great knock on the skull for it." 
 
 Was there ever such an image of paternal tender- 
 ness! It was usual among some of the Greeks to 
 make their slaves drink to excess, and then expose 
 them to their children, who by that means conceived 
 an early aversion to a vice which makes men appear 
 so monstrous and irrational. I have exposed this 
 picture of an unnatural father with the same inten* 
 tion, that its deformity may deter others from its 
 resemblance. If the reader has a mind to see a 
 father of the same stamp represented in tlie most 
 cx(|uisite strokes of humor, he may meet witii it in 
 one of the finest comedies that ever appeared upon 
 the I'nglish stage : I mean the part of Sir Sampson 
 in ' Love for Lose.' 
 
 I ]nust not, Jiowever, engage myself blindly on 
 the side of the son, to ^^ hom the fond letter above- 
 urittcn was directed. His father calls him a saucy 
 and audacious rascal in the fust line ; and I am 
 afraid, upon examination, he will prove but an un- 
 gracious }outh. To go about railing at his father,
 
 NO. 189. SPECTATOR. 421 
 
 and to find no other place but the outside of his 
 letter to tell him, that Might overcomes Right, if 
 it does not discover his reason to be depraved, and 
 that he is either fool or mad, as the choleric old 
 gentleman tells him, we may at least allow that the 
 father will do very well in endeavourino- to better 
 his judgment, and give liim a greater sense of his 
 duty. But whether this may be brought about by 
 breaking his head, or giving him a great knock on 
 the skull, ought, I think, to be mcU considered. 
 Upon the whole, I wish the father has not met 
 with his match, and that he may not be as equally 
 paired with a son, as the mother in Virgil. 
 
 -Crudelis tu quoque mater : 
 
 Crude/is mater magis an puer improbus ille ? 
 Improbus ille puer, crudelis tu quoque matei . 
 
 Or, like the crow and her t^g in the Greek 
 proverb, 
 
 I must here take notice of a letter which I have 
 received from an unknown correspondent, upon the 
 subject of my paper, upon which the foregoing let- 
 ter is likewise founded. The writer of it seems very 
 much concerned, lest that paper should seem to give 
 encouragement to the disobedience of children to- 
 wards their parents; but if the writer of it will take 
 the pains to read it over again attentively, I dare 
 say his apprehensions will vanish. Pardon and re- 
 conciliation are all the penitent daughter requestSj 
 and all that I contend for in her behalf; and in this 
 case I may use the saying of an eminent wit, who, 
 upon some great mens" pressing him to forgive his 
 daughter, who had married against his consent, told 
 them, he could refuse nothing to their instances, 
 but that he would have them remember, there was 
 difference between Givins; and Foro-ivino-. 
 
 1 must confess, ni all controversies between pa- 
 rents and their children, I am naturally prejudiced 
 
 te 3
 
 422 SPECTATOR. no. 189. 
 
 in fav^our of the former. The obligations on that 
 side can never be acquitted ; and 1 think it is one 
 of the greatest reflections upon human nature, that 
 paternal instinct should be a stronger motive to love 
 than filial gratitude ; that the receiving of favours 
 should be a less inducement to good-will, tender- 
 ness, and commiseration, than the conferring of them ; 
 and that the taking care of any person should en- 
 dear the child or dependent more to the parent or 
 benefactor, than the parent or benefactor to the 
 child or dependent; yet so it happens, that for one 
 cruel parent we meet with a thousand undutiful 
 children. 'J his is, indeed, wonderfully contrived (as 
 I have formerly observed) for the support of every 
 living species; but at the same time that it shews 
 the w isdom of the Creator, it discovers the imper- 
 fection and deo'eneracv of the creature. 
 
 Tlie obedience of children to their parents is the 
 basis of all government, and is set forth as the 
 measure of that obedience which we owe to those 
 whom Providence hath placed over us. 
 
 It is Father Le Comte, if I am not mistaken, who 
 tells us how want of duty, in this particular, is 
 punished among the Chinese, insomvich, that if a son 
 should be known to kill, or so much as to .strike, his 
 father, not only the criminal, but his whole family, 
 would be rooted out ; na}', the iid]al)itaiits of the 
 place where he lived would be put to the s\s ord ; nay, 
 the place itself would be razed to the ground, and 
 its f"oun<lations sown with salt : for, say they, there 
 must have been an utter depravation of manners in 
 that clan or socitty of people, who could have bred 
 lip amoni;" them so horrible an offender. '1 o this I 
 sl)oul(l add a [)assage out of the i'w^t i)ook of llero- 
 df)tus. That hi-^torian, in his account of the Persian 
 customs and religion, tells us, it is their opinion that 
 no man ever killed his father, or that it is possible 
 such a crime should be in nature ; but that if any 
 thing like it should ever happen, they conclude that
 
 NO. 191. SPECTATOR. 423 
 
 the reputed son must have been illegitimate, sup- 
 positious, or begotten in adultery. Their opinion 
 in this particular shews sufficiently what a notion 
 they must have had of undutifulness in general. 
 
 No. 191. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9. 
 
 lioM. 
 
 OoME ludicrous schoolmen have put the case, that 
 if an ass were placed between two bundles of hay, 
 which affected his senses equally on each side, and 
 tempted him in the very same degree, whether it 
 would be possible for him to eat of either. They 
 generally determine this question to the disadvantage 
 of the ass, who, they say, M'ould starve in the midst 
 of plenty, as not having a single grain of free-will 
 to determine him more to the one than to the other. 
 The bundle of hay on either side striking his sight 
 and smell in the same proportion, would keep him 
 in a perpetual suspence, like the two magnets which, 
 travellers have told us, are placed one of them in 
 the roof, and the other in the floor, of Mahomet's 
 burying-place at Mecca, and by that means, say 
 they, pull the impostor's iron coffin with such an 
 equal attraction, that it hangs in the air between 
 both of them. As for the ass's behaviour in such 
 nice circumstances, whether he would starve sooner 
 than violate his neutrality to the two bundles of 
 hay, I shall not presume to determine ; but only 
 take notice of the conduct of our o\m species in 
 the same perplexity. When a man has a mind to 
 venture his money in a lottery, every figure of it 
 appears ecjually alluring, and as likely to succeed as 
 any of it fellows. They all of them hive the same 
 pretensions to good luck, stand upon the same foot 
 
 E e 4
 
 424 SPECTATOR. no. 191. 
 
 of competition, and no manner of reason can be 
 given wily a man shoukl prefer one to the other be- 
 fore the lottery is drawn. In this case, therefore, 
 caprice very often acts in the place of reason, and 
 forms to itself some groundless imaginary motive, 
 where real and substantial ones are wanting. I 
 know a well-meaning man that is very well pleased 
 to risk his good fortune upon the number 1711, be- 
 cause it is the year of our Lord. I am acquainted 
 with a tacker that would give a good deal for the 
 number 134. On the contrary, I have been told of 
 a certain zealous dissenter, mIio being a great enemy 
 to Popery, and believing that bad men are the most 
 fortunate in this world, will lay two to one on the 
 number 666 against any other number, because, 
 says he, it is the number of the beast. Several 
 would prefer the number 12000 before any other, as 
 it is the number of the pounds in the great prize. 
 In short, some are pleased to find their own age in 
 their numljcr; some that they have got a number 
 which makes a pretty appearance in the cyphers; 
 and others, because it is the same number that suc- 
 ceeded in the last lottery. Each of these, upon no 
 other grounds, tl.inks he stands fairest for the great 
 lot, and that he is possessed of what may not be 
 improperly called the Ciolden Nund)cr. 
 
 These principles of ek^ction are the pastimes and 
 extravagancies of human reason, Mhich is of so 
 busy a nature, that it will be exerting itself in the 
 meanest trifles, and working even when it wants 
 materials, 'iiie wisest of men are sometimes acted 
 by such unaccountable motives, as the life of the 
 fool and the superstitious is guided by nothing else. 
 I am surprised that none of the fortune-tellers, or, 
 as the French cull tluni, tlie Difturs dt hormt Aruii- 
 ture, who publish their bills in ever}^ (juarter of the 
 town, have not turned our lotteries to their advan- 
 tage : tlid any of them set up for a caster of for-
 
 NO. 191. SPECTATOR. 425 
 
 tunate figures, what might he not get by his pre- 
 tended discoveries and predictions ? 
 
 I remember among the advertisements in the Post- 
 boy of September the 27th, I was surprised to see 
 the following one : 
 
 "This is to give notice, that ten shillings over and 
 above the market price will be given for the ticket 
 in the 150,000!, lottery, No. 132, by Nathaniel 
 Cliff, at the Bible and Three Crowns in Cheapside." 
 
 This advertisement has given great matter of spe- 
 culation to Coflee-house theorists. J\Ir. Chff s prin- 
 ciples and conversation have been canvassed upon 
 this occasion, and various conjectures made why he 
 should tiius set his heart upon No. I::i2. I have ex- 
 amined all the powers in those numbers, broken 
 them into fractions, extracted the square and cube 
 root, divided and multiplied them all ways, but 
 could not arrive at the secret till about three days 
 ago, Avhen I received the following letter from an 
 unkno>\'n hand, by \\ hich I liud that Mr. Nathaniel 
 Cliff is only the agent, and not the principal, iu 
 this advertisement. 
 
 
 Mr. Spectator, 
 I am the person that lately adv^ertised I would 
 give ten shillings more than the current price for 
 the ticket No. 132, in the lottery now drawing; 
 which is a secret I have communicated to some 
 friends, Avho rally me incessantly upon that account. 
 You must know I have but one ticket, for which 
 reason, and a certain dream 1 have lately had more 
 than once, I was resolved it should be the number I 
 most approved. I am so positive I have pitched 
 upon the great lot, that I could almost lay all 
 I am M'orth of it. My visions are so frequent and 
 strong upon this occasion, that I have not only pos- 
 sessed the lot, but disposed of the money which in 
 all probability it will sell for. This morning-, in par-
 
 A2.6 SPECTATOR. no. 131. 
 
 ticular, I set up an equipage which I look upon to 
 be the gaiest in the town ; the liveries are very rich, 
 but not gaudy. I should be very glad to see a spe- 
 culation or tMO upon lottery subjects, in which you 
 would oblige all people concerned, and in particular 
 Your most humble Servant, George Gosling. 
 
 ''P. S. Dear SPEC, if I get the 12000 pound, 
 I'll make thee a haudsome present." 
 
 After having wished my correspondent good luck, 
 and thanked him for his intended kindness, 1 shall 
 for thi.s time dismiss the subject of the lottery, and 
 only observe, that the greatest part of mankind are 
 in some degree guilty of my friend Go-iling's extra- 
 vagance. VVe are apt to rely upon future prospects, 
 and become really expensive while we are only rich 
 in possibility. We live up to our expectations, not 
 to our possessions; and make a figure proportionable 
 to what we may be, not what we are. We out- run 
 our present income, as not doubting to disburse 
 ourselves out of the profits of some future place, 
 project, or reversion, that we have in view. It is 
 through this temper of mind, which is so common 
 among us, that we see tradesmen break, who have 
 met with no misfortunes in their business ; and men 
 of estates reduced to poverty, who have never suf- 
 fercfl from losses or repairs, tenants, taxes, or hnv- 
 suits. In short, it is this foolish sanguine temper, 
 this depending upon contingent futurities, that oc- 
 casions romantic generosity, chimerical grandeur, 
 senseless ostentation, and generally ends in heggary 
 and ruin. The man who w ill live above his present 
 circumstances, is in great danger of living in a little 
 time much beneath them; or, as the Italian proverb 
 runs, The Alan who lives by Hope will die by iluu- 
 
 It should be an indis{)ensib!(' rule in life, to con- 
 tract our desires to our present condition; and what- 
 ever may be our exi)ectations, to live within the
 
 NO. 195. SPECTATOR. 427 
 
 compass of what we actually possess. It will be 
 time enough to enjoy an estate when it comes into 
 our hands ; but if we anticipate our good fortune, 
 we shall lose the pleasure of it when it arrives, and 
 may possibly never possess M-Jiat we have so foolishly 
 counted upon. 
 
 No. }95, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13. 
 
 Oiio oa-ov l* (/.a'Ka.vnTi ot oi(rofoi>.u fn-iy oyitai^, 
 
 Hes. 
 
 1 HERE is a Story in the Arabian Nights Tales, of 
 a king who had long languished under an ill habit 
 of body, and had taken abundance of remedies to 
 no purpose. At length, says the fable, a physician 
 cured him by the following method. He took an 
 hollow ball of wootl, and filled it with several drugs ; 
 after which he closed it up so artificiallv that notliin<r 
 appeared He likewise took a mall, and after hav- 
 ing hollowed the handle, and that part M'hich strikes 
 the ball, he inclosed in them several drugs after the 
 same manner as in the ball itself He then ordered 
 the sultan, who ^was his patient, to exercise himself 
 early in the morning with these rightlij prepared in- 
 struments, till.such time as he should sweat ; when, 
 as the story goes, the virtue of the medicaments 
 perspiring through the wood, had so good an influ- 
 ence on the sultan's constitution, that they cured 
 him of an indisposition which all the compositions 
 he had taken inwardly had not been able to remove. 
 This eastern allegory is finely contrived to shew us 
 how beneficial bodily labour is to health, and that 
 exercise is the most effectual physic. I have de- 
 scribed, in my hundred and fifteenth paper, from 
 the general structure and mechanism of an human 
 body, how absolutely necessary exercise is for its
 
 4^28 SPECTATOR. no. 195. 
 
 presentation : I shall in this place recommend ano- 
 ther great preser\'ative of health, which in many 
 cases produces the same effects as exercise, and may, 
 in some measure, supply its place, where opportuni- 
 ties of exercise are wanting. The preservative I am 
 speaking of is temperance, M'hich has those particu- 
 lar advantao-es ahove all other means of health, that 
 it may be practised by all ranks and conditions, at 
 any season, or in any place. It is a kind of regi- 
 men into which every man may put himself, with- 
 out interruption to business, expence of money, or 
 loss of time. If exercise throws off all superlluities, 
 temperance prevents them ; if exercise clears the 
 vessels, temperance neither satiates nor overstrains 
 them ; if exercise raises proper ferments in the hu- 
 mors, and promotes the circulation of the blood, 
 temperance gives nature her full play, and enables 
 her to exert herself in all her force and vigour ; if 
 exercise dissipates a growing distemper, temperance 
 starves it. 
 
 Physic, for the most part, is nothing else but the 
 substitute of exercise or temperance. Medicines 
 are indeed absolutely necessary in acute distenipers, 
 that cannot wait the sIom' operations of tliese two 
 great instruments of health ; but did men live in an 
 habitual course of exercise and temperance, there 
 would be but little occasion for them. Accordinoly 
 we find that those parts of the world are the most 
 healthy, as here they subsist by the chace ; and that 
 men lived longest when their lives were employed in 
 lumtinu:, and when tbev had little food besiiles what 
 they caught. Plistering, cu))i)ing, and bleeding, are 
 .seldom of use but to the idle and intemperate ; as 
 all those inward applications Mhich are so nuich in 
 practice among us, are for the most part nothing 
 else but expedients to make luxury consistent with 
 health. The apothecary is ])erpetually employed in 
 counternuning the cook and the vintner. It is said of 
 Diogenes, that meeting a young man who was going
 
 NO. 195. SPECTATOR. 429 
 
 to a feast, he took him up in the street, and carried 
 him home to his friends, as one who was running 
 into imminent danger, had not he prevented him. 
 What would that philosopher have said, had he been 
 present at the gluttony of a modern meal ? Would 
 not he have thought the master of a family mad, 
 and have begged his servants to tie down his hands, 
 had he seen him devour fowl, fish, and flesh ; swal- 
 low oil and vinegar, wines and spices; throw down 
 sallads of twenty different herbs, sauces of an hun- 
 dred iuoTcdients, confections and fruits of number- 
 less sweets and flavours? What unnatural motions 
 and counter-ferments must such a medly of intem- 
 perance produce in the body ? For my part, when I 
 behold a fashionable table set out in all its magni- 
 ficence, I fancy that I see gouts and dropsies, fevers 
 and lethargies," with other innumerable distempers, 
 lying in ambuscade among the dishes. 
 
 Nature delights in the most plain and simple diet. 
 Every animal, but man, keeps to one dish. Herbs 
 are the food of this species, fish of that, and flesh 
 .of a third. Man falls upon every thing that comes 
 in his way ; not the smallest fruit or excresence of 
 the earth, scarce a berry or a mushroom, can escape 
 him. 
 
