LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 324 
 Ad2sp 
 1853 
 cop. 2 
 
The person charging this material is re¬ 
 sponsible for its return to the library from 
 which it was withdrawn on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons 
 for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from 
 the University. 
 
 To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
. 
 
 % 
 
 . 
 
 ,0 0 
 
 w 4 *- 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 'V 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 A X 
 
 
 
 ' W ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 *«k 
 
 
 ;; .4 
 
 . 3 
 
 * IK 
 
 
 .. 
 
 *>* , 
 
 * 
 
 4 
 
 ' 5 
 
 %» 
 
 * a 
 
 •< 
 
 * 
 
 m 
 
 * •> A 
 
 
 
 ■ 
 
 v .^ j 
 
 
 > * 
 % 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . ** 
 
 *v# 
 
 
 
Applegate & Co. Publishers* 
 
THE 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 WITH 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICES 
 
 OF THE 
 
 CONTRIBUTORS 
 
 
 W i 
 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 CINCINNATI: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY APPLEGATE & CO. 
 
 * mr 
 
 NO. 43 MAIN STREET. 
 
 1 853. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 “ To correct the vices, ridicule the follies, and dissipate the ignorance, which too 
 generally prevailed at the commencement of the Eighteenth Century,” were, it has been 
 truly observed, “the great and noble objects the Spectator ever holds in view;” and, “by 
 enlivening morality with wit, and tempering wit with morality,” not only were those 
 objects attained in an eminent degree, but the authors conferred a lasting benefit on 
 their country, by establishing and rendering popular a species of writing, which has 
 materially tended to cultivate the understanding, refine the taste, and augment and 
 purify the moral feeling of successive generations. 
 
 The high and universal reputation of this celebrated work, as an inexhaustible 
 fund of amusement and instruction, at once precludes the necessity of discussing its 
 various excellencies, and of offering an apology for submitting the present Edition to 
 the notice of the Public. We give, by way of Preface, short biographical notices of 
 the Contributors. 
 
 Joseph Addison, the eldest son of the Rev. Launcelot Addison, Dean of Lichfield, was 
 born in 1672, at Milston, in Wiltshire, of which place his father was then Rector. 
 Shortly after he had reached his twelfth year, he was placed in the Charter-house, 
 where his progress was so rapid that, at the early age of fifteen, he was declared qualified 
 for the University. He was entered of Queen’s College, Oxford, in 1687; but a copy of 
 Latin verses having recommended him to the notice of Dr. Laurence (afterward Provost), 
 he was by his introduction admitted into Magdalen College, where he took the degree 
 of Master of Arts, in 1693. Here he distinguished himself by his Latin Poems, pub¬ 
 lished in the Musse Anglicanae ; and it is said, that Boileau, to whom he sent them as a 
 present, first conceived from them a high opinion of the English Genius for Poetry. 
 
 In his twenty-second year Addison first appeared before the Public as an English 
 Poet, in a short copy of Verses addressed to Dry den ; this was followed by aVersion 
 of the Fourth Georgic of Virgil, and various Poems published in the Miscellanies ; the 
 chief of which are one addressed to King William, and an Account of the English Poets, 
 in an Epistle to Henry Sacheverell. 
 
 His original intention appears to have been to enter the Church, but Charles Mon¬ 
 tague, the Chancellor of the Exchequer (to whom he was introduced by Congreve), 
 advised him to abandon it; and, through the friendship of Lord Somers, he obtained a 
 pension from the Crown, of £300 per annum, which enabled him to indulge his incli¬ 
 nation to travel. 
 
 During his tour in Italy, he wrote his celebrated “ Epistle to Lord Halifax,” his 
 “ Dialogues on Medals,” and the greater part of his “ Cato.” The death of King Wil¬ 
 liam, however, annulling his pension, caused his return to England in 1702. The 
 publication of his Travels, and more especially his “ Campaign,” speedily introduced 
 him into public employment. In 1705 he accompanied Lord Halifax to Hanover, and 
 was shortly after appointed Under Secretary of State. He now produced his “Rosa¬ 
 mond,” a very pleasing composition, intended to unite Nature, Sense, and Harmony, in 
 opposition to the absurdities of the Italian Opera; but, owing to the very inferior charac¬ 
 ter of the accompanying music, it failed to triumph over the infatuation of the Public, 
 and was neglected, if not actually condemned. 
 
 In 1709 Addison went to Ireland, as Secretary to the Marquis of Wharton (Lord 
 Lieutenant), and was made Keeper of the Records of the Kingdom, with an augmented 
 salary, through the interest of the Duchess of Marlborough ; and gained a high reputa¬ 
 tion for unweared assiduity and unblemished integrity in his official capacity. 
 
 It was during his residence in Ireland that Steele (with whom he had contracted a 
 friendship while in the Charter-house), commenced publishing the “ Tatler.” Addison 
 
 (iii) 
 
IV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 quickly discovered the anonymous writer, by a scrap of criticism which he had imparted 
 to Steele, and the consequence was, he soon became a participator in the work. His con¬ 
 tributions were at first only occasional, but after Lord Wharton’s return to England they 
 became more frequent. 
 
 To the “ Tatler” succeeded the “Spectator,” which was at the outset so popular that 
 often 20,000 copies of a number were sold in one day ; and it was not called for exten¬ 
 sively in London and its vicinity merely, but, at a time when readers were compara¬ 
 tively few, and intercourse difficult, it was sought for with avidity in the remotest parts 
 of the Kingdom. 
 
 The papers of Addison are designated by the letters C. L. I. 0., which some have sup¬ 
 posed he adopted as composing the name of the muse Clio ; but Mr. Nichols thinks, 
 rather as being the initials of the places where the papers were written, Chelsea, Lon¬ 
 don, Islington, and the Office. The publication of the “Spectator” began March 1, 
 1711, and continued regularly to the close of the seventh volume: after an interval 
 of about eighteen months, the eighth volume commenced, and terminated December 
 20, 1714. 
 
 In a letter to Edward Wortley Montague, dated July, 1711, Addison says, “I have, 
 within this twelvemonth, lost a place of £2000 per annum, and an estate in the Indies 
 of £14,000.” Nevertheless, he this, year found the means to purchase a pretty large 
 house and estate at Bilton, in Warwickshire. 
 
 In 1713 he produced on the stage his tragedy of “ Cato,” on which his pretensions 
 as a poet are principally founded. Its reception was enthusiastic ; the Whigs applauded 
 what they esteemed a satire on the Tories, and the Tories reiterated the applause, to 
 show the satire was unfelt. It was acted thirty-five successive nights, and Cibber says, 
 “On our first days of acting it, our house was in a manner invested, and entrance de¬ 
 manded at twelve o’clock at noon ; the same continued for three days together.” 
 
 During the run of “ Cato,” the “ Guardian” made its appearance, and Addison en¬ 
 riched it with several very excellent papers. 
 
 On the death of Queen Anne, in 1714, he was appointed Secretary to the Regency ; 
 and his first duty in that office (to announce the vacancy of the throne to the Court of 
 Hanover), is said to have seriously perplexed him : he was so long in selecting phrases, 
 and arranging sentences, that the Lords Justices became impatient, and ordered one of 
 the clerks to state the event; who, resorting to the usual official common-place, accom¬ 
 plished the task without hesitation or difficulty. 
 
 By George I, Addison was appointed a Lord of Trade ; and, upon the breaking out 
 of the Rebellion in 1715, he seized the opportunity of evincing his attachment to the 
 Hanoverian Succession by publishing the “ Freeholder.” 
 
 In 1716 he married the Countess Dowager of Warwick, to whom, it would seem, he 
 had been long attached, but who slighted his addresses until he had risen to con¬ 
 sequence in the State; there is every reason to believe that this union was far from con¬ 
 tributing to his happiness ; and it is also probable that the vexations he experienced in 
 his domestic circle, from the caprice and ill-temper of an ignorant and supercilious 
 woman, led to those habits of occasional intemperance which are said to have hastened 
 his dissolution. 
 
 The year succeeding his marriage he was appointed one of the principal Secretaries 
 of State ; but a consciousness of his inaptitude for affording the administration the neces¬ 
 sary support as a Speaker in the House of Commons, together with a declining state of 
 health, soon induced him to retire with a pension of £1500 a year. 
 
 After his secession from public life, he returned to a “ Treatise on the Evidences of 
 the Christian Religion” (begun many years previously), which he continued, but did 
 not live to complete; and about this time the comedy of the “ Drummer” was performed 
 at Drury Lane Theater; which, although Addison himself never acknowledged it, is well 
 known by internal evidence, and also by the testimony of Steele, to have been his com¬ 
 position. It is likely that the ill-success it met with on the stage prevented him from 
 avowing himself the author. 
 
 An asthmatic disorder, to which he had been subject, terminated in dropsy. On the 
 17th June, 1719, he expired at Holland House, Kensington ; and on the 26th of the 
 same month was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 He left one daughter; to wdiom, on the death of her mother, the estate at Bilton de¬ 
 volved, and who died there unmarried in 1797. 
 
 We refrain from dilating on the virtues and failings of this great man: they are suffi- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 V 
 
 T 
 
 ciently displayed in the eulogy of Tickell, and the satire of Pope. His merits as an 
 author need no other testimony than the emphatic summary of Johnson.—“As a de- 
 scriber of life and manners he must be allowed to stand, perhaps the first, of the first 
 rank. As a Teacher of Wisdom he ma}^ be confidently followed ; all the enchantment 
 of fancy, and all the cogency of argument are employed (by him) to recommend to the 
 reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the Author of his Being. Whoever wishes 
 to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must 
 give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.” 
 
 Richard Steele was born in Dublin, about the year 1675, of English parents. His 
 father was a Counselor, and Secretary to the first Duke of Ormond, by whose patronage 
 his son was, while yet very young, placed in the Charter-house. In 1692 he removed 
 to Merton College, Oxford, where his taste for elegant literature was improved and ex¬ 
 panded, and he obtained considerable celebrity as a scholar among his fellow-collegians. 
 In 1695 he published the “ Funeral Procession,” a poem on the death of Queen Mary. 
 
 He had unfortunately imbibed a predilection for the Army ; and, failing to obtain a 
 commission (his friends refusing him assistance toward his promotion, except in a Civil 
 line), he recklessly entered as a private in the Horse Guards ; and the consequence of 
 this rash step was his being struck out of the will of a wealthy relation in Wexford, who 
 had originally made him his heir. His frankness, vivacity, and wit, soon rendered him 
 a general favorite ; and by the united influence of the officers he became an Ensign of 
 the Guards. In 1701, Lord Cutts, whose secretary he was, procured him a Company 
 in Lord Lucas’s Regiment of Fusileers. 
 
 There is not, perhaps, on record, a more striking instance of a mind strongly imbued 
 with moral and religious feelings, waging for years an unsuccessful war with overbear- 
 ing passions and corrupt habits, than was exhibited in Steele. Plunged in dissipation 
 and intemperance, he was constantly agonized by shame and remorse for his folly, and 
 his waste of time and talent. In these intervals of reviving virtue, he composed, as a 
 manual for his own private use, “ The Christian Hero but it failed to work the de¬ 
 sired reformation, and day after day still continued to be an alternation of debauchery 
 and compunction. He then determined to print his work, impressed with the idea that, 
 when his professions were before the public, he would be compelled to assimilate his 
 practice to them ; but the only result of this experiment was exciting the pity of the 
 worthy, and the derision of the dissolute. At this period he produced his first comedy, 
 “The Funeral,” “with a view,” as he says, “to enliven his character, and repel the 
 sarcasms of those who abused him for his declaration relative to Religion.” In 
 1703 his second successful comedy, “The Tender Husband,” in which he was assisted 
 by Addison, made its appearance. In 1704 he brought forward the “Lying Lover,” 
 a comedy written conformably with the notions of the celebrated Collier, who, in 1698, 
 had raised his voice boldly, and not altogether ineffectually, against the immorality and 
 profaneness of the stage. This play, much to the discomfiture of Steele, was con¬ 
 demned for being too serious and pathetic : and some years after, in allusion to it, he 
 termed himself a “Martyr for the Church ; his play having been damned for its piety.” 
 Probably this disappointment was the cause of his ceasing for eighteen years to write 
 for the stage ; for it was not until 1722 that the “Conscious Lovers” appeared ; which 
 was acted with singular success, and was productive of great fame and profit to him. 
 The King, to whom it was dedicated, sent him a purse of five hundred pounds. 
 
 It was shortly after the condemnation of the “Lying Lover,” that Steele formed the 
 happy project of writing the “ Tatler,” in which he was joined by Addison ; a most 
 important auxiliary, who contributed greatly to the popularity and utility of the work. 
 It was commenced April 12, 1709, published thrice a week, and concluded Jan. 2, 1710. 
 
 Two months only had elapsed from the close of the “ Tatler,” when the “ Spectator” 
 appeared ; which, from the confidence of the writers in their mental resources, was 
 published daily to the end of the seventh volume. The eighth, added after a consider¬ 
 able interval, was published thrice a week. 
 
 “ Though the Essays of Steele,” says Dr. Drake, “have been in general esteemed 
 inferior, and perhaps not unjustly so, to the admirable compositions of Addison, they 
 will be found, if attentively read, and the comparison be withdrawn, to possess much 
 positive and sterling merit. From a predilection for the style and manner of Addison, 
 they have been greatly and undeservedly neglected; whereas, had they been published 
 separately, their beauties, which are now somewhat eclipsed by the neighborhood of 
 
VI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 superior charms, would have been immediately discovered, and the admiration which 
 they should excite, without hesitation bestowed. They display a minute knowledge of 
 mankind, are written with great spirit and vivacity, and breathe the purest morality, 
 and the most engaging benevolence and candor/’ On March 12, 1713, between the 
 close of the seventh, and commencement of the eighth, volume of the “ Spectator,” 
 came out the first number of the “Guardian,” which was continued daily to the first 
 of the following October. 
 
 The “ Guardian” terminated abruptly, in consequence of Steele becoming immersed 
 in politics. Queen Anne, although attached to the principles of the Tories, had been 
 completely in the power of the Whigs ; but, toward the close of her life, the injudicious 
 prosecution of Sacheverell by Lord Godolphin afforded her an opportunity of emanci¬ 
 pating herself from their control, of which she readily availed herself; and in 1710 the 
 Whigs were dismissed, and Harley, afterward Earl of Oxford, was appointed Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer, and Lord High Treasurer. 
 
 Steele, disappointed of promotion by the death of King William, had been recom¬ 
 mended by Addison to the patronage of the leaders of the Whigs, the Earls of Halifax 
 and Sunderland, who, in the first instance, made him Gazetteer (a post which he ludi¬ 
 crously styled that of the lowest minister of state, and in which he took credit to him¬ 
 self “for never deviating from the rule observed by all Ministries ; that of keeping the 
 Gazette very innocent and very insipid”); and afterward a Commissioner of Stamps. 
 
 The Tory Ministry continued him in these offices, Harley, probably, hoping to win 
 him over to his interest; and Steele prudently resolved to be silent on political matters : 
 a resolution to which for some time he adhered. 
 
 But the suspicion that the treaty of peace with France, proclaimed May 5, 1713, in¬ 
 cluded secret articles, to the effect that on the Queen’s death the Act of Settlement 
 should be abolished, and the Pretender placed on the throne, spread intense alarm 
 among the Whigs, and Steele, rejecting all personal and interested considerations, in a 
 very spirited letter to the Prime Minister resigned his Commissionership, and boldly 
 stood forward as the champion of the party whose principles he entertained. He was 
 returned Member of Parliament for Stockbridge ; and in the “ Englishman,” and various 
 occasional publications, combated the arguments, reprobated the principles, and re¬ 
 pelled the virulence and abuse of Swift, Bolingbroke, and Atterbury. While yet en¬ 
 gaged with the “ Englishman,” he printed a pamphlet entitled the Crisis ;” which, 
 although it had been submitted to the judgment and reversion of Addison and Hoadly, 
 was declared by the House of Commons “a scandalous and seditious libel,” and Steele 
 was expelled the House. Soon after his expulsion he published Proposals for a History 
 of the Duke of Marlborough, which, however, he never executed, and in 1714 the 
 “Lover,” a paper written in imitation of the “ Tatler,” and the “ Reader,” in opposi¬ 
 tion to the “ Examiner;” in both of which he was assisted by Addison. Steele’s produc¬ 
 tions at this period were very numerous, they all evince strong attachment to the 
 constitution, and the Protestant Establishment of the Kingdom, and are characterized 
 by a candor and urbanity widely at variance with the bitter and violent tone of his lite¬ 
 rary antagonists. 
 
 The accession of George I, produced an alteration in his circumstances, which, there 
 is reason to believe, had for a length of time been straitened and embarrassed. He was 
 made Surveyor of the Royal Stables at Hampton Court, and placed in the Commission 
 of the Peace for the county of Middlesex ; and upon his application, the License of 
 Drury Lane Theater, which had expired on the Queen’s death, was renewed. For the 
 service thus rendered them, the managers agreed that his name should be inserted in 
 the License, and that he should be allowed £700 per annum. 
 
 In 1715 Steele took his seat for Boroughbridge, in the first parliament of George I; 
 and, upon the presentation of an address, received the honor of Knighthood. On this 
 occasion he entertained upward of two hundred gentlemen and ladies at his house, with 
 a splendid collation, succeeded by dances, singing, and recitations. It is to be regretted 
 that in this season of his triumph he did not observe that forbearance which he evinced 
 at a time when its absence would have been more excusable. He now did not hesitate 
 to revile as traitors his former oppressors and calumniators, who were crushed, and 
 trembling under impeachment. He re-published his tracts against the late ministry 
 under the title of his “Political Writings,” with his “Apology” (now printed for the 
 first time), and also a “Letter from the Earl of Mar to the King,” the “Town Talk,” 
 the “Tea Table,” and “Chit Chat.” 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 vu 
 
 In August 1715, lie received from Sir Robert Walpole £500 for special services, and 
 in 1717, upon the suppression of the Rebellion, was sent into Scotland as one of the 
 Commissioners for the forfeited estates. 
 
 On his return to England he conceived a project for bringing “live salmon” from the 
 coast of Ireland to London, by means of a fish-pool, viz: a well-boat, supplying the fish 
 with a continual stream of fresh water; and he obtained a patent in June 1718. In 
 spite of the ridicule he encountered, at considerable expense, he, in conjunction with a 
 Mr. Gilmore, constructed a vessel for the purpose of testing the utility of his invention; 
 but the fish arrived so bruised, from beating against the sides of the vessel, as to be 
 totally unfit for use. In the following year his attachment to the popular cause led him 
 to attack the Peerage Bill; which (by fixing permanently the number of Peers, and 
 restraining new creations except upon an old family becoming extinct) would have in¬ 
 troduced a complete Aristocracy. This he did in the “ Plebeian,” and was answered by 
 Addison in the “ Old Whig.” Steele replied, avoiding all personalities: but Addison 
 so far forgot himself as to adopt an acrimonious and contemptuous tone, designating his 
 old. friend and co-adjutor as “Little Dicky, whose trade it was to write Pamphlets.” 
 Steele magnanimously contented himself with conveying a reproof through the medium 
 of a quotation from “ Cato.” The “ Peerage Bill” was lost in the House of Commons, 
 and the consequence to Steele, whose writings were considered to have been in a great 
 measure the cause, was the revocation of his Patent as “ Governor of the Royal Company 
 of Comedians;” by which he was a loser, according to his own estimate, of £9800. 
 
 The publication of the “ Theater,” a periodical paper, in vindication of himself and 
 his brother managers, exposed him to a series of brutal attacks from John Dennis, the 
 critic ; who was, nevertheless, under deep obligation to him for very important acts of 
 friendship. In 1720, although oppressed by poverty, and its attendant evils, he entered 
 with lively interest into the question of the South Sea Scheme, which he opposed most 
 vigorously in the “Theater,” and also in two pamphlets printed in the month of Feb¬ 
 ruary in that year. 
 
 In 1721 the return to power of his friend and patron Walpole restored him to his 
 office at Drury Lane, and he brought out there his comedy the “Conscious Lovers.” 
 
 It is lamentable to know that all the distresses and difficulties he experienced in his 
 many reverses of fortune had failed to teach him prudence. With an ample income 
 from the Theater, and large profits from his play, his profusion was such that scarcely 
 more than a year had elapsed before he was obliged to sell his share in the patent, to 
 relieve his emergencies. He afterward commenced a law-suit with the managers, which 
 lasted three years, and was finally determined against him. There is little doubt that 
 the retrospect of his past improvidence and folly, by agitating him with remorse and 
 sorrow, produced a serious effect upon his constitution. Early in 1726 he was seized 
 with a paralytic stroke, which deprived him of the free enjoyment of his intellectual 
 faculties; and, surrendering his property to his creditors, he retired, first to Hereford, 
 and thence into Wales : where (by the indulgence of the Mortgagee), he took up his 
 residence at his seat near Carmarthen. In this seclusion, supported by the benevolence 
 of his creditors, he lingered for nearly two years. He died Sept. 2’, 1729. 
 
 His first wife was a native of Barbadoes, where her brother was a wealthy planter. 
 On his death Sir Richard Steele came into the possession of all his property. By her 
 he had no issue. His second wife was the daughter of Jonathan Scurlock, Esq., of 
 Llangunnon, in Carmarthenshire : she brought him an estate of nearly £400 per annum. 
 To this lady he was most strongly attached, and his epistolary correspondence bears 
 ample testimony to his domestic virtues and conjugal affection. 
 
 Lady Steele died in 1718, aged 40 years, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. She 
 gave birth to four children, two of whom died in infancy; a son, Eugene, of consump¬ 
 tion, in his youth ; and a daughter, Elizabeth, married in 1731 to John (afterward 
 Baron) Trevor, of Bromham. Sir Richard Steele left also a natural daughter, who 
 went by the name of Miss Ouseley. At one time he had purposed uniting her to the ill- 
 fated Savage ; but she ultimately married Mr. Aynston, of Amely, near Hereford. 
 
 The name of Steele ranks deservedly high in the literature of his country; and his 
 amiable character (so fairly developed by the late venerable John Nicholls), will always 
 command the esteem of his readers: nor will their strongest sympathy be denied to his 
 errors, his distresses, and his melancholy end :—the consequence of the want of the 
 one virtue, Prudence, averting the reward due to the possession and exercise of many 
 others. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 • • • 
 vm 
 
 Eustace Budgell was born in 1685. His father was Gilbert Budgell, D. D., and 
 his mother, the daughter of Dr. Gulston, Bishop of Bristol, and sister to the wife of 
 Dean Addison. He became a member of Christ-Church College, Oxford, in 1700, and 
 remained there some years ; quitting, at length, by his father’s wish, to be entered of 
 the Inner Temple. His taste for elegant literature, however, prevented his adopting 
 the profession of the Law; and Addison, receiving him on the footing of a near rela¬ 
 tion, appointed him a Clerk in his office, when he accompanied the Lord Lieutenant 
 Wharton to Ireland, as his Secretary. In April, 1710, Budgell left London for Dub¬ 
 lin : he was then about twenty-five years of age, well versed in the Classics, and 
 familiar with French and Italian ; of fashionable exterior, and engaging manners, but 
 irritable, impetuous, and vain. He so completely acquired the esteem and affection of 
 Addison that during his stay in Ireland they constantly lodged and associated together. 
 His attention to his official duties was strict, and his industry great; his chief anxiety 
 was to obtain celebrity as an author: he gave considerable assistance to the “Tatler,” 
 and “ Spectator,” furnished a humorous epilogue (which some have since ascribed to 
 Addison), for the “Distressed Mother,” and in 1714 published a translation of the 
 “Characters of Theophrastus.” His father died in 1711, leaving him an annual in¬ 
 come of £950; which, although somewhat encumbered by debt, was still more than 
 sufficient to fix him in respectable independence. On the accession of George I, he was 
 appointed Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland, and Deputy Clerk to the Council; 
 he also was chosen a Member of the Irish Parliament, and Honorary Bencher of the 
 Dublin Inns of Court. On the Rebellion breaking out he was intrusted with the super¬ 
 intendence of the embarkation of troops for Scotland, and he acquitted himself with 
 such ability and disinterestedness as to gain very distinguished marks of approbation. 
 In 1717, when Addison became principal Secretary of State, he appointed Budgell 
 Accountant and Comptroller General of the Irish Revenue, from which post he derived 
 an income of nearly £400 per annum. 
 
 At this juncture, while standing high in the estimation of all as a man of indepen¬ 
 dence, talents, and integrity, he suffered his vanity and angry passions to master his 
 better sense, and laid the train of those events which terminated so disgracefully and 
 fatally for him. 
 
 The Duke of Bolton, appointed Lord Lieutenant in 1718, brought with him to Ireland 
 a Mr. Edward Webster, whom he made Chief Secretary and a Privy Counselor. Bud¬ 
 gell, full of his own importance, was disgusted at the preference shown by the Duke 
 for Webster, and affected on all occasions to treat him with the greatest contempt. 
 Webster was not long in retaliating; and, among other things, insisted upon quartering 
 one of his friends upon Budgell, which he indignantly resisted ; and, not content with 
 overwhelming his adversary with the most violent abuse, he indiscreetly implicated the 
 Duke in the controversy, and openly charged him with folly and imbecility. The con¬ 
 sequences were, of course, his removal from office, and his being obliged to quit Ireland 
 immediately, to avoid the storm he had so wantonly raised. 
 
 On his arrival in England, Addison obtained for him a promise of the patronage of 
 the Earl of Sunderland, which he forfeited by writing a pamphlet against the Peerage 
 Bill; and shortly after, the death of Addison annihilated all his prospects of Ministerial 
 preferment. 
 
 In 1719, he traveled through part of France, Flanders, Brabant, and Holland; and 
 finally, joining the court at Hanover, returned with the Royal Suite to England. His 
 tour failed to allay the irritation of his mind, which had become, in the opinion of his 
 friends, an actual delirium. Regardless of the advantages he already possessed in a 
 creditable name, and an independent fortune, his restless ambition spurred him forward 
 in the vain pursuit of Office under Government, and when, at length, from repeated re¬ 
 jections, he became sensible of the impossibility of his succeeding, drove him into 
 the still more desperate scheme of Gambling in the Stocks. The South Sea Bubble at 
 this time (1720) presented to the rash and infatuated effectual means of speedy ruin, 
 and Budgell in a very short time lost, it is said, £20,000. The Duke of Portland, a 
 fellow-sufferer, who had just been nominated to the Governorship of Jamaica, gener¬ 
 ously offered to take Budgell as his Secretary : but previously to embarking the Duke 
 was visited by one of the Ministers, who told him “that he might take any man in 
 England except Mr. Budgell, but that he must not take him.” 
 
 In this instance Budgell, certainly, was treated with injustice and cruelty. His rage 
 knew no bounds ; and, with a view to vindicate and avenge himself, he spent the 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IX 
 
 remainder of his fortune (£5000), in fruitless attempts to obtain a seat in Parliament. 
 Under the pressure of poverty, his moral virtues and energies seem to have entirely de¬ 
 serted him ; he now became a pamphleteer, indiscriminately virulent and abusive, and 
 did not hesitate to use every possible artifice to prey upon and plunder his friends and 
 relations. 
 
 In 1727 the Duchess Dowager of Marlborough, from hatred to the existing govern¬ 
 ment, assisted him by a present of £1000, in a last attempt to get into Parliament. He 
 failed, and again resorting to his pen for subsistence, came forward as the advocate of 
 Infidelity, by taking part in the publication of “ Tindal’s Christianity, as old as the Crea¬ 
 tion.” He also about this time was one of the conductors of the “ Craftsman,” wrote 
 letters, poems, and pamphlets, upon political and temporary subjects, and a work of 
 some value entitled, “ Memoirs of the Life and Character of the late Earl of Orrery, and 
 of the family of the Boyles.” Toward the end of the year 1732 he commenced a 
 weekly magazine called the “ Bee,” which extended to one hundred Numbers. 
 
 During the publication of the “ Bee,” Dr. Matthew Tindal died, and great astonish¬ 
 ment was created by the production of a Will, in which, to the exclusion of a favorite 
 nephew, whom he had always declared should be his heir, he bequeathed £2100 (nearly 
 his whole property), to Budgell. It was soon the general opinion that the documents 
 had been fabricated by Budgell, and Mr. Nicholas Tindal, the nephew, instituting a 
 legal inquiry into its authenticity, it was set aside, and Budgell stamped with indelible 
 disgrace. He was attacked from all quarters in the papers of the day ; and, judging 
 some very severe animadversions in the “ Grub-street Journal” to be written by Pope, 
 he retorted in one of the numbers of the “ Bee” with such scurrility, that the Poet was 
 induced to immortalize him and his crime, in an epigrammatic couplet of the Prologue 
 to his Satires: 
 
 u Let Budgell charge low Grub-street on my quill, 
 
 And write whate’er he please,—except my Will.” 
 
 Harassed and oppressed by poverty and infamy, and unsupported by the consolations 
 of religion, Budgell determined on self destruction. On the 4th of May, 1737, having 
 filled his pockets with stones, he hired a boat, and threw himself from it, as it passed 
 under London Bridge, into the Thames. He had left on his bureau a slip of paper, with 
 this sentence written upon it, “What Cato did, and Addison approved, cannot be 
 wrong;” a strange perversion of the sentiments expressed by Addison in his Tragedy, 
 regarding suicide. The fate of this wretched man presents an awful lesson to those 
 who, blinded by self-importance, can brook nothing that runs counter to their own 
 notions and desires ; and who, to satiate hatred and revenge, are tempted to hazard 
 wealth, fame, and happiness. 
 
 • 
 
 John Hughes was born at Marlborough, on January 20, 1677. His father was a 
 citizen of London, and his mother the daughter of Isaac Burgess, Esq., of Wiltshire. 
 Being of a weakly constitution, he was placed at a private academy conducted by Mr. 
 Thomas Rowe, a dissenting minister, where he had for school-fellows, Dr. Isaac Watts, 
 and Mr. Samuel Say. He made rapid progress in his classical studies, evincing a deci¬ 
 ded partiality for Music and Poetry. While yet very young, he obtained a situation in 
 the Ordnance Office, and he acted as Secretary to several Commissions for the purchase 
 of land for the Royal Docks at Portsmouth and Chatham. He employed his leisure in 
 gaining a knowledge of the French and Italian Languages, and in the cultivation of his 
 taste for poetry. He paraphrased one of Horace’s Odes, formed the plan of a Tragedy, 
 and in 1697 published a “ Poem on the Peace of Ryswic.” His Poems, although often 
 elegant and harmonious, and in their day popular (in part, probably, from their being 
 united to the admirable music of Purcell, Pepusch, and Handel), are defective in the 
 imagination, spirit, and brilliancy, so essential to excellence in lyric poetry. His princi¬ 
 pal productions are “An Ode on Music,” “Six Cantatas,” “ Calypso and Telemachus,” 
 an Opera, performed at the King’s Theater in 1712, with great applause, and his Tra¬ 
 gedy “ The Siege of Damascus.” This play, which continued occasionally to re-visit 
 the stage to the end of the last century, is, perhaps, the only one of his writings enti¬ 
 tling him to the name of Poet. Addison, it would seem, thought highly of his drama¬ 
 tic powers: he requested Hughes to write a fifth act for his “ Cato,” which had lain by 
 unfinished for several years. Hughes began the task, but was prevented from proceed¬ 
 ing by Addison suddenly assuming it himself. 
 
