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Ne ett 7 he 4 Ad agit tine id Wisi Iga gilbedete itethon Pi aa rere upenel ry sacig asi ra satya Hert trib gee ” rr; ied! diineane dale beihaks falar vathe Codaaty polengga ball MRA Yate Ne 14 Lai pthe goa ds Poa thad wihdaKhs | peta fh cAieterael ae tt He webidyonlt obigidied} y pata 1) Peds geiten Re patho Vai a lt (iba dab Slipite db ie theitbiis Libba ‘taite it ted ogetveitas iodo tart idan HAAN pa Retind heat oo. She bat he 8 FL Md Ww ee jal iy via ) a hi pm) ale Ce aad Fubt aie ide raat THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY HS\ \eaiees Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library ary it | DUETS | Mon 21 issghCO TS 971, MAR 3 4]1994 APR 4 8 S64 == q2; RPS 933 1967. MAY 1 B°igg7 MAY 2 185 uM = 1 Jp AY 2 2 1998 JUN —1 198 MAY 2 2 1998 + JOROUN BAWIKESWORTIE , J.D 9 FROM A PAINTING BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS — | 5 la Ox oe Tg by U from 2 aan LOGE S. fr by M ? ras % raved he ue ADVENTURER: By JOHN HAWKESWORTH, LL. D. AND OTHERS. meinen ——Tentanda via est ; qua me quoque possim Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per +a. VIRG, On venturous wing in quest of praise I go, And leave the gazing multitude below. ——— nee COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. LONDON. PUBLISHED BY JONES & COMPANY, a 3, ACTON PLACE, KINGSLAND ROAD, ———— ae 1825. WILSON HISTORICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE TO THE ADVENTURER. Tue Adventurer was planned by Dr. John Hawkesworth soon after the conclusion of the Rambler, in conjunction with Dr. Johnson. The first number was published on Tuesday, Nov. the 7th, 1'752, in the folio size, and quan- tity of the Rambler, and at the same price. The days of publication were Tuesday and Sa- turday, and a period was put to the work in No. 140, Saturday, March, 9, 1'754. . John Hawkesworth, LL. D. was born in 1715, or, according to another account, in 1719. His parents were dissenters, probably in humble life. It bas been asserted that he was brought up to a mechanical employment, but Sir J. Hawkins says that he was in his youth a hired clerk to an attorney—a situation scarcely supe- rior to the former. By some means, however, he fitted himself for the profession of a man of letters ; and about 1744 was Dr. Johnson’s suc- cessor in the office of compiler of tic parlia- mentary debates for the Gentleman’s Magazine. To that publication he contributed during some successive years several pieces of poetry, some of them under the signature “H. Greville.” We find him, between his thirtieth and fortieth year, residing at Bromley, in Kent, where his wife kept a boarding-school for young ladies. In 1752 he began to publish “« The Adventurer,” which was continued to the one hundred and fortieth number, and then collected into four volumes 12mo. Of these, one half, or seventy ‘numbers, were of his own composition. He had for his coadjutors Johnson, Bathurst, and , Warton, and there were a few other occasional ‘contributors. The Adventurer was favourably ‘received by the public, and merited its success by the purity of its morals, the elegance of its ‘eritical disquisiticens, and the acquaintance it displayed with life and manners. The pzpers of Hawkesworth resemble in style the Ramblers of Johnson, though with somewhat less pomp of diction. Those among them which have been most admired consist of eastern tales, and of stories in domestic life; in the former of whicn he exhibited a fine imagination, and in the lat. ter a considerable knowledge of the human heart. Both of them convey the most instruct- ive lessons of conduct. Archbishop Herring so much approved the moral and religious tenor of these papers, that he conferred upon their author the degree of doctor of civil law. From some circumstance, this acquisition of dignity lost Dr. Hawkesworth the friendship of Johnson (who had not then obtained a similar honour), and they appear never again to have associated together. That Hawkesworth was weakly elated by his new title, appears from the inten- tion with which it inspired him of assuming the profession of a civilian, and practising in the ecclesiastical courts; but, after some prepara- tory studies, the opposition he met with obliged him to desist from his purpose. In 1'756, at the desire of Garrick, he altered for the stage Dry- den’s comedy of Amphytrion. His oratorio of “« Zimri,” performed at Covent Garden in 1760, displayed no mean talents for poetical composi- tion; and his “ Edgar and Emmeline,”’ a dra- matic entertainment, called “a Fairy Tale,” brought out at Drury-lane in 1761, was a very elegant fancy-piece. In the same year he pub- lished “ Almoran and Hamet,’”’ an Oriental tale, two volumes 12mo, which possesses much merit as a romance of the serious and dignified class. He was the editor about this time of a collection of the works of Dean Swift, to which he prefixed a life of that extraordinary persen- Aleta t-aee | iV The mention made of this performance by Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the English Poets, is too valuable a biographical record of our author to be omitted :—‘‘ An account of Dr. Swift bas been already collected with great diligence and acuteness by Dr. Hawkesworth, according toa scheme which I laid before him in the intimacy of our friendship. I cannot, therefore, be ex~ pected to say much of a life, concerning which I had long since communicated my thoughts to aman capable of dignifying his narration with so much elegance of language and force of sen- timent.”” In 1766 Dr. Hawkesworth was the editor of three volumes of ‘“‘ Letters of Dr. Swift and several of his Friends, published from the Originals, with Notes explanatory and histori- cal.” A “ Translation of Telemachus,”’ quarto, 1768, exhibited to great advantage the beauties of Hawkesworth’s style, which was peculiarly adapted to represent the rich description and sentimental glow of the admired original; and he was allowed to have left all former trans- lators of this work far behind him. The repu- tation he had now acquired as a writer obtained for him, in 1772, the lucrative and distinguished | not be exceeded for delicate humour. “HISTORICAL AND in his mode of living, are supposed to have shortened his days. Dr. Hawkesworth was a man of irritable passions and exquisite sensibili- ty, but friendly, social, and humane. His conversation is represented as having been high- ly agreeable, and his manners to have been those of the scholar and gentleman united. The first coadjutor of Dr. Hawkeswerth in’ the Adventurer, prior to Dr. Johnson or Dr. Warton joining him, is said to have been Dr. Richard Bathurst, at that time one of the members of Dr. Johnson’s Ivy-lane Club. He was the son of a Colonel Bathurst, a West In- dia planter, from whom Dr. Johnson received his faithful black servant. Dr. Bathurst is said to have written the eight papers marked A. in the Adventurer. Dr. Johnson wrote twenty- nine papers in the Adventurer, the general cha- racter of which is the same with that of his preceding work. He did not begin to write for the Adventurer unti) No. 34, March 3, 1753. He began to write with the story of Misargyrus, which he continued in Nos. 41, 53, and 62. His Journey in a Stage Coach, in No. 84, can- We find task of compiling into one narrative an account | him dwelling on his favourite topic, the con- of all the voyages of discovery made by command of his present majesty, to that period of his reign. This wor: was published in three vol- umes 4to. magnificently adorned with charts, maps, views, &c. and comprising the materials of the journals kept by commodore Byron, cap- tains Wallis and Carteret, and lieutenant Cook, in their respective voyages to the Southern hemisphere and Pacific ocean. Dr. Hawkes- worth received the very munificent reward of six thousand pounds; and his execution of the task obtained the praise of lively and elegant narravion, and of sufficient fidelity us to matters of fact. Yet the author by profession, the spe- culatist and philosopher, too much appeared amidst the simple relations of sea officers and navigators ; and the colouring of his style pro- duced a similar effect in the writing, with that of the Grecian figures of Cipriani and other ar- tists in the engravings. Some moral and reli- gious objections were likewise made to his performance. He had indulged in some des- criptions of the licentious manners of the South Sea islanders, which were thought too inflam- matory: and he had made some unnecessary ttacks upon the popular doctrine of a particular previdence. Some nautical omissions were se- verely censured: and upon the whole, the criti- cisms he underwent gave him vexations, which more than counterbalanced the satisfaction aris- ing from his profits. The latter were enjoyed a very short time; for the year in which this work appeared was the last of his life, which closed on November 16, 1773, at Bromley. The ehagrin he underwent, together with indulgence | cerns and interests of literary men, Nos. 85, 95, 115, 137, and 138. In No. 120, he indulges in) reflections ‘¢on the bitterness of being.’ Mr. Boswell has discovered that No. 39., on sleep, was written by him. Sir J. Hawkins, when he collected Dr. Johnson’s works for a uni- form edition in 1786-7, omitted no less than five of his Adventurers, viz. Nos. 89, 67, 74, 81, and 128. The next contributor to the Adventurer that we shall notice was Dr. Joseph Warton, to whom the province of criticism and literature was assigned in the original plan. His contri- butions amount to twenty-four papers. This elegant scholar, and distinguished writer, was born about the year 1722. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Thomas Warton, poetry-pro- fessor at Oxford, and vicar of Basingstoke. He received his early education chiefly under his father ; and at the age of fourteen was admitted on the foundation at Winchester-school, where he continued till 1740, when he was entered ot Oriel-college, Oxford. After taking the degree of B.D. he became curate to his father at Basingstoke, where he officiated two years; and in 1'746 he removed to a similar employment at Chelsea. In 1748 he was presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory of Winslade, and soon after married. He accompanied his patron in 1751 ona tour to the south of France; be- fore which period he had commenced an edition of Virgil in Latin and English, which was com- pleted in 1753. . When the Adventurer was undertaken by Dr. Hawkeswerth, Warton received an invitation through the medium of BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. his friend Dr. Johnson, to become a contributor. | ‘The result of his compliance was twenty-four essays on critical topics. In this department he adopted the mode of criticism, to which he al- ways adhered, and which consisted in’exercising his elegance of taste and nicety of feeling upon particular passages, and pointing out their beau- ties and defects, as addressed to the heart aud the imagination. He was presented in 1754 to the rectory of Tunworth; and in 1755, was elected second master of Winchester-school, with | languages. | ites of the celebrated Richardson, and through the advantage of a boarding-house. The first volume of his “Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope’ appeared, without his name, in 1756. In 1766 he was advanced to the place of head master of Winchester-school,, which he long occupied with high reputation. He visited Oxford on this promotion, where he proceeded to the degrees of bachelor and doctor of divinity. Dr. Warton’s life was from this time uni- form, or only varied by occasional visits to Lon- don, by schemes of publication, and by new preferments. In 1793he closed his long labours at Winchester-school by a resignation of the mastership, and retired to the rectory of Wick-. ham, which he had obtained by an exchange for another. Still fond of literary employment, he accepted a proposal from the bookseller, to su- perintend an edition of Pope’s works, which was completed in 9 volumes 8vo. published in 1797. After he hed finished his task as editor of Pope, he undertook the like service to Dry- den, and had prepared tivo volumes of that emi- nent poet at the time of his death. This event took place in February, 1800, in his 78th year. Dr. Warton was twice married, end left a son and three daughters. No. 90, of the Adventurer, was written by Mr. Colman, afterwards the principal contri- butor to the Connoisseur. The beautiful lines in No. 37 have been usually attributed to the pious Gilbert West; but they were afterwards discovered to have been the production of the Rev. Richard Jago. Nos. 77, '78, and '79, containing the story of Fidelia, were written by the celebrated Mrs. Chapone. This esteemed female writer was born in 1727. She was the daughter of Thomas Mulso, Esq. of Twywell, Northamptonshire. At an early age she displayed a lively imagina- tion and strong understanding, and is said to have composed a romance at the age of nine. Her mother, who rather discouraged than pro- | Vv moted her mental improvement, dying when _She was young, she was left to follow her own papers, as we have stated, of which some were ef the humorous cast, but the greater part were | inclination in that respect, and stored her mind with the best writings in different modern She was one of the female favour- his means was introduced to Mr. Chapone, a young practitioner of the law, and a mutual at- tachment was the result. In the mean time she formed an acquaintance with Miss Carter, to whom she addressed a poem on her transla- tion of Epictetus, which, with an ode to Peace, and the story of Fideliain the Adventurer, were among her first public productions. She married Mr. Chapone in 1760, but the union was dissolved by his death ten months after, and she was left @ mourning widow with a narrow income. Her good sense, powers of conversation, and respect- able character, procured her many friends of both sexes, among whom were Mrs. Montague and Lord Lyttleton, and she passed her time chiefly in London, or in occasional visits. Her name became more generally known by the pub- lication, in 1773, at the request of her literary friends, of ‘‘ Letters on the Improvement of the Mind, addressed to a Young Lady.” Of this work the following character has been given by an eminent writer of her own sex :— ‘It is distinguished by sound sense, a liberal, as well as a warm spirit of piety, and a philoso- phy applied to its best use, the culture of the heart and affections. It has no shining eccen- tricities of thought, no peculiarities of system : it follows experience as its guide, and is content to produce effects of acknowledged utility by known and approved means. On these accounts it is perhaps, the most unexceptionable treatise that can be put into the hands of female youth. These letters are particularly excellent in what relates to regulating the temper and feelings. Their style is pure and unaffected, and the manner grave and impressive.” In 1775 Mrs. Chapone published a volume of ‘ Miscellanies in Prose and Verse,”’ some pieces in which she had formerly printed without her name. The loss of friends by death, especially that of an excellent and beloved brother in 1799, rendering London no longer a desirable abode, she had intended to remove to Winchester, which was the residence of the niece to whom she had addressed the Letters, and who was married to a clergyman; but the death of this lady in childbed disconcerted her plan, and at length she removed to Hadley, where she died in 180], at the age of 74, 16. 17, . Courage, why honoured as a Virtue. - Remark on Dreaming. CONTENTS. Adventurer characterised, and his Achievements projected — Hawkes- COTER 6! Ota eg ole Poe ae eee Intellectual and erie Labour com- pared—Hawkesworth. . . 2. 2 « Project for a new Pantomine Enter- tainment—Bathurst . . . . Of the different kinds of Nakrative! and why they are universally read —~Hawhkeswarth "> SutetGde eo ge ie Transmigrations related by a Flea— Flawheswortfe: ("6 RO a . Project for an Auction of Manuscripts, by Timothy Spinbrain, Author— Bathurst AA ie be . . Distress encouraged to hope : the His- tory of Melissa—Hawkesworth . . The History of Melissa concluded— PEGRESOONTTE ial ns dy |e! Mie’ hw a ches Impropriety of Signs—Bathurst . Happiness and Misery, how far the necessary effects of Virtue and Vice —Hawkesworth . . st, = ts Tie EEG wReSwWOTrth ON ote oe evn eee - The Influence of Infidelity upon Moral Conduct: Story of Opsinous —Hawkesworth .. . . . . one - The Story of Opsinous conte — Hawkesworth Sd ee Phe 9 . The Story of Opsinous doncladea —ZlHawkesworth . ... - The Insolence and Absurdity of Ad. vertisements by Quacks. Pernicious Consequences of granting them Pa- tents—Hawkesworth . . . . Of instructing by Bisons nesta BUOPE es asp ON Paes xe (he Coke Curiosity necessary to Entertainment and Knowledge. Story of Mr. Friendly and his lige ig oy worth =. « « « hn eS Various Page 10 12 15 18 19 - An allegorical Letter dinet To-Day— ** 21 23 25 28 30 No. 18. 19, 20. 24. . 25. » 26. * 27. 98. . Eastern’ Story - Scheme - Page Critical remarks upon Fables. Fable of the Dog and Shadow upon a new plan—Hawkesworth . . . . . . Proposals to improve the Dramatic Entertainment of the animal Co- medians—Bathurst . . . . Imperceptible Deviation to Vicd Moral Use of Punishment. Remon- strances of Conscience universal. Amurath, an Eastern story--Hawkes- worth <<.» Nga Agnes en . Eastern Story continued—Hawkes- WOPEs © «) es 6 ets eee ee eas concluded— Hawkes- worth «a eis Dd Eee S of a new Memorandum Book for the Use of the Ladies, with a Specimen—Bathurst . . .. . A Parallel between an Evening spent at the Play-house, and the several Stages of Life—Hawkesworth . . . Infelicities of Matrimony produced by an imprudent Choice: exemplified in many characters—Bathurst .. . Right of the Town to suppress Dra- matic Performances; an Allegory— Hawkesworth 9. > - - 24 97. Observations on the Tempest con- | 128. Fatal effects of Haichionahte Levities. cluded— Warton . 192 | The Story of Flavilla—Hawkesworth 24 98. Account of Tim. Wildgoose by him- | 124, The Story continued—Hawkesworth . 24 self-—Anonymous. Pr roject to pre- | 125. The Story concluded—Hawkesworth . 248 vent the Disappointment of Modern 126. Solitude not eligible—Johnson . . « 25) ambition—Hawkesworth . 194 | 127. In what Arts the Ancients excel the 99. Projectors injudiciously censured tha Moderns—-Warton .. . a. . een _ applauded—Johnson . 196 | 128. Men differently employed unjustly 100. Gradation from a Gr Sonnarh & a Hs censured by each other— Johnson —« 25! Blood: the Life of Nomentanus-~ "129. Characters at Bath—Warton . . 2 Hawkesworth - . . 198|130. Danger of Relapse after Purposes of 101. Blemishes in the Par hate pra War- Amendment—Hawkesworth eK ton . 200 | 131, Singularity censured—Johnson . . 26 - 40%. Infelicities of Medak to ita of | 132, Benevolence urged from the Misery of Business—Johnson - 202 | Solitude; an Eastern Story-—Hawkes- 103. Natural and adventitious Reciienhe, | OTL «+ hee Ee. 2b less desirable than Virtue. Almerine 133. In what Arts tne Molteene deat the and Shelimah: a Fairy Tale—Hawkes- | Ancients— Warton ‘get 26: worth . 204 134. The Cruelty of deserting Natural ‘| 104. The Fairy. Tale BYE Rees on oF Children, and the Danger of slight worth — : . 206 | Breaches of Duty. Agamus’ Ac- (105. On the F ene 5; peor count of his Daughter—Hawkesworth 26, Warton : - » 208 135. Agamus’ Account of his Daughter 106. Insensibility of fen when mis- continued—-Hawkesworth . . - 26 taken for Courage—Hawkesworth . 209/186. Concluded—Hawkesworth . - 26 107. Different Opinions equally plausible— 137. Writers not a useless Generation— Johnson veal JORRSON, .».. oma ‘ ae 108. The Uncer tainty of “arta T nae 138. Their Happiness a TheichyeeIn- Johnson . ere - 213 On Seer - sae ~ 27 °109. A Visit to Bedlam with hen Swift: 139. The Design of the Critical Papers in oa Vision— Warton ence - 215 the Adventurer— Warton Ries ead 110, Pity not an expression of strong Bone 140. Account of the general Plan and Con.. clusion of the Work—Hawkesworth 2% * THE ADVENTURER. No. 1.] Turspay, Nov. 7. 1752. Hae arte Pollux, et vagus Hercules Innizus, arces attigit igneas,—— Hor. _ Thus mounted to the towers above, The vagrant hero, son of Jove. FRANCIS. S every man in the exercise of his duty to himself and the community, struggles with difficulties which no man has always sur- mounted, and is exposed to dangers which are never wholly escaped; life has been considered as a warfare, and courage as a virtue more ne- cessary than any other. It was soon found, that without the exercise of courage, without an effort of the mind by which immediate pleasure is rejected, pain despised, and life it- self set at hazard, much cannot be contributed to the public good, nor such happiness procured to ourselves as is consistent with that of others. But as pleasure can be exchanged only for pleasure, every art has been pleased to connect such gratifications with the exercise of courage, as compensate for those which are given us: the pleasures of the imagination are substituted for those of the senses, and the hope of future enjoy- ments for the possession of present ; and to de- corate these pleasures and this hope, has wearied eloquence and exhausted learning. Courage has been dignified with the’ name of heroic virtue ; and heroic virtue has deified the hero: his statue, hung round with ensigns of terror, frowned in the gloom of a wood or a temple; altars were raised before it, and the world was commanded to worship. Thus the ideas of courage, and virtue, and honour, are so associated, that wherever we per- ceive courage, we infer virtue and ascribe hon- our; without considering, whether courage was exerted to produce happiness or misery, in the ‘defence of freedom or support of tyranny. But though courage and heroic virtue are still confounded, yet by courage nothing more is generally understood than a power of opposing danger with serenity and perseverance. ‘To se- cure the honours which are bestowed upon courage by custom, it is indeed necessary that this danger should be voluntary: for a coura- geous resistance of dangers to which we are necessarily exposed by our station, is considered merely as the discharge of our duty, and brings only a negative reward, exemption from infamy. He who, at the approach of evil, betrays his trust or deserts his post, is branded with cowar- dice; a name, perhaps more reproachful than any other, that does not imply much greater turpitude: he who patiently suffers that which he cannot without guilt avoid, escapes infamy but does not obtain praise. It is the man who provokes danger in its recess, who quits a peace- ful retreat, where he might have slumbered in ease and safety, for peril and labour, to drive be- fore a tempest or to watch in a camp; the man who descends from a precipice by a rope at midnight, to fire a city that is besieged ; or who ventures forward into regions of perpetual cold and darkness, to discover new paths of naviga- tion, and disclose new secrets of the deep; it is the Adyenturer alone, on whom every eye is fixed with admiration, and whose praise is re-. peated by every voice. But it must be confessed that this is only the praise of prejudice and of custom: reason as yet sees nothing either to commend or imitate: a more severe scrutiny must be made, before she can admit courage to belong to virtue, or entitle its possessor to the palm of honour. If new worlds are sought merely to gratify avarice or ambition, for the treasures that ripen in the distant mine, or the homage of nations whom new arts of destruction may subdue ; or if the precipice is descended merely for a pecu- niary consideration ; the Adventurer is, in the estimation of reason, as worthless and contemp- tible, as the robber who defies a gibbet for the hire of a strumpet, or the fool who Jays out his B 2 THE ADVENTURER. whole property on a lottery ticket. Reason con- siders the motive, the means, and the end; and honours courage only, when it is employed to effect the purpose of virtue. Whoever exposes life for the good of others, and desires no super- added reward but fame, is pronounced a hero by the voice of reason ; and to withhold the praise that he merits, would be an attempt equally in- jurious and impossible. How much then is it to be regretted, that several ages have elapsed, since all who had the will, had also the power, thus to secure at once the shout of the multi- tude, and the eulogy of the philosopher! The last who enjoyed this privilege were the heroes that the history of certain dark ages distin- guishes by the name of Knights Errant; beings who improved the opportunities of glory that were peculiar to their own times, in which giants were to be encountered, dragons destroy- ed, enchantments dissolved, and captive prin- cesses set at liberty. These heroes, however numerous, or wher- ever they dwelt, had nothing more to do than, as soon as Aurora with her dewy fingers un- locked the rosy portals of the east, to mount the steed, grasp the lance, and ride forth attend- ed by a faithful squire: a giant or a dragon immediately appeared ; or a castle was perceived with a moat, a bridge, and a horn: the horn is sounded, a dwarf first appears, and then an enchanter ; a combat ensues, and the enchanter is defeated: the knight enters the castle, reads a Talisman, dissolves the enchantment, receives the thanks of the princesses and encomium of the knights ; then is conducted by the principal lady to the court of her father; is there the ob- ject of universal admiration, refuses a kingdom, and sets out again to acquire new glory by a series of new adventures. But if the world has now no employment for the Knight Errant, the Adventurer may still do good for fame. Such is the hope, with which he quits the quiet of indolence and the safety of obscurity ; for such ambition he has exchanged content, and such is his claim as a candidate for praise. It may, indeed, be objected, that he has no right to the reward; because, if it be ad- mitted that he does good for fame, it cannot be pretended that it is at the risk of life: but honour has been always allowed to be of greater value than life. If, therefore, the Adventurer risks his honour, he risks more than the knight. The ignominy which falls on a disappointed can- didate for public praise, would by those very knights have been deemed worse than death; and who is more truly a candidate for public praise than an author? But as the knights were with- out fear of death, the Adventurer is without fear of disgrace or disappointment : he confides, like them, in the temper of his weapon, and the justice of his cause; he knows he has-not far to go before he will meet with some fortress that [ No. 2. has-been raised by sophistry for the asylum of error, some enchanter who lies in wait to en- snare innocence, or some dragon breathing out his poison in defence of infidelity: he has also the power of enchantment, which he will exer- cise in his turn; he will sometimes crowd the scene with ideal beings, sometimes recal the past, and sometimes anticipate the future ; some- times he will transport those who put them- selves under his influence to regions which no traveller has yet visited, and will sometimes confine them with invisible bands till the charm is dissolved by a word, which will be placed the last in a paper which he shall give them. Nor does he fear that this boast should draw upon him the imputation of arrogance or of vanity, for the knight, when he challenged an army, was not thought either arrogant or vain: - and yet as every challenge is a boast, and implies a consciousness of superiority, the ostentation is certainly in proportion to the force that is de- fied ; but this force is also the measure of danger, and danger is the measure of honour. It must also be remarked, that there is great difference between a boast of what we shall do, and of what we have done. A boast when we enter the lists, is a defiance of danger; it claims at- tention, and it raises expectation: but a boast when we return, is only an exultation in safety, and a demand of praise which is not thought to be due, for the praise that is thought to be due, is always paid. Let it be remembered, there- fore, that if the Adventurer raises expectation, he proportionably increases his danger; and that he asks nothing which the public shall de- sire to withhold. WV Se SVBVVAEVAVS VT VVIsseVCsessewews YVRVSTBVVWAVVVWs VtwWs No. 2.] Saturpay, Noy. 11, 1752. Palma negata macrum, donata reducié opimum. Hor. ——-To sink in shame, or swell with pride, As the gay palm.is granted or denied. FRANCIS. Tuer multitudes that support life by corporal la- bour, and eat their bread in the sweat of their brow, commonly regard inactivity as idleness ; and have no conception that weariness can be contracted in an elbow-chair, by now and then peeping into a book, and musing the rest of the day: the sedtntary and studious, therefore, raise their envy or contempt, as they appear either to possess the conveniences of life by the mere bounty of fortune, or to suffer the want of them by refusing to work. It is, however, certain, that to think is to la- bour; and that as the body is affected by the exercise of the mind, the fatigue of the study is : ql No. 2.] not less than that of the field or the manufac- tory. But the labour of the mind, though it is equally wearisome with that of the body, is not attended with the same advantages. Exercise gives health, vigour, and cheerfulness, sound sleep, and a keen appetite: the effects of seden- tary thoughtfulness are diseases that embitter and shorten life, interrupted rest, tasteless meals, perpetual languor, and causeless anxiety. No natural inability to perform manual opera~ tions, has been observed to proceed from disincli- nation; the reluctance, if it cannot be removed, may be surmounted ; and the artificer then pro- ceeds: in his work with as much dexterity and exactness, as if no extraordinary effort had been made to begin it: but with respect to the pro- ductions of imagination and wit, a mere deter- mination of the will is not sufficient ; there must be a disposition of the mind which no human being can procure, or the work will have the appearanee of a forced plan, in the production of which the industry of art nas been substituted for the vigour of nature. Nor does this disposition always ensure suc- cess, though the want of it never fails to render application ineffectual ; for the writer who sits down in the morning fired with his subject, and teeming with ideas, often finds at night, that what delighted his imagination offends his judgment, and that he has lost the day by in- dulging a pleasing dream, in which he joined together a multitude of splendid images with- out perceiving their incongruity. Thus the wit is condemned to pass his hours, those hours which return no more, in attempt- ing that which he cannot effect, or in collecting materials which he afterwards discovers to be unfit for use: but the mechanic and the hus- bandman know, that the work which they per- form will always bear the same proportion to the time in which they are employed, and the diligence which they exert. Neither is the reward of intellectual equally certain with that of corporal labour; the arti- ficer, for the manufacture which he finishes in a day, receives a certain sum; but the wit fre- “quently gains no advantage from a performance at which he has toiled many months, either be- cause the town is not disposed to judge of his merit, or because he has not suited the popular taste. It has been often observed, that not the value of a man’s income, but the proportion which it bears to his expenses, justly dendminates him rich or poor; and that it is not so much the manner in which he lives, as the habit of life he has contracted, which renders him happy or wretched. For this reason, the labour of the mind, even when it is adequately rewarded, does not procure means of happiness in the same ‘ proportion as that of the body. ‘They that sing THE ADVENTURER. 3 at the loom, or whistle after the plough, wish not for intellectual entertainment ; if they have plenty of wholesome food, they do not repine at the inelegance of their table, nor are they less happy because they are not treated with cere- monious respect and served with silent celerity. The scholar is always considered as becoming a gentleman by his education; and the wit as conferring honour upon his company, how- ever elevated by their rank or fortune: they are, therefore, frequentiy admitted to scenes of life very different from their own; they partake of pleasures which they cannot hope to purchase ; and many superfluities be- come necessary, by the gratification of wants, which in a lower class they would never have known. Thus, the peasant and the mechanic, when they have received the wages of the day, and procured their strong beer and supper, have scarce a wish unsatisfied; but the man of nice discernment and quick sensations, who has ac- quired a high relish of the elegancies and refine- ments of life, has-seldom philosophy enough to be equally content with that which the reward of genius can purchase. And yet there is scarce any character so much the object of envy, as that of a successful writer. But those who only see him in company, or hear encomiums on his merit, form a very er- roneous opinion of his happiness: they conceive him as perpetually enjoying the triumphs of in- tellectual superiority ; as displaying the luxuri- ancy of his fancy, and the variety of his know- ledge, to silent admiration ; or listening in vo- luptuous indolence to the music of praise. But they know not, that these lucid intervals are short and few; that much the greater part of his life is passed in solitude and anxiety; that his hours glide away unnoticed, and the day like the night is contracted toa moment by the intense application of the mind to its object: locked up from every eye, and lost even to him- self, he is reminded that he lives only by the necessities of life; he then starts as from a dream, and regrets that the day has passed unen- joyed, without affording means of happiness to the morrow. Will Hardman the smith had three sons, ° Tom, Ned, and George. George, who was the youngest, he put apprentice to a tailor; the two elder were otherwise provided for: he had by some means the opportunity of sending them to school upon a foundation, and afterwards to the University. Will thought that this opportu- nity to give his boys good learning, was not to be missed: “ Learning,”’ be said, “* was a por- tion which the devil could not wrong them of; and when he had done what he ought for them, they must do for themselves.” As he had not the same power to procure them livings, wher. they had finished their 4 studies, they came to London. They were both scholars ; but Tom was a genius, and Ned was a dunce: Ned became usher in a school at the yearly salary of twenty pounds, and Tom soon distinguished himself as an author: he wrote many pieces of great excellence; but his reward was sometimes withheld by caprice, and some- times intercepted by envy. He passed his time in penury and labour; his mind was abstracted in the recollection of sentiment, and perplexed in the arrangement of his ideas and the choice of expression. George in the meantime became a master in his trade, kept ten men constantly at work upon the board, drank his beer out of a silver tankard, and boasted, that he might be as well to pass in a few years as many of those for whom he made laced clothes, and who thought themselves his betters. Ned wished earnestly that he could change stations with George: but Tom in the pride of his heart disdained them both ; and de- clared that he would rather perish upon a bulk with cold and hunger, than steal through life in obscurity, and be forgotten when he was dead. SPUVTVSVVVATVD TT VTHEVVTAT FRETS GEGVULSVLAVCTIT TELAT TEVA VTUFTUDA STE No. 3.] Tuxspay, Nov. 14, 1752. d VIRG. Scenis decora alta futuris. The splendid ornament of future scenes, TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, As the business of pantomines is become a very serious concern, and the curiosity of mankind is perpetually thirsting after novelties, J have been at great pains to contrive an entertainment, in * which every thing shall be united that is either the delight or astonishment of the present age: I have not only ransacked the fairs of Bartho- lomew and Southwark, but picked up every un- common animal, every amazing prodigy of na- ture, and every surprising performer, that has lately appeared within the bills of mortality. As soon as Iam provided with a theatre spaci- ous enough for my purpose, I intend to exhibit a most sublime pantomine in the modern taste; but far more ostentatious in its feats of activity, its scenes, decorations, machinery, and mon- sters. A sketch of my design I shall lay before you; and you may possibly think it not incon- sistent with the character of an Adventurer to recommend it to public notice. I have chosen for the subject the Fable of Hercules, as his labours will furnish me with the most extraordinary events, and give me an opportunity of introducing many wonders of the monstrous creation. It is strange that this THE ADVENTURER. LNo. 3. story, which so greatly recommends itself by — its incredibility, should have hitherto escaped the search of those penetrating geniuses, who © have rummaged not only the legends of anti- quity, but the fictions of fairy tales, and little history books for children, to supply them with materials for Perseus and Andromeda, Doctor Faustus, Queen Mab, &c. In imitation of these illustrious wits, I shall call my enter- tainment by the name of Harlequin Hercules. In the original story, as a prelude to his fu- ture victories, we are told that Hercules strang- led two serpents in the cradle: I-shall therefore open with this circumstance ; and have prepar- ed a couple of pasteboard serpents of an enor- mous length, with internal springs and move- ments for their contorticns, which I dare say will far exceed that most astonishing one in Orpheus and Eurydice. Any of the common sized particoloured gentry, that have learned to whimper and whine after being hatched in the egg in the Rape of Proserpine, may serve for this scene: but as the man Hercules must be supposed to be of a preternatural bulk of body, the modern Colossus has practised the tiptoe step and tripping air for the ensuing parts. In- stead of a sword of lath, I shall arm him, in conformity to his character, with a huge cork club. The first labour is the killing the Nemean Lion, who, in imitation of the fable, shall drop from an oiled-paper moon. We have been long accustomed to admire lions upon the stage; but I shall vastly improve upon this, by making our conqueror flea him upon the spot, and cloke himself with the skin: I have, therefore, got a tawny-coloured hide made of course serge, with the ears, main, and tip of the tail, properly bushed out with brown worsted. Next to this is the destruction of the Hydra, a terrible serpent with seven heads; and as two were said to sprout up again in the place of every one that was cut off, I design by the art of my machinery to exhibit a successive regen- eration of double heads, till a hundred and more are prepared to be knocked off by one ee of the aforesaid cork-club. I have a beautiful canvas wild boar of Ery- manthus for the third labour, which, as Harle- quin is to carry it off the stage upon his shoul- ders, has nothing in its belly but a wadding of tow, and a little boy who is to manage its mo- tions, to let down the wire jaw, or gnash the wooden tusks: and though I could rather wish he were able to grunt and growl, yet as that is impossible, I have taught the urchin to squeak prodigiously like a pig. The fourth labour, his catching the hind of Menalus, whose feet were of brass and horns of gold, I fear I must omit; because I cannot break any common buck to run slow enough. But he is next to drive away these enormous _ No. 3.] birds of Stymphalus’s lake, which were of such prodigious biguess, that they intercepted the light with their wings, and took up whole men as their prey. I have got a flock of them formed of leather covered with raven’s feathers: they are a little unwieldy, I must confess; but I haye disposed my wires, so as to play them about tolerably well, and make them flap out the candles; and two of the largest ‘are to gulp down the grenadier, stationed at each door of the stage, with their caps, muskets, bayonets, and all their accoutrements. The sixth labour is an engagement with the Amazons; to represent whom, I have hired all the wonderful tall men and women that have been lately exhibited in this ‘town. ‘The part of Hyppolita their queen is to be played by the Female Sampson, who, after the company has been amazed with the vast proofs of her strength, is to be fairly flung in a wrestling bout by our invincible Harlequin. I shall then present you with a prospect of’ the Augean stable, where you will have an ar- rangement on each side of seven or eight cows’ hides stuffed with straw, which the fancy’s eye may as easily multiply into a thousand, as in a tragedy battle it has been used to do half a dozen scene-shifters into an army. Hercules’s method of cleansing this stable is well known; I shall therefore let loose a whole river of pewter to glitter along the stage, far surpassing any little clinking cascade of tin that the Playhouse or Vauxhall can boast of. As he is next to seize upon a bull breathing out fire and flames, I had prepared one accord- ingly, with the palate and nostrils properly loaded with wild-fire and other combustibles ; but by the unskilfulness of the fellow inclosed in it, while he was rehearsing the bull’s part, the head took fire, which spread to the carcass, and the fool narrowly escaped suffering the torment of Phalaris. This accident I have now guarded against, by having lined the roof and jaws with thin plates of painted iron. To personate Geryon, who had three bodies, I have contrived to tie three men together back to back; one of them is the famous negro who swings about his arms in every direction; and these will make full as grotesque a figure as the man with a double mask. As Harlequin for his eighth labour is to deliver this triple-form monster to be devoured by his cannibal oxen, 1 shall here with the greatest propriety exhibit the noted ox with six legs and two bellies; and _as Diomede must be served up in the same man- mer as a meal for his flesh-eating horses, this will furnish me with a good pretext for intro- ducing the beautiful panther mare. After these I shall transport you to the or- chard of the Hesperides, where you will feast your sight with the green paper trees and gilt apples. Ihave bought up the old copper dra- THE ADVENTURER. 5 gon of Wantley as a guard to this forbidden fruit; and when he is new burnished, and the tail somewhat lengthened, his aspect will be much more formidable than his brother dragen’s in Harlequin Sorcerer. But the full display of my art is reserved for the last labour, the descent through a trap-deor into hell. Though this is the most applauded scene in many of our favourite pantomimes, I don’t doubt but my hell will catdo whatever has been hitherto attempted of the kind, whe- ther in its gloomy decoration, its horrors, its flames, or its devils. I have engaged the engi- neer of Cuper’s gardens to direct the fire-works: Ixion will be whirled round upon a wheel of blazing saltpetre ; Tantalus will catch at a re- fluent flood of burning rosin; and Sisyphus is to roll up a stone charged with crackers and squibs, which will bound back again with a thundering explosion: at a distance you will discover black steams arising from the river Styx, represented by a stream of melted pitch : the noted fire eater also shail make his appear- ance, smoking out of red hot tobacco pipes, champing lighted brimstone, and swallowing his infernal mess of broth. Harlequin’s errand hither being only to bring away Cerberus, I have instructed the most amazing new English chien savant to act the part of this three-headed dog, with the assistance of two artificial noddles fastened to his throat. The sagacity of this animal will surely delight much more than the pretty trick of his rival, the human hound, in another entertainment. Thus 1 have brought my Hercules through his twelve capital enterprizes ; though I purpose to touch upon some other of the Grecian hero’s achievements. I shall make him kill Cacus the three-headed robber, and shall carry him to Mount Caucasus to untie Prometheus, whose liver was continually preyed upon by a vulture. This last mentioned incident I cannot pass over, as | am resolved that my vulture shall vie in bulk, beauty, and docility, with the so much applauded stupendous ostrich : and towards the end I doubt not but I shall be able to triumph over the Sorcerer’s great gelding, by the exhi- bition of my Centaur Nessus, who is to carry off the little woman that weighs no more than twenty-three pounds, in the character of Deia- nira; a burden great enough for the ostler who is to play the brute half of my centaur, as his back must be bent horizontally, in order to fix his head against the rump of the man-half. The whole piece will conclude, with Harle- quin in a bloody shirt, skipping, writhing, and roliing, and at length expiring, to the irregular motions of the fiddlestick: though, if any of the fire-offices will ensure the house, he shall mount the kindled pile, and be burned to ashes in the presence of the whole audience. Intrigue is the soul of these dumb shows, as 6 THE well as of the more senseless farces: Omphale, therefore, or Deianira must serve for my Co- lumbine: and I can so far wrest the fable to my own purpose, as to suppose that these dangers were encountered by Harlequin for their sakes. Eristheus, the persecutor of Hercules, will be properly characterised by Pantaloon, and the servant whose business it is, as Homer says, ‘¢ to shake the regions of the gods with laugh- ter,’ shall be the wonderful little Norfolk- man, as in all books of chivalry you never read of a giant but you are told of a dwarf. The fellow with Stentorian lungs, who can break glasses and shatter window-panes with the loud- ness of his vociferation, has engaged in that one scene, where Hercules laments the loss of his Hylas, to make the whole house ring again with his bawling; and the wonderfulman, who talks in his belly, and can fling his voice into any part of a room, has promised to answer him in the character of EXcho. I cannot conclude without informing you, that I have made an uncommon provision for the necessary embellishments of singing and danc- ing. Grim Pluto, you know, the black-peruked monarch, must bellow in bass, and the atten- dant devils cut capers in eflame-coloured stock- ‘ngs, as usual; but as Juno cherished an im- mortal hatred to our hero, she shall descend in a chariot drawn by peacocks, and thrill forth her rage; Deianira too shall vent her amorous sighs to soft airs: the Amazons with their gilt leather breast-plates and helmets, their tin-pointed spears and looking-glass shields, shall give you the Pyrrhic dance to a preamble on the kettle drums; and at Omphale’s court, after Hercules has resigned his club, to celebrate her triumph, I shall introduce a grand dance of distaffs, in emulation of the witches’ dance of broomsticks. Nothing of this kind shall be omitted, that may heighten either the grandeur or beauty of my entertainment: I shall therefore, I hope, find a place somewhere in this piece, as I cannot now have the wire dancer, to bring on my dancing ‘bears. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, Lun TERt1Uvs. A, BVUwee VVVSEVVVAVAWTTLTA TERT TABDATUVUVVELLALALEAVAAALD No. 4.] Sarurpay, Nov. 18, 1'752, Ficta voluptatis causa sint provima veris. Hor. Fictions to please should wear the face of truth. Rose. No species of writing affords so general enter- tainment as the relation of events; but all rela- ADVENTURER. [No. 4 tions of events do not entertain in the same de- gree. It is always necessary that facts should ap. pear to be produced in a regular and connected series, that they should follow in a quick suc- cession, and yet that they should be delivered with discriminating circumstances. If they have not a necessary and apparent connection, | the ideas which they excite obliterate each other, and the mind is tantalized with an imperfect glimpse of innumerable objects that just appear and vanish; if they are too minutely related, they become tiresome; and if divested of all their circumstances, insipid; for who that reads in a table of chronology or an index, that a city was swallowed up by an earthquake, or a king- dom depopulated’ by a pestilence, finds either his attention engaged, or his curiosity gratified. Those narratives are most pleasing, which not | only excite and gratify curiosity, but engage the passions. History is a relation of the most natural and important events: history, therefore, gratifies curiosity, but it does not often excite either ter- ror or pity ; the mind feels not that tenderness for a falling state, which it feels for an injured beauty ; nor is it so much alarmed at the migra-. tion of barbarians, who mark their way with desolation, and fill the world with violence and rapine, as at the fury of a husband, who, de- ceived into jealousy by false appearances, stabs a faithful and affectionate wife kneeling at his’ feet, and pleading to be heard. : Voyages and travels have nearly the same ex- cellences and the same defects: no passion is | strongly excited except wonder; or if we feel | any emotion at the danger of the traveller, it is. transient and languid, because his character is. not rendered sufficiently important ; he is rarely discovered to have any excellences but daring curiosity ; he is never the object of admiration, and seldom of esteem. ) Biography would always engage the passions, if it could sufficiently gratify curiosity: but there have been few among the whole human species, whose lives would furnish a single ad-_ venture; I mean such a complication of circum- stances, as hold the mind in an anxious yet pleas- ing suspense, and gradually unfold in the pro- duction of some unforeseen and important event ; much less such a series of facts, as will perpetually vary the scene, and gratify the fancy | with new views of life, | But nature is now exhausted; all her won. ders have been accumulated, every recess has been explored, deserts have been traversed, Alps climbed, and the secrets of the deep disclosed ; time has been compelled to restore the empires and the heroes of antiquity; all have passed in review ; yet fancy requires new gratifications, and curiosity is still unsatisfied. The resources of art yet remain: the simple No. 4.] _ beauties of nature, if they cannot be multiplied, may be compounded, and an infinite variety ‘preduced, in which by the union of different graces both may be heightened, and the coali- tion of different powers may produce a propor- tionate effect. The epic poem at once gratifies curiosity and moves the passions; the events are various and | important; but it is not the fate of a nation, but of the hero in which they terminate, and whatever concerns the hero engages the pas- sions; the dignity of his character, his merit, and his importance, compel us to follow him with reverence and solicitude, to tremble when he is danger, to weep when he suffers, and to burn when he is wronged: with these vicissi- tudes of passion every heart attends Ulysses in his wanderings, and Achilles to the field. Upon this occasion the old romance may be considered as a kind of epic, since it was in- tended to produce the same effect upon the mind nearly by the same means. In both these species of writing truth is ap- parently violated: but though the events are not always produced by probable means, yet the pleasure arising from the story is not much lTessened; for fancy is still captivated with variety, and passion has scarce leisure to reflect, that she is agitated with the fate of imaginary beings, and interested in events that never hap- pened. | The novel, though it bears a nearer resem- blance to truth, has yet less power of entertain- ment; for it is confined within the narrower bounds of probability, the number of incidents _is necessarily diminished, and, if it deceives ‘us more, it surprises us less. The distress is in- deed frequently tender, but the narrative often stands still; the lovers compliment each other in tedious letters and set speeches; trivial cir- cumstanees are enumerated with a minute ex- _actness, and the reader is wearied with languid descriptions and impertinent declamations. i But the most extravagant, and yet perhaps the most generally pleasing of all literary per- _formances, are those in which supernatural events are every moment produced by genii and fairies; such are the Arabian nights enter- _ tainments, the tales of the countess d’ Anois, and many others of the same class. It may be thought strange, that the mind should with _ pleasure, acquiesce in the open violation of the most known and obvious truths; and that re- lations which contradict all experience, and ex- hibit a series of events that are not only impos- sible but ridiculous, should be read by almost _ every taste and capacity with equal eagerness and delight. But it is not perhaps, the mere violation of truth or of probability that offends, but such a violation only as perpetually recurs. The mind is satisfied, if every event appears to have an adéquate cause; and when the agency THE ADVENTURER: . of genii or fairies is once admitted. no event which is deemed possible to such agents is re- jected as incredible or absurd ; the action of the story proceeds with regularity, the persons act upon raticnal principles, and such events take place as may naturally be expected from the in- terposition of superior intelligence and power: so that though there is not a natural, there is at least a kind of moral probability preserved, and our first concession is abundantly rewarded by the new scenes to which we are admitted, and the unbounded prospect that is thrown open before us. But though we attend with delight to the achievements of a hero who is transported in a moment over half the globe upon a griffin, and see with admiration a palace or a city vanish upon his breaking a seal or extinguishing a lamp: yet if at his first interview with a mis- tress, for whose sake he had fought so many battles and passed so many regions, he should salute her with a box on the ear; or if immedi- ately after he had vanquished a giant or a dra- gon, he should leap into a well or tie himself up toa tree; we should be disappointed and dis- gusted, the story would be condemned as im- probable, unnatural, and absurd, our innate love of truth would be applauded, and we should ex= patiate on the folly of an attempt to please rea- sonable beings, by a detail of events which can never be believed, and the intervention of agents which could never have existed. Dramatic poetry, especially tragedy, seems to unite all that pleases in each of these species of writing, with a stronger resemblance of truth, and a closer imitation of nature: the characters are such as excite attention and solicitude; the action is important, its progress is intricate yet natural, and the catastrophe is sudden and strik- ing ; and as we are present to every transaction, the images are more strongly impressed, and the passions more forcibly moved. From a dramatic poem to those short pieces, which may be contained in such a periodical paper as the Adventurer, is a bold transition. And yet such pieces, although formed upon a single incident, if that incident be sufficiently uncommon to gratify curiosity, and sufficiently interesting to engage the passions, may afford an entertainment, which, if it is not lasting, is yet of the highest kind, Of such, therefore, this paper will frequently consist: but it should be remembered, that it is much more difficult and laborious, to invent a story, however simple and however short, than to recollect topics of in- struction, or to remark the scenes of life as they are shifted before us. 8 THE No. 5.] Turspay, Nov. 21, 1752. Tune et aves tutas movere per aéra pennas ; Et iepus impavidus mediis erravit in agris : Nec sua credulitas piscem suspenderat hamo. Cuncta sine insidiis, nullamque timentia fraudem, Plenaque pacis erant. Ovyip. Then birds in airy space might safely move, And tim’rous hares or heaths securely rove: Nor needed fish the guileful hook to fear ; Fer all was peaceful, and that peace sincere. DRYDEN. I nave before remarked, that it is the peculiar infelicity of those who live by intellectual la- bour, not to be always able equally to. im- prove their time by application: there are sea- sons when the power of invention is suspended, and the mind sinks into a state of debility from which it can no more recover itself, than a per- son who sleeps can by a voluntary effort awake. I was sitting in my study a few nights ago in these perplexing circumstances, and after long rumination and many ineffectual attempts to start a hint which I might pursue in my lucu- bration of this day, I determined to go to bed, hoping that the morning would remove every impediment to study, and restore the seer of my mind. I was no sooner asleep than I was relieved from my distress by means which, if I had been waking, would have increased it; and instead of impressing upon my mind a train of new ideas in a regular succession, would have filled it with astonishment and terror. For in dreams, whether they are produced by a power of the imagination to combine images which reason would separate, or whether the mind is passive and receives impressions from some in- visible agent, the memory seems to lie wholly torpid, and the understanding to be employed only about such objects as are then presented, without comparing the present with the past. When we sleep, we often converse with a friend who is either absent or dead, without remem- bering that the grave or the ocean is between us. We float like a feather upon the wind, or we find ourselves this moment in England and the next in India, without reflecting that the laws of nature are suspended, or inquiring how the scene could have been so suddenly shifted before us. We are familiar with prodigies, we accom- modate ourselves to every event however ro- mantic; and we not only reason, but act: upon principles which are in the highest degree ab- surd and extravagant. In that state, therefore, in which no prodigy could render me unfit to receive instruction, I imagined myself to be still Sitting in my study, pensive and dispirited, and that I suddenly heard a small shrill voice pronounce these words, “Take ADVENTURER. No. 5 ‘your pen; I will dictate an Adventurer,” 1 ‘ turned to see from whom this voice proceeded, but I could discover nothing: believing, there-— fore, that my good genius or some favouring | muse was present, 1 immediately prepared to write, and the voice dictated the following nar- rative : ‘‘ | was the eldest son of a country vestinbael who possessed a large estate, and when 1 was about nineteen years of age fell with my horse as I was hunting, my neck was dislocated by the fall, and for want of immediate assistance I died before I could be carried home: but I found myself the next moment, with inexpressible grief and astonishment, under the shape of a mongrel puppy in the stable of an inn, that was kept by a man who had been butler to my father, and had married the cook. ‘““] was indeed greatly caressed; but my master, in order as he said to increase my beauty as well as my strength, soon disencumbered me of my ears and my tail. Besides the pain that I suffered in the operation, I experienced the disadvantages of this mutilation in a thousand instances: this, however, was but a small part of the calamity which in this’ state 1 was ap- pointed to suffer. «« My master had a son about four years old, who was yet a greater favourite than myself; and his passions having been always indulged-as soon as they appeared, he was encouraged to gratify his resentment against any thing, whether animate or inanimate, that had offend- ed him, by beating me; and when he did any mischief, for of other faults little notice was taken, the father, the mother, or the maid, were sure to chastise me in his stead. ‘¢ This treatment from persons whom I had been accustomed to regard with contempt, and command with insolence, was not long to be borne: early one morning, therefore, I departed. I continued my journey till the afternoon with- out stopping, though it rained hard: about four o'clock I passed through a village; and perceiy- ing a heap of shavings that were sheltered from the wet by the thatch of a house which some carpenters were repairing, I crept as I thought unnoticed into the corner, and laid myself down upon them: but a man who was planing a board, observing that I was a strange dog and of a mongrel breed, resolved to make himself and his companions merry at my expense: for this purpose, having made a hole about two inches diameter in a piece of deal, he suddenly catched me up, and putting the remainder of my tail through this diabolical engine, he made it fast by driving in a wedge, with a heavy mallet, which crushing the bone put me to inex- pressible torment. The moment he set me down, the wretches, who had been spectators of this waggery, burst into immoderate laughter at the awkward motions by which I expressed No. 5.] my misery, and my ridiculous attempt to run away from that which I could not but carry with me. They hooted after me till I was out of their sight: however, fear, pain, and confu- ‘sion, still urging me forward with involuntary ‘speed, T ran with such force between two pales that were not far enough asunder to admit my ‘clog, that I left it with the remainder of my tail ‘behind me. I then found myself in a farm- vyard ; and fearing that I should be worried by ‘the mastiff which I saw at a distance, I con- tinued my flight: but some peasants who were at work in a neighbouring barn, perceiving that Ll ran without being pursued, that my eyes were inflamed, and that my mouth was covered with foam, imagined that I was mad, and knocked out my brains with a.flail. « Soon after I had quitted this maimed and persecuted carcass, I found myself under the wings of a Bullfinch with three others that were just hatched. I now rejoiced in the hope of soaring beyond the reach of human barba- rity, and becoming like my mother a denizon of the sky: but my mother, before I was perfectly fledged, was surprised in her nest by a school- boy, whe grasped her so hard to prevent her escape, that she scon after died; he then took the nest with all that it contained, which he de- posited in a basket, where I presently lost my three companions in misfortune, by change of food and unskilful management. I survived ; and scon after I could feed myself, I was taken ‘by my tyrant’s mother when she went to pay her rent, as a present to her landlord’s daugh- ter, a young lady who was extremely beautiful, ‘and in the eighteenth year of her age. « My captivity now began to lose it terrors ; I no longer dreaded the rude gripe of a_boister- ous urchin, whose fondness was scarce less dan- gerous than his resentment ; who in the zeal of his attachment to a new prayehings might ne- glect me till I perished with hunger; or who might wring off my neck, because he had some other use for the halfpenny which should pro- cure me food: the confinement of a cage be- came habitual: I was placed near a pleasant window: I was constantly fed by one of the finest hands in the world: and I imagined, that I could suffer no miserya nder the patronage of Smiles and graces. «¢ Such was my situation, when a young lady from London made an afternoon’s visit to my mistress: she took an opportunity to caress me among her other favourites, which were a par- rot, a monkey, and a lap dog ; she chirped, and holding out her finger to me, I hopped upon it ; she stroked me, put my head to her cheek, and to show my sensibility of her favours I began to sing: as scon as my song was over, she turned to my mistress, and told her, that the dear little creature might be made absolutely the sweetest bird in the world, only by putting THE ADVENTURER ant cereale waa eae ae ee Ne eT a Se ENE any in wt NY DEN 2, SSA OD kN er SAO OOD NPT ene ae a out his eyes, and confining it in a less cage: to this horrid proposal my fair keeper agreed, upon being again assured that my song would be very greatly improved; and the next day performed herself the operation, as she had been directed, with the end of a het knitting-needle. My condition was now more easily to be con- ceived than expressed ; but I did not long suffer the mournful solitude of perpetual darkness ; for a cat came one night into the recom undis- covered, dragged me through the wires of the cage, and devoured me. ‘© was not displeased to find myself once more at large; delivered from blindness and captivity, and still able to sport upon the breeze in the form of a cockchafer. But J had scarce entered this new scene of existence, when a gentleman, in whose garden I was feasting on one of the leaves of a cherry-tree, caught me, and turning te his son, a buy who had just been put into his first breeches, Here, Tommy, says he, is a bird for you. The boy received me with a grin of horrid delight, and, as he had been taught, immediately impaled me alive upon a corking-pin, to which a piece of thread was fastened, and I was doomed to make my young master sport, by fluttering about in the agonies of death: and when I was quite exhausted, and could no longer use my wings, he was bid to tread upon me, for that 1 was now good for no- thing; a command with which he mercifully complied, and in a moment crushed me to atoms with his fuot. *“ From a cockchafer I transmigrated into an earth-worm, and found myself at the bottom 6f a fermer’s dunghill. Under this change of cir- cumstances I comforted myself by considering, that if I did not now mount upen the wind, and transport myself from place to place with a $wiftness almest equal to thought, yet I was not likely either to please or to offend mankind, both of which were equally fatal; and I hoped to spend my life in peace, by escaping the notice of the most cruel of all creatures. © “ But I did not long enjoy the comfort of these reflections.. I was one morning disturbed by an unusual noise, and perceived the ground about me to shake. 1 immediately worked my way upward to discover the cause ; and the mo- ment I appeared above the surface, I was eagerly snatched up bya man who had stuck a dung- fork into the ground, and moved it backward and forward to produce the effect that had now happened. I was put into a broken pan with many other associates in misfortune, and soen after disposed of to one of those gentle swains who delight in angling. This person carried us the next morning to the brink of a river, where I presently saw him take out one of my com- panions, and whistling a tune, pass a barbed hook through the whole length of his body, en- tering it at the head and bringing it out at the C 10 tail. The wretched animal writhed itself on the bloody hook, in torture which cannot be conceived by man, nor felt by any creature that is not vital in every part. In this condition he was suspended in the water as a bait for fish, till he was, together with the hook on which he hung, swallowed by an eel.. While I was be- holding this dreadful spectacle, I made many reflections on the great inequality between the pleasure of catching the prey, and the anguish inflicted on the bait. But these reflections were presently after lost, in the same agonies of which I had been a spectator. ** You will not have room in this paper to re- late all that I suffered from the thoughtless bar- barity of mankind, in a cock, a lobster, and a pig: let it suffice to say, that I suffered thesame kind of death with those who are broken upon the wheel, I was roasted alive before a slow fire, and was scourged to death with small cords, to gra- tify the wanton appetite of luxury, or contribute to the merriment of a rabble.”’ Thus far I had written as amanuensis to an invisible dictator; when my dream still con- tinuing, I felt something tickle my wrist, and turning my eye from the paper to see what it was, I discovered a flea, which I immediately caught and killed, by putting it into the candle. At the same instant the flea vanished, and a young lady of exquisite beauty stood before me. *« Thoughtless wretch,”’ said she, “ thou hast again changed the state of my existence, and ex- posed me to still greater calamities than any that I have yet suffered. Asa flea I was thy moni- tor, and as a flea I might have escaped thy cruelty if I had not intended th} instruction. But now to be conceaied is impossible, and it is therefore impossible to be safe. desire are upon me, and to betray me to infamy and guilt will be the toil of perseverance and the study of reason. But though man is still my enemy, though he assails me with more vio- lence and persists with more obstinacy, I have yet less power of resistance; there is a rebel in my own bosom who will labour to give me up, -whose influence is perpetual, and perpetual in- fluence is not easily surmounted. Publish, however, what I have communicated ; if any man shall be reclaimed from a criminal inatten- tion to the felicity of inferior beings, and re- strained from inflicting pain by considering the effect of his actions, I have not suffered in vain. But as I am now exposed not only to accidental and casual evils, as I am not only iu danger from the frolics of levity, but from the designs of cunning; to atone for the injury which thou hast done me, let the Adventurer warn the sex of every wile that is practised for their destruc- tion; and deter men from the attempt, by dis- piaying the aggravated guilt, and shameless dis- ingenuity of assuming an appearance of the most THE ADVENTURER. The eyes of | { | No. 6. | | ardent and tender affection, only to overwheln| with unutterable distress the beauty whom lov, has made credulous, and innocence keeps unae quainted with suspicion.” ' While I listened to this address, my hear throbbed with impatience; and the effort tha I made to reply, awaked me. | f VTBVVUVWY et th th te he eh pe ph “a he ee ee he ee > No. 6.] Sarurpay Noy. 25, 1752. Nune auctionem facere decretum est mihe LToras necessum est, quicquid habeo, vendere. Adeste suttis, preda erit presentium. Logos ridiculos vendo: LAUT. I am obliged to part with my whole stock, and am resolved to sell it by auction: you that will buy make haste, here will be excellent pennyworths : my merchandise is jests and witticisms. Lasr Sunday morning I was disturbed very early by an old crony, a brother of the quill, as he calls himself, who burst into my chamber, and running to my bed side, “‘ Get-up, my dear friend,’’ said he, pressing my hand with great eagerness ; “ I have such news for you! Here's your clothes ; make haste, let me beg of you.” I had been used, at each return of the sab- bath, to receive a visit from my old acquaintance about dinner time; but [ could not imagine what had induced him to give me this morning | salutation. However, I huddled on my clothes, | and had scarce seated him by the fire side in my. study, when flinging down a paper very much blotted upon the table, “There,” says he, | *« there’s a scheme for you, my old boy! I am made for ever—read it—I am made for ever.” I very well knew my friend’s foible: he has learning, a great deal of vivacity, and some | judgment; but he wants the mecessary steadi- ness for serious application. He is continually in pursuit of new projects, but will not allow | himself time to think of putting them in execu- tion. He has contracted with every eminent | bookseller in town for works of which he had | only conceived the design, and scarce ever pro- | ceeded beyond the title-page and preface. Heis a professed writer ; and of a genius so extensive, that all subjects are alike to him; but as he can-_ not submit to the drudgery of correctness, his performances are hurried over in so slovenly a | manner, that they hardly procure him a bare subsistence. He is, therefore, perpetually ex-_ claiming against the tyranny of the trade; and Jaments, that merit should beso much discourag- ed, by the ignorance or envy of the town. I had often experienced the fertility of his invention, in forming such projects as were easy | in theory, but impossible in the practice; I | > No. 6.] therefore expected nothing less than such an- other whimsical contrivance as his last, ‘ for making new boards out of shavings:’’ but‘how was I surprised, when I took up his paper, and saw at the top of it the following advertise- ment ! On the day of next WILL BE SOLD BY AUCTION, A curious and valuable collection of manuscripts (warranted originals) in prose and verse: Being the entire stock in trade of TIMOTHY SPINBRAIN, Auvrnor, Leaving off Business. As I could not help smiling at the conceit, my friend understood it as a mark of my approba- tion ; and snatching the sheet out of my hand, “Well,” says he, “ don’t you think this will free me from the impertinence of duns, and the ser- vility of suing to those unconscionable vultures the booksellers, for more copy-money? Why, man, I shall raise an estate by it. I have such an infinite number of tracts on political, polemical, philosophical, physiological, economical, religious, and miscellaneous subjects. My manuscripts, let me tell you, are of greater utility, and conse- quently more valuable, than those in the Vati- can or Bodleian libraries.’”? He then proceeded to descant on the particulars of his plan; not forgetting to enliven his discourse with many sprightly sallies against the retailers of the works of the learned, those blood-suckers, as he called them, of the literary commonwealth. “« Sir,’ continued he, “ I intend to strike off an impression of twenty thousand copies of my catalogue, to be distributed among all the lovers of literature throughout the three kingdoms ; and I shall take care to circulate a sufficient number among the virtuosi in Holland, France, Italy, Spain, Germany, and elsewhere. I wiil just mention to you some of the chief articles that enrich my collection. “In politics, I have an infaiible scheme for ruining the French power, which, I suppose, will be bought up at any price, by commission from abroad, if our ministry have not spirit enough to outbid them. 1 have another for a coalition of parties, which will prevent all disputes at the next general election. I have another for dis- charging the national debt, which I contrived ‘in gratitude for my being set at liberty by the last act of insolvency. I have several other pamphlets on the important topics of liberty, bribery, and corruption, written on both sides the question ; and a most curious collection of’ riddles, acrostics, conundrums! speeches adapted to every kind of debate, which will be of admirable_use to young members of parliament. THE ADVENTURER. 11 ‘« In philosophy, I have several new systems in opposition to the present received opinions: I have a proof, that the earth isan octagon; an- other, that the sun is inhabited; and a third, that the moon may, for aught we can tell to the contrary, be made of a green cheese. I have a new theory of optics; demonstrating, that dark- ness is caused by certain tenebrificous rays op- pugning, obtunding, sheathing, and absorbing the rays of light. Ihave resolved the pheno- mena of electricity and magnetism; and have made many surprising improvements in all the arts and sciences. These, I fear, will be carried off by seme German professor, who will thence claim the merit to himself, and the honour of the discovery will be attributed to his nation. “¢ Those who are fond of displaying their ta. lents in religious disputes, will find in my auc- tion, sufficient matter for their various alterca- tions; whether they are Atheists, Deists, or distinguished by the modest appellation of Free- thinkers. ‘There is scarce a sect among the many hundreds, whom I have not defended or attacked: but it must not be coneluded from thence, that I have been biassed more towards one than another ; as you know the faith of an author is out of the question; and he only writes pro or con, as the several opinions are more or less embraced or exploded in the world. I have got, indeed, some infallible arguments against the pope’s infallibility ; and some pro- bable conjectures, that there never was such a person as Mahomet; both which, I don’t doubt, will be bought up es the emissaries of ne and Constantinople.” Here I interrupted my friend, by asking him, if he had not something likewise against the patriarch of the Greek church ; or a serious ad- monition against the growth of Hottentotism among us. He answered very calmly, “ £ should see in the catalogue,’ and proceeded. “ The emissaries of Constantinople—Well— My stock in Belles Lettres is almost inexhausti- ble. I have a complete set of criticisms on all the ancient authors, and a large store of conjec- tural emendations on the old English classics : I have several new essays in modern wit and humour; and a long string of papers, both seri- ous and diverting, for periodical lucubrations: I have, I know not how many original enter- taining novels, as well as elegant translations from the French ; with a heap of single pamph- ilets on the most popular and interesting sub- ejects. My poetry will consist of every article, whether tragedies, comedies, farces, masques, operas, sonnets, cantatas, songs, pastorals, sa- tires, odes, elegies, or epithalamiums: and then, such a load of epigrams, anagrams, rehusses, which you know will fetch a high price from the witlings, and the proprietors of monthly magazines. ‘To | wind up the whole, there shall be several dis- ‘2 tinct lots of title-pages and mottos, uud dedica- tions, and prefaces, and plans for books. ‘“‘ Thus, my, dear friend, have I opened to you the main drift of my design: and I believe, at a moderate computation—let me see—ay, after I have cleared myself in the world, I shall be able to retire into the country, let me tell you, with a pretty forturie in my pocket. But before I begin my sale, if you can find any thing that will suit your Adventurer, as you are an old poqain tance, you shall have it at your own price.” I thanked Mr. Spinbrain for his genteel offer, and heartily congratulated him on the prospect of his pretty fortune: but I could not help in- quiring, where all these immense stores of lite- rature were lodged, as 1 never had observed any thing but leose scraps of paper scattered about his room, and one book of “loci communes,” or ‘hints,’ as he called them, placed upon the chimney-piece. ‘* Ha!’ says he, “ that’s true; 1 forgot to mention that: why, indeed, they are none of them quite finished as yet: but I have got the rough draughts of most some- where: besides I have it all here,”’ pointing to his forehead. I advised him to set about it directly ; and in the evening, when we parted, he resolved not to go to bed till he had perfected his scheme. Yesterday morning I received a note from him, acquainting me that he had laid aside all thoughts of his auction; because, as he imagined, the maid had inadvertently lighted his fire with the best of his materials. The restlesness of my friend’s chimerical genius will not, however, let him entirely give up the point: and though he has been disap- pointed in this mighty project, yet he informs me he has hit upon a scheme equally advan- tageous, which shall monopolize the whole busi- ness of scribbling, and he offers to take me into partnership with him, ‘ Ah,” says he, “ we will humble these fellows—We need not care a farthing for Mr. Bibliopola.”’—His design is to open a New Literary Warehouse, or Universal Register Office for Wit and Learning. The particulars he has promised to communicate to me to-morrow: in the meantime, he desires me to advance him a trifle, to buy paper for a poem on the late theatrical disputes. A. ett teint ttt te tp tht th han ae a a hae BCVA VVUVWNVWAV*A No. 7. ] Ivrspay, Nov. 28, 1'752. Sit mihi fas audita loqui— Vira. What I have heard, permit me to relate. Y nEcerrven, a few weeks ago, an account of the. death of a lady whose name is known to many, THE ADVENTURER. : [No. ‘f. : but the “ eventful history” of whose life has_ been communicated to few: to me it has been’ often related during a long and intimate ac-. quaintance: and as there is not a single person living, upon whom the making it pub- lic can reflect unmerited dishonour, or whose delicacy or virtue can suffer by the relation, | think [ owe to mankind a series of events from | which the wretched may derive comfort, and the most forlorn may be encouraged to hope ; as” misery is alleviated by the contemplation of yet: deeper distress, and the mind fortified against | despair by instances of unexpected relief. The father of Melissa was the youngest son of a country gentleman who possessed an estate| of about five hundred a year; but as this was | to be the inheritance of the elder brother, and as" there were three sisters to be provided for, he was at about sixteen taken from Eton school, | and apprenticed to a considerable merchant at. Bristol. The young gentleman, whose imagi- nation had been fired by the exploits of heroes, | the victories gained by magnanimous presump-_ tion, and the wonders discovered by daring curiosity, was not disposed to consider the ac- quisition of wealth as the limit of his ambition, | or the repute of honest industry as the total of | his fame. He regarded his situation as servile | and ignominious, as the degradation of his | genius and the preclusion of his hopes; and longing to go in search of adventures, he ne-_ glected his business as unworthy of his atten-— tion, heard the remonstrances of his master with | a kind of sullen disdain, and after two years | legal slavery made his escape, and at the next | town enlisted himself a soldier; not doubting | but that, by his military merit ae the foreuné | of war, he should return a general officer, to the confusion of those who would have buried him in the obscurity of a counting-house. He found means effectually to elude the inquiries of his friends, as it was of the utmost importance to — prevent their officious endeavours to ruin his — project and obstruct his advancement. He was sent with other recruits to London, and soon after quartered with the rest of his — company in a part of the country, which was so remote from a]l with whom he had any connec- tion, that he no longer dreaded a discovery. It happened that ite went one day to the house of a neighbouring gentleman with his comrade, who was become acquainted with the chamber- maid, and by her interest admitted into the kit- chen. This gentleman, whose age was some- thing more than sixty, had been about two years married to a second wife, a young woman who - had been well educated and lived in the polite world, but had no fortune. By his first wife, who had been dead about ten years, he had se- veral children ; the youngest was a daughter who had just entered her seventeenth year: she was very tall for her age, had a fine complexion, No. 7.] good features, and was well shaped ; but her fa- ther, whose affection for her was mere instinct, tT as much as that of a brute for its young, utterly neglected her education. It was impossible for him, he said, to live without her; and as he could not afford to have her attended by a go- yerness and proper masters in a place so remote from Lendon, she was suffered to continue illi- terate and unpolished; she knew no entertain- ment higher than a game at romps with the servants ; she became their confident, and trust- ed them in return, nor did she think herself happy any where but in the kitchen. As the capricious fondness of her father had never conciliated her affection, she perceived it abate upon his marriage without regret. She suffered no new restraint from her new mother, who observed with a secret satisfaction that Miss had been used to hide herself from visiters, as neither knowing how to behave nor being fit to be seen, and chose rather to conceal her defects by excluding her from company, than to supply them by putting her to a boarding school. Miss, who had been told by Betty that she expected her sweetheart, and that they were to be merry, stole down stairs, and, without scru- ple, made one in a party at blind man’s buff. The soldier of fortune was struck with her per- son, and discovered, or thought he discovered, in the simplicity of nature, some graces which are polished away by the labour of art. How- ever, nothing that had the appearance of an ad- venture could be indifferent to him: and his vanity was flattered by the hope of carrying off a young lady under the disguise of a common soldier, without revealing his birth, or boasting of his expectations. Tn this attempt he became very assiduous, and succeeded. ‘The company being ordered to an- other place, Betty and her young mistress de- parted early in the morning with their gallants ; and there being a privileged chapel in the next town, they were married. The old gentleman, as soon as he was in- formed that his daughter was missing, made so diligent and scrupulous an inquiry after her, that he learned with whom and which way she was gone: he mounted his horse, and pursued her, not without curses and imprecations ; dis- covering rather the transports of rage than the emotions of tenderness, and resenting her offence rather as the rebellion of a slave than the dis- obedience of a child. He did not, however, overtake them till the marriage had been .con- summated; of which when he was informed by the husband, he turned from him with expres- sions of brutality and indignation, swearing never to forgive a fault which he had taken no care to prevent: The young couple, notwithstanding their mnion frequently redoubled their distress, still continued fond of each other. ‘The spirit of en- THE ADVENTURER. 13 terprise and the hope of promotion were not yet quelled in the young soldier; and he receiy- ed orders to attend king William, when he went to the siege of Namur, with exultation and transport, believing his elevation to indepen- dence and distinction as certain as if he had been going to take possession of a title and estate. His wife who had been some months pregnant, | as She had no means of subsistence in his absence, procured a passage with him. When she came on shore and mingled with the crowd that fol- lowed the camp, wretches who without com- punction wade in human blood to strip the dying and the dead, to whom horror is become familiar and compassion impossible, she was terrified; the discourse of the women, rude and npolished as she was, covered her with con- fusion; and the brutal familiarity of the men, filled her with indignation and disgust; her maid Betty, who had also attended her hus- band, was the only person with whom she could converse, and from whom she could hope the assistance of which she was so soon to stand in need. In the mean time she found it difficult to sub- sist; but accidentally hearing the name of an officer whom she remembered to have visited her mother soon after her marriage, she applied to him, told him her name, and requested that he would afford her his protection, and permit her to take care of his linen. With this request the captain complied; her circumstances became less distressed, and her mind more easy: but new calamity suddenly overtock her; she saw her husband march to an engagement in the morning, and saw him brought back desperately wounded at night. The next day he was re- moved in a waggon with many others who were in the same condition, to a place of greater safety, at the distance of about three leagues, where proper care might be taken of their wounds. She intreated the captain to let her go in the waggon with him; but to this he could not consent, because the waggon would be filled with those who neither were able to walk, nor could be left behind. He promised, however, that if she would stay till the next day, he would endeavour to procure her a passage ; but she chose rather to follow the waggon on foot, than to be absent from her husband. She could not, however, keep pace with it, and she reached the hospital but just time enough to kneel down by him upon some clean straw, to see him sink under the last agony, and hear the groan that is repeated no-more. The fa- tigue of the journey, and the perturbation of her mind, immediately threw her into labour, and she lived but to be delivered of Melissa, who was thus in the most helpless state left without father, mother, or friend, in a foreign country, in circumstances which could afford no hepe of reward to the tenderness that should attempt 14 the preservation of her life, and among persons who were become obdurate and insensible, by having’ been long used to see every species of distress. It happened that, among those whom accident er distress had brought together at the birth of Melissa, there was a young woman, whose hus- band had fallen in the late engagement, and who a few days before had lost a little boy that she suckled. This person, rather perhaps to relieve herself from an inconveniency, than in compas- sion to the orphan, put it to her breast: but whatever was her motive, she believed that the aifording sustenance to the living, conferred a right to the apparel of the dead, of which she therefore took possession ; but in searching her pocket she found only a thimble, the remains of a pocket looking-glass, about. the value of a penny in Dutch money, and the certificate of her marriage. The paper, which she could not read, she gave afterwards to the captain, who was touched with pity at the relation which an inquiry after his aundress produced. He com- mended the woman who had preserved the in- fant, and put her into the place of its mother. This encouraged her to continue her care of it till the captain returned to England, with whom she also returned, and became his servant. This gentleman, as soon as he had settled his immediate concerns, sent Melissa under the eare of her nurse to her grandfather; and in- closed the certificate of her mother’s marriage in a letter containing an account of her death, and the means by which the infant had been pre- served. He knew that those who have been once dear to us, by whatever offence they may have alienated our affection when living, are generally remembered with tenderness when dead; and that after the grave has sheltered them from our resentment, and rendered recon- ciliation impossible, we often regret as severe that conduct which before we approved as just : he, therefore, hoped, that the parental fondness which an old man had once felt for his daugh- ter, would revive at the sight of her offspring, that the memory of her fault would be lost in the sense of her misfortunes; and that he would endeavour to atone for that inexorable resent- ment which produced them, by cherishing a life to which she had, as it were, transferred her own. But in these expectations, however reasonable, he was mistaken. The old man, when he was informed by the messenger that the child she held in her arms was his grand- daughter, whom she was come to put under his protection, refused to examine the contents of the letter, and dismissed her with menaces and insult. The knowledge of every uncommon event soon becomes general in a country town. An uncle of Melissa’s, who had been rejected by his father for having married his maid, heard this fresh instance of his brutality with grief Ps THE ADVENTURER. Non, and indignation ; he sent immediately for the child and the letter, and assured the servant that his niece should want nothing which he could bestow ; to bestow much, indeed, was not x . in his power, for his father having obstinately per- sisted in his resentment, his whole support was a little farm which he rented of the ’squire: but as he was a good economist, and had no child- ren of his own, he lived decently ; nor did he throw away content, because his father had denied him affluence. Melissa, who was couthiasehoneeay for her mother’s misfortunes, of which her uncle had been particularly informed by her maid Betty, who has returned a widow to her friends in the country, was not less beloved for her own good qualities; she was taught to read and write, and work at her needle, as soon as she was able to learn; and she was taken notice of by all the gentry as the prettiest girl in the place: but her aunt died when she was about eleven years old, and before she was thirteen she lost her uncle. She was now again thrown back upon the world, still helpless though her wants were in- creased, and wretched in proportion as she had known happiness: she looked back with an- guish, and forward with distraction; a fit of crying had just afforded her a momentary re- lief when the ’squire, who had been informed of the death of his tenant, sent for her to his house. This gentleman had heard her story from her uncle, and was unwilling that a life, which had been preserved almost by miracle, should at last be abandoned to misery ; he therefore determin- ed to receive her into his family, not as a ser- vant but as a companion to his daughter, a young lady finely accomplished, and now about fifteen. The old gentleman was touched with her distress, and Miss received her with great ten- derness and complacency: she wiped away her tears, and of the intolerable anguish of her mind, nothing remained but a tender remem- brance of her uncle, whom she loved and re- verenced as a parent. She had now courage to examine the contents of a little box which he had put into her hand just before he expired; she found in it only the certificate of her mo- ther’s marriage, enclosed in the captain’s letter, and an account of the events that have been before related, ‘which her uncle had put down as they came to his knowledge: the train of mournful ideas that now rushed upon her mind, raised emotions which, if they could not be sup- pressed by reason, were soon destroyed by their own violence. No. 8.] | No. 8.] Saturpay, Dec. 2, 1752. Durate, et vosmet rebus servate secundis. Virc. Endure and conquer, live for better fate. In this family, which in a few weeks after re- turned to London, Melissa soon became a favourite: the good ’squire seemed to consider her as his child, and Miss as her sister ; she was taught dancing and music, introduced to the best company, elegantly dressed, and allowed | such sums as were necessary for trivial ex- -penses. Youth seldom suffers the dread of to- morrow to intrude upon the enjoyment of to- day, but rather regards present felicity as the pledge of future: Melissa was probably as happy as if she had been in the actual possession of a fortune, that, to the ease and splendour which she enjoyed already, would have added stability and independence. She was now in her eighteenth year, and the only son of her benefactor was just come from the university to spend the winter with his father in town. He was charmed with her person, behaviour, and discourse ; and what he could not but admire, he took every opportunity to commend. She soon perceived that he showed particular marks of respect to her, when he thought they would not be perceived by others ; and that he endeavoured to recommend himself by an officious assiduity, and a diligent attention to the most minute circumstances that might contribute to her pleasure. But this behaviour of the young gentleman, however it might gratify her vanity, could not fail to alarm her fear: she foresaw, that if what she had remarked in his conduct should be perceived by his father or sister, the peace of the family would be de- stroyed: and that she must either be ship- wrecked in the storm, or thrown overboard to appease it. She therefore affected not to per- ceive that more than a general complaisance was intended by her lover; and hoped that he would thus be discouraged from making an ex- plicit declaration: but though he was mortified at her disregard of that which he knew she could not but see, yet he determined to address her in such terms as should not leave this provoking neutrality in her power: though he reverenced her virtue, yet he feared too much the anger of his father to think of making her his wife ; and he was too deeply enamoured of her beauty, to relinquish his hopes of possessing her as a mis- tress. An opportunity for the execution of his | purpose was not long wanting: she received his general professions of love with levity and merriment ; but, when she perceived that his view was to seduce her to prostitution, she burst into tears, and fell back in an agony unable to speak. He was immediately touched with grief THE ADVENTURER: 15 and remorse; his tenderness was alarmed at her distress, and his esteem increased by her virtue; he catched her in his arms, and as an atone- ment for the insult she had received, he offered her marriage: but as her chastity would not suffer her to become his mistress, neither would her gratitude permit her to become his wife, and as soon as she was sufficiently recollected, she intreated him never more to urge her to violate the obligation she was under either to herself or to her benefactor. ‘* Would not,” said she, *‘the presence of a wretch whom you had seduced from innocence and peace to re- morse and guilt, perpetually upbraid you; and would you not always fear to be betrayed by a wife, whose fidelity no kindness could secure; who had broken all the bands that restrain the generous and the good; and who by an act of the most flagitious ingratitude had at once reached the pinnacle of guilt, to which others ascend by imperceptible gradations ?”’ « These objections, though they could neither be obviated nor evaded, had yet no tendency to subdue desire: he loved with greater delicacy, but with more ardour; and as he could not always forbear expostulations, neither could she always silence them in such a manner as might most effectually prevent their being repeated. Such was one morning the situation of the two lovers : he had taken her hand into his, and was speaking with great eagerness; while she re- garded him with a kind of timorous compla- cency, and listened to him with an attention which her heart condemned: his father, in this tender moment, in which their powers of per- ception were mutually engrossed by each other, came near enough to hear that his heir had made proposals of marriage, and retired without their knowledge. As he did not dream that such a proposal could possibly be rejected by a girl in Melissa’s situation, imagining that every woman believed her virtue to be inviolate, if her person was not prostituted, he took his measures accordingly. It was near the time in which his family had been used to remove into the country: he, therefore, gave orders, that every thing should be immediately prepared for the journey, and that the coach should be ready at six the next morning, a man and horse being despatched in the meantime to give notice of their arrival. The young folks were a little surprised at this sudden removal ; but though the ’squire was a good-natured man, yet as he governed his family with high authority, and as they perceived some- thing had offended him, they did not inquire she reason, nor indeed did they suspect it. Melissa packed up her things as usual; and in the morning the young gentleman and his sister ° having by their father’s orders got into the coach, he called Melissa into the parlour ; where in a few words, but with great acrimony, he 16 reproached her with having for med a design to marry his son without his consent, an act of in- gratitude which he said justified him in up- braiding her with the favours which he had already conferred upon her, and in a resolution he had taken that a bank bill of fifty pounds, which he then put into her hand, should be the last; adding, that he expected she should within one week leave the house. To this heavy charge she was not in a condition to reply ; nor did he stay to see whether she would attempt it, but hastily got into the coach, which im- mediately drove from the door. Thus was Melissa a third time, by a sudden and unexpected desertion, exposed to penury and distress, with this aggravation, that ease and affluence were become habitual; and that though she was not so helpless as at the death of her uncle, she was exposed to yet greater danger ; for few that have been used to slumber upon down, and wake to festivity, can resist the allurements of vice, who still offers ease and plenty, when the alternatives are a flock bed and a garret, short meals, coarse apparel, and per- petual labour. Melissa, as soon as she had recovered from the stupor which had seized her upon so as- tonishing and dreadful a change of fortune, de- termined not to accept the bounty of a person who imagined her to be unworthy of it; nor to attempt her justification, while it would render her veracity suspected, and appear to proceed only from the hope of being restored to a state of splendid dependence, from which jealousy or caprice might again at any time remove her, without cause and without notice ; she had not, indeed, any hope of being ever able to defend herself against her accuser upon equal terms, nor did she know how to subsist a single day, when she had returned his bill and quitted his house: yet such was the dignity of her spirit, that she immediately inclosed it in a blank cover, directed to him at his country seat, and calling up the maid who had been left to take care of the house, sent her immediately with it to the post-office. The tears then burst out, which the agitation of her mind had before restrained ; and when the servant returned, she told her all that had happened, and asked her advice what she should do. The girl, after the first emotions of wonder and pity had subsided, told her that she had a sister who lodged in a reputable house, and took in plain work, to whom she would be welcome, as she could assist her in her business, of which she had often more than she could do; and with whom she might continue till some more eligible situation could be obtained. Me- lissa listened to this proposal as to the voice of Beaven ; her mind was suddenly relieved from the oost tormenting perplexity, from the dread of wandering about without money or employ- ment, exposed to the menaces of a beadle, or the THE ADVENTURER. [ No. &. insults of the rabble: she was in haste te secure her good fortune, and felt some degree of pain lest she should lose it by the earlier application of another ; she therefore went immediately with the ata to her sister, with whom it was socn agreed that Melissa should work for her board and lodging ; for she would. not consent to ac- cept as a gift, that which she could by any means deserve as a payment. While Melissa was a journeywoman to a pere son, who but a few weeks before would have regarded her with envy, and approached her with confusion; it happened that a suit of linen was brought from the milliner’s wrapped up in a newspaper: the linen was put into the work- basket, and the paper being thrown carelessly about, Melissa at last catched it up, and wase about to read it; but perceiving that it had been published a fortnight, was just going to put it into the fire, when by an accidental glance she saw her father’s name: this immediately en- gaged her attention, and with great perturbation of mind she read an advertisement, in which her father, said to have left his friends about eighteen years before, and to have entered either into the army or the navy, was directed to ap- ply to a person in Staples inn, who could inform him of something greatly to his advantage. To this person Melissa applied with al] the ardour of curiosity, and all the tumult of expectation: she was informed that the elder brother of the person mentioned in the advertisement was lately dead, unmarried; that he was possessed of fifteen hundred a year, ind hundred of which had descended to him from his father, and one thou- sand had been left him by an uncle, which upon his death, there being no male heir, had been claimed by his sisters; but that a mistress who had lived with him many years, and who had been treated by the supposed heiresses with too much severity and contempt, had in the bitter- ness of her resentment published the advertise- ment, having heard in the family that there was. a younger brother abroad. The conflict of different.passions that were at once excited with uncommon violence in the breast of Melissa, deprived her for a time of the power of reflection; and when she became more calm, she knew not by what method to attempt the recovery of her right: her mind was be- wildered amidst a thousand possibilities, and distressed by the apprehension that all might prove ineffectual. After much thought and many projects, she recollected that the captain, whose servant brought her to England, could probably afford her more assistance than any.. other person: as he had been often pointed out to her in public places by the ’squire, to whom her story was well known, she was acquainted with his person, and knew that within a few mouths he was alive; she soon obtained direc- tions to his house, and being readily admitted. No. 8.] to a conference, she told him, with as much pre- sence of mind as she could, that she was the - person whom his compassion had contributed to preserve when an infant, in confirmation of which she produced his letter, and the certificate which it inclosed; that by the death of her father’s elder brother, whose family she had never known, she was become entitled to a very considerable estate; but that she knew not what evidence would be necessary to support her claim, how such evidence was to be produced, nor with whom to trust the management of an affair in which wealth and influence would be employed against her. ‘The old captain received her with that easy politeness which is almost peculiar to his profession, and with a warmth of benevo- lence that is seldom found in any: he congratu- lated her upon so happy and unexpected an event; and without the parade of ostentatious liberality, without extorting an explicit confes- sion of her indigence, he gave her a letter to his lawyer, in whom he said she might with the utmost security confide, and with whom she would have nothing more to do than to tell her story: ‘* And do not,” said he, “ doubt of suc- cess, for I will be ready to testify what I know of the affair, whenever I shall be called upon: and the woman who was present at your birth, and brought you over, still lives with me, and upon this occasion may do you signal service.” Melissa departed, melted with gratitude and elated with hope. The gentleman, to whom the captain’s letter was a recommendation, pro- secuted her claim with so much skill and assi- duity, that within a few months she was put into the possession of her estate. Her first care was to wait upon the captain, to whom she now owed not only life but a fortune: he re- ceived her acknowledgments with a pleasure, which only those who merit it can enjoy; and insisted that she should draw upon him for such sums as she should want before her rents became due. She then took very handsome ready-furnished lodgings, and determined im- mediately to justify her conduct to the ’squire, whose kindness she still remembered, and whose resentment she had forgiven. With this view she set out in a chariot and six, attended by two servants in livery on horseback, and proceeded to his country-seat, from whence the family was not returned: she had lain at an inn with- in six miles of the place, and when the chariot drove up to the door, as it was early in the morning, she could perceive the servants run to and fro in a hurry, and the young lady and her brother gazing through the window to see if they knew the livery: she remarked every cir- cumstance which denoted her own importance with exultation; and enjoyed the solicitude which her presence produced among those, from whose society she had so lately been driven with disdain and ‘ndignation. THE ADVENTURER. 17 She now increased thelr wonder, by sending in a servant to acquaint the old gentleman, that a lady desired to speak with him about urgent business, which would not however long detain him: he courteously invited the lady to honour him with her commands, hasted into his best parlour, adjusted his wig, and put himself in the best order to receive her: she alighted, and displayed a very rich undress, which correspond- ed with the elegance of her. chariot, and the modish appearance of her servants. She con- trived to hide her face as she went up the walk, that she might not be known too soon: and was immediately introduced to her old friend, to whom she soon discovered herself to his great astonishment, and before he had recovered his presence of mind, she addressed him to this effect, “* You see, Sir, an orphan who is under the greatest obligations to your bounty, but who has been equally injured by your suspicions. When I was a dependent upon your ‘liberality, I would not assert my innocence, because I could not bear to be suspected of falsehood; but I assert it now I am the possessor of a paternal estate, because I cannot bear to be suspected of ingratitude: that your son pressed me to marry him, is true; but it is also true that I re- fused him, because I would not disappoint your hopes and impoverish your posterity.”’ The old gentleman’s confusion was increased by the wonders that crowded upon him: he first made some attempts to apologise for his suspicions with awkwardness and hesitation ; then doubt- ing the truth of appearance, he broke off abrupt- ly and remained silent; then reproaching him- self, he began to congratulate her upon her good fortune, and again desisted before he had finished the compliment, Melissa perceived his -per- plexity, and guessed the cause ; she was, there- fore, about to account more particularly for the sudden change of her circumstances, but Miss, whose maid had brought her intelligence from the servants, that the lady’s name who was with her papa was Melissa, and that she was lately come to a great estate by the death of’ her uncle, could no longer restrain the impatience of her affection and joy: she rushed into the room and fell upon her neck, witha transport that can only be felt by friendship, and express- ed by tears. When this tender silence was past, the scruples of doubt were soon obviated ; the reconciliation was reciprocal and sincere ; the father led out his guest, and presented hex to his son with an apology for his conduct to them both. Melissa had bespoke a dinner and beds at’ the inn, but she was not suffered toreturn. With- in a few weeks she became the daughter of her friend, who gave her hand te his son, with whom she shared many years that happiness which is the reward of virtue. children, but none survived them ; and Melissa, D They had several | 18 upon the death of her husband, which happened abuut seven years ago, retired wholly from town to her estate in the country, where she lived beloved, and died in peace. WS VTVVTT Ws BBW PRR UVWVVRAVVASVBVVWTA VT TWSD BUWATVVTVVVAVWe No. 9.] Tuxspay, Dec. 5, 1752. —Ey sgorigoss Inxy didarxarsyy. Ver. EPIGR. He hung th’ instructive symbol o’er his door. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, I suoutp be sorry to take off your attention from matters of greater moment, and to divert you from the speculation of faults, that present themselves directly before your eyes, by desiring you to contemplate the enormities that hang over your head. It has been customary, I know, with you writers of essays, to treat the subject of signs in a very ludicrous manner: for my part, I cannot help thinking, that it de- serves a more serious consideration. ‘The at- tacks of your predecessors on the absurdities which tradesmen usually commit in these pen- dent advertisements, have been very slight, and consequently have produced no salutary effect : blunders have to this day been handed down from master to ’prentice, without any regard paid to their remonstrances ; and it is left to the sturdy Adventurer, if he pleases, to combat these monstrous incongruities, and to regulate their Babel-like confusion. Iam at present but an humble journeyman sign-painter in Harp-alley ; for though the am- bition of my parents designed that I should emulate the immortal touches of a Raphael or a Titian, yet the want of taste among my coun- trymen, and their prejudice against every artist who is a native, have degraded me’ to the miser- able necessity, as Shaftesbury says, ‘ of illus- trating prodigies in fairs, and adorning heroic sign-posts.” However, as I have studied to improve even this meanest exercise of the pencil, I intend to set up for myself; and, under the favour of your countenance, to reduce the vague practice of sign-painting to some standard of elegance and propriety. It cannot be doubted, but that signs were in- tended originally to express the ‘several occupa- tions of their owners; and to bear some affinity in their external designations, with the wares to be disposed of, or the business carried on within. Hence the Hand and Shears is justly appropriated to tailors ; as the Hand and Pen is to writing-masters ; though the very reverend and right worthy order of my neighbours, the Fleet-parsons, have assumed it to themselves as THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 9- a mark of “ marriages performed without im- position.”’ The Wool-Pack plainly points out to us a Woollen-Draper ; the Naked Boy ele- gantly reminds us of the necessity of clothing ; and the Golden Fleece figuratively denotes the riches of our staple commodity: but are not the Hen and Chickens and the Three Pigeons, the unquestionable right of the poulterer; and not to be usurped by the venders of silk or linen. It would be endless to enumerate the gross blunders committed in this point, by almost every branch or trade. » I shall therefore confine myself chiefly to the numerous fraternity of publicans, whose extravagance in this affair calls aloud for reprehension and restraint. Their modest ancestors were contented with a plain bough stuck up before their doors: whence arose the wise proverb, ‘‘ Good wine needs no bush:”’ but how have they since de- viated from their ancient simplicity! ‘They have ransacked earth, air, and seas; called down sun, moon and stars, to their assistance, and exhibited all the monsters that ever teemed from fantastic imagination. Their hogs in armour, their Blue Boars, Black Bears, Green Dragons, and Golden Lions, have already been sufficiently ex- posed by your brother essay writers: — Sus horridus, atraque tigris, Squamosusque draco, et fuiva cervice leena. Vina. With foamy tusks to seem a bristly boar, Or imitate the lion’s angry roar ; Or hiss a dragon, or a tiger stare. DRYDEN. It is no wonder that these gentlemen, who in- dulge themselves in such unwarrantable liber- ties, should have so little regard to the choice of signs adapted to their mystery. There ean be no objection made to the Bunch of Grapes, the Rummer, or the Tuns; but would not any one inquire for a hosier at the Leg, or for a lock- smith at the Cross-Keys? And who would ex- pect any thing but water to be sold at the Féun- tain? The Turk’s Head may fairly intimate that a seraglio is kept within; the Rose may be strained to some propriety of meaning, as the business there transacted may be said to be done “under the Rose:”? but why must the Angel, the Lamb, and the Mitre, be the designations of the seats of drunkenness or prostitution ? Some regard should likewise be paid by tradesmen to their situation ; or, in other words, to the propriety of the place: and in this too the publicans are notoriously faulty. The King’s Arms, and the Star and Garter, are aptly enough placed at the court end of the town, and in the neighbourhood of the royal palace; Shakspeare’s Head takes his station by one playhouse, and Ben Johnson’s by the other: Dell is a public-house adjoining to Westminster-hall, as the Devil Tavern is to the No. 10.] lawyers’ quarters in the Temple: but what has _ the Crown to do by the ’Change, or the Gun, the Ship, or the Anchor, any where but at the | valent among us before the reformation. Tower-hill, at Wapping, or Deptford ? It was certainly from a noble spirit of doing honour to a superior desert, that our forefathers used to hang out the heads of those who were particularly eminent in their professions. Hence we see Galen and Paracelsus exalted before the shops of chemists; and the great names of Tully, Dryden, Pope, &c. immortalized on the rubric posts of booksellers, while their heads denominate the learned repositories of their works. But I know not whence it happened that publicans have claimed a right to the phy- siognomies of kings and heroes, as I cannot find out, by the most painful researches, that there is any alliance between them. Lebec, as he was an excellent cook, is the fit representative of luxury ; and Broughton, that renowned athletic champion, has an indisputable right to put up his own head, if he pleases: but what reason can there be, why the glorious Duke William should draw porter, or the brave Admiral Ver- non retail flip? Why must Queen Anne keep a gin shop, and King Charles inform us of a skit- tle-ground? Propriety of character, I think, requires, that these illustrious personages should be deposed from their lofty stations, and I would recommend hereafter that the alderman’s effigy should accompany his entire butt beer, and that the comely face of that public spirited pa- triot, “‘ who first reduced the price of punch, and raised its reputation pro bono publico,” should be set up wherever three pennyworth of warm rum is to be sold. I have been used to consider several signs, for the frequency of which it is difficult to give any other reason, as so many hieroglyphics with a hidden meaning, satirizing the follies of the people, or conveying instruction to the passer by. Iam afraid that the stale jest on our suber citizens gave rise to so many horns in the public streets; and the number of castles floating with the wind, was probably designed as a ridicule on those erected by soaring projectors. ‘Tumble- down Dick, in the borough of Southwark, is a fine moral on the instability of greatness and the consequences of ambition: but there is a most ill-natured sarcasm against the fair sex ex- hibited, on a sign in broad St. Giles’s, of a head- less female figure, called the Good Woman: Quale portentum, neque militaris Daunia in latis alit esculetis ; Nec Jube tellus generat, leonwm Arida nutriz. Hor. No beast of such portentous size In warlike Daunia’s forest lies, Nor such the tawny lion reigns - Fierce on his native Afric’s’ thirsty plains. FRANCIS. THE ADVENTURER. 19 A discerning eye may also discover in many of our signs evident marks of the religion pre- St. George, as the tutelary saint of this nation, may escape the censure of superstition: but St. Dunstan with his tongs ready to take hold of Satan’s nose, and the legions of angels, nuns, crosses, and holy lambs, certainly had their origin in the days of popery. Among the many signs, which are appropri- ated to some particular business, and yet have not the least connection with it, I cannot, as yet, find any relation between blue balls and pawnbrokers ; nor could I conceive the intent of that long poll jutting out at the entrance of a barber’s shop, till a friend of mine, a learned etymologist and glossariographer, assured me, that the use of this poll, took its rise from the corruption of an old English word. “ It is pro- bable,’’ says he, ‘that our primitive tonsors used to stick up a wooden block, or head, or poll, as it was then called, before their shop windows, to denote their occupation ; and that afterwards, through a confounding of different things with a like pronunciation, they put up that particoloured staff of an enormous length, which is now called a poll, and appropriated only to barbers.’”” The same observations might be extended to other methods that tradesmen make use of to attract the public notice. Thus, the card manu- facturers stamp upon their packs the figure per- haps of Harry the eighth, or the great Mogul, though I cannot find in history, that either of these monarchs played at cards: it would therefore be more in character to give us a pic- ture of the groom-porter, or of that master of the science the celebrated Hoyle, who has com- posed an elaborate treatise on every fashionable game. I could point out to you many more enormi- ties; but lest I should exceed the limits of your paper, I shall at present conclude with assuring you, that I am Your devoted humble servant, AG Puitie CarMINE. BADR VVA* VBWTEV VL BVVUVA SAL VVSABUVTETT VUBT VBRTDV SVT HS BLVD No. 10.] Sarurpay, Dec. 9, 1752. eRe Da, Pater, augustam menti conscendere sedem’; Da fontem lustrare bent ; da, luce reperta, In Te conspicuos animi defigere visus! BoETH. Give me, O Father, to thy throne access, Unshaken seat of endless happiness! Give me, unveil’d, the source of good to see! Give me thy light, and fix mine eyes on thee! Norurnc has offended me more, than the man- ner in which subjects of eternal moment ale 20 often treated. ‘To dispute on moral and theo- logical topics is become a fashion; and it is usual with persons, of whom it is no reproach to say they are ignorant, because their opportu- nities of gaining knowledge have been few, to determine with the utmost confidence upon questions to which no human intellect is equal. In almost every tavern and every alehouse illi- terate petulance prates of fitness and virtue, of freedom and fate; and it is common to hear disputes concerning everlasting happiness and misery, the mysteries of religion and the attri- butes of God, intermingled with lewdness and blasphemy, or at least treated with wanton neg- ligence and absurd merriment. . For lewdness and blasphemy, it is hoped no apology will seriously be offered : and it is proba- ble, that if the question in debate was, which of the disputants should be hanged on the morrow, it would be conducted with decency and gravity, as a matter of some importance: that risible good-humour, and that noble freedom, of which they appear to be so fond, would be thought not well to agree with their subject; nor would either of the gentlemen be much delighted, if an argument intended to demonstrate that he would within a few hours be suspended on a gibbet, should be embellished with a witty allu- sion to a button and loop, or a jocular remark that it would effectually secure him from future accidents, either by land or water: and yet the justice and mercy of Omnipotence, the life and death of the soul, are treated with ridicule and sport; and it is contended, that with ridicule and sport they ought always to be treated. But the effect, as well as the manner of these fashionable disputes, is always ill; they tend to establish what is called natural relibion: upon the ruins of Christianity; and a man has no sooner styled himself a morai philosopher, than he finds that his duty both to God and man is contracted into a very small compass, and may be ~ practised with the greatest facility. Yet as this effect is not always apparent, the unwary are frequently deluded into fatal error ; and imagine they are attaining the highest degree of moral excellence, while they are insensibly losing the principles upon which alone temptation can be resisted, and a steady perseverance in well doing secured. Among other favourite and unsuspected topics, is the excellency of virtue. Virtue is said ne- cessarily to produce its own happiness, and to be constantly and adequately its own reward: as vice, on the contrary, never fails to produce misery, and inflict upon itself the punishment it deserves; propositions of which every one is ready to affirm, that they may be admitted with- out scruple, and believed without danger. But, from hence it is inferred, that future rewards and punishments are not necessary, either to furnish adequate motives to the practice of THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 10. virtue, or to justify the ways of God. In cor sequence of their being not necessary, they be come doubtful; the Deity is less and less the ob ject of fear and hope ; and as virtue is said to b that which produces ultimate good below, what ever is supposed to produce ultimate good belov is said to be virtue; right and wrong are con founded, because remote consequences canno perfectly be known; the principal barrier, b: which appetite and passion are restrained, i broken down; the remonstrances of conscienc are overborne by sophistry; and the acquire and habitual shame of vice is subdued by th perpetual efforts of vigorous resistance. But the inference from which these dreadfu consequences proceed, however plausible, is no’ just; nor does it appear from experience, tha the premises are true. That virtue alone is happiness below, is in. deed a maxim in speculative morality, which al the treasures of learning have been lavished t support, and all the flowers of wit collected t« recommend ; it has been the favourite of some among the wisest and best of mankind in every generation; and is at once venerable for it: age, and lovely in the bloom of a new youth, And yet if it be allowed, that they who languish in disease and indigence, who suffer pain, hunger, and nakedness, in obscurity and soli-| tude, are less happy than those, who, with the same degree of virtue, enjoy health, and ease, and plenty, who are distinguished by fame, and eourted by society; it follows, that virtue alone is not efficient of happiness, because virtue can: not always bestow those things upon which happiness is confessed to depend. | It is indeed true, that virtue in prosperity enjoys more than vice, and that in adversity she suffers less: if prosperity and adversity, there- fore, were merely accidental to virtue and vice, it might be granted, that, setting aside those things upon which moral conduct has no in- fluence, as foreign to the question, every man is happy, either negatively or positively, in pro- portion as he is virtuous; though it were de- nied, that virtue alone could put into his posses- sion all that is essential to human felicity. But prosperity and adversity, affluence — want, are not independent upon moral conduct: External advantages are frequently obtained by vice, and forfeited by virtue; for as an estate may be gained by secreting a will, or loading a die, an estate may also be lost by withholding a vote, or rejecting a job. Are external advantages then too light to turn. the scale? Will an act of virtue, by which all are rejected, ensure more happiness than an act of vice by which all are procured? Are the ad- vantages, which an estate obtained by an act of vice bestows, overbalanced through life by re- gret and remorse? and the indigence and con- tumely that follow the loss of conveniences, | | | | | No. 11.] which virtue has rejected, more than compen- sated by eontent and self- approbation ? That which is ill gotten, is not always ill used ; nor is that which is well rejected always remembered without regret. It is not to be supposed that he, who by an act of fraud gained the possession of a thousand pounds a year, which he spends, in such a gratification of his appetites and passions as is consistent with health and reputation, in the reciprocation of civilities among his equals, and sometimes in acts of bounty and munificence, and who uses the power and influence which it gives him so as to conciliate affection and procure respect ; has less happiness below, than if by a stronger effort of virtue he had continued in a state of de- pendence and poverty, neglected and despised, destitute of any other means to exercise the social affections than mutual condolence with those who suffer the same calamity, and almost wishing, in the bitterness of his distress, that he had improved the opportunity which he had lost. It may indeed be urged, that the happiness and infelicity of both these states are still in ex- act proportion to virtue: that the affluence, which was acquired by a single act of vice, is enjoyed only by the exercise of virtue; and that the penury incurred by a single effort of virtue, is rendered afflictive only by impatience and dis- content. But whether this be granted or denied, it re- mains true that the happiness in both these states is not equal; and that in one the means to enjoy life were acquired by vice, which in the other were lost by virtue. And if it be possible, by a single act of vice, to increase hap- piness upon the whole of life; from what ra- tional motives can the temptation to that act be resisted ? From none, surely, but such as arise from the belief of a future state, in which virtue will be rewarded and vice punished; for to what can happiness be wisely sacrificed, but to greater happiness? and how can the ways of God be justified, if a man by the irreparable in- jury of his neighbour becomes happier upon the whole, than he would have been if he had ob- served the eternal rule, and done to another as he would that another should do to him. Perhaps I may be told, that to talk of sacri- ficing happiness to greater happiness, as virtue, is absurd ; and that he who is restrained from fraud or violence, merely by the fear of hell, is no more virtuous than he who is restrained merely by the fear of a gibbet. But supposing this to be true, yet with re- spect to society, mere external rectitude of con- duct answers all the purposes of virtue; and if I travel without being robbed, it is of little con- sequence to me, whether the person whom I meet on the road were restrained from attempt- ing to invade my property by the fear of punish- THE ADVENTURER. 21 ment, or the abhorrence of vice: so that the gibbet, if it does not produce virtue, is yet of such incontestible utility, that I believe those gentlemen would be very unwilling that it should be removed, who are, notwithstanding, so zealous to steel every breast against the fear of damnation ; nor would they be content, how- ever negligent of their souls, that their property should be no otherwise secured, than by the power of moral beauty and the prevalence of ideal enjoyments. If it be asked, how moral agents became the subjects of accidental and adventitious happiness and misery; and why they were placed in a state in which it frequently happens, that virtue only alleviates calamity, and vice only moderates delight ; the answer of revelation is known, and it must be the task of those who reject it to give a better: it is enough for me to have proved that man is at present in such a state: I pre- tend not to trace the ‘‘ unsearchable ways of the Almighty,” nor attempt to ‘penetrate the darkness that surrounds his throne :’’ but amidst this enlightened generation, in which such mul- titudes can account for apparent obliquities and defects in the natural and the moral world, I am content with an humble expectation of that time, in which ‘every thing that is crooked shall be made straight, and every thing that is imperfect shall be done away.” SVAR BR PRVEBUVVUVETVWA CLV VUTVR SUVTVUSVAVUVAVVUTVV VIVA No. 11.] Tuxzspay Dec. 12, 1752. —— Ille potens sui Letusque deget, cui licet in diem Divisse, viri. Hor, Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own; He, who secure within can say, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day. DRYDEN. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, Ir is the fate of all who do not live in necessary or accidental obscurity, who neither pass undis- tinguished through the vale of poverty, nor hide themselves in the groves of solitude, to have a numerous acquaintance and few friends. An acquaintance is a being who meets us with a smile and a salute, who tells us in the same breath that he is glad and sorry for the most trivial good and ill that befalls us, and yet who turns from us without regret, who scarce wishes to see us again, who forsakes us in hope- less sickness or adversity, and when we die re- members us no more. A friend is he with whom our interest is united, upon whose parti- cone cipation all our pleasures depend ; who soothes us in the fretfulness of disease, and cheers us in the gloom of a prison; to whom when we die even our remains are sacred, who follows them with tears to the grave, and preserves our image in his heart. A friend our calamities may grieve, and our wants may impoverish, but ne- glect only can offend, and unkindness alienate. Is it not therefore astonishing, that a friend should ever be alienated or offended? and can there be a stronger instance of the folly and caprice of mankind, than their withholding from those, upon whom their happiness is con- fessed to depend, that civility which they lavish upon others, without hope of any higher reward than a trivial and momentary gratification of their vanity, by an echo of their compliments and a return of their obeisance ? Of this caprice there are none who have more cause to complain than myself. That I am a person of some importance has never yet been disputed: I am allowed to have great power to please and to instruct ; I always contribute to the felicity of those by whom I am well treated ; and I must confess, that 1 am never abused without leaving marks of my resentment behind me. 1 am generally regarded as a friend; and there are few who could think of parting with me for the last time, without the utmost regret, solicitude, and reluctance. I know, wherever I come, that I have been the object of desire and hope; and that the pleasure which I am expect- ed to diffuse, has, like all others, been enjoyed by anticipation. By the young and gay, thosé who are entering the world either as a scene of business or pleasure, I am frequently desired with such impatience, that although every moment brings on wrinkles and decrepitude with irresistible rapidity, they would be wil- ling that the time of my absence should be an- nihilated, and the approach of wrinkles and decrepitude rendered yet more precipitate. There cannot surely be stronger evidence “han this of my influence upon their happiness, or of their affection for me: and yet the transport with which I am at first received quickly sub- sides ; they appear to grow weary of my com- pany, they would again shorten life to hasten the hour of my departure, and they reflect upon the length of my visit with regret. To the aged I confess I am not able to pro- cure equal advantages ; and yet there are some of these who have been remarkable for their virtue, among whom I experience more con- stant reciprocations of friendship. I never heard that they expressed an impatient expecta- tion of me when absent, nor do they receive me with rapture when I come; but while I stay they treat me with complacency and good-hu- mour ; and in proportion as their first address is less vivlent, the whole tenour of their conduct THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 11. is more equal: they suffer me to leave them in| an evening without importunity to prolong my visit, and think of my departure with indiffer-| ence. ; You will, perhaps, imagine, that 1 am distin- guished by some strange singularity, of which| the uncommon treatment that I receive is a consequence. As few can judge with impartia- lity of their own character, none are believed merely upon their own evidence who affirm : ‘to be good: I will therefore describe to you the manner in which I am received by persons of very different stations, capacities, and employ-| ments. The facts shall be exhibited without false colouring ; I will neither suppress, soften, | nor exaggerate any circumstance, by which. the} natural and genuine state of these facts may be) discovered, and I know that your sagacity will do me justice. i In summer I rise very early, and the first person that I see is a peasant at his work, who generally regards me with a smile, though he seldom participates of my bounty. His labour is scarce ever suspended while I am with him; yet he always talks of me with complacency, and never treats me with neglect or indecorum, except perhaps on a holiday, when he has been. tippling ; and this I can easily overlook, though he commonly receives a hint of his fault the next morning, that he may be the more upon’ his guard for the future. But though in the country I have reason to be best satisfied with the behaviour of those whom I first see, yet in my early walks in town I am almost sure to be insulted. As soon’ as the wretch, who has passed the night at a tavern, or a gaming table, perceives me at a dis-. tance, he begins to mutter curses against me,’ though he knows they will be fulfilled upon himself, and is impatient till he can bar his’ door, and hide himself in bed. | I have onesister, and though her complexion is very dark, yet she is not without her charms. She is, I confess, said to look best by candle-light, in her jewels, and at a public place, where the splendour of her dress, and the multiplicity of other objects, prevent too minute an examina- tion of her person. Some good judges have fan- cied, though perhaps a little whimsically, that there is something inexpressibly pleasing in her by moon-light, a kind of placid ease, a gentle langour, which softens her features, and gives new grace to her manner: they say too, that! she is best disposed to be agreeable company in a walk, under the chequered shade of a grove, along the green banks of a river, or upon the sandy beach by the sea. My sister’s principles in many particulars differ from mine; but there has been always such a harmony between us, that she seldom smiles upon those who have suffered me to pass with a contemptuous negligence; much less © No. 12.] Joes she use her influence, which 1s very great, 9 procure uny advantage for those who drive me from their presence with outrage and abuse ; und yet none are more assiduous in their ad- jresses, nor intrude longer upon her privacy, shan those who are most implacably my ene- nies. She is generally better received by the poor, than the rich; and indeed she seldom visits the indigent and the wretched, without bringing something for their relief; yet those who are most solicitous to engage her in parties of plea- sure, and are seen longest in her company, are always suspected of some evil design. You will, perhaps, think there is something enigmatical in all this; and lest you should not yet be able to discover my true character suffi- siently to engage you in my interest, I will give you a short history of the incidents that have happened to me during the last eight hours. Jt is now four o’clock in the afternoon: about seven I rose; soon after, as I was walking by the dial in Covent Garden, I was perceived by 2 man well dressed, who appeared to have been sleeping under one of the sheds, and whom a watchman had just told that I was approaching : after attempting to swear several oaths and stag- ering a few paces, he scowled at me under his hat, and insulted me indirectly, by telling the watchman as well as he could, that he had sat in company with my sister till he became too drunk to find his way home, which nevertheless he had attempted ; and that he hated the sight of me as he hated the devil: he then desired that a coach or a chair might be immediately called to carry him from my presence. About nine I visited a young lady who could not see me, because she was but just returned from arout. I went next to a student in the temple, who received me with great joy; but told me, that he was geing to dine with a gentleman, whose daughter he had long courted, and who at length, by the interposition of friends, had been persuaded to consent to the match, though several others had offered a larger settlement. From this interview I had no desire to detain him; and about twelve I found a young prodi- gal, to whom I had afforded many opportunities of felicity, which he neglected to improve ; and whom I had scarce ever left without having convinced him, that he was wasting life in the search of pleasure which he could never find: he looked upon me with a countenance full of suspicion, dread, and perplexity, and seemed to wish that I had delayed my visit, or been ex- cluded by his servant; imagining, as I have since heard, that a bailiff was behind me. After dinner, I again met my friend the student; but he who had so lately received me with ecstacy, now leered at me with a sullen discontent, and if it had been in his power would have destroyed mie, for no cther reasen than because the old THE ADVENTURER. 23 gentleman whom he had visited had changed | his mind. You may, perhaps, be told, that I am myself inconstant and capricious, that I am never the same person eight and forty hours together, and that no man knows whether at my next visit I shall bring him good or evil: but identity of person might with equal truth be denied of the Adventurer, and of every other being upon earth ; for all animal bodies are in a state of per- petual decay and renovation: so ridiculous a slander does not indeed deserve a serious reply : and I believe you are now ready to answer every other cavil of my enemies, by convincing the world that it is their own fault if I do not al- ways leave them wiser and better than I find them ; and whoever has through Jife continued to became gradually wiser and better, has ob- tained a source of divine felicity, a well of living water, which, like the widow’s oil, shall in- crease as it is poured out, and which, though it was supplied by time, eternity shali not ex- haust. . I hope, Sir, your paper will be a means of procuring me better treatment; and that you will yourself be solicitous to secure the friend- ship of, Your humble servant, To-pay. WRBPVBVVAVA BABA TVADTTVUTVR VI TRBV SVT AA DTV SL STUVUTSY No. 12.] Sarurpay, Dec. 16, 1752. Magnum pauperies opprobrium jubet Quidvis aut facere aut pati. Hor. He whom the dread of want ensnares, With baseness acts, with meanness bears. TO THE ADVENTURER. SIR, Or all the expedients that have been found out to alleviate the miseries of life, none is left to despair but complaint: aud though complaint, without hope of relief, may be thought rather to increase than mitigate anguish, as it recollects every circumstance of distress, and imbitters the memory of past sufferings by the anticipation of future, yet, like weeping, it is an indulgence of that which it is pain to suppress, and soothes with the hope of pity the wretch who despairs of comfort. Of this number is he who now ad- dresses you: yet the solace of complaint and the hope of pity, are not the only motives that have induced me to communicate the series of events, by which I have been led on in an insensible deviation from felicity, and at last plunged in irremediable calamity: I wish that others may escape perdition; and am, therefore, soliciteus 24 to warn them of the path, that leads to the pre- cipice from which I have fallen. I am the only child of a wealthy farmer, who, as he was himself illiterate, was the more zealous to make his son a scholar; imagining that there was in the knowledge of Greek and Latin, some secret charm of perpetual influence, which as I passed through life would smooth the way before me, establish the happiness of success, and supply new resources to disappoint- ment. But not being able to deny himself the pleasure he found in having me about him, in- stead of sending me out to a boarding-school, he offered the curate of the parish ten pounds a year and his board to become my tutor. This gentleman, who was in years, and had lately buried his wife, accepted the employment, but refused the salary: the work of education, he said, would agreeably fill his intervals of leisure, and happily coincide with the duties of his function : but he observed that his curacy, which was thirty pounds a year, and had long subsisted him when he had a family, would make him wealthy now he was a single man; and therefore he insisted to pay for his board: to this my father, with whatever reluctance, was obliged to consent. At the age of six years I began to read my accidence under my pre- ceptor; and at fifteen had gone through the Latin and Greek classics. But the languages were not all that I learned of this gentleman ; besides other science of less importance, he taught me the theory of Christianity by his pre- cepts, and the practice by his example. As his temper was calm and steady, the influ- ence which he had acquired over. me was un- limited: he was never capriciously severe; so that 1 regarded his displeasure not as an effect of his infirmity, but of my own fault; he dis- covered so much affection in the pleasure with whieh he commended, and in the tender concern with which he reproved me, that I loved him asa father; and his devotion, though rational and manly, was yet so habitual and fervent, that I reverenced him asa saint. I found even my passions controled by an awe which his presence impressed ; and by a constant attention to his doctrine and his life, I acquired such a sense of my connection with the invisible world, and such a conviction of the consciousness of Deity to all my thoughts, that every inordinate wish was secretly suppressed, and my conduct regulated by the most scrupulous circumspec- tion. My father thought he had now taken suffi- cient care of my education, and therefore began to expect that I should assist in overlooking his servants, and managing his farm, in which he intended I should succeed him: but my pre- ceptor, whose principal view was not my tem- poral advantage, told him, that, ag a farmer, great part of my learning would be totally use- THE ADVENTURER. [No. 12. less; and that the only way to make me service~ able to mankind, in proportion to the know- ledge I had acquired, would be to send me to the university, that at a proper time I might take orders. But my father, besides that he was still unwilling to part with me, had pro- bably many reasons against my entering the world in a cassock: such, however, was the deference which he paid to my tutor, that he had almost implicitly submitted to his deter- mination, when a relation of my mother’s, who was an attorney of great practice in the temple, came to spend part of the long vacation at our house, in consequence of invitations which had been often repeated during an absence of many years. . My father thought that an opportunity of consulting how to dispose of me with a man so well acquainted with life, was not to be lost; and perhaps he secretly hoped, that my precep- tor would give up his opinion as indefensible, if a person of the lawyer’s experience should de- clare against it. My cousin was accordingly made umpire in the debate; and after he had heard the arguments on both sides, he declared against my becoming a farmer; he said, it would be an act of injustice to bury my parts and learning in the obscurity of rural life; because, if produced to the world, they would probably be rewarded with wealth and distinction. My preceptor imagined the question was now finally determined in his favour; and being obliged to visit one of his parishioners that was sick, he gave me a leok of congratulation as he went out, and I perceived his cheek glow with a flush of triumph, and his eye sparkle with tears of de- light. But he had no sooner left the room, than my cousin gave the conversation another turn; he told my father, that though he had opposed his making me a farmer, he was not an advocate for my becoming a parson; for that to make a young fellow a parson, without being able to procure him a living, was to make him a beg- gar; he then made some witty reflections on. the old gentleman who was just gone out; “ nobody,” he said, “could question his having been put to a bad trade, who considered his cir- cumstances now he had followed it forty years.”” And after some other sprightly sallies, which, though they made my father laugh, made me. tremble, he clapped him upon the shoulder, « If you have a mind your boy should make a figure in life, old gentleman,” says he, “ put him clerk — to me; my Lord Chancellor King was no better than the son of a country shopkeeper; and my master gave a person of much greater eminence. many a half crown when he was an attorney’s | What say you? shall I take him up with me or no?” | clerk in the next chambers to mine. My father, who had listened to this proposal with great eagerness, as soon as my cousin had_ ‘others abandoned to their own conduct; No. 13.] done speaking, cried, “‘ A match ;’’ and imme- diately gave him his hand, in token of his con- sent. Thus the bargain was struck, and my fate determined before my tutor came back. Jt was in vain that he afterwards objected to the character of my new master, and expressed the most dreadful apprehensions at my becom- ing an attorney’s clerk, and entering into the society of wretches who had been represented to him, and perhaps not unjustly, as the most pro- fligate upon earth; they do not, indeed, become worse than others, merely as clerks: but as young persons, who with more money to spend in the gratification of appetite, are sooner than for though they are taken from under the protection of a parent, yet being scarce considered as in a state of servitude, they are not sufficiently re- strained by the authority of a master. My father had conceived of my cousin as the best natured raan in the world: and probably was intoxicated with the romantic hope, of living to see me upon the Bench at Westminster hall, or of meeting me on the circuit lolling in my own coach, and attended by a crowd of the in- ferior instruments of justice. He was not there- fore to be moved either by expostulation or en- treaty; and I set out with my cousin on horse- _ back, to meet the stage at a town within a few miles, after having taken leave of my father, with tenderness that melted us both; and received from the hoary saint his last instructions and benediction, and at length the parting embrace, which was given with the silent ardour of unut- terable wishes, and repeated with tears that could no longer be suppressed or concealed. When we were seated in the coach, my cousin began to make himself merry with the regret and discontent that he perceived in my counte- nance, at leaving a cowhouse, a hogstye, and two old grey pates, who were contending whether I should be buried in a farm or a col- lege. I, who had never heard either my father or my tutor treated with irreverence, could not conceal my displeasure and resentment: but he still continued to rally my country simplicity with many allusions which I did not then un- derstand, but which greatly delighted the rest of the company. ‘The fourth day brought us to our journey’s end, and my master, as soon as we reached his chambers, shook me by the hand, and bid me welcome to the temple. He had been some years a widower, and his only child a daughter being still at a boarding- school, his family consisted only of a man and maid servant and myself: for though he had two hired clerks, yet they lodged and boarded themselves. The horrid lewdness and profane- ness of these fellows terrified and disgusted me; nor could I believe that my master’s property and, “interest could be safely intrusted with men, who in every respect appeared to be so THE ADVENTURER. 25 destitute of virtue and religion: I, therefore, thought it my duty to apprise him of his dan- ger; and accordingly one day when we were at dinner, I communicated my suspicion, and the reason upon which it was founded. The for- mal solemnity with which I introduced this conversation, and the air of importance which I gave to my discovery, threw him into a violent fit of. laughter, which struck me dumb with confusion and astonishment. As soon as he re- covered himself, he told me, that though his clerks might use some .expressions that 1 had not been accustomed to hear, yet he believed them to be very honest; and that He placed more confidence in them, than he would in a formal prig, of whom he knew nothing but that he went every morning and evening to prayers, and said grace before and after meat; that as to swearing, they meant no harm; and as he did not doubt but that every young fellow liked a girl, it was better they should joke about it than be hypocritical and sly: not that he would be thought to suspect my integrity, or to blame me for practices, which he knew to be merely effects of the bigotry and superstition in which I had been educated, and not the disguises of cun- ning or the subterfuges of guilt. I was greatly mortified at my cousin’s beha- viour on this occasion, and wondered from what cause it could proceed, and why he should so lightly pass those vices in others, from which he abstained himself; for I had never heard him swear; and as his expressions were not obscene, I imagined his conversation was chaste ; in which, however, my ignorance deceived me, and it was not long before I had reason to change my opinion of his character. WVUWTHVCVUTVUVUBUSVUGVVUUTA VT TUTAVTTUTUALAATVEVUVAVWS No. 13.] Tuxspay, Dec. 19, 1752. ——— Sic omnia fatis In pejus ruere, ac retro sublapsa referri: Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lembum Remigiis subigit : si brachia forte remisit, Atque illum in preceps prono rapit alveus amni. Vire. Thus all below, whether by nature’s curse, Or fate’s decree, degenerate still to worse. So the boat’s brawny crew the current stem, And, slow advancing, struggle with the stream: But if they slack their hands, or cease to strive, Then down the flood with headlong haste they drive. DRYDEN THERE came one morning to inquire for him at his chambers, a lady who had something in her manner which caught my attention and excited my curiosity: her clothes were fine, but the manner in which they were put on was rather flaunting than elegant ; her address was not easy 1D) 26 nor polite, but seemed to be a strange mixture of affected state and licentious familiarity: she - looked in the glass while she was speaking to me, and without any confusion adjusted her tucker: she seemed rather pleased than discon- certed at being regarded with earnestness; and being told that my cousin was abroad, she asked some trifling questions, and then making a slight courtesy, took up the side of her hoop with a jerk that discovered at least half her leg, and hurried down stairs. I could not help inquiring of the clerks, if they knew this lady; and was greatly confound- ed when they told me, with an air of secrecy, that she was my cousin’s mistress, whom he had kept almost two years in lodgings near Covent-garden. At first I suspected this infor- mation; but it was soon confirmed by so many circumstances, that I could no longer doubt of its truth. As my principles were yet untainted, and the influence of my education was still strong, I re- garded my cousin’s sentiments as impious and detestable; and his example rather struck me with horror, than seduced me to imitation. I flattered myself with hopes of effecting his re- formation, and took every opportunity to hint the wickedness of allowed incontinence; for which | was always rallied when he was dis- posed to be merry, and answered with the con- temptuous sneer of self-sufficiency when he was sullen. Near four years of my clerkship were now expired, and I had never yet entered the lists as a disputant with my cousin: for though I con- ceived myself to be much his superior in: moral and theological learning, and though he often admitted me to familiar conversation, yet I st‘ll regarded the subordination of a servant toa master, as one of the duties of my station, and preserved it with such exactness, that I never exceeded a question or a hint when we were alone, and was always silent when he had com- pany, though I frequently heard such positions advanced, as made me wonder that no tremen- dous token of the divine displeasure immediately followed : but coming one night from the tavern, warm with wine, and, as I imagined, flushed with polemic success, he insisted upon my taking one glass with him before he went to bed; and almost as soon as we were seated, he gave me a formal challenge, by denying all divine revela- tion, and defying me to prove it: I now considered every distinction as thrown down, and stood forth as the champion of re- ligion, with that elation of mind which the hero always feels at theapproachofdanger. I thought myself secure of victory ; and rejoicing that he had now compelled me to do what I had often wished he would permit, I obliged him to de- clare that he would dispute upon equal terms, and we began the debate. But it was not long THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 13. before I was astonished to find myself confound ed by a man, whom I saw half-drunk, and whose learning and abilities I despised when he was sober; for as I had but very lately dis- covered, that any of the principles of religion, from the immortality of the soul to the deepest mystery, had been so much as questioned, all his objections were new. I was assaulted where I had made no preparation for defence ; and having not been so much accustomed to dis- putation, as to consider, that, in the present weakness of human intellects, it is much easier to object than answer, and that in every disqui- sition difficulties are found which cannot be re- solved, I was overborne by the sudden onset, and in the tumult of my search after answers to his cavils, forgot to press the positive arguments on which religion is established: he took advan-, tage of my confusion, proclaimed his own triumph, and because I was depressed, treated me as vanquished. As the event which had thus mortified my pride was perpetually revolved in my mind, the same mistake still continued: I inquired for so- lutions instead of proofs, and found myself more and more entangled in the snares of sophistry. In some other conversations which my cousin was now eager to begin, new difficulties were started, the labyrinth of doubt grew more in- tricate, and as the question was of infinite mo- ment, my mind was brought into the most dis- tressful anxiety. I ruminated incessantly on the subject of our debate, sometimes chiding myself for my doubts, and sometimes applauding the courage and freedom of my inquiry. While my mind was in this state, I heard by accident that there was a club at an alehouse in the neighbourhood, where such subjects were freely debated, to which every body was admitted without scruple or formality: to this club in an evil hour I resolved to go, that I might learn how knotty points were to be discussed, and truth distinguished from error. Accordingly, on the next club night I- ming- led with the multitude that was assembled in this school of folly and infidelity : I was at first disgusted at the gross ignorance of some, and shocked at the horrid blasphemy of others ; but curiosity prevailed, and my sensibility by de- grees wore off. I found that almost every speaker had a ditferent opinion, which some of them supported by arguments that to me, who | was utterly unacquainted with disputation, ap- peared to hold opposite probabilities in exact equipoise ; so that, instead of being confirmed in any principle, 1 was divested of all; the per- plexity of my mind was increased, and I con- tracted such a habit of questioning whatever | offered itself to my imagination, that I almost doubted of my own existence. In proportion as [ was less assmred in my principles, I was less circumspect in my con-. | ‘mediately occurred, that though my conduct No. 13.] that any gross violence offered to that which I had held sacred, and every act which I had been used to regard as incurring the forfeiture of the divine favour, stung me with remorse. I was indeed still restrained from flagitious immor- ality, by the power of habit: but this power grew weaker and weaker, and the natural pro- pensity to ill gradually took place; as the mo- tion that is communicated to a ball which is struck up into the air, becomes every moment less and less, till at length it recoils by its own weight. f Fear and hope, the great springs of human action, had now lost their principal objects, as I doubted whether the enjoyment of the present moment was not all that I could secure; my | power to resist temptation diminished with my dependence upon the grace of God, and regard to the sanction of his law; and I was first se- duced by a prostitute, in my return from a de- clamation on the beauty of virtue, and the strength of the moral sense. I began now to give myself up entirely to sen- suality, and the gratification of appetite termi- nated my prospects of felicity: that peace of | mind, which is the sunshine of the soul, was exchanged for the gloom of doubt, and the storm of passion ; and my confidence in God and hope of everlasting joy, for sudden terrors and vain wishes, the lothings of satiety, and the anguish of disappointment. I was indeed impatient under this fluctuation of opinion, and therefore I applied to a gentle- man whe was a principal speaker at the club, and deemed a profound philosopher, to assist the labours of my own mind in the investigation of truth, and relieve me from distraction by re- moving my doubts: but this gentleman, instead | of administering relief, lamented the prejudice of education, which he said hindered me from yielding without reserve to the force of truth, and might perhaps always keep my mind anx- ious, though my judgment should be convinced. But as the most effectual remedy for this de- plorable evil, he recommended to me the works | was incredible. of Chubb, Morgan, and many others, which I THE ADVENTURER. duct: but such was still the force of education, ae was changed, it could not be proved that my virtue was less; because many things, which I avoided as vicious upon my old principles, were innocent upon my new. I therefore went on in my career, and was perpetually racking my invention for new topics and illustration: and among other expedients, as well to advance my reputation, as to quiet my conscience, and de- liver me from the torment of remorse, I thought of the following. Having learned that all error is innocent, be- cause it is involuntary, I concluded, that nothing more was necessary to quiet the mind than to prove that all vice was error: I therefore formed the following argument; ‘“* No man becomes vicious, but from a belief that vice will confer happiness: he may indeed have been told the contrary, but implicit faith is not required of reasonable beings, therefore, as every man ought to seek happiness, every man may lawfully make the experiment, if he is disappointed, it is plain that he did not intend that which has hap- pened, so that every vice is an error, and there- fore no vice will be punished.” 1 communicated this ingenious contrivance to my friend the philosopher, who, instead of de- tecting the difference between ignorance and perverseness, or stating the limitations within which we are bound to seek our own happiness, applauded the acuteness of my penetration, and _ the force of my reasoning. I was impatient to display so novel and important a discovery to the club, and the attention that it drew upon me gratified my ambition, to the utmost of my expectation. I had indeed some opponents ; but they were so little skilled in argumentation, and so ignorant of the subject, that it only rendered my conquest more signal and important, for the chairman summed up the arguments on both sides with so exact and scrupulous an imparti- ality, that as I appeared not to have been con- futed, those who could not discover the weak- ness of my antagonists, thought that to confute me was impossible, my sophistry was taken for demonstration, and the number of proselytes The assembly consisted chiefly of clerks and apprentices, young persons who procured, and read with great eagerness; and | had received a religious though nota liberal edu- though I was not at last a sound deist, yet | I perceived with some pleasure that my stock of polemic knowledge was greatly increased; so that, instead of being an auditor, I commenced a speaker at the club: and though to stand up and babble to a crowd in an alehouse, till silence is commanded by the stroke of a hammer, is as | low an ambition as can taint the human mind; | yet I was much elevated by my new distinction, and pleased with the deference that was paid to my judgment. I sometimes, indeed, reflected, that I was propagating opinions by which I had myself become vicious and wretched ; but it im- cation ; for those who were totally ignorant, or wholly abandoned, troubled not themselves with such disputations as were carried on at our club: and these unhappy boys, the impetuosity of whose passions was restrained chiefly by fear, as virtue had not yet become a habit, were glad to have the shackles struck off which they were told priestcraft had put on. But however I might satisfy others, I was not yet satisfied myself; my torment returned, and new opiates became necessary; they were not indeed easily to be found; but such was my good fortune, that an illiterate mechanic afforded me a most seasonable relief, “‘ by discussing the 28 important question, and demonstrating that the soul was not nor could be immortal.’’ I was, indeed, disposed to believe without the severest scrutiny, what I now began secretly to wish; for such was the state of my mind, that I was willing to give up the hope of everlasting happi- ness, to be delivered from the dread of perpetual | misery ; and as I thought of dying as a remote event, the apprehension of losing my existence with my life, did not much interrupt the plea- sures of the bagnio and the tavern. THE ADVENTURER. They were, however, interrupted by another cause; for I contracted a distemper, which | alarmed and terrified me, in proportion as its progress was swift, and its consequences were dreadful. In this distress I applied to a young surgeon, who was a speaker at the club, and gained a genteel subsistence by keeping it in re- pair: he treated my complaint as a trifle; and to prevent any serious reflections in this inter- ; val of pain and solitude, he rallied the deplorable length of my countenance, and exhorted me to | behave like a man. My pride, rather than my fear, made me very solicitous to conceal this disorder from my cousin; but he soon discovered it rather with pleasure than anger, as it completed his triumph, and afforded him a new subject of raillery and merriment. By the spiritual and corporeal assistance of my surgeon, I was at length restored to my health, with the same dis- solute morals, and a resolution to pursue my pleasures with more caution: instead, therefore, of hiring a prostitute, I now endeavoured to se- duce the virgin, and corrupt the wife. BVVVVAVVCVVVVTTVUTTAVTVT VIA VRTUCTVTBTAVWVVUVTVVWVIWTVD No. 14.] Saturpay, Dec. 23, 1752. Admonet, et magna testatur voce per umbras : Discite justitiam moniti, et non temnere divos. VIRG. Even yet his voice from hell’s dread shades we hear, \ “ Beware, learn justice, and the gods revere. ‘ | In these attempts my new principles afforded me great assistance: for I found that those whom I could convert, I could easily debauch ; and that to convert many, nothing more was necessary than to advance my principles, and allege something in defence of them, by which I appeared to be convinced myself; for not being able to dispute, they thought that the argumert which had convinced me, would, if they could understand it, convince them ; so that, by yield- ing an implicit assent, they at once paid a com- pliment to their own judgments, and smoothed the way to the indulgence of appetite. While I was thus gratifying every inordinate desire, and passing from one degree of guilt to| [ No. 14 another, my cousin determined to take his daughter, who was now in her nineteenth year, from school ; mistress of his family, he quitted his chambers, and took a house. This young lady I had frequently seen, and always admired; she was therefore no sooner come home, than I endeavoured to recommend myself by a thousand assiduities, and rejoiced in the many opportunities that were afforded me to entertain her alone; insensible to my complaisance. My cousin, though he had seen the effects of his documents of infidelity in the corruption of my morals, yet could not forbear to sneer at re- ligion in the presence of his daughter ; a practice in which I now always concurred, as it facilitat- _ed the execution of a design that I had formed of rendering her subservient to my pleasures. I might indeed have married her, and perhaps my cousin secretly intended that I should: but I knew women too well to think that marriage would confine my wishes to a single object ; and I was utterly averse to a state, in which the pleasure of variety must be sacrificed to domes- tic quiet, or domestic quiet to the pleasure of variety ; for I neither imagined that I could long indulge myself in an unlawful familiarity with many women, before it would by some ac- cident be discovered to my wife; nor that she would be so very courteous or philosophical, as to suffer this indulgence without expostulation and clamour: and besides, I had no liking to a brood of children, whose wants would soon be- come importunate, and whose claim to my in- dustry and frugality would be universally ac- knowledged ; though the offspring of a mistress might be abandoned to beggary, without breach of the law, or offence to society. The young lady, on the contrary, as she per- ceived that my addresses exceeded common civi- lities, did not question but that my view was to obtain her for a wife; and I could discern that and as he intended to make her ~ and perceived that she was not displeased with my company, nor ‘he often expected sell a declaration, and seem- | ed disappointed that I had not yet proposed an application to her father: but imagining, I sup- pose, that these circumstances were only delayed till the fittest opportunity, she did not scruple to admit all the freedoms that were consistent with modesty ; and I drew every day nearer to the accomplishment of my design, by insensible approaches, without alarming her fear or con- firming her hopes. I knew that only two things were necessary ; her passions were to be inflamed, and the mo- tives from ‘which they were to be suppressed, removed. 1 was therefore perpetually insinuat- ing, that nothing which was natural could he Il; I complained of the impositions and re- straints of priestcraft and superstition ; and, as if these hints were casual and accidental, 1. ' No. 14.] would immediately afterwards sing a tender | song, repeat some seducing verses, or read a novel. admit a second time into her presence the wretch who has once attempted to ridicule re- ligion, and substitute other aids to human frailty, for that “love of God which is better | than life,” and that fear “which is the begin- ning of wisdom:”’ for whoever makes such an attempt, intends to betray; the contrary con- duct being without question the interest of every one whose intentions are good, because even those who profanely deny religion to be of ‘divine origin, do yet acknowledge that it is a political institution well calculated to strengthen the band of society, and to keep out the ravager, by intrenching innocence and arming virtue. To oppose these corrupters by argument rather than contempt, is to parly with a murderer, who may be excluded by shutting a door. _ My cousin’s daughter used frequently to dis- pute with me, and these disputes always fa- ‘voured the execution of my project: though, lest I should alarm her too much, I often affect- ed to appear half in jest; and when I ventured to take any liberty, by which the bounds of modesty was somewhat invaded, I suddenly de- sisted with an air of easy negligence; and as the attempt was not pursued, and nothing far- ‘ther seemed to be intended than was done, it was regarded but as waggery, and punished only with a slap or afrown. ‘Thus she became fa- miliar with infidelity and indecency by degrees. " I once subtilely engaged her in a debate, in itself innocent; and whether, if so, the want it criminal. I insisted that virtue and vice founded upon human laws, which were arbi- trary, temporary, and local: and that as a young mitting her beauty to posterity was still good, though under certain circumstances it had by ‘such laws been forbidden. whether the gratification of natural appetites was | 4 of external ceremony could in any case render | were not influenced by external ceremonies, nor | lady’s shutting herself up in a nunnery was still | evil, though enjoined by such laws ; so the trans- | THE ADVENTURER. This she affected | utterly to deny, and I proposed that the ques- | tion should be referred to her papa, without in- | forming him of our debate, and that it should be determined by his opinion; a proposal to which she readily agreed. I immediately ad- verted to other subjects, as if I had no interest in the issue of our debate: but I could perceive that it sunk deep into her mind, and that she continued more thoughtful than usual. I did not however fail to introduce a suitable ‘topic of discourse the next time my cousin was present, and having stated the question in gene- ral terms, he gave it in my favour, without sus- pecting that he was judge in his own cause; and the next time I was alone with his daugh- ter, without mentioning his decision, I renewed 29 my familiarity, I found her resistance less re- solute, pursued my advantage, and completed But henceforward, let never insulted beauty | her ruin. Within a few months she perceived that she was with child; a circumstance that she com- municated to me with expressions of the most piercing distress: but iustead of consenting to marry her, to which she had often urged me with all the little arts of persuasion that she could practise, I made light of the affair, chid her for being so much alarmed at so trivial an accident, and proposed a medicine which I told her would effectually prevent the discovery of our intercourse, by destroying the effect of it before it could appear. At this proposition she fainted, and when she recovered, opposed it with. terror and regret, with tears, trembling, and intreaty: but I continued inflexible, and at length either removed or over-ruled her scru- ples, by the same arguments that had first se- duced her to guilt. The long vacation was now commenced, and my clerkship was just expired: I therefore pro- posed to my cousin that we should all make'a visit to my father, hoping that the fatigue of the journey would favour my purpose, by increasing the effect of the medicine, and accounting for an indisposition which it might be supposed to cause. The plan being thus concerted, and my cousin’s concurrence being obtained, it was im- mediately put in execution. I applied to my old friend the club surgeon, to whom I made no secret of such affairs, and he immediately fur- nished me with such medicaments, which he assured me would answer my purpose; but either by a mistake in the preparation, or in the quantity, they produced a disorder, which soon after the dear injured unhappy girl arrived ‘at her journey’s end, terminated in her death. My confusion and remorse at this event are not to be expressed, but confusion and remorse were suddenly turned into astonishment and terror; for she was scarce dead before I was taken into custody, upon suspicion of murder. Her father had deposed, that just before she died, she desired to speak to him in private; and that then, taking his hand, and intreating his forgiveness, se told him that she was with child by me, and that I had poisoned her, under pretence of preserving her reputation. Whether she made this declaration, or only confessed the truth, and her father to revenge the injury had forged the rest, cannot now be known; but the coroner having been. sum- moned, and the body viewed, and found to have been pregnant, with many marks of a violent and uncommon disorder, a verdict of wilful murder was brought in against me, aud I was committed to the county jail. As the judges were then upon the circuit, I was within less than a fortnight convicted and 30 condemned by the zeal of the jury, whose pas- sions had been so greatly inflamed by the enor- mity of the crime with which I had been charged, that they were rather willing that I should suffer being innocent, than that I should escape being guilty; but it appearing to the judge in the course of the trial that murder was not intended, he reprieved me before he left the town. I might now have redeemed the time, and, awakened to a sense of my folly and my guilt, might have made some reparation to mankind for the injury which I had done to society ; and endeavoured to rekindle some spark of hope in my own breast, by repentance and devotion. But alas! in the first transports of my mind, upon so sudden and unexpected a calamity, the fear of death yielded to the fear of infamy, aud I swallowed poison: the excess of my despera- tion hindered its immediate effect ; for, as I took too much, great part of it was thrown up, and only such a quantity remained behind, as was sufficient to insure my destruction, and yet leave me time to contemplate the horrors of the gulph into which [ am sinking. Tn this deplorable situation I have been visited by the surgeon who was the immediate instru- ment of my misfortune, and the philosopher who directed my studies. But these are friends who only rouse me to keener sensibility, and in- flict upon me more exquisite torment. ‘They reproach me with folly, and upbraid me with cowardice: they tell me too, that the fear of death has made me regret the errors of supersti- tion; but what would I now give for those er- roneous hopes, and that credulous simplicity, which, though I have been taught to despise them, would sustain me in the tremendous hour that approaches, and avert from my last ,agony the horrors of despair. I have indeed a visitor of another kind, the good old man who first taught me to frame a prayer, and first animated me with the hope of ‘heaven; but he can only lament with me that this hope will not return, and that I can pray with confidence no more: he cannot by asudden miracle re-establish the principles which I have subverted. My mind is all doubt, and terror, and confusion ; I know nothing but that I have rendered ineffectual the clemency of my judge, that the approach of death is swift and inevi- table, and that either the shades of everlasting night, or the gleams of unquenchable fire are at hand. “My soul in vain shrinks backward: I grow giddy with the thought: the next moment is distraction! Farewell. Opstnous. THE ADVENTURER. | markable instance of the truth of these observe [No. 15. No. 15.} Tuxspay, Dec. 26, 1755. | Inventum medicina meum est. —— OvipD. Medicine is mine. DRYDEN. | As no man more abhors the maxim, which af- firms the lawfulness of doing evil to produce good, than myself, I shall spare no falsehood, because it has been rendered subservient to poli-| tical purposes, nor concur in the deception ol mankind, though for the service of the state When the public liberty has been thought in: so much danger, as to make it necessary to ex. pose life in its defence ; we have been told that’ life is the inferior blessing ; that death is more eligible than slavery; and that to hold the con- trary opinion, is not only absurd but infamous. This, however, whether it is the rant of en- thusiasm or the insinuation of cunning, contra. dicts the voice of reason and the general consent of mankind. The far greater part of the human species are confessed to live in a state of slavish subjection ; and there is scarce any part of the globe where that which an Englishman call liberty, is to be found: and yet it does not ap. pear, that there is any place in which the at. tachment to life is dissolved, or that despotism and tyranny ever provoked suicide to depopu | late their dominions. It may be said, tha wretches who have never been free, suffer pa tiently because they are strangers to enjoyment but it must be remembered, that our heroes 0 | liberty, whether Bucks or Bloods, or of whateve} other denomination, when by some creditor 0 slavish principles they have been locked up ini prison, never yet petitioned to be hanged. But though to every individual life is o greater value than liberty; yet health and eas’ are of greater value than life: though jollit may sometimes be found in the cell of a prison. er, it never enters the chambers of the sick over pain and sickness, the sweetness of musit¢ the sprightliness of humour, and the delicacie of luxury have no power. Without health lif is misery; and death, as it removes positiy evil, is at least a negative good. Among th’ many advantages, therefore, which are confesse to be peculiar to Great Britain, the highes’ surely is the number of medicines that are dis pensed in this metropolis ; medicines which in| fallibly remove every disease, by which th value of life is annihilated, and death rendered | blessing. : It has been observed by naturalists, that ever climate produces plants peculiarly adapted 1! remove its peculiar diseases ; and by moralisti’ that good and evil are universally distribute with an equal hand: my subject affords a re No. 15.] THE ADVENTURER. 31 tions: for without this extraordinary interposi- | be mercy to one, will be cruelty to many; and tion of medical power, we should not only be the most loathsome, debilitated, and diseased of all mortals, but our country would soon become desolate, or, what is yet worse, a province to. ‘France. Of this no doubt will remain, if it be con- sidered, that the medicines, from which we are | told almost every noble family in the kingdom has received benefit, are such as invigorate, cleanse, and beautify; for if our nobility are impotent, loathsome, and hideous, in what con- dition are those who are exposed to the vicissi- tudes of wet and dry, and cold and heat, which in this climate are sudden and frequent? In what condition are those who sweat at the fur- mace, or delve in the mine, who draw in pesti- enemy to life at every pore? If a being whose perspicacity could discover effects yet slumber- | ing in their causes, would perceive the future peers of this realm corked close in a vial, or | rolled up in a pill: or if, while yet more distant, they would appear rising in the vapour of an alembic, or agitated in the vortex of a mortar ; from whence must we expect those who should hereafter supply the fleet, the manufactory, or the field ? streams to the community from these fountains of health, and vigour, and beauty, is in some Jegree intercepted, by the envy or folly of per- sons who have at a great expense crowded the sity with buildings called hospitals; in which ‘hose who have been long taught to mangle the lead, practise the same horrid arts upon the ‘iving ; and where a cancer or a gangrene produce jhe amputation of a limb, though a cure for the vancer might have been purchased in Fleet- Street for a shilling, and a powder that instantly stops the progress of a gangrene, upon Tower Hill for sixpence. In hospitals diseases are fot cured, but rendered incurable: and though of vay the public has been often advertised by Mr ir. Robert Ratsey, who gives advice to the i in Billiter-Lane; yet hospitals are still filled, and new donations are made. Mr. Ratsey aas indeed himself contributed to this evil; for ie promises to cure even those who have been Jhus rendered incurable: a resource, therefore, ‘s still left, and the vulgar will be encouraged +o throw themselves into an hospital, in com- Niance with their prejudices, by reflecting that after all they can make the experiment which ought to have been their first choice. I would not be thought to dictate to the legis- ature; but [ think that all persons, especially this gentleman, should be prohibited from cur- ing these incurable patients by act of parlia- ent: though I hope that he will, after this notice, restrain the first ardour of his benevo- lence, by reflecting that a conduct which may ‘ential fumes at every breath, and admit an, But the good that would flow in a thousand | that in his future advertisements this dangerous promise will not be repeated. This island has been long famous for diséases which are not known in any other part of the world; and my predecessor, the Spectator, has taken notice of a person, who in his time, among other strange maladies, undertook to cure “ long sea-voyages and campaigns.’’ If I cannot ac- quaint my readers with any new disease that is equally astonishing, I can record a method of cure, which, though it was not successful, yet deserves to be remembered for farther experi- ments. The minister, the overseer, and the church- warden of a parish in Kent, after setting forth the misery of a young man who was afilicted with a rupture, proceed to address the public in the following terms: “‘ His friends applied to several gentle- men fora cure, but all proved ineffectual, and wore a truss, till we sent him to Mr. - Woodward at the King’s Arms near Half- moon-street, Piccadilly.” It appears, therefore, that several gentlemen, in the zeal of their compassion, not only applied for advice, but actually wore a truss for this un- fortunate youth ; who would, notwithstanding, still have continued to languish in great misery, if they had not at last sent him to Mr. Wood- ward. After this instance of generous compassion and true public spirit, it will be just to remark the cor.duct of persons who have filled a much more elevated station, who have been appointed guardians of the people, and whose obligations to promote their happiness was therefore more complicated and extensive, Tam told that formerly a patent could not be obtained for dispensing these infallible reme- dies at a less expense than sixty pounds; and yet that, without a patent, counterfeits are im- posed upon the public, by which diseases are rendered more malignant, and death precipi- tated. I am, however, very unwilling to be- lieve, that the legislature ever refused to permit others to snatch sickness and decrepitude from the grave, without receiving so exorbitant a consideration. At present a patent may be obtained for a much more reasonable sum ; and it is not worth while to inquire, whether this tax upon health was ever exorbitant, as it is now too light to be felt: but our enemies, if they cannot intercept the license to do good, still labour to render it ineffectual. They insinuate, that though a patent is known to give a sanction to the medicine, and to be regarded by the vulgar as a certificate of its virtue: yet that, for the customary fee, a patent may be obtained to dispense poison: for if the nostrum itself is a secret, its qualities can- 32 not be otherwise known than by its effects ; and concerning its effects no inquiry is made. Thus it appears that the Jesuits, who former- ly did us so much mischief, are still busy in this kingdom: for who else could propagate so in- vidious a reproach for so destructive a purpose ? But the web of subtilty is sometimes so ex- tremely attenuated, that it is broken by its own | weight ; and if these implacable enemies of our church and state had attempted less, they would have effected more: for who can believe, that those names, which should always be read with a sense of duty and obligation, were ever pros- tituted in public advertisements, for a paltry sum, to the purposes of wretches who defraud the poor of their money, and the sick of their life, by dispensing as remedies, drugs that are either ineffectual or pernicious, and precluding, till it is too late, more effectual assistance? To believe this, would be as ridiculous as to doubt, whether an attempt was made to cure Mr. Woodward’s patient, by applying trusses to the abdomen of his friends, after it has been so often and so publicly asserted in an advertisement, signed by persons of unquestionable veracity ; persons who were probably among the number of those by whom trusses were worn, and might first think of applying to Mr. Woodward, upon perceiving that a remedy which was so trouble- some to them produced no apparent effect upon the patient. For my own part I never hear the cavils of sophistry with patience; but when they are used to bring calamity upon my coun- try, my indignation knows no bounds. Let us unite against the arts as well as the power of our enemies, and continue to improve all the advantages of our constitution and our climate ; and we cannot fail to secure health, vigour, and longevity, from which the wreath of glory and the treasures of opulence derive all their value. VPVCVBVVATCVTVST VPLEVHRVTULTVUIVALTTW SL VTE VE VUVLAVBVtVesseee No. 16.] Sarurpay, Dec. 30, 1752. Gratior et pulchro veniens in corpore virtus. Virg. £ More lovely virtue, in a lovely form. J Have observed in a former paper, that the re- lation of events is a species of writing which affords more general entertainment than any other: and to afford entertainment appears to have been often the principal if not the only design of those by whom events have been re- lated. It must, indeed, be confessed, that when truths are to be recorded, little is left to the choice of the writer ; a few pages of the book of'| Nature or Providence are before him; and if THE ADVENTURER. [No. 16. he transcribes with fidelity, he is not to be blamed, if in this fragment good and evil do not appear to be always distributed as reward and punishment. But it is justly expected of the writer of fic- tion, who has unbounded liberty to select, to vary and to complicate, that his plan should be complete, that be should principally consider the moral tendency of his work, and that when he relates events he should teach virtue. The relation of events becomes a moral lecture, when vicious actions produce misery, and vi- cious characters incur contempt : when the com- bat of virtue is rewarded with honour, and her sufferings terminate in felicity : but though this method of instruction has been often recom- mended, yet I think some of its peculiar advan- tages have been still overlooked, and for that reason not always secured. . . Facts are easily comprehended by every un- derstanding : and their dependence and influ- ence upon each other are discovered by those, who would soon be bewildered in a series of logical deductions ; they fix that volatility whieh would break away from ratiocination: and the precept becomes more forcible and striking as it is connected with example. Precept gains only the cold approbation of reason, and compels an assent which judgment frequently yields with reluctance, even when delay is impossible ; but by example the passions are roused ; we approve, we emulate, and we honour or love; we detest, we despise, and we condemn, as fit objects are successively held up to the mind: the affections are, as it were, drawn out into the field; they learn their exercise in a mock fight, and are trained for the service of virtue. Facts, as they are most perfectly and easily comprehended, and as they are impressed upon the mind by the passions, are tenaciously re- membered, though the terms in which they are delivered are presently forgotten: and for this reason the instruction that results from facts, is more easily propagated: many can repeat a story, who would not have understood a declamation ; and though the expression will be varied as often as it is told, yet the moral which it was intend- ed to teach will remain the same. , But these advantages have not been always secured by those who have professed “ to make a story the vehicle of instruction,” and “ to sur- prise levity into knowledge by a show of enter- tainment,’”’ for instead of including instruction in the events themselves, they have made use,of events only to introduce declamation and argu- ment. If the events excite curiosity, all the fine reflections which are said to be interspersed, are passed over ; if the events do not excite curiosity, the whole is rejected together, not only with disgust and disappointment, but indignation, as having allured by a false promise, 4nd engaged in a vain pursuit. These pieces, if they are | No. 16.] read as a task by those for whose instruction they are intended, can produce none of the effects for which they were written; because the instruction will not be necessarily remem- bered with the facts; and because the story is so far from recommending the moral, that the moral is detested as interrupting the story. Nor are those who voluntarily read for instruction, less disappointed, than those who seek only en- tertainment ; for he that is eager in the pursuit of knowledge, is disgusted when he is stopped by the intervention of a trivial incident or a forced compliment, when a new personage is introduced, or a lover takes occasion to admire the sagacity of a mistress. But many writers who have avoided this error, and interwoven precept with event, though they intended a moral lecture, have yet defeated their own purpose, by taking from virtue every accidental excellence, and decorat- ing vice with the spoils. I can think of nothing that could be alleged in defence of this perverse distribution of graces and defects, but a design to show that virtue alone is sufficient to confer honour upon the lowest character, and that without it nothing can preserve the highest from contempt; and that those excellences which we can acquire by our own efforts, are of more moment than those which are the gifts of nature: but in this de- sign, no writer, of whatever abilities, can suc- ceed, 1t has been often remarked, though not with- ‘out wonder, that almost every man is more jealous of his natural than his moral qualities; ‘and resents with more bitterness a satire upon his abilities than his practice: the fact is un- ‘questionably true ; and perhaps it will no longer appear strange, if it be considered, that natural defects are of necessity, and moral of choice ; the imputation of folly, if it is true, must be suffered without hope, but that of immorality may at any time be obviated by removing the cause. But whatever be the reason, it appears by the ‘common consent of mankind, that the want of virtue does not incur equal contempt with the want of parts; and that many vices are thought to be rather honourable than infamous, merely because they imply some natural excellence, some superiority which cannot be acquired by those who want it, but to which those who have it believe they can add ali that others possess whenever they shall think fit to make the at- tempt. Florio, after having learned the Latin and Greek languages at Westminster, and spent three years at the university, made the tour of Europe, and at his return obtained a place at court. Florio’s imagination is sprightly, and his judgment strong: he is well acquainted with every branch of polite literature, and travel has THE ADVENTURER. 33 polished the sound scholar into the fine gentle- man: his person is graceful, and his manner polite; he is remarkable for the elegance of his dress ; and he is thought to dance a minuet, and understand the small sword better than any other man in the kingdom. Among the ladies Florio has made many conquests: and has challenged and killed in a duel an officer, who upbraided him with the breach of a promise of marriage, confirmed by an oath to a young beauty whom he kept in great splendour as a mistress: his conversation is admired by all who can relish sterling wit and true humour; every private company brightens when he en- ters, and every public assembly becomes more. splendid by his presence: Florio is also liberal to profusion; and is not, therefore, inquisitive about the merit of those upon whom he lavishes his bounty. Benevolus’ has also had a liberal education : he learned the languages at Merchant Taylors, and went from thence to the university, where his application was greater than Florio’s, but the knowledge that he acquired was less: as his apprehension is slow, and his industry indefati- gable, he remembers more than he understands ; he has no taste either for poetry or music; mirth never smiled at a sally of his imagination, nor did doubt ever appeal to his judgment: his per- son, though it is not deformed, is inelegant; his dress is not slovenly, but awkwardly neat ; and his manner is rather formal than rude; he is the jest of an assembly, and the aversion of ladies; but he is remarkable for the most uni- form virtue and unaffected piety: he is a faith- ful friend, and a kind master; and so com- passionate, that he will not suffer even the snails that eat his fruit to be destroyed: he lays out annually near half his income in gratuities, not to support the idle, but to encourage the indus- trious; yet there is rather the appearance of parsimony than profusion in his temper; and he is so timorous, that he will turn pale at the report of a musket. ‘Which of these two characters wouldst thou choose for thy own? whom dost thou most hon- our, and to whom hast thou paid the tribute of involuntary praise? Thy heart has already an- swered with spontaneous fidelity in favour of Florio. Florio thou hast not considered as a scoundre], who by perjury and murder has de- served the pillory and the gibbet; as a wretch who has stooped to the lowest fraud for the vilest purpose; who is continually ensnaring the innocent and the weak; who conceals the ruin that he brings by a lie, and the lie by an oath; and who having once already justified a sworn falsehood at the expense of life, is ready again to lie and to kill, with the same aggrayu- tion and in the same cause. Neither didst thou view Benevolus, as having merited the divine eulogium bestowed upon hiiy F 34 ‘“‘ who was faithful over a few things ;’” as em- ploying life in the diffusion of happiness, with the joy of angels, and in imitation of God. Surely, if is true that *‘ Vice to be hated needs but to be seen :” Pore. she should not be hidden with the ornaments, and disguised in the apparel, which in the gen- eral estimation belong to virtue. On the con- trary, it should be the principal labour of moral writers, especially of those who would instruct by fiction, the power of which is not less to do evil than good, to remove the bias which in- clines the mind rather to prefer natural than moral endowments ; and to represent vice with such circumstances of contempt and infamy, that the ideas may constantly recur together. And it should be always remembered, that the fear of immediate contempt is frequently stronger than any other motive: how many have even in their own opinion, incurred the guilt of blasphemy, rather than the sneer of an infidel, or the ridicule ofa club? And how many have rushed, not only to the brink of the grave but of hell, to avoid the scorn with which the foolish and the profligate regard those who have refused a challenge ? Let it, therefore, be the united efforts of genius and learning, to deter from guilt by the dread of shame; and let the time past suffice to have saved from contempt, those vices which con- tempt only can suppress. No. 17.] Tursnay, Jan. 2, 1753. Scopulis surdior Icari Voces audit. Hor. —— He hears no more Than rocks, when winds and waters roar. CREECH. Peruars few undertakings require attention to a greater variety of circumstances, or include more complicated labour, than that of a writer who addresses the public in a periodical paper, and invites persons of every station, capacity, ’ disposition, and employment, to spend, in read- ing his lucubrations, some of those golden mo- ments which they set apart from toil and soli- citude. He who writes to assist the student, of what- ever class, has a much easier task, and greater probability of success; for the attention of in- dustry is surely more easily fixed than that of idleness : and he who teaches any science or art, by which wealth or honour may be acquired, is more likely to be heard, than he who only soli- THE ADVENTURER. ‘caused him to draw in a long breath through [No. 17. cits a change of amusement, and proposes an experiment which cannot be made without dan- ger of disappointment. The author who hopes to please the public,” or, to use a more fashionable phrase, the town, without gratifying its vices, should not only be able to exhibit familiar objects in a new light, to display truths that are not generally known, and break up new veins in the mines of litera- ture ; he must have skill to select such objects — as the town is willing to regard, such truths as_ excite its curiosity, and such knowledge as it is solicitous to acquire. =e But the speculative and recluse are apt to for- get, that the business and the entertainment of others are not the same with their own; and are often surprised and disappointed to perceive, that what they communicate with eagerness and expectation of applause, is heard with too much indifference to be understood, and wearies those whom it was expected to delight and instruct. Mr. George Friendly, while he was astudent — at Oxford, became possessed of a large estate by - the death of his elder brother; instead, there- fore, of going up to London for preferment, he retired to the family-seat in the country; and | as he had acquired the habit of study, and a strong relish for literature, he continued to live nearly in the same manner as at college; he kept little company, had no pleasure in the sports of the field, and, being disappointed in his first addresses, would never marry.‘ His sister, the wife of a gentleman who farm- | ed his own estate, had one son whose name was John. Mr. Friendly directed that John should be put to a reputable school in the country, and | promised to take care of his fortune. When the lad was about nineteen, his uncle declared his | intention to send him to the university ; but first desired to see him, that he might know what proficiency he had made in the languages. John, therefore, set out on a visit to his uncle, and was received with great affection; he was found to have acquired a reasonable knowledge of Latin and Greek ; and Mr. Friendly formed a very favourable opinion of his abilities, and de~ termined to reward his diligence, and encouragn him to perseverance. One evening, therefore, he took him up into his study, and after directing him to sit down, “¢ Cousin John,’’ said he, “ I have some senti- ments to communicate to you, with which I know you will be pleased ; for truth, like vir- tue, is never perceived but with delight.”’ John, | whose heart did not give a full assent to the truth of this proposition, found himself in cir- cumstances which, by the mere force of habit, his nose, and at the same time with a grin of exquisite sensibility to scratch his head. ‘ But my observations, cousin,”’ said his uncle, “ haye a necessary connection with a.purpose that I 1) No. 17. | have formed, and with which you shall also be acquainted. Draw your chair a little nearer. _ The passions, cousin John, as they are naturally productive of all pleasure, should by reasonable beings be also rendered subservient to a higher purpose. The love of variety which is found in every breast as it produces much pleasure, may ‘also produce much knowledge. One of the principal advantages that ave derived from - wealth, is a power to gratify and improve this _ passion. The rich are not confined by labour to a particular spot, where the same ideas perpe- tually recur ; they can fill the mind, either by travel or by study, with innumerable images, of which others have no conception. But it must be considered, that the pleasure of travel- ling does not arise from the sight of a dirty town, or from lodging at an inn; nor from any hedge or cottage that is passed on the road ; nor _ from the confused objects that are half discovered in the distant prospect, nor from the series of well-built houses in a city, or the busy multi- tudes that swarm in the streets; but from the rapid succession of these objects to each other, and the number of ideas that are thrown in upon the mind.”’ Mr. Friendly here paused for John’s reply ; and John suddenly recollect- ing himself said, “ Very true.” ‘ But how,” said Mr. Friendly, ‘‘ can this love of variety be directed to the acquisition of knowledge ?”’ Here John wriggled in his seat, and again scratched his head: he was indeed something embarrassed by the question: but the old gentle- man quickly put him out of his pain by answer- ing it himself. ‘ Why, by a judicious choice of the variety that is to produce our entertain- ment. Ifthe various deublings of a hare only, or the changes of a game at whist, have afforded the yariety of the day; whatever has been the pleasure, improvement has been wanting. But if the different customs, the policy, the trade of nations, the variety of soils, the manner of cul- ture, the disposition of individuals, or the rise or fall of a state, have been impressed upon the mind; besides the pleasure of the review, a power of creating new images is acquired. Fancy can combine the ideas which memory has treasured; and when they have: been re- viewed and regulated by judgment, some scheme will result, by which commerce may be ex- tended, agriculture improved, immorality re- strained, and the prosperity of the state secured ; of this, cousin John, you were not wholly igno- rant before.”” John acquiesced with a bow: for though he had been a little bewildered, yet he understood by the tone of voice with which his uncle concluded the last sentence, that such acquiescence was expected. ‘‘ Upon this oc- casion,”’ continued Mr. Friendly, ‘“‘ I must re- mark, though it is something foreign to my purpose, that variety has by some philosophers ‘been considered, as affording not only the plea- THE ADVENTURER. 35 sure and improvement, but even the measure of life; for of time in the abstract we have no idea, and can conceive it only by the succession of ideas to each other; thus, if we sleep without dreams, the moment in which we awake, ap- pears immediately to succeed that in which we began to slumber.” A thicker gloom now fell upon John, and his countenance lengthened in proportion to his uncle’s lecture, the end of which he perceived was now become more remote; for these re- marks with respect to John, were not impressed with the signature of truth, nor did they reflect any idea of his own ; they were not, * Something whose truth convinced at sight we find, That gives us back the image of our mind: Pore’s Essay ON Crit. with respect to John, therefore, they had no characteristic of wit; and if they contained knowledge, it was knowledge which John had no wish to acquire: the old gentleman, how- ever’, proceeded thus with great deliberation : «“‘ But though curiosity should be principally directed to usual purposes, yet it should not always be repressed or diverted, when the use is not immediate or apparent ; for he who first perceived the magnetic attraction, and applied it to various experiments. probably intended nothing more than amusement; and when the polarity of the needle was discovered, it was not in the pursuit of any project to facilitate navigation. I am, therefore, now about to gratify your curiosity, cousin, with a view of London, and all the variety that it contains.” Here John’s countenance brightened, he roused himself on his seat, and leoked eager with atten- tion. « As you have,” continued his uncle, “ ap- plied with great diligence to your grammar learning; I doubt not but you have also read many of our best English authors, especially our immortal Shakspeare; and I am willing that, before you enter upon a course of academic study, you should see the theatre.”’ John was going to express his joy, when his uncle in- creased it, by putting into his hand a bank note of fifty pounds. ‘This,’’ said he, “ under the direction of a gentleman, to whom J shall re- commend you, will furnish you with proper apparel, bear your expenses for a couple of months, and gratify you with all the entertain- ments of the town.” John could now bear some part in the conver- sation: he was much obliged to his uncle, and hoped he should live to make him amends ; “ for,” says he, “one of our ushers, who was just returned from London before I left school, has made me long to see it: he says there is a man there who dances upon a wire no bigger 36 than a packthread; and that there is a collec- tion of all the strange creatures in the world.” John, who had uttered this with a broad grin, and expressed his delight from head to foot, was somewhat disconcerted, when his uncle toid him coolly, that though he would not have him leave London without seeing every thing in it that might justly raise curiosity: yet he hoped his notice was not principally attracted by ob- jects which could convey no instruction, inspire no noble sentiment, nor move one tender pas- sion. ‘ I mention,” says he, ‘ Shakspeare, that mighty genius, whose sentiments can never be exhausted, and in whom new beauties are discovered at every view. That you may de- rive yet greater delight and advantage from the representation of his pieces, I will read you some historical and critical notes that I have been making during twenty years, after having read the first edition of his works and every commentator that has either illustrated or ob- scured his meaning.’’ The old gentleman then taking out and wiping his spectacles, opened his buredu and produced the manuscripts. ‘ Iam now,’’ said he, “‘ about to confer a favour upon you, which I do not yet intend for any other; for as I shall continually enlarge this work, it will not be printed till I am dead.” He then began to read, and John sat very silent, regal- ing himself with the anticipation of his own finery, the dexterity of the wire-dancer, and the variety of the savages that he was to visit in London. The old. gentleman, who imagined that he was held motionless with attention, wonder, and delight, proceeded Jong in his lecture with- out once adverting to John for his explicit eulogium: but at the end of a favourite passage, which closed with a distich of his own poetry, he ventured to steal his eyes from the paper, and glancing them upon John, perceived that he was fast asleep with his mouth open, and the bank note in his hand. Friendly, after having gazed upon him a few moments with the utmost astonishment and in- dignation, snatched away the note: and having roused him with a denunciation of resentment that touched those passions which Shakspeare could not touch, he thrust him out of the room and shut the door upon him: he then locked up his manuscript ; and, after having walked many times backward and forward with great haste, he looked at his watch, and perceiving it to be near one in the morning, retired to bed with as little propensity to sleep as he had now left to his nephew. THE ADVENTURER. [No. 18. No. 18.] | Sarurpay, Jan. 6, 1753. Duplex libelli dos.est ; quod risum movet, Et quod prudenti vitam consilio monet. PHZDRUS. A twofold gift in this my volume lies ; It makes you merry, and it makes you wise. Amonce the fictions which have been intended for moral purposes, I think those which are distinguished by the name of Fables deserve a » particular consideration. A story or tale, in which many different char- acters are conducted through a great variety of events, may include such a number and diversity of precepts, as, taken together, form almost a complete rule of life: as these events mutually depend upon each, other, they will be retained ,in a series; and therefore, the remembrance of one precept will almost necessarily produce the remembrance of another, and the whole moral, _ as it is called, however complicated, will be recollected without labour and without con- fusion. In this particular, therefore, the story seems to have the advantage of the fable, which is con- fined to some single incident; for though a number of distinct fables may include alJl the topics of moral instruction, caution, and advice, which are contained in a story, yet each must be remembered by a distinct effort of the mind; and they will not recur in a series, because they have no connection with each other. The memory of them may, however, be more frequently revived by those incidents in life to which they correspond; and they will, there- fore, more readily present themselves, .when the lessons which they teach should be practised. Many, perhaps the greater number of those fables which have been transmitted to us as some of the most valuable remains of the sim- plicity and wisdom of antiquity, were spoken upon a particular occasion; and then the occa- sion itself was an index to the intent of the speaker, and fixed the moral of the fable: so when the Samians were about to put to death a man who had abused a public trust, and plun- dered the commonwealth, the counsel of Avsop could not be overlooked or mistaken, when he told them, that “a fox would not suffer a swarm of flies, which had almost satiated them- selves by sucking his blood to be driven away ; because a new swarm might then come, and their hunger drain him of all the blood that re- mained.” Those which are intended for general use, and to general use it is perhaps easy to accom- modate the rest, are of two kinds; one is ad- dressed to the understanding, and the other to the passions. No. 18.] _- Of the preceptive kind is that of the “old ‘man, who, to teach his sons the advantage of “unanimity, first directed them to break a num- ber of rods that were bound up together; and when they found it impossible, bade them divide the bundle, and break the rods separately, which | they easily effected.”’ In this fable no passion is excited; the address is to the understanding, and the understanding is immediately con- _yinced. That of the Old Hound belongs to the other class. When the toothless veteran had seized the stag, and was not able to hold him, he de- _precates the resentment of his master, who had raised his arm for the blow, by crying out, « Ah! do not punish the impotence of age! strike “me not, because my will to please thee has sur- vived my power! If thou art offended with what I am, remember what I have been, and forgive me.” Pity is here forcibly excited ; and injurious resentment may be repressed, when an instance not equally strong recalls this to the mind. Fables of the preceptive kind should always include the precept in the event, and the event should be related with such circumstances as render the precept sufficiently evident.. As the “Yncident should be simple, the inference should be in the highest degree natural and obvious. Those that produce their effect upon the pas- sions, should excite them strongly, and always connect them with their proper objects. I do not remember to have seen any collec- tion, in which these rules have been sufficiently observed; in far the greater number there is a deficiency of circumstance, though there is a re- dundancy of language; there is therefore, some- thing to be added, and something to be taken away. Besides that, the peculiar advantages of this method of instruction are given up by re- serving the precept to a long discourse, of which the fable is no more than the text, and with which it has so little connection, that the inci- | dent may be perfectly remembered, and the la- - boured inference totally forgotten. A boy, who . is but six years old, will remember a fable after haying once heard it, and relate it in words of his own; but it would be the toil of a day to get the terms in which he heard it by heart: and, _ indeed, he who attempts to supply any deficiency in a fable, by tacking a dissertation to the end of it, appears to me to act just as wisely, as if, instead of clothing a man whom he found naked, he should place a load upon his shoul- ders. When the moral effect of fable had been thus brought to depend, not upon things, but upon words; the arrangement of these words into verse, was thought to be a happy expedient to assist the memory ; for in verse words must be remembered in a regular series, or the measure and cadence will not be preserved: the measure THE ADVENTURER. 37 and cadence, therefore, discover any confusion or defect, not to the understanding, but to the ear; and show how the confusion may be re. gulated, and the defect supplied. The addition of rhyme was another advantage of the same kind, and this advantage was greater, as the rhyme was more frequently repeated. But if the fable is perfect in its kind, this expedient is unnecessary, and much less labour is required to include an evident precept in an incident, than to measure the syllables in which it is related, and place two words of a similar sound at the end of every couplet. Besides, in all verse, however familiar and easy, the words are neces- sarily thrown out of the order in which they are commonly used; and, therefore, though they will be more easily recollected, the sense which they contain will not be equally perspicuous. I would not, however, be thought to deny, that verse is at least an ornament to this species of writing ; nor to extend my censure to those short stories, which, though they are called fables, are written upon a more extensive plan, and are intended for more improved understand- ings. But as fables have been told by some in verse, that they might be more easily. remembered ; they have been related by others in a barbarous jargon of hackneyed phrases, that they might be more easily understood. It has been observed of children, that they are longer before they can pronounce perfect sounds, because perfect sounds are not pronounced to them ; and that they repeat the gibberish of the nurse, because nothing better has been proposed to them for imitation: and how should the school-boy write English in grammatical purity, when all that he reads, except a foreign language and a literal translation, is written with all the license of extempore expression, without pro- priety of idiom, or regularity of combination, and abounds with absurdities that haste only can excuse in a speaker. The fables of A‘sop, for so they are all called, are often first exhibited to youth, as examples of the manner in which their native language is written; they should, therefore, be pure in the highest degree, though not pompous: and it is surely an affront to the understanding to suppose that any language would become more. intelli- gible by being rendered less perfect. But the fables that are addressed to the pas-— sions, besides the imperfections which they share in common with thuse that are addressed to the understanding, have others peculiar to them- selves: sometimes the passion is not moved with sufficient force, and sometimes it is not connect- ed with a fit object. When the Fox decoys the poor Goat into a well, in order to leap out from his horns, and leave him to perish with a witty remark, that «if his wisdom had been proportioned to his 38 beard, he would not have been so easily over- reached,” the goat is not so much the object of | pity as contempt; but of contempt, guileless simplicity caught in the snares of cunning, can- not surely be deemed a proper object. In the fox there appears a superiority which not only preserves him from scorn, but even from indig- nation : Reynard is by no means fit for imitation ; though he is frequently the hero of the fable, and his conduct affords the precept for which it Was written. But though I have made a general division of fable into two kinds, there is yet a third, which, as it is addressed both to the understanding and passions, is consequently more forcible and per- fect. Of this number is that of the Sick Kite, who requested of his mother to petition the gods for his recovery, but was answered, “ Alas! to which of the gods can I sacrifice? for which of their altars hast thou not robbed ?”’ ‘The precept that is here inculcated, is early piety ; and the passion that is excited is terror; the object of which is the despair of him who perceives him- self to be dying, and has reason to fear that his very prayer is an abomination. There are others, which, though they are ad- dressed to the understanding, do yet excite a passion which condemns the precept. When the melodious complaint of the Night- ingale had directed a hungry Hawk to the thorn on which she sung, and he had seized her with his talons, she appealed from his hunger to his mercy: “I am,” said she, “ little else than voice: and if you devour me, there will be no proportion between my loss and your gain: your hunger will be rather irritated than ap- peased by so small a morsel, but all my powers of enjoyment will cease for ever: attack, there- fore, some larger bird.’”’—Here the Hawk inter- rupted her; ‘‘ He was not disposed,” he said, *‘ to controvert what she had advanced ; but he was too wise to suffer himself to be persuaded by any arguments, to quit a certain for a contin- gent good.” Who that reads this fable does not pity the Nightingale, and in his heart condemn the Hawk, whose cruel prudence affords the les- son? Instruction, in the strong language of eastern metaphors, is called, ‘a iight to our paths.” The fables of Pagan mythologists may, there- fore, be considered as a cluster of stars of the first magnitude, which, though they shine with a distinct influence, may be taken as one con- stellation: but, like stars, they only break the obscurity of night; they do not diffuse round us the splendours of day: it is by the Sun of Righteousness a.one, that we discover com- pletely our duty and our interest, and behold that pattern of Divine Perfection which the * THE ADVENTURER. and indeed the general character of , [No. 19. Christian aspires to imitate, by ‘‘ forgiving in- juries, and returning good for evil.’’ By many of the fables which are still retained in our collections, revenge is encouraged as a principle, and inculeated as a practice. The Hare triumphs in the destruction of the Sparrow who had insulted him, and the Thunny, in his last agonies, rejoices at the death of the Dolphin, whose pursuit had driven him upon a rock.” These, if they will not admit of another turn, should without question be omitted; for the mischievous effect of the fable will be remem- bered as an example that justifies the violence of sudden resentment, and cannot be prevented by a laboured comment, which is never read but as a task, and therefore immediately forgotten. I think many others may be greatly im- proved; the practice of virtue may be urged from higher motives, the sentiments may be elevated, and the precepts in general rendered more striking and comprehensive. I shall conclude this paper with the fable of the Dog and Shadow; which, as it is commonly told, censures no quality but greediness, and only illustrates the trite proverb, ‘ All covet, all lose.” | «“ A dog, who was crossing a rivulet with a piece of flesh in his mouth, perceived his shadow in the water, which he mistook for an- other dog with another piece of flesh. To this he knew he had no right; and yet he could not for- bear catching at it: but instead of getting a new prize, he dropped that which he possessed into the water. He saw the smooth surface, break into many waves, and the dog whom he had at- tempted to injure disappear: he perceived at onve, his loss, his folly, and his fault; and, in the anguish of regret, cried out, ‘ How righteous and how wise are the gods! since whatever seduces to evil, though but a shadow, becomes the in-| strument of punishment.’ ”’ | VVVRTVUVRTGVTVTVUTVUSGCSBE TSE BB LCUTVVTSETETEVEDUETU TUTE SS | No. 19.] Tuxrspay, JAN. 9, 1753. Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. _ Hon. The monstrous tale, incredulous I hate. f THE repeated encomiums on sis performances of the Animal Comedians, exhibited at Mrs. | Midnight’s oratory, induced me the other even-| ing to be present at her entertainment. I was, astonished at the sagacity of the monkeys ; and was no less amazed at the activity of the other. quadrupeds ;—I should have rather said, from a view of their extraordinary elevations, bi- peds. | _ of persons of quality at their own houses. No. 19.]} It is a peculiar happiness to me, asan Adven- turer, that I sally forth in an age, which emu- lates those heroic times of old, when nothing was pleasing but what was unnatural. ‘Thou- sands have gaped at a wire-dancer daring to do what no one else would attempt ; and thousands still gape at greater extravagances in pantomime entertainments. Every street teems with in- eredibilities: and if the great mob have their little theatre in the Hay-market, the small yul- gar can boast their cheaper diversions in two enormous bears, that jauntily trip it to the light tune of a Caledonian jig. The amazing docility of these heavy animals made me at first imagine, that they had been placed under the tuition of certain artists, who by their advertisements profess to instruct “ Grown gentlemen in the modern way of foot- ing ;” but I have been since informed, that the method of teaching them this modern way of footing was, by placing red hot iron plates al- -ternately under each hind leg, and in quicker or ' slower succession, as the variations of the tune required. That the intellectual faculties of brutes may be exerted beyond the narrow limits which we have hitherto proudly assigned to their capaci- ties, I saw a sufficient proof in Mrs. Midnight’s dogs and monkeys. Man differs less from beasts in general, than these seem to approach to man in rationality. But while I applaud their ex- alted genius, I am in pain for the rest of their kindred, both of the Canine and Cercopithecan ‘species. The price of morikeys has been con- siderakly raised since the appearance of Signior ‘Ballard’s Cavaliers: and I hear, that this ini- mitable preceptor gives lectures to the monkeys Lady Bridget has destroyed three sets of china in teaching her Pug to hand about the cups, and sip tea with the air of Beau Blossom; and Miss Fanny has been labouring incessantly to qualify her dear pretty creature to make one at the _ brag: table. But as these animals are of foreign extraction, I must confess my concern is yet greater for my fellow-natives. English liberty should be uni- versal as the sun; and I am jealous even for the prerogative of our dogs. Lady Bright’s lap- dog, that used to repose on downy cushions, or the softer bosom of its mistress, is now’ worried every hour with begging on its diminutive hind- legs, and endeavouring to leap over fan-sticks ; Captain Storm’s little grey-hound is made to ape the fierce fellows of the cockade in a red coat and a sword; whilst Mrs. Fanciful’s Chloe is swathed up in a long sack, and sinking ‘beneath the weight of an encrmous hoop. Every boarding-house romp and wanton school boy is employed in perverting the end of the canine creation; and I wish the prevalence of Mrs. Midnight’s example may not extend so THE ADVENTURER. 39 far, that hounds shall be no longer broke to the field-service, but instructed only to climb up ladders, and troll wheel-barrows. After what has been said, I shall make no apology for printing the following letter, as it was elegantly done in English at Stockholm, and transmitted to me by the publisher of the Swede-Landte Magatzine, an ingenious gentle- man, who has done me the honour of inserting several of my lucubrations in his most compre- hensive monthly undertaking. To Mr , the grand Adventurer, in - Britain. “ Most learned Sir, My worthy good friend Isaac Gilderstein, booke merchant, having engaged to further this to your excellency, I most humbly request, that you would make known to your polite, &c. &c. &c. nation, that I intend shortly to come over, and to entertain you ina new and most inimitable manner. ** Seeing that the Chien Savant, and other most amazing learned animals, have met with so gracious a reception in your grand city; I propose to exhibit unto your good nation a con- cert of vocal and instrumental music, to be per- formed by animals only ; and afterwards to en- tertain you with several grand feats of activity ; as also with the balance and the dance. «¢ My performers of instrumental music, great Sir, will consist of a select number of Italian cats, for the violin, violincello, and bass-viol; a German ass for the kettle-drum: and a com- plete set of Spanish hogs of different age and tone of voice for the organ concertos. “ But my vast labour was to procure harmo- nious voices, and to confine them to proper time and measure. I have taught some of your English mastiffs to bark in bass and some Guinea-pigs to squeak in treble: my cats also join in the vocal parts. I contrived divers means of deaths for swans; but though the Ancients are so full of praises on their expiring melody, I could not get a single note from them, better than the squall of a goose. However, ] shall have a most charming grand chorus of Frogs from the fens of Holland: the words, profound Sir, you too well know, Aristophanes has finished to my hand in Greek Beexexexté zouk xontE—Wwhich a Leyden professor translated for me, Brekekekex koax koax. Besides these, I shall present you with a duet in recitativo, between a parrot and a magpye. ‘¢ My entertainments of dancing, and the like, will consist of a company of Norway rats, who are to move in a coranto, while my cats fiddle to them. A fox will dance a minuet with a goose; and a greyhound the rigadoon with a hare.. I have trained up an elephant who will perform several tricks in what you 40 call the slight of hand; he will tumble with a castle on his back, and show several balances upon the slack-rope with his trunk. Many other surprising feats will my animals perform, too tedious to mention in this address; and, there- fore, great Adventurer, I shall trouble your tired patience with the mentioning of one only. I have instructed the tamest of my cats to open her jaws at the word of command, into which I put a bit of toasted cheese, and the least of my mice jumps in and nibbles the bait: at that in- stant my cat closes her mouth upon him ; after which, to the great astonishment of all behold- ers, my cat opens her jaws again, and the mouse leaps out alive upon the stage; and then they both present the good company with a jig. «¢ As I am determined my whole theatre shall consist of only animal performers, I must ac- quaint you likewise, that [ am teaching two squirrels to sweep the stage with their tails ; and if it be allowed me to call in assistance from fishes, I shall not despair of being able, though it will require much time and practice, to make a lobster snuff the candles with his claw. «‘ Other particulars, most worthy Sir, I shall beg leave to defer, till I have the extreme hon- our of kissing your hands in England; and am, «¢ Most reverend and respectable patron, With the profoundest humiliation, Your devoted slave and servant, Gustavus GoorENRUYSCHE.” A. RLV VV TE VWSVWS DBDEVTVVEVVVL VTS SVUTTVUS TSEVEVSEVTVSETT VS No. 20.] Sarurpay, Jan. 13, 1753. -—-Quid violentius aure tyranni. Juv. Rough truth soon irritates a tyran<’s ear. By which of the Indian sages of antiquity the following story was written, or whether the people of the east have any remote tradition upon which it is founded, is not known: but it was probably related in the first person, to give it an air of greater dignity, and render its in- fluence more powerful: nor would it, perhaps, appear altogether incredible, to people among whom the Metempsychosis is an article of faith, and the visible agency of superior beings ad- mitted without scruple. Amurath, Sultan of the east, the judge of na- tions, the disciple of adversity, records the won- ders of his life: let those who presumptuously question the ways of providence, blush in si- lence and be wise; let the proud be humble and obtain honour ; and let the sensual reform and be happy. The angel of death closed the eyes of the sultan Abradin my father, and his empire THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 20. i descended to me in the eighteenth year of my age. At first my mind was awed to hu- mility, and softened with grief ; I was insensi- ble to the splendour of dominion, I heard the addresses of flattery with disgust, and received the homage of dependent greatness with indif- ference. I had always regarded my father not only with love but reverence ; and I was now per- petually recollecting instances of his tenderness, and reviewing the solemn scene, in which he recommended me to Heaven in imperfect lan- guage, and grasped my hand in the agonies of death. One evening, after having concealed myself all day in his chamber, I visited his grave: I prostrated myself on his tomb: sorrow over- flowed my eyes, and devotion kindled in my bosom. I felt myself suddenly smitten on the shoulder as with a rod: and looking up, I per- ceived a man whose eyes were piercing as light, and his beard whiter than snow. ‘ I am,’’ said he, “ the genius Syndarac, the friend of thy fa- ther Abradin, who was the fear of his enemies, and the desire of his people; whose smile dif- fused gladness like the lustre of the morning, and whose frown was dreadful as the gathering of a tempest: resign thyself to my influence, and thou shalt be like him.’’ I bowed myself to the earth in token of gratitude and obedi- ence, and he put a ring on the middle finger of my left hand, in which I perceived a ruby of a. deep colour and uncommon brightness. ‘“ T. his. ring,’ said he, ‘shall mark out to thee the boundaries of good and evil; that without: weighing remote consequences, thou may’st know | the nature and tendency of every action. Be attentive, therefore, to the silent admonition; and when the circle of gold shall by a sudden contraction press thy finger, and the ruby shall grow pale, desist immediately from what thou | shalt be doing, and mark down that action in thy memory as a transgression of the rule of right: keep my gift a pledge of happiness and honour, and take it not off for a moment.” I received the ring with a sense of obligation which I strove to express, and an astonishment that compelled me to be silent. The genius per-) ceived my confusien, and turning from me with a smile of complacency, immediately disap- peared. | During the first moon I was so cautious an¢, circumspect, that the pleasure of reflecting thai, my ring had not once indicated a fault, was lessened by a doubt of its virtue. I applied my: self to public business ; my melancholy decrease¢ as my mind was diverted to other objects; an¢ lest the youth of my court should think that re- creation was too long suspended, I appointed te hunt the lion. But though I went out to the) sport rather to gratify others than myself, ye! my usual ardour returned to the field; I grew) warm in the pursuit, I continued the chase) No. 20.] which was unsuccessful, too long, and returned fatigued and disappointed. As I entered the seraglio, I was met by a little dog that had been my father’s, who ex- pressed his joy at my return by jumping round me, and endeavouring to reach my hand: but as I was not disposed to receive his caresses, I struck him in the fretfulness of my displeasure so severe a blow with my foot, that I left him scarce power to crawl away and hide himself under a sofa in a corner of the apartment. At this moment I felt the ring press my finger, and looking upon the ruby, I perceived the glow of | its colour abated. I was at first struck with surprise and regret; but surprise and regret quickly gave way to dis- dain. ‘ Shall not the Sultan Amurath,”’ said I, “to whom a thousand kings pay tribute, and in whose hand is the life of nations, shall not Amurath strike a dog that offends him, without being reproached for having transgressed the rule of right?” My ring again pressed my finger, and the ruby became more pale: imme. diately the palace shook with a burst of thunder, and the genius Syndarac again stood before me. ~« Amurath,” said he, “thou hast offended against thy brother of the dust; a being who, like thee, has received from the Almighty a ca- pacity of pleasure and pain; pleasure which caprica is not allowed to suspend, and pain which justice only has a right to inflict. If thou art justified by power, in afflicting inferior beings; I should be justified in afflicting thee: but my power yet spares thee, because it is di- rected by the laws of sovereign goodness, and be- cause thou mayest yet be reclaimed by admoni- tion. But yield not to the impulse of quick re- sentment, nor indulge in cruelty the forward- ness of disgust, lest by the laws of goodness I be compelled to afflict thee; for he that scorns reproof, must be reformed by punishment, or lost for ever.” At the presence of Syndarac I was troubled, and his words covered me with confusion; I fell prostrate at his feet, and heard him pro- nounce with a milder accent, “ Expect not henceforth that I should answer the demands of arrogance, or gratify the security of specula- tion: confide in my friendship, and trust im- plicitly to thy ring.” + As the chase had produced so much infelicity, I did not repeat it: but invited my nobles to a banquet, and entertained them with dancing and | music. I had given leave that all ceremony should be suspended, and that the company should treat me not as a sovereign but an equal, because the conversation would otherwise be encumbered or restrained; and I encouraged others to pleasantry, by indulging the luxuriancy of my own imagination. But though I affected to throw off the trappings of royalty, I had not _ Sufficient magnanimity to despise them. I en- THE ADVENTURER. 41 joyed the voluntary deference which was paid me, and was secretly offended at Alibeg my -visier, who endeavoured to prevail upon the assembly to enjoy the liberty that had been given them, and was himself an example of the con- duct that he recommended. I singled out as the subject of my raillery, the man who alone de- served my approbation ;. he believed my con- descension to be sincere, and imagined that he was securing my favour, by that behaviour which had incurred my displeasure; he was, therefore, grieved and confounded to perceive that I laboured to render him ridiculous and contemptible: I enjoyed his pain, and was elated at my success: but my attention was suddenly called to my ring, and I perceived the ruby change colour. I desisted for a moment ; but some of my courtiers having discovered and seconded my intention, I felt my vanity and my resentment gratified: I endeavoured to wash away the remembrance of my ring with wine; my satire became more bitter, and Alibeg dis- covered yet greater distress. My ring again re- proached me; but I still persevered: the visier was at length roused to his defence ; probably he had discovered and despised my weakness ; his replies were so poignant, that I became out- rageous, and descended from raillery to invec- tive: at length disguising the anguish of his mind with a smile, “ Amurath,”’ said he, “ if the Sultan should know, that after having in- vited your friends to festivity and merriment, you had assumed his authority, and insulted those who were not aware that you disdained to be treated with the familiarity of friendship, you would certainly fall under his displeasure.’’ The severity of this sarcasm, which was extort- ed by long provocation from a man warmed with wine, stung me with intolerable rage: I started up, and spurning him from the table was about to draw my poignard ; when my at- tention was again called to my ring, and I per- ceived with some degree of regret, that the ruby had faded almost to a perfect white. But instead of resolving to be more watch- ful against whatever might bring me under thi silent reproof, I comforted myself, that the genius would no more alarm me with his pre- sence. The irregularities of my conduct in- creased almost imperceptibly, and the intima- tions of my ring became proportionably more frequent though less forcible, till at last they were so familiar, that I scarce remarked when they were given and when, they were sus- pended. It was soon discovered that I was pleased with servility; servility, therefore, was practised, and I rewarded it sometimes with a pension and sometimes with a place. Thus the government of my kingdoms was left to petty tyrants, who oppressed the people to enrich themselves. In the mean time I filled my seraglio with women, G 42 among whor I abandoned myself to sensuality, without enjoying the pure delight of that love which arises from esteem. But I had not yet stained my hands with blood, nor dared to ridi- cule the laws which I neglected to fulfil. . :.... My resentment against Alibeg, however un- just, was inflexible, and terminated in the most perfect hatred; I degraded him from his office ; but I still kept him at court, that I might em- bitter his life by perpetual indignities, and prac- tise against him new schemes of malevolence, Selima, the daughter of this prince, had been intended by my father for my wife; and the marriage had been delayed only by his death: but the pleasure and the dignity that Alibeg would derive from this alliance, had now changed my purpose. Yet such was the beauty of Selima, that I gazed with desire; and such was her wit, that I listened with delight. I therefore resolved, that I would if possible se- duce her to voluntary prostitution; and that when her beauty should yield to the charm of variety, I would dismiss her with marks of dis- grace. But in this attempt I could not succeed ; my solicitations were rejected, sometimes with tears and sometimes with reproach. I be- came every day more wretched, by seeking to bring calamity upon others ; I considered my disappointment as the triumph of a slave, whom I wished but did not dare to destroy; and I regarded his daughter as the instrument of my dishonour. ‘Thus the tenderness, which before had often shaken my purpose, was weakened ; my desire of beauty became as selfish and as sor- did an appetite as my desire of food: and as I had no hope of obtaining the complete gratifica- tion of my lust and my revenge, I determined to enjoy Selima by force, as the only expedient to alleviate my torment. She resided by my command in an apartment of the seraglio, and I entered her chamber at midnight by a private door of which I had a key ; but with inexpressible vexation [ found it empty. To be thus disappointed in my last at- tempt, at the very moment in which I thought I had insured success, distracted me with rage; and instead of returning to my chamber, and concealing my design, I called for her women. They ran in pale and trembling: I demanded jhe lady: they gazed at me astonished and ter- rified, and then looking upon each other steod silent: I repeated my demand with fury and execration, and to enforce it called aloud for the ministers of death: they then fell prostrate at my feet, and declared with one voice that they knew not where she was; that they had left her, when they were dismissed for the night, sitting on a sofa pensive and alone; and that no person had since to their knowledge passed in or out of her apartment. ; THE ADVENTURER. [No. 21. No. 21.