 It is impossible to lay down any determinate rule 
 for temperance, because what is luxury in one, may 
 be temperance in another ; but there are few that 
 have lived any time in the world, who are not 
 judges of their own constitutions, so far as to know 
 what kinds and what proportions of food do best 
 agree with them. Were I to consider my readers as 
 my patients, and to prescribe such a kind of tem- 
 perance as is accommodated to all persons, and such 
 as is particularly suitable to our climate and way of 
 living, I would copy the following rules of a very 
 eminent physician. ' Make your wliole repast out of 
 one dish. If you indulge in a second, avoid drink- 
 ing any thing strong 'till you have finished your
 
 430 SPECTATOR. no. 195. 
 
 meal ; at the same time abstain from all sauces, or 
 at least such as are not the most plain and simple.' 
 A man could not well be guilty of gluttony, it he 
 stuck to these few obvious and easv rules. In the 
 first case there would be no variety of tastes to so- 
 licit bis palate, and occasion excess ; nor in the se- 
 cond, any artificial provocatives to relieve satiety, 
 and create a false appetite. Were I to prescribe a 
 rule for drinkinp;, it should be formed upon a saying* 
 quoted by Sir M'illiam Temple ; 'The hrst glass for 
 myself, the second for mv friends, the third for 
 good humor, and the fourth for mine enemies.' But 
 because it is in.possibie for one who lives in the 
 world to diet himself always in so philosophical a 
 manner, I think every man should have his days of 
 abstinence, according as his constitution will permit. 
 Ihese are great reliefs to Nature, as they qualify her 
 for struggling with hunger and thirst, whenever any 
 distemper, or duty of life, may put her upon such 
 difficulties : and at the same time giv^her an oppor- 
 tunity of extricating- herself from her oppressions, 
 and recovering the several tones and sj)i ings of her 
 distended vessels. Ik'sides that abstinence, well 
 timed, often kills a sickness in embryo, and destroys 
 the lirst seeds of an indisposition. Jt is observed by 
 two or three ancient authors, that Socrates, notwith- 
 standing he lived in Athens during the great plague, 
 which has made so much noise throui>h all ages, and 
 has been celebrated at d liferent times by such emi- 
 nent hands : I sav, notwitbstandinsi' that he lived 
 in the time of this devouring pestilence, he never 
 caught the least infection, which those writers una- 
 nimously ascribe to that uninterrupted temperance 
 which he aiwavs observed. 
 
 And here 1 cannot but mention an observation 
 which I have oi'tcn made, upon reading the lives of 
 the philosophers, and comparing them with any 
 series of kings or great men of the same number. 
 If we consider these ancient sages, a great part of
 
 NO. 195. SPECTATOR. 431 
 
 whose philosophy consisted in a temperate and ab- 
 stemious course of life, one would think the life of 
 a philosopher and the life of a man m ere of two dif- 
 ferent dates. For we find that the generality of 
 these wise men were nearer an hundred than sixty 
 years of age at the time of their respective deaths. 
 But the most remarkable instance of the efficacy of 
 temperance towards the procuring of long life, is 
 what we meet with in a little book published by 
 Lewis Cornaro, the Venetian ; which I the rather 
 mention, because it is of undoubted credit, as the 
 late Venetian ambassador, who was of the same 
 famil}^, attestetl more than once in conversation, 
 when he resided in England. Cornaro, who was the 
 author of the little treatise I am mentioning, was of 
 an infirm constitution, till about forty, M'hen, by 
 obstinately persisting in an exact course of tempe- 
 rance, he recovered a perfect state of health ; inso- 
 much that at fourscore he published his book, which 
 has been translated into English under the title of 
 " Sure and certain Methods of attainino- a lono' and 
 healthy Life." He lived to give a third or fourth 
 edition of it; and after having passed his hundredth 
 year, died without pain or agony, and like one who 
 falls asleep. The treatise I mention has been taken 
 notice of by several eminent authors, and is written 
 with such a spirit of chearfulness, rehgion, and 
 good sense, as are natural concomitants of tempe- 
 rance and sobriety. The mixture of the old man in 
 it is rather a recommendation than a disciedit to it. 
 Having designed this paper as the sequel to that 
 upon exercise, I have not here considered tempe- 
 rance as it is a moral virtue, which I shall make the 
 subject of a future speculation, but only as it is 
 the means of health.
 
 432 SPECTATOR. no. ig8. 
 
 No. 198. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17. 
 
 CerviT luponim prceda rapacwm 
 Sectamur ultro, quos opimiis 
 Fellere et effugere est triuivphts. 
 
 liOR. 
 
 1 HERE is a Species of M^omen, A\hora I shall dis- 
 tinguish by the name of Salamanders. Now a Sa- 
 lamander is a kind of heroine in chastity, that 
 treads upon fire, and hves in the midst of flames 
 without being hurt. A Salamander knov.'s no dis- 
 tinction of bcx in those she converses -svith, grows 
 familiar \vith a stranger at first sight, and is not so 
 narrow-spiiited as to observe whether the person she 
 talks to, be in breeches or in petticoats. She admits a 
 male visitant to her bed-side, plays with him a whole 
 afternoon at piquette, walks with him two or three 
 hours bv moon-lioht ; and is extremely scandalized 
 at the unreasonableness of an husband, or the seve- 
 rity of a parent, that Avould debar the sex from such 
 innocent liberties. Your Salamander is therefore a 
 perpetual declaimer against jealousy, and admirer of 
 the I'rench good-breeding, and a great stickler for 
 freedom in conversation. In short, the Salamander 
 lives in an invincible state of simplicity and inno- 
 cence : her constitution is preserved in a kind of 
 natural frost ; she wonders w hat people mean by 
 temptations, and defies mankind to do their worst, 
 lier chastity is engaged in a constant ordeal, or 
 fiery trial, (like good Queen Emma :) the pretty 
 innocent walks blindfold among burning plow- 
 shares, without being scorched or singed by them. 
 
 It is not therefore for the use of the Salamander, 
 whether in a married or single state of life, that I 
 design the ibllowiug paper ; bvit for such females 
 only as are made of flesh and blood, and find thcm-- 
 selvcs subject to human frailties.
 
 NO. 198. SPECTATOR. 433 
 
 As for this part of the fair sex, A\'ho are not of the 
 Salamander kind, I would most earnestly advise 
 them to o'oserve a quite different conduct in their 
 behaviour ; and to avoid as much as possible m hat 
 religion calls temptations, and the world, oj)portuni- 
 ties. Did thev but know how manv thousands of 
 their sex have been gradually betra} ed from inno- 
 cent freedoms to ruin and infamy ; and how many 
 millions of ours have begun with flatteries, protesta- 
 tions, and endearments, but ended with reproaclies, 
 perjury, and perfidiousness ; they would shun like 
 death the very first approaches of one that migiit 
 lead them into inextricable labvrinths of p-uilt and 
 misery. I must so far give up the cause of the male 
 world, as to exhort the female sex in the lan<>ua"e 
 of Chamont in the Orphan : 
 
 Trust not a man; we are by nature false, 
 Di-simbling, subtle, cruel, and uncon-taiit : 
 When a man talks of love, with caution trust him; 
 But if he swears, he'll certainly tlecei\e thee. 
 
 I might very much enlarge upon this subject, 
 but shall conclude it with a stoiy which I lately 
 heard from one of our Spanish othcers, and wl)i< h 
 may shew the danger a woman incurs by too great 
 familiarities with a male companion. 
 
 An inhabitant of the kingdom of Castile, belno- 
 a man of more than ordinary prudence, and of a 
 giave composed behaviour, determined about the 
 fiftieth year of his age to enter upon wedlock. In 
 order to make himself easy in it, he cast his eye 
 upon a young woman vrho had nothing to recom- 
 mend her but her beauty and her education, her 
 parents having been reduced to great poverty by the 
 Avars, M'hich for some years have laid that whole 
 countrv Maste. Ihe Castilian havino- made his ad- 
 dresses to her, and married her, thev lived tooether 
 in perfect liappiness for some time ; when at length 
 the husband's affairs made it necessarv for him to 
 take a vo\-age to the, kingdom of Naples, where a 
 
 Vol. i: If
 
 434 SPECTATOR. no. 198. 
 
 great part of his estate lay. The wife loved him too 
 tenderly to he left hehind him. They had not heen 
 a ship-board ahove a day, when they unluckily fell 
 into the hands of an Algerine Pirate, who carried 
 the ^\ hole company on shore, and made them slave3. 
 The Castilian and his wife had the comfort to he 
 under the same master ; a\ ho seeing how dearly they 
 loved one another, and gasped after their liberty, 
 demanded a most exorbitant price for their ransom. 
 1'he CastiUan, though he would rather have died in 
 slavery himself, than have paid such a sum as he 
 found MOuld go near to ruin him, was so moved 
 with compassion towards his wife, that he sent re- 
 peated orders to his friend in Spain (who happened 
 to be his next relation) to sell his estate, and trans- 
 mit the money to him. His friend, hoping that the 
 terms of his ransom might be made more reasonable, 
 and unwilling to sell an estate which he himself had 
 some prospect of inheriting, formed so many de- 
 lays, that three whole years passed away M'ithout any 
 thing being done for the setting of them at liberty. 
 There happened to live a French renegado in the 
 same place where the Castilian and his wiie were 
 kept prisoners. As this fellow had in him all the 
 vi\acity of his nation, he olten entertained the cap- 
 tives M'ith accounts of his own adventures;' to 
 Mhich he sometimes added a song or a dance, or 
 some other piece of mirth, to divert them during 
 their conlinenient. I J is ac([uaintance Mith the man- 
 ners of the Algcrines enabled him likewise to do 
 them several good otiices. The Castilian, as he was 
 one (lav in conversation with this reneuado, discoveretl 
 to him the negligence and treachery of his corres- 
 pf)ndcnt in Castile, and at the same time asked his 
 arlvice how he should behave himself in that exi- 
 gency : he further told the renegado, that he found 
 it would be impossible for him to raise the money, 
 imlcs.s he himself might go over to dispose of his 
 estate. The renegado, after having represented tq
 
 NO. 198. SPECTATOR. 435 
 
 him that his Algerine master would never consent to 
 his release upon such a pretence, at length contrived 
 a method for the Castilian to make his escape in the 
 habit of a seaman. The Castilian succeeded in his 
 attempt ; and having sold his estate, being afraid 
 lest the money should miscarry by the way, and de- 
 termined to perish with it rather than lose what was 
 much dearer to him than his life, he returned him- 
 self in a little vessel that was going to Algiers. It 
 is impossible to describe the joy he felt upon this 
 occasion, when he considered that he should soon 
 see the wife whom he so much loved, and endear 
 himself more to her by this uncommon piece of 
 generosity. 
 
 The renegado, during the husband's absence, so 
 insinuated himself into the graces of his young wife, 
 and so turned her head Avitli stories of gallantry, 
 that she quickly thought him the finest gentleman 
 she had ever conversed with. To be brief, her mind 
 was quite alienated from the honest Castilian, whom 
 she was taught to look upon as a formal old fellow, 
 unworthy the possession of so charming a creature. 
 She had been instructed by the renegado how to 
 manage herself upon his arrival ; so that she re- 
 ceived him with an appearance of the utmost love 
 and gratitude, and at length persuaded him to trust 
 their common friend the renegado with the money 
 he had brought over for their ransom ; as not ques- 
 tioning but he would beat down the terms of it, 
 and neo'ociate the aifair more to their advantao'c 
 than they themselves could do. The good man ad- 
 mired her prudence, and followed her advice. I 
 wish I could conceal the sequel of this story, but 
 since I cannot, I shall dispatch it in as i'cM^ words as 
 possible, llie Castilian having slept longer than 
 ordinary the next morning, upon his aM'aking found 
 his wife had left him : he immediately rose, and en- 
 quired after her,, but was told that she was seen with 
 the reneo'ado about break of dav. In a word, her 
 
 F f 'Z
 
 436 SPECTATOR. no. 201. 
 
 lover having got all things ready for their departure, 
 they soon made their escape out of the territories of 
 Algiers, carried away the money, and left the Cas- 
 tilian in captivity ; who, partly through the cruel 
 treatment ot" the incensed Algerine his master, and 
 partly through the unkind usage of his unfaithful 
 wife,"^ died some few months after. 
 
 No. 201. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20. 
 
 Htligeiitem esse oporfct, Religiosum nefas. 
 
 I.NCEUTI AUTOUIS APUD AUL, GeLL. 
 
 A r is of the last imjjortance to season the passions 
 of a child with devotion, which seldom dies in a 
 miiul that has received an early tincture of it. 
 lliough it may seem extinguished for a while by the 
 cares of the Avorld, the heats of youth, or the al- 
 lurements of vice, it generally breaks out, and dis- 
 covers itself again, as soon as discretion, considera- 
 tion, age, or misfortunes, have brought the man to 
 himself The fire may be covered and overlaid, but 
 cannot be entirely quenched and smothered. 
 - A state of temperance, sobriety, and justice, M'ith- 
 out devotion, is a cold, lifeless, insipid condition of 
 virtue ; and is rather to be stilcd philosophy than 
 religion. Devotion opens the mind to great con- 
 ceptions, and fills it with more sublime ideas than any 
 tliat are to be met with in the most exalted science; 
 and at the same time Marms and agitates the soul 
 more than sensual ])leasure. 
 
 It has been observed by some writers, that man is 
 more <iistinijuished from the animal world by devo- 
 tion than by reason, as several brute creatures dis- 
 cover in their actions something likeafaiut glim- 
 nierinirof reason, thoutib tluv betray in no sinHe 
 circumstance of their behaviour, any thing that bears
 
 NO. 201. SPECTATOR. 437 
 
 the least affininity to devotion. It is certain, tlie 
 propensity of" the mind to religious Avorship, the na- 
 tural tendency of the soul to fly 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 unex- 
 pected good fortune, the acts of love and admira- 
 tion with which the thoughts of men are so wonder- 
 fully transported in meditating upon the Divine 
 Perfections, and the universal concurrence of all the 
 nations under heaven in the great article of adora- 
 tion, plainly shew that devotion, or religious wor- 
 ship, must be the effect of a tradition from some first 
 founder of mankind, or that it is conformable to the 
 natural light of reason, 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 assio-ned as the 
 
 CD 
 
 principle of Divine M'orship, it manifestly points to 
 a Supreme Being as the first author of it. 
 
 I may take some other opportunity of considering 
 those particular forms and methods of devotion 
 which are taught us by Christianity ; but shall here 
 observe into wdiat errors even this divine principle 
 may sometimes lead us, when it is not moderated by 
 that ri"-ht reason which was given us as the puide 
 of all our actions. 
 
 '^1 lie two great errors into which a mistaken devo- 
 tion may betray us, are enthusiasm and superstition. 
 
 There is not a more melancholy object than a man 
 who has his head turned with religious enthusiasm. 
 A person that is crazed, though M'ith pride or ma- 
 lice, is a sight very mortifying to human nature ; 
 but when the distemper arises from any indiscreet 
 fervors of dcAotion, or too intense an application 
 of the mind to its mistaken duties, it deserves our 
 compassion in a more particular manner. Vv'e rnay, 
 however, learn this lesson from it, that since devo- 
 tion itself (which one would be apt to think could 
 
 F f 3
 
 43S SPFXTATOR. no. 201. 
 
 not be too M'arni) may disorder the mind, unless its 
 heat-, are tempered with caution and prudence, we 
 should be particularly careful to keep our reason as 
 cool as possible, 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 
 reason, is very apt to degenerate into enthusiasm. 
 When the jNIind finds herself very much inflamed 
 with her devotions, she is too much inclined to 
 think they are not of her own kindling, but blown 
 up by something divine Mithin her. If she in- 
 dulges this thought too far, and humors the 
 growing passion, she at last flings herself into ima- 
 ginary raptures and exstacies ; and when once she 
 fancies herself under the influence of a divine im- 
 pulse, it is no wonder if she slights human ordinan- 
 ces, 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, 
 superstition is the excess not only of devotion, but 
 of rehgion in general ; according to an old heathen 
 saying, quoted by Aldus Gellius, Relig'efiton esse 
 oportet, Relig'iosum nefas ; A man should be religi- 
 ous, not superstitious : for, as that author tells us, 
 Nigidius observed upon this passage, that the Latin 
 words which terminate in osus, generally imply vici- 
 ous 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. Enthu- 
 siasm has something in it of madness, superstition 
 of folly. Most of the sects that fall short of the 
 Church of England, have in them strong tinctures 
 of enthusiasm, <'is the Roman Catholic religion is 
 one huffc ovcr-iiiown bod\ of childish an<l idle sii- 
 pcrstitions.
 
 NO. 201. SPECTATOR. 439 
 
 The Roman Catholic Church seems indeed irre- 
 coverably lost in this particular. If an absurd dress 
 or behaviour be introduced in the world, it will soon 
 be found out and discarded : on the contrarv, a 
 habit or ceremony, though never so ridiculous, 
 which has taken sanctuary in the church, sticks in 
 it for ever. A Gothic Bishop, perhaps, thought it 
 proper to repeat such a form in such particular shoes 
 or slippers ; another fancied it would be very decent 
 if such a part of public devotions were performed 
 with a mitre on his head, and a crosier in his hand : 
 to this a brother Vandal, as wise as the others, adds 
 an antic dress, which he conceived would allude 
 very aptly to such and such mysteries, till by de- 
 grees, the whole office has degenerated into an empty 
 show. 
 