 The prose of Hughes is of a superior order to his poetry : his contributions to the 
 
X 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 “Tatler,” “ Spectator,’’ and Guardian;’’ his Essays “ On the Pleasure of being De¬ 
 ceived,” and “ On the Properties of Style “ Two Dialogues of the Dead “Charon, 
 a Vision his Prefaces to a translation of “ Boccalini,” “ Kennett’s History of Eng¬ 
 land,” and the “Lay Monastery;” and his “Discourse on Allegorical Poetry;” are all 
 valuable for the perspicuity, grace, learning, and sense, which they display. 
 
 He published an edition of the Works of Spenser, which, until the appearance of the 
 recent more important and elaborate edition of Todd, attached mucb reputation to his 
 character as an Editor. 
 
 In addition to the works already mentioned, he translated Ovid’s “ Pyramus and 
 Thisbe,” the tenth book of Lucan’s “Pharsalia,” and some fragments from Orpheus, 
 Pindar, and Euripides; also, in prose, Fontenelle’s “Dialogues of the Dead,” and a 
 “ Discourse concerning the Ancients and Moderns,” the “ Misanthrope” of Moliere, 
 Vertot’s “History of the Revolution of Portugal,” and the “Letters of Abelard and 
 Heloise.” 
 
 His official employment and literary labors, notwithstanding his expenses and desires 
 were singularly moderate, had failed to place him in easy circumstances ; until the ac¬ 
 cession of George I, when Lord Cowper, on resuming the Chancellorship, made Hughes 
 Secretary to the Commissioners of the Peace, a very profitable appointment, in which 
 he was continued by Lord Macclesfield, upon Cowper’s resignation. But he was des¬ 
 tined to enjoy affluence but for a very short period : his appointment took place in 1717, 
 his health being then very infirm, and on February 17, 1719-20, he expired of pulmo¬ 
 nary consumption, the night his “ Siege of Damascus ” was brought on the stage. He 
 had dedicated his Tragedy to Lord Cowper only ten days previous, and he had just 
 lived to receive the intelligence of its success. 
 
 Sir Richard Steele has described him with all the ardor of friendship, and there is no 
 reason to doubt the accuracy of his description. 
 
 “Mr. Hughes could hardly ever be said to have enjoyed health : if those who are 
 sparing of giving praise to any virtue without extenuation of it, should say that his 
 youth was chastised into the severity, and preserved in the innocence, for which he was 
 conspicuous, from the infirmity of his constitution, they will be under new difficulty 
 when they hear that he had none of those faults to which an ill state of health ordi¬ 
 narily subjects the rest of mankind. His incapacity for more frolicsome diversions never 
 made him peevish or sour to those whom he saw in them ; but his humanity was such 
 that he could partake of those pleasures he beheld others enjoy, without repining that 
 he himself could not join in them. His intervals of ease were employed in drawing, 
 designing, or else in music and poetry ; for he had not only a taste, but an ability of 
 performance to a great excellence, in those arts which entertain the mind within the 
 rules of the severest morality, and the strictest dictates of religion. He did not seem to 
 wish for more than he possessed, even as to his health, but to contemn sensuality as a 
 sober man does drunkenness; he was so far from envying, that he pitied the jollities that 
 were enjoyed by a more happy constitution. He could converse with the most 
 sprightly without peevishness, and sickness itself had no other effect upon him than to 
 make him look upon all violent pleasures as evils he had escaped without the trouble 
 of avoiding.” 
 
 Henry Grove* was born on the 4th of January, 1683, at Taunton, Somerset. He was 
 descended from families of high respectability in Wiltshire and Devonshire, conspicuous 
 for their attachment to the cause of religious freedom. His parents early inculcated 
 in him an ardent love of religion, and bestowed on him the valuable addition of a classi¬ 
 cal education. At the age of fourteen he entered upon a course of academical study 
 under the Rev. Mr. Warren, of Taunton; and, on its conclusion, removed to London to 
 prosecute his literary career under his near relation, the Rev. Thomas Rowe. Here he 
 acquired a thorough acquaintance with the systems of Descartes and Newton, and a 
 knowledge of the Hebrew Language, which enabled him to peruse the Old Testament 
 in the original; he likewise contracted a friendship with Dr. Watts, which continued 
 during his life. 
 
 After two years’ residence in London he returned home, and, at the age of twenty - 
 two, became a preacher. For this office he was well qualified, and he soon obtained 
 great popularity:—attracting the notice of Mrs. Singer (afterward Mrs. Rowe), she ex¬ 
 pressed her friendship and esteem for him by addressing to him, “An Ode on Death.” 
 
 In 1706, at the age of twenty-three (being then married), he was nominated to suc- 
 
 i 
 
PREFACE. z j 
 
 ceed Mr. "W arren, as l titor to the Academy at Taunton, in conjunction with two other 
 gentlemen of established reputation. Ilis departments were Ethics and Pneumatolooy. 
 He removed to Taunton in order to fulfill the duties of this appointment, and adopted 
 two small congregations in the neighborhood, to whom, for eighteen years, he preached 
 upon a salary of £20 per annum. 
 
 His auditors were tew, and probably of the lower class; nevertheless, his sermons 
 were carefully composed, and emphatically delivered, and, as one of his biographers 
 says, “were adapted to the improvement of the meanest understanding, while they 
 were calculated to please and edify the most polite and judicious hearers.” 
 
 Mr. Grove’s first published production was “An Essay on the regulation of Diver¬ 
 sions,” written for his pupils, in 1708. He entered into a controversy with Dr. Clarke, 
 upon a deduction propounded in the Doctor’s “ Discourse on the Being and Attributes 
 of God;” which, though it failed to convince either party, terminated in (what is not 
 very usual with disputants) mutual expressions of respect and good-will. In 1714 his 
 first paper in the “Spectator” appeared; and in 1718 he published “An Essay toward 
 a Demonstration of the Soul’s Immateriality.” The eloquence he displayed in the pulpit 
 excited great admiration among the Dissenters, and he received many invitations from 
 populous and important places, which his love for retirement induced him to decline. 
 He wisely abstained from participating in the disputes relative to the doctrine of the 
 Trinity, which at that time engendered so much heat and animosity among his brethren. 
 
 In 1723 he published “A Discourse on Secret Prayer, in several Sermons;” a pro¬ 
 duction highly valuable for its powerful argument and persuasive energy. Two years 
 after, on the death of Mr. James, his associate in the Academy, he undertook his duties 
 as Divinity Tutor, and succeeded to his pastoral charge at Fulwood, near Taunton. 
 
 Indefatigable both in public and in private, he continued to give the world Sermons, 
 and various other productions, all useful and meritorious, until the year 1736; when 
 the loss of his wife (who had lingered under a most distressing nervous disorder, at¬ 
 tended with alienation of mind), though borne with fortitude and resignation, deeply 
 affected his health and spirits. He survived her little more than a year, dying of fever 
 on the 27th of February, 1737-8. 
 
 His death was universally lamented by all who knew him ; and one of his congrega¬ 
 tion thus expressed himself. “ Our sorrow for Mr. Grove’s sickness was not like our 
 concern for other friends when dying,^hom we pity and lament; but a sorrow arising 
 as from the apprehension of the removal of one of the higher order of beings who had 
 condescended to live on earth for a while to teach us the way to heaven, and was now 
 about to return to his native place.” 
 
 Alexander Pope was born m Lombard-street, London, on May 22,* 1688. His 
 parents were Roman Catholics: his father retired from his business of a Linen-draper, 
 with a fortune of £20,000 ; his mother was the daughter of William Turner, Esq., of 
 York. Two of her brothers died in the service of Charles I, and a third was a General 
 in the Spanish Army.—To the high respectability of his family connections he alludes 
 with complacency in the “Prologue to his Satires:”— 
 
 “ Of gentle blood (part shed in honor’s cause), 
 
 Each Parent sprung.” 
 
 When eight years of age he was placed under the tuition of Taverner, a priest, who 
 taught him the rudiments of the Greek and Latin Languages at the same time. After 
 having made considerable progress, he was sent to a Catholic Academy at Twyford, 
 near Winchester; where, in consequence of his writing a lampoon on his master, he did 
 not remain long, but. was removed to a school near Hyde Park. By this time he had 
 read with great delight “Ogilby’s Homer,” and “Sandys’s Ovid;” and, having acquired 
 a partiality for theatrical performances, had arranged a part of the “Iliad” as a drama, 
 and acted it in conjunction with his school-fellows. He was about twelve years old 
 when his father left London, and took up his residence at Binfield, adjoining Windsor 
 Forest, taking his son with him, for whom a second private tutor was procured. But 
 Pope was soon sensible that his improvement was by no means equal to his aspirations; 
 and, throwing off all restraint, he formed for himself a plan of study, and persevered 
 in it with great diligence. He read every book that came in his way with avidity, 
 particularly Poetry, and speedily became intimate with, and capable of appreciating, 
 the writings of the most eminent of his predecessors. He preferred Dryden before all 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xii 
 
 others, and made him his model; and his enthusiastic admiration of him was such that 
 he persuaded a friend to take him to Button’s Coffee-house, that he might, even though 
 as a stranger, have the gratification of beholding that illustrious man. “How proud,” 
 it has been observed, “ must Dryden have felt, could he have known the value of the 
 homage thus paid him !” 
 
 Destined to neither Trade nor Profession, Pope had now full opportunity of improv¬ 
 ing and maturing his genius, which was already rapidly developing itself. He had, at 
 twelve years of age, written “An Ode to Solitude two years afterward he translated 
 the first book of Statius’s “Thebais,” and Ovid’s “Epistle of Sappho to Phaonand 
 had modernized Chaucer’s “January and May,” and the “Prologue to the Wife of 
 Bath’s Tale.” These were followed by his “Pastorals,” which were not, however, 
 published until 1709. His “Essay on Criticism,” was written in 1709, and published in 
 1711:—it was advertised in No. G5 of the “Spectator.” In 1712 he contributed to the 
 “Spectator” his magnificent Poem, “The Messiah;” which is, perhaps, the only 
 instance that can be referred to wherein the sublimity of the Prophetic Writings has 
 been heightened, rather than debased, by modern transfusion. The “ Elegy on the 
 death of an Unfortunate Lady,” is said to have originated in circumstances of deep 
 interest to the Poet:— a lady named Withinbury, amiable and beautiful in feature, but, 
 like himself, deformed in person, had conceived a strong affection for him ; her Guardian 
 considering such a union degrading, forcibly carried her abroad, and placed her in 
 a convent; where, abandoning herself to despair, she put an end to her life. 
 
 The “Rape of the Lock,” in two cantos, was published in 1711 ; it then possessed 
 none of that exquisite machinery which now adorns and constitutes it the most perfect 
 and fascinating of imaginative poems. In its original form, Addison declared it to be 
 “ Merum Saland strenuously endeavored to deter Pope from running a risk of 
 deteriorating its excellence by introducing the Gabalisian Mythology of Sylphs and 
 Gnomes. This advice Pope fortunately rejected ; and in 1712 the Poem was published 
 as it is now read and admired, astonishing and delighting the Public, and consummat¬ 
 ing the fame of the Author’as one of the first Poets of this or any other country. In 
 the same year the “Temple of Fame,” founded on Chaucer’s “ Vision,” was printed; 
 and soon after, “ Windsor Forest,” the first portion of which had been written nine 
 }mars previously. Pope also wrote several papers in the “ Guardian ;” the most inge¬ 
 nious are those in which he draws, with inimitable gravity, an ironical comparison 
 between his own “ Pastorals,” and those of Ambrose Phillips. So well did he succeed 
 in vailing his satire that Steele was deceived, and hesitated to give the papers insertion, 
 out of tenderness to Pope himself, whom he judged hardly dealt by in them ; but Addi¬ 
 son detected the real author and his aim, and published them. 
 
 The arbitrary seclusion of the heroine of his “ Elegy” probably influenced Pope’s 
 choice of a subject in his “ Eloisa to Abelard ;” however that may be, this Poem, in 
 intense feeling and impressive scenery, and in highly-wrought contrast of voluptuous 
 passion and superstitious devotion, stands without a parallel; and, when viewed at the 
 same time with the “ Rape of the Lock,” proves that, with equal power and grace, he 
 could agitate and overwhelm, or soothe and fascinate, the human mind, at his pleasure. 
 Pope had now established his reputation; and, finding the allowance he received from 
 his father inadequate to his expenses, he resolved to try to make his talents available 
 likewise, for the establishment of his fortune. His religion precluded him from every 
 Civil employment; and his father, with a Jacobinical distrust of the Government Secu¬ 
 rities, had been living on his principal, which was rapidly decreasing. He probably, 
 therefore, saw that, while yet in the zenith of his popularity, it behooved him to make a 
 grand effort to fix himself in independence ; and he succeeded. He issued Proposals 
 for a translation of the “ Iliad” of Homer, in six volumes, quarto, at six guineas a 
 copy, and obtained subscriptions for 650 copies, which Lintot the Bookseller delivered 
 at his own expense, and gave him £1200 additional for the copyright. By this arrange¬ 
 ment Pope cleared £5320. 45., and very prudently invested the major part of it in the 
 purchase of annuities, and the remainder in that of the since celebrated house at Twick¬ 
 enham ; to which he immediately removed, having persuaded his father to sell the pro¬ 
 perty at Binfield, and accompany him. The translation of the “ Iliad” was begun in 
 1712 ; the first four books were published in 1715, and the work was completed in 1718. 
 Dr. Johnson says, “It is certainly the noblest version of poetry which the world has 
 ever seen ; and its publication must therefore be considered as one of the great events 
 in the annals of learning.” 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Xlll 
 
 Pope had entertained a sincere respect and friendship for Addison ; he had written 
 the “Prologue” to his “ Oato had outrageously attacked Dennis for his “ horse play” 
 criticism on that Tragedy ; and had made the “ Dialogue on Medals” the subject of a 
 very laudatory epistle. Nevertheless, from the publication of the Proposals for the 
 “Iliad,” Addison appears to have cherished a dislike to Pope, which the latter soon 
 became conscious of, and reciprocated ; and although Jervas the Painter, and Steele 
 (who procured an interview between them), exerted themselves to the utmost to effect 
 a reconciliation, all their endeavors failed, and the parties separated in mutual disgust. 
 Immediately after the appearance of the first volume of Pope’s “ Iliad,” a rival version 
 of the first book was published with the name of Tickell: this, concurrent circumstances 
 convinced Pope, was the work of Addison himself; and (according to Spence), finding 
 that Phillips and Gildon were receiving encouragement and reward from Addison, for 
 disparaging and abusing him in the Coffee-houses, and in their writings, he wrote to 
 Addison, stating that he was aware of his proceedings, and that, if he retorted, he 
 should, at the same time that he exposed his faults, fairly allow his good qualities ; 
 inclosing him the first sketch of what has been called his “ Satire on Addison.” It 
 has been much the fashion to exalt the character of Addison to the disadvantage of 
 Pope, in this affair; but it is pretty clear that Addison was the aggressor in the first 
 instance, and did not, throughout, evince the manly candor displayed by Pope ; and 
 the sincerity of Pope’s conviction that he had received unmerited ill-treatment is suffi¬ 
 ciently proved by the pains he took in correcting and finishing the Verses, and his per¬ 
 sisting in publishing them for his own vindication. 
 
 In 1717 his father died, in his seventy-fifth year,—in 1721 he published an edition 
 of “ Shakspeare,” which was attacked with insolent severity by Theobald, in his 
 “ Shakspeare Restored.” Shortly after the completion of the “Iliad,” he undertook 
 (assisted by Broome and Fenton) a translation of the “ Odyssey,” of which he fur¬ 
 nished twelve books, and realized a considerable sum, after paying his associates for 
 their labors. In 1723 he appeared before the House of Lords at the trial of Atterbury, 
 to give evidence as to the Bishop’s domestic life and occupations: and about the same 
 time, met with an accident which very nearly proved fatal ; for, being overturned in a 
 coach into the water, he was with much difficulty extricated by the driver, when at the 
 point of suffocation. In 1727 he joined Swift in three volumes of “ Miscellanies,” in 
 which he inserted the “ Memoirs of P. P., Parish Clerk,” in ridicule of “ Burnet’s His¬ 
 tory of his own Time and “ The art of Sinking in Poetry.” In 1728, he printed the 
 “Dunciad;” installing Theobald as the hero, and introduced the whole herd of critics 
 and poetasters, who, through malevolence, or for hire, had for some years continued 
 to exert themselves in depreciating and abusing him. This Poem, as might have been 
 expected, engaged all the lower grades of the literary world in active hostility against 
 him ; but, elated with the triumph he had achieved, he for a long time remained cal¬ 
 lous to their virulence. In 1731 appeared his poem on “ Taste,” and he incurred 
 very general blame for his wanton and unprovoked attack upon the harmless foibles of 
 the Duke of Chandos ; a nobleman of an upright character, and a most kind heart: he 
 endeavored to exculpate himself, but ineffectually ; and the odium of having causelessly 
 given pain to a worthy man unfortunately still attaches to his memory. In the follow¬ 
 ing year he lost his friend Gay ; and the year after that, his mother died, having 
 attained to the great age of ninety-three. Dr. Johnson, in alluding to this event, says, 
 “ The filial piety of Pope was in the highest degree amiable and exemplary ; his parents 
 had the happiness of living till he was at the summit of poetical reputation, till he was 
 at ease in his fortune, and without a rival in his fame, and found no diminution of his 
 respect and tenderness. Whatever was his pride, to them he was obedient; and what¬ 
 ever was his irritability, to them he was gentle. Life has, among its soothing and quiet 
 comforts, few things better to give than such a son. 
 
 He has, himself, beautifully commemorated his reverence and affection for his mother, 
 in the Prologue to his “ Satires— 
 
 “ Me, let the tender office long engage, 
 
 To rock the cradle of reposing age, 
 
 With lenient arts extend a mother’s breath, 
 
 Make languor smile, and smooth the bed of death, 
 
 Explore the thought, explain the asking eye, 
 
 And keep awhile one parent from the sky.” 
 
 Between 1730 and 1740 he published two other “Moral Essays,” “Imitations of 
 Horace,” a modernized version of the “Satires of Dr. Donne,” and the “Essay on 
 
XIV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Man he also gave to the world a quarto volume of letters between himself and some 
 of his friends. It is supposed that he was anxious to introduce this Correspondence to 
 the Public, and that he contrived, by a maneuver, to place a portion of it in the hands 
 of Curll, the Bookseller, that his publishing it might afford a pretext for issuing a 
 genuine edition. 
 
 In the composition of the “Essay on Man/’ his imperfect acquaintance with Theology 
 and Metaphysics had, unfortunately, thrown him under the guidance of Lord Boling- 
 broke ; a man whom he highly esteemed, of great genius, learned and acute, but an 
 Infidel. The consequence was that, while intent upon inculcating religious and moral 
 precepts, he was unwittingly promulgating the dogmas of the Fatalist and the Theist. 
 This brought upon him a severe castigation from Crousaz, a Swiss Professor of some 
 note, who openly denounced the Poem as tending ( to set aside Revelation, and to estab¬ 
 lish a system of Natural Religion. In the dilemma in which Pope now found himself, 
 Warburton (then just rising into notice) voluntarily stepped forward as his champion, 
 and published, in the “Republic of Letters,” a “Vindication of the Essay on Man.” 
 
 This assistance Pope very gratefully acknowledged; he recommended Warburton to 
 Mr. Murray, by whose influence he was appointed preacher at Lincoln’s Inn; and, by 
 his introduction to Mr. Allen, he married the niece, and succeeded to the estate, of that 
 gentleman. He also left Warburton the property of his Works, which Dr. Johnson 
 estimates at £4000. 
 
 About 1740 Pope printed the “Memoirs of Scriblerus,” a fragment of a work origin¬ 
 ally projected by himself, Swift, and Arbuthnot, which was never completed ; and in 
 1742 a new edition of the “Dunciad,” enlarged by the addition of a fourth book. In 
 this he attacked Colley Cibber most unmercifully, for no evident reason; unless, as Dr. 
 Johnson suggests, he thought that, in ridiculing the Laureate, he was bringing into con¬ 
 tempt the bestowers of the laurel. Cibber, who had on several previous occasions 
 manifested great forbearance, now lost all patience ; he amused the town with a pamph¬ 
 let, in which he describes Pope as a “Wit out of his senses;” and attributes his ill-will 
 to his (Cibber’s) having made a ludicrous allusion to the damnation of the farce of 
 “ Three hours after Marriage,” while acting Bays in the Rehearsal; and ascribes the 
 authorship of the piece to Pope. It is a pity that Pope suffered his vexation to subdue 
 his better judgment: he should have remained silent. On the contrary, in 1743, he 
 dethroned Theobald, and constituted Cibber the hero of his “Dunciad ;” much to the 
 deterioration of the Poem, and certainly inconsistently with fact. Cibber could not fairly 
 be classed among the Dunces; if, alternately he soared and groveled in Tragedy, his 
 Comedy is of very superior excellence, possessing wit, humor, tenderness, and elegance ; 
 and, if his practice and habits were anything but moral, his dramas (during a season 
 of unrestrained licentiousness) were strictly so : he seems to have been guided, in this 
 respect, by the feeling he expressed to Mrs. Bracegirdle; the actress, who, upon inquir¬ 
 ing of him “How it happened that his writings were so very moral, and his life so very 
 immoral?” received for answer, that “ Morality in the one was absolutely indispensable, 
 but not exactly so in the other.” Cibber, who had declared his intention to “have the 
 last word,” quickly published another pamphlet, which is described by Richardson (the 
 son of the Painter) as having perfectly agonized Pope. 
 
 The health of Pope now began to fail, and he contented himself with occupying his 
 time in the revisal of his Works for a collective Edition ; in this he was assisted by War¬ 
 burton. He lingered some months under an accumulation of infirmity and disease, and 
 expired on the 30th of May, 1744. 
 
 If this admirable Poet may be considered fortunate in having Warburton for the 
 original Editor of liis Works, he has been peculiarly unfortunate with respect to some 
 who have succeeded him :—a bevy of fifth-rate authors, also, anxious to reduce the 
 standard of poetic excellence to their own level, have, of late years, done their utmost 
 to cloud the luster of his fame as a poet, and to depreciate his character as a man. Lord 
 Byron, contemning the cant of criticism, and the paltry cavils of scandal, thus disposes 
 of the one and the other. 
 
 “The attempt of the poetical populace of the present day to obtain an ostracism 
 against Pope is as easily accounted for as the Athenians’ shell against Aristides; they 
 are tired of hearing him always called * The Just.’ They are also fighting for life ; for, 
 if he maintains his station, they will reach their own by falling. They have raised a 
 Mosque by the side of a Grecian Temple of the purest architecture : I have been among 
 the builders of this ‘ Babel,’ but never among the envious destroyers of the Classic 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xv 
 
 Temple of our predecessor. I have loved and honored the fame and name of that 
 illustrious and unrivaled man, far more than my own paltry renown, and the trashy jin¬ 
 gle of the crowd of ‘ schools * and upstarts who pretend to rival, or even surpass, him. 
 Sooner than a single leaf should be torn from his laurel, it were better that all which 
 these men, and that I, as one of their set, have ever written, should 
 
 1 Line trunks, clothe spice, or, fluttering in a row, 
 
 Befringe the walls of Bedlam, or Soho.’ 
 
 “In society he seems to have been as amiable as unassuming : he was adored by his 
 friends ; friends of the most opposite dispositions, ages, and talents. By the old and 
 wayward Wycherley, by the cynical Swift, the rough Atterbury, the gentle Spence, the 
 stern Warburton, the virtuous Berkeley, and the ‘cankered Bolingbroke —the soldier 
 Peterborough, and the poet Gay; the witty Congreve, and the laughing Rowe ; the ec¬ 
 centric Cromwell, and the steady Bathurst, were all his associates.” 
 
 Thomas Parnell was born in Dublin, 1679. His father, a native of Cheshire, had 
 retired to Ireland at the Restoration, where he purchased some considerable estates, 
 which, with his property in England, were inherited by his son. At the age of thirteen 
 Parnell entered Dublin College, and took his degree of Master of Arts on the 9th of 
 July, 1700. He was ordained Deacon the same year, and, three years after, entered 
 into priests’ orders: in 1705 he was collated to the Archdeaconry of Clogher. He 
 married Miss Anne Minchin, a beautiful and amiable lady, to whom he was most de- 
 
 V 
 
 votedly attached. Up to this period he had led a very retired life, but he now began 
 to make periodical visits to England, and quickly formed an intimacy with the first lite¬ 
 rary characters of the day ; more particularly with Swift, Pope, Gay, and Arbuthnot. 
 These, with himself, formed the Scriblerus Club: to the “Memoirs” of which he con¬ 
 tributed the “ Essay concerning the Origin of Sciences.” His politics had been those 
 of his father, who was a stanch Whig; but his connection with Swift seems to have 
 wrought a change in his opinions, and he attached himself to the party of Oxford and 
 Bolingbroke. In 1711 his wife died, and he received a shock by the event which he 
 never recovered ; his spirits, always unequal, sunk under a lasting depression: and, 
 unable to raise them by mental effort, he desperately sought relief in intemperance, and 
 plunged into excesses which brought him to a premature end. It is probable that he 
 from time to time endeavored to combat this infatuation, for the year after his wife’s 
 death, he wrote a poem on “Queen Anne’s Peace,” was carried to the Court, and in¬ 
 troduced to the ministers by Swift, and succeeded in gaining the esteem of Bolingbroke, 
 and the ardent friendship of Harley. 
 
 The dissolution of the ministry on Queen Anne’s death, prevented Parnell from 
 attaining preferment through that channel; but Swift, having recommended him to the 
 Archbishop of Dublin, his Grace bestowed on him a Prebend, and afterward the vicar¬ 
 age of Finglass, worth about £400 per annum. He died at Chester, while on his way 
 to Ireland, in July, 1718, in his thirty-ninth year, and was buried in the Trinity Church 
 of that city. Parnell was endeared to his friends by his generous, affable, and kind 
 disposition ; he displayed much eloquence in the pulpit, and became very popular in 
 London, where he frequently preached during his visits ; and he holds a very respect¬ 
 able rank as a Poet, for his elegance, simplicity, and perspicuity. Little of his poetry 
 was published during his life ; but shortly after his death, Pope, with friendly solicitude 
 for his fame, made a careful selection of it; which he dedicated, in a splendid copy of 
 verses, to the Earl of Oxford. 
 
 Parnell’s principal poems are, “ Hesiod, or the Rise of Woman,” “An Allegory on 
 Man,” a “Night-piece, on Death,” the “Hymn to Contentment,” a “Fairy Tale,” and 
 the “Hermit.” The two last are the most celebrated, and, in their several styles, are 
 altogether, admirable : he also translated the “ Pervigilium Veneris ” of Catullus, and 
 “ The Battle of the Frogs and Mice,” printed with Pope’s version of Homer. 
 
 The prose of Parnell is not equal to his poetry. Pope complained that the “Life of 
 Homer,” which Parnell wrote for him, gave him more trouble in correction than com¬ 
 posing an original one would have done. His classical learning, however, enabled him 
 to render great assistance to Pope, who had a high opinion of his perfect knowledge of 
 the Greek Language, and of his correct critical judgment. His other prose works are, 
 his “ Life of Zoilus,” a cutting satire on Dennis, the critic; and his papers in the “ Spec¬ 
 tator” and “ Guardian.” 
 
 I 
 
XVI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Zachary Pearce, the son of a wealthy distiller, was born in Holborn, 1690. He 
 was educated at Westminster, where he was chosen one of the King’s scholars, and 
 was elected to Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1710. In 1713 and 1714, while at the 
 University, he wrote his papers in the “ Guardian ” and “ Spectator:” and in 1716 he 
 acquired great reputation and powerful patronage by an edition of “ Cicero de Oratore,” 
 which he dedicated to Lord Chief Justice Parker; through whose recommendation of 
 him to Dr. Bentley, the Master of Trinity College, he obtained a fellowship. 
 
 Pearce entered into Holy Orders in 1717, and became Lord Parker’s chaplain; two 
 years after he was appointed to the rectory of Stapleford Abbots, in Essex, and in 1720 
 to that of St. Bartholomew, by the Royal Exchange, London. Through the interest 
 of his patron (then Earl of Macclesfield) he was presented to St. Martin’s in the Fields, 
 in 1723, and received the degree of Doctor of Divinity, in 1724. In 1739 he was made 
 Dean of Winchester; in 1748 Bishop of Bangor; and in 1756 Bishop of Rochester, 
 and Dean of Westminster. He had held these dignities about seven years, when the 
 pressure of age and infirmity induced him to solicit permission to resign them ; but his 
 application having been made through Lord Bath, the jealousy of the ministers, who 
 apprehended his Lordship had a successor ready to be nominated, embarrassed the 
 King, and prevented him from allowing the see to be vacated. Five years afterward he 
 was permitted to resign the Deanery. In 1773 he lost his wife, after a union of fifty- 
 two years: he survived her but a short time, dying on January 29, 1774, aged 
 eighty-four. 
 
 Beside his edition of “ Cicero de Oratore,” he published “An Account of Trinity 
 College, Cambridge ;” a “Letter to the Clergy of the Church of England, on the occa¬ 
 sion of the Bishop of Rochester’s commitment to the Tower;” an edition of “ Longi¬ 
 nus ;” an “ Essay on the Origin and progress of Temples,” printed with a “ Sermon 
 preached at the Consecration of St. Martin’s Church ;” the “ Miracles of Jesus vindi¬ 
 cated,” in answer to Woolston; and “ Two Letters against Dr. Conyers Middleton, 
 relating to his attack on Waterland.” He also, in 1733, rescued the text of Milton 
 from the absurdities of Bentley, in his “Review of the Text of Paradise Lost,” which 
 Dr. Newton characterizes as “ a pattern to all future critics ;” and in 1745 he published 
 an edition of “ Cicero de Officiis.” 
 
 It is remarkable that Dr. Pearce is the only person from whom Johnson acknowledges 
 having received any assistance in the compilation of his Dictionary ; this assistance, 
 however, extended only to about twenty etymologies, which Pearce sent to him anony¬ 
 mously. The Posthumous Works of Pearce were edited, in 1777, in two volumes, 4to, 
 by the Rev. Mr. Derby, and dedicated to the King. The dedication was written by John¬ 
 son, who retained a respectful and grateful remembrance of the obligation, though a 
 slight one, which Pearce had conferred upon him. These volumes consist of “A Com¬ 
 mentary, with notes, on the four Evangelists, and the Acts of the Aspotles,” and “A 
 New Translation of St. Paul’s first Epistle to the Corinthians, and a paraphrase and 
 notes.” Dr. Pearce was a profound scholar, an acute and judicious critic, an amiable 
 man, and a sincere Christian: he lived respected and beloved ; and his life was as use¬ 
 ful and as honorable as it was protracted. 
 