} Tuzspay, JAN. 16, 17528. Si genus humanum et mortalia temnitis arma ; At sperate Deos memores fandi atque nefandi. VirG. Of mortal justice if thou scorn the rod—' Believe and tremble, thou art judged cf God. In this account, however incredible, they per-. sisted without variation; and having filled the palace with alarm and confusion, 1 was obliged to retire without gaining any intelligence by what means I had been bafiled, or on whom to turn my resentment. I reviewed the transac- tions of the night with anguish and regret, and bewildered myself among the innumerable pos- sibilities that might have produced my disap- pointment. I remembered that the windows of Selima’s apartment were open, and I imagin- ed that she might that way have escaped into the gardens of the seraglio. But why should _ she escape who had never been confined? If she | had designed to depart, she might have departed_. by day. Had she an assignation? and did she intend to return, without being known to have been absent? This supposition increased my tor- ment; because, if it was true, Selima had granted to my slave, that which she had refused tome. But as all these conjectures were un- certain, [I determined to make her absence a pretence to destroy her father. In the morning I gave orders that he should be seized, and brought before me; but while I was yet speaking, he entered, and prostrating himself, thus anticipated my accusation: “ May the Sultan Amurath, in whose wrath the angel of — death goes forth, rejoice for ever in the smile of Heaven! Let the wretched Alibeg perish ; but let my lord remember Selima with mercy, let him dismiss the slave in whom he ceases to delight.” I heard no more, but cried out, ‘‘ Darest thou tu mock me with a request, to dismiss the daughter whom thou hast stolen! thou whose life, that has been so often forfeited, I have yet spared! Restore her within one hour, or affront- ed mercy shall give thee up.’ ‘ O!” said he, “let not the mighty sovereign of the East sport with the misery of the weak: if thou hast doomed us to death, let us die together.” Though I was now convinced that Alibeg believed I had confined Selima, and decreed her death, yet I resolved to persist in requiring her at his hands; and therefore dismissed him with a repetition of my command, to produce her within an hour upon pain of death. My ring, which, during this series of events had given perpetual imtimations of guilt which were always disregarded, now pressed my finger No. 215] s0 forcibly, that it gave me great pain, and com- ‘pelled my notice: I immediately retired, and gave way tothe discontent that swelled my bosom. ‘“ How wretcheda slave is Amurath to an invisible tyrant! a being whose malevolence or envy has restrained me in the exercise of my authority asa prince, and whose cunning has contrived perpetually to insult me by intimating that every action of my life is a crime! How long shall I groan under this intolerable oppres-_ sion! This accursed ring is the badge and the instrument of my subjection and dishonour: he who gave it, is now, perhaps, in some remote region of the air ; perhaps, he rolls some planet in its orbit, agitates the southern ocean with a tempest, or shakes some distant region with an earthquake: but wherever he ‘is, he has surely a more important employ than to watch my_ conduct. Perhaps he has contrived this Talis- man, only to restrain me from the enjoyment of ° some good, which he wishes to withhold. I feel that my desires are controlled; and to gratify these desires is to be happy.” As I pronounced these words I drew off the ring, and threw it to the ground with disdain and indig- nation: immediately the air grew dark; a cloud burst in thunder over my head, and the eye of Syndarac was upon me, I stood before him motionless and silent; horror thrilled in my veins and my hair stood upright. I had neither power to deprecate his anger, nor to confess my faults. In his countenance there was a calm severity; and I heard him pro- nounce these words: ‘* Thou hast now, as far as it is in thy power, thrown off humanity and degraded thy being: thy form, therefore, shall no longer conceal thy nature, nor thy example render thy vices contagious.’’ He then touched me with his red; and while the sound of his Voice yet vibrated in my ears, I found myself in the midst of a desert, not in the form of a mun but of a monster, with the fore-parts of my body like a wolf, and the hinder parts like a goat. I was still conscious to every event of my life, and my intellectual powers were continued, though my passions were irritated to frenzy. I now rolled in the sand in an agony not to be described ; and now hastily traversed the desert, impelled only by the vain desire of flying from myself. I now bellowed with rage, and now howled in despair; this moment I breathed execration against the Genius, and the next re- proached myself for having forfeited his friend- ship. _ By this violent agitation of mind and body, the powers of both were soon exhausted: JI crawled into a den which I perceived near me, and immediately sunk down in a state of insen- sibility. I slept. but sleep, instead of prolong- ing, put an end to this interval of quiet. The Genius still terrified me with his presence; I heard his sentence repeated, and felt again all THE ADVENTURER. 43 the horrors of my transformation. When 2 awaked, I was not refreshed: calamity, though it is compelled to admit slumber, can yet exclude rest. But I was now roused by hunger; for hunger like sleep is irresistible. I went out in search of prey; and if I felt any alleviation of misery, beside the hope of satisfying my appetite, it was in the thought of tearing to pieces whatever I should meet, and inflicting some part of the evil which I endur- ed; for though I regretted my punishment, I did not repent of my crimes: and as I imagined Syndarac would now neither mitigate ner in- crease my sufferings, I was not restrained, either by hope or fear, from indulging my disposi- tion to cruelty and revenge. But while I was thus meditating the destruction of others, I trem- bled lest by some stronger savage I should be de- stroyed myself. In the midst of this variety: of torment, I heard the cry of dogs, the trampling of horses, and the shouts of hunters ; and such is the love of life, however wretched, that my heart sunk within me at the sound. To hide myself was impossible, and I was too much enfeebled either to fly or resist. I stood still till they came up. At first they gazed at me with wonder. and doubted whether they should advance: but at length a slave threw a net over me, and I was dragged to the city. I now entered the metropolis of my empire, amidst the noise and tumult of a rabble, who the day before would have hid themselves at my presence. I heard the sound of music at a dis- tance: the heralds approached, and Alibeg was proclaimed in my stead. I was now deserted by the multitude, whose curiosity was diverted by the pomp of the procession ; and was con- ducted to the place where other savages are kept, which custom has considered as part of the regalia. My keeper was a black slave whom I did not remember ever to have seen, and in whom it would indeed have been a fatal presumption to have stood before me. After he had given me food, and the vigour of nature was restored, ho discovered in me such tokens of ferocity, that he suffered me to fast many hours before I was again fed. I was so enraged at this delay, that, forgetting my dependence, I roared horvibly when he again approached me: so that he found it necessary to add blows to hunger, that he might gain such an ascendency over me, as was suitable to his office. By this slave, therefore, I was alternately beaten and famished, till the fierceness of my disposition being suppressed by fear and languor, a milder temper insensib}y stole upon me; and a demeanour that was begun by constraint was continued by habit. I was now treated with less severity, and strove to express something like gratitude, that might encourage my keeper to yet greater kind- 44 THE ADV ness. His yanity was flattered by my submis- sion; and, to show as well his courage as the success of his discipline, he ventured sometimes to caress me in the presence of those whose curiosity brought them to see me. cdients, are equally worthy our admira- tion and applause. Ulysses is driven by a tem- pest to the island of the Pheacians, where he is generously and hospitably received. During a banquet which Alcinous the king has prepared for him, the poet most artfully contrives that the bard Demodocus should sing the destruction of Troy. At the recital of his past labours, and at hearing the names of his old companions, from whom he was now separated, our hero could no longer contain himself, but burst into tears and weeps bitterly. Thecuriosity of Alcinous being excited by this unaccountable sorrow, he entreats Ulysses to discover who he is, and what he has suffered ; which request furnishes a most proper and probable occasion to the hero to relate a long series of adventures in the four following books, an occasion much more natural than that which induces Aineas to communicate his history to Dido. By this judicious conduct, Homer taught his successors the artful manner of en~ tering abruptly into the midst of the action; and of making the reader acquainted with the previous circumstances by a narrative from the hero. The Pheacians, a people fond of strange and amusing tales, resolve to fit out a ship for the distressed hero, as a reward for the enter- tainment he has given them. When he arrives in Ithaca, his absence, his age, and his travels, render him totally unknown to all but his faith- ful dog Argus. he then puts on a disguise, that he may be the better enabled to surprise and to punish, the riotous suitors, and ta, re-establish the tranquillity of his kingdom. ‘The reader 168 THE ADVENTURER. — [No. 84. thinks that Ulysses is frequently on the point of | else beheld at a distance, there appears an even being discovered, particularly when he engages | uniformity: the petty discriminations which in the shooting-match with the suitors, and diversify the natural character, are not discoy-~ when he enters into conversation with Penelope | erable but by a close inspection; we, therefore, in the nineteenth book, and personates a fictitious | find them most at home, because there we have character ; but he is still judicially disappointed, | most opportunities of remarking them. Much and the suspense is kept up as long as possible. | less am I convinced, that this peculiar diversi- And at last, when his nurse Euriclea discovers | fication, if it be real, is the consequence of pecu- him by the scar in his thigh, it is a circum- | liar liberty ; for where is the government to be stance so simple and so natural, that notwith- |found that superintends individuals with so standing Aristotle places these recognitions, by | much vigilance, as not to leave their private signs and tokens, below those that are effected | conduct without restraint? Can it enter into a by reasoning, as in the Gidipus and Iphigenia; | reasonable mind to imagine, that men of every yet ought it ever to be remembered, that Homer | other nation are not equally masters of their was the original from whom this striking | own time or houses with ourselves, and equal-— method of unravelling a fable, by a discovery | ly at liberty to be parsimonious or profuse, and a peripetie, was manifestly borrowed. The | frolic or sullen, abstinent or luxurious? Liberty doubts and fears of Penelope lest Ulysses was | is certainly necessary to the full play of pre- not in reality her husband, and the tenderness | dominant humours; but such liberty is to and endearments that ensue upon her conviction | be found alike under the government of the that he is, render the surprize and satisfaction many or the few, in monarchies or in common- of the reader complete. wealths. Upon the whole, the Odyssey isa poem that | How readily the predominant passion snatches exhibits the finest lessons of morality, the most | an interval of liberty, and how fast it expands entertaining variety of scenes and events, the | itself when the weight of restraint is taken most lively and natural pictures of civil and away, I had lately an opportunity ¢0 discover, domestic life, the truest representation of the | as I took a journey into the country in a stage- manners and customs of antiquity, and the just- | coach; which, as every journey is a kind of est pattern of a legitimate Epopee: aud is, | adventure, may be very properly related to you, therefore, peculiarly useful to those, who are | though I can display no such extraordinary as- animated by the noble ambition of adorning sembly, as Cervantes has collected at Don humanity by living or by writing well. Quixote’s inn. sistolaete { In a stage-coach the passengers are for the f most part wholly unknown to one another, and a en Ta Ares | without expects tianmeaenee meeting again when their journey is at an end; one should there- No. 64.] Sarurpay, Avcust 25, 1758. fore imagine, that it was of little importance to any of them, what conjectures the rest should form concerning him. Yet so it is, that as all Tolle periculum, think themselves secure from detection, all as- Jam vaga prosiliet frenis natura remotis. sume that character of which they are most “ Hor. | desirous, and on no occasion js the general ambition of superiority more apparently in- But take the @mger and the shame away, And vagrant nature bounds upon her prey. FRANCIS. TO THE ADVENTURER. dulged. On the day of our departure, in the twilight of the morning, I ascended the vehicle with three men and two women, my fellow-travel- lers. Jt was easy to observe the affected eleva- tion of mien with which every one entered, and the supercilious civility with which they paid their compliments to each other. When the first ceremony was despatched, we sat silent for a long time, all employed in collecting impor- tance/into our faces, and endeavouring to strike reverence and submission into our companions. It is always observable, that silence propa- gates itself, and that the longer talk has been suspended, the more difficult it is to find any thing to say. We began now to wish for con- versation: but no one seemed inclined to de- scend from his dignity, or first to propose a topic of discourse.. At last a corpulent gentleman, aS Sir, Ir has been observed, 1 think, by Sir William ‘Temple, and after him by almost every other writer, that England affords a greater variety of characters than the rest of the world. This is ascribed to the liberty prevailing amongst us, which gives every man the privilege of being wise or foolish his own way, and preserves him from the necessity of hypocrisy or the servility of imitation. ~ That the position itself is true, I am _ not completely satisfied. To be nearly acquainted with the people of different countries can hap- pen to very few; and in life, as in every thing Ss No. 84.] who had equipped himself for this expedition with a scarlet surtout and a large hat with a broad lace, drew out his watch, looked on it in silence, and then held it dangling at his finger. _ This was, I suppose, understood by all the com- pany as an invitation to ask the time of the dayy. but nobody appeared to heed his overture; and his desire to be talkiny so far overcame his re- sentment, that he let us know of his own accord that it was past five, and that in two hours we should be at breakfast. His condescension was thrown away; we continued all obdurate ; the ladies held up their heads; I amused myself with watching their behaviour ;. and of the other two, one seemed to employ himself in counting the trees as we drove by them, the other drew his hat over his eyes and counterfeited a slumber. The man of bene- volence, to show that he was not depressed by our neglect, hummed a tune, and beat time upon his snuff-box. - Thus universally displeased with one another, and not much delighted with ourselves, we came at last to the little inn appointed for our -repast; and all began at once to recompense themselves’ for the constraint of silence, by in- numerable questions and orders to the people that attended us. At last, what every one had called for was got, or declared impossible to be got at that time, and we were persuaded to sit round the same table; when the gentleman in the red surtout looked again upow his watch, told us that we had half an hour to spare, but he was sorry to see so little merriment among us; that all fellow-travellers were for the time upon the level, and that it was always his way to make himself one of the company. ‘“ I re- member,” says he, “it was on just such a morning as this, that I and my Lord Mumble and the Duke of Tenterden were out upon a ramble: we called at a little house as it might be this; and my landlady, I warrant you, not suspecting to whom she was talking, was so jocular and facetious, and made so many merry answers to our questions, that we were all ready to burst with laughter. man happening to overhear me whisper the duke, and call him by his title, was so surprised and confounded, that we could scarcely get a word from her; and the duke never met me from that day to this, but he talks of the little house, and quarrels with me for terrifying the landlady.” He had scarcely time to congratulate himself on the veneration which this narrative must have procured him from the company, when one of the ladies having reached out for a plate on a distant part of the table, began to remark _ the inconveniences of travelling, and the dif- ficulty which they who never sat at home with- | out a great number of attendants found in per- | forming for themselves such offices as the road THE ADVENTURER. At Jast the good wo- 169 required ; but that people of quality often tra- velled in disguise, and might be generally known from the vulgar by their condescension to poor innkeepers, and the allowance which they made for any defect in their entertainment ; that fo. her part, while people were civil and mean. well, it was never her custom to find fault, for one was not to expect upon a journey all that one enjoyed at one’s own house.” A general emulation seemed now to be ex- cited. One of the men, who had hitherto said nothing, called for the last newspaper; and having perused it a while with deep pensive- ness, ‘‘ It is impossible,” says he, ‘‘ for any man to guess how to act with regard to the stocks: last week it was the general opinion that they would fall; and I sold out twenty thousand pounds in order toa purchase: they have now risen unexpectedly ; and I make no doubt but at my return to London I shall risk thirty thou- sand pounds amengst them again.” A young man, who had hitherto distinguished himself only by the vivacity of his looks, and a frequent diversion of his eyes from one object to another, upon this closed his snuff-box, and told us, that “‘he had a hundred times talked with the chancellor and the judges on the subject of the stocks ; that, for his part, he did not pretend to be well acquainted with the principles upon which they were established, but had always heard them reckoned pernicious to trade, uncer- tain in their produce, and unsolid in their foun- dation ; and that he had been advised by three judges, his most intimate friends, never to ven- ture his money in the funds, but to put it out upon land-security, till he could light upon an estate in his own country.” It might be expected, that upon these glimpses of latent dignity, we should all have begun to look round us with veneration ; and have be- haved like the princes of romance, when the enchantment that disguises them is dissolved, and they discover the dignity of each other: yet it happened, that none of these hints made much impression on the company ; every one was ap- parently suspected of endeavouring to impose false appearances upon the rest; all continued their haughtiness, in hopes to enforce their claims ; and all grew every hour more sullen, because they found their representations of themselves without effect. Thus we travelled on four days with male- volence perpetually increasing, and without any endeavour but to outvie each other in super- ciliousness and neglect ; and when any two of us could separate ourselves for a moment, we vented our indignation at the sauciness of the rest. At length the journey was at an end, and time and chance, that strip off all disguises, have dis- covered, that the intimate of lords and dukes is a pobleman’s butler, who has furnished a shop Z 170 with the money he has saved; the man who deals so largely in the funds, is a clerk of a broker in ’Change-alley.; the lady who so care- fully concealed her quality, keeps a cook-shop behind the Exchange ; and the young man who is so happy in the friendship of the judges, en- grosses and transcribes for bread in a garret of the temple. Of one of the women only I could make no disadvantageous detection, because she had assumed no character, but accommodated herself to the scene before her, without any struggle for distinction or superiority. I could not forbear to reflect on the folly of practising a fraud, which, as the event showed, had been already practised too often to succeed, and by the success of which no advantage could have been obtained ; of assuming a character, which was to end with the day; and of claim- ing upon false pretences honours which must perish with the breath that paid them. But, Mr. Adventurer, let not those who laugh at me and my companions, think this folly confined to a stage-coach. Every man in the journey of life takes the same advantage of the ignorance of his fellow-travellers, disguises himself in counterfeited merit, and hears those praises with complacency which his eonscience reproaches him for accepting. Every man de- ceives himself, while he thinks he is deceiving others; and forgets that the time is at hand when every illusion shall cease, when fictitious excellence shall be torn away, and all must be shown to all in their real state. Iam, Sir, Your humble servant, ig VIATOR. PRVWVEVLTLVWT DLVABVR VB BE VUBUETTTE VETTE TESTS OVTBLTVTVT No. 85.] Tuxrspay, Aucusr 28, 1753. Qui cupit optatam cursu contingere metam, Multa tulit fecitque puer. Hor. The youth, who hopes th’ Olympic prize to gain, All arts must try, and every toil sustain. FRANCIS. Ir is observed by Bacon, that reading makes a full man, conversation a.ready man, and writ- ing an exact man.” As Bacon attained to degrees of knowledge scarcely ever reached by any other man, the di- rections which he gives for study have certainly a just claim to our regard; for who can teach an art with so great authority, as he that has practised it with undisputed success. ‘ Under the protection of so great a name, I shall therefore venture to inculcate to my in- genious contemporaries, the necessity of read- ing, the fitness of consulting other understand- THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 85 ings than their own, and of considering the sen- timents and opinions of those who, however neglected in the present age, had in their own times, and many of them a long time after- wards, such reputation for knowledge and acute- ness, as will scarcely ever be attained by those that despise them. An opinion has of late been, I know not how, propagated among us, that libraries are filled only with useless lumber; that men of parts stand in need of no assistance; and that to spend life in poring upon books, is only to im- bibe prejudices, to obstruct and embarrass the powers of nature, to cultivate memory atthe expense of judgment, and to bury reason under a chaos of undigested learning. Such is the talk of many who think them- selves wise, and of some who are thought wise by others; of whom part probably believe their own tenets, and part may be justly suspected of endeavouring to shelter their ignorance in mul- titudes, and of wishing to destroy that reputa- tion which they have no hopes to share. It will, I believe, be found invariably true, that learning was never decried by any learned man; and what credit can be given to those, who venture to condemn that which pits do not know. If reason has the power ascribed to it by its advocates, if so much is to be discovered by at- tention and meditation, it is hard to believe, that so many millions, equally participating of the bounties of nature with ourselves, have been for ages upon ages meditating in vain: if the wits of the present time expect the regard of posterity, which will then inherit the reason which is now thought superior to instruction, surely, they may allow themselves to be in- structed by the reason of former generations. When, therefore, an author declares, that he has been able to learn nothing from the writings of his predecessors, and such a declaration has _ been Jately made, nothing but a degree of arro- gance unpardonable in the greatest human un- derstanding, can hinder him from perceiving that he is raising prejudices against his own performance; for with what hopes of success can he attempt that in which greater abilities have hitherto miscarried? or with what pecu- liar force does_he suppose himself invigorated, that difficulties hitherto invincible should give way before him ? Of those whom Providence Wiss qualified to. make any addition to human knowledge, the | number is extremely small; and what can be added by each single mind, even of this superior class, is very little: the greatest part of man- kind must owe all their knowledge, and all must owe far the larger part of it, to the infor- mation of others. celebrated authors, to comprehend their systems, and retain their reasonings, is a task more than To understand the works of | No. 85.] leisure or weaker abilities. Persius has justly observed, that knowledge is nothing to him who is not known by others to possess it: to the scholar himself it is nothing with respect either to honour or advantage, for the world cannot reward those qualities which are concealed from it ; with respect to others it is nothing, because it affords no help to ignorance or error. It is with justice, therefore, that in an accom- plished character, Horace unites just senti- ments with the power of expressing them ; and he that has once accumulated learning, is next to consider, how he shall most widely diffuse and most agreeably impart it. A ready man is made by conversation. He that buries himself among his manuscripts “ besprent,’’ as Pope expresses it, “ with learn- ed dust,’” and. wears out his days and nights in perpetual research and solitary meditation, is too apt to lose in his elocution what he adds to his wisdom ; and when he comes into the world to appear overloaded with his own notions, like a man armed with weapons which he cannot wield. He has no facility of inculcating his speculations, of adapting himself to the various degrees of intellect which the accidents of con- versation will present; but will talk to most unintelligibly, and to all unpleasantly. f was once present at the lectures of a pro- found philosopher, a man really skilled in the science which he professed, who having occasion to explain the terms Opacum and Pellucidum, told us, after some hesitation, that Opacum was, as one might say, Opake, and that Pelluci- dum signified Pellucid. Such was the dexterity with which this learned reader facilitated to his auditors the intricacies of science; and so true is it, thata man may know what he cannot teach. Boerhaave complains, that the writers who have treated of chemistry before him, are useless to the greater part of students, because they presuppose their readers to have such degrees of skill as are not often to be found. Into the same are all men apt to fall, who have familiar- ized any subject to themselves in solitude: they discourse, as if they thought every other man had been employed in the same inquiries; and expect that short hints and obscure allusions will produce in others the same train of ideas which they excite in themselves. Nor is this the only inconvenience which the man of study suffers from a recluse life. When he ineets with an opinion that pleases him, he catches it up with eagerness; looks only after such arguments as tend to his confirmation ; or | spares himself the trouble of discussion, and _ adopts it with very little proof; indulges it long THE ADVENTURER. equal to common intellects; and he is by no means to be accounted useless or idle, who has stored his mind with acquired knowledge, and can detail it occasionally to others who have less 171 without suspicion, and in time unites {t to the general body of his knowledge, and treasures it up among incontestable truths: but when he comes into the world among men, who, arguing upon dissimilar principles, have been led to different conclusions, and being placed in various situations, view the same object on many sides ; he finds his darling position attacked, and him- self in no condition to defend it: having thought always in one train, he is in the state of a man who, having fenced always with the same master, is perplexed and amazed by a new posture of his antagonist; he is entangled in unexpected difficulties, he is harassed by sud- den objections, he is unprovided with solutions or replies, his surprise impedes his natural powers of reasoning, his thoughts are scattered and confounded, and he gratifies the pride of airy petulance with an easy victory. It is difficult to imagine, with what obstinacy truths which one mind perceives almost by in- tuition, will be rejected by another; and how many artifices must be practised, to procure admission for the most evident propositions into understandings frightened by their novelty, or hardened against them by accidental prejudice ; it can scarcely be conceived, how frequently in these extemporaneous controversies, the dull will be subtle, and the acute absurd ; how often stupidity will elude the force of argument, by involving itself in its own gloom; and mistaken ingenuity will weave artful fallacies, which rea- son can scarcely find means to disentangle. In these encounters the learning of the recluse usually fails him: nothing but long habit and frequent experiments can confer the power of changing a position into various forms, present- ing it in different points of view, connecting it with known and granted truths, fortifying it with intelligible arguments, and illustrating it by apt similitudes; and he, therefore, that has collect. ed his knowledge in solitude, must learn its application by mixing with mankind. But while the various opportunities of con- versation invite us to try every mode of argu- ment, and every art of recommending our sentiments, we are frequently betrayed to the use of such as are not in themselves strictly defensible ; a man heated in talk, and eager of victory, takes adyantage of the mistakes or ignorance of his adversary, lays hold of con- cessions to which he knows he has no right, and urges proofs likely to prevail on his opponent, though he knows himself that they have no ‘force; thus the severity of reason is relaxed, many topics are accumulated, but without just arrangement or distinction ; we learn to satisfy ourselves with such ratiocinations as silence others ; and seldom recal] toaclose examination, that discourse which has gratified our vanity with victory and applause. Some caution, therefore, must be used, lest 172 copiousness and facility be made less valuable by inaccuracy aud confusion. To fix the thoughts _by writing, and subject them to frequent ex- amination’ and reviews, is the best method of enabling the mind to detect its own sophisms, -and keep it on guard against the fallacies which _it practises on others: in conversation we na- -turally diffuse our thoughts, and in writing we contract them ; method is the excellence of writ- ing, and unconstraint the grace of conversation. THE ADVENTURER. [No. 86. ‘but I now opposed the remonstrances of con- To read, write, and converse in due propor- | tions, is, therefore, the business of a man of letters. For all these there is not often equal opportunity ; excellence, therefore, is not often attainable ; and most men fail in one or other of the ends proposed, and are full without readi- ness, or ready without exactness. Some deficiency must be forgiven all, because all are men: and more must be allowed to pass un- censured in the greater part of the world, be- cause none can confer upon himself abilities, and few have the choice of situations proper for the improvement of those which nature has be- stowed; it is, however, reasonable, to have perfection in our eye; that we may always advance towards it, though we know it never can be reached. PRTVVVVVAVVAWRA VVEVAVUSTE VT TUVVVVVSVVVUTVTSAVVETUETEVUAE VY No. 86.] Sarurpay, Sep. 1, 1753. Concubitu prohibere vago.—— Hor. The wandering wisb of lawless love suppress. FRANCIS. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, To indulge that restless impatience, which every man feels to relate incidents by which the pas- sions have been greatly affected, and communi- cate ideas that have been forcibly impressed, I have given you some account of my life, which without farther apology or intreduction may, perhaps, be favourably received in an Adven- turer. My mother died when I was very young: and my father, who was a naval commander, and had, therefore, no opportunity to superin- tend my conduct, placed me at a grammar school, and afterwards removed me to the uni- versity. At school the uumber of boys was so great, that to regulate our morals was impossi- ble; and at the university even my learning contributed to the dissoluteness of my manners. As I was an only child, my father had always allowed me more money than I knew how to lay out, otherwise than in the gratification of my vices: I had sometimes, indeed, been re- strained by a general sense of right and wrong ; science by the cavils of sophistry: and having learned of some celebrated philosophers, as well ancient as modern, to prove that nothing is good but pleasure, I became a rake upon principle. “My father died in the same year with Queen Anne, a few months before I became of age, and left me a very considerable fortune in the funds. I immediately quitted the university and came to London, which I considered as the great mart of pleasure; and as I could afford to deal large- ly, I wisely determined not to endanger my capital I projected a scheme of life that was most agreeable to my temper, which was rather sedate than volatile, and regulated my expenses with the economy of a philosopher. I found that my favourite appetites might be gratified with greater convenience and less scandal, in pro- portion as my life was more private: instead, therefore, of incumbering myself with a family, I took the first floor of a house which was let into lodgings, hired one servant, and kept a brace of geldings at a livery stable. I constantly frequented the theatres, and found my principles confirmed by almost every piece that was repre- sented, particularly my resolution never to marry. In comedy, indeed, the action termi- nated in marriage: but it was generally the marriage of a rake who gave up his liberty with reluctance, as the only expedient to recover a fortune; and the husband and wife of the drama were wretches whose example justified this re- luctance, and appeared to be exhibited for no other purpose than to warn mankind, that whatever may be presumed by those whom indi- gence has made desperate, to marry is to forfeit the quiet, independence and felicity of life. In this course I had continued twenty years, without having impaired my constitution, les- sened my fortune, or incumbered myself with an illegitimate offspring; when a girl about eighteen, just arrived from the country, was hired as a chambermaid by the person who kept the house in which I lodged; the native beauty _ of health and simplicity in this young creature, had such an eifect upon my imagination, that I practised every art to debauch her, and at length succeeded. 1 found it convenient for her to continue in the house, and, therefore, made no proposal of removing her into lodgings; but after a few months she found herself with child, a discovery which interrupted the indolence of my sensual- ity, and made me repent my indiscretion : how- ever, as I would not incur my own censure by ingratitude or inhumanity, I provided her a lodging and attendants, and she was at length delivered of a daughter. The child I regarded as a new incumbrance; for though I did not consider myself as under parental or conjugal obligations, yet I could not think myself at lib- re No. 86.] . erty wholly to abandon either the mother or the infant. To the mother, indeed, I had still some degree of inclination ; though I should have been heartily content never to have seen her again, if I could at once have been freed from any further trouble about her; but as something was to be done, I was willing to keep her within my reach, at least till she could be subservient to my plea- sure no longer : the child, however, I would have sent away; but she intreated me to let her suckle it, with an importunity which I could not resist. After much thinking, I placed her in a little shop in the suburbs, which I fur- nished, at the expense of about twenty pounds, her stock. with chandlery ware, commodities of which she had some knowledge, as her father was a petty shopkeeper in the country: she reported that her husband had been killed in an engagement at sea, and that his pay, which she had been empowered to receive by his will, had purchased I now thought I had discharged every obligation, as I had enabled her to subsist, at least as well as she could have done by her labour in the station in which I found her; and as often as I had an inclination to see her, I sent for her to a bagnio. But these interviews did not produce the pleasure which I expected: her affection for me was too tender and delicate ; she often wept in spite of all her efforts against it; and could _ not forbear telling me stories of her little girl with the fond prolixity of a mother, when I wished to regard her only as a mistress. These incidents at once touched me with compunction, and quenched the appetite which I had intended to gratify ; my visits, therefore, became less fre- quent: but she never sent after me when I was absent, nor reproached me, otherwise than by _ tears of tenderness when she saw me again. After the first year I wholly neglected her; and having heard nothing of her during the winter, I went to spend the summer in the country. When I returned, I was prompted _Yather by curiosity than desire to make some inquiry after her; and soon learned that she had died some months before of the small pox, that the goods had been seized for rent, and the child taken by the parish. At this account, so sudden and unexpected, I was sensibly touched ; and at first conceived a design to rescue the child from the hands of a parish nurse, and make some little provision for it when. it should be grown up: but this was delayed from day to day, such was the supineness of my dis- position, till the event was remembered with less and less sensibility ; and at length I con- gratulated myself upon my deliverance from an engagement which I had always considered as : resembling in some degree the shackles of matri- - mony. I resolved to incur the same embar- | Yassment no more, and contented myself with _ Strolling from ene prostitute to another, of | in an agony, which not to have seen is not to THE ADVENTURER. | 173 whom I had seen many generations perish ; and the new faces which I once sought among the masks in the pit, I found with less trouble at Cuper’s, Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and innumerable other places of public entertainment, which have appeared during the last twenty years of my life. A few weeks ago I celebrated my sixtieth birth-day with some friends at a tavern; and as I was returning to my lodgings, I saw a hackney coach stop at the door of a house which I knew to be of ill repute, though it was private and of the first class. Just as I came up, a girl stepped out of it, who appeared, by the imper- fect glimpse I caught of her as she passed, to be very young, and extremely beautiful. As I was warm with wine, I followed her in with- out hesitation, and was delighted to find her equally charming upon a nearer view. I des tained the coach, and proposed that we should go to Haddock’s: she hesitated with some ap- pearance of unwillingness and confusion, but at length consented: she soon became more free, and I was not less pleased with her conversa- tion than her person: I observed that she had a softness and modesty in her manner, which is quickly worn off by habitual prostitution. We had drank a bottle of French wine, and were preparing to go to bed, when, to my un- speakable confusion and astonishment, I dis- covered a mark by which I knew her to be my child: for I remembered, that the poor girl, whom I so cruelly seduced and neglected, had once told me with tears in her eyes, that she had imprinted the two letters of my name under her little Nancy’s left breast, which, perhaps, would be the only memorial she would ever have of a father. I was instantly struck with a sense of guilt with which I had not been familiar, and, therefore, felt all its force. ‘The poor wretch, whom I was about to hire for the gratification of a brutal appetite, perceived my disorder with surprise and concern; she inquired with an officious solicitude, what sudden illness had seized me; she took my hand, pressed it, and looked eagerly in my face, still inquisitive what could be done to relieve me. I remained some time torpid: but was soon roused by the reflec- tion, that I was receiving the caresses of my child, whom I had abandoned to the lowest in- famy, to be the slave of drunkenness and lust, and whom I had led to the brink of incest. I suddenly started up; first held her at a dis- tance ; then catching her in my arms, strove to speak, but burst into tears. I saw that she was confounded and terrified ; and as soon as I could recover my speech, I put an end to her doubts by revealing the secret. It is impossible to express the effect it had upon her: she stcod motionless a few minutes ; then clasped her hands together, and looked up 174 conceive. The tears at length started from her eyes ; she recollected herself, called me father, threw herself upon her knees, embracing mine, and plunging a new dagger in my heart by ask- ing my blessing. We sat up together the remainder of the night, which I spent in listening to a story that I may, perhaps, hereafter communicate; and the next day I took lodgings for her about six miles from town. I visit her every day with emotions to which my heart has till now been a stranger, and which are every day more fre- quent and more strong. I propose to retire with her into some remote part of the country, and to atone for the past by the future: but alas! of the future a few years only can remain ; and of the past not a moment can return. What atonement can I make to those, upon whose daughters I have contributed to perpetuate that calamity, from which by miracle I have rescued my own! How can I bear the reflection, that though for my own child I had hitherto ex- pressed less kindness than brutes for their young; yet, perhaps, every other whom [ either hired or seduced to prostitution, had been gazed at in the ardour of parental affection, till tears have started to the eye; had been catched to the bosom with transport, in the prattling simplicity of infancy; had been watched in sickness with anxiety that suspended sleep; had been fed by the toil of industrious poverty, and reared to maturity with hope and fear. What a monster is he, by whom these fears are verified, and this hope deceived! And yet, so dreadful is the force of habitual guilt, I sometimes regret the restraint which is come upon me; I wish to sink again into the slum- ber from which I have been roused, and to re- peat the crimes which I abhor. My heart is this moment bursting for utterance: but I want words. Farewell. AGAMUS. BSDVCTUSV VV VV VVULAVCIVTVVEVSE VIVA VVVSIEVTTTSVWTVWTVVWVLVSIETSVTVSA Ne 87. ] Tuerspay, Sept. 4, 1753. Iracundior est paulo; minus aptus acutis Naribus horum hominum ; rideri possit, eo quod Rusticius tonso toga defiuit, et male laxus In pede calceus heret :—at ingenium ingens Inculto latet hoc sub corpore—— Hor. Your friend is passionate: perhaps unfit For the brisk petulance of modern wit ; Hig hair ill cut, his robe that awkward flows, Or his large shoes, to raillery expose The man, But underneath this rough uncouth disguise, A genius of extensive knowledge lies. FRANCIS. Turrz are many accomplishments, which THE ADVENTURER. [No. 87. though they are comparatively trivial, and may be acquired by small abilities, are yet of great importance in our common intercourse with men. which is called good breeding ; a name by which, as an artificial excellence, it is at once character- ised and recommended. Of this kind is that general courtesy — Good breeding, as it is generally employed in | the gratification of vanity, a passion almost uni-— versally predominant, is more highly prized by | the majority than any other; and he who wants it, though he may be preserved from con- tempt by incontestible superiority either of virtue or of parts, will yet be regarded with malevolence, and avoided as an enemy wit | whom it is dangerous to combat. In some instances, indeed, the enmity of others cannot be avoided without the participa- tion of guilt; but then it is the enmity of those, with whom neither virtue nor wisdom can de- sire to associate: and good-breeding may gene- rally be practised upon more easy and more honourable terms, than acquiescence in the de- traction of malice or the adulation of servility, the obscenity of a lecher or the blasphemy of an infidel. Disagreeable truths may be sup- pressed ; and when they can be suppressed without guilt, they cannot innocently be utter-_ ed; the boast of vanity may be suffered without severe reprehension, and the prattle of absurdity may be heard without expressions of contempt. It happens, indeed, somewhat unfortunately, that the practice of good-breeding, however ne- cessary, is obstructed by the possession of more — valuable talents: and that great integrity, delicacy, sensibility, and spirit, exalted genius, aud extensive learning, frequently render men ill-bred. Petrarch relates, that his admirable friend and contemporary, Dante Aligheri, one of the most exalted and original geniuses that ever appeared, being banished his country, and hay- ing retired to the court of a prince which was then the sanctuary of the unfortunate, was held at first in great esteem ; but became daily less acceptable to his patron, by the severity of his manners, and the freedom of his speech. There were at the same court many players and buf- foons, gamesters and debauchees, one of whom, distinguished by his impudence, ribaldry, and obscenity, was greatly caressed: by the rest; which the prince suspecting Dante not to be — pleased with, ordered the man to be brought before him, and having highly extolled him, turned to Dante, and said, ‘‘ I wonder that this person, who is by some deemed a fool, and by others a madman, should yet be so generally pleasing, and so generally beloved; when you, who are celebrated for wisdom, are yet heard without pleasure, and commended without — friendship.” ‘* You would cease to wonder,” replied Dante, ‘‘ if you considered, that a con- No. 88.1 formity of character is the source of friendsbip.”’ This sarcasm, which had all the force of truth, and all the keenness of wit, was intolerable; and Dante was immediately disgraced and ban- ished. But by this answer, though the indignation which produced it was founded on virtue, Dante probably gratified his own vanity, as much as he mortified that of others: it was the petulant reproach of resentment and pride, which is always retorted with rage; and not the still voice of reason, which is heard with complacency and reverence: if Dante intended reformation, his answer was not wise; if he did not intend reformation, his answer was not good. Great delicacy, sensibility, and penetration, do not less obstruct the practice of good-breed- ing than integrity. Persons thus qualified, not only discover proportionably more faults and failings in the characters which they examine, but are more disgusted with the faults and fail- ings which they discover; the common topics of conversation are too trivial to engage their attention; the various turns of fortune that have lately happened at a game at whist, the history of a ball at Tunbridge, or Bath, a de- scription of Lady Fanny’s jewels and Lady -Kitty’s vapours, the journals of a horse-race or a cock-match, and disquisitions on the game-act or the scarcity of partridges, are subjects upon which men of delicate taste do not always choose to declaim, and on which they cannot patiently hear the declamation of others. But they should remember, that their impatience is the impo- tence of reason and the prevalence of vanity ; that if they sit silent and reserved, wrapped up in the contemplation of their own dignity, they will in their turn be despised and hated by those whom they hate and despise; and with better reason, for perverted power ought to be more odious than debility. To hear with patience, and to answer with civility, seems to compre- hend all the good-breeding of conversation ; and in proportion as this is easy, silence and inat- tention are without excuse. He, who does not practice good breeding, will not find himself considered as the object of good-breeding by others. There is, however, a species of rusticity, which it is not less absurd than injurious to treat with contempt: this species of ill-breeding is become almost prover- bially the characteristic of a scholar ; nor should it be expected, that he who is deeply attentive to an abstruse science, or who employs any of the three great faculties of the soul, the me- mory, the imagination, or the Judgment, in the close pursuit of their several objects, should have studied punctilios of form and ceremony, and be equally able to shine at a route and in the schools. That the bow of a chronologer, and the compliment of an astronomer, should be THE ADVENTURER. 175 improper or uncouth, cannot be thought strange to those, who duly consider the narrowness of our faculties, and the impossibility of attaining universal excellence. Equally excusable, for the same reasons, are that absence of mind, and that forgetfulness of place and person, to which scholars are so fre- quently subject. When Lewis XIV. was one day Jamenting the death of an old comedian whom he highly extolled, ‘‘ Yes,”’ replied Boi- leau, in the presence of Madam Maintenon, ‘he performed tolerably well in the despicable pieces of Scarron, which are now deservedly forgotten even in the provinces.” As every condition of life, and every turn of | mind, has some peculiar temptation and pro- pensity to evil, let not the man of uprightness and honesty be morose and surly in his practice of virtue ; let not him, whose delicacy and pene- tration discern with disgust those imperfections in others from which he himself is not free, in- dulge perpetual peevishness and discontent ; nor let learning and knowledge be pleaded as an excuse for not condescending to the common offices and duties of civil life; for as no man should be well-bred, at the expense of his vir- tue ; no man should practice virtue, so as to de- ter others from imitation. WU VBWWVUCVVSV WR WD DT VUVUT VV LVS VTUSTVVVSEVVTVIETSVsewssws ses No. 88.] Sarurpay, Serr. 8, 1753. —--—— Semperque relingué Sola sibi, semper longam incomitata videtur fre viam.—— ViRG,. She seems alone, To wander in her sleep, through ways unknown, Guileless and dark,———— DRYDEN. Newton, whose power of investigating nature few will deny to have been superior to their own, confesses, that he cannot account for gravity, the first principle of his system, as a property communicable to matter; or conceive the phenomena supposed to be the effects of such a principle, to be otherwise produced, than by the immediate and perpetual influence of the Almighty: and, perhaps, those who most at- tentively consider the phenomena of the moral and natural world, will be most inclined to ad- mit the agency of invisible beings. In dreams, the mind appears to be whoily passive ; for dreams are so far from being the effect of a voluntary effort, that we neither know of what we shall dream, nor whether we shall dream at all. The human mind does not, indeed, appear to have any power equal to such an effect; for the ideas conceived in dreams without the interven- tion of sensible objects, are much more perfect 176 and strong than can be formed at other times by the utmost effort of the most lively imagina- tion: and it can scarce be supposed; that the mind is more vigorous when we sleep, than when we are awake ; especially if it be true, as I have before remarked, that “in sleep the power of memory is wholly suspended, and the understanding is employed only about such ob- jects as present themselves, without comparing the past with the present ;”” except we judge of the soul by a maxim which some deep philoso- phers have held concerning horses, that, when the tail is cut off, the rest of the members be- come more strong. In lunacy, as in dreams, ideas are conceived which material objects do not excite; and which the force of imagination, exerted by a voluntary effort, cannot form ; but the mind of the lunatic, besides being impressed by the images of things that do not fall under the cognizance of his senses, is prevented from receiving correspond- ing images from those that do. When the visionary monarch looks round upon his clothes which he has decorated with the spoils of his bed, his mind does not conceive the ideas of rags and straw, but of velvet, embroidery, and gold ; and when he gazes at the bounds of his cell, the image impressed upon his mind is not that of a naked wall which incloses an area of ten feet square; but of wainscot, and painting, and tapestry, the bounds of a spacious apartment adorned with magnificent furniture, and crowd- ed with splendid dependents. Of the lunatic it is also universally true, that his understanding is perverted to evils, which a mere perversion of the understanding does not necessarily imply; he either sits torpid in de- spair, or is busied in the contrivance or the exe- cution of mischief. But if lunacy is ultimately produced by mere material causes, it is difficult to show, why misery or malevolence should always be complicated with absurdity; why madness should not sometimes produce instances of frantic and extravagant kindness, of a bene- volent purpose formed upon erroneous princi- ples and pursued by ridiculous means, and of an honest and harmless cheerfulness arising from the fancied felicity of others, A lunatic is indeed sometimes merry, but the merry lunatic is never kind : his sport is always mischief; and mischief is rather aggravated than atoned by wantonness ; his disposition is always evil in proportion to the height of his phrenzy; and upon this occasion it may be remarked, that if every approach to madness is a deviation to ill, every deviation to ill may be considered as an approach to madness. Among other unaccountable phenomena in lunacy, is the invincible absurdity of opinion with respect te some single object, while the mind operates with its full vigour upon every other: it sometimes happens, that when this THE ADVENTURER. [No. 88. object is presented to the mind, reason is thrown quite out of her seat, and the perversion of the understanding for a time becomes general ;~but > sometimes it still continues to be perverted but in part, and the absurdity itself is defended with — all the force of regular argumentation. A most extraordinary instance of this kind may now be communicated to the public without — injury to a good man, or a good cause which he — successfully maintained. Mr. Simon Browne, a dissenting teacher of exemplary life and eminent intellectual abilities, after having been some time seized with melan- choly, desisted from the duties of his function, and could not be persuaded to join in any act of — worship either public or private.* often urged him to account for this change in his: conduct, at which they expressed the utmost His friends | grief and astonishment; and after much impor- | tunity he told them, ‘that he had fallen under the sensible displeasure of God, who had caused his rational soul gradually to perish, and left him only an animal life in common with brutes, that it was therefore profane for him to pray, and incongruous to be present at the prayers. of others.” In this opinion, however absurd, he was in- flexible, at a time when al] the powers of his mind subsisted in their full vigour, when his conceptions were clear, and his reasoning strong. Being once importuned to say grace at. the table of a friend, he excused himself many times; but the request being still repeated, and the company kept standing, he discovered evi- dent tokens of distress, and after some irresolute gestures and hesitation, expressed with great fervour this ejaculation, ‘* Most merciful and almighty God, let thy Spirit, which moved upon the face of the waters when there was no light, | descend upon me; that from this darkness them may rise up a man to praise thee!” But the most astonishing proof both of his | intellectual excellence and defect, is, “ A De- fence of the Religion of Nature and the Christian Revelation, in answer to Tindal’s | 2? Christianity as old as the Creation, dedication of it to the late queen. and his | The book is | universally allowed to be the best which that — controversy produced, and the dedication is as follows ; «© MapAM, ‘“¢ OF all the extraordinary things that have been tendered to your royal hand since your first — happy arrival in Britain, it may be boldly said, | what now bespeaks your Majesty’s acceptance is the chief. <¢ Not in itself indeed ; it is a trifle unworthy your exalted rank, and what will hardly prove an entertaining amusement to one of your | Majesty’s deep penetration, exact judgment, and fine taste. No. 89.] - “But on account of the author, who fs the first being of the kind, and yet without a name. ‘‘ He was once a man; and of some little name ; but of no worth, as his present unparal- leled case makes but too manifest; for by the immediate hand of an avenging God, his very thinking substance has for more than seven years been continually wasting away, till it is wholly perished out of him, if it be not utterly come to nothing. None, no not the least remembrance of its very ruins, remains, not the shadow of an idea is left, nor any sense that, so much as one single one, perfect or imperfect, whole or diminished, ever did appear to a mind within him, or was perceived by it. “* Such a present from such a thing, however worthless in itself, may not be wholly unaccept- able to your majesty, the author being such as history cannot parallel: and if the fact, which is real and no fiction, nor wrong conceit, obtains credit, it must be recorded as the most memor- able, and indeed astonishing event in the reign of George the Second, that a tract composed by such a thing was presented to the illustrious Caroline; his royal consort need not be added ; fame, if I am not misinformed, will tell that with pleasure to all succeeding times. “ He has been informed, that your majesty’s piety is as genuine and eminent, as your excel- lent qualities are great and conspicuous. This can, indeed, be truly known to the great search- er of hearts only ; He alone, who can look into them, can discern if they are sincere, and the main intention corresponds with the appear- THE ADVENTURER. W77 prayers of all the truly devout, who have the honour to .be known to your majesty ; many such doubtless there are ; though courts are not usually the places where the -devout resort, or where devotion reigns. And it is not impro- bable, that multitudes of the pious throughout the land may take a case to heart, that under your majesty’s patronage comes thus recom- mended. “ Could such a favour as this restoration be obtained from Heaven by the prayers of your majesty, with what a transport of gratitude would the recovered being throw himself at your majesty’s feet, and adoring the Divine power and grace, profess himself, Madam, Your Majesty’s most obliged And dutiful Servant.” This dedication, which is no where feeble or absurd, but in the places where the object of his phrenzy was immediately before him, his friends found means to suppress; wisely considering, that a book, to which it should be prefixed, would certainly be condemned without exami- nation; for few would have required stronger evidence of its inutility, than that the author, by his dedication, appeared to be mad. ‘The copy, however, was preserved, and has been transcribed into the blank leaves before one of the books which is now in the library of a friend to this undertaking, who is not less distinguished by his merit than his rank, and who recom- «mended it as a literary curiosity, which was in danger of being lost for want of a repository in ance ; and your majesty cannot take it amiss, if, which it might be preserved. such an author hints, that His tion is of infinitely greater commendation of men, who mistaken, and are too apt superiors. & “ But if he has been told the truth, such a case as his will certainly strike your majesty with astonishment, and may raise that commis- eration in your royal breast which he has in vaiu endeavoured to excite in those of his friends ; who, by the most unreasonable and ill-founded conceit in the world, have imagined that a thinking being could for seven years together secret approba- value than the may be easily to flatter their live a stranger to its own powers, exercises, 1 Operations, and state, and to what the great God has been doing in it and to it. “If your majesty, in your most retired ad- ‘dress to the King of kings, should think of so singular a case, you may, perhaps, make it your devout request, that the reign of your beloved sovereign and consort may be renowned to all posterity by the recovery of a soul now in the utmost ruin, the restoration of one utterly lost at present amongst men. _ “ And should this case affect your royal breast, you will recommend it to the piety and VWUVSP VVVVEVSA VEVVVWVVVAVWs WOVWVWVS BVVVVTVVSVT]VVWTVVVVVA042A No. 89.] Turspay, Serr. 11, 1'753. Precipua tamen ejus in commovenda miseratione virtus, ut quidam in hac eum parte omnibus €jus- dem operis autoribus praferant. QUINT. His great excellence was in moving compassion, with respect to which many give him the first place of all the writers of that kind. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, Iv is usual for scholars to lament, with indis- criminating regret, the devastations committed on ancient libraries, by accident and time, by superstition, ignorance, and gothicism: but the loss is very far from being in all cases equally irreparable, as the want of some kinds of books may be much more easily supplied than that of others. By the interruption that. sometimes happens in the succession of philosophical opi- nions the mind is emancipated from all tradi- Aa 178 tionary systems, recovers its native elasticity which had been benumbed by custom, begins to examine with freedom and fresh vigour, and to follow truth instead of authority. The loss of writings, therefore, in which reasoning is con- cerned, is not, perhaps, so great an evil to man- kind, as of those which describe characters and facts. ' To be deprived of the last books of Livy, of the satires of Archilochus, and the comedies of Menander, is a greater misfortune to the repub- lic of literature, than if the logic and the physics of Aristotle had never descended to posterity. ‘wo of your predecessors, Mr. Adventurer, of great judgment and genius, very justly thought that they should adorn their lucubra- tions by publishing, one of them a fragment of Sappho, and the other an old Grecian hymn to the goddess Health: and, indeed, I conceive it to be a very important use of your paper, to bring into common light those beautiful remains of ancient art, which by their present situation are deprived of that universal admiration they so justly deserve, and are only the secret enjoy- ment of a few curious readers. In imitation, therefore, of the examples I have just men- tioned, I shall send you, for the instruction and entertainment of your readers, a fragment of Simonides and of Menander. Simonides was celebrated by the ancients for the sweetness, correctness and purity of his style, and his irresistible skill in moving the passions. It is a sufficient panegyric that Plato often mentions him with approbation. Diony- sius places him among those polished writers, who excel “ in a smooth volubility, and flow on, like pienteous and perennial rivers, in the course of even and uninterrupted harmony.” It is to this excellent critic that we are in- debted for the preservation of the following passage, the tenderness and elegance of which scarcely need be pointed out to those who have taste and sensibility. Danae, being by her merciless father inclosed in a chest, and thrown into the sea with her child, the poet proceeds thus to relate her distress : "Ore Awevaxs ev Seardarte avenos Besen arveov, sivnberoce de Aspevee Atioers egeiaty ovr adsayraics Tlaegsicess, apegs +8 Ilegoss Bocarc Birayv view, trey 76 Q rexvey, Oley sxw wrovov, ov 3° ceurs yarabrvar Hyroes xvwortis ty erecres Dwpeuri, Kwrntcyougw dt, vxtAcurss, Kuosyew ve dvoge. ov d’, avartcy "Toeebs reav xopcey Babesoy Tlcgsovros mupcros ovum adeyeis Ovd’ avenou GOoyyav, roequere Kesmevos ty xAwvdi, reormmoy xedov, Es 36 ros dtivov vo ye Besvov yy, Kas xtv cua enuaroy rAErroy THE ADVENTURER [ No. 89. "Trtiyss oves. Keropeees, ode Restos, Lderw de wovros, wderw aperocy xLKOM «When the raging wind began to roar, and the waves to beat so violently on the chest as to threaten to overset it, she threw her arm fondly round Perseus, and said, the tears trickling down her cheeks, ‘ O my son, what sorrows do I undergo! But thou art wrapped in a deep slum- ber ; thou sleepest soundly like a sucking child, in this joyless habitation, in this dark and dread- ful night, lighted only by the glimmerings of the moon! Covered with thy purple mantle, thou regardest not the waves that dash around thee, nor the whistling of the winds. O thou beauteous babe! If thou wert sensible of this calamity, thou wouldest bend thy tender ears to my complaints. Sleep on, I beseech thee, O my child! Sleep with him, O ye billows! and sleep likewise my distress !” ” Those who would form a full idea of the de- licacy of the Greeks, should attentively consider the following happy imitation of it, which, I have reason to believe, is not so extensively known or so warmly admired as it ought to be; and which, indeed, far excels the original. The poet, having pathetically painted a great princess taking leave of an affectionate husband on his death-bed, and endeavouring afterwards to comfort her inconsolable family, adds the following particular : His conatibus occwpata, ocetlos Guttis lucidulis adhuc madentes Convertit, puerum sopore vinctum Qua nutria placido sinu fovebat : * Dormis,” inquit, “ O miselle, nec te Vultus exanimes; silentiumque Per longa atria commovent, nec ulio Fratrum tangeris, aut meo dolore ; Nec sentis patre destitutus illo Qui gestans genibusve brachiove,” Aut formans lepidam tuam loguelam, Tecum mille modis ineptiebat. Tu dormis, volitantque qui solebant Risus, in roseis tuis labellis. Dormi, parvule! nec mali dolores Qui matrem cruciant tue quietis Rumpant somnia.—Quando, quando, tales Redibunt oculis meis sopores !? The contrast betwixt the insensibility of the in- fant and the agony of the mother; her obsery- ing ‘that the child is unmoved with what was most likely to affect him, the sorrows of his little brothers, the many mournful counte- nances, and the dismal silence that reigned throughout the court ; the circumstances of the father playing with the child on his knees or in his arms, and teaching him to speak: are such delicate master-strokes of nature and parental tenderness, as show the author is intimately ac- quainted with the human heart, and with those little touches of passion that are best calculated No. 90.] ' to move it. The affectionate wish of “ dormi parvule!’’ is plainly imitated from the frag- _ment of Simonides ; but the sudden exclamation that follows,—‘* when, O when, shall I sleep like this infant !’’ is entirely the property of the author, and worthy of, though not excelled by any of the ancients. It is making the most artful and the most striking use of the slumber of the child, to aggravate and heighten by com- parison the restlessness of the mother’s sorrow ; it is the finest and strongest way of saying, ‘my grief will never cease,”’ that has ever been used. I think it not exaggeration to affirm, that in this little poem are united the pathetic of Euripides and the elegance of Catullus. It affords a judicious example of the manner in which the ancients ought to be imitated; not by using their expressions and epithets, which is the common method, but by catching a por- tion of their spirit, and adapting their images and ways of thinking to new subjects. The generality of those who have proposed Catullus for their pattern, even the best of the modern Latin poets of Italy, seem to think they have accomplished their design, by introducing many florid diminutives, such as, ‘ tenellula, and columbula:” but there isa purity and severity -of stile, a temperate and austere manner in Catullus, which nearly resembles that of his cotemporary Lucretius, and is happily copied by the author of the poem which has produced these reflections. Whenever, therefore, we sit down to compose, we should ask ourselves in the words of Longinus a little altered; “* How would Homer or Plato, Demosthenes or Thu- cydides, have expressed themselves on this occa- sion; allowing for the alteration of our customs, and the different idioms of our respective lan- guages?” ‘This would be following the an- cients, without tamely treading in their foot- steps; this would be making the same glorious use of them that Racine has done of Euripides in his Phedra and Iphigenia, and that Milton has done of the Prometheus of Eschylus in the character of Satan. If you should happen not to lay aside this paper among the refuse of your correspondence, as the offspring of pedantry and a blind fond- ness for antiquity; or rather, if your readers can endure the sight of so much Greek, though ever so attic; I may, perhaps, trouble you again with a few reflections on the character of Menander. Tam, Mr, Adventurer, Yours, Z. PaLoruitus. THE ADVENTURER. 179 No. 90.] Satrurpay, Serr. 15, 1753. Concretam exemit labem, purumque reliquit Aitherium sensum, atque auras simplicis ignem. VIRGIL. By length of time, The scurf is worn away of each committed crime ; No speck is left of their habitual stains, But the pure ether of the soul remains. DRYDEN. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, Norurinc sconer quells the ridiculous triumph of human vanity, than reading those passages of the greatest writers, in which they seem de-. prived of that noble spirit that inspires them in other parts; and where, instead of invention and grandeur, we meet with nothing but flat~ ness and insipidity. The pain I have felt in observing a lofty ge- nius thus sink beneath itself, has often made me wish, that these unworthy stains could be blot- ted from their works, and leave them perfect and immaculate. I went to bed a few nights ago, full of these thoughts, and closed the evening, as I frequent- ly do, with reading a few lines in Virgil. I accidentally opened that part of the sixth book, where Anchises recounts to his son the various methods of purgation which the soul undergees in the next world, to cleanse it from the filth it has contracted by its connection with the body, and to deliver the pure etherial essence from the vicious tincture of mortality. This was so much like my evening’s speculation, that it in- sensibly mixed and incorporated with it, and as soon as I fell asleep, formed itself into the fol- lowing dream. sah I found myself in an instant in the midst of a temple which was built with all that magnifi- cent simplicity that distinguishes the produc- tions of the ancients. At the east end was raised an altar, on each side of which stood a priest, who seemed preparing to sacrifice. On the altar was kindled a fire, from which arose the brightest flame I had ever beheld. ‘The light which it dispensed, though remarkably strong and clear, was not quivering and daz- zling, but steady and uniform, and diffused a purple radiance through the whole edifice, not unlike the first appearance of the morning. While I stood fixed in admiration, my atten- tion was awakened by the blast of a trumpet that shook the whole temple; but it carried a certain sweetness in its sound, which mellowed and tempered the natural shrillness of that instrument. After it had sotnded thrice, the 180 being who blew it, habited according to the description of Fame by the ancients, issued .a proclamation to the following purpose: ‘ By command of Apollo and the Muses, all who have eyer made any pretensions to fame by their writings, are enjoined to sacrifice upon the altar in this temple, those parts of their works, which have hitherto been preserved to their infamy, that their names may descend spotless and unsullied to posterity. For this purpose Aristotle and Longinus are appointed chief priests, who are to see that no improper obla- tions are made, and no proper ones concealed ; and for the more easy performance of this office, they are allowed to choose as their assistants whomsoever they shall think worthy of the “function.” As soon as this proclamation was made, I turned my eyes with inexpressible delight to- wards the two priests; but was soon robbed of the pleasure of locking at them by a crowd of people running up to offer their service. These I found to be a groupe of French critics; but their offers were rejected by both priests with the utmost indignation, and their whole works were thrown on the altar, and reduced to ashes in an inetant. The two priests then looked round, and chose, with a few others, Horace and Quintilian from among the Romans, and Acdison from the English, as their principal assistants. The first who came forward with his offer- ing, by the loftiness of his demeanour was soon discovered to be Homer. He approached the altar with great majesty, and delivered to Lon- ginus those parts of his Odyssey, which have been censured as improbable fictions, and the ridiculous narratives of old age. Longinus was preparing for the sacrifice, but observing that Aristotle did not seem willing to assist him in the office, he returned them to the venerable old bard with great deference, saying, that ‘‘ they were indeed the tales of old age, but it was the old age of Homer.”’ Virgil appeared next, and approached the altar with a modest dignity in his gait and countenance peculiar to himself; and to the surprise of all committed his whole. /Eneid to the flames. But it was immediately rescued by two Romans, whom I found to be ‘Tucea and Varius, who ran with precipitation to the altar, delivered the poem from destruction, and car- ried off the author between them, repeating that glorious boast of about forty lines at the beginning of the third Georgic:: Tentanda via est ; qua me quoque passim Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per ord, Primus ego in patriam mecum, &c. After him most of the Greek and Roman authors proceeded to the altar, and surrendered with great modesty and humility the most faul- THE ADVENTURER. [N oO. 90. ty part of their works. One circumstance was observable, that the sacrifice always increased in proportion as the author had ventured to — deviate from a judicious imitation of Homer. The latter Roman authors, who seemed almost to have lost sight of him, made so large offer- ings, that some of their works, which were before very voluminous, shrunk into the com- pass of a primer. It gave me the highest satisfaction to see Phi- losophy thus cleared from erroneous principles, - History purged of falsehood, Poetry of fustian, and nothing left in each but Genius, Sense, and Truth. I marked with particular attention the seve- ral offerings of the most eminent English wri- ters. Chaucer gave up his obscenity, and then delivered his works to Dryden, to clear them from the rubbish that encumbered them. Dry- den executed his task with great address, ‘“‘and,”’ as Addison says of Virgil in his Geor- ~ gics, “ tossed about his dung with an air of gracefulness:”’ he not only repaired the injuries of time, but threw in a thousand new graces. He then advanced towards the altar himself, and delivered up a large paquet, which contain- ed many plays, and some poems. ‘The paquet had a label affixed to it, which bore this inscrip- tion, “ ‘To Poverty.” Shakspeare carried to the altar a long string | of puns, marked “ The Taste of the Age,” a small parcel of bombast, and a pretty large bun- Notwithstanding the in-' dle of incorrectness. genuous air with which he made this offering, some officiates at the altar accused him of con- cealing certain pieces, and mentioned the Lon- don Prodigal, Sir Thomas Cromwell, The Yorkshire Tragedy, &c. The poet replied, “that as those pieces were unworthy to be preserved, he should see them consumed to ashes with great pleasure: but that he was wholly innocent of their original.’”? The two chief priests interposed in this dispute, and dismissed the poet with many compliments 5 Longinus observing, that the pieces in question could not possibly be his, for that the failings of Shakspeare were like those of Homer, “ whose genius, whenever it subsided, might be compar- ed to the ebbing of the ocean, which left a mark upon its shores, to show to what a height it was sometimes carried.’’ Aristotle concurred in this opinion, and added, “ that although Shakspeare was quite ignorant of that exact economy of the stage, which is so remarkable in the Greek writers, yet the mere strength of | his genius had in many points carried him in- finitely beyond them.” Milton gave up a few errors in his Paradise Lost, and the sacrifice was attended with great decency by Addison. Otway and Rowe threw their comedies upon the altar, and Beaumet and Pletcher the two last acts of many of their No. 91.] pieces. They were followed by Tom Durfey, Etheridge, Wycherley, and several other drama- tic writers, who made such large contributions, that they set the altar in a blaze. Among these I was surprised to see an author with much politeness in his behaviour, and spirit in his countenance, tottering under an un-— wieldy burden. As he approached I discovered him to be Sir John Vanbrugh, and could not but smile, when, on his committing his heavy load to the flames, it proved to be “ His skill in Architecture.” Pope advanced towards Addison, and deliver- ed with great humility those lines written expressly against him, so remarkable for their excellence and their cruelty, repeating this couplet ; *Curst be the verse, how well soe’er it flow, That tends te make one worthy man my foe.” The ingenious critic insisted on his taking them again: “for,’’ said he, “ my associates at the altar, particularly Horace, would never permit a line of so excellent a satirist to be consumed. ‘The many compliments paid me in other parts of your works, amply compensate for this slight indignity. And be assured, that no little pique or misunderstanding shall ever inake me a foe togenius.’’ Pope bowed in some confusion, and promised to substitute a fictitious name at least, which was all that was left in his power. He then retired, after having made a sacrifice of a little packet of Antitheses, and some parts of his translation of Homer. During the course of these oblations, I was charmed with the candour, decency, and judg- ment, with which all the priests discharged their different functions. They behaved with such dignity, that it reminded me of those ages, when the offices of king and priest centred in the same person. Whenever any of the assistants were at a loss in any particular circumstances, they applied to Aristotle, who settled the whole business in an instant. But the reflections which this pleasing scene produced, were soon interrupted by a tumul- tuous noise at a gate of the temple; when suddenly a rude literate multitude rushed in, led by Tindal, Morgan, Chubb, and Boling- broke. ‘The chiefs, whose countenances were impressed with rage which art could not conceal, forced their way to the altar, and amidst the joyful acclamations of their followers threw a large volume into the fire. But the triumph was short, and joy and acclamation gave way to silence and astonishment; the volume lay unhurt in the midst of the fire, and, as the flames played innocently about it, I could discover written in letters of gold, the words, THE BIBLE. At that instant my | €ars were ravished with the sound of more than THE ADVENTURER. 18] mortal music accompanying a hymn sung by invisible beings, of which I well remember the following verses. ‘The words of the Lord are pure words: even as the silver, which in the earth is tried, and purified seven times in the fire. ‘More to be desired are they than fine gold ; yea, than much fine gold; sweeter also than honey, and the honey-comb.”’ The united melody of instruments and voices, which formed a concert so exquisite, that, as Milton says, “it might create a soul under the ribs of death,” threw me into such ecstacies, that I was awakened by their violence. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, &. Criro. PVVV VU SAAR AA TV VVaA se epaVaesse seve eaaVeeseeesgvess No. 91.] | Tuxrspay, Sep. 18, 1753. LS —-~ Facto pius et sceleratus eodem. Ovip. Thus was the father pious to a crime, ADDISON. It is contended by those who reject Christianity, that if revelation had been necessary as a rule of life to mankind, it would have been universal ; and they are, upon this principle, compelled to affirm that only to be a rule of life, which is uni- versally known. But no rule of life is universally known, ex- cept the dictates of conscience. With respect to particular actions, opinion determines whether they are good or ill; and conscience approves or disapproves, in consequence of this determina- tion, whether it be in favour of truth or falsehood. Nor can the errors of conscience be always im- puted to a criminal neglect of inquiry : those, by whom a system of moral truths was discovered through the gloom of paganism, have been con- sidered as prodigies, and regarded by successive ages with astonishment and admiration; and that which immortalized one among many mil- lions, can scarce be thought possible to all, Men do not usually shut their eyes against their immediate interest, however they might be thought to wink against their duty ; and so little does either appear to be discoverable by the light of nature, that where the Divine Prescrip- tion has either been withheld or corrupted, su- perstition has rendered piety cruel, and error has armed virtue against herself; misery has beer cultivated by those who have not incurred guilt; and though all men had been innocent, they might still have been wretched. In the reign of Yamodin the Magnificent, the kingdom of Golconda was depopulated by a pestilence; and after every other attempt to 182 propitiate the gods had failed, it was believed, according to the superstition of the country, that they required the sacrifice of a virgin of: royal blood. It happened that at this time there was no virgin of the royal blood, but Tamira the daughter of Yamodin, whom he had betrothed to one of the princes of his court, intending that he should succeed to the throne; for Yamodin had no son, and he -was not willing that his empire should descend to a woman. Yamodin considered himself not less the fa- ther of his people than of Tamira; and, there- fore, with whatever reluctance, determined to redeem the life of the public with that of the in- dividual. He prostrated himself in the temple, and invoked his principal idol as the fountain of life: ‘‘ From thee,” said he, ‘‘ I have derived my being, and the life which I have propagated is thine: when 1] am about to restore it, let me remember with gratitude, that I possessed it by thy bounty; and let thy mercy accept it as a ransom for my people.” Orders were given for the sacrifice on the next day, and Tamira was permitted to dispose of the interval as she pleased. She received the intimation of her father’s pleasure without much surprise ; because, as she knew the custom of her country, she scarce hoped that the de- mand of her life would have been delayed so long: she fortified herself against the terrors of death, by anticipating the honours that would be paid to her memory ; and had just triumphed over the desire of life, when, upon perceiving her lover enter the apartment, she lost her for- titude in a moment and burst into tears. When they were alone, after his eyes had like hers overflowed with silent sorrow, be took her hand, and with a look of inexpressible anxiety and tenderness, told her, that one expedient was yet left, by which her life might be preserved ; that he had bribed a priest to his interest, by whom the ceremonies of marriage might be im- mediately performed ; that on the morrow, as she would be no longer a virgin, the propitiation of the gods could not be effected by her death; and that her father, though for political pur- poses he might appear to be displeased, would yet secretly rejoice at an event, which, without his concurrence, had delivered him from the dreadful obligation of sacrificing an only child, through whom he hoped to transmit dominion to his posterity. To this proposal Tamira, whose attachment to life was now strengthened by love, and in whose bosom the regret of precluded pleasure had succeeded to the hope of glory, at length consented; but she consented with all the timi- dity, reluctance, and confusion, which are produced by a consciousness of guilt; and the prince himself introduced the man who was to THE ADVENTURER. [[No. 91. his love, with apparent tremour and _ hesita- tion. ca On the morrow, when the priest stood ready at the altar to receive the victim, and the king commanded his daughter to be brought forth, the prince produced her as his wife. Yamodin stood some moments in suspense ; and then dis- missing the assembly, retired to his palace. After having remained about two hours in pri- vate, he sent for the prince. ‘ The gods,”’ said he, ‘¢ though they continue the pestilence, have yet in mercy rescued my people from the op- pression of a tyrant, who appears to consider the life of millions as nothing in competition with the indulgence of his lust, his avarice, or his ambition.’’ Yamodin then commanded him to be put to death, and the sentence was exe cuted the same hour. Tamira now repented in unutterable distress of a crime, by which the pleasures not only of possession but hope were precluded ; her attach-— ment to life was broken, by the very means which she had taken to preserve it; and as an atonement for the forfeit of her virginity, she determined to submit to that law of marriage, from which as a princess only she was exempt- ed, and to throw herself on the pile by which the body of her husband was to be consumed, To this her father consented: their ashes were scattered to the winds, and their names were forbidden to be repeated. If by these events it is evident, that Yamodin discerned no law which would have justified - the preservation of his daughter; and if it is. absurd to suppose his integrity to be vicious, be- cause he had less power and opportunity to ob-— tain knowledge than Plato ; it will follow, that, by whatever rule the oblation of human sacri-, fice may be condemned, the conduct of Yamo- din which would have produced such sacrifice | was morally right, and that of the prince which prevented it was morally wrong; that the con- sent of Tamira to the marriage was vicious, and _ that her suicide was heroic virtue, though in > her marriage she concurred with a general law. of nature, and by her death opposed it: for moral right and wrong are terms that are wholly relative to the agent by whom the action is per- formed, and not to the action itself considered abstractedly ; for abstractedly it can be right or wrong only in a natural sense. It appears, therefore, that revelation is necessary to the establishment even of natural religion, and that it is more rational to suppose it has been vouch- safed in part than not at all. It may, perhaps, be asked, of what use then is conscience as a guide of life, since in these instances it appears not to coincide with the Divine law, but to oppose it; to condemn that which is enjoined, and approve that which is forbidden: but to this question the auswer is s, accomplish the purpose both of his ambition and | easy. No. 92.] The end which conscience approves is always good, though she sometimes mistakes the _means: the end which Yamodin proposed, was deliverance from a pestilence; but he did not nor could know, that this end was not to be obtained by human sacrifice: and the end which conscience condemns is always ill; for the end proposed by the prince was private gain by pub- lic loss. . By conscience, then, all men are re- strained from intentional ill, and directed in their choice of the end though not of the means: it infallibly directs us to avoid guilt, but is not intended to secure us from error; it is not, therefore, either useless as a law to ourselves, nor yet sufficient to regulate our conduct with respect to others; it may sting with remorse, but it cannot chear us with hope. It is by re- velation alone that virtue and happiness are connected: by Revelation, ‘‘ we are led into all truth ;’’ conscience is directed to effect its pur- pose, and repentance is encouraged by the hope of pardon. - If this sun is risen upon our hemi- sphere, let us not consider it only as the object of speculation and inquiry; let us rejoice in its influence, and walk by its light; regarding rather with contempt than indignation, those who are only solicitous to discover, why its ra- diance is not farther diffused ; and wilfully shut their eyes against it, because they see others stumble to whom it has been denied. It is not necessary to inquire, what would be determined at the great tribunal, concerning a heathen who had in every instance obeyed the dictates of conscience, however erroneous; be- cause it will be readily granted, that no such moral perfection was ever found among men: but it is easy to ascertain the fate of those, “‘ who love darkness rather than light, because their deeds are evil ;’’ who violate the law that has been written upon the heart, and reject that which has been offered them from above; who though their sins are as scarlet, cavil at the terms on which they might be white as snow ; and though their iniquities have been multiplied without number, revile the hand that would blot them from the register of Heaven. DEVE CVS VVVRVETVETDST TEV SLT TTVVVESLVVTELCLVTUVeEss No. 92.] Saturpay Szpr. 22, 1753. Cum tabulis animum censoris sumet honesti. Hor. Bold be the critic, zealous to his trust, Like the firm judge inexorably just. TO THE ADVENTURER. i Sr In the papers of criticismwhich you have given THE ADVENTURER. inventor. 183 to the public, I have remarked a spirit of can- | dour and love of truth, equally remote from \ bigotry and captiousness ; a just distribution of _ praise among the ancients and the moderns; a sober deference to reputation long established, without a blind adoration of antiquity; and a willingness to favour later performances, with- out a light or puerile fondness for novelty. I shall, therefore, venture to lay before you, such observations as have risen to my mind in the consideration of Virgil’s pastorals, withvut any inquiry how far my sentiments deviate from established rules or common opinions. If we survey the ten pastorals in a general view, it will be found that Virgil can derive from them very little claim to the praise of an 1 To search into thé antiquity of this kind of poetry, is not my present purpose; that it has long subsisted in the east, the Sacred Writings sufficiently inform us; and we may conjécture, with great probability, that it was sometimes the devotion, and sometimes the entertainment of the generations of mankind. Theocritus united elegance with simplicity ; and taught his shepherds to sing with so much ease and harmony, that his countrymen, de- spairing to excel, forbore to imitate him; and the Greeks, however vain or ambitious, left him in quiet possession of the garlands which the wood-nymphs had bestowed upon him. Virgil, however, taking advantage of another language, ventured to copy or to rival the Sici- lian Bard: he has written with greater splen- dour of diction, and elevation of sentiment: but as the magnificence of his performances was more, the simplicity was less; and, perhaps, where he excels Theocritus, he sometimes ob- tains his superiority by deviating from the pas- toral character, and performing what Theocritus never attempted. Yet, though I would willingly pay to Theo- critus the honour which is always due to an original author, I am far from intending to depreciate Virgil; of whom Horace justly de clares, that the rural muses have appropriated to him their elegance and sweetness, and who, as he copies Theocritus in his design, has re- sembled him likewise in his success; for, if we except Calphurnius, an obscure author of the lower ages, I know not that a single pastoral was written after him by any poet, till the revi- val of literature. But though his general merit has been uni- versally acknowledged, I am far from thinking all the productions of his rural Thalia equally excellent: there is, indeed, in all his pastorals a strain of versification which it is vain to seek in any other poet; but if we except the first and the tenth, they seem liable either wholly or in part to considerable objections. The second, though we should forget the great charge against it, which I am afraid can 184 never be refuted, might, I think, have perished, without any diminution of the praise of its author; for I know not that it contains one affecting sentiment or pleasing description, or one passage that strikes the imagination or awakens the passions. The third contains a contest between. two shepherds, begun with a quarrel of which some particulars might well be spared, carried on with sprightliness and elegance, and terminated at last in a reconciliation: but, surely, whether the invectives with which they attack each other be true or false, they are too much degrad- ed from the dignity of pastoral innocence ; and instead of rejoicing that-they are both victorious, I should not have grieved could they have been both defeated. The poem to Pollio is, indeed, of another kind: it is filled with images at once splendid and pleasing, and is elevated with grandeur of language worthy of the first of Roman poets ; but I am not able to reconcile myself to the disproportion between the performance, and the occasion that produced it: that the golden age should return because Pollio had a son, appears so wild a fiction, that J] am ready to suspect the poet of having written, for some other purpose, what he took this opportunity of producing to the public. The fifth contains a celebration of Daphnis, which has stood to all succeeding ages as the model of pastoral elegies. To deny praise to a performance which so many thousands have laboured to imitate, would be to judge with too little deference for the opinion of mankind: yet whoever shall read it with impartiality, will find that most of the images are of the mythological kind, and, therefore, easily invented ; and that there are few sentiments of rational praise or natural lamentation. In the Silenus he again rises to the dignity of philosophic sentiment and heroic poetry. The address to Varus is eminently beaatiful: but since the compliment paid to Gallus fixes the transaction to his own time, the fiction of Silenus seems injudicious: nor has any suffici- ent reason yet been found, to justify his choice of those fables that make the subject of the song. The seventh exhibits another contest of the tuneful shepherds: and, surely, it is not with- out some reproach to his inventive power, that of ten pastorals Virgil has written two upon the same plan. One of the shepherds now gains an acknowledged victory, but without any apparent superiority: and the reader, when he sees the prize adjudged, is not able to discover how it was deserved. _- Of the eighth pastoral, so little is properly the work of Virgil, that he has no claim to other praise or blame than that of a translator. THE ADVENTURER. B er a [No. 92. Of the ninth, it is scarce possible to discover the design or tendency: it is said, I know not upon what authority, to have been composed from fragments of other poems: and except a few lines in which the author touches upon his own misfortunes, there is nothing that seems appropriated to any time or place, or of which any other use can be discovered than to fill up the poem. The first and the tenth pastorals, whatever be determined of the rest, are sufficient to place their author above the reach of rivalry. The complaint of Gallus disappointed in his love, is full of such sentiments as disappointed love na- turally produces; his wishes are wild, his resentment is tender, and his purposes are inconstant. In the genuine language of des- pair, he soothes himself awhile with the pity that shall be paid him after his death : Tamen cantabitis, Arcades, inquit, Montibus hec vestris: soli cantare periti Arcades. O mihi tum quam molliter ossa quiescant, Vestra meos olim si fistula dicat amores ! Yet, O Arcadian swains, Yet best artificers of soothing strains ! Tune yvur eoft reeds, and teach your rocks my woes So shall my shade in sweeter rest repose. O, that your birth and business had been mine; To feed the flock, and prune the spreading vine ! ‘ WARTON. Discontented with his present condition, and desirous to be any thing but what he is, he wishes himself one of the shepherds. He then catches the idea of rural tranquillity ; but soon discovers how much happier he should be in these happy regions, with Lycoris at his side. _ Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori: Hic nemus ; hic ipso tecum consumerer evo. Nunc insanus amor durime Martis in armis ; Tela inter media, atque adversos detinet hostes. Tu procul a patria (nec sit mihi credere) tantum Alpinas, ah dura nives, et frigore Rheni Me sine sola vides. Ah te ne frigora ledant ! Ah vibi ne tencras glacies secet aspera plantas ! Here cooling fountains roll through flowery meada, Here woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads; Here could I wear my careless life away, And in thy arms insensibly decay. Instead of that, me frantic loye detains ’Mid foes, and dreadful darts, and bloody plains While you—and can my soul the tale believe, Far from your country, lonely wandering leave Me, me your lover, barbarous fugitive! Seek the rough Alps where snows eternal shine, And joyless borders of the frozen Rhine. Ah! may no cold e’er blast my dearest maid, Nor pointed ice thy tender feet invade ! WaARTON. No. 93.] ‘He then turns his thoughts on every side, in quest of something that may solace or amuse him: he proposes happiness to himself, first in one scene and then in another ; and at last finds that nothing will satisfy : Jam neque Hamadryades rursum, nec carmina nobis Ipsa placent: ipse rursum concedite sylve. Non illum nostri possunt mutare labores ; Nec si frigoribus mediis Hebrumque bibamus, Sithoniasque nives hyemis subeamus aquose ; Nec si, cum moriens alta liber aret in ulmo, Aithiopum versemus oves sub sidere Cancri. Omnia vincit amor ; et nos cedamus amori. But now again no more the woodland maids, Nor pastoral songs delight—Farewell, ye shades— No toils of ours the cruel god can change, Though lost in frozen deserts we should range, Though we should drink where chilling Hebrus flows, Endure bleak winter’s blasts, and Thracian snows; Or on hot India’s plains our flocks should feed, Where the perch’d elm declines his sickening head ; Beneath fierce-glowing Cancer’s fiery beams, Far from cool breezes and refreshing streams, Love over all maintains resistless sway, And let us Love’s all-conquering power obey. WaARTON. But notwithstanding the excellence of the tenth pastoral, I cannot forbear to give the pre- ference to the first, which is equally natural and more diversified. The complaint of the shepherd, who saw his old companion at ease in the shade, while himself was driving his little flock he knew not whither, is such as, with va- riation of circumstances, misery always utters at the sight of prosperity : ‘ Nos patria fines, et dulcia linguimus arva ; Nos patriam fugimus: tu, Tityre, lentus in umbra, Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas. We leave our country’s bounds, our much lov’d plains ; We from our country fly, unhappy swains! You, Tit’rus, in the groves at leisure laid, Teach Amaryllis’ name to every shade. WaRTON. His account of the difficulties of his journey gives a very tender image of pastoral distress: En ipse capellas Protenus eger ago: hanc etiam vix, Tityre, duco: Hic inter densas corylos modo namque gemellos, Spem gregis, ah! silice in nuda connixa reliquit. And lo! sad partner of the general care, Weary and faint I drive my goats afar! While scarcely this my leading hand sustains, Tir’d with the way, and recent from her pains ; For ’mid yon tangled hazels as we past, On the bare flints her hapless twin she cast, The hopes and promise of my ruin’d fold ! WARTON. _ The description of Virgil’s happiness in ‘his THE ADVENTURER. 185 little farm, combines almost all the images of rural pleasure; and he, therefore, that can read it with indifference, has no sense of pasto- ral poetry: Fortunate senex, ergo tua rura manebunt, Et tibt magna satis ; quamvis lapis omnia nudus, Limosoque palus obducat pascua junco. Non insueta graves tentabunt pabula fetas, Nec mala vicini pecoris contagia ledent. Fortunate senex, hic inter fiumina nota, Et fontes sacros, frigus captabis opacum. Hinc tibi, que semper vicino ab limite sepes, ‘ Hybleis apibus florem depasta salicti, y Sepi levi somnum suadebit inire susurro. Hinc alta sub rupe canet frondator ad auras ; Nec tamen interea rauce, tua cura, palumbes, Nec gemere aeria cessabit turtur ab ulmo. Happy old man ! then still thy farms restor’d, Enough for thee, shall bless thy frugal board. What though rough stones the naked soil o’erspread, Or mashy bull-rush rear its wat’ry head No foreign food thy teeming ewes shall fear, No touch contagious spread its influence here. Happy old man? here ‘mid th’ accustom’d streams And sacred springs, you’ll shun the scorching beams; While from yon willow-fence, thy pasture’s bound, The bees that suck their flow’ry stores around, Shall sweetly mingle, with the whispering boughs, Their lulling murmurs, and invite repose: While from steep rocks the pruner’s song is heard; Nor the soft-cooing dove, thy fay’rite bird, Meanwhile shall cease to breathe her melting strain, Nor turtles from th’ aerial elm to plain. Warron. It may be observed, that these two poems were produced by events that really happened ; and may therefore be of use to prove, that we can always feel more than we can imagine, and that the most artful fiction must give way to truth. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, wt Dusivs. BABB UBBVUVUVVVTTVVTT DEVTTVUS VA CTUSCUVTE TUG BTETEVLVVWATVA VE No. 93.] Turspay, Serr. 25, 1753. Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet Ut Magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis.‘ Hor. Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains, Can make me feel each passion that he feigns; Enrage, compose, with more than magic art : With. pity, and with terror, tear my heart ; And snatch me o’er the earth, or through the air, To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. POPE. Writers of a mixed character, that abound in transcendent beauties and in gross imperfec- tions, are the most proper and pregnant subjects Bb : 186 for criticism. © The regularity aud correctness of a Virgil or a Horace, almost confine their commentators to perpetual panegyric, and afford them few opportunities of diversifying their re- marks by the detection of latent blemishes. For this reason, I am inclined to think, that a few observations on the writings of Shakspeare will not be deemed useless or unentertaining, be- cause he exhibits more numerous examples of excellences and faults, of every kind, than are, perhaps, to be discovered in any other author. I shall, therefore, from time to time, examine his merit as a poet, without blind admiration, or wanton invective. As Shakspeare is sometimes blameable for the conduct of his fables, which have no unity ; and sometimes for his diction, which is obscure and turgid ; so his chavracteristical excellences may possibly be reduced to these three general heads : ‘“‘ his lively creative imagination ; his strokes of nature and passion; and his preservation of the consistency of his characters.” ‘These excel- lences, particularly the last, are of so much im- portance in the drama, that they amply com- pensate for his transgressions against the rules of time and place, which being of a more me- chanical nature, are often strictly observed by a genius ofthe lowest order ; but to portray char- acters naturally, and to preserve them uniform- ly, requires such an intimate knowledge of the heart of man, and is so rare a portion of felicity, as to have been enjoyed, perhaps, only by two writers, Homer and Shakspeare. Of all the plays of Shakspeare, the Tempest is the most striking instance of his creative power. He has there given the reins to his boundless imagination, and has carried the romantic, the wonderful, and the wild, to the most pleasing extravagance. The scene is a desolate island ; and the characters the most new and singular that can well be conceived ; a prince who prac- tises magic, an attendant spirit, a monster the son of a witch, and a young lady who had been brought to this solitude in her infancy, and had never beheld a man except her father. As I have affirmed that Shakspeare’s chief excellence is the consistency of his characters, I will exemplify the truth of this remark, by pointing out some master-strokes of this nature in tbe drama before us. - The poet artfully acquaints us that Prospero is a magician, by the very first words which his daughter Miranda speaks to him: ° If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them: which intimate, that the tempest described in the preceding scene, was the effect of Prospero’s power. The manner in which he was driven from his dukedom of Milan, and landed after- wards on this solitary island, accompanied only THE ADVENTURER. [No. 93. py his daughter, is immediately introduced in a short and natural narration. . The offices of his attendant spirit, Ariel, are — enumerated with amazing wildness of fancy, and yet with equal propriety: his employment ~ is said to be, —To tread the ooze Of the salt deep ; : To run upon the sharp wind of the north; To do—business in the veins o’ th’ earth, When it is baked with frost ; —to dive into the fire; to ride On the curl’d clouds. In describing the place in which he has con- cealed the Neapolitan ship, Ariel expresses the secrecy of its situation by the following circum- stance, which artfully glances at another of his services ; —In the deep nook, where once ou cal’d me up at midnight, to fetch dew From the still-vext Bermudas. s Ariel, being one of those elves or spirits, “whose pastime is to make midnight -mush- rooms, and who rejoice to listen to the solemn curfew ; by whose assistance Prospero has be- dimmed the sun at noon-tide,”’ And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault, Set rearing war ; has a set of ideas and images peculiar to his station and office; a beauty of the same kind with that which is so justly admired in the Adam of Milton, whose manners and senti- ments are all paradisaical. How delightfully and how suitably to his character are the habi- tations and pastimes of this invisible being pointed out in the following exquisite song! Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie ; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly, After sun set, merrily. x Merrily merrily shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. Mr. Pope, whose imagination has been thought by some the least of his excellences, has, doubtless, conceived and carried on the machinery in his “ Rape of the Lock,”’ with vast exuberance of fancy. The images,customs, and employment of Sylphs, are exactly adapted to their natures, are peculiar and appropriated, are all, if I may be allowed the expression, Sylphish. The enumeration of the punishments they were to undergo, if they neglected their charge, would, on account of its poetry and pro- priety, and especially the mixture of oblique satire, be superior to any circumstances in Shakspeare’s Ariel, if we could suppose Pope No. 94.] to have been unacquainted with the Tempest, when he wrote this part of his accomplished _ poem. She did confine thee Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died, Aud left thee there; where thou didst vent thy As fast as mill-wheels strike. (groans, If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak, And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till Thou’st howl’d away twelve winters. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt haye cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up: urchins Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’d As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging _ Than bees that made them. If thou neglect’st or dost unwillingly Mi _ What I command, Ill rack thee with old cramps ; Fill all thy bones with aches: make thee roar, ' That beasts shall tremble at thy din. Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, Forsakes his post or leaves the Fair at large, Shall feel sharp yengeance soon o’ertake his sins, Be stopp’d in vials, or transfix’d with pins; Or plung’d in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedg’d whole ages in a bodkin’s eye: Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, _ While clogg’d he beats his silken wings in vain ; Or allum styptics with contracting pow’r Shrink his thin essence like a shrivell’d flow’r : Or as Ixion fix’d, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling wheel; In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, _ And tremble at the sea that frothes below! Pore, The method which is taken to induce Ferdi- nand to believe that his fathet was drowned in the late tempest, is exceedingly solemn and striking. He is sitting upon a solitary rock, and weeping over against the place where he imagined his father was wrecked, when he.sud- denly hears with astonishment aerial music _ereep by him upon the waters, and the Spirit ‘gives him the following information in words ‘not proper for any but a Spirit to utter ; Full fathom five thy father lies ; Of his bones are coral iden Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change, Into something rich and strange. And then follows a most lively circumstance ; Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell. Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong-bell ! ‘This is so truly poetical, that one can scarce forbear exclaiming with Ferdinand, — This is no mortal business, nor no sound - That the earth owns ! THE ADVENTURER. SHAKSPEARE. 187 The happy versatility of Shakspeare’s genius enables him to excel in lyric as well as in dra- matic poesy. But the poet rises still higher in his manage- ment of this character of Ariel, by making a moral use of it, that is, I think, incomparable, and the greatest effort of his art. . Ariel informs Pros- pero, that he has fulfilled his orders, and pun- ished his brother and companions so severely, that if he himself was now to behold their suf- ferings, he would greatly compassionate them. To which Prospero answers, —Dost thou think so, Spirit ? Mine would, Sir, were I human, ‘And mine shall. Ariel. Prospero. He then takes occasion, with wonderful dexteri- ty and humanity, to draw an argument from the incorporeality of Ariel, for the justice and necessity of pity and forgiveness: Hast thou which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions ; and shall not myself, Oue of their kiud, that relish all as sharply, Passion’d as they, be kindlier moy’d than thou art? The poet is a more powerful magician than his own Prospero: we are transported into fairy land; we are rapt in a delicious dream, from which it is misery to be disturbed; all around is enchantment ! —~-~——The isle is full of noises, [not. Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt Sometimes a thousand twanging instpuments - Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices ; That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep, Will make me sleep again : and then in dreaming, The clouds, methought, would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me :—when I wak’d, I cried to dream again! Z. VS VVVABE VV VVBUVSVBVVVLSTTUTVTVVVUVITAVC GEV eegevews No. 94.] Sarurpay, Serr. 29, 1753. Monstro quod ipse tibi possis dare. Juv. -—_— What I show, : Thyself may freely on thyself bestow. DRYDEN. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, You “have somewhere discouraged the hope of idleness by showing, that whoever compares the number of those who have possessed for- tuitous advantages and of those who have been disappointed in their expectations, will have little reason to register himself in the lucky catalogue. But as we have seen thousands subscribe to a ) 188 raffle, of which one only could obtain the prize ; so idleness will still presume to hope, if the ad- vantages, however improbable, are admitted to lie within the bounds of possibility. Let the drone, therefore, be told, that if by the error of fortune he obtains the stores of the bee, he can- not enjoy the felicity ; that the honey which is not gathered by industry, will be eaten without relish, if it is not wasted in riot; and that all who become possessed of the immediate object of their hope, without any efforts of their own, will be disappointed of enjoyment. No life can be happy, but that which is spent in the prosecution of some purpose to which our powers are equal, and which we, therefore, pro- secute with success: for this reason it is absurd to dread business, upon pretence that it will leave few intervals to pleasure. Business is that by which industry pursues its purpose, and the purpose of industry is seldom disappointed: he who endeavours to arrive at a certain point, which he perceives himself perpetually to ap- proach, enjoys all the happiness which nature has allotted to those hours, that are not spent in the immediate gratification of appetites by which our own wants are indicated, or of affections by which we are prompted to supply the wants of others. The end proposed by the busy, is vari- . ous as their temper, constitution, habits, and circumstances: but in the labour itself is the enjoyment, whether it be pursued to supply the necessaries or the conveniences of life, whether to cultivate a farm or decorate a palace ; for when the palace is decorated, and the barn filled, the pleasure is at an end, till the object of desire is again placed at a distance, and our powers are again employed to obtain it with apparent success. Nor is the value of life less, than if our enjoyment did not thus consist in anticipation; for by anticipation, the pleasure which would otherwise be contracted within an hour, is diffused through a week; and if the dread which exaggerates future evil, is confessed to be an increase of misery, the hope which magnifies future good cannot be denied to be an accession of happiness. The most numerous class of those who pre- sume to hope for miraculous advantages, is that of gamesters. But by gamesters, I do not mean the gentlemen who stake an estate, against the cunning of those who have none; for I leave the cure of lunatics to the professors of physic : I mean the dissolute and indigent, who in the common phrase put themselves in fortune’s way, and expect from her bounty that which they eagerly desire, and yet believe to be too dearly purchased by diligence and industry; | tradesmen who neglect their business, to squan- der in fashionable follies more than it can pro- duce; and swaggerers who rank themselves with gentlemen, merely because they have no business to pursue. THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 94. | The gamester of this class will appear to he equally wretched, whether his: hope be fulfilled or disappointed ; the object of it depends upon a contingency, over which he has no influence; he pursues no purpose with gradual and percep- tible success, and, therefore, cannot enjoy the pleasure which arises from the anticipation of its accomplishment; his mind is perpetually on the rack; he is anxious in proportion to the eagerness of his desire, and his inability to effect it; to the pangs of suspense, succeed those of disappointment; and a momentary gain only embitters the loss that follows. Such is the life of him who shuns business because he would secure leisure for enjoyment; except it happens, against the odds of a million to one, that a run of success puts him into the possession of a sum sufficient to subsist him in idleness the remain- der of his life: and in this case, the idleness which made him wretched while he waited for the bounty of fortune, will necessarily keep him wretched after it is bestowed ; he will find, that in the gratification of his appetites he can fill but a small portion of his time, and that these appetites themselves are weakened by every at- tempt to increase the enjoyment which they were intended to supply; he will, therefore, either doze away life ina kind of listless indo- lence, which he despairs to exalt into felicity, or he will imagine-that the good he wants is to be obtained by an increase of his wealth, by a larger house, a more splendid equipage, and a more numerous retinue. If with this notion he has again recourse to the altar of fortune, he will either be undeceived by a new series of suc- cess, or he will be reduced to his original indi- gence by the loss of that which he knew not how to enjoy: if this happens, of which there is the highest degree of probability, he will in- stantly become more wretched in proportion as he was rich; though, while he was rich, he was not more happy in proportion as he had been poor. Whatever is won, is reduced by experi- ment to its intrinsic value ; whatever is lost, is heightened by imagination to more. Wealth is no sooner dissipated, than its inanity ic forgot- ten, and it is regretted as the means of happi- ness which it was not found to afford. The gamester, therefore, of whatever class, plays against manifest odds; since that which he wins he discovers to be brass, and that which he loses he values as gold. And it should also be remarked, that in this estimate of his life, I have not supposed him to lose a single stake which he had not first won. But though gaming in general is wisely pro- hibited by the legislature, as productive not only of private but of public evil; yet there is’ one species to which all are sometimes invited, | which equally encourages the hope of idleness, and relaxes the vigour of industry. { Ned Froth, who had been several years hope of a mere possibility, and the next shudder- ten thousand pounds. dream, and asked with a fretful impatience being well received, and an air of forced jocular- No. 95.] ed about four hundred pounds, took a little Fouse in the suburbs, and laid in a stock of liquors for which he paid ready money, and which were, therefore, the best of the kind. Ned perceived his trade increase ; he pursued it with fresh alacrity, he exulted in his success, and the joy of his heart sparkled in his coun- tenance; but it happened that Ned, in the midst of his happiness and prosperity, was pre- vailed upon to buy a lottery ticket. The moment his hope was fixed upon an object which industry could not obtain, he determined to be industrious no longer: to draw drink for a dirty and boisterous rabble, was a slavery to which he now submitted with reluctance, and he longed for the moment in which he should be free: instead of telling his story, and cracking his joke for the entertainment of his customers, he received them with indifference, was observ- ed to be silent and sullen, and amused himself by going three or four times a day to search the register of fortune for the success of his ticket. In this disposition Ned was sitting one morn- ing in the corner of a bench by his fireside, | wholly abstracted in the contemplation of his future fortune; indulging this moment the ing with the dread of losing the felicity which his fancy had combined with the possession of A man well dressed | entered hastily, and inquired for him of his guests, who many times called him aloud by his | name, and cursed him for his deafness and stupidity, before Ned started up as from a what they wanted. An affected confidence of | THE ADVENTURER. butler in a family of distinction, having sav- | ity in the stranger, gave Ned some offence; but the next moment he catched him in his arms in a transport of joy, upon receiving his congratu- lation as proprietor of the fortunate ticket, 4 discovered that ten thousand pounds did not bring the felicity which he expected; a dis- _of sudden affluence by prodigality. Ned drank, clothes ; he bred riots at Wauxhall, treated _flatterers, and damned plays. _ cution of this project, he lost the whole produce _ of his lottery ticket, except five hundred pounds ‘in bank notes, which when he would have _ staked he could not find. | } } i which had that morning been drawn a prize of the first class. It was not, however, long, before Ned covery which generally produces the dissipation and whored, and hired fiddlers, and bought fine But something was still wanting ; and he resolved to strike a bold stroke, and attempt to double the remainder of his prize at play, that he might live ina palace and keep an equipage: but in the exe- This sum was more than that which had established him in the 18% returning to a station that was once the utmost of his ambition, and of renewing that pursuit which alone had made him happy, such was the pungency of his regret, that in the despair of recovering the money which he knew had pro- duced nothing but riot, disease, and vexation, he threw himself from the bridge into the Thames. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, Cautus. RRWVBLVVV7T BPUVVVSV SE CRVVLAWTVOVVTVFEBSETSE VST BT SV TVUVG SD No, 95.] | Tuxspay, Ocr. 2, 1'753. —-Dulcique animos novitate tenebo. Ovip And with sweet novelty your soul detain. Iv is often charged upon writers, that with all their pretentions to genius and discoveries, they do little more than copy one another: and that compositions obtruded upon the world with the pomp of novelty, contain only tedious repetitions of common sentiments, or at best exhibit a transposition of known images, and give a new appearance to truth only by some slight differ- ence of dress and decoration. The allegation of resemblance between au- thors, is indisputably true; but the charge of plagiarism, which is raised upon it, is not to be allowed with equal readiness. A coincidence of sentiment may easily happen without any communication, since there are many cecasions in which all reasonable men will nearly think alike. Writers of all ages have had the same sentiments, because they have in all ages had the same objects of speculation; the interests and passions, the virtues and vices of mankind, have been diversified in different times, only by un- essential and casual varieties; and we must, therefore, expect in the works of all those who attempt to describe them, such a likeness as we find in the pictures of the same person drawn in different periods of his life. It is necessary, therefore, that before an author be charged with plagiarism, one of the most reproachful, though, perhaps, not the most atrocious of literary crimes, the subject on which he treats should be carefully considered. We do not wonder, that historians, relating the same facts, agree in their narration; or that authors, delivering the elements of science, ad- vance the same theorems, and lay down the same definitions: yet it is not wholly without use to mankind, that books are multiplied, and that different authors lay out their labours on the same subject ; for there will always be some reason why one should on particular occasions, or to particular persons, be preferable to another ; | trade he had left:: and yet, with the power of | Some will be clear where others are obscure, 190 some will please by their style and others by their method, some by their embellishments and others by their simplicity, some by closeness and others by diffusion. The same indulgence is to be shown to the writers of morality: right and wrong are im- mutable; and those, therefore, who teach us to distinguish them, if they all teach us right, must agree with another. ‘The relations of so- cial life, and the duties resulting from them, must be the same at all times and in all nations: some petty differences may be, indeed, produc- ed, by forms of government or arbitrary cus- toms; but the general doctrine can receive no alteration. ; Yet it is not to be desired, that morality should be considered as interdicted to all future writers: men will always be tempted to deviate from their duty, and will, therefore, always want a monitor to recall them; and a new book often seizes the attention of the public, without any other claim than that it is new. There is likewise in composition, as in other things, a perpetual vicissitude of fashion; and truth is recommended at one time to regard, by appearances which at another would expose it to neglect; the author, therefore, who has judgment to discern the taste of his contempo- raries, and skill to gratify it, will have always an opportunity to deserve well of mankind, by conveying instruction to them in a grateful ve- hicle. There are likewise many modes of composi- tion, by which a moralist may deserve the name of an original writer; he may familiarise his system by dialogues after the manner of the ancients, or subtilize it into a series of syllogis- tic arguments: he may enforce his doctrine by seriousness and solemnity, or enliven it by sprightliness and gayety; he may deliver his sentiments in naked precepts, or illustrate them by histerical examples; he may detain the stu- dious by the artful concatenation of a continued discourse, or relieve the busy by short strictures, and unconnected essays. To excel in any of these forms of writing, will require a particular cultivation of the ge- nius; whoever can attain to excellence, will be certain to engage a set of readers, whom no other method would have equally allured; and he that communicates truth with success, must be numbered among the first benefactors to mankind. The same observation may be extended like- wise to the passions: their influence is uniform, and their effects nearly the same in every hu- man breast: a man loves and hates, desires and avoids, exactly like his neighbour; resentment and ambition, avarice and indolence, discover themselves by the same symptoms, in minds distant a thousand years from one another. Nothing, therefore, can be more unjust, than THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 95. to charge an author with plagiarism, merely because he assigns to every cause its natural effect; and makes his personages act, as others” in like circumstances have always done. ‘There are conceptions in which all men will agree, though each derives them from his own obser- vation: whoever has been in love, will repre- sent a lover impatient of every idea that inter- rupts his meditations on his mistress, retiring to shades and solitude, that he may muse with- out disturbance on his approaching happiness, or associating himself with some friend that flatters his passion, and talking away the hours of absence upon his darling subject. Whoever has been so unhappy as to have felt the miseries of long continued hatred, will, without any assistance from ancient volumes, be able to re- late how the passions are kept in perpetual agi- tation, by the recollection of injury and medi- tations of revenge; how the blood boils at the name of the enemy, and life is worn away in contrivances of mischief. Every other passion is alike simple and limit- ed, if it be considered only with regard to the breast which it inhabits; the anatomy of the mind, as that of the body, must perpetually exhibit the same appearances; and though by the continued industry of successive inquirers, new movements will be from time to time discovered, they can affect only the minuter parts, and are commonly of more curiosity than importance. It will now be natural to inquire, by what arts are the writers of the present and future ages to attract the notice and favour of man- kind. ‘They are to observe the alterations which time is always making in the modes of life, that they may gratify every generation with a picture of themselves. Thus love ‘is uniform, but courtship is perpetually varying: the different arts of gallantry, which beauty has inspired, would of themselves be sufficient to fill a volume ; sometimes balls and serenades, sometimes tournaments and adventures have been employed to melt the hearts of ladies, who in another century have been sensible of scarce any other merit than that of riches, and listen- ed only to jointures and pin-money. Thus the ambitious man has at all times been eager of wealth and power; but these hopes have been gratified in some countries by supplicating the people, and in others by flattering the prince: honour in some states has been only the reward of military achievements, in others it has been gained by noisy turbulence and popular cla- mours. Avarice has worn a different form, a8 she actuated the usurer of Rome, and the stock- jobber of England ; and idleness itself, how lit- tle soever inclined to the trouble of invention, — has been forced from time to time to change its — amusements, and contrive different methods of wearing out the day. No 96.h . . Here then is the fund, from which those who study mankind may fill their compositions with ‘an inexhaustible variety of images and allu- sions: and he must be confessed to look with little attention upon scenes thus perpetually changing, who cannot catch some of the figures before they are made vulgar by reiterated de- scriptions. It has been discovered by Sir Isaac Newton, that the distinct and primogenial colours are only seven; but every eye can witness, that from various mixtures, in various proportions, infinite diversifications of tints may be pro- duced. mind, which put the world in motion, and pro- duce all the bustle and eagerness of the busy crowds that swarm upon the earth; the pas- sions, from whence arise all the pleasures and pains that we see and hear of, if we analyze the mind of man, are very few; but those few agitated and combined, as external causes shall happen to operate, and modified by prevailing opinions and accidental caprices, make stich frequent alterations on the surface of life, that the show, while we are busied in delineating it, vanishes from the view, and a new set of objects ‘succeeds, doomed to the same shortness of dura- tion with the former: thus curiosity may al- ways find employment, and the busy part of mankind will furnish the contemplative with the materials of speculation to the end of time. The complaint, therefore, that all topics are pre-occupied, is nothing more than the murmur of ignorance or idleness, by which some dis- courage others and some themselves: the muta- ‘Dility of mankind will always furnish writers with new images, and the luxuriance of fancy may always embellish them with new decora- tions. I. PRVVU UV VT WB VS VOEVG VS VSB LE PVVSVCVETTFSRFVEVGEVSEVUYVEIEGD No. 96.]. Saturpay, Ocr. 6, 1753. —Foriunatos nimium, sua si bona norint. Vine. O happy, if ye knew your happy state ! DrypDin. Iy proportion as the enjoyment and infelicity of life depend upon imagination, it is of impor- tance that this power of the mind should be directed in its operations by reason; and, per- haps, imagination is more frequently busy when it can only embitter disappointment and heighten calamity ; and more frequently slumbers when ‘it might increase the triumph of success, or ani- ‘mate insensibility to happiness, than is generally perceived. _An ecclesiastical living of considerable value | } ’ | / | | | | THE ADVENTURER. In like manner, the passions of the 191 became vacant, and Evander obtained a recom- mendation to the patron. His friend had too much modesty to speak with confidence of the success of an application supported chiefly by his interest, and Evander knew that others had solicited before him; as he was not therefore much elevated by hope, he believed he should not be greatly depressed by a disappointment. The gentleman to whom he was recommended, received him with great courtesy; but upon reading the letter, he changed countenance, and discovered indubitable tokens of vexation and regret; then taking Evander by the hand, ‘¢ Sir,”’ said he, “ I think it scarce less a mis- fortune to myself than you, that you were not five minutes sooner in your application. The gentleman whose recommendation you bring, I wish more than any other to oblige; but I have just presented the living to the person whom you saw take his leave when you entered the room.”’ This declaration was a stroke, which Evan-— der had neither skill to elude nor force to resist. The strength of his interest, though it was not known time enough to increase his hope, and his being too late only a few minutes, though he had reason to believe his application had been precluded by as many days, were circumstances which imagination immediately improved to aggravate his disappointment: over these he mused perpetually with inexpressible anguish, he related them to every friend, and lamented them with the most passionate exclamations. And yet, what happened to Evander more than he expected? nothing that he possessed was diminished, nor was any possibility of advan- tage cut off: with respect to these and every other reality, he was in the same state, as if he had never heard of the vacancy, which he had some chance to fill: but Evander groaned under the tyranny of imagination; and in a fit of causeless fretfulness cast away peace, because time was not stopped in its career, and a mira- cle did not interpose to secure him a living. Agenor, on whom’ the living which Evander solicited was bestowed, never conceived a single doubt that he should fail in his attempt: his character was unexceptionable, and his recom- mendation such as it was believed no other could counterbalance ; he therefore received the bounty of his patron without much emotion ; he regarded his success.as an event produced, like rain and sun-shine, by the common and re- gular operation of natural causes; and took possession of his rectory with the same temper that he would have reaped a field he had sown, or received the interest of asum which he had placed in the funds. But having, by accident, heard the report which had been circulated by the friends of Evander, he was at once struck with a sense of his good fortune; and was so affected by a retrospect of his danger, that he % 192 could scarce believe it to be past. ‘‘ How pro- vidential,” said he, “ was it, that I did not stay to drink another dish of tea at breakfast, that I found a hackney-coach at the end of the street, and that I met with no stop by the way!” What an alteration was produced in Agenor’s concep- tion of the advantage of his situation, and the means by which it was obtained! and yet at last he had gained nothing more than he expect- ed; his danger was not known time enough to alarm his fear; the value of his acquisition was not increased; nor had providence interposed farther than to exclude chance from the govern- ment of the world. But Agenor did not before | reflect that any gratitude was due to providence but for a miracle; he did not enjoy his prefer- ment as a gift, nor estimate his gain but by the | probability of loss. As success and disappointment are under the influence of imagination, so are ease and health ; each of which may be considered as a. kind of negative good, that may either degenerate into wearisomeness and discontent, or be improved into complacency and enjoyment. About three weeks ago I paid an afternoon visit to Curio. Curio is the proprietor of an estate which produces three thousand pounds a-year, and the husband of a lady remarkable for her beauty and her wit; his age is that in which manhood is said to be complete, his con- stitution is vigorous, his person graceful, and his understanding strong. I found him in full health, lolling in an easy chair ; his countenance was florid, he was gaily dressed, and surround- ed with all the means of happiness which wealth well used could bestow. After the first ceremonies had passed, he threw himself again back in his chair upon my having refused it, looked wistfully at his fingers ends, crossed his legs, inquired the news of the day, and, in the midst of all possible advantages, seemed to pos- sess life with a listless indifference, which if he could have preserved in contrary circumstances, would have invested him with the dignity of a stoic. ; It happened that yesterday I paid Curio an- other visit. I found him in his chamber; his head was swathed in flannel, and his counte- nance was pale. I was alarmed at these appear- ances of disease; and inquired with an honest solicitude how he did. ‘The moment he heard my question, he started from his seat, sprang towards me, caught me by the hand, and told me, in an extasy, that he was in Heaven. What difference in Curio’s circumstances produced this difference in his sensations and behaviour? What prodigious advantage had novv accrued to the man, who before had easé and health, youth, affluence, and beauty? Cu- rio, during ten days that preceded my last visit, THE ADVENTURER. No. 97.] had, within the last hour, been restored to ease, by having the tooth drawn. And is human reason so impotent, and ima- gination so perverse, that ease cannot be enjoyed till it has been taken away? Is it not possible to improve negative into positive happiness, by reflection? Can he, who possesses ease and health, whose food is tasteful, and whose sleep _is sweet, remember, without exultation and de- light, the seasons in which he has pined in the languor of inappetence, and counted the watches of the night with restless anxiety ? Ts an acquiescence in the dispensations of un- erring wisdom, by which some advantage ap- pears to be denied, without recalling trivial and accidental circumstances that can only aggravate — disappointment, impossible to reasonable beings ? And is a sense of Divine bounty necessarily languid, in proportion as that bounty appears to be less doubtful and interrupted ? hei Every man, surely, would blush to admit these suppositions; let every man, therefore, deny them by his life. He, who brings imagi-_ nation under the dominion of reason, will be able to diminish the evil of life, and to increase the good; he will learn to resign with compla- cency, to receive with gratitude, and possess with cheerfulness: and as in this conduct there is not only wisdom but virtue, he will under every calamity be able to rejoice in hope, and to anticipate the felicity of that state, in which, ‘‘ the spirits of the just shall be made perfect.” * DPVVSEVVVERVSTRTUTEVSCVVSVTCT TSE TEVA SE VTECTETUCVCSTVTEVSETTVIS No. 97.] Turspay, Oct. 9, 1753. Xeon de woes ey vols ydeciy wowte wos EY TH TAY Meay LATO Cvercertl, cel CyrEy, 4 TO KVEY KEIO, 4 TO E1ZOSe Arist. Port. As well in the conduct of the manners as in the constitution of the fable, we must always endeayour to produce either what is necessary or what is pro- bable. \ ‘¢ WHOEVER ventures,”’ says Horace, “ to form a character totally original, let him endeavour to preserve it with uniformity and consistency ; but the formation of an original character is a work of great difficulty and hazard.” In this arduous and uncommon task, however, Shak- speare has wonderfully succeeded in his Tem- pest: the monster Calyban is the creature of his own imagination, in the formation of which he could derive no assistance from observation or experience. Calyban is the son of a witch, begotten by a demon: the sorceries of his mother were so terrible, that her countrymen banished her into had been tormented with the toothach; and this desert island as unfit for human society: No. 97.] in conformity, therefore, to this diabolical pro- pagation, he is represented as a prodigy of cru- elty, malice, pride, ignorance, idleness, gluttony, the ‘properest return for such a fiend to make and lust. He is introduced with great proprie- ty, cursing Prospero and Miranda whom he had endeavoured to defile; and his execrations are artfuliy contrived to have reference to the occu- pation of his mother : . As wicked dew, as e’er my mother brush’d With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! ; —_———.All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! 2 His kindness is afterwards expressed as much in character as his hatred, by an enumera- tion of offices, that could be of value only ina desolate island, and in the estimation of a savage. I pry’thee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; And I with my long nails will dig thee pignuts; Show thee a jay’s nest ; and instruct thee how To suare the nimble marmazet. I'll bring thee To clustering filberds ; and sometimes I'l] get thee Young sea-malls from the rock. I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries ; eo I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. Which last is, indeed, a circumstance of great use in a place, where to be defended from the | cold was neither easy nor usual; and it has.a further peculiar beauty, because the gathering wood was the occupation to which Calyban Was subjected by Prospero, who therefore deemed it a service of high importance. The gross ignorance of this monster is repre- sented with delicate judgment; he knew not the names of the sun and moon; which he calls the bigger light and the less; and he believes that Stephano was the man in the moon, whom his mistress had often shown him; and when Prospero reminds him that he first taught him to pronounce articulately, his answer is full of malevolence and rage ; You taught me language; and my profit on’t Is, I know how to curse : for such a favour. ‘The spirits whom he sup- poses to be employed by Prospero perpetually to torment him, and the many forms and different methods they take for this purpose, are des- THE ADVENTURER. cribed with the utmost liveliness and force of fancy: | Sometimes like apes, that moe and chatter at me, And after bite me ; then like hedge-hogs, which Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount ‘Their pricks at my foot-fall; sometimes am I _ All wound with adders,-who with cloyen tongues Do hiss me into madness. s It is scarce possible for any speech to be more | 198 expressive of the manners and sentiments, than that in which our poet has painted the brutal barbarity and unfeeling savageness of this son of Sycorax, by making him enumerate, with a kind. of horrible delight, the various Ways in which it was possible for the drunken sailors to surprise and kill his master : There thou may’st brain him, Having first seized his books ; or with a log Batter his skull ; or paunch him with astake: Or cut his wezand with thy knife ——.. é He adds, in allusion to his own abominable at- tempt, ‘above all be sure to secure the daugh- ter ; whose beauty, he tells them, is incompar- able.”” The charms of Miranda could not be more exalted, than by extorting this testimony from so insensible a monster. Shakspeare seems to be the only poet who possesses the power of uniting poetry with pro- priety of character; of which I know not an instance more striking, than the image Calyban makes use of. to express silence, which is at once highly poetical and exactly suited to the wild- ness of the speaker ; - Pray you tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a-foot-fall I always lament that our author has not preserved this fierce and implacable spirit in Calyban, to the end of the play; instead of which, he has, I think, injudiciously put into his mouth, words that imply repentance and understanding : —-—l’ll be wise hereafter And seek for grace. What a thrice donble ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool ? It must not be forgotten, that Shakspeare ~ has artfully taken occasion from this extraordi- nary character, which is finely contrasted to the mildness and obedience of Ariel, obliquely to Satirize the prevailing passion for new and wonderful sights, which has rendered the English so ridiculous. “Were I in England now,’ says Trincalo, on his first discovering Calyban, “and had but this fish painted, not a -holyday-fool there but would give a piece of silver,—When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.”’ Such is the inexhaustible plenty of our poet’s |invention, that he has exhibited another cha- racter in this play, entirely his own; that of the lovely and innocent Miranda. When Prospero first gives her a sight of Prince Ferdinand, she eagerly exclaims, What is’t ? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, Sir, It carries a brave form. But’tis a spirit. Ce ’ 194 THE Her imagining that as he was so beautiful he must necessarily be one of her father’s aerial agents, is a stroke of nature worthy admira- tion: as are likewise her entreaties to her father not to use him harshly, by the power of his art ; Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first That e’er I sigh’d for!— Here we perceive the beginning of that passion, which Prospero was desirous she should feel for the prince; and which she afterwards more fully expresses upon an occasion which displays at once the tenderness, the innocence, and the simplicity of ber character. She discovers her lover employed in the laborious task of carrying wood, which Prospero had enjoined him to per- form. ‘ Would,” says she, “ the lightning had burnt. up those logs, that you are enjoined to pile !” ———lf you’ll sit down, Pll bear your logs the while. I'll carry it to the pile-—. You look wearily. Pray give me that, It is by selecting such little and almost imper- ceptible circumstances that Shakspeare has more truly painted the passions than any other writer: affection is more powerfully expressed by this simple wish and offer of assistance than by the unnatural eloquence and witticisms of Dryden, or the declamations of Rowe. The resentment of Prospero for the match- | less cruelty and wicked usurpation of his bro-| his parental affection and solicitude for ther ; the welfare of his daughter, the heiress of his dukedom: and the awful solemnity of his character, as a skilful. magician; are all along preserved with equal consistency, dignity, and decorum. to be particularly pointed out: during the ex- hibition of a mask with which he had ordered Ariel to entertain Ferdinand and Miranda, he starts suddenly, from the recollection of the con- spiracy of Calyban and his confederates against his life, and dismisses his attendant spirits, who instantly vanish to a hollow and confused noise. He appears to be greatly moved; and suitably to this agitation of mind, which his danger has excited, he takes occasion, from the sudden dis- appearance of the visionary scene, to moralize on the dissolution of all things: - -~These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits; and Are melted into air, into thin air. And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ;' And, like this unsubstantial pageant-faded, Leave not a rack behind. ADVENTURER. One part of his behaviour deserves | [No. 98. To these noble images he adds a short but comprehensive observation on human life, not excelled by any passage of the moral and sen- tentious Euripides : We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep! : Thus admirably is an uniformity of char- acter, that leading beauty in dramatic poesy, preserved through the Tempest. And it may be further remarked, that the unities Of action, of place, and of time, are in this play, though al- most constantly violated by Shakspeare, exactly observed. ‘The action is one, great, and entire, the restoration of Prospero to his dukedom ; this business is transacted in the compass of a small island, and in or near the cave of Pro- spero: though indeed, it had been more artful and regular to have confined it to thisesingle spot; and the time which the action takes up, is only equal to that of the representation; an excellence which ought always to be aimed at in every well-conducted fable, and for the want of which a variety of the most entertaining in- cidents can scarcely atone. Z. DUVWRACTUVUVTE VRAD SUVA TA ALAA DE BR VHT V0 00 504044424541) No. 98.] Saturpay, Ocr. 13, 1753. Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris, et carcere dignum, Si vis esse aliquis. Juy. Would’st thou to honours and preferments climb ? Be bold in mischief, dare some mighty crime, Which dungeons, death or banishment deserves. Dreypen. TO THE ADVENTURER. , Dear Broruer, Tur thirst of glory is I think allowed, even’ by the dull dogs who can sit still long enough to write books, to be a noble appetite. My ambition is to be thought a man of life. and spirit, who could conquer the world if he was to set about it, but who has too much viva- city to give the necessary Ea to any scheme of length. | I am, in short, one of those heroic Adven- turers, who have thought proper to distinguish themselves by the titles of Buck, Blood, and Nerve. When I am in the country, I am al- ways on horse-back, and I leap or break every hedge and gate that stands in my way: when I am in town, I am constantly to be seen at some of the public places, at the proper times for making my appearance; as at Vauxhall, or Marybone, about ten, very drunk; for though ‘which I have rode in four hours. } \ ning over an old woman. No. 98.] I don’t love wine, I am obliged to be consum- edly drunk five or six nights in the week: nay sometimes five or six days together, for the sake of my character. Wherever [ come, I am sure to make all the confusion, and do all the mis- chief I can; not for the sake of doing mischief, but only out of frolic you know to show my vivacity. If there are women near me, I swear like a devil to show my courage, and talk bawdy to show my wit. Under therose, I am a cursed favourite amongst them; and have had “bonne fortune,” let me tell you. I do love the little rogues hellishly : but faith I make love for the good of the public; and the town is obliged to me for a dozen or two of the finest wenches that were ever brought into its sera- glios. One, indeed, I lost: and, poor fond soul! I pitied her! but it could not be helped— self-preservation obliged me to leave her—TI could not tell her what was the matter with her, rot me if I could; and so it got such a head, that the devil himself could not have saved her. There’s one thing vexes me ; I have mnch ado to avoid having that insignificant character, a good-natured fellow, fixed upon me; so that I am obliged in my own defence to break the boy’s head, and kick my whore down stairs every time I enter a night-house: I pick quarrels when I am not offended, break the windows of men I never saw, demolish lamps, bilk hackney- _coachmen, overturn wheelbarrows, and storm _night-cellars: I beat the watchman, though _ be bids me good morrow, abuse the constable, and insult the justice: for these feats I am frequently kicked, beaten, pumped, prosecuted 2nd imprisoned ; but Tim is no flincher ; and if he does not get fame, blood! he will deserve it. I am now writing at a coffee-house, where I am just arrived, after a journey of fifty miles, I knocked up my blockhead’s horse two hours ago. The dog, whipped and spurred at such a rate, that I dare say you may track him half the way by the blood ; but all would not do. The devil take the hindmost, is always my way of travelling. The moment I dismounted, down dropt Dido, by Jove: and here am I all alive and merry, my old boy ! I'll tell thee what ; I was a hellish ass t’other day. I shot a damn’d clean mare through the head, for jumping out of the road to avoid run- But the bitch threw me, and I got a cursed slice on the cheek against a flint, which put me in a passion ; who could help it, you know ? Rot me! I would not have lost her for five hundred old women, with all their brats, and the brats of their brats to the third generation.—She was a sweet creature! I would have run her five-and-twenty miles in an hour, for five hundred pounds. But she’s gone!—Poor jade! I did love thee, that I did. THE ADVENTURER. nS ees ES: 195 Now what you shall do for me old boy is this. Help to raise my name a little, d’ye mind ; write something in praise of us sprightly pretty fellows. I assure you we take a great deal of pains for fame, and it is hard we should be bilkt. I would not trouble you, my dear ; but only I fear I have not much time before me to do my own business; for between you and I, both my constitution and estate are damnably out at elbows. I intend to make them spin out together as even as possible; but if my purse should happen to leak fastest, I propose to go with my last half-crown to Ranelagh gardens, and there, if you approve the scheme, I’1l mount one of the upper alcoves, and repeat with a heroic air, “Tl boldly venture on the world unknown ; It cannot use me worse than this has done.” I'll then shoot myself through the head ; and so good by’tye. Yours, as you serve me, Tim. Witpcoose. I should little deserve the notice of a person so illustrious as the hero who honours me with the name of brother, if I should cavil at his principles or refuse his request. According to the moral philosophy which is now in fashion, and adopted by many of “the dull dogs who write books,’’ the gratification of appetite is virtue; and appetite therefore, I shall allow to be noble, notwithstanding the objections of those who pretend, that whatever be its object, it can be good or ill in no other sense than stature or complexion ; and that the voluntary effort only is moral by which appetite is directed or restrained, by which it is brought under the government of reason and rendered subservient to moral purposes. But with whatever efforts of heroic virtue my correspondent may have laboured to gratify his “thirst of glory,” 1 am afraid he will be disap- pointed. It is, indeed, truc, that like the heroes of antiquity, whom successive generations have honoured with statues and panegyric, he has spent his life in doing mischief to others with- out procuring any real good to himself; but he has not done mischief enough; he has not sacked a city or fired a temple; he acts only against individuals in a contracted sphere, and is lost among a crowd of competitors, whose merit can only contribute to their mutual obscurity, as the feats which are perpetually performed by innumerable adventurers must soon become too common to confer distinction. . In behalf of some among these candidates for fame, the legislator has, indced, thought fit to interpose; and their achievements are with great solemnity rehearsed and recorded ina ’ temple, of which 1 know not the celestial appel- latiou, bnt on earth it is called justice ball in the Old Bailey. 196 As the rest are utterly neglected, I cannot think of any expedient to gratify the noble thirst of my correspondent and his compeers, but that of procuring them admission into this class; an attempt in which I do not despair of success, for I think I can demonstrate their right, and I will not suppose it possible that when this is done they will be excluded. Upon the most diligent examination of an- cient history and modern panegyric, I find that no action has ever been held honourable in so high a degree, as killing men: this, indeed, is one of the feats which our legislature has thought fit to rescue from oblivion, and reward in Justice Hall: it has also removed an absurd distinction, and, contrary to the practice of pagan antiquity, has comprehended the kil- lers of women,:.among those who deserve the rewards that have been decreed to homicide, Now he may fairly be considered as a killer, who seduces a young beauty from the fondness of a parent, with whom she enjoys health and peace, the protection of the laws, and the smile of society, to the tyranny of a bawd, and the excesses of a brothel, to disease and distraction, stripes, infamy and imprisonment; calamities which cannot fail to render her days not only evil but few. It may, perhaps, be alleged, that the woman was not wholly passive, but that in some sense she may be considered as felo de se. This, however, is mere cavil; for the same may be said of him who fights when he can run away; and yet it has always been deemed more honourable to kill the combatant than the fugi- tive. If this claim then of the Blood be admitted, and I do not see how it can be set aside, I pro- pose that after his remains shall have been res- cued from dust and worms, and consecrated in the temple of Hygeia, called Surgeon’s Hall, his bones shall be purified by proper lustrations, and erected into a statue: that this statue shall be placed in a niche, with the name of the hero of which it is at once the remains and the monument written over it, among many others of the same rank, in the gallery of a spacious building, to be erected by lottery for that pur- pose: I purpose that this gallery be called the Blood’s Gallery; and, to prevent the labour and expense of emblazoning the achievements of every individual, which would be little more than repeating the same words, that an inscrip- tion be placed over the door to this effect: « This gallery is sacred to the memory and the remains of the Bloods; heroes who lived in perpetual hostility against themselves and others : who contracted diseases by excess that preclud- ed enjoyment, and who continually perpetrated mischief not in anger but sport; whv purchased this distinction at the expense of life; and whose glory would have been equal to Alexander’s, if their power had not been less.”’ THE ADVENTURER. [No. 99. No. 99.] Turspay, Ocv. 16, 1753. —Mugnis tamen excidit austs. Ovip. But in the glorious enterprise he died. ADDISON. Tr has always heen the practice of mankind, to judge of actions by the event. The same at- tempts, conducted in the same manner, but ter- minated by different success, produce different judgments: they who attain their wishes, never want celebrators of their wisdom and their virtue; and they that miscarry, are quickly discovered to have been defective not only in mental but in moral qualities. The world will never be long without some good reason to hate the unhappy : detected; and if those are not sufficient to sink them into infamy, an additional weight of calumny will be superadded : he that fails in his endeavours after wealth or power, will not long retain either honesty or courage. This species of injustice has so long pr ageiled in universal practice, that it seems likewise to have infected speculation: so few minds are able to separate the ideas of greatness and pros- ‘perity, that even Sir William Temple has de- termined, ‘‘ that he who can deserve the name of a hero, must not only be virtuous but fortu- nate.”’ By this unreasonable distribution of. praise and blame, none have suffered oftener than projectors, whose rapidity of imagination and yastness of design raise such envy in their fellow mortals, that every eye watches for their fall, and every heart exults at their distresses : yet even a projector may gain favour by suc- cess ; and the tongue that was prepared to hiss, then endeavours to excel others in loudness of applause. When Coriolanus, in Shakspeare, deserted to Aufidius, the Volscian servants at first insulted him, even while he stood under the protection | of the household gods ; but when they saw that the project took effect, and the stranger was seated at the head of the table, one of them very their real faults are immediately . judiciously observes, “that he always thought there was more in him than he could think.” Machiavel has justly animadverted on the different notice taken by all succeeding times, of the two great projectors Catiline and Cesar. | Both formed the same project, and intended to raise themselves to power, by subverting the commonwealth : perhaps, with equal abilities, and with equal virtue; but Catiline perished in the field, and Cesar returned from Pharsalia with unlimited authority: and from that time, every monarch of the earth has thought himself honoured by 4 comparison with Cesar; and Catiline has been they pursued their design, never mentioned, but that his name might be _ applied to traitors aifd incendiaries. | No. 99.]} THE ADVENTURER. 197 ‘In an age more remote, Xerxes projected the ; dethrone the Czar, then .to lead his army conquest of Greece, and brought down the _ power of Asia against it: but after the world had been filled with expectation and terror, his acmy was beaten, his Jeet was destroyed, and Xerxes has never been mentioned without con- tempt. A few years afterwards, Greece likewise had her turn of giving birth to a projector ; who in- vading Asia with a small army, went forward in search of adventures, and by his escape from one danger, gained only more rashness to rush into another: he stormed city after city, over- ran kingdom after kingdom, fought battles only for barren victory, and invaded nations only that he might make his way through them to new invasions: but having been fortunate in the execution of his projects, he died with the name of Alexander the Great. These are, indeed, events of ancient time; but human nature is always the same, and every age will afford us instances of public cen- sures influenced by events. The great business of the middle centuries, was the holy war; which undoubtedly was a noble project, and was for a long time prosecuted with a spirit equal to that with which it had been contrived: but the ardour of the European heroes only hurried them to destruction; for a long time they could not gain the territories for which they fought, and, when at last gained, they could not keep them: their expeditions, there- fore, have been. the scoff of idleness and igno- rance, their understanding and their virtue have been equally vilified, their conduct has been ridiculed, and their cause has been defamed. When Columbus had engaged king Ferdinand in the discovery of the other hemisphere, the sailors, with whom he embarked in the expedi- tion, had so little confidence in their comman- der, that after having been long at sea looking for coasts which they expected never to find, they raised a general mutiny, and demanded to ‘return. He found means to sooth them into a ‘permission to coutinue the same course three days longer, and on the evening of the third day descried land. Had the impatience of his crew denied him a few hours of the time requested, what had been his fate but to have come back with the infamy of a vain projector, who had betrayed the king’s credulity to useless expenses, and risked his life in seeking countries that had no existence? how would those that had rejected his proposals, have triumphed in their acuteness? and when would his name have been mentioned, but with the makers of potable gold and malleable glass ? The last royal projectors with whom the world has been troubled, were Charles of Swe- den and the Czar of Muscovy. Charles, if any yidgment may be formed of his designs by his ‘Measures and his inquiries, had purposed first to 7 . ; | through pathless deserts into China, thence to make his way by the sword through the whole circuit of Asia, and by the conquest of Turkey to unite Sweden with his new dominions: but this mighty project was crushed at Pultowa ; and Charles has since been considered as a mad- man by those powers, who sent their ambassa- dors to solicit his friendship, and their generals *‘ to learn under him the art of war.” The Czar found employment sufficient in his own dominions, and amused himself in digging canals, and building cities; murdering his: sub- jects with insufferable fatigue, and transplant- ing nations from one corner of his dominions to another, without regretting the thousands that perished on the way: but he attained his end, he made his people formidable, and is numbered by fame among the demi-gods. I am far from intending to vindicate the sanguinary projects of heroes and conquerors, and would wish rather to diminish the reputa- tion of their success, than the infamy of: their miscarriages: for I cannot conceive, why he that has burnt cities, wasted nations, and filled the world with horror and desolation, should be more kindly regarded by mankind, than he that died in the rudiments of wickedness; why he that accomplished mischief should be glorious, and he that only endeavoured it should be criminal. I would wish Cesar and Catiline, Xerxes and Alexander, Charles and Peter, huddled together in obscurity or detestation. But there is another species of projectors, to whom I would willingly conciliate mankind; whose ends are generally laudable, and whose labours are innocent; who are searching out new powers of nature, or contriving new works of art; but who are yet persecuted with in- cessant obloquy, and whom the universal con- tempt with which they are treated, often debars from that success which their industry would obtain, if it were permitted to act without op- position. They who find themselves inclined to censure new undertakihgs, only because they are new, should consider, that the folly of projection is very seldom the folly of a fool; it is com- monly the ebullition of a capacious mind, crowd- ed with variety-ot knowledge, and heated with intenseness of thought; it proceeds often from the consciousness of uncommen powers, from the confidence of those, who having already done much, are easily persuaded that they can do more. When Rowley had completed the orrery, he attempted the perpetual motion; when Boyle had exhausted the secrets of vulgar chemistry, he turned his thoughts to the work of transmutation. A projector generally unites those qualities which have the fairest claim to veneration, ex. tent of knowledge and greatness of design: it 198 THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 100. was said of Catiline, “ immoderata, incredibilia, nimis alta semper cupiebat.’’ Projectors of all kinds agree in their intellects, though they differ in their morals; they all fail by attempting things beyond their power, by despising vulgar attainments, and aspiring to performances, to which, perhaps, nature has not proportioned the force of man: when they fail, therefore, they fail not by idleness or timidity, but by rash ad- venture and fruitless diligence. That the attempts of such men will often misearry, we may reasonably expect; yet from such men, and such only, are we to hope for the cultivation of those parts of nature which lie yet waste, and the invention of those arts which are yet wanting to the felicity of life. If they are, therefore, universally discouraged, art and dis- covery can make no advances. Whatever is at- tempted without previous certainty of success, may be considered as a project, and amongst narrow minds may, therefore, expose its author to censure and contempt; and if the liberty of laughing be once indulged, every man will laugh at what he does not understand, every project will be considered as madness, and every great or new design will be censured as a project. Men, unaccustomed to reason and researches, think every enterprize impracticable, which is extended beyond common effects, or comprises many intermediate operations. Many that pre- suine to laugh at projectors, would consider a flight through the air in a winged chariot, and the movement of a mighty engine by the steam of water, as equally the dreams of mechanic lunacy ; and would hear, with equal negligence, of the union of the Thames and Severn by a canal, and the scheme of Albuquerque, the viceroy of the Indies, who in the rage of hos- tility had contrived to make Egypt a barren desert, by turning the Nile into the Red Sea. Those who have attempted much, have sel- dom failed to perform more than those who never deviate from the common roads of action ; many valuable preparations of chemistry are supposed to have risen from unsuccessful in- quiries after the grand elixir: it is, therefore, just to encourage those who endeavour to en- large the power of art, since they often succced beyond expectation; and when they fail, may sometimes benefit the whole world even by their miscarriages. Ds RPVTV VUVSVVVVVAPEGUARTUDUETRTETDVVECVCTVCRARTAVABVATVEVVEA No. 100.] Sarurpay, Ocr. 20, 1753. Nemo repente fuit turpissimus,— Juv. No man e’er reach’d the heights of vice at first. TATE. Sir, Txuovuen the characters of men have, perhaps, been essentially the same in all ages, yet their external appearance has changed with other peculiarities of time and place, and they have been distinguished by different names, as new modes of expression have prevailed: a periodical writer, therefore, who catches the picture of evanescent life, and shows the de- formity of follies which in a few years will be so changed as not to be known, should be care- ful to express the character when he describes the appearance, and to connect it with the name by which it then happens to be called. You have frequently used the terms Buck and Blood, and have given some account of the characters which are thus denominated ; but you have not considered them as the last stages of a regular progression, nor taken any notice of those which precede them. Their dependance upon each other is, indeed, so little known, that many suppose them to be distinct and collateral classes, formed by persons of opposite interests, tastes, capacities, and dispositions: the scale, however, consists of eight degrees; Greenhorn, Jemmy, Jessamy, Smart, Honest Fellow, Juyous Spirit, | Buck, and Bloed. As I have myself passed | through the whole series, I shall explain each station by a short account of my life, remarking the periods when my character changed its de- | nomination, and the particular incidents by | which the change was produced. | My father was a wealthy farmer in York- shire, and when I was near eighteen years of age, he brought me up to London, and put me | apprentice to a considerable shopkeeper in the city. There was an awkward modest simpli- | city in my manner, and a reverence of religion | and virtue in my conversation. ‘The novelty of the scene that was now placed before me, in | which there were innumerable objects that I: never conceived to exist, rendered me attentive and credulous; peculiarities, which, without a provincial accent, aslouch in my gait, a long lank head of hair, an unfashionable suit of drab- | coloured cloth, would have denominated me a Greenhorn, or, in other words, a country put very green. Green, then, I continued even in externals, near two years ; and in this state I was the ob- | ject of universal contempt and derision: but being at length wearied with merriment and in- | sult I was very sedulous to assume the manners | and appearance of those, who in the same station | were better treated. I had already improved | greatly in my speech ; and my father having al- | lowed me thirty pounds a year for apparel and | pocket money, the greater part of which I had | saved, I bespoke a suit of clothes of an eminent | city tailor, with several waistcoats and breeches, | and two frocks for a change: I cut off my hair, | and procured a brown bob periwig of Wilding, | of the same colour, with a single row of curls | just round the bottom, which I wore very } ~ No. 100.] | nicely combed, and without powder: my hat, which had been cocked with great exactness in “an equilateral triangle, I discarded, and pur- chased one of a more fashionable size, the fore- corner of which projected near two inches further than those on each side, and was moulded into the shape of a spout: I also fur- nished myself with a change of white thread stockings, took care that my pumps were varnished every morning with the new German blacking-ball; and when I went out, carried in my hand a little switch, which, as it has been long appendent to the character that I had just assumed, has taken the same name, and is call- eda Jemmy. T soon perceived the advantage of this trans- formation. My manner had not, indeed, kept pace with my dress; I was still modest and diffident, temperate and sober, and consequently still subject to ridicule; but 1 was now admit- ted into company, from which I had before been excluded by the rusticity of my appearance; I was rallied and encouraged by turns ; and I was instructed both by precept and example. Some offers were made of carrying me to a house of private entertainment, which then I absolutely refused; but I soon found the way into the play-house, to see the two last acts and the farce: here I learned, that by breaches of chastity no man was thought to incur either guilt or shame ; but that, on the contrary, they were essentially necessary to the character of a fine gentleman. I soon copied the original, which I found to be universally admired, in my morals, and made some farther approaches to it in my dress: I suffered my hair to grow long enough to comb back over the fore-top of my wig, which when I sallied forth to my evening amusement, I changed toa queue; I tied the collar of my shirt with half an ell of black ribbon, which appeared under my neck-cloth ; the fore-corner.of my hat was considerably elevated and shortened, so that it no longer resembled a spout, but the corner of a minced pie ; my waistcoat was edged with a narrow lace, my stockings were silk, and I never appeared without a pair of clean gloves. My address from its native masculine plainness, was converted to an excess of softness and civility, especially when I spoke to the ladies. I had before made some progress in learning to swear ; Thad proceeded by fegs, faith, pox, plague, ’pon my life, *pon my soul, rat it, and zookers, to Zauns, and the devil. I now advanced to by Jove, "fore ged, geds curse it, and demme: but I still uttered these interjections in a tremulous tone, and my pronunciation was feminine and Vicious. I was sensible of my defects, and therefore applied with great diligence to remove them. I frequently practised alone, but it was a long time before I could swear so much to my own satisfaction in company as by myself. My THE ADVENTURER. 399 labour, however, was not without its reward ; it recommended me to the notice of the ladies, and procured me the gentle appellation of Jessamy. I now learned among other grown gentlemen to dance, which greatly enlarged my acquaint- ance; I entered into a subscription for country- dances once a week at a tavern, where each gentleman engaged to bring a partner: at the same time I made considerable advances in swearing ; I could pronounce damme with a tolerable air and accent, give the vowel its full sound, and look with confidence in the face of the person to whom I spoke. About this time my father’s elder brother died, and left me an estate of near five hundred pounds per annum. I now bought out the remainder of my time; and this sudden accession of wealth and in- dependence gave me immediately an air of greater confidence and freedom. I laid out near one hundred and fifty pounds in clothes, though I was obliged to go into mourning: I employed a court-tailor to make them up: I ex- changed my queue for a bag; I put on a sword, which, in appearance at least, was a Toledo; and in proportion as I knew my dress to be elegant, I was less solicitous to be neat. My acquaintance now increased every hour; I was attended, flattered, and caressed ; was often in- vited to entertainments, supped every night ata tavern, and went home in a chair; was taken notice of in public places, and was universally confessed to be improved into a Smart. There were some intervals in which I found it necessary to abstain from wenching; and in these, at whatever risk, I applied myself to the bottle ; a habit of drinking came insensibly upon me, and I was soon able to walk home with a bottle and a pint. I had learned a sufficient number of fashionable toasts, and got by heart several toping and several bawdy songs, some of which [ ventured to roar out with a friend hanging on my arm as we scoured the strect after our nocturnal revel. Inow laboured with indefatigable industry to increase these acquisi- tions: I enlarged my stock of healths ; made great progress in singing, joking, and story-tell- ing; swore well; could make a company of staunch topers drunk; always collected the reckoning, and was the last man that departed. My face began to be covered with red pimples, and my eyes tobe weak; I became daily more negligent of my dress, and more blunt in my manner; I professed myself a foe to starters and milksops, declared that there was no enjoyment equal to that of a bottle and a friend, and soen gained the appellation of an Honest Fellow. By this distinction I was animated to attempt yet greater excellence ; I learned several feats of mimicry of the under-players, could take oif known characters, tell a staring story, and humbug with so much skill as sometimes to 200 take-ia a knowing one. I was so successful in the practice of these arts, to which, indeed, I applied myself with unwearied diligence and assiduity, that I kept my company rearing with applause, till their voices sunk by degrees, and they were no longer able to laugh, because they were no longer able either to hear or to see. I had now ascended another scale in the climax ; and was acknowledged by all who knew me, to be a Joyous Spirit. After all these topics of merriment were exhausted, and I had repeated my tricks, my stories, my jokes, and my songs, till they grew insipid, I became mischievous: and was con- tinually devising and executing frolics, to the unspeakable delight of my companions, and the injury of others. For many of them I was prosecuted, and frequently obliged to pay large damages; but I bore all these losses with an air of jovial indifference, I pushed on in my career, I was more desperate in proportion as I had less to lose ; and being deterred from no mischief by the dread of its consequences, I was said to run at all, and complimented with the name of Buck. My estate was at length mortgaged for more than it was worth; my creditors were impor- tunate; I became negligent of myself and of others ; I made a desperate effort at the gaming- table, and lost the last sum that I could raise ; my estate was seized by the mortgagee ; I learned to pack cards and to cog a die; became a bully to whores; passed my nights in a brothel, the street, or the watch-house; was utterly in- sensible of shame, and lived upon the town’as a beast of prey in a forest. Thus I reached the summit of modern glory, and had just acquired the distinction of a Blood, when I was arrested for an old debt of three hundred pounds, and thrown into the King’s Bench prison. These characters, Sir, though they are dis- tinct, yet do not all differ, otherwise than as shades of the same colour. And though they are stages of a regular progression, yet the whole progress is not made by every individual ; some are so soon initiated in the mysteries of the town, that they are never publicly known in their greenhorn state ; others fix long in their Jemmyhood, others are jessamies at fourscore, and some stagnate in each of the higher stages for |. life. But I request that they may never here- after be confounded either by you or your correspondents. Of the Blood, your brother Adventurer, Mr. Wildgoose, though he assumes the character, does not seem to have a just and precise idea, as distinct from the Buck, in which class he should be placed, and will probably die ; for he seems determined to shoot himself, just at the time when} his circumstances will enable him to assume the higher distinction. But the retrospect upon life, which this letter has made necessary, covers me with con- THE ADVENTURER [ No. 161. fusion, and aggravates despair. I cannot but reflect, that among all these characters, I have never assumed that of aman. Man isareason-. able being, which he ceases to be, who disguises his body with ridiculous fopperies, or degrades his mind Ly detestable brutality. These thoughts would have been of great use to me, if they had occurred seven years ago. If they are of use to you, I hope you will send me a small gratuity for my labour, to alleviate the misery of hunger and nakedness: but, dear Sir, let your bounty be speedy, lest I perish before it arrives. I am your humble servant, NoMENTANUS. Common-side, King’s Bench, i | Ocr. 18. 1758. PUVV VS CUVUTTTVVTA TURBAVDA HE PURVAVATEBTESTAEVSA DE WRESGDSD No. 101.] Turspay, Oct. 23, 1753. ——— Est ubi peccat. Hor. Fs Yet sometimes he mistakes. TO THE ADVENTURER, Sir, Ir we consider the high rank which Milton has deservedly obtained among our few English classics, we cannot wonder at the multitude of commentaries and criticisms ef which he has been the subject. To these I have added some miscellaneous remarks: and if you should at first be inclined to reject them as trifling, you may, perhaps, determine to admit them, when you reflect that they are new. The description of Eden in the fourth book of the Paradise Lost, and the batile of the angels in the sixth, are usually selected as the most striking examples of a florid and vigorous imagination; but it requires much greater strength of mind to form an assemblage of | natural objects, and range them with propriety and beauty, than to bring together the greatest | variety of the most splendid images, without | any regard to their use or congruity: as in painting, he who, by the force of his imagina- | tion, can delineate a landscape, is deemed a | greater master than he, who, by heaping rocks | of coral upon tesselated pavements, can only | make absurdity splendid, and dispose gaudy | colours so as best to set off each other. “‘ Sapphire fountains that rolling over orient | pearl run nectar, roses without thorns, trees | that bear fruit of vegetable gold, and that weep | odorous gums and balms,” are easily feigned; but having no relative beauty as pictures of | nature, nor any absolute excellence as derived from truth, they can only please those who, — when they read, exercise no faculty but fancy, No. 101.] and admire because they do not think.—If I shall not be thought to digress wholly from my subject, I would illustrate this remark, by com- paring two passages, written by Milton and Fletcher, on nearly the same subject. ‘Ihe spirit in Comus thus pays his address of thanks to the water-nymph Sabrina: May thy brimmed waves, for this, Their full tribute never miss From a thousand petty rills, That tumble down the snowy hills: Summer drought, or singed air, Never scorch thy tresses fair ; Nor wet October’s torrent flood! Thy molten crystal fill with mud: Tnus far the wishes are most proper for the summer not scorching her tresses, is highly poetical and elegant: but what follows, though it is pompous and majestic, is unnatural and far-fetched ; May thy billows roll ashore The beryl, aud the golden ore: May thy lofty head be crown’d With many a tow’r and terras round : And here and there, thy banks upon, With groves of myrrh and cinnamon! The circumstance in the third and fourth lines is happily fancied; but what idea can the reader have of an English River rolling Gold and the Beryl ashore, or of groves of Cinnamon grow- ing on its banks? The images in the following passage of Fletcher are all simple and real, all | appropriated and strictly natural : For thy kindness to me shown, Never from thy banks be blown Any tree, with windy force, Cross thy stream to stop thy course; May no beast that comes to drink, With his horns cast down thy brink ; May none that for thy fish do look, : Cut thy banks to dam thy brook; Barefoot may no neighbour wade In thy cool streams, wife or maid When the spawn on stones do lie, To wash their hemp, and spoil the fry The glaring picture of Paradise is not, in my ‘Opinion, so strong an evidence of Milton’s force of imagination, as his representation of Adam and Eve when they left it, and of the passions ‘with which they were agitated on that event. Against his battle of the-angels I have the Same objections as against his garden of Eden. He has endeavoured to elevate his combatants, by giving them the enormous stature of giants in romances, books of which he was known to ‘be fond; and the prowess and behaviour of Michael as much resemble the feats of Ariosto’s Kauight, as his two-handed sword does the wea- | THE ADVENTURER. welfare of a river goddess; the circumstance of | 201 pons of chivalry: I think the sublimity of his genius much more visible in the first appearance ’ of the fallen angels; the debates of the infernal peers ; the passage of Satan through the domi- nions of Chaos, and his adventure with Sin and Death; the mission of Raphael to Adam; the conversations between Adam and his wife 3 the creation; the account which Adam gives of his first sensations, and of the approach of Eve from the hand of her Creator ; the whole beha- viour of Adam and Eve after the first trans- gression ; and the prospect of the various states of the world, and history of man exhibited in vision to Adam. In this vision, Milton judiciously represents Adam, as ignorant of what disaster had befallen Abel, when he was murdered by his brother: but during his conversation with Raphael, the poet seems to have forgotten this necessary and natural ignorance of the first man. How was it possible for Adam to discern what the Angel meant, by cubic phalanxes, by planets of as- pect malign, by encamping on the foughten field, by van and rear, by standards and gonfa- lons and glittering tissues, by the girding sword, by embattled squadrons, chariots, and flaming arms and fiery steeds? And although Adam possessed a superior degree of knowledge, yet doubtless he had not skill enough in chemistry to understand Raphael, who informed him, that ———Sulphurous and nitrous foam They found, they mingled, and with subtle art Concocted and adusted, they reduced To blackest grain, and into store conyey’d. And, surely, the nature of cannon was not much explained: to Adam, who neither knew or wanted the use of iron tools, by telling him, that they resembled the hollow bodies of oak and fir, With branches lopt, in wood or mountain fell’d. He that never beheld the brute creation but in its pastimes and sports, must have greatly won- dered, when the Angel expressed the flight of the Satanic host, by saying, that they fled ——As a herd Of goats, or timorous flock, together throng’d. But as there are many exuberances in this poem, there appears to be also some defects. As the serpent was the instrument of the temp- tation, Milton minutely describes its beauty and allurements ; and I have frequently wonder- ed, that he did not, for the same reason, givea more elaborate description of the tree of life ; especially as be was remarkable for his know- ledge and imitation of the Sacred Writings, and as the following passage in the Revelations afforded him a hint, from which his creative Dd 202 fancy might have worked up astriking picture : «Tn the midst of the street of it, and of either side the river, was there the tree of life ; which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”’ At the end of the fourth book, suspense and attention are excited to the utmost; a combat between Satan and the guardians of Eden is eagerly expected, and the curiosity is impatient for the action and the catastrophe: but this horrid fray is prevented, expectation is cut off, and curiosity disappointed, by an expedient which, though applauded by Addison and Pope, and imitated from Homer and Virgil, will be deemed frigid and inartificial, by all who judge from their own sensations, and are not content to echo the decisions of others. ‘The golden balances are held forth, “ which,”’ says the poet, ‘are yet seen between Astrea and the Scor- pion ;’? Satan looks up, and perceiving that his scale mounted aloft, departs with the shades of night. To make such a use, at so critical a time, of Libra, a mere imaginary sign of the Zodiac, is scarcely justifiable in a poem founded on religious truth. Among innumerable beauties in the Paradise Lost, I think the most transcendent is the speech of Satan at the beginning of the ninth book ; in which his unextinguishable pride and fierce indignation against God, and his envy to- wards man, are so blended with an involuntary approbation of goodness, and disdain of the mean- ness and baseness of his present undertaking, as to render it, on account of the propriety of its sentiments and its turn of passions, the most natural, most spirited, and truly dramatic speech, that is, perhaps, to be found in any writer whether ancient or modern; and yet Mr. Addison has passed it over, unpraised and un. noticed. if an apology should be deemed necessary for the freedom here used with our inimitable bard, let me conclude in the words of Longinus: «© Whoever was carefully to collect the blemishes of Homer, Demosthenes, Plato, and of other celebrated writers of the same rank, would find they bore not the least proportion to the subli- mities and excellences with which their works abound.” ffs I am, Sir, Your humble servant, PALZOPHILUS. PADS VVTVSVTRVLVUARSVTAVBUTTGTTTVTT SUB TS VURBV TA No. 102. ] Saturpay, Oct. 27, 1753 --—— Quid tam dextro pede concipis, ué te Conatus non peniteat, votique peracti ? Juv. What in the conduct of our life appears THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 102. So well design’d, so luckily begun, But, when we have our wish we wish undone, DryDEN. ~ TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, I nave been for many years a trader in London. My beginning was narrow, and my stock small ; I was, therefore, a long time brow-beaten and despised by ‘those, who having more money, thought they had more merit than myself. I did not however suffer my resentment to insti- gate me to any mean arts of supplantation, nor my eagerness of riches to betray me into any — indirect methods of gain; 1 pursued my busi- ness with incessant assiduity, supported by the hope of being one day richer than those who contemned me; and had upon every annual review of my books, the satisfaction of finding my fortune increased beyond my expectation. In a few years my industry and probity were fully recompensed, my wealth was really great, and my reputation for wealth still greater. I had large warehouses crowded with goods, and considerable sums in the public funds; I was | caressed upon the Exchange by the most emi- nent merchants; became the oracle of the com-_ mon council; was solicited to engage in all commercial undertakings; was flattered with the hopes of becoming in a short time one of the directors of a wealthy company ; and, to complete my mercantile honours, enjoyed the expensive happiness of fining for sheriff. | Riches, you know, easily produce riches; | when I had arrived at this degree of wealth, I had no longer any obstruction or opposition to fear: new acquisitions were hourly brought within my reach, and I continued for some years longer to heap thousands upon thousands. | At last I resolved to complete the circle of a | citizen’s prosperity by the purchase of an estate | in the country, and to close my life in retire- | ment. From the hour that this design entered my imagination, I found the fatigues of my em-_ ployment every day more oppressive, and per- | suaded myself that I was no longer equal to perpetual attention, and that my health would | soon be destroyed by the torment and distraction | of extensive business. I could image to myself | no happiness but in vacant jollity, and uninter- rupted leisure; nor entertain my friends with | any other topic, than the vexation and uncer- tainty of trade, and the happiness of rural privacy. But notwithstanding these declarations, I | |eould not at once reconcile myself to the | thoughts of ceasing to get money; and though | I was every day inquiring for a purchase, 1 found some reason for rejecting all that were offered me; and, indeed, had accumulated so | | many beauties and conveniences in my idea of the No. 102.7] spot. where { was finally to be happy, that per- haps the worid might have been travelled over, without discovery of a place which would not have been defective in some particular. Thus I went on still talking of retirement, and still refusing to retire; my friends began to laugh at my delays, and I grew ashamed to trifle longer with my own inclinations; an estate was at length purchased, I transferred my stock to a prudent young man who had _married my daughter, went down into the country, and commenced lord of a spacious manor. Here for some time I found happiness equal to my expectation. I reformed the old house according to the advice of the best architects, I threw down the walls of the garden, and in- closed it with pallisades, planted long avenues of trees, filled a green-house with exotic plants, ) dug a new canal, and threw the earth into the old moat. The fame of these expensive improvements brought in all the country to see the show. I entertained my visitors with great liberality, _ led them round my gardens, showed them my apartments, laid before them plans for new de- corations, and was gratified by the wonder of some, and the envy of others. I was envied; but how little can one man udge of the condition of another? The time was now coming, in which affluence and splen- dour could no longer make me pleased -with myself. I had built till the imagination of the architect was exhausted; I had added one con- venience to another, till I knew not what more to wish or to design; I had laid out my gar- dens, planted my park, and completed my water-works ; and what now remained to be done? what, but to lock up to turrets, of which when they were once raised I had no further use, to range over apartments where time was tarnishing the furniture, to stand by the cas. cade of which I scarcely now perceived the sound, and to watch the growth of woods that must give their shade to a distant generation. In this gloomy inactivity, is every day begun and ended: the happiness that I have been so long procuring is now at an end, because it has been procured; I wander from room to room till I am weary of myself; I ride out to.a neigh- _bouring hill in the centre of my estate, from whence all my lands lie in prospect round me; I see nothing that I have not seen before, and _Yeturn home disappointed, though I knew that I had nothing to expect. In my happy days of business I had been ac- _ customed to rise early in the morning; and re- -member the time when I grieved that the night came so soon upon me, and obliged me for a few » hours to shut out affluence and prosperity. I ‘now seldom see the rising sun, but to “ tell | Ifim,”? with the fallen angel, “ how I hate his THE ADVENTURER. 2038 beams.’’ I awake from sleep as to languor or imprisonment, and have no employment for the first hour but to consider by what art I shall rid myself of the second. I protract the breakfast as long as I can, because when it is ended I have no call for my attention, till I can with some degree of decency grow impatient for my dinner. If I could dine all my life, I should be happy: I eat not because I am hun- gry, but because I am idle: but alas! the time quickly comes when I can eat no longer; and so ill does my constitution second my inclina- tion that I cannot bear strong liquors: seven hours must then be endured before I shall sup, but supper comes at last, the more welcome as it is in a short time succeeded by sleep. Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the happiness, the hope of which seduced me from the duties and pleasures of a mercantile life. I shall be told by those who read my narrative, that there are many means of innocent amusement, and many schemes of useful employment, which I do not appear ever to have known; and that nature and art have provided ‘pleasures, by which, without the drudgery of settled business, the active may be engaged, the solitary soothed, and the social entertained. These arts, Sir, T have tried. When first I took possession of my estate, in conformity to the taste of my neighbours, I bought guns and nets, filled my kennel with dogs and my stable with horses ; but a little experience showed me, that these instruments of rural felicity would afford me few gratifications. I never shot but to miss the mark, and, to confess the truth, was afraid of the fire of my own gun. I could dis- cover no music in the cry of the dogs, nor could divest myself of pity for the animal whose peace- ful and inoffensive life: was sacrificed to our sport. I was not, indeed, always at leisure to reflect upon her danger ; for my horse, who had been bred to the chase, did not always regard my choice either of speed or way, but leaped hedges and ditches at his own discretion, and hurried me along with the dogs, to the great diversion of my brother sportsmen. His eager- ness of pursuit once incited him to swim ariver 3 and I had leisure to resoive in the water, that I would never hazard my life again for the de- struction of a hare. I then ordered books to be procured, and by the direction of the vicar had in a few weeks a closet elegantly furnished. You will, per- haps, be surprised when I shall tell you, that when once I had ranged them according to their sizes, and piled them up in regular gradations, I had received all the pleasure which they could give me. Iam not able to excite in myself any curiosity after events which have been long passed, and in which I can, therefore, have no interest: Iam utterly unconcerned to know whether Tully or Demosthenes exvelled 204 THE ADVE in oratory, whether Hannibal lost Italy by his own negligence or the corruption of his country- men, I have no skiil in controversial learning, nor can conceive why so many volumes should have been written upon questions, which I have lived so long and so happily without under- standing. I once resolved to go through the volumes relating to the office of justice of the peace, but found them so crabbed and intricate, that in less than a month I desisted in despair, and resolved to supply my deficiencies by paying a competent salary to a skilful clerk. I am naturally inclined to hospitality, and for some time kept up a ¢onstant intercourse of visits with the neighbouring gentlemen: but though they are easily brought about me by better wine than they can find at any other house, I am not much relieved by their conver- sation; they have no skill in commerce or the stocks, and 1 have no knowledge of the history of families or the factions of the country; so that when the first civilities are over, they usu- ally talk to one another, and I am left alone in the midst of the company. ‘Though I cannot drink myself, I am obliged to encourage the circulation of the glass ; their mirth grows more turbulent and obstreperous; and before their merriment is at an end, I am sick with disgust, and, perhaps, reproached with my sobriety, or by some sly insinuations insulted as a cit. Such, Mr. Adventurer, is the life to which 1 am condemned by a foolish endeavour to be happy by imitation; such is the happiness to which I pleased myself with approaching, and which I considered as the chief end of my cares and my labours. I toiled year after year with cheerfulness, in ey pectation of the happy hour in which I might be idle; the privilege of idle- ness is attained, but has not brought with it the blessing of tranquillity. I am, Yours, &c. of MERCATOR. PRE BE VTEVR VETAVRBVUTATAVET BVT TETTETUTUETATVTETTE DIVA No. 103.] Tuzspay, Oct. 30, 1753. ——— Quid enim ratione timemus, Aut cuwpimus ?— Juv. How void of reason are our hopes and fears ! DrypEN. In those remote t.mes when, by the interven- tion of fairies, men received good and evil, which succeeding generations could expect only from natural causes, Soliman, a mighty prince, reigned over a thousand provinces in the distant regions of the east. It is recorded of Soliman, that he had no favourite; but among the prin- cipal nobles of his court was Omaraddin. Omaraddin had two daughters, Almerine and | NTURER. [No. 103. Shelimah. At the birth of Almerine, the tairy Elfarina had presided; and, in compliance with the importunate and reiterated request of the parents, had endowed her with every natural excellence both of body and mind, and decreed that “‘she should be sought in marriage by a sovereign prince.” When the wife of Omaraddin was pregnant with Shelimah, the fairy Elfarina was again invoked ; at which Farimina, another power of the aerial kingdom, was offended. © Farimina was inexorable and cruel; the number of her votaries, therefore, was few. Elfarina was pla- cable and benevolent; and fairies of this cha- racter were observed to be superior in power, whether because it is the nature of vice toe defeat its own purpose, or whether the calm and equal tenor of a virtuous mind prevents those mis- takes, which are committed in the tumult and precipitation of outrageous malevolence. But Farimina, from whatever cause, resolved that her influence should not be wanting ; she, there- fore, as far as she was able, precluded the influ- ence of Elfarina, by first pronouncing the in- cantation which determined the fortune of the infant, whom she discovered by divination to be agirl. Farimina, that the innocent object of her malice might be despised by others, and perpetually employed in tormenting herself, de- creed, ‘“‘ that her person should be rendered hideous by every species of deformity, and that all her wishes should spontaneously produce an opposite effect.”’ : The parents dreaded the birth of the infant under this malediction, with which Elfarina had acquainted them, and which she could not reverse. ‘The moment they beheld it, they were solicitous only to conceal it from the world; they considered the complicated deformity of unhappy Shelimah, as some reproach to them- selves; and as they could not hope to change her appearance, they did not find themselves interested in her felicity. They made no re- | quest to Elfarina, that she would by any intel- lectual endowment alleviate miseries which | they should not participate, but seemed content that a being so hideous should suffer perpetual disappointment; and, indeed, they concurred to injure an infant which they could not behold | with complacency, by sending her with only — one attendant to a remote castle which stood on | the confines of a wood. Elfarina, however, did not thus forsake in- nocence in distress; but to counterbalance the evils of obscurity, neglect, and ugliness, she de- | creed, that ‘‘to the taste of Shelimah the coars- est food should be the most exquisite dainty; that the rags which covered her, should in her estimation be equal to cloth of gold; that she should prize a palace less than a cottage: and that in these circumstances love should be a | siranger to her breast.’’ To prevent the vexation . - No. 103.] which would arise from the continual disap- pointment of-her wishes, appeared at first to be ‘more difficult ; but this was at length perfectly effected by endowing her with content. While Shelimah was immured in a remote castle, neglected and forgotten, every city in the dominions of Soliman contributed to decorate the person, or cultivate the mind of Almerine. The house of her father was the resort of all who excelled in learning of whatever class; and as the wit of Almerine was equal to her beauty, her knowledge was soon equal to her wit. Thus accomplished, she became the object of universal admiration ; every heart throbbed at her approach, every tongue was silent when she spoke; at the glance of her eye every cheek was covered with blushes of diffidence or desire, and at her command every foot became swift as that of the roe. But Almerine, whom ambition was thus jealous to obey, who was reverenced by hoary wisdom, and beloved by youthful beauty, was perhaps the most wretched of her sex. Perpetual adulation had made her haughty and fierce ; her penetration and delicacy rendered almost every object offensive ; she was disgusted with imperfections which others could not dis- cover ; her breast was corroded by detestation, when others were softened by pity; she lost the sweetness of sleep by the want of exercise, and the relish of food by continual luxury: but her life became yet more wretched, by her sensibility of that passion, on which the happiness of life is believed chiefly to depend. Nourassin, the physician of Soliman, was of noble birth, and celebrated for his skill through ‘all the east. He had just attained the meridian of life; his person was graceful, and his manner soft and insinuating. Among many others, by whom Almerine had been taught to investigate nature, Nourassin had acquainted her with the qualities of trees and herbs. Of him she learned, how an innumerable progeny are contained in the parent plant, how they expand and quicken by degrees, how from the same soil each imbibes a different juice, which rising from the root har- dens into branches above, swells into leaves, and flowers, and fruits, infinitely various in colour, and taste, and smell: of power to repel diseases, or precipitate the stroke of death. _ Whether by the caprice which is common to ‘violent passions, or whether by some potion which Nourassin found means to administer to his scholar, is not known ; but of Nourassin she became enamoured to the most romantic excess. The pleasure with which she had before reflect- ed on the decree of the fairy, “that she should be songht in marriage by a sovereign prince,” “Was now at anend. It was the custom of the ‘nobles to present their daughters to the king, | when they entered their eighteenth year; an | eyent which Almerine had often anticipated THE ADVENTURER. 205 prevent with solicitude and terror. The period, urged forward, like every thing future, with silent and irresistible rapidity, at length ar- rived. The curiosity of Soliman had been raised, as well by accidental encomiums, as by the artifices of Omaraddin, who now hasted to gratify it with the utmost anxiety and pertur- bation: he discovered the confusion of his daughter, and imagined that it was produced like his own by the uncertainty and importance of an event, which would be determined before the day should be passed. He endeavoured to give her a peaceful confidence in the promise of the fairy, which he wanted himself; and per- ceived, with regret, that her distress rather increased than diminished ; this incident, how- ever, as he had no suspicion of the cause, only rendered him more impatient of delay; and Almerine, covered with ornaments by which art and nature were exhausted, was, however re- luctant, introduced to the king. Soliman was now in his thirtieth year. He had sate ten years upon the throne, and for the steadiness of his virtue had been surnamed the Just. He had hitherto considered the gratifica- tion of appetite as a low enjoyment, allotted to weakness and obscurity; and the exercise of heroic virtue, as the superior felicity of eminence and power. He had as yet taken no wife; nor had he immured in his palace a multitude of un- happy beauties, in whom desire had no choice, and affection no object, to be successively for- saken after unresisted violation, and at last sink into the grave without having answered any nobler purpose, than sometimes to have gratified the caprice of a tyrant, whom they saw at no other season, and whose presence could raise no passion more remote from detestation than fear. Such was Soliman; who, having gazed some moments upon Almerine witb silent admiration, rose up, and turning to the princes who stood round him, “ To-morrow,” said he, “I will grant the request which you have so often re- peated, and place a beauty upon my throne, by whom I may transmit my dominion to poster- ity: to-morrow, the daughter of Omaraddin shall be my wife.”’ The joy with which Omaraddin heard this declaration, was abated by the effect which it produced upon Almerine: who, after some ineffectual struggles with the passions which agitated her mind, threw herself into the arms of her women, and burst into tears. Soliman immediately dismissed his attendants; and taking her in his arms, inquired the cause of her distress: this, however, was a secret, which neither her pride nor her fear would suffer her to reveal. She continued silent and inconsol- able; and Soliman, though he secretly suspected some other attachment, yet appeared to be satisfied with the.suggestions of her father, that with impatience and hope, but now wished to! her emotion was only such as is commen to the 206 sex upon any great and unexpected event. He desisted from farther importunity, and command- ed that her women should remove her to a private apartment of the palace, and that she should be attended by the physician Nourassin. BV TWVVUVWVUVW VA PED DE DHOVVATDA TVTSADW BD STATLER VVWVWA VW FAVA No. 104.] Sarurpay, Nov. 3. 1753. ——_———— Semita certe Tranquille per virtutem putet unica vile. Juv. But only virtue shows the paths of peace. Nourassin, who had already learned what had happened, found his despair relieved by this op- portunity of another interview. The lovers, however, were restrained from condolence and consultation, by the presence of the women, who could not be dismissed ; but Nourassin put a small vial into the hand of Almerine as he de- parted, and told her, that it contained a cordial, which, if administered in time, would infallibly restore the cheerfulness and vigour which she had lost. ‘These words were heard by the attendants, though they were understood only by Almerine; she readily comprehended that the potion she had received. was poison, which would relieve her from langour and melancholy by remoy- ing the cause, if it could be given to the king before her marriage was completed. After Nourassin was gone, she sat ruminating on. the infelicity of her situation, and the dreadful events of the morrow, till the night was far spent; and then, exhausted with perturbation and watching, she sunk down on the sofa, and fell into a deep'sleep. The king, whose rest had been interrupted by the effects which the beauty of Almerine had produced upon his mind, rose at the dawn of day; and sending for her principal attendant who had been ordered to watch in her chamber, eagerly inquired what had been her behaviour, and whether she had recovered from her sur- prise. He was acquainted, that she had lately fallen asleep; and that a cordial had been left by Nourassin, which he affirmed would, if not too long delayed, suddenly recover her from languor and dejection, and which, notwithstand- ing, she had neglected to take. Soliman derived new hopes from this intelligence; and that’ she might meet him at the hour of marriage, with the cheerful vivacity which the cordial of Nourassin would inspire, he ordered that it should, without asking ber any question, be mixed with whatever she ‘first drank in the morning. Almerine, in whose blood the long-continued tumult of her mind had produced a feverish THE ADVENTURER. [No. 104. heat, awaked parched with thirst, and called eagerly for sherbet: her attendant, having first emptied the vial into the bowl, as she had been commanded by the king, presented it to her, and she drank it off. As soon as she had recol- lected the horrid business of the day, she missed the vial, and in a few moments she learned how it had been applied. The sudden terror which now seized her, hastened the effect of the poison ; and she felt already the fire kindled in her veins, by which in a few hours she would be destroyed. Her disorder was now apparent, though the cause was not suspected: Nourassin was again introduced, and acquainted with the mistake; an antidote was immediately prepared and administered ; and Almerine waited the event in agonies of body and mind, which are not te be described. ‘The internal commotion every instant increased ; sudden and intolerable heat and cold succeeded each other; and in less than an hour she was covered with a leprosy ; her hair fell, her head swelled, and every feature in her countenance was distorted. Nourassin, who was doubtful of the event, had withdrawn to conceal his confusion; and Almerine, not knowing that these dreadful appearances were, the presages of recovery, and showed that the fatal effects of the poison were expelled from the citadel of life, conceived her dissolution to be near, and in the agony of remorse and terror earnestly requested to see the king. Soliman hastily. entered her apartment, and beheld the ruins of her beauty with astonishment, which every moment increased, while she discovered the mischief which had been intended against him, and which had now fallen upon hex own head. Soliman, after he had recovered from his astonishment, retired to his own apartment; | and in this interval of recollection he soon dis-. covered that the desire of beauty had seduced him from the path of justice, and that he ought to have dismissed the person whose affections | he believed to have another object. He did not, therefore, take away the life of Nourassin for a crime, to which he himself had furnished the temptation; but as some punishment was necessary as a sanction to the laws, he condemn- ed him to perpetual banishment. He command- : ed that Almerine should be sent back to her | father, that her life might be a memorial of his | folly ; and he determined, if possible, to atone bya second marriage, for the errors of the first. He | considered how he might enforce and illustrate — some general precept, which would contribute more to the felicity of his people, than his leaving | them a sovereign of his own blood ; and at length he determined to publish this proclamation throughout all the provinces of his empire: “ So- | liman, whose judgment has been perverted, snd | whose life endangered, by the influence and} treachery of unrivalled beauty, is now resolyed to ( | No. 104. ] | place equal deformity upon his throne; that, when ‘this event is recorded, the world may know, that by vice beauty became yet more odious than ugliness; and learn, like Soliman, to de- spise that excellence, which, without virtue, is | only a specious evil, the reproach of the posses- sor, and the snare of others.’’ Shelimah, during these events, experienced a very different fortune. She remained, till she was thirteen years of age, in the castle; and it happened that, about this time, the person to whose care she had been committed, after a short sickness died. Shelimah imagined that she slept ; but perceiving that all attempts to awaken ber were ineffectual, and her stock of provisions being exhaustedj she found means to open the wicket, and wandered alone into the wood. She satisfied her hunger with such berries and wild fruits as she found, and at night not being able to find her way back, she lay down under a thicket, and slept. Here she was awaked early in the morning by a peasant, whose com- passion happened to be proof against deformity. ‘The man asked her many questions; but her answers rather increasing than gratifying his curiosity, he set her before him on his beast, and carried her to his house in the next village, at the distance of about six leagues. In his family she was the jest of some, and the pity of others ; she was employed in the meanest offices, and her figure procured her the name of Gob- lin. But amidst all the disadvantages of her situation, she enjoyed the utmost felicity of food and rest; as she formed no wishes, she suffered no disappointment; her body was healthful, and her mind at peace. In this station she had continued four years, when the heralds appeared in the village with the proclamation of Soliman. Shelimah ran out with others to gaze at the parade; she listened to the proclamation with great atten- tion, and, when it was ended, she perceived that the eyes of the multitude were fixed upon her. One of the horsemen at the same time alighted, and with great ceremony entreated her to enter a chariot which was in the retinue, telling her, that she was without doubt the person whom Nature and Soliman had -destined to be their queen. Shelimah replied with a smile, that she had no desire to be great; ‘‘but,’’ said she, “ if your proclamation be true, I should rejoice to be the instrument of such admonition to man- kind ; and, upon this condition, I wish that I were indeed the most deformed of my species.” The moment this wish was uttered, the spell of Farimina produced the contrary effect: her skin, which was scaly and yellow, became smooth and white, her stature was perceived gradually to increase, her neck rose like a pillar of ivory, her bosom expanded, and her waist be- ‘came less ; her hair, which was before thin and of THE ADVE ‘8 dirty red, was now black as the feathers of the NTURER. 207 raven, and flowed in large ringlets on her siuui- ders ; the most exquisite sensibility now sparkled in her eye, her cheeks were tinged with the blushes of the morning, and her lips moistened with the dew; every limb was perfect, and every motion was graceful. A white robe was thrown over her by an invisible hand ; the crowd fell back in astonishment, and gazed with in- satiable curiosity upon such beauty as before they had never seen. Shelimah was not less astonished than the crowd: she stood a while with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and find. ing her confusion increase, would have retired in silence; but she was prevented by the heralds, who having with much importunity prevailed upon her to enter the chariot, returned with her to the metropolis, presented her to Soliman, and related the prodigy. Soliman looked round upon the assembly, in doubt whether to prosecute or relinquish his purpose; when Abbaran, a hoary sage, who had presided in the council of his father, came forward, and placing his forehead on the foot- stool of the throne: ‘“ Let the king,” said he, *‘ accept the reward of virtue, and take Sheli- mah to his bed. In what age, and in what na- tion, shall not the beauty of Shelimah be hon- oured? to whom will it be transmitted alone? Will not the story of the wife of Soliman de- scend with her name? will it not be known, that thy desire of beauty was not gratified, till it had been subdued? that by an iniquitous purpose beauty became hideous, and by a virtuous wish deformity became fair ?” Soliman, who had fixed his eyes upon Sheli- mah, discovered a mixture of joy and confusion in her countenance, which determined his choice, and was an earnest of his felicity; for at that moment, Love, who, during her state of de- formity, had been excluded by the fairy Elfa- rina’s interdiction, took possession of her breast. The nuptial ceremony was not long delayed, and Elfarina honoured it with her preseice. When she departed, she bestowed on both her benediction; and put into the hand of Shelimah a scroll of vellum, on which was this inscription in letters of gold: ‘«* Remember, Shelimah, the fate of Alme- rine, who still lives the reproach of parental folly, of degraded beauty, and perverted sense. — -Remember, Almerine ; and let her example and thy own experience teach thee, that wit and beauty, learning, affluence, and honour, are not essential to human felicity; with these she was wretched, and without them thou wast happy. The advantages which I have hitherto bestowed, must now be obtained by an effort of thy own: that which gives relish to the coarsest food, is Temperance ; the apparel and the dwelling of a peasant and a prince, are equal in the estimation of Humility; and the torment of ineffectual de- sires is prevented, by the resignation of Piety to 208 the will of Heaven; advantages which are in the power of every wretch, who repines at the unequal distribution of good and evil, and im- putes to Nature the effects of his own folly.” The king, to whom Shelimah communicated these precepts of the fairy, caused them to be transcribed, and with an account of the events which had produced them distributed over all his dominions. Precepts which were thus en- forced, had an immediate and extensive influ- ence; and the happiness of Soliman and of Shelimah was thus communicated to the multi- tudes whom they governed. PEWS VCR VVEV VT SSCS VVVSEVS VE VW CVT VUVT VV SVWVAVTVA WF No. 105.] Turspay, Nov. 6, 1753. Novam comicam Menandrus, equatesque ejus ata- tis magis quam operis, Philemon ac Diphilus, et in- venere intra paucissimos annos, neque imitandam reliquere. VELL. PaATERCUL. Menander, together with Philemon and Diphilus, who must be named with him rather as his cotem- poraries than his equals, invented within the com- pass of a few years a new kind of comedy, and left it beyond the reach of imitation. TO THE ADVENTURER. Sir, Moratiry, taste, and literature, scarcely ever suffered more irreparably, than by the loss of the comedies of Menander ; some of whose frag- ments, agreeable to my promise, I am now going to lay before you, which I should imagine would ,be as highly prized by the curious, as was the Coan Venus which Apelles left imper- fect and unfinished. Menander was celebrated for the sweetness, brevity, and sententiousness of his style. ‘He was fond of Euripides,” says Quintilian, “and nearly imitated the manner of this tragic writer, though in a different kind of work. He is a complete pattern of oratorial excellence: ita omnem vite imaginem expressit, tanta in .eo inveniendi copia, et eloguendi facultas; ia est omnibus rebus, personis, affectibus, accommoda- tus: so various and so just, are all his pictures of life ; so copious is his invention, so masterly his elocution; so wonderfully is he adapted to all kinds of subjects, persons, and passions.”’ This panegyric reflects equal honour on the critie, and on the comedian. Quintilian has here painted Menander with as lively and expressive strokes, as Menander had characterized the Athenians. Boileau, in his celebrated eighth satire, Hee not represented the misery and folly of man, so forcibly or humorously as Menander. "A ® TUYT OR Te Sa tort LLALCIWTECK, Kos vouv evovre warroy avlewrov rorv. THE ADVENTURER. ‘ [No. 105. Tov covey cay ekeors rewra rovroys, Odros waxodarmuy tory 6morhoyoupeas. Tovrw xaxov d:’ auroy ovdey yiyverces, "A d: Quois dedaxev auTm TaUT EXEbe “Hytis O€ ymeis Trav avayenIOy HLL, Avros rae" avrav irége meorroeilopev. Avrevpel’, av rreen Tis* av ern neZoS, OvyiZopee6’. ay 10n Ths Evurvioy, TPODec DoCovuech’. av yravk avaneuyn, Sedosmapeey® Ayavics, docs, Giroriieses, yoLL0s, ‘Arayro, cour’ exiberce Ty GUees Hct oe «¢ All animals are more happy, and have more understanding than man. Look, for instance, on yonder ass; all allow him to be miserable : his evils, nowever, are not brought on him by himself and his own fault: he feels only those which nature has inflicted. We, on the con- trary, besides our necessary ills, draw upon our= selves a multitude of others. We are melan- choly, if any person happen to sneeze; we are angry, if any speak reproachfully of us; one man is affrighted with an unlucky dream, an- other at the hooting of an owl. Our conten- tions, our anxieties, our opinions, our ambition, our laws, are all evils, which we ourselves have superadded to nature.”’ Comparisons betwixt the conditions of the brutal and human species, have been frequently drawn; but this of Me- nander, as it probably was the first, so it is ie best I have ever seen. if this passage is admirable for the vivacitil and severity of its satire, the following certainly deserves deeper attention for weight of senti- ment, and sublimity and purity of moral. Es cig d¢ Suciay reorgecwy, w Ilapegire, Teavewy re rrnbos 4 eeigav, n, vn Asc, ‘Extooy Toute, 4 ZkTATLEVOO LATE Xevoas roinras yAumvdos nror Toeguensy H y’ cregeevros, 1 cuacnydov Cwdsec, Evyovy voperces cov Ocov xaclhorreevees, Thayer’ extsvos, cet Oeevacs HOGS EX Ele Ati yore Tov avdec yonoimoy repuzeveat, My reelevovs pbeicovra, pon ory levoy, Krsrrovroe, Zab TPUTTOVT YENLETOV YOM. Mnde Berovns eve, exiOvyens Ilocpegire, ‘O yae Qcos Breres of sanoiov ragay. ‘* He that offers in sacrifice, O Pamphilus, a multitude of bulls and of goats, of golden vest- ments, or purple garments, or figures of ivory, or precious gems; and imagines by this to con~ ciliate the favour of God, is grossly mistaken, and has no solid understanding. For he that would sacrifice with success, ought to be chaste und charitable, no corrupter of virgins, : adulterer, no robber or murderer for the sake of lucre. Covet not, O Pamphilus; even t thread of another man’s needle; for God who is near thee, perpetually beholds t actions.” No. 106.] inculcated in the strongest manner, and upon the most powerful motive, the Omniscience of the Deity; at the same time superstition and the idolatry of the heathen are artfully ridiculed. I know not among the ancients any passage that contains such exalted and spiritualized thoughts of religion. Yet if these refined senti- ments were to be inserted in a modern comedy, disapprobation. The Athenians could endure to hear God and Virtue mentioned in the theatre; while ‘an English and a Christian audience can laugh at adultery as a jest, think obscenity wit, and debauchery amiable. murderer, if a duellist, is a man of honour, the gamester understands the art of living, the knave has penetration and knows mankind, the spend- thrift is a fellow of fine spirit, the rake has only robbed a fresh country girl of her innocence and honour, the jilt and the coquet have a great deal of vivacity and fire; but a faithful husband is a dupe and a cuckold, and a plain country gentle- man a novice and a fool. The wretch that dared to ridicule Socrates, abounds not in so much false satire, ribaldry, obscenity, and blasphemy, as cur witty and wicked triumvirate, Wycherley, Congreve, and Vanbrugh. Menander has another very remarkable reflec- tion, worthy even that divine religion, which the last-mentioned writers so impotently en- deavoured to deride. It relates to the forgive- ness of enemies, a precept not totally unknown to the ancient sages as hath rashly been affirm- ed ; though never inculcated with such frequency, fervour, and cogency, and on motives so weighty | and efficacious, as by the founder of the Chris- tian System. w Toeysce, Obros xeario'ros tor avne, ‘Ooris adixtiobas treor exsorceres Beoray. “ He, O Gorgias, is the most virtuous man, who best knows among mortals how to bear injuries with patience.” It may not be-improper to alleviate the se- Yiousness of these moral reflections, by the addition of a passage of a more light and spright- ly turn. "O mey Exinccenos rovs Qeovs eivecs Acyet, Avemove, Odwe, yy, VAsov, aug, aorecnse Eya & dreraloy yenoipous tives Ocovs T’ cxeyvesov jus x00 To Yeuolov [LOv6Ve *‘Bevoumtvos rovroy yoe es THY ObubeeV, Evins ti Bovre, rave cos yevnoeres, A605, O1nlel, Stoumovres, LeyvEenpLerce, Dido, dixarras, woervets. THE ADVENTURER. Temperance, and justice, and purity, are here ° The | 209 gods. But I am of opinion that gold and silver are our only powerful and propitious deities, For when once you have introduced these inte your house, wish for what you will, you shall quickly obtain it; an estate, a habitation, ser- vants, plate, friends, judges, witnesses.’ From these short specimens, we may in some measure be enabled to judge of Menander’s way | of thinking and of writing ; remembering al. I fear they would be rejected with disdain and | plain prosaic translation, and by considering the _ passages singly and separately, without knowing the characters of the personages that spoke them, ways how much his elegance is injured by a and the aptness and propriety with which they were introduced. The delicacy and decorum observed constantly by Menander, rendered him the darling writer of the Athenians, at a time when the Athen- ians were arrived at the height of prosperity and politeness, and could no longer relish the coarse railleries, the brutal mirth, and illiberal wit, of an indecent Aristophanes. ‘‘ Menander,’’ says Plutarch, ‘‘abounds in a precious Attic salt, which seems to have been taken from the samé sea, whence Venus herself arose. But the salt of Aristophanes is bitter, disgusting, and cor- rosive.”’ There are two circumstances that may justly give us a mean opinion of the taste of the Ro- mans for comic entertainments: that in the Augustan age itself, notwithstanding the cen- sure of Horace, they preferred the low buffoon- ery and drollery of Plautus to the delicacy and civility of Terence, the faithful copier of Me- nander; and that ‘Terence, to gratify an audience unacquainted with the real excel- lences of the drama, found himself obliged to violate the simplicity of Menander’s plots, and work up two stories into one in each of his comedies, except the excellent and exact Hecyra. But this duplicity of fable abounding in various turns of fortune, necessarily draws off the at- tention from what ought to be its chief object in a legitimate comedy, Character and Humour. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, Lis Paw. MoruHILus, DLW BE SR VASA VT TULSVTTBVBRTDTV TDS UATBT BLU GULTVVIVDBA DEUVwY No. 106.] Saturpay, Nov. 10, 1753. Vire. Quo moriture ruis ? Why wilt thou rush to death? —~ Dryven. picharmus, indeed, calls the winds, the, I wave before remarked, that human wit has the earth, the sun, the fire, and thestars, | never been able to render courage contemptible Ee 210 by ridicule: though courage, as it is sometimes a proof of exalted virtue, is also frequently an indication of enormous vice; for if he who effects a good purpose at the risk of life, is allowed to have the strongest propensity to good, it must be granted, that he who at the risk of life effects an evil purpose, has an equal pro- pensity to evil. But as ridicule has not distin- guished courage into virtue and vice, neither has it yet distinguished insensibility from courage. Every passion becomes weak in proportion as it is familiar with its object. Evil must be considered as the object of fear ; but the passion is excited only when the evil becomes probable, or, in other words, when we are in danger. As the same evil may become probable many ways, there are several species of danger: that danger to which men are continually exposed, soon be- comes familiar, and fear is no longer excited. This, however, must not be considered as an ex- ample of courage; for equal danger, of any other kind, will still produce the same degree of fear in the same mind. Mechanical causes, therefore, may produce insensibility of danger ; but it is absurd to sup- pose they can produce courage, for courage is an effort of the mind by which a sense of danger is surmounted; and it cannot be said, without the utmost perversion of language, that a man is courageous, merely because he discovers no fear when he is sensible of no danger. It is, indeed, true, that insensibility and eourage produce the same effect; and when we see another unconcerned and cheerful in a situa- tion which would make us tremble, it is not strange that we should impute his tranquillity to the strength of his mind, and honour his want of fear with the name of courage. And yet when a mason whistles at his work ona plank of a foot broad and an inch thick, which is suspended by a rafter and a cord over a preci- pice, from which if he should fall, he would inevitably perish, he is only reconciled by habit to a situation, in which more danger is generally apprehended than exists; he has acquired no strength of mind, by which a sense of danger is surmounted ; nor has he with respect to courage any advantage over him who, though he would tremble on the scaffold, would yet stand under it without apprehension; for the danger in both situations is nearly equal, and depends upon the same incidents. But the same insensibility is often substi- tuted for courage by habit, even when the dan- ger is real, and in those minds which every other occasion would show to be destitute of for- titude. The inhabitants of Sicily live without terror upon the declivity of a volcano, which the stranger ascends with an interrupted pace, looking round at every step, doubting whether THE ADVENTURER. [ No. 106. to go forward or retire, and dreading the caprice of the flames which he hears roar beneath him, and sees issue at the summit: but let a woman, who is thus become insensible to the terrors of an earthquake, be carried to the mouth of the mines in Sweden, she will look down into the abyss with terror, she will shudder at the thought of descending it, and tremble lest the brink should give way. Against insensibility of real danger we should not be less watchful than against unreasonable fear. Fear, when it is justly proportioned to its object, and not too strong to be governed by reason, is not only blameless but honourable ; it is essential to the perfection of human nature, and the mind would be as defective without it as the body without a limb. Man is a being exposed to perpetual evil; every moment liable to destruction by innumerable accidents, which yet, if he foresees, he cannot frequently prevent: fear, therefore, was implanted in his breast for his preservation ; to warn him when danger ap- proaches, and to prevent his being precipitated upon it either by wantonness or inattention. But those evils which, without fear, we should not have foreseen, when fear becomes excessive we are unable to shun; for cowardice and pre- sumption are equally fatal, and are frequently found in the same mind. A peasant in the north of England had tw sons, Thomas and John. Tom was taken to sea when he was very young, by the -mas- ter of a small vessel who lived at Hull; and Jack continued to work with his father till he was near thirty. Tom, who was now be- come master of a smack himself, took his bro- ther on board for London, and promised to procure him some employment among the shipping on the water-side. After they had been some hours under sail, the wind became contrary, and blew very fresh; the waves be- gan immediately to swell, and dashing with violence against the prow, whitened into foam. ‘The vessel, which now plied to wind- ward, lay so much to one side, that the edge was frequently under water; and Jack, who expected it to overset every moment, was seized with terror which he could not con- ceal. He earnestly requested of Tom, that the sails might be taken in; and lamented the folly that had exposed him to the violence of a tempest, from which he could not without @ miracle escape. Tom, with a sovereign con- tempt of his pusillanimity, derided his distress ; and Jack, on the contrary, admired the bravery of Tom and his crew, from whose countenances and behaviour he at length derived some hope; he believed he had deserved the reproach whieh he suffered, and despised himself for the fea which he could not shake off. In the meat time the gale increased, and in less than an hou No. 107.] it blew a storm. Jack, who watched every countenance with the utmost attention and THE ADVENTURER. solicitude, thought that his fears were now jus- | tified by the looks of the sailors; he therefore renewed his complaint, and perceiving his bro- ther still unconcerned, again intreated him to take every possible precaution, and not increase their danger by presumption. In answer to) these remonstrances he received such consolation as one lord of the creation frequently adminis- ters to another in the depth of distress ; “‘ Pshaw, -damme, you fool,’”’ says Tom, “ don’t be dead- hearted; the more sail we carry, the sooner we shall be out of the weather.’ Jack’s fear had, indeed, been alarmed before he was in danger; but Tom was insensible of the danger when it arrived; he, therefore, continued his course, exulting in the superiority of his courage, and anticipating the triumph of his vanity when he should come on shore. But the sails being still spread, a sudden gust bore away the mast, which in its fall so much injured the helm, that it became impossible to steer, and in a very short time afterwards the vessel struck. The first moment in which Tom became sensible of danger, he was seen to be totally destitute of courage. When the vessel struck, Jack, who had been ordered under hatches, came up, and found the hero, whom he had so lately regarded with humility and admiration, sitting on the quarter-deck, wringing his hands, and uttering incoherent and clamorous exclamations. Jack now appeared more calm than before, and ask- ed, if any thing could yet be done to save their lives. Tom replied in a frantic tone, that they might possibly float to land on some parts of the wreck ; and catching up an axe, instead of at- tempting to disengage the mast, he began to stave the boat. Jack, whose reason was still predominant, though he had been afraid too soon, saw that ‘Tom in his frenzy was about to cut off their last hope; he therefore caught hold of his arm, took away the axe by force, assisted the sailors in getting the boat into the water, persuaded his brother to quit the vessel, and in ‘about four hours they got safe on shore. If the vessel had weathered the storm, Tom / would have been deemed a hero, and Jack a /coward: but I hope that none, whom I have led into this train of thought, will, for the fu- _ture, regard insensibility of danger as an indica- tion of courage; or impute cowardice to those Bice fear is not inadequate to its object, or too violent to answer its purpose. There is one evil, of which multitudes are in perpetual danger ; an evil, to which every other is as the drop of the bucket, and the dust of the balance; and yet of this danger the greater part -ippear to be totally insensible. ' Every man who wastes in negligence the day #f salvation, stands on the brink not only of the grave but of hell. 211 imminent, appears by the terms that Infinite Wisdom has chosen to express the conduct by which alone it can be escaped; it is called ‘a race, a watch, a work to be wrought with fear _and trembling, a strife unto blood, and a combat That the danger of all is | | with whatever can seduce or terrify, with the pleasures of sense and the power of angels.” The moment in which we shall be snatched from the brink of this gulph, or plunged to the bottom, no power can either avert or retard ; it approaches silent, indeed, at the flight of time, but rapid and irresistible as the course of a comet. The dreadful evil, which, with equal force and propriety, is called the “ second death,” should not, surely, be disregarded, merely be- cause it has been long impending ; and as there is no equivalent for which a man can reasonably determine to suffer it, it cannot be considered as the object of courage. How it may be borne, should not be the inquiry, but how it may be shunned. And if, in this daring age, it is im- possible to prepare for eternity, without giving up the character of a hero, no reasonable being, surely, will be deterred by this consideration from the attempt; for who but an infant, or an idiot, would give up his paternal inheritance for a feather, or renounce the acclamations of a triumph for the tinkling of a rattle? PUUBCVUTAUBVVUVA VA {VR TUVVVVLVUAVTAAVAVVUBVUBI VATA BIVATA No. 107.] Turspay, Nov. 13, 1753. “ = , » : vr pam Pap ms tae Wes Incr : . 4 7" = 4 v 7 . im 4? mest >. ‘ ‘ Se! Mig Woy Te pe ey , 4 { vy us a] - [” 4 ‘ ib Si J ibe ‘ re ‘ ¢ ‘ rs « i ee — >| - i 5 a eupida ‘ e ~ =r ; ta , Hwa: I “aa Fa , . be t : UJ ? ~ sf * ) 4 Meas ae AS , ‘ mit « r a + y * : ny erie: a3 ahs wart : wh Haas it i 7 Sn : 3 af ; + wih é ‘ bao wede vk ia ts . 4 wee ; a : st) * ad s e v a “ae , is * ay mY Be ‘ be 2B ‘ i Y eX nae cee : Sait Pts fa et ley Re oegty Rie means : aryaer ‘4 ry a x i ‘ on, hs 4 wat -Si Se- E e PEN eae Gos zi a thy . ie de FEE akg: wer Sides hd ; . i ea halts iat aa eae acer ee ite.” a ae ee =" wey ek ly Tbe AIOE YA vide parece iM ieee we k 7 ‘e siti, ra ele aa as | hs tare : ' Ae MEA! hohe : m, ‘ a + 7 ¥ 4 ef ' me = * Se ARV CHESTERFIELD. FROM AN ORIGINAL MODEL x Mr J fb / vi 4 GOS 4 SEE. BS. Serr x = BAS = Hl} I/ — = |= ee _ C= = <2 SS =e | SSS SS —I=SS=y ee Lo} = Pon Se Ss EAT | = NX. | a] ws — 2 \ A a eoe z | a | ON FB SE ) DNIVERSITY ERITION OF ee SS Bs i 2 J Qi - == | ee “alt ————— | TERS << SS f la Asm = == Sept™ 1611825. 9 (10 x ON N L Jones by Published THE WW: @Q Re EL... D: A Periovical Paper, PUBLISHED AT LONDON, IN THE YEARS 1753, 4, —5, —6, 7. By ADAM FITZ-ADAM. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY JONES & COMPANY,- 3, ACTON PLACE, KINGSLAND ROAD. 1825. 