 Their successors see the vanity and inconvenience 
 of these ceremonies ; but, instead of reforming, per- 
 haps add others, which they think more significant, 
 and which take possession in the same manner, and 
 are never to be driven out after the}' have been once 
 admitted. I have seen the pope officiate at St. Pe- 
 ter's, where, for two hours together, he was busied 
 in putting on or off his different accoutrements, ac- 
 cording to the different parts he was to act in them. 
 
 Nothing is so glorious in the eyes of mankind, 
 and ornamental to human nature, setting aside the 
 infinite advantages which arise from it, as a strong, 
 steady, mascuhne piety ; but enthusiasm and super- 
 stition are the weaknesses of human reason, that ex- 
 pose us to the scorn and derision of Iniidels, and 
 sink us even below the beasts that perish. 
 
 Idolatry may be looked upon as another error 
 arising from mistaken devotion ; but, because reflec- 
 tions on that subject would be of no use to an Eng- 
 lish reader, I shall not enlarge upon it. 
 
 Ff4
 
 440 SPECTATOR. no. 203. 
 
 No. 203. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23. 
 
 ■Vhocbe poter, si das hujus mihi norn'mis usum, 
 
 Nee falsa Clymene cu/pant sub imagine eel at ; 
 
 Vigjiora da, gaiitor 
 
 Ov. Met. 
 
 Jl HERE is a loose tribe of men, whom I liave not 
 yet taken notice of, tliat ramble into all the corners 
 of this great city, in order to seduce such unfortu- 
 nate females as fail in their walks. These abandoned 
 profligates raise up issue in every quarter of the 
 town, and \ery often, for a valuable consideration, 
 father it upon the church-warden. By this means 
 there are several married men who have a little fa- 
 mily in most of the parishes of London and West- 
 minster, and several bachelors who are undone by 
 a charge of children. 
 
 When a man once o'ives hims^^lf this liberty of 
 preying at large, and living upon the common, he 
 finds so much game in a populous city, that it is 
 surprising to consider the numbers which he some- 
 times propagates. We see many a young fellow wdio 
 is scarce of age, that could lay his claim to the Jus 
 triinn idicrorum^ or the privileges which Mere grant- 
 ed by tl.e Roman laws to all such as were fathers of 
 three children : nay, I have hearrl a rake, who was 
 not quite live-and-twenty, declare himself the father 
 of a seventh son, and very prudently determine to 
 breed him up a physician. In short, the town is 
 full of tlnjse young patriarchs; not to mention seve- 
 ral ])rittered bcaus, who, like heedless spendthrifts, 
 that squamler away their estates before they are 
 masters of them, have raised up their whole stock 
 of children bcTorc marriage. 
 
 I must not here omit the particular whim of an 
 impudent libertine that had a little smattering of 
 heraldry ; and observing how the genealogies of
 
 NO. 203. SPECTATOR. 441 
 
 great families were often drawn up in the shape of 
 trees, had taken a fancy to dispose of his own ille- 
 2:itirnate issue in a fioure of the same kind. 
 
 • Nee lovgiim fempiis, et ingens 
 
 Exiit ad caliim ratnis Jelkthus nib «, 
 Miraturque novas froiides, et /ton sua poma. 
 
 Vl RG. 
 
 The trunk of the tree was marked witli his own 
 name, Will Maple. Out of the side of it grew a 
 large barren branch, inscribed Alary Maple, the 
 name of his unhappy wife. The head wa> adorned 
 with five huo-e bouo-hs. On the bottom of tiie first 
 was written in capital characters, Kate Cole, who 
 branched out into three sprigs, viz. Wiiliani, Richard, 
 and Kebfcca. Sal Tsviford gave birth to another 
 bough, that shot up into Sarah, Tom, Will, and 
 Frank. The third arm of the tree liad only a sinnje 
 infant in it, M'ith a space left for a second, the 
 parent from whom it sprung being-^ near her time 
 when the author took this ingenious device into his 
 head. The two other great bougiiS were verv pien- 
 tifully loaden with fruit of the same kind; besides 
 which, there were manv ornamental branches that 
 did not bear. In short, a more flourisliing tree never 
 came out of the Herald's Office. 
 
 What makes this generation of vermin so very 
 prolific, is the indefatigable diligence with which 
 they apply themselves to their business. A man 
 does not underoo more watchiuQ-s and fatio-ues in a 
 campaign, than m the course of a vicious amour. 
 As it is said of some men, that they make their 
 business their pleasure, these sons of darkness may 
 be said to make their pleasure their business. They 
 might conquer their corrupt inclinations M'ith half 
 the pains they arc at in gratifying them. 
 
 Nor is the invention of these men less to be ad- 
 mired than their industry and vio-ilance. There is a 
 fragment of Apollodorus, the comic poet, (who was 
 contemporary with Menander,) which is full of hu-
 
 442 SPECTATOR. no. 203. 
 
 mor, as follows: *' Thou may'st shut up thy doors, 
 (says he,) M'ith bars and bolts ; it will be impossible 
 for the blacksmith to make them so fast, but a cat 
 and a whoremaster will find a way through them." 
 In a word, there is no head so full of stratagem as 
 that of a libidinous man. 
 
 Were I to propose a punishment for this infamous 
 race of propagators, it should be to send them, 
 after the second or third offence, into our American 
 colonics, in order to people those parts of her i\Ia- 
 jcsty's dominions ^hcre there is a want of inha- 
 bitants, and, in the phrase of Diogenes, to plant 
 men. Some countries punish this crime with death ; 
 but I think such a banishment would be sufficient, 
 and might turn this generative faculty to the ad- 
 vantage of the public. 
 
 In the mean time, till these gentlemen may be 
 thus disposed of, I would earnestly exhort them to 
 take care of those unfortunate creatures whom tiiey 
 liave brought into the world by thx^se indirect 
 methods, and to give their spurious children such 
 an education as may render them more virtuous, 
 than their parents. This is the best atonement they 
 can make for their own crimes, and indeed the only 
 method that is left them to repair their past mis- 
 
 carriages. 
 
 I would likewise desire them to consider, whether 
 they are not l)ound in common humanity, as well as 
 by all the ol)ligations of religion and nature, to 
 make some provision for those whom they have not 
 only given lite to, but entailed upon them, though 
 very unreasonably, a degree of shame and disgrace. 
 And here I cannot but take notice of those depraved 
 notions which prevail among us, and Avhieh must 
 have taken rise from our natural inclination to faA'Our 
 a vice to which we are so very prone, namely, that 
 bastardy and euckoldom should be looked upon as 
 repro.'irhes, and that the shame which is only due 
 to lewdness an<l tals(lK)od, should fall in so un-
 
 NO. 203. SPECTATOR. 443 
 
 reasonable a manner upon the persons who are in- 
 nocent. 
 
 I have been insensibly drawn into this discourse 
 by the following letter, which is drawn up with such 
 a spirit of sincerity, that I question not but the 
 writer of it has represented his case in a true ge- 
 nuine light. 
 
 *' SIR, 
 
 (( 
 
 I am one of those people, who, by the general 
 opinion of the world, are counted both infamous 
 and unhappy. 
 
 '* My father is a very eminent man in this king- 
 dom, and one who bears considerable offices in it. 
 I am his son ; but mv misfortune is, that I dare not 
 call him father, nor he without shame own me as 
 his issue, I being illegitimate, and therefore de- 
 prived of that endearing tenderness, and unparalleled 
 satisfaction, which a good man finds in the love and 
 conversation of a parent : neither have I the opportu- 
 nities to render him the duties of a son, he having 
 always carried himself at so vast a distance, and with 
 such superiority towards mc, that by long use I 
 have contracted a timorousness when before him, 
 which hinders me from declaring my own necessities, 
 and giving him to understand the inconveniencics I 
 undergo. 
 
 '* It is mv misfortune to have been neither bred a 
 scholar, a soldier, nor to any kind of business, 
 which renders me intirely incapable of making- 
 provision for myself without his assistance; and this 
 creates a continual uneasiness in my mind, fearing 
 I shall in time want bread; my father, if I may so 
 call him, giving me but very faint assurances of 
 doing any thing for me. 
 
 *' I have hitherto lived somewhat like a gentle- 
 man, and it would be very hard for me to labour 
 for my living. I am in continual anxiety for my 
 future fortune, and under a great unhappiness in 
 2
 
 444 SPECTATOR. no. 205. 
 
 losing the sweet conversation and friendly advice of 
 mv parents; so that I cannot look upon myself 
 otherwise than as a monster strangely sprung up in 
 nature, which every one is ashamed to own. 
 
 " I am thought to be a man of some natural 
 parts, and by the continual reading what you have 
 offered the world, become an admirer thereof, which 
 has drawn me to make this confession; at the same 
 time hoping, if any thing herein shall touch you 
 w>th a sense of pity, you would then allow methe 
 fa\'our of your opinion thereupon; as also what 
 part, I, being unlawfully born, may claim of the 
 man's affection who begot me, and how far, in your 
 opinion, I am to bethought his son, or he acknow- 
 ledged as my father, ^our sentiments and advice 
 herein will be a great consolation and satisfaction to, 
 
 Sir, vour admirer and. 
 
 Humble servant, ^V. B. 
 
 No. 205. TIIUUSDAY, OCTOBER 25. 
 
 Dciipiniur specie reed- 
 
 lloii. 
 
 VV UEN I meet Mith any vicious character that is 
 not generally known, in order to prevent its doin<y 
 mischief, I draw it at length, and set it up as a 
 scarecrow ; by m hicli means I do not only make an 
 example of the person to whom it belongs, but give 
 warninixto all her Majesty's subjects, that they may 
 not sutler by it. Thus, 'to change the allusion, I 
 have marked out several of tbe Choals and quick- 
 sands of life, and am continually cmj)loyed in dis- 
 covering those wbieli are still couceak'd*, in order 
 to keepthe ignorant and unwary from running upon 
 them. It is wiih this iutenlion thibt I publisli tbe 
 f(il lowing letter, which brings to light some secrets 
 of this nature.
 
 NO. 205. SPECTATOR. 445 
 
 " ]Mr. Spectator, 
 *' There are none of your speculations Avliich I 
 read over with greater delight, than those which are 
 designed for the improvement of our sex. You have 
 endeavoured to correct our unreasonable fears and 
 superstitions, in your seventh and twelfth papers; 
 our fancy for equipage, in your fifteenth ; our lov^e 
 of puppet-shows, in your thirty- first; our notions 
 of beautv, in vour thirty-third; our incHnation for 
 romances, in your thirty-seventh ; our passion tor 
 Frencli fopperies, in your forty -fifth ; our manhood 
 and party-zeal, in your fifty-seventh; our abuse of 
 dancing, in your sixty-sixth and sixty-seventh ; our 
 levity, in your hundred and twenty-eighth ; our love 
 of coxcombs, in your hundred and fifty-fourth, and 
 hundred and fifty-seventh ; our t3^ranny over the 
 henpeckt, in your hundred and seventy-sixth. You 
 have described the Pict in your forty-first ; the 
 Idol, in your seventy third ; the Demurrer, in your 
 eio'htv-ninth ; the Salamander, in vour hunched 
 and ninetv-eighth. You have likewise taken to 
 pieces our dress, and represented to us the extra- 
 vagances we are oft^n guihy of in that particular. 
 You have fallen upon our patches, in your fiftieth 
 and eighty-first; our commodes, in your ninety- 
 eighth; our fans, in yourhundred-and-second; our 
 riding habits, in your hundred-and-fourth ; our 
 lioop-petticoats, in your hundred and twenty- 
 seventh ; besides a great many blem.ishes, which 
 you have touched upon in your several other papers, 
 and in those many letters that are scattered up and 
 down your works. At the same time we must own, 
 that the compliments you pay our sex are innu- 
 merable, and that those very faults Avhich you re- 
 present in us, are neither black in themselves, nor, 
 as you own, universal among us. But, Sir, it is 
 plain that these your discourses are calculated for 
 none but the fashionable part of womankind, and 
 ibr the use of those V;ho are ratlier indiscreet, .than
 
 445 SPECTATOR. no. 205. 
 
 vicious. But, Sir, there is a sort of prostitutes in 
 the lower part of our sex, who are a scandal to us, 
 aiul very well deserve to fall under your censure. I 
 know it will debase your paper too much to enter 
 into the behaviour of these female libertines ; but 
 as your remarks on some part of it would be a 
 <loing of justice to several women of virtue and 
 honour, M'hose reputations suffer by it, I hope you 
 will not think it improper to give the public some 
 accounts of this nature. You must know. Sir, I 
 am provoked to write you this letter by the behaviour 
 of an infamous woman, who having passed her youth 
 in a most shameless state of prostitution, is now one 
 of those who gain their livelihood by seducing 
 others that are younger than themselves, and by 
 establishing a criminal commerce between the two 
 sexes. Among several of her artifices to get money, 
 she frequently persuades a vain young fellow, that 
 such a woman of quality, or such a celebrated 
 toast, entertains a secret passion for him, and wants 
 nothing but an opportunity of revealing it: nay, 
 she has gone so far, as to write letters in the name 
 of a woman of figure, to borrow money of one of 
 these foolish Koderigo's, M'hich she has afterwards 
 aj)propriated to her OAvn use. In the mean time, 
 the person who has lent the money, has thought a 
 lady under obligations to him who scarce knew his 
 name; and wondered at her ingratitude, when he 
 has been M'ith her, that she has not owned the 
 favour, though at the same time he M'as too much a 
 man of honour to put her in mind of it. 
 
 "When tliis abandonetl baggage meets with a 
 man who has vanitv enouiih to j>iA-e credit to re- 
 lations of tins nature, she turns him to a very good 
 account, by repeating j)raises that were never ut- 
 tered, and deliveiing messages that -were never sent. 
 As tlie house of tbis shameless creature is frequented 
 by several foreigners, I ha\e heard of another ar- 
 tifice, out of M hich she often raises money. The
 
 NO. 205. SPECTATOR. 447 
 
 foreio-ner si^hs after some British beauty, whom he 
 only knows by fame: upon wliich she promises, if 
 he can be secret, to procure him a meeting. Tlie 
 stranger, ravislied at his good fortune, gives her a 
 present, and in a httle time is introduced to some 
 imaginary title; for you must know that this cun- 
 ning purveyor has her representatives, upon this 
 occasion, of some of the hncst ladies in the king- 
 dom. By tliis means, as I am informed, it is usual 
 enouoh to meet with a German count in foreisru 
 countries, that shall make liis boasts of favours he 
 has received from women of the highest ranks, and 
 the most unblemished characters. Now', Sir, what 
 safety is there for a woman's reputation, when a 
 lady may be thus prostituted as it were by proxy, 
 and be reputed an unchaste woman; as the hero in 
 the ninth book of Dryden's Virgil is looked upon 
 as a coward, because the phantom which appeared 
 in his likeness ran away from Turnus ? You may de- 
 pend upon what I relate to you to be matter of 
 fact, and the practice of more than one of these 
 female panders. If you print this letter, I may 
 give YOU some further accounts of this vicious race 
 of women. 
 
 " Your humble servant, Belvidera.'* 
 
 I shall add two other letters on different subjects 
 to fill up my paper. 
 
 *' Mu. Spectator, 
 
 " I am a country clergyman, and hope you will 
 lend me your assistance, in ridiculing some little in- 
 decencies which cannot so properly be exposed from 
 the pulpit. 
 
 "• A widow lady, who straggled this summer from 
 London nito my parish for the benefit of the air, as 
 she says, appears every Sunday at church with many 
 fashionable extravagances, to the great astonishment 
 of my congregation.
 
 448 SPECTATOR. no. 205. 
 
 " But Mhat gives us the most offence, is her 
 theatrical manner of singing the psahns. She in- 
 trofhiccs above fifty Italian airs into the hundredth 
 psalm; and whilst we begin all people in the old 
 solemn tune of our fore-fathers, she, in a quite dif- 
 ferent key, runs divisions on the vowels, and adorns 
 them with the graces of Nicolini: if she meets with 
 eke or aye, which are frequent in the metre of Hop- 
 kins and Stcrnhold, we are sure to hear her quaver- 
 ing them half a minute after us to some sprightly 
 airs of the opera. 
 
 " I am very far from being an enemy to church 
 music ; but fear this abuse of it may make my 
 parish ridiculous, mIio already look on the singing- 
 psalms as an entertainment, and not part of their 
 devotion: besides, I am appreliensive that the in- 
 fection may spread ; for Squire Squeekum, who by 
 his voice seems (if I may use the expression) to be 
 cut out for an Italian singer, was last Sunday prac- 
 tising the same airs. 
 
 " I know the lady's principles, and that she will 
 plead the toleration, which (as she fancies) alloM's 
 licr non-conformity in this particular; but 1 beg 
 you t') ac(|uaint her, that singing tbe psalms in a 
 ditfercnt tuuc from the rest of the congregation, is 
 a sort of schism not tolerated by that act. 
 " 1 am. Sir, 
 
 " Your very humble servant, R. S." 
 