 Henry Martyn was the son of Edward Martyn, Esq., of Melksham, Wilts. He was bred 
 to the Bar, but bad health prevented him from prosecuting his professional duties. In 1713 
 he took a prominent part in writing “ The British Merchant, or Commerce preserved,” 
 a paper opposing the ratification of the Treaty of Commerce made with France at the 
 Peace of Utrecht; being an answer to Daniel De Foe’s “ Mercator, or Commerce Re¬ 
 trieved.” The Treaty was rejected; and Martyn was rewarded by being made Inspec¬ 
 tor General of the Customs. He died at Blackheath, March 25, 1721, leaving one son, 
 who was afterward Secretary to the Commissioners of Excise. 
 
 It is probable that Martyn contributed many papers to the “ Spectator,” although 
 now only one is directly ascribed to him. Steele (Spectator, No. 555) places him at 
 the head of his correspondents, and pays him this very marked compliment: “ The first 
 I am going to name can hardly be mentioned in a list wherein he would not deserve 
 the precedence.” We have no other record of Martyn, except the interesting portrait 
 drawn of him by Steele in No. 143, of the “Spectator.”—“Poor Cottilus (so named, 
 it is supposed, from his house at Blackheath, which he termed his ‘ Cot’), among so 
 many real evils, a chronical distemper, and a narrow fortune, is never heard to com¬ 
 plain. That equal spirit of his, which any man may have, that, like him, will conquer 
 
pride, vanity, and affectation, and follow nature, is not to be broken, because it has no 
 points to contend for. To be anxious for nothing but what nature demands as necessa¬ 
 ry, if it is not the way to an estate, is the way to what men aim at by getting an estate. 
 This temper will preserve health in the body as well as tranquillity in the mind. Cot- 
 tilus sees the world in a hurry with the same scorn that a sober person sees a man 
 drunk.” • 
 
 John Byrom was the younger son of a Linen-draper at Kersall, near Manchester, 
 and was born in 1691. He was sent to Merchant 1? a ylors’ School, in London: and, at 
 the age of sixteen, being found qualified for the University, he was admitted a pen¬ 
 sioner of Trinity College, Cambridge. He took his degree of Master of Arts, and in 
 1714 was elected Fellow, and became a great favorite with the master, Dr. Bentley. 
 
 It was in this year that he began his contributions to the “ Spectator ;” all composi¬ 
 tions of decided merit: the most celebrated of them is the pastoral poem of “ Colin to 
 Phoebe,” written, it is said, in compliment to Joanna, daughter of Dr. Bentley, which 
 has maintained its popularity to the present day. Its effect is, however, somewhat 
 marred by the ludicrous air of some passages, which detract from the simplicity and 
 elegance of the whole. In 1716 he went to Montpelier for the benefit of his health, 
 and resided there some time. On his return he began to practice as a physician in 
 London ; but he took no degree, and soon abandoned the scheme, in consequence of his 
 forming a strong attachment to his cousin, Elizabeth Byrom, who, with her sister, had 
 come up from Manchester on some business of their father, Mr. Joseph Byrom. Byrom 
 followed the lady on her return home, and married her, in opposition to the will of her 
 parents, who objected to the union on account of his straitened circumstances. 
 
 His ;unc]e utterly discarded him : and Byrom, having expended all his little store, was 
 thrown entirely upon his own exertions for subsistence. He had, while at Cambridge, 
 invented a new system of Short Hand; and this he now began to teach in Manchester, 
 with signal success. Revisiting London, he also there met with great encouragement; 
 and (having obtained a decided victory over a rival professor, named Weston, who had 
 challenged him to a trial of skill) he soon was enabled to derive a very handsome in¬ 
 come from his numerous pupils; among whom was the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield, 
 and many other persons of rank and eminence. For several years he regularly pursued 
 his avocations: in London during the winter months, and during the summer in Mam 
 Chester, where his wife and family continued to res'ide. In 1723 he was admitted into 
 the Royal Society as a Fellow; and No. 488 of the Transactions contains a paper of his 
 writing, On the Elements of Short Hand. 
 
 His elder brother dying about this time, without issue, Byrom succeeded to the family 
 estate, and was at once placed in ease and affluence. He fixed his residence in the 
 country ; and, from occasionally amusing himself in writing verses, the habit seems to 
 have grown upon him almost to a degree of mania ; every subject he took in hand, 
 whether tragic, comic, religious, antiquarian, controversial, moral, or literary, was dealt 
 with in rhyme ; the general quality of which may be estimated by Mr. Pegge’s remark 
 upon Byrom’s Metrical Challenge, respecting the identity of St. George of Cappadocia 
 with the patron of the Order of the Garter. “ My late worthy friend, Mr. Byrom, has 
 delivered his sentiments on this subject in a metrical garb ; for, I presume, we can 
 scarcely call it a ‘poetical one.” 
 
 Of his pieces, the best are his poems on “Enthusiasm,” and on the “Immortality 
 of the Soul;” his “Careless Content,” and the popular tale of “The Three Black 
 Crows.” He died September 28th, 1763, in the 72d year of his age, having lived in 
 general estimation as a man of respectable talents, and great industry: humane, virtu¬ 
 ous, and devout. 
 
 Jonathan Swift (the posthumous son of Jonathan Swift, an Attorney, and Steward 
 to the Society of King’s Inns, Dublin) was born in that city on November 30, 1667. 
 His grandfather, the Rev. Thomas Swift, Vicar of Goodrich, in Herefordshire, had suf¬ 
 fered severely in his fortune by his adherence to Charles I, and left a family of twelve 
 or thirteen children very slenderly provided for. Four of his sons settled in Ireland; 
 the eldest of whom, Godwin (Attorney-General for the Palatinate of Tipperary), for 
 some years supplied the means of subsistence to the widow and orphan children of his 
 brother. It is supposed, however, that this was not done very graciously; for Swift 
 seems to have entertained little respect for his memory: while, on the contrary, he 
 2 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 • • • 
 xvm 
 
 always spoke in terms of reverence and affection of his uncle Dryden Swift; who, after 
 Godwin’s death, took upon himself the maintenance of the destitute family. 
 
 When six years old, Swift was sent to the school of Kilkenny ; and, when fourteen, 
 was admitted a Pensioner into Trinity College, Dublin. His studies and pursuits were 
 not of a kind suited to forward his views of advancement in this seat of learning; he 
 had conceived a strong dislike to Logic, and entirely disregarded it, although it was at 
 that time deemed of paramount importance : and this, together with his irregularities 
 and insubordination, threw great difficulty in the way of his obtaining a Bachelor’s 
 degree, which was at last conferred by a Special Grace . The disgrace he had thus in¬ 
 curred seems to have only tended to exasperate and render him callous : for, in March, 
 1686, he was publicly admonished for notorious neglect of his duties, and in November, 
 1688, he was suspended for insolent conduct to the Junior Dean, and for exciting dis¬ 
 sension in the College. 
 
 In 1688 he quitted Dublin ; and, coming over to England, visited his mother, who 
 was then residing in Leicestershire. By her advice he addressed himself to Sir William 
 Temple (whose wife was related to the family), and succeeded in obtaining his patron¬ 
 age ; the immediate advantage of which was the opportunity it afforded him of prosecut¬ 
 ing his studies upon a scale which he seems to have adopted as a penance for his 
 previous dereliction of duty. His application now was most intense and severe, and 
 the extensive knowledge he thus acquired soon raised him in the estimation, and gained 
 him the confidence of his patron. He was admitted to the private interviews of King 
 William and Temple, when the former honored Moor Park with his presence; and 
 frequently, when Sir William happened to be confined by the gout, was deputed to attend 
 his Majesty in his walks about the grounds. It was on these occasions that the King 
 taught Swift the Dutch method of cutting asparagus, and (Swift, probably, having 
 hinted at his precarious circumstances), offered to make him a Captain of Horse. 
 Swift’s hopes and expectations, however, were fixed upon Church preferment; and in 
 1692 he went to Oxford to take his degree of Master of Arts, and met with a reception 
 there which highly gratified him. 
 
 It is possible that Sir William Temple, anxious to retain Swift about him, thought to 
 accomplish his aim by keeping him in a state of dependence : but it is certain that Swift 
 became impatient, and when, after frequent application and remonstrance, he was at last 
 offered a situation in the Irish Bolls of about £100 a year, he rejected it with disdain, 
 and immediately quitted Moor Park for Ireland, with the intention of taking Holy 
 Orders. To this end, a reference to Temple, as to his conduct, was necessary ; and it 
 has been thought that Sir William, feeling that he had dealt ungenerously by him, in 
 addition to the usual testimonial, forwarded some direct recommendations ; for Swift 
 obtained Deacons’ Orders in October, 1694, Priests’ Orders in January, 1695, and, im¬ 
 mediately afterward, the Prebend of Kilroot, worth about £100 a year. He was 
 scarcely settled, when he received an invitation from Temple to return to him : he did 
 return; and was thenceforth treated, not as the needy dependent, but as the respected 
 and confidential friend. Four years passed in an uninterrupted intercourse of esteem and 
 friendship between them, when the death of Temple, in January, 1698-9, threw Swift 
 upon the world, to gain by his own energies the provision which patronage had failed to 
 bestow on him. He edited the literary remaifis of Temple, and dedicated them to the 
 King, reminding him at the same time, by a petition, of a promise he had made him of 
 a Prebend at Canterbury or Westminster: but his efforts were unavailing, and he re¬ 
 linquished his attendance upon the Court in disgust. Further disappointments awaited 
 him: Lord Berkeley (one of the Lords Justices of Ireland) had invited him to become 
 his Secretary and Chaplain, and he had accepted the invitation; but was quickly super¬ 
 seded in the former office by a Mr. Bushe, who procured it for himself. Lord Berkeley, 
 by way of amends, promised him the first living of value that should be at his disposal; 
 but, when the Deanery of Derry became vacant, Swift found that Mr. Bushe had again 
 forestalled him, and that he could only obtain it by the payment of £1000 to Bushe. 
 His anger toward both the Judge and his Secretary was extreme: he instantly threw up 
 his Chaplainship, and took his leave of them in these words: “God confound you both 
 for a couple of scoundrels.” Lord Berkeley soon became apprehensive of the con¬ 
 sequences which might arise from the hatred and scorn of a man like Swift, who, from 
 time to time, continued to attack him with all the bitterness of satire; and he endeav¬ 
 ored to pacify him by presenting him with the Rectory of Agher, and the Vicarages of 
 Laracor and Rathbiggan. In 1700 the Prebend of Dunlavin was added to these, and 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xix 
 
 the whole produced an income of £400 per annum. Having taken possession of his 
 living at Laracor, he was at great pains in repairing and improving the Vicarage house 
 and grounds ; he added nineteen acres to the Glebe, and purchased the Tithes of Effer- 
 nock, with which he endowed the living. But Swift was not Iona* to remain in inactive 
 obscurity : the impeachment of Lords Somers, Oxford, and others, on account of the 
 Partition Treaty, induced him to come forward as a political writer, in “A Discourse 
 upon the Dissensions between the Nobles and Commons in Athens and Rome.” The 
 pamphlet excited much attention; and Somers, Halifax, and Sunderland took him at 
 once into familiarity and confidence. He now made frequent journeys to London, 
 associated with the Wits at Button’s Coffee-house, and formed an intimacy and friendship 
 with several of them, more particularly with Addison, Steele, and Arbuthnot. His celeb¬ 
 rity was greatly enhanced by the publication, in 1694, of the ‘‘Tale of a Tubwhich, 
 although he never openly acknowledged it, was by general consent attributed to him. 
 
 In the summer of 1709, wearied with attendance upon the Ministry, having been 
 alternately flattered by the prospect of promotion, and irritated and disgusted by ne¬ 
 glect and disappointment, he quitted London, and resumed his retirement at Laracor. 
 In 1710 he was united with the Bishops of Ossory and Killaloe, in a Commission from 
 the Prelates of Ireland, to prosecute their suit for a remission of the first-fruits and 
 twentieths. On this visit he separated entirely from the Whigs, and manifested in the 
 strongest manner his contempt and hatred of their leaders, Somers and Godolphin, for 
 having insolently considered his services sufficiently requited by mere civilities. By his 
 own avowal, he had been a Whig in general politics only; in what related to the dignity 
 and influence of the Church, the points nearest his heart, he had always sided with the 
 Tories: and now, aggravated as he was by the neglect and ingratitude of the opposite 
 party, it is not surprising that he at once threw himself into their arms. Harley, who, 
 smarting under similar ill-treatment, had made head against the Whigs, and succeeded 
 in driving them from power, was aware of the value of such an adherent as Swift: he 
 and his colleague, Bolingbroke, received him most cordially, and he at once became their 
 associate and counselor. Swift, already in much esteem as a political writer, brought 
 into action the whole artilleiy of his eloquence, wit, and sarcasm, in aid of his new 
 patrons: he wrote a large portion of the “Examiner” (of which he undertook the 
 Editorship), and published numerous poems, papers, and pamphlets. The most 
 remarkable of these last were the “Conduct of the Allies” (of which 11,000 copies 
 were sold in less than a month), and the “Public Spirit of the Whigs,” which gave 
 such offense to the Scotch that, through the interference of the Lords, a proclamation 
 was issued, offering £300 reward, for the discovery of the author. Notwithstanding his 
 important and influential position, Swift received no recompense until April, 1713, when 
 he was promoted to the Deanery of St. Patrick’s, Dublin. 
 
 He had scarcely taken possession of his new dignity, when he was recalled from 
 Ireland, for the purpose of allaying the dissensions which had arisen between Harley 
 and Bolingbroke; his efforts to effect a reconciliation failed; and he retired into 
 Berkshire, where he wrote “ Some Free Thoughts upon the present State of Affairs 
 and shortly after, the death of Queen Anne deprived his friends of their power, and 
 him of his political influence. He immediately quitted England; and, during six years, 
 continued in retirement and comparative obscurity. 
 
 In 1720 he published “A Proposal for the universal Use of Irish Manufactures,” in 
 which he sought to persuade his countrymen to reject English manufactures, and to 
 wear none but their own. The pamphlet created a great sensation, and the Printer was 
 prosecuted: the Jury having declared him Not Guilty , were detained eleven hours, and 
 sent out of court to reconsider their verdict nine times; and at last left the question un¬ 
 decided by giving a Special Verdict. The farther trial, after repeated delays, was set 
 aside by a Noli Prosequi , and Swift may be said to have obtained a complete victory. 
 This he followed up by persecuting with unremitting zeal the Lord Chief Justice Whits- 
 head, and Judge Boate, by Epigrams, Lampoons, and Satires, until they became the 
 objects of universal scorn and disgust. But the popularity he thus obtained in Ireland 
 was trifling compared with that which attended the publication of the “ Drapier’s Let¬ 
 ters,” four years afterward. One William Wood had obtained a patent for coining 
 half-pence for Ireland, to the amount of 108,000: Swift, indignant at the iniquity of the 
 scheme, drew up, in the name of the Irish people, a petition against it; and, by way 
 of strengthening the appeal, published a series of Letters, with the signature of M. B. 
 Drapier. Their effect was instantaneous; the nation became excited and clamorous, 
 
XX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 and the whole population formed the steady resolution never to receive a single piece 
 of Wood’s coin. The Printer of the “Letters” was imprisoned; but the Grand Jury 
 refused to find an indictment, and a reward of £300 was offered in vain for the dis¬ 
 covery of the author. The result was, the patent was annulled, the coin withdrawn, 
 and Swift constituted the Idol and the Oracle of his country, to the hour of his death. 
 With respect to the merit of the “ Drapier’s Letters,” it will suffice to quote the opinion 
 of Isaac Hawkins Browne, who designates them “ the most perfect pieces of oratory 
 ever composed since the days of Demosthenes.” 
 
 Having achieved this triumph over Wood and his half-pence, Swift retired to Quilca, 
 a country house, belonging to his friend, Dr. Sheridan, and for some time amused him 
 in projecting and executing alterations and improvements there, and also in finish¬ 
 ing and revising “Gulliver’s Travels.” In 1726 he went to England, where he was re¬ 
 ceived with open arms by Bolingbroke, Bathurst, Arbuthnot, Gay, and Pope. He took 
 up his abode at the house of the latter, and assigned to him the task of selecting and 
 arranging the materials for three volumes of Miscellanies, their joint production. Du¬ 
 ring this visit he waited upon Sir Robert Walpole, with a view to interest him in the 
 cause of Ireland ; and (it has been said) to endeavor to obtain for himself Church pre¬ 
 ferment in England: but Walpole had been prepossessed against him and his views of 
 Irish affairs by the representations of Archbishop Boulter, and they parted with cool 
 civility, no point being gained by either party in the conference. 
 
 In August, Swift returned to Dublin, where his arrival was celebrated with the most 
 public demonstrations of joy and respect: and in November, the “Travels of Gulliver” 
 were published anonymously. This celebrated work immediately engrossed the atten¬ 
 tion of the whole kingdom : it was read, admired, and discussed, by all ranks. “ It 
 offered,” says Sir Walter Scott, “personal and political satire to the readers in high life, 
 low and coarse incident to the vulgar, marvels to the romantic, wit to the young and 
 lively, lessons of morality and policy to the grave, and maxims of deep and bitter mis¬ 
 anthropy to neglected age, and disappointed ambition.” 
 
 In 1727 Swift visited England for the last time, and spent the summer among his 
 early friends. His hopes of preferment, and his prospects of reviving political influence, 
 were now at an end ; and when he returned to what he always considered his land of 
 exile, to his discontent and chagrin was added severe affliction, by the death of the being 
 to whom he was most attached. His health became affected, and his temper more than 
 ever unequal and morose: he rallied occasionally, and from time to time gratified the 
 animosity he cherished against Queen Caroline and Walpole, by attacking them, and 
 their favorites and dependents, with the same wit and irony that distinguished his better 
 days. At length, the disorders under which he had suffered at intervals all his life 
 obtained the mastery, and he sunk into a state of mental aberration, pitiable in any point 
 of view, but most awful when contrasted with the brilliant genius and unusual powers 
 which had originally adorned his comprehensive mind. He died on the 29th of Octo¬ 
 ber, 1745, in his 78th year. 
 
 The domestic history of Swift has been the subject of much discussion, from the ex¬ 
 traordinary circumstances attending his connection with Mrs. Esther Johnson, celebrated 
 in his writings under the name of Stella. She was the daughter of Sir William Tern- 
 pie’s Steward, and was about fourteen years old when Swift undertook the office of her 
 preceptor. At Sir William’s death, she resided for some time with Mrs. Dingley, a rela¬ 
 tion of the Temple family, and, when Swift settled at Laracor, accepted his invitation to 
 fix her abode at Trim, a village in the vicinity of his living. She was then eighteen, of 
 great personal attractions, and fervently attached to him, no doubt anticipated the speedy 
 consummation of her wishes. But Swift, who could not be unconscious of the feelings 
 he had excited, adapted his whole conduct toward her strictly to the character of a 
 friend, and never met her but in the presence of a third person. When he left home for 
 any time, she and her companion resided at his house, resuming their own lodgings im¬ 
 mediately on his return. In this manner passed eight years, in the course of which her 
 affection seemed gradually to increase, and she refused a very eligible offer of marriage 
 from a Mr. Tisdal. When Swift went to London, in September, 1710, he was almost 
 agonized at leaving her, and kept, during his absence, a Journal addressed to her, 
 which fully evinces how completely she swayed every feeling of his heart. Neverthe¬ 
 less, an event took place which was every way calculated to distress her, and bring into 
 question the sincerity of his professions. In London, Swift became acquainted with a 
 widow lady, named Vanhomrigh, whose eldest daughter interesting him greatly by her 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xxi 
 
 temper and manners, he offered his assistance in completing her education. The pro¬ 
 gress of his pupil was astonishing: but at the end of two years, Swift was thrown into 
 the greatest embarrassment, by her openly declaring her love for him, and demanding a 
 return. 
 
 He was at this time in his 47tli year, and it is to be lamented that he suffered his 
 vanity to overcome his sense of propriety, and encouraged hopes which he never inten¬ 
 ded to realize. Vanessa (as he called her) was not of the gentle and patient temper of 
 Stella:—when Swift returned to Ireland, on the Queen’s death, she followed him, con¬ 
 trary to his wish ; and their meetings (allowed by all to have been perfectly platonic) 
 caused Stella a jealousy, which brought on a severe indisposition. Swift, to soothe her 
 and satisfy her scruples, agreed to marry her, on the condition of their living separately, 
 as heretofore ; and they were privately married (the ceremony being performed in the 
 garden of the Deanery) by Dr. Ashe, Bishop of Clogher, in 1716. After this he would 
 willingly have estranged himself from Vanessa, but found it impracticable. She, having 
 some suspicion of the real fact, wrote to Mrs. Johnson, and the answer she received, 
 together with Swift’s resentment upon discovering her proceeding, threw her into a fever 
 which terminated her existence in 1723. Her scarcely less unfortunate rival did not 
 survive her many years ; her spirits and her frame, blighted and wasted, by “hope de¬ 
 ferred,” and bitter disappointment, she died prematurely in 1728. 
 
 The conduct of Swift toward these ill-fated women, however it may be accounted for, 
 or extenuated, will always remain a blot upon his memory : in spite of the most diligent 
 research, a mystery still envelopes it, which physical and philosophical attempts at ex¬ 
 planation have failed to disperse. In all other relations, Swift appears to have been a 
 worthy and estimable man. His works (the enumeration of which would carry us be¬ 
 yond our prescribed bounds) are all examples of great ingenuity, and intellectual power: 
 of his poems, “ Cadenus and Vanessa,” “Baucis and Philemon,” and his “Imitations 
 of Horace,” are of the highest order; and the “Tale of a Tub,” the “Drapier’s Let¬ 
 ters,” and “ Gulliver’s Travels,” have conferred immortality on his name by merit pecu¬ 
 liar to themselves. 
 
 Philip Yorke, Earl of Hardwicke, was born at Dover, in 1690. He was educated 
 under Mr. Morland, of Bethnal Green, entered of the Middle Temple, and was called 
 to the Bar in 1714.—In 1718 he was returned Member of Parliament for Lewes ; and 
 the following year was appointed Solicitor-General. In 1723 he became Attorney-Gen¬ 
 eral, and in 1733 Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, shortly after which he re¬ 
 ceived the title of Baron Hardwicke. He succeeded Lord Talbot in 1736 as Lord High 
 Chancellor; and finally, in 1754, was created Earl of Hardwicke. He has transmitted 
 to posterity an unblemished name as a Lawyer, a Judge, and a Statesman. In private 
 life he was benevolent and pious ; and his gentle and engaging manners gained him the 
 affection, as his public virtues secured him the esteem of all who knew him. As an 
 orator, he was clear, graceful, and impressive : cogent in argument, and perspicuous in 
 arrangement. After suffering severely for some months from dysentery, lie died, at the 
 age of seventy-three, on the 6th of March, 1764. 
 
 Thomas Tickell, son of the Rev. Richard Tickell, Vicar of Bridekirk, near Carlisle, 
 was born in 1686. He entered Queen’s College, Oxford, in 1701, was made Master of 
 Arts in 1708, and chosen Fellow two years afterward. A copy of verses in praise 
 of the Opera of “Rosamond,” introduced him to the notice of Addison, and a sincere 
 and lasting friendship between them was the result. While the negotiations which pre¬ 
 ceded the Peace of Utrecht were yet pending, Tickell published his poem “ On the 
 Prospect of Peace,” with the view to reconcile the nation to the sacrifice of some im¬ 
 mediate advantages rather than continue the war. It sold rapidly, reaching in a very 
 short time a sixth edition ; and Addison, who, with the Whigs, was strongly opposed 
 to such a measure, however he might disapprove of the subject of the Poem, was gen¬ 
 erous enough to give high praise to it as a composition, in the “Spectator.” Tickell 
 afterward wrote a poem addressed “To the supposed Author of the Spectator,” and 
 another, on the arrival of George I, entitled the “Royal Progress.” He had also pre¬ 
 viously, attacked the Chevalier and his adherents, in a political piece called “An Epistle 
 to a Gentleman at Avignon,” which was much read, and which tended to mark him 
 out for favor on the accession of the House of Hanover. 
 
 When Addison went to Ireland as Secretary to the Earl of Sunderland, he took 
 
xxii PREFA.CE. 
 
 Tickell with him as an assistant in his official duties; and on his becoming Secretary of 
 state in 1717, he made his friend Under Secretary. Upon the death of Addison, in 1719, 
 Ticked edited his Collected Works, and prefixed to them an Elegy to the memory of 
 his patron, of pre-eminent beauty and pathos. In 1725, Tickell was made Secretary to 
 the Lords Justices of Ireland, and the following year he married, in Dublin. 
 
 He held his official appointment until his death, which took place at Bath, in April, 
 1740. Beside the pieces already noticed, he wrote some “Verses on Cato,” an “Imi¬ 
 tation of the Prophesy of Nereus,” “ Kensington Garden,” and a very pathetic ballad, 
 “ Colin and Lucy.” He was also (nominally) the author of a translation of the first 
 Book of the “ Iliad,” published in opposition to Pope’s, and a contributor to the 
 “ Guardian.” He was an elegant, if not a powerful, writer ; an amiable man, convivial 
 but moderate; spirited in his conversation, and of a kind and affectionate heart. 
 
 Ambrose Philips was descended from a respectable family in Leicestershire. While 
 at St. John’s College, Cambridge, he published his “ Six Pastorals,” which were very 
 popular; and, it is supposed caused some little jealousy to Pope. The style of them, how¬ 
 ever it might approach the true Doric , was, unluckily, very apt for ludicrous associations, 
 and Pope exerted all his wit and irony to hold them up to ridicule : this he accomplished 
 effectually in the “ Guardian.” The attack greatly irritated Philips, and he sought 
 revenge in insult, by suspending a rod over the seat which Pope usually occupied at 
 Button’s Coffee-house. Pope failed not to retaliate; and, in the “ Prologue” to his 
 Satires, describes Philips as — 
 
 44 The Bard whom pilfer’d Pastorals renown, 
 
 Who turns a Persian Tale for half-a-crown, 
 
 Just writes to make his barrenness appear, 
 
 And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a year.” 
 
 And Swift fixed upon him the nickname of “Namby-pamby,” in allusion to his numerous 
 short-line verses. Upon Philips leaving the University, he became intimate with Addi¬ 
 son and Steele, and he printed, in the “ Tatler,” a “ Poetical Letter from Copenhagen;” 
 a piece of sterling merit, which extorted praise even from Pope. It is likely that at 
 this period his circumstances were rather precarious, since he undertook, for Tonson, a 
 translation of the 44 Persian Tales,” from the French, at (it is said) a very low price. 
 His Tragedy, 44 The Distressed Mother,” (partly a translation of Racine’s “Andro- 
 maque,”) brought him into much notice : Steele had highly extolled it in the 44 Spec¬ 
 tator” (No. 290) before it appeared ; and Addison afterward (in No. 335) carried Sir 
 Royer de Coverley to its representation. Philips produced two other Tragedies, 44 The 
 Briton,” and “ Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester,” which excited little attention, and are 
 now forgotten. Although from his zealous support of the Whigs, he was justified in 
 anticipating a suitable reward upon the accession of George I, and had been greatly 
 disappointed by obtaining merely the insignificant situations of Justice of the Peace, and 
 Commissioner of Lotteries, he did not relax in his exertions, but commenced the 44 Free¬ 
 thinker,” in which he had, for one of his co-adjutors, Dr. Boulter, then minister of a 
 parish church in Southwark. This circumstance established his fortune. Dr. Boulter, 
 on his elevation to the see of Armagh, took his former associate with him to Ireland, as 
 his Secretary, and obtained for him a seat in the House of Commons. In 1726 he was 
 appointed Secretary to the Lord Chancellor, and in 1733 he became a Judge of the Pre¬ 
 rogative Court. Philips continued in Ireland until 1748, when desirous of spending the 
 remainder of his days in England, he purchased an annuity of £400, and returned to 
 London. He had just completed a republication of his Poems, when he was seized with 
 paralysis, and died June 18, 1749, in his seventy-eighth year. Philips is reported to 
 have been a worthy man, but ludicrously solemn in his demeanor, and grandiloquent 
 in his conversation. Of his productions, the 44 Winter Scene,” above noticed, the 
 “ Hymn to Venus,” and the “Fragment of Sappho,” are, perhaps, all that can be con¬ 
 sidered above mediocrity. 
 
 Laurence Eusden, son of Dr. Eusden, Rector of Spalsworth, Yorkshire, was educated 
 at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took orders, and was appointed Chaplain to 
 Lord Willoughby de Broke. He gained the patronage of Lord Halifax, by a Latin 
 Version of his Lordship’s Poem 44 On the Battle of the Boyne,” and he appears to have 
 been anxious to prove himself worthy of it. He contributed to both the “Spectator” 
 and the “ Guardian,” wrote some verses in commendation of Addison’s “ Cato.” and 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXlll 
 
 „n Epithalamium on the marriage of the Duke of Newcastle with Lady Henrietta Godol- 
 phin. This last, no doubt, procured for him the Laureateship, which the Duke (then 
 Lord Chamberlain) gave him on the death of Rowe, in 1718. 
 
 Little has been preserved, concerning Eusden, beyond the numerous satirical allusions 
 to his office, to be found in the writings of the day: with him the title of Poet Laureate 
 began to fall into disesteem : nor have the unquestionable talents of some who suc¬ 
 ceeded him tended materially to retrieve it. The eminent man * who at present holds 
 the appointment, has, however, by divesting it of the degrading reiteration of adulatory 
 Birth-day Odes, not only vindicated the independence and dignity of his own literary 
 fame, but has established a foundation for future respectability to his successors. 
 
 Eusden died at Coningsby, in Lincolnshire (of which place he was Rector), in Sep¬ 
 tember, 1730, his faculties and health falling a sacrifice to the pernicious habit of 
 intoxication. His poems, a few of which are printed in Nicholls’s Collection, are not 
 calculated to arrest attention: his Versions of Claudian, in the “Spectator,” are his 
 happiest efforts. 
 