7 co eee O TCS eens ~ ' = i 4 L i \ Ld v pe 5 ri : . tc 2 ~ a . - i ~ = FE J Tee by 4 s < , , ‘ 2 Be he Me é ar or} ; =e * ce > A “ ~ ni - ya ys Ler ces ' ee L x wl FAS Fa a ee” ied e ay" t ‘ - i + Mi bs Me r ‘ ‘7 ¥ * . . > 4 ‘ ‘ , = - ' j PS} . ( F , r > \ a } ‘ “ . z ° 4 he ae Patt : a Fi } i | = 7 ’ ; a ‘ ‘ ’ a e ae t % =- -\ ey a ry ¥ tt wv ‘ by = x | Agdtad LA a at) . THE WORLD. eee ORIGINAL DEDICATIONS. iF with, but also of informing the public to whom TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE I have been obliged. PHILIP xart or CHESTERFIELD. That you may read this address without a . blush, it shall have no flattery in it. To confess MY LORD, the truth, I mean to compliment myself; and I Tuat I presume to dedicate the first volume of| know not how to do it more effectually, than The Worup to Your Lordship, will I hope be| by thus signifying to my readers, that in the’ forgiven me. It is not enough that I can flatter| conduct of this work, I have not been thought myself with having been frequently honoured| unworthy of your correspondence. with your correspondence; I would insinuate I am, Sir, it to the public, that under the sanction of your Your most obedient, humble servant, Lordship’s name, J may hope for a more favour- Apam. Frrz-Apam. able reception from my readers. If it should be expected upon this occasion, that I should point out which papers are your IIl. Lordship’s, and which my own, I must beg to TO be excused ; for while, like the Cuckoo in the fable, 1am mixing my note with the Nightin- RICHARD OWEN CAMB EEG E, Eig, gale’s, I cannot resist the vanity of crying out, sot How sweetly we Birds sing ! As you have been so partial to these Papers, as If I knew of any great or amiable qualifica-|to think them in some degree serviceable to tion that your Lordship did not really possess, I | Morality, or at least to those inferior duties of would (according to the usual custom of dedica- | life, which the French call les petites morales ; tions) bestow it freely: but till I am otherwise| and as you have shown the sincerity of this instructed, I shall rest satisfied with paying my | opinion, by the support you have given to them, most grateful acknowledgments to your Lord-| I beg leave to prefix your name to this third ship, and with subscribing myself, volume, and to subscribe myself, Your Lorpsuir’s Sir, Obliged, and Your obliged, and most faithful Most obedient servant, Humble servant, Apam Firz-Apam. ApaM Firz-Apam. II. IV. TO THE HONOURABLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HORACE WALPOLE, Esa. THE EARL OF CORKE. SIR, MY LORD, I raxe the liberty of prefixing your name to a| I? is usual in churches, when an organ, an al- volume of the Wort», as it gives me an oppor- | tar-piece, or some other valuable ornament, is __ wonity, not only of making you my acknowledg- | given by the bounty of any particular person, to i i ments for the essays you have honoured me |set forth in very conspicuous characters the lv ORIGINAL DEDICATIONS. name of the benefactor. custom, I take the liberty of prefixing your Lordship’s name to a volume of the Wortp, that I may signify to the public by whose bounty it has been ornamented. But your Lordship is not the only one of your family to whom the Wokrtp has been indebted ; and it is with great pleasure tLat I embrace this occasion of making my acknowledgments to the Eart or Corke, as it gives me an opportunity at the same time of confessing my obligations to Mr. Boyte. I will not offend your Lordship with the common flattery of dedications, having always observed that praise is least pleasing, where it is most due: a consideration that obliges me to add no more, than that I am, My lord, Your lerdship’s obliged, Most bumble, And most obedient servant, Apam Firz-Apam. ee V. TO SOAME JENYNS, Esa. One of the Lords Commissioners for Trade and Plantations. Sir, To promote the circulation of these small vol- umes, by limiting their number to no more than six, it was thought adviseable to put a stop to the paper of the worn, at a time when the de- mand for it greatly exceeded my expectation, and while it was the only fashionable vehicle, in which men of rank and genius chose to con- vey their sentiments to the public. To extend this circulation (for I confess myself a self-in- terested person,) I have separately addressed the first five volumes to those of my correspond- ents whose pieces are the most numerous, and whose names and characters do me the greatest honour. It will not therefore, I hope, displease you, if among these favourite names you happen to discover your own; it being impossible for me to say any thing more to the advantage of this work, than that many of the essays in it were written by Mr. JENYNs. I am, sir, Your most obliged And most obedient Humble servant, Avam Firz-Apam- VI. To Mr. MOORE. DEAR SIR, In the list of those whom I am proud to call my In imitation of this | assistants in this work, and to the principal of whom, as far as they are come to my knowledge, I have dedicated the former volumes of it, to — have omitted .you, my best and sincerest friend, would have been strange and unpardonable. It would have been strange, as you are sensible how high a regard I have always paid to what- ever came from your hand; and unpardonable, as I am convinced you never sat down to write me a paper but from motives of pure love and affection. It is true, and I scorn to flatter even in a dedication, I have not always regarded your papers with that degree of admiration which some other of my correspondents commanded from me; yet so partial have I been to your talents and abilities, that you must own I have never, through the whole course of the work, refused any one of your lucubrations: insomuch that I greatly fear my readers may now-and- then have reason to reproach me with having suffered my friendship to blind my judgment. But let Malice and Envy say their pleasure, I shall always acknowledge with gratitude the favour of your assistance in the long contention I have had with the vices and follies of the world; and that it was frequently owing to your ironical smile, that I have been enabled to raise the laugh of raillery in favour of virtue and good manners. I confess, indeed, and you will not be angry that to yourself I avow it, the immortality I have reason to hope for, arises from the conjunction of many higher names than yours, which I have had the honour to associate with me in this favoured undertaking. And here I feel my vanity struggling to get loose, and indulge itself in the pleasing theme. The name of Frrz-Apam shall be carried down ° to latest posterity with those of his age, the most admired for their genius, their learning, their wit and humour. But I check myself—I dare not engage in the task of saying what ought to be said on this occasion, and therefore beg leave to hide my inability in silence. You will pardon, sir, this short digression, though not made in your favour ; and be assured notwithstanding all I have said, and whatever I may think of you as a writer, as a man I bear you a true affection, take a very interested part in all your concerns, and should you ever meet with that reward from the public which I think your merits have long deserved, I hope you are satisfied that no one will more truly rejoice in your good fortune than, Dear sir, Your most affectionate friend, And humble servant, ApAM Firz-ApDAM. No. CONTENTS PaGE OriIcGInaAt Dedications— Historical and biographical preface. . . History of Gonzales de Cdstro—Mo- desty of young men of fashion—of quacks—the author’s advertisement — Design of the paper—JMoore . Bashfulness of the moderns—Fable of Modesty and Assurance— Moore . . Inconveniences of borrowing money —Moore . . » . Story of Mr. and Mrs. ye a . The same concluded—Moore . . Progress made towards nature in the theatres—Walpole .... . . Offensive manners of whist-players— Fretters and growlers—Moore . - Recommendation of Theodore, King of Corsica, to the liberality of the public— Walpole - Personal satire — Progress ‘of. ey ul Pantomimes—WMoore . . On the change of the style— Walpole : . Happiness, an allegory—Moore . On the taste or whim for Chinese architecture and furniture — IV, Whitehead . . . Letters of advice to the anther ore . On the composition of letters—/Val- STATS | chi EEE : Absurd taste in Mein; —° Squice Mushroom’s villa—Covenirye. . . . Scene of domestic happiness—Moore . - Account: of the races and manner of Newmarket—Earl of Bath . - A country gentleman’s tour to Paris with his family—Chesterfield . . . On the ignorance and indecency of modern romance writers—W. White- CLEP PILL . Uses of learning—Moore . i - Letters on the World—a London ein day—Fashionable undress—-Moore . - School discipline recommended as a cure for rambling— Unknown Shameful practice of exhibiting luna- iii 30. Al, PaGe tics in Bedlam—Proposals for a new Bedlam for men of spirit about town MM 0gFG 8 us ra ttiv wits. Srey ais - On nostrums and specifica Shart writing—Chesterfield. . . «. . - Danger of reading romances—Chester- pi ae Sees - On simplicity in paiasan Wicrtoudi - Account of the erection of three great monasteries in London— Tilson - Old women most proper me for love—Walpole . . . . . On the little benefit accruing és En- glishmen from their travels—Chester- PRU, sh oka miritys Impropriety of mecarine a hatin éturth —Cruelty of seducing the affections —Moore. .. rol Be . Distresses of a ite diitons clerzymen —Moore . . Criticism treated as a apeetes of a ease—Dodsley . . . « - . Remarks on the author’s colvestnant® ents — Letter from a disappointed bride—Moore . On the danger of repesting the, sich act—Moore . . Letter from Nic Tisibertongile, a lover of secrets—Mooré . . . . - On misspending the summer in cards and drinking—J. Duncombe Mary Truman’s account of the mise- ries of sist emcaeaneet C. H. Wi- ETS wn ona ae On an BR oy taste in ageless PEST EE ie OF screen 5S cages Substance of Nic Limberconeasd 8 dhe ters—Letter from an undressed ci —Moore . . Infelicities of araisen plore ry hie husband’s not giving way to the wife —Moore.. . <' ibaabce is Letter from an na yet —on the miseries of a woman of fashion in the country—Mouore «66 ie 6) cape eye 6] 63 69 71 73 f Sie vi G5, ~\ CONTENTS. No. . ~~. Pace 42. Varieties of good sort of men—Woore. 74 43. Punning letter—on the Jew bill—In- delicacy of pantomimes—Moore . 76 44, Pride, the source of every guilt and misery—Unknown . . . « « “7 45. Essay on posts—Roberts . "9 46. Letters on the art of not coer people—Moore . : . il 47. Courage of Sir Josiah Pimps: markable duel in Moorfields—Earl of Corke . 82 48. On a fentatigns-tho. polity of Breit: ford— Moore > 84, 49. Ironical racomoranidation of the Bye sent times—Chesterfield . 86 _ 50. Various reasons for coming to Tinian —anecdotes of Pope—Cambridge . 88 51. On variety of acquaintances—Inatten- G tion to their qualifications--Cambridge 89 52. Amanda’s story of her seduction— Moore 91 58. On fiicharitablencss is the failings of the fair sex—Moore 98 54, Essay on hearers—Cambridge 95 55. Proposal for a new extinguisher— Cambridge . . . aor 56. Adventures of a hear Sc aGamtae '. "98 57. On the contempt usually bestowed on parsons, authors, and cuckolds—Moore 100 58. Calamities which attend male te W. Whitehead. . 102 59. Architecture improved by auaieeire of the gothic and Chinese—Unknown 103 60. On the absurdity of giving vails to ser- vants—Hon. Hamilton Boyle . 105 61. Increase of robberies by the increase of the metropolis—French academies— Unknown . . opreueg 107 62. Distinction of vis, visit, nail visitation —Unknown . « « o 108 63. On the substance of the et aa stances of idleness— Unknown 110 64. Instance of a taste in books without a relish of learning—Lord Finical’s library--Unknown .. . ed Add 65. On the modern taste of improving parks—buildings—Cambridge . - 118 66. On the pleasure of crowding and being tz crowded— Unknown. . . . . . 115 {67. On Taste—Tilson . . . ws ALT 68. Continuation of the Litetciry ‘of the Pumpkin family from No. 47.—Earl of Corker oe" * - » 119 69. Letters on high hissleriQaatiadaued to ~ play at cards—On vails—Moore . . 120 70. Books the physic of the mind ; News, its food; Novels, its poison—Cam- bridge . . y i 71. The author’s 2bba Sa ay he ments of correspondence—Ladies’ dress—Cambridge . - 124 - ‘ No, é PaGE 72. Ambition for trifles—Superfluities turned into necessaries—Cambridge. 125 — 73. On the different behaviour of men at death—Moore . . . « . - 127 © 74. On the manner of passing the nighti in the vulgar and fashionable world— Parratt .. «2. yi s0a ee ee 75. Comparison of the present times with the past—Moore . ..... . 180 76. Character of an improver—Cambridge 132 77. Forms of rejecting lovers by a haughty widow, Moore—Song on Molly— Unknown . . o + = « 1h 78. On female dress Ae palsitisige stale - 136 79. On the mischiefs of romances—Story of Clarinda ard Antonio—Beren- per". “a 4! si a austen wettaiiee iy eet enee ae 80. The maid’s husband, an advertisement from alady—Unknown. . . - 139 81. Letters on improper diego: Peois a modest lady who has lived fie the great—Moore . . » 141 82. Change of the ni gle- a Taine ‘of old May-day—Loveybond «-« 83. On the manufacture of thunder and lightning— Whitaker. « . . . . 145 84. Prosperity and Adversity, an allegory —W. Duncombe... . - « 147 85. Letter froma bride, afraid that she had tired her husband with her prattle — From one who is a parson, author, and cuckold—Moore . . . .. . 148 86. On the improvement to be derived from the study of flowers—Cole . . . . 150 87. On the duties of masters to servants— Moore’. ".4 te os » 152 88. On the radtindet effect of isin i. shions on the country— Unknown . 153 — 89. Ironical reformation effected by this paper, Moore.—Lines to the * of + © *— GCarnck "oe - 155 90. Characters of the members of a ink. ing club—Chesterfield —s . . « « Ib 91. The author’s reception at the above club—Chesterfield.°.°.°.°. . . 1859 92. Reflections on the same—Chesterfield 160 93. On pedantry and the opposite extreme ~—Loneybond So oi ivan eee eee 94. On impediments to . conversation— Loveybond ©.” .s\4 antes @ Beenie sca 95. On the advantages of the golden mean —Characters of a slattern and a fid- fad—Moore. . . - 166 96. Transcript from the euke ar Hee gor, or the married devil—Moore ._ . 167 97. Story of the seduction of a young lady —Moore. . . TE 98. On the Italian Opere ota rfield. . 171 99. Gloomy reflections of November— Character of a foreboding couple —Cambridge . . « « « . 17 ie he . On the pride of birth—Chesterfield . 5. Public spirit of advertising physicians . History of a turtle-feast—Cambridge . . Defence of the fair sex, ne a bachelor CONTENTS. PAGE . On Dr. Johnson’s dictionary—Chester- AGB. ek Be ei we wns - 175 Humorous observations on the Eng- lish language—Chesterfield . . . . 176 - On fashionable and cant phrases— Cambridge . 1 . « » - . 178 . On politeness— Politeness of Buitoaay- men—Walpole. . . «180 On the modes of paiticatihig Christ- mas—Cambridge . . 182 Custom of painting among ihe ladies —Chesterfield\6r 0 esse oe) 2 188 Letter from a teacher of eloguence— Remarks on it—Cambridge . . . 185 - Directions for writing Se bridges yint its hey, . Ideas of heighbourhood—Chir ates s of good and bad neighbours—Cambridge 189 Letters on fashionable visiting—Naked necks—Reasons for painting—Un- ENOUI AE xs S emthim « 19] - On persons who re rere knows how—2. G. Cooper ° ° ° . ° ° 192 . Different opinions of this paper—Ches- terfieldis ae hs ace Nate - On prej judices—Chesterfield : : . On duelling—Chesterfield. . . . 194 - 196 - 197 - 199 —Of the author—Moore ... . 201 . Danger of masquerades—History of them— Cambridge...) a) emrseesi je» 202 . On novelty—Taste for Chinese orna- ments—Marrioté . . » caer 204 . Advantages of modern cavfiouint Cambridge. Wel sh Med ietiey i» 206 Qualifications of a modern gardener— Combridge) .. aur « wake . 208 . On affectation—Chesterfield . 209 . The vision of Parnassus—Marriott . 210 2. Distresses of a physician without pa- - 213 214 tronage—Herring. ». ». «+» °* —Unknown . : - 216 On the vanity of beltading our sins: riors—Good company—Jenyns . . 217 . Art of happiness—Arachne and Me- lissa—Ode to morning—Unknown . 219 - Arguments against the practice of ino- culation—Onknowe » «. . - 221 . Happiness arising from envy and én tred, especially in matrimony—Moore 222 . Solomon’s virtuous woman, the fine lady of modern times—Hospital for the relief of decayed members of Par- liament—On giving false characters of servants—Unknown . . . 224 Letter from a lady, complaining of ne- glect— Unknown.—Nankeen breeches meMOOTE . » + » © 1» - 226 No. 13]. 1575 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 161. 162. . On Saenitiat he teant from Loma- a vii PAGE On the happiness of the world, if every man filled the state he was fit for— Maleah vias BS dean's . © 227 Defence of the ways of Provdiace. Tioweybonds) 23) 8) eaiiw bin e % « 229 On affectation of consequence—Epi- taph on Sir Thomas Scott—Moore . 281 On the impediments to conversation— Loveybond . . .. dij. sa. xd) 6. Bae Abuse of Whitin Charioern of rk brinus and Hilarius—Unknown . . 234 On the love of noise— Unknown . 236 Inutility of ancient learning—English writers sufficient in all sciences— Unknown . . ime Gh ee os ees The author’s ipeatnn, to ea in poli- tics and scandal—_Moore . - 239 A tale of Scandal—Moore . eit. Rak Meditation among the books—Sir .D. Datrymple . .«) ... my - 242 On experiments in Panag’ riding, leaping, &c.— Dislike to English manufactures-—A laconic epistle— Unknown. «ass “righ » 244 . Letters from a roisy wife nad husband MOONE. Su aise) my Wil ake iiees wet sae . Advantages of labour—Moore - 247 » Distresses of a ruined wife and mo- ther—Moore ..°* .-. + 249 . Story of a perfidious lover—Moore . 251 . Advice to the ladies on their return to the country—Chesterfield . . . . 252 . Various classes of scribblers cn glass —Sir D. Dalrymple... . » 254 . On civility and good-breeding—Ches terfield . «4 «6 - 255 On ballad: snikersaPronosel teh enno- ble their profession—Unknown . . 257 . The proper use of nose-jewels—Un- known « « oo e258 . On people of fachien—Chesirifiele wi 200 . Diffusion of learning—Multitude of authors and readers— Unknown » 262 . A visit to Sir John Jolly—Jenyns . . 264 . On female curiosity—Gaming—Moore 266 . Inconveniences of false reports of deaths in the newspapers—Ridley . 268 . On insensibles—Berenger . - 269 . Causes of the degeneracy of servants Jenyns . .- or an - 271 tius—Moore . . « A are: . Proposal to erect an Eosratal for at cayed actors—J. G. Cooper. . + + 275 On attacks upon licentiousness—Story of Sir Eustace Drawbridgecourt— Walpole . + » » epee! le «AO Mischiefs arising oot a He: compliant disposition—LFarl of Corke . . . . 279 Reflections on the earthquake at Lis- bon—Unknown . . 280 Vill CONTENTS. 163. On the transmigration of souls— from the pin-makers—Moore . . 816 Jenyns) Mew. 1s EL « . 282 | 184. On the harmlessness of labouring in 164. On head-dress—Plague of atte one’s vocation—Gataker . . . . 318 2p eee to eat healths— 185. Complaint against a wife too much Unknown .« » » 283 devoted to her father’s will—Earl of 165. Follies of our See tora, etl prndénce Cork) Ar Sie hoa) OR Paes of modern times—the old English- 186,. Second letter from the credulous man and the modern eae aa clergyman in No. 31—Moore . 321 Unknown . «+ + - . 285 | 187. Pride of the et of Laycocks— 166. On honour and honest ye Amare . 287 Moore. ° ss ABE. 287-5 324 167. The game of happiness—Tilson . . 289 | 188. Proposal for an avin of ladies—on the 168. The world to be reformed by medical letter _I—Unknown ... . 825 assistance— Unknown 3 . 290 189. On decorum—Chesterfield.. . . 327 169. On the nakedness of the paiee- A 190. On cruelty to animals—Unknown . 329 vertisement for a curate at Beccles— 191. On general satire—Unknown . . . 330 of Dreamers in pulpits—Unknown . 292 | 192. Fear of being laughed at— Affection of 170. On ostentatious charity—Hon. H. vice—Reputation of intrigue—Moore 332 Boyle . : . 294 | 193. Proposal fur a receptacle for suicides 171. Defence of an Ttalian O feral Chéehs- — Tilson noah Sat beep. 383 ter of Metastasio—Unknown . . 295 | 194. Inconvenience of superiority—Movre 335 172. Rules for playing the game of happi- 195. Prevalence of suicide—vulgar medes ness—Tilson. . . . . 297 of it—Walpole .. .. « eel. ~SBTE 173. Prevalence of a spirit of defaitintlon— 196. On passion—Chesterfield . . . . 838 how to be obviated—Moore . . . 299| 197. On the supposed degeneracy of human 174.. Folly of ambition—Perplexities of nature—Chesterfield . . . « . 840 greatness—Moore . . . 300 | 198. Onthe difficulty of getting rid of one’s 175. No uniformity in female fastifons; ex- self-— Burgess. 6 vw se en eR cept in voice and elocution—Un- 199. On the genteel mania—Marriot . .° 344 known . 302 | 200. Ode to sculpture—Marriot . . . 346 176. On a whimsical nana cs re Hears 201. Uses of the doubleentendre—Moore . 3847 character—Moore. . .» . 304 | 202. On regimentals—Berenger . . . 848 177. Letters concerning an bia oubibiiable 203. An expedient for the proper exercise son and daughter— Unknown 306 of the passions—Unknown . . . 350 178. A visit to Sir Harry Prigg—Jenyns . 308 | 204. Proposal for a tax upon good things— 179. Advertisements for lodgings proposed Sir D. Dalrymple... = . 352 to be extended—Meeting of servants 205. Tour to China proposed instead of —a tradesman’s fashionable wife— Paris—Unknown . . . . . « 858 Efficacy of medicines in destroying 206. Letters on the vexations of gallan- rats .... Unknown—Canto on the try—Cambridge ~.) .» . 9. 3%.) . S56 birth-day of Shakspeare—Berenger . 310 207. George Meanwell ( George II.)’scom- 180, Petition of all the letters in the alpha- plaint of his servants—Unknown . 357 bet except E and O—Unknown . 312 | 208. Letters on the odd humours of an 181. Letter on the advantages of gaming— uncle and aunt—on thick and thin Unknown... « 313 skulls—Unknown . . « « « » 859 182. General frailty of er ye 209. Account of the fatal accident which lation of an ancient fable—Moore . 315 befel the author—Moore . . . 361 183. On the uses of this paper in dressing Extra World—Character of H. F.—Wal- the pole... 3 0 pee hair—in pastry— Application * "7 a THE WORLD. No. i.] Tuurspay, Jan. 4, 1753. Nihil dulcius est, bene quam munita tenere Edita doctrina sapientum templa serena ; Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre Errare, atque viam palanteis querere vite. Certare ingenio, contendere nobilitate, Nocteis atque dies niti prestante labore Ad summas emergere opes, rerumque potiri. LUcRET. But above all, ’tis pleasantest to get The top of high philosophy, and sit On the calm, peaceful, flourishing head of it; Whence we may view, deep, wondrous deep below, How poor mistaken mortals wandering go, - Seeking the path to happiness: Some aim At learning, wit, nobility, or fame ; _ Others with cares and dangers vex each hour, To reach the top of wealth, and sovereign power. CREECH. “ Avr the village of Aronche, in the province of Estremadura (says an old Spanish author) lived Gonzales de Castro, who, from the age of twelve to fifty-two, was deaf, dumb, and blind. ° ' His cheerful submission to so deplorable a mis- fortune, and the misfortune itself, so endeared him to the village, that to worship the holy Virgin, and to love and serve Gonzales, were considered as duties of the same importance; and to neglect the latter was to offend the for- mer. * It happened one day, as he was sitting at his door, and offering up his mental prayers to St. Jago, that he found himself, on a sudden, restored to all the privileges he had lost. The News ran quickly through the village, and old _and young, rich and poor, the busy and the idle, _thronged round him with congratulations. « But as if the blessings of this life were only given us for afflictions, he began in a few weeks to lose the relish of his enjoyments, and to re- | Pine at the possession of those faculties, which ] served only to discover to him the follies and disorders of his neighbours, and to teach him that the intent of speech was too often to de- ceive. ‘¢ Though the inhabitants of Aronche were as honest as other villagers, yet Gonzales, who had formed his ideas of men and things from their natures and uses, grew offended at their manners. He saw the avarice of age, the pro- digality of youth, the quarrels of brothers, the treachery of friends, the frauds of lovers, the insolence of the rich, the knavery of the poor, and the depravity of all. These, as he saw and heard, he spoke of with complaint; and en- deavoured by the gentlest admonitions to excite men to goodness.”’— From this place the story is torn out to the last paragraph; which says, “‘ That he lived to a comfortless old age, despised and hated by his neighbours for pretending to be wiser and beiter than themselyes; and that he breathed out his soul in these memorable words, that ‘ He who would enjoy many friends, and live happy in the world, should be deaf, dumb, and blind to the follies and vices of it.’”’ If candour, humility, and an earnest desire of instruction and amendment, were not the dis- tinguishing characteristics of the present times, this simple story had silenced me as an author. But when every day’s experience shows me, that our young gentlemen of fashion are lament- ing at every tavern the frailties of their natures, and confessing to one another whose daughters they have ruined, and whose wives they have corrupted; not by way of boasting, as some have ignorantly imagined, but to be reproved and amended by their penitential companions ; when I observe too, from an almost-blameable degree of modesty, they accuse themselves of more vices than they have constitutions to com- mit; I am led by a kind of impulse to this work ; which is intended to be a public reposi- B 2 THE WORLD. [No. 1. tory for the real frailties of these young gentle- | novelty and good-humour, the fashions, follies, men, in order to relieve them from the necessity of such private confessions. The present times are no less favourable to me in another very material circumstance. It was the opinion of our ancestors, that there are few things more difficult, or that required greater skill and address, than the speaking pro- perly of one’s self. But if by speaking properly be meant speaking successfully, the art is now as well known among us as that of printing or of making gunpowder. Whoever is acquainted with the writings of those eminent practitioners in physic, who make their appearance either in hand-bills, or in the weekly or daily papers, will see clearly that there is a certain and invariable method of speaking of one’s self to every body’s satisfac- tion. I shall therefore introduce my own im- mortance to the public, as near as I can, in the manner and words of those gentlemen; not doubting of the same credit, out the same ad- vantages. ADVERTISEMENT. “ 'To be spoke with every Thursday at Tully’s head in Pall-mall, Avam Frrz-Apam; who, after forty years travel through all the parts of the known and unknown world; after having in- vestigated all sciences, acquired all languages, and entered into the deepest recesses of nature and the passions, is, at last, for the emolument and giory of his native country, returned to England; where he undertakes to cure all the diseases of the human mind. He cures lying, cheating, swearing, drinking, gaming, avarice, and ambition in the men; and envy, slander, coquetry, prudery, vanity, wantonness, and inconstancy 31 the women. He undertakes, by a safe, pleasant, and speedy method, to get husbands for young maids, and good-humour for old ones. He instructs wives, after the easiest and newest fashion, in the art of pleasing, and widows in the art of mourning. Hegivescom- mon sense to philosophers, candour to disputants, modesty to critics, decency to men of fashion, and frugality to tradesmen. | For farther par- ticulars inquire at the place above-mentioned, or of any of the kings and princes in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America. “N. B. The doctor performs his operations by -lenitives and alteratives; never applying corro- ‘Sives, but when inveterate ill habits have ren- dered gentler methods ineffectual.”’ Having thus satisfied the public of my amaz- ing abilities, and having, no doubt, raised its curiosity to an extraordinary height, I shail descend, all at once, from my doctorial dignity, to address myself to my readers as the author of a weekly paper of amusement, called THE Wortp., My design in this paper is, to ridicule, with vices, and absurdities of that part of the human species which calls itself the world, and to trace | it through all its business, pleasures, and amuse- ments. But though my subjects will chiefly confine me to the town, I do not mean never to make excursions into the country; on the con- trary, when the profits of these lucubrations have enabled me to set up a one-horse chair, I shall take frequent occasions of inviting my reader to a seat in it, and of driving him -to scenes of pure air, tranquillity, and innocence, from smoke, hurry, and intrigue. There are only two subjects which, as matters stand at present, I shall absolutely disclaim touching upon ; and these are religion and poli- tics. The former of them seems to be so uni- versally practised, and the latter so generally understood, that to enforce the one, or to explain the other, would be to offend the whole body of my readers. . To say truth, I haye serious rea- sons for avoiding the first of these subjects. A weak-advocate may ruin a good cause. And if religion ean be defended by no better arguments than some I have lately seen in the public pa- pers and magazines, the wisest way is to say nothing aboutit. Inrelation to politics, 1 shall only observe, that the minister is not yet so thoroughly acquainted with my abilities, as to trust me with his secrets. The moment he throws aside his reserve, I shall throw aside mine, and make the public as wise as myself. My readers will, I hope, excuse me, if here- after they should find me very sparing of mottoes to these essays. I know very well that a little Latin or Greek, to those who understand no language but English, is both satisfactory and entertaining. It gives an air of dignity to a paper, and is a convincing proof that the author is a person of profound learning and erudition. But in the opinion of those who are in the se- cret of such mottoes, the! custom is, as Shak- speare says, more honoured in the breach than the observance ; a motto being generally chosen after the essay is written, and hardly ever hay- ing affinity to it through two pages together. But the truth is, I have a stronger reason for declining this custom: itis, that the follies I intend frequently to treat of, and the characters I shall from time to time exhibit to my readers, will be such as the Greeks and Romans were entirely unacquainted with. - It may perhaps be expected, before I dismiss this paper, that I should take a little netice of my ingenious brother authors, who are obliging the public with their daily and periodical labours. With all these gentlemen I desire to live in peace, friendship, and goed neighbour- hood; or if any one of them shall think proper to declare war against me unprovoked, I hope he will not insist upon my taking farther notice of him, than only to say, as the old serjeant did No. 2.] to his ensign who was beating him, J beseech your honour not to hurt yourself. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE WITS. *« Whereas it is expected that the title of this paper will occasion certain quips, cranks, and conceits at the Bedford and other coffee-houses in this town: this is therefore to give notice, that the words, this isa sad world, a vain world, a dull world, a wretched world, a trifling world, an ignorant world, a damned world; or that I hate the world, am weary of the world, sick of the world, or phrases to the same effect, applied to this paper, shall be voted, by all that hear them, to be without wit, pumour, or pleeeee and be treated accordingly.” RUWRCVVBBVTWA BV VT VATVIVSE VAT SEULIBEGUTULA TAUB No. 2.] Tuurspay, Jan. 11, 1753. Ir is an observation of Lord Bacon, ‘* That the fame of Cicero, Seneca, and the younger Pliny, had scarce lasted to this day, or at least not so fresh, if it. had not been joined with some vanity and boasting in themselves: for boasting (con- tinues that great writer) seems to be like var- nish, that not only makes wood shine, but last.”’ Dow greatly are the moderns obliged to Lord Bacon for giving another reason for the success of the ancients, than superiority of merit! These gentlemen have taken care, it seems, to lay on their varnish so extremely thick, that common wood has been mistaken for ebony, and ebony for enamel. But if the ancients owe all their reputation to their skill in varnishing, as no doubt they do, it appears very wonderful, that while the art remains, it should be so totally neglected by modern authors, especially when they experience every day, that for want of this covering, the critics, in the shape of worms, have eat into their wood, and crumbled it to powder. But to treat this matter plainly, and without. a figure; it is most certainly owing to the bash- fulness of the moderns that their works are not held in higher estimation than those of the ancients. And this, I think, will be as ap- parent as any other truth, if we consider for a moment the nature and office of the people called critics. It is the nature of these people to be ex- ceedingly dull ; and it is their office to pronounce decisively upon the merit and demerit of all works whatsoever. ‘Thus, choosing themselves into the said offices, and happening to set out without taste, talents, or judgment, they have no way of guessing at the excellency of an au- thor, but from what the said author has been graciously pleased to say of it himself: and as most of the moderns are afraid of communicat- ing to the public all that passes in their hearts THE WORLD. 3 on that subject, the critics, mistaking their reserve for a confession of weakness, have. pro- nounced sentence upon their works, that they are good for nothing. Nor is it matter of won- der that they proceed in this method: for by what rule of reason should a man expect the good word of another who has nothing to say in favour of himself ? To avoid therefore the censure of the critics, and to engage their approbation, I take this early opportunity of assuring them that I have the pleasure of standing extremely high in my own opinion; and if I do not think proper to say with Horace, Sublimi feriam sidera vertice. or with Ovid, Jamque opus incepi, quod nec Jovis tra, necignes, Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetustas, it is because I choose to temper vanity with humility; having sometimes found that a man may be too arrogant as well as too humble ; though it must always be acknowledged that in affairs of enterprise, which require strength, genius, or activity, assurance will succeed where modesty will fail. To set forth the utility of blending these two virtues, and to exemplify in a particular instance the superiority of assurance, as I began my first paper with a tale I shall end this with a fable. Modesty, the daughter of Knowledge, and Assurance, the offspring of Ignorance, met ac- cidentally upon the road; and as both had a long way to go, and had exper rienced, from for- mer hardships, that they were alike unqualified to pursue their journey alone, they agreed, not- withstanding the opposition in their natures, to lay aside all animosities, and, for their mutual advantage, to travel together. It was in a country where there were no inns for entertain- ment, so that to their own address, and to the hospitality of the inhabitants, they were contin- ually to be obliged for prevision and lodging. Assurance had never failed getting admittance to the houses of the great; but it had frequently been her misfortune to be turned out of doors, at atime when she was promising herself an elegant entertainment, or a bed of down to rest upon. Modesty had been excluded from all such houses, and compelled to take shelter in the cottages of the poor; where, though she had leave to continue as long as she pleased, a truss of straw had been her usual bed, and roots or the coarsest provision her constant repast. But as both, by this accidental meeting, were become friends and fellow-travellers, they entertained hopes of assisting each other, and of shortening the way by dividing the cares of it. Assurance, who was dressed lightly in asum- mer silk and short petticoats, and who had something commanding in her voice and pre- sence, found the same easy access as before to a 4 the castles and palaces upon the way ; while Mo- desty, who followed her in arusset gown, speak- ing low, and casting her eyes upon the ground, was as usual pushed back by the porter at the gate, till introduced by her companion; whose fashionable appearance and familiar address got admission for both. And now, by the endeavours of each to sup- port the other, their difficulties vanished, and they saw themselves the favourites of all com- panies, and the parties of their pleasures, festivals, and amusements. ‘The sallies of Assurance were continually checked by the delicacy of Modesty, and the blushes of Modesty were fre- quently relieved by the vivacity of Assurance ; who, though she was sometimes detected at her old pranks, which always put her companion out of countenance, was yet so awed by her presence, as to stop short of offence. Thus in the company of Modesty, Assurance gained that reception and esteem which she had vainly hoped for in her absence ; while Modesty, by means of her new acquaintance, kept the best company, feasted upon delicacies, and slept in the chambers of state. Assurance, indeed, had in one particular the ascendancy over her com- panion; for if any one asked Modesty whose daughter she was, she blushed, and made no answer; while Assurance took the advantage of her silence, and imposed herself upon the world as the offspring of Knowledge. Tn this manner did the travellers pursue their journey; Assurance taking the lead through the great towns and,pities, and apologising for the rusticity of her companion; while Modesty went foremost through the villages and hamlets, and excused the odd behaviour of Assurance, by presenting her as a courtier. " It happened one day, after having measured a tedious length of road, that they came to a nar- row river, which by a hasty swell had washed away the bridge that was built over it. As they stood upon the bank, casting their eyes upon the opposite shore, they saw at a little distance a magnificent castle, and a crowd.of people invit- ing them to come over. Assurance, who stopt at nothing, throwing aside the covering from her limbs, plunged almost naked into the stream, and swam safely to the other side. Modesty, offended at the indecency of her companion, and diffident of her own strength, would have de- clined the danger; but being urged by Assur- ance, and derided for her cowardice by the people on the other side, she unfortunately ven- tured beyond her depth, and, oppressed by her fears, as well as entangled by her clothes, which were bound tightly about her, immediately dis- appeared, and was driven by the current none knows whither. It is said, indeed, that she was afterwards taken up alive by a fisherman upon the English coast, and that shortly she will be brought to the metropolis, and shown to the THE WORLD. + [No. 3. curious of both sexes with the surprising Oronuto Savage, and the wonderful Panther-Mare. Assurance, not in the least daunted, pursued her journey alone; and though not altogether as successfully as with her companion, yet having learned in particular companies, and upon parti- cular occasions, to assume the air and manner of Modesty, she was received kindly at every house; and at last arriving at the end of her travels, she became a very great lady, and rose to be the first maid of honour to the queen of the country. RVC VECRURELERERTUDETA RA DETRUTLVEAAVAUTETR TOUTS No. 3.] Tuurspay, Jan. 18, 1753. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. SIR, Ir I had inclination and ability to do the cruel- est thing upon earth to the man I hated, I would lay him under the necessity of borrowing money of a friend. You are to know, Sir, that I am curate of a parish within ten miles of town, at forty pounds per annum; that I am five-and-thirty years old, and that I have a wife and two children. My father, who was a clergyman of some note in the country, unfortunately died soon after I came from college, and left me master of seven- teen hundred pounds. With this sum, which I thought a very great one, I came up to town, took lodgings in Leicester- Fields, put a narrow lace upon my frock; learned to dance of Denoyer, bought my shoes of ‘Tull, my sword of Becket, my hat of Wagner, and my snuff-box of Deard. In short, I entered into the spirit of taste, and was looked upon as a fashionable young fellow. I do not mean that I was really so, according to the town acceptation of the term; for I had as great an aversion to infidelity, libertinism, gam- ing, and drunkenness, as the most unfashionable manalive. All that my enemies, or, what is more, all that my friends can say against me, is, that in my dress I rather imitated the coxcomb than the sloven; that I preferred good company to reading the fathers; that I liked a dinner at the tavern better than one at a private house; that I was oftener at the play than at evening pray- ers; that I usually went from the play to the tavern again; and that in five years’ time I spent every shilling of my fortune. ‘They may also add, if they please, as the climax of my fol- lies, that when I was worth nothing myself, I married the most amiable woman in the world, without a penny to her fortune, only because we loved each other to distraction, and were miser- able asunder. | To the whole of this charge I plead guilty ; and have most heartily repented of every article §? No. 3.] of it except the last: Iam, indeed, a little ap- prehensive that my wife is my predominant passion, and that I shall carry it with me to the grave. I had contracted an intimacy at college with a young fellow, whose taste, age, and inclina- tions were exactly suited tomy own. Nor did this intimacy end with our studies; werenewed it in town; and as our fortunes were pretty equal, and both of us our own masters, we lodged in the same house, dressed in the same manner, followed the same diversions, spent all we had, and were ruined together. My friend, whose genius was more enterprising than mine, steered his course to the West Indies, while I entered into holy orders at home, and was or- dained to the curacy above-mentioned. At the end of two years I married, as I told you before ; and being a wit as wellas a parson, I made a shift by pamphlets, poems, sermons, and surplice fees, to increase my income to about a hundred a year. I think I shall pay a compliment to my wife’s economy, when [assure you, that notwithstand- ing the narrowness of our fortune, we did not run out above ten pounds a year: for if it be considered that we had both been used to com- pany and good living; that the largest part of | our income was precarious, and consequently if ' we starved ourselves we were not sure of laying up; that as an author I was vain, and as a parson ambitious; always imagining that my wit would introduce me to the minister, or my orthodoxy to the bishop; and exclusive of these circumstances, if it be also considered that we ‘were generous in our natures, and charitable to the poor, it will be rather a wonder that we spent so little. It is now five years and a quarter since our marriage; in all which time I have been run- ning in debt without a possibility of helping it. Last Christmas I took a survey of my circum- ; stances, and had the mortification to find that I was fifty-one pounds fifteen shillings worse than nothing. ‘The uneasiness I felt upon this discovery determined me to sit down and write a tragedy. I soon found a fable to my mind, and was making a considerable progress in the work, when I received intelligence that my old friend and companion was just returned from Jamaica, where he had married a planter’s widow of immense fortune, buried her, and farmed out the estate she had left him for two thousand pounds a year upon the exchange of London. I rejoiced heartily at this news, and took the first opportunity of paying my congratulations upon so happy an occasion. As I was dressed for this visit in very clean canonicals, my friend, who possibly had connected the idea of a good living with a good cassock, received me with the utmost complaisance and good-humour ; THE WORLD. ‘ and after haying testified his Joy at seeing me, desired to be informed of my fortune and pre- ferment. I gave him a particular account of all that had happened to me since our separation ; and concluded with a very blunt request, that he would lend me fifty guineas to pay my debts with, and to make me the happiest curate with- in the bills of mortality. As there was something curious in my friend’s answer to this request, I shall give it to you word for word, as near as I can remember it; marking the whole speech in italics, that my own interruptions may not be mistaken. Fifty guineas! And so you have run yourself in debt fifty-two pounds ten shillings! Within a very trifle, Sir. dy, ay, I mean so. Fifty guineas is the sum you want; and perhaps you would think it hard if I refused lending tt. 1 should indeed. J knew you would. Let me see (going to the escritoir.) Can you change me a hundred pound note? Who, I, Sir? You surprise me. Here John! (enters John) get change for a hundred pound note: I want to lend this gentle- man some money—Or—no, no; I shawt want you (Exit John.) J believe I have forty guineas in my pocket. You may get the other ten some- where else. One, two, three—Ay, there are just | forty guineas. And pray, Sir, when do you intend to pay me? I had rather be excused, Sir, from taking any; I did not expect to be so mortified. Extravagance, Sir, is the sure road to mortification. I must deal plainly with you. He that lends his money has a right to deal plainly. You began the world with about two thousand pounds im your pocket. Seventeen hundred, Sir. dnd these seventeen hundred pounds, I think, lasted you about fwe years. True, Sir. Five times three are fifteen. Ay, you lived at the rate of about three hundred and fifty pounds a year. After this, as you tell me yourself, you turned curate; and because forty pounds a year was an immense sum, you very prudently fell in love and married a beggar. Do you think, Sir, that if I had intended to marry a beggar, I should have spent my fortune as I did? No, Sir; I married a woman of fortune, great Sortune 3 and so might you—What hindered you ? But I say nothing against your wife. I hope you are both heartily sorry that you ever saw one an- other’s faces. Are your children boys or girls ? Girls, Sir. And I suppose I am to portion them? But I must tell you once for all, Sir, that this is the last sum you must expect from me. I have pro- portioned my expenses to my estate, and will not be made uneasy by the extravagance of any man living. Ihave two thousand a year, and I spend two thousand. If you have but forty, I see no oc- casion for your spending more than forty. I have a sincere regard for you, and I think my actions have proved it; but a gentleman, who knows you very well, told me yesterday, that you were an eupensive, thoughtless, extravagant young fellow. I know not to. what length my friend would iG a 6 THE WORLD. have extended his harangue; but as I had already heard enough, I laid the forty guineas upon the table, and, like Lady Townly in the play, taking a great gulp, and swallowing a wrong ‘word or, two, left the room without speaking a syllable. I have now laid aside my tragedy, and am writing a comedy, called, The Frrenp. I do not know that I have wit enough for such a performance; but if it be damned, it is no more than the author (though a parson) will consent to be, if ever he makes a second attempt to borrow money of a friend. Your taking proper notice of this letter will oblige Your humble servant and admirer, ees To gratify my correspondent, I have published his letter in the manner I received it. But I must entreat the next time I have the favour of hearing from him, that he will contrive to be a little more new in his subject; for I am fully persuaded, that ninety-nine out of every hun- dred, as well clergy as laity, who have borrowed money of their friends. nave been treated ex- actly in the same manner. BEETS DEBE SVTTE VS TLAVAA VE VEVEVEVTEVEDEVAEVE TANGA No. 4.] Tuurspay, Jan. 25, 1'753. = ETE To the entertainment of my fair readers, and to recommend to them an old-fashioned virtue, called prudence, I shall devote this and a fol- | lowing paper. If the story I am going to tell them should deserve their approbation, they are to thank the husband and wife from whom I had it; and who are desirous, this day, of being the readers of their own adventures. { An eminent merchant in the city, whose real name I shall conceal under that of Wilson, was married to a lady of considerable fortune and more merit. ‘They lived happily together for some years, with nothing to disturb them but the want of children, The husband, who saw himself richer every day, grew impatient for an heir ; and as time rather lessened than increased the hopes of one, he became by degrees indiffer- ent, and at last averse to his wife. ‘This change in his affection was the heaviest affliction to her ; yet so gentle was her disposition, that she re- proached him only with her tears; and seldom with those, but when upbraidings and ill-usage made her unable to restrain them. . It is a maxim with some married philoso- phers, that the tears of a wife are apt to wash away pity from the heart of a husband. Mr. Wilson will pardon me if I rank him, at that time, among these philosophers. He had lately hired a lodging in the country, at a small dis- ‘| plied the woman. [No. 4. tance from town, whither he usually retired in the evening, to avoid (as he called it) the perse- cutions of his wife. In this cruel separation, and without com- plaint, she passed away a twelvemonth ; seldom seeing him but when business required his attendance at home, and never sleeping with him. At the end of which time, however, his behaviour, in appearance, grew kinder; he saw her oftener, and began to speak to her with ten- derness and compassion. One morning, after he had taken an “diliaiae leave of her, to pass the day at his country lodg- ing, she paid a visit to a friend at the other end of the town; and stopping in her way home at a thread-shop in a by-street near St. James’s, she saw Mr. Wilson crossing the way, and afterwards knocking at the door of a genteel house over against her, which was opened by a servant in livery, and immediately shut, with- out a word being spoken. As the manner of his entrance, and her not knowing he had an acquaintance in that street, a little alarmed her, she inquired of the shop-woman if she knew the gentleman who lived in the opposite house. “* You have just seen him go in, Madam,’ re- “ His name is Roberts, and a mighty good gentleman, they say, he is. His lady’’—— At those words Mrs. Wilson changed colour, and interrupting her——‘‘ His lady, Madam !——I thought that——Will you give me a glass of water? ‘This walk has so tired me Pray give me a glass of water I am quite faint with fatigue.”” ‘The good woman of the shop ran herself for the water, and by the additional help of some hartshorn that was at hand, Mrs. Wilson became, in appearance, tolerably composed. She then looked over the threads she wanted, and having desired a coach might be sent for, ‘‘ I believe,’ said she, ‘‘ you were quite frightened to see me look so pale ; but I had walked a great way, and should cer- tainly have fainted if I had not stepped into your shop.—But you were talking of the gen- tleman over the way—I fancied I knew him; but his name is Roberts, you say. Is he a mar- ried man, pray?’ “ The happiest in the world, Madam (returned the thread-woman:;) he is wonderfully fond of children, and to his great joy his lady is now lying-in of her first child, which is to be christened this evening ; and as fine a boy, they say it is, as'ever was seen.” At this moment, and as good fortune would have it, for the saving a second dose of hartshorn, the coach that was sent for came to the door: into which Mrs. Wilson immediately stepped, after hesitating an apology for the trouble she had given; and in which coach we shall leave her to return home, in an agony of grief which her- self has told me she was never able to describe. The readers of this little history have been informed that Mr. Wilson’ had a coun- * No. 5.] THE WORLD. ’ 7 try lodging, to which he was supposed to { my husband, discovered me at church, and made retire almost every evening since his disagree- ment with his wife; but in fact, it was to his house near St. James’s that he constantly went. He had indeed hired the lodgings above-men- tioned, but from another motive than merely to shun his wife. ‘The occasion was this: As he was sauntering one day through the Bird-cage Walk in the Park, he saw a young woman sitting alone upon one of the benches, who, though plainly, was neatly dressed, and - whose air and manner distinguished her from — the lower class of women. He drew nearer to her without being perceived, and saw in her countenance, ‘which innocence and _ beauty adorned, the most composed melancholy that ean be imagined. He stood looking at her for some time: which she at last perceiving, started from her seat in some confusion, and endeavour- ed to avoid him. ‘The fear of losing her gave him courage to speak toher. He begged pardon for disturbing her, and excused his curiosity by her extreme beauty, and the melancholy that was mixed with it. It is observed by a very wise author, whose name and book I forget, that a woman’s heart is never so brim-full of afiliction, but a little flattery will insinuate itself into a corner of it ; and as Wilson was a handsome fellow, with an easy address, the lady was soon persuaded to re- place herself upon the bench,.and to admit him at her side. Wilson, who was really heart- struck, made her a thousand protestations of esteem and friendship ; conjuring her to tell him if his fortune or services could contribute to her happiness, and vowing never to leave her, till she made him acquainted with the cause of her concern. - Here a short pause ensued; and after a deep sigh and a stream of tears, the lady began thus: -“ Tf, Sir, you are the gentleman your appearance speaks you to be, I shall thank Heaven that i have found you. Iam the unfortunate widow of an officer who was killed at Dettingen. As he was only a lieutenant, and his commission all his fortune, I married him against a mother’s consent, for which she has disclaimed me. How I loved him, or he me, as he is gone for _ ever from me, I shall forbear to mention, though I am unable to forget. At my return to Eng- Jand (for I was the constant follower of his fortunes) I obtained, with some difficulty, the allowance of a subaltern’s widow, and _ took lodgings at Chelsea. “In this retirement, I wrote to my mother, acquainting her with my loss and poverty, and desiring her forgiveness for my disobedience; but the cruel answer I received from her de- termined me, at all events, not to trouble her again. - *T lived upon this slender allowance with all imaginable thrift, till an old officer, a friend of widow, may possibly have happened. mea visit. To this gentleman’s hounty I have long been indebted for an annuity of twenty pounds in quarterly payments. As he was punctual in these payments, which were always made me.the morning they became due, and yesterday being quarter-day, I wondered I neither saw him nor heard from him. Early this morning I walked from Chelsea to inquire for him at his lodgings in Pall-mall; but how shall I tell you, Sir, the news I learnt there ?— This friend, this generous and disinterested friend, was killed yesterday in a duel in Hyde- park.’’ She stopped here to give vent to a tor- rent of tears, and then proceeded.‘ I was so stunned at this intelligence that I knew not whither to go. Chance more than choice brought me to this place ; where, if I have found a benefactor—and indeed, Sir, I have need of one—TI shall call it the happiest accident of my life.’” The widow ended her story, which was lite- rally true, in so engaging and interesting a manner, that Wilson was gone an age in love in a few minutes. He thanked her for the confi- dence she had placed in him, and swore never to desert her. He then requested the honour of attending her home, to which she readily con- sented, walking with him to Buckingham-gate, where a coach was called, which conveyed them to Chelsea. Wilson dined with her that day, and took lodgings in the same house, calling himself Roberts, anda singleman. ‘These were the lodgings I have mentioned before; where, by unbounded generosity and constant assidui- ties, he triumphed in a few weeks over the honour of this fair widow. I shall stop a moment here, to caution those virtuous widows who are my readers against too hasty a disbelief of this event. If they please to consider the situation of this lady, with poverty to alarm, gratitude to incite, and a handsome fellow to inflame, they will allow that in a world near six thousand years old, one such instance of frailty, even in a young and beautiful But to go on with my story. The effects of this intimacy were soon visible in the lady’s shape ; a circumstance that greatly added to the happiness of Wilson. He deter- termined to remove her to town; and according- ly took the house near St. James’s, where Mrs. Wilson had seen him enter, and ‘where his mistress, who passed in the neighbourhood for his wife, at that time lay-in. RADE TLS WE GVEBUVATABEAR VGETUTDTEBA DE GEV TDAVWSD No. 5.]. Tuurspay, Fes. 1, 1753, Conclusion of the Story of Mrs. Witson. I rerurn now to Mrs. Wilson, whom we left 8 | THE WORLD. in a hackney-coach, going to her own house, in all the misery of despair and jealousy. {t was happy for her that her constitution was good, and her resolution equal to it; for she has often told me that she passed the night of that day in a condition little better than madness. In the morning her husband returned; and as his heart was happy, and without suspicions of a discovery, he was more than usually com- plaisant to her. She received his civilities with her accustomed cheerfulness; and finding that business would detain him in the city for some hours, she determined, whatever distress it might occasion her, to pay an immediate visit to his mistress, and to wait there till she saw him. For this purpose she ordered a coach to be called, and in her handsomest undress, and with the most composed countenance, she drove directly to the house. She inquired at the door if Mr. Roberts was within; and being answered no, but that he dined at home, she asked after his lady, and if she was well enough to see com- pany; adding, that as she came a great way, and had business with Mr. Roberts, she should | be glad to wait for him in his lady’s apartment. The servant ran immediately up stairs, and as quickly returned with a message from his mis« tress, that she would be glad to see her. Mrs. Wilson confesses that at this moment, notwithstanding the resolution she had taken, her spirits totally forsook her, and that she fol- lowed the servant with her knees knocking to- gether, and aface paler than death. She en- tered the room where the lady was sitting, without remembering on what errand she came; but the sight of so much beauty, and the elegance that adorned it, brought every thing to her thoughts, and left her with no other power than to fling herself into a chair, from which she instantly fell to the ground in a fainting fit. The whole house was alarmed upon this oc- casion, and every one busied in assisting the stranger; but most of all the mistress, who was indeed of a humane disposition, and who, per- haps, had other thoughts to disturb her than the mere feelings of humanity. Ina few minutes, however, and with the proper applications, Mrs. Wilson began torecover. She looked round her with amazement at first, not recollecting where she was; but seeing herself supported by her rival, to whose care she was so much obliged, and who, in the tenderest distress, was inquir- ing how she did, she felt herself relapsing into a second fit. It was now that she exerted all the courage she was mistress of, which, together with a flood of tears that came to her relief, enabled her (when the servants were with- drawn) to begin as follows : “T am indeed, Madam, an unfortunate woman, and subject to these fits; but will never again be the occasion of trouble in this house. You are a lovely woman, and deserve [No. 5. to be happy in the best of husbands. I have a husband too; but his affections are gone from me. He is not ynknown to Mr. Roberts, though unfortunately Tam. 1t was for his ad- vice and assistance that I made this visit; andi not finding him at home, I begged admittance to his lady, whom I longed to see and to converse with.”? ‘* Me, Madam!’ answered Mrs. Rob- erts, with some emotion; ‘‘ had you heard any thing of me?’’ ‘ That you were such as I have found you, Madam,” replied the stranger, “ and had made Mr. Roberts happy in a fine boy. May I see him, Madam? I shall love him for his father’s sake.’ ‘* His father, Madam !”’ re~ turned the mistress of the house; ‘his father, did you say? I am mistaken then; I thought you had beenastranger to him.” “ ‘Tohis per- son, I own,’’ said Mrs. Wilson, “ but not to his character; and therefore I shall be fond of th little creature. If it is not too much trouble, Madam, I beg to be obliged.” The importunity of this request, the fainting at first, and the settled concern of this unknown visitor, gave Mrs. Roberts the most alarming fears. She had, however, the presence of mind to go herself for the child, and to watch with- out witnesses the behaviour of the stranger. Mrs. Wilson took it in her arms, and bursting into tears, said, **’Tis a sweet boy, Madam ; would I had such a boy! Had he been mine, Thad been happy!” With these words, and ir an agony of grief and tenderness, which she en- deavoured to restrain, she kissed the child, and returned it to its mother. It was happy for that lady that she had an excuse to leave the room. She had seen and heard what made her shudder for herself; and it was not till some minutes, after having de-~ livered the infant to its nurse, that she had re- solution enough to return. They both seated themselves again, and a melancholy silence fol- lowed for some time. At last Mrs. Roberts began thus: “© You are unhappy, Madam, that you have no child; I pray Heaven that mine be not a grief tome. But Icanjure you, by the goodness that appears in you, to acquaint me with your story. Perhaps it concerns me; I have a prophetic heart that tells me it does. But whatever I may suffer, or whether I live or die, I will be just to you.” Mrs. Wilson was so affected with this gener- osity, that she possibly had discovered herself, if a loud knocking at the door, and immediately after it the entrance of her husband into the room, had not prevented her. He was moving towards his mistress with the utmost cheerful- ness, when the sight of her visitor fixed him to aspect, and struck him with an astonishment not to be described. The eyes of both ladies were at once rivetted to his, which so increased his confusion, that Mrs. Wilson, in pity to what he felt, and to relieve her companion, spoke to No. 6.] him as follows: “I do not wonder, Sir, that you are surprised at seeing a perfect stranger in your house; but my business is with the master of it; and if you will oblige me with a hearing in another room, it will add to the civilities which your lady has entertained me with.”’ Wilson, who expected another kind of greet- ing from his wife, was so revived at her pru- dence, that his powers of motion began to return ; and, quitting the room, he conducted her to a parlour below stairs. They were no sooner en- tered into this parlour, than the husband threw himself into a chair, fixing his eyes upon the ground, while the wife addressed him in these words : ‘¢ How I have discovered your secret, or how the discovery has tormented me, I need not tell you. It is enough for you to know that I am miserable for ever. My business with you is short; I have only a question to ask, and to take a final leave of you in this world. Tell me truly then, as you shall answer it hereafter, if you have seduced this lady under false appear- ances, or have fallen into guilt by the tempta- tions of a wanton?” TJ shall answer you presently,’ said Wilson; “but first I have a question for you. Am I discovered to her? And does she know it is my wife I am now speaking to?’ ‘* No, upon my honour,” she replied; ‘her looks were so amiable, and her behaviour to me so gentle, that I had no heart to distress her. If she has guessed at what I am, it was only from the concern she saw me in, which I could not hide from her.” * You have acted nobly then,”’ returned Wilson, “and have opened my eyes at last tosee and toadmire you. And now, if you have patience to hear me, you shall know all.”’ He then told her of his first meeting with this Jady, and of every circumstance that had hap- pened since ; concluding with his determinations to leave her, and with a thousand promises of fidelity to his wife, if she generously consented, after what had happened, to receive him as a husband. « She must consent,”’ cried Mrs. Roberts, who at that moment opened the door, and burst into the room; “‘she must consent. You are her husband, and may command it. For me, Madam,” continued she, turning to Mrs. Wilson, ‘he shall never see me more. I have injured you through ignorance, but will atone for it to the utmost. He is your husband, Madam, and you must receive him. I have listened to what has passed, and am now here to join my entreaties with his, that you may be happy for ever.” To relate all that was said upon this occasion would be to extend my story to another paper. Wilson was all submission and acknowledg- ment; the wife cried and doubted, and the Widow vowed an eternal separation. To be as short as possible, the harmony of the married THE WORLD. 9 couple was fixed from that day. The widow was handsomely provided for, and her child, at the request of Mrs. Wilson, taken home to her own house; where, at the end of a year, she was so happy, after all her distresses, as to pre- sent him with a sister, with whom he is to di- vide his father’s fortune. His mother retired into the country, and, two years after, was mar- ried to a gentleman of great worth; to whom, on his first proposals to her, she fdlated ever'y circumstance of her story. The boy pays her a visit every year, and is now with his sister upoti one of these visits. Mr. Wilson is perfectly happy in his wife, and has sent me, in his own hand, this moral to his story: ‘That though prudence and generosity may not always be sufficient to hold the heart of a husband, yet a constant perseverance in them will, one time or other, most certainly regain it.”” WLCWBWT VAAL VVAADLVTECRTRELERTERURTVE TERETE O44 GH, No. 6.] Tuurspay, Fes. 8, 1'753. Totuwm mundum. agit histrio. All the world’s a stage. SHUAKSPEARE, TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. Sir, As you have chosen the whole world for your province, one may reasonably suppose that you will not neglect that epitome of it, the theatre. Most of your predecessors have bestowed their favourite pains upon it: the learned and the critics (generally two very distinct denomina- tions of men) have employed many hours and much paper in comparing the ancient and mod- ern stage. I shail not undertake to decide a question which seems to me so impossible to be determined, as which have most merit, plays written in a dead language, and which we can only read; or such as we" every day see acted inimitably, in a tongue familiar to us, and adapt- ed to our common ideas and customs. The only preference that I shall pretend to give to the modern stage over Greece and Rome relates to the subject of the present letter: I mean the daily progress we make towards nature. This will startle any bigot to Euripides, who perhaps will immediately demand, whether Juliet’s nurse be a more natural gossip than Electra’s or Medea’s. But I did not hint at the represent ation of either persons or characters. ‘The im provement of nature, which I had in view, al- luded to those excellent exhibitions of the animate or inanimate part of the creation, which are furnished by the worthy philosophers Rich and Garrick; the latter of whom has re- fined on his competitor ; and having perceived that art was become so perfect that it was C 10 necessary to mimic it by nature, he has happily introduced a cascade of real water. I know there are persons of asystematic turn, who affirm that the audience are not delighted with this beautiful waterfall from the reality of the element, but merely because they are pleased with the novelty of any thing that is out of its proper place. Thus they tell you that the town is charmed with a genuine cascade upon the stage, and was in raptures last year with one of tin at Vauxhall. But this is certainly prejudice: the world, Mr. Fitz-Adam, though never sated with show, is sick of fiction. I fore- see the time approaching, when delusion will not be suffered in any part of the drama: the inimitable serpent in Orpheus and Eurydice, and the amorous ostrich in the Sorcerer, shall be replaced by real monsters from Afric. It is well known that the pantomime of the Genii narrowly escaped being damned, on my Lady Maxim’s observing very judiciously, “ that the brick-kiln was horridly executed, and did not smell at all like one.”’ When this entire castigation of improprieties is brought about, the age will do justice to one of the first reformers of the stage, Mr. Cibber, who attempted to introduce a taste for real na- ture in his Cesar in Egypt, and treated the audience with real—not swans indeed, for that would have been too bold an attempt in the dawn of truth, but very personable geese. The inventor, like other original geniuses, was treat- ed ill by a barbarous age: yet I can venture to affirm, that a stricter adherence to reality would have saved even those times from being shocked by absurdities, always incidental to fiction. I myself remember, how, much about that era, the great Senesino, representing Alexander at the siege of Oxydrace, so far forgot himself in the heat of conquest, as to stick his sword in one of the pasteboard stones of the wall of the town, and bore it in triumph before him as he entered the breach; a puerility so renowned a general could never have committed, if the ramparts had been built, as in this enlightened age they would be, of actual brick and stone. Will you forgive an elderly man, Mr. Fitz- Adam, if he cannot help recollecting another passage that happened in his youth, and to the same excellent performer? He was stepping into Armida’s enchanted bark; but treading short (as he was more attentive to the accom- paniment of the orchestra than to the breadth of the shore) he fell prostrate, and lay for some time in great pain, with the edge of a wave running into/his side. In the present state of things; the worst that could have happened to him would have been drowning ; a fate far more becoming Rinaldo, especially in the sight of a British audience ! If you will allow me to wander a little from THE WORLD. [ No. 6. nature is not confined to the theatre, but ope- rates where one should least expect to meet it, _ in our fashions. The fair part of the creation are shedding all covering of the head, displaying their unveiled charming tresses, and if I may say so, are daily moulting the rest of their clothes. What lovely fall of shoulders, what ivory necks, what snowy breasts in all the pride of nature, are continually divested of art and ornament ! In gardening, the same love of nature pre- vails.. Clipped hedges, avenues, regular plat- forms, straight canals have been for some time very properly exploded. ‘There is not a citizen who does not take more pains to torture his acre and half into irregularities, than he formerly would have employed to make it as formal as his cravat. Kent, the friend of nature, was the Calvin of this reformation ;. but like the other champion of truth, after having routed tinsel and trumpery, with the true zeal of a founder of a sect, he pushed his discipline to the defor- mity of holiness; not content with banishing symmetry and regularity, he imitated nature even in her blemishes, and planted dead trees and mole-hills, in opposition to parterres and quincunxes. The last branch of our fashions into which the close observation of nature has been intro- duced, is our desserts ; a subject I have not room now to treat at large, but which yet demands a few words, and not improperly in this paper, as I see them a little in the Jight of a pantomime. Jellies, biscuits, sugar-plums and creams have long given way to harlequins, gondoliers, Turks, Chinese, and shepherdesses of Saxon-china. But these, unconnected, and only seeming to wander among groves of curled paper and silk flowers, were soon discovered to be too insipid and unmeaning. By degrees whole meadows of cattle, of the same brittle materials, spread themselves over the whole table; cottages rose in sugar, and temples in barley-sugar; pigmy Neptunes, in cars of cockle-shells, triumphed over oceans of looking-glass, or seas of silver tissue ; and at length the whole system of Ovid’s metamorphoses succeeded to all the transforma- tions which Chloe and other great professors had introduced into the science of hieroglyphic eating. Confectioners found their trade moul- der away, while toymen and china-shops were the only fashionable purveyors of the last stage of polite entertainments. Women of the first | quality came home from Chenevix’s laden with | dolis and babies, not for their children, but — their housekeeper. At last even these puerile puppet-shows are sinking into disuse, and moze manly ways of concluding our repasts are esta- blished. Gigantic figures succeeded to pigmies. And if the present taste continues, Rysbrack and other neglected statuaries, who might have | the stage, I shall observe that this pursuit of | adorned. Grecian saloons though not Grecian No. 7.] desserts, may come into vogue. It is known that a celebrated confectioner (so the architects of our desserts still humbly call themselves) com- plained, that after having prepared a middle dish of gods and goddesses, eighteen feet high, his lord would not cause the ceiling of his par- lour to be demolished to facilitate their entrée: “« Imaginex-vous,”’ said he, ‘* gue mi lord n’a pas voulu faire dter le plafond ?” I shall mention but two instances of glorious magnificence and taste in desserts, in which foreigners have surpassed every thing yet per- formed in this sumptuous island. The former was a duke of Wirtemberg, who so long ago as the year thirty-four, gave a dessert, in which was a representation of Mount A‘tna, which vomited out real fire-works over the heads of the company, during the whole entertainment. The other was the intendant of Gascony, who on the late birth of the duke of Burgundy, among other magnificent festivities, treated the noblesse of the province with a dinner and a dessert, the latter of which concluded with a re- presentation, by wax figures moving by clock- work, of the whole labour of the dauphiness, _and the happy birth of av heir to their mon- archy. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, JuLio. STUD COVVUBV VS BSEVVVWSV DHA DO VT CV TVSVSTTTTETSTVTIVSBIsVese No. 7%] Tuurspay, Fes. 15, 1753. =e TuHeEreE are certain follies and impertinences, which people of good sense and good nature are every day guilty of, and which are only con- sidered by them as things of course, and of too little consequence for palliation or apology. Whoever is a frequenter of public assemblies, or joins in a party at cards in private families, will give evidence to the truth of this complaint. I am, for my own part, a lover of the game of whist, and should oftener be seen in those places where it is played for trifles, if I was not offend- ed at the manners of my friends. How com- mon is it with some people, at the conclusion of every unsuccessful hand of cards, to burst forth into sallies of fretful complaints of their own amazing ill-fortune, and the constant and in- variable success of their antagonists! They have such excellent memories as to be able to recount every game they have lost for six months suc- cessively, and yet are so extremely forgetful at the same time, as not to recollect a single game that they have won. Or if you put them in mind of any extraordinary success that you have heen witness to, they acknowledge it with re- luctance, and assure you, upon their honours, THE WORLD. 11 that in a whole twelvemonth’s play, they never rose winners but that once. But if these Growlers (a name which I shall always call the men of this class by) would con- tent themselves with giving repeated histories of their own ill-fortunes, without making in- vidious remarks upon the successes of others, the evil would not be so great. Indeed, I am apt to impute it to their fears, that they stop short of the grossest affronts: for I have seen in their faces such rancour and inveteracy, that nothing but a lively apprehension of consequences could have restrained their tongues. Happy would it be for the ladies if they had the same consequences to apprehend ; for, I am sorry to say it, I have met with females—I will not say Growlers: the word is too harsh for them ; let me call them Fretters, who, with the pretti- est faces, and the liveliest wit imaginable, have condescended to be the jest and disturbance of the whole company. we In fashionable life, indeed, where every one is acting behind the mask of good breeding, and where nature is never seen to peep out but upon very extraordinary occasions, frequent convul- sions of the features, flushings succeeded by paleness, twistings of the body, fits of the fid- gets, and complaints of immoderate heat, are the only symptoms of ill-fortune. But if we travel eastward from St. James’s, and visit the territories of my good lord mayor, we shall see nature stript of her masquerade, and hear gen-. tlemen and ladies speaking the tangas of the heart. For the entertainment of polite life, and be- cause polite life is sometimes a little in want of entertainment, I shall set down a conversation that passed a few nights ago, at an assemblée in Thames-street, between two Fretters at a whist- table; one of which had a beautiful daughter of eighteen years of age, leaning upon her mother’s chair. : “* Five trumps, two honours, and lose four by cards? But I believe, Madam, you never lost a game in the whole course of your life.”’ “¢ Now and then, Madam.”’ * Not in the memory of your daughter, I believe: and Miss is not so extremely young neither. Clubs are trumps— Well! if ever I play again ! You are three by cards, Madam—”’ ‘© And two by honours. I had them in my own hand.” “beg your pardon, Madam; I had really forgot whose deal it was. But I thought the cloven-footed gentleman had left off teaching, Pray, Madam, will he expect more “aaa one’s soul for half a dozen lessons?” «‘ You are pleased to be severe, Mudam ; but you know I am not easily put out of detripes: What’s the trump ?”’ I was extremely pleased with the cool be- haviour of this lady, and could not help whis- 12 pering to her daughter, ‘‘ you have a sweet-tem- pered inamma, miss.. How happy would it be , if every lady of her acquaintance was so amiably disposed !’? I observed that miss blushed and looked down: but I was ignorant of the reason, till all at once her mamma’s good fortune changed, and her adversary, by holding the four honours in her own hand, and by the assistance of her partner, won the game at a deal. “And now Madam,” cried the patient lady, ‘is it you or I who have bargained with the devil? I declare it upon my honour, I never won a game against you in my life. Indeed, I should wonder if I had, unless there had been a curtain between you and your partner. But one has a fine time on’t indeed! to be always losing, and yet always to be baited for winning ; I defy any one to say that I ever rose a winner in my born days. There was last summer at Tunbridge! Did any human creature see me so much as wina game? And ask Mr. A, and Sir Richard B, and Dean C, and Lord and Lady D, and all the company at Bath this winter, if I did not lose two or three guineas every night at half-crown whist, for two months together. But I did not fret and talk of the devil, Madam; no, Madam; nor did I trouble the company with my losings, nor play the after-game, nor say provoking things——No, Madanns ; I leave such behaviour to ladies that—— “Lord! my dear, how you heat yourself? You are absolutely in a passion. Come let us cut for partners.” Which they immediately did ; and happening to get together, and to win the next game, they were the best company, and the civyilest people I ever saw. Many of my readers may be too ready to con- ceive an ill opinion of these ladies ; but I have the pleasure of assuring them, from undoubted authority, that they are in all other respects very excellent people, and so remarkable for patience and good-humour, that one of them has been known to lose her husband, and both of them their reputations without the least. emotion or concern. To be serious on this occasion; I have many acquaintance of both sexes, who, though really good-natured and worthy people, are violating every day the laws of decency and politeness, by these outrageous sallies of sinha and imper- tinence. I know of no other reason for a man’s trou. - ling his friends with the history of his misfor- tunes, but either to reeeive comfort from their pity, or advantage from their charity. If the Growler will tell me that he reaps either of , these benefits by disturbing all a¥out, him; if he will assure me of his having raised compassion in & single breast, or that he has once induced ‘his adversary to change hands with him out of THE WORLD. ee [No. 8. charity, I shall allow that he acts upon prin- ciples of prudence, and that he is not a most. teasing, ridiculous, and contemptible animal. I would not be understood to hint at gaming in this paper. I am glad to find that destruc- tive passion attacked from the stage, and wish success to the attempt. Nor do I condemn the custom of playing at cards for small sums, in those whose tempers and circumstances are un- hurt by what they lose. On the contrary, I look upon cards as an innocent and useful amusement ; calculated to interrupt the formal. conversations and private cabals of large com-. panies, and to give a man something to do who has nothing to say. My design at present is, to signify to these Growlers and [retters, that they are public as well as private nuisances; and to caution all quiet and civilized persons against cutting in with them at the same tables, or replying to their complaints but by a laugh of contempt. I shall conclude this paper with acquainting my readers, that, in imitation of the great Mr. Hoyle, I am preparing a book for the press, entitled Rules of Behaviour for the Game of Whist; showing, through an almost infinite variety of good and bad hands, in what degree the muscles of the face are to be contracted or extended ; and how often a lady may be permit- ted to change colour or a gentleman to bite his lips, in the course of the game. ‘To which will be added, for the benefit of all cool and dispassion- ate players, an exact calculation of the odds against Growlers and Fretters. RATER TETRTARLVGS DEVARRTERVVUTUSVUDUTDETDEVETVSETTETT SA No. 8.] Tuurspay, Fes. 22, 1753. Date obolum Belisario. Belisarius asks your alms. A rHILosoPHER, as I am, who contemplates the — world with serious reflection, will be struck > with nothing in it more than its vicissitudes. If he. has. lived any time, he must have had ample opportunities of exercising his meditations on the vanity of all sublunary conditions. The changes of empires, the fall of ministers, the — exaltation of obscure persons, are the continual — incidents of human comedy. I remember that one of the first passages in history which made | an impression upon me in my youth was the — fate of Dionysius, who, from being monarch of Sicily, was reduced to teach school at Corinth. | Though his tyranny was the cause of his ruin | (if it can be called ruin to be deprived of the power of oppression, and to be taught to know | one’s self) I could not help feeling that sort of superstitious pity which always attends royalty No. &.] in distress. Who ever perused the stories of Edward the Second, Richard the Second, or Charles the first, but forgot their excesses, and sighed for their catastrophe? In this free- spirited island there are not more hands ready to punish tyrants, than eyes to weep their fall. It isa common case: we are Romans in re- sisting oppression, very women in lamenting oppressors ! If (and I think it cannot be contested) there is generosity in these sensations, ought we not doubly to feel such emotions, in cases where regal virtue is become the sport of fortune? This island ought to be as much the harbour of af- flicted majesty, as it has been the scourge of of- fending ~ajesty. And while every throne of arbitrary power is an asylum for the martyrs of so bad acause, Britain ought to shelter such princes as have been victims for liberty—when- ever so great a curiosity is seen, as a prince con- tending on the honest side. How must I blush then for my countrymen, when I mention a monarch! an unhappy mon- arch! now actually suffered to languish for debt. in one of the common prisons of this city! A monarch, whose courage raised him to a throne, not by a succession of ambitious bloody acts, but by the voluntary election of an injured people, who had the common right of mankind to freedom, and the uncommon resolution of de- termining to be free! This prince is Theodore, king of Corsica! A man, whose claim to roy- alty is as indisputable, as the most ancient titles to any monarchy can pretend to be; that is, the choice of his subjects; the only kind of title al- lowed in the excellent Gothic constitutions, from whence we derive our own; the same kind of title, which endears the present royal family +o Englishmen, and the only kind of title, against which, perhaps, no objection can lie. This prince (on whose history I shall not at present enlarge) after having bravely exposed his life and crown in defence of the rights of his subjects, miscarried, as Cato, and other patriot heroes, did before him. For many years he struggled with fortune, and left no means un- tried, which indefatigable policy or solicitation of succours could attempt, to recover his crown. At last, when he had discharged his duty to his subjects and himself, he chose this country for his retirement, not to indulge a voluptuous in- glorious ease, but to enjoy the participation of those blessings, which he had so vainly endea- voured to fix to his Corsicans. Here for some months he bore with more philosophic dignity the loss of his crown than Charles the Fifth, Casimir of Poland, or any of those visionaries, who wantonly resigned theirs, to partake the sluggish indolence, and at length the disquiets, of a cloister. ‘Theodore, though resigned to his fortunes, had none of that contemptible apathy, which almost lifted our James the Second to the THE WORLD. 13 supreme honour of monkish sainthood. It is recorded of that prince, that talking to his cour- tiers at St. Germain, he wished for a speedy peace between France and Great Britain, “for then,’’ said he, *‘ we shall get English horses easily.” The veracity of an historian obliges me not to disguise the situation of his Corsican majes- ty’s revenue, which has reduced him to be a prisoner for debt in the King’s-bench; and so cruelly has fortune exercised her rigours upon him, that last session of parliament he was ex- amined before a committee of the house of com- mons, on the hardships to which the prisoners in that gaol had been subject. Yet let not ill- nature make sport with these misfortunes! His majesty had nothing to blush at, nothing to pal- liate, in the recapitulation of his distresses. The debts on his civil list were owing to no mis- application, no improvidence of his own, no corruption of his ministers, no indulgence to— favourites or mistresses. His diet was philoso- phic, his palace humble, his robes decent: yet his butcher, his landlady, and his tailor, could not continue to supply an establishment, which had no demesnes to support it, no taxes to main- tain it, no excises, no lotteries, to provide funds for its deficiencies and emergencies. A nation so generous, so renowned for the efforts it has always made in the common cause of liberty, can only want to be reminded of this distressed king to grant him its protection and compassion. If political reasons forbid the open espousal of his cause, pity commands the assist- ance which private fortunes can lend him. I do not mean at present that our gallant youths should offer themselves as volunteers in his ser- vice, nor do I expect to have a small fleet fitted out at the expense of particular persons to con- vey him and his hopes to Corsica. The inten- tion of this paper is merely to warm the benevo- lence of my countrymen in behalf of this royal captive. I cannot think it would be beneath the dignity of majesty to accept of such a sup- ply as might be offered to him by that honorary (and to this country peculiar) method of raising a free gift, a benefit play. ‘lhe method is wor- thy of the Grecian age; nor would Asiatic monarchs have blushed to receive a tribute from genius and art. Let it be said, that the same humane and polite age raised a monument to Shakspeare, a fortune for Milton’s grand-daugh- ter, and a subsidy for a captive king, by drama- tic performances! I have no doubt but the munificent managers of our theatres will gladly contribute their parts. ‘That incomparable actor who so exquisitely touches the passions and dis- tresses of self-dethroned Lear (a play which, from some similitude of circumstances, I should recommend for the benefit) will, I dare say, willingly exert his irresistible talents in behalf of fallen majesty, and be a competitor witb 14 Louis le Grand for the fame which results from the protection of exiled kings. How glorious will it be for him to have the King’s-bench as renowned for Garrick’s generosity to king Theodore, as the Savoy is for Edward the Third’s treatment of King John of France. ~ In the meantime, not to confine this oppor- tunity of benevolence to so narrow a sphere as the theatre, I must acquaint my readers, that a subseription fer a subsidy for the use of his Cor- sican majesty is opened at ‘Tully’s head in Pall- mall, where all the generous and the fair are desired to pay in their contributions to Robert Dodsley, who is appointed high-treasurer and grand librarian of the island of Corsica for life —posts which, give me leave to say, Mr. Dods- ley would have disdained to accept under any monarch of arbitrary principles. A bookseller of Rome, while Rome survived, Would not have been lord-treasurer to a king. I am under some apprehensions that the in- tended subscription will not be so universal as for the honour of my country I wish it. I foresee that the partisans of indefeasible heredita- ry right will withhold their contributions. The number of them is indeed but small and incon- siderable: yet as it becomes my character, as a citizen of the world, to neglect nothing for the amendment of the principles and morals of my fellow-creatures, I shall recommend one short argument to their consideration; I think I may say, to their conviction. Let them but consider, that though Theodore had such a flaw (in their estimation) in his title, as to have been elected by the whole body of the people, who had thrown off the yoke of their old tyrants : yet as the Genoese had been the sovereigns of Cor- sica, these gentlemen of monarchical principles will be obliged, if they condemn King ‘Theo- dore’s cause, to allow divine hereditary right in a republic; a problem in politics which I leave to be solved by the disciples of the exploded Sir Robert Filmer: at the same time declaring by my censorial authority all persons to be Jaco- bites, who neglect to bring in their free gift for the use of his majesty of Corsica: and I parti- cularly charge and command all lovers of the glorious and immortal memory of King Wil- liam to see my orders duly executed ; and I re- commend to them to set an example of likerality in behalf of the popular monarch, whose cause I have espoused, and whose deliverance, I hope, I have not attempted in vain. N. B. Two pieces of King Theodore’s coin, struck during his reign, are in the hands of the high treasurer aforesaid, and will be shown by the proper officers of the exchequer of Corsica, during the time the subscription continues open at Tully’s head abovementioned. ‘They are very great curidsities, and not to be met with | and brutal in the whole world. THE WORLD. [ No. 9. in the most celebrated collections of this king- dom. aisha PCBCVTERVEWT VUEVSVE FVVTEVCSCCVCCSV GS PEGTGTACLVE BUSSE TE No. 9.]. Tuurspay, Marcu 1, 1753. “TT am that unfortunate man, Madam,” was the saying of a gentleman, who stopped and made a low bow to a lady in the park, as she was calling to her dog by the name of Cuckold. What a deal of good might be expected from these essays, if every man who should happen to read his own character in them would as hon- estly acknowledge it as this gentleman! But it is the misfortune of general satire, that few per- sons will apply it to themselves, while they have the comfort of thinking that it will fit others as well. It is therefore, I am afraid, only fur- nishing bad people with scandal against their neighbours: for every man flatters himself that he has the art of playing the fool or knave so very secretly, that though he sees plainly how all else are employed, no mortal can have the’ cunning to find him out. Thus a gentleman told me yesterday, “ That’ he was very glad to see a particular acquaintance of his exposed in the third number of the World. The parson who wrote that letter,” continued he, ‘* was determined to speak plainly ; for the character of my friend was so strongly marked, that it was impossible to mistake it.” He then proceeded to inform me that he had read Seneca, by observing, “ ‘That there should be no mixture of severity and reproof in the obligations we confer; on the contrary, if there should be only occasion for the gentlest admoni- tion, it ought to be deferred to another season ; for men,” added he, “are much more apt to re- member injuries than benefits; and it is enough if they forgive an obligation that has the nature of an offence.” My reader may, possibly, be surprised, when I tell him, that the man who could commit to memory those maxims of Seneca, and who could rejoice to see such a character exposed as the curate’s friend in my third paper, is an old bachelor with an estate of three thousand pounds a year, and fifty thousand in ready money ; who never was known to lend a guinea in his life, without making the borrower more miser- able by the benefit than he had been before by his wants. But it is the peculiar talent of this gentleman to wound himself by proxy, or (in the sportsman’s phrase) to knock himself down by the recoiling of his own gun. I remember he told me some time ago, after having har- angued very learnedly upon the detestable sin of avarice, *‘ That the common people of a cer- tain county in England were the most covetous I will give you No. 9. | an instance,”’ says he. ‘* About three years ago, by a very odd accident, I fell into a well in that country, and was absolutely within a few minutes of perishing, before I could prevail on an unconscionable dog of a labourer, who hap- pened to be within hearing of my cries, to help me out for half a crown. The fellow was so rapacious as to insist upon a crown for above a quarter of an hour; and I verily believe he would not have abated me a single farthing, if he had not seen me at the last gasp, and deter- mined to die rather than submit to his extor- tion.” But to return to my subject. If there are objections to general satire, something may also be said against personal abuse; which, though it isa kind of writing that requires a smaller portion of parts, and is sure of having almost as many admirers as readers, is nevertheless sub- ject to great difficulties; it being absolutely ne- cessary, that the author who. undertases it should have no feeling of certain evils, common to humanity, which are known by the names of pain and shame. In other words, he must be insensible to a good kicking, and have no me- mory of it afterwards. Now though a great many authors have found it an easy matter to arrive at this excellence, with me the task would be attended with great labour and difficulty ; as it is my misfortune to have contracted, either by the prejudice of education, or by some other means, an invincible aversion to pain and dis- honour. I am very sensible that I may hurt myself as a writer by this confession ; but it was never any pleasure of mine to raise expectations with a design to disappoint them: and though it should lose me the major part of my readers, I hereby declare, that I never will indulge them with any personal abuse; nor will I so much as attack any of those fine gentlemen, or fine ladies, who have the honour of being single in any one character, be it ever so ridiculous. But if I had every requisite for this kind of writing, there are certain people in town, whom it would be ingratitude in me to attack. The masters of both the theatres are my good friends ; for which reason I forbear to say, that half the comedies in their catalogue ought to be damned for wickedness and indecency. But I not only keep this to myself, but have also been at great trouble and pains to suppress a passage bearing very hard against them, in a book, which will speedily be published, called the Progress of Wit. The author of this book, who, luckily for the theatres, happens to be a particular friend of mine, is a very great jokes; and, as I often tell him, does a vast deal of mischief, without seeming to intend it. ‘The passage which I prevailed with him to suppress stood at the beginning of the thirteenth chapter of his book, and was exactly as follows : “ As it was now clear to alk people of fashion THE WORLD. 15 that men had no souls, the business of life was pleasure and amusement ; and he that could best administer to these two was the most useful member of society. From hence arose those numerous places of resort and recreation which men of narrow and splenetic minds have called the pests of the public. The most considerable of which places, and which are at this day in the highest reputation, were the bagnios and the theatres. The bagnios were constantly under the direction of discreet and venerable matrons, who had passed their youth in the practice of those exercises which they were now teaching to their daughters: while the manage- ment of the theatres was the province of the men.—The natural connection between these houses made it convenient that they should be erected in the neighbourhood of each other ; and indeed the harmony subsisting between them has inclined many people to think that the profits of both were divided equally by each: But I have always considered them as only playing into one another’s hands, without any nearer affinity than that of the schools of West- mitzster and Eton to the universities of Oxford and Cambridge. At the play-house young gentlemen and ladies were instructed by an Etheridge, a Wycherley, a Congreve, and a Vanbrugh, in the rudiments of that science, which they were to perfect at the bagnio, under a Needham, a Haywood, a Haddeck, and a Roberts.” Thus much had my friend, in his ‘* Progress of Wit,” thought proper to observe upon the looseness of the stage. But as the whole pas- sage is suppressed, the managers will have no- thing to fear from the publication of that per- formance. It were to be wished, indeed, that those gentle- men would have done entirely both with tragedy and comedy, and resolve at once to en- tertain the town only with pantomime. That great advantages would accrue from it is beyond dispute; people of taste and fashion having al- ready given sufficient proof that they think it the highest entertainment the stage is capable of affording : the most innocent we are sure it is; for where nothing is said, and nothing meant, very little harm can be done. Mr. Garrick, perhaps, may start a few objections to this pro- posal; but with those universal talents which he so happily possesses, it is not to be doubted but he will, in time, be able to handle the wooden sword with as much dignity and dex- terity as his brother Lun. He will also reap another advantage from this kind of acting; as he will have fewer enemies by being the finest harlequin of the age, than he has at present, by being the greatest actor of any age or country. “TO THE PUBLIC. ‘¢ Whereas some gentlemen have doubted 16 whether the subscription for the use of King Theodore was really intended to be carried on, I am ordered to acquaint the public, that Mr. Fitz- Adam was not only in earnest in promot- ing such a contribution, but has already received some noble benefactions for that purpose ; and he will take care to apply the subsidy in the most uncorrupt manner to the uses for which it was designed, and to the honour and dignity of the crown of Corsica. «* Rosert Dopsiey.”’ SPLBRVUVACAVTARSTRBRTE Ss SGRTETEATVUVUDUVANTVETDTESVT TTT No. 10.]. THurspay, Marcu 8, 1753. . Tur great men who introduced the reformation into these kingdoms, were so sensible of the necessity of maintaining devotion in the minds of the vulgar by some external objects, by some- what of ceremony and form, that they refrained from entirely ripping off all ornament from the drapery of religion. When’ they were purging the calendar of legions of visionary saints, “hey took due care to defend the niches of real martyrs from profanation. They preserved the holy fes- tivals, which had been consecrated for many ages to the great luminaries of the church, and at once paid proper observance to the memory of | the good, and fell in with the popular humour, which loves to rejoice and mourn at the discre- tion of the almanack. In so enlightened an age as the present, I shall perhaps be ridiculed if I hint, as‘my opinion, that the observation of certain festivals is some- thing more than a mere political institution. I cannot, however, help thinking that even nature itself concurs to confirm my sentiment. Phil- osophers and freethinkers tell us that a general system was laid down at first, and that no devi- ations have been made to accommodate it to any subsequent events, or to favour and authorize any human institutions. When the reformation of the calendar was in agitation, to the great disgust of many worthy persons, who urged how great the harmony was in the old establishment, between the holidays and their attributes (if I may call them so) and what a confusion*would follow, if Michaelmas-day, for instance, was not to be celebrated when stubble-geese are in their highest perfection; it was replied, that sucha propriety was merely imaginary, and would be lost of itself, even without any alteration of the calendar by authority: for if the errors in it were suffered to go on, they would in a certain number of years produce such a variation, that we should be mourning for good King Charles on a false thirtieth of January, at a time of year when our ancestors used to be tumbling over head and heels in Greenwich-park, in honour of THE WORLD. [No. 10. Whitsuntide; and at length be choosing king and queen for Twelfth-night, when we ought to be admiring the London Prentice at Bartho- lomew fair. ; Cogent as these reasons may seem, yet I think I can confute them from the testimony of a standing miracle, which, not having submitted to the fallible authority of an act of parliament, may well be said to put a supernatural negative on the wisdom of this world. My readers, no doubt, are already aware that I have in my eye the wonderful thorn of Glastonbury, which, though hitherto regarded as a trunk of popish imposture, has notably exerted itself. as the most protestant plant in the universe. It is well known that the correction of the calendar was enacted by Pope Gregory the Thirteenth, and that the reformed churches have with a proper spirit of opposition adhered to the old calculation of the emperor Julius Cesar, who was by no means a papist. Near two years ago the popish calendar was brought in (I hope by persons well affected!) certain it is, that the Glastonbury thorn has preserved its inflexibility, and observes its old anniversary. Many thousand spectators visited it on the parliamentary Christmas-day. Not a bud was there to be seen !——On the true nativity it was covered with blossoms, One must be an infidel indeed to spurn at such authority. Had I been consulted (and mathe- matical studies have not been the most inconsid- erable of my speculations), instead of turning the calendar topsyturvy, by fantastic calcula- tions, I should have proposed to regulate the year by the infallible Somersetshire thorn, and to have reckoned the months from Christmas-— day, which should always have been kept as the | Glastonbury thorn should blow. | Many inconveniences, to be sure, would follow | from this system ; but as holy things ought to be the first consideration of a religious nation, the inconveniences should be overlooked. The thorn can never blow but on the true Christ-— mas-day ; and consequently, the apprehension of the year’s becoming inverted by sticking to the | Julian account can never hold. If the course of | the sun varies, astronomers may find out some | way to adjust that; but it is preposterous, not to say presumptuous, to be celebrating Christ- mas-day when the Glastonbury thorn, which certainly must know times and seasons better than an almanack maker, declares it to be heresy. Nor is Christmas-day the only jubilee which | will be morally disturbed by this innovation. There is another anniversary of no less celebrity among Englishmen, equally marked by a mar- vellous concomitance of circumstances, and which I vehturé to prognosticate will not at- tend the erroneous calculation of the present system. ‘The day I mean is the first of April. The oldest tradition affirms that such an infatu- No. 11.] ation attends the first day of that month, as no foresight can escape, no vigilance can defeat. Deceit is successful on that day out of the ynouths of babes and sucklings. Grave citizens have been bit upon it; usurers have lent their money on bad security; experienced matrons have married very disappointing young fellows ; mathematicians have missed the longitude ; al- chymists the philosopher’s stone ; and politicians preferment, on that day. What confusion will not follow, if the great body of the nation are disappointed of their pe- culiar holiday! This country was formerly disturbed with very fatal quarrels about the celebration of Easter; and no wise man will tell me that it is not as reasonable to fall out for the observance of April-fool-day. Can any benefits arising from a regulated calendar make amends for an occasion of new sects? How many warm men may resent an attempt to play them off on a false first of April, who would have submitted to the custom of being made fools on the old computation! If our clergy come to be divided about Folly’s anniversary, we may well expect all the mischiefs attendant on religious wars ; and we shall have reason to wish that the Glastonbury thorn would declare as remarkably in favour of the true April-fool- day, as it has in behalf of the genuine Christmas. There are many other inconveniences, which I might lament very emphatically, but none of weight enough to be compared with those I have mentioned. I shall only hint at a whole system overturned by this revolution in the cal- endar, and no provision, that I have heard of, made by the legislature to remedy it. Yet ina nation which bestows such ample rewards on new-year and birth-day odes, it is astonishing that the late act of parliament should have over- looked that useful branch of our poetry, which consists in couplets, saws, and proverbs, peculiar to certain days and seasons. Why was not a new set of distichs provided by the late reform- ers? Or at least a clause inserted in the act, enjoining the poet-laureat, or some beneficial genius, to prepare and new-cast the established rhymes for public use? Were our astronomers so ignorant as to think that the old proverbs would serve for their new-fangled calendar ? Could they imagine that St. Swithin would accommodate his rainy planet to the convenience of their calculations? Who that hears the fol- lowing verses but must grieve for the shepherd and husbandman, who may have all their prog- nostics confounded, and be at a loss to know beforehand the fate of their markets? Ancient sages sung, If St. Paul be fair and clear, * Then will betide a happy. year ; But if it either snow or rain, i Then will be dear all kind of grain ; And if the wind doth blow aloft, Then wars will vex the realm full oft, THE WORLD. 17 T have declared against meddling with politics, and therefore shall say nothing of the important hints contained in the last lines: yet if certain ill-boding appearances abroad should have an ugly end, I cannot help saying that I shall ascribe their evil tendency to our having been lulled asleep by resting our faith on the calm weather on the pretended conversion of St. Paul; whereas it was very blustering on that festival according to the good old account, as I honestly, though vainly endeavoured to convince a great minister of state, whom I do not think proper to mention. But to return to April-fool-day; 1 must beg my readers and: admirers to be very particular in their observations on that holiday, both ac- cording to the new and old reckoning. And IL beg that they will transmit to me or my secre- tary, Mr. Dodsley, a faithful and attested ac- count of the hap that betides them or their ac- quaintance on each of those days; how often and in what manner they make or are made fools; how they miscarry in attempts to sur- prise, or baffle any snares laid for them. I do not doubt but it will be found that the balance of folly lies greatly on the side of the old first of April; nay, I much question whether: infatua- tion will have any force on what I call the false April-fool-day. I should take it very kind, if any of my friends, who may happen to he sharpers, would try their success on the fictitious festival; and if they make fewer dupes than ordinary, I flatter myself that they will unite their endeavours with mine in decrying and ex- ploding a reformation, which only tends to dis- countenance good old practices and venerable superstitions. No. 11.] Tuurspay, Marcu 15, 1753, Ir we are to believe, universally, that virtue leads directly to happiness, and vice to punish- ment in this world, I am afraid we shall form very erroneous opinions of the people we con- verse with ; as every melancholy face will ap- pear to be produced by a bad heart, and every cheerful face by a good one. But it will be no discouragement to virtue to say, that the re- verse of this is much oftener the case; nay, so obstinate am I in this opinion, that I seldom see a countenance of sincere and settled grief, without concluding it to be the effect of some eminent degree of virtue. If sickness and bodily pain were, indeed, all the misfortunes incident to our natures, it might be said, with some colour of truth, that virtue was generally its own immediate reward; as every one will allow, that temperance and ab- stemiousness lead more directly to health and D 18 ease than riot and debauchery. But while we have affections that steal us from our own hap- piness, toinvolve us in the misery of those about us, they who have the best hearts will be oftenest made uneasy. The good man considers the whole human race as his own family ; and as such a person, in a world like this, is liable to more disappoint- ments than one who has only himself to care for, his troubles and mortifications will assured- ly be greater. The friends of virtue should therefore be cau- tious of promising what they are not sure will be performed ; lest by a failure in the end, they bring discredit upon the means. It will be al- ways sufficient to say of virtue, that its reward is certain, while it can be said of that reward, that it is happiness eternal. The following allegory, which is a literal translation from the same old Spanish author, from whoni the story of Gonzales de Castro in my first paper was taken, supposes the good man to be unhappy uponearth, only because his goodness is imperfect. 1 insert it here (though not exactly applicable to my subject) as the most instructive entertainment J am able to give ny readers at this season. : If the ladies should happen to conceive any flislike to some little severities in it, they are de- sired to take notice that the author was a Span- iard, and that he wrote at a time, when it ap- pears by the concurrent testimony of all histo- rians, that the sex was not absolutely without fault. Jupiter, when he made Man, brought with him from heaven a nymph called Felicia, or Happiness, to be hiscompanion. ‘The better to engage them to each other, he furnished Man with those Passions and Affections which were to feed the mind with perpetual wishes, witha guide, called Reason, to restrain their violence; and to the nymph he gave immortal beauty, to- gether with a certain degree of coyness, which is always sure to engage pursuit and endear possession. But as if some other power had a malicious design to set this pair at variance, notwithstand- ing the seeming desire of Jupiter to unite them, Felicia became insensible to every thing but vir- tue, while the Passions of Man generally hurried him to a pursuit of her by the means of vice. With this difference in their natures, it was im- possible for them to agree; and ina short time they became almost strangers to each other. Reason would have gone over to the side of Fe- licia, but some particular Passion always opposed him; for, what was almost incredible, though Reason was a sufficient match for the whole body of Passions united, he was sure to be sub- dued, if singly encountered. Jupiter laughed at the folly of Man, and gave him Woman. But as her frame was too deli- THE WORLD. , cately composed to endure the perpetual strife of [ No. 11. Reason and the Passions, he confined the for- mer to Man, and gave up Woman to the go- vernment of the latter without control. Felicia, upon this new creation, grew again acquainted with Man. She made him a visit of a month, and at his entreaty would have settled with him for ever, if the jealousy of Woman had not driven her from his roof. From this time the nymph has led a wander- ing life, without any settled habitation. As the world grew peopled, she paid her visits to every corner of it; but though millions pre- tended to love her, not a single mortal had con- stancy to deserve her. Ceremony drove her from court, Avarice from the city, and Want from the cottage. Her delight, however, was in the last of these places, and there it was that she was most frequently to be found, Jupiter saw with pity the wanderings of Feli- cia, and in a fortunate hour caused a mortal to be born, whose name was Bonario, or Good- ness. He endowed him with all the graces of mind and body; and at an age when the soul becomes sensible of desires, he breathed into him a passion for the beautiful Felicia. Bonario had frequently seen her in his early visits to Wisdom and Devotion; but as lightness of belief and an over-fondness of mankind were failings insepar- able to him, he often suffered himself to be led astray from Felicia, till Reflection, the common friend of both, would set him right, and re-con- duct him to her company. Though Felicia was a virgin of some thousand years old, her coyness was rather found to in- crease than to diminish. ‘This, perhaps, to mortal old maids may be matter of wonder; but the true reason was, that the beauty of Felicia was incapable of decay. From hence it was, that the fickleness of Bonario made her less and less easy of access. Yet such was his frailty, that he continually suffered himself to _ be enticed from her, till at last she totally with- drew herself. upbraid him. service, as by showing how he had lost Felicia, Reflection came now only to | Her words, however, were of. | they gave him hopes that a contrary behaviour | might, in time, regain her. The loss of happiness instructs us how to | value it. in earnest to love Felicia, and to devote his whole time toa pursuit of her. And now it was that Bonario began | He inquired | for her among the Great, but they knew her | not. they were strangers to her. Knowledge, but she was ignorant of her; of Pleasure, but she misled him. Temperance knew only the path she had taken; . Virtue had seen her upon the way; but Religion assured him of her retreat, and sent Constancy to cone | duct him to her. , It was in a village far from town, that Bon- | He bribed the Poor for intelligence, but He sought her of | No. 12.] ario again saw his Felicia; and here was in hopes of possessing her for ever. The coyness with which she treated him in his days of folly, time, and the amendment it had wrought in him, began to soften. He passed whole days in her society, and was rarely denied access to her, but when Passion had misguided him. Felicia lived in this retreat, with the daughter of a simple villager, called Innocence. To this amiable rustic did Bonario apply for interces- sion, upon every new offence against Felicia ; but too impatient of delay, and out of humour with his advocate, he renewed his acquaintance with a court lady, called Vice, who was there upon a visit, and engaged her to solicit for him. This behaviour so enraged Felicia, that she again withdrew herself; and in the warmth of her resentment, sent up a petition to Jupiter, to be recalled to heaven. Jupiter, upon this petition, called a council of the gods; in which it was decreed, that while Bonario continued upon earth, Felicia should not totally depart from it; but as the nature of Bonario was fickle and imperfect, his admission to her society should be only occasional and transient. ‘That their nuptials should be de- ferred till the nature of Bonario should be changed by death, and that afterwards they should be inseparably united in the regions of immortality. LTV BPUVV SEDATE TUVARA BRTAVS TEVBVTETEVWA $3 BVUVUVVVWA No. 12.] Tuurspay, Marcu 22, 1753. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Ir is a great abuse of language, according to Mr. Locke, to make use of words to which we have no fixed and determinate ideas. There isa still greater, Mr. Fitz-Adam, which is the al- most continually using words to which we have no ideas at.all. I shall only instance in the poor monosyllable taste. Who has not heard it frequently pronounced by the loveliest mouths in the world, when it has evidently meant no- thing ? I would not be thought to require, like an ill- bred logician, that every pretty woman, or even every pretty man, who makes use of the word taste, should define what they mean by it; that would be too cruel; but I should rather choose, when they are really conscious to themselves ‘that they are going to utter it without any idea annexed, that they would be so good’as to change it for the word whim. However, as my recom- mendation will, I am sure, have no weight, un- less it should be backed by your censorial au- thority, I shall leave them at present in full THE WORLD. 19 possession of their favourite word, and proceed to the subject of my letter. You rallied very humorously, a few weeks ago, some of the reigning follies of this various island, under the name of our approaches to nature. I hope you have likewise taken. notice how desirous we are of returning to our prime- val ignorance, under the notion of taste : a name which we are fond of giving to every new folly which starts up, and to every old exploded ab- surdity which we are charitably pleased to res vive. Let but that commanding word go forth, and no chameleon catches his colours quicker than we are ready to imbibe follies from each other. Whereas éaste, in my opinion, ought to be applied to nothing but what has as strict rules annexed to it, though perhaps imperceptible by the vul- gar, as Aristotle, among the critics, would re- quire, or Domenichino, among the painters, practise. People may have whims, freaks, caprices, persuasions, and even second-sights, if they please; but they can have no taste which has not its foundation in nature, and which, consequently, may be accounted for. From a thousand instances of our imitative inclinations I shall select one or two, which have been, and still are, notorious and general. A few years ago every thing was Gothic; our houses, our beds, our book-cases, and our couches, were ull copied from some parts or other of our old cathedrals. The Grecian architecture, where, as Dryden says, Firm Doric pillars found the lower base, The gay Corinthian holds the higher space, And all below is strength, and all above is grace; that architecture, which was taught by nature, and polished by the Graces, was totally neglect- ed. ‘Tricks and conceits got possession every where. Clumsy buttresses were to shock you with disproportion ; or little pillars were to sup- port vast weights; while ignorant people, who knew nothing of centres of gravity, were to tremble at their entrance into every building, lest the roofs should fall upon their heads. This, however odd it might seem, and however un- worthy of the name of taste, was cultivated, was admired, and still has its professors in different parts in England. There is something, they say, in it congenial to our old Gothic constitu- tion; I should rather think to our modern idea of liberty, which allows every one the privilege of playing the fool, and of making himself ridi- culous in whatever way he pleases. According to the present prevailing whim, every thing is Chinese, or in the Chinese taste) or, as it is sometimes more modestly expressed, “partly after the Chinese manner.”’ Chairs, tables, chimney-pieces, frames for looking-glasses, and even our most vulgar utensils, are all re- duced to this new-fangled standard; and with- | Out-doors so universally has it spread, that 20 every gate to a cow-yard is in T’s and Z’s, and every hovel for the cows has bells hanging at the corners. The good people in the city are, I perceive, struck with the novelty; and though some of them still retain the last fashion, the Gothic, yet others have begun to ornament the doors and windows of their shops with the more modern improvements. Had this taste prevailed in the latter end of Queen Anne’s time, the new churches them- selves had doubtless been pagodas; nay, it is expected at present that the Something which is rising on the building at the horse-guards, if ever it should come to a conclusion, will termi- nate at last “partly after the Chinese manner.”’ I would beg leave, however, to propose, if our large public buildings are to be executed after Chinese models, that we should pursue the usual methods on such occasions. The inocula- tion for the small-pox, and other such hazar- dous experiments, were first executed upon con- demned criminals. And, in my opinion, an experiment of this kind should first be tried on an hospital, or a county workhouse. I know it will be said, in answer to this, that conveniency is chiefly to be studied in edifices of charity. But is conveniency to give way to taste? Is the honour of a nation to be less considered than the particular exigences of private persons? It is a thousand pities that the hospitals of Chelsea and of Greenwich are already built; their situations are the very spots one would have chosen for a trial of this sort. What numbers of little lakes might have been let in from the Thames to wander among the pavilions! And how com- modiously might we have passed from ward to ward by bridges adorned with triumphal arches ! The encouragement of this taste may be worthy of the consideration of those gentlemen who have great possessions in the isle of Ely, or the fens of Lincolnshire. A Chinese town, happily situated, may attract inhabitants, and make estates in those countries extremely de- sirable. Marshy grounds, which are now avoided, will become by this means the most sought after of any ; and we may live to see the hundreds of Essex crowded with villas. But I only hint these things to those whom they concern, and whose interest it may be to pursue them farther. My intention, you perceive, is to make taste useful to somebody at least, and to assign proper places for the exercise of our im- proved talents. But while I am promoting the interest and entertainment of some of his majesty’s subjects, I would not wilfully offend others, who may be a little infatuated through their zeal to their country. Many good patriots have been greatly alarmed at the spreading of the French language and the French fashions so universally over Europe; and have apprehended, perhaps too THE WORLD. [No. 13. justly, that their modes of religion and govern. ment might insinuate themselves in their turns. If any pious Englishman should have the same fears with regard to the Chinese custom and manners, I have the satisfaction to inform him, that nothing of that kind can reasonably be dreaded. We may rest secure that our firm faith will never be staggered by the tenets of Fohi, nor our practice vitiated by the morals of Confucius; at least we may be certain that the present innovations are by no means adequate to such an effect: for on a moderate computation, not one in a thousand of all the stiles, gates, rails, pales, chairs, temples, chimney-pieces, &c. &c. &c. which are called Chinese, has the least resemblance to any thing that China ever saw; nor would an English church be a less uncom- mon sight to a travelling mandarin than an English pagoda. I think it necessary to say thus much, in order to quiet the scruples of con- scientious persons, who will doubtless be more at ease when they consider that our Chinese ornaments are not only of our own manufac- ture, like our French silks and our French wines, but, what has seldom been attributed to the English, of our own invention. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, H. S. TO THE PUBLIC. “¢ Whereas, a subscription for a subsidy for the use of King Theodore was opened at Tully’s- Head, in Pall-mall, the twenty-second of last month, This is to give notice, that by order of Mr. Fitz- Adam, the said subscription will be closed on Tuesday the twenty-seventh of this instant March; at which time the subsidy will be paid in. “ Rogert Dopstey.”’ RPUCVTVVETVTVVVTTDABDVTVTT SECTS FVSE FUBESVTIT TSE VEVA BITE No. 13.] Tsurspay, Marcu 29, 1753. oe I suatt make no apology for the following letters, or my own answers to them ; having been always of opinion that works of criticism are. the chief strength and ornament of a public paper. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Though you set out with a good grace in the World, I cannot help thinking that a paper now and then upon religion might be very en- tertaining. J am an officer in country quarters, and as the chaplain to the regiment happens to live altogether in town, I have no opportunity of No. 13.} knowing any thing of that affair, but from what I hear at church. Iam, &c. A. Z. TO MR. A. Z. Sir, That no officer in quarters may be under the necessity of going to church, the World for the future, shall be a religious one. Iam, &c. A. Firz-Apam. TO MR, FITZ-ADAM, Sir, I belong to a club of very serious clergymen, and am glad (so is every one of us) that you do not intend to meddle with religion in your pa- per. It is certainly a subject of too much dignity and importance to be treated of in essays, which seem devoted to humour and the ridicule of fol- ly. In the name of the whole club, Tam, &c. J.-C. TO MR. J. C. Sir, As it will be always my ambition to stand well with the clergy, they may assure them- selves that the World shall have no religion in it. Iam, &c. A. Firz-Apam. TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I cannot help being offended at your want of correctness in a paper, which, in other respects, deserves approbation. In No. I. yousay, warn men to goodness. ‘She verb warn is unwarrant- able in this place: we are warned by or from, but not to.—The word should be incite; and so I have corrected it in my own paper. In No. THE WORLD. 21 ee have hitherto proceeded from nothing but inadvertency. | Iam, Sir, your obliged servant, | A. Firz-Apam, | TO ADAM FITZ-ADAM, Esa. Dear Frrz, Lord * * * * and I laid hold of a d——d prig of a university fellow yesterday, and carried him to our club; where, when the claret began to mount, your paper of the World happened te | come upon the tapis. ‘ That same Mr. Fitz- | Adam,”’ says he, “is a very inaccurate writer ; peradventure I shall take an opportunity of tell- | ing him so in a short time.” But, dear Fitz, if the prig should really send you a letter, smoke the parson and be witty. Your inaccuracies, as he calls them, are the characteristics of a polite writer: by these alone our club is sure that you are a man of fashion. Away with pedantry and the grammar! Write like a gentleman, and with Pope, in his essay upon critics, Snatch a grace beyond the reach of nature. | Yours, A. B. TO MR. A. B. Sir, In compliance with your advice, I shall avoid _the pedantry of grammar, and be perfectly the | gentleman in my future essays. Iam, your most obedient, A. Firz-Apam. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. SIR, I do not write to you to have the pleasure of seeing myself in print: it is only to give you a little friendly advice. Take care of novels: the town swarms with them. ‘That foolish story of Mrs. Wilson, in your fourth and fifth papers, made me cry out that the World was at an end! Yours, Tom Teiit-Trurs. III. line 2, you have the colloquial barbarism of | doing athing by a man instead of to. I cannot express how much I am hurt at so vulgar an impropriety. In No. VI. page 10, the verb dis- play is used instead of its participle displaying. Perhaps it is only an error of the press: pray be careful for the future. I am willing to hope that these gross mistakes are only owing to in- advertency. Ifso, I rest, Your admirer, PHILoLoGos. + TO PHILOLOGOS, Sir, - I shall be very careful of mistakes for the fu- ture ; and do assure you upon my veracity, that TO MR. TELL-TRUTH. SIR, I thank you for the caution, and will write no more novels. Your most humble servant, A. Firz-Apam.. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, SIR, Your predecessor, the Spectator, did not thin’ | his labours altogether useless, which were dedi- cated tous women. Those elegant moral tales, | * * . which make their appearance so frequently in , his works, are so many proofs of his regard for Co) Bed 2 us. From the fourth and fifth numbers of the World we have the pleasure of hoping that the Spectator is revived among us. The story of Mrs. Wilson is a lesson of instruction to every woman in the kingdom, and has given the au- thor of it as many friends as he has readers among the sex. I am, Sir, Your real admirer and humble servant, L. B. TO MISS L. B, Manpam, As it will be always my chief happiness to please the ladies, I shall devote my future papers entirely to novels. Your obliged and most obedient servant, A. Firz- ApaM. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, If a plain grave man may have leave to tell you a little truth, I must inform you, that though I like your manner very much, I have great objections to your matter. He who only THE WORLD. [No. 14. A MONSIEUR DOURILLAC. Vous pouvez conter, monsieur, qu'il n’y a rien au monde que je ne fasse pour captiver la bien-veillence d’un si aimable homme. ‘Tout ce qu’il a de gai, de volatile, et méme evaporeé, coulera desormais de ma plume. J’ai l’honneus d’étre, monsieur, Votre trés-humble et trés-obeissant serviteur, Firz-Apam. T have many more letters written in the same spirit of criticism, and consequently many more opinions of my own; but as these may be thought sufficient at one time, I shall borrow an old fable, and conclude this paper. An old man and a little boy were driving an ass to the next market to sell. What a fool is this fellow (says a man upon the road) to be trudging it on foot with his son, that his ass may go light! The old man, hearing this, set his boy upon the ass, and went whistling by the side of him. Why, sirrah! (cries a second man to the boy) is it fit for you to be riding, while your poor old father is walking on foot? The father, upon this rebuke, took down his boy from the ass, and mounted himself. Do you see (says a skims surfaces will gather nothing but straws. | third) how the lazy old knave rides along upon If you are the philosopher you would have us| his beast, while his poor little boy is almost think you, give us something that may rest | crippled with walking? The old man no sooner upon the memory, and improve while it enter- | heard this, than he took up his son behind him. tains. Iam, &c. AMICUS. TO AMICUS. Sir, The World, for the future, shall be grave and philosophical; the matter shall be regarded, and not the manner. I am, &c. A. Firz-ApDAM. A MONSIEUR FITZ-ADAM. Je suis enchanté, mon cher monsieur, de votre Monde. Depuis deux ans que je suis 4 Lon- dres, j’ai appris assez d’ Anglois pour l’entendre parfaitement, mais je ne suis pas si habile que Voltaire, pour ’écrire. Vous avez saisi tout a fait Vésprit Francois; tant d’enjouement, de legereté, et de vivacite!—Parbleu c’est char- mant! Donnez-nous de temps en temps un vau- deville, ou quelque petite chanson a boire, et je me croirai & Paris. Le seul petit defaut que vous avez, c’est que vous sentez trop le Monde gage, il ne vous manque qu’un peu du Monde fou, pour plaire & tout le Monde, et surtout a celui qui a l’honneur d’étre, monsieur, Votre trés-humble et trés-obeissant serviteur, Dovritiac. | Pray, honest friend, (says a fourth) is that ass your own? Yes, says the man. One would not have thought so, replied the other, by your load- ing him so unmercifully. You and your son are better able to carry the poor beast than he you. Any thing to please, says, the owner ; and alighting with his son, they tied the legs of the ass together, and by the help of a pole en- deavoured to carry him upon their shoulders over the bridge that led to the town. This was so entertaining a sight, that the people ran in crowds to laugh at it; till the ass, conceiving a dislike to the over-complaisance of his master, burst asunder the cords that tied him, slipt from the pole, and tumbled into the river. ‘The poor old man made the best of his way home, ashamed and vexed that by endeavouring to please every body he had pleased nobody, and lost his ass into the bargain. SEVP VTVTVVUVATLAATST DATA BST RABTUTVTVTVVUVADWY No. 14.] Tuurspay, Aprit 5, 1753. I vo not doubt but it is already observed that I write fewer letters to myself than any of my | predecessors. It is not from being less acquaint~ ed with my own merit, but I really look upon myself as superior to such little arts of fame. Compliments, which I should be obliged to — in his voluminous work. No. 14.] sLroud under the name of a third person, have very little relish for me. If I am not consider- able enough to pronounce ex cathedra, that I Adam Fitz-Adam know how to rally the follies and decide upon the customs of the world with more wit, humour, learning, and taste than any man living, 1 have in yain undertaken the scheme of this paper. Who would be regulated by the judgment of aman, who is not the most self-sufficient person alive? Why did all the pretty women in England, in the reign of Queen Anne, submit the government of their fans, hoods, hoops, and patches, to the Spectator, but because he pronounced himself the best critic in fashions? Why did half the nation imbibe their politics from the Craftsman, but because Caleb d’ Anvers assured them that he understood the maxims of government and the constitution of his country better than any minister or patriot of his time? Throned as I am in a perfect good opinion of my own abilities, I scorn to taste the satisfaction of praise from my own pen—and (to be humble for once) I own, if there is any species of writing of which I am not perfect master, it is the epistolary, My deficience in this particular is happily common to me with the greatest men; I can even go farther, and declare that it is the fair part of the creation that excels in that province. Ease without affectation, the politest expression, the happiest art of telling news of trifles, the most engaging turns of sentiment or passion, are fre- quently found in letters from women, who have lived in a sphere at all above the vulgar; while on the other side orators write affectedly, min- isters obscurely, poets floridly, learned men fedantically, and soldiers tolerably, when they can spell. One would not have one’s daughter write like Eloisa, because one would not have one’s daughter feel what she felt; yet who ever wrote so movingly, so to the heart? The amiable Madame de Sevigne is the standard of easy engaging writing ; to call her the pattern of eloquent writing will not be thought an exag- geration, when I refer my readers to her ac- counts of the death of Marshal Turenne: some little fragments of her letters, in the appendix to Ramsay’s life of that hero, give a stronger picture of him than the historian was able to do If this fair one’s epistles are liable to any censure, it is for a fault in which she is not likely to be often imitated, the excess of tenderness for her daughter. '. The Italians are as proud of a person of the same sex; Lucretia Gonzago was so celebrated _ for the eloquence of her letters and the purity of their style, that her very notes to her servants were collected and published. I have neverread _ the collection; and indeed one or two billets that I have met with have not entirely all the deli- _ €acy of Madame de Sevigne. In one to her foot- THE WORLD. 23 man, the Signora Gonzago reprehends him for not readily obeying Dame Lucy, her housekeep- er; and in another, addressed to the same Mrs, Lucy, she says, “ If Livia will not be obedient, turn up her coats and whip her till her flesh be black and blue, and the blood run down to her heels.”” To be sure this sounds a little oddly to English ears, but may be very elegant, when modulated by the harmony of Italian liquids. Several worthy persons have laid down rules for the composition of letters ; but I fear it isan art which only nature can teach. I remember in one of those books (as it was written by a German) there was a strict injunction not to mention yourself before you had introduced the person of your correspondent: that is, you must not use the monosyllable J before the pronoun You. The Italians have stated expressions, to be used by different ranks of men, and know exactly when to subscribe themselves the de- voted or the most devoted slave of the illustrious or most eminent persons to whom they have the honour to write. It is true, in that country, they have so clogged correspondence with forms and civilities, that they seldom make use of their own language, but generally write to one another in French. Among many instances of beautiful letters from ladies, and of the contrary from our sex, I shall select two, which are very singular in their kind. ‘The comparison, to be sure, is not entire- ly fair ; but when I mention some particulars of the male author, one might expect a little more elegance, a little better orthography, a little more decorum, and a good deal less absurdity, than seem to have met in one head, which had seen so much of the world, which pretended so much to literature, and which had worn so long one of the first crowns in Europe. ‘This personage was the Emperor Maximilian, grandfather to Charles the Fifth. . His reign was long, some- times shining, often unprosperous, very often ignominious. His fickleness, prodigality, and indigence, were notorious. The Italians called him Pochi-danart, or the pennyless; a quality ne more habitual to him, than his propensity to repair his shattered fortunes by the most unbe- coming means. He served under our Henry the Eighth, as a common soldier, at the siege of Terouenne, for a hundred crowns a day: he was bribed to the attempt against Pisa, and bribed to give it over. In short, no potentate ever undertook to engage him in a treaty, with- out first offering him money. Yet this vagabond monarch, as if the annals of his reign were too glorious to be described by a plebeian pen, or as if they were worthy to be described at all, took the pains to write his own life in Dutch verse. There was another book of his composition in a different way, which does not reflect much more lustre upon his memory than his own 24: Dutch epic; this was what he called his livre rouge, and was a register of seventeen mortifica- tions which he had received from Louis the Twelfth of France, and which he intended to revenge on the first opportunity. After a va- riety of shifts, breach of promises, alliances, and treaties, he almost duped his vain contemporary Henry the Eighth, with a proposal of resigning the empire to him, while himself was meditat- ing what he thought an accession of dignity even to the imperial diadem: in short, in the latter part of his life, Maximilian took it into his head to canvass for the papal Tiara. Several methods were agitated to compass this object of his ambi- tion: one, and not the least ridiculous, was, to pretend that the patriarchal dignity was includ- ed in the imperial ; and by virtue of that defini- tion he really assumed the title of Pontifex Maximus, copying the pagan lords of Rome on his way to the sovereignty of the christian church. Money he knew was the surest method, but the least at his command ; it was to procure a supply of that necessary ingredient that he wrote the following letter to his daughter Margaret, dutchess dowager of Savoy, and goy- erness of the Netherlands. “Tres chiere et tres amée fylle, j8 entendu l’avis que vous m’avez donné par Guyllain Pingun notre garderobes, dont avons encore mieux pensé. Et ne trouvons point pour nulle resun bon que nous nous devons franchement marier, maes avons plus avant mys notre delib- eration et volanté de jamés plus hanter faem nue. Et envoyons demain Mons. de Gurce Evesque 4 Rome devers le pape pour trouver fachon que nous puyssuns accorder avec ly de nous prendre pour ung coadjuteur, affin que apres sa mort pouruns estre assuré de avoer le papat, et devenir prester, et apres estre saint, et que yl vous sera de necessité que apres ma mort vous serés contraint de me adorer, dont je me trouveré bien glorioes. Je envoye sur ce ung poste devers le roy d’ Arogon pour ly prier qu’y nous voulle ayder pour a ce parvenir, dont il est aussy content, moynant que je resigne l’empir a mostre comun fyls Charls, de sela aussy je me suys contente. Je commance aussy practiker les Cardinaulx, dont ii C. ou iii C. mylle ducats me ferunt ung grand service, aveque la partialité qui est deja entre eos. Le roy d’ Arogon a mandé a son ambaxadeur que yl veulent favour- yser le papat_ a nous. Je vous prie, tenés cette matere empu secret, ossi bien en brieff jours je creins que yl faut que tout le monde le sache, car bien mal esti possible de pratiker ung tel sy grand matere secretement, pour laquell yl faut avoer de tant de gens et de argent, succurs et pratike, et a Dit, saet de la main de votre bon pere Maximilianus futur pape, le xviii jour de setembre. Le papa aencor les vyevers dubls, et ne peult longement fyvre.” This curious piece, which it is impossible to THE WORLD. [No. 15, translate (for what language can give an ade- quate idea of very bad old German French ?) is to be found in the fourth volume of letters o, Louis XII., printed at Brussels by Fr. Fop- pensin 1712, It will be sufficient to inform such of my readers as do not understand French, that his imperial majesty acquaints his beloved daughter that he designs never to frequent naked womeu any more, but to use all his endeavours to procure the papacy, and then to turn priest, and. at length become a saint, that his dear daughter may be obliged to pray to him, which he shall reckon matter of exceeding glory. He expresses great want of two or three hundred thousand ducats to facilitate the business, which he desires may be kept very secret, though he does not doubt but all the world will know it in two or three days; and concludes with signing himself future Pope. As a contrast to this scrap of imperial folly, I shall present my readers with the other letter I mentioned. It was written by the Lady Anne, widow of the Earls of Dorset and Pembroke (the life of the former of whom she wrote) and heiress of the great house of Clifford-Cumber- land, from which, among many noble reversions, she enjoyed the borough of Appleby. Sir Joseph Williamson, secretary of state to Charles the Second, wrote to name a candidate to her for that borough: the brave countess, with all the spirit of her ancestors, and with all the eloquence of independent Greece, returned this laconic answer. any «‘ T have been bullied by an usurper, I have been neglected by acourt; but I will not be dic- tated to by a subject ; your man sha’n’t stand. “ Anne, Dorsey, Pemproxe, ‘and Monrcomery.”’ WEVVU SDV VVTUTSTTUSST TL VVET TA SPRVTEVE ALAA TULLVL VE SEBEDe No. 15.] Tuurspay, Arrit 12, 1758. Ir has been imagined, that if an ancient inhabit- ant of this island, some old Saxon for example, or even in later times, a subject of one of our Harrys or our Edwards, could rise from his grave and take a survey of the present genera- tion, he would never suspect us to be the des- cendants of his contemporaries, but would stare about with surprise, and be apt to fancy himself among a nation of foreigners, if not among a race of animals of a different species. I have sometimes thought that such a person would be — no less puzzled to know his country again, than his countrymen; such a change would he find | in the natural face of England, as well as in the manners of its inhabitants. The great increase | of public and private buildings, the difference — of architecture, the frequent navigation of rivers, and above all, the introduction and whimsi¢al variations of gardening, have contributed so éf — No. 15.) THE fectualiy to new dress our island, which before was covered with rude forests and extended marshes, that it would require some time and pains to discover her ancient features under so total a disguise. This is more particularly the case with the counties adjacent to London, over which the genius of gardening exercises his power so often and so wantonly, that they are usually new-created once in twenty or thirty years, and no traces left of their former condi- tion. Nor is this to be wondered at; dening, being the dress of nature, is as liable to the caprices of fashion, as are the dresses of the human body; and there is a certain mode of it in every age, which grows antiquated and be- comes obsolete and ridiculous in the next. So that were any man of taste now to lay out his ground in the style which prevailed less than half a century ago, it would occasion as much astonishment and laughter, as if a modern beau should appear in the drawing-room in red stock- ings, or introduce himself into a polite assembly in one of my Lord Foppington’s periwigs. What was the prevailing mode in Milton’s | days may be guessed from a passage in his Il Penseroso, where he describes RETIRED LEISURE taking his delight in trim gardens. ‘The practice, it seems, was to embroider and flourish over the ground with curious knots of flowers, as the same poet calls them in another part of his works; and in this there was something of cheerfulness and gayety at least, though the judicious eye could not help being displeased with the fantastic quaintness of the design. James the Second was deposed, and the im- mortal King William came to the crown of these kingdoms; an era as remarkable in the annals of gardening as in those of government; but far less auspicious in the former instance. The mournful family of yews came over with the house of Orange; the sombre taste of Hol- land grew into vogue; and straight canals, rec- tilineal walks, and rows of clipt evergreens were all the mode. It was the compliment which England paid her new sovereign, to wear the dress of a Dutch morass. The royal gardens of Kensington, Hampton-court, and Richmond, set the example; and good whigs distinguished their loyalty by fetching their plans from the same country, which had the honour of produc- ing their leing; a country never greatly celebrated for taste in any instance, and least of all in the article now under consideration. But such were the errors of the times; our connoisseurs in their zeal all became mynheers ; and it would probably have been then esteemed as great a mark of dis- affection to have laid out ground different from the true Belgic model, as it would be now to Wear a white rose on the 10th of June. This Dutch absurdity, like all other follies, had itsrun, and in time expired. The great Kent appeared at length in behalf of nature, de- WORLD, for gar- ‘25 clared war against the taste m fashion, and laid the axe to the root of artificial evergreens. Gar- dens were no longer filled with yews in the shape of giants, Noah's ark cut in holly, St. George and the dragon in box, cypress lovers, laurustine bears, and all that race of root-bound monsters, which flourished so long, and looked so tremendous round the edges of every grass- plat. At the same time the dull uniformity of designing was banished ; high walls, excluding the country, were thrown down; and it was no longer thought necessary that every grove should nod at a rival, and every walk be paired witha twin-brother. The great master above-men- tioned, truly the disciple of nature, imitated her in the agreeable wildness and beautiful irregu- larity of her plans, of which there are some noble examples still remaining, that abundantly show the power of his creative genius. But it isour misfortune that we always run beyond the goal, and are never contented to rest at that point where perfection ends, and excess and absurdity begin. Thus our present artists in gardening far exceed the wildness of nature; and pretending to improve on the plans of Kent, distort their ground into irregularities the most offensive that can be imagined. A great comic painter has proved, I am told, in a piece every day expected, that the line of beauty isan S: I take this to be the unanimous opinion of all our professors of horticulture, who seem to have the most idolatrous veneration for that crooked letter at the tail of the alphabet. Their land, their water, must be serpentine; and because the formality of the last age ran too much into right lines and parallels, a spivit of opposition carries the present universally into curves and mazes. It was questioned of some old mathematician, a great bigot to his favourite science, whether he would consent to go to heaven in any path that was not triangular? It may, I think, with equal propriety be questioned of a modern gar- dener, whether he would consent to go thither in any path that is not serpentine? Nothing, on earth at least, can please out of that model ; and there is reason to believe that paradise itself would have no charms for one of these gentle- men, unless its walks be disposed into labyrinth and meander. In serious truth, the vast multi- tude of grotesque little villas, which grow up every summer, within a certain distance of London, and swarm more especially on the banks of the Thames, are fatal proofs of the de- generacy of our national taste. With a descrip- tion of one of these whimsical nothings, and with a few previous remarks upon the owner of it, I shall conclude this paper. Squire Mushroom, the present worthy pos- sessor of Block-hill, was born at a little dirty village in Hertfordshire, and received the rudi- ments of his education behind a writing-desk, under the eye of his father, who was an attorney E 26 at-law. It is not material to relate by what means he broke loose from the bondage of parch- ment, or by what steps he rose from primeval meanness and obscurity to his present station in life. Let it be sufficient to say, that at the age of forty he found himself in possession of a con- siderable fortune. Being thus enriched, he grew ambitious of introducing himself to the world as aman of taste and pleasure: for which pur- pose he put an edging of silver lace on his servants’ waistcoats, took into keeping a brace of whores, and resolved to have a villa. Full of this pleasing idea, he purchased an old farm- house, not far distant from the place of his nativity, and fell to building and planting with all the rage of taste. The old mansion immedi- ately shot up into Gothic spires, and was plas- tered over with stucco: the walls were notched into battlements; uncouth animals were set grinning at one another over the gate-posts, and the hall was fortified with rusty swords and pistols, and a Medusa’s head staring tremendous over the chimney. When he had proceeded thus far, he discovered in good time that his house was not habitable: which obliged him to add two rooms entirely new, and entirely inco- herent with the rest of the building. Thus while one half is designed to give you the idea of an old Gothic edifice, the other half presents to your view Venetian windows, slices of pilas- ter, balustrades, and other parts of Italian archi- tecture. . A library of books, as it is esteemed an essen- tial ornament in a modish villa, was the next object of the squire’s ambition. I was conduct- ed into this apartment soon after its completion, and could not help observing with some surprise that all the volumes on the shelves were in duodecimo: at which expressing a curiosity, I received the following answer, verbatim: “‘ Why Sir, I'l inform you how that matter came to pass: I ordered my carpenter to tickle me up a neat fashionable set of cases for the reception of books, and the d-—d blundering booby made all the shelves as you see, of a size, only to hold your duodecimos, as they call them; so I was obliged, you know, to purchase books of a proper dimension, and such as would fit the places they were to stand in.” But the triumph of his genius was seen in the disposition of his gardens, which contain every THE WORLD. [ No. 16. labyrinth of horn-beam hedges, you are led into an old hermitage built with roots of trees, which the squire is pleased to call St. Austin’s cave. Here he desires you to repose yourself, and expects encomiums on his taste; after which a second ramble begins through another maze of walks, and the last error is much worse than the first. At length, when you almost despair of ever visiting day light any more, you emerge on a sudden in an open and circular area, richly checkered with beds of flowers, and embellished with a little fountain playing in the centre of it. As every folly must have a name, the squire in- forms you, that by way of whim he has christen- ed this place little Marybon ; at the upper end of which you are conducted into a pompous, clumsy, and gilded building, said to bea temple, and consecrated to Venus; for no other reason which I could learn, but because the squire riots here sometimes in vulgar love with a couple of orange-wenches, taken from the purlieus of the play-house. To conelude, if one wished to see a coxcomb expese himself in the most effectual manner, one would advise him to build a villa; which is the chef-d’cuvre of modern impertinence, and the most conspicuous stage which Folly can pos- sibly mount to display herself to the world. PVD VS VSEVEVWS VOT SET PITS VWTEVCTD VBS VWSVSVW BH DETTE VSG VALS No. 16.) Tuurspay, Apri 19, 1753. Ir was very well said by Montaigne, ‘ That all external acquisitions receive taste and colour from the internal constitution ; as clothes give warmth, not from their own heat, but by cov- ering and keeping close the heat that is in our: selves.”’ Every man’s experience will prove the truth of this observation ; as it will teach him, both from what he feels in himself, and observes in others, that without a disposition for happiness, the benefits and blessings of life are bestowed upon him in vain ; and that with it, even a bare exemption from poverty and pain is almost hap- piness enough. I am led to this thought by the following thing in less than two acres of ground. At your first entrance, the eye is saluted with a yellow erpentine river, stagnating through a beautiful valley, which extends near twenty yards in length. Over the river is thrown a bridge, nartly in the Chinese manner, and a little ship, with sails spread, and streamers flying, floats in the midst of it. When you have passed this bridge, you enter into a grove perplexed with errors and crooked walks; where having trod the same ground over and over again, through a letter, which I received near two years ago — from a very valuable friend. The reader will — perceive that it was not written with a view of — publication; but as it presents us with a very — natural picture of domestic happiness, and in- 2 structs us how an elegant little family may live — charitably and within bounds upon an income of only fifty pounds a year, I shall give it to the | public exactly as I received it. Those who have — feeling hearts will call it an entertainment ; #0 the rest it is not written. No. 16.9 P ‘York, June the 14th, 1751. Dear Sir, The reason that you have not heard from me for these last five weeks is, that the people | where I have béen have engrossed all my time and attention. Perhaps you will be surprised to hear, that I have lived a complete month with our old friend, the rector of South-Green, and his honest wife. You know with what compassion we used to think of them; that a man who had mixed a good deal with the world, and who had always entertained hopes of making a figure in it, should foolishly, and at an age when people generally grow wise, throw away his affections upon agirl worth nothing: and that she, one of the liveliest of women, as well as the finest, should refuse the many advantageous offers which were made her, and follow a poor parson to his living of fifty pounds a year, in a remote corner of the kingdom. But I have learned from experience that we have been pitying the happiest couple of our acquaintance. I am impatient to tell you all I know of them. The parish of South-Green is about seventeen miles from this place, and is in my opinion the most pleasing spot of ground in all Yorkshire.— 1 should have first told you, that our friend, by the death of a relation, was enabled to carry his wife from London with a neat two hundred and fifty guineas in his pocket; with which sum he has converted the old parsonage-house into a little palace, and fourteen acres of glebe into a farm and garden, that even a Pelham or a Southcote might look upon with pleasure. The house stands upon an eminence within the bending of a river, with about half an acre of kitchen-garden, fenced in with a good old wall, well planted with fruit trees. The river, that almost surrounds this little spot, affords them fish at all seasons. They catch trout there, and plenty of them, from two to five pounds weight. Before the house is a little lawn with trees planted in clumps; and behind it a yard well stocked with poultry, with a barn, cow- house, and dairy. At the end of the garden a draw-bridge leads you to a small piece of ground, where three or four pigs are kept. Here they are fattened for pork or bacon: the latter they cure themselves; and in all my life I never eat better. In the seven years of this retirement, they have so planted their little spot, that you can hardly conceive any thing more beautiful. ‘The fields lie all together, with pasture-ground _ enough for two horses and as many cows, and the rest arable. Every thing thrives under their hands. The hedges, all of their own plant- ing, are the thickest of any in the country, and within every one of them is a sand-walk between a double row of flowering shrubs, THE WORLD. 27 these fields supplies them abundantly with the means of bread and beer, and with a surplus | yearly for the poor, to whom they are the best benefactors of any in the neighbourhood. The husband brews and the wife bakes; he manages the farm and she the dairy ; and both with such skill and industry, that you would think them educated to nothing else. Their house consists of two parlours and a kitchen below, and two bedchambers and a servant's room above. Their maid is a poor woman's daughter in the parish, whom they took at eleven years old, and have made the handiest girl imaginable. She is extremely pretty, and might marry herself to advantage, but she loves her mistress so sincerely, that no temptation is strong enough to prevail upon her to leave her. In this sweet retirement they have a boy and a girl; the boy six years old, and the girl four; both of them the prettiest little things that ever were born. ‘The girl is the very picture of her mother, with the same softness of heart and temper. The boy is a jolly dog, and loves mis- chief ; but if you tell him an interesting story, he will cry for an hour together. The husband and wife constantly go to bed at ten; and rise at six. ‘The business of the day is commonly finished by dinner-time ; and all after is amuse- ment and pleasure, without any set forms. They are almost worshipped by the parishioners, to whom the doctor is not only the spiritual direc- tor, but the physician, the surgeon, the apothe- cary, the lawyer, the steward, the friend, and the cheerful companion. ‘The best people in the country are fond of visiting them; they call it going to see the wonders of Yorkshire, and say that they never eat so heartily as of the parson’s bacon and greens. I told you at the beginning of this letter that they were the happiest couple of our acquaint- ance; and now I will tell you why they are so. In the first place, they love and are delighted with each other, A seven years’ marriage, in- stead of lessening their affections, has increased them. ‘They wish for nothing more than what their little income affords them; and even of that little they lay up. Our friend showed me his account of expenses, or rather his wife’s ac- count; by which it appears that they have saved yearly from fifteen shillings to a guinea, exclusive of about the same sum, which they distribute among the poor, besides barley, wheat, and twenty other things. Their only article of luxury is tea; but the doctor says he would forbid that, if his wife could forget her London education. However, they seldom offer it but to their best company, and less than a pound will last them a twelvemonth. Wine they have none, nor will they receive it as a present. Their constant drink is small beer and ale, botl | of hardly ever out of blossom. The produce of | which they brew in the highest perfection. 28 Exercise and temperance keep them in perpetual health and good-humour. All the strife be- tween them is who shall please and oblige most. Their favourite amusement is reading: now and then, indeed, our friend scribb‘es a little ; but his performances reach no farther than a short sermon, or a paper of verses in praise of his wife. Every birth-day of the lady is con- stantly celebrated in this manner; and though you do not read a Swift to his Stella, yet there is something so sincere and tender in these little pieces, that I could never read any of them without tears. In the fine afternoons and even- ings they are walking arm and arm, with their boy and girl, about their grounds; but how cheerful, how happy! is not to ke told you. Their children are hardly so much children as themselves. But though they love one another even to dotage, their fondness never appears be- fore company. I never saw either of them so much as playing with the other’s hand—I mean only when they have known I was within sight of them ; I have stolen upon them unawares in- deed, and have been witness to such words and looks as have quite melted me. With this couple, and in this retirement, I have passed my time since you heard from me. How happily I need not say: come and be a judge yourself; they invite you most heartily. One thing I had forgot to tell you of them. Jt makes no part of their happiness that they can compare themselves with the rest of the world, who want minds to enjoy themselves as they do. It rather lessens than increases it. Their own happiness is from their own hearts. ‘They have every thing they wish for in this fifty pounds a year and one another. ‘They make no boast of themselves, nor find fault with any body. They are sorry Iam not as happy as they; but are far from advising me to retire as they have done. I left a bank note of twenty pounds behind me in my room, inclosed in a let- ter of thanks for their civilities to me; but it was returned me this morning to York, in a manner that pleased me more than all the rest of their behaviour. Our friend thanked me for the favour I intended him; but told me I could bestow it better among the poor. That his wife and he had been looking over the family accounts of last month, and that they found me only a few shillings in their debt. That if I did not think they were a thousand times overpaid by the pleasure I had given them, they would be obliged to me for a pound of tea, and a little of Hardham’s snuff when I got to London. . I hope soon to see you, and to entertain you by the week, with the particulars of the parson aud his wife. Till then, bd. omy 4 4] 4 Iam, &c.. THE WORLD. ; “ [No. 17. No. 17.] Tuurspay, Arrit 26, 1753. Twice in every year are solemnized those grand diversions, with which our nobility, gentry, and others, entertain themselves at Newmarket ; and as this is the vernal season for the celebration of those curious sports and festivals, and as they are, at this time, likely to be held with the ut- most splendour and magnificence, I think it may not be improper to amuse my town readers with one single paper upon the subject. In this I will endeavour to set forth the use- fulness of these anniversary meetings, describing the manner and method of exhibiting such games; and then show what benefit may arise to the kingdom, by horse-races in general, on the one hand; and what detriment may happen from them to the public, on the other, by their spreading too widely over the whole kingdom. 1 read in one of the newspapers of last week the following article: ‘’Tis said that .gar- rets at Newmarket are let at four guineas each, | for the time of the meeting.” What, said I to myself, are our principal nobility content to lie in garrets, at such an exorbitant price, for the sake of such amusements! Or are our jockey- gentry, and tradesmen, extravagant enough to throw away their loose corn (as I may properly call it on this occasion) so idly and ridiculously ? To be sure there is not a more noble diversion than this. In its original, it was of royal insti- tution, and carried on in the beginning with much honour and integrity ; but as the best con- stitution will always degenerate, I am fearful this may be grown too much into a science, wherein the adepts may have carried matters to a nicety, not altogether reconcileable to. the strictest notions of integrity; and which may’ by degrees, by their affecting to become notable in the profession, corrupt the morals of our young nobility. The language of the place is generally to be understood by the rule of contra- ries. If any one says his horse isa pretty good one, but as slow as a town-top (for similes are much in use), you may conclude him to be an exceed- ing speedy one, but not so good at bottom. If he mentions his design of throwing a particular horse soon out of training, you may be assured he has a mind to match that horse as soon as he can; and soit isin every thing else they throw out. Foreigners who come here for curiosity | cannot be shown a finer sight than these races, which are almost peculiar to this country: but I must confess that I have been sometimes put a little to the blush at incidents that are pretty pregnant in the place. Every body is dressed so perfectly alike, that it is extremely difficult to ' WO. Tey distinguish between his grace and his groom. I have heard a stranger ask a man of quality how often he dressed and watered his horses ? how much corn, and bread, and hay, he gave them? how many miles he thought they could run in such a number of minutes? and how long he had lived with his master? Those who have been at the place will not be surprised at these mistakes; for a pair of boots, and buck- skin breeches, a fustian frock, with a leather belt about it, and a black velvet cap, is the com- mon covering of the whole town: so that if the inside does not differ, the outside of my lord and his rider are exactly the same. ‘There is an- other most remarkable affectation, which is this: those who are known to have the most, and perhaps best horses of the place, always appear themselves on the very worst, and go to the turf on some ordinary scrub tit, scarce worth five pounds. From persons thus mounted and ac- coutred, what a surprise must it be to hear a bet offered of a hundred pounds to fifty, and some times three hundred to two, when you would imagine the rider to be scarce worth‘a groat! In that circular convention before the race begins, at the Devil’s Ditch, all are hale fellows well met, and every one is at liberty, tailor, distiller, or otherwise, to offer and take such bets as he thinks proper: and many thousand pounds are usually laid on a side. When the horses are in sight, and come near Choke-Jade, immediately the company all disperse, as if the devil rose out of his ditch and drove them, to get to the turn- ing of the lands, the rest-post, or some other station, they choose, for seeing the push made. Now the contention becomes animating. .’Tis delightful to see two, or sometimes more, of the most beautiful animals of the creation, strug- gling for superiority, stretching every muscle and sinew to obtain the prize, and reach the goal! to observe the skill and address of the riders, who are all distinguished by different colours, of white, blue, green, red, and yellow, sometimes spurring or whipping, sometimes checking or pulling to give fresh breath and courage! and it is often observed that the race is won as much by the dexterity of the rider, as by the vigour and fleetness of the animal. When the sport is over, the company saunter away towards the Warren- Hill, before the other horses, left at the several stables in the town, are rode out to take their evening exercise and their water. On this delightful spot you may see at once above a hundred of the most beautiful horses in the universe, all led out in strings, with the ‘grooms and boys upon them, in their several liveries, distinguishing each person of rank they belong to.—This is indeed a noble sight ; it isa piece of grandeur, and an expensive one too, which no nation can boast of but our own. ‘To this the crown contributes, not only by a very handsome allowance for keeping horses, but also THE WORLD. 29 by giving plates to be run for by horses and mares at different ages, in order to encourage the breed, by keeping up the price of them, and to make the breeders extremely careful of their race and genealogy. The pedigree of these horses is more strictly regarded and carefully looked into than that of a knight of Malta. They must have no blem- ished quarter in the family on either side for many generations; their blood must have run pure and untainted, from the great, great, five times great grandfather and grandam, to be at- tested in the most authentic and solemn manner by the hand of the breeder. It is this care of the breed, and particularly with an eye to their strength, that makes all the world so fond of our horses. Many thousands are carried out of England every year; so that it is become a trade of great consequence, and brings a vast balance of money to this country annually. The French monarch rides no other horses but ours, in his favourite diversion of hunting. You may at any time see two or three hundred beau- tiful’ English geldings in those great and noble stables at Chantilli. Most of the German princes, and many of their nobility, are desirous of having English horses; and, I dare say, his present M. y of P—a, however military his genius may be, had rather mount an English horse at a review’ of his troops, than a breach at any siege in Europe. The country races over the whole kingdom are what, I confess, give me some little disrelish to the sport. Every county, and almost the whole of it, is mad during the time of the races. Many substantial farmers go to them with thirty or forty pounds in their pockets, and re- turn without one single farthing. Here they drink and learn to be vicious, and the whole time is spent in riot and disorder. An honest butcher, that is taken in at a horse-race, is tempted perhaps, in his return, to borrow an ox, or a few sheep, of his neighbour, to make up his losses. An industrious tradesman, or agood farmer, has sometimes turned highwayman, to be even with the rogue that bubbled him at the races. Upon the whole, if I consider only how much time is lost to all the labouring men in this kingdom, by county races, the damage they occasion is immense. Let us suppose it but a week’s labour all over England; and (if we consider the number of plates in the different metropolises, besides the lesser country plates) this must be allowed a very moderate computa- tion: and then let those two ingenious gentle- men, Mr. Pond and Mr. Heber, however they may be at variance with each other, join to compute how much the loss must be to the whole kingdom. 1 dare answer for it, that it must amount to many hundred thousands of pounds. — But as my paper was principally designed in honour of horses, I will not be led to urge any 30 thing against them. Horses of all kinds have ever been held in the highest esteem. Darius was chosen king of Persia by the neighing of his horse. I question if Alexander himself had pushed his conquests half so far, if Bucephalus had not stooped to take him on his back, An emperor of Rome made his horse a consul; and it will be readily owned that the dignity was as properly conferred upon the beast, as the imperial diadem upon his master. I shall conclude this paper with a short ex- tract from Churchill’s collection of voyages. «¢In Morocco the natives have a great respect for horses that have been the pilgrimage of Mecca, where Mahomet was born; they are called Hadgis, or saints. Such horses have their necks adorned with strings of beads, and relics, being writings wrapt up in cloth of gold or siik, containing the names of their prophet: and when these horses die, they are buried with as much ceremony as the nearest relations of their owners. The king of Morocco has one of them, whom he causes to be led before him when he goes abroad, very richly accoutred, and covered with these writings ; his tail being held up by a christian slave, carrying in one hand a pot and a towel, to receive the dung and wipe the pos- teriors.”” RABBABSIIDWA anne ARRSRTRBAVEBRBVST TS VVVATTE VV VST VSTWD No. 18.] Txurspay May 3, 1753. Tur following letter had appeared earlier in the World, if its length, or (what at present hap- pens to be the same thing) its merits had not been so great. I have been trying to shorten it, without robbing it of beauties; but after many unsuccessful attempts, I find that the spirit of it is (as the human soul is imagined to be by some ancient philosophers) totus in toto, et totus in qgualibet parte. I have, therefore, changed the form of my prayer, choosing rather to present my readers with an extraordinary half-sheet, than to keep from them any longer what was sent me for their instruction. At the same time I must beg leave to say, that I shall never think myself obliged to repeat my complaisance, but to those of my correspondents, who, like the writer of this letter, can inform me of their grievances with all the elegance of it. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, Srr, I consider you as supplemental to the law of the land. I take your authority to begin where the power of the law ends. The law‘is intend- ed to stop the progress of crimes by punishing them ; your paper seems calculated to check the course of follies by exposing them. May you be more successful in the latter than the law is in the former ! THE WORLD. ren. [No. 18. Upon this principle I shall lay my case plainly before you, and desire your publication of it asa warning to others. Though it may seem ridi- culous to many of your readers, I can assure you, Sir, that it is a very serious one to me, notwithstanding the ill-natured comfort which I might have, of thinking it of late a very com- mon one. I am a gentleman of a reasonable paternal es- tate in my county, and serve as knight of the shire for it. Having what is called a very good family-interest, my election incumbered my estate with a mortgage of only five thousand pounds; which I have not been able to clear, being obliged by a good place which I have got since to live in tewn, and in all the best com- pany, nine months of the year. I married suit- able to my circumstances. My wife wanted neither fortune, beauty, nor understanding. Discretion and good humour on her part, joined to good-nature and good manners on mine, made us live comfortably together for eighteen years. One son and one daughter were our only child- We complied with custom in the educa- tion of both. My daughter learned some French and some dancing; and my son passed nine years at Westminster school in learning the words of two languages, long since dead, and not yet above half revived. When I took him away from school, I resolved to send him directly abroad, having been at Oxford myself. My wife approved of my design, but tacked a proposal of her own to it, which she urged with some earnestness. ‘My dear,” said she, “I think you do very right to send George abroad, for I love a foreign education, though I shall not see the poor boy a great while: but since we are to part for so long atime, why should we not take that opportunity of carrying him ourselves as far as Paris? The journey is nothing; very little farther than to our own house in the north ; we shall save money by it; for every thing is very cheap in France; it will form the girl, who is of a right age for it; and a couple of months with a good French and dancing master will perfect her in both, and give her an air and manner that will help her off in these days, when husbands are not plenty, especially for girls with only five thousand pounds to their fortunes. Several of my acquaintance who have lately taken trips to Paris have told me, that to be sure we should take this opportunity of going there. Besides, my dear, as neither you nor I have ever been abroad, this little jaunt will amuse and even improve us; for it is the easiest thing in the world to get into all the best company at Paris.” My wife had no sooner ended her speech’ (which I easily perceived to be the result of me-' ditation) than my daughter exerted all her little eloquence in seconding her mother’s motion. “ Ay, dear Papa,’ said she, “let us go with No. 18.] brother to Paris; it will be the charmingest thing in the world ; we shall see all. the newest fashions there; I shall learn to dance of Mar- seille; in short, I shall be quite another creature after it. You see how my cousin Kitty was improved by going to Paris last year; I hardly knew her again when she came back; do, dear papa, let us go.” ~The absurdity of the proposal struck me at first, and I foresaw a thousand inconveniences in it, though not half so many as I have since felt. However, knowing that direct contradic- tion, though supported by the best arguments, was not the likeliest method to convert a female disputant, I seemed a little to doubt, and con- tented myself with saying, ‘‘ That I was not, at first sight at least, sensible of the many advan- tages which they had enumerated; but that, on the contrary, I apprehended a great deal of trouble in the journey, and many inconveniences in consequence of it: That 1 had not observed many men of my age considerably improved by their travels; but that I had lately seen many women of hers become very ridiculous by theirs; and that for my daughter, as she had not a fine fortune, I saw no necessity of her being a fine lady.”’ Here the’ girl interrupted me, with saying, “‘ For that very reason, papa, I should be a fine lady. Being in fashion is often as good as being a fortune; and. I have known air, dress, and accomplishments stand many a woman in- stead of a fortune.”’ ‘“ Nay, to be sure,” added my wife, “ the girl is in the right in that; and if with her figure she gets a certain air and manner, I cannot see why she may not reason- ably hope to be as advantageously married as Lady Betty Townly, or the two Miss Bellairs, who had none of them such good fortunes. I | found by all this, that the attack upon me wasa concerted one, and that both my wife and daughter were strongly infected with that mi- grating distemper, which has of late been so. epi- demical in this kingdom, and which annually carries such numbers of our private families to Paris, to expose themselves there as English, and here, after their return, as French. Inso- much that I am assured that the French call those swarms of English which now, in a man- ner overrun France, a second incursion of the Goths and Vandals. I endeavoured as well as I could to avert this impending folly, by delays and gentle persua- sions, but in vain; the attacks upon me were daily repeated, and sometimes enforced by tears. At last I yielded, from mere good-nature, to the joint importunities of a wife-and daughter whom I loved; not to mention the love of ease and domestic quiet, which is, much oftener than we care to own, the true motive of many things that we either do or omit. My consent being thus extorted, our setting out was pressed. The journey wanted no pre- THE WORLD. 31 parations ; we should find every thing in France. My daughter, who spoke some French, and my son’s governor, who was a Swiss, were to be our interpreters upon the road; and when we came to Paris, a french servant or two. would make all easy. But, as if Providence had a mind to punish our folly, our whole journey was a series of distresses. We had not sailed a league from Dover, before a violent storm arose, in which we had like to have been lost. Nothing could equal our fears but our sickness, which perhaps lessened them: at last we got into Calais, where the inexorable custom-house officers took away half the few things which we had carried with us.. We hired some chaises, which proved to be old and shattered ones, and broke down with us at least every ten miles. Twice we were overturned, and some of us hurt, though there are no bad roads in France. At length, the sixth day, we got to Paris, where our banker had provided.a very good lodging for us; that is, very good rooms, very well furnished, and very dirty. Here the great scene opens. My wife and daughter, who had been a good. deal disheartened by our distresses, recovered their spirits, and grew extremely impatient for a con- sultation of the necessary. tradespeople, when luckily our banker and his lady, informed of our arrival, came to make us.a visit.— He graciously brought me five thousand livres, which he as- sured me was not more than what weuld be necessary for our first setting out, as he called it; while his wife was pointing out to mine the most compendious method of spending three times as much. I told him that I hoped that sum would be very near sufficient for the whole time; to which he answered coolly, ‘¢ No, Sir, nor six times that sum, if you propose, as to be sure you do, to appear here honnéiement.’? This I confess startled me a good deal; and I called out to my wife, “ Do you hear that, child!’’ She replied, unmoved, “‘ Yes, my dear; but now that we are here, there is no help for it: it is but once, upon an extraordinary occasion ; and one would not care to appear among strangers like scrubs.’? I made no answer to this solid reasoning, but resolved within myself to shorten our stay, and Jessen our follies as much as I could. My banker, after having charged him- self with the care of procuring me a carosse de remise and a valet de place for the next day, | which in plain English is a hired coach and a footman, invited us to pass all the next day at his house, where he assured us that we should not meet with bad company. He was to carry me and my son before dinner to see the public buildings, and his lady was to call upon my wife and daughter, to carry them to the genteelest shops, in order to fit them out to appear hon- nétement. The next morning I amused myself very well with seeing, while my’ wife and 32 daughter amused themselves still better by pre- paring themselves for being seen, till we met at dinner at our banker’s; who, by way of sample of the excellent company to which he was to in- troduce us, presented to us an Irish abbé, and an Irish captain of Clare’s; two attainted Scotch fugitives, and a young Scotch surgeon who studied midwifery at the Hotel Dieu. It is true, he lamented that Sir Harbottle Bumper and Sir Clotworthy Guzzledown with their families, whom he had invited to meet us, hap- pened unfortunately to have been engaged to go and drink brandy at Nucilly. | Though this company sounds but indifferently, and though we should have been very sorry to have kept it in London, I can assure you, Sir, that it was the best we kept the whole time we were at Paris. I will omit many circumstances which gave me uneasiness, though they would probably afford some entertainment to your readers, that I may hasten to the most material ones. In about three days the several mechanics, who were charged with the care of disguising my wife and daughter, brought home their re- spective parts of this transformation, in order that they might appear honnétement. More than the whole morning was employed in this opera- tion; for we did not sit down to dinner till near five o'clock. When my wife and daughter came at last into the eating room, where I had waited for them at least two hours, I was so struck with their transformation, that I could neither conceal nor express my astonishment. ‘“ Now, my dear,” said my wife, “we cam appear a little like christians.” ‘* And strollers too,’ replied I: “for such have I seen at Southwark- fair, the respectable Sysigambis, and the lovely Parisatis. This cannot surely be serious!” ‘¢ Very serious, depend upon it, my dear,’’ said my wife; “and pray, by the way, what may there be ridiculous in it? No such Sysigambis neither,’ continued she; “ Betty is but sixteen, and you know I had her at four-and-twenty.”’ As I found that the name of Sysigambis, ‘car- rying an idea of age along with it, was offensive to my wife, I waved the parallel ; and address- ing myself in common to my wife and daughter, I told them, “I perceived that there was a painter now at Paris, who coloured much higher than Rigault, though he did not paint near so like; for that I could hardly have guessed them to be the pictures of themselves.”” To this they both answered at once,“ That red was not paint ; that no colour in the world was fard but white, of which they protested they had none.”’ *« But how do you like my pompon, papa?’’ con- tinued my daughter; “is it not a charming one? I think it is prettier than mamma’s.” ** It may, child, for any thing that I know; be- cause I do not know what part of all this frip-. pery thy pompon is.” “It is this, papa,” re- THE WORLD. [No 18. plied the girl, putting up her hand to her head, and showing me in the middle of her hair a_ complication of shreds and rags of velvets, feathers and ribands, stuck with false stones of a thousand colours, and placed awry. “ But what hast thou done to thy hair, child!’’ said T; “is it blue? Is that painted too by the same eminent hand that coloured thy cheeks?” “ In- deed, papa,’ answered the girl, ‘‘as I told you before, there is no painting in the case; but what gives my hair that bluish .cast is the gray powder, which has always that effect upon dark- coloured hair, and sets off the complexion won- derfully.”” ‘Gray powder, child,’ said I, with some surprise . “ Gray hairs I knew were venerable; but till this moment I never knew that they were genteel.”’ ‘ Extremely so, with some complexions,’ said my wife; ‘ but it does not suit with mine, and I never use it.” “ You are much in the right, my dear,” replied I, “‘not to play with edge-tools. Leave it to the girl.”’ This, which was perhaps too hastily said, and seemed to be a second part of the Sysi- gambis, was not kindly taken; my wife was silent all dinner-time, and, I vainly hoped, ashamed. My daughter, drunk with dress and sixteen, kept up the conversation with herself, till the long wished for moment of the opera came, which separated us, and left me time to reflect upon the extravagances which I had al- ready seen, and upon the still greater which I had but too much reason to dread. From this period to the time of our return to England, every day produced some new and shining folly, and some improper expense. Would to God that they had ended as they be- gan, with our journey! but unfortunately we have imported them all. I no longer under- stand, or am understood, in my family. 1 hear of nothing but le bon ton. A French valet de chambre, who, I am told, is an excellent ser- vant, and fit for every thing, is brought over to curl my wife’s and my daughter’s hair, to mownt a dessert, as they call it, and occasionally to an- nounce visits. A very slatternly, dirty, but at the same time a very genteel French maid, is appropriated to the use of my daughter. . My meat too is as much disguised in the dressing by’ a French cook, as my wife and my daughter are by their red, their pompons, their scraps of dirty gauze, flimsy satins, and black calicoes; not to mention their affected broken English, and mangled French, which, jumbled together, com- pose their present Janguage. My French and English servants quarrel daily, and fight, for want of words to abuse one another. My wife is become ridiculous by being translated into French, and the version of my daughter will, I dare say, hinder many a worthy Eng- lish gentleman from attempting to read her. _ My expense (and consequently my debt) increases; and I am made more unhappy 1] ( 4 No. 19.] crimes. Should you think fit to publish this my case, together with some observations of your own upon it, I hope it may prove a useful Pharos, to deter private English families from the coasts of France. Lam, Sir, Your very humble servant, R. D. My correspondent has said enough to caution English gentlemen against carrying their wives and daughters to Paris; but I shall add a few words of my own, to dissuade the ladies them- selves from any inclination to sucha vagary. In the first place, I assure them, that of all French ragouts there is none to which an Englishman has so little appetite as an English lady served Next I beg leave to inform them, that the French taste in beauty is up to him @ la Frangoise. so different from ours, that a pretty English- woman at Paris, instead of meeting with that admiration which her vanity hopes for, is con- sidered only as a handsome corpse; and if, to put a little life into her, some of her compassion- ate friends there should persuade her to lay on a great deal of rouge, in English called paint, she must continue to wear it to extreme old age; unless she prefers a spot of real yellow (the cer- tain consequence of paint) to an artificial one of red. And lastly, I propose it to their consider- ation, whether the delicacy of an English lady’s mind may net partake of the nature of some high-flavoured wines, which will not admit of being carried abroad, though, under right man- agement, they are admirable at home. BD SUVVATSTVVATVVWY BULSVAVVWVWABVWAVBE WVU 274 44284 OUD No. 19.] Tuurspay, May 10, 1753. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM., Sir, Tue present age is overrun with romances, and yet so strong does the appetite for them con- tinue, that, as Otway says on a less delicate oc- casion, —every rank fool goes down. I am not surprised that any sketch of human nature, howsoever imperfect, should attract the attention of the generality of readers. We are easily delighted with pictures of ourselves, and are sometimes apt to fancy a strong likeness Where there is not even the least resemblance. Those great masters of every movement of the human mind, Homer and Shakspeare, knew Well this propensity of our dispositions. The latter from the nature of his writings, had more THE WORLD. by follies, than most other people are by 33 frequent opportunities of opening the most minute avenues of the heart. The former, though his province was more confined, has let no occasion pass of exerting this affecting talent. He has not only contrasted a vast var- iety of characters, and given all the passions their full play, but even in the stiller parts of his work, the similies and descriptions, every thing is full of human life. It is the Carian woman who stains the ivory ; if a torrent descends from the mountains, some cottager trembles at the sound of it; and the fine broken landscape of rocks and woods by moonlight has a shepherd to gaze at and admire it. But it is not with such painters as these that I am at present concerned. They drew really from nature; and ages have felt and applauded the truth of their designs. Whereas our modern artists (if we may guess from the motley repre- sentations they give us of our species) are so far from having studied the natures of other people, that they seldom seem to have the least acquaint- ance with themselves. The writers of heroic romance, or the Loves of Philodoxus and Urania, professedly soar above nature. ‘They introduce into their descriptions trees, water, air, &c. like common mortals; but then all their rivers are clearer than crystal, and every breeze is impregnated with the spices of Arabia. The manners of their personages seem full as extraordinary to our gross ideas. We are apt to suspect the virtue of two young people who are rapturously in love with each other, and who travel whole years in one another’s company ; though we are expressly told, that at the close of every evening, when they retire to rest, the hero leans his head against a knotted oak, whilst the heroine seeks the friendly shelter of a distant myrtle. This, I say, seems to us a little unnatural ; however, it is not of dangerous example. ‘There can no harm follow if unex- perienced persons should endeavour to imitate what may be thought inimitable. Should our virgins arrive but half way towards the chastity of a Parthenia, it will be something gained ; and we, who have had learned educations, know the power of early prejudices ; some of us having emulated the public spirit and other obsolete virtues of the old Grecians and Romans, to the age of fifteen or sixteen, some of us later, even to twenty or one-and-twenty. But peace be to the manes of such authors ! They have long enjoyed that elysium which they so frequently described on earth. ‘The present race of romance-writers run universally into a different extreme. They spend the little art they are masters of in weaving into intricacies the more familiar and more comical adventures of a Jack Slap, or a Betty Sallet. These, though they endeavour to copy after a very great origi- nal, I choose to call our writers below nature ; because very few of them have as yet found out ¥ 34 their master’s peculiar art of writing upon low subjects without writing in a low manner. Romances, judiciously conducted, are a very pleasing way of conveying instruction to all parts of life. But to dwell eternally upon orphan-beggars, and serving-men of low degree, is certainly what I have called it, writing below nature; and is so far from conveying instruc- tion, that it does not even afford amusement. The writers below nature have one advantage in common with the writers above it, that the originals they would seem to draw from are no- where to be found. The heroes and heroines of the former are undoubtedly children of the ima- gination ; and those of the latter, if they are not all of them incapable of reading their own ad- ventures, are at least unable to inform us by writing whether the representations of them are just, and whether people in their station did ever think or act in the manner they are de- scribed to have done. Yet the authors, even in this particular, are not quite so secure as they imagine ; for when, towards the end of the third or fourth volume, the He or She of the piece (as is usually the custom) emerges into what they call genteel life, the whole cheat is frequently discovered. From seeing their total ignorance of what they are then describing, we on good grounds conclude that they were equally unac- quainted with the inferior parts of life, though we are not able to detect the falsehood. Bath one shoukl imagine the easiest place in the world to get a thorough knowledge of: and yet I have observed in books of this kind several representations of it so excessively erroneous, that they not only showed the authors to be entirely ignorant of the manners of living there, but of the geography of the town. But it is not the ignorance of these writers which [ would principally complain of ; though of that, as a censor, you ought to take notice, and should assure our young men and young women that they may read fifty volumes of this sort of trash, and yet, according to the phrase which is perpetually in their mouths, know no- thing of life. The thing I chiefly find fault with is their extreme indecency. ‘There are certain vices which the vulgar call fun, and the people of fashion gallantry ; but the middle rank, and those of the gentry who continue to go to church, still stigmatize them by the opprebrious names of fornication and adultery. These are con- fessed to be in some measure detrimental to society, even by those who practise them most ; at least, they are allowed to be so in all but themselves. This being the case, why should our novel-writers take so much pains to spread these enormities? It is not enough to say in excuse that they write nonsense upon these subjects as well as others; for nonsense itself is dangerous here. The most absurd ballads in the streets, without the least glimmering of THE WORLD. [ No. 20. meaning, recommend themseives every day both to the great and small vulgar only by obscene expressions. Here, therefore, Mr. Fitz-Adam, you should interpose your authority, and forbid your readers (whom I will suppose to be all persons who can read) even to attempt to open any novel, or romance, unlicensed by you; un- less it should happen to be stamped Richardson or Fielding. Your power should extend likewise to that inundation of obscenity which is daily pouring in from France ; and which has too frequently the wit and humour of a Crebillon to support it. ‘The gentlemen who never read any thing else, will, I know, be at a loss for amusement, and feel their half-hour of morning hang rather too heavy on their hands, But surely, Mr. Fitz-Adam, when they consider the good of their country (and all of them have that at heart) they will consent to meet a little sooner at the hazard-table, or wile away the tedious interval in studying mew chances upon the cards. If it be said that the heroic romances, which I have recommended for their virtue, are them- selves too full of passionate breathings upon some occasions, I allow the charge; but am of opinion that these can do little more harm to the minds of young ladies than certain books of devotion, which are put into their hands by aunts and grandmothers ; the writers of which, from having suffered the softer passions to mix too strongly with their zeal for religion, are now generally known by the name of the amorous divines. ' I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, Deake PRBS CECT WS VV BV CAUSE VHSB SE VOVS VCVEVSETSITSE CVETIESVIUIVS VY No. 20.] Tuurspay, May 17, 1753. = 7 Tuoucn the following letter came a little out of time for this week’s publication, yet in com- pliment to the subject, as well as in respect to the writer, I ordered that a very elaborate essay of my own, already at the press, should with- draw and give place to it. _ TO MR. FITZ-ADAM Sir, Ir is either an observation of my own, or of some very wise man, whose name I forget, That where true learning is, true virtue cannot be far off. The rigid and exemplary life which every individual in our learned professions is se well known to lead might be sufficient to evince the truth of this observation, if I could content myself with a single argument, where many "tle ag | No. 20. } are at hand. To descend a little lower than the learned professions, why are all parish-c'erks orthodox christians, all apothecaries communi- cative men, or all justices of the peace upright men, but as their professions are in some degree akin to divinity, physic, and the law ? If we carry our inquiries into the city, we shall find those vocations, where most knowledge is required, to be most productive of the civilities of life. Thus the merchant who writes his letters in French is a better bred man than his neighbour the shopkeeper, who understands no language but his own; while the shopkeeper, who is able to read and write, and keep his ac- counts in a book, is a more civilized person than his landlord at the Horns, who scores only in chalk. We shall be more and more of this opinion, if we look a little into the lives and manners of those people who have no pretensions to litera- ture. Who drinks or swears more than a country squire? Who (according to his own confession) has been the ruin of so many inno- cents as a fine gentleman ? Why (according to Pope) is every woman ‘a rake in her heart, or why (according to truth) is almost every woman of fashion a rake in practice, but from the de- plorable misfortune of an unlearned education? But the last and best argument to prove that learning and virtue are cause and effect, remains still to be produced. And here let me ask if, from the beginning of time to this present May, one thousand seven hundred and fifty-three, it has been once known that an author was an immoral man? On the contrary, is it not universally allowed that he is the most virtuous of man- kind? ‘To deny that he is the most learned, would be a greater degree of absurdity than I can conceive any person to be guilty of ; I shall therefore confine myself to his virtues. What the apostle says of charity, may as truly be said of an author ; “ He suffereth long, and is kind ; he beareth all things; hopeth all things ; endur- eth all things.”’ How ignorant is he of the ways of men! How ready to give praise even to the least deserving! How distant from that source of evil, money! How humble in his apparel! How moderate in his pleasures! And above all, how abstemious in diet, and how temperate in wine! It is to the social virtues of an author that the present age is indebted for a paper called the World, which itis not doubted will do more good to these nations than all the volumes, except the sacred ones, which have hitherto been written. I am not hinting to you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that learning is at present in a declining state, and that consequently there is less virtue among us than in former times ; on the contrary, when were there more authors than at present? I challenge any age to produce half the number. From hence it appears that learning is in a very THE WORLD. ) 35 flourishing condition: for though the great have i thought proper long ago to withhold their pa- tronage from it, it has pleased Heaven to raise up very able and zealous persons, who are ap- plying all their time and pains to the advance- ment of it, and to whom its professors may have weekly access, and be assured of encouragement and reward in proportion to their merits. Your readers will be, no doubt, beforehand with me in naming these patrons of learning, who, it is very well known, are the honourable and wor- shipful the fraternity of booksellers. But though I have the greatest veneration for these gentlemen, I cannot help being of opinion, that if the old patrons, the great, were to unite their endeavours with the new patrons, the booksellers, it might accelerate the progress of virtue through this island. Every body knows the effect which a smile, a nod, a shake of the hand, or even a promise from a great man, has upon the inventive faculties of an author. In all probability he would sit with more serenity, and loll with more grace in a nobleman’s cha- riot, than in his bookseller’s easy chair: not to mention that three courses by a French cook, a dessert, and a bottle of champaigne, are more apt to exhilarate the spirits than one or two plain English dishes and prosaic port. Provided (as indeed it ought always to be provided) that the servants of this noble patron will condescend to hear him now and then, when he happens to be in want of any thing that is in the province of the sideboard. Who is there among us so ignorant as not to know, that the two favourite amusements of gaming and adultery would never have found such universal admission, if they had not been honoured with the patronage of people of fash- ion? ‘The numbers of dressed-up monkeys and dancing-dogs, which have lately contributed so much to our public entertainments, are another proof of what people of fashion may bring about, if they determine to be active. Butas a certain great personage, well known in the polite world, was pleased of old time to observe of Job (though the accusation was a false one) that he did not serve God for nought ; so may it be sug- gested that the great of this generation will ex- pect to be paid either in pleasure or profit for their services to mankind. It is shrewdly sus- pected of the booksellers, that they have some | interested views in their encouragement of learning ; and itis my own opinion, that our nobility and people of fashion are only encour- agérs of vice and folly, as they happen to be paid for it in pleasure. My design therefore in this letter is, to convince the said people of fashion, that they are losing a great deal of pleasure by shutting their doors against men of learning. In the article of eating, for instance (that noble pleasure!) who is there so proper to ad- vise with as one who is acquainted with the 36 THE W kitchens of an Apicius or an Heliogabalus? | For though I have a very high opinion of our. present taste, I cannot help thinking that. the do not find that any of ours are arrived at. Tri- malchus’s cook could make a turbot or an ortolan out of hog’s-flesh. Nicomedes, king of Bithy- nia, when he was three hundred miles from sea, longed for a John-dory, and was supplied with a fresh one by his cook the same hour. dom, under proper encouragement, to restore to us this invaluable secret. In building and fur- niture, a man of learning might instruct our nobility in the Roman art of expense. Marcus I dare | say there are men learned enough in this king- | Aimilius Scaurus, the coal-merchant, had eight hundred thousand pounds’ worth of furniture burned in the left wing of his country-house. In | the article of running in debt we are people of no spirit; a man of learning will tell us that Milo, a Roman of fashion, owed to his trades- men and others half a million of money. The ladies will have equal benefit with the men from their encouragement of learning. It will be told them, that Lollia Paulina, a young lady of distinction at Rome, wore at a subscrip- tion masquerade four hundred thousand pounds worth of jewels. It is said of the same young lady, that she wore jewels to half that amount, if she went only in her night-gown to drink tea at her mantua-maker’s. Those ladies of fashion who have the clearest skins, and who of course are enemies to concealment, may be instructed by men of learning in the thin silk gauze worn by the ladies of Rome, called the naked drapery. Poppa, the wife of Nero, who was fond of ap- pearing in this naked drapery, preserved the beautiful polish of her skin by using a warm bath of ass’s milk. In short, a man of learning, if properly encouraged, might instruct our people of fashion in all the pleasures of Roman luxury, which at present they are only imitating with- out abilities to equal. I have the pleasure of hearing that the gentle- men at White’s are at this very time laying their heads together for the advancement of learning ; and that they are likely to sit very late upon it for many nights. Their scheme, which is a very deep one, is to alienate their estates ; by which alienation it is presumed that their next generation of people of fashion will of necessity be tradesmen ; and as the business of a bookseller is supposed to be of a genteeler and more lucrative nature than that of a haberdasher or a pastry cook, it is imagined that the most honourable families will become booksellers, and of course, patrons of learning. I know but one objection to this scheme, which is, that the children of people of fashion are apt to contract so early an aversion ORLD. [No. 21. to books, that they will hardly be prevailed upon, even .by necessity itself, to make them the busi- ‘ness of their lives. ancients were our masters in expensive dinners. | Their cooks had an art amongst them, which I | I am, Sir, Your reader and most humble servant, H. M. | eRRBVWAUVLLVTVOVETVET BTSVD BV VV9VTV7ANVARVABTEA VUCWVVVUVAVS No. 21.] Tuurspay, May 24, 1753. I suatt only observe upon the following letters, that the first relates chiefly to myself, that the second has a very serious meaning, and that the third contains a hint to the ladies, which I hope will not be thrown away upon them. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, As it is possible I may one time or other be a. correspondent of yours, and may now and then perhaps have a strong impulse to pay youa compliment, I am willing to know how far I may go without giving offence ; and whether, by the advertisement at the end of your first num- ber, you mean to exclude all allusions to the expression THE WORLD, even though the turn of them should be such, as would be rather treat- ing you with civility than otherwise! As for instance : When a man is just upon the point of com- mitting a vicious action, may he check himself by this thought, “‘ What will the World say of me?’ May a man be threatened, that if he does such a thing, “ The World shall know it ?’’ May it be said, “‘ That the World esteems aman of merit ?’’ In short, may the praise and censure of the World be made use of without offence, as arguments to promote virtue, and restrain vice? I am entirely unacquainted with your situa- tion in life; but if you are a married man, I take the liberty to give you one piece of advice. There are certain places of public entertainment, which, though they may chance to be tolerated by law, it were to be wished, for prudential rea- sons, were more discouraged, and less frequent- ed. Example, Mr. Fitz-Adam, is very preva- lent ; and the advice I would give you is, that whenever you think proper to go to any such places for your own amusemenf, you would leave your lady at. home; for there is nothing gives greater encouragement than to have it said, “‘ There was all the World and his wife ;” from whence it is concluded that all the World and his wife will be there again the next time. I am, Sir, Your admirer and humble servant, CosMOPHI1. 0% No. 21.] TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. I could wish with all my heart that you and I were a little acquainted, that I might invite you to come and take a Sunday’s dinner with me. I name Sunday, because I want you to be a witness of an evil on that day, which pos- sibly, by a constant and sober residence in town, you may not be acquainted with. It is my misfortune to live in what is called a pleasant village upon one of the great roads within seven miles of London, where I[ am al- most suffocated with dust every Sunday in the summer, occasioned by those crowds of prentice- boys who are whipping their hired hacks to death, or driving their crazy one-horse chairs against each other, to the great dismay of women with child, and the mortal havoc of young child- ren. It isa plain case that neither the fathers nor masters of these young men have any autho- rity over them ; if they had, we should find them in their compting-houses, according to the cus- tom of sober citizens on that day, posting their books, and balancing the accounts of the former week. But in my humble opinion, even this is a custom better broke through than continued ; for though industry is a very valuable quality, and is commonly the means of making, what is called in the city, a good man of a very knavish one, it may be pushed too far; as it most cer- tainly is, when it defeats the end and intention of Sunday, which was ordained and instituted for a day of rest. I can just remember, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that before christianity was entirely reasoned out of these kingdoms, it was a mighty custom for young folks to go to church on that day; and indeed I should have thought there was no man- ner of harm in it, if it had not been plainly proved, as well by people of fashion as others, that going to church was the most. tiresome thing in the world, and that consequently it was notoriously perverting a day set apart solely for rest. But while almost every one, in speculation, is averse to labour on a Sunday, how strange is it to see a lethargic citizen drudging at his books, a decripit old country couple fatiguing them- selves to death by walking to church, and their _ ehildren and grandchildren venturing their necks and harassing their bodies by running races upon the road! 1 am for the strict observance of all institutions ; and as we have happily got rid of the religious prejudices of our forefathers, I know but one way of keeping Sunday as it ought to be kept; but unless what I have to _ propose be backed by your censorial authority, I see no probability of its taking effect: I could wish, therefore, that you would earnestly re- commend to both sexes, of every rank and con- _ dition, the lying in bed all that day. This will indeed be making it a day of rest, provided that THE WORLD. 3] all single persons be directed to lie alone, and that permission be given to those who cannot sleep in their beds to go to church and sleep there. If this can be brought about, our churches may still be kept open, and the roads cleared of those noisy and dissolute young fellows, who finding in themselves no inclination to lie still, are disturbing the rest of all other people. Your taking this matter into consideration will oblige all sober observers of Sunday, and particularly, Sir, Your most humble servant, Joun Sorriry. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, It is an old saying, but a true one, that a good husband commonly makes a good wife. If it was as true, that a good wife commonly made a good husband, I am inclined to think that Hy- men would wear a much brighter countenance among us than we generally see him with. In all families where I have been an intimate, I have taken particular notice of every occurrence that has tended to the disturbance of the matri- monial tranquillity; and upen tracing those occurrences to their source, I have commonly discovered that the fault was principally in the husband. I have now in my possession a calculation of Demoivre, made a few years ago, with great labour and accuracy, which proves that the good wives, within the weekly bills, have a majority upon the good husbands of three to one; and I am humbly of opinion, that if the calculation was to be extended to the towns and counties remote from London, we should find the ma- jority at least five times as great. But to those husbands who have never thought of such a cal- culation, and who have little or no acquaintance with their wives, a majority of three to one may be as much as they will care to swallow ; especially if it be considered how many fine ladies there are at St. James’s, how many nota- ble wives in the city, and how many landladies at Wapping; all of which, asa friend of mine very justly observes, are exactly the same char- acter. But though I am convinced of the truth of this calculation, I am not so partial to the ladies, particularly the unmarried ones, as to imagine them without fault; on the contrary, I am going to accuse them of a very great one, which if not put a stop to before the warm weather comes in, no mortal can tell to what lengths it may be carried. You have already hinted at this fault in the sex, under the genteel appella- tion of moulting their dress. If the necks, shoulders, &c. have begun to shed their covering in witter, what a general display of nature are 38 heat may be alleged in favour of such a display ! I called some time ago upon a friend of mine near St. James’s,who, upon my asking where his sis- ter was, told me, “ At her toilette, undressing for the ridotto.” That the expression may be intel- ligible to every one of your readers, I beg leave to inform them, that it is the fashion for a lady to undress herself to go abroad, and to dress only when she stays at home and sees no company. It may be urged, perhaps, that the nakedness in fashion is intended only to be emblematical of the innocence of the present generation of young ladies; as we read of our first mother, before the fall, that she was naked and not ashamed ; but I cannot help thinking that her daughters of these times should convince us that they are entirely free from original sin, as well as actual transgression, or else be ashamed of their naked- ness. I would ask any pretty miss about town, if she ever went a second time to see the wax- work, or the lions, or even the dogs and the monkeys, with the same delight as at first? Certain it is, that the finest show in the world excites but little curiosity in those who have seen it before. ‘“ That was a very fine picture,” says my lord, “ but I had seen it before.” “’ Twas a sweet song of the Galli’s,”’ says my lady, ‘ but I had heard it before.” ‘A very fine poem,” says the critic, “but I had read i before.’’ Let every lady therefore take care, that while she is displaying in public a bosom whiter than snow, the men do not look as if they were saying, “Tis very pretty, but we have seen té before.” I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, S. L. SA CABEEVTRTETFVTVATIVTTVTSTTLTESSSIVVTVVTVS VE VUIWBTOATDT No. 22.] Tuurspay, May 31, 1753. ——Non possum ferre, Quirites, Grecam urbem. JUVEN. Romans, I detest a Grecian city. Eton School, May 12, 1'753. Sir, You will be surprised, perhaps, at my presump- {on in supposing that you will pay any regard to the production of a puerile pen, or that out of the mouth of babes and sucklings the public will deign to receive either instruction or amuse- ment; but however that may be, I cannot for- bear acknowledging the obligations I owe you, if it be only to convince you, that gratitude is still a school-boy’s virtue. You must know then, that ever since you made your first ap- pearance, I have constantly appropriated the THE WORLD. we to expect this summer, when the excuse of | No. 22. sum of two-pence, out of my slender allowance of a shilling a week, for the purchase of your paper; and have often, while my school-fellows were harping on the old thread-bare subjects of Greece and Rome, enriched my exercise from your treasure with some lively strokes on mo- dern manners; but never so much to my hon- our as last week, when the scrap of Juvenal prefixed to this letter was our theme. The general topic was, declaiming against that old- fashioned pedantic language called Greek, which, you may imagine, was the most popular turn that could be given to the subject here; but, for my part, I chose to consider rather the spirit than the letter of my author, and to turn my satire against France, the Greece of our days; in which view I had an opportunity of introducing the description of the tour to Paris, which is touched with such an inimitable spirit of ridicule by your last week’s correspondent. Standard wit, like standard gold, will bear a great deal of alloy without being totally debased ; and the proof of it is, that notwithstanding the disadvantage of appearing under the disguise of my Latin poetry, the tour to Paris went for the Play. This expression, Sir,* will be jargon to the town in general; but those of your readers who have been educated here will know that it means the highest mark of distinction that an Eton boy is capable of receiving ; when a whole holiday is granted to the school in consideration of the merit of that copy of verses which is judged the best, and to which the panegyric that Horace bestows on poetry in general, when he styles it aboruwm dulce lenimen, is peculiarly appli- cable. Imagine what exultation of mind the young hero of such a day must feel; the con- scious benefactor of all his little fellow-citizens, who share with gratitude the happiness derived to him from the success of his talents! The verses too are read, transcribed, repeated; the homage of admiration and of envy is paid him, and the first emotions of youthful vanity and ambition are fully gratified. In short, not Herodotus, reciting that exercise of imagination which we call his history, whilst all Greece, assembled in the playing-fields at Elis, on the whole holiday. of the Olympic games, listened with silent applause; no, nor (to illustrate my idea by a still sublimer image) the great Duke of Marlborough himself, on the thanksgiving- day for Blenheim, could taste a purer and more exalted rapture. Forgive this sally, Mr. Fitz-Adam, and let me join with your witty correspondent in la- menting the deficiency of our laws, which do not extend to the prevention of the evil he ex- poses, though I cannot concur in thinking that ridicule will on this occasion supply the place of wholesome regulations. Whether the remedy I am going to propose will be effectual for this purpose, I will not pre- No. 22. tend to determine; but J confess it appears, to me at least, so obvious, that I am amazed it never occurred to any one before. Give me leave _ to make one or two previous observations, and I j will keep you no longer in suspense. I have often heard it remarked, that a great school is a miniature of the great world, and that men are nothing else but children of a larger size. If this be true, which every day’s experience seems to justify, can there be any danger of fallacy in arguing, that the same en- gines of government which serve to establish order in a school, may be transferred for similar purposes, with great’ probability of success, to the use of the state? Now I appeal to common sense, whether rambling abroad, and running out of bounds, are not exactly the same offences ; only that the one is committed by the great children, the other by the little ones; and if the discipline of birch is found effectual to restrain it in the latter, why should not the experiment be tried at least with the former? The rod, Mr. Fitz- Adam, the cod is the thing, which, if well administered, would serve to deter many a man-child from exposing himself as a rambler, whose callous sensations the lash of ridicule could make no impression upon. -In recom- mending this, I am sorry to say I have the au- thority of experience to support me, having had the misfortune to feel, in my own proper person, how efficacious the smart of a little flagellation is, to correct an inordinate passion for travelling : for the rage of travel, Sir, prevails in our little society as in your larger one, and has formerly, when this argument a posteriori was not so fre- quently used to discourage it, manifested itself in perpetual excursions to foreign parts; such as Cluer, Datchet, Windsor, &c. at every short interval between school-times, just as the grown children of fashion run over to Paris during a recess of parliament. But the ceremony of an instalation was equivalent to a jubilee, and used to occasion almost a total emigration, which, I assure you, was prevented the last time by this salutary terror; a terror which operates so strongly that though there is now and then a clandestine excursion made by some daring genius, yet it is but seldom, and attended with such trepidation when,it happens, as to justify the picture which the sweetest of our elegiac poets has drawn of us: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. It may possibly be objected that our men- ‘children are too big to be whipt like school- boys; but if the description be just, which I heard a gentleman at my father’s give last holi- | _days of our countrymen abroad, I leave you to _ over Europe (these were his words), and staring | judge whether they should or not. “ Strolling THE WORLD. 39 about with a strange mixture of raw admiration and rude contempt; both equally the effect of ignorance and inexperience. Insolently despis- ing foreign manners and customs, merely be- cause they are foreign, which yet for the same reason they would fain copy, though awkwardly and without distinction. Untinctured with any sound principles of comparison ; unreasonably vain, and, by turns, ashamed of their native country ; trifling, sheepish, and riotous.’? What are these, Mr. Fitz-Adam, but school-boys out of bounds? and shall they not be whipt, severe- ly whipt, when they return? It is beneath the dignity of government to inflict a more serious punishment, and contrary to its wisdom to con- nive at the offence. There is a bill, [ am told, depending in parlia- ment, the idea of which, if I am rightly inform- ed, is plainly borrowed from our custom of calling absence; that is, calling over the list of names, to which each boy is expected to appear and answer; [ mean the register bill, which it seems establishes an absence to be called annually throughout the kingdom : an admirable institu- tion, calculated, I suppose, as among us, for the detection of these very offenders. Let those patriots then, who have condescended to copy one institution of school-policy, adopt the whole plan; for surely to detect without punishing would be stopping short of the mark. Suppese then that a bill was to be prepared, intituled An act against rambling, which may be consider- ed as a proper supplement to the vagrant act ; by which a board should be constituted, and called the home board ; the president and princi- pal members of which are to be chosen out of the laudable society of Anti-Gallicans ; to whom the proper officers appointed to call absence, pur- suant to the register act, shall transmit annually complete lists of absentees in foreign parts, who on their return home shall be liable to be sum- moned and examined in a summary way before the board, whose sentence shall be final. That -all going into foreign parts shall not be deemed rambling ; but that the legislature may in its wisdom define the offence, and specify certain tokens by which it may be ascertained; such, for instance, as debasing the purity of the Kng- lish language, by a vile mixture of exotic words, idioms, and phrases; all impertinent and un- meaning shrugs, grimaces, and gesticulations ; the frequent use of the word canaille, and the least contempt wantonly cast on the roast beef of Old England. These should be deemed suf- ficient evidence to convict an offender against this statute, who shall be immediately brought to condign punishment, which is to be by flagel- lation after the manner of the schools ; for which purpose a block, fashioned like ours, may be erected on the parade, and an additional salary given to the usher of the black rod, to provide a sufficient store of birch, and able-bodied deputies. 40 The number of lashes to be proportioned to the erime; never less than seven, nor more than one-and-twenty, exclusive of the fiying cuts as the criminal rises. The time of execution, for the sake of public example, to be twelve at noon, and some one member of the home board always to attend and intermix proper reproofs and ad- monitions between the cuts, which are to be applied slowly and distinctly.—Provided always, that nothing in this act contained shall extend to persons who cross the seas in order to finish their studies at foreign universities ; to gentlemen who travel with the public spirited design of procur- ing singers and dancers for the opera; or to such young patriots who make the tour of Europe, from a laudable desire of discovering the many imperfections of the English constitution, by comparing it with the more perfect models which are to be found abroad. Such, Sir, are the general outlines of my scheme ; and, guarded with these precautions, I should flatter myself it could meet with no op- position. I once thought of a private whipping- room for travelling females, but in consideration of the voluntary penance, which I am told they submit to at their return to England, of exhib- iting themselves in public places, made frightful with all the frippery of France, patched, painted, and pomponed, as warnings to the sex, I am willing that all farther punishment should be remitted. whole of my scheme. If the foundation I have built upon is a weak one, I have the inexperi- ence of youth to plead in my behalf, and the same excuse to allege with the simple swain in Virgil, which, as a school-boy, I beg leave to quote: Urbem, quam dicunt Romam, Melibee, putavi Stultus ego huic nostre similem—— Sic canibus catulos, similes, &c. I am, Sir, Your humble servant. DLL WET TTATD DUTT VAVWT ST = BVA TE VEO 920 00094244444 No. 23.] Tuurspay, June 7, 1753. Ir is with some degree of pride as well as plea- sure that I see my correspondents multiply so fast, that the task I have undertaken is become almost a sinecure. For many weeks past it has been entirely so, allowing only for some little alterations, which I judged it necessary to make in two or three essays ; a liberty which I shall never take without the greatest caution, and upon few other occasions than to give a general | turn to what may be applied to a particular character. ‘To all men of genius and good iumour, who will favour me with their corres- THE WORLD. To your censure, Sir, I submit the | [No. 23 pondence, I shall think myself both honoured and obliged. The writer of the following letter will, I am sure, forgive me for the few liberties I have taken with him. The grievance he complains of is a very great one, and what I should ima- gine needs only to be mentioned to find redress. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM., Sir, To gratify the curiosity of a country friend, I accompanied him a few weeks ago to Bedlam ; a place which I should not otherwise have visited, as the distresses of my fellow-creatures affect me too much to incline me to be a specta- tor of them. I was extremely moved at the variety of wretches, who appeared either sullen or outrageous, melancholy or cheerful, according te their different dispositions ; and who seemed te retain, though inconsistently, the same passions and affections, as when in possession of their reason. In one cell sat a wretch upon his straw, looking steadfastly upon the ground in silent despair. In another the spirit of ambi- tion flashed from the eyes of an emperor, who strutted the happy lord of the, creation. Here a fearful miser, having in fancy converted his rags to gold, sat counting out his wealth, and trembling at all who saw him. There the pro- digal was hurrying up and down his ward, and giving fortunes to thousands. On one side a straw-crowned king was delivering laws to his people, and on the other a husband, mad indeed, was dictating to a wife that had undone him. Sudden fits of raving interrupted the solemn walk of the melancholy musician, and settled despair sat upon the pallid countenance of the love-sick maid. To those who have feeling minds, there is no- thing so affecting as sights like these; nor can a better lesson be taught us in any part of the globe than in this school of misery. Here we may see the mighty reasoners of the earth, below even the insects that crawl upon it; and from so humbling a sight we may learn to moderate our pride, and to keep those passions within bounds, which, if too much indulged, would drive reason from her seat, and level us with the wretches of this unhappy mansion. am sorry to say it, curiosity and wantonness, more than a desire of instruction, carry the majority of spectators to this dismal place. friend there; when, to my great surprise, 1 found a hundred people at least, who, having | paid their two-pence a piece, were suffered un- attended to run rioting up and down the wards, | making sport and diversion of the miserable in- habitants; a cruelty which one would think human nature hardly capable of ! Surely if the | utmost misery of mankind is to be made a sight _ But 1 | It was in the Easter-week that I attended my | No. 24.] of for gain, those who are the governors of this hospital should take care that proper persons are appointed to attend the spectators, and not suffer indecencies to be committed, which would shoek the humanity of the savage Indians. I saw some of the poor wretches, provoked by the in- sults of this holiday mob into furies of rage; and I saw the poorer wretches, the spectators, in a loud laugh of triumph at the ravings they had occasioned. In a country where christianity is, at least, professed, it is strange that humanity should, in this instance, so totally have abandoned us: for however trifling this may appear to some par- ticular persons, I cannot help looking upon it as a reflection upon the nation, and worthy the consideration of all good men. I know it is a hard task to alter the wanton dispositions of mankind; but it is not hard for men in power to hinder people from venting those dispositions on the unhappy objects in question, of whom every governor is the guardian, and therefore bound to protect them from so cruel an outrage, which is not only injurious to the poor wretches themselves, but is also an insult upon human nature. I hope, therefore, that for the future the governors of this noble charity will think themselves obliged, in conscience and honour, to rectify an abuse which is so great a discredit to it:. or if they continue regardless of it, that you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, will pronounce every individual of them to be an accomplice in the barbarity. And now, Sir, that 1 am onthe subject of madness, give me leaveto hint to you an opinion which I have often entertained, and which my late visit to Bedlam has again revived, that the maddest people in this kingdom are not in but out of Bedlam. I have frequently compared in my.own mind the actions of certain persons whom we daily meet with in the world, with those of the inhabitants of Bedlam, who, pro- _perly speaking, may be said to be out of it; and I know of no other difference between them, than that the former are mad with their reason about them, and the latter so from the misfor- tune of having lost it. But what is extraordi- nary in this age, when, to its honour be it spoken, charity is become fashionable, these unhappy wretches are suffered to run loose about the town, raising riots in public assemblies, beating constables, breaking lamps, damning parsons, affronting modesty, disturbing families, and de- troying their own fortunes and constitutions: and all this without any provision being made for them, or the least attempt to cure them of ‘this madness in their blood. The miserable objects I am speaking of are di- vided into two classes; the men of spirit about town, and the bucks: the men of spirit have some glimmerings of understanding; the bucks ‘fone: the former are demoniacs, or people pos- THE WORLD. 41 sessed ;_ the Jatter are uniformly and fncurably mad. For the reception and confinement of both these classes I would humbly propose that two very spacious buildings be erected, the one called the hospital for men of spirit, or demon- iacs; and the other the hospital for bucks, or incurables. Of these hospitals, I would have the keepers of our Bridewells appointed gover- nors, with full power of constituting such de- puties or sub-governors, as to their wisdom should seem meet. That after such hospitals are built, proper officers appointed, and doctors, surgeons, apothecaries, and mad nurses pro- vided, all young noblemen and others within the bills of mortality, having common sense, who shall be found offending against the rules of de- cency, either in the cases above-mentioned, or in others of a similar nature, shall immediately be conducted to the hospital for demoniacs, there to be exorcised, Sphysicked, and disciplined into a proper use of their senses ; and that full liber- ty be granted to all persons whatsoever to visit, laugh at, and make sport of these demoniacs, without lett or molestation from any of the keepers, according to the present custom of Bed- lam. To the buck hospital for incurables, I would have all such persons conveyed that are mad through folly, ignorance, or conceit ; there to be shut up for life, not only to be prevented from doing mischief, but from exposing in their own persons, the weaknesses and miseries of mankind. ‘These incurables, on no pretence whatsoever, to be visited or ridiculed ; as it would be altogether as inhuman to insult the unhappy wretches who never were possessed of their senses, as it is to make a jest of those who have unfortunately lost them. The building and endowing these hospitals I leave to the projectors of ways and means ; con- tenting myself with having communicated a scheme, which, if carried into execution, will secure us from those swarms of madmen which are at present so much the dread and disturbance of all public places. I am, Sir, Your constant reader, And most humble servant, Be P: PUCCVUTLTLDUTAGADVUTTUBRDA DUTT TWTTVRIVTAVT06 94448444 No. 24.] Tuurspay, June 14, 1753. ea I sax not at present enter into the great ques- tion between the ancients and the moderns; much less shall I presume to decide upon a point of that importance, which has been the subject of debate among the learned from the days of Horace down to ours. ‘To make my court to the learned, I will lament the gradual decay of human nature, for these last sixteen centuries , G 42 but at the same time I will do justice to my con- temporaries, and give them their due share of praise, where they have either struck out new inventions, or improved and brought old ones to perfection. Some of them I shall now men- tion. The most zealous and partial advocate for the ancients will not, I believe, pretend to dispute the infinite superiority of the moderns in the art of healing. Hippocrates, Celsus, and Galen, hadnospecifics. They rather endeavoured to relieve than pretended to cure. As for the astonishing cures of Avsculapius, I do not put them into the account: they are to be ascribed to his power, not to his skill: he was a god, and his divinity was his nostrum. But how pro- digiously have’ my ingenious contemporaries extended the bounds of medicine! What nos- trums, what specifics have they not discovered ! Collectively considered, they ®nsure not only perfect health, but, by a necessary consequence, immortality ; insomuch that I am astonished, when I still read in the weekly bills the great number of people who choose to die of such and such distempers, for every one of which there are infallible and specific cures, not only adver- tised, but attested in all the public newspapers. ‘When the lower sort of Irish, in the most un- civilized parts of Ireland, attend the funeral of a deceased friend or neighbour, before they give the last parting howl, they expostulate with the dead body, and reproach him with having died, notwithstanding that he had an excellent wife, a milch cow, seven fine children, and a compe- tency of potatoes. Now though all these, par- ticularly the excellent wife, are very good things in a state of perfect health, they cannot, as | apprehend, be looked upon as preventive either of sickness or of death; but with how much more reason may we expostulate with, and cen- sure those of our contemporaries, who, either from obstinacy or incredulity, die in this great metropolis, or indeed in this kingdom, when they may prevent or cure, at a trifling expense, not only all distempers, but even old age and death itself! The renovating elixir infallibly restores pristine youth and vigour, be the patient ever so old and decayed ; and that without loss of time or business: whereas the same operation among the ancients was both tedious and painful, as it required a thorough boiling of the patient. The most inflammatory and intrepid fevers fly at the first discharge of Dr. James’s powder ; and a drop or pill of the celebrated Mr. Ward, corrects all the malignity of Pandora’s box. Ought not every man of great birth and estate, who for many years has been afflicted with the posteromanio, or rage of having posterity, a dis- temper very common among persons of that sort: ought he not, I say, to be ashamed of having no issue male to perpetuate his illustrious THE WORLD. [ No. 24. three and sixpence he and his lady’ might be supplied with a sufficient quantity of the vivefy- ing drops, which infallibly cure imbecility in men, and barrenness in women, though of neves so long standing ? Another very great discovery of the mcderns in the art of healing is, the infallible cure of the king’s evil, though never so inveterate, by only the touch of a lawful king, the right heir of Adam: for that is essentially necessary. ‘The ancients were unacquainted with this inesti- mable secret: and even Solomon the son of David, the wisest of kings, knew nothing of the matter. But our British Solomon, King James the First, a son of a David also, was no stran- ger to it, and practised it with success. This fact is sufficiently proved by experience : but if it wanted any correborating testimony, we have that of the ingenious Mr.‘Carte, who, in his incomparable History of England, asserts (and that in a marginal note too, which is al- ways more material than the text) that he knew somebody, who was radically cured of a most obstinate king’s evil, by the touch of somebody. As our sagacious historian does not even intimate that this somebody took any thing of the other somebody for the cure, it were to be wished that he had named this somebody, and his place of abode, for the benefit of the poor, who are now reduced, and at some expense, to have recourse to Mr. Vickers the clergyman. Besides, I fairly confess myself to be personally interested in this inquiry, since this somebody must necessarily be the right heir of Adam, and consequently I must have the honour of being related to him. Our laborious neighbours and kinsmen, the Germans, are not without their inventions and happy discoveries in the art of medicine; for they laugh at a wound through the heart, if they can but apply their powder of sympathy— not to the wound itself, but to the sword or bullet that made it. Having now (at least in my own opinion) fully proved the superiority of the moderns over the ancients in the art of healing, I shall -pro- ceed to some other particulars, in which my contemporaries will as justly claim, and I hope be allowed the preference. The ingenious Mr. Warburton, in his Divine Legation of Moses, very justly observes, that hieroglyphics were the beginning of letters ; but at the same time he candidly allows that it was a very troublesome and uncertain method of com= municating one’s ideas ; as it depended ina great measure on the writer’s skill in drawing (an art. little known in those days); and as a stroke too much or too little, too high or too low, might be of the most dangerous consequence, in religion, business, or love. Cadmus removed this dif. ficulty by his invention of unequivocal letters ; name and title, when for so small a sum as} but then he removed it too much; for those { | t No. 24.] letters or marks being the.same throughout and fixed alphabetically, soon became generally known, and prevented that secrecy which in many cases was to be wished for. This in- conveniency suggested to the ancients the in- vention of cryptography and steganography, or a mysterious and unintelligible way of writing, by the help of which none but the corresponding parties who had the key could decypher the matter. But human industry soon refined upon this too; the art of decyphering was discovered, and the skill of the decypherer baffled all the labour of the cypherer. The se- crecy of all literary correspondence became pre- carious, and neither business nor love could any longer be safely trusted to paper. Such for a considerable time was the unhappy state of let- ters, till the beaw monde, an inventive race of people, found out a new kind of cryptography, or steganography, unknown to the ancients, and free from some of their inconveniences. Lovers in general made use of it; controversial writers commonly; and ministers of state sometimes, in the most important despatches. It was writ- ing in such an unintelligible manner, and with such obscurity, that the corresponding parties themselves neither understood, nor even guessed at each other’s meaning ; which was a most ef- fectual security against all the accidents to which letters are liable by being either mislaid or in- tercepted. But this method too, though long pursued, was also attended with some inconve- niences. It frequently produced mistakes, by scattering false lights upon that friendly dark- ness, so propitious to business and love. But our inventive neighbours, the French, have very lately removed all these inconveniences, by the happy discovery of a new kind of paper, as pleasing to the eye, and as conducive to the de- spatch, the clearness, and at the same time the secrecy of all literary correspondence. My wor- thy friend, Mr. Dodsley, lately brought me a sample of it, upon which, if I mistake not, he will make very considerable improvements, as my countrymen often do upon the inventions of other nations. This sheet of paper 1 conjectured to be the ground-work and principal material of a tender and passionate letter from a fine gen- tleman to a fine lady; though in truth it might very well be the whole letter itself. At the top of the first page was delineated a lady with very red cheeks, and a very large hoop, in the fash- ionable attitude of knotting, and of making a very genteel French courtesy. ‘This evidently appears to stand for madam, and saves the time and trouble of writing it. At the bottom of the third page was painted a very fine well-dressed gentleman, with his hat under his left arm, and his right hand upon his heart, bowing most re- /Spectfully low; which single figure, by an ad- mirable piece of brachygraphy, or short-hand, plainly conveys this deep sense, and stands in- THE WORLD. 