 " Mr, Sl'ECTATOR, 
 
 " I \ your p;q)er upon temperance, you prescribe 
 to us a riilelnr drinking, out of Sir \\'illiam Tenq)le, 
 iu the follouing Mords : " The first glass for myself, 
 the second for my friends, the third for good- 
 luimor, and the lourth for mine enemies." Now, 
 Sir, you must know that 1 have read this your Spec- 
 tator in a chd) whircol' 1 am a niend)(r; when our 
 president told us thoc was ctrtainly an error in the 
 Jjrint, and thai the woid ^laas should be bottle ; and
 
 NO. 207. SPECTATOR. 449 
 
 therefore has ordered me to inform you of this mis- 
 take, and to desire you to publish the following 
 errata: In the paper of Saturday, October 13, 
 col. 3, line 11, fov glass, read bottle. 
 
 " Yours, Robin Good-fellow." 
 
 No. 207. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27. 
 
 Omnibus in terris, qux sunt a Gadibus usque 
 Auroram ct Gangcm, pauci dignoscere possunt 
 Vera bona, atqiie illis multum dixersa, remotd 
 
 Erroris nebula. • 
 
 Juv. 
 
 Xn my last Saturday's paper I laid down some 
 thoughts upon devotion in general, and shall here 
 shew what were the notions of the most refined 
 heathens on this subject, as they are represented iii 
 Plato's dialogue upon prayer, entitled, " Alcibiades 
 the Second," M^hich doubtless gave occasion to 
 Juvenal's tenth Satire, and to the second Satire of 
 Persius; as the last of these authors has almost 
 transcribed the preceding dialogue, entitled, " Al- 
 cibiades the First," in his fourth Satire. 
 
 The speakers in this dialogue upon prayer, are 
 Socrates and Alcibiades; and the substance of it 
 (when drawn together out of the intricacies and 
 digressions) as follows. 
 
 Socrates meeting this pupil Alcibiades as he was 
 o-oino; to his devotions, and observing: his eves to be 
 fixed upon the earth with great seriousness and at- 
 tention, tells him, that he had reason to be thought- 
 ful on that occasion, since it was possible for a man 
 to bring dovrn evils upon himself by his own prayers, 
 and that those thinos which the o-ods send him in 
 answer to his petitions might turn to his destruc- 
 tion : This, says he, may not only happen when a 
 man prays for what he knows is mischic^■ous in its 
 
 Vol. I, G g
 
 450 SPECTATOR. no. 207. 
 
 oM'ii nature, as Oedipus implored the gods to sow 
 dissention between his sons, but when he prays for 
 what he beheves would be for his good, and against 
 what he believes woukl be to his detriment. This 
 the philosopher shews must necessarily happen 
 amouii" us, since most men are blinded with iono- 
 ranee, prejucHce, or passion, which hinder them from 
 seeing such things as are really beneficial to them. 
 For an instance, he asks Alcibiades, Whether he 
 would not be thoroughly pleased if that God to 
 whom he was going to address himself, should pro- 
 mise to make him the sovereign of the whole earth? 
 Alcibiades answers, That he should doubtless look 
 u])on such a promise as the greatest favour that 
 could be bestowed upon him. Socrates then asks 
 him, If, after receiving this great favour, he would 
 be content to lose his life? or if he would receive it, 
 though he was sure he would make an ill use of it? 
 To both which questions Alcibiades answers in the 
 negative. Socrates then shews, him from the ex- 
 amples of others, how these might very probably 
 be the effects of such a blessing. He then adds, 
 that other reputed pieces of good fortune, as that 
 of ha\ing a son, or procuring the highest post in a 
 government, are subject to the like fatal conse- 
 quences; which nevertheless, says he, men ardently 
 (Icsiie, and would not fail to pray for, if they 
 thought their prayers might be effectual for the ob- 
 taining of them. 
 
 Having established this great point, That all the 
 most apparent blessings in life are obnoxious to such 
 dreadfid consequences, and that no man knows what 
 in its events would prove to him a blessing or a 
 curse, lie teaches Alcibiades after M'hat manner he 
 ought to prav. 
 
 In the first place, he recommends to him, as the 
 model of his devotion, a short prayer, which a 
 (ireek poet composed for the use of his friends, in 
 the following words: *' O, Jupiter, give us those
 
 NO. 207. SPECTATOR. 451 
 
 things ^dlicll are good for us, whether they are such 
 things as we pray for, or such things as we do not 
 pray" for; and remove from us those things which 
 are hurtful, though they are such things as we pray 
 for." 
 
 In the second place, that his disciple may ask 
 such things as are expedient for him, he shews him, 
 that it is absolutely necessary to apply himself to 
 the study of true wisdom, and to the knowledge of 
 that which is his chief good, and the most suitable 
 to the excellency of his nature. 
 
 In the third and last place, he informs him, that 
 the best methods he could make use of to draw 
 down blessings upon himself, and to render his 
 prayers acceptable, Arould be to live in a constant 
 practice of his duty towards the gods, and towards 
 men. Under this head he very much recommends 
 a form of prayer the Lacedemonians made use of, 
 in which they petition the gods, " to give them all 
 good things, so long as they are virtuous. " Under 
 this head, likewise, he gives a very remarkable ac- 
 count of an oracle to the following purpose. 
 
 When the Athenians, in the war with the Lacede- 
 monians, received many defeats, both by sea and 
 land, they sent a message to the oracle of Jupiter 
 Amnion, to ask the reason why they, who erected 
 so many temples to the gods, and adorned them 
 with such costly offerings ; why they, who had in- 
 instituted so many festivals, and accompanied them 
 with such pomps and ceremonies ; in short, why 
 they, who had slain so many hecatombs at their 
 altars, should be less successful than the Lacede- 
 monians, who fell so short of them in all these par- 
 ticulars. To this, says he, the oracle made the fol- 
 lowing reply: '' I am better pleased with the prayer 
 of the Lacedemonians, than with all the oblations 
 of the Greeks." As this prayer implied and en- 
 couraged virtue in those who made it, the philoso- 
 pher proceeds to shew how the most vicious mau 
 
 Gg'2
 
 452 SPECTATOR. no. 207. 
 
 might be devout, so far as victims could make him, 
 but that liis offciino-.s were reo'arded bv the s-ods as 
 bribes, and his petitions as blasphemies. He like- 
 wise quotes on this occason two verses out of Homer, 
 in M hich the poet says, that the scent of the Trojan 
 sacrifices was carried up to heaven by the Avinds; 
 but that it was not acceptable to the gods, who were 
 displeased with Priam and all his people. 
 
 'i he conclusion of this dialogue is very remark- 
 able. Socrates having deterred Alcibiades from the 
 prayers and sacrifices which he was going to offer, 
 by setting forth the above-mentioned difficulties of 
 performing that duty as he ought, adds these 
 Avords : " \^'e must therefore Avait till such time as 
 Ave may learn hoAv to behave ourselves towards the 
 gods, and toAvards men." " But Avhen Avill that-time 
 come, (says Alcibiades,) and who is it that Avill in- 
 struct us? for I would fain see this man, AvhocA'cr 
 he is." "It is one (says Socrates) who takes care of 
 you ; but, as Homer tells us, that Minerva removed 
 the mist from Diomedes his eyes, that he might 
 plainly discover both gods and men; so the dark- 
 ness that hangs u])()n your mind must be remoA-ed, 
 before a'ou are able to discern Avhat is p-ood and 
 A\ hat IS evil." " Lit him remove from my mind (says 
 Alcibiades) the darkness, and Avhat else he pleases; 
 I am determined to refuse nothino- he shall order 
 me, A\ lioever he is, so that I may become the better 
 man by it."' The remaining part of this dialogue is 
 very ol^scurc: there is something in it tliat Avould 
 make us think Socrates hinted at himself, Avhen he 
 spoke of this divine teacher who was to come into 
 the wfuld, did not he own that he himself was in 
 this rcsj)cct as nuich at a loss, and in as great dis- 
 tress, as the YL'st of mankind. 
 
 Some learned men look upon this conclusion as a 
 l)r('(liction of our Saviour, or at least that Socrates, 
 like the high-jjriest, projdiesicd unknowingly, and 
 p(;inted at that divine teacher >\ ho was to come into
 
 NO. 207. SPECTATOR. 453 
 
 the world some ages after liiin. However that may 
 be, we find that this great philosopher saw, by the 
 ho'ht of reason, that it was suitable to the o-oodness 
 of the divine nature, to send a person into the 
 world Avho should instruct mankind in the duties 
 of religion, and, in particular, teach them how to 
 pray. 
 
 Whoever reads this abstract of Plato's discourse 
 on prayer, will, I believe, naturally make this re- 
 flection, I'hat the great founder of our religion, as 
 well by his own example, as in the form of prayer 
 vrhich he taught his disciples, did not only keep up 
 to those rules which the light of nature had sug- 
 gested to this great philosopher, but instructed his 
 disciples in the whole extent of this duty, as well as 
 of all others. He directed them to the proper object 
 of adoration, and taught them, according to the 
 third rule above-mentioned, to apply themselves to 
 him in their closets, without show or ostentation, 
 and to worsliip him in spirit and in truth. As the 
 Lacedemonians, in their form of prayer, implored the 
 o-ods in o-eneral to oive them all o-ood thino-s so 
 long as they were virtuous, we ask, in particular, 
 " that our offences may be forgiven as we forgive 
 those of others." If we look into the second rule, 
 which Socrates has prescribed, namely, that we 
 should apply ourselves to the knowledge of such 
 things as are best for us, this too is explained at 
 large in the doctrines of the gospel, where ^ve are 
 tauo-ht in several instances to reo'ard those thino-s as 
 curses, which appear as blessings in the eye of the 
 world ; and, on the contrary, to esteem those things 
 as blessimrs, which to the o-eneralitv of mankind 
 appear as curses. Tlius in the form which is pre- 
 scribed to us, we only pray for that happiness 
 which is our chief o'ood, and the "-reat end of our 
 existence, when we pctitition the Supreme Being for 
 *' the comino- of his kins-dom," beins; solicitous for 
 no other temporal blessings but our daily sustenance. 
 
 G g 3
 
 454 SPECTATOR. no. 209. 
 
 On the other side, we pray against nothing but sin, 
 and against evil in general, leaving it Mith Omni- 
 science to determine what is really such. If we 
 look into the first of Socrates his rules of prayer, in 
 which he recommends the above-mentioned form of 
 the ancient poet, we find that form not only com- 
 prehended, but very much improved, in the petition, 
 A\herein M'e pray to the Supreme Being that his M'ill 
 may be done ; which is of the same force with that 
 form which our Saviour used, Avhen he prayed 
 against the most painful and most ignominious of 
 deaths, ' Nevertheless not my Avill, but thine be done.' 
 Tliis comprehensive petition is the most humble, as 
 well as the most prudent, that can be offered up 
 from the creature to his Creator, as it supposes the 
 Supreme Being wills nothing but what is for our 
 good, and that he knows better than ourselves what 
 
 IS so. 
 
 No. 209. TUESDAY, OCTOBER 30. 
 
 ESx^j a[/.iivovy KOi piyiov x.xxr,s, 
 SlMONIDES. 
 
 1 iiERi: are no authors I am more pleased with, 
 than those who shew human nature in a variety of 
 views, and describe the several ages of the world 
 ill their difterent manners. A reader cannot be 
 more raticmally entertained, than by comparing the 
 virtues and vices of his own times, with those Avhich 
 prevailed in the times of his fore-fathers ; and draw- 
 ing a parallel in his mind between his own private 
 character, and that of other persons, Avhctlier of 
 his own age, or of the ages that went before him. 
 
 'J'he contemplation of mankind under these chano-e- 
 
 111 1 • 
 
 able colours, is apt to shame us out of any particu- 
 lar vice, or animate us to any particular virtue; to
 
 NO. 209. SPECTATOR. 455 
 
 make us pleased or displeased with ourselves in the 
 most proper points, to clear our minds of prejudice 
 and prepossession, and rectify that narrowness of 
 temper Avhich inclines us to think amiss of those 
 who differ from ourselves. 
 
 If we look into the manners of the most remote 
 ages of the workl, we discover human nature in her 
 simplicity ; and the more we come downward 
 towards our om'u times, may observe her hiding 
 herself in artifices and refinements, polished insen- 
 sibly out of her original plainness, and at length 
 entirely lost under form and ceremony, and (what 
 we call) good-breeding. Read the accounts of 
 men and women as they are given us by the most 
 ancient writers, both sacred and prophane, and you 
 would think you were reading the history of another 
 species. 
 
 Among the writers of antiquity, there are none 
 who instruct us more openly in the manners of their 
 respective times in which they lived, than those 
 Avho have emplo3'ed themselves in satire, under what 
 dress soever it may appear ; as there are no other 
 authors whose province it is to enter so directly into 
 the ways of men, and set their miscarriages in so 
 strono- a li"'ht. 
 
 Simonides, a poet famous in his generation, is, I 
 think, author of the oldest satire that is now extant ; 
 and, as some say, of the first that was ever written. 
 This poet flourished about four hundred years after 
 the siege of Troy ; and sbews, by his way of writing, 
 the simplicity, or rather coarseness, of the age in 
 which he lived. I have taken notice, in mv hun- 
 dred and sixty-first speculation, that the rule of 
 observing what the French call the BieusecDice, in 
 an allusion, has been found out of latter years ; and 
 that the ancients, provided there was a likeness in 
 their similitudes, did not much trouble tbemselves 
 about the decency of the comparison. The satires 
 or Iambics of Simonides, Avith which I shall enter- 
 
 Gg4
 
 456 SPECTATOR. no. 209. 
 
 tain my readers in the present paper, are a remarka- 
 ble instance of what 1 formerly advanced. The 
 suhject of this satire is woman. He describes the 
 sex in their several characters, which he derives to 
 them from a fanciful supposition raised upon the 
 doctrine of pre-existence. He tells us, That the 
 Gods formed the souls of women out of those seeds 
 and principles which compose several kinds of ani- 
 mals and elements ; and that their good or bad dis- 
 positions arise in them according- as" such and such 
 seeds and principles predominate in their constitu- 
 tions. 1 have translated llie author very faithfully, 
 and, if not won] for word, (w hich our language would 
 not bear,) at least so as to comprehend every one of 
 his sentiments, without adding any thing of my 
 own. I have already apologised for this author's 
 want of delicacy, and must further premise, that 
 the following satire affects only some of the lower 
 part of the sex, and not those who have been rc- 
 iined by a polite education, which Mas not so com- 
 mon in the age of thi^ ])oet. 
 
 "In the beginning (iod made the souls of mo- 
 mankind out of different materials, and in a sepa- 
 rate state from their bodies. 
 
 " The souls of one kind of M'omcn m ere formed 
 out of those ingredients Mhich compose a swine. A 
 woman of this make is a slut in her house, and a 
 glutton at her table. She is uncleanly in her person, 
 a slattern in her dress, and her family is no better 
 than a dunghill. 
 
 " A second sort of female soul Avas formed out of 
 the same materials that enter into the composition of 
 a fox. Such an one is uhat mc call a notable dis- 
 cerning M'oman, who has an insight into every thing, 
 M-hethcr it be gocnl or had. In this species of fe- 
 males thcr(; are some virtuous and some vicious. 
 
 "A third kind of women Mere made up of canine 
 particles. These are M'hat we commonly call scolds, 
 who imitate the animals out of Mhicii they were
 
 NO. 209. SPECTATOR. 457 
 
 taken, that are always busy and barking, tliat snarl 
 at every one who comes in their way, and live hi 
 perpetual clamour. 
 
 " The fourth kind of women were made out of 
 the earth. These are your sluggards, who pass 
 away their time in indolence and ignorance, hover 
 over the fire a whole winter, and apply themselves 
 with alacrity to no kind of business but eating. 
 
 " The fifth species were made out of the sea. 
 These are women of variable, uneven tempers ; some- 
 times all storm and tempest, sometimes all calm and 
 sunshine. The stranger who sees one of these in 
 her smiles and smoothness, would cry her up for a 
 miracle of good humor ; but on a sudden her looks 
 and words are changed, she is nothing but fury and 
 outrage, noise and hurricane. 
 
 " The sixth species were made up of the ingre- 
 dients which compose an ass, or a beast of burden. 
 These are naturally exceeding slothful; but upon the 
 husband's exerting his authority, will live upon hard 
 fare, and do every thing to please him. They are 
 however far from being averse to venereal pleasure, 
 and seldom refuse a male companion. 
 
 '' The cat furnished materials for a seventh species 
 of women, who are of a melancholy, froward, un- 
 amiable nature, and so repugnant to the offers of 
 love, that they fly in the face of their husband when 
 he approaches them with conjugal endearments. 
 This species of women are likewise subject to little 
 thefts, cheats, and pilferings. 
 