 William Fleetwood was born in 1656. He was educated at Eton school, and elected 
 to King’s College, Cambridge. Having taken orders, he was appointed Chaplain to 
 King William and Queen Mary, and became Fellow of Eton College, and Rector of St. 
 Austin’s, London. He was subsequently chosen Lecturer of St. Dunstan’s, Fleet-street, 
 and nominated a Canon of Windsor. Desirous of literary leisure, he resigned his living 
 and lectureship in 1705, and retired to a small rectory near Eton, where he engaged 
 deeply in the study of History and Antiquities. From this he was unexpectedly called, 
 by Queen Anne nominating him to the see of St. Asaph; and, on the accession of 
 George I, his attachment to the cause of Liberty, and the Protestant Religion, was 
 rewarded by the valuable bishopric of Ely. During his whole career, his labors were 
 unremitted; forty-two of his publications are noticed in the Biographia Britannica, 
 comprising Antiquities, History, and Theology: in all of which are displayed profound 
 classical learning, judicious and acute criticism, and extensive acquaintance with 
 Historical and Ecclesiastical Antiquities.—When his friends, the Whigs, went out of 
 office in 1710, he openly avowed his dislike of the measures of the Tories, by publishing 
 a “ Fast Sermon,” containing severe reprobation of their conduct; and in 1712 he 
 published four other sermons, “ On the deaths of Queen Mary, the Duke of Gloucester, 
 and King William, and on the Queen’s (Anne’s) Accession, with a Preface.” The 
 Sermons had been previously preached with much approbation, and were not assailable; 
 but the Preface was condemned by the House of Commons, to be burnt by the common 
 hangman. 
 
 This injudicious proceeding only made the Work more popular: Steele printed the 
 Preface in the “ Spectator;” and, as the Bishop remarked, “conveyed about 14,000 of 
 them into people’s hands that would otherwise never have seen or heard of it.” This 
 Preface, with some introductory observations by Steele, form No. 384 :—“ The paper 
 was not published until 12 o’clock, that it might come out precisely at the hour of the 
 Queen’s breakfast, and that no time might be left for deliberating about serving it up 
 with that meal as usual.”—Bishop Fleetwood died at Tottenham, in 1723, aged 67. 
 
 His biographer (Morgan) says, “ His various merits entitle him to the character of a 
 great and good man : as a Prelate, he did honor to his station, by his dignified and 
 orudent deportment: to the poor and necessitous he was a generous benefactor, and 
 was a liberal encouTager of every truly charitable design. To the interest of Civil and 
 Religious Liberty he was ardently attached. He was modest, humble, uncensorious, 
 and calm and meek in his temper; but at the same time possessed a degree of cool and 
 sedate courage, which he did not fail to exhibit on proper occasions: and, to crown the 
 whole, he was a bright pattern of innocence of life, integrity of heart, and sanctity of 
 manners.” '** 
 
 John Henley was born in 1692, at Melton Mowbray, of which parish his father was 
 Vicar. Having prosecuted his studies very zealously at Cambridge, he returned to his 
 native town, and became assistant, and afterward master, of the school there, which he 
 conducted with great credit. Having taken his degree of Master of Arts, and obtained 
 Priests’ Orders, he for some time officiated as curate at Melton ; until an uncontroll- 
 
 * Southey. 
 
XXIV 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 able desire for celebrity induced him to visit the metropolis. In London he published 
 some Translations from Pliny, Vertot, and Montfaucon; and was presented by the Earl 
 of Macclesfield with a Benefice of £80 a year. He also had a Lectureship in the city ; 
 acquired much popularity as a preacher; assisted Dr. Burscough, afterward Bishop of 
 Limerick, in his duties ; and became Chaplain to Lord Molesworth. Disappointed in 
 some expectations which he had formed of advancement, he threw up his benefice and 
 lectureship, and opened an Oratory in Portsmouth-street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields ; where, 
 on Sundays (according to his own account) he preached on Theology, and on Wednes¬ 
 days on all other Sciences; his audience paying one shilling each for admission. His 
 orations soon degenerated into ribaldry, buffoonery, and blasphemy, and he resorted to 
 the meanest and most fraudulent expedients to obtain a maintenance. On one occasion, 
 it is said, he collected a numerous congregation of Shoemakers, by advertising that he 
 would show them how to make a pair of shoes in a few minutes; and this he did by 
 cutting off the tops of a pair of boots. Hogarth caricatured him ; and the celebrated 
 George Alexander Steevens was a constant visitor at his chapel for the purpose of giv¬ 
 ing him annoyance. Pope has “damned him to everlasting fame” in his “ Dunciad 
 
 “ Imbrown’d with native bronze, lo ! Henley stands, 
 
 Tuning his voice and balancing his hands. 
 
 How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue ! 
 
 How sweet the periods ; neither said nor sung ! 
 
 Still break the benches, Henley ! with thy strain, 
 
 While Sherlock, Hare, and Gibson preach in vain. 
 
 Oh ! great restorer of the good old Stage, 
 
 Preacher at once, and Zany of the Age ! 
 
 Oh ! worthy thou of Egypt’s wise abodes ! 
 
 A decent Priest, where Monkeys were the Gods.” 
 
 He died October 14, 1756, an object of universal contempt. The promise of his early 
 days quickly faded: while at Melton, he wrote a poem entitled “Esther,” and com¬ 
 menced what he termed his “Universal Grammar:” of which he completed ten lan¬ 
 guages, with a “proper introduction to every tongue.” While at Cambridge he sent 
 two Letters to the “ Spectator;” and, toward the close of his career, was author of a 
 political paper of the most venal and worthless character, called “ The Hyp Doctor.” 
 
 James Heywood was a wholesale Linen-draper on Fish-street Hill, and a man of high 
 respectability in the city of London. He paid the customary fine of £500 upon declin¬ 
 ing the office of Alderman of Aldgate Ward, to which he was elected; and, having 
 lived in the enjoyment of his faculties and health until his ninetieth year, died at his 
 house in Austin Friars, in July, 1776. 
 
 Mr. Heywood was in the early part of his life a great politician, and contracted a 
 habit, singularly inconvenient to persons in discourse with him, for which he is com¬ 
 memorated with much humor by Steele, in the “ Guardian.” 
 
 “ There is a silly habit among many of our minor orators, who display their eloquence 
 in the several Coffee-houses, to the no small annoyance of considerable numbers of her 
 Majesty’s spruce and loving subjects : and that is a humor they have got of twisting 
 off' your buttons. These ingenious gentlemen are not able to advance three words until 
 they have got fast hold of one of your buttons ; but as soon as they have procured 
 such an excellent handle for discourse, they will indeed proceed with great elocu¬ 
 tion. I know not how well some may have escaped, but for my part I have often met 
 with them to my cost; having, I believe, within these three years last past been argued 
 out of several dozens, insomuch as I have for some time ordered my Tailor to bring me 
 home with every suit a dozen, at least, of spare ones, to supply the place of such as 
 from time to time are detached, as a help to discourse, by the vehement gentlemen 
 before mentioned. I remember, upon the news of Dunkirk’s being delivered into 
 our hands, a brisk little fellow, a politician and an able engineer, had got into the mid¬ 
 dle of Button’s Coffee-house, and was fortifying Graveling for the service of the most 
 Christian King with all imaginable expedition. The work was carried on with such 
 success that, in less than a quarter of an hour’s time, he had made it almost impregna¬ 
 ble ; and, in the opinion of several worthy citizens who had gathered around, full as 
 strong both by sea and land as Dunkirk ever could pretend to be. I happened, how¬ 
 ever, unadvisedly, to attack some of his outworks, upon which, to show his great skill 
 likewise in the offensive part, he immediately made an assault upon one of my buttons, 
 and carried it in less than two minutes, notwithstanding I made as handsome a defense 
 as was possible. He had likewise invested a second, and would certainly have been 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXV 
 
 master of that too in a very little time, had he not been diverted from this enterprise 
 by the arrival of a courier, who brought advice that his presence was absolutely neces¬ 
 sary in the disposal of a beaver; upon which he raised the siege, and, indeed, retreated 
 with precipitation.” 
 
 It was Mr. Heywood himself, that (having conquered this silly habit), in after years, 
 pointed out his own identity with Steele’s Politician. 
 
 Isaac Watts was born at Southampton, on July 17, 1674. At a very early age he 
 began to study the Latin and Greek Languages, to which he afterward added Hebrew; 
 and had acquired a very competent knowledge of them by the time he attained his six¬ 
 teenth year. In 1690 he was placed at the academy of the Rev. Thomas Rowe, in 
 London; and in 1693 he joined the communion of the Independents, of which sect his 
 preceptor was a minister. Having completed his studies, he devoted two years under 
 liis father’s roof, to preparation for the sacred duties of the pastoral charge ; and, at the 
 expiration of that period, he accepted an invitation from Sir John Hartopp, to become 
 the domestic tutor of his son. He lived with Sir John five years, during which he per¬ 
 fected himself in Biblical learning; and in the last year, 1698, preached for the first 
 time, on his birth-day. Shortly after, he was appointed assistant to the Rev. Dr. 
 Chauncey ; and on the Doctor’s death in 1701-2, became his successor. He had 
 scarcely entered upon his new office, when he was attacked by a severe illness, which 
 incapacitated him for some years. He recovered, however, sufficiently to resume the 
 duties of his charge ; in which he evinced the greatest assiduity and solicitude until a 
 second time he was afflicted with a fever so violent that he never entirely overcame the 
 effects of it. At this period he met with the true Samaritan in Sir Thomas Abney, who 
 took him into his house, and exerted himself indefatigably to restore his health. In 
 this he succeeded ; and though Sir Thomas lived but eight years to enjoy the society 
 of his illustrious friend, Dr. Watts became for the remainder of his life the inmate of 
 that hospitable family ; where, for thirty-six years, he received every demonstration of 
 affection, esteem, and veneration. 
 
 In 1716, Dr. Watts returned to the duties of his ministry, which had been performed 
 during his absence by Mr. Samuel Price, as joint pastor. In 1728 he received, totally 
 unsolicited and unexpected, the degree of Doctor in Divinity, from the Universities of 
 Edinburgh and Aberdeen. 
 
 He continued to officiate in his congregation, until disabled by increasing infirmity; he 
 then wished to resign his appointment, but was not permitted to do so ; his flock insisted 
 upon his continuing to receive the accustomed salary, and at the same time paid another 
 minister to act in his stead. Dr. Watts died on the 25th of November, 1748, aged 74. 
 
 The virtues and piety of Dr. Watts are strongly reflected in his writings, and spread 
 over them an imperishable luster. As a Theologian and a Philosopher, he is inferior 
 to none ; as a Poet, he is spirited and elegant; but all distinctions, perhaps, ought to 
 give way before that to which he has a primeval claim, and which is so freely awarded 
 him by Dr. Johnson :— 
 
 “ For children, he condescended to lay aside the Scholar, the Philosopher, and the 
 Wit, to write little poems of devotion, and systems of instruction, adapted to their wants 
 and capacities, from the dawn of reason, through its gradations of advance in the 
 morning of life. Every man acquainted with the common principles of human action 
 will look with veneration on the writer who is at one time combating Locke, and at 
 another making a catechism for children in their fourth year. A voluntary descent 
 from the dignity of Science is, perhaps, the hardest lesson that humility can teach.” 
 
 John Weaver was a Dancing master, and author of “An Essay toward a History of 
 Dancing ; in which the whole Art, and its various excellencies, are in some measure ex¬ 
 plained. Containing the several sorts of Dancing, antique and modern, serious, sce- 
 nical, grotesque, etc. With the use of it as an exercise, qualification, diversion, etc.,” 
 12mo. In a letter printed in the “ Spectator,” No. 334, he advertises his intention of 
 publishing this Work, which appeared before the close of the year. Steele spoke ap¬ 
 provingly of the Book in the “Spectator,” No. 466, and certainly not undeservedly, if 
 it be written Avitli the same ease and spirit as his Letter. 
 
 Richard Parker Avas the friend and fellow-collegian of Steele, at Merton College. 
 He took his degree of M. A. in 1697, and was esteemed a very accomplished scholar. 
 
XXVI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 [t is said that Edmund Smith submitted his Translation of Longinus , to his judgment, 
 from his exact critical knowledge of the Greek Tongue. Mr. Parker was presented by 
 his College to the Vicarage of Embleton, in Northumberland, which he held to a verj 
 advanced age: it would appear, however, from his Letter in “Spectator,” No. 474, 
 that his tastes were very dissimilar to those of the country gentlemen around him. 
 
 Peter Anthony Motteux was born at Rouen in 160(f. On the revocation of the 
 Edict of Nantz, he came to England, and lived for some time with his relative, Paul Domi¬ 
 nique, Esq. Unlike the generality of his countrymen, he attained so perfect a knowledge 
 of the English Language, both in its idiom and its colloquial expression, that his Transla¬ 
 tions of “Don Quixote,” and “The Works of Rabelais,” have been esteemed, the for¬ 
 mer equal to any before or'since ; and the latter, “ one of the most perfect specimens 
 of the art of Translation.” He also translated several plays, which were acted with 
 success ; wrote Prologues and Epilogues ; and a Poem “ On Tea,” dedicated to the 
 Spectator. At length, deeming Trade a more lucrative pursuit than Literature, he 
 opened an East India Warehouse in Leadenhall-street; and obtained an appointment in 
 the Post-office. His Letter to the Spectator (in No. 288) relates to this change in his 
 avocations, and is an advertisement of the articles in which he dealt.—He soon was 
 placed in easy circumstances, married an amiable woman, and became the father of a 
 family : but these blessings were insufficient to deter him from vicious habits. He was 
 found dead on the morning of the 9th of February, 1717-18, at a brothel near Temple Bar, 
 not without suspicions that he had been murdered by the wretches who surrounded him. 
 
 - Brome, D.D., was the author of Spectator, No. 302. It is supposed that the 
 
 Emilia who is there described, was “the mother of Mrs. Ascham, of Connington, Cam¬ 
 bridgeshire,” and the wife of Dr. Brome. This latter supposition is founded upon, and, 
 in some measure, borne out by, her husband being termed “Bromius.” If such be 
 the fact, we learn that Brome had been originally a man, gay, thoughtless, and extrava¬ 
 gant ; and that he owed to the virtues and discreet conduct of his wife, the preservation 
 of his paternal estate, as well as of his moral character. 
 
 - Francham was a resident at Norwich, and wrote “ Spectator” No. 520, upon 
 
 his wife’s death. We have no further particulars regarding him ; and it is a pity, for 
 the paper in question is of oxtreme beauty, simplicity, and tenderness. 
 
 Mr. Dunlop was Greek Professor in the University of Glasgow, and joined with 
 Mr. Montgomery, in writing No. 524. Mr. Dunlop published a Greek Grammar of 
 some repute. 
 
 Mr. Montgomery was a Merchant of high respectability, and, we are told, “traded to 
 Sweden, and his business carrying him there, it is said that in consequence of something 
 between him and Queen Christina, he was obliged to leave the kingdom abruptly. This 
 event was supposed to have affected his intellect, much in the same manner as Sir Roger 
 de Coverley is represented to have been injured by his passion for the beautiful widow.” 
 
 Miss Shepheard, and her sister, Mrs. Perry, were descended from Sir Fleetwood 
 Shepheard. The former wrote two letters in the “Spectator,” one signed Parthenia, in No. 
 140, the other Leonora , in No. 163: and the latter, one in No. 92, reminding Addison of 
 a promise he had made, to recommend a select library for the improvement of the fair sex. 
 
 Robert Harper was a Conveyancer of Lincoln’s Inn: he wrote the letter in No. 
 480, signed M. D. The original draught, communicated by the Rev. Mr. Harper, of 
 the British Museum, shows that Steele made many alterations in this Letter before 
 printing it. 
 
 - Golding. We have no particulars relative to the life and character of Mr. 
 
 Golding; but to him is attributed the first Letter in No. 250 of the “ Spectator.” 
 
 Gilbert Budgell, the second brother of Eustace Budgell, was the author of the 
 verses at the close of No. 591 : it is probable that the paper itself is the production of 
 his brother Eustace. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xxvil 
 
 Henry Bland was bead master of Eton School, then Provost of the College, and 
 afterward Dean of Durham. He was author of the Latin Translation of Cato’s 
 Soliloquy, in No. 628, originally attributed to Atterbury. The late Horace Walpole 
 assured Mr. Nicliolls that he had heard his father, Sir Robert, say that it was the work 
 of Bland, and that he had himself given it to Addison. 
 
 Richard Ince was educated at Westminster, and after became a student of Christ¬ 
 church, Oxford. Steele testifies to his having been a contributor to the “ Spectator,” 
 in No. 555. In 1740, he obtained, through Lord Granville’s interest, the office of Sec¬ 
 retary to the Comptroller of Army Accounts, the duties of which he performed with 
 great credit for twelve years ; when, by the death of his brother, he inherited an afflu¬ 
 ent fortune. He died in 1758. 
 
 -Carey, of New College, Oxford, was, by Steele’s acknowledgment (No. 555), 
 
 a contributor to the “ Spectatorhis productions, however, have not been identified. 
 
 Beside the Papers ascribed, by ascertained fact, and by internal evidence, to the 
 foregoing, a considerable number marked T. (meaning, it is judged, Transcribed ), as 
 well as fifty-three others, remain unappropriated. Many of them, it is probable, are the 
 compositions of Budgell and Tickell; but research seems to have done its utmost and 
 it is not now likely that further information will be elicited respecting them. 
 
 H. D. 
 
 ► 
 
 r 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 W (, **r « 
 
 *• 1 
 
 , 
 
 j ' ; u , * . ■ 
 
 " 
 
 r V 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 ) - 
 
 / 
 
 
 
 
 k- 
 
 . 
 
 , A - 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 •• 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 v 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 <. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 r 
 
• m 
 
 A LIST OF THE 
 
 WRITERS OF THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 ^ . 
 
 AS FAR AS IS KNOWN. 
 
 Those marked with an Asterisk are unknown. Those marked with more than one Initial Letter 
 are the work of those Writers whose names are indicated by the Initial Letters. 
 
 1 Addison ^ 
 
 50 Addison 
 
 96 Steele. Signature T. 
 
 2 Steele 
 
 51 
 
 97 “ " T. 
 
 3 Addison 
 
 52 Steele 
 
 98 Addison 
 
 4 Steele 
 
 53 “ and John Hughes, 
 
 99 
 
 5 Addison 
 
 Chalmers 
 
 100 Steele. Signature T, 
 
 6 Steele 
 
 54 Steele 
 
 101 Addison 
 
 7 “ 
 
 55 Addison 
 
 102 
 
 8 “ 
 
 56 
 
 103 Steele 
 
 9 “ 
 
 57 
 
 104 “ and John Hughes. T 
 
 10 Addison 
 
 58 
 
 105 Addison 
 
 11 Steele 
 
 59 
 
 106 
 
 12 Addison 
 
 60 
 
 107 Steele 
 
 13 
 
 61 
 
 108 Addison 
 
 14 Steele 
 
 62 
 
 109 Steele 
 
 15 Addison 
 
 63 
 
 110 Addison 
 
 16 
 
 64 Steele 
 
 111 
 
 17 Steele 
 
 65 “ 
 
 112 
 
 18 Addison 
 
 66 “ and John Hughes 
 
 113 Steele 
 
 19 Steele 
 
 67 Eustace Budgell 
 
 114 “ T. 
 
 20 “ 
 
 68 Addison 
 
 115 Addison 
 
 21 Addison 
 
 69 
 
 116 Eustace Budgell 
 
 22 Steele 
 
 70 
 
 117 Addison 
 
 23 Addison 
 
 71 Steele 
 
 118 Steele, T. 
 
 24 Steele 
 
 72 Addison 
 
 119 Addison 
 
 25 Addison 
 
 73 
 
 120 
 
 26 
 
 74 
 
 121 
 
 27 Steele 
 
 75 Steele 
 
 122 
 
 28 Addison 
 
 76 “ 
 
 123 “ 
 
 29 
 
 77 Eustace Budgell 
 
 124 “ 
 
 30 Steele 
 
 78 Steele 
 
 125 “ 
 
 31 Addison 
 
 79 “ 
 
 126 “ 
 
 32 Steele 
 
 80 “ 
 
 127 
 
 33 John Hughes, Chalmers 
 
 81 Addison 
 
 128 “ 
 
 34 Addison 
 
 82 Steele 
 
 129 “ 
 
 35 
 
 83 Addison 
 
 130 “ 
 
 36 Steele 
 
 84 Steele; a Letter by Eusden 
 
 131 
 
 37 Addison 
 
 85 Addison 
 
 132 Steele, T. 
 
 38 Steele 
 
 86 
 
 133 " 
 
 39 Addison 
 
 87 Steele 
 
 134 “ 
 
 40 
 
 88 “ 
 
 135 Addison 
 
 41 Steele 
 
 89 Addison 
 
 136 Steele, T. 
 
 42 Addison 
 
 90 
 
 137 “ 
 
 43 Steele 
 
 91 Steele and John Hughes — 
 
 138 “ 
 
 44 Addison 
 
 the Letter by Miss Shep- 
 
 139 « 
 
 45 
 
 heard 
 
 140 “ The Letter signed 
 
 46 “ 
 
 92 Addison 
 
 Leonora, Miss Shepheard 
 
 47 
 
 93 
 
 and John Hughes 
 
 48 Steele 
 
 94 “ 
 
 141 Steele 
 
 49 “ 
 
 95 * 
 
 142 “ 
 
 / _ \ 
 
 / 
 
XXX 
 
 LIST OF WRITERS. 
 
 143 Steele 
 
 144 “ 
 
 145 “ 
 
 146 “ 
 
 147 Steele, T. 
 
 148 “ 
 
 149 “ 
 
 150 Eustace Budgell 
 
 151 Steele, T. 
 
 152 “ 
 
 153 “ 
 
 154 “ 
 
 155 “ 
 
 156 “ 
 
 157 “ 
 
 158 “ 
 
 159 Addison 
 
 160 
 161 
 162 
 
 163 “ The Letter Leonora, 
 Miss Shepheard 
 
 164 
 
 165 
 
 166 
 
 167 Steele, T 
 
 168 “ 
 
 169 Addison 
 
 170 
 
 171 “ 
 
 172 Steele 
 
 173 Addison 
 
 174 Steele, T. 
 
 175 Eustace Budgell 
 
 176 Steele, T. 
 
 177 Addison 
 
 178 Steele, T. 
 
 179 Addison 
 
 180 Steele, T.—Letter written to 
 
 the king of France, H. 
 Martyn 
 
 181 Addison 
 
 182 * 
 
 183 Addison 
 
 184 « 
 
 185 
 
 186 
 
 187 Steele, T. 
 
 188 “ 
 
 189 Addison 
 
 190 Steele 
 
 191 Addison 
 
 192 Steele, T. 
 
 193 “ 
 
 194 “ 
 
 195 Addison 
 
 196 Steele 
 
 197 Eustace Budgell 
 
 198 Addison 
 
 199 Steele, T. 
 
 200 “ or Henry Martyn 
 
 201 Addison 
 
 202 Steele, T. 
 
 203 Addison 
 
 204 Steele, T. 
 
 205 Addison 
 
 206 Steele, T. 
 
 207 Addison 
 
 208 Steele, T. 
 
 209 Addison 
 
 210 John Hughes 
 
 211 Addison 
 
 212 Steele, T. 
 
 213 Addison 
 
 214 Steele,T. 
 
 215 Addison 
 
 216 Addison 
 
 217 Eustace Budgell 
 
 218 Steele, T. 
 
 219 Addison 
 
 220 Steele and John Hughes 
 
 221 Addison 
 
 222 Steele, T. 
 
 223 Addison 
 
 224 John Hughes 
 
 225 Addison 
 
 226 Steele, T. 
 
 227 Addison 
 
 228 Steele, T. 
 
 229 Addison 
 
 230 John Hughes: last Letter 
 
 Steele 
 
 231 Addison and John Hughes: 
 
 the Letter Chalmers 
 
 232 Sig. Z. Eustace Budgell, 
 
 l2mo. Ed. Annotator to 
 Henry Martyn* 
 
 233 Addison 
 
 234 Steele, T. 
 
 235 Addison 
 
 236 Steele, T. 
 
 237 4to. Bask. Addison, John 
 
 Hughes, Chalmers, and 
 Duncombe 
 
 238 Steele, T. 
 
 239 Addison 
 
 240 Steele, T 
 
 241 Addison 
 
 242 Steele, T. 
 
 243 Addison 
 
 244 Steele, T. 
 
 245 Addison 
 
 246 Steele, T. 
 
 247 Addison 
 
 248 Steele, T. 
 
 249 Addison 
 
 250 * 
 
 251 Addison 
 
 252 Steele, T. — The Letter, 
 
 John Hughes 
 
 253 Addison 
 
 254 Steele, T. 
 
 255 Addison 
 
 256 
 
 257 “ 
 
 258 Steele, T. 
 
 259 “ 
 
 260 Addison 
 
 261 
 262 
 
 263 
 
 264 Steele, T. 
 
 265 Addison 
 
 266 Steele, T. 
 
 267 Addison 
 
 268 Steele.—The Letter, Janies 
 
 Heywood* 
 
 269 The Baskerville 4to. does 
 
 not assign this to Addison. 
 8vo. 1775. has Sig. L 
 
 270 Steele, T. 
 
 271 The Baskerville 4to. not to. 
 
 Addison; 8vo. 1775, does. 
 
 272 Steele, T. 
 
 273 Addison 
 
 274 Steele 
 
 275 This Ho. the same as 269 
 
 and 271 
 
 276 Steele, T. 
 
 277 Eustace Budgell 
 
 278 Steele, T. 
 
 279 Addison 
 
 280 Steele, T. 
 
 281 The same as 269, 271, and 
 
 275 
 
 282 Steele. T. 
 
 283 Eustace Budgell 
 
 284 Steele, T. 
 
 285 Addison 
 
 286 * 
 
 287 The same as the above, 281, 
 
 etc. 
 
 288 Steele, T. — The Letter 
 
 Motteaux 
 
 289 The same as 281, etc. Eus¬ 
 
 tace Budgell, Chalmers 
 
 290 Steele, T. 
 
 291 Addison 
 
 292 * 
 
 293 The same as 287, etc. 
 
 294 Steele 
 
 295 The same as 293, etc. 
 
 296 Steele 
 
 297 Addison 
 
 298 Steele 
 
 299 The same as 293, etc. 
 
 300 Steele, T. 
 
 301 Eustace Budgell 
 
 302 Steele. The Character of 
 
 Emilia, Dr. Brome 
 
 303 Addison 
 
 304 Steele, T. 
 
 305 The same as 295, etc. 
 
 306 Steele 
 
 307 Eustace Budgell 
 
 308 * 
 
 309 Addison 
 
 310 Steele, T. 
 
 311 The same as 299; and the 
 
 Letter J. Hughes 
 
 312 Steele, T 
 
 313 Eustace Budgell 
 
 314 Steele 
 
 315 Addison 
 
 316 Eustace Budgell 
 
 317 The same as 311 etc. 
 
 318 Steele 
 
 319 Eustace Budgell 
 
 320 Steele, T. 
 
 321 Addison 
 
 322 Steele 
 
 323 The same as 317, etc 
 
 324 Steele 
 
 325 Eustace Budgell 
 
 326 Steele, T. 
 
 327 Addison 
 
 328 Steele, T. 
 
 329 The same as 317, etc. 
 
 330 Steele 
 
 331 Eustace Budgell 
 
 332 Steele 
 
 333 Addison 
 
 334 Steele 
 
 335 The same as 329, etc. 
 
 336 Steele 
 
 337 Eustace Budgell 
 
 338 * 
 
 339 Addison 
 
 340 Stsele 
 
 341 Eustace Budgell 
 
 342 Steele 
 
 343 The same as 329, etc. 
 
 344 Steele, T. 
 
 345 Addison 
 
 346 Steele, T. 
 
 347 Eustace Budgell 
 
 348 Steele 
 
 349 The same as 343, etc. 
 
OF THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 350 Steele 
 
 351 Addison 
 
 352 Steele 
 
 353 Eustace Budgell 
 
 354 Steele 
 
 355 The same as 349, etc. 
 
 356 Steele 
 
 357 Addison 
 
 358 * 
 
 359 Eustace Budgell 
 
 360 Steele, T. 
 
 361 Addison 
 
 362 Steele, T. 
 
 363 Addison. This is omitted 
 
 in the 4to. Baskerville 
 
 364 Philip Yorke 
 
 365 Eustace Budgell 
 
 366 Steele 
 
 367 Addison 
 
 368 Steele 
 
 369 Addison ; omitted in 4to. 
 
 Baskerville 
 
 370 Steele 
 
 371 Addison 
 
 372 Steele, T. 
 
 373 Eustace Budgell 
 
 374 Steele, T. 
 
 375 John Hughes 
 
 376 Steele, T. 
 
 377 Addison 
 
 378 The Messiah, Pope 
 
 379 Eustace Budgell 
 
 380 Steele, T. 
 
 381 Addison 
 
 382 Steele, T. 
 
 383 Addison 
 
 384 Steele, T. 
 
 38l> Eustace Budgell 
 
 386 Steele, T. 
 
 387 Addison 
 
 388 Steele, T. 
 
 389 Eustace Budgell 
 
 390 Steele 
 
 391 Addison 
 
 392 Steele, T. 
 
 393 Addison 
 
 394 Steele, T. 
 
 395 Eustace Budgell 
 
 396 The Letter, Orator Henley 
 
 397 Addison 
 
 398 Steele, T. 
 
 *399 Addison 
 
 400 Steele 
 
 401 Eustace Budgell 
 
 402 * 
 
 403 Addison 
 
 404 Sig. Z. Eustace Budgell 
 
 405 Addison 
 
 406 Steele 
 
 407 Addison — 
 
 408 Pope 
 
 409 Addison 
 
 410 Tickell 
 
 411 Addison 
 
 412 
 
 413 
 
 414 " 
 
 415 “ 
 
 416 
 
 417 
 
 418 
 
 419 " 
 
 420 
 
 421 
 
 422 Steele, T. 
 
 423 “ 
 
 424 Steele 
 
 425 Eustace Budgell 
 
 426 Steele 
 
 427 « 
 
 428 « 
 
 429 « 
 
 430 “ 
 
 431 * 
 
 432 * 
 
 433 Addison 
 
 434 
 
 435 
 
 436 Steele 
 
 437 “ 
 
 438 “ 
 
 439 Addison 
 
 440 
 
 441 “ 
 
 442 Steele 
 
 443 “ 
 
 444 “ 
 
 445 Addison 
 
 446 “ 
 
 447 “ 
 
 448 Steele 
 
 449 “ 
 
 450 “ 
 
 451 Addison 
 
 452 “ 
 
 453 “ 
 
 454 Steele 
 
 455 “ 
 
 456 « 
 
 457 Addison 
 
 458 
 
 459 
 
 460 Parnell 
 
 461 Steele 
 
 462 “ 
 
 463 Addison 
 
 464 “ 
 
 465 
 
 466 Steele 
 
 467 John Hughes 
 
 468 Steele 
 
 469 Addison 
 
 470 
 
 471 
 
 472 Steele 
 
 473 “ 
 
 474 “ 
 
 475 Addison 
 
 476 
 
 477 
 
 478 Steele 
 
 479 “ 
 
 480 Letter, Robert Harper 
 
 481 Addison 
 
 482 
 
 483 
 
 484 Steele, T. 
 
 485 Steele 
 
 486 “ 
 
 487 Addison 
 
 488 
 
 489 
 
 490 Steele, T. 
 
 491 “ 
 
 492 “ 
 
 493 “ 
 
 494 Addison 
 
 495 “ 
 
 496 Steele, T. 
 
 497 “ 
 
 498 " 
 
 499 Addison 
 
 500 Addison 
 
 501 Parnell 
 
 502 Steele, T. 
 
 503 “ 
 
 504 “ 
 
 505 Addison 
 
 506 Eustace Budgell 
 
 507 Addison 
 
 508 Steele 
 
 509 “ 
 
 510 « 
 
 511 Addison 
 
 512 
 
 513 
 
 514 Steele 
 
 515 “ 
 
 516 * 
 
 517 Addison 
 
 518 The Letter, Orator Henley 
 
 519 Addison 
 
 520 Francham 
 
 521 Steele, T. 
 
 522 “ 
 
 523 Addison 
 
 524 Dunlop and Montgomery 
 
 525 John Hughes 
 
 526 Steele 
 
 527 Addison * 
 
 528 Steele 
 
 529 Addison 
 
 530 
 
 531 “ 
 
 532 Steele, T. 
 
 533 “ 
 
 534 “ 
 
 535 Addison 
 
 536 
 
 537 John Hughes 
 
 538 Addison 
 
 539 Eustace Budgell 
 
 540 Steele, T. 
 
 541 John Hughes 
 
 542 Addison 
 
 543 
 
 544 Steele 
 
 545 “ 
 
 546 “ 
 
 547 Addison 
 
 548 * 
 
 549 Addison 
 
 550 
 
 551 * 
 
 552 Steele, T. 
 
 553 * 
 
 554 John Hughes 
 
 555 Henry Martyn 
 
 556 Addison 
 
 557 
 
 558 
 
 559 
 
 560 Addison; 8vo. 1775, omitted 
 
 in 4to. Baskerville 
 
 561 Addison 
 
 562 
 
 563 * 
 
 564 * 
 
 565 Addison 
 
 566 * 
 
 567 Addison 
 
 568 
 
 569 
 
 570 * 
 
 571 Addison 
 
 572 Dr Z. Fearce 
 
 573 * 
 
 574 Addison 
 
xxxii LIST OF WRITERS OF THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 575 Addison 
 
 596 * 
 
 616 * 
 
 576 
 
 597 John Byrom * 
 
 617 * 
 
 577 * 
 
 598 Addison 
 
 618 * 
 
 578 * 
 
 599 * 
 
 619 * 
 
 579 Addison 
 
 600 Addison 
 
 620 The Poem, Tickell 
 
 580 
 
 601 Henry Grove 
 
 621 * 
 
 581 * 
 
 602 Eustace Budgell 
 
 622 * 
 
 582 Addison 
 
 603 Verses, John Byrom 
 
 623 * 
 
 583 
 
 604 * 
 
 624 * 
 
 584 
 
 605 Eustace Budgell 
 
 625 * 
 
 585 
 
 606 * 
 
 626 Henry Grove 
 
 586 John Byrom * 
 
 607 * 
 
 627 * 
 
 587 * 
 
 608 * 
 
 628 * 
 
 588 Henry Grove * 
 
 609 * 
 
 629 * 
 
 589 * 
 
 610 * 
 
 630 * 
 
 590 Addison 
 
 611 * 
 
 631 * 
 
 591 Eustace Budgell 
 
 612 * 
 
 632 * 
 
 592 Addison 
 
 613 * - 
 
 633 Dr. Z. Pearce ** 
 
 593 John Byrom 
 
 614 * 
 
 634 * 
 
 594 * 
 
 595 * 
 
 615 * 
 
 635 John Grove 
 
 N 
 
THE 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 ORIGINAL DEDICATIONS OF THE SUCCESSIVE VOLUMES. 
 