45 stead of these many words, ‘I have the honour to be, with the tenderest and warmest senti- ments, madam, your most inviolably attached, faithful humble servant.’? The margin of the paper, which was about half an inch broad, was very properly decorated with all the emblems of triumphant beauty, and tender suffering passion. Groups of lilies, roses, pearls, corals, suns, and stars, were intermixed with chains, bearded shafts, and bleeding hearts. Such a sheet of paper, I confess, seems to me to be a complete letter; and I would advise all fine gentlemen, whose time I know is precious, to avail them- selves of this admirable invention: it will save them a great deal of time, and perhaps some thought ; and I cannot help thinking, that were they even to take the trouble of filling up the paper with the tenderest sentiments of their hearts, or the most shining flights of their fan- cy, they would :add no energy or delicacy to those types and symbols of the lady’s conquests, and their own captivity and sufferings. These blank letters (if I may call them so, when they convey so much,) will mock the jealous curiosity of husbands and fathers, who will in vain hold them to the fire to elicit the supposed juice of lemon, and upon whom they may afterwards pass for a piece of innocent pleasantry. The dullest of my readers must, I am sure, by this time be aware, that the utility of this invention extends, mutatis mutandis, to whatever can be the subject of letters, and with much less trouble, and much more secrecy, propriety, and elegancy, than the old way of writing. A painter of but moderate skill and fancy may in a very short time have reams of ready- painted paper by him to supply the demands of the statesman, the divine, and the lover. And I think it my duty to inform the public, that my good friend Mr. Dodsley, who has long complained of the decay of trade, and who loves, with a prudent regard to his own interest, to encourage every useful invention, is at this time learning to paint with most unwearied diligence and application ; and I make no doubt but that in a very little time he will be able to furnish all sorts of persons with the very best ready-made goods of that kind. I warned him indeed against providing any for the two learned pro- fessions of the law and physic, which I appre- hend would lie upon his hands. One of them being already in possession (to speak in their own style) of a more brachygraphical, cryptographi- cal, and steganographical secret, im writing their warrants; and the other not willingly ad- mitting brevity, in any shape. Otherwise what innumerable skins of parchment and lines of writing might be saved in a marriage settle- ment, for instance, if the first fourteen of fifteen sons, the supposed future issue, lawfully to be begotten of that happy marriage, and upon 44 whom the settlement fs successively made, were to be painted every one a size less than the other upon one skin of parchment, instead of being enumerated upon one hundred, according to priority of birth, and seniority of age; and moreover the elder, by a happy pleonasmus, al- ways to take before, and be preferred to the younger! but this useful alteration is more to be wished than expected, for reasons which I do not at present think proper to mention. I am sensible that the government may pos- sibly object, that I am suggesting to its enemies a method of carrying on their treasonable cor- respondences with much more secrecy than for- merly. But as my intentions are honest, I should be very sorry to have my loyalty sus- pected, and when I consider the zeal, and at the same time the ingenuity of the Jacobites, I am convinced that their letters in this new method will be so charged with groves of oaken boughs, white roses and thistles interwoven, that their meaning will not be obscure, and consequently no danger will arise to the government from this new and excellent invention. DSUVBVCVUVLU VUTU DUBVTVVCTAVLUTTELVUBATDLTABLAEBACRE BALTVIA No. 25.] Tuurspay, Junz 21, 1753. I wave the pleasure of informing my fair cor- respondent, that her petition, contained in the following letter, is granted. 1 wish I could as easily restore to her what she has lost. But to a mind like hers, so elevated! so harmonized ! time and the consciousness of so much purity of intention will bring relief. It must always af- ford her matter of the most pleasing reflection, that her soul had no participation with her ma- terial part in that particular act which she appears to mention with so tender a regret. But it is not my intention to anticipate her story, by endeavouring to console her. Her letter, I hope, will caution all young ladies of equal virtue with herself against that excess of complaisance with which they are sometimes too willing to enter- tain their lovers. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I have not the least ill-will to your friend Mr. Dodsley, whom I never saw in my life; but I address myself to your equity and good nature, fora small share only of your favour and re- commendation in that new and valuable branch of trade, to which you have informed the public he is now applying himself, and which I hope you will not think it reasonable that he should monopolize. I mean that admirable short and secret method of communicating. one’s ideas by ingenious emblems and representations of the pencil, instead of the vulgar and eld method of THE WORLD. letters by the pen. my case and my qualifications to you: I am sure you will decide with justice. [No. 25. Give me leave, Sir, to state I am the daughter of a clergyman, who, hav- ing had a very good living, gave me a good edu- cation, and left me no fortune. I had naturally a turn to reading and drawing: my father encouraged and assisted me in the one, allowed me a master to instruct me in the other, and [ made an uncommon progress in them both. My heart was tender, and my sentiments were delicate ; perhaps too much so for my rank in life. This disposition led me to study chiefly those treasures of sublime honour, spotless vir- tue, and refined sentiment, the voluminous romances of the last century; sentiments from which, I thank Heaven, I have never deviated. From a sympathizing softness of soul how often have I wept over those affecting distresses! How have I shared the pangs of the chaste and lovely Mariamne upon the death of the tender, the faithful Tiridates! And how has my indigna- tion been excited at the unfaithful and ungener- ous historical misrepresentations of the gallant first Brutus, who was undoubtedly the tender- est lover that ever lived! My drawings took the same elegant turn with my reading. ‘I painted all the most moving and tender stories of charming Ovid’s Metamorphoses; not with- out sometimes mingling my tears with my colours. I presented some fans of my own painting to several ladies in the neighbourhood, who were pleased to commend both the execu- tion and the designs. The latter I always took care should be moving, and at the same time irre- proachably pure ; and I found means even to re- present with unblemished delicacy the unhappy passion of the unfortunate Pasiphaé. With this turn of mind, this softness of soul, it will be supposed that I loved. I did so, Sir; tenderly and truly I loved. Why should I disown a passion, which, when clarified as mine was from the impure dregs of sensuality, is the noblest and most generous sentiment of the human breast? O! that the false heart of the dear deceiver, whose perfidious vows betrayed mine, had been but as pure !—— The traitor was quartered with his troop of dragoons in the town where Ilived. His person was a happy compound of the manly strength of a hero, and all the softer graces of a lover; and I thought that I discovered in him, at first sight, all the courage, and all the tenderness of Oroondates. My figure, which was not bad, it seems pleased him as much. He sought and obtained my acquaintance. Soon by his eyes, and soon after by his words, he declared his passion to me. My blushes, my confusion, and my silence, too plainly spoke mine. Good gods! how tender were his words! how languishingly soft his eyes! with what ardour did he snatch and press my hand! a trifling liberty, which one cannot No 26.] decently refuse, and for which refusal there is no’ precedent. Sometimes he addressed me in the moving words of Varanes, sometimes in the tender accents of Castalio, and sometimes in the warmer language of Juba; for he was a very good scholar. In short, Sir, a month was not past before he pressed for what he called a proof of my passion. I trembled at the very thought, and reproached him with the indeli- cacy of it. He persisted; and I, in compliance ‘with custom only, hinted previous marriage: he urged love; and I was not vulgar enough to refuse to the man I tenderly loved the proof he required of my passion. I yielded, it is true; but it. was to sentiment, not to desire. A few ‘months gave me reason to suspect that his pas- sion was not quite so pure and within the year the perfidious wretch convinced me that it had been merely sensual: for upon. the removal of his troop to other quarters, he took a cold leave of. me, and contented himself with saying, that in the course of quarters he hoped to have the pleasure, some time or other, of seeing me again. You, Mr. Fitz-Adam, if you have any elegancy of soul, as I dare say you have, can better guess than I can express the agonies I felt, and the tears [ shed upon this occasion ; but all in vain ; vain as the thousand tender letters which I have written to him since, and to which I have re- ceived no answer. As all this passed within the course of ten months, I had but one child; which dear pledge of my first and only love I now maintain at the expense of more than half of what I have to subsist upon myself. Having now, as I hope, prepared your com- passion and proved my qualification, I proceed to the prayer of my petition ; which is, that you will be pleased to recommend me to the public, with all that authority which you have so justly acquired, for a share of this new and beneficial branch of trade. I mean no farther than the just bounds to which the female province may extend. Let Mr. Dodsley engross all the rest, with my best wishes.—Though I say it, I believe nobody has a clearer notion of the theory of delicate sentiments than I have; and I have already a considerable stock in haud of these al- legorical and emblematical paintings, applicable to almost every situation in which a woman of sense, virtue, and delicacy, can find herself. I indulged my fancy in painting them, according to the various dispositions of mind which my various fortunes produced. I think I may say, without vanity, that I have made considerable improvements in the celebrated map of the realms of love in Clelia. I have adorned the banks of the gentle and crystalline Tender with several new villages and groves; and added ex- pression to the pleasing melancholic groves of sighs and tender cares. I have whole quires, painted in my happier moments, of hearts united and crowned, fluttering cupids, wanton THE WORLD. | transporting situation of growing loves. 45 zephyrs, constant and tender doves, myrtle bowers, banks of jessamine and tuberose, and shady groves. These will require very little filling up, if any, from ladies who are in the lor the forsaken and complaining fair, with whom, alas! I too fatally sympathize, I have tender willows drooping over murmuring brooks, and gloomy walks of mournful cypress and solemn yew. In short, Sir, I either have by me, or - will forthwith provide, whatever can convey the most perfect ideas of elegant friendship, or pure, refined, and sentimental passion. But J think it necessary to give notice, that if any ladies would express any indelicate ideas of love, or require any types or emblems of sensual joys, they must not apply to, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, PAXTHENISSA. ed tl tlt Bet te th te te tn th te a nn ee wetsee No. 26.] Tuurspay, Junz 28, 1753. Stmruiciry is with justice esteemed a supreme excellence in all the performances of art, because by this quality they more nearly resemble the productions of nature: and the productions of nature have ever been accounted nobler, and of a higher order, in proportion to their simplicity. Hence arises (if the ladies will permit me to philosophize a moment) the superior excellence of spirit to matter, which is evidently a combi- nation of many particles ; whereas the first is pure, uncompounded, and indivisible. But let us descend from lofty speculations and useless metaphysics, into common life and fami- liar arts, in order more fully to display the beauties of a just simplicity, to which the pre- sent age seems not to pay a proper regard in various instances. Nothing can be more tiresome and nauseous to a virtuoso of a true judgment and a just eye in painting than the gaudy glitter of florid colours, and a vast profusion of light, unsubdued by shade, and undiversified with tints of a brown- er cast. It is recorded, that some of the capital pieces of Appelles were wrought in four colours only. This excellent artist invented also akind of darkening varnish, that might temper and chastise all dazzling splendour and unnecessary glare, and might give, as Pliny expresses it, a modesty and austerity to his works. © Those who have been unaccustomed to the best models are usually at first more delighted with the productions of the Flemish than the Italian school; and prefer Rubens to Raphael, till they feel by experience, that luscious and gay colour ing defeats the very end of the art, by turning 4D the attention from its principal excellences; that is, from truth, simplicity, and design. Tf these observations are rightly founded, what shall we say of the taste and judgment of those who spend their lives and their fortunes in col- lecting pieces, where neither perspective, nor proportion, nor conformity to nature are obser- ved; I mean the extravagant lovers and pur- chasers of China and Indian screens. Isaw a sensible foreigner astonished at a late auction, with the exorbitant prices given for these splen- did deformities, as he called them, while an exquisite painting of Guido passed unnoticed, and was set aside as unfashionable lumber. Happy should I think myself to be able to con- vince the fair connoisseurs that make the great- est part of Mr. Langford’s audiences, that no genuine beauty is to be found in whimsical and grotesque figures, the monstrous offspring of wild imagination, undirected by nature and truth. It is of equal consequence to observe simplicity in architecture as in painting. A multiplicity of minute ornaments; a vast variety of angles and cavities ; clusters of little columns, and a crowd of windows, are what distinguishes meanness of manner in building from greatness ; that is, the Gothic from the Grecian ; in which every de- coration arises from necessity and use, and every pillar has something to support. Mark how the dread Pantheon stands, Amid the domes of modern hands! Amid the toys of idle state , How simply, how severely great! says the celebrated author of the ode to Lord Huntingdon. Nothing therefore offends me more than to behold the revival of this barbarous taste, in several villas, temples, and pleasure- houses, that disgrace the neighbourhood of this metropolis. Nay, sometimes in the front of the same edifice to find a Grecian plan adulterated and defiled by the unnatural and impure mixture of Gothic whimsies. Desinit in piscem mulier formosa superne. Hor. Whoever considers the latest importatious of music and musicians from Italy, will be con- vinced that the modern masters of that country have lost that beautiful simplicity, which is gen- erally the ornament of every musical composition, and which really dignified those of their prede- cessors. ‘They have introduced so many intri- cate divisions, wild variations, and useless repetitions, without any apparent necessity arising either from the words or from any other incident, that the chief ambition of the composer seems to be rather to surprise the ear than to please the judgment ; and that of the performer, to show his execution rather than his expres- THE WORLD. [No. 26. sion. It is from these motives that the hearer is often confounded, but not delighted, with sudden and unnatural transitions from the key, and returns to it as unnatural as the transitions themselves ; while pathos, the soul of music, is either unknown or totally neglected. ‘Those who have studied the works of Correlli among the modern ancients, and Handel in the present age, know that the most affecting passages of the former owe their excellence to simplicity alone ; and that the latter understands it as well, and attends to it as much, though he knows when to introduce with propriety those niceties and refinements, which, for want of that pro- priety, we condemn in others. In every species of writing, whether we con- sider style or sentiment, simplicity is a beauty. The perfection of language, says the great father of criticism, consists in its being perspi- cuous but not low. Aredundancy of metaphors, a heap of sounding and florid epithets, remote allusions, sudden flashes of wit, lively and epigrammatic turns, dazzle the imaginations and captivate the minds of vulgar readers, who are apt to think the simple manner unanimated and dull, for want of being acquainted with the models of the great antique. Xenophon among the Greeks, and Cesar among the Romans, are at once the purest and most simple, as well as the most elegant writers, any age or nation can produce. Nudi enim sunt, recti, et venusti, omni ornatu orationis, tanquam veste, detracto. Among ourselves, no writer has perhaps made so happy and judicious a mixture of plain and figurative terms as Addison, who was the first that ban- ished from the English, as Boileau from the French, every species of bad eloquence and false wit, and opened the gates of the Temple of Taste to his fellow-citizens. It seems to be the fate of polished nations to degenerate and depart from a simplicity of sen- timent.. For when the first and most obvious thoughts have been pre-occupied by former writers, their successors, by straining to be ori- ginal and new, abound in far-fetched senti- ments and forced conceits. Some late instances in men of genius (for none but these are capable of committing this fault) give occasion to us to deprecate this event. I must add, under this head, that simplicity of fable is an indispensable quality in every legitimate drama. We are too much enamoured with what is called intrigue, business, and bustle, in our plays. We are dis- gusted with the thinness, that is, the unity of a plot. We must enrich it with episodes or under-characters; and we never consider how much our attention is diverted and destroyed by different objects, and our pity divided and weakened by an intricate multiplicity of events: and of persons. The Athenians, therefore, wh¢ could relish so simple a plot as that of the Phil- octetes of Sophocles, had certainly either more No. 27.] patience or more good sense (I will not deter- mine which) than my present countrymen. If we raise our thoughts to a subject of more importance than writing, I mean dress; even in this sublime science, simplicity should ever be regarded. It might be thought presumption in me to censure any part of Miss ****’s dress last night at Ranelagh; yet I could not help con- demning that profusion of ornament, which violated and destroyed the unity and 73 tau (a technical term borrowed from the toilette) of so accomplished a figure. To finish my panegyric on simplicity in a manner that 1 know is agreeable to my fair readers, I mean with a stroke of morality, I would observe, that if this quality was venerated as it ought to be, it would at once banish from the earth all artifice and treachery, double-deal- ing and deceit. Let it therefore be established as a maxim, that simplicity is of equal impor- tance in morals and in taste. PUVVCVWVVVUCSVVT DOVVVTVTVSVVV7T VT SVUEVWSTNVEA VTVVTVAVAVVW“GD No. 27.] Tuurspay, Jury 5, 1753. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM “ Sir, Tue forming separate societies in order to exer- cise the great duty of self-mortification, seems to me to be one of the most general and prevailing tendencies in human nature. For even in those countries where the freedom of the laws, or the ill execution of them, or the licentiousness of ‘manners, has given a sort of public sanction toa less severe discipline, in England itself, what numerous sectaries have subsisted upon this dis- position of the human mind ! It is upon this principle that the various and “Opposite tenets of different systems are built. Mahomet, Confucius, and other religious law- givers ; the founders of larger societies, or smaller communities, have availed themselves of this bias in the mind of man ; which, at one time or other, is sure to draw him with more than ordi- nary force. _ If ambition occupies, if love monopolizes, if indolence stupifies, if literature amuses, if pride expands, or humility condenses, the immortal spirit of man; if revenge animates, if a softer Sensation mollifies, if trifles annihilate, if do- Mestic cares engage, if dress and equipage possess the divine mind of women; these passions will, sooner or later, most certainly subside in both, and give place to that impulse which begets Various kinds of mortified communities in dif- ferent climes and countries. Hence such mul- titudes, in a neighbouring country, pass the last periods of their lives in the monastic severities of THE WORLD. 47 the strictest devotion; and hence it likewise 13, that we see such numbers in our own country expose themselves to midnight damps at Vaux- hall, and to be pressed to death by well-dressed mobs at routs. Indeed, the more we consider the human species, from the rude savage up to the most po- lished courtier, the more we shall be persuaded of this general tendency in our natures to acts of voluntary mortification. But what puts this matter out of all doubt is the erection of three monasteries, within many of our memories, in the most conspicuous parts of this great metropolis. I hope your country protestant readers will not be too much alarmed; I can assure them that they pay no Peter-pence. They are form- ed at present of societies composed entirely of males; but we hope it will not be long before they either open the arms of their communities for the reception of females, or that the ladies» excited by their example, and animated by the Same principles, will form seminaries for their own sex, and that some departing matron may be prevailed upon to found a charity for this purpose. For the furtherance of so desirable a com- munity, it may not here be improper to offer a legal clause to be inserted in any last will or testament: viz. “I, A. B. spinster or dowager, being tired of all men, and having no mortal to whom I have reason to wish well ; having settled a competent provision on my birds, dogs, and cats, do leave the sum of pounds, towards the erecting a building, and the establishing a society for the following purposes, &c. &c. &c.’” Now as soon as a sufficient number of holy sisters shall be collected, I think they cannot do more wisely than to form their new seminary upon the model of one of those three great mon- asteries so lately founded; nor would I advise them to vary much from those plans, as the dif- ference of male and female will always be, to those who contemplate things profoundly, a sufficient badge of distinction. For the direction, therefore, of these future lady abbesses, it will be necessary to give them some account of the three monastic societies before-mentioned; which will appear to owe their rise entirely to that innate love of separate clan-ship and self-mortification, which, accord- ing to my present maxim, is universally im- planted in the human breast. There are few women of fashion who have not heard of Harry the Eighth; many of them are perfectly well acquainted with that glorious fountain from which the reformation first sprung, which produced the dissolution of papal monasteries; till some years ago, a little, round, well-spoken man erected a large monastery near Covent Garden, where a brotherhood was soon formed. Here he dealt out indulgences 46 of all sorts, and extreme (good internal) unce tions. But it happened, for diverse reasons, that the aferesaid district was not thought so proper a situation ; upon which a new convent was built, near the court-end of the town; the monks re- moved to it, and from that day have taken upon themselves the name of White Friars. The difficulty of being admitted into this pious seminary, and the necessary qualifications for that purpose, are sufficiently known. But how severe is their abstinence! Tor whereas other devout orders in other countries do not scruple to indulge themselves with the wholesome diet of plain fish, vegetables, and oil, it is the estab- lished rule of this order not to admit of any eat- able but what simple nature abhors, and till the texture of its parts is so totally transubstantiat- ed, that it cannot come under the denomination of fish, flesh, or good red herring. To such a degree likewise has their spirit of mortification carried them, that, being sensible that the most real indulgence, the most natural and homogeneal beverage to the constitution of man, is pure limpid element, they have therefore banished that delightful liquid from their meals, and freely exposed themselves even to the most excruciating tortures, by daily swallowing cer- tain potions of various kinds, the ill effects of which to the human body are well known; and for their farther penance, they have adopted nauseous medicinal waters, for their miserable inky drink. But it is in the dead time of the night, when the herd of ordinary mortals repose from their labours, that these devotees perform their greatest acts of self-severity ; for the conduct of which, they have three or four established rituals, com- posed by the celebrated Father Hoyle. This famous seminary, like that of some col- leges, is divided into senior and junior fellows. The juniors, to a certain number at a time, not content with their ordinary acts of probation, exert a most extraordinary effort of devotion. Imagining that the mortification of the body alone is not sufficient for the pious gratification of their exalted zeal, and considering how meri- torious it would be to extend the same severity to the faculties of the mind, they have attained such a spiritual domination over the soul, as to be able to renounce all its most pleasing emo- tions, and to give it up without remorse, to be tortured by the most painful vicissitudes of hope and fear. Such is the wonderful effect of long habit, unwearied exercise, and abstracted vigils! In order to facilitate this toilsome penance, and to enable themselves totally to subdue all ideas whatsoever which have no connection with those two passions, they have contrived inces- santly to toss about two cubical figures, which are so devised, as to fix the attention, by certain mystical characters, to one or other of the afore- * THE WORLD. [ No. 28. sald passions; and thus they will sit for many hours, with only the light of one large taper in the middle of the altar, in the most exquisite and convulsive agonies of the most truly morti- fied and religious penitents. In short, neither the Indian nor Chinese bronzes, nor the Italian or Spanish visionaries, in all their various distor- tions and penances, came up to these. And here, by the way, I cannot but remark with pleasure the great talents of my countrymen for carrying every thing they undertake to greater perfection than any other nation. The second of these seminaries was founded upon the model of the first, and consists of a number of Grey Friars, remarkable for a rigor- ous abstinence, and indefatigable devotion. They just preserve their beings with a little chocolate or tea. They are dedicated to the great St. George, and are distinguished by the composure of their countenances, and their ex- traordinary taciturnity. The third order is that of St. James; the members of which are known by the appellation of Scarlet Friars. It consists of a multitude of brothers, who are not near so strict as the two former orders; and is likely to become vastly numerous, under the auspices of its great patron, whose bulk is adorned by jollity and good humour; and who is moreover very strictly a good liver. Now, Mr. Fitz- Adam, let me ask you whether these three laudable institutions are not plainly owing to that principle which I have assigned in the beginning of my letter? For what other motive could prompt men to forsake their own elegant houses, to sacrifice domestic and conjugal satisfaction, to neglect the endearing rites of hospitality in order to cloister themselves among those, with whom they can have no connection but upon the aforesaid principles ? But since such is the general bent of the human mind, it is become a fit subject for the World to consider by what methods these semi- naries may be so multiplied, as to comprehend all ranks and orders of men and women. And if fifty new churches were thought few enough to | keep pace with the zeal of good Queen Anne’s | days, I believe, Mr. Fitz-Adam, you will not think five hundred large mansions of the kind I am speaking of will be too many for the present. Iam, Yours, &c. J. T. PLGUVVCUVVVUTAVAUTATATTTEVUTE DERTTETDETDE SE TUVVTS No. 28.] Tuurspay, Jury 12, 1753. Pauci dignoscere possunt Vera bona, atque illis multum diversa. Juv. Few can distinguish real from fancied good, Ir is a common observation, that though happi_ No. 28.] ness is every man’s aim, and though it is gener- ally pursued by a gratification of the predomi- nant passion, yet few have acuteness enough to discover the points which would effectually procure the long-sought end. One cannot but wonder that such intense application as most of us bestow on the cultivation of our favourite desires should yet leave us ignorant of the most essential objects of our study. For my part, I was so early convinced of the truth of this ob- servation, that instead of searching for what would contribute most to my own happiness, I have spent great part of my life in the study of what may extend the enjoyment of others. This knowledge I flatter myself I have discovered, and shall now disclose to the world. I beg to be attended to: I beg mankind will believe that I know better than any of them what will as- certain the felicity of their lives. I am not going to impart so great (though so often re- vealed) a secret, as that it is religion or virtue ; few would believe me, fewer would try the re- cipe. In spite of the philosophy of the age, in spite of the gravity of my character, and of the decency which I hope I have hitherto most sanetimoniously observed, I must avow my per- suasion, that the sensual pleasure of love is the great cordial of life, and the only specific for removing the anxieties of our own passions, or for supporting the injuries and iniquities which we suffer from those of other men. ‘Well! (shall I be told) and is this your ad- mirable discovery? Is this the arcanum that has escaped the penetration of all inquiries in all ages? What other doctrine has been taught by the most sensible philosophers? Was not this the text of the sermons of E;picurus? Was not this the theory, and practice too, of the experi- enced Alcibiades? What other were the tenets of the sage Lord Rochester, or of the missionary Saint-Evremont?” It is very true; and a thousand other founders of sects, nay of religious orders, have taught—or at least practised—the ‘same doctrines. But I pretend to introduce ‘such refinements into the system of sensuality, as shall vindicate the discovery to myself, and throw at a distance the minute philosophers, who (if they were my forerunners) only served to lead the world astray. Hear then in one word the mysteriois pre- cept! << Young women are not the proper object of sensual love: it is the matron, the hoary fair, who can give, communicate, insure happiness.” I might enumerate a thousand reasons to en- force my doctrine; as the fickleness of youth, the caprices of beauty and its transient state, the jealousy from rivals, the distraction from having children, the important avocations of dress, and the infinite occupations of a pretty woman, which endanger or divide her sentiments from being always fixed on the faithful lover; and ‘one of which combat the affections of the grate- THE WORLD, “9 | ful, tender, attentive matron. ..But as one example is worth a thousand reasons, I shall recommend my plan by pointing out the extreme happiness which has attended such» discreet heroes as are commemorated in the-annals of love for having offered up their hearts at ancient shrines ; and I shall clearly demonstrate by pre- cedents that several ladies in the bloom of their wrinkles have inspired more lasting and more fervent passions, than the greatest beauties who. had scarce lost sight of their teens. The fair young creatures of the present hour will forgive a preference which is the result of deep medita- tion, great reading, and strict impartiality, when. they reflect, that they can scarce contrive to be young above a dozen years, and may be old for fifty or sixty; and they may believe me, that after forty they will value one lover more than they do twenty now ; a sensation of happiness, which they will find increase as they advance in years. I cannot but observe with pleasure, that the legislature itself seems to coincide with my way of thinking, and has very prudently enact- ed, that young ladies shall not enter so early into the bonds of love, when they are incapable of reflection, and of all the serious duties which belong to a union of hearts. A sentiment which indeed our laws seem always to have had in view ; for unless there was implanted in our natures a strong temptation towards the love of elderly women, why should the very first prohi- bition in the table of consanguinity forbid a man to marry his grandmother ? The first heroine we read of, whose charms were proof against the injuries of time, was the accomplished Sarah: I think the most moderate computations make her to be ninety, when that wanton monarch Abimelech would have under- mined her virtue. But as doubtless the observy- ance of that virtue had been the great foundation of the continuance of her beauty, and as the rigidness of it rather exempts her from, than exposes her as an object of my doctrine, I shall say no more of that lady. Helen, the beautiful Helen, if there is any trusting to classic parish registers, was fourscore when Paris stole her; and though the war lasted ten years after that on her account, Mon- sieuar Homer, who wrote their romance, does not give any hint of the gallant young prince having showed the least decay of passion or symptom of inconstancy: a fidelity, which in all probability was at least as much owing to the experience of the dame, and to her know- ledge in the refinements of pleasure, as to her bright. eyes, unfaded complexion, or the ever- lasting lilies and roses of her cheeks. I am not clear that length of years, especially in heroic minds, does not increase rather than abate the sentimental flame. The great Eliza- beth, whose passion for the unfortunate Ear) of Essex is justly a favourite topic with all whe H | 5 delight in romantic history, was full sixty-eight when she condemned her lover to death for slighting her endearments. And if I-might in- stance in our own sex, the charming, the meri- torious Antony was not far from seventy before he had so much taste as to sacrifice the meaner passion of ambition, nay the world itself, to love. But it is in France, that kingdom so ex- quisitely judicious in the affairs of love, from whence we may copy the arts of happiness, as well as their other discoveries in pleasure. The monarchs of that nation have more than once taught the world, by their example, that a fine woman, though past her grand climacteric, may be but just touching the meridian of her charms. Henry the Second and Louis the Fourteenth will be for ever memorable for the passions they so long felt for:the Dutchess 6f Valentinois, and Madame de Maintenon. The former, in the heat of youth and prospect of empire, became a slave to the respectable attractions of Diana de Poitiers, many years after his injudicious father had quitted the possession of her on the silly apprehension that she was growing old: and to the last moment of his life and reign Henry was a constant, jealous adorer of her still ripening charms. When the age was overrun with as- trology, superstition, bigotry, and notions of necromancy, King Henry still idolized a woman, who had not only married her grand-daughter, then a celebrated beauty, but who, if any other prince had reigned, was ancient enough to have come within the description of sorcery : so little do the vulgar distinguish between the ideas of an old witch and a fine woman. The passion of the other monarch was no less remarkable. That hero, who had gained so many battles by proxy, had presided in person at so many tour- naments, had raised such waterworks, and shed such streams of heretic blood ; and, which was still more glorious, had enjoyed so many of the finest women in Europe; was at last captivated by an old governante, and sighed away whole years at the feet of his venerable mistress, as she worked at her tent with spectacles. If Louis - le Grand was not a judge of pleasure, who can pretend to be? If he was, in favour of what age did he give the golden apple? I shall close my catalogue of ancient mistresses with the renowned Ninonl Enclos, a lady whose life alone is sufficient to inculcate my doctrine in its utmost force. I shall say nothing of her numerous conquests for the first half of her life: she had wit, youth, and beauty, three ingredi- ents which will always attract silly admirers. It was not till the fifty-sixth year that her su- perior merit distinguished itself; and from that to her ninetieth, she went on improving in the real arts and charms of love. How unfortunate am I, that she did not live a few years longer, that I might have had the opportunity of wear- THE WORLD. [ Mo. 26. | ing her chains! It was in her fifty-sixth year that the Chevalier de Villiers, a natural gon whom she had had by the Comte de Gerze, ar- rived at Paris from the provinces, where he had been educated without any knowledge of his real parents. Hesaw his mother: he fell in love with her. ‘The increase, the vehemence of his passion gave the greatest disquiets to the af- fectionate matron. At last, when nothing but a discovery of the truth could put a stop, as she thought, to the impetuosity of his attempts, she carried him into her bed-chamber. Here my readers will easily conceive the transports of a young lover, just on the brink of happiness with a charming mistress near threescore! As the adventurous youth would have pushed his enterprises, she checked him, and pointing to a clock, said, *‘ Rash boy, look there! at that hour, two-and-twenty years ago, I was de- livered of you in this very bed!’ It isa certain fact, that the unfortunate, abashed young man flew into the garden and fell upon his sword. This catastrophe had like to have deprived the age of the most accomplished mistress that ever adorned the Cytherean annals. It was above twenty years before the afflicted mother would listen to any addresses of a tender nature. At length, the polite Abbé de Gedoyn pressed and obtained an assignation. He-came, and found the enchanting Ninon lying on a couch, like the grandmother of the loves, in the most gallant dishabille; and what was still more delightful, disposed to indulge his utmost wishes. After the most charming endearments, he asked her, but with the greatest respect, why she had so long deferred the completion of his happiness ? «‘ Why,” replied she, “I must confess it pro- ceeded from a remain of vanity: I did pique myself upon having a low at past fourscore, and it was but yesterday that I was eighty complete.” QPLVWVTRLSVA DRVAVEBDVUSAVTVVUTVUTVTBDUVEVTUTTVLUDVUTDRVLTVTT DOH No. 29.] Tuurspay, Jury 19, 1753, TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I troubled you some time ago with an account of my distress, arising from the female part of my family. I told you that by an unfortunate trip to Paris my wife and daughter had run stark French ; and I wish I could tell you now that they were perfectly recovered; but all I can say is, that the violence of the symptoms seem to abate, in proportion as the clothes that inflamed them wear out. My present misfortune flows from a direct contrary cause, and affects me much more sen-, sibly.—The little whims, affectations, and deli- cacies of ladies may be both ridiculous and No. 29.] disagreeable, especially to those who are obliged to be at once the witnesses and the martyrs of them; put they are not evils to be compared with the obstinate wrong-headedness, the idle and illiberal turn of an only son; which is un- fortunately my case. I acquainted you, that in the education of my son I had conformed to the common custom of this country (perhaps I conformed to it too much and too soon) ; and that I carried him to Paris, from whence, after six months’ stay, he was to go on upon his travels, and take the usual tour of Italy and Germany. I thought it very neces- sary for a young man (though not for a young lady) to be well acquainted with the languages, the manners, the characters, and the constitu- tions of other countries; the want of which I experienced and lamented in myself. In order to enable him to keep good company, I allowed him more than I could conveniently afford; and I trusted him to the care of a Swiss governor, a gentleman of some learning, good sense, good nature, and good manners. But how cruelly I am disappointed in all these hopes what follows will inform you. During his stay at Paris, he only freqnented the worst English company there, with whom he was unhappily engaged in two or three scrapes, which the credit and good nature of the English ambassador helped him out of. He hired a low Irish wench, whom he drove about in a hired chaise, to the great honour of himself, his family, and his country. He did not learn one word of French, and never spoke to French- man or Frenchwoman, excepting some vulgar and injurious epithets, which he bestowed upon them in very plain English. His governor very honestly informed me of this conduct, which he tried in vain to reform, and advised their removal to Italy, which accordingly I imme- diately ordered. His behaviour there will appear in the truest light to you, by his own and his go- vernor’s last letters to me, of which I here give you faithful copies. “* Rome, May the 3d, 1753. «¢ Srr, “In the six weeks that I passed at Florence, and the week I stayed at Genoa, I never had time to write to you, being wholly taken up with seeing things, of which the most remarkable is the steeple of Pisa: it is the oddest thing I ever saw in my life; it stands all awry ; I wonder it does not tumble down. I met with a great many of my countrymen, and we live together very sociably. I have been here now a month, and will give you an account of my way of life. Here are a great many very agreeable English gentlemen ; we are about nine or ten as smart bucks as any in England. We constantly breakfast together, and then either go and see _ sights, or drive about the outlets of Rome in} THE WORLD. St chaises; but the horses are very had, and the chaises do not follow well. We meet before dinner at the English coffee-house, where there is a very good billiard-table, and very good com-, pany. From thence we go and dine together by turns at each other’s lodgings. Then after a cheerful glass of claret (for we have madea shift to get some here) we go to the coffee-house again, from thence to supper, and so to bed. I do not believe that these Romans are a bit like the old Romans ; they are a parcel of thin-gut- ted, snivelling, cringing dogs; and I verily believe that our set could thrash forty of them. We never go among them ; it would not be worth while: besides, we none of us speak Italian, and none of those signors speak English ; which shows what sort of fellows they are. We saw the pope go by t’other day in a procession ; but we resolved to assert the honour of Old England ; so we neither bowed nor pulled off our hats to the old rogue. Provisions and liquor are but bad here; and, to say the truth, I have not had one thorough good meal’s meat since I left England. No longer ago than last Sunday we wanted to have a good plum-pud- ding ; but we found the materials difficult to pro- vide, and were obliged to get an English footman to make it. Pray, Sir, let me come home, for I cannot find that one is a jot the better for seeing all these outlandish places and people. But if you will not let me come back, for God’s sake, Sir, take away the impertinent mounseer you sent with me. He is a considerable expense to you, and of no manner of service to me. All the English here laugh at him, he is such a prig. He thinks himself a fine gentleman, and is always plaguing me to go into foreign companies, to learn foreign languages, and to get foreign manners; as if I were not to live and die in Old England, and as if good English acquaint- ance would not be much more useful to me than outlandish ones. Dear Sir, grant me this request, and you shall ever find me ‘¢ Your most dutiful son, 6G Det” The following is a very honest and sensible letter, which I received at the same time from my son’s governor. <* Rome, May the 3d, 1'753. << Sir, “I think myself obliged in conscience to in- form you, that the money you are pleased to allow me for my attendance upon your son is absolutely thrown away ; since I find, by melan- choly experience, that I can be of no manner of use tohim. I have tried all possible methods to prevail with him to answer, in some degree at least, your good intentions in sending him abroad ; but all in vain; and in return for my endeavours, I am either laughed at or insulted. 52 THE WORLD. [No. 30. Sometimes I am called a beggarly French dog, the low vulgar excesses, and the porter-like man- and bid to go back to my own country and eat | ners of my son. my frogs ; and sometimes I am mounseer Ragout, ‘and told that I think myself a very fine gentle- man. I daily represent to him, that by sending him abroad you meant that he should learn the languages, the manners, and characters of dif- ferent countries; and that he should add to the classical education which you have given him at home, a knowledge of the world, and the genteel easy manners of a man of fashion, which can only be acquired by frequenting the best com- panies abroad. To which he only answers me with a sneer of contempt, and says, so be-like-ye, haf 1 would have connived at the common vices of youth, if they had been attended with the least degree of decency or refinement; but I must not conceal from you that your son’s are of the lowest and most degrading kind, and avowed in the most public and indecent man- ner. I have never been able to persuade him to deliver the letters of recommendation which you procured him ; he says he does not desire to keep such company. I advised him to take an Italian master, which he flatly refused, saying that he should have time enough to learn Italian when he went back to England. But he has taken, of himself, a music master to teach him ‘to play upon the German flute, upon which he throws away two or three hours every day. We spend a great deal of money, without doing you or ourselves any honour by it; though your son, like the generality of his countrymen, values himself upon his expense, and looks upon all foreigners, who are not able to inake so consid- erable a one, as a parcel of beggars and ‘scoun- drels; speaks of them, and if he spoke to them, would treat them as such. “Tf I might presume to advise you, Sir, it should be to order us home forthwith. I can assure you that your son’s morals and manners will be in much less danger under your own inspection at home, than they can be under mine abroad; and I defy him to keep worse English company in England than he now keeps here. But whatever you may think fit to determine concerning him, I must humbly insist upon my own dismission, and upon leave to assure you in person of the respect with-which I have the honour to be, Sir, *¢ Yours, &c.”’ I have complied with my son’s request, in consequence of his governor’s advice; and have | ordered him to come home tamvadiatele But | what shall I do with him here, where he is but too likely to be encouraged and countenanced in these illiberal and ungentleman-like manners ? My case is surely most singularly unfortunate ; Perhaps my misfortune may suggest to you some thoughts upon the methods of education in general, which, conveyed to the public through your paper, may prove of public use. It is in that view singly that ren have had this second trouble from, Sir, Your most humble servant and constant reader, R. D. I allow the case of my worthy correspondent to be compassionate, but I cannot possibly allow it to be singular. . The public places daily prove the contrary too plainly. I confess I oftener pity than blame the errors of youth, when I reflect upon the fundamental errors generally committed by their parents in their education. Many totally neglect, and many mistake it. The ancients began the education of their chil- dren by forming their hearts and their manners. They taught them the duty of men and of citi- zens; we teach them the languages of the ancients, and leave their morals and manners to shift for themselves. As for the modern species of human bucks, I impute their brutality to the negligence or the fondness of their parents. It is observed in parks, among their betters, the real bucks, that the most troublesome and mischievous are those who were bred up tame, fondled and fed out of the hand, when fawns.. They abuse, when grown up, the indulgence they met with in their youth ; and their familiarity grows troublesome and dungefous with their horns. WSWW VBA CULBIVTETETT BEDS BEVULOAGY WSECDRLBLVVSSE DD No. 30. . Tourspay, JuLy 26, 1'753. I am indebted for my paper of to-day to the scrupulous piety of one of my fair correspon- — dents, and to the undeserved, though not un- common, distresses of another. My readers will, I hope, forgive me the vanity of publishing the compliments paid me in these letters, when I !assure them that I had rather what I write should have the approbation of a sensible woman, than that of the gravest and most learned philos- opher in England, TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, Sir, The candour which shines so conspicuously in to be plagued on one side by the polite and ele-| your writings, the deference you express towards gant foreign follies of my wife and daughter, Be) the literary productions of women, and the on the other by the unconforming obstinacy, | genteel turn you give to every stroke of satire og ‘ No. 30.] on our foibles, have encouraged me to offer a few female thoughts on the arbitrary power of fash- ion; or, as it is more properly and politely ren- dered, taste. T am not learned enough to define the meaning of the word, much less am [ able to tell you ail the different ideas it conveys; but according to its common acceptation, I find that it is applica- ble to every affectation of singularity, whether in dress, in building, in furniture, or in diver- sions ; and the farther we stray from decency or propriety in this singularity, the nearer we ap- proach to taste. The prevalence of the Chinese taste bas been very humorously attacked in one of your pa- pers; and the greater prevalence of the Indian taste among us women, I mean the taste of going uncovered, has been as happily treated in another. But there is a taste at present totally different from this last, the impropriety of which can hardly, I think, have escaped your observation, though it has your censure. It is the taste of attending divine service, and of performing the most sacred duties of our religion, with a hat on. However trifling this may be deemed in itself, I cannot but consider it in a serious light ; and have always, for my own part, refused com- plying with a fashion, which seems to declare in the observers of it a want of that awful re- spect which is due to the Creator from his creatures. If temporal monarchs are to be served with an uncovered head, I mean, if the ceremony of uncovering the head be considered and expected by the higher powers as a mark of reverence and humility ; surely reason will suggest, that the Supreme over all should be approached and supplicated with at least equal veneration; yet, strange as it may appear to the more thinking part of our sex, this uncouth taste of being hat- ted prevails in almost all the churches in town and country; matrons of sixty adopting the thoughtless whims of girls in their teens, and each endeavouring to countenance the other in this idle transgression against the laws of decen- cy and decorum. Favour me, Sir, either by inserting this short letter, or by giving some candid admonitions on the subject after your'own manner. I am acquainted with many of your female readers, and am assured that your frequent remarks upon the most fashionable follies will have a proper effect. Reproofs are never so efficacious as when they are tempered with good humour ; a quality which is always to be found in the lucubrations of Mr. Fitz-Adam; among whose admirers I beg to be numbered, and am, Sir, Your humble servant, Crarissa. THE WORLD. 53 TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. Sir, To whom, Sir, should the injured fly for re- dress, but to him who has made the World his province? You will not, Iam sure, be offended at my taking this liberty. The Spectator was not above receiving and publishing the epistles of the female sex; nor will you, -Mr. Fitz- Adam, who are writing in the cause of virtue, disdain the correspondence of an innocent young creature, who sues to you for consolation in her affliction, and for one who has broke through all rules of honour and morality. - I will make no farther preface, but proceed. My name and circumstances I need not. ac- quaint you with; let it suffice that I am the daughter of a gentleman, and that my education has been suitable to my birth. It was my mis- fortune to be left at fifteen without a father ; but it was with a mother, who in my earliest infancy had sown the seeds of religion and vir- tue in my heart; and I think I may without arrogance assure you, that they have not been thrown away upon unprofitable ground. After this greatest of losses, we retired to a country village, some few miles from town; and there it was, Sir, that 1 first knew to be wretched. We were visited in this village by a young gentleman, who, as he grew intimate in the family, was pleased to flatter me with an affec- tion which at first I did not imagine to be real —I ought to have told you that his fortune was independent, and himself neither fool nor cox- comb.. Young as I was, some little share of experience told me, that gentlemen at his age imagine it a most material branch of politeness to pretend love to every pretty woman they fall in company with: but indeed, Mr. Fitz-Adam, I had a heart that was not to be caught by com- pliments. I examined his behaviour with the strictest attention; nota grain of partiality or self-love, at least I imagined so, clouded my judgment ; the flights of poetry and passion, so common in others, gave place, in him, to modesty and respect ; his words, his looks, were subser- vient to mine, and every part of his conduct seemed to speak the sincerity of his love. The approbation of friends was not wanting; and every one expected that a very little time would unite us to each other. For my own part, I built all my hopes of hap- piness upon this union; and [I flattered myself, that by an obedient and affectionate behaviour I might make the life of him I sincerely and vir- tuously loved as kappy as my own. [But it was not to be! Some common occurrence occasioned our separation; he parted, seemingly, with the greatest regret; asked and obtained permission to write; but some months elapsed without my seeing or hearing fromhim. . Every excuse that partiality could suggest I framed in his favour ; 54 but I had soon more convincing proofs of his neglect of me than either his absence or his silence. On his return, instead of apologizing for his behaviour, instead of accounting for his remissness, or of renewing the subject of all our conversations, he appeared gloomy and reserved ; or, whenever he inclined to talk, it was in the praises of some absent beauty, or in ridicule of marriage, which he assured me it should be many, many years before any one should prevail with him to think of seriously. With many such expressions, and a few careless visits, dur- ing a short stay in the country, he took his leave with the formality of a stranger, and I have never seen him since. ‘Thus, Sir, did he cancel an acquaintance of two years’ standing; the greatest part of which time he had employed in the most earnest endeavours to convince me that he loved me. If I could accuse myself of any act of levity or imprudence in my behaviour to this gentleman, the consciousness of such behaviour would have prevented me from complaining ; but I appeal to his own heart, as well as to all that know me (and he and others who read this letter will know from whom it comes), in vindication of my conduct. Yet why should I flatter myself that you will take any notice of what I write? ‘This injus- tice I complain of is no new one; it has been felt by thousands; or, if it had not, I have no invention to give entertainment to my story, or, perhaps, to make it interesting to any but my own family, or a few female friends who love me. ‘They will thank you for it, and be obliged : and to make it useful to your readers, tell them in your own words and manner (for I have no one to correct what I write) that the cruelest action a man can be guilty of is the rob- bing a young woman of her affections, with no other design than to abandon her. ‘Tell them, Sir, that though the laws take no cognizance of the fraud, the barbarity of it is not lessened : for where the proofs of an injury are such as the law cannot possibly ascertain, or perhaps might overlook if it could, we claim from hon- our and humanity protection and regard. How hateful, Mr. Fitz-Adam, among my own sex, is the character of a jilt! Yet men feel not the pangs of disappointed love as we do. From superiority of reason they can resent the injury, or from variety of employments can forget the trifler who inflicted it. But with us it is quite otherwise ; we have no occupations to call off our attention from disappointment, and no lasting resentment in our natures (I speak from experience) against him who has betrayed us. Let me add a word more, and I will have done. If every gentleman of real accomplish- ments, who has no serious design upon the heart of a woman, would avoid being particular either THE WORLD. ft ae [No. 31. in conversation or in the civil offices of guod- breeding, he would prevent many a silent pang and smothered sigh. It is, [ am sure, from a contrary behaviour, that many a worthy young creature is hurried to her grave by a disease not mentioned in the weekly bills, a broken heart. I am, with great sincerity, Sir, Your admirer and constant reader, W. S. I cannot dismiss this amiable young lady’s letter, without observing, that the injustice it complains of will admit of the highest aggrava- tion, if we consider that it is not in human pru- dence to guard against it. In cases of seduction, the frail one listens to her passions, and not her reason; and a woman is made miserable for ever, by listening to an offer of being virtuously happy- PLSD TVTALUVST VETLVTSVETVBAUSVTSVTVATTVSTE BAVETDTA GL SVT BVEVA No. 81.] Tuurspay, Aveust 2, 1753. Fallit te incautum pietas tua, ViRG. Heedless benevolence has been your ruin. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM., Sir, You will be told at the close of this letter the reason why you are troubled withit. I ama clergyman; and one, I hope, who has hitherto, as near as the imperfections of his nature would admit, performed the duties of his function. I hope also that I shall give no offence by saying, that I have been more assiduous in teaching the moral duties of christianity, than in explaining its mysteries, or in gaining the assent of men’s tongues to what their minds can have no con- ception of. ‘The great duty of benevolence, as it was always my second care to inculcate, so it was my second delight to practise. But I am constrained by a fatal succession of experience to declare, that I have been unhappy in the same proportion that I have been benevolent; and have debased myself, as often as I have endea- voured to raise the dignity of human nature. In the year one thousand seven hundred and — thirty-eight, when I was curate of a parish in York, the following article appeared in all the London newspapers : “‘ York, March 25th.—This day William Wyatt _ and John Simpson were executed here for — housebreaking. They behaved in a very peni- tent manner, but made no confession. At the tree the hangman was intoxicated with liquor; _ and supposing there were three ordered for exe- — cution, was going to put one of the ropes about the parson’s neck as he stood in the cart, and No. 31.] was with much difficulty prevented by the gaoler from so doing.’ This parson, Sir, was myself; and indeed every part of the article was literally true, except that the gaoler was equally intoxicated with the hangman, and that it was not till after the rope was forced about my neck, and the cart just go- ing off, that the sheriff’s officers interfered, and rectified the mistake. Thus was I in danger of an ignominious death by performing the duties of my office, and, from a tender regard to the souls of these poor wretch- es, watching their last moments in order to sof- ten their hearts, and bring them to a confession of the crime for which they were to suffer. But the indignity offered to me at the gallows was not all. There are in York, Mr. Fitz-Adam, as well as in London, scoffers at the clergy ; and I assure you, upon the veracity of my function, that I hardly ever walked the streets of that city afterwards, without being saluted by the name of the half-hanged parson. Time had scarcely taken off the edge of this ridicule, when a worse accident befel me. It was my misfortune to send an advertisement to the Daily Advertiser, setting forth, ‘ That if a certain young woman’ (who happened, though I knew it not, to be the most noted harlot upon the town, and who then kept a coffee-house in Covent-garden) ‘ would apply to the reverend Mr. W. B.’ (which was myself, and my name printed at full length) ‘ at the Blue- Boar inn, Holborn, she would hear of something greatly to her advantage.’ The occasion of this advertisement ~vas liter- aliy, thus. ‘The young woman in question had formerly been a servant at York, and had been basely and wickedly seduced by her master ; who dying a few years after, and feeling the ut- most remorse for so injurious an act, was willing to make this unhappy creature all the atonement in his power, by putting privately into my hands a hundred pounds to be paid her at his decease ; and as he supposed her to be in some obscure service in London, he conjured me in the most solemn manner to find her out, and to deliver the money into her own hands. It was to acquit myself of this trust that [ came up to town, and put the above-mentioned advertisement into the Daily Advertiser. The _ young woman, in consequence of it, came the Same day to my inn, and having convinced me that she was the rea) person (though I wondered to see her so fine a lady), and having received _ the donation with great modesty and thankful- ness, very obligingly invited me to a residence _ at her house during my stay in London. I made _ her my acknowledgments, and the more readily embraced the proposal, as she added that the _ house was large, and that the young ladies, her | lodgers (for she let lodgings, she said, to young THE WORLD. 55 ladies) were particularly pleased with the con- versation of the clergy. I dined with her that day, and continued till evening in the house, without the least suspicion of the occupation of its inhabitants; though I could not help observing that they treated me with extraordinary freedom; that their bosoms were uncovered ; and that they were not quite so serupulous upon certain occasions as our York- shire young women ; but as I had never been in town before, and had heard great talk of the freedom of London ladies, I concluded it was — the fashionable behaviour ; which though I did not extremely like, I forbore, through good man- ners, to find fault with. At about seven in the evening, as I was drinking tea with two of the ladies, I was broke in upon by some young gen- tlemen, one of whom happened to be the son of a near neighbour of mine at York, who, the mo- ment he saw me, swore a great oath, ‘ That I was the honestest parson in England; for that the boldest wencher of them all would scruple to be sitting in a public room at a bawdy-house with a brace of whores, without locking the door.’ A loud laugh, in which all the company joined, prevented my reproving this young gentleman, as I thought he deserved; but the language and behaviour of the ladies to these gentlemen, and their coarse and indecent jests both upon me and my cloth, opened my eyes to see where and with whom IJ was. I ran down stairs with the ut- most precipitation, and early the next morning took horse for York ; where, by the assiduity of the above-mentioned young gentleman, my story arrived before me, and I wasridiculed by half my acquaintance for putting myself to the trouble and expense of a journey to town for a brave of wenches, when I must undoubtedly have known that a score of them at York would gladly have obliged me for half the money. It was in vain for me to assert my innocence, by telling the whole story ; | was a second time made ridiculous, and my function rendered use- less in the place where J lived, by the punctual performance of my duty, in religiously observing the last request of a dying friend. I quitted York soon after this last disgrace, and got recommended, though with some difficulty, to a curacy in Lincolnshire. Here I lived hap- pily for a considerable time, and became the favourite companion of the squire of the pa- rish. He was a keen sportsman, hearty in his friendships, bitter in his resentments, and im- placable to poachers. It so happened, that from about the time of my coming to the parish, this gentleman’s park, and the country about it, were so shamefully robbed of hares, that every body was exclaiming against the thief. For my own part, as I thought it my duty to detect knavery of every kind, and was fond of all occasions of testifying my gratitude to my patron, I walked out early and late to dis- 56 cover this midnight robber. At last 1 succeeded in my search, and caught him in the very act of laying his snares; and who should he be but the gamekeeper of my benefactor! This im- pudent fellow, who saw himself detected, had the address to cry out thief first; and seizing me by the collar, late as it was, dragged me to his master’s house. I was really so astonished at his consummate assurance, that I heard my- self accused without the power of speaking ; and as a farther proof of my guilt, there was found, upon searching me, a great quantity of wire and other things, the use of which was sufficiently obvious, and which my wicked accuser had art- fully conveyed into my pocket, as he was leading me to my judge. To be as little prolix as I can, I was im- prisoned, tried, and convicted of the fact; and after having suffered the utmost rigour of the law, was obliged at last to take shelter in town, to avoid the thousand indignities that were of- fered me in the country. To particularize every misfortune that has happened to me in London, would be to exceed the bounds of your paper. I shall only inform you of the occurrences of last night. It was past twelve when I was returning to my lodgings from visiting a sick friend. As I passed along the Strand, I heard at a little dis- tance from me the sound of blows, and the screams of a woman. I quickened my pace, and immediately perceived a very pretty young creature upon her knees, entreating a soldier for merry, who, by the fury in his looks, and his uplifted cudgel, seemed determined to show none. Common humanity, as well as a sense of my duty, impelled me to stop and make my re- monstrance to this barbarous man. The effects of these remonstrances were, that I soon after found myself upon the ground, awaked as it were from a trance, with my head broke, my body bruised, my pockets rifled, and the soldier and his lady nowhere to be found. Alas! Mr. Fitz-Adam, if this had been the only misfortune of the night, I had gone home contented, but I had a severer one to undergo. J was comforting myself as I walked along, that I had acted the part of a christian in regard to these wretches; when a loud cry of thieves and murder, and immediately after it the sight of a gentleman. struggling with two ill-looking fel- lows, again alarmed me. All bruised and bloody as i was, I flew without hesitation to his assist- ance ; and being of an athletic make and consti- tution, in a very few minutes delivered him from their clutches; who, as soon as he saw himself at liberty, made the most natural use of it, by running away. I was now left to the mercy of two street robbers, as I thought them, both of whom had so securely fastened upon me as to prevent my escape. But while I was be- ginning to tell them that I had been already THE WORLD. [No. 82. robbed, to my utter confusion, they discovered to me that they were bailiffs; that they had ar- rested the person whom I rescued for thirty pounds; and that I must give security for the debt or go instantly to prison. To come to the close of my unhappy narra- tion, they carried me to one of their houses ; from whence I sent to the landlord where I lodged, who having something more than thirty pounds of mine in his hands (all that Iam worth in the world!) was kind enough to bail me. From a principle of conscience (knowing that I had really made myself the debtor), I would have paid the money immediately, if it had not occurred to me that the gentleman whom I de- livered would, upon reading these particulars in the World, be honourable enough to remit me the sum I stand engaged for on his account. As soon as I see this letter inserted, I shall make myself known to Mr. Dodsley, to whom I de- sire that the money may be paid: or if the gen- tleman chooses to come in person and discharge my bail, Mr. Dodsley will be able to inform him at what place I may be found. I beg your immediate publication of this let- ter, and am, Sir, Your most faithful servant, W. B. P. S. I forbore to make any mention of watchmen in my account of last night, because lsaw none. I suppose that it was not a proper time either for their walking their rounds, or for appearing at their stands. PRTETLE VR BDUBETVVVS BUDA SAVAVSVSVESTEATAIA BE TTATTFEDS BE No. 82.] Tuurspay, Aveusr 9, 1753. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, SiR, I was greatly surprised, that when in a late paper you were displaying your knowledge in diseases, and in the several specifics for their cure, you should be so very forgetful as never to mention a malady, which at present is not only epidemica], but of the foulest and most inveter- ate kind.. This malady is called by the learned the cacoethes carpendi, and by the vulgar criticism. It is not more true that every man is born in sin, than that he is born in criticism. For many years indeed the distemper was uncommon, and not dangerous in its consequences; seldom at- tacking any but philosophers and men of learn- ing, who, from a sedentary life and intense application to books, were more open to its in+ fluence than other men. In time, by the infec- tion of dedications, it began to spread itself among the great, and from them, like the gout, No. 32.] THE WORLD. 57 or a more noble distemper, it descended to their { a little longer, to have proposed a new building inferiors, till at last it has infected all ranks and orders of men. But as it is observable that an inhabitant of the fens in Lincolnshire is most liable to an ague, a Yorkshire-man to horse-stealing, and a Sussex-man to smuggling; so it is also obsery- able that the persons most liable to the contagion of criticism are young masters of arts, students in the Temple, attorneys’ clerks, haberdashers’ prentices, and fine gentlemen. As I had long ago looked upon this distemper to be more particularly English than any other, I determined, for the good of my country, what- ever pains it might cost me, to trace it to its first principles; but it was not till very lately that my labours were attended with any certain suc- cess. I had discovered in general that the pa- tient had an acidity of blood, which, if not corrected in time, broke out into a kind of evil, which, though no king’s-evil, might possibly, I thought, be cured by touching: but it occurred to me that the touch of an oak saplin might be much more efficacious than that of the ingenious Mr. Carte’s somebody. A linen draper’s prentice in the neighbourhood happening at that time to be labouring under a severe fit, I hinted this my opinion to his master, who immediately applied the touch ; but [ will not wrong my conscience by boasting of its effect, having learned that the lad was seen soon after at a certain coffee-house in the Strand, in all the agonies of the distemper. Untired by disappointment, I continued my searches with redoubled diligence ; and it is this day that I can felicitate myself, as well as thou- sands of my countrymen, that they have not been in vain. The cause then of this loathsome distemper is most certainly wind. This being pent in the bowels for some time, and the rules of good breeding not permitting it, in public places, to for their reception, contiguous to that in Moor- fields; and as they are quite harmless things, would charitably have taken them under his own immediate care. The loss of that eminent physician, were it from no other consideration, cannot but be lamented as a public misfortune ; his scheme being intended to prevent the con- tagion of criticism from spreading so universally among his majesty’s subjects. For there is one melancholy circumstance attending this disease, namely, that it is of quicker and more certain infection than the plague ; being communicated, like yawning, to a large circle of company in an instant of time; and (what is sufficient con- firmation of the cause) the congregated vapour which is emitted at such times is more disagree- able and offensive than if it had taken its proper and natural course. ; But the doctor’s principal reason for conjec- turing this distemper to be madness was its being almost continually acted upon by external objects. A man in the hydrophobia will be in agonies at the sight of water or any liquid ; and it is very well known that persons afflicted with a criticism will be thrown into equal agonies at the sight of a new book, pamphlet, or poem. But the greatest and most convalsive of all agonies are found to proceed from the represent- ation of a new play. I have myself observed upon this occasion a mob of poor wretches send- ing forth such dismal groans and such piercing sbrieks as have quite moved me: after this they have started up ona sudden, and with all the fury of madmen have torn up the benches from under them, and put an entire stop to an enter- tainment, which, to pay for a sight of, they have many of them borrowed the money from their masters’ tills. That this has the appearance of madness I cannot deny ; yet I have seen a turkey-cock be- take its natural course, it immediately flies up| have with equal fury at the appearance of a into the head ; and after being whirled about for awhile in that empty region, at length dis- charges itself with great violence upon the organ of speech. This occasions an involuntary mo- tion in that member, which continues with great rapidity for a longer or shorter time, according to the power or force of the original blast, which set it in motion. This volubility, or rather vibration, of tongue, is accompanied with certain unintelligible sounds, which, like the barkings of persons bit by a mad dog, are the most fatal proofs of the malignity of the dis- temper. The late Dr. Monro, who was long ago con- sulted upon the case, gave it as his opinion, that it was a species of madness, known among the Greeks by the name of xaxolvu/e, and among the Romans by malevolentia. It is said of that great and humane man, that from his concern for ; ¢ : these poor creatures, he intended, if he had lived . woman in a red petticoat; and I have always imputed it to the silliness of the bird, rather than to any disorder in his brain. But whether this be madness or not, the ori- ginal cause is most infallibly wind ; and to have discovered the cause of any distemper is to have taken the leading step towards effecting its cure ; which is indeed the sole end and design of this letter. u Wind then being the undoubted cause of that ‘universal disease vulgarly known by the name of criticism, the patient must enter into an jm- mediate and regular course of carminatives. ‘The herbs angelica, fennel, and cammomile, will be extremely proper for his tea; and the seeds of dill, cummin, anise, carroway, coriander, or cardamum, should never be out of his mouth. These, by the consent of all physicians, are the great dispellers of wind. But that is not all. From whence have they their name of carmin- I 38 atives? Not from this quality; here are no traces of such an etymology ; but they are hap- pily possessed of another and more excellent vir- tue ; and that in so eminent a degree, as to take their name from it.. This is the power of expel- ling all the pernicious effects of poetry, verses, songs, carmina; all that farrago of trumpery, which is so strangely jumbled together in thein- testines of that miserable invalid who labours under the weakness and disorder of criticism. For it is a great mistake in the learned, that these medicines took their name of carminatives from the ancient jugglers in physic accompany- ing their operation with verses and scraps of poetry, by way of incantation or charm; they certainly obtained this appellation from their wonderful power of expelling that ‘particular species of wind which is engendered in the critic’s bowels by reading of plays, poetry, and other works of wit, too hard for his digestion. That all persons labouring under an habitual and obstinate criticism may be induced to enter into this course of carminatives, I can assure them with great certainty, that the operation of these medicines, notwithstanding the prodigious discharge of crudities which they occasion, is not attended with the least sickness to the pa- tient himself ; he has indeed the appearance of a violent fit of the colic; but, in reality, he has only the trouble of eructation: all the sickness and nausea usual in other cases of the like nature being marvellously, in this, transferred to the by-standers, But as all medicines have not equal effects on all constitutions ; so this, though sufficient in many cases, may possibly be defective in a few : I have therefore in reserve a secret, which I may venture to pronounce will prove of great utility. It is this: Let every man who is afilicted with this scrophulous disease immediately turn au- thor. And if it should so happen (as it is not absolutely impossible) that his compositions should not be adapted to every body’s taste, it will infallibly work so upon his stomach as en- tirely to purge off those indigested particles, to which all this foul wind was originally owing. Vor it is true to a proverb, that if you hang a dog upon acrab-tree, he will never love verjuice. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, BoD. Tam sorry, in one particular, to differ in opin- ion with my ingenious correspondent. But I cannot allow that a critic’s turning author will cure him of his malevolence; having always found that the most difficult people in the world to be pleased are those who know experimentally that they want talents to please. THE WORLD. [ No. 33. No. 83.1 THurspay, Auaust 16, 1753. Ir has lain upon my conscience for some time, that I have taken no notice of those of my cor- respondents, whose letters to me, fur reasons of state, have been withheld from the public. Seve- ral of these gentlemen have favoured me with their assistance from the kindest motives. They have discovered that I am growing dull, and have therefore very generously sent me some of their own wit, to restore me to reputation. But as I am not sure of a constant supply of these bril- liant epistles, I have been cautious of inserting them : knowing that when once a bottle of claret is set upon the table, people are apt to make faces at plain port. There are other gentlemen to whom I am no less obliged. These have taken it for granted, that as I declared in my first paper against meddling with religion, I must certainly be an infidel : upon which supposition they have been pleased to shower in upon me what they call their free thoughts : but these thoughts, as I have hitherto given no assurances of my infidelity, are rather too free for this paper. And besides, as I have always endeavoured to be new, I can- not consent to publish any thing so common as abuse upon religion. But the majority of these my private corres- pondents are politicians. They approve, they tell me, of my neutrality at first; but matters have been so managed lately by those in power, that it is the part of every honest man to become an opposer. The compliments which these gen- tlemen are pleased to pay my abilities are the highest satisfaction to me. ‘Their letters do me the honour to assure me, that if I will but exert myself, the ministry must do exactly as I would have them; and that the next general election will certainly take whatever turn I have a mind to give it. I am very far from denying that I have all this power ; but I have ever been of opinion that it is greater to save than destroy : for which rea- son I am willing to continue the present admin- istration a little longer ; though at the same time. I must take the liberty of declaring, that if-1I find the popular clamours against a late act of parliament to be true, namely, that it will defeat all the prophecies relating to the dispersion of the Jews; or that the New Testament is to be thrown out of our Bibles and Common-prayer books ; or that a general circumcision is certain- ly to take place soon after the meeting of the new parliament; I say, when these things are so, 1 shall most assuredly exert myself as becomes a true-born Englishman. I confess very freely that I had conceived some dislike to the marriage bill ; having been assured by the maid-servant where I lodge, that after No 33.] the 25th day of next March, no young woman could be married without taking her bible oath that she was worth fifty pounds. But as I have read the bill since, and have found no such clause in it, I am tolerably well satisfied. To those of my correspondents who are angry with me for not having endeavoured to inculcate some serious moral in every one of these papers, I shall just take notice, that I am writing es- says, and not sermons. But though I do not avowedly once a week attack envy, malice, and uncharitableness, I hope that a paper now and then written with pleasantry and good humour, though it should have no direct moral in view, may so amuse and temper the mind, as to guard it against the approaches of those tormenting passions. There is nothing truer than that bad spirits and ill-humour are the parents of misery and mischief; he, therefore, who can lead the imagination from gloom and vapours to objects of cheerfulness and mirth is a useful member of society. Having now discharged my conscience of its burden, I shall close this paper with a letter which I received yesterday by the penny-post. I insert it here to show, that a late very serious essay of mine, calculated for the support and delight of ladies in years, has done real harm; while others of a gayer nature, and without a moral, have been perfectly inoffensive. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. SIR, That you have been the occasion of misery to an innocent woman is as true, as that I hope I may acquit you of any evil intention: you have indeed misled me, but it is another who has wronged me. Yet if I had not used my utmost endeavours, and practised every honest art to get redress from this unjust person, I should neither desire nor deserve a place in your paper. But, alas! Sir, while I am prefacing my sad story, through a too modest reluctance to begin it, Iam fearful that you will mistake me for some credulous young creature, who has yielded up her honour to betraying man. Indeed, Mr. Fitz- Adam, I am no such person, being at pre- sent in my fifty-sixth year, and having always entertained such an aversion to impurity, as to be ready to die with shame even of my very dreams, when they have sometimes happened to tend that way. But how has my virtue been rewarded !——I will conceal nothing from you, Sir, though my cheeks are glowing with shame as well as indignation. I am wronged, bar- barously wronged, and will complain. The hand that is now penning this letter was three tedious weeks ago given at the altar to the most unworthy of men——Forgive me, Sir, a moment’s pause——I cannot think of what I am, without exclaiming, in the bitterness of my THE WORLD. ject? Is she not to be endured? 59 heart, how cruelly I am disappointed! I will be particular:in my relation. My father was a country gentleman of a good estate, which by his death, that happened near two months ago, devolved tc me as his only child. It was matter of wonder to our neigh- bours, that a person so agreeable as I was thought to be, and who had been marriageable a good while (for as I mentioned before, Iam in my fifty-sixth year) should be suffered to live single to so ripe an age. ‘To say the truth, I could never account for this wonder, any otherwise than from that excess of delicacy which I al- ways observed in my conversation with the men, and which in all probability prevented them from declaring themselves. As soon as I had performed the last duties to my father, I came up to town, and took lodgings in Bury-street.—Would it had been in Pall- mall, or a street still wider! for then I might have escaped the observation of a tall well made gentleman from Ireland, who, unfortunately for my peace, lodged directly over the way. I will not trouble you with the methods he took from his window to engage my attention, or with what passed between us on his being permitted to visit me. All I shall say is, that whatever ground he had gained in my heart, it might have proved a difficult task for him to have carried me without a settlement, if the World of July the 12th, upon the love of el- derly women, had not fallen into my hands, Before the reading of that fatal paper, 1 had suspicions that my person might possibly ke less cesirable than my fortune ; but now I believed, and my wishes assisted my belief, that he languished to possess me. I read the story of Ninon l’ Enclos above a dozen times over; and I rejoiced to find myself of the exact age of that lady, when her charms had such an ascendancy over the unfortunate de Villiers. My lover found me with the paper in my hand. Iread it to him; and he confirmed me in my opinion, by wishing himself the Abbé Gedoyn, and his angel, as he called me, eighty years old, that he might be as happy as the Frenchman. In short, being now thoroughly convinced that the only object of a sincere, fer- vent, and lasting passion in a young man was a woman in years, I made no secret to him of my inclinations; and the very next morning we were publicly married. Alas! Sir, were you in jest or earnest when you wrote that paper? I have a melancholy reason for believing you were in jest. Andisa woman of fifty-five then so undesirable an ob- Or are all men deceivers? No; thatis impossible; it is I only that am deceived. I dare not say more, unless it be to tell you, that a fortune of thirty thousand pounds is rather too much to be given in exchange for a mere name, when, if you 60 knew the whole truth, I have no real right to any name but my maiden one. I am, by no name at all, Sir, ' Your most humble servant. DPABPRUVA BVSVR VVSVOTVT VLVVTTEA BASU VOSVVTASVTSVULVUTVE BT SA VT No. 34.] Tuurspay, Aucusr 23, 1753. Wauen I declared against meddling with politics in these my lucubrations, I meant only that kind of politics, or art of government, which is so learnedly and logically reasoned upon in all the coffee-houses and barbers’ shops of this great metropolis; intending (as it is my province) to take cognizance of any particular act of the le- gislature, that, contrary to its intention, has been prejudicial to the morals of my fellow citizens. But it is the repeal of an act of parliament, and not the act itself, that I am now about to complain of. The act I mean is the witch act. I am not considering the repeal of this act as af- fecting our religious belief, according to the Scotch proverb, ‘Tak’ awa thedeil, and guid bye to the Lord.” I think of it only ina moral light, as it has given such encouragement to witcheraft in this kingdom, that one hardly meets with a grown person, either in public or private, who is not more or less under its in- fluence. Whoever attends to the sermon at church, or listens to the conversation of grave and good men, will hear and believe that the present age is the most fruitful in wickedness of any since the deluge. Whether these gentlemen have dis- covered the true reason of this depravity, or whether the discovery has been reserved for me, I will not pretend to determine; but certain it is, that the repeal of an act of parliament, which was meant to restrain the power of the devil, by inflicting death upon his agents, must infalli- bly give him a much greater influence over us, than he ever could have hoped for during the continuance of such an act. ' I am well aware that there are certain of my readers who have no belief in witches; but I am willing to hope they are only those who either have not read, or else have forgot, the pro- ceedings against them, published at large in the State Trials: if there is any man alive who can deny his assent to the positive and circumstan- tial evidence given against them in these trials, I shall only say that I pity most sincerely the hardness of his heart. That the devil may truly be said to be Jet loose among us, by the repeal of this act, will appear beyond contradiction, if we take a survey of the general fascination that all ranks and or- ders of mankind seem at present to be under. THE WORLD. [ No. 34. What is it but wifchcratt that occasions that universal and uncontrollable rage of play, by which the nobleman, the man of fashion, the merchant and the tradesman, with their wives, sons, and daughters, are running headlong to ruin? What is it but witchcraft that conjures up that spirit of pride and passion for expense, by which all classes of men, from his Grace at Westminster to the salesman at Wapping, are entailing beggary upon their old age, and be- queathing their children to poverty and the parish? Again, is it possible to be accounted for, from any natural cause, that persons of good sense and sober dispositions should take a freak four or five times in a winter, of turning their houses into inns ; cramming every bed-chamber, closet, and corner with people whom they hardly know ; stifling one another with heat ; blocking up the streets with chairs and coaches; offend- ing themselves, and pleasing nobody; and all this for the vain boast ef having drawn together a greater mob than my lady Somebody, or the — honourable Mr. Such-a-one? That nothing but witchcraft can be the occasion of so much folly and absurdity must be obvious to the com- mon sense of all mankind. : Another and more melancholy proof of the power of witchcraft is, that a wife may be beau- tiful in her person, gentle in her manners, fond of her husband, watchful for his quiet, careful of his interest, kind to his children, cheerful to his friends, and obliging to all; yet be yoked to a wretch so blind to his own happiness, as to prefer to her endearments the hired embraces of a diseased prostitute, loathsome in her person, and a fury in her disposition. If this is not witchcraft, I should be glad to know of such a husband what name I may eall it by. Among the lower kind of tradesmen (for every dealer even in broken glass bottles has his fille de joye ) it is a common thing for a husband to kick his wife out of doors in the morning, for his having sub- mitted over-night to a good drubbing from his mistress. It would be endless to take notice of every argument that suggests itself fm proof of witch- craft; I shall content myself with only one more, which I take to be incontestable. ‘This is the spirit of Jacobitism, which is so well known to possess many of his.majesty’s protestant sub- jects in this kingdom. ‘Thata poor Highlander in Scotland may be a Jacobite without witch- craft, I am ready to allow; zeal for a lost chield of the guid house of Stuart may have eaten him up: but that an English country gentleman, who is really no papist in his heart, or that a wealthy citizen of London, who goes to church every Sunday, and joins in the pray- ers for the present royal family, should be drink- ing daily to the restoration (as he calls it) of a popish bigot, who would burn him at Smithfield the next week for not going to mass, and whose * No. 35.] utmost merit is his precarious descent from a family, remarkable for little else than pedantry, obstinacy, debauchery, and enthusiasm; that such a person should be a Jacobite, or in other words, an enemy to the best of kings, and the wisest of constitutions, cannot possibly be ac- counted for but by the power of witchcraft. From all these considerations, it is much to _ he wished that a new witch act may take place ‘next session of parliament. Vor popult est vor Dei is a wise and a true saying; and that the vox populi is in favour of such an act, let the late proceedings at Tring, and some similar occur- rencesin other parts of England, bear testimony. That the legislature may be farther induced to take this matter into consideration, I am clearly of opinion, that the passing such an act will go a great way towards silencing the clamours which have gone forth so grievously against the Jew bill: for it is shrewdly suspected that the same people who imagined their religion to be at stake by the repeal of the one, are at present under the most terrible consternation at the passing of the other: and besides it will be a convincing proof to all sorts of persons, that the administration is as well inclined to discourage the devil, as it is to favour the Jews; a circum- stance which, as matters stand at present, seems to want confirmation. In the mean time I entreat all my readers, as much as in them lies, to be upon their guard against witches: for the better discovery of whom (as the law does not admit of the usual trials by fire and water) I shall here set down all I know or have been told upon the subject. if a woman turned of eighty, with grey hairs upon her chin; and a high-crowned hat on, should be seen riding upon a broomstick through the air, or sailing in an egg-shell upon the ‘Thames in a high wind, you may almost swear that she isa witch. If as often as you see any particular old woman you feel a pricking of pins all over you, or if your stomach be sick, and should happen to discharge a great quantity of the said pins, or if while you are speaking to this old woman she should suddenly transform her- self into a horse without a head, or any such uncommon animal, you may very fairly con- clude that she is no other than a witch. In such cases it will be a happy circumstance if you are able tosay the Lord’s prayer: for by repeat- ing it three times to yourself she becomes as harmless as a babe. A lady of my acquaintance, who has often been bewitched, assures me of her having de- tected multitudes of these hags, by laying two straws one across the other in the path where they are totread. It is wonderful, she says, to see how a witch is puzzled at these straws: for that after having made many fruitless at- tempts to step cver them, she either stands stock still, or turns back. But to secure yourself THE WORLD. 61 within doors against the enchantment of witches, especially if you are a person of fashion, and have never been taught the Lord’s prayer, the only method I know of is, to nail a horse-shoe upon the threshold. This I can affirm to be of the greatest efficacy; insomuch that I have taken notice of many alittle cottage in the coun- try, with a horse-shoe at its door, where gaming, extravagance, routs, adultery, Jacobitism, and all the catalogue of witchcrafts, have been totally unknown. I shall conclude this paper by signifying my intention, one day or other, of hiring a porter, and of sending him with a hammer and nails, and a large quantity of horse-shoes to certain houses in the purlieus of St. James’s. I believe it would not be amiss (as a charm against play) if he had orders to fix a whole dozen of these horse-shoes at the door of White’s. From St. James’s he shall have directions to proceed to the city, and to distribute the remainder of his burden among the thresholds of those doors, at which the witchcraft of Jacobitism has been most suspected to enter. WETS VV VV BE TVSEVSF VT SPVCTBVVSVWTA SVSRCTEVT UL DVS VPEVSIVIE TAU No. 35.) Tuurspay, Aucust 30, 1753. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Tat you may know who it is that offers you his correspondence, and how qualified I am. to make a figure in the World, I shall let you into the secret of my birth and history. I have the honour to be descended from the ancient family of the Limbertongues, in Staf- fordshire. My grandfather was of the cabinet with Oliver Cromwell; but unfortunately hap- pening to whisper a secret of some importance to his wife, the affair unaccountably became pub- lic, and sentence of dismission was immediately passed upon him. My father was decypherer to King William. It was by his diligence and address that the assassination plot and some other combinations in that reign were brought to light. But being somewhat too officious in his zeal, he was suspected of betraying the se- crets of his office (the better, as is supposed, to insinuate himself inte those of the opposition), and was discarded with disgrace. With a for- tune barely sufficient. for support, he retired to his native village in Staffordshire; and soon after marrying the daughter of an unbeneficed clergyman in the neighbourhood, he had issue male, the writer of this letter. My earliest infancy gave indications of an in- quisitive mind ; and it was my father’s care to implant in me, with the first knowledge of words, an insatiable desire to communicate. At \ 62 twelve years old I discovered the frailty of a maiden aunt, and brought the curate of the pa- rish into disgrace. A young lady of uncommon discretion, who boarded in the family, was so delighted with the story, that she made me a party in all her visits, to give me new occasions of relating it ; but happening one evening to steal a little abruptly upon the retirement of this lady, I discovered her in the prettiest familiarity ima- ginable with the harlequin of a strolling com- pany. It was about this time that a fever carried my mother to her grave. My father for some weeks was inconsolable; but making an acquaintance with an inn-keeper’s daughter in the village, and marrying her soon after, he became the gayest man alive. By the direction of my new mother, who, for unknown reasons, grew un- easy at my prying disposition, I was sentenced to a grammar school at fifty miles distance. Mortified as I was at first, I began early to re- lish this change of life. A new world was open to me for discovery: I wormed myself into the secrets of every boy, and made immediate in- formation to the master. Many were the whip- pings upon these occasions; but, as my heart always felt for the mischiefs of my tongue, I was the first to condole with the sufferer, and escaped suspicion by my humanity. But all human enjoyments are transitory. It happened in the course of my discoveries, that by a per- verse boy’s denying the fact he was charged with, I was unfortunately called up to give evidence against him; and though I delivered it with the strictest regard to truth, I found the whole school in combination against me, and every one branded me with the name of tell-tale. From this unlucky accident, hardly a day passed, but I was called upon to answer facts which I never committed, and was as certainly punished for denying them. _ I was buffeted and abused by every boy, and then whipped for quarrelling; or if any thing was missing in the school, it was constantly found in one of my coat pockets, or locked up safely in my trunk. During this continued state of persecution, I wrote repeatedly to my father for leave to re- turn home: but the government of that family was transferred, and admittance to it, even at common vacation times, denied me. At the end of five years, however, and, as you will soon | be informed, to my utter disgrace, I obtained the favour of passing the Christmas holidays at home. The morning after my arrival, I perceived at breakfast, by the demure looks of the maid, and now and ther a side-wink at her mistress, that there were secrets in the family. It was not long before I discovered some particular fami- liarities between my mother-in-law and a spruce exciseman in the neighbourhood. The room I THE WORLD. [No. 35. lay in was the next to hers; but unadyisedly at- tempting a smail peep-hole in the wainscot, T unluckily bored through the face of my father’s picture, which hung on the other side ; by which © misfortune I underwent the mortification of ‘a discovery, and the severest discipline I ever felt. Stung with the reproaches I met with from this adventure, I doubled my assiduities, and had the satisfaction of discovering one afternoon in the garden, that the exciseman and my mother were made of the very same flesh and blood with the curateand my aunt. My father happening to be engaged at the next village, | had time togofrom house to house to inform the parish of his dis- grace: but how great was my surprise, when at my return home, instead of gaining credit to my story, my mother had art enough to turn the mischief upon myself, and to get me driven out of doors as the most wicked of incen- diaries. . Enraged as I was at my father’s inhumanity, I fell upon my knees in the street, and made a solemn oath never to enter his doors again, whatever misery might be the consequence. With this resolution, and somewhat more than a guinea in my pocket (which I had saved from the benefactions of some particular friends at my return from school), I took the road, by moon-light, for London. Nothing remarkable occurred to me on the way, till the last mile of my journey ; when joining company with a very civil gentleman, who was kind enough to con- duct me over the fields from Islington, and giv- ing him a history of my life, I found this humane stranger so touched with my misfortunes, as to offer me a bed at his own house, and a supply of whatever money I wanted, til) provision could be made forme. Such unexpected generosity drew tears from me. _ I thanked him for his goodness ; and showing him a guinea, which was yet unbroken, I told him the favour of his house would be sufficient obligation. I was in- deed a little surprised to find at that very instant my benefactor’s pistol at my breast, and a me- nace of immediate death, if I refused to deliver : but you will imagine, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that I~ could withhold nothing from so kind a friend ; and obligations being thus mutual between us, he left me to pursue my way with a few half- pence in my pocket. ‘ To particularize my distresses on my first ar-_ rival in town would be to write a volume in- stead of a letter. In a short time my inquisitive talents were taken notice of, and I commenced business in the post of retainer to a bailiff’s fol- lower: but forgetting that secrecy was necessary to my commission, I communicated my errand — wherever I was sent upon the look-out, and gave many a fine gentleman time to escape. This employment, though of short duration, got me a natural interest among the lawyers; and by the merit of scholarship, as well as No. 36.] writing a tolerable hand, I succeeded in time to the smart post of clerk to a solicitor. But here too it was my misfortune to be a little too unguarded in my discoveries ; for happening sometimes to be sent abroad with bills of cost for business never done, and fees never paid, I found it impossible to conceal any thing from the clients, and was discarded as a betrayer of my master’s secrets. In the course of a few years I was obliged to combat necessity in the various characters of a poet, a ballad-singer, a soldier, a tooth-drawer, a mountebank, an actor, and a travelling tutor to a buck. In this last post I might have lived with ease and profit, if I could have concealed from my pupil that he was the plague of every country he came to, and the disgrace of hisown. By gradual progres- sion, and having acquired some knowledge in French, I rose in time to be assistant-secretary to an envoy abroad. Here it was that my in- quiring mind began to be of service to me; but happening in a few months to make discovery of certain transactions, not much to the honour of my master, ‘and being detected in transmit- ting them to my friends in England, I was dis- carded from my office with contempt and beg- gary. Upon this occasion my necessities hurried me to an act of guilt, that my conscience will for ever upbraid me with: for being thus deserted in a country where charity was un- fashionable, and reduced to the very point of starving, I renounced my religion for bread, and became a brother of the mendicants of St. Francis. Under the sanctity of this habit, and from the example of the brotherhood, I ted a life of profligacy and wantonness. But though my conscience was subdued, my tongue retained its freedom: for it was my misfortune, one day, through ignorance of my company, to betray the secrets of a lady’s confession to her own husband. ‘The story began to spread; and it was by a sort of miracle that I found the means of escaping with life. At my return into England, I made asolemn renunciation of my apostacy ; and by the favour of a certain great man became of consequence enough for the service of a ministerial writer. My performances for some time were highly applauded; but being a little too fond of com- municating objections for the sake of answering them, I was accused of weakening the cause, and ordered to look out for other employment. Enraged at the injustice of this treatment, I de- voted my pen to the service of patriotism; but being somewhat indiscreet in my zeal, and oc- casionally hinting to the world that my employ- ers were only contending for power, I had the sentence of dismission passed upon me for inadvertency. : _ Being thus driven from all employment, and neither inclined nor able to conquer the bent of my mind, I began seriously to consider how I THE WORLD. 63 might turn this very disposition to advantage. In the midst of these reflections it occurred to me that the ladies were naturally open-hearted like myself, and that if I tendered them my services, and supplied them with scandal upon all their acquaintance, I might find my account init. Butas wicked as this town is thought to be, and as knowing as I was in what was doing in it, I soon found that the real occurrences of life were too insipid for the attention of these fair ones, and that I must add invention to facts, or be looked upon as a trifler. I accordingly laid about me with all my might, and by a judie cious mixture of truth and lies succeeded so well, that in less than two months I carried off a dowager of quality, and am at present a very resigned widower with a handsome fortune. This, Sir, is my history ; and as I cannot keep any thing that I know, and as I know almost every thing that people would wish to keep, I intend myself the honour of corresponding with ‘you often ; and am, Sir, Your most humble servant, Nic. Limspertoncur. I accept of Mr. Limbertongue’s correspond- ence with all my heart. The varieties he has experienced will enable him to furnish useful cautions and instructive entertainment. The ladies will be taught to avoid scandal by virtue ; and the men either to reform or conceal their vices, while the tell-tale is abroad. VR DVB VE VDAEVRTTVVWUVSVU VWRDVVRA STA TUVTETDEDVEVRTVUTDATLAVTAAA No. 36.] Tuurspay, Sept. 6, 1753. I was formerly acquainted with a very honest old gentleman, who as often as he was asked at the tavern how his wife did, never failed to as- sure us, ‘ that he did not come abroad to be put in mind of his wife.’ I could wish with all my heart that those persons who are married to the town for at least eight months in the year would, upon their removal into the country, forget the amusements of it, and attach them- selves to those pleasures which are to be found in groves and gardens, in exercise and temper- ance. But as fond as we are of variety, and as pleasing as the changes of the seasons are gener- ally acknowledged to be, it is observable that in all the large villages near London the summer seems only to be endured, as it is made to re- semble the winter in town. Routs, visits, as- semblies, and meetings for drinking, are all the pleasures that are attended to; while the mead- ows and corn-fields (Where the milk-maid singeth blithe And the mower whets his scythe) are neglected and despised. 64 I have received a letter upon this subject, which, for its candour and good sense, I shall lay before my readers for the speculation of to- day. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, In this season of universal migration, when the fire-works of Marybone, and the tin-works of Vauxhall, are deserted for the salutary springs of Tunbridge, Cheltenham, and Scarborough ; it would not be amiss, methinks, if you were to give us your opinion of those seats of idleness and pleasure, health and gayety. Or suppose you should extend your views still farther, and tell us what you think in general of summer amusements, and the fashionable employments of rural life? To supply in some measure this defect, give me leave to acquaint you with the principal occurrences that engaged my attention very lately, in a ten days’ retirement in the country... As the friend I visited was a man who had seen much of the world; as his wife and daugh- ters were adorned with all the accomplishments of genteel life ; and as they were no less admired for their understandings than their persons ; my expectation was raised and flattered with the pleasing, yet reasonable thought of passing my time with no less improvement than delight, in a situation where art and nature conspired to indulge my utmost wishes. But how grievous- ly disappointed was I to find, that whenever I walked out I must walk alone; and even then was sure to be reproached ; in the afternoon, for rising before the bottle was out ; and in the even- ing, for breaking a set of cards! The former part of my conduct disobliged the men, and the lat- ter offended the ladies. Scarce could I reach the end of the avenue, before my friend, witha gen- tle rebuke, summoned me back to give a toast ; and hardly could I contemplate the view from | the terrace, before Miss Kitty would come run- ning to tell me that the rubber was up, and that it was my turn to cut in. This, I doubt, is too general a complaint to be soon redressed ; yet it is not less a grievance. ‘That persons so well qualified for giving and receiving the pleasures of conversation should thus agree to banish thought (at least, all subjects that are worth the thinking of) must be almost incredible to those who are unacquainted with polite life. That a season, in which all the beauties of nature ap- pear to such advantage, should be thus thrown away, and as much disregarded as the depth of winter, seems utterly inexcusable, and in some degree immoral. ‘ How,’ thought I to myself, ‘can talents designed for the noblest purposes be thus perverted to the meanest? Is it the sole province of wit to give toasts, and of beauty to shuffle cards? How are the faculties of reason suspended, while those of passion alone prevail! THE WORLD. [ No. 22. Since it is no less certain that the sweetest temper may be destroyed by cards, than that the best constitution may be ruined by wine.’ These were my usual reflections as I return- ed to my company, chagrined and disappointed at the loss of a walk, which, though a solitary one, I should always prefer to the pleasures of the bottle, or a party at whist by daylight, in the best assembly in England. Be so good, Mr. F*tz-Adam, as to esposise the cause of injured Nature, and remonstrate loudly against this enormous barbarity of killing the summer. Let cards prevail in winter, and in cities only: too much of them do we see in this great town to desire them elsewhere. Let drinking be confined to election dinners and cor- poration feasts, and not continue (as it too much does) imperceptibly to make havoc of our private families. Assure the ladies, the young ones I mean, that however their mothers may instruct them by example, or whatever they themselves may think, anxiety and disappointment, hope — and fear, are no improvers of their beauty: that Venus never kept her court at a rout; and that the arrows of Cupid are not winged with cards. Let them take but one walk, and the milk-maid that gives them a sillabub at the end of it will» convince them that air and exercise are the true preservatives of health and beauty, and will add ~ more lively bloom and fresher roses to their cheeks than all the rouge of French art, or all the flush of English avarice. Inform the men, if they know it not already, that though they may esteem themselves sober when they are not dead drunk, and possibly may never be in a state of intoxication, yet drinking to any degree of ex- cess will certainly hurt, if not totally ruin their constitutions, and be the sure, though perhaps slow, occasions of rheumatisms, gouts, dropsies, and death itself. Many instances of this will occur in the sphere of every one’s acquaintance ; and if some of the deceased have lived fifty or sixty years, it is hardly to be doubted, that had this barbarous custom never prevailed, their lives might have been extended to at least seventy or eighty. In short, while these practices continue, by. which every rural delight is entirely lost, coun- try seats may be esteemed an idle expense, and auseless burden. London is certainly the fit- test place for either the bottle or cards: it is there that the gentlemen may pursue the one, and the ladies the other, without being inter- rupted by such troublesome guests as myself, who may be now and then desirous of picking a nosegay, or of listening to the nightingale. For in vain does Nature lavish her charms, if they — are thus neglected ; in vain do the birds sing, if no one hears them; and in vain do the flowers blow, if : . they blow unseen, And waste their sweetness on the desert air. But. if these polite persons will continue te No. 37.] reside in the summer at their country seats, merely because it is the fashion, it would be no unfriendly office to spare them the mortification of continually gazing upon unwelcome objects. In order, therefore, to fix their attention to the mest important concerns, I would humbly pro- pose (and I doubt not but the proposal would meet with their approbation) that immediately after dinner the windows be closed, and the light of the sun be exchanged for that of wax candles; by which means the gentlemen over their bottle, in one room, may uninterruptedly harangue on houndsand horses, while the ladies in another may be shut up till midnight with cards and counters. And that the latter may be spared the disquiet of having recourse on a Sun- day to fields and gardens (I mean if their mam- mas or husbands should happen to be so enthu- siastically rigid as to forbid gaming upon that day) let it be lawful for them to lie a-bed and study Mr. Hoyle. Iam, ‘Sir, Your most humble servant, Rusticus. VDVWTVBVVD VHD VWHUCSTUSTSG LVOEVU CSSUTVSE VA VEVTDTSEU*BVAITUD No. 37.] Tuurspay, Serv. 18, 1753. Tue following letter is written with so much nature and simplicity, that rather than curtail it of its length, I have thought proper (as I once did before) to extend my paper to another half sheet. TO MR, FITZ-ADAM., Str, I am the widow of a merchant, with whom I lived happily, and in affluence for many years. ‘We had no children, and when he died he left me all he had ; but his affairs were so involved, that the balance which I received, after having gone through much expense and trouble, was no more than one thousand pounds. This sum J _ placed in the hands of a friend of my husband’s, who was reckoned a good man in the city, and : who allowed me an interest of four per cent. for my capital ; and with this forty pounds a year I retired, and boarded in a village about a hun- dred miles from London. There was an old lady of great fortune in that neighbourhood, who visited often at the house where I lodged: she pretended, after a short acquaintanee, to take a great liking to me: she _ professed a friendship for me, and at length per- | suaded me to come and live with her. Between the time of taking this my resolution and putting it into execution, I was informed that this lady whom [I shall call Lady Mary, was very unequal in her humours, and treated THE WORLD. 65 her inferiors and dependents with that insolence which she imagined her superior: fortune gave her a right to make use of. But as I was neither her relation nor depend- ent, and as all that I desired from her was com- mon civility, I thought that whenever her lady- ship or her house became disagreeable to me, | could retire to my old quarters, and live in the same manner as I did before I became acquainted with her ; and upon the strength of this reason- ing, I packed up my clothes, paid off my lodg- ings, and was conveyed by my Lady Mary, in her own coach, to her mansion-house, For the first year she treated me with civility and confidence; but in that time I could not help observing that she had no affection for any body. I found out that she did not love her nearest relations, who were highly esteemed by all the rest of the neighbourhood ; and therefore I gave but little credit to all the protestations of friendship which she was continually making to me. I She told me all that she knew, and more than she knew ; and insinuated to me that I was to look upon the trust she reposed in me as the strongest proof of the highest friendship. But these insinuations lost their effect; for I knew by experience, that there are many people, of which number her ladyship was one, that often have a need to unbosom themselves, who must have somebody to impart their secrets to, and who, when they know any thing that ought not to be told, are never at ease till they tell it. But to proceed in my story. One day, when her ladyship had treated me with uncommon kindness, for my having taken her part in a dispute with one of her relations, I received a letter from London, to inform me that the per- son in whose hands I had placed my fortune, and who till that time had paid my interest money very exactly, was broke, and had fled the kingdom. Lady Mary, in her fits of friendship, had of- fered me presents, and perhaps the oftener, be- cause I always refused them. She had some- times told me how desirous she was to do me good in any thing that lay within her power. But in those days I had the inexpressible hap- piness of having no wish or view beyond what my little fortune could afford me; and I was truly sensible of, and blessed in, the heartfelt satisfaction of independence. Imagine then, Sir, what I felt at the receipt of the above-mentioned letter. All that I shall say to you about what it produced is, that 1 took my. resolution immedi- ately. I carried the letter in my hand to Lady Mary; but before I gave it to her, I told her, that I had never doubted the sincerity of her friendship, and that I was thoroughly sensible of the kindness with which she treated me. I put her in mind of the presents which she had K 66 offered me, and added, that while I was not in want of her assistance, [ thought it wrong to accept of them; but that the time was now come when her friendship was likely to become my only support; that it would be unjust in me to suspect that I should not receive it; and that the letter I then gave her would tell her all, and spare my tears. Her ladyship immediately read it over with more attention than emotion ; but after returning it to me, she embraced me, and assured me, in a condoling voice, that however great my misfor- tunes might be, she could not help feeling some satisfaction in thinking that it was in her power to alleviate them, by giving me proofs of her un- alterable friendship ; that her house, her table, her servants, should always continue to be mine ; that we should never part while we lived, and that I should feel no change in my condition from this unhappy alteration of my circumstances. To any body ‘that knew her ladyship less than I did, these words would have afforded matter of great consolation ; but when I retired to my chamber, and reflected upon my past and present situation, 1 saw that I had every thing to regret in the one, and very little to hope for from the other ; and the following day convinced me of the manner in which I was to lead my future life. Whenever Lady Mary spoke to me, she had hitherto called me Mrs. Truman ; but the very next morning at breakfast she left out Mrs. ; and upon no greater provocation than breaking a tea- cup, she made me thoroughly sensible of her su- periority and my dependence. ‘ Lord, Truman, you are so awkward! Pray he more careful for the future, or we shall not live long together. Do you think I can afford to have my china broke at this rate and maintain you into the bargain ?” From this moment I was obliged to drop the name and character of friend, which I had hither- to maintained with a little dignity, and to take up that which the French call complaisante, and the English humble companion. But it did not stop here ; for ina week I was reduced to be as miserable a toad-eater as any in Great Britain, , which, in the strictest sense of the word, is a servant ; except that the toad-eater has the hon- out of dining with my lady, and the misfortune of receiving no wages. The beginning of my servitude was being em- ployed in small business in her ladyship’s own presence.—Truman, fetch this; ‘Truman, carry that; Truman, ring the bell ; Truman, fill up the pot ; Truman, pour out the coffee; Tru- man, stir the fire; Truman, call a servant; Truman, get me a glass of water, and put me in mind to take my ar ops. The second part of my service was harder. I was a good housewife ; I understood preserving, pickling, and pastry, perfectly well; I was no THE WORLD. [ No. 87. bad milliner, and I was very well skilled in the management of a dairy. All these little talents I had frequently produced, sometimes for my own amusement, and sometimes to make my court to my lady. But now what had been my diversion became my employment: my lady could touch no sweetmeat, pickle, tart, or cheese-" cake, but what was the work of my hands. 1 made up all her linen ; I mended and sometimes washed her lace; the butter she eats every morn- | ing isall of my churning, and I make every slip- coat cheese that is brought to her table; and if any of these my various works miscarry, I am scolded or pouted, at, as much as if I was hired and paid for every branch of the different ar ipleye ments to which I am put. This degradation of mine has not escaped the eyes of the quick-sighted servants. ‘The change in my situation has produced a total one in their behaviour. There is hardly a chambermaid that will bring me up a bottle of water into my room, or a footman that wilk give me a glass of small beer at dinner. I must now give you an account of certain regulations which I am enjoined to observe at table. I am absolutely forbid to taste any dish that is eatable cold as well as hot, or that may be hashed for supper. By this I am prevented from eating of most dishes that come before us.” I must never taste boiled or roast beef ; and ham and venison-pastry are equally contraband. Fowls, chicken, and all sorts of game, come under the article of prohibited goods ; and though I see brawn and sturgeon served up every day during the whole winter, Iam no more the better fer them than Tantalus was for his apples; and really sometimes I eat as little as those who dine with Duke Humphrey, or as Sancho did when he was made governor of Barataria. ‘To this I may add, that I have not tasted a glass of wine in our house for some years, and that punch, bishop, cool tankard, and negus are equally de- nied me; and I never must touch any wash unless when I am to preser ve it. The rewards I receive for the service I an and the restraint which I submit to, consist in having the enjoyment of the mere necessaries of life, provided you exclude money out of thenum-_ ber. I am clothed out of Lady Mary’s ward-- robe ; and I have offended Mrs. Pinup, herlady-. ship’s woman, past all forgiveness, because her ladyship chooses that I should not go naked about the house. ( Not being much used to a coach, I am general- ly sick with sitting backwards in one. This my lady knows perfectly well ; but since I entered into my state of dependence, I am constantly — obliged to let her sit forwards alone in the daily airings that we take upon the adjacent common. You have already seen, sir, that I do the work of most of the servants in the house : but I must now descend a little lower, and acquaint you " No. 87.] with some abject employments, which I am forced to submit to. I have already hinted to you, that my lady has no real friendship for either man or woman. Her affections are settled upon the brute crea- tion, for whom she expresses incredible tender- ness. You would take her monkey to be her eldest son by the care she shows of him; and she could not be more indulgent to her favourite daughter than she is to her lap-dog; she has a real friendship for her parrot; and the other day she expressed much more joy at the safe delivery of a beloved cat, than she had done, some months before, at the birth of her grandson. It is my province to tend, wait upon, and serve this favourite part of the family. I am made answerable for all their faults; and it any of them are sick, itis I thatam toblame. It was through my negligence that Pug broke my lady’s finest set of china; and my forgetting to give Veny her dinner was the occasion of the dear creature’s illness. Poll’s silence is often attri- buted to my ill usage ; and the murder of two or three kittens has been most unjustly laid to my charge. I now come to some grievances of another kind, which I am almost ashamed to own, but which are necessary to be told. My lady has, for the humour in her eyes (by- the-by I make all her eye-water) three issues ; one in each arm, and one in her back. Now it happened that her own woman being one day confined to her bed, I was desired to perform the operation of dressing them in her stead; and unfortunately I acquitted myself of the task so much to my lady’s satisfaction, that Mrs. Pinup has been turned out of that office, which is given to me, and I am afraid it is a place for life. There was another thing happened to me last year which deserves to be inserted in this letter, and which, though it made me cry, will, I am afraid, make other people laugh. Lady Mary, out of the few teeth she had left, had one that had the impudence to ache and keep her ladyship awake for two nights together ; upon this, Mr. Mercy, the surgeon, was sent for, who, upon viewing the affected part, de- clared immediately for extraction. This put my lady into a terrible agony: she declared she never had a tooth drawn in her life,, and that she could never be brought to undergo it, unless she saw the same operation performed upon somebody else in her presence. Upon this, all the servants were summoned, and she endea- voured to persuade them one after another to have a tooth drawn for-her service; but they all refused, and chose rather to lose their places than their teeth. Lady Mary addressed herself to me, and conjured me, by the long friendship that had subsisted between us, and by all the ‘obligations I had already to her, and those she was determined to confer upon me, to grant her THE WORLD. 67 this request. I blush to tell you that I yielded, and parted with a tine white sound tooth: but what will you say when I aiso tell you, that af- ter I had lost mine, Mr. Mercy was at last sent away without drawing her ladyship’s. Lady Mary takes great quantities of physic, and part of my business is to prepare and make up the doses; but what is still worse her lady- ship will swallow nothing till I have tasted it in her presence. 1 also make and administer all the water-gruel that she drinks with her physic, and am forced to attend her with camomile tea, when she takesa vomit. This last is hard duty, as it not only makes me constantly sick, but as often stains my only gown and apron. Ihave now, Sir, done with all my. bodily hardships, and shall proceed to a grievance, which lies heavier on me than all I havealready mentioned; I mean that perpetual sacrifice of truth, which I am forced to make for her lady- ship’s service. Lady Mary is about sixty-five, and labours under a vice, which sometimes persons of the same sex and age are subject to; I mean that of telling long and improbable stories. She has a fine invention, which often carries her beyond the bounds even of possibility. She deals largely in the marvellous, and whenever she perceives that she has made the company stare a little too much, she constantly appeals tome for the truth of a fact which I never heard before; but of which I am declared to have been an eye-wit- ness. Another grievance is, that my lady being much the richest person in the neighbourhood, is thoroughly convinced that nobody of an in- ferior fortune can ever be in the right in any dispute which may happen between them; and as her ladyship’s arguments are generally very weak, so her passions are very strong ; and what she wants in reason, she makes up in anger, which sometimes rises to abuse: and inall these disputes, she never fails to apply to me as an equitable judge, for my decision of the contest : which appeal being accompanied with one of Colonel Hernando’s leoks, sentence is immedi- ately pronounced in her favour; for what can reason or argument do against fear and poverty ? These unjust judgments have made all the neighbours my enemies, who imagine also, that, by this behaviour of mine, I must be highly in my lady’s good graces, so that they hate what they ought to compassionate, and envy what they should rather pity. It is the same case in every quarrel that happens between her ladyship and her own relations. I am made the witness and judge in every cause; and I own very free- ly that my testimony is generally false, and my judgment partial: so that upon the whole my neighbours hate me, the family detest me, and - my lady herself does not love and cannot es- teem me, 68 You are now, Sir, fully informed of the wretched life [lead ; and as I dare say that there are many who pass their days exactly in the same manner, you will do them and mea sin- gular service by printing this letter. My lady takes in your paper, and lends it about to all the neighbours ; and there are some features of my condition too strongly drawn to be mistaken by any of my acquaintance. A common likeness would not have been sufficient; but such a cari- cature as I have painted must strike and be known at first sight, and perhaps may contri- bute to change my scene for a better. But one thing I am sure of, which is, that no alteration that can happen to me from the publishing this paper can be for the worse. I am, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, 4 Mary Truman. SLVWVW VV VRIRBWA FLT SS WVUVT TA VBR SVATDWVCSVVAVALA BT SKVAAD o No. 38.] THurspay, Serv. 20, 1753. Exilis domus est, ubi non et muita supersunt, Et dominwn fallunt, et prosunt furidus.—— j Hor. Poor house! where no superfluous wealth’s unknown To its rich lord, that thieves may make their own, FRANCIS. .TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Tuenre is a species of luxury, which though you must often have observed, I do not find that you | have hitherto taken notice of, I mean that ex- travagance of expense which people of all ranks and conditions are daily running into in the article of furniture. In the houses of the great (not to mention the profusion of French orna- ment, and costly glitter of every room) the meanest utensils of the kitchen are all of plate. But it is not upon the follies of other people that J am going to descant; it is of myself and my country-house, or rather of my wife and her villa, that I intend to be particular. ‘The house JT am speaking of, together with a very consid- erable estate, was left me by an uncle in the city with whom I lived from the age of sixteen. As . he intended me for trade, you may be sure he gave me no other education (a little school learning excepted) than what was necessary toa counting-house. But finding myself at his death in possession of a plentiful fortune, I re- solved to commence gentleman ; and accordingly disposed of my effects in business, and took a house at the other end of the town. Here I became acquainted) with a lady of quality, who, though she had the highest notions THE WORLD. [No. 38. of birth, yet from so trifling a circumstance as want of fortune, condescended to give me her hand, notwithstanding the meanness of. my family and the difference of our educations. As I thought myself extremely honoured by an alliance with so great a lady, I gave the man- agement of every thing into her hands, and grew as indolent as if I had really been a man of fashion. My wife was a woman of exceeding Jine taste, as it is called; or in other words, one who liked to have every thing about her in the newest and most expensive manner. As soon as I brought herto my country-house, I thought she would have fainted away at the sight of my furniture; the whole of it (to use her own words) was so frightful, so odious, and so out of taste! Her upholsterer must be sent for that instant! for there was no enduring life in the midst of so much antiquated lumber. I forgot to tell you that I had entirely new-furnished the house about three months before ; but though every thing was extremely good and neat, I must do my wife the justice to own there was very little in it but what was of real use. Early the next day down comes the upholsterer. ‘Lord, Mr. Kifang,’’ says she, “‘ I am glad you are come. Pray rest yourself a little; bat Lam afraid you can’t find a chair fit for a Christian to sit down upon. Such seats! such backs ! such legs! such—but they are so of a piece with the rest of the furniture !—Dear Kifang, I am glad you are come!” So without waiting for his reply, or suffering him to sit down, she con- ducted him through all the apartments, except the offices, which indeed she has never once condescended to visit since her becoming mis- tress of my family. Mr. Kifang, who is said to be of Chinese ex- traction, and who must be allowed to understand his business as well as any man alive, agreed perfectly with her la’ship; and observed, “that such out-of-fashion things might do well enough for a citizen; but that persons of quality and distinction, who had a ¢asée and all that, should have something foreign and superb, and quite in another-guess sort of a manner.” In short, Sir, by the indefatigable zeal ot this Chinese upholsterer, in about four months my house was entirely new furnished; buf so disguised and altered, that I hardly knew it again.—'There is not a bed, a table, a chair, or even a grate, that is not twisted into so many ridiculous and gro- tesque figures, and so decorated with the heads, beaks, wings, and claws, of birds and beasts,” that Milton’s Gorgons, and hydras, and chimeras dire, are not to be compared with them. Every room is completely covered with a Wilton carpet; 1 suppose to save the floors, which are all new-laid and in the most expensive manner. In each of these rooms is a pair or two of stands, supported No. 39.] by different figures of men or beasts, on which are placed branches of Chelsea china ; represent- ing lions, bears, and other animals, holding in their mouths or paws sprigs of bay, orange, or myrtle; among the leaves of which are fixed sockets for the reception of wax candles, which, by dispersing the light among the foliage, I own, make’a very agreeable appearance. But I can see no use for the lions and bears: to say the truth, I cannot help thinking it a little unnatu- ral ; for it is well known that all kinds of savages are afraid of fire. But this I submit to you, having observed of late several wild beasts exhi- bited on the stage, without their showing the least surprise at the lamps, or even at the loud shouts of applause which have been bestow- ed upon-them from the galleries. The upper apartments of my house, which were before hand- somely wainscoted, are now hung with the rich- est Chinese and India paper, where all the powers of fancy are exhausted in a thousand fantastic figures of birds, beasts, and fishes, which never had existence. And what adds to the curiosity is, that the fishes are seen flying in the air, or perching upon the trees ; which puts me in mind of a passage I learned at school (for I have not absolutely forgot my Latin) Delphinum appingit sylvis-—— the oddness of which, I suppose, was the reason of my remembering it. The best, or, as my wife calls it, the state bed- chamber, is furnished in a manner that has half undone me. The hangings are white satin, with French flowers and artificial moss stuck upon it with gum, and interspersed with ten thousand spangles, beads, and shells. The bed stands in an alcove, at the top of which are painted Cupids strewing flowers, and sprinkling perfumes. This is divided from the room by two twisted pillars, adorned with wreaths of flowers, and intermix- ed with shell-work. In this apartment there is a cabinet of most curious workmanship, highly finished with stones, gems, and shells, dispersed in such a manner as to represent several sorts of flowers. The top ofthis cabinet isadorned with a prodigious pyramid of china of all colours, shapes, and sizes. At every corner of the room are great jars filled with dried leaves of roses and jessamine. The chimney-piece also (and indeed every one in the house) is covered with immense quantities of china of various figures; among which are Talapoins and Bonzes, and all the religious orders of the East. The next room that presents itself is my wife’s dressing-room ; but I will not attempt to describe it to you minutely, it is so full of trinkets. The walls are covered round with looking-glass, in- terspersed with pictures made of moss, butterflies, and sea-weeds. Under avery magnificent Chi- THE WORLD. 69 paints, pastes, patches, pomatums, powders, white, gray, and blue, bottles of hungary, laven- der, and orange-flower water, and, in short, all the apparatus for disguising beauty, Here she constantly pays her devotions two hours every morning ; but what kind of divinity she adores may be safer for you to guess than for me to tell. By this time I imagine you will conceive my house to be much fuller of furniture than my head. Alas! Sir, I am but a husband, and my wife is a woman of quality. But I could submit with some degree of patience to all this folly and expense, if my children (and I have two fine boys and a girl) were not either kept close prisoners in the nursery, or driven into the kitchen among the servants, to prevent their playing about the rooms, and making havoc of the crockery. I have a thousand other curiosities in my house, of which I neither know the uses nor the names. But I cannot help mentioning the gravel- walks, rivers, groves, and temples, which on a grand day make their appearance at the dessert. For you are not to suppose that all this profusion of ornament is only to gratify my wife’s curiosity ; it is meant as a preparative to the greatest hap- piness of life, that of seeing company. And I assure you she gives about twenty entertainments in a year to people for whom she has no manner of regard, for no other reason in the world than to show them her house. In short, Sir, it is become so great a sight that I am no longer mas- ter of it ; being continually driven from room to room, to give opportunity for strangers to admire it. But as we have lately missed a favourite Chinese tumbler, and some other valuable move- ables, we have entertained thoughts of confining the show to one day in the week, and of admit- ting no persons whatsoever without tickets ; un- less they happen to be acquainted with the names, at least, of some of my wife’s relations. For my own part, if every thing in the house was stolen, it would give me less concern than I have felt for many years past at every India sale, or at the shortest visit that she has made at Deard’s: for I find to my sorrow, that as my furniture in- creases, my acres diminish; and that a new fashion never fails of producing a fresh mort- gage. If you think my case may be of service to any of those husbands who are unhappy enough to be married to wives of taste, you have free leave to publish it from, Sir, Your most humble servant, , SAMUEL SIMPLE, LDL VDVVBBUUDA BDUGTVVSTDE TUBB BV BVUSE SARL SY WVBVVGE DS No. 39.] THurspay, Serr. 27, 1'753. nese canopy stands the toilette, furnished with | a set of boxes of gilt plate for combs, brushes, | I wave received no less than four letters from my 70 friend Nic. Limbertongue, since last Thursday was three weeks, at which time I had the honour of exhibiting his character and history in this paper. But all I dare do with these letters is, to give a short abstract of them to my read- ers; my friend having entered so minutely into family secrets, and (as he assures me upon his honour) with the strictest regard to truth, that I myself should be the tell-tale if I gave them to the public in the manner I received them. In the first of these letters he gives me the history of the third lying-in of a young lady of fashion near St. James’s, who is at present only in her nineteenth year, and who lives with a very pious old aunt, and passes for a pattern of modesty and virtue. He also favours me with the names and characters of two gentlemen, who have the honour, separately, of passing the evening with this young lady, without either suspecting the other of being any thing more than a visiting acquaintance. The second letter contains the secret memoirs of a woman of quality, whose husband is just upon the point of parting with her for indiscre- tion. ‘Till the reading of this letter, I confess myself to have had a very inadequate idea of the meaning of this word. To be indiscreet, it seems, is for a married woman to listen to the addresses of one, two, or half a dozen lovers ; to make assignations with them separately ; to de- clare her hatred to her husband, and to admit her said lovers ta every liberty but one. All this, provided the lady be detected in some of her closest familiarities, is to be indiscreet: and though the virtue of such a lady is not to be called in question, yet every body has a right to say that she has been guilty of indiscretions. My friend’s third letter is a good deal too waggish for the sobriety of this paper. It is the history of a parson and his two maids, whom he calls Rachel and Leah. To say the truth, I have another reason for suppressing this letter, which is, that the doctor happens to be the rec- tor of my own parish, and (setting Rachel and Leah, and eating and drinking, out of the ques- tion) is really a very continent and abstemious man. The fourth and last letter is a voyage from Vauxhail to Whitehall, in a dark night, under a tilt, performed, by persons of distinction of both sexes. All that I shall inform my readers of this voyage is, that it appears. from the jour- nal of it (which was kept by one of the passen- gers, and communicated to my friend) to have been avery indiscreet one; and that in the lati- tude of Westminster-bridge, Miss Kitty, a young country beauty of eighteen, was heard to . say with great quickness to a colonel of the guards, who sat next to her, “ Be quiet, Sir!” and to accompany her words with so smart a slap on the face, that the centre arch rung again ; upon which her aunt, who was one of the par- THE WORLD. [No. 39. ty, took occasion to observe, “ That her nieca would always be a country girl, and know nothing of the world.” Having now taken sufficient notice of my friend Limbertongue’s letters, I shall leave my readers to animadvert upon them, and devote the remainder of this paper to a female cor- respondent. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I am a young woman, born to no great for- tune, but from the indulgence of my parents, am so happy as to enjoy the advantages of a good education. I have really a handsome face, have a natural gentility about me, walk as well as any body, and am told by my mother, and have heard it whispered a thousand times by the maids, that I am a clever girl. It was my fortune some time ago, when I was upon a visit in the country, to make a hole ina gentleman’s heart, as he sat in the next pew to me at church; and as I am above disguises, I shall confess very freely that I was equally struck. I took a pleasure in looking at him from the first moment I saw him; and it was no trifling satisfaction to me, that as often as I dared squint that way, I found his eyes to be fixed fully upon mine. As he was known to the lady at whose house I was entertained, it was matter of no great dif- ficulty for him to introduce himself to my ac- quaintance. 1 inquired into his character, and was told that he was a gentleman addicted to no kind of vice; that his fortune was a very hand- some one; that he had great sensibility and generosity ; but that he was extremely quick- sighted to the foibles of women. I was not much pleased with this last information; but having a pretty good opinion of myself, I did not doubt that I should so hamper him with discre- tion and beauty, that he could not possibly es- cape me. . To be as short as I can, he soon made pro- posals to me in form, which, after the usual hesitations, were in form accepted. My parents were written to upon the occasion, and every thing was preparing for our happiness, when Alphonso (for so I shall call him) was unfortu- nately summoned to a distant part of the coun- try, to attend the last moments of a near rela- tion. There was no disobeying this cruel summons; and with a thousand protestations of unalterable love, away he went. During his absence, which happened to be much longer than, I believe, either of us wished, the fashion came up among the ladies of wear- ing their gowns off the shoulders ; and though my skin was rather of the brownest, and I had also the misfortune of having a large scar across my bosom, I immediately pared away six inches No. 40.] of my’ stays before and behind, and presented myself to him at his return in all the nakedness of thefashion. I was indeed greatly astonished, hat as he was running into my arms with all the eagerness of a long absent lover, he stopt of a sudden to survey me, and after giving me only a cold salute, and inquiring how I did, sat him- self down for about a quarter of an hour, and then wished me a good night. It really never occurred to me, to what acci- dent I was to attribute so mortifying a change, till early the next morning I was let into the secret by the following letter: ‘¢ MADAM, “To have but one defect in your whole per- son, and to display it to the world with so much pains, is to, betray a want of that prudence, without which the marriage state is generally a state of misery. I must therefore take the li- berty of telling you, that my last visit was paid yesterday, and that my last letter waits only till I have subscribed myself, ‘* Madam, «“ Your most obedient humble servant, 4 <¢ ALPHONSO.” You may imagine, Mr. Fitz- Adam, into what awkward confusion and distress this letter threw me. At first I reproached the inconstancy of ‘my lover, and called him the basest and most perfidious of men; but when my passion was abated, and I began seriously to reflect upon my incautious behaviour, I could not help al- lowing that he had reason on his side ; though I hope you will be of opinion, that his letter is a little too mortifying, and his resolution too hasty. Some months have elapsed since I have worn the willow ; and I have at present hardly any expectation of being restored to grace; though if Alphonso had thought it worth his while to make any inquiries about me, he would have known that ever since the discovery of that fatal scar (which I can assure him upon my honour was only occasioned by a burn) I have worn my stays as high, and pinned my gown as de- cently as his hard heart would desire; and notwithstanding the very warm weather we have had this summer, I have never made a visit, or appeared any where in public, but in a double handkerchief, and that too pinned un- der my chin. Thave two reasons, Sir, for troubling you with this letter, and desiring your publication of it. The first is, that my lover may see how peni- tent I am for my fault; and the second, to do Service to two ladies of my acquaintance; one of which has a most disconsolate length of face. which she makes absolutely frightful by Wearing the poke of her cap quite back to her ‘pole; the other, with the feet and legs of THE WORLD. fi) a Welch porter, is for ever tripping it along the Mall in white shoes and short petticoats. If I cannot benefit myself, it will be some lit- tle satisfaction to have been a warning to my friends. I am, Sir, Your most unfortunate humble servant, CELIMENA. P. S. Since my writing this letter, I have some distant hope that my lover may come about again; having been informed of a saying of his to a friend, ‘ That in spite of the scar upon my bosom, my appearance that night put him in mind of a book lately published, called Heaven open to all men.’ PUVCUVRVAUVETDUBRTEVCRARTTTVTVBATATLVEVAWALVA BLS VS No. 40.] Tuurspay, Ocrosrr 4, 1753. Or all the eastern stories that have hitherto made their appearance in English, there is not one that conveys so perfect and beautiful a moral as that of the Prince Ruzvanschad and the Princess Cheheristany, in the first volume of the Persian Tales. Ruzvanschad was king of China, and Cheheristany princess of an island of Genies. They fell desperately in love with each other, and after the usual delays were mar- ried in due form in the island of Cheheristan, where the lady was queen. [But before the solemnization of this marriage, the princess of the Genies addressed the king of China in the following manner: ‘ I am not going,’ said she, ‘to make your majesty any unreasonable re- quest, though the power I have over you, and the superiority of my nature, claim obedience in all things: I shall only demand a promise from you, that for the honour of your queen, and for our mutual happiness, you will blindly comply with me in every thing I have a mind to do. The Genies are never in the wrong. If, there- fore, at any time my actions should happen to appear unaccountable and extravagant, say, with- in yourself, my wife has reason for what she does: for it is impossible that we should live together in love and harmony, unless you im- plicitly believe that I am always in the right.’ The king, according to the universal custom of lovers, promised very readily to think in all things as his princess would have him ; and the marriage was celebrated with all imaginable splendour. The sequel of the story informs us, that his majesty of China did not absolutely keep his royal promise ; for that upon certain trifling oc- casions, such, for instance, as the queen’s fling- ing her son into the fire, giving her daughter to be devoured by a wild beast, destroying the pro- 72 visions of his whole army, and the like (which are only allegorical expressions, signifying a ‘mamma’s giving up her son to the fire of his ‘passions, carrying her daughter to the masquer- ade, and consuming the substance of her hus- band), he not only thought her in the wrong, but had the rashness to tell herso. Here begins the misery of this reyal and once happy couple ; ‘the queen separates herself from her husband, and at the end of ten whole years consents to ‘ cohabitation upon no other terms than a renew- al of the old promise, ratified by an oath. The stery adds, that the king of China, having seen his error, never failed to acknowledge the wis- dom of his queen in all she did, and that they lived to an extreme old age, the happiest mon- archs of the East. ; If every husband in England was to read this story night and morning till he had got it by heart; and, in imitation of the king of China, if he would consider himself asa mere son of Adam, and his wife of the superior nature of the Genies, the happiness of his life would in all probability be secured ; for I am fully persuaded that all the infelicities of the married state are occasioned by men’s finding fault with the con- duct of their wives, and imagining themselves to be fitter for government than for obedience. Fer my own part, I have always looked upon the husband to be the head of his wife, just in the same manner as a fountain is the head of a stream ; which only finds supplies for its wan- derings, without directing the current which way it shall flow. It may possibly be objected that wives are-commanded in a certain book called the Bible, to be obedient to their husbands ; but a lady of my acquaintance, who is a great casuist in divinity, seems to have set this matter in a true light, by observing, that as most of the commentators upon the New Testament have agreed that some of its particular commands and prohibitions are merely local and temporary, and intended only as cautions to the Christians against giving scandal to the Jews and heathens, among whom they lived; she makes no manner of doubt that obedience to husbands was among the number of these commands, and that it might be right to observe it in the infancy of Christianity, but not now. _ Many persons, as well Christians as others, are of opinion, that to command is neither the province of the wife nor the husband; and that to advise or entreat is all that either has a right to. But this I take to be wrong policy; for as every private family is a little state within itself, there should be a superior and laws, or all will be anarchy and confusion: and as it is in- disputable that the wife knows more of family affairs than the husband, there is no reason in the world for taking the command out of her hands. | Every body sees that when men keep mis- THE WORLD. [ No. 40. tresses they commence subjects under an abso, lute tyranny ; and that a wife should have less - authority is, in my own private opinion, a very hard case, especially if it be considered, that she is not only one flesh with her hushand, but ag the universal phrase is, his better part. Every body knows too, that good humour in a wife is the most necessary of all the virtues to secure the happiness of a husband; and how is her good humour to be preserved, if she is to be un- der perpetual control? It is no new discovery, - that the first wish of a woman is power; if therefore you give the sceptre into her hand, and intreat her to say and do according to her own good pleasure, it would be almost impossible for her to be always out of temper. But the subordination of husbands will appear to be of greater necessity, if it be considered how unfit almost every man is to govern him- self. I have known husbands of hopeful dispo- sitions, who, from being left entirely to their own management, have run into every excess of riot and debauchery ; when it has been obvious, that had their wives exerted the proper autho- rity over them, they would have made the soberest and meekest menalive. How thankful therefore ought we to be, that our wives are in- clined to take upon themselves the troublesome office of government, and to leave to their hus- bands the easy duty of obedience, which a child of six years old is as capable of performing as his father of forty! I have indeed heard it objected, that all women are not sufficiently qualified for the government of their husbands. But by whom is this objec- tion made? By some obstinate old bachelor, who, for want of conversing with the sex, has formed very erroneous opinions of their dignity and abilities. To decide this question, I would only appeal to those husbands who have lived in a constant state of subjection to their wives; and if any one of them dare tell me that he has once wished to be his own master, I will be a bachelor in unbelief. It has also been objected, that the tyranny of a wife may sometimes be a little more absolute than the husband may wish it to be; but it has always been a maxim, that an absolute monarchy is the best, provided that we know,, and have a right of choosing our ruler; the husband therefore should be satisfied with a small extension of the prerogative, whose monarch is not only of his own choosing, but one whom he has courted to reign over him. It is matter of no small satisfaction to me, that by vindicating the sovereignty of the ladies, I am doing service to my king and country ; for | while men are kept under a continued state of subjection at home, they will submit with more alacrity to the laws, and feel a deficiency of those spirits, which, for want of proper control, might lead them into riots, insurrections, and rebellions. It were to be wished, indeed, that No. 4).] the ladies would drop the study of national po- litics, and confine themselves to family govern- ment only; for while a husband is no other than the vassal of his wife, a female Jacobite (unless she should happen to be ugly or an old maid) may be a dangerous creature. I shall therefore conclude this paper by recommending it to the administration to have a particular eye to those seminaries of female learning, known by the name of boarding schools. It might net be improper if the oaths of allegiance and abjur- ation were to be administered to the superiors and mademoiseliles of such colleges, or if the head of his present majesty King George was to be worked by every pretty miss at the bottom of her sampler. SPRUTVTCVVTTVLCVAVLTATAVATLUTEVE TE CRLVWSEBV“ERDE WOB424 228 No. 41.] Tuurspay, Ocrozer 11, 1753. As the writers of the two following letters are of a sex for which I have the sincerest regard and veneration, I have made no delay in com- mitting them to the press, not doubting that the evils they complain of will excite the attention of my readers. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Tam a very hearty old maid of seventy-three ; but I have a parcel of impertinent nephews and nieces, who, because I have kept my good hum- eur, will needs have it that I have parted with something else. Pray, Mr. Fitz-Adam, be so kind as to tell these graceless relations of mine, that it is net impossible for a woman to have two virtues at a time, and that she may be mer- ry and chaste, as well as merry and wise. But as I am always to be teazed upon this subject, I have some thoughts of renouncing my virginity to secure my good humour; for J am afraid that by contending with them every day for what they say I have lost, I shall run the hazard of losing in reality what they allow me to pos- sess. I beg your advice in this critical affair, and am, Sir, Your most humble servant, Prupentia Hotprast. In answer to Miss Holdfast, I shall only say that, if I was to be teazed out of my virginity, ‘it should be by the most impudent fellow living, Sooner than by these undutiful relations, Mr. Firz-Apam, Jama young woman of fashion, and a great admirer of a town life. But it has been my - THE WORLD. 78 misfortune, for these three months past, to be condemned to the odious country, and the more odious diversions of it; and this in compliance to an old-fashioned aunt, who, excepting her two daughters, and the company they keep, is the most odious thing of all. But itis not for the sake of abusing my friends or of ridiculing the country, that I trouble you with this letter ; I have really escaped such dangers in this re- tirement, that I mean it as a caution to my sex against giving up the innocent amusements of a town life, for the destructive pleasures of woods and shades. I had hardly been a week at my aunt’s, before I lost all the delicacy of quality ; and from the | palest complexion in the world, and no appetite (the best proofs of high birth and of keeping good company), I began to leok as rosy as a milk-maid, and to eat like a plough-boy. I shall never forget the awkward compliments that were made me upon those defects; but a new mortification succeeded, which removed me still farther from upper life, and had like to have killed me. to grow fat. I began absolutely, Mr. Fitz- Adam, What was to be done now? Why I must walk forsooth! I wondered they did not bid me fly; for toa woman of condition, who had never stirred out of doors but in her chair, flying seemed as easy as walking. But my disease was desperate, and so must be my cure: in short, they taught me how to walk, and in less than a week I verily believe I had travelled a mile. And now I was teazed upen another account. My cousins, who were growh quite intimate with me, and who were what they call neat girls, were perpetually finding fault with the looseness of my morning dress. I really pitied their ignorance, but could hardly forbear laughing when I saw them come down as prim to breakfast, as if they were dressed for visitors. it was in vain for me to tell them that women of fashion were above such regards; I was again forced to comply, and to stick pins into my clothes, as if dressing for a drum. { am far from denying tl:at air, exercise, and neatness contributes to my health; but I re- member with confusion the alteration they pro- duced. I had lived in the polite circle to the age of five-and-twenty without conceiving an idea of the other sex, any farther than whai re- lated to their uses in public places, a treat upon the water, or a party at brag. Indeed the per- | petual hurry of a town life puts all other things quite out of one’s head. But idleness is the root of all evil. In less than a fortnight my heart told me that I had passions as well as appetites. To deal plainly with you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, for want of something to do, I fell desperately in love. With shame I confess it, I was caught 1 know not how; for my rustic, though he paid me particular.regards, and was a handsome fel- A low with a good estate, had no one accomplish- ment upon earth to recommend him to a woman of fashion. His education had been at the unt- versity, where he had pursued nothing but his studies. He knew nobody in town but people whom nobody knows ; had been at court but once ; detested play, and had no ideas of routs and drums. His virtues (for my aunt and cousins were continually talking of th em) reached no farther than a little charity to the poor; a vast deal of what they call good-nature ; abun- dance of duty to the old lady his mother, and a ridiculous fondness for a sister, who was one of the plainest women | ever saw. But in affairs of gallantry, or the fashions of the town, he was as ignorant as a Hotentot. He would sometimes, indeed, make a party with us at whist for half- crowns, which he called deep play ; but as to shuffling, fuzzing, changing of seats, hints to a partner, setting up honours without holding them, and the like, which are the essentials of the game, he was an absolute jdeot. He con- sidered cards, he said, only as an amusement, and was perfectly indifferent whether he won or lost. Yet in spite of myself, and so contemptible an animal, I was really in love with him. Nay, so entirely did he possess me, that I contrived to be ill, and tokeep my chamber three mornings together, to engage him alone. But weuld you think it, Mr. Fitz- Adam; if he approached to touch my hand, I had such frights and fears | about me, that I hardly knew where I was. I trembled at every word he spoke to me; and had he offered at those trifling liberties, which every fine gentleman is&dmitted to in town, and which the strictest modesty would only cry pish at, I verily believe Ishould havedied. But his. country education was the saving of my life. His inten~- tions, I perceived, were, to make a wife of me ; a character, which of all characters in the world T had the greatest aversion to; as, in all proba- bility, it would connect me with the cares of a mother, and a thousand ridiculous duties and affections, that a well-bred woman has really no time for. Yet this deplorable creature I had certainly been, if he had not all of a sudden (for what reason I know not, unless he thinks it a crime for a lady to be a little witty upon the Bible) taken a crotchet into his head of treating me like a stranger. The man is most evidently mad; for instead of directing all his discourse to me as usual, he is for ever caballing with my youngest cousin, and talking by the hour in praise of a country education. But, thanks to my stars, there is a place called London; where, in a very few weeks,. the busi- ness of play, and. the amusements of polite life, shall cure me of my folly, and restore me to my complexion. I shall fly to the brag-table as to an asylum against the passions. It is there that love is never thought of. .'The men have no de- signs, nor the women temptations. It puts me THE WORLD. [ No. 42. in mind of the state of intiecence which our first parents fell from: the sexes may meet naked, aud not be ashamed, nor even know that they are naked. It would take up too much of your paper to enforce the advantages of play, by laying before you the evils it prevents. Scandal was never heard of at a card-table: the question when we meet is not who lost her honour last night ? but who her money? We need never go te church to ridicule the parsons, or stay at home to be the plague of husbands or servants. In short, if women would escape the pursuits of men, the drudgery of wives, the cares of parents, and the plagues of home, their security is play. 1 know of nothing that can be said against it, but that it may possibly lead to ill-nature, quarrels, cheating, and ruin. I am, Sir, Your constant reader, and most humble servant, Sorura SHUFFLE. RRRLRE DEBT TBARTRADVBATDE TDTEVTFET VET PRLS SUVA WNAAD No. 42.] Tuurspay, Ocrozer 18, 1753. wes Irv is a common phrase, when we speak of a person who has nothing remarkably bad in his disposition, that he is a good sort of a man; but of these good sort of men there are multitudes to be met with, who are more troublesome and of- fensive than a swarm of gnats within one’s bed- curtains. A good sort of a man is sometimes he, who from shallowness of parts, and a narrow education, be- lieves every action of mankind, that is not cal- culated to promote some pious or virtuous end, to be blameable and vicious. He prescribes to himself rules for the conduct of life, and censures those who differ from him as immoral or irre- ligious. Walking in the fields on a Sunday, or taking up a newspaper, is am offence against: Heaven. I have heard a young lady severely reprimanded for reading a Spectator upon that day ; and I have known it prophesied of a boy of eight years old, that he would certainly be an Atheist, for having written God with a little g, and Devil with a great D. In the opinion of this good sort of a man, tosay Lord bless me is a breach of the third commandment ; and to affirm, upon one’s word, that this or that thing is true or false, is downright swearing. i To such characters as these, the infidelity of others may in some measure be owing. ‘To avoid | one extreme we are apt to run into another ; and because one man happens to believe a great dea) too much, another is determined to believe no thing at all. During the usurpation of Cromwell, we were a nation of psalm-singers ; which is the best rea- ’ ple say of you abroad. | struck twelve. No. 42.] son I can give for the innundation of bawdy songs that poured in upon us at the Restoration : for though the king and his court were indefa- tigable in the propagation of wantonness (and every body knows how apt men are to copy the manners of a court) they would have found it a very hard task to debauch the whole king- dom, if it had not been a kingdom of enthu- siasts. Another, though less mischievous good sort of a man is he, who upon every occasion, or upon no occasion at all, is teazing you with advice. This gentleman is generally a very grave person- age, who happening either to have outlived his passions, or to have been formed without any, regulates all his actions by the rule of prudence. He visits you in a morning, and is sorry to hear you call those persons your friends who kept you at the King’s-arms last night after the clock had He tells you of an acquaintance of his, of a hundred and two years old, who was never up after sun-setting, nor a-bed after sun- rising. He informs you of those meats which are easiest of digestion, prescribes water-gruel for your breakfast, and harangues upon the poi- son of made dishes. He knows who caught a fever by going upon the water, and can tell you of a young lady who had the rheumatism in all her limbs by wearing an India persian in the middle of October. If at a jovial meeting of friends you happen to have drank a single glass too much, he talks to you of dropsies and inflammations, and wonders that a man will buy pleasure in an evening, at the hazard of a headach in the morning. That such a person may really be a good sort of a man, and that he may give his advice out of pure humanity, I am very ready to allow; but I cannot help thinking (and I am no advocate for intem- perance) that if it was not now-and-then for giving prudence the slip, and for a little harm- less playing the fool, life would be a very insipid thing. A third good sort of a man is one who calls upon you every day, and tells you what the peo- As how ‘“ Mr. Nokes Was very warm in your praises, and that Mr. Stiles agreed with him in opinion ; but that Mr. Roe and Mrs. Doe, who by-the-by pretend to be your friends, were continually coming in with one of their ill-natured 7. But they are like the rest of the world. You have a thousand enemies, though you do nothing to deserve them. I wonder what could provoke Mr. A. to fall upon you with so much violence before Lady B.: but then to hear Mr. C. and Miss D., who _ are under such obligations to you, join in the abuse, was what, I own, I did not expect. But there is no sincerity among us: and I verily ve- lieve you have not a friend in the whole world besides myself.’? Thus does he run on, not only lessening you in your own opinion, but robbing THE WORLD. 75 you of the most pleasing satisfaction of life, that of thinking yourself esteemed by those with whom you converse. If you happen to be in any public character, the Lord have mercy upon you! for unless you can stop your ears to the croakings of these ravens, you must be miserable indeed. There are very few good sort of men that are more pernicious than these: for as al- most every man in the world is curious of know- ing what another thinks of him, he is perpetual- ly listening to abuses upon himself, till he grows a hater of his kind. It is for this reason that dissimulation is often to be ranked among the virtues ; for if every man of your acquaintance, -instead of assuring you of his esteem and re- gard, was to tell you that he did not care a straw for you (which twenty to one is the truth), the motives to benevolence would be entirely destroyed ; and though the : “ loving those that hate us” be a precept of christiani- ty, it would puzzle me to name a christian of my acquaintance, who has grace enough to prac- tise it. A fourth good sort of a man, and with whom I shall conclude this paper, is the man of cere- mony. But as this character is drawn from the life by one of my correspondents who has felt the inconvenience of it, I shall give it to my readers in his own words. MR. FITZ-ADAM, I belong to a club of very honest fellows -in the city, who meet once a week to kill care and be innocently merry. Every one of us used to sing his song or tell his story for the entertain- ment of his friends, and to be good-naturedly jocose upon the foibles of the company. Butall our merriment has been at a stand for some time, by the admission of a new member, who, it seems, is a person of very fine breeding. You must kuow that he is our superior in fortune ; from which consideration we show him a great deal of respect. At his entrance into the-club- room we all rise from our chairs, and it is not till he has paid his compliments to each of us separately, and kept us standing for near a quar- ter of an hour, that he entreats us to be seated. He then hopes we are all perfectly well, and that we caught no colds that day se’ennight by walking home from the club; for that the night was foggy, or it was rainy, or it was cold, or it was something or other, that gave him a good deal of pain till he saw us again. After we have all made our bows, and assured him of our ex- ceeding good healths, the inquiry begins after our ladies and families. He is always so un- fortunate as to forget the number and names of our children, for which he most heartily begs pardon, and hopes the dear little creatures, whom he has not the pleasure of knowing, will forgive him for his want of memory. ‘The finishing this ceremony generally takes us up about an 76 THE WORLD. [No. 43. hour; after which, as he is the first man of the abroad, sometimes a Itambler at-home, and rove club, it is necessary, in point of good manners, that he should find usin conversation; and to say the truth, since his admission into our so- ciety, we have none of us a word to say, unless it be in auswer to his inquiries. that we are entertained with the history of a | 'a Busby. dinner at Lady Fidfad’s, at which were present Lord and Lady Lavender, Sir Nicholas Pick- tooth, and a world of polite company. He names every dish to us in the order it was placed, tells us how the company was seated, the compliments that passed, and, in short, every thing that was said: which, though it may be called polite conversation, is certainly the dullest I ever heard in my life. By this time we generally begin to leok upon our watches; a bill is called for, and after a conten- tion of about three minutes who shall go out last, we return to our homes. This, Sir, is the true history of our once - joe vial club: and as it is not impossible that this well-bred gentleman may be a reader of the World, I trouble you with this letter, and en- treat your publication of it; for with so much good manners as he is undoubtedly master of, he will absent himself from our society when he knows how miserable he has made us. I am, Sir, Your very humble servant, Francis Hearry. QWR VD CB VWUVVUBR BREVIS FUL BU BDUBRAVBDLVVEBUSVTATTCVABVUsse No. 43.] THurspay, Ocroner 25, 1'753. . I wave devoted to-day’s paper to the miscel- laneous productions of such of my correspond- ents as, in my own opinion, are either whimsical enough, or witty enough, to be entertaining to my readers. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I am an Englishman and a Patriot, but neither a Freeholder nor an Independent Whig. TY am neither a Craftsman nor a Fool, but a Free-thinker, and a Plain-dealer; a steady Champion for virtue, and a sharp Protester against vice. I am a daily Inspector of my neighbours’ ac- tions, and take a Monthly Review of my own; yet do not assume the title of Censor, or Guar- dian ; being contented with the office of Moni- tor or Remembrancer. My enemies nevertheless will call mea i Naoat a Busybody, an Imper- tinent, &c. Tama great Reader, and a Lover of polite literature. I’ am sometimes an Adventurer like the Bee from Muszum to Museum, in quest of knowledge and pleasure. Iam an Occasional Writer too; in a fit of |gayety I am a Humorist, in a fit of serious- And now it is nessa Moralist; and when I am very angry indeed, I scourge the age with all the spirit of To conclude, I am not an idle Spectator, but a close Examiner of what passes in the World, and Mr. Fitz- Adam’s Admirer and humble servant, PuHiLocosMus. This letter puts me in mind of the following advertisement in a late Daily Advertiser :— «¢ Whereas Thomas Toovey, snuffman, who is lately removed from the blackamoor’s head in Piccadilly to the shop, late the crown and dag- ger, three doors lower, and hopes for the con- tinuance of his friends’ custom.”’ And there itends. I should have been more obliged to my correspondent, if after his Whereas that he was an Englishman, a Patriot, a Freeholder, &c. he had thought proper to inform me to what pur- pose he was all this. But I have the pleasure of hoping that this epistle is only an introduc- tory discourse to a larger work: and as such I have given it to the public without addition or amendment. Sir, If it would not be meddling with religion (a subject which you have declared against touch- ing upon) 1 wish you would recommend it to all rectors, vicars, and curates of parishes, to omit the prayer, commonly used in the pulpit before sermon, the petition for Jews, Turks, and Infidels. For, as the Jews, since a Jate act of Parliament, are justly detested by the whole nation; and as it is shrewdly suspected that a bifl is now in agitation for naturalizing the Turks, wise men are of opinion that it. is ne business of ours, to be continually recommend- ing such people in our prayers. Indeed as for the Infidels, who are only our own people, I should make no scruple of praying for them, if I did not know that persons of fashion do not care to hear themselves named so very particularly in the face of the congregation. I have the honour of an acquaintance with a lady of very fine understanding, who assures me that the above-mentioned prayer is absolutely as terrible to her as being churched in public: for that she never hears the word Infidel mentioned from the pulpit, without fancying herself the stare of the whole rabble of believers. As it is certainly the duty of a clergyman to avoid giving offence to his parishioners ; and as our hatred to the Jews, our alarms about the Turks, and the modesty of persons of quality, are not to be overcome, I beg that you will not - ing his fingers. No. 44.] only insert this letter in the World, but that you will also give it as your opinion that the pai should be omitted. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant; I. M. MR. FITZ-ADAM, Now the theatres are open, and the town is in high expectation of seeing Pantomimes per- formed to the greatest advantage, it would not be improper if you would give us a paper upon that subject. Your predecessor the Spectator, and the Tatler before him, used frequently to animadvert upon theatrica) entertainments ; but as those gentlemen had no talents for Pan- tomime, and were partial to such entertain ments as themselves were able to produce, they treated the nobler compositions with unwar- vantable freedom. Happy is it for us, that we live in an age of taste, when the dumb elo- quence, and manual wit and honour of Harle- quin is justly preferred to the whining of tragedy, or the vulgarity of comedy. But it grieves me, in an entertainment so near perfection, to ob- serve certain indelicacies and indecorums, which, though they never fail of obtaining the approba- tion of the galleries, must be extremely offensive to the politeness of the boxes. The indelicacies I mean are, the frequent and significant wrig- glings of Harlequin’s tail, and the affront that bine, by sometimes supposing, in his searches petticoats. That such a supposition would be allowable in comedy, I am very ready to own; the celebrated Mrs. Behn having given us in reality what is here only supposed. In a play - of that delicate lady’s, the wife, to conceal the gallant from her husband, not only hides him under her petticoats, but, as Trulla did by Hudi- bras, straddles over him, and, holding her hus- band in discourse, walks backwards with her lover to the door ; where, with a genteel love- kick, she dismisses him from his hiding-place. But that the chaste Columbine should be sus- pected of such an indelicacy, or that Pierot should be so audacious as to attempt the exa- mination of premises so sacred, is a solecism in Pantomime. Another impurity that gives me almost equal offence is Harlequin’s tapping the neck or bosom of his mistress, and then kiss- I am apprehensive that his behaviour is a little bordering upon wanton- ness; which, in the character of Harlequin, who is a foreigner, and a fine gentleman, and every thing agreeable, is as absurd as it is im- modest. When these reformations can be brought about, every body must allow that a Pantomime will be a most rational and instructive entertain- ment; and it is to. be hoped that none but prin- THE WORLD. | as his lordship was pleased to name, ’ : | reckoned to have as good Carpenters as any age Pierot is apt to put upon the modesty of Colum- | 7 cipal performers will be suffered to have a part in it. How pleased will the town be this winter to read in one of the articles of news in the Public Advertiser, “ We hear that at each of the theatres royal there is an entire new Pantomime now in rehearsal, and the principal parts are to be performed by Mr. Garrick, Mr. Woodward, Mr. Mossop, Mrs. Cibber, and Mrs. Pritchard, at Drury-Lane: and at Covent-Garden, by Mr. Quin, Mr. Lun, Mr. Barry, Miss Nossi~ ter, &c.”’ It is not to be doubted that a Panto- mime so acted would run through a whole season to the politest as well as most crowded audiences. Indeed, I have often wondered at the good-humour of the town, that they can bear to see night after night so elegant an enter~ tainment with only one performer in it of real reputation. It was very well observed by a person of quality, “ That if Mr. Addison, Doctor Swift, and Mr. Pope were alive, and were unitedly to write a Pantomime every winter, provided Mr. Garrick and Mrs. Cibber were to do the prin- cipal parts, he verily believed there would not be a hundred people at any one rout in town, except it was of 2 Sunday.” If it be from no other consideration than this, I am for having Pantomimes exhibited to the best advantage : and though we have no such Wits among us We are has produced; and I take it, that the mist striking beauties of pantomimical composition for her lever, that she has hid him under her | are to be ascribed to the Carpenter, more than to the Wit. I am, Sir, Your constant reader and most humble servant, S. W. PSS OV VUE DS TSWV VE TEVWSEUWAUVTY VPS AVVSVA BR TTETVVA BT OD No. 44.] Tuurspay, Nov. t, 1753. , TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, A sustiy-admired poet of our own times, speak- ing in reference to his art, tells us, that True wit is nature to advantage dress’d, What oft was thought, but ne’er so well express’d. The same, it is presumed, may be said of al- most every kind of writing. Europe is at present so much enlightened, that it is hardly possible to strike out a single notion absolutely new, or which has never been touched upon by some- body before us. Religion, philosophy, and mo- rality in particular, have been so thoroughly canvassed, that such as would treat upon those 78 subjects now have scarce any thing left them, but to set some beaten thought in a different light, and, like a skilful cook, endeavour to make the fare of yesterday palatable again to-day, by a various dressing. If it can be got down and digested, there are always hopes of its conveying some nourishment ; and whether it be taken for turtle or venison, pheasant or moor-game, beef or mutton, is not a farthing’s matter, so it be relished by the guests. Whether I am possessed of any part of this skill, must be left to the decision of each person’s taste. All I dare en- gage for is, that no unwholsome ingredient shall enter into my composition ; and if, on the one hand, it should be insipid, on the other, it shall be as harmless as a bit of dry bread. But to my subject. being trite and common. to be excessively anxious for the wealth, honours, and pleasures of this transitory world, is just as ridiculous as it would be to torment ourselves because our accommodations at an inn (which we are to quit the next morning) are not suffi- ciently sumptuous, the aptness of the allusion stares us in the face: the assent is extorted while the mind dwells upon it: and people of every persuasion, however they may disagree in other propositions, concur in this, as in a self-evident axiom. Yet herein do we resemble the case of him, who is said in séripture to behold his Jigure in a glass, but straight forgetteth what manner of man he was; and, as if a fatality hung over us, our memories are still found worst, in the matter that concerns us most ; namely, in the acquisition of tranquillity, that swmmwm bonum on this side the grave. A heathen could tell us, that this inestimable treasure lies at our feet 3 but that we giddily stumble over it, in the pursuit of bub- bles. On these we bestow all our strenuous exertions ; the other has only indolent wishes. But if we are candidates in earnest for this temporal felicity, and which at the same time leads by the smoothest road to the celestial, the first step should be to discover what that is, which opposes and excludes it: and as it is utterly impossible that two contraries should ' peaceably inhabit the same breast, let us resolve to drive out the aggressor. That perturbations of every kind are capital enemies to tranquillity, speaks itself : but it may require some scrutiny to discern that the com- mon parent from whence most of these proceed is pride. I say, most of these 3 for if want, pain, fear, and intemperance be excepted, it is pre- sumed that few obstacles to serenity can be im- agined, which are not fairly deducible from this single vice. The inimitable Mr. Addison, in one of his Spectators, mentions guilt and atheism, as the THE WORLD. The comparison of man’s life to a journey, and the conclusions usually drawn from thence, are not the less true for When we reflect, that two or three are gathered together. No. 44. only warrantable precluders of cheerfulness $ nor is it here intended to controvert his superior judgment: this being merely an essay to prove that Pride is the great source from whence al- most every other species of guilt flows. Andas for atheism, it may, I think, without much torturing the argument, be placed to the same account. But let us first try the truth of this proposition, upon actual or practical vices, as distinguished from speculative errors; and thence discover to what degree they may be said to hold, of this lady paramount ; consequently how far we are in- debted to her for the miseries which fill th world with complaints. Sickness, pain, fear, want, and intemperance, have already been excepted, as productive of dis- orders in the soul, which derive not immediately from this origin: at least, it can hardly with propriety be ‘said that a person is proud ofa disease, of cowardice, or of indigence ; though it has been observed, that some have had the pre- posterous folly to glory in being lewd, a drunk- ~ ard, or a glutton. Whether human nature be capable of bearing up with cheerfulness and indolence against these evils, (from what cause soever arising) is a ques- tion foreign to the present business, which is to excite every thinking person strictly te examine the catalogue of vices, one by one; and: then to ask his own heart what resemblance they bear to the prolific parent here assigned them 3 and it is presumed, that nothing more is necessary than the holding up the progeny to view, in order to ascertain their descent. It may be gathered from the most authentic testimony, that her first-born was Ambition ; brought to light in the days of your namesake Adam, and ever since, whether clad in a red coat, and armed with a scimitar and firebrand, or in the more gentle habit of a statesman, courtier, beau, lawyer, divine, &c. still confesses the kindred in every feature and action. It is not very material in what order the subsequent issue were produced. , But that envy, hatred, malice, tyranny, anger, implacability, revenge, cruelty, impatience, obstinacy, violence, treach- ery, ingratitude, self-love, avarice, profusion ; together with the smaller shoots, detraction, impertinence, loquacity, petulance, affectation, &c. do all derive from this mater Samiliz, will, I persuade myself, most evidently appear to a curious observer. To enumerate the infinite disorders and cal-' amities that disperse themselves from this root, intrude into every place, and are incessant plagues to individuals, as well as to society, were an endless task. Who shall tell the secret. pangs of the heart in which she is planted? But her baleful influence is discernible, wherever Even at the altar, and whilst the tongue, in compliance witk No. 45.] the ritual, is uttering the most humiliating epi- thets,-yuu shall perceive her inconsistently tricked out, and by a thousand fantastic airs attracting the worship of the assistants, from the Deity, to herself. _ Trace her from the court into the city ; and there, from the general trader, to the retailer, mechanic, and pedlar; thence into the coun- try, from the squire, to the farmer and day- labourer: descend as low as to the scavenger, chimney-sweeper, and night-man ; still, through all their dirt and filth, you may occasionally discern her. Nor is her parental dominion confined to the climates or nations called civilized. Travel to the poles, or into the burning zone; among the Bramins, Banians, and Facquars; among the Iroquois, Cannibals, and Hottentots ; even there shall you meet with the operations of this pri- mum mobile. What but the arrogance of superior merit instigates the first of these to assume a right of domineering over the consciences of their fellows, and damning the souls of those who differ from them? And for the Hottentots, who that reads.the accounts of the insolence with which they torment, before they eat their enemies, can doubt whether they are ac- tuated by hunger or haughtiness? Ina word, from the feuds that lay waste whole king- doms, down to the sickly spleen which de- vours the slighted coque:te, or the fine lady superseded in her place, we need look no far- ther for the author of the griefs which poison our peace. In relation to matters purely speculative, none who are ever so little conversant in them can be at a loss for numerous instances of the havoc made with learning, truth, and religion, by the degmatical imposition of hypotheses and systems, invented by men of more power than knowledge; and the no less arrogant prohibition of new lights, which might detect the fallacy, or otherwise clash with an assumed all-sufficiency. Hence was the asserter of the Antipodes perse- cuted in the inquisition. Hence all the mischiefs avising from enthusiasm, hypocrisy, bigotry, and zeal. Hence—but I am entering into a field tco wide for the limits of an ordinary epistle. Yet having mentioned the possibility of accounting for atheism by the same way, I shall here only appeal to your readers, whether that man is sim- ply a fool, or if he must not necessarily be a very conceited fool, who. says in his heart there is no God ? And now, Sir, should it be asked to what pur- pose this epistle? or where the remedy? it is answered, that the utility of such a discussion (which, for the sake of the World, I could heartily wish had been more accurately handled) aust be obvious ; for by this means the hydra being reduced to one head, it becomes a more compendious task to cut off that one, than to THE WORLD. 79 vanquish a legion successively sprouting out from different stems: or to change the allu- sion, the recipe, instead of applying to the infinite variety of symptoms, might be com- prised in two words, Banish Pride: as in- deed this disease, pregnant of so'many others, is most emphatically cautioned against in six words of Holy Writ Pride was not made for man. ° IT am, Sir, &c. DV BPUBRAUR TRAV CRTATERATVATSTSTSERVTRVAUTAVIT VA 52'S No. 45.1 Tuurspay, Nov. 8; 1753. Necte coronam Postibus Juv. Bind a garland on the door-posts. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Tuere is hardly a greater instance of ill-nature, or a more certain token of a cruel disposition, than the abuse of dumb creatures ; especially of those who contribute to our advantage and c6én- yeniency. The doing an ill office to one who has intended us no harm isa strong proof of inhu- manity: but unkindness to a benefactor is both inhuman and ungrateful. But it is not my intention at present to ani- madvert upon our barbarity to the animal crea- tion: if you will accept of so unworthy a correspondent, I may take another opportunity of sending you my thoughts upon that subject : the business of this letter is only to vindicate from a reproach a poor inanimate being, vulgar- ly called a Post, which every body knows is held in the lowest contempt, yet whose services to mankind entitle it to a very high degree of regard and veneration. ‘«¢ As stupid asa Post,” is a phrase perpetually made use of.. If we want to characterize a fool, or a man absolutely without an idea, the ex- pression is, “as stupid as a Post.”’ “ As dull as a Beetle,” is a term I have no dislike to; nor have I any great objection to “as grave as a Judge,’ which I have considered as a synony- mous phrase, ever since I saw an old gentleman in company extremely angry at being told he looked grave ; when it was observed by a third person, that crave in the dictionary was vide putt. But though it is admitted that the idea of dulness may be illustrated by a Beetle, and the idea of gravity by a Judge, I positively deny that stupidity and a Post have any similitude whatsoever. ; It is well known, that the ancients, and more especially the Egyptians, the wisest nation of them all, paid the greatest degree of veneration to several inanimate things. Almost all vegeta- 80 bles were considered as gods, and consequently worshipped as such. Leeks and onions were particularly esteemed ; and there was hardly a_ garden to be seen that was not overrun with. deities. Now I own that I have no such super- stitious regard for a Post, as to recommend its deification ; nor am I fer making it minister of state, as Caligula did his horse; I only think, that when it is undeservedly branded intoa pro- verb of contempt, common justice requires its vindication. In former ages, how much Posts were esteem- ed, appears from what Juvenal says of them: Ornentur Postes, et ¢randi janua lauro: where we see that they were crowned with laurel, Virgil likewise, in describing the de- struction of Troy, says, that the women in the height of despair, Amplexeque tenent Postes, atque oscula figunt ; without doubt to take an affectionate leave of them. And old Ennius, knowing that they were in some measure sacred, employs no less a person than the goddess Discord herself to de- molish them: Discordia tetra Belli ferratos Postes, portasque refregit. But before I consider the service of Posts to mankind in general, I shall take this opportuni- ty of acknowledging the obligation which I have personally received from one of them, and which may very possibly bias me in favour of the whole fraternity. I was travelling very lately, where I was en- tirely ignorant of the road, in a part of England too far from town for the common people to give that rational direction to a stranger, which they do in and about London; and too near it, as [ afterwards found, not to relish strongly of its vices. Coming at last to a place, where the road branched out into different paths, I was quite at a stand, till seeing a country fellow passing by, I inquired the road to Bisley. «To Bisley !’’ says he, scratching his head, and look- ing up in my face—“ Where did you come from, Sir?’ I was nettled a good deal at the fellow’s useless and impertinent question, especially as it began to grow dusk; however, that I might get what instruction fidin him I could, I satisfied him. He then, after having attentively looked round the country, and informed me I might have come a nearer way, gave me to understand, “That he could not well tell, but that I was not above two miles from it.’’ Pox take the fellow! says I, he is as stupid as a Post, and rode on: but I had hardly gone a hundred yards before I discovered a Post, which very good- natur edly held out his finger to show me the road, ‘and informed me in a few words that I had THE WORLD. [ No. 45. still three miles to go. I followed the advice of this intelligent friend, and soon arrived at the end of my journey, ashamed and vexed at the ingratitude I had been guilty of, in abusing so serviceable a guide. Ifa man reflects seriously with himself, as 7 did then, he will find that Posts are very far from being so stupid as they are imagined to be. I may safely venture to assert, that they have all negative wisdom. ‘They neither ruin their fortunes by gaming, nor their constitutions by drinking. They keep no bad company; they never interfere either in matters of party or re- ligion, and seem entirely unconcerned about who is in favour at court, or who out. Though [ cannot say that their courage is great, they never suffer themselves to be affronted unrevenged ; for they are always upon the defensive, though they seldom give the challenge. Drunkards they have a particular aversion to; nor is it uncommon for a man, though the fumes of wine may have made him insensible at night, to feel the effects of their resentment in the morning. In short, they seem devoted to the service of mankind ; sleeping neither day nor night, nor ever de- serting the station which is assigned them. One thing I own may be justly laid to their charge, which is, that they are often guilty of cruel behaviour to the blind; though I think they amply repay it, by lending support to the lame. I could enumerate several sorts of Posts, which are of infinite service; such as the Mill-post, the Whipping-post, the Sign-post, and many others: I shall at present content myself with making a few observations on the two last, the Whipping-post, and the Sign-post. If to put in execution the laws of the land be of any service to the nation, which few I think will deny, the benefit of the Whipping-post must be very apparent, as being a necessary instru- ment of such an execution. Indeed the service it does to a country place is inconceivable. I myself knew a man who had proceeded so far as to lay his hand upon a silver spoon, with a de- sign to make it his own; but, upon looking round, and seeing a Whipping-post in his way, he desisted from the theft. Whether he suspect- ed that the Post would impeach him or not, I will not pretend to determine; some folks were of opinion, that he was afraid of a Habeas Cor- pus. It is likewise an infallible remedy for all _ lewd and disorderly behaviour, which the chair- man at sessions generally employs it to restrain, nor is it less beneficial to the honest pari of man- kind than the dishonest : for though it lies im- mediately in the high road to the gallows, it has stopped many an adventurous young man in his progress thither. But of the whole family of the Posts, I know none more serviceable than the Sign-post, which, like a bill of fare to an entertainment, always No. 46.] stands ready without door, to inform you what you are to expect within. The intent of this has been very much perverted, and accordingly taken notice of by your predecessor the Spectator. He was for prohibiting the carpenter the use of any sign but his saw; and the shoe-maker but his boot ; and with great propriety ; for the proverb says, ne sutor ulira crepidam. And indeed it is reasonable ‘‘ every shop should have a sign that bears some affinity to the wares in which it deals :”’ for otherwise, a stranger may call for a yard of cloth at a bookseller’s, or the last World at a linen-draper’s. But when these things are adjusted, nothing can be of greater service than a Sign-post; inasmuch as it instructs a man, provided he has money in his pocket, how he may supply all his wants; and often directs the hungry traveller to the agreeable perfumes of a savoury kitchen: from whence it is ima- gined that the common expression comes, of smelling a Post. - Thus, Mr. Fitz- Adam, you see how much we are indebted to these serviceable things, called Posts: and I think it would be a great instance of you: goodness, to endeavour to correct the world’s ingratitude to them ; since it is grown so very notorious, that I have known several, who owe all they have to a Post, industrious to undervalue its dignity, and make its character appear ridiculous. Tam, Sir, Your most humble servant, : W. R. N. B. All Posts of honour, Posts in war, letter Posts, and Post the Latin preposition, though they speli their names in the same man- ner, are of a quite different family ; nor do I undertake to plead in their behalf, knowing that ‘most of them are in too flourishing a condition to stand in need of an advocate SPRTVVETU VLDB VETVUBVNU TT SEVRVWTTA TE GEUCVVUVEBTATDEBRLA SHDN No. 46.] Tuurspay, Nov. 15, 1'753, TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, ** Wren a rich man speaketh,” says the son of ‘Sirach, “every man holdeth his tongue; and lo! what he sayeth is extolled to the clouds; but if a poor man speak, they say, What fel- low is this?” I had a mortifying opportunity yesterday, of experiencing the truth of this ob- servation. It is not material that I should tell you who or what I am;. it will be enough to say, that though I dine every day, and always make my appearance ina clean shirt, I have no thoughts THE WORLD. | done; I therefore contented myself with playing 81 of offering myself as a candidate for a borough at the next general election, nor am I quite so rich as a certain man of fashion, who took such a fancy to me this summer in the country, as hardly to be easy out of my company. This great person came to town last week for the winter ; whither I was called upon business soon after; and having received a general invi- tation to his table, I went yesterday to dine with him. Upon my being shown into the parlour, I found him sitting with two young gentlemen, who, as I afterwards learnt, were persons of great quality, and who, before I was bid to sit down, entered into a short whisper with my friend, which concluded with a broad stare in my face, and the words “I thought so,” uttered with a careless contempt, loud enough for me to hear. I was a little disconcerted at this behaviour, but was in some measure relieved by a message a few minutes after, that dinner was upon the table. We were soon seated according to form ; and as the conversation was upon general sub- jects, or rather upon no subject at all, and as the having something to say enables a man to sit easier in his chair, I now-and-then attempted to put ina word, but I found I had not the good fortune to make myself heard. The play-houses happening to be mentioned, I asked very respect- fully if any thing new was to be exhibited this season? Upon which it was observed, “that the winter was come in upon us all at once, and that there had been ice in Hyde-park of near half an inch thick!” Upon my friend’s taking notice that there had been a very great court that morning, I took occasion to inquire how the king did? when it was immediately remarked ‘* that the opera this season would certainly be a very grand one.”’ As I was a proficient in music, and a friend to the Italian opera, I hoped to be attended to, by saying something in favour of so elegant an entertainment: but before I had proceeded through half a sentence, the conversa- tion took another turn, and it was unanimously agreed, “that my Lord Somebody’s Greenland dog was the finest of the kind ever seen in Eng. land.”’ It was now high time for:me to have the dumb man till the cloth was removed, and then took my leave. At my return to my lodgings, I could not help thinking that it was not absolutely impes- sible for great men to be very ill-bred ; but how- ever that matter may be, I shall eat my dinner at the chop-house to-day, notwithstanding I have just received a card from my friend, to tell me, “ that he dines alone, and shall be quite unhappy without me ” T am, Sir, Your most humble servant, F. bb 82 Bath, October the 29th, 1753. | MR. FITZ-ADAM, Among the many inventions of this wise and polite age, I look upon the art of not knowing people to be one of the greatest. But for fear the | term should be a little too technical for many of your readers, I shall explain it at large. What I mean is, that persons of distinction shall meet. their inferiors in public places, and either walk, sit, or stand close at their elbows, without hav- ing the least recollection of them; whom, but a week or a day before, they have been particular- ly intimate with, and for whom they have pro- fessed the most affectionate regard. As you have taken no notice of this art, in all probability the professors of it have escaped you; but as I have lately been the subject of its fullest exertion, I beg leave to trouble you with a few words upon the oceasion. J am a clergyman of some fortune, though no preferment; and knowing that I had many friends at the Bath this season, I came hither last week to enjoy the pleasure of their conversa- tion. The morning after my arrival I took a walk to the pamp-room, where I had the honour of seeing a noble lord, a baronet, and some ladies of quality, with whom I was very well acquaint- ed: but to my great surprise, though I stood at the distance of only two or three yards from them, I did not perceive that any one of them knew me._ I have dined several times with his lordship, have frequently drank tea with the ladies, and spent two months this summer with the baronet, and yet am throwing myself in their Way every morning, am sitting next them in the rooms every evening, nay, playing at cards with them at the same table, without their having the least remembrance of me. There is also a very genteel family in the place, in which I have been so extremely intimate, that, according to the song, I have drank with the father, have talk’d with the mother, Have romp’d with the sister, and gamed with the brother ; but, for what reason I know not, unless it he in imitation of the lords and ladies above-mention- ed, with whom they happened to be acquainted, I do not find that any one of them has the least knowledge of me. I have looked in the glass above a hundred times, from a suspicion that my face must have undergone some extraordinary change, to occa- sion this total want of recollection in my friends; but I have the satisfaction to find that my eyes, nose, and mouth are not only remaining, but they stand, as near as I can guess, in the very individual places, as when my friends knew me; and that their forgetfulness is altogether owing to this new-invented art; an art, which THE WORLD. [No. 47. it seems none but persons of fashion, or a few very genteel people who have studied under them, can make themselves masters, of. But it is an art that will undo me, if\a living which my friend the noble lord has been so good as to as- sure me of should happen to become void while I am in this place: for how can I suppose that his lordship will give that to an entire stranger, which he has so long ago promised to an inti- mate acquaintance ? T am, Sir, Your humble servant, ABRAHAM ADAMs. I have taken the first opportunity of publish- ing these letters, not from a conviction that the writers of them have any cause of complaint, but from a desire of removing false prejudices, and of doing justice to the character of great peo- ple. As for the son of Sirach, whom the first of my correspondents has thought proper to quote, every body knows that his writings are apocryphal ; and as to the matter complained of, namely, that a private man cannot make himself heard among lords ané great folks, it is the fault of nature, who, it is well known, has formed the ears of persons of quality only for hearing one another. My other correspondent, who is piqued at not being known, is equally unreasonable ; for he cannot but have observed at the play- houses and other public places, from the number of glasses used by people of fashion, that they are naturally short-sighted. It is from this visual defect, that a great man is apt to mistake for- tune for honour, a service of plate for a good name, and his neighbour’s wife for hisown. His memory is in many instances as defective as his sight. Benefits, promises, and payment of debts, are things that he is extremely liable to forget. How then is it to be wondered at, that he should forget an acquaintance? But I have always ob- served that there is a propensity in little people to speak evil of dignities: and that where real errors are wanting (which is the case at present) they will throw out their invectives against na- tural defects, and quarrel with the deaf for not hearing them, and with the blind for not seeing them. I could go near to write a whole paragraph in praise of great men, if I was not restrained by the consideration, that of all things in the world, they hate flattery. PEPRURTRDATLTL a TEVBAATT VE BEVTSETTE TESEVETVCGEE TV No. 47.} Tuurspay, Nov. 22, 1753. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM.. Sir, Pim-stcutep as J am, my spectacles have as- No. 47.] sisted me sufficiently to read your papers. Per- | THE WORLD. 83 : He turned upon nis heel, went thome imme- mit me, as a recompense for the pleasure I have | ‘diately, and sent Mr. Cucumber a challenge. received from them, to send you an anecdote in my family, which till now has never appeared in print. Iam the widow of Mr. Solomon Muzzy; I am the daughter of Ralph Pumpkin, Esq. and I am the grand-daughter of Sir Josiah Pumpkin, of Pumpkin-hall, in South Wales. I was edu- cated with my two elder sisters, under the care and tuition of my honoured grandfather and grandmother, at the hall-house of our ancestors. It was the constant custom of my grandfather, when he was tolerably free from the gout, to summon his three granddaughters to his bed- side, and amuse us with the most important transactions of his life. I took particular de- light in hearing the good old man illustrate his own character, which he did, perhaps not with- out some degree of vanity, but always with a strict adherence to truth. He told us, he hoped we would have children, te whom some of his adventures might prove useful and impor- tant. Sir Josiah was scarce nineteen years old, when he was introduced at the court of Charles the Second, by his uncle Sir Simon Sparrowgrass, who was at.that time Lancaster herald at arms, and in great favour at Whitehall. As soonas he had kissed the king’s hand, he was presented to the Duke of York, and immediately afterwards to the ministers, and the mistresses. His for- tune, which was considerable, and his manners, which were extremely elegant, made him so very acceptable in all companies, that he had the hon- our to be plunged at once into every polite party of wit, pleasure, and expense, that the courtiers could possibly display. He danced with the ladies; he drank with the gentlemen; he sung loyal catches, and broke bottles and glasses in every tavern throughout London. But still he was by no means a perfect fine gentleman. He had not fought a duel. He was so extremely unfortunate, as never to have had even the hap- piness of a rencounter. The want of opportunity, not of courage, ‘had occasioned this inglorious chasm in his character. He appeared not only to the whole court, but even in his own eye, an unworthy and degenerate Pumpkin, till he had shown himself as expert in opening a vein with a sword, as any surgeon in England could be with a lancet. Things remained in this unhap- py situation till he was near two-and-twenty years of age. At length his better stars pre- vailed, and he received a most egregious affront from Mr. Cucumber, one of the gentlemen- ushers of the privy-chamber. Cucumber, who was in waiting at court, spit inadvertently into the chimney, and as he stood next to Sir Josiah | Pumpkin, part of the spittle rested upon Sir | Josiah’s shoe. It was then that the true Pump- kin honour arose in blushes upon his’ checks. * Captain Daisy, a friend to each party,not only carried the challenge, but adjusted the prelimi- naries. ‘The heroes were to fight in Moor-fields, and to bring fifteen seconds on a side. Punctu- ality isa strong instance of valour upon these occasions. ‘The clock of St. Paul’s struck seven just when the combatants were marking out their ground, and each of the two and thirty gentlemen was adjusting himself into a posture of defence against his adversary. It happened to be the hour for breakfast in the hospital of Bedlam. A small bell had rung to summon the Bedlamites into the great gallery. The keeper had already unlocked the cells, and were bring- ing forth their mad folks, when the porter of Bedlam, Owen Macduffy, standing at the iron gate, and beholding such a number of armed men in the midst of the fields, immediately roared out, ‘fire, murder, swords, daggers, bloodshed !”” Owen’s voice was always re- markably loud, but his fears had rendered it still louder and more tremendous. His words strack a panic into the keepers; they lost: all presence of mind ; they forgot their prisoners, and hasten- ed most precipitately down stairs to the scene of action. At the sight of naked swords, their fears increased, and at once they stood open- mouthed and motionless. Not so the lunatics; freedom to madmen, and light to the blind, are equally rapturous. Ralph Rogers the tinker began the alarm. His brains had been turned with joy at the Restoration, and the poor wretch imagined that this glorious set of combatants were Roundheads and Fanatics ; and according- ly he cried out, “ Liberty and property, my boys! down with the Rump! Cromwell. and Ireton are come from hell to destroy us. Come, my cavalier lads, follow me, and let us knock out their brains.’’ The Bedlamites immediately obeyed, and with the tinker at their head, leaped over the balusters of the stair-case, and ran wildly into the fields. In their way they picked up some staves and cudgels, which the porters and the keepers had inadvertently left behind, and rushing forward with amazing fury, they forced themselves outrageously into the midst of the combatants, and in one unlucky moment de- stroyed all the decency and order with which this most illustrious duel had begun. It seemed, according to my grandfather’s ob- servation, a very untoward fate, that two-and- thirty gentlemen of courage, honour, fortune, and quality, should meet together in hopes of kill- ing each other, with all that resolution and politeness which belonged to their stations, and should at once be routed, dispersed, and even wounded, by a set of madmen, without swerds pistol, or any other more honourable weapon. than a cudgel. The madmen were not only superior in 84 strength, bat numbers. and Mr. Cucumber stood their ground as long as possible, and they both endeavoured to make the lunatics the sole objects of their mutual re- venge, but the two friends were soon overpower- ed, and no person daring to come to their assis- tance, each of them made as proper a retreat as the place and circumstances would admit. Many of the other gentlemen were knocked down and trampled under foot. Some of them, whom my grandfather’s generosity would never name, betook themselves to flight in a very inglorious manner. An earl’s son was spied clinging submissively round the feet of mad Pocklington the tailor. A young baronet, although naturally intrepid, was obliged to con- ceal himself at the bottom of Pippin Kate’s apple-stall. _ A Shropshire squire of three thou- sand pounds a year was discovered chin deep, and almost stified in Fleet-diteh. Even Captain Daisy himself was found in a milk-cellar; with visible marks of fear and consternation. Thus ended this inauspicious day. But the madmen continued their outrages many days after. It was near a week before they were all retaken and chained down in their cells. During that interval of liberty, they committed, many of- fensive pranks throughout the cities of London and Westminster; and my grandfather himself had the misfortune to see mad Rogers come into the queen’s drawing-room, and spit in a dutch- ess’s face. Such unforeseen disasters occasioned some prudent regulations in the laws of honour. It was enacted that from that time, six combatants (three on a side) might be allowed and acknow- fledged to contain such a quantity of blood in their veins, as should be sufficient to satisfy the highest affront that could be offered. Afterwards, upon the maturest deliberation, as my grandfather assured me, the number six was reduced to four; two principals and two seconds ; each second was to be the truest and best beloved friend that his principal had in the world: and these seconds were to fight, pro- vided they declared upon oath, that they had no manner of quarrel to each other; for the canons of honour ordained, that‘in case the two seconds had the least heat or animosity one against the other, they must naturally become principals, and therefore ought to seek out for seconds to themselves. Having told you a very remarkable event in my grandfather's life, almost in his own words, and finding that thestory has carried me perhaps inta too great a length of letter, I shall not men- tion some curious facts relating to my father, and to poor dear Mr. Solomon Muzzy, of whom I am the unfortunate and mournful relict. But I have at least the honour and consolation to be, Sir, Your constant reader, and most humble servant, Many Mozzy. THE WORLD. Sir Josiah Pumpkin [No. 48. No. 48.] Tuurspay, Nov. 29, 1753. Tuoucn the demand for this paper has more than answered my expectations, yet the profits arising from it have not been so immense as to enable me, at this present time, to set up the one-horse chair which I promised myself at first setting out. For which reason, and for certain private objections, which I cannot help making to a post-chaise, or a hired chariot, when I am inclined to make an excursion into the country, I either travel on foot, or, if the distance or the weather should make it necessary, I take my place in that sociable and communicative vehicle, called a stage-coach. Happy is the man who, - without any laboured designs of his own, finds his very wants to be productive of his conve- niences! This man am I; having met with certain characters and adventures upon these rambles, that have contributed more to the enrich- ing my stock of hints towards carrying on this work, than would have ever presented them- selves had I drove along the road admiring the splendour of my own equipage, or lolled at my ease in the hired one of another. Many of these characters and adventures had appeared before now in these essays, if the desire of obliging my correspondents, assisted by a modesty peculiar to myself, that of thinking the productions of others to be almost as valuable as my own, had not inclined me (if I may speak the language of traffic) to turn factor for my friends, and to trade by commission rather than to do business entirely on my ewn account. And in carrying on this commerce, I have con- sulted the satisfaction of my customers, as well as my own interest: for though I do not pretend to so much humility as absolutely to allow that any other trader can send such goods to market as my own, or, to drop the allusion, that there is aman now living who can ‘write so wittily, so wisely, and so learnedly as myself; yet the pro- ductions of many will probably have more var- iety than those of a single person, even though that single person should be myself. But I have still a stronger reason for giving place to correspondents; it is the strong propensity which I have always found in my nature to communicate happiness. Every body knows, at least every writer, with what infinite satisfac- tion a man sees himself in print. For my own part, I shall never forget the flutterings and heart-beatings I felt upon the honour that was done me many years ago by the author of the Gentleman’s Magazine, in publishing a song to Celia, which was the first of my compositions. — Indeed there was a small inconvenience attend- ing the pleasure at that particular time; for as_ my finances were a little low, I almost ruined myself by the many repeated half-dozens which I bought of that magazine to distribute among — No. 48.] my friends for their wonder and admiration. And hence, if I was in haste to set up an equi- page, would arise another motive to the insert- ing the letters of correspondents; but as every pecuniary consideration is of small weight when compared with the pleasure of communicating happiness, I have given it but little of my at- tention. One thing I must request of my readers before I have done entirely with this subject, which is, that if it should enter into their heads that I have laid before them a dull paper, they will please to impute it to the abundance of my good nature, and not to any laziness in my disposition, or deficiency in my judgment. But to return to my country excursions. I was coming to town from one of them this week in the Windsor stage-coach, which, as we passed through Brentford, stopped to take up two of the fair sex, inhabitants of that gentecl place, one of them at a collar-maker’s, and the other at a breeches-maker’s. ‘The collar-maker’s lady, who was a person of very fine breeding, wished the breeches-maker’s lady joy of her coming abroad after her lying-in, and excused herself by illness for not having waited upon her on the occasion: to which the breeches-maker’s lady answered, in the politest manner imaginable, '“ that she should have been extremely glad to have seen her, but that she sent cards to none of her acquaintance, as indeed there was no occa- sion; for that, excepting herself (meaning the collar-maker’s lady) she had been visited at her sitting up by all the quality of Brentford.” The quality of Brentford fixed my attention to these ladies ; and during so short a journey as to Hyde-park-corner, where I made my compliments of departure, I acquired so much knowledge in the affairs of child-birth, in thrushes, red-gums, and the management of the mouth, that I shall hardly decline a dehate upon those subjects with the most experienced nurse at the lying-in hospital in Brownlow-street. As there are few circumstances too trivial to furnish useful hints to a considerate mind, at my return to my lodgings I could not help look- ing upon this boast of the breeches-maker’s wife, concerning the number and grandeur of her Visitors, namely, that they were all the quality of Brentford, to be exactly of a piece with the vanity that possesses almost every individual of mankind. To mention a stage-coach once more ; who is there that has travelled in one but must have heard it observed by the most ordinary of the passengers, that this was the first time in their lives that they had ever suffered themselves to be crowded into so mean a carriage? For my own part, I have always remarked it, that within half a dozen miles of the end of our journey, if there has been a fine-spoken lady in the coach, THE WORLD. 85 though but a country shopkeeper’s wife, who imagined herself a stranger to the company, she has expressed great anger and astonishment at not seeing the chaise, the chariot, or the coach coming to meet her on the road. To what is this vanity owing, but to the desire of being thought in her own person one of the quality of Brent- ford ? If we look into the city, and observe the eating and drinking of almost every common trades- man ; the strut of the husband in his gown and hood upon a lord mayor’s day ; the extravagance of the wife in dress, furniture, and servants ; their parties to Vauxhall and Sadler’s Wells; ~ their visits and entertainments; the question will occur, whence are all these vanities, but to see and be seen by the quality of Brentford ? The fine gentleman, whose lodgings no one is acquainted with; whose dinner is served up under cover of a pewter plate from the cook’s shop in Porridge Island ; and whose annuity of a hundred pounds is made to supply a laced suit every year, and a chair every evening to a rout ; returns to his bed-room on foot, and goes shiv- ering and supperless to rest, for the pleasure of appearing among people of equal importance with the quality of Brentford. The confectioner’s wife, who lights up her rooms with wax candles, and pays for them with the card money ; who borrows chairs, ta- bles, and servants of her neighbours; who sweats under the fatigue of doing the honours of her house, and who is almost stifled to death by the mob she has invited ; has no other grati- fication from her folly than the idle boast of having brought together to her rout all the qua- lity of Brentford. But to take characters in the group, why is every ordinary mechanic, every pettifogging attorney, every clerk in the office, every painter, player, poet, and musician, or, in short, why is almost every man one knows making a show beyond his income, but from a desire of being ranked among the quality of Brentford ? J shall conclude this paper with a short letter, which I received two days ago from a corres- pondent, who, if I can form any judgment of his rank by his manner of writing, must be one - of the guality of Brentford. MR. FITZ-ADAM, I am no enemy to humour and irony and all that, but I cannot help thinking that you must have spent the chief part of your time among low people; and this is not only my own opi- nion, but the opinion of most of the persons of quality with whom I converse. If you are really acquainted with the manners ef upper life, be so good as to convince us of it, by copying its language, and drawing your future charac- 86 ters from that inexhaustible source of politeness and entertainment. Iam, Your friend and well-wisher, Z. PRVCVLVAAATA DWATT VA SUAAVTABBRGVVVAVLTTVVAVS HVVVTVA No. 49.] Tuurspay,; Dec, 6, 1753. Tuoucu I am an old fellow, I am neither sour nor silly enough yet to be a snarling lawdator temporis acti, and to hate or despise the pre- sent age because it is the present. I cannot, like many of my contemporaries, rail at the wonderful degeneracy and corruption of these times, nor by sneering compliments to the in- genious, the sagacious, moderns, intimate that they have not common sense. I really do not think that the present age is marked out by any new and distinguished vices and follies, un- known to former ages. On the contrary, I am apt to suspect that human nature was always very like what it is at this day, and that men, from the time of my great progenitors down to this moment, have always had in them the same seeds of virtue and vice, wisdom and folly, of which only the modes have varied, from cli- mate, education, and a thousand other conspiring causes. Perhaps this uncommon good-humour and indulgence of mine to my contemporaries may be owing to the natural benignity of my consti- tution, in which I can discover no particles of envy or ill-nature, even to my rivals both in fame and profit, the weekly writers ; or perhaps to the superiority of my parts, which every body must acknowledge, and which places me in- finitely above the mean sentiments of envy and jealousy. But whatever may be the true cause, which probably neither my readers nor I shall ever discover with precision, this at least is certain, that the present age has not only the _ honour and pleasure of being extremely well ' with me, but if I dare say so, better than any , that I have yet either heard or read of. Both vices and virtues are smoothed and softened by manners ; and though they exist as they ever have done, yet the former are become less bar- barous and the latter less rough. Insomuch that I am as glad as Mr. Voltaire can be, that I have the good fortune to live in this age; in- dependently of that interested consideration, that it is rather better to be still alive, than only to have lived. This my benevolence to my countrymen and contemporaries ought to be esteemed still the more meritorious in me, when J shall make it appear that no man’s merit has been less attend- ed to, or rewarded than mine: and nothing pro- THE WORLD. [No. 49. duces ill-humour, rancour, and malevolence so much as neglected and unrewarded merit. The utility of my weekly labours is evident, and their effects, wherever they are read, pro- digious. ‘They are equally calculated, I may say it without vanity, to form the heart, improve the understanding, and please the fancy. Not- withstanding all which, the ungrateful public does not take above three thousand of them a week. ‘Though, according to Mr. Maitland’s calculation of the number of the inhabitants in this great metropolis, they ought to take two hundred thousand of them, supposing only five persons, and one paper to each family ; and al- lowing seven millions of souls in the rest of the kingdom, I may modestly say; that one million more of them ought to be taken and circulated inthe country. ‘The profit arising from the sale of twelve hundred thousand papers would be some encouragement to me to continue these my labours for the benefit of mankind. I have not yet had the least intimation from the ministers, that they have any thoughts of calling me to their assistance, and giving me some considerable employment of honour and profit ; and having had no such intimations, Iam justly apprehensive that they have no such in- tentions ; such intimations being always long pre- vious to the performance, often to the intentions. Nor have I been invited, as I confess I ex- pected to be, by any considerable borough or county to represent them in the next parliament, and to defend their liberties and the Christian religion, against the ministers and the Jews. But I think I can account for this seeming slight, without mortification to my vanity and self-love; my name being a pentateuch name, which in these suspicious and doubtful times savours too strongly of Judaism; though, upon the faith of a Christian, I have not the least tendency to it; and I must do Mrs. Fitz- Adam (who I own has some influence over me) the justice to say, that she has the utmost horror for those sanguinary rites and ceremonies. | Notwithstanding all this ill usage (for every man may be justly said to be ill used who is not rewarded according to his own estimation of his own merit) which I feel and lament, [ cannot however call the present age names, and brand it. with degeneracy. Nature, as I have already observed, being always the same, medes only varying. With modes, the signification of words also varies, and in the course of those variations, convey ideas very different from those which they were originally intended to express, I could give numberless instances of this kind, — but at present I shall content myself with this single one. The word honour, in its proper signification, doubtless implies the ynited sentiments of virtue, truth, and justice, carried by a generous mind beyond those mere moral obligations which the . No. 50.] laws require, or can punish the violation of. A ; true man of honour will not content himself with the literal discharge of the duties of a man and a citizen ; he raises and dignifies them into magnanimity. He gives where he may with justice refuse ; he forgives where he may with | justice resent; and his whole conduct is direct- ed by the noble sentiments of his own unvitiated heart ; surer and more scrupulous guides than the laws of the land, which being calculated for the generality of mankind, must necessarily be more a restraint upon vices in general, than an invitation and reward of particular virtues. But these extensive and compound notions of honour have been Jong contracted, and reduced to the single one of personal courage. Among the Romans, honour meant no more than con- tempt of dangers and death in the service, whether just or unjust, of their country. Their successors and conquerors, the Goths and Van- dals, who did not deal much in complex ideas,. simplified those of honour, and reduced them to this plain and single one, of fighting for fighting’s sake, upon any, or all, no matter what, occasions. Our present mode of honour is something more compounded, as will appear by the true character which I shall now give of a fashiona-| ble man of honour. * A gentleman, which is now the genteel sy- nonymous term for a man of honour, must, like his Gothic ancestors, be ready for and rather de- sirous of a single combat. And if by a proper degree of wrongheadedness he provokes it, he is only so much the more jealous of his honour, and more of a gentleman. He may lie with impunity, if he is neither de- tected nor accused of it: for it is not the lie he tells, but the lie he is told of, that dishonours him. In that case he demonstrates his veracity by his sword, or his pistol, and either kills or is killed with the greatest honour. He may abuse and starve his own wife, - daughters, or sisters, and he may seduce those of other men, particularly his friends, with in- _ violate honour, because, as Sir John Brute very justly observes, he wears a sword. By the laws of honour he is not obliged to pay his servants or his tradesmen; for as they are a _ pack of scoundrels, they cannot without insolence : demand their due of a gentleman: but he must _ punctually pay his gaming-debts to the sharvers _ who have cheated tne for ee debts are really debts of honour. \..... © nity He lies under one Sinaevaoe restraint: for * A gentleman is every man, who with a tolerable suit _ of clothes, 2 sword by his side, and a watch and snuff- box in his pockets, asserts himself to be a gentleman, | SWears with energy that he will be ‘treated as such, and | that he will cut the throat of any man who presumes to | gay the contrary. THE WORLD. 87 he must not cheat at play, unless in a horse- match: but then he may with great honour de- fraud in an office, or betray a trust. In public affairs, he may, not only with hon- our, but even with some degree of lustre, be in the same session a turbulent patriot, opposing the best measures, and a servile courtier, pro- moting the worst; provided a very lucrative consideration be known to be the motive of his conversion ; for in that case the point of honour* turns singly upon the guantwm. From’ these premises, which the more they are considered the truer they will be found, it appears, that there are but two things which a man of the nicest honour may not do, which are declining single combat, and cheating at play. Strange! that virtue should be so diffi- cult; and honour, its superior, so easy to at- ajin| to. The uninformed herd of mankind are govern- ed by words and names, which they implicitly receive without either knowing or asking their meaning. Even the philosophical and religious controversies, for the last three or four hundred years, have turned much more upon words and names, unascertained and misunderstood, than upon things fairly stated. The polite world, to save time and trouble, receive, adopt, and use words in the signification of the day; not having leisure nor inclination to examine and analyze them : and thus often misled by sounds, and not always secured by sense, they are hurried into fatal errors, which they do not give their understandings fair play enough to prevent. In explaining words, therefore, and bringing them back to their true signification, one may sometimes happen to expose and explode those errors, which the abuse of them both occasions and protects. May that be the good fortune of this day’s paper! How many unthinking and unhappy men really take themselves to be men of honour, upon these mistaken ideas of that word! And how fatal to others, especially to the young and unexperienced, is their example and success in the world! I could heartily wish that some good dramatic poet would exhibit at full length and in lively colours upon the stage, this modish character of a man of honour, of which I have but slightly and hastily chalked the outlines. Upon such a subject I am apt to think that a good poet might be more useful than a good preacher, as perhaps his audiences would be more numerous, and his matter more attended to. Besides, Segnius irritant animos, demissa per aurem, Quam que sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et qua Ipse sibi tradit spectator. P. S. To prevent mistakes, I must observe that there is a great difference between a man 88 of honour, and a person of honour. By persons of honour were meant in the latter end of the last century, bad authors and poets of noble birth, who were but just not fools enough to prefix their names in great letters to the pro- logues, epilogues, and sometimes even the plays with which they entertained the public. But ‘now that our nobility are too generous to inter- fere in the trade of us poor professed authors, or to eclipse our performances by the distinguished and superior excellency and lustre of theirs ; the meaning at present of a person of honour is re- duced to the simple idea of a person of illustri- ous birth. : LEV VWS UVVEVEVS TEFRUTVT TUEVCEVDEVUSD PU VTLS SE VSEVWATIDVWE we No. 50.) Tuurspay, Dec. 13, 1753. Et que tanta fuit Romame tibi causa videndi ? q Vira, What great occasion called you hence to Rome? DRYDEN. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, TxHoucnH I am a constant inhabitant of this town, which is daily producing some new im- provement in the polite and elegant arts, in which [ interest myself, perhaps to a degree of enthusiasm, and have always a thousand reasons for not leaving it a single day ; yet 1 cannot help still accosting my friends, upon their first ar- rival from the country, with the usual question at this time of the year, ‘ Well, Sir, what brings you to town?’ The answer has always varied according to the circumstances of the person asked: ‘To see the new bridge; to put a son to Westminster, the inns of court, the army, &c. to hear the new opera; to look out for a wife ; to.be in fortune’s way at the drawing of the lottery; to print a sermon; a novel; the state of the nation, &c. &c. ; to kiss hands for an employment; to be elected fellow of the Royal Society ;, to consult Dr. Ward; to be witness for Mrs. Squires.’’ In short, the rea- sons given are infinite, and I am afraid the detail has been already tedious. But I must observe, that the most general motive of the men has been to buy something they wanted, and of the ladies to buy something they did not want. : ‘ This year, indeed, that general reason has given place to another, which is not only general but universal; for now, ask whom you will what he is come up for, he draws up all his muscles into a most devout gravity, and with an important solemnity answers you, “ To re- peal the Jew bill.” This religious anxiety brings THE WORLD. [No. 50. to my mind the political zeal, no less warm or universal, in the year ten. J remember I then met with a Welch collier who asked me for a half- penny, telling me he was starving here, as were his wife and children two hundred miles off. As I knew him by his: dialect to be of a good family, I expressed to him my surprise that he would leave his principality to come into a coun- try where they paid so little regard to the an tiquity of his house, or the length of his pedi- gree; and desired that he would tell me why he came to London. He immediately swelled with all the pride of his ancestors, put his arms a-kimbo, and answered; ‘‘ To pull down the French king.” But the worst reason for coming to London that I ever heard in my life was given me last night at a visit by a young lady of the most graceful figure I ever beheld; it was, ‘ to have her shape altered to the modern fashion.”’ That is to say, to have her breasts compressed by a flat, straight line, which is to extend cross-wise from shoulder to shoulder, and also to descend, still in astraight line, in such a manner, that you shall not be able to pronounce what it is that prevents the usual tapering of the waist. I protest when I saw the beautiful figure that was to be so de- formed by the stay-maker, I was as much shock- ed as if I had been told that she was come to de- liver up those animated knolls of beauty to the surgeon.