 "The mare with a flowing mane, \\'hich was never 
 ])roke to any servile toil and labour, composed an 
 eighth species of women. These are they who have 
 little regard for their husbands, who pass away their 
 time in dressing, bathing, and perfuming ; who 
 throw their hair into the nicest curls, and trick it up 
 vvith the fairest flowers and o-arlands. A M'oman of 
 this species is a very pretty thing for a stranger to 
 look upon, but very delrimental to the owner, un-
 
 458 SPECTATOR. no. 209. 
 
 less it be a king or prince who takes a fancy to such 
 a toy. 
 
 " The ninth species of females were taken out of 
 tlie ape. These are such as are both ugly and ill- 
 natured, who have nothing beautiful in themselves, 
 and endeavour to detract from or ridicule every 
 thing which appears so in otjiers. 
 
 " The tenth and last species of women Mere made 
 out of the bee : and happy is the man Mdio gets 
 such an one for his wife. She is altogether faultless 
 and unblameable ; her family flourishes and im- 
 proves by her good management. She loves her 
 husband, and is beloved by him. She brings him a 
 race of beautiful and virtuous children. She dis- 
 tin^•uishcs herself amoni^ her sex. She is surround- 
 cd with oraces. She never sits anion 2; the loose 
 tribe of women, nor passes away her time with them 
 in Manton discourses. She is full of virtue and pru- 
 dence, and is the best wife that Jupiter can bestow 
 
 on man." 
 
 I shall conclude these Iambics M'ith the motto of 
 this paper, which is a fragment of the same author : 
 *' A man cannot possess any thing that is better 
 than a good woman, nor any thing that is worse 
 than a bad one." 
 
 As the poet hath shewn a great penetration in this 
 diversity of female characters, he has avoided the 
 fault which Juvenal and Monsieur Boileau are guilty 
 of; tbe former in bis sixth, and the otber in his last 
 satire, where tbey have endeavoured to expose the 
 sex in general, M'itlK)ut doing justice to the valua- 
 ble part of it. Such levelling satires are of no use 
 to the world ; and for this reason I liave often won- 
 dered how the French author aijove-mentioned, who 
 was a man ot" excpiisite judgment, antl a lover of 
 virtiK', coidd think hnnian nature a proper subject 
 for satire in another of liis celebrated jfieces, which 
 is called Tlie Satire upon Man. What vice or frailty 
 can a rliscourse correct, which censures the whole
 
 NO. 211. SPECTATOR. 459 
 
 species alike, and endeavours to shew, by some su- 
 perficial strokes of wit, that brutes are the most ex- 
 cellent creatures of the two ? A satire should expose 
 nothing but what is corrigible, and make a due dis- 
 crimination between those who are, and those who 
 are not, the proper objects of it. 
 
 No. 211. THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 1. 
 
 Fictis memincrit nos jocari Fabulis. 
 
 Phjed. 
 
 XXaving lately translated the fragment of an old 
 poet, which describes womankind under several 
 characters, and supposes them to have drawn their 
 different manners and dispositions from those ani- 
 mals and elements out of which he tells us they 
 were compounded ; I had some thoughts of giving 
 the sex their revenge, by laying together, in another 
 paper, the many vicious characters which prevail in 
 the male world, and shewins* the different ino-re- 
 dients that go to the making up of such difi^t'rent 
 humors and constitutions. Horace has a thouirht 
 which is something akin to this, when, in order to 
 excuse himself to his mistress for an invective which 
 he had written against her, and to account for that 
 unreasonable fury with which the heart of man is 
 often transported, he tells us, that when Prometheus 
 made his man of clay, in the kneading up of the 
 heart, he seasoned it v»4th some furious particles of 
 the lion. But upon turning this plan to and fro in 
 my thoughts, I observed so many unaccountable 
 humors in man, that I did not know out of what 
 animals to fetch them. ]\Ialc souls are diversified 
 with so many characters, that the world has not 
 variety of materials sufficient to iianish out their 
 diftereut tempers and inclinations. 'Jlie creation,
 
 460 SPECTATOR. no. 211. 
 
 with all its animals and elements, would not be 
 large enough to supply their several extravagancies. 
 Instead therefore of pursuing the thought of Si- 
 monides, I shall observe, that as he has exposed the 
 vicious part of women from the doctrine of pre- 
 existence, some of the ancient philosophers have, 
 in a manner, satirized the vicious part of the human 
 species in general, from a notion of the soul's post- 
 existence, if I may so call it; and that as Simonides 
 describes brutes entering into the composition of 
 women, otliers have repiesented human souls as en- 
 tering into brutes. This is commonly termed the 
 doctrine of transmigration, which supposes that 
 liuman souls, upon their leaving the body, become 
 the souls of such kinds of brutes as thev most re- 
 semble in their manners ; or, to give an account of 
 it, as Mr. Diyden has described it in his translation 
 of Pythagoras his speech in the fifteenth book of 
 Ovid, Mdiere that philosopher dissuades his hearers 
 from eating flesh, 
 
 Thus all thin<»s arc but alter'd, nothing dies, 
 And here and there th' unbody'd spirit flies, 
 By time, or ibrcc, or sickness, disposscss'd, 
 And lodges where it lights, in bird or beast, 
 Or hunts without till ready limbs it find, 
 And actualfs those according to their kind ; 
 l>om tenement to tenement is toss'd : 
 The soul is still the same, the figure only lost. 
 Then let not })i<'ty be put to flight, 
 To please the taste of glutton-appelite ; 
 But suffer inmate souls secure to dwell, 
 Lest from their seats yc-ur parents you expel ; 
 ^Vith rabid hunger feed upon your kind, 
 Or from a l>east dislodge a brother's mind. 
 
 Plato, in the vision of Erus the Armenian, Avhich 
 I may possibly make the subject of future specula- 
 tion, iccords some beautiful transmigrations ; as 
 that the soul of ()ij)heus, mIio was musical, melan- 
 choly, aiul a woman-hater, entered into a swan ; 
 the soul of A jax, which Mas all wrath and fierceness, 
 into a lion ; the soul of Agamemnon, that was ra-
 
 NO. 211. SPECTATOR. 461 
 
 pacidus and imperial, into an eagle ; and the soul of 
 Thersites, who was a mimic and a buffoon, into a 
 monkey. 
 
 Mr. Cono-reve, in a Prolo"-ue to one of his Co- 
 medies, has touched upon this doctrine with great 
 liumor. 
 
 Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was, 
 ]May now be darnn'd to animate an ass; 
 Or in this very house, for ought we know, 
 Is doing painful penance in some beau. 
 
 I shall fill up this paper with some letters which 
 my last Tuesday's speculation has produced. ]\Iy 
 following correspondents will shevv^ what I there ob- 
 served, that the speculation of that day affects only 
 the lower part of the sex. 
 
 "From my house in the Strand, October, 30, 171 1. 
 
 " Mr. Spectator, 
 " Upon reading your Tuesday's paper, I find, by 
 several symptoms in my constitution, that I am a 
 bee. My shop, or, if you please to call it so, my 
 cell, is in that great hive of females which goes by 
 the name of the New-Exchange ; where I am daily 
 employed in gathering together a little stock of 
 gain from the finest flowers about the town; I mean 
 the ladies and the beans. I have a numerous swarm 
 of children, to whom I give the best education I am 
 able : but, Sir, it is my misfortune to be married to 
 a drone, who lives upon what I get, without bringing 
 anv thino- into the common stock. Now, Sir, as 
 on the one hand I take care not to behave myself 
 towards hini like a wasp, so likewise I would not 
 have him look upon me as an humble bee ; for which 
 reason I do all I can to put him upon laying up pro- 
 visions for a bad day, and frequently represent to 
 him the fatal effects his sloth and negligence may 
 bring upon us in our old age. I must beg that you
 
 462 SPECTATOR. no. 211. 
 
 v'ill join Avith me in your good advice upon this 
 occasion, and you will for ever oblige 
 
 " Your humble Servant, Melsissa." 
 
 "Piccadillv, October 31, 1711. 
 
 " SiK, 
 
 " I am joined in wedlock, for my sins, to one of 
 those fillies mIio are described in the old poet with 
 that hard name you gave us the other day. She has 
 a flowing mane, and a skin as soft as silk : but, Sh', 
 she passes half her life at her glass, and almost 
 ruins me in ribbons. For my own part, I am a 
 plain handicraft man, and in danger of breaking by 
 her laziness and expensiveness. Pray, master, tell 
 me in your next paper, whether I may not expect of 
 her so much drudgery as to take care of her family, 
 and curry her hide in case of refusal. 
 
 " Your loving friend, Baiinaby Brittle." 
 
 " Cheapside, October 30. 
 " Mv. Spectator, 
 " I am mightily pleased with the humor of the 
 cat ; be so kind as to enlarge u})on that subject. 
 
 *' Yours till death, Josiah Henpeck. 
 
 " P. S. You must know I am married to a o'ri- 
 malkm." 
 
 " Wapping, October 31, 1711. 
 '* Sir, 
 
 " J'Lver since your Spectator of Tuesday last came 
 into our family, my husband is pleased to call me 
 liis Oceana, because the foolish old poet that you 
 have tiaik)lated, says. That the souls of some women 
 are nuule of sea-water. This, it seems, has en- 
 couraged my sauce-box to be witty upon me. When 
 1 am angry, be cries, Pr'ythee, my dear, be calm ; 
 mIu'ii 1 chide oni- of my servants, Prythec, child, do 
 not hhistcr. lie had the impudence about an hour 
 ago to tell me, that he was a seafaring man, and
 
 NO, 213. SPECTATOR. A63 
 
 must expect to divide his life betvreen storm and 
 sunshine. When I bestir myself with any spirit in 
 my family, it is high sea in his house ; and when I sit 
 still, without doing any thing, his affiiirs forsooth 
 are wind-bound, ^Vhen I ask him whether it rains, 
 he makes answer, It is no matter, so that it be fair 
 weather within doors. In short, Sir, I cannot speak 
 my mind freely to him, but I either swell or rage, or 
 do something that is not fit for a civil woman to 
 hear. Pray, Mr. SPECTATOR, since vou are so 
 sharp upon other women, let us know what ma- 
 terials your wife is made of, if you have one. I 
 suppose you would make us a parcel of poor-spirited, 
 tame, insipid creatures ; but, Sir, I would have you 
 to know, we have as good passions in us as yourself, 
 and that a woman Avas never desio-ned to be a milk- 
 sop. 
 
 " Martha Tempest." 
 
 No. 213. SATURDAY, NOVEMBERS. 
 
 — Mens sibi conscia recti. 
 
 V'iRG. 
 
 JLt is the great art and secret of Christianity, if I 
 may use that phrase, to manage our actions to the 
 best advantage, and direct them in such a manner, 
 that every thing we do may turn to account at that 
 great day, when every thing we have done will be 
 set before us. 
 
 In order to give this consideration its full weight, 
 we may cast all our actions under the division of 
 such as are in themselves either good, evil, or in- 
 different. If we divide our intentions after the 
 same manner, and consider them with regard to our 
 actions, we may discover that great art and secret 
 of religion which I have here mentioned. 
 2
 
 4(54 SPECTATOR. no. 213. 
 
 A good intention joined to a good action, gives 
 it its proper force and efficacy ; joined to an evil 
 action, extenuates its malignity, and in some cases 
 may take it ^^'bolly away ; and joined to an indiffe- 
 rent action, turns it to virtue, and makes it meri- 
 torious as tar as human actions can be so. 
 
 In the next place, to consider in the same manner 
 the influence of an evil intention upon our actions. 
 An evil intention perverts the best of actions, and 
 makes them, in reality, what the fathers with a witty 
 kind of zeal have termed the virtues of the heathen 
 world, so many shining sins. It destroys the inno- 
 cence of an indifferent action, and gives an evil 
 action all possible blackness and horror ; or, in the 
 emphatical language of sacred writ, makes sin ex- 
 ceeding sinful. 
 
 If, in the last place,^ we consider the nature of 
 an indifferent intention, Ave shall find that it destroys 
 the merit of a good action ; abates, but never takes 
 awav, the malignitv of an evil action ; and leaves 
 an indifferent action in its natural state of indiffe- 
 rence. 
 
 It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to pos- 
 sess our minds with an habitual good intention, and 
 to aim all our thoughts, words, and actions, at some 
 laudable end, m hether it be the glory of our Maker, 
 the good of mankind, or the benefit of our own 
 souls. 
 
 This is a sort of thrift, or good husbandry, in mo- 
 ral life, M'bich does not throw away any single ac- 
 tion, but makes every one go as far as it can. It 
 nndtij)lies tbe means of salvation, increases the 
 nuinbtr of our virtues, and diminishes that of our 
 vices. 
 
 There is something very devout, though not so 
 solid, in Acosta's answer to Limborch, who objects 
 to him the nuiltii)licity of ceremonies in the Jewisli 
 religion, as Mashings, dresses, meats, purgations, 
 and the like. The reply w Inch the ^Q\s makes upon
 
 NO. 213. I5PECTAT0R 455 
 
 this occasion, is, to the best of my remembrance, 
 as follows : " There are not duties enough (says 
 he) in the essential parts of the law for a zealous 
 and active obedience. Time, place, and person, are 
 requisite, before you have an opportunity of putting 
 a moral virtue into practice. SVe have, therefore, 
 (says he,) enlarged the sphere of our duty, and 
 made many things which are in themselves indiffe- 
 rent a part of our religion, that we may liave more 
 occasion of shewing our love to God, and in all the 
 circumstances of life, be doing something to please 
 him." 
 
 Monsieur St. Evremont has endeavoured to pal- 
 liate the superstitions of the Roman Catholic religion 
 with the same kind of apology, where he pretends 
 to consider the different spirit of the Papists and the 
 Calvinists. as to the great points wherein they dis- 
 agree. He tells us, that the former are actuated by 
 love, and the other by fear ; and that in their ex- 
 pressions of duty and devotion towards the Supreme 
 Being, the former seem particularly careful to do 
 every thing which may possibly please him, and the 
 other to abstain from every thing that may possibly 
 displease him. 
 
 But notwithstanding this plausible reason with 
 which both the Sew and the Roman Catholic would 
 excuse their respective superstitions, it is certain 
 there is something in them very pernicious to man- 
 kind, and destructive to religion ; because the in- 
 junction of superfluous ceremonies makes such ac- 
 tions duties, as were before indifferent, and bv that 
 means renders religion more burthensome and dif- 
 ficult than it is in its own nature, betrays many into 
 sins of omission, which they would not otherwise be 
 guilty of, and fixes the minds of the vulgar to the 
 shadowy unessential points, instead of the more 
 %veighty and more important matters of the law. 
 
 This zealous and active oberlience, hoM ever, takes 
 place in the great point we are recommending ; for 
 Vol. I. H h
 
 JiSe SPECTATOR. no. 213. 
 
 if, instead of prescribing to ourselves indifferent 
 actions as duties, we apply a good intention to all 
 our most indifferent actions, we make our very ex- 
 istence one continued act of obedience, we turn our 
 diversions and amusements to our eternal advantage, 
 and are pleasing Him (wbom wt are made to please) 
 in all the circumstances and occurrences of life. 
 
 It is this excellent frame of minti, this holv ofti- 
 ciousncss, (if I may be alio wed to call it such,) which 
 is recommended to us !)y the Apostle in that uncom- 
 mon precept, wherein he directs us to propose to 
 ourselves the glory of our Creator in all our most 
 indifferent actions, " whether we eat or drink, or 
 whatsoever we do." 
 
 A person, therefore, who is possessed with such an 
 habitual good intention, as that which I have been 
 here speaking of, enters upon no single circumstance 
 of liie, without considering it as ^v•ell-pleasing to 
 the great Author of his being, conformable to the 
 dictates of reason, suitable to human nature in 
 general, or to tlie particular station in which Pro- 
 vidence has placed him. He lives in a perpetual 
 sense of the Divine Presence, regards himself as 
 acting, in the whole course of his existence, under 
 the observation and inspection of that Being, who 
 is privy to all his motions and all his thoughts, who 
 knows his " down-sitting and his up-rising, mIio is 
 about his path, and about his bed, and spieth out 
 all his ways." In a word, he remembers that the 
 eye of his Judge is always upon him, and in every 
 action he reflects that he is doing what is com- 
 manded or allowed by Him who will hereafter 
 cither reward or punish it. 'J his was the character 
 of those holy men of old, w ho, in that beautiful 
 phrase of scripture, are said to have " walked with 
 (iod."' 
 
 When I enij)loy myself upon a paj)er of morality, 
 I generally consider how I may recommend the par-
 
 NO. 213. SPECTATOR. 46? 
 
 ticular virtue which I treat of, by the precepts or 
 examples of the ancient heathens; by that means, 
 if possible, to shame those who have greater advan- 
 tages of knowing their duty, and therefore greater 
 obligations to perform it, into a better course of 
 life : besides that, many among us are unreasonably 
 disposed to give a fairer hearing to a Pagan philo- 
 sopher, than to a Christian writer. 
 