 TO LORD JOHN SOMERS, 
 
 BARON OF EVESHAM. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 I should not act the part of an impartial Specta¬ 
 tor, if I dedicated the following papers to one who 
 is not of the most consummate and acknowledged 
 merit. 
 
 None but a person of a finished character can be 
 a proper patron of a work which endeavors to cul¬ 
 tivate ana polish human life, by promoting virtue 
 and knowledge, and by recommending whatsoever 
 may be either useful or ornamental to society. 
 
 1 know that the homage I now pay you, is offer¬ 
 ing a kind of violence to one who is as solicitous 
 to shun applause, as he is assiduous to deserve it. 
 But, my Lord, this is perhaps the only particular 
 in which your prudence will be always disap¬ 
 pointed. 
 
 While justice, candor, equanimity, a zeal for the 
 good of your country, audthe most persuasive elo- 
 uence in bringing over others to it, are valuable 
 istinctions: you are not to expect that the public 
 will so far comply with your inclinations as to for¬ 
 bear celebrating such extraordinary qualities. It 
 is in vain that you have endeavored to conceal 
 your share of merit in the many national services 
 which you have effected. Do what you will, the 
 present age will be talking of your virtues, though 
 posterity alone will do them justice. 
 
 Other men pass through oppositions and contend¬ 
 ing interests in the ways of ambition; but your 
 great abilities have been invited to power, and im¬ 
 portuned to accept of advancement. Nor is it 
 strange that this should happen to your Lordship, 
 who could bring into the service of your sovereign 
 the arts and policies of ancient Greece and Rome, 
 as well as the most exact knowledge of our own 
 constitution in particular, and of the interests of 
 Europe in general; to which I must also add, a 
 certain dignity in yourself, that (to say the least 
 of it) has been always equal to those great honors 
 which have been conferred upon you. 
 
 It is very well known how much the church 
 owed to you, in the most dangerous day it ever saw, 
 that of the arraignment of its prelates; and how 
 far the civil power, in the late and present reign, 
 has been indebted to your counsels and wisdom. 
 
 But to enumerate the great advantages which the 
 public has received from your administration 
 would be a more proper work for a history, than 
 for an address of this nature. 
 
 Your Lordship appears as great in your private 
 life, as in the most important offices which you 
 
 have borne. I would, therefore, rather choose to 
 speak of the pleasure you afford all who are ad¬ 
 mitted to your conversation, of your elegant taste 
 in all the polite arts of learning, of your great 
 humanity and complacency of manners, and of 
 the surprising influence which is peculiar to you, 
 in making every one who converses with your 
 Lordship prefer you to himself, without thinking 
 the less meanly of his own talents. But if I 
 should take notice of all that might be observed 
 in your Lordship, I should have nothing new to 
 say upon any other character of distinction. 
 
 I am, my Lord, 
 
 Your Lordship’s most devoted, 
 
 Most obedient humble servant. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 TO CHARLES LORD HALIFAX. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Similitude of manners and studies is usually 
 mentioned as one of the strongest motives to affec¬ 
 tion and esteem ; but the passionate veneration I 
 have for your Lordship, I think flows from an ad¬ 
 miration of qualities in you, of which, in the whole 
 course of these papers, I have acknowledged my¬ 
 self incapable. While I busy myself as a stranger 
 upon earth, and can pretend to no other than 
 being a looker-on, you are conspicuous in the busy 
 and polite world—both in the world of men, and 
 that of letters. While I am silent and unobserved 
 in public meetings, you are admired by all that 
 approach you, as the life and genius of the con¬ 
 versation. What a happy conjunction of different 
 talents meets in him whose whole discourse is at 
 once animated by the strength and force of reason, 
 and adorned with all the graces and embellish¬ 
 ments of wit! When learning irradiates common 
 life, it is then in its highest use and perfection; 
 and it is to such as your Lordship, that the sciences 
 owe the esteem which they have with the active 
 part of mankind. Knowledge of books, in recluse 
 men, is like that sort of lantern which hides him 
 who carries it, and serves only to pass through 
 secret and gloomy paths of his own; but in the 
 possession of a man of business, it is as a torch in 
 the hand of one who is willing and able to show 
 those who were bewildered the way which leads 
 to their prosperity and welfare. A generous con¬ 
 cern for your country, and a passion for every¬ 
 thing that is truly great and noble, are what actu¬ 
 ate all your life and actions; and I hope you will 
 forgive me when I have an ambition this book may 
 be placed in the library of so good a judgo of 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 34 
 
 what is valuable—in that library where the choice 
 is such, that it will not be a disparagement to be 
 the meanest author in it. Forgive me, my Lord, 
 for taking this occasion of telling all the world 
 how ardently I love and honor you; and that I am, 
 with the utmost gratitude for all your favors. 
 
 My Lord, your Lordship’s most obliged, 
 
 Most obedient, and most humble servant, 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 TO THE RIGHT HON. HENRY BOYLE * 
 Sir, 1712. 
 
 As the professed design of this work is to enter¬ 
 tain its readers in general, without giving offense 
 to any particular person, it would be difficult to 
 find out so proper a patron for it as yourself, there 
 being none whose merit is more universally ac¬ 
 knowledged by all parties and who has made him¬ 
 self more friends, and fewer enemies. Your great 
 abilities and unquestioned integrity in those high 
 employments which you have passed through, 
 would not have been able to have raised you this 
 general approbation, had they not been accompa¬ 
 nied with that moderation in a high fortune, and 
 that affability of manners, which are so conspicu¬ 
 ous through all parts of your life. Your aversion 
 to any ostentatious arts of setting to show those 
 reat services which you have done the public, 
 as not likewise a little contributed to that uni¬ 
 versal acknowledgment which is paid you by your 
 country. 
 
 The consideration of this part of your character, 
 is that which hinders me from enlarging on those 
 extraordinary talents, which have given you so 
 great a figure in the British senate, as well as on 
 that elegance and politeness which appear in your 
 more retired conversation. I should be unpardon¬ 
 able if, after what I have said, I should longer 
 detain you with an address of this nature : I can¬ 
 not, however, conclude it, without acknowledging 
 those great obligations which you have laid upon, 
 Sir, your most obedient, humble servant, 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 TO THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. 
 
 My Lord, 1712. 
 
 As it is natural for us to have fondness for what 
 has cost us much time and attention to produce, I 
 hope your grace will forgive my endeavor to pre¬ 
 serve this work from oblivion, by affixing to it 
 your memorable name, 
 
 I shall not here presume to mention the illus¬ 
 trious passages of your life, which are celebrated 
 by the whole age, and have been the subject of 
 the most sublime pens ; but if I could convey you 
 to posterity in your private character, and de¬ 
 scribed the stature, the behavior, and aspect, of 
 the Duke of Marlborough, I question not but it 
 would fill the reader with more agreeable images, 
 and give him a more delightful entertainment, 
 than what can be found in the following, or any 
 other book. 
 
 One cannot indeed without offense to yourself 
 observe, that you excel the rest of mankind in the 
 least, as well as the greatest endowments. Nor 
 were it a circumstance to be mentioned, if the 
 graces and attractions of your person were not the 
 only pre-eminence you have above others, which is 
 left almost unobserved by greater writers. 
 
 Yet how pleasing would it be to those who shall 
 read the surprising revolutions in your story, to 
 be made acquainted with your ordinary life and 
 
 * Youngest son of Charles, Lord Clifford, and afterward 
 Lord Carleton. 
 
 deportment! How pleasing would it be to hear 
 that the same man who carried fire and sword into 
 the countries of all that had opposed the cause of 
 liberty, and struck a terror into the armies of 
 France, had, in the midst of his high station, a 
 behavior as gentle as is usual in the first steps 
 toward greatness! And if it were possible to ex¬ 
 press that easy grandeur, which did at once per¬ 
 suade and command ; it would appear as clearly to 
 those to come, as it does to his cotemporaries, that 
 all the great events which were brought to pass 
 under the conduct of so well-governed a spirit, 
 were the blessings of heaven upon wisdom and 
 valor; and all which seem adverse fell out by di¬ 
 vine permission, which we are not to search into. 
 
 You have passed that year of life wherein the 
 most able and fortunate captain, before your time, 
 declared he had lived long enough both to nature 
 and to glory; and your Grace may make that re¬ 
 flection with much more justice. He spoke of it 
 after he had arrived at empire by a usurpation 
 upon those whom he had enslaved; but the Prince 
 of Mindelheim may rejoice in a sovereignty which 
 was the gift of him whose dominions he had 
 preserved. 
 
 Glory established upon the uninterrupted suc¬ 
 cess of honorable designs and actions, is not sub¬ 
 ject to diminution; nor can any attempt prevail 
 against it, but in the proportion which the narrow 
 circuit of rumor bears to the unlimited extent of 
 fame. 
 
 We may congratulate your Grace not only upon 
 your high achievements, but likewise upon the 
 happy expiration of your command, by which 
 your glory is put out of the power of fortune: and 
 when your person shall be so too, that the Author 
 and Disposer of all things may place you in that 
 higher mansion of bliss and immortality which is 
 prepared for good princes, lawgivers, and heroes, 
 when he in his due time removes them from the 
 envy of mankind, is the hearty prayer of. 
 
 My Lord, your Grace’s most obedient, 
 
 Most devoted, humble servant, 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF WHARTON. 
 
 My Lord, 1712-13 
 
 The author of the Spectator, having prefixed 
 before each of his volumes the names of some 
 great persons to whom he has particular obliga¬ 
 tions, lays his claim to your Lordship’s patronage 
 upon the same account. I must confess, my Lord, 
 had not I already received great instances of your 
 favor, I should have been afraid of submitting a 
 work of this nature to your perusal. You are so 
 thoroughly acquainted with the characters of men, 
 and all the parts of human life, that it is impossible 
 for the least misrepresentation of them to escape 
 your notice. It is your Lordship’s particular dis¬ 
 tinction that you are master of the whole compass 
 of business, and have signalized yourself in all 
 the different scenes of it. We admire some for the 
 dignity, others for the popularity of their beha¬ 
 vior ; some for their clearness of judgment, others 
 for their happiness of expression; some for the 
 laying of schemes, and others for the putting of 
 them into execution. It is your Lordship only who 
 enjoys these several talents united, and that too in 
 as great perfection as others possess them singly. 
 Your enemies acknowledge this great extent in 
 your Lordship’s character, at the same time that 
 they use their utmost industry and invention to 
 derogate from it. But it is for your honor that 
 those who are now your enemies were always so. 
 You have acted in so much consistency with your¬ 
 self, and promoted the interest of your country 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 in so uniform a manner, that those who would 
 misrepresent your generous designs for the public 
 good cannot but approve the steadiness and intre- 
 pedity with which you pursue them. It is a most 
 sensible pleasure to me that I have this oppor¬ 
 tunity of professing myself one of your great 
 admirers, and, in a very particular manner. 
 
 My Lord, your Lordship’s most obliged, 
 
 And most obedient, humble servant. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF SUNDERLAND. 
 
 My Lord, 1712-13. 
 
 Yery many favors and civilities (received from 
 you in a private capacity) which I have no other 
 way to acknowledge, will, I hope, excuse this pre¬ 
 sumption ; but the justice I, as a Spectator, owe 
 your character, places me above the want of an 
 excuse. Candor and openness of heart, which 
 shine in all your words and actions, exact the 
 highest esteem from all who have the honor to 
 know you ; and a winning condescension to all 
 subordinate to you, made business a pleasure to 
 those who executed it under you, at the same time 
 that it heightened her Majesty’s favor to all those 
 who had the happiness of having it conveyed 
 through your hands. A secretary of state, in the 
 interest of mankind, joined with that of his fel¬ 
 low-subjects, accomplished with a great facility 
 and elegance, in all the modern as well as ancient 
 languages, was a happy and proper member of a 
 ministry, by whose services your sovereign is in 
 so high and flourishing a condition, as makes all 
 other princes and potentates powerful or incon¬ 
 siderable in Europe, as they are friends or ene¬ 
 mies to Great Britain. The importance of those 
 great events which happened during that admin¬ 
 istration in which your Lordship bore so impor¬ 
 tant a charge, will be acknowledged as long as 
 time shall endure. I shall not therefore attempt 
 to rehearse those illustrious passages, but give 
 this application a more private and particular 
 turn, in desiring your Lordship would continue 
 your favor and patronage to me, as you are a gen¬ 
 tleman of the most polite literature, and perfectly 
 accomplished in the knowledge of books* and 
 men, which makes it necessary to beseech your 
 indulgence to the following leaves, and the author 
 of them; who is, with the greatest truth and re¬ 
 spect, 
 
 My Lord, your Lordship’s obliged, 
 
 Obedient, and humble servant, 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 TO MR. METHUEN.f 
 
 Sir, 
 
 It is with great pleasure I take an opportunity 
 of publishing the gratitude I owe you for the 
 place you allow me in your friendship and fa¬ 
 miliarity. I will not acknowledge to you that I 
 have often had you in my thoughts, when I have 
 endeavored to draw, in some parts of these dis¬ 
 courses, the character of a good-natured, honest, 
 and accomplished gentleman. But such repre¬ 
 sentations give my readers an idea of a person 
 blameless only, or only laudable for such perfec¬ 
 tions as extend no farther than to his own private 
 advantage and reputation. 
 
 * His lordship was the founder of the splendid and truly 
 valuable library at Althorp. 
 
 t Afterward Sir Paul Methuen, Knight of the Bath. This 
 very ingenious gentleman, while ambassador at the court of 
 Portugal, concluded the famous commercial treaty which 
 bears his name; and in the same capacity, at the court of 
 Savoy, exerted himself nobly as a military hero. 
 
 35 
 
 But when I speak of you, I celebrate one who 
 has had the happiness of possessing also those 
 qualities which make a man useful to society, and 
 of having had opportunities of exerting them in 
 the most conspicuous manner. 
 
 The great part you had, as British ambassa¬ 
 dor, in procuring and cultivating the advanta¬ 
 geous commerce between the courts of England 
 and Portugal, has purchased you the lasting es¬ 
 teem of all who understand the business of either 
 nation. 
 
 Those personal excellencies which are overrated 
 by the ordinary world, and too much neglected 
 by wise men, you have applied with the justest 
 skill and judgment. The most graceful address 
 in horsemanship, in the use of the sword, and in 
 dancing, has been used by you as lower arts; and 
 as they have occasionally served to cover or intro¬ 
 duce the talents of a skillful minister. 
 
 But your abilities have not appeared only in one 
 nation. When it was your province to act as her 
 Majesty’s minister at the court of Savoy, at that 
 time encamped, you accompanied that gallant 
 prince through all the vicissitudes of his fortune, 
 and shared by his side the dangers of that glori¬ 
 ous day in which he recovered his capital. As 
 far as it regards personal qualities, you attained, 
 in that one hour, the highest military reputation. 
 The behavior of our minister in the action, and 
 the good offices done the vanquished in the name 
 of the Queen of England, gave both the con¬ 
 queror and the captive the most lively examples 
 of the courage and generosity of the nation he 
 represented. 
 
 Your friends and companions in your absence 
 frequently talk these things of you; and you can¬ 
 not hide from us (by the most discreet silence in 
 anything which regards yourself) that the frank 
 entertainment we have at your table, your easy 
 condescension in little incidents of mirth and di¬ 
 version, and general complacency of manners, are 
 far from being the greatest obligations we have to 
 you. I do assure you, there is not one of your 
 friends has a greater sense of your merit in gen¬ 
 eral, and of the favors you every day do us, than, 
 Sir, 
 
 Your most ob’t and most humble servant, 
 
 Richard Steele. 
 
 TO WILLIAM HONEYCOMBE, ESQ* 
 
 The seven former volumes of the Spectator hav¬ 
 ing been dedicated to some of the most celebrated 
 persons of the age, I take leave to inscribef this 
 eighth and last to you, as to a gentleman who hath 
 ever been ambitious of appearing in the best 
 company. 
 
 You are now wholly retired from the busy part 
 of mankind, and at leisure to reflect upon your 
 past achievements ; for which reason I look upon 
 you as a person very well qualified for a dedica¬ 
 tion. 
 
 I may possibly disappoint my readers, and 
 yourself too, if I did not endeavor on this occasion 
 to make the world acquainted with your virtues. 
 And here. Sir, I shall not compliment you upon 
 your birth, person, or fortune, nor on any other 
 the like perfections which you possess whether 
 you will or no; but shall only touch upon those 
 which are of your acquiring, and in which every 
 one must allow you have a real merit. 
 
 Your jaunty air and easy motion, the volubility 
 of your discourse, the suddenness of your laugh, 
 
 * Generally supposed to be Colonel Cleland. 
 
 f This dedication is supposed to have been written by Eus¬ 
 tace Budgell, who might have better dedicated it to Will 
 Wimble. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 36 
 
 the management of your snuff-box, with the white¬ 
 ness of your hands and teeth (which have justly 
 gained you the envy of the most polite part of the 
 male world, and the love of the greatest beauties 
 in the female) are entirely to be ascribed to your 
 personal genius and application. 
 
 You are formed for these accomplishments by 
 a happy turn of nature, and have finished your¬ 
 self in them by the utmost improvements of art. 
 A man that is defective in either of these qualifi¬ 
 cations (whatever may be the secret ambition of 
 his heart) must never hope to make the figure you 
 have done, among the fashionable part of his spe¬ 
 cies. It is therefore no wonder we see such mul¬ 
 titudes of aspiring young men fall short of you in 
 all these beauties ot your character, notwithstand¬ 
 ing the study and practice of them is the whole 
 business of their lives. But I need not tell you, 
 that the free and disengaged behavior of a fine 
 gentleman makes as many awkward beaux, as 
 the easiness of your favorite hath made insipid 
 poets. 
 
 At present you are content to aim all your 
 charms at your own spouse, without farther 
 thought of mischief to any others of the sex. I 
 know you had formerly a very great contempt for 
 that pedantic race of mortals who call themselves 
 philosophers; and yet, to your honor be it spoken, 
 there is not a sage of them all could have better 
 acted up to their precepts in one of the most im- 
 ortant points of life: I mean, in that generous 
 isregard of popular opinion which you showed 
 some years ago, when you chose for your wife an 
 obscure young woman, who doth not indeed pre¬ 
 tend to an ancient family, but has certainly as 
 many forefathers as any lady in the land, if she 
 but reckons up their names. 
 
 I must own I conceived very extraordinary hopes 
 of you from the moment that you confessed your 
 age, and from eight-and-forty (where you had 
 stuck so many years) very ingeniously stepped 
 into your grand climacteric. Your deportment 
 has since been very venerable and becoming. If 
 
 I am rightly informed, you make a regular ap¬ 
 pearance every quarter-sessions among your bro¬ 
 thers of the quorum; and if things go on as they 
 do, stand fair for being a colonel of the militia. I 
 am told that your time passes away, as agreeably in 
 the amusements of a country life, as it ever did in 
 the gallantries of the town; and that you now 
 take as much pleasure in the planting of young 
 trees, as you did formerly in the cutting down of 
 your old ones. In short, we hear from all hands 
 that you are thoroughly reconciled to your dirty 
 acres, and have not too much wit to look into your 
 own estate. 
 
 After having spoken thus much of my patron, 
 I must take the privilege of an author in saying 
 something of myself. I shall therefore beg leave 
 to add, that I have purposely omitted setting 
 those marks to the end of every paper, which ap¬ 
 peared in my former volumes, that you may have 
 an opportunity of showing Mrs. Honeycombe the 
 shrewdness of your conjectures, by ascribing 
 every speculation to its proper author ; though 
 you know how often many profound critics in 
 style and sentiments have very judiciously erred 
 in this particular, before they were let into the 
 secret. I am, Sir, 
 
 Your most faithful, humble servant. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 THE BOOKSELLER TO THE READER. 
 
 In the six hundred and thirty-second Spectator, 
 the reader will find an account of the rise of this 
 eighth and last volume. 
 
 I have not been able to prevail upon the several 
 gentlemen who were concerned in this work to let 
 me acquaint the world with their names. 
 
 Perhaps it will be unnecessary to inform the 
 reader, that no other papers which have appeared 
 under the title of the Spectator, since the closing 
 of this eighth volume, were written by any of 
 those gentlemen who had a hand in this or the 
 former volumes. 
 
 cr 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No, 1.] THURSDAY, MARCH 1,1710-11. 
 
 Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem, 
 
 Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat, 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 143. 
 
 One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke; 
 
 Another out of smoke brings glorious light, 
 
 And (without raising expectation high) 
 
 Surprises us with dazzling miracles.— Roscommon. 
 
 I have observed, that a reader seldom peruses a 
 book with pleasure, till he knows whether the 
 writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or 
 choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with 
 other particulars of the like nature, that conduce 
 very much to the right understanding of an au¬ 
 thor. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natu¬ 
 ral in a reader, I design this paper and my next 
 as prefatory discourses to my following writings, 
 and shall give some account in them of the seve¬ 
 ral persons that are engaged in this work. As 
 the chief trouble of compiling, digesting, and cor¬ 
 recting, will fall to my share, I must do my¬ 
 self the justice to open the work with my own 
 history. 
 
 I was born to a small hereditary estate, which, 
 according to the tradition of the village where it 
 lies, was bounded by the same hedges and ditches 
 in William the Conqueror’s time that it is at pre¬ 
 sent, and has been delivered down from father to 
 son, whole and entire, without the loss or acquisi¬ 
 tion of a single field or meadow, during the space 
 of six hundred years. There runs a story in the 
 family, that, when my mother was gone with child 
 of me about three months, she dreamed that she 
 was brought to bed of a judge. Whether this 
 might proceed from a law-suit which was then de¬ 
 pending in the family, or my father’s being a jus¬ 
 tice of the peace, 1 cannot determine; for I am not 
 so vain as to think it presaged any dignity that I 
 should arrive at in future life, though that was the 
 interpretation which the neighborhood put upon 
 it. The gravity of my behavior at my first ap¬ 
 pearance in the world, and at the time that I 
 sucked, seemed to favor my mother’s dream ; for, 
 as she has often told me, I threw away my rattle 
 before I was two months old, and would not make 
 use of my coral until they had taken away the 
 bells from it. 
 
 As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing 
 in it remarkable, I shall pass over it in silence. I 
 find that during my nonage, I had the reputation 
 of a very sullen youth, but was always a favorite 
 of my schoolmaster, who used to say; “ that my 
 arts were solid, and would wear well.”JKi had no£] 
 een long at the university, before I distinguished/ 
 mvself by a most profound silence ; for during thej 
 space of eight years, excepting in the public exer-\ 
 cises of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity! 
 of a hundred words ; and indeed do not remember 
 that I ever spoke three sentences together in mf 
 whole life. While I was in this learned body, I 
 applied myself with so much diligence to my 
 studies, that there are few very celebrated books, 
 
 either in the learned or the modern tongues, which 
 I am not acquainted with. 
 
 Upon the death of my father, I was resolved to 
 travel into foreign countries, and therefore left the 
 university with the character of an odd, unac- ^ 
 countable fellow, that had a great deal of learn¬ 
 ing, if I would but show it. An insatiable thirst 
 after knowledge carried me into all the countries 
 of Europe in which there was anything new or 
 strange to be seen ; nay, to such a degree was my 
 curiosity raised, that having read the controversies 
 of some great men concerning the antiquities of 
 Egypt, I made a voyage to Grand Cairo on pur¬ 
 pose to take the measure of a pyramid ; and as 
 soon as I had set myself right in that particular, 
 returned to my native country with great satis¬ 
 faction.* 
 
 I have passed my latter years in this city, where 
 I am frequently seen in most public places, though 
 there are not above half-a-dozen of my select 
 friends that know me ; of whom my next paper 
 shall give a more particular account. There is 
 no place of general resort wherein I do not often 
 make my appearance.— Sometimes I am seen 
 thrusting my head into a round of politicians at 
 Will’s, and listening with great attention to the 
 narratives that are made in those little circular 
 audiences. Sometimes I smoke a pipe at. Child’s,! 
 and while I seem attentive to nothing but^the Post¬ 
 man, overhear the conversation of every table in 
 the room. I appear on Sunday nights at St. 
 
 James’s coffee-house, and sometimes join the little 
 committee of politics in the inner room, as one 
 who comes there to hear and improve. My face 
 is likewise very well known at the Grecian, the 
 Cocoa-tree, and in the theaters both of Drury-lane 
 and the Haymarket. I have been taken for a mer¬ 
 chant upon the exchange for above these ten years, 
 and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly of 
 stock-jobbers at Jonathan’s. In short, wherever I 
 see a cluster of people, I always mix with them, 
 though I never open my lips but in my own club. 
 
 •K Thus I live in the world rather as a Spectator 
 of mankind than as one of the species, by which 
 means I have made myself a speculative statesman, 
 soldier, merchant, and artisan, without ever med¬ 
 dling with any practical part in life. I am verA 
 well versed in the theory of a husband, or a father, 
 and can discern the errors in the economy, busi-j 
 ness, and diversions of others, better than those 
 who are engaged in them ; as standers-by discover 
 blots, which are apt to escape those who are in the 
 game. I never espoused any party with vio¬ 
 lence, and am resolved to observe a strict neutrality 
 between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be 
 forced to declare myself by the hostilities of either 
 
 * A sarcasm on Mr. Greaves, and his book entitled Pyrami- 
 dographia. 
 
 t Child’s coffee-house was in St. Paul’s church-yard, and the 
 resort of the clergy; St. James’s stood then where it does 
 now; Jonathan’s was in Change-alley; and the Rose tavern 
 was on the outside of Temple-bar. 
 
 (37) 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 38 
 
 side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of 
 my life as a looker-on, which is the character I 
 intend to preserve in this paper. 
 
 ^ I have given the reader just so much of my his¬ 
 tory and character, as to let him see I am not alto¬ 
 gether unqualified for the business I have un¬ 
 dertaken. As for other particulars in my life 
 and adventures I shall insert them in following 
 papers, as I shall see occasion. In the meantime, 
 when I consider how much I have seen, read, and 
 heard, I begin to blame my own taciturnity; and 
 since I have neither time nor inclination to com¬ 
 municate the fullness of my heart in speech, I am re¬ 
 solved to do it in writing, and to print myself out, 
 if possible, before I die. I have been often told by 
 my friends, that it is pity so many useful disco¬ 
 veries which I have made should be in the posses¬ 
 sion of a silent man. For this reason, therefore, 
 I shall publish a sheet-full of thoughts every 
 morning, for the benefit of my cotemporaries ; and 
 if I can in any way contribute to the diversion or 
 improvement of the country in which I live, I 
 shall leave it when I am summoned out of it, with 
 the secret satisfaction of thinking that I have not 
 lived in vain. 
 
 There are three very material points which I 
 have not spoken to in this paper : and which, for 
 several important reasons, I must keep to myself, 
 at least for some time : I mean an account of my 
 name, age, and lodgings. I must confess, I would 
 gratify my reader in anything that is reasonable ; 
 but as for these three particulars, though I am 
 sensible they might tend very much to the embel¬ 
 lishment of my paper, I cannot yet come to a 
 resolution of communicating them to the public. 
 They would indeed draw me out of that obscurity 
 which I have enjoyed for many years, and expose 
 me in public places to several salutes and civili¬ 
 ties, which have been always very disagreeable to 
 me ; for the greatest pain I can suffer, is the being 
 talked to, and being stared at. It is for this rea¬ 
 son, likewise, that I keep my complexion and 
 dress as very great secrets ; though it is not im¬ 
 possible but I may make discoveries of both in 
 the progress of the work I have undertaken. 
 