—I borrow my terms from gardening, which now indeed furnishes the most pregnant and’ exalted expressions of any science in be- ing And this brings to my mind the only instance that can give an adequate idea of my concern. Let us suppose Mr. Browne should, in any one of the many Elysiums he has made, see the old terraces rise again and mask his un- dulating knolls, or straight rows of cut trees obscure his noblest configurations of scenery. When Lord Burlington saw the rebuilding of St. Paul’s by Sir C. Wren, the remembrance of the front which had been destroyed, and his par- tiality to the work of his admired Inigo Jones, drew from him the following citation: ‘‘ When the Jews saw the second temple they wept.”” I own (though no Jew) I did the same, when J heard that the most beauteous remain of nature’s architecture was so soon to be destroyed; and couJd not help reciting those once admired lines in the Henry and Emma, No longer shall the bodice, aptly laced, ~ F From thy full bosom to thy slender waist, That air and harmony of shape express, Fine by degrees, and beautifully less ; ———————- An horseman’s coat shall hide Thy ¢aper shape and comeliness of side. : Observe the force of every word ; and as a testi- | mony that this excellent writer was peculiaily ° . : Le happy in the expression, “cumeliness of side, | the nicest observer of our times, who is now. No. 51.] THE W publishing a most rational Analysis of Beauty, has chosen for the principal illustration of it a pair of stays, such as would fit the shape de- scribed by the judicious poet; and has also shown by drawings of other stays, that every minute deviation from the first pattern is a di- minution of beauty, and every grosser alteration a deformity. IT hear that an ingenious gentleman is going vrithin these few days to publish a treatise on. Deformity. If he means artificial as well as natural deformity, he may make his work as voluminous as he pleases. A few books of tra- vels will furnish him with abundant instances of head-moulders, face-squeezers, nose-parers, ear-stretchers, eye-painters, lip-borers, ‘tooth- stainers, breast-cutters, foot-swathers, &c. &c. all modelled by fashion, none by taste. When- ever taste or sense shall interpose to amend, by a slight improvement, the mere deficiences in the human figure, we may see by a single in- stance how it is likely to be received. _ Acountry family, whose reason for coming to London was to have their pictures drawn, and principally that of the hopeful heir, brought him to Sir Godfrey Kneller. That skilful artist, soon discovering that a little converse with the world might, one day or other, wear off the block, which, to a common observer, obscured the man, instead of drawing him in a green coat with spaniels, or, in the more contemptible livery of a fop, playing with a lap-dog, Os homini sublime dedit, he gave him a soul darting with a proper spirit through the rusticity of his features. I met the mother and sisters coming down stairs the day it was finished, and I found Sir Godfrey in a most violent rage above. « Look there,” says he, pointing to the picture, “ There isa fellow ! T have put some sense in him, and none of his family know him.” . _ Sir Godfrey’s consciousness of his own skill ‘was so well known, that it exposed him fre- quently to the banter and irony of the wits his friends. Pope, to play him off, said to him, after looking round a room full of beauties that he had painted, « It is pity, Sir Godfrey, that you had not been consulted at the creation.” Sir Godfrey threw his eyes strong upon Pope’s shoulders, and answered, « Really I should have made some things better.’’ But the punishment ‘or this profaneness pursued our wit still fur- her. : _ It is remarkable that the expletive Mr. Pope ‘enerally used by way of oath was, “ God mend ne!” One day, in a dispute with a hackney oachman, he used this: expression :—‘“ Mend ow!” says the coachman; “it would not’ be alf the trouble to make a new one.” If it nay be allowable to draw a moral reflection ‘om a ludicrous story, I could heartily wish | } ORLD. 89 that the ladies would every morning seriously address tc their Maker this invocation of Mr. Pope ; and, after devout meditation on the Dj. vine patronage to which they have recommend- ed their charms, apply themselves properly to pursue all human means for the due accomplish- ment of their prayer, I flatter myself that this advice may be palatable, inasmuch as it compre- hends that celebrated example of uniting religion and politeness, delivered down to us from the ancients.in these few words, ‘* Sacrifice to the Graces.” And I hope the sex will consider how | great a blemish it will be to the present age, if the painter or historian should declare to poste- rity that the ladies of these times were never known to sacrifice to any god but Fashion. To conclude the history of my unhappy visit. I must confess I was provoked beyond all pa. tience, reserve, or good breeding; and very rudely flung out of the room, having first told the lady she need. not have given herself the | trouble of a journey to London, for I would an- |swer for him, the talents of Mr. Square, her Somersetshire staymaker, were sufficient to dress her in the most elegant taste of the modern fa- shion, or indeed (if he was not an old man) to put her in a way that she could not possibly dress out of it. I am, as a lover of elegance, Your admirer and humble servant. eatin te tte tee in te hn ph ao a ee ae No. 51.] Tuurspay, Decemprr 20, 1753. Quod melicorum est, Promittunt melici : tractant fabrilia fabri, Hor. Musicians are to sounds alone confined, And each mechanic hath his trade assigned. FRANCTS, Tuovuen there is nothing more pleasing to the mind of man than variety, yet it may. be pur- sued in such a manner as to make the most ac« tive and varied life a tiresome sameness. ‘To il- lustrate this seeming paradox, I shall relate what I learnt from an humble companion of a gentleman of vast spirits (as he is called by his acquaintance) who thinks he has shown his value for time by never having yet enjoyed one moment of it. The active gentleman, it seems, proposed to the other to make the tour of Eng- land, and ride daily from house to house, and from garden to garden: which indeed they did in so expeditious a manner, not to lose tume, that they did not allow the least portion of it for the objects they saw to make any impression on their memories. \ In the hottest weather they never walked under the shade of the plantation they so much admired, and came on purpose to see ;. but crossed the scorching lawn for the néar- est way to the building they would not rest in, N 90 or the water they refuse to be rowed upon. Thus they flew through the countries and gar- dens they went to see, with as much fatigue, and not more observation, than a post horse in his stage: and this’ for the pleasure of variety, and the advantage of improvement. In what respect does this gentleman’s conduct differ from his who seeks a variety of acquaint- ance? The consequence must be exactly the same; viz. use and enjoyment of none. An unexperienced man, who has happened to see one of this turn eagerly following, or boasting of his acquaintance with the builder, the planter, the poet, the politician, the seaman, the soldier, the musician, the jockey, would naturally sup-- pose he was generally talking with those gentle- men in the several sciences they respectively excelled in. No, this is the only discourse which he studies to avoid. Before I endeavour to account for this strange absurdity, I would just observe, that the persons I am speaking of are of a very different charac- ter from those who, from a mere principle of vanity, are continually numbering among their friends, though upon the slightest grounds, men of high birth and station, and who always bring to my mind Justice Shallow’s acquaintance with John of Gaunt, who never saw him but once, and then he broke his head. Equally wide of the question is that character, who from a love of talking avoids the company where his news has been already published, and dreads the man who is better heard than himself on general topics. j Ignorance and an imbecility of attention, if I may be allowed the expression, are the most probable causes of this inconsistent behaviour. To avoid metaphysical disquisitions, let us try if we can set our judgments by comparison. | Men of the weakest stomachs are very solicitous of the greatest variety of dishes ‘and the highest sauces, which they constantly reject upon tast- ing, being, as they confess, too strong for them, though the objects of their desire and expecta- tion before they were brought upon the table. Tt is also observable, that when gentlemen after a certain age devote themselves to the tair sex, they generally pursue with more fervour, and always express themselves with more warmth, than when in the heat of youth, so long as the game is out of reach; but a nearer prospect of success soon discovers the difference between natural heat and the delusion of false desire and jmaginary passion. ‘The sportsman cannot be more apprehensive and concerned for the death of the hare he wishes to save, than the old gal- tant is at the approaching opportunity of accom- plishing his desires ; which if he obtain, J am afraid he will sing no other Ze Deum than that of Pyrrhus—Suchk another victory will ruin me. THE WORLD. [No. 51. Animasque in vulnere ponunt, was a famous quotation of Dr. Bentley’s on the sudden death of an old bridegroom. To avoid a dry argument, and as I do not remember to have seen this subject touched upon by any writer, ancient or modern, I have endeavoured to throw it into measure. Ye sages say, who know mankind, Whence, to their real profit blind, All leave those fields which might produce Fit game for pastime or for use? The well-stored warren they forsake, And love to beat the barren brake ; Sooner their pleasures will avoid, Than run the chance of being cloy’d. Dametas ever is afraid Lest merchants should discourse on trade: And yet of commerce will inquire, When drinking with a country squire. Of ladies. he will ask how soon. They think Count Saxe can take a town, Or whether France or Spain will treat ; But if the brigadier he meet, He questions him about the sum He won or lost at last night’s drum. Or if some minister of state Will deign to talk of Europe’s fate, Th’ important topic he declines, To prate of soups, ragouts, and wines ; Yet he, at Helluo’s board, can fix On no discourse but politics. Once were the linguist, and the bard, The objects of his chief regard ; Now with expressive shrugs and looks He flies the haunts of men of books: Yet o’er his cups will condescend To toast the prebend for his friend : For depth of reading tell his merit, Extol his style for force and spirit : Ask where he preach’d, or what his text, Inquire what work he’ll publish next: What depth of matter, how he treats it— He can’t be easy till he gets it. Wet from the press ’tis sent him down, Three days before ‘tis on the town : The title read (for never more is) Next having writ ex don. authoris, He spends at least the time in finding A place to suit its size and binding, As might have served, if well directed, To read the yolume thus neglected. When last with Atticus I dined, Dameetas there I chanced to find, Who straight address’d me with complaint How Polio talk’d of the Levant ; . And how he teazed him near an hour With the Grand Signior and his power: Then Athens’ ruin’d domes explain d, And what in Egypt still remain‘d. No. 52:] TUE ‘This talk Dameetas could not bear, For Pollio had himself been there ; But from some fellow of a college Would think the subjects worth his know- ledge. The table now removed again Began Dameetas to complain ; « | knew Eugenius in his prime, The best companion of his time ; But since he’s got to yonder board, You never hear him speak a word, But tiresome schemes of navigation, The built of vessels and their station— Such stuff as spoils all conversation.” ““ Good Atticus, repeat the verses, You lately said were made by Thyrsis.’ John at that instant introduces This very servant of the muses ; Dametas starts, and in confusion, Cursing the d—d ill-timed intrusion, Whispers the servant in his ear, «‘ John, be so good to call a chair ;”’ And flies the spot, alarm’d with dread, Lest Thyrsis should begin to read. And yet, for all he holds this rule, Dameetas is in fact no fool: For he would hardly choose a groom To make his chairs or hang his room ; Nor with th’ upholsterer discourse About the glanders in his horse ; Nor send to buy his wife a téte To Puddle-dock or Billingsgate ; Nor if in labour, spleen, or trance, Fetch her Sir Thomas for Sir Hans ; Nor bid his coachman drive o’ nights To parish-church instead of White’s ; Nor make his party or his bets With those who never pay their debts ; Nor at dessert of wax and china Neglect the eatables, if any, To smell the chaplet in the middle, Or taste the Chelsea-china fiddle. > SVVVCVBVVUTCVCVATVTUVTSVAAU VT AUGUST AVVAVT VTE TATRA SVE No. 52.] Tuurspay, Dec. 27, 1753. ; TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I nave been betrayed and ruined by the basest of mankind. My father was a merchant of con- siderable note in this town; but by unavoidable losses and misfortunes, he died two years ago, broken-hearted and insolvent. I was his only child, and the delight of his life. My edu- cation, my dress, and manner of living were such as would hardly have discredited a young woman of fashion. Alas! the dear parent, to whose fondness I was indebted for every advantage and WORLD. 91 enjoyment, intended to have given me a consid- erable fortune; but he died, as I have told you, and. has left me to lament that I was not a beg- gar from my cradle. I was ignorant of his circumstances, and there- fore felt not my misfortune in its full force till a month after his death: at which time his cre- ditors entered upon his house, sold all his furni- ture and effects, and left me nothing but my clothes and trinkets, which they had no right to take from me. In the days of my prosperity I had a maid- servant, of whom I was extremely fond; and to whom, ‘upon her marriage with a reputable tradesman, I gave a little portion of fifty pounds, which were left me by a relation. | This young woman was lately become a widow; and being left in but indifferent circumstances, she hired a large house near the Exchange, and let lodgings for her support. It was to this woman that. I flew for shelter; being no more than eighteen years of age, and, as my father used often to tell me, too handsome to have friends. I do not mention this circumstance, indeed I do not, as any thing to be vain of ; Heaven knows that I am humbled by it to the very dust: I only introduced it as the best excuse I could think of for the unkindness of my ac- quaintance. I was received by this favourite servant with great appearance of gratitude and esteem. She seemed to pity my misfortunes, and to take every opportunity of comforting and obliging me. Among the gentlemen that lodged at her house, there was one whom she used to talk of with great pleasure. One day, after 1 had lived with her about a week, she told me that this gentleman had a great inclination to be known to me, and that, if I had no objection to company, he would drink tea with me that af- ternoon. She had hardly done speaking, when the gentleman entered the room. 1 was angry in my heart at this freedom; but his genteel appearance and behaviour soon got the better of my resentment, and made me listen to his conversation with more than common attention. To be as short as I can, this first visit made me desirous of a second, that second of a third, and the third of a thousand more: all of which he seemed as eager to pay as I was willing to receive. ; The house was so crowded with lodgers, that the mistress of it had only one parlour for her- self and me; and as she had almost constant employment at home, my lover had very few opportunities of entertaining me alone. But the presence of. a third person did not hinder him from declaring the most tender and unalterable love for me, nor did it awe me from discovering how pleased and happy I was at the conquest I had made. 92 In this delightful situation near a twelve- month passed away; during which time he would often Jament his dependence upon an old uncle, whe, he said, would most assuredly disinherit him, if he married a woman without a fortune. I wanted no better reason for this delay; and was waiting for an event that promised me the possession of all I wished for, when my happi- ness was interrupted by the most villanous con- trivance that ever was heard of. I had walked out one morning to buy some shades of silk, in order to finish the covering of a settee, which I was working for my benefac- tress; and was returning home through a by- court, when, to my inexpressible surprise, I found myself stopt by two men, who, producing what they called a writ against me, hurried me into a coach, and conveyed me, half dead with terror, to a wretched house, whose windows were guarded with iron bars. As soon as I had power to speak, I desired to know by whom and for what crime I was thus cruelly insulted. They showed me without hesitation their authority ; by which it appeared that the woman with whom [ lived had ordered me to be arrested for a debt of thirty pounds, which she had sworn I owed her for board and lodgings. ‘It is impossible!’ cried 1; “ she cannot have served me so! There must ne some mistake in this! Send for her this moment! I am sure it is a mistake!’’ “ Very possible, madam,”’ answered one of the fellows with a smile; “but if you would take my advice, it should be to send for a gentleman instead of the plaintiff. A young lady like you, madam, need not stay here for a debt of thirty pounds.”’ “ Go where I send you, Sir,’’ said 1; “ tell her what has happened to me, and bid her hasten to me, if she would save my life.”” The fellow shook his head as he went out, but promised to do as I directed. His companion asked me what I pleased to call for, and explained his meaning by telling me J was in a public house. I bid him call for what he liked, and charge it to me; he thanked me very civilly, and locking the door after him, left me to myself. Thad now a little leisure to reflect upon this adventure; but the more [ thought of it, the greater was my perplexity.. I remained in this uncomfortable suspense for near an hour, when I heard the door open with some precipitation, | and saw my lover enter the room with an aston-. ishment not to be imagined. ‘ Good God!”’ said he, snatching me to his arms, “ is this an apartment for my charmer ?—That inhuman woman !”’—“¢ What woman ?”’ said J, interrupt- ing him; ‘can it be possible ??’— herself,’ answered he; “ this professing friend, this grateful servant, owns that she has arrested you.” I was ready to faint at what I heard ; but recovering myself as well as I could, I in-| THE WORLD. ‘© She owns it | [No. 52. quired into the motives of this woman’s cruelty. ‘‘ Her motive,” he replied, ‘‘ was avarice ; [had some words with her two days ago, and threat- ened her in jest that I would leave her lodgings. She thought me in earnest ; and believing I was soon to marry the angel whom I doted on, she determined to make what money she could of me, by arresting my sweet girl. She was not mis- taken when she guessed with what haste I should discharge the debt. Here, Sir,’? continued _he, turning to the bailiff, “is the full sum, and a gratuity for yourself. Come, madam, let us ex- change this detested place for apartments more worthy of you.” ; The coach that brought him to my prison was at the door. He immediately put me into it, and conducted me to a lace-shop upon Ludgate- hill. JI remained in the coach while he stept into the shop, and continued for a minute or two in conversation with the mistress of it; when returning to me with great cheerfulness, he gave me joy of his success, and handed me up stairs into pleasant and convenient apartments. ‘The exact order in which I found every thing in these apartments put me upon observing that the owner of them was a prophetess, and knew that I should have need of them that very morning. My lover made no answer to my remark, but. straining me in his arms, and almost. pressing me to death, he called them my bridal apart- ments, and bid me welcome to them as such. He then went down to order dinner and a bottle of champaign from the tavern, and returned to me with so much love and joy in his Jooks, that I was charmed with him beyond expression. When dinner was removed, and the servant who attended us withdrawn, he said and looked so many.fond and endearing things, and mingled such caresses with his words and looks ; forcing upon me at the same time three or four glasses of a wine I was not used to, that my heart, warm as it -was before with love and gratitude, consented to his desires, and in one fatal mo- ment betrayed me to a villain. I lived in this guilty commerce till the effects of it made me apprehensive of being a mother in a few weeks. I had often pressed him for the performance of his promises ; and was now resolved to be more particularly. urgent with him upon that subject; but instead of listening to me as I hoped he would, he called hastily for his sword, and took leave of me ou the evening. I expected his return with the utmost im- patience. The evening came; another, and another after that; but I neither saw him nor heard from him. - Upon the fourth day of his leaving me, I received a visit from the mistress of the house, who, to my great astonishment addressed me in these words: ““T thought, madam, at your entrance inte this house, that you were a married woman. No. 53.] The lady who hired the lodgings for you two days before, gave me assurance that you were married.”’ ~ “ What lady!’ cried I. “ You amaze me! I heard not of these lodgings till I had taken possession of them. Be quick, and tell me who was this lady?” « Alas!” an- swered my: visitor, “ I knew not till this morn- ing that you were fallen into the snares of the worst of women, and the most artful of men.’’ She saw my amazement; but desiring my at- tention, proceeded thus: ‘ As for the gentleman (if he deserves the name of one) you will never see him more.”’ “ How, madam, never see him more !’’ interrupted I.—My voice failed me as I uttered these words; and leaning backwards in my chair, I fainted away. She recovered me from my swoon, and then went on. “He has just now sent his servant to discharge the lodgings ; of whom when I inquired how you were to be taken care of in your approaching hour, his answer was, that he had no commis- sion to speak to such questions. Pray, madam,” continued she, “is it true that you were arrested in the street the morning of your entrance into these lodgings?’ I told her yes. “ The servant then is honest,” she replied ; ‘he has given me your whole history. The contrivers of that arrest were the woman where you lodged, and the villain whom you trusted. Their design ‘was to fling you entirely into his power, that he might use it to your destruction. But do not despair madam,” added she, seeing me in’ the utmost affliction ; ‘all women are not monsters. I have compassion upon your youth, and will assist you in your distresses. These apartments are yours, till you desire to resign them: nor shall any thing be wanting that your situation shali require, or that a lady in happier circum- stances would wish to be provided with. And hereafter, if you should choose to continue with me, and assist me in my business, I will look upon you as my daughter, and forget every thing which has befallen you.” Oppressed as I was with grief and shame, my heart bounded at this proposal, I fell upon the heck of my benefactress, and bedewed it with my tears; telling her, as well as those tears would permit me, that I was bound to her for ever, and would wish for no other happiness than to love and please her. Three months are past since [ have been the mother of a sweet boy ; in all which time I have never seen (and I pray heartily that I never may see) his inhuman father. The generous Woman, who supports me, is even kinder to me than her promise. She pays herself, she says, in the comfortable thought that she has been an instrument in the hand of Heaven to save me from destruction. She told me yesterday, that the stratagem by which this monster got me into his power, with every partivular of his be- haviour to me before and after i t, is his favour- THE:WORLD. 93 ite subject in all companies. To deprive him, therefore, of his principal pleasure, I have thought proper to take the story out of his hands, by telling it myself, I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, AMANDA. tat tet tnt beth yn dh ds nae ee No. 53.} THuRSDAY, JAn. 3, 1754. 3 THERE are very few employments which require a greater degree of care and circumspection than that of conducting a public paper. Double meanings are so much the delight of all conver- sations, that people seldom choose to take things in their obvious sense ; but are putting words and sentences to the torture, to force confessions from them which their authors never meant, or if they had, would have deserved a whipping for. 1 Yor this reason I take all the pains I can to be understood but one way. And, indeed, were I to publish nothing in these papers but what I write myself, I should be very little apprehen- sive of double constructions. But, it seems, I have not been sufficiently guarded against the subtleties of my correspondents. Amanda’s letter in my last paper has been discovered to be a manifest design to remove the lace-trade from Ludgate-hill to Duke’s-court. Some people nfake no conscience of declaring that I am the author of it myself, and that I received a con- siderable bribe for writing it. Others are of opinion that it is the production of a very pretty journey-woman in Duke’s-court, who is enter- ing into partnership with her mistress in the lace-trade, and has taken this method to bring custom to the shop. But whoever is the writer of this letter, or whatever was the design of it, all people are agreed that the effect is certain: it being very observable that the virtuous women have been seen, for this week past, to crowd to the lace-shops in Duke’s-court, and that scarcely half a dozen of them have appeared upon Lud- gate-hill since they were apprised by this paper that such a person as Amanda was known to be housed there. From at least half a dozen letters which I have received upon this oecasion, I shall only publish the two following : “TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. “Sir, “TI beg to be informed if the letter signed Amanda in your last paper be reality or inven- tion. If reality, please to tell me at which ot the lace-shops the creature lives, that I may 94 avoid the odious sight of her, and not be obliged to buy my laces of a milliner, or to murder my horses by driving them upon every trifling occa- | sion to the other end of the town. “Tam, Sir, «‘ Your humble servant, «‘ Repecca BLAMELESS. “‘ Cheapside, Dec. 29th, 1753.” THE WORLD. | is for ever to be infamous. | however circumstanced, or however repented of, ; can admit of no extenuation. [No. 53. driven him from the commerce of mankind, as to make him desperate in vice, or to kill him with despair. How nobly severe are the ladies to the apostates from purity! To be once frail, A fall from virtue, They look upon the offender and the offence with equal detesta- tion ; and ‘postpone business, nay, even pleasure “CMR. FITZ-ADAM, | <7 beg that you will. do me the justice to in- form the public that I have not had a lying-in | in my house since I was brought to bed of, my fourteenth child, which is five years ago| next Lady-day; and, that the young woman | who has assisted me in the lace-trade for these | last three months is not called Amanda, but, Lucretia. “Tam, ‘¢ Your very humble servant, 6 WINNEFRED Bosspin. “ Ludgate-hitl, Dec. 30th, 1'753.”’ I wish with all my heart that it was as easy | for me to make amends for what has happened, | as it is to vindicate myself from any interested design in the publication of Amanda’s letter. It. was sent to Mr. Dodsley’s by the penny-post, | written'in a very pretty Italian hand, and will be shown to as many of the curious as are de- sirous of seeing it. . I will not deny that I ought to have cancelled this letter ; as 1 might reasonably have supposed that no lady who entertained a proper regard for her virtue would be seen at a lace-shop upon Ludgate-hill, while there was a bare possibility of her being served by Amanda. Indeed, to con- fess the truth, I have always been of opinion, that every young creature, who has been once convicted of making a slip, should be compelled to take upon her the occupation of street-walk- ing all her life after. It is a maxim among the people called Quak- _ers (and a very laudable one it is) not to suffer a convicted and open knave to be one of their body. They have a particular ceremony, by which they expel him their community: and though he may continue to profess the opinions of Quakerism, they look upon him to be no mem- ber of their church, and no otherwise a brother, than as every man is descended from one com- mon father. I make no doubt but that the Quakers have copied this piece of policy from the ladies: but as most copies are observed to fall short of the spirit of their originals, this industrious, prudent, and opulent set of people will, I hope, excuse me, if I prefer a first and finished design to an im- perfect imitation of it. The Quakers have never, that 1 know of, ex- communicated a member for one single failure ; nor upon frequent repetitions of it have they so itself, for the great duty of detraction, and for consigning to perpetual infamy a sister who has dishonoured them. 1 : an This settled and unalterable hatred of impuri- ty cannot be sufficiently admired, if it be consid- ered how delicately the bosoms which harbour it are formed, and how easy it is to move ‘them to pity and compassion in alJ’ other instances: especially if we add to this consideration, its having force enough to tear up by the roots those sincere and tender friendships, which all handsome women, in a state of virtue, are so well known to feel for one another. Nothing can so strongly convince me of the truth of these female friendships, as the argu- ments which shallow and superficial men have thought proper to bring against them. They tell us that no handsome woman ever said a civil thing of one as handsome as herself: but, on the contrary, that it is always the delight of both to lessen the beauty and to detract from the repu- tations of each other. pel eed Admitting the accusation to be true, how easy is it to see through the good-natured disguise of this behaviour! These generous young creatures are so apprehensive for their companions, that they deny them beauty in order to secure them from the attempts of libertines. They know that the principal ornament of beauty is virtue; and that without both a lady is seldom in danger of an obstinate pursuit: for which reason they very prudently deny her the possession of either. The lady thus obliged is doing in return the same agreeable service to her beautiful acquaint- ance; and is wondering what the men can see in such trifling creatures to be even tolerably civil to them. ‘Thus, under the appearance of envy and ill-nature, they maintain inviolable friendships, and live in a mutual intercourst of the kindest offices. Nay, to such a pitch of enthusiasm have these friendships been some- times carried, that I have known a lady to be under no apprehensions for herself, though pur sued by half the rakes in the town, who hai absolutely fainted away at seeing one of thes rakes only playing with the fan of her hand some friend. ; . ' The same discreet behaviour is observed b} almost every lady in her affairs with a man. I she would express her approbation of him, th phrase is, “* What a ridiculcus animal!” Whe approbation is grown into loves it is, “ Lord how I detest him!’? But when she rises to No. 54.] solemn declaration of ‘Ill die a thousand deaths rather than give him my consent,” we are then sure that the settlements are drawing, she has packed up her clothes, and intends leaping into his arms without any ceremony whatsoever. There may possibly be cavillers at this behav- jour of the ladies, as well as unbelievers in female friendship; but I dare venture to affirm that every man will honour them for their extraor- dinary civilities and good-humour to the se- ducers of their sex. Should a lady object to the company of such men, it would naturally be said that she suspected her own virtue, and was conscious of carrying passions about her, which were in danger of being kindled into flames by every spark of temptation. And this is the ob- vious reason why the ladies are so particularly obliging to these gentlemen both in public and private. Those gentle souls, indeed, who have the purity of their sex more at heart than the rest, may good-naturedly intend to make converts of their betrayers ; but I cannot help thinking that the meetings upon these occasions should be in the presence of a third person: for men are sometimes. so obstinate in their errors, and are able to defend them with so much sophistry, that for want of the interposition of this third person, a lady may be so puzzled as to become a convert to those very opinions which she came on pur- pose to confute. It is very remarkable, that a lady so convert- ed is extremely apt, in her own mind, to com- passionate those deluded wretches, whom a little before she persecuted with so much ri- gour. But it is also to be remarked, that this softness in her nature is only the consequence of her depravity: for while a lady continues as she should be, it is impossible for her to feel the least approaches of pity for one who is _ otherwise. | VCVTW CUVTVVO WS VSVBVV VV VL VB VV Vt PBVT ST VWVVVVAVVWAWVLIVWD No... 54.] Tuurspay, Jan. 10, 1754. Hoc novum est aucupium— Postremo imperavi egomet mihi Omnia assentari, Is questus nunc est mulio uberrimus., TER, i ) _ This is a new way of getting money—I am at last re- + solved to humour every man—that trade has now become by far the most lucrative. : Twat an essay on hearers has not been given us _ by the writers of the last age, is to be accounted | _ for from the same reasons that the ancients have left us no treatise on tobacconists or sugar-plant- ,ers. The world is continually changing by the _ two great principles of revolution and discovery : THE WORLD. or that |’ ‘at. table, ES eee > oe we ee ee ee eee 95 as these produce novelty, they furnish the basis of our speculations. The pride of our ancestors distinguished them from the vulgar, by the dignity of taciturnity. If we consult old pictures, we shall find (suitable to the dress of the times) the beard cut, and the features composed to that gravity and solemnity of aspect, which was to denote wisdom and im- portance. In that admirable play of Ben Jon- son's, which, through the capacity and industry of its reviver, has lately_so well entertained the town, I mean Every Man in his Humour, a country squire sets up fur high-breeding, by re- solving to be “ proud, melancholy, and gentle- man-like.”” In the man of birth or business, silence was the note of wisdom and distinction ; and the haughty peeress then would no more vouchsafe to talk to her equals, than she will now to her inferiors. In those times, when talking was the province only of the vulgar or hireling, fools and jesters were the usual retainers in great families: but now, so total is the revolution, voices are become a mere drug, and will fetch no money at all, ex- cept in the single instance of an election. Riches, birth, and honours, assert their privileges by the opposite quality to silence ; insomuch, that many of the great estates and mansion-houses in this kingdom seem at present to be held by the tenure of perpetual talking. Fools and jesters must be useless in families, where the master is no more ashamed of exposing his wit at his table to his guests and servants, than his drunkenness to his constituents. This revolution has obtained so generally all over Europe, that at this day a little dwarf of the king of Poland, who creeps out after dinner from under the trees of the dessert, and utters imperiinences to every man is talked of ‘at other courts as. a singularity. Happy was it for the poor talkers of those days that so great a revolution was brought about by degrees; for though I can conceive it easy enough to turn the writers at Constantino- ple into printers, and believe it possible to make a chimney-sweeper a miller, a tallow-chandler a perfumer, a gamester a politician, a fine lady a stock-jobber, or a blockhead a connoisseur, I can have no idea of 30 strange a metamorphosis as that of a talker into a hearer. That hearers, however, have arisen in later times to answer in some degree the demand for them, is apparent from the numbers of them which are to he found in most families, under the various denomina- tions of cousin, humble-companion, chaplain, led-captain, toad-eater, &c. But though each of these characters frequently officiates in the post of hearer, it will be a great mistake if a hearer should imagine he may ever interfere in any of their departments. When the toad-eater opens in praise of musty venison, or a greasy ragout ; when the led-captain and chaplain com- 96 mend prickt-wine, or any other liquors, such as the French call chasse-cousin, the hearer must submit to be poisoned in silence. When the ceusin is appealed to for the length of a fox- chase, and out-lies his patron; when the squire of the fens declares he has no dirt near his house, and the cousin swears it is a hard gravel for five miles round; or when the hill improver asserts that he never saw his turf burn before, and turning short, says, “ Did you, cousin ?”’ in such cases as these the answers may give a dangerous example: for if a raw whelp of a hearer should happen to give his tongue, he will be rated and corrected like a puppy. The great duty therefore of this office is silence; and I could prove the high antiquity of it by the Tyros of the Pythagorean school, and the ancient worship of Harpocrates, the tutelary deity of this sect. Pythagoras bequeathed to his scholars that celebrated rule, which has never yet been rightly understood, ‘‘ Worship, or rather study the echo ;’’ evidently intending thereby to inculcate, that hearers should ob- serve, that an echo never puts in a word till the speaker comes toa pause. A great and compre- hensive lesson! but being, perhaps, too concise for the instruction of vulgar minds, it may be necessary to descend more minutely into par- ticular hints and cautions. A hearer must not be drowsy; for nothing perplexes a talker like the accident of sleep in the inidst of his harangue: and I have known a French talker rise up and hold open the eyelids of a Dutch hearer with his finger and thumb. He must not squint; for no lover isso jealous asa true talker, who will be perpetually watching the motion of the eyes, and always suspecting that the attention is directed to that side of the room to which they point. A hearer must not be a seer of sights: he must let a hare pass as quietly as an ox; and never interrupt narration, by crying out at sight of a highwayman or a mad dog. An ac- quaintance of mine, who lived witha maiden aunt, lost a good legacy by the ill-timed arrival of a coach and six, which he first discovered at the end of the avenue, and announced as a most acceptable hearing to the pride of the family : but it happened unluckily to be at the very time that the lady of the house was relating the critical moment of her life, when she was in the greatest danger of breaking her vow of celibacy. A hearer must not have a weak head: for though the talker may like he should drink with him, he does not choose he should fall under the table till himself is speechless. ‘ He must not be anews-monger : because times past have already furnished the head of his patron with all the ideas he chooses it should be stored with. THE WORLD. [No. 54. Lastly, and principally, a hearer must not be. awit. I-remember one of this profession being told by a gentleman, who, to do-him justice, was a very good seaman, that he rode from Portsmouth to London in four hours, asked, ‘if it was by Shrewsbury clock?” It happened the person so interrogated had not read Shak- - speare: which was the only reason I could assign why the adventurous querist -was not immediately sent aboard the Stygian tender. But here we must observe, that silence, in the opinion of a talker, is not merely a suppres- sion of the action of the tongue; it is also ne- cessary that every muscle of the faceand mem- ber of the body should receive its motion from no other sensation than that which the talker communicates through the ear. A hearer therefore must not have the fidgets : he must not start if. he hears a door clap, a gun go off, or a cry of murder. He must not snuff with his nostrils if he smell fire, because, though he should save the house by it, he will be as ill rewarded as Cassandra for her endeavours to prevent the flames of Troy, or Gulliver for ex-: tinguishing those of Lilliput. There are many more hints which I should be desirous of communicating for the benefit of beginners, if I was not afraid of making my. paper too long to be properly read and consider- ed within the compass of a week, in which the greatest part of every morning is necessarily dedicated to mercers, milliners, hair cutters, voters, levees, lotteries, lounges, &c. I shall therefore say a word or two to the talkers, and hasten to a conclusion. | And here it would be very impertinent, and going much out of the way, were I to interfere in the just rights which these gentlemen have over their own officers and domestics. I would only recommend to them, when they come into other company, to consider that it is expected the talk of the day should be proportioned among them in degrees, according to the acres they severally possess, or the number of stars annexed to their names inthe list printed from the public funds: that hearing is an involuntary tribute, which is paid, like other taxes, with a reluctance increasing in proportion to the riches of the person taxed: that it is a false argument for a talker to say to a jaded audience he will tella story that is true, great, or excellent ; for when a man has eat of the first and second course till he is full to the throat, you tempt him in vain at the third, by assuring him the plate you offer him is one of the best entramets Le Grange ever made, No. 55.] No. 55.] Tuurspay, Jan. 17, 1754, Eatinctus amabitur, Hor, When dead, shall prove An object worthy of esteem and love. FRANcrIs, 5 TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I am one of those benevolent persons, who having no land of their own, and not being free of any one corporation, like true citizens of the world, turn ail their thoughts to the good of the public, and are known by the general name of projec- tors. All the good I ever did or thought of was for the public. My sole anxiety has been for the security, health, revenue, and credit of the public, nor did I ever think of paying any debts in my whole life, except those of the public. This public spirit, you already suppose, has been most amply rewarded ; and perhaps suspect I am going to trouble you with an ostentatious boast of the public money I have touched; or that I am devising some artful evasion of an inquiry into the method by which I amassed it. On the contrary, I must assure you that I have carried annually the fruits of twelve months deep thought to the treasury, pay-office, and victualling-office, without having brought from any one of those places the least return of treasure, pay or victuals. At the admiralty the porters can read the longitude in my night-gown, as plainly as if the plaid was worked into the let- ters of that word. And I have had the mortifica- tion to seea man with the dullest project in the world admitted to the board, with no other pre- ference than that of being a stranger, while I have.been kept shivering in the court. After this short history of myself, it is time I should communicate the project I have to pro- pose for your particular consideration. _ My proposal is, that a new office be erected in this metropolis, and called the extinguishing office. In explaining the nature of: this office, I shall endeavour to convince you of its extraordinary utility : and that the scope and intent of it may be perfectly understood, I beg leave to be indulg- ed in making a few philosophical remarks. There is no observation more just or common in experience, than that every thing excellent in nature or art has a certain fixed point of perfec- tion, proper to itself, which it cannot transgress without losing much of its beauty, or acquiring , some blemish. The period which time puts to all mortal things is brought about by an imperceptible de- cay ; and whatever is once past the crisis of ma- turity, affords only the melancholy prospect of being impaired hourly, and of advancing through the degrees of aggravated deformity to its disso- Jation. THE WORLD. TP | We inconsiderately bewail a great man, whom | death has taken off, as we say, in the bloom of | his glory ; and yet confess it would have been _ happier for Priam, Hannibal, Pompey, and the Duke of Marlborough, if fate had put an earlier period to their lives. Instead of quoting a multitude of Latin verses, I refer you to that part of the tenth satire of Ju- venal, which treats of longevity: but I must desire particularly to remind you of the follow- ing passage : Provida Pompeio dederat Campania febres Optandas. It is to a mature reflection on the sense of this passage that I owe the greatest thought which ever entered the brain of a projector : and I doubt not, if I could once establish the office in question, of being able to strike out from this hint a certain method of practice that would be as beneficial to mankind, as it would be new and extraordinary. It has been the usual custom, when old gene- rals have worn out their bodies by the toils of many glorious campaigns, beauties their com- plexions by the fatigues of exhibiting their. per- sons, or patriots their constitutions by the heat of the house, to send them to some purer air abroad, or to Kensington Gravel-pits at home: but as there is nothing so justly to be dreaded as the chance of surviving good fame, I am for sending all such persons in the zenith of their glory to the fens.in Essex. As it is with man himself, so likewise shall we find it with every thing that proceeds from him. His plans are great, just, and noble; worthy the divine image he bears. His progres- sion and execution, to a certain point, answerable to his designs ; but beyond it, all is weakness, deformity, and disgrace. To be assured of this point, it is as necessary to consult another, as the sick man his physician to know the crisis of his distemper : but whom to apply to, is the impor- tant question. A friend is of all men living the most unfit, because good counsel and sincere ad- vice are known to produce an immediate disso- lution of all social counexions. The necessity of a new office is therefore evident ; which office I propose shall be hereafter executed by commission, but first (by way of trial) by a single person, in- vested with proper powers, and universally ac- knowledged by the style and title of sworn ez- tinguisher. To explain the functions of this person, I shall relate to you the accident which furnished the first hint for what Iam now of- fering to your perusal. Whenever I have been sohappy as to be master of a candle, I have observed that though it has burnt with great brightness to a certain point, yet the moment that the flame has reached that point, it has become less and less bright, rising and falling with great inequalities, till at last it has expired ina most intolerable stink. In O 98 other families, where poverty is not the direc- tress, the candle lives and dies without leaving any ill odour behind it; and this by the well- timed application of a machine called an ex- tinguisher. Tt is the use of this machine that I am desir- ous of extending: and what confirmed me in the project was, my happening one Sunday to drop into a church, where the top of the pulpit was a deep concave, not very unlike the imple- ment above-mentioned. ‘The sermon which had begun and proceeded in a regular uniform tenor, grew towards the latter end extremely different ; now lofty, now low, now flashy, now dark—In short, the preacher and his canopy brought so strongly to my mind the expiring candle and its extinguisher, that I longed to have the power of properly applying the one to the other; and from that moment conceived a pro- ject of suspending hollow cones of tin, brass, or wood, over the heads of all public speakers, with lines and pulleys to lower them occasion- ally. I carried this project to a certain great man, who was pleased to reject it; telling me of several devices which might answer the purpose better; and instancing, among many other practices, that of the Robin Hood ° Society, where the president performs the office of an extinguisher by a single stroke of a hammer. In short, the arguments of this great man prevailed with me to lay aside my first scheme, but furnished me at the same time with hints for a more extensive one. At the play-house the curtain is net only al- ways ready, but capable of extinguishing at once all the persons of the drama. How many new tragedies might be saved for the future, if the curtain was to drop by authority as soon as the hero was dead! or how happily might the lan- guid, pale, and putrid flames of a whole fifth act be extinguished by the establishment of such an office. In applying it to epic poetry, I could not but felicitate the author of the Dliad. The extin- guisher of the A‘neid deserves the highest en- comiums—Happy Virgil! but O wretched Milton !-more unhappy in the blindness of thy commentators, than in thy own! who, to thy eternal disgrace, would preserve thy two con- cluding lines, with the same superstition with which the Gebers venerate the snuff of a can- dle, and cry out sacrilege if you offer to extin- guish it. I perceive I shall want room to explain my method of extinguishing talkers in private com- panies ; but that I may not appear to you like those quacks who boast of more than they can perform, let me convince you that the attempt is not impracticable, by reminding you of Apelles, who, standing behind one of his pictures, listened with great patience while a THE WORLD. [ No. 56. shoemaker was commending the foot; but the moment the mechanic was passing on to the leg, stept from his hiding-place, and extinguished him at once with the famous proverb in use at this day, “* The shoemaker must not go beyond his last.”’ But whenever this office is put into commis- sion, I propose, for this last-mentioned branch, to take in a proper number of ladies ; 1 mean such as dress in the height of the mode; who being equipped with hoops in the utmost extent of the fashion, are always provided with an extinguisher ready for immediate use. By the application of this machine to the above-, mentioned purpose, I shall have the farther satisfaction of vindicating the ladies from the unjust imputation of bearing about them any thing useless. And asthe Chinese knew gun- powder, the ancients the loadstone, and the moderns electricity, many years before they were applied to the benefit of mankind, it will not appear strange if a noble use be at length found for the hoop, which has, to be sure, till now, afforded mere matter of speculation. 1 now extinguish myself, and am, Sir, Your most humble servant, A. B. P. S. If the above project meets with your approbation I shall venture to communicate another of a nature not very unlike the forego- ing, and in which the public is at least equally interested. Galenical medicines, from the quantity with which the patient was to be drenched, have ex- cited of late years so universal a loathing, that the faculty must have lost. all their practice, if they had not hit upon the method of contracting the whole force and spirit of their prescriptions into one chemical drop or pill. From this hint I would propose to erect a new .chamber, with powers to abridge all arts and sciences, history, poetry, oratory, essays, &c. into the substance of a maxim, apophthegm, spirit of history or epigram. And as a proof of the practicability of this project, 1 will make yourself the judge, whether your last paper on hearers may not be fully comprised in the fol- lowing four lines: Our sires kept a fool, a poor hireling for state, To enliven dull pride with his jesting and prate : But fashion capriciously changing its rule, Now my Jord is the wif, and his hearer the fool. PRCA RELA PARAL RTVVATEBS SI TOEVVTUTVA TUDE AVLSTA TTY No. 56.] Tuurspay, Jan. 24, 1754s —— Porrecto jugulo historias, captivus ut, audit, Hor —Like captives, stretch the listening ear His tedious tales of history to hear. FRANCIS No. 56.] TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Caer Caradock, Jan. 16, 1'754. Sir, Your paper upon hearers gave me that pleasure which a series of truths must always afford to him who can witness for every one of them. I was born and brought up in the principality of Wales, which from time immemorial must have been productive of the most thorough-bred, seasoned, and staunch hearers, since every gen- tleman of that country holds and asserts his vight to be a talker by privilege of birth. I would not have you conclude from what I have said above, that I am not as good a gentleman as the best (I mean of as good a family) thongh poverty and ill-fortune have doomed me to be for ever a hearer. I was left an orphan in my earliest years ; but ‘I am not going to trouble you with the many misfortunes which constantly attended me to the age of forty ; at which time I was a school- master without boys to teach, or bread to eat. At this period of my life I was advised by the parson of our parish to go and enter myself in some large and wealthy family to be an wnecle ; which is a known and common term in Wales, of like signification with hearer in England ; the duties and requisite qualifications being nearly the same, as will appear from the fol- lowing short instructions given me by my adviser; viz. never to open my lips, except for the well-timed utterance of indeed !--surprising / —prodigicus !——most amazing! But these only to be used at the proper intervals of the talker’s fetching his breath, coughing, or at other pauses ; and the length of the admiration to be always adapted to, and particularly never to exceed, the aforesaid intervals. But in.order to explain the method he took to qualify me still farther, and inure me to patience, I must give you a short history of this worthy parson. He was truly, what he was called, a good sort of aman; if charity, friendship, and good-humour can entitle a man to that charac- ter. I must not conceal the meanness of his education, in which he discovered, however, as great a genius as could possibly arise out of a stable and a kennel. He wasa thorough sports- man, and so good a shot, that the late squire took a fancy to him, made him his constant companion, and gave him the living. But that he might not be lost in study and sermon-mak- ing, he contrived to marry him to the daughter of the late incumbent, who had been taught by her father Latin and metaphysics, and exercised from twelve years old to forty in making themes and sermons. As she was by nature meagre and deformed, by constitution fretful and com- plaining, by education conceited and disputa- tious; by study pale and blear-eyed, and by habit THE WORLD. pe) talkative and loud, the friendship of the good parson suggested her as the fittest person in the world to exercise my patience for a few months, and inure me to the discipline of my future function. In this station I made a vast pro- gress in a little time; for I not only ‘heard above a thousand sermons, but the strict obser- vance of my vow of attention having made me a favourite, 1 was complained to whenever any thing went amiss in the family, and often scolded at for the husband, whose office grew into a sinecure; insomuch, that if I had not known the sincerity and uprightness of his heart, I should have suspected him of bringing me into his house to supply for him all those duties which he wanted to be eased of. But he had no such interested views; for as soon as he found his help-mate had transfused into me a necessary portion of patience and long-suffering, he recommended me to my fortune, giving me, generous man ! a coat and wig, which formerly himself, and before him the squire, had worn for many years upon extraordinary days. Having thus equipped me, he resumes the duties of his family, where he officiates to this day, with true Christian resignation. My.first reception was at the house of a gen- tleman, who in the early part of his life had followed the study of botany. Nature and truth are so pleasing to the mind of man, that they never satiate. Alas! he happened one day to taste, by mistake, a root that had been sent him from the Indies: it was a most subtle poison, to which his experience in British simples knew no antidote. Immediately upon his death, a neighbouring gentleman, who had his eye upon me some time, sent me an invita- tion. His discourse was upon husbandry ; and as he never deceived me in any thing but where deceived himself, I heard him also with plea- sure. These were therefore my halcyon days, on which I always reflect with regret and tears. How different. were the succeeding ones, in which I have listened to the tales of old maids running over an endless list of lovers they never had; of old beaus who boasted of favours from ladies they never saw ; of senators who narrated the eloquence they never spoke! giving me such a disgust and nausea to lies, that at length my ears, which were at that time much too quick for my office, grew unable to bear them. But prudently considering that I must either hear or starve, I invented the following expedient for qualifying a lie. While I assented by some gesticulation, or motion of the head, eyes, or muscles of the face, I resolved to have in reserve some inward expression of dissent. Of these I had various; but for the sake of brevity, I shall only trouble you with one. A younger brother, who had served abroad all his life, as he would frequently tell us, and who 100 came unexpectedly to.the estate and castle where he found me with a good character, took so kindly to me that he seemed to desire no other companion ; and as a proof of it, never sent to invite or add to our company any one of the nu- merous friends he so often talked of, of great rank, bravery, and honour, who would have gone to the end of the world to have served him. I could have loved him too, but for one fault. He would lie without measure or disguise. His usual exaggeration was—and more. As thus: “« At the siege of Monticelli,’’ (a town in Italy, as he told us) “‘ I received in several parts of my body three-and-twenty shot, and more. At the battle of Caratha (in Turkey) I rode to death eighteen horses and more. With Lodamio, the Bavarian general, I drank hand to fist, six dozen of hock, and more.’? Upon all such occasions I inwardly anticipated him, by substituting in the place of his last two words, the two following— or less. But it so happened one unfortunate evening, as he was in the midst of the sharpest engagement ever heard of, in which with his single broad-sword he had killed five hundred, and more, that I kept my time more precisely than silence: for unhappily the qualifying or Jess, which should have been tacitly swallowed for the quieting my own spirit, was so audibly arti- culated to the inflaming of his, that the moment he heard subjoined to his five hundred—or Jess, the fury of his resentment descended on my ear with a violent blow of his fist. By this slip of my tongue I lost my postin that family, and the hearing of my left ear. The consequences of this accident gave me great apprehensions for a considerable time : for the slightest cold affecting the other ear, I was frequently rebuked for misplacing my marks of approbation. But I soon discovered that it was no real misfortune ; for experience convinced me, that absolute silence was of greater estimation than the best-timed syllable of interruption. It is to this experience that I shall refer you, after having recounted the last memorable adventure of my unfortunate history. The last family that received me was so nu- merous in relations and visitors, that I found I should be very little regarded when I had worn off the character of stranger; though as such I was as earnestly applied to as any high court of appeals. Yor as the force of liquor co-operated with the force of blood, they one and all address- ed themselves to me to settle the antiquity of their families ; vociferating at one and the same time above a score of genealogies. This was a harder service than any I had ever been used to; and the whole weight of the clamour falling on my only surviving ear, unhappily overpowered it, and I became from that instant totally deaf. Had this accident happened a few years soon- er, it would have driven me to despair: but my experience, assuring me that I am now much THE WORLD. {No. 57. better qualified than ever, gives me an expecta- tion of making my fortune: I therefore apply ~ to you to recommend me for a hearer in a coun- try where there is better encouragement, and where I doubt not of giving satisfaction. I shall not trouble you with enumerating the advantages attending a deaf hearer: it will be enough for me to say, that as such, I am no longer subject to the danger of an irresistible smile: nor will my squeamish dislike to lies bring me again, into disgrace. I shall now be exempt from the many misfortunes which my ungovernable ears have formerly led me into. What reproving looks have I had for turning my eyes when I have heard a bird fly against the window, or the dog and cat quarrelling in a corner of the room ! How have I been repriman- ded, when detected in dividing my attention be- tween the stories of my patron, and the brawls of his family ! «« What had I to do with the quar- rels of his family ?”’ I own the reproof was just ; but I appeal to you, whether any man who has his ears can restrain them, when a quarrel is to be heard, from making sp the chief object of his attention ? To conclude. If you observe a talker in a large company, you never see him examining the state of a man’s ear: his whole observation is upon the eye ; and if he meet with the wandering or the vacant eye, he turns away, and instantly ad- dresses himself to another. My eyes were always good ; but as it is notorious that the privation of some parts add strength and perfection to others, I may boast that, since the loss of my ears, I found my eyes (which are confessedly the prin- cipal organs of attention) so strong, quick, and vigilant, that I can, without vanity, offer my- self for as good a hearer as any in England. Yours, &c. PLD DE VRAAVUADTBIVEVT TEBE VVVSETA BR BVEVAVNSBVUTVESBVS GVUGT*A No. 57.] Tuurspay, Jan. 81, 1754. Or all the passions of the human mind, there is not one that we allow so much indulgence to as contempt. But to determine who are the proper objects of that passion may possibly require a greater degree of sagacity and penetration than most men are masters of. Whoever conforms to the opinion of the world, will often be deceived ; and whoever contradicts the opinion of the world which I am now about to do, will as often be despised. But it is the duty of a public writer to oppose popular errors ; a duty which I imposed upon myself at the commencement of this work, and which I shall be ready to perform, as often as I see occasion. It is not my present intention to treat of in- - dividuals, and the contempt they are apt to en- tertain for one another: my design is an exten- No. 57.] sive one; it is to reseue no less than three large bodies of men from the undeserved contempt of almost all the good people of England, and to recommend them to the said good people for The three large bodies I am speaking of, and which collective- ly considered, make up at least a fourth part their pity and compassion. of his majesty’s subjects, are parsons, authors, and cuckolds. classes in the order in which it stands, begin- ning with the parson, as the most respectable of the three. And though there is no denying that this profession took its rise from so exploded a thing as religion, the belief of which I do not in- tend to inculcate, having conceived an opinion that these my lucubrations have admission into families too polite for such concernments ; yet I have hopes of showing, to the satisfaction of my readers, that a parson is not absolute- ly so contemptible a character as is generally lmagined. J know it has been urged in his favour, that though unfortunately brought up to the trade of religion, he entertains higher notions in private, and neither believes nor practises what by his function he is obliged to teach. But allowing this defence to be a partial one, and that a par- son is really and to all intents and purposes a believer, I do not admit, even in this case, that he deserves all the contempt that people are in- clined to throw upon him; especially if the extreme narrowness of his education be duly inquired into. While the sons of great persons are indulged by tutors and their mothers’ maids at home, the intended parson is confined closely to school; from whence he has the misfortune to be sent directly to college, where he continues, perhaps, half a score years drudging at his courses, and where, for want of money, he may exclaim with Milton, that ~ Ever-during dark Surrounds him: from the cheerful ways of men Cut off; and for the book of knowledge fair, » Presented with an universal dank. Which is as much as to say, that he is totally in he dark as to what is doing abroad, and that while other men are going on in the cheerful vays of wenching, drinking, and gaming, and Mproving their minds by Mr. Hoyle’s book of nowledge, the whole world is a blank to the poor arson, who in all probability grows old in a ountry cure, and owes to the squire of the ‘arish all his knowledge of mankind. That uch a parson, even though he should believe very article of christianity, and shouid practise \'p to his belief, is not, in every respect, an ob- eet of contempt, is really my opinion. For hough the demonstrations of a Tindal, a Toland, od a Woolston may have reached him at his THE -WORLD. I shall consider each of these 10] cure, yet they do not always appear to be de- monstrations, but to those who read them in town; and even there, a man must have kept good company, and entered thoroughly into the fashionable amusements (which few parsons are able to do), before he can be certain that they are demonstrations. The author comes next to be considered. And here it imports me to be extremely cautious ; lest, being myself an author, I betray a partiality in favour of the fraternity. But whatever mankind have agreed to think of an author, he is not ab- solutely and at all times an object of contempt. On the contrary, if it may be proved (which I believe no man living will deny) that at the time of his commencing author his choice would have led him to turn his hand to business, but that he had neither money to buy, nor credit to procure, a stool, brushes, and black-ball; I hope he may be admitted among the objects of compassion. A question indeed may occur, that if ever he has been so fortunate as to have saved three shillings by his writings, why he has not then set about buying the above-mentioned implements of trade? But, supposing him to have acquir- ed so much wealth, the proverb of “Once a whore, and always a whore,”’ is less significant than “ Once an author, and always an author ;” insomuch that a man convicted of being a wit is disqualified for business during life; no city ap- prentice will trust him with his shoes, nor will the poor beau set a foot upon his stool, from an opinion that for want of skill in his calling, his blacking must be bad, or for want of attention, be applied to the stocking instead of the shoe. That almost every author would choose to set up in this business, if he had wherewithal to begin with, must appear very plainly to all can- did observers, from the natural propensity which he discovers towards blackening. Far be it from me, or any of my brother au- thors, to intend lowering the dignity of the gentlemen trading in black-ball, by naming them with ourselves: we are extremely sensible of the great distance there is between us; and it is with envy that we look up to the occupation of shoe- cleaning, while we lament the severity of our fortune, in being sentenced to the drudgery of a less respectable employment. But while we are unhappily excluded from the stool and brush, it is surely a very hard case that the contempt of the world should pursue us, only because we are unfortunate. I proceed lastly to the cuckold: and I hope that it will not be a more difficult task to rescue this gentleman from contempt, than either the parson or the author. In former times indeed, when a lady happened now and then to prefer a particular friend to her husband, it was usual to hold the said husband in some little disesteem ; for as women were allowed to be the best judges of men, and as in the case before us the wife 102 THE WORLD. [No. 58. only preferred one man to another, people were | not great resolution, be obliged to become the inclined to think that she had some private rea- son for so doing. But in these days of freedom, when a lady, instead of one friend, is civil to one-and-twenty, I am humbly of opinion that her cuckold is no more the object of contempt for such a preference, than if he had been robbed by as many highwaymen upon Hounslow-heath, ‘Two to one, says the proverb, are odds at foot- ball; and every one in the present case ought to make proportionable allowance for much greater odds. ; But to do honour to cuckolds, I will be bold to say that they ought oftener to excite envy than contempt. How common is it for a man to owe his fortune to the frailty of his wife! Or though he should reap no pecuniary advan- tage from her incontinency, how apt are the caresses of 2 score or two lovers to sweeten her temper towards her husband! A lady is sometimes apt to pay so great a regard to her chastity, as to overlook the virtues of meekness and forbearance : rob her of that one virtue, and you restore her to all the rest, as well as her husband to his quiet. But waving every thing I have said, there still remains a reason for holding cuckolds in esteem ; and this is, the regard and veneration which we owe to great men. If our betters are not ashamed of being cuckolds, it does not become their inferiors to treat them with dis- respect. I shall close this paper with observing upon the three characters which I have here en- deavoured to befriend, that while we are obliged to the parson for a butt, the author for abuse, and to the cuckold for his wife, it is the highest degree of ingratitude to hold any one of them in contempt. AA BPRURVARLTRBATDVVe BUESAATVUT GE CECT BULATTCVGFRABVIAUVTVA VA No. 58.] TuHurspay, Fer. 7, 1754. TO MR. FITZ.ADAM, Sir, I uarpity know a more unfortunate circum- stance which can happen to a young man than that of being too handsome: it is a thousand to one that in the course of his education he loses the very dignity of his sex and nature. During his infancy his father himself will be too apt to be pleased with the delicacy of his features ; his mother will be in raptures with them; and every silly woman who visits in the family will continually lament that master was not a girl, ‘‘ for what a fine creature would he have made !” If he goes to school, he will be perpetually teazed by the nick-name of Miss Molly; and if he has most mischievous imp of the whole fraternity, merely to avoid the harder imputations of fear and effeminacy. When he mixes amongst men, the imperfections of his education will stick close to him; the bar itself will hardly cure him of sheepishness, or the cockade defend him from the appearance of cowardice. His very excel- lences (if he has them) will seem virtues out of nature ; they will be the wisdom of a Cornelia, or the heroism of a Sophonisba. Nay, were we to see him mount a breach, I am afraid that instead of those noble eulogies and exclamations which should properly attend a hero in such circumstances, we should only cry out, with Mrs. Clerimont, in the play, “O the brave pretty creature |” Such are the calamities, Mr. _ Fitz-Adam, which almost necessarily attend on male beauty ; and so pernicious sometimes are its consequences, that I have more than once been tempted to wish some method could be found out which might extirpate.it entirely. What statesmen, what generals, what prelates may we have lost, mere- ly by the misfortune of a fine complexion! it is with infinite concern that I frequently look round me in public assemblies, and see such numbers of well-dressed youths, who might really have been of use to themselves, and to mankind, had their parents taken the Indian method of marking their faces to distinguish their quality. As it is, their unlucky persons have led them astray into pertness and affecta- tion, under a notion of politeness; and what ought to have been sense and judgment, is at best but a genteel taste in trifles. Thoughtless man! (have I sometimes said to myself, when the melancholy mood was on) how blind is he to futurity! Little do these flutterers think, while their summers are dancing away in dangling to Ranelagh with Lady Biddy and Lady Fanny, that the cold uncomfortable winters of their life must at last terminate in prattling scandal, and playing at quadrille with Lady Bridget and Lady Frances ! Their way of life - Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf, And that, which should accompany old age, ' As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, They must not look to have. Surely, Mr. Fitz- Adam, the preventing such misfortunes might very well become your care, if not that of the legislature. Every body knows that there was a time, even ina Roman army, when “aim at their faces’ was as dreadful a) sound, and attended with as fatal consequences as “keeping your fire’? was on a Jate glorious 00 casion. Now, though I would by no means) insinuate that a beau must be a coward; nay; though the world has furnished us with many examples of very finical men who were very No. 59.] great heroes ; yet as it might perhaps be better, even in time of peace, that men should not at- tend se entirely to their persons, J would endea- vour to strike at the root of the evil. It is, I believe, admitted as a truth in inoculation, that the part where the incision is made is usually the fullest of any part of the body. 1 would propose, therefore, with regard to our male chil- dren, that we should follow the original Circas- sian manner, and “ aim at their faces.” A ge- neral practice of this kind might be extremely useful to the state: the literary world would I am sure be the better for it; for what mother could be averse to having her sons taught to read, when perhaps the eye-lashes were gone, and the eyes themselves no longer worth pre- serving ? Considerations of this sort will I hope induce some projector by profession to undertake the affair, and draw up, what may properly enough be styled, ¢ a scheme for raising men for the service of the public.” I must however do justice to the fair youths of the present age, by ‘confessing that many of them seem conscious of their imperfections ; and, as far as their own judgments can direct them, take pains to appear manly. But, alas! the me- thods they pursue, like most mistaken applica- tions, rather aggravate the calamity. Their drinking and raking only make them look like old maids. Their swearing is almost as shocking as it would be inthe othersex. Their chewing tobac- co not only offends, but makes us apprehensive at the same time that the poor things will be sick. When they talk to common women as they pass them in the Mall, they seem as much out of cha- racteras Mrs. Woffington in Sir Harry Wildair, making love to Angelica. In short, every part of their conduct, though perhaps well intended, is extremely unnatural. Whereas if they would only spend half the pains in acquiring a little knowledge, and practising a little decency, we might perhaps be brought to endure them; at least we should be less shocked with their beauty. - When I look back on what I have written, I am a little afraid that my zeal for the public may have hurried me too far ; for as we are taught to pity natural defects, we ought to be tender of blaming the errors they occasion. But what animals, whom nature certainly designed for men and made, as Mr. Pope says, “their souls bullet, ind their bodies buff?’ When these louts of six feet high, with the shoulders of porters, and the egs of chairmen, affect “ to lisp, and to amble, and ‘0 nick-name. God’s creatures,’ surely we may laugh at such incorrigible idiots. The fair youths ofa less gentle deportment aim at least at what shey imagine to be manly : but these dairy-maids in breeches leave their sex behind them at their Ast setting out, and give up the only qualities which they could possibly be admired for, THE WORLD shall we say, Mr. Fitz- Adam, to another set of ' 103 Any one who is conversant in the world must have seen numbers of this latter sort; some of them tripping, others lolloping in their gait (if I may be allowed such expressions), and many of them so very affected, that they cannot even see with their eyes, but at most pinker through the lashes of them, when they would languish in public at some mistress of theirs and the whole town’s affections. Their voices too have a pe- culiar softness, and are scarce ever raised, unless it be at the play-house to make an appointment for the King’s-arms, or to despatch an orange- wench on a message to a balcony. In short, Mr. Fitz- Adam, what with natural and acquired effeminacy, the present age seems an age of affectation. The whole head is weak, and the whole heart sick. And yet (that I may not leave your readers with disagreeable ideas in their minds) notwithstanding these alarming ap- pearances, the eye of a philosoper can still trace out something to counterbalance this amazing degeneracy. However desperate the vulgar may think our situation, we, who see the fervour of the torrid zone sweetly compensated by copious dews, and everlasting breezes, and the whole system of nature admirably adjusted ; we, I say, see likewise that this human defect is not left without itsremedy. However delicate our men are become, we may still hope that the rising ge- neration will not be totally enervated. The assured look, the exalted voice, and theatrical step of our modern females, pretty sufficiently convince us that there is something manly still left amongst us. So that we may reasonably conclude, though the male and female accomplish- ments may be strangely scattered and disposed of between the sexes, yet they will somehow or other be jumbled together in that complicated animal, a man and his wife. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, S. H. DT VBSVVTVVSVVW®D AFVSD STV SVVSV VW VUVVVTESVTAULVUV7 VV i 1.2444 No. 59.] Tuurspay, Fes. 14, 1754. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I am a constant reader of your papers, and con- gratulate you upon the men of-wit you have for your correspondents. I donot pretend to add to the number, and shall only attempt to furnish you with a few hints, which considered and formed into order by a writer of your ability may possibly be productive of entertainment (at least) to the public. Your letters upon the modern taste in garden- ing are, in my judgment, excellent in their kind ; and so indeed are those upon architecture, as far 104 as they go: but methinks you have not carried your observations quite far enough; nor have you any where remarked the injustice and in- gratitude with which those worthy patriots are treated, who ruin their estates, or lay out the forturies of their younger children on their seats and villas, to the great embellishment of this kingdom, which (if it is not already one great and complete garden) contains at least more sumptuous country-houses, parks, gardens, tem- ples, and buildings, than all the rest of Europe. If you are in danger of losing yourself on the vast and dreary wastes of some comfortless heath and are directed on your course by a friend- ly beacon of prodigious height, you are told that thisis such a gentleman’s Folly. The muni- ficence of a man of taste raises at an immode- rate expense a column or turret in his garden, for no other purpose than the generous one of giving delight and wonder to travellers: and the ungrateful public calls it his Folly. Nay, were her late majesty Queen Anne, of pious memory, to reign again, and fifty new churches to be really built, I doubt if in this dissolute age this also might not be called her majesty’s Folly. But notwithstanding these discouragements, I am daily entertained with new beauties ; and it is with great impatience that I wait the com- pletion of a Chinese temple, now rising on the top of a very elegant villa upon the road-side near Brompton. I have often too, with great satisfaction, beheld a structure of this kind, on the top of a very handsome green-house, now in the possession of a noble foreigner at ‘Turnham- green; which, as I am informed, is a matter of great curiosity to his countrymen who frequent it; nothing of this sort being to be met with in the environs of Paris, or indeed of Pekin itself, or in any country but this. A most majestic peacock, as big as the life, on the spindle of a weather-cock, adds also to its merit ; which with all the beauty of the bird itself, has not its dis- agreeable vociferous quality ; and though it does not foretell by its noise a change in the weather, it informs you with more certainty of the varia- tion of the wind. I am somewhat of an invalid, and being sen- sible how much exercise cenduces to health, J seldom fail, when the weather does not allow me the use of my physician, a trotting-horse, to take a flurry (as it is elegantly called) in a hackney-coach ; which affords exercise to the imagination as well as the body, and creates thinking (if 1 may be allowed the expression) as much as it does an appetite. The air of busi- ness in the crowds that are constantly passing , the variety of the equipages, and the new and extraordinary sights, that still present them- selves in this great metropolis, the centre of trade, industry, and invention, fill my mind with ideas, which if they do not always instruct, at least amuse me. THE WORLD. [ No. 59. I take great pleasure in guessing at the ranks and professions of men by their appearance ; and though I may now and then be mistaken, yet I am generally in the right. Once indeed I mis- took a right reverend divine, on the other side Temple-bar, for a Jew, till the mitre on his coach convinced me of my error ; as I also did a Jew, by the decorations on his chariot, for a peer of the realm. Andindeed Mr. Fitz-Adam, since the herald’s-office has suspended its au- thority, it is surprising what liberties are taken with the arms of the first families in the king- dom; insomuch that a man must have a quick eye who can distinguish between the pillars, flower-pots, and other inventions of the curious painter, and the supporters of the nobility. But what most of all perplex me are the ornaments, after the Chinese manner, over the arms by way of coronet : and were not these distinctions confined solely to Europe, I should sometimes be in danger of mistaking an Indian director for a Mandarin. It has not escaped your notice how much of late we are improved in architecture; not mere- ly by the adoption of what we call Chinese, nor by the restoration of what we call Gothic; but by a happy mixture of both. From Hyde-park to Shoreditch scarce a chandler’s-shop or an oyster-stall but has embellishments of this kind ; and I have heard that there is a design against the meeting of the new parliament to fit up St. Stephen’s chapel with Chinese benches, and a throne, from the model of that on which the eastern monarch distributes justice to his ex- tensive empires. It is whispered also that the portico to Covent-garden church is to give place to one of the Gothic order. But before I leave the city, let me not neglect to do justice to that excellent engineer, the great pastry-cook in St. Paul’s church-yard. My good fortune con- ducted me thither on Twelfth-day ; when seeing a vast concourse of people assembled, my ruling passion, curiosity, engaged me to quit my vehicle to partake in the satisfaction so visible in all their countenances. But how shall I describe the pomp and parade of so noble an appearance ? The triumph of a lord-mayor’s day is nothing to it; though, if I mistake not, those brave and faithful guardians of the wealth and safety of the city, the train-bands and militia, make a most comely and warlike appearance: for not to mention the flags shining with silver and gold; troops innumerable of gingerbread, both horse and foot, finer in their uniforms than the French king’s household; there was not even the smallest mince-pie, but for its strength and : just proportion was equal at least to the chef= d’euvre of a Vauban ora Cohorn. But what above all excited my praise and admiration was a citadel of an enormous magnitude, that would have appeared impregnable to a whole army of Dutchmen, had it not been for several breaches No. 60 ] that had been made in it by some small field- pieces of copper : but this indeed astonished me the less, having been told that the towns in Flanders which cost so much blood, which were so stubbornly disputed in the former war, and which fell so easily into the hands of the immortal Saxe in seventeen hundred and forty- four, were chiefly obtained by an ordnance of this kind, though somewhat heavier in its quality. And now, Mr. Fitz-Adam, if I was not afraid of troubling you with more observations, 1 should lead you again into the country. But were I to expatiate on the hermitages and syl- yan temples, formed like the earths of those in- structive builders, the badgers (from whom the hint was taken), and furnished with ivy, moss, cobwebs, and straw beds, with all the ele- gance of primitive simplicity, contrasting the magnificent structures of our most favourite architects, 1 fear my letter would exceed your patience. I shall therefore defer, at least, these most important subjects, till I find how these my observations have been received; and whether you do them justice or not, I shall continue Your constant admirer. BPVUATVVSVVE VV VA YA BA VP VWVVWV VV VSVSVVAEWUE BS 5 te te St te te i No. 60.) Txurspay, Fes. 21, 1754. Quid domini facient, audent cum talia fures ? VIRG. Can lords be checked when servants are so bold ? TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Or all the advantages and superior excellences which this nation has confessedly over many others, I know of none to which we may more - fairly lay in our claim than the spirit of gener- . fool-hardiness. osity which is so eminently exerted amongst us. I question whether our great attribute of bra- very deduces more real honour on us, or is more deservedly celebrated. But there is a certain limit which true valour never exceeds ; and it is from this excess that a just distinction is made between courage and rashness, magnanimity and In the same manner, liberality differs from profusion. When this amiable quality of benevolence is perverted from its high and noble uses, when it is applied to no merito- _ Yious services, but is degraded into the indiscri- _ minate overflowings of the purse, the appellation that accompanies it is by no means a desirable part of a character. What led me into this turn of thinking was THE WORLD. 105 an incident in one of my morning walks, Passing by the house of a noble lord with my friend, he raised my attention by assuring me that in that house he spent a great deal of money every week ; and I do not doubt, added he, that we shall in a short time be able to raise a very comfortable subsistence for the family. I was somewhat astonished at the easy freedom of his expression, and could not help expostulating with him upon the terms he had used. He continued his hu- mour, and increased my admiration by assuring me, that he dined there very often, and found his dinners more expensive to him than in any howse in London. We pay, says he, as we do at our club at the St. Alban’s, so much a head: but as we know the people of the house very well, and can depend upon their honesty, we do not trouble ourselves at all with a bill. As I was very well convinced his lordship kept no tavern, I began to imagine that my friend, who has naturally a great share of wit and vivacity, had a mind to impose upon the belief and ready assent that I always pay to his conversation. While I was in this state of suspicion, Come, says he, my honest country gentleman, I will explain all the mystery that seems to perplex you: and as you have too good a spirit to be under an obligation to persons you cannot well make a return to, I will teach you how you may pay for a dinner when you dine with a duke. You must know then, that this noble lord, like others of his quality, keeps a great number of servants ; which servants, when you sit down to table, his lordship, out of great complaisance, immediately makes over to you; and they be- come your servants, pro tempore. They get about you, are very diligent, fetch you whatever you call for, and retire with the table-cloth. You see no more of them, till you want to go away. Then they are all ready again at your command : and instead of that form which you observed them standing in at table, they are drawn into two lines, right and left, and make a lane, which you are to pass through before you can get to the door. Now it is your business to discharge your servants; and for this purpose you are to take out your money, and apply it first on your right hand, then on your left, then on your right, and then on your left again, till you find your- self in the street. And from hence comes that common method, which all regular people ob- serve in money-dealings, of payment as you go. I know not, continues my friend, so ridiculous a personage as the master of the house upon these occasions. He attends you to the door with great ceremony ; but is so conscious of the awk- ward appearance he must make as a witness to the expenses of his guests, that you can observe him placing himself in a position, that he would have it supposed conceals from him the inhos- pitable transactions that are going on under his roof. He wears the silly look of an innocent bs 106 man, who has unfortunately broke in upon the retirement of two lovers, and is ready to affirm with great simplicity, that he has seen nothing. I already concurred with the observations of my friend, thanked him for his intelligence, and blessed myself that I was that day to dine cheap- ly ata tavern. But during my stay in London I have been obliged to fall in with the customs of that place; and have learnt to my cost, that gression, as well as admission, must be pur- chased. Iam at length, however, with many more of my acquaintance, reduced to a disagree- able necessity of seeing my friends very seldom ; because I cannot afford (according to a very just and fashionable expression) to pay a visit to them. Every man who has the misfortune to exceed his circumstances must, in order to recover him- self, abstain from certain expenses, which in the gross of his disbursements have made the most formidable articles. ~The economist of the city parts with his country-house; the squire dis- poses of his hounds; and I keep other people’s servants in pay nolonger. But having an earnest desire of mixing with those friends whom an early intimacy has most endeared to me, and preferring the social hours that are spent at their tables to most others of my life, I cannot at all times refuse their invitations, even though I have nothing for their servants. And here, alas! the inconveniencies of an empty pocket are as strongly exhibited, as in any case of inso)vency that I know of. ITamamarked man. If I ask for beer, I am presented with a piece of bread. If I am bold enough to call for wine, after a de- lay which would take away its relish were it good, I receive a mixture of the whole side- board in a greasy glass. If I hold up my plate, nobody sees me; so that I am forced to eat mutton with fish-sauce, and pickles with my apple-pie. . I observe there is hardly a custom amongst us, _be it what it will, that we are not as tenacious and jealous of as of any national privileges. It is from this consideration, that I expect rather to see an increase than an abolition of our follies ; an improvement rather than a change. I should ~ not, therefore, conclude my subject, without in- justice to my friend above-mentioned, if I did not reveal a new method, which, he says, he in- tends to propose to some of the leaders of fashion, and which he has no doubt, he assures me, of seeing soon in practice. Let every artificer that has contributed to raise the house you have the honour to dine in make his appearance when the company is going away. Let the mason, the painter, the joiner, the glazier, the upholsterer, &c. arrange themselves in the same order as the gentlemen in and out of livery do at such con- junctures ; and let every guest consider, that he THE WORLD. [No. 60. could not have regaled himself that day within his friend’s walls, if it had not been for the joint labours of those worthy mechanics. Such a gen- -erous reflection would produce three good effects: liberality would have a fresh and noble subject for its exertion ; the tradesmen (a numerous and discontented race) would be satisfied to their ut- most wishes; nor could the payment of bills, any more than of wages, with reason or proprie- ty, be demanded of the master. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, oO. S. Though my ingenious correspondent has treat- ed this subject with great vivacity and humour, I cannot dismiss his letter without saying a word or two in favour of servants. It is well known that many of them are en- gaged in the services of younger brothers, whose total inattention to the payment of wages can only be remedied by the bounty of those ladies of quality, who are fond of a cold chicken at the lodgings of their said masters. That others have the honour to serve ladies of fashion ; where the card money at their routs and drums, which of right belongs to the ser- vants, is appropriated by many of the said ladies to the defraying the expenses of tea, coffee, and wax-candles for the said routs and drums. That a very great number are the domestics of persons of quality, in whose services they have so little to do, from the crowds maintained in them, that they find themselves under a neces- sity of spending a great part of their time in ale-houses and other places of resort, where, in imitation of their masters, they divert themselves with the fashionable amusements of gaming, wenching, and drinking; which amusements, as they are always attended with considerable expense, require more than their bare wages to support. " That others, who live in the city, and are the servants of grocers, haberdashers, pastry-cooks, oil-men, pewterers, brokers, tailors, and so forth, have such uncertain humours to deal with, and so many airs of quality to submit to, that their Spirits would be quite broken, but for the cor- dial of vails ; which I humbly apprehend they have a better title to than any othér of the. fra- ternity, as the maid-servants in such places hap- pen to be as great traders as their masters, and ‘are rarely to be dealt with but at extravagant prices. , That a third part, at least, of the whole body of servants in this great metropolis, who for cer- tain wise reasons pass with their masters for single men, have wives and families to maintain in private ; and if it be considered that the com- mon advantages of such servants, without the addition of vails, are too insignificant to support No. 61.] the said wives and families in any degree of ele- gance, it is presumed that their perquisites ought in no wise to be abridged. For these and many other reasons, too tedious to be here set down, I am not only for continu- ing the custom of giving money to servants, but do also publish it as my opinion, that in all fa- milies where the said servants are no more in number than a dozen or fifteen, it is mean, piti- ful, and beggarly, in any person whatsoever, to ' pass from table without giving to all. PCCLVABLTE STUDIED TE LTE VVVA VST WE TBE SEVUETCARDITVAVATVA No. 61.] Tuurspay, Fer. 28, 1'754. Tuouau the following letters are written upon more serious subjects, and in a graver style and manner than are common to this paper, which is professedly devoted to the ridicule of vice, folly and false taste, yet as they are intended for pub- lic beuefit, and may contain some useful hints and informations, I shall present them to my readers without farther preface. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. SIR, His majesty having frequently recommended to his parliament to consider of proper means to put a stop to the numerous robberies and, mur- ders amongst us, I shall want no apology for sending you my thoughts upon that subject. Many persons have been of opinion that severe punishments were necessary in these cases.; but constant experience proves the contrary, and that the consequence is only making rogues more desperate, and thereby increasing the danger in- stead of providing for the security of honest men. _ One thing only I think might safely be done ’ with respect to punishments, which is, that no criminal (except in very particular circumstan- ces) who is clearly convicted, should escape by transportation or otherwise. The Jenity of the government suffers this in hopes of an amend- ‘ment; but when the mind is once corrupted to so great a degree, it is seldom capable of any vir- tuous sentiments: and the case of such persons is, that they generally return from transportation in a short time, and fall immediately into the Same company and profligate course of life as before, Such kind of pardons are considered by rogues no otherwise than as giving them hopes of perpetrating their crimes with impunity, and consequently must produce a very bad effect. I am confirmed in this opinion by Monsieur Se- condat, who, in his excellent treatise upon the Spirit of Laws, says, “‘ That if we inquire into the cause of all human corruptions, we shall find that they proceed from the impunity of ‘¢rimes, and not from the moderation of punish- “ments.” THE WORLD. But then I must add, that if the pu- 107 nishment for robbery is made more certain, there ought to be a distinction (unless hanging in chains is thought a sufficient one) between that and murder, lest the robber, seeing. the punishment the same, and equally certain, may be tempted to kill, in order to his concealment. However, it is the business of every legislature rather to make good regulations for preventing crimes, than to contrive punishments for them. The ingenious Mr. Fielding, in a very sensi- ble pamphlet upon this subject, attributes the number of robberies in a great measure to the luxury and extravagance of the nation: but it appears to me that theseare only remoter causes ; for though luxury and extravagance reign in all our principal towns, yet the robberies are chiefly in and about London ; and even when they hap- pen in the country, they are generally committed, by rogues, who make excursions out of London to fairs, horse-races, and other public meetings ; which clearly and evidently points out the true cause of them to be the overgrown size of London, affording infinite receptacles to sharpers, thieves, and villains of all kinds. Our magistrates have lately exerted themselves, with a very becoming spirit, in suppressing houses of gaming and de- bauchery ; but I am afraid the number of these houses is so great, that all their endeavours will not produce any considerable benefit to the pub- lic. ‘The buildings in London have been increas- ed prodigiously within these thirty years; and the ill consequences of this increase seem not to have been enough considered: but it is certain that a large metropolis is the greatest evil in any country, and the source and fountain of all the corruption that is in it. It appears from the bills of mortality that the burials in London vastly exceed the christenings. This annual surplus, supplied in a great measure from the several counties, is a continual drain from the people, and an immense loss to the nation: and I cannot help recommending it to those gentle- men who are for increasing the number of our people by a general naturalization bill, to provide in the meantime for the security and preserva- tion of those we have already. The monstrous size of our capital is one great cause of the excessive luxury that prevails amongst us. ‘[heinfinite number of people that resort hither naturally rival each other in their tables, dress, equipage, furniture, and, in short, extravagancies of all sorts. Notwithstanding the late necessary regulations, a continual round of amusement and entertainment is invented for every day in the week; and by this means the mind is kept in a constant hurry and dissipation, and rendered unfit for any serious employment. Can mothers of this turn, immersed in vanity and folly, be supposed capable of any domestic concerns ? What a prospect is here of the morals of the rising age! And, what is worse, this love of pleasure is carried into the country, and.a ger 108 neral dissoluteness spreads itself through the whole kingdom. Hence it is that gentlemen even of small fortunes are impatient of the coun- try, and crowd to the diversions of London, con- tracting an expensive taste, and ruining their fa- milies. Nor is this love of pleasure confined only to genteel life; the common people easily follow the example of those above them; and as they have no fund to support them’ without labour, the consequence of idleness, in them, is imme- diate poverty; which necessarily throws them into sharping, robbery, and all kinds of dis- honesty. So that I believe it may truly be affirmed, that the luxury and corruption of any nation is just in proportion to its wealth, and the largeness of its metropolis. Thuanus tells us, that in the reign of Henry the Second there was an edict made to prohibit any buildings in the suburbs of Paris; and in Queen Elizabeth’s time a bill passed to prevent the increase of London; but like other good laws, it soon grew obsolete, and lost its effect. In what manner our metropolis may be re- duced without injury to the proprietors of houses and ground-rents, I do not pretend to determine; but it seems absolutely necessary that a stop should be put to any farther build- ing; and if, besides this, the ruinous houses in the back parts of the town, such as Hockley in the Hole, &c. which are the grand receptacles for sharpers and pickpockets, and which might be purchased at an easy rate, were annually to be bought up, the materials sold, and the ground thrown into open fields, the town ina few years would be considerably reduced, the health of the people very greatly improved, and the number of gamesters, thieves, lewd women, &c. gradu- ally diminished. ; Iam, &. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, As you profess not only to amuse but to in- struct; and as the early grounding of youth in true fortitude and the love of their country are objects worthy of the most serious attention ; give me leave to caution parents and guardians through your channel against an evil they seem insensible of, the evil of sending youths unac- quainted with the world, even raw from school, to French academies ; where no sooner are they got together, than those who preside in the councils of that kingdom, ever attentive to sow the seeds of dissention in these nations, detach a number of Irish officers, who by speaking our language, and introducing these heedless boys into the ple:sures of the place, easily insinuate themselves into their good graces; and then, with no Jess art than judgment, gradually instil into their vacant minds the poisons of popery and disaffection. I speak by experience. If any THE WORLD. [ No. 62. one doubts the truth of this assertion, let him inquire into the present condition of a French academy in a neighbouring maritime province, where these measures will be found to be at this hour warmly pursuing. Are there not other countries, countries of liberty, where the French tongue and the exercises which contribute to fashion the exteriors, are to be acquired with equal success? Doubtless there are; and those parents who, by the advantage of their own education, are capable of directing that of their. children, never hazard them among these dan- gerous people, till by reading, travel, and an ac- quaintance with mankind, they are proof against such unhappy impresssions. If the inserting this short letter saves but one Briton from perdition, you and I, Mr. Fitz- Adam, shall not esteem it as a useless precau~ tion. I am, Sir Your most humble servant. VBE VOVASVT SRA DVVSV SAV BUST DEL VD SVSVTUV VETS VUCVEVVUVTT SA No. 62.] THurspay, Marcu 7, 1754, TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I nave somewhere read of the saying of « philo- sopher, I believe it was in the Spectator, “ That every one ought to do something in the world to show that he has been in it.”’: 1 am, there- fore, though a woman, desirous of leaving be- hind me the following testimony of my exist- tence, and of convincing posterity that in point of birth I have had the start of them. It is of late grown into a fashion among the men to treat the business of visiting with great disrespect: they look upon it as a mere female recreation, and beneath the dignity of their su- perior natures. Yet notwithstanding their contempt of it, and the odious name of gadding which they have given it, I do not find that. they fail in their appearance at any of our as- semblies, or that they are better able than us women to shut themselves up in their own houses, when there is any thing to be done or seen abroad. If they would content themselves with finding fault with the name and not the thing, I should have no quarrel with them ; the word visit being of so various and uncertain a signification, that I am always at a loss in what sense to understand it. ; A sister-in-law of mine, who lives about ten miles from town, sent me some time ago a very pressing letter, desiring my assistance, and that of my cook-maid, for a few days; her house, as she said, being likely to be put into great hurry and confusion from the preparations they were No. 62.1 mz ing for the reception of my Lord Whimsey, who had sent my brother a card that he intend- ed him a visit the week following. I set out accordingly with my cook; and when every thing was got ready in the best and genteelest manner that my brother’s fortune would afford for the entertainment of so noble a guest, down comes my lord as expected; who, upon alight- ing from his chariot, gave orders to his eoach- man to keep the horses in motion, for that his stay should not exceed fifteen minutes. His lordship took a walk through the garden; seemed greatly pleased with the situation and design ; very politely excused himself from making a longer stay, and took his leave with saying, that he hoped soon to do himself the pleasure of making him a second visit. It would be taking up too much of your time to enter minutely into the family distress upon 8O vexing a disappointment ; let it suffice to tell you, that it was near a fortnight before my poor sister perfectly recovered it, or before she left off her hourly repeated question of, “ What shall we do with all this load of victuals ?”” My lord next day at White’s was giving high encomiums on my brother’s seat, and the goodness of the air in that part of Surrey, and was pleased to say that he thought it the completest thing of its size within twenty miles of London. Upon which Sir Humphry Hobling, a distant relation of ours, proposed being of my lord’s party at his next visit. Accordingly in about three weeks a second ecard informs my brother of a second visit. By this time I and my maid, together with two or three supernumerary assistants and fe- male humble cousins, were dismissed, after hav- ing stayed a fortnight, by particular desire, to help to eat up the pasties, pies, tarts, jellies, sillabubs, &c. which had been provided for my lord, and were now looked upon as mere drugs in a family, which usually contented itself with two substantial dishes, or one and a pudding. _ It was not in the least doubted that my lord’s ‘second visit would be of the same nature with the first ; his lordship’s card being conceived ex- actly in the same words: there was therefore no need of fuss or preparation; my sister too had pretty well worn off the dread of making her appearance before so great a man. Accord- ing to his appointment my lord arrived, and stg him Sir Humphry and Colonel Shuffle, a great favourite of my lord’s, and a number of servants with portmanteaus, guns, pointers, set- ters, spaniels, &c.—My poor dear sister !—I wish you were a woman, Mr. Fitz-Adam, and jad kept house in the country, that you might «mow how to pity her. The rumour of my ord’s arrival having soon spread itself, se- veral of the neighbouring gentlemen came the lext day to dine with my brother, and to pay | q d heir compliments to his lordship ; the greater ; THE WORLD. provision to be Jaid in. 109 part of whom, by Sir Humphry’s incessantly pushing about the claret, were rendered utterly incapable of returning to their homes that night. To shorten my story, my lord and the colonel, finding the air to agree with them every day better than the other, continued there a fort- night; and Sir Humphry, having drank him- self into a fit of the gout, is, with his lady and family (whom he sent for to attend him) at this day upon his visit. I have heard much of the copiousness of the English language, and would fain know why it is that people can find no term to express their design of staying fifteen days at your house, different from that which signifies fifteen mi- nutes? Have they no way of expressing the time of their continuance but by the one word visit 2 Surely, Mr. Fitz-Adam, a more correct and intelligible method of conveying upon cards or otherwise the visitor’s design upon the visited might be found out: giving him to understand at sight what he has to do towards a proper re- ception : whether it be to order a fire in the best parlour ; to see if the death-warrant for poultry, roasting pigs, &c. be to be signed; if sheets, beds, and chambers are to be aired, or a month’s All this, I conceive, may be easily effected by a method, which, for the good of all masters and mistresses of fami- lies, I am now going to communicate. When a fine lady, having a new-fashioned suit of clothes, or a new piece of scandal to cir- culate, finds it necessary to call upon forty or fifty.of her acquaintance in one day ; or when a fine gentleman chooses to signify his intention of making a short visit, like my Lord Whim- sey’s first; I am for an abridgment of the wora, and only calling it avis. When a gentleman or lady intends taking a family dinner with a country friend, or a dish of tea with a town one, I would have that called a visit. But when a person proposes spending some days, weeks, or months at a house, I would call that a visitation. So that for the future cards might very properly be written in the following form: “ Lady Changeherfriend’s compliments to Lady Vid- dlefaddle, and intends to vis. her ladyship this evening.” ‘ Lord Stiff’s compliments to Sir Gregory Quibus at his house at Hampstead, and intends to visit him the first fair day.” “Captain Fearaball’s compliments to Ralph Hardhead, Esq. at his seat near Burford-downs, and intends him a visitation the beginning of next month, to take a crack of hunting with him.”” Thus, Mr. Fitz-Adam, will the terms of vising, visiting, and visitationing, alw.ays carry an exact meaning with them, and be suchas the lowest capacity cannot fail of understanding. I am, with great esteem, Dear Sir, Your constant reader and admirer, Susanna F rez. \sit- 110 P. S. If this letter should happen to please ‘you, who are all the world to me, I may very shortly send you a few necessary remarks upon each of these three visitments; in which I may observe at large, that the vis seems to be chiefly confined within the bills of mortality, or to the inhabitants of large towns, and is applicable to the transacting of business in general... The visit is more particularly for still-life and set compli- ments. ‘The visitation is looked upon generally in a very indifferent light, and oftener thought a plague than a pleasure by the receiver; it is chiefly the invention of the worthy tribe of hearers (of whom you gave us lately so lively a description), led-captains, younger brothers brought up to no business, humble cousins, &c. The visited in these cases, or more properly speaking, the patients, have invented on their parts several curious hints towards shortening the length of a visitation, besides those stale and thread-bare ones, of bringing out after a certain time the brown loaf, and ordering the groom to say, that the corn is all out. My uncle ‘Toby Fre- tabit, having received a visiiation from a gentle- man and his lady, who were his relations, and finding it continued to the seventeenth morning, hit upon the expedient of calling aloud to his_ groom, under their chamber window, to be sure to feed his cousins’ horses well, and get their chaise cleaned: ‘‘ For very likely, T'om,”’ says he, raising his voice, ‘‘my cousins will embrace so fine a morning to go home in; for you know so very fine a day one seldom sees in a whole month at this time of the year.” His cousins, it seems, took the hint, and very civilly decamped a few hours after. PLCRDEBLTBWE BE CLTUBRTTECIUNT TUSGETCEBVETEVTEDBEVEEVCBA No. 63.] Tuurspay, Marcu 14, 1754. Animi cultus quasi quidam humanitatis cibus. Tout, ‘The culture of the mind is, as it were, the food of hu- man nature. Ir the love of indolence did not sometimes as en- tirely possess me as the love of fame, I should no doubt feel myself a little piqued at being in a manner compelled to withdraw my own wit, in order to publish that of my correspondents. For many weeks past I have considered myself as a mere postmaster, whose only employment is to receive and distribute letters. But what most uortifies me is, that I do not find my readers to be at all clamorous about my resuming the pen. I am particularly hurt by my correspondent of this day, who, under the friendly appearance of favouring me with his assistance, has sent me what I am afraid will cast a shade upon my own papers. I could have forgiven the injury, THE ‘WORLD. [ No. 63. if he had left me room to alter a single word in his essay, when I might have assured my acquaintance that it was partly written by my- self. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Every one knows how liable the body is to de- cay, unless it be supported by proper nourish- ment. ‘The unlearned labourer is as well skilled in this doctrine as the most profound philoso- pher: for the stomach, by certain monitory twitches, informs them both equally of how great importance eating is, not only to their well-being, but to their being at all. The pea- sant labours that he may eat, and eats that he may labour; and his very labouring contributes also to the health of his body. Now, Sir, I beg leave to inform certain of your readers, who, by the circumstances of their birth, education, and fortune, are unhappily exempt from bodily la- bour, and who are idle because they have leisure, that the mind likewise requires sustenance, and that for want of food and exercise, it will as na- turally fall into decay as the body, This is daily seen in what is called the polite world, which is chiefly composed of such whose sleek countenances and active limbs discover all the signs of vigorous, bodily heaith, but whose minds are so feeble, puny, and half-starved as to be scarce able to support themselves. . Vauxhall and Ranelagh are generally chien. ed with objects of this sort; for that such na- turally have recourse to pullin places and com- pany may be learned from Tully’s account of the idle fellows of Rome: Videmus, cum re nulla impediantur necessarid, aut alveolum poscere, aut querere quempiam ludum, aut sermonem aliquem requirere ; cumque non habeant ingenuas ex doc- trina oblectationes, circulos aliquos et sessiunculas consectart. As this morsel of Latin may possi- bly stick with such of your readers as have had leisure enough to neglect the improvement of their school learning, to make it go down more. glibly, I will dress it for them after the English manner.. The idle, as they have no occupation or business to enyploy them, resort either to a gaming- table, or a cricket-match, or mother Midnight’s ord= tion ; and, as they have not, for want of learning, any of the amusements of a gentleman, become , members of clubs and frequenters of coffece-houses. From the illustrious convention at White’s down | to those who assemble on birth-days at the Black; whether they rejoice in champaign and or tolandll| or tripe and porter; whether they are employed — at a hazard-table or a shovel-board ; the mind in each, fraternity seems to be alike prasadon for, | and has little else to subsist upon than the scraps and broken pieces of knowledge picked up from | the common newspapers. We cannot wonder, if, with son miser able No. 64.4 fare, the mind should be impaired in its strength, and grow languid in its motions; but we may well wonder that men, who are far above the ordinary vank of life, who are proud of their abilities to distinguish themselves from the vul- gar in their clothes, tables, furniture, in short, in all the conveniences of mere living, even to luxury, should take up with so poor a dict ; should be contented with diversions, which even the lowest mechanic may aspire to. Is it no mortification to their pride to find men of low birth, mean fortune, and no education, on a level with themselves in their amusements? Is if no reproach to them to look upon a picture of Raphael, or a Medicean Venus, with the same stupid eye of indifference as the, labourer who ground the colours, or who dug in the quarry ? Yet many there are, and men of taste too, as the phrase goes, who, through a shameful neg- lect of their mind, have little or no relish of the fine arts; and I doubt whether, in our most splendid assemblies, the royal game of goose would not have as many eyes fixed upon it as the lately published curiosity of the ruins of Palmyra. I mention this work not only to in- form such of your readers, as do not labour un- der a total loss of appetite fer liberal amusements, what a sumptuous entertainment they may sit down to, but also to give it as a signal instance, how agreeably men of ingenious talents, ample fortune, and great leisure, may amuse them- selves, and laudably employing their leisure time, do honour to their country. Among the polite and idle, there are none whom I behold with more compassion than those meagre and half-famished souls whom I meet every day, in fine clothes and gay equipa- ges, going about from door to door, like common beggars; and, like beggars too, as commonly turued away ; with this difference, that the por- ter gives the ragged stroller a surly no, and a ci- vil dismission to the vagrant in embroidery. The former, to excuse his idleness, says, ** No- body will employ me ;”’ the latter does as good as say, “ I cannot employ myself.” This in high life is called visiting; which does not imply any friendship, esteem, or the least regard towards the person who is visited, but is the effect of pure generosity in the visitor, who, having more time upon his hands than he knows what to do with, prodigally bestows some of it upon those whom he cares not one farthing for. I look upon visiting to be the art of squandering away time with the least loss of reputation: a very Gi invention indeed! and as the other inge- dious arts have been produced by hungry bellies, 30 this owes its rise to the emptiness of the nind. - But the hunger of the mind for the most part ‘reates a constant restlessness, frequent indispo_ jition, and sometimes, that worse than bodily lisease, the spleen; which happens when , THE WORLD. ili Jow keeping, it is reduced to the necessity of gnawing and preying upon itself. Every man who does nothing, because he has nothing to do, feels himself more or less subject to these disor- ders. And can his flying to places of pastime and diversion remove, them? Should we not condemn a mother as unnatural, who, when her child cries for bread and butter, should carry it abroad to a puppet-show ? Yet. full as absurdly does every man act, who, regardless of the cra- vings of his mental appetite, stands gaping at vertical suns or a painted waterfall. I have heard that the master of Vauxhall, who so plentifully provides beef for our bodily refreshment, has for the entertainment of those who visit him at his country house, no less plentifully provided for the mind; where the guest may call for a scull, to chew upon the in- stability of human life, or sit down to a colla- tion of poetry, of which the hangings of his room of entertainment take up, as I am told, many yards. I wish that this grand purveyor of beef and poetry would transfer some of the latter to his gardens at Vauxhall. Odes and songs pasted on the lamp-posts would, I believe, be much more studiously attended to than the prices of cheese-cakes and custards ; and if the unpictured boxes were hung round with celebra- ted passages out of favourite poets, many a com- pany would find something to say, who would otherwise sit cramming themselves with silent stupidity. Iam led to this thought by an ob- servation I once made at a country church, where the walls were set out with several plain dishes of good wholesome doctrine. It hap- pened that the pastor of the flock, who was round and fat, by the heaviness of his discourse, and the lazy manner of delivering it, laid to sleep three-fourths of his audience. Upon in- quiry, I found that the sleepers were those only who could not read, and that the rest kept themselves awake by feeding on the walls. In the waking part of the congregation I had a proof of the advantage of reading; in the lan- guid preacher an instance of a decayed habit: of mind: which certainly would not have been in so weak a condition, if, instead of cold ham and venison-pasty, he had now and then taken for breakfast a luncheon of Barrow, or a slice of Tillotson. Yours, &c. L. M. WL TE TDA DUTSLVUUSBVVSETATDE BU BDADEVUBTVEARTAVABIUBE GS No. 64.]. Tuurspay, Marcu 21, 1754. — Animum pictura pascit inani. Vira. -— With an empty picture fed his mind, Dryovrn TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, » by| I nzaviry agree with your correspondent of last 112 week in his conclusion, that books, or more pro- perly that learning, is the food of the mind ; and as what happened to me lately was occa- sioned by giving my mind a meal, I beg leave to relate it to you. You must know, Sir, I labour under a misfortune, common to many in this great metropolis, which is, to have a very good appetite, and very little to eat. ‘This lays me under the necessity of spunging upon my friends: my calamity indeed sits lighter upon me, as I do not practise the little arts and shifts of many fine gentlemen, who drop in as it were by chance at dinner-time; who saunter about the town in hopes of meeting with some generous master of a family; or who in a morning visit protract the conversation till it is too late for them to dine any where else. No, Sir; I have a mind above such low contrivances, and openly avow my spunging without any reserve or shame- facedness. With the view of getting a breakfast, I wait- ed the other morning on Lord Finical, who is remarkable for having a very elegant library. The familiarity of his conversation with me in public places gave me courage to make him the first visit ; and as I knew that his time of rising was about twelve, I was at his door by nine; where, after the fashion of mumpers, I gave but one single knock, for fear of disturbing him, After some time, the door was opened to me by a slip-shod footman, who, asking my honour’s pardon for having made me wait so long, show- ed me into the library. Here I found my lady’s woman, with a damask napkin in her hand, taking down the books one by one, and after wiping them as tenderly as if they had been glass, putting them into their placesagain. She very politely hoped I would excuse her; said she should soon have done; that to be sure the books were in a great dishabille, and not fit to be seen in that pickle: ‘ For you must know, Sir,’ said she, ‘‘ that this is the largest room in the house: and my lady gave a ball here last night, well knowing that my lord would not leave White’s till the dancers were gone.” This she desired me to keep to myself. I told her, I thought there was no great harm in making use of a room which would otherwise be useless. ‘“* True, Sir,” said she; “ but as my lady knows that my lord does not choose it, and as my lady would not willingly offend my lord, she has strictly ordered all the servants not to blab, and desired me to be up thus early to wipe the books, for fear the dust upon them should occasion a discovery: for you know, Sir, if my lord knows nothing of the matter, it is just the same thing as if there had been no dancing at all.”’ As I did not controvert so eminent a doc- trine, her conversation ended with wiping the last book; and after having received an assur- ance from me of keeping secret what she had no THE WORLD. [ No. 64. occasion to entrust me with, she very gracious- ly dismissed herself, ; I was now left by myself, and was going as I thought to sit down to a most delicious repast ; but I found myself in the state of a country booby at a great man’s table, who sits gaping and staring at the richness of the plate and elegance of the service while he should eat his dinner. I stood astonished at the gay prospect before me : the shelves, which at the bottom were deep enough to contain just a folio, tapered upwards by degrees, and ended at the dimension of a small duodecimo. All the books on the same shelf were exactly of the same size, and were only to be distinguished by their backs, which were most of them gilt and lettered, and displayed as great a variety of colours as is to be seen in a bed of tulips: for the bindings of some were red, some few black, others blue, green, or yel- low; and here and there, at proper intervals, was stuck in one in vellum covering, as white as a curd, and lettered black, in order to make a stronger contrast of the colours on each side of it. Hitherto I stood at some distance, to take with more advantage a general view of the beauty of the whole ; but curiosity leading me to a closer inspection of each individual, I had the pleasure to find myself surrounded by the best authors in ancient or modern learning. I took down several of them by way of tasting (for, as Lord Bacon observes, “‘ some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested”); and by the sticking together of the leaves, occasioned by the marbling and gilding of the edges, I found that not one of them had been opened since they came out of the hands of the book-binder. I now fell to with a good appetite, intending to make a full meal; and while I was chewing. upon a piece of Tully’s philosophical writings, my lord came in upon me, His looks discover- ed great uneasiness, which I attributed to the event of his Jast night’s diversion ; but, | good manners requiring me to prefer his lord- ship’s conversation to my own amusement, 4 replaced his book, and by the sudden satisfac-_ tion in his countenance, perceived that the cause of his perturbation was my holding open the book with a pinch of snuff in my fingers. He said he was glad to see me, for he should not have known else what to have done with him- self: I returned the compliment, by saying I thought he could not want entertainment amidst so choice a collection of books, “ Yes,” replied he, “ the collection is not without elegance ; but I read men only now; for I finished my studies when I set out on my travels. You are not the first who has admired my library ; and I am al- lowed to have as-fine a taste in books as any man) in England.” Hereupon he showed me a Pas No. 65.] tor-fido bound in green, and decorated with myrtle-leaves: he then took down a volume of Tillotson, in a black binding, with the leaves as white as a law book, and gilt on the back with little mitres and crosiers; and lastly a Cesar’s Commentaries, clothed in red and gold, in imi- tation of the miljtary uniform of English officers. He reflected with an air of satisfac- tion upon the usefulness of making observations in travelling abread ; and acknowledged that he owed the thought to his having seen, in.a French abbé’s study at Paris, all the Dauphine editions of the classics with gold dolphins on the back of them. Num vesceris ista, quam laudas pluma ? was frequently at my tongue’s end; but good- breeding restrained me from taking the liberty of a too familiar expostulation. We now sat down at the table, and. my lord having ordered the tea-water, begged the favour of me to reach out my hand to the window-seat behind me, and give him one of the books, which lay flat one upon another, the backs and leaves alternately. I did so; and endeavouring to take the uppermost, I found that they all clung toge- ther. His lordship seeing my surprise, laughed very heartily, saying it was only a tea-chest, and that I was not the first by many whom he had played the same trick upon. On examining it, ft found that the upper book opened as a lid, and the hinges and key-hole of the lock were con- cealed so artfully, as they might easily eccape common observation. But it was with great concern that I beheld the backs of these seeming books lettered Pope’s Works. Poor Pope! with what indignation would he have swelled, had he lived to see but the mere phantom of his works become the vehicle of grocery! His lord- ship, observing my eyes fixed with attention on the lettering, gave me the reason of it: ‘ What could I do?” said he; “the credit of my library required the presence of the poet; but where to place him was the difficulty ; for my shelves were all full long before the last publication of him, and would have lost mach of their beauty by any derangement; so to get clear of the zmbarras, 1 thought it might be as well to have Mr. Hallet’s edition as Mr. Knapton’s.”’ I perfectly agreed with his lordship, reserving to myself my meaning as to his own particular. Mr. Cash the banker being now introduced, after hearing a joke or two upon Mr. Cash’s books, which his lordship was pleased to call a more valuable library than his own, I left them to their private business. And now, Mr. Fitz-Adam, for the sake of many, who, like Lord Finical, have a fine taste in books, and not the least relish for learning ; and for the convenience of many more, who are fond of the appearance of learning, and can give no ether proof of it than that of possessing so many books, which are like globes to a cunning man; I desire you will give a hint to Mr. THE WORLD. 118 Br omwich to form a paper-hanging, represent- ing classes of books, which may be called for at his shop by the name of learned, or library. “paper, as he pleases. That ingenious gentleman, whose gains and reputation have risen equally with our paper-madness, will exert his fancy in so many pretty designs of book-cases, or pieces of orna- mental architecture, accommodated to the size of all rooms, in such richness of gilding, letter- ing, and colouring, that I doubt whether the Chinese-paper, so much in fashion in most of our great houses, must not, to his great emo- lument, give place to the learned: I think the library-paper will look as pretty, may be made as costly, and I am sure will have-more mean- ing. The books for a lady’s closet must be on a smaller scale, and may be thrown into Chinese- houses; and-here and there blank spaces may be left for brackets to held real China ware and Dresden figures. It is to be observed that the lettering should not be put on till the paper is hung up: for every customer ought to have the choosing and the marshalling his own books ; by this means he may have those of the newest fashion immediately after their publication ; and besides, if he should grow tired of one author or one science, he may be furnished with others at reasonable rates, by the mere alteration of the lettering. : I make no apology to Mr. Dodsley on this oc- casion, as | do not think he will lose a single customer by this compendious, yet comprehen- sive method of performing libraries. Yours, &c. iL. A. SE SDVUVWTV VLBW VV VOVEBRDVSL TEDVUVSRUTBSETVIVSEVSVUVETTS No. 65.] Tuurspay, Marcu 28, 1754. Campestres melius Scythe, Quorum plaustra vagas vite trahunt domos. Tor. Happy the Scythians, houseless train ! Who roll their vagrant dwellings o’er the plain. FRANCIS. Tuar experience is the best, and should be the only guide of our conduct, is so trite a maxim, that one can hardly offer it without an apology ; and yet we find the love of innovation and the vanity of invention carrying men daily to a total neglect of it. In a country. where mode and fashion govern every thing, we must not be surprised that men are ruled by no fixed princi- ples, but rather should expect they will fre- quently act in direct opposition to every thing that has been long established. ‘The favourite axiom of the present times is, that our ancestors were barbarous; therefore whatever differs fron the ignorance of their manners must be wise and right. Q 114 To show the folly of an overweening opinion of inventive wisdom, and to bring the foregoing remarks to the purpose and subject of this day’s paper, I shall give an instance from Garcilasso de la Vega, who tells us that when the Spaniards began to settle in Peru, and were erecting large stone buildings, the Indians stood by and laugh- ed at them, saying they were raising their own tombs, which on the first heaving of the earth would fall and crush them, Yet big with their European improving genius, they despised the light cabins of the Americans, and at length became the victims of their own opinionated pride.. Equally ridiculous would be the Peru- vian in England, who, disregarding the old established models of strength and _ solidity, should build himself a hut after the fashion of his own country, and adapted only to the tem- perature of that climate. As I would willingly pay my countrymen the compliment of supposing all their actions to be founded in reason, when I cannot demonstrate the contrary, I have imputed the number of slight wooden edifices with which we see our parks and gardens so crowded to the extravagant fears with which it may be remembered the inhabitants of more solid structures were seized at the time of the late expected earthquake. If such a time of universal panic should again occur, I doubt not but the builders of these asylurms, who had mercenary views, would see good interest for their money, while the generous and benevolent would enjoy the greatest of plea- sures, that of making numbers easy and happy. But even in this case, how have they acted against experience! For as a storm of wind is a much more usual phenomenon in this climate than an earthquake, it is evident that the ex- pense of erecting these occasional receptacles (though not indeed very considerable) must be totally thrown away ; unless we are to believe those refiners in practical arithmetic, who assert that these retreats have contributed as much to the service of the public in the increase of its inhabitants, as they could have done in the pre- servation of them, according to their original institution. The same spirit which influences men to despise and neglect ancient wisdom leads them to a hasty and precipitate imitation of ‘novelty. Thus many ignorant of the original design of these slight shelters, and not imagining there could possibly be any use in them, concluded that they must imply ornament and beauty ; and recollecting the proverb, that, ‘“‘ every thing that is little is pretty,” dotted their parks with sections of hogsheads. ‘The first 1 saw of these gave me a high opinion of the modesty of its owner. A wise man of Greece, thought I to myself, was immortalized for his self-denial and humility in occupying the whole of that man- sion, of which my wiser countryman is con-| particulars. | THE WORLD. [No. 65. tented with the half. But upon looking round me, and seeing this new old whim propagated all - over his park, and these philosophical domiciles so numerous as to make a town big enough to hold all the wise men upon earth, I soon chang- ed.my opinion of the founder, and concluded him rather to be possessed with the ambitious madness of an Alexander, who coveted more worlds, than with the moderation of the Cynic, who, as Hudibras observes, expressed no man - ner of solicitude about a plurality of tubs. The whole world was not half so wide To Alexander, when he cried, Because he had but one to subdue, AS was a narrow paltry tub to Diogenes : who is not said (For aught that ever I could read) To whine, put finger i’ th’ eye and sob, Because he had ne’er another tub. The situations usually destined for these monuments of taste are not in covered valleys, embosomed in groves, or in some sheltered dell ; (there indeed we have the modesty to place our wood-piles, bone-stacks, cinder-heaps, and other more heavy fabrics, composed of rubish, oyster- shells, and sometimes more glittering worthless- ness, under the ennobling title of grottos, her- mitages, &c. &c.) to make them conspicuous, they are placed on eminences in the bleakest exposures ; insomuch that I have overheard an assembly of modern improvers condoling with one another at a drum on a windy night, like a company of mer chants at Jamaica, who had a rich fleet in the harbour at the time of a hur- ricane. - The moveable houses of the Scythians, des- cribed in my motto, are worthy our admiration. We must acknowledge them to be the perfection of all works, since they will stand the criticism of Momus himself; having that requisite, for the want of which he condemned all other houses ; they are upon wheels, and can move from bad neighbours, or be conveyed to shelter from the fury of the winds, or the scorching of the sun. What a satisfaction must it be toa | man of fortune to be told that such houses are a _ manufacture of this age and country, and that _ he may be supplied with a very complete one, at _ the common and. moderate price of three hun- dred pounds! It is to be presumed that no gen- tleman whom this intelligence may reach will © hereafter litter his park with huts, tubs, cribs, sentry-boxes, &c. The taste of the present age is usthpereilia for annuals. Their politics, books, plantations, and _ now their buildings, must be all annuals; and it © is to be apprehended, that ina few years large trees and substantial structures will be nowhere — to be found, except in our deserts; unless we © could be as sangujne in our expectations as a — certain schemist, of whom I shall relate some / : x a No. 66.] This gentleman, whose Chinese temple had | heen blown down a few weeks after it was erected, was comforting himself that he had found in Hanway’s travels a model never yet executed in this part of the world, which, from the advantage of its form, must stand against the most violent gusts of wind on the highest mountains. heads, after a genuine plan of that great im- prover, Kouli Khan. He immediately con- tracted with the sexton of his parish for a suffi- cient supply of human sculls, and was preparing the other materials, when the scheme was pre- vented by the over-scrupulous conscience of the sexton’s wife. The schemist was extremely mortified, yet remained pertinacious in the exe- cution of his design, and, as I am told, set out the next morning for Cornwall to obtain a seat in parliament, in order to bring in a bill for the erecting a pyramid in every county, with niches for the reception of all criminals hereafter to be executed. He is in no pain for the success of his motion ; for though the legislature has found objections to every scheme for making malefac- tors of use, he doubts not of their ready concur- rence in a proposal for making them an orna~- ment to their country. In former times the great house was the object to which the stranger’s admiration was parti- cularly invited. For this purpose lines of trees were planted to direct, and walls built to con- fine your approach, in such a manner that the eye must be constantly employed in the contem- plation of the principal front. Now it is thought necessary to change all this; you are therefore led by round-about serpentine walks, and find your progress to be often intercepted by invisi- ble and unexpected lines and intrenchments, and the mansion purposely obscured by new planta- tions, while the noblest trees of the old grove are tumbled down to give you a peep now and then at an out-building of about ten feet square of plaster and canvas. So different from this was the practice of our ancestors, that when- ever they erected such little edifices (which they did only from necessity) they constantly planted before them yews, laurels, or aquatics, according as the soil was moist or dry; and I could, ven- ture to promise any modern improver, who de- lights in laying all things open, that he might in one morning fall down the populous part of the Thames, and with his single hatchet among the willows lay open as many masked edifices of the true modern size and figure, as, properly dis- posed and fancifully variegated with fresh paint, might make Hounslow-heath a rival to many an admired garden of this age. A philosopher would not suppose that the master of the place assumed any merit to him- self from such trifles: he would hardly imagine that even the most elegant of palaces could add any degree of worth to the possessor, whose ‘ THE WORLD. This was, it seems, a pyramid of ® 115 character must be raised and sustained by his own dignity, wisdom, and hospitality ; remem- bering the maxim of Tully, ‘‘ Non domo domi- nus, sed domino domus honestanda est.”’ But to judge with the common observer, and to reason with the general race of improvers, if it be ab- solutely necessary for every man to show his taste in these matters, let him endeavour to com-. pass solidity, duration, and convenience in the mansion he inhabits; and not attempt to dis- play his magnificence in a number of edifices, which, whatever they may seem to imitate, are unnecessary- houses. SRBEULRVTEBWUBVECV RA DAVAARVTVABVUERGTVTVUTEBLIVVVVTSVT BW No. 66.] Tuurspay, Apri 4, 1754. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, T’o confess an unfashionable kind of truth, Iam a woman who now and then think alittle ; and when I do, I sometimes turn my reflections on my own sex. Man, you know, is said to be “a creature formed for society ;” and I do not deny it to be in general true; but then pray what is women? To say that she too is “a creature formed for society,” is saying nothing at all; she is a great deal more than all that. Shall I tell you what she is? Woman is “a creature formed for crowding, and for being crowded.” Mr. Pope, who you know thought it worth his while to write a whole epistle about us, de- clares, after he thinks he has analyzed us to the bottom, that the love of pleasure and the love of sway are the general ruling passions of the whole sex. In direct contradiction to which I assert, that the love of crowding and of being crowded is a passion infinitely more general and predo- minant. It will be alleged, probably, that this passion is included in one of the former; but 1 answer, No; it is absolutely distinct from either of them: for as to the love of pleasure, ask a woman of fashion in the midst of a crowded assembly (and thanks to the taste of the age we live in, you may make the experiment in this - dear town any evening you please) ask her, I say, if she takes any pleasure in being crowded ° — No,’ she will tell you, “ she hates and de- tests it; it breaks her hoop, tears her ruffles, puts her in a horrid fluster, makes her a fright in short, and she wonders what could persuade her to come there.’’. A plain proof this, that it does not result from her love of pleasure: and that it is not a consequence of our love of sway, is still more obvious; for the very idea of a crowd excludes all notion of superiority and distinction. But if you want an experimen- tal proof of this too, gd te the same assem- “sant. 116 bly, and observe the lady of the house herself: she is distinguished indeed, but in a manner quite opposite to what you would expect; for it is only by bustling through the crowd she has herself raised, with all the hurry and vulgar obsequiousness of a coffee girl. All then that can be said in your friend Pope’s defence is, that he did not live long enough to see this predominant female passion display it- self in that full strength and vigour which it does at present. Yet one might think too, from what one has heard of the ring and other fa- shionable amusements in his time (for I do not remember them myself), that he had, even then, sufficient epportunity given him to discover this truth ; but as he has totally omitted it in all his essays, I shall (without making apologies for my inferior abilities, for I hate apologies) en- deavour to demonstrate, that this very passion is superior to all our other passions put toge- ther. First, as to our love of play. Let us in the first place, to proceed methodically, consider what play is. Play is a science, or rather a science and an art put together; the former of which has been rendered systematical, by the philosophic pen of Mr. Hoyle; the other, though perhaps as well understood as the form- er, has yet been honoured with no distinct trea~ tise; though I am told indeed, that a gentle- man, now in the Old Bailey, has, at his leisure hours, completed an essay, which, when pub- lished, will render the whole of this matter clear to the meanest capacity. But this, en pas- Now, Mr. Fitz-Adam, whether we con- sider gaming as a science that employs the head, or as an art which exercises the hand of its fair professors ; whether we suppose it a matter of: judgment or ingenuity ; we must agree, that a private room, and a small party, would be infi- nitely more eligible for the purpose (that is, if a woman loved play for its own sake) than a. full assembly ; for if she plays with judgment, I would presume that a noise and tumult about her would certainly disturb her: and if she plays with skill, I should imagine a number of lookers-on might possibly disconcert her: yet this is not the case; fo game in a crowd is the thing ; and rather than not game so, she is will- ing either to be beat or to be smoked, either to Jose her money or her reputation. Having proved, I think to my satisfaction, and I hope, Sir, to yours, that even the love of play is a secondary passion to the love of crowd- ing, I will just touch upon our love of dress. That this is made subservient to it also is evi- dent to any person that will please to contem- plate that most important part of our dress, the hoop ; a piece of apparel, or to speak more pro- petly, a piece of machinery, which owes its very being and existence to this passion: for since that invention, a lady is enabled to make a erowd THE WORLD. [No. 66. even by herself; and thirty women can’ now cram a room as completely as a hundred would do, if deprived of so necessary an auxiliary. On this principle too we may account for that seeming paradex, why the hoop, contrary to the fleeting and short-lived nature of all other parts of dress, holds its place in the realms of fashion so much longer than any other mode was ever known to do; and while our caps have, from the size of a china plate, dwindled away to the breadth of a half-crown, and then entirely va- nished, our hoops, on the contrary, continue to enlarge their circumference gradually, and keep pace with our ruling passion. So that I shall venture to assert, that this part of our dress will be immortal ; for so long as women are wo- | men, so long must they wear large hoops. Again, as to our love of music; ask any wo- man of fashion, if the opera sounds as well on a Tuesday as a Saturday, and she will stare at your question, and answer coolly, “No; she does not think # does.” this short reason, that Saturday is the crowded night. The thing is now so very plain, that I might spare myself all farther trouble; yet to proceed, let me ask why we prefer gallantry te love, and general acquaintance to particular friendship ? Because the one goes on full as well in a crowd (excepting indeed some necessary short intervals with regard to gallantry) as in any other place. But should a woman condescend to cultivate love or friendship, she would be frequently se- duced into solitude, or what is as bad, be obliged sometimes to undergo the insupportable ennui of a grave téte-d-téie. Lastly, I would fain ask, why does that small part of our sex, that think at all about the mat- ter, prefer enthusiasm to religion, and Mr. Whitfield to their parish priest? For no other reason in the world, bué because Mr. Whitfield of all men living has the greatest knack of ga- thering a crowd about him. Now that I am talking of religion, I have heard of an author who wrote a treatise to prove, that the place of future punishment was the centre of the earth; which since it could not fairly hold half the inhabitants that, would be assigned to it, he supposed the principal torment would consist in squeezing. I believe indeed the doctrine was seon exploded ; and it was fit it should: for surely, Sir, it would have a ma- nifest bad tendency in point of female morals; for who can think that we should have any dread of squeezing in the next life, when we love so dearly to be squeezed to death in this ? Yet though I have hitherto endeavoured to prove that this love of crowding is the ruling passion of the female world, I would not have it inferred, that it does not sometimes also pre- dominate in man. I know myself various in- stances to the contrary ; many young fellows of And why, pray? For | re No. 67. ] my acquaintance are at present warm borough hunters : now as most of them are infinitely too ignorant to suffer one to imagine they do it with a view of serving their country, and much too negligent and degagé to aim at serving them- selves, I charitably conclude, in order to give them some motive for action, that they com- mence candidates purely from this principle, as’ wanting only to push themselves into a present momentary crowd at the ensuing election, and to secure to themselves a septennial crowd, by getting into parliament. I could enumerate many more instances of the same kind, but really I have scribbled till I am tired: I have however one word to say to your friends the poets before I conclude. You know, Sir, they frequently make similes about us women, and ere particularly fond of taking them from the feathered part of the creation: for instance, if a woman is constant (as perhaps some women have formerly been), they compare her to a tur- tle; if she sings well, they instantly clap a nightingale into her throat; and if she is fair, the swan’s plumage immediately becomes dirty by comparison. Now all these similes may do well enough in the confined way they use them ; but they never yet found out any single bird that could be made use of as a general symbol of the whole sex. I have, Mr. Fitz-Adam; and I shall give it them to put into verse if they please ; assuring myself, that if they are con- vineced of the truth of my foregoing reasonings, they will think it a just one: not to keep them or you longer in suspense, it is a wild-goose. lam, Among the crowd of your admirers, M. B. PUPRVVGVTA VLBVSTC GVW CV GV VSPA TTT 9VGVTVATA BATHE No. 67.] Tuurspay, Aprir 11, 1754. TO MR. FITZ ADAM, Sir, At the fashionable part of mankind set out with the ambition of being thought men of taste. This is the present universal passion; but the misfortune is, that, like sportsmen, who lose their hare and start conies, which lead them over warrens, where their horses break their legs, and fling their riders; so in the affair of taste, we frequently see men following some false scent, with the same ardour that they would have pursued the proper object of a chase, and with much greater inconveniences. ‘Of all the various subjects that have yet ex-. ercised the geniuses of modern writers, that of taste has appeared to be the most difficult to THE WORLD. 117 treat; because almest all of them have lost themselves in endeavouring to trace its source. They have generally indeed referred us for its origin to the polite and imitative arts ; whereas those are rather its offspring than SH parents. Perhaps their mistakes in treating this delicate subject may have arisen from the great resem- blance which false taste bears to true, which hasty and inaccurate observers will find as dif- ficult to distinguish, as to discern Pinchbeck’s metal from genuine gold at the first transient glance. To the end, therefore, that the ideas of our fine gentlemen may be somewhat more pre- cisely adjusted upon this important article, I shall venture to assert, that the first thing ne- cessary for those who wish to acquire a true taste is, to prepare their minds by an early pur- suit and love of moral order, propriety, and all the rational beauties of a just and well regulat- ed conduct. True taste, like good breeding in behaviour, seems to be the easiest thing in nature to attain ; but yet, where it does not grow spontaneously, it isa plant, of all others the most difficult to cultivate. It must be sown upon a bed of vir- gin-sense, and kept perfectly clean of every weed that may prevent or retard its growth. It was long erroneously thought to be an exotic; but experience has convinced us that it will bear the cold of our most northern provinces. I could produce instances to confirm this asser- tion, from almost every county of Great Britain and Ireland. The folly is, that every man thinks himself capable of arriving at perfection in this divine accomplishment: but nature hath not dispensed her gifts in such profusion. There is but one sun to illuminate our earth, while the stars that twinkle with inferior lustre are innumerable. Thus those great geniuses that are the perfect models of true taste are extremely rare, while thousands daily expose themselves to ruin and ridicule by vain and awkward imitations. Perhaps to arrive at taste in one single branch of polite refinement might not be altogether so fruitless an ambition; but the absurdity is, to aim at a universal taste. Now this will best appear by observing what numbers miscarry even in the most confined pursuit of this diffi- cult accomplishment. One seeks this coy mis- tress in books and study ; others pursue her through France, through Italy, nay, through Spain; and after all their labours, we have fre- quently seen them ridiculously embracing pe- dantry and foppery with the raptures due alone to taste. ‘Thus it happens with many deluded travellers in the field of gallantry, who enjoy fancied familiarities with women of the first rank, whose names and titles strumpets have assumed, to deceive the vain, the ignorant, and the unwary. It is thought the Bona Dea of the Romans 118 was nothing more than the goddess of taste. Ladies alone were admitted to her mysteries. The natural indelicacy, indeed, of the stronger sex seems to countenance this opinion; women in general having finer and more exquisite sen- sations than men; and itis a thorough acquaint- ance with the virtues and charms of that most amiable part of our species which constitutes the most essential quality of a man of taste. Who indeed ever knew a mere soldier, a mere politician, a mere scholar, to be a man of taste? Were we to erect a temple to taste, every sci- ence should furnish a pillar, every virtue should there have an altar, and the three Graces should hold the high-priesthood in commission. We daily see pretenders to this quality en- deavouring to display it in a parade of dress and equipage; but these, alas! can only produce a beau. We see others set up for it amongst cards and dice; but these can create nothing better than a gamester. Others in brothels, which only form a debauchee. Some have run for it at Newmarket; some have drank for it at the King’s-arms; the former, to their great surprise, have acquired only the title of good jockeys, the latter of jolly bucks. There are many who aim at it in literary compositions, and gain at most the character of intruding au- thors. However, this general pursuit of taste has its uses; those numbers who go in quest of it, where it is never to be found, serve at least as so many marks that teach us to avoid steering the same unsuccessful course. / The plain truth of the matter is, a house filled with fine pictures, the sideboard loaded with massy plate, the splendid equipage, with all the hey dukes, pages, and servants that at- tend it, do not entitle the possessor to be called a man of taste: they only bring with them either anxiety or contempt to those whose rank and fortunes are not equal to such ostentation. I will be bold to say, therefore, notwithstanding some of your readers will doubtless look upon me as an unpclished Vandal, that the best in- stance any man can give of his taste, is to show that he has too much delicacy to relish any thing so low and little as the purchase of superfluities at another’s cost, or with his own ruin. At least the placid satisfaction of that man’s heart who prudently measures his expenses, and con- fines his desires within the circle of his annual revenue, begets that well-ordered disposition of mind, without which it is impossible to merit the character of a man of just refined taste. Certain it is, that he best discovers the just- ness of his taste who best knows how to pursue and secure the most solid and lasting happiness. Now where shall we look for this, with so much probability of finding it, as in temperance and tranquillity of mind, in social and domestic en- joyments? Are not these the first and mest es- THE WORLD. [No. €7. sential objects of taste? Certainly they are; and when a man has onee acquired these, he may, if fortune and nature have properly qualified him, launch out into amore extensive compass, and display his genius in a larger cirele. » But it will be difficult, I fear, to persuade those young men of the present generation, who are ambitious for establishing a character for taste, to advance towards it by so slow and re- gular a progression. ‘They seem, in general, to be possessed with a kind of epic madness, and are for hurrying at once into the midst of things. But perhaps you, Mr. Fitz- Adam, may be able, by reason or by ridicule, to call back their at- tention to the previous steps ; to persuade them to learn to walk, before they attempt to run; to convince them, that profusion in architecture, in gardening, in equipage, in dress, &c. can serve no other purpose but to disturb their ima- ginations, and to give them a general distaste of themselves, and of every thing around them. It is by no means, however, surprising that this character of taste should be so universally sought after ; as true taste is doubtless the high- est point of perfection, at which human nature, in this her state of frailty, can possibly arrive. A man endowed with this quality possesses all his senses, in the manner best adapted to receive the impression of every true pleasure, which Providence has scattered with a liberal hand for | the delight of its creatures. There is nothing intrinsically beautiful which does not furnish him with perpetual delight; as every thing ill- fashioned and deformed affects him with disgust and abhorrence. ‘That is, in a word, the ave- nues of his mind are open only to those enjoy-— ments that bring with them the passports of truth and reason. Philalethes is a man of taste, according to the notion I have here given of that quality. His conduct is influenced by sentiment as well as by principle ; and if he were ever so secure of | secrecy and impunity, he would no more be ca- pable of committing a low ora base action, than — of admitting a vile performance into his noble — collection of painting and sculpture. taste of the fine arts, and his exquisite delicacy in moral conduct, are but one and the same sense, exerting itself upon different objects ; a love of beauty, order, and propriety, extended His just to all their various intellectual and visible ex- | hibitions. ent in every part of his character. You see the same elegant and noble simplicity, the same — Accordingly Philalethes. is consist | correct and judicious way of thinking, express: — ed in his dress, his equipage, his furniture, his gardens, ahd his actions. ; How different is Micio from Philalethes! Yet — But Micio would be thought a man of taste. the misfortune is, he has not a heart for it. say a heart, a however odd the expression may | sound; for as a celebrated ancient has defined : No. 68.] THE an orator to be wir bonus decendi peritus, so I must insist upon it, that a good heart is an es- When I see Micio, therefore, dissipating his health and sential ingredient to form a good taste. strength in lewd embraces and midnight revels ; when I sée him throwing away over night at the gaming table, what he must refuse the next morning to the just clamours of his injured tradesmen; I am not the least surprised at his trimmed trees, French treillage, his Dutch parterres, his Chinese bells, and his tawdry equipage. In fine, though every man cannot arrive at the perfection of this quality, yet it may be ne- cessary that he should be sufficiently instructed, not to be deceived in his judgment concerning the claim of it in others. To this end the few following queries may be applied with singular advantage. Is the pretender to taste proud? Is he a coxcomb? Is he a spendthrift? Is he a gamester ° Is he a slanderer? Is he a drunkard ? Ts he a bad neighbour? a sham patriot? ora false friend? By this short catechism every youth, even of the most slender capacity, may be capable of determining who is not a man of taste. I am, &c. hae I BUT VBR VTRVGEBATAVATVU TE TUTUVATAVVA*VTAVTAUVUVVAWS VEDA No. 68. ] Tuurspay, Aprit 18, 1754. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Tue kind reception which you gave to my letter of November last makes me take the liberty of sending you some farther anecdotes of my family. ‘ As my grandfather, Sir Josiah Pumpkin, had made a considerable figure in King Charles’s court, his only son, Ralph, my honoured father, was no less conspicuous for his valour, towards the latter end of King William’s reign... Al- though the race of kings was changed, the laws of honour still remained the same. But. my grandfather had retired with his family to Pumpkin-hall, about.a year and a half before the Revolution, much discontented. with the times, and often wishing that Judge Somebody (1 forget his name) had been a militia colonel, that he might have run him through the body, or cut off one of his cheeks with a broad-sword. In the same strain he frequently wished Father Petersa life-guard-man, that he might have caned him before the court-gate of Whitehall. “These fellows,’’ said he, “ put me in mind of murderers in popish countries, who, if they run into a church after cutting a throat, are secured WORLD. / his unnatural terraces, his 119 from all danger of punishment. Our English ruffians too, are frequently safe, if they can but show a lawyer’s gown, or a priest’s cowl.”’ My grandmother, Lady Pumpkin, was a pru- dent woman, and, not without some difficulty, persuaded Sir Josiah to content himself with drinking constant bumpers of prosperity to the church and state, without fighting duels or breaking heads in defence of the British consti- tution. Indeed he might well be content with the glory he had obtained, having been once shot through the leg, and carrying the marks of seven-and-twenty wounds in different paris of his body, all boldly acquired by single comhats, in defence of nominal liberty, and real loyalty, during King Charles the Second’s reign. My father was returned for a borough, in Wales, in the second parliament of King Wil- liam. This drew him every winter to London $ and he never took his leave of Sir Josiah with- out receiving a strict command to do some brave act, becoming a man of honour and a Pumpkin. As he was remarkably an obedient son, and in- deed as we were all, not only as Pumpkins, but as old Britons, very choleric and fiery, my father scarce ever returned home without some glorious achievement, the heroism of which generally reached Pumpkin-hall before the hero. Of his several exploits, give me leave only to mention three ; not so much in regard to his honour, as that they carry in them some particular and remarkable circumstances. There was an intimacy between my father and Major John Davis of the foot-guards. Their first acquaintance and friendship had begun when the major was quartered at a mar- ket-town near Pumpkin-hall. Their regards had continued towards each other with the greatest strictness for several years; when one day at dinner with a large company at a tavern, my father jocularly in discourse said, “ Ah! Majer! Major! you still love to ride the fore- horse ;’’ alluding to his desire of being foremost in all parties of pleasure. Major Davis imme- diately changed colour, and took the earliest opportunity of calling Mr Pumpkin aside, and demanding satisfaction. My father asked for what? The major made no reply but by draw- ing his sword. _ They fought, and the major was soon disarmed. ‘ Now, Jack,’ says my fa- ther, “ pray tell me what we fought for.”’ “* Ah, Ralph,”’ replied the major, “‘why did you re- proach me with having been a postilion? It is true I was one; but by what means did you know it, and when you did know it, why would you hint it to the company, by saying that I still loved to ride the fore-horse?”? My father pro- tested his ignorance of the fact, and consequently his innocence of intending any affront. The two friends were immediately reunited as strongly as before; and the major ever afterwards was 120 particularly cautious how he discovered. his ori- ginal, or blindly followed the folly of his own suspicions. ? One of my father’s tavern companions, Cap- tain Shaddow, who was very young, very giddy, and almost as weak in body as in mind, chal- lenged him on a supposed affront, in not receiv- ing the return of a bow which he had made to my father in the play-house. They were to fight in Hyde Park; but cas the captain was drawing his sword with the fiercest indignation, it luckily occurred to his thoughts that the pro- vocation might possibly have been undesigned, or if otherwise, that the revenge he had medi- tated was of too cruel and bloody a nature; he therefore begged pardon of his adversary, and made up the affair. I wish this had been the last of my father’s combats; but he was unhappily engaged in a duel with a French officer, who had taken the wall of him; and in that duel he received a wound, which, after throwing him several months inte a languishing, miserable condition, at last proved fatal by ending in a mortification. Ee bore his long illness with amazing fortitude; but often expressed an abhorrence of these polite and honourable murders; and wished that he might have lived some years longer, only to have shown that he durst not fight. I leave you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, to make your moral reflections on these several stories; but I cannot conclude my letter without giving you an account of the only duel in which my poor dear husband, Mr. Solomon Muzzy, was engaged ; if a man may be said to be engaged who was scarce ever awake. Mr. Muzzy was very fat, and extremely le- thargic. To be sure, he had courage sufficient for a major-general; but he was not only un- wieldy, but so lethargically stupid, that he fell asleep even in musical assemblies, and snored in the play-house, as bad, poor man! as he used to snore in his bed. However, having received many taunts and reproaches from my grand-_ father (who was become by age very tart and peevish), he resolved to challenge his own cousin- german by the mother’s side, Brigadier Trun- cheon, of Soho-square. It seems the person challenged fixes upon the place and weapons. Truncheon, a deep-sighted man, chose Primrose- hill for the field of battle, and swords for the weapons of defence. To avoid suspicion, and to prevent discovery, they were to walk together from Piccadilly, where we then lived, to the summit of Primrose-hill. Truncheon’s scheme took effect. Mr. Muzzy-was much fatigued and out of breath with the walk. However, he drew his sword ; and, as he assured me him- self, began to-attack his cousin Truncheon with a valour which must have charmed my grand- father, had he been present. The brigadier went back; Mr. Muzzy pursued ; but not having his THE WORLD. [ No. 69. adversary’s alacrity; he stepped a little to take breath. He stopped, alas! too long: his lethargy came on with more than ordinary violence: he first dozed, as he stood upon his legs, and then beginning to nod forwards, dropped by degrees upon his face in a most profound sleep. _ Trun- cheon, base man! took this opportunity to wound my husband as he lay snoring on the ground ; and he had the cunning to direct his stab in such a manner as to make it supposed that Mr. Muzzy had fied, and in his flight had received a wound in the most ignominious part of his body. You will ask what became of the seconds? ‘They were both killed upon the spot ; but being only two servants, the one a butler, the other a cook, they were buried the same night; and by the power of a little money properly applied, no farther inquiry was ever made about them. Mr. Muzzy, wounded as he was (the blood trickling from him in great abundance), might probably have slept upon that spot for many hours, had he not been awakened by the cruel bites of a mastiff. The dog began first to lick his blood, and then tearing his clothes, fell upon the wounded part as if if had been carrion. My poor husband was thoreughly awakened by the new hurt he had received; and indeed it was impossible to have slept, while he was losing whole collops of the fattest and most pulpy part of his flesh ! so that he was brought home to me much more wounded, Mr. Fitz-Adam, by the teeth of the mastiff, than by the sword of his cousin Truncheon. This, Sir, is the real fact, as it happened ; al- though I well know that the Truncheon family take the liberty of telling a very different story, much to the dishonour of my husband’s memory. Permit me, Mr. Fitz- Adam, by your means, to do public justice to Mr. Muzay’s character, and at the same time to assure you that 1 am, Sir, Your most obliged and obedient humble servant, Maxy Muzzy. VBAUSVA HRVWVUWA TS ALBA BTA DRBRBAAASABUSVUTDEVABS wuBeae No. 69.] Tuurspay, Aparit 25, 1754. | ; For the entertainment of those of my readers, who love variety, and to oblige those of my cor- respondents whose epistles to me are too short to | be published singly, I have set apart, this pape? for miscellaneous productions. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. ; ; Sir, a If you are a strong-bodied man, be so kind as, to open your arms to your fair readers, and lifi & No. 69.] I am really in pain when I see a pretty woman tottering along, uncertain at every step she takes whether she shall stand or fall. If the ladies intend by this fashion to display the leg to greater advantage, to be sure we are obliged to them; but I cannot help being of opinion, that the shortness of the modern petticoat might fully answer this desirable purpose. Pray, Mr. Fitz-Adam, favour us with your thoughts upon this matter; and if you can re- duce this enormity, and take the ladies down (I will not say in their wedding only, but) in all their shoes, you will oblige every husband and father, whose wives and daughters may be, liable, from walking in stilts, to make false steps. Iam, &c, f yi 5 Fi Sir, As almost every session convinces us that it is not beneath the wisdom of parliament to spend much time and consideration in the enacting and amending laws for the preservation of the game, and to determine who should and who should not be his own butcher or poulterer in the fields ; it is much to be wondered at, that the same vigilant care has not extended to the em- ployment of leisure and opulence in town 3 and to determine what estate or place should qualify aman to play at cards or dice: how much he must be possessed of to sit down toa game of | all-fours: how’ much more to cut in at whist, or to make one at a party of brag: or how much more still to punt at faro, or to sit down at a hazard-table; always reserving to privy coun- sellors, and members of either house, an ex- ciusive’ privilege of ruining themselves at any game they shall think proper to play at. I dare say, Mr. Fitz-Adam, a bare hint of this will be sufficient to get it carried intoa law; especially if it be added, that till such a law is*made, my lord and the chairman are upon a level in their amusements ; except that his lordship is losing his estate with great tem- per and good-breeding at White’s, and the chair- man beggaring his family with oaths and curses in a night-cellar. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, W. X. Sir, Your paper upon servants put me in mind of * passage in the life of the Marquis (afterwards Duke) of Ormond, which I believe will not be anentertaining to your readers. ° » The marquis having been invited by a French lobleman to pass some days at his house in St. Zermain en Laye, in compliance with an in- ‘onvenient English custom, at his coming THE WORLD. them down safely from their high-heeled shoes. | 121 away, left with the maitre d’hétel ten pistoles, to be distributed amongst the servants. It was all the money he had, nor did he know how to get credit for more when he reached Paris. As he was on the road ruminating on this melancholy circumstance, and contriving how to raise a small supply for present use, he was surprised at being told by his servant, that the nobleman at whose house he had been entertain- ed was behind, driving furiously, as if he was desirous of overtaking him. The marquis, it seems, had scarce left St. Germain, when the distribution of the money he had given caused a great disturbance amongst the servants ; who, exalting their own service and attendance, complained of the maitre W’hélel’s partiality. The nobleman, hearing an unusual noise in his family, and, upon inquiry into the matter, finding what it was, took the ten pis- toles, and, causing horses to be put to his chariot, made all the haste that was possible after the Marquis of Ormond. The ‘marquis, upon notice of his approach, got off his horse as the other quitted his chariot, and advanced to embrace him with great affection and respect ; but was strangely surprised to find a coldness in the nobleman which forbad all embraces till he had received satisfaction in a point which had given him great offence. He asked the marquis if he had reason to complain of any disrespect or defect which he met with in the too mean, but very friendly entertainment which his house afforded; and being answered by the marquis, that his treament had been full of civility ; that he had never passed so many days more agreeably in his life, and could not but wonder that the other should suspect the con- trary: the nobleman then told him, “That the leaving ten pistoles to be distributed amongst the servants was treating his house as an inn, and was the greatest affront that could be offer- ed to a man of quality: that he paid his own servants well, and hired them to wait on his friends as well as himself: that he considered him as a stranger. who might be unacquainted with the customs of France, and err through some practice deemed less dishonourable in his own country ; otherwise his resentment should have prevented any expostulation: but as the case stood, after having explained the nature of the affair, he must either redress the mistake by receiving back the ten pistoles, or give him the usual satisfaction of men of honour for an avowed affront.”’ ‘The marquis acknowledged his error, took back his money, and returned to Paris with less anxiety about his subsistence. Your readers, Mr. Fitz-Adam, may learn from this story, that all our fashions are not borrowed from France. Yours, &c, As Z, R 122 HONOURED SIR, This is to acquaint you that I am a gentle- man’s servant, and that I have read the letter upon servants, signed O. S. in the World of the 2Qist of February last: and though I admit the charge brought against us in that letter to be true, namely, that those who have nothing to give may go whistle for a clean plate or a glass of wine; yet 1 do not agree that a poor poet (for [ am sure he must be a poet that wrote that letter; if he had been a gentleman, he would have done as gentlemen do); I say, that I do not agree that a poor poet has any right to abuse those that are his betters. A good servant, and one who knows his business, will endeavour all he can to keep low people from intruding at his master’s table: and yet so far are many of us from holding poets in contempt, that they are always welcome to dinner in the hall with the best of us, and have free leave to read their verses or sing their songs for the entertainment of the company. If this same Mr. O. S. had been a philosopher or aman of deep learning, he might have had some sort of reason to find fault; for it is net to be denied that we are a little apt to overlook such sort of gentry; but not so much because they have nothing to give, as from an absence of mind which we constantly observe in these phi- losophers and men of deep learning, who, if they ask for bread, beer, or wine, are as well contented with oil, vinegar, or mustard, or any thing else that happens to be readiest at hand. I beg pardon for troubling you with this let- ter, which is only to set these matters in a clear light, and to request that you will publish no more papers about servants, but let things go on in their old way; and in so doing you will oblige us.all in general, and in particular, Honoured Sir, Your dutiful servant to command, li, Ke. As I am desirous of being a peace-maker up- on all eccasions, I shall comply with the request of this correspondent, and conclude my paper with a hint to all gentlemen in livery, that as poets, philosophers, and men of learning, will be sometimes intruders at their masters’ tables, let them consider them as brethren, and treat them with humanity. VBVLVVUBVAWA DWUVVVS GRSLVTSVCTTEST SCTE FSVVEVSVSVA VETTVE BVT No. 70.] Tuurspay, May 2, 1754. Woxus leretiov.k———Physic for the soul. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Your correspondent in your sixty-third paper THE WORLD. & [ No. .7¢ has, I must confess, shown no less ingenu than the Duke de Vivonne did wit in his ce brated answer to Louis the Fourteenth, up that king’s asking him at table, Mais a quoi s de lire? La lecture, said the duke, fait a l’esp ce que vos perdrix font a mes joiies. - But wh. ever new doctrines these gentlemen are pleas to broach, that books are the feod of the mir I must beg leave to say, that they have fr time immemorial been called physic, not foo and for this | appeal to the famous inscripti on the Alexandrian library, which I ha placed at the head of my letter, Physic jor | soul. ' For my own part, I can truly say, that I he considered all books as physic from my earli youth ; and so indeed have most of my scho fellows and acquaintance, and nauseated the accordingly : nor can any of us at this time dure the sight or touch of them, not even present from the author, unless it be as tl roughly gilt as the most loathsome pill, or qué fied and made palatable by the syrup of a de cation. , Those who have endeavoured to conquer t! disgust have given the most forcible proofs the truth of my argument: many of them, venturing to prescribe to themselves, have injudiciously taken their potions, that th minds have been thrown into various ill. hak and disorders. Some have fallen into so lax state, that they could neither digest nor keepa thing whatsoever. Nay, I have been acquai: ed with such as have taken the most innoc and salutary of these medicines, but by ov dosing themselves, and making no allowance their own corrupt and acrimonious humou have fallen into the most violent agitations, ¢ charging such a quantity of undigested and rulent matter, that they have poisoned | neighbourhood round... Some, only upon tak! the quantity of a few pages, have stared, rav foamed at the mouth, and discovered all : symptoms of madness; while the very sa dose has had the contrary effect upon othe operating only as an opiate. The true and genuine food of the mind news. That this is incontestable appears fr the number of souls in this metropolis who si sist entirely upon this diet, without the le addition of any other nourishment whatsoev In all ages and countries the poets have c stantly described the avidity with which i taken, by the figurative expressions of eat or drinking. Shakspeare uses a@ more gene term : With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news. Another witty author calls news the manna the day ; alluding to that food with which Israelites were supplied in the wilderness fr day to day, and which in a very little time 4 . -No. 70.] came stale and corrupt: as indeed Providence has in its wisdom ordained that all kinds of sus- tenance shall be in their nature corruptible, to remind man continually of the dependency of his state on earth. Whereas physic (particularly of the modern chemical preparation) preserves its efficacy and virtues uncorrupted and unim- paired by time; a property it has in common with books, which never suffer by age, provided they are originally well composed, and of good ‘ingredients. ‘The principal of these ingredients is generally thought to be wit ; and I fancy, Mr. Fitz-Adam, by the quantity of it with which you now and then season your speculations, that you have adopted that opinion. But let me tell you, Sir, that though my supposition should be true, you are in the wrong to rely upon it too much: for though this seasoning should happen to preserve them for the admiration of future times, it is certainly your business to accommo- date yourself to the taste of the present. If therefore you would make sure of customers, give us news; for which there is as constant a demand as for daily bread: and as for your wit, which is a luxury, treat it as the Dutch do their spices; burn half of it, and you may possibly render the remaining half.of some value. But if you produce all you have for the market, you will soon find it become a mere drug, and bear no price. A. B. é I have published this letter just as I received it: and as a proof that my correspondent is not singular in his opinion of wit, I must observe that the sagacious author of the late excellent abridgment of the history of France expresses a doubt that the present age may depreciate wit, as the last exploded learning, “ Prenons garde que le 15™me siécle ne decrie l’esprit, comme le 17™¢ avoit decrje l erudition.’ ‘The sixteenth century produced the greatest | number of men of the most profound erudition : | and notwithstanding those of the seventeenth | despised them for their laborious application, it is evident that it was owing to those labours that | their successors attained knowledge with so much | ease. | Towards the end of the last century, some | possessed, and many affected, a pure taste in li- | | Lam, Your friend and well-wisher, | | terature ; and setting up for a standard the writ- ings of the ancients, very liberally rewarded those who imitated them the nearest in chastity of composition. But no sooner had Monsieur Galland translated the Arabian Tales, than the | whole French nation ran mad, and would never after read any thing but wretched imitations of THE WORLD. 123 their most wild extravagances; for it ought to be observed; that some of those original stories contain useful morals and well-drawn pictures from common life: and it may be to those stories, perhaps, that we owe that species of writing which is at once so entertaining and in- structive ; and in which a very eminent wit, to the honour of this nation, has shown himself so incomparably superior in drawing natura] cha- racters. But these were not the parts which had the fortune to please; the enchantments, the monsters and transformations engaged all their attention: insomuch that the famous Count Hamilton, with a pleasant indignation at this folly, wrote a tale of wonders, with design to ridicule these idle books. by an aggravated imita- tion: but with an effect so directly contrary to his intention, that to this day France is con- tinually producing little pieces of that extrava- gant turn; while England, that land of liberty, equally indifferent to works of wif, and encour- aging the licentiousness of the old comedy, can relish nothing but personal character, or wanton romance. Henee arises that swarm of memoirs, all filled with abuse or impurity, which, what- ever distinctions my present correspondent may make with relation to food and physic, are the poison of the mind. The best antidote to this poison, and the most salutary in every respect, is that species of writ-, ing which may properly be termed regimen; which, partaking of the qualities both of physic and food, at once cleanses and sustains the pa- tient. Such have I studied te make these my papers; which are therefore neither given daily for sustenance, nor occasionally as medicine, but regularly and weekly as an alterative. I have been extremely careful in the composition, that there shall not be wanting a proper quantity of sweet, acid, and salt; yet so justly proportioned, as not to cloy, sour, or lacerate the weakest stomach. The success | have met with will Le better proved by the attestations of my pa- tients than by any boasts of my own, Out of many hundreds of these attestations, I shall con- tent myself at present with only publishing the following. Extract of a letter from Bath. Sir, I can assure you with the greatest truth, that my three eldest daughters were for more than a whole winter most strangely affected with a nakedness in the shoulders, insomuch that the thinnest and slightest. covering whatsoever was almost insupportable, especially in public. The best advice in the place was procured, but the disease increased with so much. violence, that many expressed their opinion that every part of the body was in danger of the infection, At. 124 THE last, when nothing else would do, they were ' prevailed upon to enter into a regular course of your papers, and in a very few weeks, to the surprise of every body in the rooms, were per. fectly cured. | I therefore beg of you, goed Sir, to let the bearer have thirty dozen of the papers, for which he will pay you. I am, Sir, &c. The original letter, sealed witha coronet, may ve seen at Mr. Dodsley’s in Pall-Mall. OS WS VV VV SRTVTUTASA SVSRL SVR FR TEVA VTBVT BE VULVA BAL VA No. 71.] Tuurspay, May 9, 1754. Ne scutica dignum horribili sectére flagello. Hor, ——wNor let the wretch be flayed Who scarce deserved the lash. FRANCIS. I FLATTER myself it must have been frequently remarked, that I have hitherto executed the of- fice I have undertaken without any of that harshness which may deserve the name of satire, but, on the contrary, with that gentle and good- humoured ridicule, which rather indicates the wishes of paternal tenderness than the dictates of magisterial authority. My edicts carry no- thing with them penal. After I have spent five pages out of six to show that the ladies disfigure their persons, and the gentlemen their parks and gardens, by too much art, I make no other conclusion, than by coolly informing them, that each would be more beautiful, if nature was less disguised. A certain great traveller, happening to take Florence in one of his tours, was much caressed and admired by the Great Duke. The variety of countries he had seen, and his vivacity in describing the customs, manners, and characters of their inhabitants, rendered him highly enter- taining. But it happened a little unfortunately that he had taken a fancy to adopt one of the fashions of the East, that of wearing whiskers, which he did in the fullest and largest extent of the mode. The Great Duke could by no means relish this fashion ; and as constantly as he fi- nished his second bottle, his disgust would break out, though never with greater harshness than in the following words: “ Signor Giramondo, Iam not Duke of Tuscany while you weer those whiskers.’’ In like manner I say I am not Adam Fitz-Adam while the ladies wear such enormous hoops, such short petticoats, and such vast patches near the left eye; or while gentlemen ruin their fortunes and constitutions by play, or deform the face of nature by the fopperies of art. WORLD. [No 7f. The moderation of the Duke of Tuseany, who, with the help of a pair of scissors, might so easily have removed the object which at once offended and degraded him, is greatly to be pre- ferred to the tyranny of Procrustes, whose de: licate eye for proportion was apt to take such offence at an overgrown person, that he would order him to be shortened to the just standard by cutting off his feet. But a tyrannical sys- tem cannot be lasting: and violent measures must destroy that harmony which I am desirous should long subsist between me and those whom I have undertaken to govern, even were it pro- bable that I could carry such measures into ex- ecution. But nothing, exposes weakness so much as threats which we are not able to en- force. It is told us in the Acts, “ that forty of the Jews bound themselves under a curse, that they would neither eat nor drink till’they had killed Paul.’? We hear no more of those Jews, though the apostle survived their menaces.. I flatter myself that I have no less zeal for the abolishing folly and false taste ; yet 1 am so far from uttering any such threats, that I very frankly confess I intend to eat and drink as heartily as if there was no such thing as folly remaining in the world. My enemies indeed have been pleased to throw out that it is owing to my desire of continuing to gratify. those ap- petites, that 1 have not long ago entirely sup- pressed all folly whatsoever. They make no scruple of asserting, that there would not have been so much as a patch, pompon, or Chinese rail, remaining amongst us, if I had not thought proper to borrow a piece of policy from the rat- catchers, who suffer a small part of the vermin to escape, that their trade may not be at an end. But I must take the liberty of acquainting these gentlemen, that they know as little of me as of human nature, the chase after folly being like hunting a witch; if you run her down in one shape, she starts up in another, so that there is _ no manner of danger that the game will be de- stroyed. And I most solemnly declare, that wherever I have seen a beautiful face, or a fine garden, very grossly deformed by injudicious attempts at amendment, I have laboured with the greatest earnestness to effect a reformation. But where the conduct of my pupils, though sometimes faulty in itself, has been harmless in its consequences, I have constantly forborn, and will as constantly forbear, an officious reprehen- sion of it, however disagreeable such forbear- ance may appear in the eyes of these gentle- men. | It is upon this plan that I have suppressed innumerable complaints from splenetic and ill- humoured correspondents: as a specimen of which complaints I shall lay before my readers the beginnings of some of their letters. No. 72. ] Sir lam ereathy offended at the inconsistent be- haviour of a lady of my acquaintance. You see her in a morning at St. James’s church, and in the evening at the play-house in Drury-lane. One would think that either religion should drive plays out of her head, or plays religion. Pray, Mr. Fitz-Adam, tell her how absurd—— Sir, I trouble you .with this letter to make my complaints of a very great evil; and to desire your, animadyersions upon it. terday from a month’s visit to a family in the country, where, in every particular but one, we passed cur time as became reasonable beings. When the weather was good, we walked abroad ; when bad, we amused ourselves within doors, either with entertaining conversation, or in- structive books. _ But it was the custom of the family (though in all other respects very worthy people) constantly to play at cards for a whole hour before supper. Surely, Mr. Fitz-Adam, ‘this method of killing time—— { SIR, _ Iam shocked at the indecency of the modern head-dress. . Do the ladies intend to lay aside all modesty, and go naked ?—— This is the manner in which undistinguishing zeal treats things that are in themselves indiffer- ent: for is it not matter of absolute indifference whether a lady wears on her head a becoming ornament of clean lace, or her own hair? Or if there be any preference, would it not be shown both from nature and experience to be on the hey of the hair? Num tu, que tenuit dives Achemenes, Aut pinguis Phrygia Mygdonias opes Permutare velis crini Liciniz ? Horace, we see, prefers a beautiful head of: hair to the riches of a king. But I cannot help siving it as my opinion, that Licinia’s hair Jowed in natural ringlets, without being tor- ured by irons, or confined by innumerable pins. Yet though I haye seen with patience the cap liminishing to the size of a patch, I have not with the same unconcern observed the patch ‘nlarging itself to the size of acap. It is with ‘reat sorrow that I already see it in possession ‘f that beautiful mass of blood which borders ipon the eye. Should it increase on the side of hat exquisite feature, what an eclipse have we vill not give up that place to a plaster, which he brightest jewel in the universe would want ustre to supply. I find that I am almost insensibly got upon he only subject which is likely to move my in- ignation, and carry me beyend the bounds of THE WORLD. I returned yes-— odread! But surely it is to be hoped the ladies | 125 i that moderation which I have boasted of above. I shall therefore conclude this paper wiih offer- ing terms of composition to those of my fair readers who are willing to treat with me. The | first is, that all those young ladies, who find it difficult to wean themselves from patches all at once, shall be allowed to wear them, in what, number, size, and figure they please, on such ‘parts of the body as are, or should be, most co- vered from sight.. The second (and I shall offer no more) is, that any lady, who happens to pre- fer the simplicity of such ornaments to the glare of her jewels, shall, upon disposing of the said jewels for the benefit of the Foundling or any other hospital, be permitted to wear (by way of publishing her good deeds to the world) as many patches on her face as she has contributed hun- dreds of pounds to so laudable a benefaction. By pursuing this method, the public will be be- nefited, and patches, though no ornament, wil! be an honour, to the sex. a a Rn an tn tp in tn tim te i tp tp I th en “st, hs ne he te WT SVWA BV VL 242294 No. 72.] Tuurspay, May 16, 1754. Ne cures ea que stulte miraris et optas, Discere, et audire et meliori credere non vis. Hor, That which with splendour false allures your eyes, Did you but know it better, you’d despise. Ir is an observation of the Duke de Rochefau- cault, ‘‘ that there are many people in the world who would never have been in love if they had never heard talk of it.’’ As strange as this as- sertion may appear, there is nothing more cer- tain, than that mankind pursue with much greater ardour what they are talked into an ad- miratien of, than what they are prompted to by natural passions; nay, so great is the infatua- tien, that we frequently see them relinquishing real gratifications, for the sake of following ideal notions, or the accidental mode of thinking of the present times. The story of the Princess Parizade, in the Arabian Tales, is a proper illustration of what I have here advanced. I shall give my readers a short abstract of this story, as it may furnish matter for reflection, and a very useful moral, to such of them as regulate their whole conduct, and even their desires, by fashion. This princess, the happiest as well as most beautiful of her sex, lived with her two beloved brothers in a splendid palace, situated in the midst of a delightful park, and the most exqui- site gardens in the East. It happened one day, while the princes were hunting, that an old woman came to the gate, and desired admittance to the oratory, that she might say her prayers. The princess no sooner knew of her request than she granted it, giving orders to her attend- 126 ants, that after the good woman’s prayers were ended, they should show her all the apartments of the palace, and then bring her into the hall where she herself was sitting. Every thing was performed as directed; and the princess, having regaled her guest with some fruits and sweet- meats, among many other questions, asked her what she thought of the palace. “‘ Madam,”’ answered the old woman, “ your palace is beautiful, regular, and magnificently furnished; its situation is delightful, and its gardens are beyond compare. But yet, if you will give me leave to speak freely, there are three things wanting to make it perfect.” ——“ My good mother,” interrupted the Princess Pari- zade, ‘‘ what are those three things? I conjure you in God’s name to tell me what they: are; and if there be a possibility of obtaining them, neither difficulties nor dangers shall stop me in the attempt.’? ‘‘ Madam,”’ replied the old wo- man, ‘the first of these three things is the Talk- ing Bird, the second is the Singing Tree, and the third is the Yellow or Golden Water.” “ Ah, my good mother,” cried the princess, ‘how much am I obliged to you for the knowledge of these things! They are no doubt the greatest curiosities in the world, and unless you can tell me where they are to be found, I am the most unhappy of women.”’ The old woman satisfied the princess in that material point, and then took her leave. The story goes on to inform us, that when the two princes returned from hunting, they found the Princess Parizade so wrapt up in thought, that they imagined some great misfor- tune had befallen her, which when they had conjured her to acquaint them with, she only lifted up her eyes to look upon them, and then fixed them again upon the ground, telling them that nothing disturbed her. The entreaties of the two princes, however, at last prevailed, and the princess addressed them in the following manner. “* You have often told me, my dear brothers, and I have always believed, that this house, which our father built, was complete in every thing: but I have learnt this day that it wants three things: these are, the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Yellow Water. An old woman has made this discovery to me, and told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may look upon these rarities as trifles; but think what you please, I am fully persuaded that they are abso- lutely necessary; and whether you value them or not, I cannot be easy without them.” The sequel tells us, that. after the Princess Parizade had expressed herself with this proper spirit upon the occasion, the brothers, in pity to her wants, went in pursuit of these necessaries, and that failing.in the enterprise, they were one after another turned into stone. THE WORLD. [ No. 72. The application of this tale is so universal, that the enumerating ‘particulars is almost an unnecessary labour. The whole fashionable world are so many Parizades; and things not only useless in their/natures, but also ugly in themselves, from having been once termed charm- ing by some fashionable leaders of modern taste, are now become so necessary that nobody can do without them. But though this story happens to be told of a lady, the folly it particularizes is chiefly to be found in the other sex: I mean, in respect tc the pernicious consequences attending vain and chimerical pursuits. If we enter into the strictest examination of these idle longings in the women, we shall find that they seldom amount to any thing more than a dissipation of their pin-money, without any other ill consequence than that of turning their thoughts from some real good, which they ac- tually possess, to an imaginary expectation. The passion for shells, old china, and the like, is'con- fessediy trifling ; but it is only blameable in pro- portion to the anxiety with which it is pursued : but what is this in comparison of the desolation of ambition, the waste of magnificence, and the ruin of play ? Madame Montespan’s coach and six mice was not a more idle, though it was a less mischievous folly than the armies of her lover, Louis the Fourteenth. The ambition of that monarch to emulate the conquerors of antiquity; of Cesar to rival Alexander; of Alexander to resemble the hero of his darling poem the Iliad; the de- signs of Pyrrhus, and the project of Xerxes ; what were they but counterparts toa passion for the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Yellow Water ? To descend a little into private life, how many do we see daily talked into a rage for building, gardening, painting, and divers other expenses, to the embarrassing a fortune which would more than sufficiently supply the necessaries of life? Among the numbers who have changed a sober | plan of living for one of riot and excess, the greatest part have been converted by the argu-. ments in a drinking song. ‘Thousands have taken the same fruitless and expensive journey, because they have heard that it is very John Trott not to have visited France, and that a per-_ son who has not been abroad has seeh nothing. I was once told by a gentleman, who had un-| done himself by keeping running horses, that. he owed his ruin to a strong impression made | upon him, when a boy, by his father’s butler, who happened to declare in his hearing, “that it was a creditable thing to keep good cattle; and that if he was a gentleman, he should take great pleasure in being always well mounted.”” | But to apply our fable to the most recent’ instance of this species of infatuation: How often have we seen an honest country gentle- No. 7 3.] man, who has lived a truly happy life, blessed in his family, amused with his farms and gar- dens, entertained by his own beneficence, usefully employed in the administration of justice, or in reconciling the differences of his litigious neigh- bours; but who being talked into an opinion of the great service aman might do his country, as well as honour to himself, by getting into parliament, has given up all his real enjoyments and useful occupations for this imaginary phan- tom, which has only taught him by experience, what he might have learnt from example, that the family interest, as it is called, is too often the destruction of the family estate. As to all those gentlemen who have gained their elections, I most sincerely wish them joy : and for those who have been disappointed, and who now may have leisure to turn their thoughts from their country to themselves, I beg leave to recommend to them the pleasures, and I may add, the duties, of domestic life; in comparison of which all other advantages are nothing more than the Talking Bird, the Sing- ing Tree, and the Yellow Water. LV UCVVWSV COWS VS WE VAUSS TEUCBVUSE TT CUEVTSTSVTE BS VEVTVIES VHS No. 73.] Tuurspay, May 23, 1754, - ——llle potens sui Letusque deget, cui licct in diem Diwxiss?, Vizi: cras vel atra Nube polum Pater occupato : Vel sole puro : non tamen irritum Quodcunque retro est, efficiet.—— Hor. Happy the man, and he alone, ‘Who, master of himself, can say, To-day at least hath been my own, For I have clearly lived to-day : Then let to-morrow’s clouds arise, Or purer suns o’erspread the cheerful skies. Not Jove himself can now make void The joy that wing’d the flying hour ; The certain blessing, once enjoyed, Is safe beyond the Godhead’s power. FRANCIS, Ir was the saying of Epaminondas, upon being asked which of all his friends he esteemed most, that “they must all die before such a question could be answered.”’ But if Epaminondas had lived in this country, and in these times, he would have known that the greatest heroes at their deaths, are frequently those who have been the greatest villains in their lives. And yet most men are apt to think like Epaminondas, and to pass their judgments upon a man’s life from what he has said and acted in the last scene of it; that season being thought the season of sincerity, because dissimulation is to no pur- pose, and because the conscience finds ease in disclosing crimes which can no longer profit us, | THE WORLD. 127 and which threaten us with destruction in the state to which we are hastening, unless truly confessed and repented of in this. But of those who die in their beds, as well as malefactors, I have known and heard of many debauched and dissolute men who have met death with the utmost patience and resignation; while the pious and moral christian, whose life has been spent in the constant exercise of religion and wrtue, has beheld its approaches with confusion ; and from a consciousness of not having done exactly as he ought to have done upon every occasion, has died fearful and desponding. From hence it will appear that those who judge of men’s lives by their behaviour at their deaths will be sometimes mistaken. The con- tempt of death may be owing in many to insen- sibility ; in some to a brutal courage; in others to the dislike of life; in a few to philosophy ; aa well as in many to a well-grounded hope of'a happy hereafter. The jest of Sir Thomas More, upon the scaffold, who, after laying his head upon the block, bade the executioner stay till he had put aside his beard, because that had com- mitted no treason, was no more a proof of the goodness of his life (if there had been no other voucher) than that of the murderer at the gal- lows, who entreated the hangman not to touch his neck with his fingers, because’ he was tick- lish. The thief, for the reputation of dying hard, as it is called, and the philosopher, to support the doctrine he has taught, that death is no evil, will rush into eternity with an affected bravery, and offend Heaven rather than confess their apprehensions of dissolution. Men are sometimes hypocrites in their Jast moments through pride, as they have been all their lives through interest ; nor will it appear strange that they are so: for as every man is desirous (if it can be done without much trou- ble) of leaving a good name behind him, he is unwilling to confess at his death that he has been a rogue all his life. Upon principles like these have the worst of criminals gone to the | gallows with as much triumph and exultation as the martyrs of old did to the stake for the cause of heaven and religion. For my own part (and I hope it will not be imputed to me as presumption) I should think of death with much greater terror than I do, if I considered it as the final end of being. ‘The thought of annihilation to one whose life had not been marked with any of the capital vices, and whose frailties, he humbly hopes, are no more than those which are incident to humanity ; who has been unprofitable to his maker because he was human, and to mankind because un- friended by fortune; and whose connections in this life have been such as to make him desirous of their eternal duration; I say, to one who thus thinks, and who hopes he has thus lived, the thought of annihilation would make death most terrible. And yet in the circle of my own ac- a 128 juaintance, 1 have found a man of a decent life and conversation, who wished well to every pody, and who loved and enjoyed his friends, but who, through a tedious and painful illness, had conceived sleep to be so great a blessing as to make him wish: for an eternity of it; and hiaving taken pains to believe that death was such a sleep, he talked of it with pleasure, and within a very few hours of his exit, as a confirmation that he died in the opinion he hed professed, he wrote the following epitaph upon himself, and directed it to a friend with his own hand, Beneath this stone, to worms a prey, (Himself as poor and vile as they) Eugenio lies in hopes of rest, Who deem/’d all farther hope a jest: Who ne’er on Fancy’s wings could rise ‘To heaven-built domes above the skies : Content from whence he sprung to lie, Wor wish’d to live, nor fear’d to die. I shall only observe upon the writer of this epitaph, that as I believe him to have been hon- est and sincere, it is but charity to hope that he is now rejoicing in his mistake. There is nothing more true in the general than that those people are the most averse to death, who have had the least enjoyment of life; as, on the contrary, those who have enjoyed life most have been the least anxious about dying. To many of my readers such an assertion as this may appear strange and unaccountable: but a very little inquiry will, I believe, convince them of the fact. Men who, through necessitous circumstances, gloomy dispositions, or sickly habits of body, have lived in perpetual discontent, are apt to flatter themselves that life is in arrears to them : that as their days have hitherto passed without enjoyment, every thing is to be made up to them before they come to die. They look upon riches, pleasure, and health, to be blessings that never tire, and consider the possessors of them as liv- ing in a state of uninterrupted happiness, which they long to taste, and cannot bear the thoughts of dying before they have enjoyed. ‘Thus are the miserable in love with life, and afraid of | death. Hope still flatters them with happy days ; and death, that would inevitably cut off that hope, is beheld by them as the cruelest of all enemies. Let us cast an eye now to those in happier situations; to those who are contented with their lot, and who (if there are any such) have lived all their days in health, cheerfulness, and affluence. What can to-morrow bring to such as these that they have not known before, unless it be misfortune? It is from this consideration that such persons are more resigned to dying. We part more easily with what we possess than with our expectations of what we wish for: the THE WORLD. [ No. 74. reason of it is, that what we expect is always greater than what we enjoy. -And hence it is that the enjoyment of life makes us less de- sirous of its continuance, than if it had hitherto given us nothing, and fed us only with expec- tation. I have waved in this place all consideration of a future existence, and have considered the hap- py and unhappy only in regard to this life. If we take religion and a future state into the question, the happy here will have a thousand times stronger reasons for being resigned to death than the unhappy. Pain, sickness, and misfortune, as they do not wean us from a love of life, so neither do they beget in us a proper frame and temper to prepare for death. It is the enjoyment of life that cails forth our grati- tude to Him who gave it; that opens the heart to acts of kindness and benevolence; and, by giving us a taste here of the happiness of heaven, excites in us a desire of securing it through eternity; and by thas securing it, makes us eager to embrace it; enabling us to resign with joy the happiness which is uncer- tain and temporal, for that which is without | change and without end. I shall conclude this essay with observing, that those who make religion to consist in the contempt of this world and its enjoyments are under a very fatal and dangerous mistake. As life is the gift of Heaven, it is religion to enjoy it. He therefore who can be happy in himself, and who contributes all that is in his power to- wards the happiness of others (and none but the virtuous can so be and so do), answers most ef- fectually the ends of his creation, is an honour to his nature, and a pattern to mankind. DWCBCA DT DUVVVVTCLVRTVTETTVAT VTL TEST CVVTEHVITVEET VEVT TTT No. 74.] Tuurspay, May 30, 1754. Dicetur merita Nox quoque nenia, Hor, Night shall be honoured with a worthy song. I nave lately got a set of new correspondents ; and have had the favour of letters from various \persons, with whom I have not the honour to be in the least acquainted. ‘They seem, indeed, to be of another order of beings, as they seldom make their appearance till the ordinary race of mortals are asleep in their beds. It is astonish- ing to think how much business these people carry on in this populous’ city, at that season which nature has allotted for rest: for it must be owned of these children of the night, that they are as diligent in their several callings as those of the day. s For the entertainment of my readers I shall No. 74. ] THE WORLD. 129 iay before them the contents of some of these| brought that part of the town into so much extraordinary despatches: and as I leok upon the watchmen, by virtue of their office, to have the right of precedency among these sons of darkness, I shall give them the preference in this paper. One of these gentlemen, who calls himself king of the night, complains of the great in- crease of riots and disturbances which happen nightly in the streets of this metropolis. He commends his majesty for the paternal care he has shown his people by recommending it to his parliament to provide means of putting a stop to these disorders ; and declares he will use his utmost endeavours to assist him in so good a work. Another of this venerable fraternity, who, it seems, has been lately disciplined by a set of bucks, acquaints me with the antiquity and dig- nity of his office, and of the high esteem in which those who watch for the public safety have al- ways been held by the people. He complains of the insult which, in his person, has been offered to the dignity of magistracy, and the sacredness of office ; and concludes, that as he has served his country faithfully in this public capacity many years, he intends, after the example of other great men, to return to his private calling ef acobbler. A link-boy, indeed, who begs my honour would prefer him to the post of a watch- man, does not seem to have so high a notion of the dignity or usefulness of that ancient or- der: for he says, if he should be so happy as to obtain his desire, he shall have nothing to do but to sleep at his stand ; whereas, in his present calling, he is obliged to be upon the watch all night long. Whether the author of the following adver- tisement is in jest or earnest, I am unable to determine: however, at his request I have in- -serted it. _ & Whereas W. Y. who lately kept thé Round- house in the parish of * * *, well known to : several of the quality, gentry, and others, is lately removed to the Knave of Clubs in the same street; this is to entreat all such gen- tlemen and ladies as used to hénour him with their company to continue their favours; and to assure them of the same civility and good usage as formerly. «“ N. B. There are private rooms for those who play deep.”’ Innumerable are the letters, cards, and mes- sages, which I have received from places of the most polite resort. In particular I must confess my obligations to a venerable matron in Covent- Garden, who invites me to spend an evening at her house, where she assures me none but peo- ple of the best fashion are admitted. She speaks ‘much in my praise for my endeavours to pro- ‘mote virtue; and is extremely severe upon the jew and dirty houses of intrigue which have 7 7 disrepute. She adds very obligingly, in a post- script, that’she has a very fine creature of six- teen, who has never seen company, and whom she reserves purposely for Mr. Fitz-Adam. I cannot omit to mention the honour Myr, * * * has done me by inviting me to the next masquerade, and offering me a domino for that purpose. But as I can see no reason why peo- ple. whose intentions are honest, should be ‘ashamed to show their faces, I have declined > his invitation. His argument for the morality of these midnight meetings, viz. “that by re- ducing all mankind to a level, they teach the great a useful lesson against pride,” is, I own, ingenious ; though I am apt to think as men’s manners are generally borrowed from their out- ward circumstances, a lady of quality, when she finds herself degraded to the rank of a milk- maid, may be tempted to familiarities, which she never would have suffered in her exalted sphere. But the most extraordinary of all the invita tions I have been favoured with is from a socie- ty in St. Giles’s. This letier is written in a fair hand by the secretary, who tells me he has the misfortune to be stone blind; but I must not wonder at that, he says, for the most active young fellow among them is a poor old cripple, who plies all day long in the Mews, He as- sures me, that notwithstanding their miserable looks by day, I shall find them at night a set of the merriest fellows in the world; and as to drinking, wenching, gaming, and the like fa- shionable amusements, no gentleman can go beyond them. I have letters by me from people of all ranks and conditions, giving an account of the differ- ent employments and diversions of the night ; so that, was it not for fear of disturbing the ‘peace of reputable families, I could make as many plea- sant discoveries as the ingenious author of the Devil upon Two Sticks. I have the morning adventures of a noted buck, and the midnight rambles of a female rake. A lady who writes to me from Bridges-street complains of the insufferable insolence of watch- men and constables; insomuch that she can hard- ly walk along the streets about her lawful occa- sions without being stopt and questioned by these Jacks in office. There is something so reasonable in Lady Betty Moonlight’s proposal, that I cannot re- fuse giving it to my readers. Her ladyship complains that her first sleep is constantly broke by the noise of carts, drays, and hackney-coaches, or by the vociferous cries of small-coal, brick- dust, kitchen-stuff, &c. She thinks it very hard that people of quality should be disturbed at such unseasonable hours; and therefore hopes that the parliament should take it into considera~ tion. She proposes, that as they have ‘already S vis 130 altered the year, an act may be passed next ses- , sion to turn night into day; which, she ob- | serves, will be more agreeable to their own times | of doing business. As 1 have adapted the former part of this | THE WORLD. [No. 75. Oft by the covert of thy shade Leander woo’d the Thracian maid: Through foaming seas his passion bore, ‘Nor fear’d the ocean’s thund’ring foar. — The conscious virgin from the sea-girt tower paper more particularly to the taste of those | Hung out the faithful torch to guide him to her who frequent the polite circles in this town, I shall now consider my grave. readers, and pre- sent them with the following composition on the ! same subject. | ODE TO NIGHT. The busy cares of day-are done ; In yonder western clouds the sun Now sets, in other worlds to rise, And glad with light the nether skies. With ling’ring pace the parting day retires, And slowly leaves the mountain tops, and gild- ed spires. Yon azure cloud, enrobed with white, Still shoots a gleam of fainter light : At length descends a browner shade ; | At length the glimm’ring objects fade ; | Till all submit to Night’s impartial reign, And undistinguish’d darkness covers all the plain. No more the ivy-crowned oak Resounds beneath the woodman’s stroke. Now Silence holds her solemn sway ; Mute is each bush, and every spray ; Nought but the sound of murmuring rills is heard, Or from the mould’ring tower, Night's solitary | bird. Hail, sacred hour of peaceful rest ! Of power to charm the troubled breast ! By thee the captive slave obtains Short respite from his galling pains ; Nor sighs for liberty, nor native soil; But for a while forgets his chains, and sultry toil. No horrors hast thou in thy train, No scorpion lash, no clanking chain. When the pale murderer round him spies A thousand grisly forms arise, When shrieks and groans arouse his palsied féar, ; Tis guilt alarms his soul, and conscience wounds his ear. The village swain whom Phillis charms, Whose breast the tender passion warms, Wishes for thy all-shadowing veil, To tell the fair his lovesick tale : Nor less impatient of the tedious day, She longs to hear his tale, and sigh her. soul away. bower. Oft at thy silent hour the sage Pores on the fair instructive page ; Or, wrapt in musings deep, his soul Mounts active to the starry pole: There pleased to range the realms of endless night, ' Numbers the stars, or marks the comet’s devious light, Thine is the hour of converse sweet, When sprightly wit and reason meet : Wit, the fair blossom of the mind, But fairer still with reason join’d. Such is the feast thy social hours afford, When eloquence and Granville join’d the friend- dy board. Granville, whose polish’d mind is fraught With all that Rome or Greece e’er taught ; Who pleases and instructs the ear, When he assumes the critic’s chair, Or from the Stagirite or Plato draws The arts of civil life, the spirit of the laws. O let me often thus employ The hour of mirth and social joy ! And glean frem Granville’s learned store Fair science and true wisdom’s lore. Then will I still implore thy longer stay, Nor change thy festive hours for sunshine and the day. PAUVVTA VWLVTVUSUSVT VSTRLATTVVVATVTSA SUBRVATVAVA SATIS No. 75.] Tuurspay, June 6, 1754, I wave hiated more than once in the course of these papers, that the present age, notwithstand- ing the vices and follies with which it abounds, has the happiness of standing as high in my opinion as any age whatsoever. But it has been always the fashion to believe, that from the be- ginning of the world to the present day, men have been increasing in wickedness ; and though we have the Bible to turn to, which gives us the history of mankind before the flood, and of the | Jews after it, we have still the humility to re- tain this opinion, and to lament the amazing degeneracy of the present times. But the eye | of a philosopher can penetrate into this false humility, and discover it to be mere peevishness No. 75. ] are our own, and therefore we have no relish of them. Many of my readers may possibly object to these encomiums on the times, imagining they may tend to make men satisfied with what they are, instead of inciting them to become what they ought to be. But it was always my opin- ion (and I believe it to be universally true) that meu are more likely to be praised into virtue, than to be railed out of vice. It is a maxim in every body’s mouth, that reputation once lost is never to be recovered. He therefore to whom you give an ill name will have little or no en- couragement to endeavour at a good one, as knowing that if a character of infamy is once fixed, no change of behaviour can have power to redeem it. On the contrary, the man to whom you give a good name, though he should have merited a bad one, will find in his commerce with the world the advantages of such a name, and from conviction of those advantages be so solicitous to deserve it, as to become in reality the good man you have called him. People may reason away the merit of such a person’s beha- viour if they please, by ascribing it solely to self- love; they may add too, if they choose (and they have my hearty leave), that all virtue whatso- ever has its source in that passion; if this be true (though the revealers of such truths cannot be complimented on their intention to promote virtue) can there be a stronger argument for goodness, than that it is necessary to our happi- mess? It is said of that sagacious insect the bee, that he extracts honey from poison: and a mind, rightly turned, may draw instruction even from these gentlémen, But to return to my subject. If people, when they are railing against the present times, instead of asserting in the gross that they are more wicked than the past, would content themselves with pointing out what are really the vices that have gathered head amongst us; if, for instance, they were to say that lux- ury and gaming are ‘at present at a much higher pitch than formerly, I should be far from con- tradicting them. ‘These are indeed the vices of the times; buat for the first of them, I am afraid Wwe must content ourselves with complaints in- stead of offering at a remedy: for as luxury is always owing to too much wealth, Providence in its wisdom has so ordered it, that in due course of time it will destroy itself. The cure therefore of luxury is poverty ; a remedy which, though we do not care to prescribe to ourselves, We are preparing at great pains and expense for those that are to come after us. Of gaming I THE WORLD. oO wv 151 I know of but one evil more that seems to have gathered any degree of strength in these times, and that is corruption: for, as to extra- vagance and a love of pleasure, J include them in the article of luxury. And perhaps the evil of corruption, as it is now practised, may admit of palliation: for though it has been asserted by certain writers upon ethics, that it is unlawful to do evil, that good may ensue, yet something may be said in favour of a candidate for a seat in parliament, who, if he should be tempted to commit the small evil of bribing a borough or a few particulars in a county, it is, no doubt, in order to effect so great a good as the preservation of the liberty, the property, the happiness, the virtue, and the religion of a whole nation. As to all other vices, I believe they will be found to exist amongst us pretty much in the same degree as heretofore, forms only changing. Our grandfathers used to get drunk with strong beer and port; we get drunk with claret and champaign. They would lie abominably to con- ceal their wenching; we lie as abominably in boasting of ours. They stole slily in at the back-door of a bagnio ; we march in boldly at the fore-door, and immediately steal out slily at the back-door. Our mothers were prudes; their daughters coquettes. The first dressed like mo- dest women, and perhaps were wantons; the last dress like women of the town, and perhaps are virtuous. Those treated without hanging out a sign; these hang out a sign without in- tending to treat. To be still more particular ; the abuse of power, the views of patriots, the flattery of dependents, and the promises of great men, are, I believe, pretty much the same now as in former ages. Vices that we have no relish for, we part with for those we like; giving up avarice for prodigality, hypocrisy for profligacy, and lewdness for play. But as I have instanced in this essay the par- ticular vices of the times, it would be doing them injustice if I neglected to observe, that humanity, charity, and the civilities of life, never abounded so much as now. I must also repeat, what has already been taken notice of in these papers, that our virtues receive a lus- tre, and our vices a softening, by manners and decorum. There is a folly indeed (for I will not call it a yice) with which the ladies of this age are par- ticularly charged: it is, that not only their airs and their dress, but even their faces are French. I wish with all my heart that I could preserve my integrity, and vindicate my fair country- women trom this imputation ; but I am sorry to say it, what by travelling abroad, and by ‘shall only observe, that, like luxury, it will in time work out its own cure; and at the rate it goes on at present, one should imagine it cannot ‘last long. French milliners, mantua-makers, and hair- cutters at home, our politest assemblies seem to be filled with foreigners. But how vill it as- and discontent. The truth is, that the present times, like our wives and our other possessions, tonish many of my readers to be told, that while 132 THE WORLD. they are extolling the days of good Queen Bess, they are,complimenting that very reign in which these fashions were originally introduced! But because in a matter of so much consequence no | man’s bare word should be taken, I shall make good my assertion by publishing an authentic letter, written by that subtle minister Sir Wil- liam Cecil (afterwards Lord Burleigh) to Sir Henry Norris, Queen Elizabeth’s ambassador at the court of France. ‘This letter was originally printed in the year sixteen hundred and sixty- three, among a collection of state letters called Scrinia Ceciliana, or Mysteries of Government, and is as follows : “ Str, “The queen’s majesty would fain have a tailor that had skill te make her apparel both after the French and Italian manner: and she thinketh that you might use some means to ob- tain some one such there as serveth the queen, without mentioning any manner of request in the queen’s majesty’s name. First to cause my lady your wife to use some such means to get one, as thereof knowledge might not come to the queen’s mother’s ears, of whom the queen’s ma- jesty thinketh thus; that if she did understand that it were a matter wherein her majesty might be pleasured, she would offer to send one to the queen’s majesty : nevertheless if it cannot be so obtained by this indirect means, then her ma- jesty would have you devise some other good means to obtain one that were skilful. *‘ Yours in all truth, OW.) Corn.” I shall only observe upon this letter (which I confess to be a masterpiece for subtlety and con- trivance) that if by the introduction and increase of French fashions, our religion and government are alsoin time to be French (which many worthy patriots and elderly gentlewomen are in dreadful apprehension of), we ought no doubt to throw off all regard to the memory of Queen Elizabeth, and to lament that her minister was not im- peached of high treason, for advising and encour- aging so pernicious an attempt against that Magna Charta of dress, the old English ruff and fardin- gale. PRO TUE GVBVETT4 BEB VVETEE STEVE BDE DA GETS T2004 No. 76.) THurspay, June 13, 1754. Diruit, edificat, mutat quadrata rotundis. Hor. Now high the building raise ; Now pull it down; nor round, nor square can please. FRANCIS. Art this season of the year, when every man is | | | [No. 76. raising his share of dust on the public roads, in order to feast his lungs with fresh air, and his - eyes with novelty, Iam led to consider a mo- dern character, scarce ever touched upon before, and which hitherto has obtained no other name from the public than the general one of an im- prover. In former times, when the garden was made for fruit, the water for fish, and the park for venison, the servants presided in their several departments, and the lord of the manor and his guests had nothing to do but to sit down and cram themselves with the products of each. But since the genius of taste has thought fit to make this island his principal residence, and has taught us to enjoy the gifts of nature in a less sensual manner, the master of the place thinks it incum- bent on him to change the old system, to take all under his own care, and to see that every thing be of his own doing. Alteration therefore must of necessity be the first great principle of an im- prover. When he shows you a plantation, it is constantly prefaced with “ Here stood a wall.” If he directs your eye over an extent of lawn, / «¢ There,”’ says he, “we were crowded up with trees.”” The lake, you are told, was the spot where stood the old stables or the kitchen gar- den; and the mount was formerly a horsepond. When you have heard this, you are next of all to know how every thing is to be altered stilt farther : for as the improver himself never enjoys the present state of things, he labours to disturb the satisfaction yoy express, by telling you that on the mount is to be a building ; that the water is to be altered in shape, size, and level, and must have a cascade and a bridge; that the largest trees in the plantation must be cut down, to give air and sunshine to shrubs and flowers. In short, the description of what zs to be con- tinues through the whole evening of your ar- rival; and when he has talked you to sleep, and it is evident that you can hear no longer, he compassionately dismisses you to rest, knowing that late hours are incompatible with his de- signs upon you in the morning. Innocent of these designs, you enjoy the quiet of your cham- ber, comforting yourself that you must have seen and heard all, and that the bitterness of im- provement is over. Or if you are suspicious of any remaining fatigue, and are therefore prepared with the proper remonstrances and evasions, they will avail you nothing against an old practised improver: for the instant you have breakfasted, he proposes your taking a turn or two in the bowling-green for a lit- tle fresh air; to which you readily assent; and without imagining there can be any occasion for stepping out of your’ slippers, yeu advance with him to the end of the green, where a door in a sunk fence unexpectedly opens to the park. And here, as he assures you the grass is short, you are led through all the pleasures of uncon- No. 76.] nected variety, with this recommendation, that it is but a little way from the Palladian portico to the Gothic tower; from the Lapland to the Chinese house ; or from the temple of Venus to the Hermitage. By this time you are insensi- bly enticed to a great distance from the house; when on a sudden he shows you over the park- wall a number of labourers mending the high- way ; and, since you are got so far, wishes you to go a little farther, that he may take this oppor- tunity to give a few necessary instructions, and that the road may be mended with the advantage of your opinion and concurrence. In vain do you pull out your watch; in vain ‘remonstrate to him how late it is, or how rude it will be to make the ladies wait dinner: in vain do you try to move him by stroking your chin, and showing him a most persuasive length of beard, or implore his compassion on your Morocco slippers, pleading that if you had expected so long a walk, you would have put on your strong shoes.—He knows that if you had ap- _prehended a walk of half the distance, he never could, have moved you from your easy chair ; and being thoroughly sensible that it will not be in his power to get you so far again, is re- solved to make his advantage of the present op- portunity ; so leads you to every ditch that is emptying, or brick-kiln that is reeking for him; to his barn that is to be turned into a church, or to his farm that is to be madearuin for the sake of his prospect ; till at length he brings you so late home, that you are obliged to sit down undressed to a spoiled dinner with a family out of humour. I remember the good time, when the price of a haunch of venison with a country friend was only half'an hour’s walk upon a hot terrace; a descent to the two square fish-ponds overgrown with a frog-spawn ; a peep into the hogsty, or a visit to the pigeon-house. How reasonable was this, when compared with the attention now expected from you to the number of temples, pagodas, pyramids, grottoes, bridges, hermitages, caves, towers, hot-houses, &c. &c. for which the day is too short, and which brings you to a meal fatigued and overcome with heat, denied the usual refreshment of clean linen, and robbed of your appetite ! Having now sufficiently warned the visitor of what he is to guard against, it is but just I should give some few hints for the service of the improver, whom I must always consider (a little vanity excepted) as acting upon principles of benevolence, and from a desire of giving pleasure. It is this principle that blinds and misleads his judgment, by suggesting to him that he shall find from the visitor and others, who come to see his works, returns of equal civility and good-humour. But it will be ex- pedient for him to reflect that these gentlemen do not always bring with them that desire to be THE WORLD. 133 pleased, which, by his own disposition, he is too apt to suppose, and which, one would think, should be essential to every part of pleasure; for (exclusive of that natural inclination to censure, which so generally attends all exercise of the judgment) on these occasions, every occurrence of the day will probably administer to the spleen of the critic. If the weather be too hot, or too cold, for him; if it be windy or showery; if he has slept ill the night before ; if he is hungry, or sick; if he is tired or sore; if he has lost a bet upon the road; if he has quarrelled with his friend ; if he has been rebuked by his wife; or, in short, if any thing has offended him, heis sure to take revenge in full, by finding fault with every thing that was designed for his entertain- ment. In this disposition of mind, there is nothing safe but the shady gravel walk, with the few plain and necessary resting-places, which leads to the undisguised farm, or the navigable river. He will be sure to allow you no postulatum. He absolutely denies the ex- istence of hermits, mandarins, and the whole heathen system of divinities. He disputes the antiquity of your ruin, and the genuineness of your hermitage: nay, he will descend to cavil at the bell with which the hermit is supposed to ring himself to prayers. He is so cruel as to controvert your supposition that the new made water is a river, though he knows it must have cost you an immense sum, and that it covers the richest meadow-ground you are master of. He leads the company to every sunk fence which you choose should be unobserved. If he sus- pects a building to be new-fronted, he finds out a private way to the decayed side of it; happy if he can discover it to have been a stable, or a pigsty. His report of your place, after he has left it, is exactly of a piece with his behaviour while there. He either describes it as a bog that will not bear a horse, or as a sand that can- not produce a blade of grass. If he finds in reality neither, bog nor barren sand, his wishes supply his belief, and he labours to persuade himself and others that one of these defects is the characteristic of your soil, but that you hate to be told of it, and always deny it. One cannot but admire his ingenuity in par- ticular cases, where it has been judged impos- sible to find a fault. If you lead him toa knoll of uncommon verdure, varied with the fortunate disposition of old oaks, commanding the most rural scenes, and, at a proper distance, the view of a large city, he shrugs up his shoulders, and tells you it wants water. If your principal - object be a lake, he will strain a point to report it green and stagnated; or else take the advan- tage of a thunder storm to pronounce it white or yellow. -If you have a stream, he laments the frequency of floods ; if a tide-river, the smell of mud at low water. He detects your painted cascade; misconstrues your inscriptions, and [3% puns upon your mottoes. Within doors he doubts if your pictures are originals, and expresses his apprehensions that your statues will bring the house down. As I wish most sincerely to reconcile these | gentlemen to each other, I shall recommend to THE WORLD. [No. 1". I had learned to calculate with great accuracy, I ; resolved to regulate my conduct accordingly. ° And now it was that I engaged in the strangest project that ever entered a whimsical woman’s head. It was this: to collect all the most haughty and insolent forms that I had ever the improver the example of a particular friend | heard to have been practised in the rejection of of mine. angel disclosed to Adam the prospect from the hill in paradise, he purged with euphrasy and rue His visual nerve, for he had much to see: so this gentleman (borrowing the hint from Milton, but preferring a modern ophthalmic) upon the arrival of his visitors, takes care to purge their visual nerves with a sufficient quantity of champaign; after which, he as- sures me, they never see a fault in his im- provements. asenssessbes DRT VV STVVVBA VIVA TVTVATVVTV2VSE VHA 89328 * Ay No. 77.] Tuurspay, June 20, 1754. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM,. Str, I am the daughter (I will not say of a gentle- man, but) of one, who, by a constant attention to gain, and many lucky circumstances in life, from a very mean condition, arrived at the highest character of gentility amongst his neigh- bours in a part of this island, where farmers are almost the only, and without dispute the proud- est gentry. Being tolerably handsome, and a favourite child, I was sent very early to a coun- try boarding-school ; and was allowed to bring from it some tendencies to elegance and polite- ness, rather exceeding those that are generally acquired in such places; and which, for want of a better name, I shal] call a kind of half good- breeding. Thus accomplished, you may imagine I soon had many admirers; but being young and unex- perienced, I prudently left the choice of the happy man to my father’s decision ; which choice, after due caution, he made: but though exceeding notable himself, yet happening to engage with an old gentleman more notable, it is said, and I believe with truth, that he was outwitted. In the holy estate of matrimony I lived a few years, without any thing to relieve the dulness and insipidity of a husband’s con- versation, but now and then a visit from his re- lations, and a game at cards. When my widowhood commenced, then open- ed the scene. And though my jointure was not equal to the fortune my father had paid, yet having many good prospects, the value of which It is said in Milton, that before the | lovers ; to enter those forms in my pocket-book ; to get them by heart, and to use them occasion- ally as circumstances might admit; arguing with myself, that I should hasten the suc- cession of lovers in proportion to the number of pretenders I baffled and discarded. The first who offered me his addresses in my new situation was Mr. Twist the mercer. He made his visit in about two months after my husband’s decease ; and upon being shown into my parlour, really surprised me with so strange and ridiculous a figure of aman, that it was not without the utmost difficulty I was able to pre- serve any composure of countenance. Pale, trembling, looking askance, and out of breath, he muttered over something in broken words and half sentences, about ‘ cruel delays—decen- cies—_boldness—and,”’ at last, * his ambition of being admitted my most humble servant.” Fix- ing my eyes full upon him, I answered, “‘ That I was very sorry he should come at so unsea- sonable a time ; for that I had no thoughts of parting with my footman: but if he should be out of place when I had a vacancy, and would call again, I might perhaps prefer him to my service.’