 I shall therefore produce an instance of this ex- 
 cellent frame of mind in a speech of Socrates, which 
 is quoted by Erasmus. This great philosopher on 
 the day of his execution, a little before the draught 
 of poison was brought to him, entertaining his 
 friends with a discourse on the immortality of the 
 soul, has these words: " Whether or no God will 
 approve of my actions, 1 know not ; but this I am 
 sure of, that I have at all times made it my en- 
 deavour to please him, and I ha\'e a good hope that 
 this my endeavour will be accepted by him." We 
 find in these words of that great man, the habitual 
 good intention which I would here inculcate, and 
 with which that divine philosopher always acted. I 
 shall only add, that Erasmus, who was an unbigot- 
 ted Roman Catholic, was so much transported with 
 this passage of Socrates, that he could scarce for- 
 bear looking upon him as a saint, and desiring him 
 to pray for him ; or, as that ingenious and learned 
 writer has expressed himself in a much more lively 
 manner, " When I reflect on such a speech pro- 
 nounced by such a person, I can scarce forbear 
 crying out, Sancte Socrates^ ora pro nol/is. O, holy 
 Socrates, pray for us." 
 
 H h C
 
 468 SPECTATOR. no. 215. 
 
 No. 215. TUESDAY, NOVEMBERS. 
 
 h} genu us didicisse fidelifer aites 
 EmoUit mores, ncc shut esse Jeros. 
 
 OVJD. 
 
 1 Consider an human soul witliout education, 
 like marble in the quarry, wliich shews none oi' its 
 inherent beauties, till the skill ot" the polisher fetches 
 out the colours, makes the surface j^hine, and dis- 
 covers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein, that 
 runs through the body of it. Education, after the 
 same manner, M'hen it works upon a noble mind, 
 draws out to view every latent virtue and perfection, 
 which, without such helps, are never able to make 
 their appearance. 
 
 If my reader will give me leave to change the al- 
 lusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the 
 same instance to illustrate the force of education, 
 M'hich Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine 
 of substantial forms, when he tells us, that a statue 
 lies hid in a block of marble ; and that the art of 
 the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, 
 and removes the rubl)ish. The figure is in the stone, 
 the sculptor only finds it. What sculpture is to a 
 block of marble, education is to an human soul. 
 The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, 
 the good, or the great man, very often lie hid and 
 concealed in a plebeian, which a proper education 
 might have disinterred, and have brought to light. 
 1 am therefore much delighted with reading the ac- 
 counts of savage nations, and Avith contemplating 
 those virtues which are wild and uncultivated; to 
 .see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution 
 in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sul- 
 len ness and despair. 
 
 iMens' passions o|)erate variously, and appear in. 
 different kinds of actions, according as they are
 
 NO. 215. SPECTATOR. 469 
 
 more or less rectified and swayed by reason. When 
 one hears of negroes, who, upon the death of their 
 masters, or upon changing their service, hang them- 
 selves upon the next tree, as it frequently happens 
 in our American plantations, who can forbear ad- 
 miring their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so 
 dreadful a manner? Al'hat might not that savage 
 greatness of soul, which appears in these poor 
 wretches, on many occasions, be raised to, were it 
 rightly cultivated? And what colour of excuse can 
 there be lor the contempt with which we treat this 
 part of our species, that we should not put them 
 upon the common foot of humanity, that we should 
 only set an insignificant fine upon the man who 
 murders them; nay, that we should, as much as 
 in us lies, cut them off from the prospect of happi- 
 ness in another world, as well as in this, and deny 
 them that which we look upon as the proper means 
 for attaining it? 
 
 Since I am engaged on this subject, I cannot for- 
 bear mentionino; a storv which 1 have lately heard, 
 and which is so well attested, that I have no man- 
 ner of reason to suspect the truth of it : I may call 
 it a kind of wild tragedy that passed about twelve 
 years ago at St. Christopher's, one of our British 
 Leeward Islands. The negroes who were concerned 
 in it, were all of them the slaves of a gentleman 
 who is now in England. 
 
 This gentleman, among the negroes, had a young 
 woman, who was looked upon as a most extraor- 
 dinary beauty by those of her own complexion. He 
 had at the same time two young ffllows, who were 
 likewise negroes and slaves, remaikable for the 
 comeliness of their persons, and for the friendship 
 which they bore to one another. It unfortunately 
 happened that both of them fell in love with the 
 female negroe above-mentioned, who Avould have 
 been very glad to have taken either of them for her 
 
 Hh3
 
 470 SPECTATOR. Ko. 215. 
 
 husband, provided they could ag;Tee between them- 
 selves which should be the man. But they were 
 both so passionately in love with her, that neither 
 of them could think of giving her up to his rival: 
 and at the same time were so true to one another, 
 that neither of them would think of gaining her 
 without his friend's consent. The torments of these 
 two lovers were the discourse of the family to which 
 they belonged, M^ho could not forbear observing 
 the strange complication of passions which per- 
 plexed the hearts of the poor negroes, that often 
 dropped expressions of the uneasiness they under- 
 went, and how impossible it was for either of them 
 ever to be happy. 
 
 After a long struggle between love and friend- 
 ship, truth and jealousy, they one day took a walk 
 together into a wood, carrying their mi.^tress along 
 with them ; ^here, after abundance of lamentations, 
 they stabbed licr to the heart, of which she im- 
 mediately died. A slave, who was at his work, not 
 far from the ])lace M'here this astonishing piece of 
 cruelty was committed, hearing the shrieks of the 
 dying person, ran to see what was the occasion of 
 them. lie there discovered the woman Iving- dead 
 upon the ground, with the two negroes on each si/rle 
 of luT kissing the dead corpse, M'eeping over it, and 
 beating their breasts in the utmost agonies of grief 
 and despair. He innncfliateiy ran to the English 
 family with the news of what he had seen; who, 
 uj)on coming to the place, saw the woman dead, and 
 the two negroes expiring by her with wounds they 
 had given themselves. 
 
 Me see in this amazing instance of barbarity, 
 what strange disorders are bred in the minds of those 
 men whose passions are not regulated by virtue, 
 and discipliiK (I l)y reason, Tboiioh the action which 
 I have recited is in ilselifull of guilt and horror, it 
 proceeded from a temper of mind which might
 
 NO. 215. SPECTATOR. 471 
 
 have produced very noble fruits, had it been m- 
 fornied and o-uided by a suitable education. 
 
 It is theietbre an unspeakable blessing- to be born 
 in those parts of the world where wisdom and know- 
 ledge flourish; though it must be confessed, there 
 are, even in these parts, several poor uninstructed per- 
 sons, who are but little above the inhabitants of 
 those nations of which i have been here speaking; 
 as those who have had the advantages of a more 
 liberal education, rise above one another by several 
 different degrees of perfection. For, to return to 
 our statue in the block of marble, we see it some- 
 times only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough- 
 hewn, and but just sketched out into an human 
 figure ; sometimes vre see the man appearing dis- 
 tinctly in all his limbs and features, sometimes we 
 find the figure wrought up to a great elegancy, but 
 seldom meet Avith auy to which the hand of a 
 Phidias or a Praxiteles could not give several nice 
 touches and finishinsis. 
 
 Discourses of morality, and reflections upon hu- 
 man nature, are the best means Ave can make use of 
 to improve our minds, and gaiu a true knowledge 
 of ourselves, and consecpiently to recover our souls 
 out of the vice, ignorance, and prejudice, which 
 naturally cleave to them. I have all along protest 
 myself in this paper a promoter of these great 
 ends; and I flatter myself that I do from dav 
 to day contribute something to the polishing of 
 mens' minds ; at least mv desio-n is laudable, what- 
 ever the execution may be. I must confess I am 
 not a little encourao-cd in it by many letters which I 
 receive from unknow^n hands, in approbation of my 
 endeavours: and must take this opportunity of re- 
 turning my thanks to those Avho Miite them, and 
 excusing myself for not inserting several of them in 
 my papers, which I am sensible wonld be a very 
 great ornament to them. Should I pubhsh the 
 praises which are so well penned, they would do 
 
 llh4
 
 472 SPECTATOR. no. 219. 
 
 honour to the persons who write them; but my pub- 
 hshing of them would, I fear, be a sufficient in- 
 stance to the world, that I did not deserve them. 
 
 No. 219. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10. 
 
 Vix ea nostra voco. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 1 HLRE are but few men who are not ambitious of 
 distinouisliina: tlicmselves in the nation or country 
 wlicre th.ev live, and of o-iowniii" considerable amono- 
 those with whom they converse. There is a kind of 
 grandeur and respect, which the meanest and most 
 insignificant part of mankind endeavour to procure 
 in the little circle of their friends and acquaintance. 
 The poorest mechanic, nay, the man mIio lives upon 
 common alms, gets him his set of admirers, and 
 delights in that suj)eriority \rhich he enjoys over 
 those who are in some respects beneath him. This 
 ambition, Mliich is natural to tJie soul of man, 
 might, methiidvs, receive a very happy turn: and, if 
 it were rightly directed, contribute as much to a 
 person's advantage, as it generally does to his un- 
 easiness and dis(|uict. 
 
 I shall therefore put together some thoughts on 
 this subject, which I have not met with in other 
 writers; and shall set them down as they have oc- 
 curred to me, without being at the pains to connect 
 or methodize them. 
 
 All sujxrioiity and pre-eminence that one man 
 can have oxer anoiher, may be reduced to the no- 
 tion of (juality, w hich, considered at large, is either 
 that of fortune, body, or mind. The hrst is that 
 which consists in birth, title, oriiches; and is the 
 most foreign to our natures, and what we can the 
 least call our own of anv of the three kinds of
 
 NO. 219. SPECTATOR. 473 
 
 quality- In relation to the body, quality arises 
 from health, strength, or beauty ; which are nearer 
 to us, and more a part of ourselves, than the former. 
 Quality, as it regards the mind, has its rise from 
 knowledge or virtue; and is that which is more es- 
 sential to us, and more intimately united with us, 
 than either of the other two. 
 
 The fjuality of fortune, though a man has less 
 reason to value himself upon it than on that of the 
 body or mind, is, however, the kind of quality Avhich 
 makes the most shining figure in the eye of the 
 world. 
 
 As virtue is the most reasonable and genuine 
 source of honour, we generally lind in titles an in- 
 timation of some particular merit that should re- 
 commend men to the highest stations which they 
 possess. Holiness is ascribed to the Pope; majesty 
 to Kings ; serenity or mildness of temper to Princes; 
 excellence or perfection to Ambassadors; grace to 
 Archljishops; honour to Peers; worship or vene- 
 rable behaviour to Magistrates; and reverence, which 
 is of the same import as the former, to the inferior 
 Cler<>:v. 
 
 In the founders of great families, such attributes 
 of honour are generally correspondent with the vir- 
 tues of that person to vi^hom they aie applied ; but 
 in the descendants they are too otren the marks 
 rather of grandeur than of merit. The stamp and 
 denomination still continues, but the intrinsic value 
 is frequently lost. 
 
 The death- bed shews the emptiness of titles in a 
 true light. A poor dispirited smner lies trembling 
 under the apprehensions of the state he is entering 
 on ; and is asked bv a "Tave attendant, how his Ho- 
 liness does? .Another hears himself addressed under 
 the title of Highness or Excellency, who lies under 
 such mean circumstances of mortality as are the dis- 
 grace of human nature. Titles at such a time look 
 rather like insults and mockery than respect.
 
 474 SPECTATOR. no. 219. 
 
 The truth of it is, honours are in this world under 
 no regulation; true quality is neglected, virtue is 
 oppressed, and vice triumphant. The last day will 
 rectify this disorder, and assign to every one a 
 station suitable to the dio-nitv of his character : 
 raiiks will be then adjusted, and precedency set 
 right. 
 
 Methinks mt should have an ambition, if not to 
 advance ourselves in another Morld, at least to pre- 
 serve 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 so- 
 journers upon earth," and " life a pilgrimage." Se- 
 veral heathen as well as Christian authors, under the 
 same kind of metaphor, have represented the world 
 as an inn, which Mas only desio-ned to furnish us 
 Avith accommodations in this our passage. It is 
 therefore very absurd to think of setting up our rest 
 before we come to our journey's end, and not 
 rather to take care of the reception Me shall there 
 meet with, than to fix our thoughts on the little 
 convenicncies and advantages M'hich we enjoy one 
 above another in the May to it. 
 
 Epictctus makes use of another kind of allusion, 
 which is very beautiful, and m onderfully proper to 
 incline us to be satisfied m ith the post in Mhich Pro- 
 vidence has placed us. " We are here (says he) 
 as in a theatre, M'here every one has a part allotted 
 to bin). The great duty m hich lies upon a man is, 
 to act his part in perfection. We may, indeed, say, 
 that our j)art does not suit us, and that we could 
 act another better. Put this (says the philosopher) 
 is not our business. All that mc are concerned in 
 is, to excel in the part M'hich is given us. If it be 
 an ini}>r()j)er one, the fault is not in us, b\it in Hini 
 who has east our several parts, and is the great dis- 
 poser of the ilrama. "
 
 NO. 219- SPECTATOR. 475 
 
 The part which 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 receives a very great enforcement 
 from the above-mentioned consideration, if we re- 
 member 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-eminence, 
 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 
 apocryphal book, entitled, " The Wisdom of Solo- 
 mon, ''' 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 represents, in very v.-arm 
 and noble terms, this advancement of a good man 
 in the other world, and the great surprize which it 
 will produce among those Mho are his superiors in 
 this. " Then shall the righteous man stand in 
 great boldness before the face of such as have af- 
 flicted him, and made no account of his labours. 
 When they see it, they shall be troubled with ter- 
 rible fear, and shall be amazed at the strangeness of 
 his salvation, so far beyond all that they looked 
 for. And they repenting and gToaning for anguish 
 of spirit, shall say within themselves, This was he 
 whom we had some time in derision, and a proverb 
 of reproach. We fools accounted his life madness, 
 and his end to be without honour. Hom' is he num- 
 bered amonir 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 was necessary, in the present constitution 
 of things, that order and distinction should bd
 
 476 SPECTATOR. no. 221. 
 
 kept up in the world, we sliould be happy, if those 
 who enjoy the upper stations in it, would endeavour 
 to surpass others in virtue as much as in rank, and, 
 by their humanity and condescension, make their 
 superiority easy and acceptable to those who are 
 beneath them ; and if, on the contrary, those who 
 are in the meaner posts of life, would consider how 
 they may better tht-ir conchtion hereafter, and, by a 
 just deference and submission to their superiors, 
 make them happy in those blessings M'ith which 
 Providence has thought fit to distinguish them. 
 
 No. £21. TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13. 
 
 Ab 0X0 
 
 Tjaque ad mala 
 
 Hon. 
 
 V\ HEX I have finished any of my speculations, it 
 is my method to consider which of the ancient au- 
 thors have touched upon the subject that I treat of. 
 By this means I meet with some celebrated thought 
 upon it, or a thought of my own expressed in better 
 •v\ ords, or some similitude for the illustration of my 
 subject. This is what pives birth to the motto of a 
 speculation, w hich I rather chuse to take out of the 
 poets than the prose- writers, as the former generally 
 give a finer turn to a tboiight than the latter, and, 
 by couching it in few words, and in harmonious 
 numbers, make it more portable to the memory. 
 
 Mv reader is therefore sure to meet with at least 
 one good line in every paper, and very often finds his 
 iniaiiinatiori entertained by a hint that awakens in 
 liis memory some beautiful passage of a classic au- 
 thor. 
 
 It was a saying of an ancient philosopher, which 
 I find some of our writers have ascribed to Queen
 
 Ko. 221. SPECTATOR. 477 
 
 Elizabeth, who perhaps might have taken occasion 
 to repeat it, That a good face is a letter of recom- 
 mendation. It naturally makes the beholders in- 
 quisitive about the person who is the owner of it, and 
 generally prepossesses them in his favour. A hand- 
 some motto has the same effect. Besides that, it 
 always gives a supernumerary beauty to a paper, and 
 is sometimes in a manner necessary, when the writer 
 is engaged in what may appear a paradox to vulgar 
 minds, as it shews that he is supported by good 
 authorities, and is not singular in his opinion. 
 
 I must confess the motto is of little use to an 
 unlearned reader, for which reason I consider it only 
 as a word to the wise. But as for my unlearned 
 friends, if they cannot relish the motto, I take care 
 to make provision for them in the body of my paper. 
 If they do not understand the sign that is hung out, 
 they know very well by it, that they may meet with 
 entertainment in the house ; and I think I was 
 never better pleased than with a plain man's com- 
 pliment, who, upon his friend's telling him that he 
 would like the Spectator much better if he under- 
 stood the motto, replied, " Good wine needs no 
 bush." 
 