 After having been thus particular upon myself, 
 I shall in to-morrow’s paper give an account of 
 those gentlemen who are concerned with me in 
 this work : for, as I have before intimated, a plan 
 of it is laid and concerted (as all other matters 
 of importance are) in a club. However, as my 
 friends have engaged me to stand in the front, those 
 who have a mind to correspond with me may 
 direct their letters to the Spectator, at Mr. Buck¬ 
 ley’s, in Little Britain. For I must further ac¬ 
 quaint the reader, that though our club meets 
 only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we have ap¬ 
 pointed a committee to sit every night for the in¬ 
 spection of all such papers as may contribute to 
 the advancement of the public weal.—0. 
 
 No. 2.] FRIDAY, MARCH 2, 1710-11. 
 
 --Ast alii sex 
 
 Et plures, uno conclamant ore.—Juv., Sat. vii, 167. 
 
 Six more, at least, join their consenting voice. 
 
 The first of our society is a gentleman of Wor¬ 
 cestershire, of an ancient descent, a baronet, his 
 name Sir Roger de Covei’ley. His great-grandfa¬ 
 ther was inventor of that famous country-dance 
 which is called after him. All who know that 
 shire are very well acquainted with the parts and 
 merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very 
 singular in his behavior, but his singularities 
 proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions 
 to the manners of the world only as he thinks the 
 
 world is in the wrong. However, this humor 
 creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with 
 sourness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined 
 to modes and forms makes him but the readier 
 and more capable to please and oblige all who 
 know him. When he is in town he lives in Soho- 
 square.* It is said, he keeps himself a bachelor 
 by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse 
 beautiful widow of the next county to him. Be¬ 
 fore this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you 
 call a fine gentleman, had often supped with my 
 Lord Rochester and Sir George Etheregc, fought 
 a duel upon his first coming to town and kicked 
 bully Dawsonf in a public coffee-house for calling 
 him youngster. But being ill-used by the above^ 
 mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year 
 and a-half; and though, his temper being natu¬ 
 rally jovial, he at last got over it, lie grew careless 
 of himself, and never dressed afterward. He con¬ 
 tinues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut 
 that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, 
 which, in his merry humors, he tells us, has been 
 in and out twelve times, since he first wore it. It 
 is said Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after 
 he had forgot his cruel beauty, insomuch that it is 
 reported he has frequently offended in point of 
 chastity with beggars ana gipsies : but this is 
 looked upon, by liis friends, rather as matter of 
 raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth 
 ear, cheerful, gay and hearty ; keeps a good house 
 oth in town and country; a great lover of man¬ 
 kind ; but there is such a mirthful cast in his 
 behavior, that he is rather beloved than es¬ 
 teemed. 
 
 His tenants grow rich, his servants look satis¬ 
 fied, all the young women profess love to him, 
 and the young men are glad of his company. 
 When he comes into a house he calls the servants 
 by their names, and talks all the way up-stairs to 
 a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is a jus¬ 
 tice of the quorum; that he fills the chair at a 
 quarter-session with great abilities, and three 
 months ago gained universal applause, by ex¬ 
 plaining a passage in the game act. 
 
 The gentleman next in esteem and authority 
 among us is another bachelor, who is a member 
 of the Inner Temple, a man of great probity, wit, 
 and understanding ; but he has chosen his place 
 of residence rather to obey the direction of an old 
 humorsome father, than in pursuit of his own in¬ 
 clinations. He was placed there to study the laws 
 of the land, and is the most learned of any of the 
 house in those of the stage. Aristotle and Lon¬ 
 ginus are much better understood by him than 
 Littleton or Coke. The father sends up every 
 post, questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, 
 and tenures in the neighborhood ; all which 
 questions he agrees with an attorney to answer 
 and take care of in the lump. He is studying the 
 passions themselves, when he should be inquiring 
 into the debates among men which arise from 
 them. He knows the argument of each of the 
 orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but not one 
 case in the reports of our own courts. No one 
 ever took him for a fool ; but none, except his 
 intimate friends, know he has a great deal of wit. 
 This turn makes him at once both disinterested 
 and agreeable: as few of his thoughts are drawn 
 from business, they are most of them fit for con¬ 
 versation. His taste for books is a little too just 
 for the age he lives in ; he has read all, but 
 approves of very few. His familiarity with the 
 customs, manners, actions, and writings of the 
 
 * At that time the genteelest part of the town. 
 
 fThis fellow was a noted sharper, swaggerer, and de¬ 
 bauchee about town, at the time here pointed out: he wa3 
 well known in Blackfriars, and its then infamous purlieus. 
 
TPIE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ancients, makes him a very delicate observer of 
 wliat occurs to him in the present world. He is 
 an excellent critic, and the time of the play is his 
 hour of business ; exactly at five he passes through 
 New-Inn, crosses through Russell-court, and takes 
 a turn at Will’s till the play begins; he has his 
 shoes rubbed and his perriwig powdered at the 
 barber’s as you go into the Rose. It is for the 
 good of the audience when he is at a play, for the 
 actors have an ambition to please him. 
 
 The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew 
 Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the city 
 of London. A person of indefatigable industry, 
 strong reason, and great experience. His notions 
 of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich 
 man has usually some sly way of jesting, which 
 would make no great figure were he not a rich 
 man) he calls the sea the British Common. He is 
 acquainted with commerce in all its parts, and 
 will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous way 
 to extend, dominion bv arms: for true power is to 
 be got by arts and industry. He will often argue, 
 that if this part of our trade were well cultivated, 
 we should gain from one nation ; and if another, 
 from another. I have heard him prove, that dili¬ 
 gence makes more lasting acquisitions than valor, 
 and that sloth has ruined more nations than the 
 sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims, 
 among which the greatest favorite fs, “ A penny 
 saved is a penny got.” A general trader of good 
 sense is pleasanter company than a general 
 scholar; and Sir Andrew having a natural unaf¬ 
 fected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse 
 gives the same pleasure that wit would in another 
 man. He has made his fortune himself; and says 
 that England may be richer than other kingdoms, 
 b J as plain methods as he himself is richer than 
 other men: though at the same time I can say 
 this of him, that there is not a point in the com¬ 
 pass, but blows home a ship in which he is an 
 owner. 
 
 Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Cap¬ 
 tain Sentry,* a gentleman of great courage, good 
 understanding, but invincible modesty. He is 
 one of those that deserve very well, but are very 
 awkward at putting their talents within the ob¬ 
 servation of such as should take notice of them. 
 He was some years a captain, and behaved him¬ 
 self with great gallantry in several engagements 
 and at several sieges; but having a small estate 
 of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he 
 has quitted a way of life in which no man can 
 rise suitably to his merit, who is not something 
 of a courtier as well as a soldier. I have heard 
 him often lament, that in a profession where merit 
 is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence 
 should get the better of modesty. When he had 
 talked to this purpose, I never heard him make a 
 sour expression, but frankly confess that he left 
 the world, because he was not fit for it. A strict 
 honesty, and an even regular behavior, are in 
 themselves obstacles to him that must press 
 through crowds, who endeavor at the same end 
 with himself, the favor of a commander. He will, 
 however, in his way of talk excuse generals, for 
 not disposing according to men’s desert, or in¬ 
 quiring into it; for, says he, that great man who 
 has a mind to help me, has as many to break 
 through to come at me, as I have to come at him: 
 therefore he will conclude, that the man who 
 would make a figure, especially in a military way, 
 must get over all false modesty, and assist his 
 patron against the importunity of other pretenders, 
 
 * It has been said, that the real person alluded to under 
 this name was C. Kempenfelt, father of the Admiral Kemp- 
 enfelt who deplorably lost his life, when the lioyal George of 
 100 guns sank at Spithead, Aug. 29, 1782. 
 
 39 
 
 by a proper assurance in his own vindication. 
 He says it is a civil cowardice to be backward in 
 asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a 
 military fear to be slow in attacking when it is 
 your duty. With this candor does the gentleman 
 speak of himself and others. The same frank¬ 
 ness runs through all his conversation. The 
 military part of his life has furnished him with 
 many adventures, in the relation of which he is 
 very agreeable to the company; for he is never 
 overbearing, though accustomed to command men 
 in the utmost degree below him; nor ever too 
 obsequious, from a habit of obeying men highly 
 above him. 
 
 But that our society may not appear a set of hu¬ 
 morists, unacquainted with the gallantries and 
 
 f deasures of the age, we have among us the gal- 
 ant Will Honeycomb,* a gentleman who, accord- 
 ind to his years, should be in the decline of his 
 life, but having been very careful of his person, 
 and always had a veiy easy fortune, time has made 
 but very little impression, either by wrinkles on 
 his forehead, or traces on his brain. His person 
 is well turned, and of a good height. He is very- 
 ready at that sort of discourse with which men 
 usually entertain women. He has all his life 
 dressed very well, and remembers habits as others 
 do men. He can smile when one speaks to him, 
 and laughs easily. He knows the history of every 
 mode, and can inform you from which of the 
 French 'king’s wenches our wives and daughters 
 had this 'manner of curling their hair, that way of 
 placing their hoods—whose frailty was covered 
 by such a sort of petticoat, and whose vanity to 
 show her foot made that part of the dress so short 
 in such a year. In a word, all his conversation 
 and knowledge has been in the female world. As 
 other men of his age will take notice to you what 
 such a minister said upon such an occasion, he 
 will tell you, when the Duke of Monmouth danced 
 at court, such a woman was then smitten—another 
 was taken with him at the head of his troop in 
 the Park. In all these important relations, he has 
 ever about the same time received a kind glance, 
 or a blow of a fan from some celebrated beauty, 
 mother of the present Lord Such a-one. If you 
 speak of a young commoner that said a lively 
 thing in the house, he starts up, “He has good 
 blood in his veins, Tom Mirable begot him; the 
 rogue cheated me in that affair; that young fellow’s 
 mother used me more like a dog than any woman 
 I ever made advances to.” This way of talking 
 of his very much enlivens the conversation among 
 us of a more sedate turn; and I find there is not 
 one of the company, but myself, who rarely speak 
 at all, but speaks of him as of that sort of man, 
 who is usually called a well-bred fine gentleman. 
 To conclude his character, where women are not 
 concerned, he is an honest, worthy man. 
 
 I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom 
 I am next to speak of, as one of our company; 
 for he visits us but seldom ; but when he does, it 
 adds to every man else a new enjoyment of him¬ 
 self. He is a clergyman, a very philosophic man, 
 of general learning, great sanctity of life, and the 
 most exact good breeding. He has the misfortune 
 to be of a very weak constitution, and conse¬ 
 quently, cannot accept of such cares and business 
 as preferments in his function would oblige him 
 to ; he is therefore among divines what a chamber- 
 counselor is among lawyers. The probity of his 
 mind, and the integrity of his life, create him fol¬ 
 lowers, as being eloquent or loud advances others. 
 He seldom introduces the subject he speaks upon; 
 
 *It has been said that Colonel Cleland was supposed to 
 I have been the real person alluded to under this character. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 40 
 
 but we are so far gone in years, that he observes, 
 when he is among us, an earnestness to have him 
 fall on some divine topic, which he always treats 
 with much authority, as one who is hastening to 
 the object of all his wishes, and conceives hope 
 from his decays and infirmities. These are my 
 ordinary companions.—R. 
 
 Ho. 3.] SATURDAY, MARCH 3,1710-11. 
 
 Et quo quisque fere studio devinctus adhaeret, 
 
 Aut quibus in rebus multum sumus ante morati, 
 
 Atque in qua ratione fuit contenta magis mens, 
 
 In somnis eadem plerumque videmur obire. 
 
 Lucr., 1. iv, 959. 
 
 --What studies please, what most delight, 
 
 And fill men’s thoughts, they dream them o’er at night. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 In one of my rambles, or rather speculations, I 
 looked into the great hall, where the bank is kept, 
 and was not a little pleased to see the directors, 
 secretaries, and clerks, with all the other members 
 of that wealthy corporation, ranged in their several 
 stations, according to the parts they act in that 
 just and regular economy. This revived in my 
 memory the many discourses which I had both 
 read and heard concerning the decay of public 
 credit, with the methods of restoring it, and which, 
 in my opinion, have always been defective, be¬ 
 cause they have always been made with an eye to 
 separate interests and party principles. 
 
 The thoughts of the day gave my mind employ¬ 
 ment for a whole night, so that I fell insensibly 
 into a kind of methodical dream, which disposed 
 all my contemplations into a vision, or allegory, 
 or what else the reader shall please to call it. 
 
 Methought I returned to the great hall, where I 
 had been the morning before; but to my surprise, 
 instead of the company that I left there, I saw to¬ 
 ward the upper end of the hall a beautiful virgin, 
 seated on a throne of gold. Her name (as they 
 told me was Public Credit. The walls, instead 
 of being adorned with pictures and maps, were 
 hung with many acts of parliament written in 
 golden letters. At the upper end of the hall was 
 the magna charta, with the act of uniformity on 
 the right hand, and the act of toleration on the left. 
 At the lower end of the hall was the act of settle¬ 
 ment, which was placed full in the eye of the 
 virgin that sat upon the throne. Both the sides 
 of the hall were covered with such acts of parlia¬ 
 ment as had been made for the establishment of 
 public funds. The lady seemed to set an un¬ 
 speakable value upon these several pieces of fur¬ 
 niture, insomuch that she often refreshed her 
 eye with them, and often smiled with a secret 
 pleasure, as she looked upon them; but, at the 
 same time, showed a very particular uneasiness, 
 if she saw anything approaching that might hurt 
 them. She appeared, indeed, infinitely timorous 
 in all her behavior ; and whether it was from the 
 delicacy of her constitution, or that she was trou¬ 
 bled with vapors, as I was afterward told by one 
 who I found was none of her well-wishers, she 
 changed color, and startled at everything she 
 heard. She was likewise (as I afterward found) 
 a greater valetudinarian than any I had ever met 
 with even in her own sex, and subject to such 
 momentary consumptions, that, in the twinkling 
 of an eye, she should fall away from the most 
 florid complexion, and most healthful state of 
 body, and wither into a skeleton. Her recoveries 
 were often as sudden as her decays, insomuch that 
 she would revive in a moment out of a wasting 
 distemper, into a habit of the highest health and 
 vigor. 
 
 I had very soon an opportunity of observing 
 
 these quick turns and changes in her constitution. 
 There sat at her feet a couple of secretaries, who 
 received every hour letters from all parts of the 
 world, which the one or the other of them was 
 perpetually reading to hor; and according to the 
 news she heard, to which she was exceedingly 
 attentive, she changed color, and discovered many 
 symptoms of health or sickness. 
 
 Behind the throne was a prodigious heap of 
 bags of money, which were piled upon one another 
 so high that they touched the ceiling. The floor, 
 on her right hand and on her left, was covered 
 with vast sums of gold, that rose up in pyramids 
 on either side of her. But this I did not so much 
 wonder at, when I heard, upon inquiry, that she 
 had the same virtue in her touch which the poets 
 tell us a Lydian king was formerly possessed of: 
 and that she could convert whatever she pleased 
 into that precious metal. 
 
 After a little dizziness, and confused hurry of 
 thought, which a man often meets with in a dream, 
 methought the hall was alarmed, the doors flew 
 open, and there entered half a dozen of the most 
 hideous phantoms that I had ever seen (even in a 
 dream) before that time. They came in two by 
 two, though matched in the most dissociable man¬ 
 ner, and mingled together in a kind of dance. It 
 would be too tedious to describe their habits and 
 persons, for which reason I shall only inform my 
 reader, that the first couple were Tyranny and 
 Anarchy, the second were Bigotry and Atheism, 
 the third the Genius of the commonwealth, a 
 young man of about twenty-two years of age,* 
 whose name I could not learn. He had a sword 
 in his right hand, which in the dance he often 
 brandished at the act of settlement; and a citizen, 
 who stood by me, whispered in my ear, that he 
 saw a sponge in his left hand.f The dance of so 
 many jarring natures put me in mind of the sun, 
 moon, and earth in the Rehearsal, that danced to¬ 
 gether for no other end but to eclipse one another. 
 
 The reader will easily suppose, by what has 
 been before said, that the lady on the throne would 
 have been almost frightened to distraction, had sha 
 seen but any one of these specters; what then 
 must have been her condition when she saw them 
 all in a body ? She fainted and died away at the 
 sight, 
 
 Et neque jam color est misto candore rubori: 
 
 Nec vigor, et vires, et quae modo visa placebant, 
 
 Nec corpus remanet.- Ovid Met., iii, 491. 
 
 -Her spirits faint, 
 
 Her blooming cheeks assume a pallid taint, 
 
 And scarce her form remains. 
 
 There was a great change in the hill of money¬ 
 bags, and the heaps of money, the former shrink¬ 
 ing and falling into so many empty bags, that I 
 now found not above a tenth part of them had 
 been filled with money. 
 
 The rest that took up the same space, and made 
 the same figure, as the bags that were really filled 
 with money, had been blown up with air, and 
 called into my memory the bags full of wind 
 which Homer tells us his hero received as a pre¬ 
 sent from ^Eolus. The great heaps of gold on 
 either side the throne now appeared to be only 
 heaps of paper, or little piles of notched sticks, 
 bound up together in bundles, like Bath fagots. 
 
 While I was lamenting this sudden desolation 
 that had been made before me, the whole scene 
 vanished. In the room of the frightful specters, 
 there now entered a second dance of apparitions 
 very agreeably matched together, and made up of 
 
 * James Stuart, the pretended Prince of Wales, born June 
 10, 1688.—See Tat., No. 187. 
 f To wipe out the national debt. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 very amiable phantoms. The first pair was Liberty, 
 with Monarchy at her right hand. The second was 
 Moderation leading in Religion ; and the third a 
 person whom I had never seen,* with the Genius 
 of Great Britain. At the first entrance the lady 
 revived, the bags swelled to their former bulk, the 
 pile of fagots and heaps of paper changed into 
 pyramids of guineas: and for my own part I was so 
 transported with joy that I awaked, though I must 
 confess I would fain have fallen asleep again to 
 have closed my vision, if I could have done 
 it.—C. 
 
 No. 4.] MONDAY, MARCH 5, 1710-11. 
 
 -Egregii mortalem altique silentii ? 
 
 Hor., 2 Sat., vi, 58. 
 
 One of uncommon silence and reserve. 
 
 An author, when he first appears in the world, 
 is very apt to believe it has nothing to think of 
 but his performances. With a good share of this 
 vanity in my heart, I made it my business these 
 three days to listen after my own fame; and as I 
 have sometimes met with circumstances which 
 did not displease me, I have been encountered by 
 others which gave me much mortification. It is 
 incredible to think how empty I have in this time 
 observed some part of the species to be, what mere 
 blanks they are when they first come abroad in the 
 morning, how utterly they are at a stand until they 
 are set a-going by some paragraph in a newspaper. 
 
 Such persons are very acceptable to a young au¬ 
 thor, for they desire no more in anything but to 
 be new, to be agreeable. If I found consolation 
 among such, I was as much disquieted by the in¬ 
 capacity of others. These are mortals who have 
 a certain curiosity without power of reflection, 
 and perused my papers like spectators rather than 
 readers. But there is so little pleasure in* inqui¬ 
 ries that so nearly concern ourselves (it being the 
 worst way in the world to fame, to be too anxious 
 about it) that upon the whole I resolved for the 
 future to go on in my ordinary way; and without 
 too much fear or hope about the business of repu¬ 
 tation, to be very careful of the design of my 
 actions, but very negligent of the consequences 
 of them. 
 
 It is an endless and frivolous pursuit to act by 
 any other rule, than the care of satisfying our 
 own minds in what we do. One would think a 
 silent man, who concerned himself with no one 
 breathing, should be very little liable to misrepre¬ 
 sentations ; and yet I remember I was once taken 
 up for a Jesuit, for no other reason than my pro¬ 
 found taciturnity. It is from this misfortune, 
 that, to be out of harm’s way, I have ever since 
 affected crowds. He who comes into assemblies 
 only to gratify his curiosity, and not to make a 
 figure, enjoys the pleasures of retirement in a 
 more exquisite degree than he possibly could in 
 his closet; the lover, the ambitious, and the miser, 
 are followed thither by a worse crowd than any 
 they can withdraw from. To be exempt from the 
 passions with which others are tormented, is the 
 only pleasing solitude. I can very justly say 
 with tne sage, “I am never less alone than when 
 alone.” 
 
 As I am insignificant to the company in public 
 places, and as it is visible I do not come thither 
 as most do, to show myself, I gratify the vanity 
 of all who pretend to make an appearance, and 
 have often as kind looks from well dressed gen¬ 
 tlemen and ladies, as a poet would bestow upon 
 one of his audience. There are so many gratifi¬ 
 cations attend this public sort of obscurity, that 
 
 41 
 
 some little distastes I daily receive have lost their 
 anguish ; and I did, the other day, without the 
 least displeasure, overhear one say of me, “ that 
 strange fellow;” and another answer, “I have 
 known the fellow’s face these twelve years, and 
 so must you ; but I believe you are the first ever 
 asked who he was.” There are, I must confess, 
 many to whom my person is as well known as 
 that of their nearest relations, who give them¬ 
 selves no further trouble about calling me by my 
 name or quality, but speak of me very currently 
 by the appellation of Mr. What-d’ye-call-him. 
 
 To make up for these trivial disadvantages, I 
 have the highest satisfaction of beholding all 
 nature with an unprejudiced eye; and having 
 nothing to do with men’s passions or interests, I 
 can, with the greater sagacity, consider their 
 talents, manners, failings, and merits. 
 
 It is remarkable, that those who want any one 
 sense, possess the others with greater force and 
 vivacity. Thus my want of, or rather resignation 
 of speech, gives me the advantages of a dumb 
 man. I have, methinks, a more than ordinary 
 enetration in seeing ; and flatter myself that I 
 ave looked into the highest and lowest of man¬ 
 kind, and made shrewd guesses without being ad¬ 
 mitted to their conversation, at the inmost thoughts 
 and reflections of all whom I behold. It is from 
 hence that good or ill fortune has no manner of 
 force toward affecting my judgment. I see men 
 flourishing in courts, and languishing in jails, 
 without being prejudiced, from their circumstances, 
 to their favor or disadvantage; but from their 
 inward manner of bearing their condition, often 
 pity the prosperous, and admire the unhappy. 
 
 Those who converse with the dumb, know from 
 the turn of their eyes, and the changes of their 
 countenance, their sentiments of the objects be¬ 
 fore them. I have indulged my silence to such 
 an extravagance that the few Avho are intimate 
 with me answer my smiles with concurrent sen¬ 
 tences, and argue to the very point I sliaked my 
 head at, without my speaking. Will Honey¬ 
 comb was very entertaining th^ other night at a 
 play, to a gentleman who sat on his right hand, 
 while I was at his left. The gentleman believed 
 Will was talking to himself, when upon my look¬ 
 ing with great approbation at a young thing in a 
 box before us, he said, “I am quite of another 
 opinion. She has, I will allow, a very pleasing 
 aspect, but, methinks, that simplicity in her coun¬ 
 tenance is rather childish than innocent.” When 
 I observed her a second time, he said, “ I grant 
 her dress is very becoming, but perhaps the merit 
 of that choice is owing to her mother; for though,” 
 continued he, “ I allow a beauty to be as much to 
 be commended for the elegance of her dress, as a 
 wit for that of his language, yet if she has stolen 
 the color of her ribbons from another, or had ad¬ 
 vice about her trimmings, I shall not allow her 
 the praise of dress, any more than I would call a 
 plagiary an author.” When I threw my eye 
 toward the next woman to her, Will spoke what I 
 looked, according to his romantic imagination, in 
 the following manner : 
 
 “ Behold,^ou who dare, that charming virgin ; 
 behold the beauty of her person chastized by the 
 innocence of her thoughts. Chastity, good-na¬ 
 ture, and affability, are the graces that play in her 
 countenance; she knows she is handsome, but 
 she knows she is good. Conscious beauty adorned 
 with conscious virtue ! What a spirit is there in 
 those eyes ! What a bloom in that person ! How 
 is the whole woman expressed in her appearance ! 
 Her air has the beauty of motion, and her look 
 the force of language.” 
 
 It was prudence to turn my eyes away from this 
 
 * The Elector of Hanover, afterward George I. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 42 
 
 object, and therefore I turned them to the thought¬ 
 less creatures who make up the lump of that sex, 
 and move a knowing eye no more than the por¬ 
 traiture of insignificant people by ordinary paint¬ 
 ers, which are but pictures of pictures. 
 
 Thus the working of my own mind is the 
 general entertainment of my life: I never enter 
 into the commerce of discourse with any but my 
 particular friends, and not in public even with 
 them. Such a habit has perhaps raised in me 
 uncommon reflections ; but this effect I cannot 
 communicate but by my writings. As my pleas¬ 
 ures are almost wholly confined to those of the 
 sight, I take it for a peculiar happiness that I 
 have always had an easy and familiar admittance 
 to the fair sex. If I never praised or flattered, I 
 never belied or contradicted them. As these com¬ 
 pose half the world, anfl. are, by the just com¬ 
 plaisance and gallantry of our nation, the more 
 powerful part of our people, I shall dedicate a 
 considerable share of these, my speculations, to 
 their service, and shall lead the young through 
 all the becoming duties of virginity, marriage, 
 and widowhood. When it is a woman’s day, in 
 my works, I shall endeavor at a style and air 
 suitable to their understanding. When I say this, 
 I must be understood to mean, that I shall not 
 lower but exalt the subjects I treat upon. Dis¬ 
 course for their entertainment is not to be debased, 
 but refined. A man may appear learned without 
 talking sentences, as in his ordinary gesture he 
 discovers he can dance, though he does not cut 
 capers. In a word, I shall take it for the greatest 
 glory of my work, if among reasonable women 
 this paper may furnish tea-table talk. In order to 
 it, I shall treat on matters which relate to females, 
 as they are concerned to approach or fly from the 
 other sex, or as they are tied to them by blood, 
 interest, or affection. Upon this occasion I think 
 it but reasonable to declare, that whatever skill I 
 may have in speculation, I shall never betray what 
 the eyes of lovers say to each other in my pres¬ 
 ence. At the same time I shall not think myself 
 obliged by this promise to conceal any false pro¬ 
 testations which I observe made by glances in 
 public assemblies : but endeavor to make both 
 sexes appear in their conduct what they are in 
 their hearts. By this means, love, during the 
 time of my speculations, shall be carried on with 
 the same sincerity as any other affair of less con¬ 
 sideration. As this is the greatest concern, men 
 shall be from henceforth liable to the greatest re¬ 
 proach for misbehavior in it. Falsehood in love 
 shall hereafter bear a blacker aspect than infidelity 
 in friendship, or villany in business. For this 
 reat and good end, all breaches against that no- 
 le passion, the cement of society, shall be se¬ 
 verely examined. But this, and all other matters 
 loosely hinted at now, and in my former papers, 
 shall have their proper place in my following dis¬ 
 courses. The present writing is only to admon¬ 
 ish the world, that they shall not find in me an 
 idle but a busy Spectator.—R. 
 
 Uo. 5.] TUESDAY, MARCH 6, 1710-11. 
 
 Spectatum admissi rLsimi teneatis?—H or., Ars. Poet., v. 5. 
 
 Admitted to the sight, would you not laugh ? 
 
 An opera may be allowed to be extravagantly 
 lavish in its decorations, as its only design is to 
 gratify the senses, and keep up an indolent atten¬ 
 tion in the audience. Common sense however 
 requires, that there should be nothing in the 
 scenes and machines which may appear child¬ 
 ish and absurd. How would the wits of King 
 Charles’s time have laughed to have seen Nieolini 
 
 exposed to a tempest in robes of ermine, and sail 
 ing in an open boat upon a sea of pasteboard? 
 What a field of raillery would they have been led 
 into, had they been entertained with painted dra- 
 ons spitting wildfire, enchanted chariots drawn 
 y Flanders’ mares, and real cascades in artificial 
 landscapes? A little skill in criticism would in¬ 
 form us, that shadows and realities ought not to be 
 mixed together in the same piece; and that the 
 scenes which are designed as the representations 
 of nature should be filled with resemblances, and 
 not with the things themselves. If one would 
 represent a wide champaign country filled with 
 herds and flocks, it would be ridiculous to draw 
 the country only upon the scenes, and to crowd 
 several parts of the stage with sheep and oxen. 
 This is joining together inconsistencies, and ma¬ 
 king the decoration partly real and partly ima¬ 
 ginary. I would recommend what I have here 
 said to the directors, as well as to the admirers, of 
 our modern opera. 
 
 As I was walking in the streets, about a fort¬ 
 night ago, I saw an ordinary fellow carrying a 
 cage full of little birds upon his shoulder ; and, 
 as I was wondering with myself what use he 
 would put them to, he was met very luckily by 
 an acquaintance, who had the same curiosity. 
 Upon his asking what he had upon his shoulder, 
 he told him that he had been buying sparrows 
 for the opera. “ Sparrows for the opera,” says 
 his friend, licking his lips ; “ what! are they to 
 be roasted?”—“No, no,” says the other, “they 
 are to enter toward the end of the first act, and to 
 fly about the stage.” 
 
 This strange dialogue awakened my curiosity 
 so far, that I immediately bought the opera, by 
 which means I perceived the sparrows were to 
 act the part of singing birds in a delightful grove; 
 though upon a nearer inquiry I found the spar¬ 
 rows put the same trick upon the audience that 
 Sir Martin Mar-all* practiced upon his mistress ; 
 for though they flew in sight, the music pro¬ 
 ceeded from a concert of flageolets and bird-calls, 
 which were planted behind the scenes. At the 
 same time I made this discovery, I found by the 
 discourse of the actors, that there were great de¬ 
 signs on foot for the improvement of the opera ; 
 that it had been proposed to break down a part 
 of the wall, and to surprise the audience with a 
 party of a hundred horse, and that there was 
 actually a project of bringing the New-river into 
 the house, to be employed in jets-d’eau and water¬ 
 works. This project, as I have since heard, is 
 postponed till the summer season, when it is 
 thought the coolness that proceeds from fountains 
 and cascades will be more acceptable and refresh¬ 
 ing to people of quality. In the meantime, to 
 find out a more agreeable entertainment for the 
 winter season, the opera of Rinaldo is filled with 
 thunder and lightning, illuminations and fire¬ 
 works, which the audience may look upon with¬ 
 out catching cold, and indeed without much dan¬ 
 ger of being burnt; for there are several engines 
 filled with water, and ready to play at a minute’s 
 warning, in case any such accident should hap¬ 
 pen. However, as I have a very great friendship 
 for the owner of this theater, I hope that he has 
 been wise enough to insure his house before he 
 would let this opera be acted in it. 
 
 It is no wonder that those scenes should be very 
 surprising, which were contrived by two poets of 
 different nations, and raised by two magicians of 
 different sexes. Armida (as we are told in the 
 argument) was an Amazonian enchantress, and 
 
 * A comedy by J. Dryden, borrowed from Quinault’s A man 
 Indiscret, and the Etourdi of Moliere. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 43 
 
 poor Sgnior Cassini (as we learn from the persons 
 represented) a Christian conjurer ( Mago Chris- 
 tiano ). I must confess I am very much puzzled 
 to find how an Amazon should be versed in the 
 black art, or how a good Christian, for such is the 
 part of the magician, should deal with the devil. 
 