? ‘The poor man, unable to bear such a shock, fell into the most violent distortions of face, and left me, with precipitation, to enjoy my triumph alone. The next who honoured me with an applica- tion of the same kind, but without the same dismal and rueful grimaces, was Mr. Frankly, an under officer in his majesty’s customs. He approached me with a pretty good air, and with an easy unconstrained utterance declared, ‘‘ That — he had long been charmed with the agreeable-_ ness of my person and behaviour; that they had _ made the deepest impressions on his heart; and _ that he did not despair of finding in my fair _ bosom something susceptible of the same tender _ and elegant sentiments.’’ Piqued and amazed at the confidence of the man, my memory and presence of mind had almost failed me: but re- covering in an instant, I made him a curtesy, and assured him, ‘“ That, though he knew it | not, I was really the mistress of that house ; but that my maid Mary was in the kitchen, who would no doubt be highly pleased with so fine a speech, which I hoped he had got by heart, and would be as capable of repeating to his mistress as he had been to me.” gentleman was not sinking into the floor; but to my utter confusion, he made me a low bow, and with a most significant glance protested, “ That he was become perfectly sensible of his mistake, I looked to see if my | ff | | No. 77.] and that his next visit should be to my maid ; for that it was impossible for Mrs. Mary to re- turn an answer to any thing he might say to her, so utterly destitute of good sense and good manners.’’ the legislature, I should propose that a line of circumyallation might be made at the distance of five miles all round the town, and a guard ap- pointed to prohibit all persons, betraying the least symptom of any of these epidemical diseases, from passing the line. Provided always, that in case a radical cure shall be effected on a pa- tient or patients, he, she, or they, on a proper certificate declaring them free from all infection, may be privileged to quit those noisome quar- ters, and retire into the country. I can think of no other method by which the miserable objects that range under the several denomina- tions of gamesters, swearers, liars, drunkards, coxcombs, fashion-mongers, &c. in either sex, may be excluded all communion with those who are untainted. A considerate person cannot pass a coxcomb in his walks, without being sensibly hurt at the re- flection that such a calamity is incident to human nature. ‘These deplorable creatures are incapa- citated from concealing their complaint: a pri- mary symptom is a total suppression of every reasonable thought ; after which there can be no wonder, if, when they are become fools, they put on the habit of their order, and continue to fa- tigue the invention of their tradesmen, with a view to beguile the tediousness of time. What, Mr. Fitz-Adam, shall we say to those persons who will subject themselves to infection by a communication with such wretches? I could as soon pay a Visit to a man born deaf and dumb, for the sake of conversation, as deceive myself with the idea of improvement with one of these coxcombs. The notoriety of the symp- toms attending this disease makes it needless to recite them all ; a vast pomp of dress, an habitual contraction of the muscles to a grin, with a con- tinual incoherent kind of prattle, are so many characteristics of their distemper. And, I fear, the validity of our plea would be rejected, should | we urge that we fell inadvertently into their com- pany ; since they generally carry their heads, like those of posts on a footpath, sufficiently whiten- ed, to deter even the most heedless from stum- bling on them in the dark. Among the several pestilences which consti- tute the general. plague, no one is of equal fa- tality with that of fashion. Those who are seized with this phrensy, as they are the most numerous, so are they the most extravagant in their actions. The females discover their being tainted, by every gesticulation of a Cousin Betty. They wear no cap, and only substitute in its room a variety of trumpery ribands, tied up with no other propriety than the present fit shall happen to direct. Let your eye travel over the whole person, and by the disposition of the dress you will no longer hesitate if the imagina- tion is disturbed. By what means, Mr. Fitz- Adam, except by the effects, shall we determine the mens sana? And what judgment ought we THE WORLD. b [No. 88. to pass upon those crowds of females, who are. every day tottering along the public walks upon peg-heels? Nothing, surely, can be more re- pugnant to common sense than this contrivance in the ladies to weaken their support, who had before too great an aptitude to fall. If there can be any reason assigned for so strange a conduct, it must be this, that they thought it necessary to diminish the base, after they had lightened the capital. It would be a downright arraignment of your sagacity to imagine that the malignant conse- quences annexed to this distemper are unnoticed by you. An object, whose entire mass of blood is corrupted by fashion, becomes not unworthy the cognizance of the higher powers, as the most prejudicial being to a civil society. In order to think as I do, you need only to consider what are the evils consequential to fashion. Are they not those of folly, pride, extravagance, gaming, and even dishonesty ? Persons afflicted with this | malady are apt to imagine themselves under no obligation to pay their just debts; while those contracted at a gaming--table are to be discharged with all the punctuality of honesty. These reflections, Mr. Fitz- Adam, are the re- sult of a heart-felt concern for the good of my country. The prosperous growth of every kind of iniquity cannot fail, in the end, of endanger- ing her political health. One should be apt to believe that our own soil was not pregnant enough with vice, while we are daily adopting every exotic folly. Our natural enemy, even antecedent to conquest, is imposing upon us, not only her language, but her manners and her dress. A superficial view of the history of old Rome will present us with every similar circum- stance of corruption.—God forbid a similar fate should overtake us! I have hitherto suppressed an inclination to trouble you with my disapprobation of the times ; and nothing less than an open violation of all the laws of decency, good sense, and duty, in my own family, could have prompted me to en- | large the list of your correspondents. Iam now, Sir, at my paternal estate, where 1 constantly reside, unless some unavoidable occurrence breaks in upon my retirement, and calls me to town. In the younger part of my days, by vir- tue of public employments, I was admitted toa pretty large commerce with mankind; but on my father’s decease, satiated with the pleasures of high life, I withdrew in my forty-first year to the place I now write from. I am conscious of no very material imprudence that I have been guilty of, except my marriage, which has shaded my visionary prospect of happiness with the heaviest disquietude. Two daughters only are the issue of this marriage, who, thanks to the tuition of their mother, are not wanting in any single accomplishment of modish education. | They speak French before they understand Eng | ' No. 89.] lish, and play at cards for pounds, without knowing the value of a shilling ; and, in a word, by a patrician disrelish of economy, speak them- selves the incontested children of Sir Pope Pedi- gree’s daughter. I forbear to mention the man- ner in which (with their mother’s connivance) they affect to expose the obscurity of my family ; because I must acknowledge it to have been des- titute of the honour of a dignified spendthrift, or an illustrious suicide. Having lived so long a voluntary exile from the beau monde, my maxims are exploded as quite obsolete. My wife and daughters are per- petually assuring me that I act in no respect like any of my polite neighbours: I will not dispute that they have some colour of truth for this as- sertion ; for you must be sensible, Mr. Fitz- Adam, that it is no easy matter for a man in his grand climacteric to divest himself of old accus- tomed prejudices ; and though I profess all ima- ginable deference to my great neighbours, they must. excuse the awkward particularity I have of paying my debts, and of obstinately persever- ing in going now and then tochurch. Besides what I have mentioned, I have the peculiar fe- licity of seeing, that nothing which either my ancestors or I have done, within or without doors, is in the least correspondent with my fa- mily’s taste. The garden is a devoted victim to their caprice: last summer they erected in ita Chinese temple, but it proved too cold to be in- habited. In the winter, all my Christmas blocks went to the composition of a hermitage, which is only tenanted by my girls, and the fe- male hermits of taste of their acquaintance. This spring I narrowly escaped the reputation of building a ruin in my park; but luckily, as my workmen were lopping some of my trees, they opened, by mere accident a prospect to my Lord Killdollar’s house, the noblest, perhaps, and most natural ruin extant. It is impossible for you to conceive the in- stances I could enumerate ; but not to tire your ] patience by a long detail of grievances, IT shall close my letter with observing, that I see a suc- cession of them before me while my wife is above polluting the blood of the Pedigrees, by admitting into her composition the least tincture of affability; and while my daughters are in _afair way of dying unmarried, by their polite behaviour, and meretricious style of dress. If _ the reasonableness of my complaint shvuld ob- tain the sanction of your approbation, and be -countenanced in the World, it will in some ’ measure alleviate the affliction of, i Sir, Your constant reader and admirer. RRRRTR SRA ag BETES TETEBATDVVTVTAAT BE BBV IT TVS TW, No. 89.] Tuurspay, Srrr. 12, 1754. td —e Ir has been the constant practice ever since I THE WORLD. 155 can remember for people to recommend the par- ticular wares they deal in, by setting forth that they are more essentially necessary at the present time than they were ever known to be in times past. The doctor, to recommend his elixir for the nerves, addresses you with, «¢ Never were nervous decays, &c. so frequent as at present.”” The man of learning prefaces his discourse upon occult qualities with, “ Never was there so total a decay of literature as at present ;”’ and the divine introduces his volume of sermons with “ Never did sin and folly abound so as at present.” But though this method may be a very good one, and may have contributed greatly to the in- crease of trade, I have always considered it as somewhat bordering upon craft, and have there- fore rejected it, to pursue a contrary practice. Never was mankind so good as at present, I say again and again: for however unwise or un- righteous the people of these nations may have been two years ago, it is hardly to be conceived how greatly they are improved in their under- standings, and amended in their morals, by the extensive circulation of these my lucubrations. Many persons are of opinion (I suppose from the effects which they find to have been pro- duced in themselves) that every individual of my readers has been in some respect or other the better for me: but this perhaps may be carrying the matter a little too far; and indeed I have a private reason for thinking that there may be here and there one, who, though a considerable reader of these excellent essays, has received no benefit from them at all. There are people in the world, who, because they pride themselves upon contradicting an established opinion, have suggested in a whisper, that this is not absolute- ly, and to all intents and purposes, the very best paper that has hitherto been published in any age or country. And to confess a truth, which will, no doubt, be as surprising to my readers as it was to me, I have actually received a let- ter, written in sober sadness, and without the least intention to be witty, insinuating that I lam growing dull, and advising me to lay down my paper, while I can do it with honour. But as I have hitherto found my wit to be inex- haustible, and as I have now, as much as ever, the good of my country at heart, I am willing to continue these my labours while there are the least gleanings of folly remaining, and till I can have the glory of effecting a thorough reforma- tion. To follow this great and laudable design, I must beg of my correspondents to be very dili- gent in their inquiries after what is doing in town, and that they will neglect no opportunity of transmitting me all the intelligence they can get. I should be glad to know, among other matters of consequence, if there is yet any such thing as play going on at White’s. I should 156 like also to hear that the proposal for establish- ing lectures in divinity and moral philosophy next winter in the great room at St. James’s coffee-house has met with the approbation of the whole club. The repeated assurances which I am daily receiving that fornication and adultery are entirely at a stand in this great metropolis, are highly agreeable to me; as also that the great increase of bloom, which has of late been so very observable on the cheeks of ladies of fa- shion, is wholly owing to their abhorrence of cards and late hours. I hear with great self- congratulation and delight from the city, that they are hourly increasing in frugality and industry, and that neither hazard, nor any un- lawful game at cards, has been so much as thought of at their clubs for this twelvemorth past. Brt above all, I am charmed with the accounts which I have from time to time received of the last general election. That inflexible abhorrence of bribery and corruption, which so visibly and universally manifested itself among all ranks and orders of men, constituents as well as candidates, must be an incontestible proof of the consummate virtue of the present times. From all these happy considerations, I am perfectly of opinion with the late Mr. Whiston, that the Millennium, or the kingdom of the just upon earth, is very near at hand. When that long-expected time arrives, I shall consider the plan of this paper as complete, and conclude it the Thursday following, with a benediction to my readers. It has been owing to this general reformation (which I flatter myself has been principally brought about by these weekly essays) that I have thought fit to suppress certain letters, lately come to hand, which are filled with most un- reasonable complaints against the iniquity of the times. One of these letters laments very em- phatically the great increase of popery among us, and begs that I would postpone every amus- ing speculation, to attack with gravity and argument the doctrine of transubstantiation. The same letter recommends, in a postscript, some necessary alterations to be made in the book of Common Prayer, and desires that my next paper may be an address to the bishops up- on that occasion. Another of these letters inveighs bitterly against the universality of skittle-grounds in the gardens of people of fa- shion, and assures me that it is in vain to hope for a reformation, while gentlemen and ladies, nay, even the clergy themselves, are misspending their time in the unchristian-like diversions of porters and dray-men. The letter signed De- corus, complaining of Brunetta’s nakedness at church, had long ago received a place in these papers, if I could have been convinced that it had less of invention in it than of reality: for 1 am assured by a particular friend, who is a constant THE WORLD. [No. 89 frequenter of all public places, that since my repeated animadversions on that subject, there — is not a pair of naked shoulders to be seen either for love or money. He proceeds farther to as- sure me, that those excellent animadversions have given the ladies such an unconquerable aversion to all kinds of nakedness, that a party of them, going this summer from Richmond to Vauxhall by water, chose rather to see a hand- some young fellow go to the bottom, as he was attempting to swim across the Thames, than to take him into their boat; and when the water- man begged for God’s sake that they might save the young man’s life, the eldest of the ladies protested with great vehemence, that she had rather the whole odious sex should perish than have her modesty affronted with the sight of a naked man. But though every reformation of this kind is a sensible pleasure to me, I am very far from attributing the whole merit of it to myself; om the contrary, it is with the utmost pride and satisfaction that J acknowledge the many and great helps which I have received from cor- respondents, whose names, whenever they come to be mentioned in this undertaking, will reflect an honour upon my own. It is to these gentle- men, more than to myself, that I am to ascribe the reformation above-mentioned: and because, as I said before, in spite of our endeavours to make mankind perfect, there is still perhaps a little sprinkling of folly remaining amongst us ; and as the Millennium may possibly be at a much greater distance than Mr. Whiston and I have so sanguinely imagined it to be ; and more- over, considering the comparative weakness of my own abilities; I hereby request and entreat of my correspondents, that they will continue to favour me with their assistance in this work, which will most certainly be brought to a con- clusion on the very first Thursday after the said Millennium shall commence. I cannot show myself more in earnest upon this occasion than by closing my paper with the following humble address to one of its ablest supporters. ADAM FITZ-ADAM TO THE * oF ***. With grateful heart Fitz-Adam greets ye, And in these rhymes, my Lord, entreats ye, That you once more the World would prop, Which, but for strength like yours, must drop: For I, grown weak, and somew hat older, Feel it too heavy on my shoulder : And well I may ; for bards have sung, That giant Atlas, huge and strong, Oft found his World too great a load, And ask’d assistance of a god, Who eased his back with little pain, And set the World to rights again. No. 90. | So I from you, my great Alcides, (Whose aim my glory and my pride is) Request, my Lord—You know my drift— That you would-lend me t’ other lift: Your smallest effort is enough, The same yon use in taking snuff: You smile, my Lord—indeed ’tis true, A finger and your thumb will do. BU VT WVUVVVVUSST VPA VSAVVTTVVEBVS TT TVVT GVO 64229 2VTSE No. 90.] Tuurspay, Serr. 19, 1754. An old friend and fellow-student of mine at the university called upon me the other morning, and found me reading Plato’s Symposion. I laid down my book to receive him, which, after the first usual compliments, he took up, saying, “You will give me leave to see what was the object of your studies.” ‘* Nothing less than the Divine Plato,” said I, “that amiable phi- losopher—” “ With whom (interrupted my friend) Cicero declares that he would rather be in the wrong, than in the right way with any other.”” “JT cannot,” replied I, “carry my veneration for him to that degree of enthusiasm ; but yet, wherever I understand him, (for I con- fess I do not every where) I prefer him to all the ancient philosophers. His Symposion more particularly engages and entertains me, as I see there the manners and characters of the most eminent men, of the politest times, of the politest sity of Greece. And, with all due respect to ‘he moderns, I much question whether an ac- count of a modern Symposion, though written oy the ablest hand, could be read with so much jleasure and improvement.” «“ I do not know hat,”’ replied my friend ; “ for though I revere he ancients as much as you possibly ean, and ook upon the moderns as pigmies, when com- vared to those giants; yet if we come up to, or lear them in any thing, it is the elegancy and lelicacy of our convivial intercourse.”’ : I was the more surprised at this doubt of my tiend, because I knew that he implicitly sub- cribed to, and superstitiously maintained, all he articles of the classical faith. I therefore sked him whether he was serious? He answer- d me that he was: that in his mind, Plato spun ut that silly affair of love too fine and too long ; nd that if I would but let him introduce me to ae club, of which he was an unworthy mem- er, he believed I should at least entertain the tme doubt, or perhaps even decide in favour of 1e moderns. I thanked my friend for his kind fer, but added, that in whatever society he was 1Lunworthy member, I should be still a more nworthy guest: that moreover my retired and omestic turn of life was as inconsistent with ee engagements of a club, as my natural taci- THE WORLD. 157 turnity amongst strangers would be misplaced in the midst of festal mirth and gayety. “ You mistake me (answered my friend) ; every mem- ber of our club has the privilege of bringing one friend along with him, who is by no means thereby engaged to become a member of it: and as for your taciturnity, we have some silent members, who, by the way, are none of our worst. Silent people never spoil company, but, on the contrary, by being good hearers, encour- age good speakers.”” ‘“ But I have another dif- ficulty, (auswered I) and that, 1 doubt, a very solid one, which is, that I drink nothing but water.’’ © So much the worse for you,” (re- plied my friend, who, by-the-bye, loves his bot- tle most academically) ; “ you will pay for the claret you do not drink. We use no compul- sion ; every one drinks as little as he pleases—”’ *¢ Which I presume (interrupted [) is as much ashe can.”’ “ That is just as it happens,” said he; “sometimes, it is true, we make pretty good sittings ; but for my own part, I choose to go home always before eleven: for, take my word for it, it is the sitting up late, and not the drink, that destroys the constitution.” As I found that my friend would have taken a refu- sal ill, I told him that for this once I would certainly attend him to the club, but desired him to give me previously the outlines of the characters of the sitting members, that I might know how to behave myself properly.“ Your precaution (said he) is a prudent one, and I will make you so well acquainted with them before- hand, that you shall not seem a stranger when among them. You must know, then, that our club consists of at least forty members when complete. Of these, many are now in the country ; and besides, we have some. vacancies which cannot be filled up till next winter. Pal- sies and apoplexies have of late, I don’t know why, been pretty rife among us, and carried off a good many. It is not above a week ago, that poor Tom ‘oast-well fell on a sudden under the table, as we thought only a little in: drink, but he was carried home, and never spoke more. Those whom you will probably mect with to- day are, first of all, Lord Feeble, a nobleman of admirable sense, a true fine gentleman, and, for a man of quality, a pretty classic. He has lived rather fast formerly, and impaired his constitu- tion by sitting up late, and drinking your thin sharp wines. He is still what you call nervous, which makes him a little low-spirited and re- served at first; but he grows very affable and cheerful as soon as he has warmed his stomach with about a bottle of good claret. “Sir Tunbelly Guzzle is a very worthy north-country baronet, of a good estate, and one who was beforehand in the world, till being twice chosen knight of the shire, and having in consequence got a pretty employment at court, he run out considerably. He has left off house- 158 keeping, and is now upon a retrieving scheme. He is the heartiest, honestest fellow living ; and though he is a man of very few words, I can as- sure you he does not want sense. He had a uni- versity education, aid has a good notion of the classics. The poor man is confined half the year at least with the gout, and has besides an inve- terate scurvy, which I cannot account for: no man can live more regularly; he eats nothing but plain meat, and very little of that : he drinks no thin wines, and never sits up late ; for he has his full dose by eleven. <¢ Colonel Culverin is a brave old experienced officer, though but a lieutenant-colonel of foot. Between you and me, he has had great injustice done him, and is now commanded by many who were not born when he first came into the army. He has served in Ireland, Minorca, and Gib- raltar ; and would have been in all the late bat- tles in Flanders, had the regiment been ordered there. It is a pleasure to hear him talk of war. He is the best-natured man alive, but a little too jealous of his honour, and too apt to be ina passion ; but that is soon over, and then he is sorry for it. I fear he is dropsical, which I impute to his drinking your champaigns and burgundies. He got that ill habit abroad. « Sir George Plyant is well born, has a gen- tecl fortune, keeps the very best company, and is to be sure one of the best bred men alive: he is so goodnatured, that he seems to have no will of hisown. He will drink as little or as much as you please, and no matter of what. He has been a mighty man with the ladies formerly, aud loves the crack of the whip still. He isour news-monger; for being a gentleman of the privy-chamber, he goes to court every day, and consequently knows pretty well what is going forwardthere. Poor gentleman! I fear we shall not keep him long ; for he seems far gone in a consumption, though the doctors say it is only a nervous atrophy. «‘ Will Sitfast is the best natured fellow living, and an excellent companion, though he seldom speaks; but he is no flincher, and sits every man’s hand out at the club. He is a very good scholar, and can write very pretty Latin verses. I doubt he is in a declining way ; for a paralytic stroke has lately twitched up one side of his mouth so, that he is now obliged to take his wine diagonally. However he keeps up his spirits bravely, and never shams his glass. “ Doctor Carbuncle is an honest, jolly, merry parson, well affected to the government, and much of a gentleman. He isthe life of our club, instead of being the least restraint upon it. He is an admirable scholar, and I really believe has all Horace by heart ; I know he has him always in his pocket. His red face, inflamed nose, and swelled legs, make him generally thought a hard drinker by those who do not know him; but I THE WORLD. — ENo. 90. must do him the justice to say, that I never saw him disguised with liquor in my life. Itis true, — he is a very large man, and can hold a great deal, which makes the colonel call him, pleasant- ly enough, a vessel of election. * The last and least (concluded my friend) is your humble servant, such as I am; and if you please we will go and walk in the park till din- ner-time.’? I agreed, and we set out together. But here the reader will perhaps expect that I should let him walk on a little, while I give his character. We were of the same year of St. John’s college in Cambridge: he was a younger brother of a good family, was bred to the church, and had just got a fellowship in the college, when his elder brother dying, he succeeded to an easy fortune, and resolved to make himself easy with it, that is, to do nothing. As he had resided long in college, he had contracted all the habits and prejudices, the laziness, the soaking, the pride, and the pedantry of the cloister, which after a certain time are never to be rubbed off. He considered the critical knowledge of the Greek and Latin words as the utmost effort of the human understanding, and a glass of good wine in good company, as the highest pitch of human felicity. _ Accordingly he passes his mornings in reading the classics, most of which he has long had by heart, and his evenings in drinking his glass of good wine, which, by fre- quent filling, amounts at least to two, and often to three bottles a day. I must not omit men- tioning that my friend is tormented with the stone, which misfortune he imputes to his once having drank water for.a month, by the pre- scription of the late Doctor Cheyne, and by no means to at least two quarts of claret a day, for these last thirty years. To turn to my friend: “I am very much mistaken,’’ said he, as we were walking in the park, “if you do not thank me for procuring this day’s entertain- ment: for a set of worthier gentleman to be sure never lived.’? ‘“ I make no doubt of it,” said I, ‘¢ and am therefore the more concerned when 4 reflect that this club of worthy gentlemen might, by your own account, be not improperly called. an hospital of incurables, as there is not one among them who does not labour under some chronical and mortal distemper.” “1 see what you would be at,’’ answered my friend; “ you would insinuate that it is all owing to wine: but let me assure you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that wing especially claret, if neat and good, can hurt no man.’ 1 did not reply to this aphorism of my friend, which I knew would draw on too long 4 discussion, especially as we were just going inte the club-room, where I took it for granted that it was one of the great constitutional principles. The account of this modern Symposion shall bé the subject of my next paper. | No. 91.] No. 91.] Tuurspay, Sepr. 26, 1'754. i ee My friend presented me to the company, in what he thought the most obliging manner ; but which, I confess, put mea little out of counte- mance. ‘* Give me leave, gentlemen,”’ ‘to present to you my old friend Mr. Fitz- Adam, the ingenious author of the World.’’ The word author instantly excited the attention of the whole company, and drew all their eyes upon me: for people who. are not apt to write themselves have a strange curiosity to see a live author. ‘The gentlemen received mein com- mon, with those gestures that intimate wel- come; and I on my part respectfully muttered some of those nothings, which stand instead of the something one should say, and perhaps do full as well. The weather being hot, the gentlemen were refreshing themselves before dinner, with what they called a cool tankard ; in which they suc- cessively drank to me. When it came to my turn, I thought I could not decently decline drinking the gentlemen’s healths, which I did aggregately ; but how was I surprised, when upon the first taste I discovered that this cooling and refreshing draught was composed of the strongest mountain wine, lowered indeed with a very little lemon and water, but then height- ened again by a quantity of those comfortable aromatics, nutmeg and ginger! Dinner, which had been called for more than once with some impatience, was at last brought up, upon the colonel’s threatening perdition to the master and all the waiters of the house, if it was delayed two minutes longer. We sat down without ceremony, and we were no sooner sat down than every body (except myself) drank every body’s health, which made a tumultuous kind of noise. I observed with surprise, that the common quantity of wine was put into glasses of an immense size and weight; but my surprise ceased when I saw the tremulous hands that took them, and for which I supposed they were intended as ballast. But even this precaution did not protect the nose of Doctor Carbuncle from a severe shock, in his attempt to hit his mouth. The colonel, who observed this acci- dent, cried out pleasantly, “‘ Why, doctor, I nd you are but a bad engineer. While you aim at your mouth you will never hit it, take my word for it. A floating battery, to hit the mark, must be pointed something above or below it. If you would hit your mouth, direct your our-pounder at your forehead, or your chin.” The doctor good-humouredly thanked the colo- 1el for the hint, and promised him to communi- tate it to his friends at Oxford, where, he own- +d, that he had seen many a good glass of port spilt for want of it. Sir Tunbelly almost ; THE WORLD. said he, 159 smiled, Sir George laughed, and the whole company, somehow or other, applauded this elegant piece of raillery. But alas! things soon took a less pleasant turn; for an enormous but- tock of boiled salt heel}: which had succeeded the soup, proved not to be sufficiently corned for Sir Tunbelly, who had bespoke it; and at the same time Lord Feeble took a dislike to the claret, which he affirmed not to be the same which they had drank the day before ! it had no silliness, went rough off the tongue, and his lord- ship shrewdly suspected that it was mixed with Benecarlo, or some of those black wines. This Was a common cause, and excited universal at- tention. The whole company tasted it seriously, and every one found a different fault with it. The master of the house was immediately sent for up, examined, ‘and treated ‘as a criminal. Sir Tunbelly reproached him with the freshness of the beef, while at the same time all the others fell upon him for the badness of his wines, tell- ing him that it was not fit usage for such good customers as they were, and in fine, threatening him with a migration of the club to some other house. The criminal laid the blame of the beef’s not being corned enough upon his cook, whom he promised to turn away: and attested heaven and earth that the wine was the very same which they had all approved of the day before; and as he had a soul to be saved, was true Chateau Margoux. ‘Chateaux devil (said the colonel. with warmth), it is your a d rough Chaos wine.” Will Sitfast, who thought himself obliged to articulate upon this occasion, said, he was not sure it was a mixed wine, but that indeed it drank down. ‘If that is all (interrupted the doctor) let us e’en drink it up then. Or, if that won’t do, since we can- not have the true Falernum, let us take up for once with the vile Sabinum. What say you, gentlemen, to good honest port, which I am convinced is a much wholsomer stomach wine ?”’ My friend, who in his heart loves port better than any other wine in the world, willingly seconded the doctor’s motion, and spoke very favourably of your Portingal wines in general, if neat. Upon this some was immediately brought up, which I observed my friend and the doctor stuck to the whole evening. I could not help asking the doctor if he really preferred port to lighter wines ? To which he answered, * You know, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that use is second nature: and port is in a manner mother’s milk to me ; for itis what my Alma Maier suckles all her numerous progeny with.” I silently as- sented to the doctor’s account, which I was convinced was a true one, and then attended to the judicious animadversions of the other gen- tlemen upon the claret, which were still con- tinued, though at the same time they continued to drink it. i hinted my surprise at this to Sir Tunbelly, who gravely answered me, and ina 160 moving way, Why, what can we do? ¢ Not drink it (replied I), since it is not good.’ * But what will you have us do? and how shal) we pass the evening?’ rejoined the baronet. ‘ One cannot go home at five o’clack.’ ‘ That depends a great deal upon use,’ said I. ‘It may be se, to a certain degree,’ said the doctor. ‘ But give me leave to ask you, Mr. Fitz- Adam, you who drink nothing but water, and live much at home, how do you keep up your spirits?’ ‘ Why, doctor,’ said I, ‘as I never lowered my spirits by strong liquor, I do not want it to raise them.’ Here we were interrupted by the colonel’s raising his voice and indignation against the burgundy and champaign, swearing that the former was ropy, and the latter upon the fret, and not without some suspicion of cider and sugar-candy ; not- withstanding which, he drank, in a bumper of it, confusion to the town of Bristol and the bot- tle act. It wasashame, he said, that genftle- men could have no good burgundies and cham- paigns, for the sake of some increase of the reve- nue, the manufacture of glass bottles, and such sort of stuff. Sir George confirmed the same, adding that it was scandalous: and the whole company agreed, that the new parliament would certainly repeal so absurd an act the very first session ; but if they did not, they hoped they would receive instructions to that purpose from their constituents. ‘ To be sure,’ said the colonel: ¢ What a d——d rout they made about the repeal of the Jew-bill, for which nobody cared one ' farthing ! But by the way (continued he) I think every body has done eating, and therefore had not we better have the dinner taken away, and the wine set upon the table?’ To this the com- pany gave a unanimous Ay. While this was doing, I asked my friend, with seeming serious- ness, whether no part of the dinner was to be served up again, when the wine should be set upon the table? He seemed surprised at my question, and asked me if I was hungry? ‘To which I answered, No; but. asked him in my turn if he was dry? To which he also answered, No. ‘ Then pray,’ replied I, ‘why not as well eat without heing hungry, as drink without being dry?’ My friend was so stunned with this, that he attempted no reply, but stared at me with as much astonishment as he would have done at my great ancestor Adam in his primi- tive state of nature. The cloth was now taken away, and the bot- tles, glasses, and dish-clouts put upon the table ; when Will Sitfast, who I found was perpetual toast-maker, took the chair, of course, as the man of application to business. He began the King’s health in a bumper, which circulated in the same manner, not without some nice examina- -tions of the chairman as to day-light. | 'The bot- tle standing by me, I was called upon by the chairman, who added, that though a water- drinker, he hoped I would not refuse that health THE WORLD. [No. 92. in wine. I begged to be excused, and told him that I never drank his Majesty’s health at all, - though no one of his subjects wished it more heartily than I did: that hitherto it had not ap- peared to me, that there could be the least rela- tion. between the wine I drank, and the king’s state of health ; and that till I was convinced that imparing my own health would improve his Majesty’s, I was resolved to preserve the use of my faculties and my limbs, to employ both in his service, if he could ever have occasion for them. I had foreseen the consequences of this refusal; and though my friend had answered for my principles, I easily discovered_an air of sus- picion in the countenances of the company ; and I overheard the colonel whisper to Lord Feeble, ‘ This author is a very odd dog.’ My friend was.ashamed of me; but however, to help me off as well as he could, he said to me aloud, ‘ Mr. Fitz-Adam, this is one of those singularities which you have contracted by living so much alone.’ From this moment the com- pany gave me up to my oddnesses, and took no farther notice of me. I leaned silently upon the table, waiting for (though to say the truth, without expecting) some of that festival gayety, that urbanity, and that elegant mirth, of which my friend had promised so large a share: instead of all which, the conversation ran chiefly into narrative, and grew duller and duller with every bottle. Lord Feeble recounted his - former achievements, in love’ and wine; the colonel complained, though with dignity, of hardships and injustice; Sir George hinted at some im- portant discoveries which he had made that day at court, but cautiously avoided naming names ; Sir Tunbelly slept between glass and glass; the doctor and my friend talked over college matters, | and quoted Latin; and our worthy president applied himself wholly to business, never speak- ing but to order ; as, ‘ Sir, the bottle stands with you; Sir, you are to name a toast; That, has been drank already; Here, more claret ; &e In the height of all this convivial pleasantry, | which I plainly saw was come to its zenith, I stole away at about nine o'clock, and went home; where reflections upon the entertainment of the day crowded into my mind, and may perhaps be the subject of some future paper. hy No. 92.] ‘Tuurspay, Ocr. 3, 1754. ee Tux entertainment (I do not say the diversion) which I mentioned in my last paper tumbled my imagination to such a degree, and suggested such a variety of indistinct ideas to my mind, that. notwithstanding all the pains J took to sort and. digest, I could not reduce them to method: IT No. 92.] shall therefore throw them out in this paper without order, and just as they occurred to me. When I considered that, perhaps, two millions of my fellow-subjects passed two parts-in three of their lives in the very same manner in which the worthy members of my friend’s club passed theirs, 1 was at a loss to discover that attractive, irresistible, and invisible charm (for I confess I ‘saw none) to which they so deliberately and as- siduously. sacrificed their time, their health, and their reason; till dipping accidentally into Monsieur Pascal, I read upon the subject of hunting the following passage. ‘‘ What, unless to drown thought, (says that excellent writer) can make men throw away so much time upon a silly animal, which they might buy much cheaper in the market? It hinders us from look- ing into ourselves, which is a view we cannot bear.”’ That this is often one motive, and some- times the only one in hunting, I can easily be- lieve. But then it must be allowed too, that if the jolly sportsman, who thus vigorously runs away from himself, does not break his neck in his flight, he improves his health, at least, by his exercise. But what other motive can possi- bly be assigned for the Soaker’s daily and seri- ously swallowing his own destruction, except that of “* drowning thought, and hindering him from looking into himself, which is a view he cannot bear ?”” Unhappy the man who cannot willingly and frequently converse with himself ; but miserable in the highest degree is the man who dares not. In one of these predicaments must that man be, who soaks and sleeps away his whole life. i- ther tired of himself for want of any reflections at all, or dreading himself for fear of the most termenting ones, he flies for refuge from his folly or his guilt to the company of his follow- sufferers, or to the intoxication of strong li- quors. _ Archbishop Tillotson asserts, and very truly, that no man can plead in defence of swearing that he was born of a swearing constitution. I believe the same thing may with equal truth be affirmed of drinking. No man is born a drink- er. Drinking is an acquired, not a natural vice. The child, when he first tastes strong liquors, rejects them with evident signs of disgust ; but is insensibly brought first to bear, and then per- haps to like them, by the folly of his parents, Who promise them as an encouragement, and give them as a reward. _ When the coroner’s inquest examines the body of one of those unhappy wretches who drown themselves in a pond or river, with commonly a provision of lead in their pockets, to make the work tine surer, the verdict is either felo de se, or lunacy. Is it then the water, or the suddenness of the pluage, that constitutes either the madness (or the guilt of the act? Is there any difference between a water and a wine suicide? If there THE WORLD. lol be, it is evidently in favour of the former, which is never so deliberate and premeditated as the latter. The Soaker jogs on with a gentler pace indeed, but to as sure and certain destruction ; and as a proof of his intention, would, I believe, upon examination, be generally found to have a good deal of lead about him too. He cannot allege in his defence, that he has not warning ; since he daily sees, in the chronical distem- pers of all his fellow Soakers, the fatal effects of that slow poison which he so greedily guz- zles: for I defy all the honest gentlemen, that is, allthe hard drinkers in England (a numerous body I doubt) to produce me one single instance of a Soaker, whose health and faculties are not visibly impaired by drinking. Some indeed, born much stronger than others, hold it out longer, and are absurdly quoted as living proofs even of the salutary effects of drinking: but though they have not yet any of the most dis- tinguished characteristics of their profession about them; though they have not yet lost one half of themselves by a hemiplegia, nor the use of all their limbs by the gout; though they are but moderately mangy, and though the impend- ing dropsy may not yet appear; I will venture to affirm that the health they boast of is at best but an awkward state between sickness and health: if they are not actually sick, they are not actively well; and you will always find some complaint or other inadvertently drop from the triumphant Soaker, within half an hour af- ter he has assured you that he is neither sick nor sorry. My wife, who is a little superstitious, and perhaps too apt to point out and interpret (judgments, (otherwise an excellent woman) firmly believes, that the dropsy, of which most Soakers finally die, is a manifest and just judg- ment upon them; the wine they so much loved being turned into water, and themselves drown- ed at last in the element they so much abhorred. A rational and sober man, invited by the wit and gayety of good company, and hurried away by an uncommon flow of spirits, may happen to drink too much, and perhaps accidentally to get drunk; but then these sallies will be short, and not frequent. Whereas the Soaker is an utter stranger to wit and mirth, and no friend to either. His business is serious, and he ap- plies himself seriously to it ; he steadily pursues the numbing, stupifying and petrifying, not the animating and exhilarating qualities of the wine. Gallons of the Nepenthe would be lost upon him. ‘The more he drinks the duller he grows: his politics become more obscure, and his nar- ratives more tedious and less intelligible: till at last maudlin, he employs what little articulation he has left in relating his doleful tale_to an in- sensible audience. I fear my countrymen have been too long noted for this manner of drinking, since a very old and eminent French historian, speaking of the English, who were then in pos- Ms 162 session of Aquitain, the promised land of claret, says, Ils se saowlerent grandement, et se divertirent moult tristement a la mode de leur pais. A very skilful surgeon of my acquaintance as- sured me, that having opened the body of a Soaker, who died of an apoplexy, he had found all the finer tubes and vessels plugged up with the tartar of the wine he had swallowed, so as to render the circulation of the blood absolutely impossible ; and the folds of the stomach so stif- fened with it, that it could not perform its func- tions. He compared the body of the deceased to a siphon so choked up with the tartar and dregs of the wine that had run through it, as to be im- pervious. I adopted this image, which seemed to me a just one: and I shall for the future ty- pify the soaker by the Siphon, suction being equally the only business of both. An object, viewed at once, and in its full ex- tent, will sometimes strike the mind, when the several parts and gradations of it, separately seen, would be but little attended to. 1 shall there- fore here present the society of Siphons with a calculation, of which they cannot dispute the truth, and will not, I believe, deny the modera- tion; and yet perhaps they will be surprised when they see the gross sums of the wine they suck, of the money they pay for it, and of the time they lose in the course of seven years only. I reckon that I put a stanch Siphon very low, when I put him only at two bottles a day, one day with another. This in seven years amounts to four thousand four hundred and_ ten bottles which make twenty hogsheads and seventy bottles. Supposing this quantity to cost only four shil- lings a bottle, which I take to be the lowest price of claret, the sum amounts to eight hundred and eighty-two pounds. Allowing every Siphon but six hours a day to suck his two bottles in, which isa short allow- ance, that time amounts to six hundred and thirty-eight days, eighteen hours ; one full quar- ter of his life, for the above-mentioned seven years. Can any rational being coolly consider these three gross sums, of wine, and consequent- ly distempers swallowed, of money lavished, and time lost, without shame, regret, and a resolu- tion of reformation ? I am well aware that the numerous society of Siphons will say, like Sir Tunbelly, What would this fellow have us do? ‘To which I am at no less for an answer. Do any thing else. Preserve and improve that reason which was given you to be your guide through this world, and to a better. Attend to, and discharge your religious, your moral, and your social duties. These are occupations worthy of a rational being: they will agreeably and usefully employ ‘your time, and will banish from yeur breasts ‘that tiresome listlessness, or those tormenting thoughts, from which you endeavour, though in THE WORLD. [ No. 93. vain, to fly. Is your retrospect uncomfortable ? Exert yourselves in time to make your prospect better ; and Jet the former serve as a back-ground to the latter. Cultivate and improve your minds with reading, according to your several educa-~ tions and capacities. There are several useful books suited to them all. True religion and virtue give a cheerful and happy turn to the mind, admit of all true pleasures, and even pro- cure the truest. Cantabrigius drinks nothing but water, and rides more miles ina year than the keenest sportsman, and with almost equal velocity. The former keeps his head clear, the latter his body in health. It is not from himself that he runs, but ‘to his acquaintance, a synonymous term for his friends. Internally safe, he seeks no sanctuary from himself, no intexication for his mind. His penetration makes him discover and divert himself with the follies of mankind, which his wit enables him to expose with the truest ridicule, though always without personal offence. Cheerful abroad, because happy at home, and thus happy, because virtuous. * .* I am obliged to many correspondents for letters, which, though hitherto unnoticed, will be pub- lished with all convenient speed. REBAR ATE CLVE CASTS SUBESUTVSTGUESUeVsetse BLVAVEAD No. 93.] THurspay, Ocr. 10, 1754. Ir is a very true, though a very trite principle, “that the point of perfection is at a middle dis- tance between the two extremes ;”’ and whoever is the least conversant with the world will have frequent opportunities of convincing himself of © its importance, whether he applies it to the morals, manners, or other objects of human ac- tion. I shall make it the subject of this day’s paper to particularize the danger of passing too preci- pitately from one extreme to the other, in an in- stance which I conceive to be of very material consequence to the entertainment, instruction, and virtue of mankind. The distinguishing characteristic of the last age was pedantry. Every man appeared so sen- sibly convinced of the dignity and usefulness of his own profession, that he considered it as the only one meriting the attention of reasouau:e creatures, and, wherever he was admitted, in- troduced it as such, without the least regard to times, persons, or places. It was impossible to sit half an hour with the man of learning, with- out discovering his contempt for every kind of discourse that was not tinctured, like his own, with the sentiments and language of Aristotle or Plate. Divines were apt but too often to per- No. 93.] plex the heads of young ladies at tea-tables with school distinctions, and the depths of metaphy- sics ; and such jargon terms as capias’s, certior- ari’s, and premunire facias’s, were more fre- quently the expressions of lawyers in the same company, than love and adoration, the natural language of the place. A military man no sooner entered the room than you associated the discharge of artillery with his appearance. ‘The authority of his voice silenced every milder sub- ject of conversation, and the battles of Blenheim and Ramillies, so fatal to the enemy, were fought over again in very turbulent description, to the no small terror of his peaceable countrymen. The wits of. those times very finely rallied this foible ; and it has indeed suffered such dis- couragement in our days, that an absurdity, the very reverse, though less to be justified, has suc- ceeded in its place: I mean a vicious affectation, in the present age, of avoiding that pedantry which so distinguished the preceding one. This affectation has been pursued to such lengths, that a person is esteemed very deficient in good breeding who ventures to explain him- self on any subject, however naturally it may arise in company, which genius, education, and his particular profession, have qualified him to support. As a man of the world, he will divert the discourse to any other subject, which, being entirely unacquainted with, he is secure of treat- ing in amanner altogether removed from pedan- try. It is principally from this cause, that con- versation, which formerly was the means of communicating knowledge with the freedom and delicacy peculiar to it, and which rendered the groves of Academus, the porches of Lyceum, and the walks of Tusculum famous to posterity, is degenerating into an useless and insipid inter- course: while the most trifling amusements that relieve us from the anxiety of it receive all our encouragement. It is indeed no wonder that clubs and other ancient meetings for society are growing out of fashion, when punctilio not only obliges you to be silent on those topics, which you are inclined, from your knowledge of them, to enter upon with freedom; but subjects you to the mortifi- cation of hearing them discussed by persons who never talked or thought of them till the present moment. The situation of the speaker too, in such assemblies, can be no very desirable one, while he is voluntarily imposing the necessity on himself of attempting a subject, des unpro- _ vided with materials for it. _ This custom is in no sort confined to mixed companies, where possibly some faint excuses might be offered for it; but operates equally where men of the same profession are collected, who, to avoid seeming pedants in the eyes of each other, prefer obscenity, impertinence, or absurdity, to a conversation calculated to reflect mutual light on those studies, which, either in THE WORLD 163 speculation or practice, are the employment of their lives. A very understanding friend of mine, who, till within this month, has not visited London for five-and-twenty years, was lamenting to me seriously the declension of knowledge in this kingdom, and seemed apprehensive that a country so distinguished for many ages was relapsing again into its ancient barbarity. I was some- what surprised at the peculiarity of his senti- ments, but did not remain long unacquainted with the cause of them. It seems my friend had spent the greatest part of that week in very dif- ferent sets of company. He had dined in the beginning of it at a visitation, where the British herring fishery, and some proposals respecting the public debt, had very warmly interested the upper part of the table. He was the less in hu- mour to relish this dispute, as he had been kept up till three that very morning, in the neigh- bourhood of the exchange, as moderator in a con- troversy on fore-knowledge and free-will. The next day, in Lincoln’s-Inn hall, he was not a little perplexed with the variety of opinions on the circulation of the blood, the production of chyle, and the powers of digestion. It was his fortune afterwards to be present at Batson’s coffee-house, when the disposition of the German army at the battle of Crotska, and the last siege of Coni, were severely arraigned ; and to listen at the Tilt-yard to many objections against a decree in chancery, and to a discourse employed to ascertain the provinces of reason, law, and equity. His greatest mortification was in an admittance that morning to a junto of statesmen near Whitehall, from whom nothing transpired, after two hours attention to them, except some injudicious, though modest conjectures, on the future sport of Newmarket races. a It was easy for me, after this explanation, to account for the indifferent opinion my friend had conceived of the divinity, law, and physic; the politics, military knowledge, and trade of the present times ; and yet, from my acquaintance ‘with the characters he had seen, I may venture to assert, what in another age might have the appearance of a paradox, that he had been con- versing with the most eminent divines, lawyers, and physicians; with the ablest statesmen, skilfullest commanders, and most intelligent traders of any age or country. This humour, it is to be feared, will by degrees infect the pen as wellas the tongue ; and that we shall have apothecaries advertising comments on Machiavel’s art of war, and serjeants at law taking in subscriptions for systems of chemistry, and dissertations on midwifery. Every man’s experience will probably inform him that it has already extended itself to epistolary writing. I have a late disagreeable instance of it in my own family : it is ina young gentleman, who lett Eng- land with the highest reputation, abouta twelve- 164 month since, to make what is called the tour of Europe. He parted from me with a promise of writing from Rome, where he proposed to continue some time, after visiting France, and the principal cities of Italy. As I had formed very agreeable expectations from this correspon- dence, I must confess my disappointment when his letterarrived. He never mentioned France, but to condemn the post-horses ; nor took notice of any circumstance in his passage over the Alps, except the loss of his hat and periwig. One would have concluded him a cheesemonger from his description of Parma. His observa- tions on Florence were confined solely to its wines: and though he was profoundly silent on the constitution of Lucca, he talked very par- ticularly of the olives it produced. He had oc- casionally interspersed some anecdotes of him- self: as that he had drank a little too freely at Genoa with Lord A.; that he had broke the west window of the great church at Milan ina frolic with Sir Thomas B.; that he had been plundered of his goid watch and snuff-box by a courtezan of Venice ; and that he had attempted, in revenge, to sink a gondola belonging to the Doge. These singular contents really gave me pain, as I had a sincere affection for my cousin and his family ; and I began to moralize on the vanity and misapplication of travelling into foreign countries. A packet of letters, which reached me soon: after, from other correspon- dents at that time in Italy, threw me into new perplexities: for they all concurred in repre- senting my relation as doing honour to his country by his genius and learning. They spoke of him as distinguished for his knowledge of the religion, government, and antiquities of ' the states ‘he had visited ; and described him as little less remarkable for his chastity, sobriety, and gentleness of manners. A disagreement so visible between the letter from himself, and those which succeeded it, was at first indeed not easily reconciled. Being satisfied, however, that my intelligence from the latter might be relied on as certain, I at length made a discovery, that my cousin had departed from his veracity on this occasion ; and that he assumed a character com- pounded of folly, ignorance, and debauchery, to which he had no pretensions: preferring it to that of a gentleman, a scholar, and a man of virtue, which really belonged to him, froma studious affectation of appearing to his friend in any other light than the unfashionable one of a Pedant. *.*In answer to Hillaria and her cousin, I am sorry to say that it is not my good fortune to be the gentleman who has attructed their notice. THE WORLD. [No. 94. : No. 94.] Tuurspay, Oct. 17, 1754. In my paper of last Thursday, I took notice how much conversation had suffered from the singular disposition of mankind in our age to appear in every character except their natural one, and to consider Pedantry as reflecting more disgrace on the persons tinctured with it, than - any other frailty, or even immorality, incident to our nature. I am, however, far from con- cluding this principle (universal as it is) to be the only obstruction to rational society : other causes, distinct in themselves, or operating in conjunction with it, have conspired to reduce conversation to the state we lament it in at pre- sent. I shall mention the most remarkable of these causes in the order they occur to me. One great abuse of conversation has visibly arisen from our mistaking its end, which is, the mutual entertainment and instruction of each other by a friendly communication of senti- ments. It is seriously to be wished that this end were pursued, and that every one would contribute with freedom and good manners to the general improvement from his particular diseoveries. On the contrary, we are apt to consider society in no other light than as it gives us an opportunity of displaying to advantage our wit, our eloquence, or any other real or imaginary accomplishment. It is our inten- tion to procure admiration from it, not improve- ment, and to dazzle our companions with our own brightness, rather than to receive light by reflection from them. I knew indeed an in- stance, the very opposite to this, in a late person of distinction, who to very great qualities had united the talents of a most agreeable companion. I could never perceive that he supported this character by any assumed superiority over his company : it was his singular faculty to discover the genius of other men: no latent merit escaped his penetration, though the proprietor seemed industrious to conceal it from the world, ane even from himself. With this advantage he had the art to engage every member of the company on that particular subject, which he was capable of maintaining with ease to himself, and benefit to society. He himself, at the same time, pre- tended to no more than a common part in that conversation, which derived its merit entirely from his address. The tendency of such be- haviour to enlarge knowledge, as well as to pro- cure esteem, cannot fail of appearing very evi- dent to my readers. There is another defect very closely connect- ed with the abuse above-mentioned, which has proved equally pernicious to conversation: | mean the peremptoriness and warmth that are employed in modern conferences, Indeed, . whether we write or converse, the haughty manner, the self-sufficiency, and the contempt of our opponent that we mix with our argu- ments, have considerably prevented the ad- vancement of truth, and conviction of error. Modern disputants by this method have sub- jected their cause, though perhaps founded in demonstration, to great disadvantages; since they have not only the prejudices of mankind to combat, but have imprudently interested their passions too against them. In debates perhaps purely speculative, a person is obliged not only to defend the point in controversy, but even his understanding and moral character, which are united to the question by the management of his adversary. Sir Isaac Newton and Mr. Locke, ornaments to their country, their age, and hu- man nature, have been frequently represented as men of weak heads and bad hearts, by persons esteeming themselves nothing less than philoso- phers. It does not indeed appear to the unpre- judiced, that gravitation and cohesion have any visible connection with ethics ; that an attempt to ascertain the powers of the understanding has a tendency to undermine revelation; or that these writers deserved to be considered in any other light than as ingenious enthusiasts, if rea- son and universal experience had not confirmed their inquiries to be as true as they were beauti- ful. Ihave often thought that the reception of the Platonic philosophy in the world may be attri- buted more to the manner of its delivery, than to the superior excellence of it. If we except the moral part, which is divinely treated, its discoveries in physics and other branches of science did not entitle it to be advanced above : that of other sects, particularly the Aristotelian. The difference was, that the ipze diaiis and dog- matical positions of the one, made it unpalatable ; while modesty, politeness, and deference to the reason and dignity of mankind, rendered the other lovely even to its adversaries. They were induced, by the address of it, to pursue the con- ‘sequences of their own opinions till they led them to absurdity, and were not ashamed of a conclusion which seemed to be the effect of their own examination. ‘The same management in- clined them to adopt with cheerfulness those principles which were established on the ruins of their favourite prejudices. It is a little ex- traordinary that the success of this milder me- thod of disputation should have had no greater influence on succeeding ages; especially since the Divine Founder of Christianity has, by his own example, so eminently recommended the same practice. The errors of mankind were treated by him with the tenderness of a parent ; and even divine truths introduced into the mind by persuasion rather than authority. The deli- very of them in parables was excellently calcu- lated to divest men of prejudices and passions, and to exclude the consideration of self-interest | } THE WORLD. 165 from the question; at the same time that it showed an indulgence to the understanding, by proposing chiefly general truths, and leaving their particular application to ourselves. The fatal influence of politics on society, in a country divided into parties like our own, has been too often mentioned to require illustration. T shall observe only, that it has been the ovca- sion of excluding a variety of useful knowledge from conversation, even with men of the most moderate principles. They have been cautious of engaging on any subject, which might acci- dentally lead to that of politics; and from the natural relation of one science to another, have by this means precluded themselves from almost every branch of instructive conversation. It was observable at the table of a late great man, that obscenity was too often the subject of dis- course, which he himself appeared not sufficient- ly to discountenance. ‘To some serious persons, who took offence at his conduct, he made the following apology: “‘I have attempted,” says he, ‘in vain to start other subjects, and at the same time to preserve the harmony of my com- pany. If, for instance, I introduce the state of ancient and modern learning, we enter very soon into a comparison of the governments they have flourished under, to the disadvantage of the pre- sent one, and the persons that conduct it. If the subject has been philosophy, I have some- times apprehended that it would conclude with laying hands on the hilts of swords, from divi- sions on toleration, and occasional conformity. I am therefore under the necessity of conniving at a subject, in which alone whig and tory, church- man and dissenter, ministerial and anti-minis- terial man unite together, with any degree of cheerfulness.” Another impediment to the revival of conver- sation may be ascribed to our notion of its being intended as a relaxation from every thing seri- ous, useful, or moral. The mind has been com- pared toa bow, which is sometimes unbent to pre- serve its elasticity ; and because the bow is useless in a state of remission, we make the same conclu- sion of the human mind. Whereas the mind is an active principle, and naturally impatient of ease ; it may lose indeed its vigour by being em~- ployed too’intensely on particular subjects, but recovers itself again, rather by varying its ap- plication, than by continuing inactive. History, poetry, and the lighter parts of science, more agreeably relieve us from abstracted studies, than a total indolence and dissipation. It is this continued, though varied exercise of the mind, in the hours of leisure as well as of busi- ness, that seems to have given the ancients that | superiority over the moderns, which we are more ready to acknowledge, than to inquire into the reason of. Even Tully himself, if he had dedicated his retirement to those amusements that employ the medern world, might have been 166 delivered to posterity with no greater reputation, than what he was entitled to from the character of an eminent pleader and politician. It was in that retirement, and in the hours of conver- sation, that he exhausted those subjects of reason and philosophy, which have rendered him the admiration of mankind. I was engaged lately in conversation with some friends on a particu- lar branch of writing, that of dialogue. Every one admired the ease of the ancients in it, and condemned the moderns as stiff and unnatural. I agreed in opinion with them, but thought their reflections as much a satire on the age as the writers. Modern dialogue appears unnatural, because the scenes, the persons, and the subjects it associates are seldom united in real life. It was natural for an ancient writer to represent Varro, Atticus, Brutus, &c. discussing subjects of the utmost importance to mankind in porti- coes or gardens, because the great men of Rome frequently spent their retirement in this manner. It would seem the very reverse to introduce in our days Sir. Thomas requesting my lord duke to resume his arguments for the immaieriality of the soul under the shade of a beech-tree, or entreating him to penetrate into the recesses of the wood, that he may pursue without interrup- tion his inquiry into the foundation of morality. The reason is, that disquisitions of this kind do not frequently engage the thoughts of our great men: or if they really think of them, they ap- propriate thinking to the particular apartments they call their studies. When they chance to penetrate into the gloom of woods, it is in pur- suit of game, not of truth. The conversation in gardens is not often of an elevated kind ; and the circular seats round spreading trees usually in- spire other thoughts than abstracted ideas. I shall close this subject with lamenting the injury done to society by our unnatural exclu- sion of the softer sex from every conversation either serious or instructive. The most enlight- ened ages of the world entertained juster notions of their merit: even Socrates, the father of an- cient wisdom, was fond of acknowledging that he had learned eloquence from Aspasia. I may add of the sex, that they derive some advantage over us from the very defects of their education : their minds operate with more freedom, and with the genuine simplicity of uncorrupted nature. They are not fettered, like ours, by principles and systems, nor confined to the par- ticular modes of thinking, that prevail in col- leges and schools. The liveliness too of their imagination entitles them to a place in the gravest, as well as the most cheerful company ; I will not even except the Symposia of philoso- phers : for, to conclude a little learnedly, though demonstration itself may appear principally to depend on the judgment, yet the discovery of | intermediate ideas, necessary to it, is more par- ticularly the province of invention. THE WORLD. [ No. 95. No. 95.] Tuurspay, Ocr. 24, 1'754. . —— Medio tutissimus ibis. vviDd. And lives contentedly between The little and the great. COWPER. TO Mr. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, a Tue golden mean, or middle track of life, has always been esteemed the best, because it is the happiest: and I believe, upon inquiry, it will be found to be the happiest, because the people so situated are the wisest part of mankind ; and being the wisest, are best able to subdue those turbulent passions which are the greatest ene- mies to happiness. But has not a man of the first rank and for-— tune a greater opportunity, in proportion to that — fortune, to acquire knowledge, than a man in middling circumstances? Most certainly he has ; and I make no doubt but that persons of the first — quality would be persons of the first understand- ing, if it was not for one very material obstacle, I mean fashion. entirely incompatible as a man of sense and a — man of fashion. A man of fashion must devote his whole time to the fashionable pleasures: among the first of these may be reckoned gam- ing, in the pursuit of which we cannot allow him less than a third part of the twenty-four hours ; and the other sixteen (allowing for a lit- tle sleep) are to be spent in amusements, per- haps less vicious, but not more profitable, I would not here be understood to mean, that every man of quality is a man of fashion: on the contrary, I know several whose titles serve — to make their merits more conspicuous: but I cannot help observing; that the noble Jord who holds the first place amongst the men of wit and — genius has not been known to alter the cock of | his little hat for above these twenty years. | if we consider the lowest class of life but for _ a moment, we shall not be at a loss to account | for their ignorance. They have little more time from their labour than what is necessary for re- freshment. They work to supply their own necessities and the luxuries of the great. Let us examine how far these two extremes of life re- semble each other in their recreations and diver- sions. goose-rumped mare twelve miles within the hour for twenty guineas. My lord rides his own horse a match for five hundred. Two brick- layers’ labourers play at all-fours in an ale-house on a Saturday night for their week’s wages, His grace and Count Basset are doing the same thing at White’s for all they are worth in the world. My lord, having been unfortunate in an amour, sends to the doctor at Whitehalj. Tom Errand, in the same dilemma, runs away to the licentiate upon Ludgate-hill. In their taste too John Slaughter, the butcher, trots his — There are notwo characters so — No. 96.] they are the same. [It is common in our thea- tres for the plaudit to come at one and the same time from the boxes and the upper gallery. In their plurality of wives and mistresses, in their non-observance of religious ceremonies, and in many other particulars, which I shall forbear to mention, they seem entirely to agree. For my own part, I imbibed early the love of mediocrity; and I find it growing upon me as I increase in years ; insomuch that my discourse, let the subject be what it will, is generally tinc- tured with it. Nay, I am even afraid, Mr. Fitz-Adam, when I tell you some little anec- dotes of my life, that you will accuse me of run- ning into the extreme, by adhering too closely and circumstantially to the medium. For ex- ample: I gave more for my chambers than I need to have done, because I would have them in the Middle Temple, a situation very agree- able to me, as lying in the midway between the city and the, court. I have never theught my- self so happy at the playhouse, since Burton’s bex was taken down, though I always sit in the centre of the middle gallery. And to tell you the truth, I have often wished myself shorter, because I am somewhat above the middle sta- ture. f . This particular way of thinking very frequent- ly subjects me to little rndenesses and affronts. It was but t’other night that a young gentleman of our inn, who aspires at being lord chancellor, wished me in the middle of a horse-pond for dwelling perhaps a little too long on the happi- ness of a middle state; and it is no new thing to me at Nando’s to overhear the smarts, at my entrance into that coffee-house, crying out, «¢ Here comes old Medium.” These, Mr. Fitz-Adam, are disagreeable things; but then I have the self-satisfaction of knowing that Iam in the right. But I tres- pass on your patience, and besides, have made my letter longer than I intended: I shall there- fore conclude abruptly with that excellent wish of Agar, ‘* Give me neither poverty nor riches.” Tam, &c. By way of supplement to the above, and to illustrate, by example, the absurdity of running into extremes, I shall present my readers with another letter, which I received some time ago from a female correspondent. MR. FITZ-ADAM, I am an humble cousin to two sisters, who though they are good-humoured, good sort of people, and (all things considered) behave to me ‘olerably well, yet their manners and disposi- jons are so extremely opposite, that the task of jleasing them is rendered very difficult and roublesome. The eldest of my cousins isa very olly free-hearted girl, and so great an enemy to THE WORLD. 167 so much as a pin in her gown; while the young- est, who thinks in her heart that her sister is no better than a slattern, runs into the contrary ex- treme, and is, in every thing she does, an abso- lute fidfad. She takes up almost as much time to put on a gown, as her sister does to dirty one. The eldest is too thoughtless to remember what she is to do, and the youngest is so tedious in doing it, that the time is always elapsed in which it was necessary for it to be done. If you lend any thing to the eldest, you are sure to have it lost ; or if you would borrow any thing of the youngest, it is odds but she refuses it, from an opinion that you will be less careful of it than herself. Whatever work is done by one sister, is too slight to hang together for an hour’s wear; and whatever is undertaken by the other, is gen- erally too nice and curious to be finished. As they are constantly bed-fellows, the first sleep of the eldest is sure to be broke by the youngest, whose usual time for undressing and folding up her clothes is at least an hour and a half, allowing a third part of that time for hin- derances, occasioned by her elder sister’s things, which lie scattered every where in her way. If they had lovers, Mr. Fitz-Adam, I know exactly how it would be: the eldest would lose hers by saying Yes too soon, and the youngest by saying No too often. If they were wives, the one would be too hasty to do any thing right, and the other too tedious to do any thing pleasing: or were they mothers, the daughters of the eldest would be playing at taw with the boys, and the sons of the youngest dressing dclls with the misses. I wish, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that you would be so kind to these cousins of mine as to favou: them with your advice. I have told you al- ready, that they are both good humoured; and if you could prevail upon the eldest to borrow from the youngest a little thought and neatness, and upon the youngest to add to her exactness a little of the careless freedom of the eldest, you would make them very.amiable women, and me the happiest of all humble cousins. I am, Sir, Your constant reader, and most humble servant, M. A. WL WE BLS VLSEEVSUSRAVAULGPRATTSEVWSEVT UT BOETSGUGTT DTT No. 96.] Tuurspay, Oct. 31, 1754. I was not a little surprised the other day at re- ceiving a letter by the penny-post, acquainting me that notwithstanding all I had said in a former paper concerning the general reforma- dl kinds of forra, that you seldom see her with ; tion that had taken place by means of these e3- 168 THE WORLD. - [No. 96. says, there were people amongst us who were | look, and the fool’s coat, you should be some ex- taking pains to undo all I had done; and that unless I exerted myself notably on a new occa- sion, my labours for the good of mankind would fall short of their intention. The writer of this letter proceeds to inform me, that he has lately obtained a sight of a dramatic manuscript, (taken, as he supposes, from a history in Machi- avel) called Belphegor or the Married Devil, which manuscript, he is credibly assured, is intended to be offered at one of the theatres this very sea- son. iy correspondent inveighs greatly against the evil tendency of this piece, of which he has sent me a short transcript, entreating my publi- cation of it, as a warning to the managers against consenting to its exhibition. The transcript which consists only of one short scene, together with the introduction is exactly as follows : Belphegor, a heathen devil, in the disguise of christian flesh and blood, makes his entrance upon the stage; where, after a clap of thunder, and several flashes of lightning, another devil of a smaller size, dressed like a lacquey, in a flame- coloured livery, trimmed with black, and stuck round with fire-works, rises from a trap-door, delivers a letter to Belphegor, and making a very low bow, descends in thunder and lightning as he rose. Belphegor then comes forward, and reads the letter, which contains these words: ‘* Forasmuch as our true and trusty devil and cousin, Belphegor, hath, in obedience to our com- mands, submitted himself to the torments of the married state for one whole year upon earth, thereby to instruct us in the nature of wives, and to get remission of punishment for all hus- bands in these our realms ; and We, well know- ing the many miseries he hath endured in this ‘his state of flesh, and being graciously pleased to release him from his bondage, have ordered that the earth do open at six in the evening of this present day, to re-admit him to our dominions, Given at our palace, &c. Pruro. Belphegor expresses great joy at reading the letter: and while he is thanking Pluto for his clemency, and congratulating himself that his deliverance is near at hand, Harlequin enters at the back of the stage, looking very disconsolately, and bowing to Belphegor, who, after surveying nim with wonder, exclaims as follows: Bel. Hey-day! Who, in the name of Proser- pine, have we here? Some other devil upon a frolic too, I suppose? He looks plaguy discon- tented. If thou art a devil, speak to me. [ Harle- quin shakes hishead.| A Frenchman, I presume: but then he would have found his tongue sooner. Are you married, friend ? Har. A very miserable fellow, Sir, Bel. Why, ay; that sounds a little like matri- mony: But whoare you? For by the knave’s traordinary personage. Har. I could eat a little, Sir. Bel. Very likely, friend. But who are you, I say? Har. A poor Harlequin, Sir; married yes- terday, and now running away from my wife. Bel. A Harlequin ! What’s that ? Har. Were you never at the playhouse, Sir? A Harlequin isa man of wit without words; his business is to convey moral sentiments with a nod of the head, or a shake of the nether parts —T°ll show you after dinner, if you please, Sir. [Betruecor waves his hand, and.a table rises with provision and wine. Har. Sir, your most humble servant. If it. was not for hunger, now, I should beg leave to ask, Sir, if you are not the devil ? [ Sits down and eals, Bel. A devii that will do you ne harm, friend. Har. But are you really the devil, Sir? Bel. Have you any objection, Mr. Harle- quin ? Har, None in the least, Sir ; it isnot my way to. object to trifles. Sir, my humble duty to you. |Drinks.|] Yes, yes, Sir, you must be ‘the devil, or some such great person. And pray, Sir, if one may make bold to ask, how go mat- ters below, Sir? I suppose you have a world of fine company there. But I am afraid, Sir, the place is a little too smoky for the ladies. Bel. To those who have not been used to town indeed. Har. ‘To be sure, Sir, the town is a very na- tural preparation, You live pretty much as we do, I suppose ? Gel. Pretty much so, as to the pleasures of the place ; rather less scandal among us. * Har. And more sinning, perhaps? Bel. Very little difference as to that: hypocri- sy we have none of: people of fashion, you. know, are above hypocrisy ; and we are chiefly people of fashion. , Har. No doubt, Sir. A good many new- comers I reckon from England ? Bel. A good many, friend; we are ph larly fond of the English. Har. You have them of all professions, I pe sume ? ; Bel. Lawyers we do not admit. They are good sort of people in general, and take great pains to come among us; but I don’t know how it is, we are apt to be jealous of them, I think— and so they go a little lower down. ; Har. Divines of all religions, I suppose ? ¢ Bel. Rather of no religion, friend ; of those we have abundance; and very much “respected they are indeed. iy Har. Physicians, too, no doubt ? Bel. And that’s a little odd; for we have no deaths among us; and yet there is no country No. 97.] under aeaven, I believe, so stocked with phy- sicians as ours. Har. And traders, pray ? Bel. A world of them, of the better sort. The industry and wealth of those gentlemen will always secure them a warm place with us. - Her. Atheists [ suppose in plenty ? Bel. Atheists! Not that Tremember. We have abundance of fine gentlemen; but I never heard that they professed atheism below. Har. And pray, Sir, do any of the players make you a visit ? Bel. I never heard that they went any where else. They are a little unmanageable, indeed ; but we have them all, from Roscius of Rome, to Joe Miller of Drury Lane: and a fine com- pany they are. Besides, we have all the wits that ever wrote; aid then we have no licenser to be a check upon their fancies ; though I don’t remember that lewdness has been carried a degree farther than with you. Har. Very likely, Sir. But pray, Sir, if I may be indulged, who are your favourite ladies at present ? Bel. Why, indeed, among so large a number, it ishard to say which. The nunsof all nations aré reckoned mighty good sort of women ; but a devil of true taste will tell you that a thorough- bred English woman of quality will go beyond them. fiar. You are pleased to compliment the Enxg- lish ladies, Sir. And what extrordinary busi- ness, if I may have leave to ask, may have been the occasion of this visit ? Bel. Curiosity and a wife; the very two things that send you gentlemen upon a visit to us. Har. May be so. And pray, Sir, what stay do you intend to make ? Bel. Only this evening. Har. Can I do you any service, Sir ? Bel. Ay ; you shall make love to my wife. Har, Her ladyship is from hell too I suppose ?, Bel. Going thither as fast as she can, Mr. Harlequin——But I hear her coming; walk this way, and Ill instruct you. [Haeunt. Thus ends the scene; which my correspon- dent inveighs against with so much bitterness, that when I consider it throughout, I am al- most of opinion that (in the fashionable phrase) he is taking me in, and that he has desired my publication of it in order to excite curiosity, and to get the piece talked of before its appear- ance upon the stage. And indeed this method bf puffing by abuse is frequently the most suc- cessful of any; for as in these very reformed times a wicked book is so rare to be met with, people will be tempted to read it, out of mere curiosity. I remember a very sceptical pamphlet, that was nowhere to be seen but in the bookseller’s THE WORLD. 169 shop, till the author bethought himself of se- lecting the most offensive passages of it, and by printing them in the Daily Advertiser, and calling upon the clergy to confute, and the magistrate to suppress so pernicious a perform- ance, he carried it through three impressions in less than a fortnight. If my present corres- pondent has adopted this plan, I shall take care to counterwork his design, by giving it as my opinion that the above scene (however it may be objected to by people of a particular turn) is perfectly harmless. PUB VUCVUVBTTVVVA BRVTUBVUBPUCGRVUVTTVWSA CL THVRLVEVABATEVY No. 97.]. Tuurspay, Nov. 7, 1754. Tue following letter is written with such an ait of truth, that though it comes from one of those unhappy creatures who have always a story to tell in palliation of their infamy, I cannot refuse giving it a place in this paper. If the artifice that undid this poor girl be a common one, it may possibly be less practised by being more known. All I shall say farther is, that I have made no other alteration in the letter than to correct false spellings and a few errors in the English. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, SIR, I am the daughter of very honest and re- putable parents in the north ef England; but as an account of my family does no way relate to my story, I shall avoid troubling you with any farther particulars on that head. At the age of seventeen I had leave from my father and mother to accompany a neighbouring family of some distinction to town, having lived in the ‘strictest intimacy with the young ladies of that family ever since I was a child. . At our arrival in town, we were visited by a great deal of company, and among the rest by a young gentleman of fortune, who seldom passed a day without seeing us. As this gentleman’s family, and that of my friends, had been long * acquainted, his admission to us was without the least ceremony ; and indeed he was looked upon by the young ladies and myself rather as a brother than a visitor. I had often observed, and I confess with secret satisfaction, that his behaviour to me, especially when alone, was somewhat more particular than to any of my companions: and I could not help placing it to his favourable opinion of me, that he was con- tinually contriving parties abroad to amuse and entertain us. One afternoon, having been troubled with the head-ache in the morning, and having therefore Z 170 THE W excused myself from dining and supping out with the family where I lived, he called, as he had many times done, to ask us to the play. I expressed my concern at the ladies being from home, but foolishly suffered myself to be per- suaded to go alone with him into the gallery, after having been laughed at for my objections, and told that I ought to have a better opinion of him than to think him capable of asking me to do an improper thing. When the play was over, we took coach to re- turn home; but the coachman, having no doubt received his lesson, stopped just at the door of a tavern, telling us that one of the traces was broke, and that he could go no farther. I suf- fered myself to be handed into the tavern, while another coach was called, which not being imme- diately to be had, my companion observed to me, smiling, that it was a happy accident, and as the family I lived with would not sup at home, I should be his guest that evening ; and without waiting for a reply, ordered supper and a bottle of champaign. It was in vain that I remon- strated against this proposal ; he knew, he said, that my friends would not return till twelve; and there could be no kind of harm in eating a bit of chicken, and drinking a glass of wine where we were. I was frightened at the thoughts of what I was doing, but was indiscreet enough to consent. His behaviour to me all the time was the most respectful in the world. He took care to engage my attention by some inter- esting discourse, assuring me, as often as I at- tempted to move, that it was quite early, and that till a coach could be had, it was to no pur- pose to attempt going. I very freely confess, that being extremely heated at the playhouse, I was tempted to drink a glass or two of wine more than I was accus- tomed to, which flurried me a good deal; and as my heart was by no means indifferent to him who was entertaining me, the time passed away almost imperceptibly. _ However, recoilecting myself at last, I insisted peremptorily upon going ; when, seeing me in earnest, he pulled out his watch, and, as if violently surprised, declared it was ‘past two o’clock : adding, in the greatest seeming consternation, that it would be impossible for me to go home that night, and cursing his own folly for the mischief he had brought upon me. I will not attempt, Mr. Fitz-Adam, to de- scribe the confusion I was in. Yet still I in- sisted upon going home, which he endeavoured to dissuade me from by saying, that he too well knew the temper of the gentleman at whose house I lived to think of carrying me thither at so late an hour; that he would conduct me to a lady of his acquaintance, who should wait on me home in the morning, and make an excuse for my lying out. I answered him, that I would lie nowhere but at home ; that I detested myself ORLD. [No.: 97% for going out with him; and that.1 would re- turn immediately, let the hour be what it would, ‘“‘ Let us go, first of all,” replied he, “to the lady’s, where I will leave you but for a moment, and see if the family are sitting up for you; for to knock at the door, and be refused admittance, would ruin your reputation in the opinion of all the neighbourhood.”’ I still insisted upon going home ; and a coach was accordingly called and procured ; but instead of carrying me to my friends, it stopped at a house in another street. Here I was forced against my will to alight. The mistress of it was up ; a circumstance which I should have wondered at, if I had not been frightened almost to death, and incapable of thinking, speaking, or knowing what I did. The wretch, after having apologized to the lady for the distress he had brought me into, left me in great haste, to bring me intelligence of what was doing at home. He returned ina short time, and with the greatest seeming con- cern in his countenance told me, that he had learnt from one of the servants, that the family had supped at home ; that they were exasperat- ed against me beyond forgiveness; that they concluded me undone ; and that they had sworn never to admit me into their doors again. I was quite thunderstruck at this intelligence, and accused the wretch who brougbt it me as the vilest of men. He fell upon his knees, conjur- ing me not to think him capable of any design in what was done, and vowing to sacrifice his life and fortune to reinstate me in the good opinion of my friends. I was obliged now to put myself under his protection; but refused going to bed, though pressed to it by the lady of the house, who called herself his relation. Early in the morning, taking the lady along with him, he pretended to go again to my friends; but re= turned to me with an account that they were quite outrageous against me, and absolutely de- termined never to see me again. . I wrote to them in the most moving manner. that my heart could indite, and gave the letter to the care of this false friend. letter after letter, but without receiving a sylla~ ble from them in return; so that I now looked upon myself as completely undone. The anxi- ety I suffered threw me into a fever, duriag which time the wretch hardly ever stirred from my bed-side, vowing that his life depended upon — my recovery. I was soon indeed restored tomy health, but never to my peace. My betrayer began now to talk to me of love; and I began foolishly to regard him as one that had suf- fered too much for what I could not impute to him asa crime. He saw and took care hourly to improve my too favourable opinion of him; and at length (for why should I dwell minutely on what I wish for ever to forget ?) by a thou. sand stratagems on his side, and by fatal inclina- tion on my own, irrecoverably undid me, I wrote also to my parents, — No. 98.7 From that very day his affections began to cool: and (will it be believed when I tell it ?) he grew in a very little time to hate me to that degree, that in order to get rid of me, and to make our separation my own act, he confessed to me the whole scheme he had laid to get me; showed meadvertisements in the papers from my friends and parents, offering rewards for my dis- covery ; andreturned me the letters [had written to them every one of which he had detained. I stood astonished at his villany, and abhorred him in my soul. But, alas! it was now too late for me to apply to friends. Ruminating one afternoon on my deplorable condition, I was surprised at seeing an elderly lady enter my chamber. She made mean apology for her visit, and very frankly told me, that from distant hints which she had that day received from the mis- tress of the house, she apprehended I was fallen into bad hands; which, if true, she would be glad to assist me to the utmost of her power. She spoke this with so much affection and good nature, that I made no scruple of telling her my whole story, which so extremely affected her, that she shed tears while I spoke, and often interrupted me with her exclamations against the villany of men. At the conclusion she offer- ‘ed that moment to take me away, assuring me that her house, her purse, and her sincerest friend- ship should always be mine. I would have fallen on my kness to thank her, but she prevented me ; and ordering a coach to be called, she conveyed me that very evening to her country-house. I stayed there a week, and met with the most kind and tender treatment from her. She com- pelled me to accept some changes of clothes and linen, and then brought me to her house in town; where, in less than four-and-twenty hours, she told me, without the least ceremony, that I no doubt knew for what purpose she had taken me, and that as I could have no pretensions to modesty, she hoped my behaviour would be such as should give her no occasion to repent of her Kindness to me. I desired to understand her, and was informed (though not in plain words) that my benefactress was a bawd, and that she mous of purposes. had taken me into her family for the most infa- I trembled with amazement, and insisted on leaving the house that instant. | { clothes. She told me, I was at full liberty to do so; but that first I must pay her for my lodging and She spoke this with great ease and carelessness, and then left me to myself. I ran down stairs with precipitation ; but, alas! scarce was I out of the street before I was stopt and brought back by_a bailiff who had a writ against me. I requested that I might have leave to _ Write to the-gentleman from whom I had been taken: for bad as he was, I said, he would not utterly desert me. I was permitted to write as T desir ‘ed; and the wretch indeed answered my 'Tetter ; but it was only to tell me that as I had THE WORLD. 171 thought proper torun away from him, he should have nothing farther to say to me; and that, in short, I must either submit to conditions or go immediately with the bailiff. Frightened at the horrors of a prison, and hoping that my story might move compassion in those to whom I was to be introduced, I consented to do as they would have me ; but, alas! Sir, I was mistaken; they listened indeed to my story; but instead of melting at my misfortunes, they adored me, they said, for my invention. At length, having led the life of a prostitute for more than a month, I attempted to make a second escape, and to fly to the hands of justice for protection: but I was again caught, and carried to a spunging- -house ; where, after remaining two days, a gentleman who had been admitted tome at that vile woman’s came to see me in my confinement, paid off the debt for which I was arrested, and tock me to be his mistress. But though the life I now lead is in some de- gree more supportable than that which I have escaped from, yet to one who hopes that she has still some remains of principle left, it is terrible and shocking. My friends know what I am, and what I have been, but they reject and hate me: and I have not the least glimmering of hope ever to recover from the situation I am in, unless my story should merit the compassion of him to whom I now send it, and find a place in the World. Vile as I am, I would be otherwise if I might. I am not old in wickedness, though I have gone such lengths in it; being now really and truly but just turned of Siohiten. and having left my father’s house no more than fifteen months ago, two of which months I lived in innocence and reputation with the most worthy of families. As to him who has brought upon me all this weight of misery, and who serenely and uncon- cernedly can reflect upon what he has done (for so I am sure he does), I have nothing to fear, and nothing to hope. I can therefore have but one inducement to desire your publication of this letter, which is, that my friends may know that I have gained that credit with a stranger which they have refused to give me, and that I am really and truly an object of compassion. T am, Sir, (though lost to myself) Your most faithful, humble servant. DECC VE DVAL TRUCE RGA BDEER AR CR GREER UBREBEDEA TAAL No. 98.] Tuurspay, Novy. 14, 1754. Ir gives me great pleasure that I am able in this day’s paper to congratulate the polite part of my fellow-subjects of both sexes, upon. the splendid revival of that most rational entertainment, the 4 172 Italian opera. sicken, so that I greatly feared that the unsuc- cessful efforts which it made from time to time were its convulsive and expiring pangs. it now appears, and,indeed much to the honour of this country, that we have still too many pro- tectors and protectresses of the liberal arts to suffer that of music, the most liberal of them all, to sink for want of due encouragement. I am sensible that Italian operas have fre- quently been the objects of the ridicule of many of our greatest wits; and, viewed in one light only, perhaps not without somereason. Butas I consider all public diversions singly with regard to the effects which they may have upon the morals and manners of the public, I confess I respect the Italian operas as the most innocent of any. The severe Monsieur Boileau justly condemns the French operas, the moral of which he calls Morale lubrique Que Lully rechauffa des sons de sa musique. ‘But then it must be considered that French operas are always in French, and consequently may be understood by many French people; and that they are fine dramatic tragedies adorn- ed with all the graces of poetry and harmony of sounds, and may probably inspire too tender, if not voluptuous sentiments. Can the Italian ppera be accused of any thing of this kind ? Certainly not. Were, what is called, the poetry of it intelligible in itself, it would not be under- stood by one in fifty of a British audience; but I believe that even an Italian of common can- dour will confess, that he does not understand one word of it. It is not the intention of the thing; for should the ingenious author of the words, by mistake, put any meaning into them, he would, to a certain degree, check and cramp the genius of the composer of the music, who perhaps might think himself obliged to adapt his sounds to the sense: whereas now he is at liberty to scatter indiscriminately, among the kings, queens, heroes and heroines, his adagios, his allegros, his pathetics, his cromatics, and his jiggs. It would also have been a restraint upon the actors and actresses, who might ‘possibly have attempted to form their action upon the meaning of their parts ; but as it is, if they do but seem, by turns, to be angry and sorry in the two first acts, and very merry in the last scene of the last, they are sure to meet with their de- served applause. Signor Metastasio attempted some time ago a very dangerous innovation. He tried gently to throw some sense into his operas ; but it did not take: the consequences were obvious, and nobody knew where they would stop. The whole skill and judgment of the poet now consists in selecting about a hundred words THE WORLD. OF late years it had seemed to | But | ‘LNo. 98. (for the opera vocabulary does not exceed that number) that terminate in liquids and vowels, and rhyme to each other. These words excite ideas in the hearer, though they were not the result of any in-the poet. Thus the word tortorella, stretched out to a quaver of a quarter of an hour, excites in us the ideas of tender and faithful love; but if it is succeeded by navicella, that soothing idea gives way to the boisterous and horrid one of a skiff (that is, a heart) tossed by the winds and waves upon the main ocean of love. The handcuffs and fetters in which the hero commonly appears at the end of the second, or the beginning of the third act, indicate cap~ tivity, and when properly jingled to a pathetic piece of recitativo upon questi ceppi, are really very moving, and inspire a love of liberty. Can any thing be more innocent or more moral than this musical pantomime, in which there is not one indecent word or action, but where, on the contrary, the most generous sentiments are (however imperfectly) pointed out and in- culcated. I was once indeed afraid that the licentious- ness of the times had infected even the opera; for in that of Alexander, the hero going into the heroine’s apartment found her taking a nap in an easy chair. Tempted by so much beauty, and invited by so favourable an opportunity, he gently approached, and stole a pair of gloves. J confess I dreaded the consequences of this bold step; and the more so, as it was taken by the celebrated Signor Senesino. But all went of very well; for the hero contented himself with giving the good company a song, in-which he declared that the lips he had just kissed were a couple of rubies. Another good effect of the Italian eperas is, that they contribute extremely to the keeping of good hours; the whole audience (though pas- sionately fond of music) being so tired before they are half, and so sleepy before they are quite done, that they make the best of their way home, too drowsy to enter upon fresh pleasures that night. Having thus rescued these excellent musical dramas from the unjust ridicule which some people of vulgar and illiberal tastes have endea- voured to throw upon them, I must proceed and | do justice to the virtuosos and virtuosas who per- form them. But I believe it will be necessary for me to premise, for the sake of many of my Eng- lish readers, that virt® among the modern Italians signifies nothing less than what virtus did among the ancient ones, or what virtue signifies among us; on the contrary, I might say that it signifies almost every thing else. Consequently those respectable titles of virtwoso and virtwosa have not the least relation to the moral characters of the parties. They mean only that those persons (endowed, some by nature, and some by art, with good voices) have from their infancy No. 99.] THE WORLD. 1738 devoted their time and labour to the various | great loss to their particular friends, the nobility combinations of seven notes: a study that must unquestionably have formed their minds, enlarg- ed their notions, and have rendered them most agreeable and instructive companions; and as such, I observe that they axe justly solicited, re- ceived, and cherished by people of the first dis- tinction. As these illustrious personages come over here with no sordid view of profit, but merely per far pacer a la nobilita Inglese, that is, to oblige the English nobility, they are exceedingly good and condescending to such of the said English nobil- ity, and even gentry, as are desirous to contract an intimacy with them. They will, for a word’s speaking, dine, sup, or pass the whole day with people of a certain condition, and perhaps sing or play, if civilly requested. Nay, I have known many of them so good as to pass two or three months of the summer at the country-seats of some of their noble friends, and thereby miti- gate the horrors of the country and the mansion- house, to my lady and her daughters. I have been assured by many of their chief patrons and patronesses, that they are all the best crea- tures in the world; and from the time of Signor Cavaliero Nicolini down to this day, I have con- stantly heard the several great performers, such { as Farinelli, Carestini, Monticelli, Gaffarielli, as well as the Signore Cuzzoni, Faustina, &c. much more praised for their affability, the gen- tleness of their manners, and all the good quali- ties of the head and heart, than for either their musical skill or execution. 1 have even known these their social virtues lay their protectors and protectresses under great difficulties how to re- ward such distinguished merit. But benefit- nights luckily came to their assistance, and gave them an opportunity of insinuating, with all due regard, into the hand of the performer, in lieu of a ticket, a considerable bank-bill, a gold snuff- box, a diamond-ring, or some such trifle. It is to be hoped that the illustrious signor Farinelli has not yet forgot the many instances he experi- enced of British munificence; for it is certain that many private families sti/ remember them. All this is very well; and I greatly approve of it, as | amof tolerating and naturalizing prin- ciples. But, however, as the best things may admit of improvement by certain modifications, I shall now suggest two; the one of a public, the other of a private nature. I would by ali means welcome these respectable guests, but I would by no means part with them, as is too soon and too often the case. Some of them, when they have got ten or fifteen thousand pounds here, unkindly withdraw themselves, and purchase estates in Jand in their own coun- tries ; and others are seduced from us, by the oressing invitations of some great potentate to some over to superintend his pleasures, and to ‘ake a share in his councils. ‘This is not only a and gentry, but to the nation in general, by turn- ing the balance of our musical commerce consi- derably against us. I would therefore humbly propose, that immediately upon the arrival of these valuable strangers, a writ of ne exeat reg- num should be issued to keep them here. The other modification, which I beg leave to hint at only, it being of a private nature, is, that no virtuoso whose voice is below a contralto shall be taken to the country-seat of any family whatso- ever; much less any strapping fiddler, bassoon or bass viol, who does not even pretend te sing, or if. he does, sings a rough tenor, or a tremen- dous bass. The consequences may be serious, but at least the appearances are not edifying. BDUBVUBBRVRVA GUL GUTVATTVVTSERVIVTUTT TTB VTAVTVBVVV VBE SAVE No. 99.] Tuuxrspay, Nov. 21, 1754. Prudens futuri temporis cxitum Caliginosa nocte premit Deus 3 hidetque, si mortalis ultra Fas trepidat. Quod adest, memento Componere equus. Hor. But Jove, in goodness ever wise. Hath hid, in clouds of depthless night, All that in future prospect lies, Beyond the ken of mortal sight, And laughs to see vain man oppress’d With idle fears, and more than man distress’d. Then wisely form the present hour ; Enjoy the bliss that it bestows. FRANCIS, Ir requires very little experience of the world to discover that mankind seldom enjey the present hour, but are almost continually employing their thoughts about the future. This disposition may indeed serve to delude some people into a happiness, which, otherwise, they would never know ; and wesometimes see men engaging in prospects apparently disadvantageous to them. selves, that they may enjoy the comfortable thought of having benefited their families. But unfortunately this is not the general turn of mankind ; and, I am afraid, still less so of my countrymen than of any others: they are con- stantly looking towards the dark side of the prospect, fearing every thing and hoping no- thing. This unhappy disposition seems to spread ita baleful influence more fatally in this month, than in any other in the whole year: for he- sides the colds, vapours, and nervous disorders with which individuals are afflicted, the state always suffers exceedingly during this month. 1 myself remember this country undone every November for these forty years. ‘Lhe truth is, that to make amends for that levity and dissipa- 174 tion of thought which horse-racing and rural sports have occasioned in the summer, every zealous Englishman sits down at this season seriously to consider the state of the nation ; and always, upon mature reflection, concludes that matters are so bad, that the business of government cannot possibly be carried on through another session. The products of the press, ei- ther proceeding from persons really affected by the season, er cunningly designed to suit the gloomy disposition of the buyer, all tend to in- crease this disorder of the mind. Seriows Con- siderations, The Tears of Trade, The Groans of the Plantations, and the like, are the titles that spread the sale of pamphlets at this season of the year; while The Cordial for Low Spirits,and The Pills to purge Melancholy, have no chance for a vent, till the spring has given a turn to the blood, and put the spirits into a disposition to be pleased. There are indeed many recreations and amuse- ments in this metropolis, that are designed as so many antidotes to the general gloom: but though we have had this year the greatest importation of entertainment that ever was known, I doubt there are many inhabitants of this city who are at present so totally possessed with the spleen, that they do not know of half the number of dancers, singers, mimics, and beauties, which are already arrived. It is, however, comforta- ble to reflect on that happy revolution, which is constantly brought about by the Christmas holi- days and the lengthening of the days. ‘Those who seemed so lately to be lost in despair grow into spirits on a sudden; and plays, operas, balls, pantomimes, and burlettas diffuse a uni- versal ecstacy. But even in the midst of this highest tide of spirits, [ am sorry to say it, the most ground- less suppositions of what may possibly happen shall spread a cloud over all your joy. Theidea of an invasion, a comet, or an earthquake, shall keep the whole town in an agony for many weeks. In short, every apprehension shall in its turn make an impression on our imaginations, except that of a future state. That this great event should not occupy those minds which are totally engrossed by the present, is not much to be wondered at; but that it should be the only view towards which these lookers-forward never turn their eyes is an incon- sistency altogether unaccountable. When Falstaff’s wench is sitting upon his knee, her hint seems a little ill-timed, when she advises him to patch up his old body for Heaven ; and his reply is suitable to the place and occa- sion; Peace, good Doll ; do not speak like a death’s head ; do not bid me remember mine end. Mrs. Quickly was no less blameable on the other side, when finding him so near his end, that he began to cry out, she says, Now J, to comfort him, bid him he should not think of God. THE WORLD. "No. 99. I avoid entering seriously and particularly in: to this subject, that I may not give my paper the air of a sermon; and instead of using argu- ments of a religious cast, 1 desire only to recom- mend a propriety and consistency of thought and conduct. It is therefore that 1 would ad- vise my readers either to throw aside, not for this month only, but for their whole lives, this gloomy curiosity that will avail them nothing, and to en- ter into a free and full enjoyment of the present; er if, of necessity, they must direct their whole attention to the future, let it be to that expecta- tion, which they may depend upon with the ut- most certainty, which will afford the most pro- fitable exercise for their inquisitive thoughts, and which will be the only instance where an anxious concern for the future can atlitig be of service to them. I have been principally led into this train of thinking by a letter which I received yesterday by the penny-post, and which I shall here com- municate to my readers, as a ners conclusion of this paper. TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I am just returned from a short visit to some relations of mine, whe live in a large old man- sion-house in the country. The gloomy aspect of the place, the unpleasing appearance of na- ture at the fall of the leaf, and the alteration of the weather with the change of the season, made me acquiesce in the received opinion, that there is really something dreadful in the influence of this month of November, which, however, we who live in London have no such apparent rea- son to be affected with. The melancholy impression which I received from the place was greatly increased by the turu of its inhabitants. My uncle and aunt are blessed with a competent fortune, and two fine children; but they neither enjoy the one, nor educate the other; their whole attention being engrossed by objects, which, in their estimation, are of much greater consequence. My uncle is continually employed in computing the year in which this kingdom is to become a province to France; and my aunt is no less occupied in en- deavouring to fix the exact time of the Millen- nium. a A younger brother of my uncle’s, who lives in the family, and whois a very great mathemati- cian, has been busied many years in calculations, which, he asserts, are of the utmost importance to the world, as they affect the duration and well-being of it. He is greatly apprehensive that, from Sir Isaac Newton’s system, the time will come when this earth, round as it was at first created, will be as flat asa pancake : but long before this event can happen, it must cer-— tainly suffer a mere palpable inconvenience No. 100.] THE WORLD. He has made a discovery that the profusion of | Crusca), purifying, 175 and finally fixing our lan. man consumes faster than the earth produces, | guage, by incorporating their respective funds Vast fleets and enormous buildings, have wasted | into one joint stock. But whether this opinion almost all our oak; and the firs of Norway are | be true or false, I think the public in general, beginning, to fail. What shall we do he says, when the coal, salt, iron, and lead mines are ex- hausted? And besides, may it not happen be- fore these events take place, that such vast exca- vations, inconsiderately made, may give a perni- cious inequality to the balance of the globe? These arguments are slighted by his brother, who is more immediately alarmed for the balance of Europe; but they have great weight with my aunt, as they evince the necessity of a re- newal, and tend to hasten, as well as prove, the establishment of the Millennium, A farther account of the anxieties of this fa- mily may possibly be the subject of another let- ter: I shall, however, conclude this with dis- covering to you my own. Iam in great pain test the young squire should turn out a vulgar and imperious blockhead, from having been left all his life to servants; and I am sorry to say, that the event which my uncle and aunt have most immediate reason to apprehend is, my cousin Mary’s running away with the butler. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, Pip tiles BBI484N VRB VVAVSTIVATVVVVTAVUTSOVSVVIVAALE BUTS Vs No. 100.] Tuurspay, Nov. 28, 1754. I nearp the other day with great pleasure from my worthy friend Mr. Dodsley, that Mr. John- son’s English Dictionary, with a grammar and history of our language prefixed, will be pub- lished this winter, in two large volumes in folio. Thad long lamented that we had no lawful standard of our language set up, for those to re- pair to, who might choose to speak and write it grammatically and correctly; and I have as long wished that either some one person of dis- tinguished abilities would undertake the work ‘singly, or that a certain number of gentlemen would form themselves, or be formed by the government, into a society for that purpose. the late ingenious Doctor Swift proposed a plan of this nature to his friend (as he thought him) the lord treasurer Oxford, but without success ; ‘precision and perspicuity not being in general ‘the favourite objects of ministers, and perhaps ‘still less so of that minister than of any other. ' Many people have imagined that so extensive & work would have been best performed by a ‘number of persons, who should have taken their ‘Several departments, of examining, sifting, win- ——s —— —— — — and the republic of letters in particular, greatly obliged to Mr. Johnson, for having undertaken and executed so great and desirable a work. Perfection is not to be expected from man ; but if we are to judge by the various works of Mr. Johnson, already published, we have good rea- son to believe that he will bring this as near to perfection as any one man could do. The plan of it, which he published some year's ago, seems to me to be a proof of it. Nothing can be more rationally imagined, or more accurately and elegantly expressed. I therefore recommend the previous perusal of it to all those who in- tend to buy the dictionary, and who, I suppose, are all those who can afford it. The celebrated dictionaries of the Floren- tine and French academies owe their present size and perfection to very small beginnings. Some private gentlemen of F lorence, and some at Paris, had met at each other’s houses to talk over and consider their respective lan- guages : upon which they published some short essays, which essays were the embryos of those perfect productions, that now do so much hon- our to the two nations. Even Spain, which seems not to be the soil where, of late, at least, letters have either prospered, or been cultivated, has produced a dictionary, and a good one too, of the Spanish language, in six large volumes in folio. I cannot help thinking it a sort of disgrace to our nation, that hitherto we have had no such - standard of our language: our dictionaries at pre- sent being more properly what our neighbours the Dutch and the Germans call theirs, word-bovks, than dictionaries in the superior sense of that title. All words, good and bad, are there jumbled indis- criminately together, insomuch that the injudi- cious reader may speak and write as inelegantly, improperly, and vulgarly, as he pleases, by and with the authority of one or other of our word- books. It must be owned that our language is at present in a state of anarchy ; and hitherto, per- haps, it may not have been the worse for it. During our free and open trade, many words and expressions have been imported, adopted, and naturalized from other languages, which have greatly enriched our own. Let it still pre- serve what real strength and beauty it may have borrowed from others, but let it not like the Tarpeian maid, be overwhelmed and crushed by unnecessary foreign ornaments. The time for discrimination seems to be now come. ‘Tol- eration, adoption, and naturalization, have run their lengths. Good order and authority are now necessary. But where shall we find them, ‘nowing (1 borrow this image from the Italian and at the same time the obedience due to them? 176 THE W * We must have recourse to the old Roman ex- pedient in times of confusion, and choose a dictator. Upon this principle I give my vote for Mr. Johnson to fill that great and arduous post. And I hereby declare that I make a total surrender of all my rights and privileges in the English language, as afree-born British subject, to the said Mr. Johnson, during the term of his dictatorship. Nay more, I will not only obey him, like an old Roman, as my dictator, but, like a modern Roman, I will implicitly believe in him as my pope, and hold him to be infallible while in the chair, but no longer. More than this he cannot well require; for I presume that obedience can never be expected when there is neither terror to enforce, nor interest to invite it. T confess that I have so much honest English pride, or perhaps prejudice, about me, as to think myself more considerable for whatever contributes to the honour, the advantage, or the ornament of my native country. I have there- fore a sensible pleasure in reflecting upon the rapid progress which our language has lately made, and still continues to make all over Europe. It is frequently spoken, and almest universally understood, in Holland ; it is kindly entertained as a relation in the most civilized parts of Germany ; and it is studied asa learned language, though yet little spoken, by all those in France and Italy, who either have, or pretend to have, any learning. The spreading the French language over most parts of Europe, to the degree of making it almost a universal one, was always reckon: ed among the glories of the reign of Lewis the fourteenth. But be it remembered, that the success of his arms first opened the way to it; though at the same time it must be owned, that a great number of most excellent authors who flourished in his time added strength and velocity to its progress. Whereas our language has made its way singly by its own weight and merit, under the conduct of those great leaders, Shakspeare, Bacon, Milton, Locke, Newton, Swift, Pope, Addison, &c. A nobler sort of conquest, and a far more glorious triumph, since graced by none but willing captives! These authors, though for the most part but indifferently translated into foreign languages, gave other nations a sample of the British genius. The copies, imperfect as they were, pleased, and excited a general desire of seeing the originals; and beth our authors and our language soon became classical. But a grammar, a dictionary, and a history of our language, through its several stages, were still wanting at home, and importunately called for from abroad. Mr Johnson’s labours will now, and, I dare say, very fully, supply that want, and greatly contribute to the farther spreading of our language in other countries. ORLD. [No. 101. Learners were discouraged by finding no stand- ard to resort to, and consequently thought it incapable of any. ‘They will now be undeceived and-encouraged. / There are many hints and considerations re- lative to our language, which I should have taken the liberty of suggesting to Mr. Johnson, had I not been convinced that they have equally occurred to him: but there is one, and a very material one it is, to which perhaps he may not have given all the necessary attention. I mean the genteeler part of our language, which owes Hoth its rise and progress to my fair country- women, whose natural turn is more to the copi- gusness than the correctness of diction. I would not advise him to be rash enough to proscribe any of those happy redundancies, and luxurian- cies of expression, with which they have en- riched our language. They willingly inflict fetters, but very unwillingly submit to wear them. In this case his task will be so difficult, that I design, as a common friend, to propose, in some future paper, the means which appear to me the most likely to reconcile matters. P. S I hope that none of my courteous read- ers will upon this occasion be so uncourteous, as to suspect me of being a hired and interested puff of this work ; for I most solemnly protest, that neither Mr. Johnson, nor any person em- ployed by him, nor any bookseller or booksellers concerned in the success of it, have ever offered me the usual compliment of a pair of gloves or |}a bottle of wine; nor has even Mr. Dodsley, though my publisher, and, as I am informed, deeply interested in the sale of this dictionary, so much as invited me to take a bit of mutton with him. PVVWULCTVUCUVUTVUVTESLSATBETDELTTEGBSE SE VVBUETSE TUEBUDT SVS VT TT No. 101.] Tuurspay, Dec. 5, 1754. a WueEn I intimated in my last paper some dis- trust of Mr. Johnson’s complaisance to the fairer part of his readers, it was because I hada greater opinion of his impartiality and severity as a judge, than of his gallantry as a fine gentle- | man, And indeed I am well aware of the diffi- culties he would have to encounter, if he at- tempted to reconcile the polite with the gram- matical part of our language. Should he, by an act of power, banish and attaint many of the favourite words and expressions with which the ladies have so profusely enriched our language, he would excite the indignation of the most for- midable, because the most lovely, part of his readers: his dictionary would be condemned asa_ system of tyranny, and he himself likethe last Tarquin, run the risk of being deposed. So popular and so powerful is the female cause! No. 101.] On the other hand, should he, by an act of. grace, admit, legitimate, and incorporate into our language those words and expressions, which, hastily begot, owe their birth to the incontinen- sy of female eloquence; what severe censures _ might he not justly apprehend from the learned: part of his readers, wko do not understand com- _ plaisances of that nature! For my own part, as | am always inclined to plead the cause.of my fair fellow-subjects, I shall _ now take the liberty of laying before Mr. John- son those. arguments. which upon. this occasion may be urged in their favour, as introductory to the compromise which I shall humbly offer and ' conclude with. Language is indisputably: the more immediate province of the fair sex: there they shine, there they excel. The torrents of their eloquence, es- pecially in the vituperative way, stun all opposi- tion, and bear away, in one promiscuous heap, nouns, pronouns, verbs, moods and tenses. If words are wanting (which indeed happens but seldom), indignation instantly makes new ones ; and I have often known four or five syllables. that never met one another before, hastily and fortuitously jumbled into some word of mighty import. Nor is the tender part of our language less obliged to that soft and amiable sex; their love being at least as productive as their indignation. _ Should they Jamentin an involuntary retirement the absence of the adored object, they give new murmurs to the brook, new sounds to the echo, and new notes to the plaintive Philomela. But when this happy copiousness flows, as it often does, into gentle numbers, good gods! how is the poetical diction enriched, and the poetical license extended! Even in common conversa- tion, I never see a pretty mouth opening to speak, but J expect, and am seldom disappointed, some new improvement of our language. I re- member many very expressive words coined in that fair mint. J assisted at the birth of that Most significant word flirtation, which dropped ‘from the most beautiful mouth in the world, and which has since received the sanction of our most accurate laureat in one of his comedies. : Some inattentive and undiscerning people have, i know, taken it to be a term synonymous with coquetry ; ; but I lay hold of this opportunity to undeceive them, and eventually to inform Mr. Johnson, that flirtation is short of coquetry, and intimates only the first hints of approxima- tion, which subsequent coquetry may reduce to these preliminary articles, that commonly end in a definitive treaty. I was also a witness to the rise and progress oft that most important verb, to fuzz; which, if not of legitimate birth; is at least of fait extrac- tion. As Iam not sure that it has yet made its way into Mr. Johnson’s literary retirement, I ‘Dink myself obliged to inform him that it is at —~ THE WORLD. | of the most, fashionable people. (under this head 1 comprehend all fine gentle- /men too, not knowing, in truth, where else to 177 present. the most. useful and, the most. used word in, our language; since it means, no. less. than dealing twice together with the same. pack of cards, for luck’s sake, at, whist. Not. contented with enriching our language by words absolutely new, my fair countrywo- -men have gone still farther, and improved it by the application and extension of old ones to ya- ‘rious and. very different. significations. They take.a word and change it, like a guinea into shillings for pecket-money, to be employed in the several. occasional purposes of the day. For instance, the adjective vast. and its adverb vastly mean any.thing, and are the fashionable words A fine woman, place them properly) is vastly obliged, or vastly offended, vastly glad, or vastly sorry. Large objects are vastly great, small ones, are vastly little; and. I had lately the pleasure to hear a fine woman pronounce, by a happy metonymy, a very small gold snuff-box that was produced in company to be vastly pretty, because it was so vastly little. Mr. Johnson will do well to consider seriously to, what degree he will rests; ain the various and extensive signitications of this great word, Another very material pcint still remains to be considered; I mean the orthography of our language, which is at present very various and unsettled. We have at present two very different ortho- graphies, the pedantic, and the polite; the one founded upon certain dry, crabbed rules of ety- mology and grammar; the other, singly upon the justness and delicacy of the ear. I am thoroughly persuaded that Mr. Johnson will endeavour to establish the former; and I per- fectly agree with him, provided it can be quietly brought about. Spelling, as well as music, is better performed by book than merely by the ear, which may be variously affected by the same sounds. I therefore most earnestly re- | commend tomy fair countrywomen, and to their faithful or faithless servants, the fine gentlemen of this realm, to surrender, as well for their own private, as for the public utility, all their natu- ral rights and privileges, of mis-spelling, which. they have so long enjoyed, and so vigor ously ex- erted. Ihave really known very fatal conse- quences attend that loose and uncertain practice of auricular orthography ; of which I shall pro- duce two instances as a sufficient warning. A _very fine gentleman wrote a yery harmless, innocent letter to a very fine lady, giving her an account of some trifling commissions which he had executed according to her orders. This let- ter, though directed to the lady, was, by the mistake of a servant, delivered to and opened by the husband; who finding all his attempts to understand it unsuccessful, tock it for granted 2A 178 that it was a concerted cypher, under which a criminal corr¢spondence, not much to his own - honour or advantage, was secretly carried on. With the letter-in his hand, and rage in his heart, he went immediately to his wife, and reproached her in the most injurious terms with her supposed infidelity. The lady, conscious of | her own innocence, calmly requested to see the _ grounds of so unjust an accusation; and being accustomed to the auricular orthography, made shift to read to her incensed husband the most inoffensive letter that ever was written. The husband was undeceived, or at least wise enough to seem so: for in such nice cases one must not ' peremptorily decide.. However, as sudden im- pressions are generally pretty strong, he has been observed to be more suspicious ever since. The other accident had much worse conse- quences.’ . Matters were happily brought, be- tween a fine gentleman and a fine lady, to the decisive period of an appointment at a ‘third place.. The place where is always the lover’s business, the time when the lady’s. Accordingly an impatient and rapturous letter from thelover signified to the lady the house and street. where ; to which a tender answer from the lady assent- ed, and appointed the time when. - But unfor- tunately, from the uncertainty of the lover’s auricular orthography, the lady. mistook both house and street, was conveyed in a hackney chair to a wrong one, and in the hurry and agitation which ladies are sometimes in upon those occasions, rushed into a house where she happened to be known, and her intentions con- sequently discovered. In the mean time the lover passed three or four hours at the right place, in the alternate agonies of impatient and disappointed love, tender fear, and anxious jealousy. Such examples really make one tremble; and will, 1am convinced, determine my fair fellow- subjects and their adherents to adopt, and scru- pulously conform to Mr. Jobnson’s rules of true orthography by book. In return to this conces- sion, I seriously advise him to publish, by way of appendix to his great work, a genteel neolo- gical dictionary, containing those polite, though perhaps not strictly grammatical words and phrases, commonly used, and sometimes under- stood, by the beaw monde. By such an act of toleration, who knows but he may, in time, bring them within the pale of the English lan- guage? The best Latin dictionaries have com- anonly a short supplemental one annexed, of the obsolete and barbarous Latin words, which pedants sometimes borrow to show their erudi- tion. Surely, then, my country women, the enrichers, the patronesses, and the harmonizers of our language, deserve greater indulgence. I must also hint to Mr. Johnson, that such a small supplemental dictionary will contribute infinitely to the sale of the great one; and [ THE WORLD. [No. 102. make no question but that under the protection .of that little work, the great one will be received in the genteelest houses. We shall frequently meet with it in ladies’ dressing-rooms, lying upon the harpsichord, together with the knot- ting bag, and Signor Di Giardini’s incomparable concertos ; and even sometimes in the powder- rooms of our young nobility, upon the same shelf with their German flute, their powder mask, and their four-horse whip. WR VV SA VBATRVABDRBA BR VSI TDS SF BSF SFL ALTVUESBETTETVE SSE VSAA TAT No. 102.]. THurspay, Dec. 12, 1754. Proferet in lucem specioso vocabula rerum. Hor. Bring into light, to dignify his page, FRANCIS. The nervous language of a former age. MR. FITZ-ADAM, Asan Englishman I gratefully applaud the zeal you show for ascertaining our language ; andam equally ready to acknowledge the use and even the necessity of the neologica) dictionary, men- tioned in your last paper. I must, however, beg leave so far to dissent from you as to doubt the propriety of joining to the fixed and perma- nent standard of our language a vocabulary of words which perish and are — within the compass of the year. That we are obliged to the ladies for most of these ornaments to our language, I readily ac- knowledge ; but it must also be acknowledged that it would be degrading their invention to suppose they would desire a perpetuity of any thing whose loss they can so easily supply. It would be no less an error to imagine that they wanted a repository for their words after they have worn them out, than that they wished for a wardrobe to preserve their cast-off fashions. Novelty is their pleasure: singularity, and the love of being before-hand, is greatly flattering to the female mind. From hence arises the present taste for planting, and the pleasure the ladies take in showing their exotics, as giving them an opportunity of talking Greek. With what respectful pleasure do their admirers gaze, while their pretty mouths troll out the toxico- dendron, chrysanthemum, orchis, tragopogon, hypericum, and the like. ; From hence only can we account for that jargon which the French call the bon ton, which they are obliged to change continually, as soon as they find it profaned by any other company but one step lower than themselves in their de- grees of politeness. A lady armed witha new word exults with a conscious superiority, and exercises a tyranny over those who do not un- derstand her, like the delegates of the law, with their capias, latitat, and venire facias ; but a word | : No. 102.] which has been a month upon the town loses its force, and makes as poor a figure as the law put into English. In order therefore to interpret every new word, and what is still more important, to give the different acceptations of the same words, ac- cording to the various senses in which they are received and understood in the different parts of this extensive metropolis, I would recommend a small portable vocabulary to be annually publish- ed and bound up with the almanack. It is of great consequence that a work of this nature should be duly and carefully executed, because though it is very grievous to be ignorant, it is much more terrible to be deceived or misled ; and ‘ this is greatly to be apprehended from the abuse of turning old words from their former signifi- cation to a sense not only very different, but often directly contrary to it. The coining anew word, that is to say, a new sound, which had no sense previously affixed to it, will probably have no other ill effect than puzzling for a while the understanding and memory ; but what shall we say to the turn which the present age has taken of giving an entire new sense to words and ex- pressions, and that in so delicate a case as the characters of men? I remember when a certain person informed a large company at the polite end of the town, that, in the city, a good man was a term meant to denote aman who was able and ready at all times to pay a bill at sight, the whole assembly shook their heads, and thought it was a strange perversion of language. And yet these very persons are not aware that the phrases they commonly use would appear equally strange on the other side Temple-bar. A silly fellow, for instance, would there be thought a weak young man, who had been so often imposed upon that he was not worth a groat; instead of that, it is the most common term for one who possesses the very fortune, talents, mistress or preferment which his describer wishes to have. In like manner, a silly woman implies one who is more beautiful, young, happy, and good-natured than the rest of her female acquaintance. Odd man is a term we frequently hear vociferated in the streets, when a chairman is in want of a partner. But when a lady of quality orders her porter to let in no odd people, she means all decent, grave men, women who have never been talked of, many of her own relations, and all her hus- band’s. Besides those words which owe their rise to caprice or accident, there are many which, having been long confined to particular profes- sions, offices, districts, climates, &c. are brought into public use by fashion, or the reigning topic on which conversation has happened to dwell for any considerable time. During the great rebellion they talked universally the language of the scriptures. T'o your tents, O Israel, was the THE WORLD. 179 well known cry of faction in the streets. They beat the enemy from Dan even unto Beersheba, and expressed themselves in a manner which must have been totally unintelligible, except in those extraordinary times, when people of all sorts happened to read the Bible. To these succeeded the wits of Charles’s days; to under- stand. whom it was necessary to have remem- bered a great deal of bad poetry ; as they gener- ally began or concluded their discourse with a couplet. Inour memory, the late war, which began at sea, filled our mouths with terms from that element. The land war not only enlarged the size of our swords and hats, but of our words also. The peace taught us the language of the secretary’s office. Our country squires made treaties about their game, and ladies nego- tiated the meeting of their lap-dogs. Parlia- mentary language has been used without doors. We drink claret or port according to the state of our finances. ‘To spend a week in the country or town is a measure; and if we dislike the measure, we put a negative upon it. With the rails and buildings of the Chinese, we adopted also for a while their language. A doll of that country we called a joss, and a slight build- ing a pagoda. For that year we talked of no- thing but palanquins, nabobs, mandarins, junks, sepoys, &c. To what was this owing, but the war in the East Indies? I would therefore farther propose, in order to render this work complete, that a supplement be added to it, which shall be an explanation of the words, figures and forms of speech of the country, that will most probably be the subject of conversation for the ensuing year. For in- stance: Whoever considers the destination of our present expedition must think it high time to publish an interpretation of West India phrases, which will soon become so current among us, that no man will be fit to appear in company, who-shall not be able to ornament his discourse with those jewels. For my part, I wish such a work had been published time enough to have assisted me in reading the fol- lowing extract of a letter from one of our colonies. “The Chippoways and Orundaks are still very troublesome. Last week they scalped one of our Indians; but the Six nations continue firm ; and at a meeting of Sachems it was determined to take up the hatchet, and make the war kettle boil. The French desired to smoke the calumet of peace ; but the half-king would not consent. . They offered the speech-belt, but it was refused. Our governor has received an account of their pro- ceedings, together with a string of wampum, and a bundle of skins to brighten the chain.” A work of this kind, if well executed, cannot fail to make the fortune of the undertaker: for I am convinced that a guide to the New English 180 tongue must have as ‘great a sale as the British Peerage, Baronetage, Register of Races, List of the Houses, ‘and ‘other such-like nomenclators, which constitute the useful part of the modern library. Iam, Sir, Your ‘most humble servant, C. D. eee eey eee eee eee eee Dew ae ee ee a No. 103.] THurspay, Dec. 19, 1754. I am ‘never better pleased than when I can ‘vin- dicate the honour of my native country; at the same time I would not endeavour ‘to defend it preposterously, nor to contradict the eyes, the senses of mankind, out of stark good patriotism. The fluctuating condition of the things of this world necessarily produces a change in manners and morals, ‘as well as in the face of countries and ‘cities. Climates cannot operate so power- fully on ‘constitutions, as‘to preserve the same character perpetually to the same nations. Ido not doubt but in some age of the world the Be- otians will be avery lively, whimsical people, and famous for their repartees; and that our neighbour islanders will be remarkable for the ‘truth of their ideas, and for the precision with which they will deliver their conceptions. Some men are so bigoted to antiquated notions, that if, they were, even in this age, to write a panegyric en Old England, they would cram their composi- tion with encomiums:on our good-nature, our bravery, and our hospitality. This indeed might be a panegyric on Old England, but would have very little resemblance to the mo- dern characteristics of the nation. Our good- nature was necessarily soured by the spirit of party ; our courage has been a little cramped by the act of parliament that restrained prize-fight- ing; and hospitality is totally impractible, since amuch more laudable custom has been intro- duced, and prevailed universally, of paying the servants of other people much more than their master’s dinner cost. Yet we shall always have virtues sufficient to countenance very exalted panegyrics; and if some of our more heroic qualities are grown obsolete, others of a gentler east, and better calculated for the help of society have grown up and diffused themselves in their room. While we were rough and bold, we could not be polite; while we feasted half a doz- en wapentakes with sirloins of beef, and sheep roasted whole, we could not attend to the me- chanism of a plate, no bigger than a crown piece, loaded with the legs of canary birds, dressed a la Pompadour. Let nobody start at my calling this a polite nation. It shall be the business of this paper to THE WORLD. [ No. 103. prove that we are the most polite nation in Eu- | rope; and that France must yield 'to usin the extreme delicacy of our refinements. I might urge, as a glaring instance in which that nation has forfeited her title to politeness, the imperti- nent spirit of her parliaments, which, though couched in ‘very civilly-worded remonstrances, is certainly at bottom very ill-bred. They have contradicted their monarch, and’ ‘crossed his clergy in a manner not to be defended by a peo- ple who ‘pique themselves upon complaisance and attentions.—But I abominate politics : and when I am writing in defence of politeness, shall certainly not ‘blend so coarse a‘subject with so‘civil a theme. It ‘is not virtue that consti. tutes the politeness of a nation, but the art of reducing vice to asystem that does not shock society. Politeness (as I understand the word) isa universal desire of pleasing others (that are not too much below one) in trifles, for a little time; and of making one’s intercourse with them ‘agreeable to both parties, by civility with- out ceremony, by ease without brutality, by complaisance without flattery, by acquiescence without sincerity. A clergyman who puts his patron into‘a sweat by driving him round the room, till he has found the coolest place for him, is not polite. When Bubbamira changes her handkerchief before you, and wipes her neck, rather than leave you alone while she should perform the refreshing office in the next room, I should think she is not polite. When Bonceur shivers on your dreary hill, where for twenty years you have been vainly endeavouring to raise reluctant plantations, and yet professes that only some of the trees have been a little kept back by the late dry season, he is not polite; he is more; he is kind. 'When Sophia is really pleased with the stench of a kennel, because her husband likes that she should go and look at a favourite litter, she must not pretend to polite- ness ; She is only a good wife. If this definition and these instances are allowed me, it will be difficult to maintain that the nations who have had the most extensive renown for politeness had any pretensions to it. ‘The Greeks called all the rest of the world barbarians: the Romans went still farther, and treated them as such. Alexander, the best-bred hero amongst the former, I must own, was polite, and showed great attentions for Darius’s family; but I ques- tion, if he had not extended his attentionis a lit- tle farther to the princess Statira, whether he could be pronounced quite well-bred. As to the Romans, so far were they from having any no- tion of treating foreigners with regard, that there is not one classic author that mentions a single ball or masquerade given to any stranger of dis- tinction. Nay, it was a common practice with them to tie kings, queens, and women of the first fashion of other countries in couples, like hounds, and drag them along their via Piccadillia in tr's No. 103.] umph for the entertainment of their shop-keep- ers and prentices. A practice that we should look upon with horror! What would the Ex- aminer have said, if the Duke of Marlborough had hauled Marshal Tallard to St. Paul’s or the ‘Royal Exchange, behind his chariot ? How de- ‘servedly would the I’rench have called us savages, if we had made Marshal Bellisle pace along the kennel in Fleet-street, or up Holborn, while some ‘of our ministers or generals called it an ovation ! The French, who attempt to succeed the Ro- mans in empire, and who affect to have suc- eveded them in politeness, have adopted the ‘same way of thinking, though so contrary to true good-breeding. ‘They have no idea that an Englishman or a German ever sees a suit of clothes till he arrives at Paris. They wonder, if you talk of a coach at Vienna, or of a soupe at London: and are so confident of having mono- polized all the arts of civilized life, that with the greatest complaisance in the world, they affirm to you, that they suppose your dukes and dutchesses live in caves, with only the property ‘of wider forests than ordinary, and that les mi lords Anglois, with a great deal of money, live ‘upon raw flesh, and ride races without breeches or saddles. ‘with wonder that shocks you, cr with indiffer- ence that inortifies you ; and if they put them- selves to the torture of conversing with you, after you have taken infinite pains to acquire their language, it is merely to inform you, that you neither know how to dress like a sensible man, nor to eat, drink, game, or divert yourself like achristian. UTHow different are our atten- ‘tions to foreigners ! how open our houses to their nobility, our purses to their tradesmen! But without drawing antitheses between our polite- ness and their ill-breeding, I shall produce an instance in which we have pushed our refine- ments on the duties of society beyond what the most civilized nations ever imagined. We are not only well-bred im common intercourse, but _ Our very crimes are transacted with such a soft- “ness of manners, that though they may injure, they are sure never to affront our neighbour. The instance I mean is, the extreme good-breed- ing that has been introduced into the science of Tobbery : which (considering how very frequent it is become) would really grow a nuisance to | Society, if the professors of it had not taken all ‘imaginable precautions to make it as civil a com- “merce as gaming, conveyancing, toad-eating, pimping, or any of the money-inveigling arts, which kave already got an established footing in ‘the world. A highwayman would be reckoned a brute, a monster, if he had not all manner of attention not to frighten the ladies: and none ‘ofthe great Mr. Nash’s laws are more sacred than that of restoring any favourite hauble to which a robbed lady has a particular partiality. | “ow turn your eyes to France. No people THE WORLD. At their houses they receive you 181 upon earth has less of the scavoir vivre than their banditti. No Tartar has less dowceur in his manner than a French highwayman. He takes your money without making you a bow, and your life without making you an apology. This obliges their government to keep up a numerous guél, a severe police, racks, gibbets, and twenty troublesome things, which might all be avoided, if they would only reckon and breed up their thieves to be good company. I know that some of our latest imported young gentlemen affirm that the Sieur Mandrieu, the terror of the east- ern provinces, learned to dance of Marseille himself, and has frequently supped with the in- comparable Jelliot. But till I hear whether he dies like a gentleman, I shall forbear to rank him with the petit-mattres of our own Tyburn. How extreme is the politesse of the latter! Mrs. Chenevix has not more insinuation when she sells a snuff-box of papier maché, or a bergamot toothpick-case, than a highwayman when he begs to know if you have no rings or bank-bills. An acquaintance of mine was robbed a few years ago, and very near shot through the head by the going off of a pistol of the accomplished Mr. M‘Lean; yet the whole affair was con- ducted with the greatest good-breeding on both sides. The robber, who had only taken a purse this way, because he had that morning been dis- appointed of marrying a great fortune, no sooner returned to his lodgings, than he sent the gentleman two letters of excuses, which, with less wit than the epistles of Voiture, had ten times more natural and easy politeness in the turn of their expression. In the postscript, he appointed a meeting at Tyburn, at twelve at night, where the gentleman might purchase again any trifles he had lost ; and my friend has been blamed for not accepting the rendezvous, as it seemed liable to be construed by ill-natured people into a doubt of the honour of a man, who had given him all the satisfaction in his power, for having unluckily been near shooting him through the head. The Lacedemonians were the only people, except the English, who seem to have put rob- bery on a right foot ; and I have often wonder- ed how a nation that had delicacy enough to understand robbing on the highway, should at the same time have been so barbarous, as to esteem poverty, black-broth, and virtue ! We had no highwaymen, that were men of fashion, till we had expleded plum-porridge. But of all the gentlemen of the road who have conformed to the manners of the great world, none seem to me to have carried true politeness so far as a late adventurer, whom I beg leave to introduce to my readers under the title of the visiting highwayman. This refined person made it a rule to rob none but people he visited ; and whenever he designed an impromptu of that kind, dressed himself in a rich suit, went to the 182 lady’s house, asked for her, and not finding her at home; left his name with her porter, after inquiring which way she was gone. He then followed, or met her on her return home, pro- posed his demands, which are generally for some favourite ring or snuff-box that he had seen her wear, and which he had a mind to wear for her sake; and then letting her know that he had been to wait on her, took his leave with a cool bow, and without scampering away as other men of fashion do from a visit with really the appearance of having stolen something. As I do not doubt but such of my fair readers as propose being at home this winter will be im- patient to send this charming smuggler ( Charles Fleming by name) a card for their assemblies, J am sorry to tell them that he was hanged last week. SECS VCBEVSVCVVATVUVVTET FVLBVA ST VLSTVSTTTGVIVATCTATVUVUEVT Ss No. 104.] Txurspay, Dec. 26, 1754, Seria cum possim, quod delectantia malim Scribere, tu causa es, Lector. MART, That humour I to gravity prefer Must be imputed to my reader’s taste. Tuts being the day after the festival of Christ- mas, as also the last Thursday of the old year, I feel myself in a manner called upon for a paper suitable to the solemnity of the occasion. But upon reflection I find it necessary to reject any such consideration, for the same reason that I have hitherto declined giving too serious a turn to the generality of these essays. Papers of pleasantry, enforcing some lesser duty, or repre- hending some fashionable folly, will be of more real use than the finest writing and most virtu- ous moral, which few-or none will be at the pains to read through. I do not mean to re- proach the age with having no delight in any thing serious ; but I cannot help observing, that the demand for moral essays (and the present times have produced many excellent ones) has of late fallen very short of their acknowledged merits. The world has always considered amusement to be the principal end of a public paper: and though it is the duty of a writer to take care that some useful moral be inculcated, yet unless he be happy in the peculiar talent of couching it under the appearance of mere entertainment, his compositions will be useless: his readers will sleep over his unenlivened instructions, or be disgusted at his too frequently overhauling old worn qut subjects, and retailing what is to be found in every library in the kingdom. Innocent mirth and levity are more appar- ently the province of such an undertaking as THE WORLD. i [No. 104. this: but whether they are really so or not, — while mankind agree to think so, the writer who shall happen to be of a different opinion must soon find himself obliged either to lay aside his prejudices or his pen. Nor ought it to be supposed in the present times, when every general topic is exhausted, that there can be any other way of engaging the attention than by re- presenting the manners as fast as they change, and enforcing the novelty of them with all the powers of drawing, and heightening it with all the colouring of humour. ‘The only danger is, lest the habit of levity should tend to the ad- mission of any thing contrary to the design of such a work. To this I can only say, that the greatest care has. been taken in the course of these papers to weigh and consider the tendency of every sentiment and expression; and if any thing improper has obtained a place in them, I can _ truly assert that it has been owing only to that — inadvertency which attends a various publica-_ tion; and which is so ineyitable, that (however extraordinary it may seem to those who are now — to be told it) it is notorious that there are papers printed in the Guardian which were written in artful ridicule of the very undertakers of that work, and their most particular friends. h In writings of humour, figures are sometimes _ used of so delicate a nature, that it shall often | happen that some people will see things in a direct contrary sense to what the author and the _ majority of readers understand them. To such the most innocent irony may appear irreligion | or wickedness. But in the misapprehension of | this figure, it is not always that the reader is to | blame. A great deal of irony may seem very | clear to the writer, which may not be so pro- | perly managed as to be safely trusted to the various capacities and apprehensions of all sorts — of readers. In such cases the conductor of a | paper will be liable to various kinds of censure, though in reality nothing can be proved against him but want of judgment. Having given my general reasons against the too frequent writing of serious papers, it may not be improper to speak more particularly of the season which gave rise to these reflections, | and to show that as matters stand at present, it would not even be a sanction for such kind of compositions. Our ancestors considered Christ- mas in the double light of a holy commemora- tion, and a cheerful festival; and accordingly distinguished it by devotion, by vacation from business, by merriment and hospitality. They’ seemed eagerly bent to make themselves and every body about them happy. With what punctual zeal did they wish one another a merry Christ- mas / and what an omission would it have been — thought, to have concluded a letter without the’ compliments of the season! ‘The great hall re-' sounded with the tumultuous joys of servants - and tenants, and the gambols they played served . No. 105.] as amusement to the lord of the mansion and his family, who, by encouraging every art con- ducive to mirth and entertainment, endeavoured to soften the rigour of the season, and to miti- “gate the influence of winter. What a fund of delight was the choosing King and Queen upon Twelfth-night! and how greatly ought we to regret the neglect of mince-pies, which, besides the idea of merry-making inseparable from them, were always considered as the test of schismatics! How zealously were they swal- lowed by the orthodox, to the utter confusion of all fanatical recusants! If any country gentleman should be so unfortunate in this age as to lie under a suspicion of heresy, where will he find so easy a method of acquitting himself, as by the ordeal of plum-porridge ? _ To account for a revolution which has render- ed this season (so eminently distinguished for- merly) now so little different from the rest of the year, will be no difficult task. The share which devotion had in the solemnization of Christmas is greatly reduced ; and it is not to be expected, that those who have no religion at any other time of the year should suddenly bring their minds from a habit of dissipation to a temper not very easy to be taken up with the day. As to the influence which vacation from business and festal mirth have had in the celebration of the holidays, they can have no particular effect in the present times, when almost every day is spent like an anniversary rejoicing, when every dinner is a feast, the very tasting of our wines hard drinking, and our common play gaming. It is not therefore to be wondered at, that there is nothing remaining in this town to characterize the time, but the orange and rosemary, and the bellman’s verses. The Romans allotted this month to the cele- bration of the feast called the Saturnalia. ring these holidays every servant had the liberty of saying what he pleased to his master j ‘with impunity. i Age, Jibertate Decembri, Quando ita majores voluerunt, utere.— I wish with all my heart that the same indul- gence was allowed to servants in these times, provided that it would be a restraint upon their licentiousness through the rest of the year. The most fatal revolution, and what princi- vally concerns this season, is the too general desertion of the country, the great scene of hospitality. Of all the follies of this age, it is the least to be accounted for, how small a part of such as throng to London in the winter are those who either go upon the plea of business, or to amnse themselves with what were formerly ralled the pleasures of the place. There are the theatres, music, and I may add many other ok THE WORLD. Du- ; 183 (entertainments, which are only to he had in perfection in the metropolis; but it is really a fact, that three parts in four of those who crowd the houses which are already built, and who are now taking leases of foundations which are to be houses as fast as hands can make them, come to town with the sole view of passing their time over a card-table. To what this is owing I am at a loss to conceive ; but I have at least the satisfaction of saying, that I have not contributed to the growth of this folly; nor do I find, upon a review of all my papers, that I have painted this town in such glowing and irresistible colours, as to have caused this forcible attraction. I have not so much as given an ironical commendation of crowds, which seem to be the great allure- ments; nor have I any where attempted to put the pleasures of the town in competition with those of the country. On the contrary, it has been, and will be, my care, during the continu- ance of this work, to delineate the manners and fashions of a town-life so truly and impartially, as rather to satisfy than excite the curiosity of a country reader, who may be desirous to know what is doing in the world. If at any time I should allow the metropolis its due praises, as being the great mart for arts, sciences, and erudition, | ought not to be accused of influenc- ing those persons who pay their visits to it upon very different considerations: nor can any thing I shall say, of the tendency above-men- tioned, be pleaded in excuse for coming up to town merely to play at cards. P. S.. It would be dealing ungratefally by my correspondents, if at the close of the second year I forgot to acknowledge the many obliga- | tions Lowe them. It may also be necessary to add, that several letters are come to hand, which are not rejected, but postponed. eS Se es eee ee | DVVUVVVCVCAA SVT BT VVVT SUTVTUVUTBVUVVESVwsew]|isa BSRWVVAWAVWA ‘ No. 105.] Tuurspay, Jan. 2,.1755. As I am desirous of beginning the new year well, I shall devote this paper to the service of my fair country-women, for whom I have so tender a concern, that. I examine into their con- duct with a kind of parental vigilance and affection. I sincerely wish to approve, but at the same time am determined to admonish and reprimand, whenever, for their sakes, I may, think it necessary. I will not, as far as in me lies, suffer the errors of their minds to disgrace those beautiful dwellings in which they are lodged ; nor will I, on the other hand, silently and quietly allow the affectation and abuse of their persons to reflect contempt and ridiculs upon their understandings. 184 THE Native artless beauty has long been the pecu- liar distinction of my fair fellow-subjects. Our poets have long sung their genuine lilies and roses, and our painters have long endeavoured, though in vain, to imitate them; beautiful nature mocked all their art. But I am now informed by persons of unquestioned truth and sagacity, and indeed I-have observed but too many instances of it myself, that a great num- ber of those inestimable originals, by a strange inversion of things, give the lie to their poets, and servilely copy their painters; degrading and disguising themselves, into werse copies of bad copies of themselves. It is even whispered about town of that excellent artist, Mr. Lio- tard, that he lately refused a fine woman to draw her picture, alleging that he never copied any body’s works but his own and God Almighty’s. I have taken great pains to inform myself of the growth and extent of this heinous crime of seif-painting (I had almost given it a harder name;) and I am sorry to say, that I have found it to be extremely epidemical. The present state of it, in its several degrees, appears to be this. The inferior class of women, who always ape their betters, make use of a sort of rough-cast, little superior to the common lath and plaster, which eomes very cheap, and can be afforded out of the casual profits of the evening. The class immediately above these paint occa- sionally, either in size or oil, which, at sixpence per foot square, comes within a moderate weekly allowance. The generality of women of fashion make use of a superfine stucco, or plaster of Paris highly glazed, which does not require a daily renewal, and will, with some slight occasional repairs, last as long as their curls, and stand a pretty strong collision. . As for the transcendent and divine pearl powder, with an exquisite varnish superinduced to fix it, it is by no means common, but it is re- served for ladies not only of the first rank, but of the most considerable fortunes ; it being so very costly, that few pinmonies can keep a face in it, asa face of condition ought to be kept. Perhaps the same number of pearls whole might be more acceptable to some lovers, than in pow- der upon the lady’s face. I would now fain undeceive my fair country- women of an error, which, gross as it is, they too fondly entertain. ‘They flatter themselves that this artificial is not discoverable, or distin- guishable from native white. But I beg leave to assure them, that however well prepared the colour may be, or however skilful the hand that lays it on, it is immediately discovered by the _ eye at a considerable distance, and by the nose upon a nearer approach; and I overheard the other day, at the coffee-house, Captain Phelim M‘Manus complaining, that when warm upon 4 WORLD. [No. 105. the face it had the most nauseous taste imagi- nable. Thus offensive to three of the senses, it is not, probably, very inviting to a fourth. Talking upon this subject lately with a friend, he said, that in his opinion a woman who paint ed white gave the public a pledge of her chastity, by fortifying it with a wall, which she must be sure that no man would desire either to batter or scale. But I confess ] did not agree with him as te the motive, though I didas to the cen- sequences ; which are, I believe, in general, that they lése both operam et oleum. I have observed that many of the sagacious landlords of this great metropolis who let lodgings do at the be- ginning of the winter new vamp, paint, and stucco the fronts of their houses, in order to catch the eyes of passengers, and engage lodgers. Now, to say the truth, I cannot help suspecting that this is rather the real motive of my fair countrywomen, when they thus incrust them- selves. But, alas! those outward repairs will never tempt people to inquire within. The cases are greatly different ; in the former they both adern and preserve, in the latter they disgust and destroy. In order therefore to put an effectual stop to this enormity, and save, as fav as I am able, the native carnations, the eyes, the teeth, the breath, — and the reputations of my beautiful fellow-sub-. jects, I here give notice, that if, after one calendar month from the date hereof (I allow that time for the consumption of stock in hand) I shall | receive any authentic testimonies (and I haye | my spies abroad) of this sophistication and adul- | teration of the fairest works of nature, I am resolved to publish at full length the names of the delinquents. This may perhaps at first sight seem a bold measure ; and actions of scan dal and defamation may be thought of: but | go upon safe ground ; for before I tock this re-| solution, I was détermined to know all the worst possible consequences of it to myself, and | therefore consulted one of the most eminent counsel in England, an old acquaintance and friend of mine, whose opinion I shall here most faithfully relate. | When I had stated my case to him as clearly as I was able, he stroked his chin for some time, : picked his nose, and hemmed thrice, in order t¢ : give me his very best opinion. ‘* By publishing the names at full length in your paper, I hum: bly conceive,’ said he, “that you avoid all the troublesome consequences of inuendoes.. Bui the present question, if I apprehend it right seems to be, whether you may thereby be liabh to any other action, or actions, which, for brevity sake, I wili not here enumerate. Now by wha) occurs to me off-hand, and without consulting my books, Il humbly apprehend that no actior will lie against you; but, on the contrary, I di conceive, and indeed take upon me to affirm that you may proceed against these criminals a No. 106.] for such I will be bold to call them, either by action or indictment: the crime being of a pub- lic and a heinous nature. Here it is not only the suppressio veri, which is highly penal,. but-the crimen falsi too. An action poynilar, or of qui tamt, would certainly lie ; but however I should certainly prefer an indictment upon the statutes of forgery, 2 Geo. II. chap. 25, and 7 Geo. II. chap. 22; for forgery, I maintain it, it is. The fact, as you well know, will be tried by a jury, of whom one moiety will doubéless be plasterers ; by that it will unquestionably be found.’’ Here my counsel paused for some time, and hemmed pretty often; however I remained silent, ob- serving plainly by his countenance that he had not finished, but was thinking on. Ina little time he resumed his discourse,»and said, “ All things considered, Mr. Fitz- Adam, I would ad- THE WORLD. vise you to bring your indictment upon the | Black Act, 9 Geo. I. chap. 22, which isa very fine penal statute.” I confess I could not check the sudden impulse of surprise which this occasioned in me; and interrupting him perhaps too hasti- ly, ‘ What, Sir,’ said I, ‘indict a woman up- the Black Act for painting white? Here my counsel interrupting me in his turn, said with some warmth, “ Mr. Fitz-Adam, Mr. Fitz- Adam, you, like too many others, have not suf- ficiently considered all the beauty, good sense, and solid reasoning of the law. The law, Sir, Jet me tell you, abhors all refinements, subtleties, and quibblings upon,words. What is black or white to the law? Do you imagine that the law views colours by the rule of optics? No, God forbid it should. The law makes Dlack white, or white black, according to the rules of justice. The law considers the meaning, the intention, the quo animo of all actions, not thelr external modes. Here a woman disguises her face with white, as the Waltham people did with black, and with the same fraudulent and felonious in. tention. ‘Though the colour be different, the guilt is the same in the intendment of the law. It is felony without benefit of clergy, and the punishment is death.”” As I perceived that my friend had now done, I asked his pardon for the improper interruption I had given him, owned _ mnyself convinced, and offered him a fee, which _ he tock by habit, but soon returned, by reflec- _ tion upon our Jong acquaintance and friendship. This I hope will be sufficient to make such of way fair countrywomen as are conscious of their guilt seriously consider their danger; though perhaps, from my natural lenity, I shall not | proceed against them with the utmost rigour of _ the law, nor follow the example of the ingenious author of our last musical drama, who strings up a whole row of Penelope’s maids of honour. I shall therefore content myself with publishing the names of the delinquents as abovementioned 3 bat others may possibly not have the same in- _dulgence; and the law is open for all, aa a eS ey 185 I shall conclude this paper with a word or two of serious advice to all my readers of all sorts and sexes. Let us follow nature, our honest and faithful guide; and be upon. our guard against the flattering delusions of art. Nature may be helped and improved, but will not be forced or changed. All attempts in direct oppo- sition to her are attended with ridicule ; many with guilt. The woman to whom nature has denied beauty, in vain endeavours to make it by art: as the man to whom nature has denied wit, becomes ridiculous by the affectation of. it: they both defeat their own purposes, and are in the case of the valetudinarian, who creates or in- creases his distempers by his remedies, and dies of his immoderate desire to live, SDB TVTVCBVVT VT SVT GHVIESSVTEVVVI SSS VT VCEVSUosti {SVVesesevwesvse No. 106.] Tuurspay, Jan. 9, 1755. Satis Eloquentie. SALLUST. Abounding in eloquence, 2 Havine received a letter of a very extraordinary nature, 1 think myself obliged to give it to the public, though I am afraid many of my readers may object to theterms of art, of which I can- not divest it! but I shall make no apology for what may any way tend to the advancement of: a science, which is now become so fashionable, popular and flourishing. MR. FITZ-ADAM, As all sorts of persons are at this present juncture desirous of becoming speakers ; and as many of them, through the neglect of parents or otherwise, have been totally ungrounded in the first principles or rudiments of rhetoric, I have with great pains and judgment selected such particulars as may most immediately, and with- out such rudiments, conduce to the perfection of that' science, and which, if duly attended to, will teach grown gentlemen to speak in public in so complete a manner, that neither they nor their audience shall discover the want of an earlier application. I do not address myself to you like those who correspond with the daily papers, in order to puff off my expeditious method by referring you to the many persons of quality whom I have taught in four-and-twenty hours; I choose openly and fairly to submit my plan to your in- spection, which will show you that I teach rather how to handle antagonists than argu- ments. I distinguish what kind of man to cut with a syllogism, and whom to overwhelm with the: sorites; whom to ensnare with the crecodile, Bb 186 and whom to hamper in the horns of the dilem- ma. Against the pert, young, bold asserter, | direct the arguinentwm ad verecundiam. ‘This is frequently the most decisive argument that can be used in a populous assembly. If, for instance, a forward talker should advance that such an ancient poet is dull, you put him at once both to silence and shame, by saying, that Aristotle has commended him. . If the dispute be about a Greek word, and he pronounces it to be inele- gant, and never used by any author of credit, you confound him by telling him it is in Aris- tophanes ; and you need not discover that it is in the mouth of a bird, a frog, ora Scythian who talks broken Greek. To explain my argumentum ad ignorantiam (which appears to be of the least use, because it is only-to be employed against a modest man), let us suppose a person speaking with diffidence of some transaction on the continent : you may ask him with a sneer, Pray, Sir, were you ever abroad ? If he has related a fact from one of our American islands, you may assert he can know nothing of the affairs of that island, for you were born there ; and to prove his ignorance, ask him what latitude it is in. In loquacious crowds, you will have much more frequent occasions for using my argumen- tum ad hominem: and the minute particulars into which men are led by egotism will give you great advantages in pressing them with conse- quences drawn from their supposed principles. You may also take away the force of a man’s argument by concluding from some equivocal expression, that he is a Jacobite, a republican, a courtier, a methodist, a freethinker, or a Jew. You may fling at his country, or profession ; he talks like an apothecary, you believe him to be a tooth-drawer, or know that he isatailor. This argument might be of great use at the bar in examining witnesses, if the lawyers would not think it inconsistent with the dignity and politeness of their profession. By this sketch of my plan you may see that my pupils may most properly be said to study men: and the principal thing I endeavour to teach them.from that knowledge is, the art of discovering the different strength of their com- petitors, so as to know when to answer, and when to lie by. And as I entirely throw out of my system the argumentum ad judiciwm, which, according to Mr. Locke, “ is the using of proofs drawn from any of the foundations of know- ledge,’ there will be nothing in my academy that will have the least appearance of a school, and of consequence nothing to make a gentleman either afraid or ashamed of attending it. Inquire for A. B. at the bar of the Bedford coffee- house. As the foregoing letter so fully explains itself, 1 shall take no other notice of it ; but in com- | THE WORLD. [No. 106. plaisance to my correspondent, shall throw to- gether a few loose observations on our: present numerous societies for the propagation of elo- quence. And here I cannot but please myself with the reflection, that as dictionaries have been invented, by the help of which those who cannot study may learn arts and sciences ; here is now found a method of teaching them to those who cannot read. These foundations are instituted in the very spirit of Lycurgus, who discountenanced all written laws, and established in their stead a system of policy called rhetra, from its being spoken, which he ordered to be the daily subject of his discourse, and ordained mixed asesmblies for that end,. where the young might be taught, by attending to the conversation of the old. In Turkey, where the majority of the inhabi- tants can neither write nor read, the charitable care of that considerate people has provided a method of compensating the want of those arts, and even the use of the press, by having a relay of narrators ready to be alternately elevated on a stool in every coffee-house, to supply the office of newspapers and pamphlets to the Turkish quidnuncs and critics. Speech being the faculty which exalts man above the rest of the creation, we may consider eloquence as the talent which gives him the most distinguished pre-eminence over his own species, and yet Juvenal makes no scruple to declare, that it would have been better for Cicero to have been a mere poetaster, and for Demos- thenes to have worked under his father as a blacksmith, than to have frequented the schools of rhetoric. Diis ille adversis genitus fatoque sinistro, Quem pater, ardentis masse fuligine lippus, A fornace et forcipibus, gladiosque parante Incude, ac luteo Vulcano, ad Rhetora misit. Iam glad to find that our blacksmiths and other artizans have a nobler way of thinking, and the spirit to do for themselves what the father of Demosthenes did for him. And I see this with the greater pleasure, as I hope I may consider the seminaries which are daily instituted as rising up in support of truth, virtue and re-. ligion, against the libels of the press. It is not to be doubted but that we are safe on the side of oral argumentation, as no man can have the face to utter before witnesses such shameful doctrines as have too frequently appeared in- anonymous pamphlets. If it should ever he objected that the frequency of such assemblies may possibly, in time, produce sophistry, quib- bling, immorality and scepticism, because this. was the case at Athens, so famous, for its numerous schools of philosophy, where, as Milton says, Much of the soul they talk, but all awry ; And in themselves seek virtue, and to themselve: No. 107.] All glory arrogate, to God give none: Rather accuse him under usual names, Fortune and Fate :—— J answer, that these false doctrines of God and the soul were thus bandied about by a parcel of heathens, blind and ignorant at best, but for the greatest part the most useless, idle and profligate members of the state; and that it is not there- fore to be apprehended, in this enlightened age, that men of sober lives, and profitable profes- sions, will run after sophists, to waste their | time, and unhinge their faith and opinions. However, as the perverseness of human nature is strange and unaccountable, if I should find these modern schools in any way to contribute to the growth of infidelity or libertinism, I here- by give notice that I shall publicly retract my good opinion of them, notwithstanding all my prepossessions in favour of eloquence. Though the following letter is written with all the spleen and acrimony of a rival orator, I think myself obliged from the impartiality I observe to all my correspondents, to give it a. place in this paper. Sir, As all intruders and interlopers are ever dis- agreeable to established professions, I am so in- censed against some late pretenders to oratory, that though I daily fulminate my displeasure er cathedra, 1 now apply to you for a more exten- sive proclamation of my resentment. I have been for many years an orator of the stage itinerant ; and from my earliest youth was bred, under the auspices of Apollo, to those two beloved arts of that deity, physic and eloquence: not like those pretenders, who betray not only a deficiency of erudition, but also 1 most mani- fest want of generosity; a virtue which our professors have ever boasted. Universal bene- volence is our fundamental principle. We raise no poll-tax on our hearers: our words are gra- tuitous, like the air and light in which they are delivered. _mercenary spirits; my audiences have only been led aside by novelty ; they will soon grow weary of such extortioners, and return to the old stage. But the misfortune is, that these innovations have turned the head of a most necessary ser- vant of mine, commonly known by the name of Merry Andrew: and I must confess it gives me real uneasiness when one of his wit and parts éalks of setting up against me. Yours, CIRCUMFORANEOUS. THE WORLD. I have therefore no jealousy of these | 187 No. 107.] THuxrspay, Jan. 16, 1755. —— Quicquid Grecia mendax Audet in historia, ——————. JUV. Whatever lying Greece Dares to denominate historic truth. As the French have lately introduced an entire new method of writing history, and as it is to be presumed we shall be as ready to ape them in this as in all other fashions ; I shall lay before the public a loose sketch of such rules as I have been able hastily to throw together for present use, till some great and distinguished critic may have leisure to collect his ideas, and publish a more complete and regular system of the modern art of writing history. For the sake of brevity, I shall enter at once upon my subject, and address my instruction to the future historian. Remember to prefix a long preface to your history, in which you will have a right to say | whatever comes into your head: for all that re- | lates to your history may with propriety be ad- mitted, and all that is foreign to the purpose may claim a place in it, because it is a preface. It will be sufficient therefore, if I give you only a hint upon the occasion, which if you man- age with dexterity, or rather audacity, will stand you in great stead. Be sure you seize every opportunity of intro- ducing the most extravagant commendations of Tacitus; but be careful how you énter too mi- nutely into any particulars you may have heard of that writer, for fear of discovering that you have only heard of them. The safest way will be to keep to the old custom of abusing aj] other historians, and vilifying them in comparison of him. But in the execution of this, let me en- treat you to doa little violence to your modesty, by avoiding every insinuation that may set him an inch above yourself. Before you enter upon the work, it will be necessary to divest yourself entirely of all regard for truth. ‘To conquer this prejudice may per- haps cost you some pains; but till you have ef- fectually overcome it, you will find innumerable difficulties continually obtruding themselves to thwart your design of writing an entertaining history in the modern taste. The next thing is, to find out some shrewd reason for rejecting ali such authentic papers as are come to light since the period you are writ- ing of was last considered ; for if you cannot cleverly keep clear of them, you will be obliged to make use of them ; and then your performance may be called dull and dry ; which is a censure you ought as carefully to avoid, as to contend for that famous compliment which was paid the author of the history of Charles the Twelfth, by | 188 his most illustrious patron, who is himself an historian, Plus beaw que la verité. I am aware of the maxim of Polybius, “that history void of truth is an empty shadow.” But the motto of this paper may serve to convict that dogmatist of singularity, by showing that his own countrymen disavowed his pretended axiom even toa proverb. Though we may al- low truth to the first historian of any particu- lar era, the nature of things requires that truth must gradually recede, in proportion to the fre- quency of treating the same period; or else the last hand would be absolutely precluded from every advantage of novelty. It is fit therefore that we modernize the maxim of Polybius, by substituting the word wit in the place of trudh ; but as all writers are not blessed with a ready store of wit, it may be necessary to lay down some other rules for the compiling of history, in which it is expedient that we avail ourselves of all the artifices which either have been, or may be made use of, to surprise, charm, sadden, or confound the mind of the reader. In treating of times that have been often written upon, there can be no such thing as ab- solute novelty ; therefore the only method to be taken in such cases is, to give every occurrence anewturn. You may take the side of Philip of Macedon against Demosthenes and the obsti- nate republicans; and you will have many in- stances to show how wantonly whole seas of blood have been shed for the sake of those two infatuating sounds, liberty, and religion. 1t was a lucky hit of an English biographer, that of writing the vindication and panegyric of Richard the Third: and I would advise you to attempt something of the same nature. For instance: you may undertake to show the unreasonable- ness of our high opinion of Queen Elizabeth, and our false notions of the happiness of her government. For as to lives and characters, you have one principal rule to observe ; and that is, to elevate the bad, and depreciate the good. But in writing the characters of others, always keep your own (if you have any value for it) in view ; and never allow to any great personage a virtue which you either feel the want of, or a notorious disregard for. . You may question the moral character of Socrates, the chastity of Cy- rus, the constancy of the martyrs, the piety and sincerity of the reformers, the bravery of Crom- well, and the military talents of King William ; and you need never fear the finding authorities to support you in any detraction, among the writers of anecdotes; since Dion Cassius, a grave historian, has confidently asserted that Cicero prostituted his wife, trained up his son in drunkenness, committed incest with his daughter, and lived in adultery with Cerellia. ] come next to ornaments ; under which head _I consider sentences, prodigies, digressions, and ‘ descriptions. On the two first I shall not de- THE WORLD. [ No. 107. | tain you, as it will be sufficient to recommend a free use of them, and to be new, if you can. Of digressions you may make the greatest use, by calling them to your aid whenever you are at a fault. If you want to swell your history toa folio, and have only matter for an octavo (sup- pose, for example, it were the stery of Alexan- der), you may enter into an inquiry of what that adventurer would have done, if he had not been poisoned; whether his conquests, or Kouly Khan’s, were the most extraordinary ; what would have been the consequence of his march- ing westward; and whether he would have beat the Duke of Marlbcrough. You may also in- troduce in this place a dissertation upon fire- arms, or the art of fortification. In descrip- tions you must. not be sparing, but outgo every thing that has been attempted before you. Let your battles be the most bloody, ‘your sieges the most obstinate, your castles the most im- pregnable, your commanders the most consum- mate, and their soldiers the most intrepid. In describing a sea-fight, let the enemy’s fleet be the most numerous, and their ships the largest that ever were known. Do not scruple to burn a thousand ships, and turn their crews half- scorched into the sea; there let them survive a while by swimming, that you may have an op- portunity of jamming them between their own and the enemy’s vessels: and when you have gone through the dreadful distresses of the ac- tion, conclude by blowing upthe admiral’s own ship, and scattering officers of great birth and bravery in the air. In the sacking of a town, murder all the old men and young children in the cruelest manner, and in the most sacred re- treats. Devise some ingenious insults on the modesty of matrons. Ravish a great number of virgins, and see that they are all in the height of beauty and purity of innocence. When you have fired all the houses, and cut the throats of ten times the number of inhabitants they con- tained, exercise all manner of barbarity on the dead bodies. And that you may extend the scene of misery, let some escape, but all naked. Tear their uncovered limbs; cut their feet for want of shoes; harden the hearts of the pea- sants against them, and arm the elements with unusual rigour for their persecution; drench them with rain, benumb them with frost, and terrify them with thunder and lightning. If in writing voyages and travels you have occasion to send messengers through an unin- habited country, do not be over-tender or scru- pulous how you treat them. You may stop them at rivers, and drown all their servants and horses: infest them with fleas, lice, and mus- quitoes; and when they have been eaten suf- ficieutly with these vermin, you may starve them to a desire of eating one another; and if | you think it will be an ornament to your his- tory, e’en cast the lots and set them to dinner. No. 108. ] But if you do this, you must take care that the savage chief to whom they are sent does not treat them with man’s flesh ; because it will be no novelty: I would rather advise you to alter the bill of fare to an elepbant, a rhinoceros, or an alligator. The king and his court will of course be drinking out ef human skulls; but what sort of liquor you must fill them with to surprise a European, I must own I cannot con- ceive. In treating of the Indian manners and customs, you may make a long chapter of their conjuring, their idolatrous ceremonies, and su- perstitions ; which will give you a fair opportu- nity of saying something smart on the religion of your own country. On their marriages you cannot dwell too long; it isa pleasing subject, and always, in those countries, leads to poly- gamy, which will afford occasion for reflections moral and entertaining. When your messen- gers have their audience of the king, you may as well drop the business they went upon, and take notice only of his civilities and politeness in of- fering to them the choice of all the beauties of his court ; by which you will make them amends for all the difficulties you have led them into. I cannot promise you much success in the speeches of your savages, unless it were possible to hit upon some bolder figures and metaphors than those which have been so frequently used. In the speeches of a civilized people, insert whatever may serve to display your own learn- ing, judgment, or wit; and let no man’s low extraction be a restraint on the advantages of your education. If in an harangue of Wat ‘Tyler, a quotation from the classics should come in pat, or in a speech of Muley Moluch a sen- tence from Mr. Locke, let no consideration de- prive your history of such ornaments. To conclude, I would advise you in general not to be sparing of your speeches, either in number or length: and if you also take care to add a proper quantity of reflections, your work will be greedily bought up by all members of oratories, reasoning societies, and other talkative assemblies of this most eloquent metropolis. PSS UVP VSVVVVU VS VSBVWITTS DVVVVVS VG FVSVUIVS VS SVS VVVEV VWI VT ow No. 108. j Tuurspbay, JAN. 23, 1'755. Hos est Roma decedere? Quos ego homines effugi, cum in hos incidi ? CicERO ad ATTICUM. Out of bad society into worse. I wave generally observed when a man is talk- ing of his country-house, that the first question usually asked him is, “ Are you in a good “neighbourhood?” From the frequency of this inquiry, one would be apt to imagine that the ‘principal happiness of a countryJife was gene- THE WORLD. ‘ 189 rally understood to result from the neighbour- hood: yet whoever attends to the answer com- monly made to this question will be of a con- trary opinion. Ask it of a lady, and you will be sure to hear her exclaim, ‘* Thank God! we have no neighbours !’” which may serve to con- vince you that you have paid your court very ill, in supposing that a woman of fashion can endure the insipid conversation of a country neighbourhood. The man of fortune considers every inferior neighbour as an intruder on his sport, and quarrels with him for killing that game with which his very servants are cloyed. If his neighbour be an equal, he is of conse- quence more averse to him, as being in perpetual contest with him as arival. Tis sense of a su- perior may be learned from those repeated ad- vertisements, which every body must have ob- served in the public papers, recommending a house upon sale, for being ten miles distant from a lord. The humorist hides himself from his neighbour ; the man of arrogance despises him ; the modest man is afraid of him; and the penu- rious considers a length of uninhabited fen as the best security for his beef and ale. If we trace this spirit to its source, we shall find it to proceed partly from pride and envy, and partly from the high opinion that men are apt to entertain of their own little clans or socie- ties, which the living in large cities tends greatly to increase, and which is always accompanied with a contempt for those who happen to be strangers to such societies, and consequently a general prejudice against the unknown. ‘The truth of the matter is, that persons unknown are, for that very reason, persons that we have no desire to know. A man of a sociable disposition, upon coming into an inn, inquires of the landlord what com- pany he has in the house: the landlord tells him, “ There is a fellow of a college, a lieute- nant of a man of war, a lawyer, a merchant, and the captain in quarters ;”’ to which he never fails to add, “and I dare say, Sir, that any of them will be very glad of your company ;’’ know- ing that men drink more together than when alone. “ Have you nobody else?”’ says the guest sullenly. “‘ We have nobody else, Sir.”’ ‘¢ Then get me my supper as fast as you can, and I’ll go to bed.”” The same behaviour is practised by each of these gentlemen in his turn ; and for no other reason than that none of the company happens to be either of his profession or ac- quaintance. But if we look with the least degree of won- der at the manner in which the greatest part of mankind behave:to strangers, it should astonish us to see how they treat those whom they are intimately acquainted with, and whom they rank under the sacred titles of neighbours and friends. Yet such is the malignity of human nature, thet the smallest foible, the mest venial 190 inadvertency, or the slightest infirmity, shall . ' should oblige all sorts of people, by affording generally occasion contempt, hatred, or ridicule, in those very persons who ought to be the fore- most to conceal or palliate such failings. Death, accident, rebbery, and ruin, instead of exciting compassion, are only considered as the great sources of amusement to a neighbourhood. Does any disgrace befal a family? The tongues and pens of all their acquaintance are instantly em- ployed to disperse it through the kingdom. Nor is their alacrity in divulging the misfortunes of a neighbour at all more remarkable than their humanity in accounting for them. ‘They are sure to ascribe every trivial evil to his folly, and every great ‘one to his vices. But these are slight instances of malevolence: your true neigh- bour’s spleen is never effectually roused but by prosperity. An unexpected succession to a large fortune ; the discovery of a mine upon your estate ; a prize in the lottery; but most of all, a fortunate marriage, shall employ the malice and invention a neighbourhood for years together. Envy isingenious, and will sometimes find out the prettiest conceits imaginable to serve her purposes ; yet it is observable that she delights chiefly in contradiction. If you excel in any of the elegant arts, she pronounces at once that you have no taste; if in wit, you are dull; if you live in apparent harmony with your wife and family, she is sure you are unhappy; if in affluence or splendour, she knows that you are a beggar. It must indeed be confessed that envy does meet with great provocations; and there are people in the world who take extraordinary pains to appear much more happy, rich, vir- tuous, and considerable, than they really are: but, on the other hand, were they to take equal care to avoid such appearances, they would not be able absolutely to escape her rancour. I was entertained last summer by a friend in the country, who seemed to have formed very just ideas of a neighbourhood. ‘This gentleman had a considerable estate left him, which he had little reason to expect ; and having no particular passion to gratify, it was indifferent to him how he disposed of this large addition to his income. He had no desire of popularity, but had a very great dislike to an ill name; which made him altogether as anxious to screen himself from de- traction, as others are te acquire applause. Some weeks passed away in that common dilemma into which an increase of fortune throws every thinking man, who knows that by hoarding up he must become the aversion, and by squander- ing the contempt, of all his neighbours. Bui disliking the appearance of parsimony more than extravagancy, he proposed laying out a consider- able sum allt once, upon rebuilding his house: but that design was soon over-ruled by the con- sideration that it would be said he had destroyed a very convenient mansion fur the sake of erect- ing a showy outside. He next determined to THE WORLD. . [ No. 108. new-model his gardens, from an opinion that he bread to the industrious, and pleasant walks to the idle: but recollecting that in the natural beauties of his grounds he had great advantages over the old gardens of his neighbours, and from thence knowing that he must become the object of their spleen and abuse, he laid aside also that invidious design. In the same manner he was obliged to reject every proposal of expense, that might in any way be considered as a monument of superiority ; therefore, to avoid the other cen- sure of penuriousness, he resolved at last to pro- cure the best cook that could be had for money. Irom that time he has taken no thought but to equip himself and his attendants in the plainest manner, keeping religiously to the sole expense of a constant good table, and avoiding in that, as well as in every thing else, whatever has the least appearance of ostentation. ‘Thus has he made himself inoffensively remarkable, and, what was — | the great point of his life, escaped detraction ; excepting only that a certain dignified widow, who had been originally housekeeper to her late husband takes occasion frequently to declare she does net care to dine with him, because the dishes are so ill served up, and so tasteless, that she can never make a dinner. I know not how to close this subject more properly than by sketching out the characters of what are called good and bad neighbours. A good neighbour is one who having no atten- tion to the affairs of his own family, nor any al- lotment for his time, is ready to dispose of it to any of his acquaintance, who desire him to hunt, shoot, dance, drink, or play at cards with them ; who thinks the civilities he receives in one house no restriction upon his tongue in another, where he makes himself welcome by exposing the foi- bles or misfortunes of those he last visited, and lives in a constant round of betraying wad. less- ening one family or another. A bad neighbour is he who retires into the country, from having been fatigued with busi- ness, or tired with crowds; who, from a punc- tilio in good breeding, does not show himself for- ward in accepting of the visits of all about him, conscious of his love of quiet, and fearing lest he should be thought tardy in his returns of ci- vility. His desire of being alone with his family procures him the ‘character of reserved | and morose; and his candid endeavours to ex- plain away the malicious turn of a tale, that of contradictory and disagreeable. Thus vindicat- ing every one behind his back, and consequently offending every one to his face, he subjects him- self to the personal dislike of all, without make ing one friend to defend him. If after this it be asked, what are the duties of neighbourhood? I answer in the words of Mr. Addison, in that incomparable essay of his — on the employment of time; “ To advise the — THE ignorant, relieve the needy, comfort the afflicted, No. 109.) _are duties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives. A man has frequent opportunities of mitigating the fierceness of a party ; of doing justice to the character of a deserving man; of toftening the envious, quieting the angry, and fectifying the prejudiced ; which are all of them employments suited to a reasonable nature, and bring great satisfaction to the person who can busy himself in them with discretion.” I have always considered the ninety-third Spectator, from whence the foregoing passage is taken, as the most valuable lesson of that emi- nent moralist ; because a due observance of the excellent plan of life which he has there deline- ated can never fail to make men happy and good neighbours. BR VWAVBWVVA PUTTS SVCVCVAVAVVAVTU VA ve vsearsapesenesrwedca No. 109.] Tuurspay, Jan. 30, 1755. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, A Lonvown gentleman and his lady, who are distant relations as well as old acquaintance, did my wife and me the favour to spend some days With us last summer in the country. We took the usual methods to make their time pass - agreeably ; carried them to all the Gothic and Chinese houses in the neighbourhood ; and em- braced all opportunities of procuring venison, fish, and game forthem ; which last, by the way, it has been no easy matter to come in for since the association. At their leaving us, they were so obliging as to say their visit had gone off very pleasantly, and hoped we would return it by coming to see them in town. Accordingly, the mornings growing foggy, the evenings long, and this invitation running in our heads, we resolved to accept it: and arriving in town about the mid- dle of November last, we fixed ourselves in _ lodgings near our friends, intending to break- fast, dine, and sup with them, for the most part, during our stay in town. But will you believe me, Mr. Fitz-Adam? we never were more surprised in all our lives than at receiving a card the morning after our arrival (which I think was the eighteenth of November) from the lady of the family we came to visit, inviting us to play at cards with her on the 29th of next March. We thought at first that it must be a mistake for the 28th of November; but upon consulting our landlady, she informed us that | such invitations were very usual, and that, as We were well acquainted with the family, the lady had probably appointed the first day she | was disengaged. WORLD. 191 As my wife and I seld.m play at cards, ex- cept at Christmas, we thought it scarce worth our while to wait for a game till almost Whit- suntide, and therefore very prudently set out the i ext day for the country; from whence I believe we shall be in no great haste to pay a second visit to our friends in town. I am, Sir, Your very humble servant, Humrurey Gussins. MR. FITZ-ADAM, I live so much in the world, and so entirely for the world, that the very name of your paper secured me for one of your constant readers. But really if your periodical World continues to contradict the beaw monde as much as it has done in two or three essays relating to us wo- men, J shall think your sentiments fitter for the man of the Moon than the man of the World. A little while ago you were pleased to be ex- tremely out of humour at the nakedness of our necks ; and now in your paper No. 105, you are equally offended at our covering our faces. What a capricious man you are! I apprehend, Sir, that a certain quantity of nakedness has always been allowed us; and I know of no law that confines it to any particular part of our persons. If therefore we choose to stucco over our faces, you ought in reason to allow us to exhibit a little more of our necks and shoulders. Her sagacious majesty, Queen Elizabeth, conscious of a bad complexion, and fearing that a brown neck, though right royal, might excite less admiration than the undignified alabaster of the meanest of her subjects, chose that they should conceal what herself could not equal, under innumerable folds of lawn and paint: a piece of envious cruelty, which (notwithstand.- ing your sex have been pleased to celebrate her as the guardian of English liberty) must make her appear to ours little better than a tyrant, for having imprisoned so much British beauty in’a dungeon where not the smallest spark of light could break in upon any part of it. The face indeed was still left visible by that envious queen, which is at present almost the only part of our attractions that we have thought proper to cover. You ought therefore to consider, when you find fault with our open necks, that our faces are plastered over ; and instead of com- plaints against our covered faces, you should rest satisfied with the ample amends we make you by our other discoveries. I am, Sir, Your true friend, and faithful counsellor, Fakpin.a. Sir, I have with great seriousness and attention 192 read over the World of the 2nd of this month, which shows me my complexion in so very dif- ferent a light from that in which my looking- glass has represented jt, that I should instantly Jay aside the roses and lilies I have purchased, and content myself with the skin wherewith nature has thought fit to cover me, if it were not fora very material consideration. ‘The truth is, that T am to be married in a few days to a gentle- man, whose fortune is above any hopes I could have conceived while in my natural sallowness ; and who I find has been principally attracted by the splendour of my complexion. But you may depend on my resigning it all after the first month of my marriage. You cannot surely, Mr. Fitz-Adam, be so cruel as to deny a bride the happiness of the honey-moon: by that time, perhaps, my husband may be pretty indifferent whether I am brown or fair: if not, a change of THE WORLD. [No. 110. their veins; an amusing spectacle indeed fora - philosopher, and ‘such perhaps as might give Doctor Harvey the first hint of the discoveries he afterwards made: but surely it could be no very agreeable sight to a person of any delicacy, when compared with the present resplendent white which every neck exhibits. Good flesh and blood is a phrase very well suited to a milk- maid; but I fancy a woman of fashion would choose to excite sublimer ideas: and indeed our sex could never so properly assume the title of goddesses as now that we have laid aside so much of the rustic appearance of mere mortal women. I an, Sir, Your humble servant, BE LINDA. Sir, 1 like the intention of your paper upon face- complexion is no cause for a divorce, either by | painting so well, that I shall readily comply the ancient canons, or the Jate marriage act; so| with it, and return to the complexion that na- you know, Sir, his approbation is of no great consequence to Your constant reader, Marirpa. Sir, To persuade your sex that black is white has been the darling wish and constant endeavour of ours ; but we have never succeeded literally in this art till we knew how to paint ourselves: I am therefore as much surprised that a man of your sense should expect to make us give up so desirable a power as that you should wish to do it. Have not the sex in all ages, both in prose and verse, lamented the short duration of the lilies and roses that bloom on a fair skin? I have seen it set forth in such affecting strains as have drawn tears from me when a girl of eighteen, from having felt it with all the bitterness of prophetic sadness. Can there be a nobler in- vention than this, which substitutes so durable a bloom in the place of those transient colours, which fade almost as fast as the flower to which they are compared? This eternal spring of beauty is surely the peculiar blessing of the pre- sent age. A man might now reflect without terror on an antediluvian marriage, since his wife, after five or six hundred years of wedlock, might be as blooming as on her bridal-day. Time is the greatest enemy to the pleasures of us mortals: how glorious then is the victory, when we can baffle him in a point in which he has hitherto exerted his most cruel tyranny ! I suppose your next attack will be upon the new lustre that our necks have acquired by the same art; an improvement which cannot, in my humble opinion, be too much admired. I remember when women with the whitest necks had such an odious clearness in their skins, that you might almost see the blood circulate through | ture has bestowed upon me (which you must know is an olive,) if you can persuade others to do the same. But who could bear to -be the shade to an assembly, dazzling bright with borrowed lilies, to look like the corner of the moon in an eclipse? Indeed it is impossible for me to bring myself to such an excess of forti- tude. An olive is a good sort of complexion for a wit, but a vile one for a beauty,—the title for which we women universally long; while that of wit is only the last resource of our vanity, when nature or age denies us all pretensions to the other. Go on and prosper, Mr. Fitz-Adam; reduce us again to our natural colour; and you shall find I will not be the last, though I cannot bear to be the first, that shall comply. Your most devoted, Oxivia BLancne. PRR TVUTVLVLTVR VRSVVVTVTSUTVAVVTEA TI ST VTVSATTVVWTTST BB BB No. 110.] Sarurpay, Fes. 5, 1758. Uno avulso nen deficit alter Aureus, et simili frondescit virga metallo, Vire, If from the stem one gelden bough is torn, A second sprouting, straight new fruit is borne. Tuoucn I have studied the ways of men with the strictest application for many years, I must ingenuously confess my inability to dive into the secrets of one particular society, the mem- bers of which, by their superior capacities, have hitherto enveloped themselves in an impene- trable cloud of mystery. Every body. must have observed, that in all public places in this kingdom there are swarms of adventurers, who — ‘neither derive any possessions from provident ancestors, nor are of any profession, yet who No, 110.] figure most splendidly both in the great and small world, to the amazement of all who know them. The only answer I could ever obtain, when I have inquired how Mr. Such-a-one, a member of this society, lived, was, Zhe Lord knows. Which answer one would think should imply, that He who feedeth the ravens, and clotheth the lilies of the field, had thus plentifully provided for them, imperceptible to the eyes of other mortals. But as the lives of these gentlemen seem to claim no such indulgence from heaven, I should have entertained a very complaisant opinion of them, if the legislature, by the repeal of the Witch act, had not taught me to believe that our intercourse with the devil was at an end. In the midst of my doubts, the following letter gave me perfect satisfaction, TO MR, FITZ-ADAM, Sir, About ten years ago the public was entertained with a very fanciful performance, entitled Her- mippus Redivivus, or the Sage’s Triumph over Old Age and the Grave. ‘Though the ingenious au- thor modestly sets out with showing the possi- bility of a man’s extending the plan of life toa longer space than he generally now enjoys, by inhaling the salubrious breath of unpolluted vir- gins; yet by degrees, almost imperceptible to the reader, he slides into the Hermetic philo- sophy, of which he is an enthusiastic admirer, and becomes, before the conclusion of his book, as thorough a believer in the power of the stone and universal elixir, as if he had been personally present when an adept had made projection. He introduces several most surprising stories concerning philosophers, who being skilled in the arcanum, lived for three or four centuries in | the most unimpaired vigour both of mind and body. But as the most enviable state of human felicity is imperfect, though these sages were masters of that omnipotent metal which can make knaves honest, blockheads wits, and _ cowards heroes ; which yields, in the established “commerce of the world, all the necessaries, emoluments, and luxuries of life, and almost deifies its possessors, they were frequently neces- sitated to lead the lives of vagabonds, and to skulk from the observation of mankind in the darkest shades of obscurity. Among many other surprising stories he gives an account of a stranger who some time ago re- sided at Venice. It was very remarkable, he says, that this man, though he lived in the utmost affluence and splendour, was unac- _ quainted with any person belonging to the city before he came thither; that he followed no _ trade or merchandise ; that he had no property | in the common funds of the state, nor ever _feceived any remittance from abroad; yet THE WORLD. 193 abounded in wealth, till an incident, which he relates, drove him from Italy, from whence he suddenly disappeared, and no mortal ever learnt from what place he came, or whither he went. If this man was a Hermetic philosopher in possession of the great secret, as the author insinuates, IT am inclined to think, from a simi- larity of circumstances, that we have at this very time a great number of that sect in this metropo- lis, who, for the good of the nation, make gold at their pleasure. .I have had the happiness of an acquaintance with several of these great men, who, without any visible means of livelihood, have shone forth with uncommon lustre for a time, and then, to the regret of crowds of tailors, woollen-drapers, lacemen, mercers, milliners, &c. have suddenly disappeared, and nobody ever knew the place of their retirement. This speedy retreat 1 attribute to their fears lest the. state should discover from what source their wealth arose, and force them by its power to prostitute so sacred and inestimable a science to the destructive views of ambition, It has been observed of several of these philo- sophers, that they have pretended to be of some lucrative profession or employment, in order, as is supposed, to shelter themselves from the pry- ing eyes of certain individuals, who are apt, from | know not what old-fashioned notion, to regard very coolly those persons who, being in possession of no lands or chattels by inheritance, are unconnected. with society, and do not lend a helping hand in supplying something to the real er imaginary wants of mankind. Many have affected to be thought the heirs of rich uncles or aunts in the country, from whom they were supplied with the comfortable sufficiencies for genteel life: while others have insinuated by their friends, that somebody has left them some- thing somewhere ; and so feigned that they lived (as honest people phrase it) by their means. But before inquiry could be made into those meang (if I may have leave to borrow a scripture expression) they went hence and were no more SEEN. I remember, a few years ago, there was a particular coffee-house about Covent-garden, much frequented by these adepts, which a friend of mine, a man of wit and humour, used ludi- crously to call the annual coffee-house, as the same face was seldom observed to blow there a second time. But of late they have been cau- tious of raising any suspicion by assembling in too great numbers together, and are therefore dispersed through all the coffee-houses in this idle and genteel part of the city. I would not be understood, from any thing I have said, to infer that none of this respectable sect ever take up their fixed residence in town ; for I have known several and their families who have constantly dwelt here, and who, to the Ce 194 astonishment of the whole circle of their ac- quaintance, have lived for twenty years together in great splendour and luxury, spent every year as touch as their original principal fortune amounted to, and still flourish on in the same manner. Every one in high life must, I dare say, have observed, that no people live so well as those whom the world pronounces to be ruined. 1 have known many of those ruined persons, both peers and commoners, riot in every luxury and extravagance, while the haughty owners of thousands of unmortgaged acres have repined and sickened at their superior enjoyments. In short, such has been my association of ideas of late, that when I’ hear any man pronounced ruined, 1 immediately conclude, by that expres- sion, that he has been admitted by the fraterni- ty into the inestimable secret of the Hermetic philosophy. . But however desirous the possessors of this first science may be of appearing to draw their subsistence from the commen and vulgar sup- plies of land, trade, stocks, or professions, rather than have it suspected from whence their mys- terious finances arise, yet such numbers now abound of all ranks and conditions, that the gov- ernment, 1 am told, begins to entertain an idea, or, as the vulgar phrase it, to have an inkling of the matter. Indeed I am greatly surprised that the affair was not found out sooner; for it is mathematically demonstrable, that if Great Britain and Ireland were large enough to hold all the boasted possessions of these nominal land- owners, the dominions of his present majesty would exceed the bluster of a Spanish title, and be larger than the four quarters of the globe joined together. But here let me stop, and not en- deavour to reveal more of that science, which is destined by fate to remain a secret from allbut the truly initiated ; lest by farther profane babbling the present sons of Hermes should take umbrage, and transfer the unspeakable advantages that accrue to society from their presence to lands of more faith and less curiosity. I could wish, therefore, that the administration would sup- press farther inquiries about these affairs, and be contented like honest plain tradesmen, who grow rich they cannot tell how, to receive that inundation of wealth which flows so unaccount- ably into the kingdom, without troubling their repose by an over great solicitude to know the source it springs from; for fear, like fairy fav- ours, the blessing should be snatched from the land, for the unpardonable crime of endeayour- ing to satisfy a prohibited curiosity. I am, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, A. Z. THE: WORLD. [No. 111. * No. L11.] Tuursvay, Fes. 13, 1755. Ir is very well known that religion and politics are perfectly understood by every body, as they require neither study nor experience. All peo- ple therefore decide peremptorily, though often variously, upon both. All sects, severally sure of being in the right, intimate at least, if not denounce, damnation to those who differ from them, in points so clear, so plain, and so obvious. On the other hand, the infidel, not less an enthusiast than any of them (though upon his own principles he can- not damn, because he knows to demonstration that there is no future state) would very gladly hang, as hypocrites or fools, the whole body of believers. In politics the sects are as various and as warm: and what seems very extraordinary is, that these who have studied them the most, and experienced them the lengest, always know them the least. Every administration is in the wrong, though they have the clue and secret of business in their hands; and not less than six millions of their fellow subjects (for I only ex- cept very young children) are willing and able to discover, censure, reform, and correct their errors, and put them in the right way. These considerations, among many others, determined me originally not to meddle with re- ligion or politics, in which I could not instruct, and upon which I thought it not decent to trifle. Entertainment alone must be the object of an humble weekly author of a sheet and a half. A certain degree of bulk is absolutely necessary for a certain degree of dignity either in man or book. religion or government are its objects, it is the source of most terrible evils. New men and new models have been the dread of the wisest politicians ; and when things are tolerably well, to maintain them upon tbe old footing has been generally thought the safest maxim for the hap- piness of the community. Too great a desire of | novelty, either in the governed, or in the govern- | ing, has often disturbed the peace of kingdoms. When it goes no farther than to decide the dress of the person, or the ornaments of our equipage, — No. 117.] all is safe; its highest degree of excess will then only afford a subject of ridicule : a smart cocked hat, or embroidered sleeve, a short petticoat, or well-fancied furbelow, will neither endanger the church nor embroil the state. The pursuit indeed of such kind of novelties may rather oc- casion many advantages to the public ; while that vanity which is absurd in the particular, is useful in the general. Novelty and fashion are the source and support of trade, by constantly supplying matter for the employment of indus- try. By increasing the wants, they increase the connections of mankind ; and so long as they do not, by too great an extravagance, defeat their own end, in disabling the rich from paying the reward of that industry to the poor, they answer excellent purposes to society. Not only the improvements of every invention for the convenience and ease of life, but even of those which constitute its real ornament, are owing to this desire of novelty. Yet here too We may grow wanton ; and nature seems to have set us bounds, which we cannot pass without running into great absurdities. For the very principle which has contributed to the perfection of the finer arts may become the cause of their degeneracy and corruption. ‘The search of their something new has step by step conducted man- kind to the discovery of ail that is truly beauti- ful in those arts; and the same search (for the desire of novelty never stops) already begins to urge us beyond that point to which a just taste should always confine itself. Hence it is that musical composition ceases to be admired merely for touching the passions, and for changing the emotions of the heart from the soft to the strong, from the amorous to the fierce, or from the gay to the melancholy, and only seems to be then considered as highly excel- lent, when it impresses us with the idea of diffi- culty in the execution. Images unnatural and unconnected, and a style quaint and embarrassed with its own pomp, but void of meaning and sentiment, will always be the consequence of endeavouring, in the same way, to introduce a new taste into poetry. Hence it will become vehement without strength, and ornamented without beauty ; and the native, warm, and soft winning language of that amia- ble mistress will cease to please her more judi- cious lovers by an affectation of pleasing only in a new manner. Strange as it may appear that this should find admirers, yet it is not any more to be wondered _ at than the applause which is so fondly given to _ Chinese decorations, or to the barbarous produc- tions of a Gothic genius, which seems once More to threaten the ruin of that simplicity which distinguished the Greek and Roman arts _ a8 eternally superior to those of every other na- tion. THE WORLD. 205 Few men are endned with a just taste; that is, with an aptitude to discover what is proper, fit, and right, and consequently beautiful, in the several objects which offer themselves to their view. ‘Though beauty in these external objects, like truth in those of the understanding, is self- evident and immutable, yet, like truth, it may be seen perversely, or not at all, because not con- sidered. Now all men are equally struck with the novelty of an appearance ; but few, after this first emotion, call in their judgment to correct the decision of their eye, and to tell them whether the pleasure they feel has any other cause than mere novelty. It is certain that a frequent re- view and comparing of the same objects together would greatly improve an indifferent taste ; and that hardly any one would be unable to deter- mine, when once accustomed to such an atten- tion, whether the proportions of architecture taken from the theatre of Marcellus at Rome, or from the emperor of China’s palace at Pekin, produced the most agreeable forms. The present vogue of Chinese aud Gothic ar- chitecture has, besides its novelty, another cause of its good reception ; which is, that there is no difficulty in being merely whimsical. for that there was scarce a pedant living or dead, or even a boy who had been five years at school, but had been upon him, either with leave o1 without: that he had long ago lost his shoes, broke his knees, and slipped his shoulder; and that therefore Apollo, in pity to the poor beast, and to prevent such barbarity for the future, had ordered an edict to be fixed on the door of the stable, that no person or persons within his realms should for the future ride or drive him, without first producing his proper license and qualification.” At length we arrived at the highest part of the mountain, where the temple was situated. It was a large building of marble, of one coleur, and built all in the same order. ‘The statues and bas-reliefs which adorned it represented | The | some well-known part of poetic history. whole appeared at once solid and elegant, with- out that profusion of decorations which fixes the eye to parts. The inside of the hall was painted with several subjects taken out of the Iliad, the A®neid, and Paradise Lost. of the Iliad had the passions and manners strongly characterized, with great simplicity of colouring, by the hand of Raphael. The beauti- ful tints and softness of the Venetian school cor- Those responded with the genius of Virgil. ‘The Para- dise Lost, as partaking of the fine colouring of | the one, and of the force of the other, with something more expressive in the language and images, greatly resembled the style of Rubens ; while some of its more horrid scenes of embat- tled or tortured demons recalled to my ming the wild imagination and fierce spirit of a Michael Angelo. At the upper end of the hall Apollo was seated on a most magnificent throne of folios richly gilt, and was surrounded by a great num- ber of poets both ancient and modern. Before him flamed an altar, which a priestess of a very sleepy countenance continually supplied with the fuel of such productions, as are the daily sacrifice which Dulness is constantly offering to the president of literature. Being now at leisure to consider the place more attentively, I saw inscribed on several pillars names of great repute in both the past and present age. Some indeed of the latter’, though but lately engraven, were nearly worn out; while others of an elder date increased in. clearness the longer they stood; and by being more attentively viewed, augmented their force, as the former became fainter. A particular part No. 122.] of the temple was assigned for the inscriptions of those persons, who adding to their exalted rank in life a merit which might have distin- guished them without the advantages of birth, claim a double right to have their names pre- served to futurity, among the monuments of so august an edifice. At the view of so many objects, capable of in- spiring the most insensible with emulation, I found myself touched with an ambition which little became me, and could not help inquiring what method [ should pursue to attain such an honour. But while I was deeply meditating upon the project, and vain enough to hope sharing to myself some little obscure corner in the temple, a sudden noise awaked me, and I found every thing to have been merely the effect of my imagination. BAVTVVDTVVVVISVDVVAETDU BVA VPVVVTGVVBVTATVEABSVVUVATDsA DT No. 122.] Tuurspay, May 1], 17565. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Black Boy Alley, April 28. SIR, I am one of that numerous tribe of men who (as you lately observed) live the Lord knows how. I have not the honour to be known to you even in person, for I seldom go abroad ; but you seem by your writings, to be of a compas- sionate turn ; and therefore I take the liberty to put myself under your protection. I am the son of an honest tradesman in Cheapside, and was born in a house that has descended in the family, from father to son, through several generations. I had my education at a grammar-school in London, not far from the street where my father lived, and where he used frequently to call as he passed by, to re- mind my master that he hoped I should soon go into Greek. I verily believe the good man persuaded himself, that whenever this happened it would give him a figure in the eyes of the | evening club. When I was about sixteen years old, my fa- ther observed to me one day, as I was sitting ‘with him in the little back shop, that it was now high time for me to determine what scheme of life to pursue; and though [ knew that my ' grandfather, a little before his death, had ex- | pressed his desire of having me settled in the old trade, where he said I should be sure of good will, yet 1 answered my father, without hesita- tion, that since he gave me leave to choose for fnyself, I was inclined to study physic. My fa- | ther, who was in raptures at hearing me make | choice of a learned profession, went that very THE WORLD. 213 day, and talked over the matter with an old friend of his at Gresham-College; and the re- sult of their conference was, that I should be sent to study under the celebrated Doctor Her- man Boerhaave. I was equipped very decently upon the occasion, and in a very few days ar- rived safely at Leyden, where I spent my time in reading the best books on the subject, and in a constant attendance on my master’s lectures, who expressed himself so pleased with my inde- fatigable application, as to tell me at parting, that I should be an honour to the profession. But I am sorry to tell you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that notwithstanding this great man’s remark- able sagacity, he knew nothing of destiny ; for since my return te England, I have lived seven years in London, undistinguished in a narrow court, without any opportunity of doing either good or hurt in my calling. And what most mortifies me is ta see two or three of my fellow- students, who were esteemed very dull fellows at the doctor’s, lolling at their ease in warm chariots upon springs, while I am doomed to walk humbly through the dirt, in a thread-bare eoat and darned stockings, a decayed tie-periwig, a brass-hilted sword by my side, and a hat en- tirely void of shape and colour under my arm; which I assure you I do not carry there for or« nament, nor for fear of damaging my. wig, but to point out to those who pass by that lama physician. You may wonder, perhaps, at hears ing nothing of my father; but alas! the good man had the misfortune to die insolvent scon after my return, and I had no friend to apply to for assistance. One day, as I walked through a narrow pas- sage near St. Martin’s-lane, I saw a crowd of people gathered together, and, in the midst of them, a large fat woman upon the ground, ina fit. I soon brought her to herself; and as I was conducting her home, she kindly asked me to dine with her. 1 found upon entering her door, that she kept a chop-house; and, as I was going away after a hearty meal, she gave me a general invitation, in return for the good office I had done her, to step in and taste her mutton, whenever I came that way. I was by no means backward to accept the offer, and took frequent opportunities of visiting my patient. Butalas! those days of plenty were soon over ; for it hap- pened unfortunately not long after, that her fa- vourite daughter died under my care, at a time when I assured the mother that she was quite out of danger. The manner in which she accosted me upon this occasion made it clear that 1 must once more return to a course of fasting. As I was musing one morning in a most dis- consolate mood, with my leg in my landlady’s lap, while she darned one of my stockings, it came into my head to collect from various books, together with my own experience and observa- tions, plain and wholesome rules en the subject of 214 diet ; and then publish them ina neat pocket vo- lume: for I was always well inclined to do good to the world, however ungratefully it used me. I doubt, Mr. Fitz-Adam, you will hardly for- bear smiling to hear a man, who was almost starved, talk gravely of compiling observations on diet. The moment I had finished my volume I ran with it to an eminent bookseller, near the Mansion-house: he was just set down to din- ner; but upon hearing that there was a gentle- man in the shop, with a large bundle of papers in his coat pocket, he courteously invited me into the parlour, and desired me to do ashe did. As soon as the cloth was taken away, I produced ,my manuscript, and the bookseller put on his ‘spectacles; but to my no small mortification, after glancing his eye over the title-page, he looked steadfastly upon me for near a minute, in a kind of amazement which I could not account for, and then broke out in the following man- ner :—* My dear Sir! you are come to the very worst place in the world for the sale of such a performance as this. Why, you might as soon expect the court of aldermen’s permission to de- dicate to them the life of Lewis Cornaro, as to hink of preaching upon the subject of lean and sallow abstinence between the Royal Exchange and Temple-bar.’? He added, indeed, in a milder tone, that he was acquainted with an honest man of the trade, who lived near Soho, and who would probably venture to. print for me upon reasonable terms ; and that if I pleased he would recommend me to him by a letter ; which (through the violent agitation of my spirits) I refused. I walked back to my lodging with a very heavy heart; and with the most gloomy pros- pect before my eyes, put my favourite work into a hat-box, which stands upon the head of my bed, and there it has remained ever since. Now the favour I have to beg of you, worthy Sir, is to recommend to the world, in one of your papers, such proposals as I will bring to you next Sunday morning, or any dark evening this week, for publishing by subscription the result of my laborious inquiries, that 1 may be able to procure a decent maintenance. If I should fail in this attempt, my affairs are at so low an ebb, that I must submit, for the safety of my person, to the confinement of the Fleet, or pass the rest of my days, perhaps, under the same roof with the unfortunate Theodore, whose kingdom (1 doubt) is not of this world. In the mean time, you will oblige me by publishing this account, that others may take warning by my sad example; that the idle vanity of fathers, when they read this story, may be restrained within proper bounds ; and young men not venture to engage in a learned profes- sion without the assistance of a private fortune, or the interest of great friends. Believe me, Mr. Fitz-Adam, it is much more tothe purpose | THE WORLD. : [No. 128. of a physician to have the countenance of a man or woman of quality than the sagacity even of a Boerhaave; for let him have what share of learning he pleases, if he has nothing better to recommend him to public favour, he must be content to hunger and thirst in a garret up four pair of stairs. Ian, Sir, (with all possible respect) the unfortunate T. M. eee PRAVSAVTATVRUVLVVTTVTUETTTSETTTETUEBTVBVA BSB BVUVVTDBDUDS No. 123.1 Tuurspay, May 8, 1755. Dapibus, suprena Grata testudo Jovis. HOR. Charming shell— How grateful to the feasts of Jove, FRANCIS. Ir there be truth in the commen maxim, “ That he deserves best of his country who can make two blades of grass grow where only one grew before,” how truly commendable must it be (since it isso great a merit to provide for the beasts of the field) to add to the sustenance of man! and what praises are due to the inventor of anew dish! By a new dish, Ido not mean the confounding, hashing, and disguising of an old one; I cannot give that name to the French method of transposing the bodies of animals ; serving up flesh in skins of fish, or the essence > of cither in a jelly; nor yet to the English way _ of macerating substances, and reducing all things | to one uniform consistency and taste, which a | good housewife calls potting: for I am of opin- — ion, that Louis the fourteenth would not have given the reward he promised for the invention of a sixth order of architecture to the man who should have jumbled together the other five. My meaning is, that as through neglect or ca- price we have lost some eatables which our ancestors held in high esteem, as the heron, the — bittern, the crane, and, I may add, the swan, it should seem requisite, in the ordinary revolution of things, to replace what has been laid aside, by the introduction of some eatable which was not known to our predecessors. But though invention may claim the first praise, great hon- — our is due to the restorer of lost arts ; wherefore, _ if the earth does not really furnish a sufficient © variety of untasted animals, 1 could wish that gentlemen of leisure and easy fortunes would > apply themselves to recover the secret of fatten- ing and preparing for the table such creatures, — as from disuse we do not at present know how — to treat: and I should think it would be a noble employment for the tovers of antiquity to study No. 123,]. ‘to restore those infallible sources of luxury, the salt-water stews of the Romans. Of all the improvements in the modern kit- chen, there are none can bear a comparison with the introduction of turtle. We are indebted for this delicacy, as well as for several others, to the generous spirit and benevolent zeal of the West Indians. The profusion of luxury with which the Creolian in England covers his board is in- tended only asa foil tothe more exquisite dain- ties of America. His pride is, to triumph in your neglect of the former, while he labours to serve you from the vast shell, which smokes under his face, and occasions him a toil almost as intolerable as that of his slaves in his planta- tations. But he would die in the service rather than see his guests; for want of a regular supply, eat a morsel of any food which had not crossed the Atlantic ocean. F “Though it was never my fortune to be regaled with the true Creolian politeness, and though I cannot compliment my countrymen on their en- deavours to imitate it, I shall here give my read- ers a most faithful account of the only turtle feast lever had the honour to be present at. Towards the latter end of last summer, I called upon a friend in the city, who, though no West Indian, is a great importer of turtle for his own eating. Upon my entrance at the great gates, my eyes were caught with the shells of that animal, which were disposed in great order along the walls; and I stopped so long in aston- ishment at their size and number, that I did not perceive my friend’s approach, who had traversed the court to receive me. However, I could find he was not displeased to see my atten- tion so deeply engaged upon the trophies of his luxury. ‘ Come,”’ says he, “if you love turtle, I'll show you a sight;”’ and bidding me follow him, he opened a door, and discovered six tur- tles swimming about in a vast cistern, round which there hung twelve large legs of mutton, which he told me were just two days’ provision for the turtles; for that each of them consumed a leg of mutton every day. He then carried me into the house, and showing me some blankets of a particular sort, ‘“‘ These,’’ says he, ‘are what the turtle lie in o’nights: they are parti- cularly adapted to this use. [ have established a manufacture of them in the West Indies. But since you are curious in these matters,” continued he, “ I'll show you some more of my inventions.”’ Immediately he unlocked a drawer, and produced as many fine saws, chis- els, and instruments of different contrivances, as would have made a figure in the apparatus ofan anatomist. One was destined to start a rib; another to scrape the callipash ; the third to disjoint the vertebre of the back bone; with many others, for purposes which I could “Mot remember. The next scene of wonder was THE WORLD. 