 1 have heard of a couple of preachers in a coun- 
 try town, who endeavoured which should out-shine 
 one another, and draw together the greatest congre- 
 gation. One of them being well versed in the fa- 
 thers, used to quote every now and then a Latin 
 sentence to his illiterate hearers, who, it seems, found 
 themselves so edified by it, that they flocked in 
 greater numbers to this learned man than to his 
 rival. The other, finding his congregation moulder- 
 ing every Sunday, and hearing at length what was 
 the occasion of it, resolved to give his parish a little 
 Latin in his turn ; but being unacquainted w ith any 
 of the fathers, he digested into his sermons the 
 whole book of Quce Germs, adding, however, such 
 exphcatioiis to it as he thought might be for the
 
 47a SPFXTATOR. no. 221. 
 
 benefit of hh people. He afterwards entered upon 
 As in prcese/iti, which he converted in the same man- 
 ner to the use of his parishioners. This in a very 
 little time thickened his audience^ filled his church, 
 s.nd routed his antagonist. 
 
 The natural love to Latin, which is so prevalent 
 in our common people, makes me think that my 
 Speculations fare never the worse amonsf them for 
 that little scrap which appears at the head of them ; 
 and what the more encourages me in the use of 
 quotations in an unknown tongue, is, that 1 hear 
 the ladies, whose approbation I value more than that 
 oi* the whole learned world, declare themselves in a 
 nnore particular manner pleased with my Greek mot- 
 toes. 
 
 Designing this day's work for a dissertation upon 
 the two extremities of my paper, and having already 
 dispatched my motto, I shall, in the ncjct place, 
 discourse upon those single capital letters which are 
 placed at the end of it, and which have afforded 
 great matter of speculation to the curious. I have 
 heard various conjectures upon this subject. Some 
 tell us, that C is the mark of tliose papers that are 
 Avritten by the Clergyman, though others ascribe 
 them to the Club in general. That the ])apers mark- 
 ed with U, were written bv mv friend Sir Ro<>er. 
 That L sionifies the Lawver, whom 1 have described 
 u\ my second Speculation ; and that 'J' stands for 
 the Trader or Merchant : but the letter X, which is 
 placed at the end of some few of my papers, is that 
 >v Inch has puzzled the m hole town, as they cannot 
 think of any name Mhich begins M-ith that letter, 
 except Xenophon and Xerxes, who can neither of 
 them l)e supposed to have had any hand in these 
 Sj)eculations. 
 
 In answer to these incpiisitive gentlemen, who 
 have many of them made encpiiries of me by letter, 
 1 nuist tell thenj the reply of an ancient philosopher, 
 who carried something hidden under his cloak. A 
 certain ac(piaintance desiring him to let him know
 
 Ko. 221. SPECTATOR. 479 
 
 what it was lie covered so carefully, *' I cover it 
 (says he) on purpose that you should not know." I 
 have made use of these obscure marks for the same 
 purpose. The}^ are, perhaps, little amulets or charms 
 to preserve the paper against ^he fascination or ma- 
 lice of evil eyes; for which reason I would not have 
 my reader surprised, if hereafter he sees any of my 
 papers marked with a Q, a Z, a Y, an &c. or with 
 the M^ord Abracadabra, 
 
 I shall however so far explain myself to the rea- 
 der, as to let him know that the letters C, L, and 
 X, are cabalistical, and carry more in them than it 
 is proper for the world to be actj^uainted with. Those 
 who are versed in the philosophy of Pythagoras, 
 and swear by the Tctrachtys, that is, the number 
 four, will know very well that the number ten, 
 which is signified by the letter X, (and which has 
 so much perplexed the town,) has in it many par- 
 ticular powers ; that it is called by the Platonic 
 writers the complete number ; that one, two, three, 
 and four, put together, make up the number ten ; 
 and that ten is all. But these are not mvsteries for 
 ordinary readers to be let into. A man must have 
 spent many 3'ears in hard study before he can arrive 
 at the knowledg-e of them. 
 
 We had a rabbinical divine in England, who was 
 chaplain to the Earl of Essex in Queen Elizabeth's 
 time, that had an admirable head for secrets of this 
 nature. Upon his taking the doctor of divinity's 
 degree, he preached before the universit}^ of Cam- 
 bridge, upon the first verse of the first chapter of 
 the first book of Chronicles, in which (says he) 
 you will see the three following words, 
 
 Adam, Sheth, Enosh. 
 He divided this short text into many parts, and dis- 
 covering several mysteries in each word, made a 
 most learned and elaborate discourse. The name of 
 this profound preacher was Doctor Alabaster, of 
 y.hom the reader may find a more particular account
 
 480 SPECTATOR. no. 221. 
 
 in Doctor Fuller's book of Eno'lish Worthies. This 
 instance \\ill, I hope, convince my readers, that 
 there nia}- be a great deal of fine writing in the ca- 
 pital letters which bring up the rear of my paper, 
 and give tlieni some satisfaction in that particular. 
 But as for the full explication of these matters, I 
 must refer them to time, which discovers all things. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 trrintcd by T. M»idep, 5herbout7ie-r.aof, IrmbHut-siireet.
 
 INDEX 
 
 TO VOL. I. 
 
 A. 
 
 ABIGAILS, male, in fashion among the ladies, page 113. 
 
 Abstinence, the beneiit of it, 429, &c. 
 
 Acosta, his answer to Limboixh touching the multiplicity of cere- 
 monies in the Jewish relij^ion, 464-. 
 
 Acrostic, a piece of false wit, divided into simple and compound, 
 154. 
 
 Actions, a threefold division of them, 463. 
 
 Advertisement of a lottery ticket, 425. 
 
 Advice, no order of persons too great to be advised, 85. 
 
 Alexander, his artifice in his Indian expedition, 318. 
 
 Ambition, the occasion of factions, 310. Most men subject to it, 
 472. Of use when rightly directed, ibid. 
 
 Americans, their opinion of souls, 134. Exemplified in a vision 
 of one of their countrymen, 135, &c. 
 
 Amusements of life, when innocent, necessary and allowable, 231. 
 
 Anagram, M^hat, and when first produced, 152. 
 
 Andromecha, a great fox-hunter, 139. 
 
 Animals, the different make of every species, 285. The instinct 
 of brutes exemplified in several instances, 286, 287. God him- 
 self the soul of brutes, 290. The variety of arms with which 
 they are provided by nature, 291. 
 
 Apothecary, his employment, 428. 
 
 Apparitions, the creation of weak minds, 263. 
 
 April, the first of, the merriest day in the year, 123. 
 
 Aretine made all the princes of Europe tributary to him, 61. 
 
 Aristotle, his observation upon the Jambic verse, 95. Upon tra- 
 gedy, 99, 104. 
 
 Aristus and Aspasia, a happy couple, 323. 
 
 Arsiiioe, the first musical opera on the English stage, 51. 
 
 Artist, Avherein he has the advantage of an author, 367. 
 
 Association of honest men proposed by tiie Spectator, 311. 
 
 Atheists, great zeabts and bigots, 413. Their opinions down- 
 right nons«?nse, ibid. 
 
 Audiences arc at present void of common sense, 43. 
 Vol. I, I i
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Aurflia, her character, 45. 
 
 Author, the necessity of the reader's knowing his size, temper, 
 and complexion, 1. In what manner one author is a mole to 
 another, 307. Wherein an author has the advantage of an 
 artist, 307. The care an author ought to take of what he writes, 
 ibid. A story of an atheistical author, 368. 
 
 Avarice, its temples, adherents, attendants, and officers, &c. 131, 
 &c. Operates with luxury, 130, &c. Its war and accomiriot 
 dution with luxury, 132, 133. 
 
 B. 
 
 Bacon, Sir Francis, his comparison of a book well written, 32. 
 
 Bags of money suddenly transformed into sticks and paper, 15. 
 
 Baptist Lilly, his prudent management, 77. 
 
 Bell, Mr. his ingenious device, 72. 
 
 Bell-savage, its etymology, 73. 
 
 Birds, a cage full for the opera, IG. 
 
 Biters, their business, 24-. 
 
 Blank verse proper for tragedy, 96. 
 
 Blanks of society, 33. 
 
 Boiieau censured, and for what, 458. 
 
 Books reduced to their quintessence, 305. The legacies of great 
 
 genuises, 367. 
 Bouhours, M. a great critic among the French, 165. 
 Boutz-Rimoz, what, 154. 
 Bullock and Norris differently habited, prove great helps to a 
 
 silly play, 112. 
 Butts described, their qualification, 125. 
 
 C, 
 
 C!aesar, Julius, his behaviour to Catullus, who had put him into a 
 
 lampoon, 00. 
 Caligula, his wish, 49. 
 
 Caprice often acts in the place of reason, 424. 
 Care; what ought to be a man's chief care, 295. 
 Ca.stilian; the story of a Castilian husband and wife, 433, &c. 
 Censor of small wares, an office to be erected, 48. 
 Censure, a tax, by whom paid to the public, and for what, 245. 
 Chaplain, the cliaract(;r of Sir Roger de Coverley's, 257. 
 Charles I. a famous picture of him, 146. 
 Cliarlc; the (inat, his behaviour to the secretary who had de- 
 
 bauf lied his daughter, 401, 402. 
 Chastity, the great point of honour in women, 241, &c. 
 Chevy-Chase ballad, the Spectator's examen of it, 183, 195. 
 Chines*', the punishment they inflict for parricide, 422. 
 Christian religion, the clear proof of its articles, and excellency of 
 
 its doctrines, 415, &c. 464.
 
 I N D E X. 
 
 Chronogram, a piece of false wit, 154-. 
 
 Churcii-yard, the country change on Sunday, 27 1 . 
 
 Cicero, a punster, 157. 
 
 Clarinda, an idol, in what manner worshipped, 194. 
 
 Cleanthe, her story, 43. 
 
 Clergy, a threefold division of them, 55. 
 
 Clubs, nocturnal assemblies, their several kinds, originals, and 
 rules, 27, &.c. Everlasting club, 188. 
 
 Commerce, its extent and advantage, 178. 
 
 Compassion, the exercise of it would tend to lessen the calamities 
 of life, 371, &c. 
 
 Connecte Thomas, a monk in the fourteenth century, a zealous 
 preacher against women's commodes, 239. 
 
 Contentment the utmost good we can hope for in this life, 351. 
 
 Conversation most straitened in numerous assemblies, 173. 
 
 Cornaro, Lewis, a remarkable instance of the benefit of tempe- 
 rance, 43 1 . 
 
 Coverley, Sir Roger de, a member of the Spectator's club, his 
 character, 5. He is something of a humorist, 257. His choice 
 of a chaplain, 258. Is forced to have every room in his house 
 exorcised by his chaplain, 265. A great benefactor to his 
 church in Worcestershire, 271. In which he suffers no one to 
 
 I sleep but himself, 272. The trophies of his several exploits in 
 thecountry, 276. Themanner of his reception at the assizes, 297. 
 Where he whispers the judge in the ear, ibid. His adventure 
 w^hen a school-boy, 308. A man for the landed interest, 314, 
 His adventure with some gypsies, 327. Rarely sports near his 
 own seat, 331. 
 
 Country gentleman and his wife, neighbours to Sir Roger, their 
 difterent tempers described, 322. 
 
 Country Sunday, the use of it, 27 1 , &c. 
 
 Courage recommends a man to the female sex more than any 
 other quality, 241. One of the chief topics in books of chi- 
 valrv, 242. False courage, 244. 
 
 Cowley abounds in mixt wit, 163. 
 
 Coxcombs generally the womens' favourites, 321. 
 
 Credit, a beautiful virgin, her situation and equipage, 12. 
 
 D. 
 
 Death, the time and manner of it unknown, 23. 
 
 Delight and surprize, properties essential to wit, 161, &c. 
 
 Demurrers, what women so called, 217. 
 
 Devotion, the great advantage of it, 230. The most natural re- 
 lief in our alflictions, 355. It distinguishes men from brutes 
 more than reason does, 436. The errors into which it often 
 leads us, 437. The notions which the most refined among the 
 heathens had of it, 449. Socrates's model of devotions, 430, 
 &c. 
 
 li 2
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Ditrnitaries oi the law, who, 5<5. 
 
 Disappointments in love the most ditTicult to be conquered of any 
 
 other, 353. 
 I)rinkini:, a rule prescribed for it, 4-30. 
 Drydi-u's definition of -vvit censured, 105. 
 Duration, the idea of it how entertained according to Mr. Locke, 
 
 234-. Different beings may obtain different notions of the 
 
 same parts of duration, il)id. 
 Dutch more polite than the English in their funeral monuments, 09. 
 
 E. 
 
 Education, the benefits of a good one, and necessity of it, 168, &c. 
 Eginhart, Secretary to Charles tlu- Great, his adventure and mar- 
 riage with that Emperor's daughter, 'lOl, &c. 
 Eminent men, the tax paid by them to the public, 2+5. 
 Englishman, the peculiar blessing of being born one, 334-, &c. 
 The Spectator's speculations upon the English tongue, 335. 
 English are not naturally talkative, 33i. English tongue much 
 adulterated, 363. 
 Enthusiasm, the misery of it, 437, &c. 
 Epictetus, his allusion on human life, 474. 
 Epitaph of a charitable man, 392. 
 
 Epitaphs, the extravagancy of some, and the modesty of others, 6S. 
 Erjuipages, the splendor of them in France, 43. A great temp- 
 tation to the female sex, ibid. 
 . Error.s and prepossessions difficult to be avoided, 278. 
 Etirnity, a prospect of it, 340. 
 Eudoxus and Leontine, their friendship, and education of their 
 
 children, 300, &c. 
 Eugenius appropriates a tenth part of his estate to caritable uses, 
 
 391. 
 Evremont, St. his endeavours to palliate the Rontan superstition, 
 
 •Hi5. 
 I'.xercisf the most efTertual physic, 427. 
 
 Expences oftener proportioned to our expectations than pos- 
 seiiiiions, ■V20. 
 
 E. 
 
 Tables, their antiipiity, 403. Fable of the ciiildren and frogs, 02. 
 
 Of .Fupi»« r and the countryman, ()(). Of pUiusure and pain, 40(i. 
 Face, a t;ood one a Utter of reconinundation, 470. 
 I-alsfhood, the goddess of it, lOH. 
 ialsiaffj Sir John, a famous l)utt, 125. 
 Fame generally efuctirl, ifM, ike. 
 luiuilns, the ill measures taken by great ones in tiie education of 
 
 their younger sons, 202. 
 Fun, the cxf-rci.se of it, 249, &c.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Faustina the Empress, her notions of a pretty gentleman, 322. 
 
 Fear of death often mortal, 65. 
 
 Feasts, the gluttony of our modern ones, 429. 
 
 Flutter of the fan, the variety of motions in it, 250. 
 
 Fools in plenty the first day of April, 123. 
 
 Freeport, Sir Andrew, a member of the Spectator's club, 8. His 
 
 moderation in point of politics, 314. 
 Friendship, the great benefit of it, 174. Life's medicine, 175. 
 
 The qualifications of a good friend, 176. 
 
 Gaming, the folly of it, 231. 
 
 Gaper, a common sign in Amsterdam, 122. 
 
 Genius, what properly a great one, 344-. 
 
 Ghost, its appearance of great efficacy upon the English theatre, 
 
 107. 
 Giving and forgiving two different things, 421. 
 Glapbyra, her stcry out of Josephus, 26(5. 
 Good-breeding, the great revolution that has happened .in that 
 
 article, 283^ 
 Good-nature, more agreeable in conversation than wit, 370. The 
 
 necessity of it, 371. It is born with us, ibid. It is a moral 
 
 virtue, 389. 
 Gospel gossips described, 120. , 
 Goths in poetry, who, 166. 
 Great men, the tax they pay to the public, 245. Not truly known 
 
 till after their death,' 246. 
 Greeks, a custom practised by them to create in their children an 
 
 aversion to drunkenness, 420. 
 Grinning; a grinning prize, 386. 
 Gypsies; an adventure between Sir Roger, the Spectator, and 
 
 some gj'psies, 327. 
 
 H. 
 
 Handkerchiefs, the great machine for moving pity in tragedy, 108. 
 
 Happiness, true, an enemy to pomp and noise, 45. 
 
 Hard words ought not to be pronounced right bv Avell-bred ladies, 
 116. 
 
 Hardiiess of heart in parents towards their children most inex- 
 cusable, 400. 
 
 Hate: why a man ought not to hate even his enemies, 309. 
 
 Head-dress the most variable thing in nature, 237. Extravagantly 
 high in the fourteenth century, 239. With what success at- 
 tacked by a monk of that age, ibid. 
 
 Heirs and elder brothers frequently spoiled in their education, 299. 
 
 Herod and ^lariamne's story from Josephus, 382. 
 
 Ilrroes in English tragedy generally lovers, 102.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Hobb's, Mr. his observation upon laughter, 121. 
 
 Honeycomb, Will, his knowledge of mankind, 252. His letter to 
 
 the Spectator, 333. 
 Honour, wherein commendable, and when to be exploded, 2+2,&c. 
 Honours in this world under no regulation, 474. 
 Human nature, the same in all reasonable creatures, 1 82. 
 Humour to be described only by negatives, 87. The genealogv 
 
 of true and false humour, 88. 
 
 I. 
 
 Iambic verse, the most proper for Greek tragedies^ 95. 
 