 To consider the poet after the conjurers, I shall 
 give you a taste of the Italian, from the first lines 
 of his preface: “ Eccoti, benigno lettore, un parto 
 di poche sere, che se ben nato di notte, non t per6 
 aborto di tenebre, ma si fard conoscere Jiglio d'Apol¬ 
 lo con qualche raggio di Parnasse “ Behold, gen¬ 
 tle reader, the birth of a few evenings, which, 
 though it be the offspring of the night, is not the 
 abortive of darkness, but will make itself known 
 to be the son of Apollo, with a certain ray of Par¬ 
 nassus.” He afterward proceeds to call Mynheer 
 Handel the Orpheus of our age, and to acquaint 
 us, in the same sublimity of style, that he com 
 posed this opera in a fortnight. Such are the 
 wits to whose tastes we so ambitiously conform 
 ourselves. The truth of it is, the finest writers 
 among the modern Italians express themselves in 
 such a florid form of words, and such tedious 
 circumlocutions, as are used by none but pedants 
 in our country; and at the same time fill their 
 writings with such poor imaginations and con¬ 
 ceits. as our youths are ashamed of before they 
 have been two years at the university. Some may 
 be apt to think that it is the difference of genius 
 which produces this difference in the works of the 
 two nations ; but to show that there is nothing in 
 this, if we look into the writings of the old Ital¬ 
 ians, such as Cicero and Virgil, we shall find 
 that the English writers, in their way of thinking 
 and expressing themselves, resemble those authors 
 much more than the modern Italians pretend to 
 do. And as for the poet himself, from whom the 
 dreams of this opera* are taken, I must entirely 
 agree with Monsieur Boileau, that one verse in 
 Virgil is worth all the clinquant or tinsel of 
 Tasso. 
 
 But to return to the sparrows : there have been 
 so many flights of them let loose in this opera, 
 that it is feared the house will never get rid of 
 them; and that in other plays they may make 
 their entrance in very wrong and improper scenes, 
 so as to be seen flying in a lady’s bed-chamber, or 
 perching upon a king’s throne—beside the incon¬ 
 veniences which the heads of the audience may 
 sometimes suffer from them. I am credibly in¬ 
 formed, that there was once a design of casting 
 into an opera the story of Whittington and his 
 Cat, and that, in order to it, there had been got 
 together a great quantity of mice; but Mr. Rich, 
 the proprietor of the playhouse, very prudently 
 considered that it would be impossible for the cat 
 to kill them all, and that consequently the princes 
 of the stage might be as much infested with mice, 
 as the prince of the island was before the cat’s ar¬ 
 rival upon it; for which reason he would not per¬ 
 mit it to be acted in his house. And indeed I 
 cannot blame him; for, as he said very well upon 
 that occasion, I do not hear that any of the per¬ 
 formers in our opera pretend to equal the famous 
 pied piperf, who made all the mice of a great 
 town in Germany follow his music, and by that 
 means cleared the place of those little noxious 
 animals. 
 
 Before I dismiss this paper, I must inform my 
 reader, that I hear there is a treaty on foot be¬ 
 
 * Rinaldo, an opera, 8 vo., 1711. The plan of Aaron Hill; 
 the Italian words by Sig. G.Rossi; and the music by Handel. 
 
 f June 26, 1284, the rats and mice by which Hamelen was 
 infested, were allured, it is said, by a piper, to a contiguous 
 river, in which they were all drowned. 
 
 tween London and Wise* (who will be appointed 
 gardeners of the playhouse) to furnish the opera 
 of Rinaldo and Arnnda with an orange-grove; and 
 that the next time it is acted, the singing-birds 
 will be personated by tom-tits, the undertakers 
 being resolved to spare neither pains nor money 
 for the gratification of the audience.—C. 
 
 No. 6.] WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7, 1710-11. 
 
 Credebant hoc grande nefas, et morte piandum, 
 
 Si juvenis vetulo non assurrexerat--— Juv., Sat., xiii, 54. 
 
 ’ Twas impious then (so much was age rever’d) 
 
 For youth to keep their seats when an old man appear’d. 
 
 I know no evil under the sun so great as the 
 abuse of the understanding, and yet there is no 
 one vice more common. It has diffused itself 
 through both sexes, and all qualities of mankind, 
 and there is hardly that person to be found, who 
 is not more concerned for the reputation of wit 
 and sense, than of honesty and virtue. But this 
 unhappy affectation of being wise rather than 
 honest, witty than good-natured, is the source of 
 most of the ill habits of life. Such false impres¬ 
 sions are owing to the abandoned writings of men 
 of wit, and the awkward imitation of the rest of 
 mankind. 
 
 For this reason Sir Roger was saying last night, 
 that he was of opinion none but men of fine parts 
 deserved to be hanged. The reflections of such 
 men are so delicate upon all occurrences which 
 they are concerned in, that they should be ex¬ 
 posed to more than ordinary infamy and punish¬ 
 ment, for offending against such quick admoni¬ 
 tions as their own souls give them, and blunting 
 the fine edge of their minds in such a manner, that 
 they are no more shocked at vice and folly than 
 men of slower capacities. There is no greater 
 monster in being, than a very ill man of great 
 parts. He lives like a man in a palsy, with one 
 side of him dead. While perhaps he enjoys the 
 satisfaction of luxury, of wealth, of ambition, he 
 has lost the taste of good-will, of friendship, of 
 innocence. Scarecrow, the beggar in Lincoln’s- 
 inn-fields, who disabled himself in his right leg, 
 and asks alms all day to get himself a warm sup¬ 
 per and a trull at night, is not half so despicable 
 a wretch as such a man of sense. The beggar has 
 no relish above sensations ; he finds rest more 
 agreeable than motion ; and while he has a warm 
 fire and his doxy, never reflects that he deserves to 
 be whipped. Every man who terminates his satis¬ 
 factions and enjoyments within the supply of his 
 own necessities and passions is, says Sir Roger, 
 in my eye, as poor a rogue as Scarecrow. ‘'But,” 
 continued he, “ for the loss of public and private 
 virtue, we are beholden to your men of fine parts 
 forsooth; it is with them no matter what is done, 
 so it be done with an air. But to me, who am so 
 whimsical in a corrupt age as to act according to 
 nature and reason, a selfish man, in the most shin¬ 
 ing circumstance and equipage, appears in the 
 same condition with the fellow above mentioned, 
 but more contemptible in proportion to what more 
 he robs the public of, and enjoys above him. I 
 lay it down therefore for a rule, that the whole 
 man is to move together; that every action of any 
 importance is to have a prospect for the pub¬ 
 lic good; and that the general tendency of our in¬ 
 different actions ought to be agreeable to the 
 dictates of reason, of religion, of good-breeding; 
 without this, a man, as I have before hinted, is 
 hopping instead of walking ; he is not in his en¬ 
 tire and proper motion.” 
 
 * London and Wise were the Queen’s gardeners at this 
 time. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 44 
 
 While the honest lcniglit was thus bewildering 
 himself in good starts, I looked attentively upon 
 him, which made him, I thought, collect his mind 
 a little. “ What I aim at,” says he, “ is to repre¬ 
 sent, that I am of opinion, to polish our under¬ 
 standings, and neglect our manners, is of all things 
 the most inexcusable. Reason should govern 
 passion, but instead of that, you see, it is often 
 subservient to it; and as unaccountable as one 
 would think it, a wise man is not always a good 
 man.” This degeneracy is not only the guilt of 
 particular persons, but also at some times of a 
 whole people; and perhaps it may appear upon 
 examination, that the most polite ages are the 
 least virtuous. This may be attributed to the 
 folly of admitting wit and learning as merit in 
 themselves, without considering the application 
 of them. By this means it becomes a rule, not so 
 much to regard what we do, as how we do it. 
 But this false beauty will not pass upon men of 
 honest minds, and true taste. Sir Richard Black- 
 more says, with as much good sense as virtue, “ It 
 is a mighty shame and dishonor to employ excel¬ 
 lent faculties and abundance of wit, to humor and 
 please men in their vices and follies. The great 
 enemy of mankind, notwithstanding his wit and 
 angelic faculties, is the most odious being in the 
 whole creation.” He goes on soon after to say, very 
 generously, that he undertook the writing of his 
 poem “ to rescue the muses out of the hands of ra- 
 vishers, to restore them to their sweet and chaste 
 mansions, and to engage them in an employment 
 suitable to their dignity.” This certainly ought 
 to be the purpose of every man who appears in 
 public, and whoever does not proceed upon that 
 foundation, injures his country as far as he suc¬ 
 ceeds in his studies. When modesty ceases to be 
 the chief ornament of one sex, and integrity of the 
 other, society is upon a wrong basis, and we shall 
 be ever after without rules to guide our judgment 
 in what is really becoming and ornamental. Na¬ 
 ture and reason direct one thing, passion and 
 humor another. To follow the dictates of these 
 two latter, is going into a road that is both end¬ 
 less and intricate ; when we pursue the other, our 
 passage is delightful, and what we aim at easily 
 attainable. 
 
 I do not doubt but England is at present as po¬ 
 lite a nation as any in the world; but any man 
 who thinks, can easily see, that the affectation of 
 being gay and in fashion, has very near eaten up 
 our good sense, and our religion. Is there any¬ 
 thing so just as that mode and gallantry should be 
 built upon our exerting ourselves in what is pro¬ 
 per and agreeable to the institutions of justice and 
 piety among us ? And yet is there anything more 
 common, than that we run in perfect contradiction 
 to them ? All which is supported by no other 
 pretension, than that it is done with what we call 
 a good grace. 
 
 Nothing ought to be held laudable or becoming, 
 but what nature itself should prompt us to think 
 so. Respect to all kind of superiors is founded, I 
 think, upon instinct; and yet what is so ridiculous 
 as age? I make this abrupt transition to the men¬ 
 tion of this vice more than any other, in order to 
 introduce a little story, which I think a pretty in¬ 
 stance, that the most polite age is in danger of 
 being the most vicious. 
 
 “ It happened at Athens, during a public repre¬ 
 sentation of some play exhibited in honor of the 
 commonwealth, that an old gentleman came too 
 late for a place suitable to his age and quality. 
 Many of the young gentlemen, who observed the 
 difficulty and confusion he was in, made signs to 
 him that they wbuld accommodate him if he came 
 where they sat. The good man bustled through 
 
 the crowd accordingly; but when he came to the 
 seats to which he was invited, the jest was to sit 
 close and expose him, as he stood, out of counte¬ 
 nance, to the whole audience. The frolic went 
 round the Athenian benches. But on those occa¬ 
 sions there were also particular places assigned 
 for foreigners. When the good man skulked to¬ 
 ward the boxes appointed for the Lacedemonians, 
 that honest people, more virtuous than polite, rose 
 up all to a man, and with the greatest respect re¬ 
 ceived him among them. The Athenians being 
 suddenly touched with a sense of the Spartan vir¬ 
 tue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of 
 applause; and the old man cried out, ‘The Athe¬ 
 nians understand what is good, but the Lacedemo¬ 
 nians practice it.’”—R. 
 
 No. 7.] THURSDAY, MARCH 8, 1710-11. 
 
 Somnia, terrores magicos, miracula, sagas, 
 
 Nocturnes lemures, portentaque Thessala rides? 
 
 Hob., 2 Ep., ii, 208. 
 
 Visions and magic spells can you despise, 
 
 .And laugh at witches, ghosts, and prodigies? 
 
 Going yesterday to dine with an old acquaint¬ 
 ance, I had the misfortune to find his whole fami¬ 
 ly very much dejected. Upon asking him the 
 occasion of it, he told me that his wife had 
 dreampt a strange dream the night before, which 
 they were afraid portended some misfortune to 
 themselves or to their children. At her coming 
 into the room, I observed a settled melancholy in 
 her countenance, which I should have been trou¬ 
 bled for, had I not heard from whence it pro¬ 
 ceeded. We were no sooner sat down, but after 
 having looked upon me a little while, “My dear,” 
 says she, turning to her husband, “you may now 
 see the stranger that was in the candle last night.” 
 Soon after this, as they began to talk of family 
 affairs, a little boy at the lower end of the table 
 told her, that he was to go into join-hand on 
 Thursday. “Thursday!” says she, “No, child, 
 if it please God, you shall not begin upon Childer- 
 mas-day; tell your writing-master that Friday will 
 be soon enough.” I was reflecting with myself 
 on the oddness of her fancy, and wondering that 
 anybody would establish it as a rule, to lose a 
 day in every week. In the midst of these my 
 musings, she desired me to reach her a little salt 
 upon the point of my knife, which I did in such 
 a trepidation and hurry of obedience, that I let it 
 drop by the way; at which she immediately 
 startled, and said it fell toward her. Upon this I 
 looked very blank; and observing the concern of 
 the whole table, began to consider myself, with, 
 some confusion, as a person that had brought a 
 disaster upon the family. The lady, however, re¬ 
 covering herself after a little space, said to her 
 husband with a sigh, “My dear, misfortunes never 
 come single.” My friend, I found, acted but an 
 under part at his table, and being a man of more 
 good-nature than understanding, thinks himself 
 obliged to fall in with all the passions and humors 
 of his yoke-fellow. “Do not you remember, 
 child,” says she, “that the pigeon-house fell the 
 very afternoon that our careless wench spilt the 
 salt upon the table ?” “Yes,” says he, “ my dear, 
 and the next post brought us an account of the 
 battle of Almanza.” The reader may guess at the 
 figure I made, after having done all this mischief. 
 I dispatched my dinner as rapidly as I could, with 
 my usual taciturnity; when, to my utter confu¬ 
 sion, the lady seeing me quitting my knife and 
 fork, and laying them across one another on my 
 plate, desired me that I would humor her so far 
 as to take them out of that figure, and place them 
 side by side. "What the absurdity was which I 
 
THE SPE 
 
 had committed I did not know, but I suppose 
 there was somo traditionary superstition in it; and 
 therefore, in obedience to the lady of the house, I 
 disposed of my knife and fork in two parallel 
 lines, which is the figure I shall always lay them 
 in for the future, though I do not know any reason 
 for it. 
 
 It is not difficult for a man to see that a person 
 has conceived an aversion to him. For my own 
 part, I quickly found, by the lady’s looks, that 
 she regarded me as a very odd kind of fellow, 
 with an unfortunate aspect. For which reason I 
 took my leave immediately after dinner, and with¬ 
 drew to my own lodgings. Upon my return home, 
 I fell into a profound contemplation on the evils 
 that attend these superstitious follies of mankind; 
 how they subject us to imaginary afflictions, and 
 additional sorrows, that do not properly come 
 within our lot. As if the natural calamities of 
 life were not sufficient for it, we turn the most in¬ 
 different circumstances into misfortunes, and suf¬ 
 fer as much from trifling accidents as from real 
 evils. I have known the shooting of a star spoil 
 a night’s rest; and have seen a man in love grow 
 pale, and lose his appetite, upon the plucking of 
 a merry-thought. A screech-owl at midnight has 
 alarmed a family more than a band of robbers; 
 nay, the voice of a cricket hath struck more terror 
 than the roaring of a lion. There is nothing so 
 inconsiderable, which may not appear dreadful to 
 an imagination that is filled with omens and prog¬ 
 nostics. A rusty nail, or a crooked pin, shoot up 
 into prodigies. 
 
 I remember I was once in a mixed assembly, 
 that was full of noise and mirth, when on a sud¬ 
 den an old woman unluckily observed, there 
 were thirteen of us in company. This remark 
 struck a panic into several w T ho were present, in¬ 
 somuch that one or two of the ladies were going 
 to leave the room; but a friend of mine taking 
 notice that one of our female companions was big 
 with child, affirmed there were fourteen in the 
 room, and that, instead of portending one of the 
 company should die, it plainly foretold one of 
 them should be born. Had not my friend found 
 this expedient to break the omen, I question not 
 but half the women in the company would have 
 fallen sick that very night. 
 
 An old maid that is troubled with the vapors 
 roduces infinite disturbances of this kind among 
 er friends and neighbors. I know a maiden aunt 
 of a great family, who is one of these antiquated 
 sybils, that forebodes and prophesies from one end 
 of the year to the other. She is always seeing ap¬ 
 paritions, and hearing death-watches; and was the 
 other day almost frightened out of her wits by the 
 great house-dog that howled in the stable, at a time 
 when she lay ill with the tooth-ache. Such an ex¬ 
 travagant cast of mind engages multitudes of peo¬ 
 ple, not only in impertinent terrors, but in su¬ 
 pernumerary duties of life; and arises from that 
 fear and ignorance which are natural to the soul 
 of man. The horror with which we entertain the 
 thoughts of death (or indeed of any future evil), 
 and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a melan¬ 
 choly mind with innumerable apprehensions and 
 suspicions, and consequently dispose it to the 
 observation of such groundless prodigies and pre¬ 
 dictions. For as it is the chief concern of wise 
 men to retrench the evils of life by the reasonings 
 of philosophy; it is the employment of fools to 
 .multiply them by the sentiments of supersti¬ 
 tion. 
 
 For my own part. I should be very much 
 troubled were I endowed with this divining 
 quality, though it should inform me truly of every¬ 
 thing that can befall me. I would not anticipate 
 
 CTATOR. 45 
 
 the relish of any happiness, nor feel the weight 
 of any misery, before it actually arrives. 
 
 I know but one way of fortifying my soul against 
 these gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and 
 that is, by securing to myself the friendship and 
 protection of that Being, who disposes of events, 
 and governs futurity. He sees, at one view, the 
 whole thread of my existence, not only that part 
 of it which I have already passed through, but 
 that which runs forward into all the depths of eter¬ 
 nity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend 
 myself to his care; when I awake, I give myself up 
 to his direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten 
 me, I will look up to him for help, and question 
 not but he will either avert them, or turn them to 
 my advantage. Though I know neither the time 
 nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not 
 at all solicitous about it; because I am sure that 
 he knows them both, and that he will not fail to 
 comfort and support me under them. 
 
 No. 8.] FRIDAY, MARCH 9, 1710-11. 
 
 At Venus obscuro gradientes aere sepsit, 
 
 Et inulto nebulae circum Dea fudit amictu, 
 
 Cernere ne quis eos- Virg., 2En., i, 415. 
 
 They march obscure, for Venus kindly shrouds, 
 
 With mists their persons, and involves in clouds. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 I shall here communicate to the world a couple 
 of letters, which I believe will give the reader as 
 good an entertainment as any that I am able to 
 furnish him with, and therefore shall make no 
 apology for them :— 
 
 “To the Spectator, etc. 
 
 “Sir, —I am one of the directors of the society 
 for the reformation of manners, and therefore think 
 myself a proper person for your correspondence. 
 I have thoroughly examined the present state of 
 religion in Great Britain, and am able to acquaint 
 you with the predominant vice of every market- 
 town in the whole island. I can tell you the pro¬ 
 gress that virtue has made in all our cities, 
 boroughs, and corporations; and know as well the 
 evil practices that are committed in Berwick or 
 Exeter, as what is done in my own family. In a 
 word, Sir, I have my correspondents in the remo- 
 tests parts of the nation, who send me up punctual 
 accounts from time to time of all the little irregu¬ 
 larities that fall under their notice in their several 
 districts and divisions. 
 
 “I am no less acquainted with the particular 
 quarters and regions of this great town, than with 
 the different parts and distributions of the whole 
 nation. I can describe every parish by its impie¬ 
 ties, and can tell you in which of our streets lewd¬ 
 ness prevails; which gaming has taken the posses¬ 
 sion of; and where drunkenness has got the better 
 of them both. When I am disposed to raise a fine 
 for the poor, I know the lanes and alleys that are 
 inhabited by common swearers. When I would 
 encourage the hospital of Bridewell, and improve 
 the hempen manufacture, I am very well acquaint¬ 
 ed with all the haunts and resorts of female night- 
 walkers. 
 
 “After this short account of myself, I must let 
 you know, that the design of this paper is to give 
 you information of a certain irregular assembly, 
 which I think falls very properly under your ob¬ 
 servation, especially since the persons it is com¬ 
 posed of are criminals too considerable for the 
 animadversions of our society. I mean, Sir, the 
 Midnight Mask, which has of late been frequently 
 held in one of the most conspicuous parts of the 
 town, and which, I hear, will be continued with 
 additions and improvements: as all the persona 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 46 
 
 who compose this lawless assembly are masked, 
 we dare not attack any of them in our way, lest 
 we should send a woman of quality to Bridewell, j 
 or a peer of Great Britain to the Compter: beside, : 
 their numbers are so very great, that I am afraid 
 they would be able to rout our whole fraternity, ; 
 though we were accompanied with our guard of | 
 constables. Both these reasons, which secure them 
 from our authority, make them obnoxious to yours; 
 as both their disguise and their numbers will give 
 no particular person reason to think himself 
 affronted by you. 
 
 “If we are rightly informed, the rules that are 
 observed by this new society are wonderfully con¬ 
 trived for the advancement of cuckoldom. The 
 women either come by themselves, or are intro¬ 
 duced by friends who are obliged to quit them, 
 upon their first entrance, to the conversation of 
 anybody that addresses himself to them. There 
 are several rooms where the parties may retire, and, 
 if they please, show their faces by consent. 
 Whispers, squeezes, nods, and embraces, are the 
 innocent freedoms of the place. In short, the 
 whole design of this libidinous assembly seems to 
 terminate in assignations and intrigues; and I 
 hope you will take effectual methods, by your 
 public advice and admonitions, to prevent such a 
 promiscuous multitude of both sexes from meet¬ 
 ing together in so clandestine a manner. 
 
 “ I am your humble servant, and fellow-laborer, 
 
 “T. B.” 
 
 Hot long after the perusal of this letter, I re- 
 received another upon the same subject; which, by 
 the date and style of it, I take to be written by 
 some young Templar: 
 
 “Sir, Middle Temple, 1710-11. 
 
 “ When a man has been guilty of any vice or 
 folly, I think the best atonement he can make for 
 it, is to warn others not to fall into the like. In 
 order to this, I must acquaint you, that some time 
 in February last, I went to the Tuesday’s mas¬ 
 querade. Upon my first going in I was attacked 
 by half-a-dozen female Quakers, who seemed wil¬ 
 ling to adopt me for a brother; but upon a nearer 
 examination I found they were a sisterhood of 
 coquettes, disguised in that precise habit. I was 
 soon after taken out to dance, and, as I fancied, 
 by a woman of the first quality, for she was very 
 tall, and moved gracefully. As soon as the min¬ 
 uet was over, we ogled one another through our 
 masks; and as I am very well read in Waller, I 
 repeated to her the four following verses out of his 
 poem to Yandyke: 
 
 The heedless lover does not know 
 
 Whose eyes they are that wound him so; 
 
 But confounded with thy art, 
 
 Inquires her name that has his heart. 
 
 I pronounced these words with such a languishing 
 air, that I had some reason to conclude I had made 
 a conquest. She told me that she hoped my face 
 was not akin to my tongue, and looking upon her 
 watch, I accidentally discovered the figure of a 
 coronet on the back part of it. I was so trans¬ 
 ported with the thought of such an amour, that I 
 plied her from one room to another with all the 
 gallantries I could invent: and at length brought 
 things to so happy an issue, that she gave me a 
 private meeting the next day, without page or 
 footman, coach or equipage. My heart danced in 
 raptures, but I had not lived in this golden dream 
 above three days, before I found a good reason to 
 wish that I had continued true to my laundress. I 
 have since heard, by a very great accident, that 
 this fine lady does not live far from Covcnt-garden, 
 
 and that I am not the first cully whom she has 
 passed herself upon for a countess. 
 
 “ Thus, Sir, you see how I have mistaken a 
 cloud for a Juno ; and if you can make any use of 
 this adventure for the benefit of those who may 
 possibly be as vain young coxcombs as myself, I 
 do most heartily give you leave. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your most humble admirer, B. L. 
 
 I design to visit the next masquerade myself, in 
 the same habit I wore at Grand Cairo; and till 
 then shall suspend my judgment of this midnight 
 entertainment.—C. 
 
 *** Letters for the Spectator, to be left with Mr. Buckley, 
 at the Dolphin, in Little Britain.—Spect. in folio. 
 
 Ho. 9.] SATURDAY, MARCH 10, 1710-11. 
 
 -Tigris agit rabida cum tigride paoem 
 
 Perpetuam, ssevis inter se convenit ur&is. 
 
 Juv., Sat. xv, 103. 
 
 Tiger with tiger, bear with bear, you’ll fnd 
 In leagues offensive and defensive join’d.— Tate. 
 
 Man is said to be a sociable animal, and, as an 
 instance of it, we may observe that we take all 
 occasions and pretenses of forming ourselves into 
 those little nocturnal assemblies, which are com¬ 
 monly known by the name of clubs. When a set 
 of men find themselves agree in any particular, 
 though never so trivial, they establish themselves 
 into a kind of fraternity, and meet once or twice a 
 week, upon the account of such a fantastic re¬ 
 semblance. I know a considerable market-town, 
 in which there was a club of fat men, that did not 
 come together (as you may well suppose) to en¬ 
 tertain one another with sprightliness and wit but 
 to keep one another in countenance. The room 
 where the club met was something of the largest, 
 and had two entrances, the one by a door of mod¬ 
 erate size, and the other by a pair of folding- 
 doors. If a candidate for this corpulent club could 
 make his entrance through the first, he was looked 
 upon as unqualified; but if he stuck in the pas¬ 
 sage, and could not force his way through it, the 
 folding doors were immediately thrown open for 
 his reception, and he was saluted as a brother. I 
 have heard that this club, though it consisted but 
 of fifteen persons, weighed above three ton. 
 
 In opposition to this society, there sprung up 
 another composed of scarecrows and skeletons, 
 w r ho, being very meager and envious, did all they 
 could to thwart the designs of their bulky breth¬ 
 ren, whom they represented as men of dangerous 
 principles; till at length they worked them out of 
 the favor of the people, and consequently out of 
 the magistracy. These factions tore the corpora¬ 
 tion in pieces for several years, till at length they 
 came to this accommodation; that the two bailiffs 
 of the town should be annually chosen out of the 
 two clubs ; by which means the principal magis¬ 
 trates are at this day coupled like rabbits, one fat 
 and one lean. 
 
 Every one has heard of the club, or rather the 
 confederacy, of the kings. This grand alliance 
 was formed a little after the return of King Charles 
 the Second, and admitted into it men of all quali¬ 
 ties and professions, provided they agreed in the 
 surname of King, which, as they imagined, suffi- 
 | ciently declared the owners of it to be altogether 
 i untainted with republican and anti-monarchical 
 principles. 
 
 A Christian name has likewise been often used 
 as a badge of distinction, and made the occasion 
 of a club. That of the George’s, which used to 
 meet at the sign of the George, on St. George’s-day, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 and swear "Before George,” is still fresh in every¬ 
 one’s memory. 
 
 There are" at present, in several parts of this 
 city, what the^- call street-clubs, in which the chief 
 inhabitants of the street converse together every 
 night. I remember, upon my inquiring after lodg¬ 
 ings in Ormond street, the landlord, to recom¬ 
 mend that quarter of the town, told me there was 
 at that time a very good club in it ; he also told 
 me, upon farther discourse with him, that two or 
 three noisy country ’squires, who were settled there 
 the year before, had considerably sunk the price 
 of house-rent; aad that the club (to prevent the 
 like inconveniences for the future) had thoughts 
 of taking every house that became vacant into 
 their own hands, till they had found a tenant for 
 it, of a sociable nature and good conversation. 
 
 The Hum-drum club, of which I was formerly 
 an unworthy member, was made up of very honest 
 gentlemen of peaceable dispositions, that used to 
 sit together, smoke their pipes, and say nothing 
 until midnight. The Mum club (as I am informed) 
 is an institution of the same nature, and as great 
 an enemy to noise. 
 
 After these two innocent societies, I cannot for¬ 
 bear mentioning a very mischievous one, that was 
 erected in the reign of King Charles the Second ; 
 I mean the club of Duelists, in which none was 
 to be admitted that had not fought his man. The 
 president of it was said to have killed half a 
 dozen in single combat; and as for the other mem¬ 
 bers, they took their seats according to the num¬ 
 ber of their slain. There was likewise a side-ta¬ 
 ble, for such as had only drawn blood, and shown 
 a laudable ambition of taking the first opportunity 
 to qualify themselves for the first table. This 
 club, consisting only of men of honor, did not 
 continue long, most of the members of it being 
 put to the sword, or hanged, a little after its insti¬ 
 tution. 
 
 Our modern celebrated clubs are founded upon 
 eating and drinking, which are points wherein 
 most men agree, and in which the learned and the 
 illiterate, the dull and the airy, the philosopher and 
 the buffoon, can all of them bear a part. The Kit- 
 cat* itself is said to have taken its original from 
 a mutton-pie. The beef-steakf and October clubs 
 are neither of them averse to eating and drinking, 
 if we may form a judgment of them from their 
 respective titles. 
 
 When men are thus knit together, by a love of 
 society, not a spirit of faction, and do not meet to 
 censure or annoy those that are absent, but to en¬ 
 joy one another; when they are thus combined 
 for their own improvement, or for the good of 
 others, or at least to relax themselves from the 
 business of the day by an innocent and cheerful 
 conversation, there may be something very useful 
 in these little institutions and establishments. 
 
 I cannot forbear concluding this paper with a 
 scheme of laws that I met with upon a wall in a 
 
 * An account of this club, which took its name from Chris¬ 
 topher Cat, the maker of their mutton-pies, has been given 
 in tho new edition of the Tatler, with notes, in 0 vols. The 
 portraits of its members were drawn by Kneller, who was 
 himself one of their number, and all portraits of the same 
 dimensions and form, are at this time called kit-cat pictures. 
 The original portraits are now the property of William Ba¬ 
 ker, Esq., to whom they came by inheritance from J. Tonson, 
 ^ho was secretary to the club. It was originally formed in 
 Shire-lane, about the time of the trial of the seven bishops, 
 for a little free evening conversation; but in Queen Anne’s 
 reign comprehended above forty noblemen and gentlemen of 
 the first rank for quality, merit, and fortune, firm friends of 
 the Hanoverian succession. 
 
 f Of this club, it is said, that Mrs. Woffington, the only 
 woman in it, was president; Richard Estcourt, the comedian 
 was their providore; and as an honorable badge of his office’ 
 wore a small gridiron of gold hung round his neck with a 
 green silk ribbon. 
 
 47 
 
 little alehouse. How I came thither I may inform 
 my reader at a more convenient time. These laws 
 wore enacted by a knot of artisans and mechanics, 
 who used to meet every night; and as there is 
 something in them which gives us a pretty pic¬ 
 ture of low life, I shall transcribe them word for 
 word. 
 
 I Rules to be observed in the Two-penny Club, erected 
 
 in this place for the preservation of friendship and 
 ' good neighborhood. 
 