215 the kitchen, in which was an oven, that had been rebuilt with a mouth of a most uncommon capacity, on purpose for the reception of an en- ormous turtle, which was to be drest that very day, and which my friend insisted I should stay to partake of. JI would gladly have been ex- cused ; but he would not. be denied: proposing a particular pleasure in entertaining a new be- ginner, and assuring me, that if 1 should not happen to like it, I need not fear the finding something to make out a dinner: for that. his wife, though she knew it would give him the greatest pleasure in the world, could never be prevailed on to taste a single morsel of turtle. He then carried me to the fish, which was to be the feast of the day, and bid me observe, that though it had been cut in two full twenty hours, it was still alive. This was indeed a melancholy truth: for I could plainly observe a tremulous motion almost continually agitating it, with, now and then, more distinguishable throbbings. While I was examining these faint indications of sensibility, a jolly negro wench, observing me, came up with a handful of salt, which she sprinkled all over the creature. This instantly produced. such violent convulsions, that I was no longer able to look upon a scene of so much horror, and ran shuddering out of the kitchen. My friend endeavoured to satisfy me, by saying that the head and heart had been cut in pieces twenty hours before; and that the whole was that instant to be plunged in boiling water: but it required some reflection, and more, or perhaps less philosophy than I am master of, to recon- cile such appearances to human feelings. I endeavoured to turn the discourse, by asking what news? He answered, ‘“‘ There is a: fleet arrived from the West Indies.’? He then shook his head, and looked serious; and after a sus- pense, which gave room for melancholy appre- hensions, lamented that they had been very un- fortunate the last voyage, and lost the greatest part of their cargo of turtles. He proceeded to inform me of the various methods which had been tried for bringing over this animal ina healthy state; for that the common way had been found to waste the fat, which was the most estimable part ; and he spoke with great concern of the miscarriage of a vessel, framed like a well-boat, which had dashed them against each other, and killed them. He then entered upon an explanation of a project of his own, which being out of my way, and much above my com- prehension, took up the greatest part of the morning.- Upon hearing the clock strike, he rung his bel], and asked if his turtle-clothes were aired. While I was meditating un this new term, and, I confess, unable to divine what it could mean, the servant brought in a coat and waistcoat, which my friend slipt on, and folding them round his body like a night-gown, declared, 216 that though they then hung so loose about him, by that time he had spoke with the turtle, he should stretch them as tight as a drum. Upon the first rap at the door there entered a whole shoal of guests: for the turtle-eater is a gregarious, I had almost said, a sociable animal ; and I thought it remarkable, that in so large a number, there should not be one who was a whole minute later than the time: nay, the very cook was punctual; and the lady of the house appeared, on this extraordinary day, the mo- ment the dinner was served upon the table. Upon her first entrance, she ordered the shell to be removed from the upper end of the table, de- %, claring she could not bear the smell or sight of! it so near her. It was immediately changed for a couple of boiled chickens, to the great regret of | all who sat in her neighbourhood, who followed it with their eyes, inwardly lamenting that they should never taste one of the good bits. In vain did they send their plates and solicit their share ; the plunderers, who were now in possession of both the shells, were sensible to no call but that of their own appetites, and till they had satisfied them, there was not one that would listen to any thing else. ‘The eagerness, however, and de- spatch of their rapacity having soon shrunk the choice pieces, they vouchsafed to help their friends to the coarser parts, as thereby they cleared their way for the search after other deli- cacies; boasting aloud all the while, that they had not sent one good bit to the other end of the table. When the meat was all made away with, and nothing remained but what adhered to the shell, our landlord, who during the whole time had taken care of nobody but himself, began to exercise his various instruments; and amidst his efforts to procure himself more, broke out in praise of the superior flavour of the spinal mar- row, which he was then helping himself to, and for the goodness of which the company had his word. The guests having now drank up all the gravy, and scraped the shells quite clean, the cloth was taken away, and the wine brought upon the table. But this change produced no- thing new in the conversation. No hunters were ever more loud in the posthumous fame of: the hero of their sport than our epicures in me- mory of the turtle. To give some littie variety to the discourse, I asked if they had never tried any other creature which might possibly resem- "le this excellent food ; and proposed the experi- ment of an alligator, whose scales seemed to be intended by nature for the production of green. fat. I was stopt short in my reasoning by a gentleman, who told me, that upon trial of the alligator, there had been found so strong a per- fume in his flesh, that the stemach nauseated, and could not bear it; and that this was owing to a ball of musk, which is always discovered in THE WORLD. [No. 124, the head of that animal. I had however the satisfaction to perceive that my question did mx no discredit with the company ; and before it broke up, I had no less than twelve invitation: to turtle for the ensuing summer. Besides the honour herein designed me, I consider these in. vitations as having mere real value than sc many shares in any of the bubbles of the famous. South-sea year; and Imake no doubt but that, by, the time they become due, they will be remark. able in Change-alley. For as the gentlemen at White’s have borrowed from thence the method of transferring the surplus dinners which they, win at play, it is probable they will, in their turn, furnish a hint to the alley, where it will soon be as common to transfer shares in turtle, as in any other kind of stock. No. 124.] Tsurspay, May 15,1755... —— ' My correspondent of to-day will, I hope, forgive me for so long delaying the publication of hi: letter. All I can say to this gentleman, and t/ those whose letters have lain by me almost ar) equal length of time, is, that no partiality to any) performance of my own has occasioned any suck delay. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I} My highest ambition is, to appear in the cauith | : of the fair sex; nor would any thing flatter m)_ : vanity so much as the honour of standing, ir) this degenerate age, the single champion of those _ ! whom all mankind are bound to defend. Ni — time seems more proper for this kind of gal.) lantry than the present; now, when the grave) sort of men are continually throwing out sar. : castic hints, at least, if not open invectives | against their lovely country-women; and thi younger and more sprightly are, from I know not what cause, less forward than ever in thei! defence. ‘Though my abilities are by no mean: equal to my inclinations for their services, giv me leave to offer to yon, and your polite readers | a few thoughts on this interesting subject. The malice of wits has, from time imme morial, attacked these injured beauties with thi charge of levity and inconstancy; a charge, ap. plicable indeed to the frailty of human nature ir, general, but by no means to be admitted to thi particular prejudice of the most amiable part 0) the species. History and experience inform us) that every different country produces a differen) race of people: the disposition of the inhabi-/ tants, as well as the complexion, receives 4 / colour from the clime in which they are born. Yet the same sentiments do not always spring No. 125.] trom the same soil. regard to principles as dress. have always acted up to the dictates of fashicn. The matrons of ancient Rome, though as re- markable for public spirit as those of Great Britain, were by no means so fond of public It appears from a hint which Ho- race has left us, that they were with difficulty In this, we may observe, they widely differed from those Sabine dames, from whom they derived their boasted extraction: for so strongly did they think themselves bound by the restrictions of fashion, that they refused to imitate their illustrious ancestors, in that very circumstance, diversions. prevailed on even to dance upon holidays. to which their empire owed its original. We need not look back so far into antiquity for instances of this kind; our own times may better supply us. Cruelty, if we may believe the lovers of the last century, was the reigning pas- sion of those tyrants, to whom they devoted their hearts, their labours, and their understandings. No man, I presume, will cast such an imputation on the present race of beauties: their influence is more benign, their glory is of a more exalted nature: mercy is their characteristic. It would be a piece of impudence to assert, that they do not in every respect excel their relentless great grandmothers. Beauty, Mr. Fitz-Adam, is the peculiar perfection of our fair contemporaries. To what then, but the amiable compassion of these gentle creatures, can be ascribed a kind of miracle, a seeming change in the constitution of nature? Till poetry and romance are forgotten, the miseries of love will be remembered. Au- ‘hors of the highest reputation have not scrupled ‘© assure us, that the lovers of their days did rery frequently forget to eat and drink; nay, ihat they sometimes proceeded so far as to hang ww drown themselves, for the sake of the cruel tymphs they adored. Whence comes it then, hat in an age, to which suicide is not unknown, \o instances are to be met with of this disinter- sted conduct? In the space’of many years, I ® not remember above one, and that one oc- asioned by the lady’s tenderness, not of heart, ut of conscience. Matter of fact, therefore, Yoves the truth of my assertion ; our goddesses ave laid aside the bloody disposition of pagan lols ; insomuch that scarce any man living has sen a lover’s bier covered with cypress, or, in- eed, with so much as a willow garland. It were ingratitude not to acknowledge to THE WORLD. Some strong particularity ; whom we are indebted for of genius distinguishes every era of a nation. From hence arises what, in the language of the polite world, we call fashion; as variable with It would be, in these days, as uncommon and ridiculous to pro- fess the maxims of an old Englishman, as to strut about in a short cloak and trunk hose. The same vicissitude of character takes place among the ladies; their conduct, however, has been still consistent and irreproachable; for they 217 so great a blessing. The celebrated inventors of modern romance, together with the judicious writers of the stage, have the honour of being the deliverers of their countrymen. So ardently have they pleaded the public cause, that the ladies are at last con- tent to throw up the reins, to accept unmeaning flattery, instead of tender sighs, and admit in- nocent freedom, in the place of distant adora- tion. They have‘ learned to indulge their ad- mirers with frequent opportunities of gazing on their charms, and are grown too generous to conceal from them even the little failings of their tempers. Nor is this all: while the per- suasive eloquence of these gentlemen has found the way to soften the rigour of the fair sex, they have animated the resolution of others; for by them are we instructed in the winning art of modest assurance, and furnished with the der- nier resort of indifference. You will not be surprised, Sir, that I speak so warmly on this subject, when you are in- formed how great a share of the public felicity falls to my lot. Had the fashionable polity ot this kingdom continued in the same situation in which it stood a hundred years ago, I had been, perhaps, the most unfortunate man in the world. No heart is more susceptible of tender impres- sions than mine, nor is my resolution strong enough to hold out against the slightest attacks of a pair of bright eyes. Love, weak as he is, has often made me his captive; but I can never be too lavish of my applause te those generous beauties, who have been the authors of my pains: so far have they ever been from glorying in their power, or insulting the miseries they occasioned, that they have constantly employed the most effectual methods to free me from their fetters. By their indulgence it is, that I have arrived at the fifty-third year of my life, without the in- cumbrance of a wife or legitimate children ; that I can now look back with pleasure on the dan- gers I have escaped, and forward with comfort on the peace and quiet laid up for my old age. This, Sir, is my case; gratitude prompts me to publish the obligations I owe; and I beg leave to take this opportunity of paying my debt ot honour, and at the same time of subscribing myself, Your constant reader, admirer, And very humble servant. ae tala Be tint ttt te Gin tte dy ys hn tts hy es nn ah en No. 125.] Tuurspay, May 22, 1'755. Hap the many wise philosophers of antiquity, who have so often and so justly compared the life of man to a race, lived in the present times, they would have seen the propriety of that Ff 218 simile greatly augmented : for if we observe the behaviour of the polite part of this nation (that is, of all the nation) we shall see that their whole lives are one continued race ; in which every one is endeavouring to distance all behind him, and to overtake, or pass by, all who are before him ; every one is flying from his inferiors in pur- suit of his superiors, who fly from him with equal alacrity. Were not the consequences of this ridiculous pride of the most destructive nature to the pub- lic, the scene would be really entertaining. Every tradesman is a merchant, every merchant isa gentleman, and every gentleman one of the noblesse. We are a nation of gentry, populus generosorum : we have no such thing as common people among us: between vanity and gin, the species is utterly destroyed. The sons of our lowest mechanics, acquiring with the learning at charity-schools the laudable ambition of be- coming gentle-folks, despise their paternal occu- pations, and are all soliciting for the honourable employments of tide-waiters and excisemen. Their girls are all milliners, mantua-makers, or ladies’ women; or presumptuously exercise that genteel profession, which used to be pecu- liarly reserved for the well-educated daughters of deceased clergymen. Attorneys’ clerks and city prentices dress like cornets of dragoons, keep their mistresses and their hunters, criticise at the play, and toast at the tavern. The mer- chant leaves his counting-house for St. J ames’s, and the country gentleman his own affairs for those of the public; by which neither of them receives much benefit. Every commoner of distinction is impatient for a peerage, and treads hard upon the heels of quality in dress, equipage, and expenses of every kind. ‘The nobility, who can aim no higher, plunge themselves intu debt and dependence, to preserve their rank ; and are even there quickly overtaken by their unmerciful pursuers. The same foolish vanity, that thus prompts us to imitate our superiors, induces us also to be, or pretend to be, their inseparable companions ; or, as the phrase is, to keep the best company ; by which is always to be understood, such com- pany as are much above us in rank or fortune, and consequently despise and avoid us, in the same manner as we ourselves do our inferiors. By this ridiculous affectation are all the plea- sures of social life, and all the advantages of friendly converse, utterly destroyed. Wechoose not our companions for their wit and learning, their good humour or good sense, but for their power of conferring this imaginary dignity ; as if greatness was communicable, like the powers of the loadstone, by friction, or by contact, like electricity. Every young gentleman is taught to believe it is more. eligible, and more honour- able, to destroy his time, his fortune, his murals, and his understanding at a gaming-house with ; THE WORLD. [Noi 125. the best company, than to improve them all in the conversation of the most ingenious and en— tertaining of his equals: and every self conceited girl, in fashionable life, chooses rather to endure the affected silence and insolent head-ach of my lady dutchess for a whole evening, than to pass it in mirth and jollity with the most amiable of her acquaintance. For since it is possible that some of my readers, who have not had the hon- our of being admitted into the best company, should imagine that among such there is ever the best conversation, the most lively wit, the most profound judgment, the most engaging affability and politeness; it may be proper to inform them, that this is by no means always the case; but that frequently in such company little is said, and less attended to; no disposition appears either to please others, or to be pleased themselves : but that in the room of all the be- fore-mentioned agreeable qualifications, cards are introduced, endued with the convenient power of reducing all men’s understandings, as well as their fortunes, to an equality ‘o It is pleasant to observe how this race, con- verted into a kind of perpetual warfare, between the good and bad company, in this country, has subsisted for half a century last past; in which the former have been perpetually pursued by the Jatter, and fairly beaten out of all their resources for superior distinction; cut of. innumerable fashions in dress, and variety of diversions, every one of which they have been obliged t abandon, as soon as occupied by their imperti. nent rivals. In vain have they armed them. selves with lace and embroidery, and intrencher : themselves in hoops and furbelows: in ‘vail have they had recourse to fnll-bottomed periwig and toupees ; to high-heads, and low-heads, an) no heads at all: trade has bestowed riches on th competitors, and riches have procured ther equal finery. Hair has curled as genteelly 0. one side of Temple-bar as on the other, an hoops have grown to as prodigious a magnitud im the foggy air of Cheapside as in the pure regions of Grosvenor-square and Hill-street. With as little success have operas, orat rios, ridottos, and other expensive diversion been invented to exclude bad company :. trade! men, by enhancing their prices, have four tickets for their wives and daughters, andl this means have been enabled to insult the go company, their customers, at their own expens| and, like true conquerors, have obliged the en my to pay for their defeat. But this stratage has in some measure been obviated by the pr dence of the very best company, whe, for th and many other wise considerations, have usu: ly declined paying them at all. For many years was this combat between t good and lad company of this metropolis pr formed like the ancient tilts and tournamen ~ before his majesty and the royal family, eve ’ No. 126.] Friday night in the drawing-room at St. James’s; which now appears, as it usually fares with the seat of war, desolate and uninhabited, and totally deserted on both sides: except that ona twelfth-night the bad company never fail to assemble, to commemorate annually the vic- tories they have there obtained. The good company being thus every where put to fiight, they thought proper at last to retire to their own citadels; that is, to form numerous and brilliant assemblies at their own hotels, in which they imagined that they could neither be imitated nor intruded on. But here again they were grievously mistaken; for no sooner was the signal given, but every little lodging- house in town, of two rooms and a closet on a floor, or rather of two closets and a cupboard, teemed with card-tables, aud overflowed with company: and as making a crowd was the great point here principally aimed at, the smaller the houses, and the more indifferent the company, this point was ‘the more easily effected. Nor could intrusion be better guarded against than imitation; for by some means or other, either by the force of beauty or of dress, of wealth or impudence, of folly enough to lose great sums at play, or. of knavery enough to win them, or of some suci eminent or extraordinary qualifica- tions, their plebeian enemies soon broke through the strongest of their barriers, and mingled in the thickest of their ranks, to the utter destruc- tion of all superiority and distinction. But though it must be owned that the affairs of the good company are now in a very bad situ- ation, yet [ would not have them despair, nor perpetually carry about the marks-of their defeat in their countenances, so visible in a mixture of fierté and dejection. They have still one asylum left to fly to, which, with all their advantages of birth and education, it is surprising they should not long since have discovered; but since they have not, I shall beg leave to point it out; and it is this: that they once more retire to the leng- deserted fruits of true British grandeur, their princely seats and magnificent castles in their several counties: and there, arming themselves with religion and virtue, hospitality and charity, civility and friendship, bid defiance to their im- pertinent pursuers. And though I will not undertake that they shall not, even here, be fol- lowed in time, and imitated by their inferiors, yet so averse are all ranks of people at present to this sort of retirement, so totally disused from the exercise of those kinds of arms, and so un- Willing to return to it, that I will venture to pro- mise, it will be very long before they can be overtaken or attacked ; but that here, and here only, they may enjoy their favourite singularity unmolested, for half a century to come. } | ! ee THE WORLD. . bert No. 126.]- LTuurspay, May 29, 1755, ee I am favoured by a correspondent with the fol- lowing little instructive piece, which he calls THE ART OF HAPPINESS. A good temper is one of the principal ingre- dients of happiness. This, it may be said, is the work of nature, and must be born with us: and so in a good measure it is; yet sometimes it may be acquired by art, and .always improved by culture. Almost every object that attracts. our notice has its bright and its dark side: he that habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will sour his disposition, and consequently impair his happiness ; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly melio- rates his temper, and in consequence of it, im- proves his own happiness, and the happiness ot all about him. Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are both of them women in years, and alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They. were originally alike in temper too; but by different management are grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustomed herself to look only on the dark side of every object. If a new poem or play makes its appearance, with a thousand brilliancies, and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims over the passages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you show her a very excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery which has been ne- glected, or to a hand or finger that has been lett unfinished. Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegancy ; but if you take a walk with her in it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves and worm-casts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delightful prospect, she ob- serves to you, that there is too much wuod or too little water; that the day is too sunny or too gloomy ; that it is sultry, or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the wretched- ness of our climate. When you return with her to the company, in hopes of a little cheerful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giv- ing you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her daughter’s children. ‘Thus she in- sensibly sinks.her own spirits, and the spirits of all around ber, and at last discovers, she knows— not why, that her friends are grave. Melissa is the reverse of all this. By con- stantly habituating herself to look only on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual cheerfulness in herself, which, by a kind of “ 220. happy contagion, she communicates to all about her. If any misfortune has- befallen her, she considers it might have been worse, and is thankful to Providence for an escape. She re- joices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of knowing herself; and in society, because she can coramunicate the happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man’s virtues to his failings, and can find out something to cherish and ap- plaud in the very worst of her acquaintance. She opens every book with a desire to be enter- tained or instructed, and therefore seldom misses what she looks for. Walk with her, though it be but a heath or a common, and she will dis- cover numberless beauties, unobserved before, in- the hills, the dales, the broom, the brakes, and the variegated flowers of weeds and poppies. She enjoys every change of weather and of sea- son, as bringing with it something of health or convenience. In conversation itisa rule with her never to start a subject that leads to any thing gloomy or disagreeable; you therefore never hear her repeating her own grievances, or those of her neighbours, or (what is worst of all) their faults or imperfections. If any thing of the lat- ter kind be mentioned in her hearing, she has had the address to turn it into entertainment, by changing the most odious railing into a pleas- ant raillery. Thus Melissa, like the bee, gathers honey from every weed ; while Arachne, like the spider, sucks poison from the fairest flowers. The consequence is, that of two tempers, once very nearly allied, the one is for ever sour and dissatisfied, the other always gay and cheerful; the one spreads a universal gloom: the other a continual sunshine. There is nothing more worthy of our atten- tion than this art of happiness. In conversa- tion, as well as life, happiness very often de- pends upon the slightest. incidents. The taking notice of the badness of the weather, a north- east wind, the approach of winter, or any trifling circumstance of the disagreeable kind, shall in- sensibly rob a whole company of its good humour, and fling every member of it into the vapours. If therefore we would be happy in ourselves, and are desirous of communicating that happi- ness to all about us, these minutie of conversa- tion ought carefully to be attended to. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the days, the increasing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of good news, or what- ever carries with it the most distant glimpse of ioy, shall frequently be the parent of a social and happy conversation. Good manners exact from us this regard to our company. The clown may repine at the sunshine that ripens his har- vest, because his turnips are burned up by it; but the man of refinement will extract pleasure from the thunder-storm to which he is exposed, by remarking on the plenty and refreshment which may be expected from such a shower. THE WORLD. [No. 126. Thus does good manners, as wellas good sense, direct us to look at every object on the bright side ; and by thus acting we cherish and improve both the one and the other. By this practice it is that Melissa is become the wisest and best- bred woman living; and by this practice may every man and woman arrive at that easy bene- volence of temper, which the world calls good- nature, and the scripture charity, whose natural and never-failing fruit is happiness. I cannot better conclude this paper than with the following ode, which I received from an- other correspondent, and which seems to be written in the same spirit of cheerfulness with the above essay : ODE TO MORNING, The sprightly messenger of day, To heaven ascending tunes the lay, That wakes the blushing Morn: Cheer’d with th’ inspiring notes, I rise, And hail the Power, whose glad supplies Th’ enliven’d plains adorn. Far hence, retire, O Night! thy praise, Majestic queen, in nobler lays Already has been sung : When thine own spheres expire, thy name Secure from time, shall rise in fame, immortalized by Young. See, while I speak, Aurora sheds Her early honours o’er the meads, The springing valleys smile ; With cheerful haste, the village swain Renews the labours of the plain, And meets th’ accustom’d toil. Day’s monarch comes to bless the year , Wing’d Zephyrs wanton round his car, Along th’ ethereal road ; Plenty and Health attend his beams, And truth, divinely bright, proclaims The visit of the God. Awed by the view, my soul reveres The great First Cause, that bade the spheres In tuneful order move Thine is the sable-mantled night, Unseen Almighty! and the light The radiance of thy love. Hark! the awaken’d grove repays With melody the genial rays, And echo spreads the strain ; The streams in grateful murmurs run, The bleating flocks salute the sun, And music glads the plain. While Nature thus her charms displays, Let me enjoy the fragrant breeze, That opening flowers diffuse ; No. 127. ] Temperance and Innocence attend, These are your haunts, your influence lend, Associates of the Muse! Riot, and Guilt, and wasting Care, And fell Revenge, and black Despair, Avoid the morning’s light ; ' Nor beams the sun, nor blooms the rose Their restless passions to compose, Who virtue’s dictates slight. Along the mead, and in the wood, And on the margin of the flood, The Goddess walks confess’d ; She gives the landscape power to charm, The sun his genial heat, to warm The wise and generous breast. Happy the man! whose tranquil mind Sees Nature in her changes kind, _ And pleased the whole surveys ; For him the morn benignly smiles, And evening shades reward the toils That measure out his days. The varying year may shift the scene, The sounding tempest lash the main, And Heaven’s own thunders roll ; Calmly he views the bursting storm, Tempests nor thunder can deform The morning of his soul. C. B. PLVCLVUVAVLVTVVTVVTRTTSLVVVBVTATTV OTTO 000004 2204 No. 127.] Tuunrspay, Junex 5, 1'755. Quis novus hic nostris successit sedibus hospes ? Quem sese ore ferens 2 VIRG. What graceful stranger has approach’d our coasts ? Atrnovcu I profess myself a zealous advocate ‘or modern fashion, and have countenanced iome of its boldest innovations, yet I cannot ut recall my approbation, when I see it making ome very irregular and unjustifiable sallies, in \pposition to true policy and reasons of state. ‘2 testimony of the perfect quietism I have \itherto observed in this respect, I defy any one 9 convict me of having uttered one syllable in raise of the good roast beef of Old England, ince the conspiracy set on foot by the Creolian picures totally to banish it our island. On the ther hand, it is well known I have been itely present at a turtle feast in person, and ave at this very hour several more engagements Pon my hands. I have acquiesced likewise ‘ith great and sudden revolutions in dress, as rell as taste: I have submitted, in opposition to THE WORLD. 221 the clamours of a numerous party, to disman- tling the intrenchments of the hoop, on a tacit promise from my fair countrywomen (in com- pliance to the application of the young men) that they would leave the small of the leg at least as visible as before. I have made no ob- jection to their wearing the cardinal, though it be a habit of popish etymology, and was, I am afraid, first invented to hide the sluttishness of French dishabille. Nay, I have even connived at the importation of rouge, upon serious con- viction that a fine woman has an incontestable right to be mistress of her own complexion : neither do I know that we have any pretence to subject her to the necessity of telling us on the morrow, the late hours she was under engage- ment to keep the night before; a grievance, which, through the extreme delicacy of her na- tural complexion, could no otherwise be reme- died. My absolute compliance in so many important instances will, I hope, secure me from any im- putation of prejudice against the dominion of fashion, which I am at last under the necessity of opposing, as it has introduced under its sanction one of the most dangerous and impolitic customs that was ever admitted into a common- wealth, which is the unnatural and unconstitu- tional practice of inoculation. The evil ten- dency of this practice I have such unanswerable arguments to evince, as I doubt not will banish it our island, and send it back to the confines of Circassia, from whence one could hardly suspect a lady of quality would have been so wicked as to have imported it. I must first premise, which is not greatly to its credit, that it is of Turkish extraction; and (to speak as a man) I profess I dread lest it should be a means of introducing, in these opera days, some more alarming practices of the serag- lio. It seems likewise, by-the-bye, to strike at the belief of absolute predestination ; for (as a zealous Calvinist gravely remarked) is it not very pre- sumptuous for a young lady to attempt securing not above twenty spots in her face, when per- haps it is absolutely decreed she shall have two hundred, or none at all? But to my first argument. The world, in general (for I pay no regard to what the author of the Persian letters asserts to the contrary), is certainly much over-peopled ; and the proofs of it in this metropolis we cannot but visibly re- mark, in the constant labour of builders, masons, &c. to fit up habitations for the increasing su- pernumeraries. This inconvenience had in a great measure been hitherto prevented, by the proper number of people who were daily removed by the small-pox in the natural way; one, at least, in seven dying, to the great ease and con- venience of the survivors ; whereas since inocula- tion has prevailed, all hopes of thinning our 922 people that way are entirely at an end; not above one in three hundred being taken off, to the great incumbrance of society. So that, un- less we should speedily have a war upon the continent, we shall be in danger of being eaten up with famine at home, through the maultipli- city of our people, whom we have taken this un- natural method of keeping alive. My second argument was suggested to me bya very worthy country gentleman of my acquain- tauce, whom I met this morning, taking some fresh air in the park. I accosted him with the free impertinence of a friend at the first inter- view. ‘ What brought you to town, Sir?’ ‘ My wife, Sir (says he, in a very melancholy tone), my wife. It had pleased her, the first four years of our marriage, to live peaceably in the country, and to employ herself in setting out her table, visiting her neighbours, or attending her nursery: and if ever a wish broke out after the diversions of the town, it was easily soothed down again, by my saying, with accents of ten- derness, My dear, we would certainly see Lon- don this spring, but my last letters tell me the small-pox is very much there. But no sooner had she heard the fatal success of inoculation, than she insisted on the trial of it ; has succeed- ed; and having bafiled my old valuable argu- ment to keep her in the country, has hurried me to town, and is now most industriously making up her four years loss of time at the abbey, by entering with the most courageous spirit into every party of pleasure she can possibly partake of.’ The inference I would make from my friend’s story is, not that the nation is deprived hereby of a convenient bugbear to confine ladies to the country,—an abuse I would by no means coun- tenance; but to show only to our sagacious poli- ticians, who are searching for more important ~easons, that it is undoubtedly owing to the in- crease of inoculation, together with the number of convenient turnpikes, that so many of our worthy country gentlemen have evacuated their hospitable seats, and roll away with safety and tranquillity to town, to the great diminution of country neighbourhood, and the insufferable in- cumbrance of all public places in this metro- polis. Another ill consequence of this practice I have remarked more than once, in walking round the circle at Ranelagh. Beauties are naturally dis- posed to be a little insolent ; and a consciousness of superior charms, where the possession is con- firmed to the party, is very apt to break out into little triumphant airs and sallies of haughtiness towards those of avowed inferiority in that re- spect. Hence that air of defiance, so visible in the looks of our finest women, which in the last age was softened and corrected with some small traits of meekness and timidity ; while the un- happy group of plain women, who bear about -_THE WORLD. [No. 128. them those honourable scars for which they ought to be revered, can scarcely meet with @ beauty who will drop them a curtsy, or a beau, who will lead them to their chariots. Neither do I think it for the advantage of < commonwealth to be overstocked with beauties They are undoubtedly the most suitable furni. ture for public places, very proper objects to em. bellish an assembly reom, and the pretties points of view in the park; but it is believed by some, that your plain women, whose under standings are not perverted by admiration make the discreetest wives, and the best mo yaers: so that to secure a constant supply of fi and ugly women to act in these necessary capa cities, this modern invention for the preserva tion of pretty faces ought no doubt to be abolish ed; since, on a just computation, ten fine wo men per annum (which we can never want ii England) will be sufficient to entertain the bea; monde for a whole season, and completely fur nish all the public places every night, if proper]: disposed. I had some thoughts of laying these argu’ ments against inoculation before the legislature in hopes that they would strengthen them wit! their authority, and give them the sanction of | law against so pernicious an invention: but was discouraged by a friend, who convinced me that however just I might be in my opinio that cur people were growing too numerou:| and in the cause to which I imputed it, the per nicious success of inoculation; yet it might b impolitic to attempt reducing them at this crit cal season, when the legislature may have occé sion to dispose of them some other way. H} proposed to me, as the most effectual means suppressing this growing evil, that it should t recommended to some zealous and fashionab preacher to denounce his anathemas against i which would not fail to deter all ladies of qualit’ from the practice of it. But I would rath propose that a golden medal should be given t the college of physicians to the ablest of the pr fession, who should publish the completest trei’ tise to prove (as undoubtedly might be provet ‘ That whatever distemper any person shall d of at seventy years of age must infallibly | owing to his having been inoculated at sever and that every person who has had the small-p¢' by inoculation may have it afterwards ten tim in the natural way.’ ] PRVUTAADADTTALVSTATVCTITSTABDTAVL VVS*E BR FF BA GLAVWASVATSA No. 128.] ‘l'surspay, June 12, 1755. eee ’ ' MonrarenE tells us of a gentleman of his cou’ try, much troubled with the gout, who bei No. 128.] advised by his physicians to abstain from salt meats, asked what else they would give him to quarrel with in the extremity of his fits; for that he imagined, cursing one minute the Bo- logna sausages, and another the dried tongues he had eaten, was some mitigation of his pain. _ Ifall men, when they are either out of health, or out of humour, would vent their rage after the manner of this Frenchman, the world would bea much quieter one than we see it at present. But dried tongues and sausages have no feeling of our displeasure ; therefore we reserve it for one another; and he that can wound his neigh- bour in his fame, or sow the seeds of discord in his family, derives happiness to himself. I once knew a husband and wife, who with- out having the least tincture of affection for each other, or any single accomplishment of mind or person, made a shift to live comfortably enough, by contributing equally to the abuse of their acquaintance. The consideration of one another’s uneasiness, or what was still better, that it was in their power to inflict it, kept pain, sickness, and misfortune from touching them too nearly. They collected separately the scandal of the day, and made themselves com- pany for one another, by consulting how they might disperse it with additions and improve- ments. J have known the wife to have been cured of a fit of the colic, by the husband’s tell- ing her that a young lady of her acquaintance was run off with her father’s footman; and I once saw the husband sit with a face of delight to have a tooth drawn, upon my bringing him the news that a very particular friend of his was a bankrupt in the Gazette. Their losses at cards were what chiefly tormented them ; not so much from a principle of avarice, as from the consideration that what they had lost, others had won ; and upon these occasions the family peace has been sometimes disturbed. Buta fresh piece of scandal, or a new misfortune befalling any of the neighbourhood, has immediately set matters right, and made them the happiest peeple in the world. I think it is an observation of the witty and ingenious author of Tom Jones (I forgot his words) that the only unhappy situation in mar- Yiage is a state of indifference. Where people love one another, says he, they have great plea- sure in obliging; and where they hate one an- other, they have pleasure in tormenting. But where they have neither love nor hatred, and of consequence no desire either to please or plague, there can be no such thing as happiness. That this observation may be true in general, J very readily allow; yet I have instanced a couple who, though as indifferent to each other as it was possible for man and wife to be, have yet contrived to be happy through the misfortunes of their friends. _ But it is nevertheless true of happiness, that THE WORLD. 223 it is principally to be found at home ; and there. fore it is, that in most families one Visits, one sees the husband and wife (instead of contenting themselves with the miseries of their neigh- bours) mutually plaguing one another: and after a succession of disputes, contradictions, mortifications, sneers, pouts, abuses, and some- times blows, they retreat separately into com- pany, and are the easiest and pleasantest people alive. That this is to be mutually happy, I believe few married couples will deny ; especially if they have lived together a fortnight, and of course are grown tired of obliging. But it has been very luckily discovered, that as our sorrows are lessened by participation, so also are our joys ; and that unless the pleasure of torment- ing be confined entirely to one party, the hap- piness of either can by no means be perfect. The wife therefore of a meek and tender disposition, | who makes it the study of her life to please and oblige her husband, and to whom he is indebted for every advantage he enjoys, is the fittest ob- ject of his tyranny and aversion. Upon such a wife he may exert himself nobly, and have all the pleasure to himself; but I would advise him to enjoy it with some little caution, be- cause (though the weekly bills take no notice of it) there is really such a disease as a broken heart ; and the misfortune is, that there is no tormenting a dead wife. Happy is the husband of such a woman: for unless a man goes into company with the con- scious pleasure of having left his wife miserable at home, his temper may not be proof against every accident he may meet with abroad; but having first of all discharged his spleen and ill- humour upon his own family, he goes into com- pany prepared to be pleased and happy with every thing that occurs: or if crosses and disap- pointments should unavoidably happen, he has a wife to repair to, on whom he can bestow with interest every vexation he has received. Thus it was honestly and wisely said by the old serjeant of seventy, who, when his officer asked him how he came to marry at so great an age, answered, ‘ Why, and please your honour, they teaze and put me out of humour abroad, and so I go home and beat my wife.”? And in- deed happy is it for society that men have com- monly such repositories for their ill-humours ; for I can truly assert, that the easiest, the best- natured, and the mest entertaining man I know out of his own house, is the most tyrannical master, brother, husband, and father in the whole world ; and who, if he had no tamily to make miserable at home, would be the constant disturber of every party abroad. But Iam far from limiting this particular privilege to the husband: the wife has it some- times in her power to enjoy equal happiness. For instance, when a woman of family and 224 spirit condescends wealthy citizen, whose delight is in peace, quiet- ness, and domestic endearments ; such a woman may continually fill his house with routs and hurricanes; she may teaze and fret with her superiority of birth; she may torment his heart with jealousy, and waste his substance in rioting and gaming. She will have one advantage too over the male tyrant, inasmuch as she may carry her triumph beyond the grave, by making the children of her husband’s footman the inheritors of his fortune. Thus, as an advocate for matrimony, I have entered into a particular disquisition of its prin- cipal comforts; and that no motives may be wanting to induce men to engage in it, I have endeavoured to show that it is next to an im- possibility for a couple to miscarry, since hatred as well as love, and indifference as well as either (I mean if people have sense enough to make a right use of their friends’ misfortunes) is suffi- cient for happiness. Indeed it is hard to guess, when one reads in the public papers that a treaty of marriage is on foot between the right honour- able lord Somebody, and lady Betty Such-a-one, whether his lordship’s and the lady’s passion be love or hatred: and, to say truth, it is of very little consequence to which of these passions their desire of coming together is first owing ; it being at least six to four, that in the compass of 2 month they hate one another heartily. But let not this deter any of my readers from enter- ing into the state of matrimony ; since the pleas- ure of obliging the object of our desires, is at least equalled by the pleasure of tormenting the object of our aversion. BVVWUW*A RRPARATEVRVLRATLTETUNETDUTUBUETVUTTTT BLDVBVS No. 129.] Tuurspay, June 19, 1755. sae T shall make no apology for the following mis- cellaneous letters, unless it be to the writers of them, for so long delaying their publication. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir; The late Earl Marshal applying to a bookseller at Paris for some English books, was answered by the Frenchman that he had none in his shop, except une petite bagatelle, called the Bible. Your readers will be informed, that this petite bagatelle, as the bookseller termed it, contains (among other matters) some little treatises of zastern wisdom, and particularly certain maxims collected by one King Solomon, of whom men- tion is made in Prior’s poems. Solomon was, as Captain Bluff says of Scipio, a pretty fellow THE WORLD to marry for a maintenance a in his day, though most of his maxims have been [No. 129. | confuted by experience. But I only make men- tion of him, to show how exactly the virtuous woman of that monarch corresponds with the Jine lady of the present times. Who can find a virtuous woman? says Solo. mon. By the way, he must have kept sad com. pany, or else virtuous women were extremely scarce in those days; for it will be no boast t¢ say that five thousand virtuous women may be assembled at any time in this metropolis, on a night’s warning. - Solomon describes the charac. ter so that it is not easy to mistake it. She bring- eth her food from afar. That is to say the tea. table of the virtwous woman is supplied with suga! and cordials from Barbadoes, and with tea from China: the bread and butter and scandal only being the produce of her native country. Sh riseth whilst it is yet night. This cannot literally be said of our modern virtwous women; but ony may venture to assert, that if to rise whilst it i, yet night be the characteristic of virtue, to sit w the whole night, and thereby have no occasion foi rising at all, must imply no ordinary measure 0 goodness. She strengtheneth her arms. ‘This ii a circumstance of some delicacy : such mysterie: suit not the vulgar ear. ‘The husband of thi virtuous woman may say, as the poet says 0) friendship with the great, expertus metuit. Shu maketh herself coverings of tapestry ; her clothing i silk and purple. 'This plainly indicates that ni lady can be consummately zirtwous, unless shi wear brocaded silks, and robings of French em broidery. To these Solomon, with all the ac | curacy of a tire-woman, adds purple ribbons This passage is liable to misapplication ; but th words she maketh herself coverings, mean not tha | a virtuous woman must of necessity be a work | woman ; to make, signifies to occasion the makin, of any thing: thus a person is said to make in’ terest, when, in truth, it is not he, but his mone) that makes the interest. Thus Augustus fough battles by. proxy; and thus many respectabl personages beget children. So that a virtwou woman need not embroider in person ; let he pay for the work she bespeaks, and no more i required. Her husband is known in the gates More universally known by his relation to-hi wife, than by his own name. Thus you ar told at public places, “ That is Mrs. Such-a one’s husband, or he that married Lady Such-a one.” He sitteth among the elders of the land | At White’s, where the elders of the land assem ble themselves. Let me add one more instance of the simili. tude between a fine lady and the virtwous womai of Solomon, and I have done. When a lad) returns home, at five in the morning, from th nocturnal mysteries of brag, how must the hear of her husband exult, when he sees her flam beaux rivalling the light of the sun! May h not cry out in the words of the eastern monareb , No. 129.] Blessed is the virtuous woman 3 her candle goeth not out by night ? I am, Sir, Your most humble servant. MR. FITZ-ADAM, I have had the honour of sitting in the three last parliaments: for as it was always my opinion that an honest man should sacrifice every private consideration to the service of his country, I spared no expense at my elections, nor afterwards to support an interest in my borough, by giving annuities to half the corpo- ration, building a town-hall, a market-house, a new steeple to the church, together with a pre- sent of a ring of bells, that used to stun me with their noise. To defray all these expenses, I was obliged to mortgage my estate to its full value, excepting only two thousand pounds, which sum I took up against the last general election, and went down to my borough, where I was told there would be an opposition. What I heard was true; an absolute stranger had de- clared himself a candidate ; and though I spent every farthing of my two thousand pounds, and was promised the vote and interest of the mayor afid corporation, they every man of them went against me, and I lost my election. As I have now no opportunity of serving my country, and have a wife and seven small chil- dren to maintain, I have been at last concerting measures how I might do a small service to myself: and as there are many worthy gentle- men at present in the same unfortunate situa- tion, I cannot think of a better expedient than _ to recommend to the parliament, at their next meeting, the passing an act for raising a fund towards the building and endowing an hospital _ for the relief and support of decayed members. I mention it thus early, because 1 would give the legislature time to deliberate upon such a proposal. Andsurely, Mr. Fitz-Adam, if the loss of a Jimb shall be sufficient to entitle the meanest soldier or sailor in the service to this privilege, how much more worthy of relief is the disabled patriot, who has sacrificed his family and fortune to the interest of his country. - Your inserting this letter will greatly oblige, Sir, your very humble servant, B. D. P. S. All gentlemen residing in town, who have lost their fortunes by former parliaments, and their elections in this, are desired to meet on Saturday the 2list of this instant June, at three o’clock in the afternoon, at the Cat and ' Bagpipe, in St. Giles’s, to consider of the above proposal, or of any other ways and means for | their immediate support. | N. B. A dinner will be provided at nine- . pence a head. THE WORLD. _ Sr, f The prostitution of characters, given in be- half of bad servants, has been long a grievance, demanding the attention of the public. Give me leave to awaken it, by a specimen from my own experience. Some time since, an old servant left me, upon short notice. I had another recommended, as very honest, by a neighbouring family, whom he had served. As I was pressed for time, I took him upon that single qualification in lieu of all the rest; and, relying upon the repeated as- surances of his integrity, reposed an entire con- fidence in him. In some little time, however, finding an increase of expense in the articles under his particular management, 1 discovered, upon observation, that the perquisites, or rather plunder of his province, had been nearly doub- led. His dismission, you may imagine, ensued, and complaint to the persons who had recom- mended him. The answer was, that they knew him to be a sad fellow, by the tricks he had played them ; but that they would not say a word of it, because they thought it wicked to hinder him of a place. Now, Mr. Fitz- Adam, I conceive it to be but a wicked world, when gentlemen will help thieves and robbers to get into people’s houses; and I shall take for the future a bare acquittal at the Old Bailey, as a better recommendation than that of such a friend. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, A. B. The abuse complained of by this correspon- dent is of too serious a nature to be passed over slightly. It is to this mistaken compassion that the disorderly behaviour of servants is, perhaps, principally owing: for if the punishment of dishonesty be only a change of place (which may be a reward, instead of a punishment) it ceases to be a servant’s interest to be true to his trust. This prostitution of characters (as my corres- pondent calls it) is grown so common, that a servant, after he has committed the most pal- pable robbery, for which you are turning him out of doors, and which would go near to hang him at the Old Bailey, looks composedly in your face, and very modestly hopes that you will not refuse him a character, for that you are too worthy a gentleman to be the ruin of a poor servant, who has nothing but his character to depend on for bread. So away he goes, and you are really so very worthy a. gentleman as to assure the first person who inquires about him, that he is a sober, diligent, and faithful servant. ‘Thus are you accessary to the next robbery he com- mits, and ought, in my humble epinion, ‘to be deemed little less than an accessary by the law ; Gg 226 for the servant who opens the door of his mas- | ter’s house to the thief that plunders it differs from you only in the motive; the consequences are the same. I have said in a former paper, that the be- haviour of servants depends in a great measure , on that of their masters and mistresses. In this | instance, I am sure it does: I shall therefore conclude this paper with advising all heads of ! families to give honest characters before they allow themselves to exclaim against dishonest servants. RPRAL” VPWRVW LT VR VR ST BCTV BVATA ATA BSA 0022242444 3204 No. 130.] Tuurspay, Junr 26, 1755. eereeeet TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, WHEN your first World made its appearance, I was just entering into, what is called, polite life, and was mightily pleased’at your promising to direct young maids how to get husbands. I was then just eighteen ; not disagreeable in my per- son; and, by the tender care of indulgent pa- rents, had been instructed in all the necessary accomplishments towards making a good wife, a good mother, and a sincere friend. I resolved to keep strictly to all the rules you should pre- scribe, and did not doubt but by the time 1 was twenty I should have choice of admirers, or very probably be married. But, would you believe it? I have not so much as one man who makes any sort of pretensions tome. I am at a loss to account for this, as I have not been guilty of any of those errors, which you and all sober men exclaim so much against: I hate routs, seldom touch a card, and when I do, it is more to oblige others than myself. Plays are the only public amusements I frequent; but I go only to good ones, and then always in good company.— Don’t think by good company { mean quality; for I assure yon I never go to any public place but with people of unexceptionable character. My complexion is of the olive kind; yet I have the assurance to show my bare face, though I have been often told it is very indecent. However, to atone in some measure for this neglect, I never am seen without a handkerchief, nor with my petticoats above my shoes. Though my fortune is rather beyond what is called genteel, | never run into any extravagancy in dress; and, to avoid particularity, am never the first nor the last in a fashion. I am an utter enemy to scandal, and never go out of a morning either to auctions or the park. If by chance 1 am alone a whole afternoon, I am never at a loss how to spend my time, being fond of reading. I have an aversion to coquetry, yet am the cheerfullest creature living, and | never better pleased than when joining in a_ THE WORLD. [No. 130. country dance, which I can do for a whole. night together, without either falling in love. with my partner, if agreeable, or quarrelling with him, if awkward. Girls may pretend to deny it, but certainly the whole tenor of their actions leads to the dis- | posing of themselves advantageously in the world. Some set about it one way, and some arother ; all of them choosing what they think | the most likely method to succeed. Now Iam sure, when they pursue a wrong one, that nine times in ten it is owing to the men; for were they to admire women for virtue, prudence, good humour, and good sense, as well as beauty, we should seek no other ornaments. The men ought to set the example, and then reward those who follow it, by making them good husbands. But instead of this, they make it their business — to turn the heads of all the girls they meet; which when they have effectually done, they | exclaim against the folly of the whole sex, and either cheat us of our fortunes by marrying our grandmothers, or die bachelors. Now pray, Mr. Fitz-Adam, as this is the case, what encouragement has a young woman to set about improving her mind? I am sure, in the small circle of my acquaintance, I have known several women who have reached their thirtieth year unnoticed, whose good qualities are such as would make it difficult to find men | to deserve them. : In public places, the coquette, with a small | share of beauty, and that perhaps artificial, shall, | with the most trifling conversation in the world, | engross the attention of a whole circle; while the woman of modesty and sense is forced to be. silent, because she cannot be heard. Thus when we find that it is not merit which recommends | us to the notice of the men, can it be wondered | at, that while we are desirous of changing our. conditions, we try every innocent artifice to ac- complish our designs ? | As to myself, I have a great respect for the married state ; but if I cannot meet with a man that will take me just as nature has formed me, I will live single for ever, for it has been always a rule with me never to expect the least advantage from the possession of any thing, which is not, to be attained but at the expense of truth. I am not so vain, Mr. Fitz- Adam, as to ima- gine this letter will merit a place in your paper; all I desire is, that you will oblige me so far as to write a World upon the subject; and might I advise, let the women alone, and apply your- self entirely to the reformation of the men: for when once they begin to cherish any thing valuable and praise worthy in themselves, you will soon find the women to follow their exam-_ ple. I am, Sir, Your constant reader and admirer, a} M. S. No. 131. ] MR. FITZ-ADAM, THE WORLD. 227 him, for fear of his discovering the cause ; it oc- curred to me, that if I could muster up courage: You have often animadverted on the present | fashionable indecencies of female dress; but I wish you would please now and then to look a little at home, and bestow some of your chari- table advice upon your own sex. You are to know, Sir, that Iam one of three old maids, who, though no relations, have re- solved to live and die together. Our fortunes, which singly are but small, enable us, when put together, to live gentee?ly, and to keep two maids and a footman. Patrick has lived with us now going on of six years, and, to do him justice, is | a sober, cleanly, and diligent servant: indeed, by studying our tempers, and paying a silent obedience to all our whims (for we do not pre. tend to be without whims) he has made himself so useful, that there is no doing without him. We give him no livery, but allow him a hand- some sum yearly for clothes; and to say the truth, till within this last week, he has dressed with great propriety and decency; wher. all at once, to our great confusion and distress, he has had the assurance to appear at the sideboard in a | pair of filthy nankin breeches, and those made | to fit so extremely tight, that a less curious ob- server might have mistaken them for no breeches at all. ‘The shame and confusion so visible in all our faces, one would think, should suggest to him the odiousness of his dress; but the fellow | seems to have thrown off every appearance of de- cency: for at tea-table, before company, as well as at meals, we are forced to endure him in this abominable nankin, our modesty all the time struggling with nature, to efface the ideas it con- yeys. For the first two days, though we could think | of nothing else, shame kept us silent even to one another ; but we could hold out no longer; yet what to determine neither of usknew. Patrick, | as I told you before, was a good servant, and to. turn him away for a single fault, when that ' fault would in all probability be remedied by a | word’s speaking, seemed to be carrying the : matter a little too far. But which of us was to. speak to him was the grand question. The word breeches (though I am prevailed upon to write it) was too coarse to be pronounced; and to say, ‘ Patrick, we don’t like that dress,’ or, ‘ Pray, Patrick, dress in another manner,’ was laying us under a necessity of pointing at his’ breeches to make ourselves understood. Nor. did it seem at all advisable to set either Betty or Hannah upon doing it, as it might possibly | draw them into explanations, that might be at- tended with very puzzling, if not dangerous con- sequences, After having deliberated some days upon this | cruel exigence, and not knowing which way to Took whenever Patrick was in the room, nor | daring to shut our eyes, or turn our backs upon to inform Mr. Fitz-Adam of our distresses (for we constantly take in the World, of which Pa- trick is also a reader) it might be a means of re- lieving us from this perpetual blushing and con- fusion. If you walk abroad in the morning, or are a frequenter of auctions, you cannot but have taken notice of this odious fashion. But I should like it better, if you were to pass your censure upon nankin breeches in general, than. to have those of our Patrick taken notice of par- ticularly: however I leave it entirely to your own choice; and whatever method you may _take to discountenance the wearing of them, will be perfectly agreeable to, Sir, your most humble servant, Priscetua Cnross-stircu. The case of this lady and her companions is so exceeding critical, that for fear Patrick should be backward at taking a hint, 1 have thought it the wisest way to publish her letter just as I received it; and if after this day Pa- trick should again presume to appear befere his ladies, cased in nankin, I hereby authorize Mrs. Betty or Mrs. Hannah to burn his breeches whenever they can find them. To be serious upon this occasion, I have often looked upon this piece of naked drapery as a very improper part of dress; and as such I hereby declare, that after this present 26th of June it shall be a capital offence against decency and modesty, for any person whatsoever to be seen to wear it. N. B. All canvass or linen breeches come within the act. DAV VUSRVAVSTT ARAVA SDT VPAVVSA SC VVVeVWesssVeWQees sees No. 131.] Tuurspay, Jury 3, 1755, ‘Tue conversation happening, a few evenings ago, to turn upon the different employments of man- kind, we fell into the consideration how ill the various parts of life are generally suited to the persons who appear in them. ‘This was attri- buted either to their own ambition, which , tempts them to undertake a character they have not abilities to perform with credit,-er to some accidental circumstance, which throws them into professions contrary perhaps, both to their genius and inclination. All were unanimous in blaming those parents who force their children to enter into a way of life contrary to their na- tural bent, which generally points out the em- ployment that is best adapted to their capacities. To this we in a great measure ascribed the slow progress of arts and sciences, the frequent fail- ures and miscarriages of life, and many of those 3 228. desperate acts which are often the consequences of them. This conversation carried us through the greatest part of the evening, till the company broke up and retired to rest. But the weather being hot, and my senses perfectly awake, I found it impossible to'give way tosleep; so that my thoughts soon returned to the late subject of the evening’s entertainment. I recollected many | instances of this misapplication of parts, and compassionated the unhappy effects of it. I reflected that as all men have different ideas of pleasures and honours, different views, inclina- tions, and capacities ; yet all concur in a desire of pleasing and excelling: if that principle were employed to the proper point, and every one em- ployed himself agreeably to his genius, what a wonderful effect would it soon have in the world! With how swift a progress would arts and sci- ences grow up to perfection! And to what an amazing height would all kind of knowledge soon be carried! Men would no longer drudge on with distaste and murmuring in a study they abhor ; but every one would pursue with cheer- fulness his proper calling ; business would be- come the highest pleasure; diligence would be too universal to be esteemed a virtue; and no man would be ashamed of an employment, in which he appeared to advantage. While my mind hung upon these reflections, I imperceptibly dropped asleep. But my ima- gination surviving my reason, I soon entered into a dream, which (though mixed with wild flights and absurdities) bore some analogy to my waking thoughts. I fancied myself still reflecting on the same subject, when I was suddenly snatched up into the air, and presently found myself on the poets’ Olympus, at the right hand of Jupi- er ; who told me that he approved my thoughts, and would make an immediate experiment of the change I had been wishing for. He had no sooner pronounced these words, than I perceived a strange hurry and confusion in the lower world : all mankind was in motion, preparing to obey the tremendous nod. Multitudes of the nobility began to strip them- selves of their robes and coronets, and to act in the different capacities of horse-jockeys, coach- men, tailors, fiddlers, and merry-andrews. I distinguished two or three great personages, who had dressed themselves in white waistcoats, and with napkins wrapped about their heads, and aprons tucked round their waists, were busied in several great kitchens, making consid- erable improvements in the noble art of cookery. A few of this illustrious rank, without quitting their honourable distinctions, applied themselves to enlarging the discoveries, enlightening the understandings, rectifying the judgments, refin- ing the tastes, polishing the manuers, improving | THE WORLD. ae q [No. 131. the hearts, and by all possible methods promet- ing the interests of their fellow-creatures. I saw reverend prelates, who, tearing off their lawn, put themselves into red coats, and soon obtained triumphs and ovations; while others dwindled into parish clerks, and village peda- gogues. But I observed with pleasure several of that sacred order in my own country, who appeared calm and unchanged amidst the general bustle, and seemed to be designed originally to do honour to their exalted stations. There were several grave old men, who threw off their scarlet robes, and retired to religious houses. I saw with wonder some of these de- serted robes put on by private gentlemen, who, lost in retirement and reserve, were little ima- gined to be qualified for such important posts. But what more astonished me was to see men of military rank throwing away their regimen- tals, and appearing with much better grace in longer suits of scarlet. Some gentlemen of the robe, whom I had always regarded with respect and reverence, seemed now more awful and re- spectable than ever: one in particular greatly surprised me, by quitting the seat of judgment, which he had long filled with universal applause, till I saw him entering a more august assembly, and afterwards passing to the cabinet of his prince, from whence he returned to the great hall, where first I observed him, and convinced me of the extent of his abilities, by appearing equally capable in all his employments. I saw in a publicassembly a junto of patriots, who, while they were haranguing on the cor- ruption and iniquity of the times, broke off in the middle and turned stock-jobbers and pawn- brokers. A group of critics at the Bedford cof- fee-house were in an instant converted into ha- berdashers of small-ware in Cheapside. ‘Trans- lators, commentators, and polemic divines, made for the most part very good cobblers, gold-find- ers, and rat-catchers. ‘The chariot of a very eminent physician was transformed all at once into a cart, and the doctor to an executioner, fastening a halter round the neck of a criminal. I saw two very noted surgeons of my acquain- tance in blue sleeves and aprons, exerting them- selves notably in a slaughter-house near the Victualling-office. A reverend divine, who was preaching in the fields to a numerous audience, recollected himself on a sudden, and producing — a set of cups and balls, performed several very dexterous tricks by slight of hand. The pretty gentlemen were every where usefully employed in knotting, pickling, and making conserves. — The fine ladies remained as they were; for it was beyond even the omnipotence of Jupiter (without entirely changing their natures) to as- sign an office in which they could be beneficial | to mankind. Several princes and potentates now relieved | : ; , No. 132.) themselves from the load of crowns and sceptres, - and entered with a good grace into private sta- tions. Others put themselves at the head of com- _ panies of banditti, formed of lawyers, public offi- cers, and excisemen. Their prime ministers had generally the honour of being their first -jieutenants, and sometimes enjoyed the sole com- under them in rank and file. mand; while the courtiers ranged themselves But with what heartfelt pleasure did I observe an august and -yenerable monarch, surrounded by a youthful band, with the most amiable countenances I had ever beheld! He wore a triple crown upon his | head, which an angel held on, and over it a scroll, with this inscription, For a grateful and affectionate people. The shops now began to be filled with people of distinction; and many a man stept with a genteel air from behind the counter, into a great estate, or a post of honour. _ The nobility were almost all changed through- out the world: for no man dared te answer to a title of superiority, who was not conscious of superior excellence and virtue. 2 In the midst of all this bustle, I was struck with the appearance of a large bevy of beaut’es, and women of the first fashion, who, with all the perfect confidence of good breeding, inskrined themselves in the several temples dedicated to the Cyprian Venus, secure of the universal ado- rations and prostrations of mankind. Others, of inferior rank and fame, very unconcernedly pursued their domestic affairs, and the occupa- tions of the needle cr the toilette. But it. was with a secret pride that I observed a few of my dear countrywomen quit their dressing-rooms and card-assemblies, and venture into public, as candidates for fame and honours. One lady in particular, forced by the sacred impulse, I saw marching with modest composure to take pos. session of the warden’s lodgings in one of our colleges ; but observing some young students at the gate, who began to titter as she approached, she blushed, turned from them with an air. of pity unmixed with contempt, and retiring to aer beloved retreat, contented herself with doing ll the good that was possible in a private sta- sion. The face of affairs began now to be very much itered : all the great offices of state were filled vith able men, who were equal to the glorious oad; which they accepted for the good of their country, not for their own private emolument. Bribery and corruption were at length happily vanished from all commonwealths; for as no man could be prevailed on to accept of an em- loyment, for which he was not every way (ualitied, merit was the only claim to promo- ion. | Universal peace and tranquillity soon ensued. Arts and sciences daily received astonishing provements. All men were alike emulous to THE WORLD. excel in something ; and no part was dishonour-.' k In short; the golden able to one who acted well. age of the poets seemed to be restored. But while I was reflecting with joy and od, miration on these glorious revolutions, the tumult of a midnight broil awaked me; and I found myself in a world as full ef folly and ab- surdity as ever it was. VBRBABVUDTESVABE WADA SPABUVUBUEFSAVAVVTDEDBDUVABD PLBTAUB™ VA No, 132.] Tuurspay, Juny 10, 1755. < Ir has been a perpetual objection of declaimers against Providence in all ages, that good and evil are very irregularly distributed among man- kind ; that the former is too often the portion of the vicious, and the latter of the virtuous. Numberless hypotheses have been framed to re- concile these appearances to the idea of a moral Supreme Being: I-shall mention only two at the present, as they have been employed, by writers of a very different turn. Some of these writers assent to the truth of the fact, but endeavour to invalidate the con- clusions raised on it, by arguments frem reason and revelation for the proof of a future state ; in which the seeming and real inconsistencies of this life will be adjusted agreeably te our ideas of a moral governor. Now objectors will answer, and indeed have answered, that arguments from reason to support this doctrine are extremely inconclusive. They may allow it is agreeable to the rules of just analogy to presume that the attributes of the Supreme Being, which are im- perfectly known in the present life, will be manifested more clearly to our apprehensions in a future one: but they will call it an inversion of all reasonable arguments, to conclude, from thence, that the moral attributes will be dis- coverable in another state of béing, when, by a confession of the fact, that good and evil are so irregularly distributed, no appearances of these attributes are supposed to exist in the present system, that book of nature, from which alone we collect that the Author of it is good as well as wise. As little will these objectors be in- fluenced by arguments from revelation. Te prove natural religion by revelation (which can itself be erected on no other principle) they wili call but fantastic reasoning in a circle. | Re- velation, they will say, presupposes the follow- ing truths, and depends upon their certainty ; that there is a God, and that such evidences of his goodness and other attributes are discovered from his works, as in reason should induce us to rely with confidence on those oracles deliver- ed to us as his word. Other writers, who have undertaken a de- fence of Providence, attempt it in a different 230 manner. ‘They affirm it is vain presumption to imagine man the final end of the creation, who may be formed subserviently to nobler orders and systems of being: and that God governs by general, not particular laws; laws that respect our happiness as a community, not as individ- uals. But the same objectors will again reply, that it is inconsistent with our idea of a being infinitely good, to conceive him determining any creature to misery, however inferior in the order of general nature, or however formed relatively to superior beings and systems. ‘They will think it not more reconcileable with our idea of a Being infinitely wise, to imagine him incapa- ble of accomodating laws, however general, to the interest of every particular. ‘They will de- sire an explanation how laws can respect the happiness of any system, which are supposed too generally to be productive of misery, even to the most valuable individuals that compose it. _ This argument, drawn from the government of God by general, not particular laws, seems by no means to have been attended with the suc- cess it was entitled to: and it appears to have failed of this end, not from a defect in the argu- ment itself, but either because it has been ill understood, or not pursued to its full extent. When unbelievers declaim against the suppesed unequal distribution of things, they in conse- quence condemn the general laws from which they proceed. To reply then that God governs by general, not particular laws, is a repetition only of the foundation of their complaints, not ananswer tothem. There is another mistake in the management of this argument. In the consideration of the excellence of human laws, we are not content with viewing them intrin- sically in themselves; but compare them with the particular country, temper, manners, and other circumstances of that people for whom they are intended. Now in the consideration of divine laws, we have not pursued the same me- thod ; and for this reason, among others, unbe- lievers have triumphed in the imagined weak- ness of one of the noblest arguments that has ever been employed in the noblest of causes, a | defence of Providence. God governs by general, not particular laws, because the former alone are adapted to the con- dition of human kind. In this imperfect state we are entirely unacquainted with the real na- | ture of those beings which surround us. We are ignorant from what principle or internal constitution they derive a power of operating on other beings, or in what manner the operation | is performed. We have no knowledge of causes but in their effects, and in those effects alone, which are grossly visible to our material organs. We suppose the same effects invariably produced — from the same causes, except where a miracu- Jous power interposes, and supersedes for a mo- ment the general course of nature, which re- THE WORLD. [No. 2 1 326 sumes its former constancy, when the superior influence that controlled it is removed. Such. rare exceptions do not perplex our conduct, which is regulated by the general rule: but to destroy this general order as soon as the imagined interest of individuals seems to us to require it, is to confound human knowledge, and, in conse-. quence, human action. ‘The husbandman com- mits his seed to the ground, with a presumption that the earth retains all those powers which promote vegetation. He concludes that the seasons will return in their stated order; that the sun will warm and invigorate, where it shines, and showers cool and refresh, where they | fall, as in ancient times. Certain established properties in matter, and certain established laws of motion, are presumed in the meanest mechanical operation, nay, in the least consider- ble actions of our lives. Let us represent to ourselves such a system of things existing, as, in the opinion of an objector to the present, would justify our conceptions of a moral Supreme Being. Let us imagine every element and power of nature, in the minutest. as well as the greatest instances, operating to the preservation and advantage of the good ; and, on the contrary, concurring to produce misery and destruction to the wicked. The good man inhabits a house with great security, whose walls decline near two feet from the perpendicular. He falls asleep with a lighted candle at the bed- side, and the flame it produces, though sufficient to consume the dwelling of the wicked, plays but as a lambent vapour on his curtains. He drinks a glass of aqua-fortis, by mistake, for the same quantity of champaigne, and finds it only an innocent enlivener of his spirits. The heats of summer, and the frosts of winter, occasion the same agreeable sensations. Rich wines and poignant sauces attenuate his juices, and rectify the scorbutic habit of his body. The bad man, on the other hand, experiences very opposite ef- fects. He sits frozen with cold over that fire which communicates warmth to the rest of the | company at the extremity of the room. At an- other time he scalds his fingers by dipping them into cold water. A basin of broth, or rice-milk intoxicates his brain. He acquires the stone and a complication of distempers from a vegeta- ble diet: and at last concludes a miserable being by passing under an arch of solid stone, which his own iniquities draw down upon his head. ~ Let us rest a moment to express our admira- tion of such a system, and then inquire how the bulk of mankind, neither perfect saints nor des- perate sinners, but partaking generally of the | qualities of both, shall regulate their conduct in ‘conformity to it. From a confidence in their integrity, shall they inhabit houses that are _ nodding to their ruin ; or from a distrust of their virtues, be afraid to venture themselves under _ the dome of St. Paul’s? Shall they practise re No. 133.] gularity and exercise, as wholesome rules of life ; or, indulging themselves in indolence, swallow every day gallons of claret as the grand elixir ? Shall they remain undetermined whether the centre of an ice-house, or the chimney corner, is the more comfortable situation in the Christ- mas holidays? And shall they retreat in the dog-days to cool shades and running streams, or, covering themselves with surtouts, hurry away to the sweating-rooms of bagnios ? To such inconvenient conclusions are the per- sons reduced, whose narrow views, and nar- rower prejudices, furnish them with complaints against the prevailing system; which is wisest and best, because fittest for mankind, to whose wants it is accommodated, and to whose facul- ties it is proportioned. SVUTUCBVCVV WS CR VTVLVVVWLVL4VBVUWVVA OA WMECULVT BTV BUVWSE WADA No. 133. ] Tuurspay, Juty 17, 1755. TuEre is nothing in this world that a man places so high a value upon, or that he parts with so reluctantly, as the idea of his own con- sequence. Amidst care, sickness, and misfor- tune; amidst dangers, disappointments, and death itself, he holds fast this idea, and yields it up but with his last breath. Happy indeed would it be, if virtue, wisdom, and superior abilities of doing good, were the basis of our consequence: but the misfortune is, we are generally apt to place it in those very qualities for which the thinking part of mankind either hate or despise us. ‘The man of pleasure derives his consequence from the number of wo- ‘men he has ruined; the man of honour, from the duels he has fought; the country-squire, from the number of bottles he can drink ; the ‘man of learning, by puzzling you with what you do not understand; the ignorant man, by | ‘talking of what he does not understand himself ; my lady’s woman, by dressing like a person of quality; and my lady herself, by appearing in clothes unworthy of one of her house-maids. Those who, in their own Situations, are un- fortunately of no consequence, are catching at every opportunity that offers itself to acquire it. ‘Thus the blockhead of fortune flies from the ompany that would improve him, to be a man of consequence among the vulgar: while the in- lependent citizen gives up the ease and enjoy- nent which he would find in the company and onversation of his equals, to be mortified by _he pride and arrogance of his superiors at the ‘ther end of the town, in order to be a man of onsequence at his return. i I remember an anabaptist tailor in the city, vio, to make himself a man of consequence, ised to boast to his customers, that however WEED OWORE D. 231 silent history had been upon a certain affair, he could affirm upon his credit, that the man in the mask who cut off King Charles’s head was his own grandfather. I knew also a shoe-hoy at Cambridge, when I was a student at. St. John’s, who was afterwards transported for picking pockets,” but who having at his return com- menced gamester, and of course made himself company for gentlemen, used always to preface what he had to say with, “ I remember when I was abroad, or when I was at college.”” But even a more ridiculous instance than this, is in an old gentlewoman who has lately taken a garret at my barber’s ; this lady (whose father, it seems, was a justice of the quorum) constantly sits three whole hours every evening over a half- penny roll and a farthing’s worth of cheese, be- cause it was the custom of her family, she says, to dine late, and sit a long while. This kind of consequence was very happily ridiculed by Tom Slaughter the butcher, at Newmarket. Every body knows that ‘Tom’s father was a gentleman who ran through a very good estate by cocking and horse-racing. Tom being asked, last meet- ing, by one who had known him in his prosper- ity, how he could descend to so low a calling as that of a butcher, answered, “ why, you know, Sir, our family always took a pride in killing their own mutton.” That this affectation of consequence is the most ridiculous of all vanities, every body will allow. But where men of real worth in all other respects are possessed of it, or where per- sons in great and honourable stations render themselves and their employments contemptible by such affectation, it is then seriously to be lamented. Our ancestors derived their consequence from their independency ; and supported it by their integrity and hospitality. They resided upon their several estates, and kept open houses for their neighbours and tenants. They exerted themselves in deeds of hardiness and activity ; and their wives and daughters were modest and good housewives. There is an epitaph in Peck’s collection of curious historical pieces, which (as that book is but in a few hands, and as I do not remember to have seen it in any other collection) 1. shall here transcribe, that our gentry of the present times may be instructed in the art of making then- Selves persons of real consequence. This epitaph (which for its natural beauty and simplicity is equal to any thing of the kind) was written in Queen Elizabeth’s time, upon that noble and famous knight, Sir Thomas Scot, of Scot’s-hall, in the county of Kent, who died on the 80th day of December 1594, and was buried in Bradborn church. His mother was the daughter of Sir William Kempe. He served in many parlia- ments as knight of the shire for that county. In | the memorable year 1589, upon the council’s 232 sending him a letter on the Wednesday, ac- | quainting him with the approach of the Spa- nish Armada, he sent four thousand armed men to Dover on the Thursday. The inhabitants of Ashford would have paid the charges of his funeral, on condition that his corpse might have . been buried in their church. EPITAPH. Us Here lies Sir Thomas Scot by name ; Oh hapie Kempe that bore him ! Sir Raynold, with four knights of fame, Lyv’d lyneally before him. THE WORLD Il. His wiefes were Baker, Heyman, Beere ; His love to them unfayned. He lyved nyne and fifty yeare ; And seventeen sowles he gayned. Ill. His first wief bore them everie one: The world might not have myst her! She was a verie paragon, The ladie Buckerst’s syster. Iv. His widow lyves in sober sort ; No matron more discreter. She still reteiynes a good reporte, ~ And is a great howsekeper. Vv. He (being call’d to special place) Did what might best behove him. The Queene of England gave him grace ; The King of Heaven did love him. VI. His men and tenants wail’d the daye, His kinn and cuntrie cried ! Both young and old in Kent may saye, Woe woorth the daye he died. VII. He made his porter shut his gates To sycophants and briebors ; And ope them wide to great estates, And alsoe to his neighbors. Vill. His hous was rightlye termed hall, Whose bred and beef was redie. It was a verie hospitall, And refuge for the needie. Ik. From whence he never stept aside, In winter nor in sommer, In Christmas time he did provide Good cheer for everie comer. | Providence is rendered precarious by them. q [ No. 134. Kis When any servis should be donn, — He lyeked not to lyngar ; The rich would ride, the poor would runn ~ If he held up his fingar. . xI. He kept tall men, he rydd great hors ; He did indite most finelye ; He used few words, but cold discours Both wisely and dyvinelye. xII. Fis lyving meane, his chargies greate, His daughters well bestowed ; Although that he were left in debt, In fine he nothing owed ; : XIII. But died in rich and hapie state, Beloved of man and woman ; And (which is yeat much more than that) He was envy’d of no man. XIV. In justice he did much excell, In law he never wrangled ; He looved rellygion wondrous well, But he was not new fangled. XV. wy Let Romney marsh, and Dover say ; Ask Norborn camp at leysuer, If he were woont to make delaye, To do his cuntrie pleasure. +" XVI, But Ashford’s proffer passeth all, It was both rare and gentle ; They wold have pay’d his funerall, T’ have torab’ him in their temple. Xy lis Ambition he did not regard, No boaster, nor no bragger ; He spent, and lookt for no reward, He cold not play the bagger. ie No. 134.] Tuurspay, Jury 24, 1755. z | ~- ~ | ——— } | Iw a former paper I attempted to prove that the | laws must be general, not particular, which God employs in the government of mankind. | Let us now examine a little particularly the nature of the complaints which these laws oc casion, and consider liow far the existence ofa No. 134.] We lament that happiness and misery are very irregularly distributed among the good and bad; and yet, as it has been well observed, are by no means determined in questions, very ne- cessary to be precisely settled, before we form this conclusion : as what is the final and proper hap- piness of man? And who are the good, and who are the bad, that deserve to partake of it, or to be excluded from it? He is not a good man at Rome, who is a good man at London. Nay, in the same country, this sect adores him as a saint, whom another proclaims a minister of darkness. The patriot of one party is the rebel of the opposite one. ‘The happiness then or mis- ery of such a person becomes very frequently, at the same time, and in the very same place, both an argument for the belief and rejection of a Providence. say ah . - Again, the greatest part of the misfortunes which afflict us are concluded to arise from the action of general laws: when, in reality, they proceed from our own wilful opposition to them, and refusal to accept them as the measure of our conduct. Obscure and limited as human reason is, it is sufficient to discover to us certain desira- ble ends, and certain means fitted to produce them ;, ends not to be procured by the applica- tion of different means, and means not adapted to procure different ends. Physical causes pro- duce physical, and moral causes moral effects. It is surely unreasonable to invert this order, and expect moral effects from physical causes, and physical effects from moral causes. It is unreasonable to expect that the virtues of a saint or martyr will secure us from the dangers of a well or precipice, if we advance to them with a bandage over our eyes. We should smile at the country gentleman’s simplicity, who disbelieved a Providence, because fox-hunting, port, and tobacco, were incapable of inspiring him with the genius of Milton, or because he was un- farnished with the sagacity and penetration of Locke, after a dozen years attendance to every debate at the quarter sessions. The epicure would be entitled to as little serious treatment, who embraced the same atheistical tenet, be- cause his streams did not flow with burgundy and champagne, or because haunches of venison, turtles and turbots, did not rise as spontaneous- ly from his hot-beds as mushrooms. We should treat such characters with ridicule; but are wthers less ridiculous, who expect effects as dis- woportionate to their causes, as those just de- ieribed ? Should the wise and good complain that hey are not rich and robust like particular wick- d men ; the reply.is obvious: the means that ocure wisdom and virtue are very different tom those that procure health andriches. Do hey lament that they are not in possession f those external advantages, when they have jeglected the natural methods of acquiring them, vhich persons less valuable have pursued with THE WORLD. 233 success? It is no objection against a Providence that men do not gather grapes from thorns, or figs from thistles ; they have reason to be satisfied while it is in their power to receive them from the plants proper to their production. Let it be allowed that on some occasions, with all our precaution, the order of nature may ope- rate to our disadvantage ; the torrent may over- whelm, the flame consume, or the earthquake swallow us: but are general Jaws to be con- demned, because in particular instances they give us transient pain, or even determine our present state of being, which they have contri- buted to preserve in every period of it, and on which not only our happiness, but our very ex- istence has depended ? It is a necessary condition of a compound substance, like the material part of man, to be subject to dissolution, from causes exterior to it, or united with its constitution. Does a more convincing argument arise against a Providence from its dissolution at one season rather than another? or from its dissolution by an excernal, rather than an internal cause, which is as effectual to the end, though less precipitate in the means? Some few cases (much fewer than are gene- rally imagined) mzy possibly be stated, where, in the present life, the moment of misery to a faultless creature may exceedingly overbalance the moment of its happiness ; as when it is in- | troduced into being with infirmities of body too obstinate for temperance and discipline to cor- rect, and which render it insensible to every en- joyment. But to solve these appearances, a well supported revelation, that instructs us in the doctrine of a future stete, may fitly be ap- plied ; for though revelation cannot serve as a basis to natural religion, on which it is only a superstructure, yet it may be extremely useful to.reconcile the seeming inconsistencies of a sys- tem discovered to be good by arguments of an- other kind; and reason will acquiescein the truth it teaches as agreeable to its own dictates. After premising these reflections I may ven- ture to make public the following letter from a very learned female correspondent : MR. FITZ-ADAM, It has been some surprise to me that in a paper which seems designed to correct our judg- ments, and reduce the influence of fashion, folly, prejudice, and passion, you have never confuted a principle, which is a composition of them all ; I mean the belief of a Providence. It answers indeed no individual purpose, except to counte- nance the insolence of our parsons, who maintain it in defiance of the wisdom of theirsuperiors. I was early initiated in that first philosophy, which explained the creation by a fortuitous concourse of atoms. An infinitenumber of parcels, varied in shape size, and colour, and embracing each Hh 234 other in all possible positions, opened a scene as entertaining tomy faney as it was intelligible to my understanding. My brother was an able advocate for this opinion ; and his situation in a gaol, under the pressure of ill health, loss of fortune, reputation, and friends, furnished him with copious arguments to support it. A maiden aunt, indeed, who had the management of my education, was perpetually representing his principles as impious, and his arguments for them as absurd. She insisted that his misfor- tunes could be ascribed to no other cause than himself: that loss of reputation and friends was the natural consequence of a want of common honesty ; loss of fortune, of extravagance; and loss of health, of debauchery. I am ashamed to confess that these childish reasons had too much weight with me, and that I continued too long in a fluctuating state between truth and error. I thank God, however that my own misfor- tunes have taken off the partial bias from my mind, and opened it to conviction and the rea- son of things. My beauty impaired, if not lost, by the small-pox, the death of a favourite child, the scantiness of my circumstances, and the brutality of my husband, have proved, beyond exception, that no moral being presides over us. I shall not trouble you with a repetition of the same nonsense employed against me, as before against my brother, by the same ancient lady. She concluded with observing, that complaints of circumstances and the brutality of a husband came with an indifferent grace from a person, who, after rejecting so many advantageous offers, escaped from a window with a stranger she had scarcely seen. You will do me the justice to believe, that my judgment on this occasion was regulated more by my own feelings than the eloquence of my aunt. My satisfaction is, that the good lady, insensibly to herself, seems now becoming a convert to those opinions, which half her life has been employed to confute. Some late circumstances have indeed staggered her orthodoxy. She has made a new discovery, that she is considerably turned of seventy, and feels the infirmities which accompany that sea- son making hasty advances to her. Her father confessor, and ancient admirer, the vicar of the parish, broke his leg not long since, and received other contusions not yet made public, by a fall from! a vicious horse; and a lady in the neigh- bourhood, whom she hasnever forgiven the insult of disputing formerly the precedence at ehurch, is placed in a rank very superior to her own, by the accession of her husband to an estate and title, to which he has been presumptive heir for above these twenty years. TI am, &e. THE WORLD. : . a [No. 135. No. 135.) Tuorspay, Jury 31, 1755. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, Sir, TurreE are few things which contribute more to mislead our judgments, and pervert our morals, than the confusion of our ideas arising from the abuse of words. Hence it hourly happens that virtues and vices are so blended and disguised, by taking each other’s names, that almost the worst actions a man can be guilty of shall be attributed to an elevated and laudable spirit. Thus the most extravagant fellow living, who; to keep up an ostentatious figure by all kinds of expense, sets his country and conscience to sale, shall be extolled by all about him as a noble generous soul, above the low consideration of dirty money. The high-mettled blood, whe debauches his friend’s wife or daughter ; who withholds a tradesman’s just debt, that he may be punctual with a sharper ; inshort, whodares do any injury, and run the man through the body who shall resent it, calls himself, and is called by the world, a man. of-gallantry and honour. Economy is put out of countenance by the odious word avarice ; and the most rapacious covetousness takes shelter under the terms pru- dence and discretion. An easy thoughtlessness of temper, which betrays the owner to recom- mend a scoundrel; to lend to or be bound for a spendthrift ; to conform with all the gallant sehemes of a profligate ; to heap favours on a pimp or a sharper, even to the neglect of meri- torious friends, and frequently to the distressing a wife and children; in fine, that easy disposi- tion of mind which cannot resist importunity, be the solicitor ever so unworthy, is dignified with the most amiable of all epithets, good na- ture: and so the thing itself. brought into dis- grace by the misapplication of the word: The bare mention of these abuses is sufficient to lead every thinking reader into a larger cata- logue of the like kind. Hence it is that false+ hood usurps the place of truth, and ignominy of - merit ; and though this may have been the coms plaint of all ages and nations of the civilized world, yet still the cheaters and the cheated are | as numerous as ever. I have been led into these reflections by the | superficial and mistaken opinions which are almost universally received of two gentlemen in | a neighbouring county, at whose houses I have. been lately entertained, and whose characters I shall here delineate, concealing their real names | under the fictitious ones of Sombrinus aud | Hilarius. Sombrinus is a younger brother of a noble’ | family, whose intrinsic worth having been des- cried and valued by a man of solid sense in the No. 135.] a thousand pounds per annum. Sombrinus isa man of extraordinary natural parts, cultivated by much reading and observation ; of nice hon- our; sincere in his friendships, which are but few; and universally humane: a warm lover of his. religion and country, and an excellent justice of the peace, in which capacity he takes infinite pains to allay bitterness, and compose quarrels, Pious himself, a regularity of devo- tion is kept up in his family. His numerous issue (to which he is rather essentially affection- ate than fond) obliges him to economy, though his natural inclination is stronger towards dis- pensing riches than hoarding them. His equi- page and table are rather neat and sufficient than sumptuous. Reasonable people are always welcome to him; but the riotous find their ac- count neither in his temperance nor his conver- sation. With all these good qualities, his too great avidity for book-knowlege, his penetration into men and manners, and his exalted notions of reason and rectitude, combining with a sickly habit of body, render him apt to be splenetic or silent, upon occasions wherein his delicacy is grossly offended. Hence the much-injured Sombrinus lies under the calumny of being a very ill-natured man, among all those who have but a slight acquaintance of him; while even _his intimates, who see him at all hours, and in every mood, though conyinced of the. goodness of his heart, and the purity of his intentions, are yet obliged, when contending in his favour, to grant that he has often the appearance of an -ij/l-humoured man. _. Hilarius isa downright country gentleman ; abon vivant; an indefatigable sportsman. He ean drink his gallon at a sitting, and will tell you he was never sick nor sorry in his life. He married a most disagreeable woman with a vast fortune, whom however he contents himself _with slighting, merely because he cannot take ‘the trouble of using her ill. For the same reason he is seldom seen to he angry, unless his favourite horse should happen to be lamed, or ‘the game-act infringed. Having an estate of | above five thousand a year, his strong beer, ale, ‘and wine-cellar are always well stored; to either of which, as also to his table, abounding ‘in plenty of good victuals ill sorted and ill ‘dressed, every voter and fox-hunter claims a Kind of right. He roars for the church, which he never visits, and is eternally cracking his coarse jests, and talking smut to the parsons; whom if he can make fuddled, and expose to contempt, it is the highest pleasure he can enjoy. As for his lay friends, nothing is more frequent with him than to set them and their servants dead drunk upon their horses, to whose sagacity ‘itis left to find the way home ina dark winter’s ‘night ; and should any of them happen to be i= THE WORLD. ‘neighbourhood, procured him the happiness of his only daughter in marriage, with a fortune of 235 found half smothered in a ditch next morning, it affords him excellent diversion for a twelve. month after. His sons are loobies, and his daughters hoydens: not that he’is covetous, but careless in their educations. Through the same indolence, his bastards, of which «he has not a few, are left to a parish ; arid his:men and maid servants run riot without control for want of discipline in the family. He hasa mortalaver- sion to any interruption in his mirth. Tell him _ of a calamity that has befallen any of his ac- quaintance, he asks where stands the bottle? Propose to him the assisting at a quarter- sessions, he is engaged at a cock-match ; or should he, through curiosity, make his appear- Trance there, ever jovial and facetious, and equally free from the disturbance of passion and compas- sion, he will crack his joke from the bench with the vagrant whom he sentences to be whipped through the county, or with the felon whom he condemns to the gallows. Such is his condescension, that he ntakes no scruple to take hispipeand pot at an alehouse with the very dregs of the people. As for the parliament (though his seat in it cost him very dear in house-keeping) if the fate of the nation depended upon his at- tendance there, he would not be prevailed upon to quit the country in the shooting or hunting season, unless forced up by a eall of the house, In fine, it is an invariable maxim with him, let what will happen, never to give himself one moment’s concern. Are you in health and pro- sperity ? No one is readier to club a laugh with you; but he has no ear to the voice of distress or complaint. The business of his’life is (what he calls) pleasure ; to promote this, he annually consumes his large income, which, without any design of his, may happen indeed to do some good, And wander, Heaven directed, to the poor, With these endowments, there are at least nine in ten who give the preference to Hilarius, and lavish on him the epithets of the worthiest, the noblest, and the best natured creature alive ; while Sombrinus is ridiculed as a deadly wise man, a milksop, stingy, proud, sullen, and ill- natured. Yet Sombrinus is the man to whom every one flies, whenever there is a demand for justice, good sense, wholesome. counsel, or real charity: to Hilarius, when the belly only is to be consulted, or the time dissipated.. Thus are the thousand’ good qualities of Som- brinus eclipsed by, a too reserved and serious turn of mind; while Hilarius, on the false credit of .generosity and good-humour, without one single. virtue in his composition, swims triumphantly with the stream of applause, and is esteemed by every one of his acquaintance for having enly the abilities of a complete volup- tuary. I cannot dismiss this letter without lamenting 236 the mistaken opinions usually received of cha- racters like these, as a woful instance of the de- pravity of our hearts as well as heads. A man may with equat propriety aver, that the giant who showed himself for a shilling last winter at Charing-cross was in every respect’ a much greater man than Mr. Pope, who had the mis- fortune of being low, crooked, and afflicted with the head-ache. I am, Sir, Your constant reader, And most humble servant, W. M. PVTBVB TV SSVVTAEBSEVT VUTVVUETTEUT VPRVAVLVTUCVVVTVAWV LTT BYD No. 136.] Tuurspay, Aue. 7, 1755. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, As‘it is incumbent on an historian, who writes the history of his own times, to take notice of public and remarkable events, so I apprehend it to be the business of a writer of essays for enter- tainment and instruction to mark the passions as they rise, and to treat of those especially which appear to influence the manners of the age he lives in. The love of noise, though a passion observable in all times and countries, has yet been so pre- dominant of late years, and given rise to somany of our modern customs, that I cannot think it unworthy of one of your speculations. In many instances this passion is subordinate to, and proceeds from, another, which is no less universal, and no less commendable; I mean the love of fame. Noise, or sound in general, has been considered as a means whereby thou- sands have rendered themselves famous in their generation; and this is the reason why to be famous, and to make a noise in the world, are commonly understood as equivalent expressions. Hence also the trumpet, because one of the most noble instruments of sound, was anciently made sacred to the heathen goddess of fame: so that even at this day, when the world is too back- ward in doing justice to a man’s merit, and he is constrained to do it himself, he is very pro- perly said to sound his own praises, or trumpet out his fame. The great utility and advantages which may be obtained from noise, in several other respects, are very apparent. In the pulpit, the preacher who declaims in the loudest manner is sure to gain the greatest number of followers. He has also the satisfaction of knowing that the devo- tion of a great part of his audience depends more upon the soundness of his lungs than the sound- ness of his doctrine, THE WORLD. Sa [No. 136. At the bar, every one knows the great infiu- ence of sound: and indeed where people accus- tom themselves to-talk much and mean little, it behoves them to substitute noise in the place of eloquence. It is also a very just remark, that scurrility and abuse require an elevation of the voice. > In the senate it is often seen, that the noise and thunder with which the patriot shakes the house has redounded more to the good of his country than all the knowledge of the history and laws of it, locked up in the breasts of pro- found politicians, who have wanted voices to make themselves heard. From a conviction that noise in general can be made subservient to so many good- purposes, we may easily imagine that a great fondness must be often shown for it, even where its use- fulness, or tendency, is not immediately dis- cernible: for, from the very force of habit, the means will often be pursued, where the end is not perhaps attainable. ‘ At a coffee-house which I frequent at the St. James’s end of the town, I meet with two sets of young men, commonly distinguished by the name of Beaux and Bloods; who are perpetu- ~ ally interrupting the conversation of the com- pany, either with whistling of tunes, lisping of new-fashioned’ oaths, trolling out affected speeches and short sentences; or else with re- citals of bold adventures past, and much bolder which they are about to engage in. But as noise is more becoming a Blood than a Beau, I am generally diverted with the one, and always tired with the other. F This has led me to reflect on the wisdom which has been shown in the institution of cer- tain clubs and nocturnal meetings for men, into which no persons can be admitted as members but those who are disposed to make that parti- cular noise only, which is agreeable to the tastes — and talents of their respective societies. Thus the members of one club vent their noise in politics ; those of another in critical dissertations | on eating and drinking; a third perhaps in story-telling ; and a fourth in a constant rota- tion of merry songs. In most of these*clubs there are presidents chosen and invested with author-_ ity to be as noisy as they please themselves, and to inflict penalties on all those who open out of time. ~ . i The ladies indeed are somewhat more limited | in their topics for noise, though their meetings for venting it are more numerous than those of | the men. They also lie under the disadvantage of having voices of a tone too soft and delicate — to be heard at a great distance: but they seem | in some measure to have obviated these disad- vantages, by agreeing to talk all together: by which means, and as the subject is generally of — the vituperative kind, they are able to cope with — No. 136.] the men, even at the most vociferous of their clubs. Again; those diversions, in which noise most abounds, have been always held in the highest esteem. The true and original country squire, who is actuated by this generous passion for Reise, prefers the diversion of hunting to all other enjoyments upon earth. He can enter- tain his companions for hours together with | | a talking of his hounds, and extolling the divine music and harmony of their tongues; and scarce ever goes to bed without winding the horn, and having the full cry in his parlour. Horse-racing, _cock-fighting, bull-baiting, and the like, are sports which fill the hearts of the common people with the most extravagant delight; while their voices are employed in the loudest shouts and exclamations. In the opinion of our English sailors, no entertainment can be complete where the all-cheering huzza is wanting: by the force of which they are inspired with such courage and resolution, that even fighting itself becomes their diversion. In London, where many of these sports cannot be enjoyed, the fashion for noise has ap- peared in various other shapes. It has, within ‘the memory of most men, given rise to routs, ‘drums, and hurricanes ; which in all probability ‘would have been improved into cannonades, ‘thunders, and earthquakes, before this time, had it not been for the late panics on account of some ‘concussions in the air, very much resembling those of areal earthquake. However, as a proof’ ‘that the names already given to those polite as- ‘semblies are extremely proper for them, I need only to remark that they are usually composed of what is called the best company, who from time immemorial have pleaded the privilege of' birth for talking as loud as they can. : Among the many other instances of the effects of this passion in high life, I shall only take aotice of one more ; which isan ingenious method ‘unknown to our forefathers) of making a thun- ering noise at people’s doors ; by which you are yenerally given to understand that some person of consequence does you the honour to suppose rou are in the land of the living. _ Some may think that it will bear a dispute, vhether such a violent hammering at people’s loors may not be looked upon in the eye of the aw as an attempt of a forcible entry : but it is my tumble opinion, that it can only be coustrued to n action of assault and battery; since it may be roved that the generality of those who are uilty of this misdemeanor have really no inten- ion of making an entry at all; for when doors Ye opened to them, they secure their retreat as ist as they can; flying from the face of those rhom they count their enemies when at home, nd visit as their friends when abroad. / Vhave now by me a certain curious book of jemoirs, wherein the sentiments of a wealthy THE WORLD 237 old lady in the city, with regard to the usefulness of noise, seem very nearly to correspond with the observations I have here made upon that subject. ‘I shall transcribe a short passage from the character of this lady, and conclude my letter. ‘ Towards the decline of her days she took lodgings on Ludgate-hill, in order to be amused -with the noises in the street, and to be constantly supplied with objects of contemplation: for she thought it of great use to a mind that had a turn ‘for meditation, to observe what was passing in the world. As she had also a very religious disposition, she used often to say it was a griev- ous shame that such a thing as silent meetings, among some of the dissenting brethren, should be suffered in a christian country. And when she died she left five hundred pounds towards the erecting fifty new sownding-boards, toaid the lungs of the aged clergy, in divers churches within the bills of mortality.’ ' Tam, Sir, Your obliged humble servant, R. L. PRATRLAAADU DAL BDAVABA et DB te ty tte te ty i te te ty “mn te “ne he 2s No. 137. ] Taurspay, Ava. 14, 1'755. My correspondent of to-day will, I hope, excuse me for not publishing his letter sooner. . To confess the truth, I had some thoughts of making an apology to him for not publishing it at all; having conceived an opinion that it might tend to lessen those exalted ideas which the world has always entertained of us men of learning. But though upon reconsideration I have changed ny mind, I must take the liberty of observing, by way oi introduction, that as I modestly presume no man living has more learning than myself, so no man values himself more upon it, or has a greater veneration for all those who possess it, even though they should possess nothing else. I remember to have seen it under my grandmo- ther’s own hand, in the new primer she gave me at my first going to school, that “ learning is better than house and land:” and though I cannot say that I have ever been in a situation to make the proper comparison between learning and house and land; yet my grandmother was a wise woman, and I had never reason to call in question the truth of any of her sayings. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, It is with pleasure I observe, that you commonly avoid the ridiculous ostentation of prefixing a scrap of antiquity to your lucubra- tions. Your practice confirms me in my cpinion, that a line or two of Greek and Latin is neither 238 useful nor ornamental to a paper intended for the benefit of all sorts of readers. It was exeusable in your predecessors, the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian ; for in their time we had fine gentlemen, one out of twenty of whom could, perhaps, make a shift to pick out the meaning of a Latin couplet. But now- a-days the case is altered ; itis pedantry to know any other language, or at least to seem to know any, but the fashionable modern ones. For my own part, I by no means approve of mottoes, which I doubt not are often thought of after the piece is written ; and if not, must confine the writer too closely to the sense of them. The same objection I have to numerous quotations from the ancients ; for why should we speak in a less intelligible language, what may be as _per- tinently and justly expressed in our own ray F is with reason then, that in our days a man is no more reputed a scholar for quoting Homer and Virgil, than he would be esteemed a man of morals for reading Tully and Seneca; and a Greek motto is thought as unnecessary to a good essay, as a head of Otho or Galba would be toa learned man, if it was slung round his shoulders. Indeed, to speak my mind, if the use of a lan- guage is to arrive at the sense, wit, and arts con- veyed by it, I see no reason why our own should yield to any other, ancient or modern. It is copious and manly, though not regular; and has books in every branch of the arts and sciences, written with a spirit and judgment not to be exceeded. Notwithstanding which, a man versed in Greek and Latin, and nothing else, shall be called learned ; while another, less know- ing in these, who has imbibed the sense, spirit, and knowledge of all the best authors in our own language, is denied that honourable title. I own to you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that he who would lay ina store of prudent and judicious maxims for the direction of his conduct in life can do it no where more effectually than from the invaluable works of antiquity. But is it absolutely necessary that he should do this from the very languages in which they were written ? Iam myself what is called a good Greek and Latin scholar; and yet I believe I might be master of as much true knowledge, if I under- stood neither. There are many good reasons to be given why the study of these languages ought to be cultivated: but I think this pursuit may be carried too far; and that much of the time spent in acquiring a critical knowledge of them might be employed to more advantage. I speak in general; for there are some, who have a genius particularly suited to the study of words, that would never make any figure in the study of things. - / - There is hardly any thing truly valuable in the dead languages that may not be read with equal advantage and satisfaction. in the living, and more particularly in our own ; for if J may THE WORLD. ‘No. 137. rely upon my own judgment and the report of learned men, many of the best ancient authors — have lost little by their translation into our soil. I am charmed with the Greek of Thucydides and Longinus ; but I am likewise delighted with the French dress of the last, and Mr. Smith’s English of both. I can distinguish the gentility and ease of Cicero, and the spirit and neatness of Pliny, in their epistles, as they are translated by Mr. Melmoth. Will any man that has seen Mr. Pope’s Homer lament that he has not read him in the original? And will not every man of a true taste admire the gayety and good sense of Horace, the gallantry and genteel carelessness of Ovid, the fire and energy of Juvenal, and the passion of Tibullus, in the paraphrases and translations of Donne, Dryden, Garth, Con- greve, and Hammond? [I instance these, as their beauties are with,more difficulty transferred into aforeign language. It would be endless to enumerate the English poems that perhaps equal any thing in Greek or Latin. ‘The Paradise Lost will be thought little inferior to the Iliad or Ai‘nead in judgment, majesty, and true. poetic fires The Essay on Criticism I need not. scruple to compare with the Epistle.to the. Pisos ; nor to prefer the Dun- ciad, Essay.on Man, and the Ethic epistles, to any of the productions of antiquity. And will you not join with me in preferring Alexander’s Feast to all the extravagance of Pindar, in point of harmony and power of expression and numbers? The poets, it is true, had different views; but notwithstanding there may be a gomparison. ~ To enlarge farther would carry me beyond the limits I promise to myself; I shall therefore conclude, my remarks on this kind of writing with observing, that if we fall short of the an- cients in any part of polite writing, it is in the method of dialogue, in which some of them, as Xenophon, Plato, and Tully, had most excellent talents; and yet I know not whether the dia- logue on Medals, and the Minute Philosopher, may not rival any thing they have left behind them: for as to their political writings, no man will think them equal to the Letters on Patriot- ism, and the Idea of a Patriot King. In history we are certainly deficient, though Raleigh, Cla- rendon, and a few others, are excellent in their kinds; but we as certainly make it up in ma- thematics, natural philosophy, physic, and the many excellent treatises we have on morality, politics, and civil prudence. | It is not my intention to resume a subject that has already employed much abler pens, and to raise a dispute about the comparative merits of the ancients and moderns; nor would I by any means discourage the study of the ancient languages ; for I think the time I spent in acquir- ing them extremely well employed: but I would willingly persuade such as are not masters of ; | No. 138.] mative English. | quity. You will now, no doubt, be curious to know who I-am, that decide so magisterially in a ‘point so long given up, and of so much conse- “guence to the republic of letters. - Time, Mr. | Fitz- Adam, may bring that to light : at present it is necessary I should ‘screen: myself from’ the indignation of pedants, who would overwhelm ‘me with heaps of ancient rubbish. My view in this letter is to convince the ladies, that many of them possess more real learning than’a fellow of a college, who has for twenty years pored I have indeed often wondered ‘that the author of the World: has not been fa- voured with a much greater share of the produc- tions of female correspondents than any of his predecessors, a8 he has set at naught Greek and But perhaps it may be for that very reason: for so capricious are the sex, that though they hate a pedant, they de- ‘Spise the man who is not homo multarum litera- rum. I have heard a lady declare, that she could no more love a man whose learning was not superior to her own, than him who took all. If you. 4pprove of me as ‘a correspondent, TI may be| sometimes at your service ; ‘in which case, ‘to show my learning; my style shall’now and then ‘upon remnants. Latin for their sakes. »ecasions of showing her that it was. de enriched with a littlé Greek ‘and Latin. ; * 200? Tam Sir; | Your most humble Servant, ; ‘are ALC. tithe Rae tn tn The tnt tp te te te te th te Yo ano ne ee aadtawe ~~ ee “or several weeks past, I have been considering housands of my countrymen have experienced nd are ready to attest their salutary effects, yet ‘ cannot be denied but there are still people to @ met with, who are by no means as wise and $ good as they ought to be. General satire, as ‘have formerly observed, is what few people ire to apply to themselves; and though I have itherto been averse to particular and personal buse, I am at last willing to try its effect, well nowing, that if the good which may accrue ‘om it be but in the proportion of one in a mil- om to the entertainment it gives, I shall have wwson to bless myself for thus quarrelling with THE WORLD. _ them, that they may become scholars and learned -men with no other assistance than their own I am sure [ think the man more deserving of those names whois conversant with Bacon, Boyle, Locke,’ and: Newton, ‘than he who is unacquainted with these great phi- losophers, though he should: have read Plato, , Aristotle, and all the orators and poets of anti- vith myself how I might extend the use and | ntertainment of these my labours: for though ‘839 the world. Iam sensible also that by adopting this method I am increasing the number of my ‘Correspondents, as every one will be for trying ‘his hand on so delightful a subject as the failings of his friends; especially when I shall have given him my honour that he need be under no apprehensions for his safety, and that I will take every quarrel upon myself. I therefore hereby invite all persons whatsoever to transmit to me forthwith all the scandal] they can cither collect or invent. Names, and particularly great ones, will be very acceptable; or in default of such names, minute descriptions of persons, their alliances and connexions, or the streets they live in, will be equally agreeable. Great regard will be paid to the letters of female corres- pondents; but it is humbly hoped that they will not suffer the copiousness and enticement ‘of the subject to hurry them into lengths that may exceed the bounds of this paper. 1 am sensible that a great deal of courage, and an equal degree of dexterity at single rapicr, will be necessary on this occasion 3 but as I said before, I am contented to take the whole upon myself, rather than lay my correspondents under any restraint: my name is Adam Fitz- Adam ; T am to be heard of every morning at the Tilt- yard coffee-house, and, though an old man, shall be ready to give any gentleman satisfaction, who chooses to call upon me in a hackney-coach, and frank me to Hyde-park, or Montague-house. To extend the usefulness of this paper still farther, it is my intention (notwithstanding any former declaration to the contrary) to mix poli- tics with slander.” I amin a manner compelled to'make this second alteration in my plan, from a thorough conviction that no man in these kingdoms is such a master of politics as myself ; and as a war with France seems now to be ine- vitable, I shall from time to time instruct our ministers in what manner to conduct it, and shall hope for an exact compliance with every plan F shall lay before them. This will be saving a great deal of trouble and perplexity to the common people of England, who, though always ready‘to instruct an administration, are sometimes so divided in their opinions, that the said administration are forced to pursue their own measures for want of plain and punctual instructions from their friends. The better to carry on this laudable design, I shall direct what bills are proper to be brought into parliament, and what acts I would have repealed. I shall also devote three mornings in every week to the private instruction of all such ministers and members of parliament as are desirous of conferring with me at my lodg- ings up two pair of stairs at the trunk-maker’s in St. Martin’s-lane. I shall likewise be ready to answer all questions in politics to such gen- tlemen and ladies as would willingly investigate that science without study or application. 240 This will tend greatly to the edification of all justices of the peace, nurses, midwives, country curates, and parish clerks, whose ideas seem at present to be a little confused. for want of a thorough knowledge of the interests and connec- tions of the several states of Europe, and how the balance of power is to be maintained. | shall keep a watchful eye over the king of France and his ministers, and will give timely notice of any intended invasions, and direct measures to defeat such invasions in proper time. I shall find means of instructing the other powers of Europe in their true and natural interests, and. will communicate in this paper the intelligence I shall from time to time receive from the said powers; so that the public shall always be ap- prized beforehand of the measures they intend to take. When I consider the vast ntility of this my undertaking, [ cannot be too thankful for the abilities I am blessed with for carrying it on to the universal satisfaction of all parties. My humanity is, I confess, a little hurt, by reflect- ing that while I am thus making a monopoly of politics and slander, I am doing an injury to those of my brother authors who have long lived by dealing out their occasional portions of these commodities. But I am comforted upon second thoughts, that as this paper is published once a week, they will have continued opportunities of enriching their own larger compositions with the most shining parts of it; and this they shall have free leave to do, provided that they add no conjectures of their own, or pretend to doubt the superiority of my abilities, whereby disputes may be raised upon any of those facts which I shall think proper to advance. ‘The same in- dulgence is hereby given to all writers or com- pilers of country newspapers in Great Britain and Ireland: for as I have only the good of my country at heart, I am desirous of extending these my labours to the remotest parts of his majesty’s dominions. I shall also have this farther satisfaction, that the general compiaint of the country’s being deserted of inhabitants every winter may cease; as by means of this circula- tion every private gentleman may reside con- stantly at his seat, and every clergyman at his living, without being obliged once a year to pay a visit to London, in order to study politics, and instruct the administration. But a much greater advantage than any yet mentioned remains still to be told. The circu- lation of this paper will not be confined to Great Britain and Ireland; it will doubtless be de- manded in all the courts, cities, and large towns of Europe ; by which means our enemies on the continent, finding the superiority of our wisdom, and knowing by whom our counsellors are counselled, will sue to us for peace upon our own terms. In the meantime, as we are enter- ing into a war not of our own seeking, but THE WORLD. LNo. 138. merely in defence of our commerce, and for the protection and support of our undoubted rights,— I shall direct the administration how to raise such supplies, as may enable us to carry it on with vigour and success; and this I hope to. effect to every body’s satisfaction, which, I humbly apprehend, has not aireye been the case. | I am well aware that there are certain supers ficial persons. in the world, who may fancy that | they have not discovered in my writings hither- to these marvellous abilities, to which I am now laying claim. To all such I shall only answer, | let the event decide; for I have always*thought it beneath me to boast of talents superior fo other men, till the necessity of the times com= pels me to produce them. . Those who know me will say of me what modesty forbids I should say of myself : indeed it has been owing to a very uncommon degree of that sheepish quality, | that I have not let my readers into many secrets: of myself, that would have amazed and con- founded them. ; I have undertaken politics and slander at the same time, from a constant observation that | there is a certain connection between. those. sciences, which it is difficult to break through. | But I intend to vary from the common method, and shall sometimes write politics without abuse, | and abuse without politics. It may be feared, perhaps, that as I have hitherto received no re- ward for the great candour with which I haye | treated the administration during the course of this paper, I may incline to direct wrong mea- sures out of pure spite; but ] can assure my. readers that such fears are groundless: I have nothing at heart but the public good, and shall propose no measures but such as are most ap- parently conducive to the honour and glory of my native country. In treating of these mea, | sures, T shall build nothing upon hypothesis | but will go mathematically to work, and reduc every thing to demonstration. For instance, i\| the war is only to be a naval one, I would in struct our minister (as a certain ingenious pain. ter is said to draw) by the triangle. As thus: The end of the war is an advantageous peace | Now suppose any triangle, equilateral or other wise, where A shall signify the English fleet, I the French fleet, and C the above peace; thi solution then will beno more than this, let thi fleet A take the fleet B, and you produce th) peace C. The same solution will do in a lant war, where A and B may stand for armies im) stead of fleets. ! Having now sufficiently explained mysel upon this important occasion, I shall take leav of my readers till next Thursday, at whic) time, unless I should see reason to the contrat): I shall present them with a paper either ¢ scandal or politics, which shall be to all he satisfactions. ‘ oa No. 139-] No. 139.) Tuurspay, Aue. 28, 1755. ee ee I wAveE judged it proper to postpone politics to another week, that I may. oblige my: readers with a piece of scandal, or whatever else they may please to call it, which has but just tran- spired, and which will quickly engage the con- versation of all the best families in town and country. ‘‘hose who. are unacquainted with the parties concerned will I hope excuse me for publishing only the-initial letters of their names, or sometimes no letters at all; their high rank, and the honourable offices they bear, demanding from me a little more complaisance than I may probably show to meaner persons. Atthe same time I should be sorry to have it thought, that my tenderness upon this occasion arose from any selfish considerations of the consequences that might ensue; the sword of a man of quality is no longer than that of another man, nor, for any thing I have observed, is he a jot more dexterous at drawing a trigger. My moderation proceeds from the great respect which is due from. persons in humble situations to. men of high and illustrious birth: though at the same time I must take the liberty of declaring, that one or two stories. more of the same nature with what I am now going to relate will entirely cancel my regards, and incline me to, treat them with the freedom of an equal. Every body knows, at least every body in genteel life, that the match between Lord *** and Miss G was brought about by the old earl, and the young lady’s aunt ; at whose house my lord unfortunately saw, and fell desperately in love with Miss L——, who was a distant relation of the aunt, and who happened to be there upon a visit, at the time of his lordship’s courtship to the niece. The character of Miss L—— is too notorious to require a place in this aarrative; though I must do her the justice to bwn, that I believe every art to undo a woman was practised upon her, before she was prevailed ipon to give up her honour to a man, whom she new. to be the destined husband of her most fitimate friend. ‘Those who knew of the affair between my Lord and) Miss L—— endeavoured by every ossibleé method to dissuade Miss G from the match; and indeed if that unfortunate young lady had not preferred a title to happi- 1ess, she had treated his lordship as he deserved, ‘rom a thorough conviction that he had already vestowed his affections upon Miss L——. But 4 union of hearts is by no means necessary in ihe marriages of the great. My lord and the id earl saw a thousand charms in Miss G: "3 arge fortune ; and the young lady and her aunt ‘aw every thing in a title that could be wished THE WORLD. 241 for in the marriage state. The ceremony was performed soen after at the earl’s house; and the young couple, though perfectly indifferent to each other, conducted themselves so prudently in all companies, that those who did not know them intimately believed’ them tobe very happy people. The old earl dying soon after, my lord suc- ceeded to the estate and title of * * x, and lived with his lady in all the magnificence and splen- dour which his large income could afford. His lordship had a considerable mortgage on the estate of Sir O S——,; and it was under pretence of settling some affairs with that gen- tleman, at his brother’s seat near St. Alban’s, that he set out the beginning of this month upon the expedition which has unhappily turned out so fatal to his peace. Colonel C * * ¥, a gentle- man too well known for his gallantries among the ladies to need the initial letters of his name, was to be of his lordship’s party; and though my lord had two sets of horses of his own, yet for certain reasons, which may hereafter be guessed at, he hired a coach and six at Tubbs’s; and set out on the Tuesday for St. Alban’s with intention, ai was given out, to return on the Thursday following. I should have informed my readers, that Lady ** * and the young viscountess D——, who was said to have a tendre for the colonel, were to meet them in the viscountess’s coach at Bar- net, on their return home, and that they were all to dine together at the Green Man. It was said, I know, that Doctor = * *, whois a man of family, was of the lady’s party: he had been an intimate acquaintance, and some say a lover of Miss G——, before her marriage with Lord ***, ‘The doetor is aman much more famous for his wit and address than his practice; and is thought to be the author of a late extraordi- nary performance, which however celebrated, in my humble opinion, reflects more honour on his invention than either on his knowledge in politics, or his character asa moral man. But I will avoid circumstances, and be as short as I ean. Doctor * * *, though he lives at St. James’s end of the town, had been several times in that week at Batson’s and Child’s coffee houses, and had drank chocolate with Sir E—— H—— the very Thursday that Lord * * * and the colonel were to return from St. Alban’s to meet Lady * * * and the viscountess at the Green Man at Barnet. Many people are of opinion, that the doctor was not of the party, but that he received his intelligence from one H—y, who had for- merly been a steward of Lord ***. But H—y denies the fact, and lays the whole mischief on Lady * * **s woman, who it seems had been house-keeper to the doctor, when he lived in the square. ‘There are strange reports of the doctor og ae ie 242 and this woman ; but whether she or H—y was the contriver of this villany will appear hereaf- the linen entirely discharged. THE WORLD. No. 140. may be very much swelled, and the colours of. One thing is cer- ter. H—y isa man of a very indifferent cha-| tain, that Lord * * * is like a man distracted ; racter, and (I am not afraid of saying it) capable of undertaking any mischief whatsoever. Lady * * * and the viscountess, according to agreement, set out on Thursday at one o’clock for Barnet, and came to the Green Man, which was the place appointed for dining. My lord and the colonel not being arrived, the viscountess recollected that she had an acquaintance in the neighbourhood, at about two miles distance, whom she proposed visiting in a post-chaise, under pretence of saving her own horses. As this acquaintance of the viscountess was a stranger to Lady * * *, her ladyship declined going with her friend, and agreed to amuse her- self with a book of novels till her return, or till the arrival of my lerd and the colonel, which was every moment expected. The viscountess stepped immediately into the post-chaise; and soon after, as Lady * * * was looking out of the window of the inn, she saw a coach and six drive by very hastily towards London ; and the landlord declares that he saw Lord * * *, and the colonel, and two ladies in the coach, muffled up in cloaks. He also declares, that Lady * * * called out three times for the coach to stop, but that no one answered, and the coachman drove out of sight in a few minutes. I should have taken notice before, that as soon as the viscountess was gone upon her visit, as Lady * * * was sitting at the window next the road, the captain in quarters took great notice of her, and said to the chambermaid, in her lady- ship’s hearing, that he would give up a whole year’s pay-to pass the afternoon with so fine a creature ; upon which Lady * * * frowned upon him very severely, and began a smart conversa- tion with him on his boldnecs and presumption. The viscountess, to the great surprise of Lady * * * did not return till near six in the evening, and seemed in great confusion while she endeay- oured to apologize for her absence. But as Lady * * * was convinced that her lord was in the coaeh that drove so hastily towards London, she declared positively that she would not stir a step from the inn till he returned to fetch her; and insisted on the viscountess’s going immediately to inform him of her resolution. The viscount- ess accordingly set out; and the captain was seen going up stairs soon after. But whether Lord * * * returned that night, or whether it was really his lordship’s. coach that passed by, is uncertain: however, Lady * * * has been miss- ing ever since ; and yesterday a lady was found drowned in Rosamond’s pond, who is suspected to be her: for though Lady * * * was a thin woman, and wore a chintz gown that day, and the person taken out of the pond appeared to be fat, and was dressed in white ; yet it is thought that by lying a long time under water the body the doctor, the steward, and my lady’s woman, are taken into custody ; and the colonel and the viscountess are fled nobody knows whither. I shall leave my readers to make their own comments on this unhappy affair ; which I haye brought into as short a compass as I was able with truth and perspicuity. I am sensible that where names occur so often, and those only marked with asterisks or initial letters, it is a very difficult matter to avoid confusion: and ine deed I should hardly have thought myself per- fectly clear, if I had not communicated my nar- rative to a country acquaintance of mine, a man totally ignorant of the whole affair, who was pleased to assure me, that he never met with any thing so plain and intelligible. I have been the more circumstantial upon this oceasion, from a desire of pointing out in the most perspicuous manner the leading steps of this fatal catastro- phe: for Iam not satisfied with entertaining’ my readers with the frailties and misfortunes of persons of quality, unless I can warn them by their example against falling into the like er~ rors. WUTTUTVVTVOCVAVVUAVLA SR VVTAVVUUVSVETECAVE STTVUUTU STUB 4 - No. 140.] Tuurspay, Szpr. 4, 1755. Tue report of the King of France’s having lately’ forbidden the coffee-houses at Paris to take im any English newspapers was no more than 1 expected, after having, in the World of last Thursday was se’nnight, so plainly and openly declared my intentions of making all men poli-. ticians. But though his most christian majesty has thought proper to keep his subjects in the dark as to the science of politics, yet I hear with. pleasure that his emissaries in this city are buy- ing up large numbers of these my lucubrations, for the private perusal of that monarch and his ministers, and that. a council is ordered to attend. the reading of them as soon as they arrive.» But for very good reasons I have thought proper te change my intentions, and not meddle with matters of state; at least for the present. In- deed, to confess the truth, I have lately received full conviction that, great asmy knowledge is in politics, there are those at the head of affairs that know to the full as much as myself. . Success is not always in our power; but if we are really to enter into a war with France, I have the pleasure of assuring the common people of Eng. land, that they may depend upon its being as well conducted as if they had the entire management of it in their own bands, or even if I myself was No. 140.] to preside at all their meetings for settling plans ‘and operations. This and other reasons have inclined me for the present to lay aside politics, and to go on in the old way, mending hearts instead ef heads, or furnishing such amusements as may fix the at- tention of the idle, or divert the schemes of the ‘vicious, for at least five minutes every week. Of this kind is the following little piece, which I received some time since from a very in- genious correspondent, who entitles it A MEDITATION AMONG THE BOOKS. From every thing in nature a wise man may derive matter of meditation. In meditations various authors have exercised their genius or tortured their fancy., An author who meant to be serious has meditated on the mystery of weav- ing: an author who never meant to be serious has meditated on a broomstick : let me also medi- tate; and a library of books shall be the subject of my meditations. ’ Before my eyes an almost innumerable multi- tude of authors are ranged; different in their opinions, as in their bulk and appearance: in what light shall I view this great assembly? Shall I consider it as an ancient legion, drawn out in goodly array under fit commanders? or asa modern regiment of writers, where the common ‘men have been forced by want, or seduced through wicxedness into the service, and where the leaders owe their advancement rather to ‘aprice, party-favour, and the partiality of _tiends, than to merit or service ? _ Shall I consider ye, O ye books! as a herd of ‘ourtiers or strumpets, who profess to be sub- ervient to my use, and yet seek only your own \dvantage ? No; let me consider this room as he great charnel-house of human reason, where larkness and corruption dwell; or, asa certain wet expresses himself, Where hot and cold, and wet and dry, And beef, and broth, and apple-pie, Most slovenly assemble. - Who are they, whose unadorned raiment be- peaks their inward simplicity? They are law d0ks, statutes, commentaries on statutes. These te acts of parliament, whom all men must obey, ad yet few only can purchase. Like the sphinx f antiquity, they speak in enigmas, and yet evour the unhappy wretches who comprehend lem not. These are commentaries on statutes; for the _erusing of them, the longest life of man would ‘ove insufficient; for the understanding of lem, the utmost ingenuity of man would not vail. Cruel is the dilemma between the necessity 1d the impossibility of understanding; yet are _e not left utterly destitute of relief. Behold, Four comfort, an abridgment of law and equity ! _/ Consists not of many volumes ; it extends only THE WORLD. 243 to twenty-two folios; yet as a few thin cakes may contain the whole nutritive substance of a stalled ox, so may this compendium contain the essential gravy of many a report and adjudged case. ‘The sages of the law recommend:this abridg- ment to our perusal. Let us with all thankful- ness of heart receive their counsel. Much are we beholden to physicians, who only prescribe the bark of the quinquina, when they might oblige their patients to swallow the whole tree. From these volumes I turn my eyes On a deep-embodied phalanx, numerous and formi- dable: they are controversial divines: so has the world agreed to term them. How arbitrary is language! and how does the custom of man- kind join words, that reason has put asunder ! Thus we often hear of hell-fire cold, of devilish handsome, and the like; and thus controversial and divine have been associated. These controversial divines have changed the rule of life into a standard of disputation. They have employed the temple of the Most High as a fencing-school, where gymuastic exercises are daily exhibited, and where victory serves only to excite new contests. ‘“Slighting the bulwarks wherewith He who bestowed religion on man- kind had secured it, they have encompassed it with various minute outworks, which an army of warriors can with difficulty defend. The next in order to them are the redoubtable antagonists of common sense; the gentlemen who close up the common highway to heaveu, and yet open no private road for persons haviag occasion to travel that way. The writers of this tribe are various, but in principles and manner nothing dissimilar. Let me review them as they stand arranged. These are Epi- curean orators, who have endeavoured to cun- found the ideas of right and wrong, to the un- speakable comfort of highwaymen and stock- jobbers. These are inquirers after truth, who never deign to implore the aid of knowledge in their researches. ‘These are sceptics, who labour earnestly to argue themselves out of their own existence ; herein resembling that choice spirit, who endeavoured so artfully to pick his own pocket as not to be detected by himself. Last of all, are the composers of rhapsodies, fragmer.ts, and (strange to say it) thoughts. Amidst this army of anti-martyrs, I discern a volume of peculiar appearance: its meagre as- pect, and the dirty gaudiness of its habit, make it bear a perfect resemblance of a decayed gen- tleman. The wretched monument of mortality was brought forth in the reign of Charles the Second ; it was the darling and only child of a man of quality. How did its parent exult at its birth! How many flatterers extolled it. be- yond their own offspring, and urged its credu- ‘lous father to display its excellences to the whole world! Induced by their solicitations, 244 the father arrayed his child in scarlet and gold, submitted it to the public eye, and called it, Poems by a person of honour. While he lived, his booby offspring was treated with the cold yespect due to the rank and fortune of its parent : but when death had locked up his kitchen, and carried off the keys of his cellar, the poor child was abandoned to the parish ; it was kicked from stall to stall, like a despised prostitute; and after various calamities was rescued out of the hands of a vender of Scots snuff, and safely placed as a pensioner in the band of free-thinkers. Thou first, thou greatest vice of the human mind, Ambition ! all these authors were origi- nally thy votaries! They promised to themselves a fame more durable than the calf-skin that covered their works ; the calf-skin (as the dealer speaks) is in excellent condition, while the books themselves remain the prey of that silent critic the worm. Complete cooks and conveyancers ; bodies of school divinity and Tommy Thumb ; little story- books, systems of philosophy, and memoirs of women of pleasure; apologies for the lives of players and prime ministers ; are all consigned to one common oblivion. One book indeed there is, which pretends to little reputation, and by a strange felicity obtains whatever it demands. To be useful for some months only is the whole of its ambition; and though every day that passes confessedly dimin- ishes its utility, yet it is sought for and purchased by all: such is the deserved and unenvied cha- racter of that excellent treatise of practical as- tronomy, the Almanack. a ed PABRTARTVUVTTA BRT VVTRURBUST BUTE GS BUMBU LV ET AVIA No. 141. Tuurspay, Sept. 11, 1755. Tux following letter was mislaid, which is the reason of its not having appeared earlier in this paper. The excuse perhaps is less pardonable than the fault ; but.it is the only one I can make with truth ; and I hope the author will receive it with candour. TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. Sie, If ever you take the trouble of looking into any of the public papers besides your own, you cannot help observing the many curious experi- ments, which of late years have been made through all parts of this kingdom, in running, riding, leaping, driving, fire-eating, wire-danc- ing, and various other useful arts, by persons of all ranks and fortunes. I am willing to give credit to these extraor- dinary achievements, though many of them, I own, far exceed the bounds of probability, because of the honour they do to our age and THE WORLD: | have been the admiration of so many ages. (No. 141. country ; and it is not without high indignation against the ingratitude of the present times, that” I have been hitherto disappointed in my expec- tations of seeing public honours and rewards bestowed ou these illustrious personages, who by such experiments haye shown us what great things the powers of nature are capable of when properly directed. Newton was knighted, and both he and Mr, Locke had very considerable places under the government; and yet what mighty matters did these philosophers do, in comparison of our new experiment-makers ? They contented themselves with looking inte the laws of nature, and went no farther... The mind orders its ideas just as it used to do, before the Essay on the human understanding had banish- ed from the world the doctrine of innate principles and substantial forms : and Newton, after he had _demolished the vortices of Descartes, left the planets just as he found them. They have rolled round the sun precisely in the same time, and at the same distance, before and since his discoveries. But our wonder-workers have found the secret of controlling the laws of nature, and have actu- ally accomplished what in the wards of Bedlam, and the laboratories of Logada, it would have been thought madness to attempt. I am sensible it may be objected to me, that the things I compare are totally different: and instead of these modern chiefs in philosophy, I should rather have turned my eyes to the renowned heroes of antiquity, whose exploits Be it so. We own the resemblance, and have no reason to be afraid of the comparison : for besides that many of these exploits are looked upon as fabulous, if it be considered that some of them were only the effects of brute force, and that the merit of others is to be divided. among mulfi- tudes, who all had a share in their production ; no doubt can be made, on a fair estimate between the merit of ancient and modern worthies, on whose side the balance will be found to turn. I am no enemy to the fame of antiquity; but I own it grieves me, that when ancient exploits have been celebrated over and over by the chek cest poets and historians, those of our own times, no less extraordinary, should be left to pass down to posterity, on no better authority than the doubtful testimony of a common newspaper. Mr. Fitz- Adam, you profess yourself a citizen of the world, an equal judge between all the’ children of our first parents ; act up then to this character, and do justice: suffer not exploits to drop into oblivion, at which the Gymnasia of Greece and Italy would have stood aghast; which would have been honoured with statues and crowns of olive at Olympia; with a placein the Prytaneum at Athens, and an ovation, if not atriumph at Rome. Suffer not ingratitude to fix a stain upon our country, which it would never be able to wipe off. No. 141.] . I pretend not to enumerate, or even to be sensible of ali the advantages with which these singular efforts of genius will be attended: but in natural philosophy and religion their uses are apparent at the first glance. Experiments, it is now agreed on all hands, are the only solid basis of natural science. In these Bacon and Newton led the way ; but their followers have ennobled them ; they have trans- ferred them from heavy inert matter, to the very quintessence of spirit, their horses and themselves. What before was only fit for recluse pedants, ‘they have made the amusement and the business of fine gentlemen. And here I beg leave, by the way, to propose a proplem to the lovers of these noble arts, which I hope will not be thought altogether unworthy of their attention. - Suppose a gentleman is able to drive a wheel- carriage any given number of miles in an hour, when the motion of his horses is progressive, or “according to the natural course of their limbs ; how much time ought he to be allowed to do it when his horses move retrograde, or tails fore- most. But to come to religion. ‘These new experi- ments serve to show how little we understand of the bounds of credibility. Had such experi- ments been properly attended to, a certain gen- tleman that shall be nameless, might have spared his haughty challenge to the defenders of the ‘christian faith: Our brave youths will soon make him sensible of his error, and turn the edge of that formidable broad-sword of his upon himself, with which he has threatened to de- ‘populate the christian world. Will he any longer pretend to say, that no testimony can ‘make a thing credible that is contrary to ex- ‘perience, when I defy him ‘to match, in the annals of any age or country, the feats which he is forced to believe on the credit of a common | newspaper ? ‘and in each of them show the wonderful advan- tage of these new experiments; but this is a task that deserves an abler hand; I therefore propose, when his majesty shall have incorpo- ‘rated the authors of them into a new Royal Society, which I hope will be soon, that one of our most eminent pens be appointed, after the example of bishop Sprat, to write the history of* the society ; and-another, after the example of Fontenelle, to make eulogies on its particular members. And I desire that you will imme- diately look out for two such persons among your correspondents; which I should imagine can be no great difficulty to one who has the honour to reckon in that number the prime wits of the age. i I am, Sir, Your humble servant. oe i THE WORLD. I could run through all the arts and sciences, 245 MR. FITZ-ADAM, Walking the other day through Wapping, té see the humours of the place, I happened to cas({ my eyes upon the windows of an alehouse, where I saw written, in large capitals, Roman Pur. Thad the curiosity to ask of aman whe was walking near me, why it might not as wel} have been called Britis Purr, as Roman Puri? “OO Sir,” said he, “the landlord has had twenty times the custom since he gave his liquor that outlandish name.”’ I soon found that my sagacious informet was a maker of leather breeches, by seeing him enter, and set himself to work in a shop, over the door of which was written upon a bit of paper, The TRUE ITALIAN leather-breeches balls, sold here by the MAKER. I confess I was a little surprised to find the fashion of admiring every thing foreign had extended itself to so great a distance from St. James’s ; having conceived an opinion that none but our betters at the polite end of the town, were the despisers and discouragers of our home manufactures. As I see no solid reason for this universal dis- like to every thing that is English, I should be glad of your sentiments on the subject, which will greatly oblige, Sir, Your constant reader and admirer, Cc. D. I shall forbear making any remarks upon this letter, that I may oblige a very witty correspon: dent, whose letter I received a few days ago, by the general post. But I must entreat the favour of this gentleman, and of all others who may incline to write to me in so laconic a style, to choose another method of conveyance, for fear their letters should sometimes happen to mis- carry. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Six, Pray be so kind as to insert this in your next. Yours, W OB. DBE TWA BDA VAT AVT’ FRVBUTVASDTTCTEDAISVUTSTALVWVSGA SFBEIBASTIAVIAVT Vs No. 142.]. THurspay, Szvr. 18, 1755. oo Srycr the publication of my correspondent’s let- ter on the subject of noise, I have received the two following, which I shall lay before my readers for the entertainment of to-day. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, Sir, Your paper which treats of the passion for 246 noise, has in one respect given me some plea-. sure; the observationsinit being such as I have often made myself, and the ridicule intended by them what many persons in the world very justly deserve. At the same time I could not help feeling some uneasiness, on being led by those observations, to reflect seriously and deli- berately upon my own misfortunes. Till I was about forty years old, I had lived a bachelor in London ; at which time having ac- quired a comfortable fortune in the mercantile way, I retired into the country ; and hoping to pass the rest of my days in peace, and to be happy in a social companion, I married a wife. She has always heen, for any thing that I know to the contrary, what is called a virtuous wo- man: a notable one I am sure she is: but though chastity and notableness may be very valuable qualities in a woman, yet if they are to be nursed and cherished at the expense of meek- ness, forbearance, and all the other virtues, in my humble opinion, she had better be without them. I called at your friend Dodsley’s the last time I was in town, to look in Mr. John- son’s dictionary for the meaning of the word notable ; but could find no such epithet applied toa wife. I wish with all my heart that he had given us a definition of that character, as also of a good woman, which, according to some alehouse signs in the country, is a woman with- out a head. I have long been of opinion, that as the princi- pal virtue of a man is courage, so the principal virtue of a woman is silence: my wife, indeed, is of a contrary way of thinking, with regard to this female virtue: but till I am stark deaf, I shall never be prevailed upon to alter my opi- nion. Dumb creatures were always my de- light, and particularly a cat, the dumbest of all ; but my wife, who has a natural antipathy to that animal, has hung up a parrot in my parlour, and filled my hen-yard and garden with mac- caws and peacocks. Besides the domestic noises with which I am perpetually tormented, I am unfortunately situated near the church, and in the hearing of ten dismal bells, which our parishoners have set up, in the room of one single bell, by which for many years before, the proper notice for church- time, and other parochial matters, had been usually given. And lest the advantage of the sound of these bells should ever be lost, one of our wealthy yeomen has bequeathed by will a considerable sum of money to the ringers of tke parish, for a certain number of peals, five or six times a week for ever. About the time of this desirable acquisition, the new method of psal- mody was introduced into our church, by a set of fellows who call themselves the singers; so that our good old tunes being rejected, I am ob- liged to sit and hear their terrible bawling and discord, having never been taught to sing in THE WORLD. (No. 142, treble time, or to find any thing solemn in the airs of a jigg. It happens also, that our parish is famous for delighting in what is called rough music, con- sisting of performances on cow-horns, salt- boxes, warming-pans, sheep-bells, &c, inter- mixed with hooting, hallooing, and all sorts of hideous noises, with which the young wags of the village serenade their neighbours on se- veral occasions, particularly those families, in which (as the phrase is) the grey mare is the better horse. Being thus accustomed to noise in the day time, Iam frequently awaked out of my sleep (thongh in the absence of my wife) by dream- ing of them in the night; so that in almost all my hours of retirement, in my slumbers, and even in my devotions, I am constantly torment- ed with noises, and thoroughly convinced that there is no peace for me but in the grave. This being my case, 1 would advise you, Mr. Fitz- Adam, by all possible means, to discourage this raging passion for noise. If you are a mar- : ried man, and have a notable wife (though from the freedom and spirit with which you write, I should guess you to bea bachelor), you will need neither my example ner entreaties to set about this work in sober sadness. I am firmly per- suaded, that if you can put an end to all un- reasonable noises, you will then accomplish that, universal reformation of sentiment and man- ners, for which your paper was intended. The women will be discreet and lovely, and the men, rational companions for their wives and one an- other. After what I have here said of myself, I care not let you know the first syllable of my name, or of the village where I live; but I desire nevertheless to be esteemed as your very good. friend, and, though unknown, Your most faithful humble servant. — P. S. I forgot to tell you that I haye three fine girls, who, though extremely well inclined, are whipt every hour in the day, and made te pierce my ears with their cries, for not being women before their time, and as notable as their mamma. It had like to have escaped me too, that though my wife is reckoned to have the best times of any woman in the parish, it is the jest of the whole neighbourhood, upon hearing any violent or unusual screaming, that Mrs. —— is in labour. MR. FITZ-ADAM, Finding by a late paper of yours, that you are an advocate for peace and quietness, ] am en- couraged, though a woman, to make known my case to you. I have been a sufferer by noise all my life long. When I was young, I had a tender, though not a sickly constitution, and ’ was reckoned by all my acquaintance, a girl ol No. 143.] a mild and gentle disposition, with abundance of good-nature. ‘The temper of my father was mills and the cannon, unfortunately the very reverse of mine; and though I was ready to obey the least notice of his will, yet his commands were always given in so loud and harsh a tone of voice, that they terrified me like thunder. I have a thousand times started from my chair, and stood with my knees knocking together, upon his beginning to ask me a common question. My mother, he used to tell me, would ruin me by her gentle- ness. Indeed she was as indulgent to meas I could wish, and hardly ever chid me in her life, unless forced to it by my father, and to keep the peace of the family, which on various other oc- casions was frequently in danger of being broken. At the bearding-school, which I was sent to at the usual age, I met with a governess who was hasty and passionate: and as in her cooler hours she was frequently making concessions to her scholars for the unguarded things she had said in her anger, she lost all her authority ; so that having no one to fear, and no good example to follow, we were noisy and quarrelsome all the day long. After this I had the unhappiness to be left an orphan to the care of my mother’s brother, who was a wealthy pewterer in the city. The room we lived in was directly over the shop, from whence my ears were perpetually dinned with the noise of hammers, and the clattering of plates and dishes. Our country-house (where we usually passed three or four months every summer) was built close to some iron-mills, of which my uncle was proprietor. During our stay at this house, J need not tell you how I was tormented with the horrid and tremendous noise which proceeded from these mills. At last I was sent to board with a distant re- lation, who had been captain of a man of war, but who having married a rich widow, had given up his commission, and retired into the country. Unfortunately for poor me, the captain still re- tained a passion for firing a great gun; and had mounted ona little fortification that was thrown ip against the front of his house, eleven nine- dounders, which were constantly discharged ten w a dozen times over, on the arrival of visitors, ind on all holidays and rejoicings. The noise of these cannon was more terrible to me than ul the rest, and would have rendered. my con- inuance there intolerable, if a young gentleman, ‘relation of the captain’s, had not held me by he heart-strings, and softened, by the most ender courtship in the world, the horrors of hese firings. In short, I staid at the captain’s ill my fortune was in my own power, and then jave it to a husband. | But alas! Mr. Fitz-Adam, I am wedded to ioise and contention as long as I live. This enderest of lovers is the most tyrannical of hus- THE WORLD. t | telling us our own. 247 The hammering of pewter, the iron- which so much disturbed me, are but lulling sounds, when compared to the raging of his voice, whenever he throws himself into one of his furies. It is the study of my life to oblige and please him, yet I offend and disgust him by every thing Ido. If I am silent to his upbraidings, I am sullen; if I an- swer, though with the utmost mildness, I am either insolent or impertinent. How must I do, Mr. Fitz-Adam, to reclaim or bear with him? Whatever I was by nature, I am at pres- ent so humbled, that I can submit to any thing. I have laid my case before you for your advice ; being well convinced, by your speculations in general, that you area warm advocate for the sex, though you sometimes take the liberty of It is not so much at the crossness of my husband, as at the loudness of his voice, that I complain: for I could submit with some kind of patience to be beat, pinched, scratched, or any thing, so that the drum of my ear was not entirely in danger of being broken. If I was deaf, I could defy the utmost of his malice; but till that happy time arrives, I am the most miserable of women, though much Mr. Fitz- Adam’s Admirer, and humble servant. bands. DVVBVUVVVUVAwWAswe VDUVUVVSVVVAVVVVUTUVPVVUIVVvrVVwesevs No. 143.] Tuurspay, Sxpr. 25, 1755. es I ovenr hourly to be looking up with gratitude and praise to the Creator of my being, for hav- ing formed me of a disposition that throws off every particle of spleen, and either directs my attention to objects of cheerfulness and joy, or enables me to look upon their contraries as I do on shades on a picture, which add force to the lights, and beauty tothe whole. With this hap- piness of constitution, I can behold the luxury of the times, as giving food and clothing to the hungry and the naked, extending our commerce, and promoting and encouraging the liberal arts. I can look upon the horrors of war, as produc- tive of the blessings and enjoyments of peace ; and upon the miseries of mankind, which I can- not relieve, with a thankful heart that-my own lot has been more favourable. There is a passage in that truly original poem, called the Spleen, which pleases me more than almost any thing I have read. ‘The passage is this: Happy the man, who, innocent, Grieves not at ills-he can’t prevent ; His skiff does with the current glide, Not puffing pull’d against the tide: He, paddling by the scuffling crowd, Sees, nnconcern’d, life’s wager row’d ; 248 And when he can’t prevent foul play Enjoys the follies of the fray. The laughing philosopher has always ap- peared to me a more eligible character than the weeping one; but before I sit down, either to laugh or ery at the follies of mankind, as. I have publicly enlisted myself in. their service, it be- comes me to administer every thing in, my power to relieve or cure them. For. this pur- pose I shall here lay before my readers some loose hints on a subject, which will, I hope, ex- cite their attention, and contribute towards the expelling from the heart, those malignant and sullen humours which destroy the harmeny of social life. If we make observations on human nature, either from what we feel in ourselves, or see in others, we shall perceive that almost all the un- easinesses of mankind owe their rise to inac- tivity or idleness of body or mind. A free and brisk circulation of the blood is absolutely neces- sary towards the creating easiness and good humour; and is the only means of securing us from a restless train of idle thoughts, which cannot fail to make us: burdensome to ourselves, and dissatisfied with all about us. Providence has therefore wisely provided for the generality of mankind, by compelling them to use that labour, which not only procures them the necessaries of life, but peace and health, to enjoy them with delight. Nay farther, we find how essentially necessary it is that the greatest: part of mankind should be obliged to earn their bread by labour, from the-ill use that is almost universally made of those riches which exempt men from it. Even the advantages of the best education are generally found to be insufficient to keep us within the limits of reason and mo- deration. How hard do the very best of men find it, to force upon themselves that abstinence or labour, which the narrowness of their cir- cumstances does not immediately compel them to? Is there really one in ten, who by all the advantages of wealth and leisure, is made more happy in respect to himself, or more useful to mankind? What numbers do we daily see of such persons, either rioting in luxury, or sleep- ing in sloth, for one who makes a proper use of the advantages which riches give for the im- provement of himself, or the happiness of others? And how many do we meet with, who, for their abuse of the blessings of life, are given up to perpetual uneasiness of mind, and to the greatest agonies of bodily pain ? Whoever seriously considers this point, will discover, that riches are by no means such cer- tain blessings as the poor imagine them to be: on the contrary, he will perceive that the com- mon labours and employments of life are much better suited to the majority of mankind, than prosperity and abundance would be without them. THE WORLD. | [ No. 1 43, | It was a merciful sentence which the Creator passed on man for his disobedience, By the sweai of thy face shalt thou eat thy bread; for to the punishment itself he stands indebted for health, strength, and all the enjoyments of life. ‘Though the first Paradise was forfeited for his trans. gressions, yet by the penalty infticted for thai transgression, the earth is made into a paradis¢ again, in the beautiful fields and gardens whic we daily see produced by the labour of man, And though the ground was pronounced curse¢ for his disobedience, yet is that curse so ordered as to be the punishment, chiefly and almost solely of those, who by intemperance or sloth inflict i upon themselves. - Even from the wants and weaknesses of man: kind, are the bands of mutual support and affee The necessities of each, which ni tion derived. man of himself can sufficiently supply, compe him to contribute toward the benefit of others and while he labours only for his own advan tage, he is promoting the universal good of al around him. Health is the blessing which every one wishe to enjoy ; but the multitude are so unreasonable as to desire to purchase it at a cheaper rate-tha it is to be obtained. The continuance of it i, only to be secured by exercise or labour. Bu the misfortune is, that the poor are too apt t overlook their own enjoyments, and to viey with envy the ease and affluence of their supe riors, not considering that the usual attendant upon great fortunes are anxiety and’ disease. If it be true, that those persons are the hap piest who have the fewest wants, the rich ma is more the object of compassion than envy However moderate his inclinations may be, th custom of the world lays him under the neces sity of living up to his fortune. He must b surrounded by a useless train of servants; h appetite must be palled with plenty, and h peace invaded by crowds. He must give up th pleasures and endearments of domestic life, tol the slave of party and faction. Or, if the goo ness of his heart should incline him to acts ‘ humanity and benevolence, he will have fr quently the mortification of seeing his chariti ill bestowed; and by his inability to relieve al the constant one of making more enemies by h refusals, than friends by his benefactions.- - we add to these considerations a truth, which believe few ‘persons will dispute, namely, thi the greatest fortunes, by adding to the wants | the possessors, usually render them the most 1 cessitous of men, we shall find greatness at happiness to be at a wide distance from ene a other. If we carry our inquiries still highe if we examine into the state of a king, and evé enthrone him, like our own, in the hearts of bh people; if the life of a father be a life of ca and anxiety, to be the father of a people is a pr - eminence to be honoured, but not envied. No. 144.) The happiness of life is, I believe, generally to be found in those stations, which neither totally subject men to labour, nor absolutely exempt ‘them from it. Power is the parent of disquie- tude, ambition of disappointment, and riches of disease. I will conclude these reflections with the folowing fable: Labour, the offspring of Want, and the mother/of Health and Contentment, lived with her two daughters in a little cottage, by the side ¢fahillat a great distance from town. They were totally unacquainted with the great, and had kept no better company than the neighbour- ing villagers ; but having a desire of seeing the world, they forsook their companions and habi- tation, and determined to travel. Labour went soberly along the road with Health on her right hand, who, by the sprightliness of her conversa- tion, and songs of cheerfulness and joy, softened the toils of the way ; while Contentment went smiling on the left, supporting the steps of her mother, and by her perpetual good-humour, in- creasing the vivacity of her sister. ' In this manner they travelled over forests and through towns and villages, till at last they arriv- ed at the capital of the kingdom. At their en- trance into the great city, the mother conjured her daughters never to lose sight of her; for it was the will of Jupiter, she said, that their sepa- ration should be attended with the utter ruin of allthree. But Health was of too gay a dispo- sition to regard the counsels of Labour ; she suf. - fered herself to be debauched by Intemperance, and at last died in chiid-birth of Disease. Con- tentment, in the absence of her sister, gave her. _ self up to the enticements of Sloth, and was never | beard of after; while Labour, who could have |mo enjoyment without her daughters, went _ every where in search of them, till she was at _ last seized by Lassitude in her way, and died in misery.” PUVA SUTVTTTVTABUTRVUSVA VVTVAVTTSTVVTVVWVUWTTETBURUB17S a No. 144.] Tuurspay, Ocr. 2, 1'755. _ Tue following letter is of so interesting a nature, | that I have put my printer to no small inconve- Nnience in getting it ready at a very short warn- ing for this day’s publication. If the contents of it are genuine, I hardly know a punishment, which the author of such complicated ruin does | not deserve. The unavoidable miseries of man- kind are sufficient in themselves for human _Rature to bear ; but when shame and dishenour are added to poverty and want, th's lot of life~is only -to be endured by the consideration that there is a final state of retribution, in which the ‘sufferings of the innocent will be abundantly THE WORLD. 249 recompensed, and temporary sorrows ve crowned with endless joys. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. SIR, If your breast has any feeling for the distress- es of a ruined wife and mother, I beseech you to give my most unhappy story a place in your next paper. It may possibly come time enough to pre- vent a catastrophe, which would add horror to ruin, and drive to utter distraction a poor help- less family, who have more misery already than they are able to becr. 1 am the wife of a very worthy officer in the army, who, by a train of unavoidable misfor- tunes, was obliged to sell his commission; and from a state of ease and plenty, has been long since reduced to the utmost penury and want. One son and a daughter were our only children. — Alas! that I should live to say it! Happy would it have been for us, if one of them had never been born!—The boy was of a noble nature, and in happier times his father bought him a commission in the service, where he is now a lieutenant, and quartered in Scotland with his regiment. O! he is a dear and dutiful child, and has kept his poor parents from the extremity of want, by the kind supplies which he has from time to time sent us in our misfor- tunes. His sister was in the eyes of a fond father and mother lovely to an extreme. Alas, Mr. Fitz- Adam ! she was too lovely.—The times I have watered her dear face with my tears, at the thought that her temper was too meek and gentle for so engaging a form! She lived with us till she was turned of fourteen, at which time we were prevailed on by a friend to place her with a gentleman of fortune in the country (who had lately buried his lady) to be the companion of his daughters. The gentleman’s character was too honourable, and the offer too advantageous, to suffer us to hesitate long about parting with a child, whom, dear to us asshe was, we were not able to support. It is now a little more than two years since our separation; and till within a very few months, it was our happiness and joy that we had provided for her so fortunately. She lived in the esteem and friendship of the young ladies, who were indeed very amiable per- sons; and such was their father’s seeming indul- gence to us, that he had advanced my husband a sum of money upon his bond, to free him from some small debts, which threatened him hourly with a gaol. But how shall I tell you, Sir, that this seeming benefactor has been the cruelest of all enemies! The enjoyment of our good fortune began to be interrupted, by hearing Jess frequently from our daughter than we used to do; and when a letter from her arrived, it was short and constrained Kk 250 and sometimes blotted, as if with tears, while it told us of nothing that should occasion any con- cern. It is now upwards of two months since we have heard from her at all; and while we were wondering at her silence, we received a letter from the eldest of the young ladies, which threw us intoa perplexity, which can neither be described nor imagined. It was directed to me, and contained these words : ‘ Mapam, ‘ For reasons that you will too soon be ac- quainted with, I must desire that your daughter may be a stranger to our family. I dare not indulge my pity for her as I would, lest it should Jead me to think too hardly of one, whom Iam bound in duty to reverence and honour. The bearer brings you a trifle, with which I desire you will immediately hire a post-chaise and take away your daughter. My father is from home, and knows nothing of this letter ; but assure yourself it is meant to serve you, and that I am, Madam, Your very sincere friend and humble servant.’ Alarmed and terrified as I was at this letter, I made no hesitation of complying with its con- tents. ‘The bearer of it either could not, or would not inform me of a syllable that I wanted toknow. My husband indeed had a fatal guess at its meaning; and in a fury of rage, insisted on accompanying me: but as I really hoped better things, and flattered myself that the young ladies were apprehensive of a marriage between their father and my girl, I soothed him into patience, and set out alone. I travelled all night; and early the next morning, saw myself at the end of my journey. —O, Sir! am I alive to tell it? I found my daughter in a situation the most shocking that a fond mother could behold! She had been seduced by her benefactor, and was visibly with child. I will not detain you with the swoonings and confusion of the unhappy creature at this meet- ing, nor with my own distraction at what I saw and heard. In short, I learnt from the eldest of the young ladies, that she had long suspected some unwarrantable intimacies between her fa- ther and my girl; and that finding in her alter- ed appearance a confirmation of her suspicions, she had questioned her severely upon the sub- ject, and brought her to a full confession of her guilt: that farther, ker infatuated father was then gone to town, to provide lodgings for the approaching necessity, and that my poor deluded girl had consented to live with him afterwards in London, in the character of a mistress, I need not tell you, Sir, the horror I felt at this dismal tale. Let it suffice that I returned with my unhappy child, with all the haste 1 THE WORLD. [ No. 144. was able. Nor is it needful that I should tell you of the rage and indignation of a fond and dis- tracted father at our coming home. . Unhappily for us all, he was too violent in his menaces, which I suppose reached the ears of this cruelest of men, who eight days ago caused him to be ar= rested upon his bond, and hurried to a prison. But if this, Mr. Fitz-Adam, had been the utmost of my misery, cruel as it is, 1 had spared you the trouble of this relation, and*buried my grief in my own bosom. Alas! Sir, I have another concern, that is more insupportable to me than all I have told you. My distracted husband, in the anguish of his soul, has written to my son, and giwen him the most aggravated detail of his daughter’s shame, and his own im- prisonment; conjuring him (as he has confessed to me this morning) by the honour of a soldier, and by every thing he holds dear, to lose not a moment in doing justice with his sword upon this destroyer of his family. The fatal letter was sent last week, and has left me in the ut- most horror at the thought ef what may happen. I dread every thing from the rashness and im- | petuosity of my son, whose notions of honour and justice are those of a young soldier, who, in defiance of the law, will be judge in his own | cause, and the avenger of injuries, which heaven only should punish. I have written to him upon this oceasion in — all the agony of a fond mother’s distresses. But _ O! I have fatal forebodings that my letter will | arrive too late. What is this honour, and what _ this justice, that prompts men to acts of violence and blood, and either leaves them victims to the law, or to their own unwarrantable rashness ? As forcibly as I was able in this distracted con- | dition, 1 have set his duty before him; and have charged him, for his own soul’s sake, and for the sake of those he most tenderly loves, not to bring utter ruin on a family whose distresses already are near sinking them to the grave. The only glimmering of comfort that opens upon me, is the hope that your publication of this letter may warn the wretch, who has un- done us, of his dauger, and incline him to avoid it. Fear is generally the companion of guilt, and may possibly be the means of preserving to me the life of a son, after worse than death has happened to a daughter. If you have pity in your nature, I beg the immediate publication of this letter, which will infinitely oblige, : Sir, Your greatly distressed, Lut most faithful .uuble servant. No. 145.] No. 145.] Tuursday, Oct. 9, 1755. TO MR. FITZ.-ADAM. Sir, iz is with great pleasure that I see you fre- quently doing justice to the age you live in, and not running into that vulgar and ill-natured prejudice that the present times are worse than the past. We are certainly better in every re- Spect than our forefathers; and it is right we should be told so, to encourage us in our pro- gress towards the summit of perfection. I could give a thousand instances of the virtues of these times; but shall at present content my- self with one, which I do not remember that you have hitherto so much as touched upon. It is the extreme constancy and disinterested- ness of the men, in affairs of love and marriage. Iam a woman, Mr. Fitz-Adam, and have lately experienced this truth, in a degree that ‘would bring upon me the imputation of in- gratitude, if I neglected to do this public jus- tice. to the most constant and generous of all lovers. ; It is now upwards of a year since I received “the addresses of’ this gentleman. He is a man of fortune and family ; perfectly agreeable in his person ; witty and engaging in his conversation ; with a heart the most tender, and manners the most soft and amiable that can be imagined. Such as I have described him, you will not wonder that I gave him my whole heart, and waited with the utmost impatience to be united to him for ever. I will not give him a merit which he does not want, that of intending my happiness only, and of raising me to a rank which neither my person _ nor fortune gave me any pretensions to; on the contrary, I was young and handsome, and, in the opinion of the world, one whose alliance could bring as much honour into my lover’s _ family, as he could reflect on mine. Nor in- deed did I ever wish that there should be any such obligation on either side ; having generally observed, that the most equal matches are the _ most productive of happiness. But I only | Mention this circumstance, as it may serve to _ do honour to his behaviour since. The time was now approaching, which was to make us inseparably one. What his senti- ments were upon the occasion, may be seen by the following letter, which, among a thousand _ Of the same kind, I shall here transcribe. “It is as impossible for me to rise, and not _ Write to my angel, as to lie down and not think of her. I am too happy. Pray use mea little ill, that I may come to a right state of mind; _ for at present I can neither eat nor sleep: yet I ry 4 i 5 } THE WORLD. 251 and then so compassionate, that I pity every man I see. My dearest loves only me, and all other men must be miserable. I wonder that j any body can laugh besides myself: if it be a man, he makes me jealous; I fancy that he entertains hopes of my charmer; for the world has nothing else in it to make him cheerful. “And now, my life! I have done with all my doubts; the time approaches, that will change them into happiness. 1 know of nothing (sick- ness and death excepted) that can possibly pre- vent it. Our pleasures will lie in so narrow a compass, that we shall always be within reach of them. To oblige and be obliged, will be all] we want; and how sweet it is to think, that the business of our lives, and the delight of our hearts, will be the same thing! I mean, the making each other happy! but [ am doomed to he more obliged than I have power to oblige. — What a wife am I to have! Indeed, my love, I shall think myself the worst, if I am not the very best of all husbands. «¢ Adieu!” Upon my making a visit of a few days toa friend near town, where I desired him not to come, he wrote to me as follows: ‘This lazy penny-post, how I hate it! It is two tedious days that I must wait for an an- swer to what | write. I will set up a post of my own, that shall go and come every two hours; and then upon condition that I hear from you by every return of it, I will obey your commands, and not think of seeing you. I wonder you have not taken it into your head to bid me live without breathing. But take care, my love, that you never give up the power you have over me; for if ever it comes to my turn to reign, I will be revenged on you without mercy. I will load you so with love and kind offices, that your little heart shall almost break, in struggling how to be grateful. I will be tormenting you every day, and all day long. I will prevent your very wishes. Even the poor comfort of hope shall be denied you; for you shall know that none of your to-morrows shall be happier than your yesterdays. Your pride too shall be mortified ; for I will out-love you, aud be kinder to you than you can possibly be to me. All these miseries you shall suffer, and yet never be able to wish for death to relieve you from them. So if you have a mind toavoid my cruelties, resolve not to marry me; for lama tyrant in my nature, and will execute all I have threatened.” How tender and obliging were these expres- sions! I own to you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that I answered them all, in an equal strain of fond- ness. But in the midst of this sweet..inter- course, he was unhappily taken ill of the small- pox. The moment he was sensible of his dis- _&m more good-humoured than 9! the world: | temper, he conjured me in a letter not to come 252 near him, lest his apprehensions for me (as I had never had it) should prove more fatal to him than the disease.. It was indeed of the most dangerous ‘kind: but how wa3 it possible for me tokeep from him? I flew to him when he was at the worst, and would not leave him till they took me away by force. The consequence of this visit was, that I caught the infection, and sickened next day. My distemper was of the confluent. sort, and much worse than my lover’s, who in less than three weeks was in a condition to return my visit. He had sent almost every hour in the day to inquire how I did; and when he saw me out of danger (though totally altered from my former self) his transports were not'to be told or imagined. I cannot resist the plea- sure of transcribing the letter that he sent me at his return home that evening. ‘What language shall I invent to tell the charmer of my soul how happy this visit has made me? To see-you restored to health was my heart’s only wish; nor can my eyes behold a change in that face (if they can be sensible of any change) that will not endear it to me be- yond the power of beauty. Every trace of that cruel distemper will be considered by me asa love mark, that will for ever revive in my soul the ideas of that kindness by which it came. Lament not a change then, that makes you love- lier to me than ever: for till your soul changes (which can never happen) I will be only and all ‘*Yours.”’ This letter and a thousand repetitions of the same engaging language, made me look upon the loss of my beauty, as a trivial loss. time was not yet come, that was to show me this generous and disinterested lover in the most amiable of all lights. My father, whose only child I was, and who had engaged to give mea large fortune at my marriage, and the whole of his estate at his death, fell ill soon after ; and, to the surprise of all the world, died eetiy invol- ved, and left me without a shilling to my por- tion. My lover was in the country, when I ac- quainted him with this fatal news. Indeed I had no doubt of his generosity; but how like a divinity he appeared to me, when by the return of the post he sent me the following letter : «‘ Think not, my soul, that any external accident can occasion the least change in my affections. I rather rejoice that an opportunity is at last given me of proving to my dearest creature that I loved her only for herself. I have fortune enough for both ; or if I had not, love would be sufficient to supply all our wants. This cruel business, how angry it makes me! Buta very few days, my life, shall bring me to your arms. O!how I love you! Those are my favourite words, and I am sure I shall die with them; or it I should have the misery to out-live you they But the } THE WORLD. 4 ¥ [No. 146. will only. be changed to—O! how I loved her! But the now, my dear, is not to be told; your own heart must teach it you. When is it that I shall love you best of all? Why, the last. day of my life, after having lived many, many years, “Your obliged and happy husband.”’ How truly noble was this letter! But you will think me dwelling too long upon my own happiness ; I shall therefore only add, that it is now a week since he wrote it; and that yester- day I received the undoubted intelligence, that my lover was married the very next day, to a fat widow of five-and-fifty, with a large jointure, a fine house, and fortune of twenty thousand pounds at her own disposal. I am, Sir, Your most obedient servant, M. B. PWV PRADA TV VA VULVA ATTL VA FRVUTRVUDTATTUTTIT STV SS No. 146.] Txurspay, Ocr. 16, 1755. I wave so tender a regard for my fair country- women, that I most heartily congratulate them upon the approaching meeting of the parliament, which I consider (and I believe they do so too) as the general gaol-delivery of the several coun- ties of the united kingdom. | That beautiful part of our species once en- grossed my cares; they still share them: J have been exceedingly affected all the summer with the thoughts of their captivity, and have felt a sympathetic grief for them. In truth, what can be more moving, than to imagine a fine woman of the highest rank and > fashion torn from all the elegant and refined — pleasures of the metropolis ; hurried by a mer- ciless husband into country captivity, and there | exposed to the incursions of the neighbouring — knights, squires, and parsons, their wives, sons, daughters, dogs, and horses? ‘The metropolis | was once the seat of her empire, and the theatre | of her joys. Exiled from thence, how great the | fall! how dreadful the prison! Methinks I see | her sitting in her dressing-room at the mansion» — seat, sublimely sullen, like a dethroned eastern monarch ; some few books, scattered up and — down, seem to imply that she finds no conso-— lation in any. The unopened knotting-bag speaks her painful leisure. Insensible to the | profiered endearments of her tender infants, they | are sent away for being so abominably noisy. | Her dress is even neglected, and her complexion laid by. I am not ashamed to own my weak- ness, if it be one; for I confess that this image | struck me so strongly, and dwelt upon my mind — so long, that it drew tears from my eyes. "No: 146-] _ The prorogation of the parliament last spring was the fatal forerunner of this summer captivi- ty. I was well aware of it, and had some thoughts of preparing a short treatise of conso- lation, which I would have presented to my fair country-women, in two or three weekly papers, to have accompanied them in their exile: but I ‘must own that I found the attempt greatly above my strength; and inadequate consolation only redoubles the grief, by reviving in the mind the ‘cause of it. Thus ata loss, I searched (as every modest modern should do) the ancients, in order to say in English, whatever they had said, in Latin or Greek upon the like occasion; but far from finding any case in point, I could not find one in any degree like it. I particularly con- sulted Cicero, upon that exile which he bore so very indifferently himself; but to my great sur- prise, could not meet with one single word of cousolation addressed and adapted to the fair and tender part of his species. To say the trath, that .philosopher seems to have had either a contempt for, or an aversion to the fair sex: for it is very observable, that even in his es- Say upon old age, there is not one single period addressed directly and exclusively to’ them; whereas I humbly presume that an old woman wants at least as much, if not more comfort than anold man. Far be it from me to offer them that refined stoical argument to prove that exile can be no misfortune, because the exiled persons can always carry that virtue along with them, if they please. However, though I could administer no ade- quate comfort to my fair fellow-subjects under their country captivity, my tender concern for them prompts me to offer them some advice upon their approaching liberty. _ «is there must have been during this suspen- sion (I will not say only of pleasure, but, in a manner, of existence) a considerable saving in the article of pin-money, I earnestly recommend to them, immediately upon their coming to town, to apply that sinking-fund to the discharge of: debts already incurred, and not divert it to the current service of the ensuing year. I would not be misunderstood ; I mean only the pay- ment of debts of honour contracted at Commerce, Bragg, or Faro; as they are apt to hang heavy upon the minds of women of sentiment, and *ven to affect their countenances, upon the ap- proach of a creditor. As for shop-debts to mer- Jers, milliners, jewellers, French pedlars, and such like, it is no great matter whether they are daid or not; some how or other those people will shift for themselves, or at worst, fall ultimately 4pon the husband. I will also advise those fine women, who, by in unfortunate concurrence of odious circum- stances, have been obliged to begin an acqnaint- tuee with their husbands and children in the ‘THE WORLD. ts 253 country, not to break it off entirely in town, but, on the contrary, to allow a few minutes every day to the keeping it up; since a time “may come, when perhaps they may like their company rather better than none at all. As my fair fellow-subjects were always famous for their public spirit and leve of their country, I hope they will, upon the present emergency of the war with France, distinguish themselves by unequivocal proofs of patriotism. I flatter my- self that they will, at their first appearance in town, publicly renounce those French fashions which of late years have brought their princi- ples, both with regard to religion and govern- ment, a little in question. And therefore I ex- hort them to disband their curls, comb their heads, wear white linen, and clean pocket-hand- kerchiefs, in open defiance of all the power of France. But above all, I insist upon their lay- ing aside that shameful piratical practice of hoisting false colours upon their top-gallant, in the mistaken notion of captivating and enslaving their countrymen. This they may the more easily do at first, since it is to be presumed, that curing their retirement, their faces have enjoyed uninterrupted rest. . Mercury and vermillion have made no depredations these six months; good air and good hours may perhaps have re- stored, to a certain degree at least, their natural carnation; but at worst, I will venture to as- sure them, that such of their lovers who know them again in that state of native artless beauty, will rejoice to find the communication opened again, and all the barriers of plaster and stucco removed. Be it known to them, that there is not aman in England, who does not infinitely prefer the brownest natural, to the whitest arti- ficial skin ; and I have received numberless let- ters from men of the first fashion, not only re- questing but requiring me to proclaim this truth, with leave to publish their names; which how- ever I decline; but if I thought it could be of any use, I could easily present them with a round robin to that effect, of above a thousand of the most respectable names. One of my correspond- ents, a member of the Royal Society, illustrates his indignation at glazed faces, by an apt and well-known physical experiment. The shining glass tube, says he, when warmed by friction, attracts a feather (probably a white one) to close contact ; but the same feather, from the moment that it is taken off the tube, flies it with more velocity than it approached it with before. JI make no application; but, avert the omen, my dear countrywomen ! Another, who seems to have some knowledge of chemistry, has sent mea receipt for a most excellent wash, which he desires me to publish, by way of succedaneum to the various greasy, glutinous, and pernicious applications so much used of late. It is as follows: bil | THE WORLD. [No. 147. | 254 Take of fair clear water quantum sufficit ; put tt into a clean earthen or china basin; then take a clean linen cloth, dup it in that water, and apply it to the face night and morning, or oftener as oc- casion may require. I own, the simplicity and purity of this ad- mirable lotion recommend it greatly to me, and engage me to recommend it to my fair country- women. It is free from all the inconveniences and nastiness of all other preparations of art whatsoever. It does not stink, as all others do; it does not corrode the skin, as all others do; it does not destroy the eyes, nor rot the teeth, as all others do; and it does not communicate itself by collision, nor betray the transactions of a téte-a-téte, as most others do. Having thus paid my tribute of grief to my lovely countrywomen during their captivity, and my tribute of congratulations upon their ap- proaching liberty, I heartily wish them a good journey to London. May they soon enter, in joyful triumph, that metropolis which, six months ago, they quitted with tears! % VR SESE TPEVVTTAV VT BPVVV ATV WT GUEBDT FVVVVRTAVUDVAA No. 147.] THurspay, Ocr. 23, 1755. I am favoured with the following letter by a correspondent ; who (if I am not mistaken in the hand) has onée obliged me before. I cannot better testify my approbation of what he writes, than by desiring a repetition of his favours,-as often as he has leisure and inclination to oblige me. It is chiefly owing to the assistance of such correspondents, that this paper has extend- ed its date beyond the usual period of such kind of productions: and (if I may be allowed to say it) they have given it a variety, which could hardly have been accomplished by one single hand. Whether it be modesty or vanity that compels me to this confession, I shall leave the reader to determine, after telling him, that it is to the full as pleasing to me, not to have been thought unworthy of the assistance I have re- ceived, as it would to have been myself the com- poser of the most approved pieces in this collec- tion. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, In this land of liberty, he who can procure a printer commences author, and instructs the public. Far be it from me to censure this spirit of advising, so prevalent among my honoured countrymen; for to this we owe treatises of divinity by tallow-chandlers, and declamations on politics by apothecaries. You must, no doubt, have observed, that every man who is in possession of a diamond arro- gates to himself this privilege of instructing others: hence it is, that the panes of window: in all places of public resort, are so amply fur, nished with miscellaneous observations, by various authors: One advice may be given to all writers. whether on paper or on glass; and it is compre hended in the single word tu1nx. My purpos at present is, to illustrate this maxim, in as ef as it respects the latter sort of authors. I divide the authors who exercise the diamont into four classes; the politicians, the historians the lovers, and the satirists. . The mystery, or art of politics, is the busi ness of every one, who either has nothing to do | or who cares not to do any thing; as a broker merchant is often made a tide-waiter. Heno. so many politicians make their appearance 01 glass. It is there that controversies of a politica’ nature are daily agitated: in them the estab lished laws of controversy are observed: som one asserts the truth of a proposition ; anothe contradicts him ; rogue and rascal are immedi. ately dealt about, and the matter originally i dispute is no more heard of. Now, Mr. Fitz-Adam, if these gentlemei would be but pleased to rHinx, and keep thei| temper, how might the world be edified! On) might acquire as much useful knowledge b_ travelling post through England, as ever th| philosophers of Athens did by lounging in thei. porticoes ; and cur great turnpike-roads woul | afford as complete a system of politics, as thé) which Plato picked up in his Egyptian ramble: In a word, the debates on the windows at th| George or the Bell, might prove no less it) structing, than the debates of the political clul| or the society at the Rosin Hoop. Were this proposed reformation to take plac | the contractors for the magazines of Knowleds and Pleasure might forage successfully on wit | dow-glass. But I need not insist farther e these considerations ; their zeal for the publ service is well known: with the view ef amu ing and instructing, they have not only ransacke | the records of pastry-schools, and the manuscrij collections of good housewives for receipts i. cookery, but they have consulted the monumen | of the dead, for delightful blunders, and meri, epitaphs. The historians on glass are of various sorts some’ are chronologers, and content themsely with informing us that they were at such | place, on such a day, in their way to this or thi town or county. Others are corographers, ai minutely describe the nature and condition || the highways and the landladies. A third so, may be termed annalists, who imagine that fa‘ deserves to be recorded, merely because it is fac’ and on this account gravely tell the world, th on such a day they fell in love, or got drunk,» did some other thing of equal insignificancy. No. 148.] THE WORLD. 255 A little thought would abridge the labour of these historians. Let them reflect on the no- thingness of such incidents, and surely they will abstain from recording them. In common life, minute relations of trifles are necessary ; .man is a sociable and talkative animal; and as the bulk of mankind cannot communicate to | which they write is a severe reflection on them- others what they have thought, they must con- | selves, and, in the judgment of foreigners, on punishable when inscribed on glass, than when tent themselves with relating what they : their country. What opinion must foreigners committed to paper. This consideration may prevent fools from scattering arrows and death, although reason and humanity cannot. But the chief of all satirists are they whe scribble obscenity on windows. Every word Noe seen. On this principle are most coffee-house | entertain of a nation, where infamous ribaldry ‘societies established. But why must a man be | meets the eye on every window? An enormity, dull and narrative on window-glass? Let him | peculiar, ina great measure, to Great Britain. reserve his dulness for the club-night, and, as | Do these writers indeed believe themselves to Dogberry in the play says, bestow all his tedi- | be wits? Let them but step into the smoaking ousness on his own companions. parlours, or the low rooms where their footmen _ I now proceed to the most numerous tribe of | have their residence, and they will perceive that all, the lovers ; and shall only hint at some enor- | the serving-men equal their masters in this mities in their conduct. And first of all, as to species of wit. Vainly do people of fashion their custom of writing the names of their mis- | attempt to monopolize illiberality, ignorance, tresses with anno domini at the end of them; as | and indecency, when, if they and their footmen if the chronicles of love were to be as exactly apply themselves to the same studies, the latter Kept as a parish register. ‘To what good pur- | will probably be the best proficients. _ pose can this serve? To inscribe the names of] Be wise therefore, O yescribblers, and THINK. fair ladies on glass, may, indeed, convey apretty Iam, &c. moral signification; since female charms are properly enough recorded on tablets of a frail nature; but when the year of admiration is added, what elderly woman is there who can |. No, 148.] ‘Tuurspay, Ocr. 30, 1755. pretend to youthfulness? Her waiting maid may extol her good looks; her mirror may att deceive her ; powder of pearl and Spanish wool may favour the illusion ; but pretty miss Such-u- | Civitrry and good-breeding are generally ome 1730, is argument of antiquity, which nei- | thought, and often used, as synonymous terms, ther flattery nor paint can refute. but are by no means so. _ The lovers also deserve censure for their! Good-breeding necessarily implies civility ; humour of writing in verse. Because all poets | but civility does not reciprocally imply good- are said to be lovers, these gentlemen sagely breeding. The former has its intrinsic weight conclude that all lovers are poets; and om the | and value, which the latter always adorns faith of this inverted aphorism, they commence | and often doubles by its workmanship. thymers. He who cannot cempose a sermon, To sacrifice one's own self-love to other joes well to read the works of another. his people’s, is a short, but, I believe,-a true defini- sxample ought to be imitated by the herd of | tion of civility; to do it with ease, propriety, overs. Prior and Hammond are at their ser- | and grace, is good-breeding. The one is the vice ; their only care ought to be in the applica- | result of good-nature; the other of good-sense, jon. And yet this caution, simple as it is, has | joined to experience, observation, and attention. yeen neglected by many lovers, who have con- A ploughman will be civil, if he is good-na- lescended to steal. Hence it is, that the wealth | tured, but cannot be well-bred. A courtier of the east is frequently declared insufficient for | will be well-bred, though perhaps without good- he purchase of a girl, who would be dear at | nature, if he has but good-sense. lalf-a-crown; amd Milton’s description of the Flattery is the disgrace 6f good-breeding, as nother of human kind, perverted to the praise | brutality often is of truth and sincerity. Good- f some little milliner. breeding is the middle point between those twe The satirists come now to be considered. | odious extremes. These men are certainly of a strange composi- Ceremony is the superstition of good-breeding, ion. While dinner is getting ready, they | as well as of religion ; but yet, being an out- muse themselves with making out a list of the | work to both, should not be absolutely demo- aults, real or imaginary, which may be im-| lished. It is always, to a certain degree, to be juted to any of their acquaintance. Incapable | complied with, -though despised by those who f reflection, they know not how to employ their | think, because admired and respected by those ime ; and therefore wound and murder the } who do not. ame of men better and wiser than themselves. The most perfect degree of good-breeding, as if I am not mistaken, a defamation is no less | I have already hinted, is only to be acquired by WRBVITTVVV BAVA STBVBVAVWeA VA WUBCBVVWIAVWAVWIWI’IWAVWsA 256 great knowledge of the world, and keeping the best company. It iz not the object of mere specu- lation, and cannot be exactly defined, as it con- sists in a fitness, a propriety of words, actions, and even looks, adapted to the infinite variety and combinations of persons, places, and things. It is a mode, not a substance : for what is good - breeding at St. James’s would pass for foppery or banter in aremote village ; and the home- spun civility of that village, would be considered as brutality at court. A cloistered pedant may form true notions of civility; but if amidst the cobwebs of his cell he pretends tospin a speculative system of good- breeding, he will not be less absurd than his predecessor, who judiciously undertook to in- struct Hannibal in the art of war. The most ridiculous and most awkward of men are, there- fore, the speculatively well-bred monks of all religions and all professions. Good-breeding, like charity, not only covers a multitude of faults, but, to a certain degree, supplies the want of some virtues. In the common intercourse of life, it acts good-nature, and often does what good-nature will not always do; it keeps both wits and fools within those bounds of decency, which the former are too apt to transgress, and which the latter never know. Courts are unquestionably the seats of good- breeding ; and must necessarily beso ; otherwise they would be the seats of violence and desola- tion. There all the passions are in their highest, state of fermentation. All pursue what but few can obtain, and many seek what but one can enjoy ; good-breeding alone restrains their ex- cesses. There, if enemies did not embrace, they would stab. There, smiles are often put on, to conceal tears. There, mutual services are pro- fessed, while mutual injuries are intended ; and there, the guile of the serpent simulates the gentleness of the dove: all this, it is true, at the expense of sincerity ; but, upon the whole, to the advantage of social intercourse in general. I would not be misapprehended, and supposed to recommend good-breeding, thus profaned and prostituted to the purposes of guilt and per- fidy ; but I think I may justly infer from it, to what a degree thg accomplishment of good- breeding must adorn and enforce virtue and truth, when it can thus soften the outrages and deformity of vice and falsehood. 1 am sorry to be obliged to confess that my na- tive country is not perhaps the seat of the most perfect good-breeding, though I really believe that it yields to none in hearty and sincere civility, as far as civility is (and to a certain degree it is) an inferior moral duty of doing as one would be done by. If France exceeds us in that particular, the incomparable author of L’ Esprit de Loix accounts for it very impartially, and I believe yery truly. Ifmy countrymen, says THE WORLD. justly authorise familiarity : bd [No. 148. he, are the best-bred people in the world, it is onl because they are the vainest. It is certain’ tha their good-breeding and attentions, by flatterin the vanity and self-love of others, repay thei own with interest. It isa general commerce usually carried on by a barter of attentions, ani often without one grain of solid merit, by wa, of medium, to make up the balance. | It were to be wished that good-breeding wer in general thought a more essential part of th education of our youth, especially of distinction than at present it seems to be. It might evenb substituted in the room of some academica studies, that take up a great deal of time, to ver) little purpose ; or, at least, it might usefully shar some of those many hours that are so frequenth employed upon a coach- box, or instables. Surel; those who by their rank and fortune are calle to adorn courts, ought at least not to disgrace’ them by their manners. | But I observe with concern, that it is thi fashion for our youth of both sexes, to brani) good-breeding with the name of ceremony ani formelity. Assuch they ridicule and explod_ it, and adopt in its stead, an offensive careless | ness and inattention, to the diminution, I wil, venture to say, even of their own pleasures, i| they know what true pleasures are. | Love and friendship necessarily produce, am but then good breeding must mark out its bounds, and say. thus far shalt thou go, and no farther ; for I hay known many a passion and many a friendshi | degraded, weakened, and at last (if I may us the expression) wholly slatterned away, by q unguarded and illiberal familiarity. Nor i| good-breeding less the ornament and cement ¢° common social life ; it connects; it endears, an) at the same time that it indulges the just liberty ' restrains that indecent licentiousness of conver’ sation, which alienates and provokes. Grea talents make a man famous, great merit make: him respected, and great learning makes hin esteemed; but good-breeding alone can ma | him palowedl I recommend it in a more particular manne to my country-women, as the greatest ornamen to such of them as have beauty, and the safes refuge for those whohave not. It facilitates th. victories, decorates the triumphs, and secure the conquests of beauty ; or in some degree atone for the want of it. It almost deifies a fin| woman, and procures respect. at least to thos who have not charms enough to be admired. | Upon the whole, though good-breedin, cannot, strictly speaking, be called a virtue, yet) ie productive of so many good effects, that, in ™ | opinion, it may justly be reckoned more hc mere accomplishment. 7, No. 149.] No. 149.1: Tuunrspay, Nov. 6, 1'755. Caniantes liceét usque, minus via ledet, eamus. VIRGIL, A song will help to cheat our dreary way. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, Sir, I po not know that you, or any of your prede- | Cessors, have ever paid your compliments to a most useful branch of this community ; I mean the ancient and reputable society of Ballad- singers. These harmonious itinerants do not cheat the country-people with idle tales of being taken by the Turks, or maimed by the Algerines, but earn an:honest livelihood, by a proper exer- _tion of those talents with which nature has en- dowed them. For if a brawny-shouldered porter |may live by turning prize-fighter, or a gentle- |man of the same make, by turning petticoat- pensioner, I do not see why a person endued with the gift of a melodious voice, is nat equally entitled to all the advantages which can possibly arise from it. | With regard to the antiquity of this profession, in all probability, we owe the invention of it to old Homer himself, who hawked his Iliad about \the streets for an obolus a book. But as the \trade was not then brought into any repute, and as his poetry wanted the refinement of modern ‘times, he could ‘scarce earn bread for himself and his family. Thespis, the Athenian, madea great improvement in the art; he harnessed Pegasus toa cart, from which he dispersed his ballads; and by keeping all the public fairs, made shift to pick up a tolerable maintenance. ‘This improvement our English ballad-singers have neglected : whether they think there is any thing really ominous in mounting a cart, or ‘whethér the sneers of the populace, who are al- Ways throwing out their insolent jests on their Superiors, have prevented them from making use of that vehicle, I will not pretend to deter- mine. | Among the Romans too this practice was pre- served. Virgil makes one of his shepherds say to pee by way of reproach, Non tu in triviis, indocte, solebas, Stridenti miserum stipula disperdere carmen ? But this was because, as Milton translates it, “his lean and flashy songs grated on his scrannel ‘pe of wretched straw.’? But this never can Je objected to my fair country-women, whose nelodious voices‘give every syllable (not of a lean ind fiasy, but of a fat and plump song) its just phasis, to the delight and instruction of the THE WORLD. _ ‘I suspect that attentive audience. By the: way, or he says, ° Virgil was a hawker himself ; Ascrewmnque cano Romana per oppida carmen ; which in plain English is no more than this, I sing my ballads through the streets of Rome. - Were it not for this musical society, the coun- ~try-people would never know how the world of letters goes on. Party songs might come out, and the parson never see them; jovial songs, and the squire never hear them; or love songs, and his daughter never sigh over them. I would have a ballad-singer well furnished with all these, befcre she sets out on her travels ; then bloody murders for school-boys and cppeoiae: conundrums and conjuring books for footmen and maid-servants, histories and story-books for young masters and misses, will turn to an ex- cellent account. And as the trades of ballad- singing and fortune-telling generally go together in the country, like surgeon and apothecary, I think it would not be amiss if their friends the poets would furnish them with rhymes suited to the occasion, that their predictions may wear the true mask of oracles, and like these of the Sybils, be given out in metre. And to come still nearer to the original, a joint-steol would make an excellent tripod. Useless as this profession may seem, it serves to support two others; I mean the worshipful and numerous companies of printers who have no business, and poets who have no genius. A good song, that isa very good song, I love Sue, for instance, or Colin and Phebe, willrun you through fifty editions: but let it be never so good, it will always give way to a newer; so that the printer has by this means constant employment for his press, which would otherwise be idle, and the poet a constant market for his wit, which would otherwise live and die with its author in obscurity. As I havea great regard for these itinerant syrens, not arising from any personal favours that I have received from them, nor founded en whim and fancy, but from a_well-weighed consideration of their service to the public, I have thought of a scheme, which will at once both ennoble their profession, and render their lives infinitely more comfortable. It is this: many professors of music, whose talents have shamefully been neglected in town (for in these degenerate days men of merit are but little regarded), condescend, for the amuse- ment of the country-people, to. enliven the humours of the wake with violins, dulci- mers, harpinets, &c. With these ingenious gentlemen I would persuade our fair ballad- singers to incorporate. Some few misfortunes Lil QS THE WORLD. a [No. 150. they have indeed met with, which I think my- | are ornamenting the bosoms of their shirts with self obliged in honour to reveal: and those are, the loss of eyes, legs, and other trifles, which a prudent thinking woman would disregard, when over-balanced by such excellent qualifications. The expense of children may possibly be urged, as an objection to this scheme ; but 1 answer, that children will of necessity come, whether our ballad-singing ladies are married or not: and while the parents are mutually travelling with the younger at their backs, the elder will, in all probability, be able to walk: so that they may get a reputable livelihood, by the lawful profession of begging, till such time as they are of a proper age to learn the rudiments of music ander the tuition of their father. But pilfering I would by all means have them avoid ; it hurts the credit of the profession. Now what a comfortable life must this be! A perpetual concert of voval and instrumental music! And if Orpheus, with only his lyre, drew after him beasts and trees (by which people are apt to imagine, that nothing more is meant than the country bumpkins,) what will not the melodious fiddle of one of these profes- sors do, when in union with the voice of his beautiful helpmate ? As for the marriage act, and guardian’s con- sent, and such new fangled stuff, I would by no means have them pay any regard to it. For as the ladies, when in town for the winter season, are generally resident about Fleet- Ditch, a cer- tain public-spirited clergyman, who lodges in that neighbourhood, and whom I would by all means recommend, will tack together half-a- dozen couple at a minute’s warning, and the parliament be never the wiser. Lam, Sir, Your most humble servant, T: D: Whereas two letters signed A. Z. have been lately sent to Mr. Fitz- Adam ; the first containing a very witty but wanton abuse of a lady of great worth and distinction : the second full of scurrilous resentment against Mr. Fitz-Adam, for not publishing the said letter ; this is to acquaint the writer of it, that tll his manners bear some little proportion to his wit, he cannot be admitted a correspondent in this paper. SUCVEDW* SS VWIVVWA RPRDVVVVVTVVWTVSTWA VATA VPRVUVVVVEVRTV TV SSB No. 150.] Tuurspay, Nov. 13, 1755. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Havinc observed of late years, that our young gentlemen are endeavouring to rival the ladies in all the refinements and delicacies of dress, and jewels; I have, for the good cf my country, and the emolument of my own sex, been contriving a method of rendering jewels of use, as well as ornament, to the male part of the human spe- cies. It was an ancient custom in several of the eastern countries, and is the practice of some few nations at this very day, for women to wear jewels in their noses; but I am of opinion, that as affairs now stand, it would not be improper to have this elegant piece of finery transferred from the ladies to the gentlemen. It must indeed be acknowledged, that this custom of ornamenting the nose has no where prevailed, but in those heathenish and barbar-~ ous nations, where the women are kept in con- stant subjection to their husbands; and there- fore I suppose it took its origin from the tyran- nical institution of the men, who put a RING in the wife’s nose, as an emblem of her slavery. I apprehend also, that the wife, when she found she was to be rung, very wisely made a virtue of necessity, and added jewels to the RING, which served two purposes at once, that of making it costly to the husband, and rendering it ornamental to herself. But as, in these po- liter and more christian countries, the barbarous | institution of obedience frem wives to husbands has been entirely laid aside, the ladies have judged it proper to throw off this badge of their subjection. And as in many instances our young ladies, and young gentlemen seem inclinable to invert the order of nature, and to recommend, manly airs to the female sex, and effeminate be- | haviour to the men, I think it advisable to com: ply with the just sentiments of the present. generation, and, as I said before, to transfer thi: ornamental part of dress from the noses of thi ladies to the noses of the men. | I find myself indeed inclinable to carry thi institution of the rine a little farther, an¢ would have every man whatsoever, whethe married or unmarried, if he be of a right nom resisting and passively-obedient disposition, t be well rung. And for this use I would hay a particular sort of nose-jewel invented, an established by public authority, which, by th emblem or device that was engraven upon it should express the kind of subjection to whicl the wearer was inclined to submit. And whe) these passive gentry were all enrolled unde their proper banners, they might annuall choose some one person of distinguished meri! who should be styled, for the time being, gran master of the most honourable order of th RING. - There was a time, when all the laity of th’ whole christian world ought to have wor’ ninGs in their noses; and if the device had bee a triple crown, it would not have been unexpres sive. ua The gentlemen of the army have sometim( -« No. 150.] ‘taken it into their heads to ring every body about them; and we have had instances how able they have been by the help of these rinas, to lead both houses of parliament by the. nose, The device engraved on those nose-jewels was, The Protector. At present, indeed, it is thought that the gentlemen of the law have a great su- periority over the gentlemen of the army, and that they are preparing nines for all the noses in these kingdoms, under the well-conceived device of Liberty and Property. It has been a maxim of long standing among statesmen, never to employ any person whatso- ever who will not bear being rung; and as this very much depends on the shape of the nose, which ought to be of such a disposition as not to be refractory to a perforation, I would in a particular manner recommend it to all leaders of parties, to make the knowledge of the human nose a principal object of their study ; since it is manifest that many of them have found them- selves grievously disappointed, when they have presumed to count noses, without a sufficient investigation of this useful science. As I have for many years taken much pains in the study of physiognomy, I shall, for the good of my country, communicate through the channel of your paper some of those many ob- servations, which I have made on that remark- able feature, called the nose: for as this is the most prominent part of the face, it seems to be erected as a sign, on which was to be represented the particular kind of ware that was to be dis- _ posed of within doors. Hence it was, that amongst the old Romans, very little regard was | paid to a man without a nose ; not only as there | Was no judgment to be made of the sentiments _ of such a person, but as in their public assem- blies, when they came to reckon noses, he must of consequence be always omitted out of the ac- ' count. |. Among these ancient Romans the great offices | of state were all elective, which obliged them to | be very observant of the shape of the noses of those persons to whom they were to apply for votes. Horace tells us that the sharp nose was looked upon as an indication of satyrical wit and humour: for when speaking of his friend Virgil, though he says, dt est bonus, ut melior non alius | quisquam, yet he allows that he was no joker, and not a fit match at the sneer for those of his / companions who had sharper noses than his own. | Minus aptus (says he) acutis Narisus horum ‘hominum. They also looked upon the short nose, | with a little inflection at the end tending up-. Wards, as a mark of the owner’s being -addicted _ to jibing: for the same author, talking of Mece-| | Mas, says, that though he was born of‘an ancient | _famiiy, yet he was not apt to turn persons of low birth into ridicule, which he expresses by Saying that he had not a turn-up nose. Nec | Martial, in one of his | NAsO suspendis adunco. e. THE WORLD. 259 epigrams, calls this kind of nose the rhinocerotic nose, and says that every one in his time affect- ed this. kind of snout, as an indication of his being master of the talent of humour. Buta good statesman will hardly think it worth his while to spend nose-jewels upon such persons, unless it be to serve them as you do swine, when you ving them only to keep them from rooting. The Greeks had a very bad opinion, of the flat nose. ‘lhe remarkable story of Socrates and the physiognomist is too well known to be par- ticularly repeated : but I cannot help observing, that the most particular feature in the face of Socrates was his nose, which being very flat, with a little inflection upwards towards the end, caused the physiognomist to pronounce him a drunken, impudent and lustful person ; which the philosopher acknowledged to be a true character of him in his natural state. The Hebrews looked upon this kind of nose to be so great a blemish in a man’s character, that though of the lineage of Aaron, his having a flat nose was by the express command of Moses an absolute exclusion from the sacerdotal office. On the other hand, they held Jong noses in the highest esteem, as the certain indication of a meek and patient mind. Hence it is, that in the beck of Proverbs the original words, which literally signify he that has a long nose, are in our English translation, and by all interpreters, rendered, he that is slow to wrath: and the words which signify he that has a short nose, are always translated he that is soon angry, or hasty of spirit. I shall only remark upon this, that the Welch, who are by no means the slowest to anger, have generally short noses. The elephant is of all animals the most docible and servile ; and every body knows how remark- able that creature is for the length of his snout. Though sometimes it happens that he is not al- together so patient of injuries as might be wished. Hamilton, in his travels to the East-Indies, tells us of an elephant of Surat, that was passing with his keeper to his watering place through the streets of that.city, who seeing the window open of a taylor’s shop, and thrusting in his trunk in search of provision, received an affront from the needle.of the taylor, as he was sitting at his work. The story adds, that the elephant went soberly on to water, and after drinking his usual draught, drew up a great quantity of mud into his trunk, and returning by the window of the taylor, discharged an inundation of it on his work-board. This was, I own, an unlucky trick ; but we ought not to have a worse opi- nion of ong noses in general for the sake of one such story, the like of which may not probably happen again in a whole century. I have many more curious observations to make on the various kinds of noses, which, for fear of exceeding the bounds of your paper, I shall reserve to another opportunity, when I 260 intend to descant at large on the method of ring- ing them : for some men are of such untoward and restiff dispositions, that they are like the Leviathan mentioned by Job, into: whose nose there is no putting a hook, as our translaters render it, but the original word signifies a Rinc. IT am, Sir, Your most humble servant. a as ALR BBBVALTT SEA TUVTBUWTETS YLUVTTVA TWAS SRBUVVTUSTVVsWs No. 151.] Tuurspay, Nov. 20, 1755. I was lately subpenaed by a card, toa gene- ral assembly at lady Townly’s, where I. went so awkwardly early, that I found nobody but the five or six people who had dined there, and who, for want of hands enough to: play, were reduced to the cruel necessity of conversing, till something. better should offer. Lady Townly observed with concern and impatience, that peo- ple of fashion now came intolerably late, and in a glut at once, which laid the lady of the house under great difficulties to make the parties pro- perly.. That, no doubt, said Manly, is to be lamented ; and the more so as it seems to give your ladyship some concern: but in the mean time, for want of something better to do, I should be glad to know the true meaning of a term that you have just made use of, people of fashion : 1 confess I have never yet had a precise and clear idea of it; and I am sure I cannot apply. more properly for information, than to this sompany, which is most unquestionably composed of people of fashion, whatever people ef fashion may be. I therefore beg to know the meaning of that term: what are they, who are they, and what constitutes, I had almost said, ancints them, people of fashion ? These questions, instead of receiving immediate answers oocc- sioned a general silence of above a minute, which perhaps was the result of the whole company’s having discovered for. the first time, that they had long and often made use of a term which they had never understood : for a little reflection frequently produces those discoveries. Belinda first broke this silence, by saying, one knows well enough who are meant by people of fashion, though one does not just know how to describe them: they are those that one generally. lives with ; they are people ofa certain sort-——They certainly are so, interrupted Manly; but the point is, of what sort? If you mean by people of # certain sort, yourself, which is commonly the meaning of those who make use of that expres- sion, you are indisputably in the right, as you have all the qualifications that can, or, at least, ought to constitute and adorn a woman of fashion. But pray, must: all women of fashion have all your accomplishmeit\is? If so, ‘the myriads of THE WORLD. ’ [No. 151 them which I had imagined from what I heard - every day, and every where, will dwindle inte a handful. Without having those accomplish- ments which you so partially allow me, an- swered Belinda, I still pretend to be a woman of fashion; a character which I cannot think re- quires an uncommon share of talents or merit. That is the very point, replied Manly, which I want to come at ; and therefore give me leave to question you a little more particularly. You have some advantages, which even your modesty will not allow you to disclaim, suchas your birth and fortune: do they constitute you a woman of fashion? As Belinda was going to an= swer, Bellair pertly interposed, and said, Nei- ther, to be sure, Mr. Manly: if birth constitu- ted fashion, we must look for it in that inestimable treasure of useful knowledge, the peerage of England ; or if wealth, we should find the very best at the Bank, and at Garraway’s. - Well then, Bellair, said Manly, since you have taken upon you te be Belinda’s sponsor, let me ask you two or three questions, which You can more preperly answer than She could. Is it her beauty? By no means neither, replied Bellair ; for at that rate, there might perhaps be a woman of fashion with a gold chain about her neck in the city, or with a fat amber necklace in the country ; prodigies, as yet unheard of and unseem Is it then her wit and good-breeding ? continued Manly. Each contributes, answered Bellair, but both would not be sufficient, without a cer= tain je ne scay guoy, a something or other that I feel better than I can explain. Here Dori- mant, who had sat all this time silent, but looked mischievous, suid, I could say something—Ay, and something very impertinent, according to custom, answered Belinda; so hold your tongue I charge you. You are singularly charitable, Belinda, replied Dorimant, in being so sure that I was going to be impertinent, only because 1 was going to speak. Why this suspicion of me? Why! because I know you to be an odious, ‘abominable creature upon all subjects of this kind. This amicable quarrel was put an end to by Harriet, who on a sudden, and with her usu- al vivacity, cried out, I am sure I have it now, and can tell you exactly what people of. fash im are: they are just the reverse of your odd people. Very possibly, Madam, answet ‘ed Manly, and therefore I could wish that you would give youself the trouble of defin- ing odd people; and so, by the rule of con- traries, help us to a true notion of people of fash- ion. Ay, that | can very easily do, said Harriet. In the first place, your odd people are those that one never lets in, unless one is at home to the whole town. with those of Homer and Horace; and know more of Coper- nicus and Sir Isaac Newton, from the accounts given of them by . Fontenelle, Voltaire, and Pemberton, than from the original works of those two philosophers. But I shall say no more at present, for fear of betraying that in- terest which it is the sincere purpose of this letter to improve and advance. " I am, Sir, fr Your most humble servant, ~— Nro-ACADEMICUS, — No. 153.] .Tuurspay, Deze. 4, 1755... = 99) ey é tht Havine been frequently pressed. by Sir Jolin Jolly (an old friend of mine, possessed of a fine estate, a large park, and a plentiful fortune) to pass a few weeks. with him in the country, } determined last autumn to accept his invitation, proposing to myself the highest pleasure from changing the noise and hurry of this bustling metropolis, for the agreeable silence and soothing indolence of a rural retirement. I accordingly set out. one morning, and pretty early on the next arrived at the habitation of my friend, situ- ated in a most delicious and romantic spot, which (the owner having fortunately no TASTE) is not yet defaced with IMPROVEMENTS. On my approach, I abated a little of my travelling to lock round me, and admire the towering h and fertile vales, the winding streams, the state woods, and spacious lawns, which, gilded by the sunshine of a beautiful morning, on every 5: afforded a most enchanting prospect : and J pleased myself with the thoughts of the happy, hours I should spend amidst these pastoral scenes, in reading, in meditation, or in an pose, inspired by the lowing of distant h the falls of waters, and the melody of birds. _ I was reveived with a hearty welcome, and many shakes of the hand, by my old frie whom I had not seen fist many years, ex One when he was called to town by a Pg No, 153.] amination, was found to be nonsense. He is an honest gentleman of a middle age, a hale con- stitution, good natural parts, and abundant spirits, a keen sportsman, an active magistrate, and a tolerable farmer, not without some ambi- tion of acquiring a seat in parliament, by his interest in a neighbouring borough; so that be- tween his pursuits of game, of justice and popu- larity, besides the management of a large quan- tity of land, which he keeps in his own hands, as he terms it, for amusement, every moment of his time is sufficiently employed. His wife is an agreeable woman, of about the same age, and has been handsome; but though years have somewhat impaired her charms, they have not in the least her relish for company, cards, balls, and all manner of public diversions. On my arrival I was first conducted into the breakfast-rcom, which, with some surprise, I saw quite filled with genteel persons of both sexes, in dishabille, with their hair in papers ; the cause of which I was quickly informed of, vy the many apologies of my lady for the mean- aess of the apartment she was obliged to allot ne, “‘ By reason the house was so crowded with vompany during the time of their races, which, he said, began that very day for the whole week, ind for which they were immediately prepar- ng.’’ I was instantly attacked by all present vith one voice, or rather with many Voices at he same time, te accompany them thither ; to vhich I made no opposition, thinking it would ¢ attended with more trouble than the expedi- ion itself. As soon as the ladies and the equipages were eady, we issued forth in a most magnificent avalcade; and after travelling five or six miles arough bad roads, we arrived at the Red Lion, ist as the ordinary was making its appearance pon the table. The ceremonials of this sump- lous entertainment, which consisted of cold sh, lean chickens, rusty hams, raw venison, ale game, green fruit, and grapeless wine, de- royed at least two hours, with five times that umber of heads, ruffles, and suits of clothes, by le unfortunate effusion of butter and gravy. tom hence we proceeded a few miles farther ‘the race-ground, where nothing, I think, ex- aordinary happened, but that amongst much sorder and drunkenness, few limbs, and no «ks, were broken: and from these Olympic mes, which, to the great emolument of. pick- ckets, lasted till it was dark, we gallopped ck to the town through a soaking shower, to ess for the assembly. But this I found no easy ik; nor could I possibly accomplish it, before my thes were quite dried upon my back: my ser- nt staying behind to settle his bets, and having wed my portmanteau’ into the boot of some » which he could not find, to save himself th the trouble and indignity of carrying it. Seing at last equipped, I entered the ball- THE WORLD. 265 room, where the smell of a stable over which it was built, the savour of the neighbouring kit- chen, the fumes of tallow-candles, rum-punch and tobacco, dispersed over the whole house, and the balsamic effluvias from many sweet creatures who were dancing, with almost equal strength contended for superiority. The company was numerous and well dressed, and differed not in any respect from that of the most brilliant as- sembly in London, but in seeming better pleased, and more desirous of pleasing ; that is, happier in themselves, and civiller to-each other. I ob- served the door was blocked up the whole night by a few fashionable young men, whose faces I remember to have seen about town, who would neither dance, drink tea, play at cards, nor speak to any one, except now and then in whis- pers to a young lady, who sat in silence at the upper end of the room, in a hat and negligée, with her back against the wall, her arms a-kim- bo, her legs thrust out, a sneer upon her lips, a scow] on her forehead, and an invincible assur- ance in her eyes. This lady I had also frequent- ly met with, but could not then recollect where; but have since learned, that she had been a toad- eater to a woman of quality, and turned off for too close and presumptuous an imitation of her betters. Their behaviour affronted most of the company, yet obtained the desired effect: for I overheard several of the country ladies say, “I¢ - was a pity they were so proud; for to be sure they were prodigious well-bred people, and had an immense deal of wit :”’ a mistake they could never have fallen into, had these patterns of politeness condescended to have entered into any conversation, Dancing and cards, with the refreshment of cold chickens and negus about twelve, carried us on till day-break, when our coaches being ready, with much solicitation, and more squeezing, I obtained a place in one, in which no more than six had before artificially seated themselves ; and about five in the morning, through many and great perils, we arrived safely at home. It was now the middle of harvest, which had not a little suffered by our diversions 3 and there- fore our coach-horses were immediately degraded to a cart: and having rested during our fatigues, by a just distribution of things, were now obli- ged to labcur, while we were at rest. I mean not in this number to include myself; for, though I hurried immediately to bed, no rest could I obtain for some time, for the rumbling of carts, and the conversation of their drivers, just under my window. Fatigue at length got the better of all obstacles, and I fell asleep; but I had scarce closed my eyes, when I was awaked by a much louder noise, which was that of a whole pack of hounds, with their vociferous attendants, setting out to meet my friend, and Some choice spirits, whom we had just left behind at the assembly, and who chose this Mm 206 THE manner of refreshment after a night’s debauch, rather than the more usual and inglorious one of going to bed. Tinese sounds dying away by their distance, I again composed myself to rest ; but was presently again roused by more discor- dant tongues, uttering all the grossness of Wrury-lane, and scurrility of Billingsgate. I now waked indeed with somewhat more satis- faction, at first thinking, by this~ unpastoral dialogue, that I was once more returned safe to London; but I soon found my mistake, and understood that these were some innocent and honest neighbours of Sir John’s, who were come to determine their gentle disputes before his tribunal, and being ordered to wait till his return from hunting, were resolved to make all possible use of this suspension of justice. It being now towards noon, I gave up ail thoughts of sleep, and it was well I did; for I was pre- sently alarmed by a confusion of voices, as loud, though somewhat sweeter than the former. As they proceeded from the parlour under me, amidst much giggling, laughing, squeaking and screaming, I could distinguish only the few fel- lowing incoherent words—horrible—fright/ul— ridiculous—Friesland hen—rouge—red lion «at Brentford—stays-pad ded—ranv’ s-horn—saucy minx —impertinent corcomb. I started up, dressed me, and went down, where I found the same polite company who breakfasted there the day before, in the same attitudes, discoursing of their friends, with whom they had so agreeably spent the last night, and to whom they were again hastening with the utmost impatience. I was saluted with how-d’ye from them all at the same in- stant, and again pressed into the service of the day. In this manner I went through the persecu- tions of the whole week, with the sufferings and resolution, but not with the reward of a martyr, as I found no peace at the last: for at the con- clusion of it, Six John obligingly requested me to make my stay with him as long as I possibly could, assuring me, that though the races were now over, 1 should not want diversions ; for that next week he expected lord Rattle, Sir Harry Bumper, and a large fox-hunting party ; and that the week after, being the full-moon, they should pay and receive all their neighbour- ing visits, and spend their evenings very sociably tegether ; by which is signified, in the country dialect, eating, drinking, and playing at cards all night. My lady added with a smile, and much delight in her eyes, that she believed they should not be alone one hour in the whole weck, and that she hoped I should not think the country so dull and melancholy a place as I expected. Upon this information I resolved to leave it immediately, and told them I was ex- tremely sorry that I was hindered by particular business from any longer epjoying so much polite and agreeable company; but that I had | WORLD. [Ne. 154, received a letter, which made it necessary for me to be in town. My friend said, he was no less concerned; but that I must not positively go, till after to-morrow : for that he then expect ed the mayor and aldermen of his corporation, some of whom were facetious companions, and supg well. ‘This determined me to set out that very evening: which I did with much satisfac- tion, and made all possible haste, in search of — silence and solitude, to my lodgings next door to a brazier’s at Charing-cross. ~ ; ~ Sw VBS VBA VE RUVUTE SDS SVEST SE VTFEV SVT TV VSVSVsses wees No. 154.] Tuurspay, Dec. 11, 1755. b Srrprina into a coffee-house in the Strand the other day, I saw a set of young fellows laughing very heartily over an old sessions-paper. The gravity of my appearance would not permit me to make any inquiry about what they were reading: I therefore waited with some impa- tience for their departure, and as scon as they were gone, took up the paper as it lay open, and found the subject of their mirth to have been the trial of a young lad’ of seventeen, for rebbing a servant-maid of her pockets in St. Paul’s church-yard. The evidence of the maid was in the following words. iv «¢ And please you, my lord, I bad been with another maid-servant at Drury-lane play-housé to see the Country-wife. A baddish sort of a play to be sure it turned out; and I wish it did” not put some wicked thoughts into the head of my fellow-servant ; for she gave me the slip im the play-house passage, and did not’ come home all night. So walking all alone by myself through St. Paul’s church-yard, the prisoner overtook me, and would needs have a kiss of me. Oho! young spark, thought I to myself, we have all been at the play, I believe; but if a kiss will content you, why e’en take it, and go about your business; for you shall have nothing more trom me, I promise you. This I said to my- self, my lord, while the young man was kissing me; but, my lord, he went on to be quite auda~ cious: so I stood stock-still agains® the wall, without so much as speaking a word ; for I had a mind to see how far his impudence would carry him. But all at once, and please you, when I was thinking of no such thing, crack. went my pocket-strings, and away ran tt young man with the pockets in his hand. And then I thought it was high time to cry out + 80 I roared out murder, and stop thief, till the watchman took ‘hold of him, and carricd Us both before the constable. And please you, my lord, I was never in such a flurry in my life; for who would have thought of any such tims from so good-looking a young man ? Sol stood stock-still, as I told you before, without so much No. 154. ] as stirring a finger; for as he was so young- a man, I had a great curiosity to see how far his impudence would carry him.” The extreme honesty of this evidence pleased me not a little: and_I could not help thinking that it might afford a very excellent lesson to those of my fair readers, who are sometimes for indulging their curiosity upon occasions where it would be prudence to suppress it, and for holding their tongues when they should be most ready to cry out. , Many a female in genteeler life, has, I believe, indulged the same curiosity with this poor girl, without coming off so well, though the thief has never been brought to the Old Bailey for the rebbery he has committed: indeed, the watch- men are usually asleep that should seize upon such thieves, unless it be now-and-then a hus- band or a father; but the plunder is never to be restored. To say the truth, the great destroyer of female It was the frailty of our first mother, and has descended in a double por- honour is curiosity. tion to almost every individual of her daughters. There are two kinds of it that I would parti- cularly caution my fair country-women against : one is the curiosity above mentioned, that of trying how far_a man’s impudence will carry him; and the other, that of knowing exactly their own strength, and how far they may suffer themselves to be tempted, and retreat with hon- I would also advise them to guard their pockets, as well as their persons, against the treachery of men: for in this age of play, it may be an undetermined point whether their designs our, are most upon a lady’s purse or her honour; hor indeed is it easy to say, when the attack is made upon the purse, whether it may not be a prelude to a more dangerous theft. It used formerly to be the practice, when a man had designs upon the virtue of a woman, to insinuate himself into her good graces by laking every opportunity of losing his money to aer at cards. But the policy of the times has hRverted this practice; and the way now to nake sure of a woman, is to strip-her of her noney, and run her deeply in debt: for losses at ards are to be paid one way or other, or there 3no possibility of appearing in company ; and f what value is a lady’s virtue, if she is always 0 stay at home with it ? A very gay young fellow of my acquaintance vas complaining to me the other day of his ex- reme ill-fortune at piquet. He told me that ead a very narrow miss of completely undress- 1§ one of the finest women about St. James’s, ut that unfortunate repique had disappoint- t him of his hopes. The lady, it seems, had ayed with him at her own house, till all her ady money was gone ; and upon his refusing to ‘oceed with her upon credit, she consented to S setting a small sum against her cap, which THE WORLD. 267 he won and put into his pocket, and afterwards her handkerchief; bat that staking both cap and handkerchief, and all his winnings, against her tucker, he was most truelly repiqued when he wanted but two points of the game, and obliged to leave the lady as well dressed as he found her. This was indeed a very critical turn of “for.. tune for the lady: for if she had gone on Josing from top to bottom, what the last stake might have been, I almost tremble to think. I am apprehensive that my friend’s Miapudence would have carried him to greater lengths than the pick-pocket’s in the trial, and that he would hardly have contented himself with running eft with her clothes ; and besides, what modest wo- man, in such a situation, would object to any concessions, by which she might have recovered her clothes, and put herself into a condition to be seen ? Since- my friend’s telling me this story, I have been led into two or three mistakes in walking through the streets and squares of the politer part of this metropolis: for as Iam na- turally short-sighted, I have mistaken a well« dressed woman’s tailor, whom I have seen com< ing out of a genteel house with a bundle under his arm, for a gentleman who has had the good fortune to strip the lady of her clothes, and was moving off in triumph with his winnings. To what lengths this new kind of gaming might have been carried, no one can tell, if the ladies had net taken it up in time, and put astop to beginnings. A prudent man, who knows he is not proof against the temptations of play, will either keep away from masquerades and ridottos, er lock up his purse in his escritoir. But as, among the ladies, the staying at home is an im- practicable thing, they have adopted the other caution, and yery prudently leave their clothes behind them. Hence it is that caps, handker- chiefs, tippets, and tuckers, are rarely to be’ met with upon the young and handsome: for as they know their own weakness, and that the men are not always complaisant enough to play with them upon credit, they throw off at their toilets all those coverings which they are in any imme- diate danger of losing at a iéie-@-léte. The ladies will, I hope, think me entitled to their thanks at least, for ascribing to their pru- dence that nakedness of dress, which inconsider- ate and ignorant persons have constantly mista- ken for wantonness or indiscretion. At the same time I would recommend it to all young ladies, who are known to be no gamesters, eithey to wear a covering on their necks, or to throw a cloak over their shoulders in all public. places, lest it should be thought that by displaying their beauties to attract the eyes of the men, they have a curiosity, like the maid-servant in the trial, io see how far thetr impudence will carry them. To conclude a little seriously, | would entrest my fair readers to leave gaming to the men, and 26u the indelicacies of dress to the women of the town. The vigils of the card-table will sully those beauties which they are so desirous of exhibiting ; and the want of concealment render them too familiar to be admired. These are common observations, I confess: but it is now the seasou for repeating and for enforcing them. Loss of time and fortune are the usual mischiefs of play ; but the ruin does not always end there: for, however great may be the paradox, many a woman has been driven to sell her honour, to redeem her credit. But I hope my country- women will be warned in time, and that they will study to deserve a better eulogy than was once given, in a funeral oration, of a lady who died at a hundred and five, “ that towards the latter part of her life, she was exemplary for her chastity.” RARAARABABATADAVEDTDAVED RPRVASULTVUVVTTSTSVVWVTVVATDY . Sig No. 155.] Tuurspay, Dec. 18, 1755. TO MR, FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I wave the honour to sit at the feet of a Gamali- el in this city, in the capacity of a parish-clerk, which office I hold in commendam with the employment of an undertaker. The injuries I have suffered are so little cognizable by the laws of the land (till it shall please God to teach our senators so much wisdom as to amend them in this particular) that I have none to whom I can appeal, but the world ; to whom I beg that you would please to present this my humble remon- strance and proposal. I hope you will excuse the trouble I now give you, not only because I choose to submit myself to the judgment of your court, but as I have reason to believe that the news-writers would not be faithful enough to lay this complaint before the public; these gentlemen being the very parties concerned, and against whom it is to be lodged. My case, Sir, is this. As I was one morning furnishing my head with the news of the day, to my great surprise I read a paragraph, which informed me that a very rich gentleman of our parish died the day before. ‘This startled me, as I had never heard of his illness, and therefore had employed nobody to watch him in his last moments, and to bring me the earliest intelligence of his death, that I might not be wanting in my respects to the family by my condolence, and the THE WORLD. [No. 155. fear of disturbing her; and to the footman who opened it, delivered my duty and condolence to his lady, and begged, if she was not provided with an undertaker, that I might have the honour to bury Mr. Deputy. , The servant gaped and stared, and from the great concern he was under for the loss of his master (as ] apprehended) was rendered so stupid that he seemed not readily to understand what I said. Before I could new-frame my message, to put it, if possible, into more intelligible words, I was myself seized with the utmost horror and confusion, at seeing the apparition of the deceas- — ed stalk out of the compting-house, which open- ed into the passage where I stood. I observed aredness in his countenance, more than was usual in dead people; and indeed, more than himself — was wont to wear when he was alive: and there was a sternness and severity in his features, beyond what I had ever seen in him before. Straight a voice more dreadful than thunder burst out, and in the language’of hell, swearing, carsing, calling me a thousand names, and tell- ing me he would teach me to play tricks with him, he dealt me half a score such substantial blows, as presently convinced me they could proceed from no ghost. I retreated with as much precipitation as I could, for fear of falling myself into the pit, which I hoped to have dug for him, Thus, Sir, the wantonness of the news-papers disappointed me of furnishing out a funeral, deprived me of my dues as clerk, got me well thrashed, and will probably lose me the gentle- man’s custom for ever: for, perhaps, next time he dies, he will order another undertaker to be employed. Now, Sir, is itnotashame, that people should thus die daily, and not a single fee come to the — clerk of the parish for a burial? and that the news-writers, without commission from his Majesty, or commission from Warwick-lane, should kill whom they please, and we not geta shilling to comfort us in the midst of so much mortality. a°3 — | There are other inconveniences, though of an inferior consideration, which may attend this” dying in print. A young heir at Oxford, just come of age, reads that his father was carried off by an apoplectic fit such a day! catching the lucky minute, he marries that divine creature his tailor’s daughter, before the news can be contradicted. When it is, fear of the old gen- tleman’s displeasure makes him bribe his new relations to secrecy for a while: in process of time he marries a lady of fortune and family a | his father’s directions : Tatterella raves with al. the spirit and dignity of a lady of the British fishery ; proves her prior marriage: not only calls, but records lady Mary a whore; bas- | tardizes the children of the second venter, and — old Snip’s grandson runs away with the estate. How often have these disturbing papers offers of my service in paying my last duties to so worthy a master. I was apprehensive too, lest some sharper looker-out might be before- hand with me, and run away with the job. I therefore whipt on my black coat and white periwig, as fast as I could, to wait on the dis- consolate widow. I-rung gently at the door, for No. 156.) hs THE WORLD. ; 269 whirled up expectants of places to town in their | among the living: the oracle commanded him post-chaises, to whirl back again, with the old | to be regenerated, or mew christened; which squs2zE, and “ I shall not forget you wHEN the | was accordingly done, and grew to be the estab- place is vacant ?”? How often has the reverend | lished method of receiving such persons into divine suffered the violent concussions of a hard- | community again. trotting horse for above threescoye miles to- And here in England before the reformation, gether, to wait on a patron of a benefice vacated-| as I am informed, it, was usual when a rich per- by the Evening Post ; where he has met with | son died, to celebrate yearly and daily masses, ‘the mortification of smoking a pipe with the | obits, and commemorations for him; so that incumbent? Perhaps a lady too, whose tender- | one who died but once, should be as good as ness and sensibility could not permit her to} buried a thousand times over: but among us it attend her sick husband to Bath, reads an ac-| is just the reverse; a man may die here a thou- sand times, and be buried but once. count of his death in the papers. What shrieks, what faintings, what tears, what inexpressible However, I hate popery, and would not wish | the restoration of it: yet as I hope a christian country will not come ‘behind-hand with a grief afflicts the poor relict! and when she has mourned in half a week as much as any reason- able widow would do in a whole year, and | heathen one in wisdom and justice, permit me (having paid the legacy of sorrow tohis memory | to recommend the practice of the Athenians \n three days, which by the courtesy of England | before mentioned, and petition the Worxp im- the might have taken a twelvemonth for) begins mediately to pass it into a fashion, and ordain that hereafter, every man living, who has been killed in the newspapers, shall account to the ‘© think of a new husband, home comes the old me, and talks in rapture of the virtues of Bath- clerk of the parish where such decease is report- ed to have happened ; or, if no place is specified water. While all the satisfaction the news- writers give this unfeignedly afflicted poor lady, 3, * The death of A. B. Esq, mentioned in| to the clerk of the parish where the person has resided for the greater part of the month pre- ceding, for a burial fee: and also. before he is hese papers last week, proves a mistake.”’ _ I know but one instance where any regard to admitted to any ball, rout, assembly, tavern, church, drum, or coffee-house, that he account \s parish-clerks has been had, or our interests in he least taken care of in these temporary and ‘ecasional deaths ; and that was a gentleman of | to the said clerk for his regeneration, or new- christening fee; and in case the report was made without the privity and consent of the ‘ank, who was generally reported and allowed party, and if, he shall be found not guilty of his or dead. His heirs at law, not caring to bury own death, that then he shall havea fashionable “ae real body, for reasons best known to them- vives (though one of those reasons might be be- demand upon the publishers for the recovery of both fees to reimburse himself. ‘wuse it was alive) yet convinced of the reason- bleness that a funeral should follow a demise, This, Sir, might put some stop to this very alarming practice, so grievously to the disap- “ag up a poor drowned sailor out of a hole on ‘te shore, into which he had been tumbled, and pointment of widows, heirs, and expectants: or at least do some justice to that very respectable, vith great solemnity interred the departed but greatly-injured body of parish-clerks, to ‘night by proxy. There was justice in this; very man had his due. It was acting With the which f have the honour to belong. I am, Sir, -isdom of an old Athenian. aA practice of the Athenians may serve as an ‘swer to such (if any such there are) who ‘om modern prejudices object to the funerals : people not really dead. Our doctor told us one of his sermons upon regeneration, that jaong these Athenians, if one who was living Jere reported to be dead, and funeral obsequies jrformed for him—(which plainly implies their istom of celebrating funerals for persons who re dead in their newspapers, though they Pre not so in reality)—if afterwards, he ap- ared, and pretended to be alive, he was looked on as a profane and unlucky person, and no @ would keep him company. One who fell der this misfortune (it matters not for his me, though I think the doctor called him ry Stonehouse, * or something like it) con- ted the oracle how he might be re-admitted Your most obedient humble servant, Tuomas Bassoon. No. 156.]. THurspay, Dec. 25, 1755. ——a An ideo tantum venis, ut exires 2 MARTIAL, And came youvhither but to go away ? TO - MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, | As I find you area person who make the re- * Aristinus. formation of mankind your care, and stand forth 270 like another Hercules to correct the irregulari- tics and indiscretions which folly, vice, or that unmeaning fickle thing called fashion, give birth to; I take the liberty of troubling you with my thoughts upon a species of animals, which at present are very numerous, and to be found in all public places of amusement. But though I am going to give you my remarks upon this race of beings, I must confess that I have never yet heard of any appellation by which they are dis- tinguished. The futility indeed of the age, has eccasioned many ridiculous and contemptible persons to rise up among us, who, without aim- ing at any laudable purpose, or acting under the dictates of any principle, have formed themselves into clubs and societits, and assumed names and titles, as innocent of sense and meaning, as are the persons themselves who bear them. Such are the Bucks, Stags, and Bloods, and many more with which the news-papers have from time to time made me acquainted. But the animals which I would now place under your notice, are of a very different kind; they are in short, a species of young men, who from a certain blind impulse are always rambling up and down this town, and never fail to be present at all places of diversion, without having a taste or capacity to enjoy any. Upon my going lately to a capital play, I saw several of them sitting indeed with great order and decorum, but so inattentive, so indifferent, and unmoved through the whole performance, whilst the rest of the audience were all eye and ear, that. they appeared to me to be so many sta- tues. ‘Their behaviour surprised me extremely, and led me at the same time to ask myself for what purpose those young sparks came to a play? and if, like Cato of old, it was only to go away again? For if they never attend to what passes before them; if they are not susceptible of those emotions, which a well-wrought scene raises in every feeling breast ; if they do not fol- low the actor through all the sweet delusion of his art: in short, if they do not, as other people do, laugh with those that laugh, and weep with those that weep, what business have they there ? To judge indeed by their appearance, one would imagine nothing could make them quit their tea-table and looking-glass. And yet, Sir, no public place is free from them; though, as far as I can judge, the opera- -house { is their fav- ourite haunt. To reconcile this seeming ¢on- tradiction, I must inform you that I have studied and examined them with great atten- tion, and find their whole composition to consist of two ingredients only ; these are self-admiration and insensibilily ; and to these two causes oper- ating jointly and separately, all their actions must be referred. Hence it is that they are al- ways to be found in public places, where they &°, not te sce, but to be seen, not to hear, but to THE WORLD. a [No. 156. be heard. Hence it is, that they are so devoted to the opera; and here indeed they seem to be peculiarly directed by that power called instinct ; which always prompts every creature to pursue what is best and fittest for it. Now, the opera is to them, if I may use the expression, a very nursing mother, which feeds them with the pap of its own soft nonsense, ‘and lulls and rocks them to their desired repose. This is indeed their proper element, and as if inspired by the genius of the place, I have sometimes seen them -brighten up and appear with an air of j Joy saa satisfaction. The mind, as well as the stomach, must have food fitted and prepared to its taste and humour, or it will reject and loath it; now the opera is so good a cook, and knows so well how to please the palates of these her guests, that it is wonder- ful to see with what an appetite they devour whatever she sets before them ; nay, so great is their partiality, that the same food dressed by another hand shall have no relish; but minced. and frittered by this their da Sieciad shall be deli- cious. The plain beef and mustard of Shak- speare (though served up by very good cooks) turn their stomachs, while the maccaroni of Rol- li, is, in their opinion, a dish fit for the gods. Thus Julius Cesar, killed by the conspirators, never touches them: but Julio Chesare killing himself, and singing and stabbing, and stabbing and sing- ing, till swan-like, he expires, is caro caro, and divino. Scipio, the great conqueror of . Afric, is, with them a mighty silly fellow; but Shippione is a charming creature. It is evident then, that the food must be suited to the taste as the taste! to the food: and as the waters of a certain’ fountain of Thessaly, from their benumbing) quality, could be contained in nothing but the hoof of an ass, so can this languid and disjointed composition, find no admittance but-in such: heads as are expressly formed to receive it. Thus their insensibility appears as well in what they! like, as in what they reject ; and like a faith companion, attends them at all times, and in places; for I have remarked that, wherever they are, they bring a mind not to be changed by time or place. However, asa play is the very touchstone of the passions, the neutrality which they ‘so strictly observe, is no where so conspicuousas at! the theatres. ‘here they are to be seen, one while when tears are flowing all around them, an- other when the very benches are cracking with peals of laughter, sitting as calm and serene, as if they had nothing but theiz own innocent thoughts to converse with. Upon considering their character and temper, as far as they can be guessed at by their actions, — and observing the apathy in which they seem to be wrapt, I once was inclined to think, that they might be a sect of philosophers, who had adopted the maxims of the stoics of old; but” ae Ne. 157. ] when I recollected that a thirst after knowledge, contempt of pain, and whatever is called evil, together with an inflexible rectitude in all their actions, were the characteristics of those sages, I soon perceived my mistake: for I cannot say that I ever found that these philosophers prac- tise any of those virtues. To speak the truth, it is very difficulé to know in what class to place them, and under what denomination they ought to pass. Were I to decide, I should at once pronounce them to belong to the vegetable world, and place them among the beings of still- life; for they seem too much under the standard of their species to be allowed to rank with the rest of mankind. To be serious, is it not strange that their heads and hearts should be impene- trable to all the passions that affect the rest of the world; nay, even more so than age itself, whose feelings Time with his icy hand has chilied, and almost extinguished? and yet age with all its infirmities is more quick, more alive and susceptible of the finer passions, than these sons of indifference in their prime and vigour of youth. - An old woman, whom I found at my side in the pit the other night, gave me an instance of the truth of this assertion. She did justice both to the poet and the actors, and bestowed her applause plentifully, though never but where it was due. At the same time, I saw several of these inanimate bodies sitting as unconcerned, as if they had not known the language, or could not hear what was said upon the stage. It is a proverbial expression (though perhaps & little injurious) to call an insipid and senseless person of the male sex an old woman. For my part I was so charmed with mine, that I will make no: disrespectful comparisons: but yet, Sir, how contemptible must these triflers be, who can be out-done by a toothless old woman, in quickness, spirit, and the exertion of their faculties? From a regard then to that agreeable and sensible matron, I will not liken these in- sensibles to those grave personages; but yet I cannot forbear thinking that they approach very near to what is most like cld women, old men; and that they resemble the picture of those crazy beings in the last stage of life, as drawn by that inimitable painter of human nature, Shakspeare: for these young men, like his old men, are sans eyes, sans ears, sans taste, sans every thing. IT am, Sir, Your faithful, Humble servant, Puitonovus, _P. S. The verses underneath upon the same subject as the letter, I venture to tack to it (like ‘bit of embroidery to a plain cloth,) and if you think either or both deserving any notice, you THE WORED. * 27% may present them with my service to the gentle reader, ’ THE INSENSIBLE. While crowded theatres attentive sit, And loud applauses echo through the pit Unconscious of the cunning of the scene, Sits smiling Florio with insipid mien, Fix’d like a standing lake, in dull repose, No grief, no joy his gentle bosom knows: Nature and Garrick no attention gain, And hapless Wit darts all her stings in vain: Thus on the Alps eternal frosts appear, Which mock the changes of the various year ; Intensest suns unheeded roll away, ** And on th’ impassive ice the lightnings play.” > SEWED SPYTNVO422224002020404 ~~“ WRATH A2V2W224224 07 No. 157.] Tuurspay, Jan. 1, 1756. OnE can scarce pass an hour in any company, without hearing it frequent] y asserted, that the present generation of servants in this country are the proudest, and the laziest, the most pro- fligate, insolent, and extravagant set of mortals any where to be found on the face of the globe: to which indisputable truth I always readily give my assent, with but one single exception, which is that of their masters and ladies, Now, though by this exception I have incurred the contemptuous smiles of many a wise face, and the indignant frowns of many a pretty one, yet I shall here venture to show, that the pride and laziness of our servants, from whence their pro- fligacy, insolence, and extravagance must un- avoidably proceed, are entirely owing, not only to our example, but to our cultivation, and are but the natural productions of the same imper- fections in ourselves, In the first place then, pride has put it into eur heads, that it is most honourable to be waited on by gentlemen and ladies: and all, who are really such by birth or education, hav- ing also too much of the same pride, however necessitous, to submit to any servitude, however easy, we are obliged to take the lowest of the people, and convert them by our own ingenuity into the genteel personages we think proper should attend us. Hence our very feotmen are adorned with gold and silver, with bags, toupees, and ruffles: the valet de chambre cannot be dis- tinguished from his master, but by being better drest: and Joan, who used to be but as good as my lady in the dark, is now by no means her in- ferior in the day-light. In great families I have frequently entreated the matire d’hétel to go before me, and have pulled a ehair for the 272 butler, imagining them to be part, and not the least genteel part of the company. Their diver- sions too are no less polite than their appear- ance: in the country they are sportsmen; in town they frequent plays, operas, and taverns ; and at home have their routes and their gaming- tables. But lest thus exalting our servants to an equality with ourselves should not sufficiently augment their pride, and destroy all subordina- tion, we take another method more effectually to complete the work, which is, debasing our- selves to their meanness by a ridiculous imita- tion of their dresses and occupations. Hence were derived the flapped hat, and cropped hair, the green frock, the long staff, and buckskin breeches: hence, among the Jadies, the round- eared cap, the stuff night-gown, white apron, and black leather shoe ; and hence many per- sons of the highest rank daily employ themselves in riding matches, driving coaches, or in run- ning before them, in order to convince their domestics how greatly they are inferior to them in the execution of these honourable offices. Since then we make use of so much art to cor- rupt our servants, have we reason to be angry with their concurrence? Since we take so much pains to inform them of their superiority, and our weakness, can we be surprised that they despise us, or be displeased with their insolence and impertinence. As the pride of servants thus proceeds from the pride, so does their laziness from the lazi- ness of their masters; and indeed, if there is any characteristic peculiar to the young people of fashion of the present age, it is their laziness, or an extreme unwillingness to attend to any thing that can give them the least trouble or dis~ quietude; without any degree of which they would fain enjoy all the luxuries of life, in con- tradiction to the dispositions of Providence and the nature of things.~- They would have great estates without any management, great expenses without any accounts, and great families with- out any discipline or economy! In short, they are fit only to be inhabitants of Lwubberland, where, as the child’s geography informs us, men lie upon their backs with their mouths open, and it rains fat pigs ready roasted. From this principle, when the pride they have infused into their servants has produced a proportionable de- gree of laziness, their own laziness is too preva- lent to suffer them to struggle with that of their servants; and they rather choose that all busi- ness should’ be neglected, than to enforce the performance of it ; and to give up all authority, rather than take the pains to support it; from whence it happens, that in great and noble fami- lies, where the domestics are very numerous, they will not so much as wait upon themselves ; and wasit not for the friendly assistance of THE WORLD. [No. 157. char-women, porters, chair-men and shoe- blacks, procured by a generous distribution of | coals, candles, and provisions, the common offices of life could never be executed. In such it is often as difficult to procure conveniences, as in a desert island: and one frequently wants | necessaries in the midst of profuseness and ex- travagance. In such families I have some- | times been shut up in a cold room, and inter- dicted from the use of fire and water for half-a- day; and though during my imprisonment I have seen numberless servants continually pass- ing by, the utraost I could procure of them was, that they would send somebody to relieve my necessities, which they never performed. In such 1 have seen, when a favourite dog has dis- charged a too plentiful dinner in the drawing room, at the frequent ringing of the bell ntmer- ous attendants make their appearance, all en- treated to depute some one to remove the nuis- ance with the utmost expedition, but no one has been found in such a house mean enough to un- dertake such an employment; and so it has lain smoking under the noses of the illustrious com- pany during the whole evening. T could produce innumerable instances, mi- nute indeed, and unobserved, but well worthy ob- servation, of the encroachments of our ser- vants on our easiness and indolence, in the in- troduction of most of the fashions that have pre- vailed for several years past, in our equipages and domestic economy; all which are entirely calculated for their pleasure, ease, or advan- tage, in direct contradiction to our own. To mention but a few: our coaches are made uneasy, but light, that they may whirl us along with the utmost rapidity, for their own amusement. Glasses before are laid aside, and we are immured in the dark, that the coachman may no longer be under our inspection, but be drunk or asleep without any observation. Family liveries are discarded, because badges of servility, which might give information to whom their wearers belonged, and to whom complaints might be addressed for their enormities. By their carelessness and idleness they have obliged us to hire all our horses, and so have got rid ot the labour of looking after them. By their im- positions on the road they have forced us into post-chaises, by which means they are at liberty to travel by themselves as it best suits their own ease and convenience. By their impertinence, which we have not patience to endure, nor re- solution to repress, they have reduced us to dumb-waiters, that is, to wait upon ourselves ; by which means they have shaken off the trouble and condescension of attending us. By their profusion and mismanagement in house-keeping; they’ have compelled us to allow them board wages; by which means they have obtained a constant excuse to loiter at public-houses, and No. 158.] without any inconvenience. From what has been said, it plainly appears, that every man in this country is ill-served, in proportion to the number and dignity of his ser- vants: the parson, or the tradesman, who keeps but two maids and a boy not exceeding twelve years old, is usually very well waited on; the private gentleman, infinitely worse ; but persons of great fortunes or quality, afraid of the idols of their own setting up, are neglected, abused, and impoverished by their dependents; the king himself, as is due to his exalted ‘Station, is more imposed on, and worse attended, than any one of his subjects. WUECBTVVVVVAYTLVVVAVVBRVTVA BVUA24284 SVVereew.24 WUVUPVWA No. 158.] Tuurspay, Jan. 8, 1756. Durine the course of these my labours, there is nothing that I have applied myself to with more diligence and attention, or that I have hoped for with greater pleasure and delight, than the refor- mation of the fair sex. heir dressing, gaming, and painting, have been from time to time the Happy indeed should I have been, if my success had borne any proportion to my zeal; but as my philosophy subjects of my animadversions. has taught me to bear with patience those evils which I cannot redress, Iam contented, under certain limitations, to wink at those enormities, ‘which I wanted to have removed. In regard to dress, I: consent that the fashion shall con- tinue as it now is; but I enter my protest against absolute nakedness; for while I am con- niving at low stays and short petticoats, I will ‘permit no lady whatsoever (as a brother essayist ‘very wittily has it) to make both ends meet. I consent also to the present fashion of curling the hair, so that it may stand a month without combing ; though I must confess (and [ believe most husbands and lovers are of my opinion) that I think a fortnight or three weeks might be a sufficient time: but I bar any application to those foreign artists, who advertise in the public papers that they have the secret of making up a lady’s head for a complete quarter of a year. As to gaming, I permit it to go on as it does, : THE WORLD. money in their pockets to squander there in gaming, drunkenness and extravagance. The last of these is an evil of so gigantic a size, so con- ducive to the universal corruption of the lower “part of this nation, and so entirely destructive of all family order, decency, and economy, that it well deserves the consideration of a legisla- ture, who are not themselves under the influence of their servants, and can pay them their wages 273 provided that the ladies will content themselves with injuring their husbands in no other respect than by ruining their fortunes. Painting like- wise I submit to; and indeed as cards and late hours have so totally destroyed the natural com- plexion, it is not altogether unreasonable that a little art should be introduced to repair it. But to make this art as little hurtful as possible to the health, the breath, the teeth, and the skin of those who practise it, I have consulted: almost every author, both ancient and modern, who has written on the subject. The most satisfactory of these is Jo. Paul Lomatius, a painter of Milan. His works were translated by Richard Haydock, ot New College, Oxford, in the year 1598. In the third book of which are the fol- lowing observations, which the author calls a discourse of the artificial beauty of women. “ Flaving treated of so many and divers thinges, I could not but say something of such matters as women use ordinarily in beautifying and em- bellishing their faces; a thing well worth the knowledge: insomuch as many women are so possessed with a desire of helping their com- plexions by some artificial meanes, that they will by no means be dissuaded from the same. ‘* Now the things which they use are these, viz. ointments of divers sorts, powders, fatts, waters, and the like: whereof Jo. Modonese, doctor of physic, hath written at large, in his book intituled the Ornaments of Women, where- in he teacheth the whole order of beautifying the face. * Now my intent in this treatise is only to discover the natures of certain things which are in daily use for this purpose; because it often falleth out, that instead of beautifying, they do most vilely disfigure themselves. ‘Che reason whereof is, because they are ignorant of the natures and qualities of the ingredients. Howbeit, partly by my directions, and partly by Modonese’s book, I hope to content and satisfy them in all such sort, that they shalt have just cause to thank us both: and in truth, for their sakes have I specially undertaken this paines, by teaching them to understand the na- tures of the minerals, vegetables, and animals which are most applied to this use. So that if any shall henceforth fall into the inconveniencie after specified, their own peril be it. And first, concerning sublimate. “ Of suBLIMATE, and the bad effects thereof. ‘** Divers women use sublimate diversly pre- pared for increase of their beauty. Some bray it with quicksilver in a marble mortar with a wooden pestle, and this they call argentatem : others boyl it in water, and therewith wash their face ; some grind it with pomatum, and sundry other waies; but this is sure, that which way Nn 274 sover it be used, it is very offensive to man’s flesh, and that not only to the face, but unto all the other parts of the body besides: for proof whereof, sublimate is called dead fier, because of its malignant and biting nature; the composi- tion whereof is of salfe, quicksilver, and vtiriol, distilled together in a glassen vessell. «¢ This the chirurgions call a corrosive, because if it be put upon man’s flesh, it burneth it ina short space, mortifying the place, not without great pain to the patient. Wherefore such women as use it about their face, have always black teeth standing far out of their gums like a Spanish mule, an offensive breath, with a face half scorched, and an unclean complexion: all which proceed from the nature of sublimate ; so that siraple women, thinking to grow more beautiful, become disfigured, hastening old age before the time, and giving occasion to their husbands to seek strangers instead of their wives, with divers other inconveniences. “ Of cerussE, and the effects thereof. ‘¢ The cerusse, or white lead, which women use to better their complexion, is made of lead and vinegar, which mixture is naturally a great drier; so that those women which use it about their faces, doe quickly become withered and grey-headed, because this doth so mightily dry up the natural moysture of their flesh: and if any give not credit to my report, let them but observe such as have used it, and I doubt not but they will easyly be satisfied. ‘¢ Of PLUME ALUME. <¢ This alume is a kind of stone, which seem- eth as it were made of tow, and is of so hot and dry a nature, that if you make the wicke ofa candle therewith, it is thought it will burn con- tinualiy without going out; a very strange matter, and beyond credit. With this some use te rub the skin off their face, to make it seem red by reason of the inflammation it procureth ; but questionlesse it hath divers inconveniencies, and therefore to be avoided. te “‘ Of the su1cE of LEMONS. “Some use the juice of lemons about their face, not knowing the evil qualities thereof; for it is so forcible, that it dissolveth the hardest stones into water, and there is nothing which sooner dissolveth pearl than it. Nowiif it can dissolve stones in this manner, what think you will it do upon man’s flesh? Wherefore I ex- hort all women to eschewe this and the like fretting and wearing medicines. “ Of the ov of TARTARIE. “There is no greater fretter and eater than the oyl of tartarie, which in a very short time mortifieth a wound, as well as any other caustic THE WORLD. [No. 158. or corrosive: and being so strong a fretter, it will take any stain or spot out of linen or wool- len cloth: wherefore we may easily think, that if it be used about the face, it will work the like effects on the same, by scorching and hardening it so, that in many days it will not return to the former state. ‘“* Of the ROCKE ALUME. “¢ Rocke alume doth likewise hurt the face, insomuch as it is a very piercing and drying mineral, and is used in strong water for the dissolving of metals, which water is made only of rocke alume and sal nitrum distilled, and is found to be of that strength, that one drop there- of being put on the skin, burneth, shriveleth, and parcheth it, with divers other inconvenien- cies, as loosing the teeth, &c. ‘¢ Of CAMPHIRE. ‘¢ Camphire is so hot and drie, that coming any thing neere the fier, it suddenly taketh fier, and burneth most vehemently. This being applied to the face, scaldeth it exceedingly, caus- ing a great alteration, by parching of the skinne, and procuring a flushing in the face: ard in this the women are very much deceaved. “‘ Of all such things as are enemies to the health, and hurtful to the complexion. «¢ All those paintings and embellishings which are made with minerals and corrosives, are very dangerous for being laid upon the flesh, especial- ly upon the face of a woman, which is very ten- der and delicate by nature (besides the harm they doe to the natural beauty) doe much preju- dice the health of the body: for it is very certain that all paintings and colourings made of minerals or half mincrals, as iron, brass, lead, tinn, subli- mate, cerusse, camphire, juice of lemons, plume alume, salt peeter, vitriol, and all manner of saltes, and sortes of alumes (as hath bin declared) are very offensive to the complexion of the face ; wherefore if there be no remedy, but women will be meddling with this arte of polishing, let them insteede of those mineral Stuitfs, » use the remedies following : “ Of such helpes of beauty as may safely be used without danger. “ There is nothing in the world which doth more beautifie and adorne a woman, than cheer- fulness and contentment: for it isnot the red and white which giveth the gratious perfection of beauty, but certain sparkling notes and touches of amiable cheerfulness accompanying the same ; the trueth whereof may appear in a discontented woman, otherwise exceeding faire, who at that instant will seem yl favoured and unlovely: 48 Se contrariewise an hard-favoured and browne wo- | man, being merry, pleasant, and jocund, will seem sufficient beautiful. No. 159.) - THE WORLD. 75 ‘‘ Secondly, honesty : because though a woman be fair and merry, and yet be dishonest, she must needs seem most ougly to an ingenuous | ing the mechanic drudgeries to which they have and honest mind. been destined by their muck-worm parents, | its professors for all other pursuits! How many “ Thirdly, wisdome: for a foolish, vain, gig- | have so feasted their minds with Pierian delica- sublime geniuses have we daily seen, who, scorn- gling dame cannot be reputed fair, insomuch as | cies, as to leave their bodies to perish through she hath an impure and polluted mind. nakedness and hunger ! ‘* But hereof sufficient, till a further oppor- Having heard that the author of that essay tunitie be ministered. Mean while, if any be | made an impression not only upon those who desirous to be more satisfied on this point, I re- | shed often the tears of pity, but even upon usur- ferre them to an oration or treatise of Nazian- | ers, attorneys, and sober tradesmen, I have ven- zen’s concerning this matter.” tured by the conveyance of your paper, to lay my thoughts before the public; in compassion to ‘Thus far Lomatius; and as I have not been | the distresses of another order of men, who, in able to procure the treatise he refers to, I could | a subordinate degree, are connected with the wish with all my heart that the ladies would | sublime race of authors, and, as retainers to the lay aside their paint for a few weeks, and make | muses, claim mine and your assistance. The trial of his receipt. It will indeed cost them | persons I mean are such as, either from the want some trouble, and may possibly require a little | of ambition or capacity, are prevented from soar- alteration in their manner of living: but I will | ing high enough to oblige mankind with their venture to assert, that the united toilettes of a | own conceptions, and yet, having a taste or in- hundred women of fashion cannot furnish a | clination above handling a yard, or engrossing composition that will be half so efficacious. parchment, entertain and instruct the rest of their species by retailing the thoughts of others, and animating their own carcasses with the everliving sentiments of heroes, heroines, wits, DUCUCVTBV VT TVTVVAASVTVVTVVTEAVAUVSEVSTUEVTTVETTVTEVAUsy Be No. 159.] Tuvurspay, Jan. 15, 1756. and legislators. ‘These gentlemen and ladies, whilst they are resident in Lendon, are called in plain English, actors: but when they con- descend to exhibit their illustrious personages in Op as I am, my curiosity carried me the other | the country, the common people distinguish them night to see the new dramatic satire, called ‘The | by the name of stage-players, the rural gentry Apprentice, which, considering the present epi- | by the uncivil appellation of strollers, and a more demic madness for theatrical employments rag- | unmannerly act of parliament by the names of ing through the lower ranks of people, will [| vagrants and vagabonds. Such, Sir, is the hope be as serviceable to cure the English mob | present ill-bred dialect of our common statute of that idle disorder, as the immertal work of | law. Cervantes was to exorcise from the breasts of I must confess it has grieved me not a litile, the Spanish nobility the demon of knight-erran- | when I have beheld a theatrical veteran, who try. The piece is new and entertaining, and | has served all the campaigns of Alexander, has received no inconsiderable advantages from | Julius Cesar, and Henry the fifth, cast off by the masterly perfermance of a principal come- | cruel fate, or the caprice of a manager, and cen- dian, who, with a true genius for the stage, has | demned (in the tragic words of acelebrated poet) very naturally represented the contemptible in- sufficiency of a pert pretension to it. At my To beg his bitter bread return to my lodgings, I found the following Through realms his valour saved : letter on my table: bat judge, Mr. Fitz-Adam, what must have TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. been my anxiety, when I have heard that a : truly Christian actor (which is no small miracle Sir, ~ | in our days) who has inoffensively trod thestage Among the many benevolent designs which | many years without ever molesting our pas- have adorned the present well-disposed age, I | sions, or breaking the commandment by repre- remember to have read one a few years ago, ina | senting the likeness of any thing upon the earth, periodical pamphlet, intituled, “‘ A proposal for | should be discarded merely upon the account of building an hospital for decayed authors,”’ which | this his quiet deportment, and sent to eat the gave me, and many other charitable people, much | unmuse-like bread of industry, behind the en- satisfaction. If the aged, the lame, and the | trenchment of a counter! Shall a man, born blind, are proper objects of compassion, how | with a soul aspiring to imitate the rapine of a much more so are those, who (if I may use the | Bajazet, or a woman with a heart burning to expression) have mutilated their understandings | emulate the whoredoms of a Cleopatra, be sent, by an application to an art which incapacitates | the one to weigh out sugar and spices to dirty 276 mechanics, and the other to be cruelly fettered in the bonds of matrimony, among a phlegmatic race of creatures, where chastity is reckoned a virtue? Indeed, Sir, when you come seriously to think of these things, I dare say you will la- ment with me, that in all this hospital-erecting town there is no charitable asylum yet founded for these unfortunate representatives of the greatest personages that ever trod the stage of earth. Weare told by Hamlet, that it is not impos- sible to trace Alexander’s carcase, after his world-conquering spirit had left it, to the stop- ping of a bunghele: but methinks it would not be decent for so civilized a nation as our own, to suffer any living hero to be so reduced by for- tune, as to stop that place which the dead Ma- cedonian monarch was supposed to perform the office of clay to. In plain English, would it not be shocking to see a fine periwig-pated emperor, whom we have beheld ascend the capi- tol as Julius Cesar, degraded to fill small-beer barrels at Hockley-in-the- Hole ? To what base uses may we turn ? But that such heart-breaking anticipations may not weigh upon the spirits of these theatrical geniuses, while they are bringing the stately personages of antiquity before our eyes; and that our Pyrrhuses, Tamerlanes, and Mare Antonies, even though itinerant, may not sneak into the sheepish look of taylors, by foreboding that the cruel lot of fate may ere long destine those legs, which are now adorned with the regal buskin, to cross one another again upon an obscure shop-board in a garret; I say, that Wwe may drive misery from the minds of these worthies, when she puts on such horrid shapes, I would propose to the nobility and gentry of this metropolis a subscription for raising an hospital for decayed actors and actresses, that our performers may constantly be cherished with the assurance that meagre want shall never grin at their royal heels, and that when- ever age, accident, or the caprice of the town deprives those of their heroic callings, who for- tunately have escaped violent deaths (for these representatives of heroes are sometimes known to imitate their originals, and, as the poet sings, Ere nature bids them die, Fate takes them early to the pitying sky) they will be supported whilst alive; and, when the sisters three shall slit the fatal thread, they may be enabled to make an exit as they have lived, in mimetic grandeur, and have the insignia of their honours carried before them ¢o the grave’s lightless mansion. If I find the generality of your readers are inclined to encourage this useful charity, I will take the liberty to offer to them a plan for the THE WORLD. [ No. 160. building such an hospital, a scheme for the rais- ing a fund for its support, to point out what ~ qualifications are necessary to entitle a candi- date to a place in it, and, last of all, to recapitu- late the many advantages that must necessarily be derived to society from so laudable an under- taking. : But that no well-disposed persons may be in- fluenced by the uncharitable insinuation that I have some selfish views in the erecting this hos- pital, 1 think it absolutely necessary to declare, that I am neither an unemployed physician, an unpractised surgeon, nor a drugless apothecary ; nor do I any other way expect either emolument or pleasure from the institution, than in that sweetest of sensations which the heart feels in having contributed to the relief of others, which always rises in proportion to the object. What then, and how great must be mine, to have con- tributed to the comfort of so illustrious a race of worthies ! é; I am, with very sincere esteem, Sir, Your most humble faithful servant, DUTVUVVUVVVL WR TVTATUTVTVUTVSE ST SEVUTGUTVE DV WTTBATSETVEBD No. 160.] Tuurspay, Jan, 22, 1756. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. I rutnx, Sir, more than three years are past, since you began to bestow your labours on the reformation of the follies of the age. You have more than once hinted at the great success that has attended your endeavours; but surely, Mr. — Fitz-Adam, you deceive yourself. Which of your papers have effectuated any real amend- ment? Have fewer fools gone to, or returned from France, since you commenced author? or have fewer French follies been purchased or propagated by those who never were in France? Do not women, dressed French, still issue from houses dressed Chinese, to theatres dressed Ital- ian, in spite of your grave admonitions? Do the young men wear less claret, or the beauties less rouge in obedience to your lectures ? Do men of fashion, who used to fling fora thousand pounds a throw, now cast only for five hun- dred ? or if they should, do you impute it to Your credit with Them, or to Their want of credit? I do not mean, Sir, to depreciate the merit of your lucubrations: in point of effect, I believe they have operated as great reformation as the discourses of the divine Socrates, or the sermons of the affecting Tillotson, I really helieve you would have corrected that young Athenian marquis, Alcibiades, as soon as his philosophic — preceptor. What I would urge is, that all the preachers in the world, whether jocose, sa No. 160.] tiric, severe, or damnatory, will never be able to bring about a reformation of manners by the mere charms of their eloquence or exhortation. You cannot imagine, Mr. Fitz-Adam, how much edge it would give to your wit to be back- ed by a little temporal authority. We may in vain regret the simplicity of manners of our ancestors, while there are no sumptuary laws to restrain luxury, no ecclesiastical censures to cas- tigate vice. I shall offer to your readers an in- stance or two, to elucidate the monstrous dis- proportion between our riches and extravagance, and the frugality of former times; and then produce some of the wholesome censures and penalties, which the elders of the church were empowered to impose on persons of the first vank, who contravened the established rules of sobriety and decorum. How would our progenitors have been aston- ished at reading the very first article in the late will ofa grocer! Imprimis, I give to my dear wife one hundred thousand pounds. A sum ex- ceeding a benevolence, or two subsidies, some ages ago. Nor was this enormous legacy half the personal estate of the above-mentioned tradesman, on whom I am far from designing to reflect; he raised his fortune honestly and industriously ; but I hope some future anti- quarian struck with the prodigality of the times, will compute how much sugar and plums have been wasted weekly in one inconsiderable parish in London, or even in one or two streets in that parish before a single shop-keeper could have raised four hundred thousand pounds by retail- ing those and such like commodities. Now let us turn our eyes back to the year 1385, and we shall find no less a person’ than the incompar- able and virtuous lady Joan, princess dowager of Wales, by her last will and testament, be- queathing the following simple moveables ; and we may well believe they were the most valua- ble of her possessions, as she divided them be- ‘tween her son the king, and her other children. To her son king Richard, she gave her new bed of red velvet, embroidered with ostrich feathers of silver, and heads of leopards of gold, with boughs and leaves proceeding from their mouths. Al- so to her son ‘Thomas, earl of Kent, her bed of red camak, paled with red, and rays of gold; and to John Holland, her other son, one bed of red camak, ‘These particulars are faithfully copied from Dugdale, vol. 2, p. 94. an instance of sim- plicity and moderation in so great and illustrious a princess, which I fear I should in vain recom- ‘mend to my contemporaries, and which is only likely to be imitated, as all her other virtues are, oy the true representative of her fortune and ex- cellence. _I come now, Sir, to those proper checks upon icentiousness, which, though calculated to serve he views of a popish clergy, were undoubtedly reat restraints upon immorality and indecency, r THE WORLD. 277 and we may lament that such sober institutions were abolished with the real abuses of popery. Our ecclesiastic superiors had power to lay such fines and mulcts upon wantonness, as might raise a revenue to the church and poor, and at the same time leave the lordly transgressors at liberty to enjoy their darling foibles, if they would but pay for them. Adultery, fornica- tion, drunkenness, and the other amusements of people of fashion, it would have been in vain to subject to corporeal punishments. To ridi- cule those vices, and laugh them out of date by Tatlers, Spectators, and Worlds, was not the ta- lent of monks and confessors, who at best only knew how to wrap up very coarse terms in very bald Latin and jingling verses. The clergy steer- ed a third course, and assumed a province, which I could wish, Mr. Fitz-Adam, was a lit- tle connected with your censorial authority. If you had power to oblige your fair readers and offenders to do penance in clean linen, for al- most wearing no linen at all, I believe it would be an excellent supplement to your paper of May the 24th, 1'753. The wisest exercise that I meet recorded of this power of inflicting pe- nance, is mentioned by the same grave author, from whom I copied the will above-mentioned : it happened in the year 1360, in the case of a very exalted personage, and shows how little the highest birth could exempt from the severe inspection of those judges of manners. The lady Elizabeth, daughter of the marquis of Juliers, and widow of John Plantagenet earl of Kent, uncle of the princess Joan above-mention- ed, having on the death of the earl her husband, retired to the monastery of Waverley, did (I sup- pose immediately) make a vow of chastity, and was solemnly veiled a nun there by William de Edendon, bishop of Winchester. Somehow or other it happened, that about eight years after- wards, sister Elizabeth of Waverley became ena- moured of a goodly knight, called Sir Eustace Dawbridgecourt, smitten (as tradition says she affirmed) by his extreme resemblance to her late lord ; though, as other credible writers affirm, he was considerably younger : and notwithstanding her vows of continence, which could not bind her conscience, and, in spite of her confinement, which was not strong enough to detain a lady of her great quality, she was clandestinely married to her paramour in a certain chapel of the mansion- house of Robert de Brome, a canon of the colle- giate church of Wyngham, without any license from the archbishop of Canterbury, by one Sir John Ireland, a priest, before thesun-rising, upon Michaelmas day, inthe 34th of Edward the third. Notwithstanding the great scandal such an indecorum must have given, it is evident from the subservience of two priests to her desires, that her rank of princess of the blood set her above all apprehension of punishment for the breach of her monastic vows; yet it is evident fa) oo 73 from the sequel of the story, that her dignity could not exempt her from such proper censures and penalties, as might deter others from com- mission of the like offences ;:as might daily and frequently expose the lady herself to blushes for her miscarriage; and as might draw comfort to the poor, from taxing the inordinate gratifica- tion of the appetites of their superiors; a sort of comfort, which to do them justice, the poor are apt to take as kindly, as the relief of their own wanis. My author says, vol. 2, page 95, that the lady dowagev and her young husband being personal- ly convened before the archbishop of Canterbury for the said transgression, at his manor-house of Haghfeld, upon the seventh ides of April, the archbishop for their penance enjoined them to find a priest to celebrate divine service daily for them, the said Sir Eustace and Elizabeth, and for him, the archbishop; besides a large quantity of penitential psalms, pater-nosters, and aves, which were to be daily repeated by the priests and the transgressors. His grace moreover ordered the lady Elizabeth (whom for some reasons best known to himself, I sup- pose he regarded as the seducer) to go oncea year on foot in pilgrimage to the tomb of that glorious martyr, St. Thomas of Canterbury ; and once every week during her life to fast on bread and drink, and a mess of pottage, wearing no smotk, especially in the absence ef her hus- band; a penance that must appear whimsical to us, and not a little partial to Sir Eustace, whom the archbishop seems in more respects than one to have considered rather as disobedient to the canons, than guilty of much voluptuous: ness by his wedlock. - But the most remarkable articles of the penance were the two following. The archbishop appointed the said Sir Eustace and the lady Elizabeth, that the next day after any yepetition of their transgression had passed between them, they should competently relieve six poor people, and beth otf them that day to abstain from some dish ef flesh or fish, whereof they did most desire to eat. Such was the simplicity of our ancestors. Such were the wholsome severities to which the greatest dames and most licentious young lords were subject in those well-meaning times. But though I approve the morality of such correc- tions, and perhaps think that a degree of such power might be safely lodged in the hands of our great and good prelates; yet I am not so bigotted to antiquity as to approve either the articles of the penance or to think that they could be reconciled to the difference of modern times and customs. Pater-nosters and aves might be supplied by prayers and litanies of a more protestant complexion. Instead of a pilgrimage on’ foot to Canterbury, if an in- ordinate matron were compelled to walk~to Ranelagh, f believe the penance might be severe | THE WORLD. > [No: 160. enough for the delicacy of modern constitutions. For the article of leaving off a shift, considering that the upper half is already laid aside, perhaps to oblige a lady-ofiender to wear a whole shift; might be thought a sufficient punishment ; for wise legislators will allow a latitude of inter- pretation to their laws, to be varied according to the fluctuating condition of times and seasons. What most offends me, and which is by no means proper for modern imitation, is, the arti- cle that prescribes charity to the poor, and restriction from eating of a favourite dish, after the performance of certain mysteries. If the right reverend father was determined to make the lady Elizabeth ashamed of her incontinence, in truth he lighted upon a very adequate expe- dient, though not a very wise one; for as devotion and charity are observed to increase with increase of years, the bishop’s injunction tended to nothing but to lessen the benefactions of the offenders as they grew older, by the con- ditions to which he limited their largess. Qne can scarce reflect without a smile on the troops of beggars waiting every morning at Sir Eustace’s gate, till he and his lady arose, to know whether their wants were to be relieved. One must not word, but one cannot help imagin- ing the style of a modern footman, when ordered at breakfast by his master and lady, to go and = send away the beggars, for they were to have — nothing that morning. One might even sup- pose the good lady pouting a little, as she gave him the message. But were such a penance really enjoined now, what a fund of humour and wit would it open to people of fashion, in- vited to dine with two illustrious penitents— under this circumstance! As their wit is never indelicate; as the subject is inexhaustible; and — as the ideas on such an occasion must be a little corporeal, what bon mots, wrapped up indeed, but still intelligible enough, would attend the arrival of every new French dish, which Sir Eustace or my lady would be concluded to like, and would decline to taste !—But I fear I have transgressed the bounds of a letter. You, Mr. Fitz- Adam, who sway the censorial rod with the greatest lenity, and who would blush to put your fair penitents to the blush, might be safely trusted with the powers I recommend. Human weaknesses, and human follies, are very different: continue to attack the latter; continue to pity the former. An ancient lady might resist — wearing pink ; a matron who cannot resist the — powers of Sir Eustace Dawbridgecourt, is nota topic for satire, but compassion; as you, who are the best-natured writer of the age, will lam sure agree to think with, Sir, Your constant reader and humble servant, Tuomas Hearne, june No. 161.] No. 161.] THurspay, Jan. 29, 1756. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, By a very tender letter, in one of your papers, from an officer’s wife, we have seen the distress- es of a father and mother, and the misconduct of a daughter, whose meekness and gentleness of temper have drawn upon herself and family the utmost misery and distress. Give me leave to lay before you a character of another kind, the too great gentleness and weakness of a son. In the forty-second year of my age, I was left a widower, with an only son of seven years old, who was so exact a likeness of his mother, both ‘Im person and disposition, that from that cir- ‘cumstance alone I could never prevail upon my- self to marry again. The image of the excellent woman I had lost was perpetually before my eyes, and recalled to my memory the many endearing scenes of love and affection that had passed between us. I heard her voice, I saw her mien, and I beheld her smiles in my son. I resolved therefore to cultivate this tender plant with more than common care ; and I endeavour- ed to take such proper advantages of his puerile age and hopeful temper, as might engage him to me, not more from moral duty, than from real inclination and attachment. My point was, to make him my friend ; and I so far succeeded in that point, that till he was seventeen years old, he constantly chose my company preferable to any other. I should have told you, that I placed him early at a great school ; and to avoid the mischiefs that sometimes arise from boarding at a distance from parents, I took a house near the school, and kept him under my own eye, inviting constantly such of his school-fellows to amuse him, as were ‘pointed out to me by the master, or were chosen ‘by my own discernment, in consequence of my ‘son’s recommendation. All things went on in the most promising train; but still I saw in him a certain easiness of temper, and an excess of what is falsely called good-nature, but is real weakness, which I feared must prove of dreadful “sonsequence to him, whenever he should tread he stage of the great world. However, it now ‘Jrew time to advance him to the university: and he went thither, I can with truth say it, as ree from vice, and as full of virtue, as the ‘ondest parent could desire. What added farther io my hopes was, his strength of body, and the »atural abhorrence which he had to wine, even most to a degree of loathing. tpon his writing to me once a week; and I onstantly answered his letters in the style and nanner which I thought most conducible to the THE WORLD. When he was settled at college, I insisted | 279 |improvement of his knowledge, and the exten- sion and freedom of his thoughts. During some time our mutual correspondence was kept up with great punctuality and cheerfulness ; but in less than two months it drooped and grew languid on-his side; and the letters I received from him contained seldom more than three lines, telling me, “ that he was much engaged in his studies, and that the departing post-boy hindered him from adding more than that he was my dutiful son.”’ Not to trouble you with too many particulars, in six months after he had been at the university I made him a visit ; but I cannot find words to express the astonishment I felt, in discovering my gentle, easy, sweet-natured son, not only turned into a buck, but a politician. Never was any young man less fitted for either of those characters ; never any young man entered deeper into both. He was a buck without spirit or ill- nature, and a politician without the least know- ledge of our laws, history, or constitution. His only pretence to buckism was, his affected love of wine ; his only skill in politics was the art of jumbling a parcel of words together, and apply- ing them, as he imagined, very properly to the times. By this means he became distinguished among his associates as the jolliest, honestest toast-master in the university. But alas! this was a part assumed by my son, from a desire of pleasing, mixed with a dread of offending the persons into whose clubs and bumper-ceremonies he had unhappily enlisted himself. Poor miser- able youth! he was acting in opposition to his own nature, of which had he followed the dic- tates, he would neither have meddled with party politics nor wine; but would have fulfilled, or — at least have aimed at, that beautiful character of Pamphilus in Terence, so well delineated in the Bevil of Sir Richard Steele’s Conscious Lovers. To preserve his health, I withdrew him from the university as expeditiously and with as little noise as I could, and brought him home, per- fectly restored, as I vainly imagined, to himself. But I was mistaken. ‘The last person who was with him, always commanded him. The com- panions of his midnight hours obliterated his duty to his father, and, notwithstanding his | good sense, made him, like the beast in the fable, fancy himself a lion, because he had put on the lion’s skin. With the same disposition, had he _been a woman, he must have been a prostitute; not so much from evil desires, as from the im- possibility of denying a request. He worshipped vice, as the Indians do the devil, not from in- clination, but timidity. He bought intemper- ance at the price of his life; his health paid the interest-money during many months of a miser- able decay ; at length his death, little more than , two years ago, discharged the debt entirely, and left me with the sad consolation of having per- 280 formed my duty to him, from the time I lost his mother till the time he expired in my arms. T have borne my loss like a man; but I have often lamented the untowardness of my fate, which snatched from me an only child, whose disposition was most amiable, but whose virtues had not sufficient strength to support them- selves. He was too modest to be resolute; too sincere to be wary; too gentle to oppose ; too humble to keep up his dignity. This, perhaps, was the singular part of his character: but he had other faults in common with his contem- poraries ; he mistook prejudices for principles ; he thought the retraction of an error a deviation from honour; his aversions arose rather from names than persons; he called obstinacy steadi- ness; and he imagined, that no friendship ought ever to be broken, which had been begun, like the orgies of Bacchus, amidst the frantic revels of wine. Thus, Sir, I have set before you, I hope with- out any acrimony, the source and progress of my irreparable misfortune. It will be your part to warn the rising generation, in what manner to avoid the terrible rocks of mistaken honour and too pliant good-nature. In the last century, the false notions of hon- our destroyed your youth by fashionable duels ; and they were induced to murder each other by visionary crowns of applause. The false notions of honour, in the present age, destroy our youth by the force of bumpers, and the mad conse- quences arising from every kind of liquor that can intoxicate and overturn sense, reason, and reflection. Why are not healths to be eaten as well as drank? Why may not the spells and magic arising from mouthfuls of beef and mut- ton be as efficacious towards the accomplishment of our wishes as gallons of port, or overflowing bowls of punch ? Certainly they might. I hope, therefore, that by your public admonition, the young men of our days, who eat much less than they drink, may drink much less than they eat: and I must farther add, that as it may be dan- gerous to abolish customs so long established, I humbly advise that you permit them to eat as many healths as they please. I am, Sir, Your constant reader And most humble servant, L. M. SUVBVVS VCUTTTEVVTL STULL TUETUAVVBVSETTUCVLVETVE BUEBSEVD No. 162.] THurspay, Fes. 5, 1756. Ir has been my weekly endeavour, for some years, to entertain and instruct the public to the best of my abilities. That I am thought entertain- THE WORLD. [No. 162. ing is beyond dispute; for as no one peruses a_ | periodical paper for conscience’ sake, or by way of penance, it is evident, that, since I am read, I please. How far I may have attained the other pur- | pose of my papers, that of instructing, is another question, and which cannot easily be resolved. The pen of a writer, like the hand of time, works imperceptibly ; and perhaps the refor- mation which may be occasioned by these my labours, will not be completed in less than a century. ‘Thus much, however, I may venture to affirm, that I have done no harm. All my contemporaries may not, perhaps, be able to say as much for their writings. People of fashion have not more abounded in thoughtlessness and prodigality since the publication of the Wortp, Legal debts are no worse paid than they were formerly ; nor have the weekly bills of adultery considerably increased. ‘Though I may not have been able to hew off the marble, and bring out the man, I have spoilt the block; and some happier artist may yet exercise his chisel upon it. It has always been my particular endeavour to avoid blame; for to please every body is a vain attempt: and yet to meet with censure where applause was due, is affecting to a generous spirit : such has been my lot. Many of my read- ers will hardly believe me when I tell them, that I have been censured for not writing in 4 serious manner. The accusation is indeed severe; for it implies that I have mistaken the | genius of the people. Seriousness is not, I think, the present disposition of Britons, however they may have been celebrated for that quality in former times. Why then should I be serious, who write for the youthful, the well-dressed, — and for every body one knows? 'The very word seriousness is expelled from polite life ; itis never mentioned at all, but in some account of the author, or in funeral panegyrics; and even then it is only applied to writers of good books, or to ancient maiden gentlewomen. What then has poor Adam TFitz-Adam done, that he | should be obliged to turn parson, and write seriously ? | But there are certain seasons and occasions that call upon me for real seriousness ; occasions — where humour and ridicule would be ill-applied, _ and justly censurable. Such is the present; when on the morrow of this day a general humiliation is appointed, to deprecate the Diyine displeasure, and to implore deliverance from those dreadful devastations which have so lately alarmed or destroyed a neighbouring people, and _ laid their metropolis in ruins. For an occasion | so solemn, I have reserved a letter which 1 received some time since from a very valuable correspondent, and which I shall here lay before — my readers, as the properest preparation that I am able to present them with. “| No. 162.] TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I shall make no apology for addressing the publie; by the ehannel of your paper, on an oc- _eurrence that has so lately and justly alarmed case might have been our own. indeed wholly exempted from a share in the one. us; I mean the desolation of Lisbon and the adjacent country. The terror we express, on the bare hearing of that distant calamity, strong- ly implies the relation we bear as men to the unhappy sufferers ; and the pity and support we give them, show how readily we suppose the Nor are we event: we are not destroyed, but we are admo- nished. In this sense the shock was general , nd though the blow was partial, the warning is tniversal. Among the many hints of improvements sug- gested by so awful a devastation, the necessity of a general reformation seems a very obvious A small acquaintance with mankind will show us how vice and immorality prevail, under the specious names’ of custom and politeness ; while virtue, if not ridiculed, is too eften and generally neglected. Ivreligion and profaneness furnish constant matter of reproof for the pulpit ; and the enormities that attend them, employ- ment for the hand of justice. If then the Divine d‘spleasure is to be dreaded for the impieties of a nation, how small is our security ! We join in our concern for a people or city, Tuined by so fatal and sudden a stroke as an earthquake, and image to ourselves the horrors (of the scene; but how faintly! for who can fully describe a distress which guilt can only aggravate, and the testimony of a good conscience only alleviate ? The instability of all earthly good, is a truth 80 well known, both from precept and experience, | that it may be thought unnecessary to consider it here, as another lesson contained in so melan- ‘choly a providence: but to me there appears something more striking in the ruins of an earthquake, than the usual vicissitudes of life subject us to. Inthe ordinary changes of life, the loss of wealth, honour, and friends, is often gradual and expected ; and our resignation, in proportion, less painful: we are (if I may be allowed the expression) weaned from enjoyments we know are so precarious ; but to be robbed at once of all we have, and all we love, and perhaps survive, the sad spectators of our own ruin, is to be attacked when we are least on our guard, and to feel the evils of a whole life in a moment, If we look round us, we shall see what unwea- Tied application and’ prudent circumspection are necessary to obviate the misfortunes we daily encounter; but what application can befriend, ‘what circumspection warn, when rocks fail us, and seas overwhelm us? THE WORLD. 281 Another lesson we may learn from this cala- mity, is humility. What weak pretensions to | pre-eminence are riches, honour, and applause, when a moment can efface them ! Death, in his usual progress, shows us their insufficiency ; but by slower approaches. The trophy out-lives the hero, and the monument the patriot; wealth and titles descend to future generations ; and though the prince and the peasant meet the same fate, the eulogy of the one survives, and distin- guishes him from the other : but here all charac- ters are blended, distinctions lost, the rich levelled, and the ambitious humbled. Such a general confusion may well alarm us, and make us lock with indifference on the objects of our present envy: for what is treasure buta security against want? and what is important, that is not permanent ? But not to dwell any longer on particulars, which every one’s reflections will naturall y en- large on, we have here a faint picture of that awful day, “‘ when the elements shall melt with fervent heat, and the heavens shall pass away with a great noise.”” The’ reader will, I doubt not, be pleased with a description of this scene, as given us by a celebrated genius of the present age. , At the destined hour, By the loud trumpet summon’d to the charge, See all the formidable sons of fire, Eruptions, earthquakes, comets, lightnings play Their various engines ; all at once disgorge Their blazing magazines ; and take by storm This poor terrestrial citadel of man. Amazing period! when each mountain height Out-burns Vesuvius! rocks eternal-pour Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour’d 5 Stars rush, and final Ruin fiercely drives Her plough-share o’er creation, The recital of such sudden and universal de- solation fills us with terror, and we shudder at the prospect of a catastrophe, in which each of us shall be so immediately concerned. But our interest in it will appear in a stronger light, if we consider this change of things as the prelude of an unchangeable and eternal state of happi- ness or misery. Our best efforts here are mixed with many imperfections, and our best enjoy- ments liable to frequent disappointments; but when life’s drama is completed, the applause or censure of an unerring judge shall determine how far we have acted the different characters allotted us with propriety: the dissolution of earthly felicity shall be succeeded by the more substantial joys of heaven; and even those joys shall be heightened by their duration, Cc. B, THE No. 163.] Tuuxspay, brs. 12, 1756 282 Tuenre was an ancient sect of philosophers, the disciples of Pythagoras, who held, that the souls of men and all other animals existed in a state of perpetual transmigration, and that when by death they were dislodged from one corporeal habitation, they were immediately reinstated in another, happier or. more miserable, according to their behaviour in the former: so’ that when any person made his exit from the stage of this world, he was supposed only to retire behind the scenes to be new dressed, and to, have a new part assigned him, more or less agreeable, in proportion to the merit of his performance in the last. This doctrine of transmigration, I must own, was always a very favourite tenet of mine, and always appeared to me one of the most rational guesses of, the human mind into a future state. { shall here therefore endeavour to show. the great probability of its truth, from the following considerations: first, from its justice; secondly, from its utility ; and lastly, from the difficulties we lie under to account for the sufferings of many innocent creatures without it. First, then, the justice of this system exceeds that of all others; because, by it, the great law of retaliation may be more strictly adhered to; for, by means of this metamorphosis, men may suffer in one life the very same injuries which they have inflicted in another; and that too in the very same persons, by a change only in sit- uation. Thus, for instance, the cruel tyrant who in one life has sported with the miseries of his slaves, may in the next feel all the miseries of slavery under a master as unmerciful as him- self. The relentless and unjust judge may be imprisoned, condemned, and hanged in his turn. Divines may be compelled by fire and faggot to believe the creeds and articles they have composed for the edification of others ; and soldiers may be plundered and ravished in the persons of defenceless peasants and innocent virgins. ‘The lawyer reviving in the character of a client, may be tormented with delay, ex- pense, uncertainty, and disappointment; and the physician, who in one life has taken exhor- bitant fees, may be obliged to take physic in another. All those who under the honourable denomination of sportsmen, have entertained themselves with the miseries and destruction of innocent animals, may be terrified and murdered in the shape of hares, patridges, and woodcocks; and all those who under the more illustrious title of heroes, have delighted in the devastation of their own species, may be massacred by each other in the forms of invincible game-cocks, and pertinacious bull-dogs. As for statesmen, min- isters, and all great men devoted to great busi- WORLD. [ No. 163. ness, they, however guilty, cannot be more pro- perly, nor more severely punished, than by being obliged to reassume their former characters, and to live the very same lives over again. | In the next place, the utility of this system is equal to its justice, and happily coincides with it: for by means of this transmigration, all the necessary inconveniences, and all the burden- some offices of life, being imposed en those only who by their misbehaviour in a former state have deserved them, become at once just punish- ments to them, and at the same time benefits to society ; and so all those who have injured the public in one life by their vices, are obliged in another to make reparation by their sufferings. Thus the tyrant, who by his power has oppressed his country in the situation of a prince, in that of a slave may be compelled to do it some service by his labour. The highwayman who has stopped and plundered travellers, may expedite and assist them in the shape of a post-horse. The metaphorical buck, who has terrified sober citizens by his exploits, converted into a real one, may make them some compensation by his haunches; and mighty conquerors, who have laid waste the world by their swords, may be obliged, by a small alteration in sex and situa- tion, to contribute to’ its repeopling, by the qualms of breeding, and the pains of childbirth. For my own part, I verily believe this to be the case. I make no doubt but that Louis the fourteenth is now chained to an oar in the gal- leys of France, and that Hernando Cortez is digging gold in the mines of Peru or Mexico. That Turpin, the highwayman, is several times a day spurred backwards and forwards between London and Epping: and that lord*** and Sir Harry*** are now actually roasting for a city feast. I question not, but that Alexander the great, and Julius Cesar, have died many times in child-bed since their appearance in those illustrious and depopulating characters; that Charles the twelfth is at this instant a curate’s wife in some remote village, with a numerous and increased family; and that Kouli Khan is now whipped from parish to parish, in the per- son of a big-bellied beggar- woman, with two children in her arms, and three at her back. __ Lastly, the probability of this system appears from the difficulty of accounting for the suffer- ings of many innocent creatures without it; for if we look round us, we cannot but observe a great and wretched variety of this kind; num- berless animals subjected, by their own natures, to many miseries, and by our cruelties to many more: incapable of crimes, and consequently in- capable of deserving them; called into being, as far as we can discover, only to be miserable for the service or diversion of others less meritori- ous than themselves; without any possibility preventing, deserving, or receiving recompence for their unhappy lot, if their whole existence is No. 164.] comprehended in the narrow and wretched circle of their present life. But the theory here inculcated removes all these difficulties, and re- conciles these seemingly unjust dispensations with the strictest justice: it informs us, that these their sufferings may be by no means un- deserved, but the just punishments of their for- mer misbehaviour in a state, where, by means of their very vices, they may have escaped them. It teaches us that the pursued and persecuted fox was once probably some crafty and rapacious minister, who had purchased, by his ill-acquired wealth, that safety which he cannot now pro- cure by his flight: that the bull, baited with all the cruelties that human ingenuity or human malevolence can invent, was once some relent- less tyrant, who had inflicted all the tortures which he now endures: that the poor bird, blinded, imprisoned, and at last starved to death in a cage, may have been some unforgiving creditor: and the widowed turtle, pining away life for the loss of her mate, some fashionable wife, rejoicing at the death of her husband, which her own ill usage had occasioned. * Never can the delicious repast of roasted lob- sters excite my appetite, whilst the ideas of the tortures in which those innocent creatures have expired, present themselves to my imagination. But when I consider that they must have once probably been Spaniards at Mexico, or Dutchmen at Amboyna, I fall to, both with a good stomach and a good conscience, and please myself with the thoughts, that Iam thus offering up a sacri- fice acceptable to the manes of many millions of massacred Indians. Never can I repose myself with satisfaction in a post-chaise, whilst I look upon the starved, foundered, ulcerated, and ex- coriated animals, who draw it, as mere horses, condemned to such exquisite and unmerited tor- ments for my convenience; but when I reflect, that they once must undoubtedly have existed in the characters of turnkeys of Newgate, or fathers of the holy inquisition, I gallop on with as much ease as expedition; and am perfectly ‘satisfied, that in pursuing my journey, I am but the executioner of the strictest justice. I very well know that these sentiments will be treated as ludicrous by many of my readers, and looked upon only as the productions of an exuberant imagination ; but I know likewise, that this is owing to ill-grounded pride, and false notions of the dignity of human nature : for they are in themselves both just and serious, and carry with them the strongest probability of their truth : so strong is it, that I cannot but hope it will have some good effect on the conduct of those polite people, who are too sagacious, learned, and courageous to be kept in awe by the threats of hell and damnation: and I exhort every fine lady to consider, how wretched will be her condition, if, after twenty or thirty years spent at cards, in elegant rooms, kept warm by THE WORLD. Q g oA good fires and soft carpets, she should at-last be _ obliged to change places with one of her coach- horses ; and every fine gentleman to reflect, how much more wretched’ would be his, if, after wasting his estate, his health, and his life in extravagance, indolence, and luxury, he should again revive in the situation of one of his credi- tors. PVSVTCTAEVSUVUARRTRATVBVUBUAVITVVAUVSTVATVT SVAVVWTE BUVA VT No. 164.] Tuurspay, Fes. 19, 1756. I wave set apart this day’s paper for the mis- cellaneous productions of various correspond- ents. 3 TO MR. FITZ-ADAM, Sir, I am a citizen of no mean city ; however, in respect to the metropolis, we are deemed the country, and must therefore be prescribed to by London, from whence, as I am told, we receive all our fashions. But surely, Mr. Fitz-Adam, some things which I have seen of late are too absurd to have come from thence fer our imita- tion, and can only have been unhappy necessities in some person of vogue, which others have mis- taken for choice and fashion. A few days ago, I saw a young lady in our neighbourhood, who after some considerable ab- sence from home, returned with her hair all off, except as much as might grow in a fortnight after close shaving ; and that too standing thin and staring. lasked my wife when I came home, if she knew where Miss Giddycrown had been ; for that I was sadly afraid she had been con- fined in some mad-house ; for her head had been shaved and blistered, her hair was but just com- ing on to grow again, and she had, I observed, a particular shy and wild look. As this was the first instance of the kind ever seen here, my wife knew no more than myself what to make of it: she hoped, indeed, that it might possibly not be so bad; that it might only be some external dis- order of her head: or, had miss been married, she should have thought that her hair might possibly have fallen off in a lying-in. But alas, Sir! this disorder of the head ‘i proved vontagious ; and being given out as the fashion, is prodigiously spread. Now if this be only a hum (as I suppose it is) upon our country apes, it being blown in the Wor.p will put an |} end to it; but if it be a real fashion, pray be so good as to set the World against it. Iam sure I should be rejoiced to find any remedy in the World for this falling off of the hair; for indeed it is a very unseemly and frightful disorder. Il am, Sir, ’ Yours, T. L. 284 MR. FITZ-ADAM; - I am infested by a swarm of country cousins, that are come up to town for the winter, as they call it, a whole family of them. They ferret me out from every place I go to, and it is impos- sible to stand the ridicule of being seen in their company. At their first coming to town, I wasinaman- ner obliged to gallant them to the play; where having seated the mother with much ado, I of- fered my hand to the eldest of my five young cousins ; but as she was not dexterous enough to manage a great hoop with one hand only, she refused my offer, and at the first step fell all along. It was with great difficulty 1 got her up again; but, imagine, Sir, my situation: I sat like a mope all the night, not daring to look up, for fear of catching the eyes of my acquaintance, who would have laughed me out of counte- nance. You may imagine, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that I contrived all manner of means to get off from any future engagements with my cousins; but it has unfortunately so happened, that we have met almost every where, No longer ago than last night, as I was going into a rout, and moy- ing towards the lady of the house, to pay my devoirs to her, what should I hear but one of the hoydens, who had not seen me for two or three days, bawling out, “‘O law! there’s my cousin !”’ I advised the mother to take the young lady im- mediately back into the country; for that I feared the same violence of joy which discovered itself in her voice and looks at only seeing me as a relation, might carry her greater lengths where the affection was stronger. My acquaintance see how I am mortified at all public places, and it isa standing jest with them, wherever they meet me, to put on the ap- pearance of the profoundest respect, and to ask, “ Pray, Sir, how do your cousins do?” This leads me, Mr. Fitz-Adam, to propose something for the relief of all those whose coun- try cousins, like mine, expect they should intro- duce them into the world; by which means we shall avoid appearing in a very ridiculous light : for whoever sees the dancing bears, must include the man who shows them in the subject for laughter. I would, therefore, set up a person, who should be known by the name of Town- Usher. His business should be to attend closely all young ladies who never were in town before, to teach them to walk into the play-house with- out falling over the benches, to show them the tombs, and the lions, and the wax-work, and the giant, and instruct them how to wonder, and shut their mouths at the same time: for I really meet with so many gapers every day in the streets, that Iam continually yawning all the way I walk. I'shall only detain you to make one reflection upon these journeys to London. It appears very THE WORLD. , odd to me, that people should choose to leave (No. 164. their home for two or three months, to make themselves unhappy in it the rest of their lives. My good cousin, the mother, thinks she has acted right in showing her children the world: and fully conyinced that they have a thorough knowledge of it, carries them back into the country, where they despise those with whom they formerly lived in intimacy and friendship, because they have not seen London. Miss walks with less pleasure about the fields since her fall in the play-house, and her sisters are pouting all day long, because the country can afford them no such sights as they saw in town. I am, Sir, Your great admirer, A. W. Sir, I have the honour to be a member of a certain club in the city, where it is a standing order, «‘ ‘That the paper called the World be constantly brought upon the table, with clean glasses, pipes, and tobacco, every Thursday after dinner.” In consequence of this order, a letter, or rather a petition, from one of your correspondents, was lately read, praying that you would establish it as alaw, that healths should be eaten as well as drank. There appeared something so new and national in eating the prosperity of our king and country, that the whole club, with a vivacity unknown in that place before, rose up to applaud it, and after many wise and learned debates upon the subject agreed to the following orders and resolutions ; Ordered, That in this club, the word Toast in drinking be changed to Mouthful in eating ; and that every. member, after naming the Mowthfi he proposes, do fill his mouth as full as possible, in honour of the person or cause so named. Ordered, That the chairman be always Mouthful-Mas- ter. Ordered, That the Mouthful-Master do demand the Mouthfuls regularly from the members over the right thumb, and do cause them to be eaten regu- larly over his left. Resolved, That all the members of the club be obliged upon every club day to eat a large slice of roast beef, as a bumper health to old England. Resolved, That the city of London, and the trade thernote be eaten in turtle. Resolved, Always to eat prosperity to Ireland in boiled beef, and to North Britain in Scotch collops. Resolved, To eat the administrationin British herrings: Resolved, . No. 165.] THE WORLD. 285 To eat success to our fleet in pork and pease. | however willing, would not be able to add any Resolved, ! thing to it. Yet consult the authors who have As the greatest instance that this club can pos- | written since, and you will imagine that every sibly show of their respect and devotion, that the | former age was an age of virtue. healths of lady * * *, and the dutchess of * * *, be From all these passages, and many others, it is eaten by every member in mouthfuls of minced evident, that this complaint is by no means appli- chiken. cable to our times only. And really it is a Resolved, great breach of good-manners, that modern fine That Mr. Fitz- Adam, or any of his friends be | gentlemen cannot puta little rouge on their faces, permitted to eat the members of this club as often | but the saucy quill of some impertinent author as they please, provided that they do not know- immediately rubs it off: but neither is it their ingly and wittingly suffer any Frenchman what- | own invention, nor imported from France ; for soever to eat the said members dead or alive. Juvenal informs us, that the Roman beaux did Thus, Sir, you see that you are continually in | the same. our thoughts ; and therefore, as a member of a There is but one reason that I know of, whya society so warmly attached to you, you will be- | man may declaim with impunity against the lieve me, when I assure you that I am. degeneracy of the times ; it is because the reflec- Your most faithful tion is only general, and that he is as much the humble servant, object of his own satire as any other man. But EB. P. let a foreigner, in a company of Englishmen, presume to say, that they have degenerated from their forefathers, and not a Briton amongst them but willresent the indignity ; or let the reflection become more particular still, and one man lay an act of degeneracy to the charge of another, and the consequence is too obvious. To lament the loss of religion, and abuse its professors ; to censure the constitution of a state, and its constituents, are quite different things. And though a man may prefer the army with which Henry the fifth beat the French at Agin- court, to our present soldiery, yet examine them one by one, and there is scarce a sergeant in the service that does not think himself equal to the most valiant commander, from Alexander the great, king of Macedonia, down to brave old Hendrick, Sachem of the Mohawk Indians. So that, if considered separately, we are more wise, more valiant, and more religious than our ances- tors ; if collectively, we are a set of fools, cow- ards, and infidels. An ingenious correspondent of mine has carried his compliments on the present times farther than I have done. I shall conclude this paper with his letter and verses. PUHVBVRVUAVRTAAABVVVVVVVVATVABA WPRVWT SPVVUVIWAVVFRVWAVNA No. 165.] Tuurspay, Fes. 26, 1756. Ture are few things by which a man discovers the weakness of his judgment more, than by re- tailing scraps of common-place sentiment on that trite and thread-bare topic, the degeneracy of the times. We are told very seriously in almost every company, that the courage we received from our ancestors is evaporated ; that our trade is ruined ; that religion is but a badge to distin- guish parties ; and that the muses, kicked out of doors, have carried off with them truth, honour, justice, and all the moral virtues. But to our comfort, this reflection is not con- fined to the present age ; it extends itself equally to all. A touch on the times is a piece of satire, that almost runs parallel with the foundation of 2very state. low many authors do we hear be- wailing the degeneracy of their contemporaries, and prognosticating the farther corruption of their posterity! Our very stature is diminished. Even in Homer’s time, men were strangely de- eased in their size since the Trojan war. Virgil says, that Turnus threw a stone at Aineas, which a dozen Romans could not have ifted ; so that had men decreased since the days f Virgil, in the same proportion, we should ong before now have dwindled into a race of itoms. _ Livy, who flourished in the golden age of Au- ustus, tells us, that above three hundred years ‘efore, a spirit of equity and moderation ani- aated the whole body of the people, which was ‘ot to be found then in one individual. Cicero 3 for ever declaiming against the degeneracy of is own times; and Juvenal says, that in his, ice was arrived to such a height, that posterity, Sir, A conquest over the affections and passions has been the highest boast of the philosophers of every age; and in proportion as_they have attained this victory, future writers have cele- brated their characters as the most exalted pat- terns of wisdom and prudence. But though a veneration for the rust of antiquity, or a fond- ness for every thing which happened before the memory of our grandfathers, may lead some to celebrate former ages, yet we may boast it among the felicities of the times in which we live, that the most important concerns of life are entered into only under the directions of reason and philosophy. To instance only in one particular; marriage is the effect of mere 286 prudence and forecast, without any mixture of that ridiculous passion, which has now no being but in play-books and romances. In former ages, love was supposed to keep the door of Hymen’s temple; but now, as the knowledge of the world may have been some- what expensive in acquiring, and as our modern philosophers haye spent that fortune on their youth, which it had been ridiculous to have re- served for the debility of old age, just before the last spark of vigour is extinguished, some rich heiress is won, who conduces both to the per- petuating a name, and to the providing a for- tune for that posterity, which is to continue the family honours. Happy expedient! by which the weight of numerous younger children, the almost constant burden of former times, is most judiciously avoided. That I may present your readers with a strik- ing contrast between the follies of our ancestors, and the solid prudence of the present generation, I shall here subjoin a couple of short odes, which are written in the character of an old Englishman, and a modern one, on the day be- fore their marriage. THE OLD ENGLISHMAN. I. Tl tell you why I love my love ; Because her thousand graces prove Her worth is very high: She’s very fair, and very good, And not unwilling to be wood By one so plain as I. II. Wherever muse has fired the strain, Ou British or on Tuscan plain, Delighted has she roved ; Has glow’d with all the generous rage That animates the storied page, By British bosoms loved. Ill. Oft has she sought, with careful feet, Ihe hallow’d hermit’s calm retreat, And traced with thought profound Each precept of the wise and good ; That every wish has she subdued To wisdom’s narrow bound. IV. Has learn’d the flattering paths to shun, Where folly’s fickle votaries run, Deceived by fortune’s glare ; Has learn’d that food, and clothes, and fire, Are only nature’s plain desire, Nor forms for more her prayer. THE WORLD. [No. 165. We = Content with these, my Geraldine Has promised to be ever mine, For well she knows my heart ; She knows it honest and sincere, And much too open to appear — Beneath the veil of art. | VI. She knows it pants for her alone, That not the splendour of a throne From her my steps could lure ; To-morrow gives to these fond arms My Geraldine in all her charms, And makes my bliss secure. THE MODERN ENGLISHMAN. I. No, no; by all the powers above, My heart’s as little touch’d by love As ever in my life. Full well, dear Hal, to thee is known Whom fortune to my let has thrown, To be my wedded wife. Il. But why I wed? should any ask, To answer is an easy task, Want, want! my honest Harry: What can a man, whose fortune’s speuit, Who’s mortgaged to his utmost rent, But drown, or shoot, or marry ? Ill. Of these the best is sure the bride ; For when once plunged beneath the tide, Adieu to all our figure. Full sudden is the pistol’s fate ; When once ’tis touch’d, alas! too late We wish undrawn the trigger. IVs 5: Tis thus resolved then, honest boy, To-morrow thou may’st wish me joy, ; Joy will I buy by wiving : A Soon to her mansion, far from town, Six rapid Bays shall whirl us down, As if the devil were driving. Vv. There shall the brisk capacious bowl Drown every care that haunts the soul, And rouse me to new life : And, Hal, for all that she can say, Some blooming village queen of May Shall—wait upon my wife. — VI. When all the tedious farce is o’er, i And spouse has crown’d me with her dower, _ ~ Should sudden ruin meet her, : No. 166.] Even though her coachman broke her neck, Unmoved I'd stand amidst the wreck, Nor swear at heedless Peter. SPABVTUAT VT SPRVVSVSV Fe DBVVAATAUVVWST BRDU CAVA VPVUAVA VAT se7eee No. 166.] Txurspay, Marcu 4, 1756 Falsus honor juvat, et mendax infamia terret, Quem, nisi mendosum, et medicandum 2 Hor. False praise can charm, unreal shame control— Whom, but a vicious or a sickly soul ? FRANCIS. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. 4 Sik, Amone all the prostitutions of language, so justly observed by many celebrated writers, I know of none more to be lamented, than those which rob virtue of her true title, and usurp her name and character. _ It may be observed, that in all countries, and states, the farther they have gone from their original purity and simplicity, the greater have their advances been in this respect. The Ro- mans, whose poverty only kept them within the bounds of virtue, when they had quitted their humble stations for scenes of ambition and glery, not only changed their manners, but lost the sense of those words which were in high estimation with their ancestors. The words frugal, temperate, and modest, were no longer held in any degree of reverence, when riches, and a licentious enjoyment of them, were the only things in vogue. We have gone beyond them in this respect, ‘and quite reversed the meaning of words. _Knave and villain, formerly the denominations of laudable industry, are now the marks of the greatest reproach. Our manners have adulte- rated our words; and for fear they should re- proach us with our conduct, we disfranchise and condemn them to infamy, that their testi- mony may be invalid, and their evidence of no credit. iz There are many instances in modern times, where a false and blind zeal has heightened the signification of words of very little meaning, to an unaccountable degree of veneration; as, on the contrary, a loose and libertine way of think- ing has debased and sullied those of the highest dignity. I am not a little pleased with a saying of ting Theodorick, who being advised by his ourtiers to debase the coin, declared, ‘ That wothing which bore his image should ever lie.” Are we not all accessary to the propagation of alsehood, when we suffer any thing that carries THE WORLD. 287 the image and representation of our minds, to be guilty of an untruth, and when we enter inte a combination te support words in a signi- fication foreign to their meaning, and quite dif- ferent from the ideas those sounds ought to form in our minds? Custom is the tyrant of the language; it can alter, adjust, and new-model, but it cannot annihilate. It can settle new phrases, intro- duce a whole colony of fashionable nonsense from foreign parts, and render old words obso- lete; but it cannot erase idea from language. It can do more than an absolute prince ; because if can create new words; a privilege which was not allowed to the Roman emperor ‘Tiberius, who haying coined a word in the senate, his flatterers desired it might be adopted into their language, as a compliment to the emperor ; but an old senator, not quite degenerated from the honest sincerity of his ancestors, made this memorable reply, “ You may give, Sir, the freedom of the city to men but not to words.” There is no word of greater import and dig- nity than Honour. It is virtue adorned with every decoration that can make it amiable and useful in society. It is the true foundation of mutual faith and credit, and the real intercourse by which the business of life is transacted with safety and pleasure. It is of universal extent, and can be confined to no particular station of life, because it is every man’s security, and every man’s interest. But to its great misfor- tune its own virtues have undone it. Its excel- lent character has of late years recommended it so much to the patronage of the great, that they have entirely appropriated it to their own use and communicated to it a part of their own privileges, that of being accessible only toa few. It now no longer retains its former good quali- ties; its real dignity is lost, and it is become rather the ornament, than the foundation of a character: it is a kind of polish, that implies a finished character, and too often conceals a very imperfect one. Thus has honour got an imaginary title, in- stead of a real one. It has lost by its acquisi- tions ; and by being the particular idol of a few, is no longer of use to the many. Its new-ac- quired trophies are the spoils of its former great- ness; and the remembrance of what it was, serves only to heighten the melancholy idea of what it now is. It formerly constantly attend- ed merit, as a friend and. guardian; it now accompanies greatness as a flatterer and para- site. It isa compliment to the taste of the present age to allege, that honour is its darling attribute. It is in itself a composition of every thing that is valuable and worthy of commendation; and even in its degenerate state, it is, in a degree, the picture of virtue: it is finely drawn, but the lines are not just, and the colours too glaring 288 The endeavours of the artists to set it off to ad- vantage, have made it more like a piece of gaudy pageantry, than a true copy of nature. To justify the truth of what I assert, I appeal to you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, and beg leave to ask you, what are your ideas of a man, when you hear him particularly recommended as a man of honour? Are your notions at all enlarged, in respect to his moral character? Would you give him the preference in your vote, as a representa- tive in parliament? Or should you conceive him to have a more than ordinary zeal for the true religion of his country ? Would you trust him the sooner were you a tradesman? Or could you with more safety admit him into your family, to an intimacy with your wife and daughters? You would undoubtedly rather game with him, because he will not cheat; and you would be sure to receive your money, if you gained any advantage, however his more just creditors might suffer. You would certainly show him more respect, because you dare not affront him; honour being a thing of so very delicate a nature, that the least indignity endan- gers its destruction : having lost its true essence, it can only be supported by the courage and zeal of those, who will not suffer its title to be disputed. What is become of poor Honesty? Is she con- fined to the habitations of Mark and Mincing- lane? Dare she not apppear in the polite world? I make no doubt she is as frequent in her visits there, as in any place ; but for want of a proper dress, she is obliged to be incog. She is not a little afraid of the pert raillery of Honour, whom she would be sure to meet in her travels to those parts of the town; and as the latter isa bur- lesque on her character, she chooses always to avoid her. Her name seems to be quite banished to the unbred world, and is so much out of vogue at present, that an honest man as certainly means a tradesman, as a man of honour does a gentle- man. The word is fairly worn out: it bas been so long in mercantile hands, that it is no longer fit for gentlemen. They have laid it aside by uni- yersa] consent, and bestowed it, with their old clothes, on their servants and dependants. The ladies, who form the most considerable part of the fashionable world, have a peculiar sort of honour of their own. They entrench not upon that already appropriated to the other sex, but take it where the men leave it. Con- scious of their own frailties and infirmities, they are not ashamed to invoke its aid and assistance, to guard them in a part where they are most lia- ble to surprise. No other branch of their conduct comes within the jurisdiction of honour; for honour, at present, is no more than what the world expects from you ; they are at free liberty THE WORLD. [ No. 166. in every other article; and, like our original — parents, have but one thing prohibited. The different value and credit of particular virtues, at several periods of time, would form a very entertaining and useful history; and by looking back into former times, and observing the different faces and changes that virtue has appeared in, we might reduce it to a degree of calculation, and forma tolerable conjecture when any particular species of it would again come into fashion. The present rage for liberty will not easily admit of many articles of belief; they are a degree of servitude of the mind, which we disdain: but as it is very proper to observe some appearance of religion, we voluntarily give up the freedom of the body, to preserve that of the mind: and admit of some regulations and re- strictions, which custom has established as in- dispensably necessary to maintain the connec- tions of social life. ’ But the body is full as rebellious as the mind, and has as strong an aversion to restraint ; for which reason it has been found expedient to grant some degree of indulgence, to moderate be- tween pleasure and strict virtue, and to make a compromise between the severer duties, and most prevailing passions. To form this alliance, and strengthen it by the firmest tie, the word honour was introduced, a word very much the favourite of virtue, and so enchanting in its sound, that vice could make no objection. She consented; but on these con- ditions; that she should have a due proportion of advantage: and if it was allowed to heighten many virtues, it should likewise be permitted to cover almost an equal degree of vice. Thus it is made to serve both as a cordial and palliative ; it exalts the character of virtue, and takes off from the deformity of vice. But the mixture is so unnatural, that the poison gets the better of the medicine; and if some strong antidote is not speedily applied, all the humours will be vitiated, and the whole mass corrupted. — No person who is any ways conversant in an- tiquity can be ignorant of the allegorical situa- tion of the temples of Virtur and Honour at Rome. They were so placed, that there was no entrance into the latter but through the former ; which has given rise to a very beautiful thought in Cicero’s first oration against Verres. Both these temples were built by Marcellus, whose original design was to have placed the two god- desses in one temple: but the priests, who are always for extending the plan of ceremonial religion, would not permit it; which obliged him to alter his first intention. But he pursued the meaning of it, by building two temples contiguous to each other, and in such a situation, that the only avenue to the temple of Honour should be through the temple of Virtus ; leay- ing by this emblem a very elegant and useful No. 167.] lesson to posterity, that virtue is the only direct | all activity. road to Honour. It is impossible to have too great a regard and esteem for a man of strict HoNoUR ; but then let him prove his right to this title, by the whole tenor of his actions. Let him not hold some doctrines in high estimation, and reject others of equal importance: let him neither attempt to derive his character, or form his conduct from fashion or the opinion of others: let a true moral rectitude be the uniform rule of his ac- tions ; and a just praise and approbation will be their due reward. SPSBVUBVVVVTVUTTSTSERVLSBTTVAT VEST SEVCATBIVITTSEBVEVTUsseowsr No. 167.] Tuurspay, Marcu 11, 1756. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Tur want of happiness has been the perpetual complaint of all ranks and conditions of men, from the beginning of the world to the present. times: and at the rate they still go on in, it is absolutely impossible that the complaint should cease. Happiness is a fruit always within their reach, but they will not give themselves the trouble to gather it. It is hourly at their doors as a friend, but they will not let it in. It soli- cits them in every shape, yet they reject its offers. Ignorance and indolence are its constant enemies. Most people have parts and application suffi- cient to learn the easy rules of Whist, Cribbage, and Chess; and as soon as they are informed (what they little suspect, and will be delighted to hear) that Happiness is a Game, and a much greater and deeper one than even Pharo or Hazard, I make no doubt that men, women, and children will immediately set themselves to learn the rules and finesses of this important Pray. When they are satisfied it is a game that will be universally used in all companies in town and country, what mortal will be so stupid as not to learn it in some degree of perfection? for who, without the greatest gratitude, can reflect upon the benovolence of nature, that has introduced felicity into the world, in the welcome and ever fashionable guise of deep play, and high ‘gaming. This divine attainment could not have been annexed to books and learning ; head-achs, per- petual reasonings, and fierce disputations, would have embarrassed every step; neither could it ‘have been coupled to riches, which are ever -attended with care and anxiety. If poverty and contentment had been the vehicles appropriated to convey it, a sickly calm would have stagnated THE WORLD. 289 Had it been given to political pursuits, how could it have been reconciled to the desultory sentiments of majorities and min- orities ? Therefore bountiful nature has annexed it to Carps, and seasoned it: to the palates of mankind, by the spirit of gaming, which she has almost equally infused into all her rational children. Now, as I have always professed myself a great friend and admirer of Puiay, I. shall en- deavour to lay down a few of the most certain rules, by which all persons may be instructed in the art of playing at this RoyaL GAME OF HAP- piness. And I am the more willing to promote the knowledge of this game, as it depends rather upon skill and address, than chance and fortune. It is not played with ever-dangerous dice, like Back-gammon or Trick-track: nor like Bragg, by audacity of countenance, and polite cozenage : and though, like Picquet, there is much putting out and taking in, yet every card is playable. I am elated with pleasure, when I consider that I am going to teach miserable mortals this great Game: which, without vanity I may say, is making them a present of more than a sixth sense, and enabling them to exercise their five primary ones in the most delightful manner. I need not here expatiate upon the pleasures of Pray, the first pastime of infancy, and the ulti- mate amusement of decrepid age; the faculty which most distinguishes the rational from the brute creation ; that levels the lacquey with the prince, and the humble cinderwench with the stately dutchess ; the cement of all true seciety, which, by discarding volumes of words confines all wit, sense, and language within the limits of half a score short and. significant sentences. How admirable is the sagacity of the adepts! or, in ether words, the people of fashion! who are perpetually taking into their hands, and dealing about most liberally, ail that is desi- rable in the world! For though the unedu- cated class of mortals may think a club is but a club, and a. spade, a spade, these exalted and il- lumined characters thoroughly comprehend, that clubs denote power, diamonds riches, spades industry, and hearts popularity and affections of every sort. From this consideration, I never enter a great apartment without being struck with solemnity and awe. I look upon the dif- ferent contenders at each table, as so many mighty giants, tossing about with stupendous strength these glorious, symbols of every thing valuable in the creation. What giggling miss shall hereafter presume to disturb these rites with more than female levity ? What puny senator shall dare here to recollect the little politics of either house, the partial interests of insignificant islands and na- tions, whose comparative greatness is lost in such a scene; where every motion decides, the fates of kings and queens, and every ordinary Pp 290 trick includes as much wisdom and address as would set up a moderate politician, statesman, or minister? I consider these assemblies as the great academies of education, and observe with pleasure, that all parents, guardians, and hus- bands, are bringing their families to town for at least six months in the year, to take the ad- vantage of these noble schools and well institut- ed seminaries. What ideas must we form of the hospitable inhabitants of a great capital, where the houses and heads of the most respectable families are night after night devoted to public benefit and instruction! How much supericr are these to the porticoes, gardens, and philosophic schools, that rendered the names of Athens and Rome so greatly celebrated! Here our daughters are capacitated to marry the first prince that may happen to ask them, instead of falling the un- happy victims of the narrow domestic views of: some neighbouring country gentleman. And here the rmaarried ladies are taught to pass the winter evenings without a yawn, even in the absence of their husbands. Here they collect that treasure of masculine knowledge, those elegant ideas and reflections, that wonderfully alleviate the solitude of the old family mansion, where, amidst the cawing of rooks, the mur- muring of streams, and fragrant walks of flow- ering shrubs, they wait the return of winter with a philosophic composure. But I am wandering from my purpose, and expatiating upon general Play, when I intend- ed only to teach my new and great Game of Happiness, which will render the whole uni- verse like one grand assembly or rout. Know then, ye hence happy mortals! that the game called Happiness is played with paclis of cards, each pack consisting of three hundred and sixty-five different cards; the backs of which, instead of being white, are of a dusky sooty colour. Every seventh card is equivalent ‘to a court card, of which there are fifty-two in each pack; and upon playing properly these court cards, the fortunate event of the game is thought greatly to depend. It is played from one to any number of play- ers. The game of one is the least entertaining : the game of two is much applauded by lookers on: but, as a greater number must naturally give more variety to the game, a party of ten or a dozen is the most desirable set, though the players may be subject to many revokes. Great lovers of the game are indeed fond of sitting down to a crowded table; but it is generally observed, that an inattentive and slovenly man-~ ner of playing is too often the consequence. One pack of cards will last a considerable time, as may be conjectured from their sooty backs ; inasmuch as the greatest players are seldom known to pay for more than three score and ten packs during the whole course of their lives. THE WORLD. { No: 168. They that have the most tricks win the larg- est division of the stake; but every player gets — something, besides the great pleasure of playing, which is thought to be superlative. This great Game partakes of the excellences of all other games. You are often piqued and repiqued, as at Picquet. You are sometimes beasted, as at Quadrille; often checked, as at Chess; put back, as at the game of Goose; and subject to nicks, after the manner of Hazard. It differs in one particular from all other games, viz. that the sharper is always sure to be over- matched by the fair player. It would fill a large volume, Mr. Fitz- Adam, to recount all the varieties of this truly Royal Game; and already I am afraid of having transgressed the bounds of your paper; I shall therefore defer the rules I promised at the be- ginning of this letter to another opportunity, at which time [ shall take-care to make the mean- est of your readers an adept at happiness. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, . L. T. DUCTBA WCE VVCVVVVVTVSTT VAST SULTALBVVTTEA TST SVTLUVWA VIVA 4445 No. 168.] THurspay, Marcu 18, 1756. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. | Sir; Every disquisition that tends to remove the prejudices, and enlighten the understandings of mankind, though it may chance to come from an obscure hand, will not be without its ad- mirers and advocates in this learned and truly philosophical age. ‘It is needless then to make any apology for desiring you to print this. I set out in life with a good share of medical skill, botany, chemistry, anatomy, and medical philosophy; in the last of which especially I excelled; seldom failing to investigate the effi- cient cause of any phenomenon ; and being’sen- sible of my own superior abilities, I never was so mean-spirited as to give up a disputed point. But from two or three failures in practice, when the medicines had not the effect I intend- ed, and indeed once when they had, in relieving a nymph at six months’ end from a disorder which would have lasted nine, my business and my fees began to fall short. I must confess myself shocked to find merit so disregarded, and determined to search out what faculty there might be in the mind of man, that could induce him to treat with contempt and ingratitude any person who professed a de- sign of serving him. This led me into moral inquiries, in which I soon made sufficient pro- gress: and being persuaded that it was incum- bent upon every rational member of society to bo. 168. | communicate happiness, as far as his influence may extend, I kept not the result of my inquiries secret, but formed a club of the thinking part of my acquaintance, to whom, with the greatest freedom, I imparted my speculations; and, in spite of prejudice, inculcated many important truths. These I once thought of making more public from the press; but there is no necessity for it, seeing the noble and better sort of philo- sophers are confessedly of my opinion, and dis- card, with one voice, all that metaphysical jar- gon which would persuade us to believe the im- materiality of the soul and a future state. Our sentiments are calculated universally to promote human felicity, as they free the mind from any terrors and disagreeable apprehensions. It cer- tainly then becomes the duty of every one who ‘would be deemed benevolent, to propagate, as far as possible, principles of such manifest utility. But we must expect opposition to this salutary design, from those who make a gain of the prejudices of the world. They will never be so disinterested as easily to forego the great emoluments arising thence. And perhaps some thinking men (since moral virtues are indis- pensably necessary to the well-being of the com- munity) may judge it not quite so proper to loose the vulgar at once from all ties, except such as arise from the inherent rectitude or depravity of actions. IT have a scheme to obviate this, to which no rational objection can be made... I acknowledge myself indebted to an ingenious Spanish author for the first hint; but as he did not pursue his reasoning so far, either for want of abilities, or through fear of the Inquisition, I may justly assume to myself the merit of the invention. This author tells us, ‘‘ Physicians, seeing the great power the temperament of the brain hath in making a man wise and prudent, have in- vented a certain medicine, eomposed in such a manner, and replete with such qualities, that ‘being taken in proper doses, it renders a man capable of reasoning better than he could before. They call it the confection of wisdom.” Now, if there is a medical composition known (as from this authority we have sufficient reason to be- lieve,) that will improve the rational faculties and illumine the understanding, we may with equal truth assert, there are to be found medi- cines which will curb the passions, those great obstacles to moral virtue, and make men live according to the fitness of things. The thinking part of man being allowed to be a modification of matter, it must be supposed to be a part of the body: at least, it is so strictly united and adherent to it, that in all things it suffers with, and cannot by any arguments of reason be proved capable of existing without it. Hence it will indisputably follow, that all the “powers of the mind, even the moral faculties, are inseparably eonnected with the temperament oe THE WORLD 291 and habit of that body of which she is part. In- somuch, that prudence (the foundation of all morality) as well as justice, fortitude, and tem- perance (the other cardinal virtues,) and. their opposites, entirely depend upon the constitution. It will therefore become the province of the physician to extirpate the vicious habits of man- kind, and introduce the contrary ; to suppress luxury, and create chastity ; to make the foolish prudent, and proud humble; the. avaricious liberal, and the coward valiant. And all this is easy to be done, by the assistance of alterative medicines, and by a properly adapted regimen, that shall be perfective of each virtue, and re- pugnant to each vice. In confirmation of my sentiments, I could quote the fathers of physic, Hippocrates and Galen, as well as Plato and Aristvile, the chief of philosophers. But an example ‘will be of more real authority than-a multiplication of quotations. Man will be impelled to act by those appetites, good or bad, which arise from the habit of his constitution ; the physician then who can alter his constitution, may make the vicious become virtuous. And moral philoso- phers greatly err, when they do not avail them- selves of the science of medicine, which only by changing the temperament of the body, will force the mind to relish virtue, and distaste vice. Ifa moralist undertakes to reform a luxurious person, who gives himself up to high living and lascivious indulgences, by treating him ac- cording to the rules of his art, what means would he use to instil the principles of temperance and chastity, that they -should take such deep root in the mind, as con- stantly and uniformly to influence bis conduct? He will set out by showing him the deformity of intemperance and debauchery, and enumer- ating all that train of evils which proceed from such courses: and if the patient has not entire- ly got over the prejudices of a superstitious education, he will endeavour to affright him by a terrible detail of those inexpressible miseries his soul is in danger of suffering hereafter, if death should surprise him without giving him time to repent and forsake his debaucheries. After this, he will advise him to fast and pray, sleep little, and avoid the company of women ; and perhaps to wear hair-cloth, to macerate his body by rigorous austerities, and keep it under by bloody discipline. These methods, if he continues long to practice them, will render him pallid and feeble, and so far different from what he was, that instead of running after we- men, and placing his swmmum bonum in good eating and drinking, he will scarce bear to hear a female mentioned, and nauseate the very thoughts of a sumptuous entertainment. The moralist, seeing the man so changed, will be apt to impute the whole to his art, and suppose the habits of temperance and chastity come from 1 292 know not whence, and are the effect of his ra- tiocination. The physician knows the con- trary, and is fully sensible they proceed from the Janguid and debilitated state of the body ; for if this be restored to its pristine vigour, the patient will secon return to his old practices of excess and riot. Daily experience must con- vince us of this. What we have proved of lux- ury and chastity, will in the same manner hold good with regard to all other vices and virtues ; because each has its proper temperament of body peculiarly adapted to it. Bleeding, then, and blistering, cupping and purging, may be usefully administered in mental as well as cor-, poral disorders. A brisk salivation may cure the mind and body both of a venereal taint ; and a strong emetic may havea more salutifer- ous effect than barely eleansing the stomach of an epicure. I could add many more instances, but have already said enough to evince the rationality and practicability of my scheme; and being determined not to lose the honour of my inven- tions, I do not care to discover too much, lest some paltry plagiary should, with some little variation, obtrude them upon the world as his own. I have with great labour and thought reduced the whole to a complete system, and am compiling a didactic treatise of all the vices incident to human nature, and their different degrees, with the symptoms, prognostic and diagnostic, the curatory indications, and a pro- per dietetic regimen to be observed in all cases. The whole will be comprised in ten volumes folio: and when the work is quite ready for the press, I may, perhaps, venture to publish pro- posals more at Jarge, with a specimen annexed. But as your paper is generally well received by good company, J thought this would be no im- proper method of communicating the first hint of my design, that | may judge from what the intelligent say of this, how they will relish the larger work of, Sir, Your humble servant, ACADEMICUS. FON EE ee No. 169.] Tuurspay, Marcu 25, 1756. Tse following letters have lain by me some time. The writers of them will, I hope, excuse me for the delay, and for the few alterations which I judged it necessary to make in them. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. SIR, In alate paper you have declared absolutely against total nakedness in our sex, and by others you have given us to understand that we are THE WORLD. [No. 169. very impolitic in our late near approaches to it: for that while we are leaving little or nothing for imagination to exercise itself upon, or for curiosity to desire, we are certainly losing our hold upon the men. But I cannot say, that since I have undressed myself to the utmost extent of the fashion, I have fewer admirers than when I appeared like a modest woman; though, to confess the truth, I have had but one since, that has not plainly discovered a thorough aversion to marriage; and him’ I imprudently lost, by granting to his importunity the full display of my whole person: indeed, the argu- ment he used was so extremely reasonable, that I knew not how to object to it; and whilst he pleaded with the utmost tenderness, that what he requested as a tribute to love, was but a very little more than what I daily lavished indiscrimi- nately on every eye, I had not the confideace to deny him. Now, Mr. Fitz-Adam, as I think it not im- probable, by the advances the ladies have made this winter towards complete nakedness, that as the summer comes on they will incline to throw off all covering whatsoever, I have thought prot per to set before them the untoward effect which I have experienced from leaving nothing to dis- cover. I can assure them, as an important truth, that if they have a desire to retain even any admirers, they must stop where they are, and uncover no farther; or if they aim at get- ting husbands, they will do wisely to conceal, and reserve among the acquisitions to be obtain- ed only by marriage, a great deal of which they now show, to no other purpose than the defeat- ing their own schemes, Give me leave, Sir, to conclude this letter with a short transcript from an author, who, I believe, is not unknown to you, and who has taken some pains to instruct the ladies in this particular point. THE maid, who modestly conceals Her beauties; whilst she hides reveals. Give but a glimpse, and Fancy draws Whate’er the Grecian Venus was, From Eve’s first fig-leaf to brocade, All dress was meant for Fancy’s aid, Which evermore delighted dwells On what the bashful nymph conceals, When Celia struts in man’s attire, She shows too much to raise desire ; But from the hoop’s bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound. I am, Sir, Your most obedient servant, S. B. MR. FITZ*ADAM, In this free and communicative age, in which business of almost all kinds is transacted by ad+ vertisements, it is not uncommon to see wives No. 169.] ind milch-asses, stolen horses, and strayed hearts, promisecuously advertised in one and the same paper. It isa curious, and frequently an entertaining medley: but amidst all the re- markable advertisements I have lately seen, I think the following by far the most curious ; and for that reason, I desire it may be made ‘still more public than it is already, by appearing in the Wortr. . j « WANTED, { «¢ A Curate at Beccles, in Suffolk. Enquire farther of Mr. Strutt, Cambridge and Yar- mouth carrier, who inns at the Crown, the sorner of Jesus- Lane, Cambridge. _ “ N. B. To be spoke with from Friday noon to Saturday morning nine o’clock.”’ ~ _ I have transcribed this from a news- paper, “Mr. Fitz-Adam, verbatim et literatim, and must confess I look upon it as a curiosity. It would certainly be entertaining to hear the con- -versation between Mr. Strutt, Cambridge and Yarmouth carrier, and the curate who offers himself. Questionless Mr. Strutt has his orders to inquire into the young candidate’s qualifica- jons, and to make his report to the advertising vector, before he agrees upon terms with him. But what principally deserves our observation 8, the propriety of referring us to a person who THE WORLD. 293 “ WANTED, << A curate at ** *. He must be one that can play at Back-gammon, and will be willing to receive five-and-twenty pounds a-year for doing the whole duty of a parish, while his rector re- ceives two hundred for doing none of it. He must keep what company, and preach what doctrine his rector pleases, &c. &c. &c. Whoever | will comply with these reasonable terms, may apply to * * *, innkeeper at * * *, for full infor- mation. «JT am, Sir, “ Yours, eae Fe MR. FITZ-ADAM, It is with pleasure that I see you less addicted to dreaming than most of your predecessors ; to say the truth, I have seldom found you inclined to nod; though without any disparagement to you, your betters and elders have sometimes slept in a much shorter work. His squalid aif and galling chains ; And trembling, or her bended knee, — His hoary head her hand sustains ; z and” eee feature prove, How soft her ‘breast, how great her filial love. Lo! there the wild Assyrian Queen,} With threatening brow, and frantic mien. Revenge! revenge! the marble cries, - While fury sparkles in her eyes. ° Thus was her awful form beheld, © - ‘When Babylon’s proud sons rebell’d ; ’ She left the woman’s vainer care, . i. And flew with loose dishevell’d hair : She stretch’d her hand, imbrued in blood, While pale Sedition trembling stood; in sudden silence, the mad crowd obey’ d_ Her awful voice, and Stygian discord fled ! With hope, or fear, or love by turns, - The marble leaps, of shrinks, or burns, As Sculpture waves her hand : The varying passions of the mind, Her faithful handmaids are assign’d, And rise or fall by her command. When now life’s wasted lamps expire, When sinks to dust this mortal frame, She, like Prometheus, grasps the fire ; Her touch revives the lambent flame ; While Pheenix-like, the i nest b: ae or sage, Spring fresh to life, and Lepane throughvevery age. ; Hence, where the organ full and clear, With loud hosannas charms the ear, » Behold (a prism within his hands) Absorb’'d in thought, great Newton |] stands ! en a Such was his-solemn, wonted state, His serious brow, and musing gait, When, taught on eagle’s wings to fiy, He traced the wonders of the sky, The chambers of the sun explored; Where tints of thousand hues aré stored ; Whence every flower in painted robes is drest, And varying Iris steals her gaudy vest. Here, as Devotion, heavenly queen, Conducts her best, her favourite train, At Newton’s shrine they bow; ~ ‘i? ¢ Semiramis, cum ei circa cultum capitis sui ovcupate nunciatum esset Babylonem defecisse; alter parte crini- um adhuc soluta protinus ad eam expugnandam cucurrit: nec prius decorem: capillorum in _ordinem quam. tantamt urbem in potestatem suam redegit : quocirca, statua eju Babylone posita est, &c. Val. Max. de Ira. i) A noble statue of Sir Isaac Newton, erected in Trinity- college chapel, by doctor Smith. No. 201.) And while with raptured eyes they gaze, With Virtue’s purest vestal rays, Behold their ardent bosoms glow ! Hail, mighty mind! Hail, awful name! I feel. inspired my labouring breast! And Jo! I pant, I burn for fame! Come, Science, bright ethereal guest, Oh come, and lead thy meanest, humble son, Through Wisdom’s arduous paths, to fair re- nown! - Could I to one faint ray aspire, - Qne spark of that celestial fire, ’ The leading Cynosure, that glow’d While Smith-explored the dark abode, Where Wisdom sat on Nature’s shrine, . How great my boast ! what praise were mine! ‘Illustrious sage! who first could’st tell Wherein the powers of Music dwell ; And every magic chain untie, That binds the soul of Harmony! - Tothee, when mouldering in the dust, ‘To thee shall swell the breathing bust : Shall here (for this reward thy merits claim) «¢ Stand next the place to Newton, as in fame.”’ DPARVTCLARGAVVTRABAATVTDATAVBTEATATSTTTVSSSTVETUVLDVVTVTN No. 201.] Tuurspay, Nov. 4, 1756. Or all the improvements in’pelite conversation, I know of nothing that is half so entertaining as the double entendre. It is a figure in rhetoric, which owes its birth, as well as its name, to our inventive neighbours the French ; and it is that happy art, by which persons of fashion may communicate the loosest ideas under the most innocent expressions, The ladies have adopted it for the best reason in the world: they have loug since discovered, that the present fashion- able display of their persons is by no means a sufficient hint to the mén that they mean any thing more than to attract their admiration : the double entendre displays the mind in an equal degree, and tells us from what motive the lure of beauty is thrown out, It isan explanatory note to a doubtful text, which renders the meaning so obvious, that even the dullest reader cannot possibly mistake it. For though the double en- tendre may sometimes admit of a moral interpre- tation as well as a wanton one, it is never in- tended to “be understood but one way; and he must be a simple fellow indeed, and totally un- ‘acquainted with good company, who does not ‘take it as it was meant. * But it is one thing to invite the attacks of men, and another to yield to them ; and it is by no means a necessary implication, that because a lady chooses to dress and talk like a woman of | the town, she must needs act like one. J will THE: WORLD. be bold to assert that the contrary happens at - 347 least ten or a dozen times within the space of a twelvemonth; nay, I am almost inclined to be- lieve, that when an enterprising young fellow, who, from a lady’s displaying her beauties in public to the utmost excess of the mode, and suiting her language to her dress, is apt to fancy himself sure of her at a téie a téte, it isnot above four to one but he may meet with a repulse. Those liberties indeed which are attended with no ruinous contingencies, he may reasonably claim, and expect always to be indulged in; as the refusal of them would argue the highest de- gree of prudery, a foible, which in this age of nature and freedom, the utmost malice of the world cannot lay to the charge of a woman, of condition; but it does not absolutely follow, that because she is good-humoured enough to grant every liberty but one, she must refuse no- thing. It may pussibly be objected, that there is nei- ther good-breeding nor generesity in a lady’s in- viting a man toa feast, when she only means to treat him with the garnish ; but she is certainly mistress of her own entertainment, and hasaright to keep those substantials under cover, which she has no mind he should help himself to. A hungry glutton may (as the phrase is) eat her out of house and home; and if he will not be satisfied with whips and creams, he may carry his voraciousness to more liberal tables. A young lady of economy will admit no such per- sons to her entertainments; they area set of robust unmannerly creatures, who are perpetu- ally intruding themselves upon the hospitable and the generous, and tempting them to vhoose costly treats, that have in the end undone them, and compelled them ever after to keep ordinarics for their support. From. this consideration, it were heartily to be wished that the ladies could be prevailed upon to give fewer invitations in public places; since the most frugal of them cannot always answer for her own economy: and it is well known that the profusion of one single entertainment has compelled many a beautiful young creature to hide herself from the world for whole months after. As for married ladies indeed, who have husbands to bear the burden of such entertajn- ments, and rich widows who can afford them something may be said ; but while gluttons may be feasted liberally at such tables, and while there are public ordinaries in almost every parish of this metropolis, a single lady may beg to be excused. But to return particularly to my subject. The double entendre is at present so much the taste of all genteel companies that there is no possibility either of being polite or entertaining without it. ‘That it is easily learned is the hap- py advantage of it; for as it requires little more than a mind well stored with the most natural 348 thoroughly instructed in the rudiments’ of ‘it from her book of novels, ot het ‘waiting maid: But to be as knowing as her mamma ‘in all the refinements of the art, she must keep the very best company and frequently receive’ lessons in private from a male instructor. “She ‘should also be careful to minute down in het’ pocket- vook the most shining sentiments that are toast- ed at table; that when her own is called for, she may not be put to the blush from having nothing to say that would occasion a modest woman to blush for her. Of all the modern inventions to enliven conversation, and promote freedom be- tween the sexes, I know of nothing that can compare with these sentiments; and I may venture to affirm, without the least flattery to the ladies, that they are by no means inferior to the men in the happy talent of conveying the archest ideas imaginable in the most harmless words, and of enforcing those ideas by the most significant looks. There is indeed one inconvenience attending the double entendre, which I do not remember to have heard taken notice of. This inconveni- ence is the untoward effect that it is apt to have upon certain discreet gentlewomen who pass under the denomination of old maids. As these grave personages are generally remarked to have the quickest conceptions, and as they have once been shocked by. what they call the indelicacy of this figure, they are ever afterwards carrying it in their minds, and converting every thing they hear into wantonness and indecency. To ask them what o’clock it is, may be an ensnaring question: to pull off your gloves in their pre- sence, is beginning to undress ; to make them a: bow, may be stooping for an immodest purpose ; and to talk of bed-time, is too gross to be en- dared. J have known one of these ladies to be so extremely upon her guard, that having dropped her gold watch-case in a public walk, and being questioned by a gentleman who took it up, whether it was hers or not, was so alarmed at the indecency. of throwing aside her apron to examine, that she flew from him with precipitation, suffering, him to put it into his pocket and go fairly off with it. WVhis false modesty, which most evidently owes its birth to the double entendre, is a degree of impudence that the other cannot match. The possessors of it have unfortunately discovered that the most immodest meanings may be couch- éd under very. innocent expressions; and having been once put into a loose train of thinking, they are perpetually revolving in their minds every gross idea that words can be made to imply. ‘Chey would not pronounce the names of certain persons of their. acquaintance for the whole world, and are almost shocked. to death at the sight of a woman with child, as it suggests fo their minds every idea of sensuality. THLE WORLD. ideas, every young lady of fifteem’ may’ be [No. 202. ' It will doubtless be very astonishing ‘to the _ reader'to be told; that even the «purity of my ‘own writings has not at all times ‘exempted me from the censure of these maiden gentlewomen. _The Nankin breeclies of| poor Patrick the foot- man, in No. 130.°of these ‘papers, have given - inconceivable offence.» The’ word: breeches, it seems, is so outrageously indecent, that a modest woman cannot bring herself. to pronounce. it even when alone. I must therefore in all future impressions of this work, either dismiss the said Patrick from his service, or direct him to wait upon his ladies without any ‘breeches at all. Other complaints of the like nature have also been brought against me, which, ‘conscious as I am of the purity of my intentions, /have piqued me not a little. It is from these.complaints that 1 have entered at present: upon. the subject of this paper, which I cannot-conclude without | expressing some little dislike to the double enten- dre ; since with all the pleasantry and merriment — it occasions, it has produced this false modesty, which, in my humble opinion, is -impudence itself. , | pRB VRERRSSVVVUTV VV STUB TBUSALSGITVST EER SFVTVTA TVS FRVUESTVVA No. 202.] THurspay, Nov. 11, 1756. Th’ adorning Thee with so much art Is but a needless skill. » CowLey, Ir is a general observation,. that the character. and disposition of every man-may, in some de-. gree, be guessed at from. the formation and turn. of his features ; or in other words, that the face is an index of the mind. « This remark is. cer-, tainly not without foundation; nevertheless, as men do not make themselves, but yet are mas- ters of their wills and actions, frequent instances: happen, in which this rule is found to fail, and, appearances contradict reality. me I have often thought that-a surer way might be found of discovering the secret notions and. bias of each person; and that if instead of con-. sulting the physiognomy, we were to have re-) course to such things as are the immediate objects. of choice and fancy, we should arrive at a truer. knowledge of the person who adopts them. The best clue ‘we can lay hold of for this. purpose is, in my opinion; the different modes of. covering. and adorning the body; or whatever is comprised. under the idea of dress... The Spanish. proverb. says, ‘ Tell me what books a man reads, and what company he keeps, and I will tell you, what manner of man he is.”” It may be said with equal propriety, Tell me how such a per- son dresses, and I will tell you what heis. In fact, nature herself, by the appurtenanées and ornaments which she bestows on different ani~ . qualities. spread his gaudy. train, ’ -idea of the pride and vanity of that,.fop. among) birds? “The lion; wrapped-up in the majesty, of his mane,’ fills: us with notions of the grandeur with men. No. 202.] It is! the same What nature gives. to. irrational animals, man, by the help. of art,: supplies.to himself: and in the choice and arrangement of his dress, speaks his real notions and sentiments. In a theatre, which is the glass of fashion, and the picture of the world, it is well known that a strict attention is always paid to what is called the dressing of the characters. . The miser has his thread-bare coat; the fop his grey powder, solitaire, and red heel; each character hanging out a sign, as it were, in his dress, which pro- claims to the audience the nature of his part, even before he utters a werd. The impression which this outward appearance makes upon the and nebleness of its nature. : _anind, is so strong, that states and .governments have availed themselves of it for good and wise purposes. it is certain that the ignorant and vulgar part of mankind are most easily captivat- ed by what strikes the sight. _ Love, it is said, enters in at the eyes; and I am apt to think, that most of the other passions enter into the ‘mind through the same passage. Hence the necessity of applying to this sense ; and hence the origin of dress, and the pomp of kings, magis- trates, and ‘others, calculated (according to Milton) only to Dazzle the crowd, and set them all agape. Among the siseeaontenss instances. that pijglit be brought ‘in proof of this assertion, I have however remarked one in which the means do not seer to:me to answer the end proposed, or at least, that ought te be proposed by them. The instance I mean is the regimentals now worn in thearmy. One would imagine, from contemplating the profession of .a soldier, that whatever could most ‘contribute towards giving an intrepid masculine air and look, whatever could impress on the spectator’s mind an idea of courage, fortitude, and strength, would be deemed most proper to furnish out the z appear- ance of those who devote themselves to all the toils, fatigues, and dangers of war. And yet, who will say that our troops speak their profes- sion in ety degree by their dress? The red, indeed, ¢ in which they are clothed, as it conveys the idea of blood, and appears as if stained with the coléurs of their trade, is most certainly proper. But what shall we say for all the other atticles of their dress? Who that sees any. of them so elaborately arid splendidly equipped in all their trappings, would not be more apt to _ think by their appearance, that they were going to grace some public festival, or to assist at some joyful mony, than that they were men set THE WORLD. -mals, seems to shadow.and point out:theirtatent Who.can:see the peacock strut.and: without conceiving an, 349 apart, to combat with every hardship, and to stand in the,reugh front of war? When Cro- sus, ;the-Lydian. king, displayed his heaps of treasure to, Selon,,the philosopher told him, that whoever had, more iron, would scon be master of all,his gold ; intimating thatshow and pomp were-of no account, compared to what was really useful, and that riches in themselves were of nc value... To adapt this to our present purpose would not a sort of dress, caleulated to help and defend the wearer, or annoy the enemy, be more serviceable than.all the pride and tinsel that r ‘ans through the army, from the general to the pris man? The ancient rude Britons seemed to have had a better taste, or atleast more meaning in their method .of adorning themselves, than- their polished descendants. As they were all soldiers, Cesar tells us, they used to paint their bodies in ‘such a. manner as they conceived would make them appear terrible to their foes. Instead of powdering and curling their hair, they wore it loose, like the old Spartans, who always combed it down to its full extent : and as the admirable author of Leonidas expresses it, “ clothed: their necks with terror.’’ For my own part, I cannot look on. our troops, powdered and curled with se much exactness, without applying Falstaff’s ex- pression, and thinking indeed, that they are “food for powder.’ Nor can I behold the lace, and all the waste of finery in their clothing, but in the same light that I survey the silver plates and ernaments of a coffin: indeed I am apt to impute their going to battle so trim and adorned, to the same reason that the fine lady painted her ~ cheeks just before she expired, that she might not be frightful when she was dead. ‘To ask a plain question, Where is the need. of all ‘this finery? “ Will it (as Falstaff says of honour) set a leg? No. Oranarm? No. Or heal the grief of a wound?: No. | It has then no skill in surgery, and is a mere scutcheon.”’ When I consider the brilliant, but defenceleés state, in which our troops go to battle, I cannot help wondering at the extraordinary courage they have always shown: andam pleased to find that they unite in their persons the ancient and modern signification of the word brave, which implied formerly only finery or ornament, but in its. present. acceptation, means courage and resolution. They are indeed both brave and fine ; brave as it is possible for. men to be, but rey than it is necessary for soldiers to be; sv that what Cesar said of his troops, may with | great justice be applied to ours, Etiam unguen- tatos bene pugnare posse ; in spite of their finery and perfumes, they are brave fellows, and will fight. I have been led to consider this subject by a short copy of verses lately sent me by a friend, presenting a picture of a modern warrior pre- paring for battle. Homer and Virgil described 850 THE WORLD. No. 203. their heroes arming for the fight; but my friend province is Od yraris dare weaker, NOt theory but _exhibits his hero dressing forthe fight; it being | practice, may find extremely defective in the observable, he says, that our military gentlemen | day of trial. The truth is, that no schemes can use at present no more armour in the day of] be formed, no directions can be delivered for battle than they do when they go te cburch, or | the conduct of the passions, without a previous pay a visit to a mistress. knowledge of their nature, the various circum- stances that may excite them, and the strength THE they exert in every individual. Speculation may in some measure prepare, but can never MODERN WARRIOR. sufficiently provide for practice. Thus a mora- _| list may prescribe patience in the case of pain; ‘Tre trumpet sounds. To war the troops ad- | but if the anguish arise from an author’s reading vance, his own works, a patient ear, however useful in Adorn’d and trim—like females to the dance. general, will serve only to aggravate the misery, ‘Proud of the summons to display his might, and perhaps render it insupportable. And in- The gay Lothario dresses for the fight. deed such means as these will always. be found ‘Studious in all the splendour to appear, either useless or fatal, for they will either have Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! | no effect upon the passion, or totally destroy it. His well-turn’d limbs the different garbs infeld, | Let us try therefore to find-an expedient which Form’d with nice art, and glittering all with’) shall preserve and nourish these elements of gold. life, and at the same time prevent those evils Across his breast the silken sash is tied, which are so justly apprehended, and so. fre- Behind the shoulder-knot displays its pride ; quently felt from them. Glittering with lace, the hat adorns his head, Aristotle has long ago observed that. poubry: is ‘Graced and distinguish’d by the smart cockade: | more philosophical than history ; and: Horace Conspicuous badge! which only heroes wear, has not scrupled to prefer Homer to the philoso- Ensign of war, and favourite of the fair. phers themselves, even in points of instruction; The graceful queue his braided tresses binds, in which all sensible men must unanimously And every hair in its just rank confines; concur. For the passions being a poet’s peculiar Each taper leg the snowy guétres deck, province, he must indisputably be best acquaint- And the bright gorget dangles from his neck. ed with their nature, and best qualified to'direct — Dress’d cap-d-pie, all lovely to the sight, them. From the poets therefore we may’ ex- Stands the gay warrior, and expects the fight. | pect information; and, if I am not much Rages the war; fell slaughter stalks around, mistaken, every tragic writer will furnish us with And stretches thousands breathless on the| the expedient we want. For there is scarce a ground : Single tragedy in whith the passions of the hero Down sinks Lothario, sent by one dire blow, have not full play, and yet, by the substitution A well-dress’d hero, to the shades below. of proper objects; are artfully diverted from the Thus the young victim, pamper’d and elate, | production of those mischiefs that usually attend To some resplendent fane is led in state, them. To instance; in the tragedy of Fatal With garlands crown’d, through shouting | Constancy ; the hero suspecting the cruelty of his — crowds proceeds, ‘| mistress, or rather her ebedience to her father, Arid dress’ d in fatal pomp, magnificently bleeds. | falls with the greatest propriety into the passion of anger, which thus bursts forth : RGBVUBSV CVG SAL VVIBDBVEVULGEPVUUAAVIBWSA DUBVLVALVLVSD VVVVUVWs Cursed be the treacherous sex, cursed be the hour, Ne 7] ; me y 2 Sah Na aoe} Tuurspay, Nov. 18, 1756. Cursed be the world and every ib ir ia? . ‘ Upon such a provocation as ‘this, it was abso- Wuitst the generality of moralists maintain lutely impossible to have, prevented, the passion ; : the utility of the passions, the generality of men | the poet therefore gives it free indulgence ; and complain of their inconveniency. For though | to avert the fatal effects it might have, “upon the speculation can easily confine them to. proper | lady, as the immediate cause, or upon the more objects, restrain them within proper bounds, | remote one, her father, he supposes it employed and make them assistant and subservient to the| in execrations against..the sex in general, the greatest purposes, experience finds them impa-| hour, the world, and in short against every tient of the rein, and we are hurriéd by them thing but his mistress. . Now this artifice may, into every kind of extravagance. In like manner} 1 think, be very adv antageously removed from bachelors lay down incomparable rules for the} the stage to the world, from fictitious to real per- government of a wife, which the husband, whose | sons, as appears from the conduct of gamesters, ~ No.203.J who in an ill run, will with the greatest _Wvehemence curse their fortune or their cards, and having vented their anger, will play on with the utmost composure and resignation, and be perfectly agreeable to their adversaries, The ancients make mention of one Philoxenus, a celebrated eater, who instead of making his rivals at the table the objects of his passion, envied cranes for their length of neck ; the short duration of pleasure being the only defect. of his enjoyment. Mr. Pope too takes notice of a reverent sire, Who envied every sparrow that he saw. I produce these instances merely to show the possibility of an innocent exercise of the pas- sions, which must be employed to prevent a stagnation in the mind, and by these means may be indulged without injury to others. Thus rural *squires, who are pure followers of nature, to keep their dogs and themselves in breath, trail | herrings along the road, when the season will not admit of real business. But to remove all doubts concerning the pos- sibility of this method, and at the same time to show its utility, I must introduce St. Austin to my readers. It.is well known that the prevail- ing passion of this saint was love, and that an habitual indulgence: had rendered it teo formi- dable for a regular attack. He therefore en- gayed by stratagem, where his utmost strength was ineffectual, and by forming a woman of snow for his embraces, secured his own charac- ter, and the honour of his fair disciples, from those devastations to which they must otherwise have been fatally exposed. - An example like this is, I think, suffcient to confirm the principles, and recommend the prac- tice of substituting objects for the exercise of the passions ; but lest difficulties should arise from the choice, I shall point out such as will best correspond with some particular passions, that we may from thence be enabled to judge what will best suit with the rest. To begin with what is most important and most prevailing, Love. Should a young lady find herself unfor- tunately exposed to the unruliness of this pas- ‘sion, either by nature or education, by too close an attention to the study of romance, or too ‘strong a confidence in the conversation of her friends, her condition must be very deplorable: for indulgence, the most obvious expedient, is prohibited by custom ; opposition would always be found ridiculous, often impracticable, and sometimes fatal ; and should she follow the ex- ample of poor Violo in Shakspeare, who never told her love, | But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek, - her case must be desperate indeed: for the de- ~ THE WORLD. 351 struction of her charms would infallibly destroy |} the very means of happiness, and make her fit only for. the incurables of a convent, for which | our protestant country has not yet theught pro- ) per to previde. will be removed by substituting some other ob- ject to engross her affection. squirrel, or a parrot, may relieve her distress, by being admitted to her bosom, and receiving those dvwceurs and caresses which her passion Now all these inconveniences Thus a lap-dog, a prompts her to bestow upon her lover. It is certain that the celebrated Antenia esvaped the fatal effects of this passion, and preserved her character untainted amidst the slanders and corruption of the worst of courts, by fixing her affection upon a lamprey. In vain did the beaux of Rome offer up their vows ; her tender- ness was devoted to her favourite fish, on which she doted to that degree, that she fondly adorned it with her choicest ear-rings. But if this methed should not sufficiently an- swer the great purpose of giving exercise to the | passion, I cannot forbear the mention of one | more, and that is cards. | bage or whist will give full scope to the restless- ness of its nature, and enable the fair female ta A parti carré at crib- indulge it in all its stages: for every deal will | excite her affection or her anger: will inflamé her jealousy, or restore her ease; will give her | all the pangs of disappointment, or furnish thé silent transports of success. ‘What has been hitherto proposed is designed for the unmarried ladies ; the situation and cir- cumstances of a wife being in some respects different, may require a different treatment. - If therefore what is here prescribed prove ineffec- tual, she may have recourse to St. Austin’s remedy, which is always at hand: for by fixing her affections upon her husband, she may con- vert a lump of snow into a lover, and have the saint’s exquisite pleasure of a mortifying indul- gence. I would now proceed to the other passions, and lay down rules for their regulation, did I not think it absolutely unnecessary: for several — of them, such as shame, fear, &c. are become ob- solete, and consequently unknown. Others may be constantly employed upon husbands, friends, and dependents: for these objects occur upon every occasion, and an. ill choice can scarcely be made. Thus if anger be the passion of the day, a lady need not be told that she may exert it with the greatest safety and satisfaction upon a husband or a servant. Or should. the fair one be under the influence of pride, on whom can it be exercised with greater propriety than upon a female friend, especially if poverty has reduced her to a state of indigence and de- pendence? For fortune has plainly marked such creatures for the use and amusement of her fa- vourites. 352 THE Noa, 204.] Tuurspay, Noy. 25, 1756. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM., Sik, ‘Tue season is now .approaching when the wis- dom of the nation provides the supplies necessary for the support.of government. The two great questions commonly debated. ov such occasions, are the wherefore and the how. ‘The where- fore, as the politician in the Rehearsal says, answers itself: but then as to the guomodo, or the how; here the invention of the ingenious lover of his country may, without offence, be exerted. Certain unsubsidized ._pamphleteers have thought proper to observe that scarcely a single tax can be devised which has not been already imposed, in order to strip this beggarly nation (as they are pleased to call it) even of its rags: for if we credit these gentlemen, the nation does indeed hang in tatters, and we must expect very speedily to hear Britannia crying out with a most lamentable voice in the streets, “ Pray, your heriour, do, good your honour, one single farthing to.a poor distressed gentlewoman, with a great charge of helpless children.” A certain emperor .is reported to have offered a reward to any one who should discover a new species of pleasure ; and it is hoped, that in imi- tation of that emperor, the ministry will make some promises to any one who shall invent a new tax. . For my own part, I flatter myself that I have discovered some methods of raising money by taxes, which have hitherto escaped the researches of pr ajectors and politicians: but however vari- ous my ways and means may be, I shall content myself at present with communicating only one of my schemes, that from the reception it meets with from those in power, I may be tempted either to conceal or make public the rest. There is a certain. species of conversation, which. is commonly termed the saying of good things. In this commodity almost every body deals, . The cheesemonger’s wife at a gossiping, and the haberdasher at the club, say good things as well as their betters, during the short inter- vals from whist., This commodity has hitherto escaped the observation of the legislature; and yet no sufficient reason appears why a tax may not be imposed upon every good thing which shall be said, uttered, or spoken, from and after Lady-day next. It will possibly be objected, that some difficul- ties may oceur as to. the proper methods of levy- ing this tax. The officers .of the revenue, it may be said, cannot be supposed proper judges of what i is, and what is not, a good thing ; and an appeal to the quarter sessions in all probabili- ty would not much mend the matter. To this WORLD [No. 204. it may be answered, that in the: case "before us, the user or consumer. may be safely trusted on his bare affirmation; an indulgence which L should very unwillingly recommend on any other occasion. ‘The method I would propose, is, that every person who says a good thing, shall receive a certificate thereof on-stamped. paper, for which certificate the sum of two shillings and sixpenée only shall be exacted ; provided always, that he who says a-very good thing. may for such very good thing demand a certified cate as aforesaid, on payment of five shillings in manner aforesaid. 4 It may be further objected, as this tax is pro- posed to extend to the writing, as well as saying good things, that it will be inexpressible de— triment to many professed authors. Their in- terest and their vanity will incline them to con- tribute largely to the stamp duty ; but it cannet in reason be expected that they should ever be able to raise a single half-crown for the purchase of a certificate... My intention, Mr. Fitz- Adam, is not to injure.these gentlemen. | I pity poor authors with all my heart.. They “ who cannot dig, and who to beg are ashamed,’’ must write; far. be it from me therefore to deprive them of an ingenious liveliheod. . To quiet their minds, I humbly propose that they shall not be obliged to tax themselves, but that their readers shall tax them for every good thing which they. may.chance to publish.» ‘Thus will the tax be- come no intolerable grievance » indeed it will be scarcely felt, unless false English, low wit, and licentious scuutribiey be declared goed things by public authority. All that I entreat is, that as I leave them the liberty of writing what they please, they will also allow me the liberty of read- ing what I please. By this means we shall have little intercourse, and | consequently autAle occasion for quarrel, This tax will indeed fall eae ‘beta upon you, Mr. ‘Fitz-Adam; bat, in times of danger and difficulty, every man must contribute according to his ability to the necessities of his country. However, to make this matter easy, I am willing to yield you the whole honour of my invention; and I doubt not but you may obtain a saving clause, empowering you to write good things without the expense of .a certificate. We are all of us apt to show some degree of partiality to our own-children;-and this may perhaps induce me to be over-fond of my present project. Yet the most impartial must acknow- ledge, that no tax can be more extensive, or be levied with greater ease to the public and the subject. It will therefore afford me the highest satisfaction to see this my darling scheme en- forced by the wisdom of the legislature. I can already in imagination rejoice over some future resolution of the honourable house, conceived in words to the following effect : ; “ Resolved, That the sum of one million” No. 205. | sterling be raised by way of lottery on annuities payable : out of the produce of the tax pupsa good things.” It would be no less eusdabbin to me: to read a paragraph in the London Evening Post, or some other loyal paper, importing that “‘ this day the worshipful company of Fishmongers. dined. -to- gether at their hall in Thames-street, where the tax upon good things said after dinner amounted to four hundred and ten pounds seventeen shil- lings and sixpence, being the largest sum which had ever been collected on that occasion.’’ I make no doubt but that great sums might be expected on this account from the com- mon halls of our two learned universities ; not to say any thing of the laudable society of Anti-Gallicans, the venerable order of Free Masohs, and the numerous fraternities of Bucks, Bloods, and Choice Spirits. It may possibly be insinuated that France will endeavour to avail itself of our example, and impose likewise a tax upon good things ; but as freedom of speech is greatly restrained in all absolute monarchies, we have nothing to fear from such an attempt. Here then we shall be unrivalled, and shall be able for once to boast with justice, that we have owtwitted our enemies, If it should still farther be objected to this tax, that it will be a partial one, and grievously burdensome to the poor wit, while the rich alderman, the justice of the quorum, and the fine gentleman, will be totally exempted from it; I answer, that in these public-spirited times, and upon this particular occasion, every man will be ambitious of contributing his quota, whether he can be legally taxed or not; nay, I am humbly of opinion, that those aha, say the fewest good things, will generously make their demands upon the stamp-office for the greatest number of certificates. I had once entertained thoughts of extending my project to the good things that people do as well as say; but upon consulting a few friends upon the matter, I was convinced that the benefits arising from such an addition would be too inconsiderable to be felt. I have, therefore, for the good of my poor country, and the ease of those in power, made what haste 1 could to communicate my scheme as it now is, which I desire you to publish as soon as possible: and am, Sir, Your most faithful humble servant. ‘them all their lives after. THE WORLD. 8353 No. 205. | THurspay, Dec. 2, 1756. Nunc adhibe puro Pectore verba, puer, nunc te melioribus offer —— Wor. Tendere ad Indos, Auroramque sequi. VirG. Thus in your youth From pure instruction quaff the words of truth. ' FRANCIS. Be off for India and the farthest East. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, Amone the many reasons that were urged against entering into the present war, and the various clamours that have been raised since the commencement of hostilities, I do not find any body has considered the importance of a | peace with France, in regard to the education of our young nobility ; and I cannot but think our ministers would have been less hasty in their measures, had they paid proper attentior. to an object of so great moment. This oversight is the more surprising, as the dangers attending heirs-apparent at home, and the necessity of travel from the age of seventeen to twenty-one, have long been notorious to all the world. Who would trust a son in the way of pedantry and tobacco, party and elections, fox hounds and Newmarket; of the bewitch- ing glances that lurk beneath a pompadour hat at Ranelagh, or the unadorned, but not less dangerous charms of the curate’s daughter, near the mansion seat? On the other side, who is not aware that, abroad, national prejudices are destroyed, the mind is opened, the taste refined, the person improved ? And what must be a farther consolation to parents, is, that the habits and manners contracted by young gentle- men in their travels, are likely to remain with It seldom happens that the Paris pump and Lyons velvet give place to the tight boot and short skirt; or that a man accustomed to the elegance and loll of a vis a vis, with cushions of down within, and the varnish of Martin without, is so absurd at his return, as to trot ten miles before day in a dreary winter morning, and pass the hours due to hazard or a mistress on the side of a bleak cover, shivering in expectation of a fox. As it is far from my intention to stir up a clamour against the advisers of this war, I shall not enter farther into a discussion of the advan- tages of a foreign, or the evils of a domestic education, but hasten to my scheme for the improvement of youth, in spite of our enemies; the first hint of which arose accidentally in conversation with a friend, at whose house in the country I spent some days last month. Zz 354 We were walking in a park, decorated with ; polite circle in the recital. all the variety of Asiatic ornament, which at present so generally prevails among improvers THE WORLD. of taste, when this gentleman, who is a leading | man of that class, as well as a thorough zealot in the modern system of education, took occasion to consult me in regard to the disposal of his eldest son, a youth about sixteen years of age, heir to a very large fortune, and at present at one of our universities. My friend, I found, was very uneasy lest he should contract the rust of the college, and most pathetically la- mented his ill-fortune, that the doors of France should be so critically shut against a lad formed by nature for ail the accomplishments which so eminently distinguish that polite nation. In reflecting upon the good man’s embarrass- ment, and admiring the several temples, bridges, and other edifices of Chinese architecture which surrounded me, I was led to consider whether to send our sons to Pekin instead of Paris, would not better answer all purposes of travel. And though you may start, as did my friend, at the first view of this proposal, I doubt not, Mr. Fitz-Adam, but upon deliberation you will agree with me in many-of the circumstances that I think must render such a progress prefer- able to the other, more entertaining to the young gentlemen themselves, more suitable to the in- tentions of their parents and guardians, and more beneficial to their country. Among the many considerations which im- mediately occurred to me upon this subject, I shall beg leave principally to observe, that the manufactures of China, which have hitherto reached us, bear the preference to mest of our own of the same kinds, in spite of Huropean pride: and I am persuaded those politer arts, which are the great objects of travel; are in a degree of excellence, well worthy our notice, among the ingenious people of that country, though they have hitherto made their way to us slowly and imperfectly, for want of proper tra- vellers. The merchant and the missionary (al- most the only visitors of so distant a region) attend merely to those observations which regard the commerce and religion of their nation and sect ; the views of the one are too confined, and of the other generally too enthusiastic to produce the good effects which will accrue from the in- quiries of men of more enlarged ideas and un- prejudiced sentiments. The present juncture seems marked by the good genius of this isle for the most important discoveries. How many young men of fashion might be picked out, whom no one could suspect of prejudices either in favour of trade or religion ! and surely a met- tled fellow could not hesitate in his choice be- tween this rout and the old beaten one of France and Italy; where froma Calais landlord, to a Neapolitan princess, there is a sameness of ad- venture that is become extremely irksome to a [No. 205. A traveller will be greatly disappointed who fancies the tour of Eu- rope will entitle him to attention at Arthur’s or an assembly. Alas! after four years of expense, danger, and fatigue, if he expects auditors, he must have recourse to his tenants in the coun- try, or seek them about four o'clock on a bench. in St. James’s park. On the contrary, let us suppose a young nobleman just arrived with a dress and equipage a la Chinoise, what a curiosi- ty would be excited in the town! what enter- tainment, what admiration would it afford! What triumph would he feel in entering a rout, to see at his approach the lover rise from beneath the hoop on the settee, the dowager quit her cards, and all With greedy ears devour up his discourse ! fe It would be a severe blow to the French, Mr. Fitz- Adam, should the Chinese succeed to the empire of taste; and it is worthy remark, as 1 hinted above, and as others of your correspond- ents have done before, what advances they daily make toward it. Without doors, from the seats of our dukes to the shops of our haberdashers, all is Chinese; and in most places within (at least where that sex,which ought always to have the lead in elegance, is concerned) Raphael and Titian give place to the more pleasing masters of Surat and Japan. Should their dress and cook- ery become as fashionable as their architecture and painting, adieu the most flourishing com- merce of France: and I see no reason why they should not, if introduced by proper persons. Novelty is the soul of both, and quickness of in- vention the surest recommendation to the cook, as well as the tailor. [or my own part, I have commissioned my two nephews, who are actu- ally preparing for their voyage next spring, to bring over one of the greatest men they can find in each of these capacities; and I flatter myself that their dress and my table will give the taste to the whole town. I have likewise desired these young gentlemen te contract for the best dancers now in Asia, whether monkeys or men, and propose to oblige the managers of both thea- tres with a Chinese ballet, that I think will en- gage to them the support of the whole society of Anti-Gallicans. If any young nobleman can want yet farther — encouragement for this undertaking, let him con- sider how much greater scope there is to show his genius in the construction of a vessel, than in that of a post-chaise; not to mention the - many conveniences and comforts he will have about him, which a land-carriage cannot afford: for instance, his cook, his toad-eater, his set at whist, and if he pleases, his girl: for, by the way, it would be cruel ina parent to deny a son, embarked on so useful a progress, any of those — amusements or resources, so generally esteemed ~ No. 206.] innocent in other travels, and which indeed I have seldom heard that the most scrupulous governor objected to in France or Italy. It is possible that the article of sea-sickness- may alarm the tenderness of some mothers: but what is.it more than the qualms of claret? and a youth who has shown any spirit at college, cannot have much to apprehend from that com- plaint. And here, Mr. Fitz-Adam, I cannot forbear hinting to our patriots, of what service such a system of education would prove to our mar. ine, the great bulwark of the nation. 1 am persuaded it would turn out as good a nursery for sailors as the herring fishery : and what a resource would it be in any sudden emergency (like the present, for example) if the numerous retinues of the gay and great were able to go to a top-mast head! A set of fellows, who now serve only to excite the contempt or indignation of their in- dustrious countrymen, would become useful members, and be regarded as a hidden strength of the state. Who knows but some of the young gentlemen themselves might take a more particular fancy to a blue uniform than to a red one? and I apprehend it would as soon entitle them to the esteem of their country, and not be less becoming in the eyes of the ladies. But the point which will be thought of the most importance by your serious readers, is still behind. It has been remarked of late years (I fear with some truth) that the majority of our young travellers return home entirely divested of the religion of their country, without having acquired any new one in its place. Now as our free-thinkers are universally known to be the strictest moralists, | apprehend the doctrine of Confucius might have a very good effect upon them, and possibly give them a certain plan which they have all along wanted. In time, perhaps, they might institute some form of pub- lic worship, and thereby remove the scandal of Atheism, which our enemies abroad, from the behaviour of our travellers, are so apt to brand us with: and it is my private opinion, that if a Chinese temple were to be built by subscrip- tion, in a good quarter of the town, for the worship of the polite werld, it could not fail of success. I now, Mr. Fitz-Adam, leave you to com- ment upon my project. If it is recommended from your pen, I doubt not but it will be fol- lowed. We shall then see the new and old route distinguished by the title of the grand and little tour. It will be left to the ensign and the templar to trip to Paris, in absence from quar- ters and long vacations: plodding geniuses, admirers of the classics, philosophers, and poets will reach Rome; while the noble youth of more extensive fortune and more general prin- ‘ciples, the rising spirits, born’ to take the lead, and set a pattern to the world, strike out a path | THE WORLD. 358 more worthy their genius, and more adapted te the enlightened age in which we live. I am, Sir, - Your constant reader and admirer, Cy BPUVTTTV VW WS VL GRVVAVVT BPETVTIAVAVTLVRARAVSVAUSVTEVUAD No. 206.] Tuurspay, Dec. 9, 1'756. Audire est opere pretium, procedere recté Qui meechis non vultis, ut omni parte laborent, Utque illis multo corrupta dolore voluptas. Hor. All ye, who wish some dire mishap may wait This horning tribe, attend while I relate What dangers and disasters they sustain, How few their pleasures, and how mixed with pain. FRANCIS, MR. FITZ-ADAM, As the history of my life may be of some service to many of your readers, I shall relate it with all the openness and simplicity of truth. If they give a due attention to the errors and mistakes of my conduct, they will pass over those of my style. I am no scholar, having had a private education under the eye of my mother. Instead of conversing or playing with other boys, I went a visiting with her: and while she and my tutor were at cribbage, in which they passed a considerable part of the day,I read such books as I found lying about her room; the chief of which were the Atlantis, Ovid’s Art of Love, novels, romances, miscellaneous poems, and plays. From these studies I contracted an early taste for gallantry ; and as nothing pleased me so much as the comedies of the last age, my thoughts were constantly engrossed with the enviable situation of the heroes of those pieces. Your Dorimants and your Horners struck my imagination beyond the brightest characters in Pope’s Homer; and though I liked the gallantry of fighting ten years for a woman, yet I thought the Greeks might have found a readier way of making themselves amends, by visiting their friends at Troy, and taking revenge in kind. Such were the exploits to command my admira- tion, and such the examples which I looked up | to: and having manifest advantages of person, I entertained most extravagant conceits of my future triumphs. Yet even in the height of those extravaganees, I had no hope of obtaining every favour that I solicited ; much less sheuld I have been persuaded that such uncommon success could be productive of any thing but consummate happiness. The history of my life will prove the contrary ; and 1 choose to record it, with a view of showing what a succession of trouble, distress, and misery, arose from the very completion of my desires. 356 I was precipitately sent to Oxford, on being discovered in an intrigue with a young girl, whom my tutor had lately married, and who had a prior attachment to me. As my love for her was excessive, this separation was inexpres- sibly painful; and I learned from it, that past joys were no cansolation for present disappoint- ment. I found the university life so little suit- ed to my taste, that I soon prevailed upon my mother to let me come to London. Before I had been a week in town, I was introduced to a young woman whom I took so great a fancy to, that the very violence of my passion made me despair of success. I was, however, so agreeably disappointed, that I could scarce con- ceal the transports of joy which possession gave me: but this joy was more than balanced, when at the end of some months I was told of the condition into which this kind creature was brought by her compliance with my desires. My anxiety upon this event was too great to be restrained ; and honour, which alone had stop- ped the overflowings of my joy, prompted me to give a loose to my concern. I bewailed with remorse and tears the shame and misery of de- luded innocence, and cursed myself as the author of so much ruin and infamy. I spared no expense to render her unhappy situation as com- fortable as it could be made, and shut myself up with her till the expected time of her delivery. That fatal hour infinitely increased our mutual shame, by giving birth to a little negro, which, though it delivered me at once from the pangs of conscience, put me to an immoderate expense in bribes to the nurses, to keep the secret of my disgrace. This unlucky adventure had almost spoiled me for a man of gallantry ; but I soon lost all re- membrance of ill usage in the innocent smiles and gentle sweetness of a young lady, who gave me every mark of tender love and constancy. Our mutual fondness made it impossible for us to bear that separation which discretion requir- ed. As she gave up all her acquaintance tor my sake, she soon found herself abandoned by them ; so that our constant living together, which hitherto had been choice, was now become an absolute necessity. This confinement, though it did not abate, but, if possible, increased my tenderness, had so different an effect upon her temper, as to cause a total change of behaviour to me and all about her: she stormed day and night like a fury, and did every thing to drive me from her company: yet if ever I went from her upon the most urgent business, she would throw herself into fits, and upbraid me with the most bitter reproaches. On my being sent for to attend my mother in her last moments, she threatened, with horrid imprecations, that if I left her then I should-never see her more. I had scarce broke from her menaces, when she THE WORLD. [No. 206.” flew from her lodgings in an agony of passion, and has not been heard of since. Soon after the death of my mother, a lady of quality who visited her, and who had cast an envious eye upon her diamonds, which were not contemptible, took occasion to make some advances towards me. Whenever we met, her discourse always turned upon the great merits of my mother, and the taste which she showed in the choice and manner of wearing her jewels ; and this conversation as constantly ended in an assignation at her house. ‘Though I was at first a little proud to find my presents meet so ready an acceptance, I was not exceedingly flattered in the progress of this amour ; especially when I came to perceive, that the strongest recommen- dation I had to her favour was growing weaker every day. I found also that a declaration which I had made of not loving cards, did not contribute to strengthen my interest in that family. My next affair was witha lady who wasreally fond of me; and I thought myself then at the height of my wishes; for she managed so dis- creetly, that we had not the least interruption from her husband at home; but her conduct abroad was a perpetual scene of indiscretion and tyranny. She obliged me to attend her every night to the opera, and never to stir from her side. She would carry me to the most frequented plays, and keep me in.awhisper during the most interesting scenes. Not satisfied with this, she made me walk with her eternally in the park; the old-road, and Kensington gardens; and to complete her triumph, she dragged me; a miser- able object ! about the streets of London, with the same pitiless ostentation as the inhuman conqueror trailed the lifeless carcass of Hector round the walls of Troy. Tocomplete my mis- fortunes, it happened that the beaw monde esta- blished a new mode of gallantry ; and all knights amorous were required to make love after the new fashion, and attend their fair on horseback. Unluckily for me, my mother not suspecting that horsemanship would ever become, here, a requisite in gallantry, had made it no part of my English education: therefore being an absolute novice, I procured the quietest beast that was to be got, and hoped that I was properly mounted : but I soon found my mistake ; for the dulness of the beast tended to bring a most disgraceful sus- picion on the spirit of the rider; and I was obliged at all events to undertake a more mettle- some steed. The consequence was this: the moment I joined my mistress, she drew out her handkerchief, which fluttering in the wind, so frightened my horse that he carried me directly into the serpentine river. While I was taken up with my own danger and disgrace, her horse, which had started at the same time, ran a differ- ent way, and as she was no otherwise qualified \ ‘No. 207.] for a rider, but by the consciousness of being a woman of fashion, she was thrown against a tree and killed on the spot. The remembrance of her fondness for me, though so troublesome while living, was the cause of great affliction to me after her death : and it was near a twelve- month before I settled my affections on a new object. This was a young widow, who though she did not give me the same occasion of com- plaint as the last, created me no less pain by turning the tables upon me. Instead of requir- ing my constant attendance, she would complain that I haunted and dogged her ; and would fre- quently secret herself, or run on purpose into suspicious company, purely to give me uneasi- ness. ‘Though confessedly her favourite I have frequently been denied admittance, when the most worthless pretenders have been let in : and when I have offered her tickets for a corcert which she liked, she has refused them, an¢ ac- cepted a party to a dull play, with the most des- picable of my rivals. When we have been at the same table at cards, she has made it remark ed by the whole assembly that her eyes and her discourse have been industricusly kept from me ; and such has been her cruelty, that when I have desired the honour of walking with her the next morning, she has answered with a significant sneer, she was very sorry she could not have my company, for she intended to ride. With all this, who could imagine that I was the happy man? and yet, as [ spared no pains or cost in the inquiry, I can venture to pronounce that no other persons whatever shared her favours with me. Of all the tortures that can be devised for the punishment of poor lovers, there are none so excruciating as this inequality of behaviour. Not to trouble you with a farther detail of the plagues and disquietudes, the discoveries, ex- penses, fines, and dangers, which are incident to gallantry in general, I shall only tell you that I at last perceived there was no peace or comfort for the votaries of Venus but under the auspices of Hymen. To overcome my inveterate preju- dices against the conjugal state, so long despised, insulted, and injured by me, was the great diffi- culty ; but as the thorough detection of the vanity and folly of every degree of gallantry had by no means extinguished my unalterable love for the sex, I found, upon mature reflection, that marriage was my only resource, and that I should run no great risk in exchanging the real for the imaginary pains of love. Having taken this resolution, I stept into the -THE WORLD. ridotto, fixed my eyes upon a very engaging | figure, and immediately advertised for the young lady in blue and silver ; requiring only a certi- ficate of her good humour. I went to the coffee- house, received a letter for A. B. and in the space of a few months, from being a restless, tyran- ‘nized, tormented wretch, I found myself a hus- band, a cuckold, and a happy man. I lived 357 ten years in a state of perfect tranquillity ; and I can truly say, that I once met with a woman, who to the day of her death, behaved to me with constant attention and complacency. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant, Tied SLMDVEV*VLTD2ZAB*VATVAAA DEWAR AHS BL42L2E8S38SG240444 2% * No. 207.] Tuurspay, Dec. 16, 1756. Tuer exorbitant exactions of servants in great houses, and the necessity imposed upon you, after dining at a friend’s table, of surrendering all the money in your pocket to the gang in livery who very dexterously intercept every avenue to the street door, have been the subject of a former paper. This custom, illiberal and preposterous as it is, neither the ridicule with which I have treated it, nor my more serious reprehension, will, I fear, be able to abolish. My correspon- dents continue to complain, that though the hospitable door is opened wide for their admis- sion, yet like that of Pluto in Virgil, it is hardly pervious at their retreat: nor can they pass the ninefold barrier without a copious shower of influencing silver. The watchful dragons still expect, and will expect for ever, their quieting sop, from his honour’s bowing butler, with the significant napkin under his arm, to the surly Swiss who guards the vestibule. Your passport is not now received by these collectors, as a free gift, but gathered as a turnpike toll; or, in other words, as the just discharge of your tavern reckoning. ‘Thus the style of invitation, which runs generally that ‘“ Lord such-a-one desires you will do him the favour to dine with him,”’ is explained by dear-bought experience, to import, that you will obligingly contribute your quota to the payment of his servants’ wages. Yet this abuse, grievous as it is to the guest, and disgraceful to the master, is by no means the greatest inconvenience arising from a want of attention to economical regulations. The fol- lowing letter, which I have only room to insert at present, but which for the sake of my corres- pondent, I may possibly take under consideration at another opportunity, will sufficiently show the necessity of such regulations. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. SIR, I am a plain country gentleman, possessed of | @ plentiful fortune, and blest with most of the comforts of life; but am at present (not through any fault of my own, that I can recollect) in great distress: which [ am as much ata loss how to remedy, az I was unable to prevent, Though I have loved peace and quiet all my life, 358 THE WORLD. [No. 207. and have endeavoured constantly to maintain | part of my protection, or even safety, to a good order and harmony in my family, I owe my grievances to the intrigues and jealousies which have unhappily subsisted for some time past among my servants. wages, which I pay punctually: 1 indulge them in every reasonable request, from a desire to make them happy; and I have been told by all of them in their several turns, that Lam, without exception, the very best of masters. Yet, with all my care and kindness, I cannot establish a proper subordination amongst them ; without which, I am sensible no family govern- ment can long subsist: and for want of which (as *they cannot find a decent and reasonable cause of complaint. against me) they are perpe- tually quarrelling with one another. ‘They do not, I believe, intend originally to hurt me: on the contrary, they pretend my advantage alone is the occasion of their disagreement. But, were this really true, my case is no less deplor- able ; for, notwithstanding the zeal they express for my service, and the respect and affection they profess to my person, my life is made miserable by theiv domestic squabbles; and my estate is mouldering away daily whilst they are contend- ing who should manage it for me. They are so obliging, as to assure me, upon their honours, that their contests are only who can best serve so good amaster, and deserve and claim the first place in his favour; but, alas! I begin to be a little apprehensive that their struggle is, and has been, who should get most vails and have most power under me; oras you may think perhaps, over me. . The first appearance of this intestine discord was upon the following occasion : J have a very troublesome neighbour, who is continually committing encroachments upon my lands and manor. He attacks me first with his pen; and pretending to have found out some flaw in my settlements, he commences a suit of trespass against me; but at the same time, fear- ing lest the law should happen to decide in fa- vour of right, he sends me word, he wears a sword. Not long ago he threatened me that he would break into my park, steal my fish out of my canal, and shoot my hares and deer within my pales. Upon the advice of my steward and other servants, I sent to my estate in the north for a trusty gamekeeper (whose bravery and fidelity I could rely upon) to come to my assis- tance, that he might help to preserve not only my game but my family, which seemed to be in no small danger. ‘These orders were no sooner despatched, than to my great surprise, my pos- tillion bolted into the parlour where I was sit- ting, and told me, with all the warmth of a pa- triot, that he could not consent to Ferdinand the game-keeper’s admission into the house, for that he humbly conceived it was neither for my honour nor my interest to be indebted for any I give them good | foreigner ; for you must know, Mr. Fitz-Adam, that very unfortunately for me, my poor honest Ferdinand did happen to be born somewhere or other in Germany. You may imagine, however, that I paid little attention to this remonstrance of my postillion ; but dismissing him from my service, I sent for Ferdinand; who, upon the first summons, travelled night and day to come to my relief. The next fit of affection that embarrassed me, broke out in my ambitious helper. He professed himself so excessively careful of my person, that he did not think it safe for me to be driven any longer by my old coachman ; on which account he grew impatient to ascend the box himself. But his contrivances to facilitate this removal, were plain indications that he attended to his own advancement, more than to my preserva- tion; for I have been informed, that he has often frightened the horses to make them start unexpectedly out of the quarter: at other times he has been detected in laying great stones in the way, with a design to overturn the coach ; and in roads of difficulty and danger, was sure to keep out of the way himself; nay, at last, he tried to persuade the servants, that it was the coachman’s intention to drive headlong over them, and break all their necks. But when he found I had too good an opinion of old Thomas to entertain any suspicion of his honesty, he came one morning in a pet, and gave me warning. I told him with great temper, he was to blame, paid him his wages, and bid Thomas provide himself with another helper. But I leave you to judge of my grief as well as surprise, when Thomas answered me with tears in his eyes, “ that he must entreat my permission to retire from my service ; he found,” he said, “he had many enemies, both within doors and without : my family was divided into various parties: some were favourable to the helper, and others had been wrought upon by the late postillion , he should be always grateful for the goodness I had shown him; and his last breath be employed in praying for my prosperity.” It was with great reluctance that I consented to his request ; he had served me honestly above thirty years, from affection more than interest; had always greased my wheels himself, and upon every one of my birth-days, had treated all his brother whips at his own expense: so that far from being a gainer by my service, he had spent above half of what he had saved before he came into it. You may imagine I would willingly have settled a comfortable annuity upon him; but you will wonder at his behaviour on this oc- casion; indeed I have never met with any thing like it, in one of his low station: he declared, that he would rather live upon bread and cheese, than put my honour to any expense, when he could be no longer useful to me. No. 208.] THE WORLD. 359 Thus have [ been reduced, contrary to my in- , (to use his own words) after his maxim. About clination, to hire another coachman. The man I have now taken bears a very reputable char- acter; but he happens to be so infirm, that he is scarce yet able to get upon his box: and though he promises, and I believe intends to take all possible care of my horses, I fear he has not been accustomed to drive a set so restive as mine are, especially in bad roads. I have also been persuaded to take my postillion again, as he is a great favourite of my present coachman. Between them they are new-modelling my family for me, and discharging those servants whom they happen to dislike. My experienced bailiff, who used to hold my courts, has left me ; and my game-keeper, who has been obliged to lie, during this hard winter, in a tent in the garden, is ordered back again into the north, though he has given no sort of offence, but, on the contrary, has been greatly instrumental in protecting me from the insults of my blustering neighbour; so-unpardonable a crime is it to be born in Germany ! Good Mr. Fitz- Adam, advise me, as a friend, what course to take.. We Masters, as we are improperly called, are become of late so subser- vient to our servants, that*I should apprehend this universal want of subordination in them must at last be detrimental to the state itself; for as a family is composed of many servants, cities and countries are made up of many houses and families, which together constitute a nation. Disobedience in the majority of individuals to their superiors, cannot fail of producing a gene- ral licentiousness, which must terminate at last in anarchy and confusion. I am, Sir, Your constant reader And admirer, Grorce Mranwe.ut. RURAVALVTE VPIBVLVWSB GH SBT GRAV VTE FRGVTVSVAV SUVA Sel setsew No. 208.] Tuurspay, Dec. 23, 1'756. As the first of the following letters is written by a female correspondent, and the second in- tended for the service of that sex, I have taken ‘the first opportunity of giving them to the public. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, I am a young woman and live in the country with an uncle and aunt, whose characters, as they are somewhat particular, may perhaps con- tri) ute towards the entertainment of your rea- ders. My uncle is a man so full of himself, that he approves of nothing but what is done three years ago he caught a great cold: ever since which time he wears a great coat, and calls every man a fool that goes without one, even in the dog-days. ‘The other day a relation coming to see him, was thrown off his horse and broke his leg. When he was brought into the house, and my uncle came to be informed that the accident happened by his passing through a bad Jane, in order to call upon a par- ticular friend in his way to us, he told him with an air of great importance, that it was always a maxim with him, never to do two things at once. He then introduced a long story about queen Elizabeth and lord Burleigh, which, after it had lasted above half an hour, concluded with lord Burleigh’s telling the queen, that he had made it a maxim, “never to do but one thing ata time.’’ Thus did he perplex the poor gentleman who lay all the time with a broken limb; nor would he suffer any person in the room to go for a surgeon till his story was told. While the leg was setting, and the patient in the utmost torment, my uncle stood by, and with all the rhetoric he was master of, endeavoured to persuade his kinsman that his misfortune was entirely owing to a neglect of those excellent maxims which he had so often taught him. He concluded his harangue with a string of proverbs, mottoes, and sentiments, of which he is so ridiculously fond, that there is no single action of his life that is not entirely go- verned by one or other of them. I have seen him in the garden, in the midst of a most violent thunder-shower, walking a snail’s pace towards the house, because his friend lord Onslow’s motto is festina lente ; which words I have heard him repeat and explain so often, that I have them always in my head. My aunt is truly one flesh with her husband. She approves of nothing but what is done after her own example, though she is unable to sup- port her prejudices even by a proverb or a say~ ing. As I am so unfortunate as to differ from her in almost all my actions, we are extremely liable to quarrel. She gets up at six because she cannot sleep ; and I lie in bed till nine, because I cannot easily wake. When we meet at breakfast, I am sure to be scolded for my drow- siness and indulgence, and questioned at least a dozen times over, “ why I cannot do as she does, get up with the sun?” “ Ay,”’ says my uncle, “and go to rest with the lark, as the saying is.” But alas! my aunt observes but part of the saying; for long before the lark gocs to roost, she will fall asleep in her chair, unless kept awake by cards; though her usual bed- time is not till nine o’clock. Now, Mr. Fitz-Adam, I would fain know whether the hours between nine and twelve, provided you are quite awake, are not of equal use with those between six and nine, when you 22 360 THE WORLD. [ No. 208. are half the time asleep? My aunt says, No; | and hardness of the Egyptians, to their going for that one hour in the morning, is worth two in the afternoon : which I cannot for the life of me comprehend. The old lady is one of those good sort of women who think every thing beneath their notice but family affairs and housekeeping; for which reason, if ever she catches me reading a volume of the Spectator or World, she immedi- ately asks me if the Art of Cookery, which she made me a present of, is mislaid or lost; to which she is sure to add, that for her part, she does not see what good can come of reading such heathenish books ; and that had she given up her mind. to nonsense and stuff, my uncle and his family must have been beggars, so they must. Am I really to be governed by these old folks, or may I go on in my old way, and laugh at their absurdities? I read your paper every Friday when the post comes in, and shall be glad to see this letter inserted in your next, with your opinion of the matter, that I may know which is the wisest, my uncle, my aunt, or Mr. Fitz-Adam’s Hiumble servant, and admirer, ee Sir, If we pay a due regard to proverbial expres- sions, which are oftentimes founded in good ‘sense and experience, the texture of the skull, particularly the extreme thickness or extreme thinness of it, contributes not a little to the stupidity or folly of our species. By a thick- skulled man, we always mean a fool, and by a thin-skulled fellow, one without any discretion. May we not therefore suppose that the state of men, respecting their understandings, is pretty much this; when their craniums are extremely solid, they are generally idiots; when in a me- dium, persons of sense; when somewhat thinner, wits; and when extremely thin, mad- men ? 3 What has led me into these reflections, is the present practice among our ladies, of going bare- headed, and a remarkable passage in Herodotus concerning the effect of that practice among the Egyptians. This ancient and curious historian and tra- veller tells us, that passing by Pelusium, where there had been, many years before, a bloody battle fought between the Persians and Egyp- tians, and the skulls of the slain on each side being still in different heaps, he found upon trial that those of the Egyptians were so thick, they required a very strong blow to break them ; whereas those of the Persians were so thin and tender, they scarcely resisted the slightest stroke. Herodotus attributes the thinness and tenderness of the Persian skulls, to their wear- ing warm caps er turbans; and the thickness Ha bareheaded, and thereby exposing their heads to heats and colds. Now if this opinion of Herodotus, and the foregoing remarks, be well founded, what rueful effects may the pre- sent fashion of our ladies exposing their heads to all weathers, especially in the present cold season, be attended with! Instead of sensible, witty, and ingenious women, for which this country has so long been famous, we may in a little time have only a generation of triflers. By what has happened to a neighbouring na- tion, we have the more reason to dread the like misfortune among ourselves. And happy are those who take warning by the misfortunes of others. Formerly, when the Dutch kept their heads warm in furred caps, they were a wise and brave people, delivered themselves from slavery, and established a wealthy and formida- ble republic: but since they have left off this good old fashion, and taken to French toupées, whereby their heads are much exposed, they are become so thick-skulled, that-is, so‘stupid and foolish, as to neglect almost every means of national benefit and preservation. Though the ancient Greeks were some of the wisest and most acute people in the world, yet the Beotians were remarkably ignorant and dull. What can we ascribe this difference be- tween them and their fellow Greeks to, but the different conformations of the seat of know- ledge? I wish our society of antiquaries would endeavour to find out if this did not proceed from the Beotians following the Egyptian fa- shion above-mentioned. . Are we to suppose that the only motive of our eminent physicians and great lawyers for wear- ing such large periwigs as they generally do, is merely to appear wiser than other people? Have they not experienced that these warm coverings of the head greatly contribute to ren- der them really so? One apparent proof of their being wiser than most others is, that the former very rarely take any physic, and the lat- ter never go to law when they can avoid it. However, we must for the sake of truth ac- knowledge, that too many of these gentlemen of both professions, seem to have carried the practice of keeping their heads warm to such an excess, as to occasion a kind of madness, which shows itself in so voracious an appetite for fees as can hardly be satisfied. But as we frequent- ly see good preceed from evil, may it not be hoped that these extravagances of physicians and lawyers will put people upon making as little work as possible for either, by substituting temperance in the room of physic, and arbitra- tions instead of law-suits ? Whether your female readers will take warn- ing by the examples here set before them, or much esteem your advice or mine, I know not; Ss but surely such of them at least as go to church, ‘No. 209.] and there say their prayers, will pay a proper regard to St. Paul, who tells them that “ every woman who prayeth with her head uncovered, dishonoureth her head.” In one of the islands of the Archipelago (I think it is Naxos) there was formerly a law that no woman should appear abroad in embroidered elothes, or with jewels, unless she were a pro- fessed courtezan; nor be attended when she walked the streets, with more than one waiting- maid, except she was in liquor. Now what I would propose is, that you, Mr. Fitz-Adam, should issue out an edict, that none of the fair sex in our island shall for the future be seen in public without a cap, but such as are known to be ladies of pleasure ; unless you shall be pleased to except those who are apt to tipple a little too much, and therefore go in this manner to cool their heads. I am, Sir, Your most humble servant. BAVA Brera nee VWUVVVEVNA DBVAVZVVSVVCLTTBBVWVUVWT TT SVVAUATWA No. 209.] Tuurspay, Dec. 80, 1756. a Tue public will no doubt be a good deal asto- nished, that instead of the great name of Adam Fitz- Adam to this paper, they now see it writ- ten, by a poor weak woman, its publisher, and dated from the Globe, in Paternoster-Row. Alas! nothing but my regard and veneration for that dear good man could have got the better of my modesty, and tempted me to an under- taking that only himself was equal to. Before these lines can reach the press, that truly great and amiable gentleman will, in all probability, be nomore. An event so sudden and unexpected, and in which the public are so deeply interested, cannot fail to excite the curio- sity of every reader; I shall therefore relate it in the concisest manner I am able, not in the least doubting but my defects in style will be overlooked, and that grief and concern will prevent criticism. The reader may remember, that, in the first rumber of the World, and in several succeeding papers, the good old gentleman flattered himself that the profits of his labours would some time or other enable him to make a genteel figure in the world, and seat him at least in his one horse chair. ‘The death of Mrs. Fitz-Adam, which happened a few months since, as it relieved him from the great expense of housekeeping, made him in a hurry to set up his equipage ; and as the sale of his paper was even heyond his expecta- tions, I was one of the first of his friends that THE WORLD. ‘ 861 it should be to me, I expected him last Tuesday at my country-house at Hoxton. The poor gentleman was punctual to his appointment; and it was with great delight that I saw him from my window driving up the road that leads to my house. Unfortunately for him, his eye caught mine; and hoping (as I suppose) to cap- tivate me by his great skill in driving, he made two or three flourishes with his whip, which so frightened the horse, that he ran furiously away with the carriage, dashed it against a‘post, and threw the driver from his seat with a violence hardly to be conceived. I screamed out to my maid, “ Lord bless me!’’ says I, * Mr. Fitz- Adam is killed!’ and away we ran to the spot where he lay. At first I imagined that his head was off ; but upon drawing nearer to him, I found it was his hat! He breathed indeed, which gave me hopes that he was not quite dead ; but for other signs of life he had positively none. In this miserable condition, with the help of some neighbours, we brought him into the house, where a warm bed was quickly got ready for him; which, together with bleeding and other helps, brought him by degrees to life and reason. He looked round about him for some time, and at last, seeing and knowing me, in- quired after his chaise. I told him it was safe, though a good deal damaged. ‘ No matter, Madam,” he replied ; “ it’has done my business : it has carried me a journey from this world to the next: I shall have no use for it again.’ Here his speech failed him, and I thought him expiring ; but after a few minutes, recovering as it were from a trance, he proceeded thus: “Mrs. Cooper,” says he, * you behold in the miserable object now before you, a speaking monument of the folly and madness of ambition. This fatal chaise was the ultimate end of all my pursuits; the hope of it animated my labours, and filled me with ideas of felicity and grandeur. Alas! how has it humbled me! May other great men take warning by my fall! The Wortp, Mrs. Cooper, is now at an end! I thought it destined to a longer period; but the decrees of fate are not to be resisted. It would indeed have pleased me to have written the last paper myself; but that task, Madam, must be yours; and however painful it may be to your modesty, I conjure you to undertake it.’’ He paused here for a moment or two, as if waiting for my answer ; and, as well as I could speak for sorrow and concern, I promised what he asked. ‘‘ Your knowledge as a’publisher, Madam, (pro- ceeded he) and your great fluency of words, will make it perfectly easy to you. Little more will be necessary than to set forth my sudden and unhappy end: to make my acknowledgments to the public for the indulgence it has shown me; _ advised him to purchase it. The equipage was accordingly bespoke and sent home; and as, and above all to testify my gratitude to my he had all along promised that his first visit in] numerous correspondents, to whose elegant 3A ‘s 362 pieces this paper has been principally indebt- ed for its uncommon success. I intended, (with permission) to have closed the work with a list of those correspondents; but death prevents me from raising this monument to my fame.” A violent fit of coughing, in which I feared the poor gentleman would have gone off, robbed him of his speech for more than half an hour: at last, however, he came again to himself, and though more feebly than before, proceeded as follows: “Iam thankful, Madam, that I yet live, and that an opportunity is given me of confessing the frailties of my nature to a faithful friend.”’ I winked at Susan to withdraw, but she would not understand me: her stay, however, did not pre- vent Mr, Fitz-Adam from giving me a full detail of the sins of his youth; which as they only amount to a few gallantries among the ladies, with nothing more heinous than a rape or two at col- lege, we bid him be of comfort, and think no more of such trifles. “‘ And now, Madam,”’ says he, “I have another concern to trouble you with. When I wasa boy at school, it always possessed my thoughts, that whenever I died I should be buried in Westminster Abbey. I confess freely to you, Madam, that this has been the constant ambition of my riper years. The great good which my labours have done to man- kind will, I hope, entitle my remains to an in- terment in that honourable place ; nor will the public, I believe, be disinclined to erect a suitable monument tomy memory. ‘The frontispiece to the Wortp, which was the lucky thought of my printer, I take to be a most excellent design ; | and if executed at large in virgin marble, must have an admirable effect. I can think only of one alteration in it, which is, that in the back ground I would have, in relief, a one-horse chair in the act of overturning, that the story of my death, as it contains a lesson for the ambitious, may be recorded with my name. My epitaph, if the public might be so satisfied, I would have decent and concise. It would offend my mo- desty, if after the name of Fitz-Adam,-more were to be added than these words, THE WORLD. [ No. 209° He was the deepest philosopher, The wittiest writer, AND The greatest man Of this age or nation. I say, Madam, of this age and nation, because other times and other countries have produced very great men; insomuch that there are names among the ancients, hardly inferior to that of Adam Fitz-Adam. ” The good old gentleman would have proceeded, but his speech failed him again, and he lay as if expiring for two whole hours; during which interval, as I had no time to spare, and as all I heard was then fresh in my memory, I sat my- self down to fulfil the promise I had made. When I had written thus far, he again attempt- ed to ‘speak to me, but could not. 1 held up the paper to him, and asked if he would hear it read. He nodded his assent, and after I had gone through it, hisapprobation. I desired him to signify by some motion of his hand, if there was any thing in it that he wished to have al- tered. He nodded his head again, and gave me a look of such complacency and regard, as con- vinced me I had pleased him. It is from a knowledge of this circumstance that I shall now send what I have written to the press, with no other concern than for the accident which occa- sioned it; an accident, which I shall never think of, without tears, as it will probably deprive the public of a most able instructor, and me of a worthy friend and constant benefactor. Mary Cooper. Globe, Pater-Noster-Row, Tuesday, Dec. 28, 1756. P. S. Wednesday night, ten o'clock. Mr. Fitz-Adam is still alive, though in a dangerous way. He came to his speech this morning, and directed me to inform the public, that as the Wor tp is now closed, he has ordered a general Index to the folio volumes to be printed, and given gratis in a few days, at Mr. Dodsley’s in Pall Mall, and at M. Cooper’s at the Globe in Pater- Noster- Row. WORLD ao DIN ARY. The following paper having been transmitted to Mr. Fitz-Adam’s bookseller on the very day of that gentleman’s misfortune, he takes the liberty to offer it to the public just as it came to hand. TO MR. FITZ-ADAM. Sir, As the contagion of politics has been so preva- lent of late, that it has even (I wont say infected, but at least) infused itself into the papers of the impartial Mr. Fitz-Adam, perhaps I may not make him an unacceptable present in the follow- ing piece, which will humour the bent of his disorder (for I must consider political writings as a distemper) and at the same time will cool, not increase, any sharpness in his blood. Though the author of this little essay>is re- tired from the busier scenes of life, he has not buried himself in such indifference to his coun- try, as to despise, or not te attend to what is passing even in those scenes he has quitted: and having withdrawn from inclination, not from disgust, he preserves the same attachments that he formerly made, though contracted even then from esteem, not from interest. He sces with a feeling concern the distresses and distractions of his country; he foresees with anxiety the consequences of both. He laments the discord that divides those men of superior genius, whose union, with all their abilities, were perhaps in- adequate to the crisis of our affairs. He does not presume to discuss the grounds of their flissentions, which he wishes themselves to over- look; and he would be one of the last men in England to foment division, where his interest as a Briton, and his private inclinations as a man, bid him hope for coalition. Yet he would not be a man, he might be a Stoic, if even these inclinations were equally balanced: his admira- tion may be suspended, his heart will be partial. From these sensations he has been naturally led to lament and condemn the late torrent of per- sonalities: he sees with grief the greatest char- acters treated with the greatest licentiousness ; | his friendship has been touched at finding one of the most respectable aspersed in the most in ju- rious manner. He holds that person’s fame as much superior to reproach, as he thinks himself inferior to that person’s defence; and yet he cannot help giving his testimony to the reputa- tion of aman, with whose friendship he has been long honoured. This ambition, Sir, has occa- sioned my troubling you with the following portrait written eight years ago ; designed then as private incense to an honoured name; and ever since preserved by the author only, and in the fair hands to which it was originally ad- dressed. I will detain you no longer than to say, that if this little piece should be accused of flattery, let it be remembered that it was written when the subject of it was no minister of state, and that it is published now (and should not else have been published) when he is no minister at all. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, H. M. To the Right Honourable Lady C. F. _Mapam, I have been attempting to draw a picture of one of your friends, and think I have in some degree succeeded ; but as I fear natural partiality may make me flatter myself, I choose to submit to your ladyship’s judgment, whose prepossession for the person represented is likely to balance what fondness I may have for my own perform- ances. As I believe you love the person in question as much as ever other people love themselves, the medium between the faults you shall find, and the just resemblance that I see in the following portrait, is likely to be an exact image. The gentleman T am drawing is about* three- and forty: as you see all the fondness and deli- cacy and attention of a lover in him, perhaps * This was written in the year 1748, 364 your ladyship may take him to be but three- and-twenty : but I, whose talent is not flattery, and who from his judgment and experience and authority, should at first set him down for threescore, upon the strictest inquiry, can only allow him to be in the vigour of his age and understanding. His person decides rather on my side, for though he has all the ease and amiableness of youth, yet your ladyship must allow that it has a dignity, which youth might aim at in vain, and for which it will scarce ever be exchanged. If I were like common painters, I should give him a ruddy healthful complexion, and light up his countenance with insipid smiles and unmeaning benignity: but this would not be a faithful portrait: a florid bloom would no more give an idea of him, than his bended brow at first lets one into the vast humanity of his temper: or than an undistinguishing smile would supply the place of his manly curiosity and penetration. To paint him with a cheerful open countenance would be a poor return of compliment for the flattery that his approbation bestows, which, by not being promised, doubly satisfies one’s self-love. The merit of others is degrading to their friends; the gentleman I mean makes his worth open upon you, by per- suading you that he discovers some in you. He has the true characteristic of a great man, that he is superior to others in his private, social, unbended hours. I am far from meaning by this superiority, that he exerts the force of his genius unnecessarily ; on the contrary, you only perceive his pre-eminence in those moments by his being more agreeably good-natured, and idle with more ease, than other people. He seems inquisitive, as if his only business were to learn; and is unreserved, as if he were only to inform: and is equally incapable of mystery in pretending to know what he does not, or in con- cealing what he does. In the house of commons he was for some time an ungraceful and unpopular speaker, the abundance of his matter overflowing his elocu- tion: but the force of his reasoning has prevail- ed both over his own defects and those of his audience. He speaks with a strength and per- spicuity of argument that commands the ad- miration of an age apt to be more cheaply pleas- ed. But his vanity cannot satisfy itself on the terms it could satisfy others; nor would he thank any man for his approbation, unless he were conscious of deserving it. But he carries this delicacy still farther, and has been at the idle labour of making himself fame and honours by pursuing a regular and steady plan, when art and eloquence would have carried him to an equal height, and made those fear him, who now only love him—if a party can love a man THE THE WORLD. whom they see is only connected with them by principles, not by prejudices. In another light ene may discover another littleness in his conduct: in the affairs of his office * he is as minute and as full of application — as if he were always to remain in the same post; and as exact and knowing as if he always had been init. He is as attentive to the solici- tation and interests of others in his province, as if he were making their fortune, not his own; and to the great detriment of the ministry, had turned one of the best sinecures under the government into one of the most laborious em- ployments, at the same time imagining that the ease with which he executes it, will prevent a — discovery of the innovation. He receives all officers who address to him with as little pride as if he were secure of innate nobility ; yet this defect of illustrious birth is a ‘blemish, which some of the greatest men have wanted to make them completely great; Tully had it; had the happiness and glory of raising himself from a private condition ; but boasting of it, might as well have been noble; he degraded himself by usurping that prerogative of nobility, pride of what one can neither cause nor prevent. I say nothing of his integrity, because I know nothing of it, but that it has never been breath- ed upon even by suspicion: it will be time enough to vindicate it, when it has been im- peached. He is as well bred as those who colour over timidity with gentleness of man- ners, and as bravely sincere as those who take; or would have brutality taken for honesty ; but though his greatest freedom is polite, his great- est condescension is dignified with spirit; and he can no more court his enemies, than relax in kindness to his friends. Yet though he has more spirit than almost any man living, it is never looked upon as flowing from his passions, by the intimate connection that it always pre- serves with his understanding. Yet his passions are very strong: he leves play, women more; and one woman more than all. The amiable- ness of his behaviour to her, is only equalled by her’s to him But as your ladyship would not know a picture of this charming woman; when drawn with all her proper graceful vir-_ tues; and as that engaging ignorance might lead you even into an uncertainty about the portrait of the gentleman, I shall lay down my pencil, and am, MADAM, Your Lapysurr’s Most obedient, ; Humble servant, VANDYKE., * Secretary at War. 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