 Ichneumon, a great destroyer of crocodile's eggs, 313. 
 
 Idiots in great request at most of the German courts, 122. 
 
 Idolatry, the offspring of a mistaken devotion, 439. 
 
 Idols, who of the fair sex so called, 192. 
 
 Jealousy described, 374. How to be allayed, 379. 
 
 Ill-nature, an imitator of zeal, 413. 
 
 Imma, the daughter of Charles the Great, her stDr}% 401. 
 
 Immortality of the soul, arguments in proof of it, 267, &c. 
 
 Impudence gets the better of inodesty, 9. 
 
 Indian kings, some of their observations during their stay here, 
 
 125, 6i.c. 
 Indiscretion more hurtful than ill-nature, 62. 
 Infidelity, another term for ignorance, 416. 
 Injuries, how to be measured, .59. 
 
 Innocence, and not quality, an exemption from reproof, 85. 
 Instinct, the power of it in brute.s, 287. 
 Interest, often a promoter of persecution, 412. 
 Italian.s, their writers florid and wordy, IS. 
 Jupiter Amnion, an answer of his oracle to the Athenians, 451. 
 
 K. 
 
 Knowledge, the pursuits of it long, but not tedious, 233. The 
 only means to extend life beyond its natural dimension.s, 237. 
 
 Labour, bodily, of two kinds, 274. 
 
 Lacedemonian.s, a fonn of prayer u.sed by them, 451. 
 
 Lady's library dcsrrilic I, 91, &c. 
 
 Lampoons writ by people who can't .spell, 48. Witty ones inflict 
 
 wounds that are in* arable, 58. The inhuman barbarity of the 
 
 ordinary .scribblers of them, 61. 
 Language, the I'.ngiish much adulterated during the war, 363. 
 Latin of great use in a country auditory, 477. 
 Laughter, the provocations to it, 121. 
 Lawyer.", the peaceable and litigious described, 55.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Lear, king, a tragedy suffers in the alteration, 101. 
 
 Lee, the poet, well turned for tragedy, 98. 
 
 Leonora, her character, 93. Description of her country seat, 
 ibid. 
 
 Leontine and Eudoxus, their great friendship and adventures, 
 300, &c. 
 
 Letters. To the Spectator, complaining of the masquerade, 25. 
 From Charles Lillie, 50. From a valetudinarian, G3. From 
 one who would be inspector of the sign-posts, 71. From the 
 master of the show at Charing-Cross, 74. From a husband 
 plagued with a Gospel gossip, 120. From an ogliiig-master, 
 121. From Sam Hopewell, 217. From Leonora, reminding 
 the Spectator of the catalogue, 225. From the master of the 
 fan exercise, 249. From Will Wimble to Sir Roger de Co- 
 verley, with a jack, 260. To the Spectator, from , com- 
 plaining of the new petticoat, 316. From a lawyer on the cir- 
 cuit, with an account of the progress of the fashions in the 
 country, 324. From Will Honeycomb, 333. From Leonora, 
 who had just lost her lover, 352. From a young oificer to his 
 
 father, 364. To the Spectator, from , with an account of 
 
 a Avhistling match at Bath, 396. From , who had married 
 
 without her father's consent, 398. From , concerning 
 
 Nicholas Hart, the annual sleeper, 408. From a father to his 
 son, 420. From George Gosling, about a ticket in the lotteiy, 
 425. From a bastard, complaining of his illigetiraacy, 443. 
 To the Spectator, from Belvidera, complaining of a female se- 
 ducer, 445. From a countiy clergyman, against affected sing- 
 ing of psalms in churches, 447. From Robin Goodfellow, con- 
 taining the correction of an errata in Sir William Temple's 
 rule for drinking, 448. From Melissa, who has a drone to her 
 husband, 461. From Barnaby Brittle, whose wife is a filly, 
 462. From Josiah Henpeck, who is married to a grimalkin, 
 ibid. From Martha Tempest, complaining of her witty hus- 
 band, ibid. 
 
 Letter-di-oppers of antiquity, 148. 
 
 Library. A lady's library described, 91. 
 
 Life : in what manner our lives are spent, according to Seneca, 
 228, &c. A survey of it in a vision, 340. To what compared 
 in the Scriptures and by the heathen philosophers, 474, 475. 
 
 Lion in the Hay-market, occasions many conjectures in the town, 
 39. Very gentle to the Spectator, 40. 
 
 London, an emporium for the whole earth, 178. 
 
 Lottery, some discourse on it, 423. 
 
 Luxury described with its attendant avarice, and a fable of those 
 two vices, 130. Of our modern meals, 429. 
 
 M. 
 Males among the birds have only voices, 320. 
 Man a sociable animal, 27. Variable in his temper, 348.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 ISIaple, Will, an inipudeiit libertine, 4-tl. 
 
 IVIasqui'rade, a complaint against it, 2j. Tlie cU'sigu of it, 26. 
 
 Mazarin, his behaviour to Quillet, who had reflcc:ted on him in a 
 poem, t)0. 
 
 ]VIt;rchants of great benefit to the public, 181. 
 
 ]Mixt wit described, Ifi.'j, &c. 
 
 Mixt communion of men and spirits in Paradise, as described by 
 Milton, 3S. 
 
 i\Iizran, the visions of, 338. 
 
 Mode, a standing mode or dress recommended, 323. 
 
 IMolic-re made an old woman a judge of his plays, 182. 
 
 jVIoney-bags transformed to sticks and paper, 14-. 
 
 Monuments iu Westminster- Abbey examined by the Spectator, 
 07, &c. 
 
 Motto, the eflects of a handsome one, 477. 
 
 Music banished by Plato from his commonwealth, 54'. Of a re- 
 lative nature, 77. 
 
 N. 
 
 Newberry, INIr. his rebus, 150. 
 
 New-river, a project to bring it into the playhouse, 17. 
 
 Nicholas Hart, the annual sleeper, 408. 
 
 Nicolini, Signior, his voyage on pasteboard, 15. His combat with 
 
 a lion, and why thought to be a sham one, 39, &c. 
 
 An excellent actor, 42. 
 Nutmeg of delight, one of the Persian emperor's titles, 345. 
 
 O. 
 
 Gates, Dr. a favourite with some party ladies, 142. 
 
 Obedience of children to their parents the basis of all governj 
 nient, 422. 
 
 Obscurity the only defence against reproach, 245. 
 
 Ogicr. Tilt- com|)lete ogler, 121. 
 
 Old maids generally superstitious, 21. Testament in a pendce, 146. 
 
 Opira, as it is the present i-nlirtainment of the English stage, 
 considered, 10, &c. The progress it has made on our theatre, 
 51, &c. S<jm(; .account of the I'rench opera, 77, &.c. 
 
 Opportunities to be carefully avoided by the fair sex, 433. 
 
 Onler necessary to be kept up in the world, 475. 
 
 Otway commended and censured, 98. 
 
 Oxford scholar, his great discovery in a coll'ee-house, 1 19. 
 
 P. 
 
 Painter and taylor ofi( n contribute to the success of a tragedy 
 more than a poet, 106. 
 
 Parents, tlnir taking a liking to a particular profession, often oc- 
 casions tiieir s()ns to miscarry, 57.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Particles, English, the honour done to them in the late operas, 52. 
 Parties crept much into the conversation of the ladies, 140, &c. 
 An instance of their malice, 307. Tlie dismal effects of a 
 furious yarty spirit, 308. It corrupts both our morals and judg- 
 ment, 309. And reigns more in the country than town, 315, 316. 
 Party zeal, very bad for the face, 14-1. 
 
 Party scribblers reproved, 310. 
 
 Passions of the fan, a treatise for the use of the author's scho- 
 lars, 252. 
 
 Passions, their various operations, 468. The strange disorders 
 they breed in the mind w^hen not regulated by virtue, 470. 
 
 Peace with France, some ill consequences of it, 113, &c. 
 
 Pedants, their several classes, 21. Whoso to be reputed, 454. 
 The book pedant the most supportable, 255. 
 
 Persians, their institution of their youth, 243. Their notion of 
 parricide, 442. 
 
 Petticoat, hoop, complaint against it, 316. Several conjectures 
 upon it, 317. Compared to an Egyptian temple, 319. 
 
 Philosophers, why longer lived than other men, 431. 
 
 Philosophy, the use of it, 22. Said to be brought by Socrates 
 down from heaven, 32. 
 
 Physic the substitute of exercise or temperance, 429. 
 
 Physicians and surgeons, their different employment, 48. The 
 physicians a formidable body of men, compared to the British 
 army in Caesar's time, 56, 57. They convert one distemper 
 into another, 63. 
 
 Piety, an ornament to human nature, 439. 
 
 Pinkethman to personate King Porus upon an elephant, 80. 
 
 Place and precedency more contested by those of inferior rank 
 than ladies of quality, 283. 
 
 Plato, his notion of the soul, 220. Wherein, according to him 
 and his followers, the punishment of a voluptuous man consists, 
 221. His account of Socrates's behaviour the morning he was 
 to die, 405. 
 
 Pleasure and pain, a marriage between them, 406. 
 
 Poems in picture, 144. 
 
 Poets, English, reproved, 96, &c. Their artifices, 107, &c. 
 
 Pontignan, INI. his adventure with two women, 222, &c. 
 
 Posterity, its privilege, 245. 
 
 Powel, Senior, to act Alexander the Great on a dromedar>% 80. 
 His artifice to raise a clap, 102. 
 
 Prejudice, the prevalency of it, 246. 
 
 Pride, a man crazed with it a mortifying sight, 437. 
 
 Procuress, her trade, 446. 
 
 Prodicus, the first inventor of fables, 404. 
 
 Professions, the three great ones overburdened with practitioners, 
 55, &c. 
 
 Projector, a short description of one, 79, &c. 
 
 Providence, demonstrative arguments for it, 285, 
 Vol. I. K k
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Punning, much recommended by the practice of all ages, and in 
 what age it chiefly flourished, 157. A famous university much 
 infested with it, 158. Why banished at present out of the 
 learned world, ibid, &c. Definition of a pun, 158. 
 
 a. 
 
 Quality, no exemption from reproof, 85. Is either of fortune, 
 bodv, or mind, +72. 
 
 R. 
 
 Rants considered as blemishes in our English tragedy, 102. 
 
 Rape of Proserpine, a French opera, 78. 
 
 Readers divided into the mercurial and saturnine, 394. 
 
 Reason not to be found in brutes, 286. 
 
 Rebus, a kind of false wit in vogue amongst the ancients and our 
 own countrymen, 14-9, 150. A Rebus at Blenheim-house con- 
 demned, 150. 
 
 Recitative music in every language ought to be adapted to its ac- 
 cent, 75. 
 
 Recitativo, Italian, not agreeable to an English audience, 74-, &c. 
 
 Rich, Mr. would not sufier the opera of Whittington and his Cat 
 to bo performed in his house, and why, 19. 
 
 Riding a heahhy exercise, 277. 
 
 Royal Exchange, the great resort to it, 178. 
 
 S. 
 
 Salamanders, an order of ladies described, 432. 
 
 Siilmon, Mrs. her ingenuity, 72. 
 
 Sanctorius's invention, 63. 
 
 Satirists best instruct u.s in the manners of their respective times 
 455. 
 
 Scholar's t-gg, what so called, 144. 
 
 Siiifxilinen, iheir ass-case, 423. How applied, ibid. " 
 
 Senipronia, a professed admirer of the French nation, 144. 
 
 Sentry, Captain, a number of the Spcctatoi-'s club, 8. 
 
 Sextus Quintus, the pope, an instance of his unforgiving temper,60. 
 
 Shadows and realities not to be mixed in the same piece, 16. 
 
 Shovel, Sir Cloudesley, tlie ill contrivance of his funeral monu- 
 ment, 60. 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip, his opinion of the song of Chevy-chase, 183. 
 
 Sii,'n-posts, the absurdities of many of then), 71, &.c. 
 
 Siiiionides, his satire on women, 456, 
 
 So(T.^tc^. his temper and prudence, 50, 60. His notion of pleasure 
 and pain, 40*. 'I'lie elleet of his tenijx ranee, 430. His in- 
 Ktruclions to his pupil Alribiades, in niation to prayer, 449. 
 
 Sophocles, his conduct in the tragedy of IJcetra, 110. 
 
 Soul, its imniorlalify evidenced from several proyfs, 267, &c.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Sparrows bought for the use of the opera, 1 6, &c. 
 
 Spectator, his prefatory discourse, 1. Great taciturnity, 2, 5. 
 His vision of public credit, 12, &c. His entertainment at the 
 table of an acquaintance, 19, &c. His recommendation of his 
 speculations, 31, &c. Advertised in the Daily Courant, 35. 
 His encounter with a lion behind the scenes, 40. Design of 
 his writings, 47, &.C. No party man, 49, &c. His resolu- 
 tion to march on in the cause of virtue, 86. His visit to a 
 travelled lady, 114. His speculations in the first principles, 
 117. An odd accident that befel him at Lloyd's coffee-house, 
 ibid. His advice to our English Pindaric writers, 152. His 
 account of himself and his works to be written three hundred 
 years hence, 247. His great modesty, ibid. He accompanies 
 Sir Roger de Coverley into the country, 25G. His exercise 
 when young, 277. He goes with Sir Roger to the assizes, 295. 
 His adventure with a crew of gypsies, 327. The several opinions 
 of him in the country, 332. His artifice to engage his difter- 
 ent readers, 394, 
 Spirits, the appearance of them not fabulous, 270. 
 State, future, the refreshment a virtuous person enjoys in the 
 
 prospect and contemplation of it, 415. 
 Superiority reduced to the notion of quality, 472. 
 Superstition, the folly of it described, 21, &c. Is an error arising 
 from a mistaken devotion, 437. It has something in it destruc- 
 tive to religion, 465. 
 
 T. 
 
 Temperance the best preservative of health, 427. What kind of 
 
 temperance best, 42 S. 
 Templar, one of the Spectator's club, his character, 7. 
 Temple, Sir William, his rule for drinking, 430. 
 Ten, called by the Platonic writers the complete number, 479. 
 Theatre, English, the practice of it in several instances censured. 
 
 104, &c. 107, &c. 
 Theodosius and Constantia, their adventures, 355. 
 Thunder of great use on the stage, 107. 
 
 Time, our ill use of it, 228. Directions how to spend it, 230, &c. 
 Tom Touchy, a quarrelsome fellow, 236. 
 Tombs in Westminster Abbey, visited by the Spectator, 67, &c. 
 
 His reflection upon it, ibid. 
 Trade, the benefit of it to Great Britain, 178. 
 
 Tragedy, perfect, the noblest production of human nature, 95. 
 
 Wherein the modern tragedy excels that of Greece and Rome, 
 
 . ibid. Blank verse the most proper for an English tragedy, 96. 
 
 English tragedy considered, ibid, &c. 
 Tragi-comedy, the product of the Engiish theatre, 101. 
 Transmigration of souls, what, 460. 
 
 Travel highly necessary for a coquette, 1 16. The behavio,Ur of a 
 travelled lady at the playhouse, 1 l.j.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Tnith, an enemy to false wit, 171. 
 
 Tryphiodorus the great lipogramniatist of antiquity, 148. 
 
 V. 
 
 Vapours in women, to what to be ascribed, 275. 
 
 Venice Preserved, a tragedy, founded on a wrong plot, 99. 
 
 Virgil, his beautiful allegories founded on the Platonic philoso- 
 phy, 222. 
 
 Virtue, the exercise of it recommended, 230. Its influence, 231. 
 The most reasonable and genuine source of honour, 473. 
 
 Visit to a travelled lady in her bed, described, 1 14. 
 
 Volumes; the advantages an author receives of publishing his 
 works in volumes, rather than in single pieces, 304. 
 
 W. 
 
 Whistling match described, 396. 
 
 White, Moll, a notorious witch, 279. 
 
 Widow that had been the death of several foxes, 277. 
 
 Wimble, Will, his letter to Sir Roger de Coverley, 260. His 
 character, ibid. His conversation with the Spectator, 261. A 
 man of ceremony, 283. He thinks the Spectator a fanatic, 315. 
 And fears he has killed a man, 332. 
 
 Wit, the mischief of it when accompanied with vice, 59, &c. 
 When not tempered with virtue and humanity, 61 . Nothing so 
 much admired, and so little understood, 143. History of false 
 wit, 144, &c. Every man would be a wit, 152. The way to 
 try it, 160. Mr. Locke's reflection on the difference betwixt 
 wit and judgment, 101. 
 
 Woman of (juality, her dress the product of a hundred climates, 
 179. 
 
 Women, their ordinary employment, 33. Smitten with super- 
 firials, 44. Their usual conversation, 44, 45. Signs of their 
 improvement under the Spectator's hand, 228. Their pains in 
 •^\\ ages to adorn the outside of the head, 237, &c. More gay 
 in their nature than men, 319. 
 
 World, the present u nursery for the next, 269. 
 
 Yawning a Christmas gambol, 393.
 
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