 1. Every member at his first coming in shall 
 lay down his two-pence. 
 
 2. Every member shall fill his pipe out of his 
 own box. 
 
 3. If any member absents himself, he shall for¬ 
 feit a penny for the use of the club, unless in case 
 of sickness or imprisonment. 
 
 4. If any member curses or swears, his neigh¬ 
 bor may give him a kick upon the shins. 
 
 5. If any member tells stories in the club that 
 are not true, he shall forfeit for every third lie a 
 half-penny. 
 
 6. If any member strikes another wrongfully, 
 he shall pay his club for him. 
 
 7. If any member brings his wife into the club, 
 he shall pay for whatever she drinks or smokes. 
 
 8. If any member’s wife comes to fetch him 
 home from the club, she shall speak to him with¬ 
 out the door. 
 
 9. If any member calls another a cuckold, he 
 shall be turned out of the club. 
 
 10. None shall be admitted into the club that 
 is of the same trade with any member of it. 
 
 11. None of the club shall have his clothes or 
 shoes made or mended, but by a brother member. 
 
 12. No non-juror shall be capable of being a 
 member. 
 
 3 he morality of this little club is guarded by 
 such wholesome laws and penalties, that I ques¬ 
 tion not but my reader will be as well pleased with 
 them as he would have been with the Leges Convi- 
 vales of Ben Jonson, the regulations of an old 
 Roman club cited by Lipsius, or the rules of a 
 Symposium in an ancient Greek author. 
 
 No. 10.] MONDAY, MARCH 12, 1710-11. 
 
 Non aliter quam qui adverso vix flumine lembum 
 Remigiis subigit; si brachia forte remisit, 
 
 Atque ilium in prajeeps prono rap it alveus amni. 
 
 Virg., Georg., i, 201. 
 
 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, 
 
 TheD down the flood with headlong haste they drive. 
 
 Brides. 
 
 It is with much satisfaction that I hear this 
 great city inquiring day by day after these my pa¬ 
 pers, and receiving my morning lectures with a 
 becoming seriousness and attention. My publisher 
 tells me, that there are already three thousand of 
 them distributed every day: so that if I allow 
 twenty readers to every paper, which I look upon 
 as a modest computation, I may reckon about 
 threescore thousand disciples in London and 
 Westminster, who I hope will take care to distin¬ 
 guish themselves from the thoughtless herd of 
 their ignorant and inattentive brethren. Since I 
 have raised to myself so great an audience, I shall 
 spare no pains to make their instruction agreeable, 
 and their diversion useful. For which reasons I 
 shall endeavor to enliven morality with wit, and to 
 temper wit with morality, that my readers may, if 
 possible, both ways find their account in the spec¬ 
 ulation of the day. And to the end that their vir¬ 
 tue and discretion may not be short, transient, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 48 
 
 intermitting starts of thought, I have resolved to re¬ 
 fresh their, memories from day to day, till I have 
 recovered them out of that desperate state of vice 
 and folly, into which the age is fallen. The mind 
 that lies fallow for a single day, sprouts up in fol¬ 
 lies that are only to be killed by a constant and 
 assiduous culture. It was said of Socrates, that 
 he brought Philosophy down from heaven, to in¬ 
 habit among men; and I shall be ambitious to have 
 it said of me, that I have brought Philosophy out 
 of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to 
 dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in 
 coffee-houses. 
 
 I would therefore in a very particular manner 
 recommend these my speculations to all well regu¬ 
 lated families, that set apart an hour every morn¬ 
 ing for tea and bread and butter ; and would ear¬ 
 nestly advise them for their good to order this 
 paper to be punctually served up, and to be looked 
 upon as a part of the tea-equipage. 
 
 Sir Francis Bacon observes, that a well written 
 book, compared with its rivals and antagonists, is 
 like Moses’ serpent, that immediately swallowed 
 up and devoured those of the Egyptians. I shall 
 not be so vain as to think, that where the Specta¬ 
 tor appears, the other public prints will vanish ; 
 but shall leave it to my reader’s consideration, 
 whether it is not much better to be let into the 
 knowledge of one’s self, than to hear what passes 
 in Muscovy or Poland; and to amuse ourselves 
 with such writings as tend to the wearing out of 
 ignorance, passion, and prejudice, than such as 
 naturally conduce to inflame hatreds, and make 
 enmities irreconcilable. 
 
 In the next place I would recommend this paper 
 to the daily perusal of those gentlemen whom I 
 cannot but consider as my good brothers and allies, 
 I mean the fraternity of Spectators, who live in 
 the world without having anything to do in it ; 
 and either by the affluence of their fortunes, or 
 laziness of their dispositions, have no other busi¬ 
 ness with the rest of mankind, but to look upon 
 them. Under this class of men are comprehended 
 all contemplative tradesmen, titular physicians, 
 fellows of the royal society, Templars that are 
 not given to be conteutious, and statesmen that 
 are out of business; in short, every one that con¬ 
 siders the world as a theater, and desires to form 
 a right judgment of those who are the actors on it. 
 
 There is another set of men that I must like¬ 
 wise lay a claim to, whom I have lately called the 
 blanks of society, as being altogether unfurnished 
 with ideas, till the business and conversation of 
 the day has supplied them. I have often con¬ 
 sidered these poor souls with an eye of great com¬ 
 miseration, when I have heard them asking the 
 first man they have met with, whether there was 
 any news stirring? and by that means gathering 
 together materials for thinking. These needy 
 persons do not know what to talk of, till about 
 twelve o’clock in the morning; for by that time 
 they are pretty good judges of the weather, know 
 which way the wind sets, and whether the Dutch 
 mail be come in. As they lie at the mercy of the 
 first man they meet, and are grave or impertinent 
 all the day long, according to the notions which 
 they have imbibed in the morning, I would ear¬ 
 nestly entreat of them not to stir out of their 
 chambers till they have read this paper, and do 
 promise them that I will daily instill into them 
 such sound and wholesome sentiments, as shall 
 have a good effect on their conversation for the 
 ensuing twelve hours. 
 
 But there are none to whom this paper will be 
 more useful than to the female world. I have often 
 thought there has not been sufficient pains taken 
 in finding out proper employment and diversions 
 
 for the fair ones. Their amusements seem con¬ 
 trived for them, rather as they are women, than as 
 they are reasonable creatures ; and are more adap¬ 
 ted to the sex than to the species. The toilet is 
 their great scene of business, and the right ad¬ 
 justing of their hair the principal employment of 
 their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribbons is 
 reckoned a very good morning’s work; and if they 
 make an excursion to a mercer’s or a toy-shop, so 
 great a fatigue makes them unfit for anything else 
 all the day after. Their more serious occupations 
 are sewing and embroidery, and their greatest 
 drudgery the preparation of jellies and sweet¬ 
 meats. This, I say, is the state of ordinary wo¬ 
 men ; though I know there are multitudes of those 
 of a more elevated life and conversation, that 
 move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and vir¬ 
 tue, that join all the beauties of the mind to the 
 ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind of awe and 
 respect, as well as love, into their male beholders. 
 I hope to increase the number of these by publish¬ 
 ing this daily paper, which I shall always endeavor 
 to make an innocent if not an improving enter¬ 
 tainment, and by that means, at least, divert the 
 minds of my female readers from greater trifles. 
 At the same time, as I would fain give some fin¬ 
 ishing touches to those which are already the 
 most beautiful pieces in human nature, I shall en¬ 
 deavor to point out all those imperfections that 
 are the blemishes, as well as those virtues which 
 are the embellishments of the sex. In the mean¬ 
 while, I hope these my gentle readers, who have 
 so much time on their hands, will not grudge 
 throwing away a quarter of an hour in a day upon 
 this paper, since they may do it without any hin- 
 derance to business. 
 
 I know several of my friends and well-wishers 
 are in great pain for me, lesj^ I should not be able 
 to keep up the spirit of a paper which I oblige 
 myself to furnish every day; but to make them 
 easy in this particular, I will promise them faith¬ 
 fully to give it over as soon as I grow dull. This 
 I know will be matter of great raillery to the small 
 wits, who will frequently put me in mind of my 
 promise, desire me to keep my word, assure me 
 that it is high time to give over, with many other 
 little pleasantries of the like nature, which men 
 of a little smart genius cannot forbear throwing 
 out against their best friends, when they have such 
 a handle given them of being witty. But let 
 them remember, that I do hereby enter my caveat 
 against this piece of raillery.—C. 
 
 Ho. 11.] TUESDAY, MARCH, 13, 1710-11. 
 
 Dat veniam corvis, vexat censura columbas.—J dv., Sat. ii, 63. 
 The doves are censur’d, while the crows are spar’d. 
 
 Arietta is visited by all persons of botli sexes, 
 who have any pretense to wit and gallantry. She 
 is in that time of life which is neither affected 
 with the follies of youth, nor infirmities of age; 
 and her conversation is so mixed with gayety and 
 prudence, that she is agreeable both to the old and 
 the young. Her behavior is very frank, without 
 being in the least blamable: and as she is out of 
 the track of any amorous or ambitious pursuits of 
 her own, her visitants entertain her with accounts 
 of themselves very freely, whether they concern 
 their passions or their interests. I made her a 
 visit this afternoon, having been formerly intro¬ 
 duced to the honor of her acquaintance by my 
 friend Will Honeycomb, who has prevailed upon 
 her to admit me sometimes into her assembly, as 
 a civil, inoffensive man. I found her accompanied 
 with one person only, a common-place talker, who, 
 upon my entrance, arose, and after a very slight 
 civility sat down again ; then turning to Arietta, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 pursued his discourse, which I found was upon 
 the old topic of constancy in love. He went on 
 with great facility in repeating what he talks 
 every day of his life; and with the ornaments of 
 insignificant laughs and gestures, enforced his ar¬ 
 guments bv quotations out of plays and songs, 
 which allude to the perjuries of the fair, and the 
 general levity of women. Methouglit he strove 
 to shine more than ordinarily in his talkative 
 way, that he might insult my silence, and distin¬ 
 guish himself before a woman of Arietta’s taste 
 and understanding. She had often an inclination 
 to interrupt him, but could find no opportunity, 
 till the larum ceased of itself, which it did not till 
 he had repeated and murdered the celebrated story 
 of the Ephesian Matron. 
 
 Arietta seemed to regard this piece of raillery 
 as an outrage done to her sex; as indeed I have 
 always observed that women, whether out of a 
 nicer regard to their honor, or what other reason I 
 cannot tell, are more sensibly touched with those 
 general aspersions which are cast upon their sex, 
 than men are by what is said of theirs. 
 
 When she had a little recovered herself from the 
 serious anger she was in, she replied in the fol¬ 
 lowing manner: 
 
 “ Sir, when I consider how perfectly new all 
 you have said on this subject is, and that the 
 story you have given us is not quite two thousand 
 years old, I cannot but think it a piece of presump¬ 
 tion to dispute it with you; but your quotations 
 put me in mind of the fable of the lion and the 
 man. The man walking with that noble animal, 
 showed him, in the ostentation of human superi¬ 
 ority, a sign of a man killing a lion. Upon which, 
 the lion said very justly, ‘We lions are none of 
 ns painters, else we could show a hundred men 
 killed by lions for one lion killed by a man.’ You 
 men are writers, and can represent us women as 
 unbecoming as you please in your works, while 
 we are unable to return the injury. You have 
 twice or thrice observed in your discourse, that 
 hypocrisy is the very foundation of our education ; 
 and that an ability to dissemble our affections is 
 a professed part of our breeding. These and such 
 other reflections are sprinkled up and down the 
 writings of all ages, by authors, who leave behind 
 them memorials of their resentment against the 
 scorn ot particular women, in invectives against 
 the whole sex. Such a writer, I doubt not, was 
 the celebrated Petronius, who invented the pleas- 
 ant aggravations of the Ephesian lady; but when 
 we consider this question between the sexes, 
 which has been either a point of dispute or rail¬ 
 lery ever since there were men and women, let us 
 take facts from plain people, and from such as 
 have not either ambition or capacity to embellish 
 their narrations with any beauties of imagination. 
 
 1 was the other day amusing myself with Lig- 
 non s Account of Barbadoes ; and, in answer to 
 your well-wrought tale, I "will give you (as it 
 dwells upon my memory), out of that honest trav¬ 
 eler, in his fifty-fifth page, the history of Inkle 
 and Yarico. 
 
 “ Mr. Thomas Inkle, of London, aged twenty 
 years, embarked in the Downes, in the good ship 
 called the Achilles, bound for the West Indies, on 
 the 16th of June, 1647, in order to improve his 
 lortune by trade and merchandise. Our adven¬ 
 turer was the third son of an eminent citizep, who 
 had taken particular care to instill into his mind 
 an early love of gain, by making him a perfect 
 master of numbers, and consequently giving him 
 a quick view of loss and advantage, and prevent¬ 
 ing the natural impulses of his passions, by pre¬ 
 possession toward his interests. With a mind 
 thus turned; young Inkle had a person evtyy way j 
 
 49 
 
 agreeable, a ruddy vigor in his countenance, 
 strength in his limbs, with ringlets of fair hair 
 loosely flowing on his shoulders. It happened, 
 in the course of the voyage, that the Achilles, in 
 some distress, put into a creek on the main of 
 America, in search of provisions. The youth, 
 who is the hero of my story, among others went 
 on shore on this occasion. From their first land¬ 
 ing they were observed by a party of Indians, who 
 hid themselves in the woods for that ^purpose. 
 The English unadvisedly marched a great dis¬ 
 tance from the shore into the country, and were 
 intercepted by the natives, who slew the greatest 
 number of them. Our adventurer escaped among 
 others, by flying into a forest. Upon his com¬ 
 ing into a remote and pathless part of the wood, 
 lie threw himself, tired and breathless, on a little 
 hillock, when an Indian maid rushed from a 
 thicket behind him. After the first surprise they 
 appeared mutually agreeable to each other. If the 
 European was highly charmed with the limbs, 
 features, and wild graces of the naked American; 
 the American was no less taken with the dress, 
 complexion, and shape of a European, covered 
 from head to foot. The Indian grew immediately 
 enamored of him, and consequently solicitous for 
 his preservation. She therefore conveyed him to 
 a cave, where she gave him a delicious repast of 
 fruits, and led him to a stream to slake his thirst. In 
 the midst of these good offices, she would some¬ 
 times play with his liair, and delight in the opposi¬ 
 tion of its color to that of her fingers : then open 
 his bosom, then laugh at him for covering it. She 
 was, it seems, a person of distinction, for she 
 every day came to him in a different dress, of the 
 most beautiful shells, bugles, and beads. She 
 likewise brought him a great many spoils, which 
 her other lovers had presented to her, so that his 
 cave was richly adorned with all the spotted skins 
 of beasts, and most party-colored feathers of fowls, 
 which that world afforded. To make his confine¬ 
 ment more tolerable, she would carry him in the 
 dusk of the evening, or by the favor of moonlight, 
 to unfrequented groves and solitudes, and show 
 him where to lie down in safety, and sleep amidst 
 the falls of waters and melody of nightingales.— 
 Her part was to watch and hold him awake in her 
 arms, for fear of her countrymen, and wake him 
 on occasions to consult his safety. In this man¬ 
 ner did the lovers pass away their time, till they 
 had learned a language of their own, in which the 
 voyager communicated to his mistress how happy 
 he should be to have her in his country, where she 
 should be clothed in such silks as his waistcoat 
 was made of, and be carried in houses drawn by 
 horses, without being exposed to wind or weather. 
 All this he promised her the enjoyment of, with¬ 
 out such fears and alarms as they were there tor¬ 
 mented with. In this tender correspondence these 
 lovers lived for several months, when Yarico, in¬ 
 structed by her lover, discovered a vessel on the 
 coast, to which she made signals; and in the 
 night, with the utmost joy and satisfaction, ac¬ 
 companied him to a ship’s crew of his countrymen 
 bound to Barbadoes. When a vessel from the 
 main arrives in that island, it seems the planters 
 come down to the shore, where there is an imme¬ 
 diate market of the Indians and other slaves, as 
 with us of horses and oxen. 
 
 “ ‘ To be short, Mr. Thomas Inkle, now coming 
 into English territories, began seriously to reflect 
 upon his loss of time, and to weigh with himself 
 how many days’ interest of his money he had lost 
 during his stay with Yarico. This thought made 
 the young man pensive, and careful what account 
 he should be able to give his friends of his voy¬ 
 age. Upon which consideration, the prudent and 
 
50 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 frugal young man sold Yarico to a Barbadian mer¬ 
 chant; notwithstanding that the poor girl, to in¬ 
 cline him to commiserate her condition, told him 
 that she was with child by him: but he only made 
 use of that information, to rise in his demands 
 upon the purchaser.’ ” 
 
 I was so touched with this story (which I think 
 should be always a counterpart to the Ephesian 
 matron) that I left the room with tears in my eyes, 
 which a woman of Arietta’s good sense did, I am 
 sure, take for greater applause than any compli¬ 
 ments I could make her.—R. 
 
 Ho. 12.] WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14, 1710-11. 
 
 -Veteres avias tibi de pulmone revello. 
 
 Pers., Sat. y, 92. 
 
 I root th’ old woman from thy trembling heart. 
 
 At my coming to London, it was some time be¬ 
 fore I could settle myself in a house to my liking. 
 
 I was forced to quit my first lodgings, by reason 
 of an officious landlady, that would be asking me 
 every morning how I had slept. I then fell into 
 an honest family, and lived very happily for above 
 a week; when my landlord, who was a jolly, good- 
 natured man, took it into his head that I wanted 
 company, and therefore would frequently come 
 into my chamber, to keep me from being alone. 
 This I bore for two or three days; but telling me 
 one day that he was afraid I was melancholy, I 
 thought it was high time for me to be gone, and 
 accordingly took new lodgings that very night. 
 About a week after, I found my jolly landlord, 
 who, as I said before, was an honest, hearty man, 
 had put me into an advertisement in the Daily 
 Courant, in the following words: “Whereas a mel¬ 
 ancholy man left his lodgings on Thursday last, 
 in the afternoon, and was afterward seen going to¬ 
 ward Islington: if any one can givg notice of him 
 to R. B., fishmonger in the Strand, he shall be very 
 well rewarded for his pains.” As I am the best 
 man in the world to keep my own counsel, and 
 my landlord the fishmonger not knowing my 
 name, this accident of my life was never discover¬ 
 ed to this very day. 
 
 I am now settled with a widow woman, who 
 has a great many children, and complies with my 
 humor in everything. I do not remember that we 
 have exchanged a word together these five years ; 
 my coffee comes into my chamber every morning 
 without asking for it; if I want fire I point to 
 my chimney, if water, to my basin; upon which 
 my landlady nods, as much as to say, she takes 
 my meaning, and immediately obeys my signals. 
 She has likewise modeled her family so well, that 
 when her little boy offers to pull me by the coat 
 or prattle in my face, his eldest sister immediately 
 calls him off, and bids him not to disturb the. gen¬ 
 tleman. At my first entering into the family, I 
 was troubled with the civility of their rising up 
 to me every time I came into the room; but my 
 landlady observing that upon these occasions I 
 always cried Pish, and went out a^ain, has for¬ 
 bidden any such ceremony to be used in the house; 
 so that at present I walk into the kitchen or par¬ 
 lor, without being taken notice of, or giving any 
 interruption to the business or discourse of the 
 family. The maid will ask her mistress (though 
 . I am by) whether the gentleman is ready to go to 
 . dinner, as the mistress (who is indeed an excellent 
 housewife) scolds at the servants as heartily be¬ 
 fore my face as behind my back. In short, I move 
 up and down the house, and enter into all compa- 
 : nies with the same liberty as a cat, or any other 
 domestic animal, and am as little suspected of 
 tolling anything that I hear or see. 
 
 I remember last winter there were several young 
 girls of the neighborhood sitting about the fire 
 with my landlady’s daughters, and telling stories 
 of spirits and apparitions. Upon my opening the 
 door the young women broke off their discourse, 
 but my landlady’s daughters telling them that it 
 was nobody but the gentleman (for that is the name 
 which I go by in the neighborhood, as well as in 
 the family), they went on without minding me. 
 
 I seated myself by the candle that stood on a table 
 at one end of the room; and pretending to read a 
 book that I took out of my pocket, heard several 
 dreadful stories of ghosts, as pale as ashes, that 
 had stood at the feet of a bed, or walked over a 
 churcli-yard by moonlight; and of others that had 
 been conjured into the Red sea for disturbing peo¬ 
 ple’s rest, and drawing their curtains at midnight— 
 with many other old women’s fables of the like 
 nature. As one spirit raised another, I observed 
 that at the end of every story the whole company 
 closed their ranks, and crowded about the fire. I 
 took notice in particular of a little bov, who was 
 so attentive to every story, that I am mistaken if 
 he ventures to go to bed bv himself this twelve- 
 month. Indeed they talked so long, that the ima¬ 
 ginations of the whole assembly were manifestly 
 crazed, and, I am sure, will be the worse for it as 
 long as they live. I heard one of the girls, that 
 had looked upon me over her shoulder, asking the 
 company how long I had been in the room, and 
 whether 1 did not look paler than I used to do. 
 This put me under some apprehension that I should 
 be forced to explain myself, if I did not retire; for 
 which reason I took the candle into my hand, and 
 went up into my chamber, not without wondering 
 at this unaccountable weakness in reasonable crea¬ 
 tures, that they should love to astonish and ter¬ 
 rify one another. Were I a father, I should take 
 a particular care to preserve my children from 
 these little horrors of imagination, which they are 
 apt to contract when they are young, and are not 
 able to shake off when they are in years. I have 
 known a soldier that has entered a breach, af¬ 
 frighted at his oAvn shadow, and look pale upon a 
 little scratching at his door, who the day before 
 had marched up against a battery of cannon. 
 There are instances of persons who have been ter¬ 
 rified even to distraction at the figure of a tree, or 
 the shaking of a bulrush. The truth of it is, I 
 look upon a sound imagination as the greatest 
 blessing of life, next to a clear judgment and a 
 good conscience. In the meantime, since there 
 are very few whose minds are not more or less sub¬ 
 ject to these dreadful thoughts and apprehensions, 
 we ought to arm ourselves against them by the 
 dictates of reason and religion, “to pull the old 
 woman out of our hearts” (as Persius expresses it 
 in the motto of my paper), and extinguish those 
 impertinent notions which we imbibed at a time 
 that we were not able to judge of their absurdity. 
 Or, if we believe, as many wise and good men 
 have done, that there are such phantoms and ap¬ 
 paritions as those I have been speaking of, let us 
 endeavor to establish to ourselves an interest in him 
 who holds the reins of the whole creation in his 
 hands, and moderates them after such a manner, 
 that it is impossible for one being to break loose 
 upon another, without his knowledge and per¬ 
 mission. 
 
 For my own part, I am apt to join in the opinion 
 with those who believe that all the regions of na¬ 
 ture swarm with spirits ; and that we have multi¬ 
 tudes of spectators on all our actions, when we 
 think ourselves most alone ; but instead of terri¬ 
 fying myself with such a notion, I am wonderfully 
 pleased to think that I am always engaged with 
 such an innumerable society in searching out the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 wonders of the creation, and joining in the same 
 concert of praise and adoration. 
 
 Milton has finely described this mixed commu¬ 
 nion of men and spirits in Paradise ; and had 
 doubtless his eye upon a verse in old Hesiod, 
 which is almost word for word the same with his 
 third line in the following passage : 
 
 -Nor think, though men were none, 
 
 That heav'n would want spectators, God want praise; 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep; 
 
 All these with ceaseless praise his works behold 
 Both day and night. IIow often from the steep 
 Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard 
 Celestial voices, to the midnight air, 
 
 Sole, or responsive each to other’s note, 
 
 Singing their great Creator ? Oft in bands, 
 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
 
 With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds, 
 
 In full harmonic number join’d, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heaven. 
 
 C. Parad. Lost, iv, 675. 
 
 No. 13.] THURSDAY, MARCH 15, 1710-11. 
 
 Die mihi, si fueris tu leo, qualis eris ?— Mart. 
 
 Were you a lion, how would you behave? 
 
 There is nothing that of late years has afford¬ 
 ed matter of greater amusement to the town than 
 Signior Nicolini’s combat with a lion in the Hay- 
 market, which has been very often exhibited to 
 the general satisfaction of most of the nobility 
 and gentry in the kingdom of Great Britain. 
 Upon the first rumor of this intended combat, it 
 was confidently affirmed, and is still believed by 
 many in both galleries, that there would be a tame 
 lion sent from the tower every opera night, in 
 order to be killed by Hydaspes: this report, though 
 altogether groundless, so universally prevailed in 
 the upper regions of the play-house, that some of 
 the most refined politicians in these parts of the 
 audience gave it out in a whisper, that the lion 
 was a cousin-german of the tiger who made his ap¬ 
 pearance in King William’s days, and that the 
 stage would be supplied with lions at the publ.ic 
 expense during the whole session. Many likewise 
 were the conjectures of the treatment which this 
 lion was to meet with from the hands of Signior 
 Nicolini; some supposed that he was to subdue 
 him in recitativo, as Orpheus used to serve the 
 wild beasts in his time, and afterward to knock 
 him on the head; some fancied that the lion would 
 not pretend to lay his paws upon the hero, by 
 reason of the received opinion, that a lion will not 
 hurt a virgin. Several, who pretended to have seen 
 the opera in Italy, had informed their friends, that 
 the lion was to act a part in high Dutch, and roar 
 twice or thrice to a thorough bass, before he fell at 
 the feet of Hydaspes. To clear up a matter that 
 was so variously reported, I have made it my 
 business to examine whether this pretended lion 
 is really the savage he appears to be, or only a 
 counterfeit. 
 
 But before I communicate my discoveries, I 
 must acquaint the reader, that upon my walking 
 ^behind the scenes last winter, as I was thinking 
 on something else, I accidentally jostled against a 
 monstrous animal that extremely startled me, and 
 upon my nearer survey of it, appeared to be a lion 
 rampant. The lion, seeing me very much surprised, 
 told me, in a gentle voice, that I might come by 
 him if I pleased; “for,” says he, “I do not intend 
 to hurt anybody.” I thanked him very kindly, 
 and passed by him; and in a little time after, saw 
 him leap upon the stage, and act his part with 
 very great applause. It has been observed by 
 several, that the lion has changed his manner of 
 acting twice or thrice since his first appearance; 
 
 51 
 
 which will not seem strange, wnen I acquaint my 
 reader that the lion has been changed upon the 
 audience three several times. The first lion was a 
 candle-snuffer, who being a fellow of a testy, chol¬ 
 eric temper, overdid his part, and would not suffer 
 himself to be killed so easily as he ought to have 
 done; beside, it was observed of him, that he grew 
 more surly every time that he came out of the 
 lion; and having dropped some words in ordinary 
 conversation, as if he had not fought his best, that 
 he suffered himself to be thrown upon his back in 
 the scuffle, and that he would wrestle with Mr. 
 Nicolini for what he pleased out of his lion’s skin, 
 it was thought proper to discard him: and it is 
 verily believed to this day, that had he been 
 brought upon the stage another time, he would 
 certainly have done mischief. Beside, it was ob¬ 
 jected against the first lion, that, he reared himself 
 so high upon his hinder paws, and walked in so 
 erect a posture, that he looked more like an old 
 man than a lion. 
 
 The second lion was a tailor by trade, who be¬ 
 longed to the play-house, and had the character of 
 a mild and peaceable man in his profession. If 
 the former was too furious, this was too sheepish 
 for his part; inasmuch, that after a short modest 
 walk upon the stage, he would fall at the first 
 touch of Hydaspes, without grappling with him, 
 and giving him an opportunity of showing his 
 variety of Italian trips. It is said, indeed, that 
 he once gave him a rip in his flesh-color doublet: 
 but this was only to make work for himself, in 
 his private character of a tailor. I must not omit, 
 that it was this second lion who treated me with 
 so much humanity behind the scenes. 
 
 The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, 
 a country gentleman, who does it for his diversion, 
 but desires his name may be concealed. He says 
 very handsomely in his own excuse, that he does 
 not act from gain, that he indulges an innocent 
 pleasure in it; and that it is better to pass away 
 an evening in this manner, than in gaming and in 
 drinking : but at the same time says, with a very 
 agreeable raillery upon himself, that if his name 
 should be known, the ill-natured world might call 
 him, “ the ass in the lion’s skin.” This gentle¬ 
 man’s temper is made out of such a happy mix¬ 
 ture of the mild and the choleric, that he outdoes 
 both his predecessors, and has drawn together 
 greater audiences than have been known in the 
 memory of man. 
 
 I must not conclude my narrative, without tak¬ 
 ing notice of a groundless report that has been 
 raised to a gentleman’s disadvantage, of whom I 
 must declare myself an admirer; namely, that 
 Signior Nicolini and the lion have been seen sit¬ 
 ting peaceably by one another, and smoking a 
 pipe together behind the scenes ; by which their 
 common enemies would insinuate, that it is but a 
 sham combat which they represent upon the stage: 
 but upon inquiry I find, that if any such cor¬ 
 respondence has passed between them, it was not 
 till the combat was over, when the lion was to be 
 looked upon as dead, according to the received! 
 rules of the drama. Beside, this is what is prac¬ 
 ticed every day in Westminster-hall, where nothing 
 is more usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who 
 have been tearing each other to pieces in the 
 court, embracing one another as soon as they are 
 out of it. 
 
 I would not be thought, in any part of this rela¬ 
 tion, to reflect upon Signior Nicolini, who in 
 acting this part only complies with the wretched 
 taste of his audience ; he knows very well, that 
 the lion has many more admirers than himself; as 
 they say of the famous equestrian statue on the 
 Pont Nouf at Paris, that more people go to see 
 
 ’ ■ nr ILL t in 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 52 
 
 the horse, than the king "who sits upon it. On the 
 contrary, it gives me a jnst indignation to see a 
 person whose action gives new majesty to kings, 
 resolution to heroes, and softness to lovers, thus 
 sinking from the greatness of his behavior, and 
 degraded into the character of the London ’Pren¬ 
 tice. I have often wished, that our tragedians 
 would copy after this great master of action. 
 Could they make the same use of their arms and 
 legs, and inform their faces with as significant 
 looks and passions, how glorious would an Eng¬ 
 lish tragedy appear with that action which is 
 capable of giving dignity to the forced thoughts, 
 oold conceits, and unnatural expressions of an 
 Italian opera! In the meantime, I have related 
 this combat of the lion, to show what are at pre¬ 
 sent the reigning entertainments of the politer 
 part of Great Britain. 
 
 Audiences have often been reproached by writers 
 for the coarseness of their taste, but our present 
 grievance does not seem to be the want of a good 
 taste, but of common sense.—C. 
 
 Ho. 14.] FRIDAY, MARCH 16, 1710-11. 
 
 -Teaue his, infelix, exue monstris. 
 
 Ovid, Met. iv, 590. 
 
 Wretch that thou art! put off this monstrous shape. 
 
 I was reflecting this morning upon the spirit 
 and humor of the public diversions five-and- 
 twenty years ago, and those of the present time; 
 and lamented to myself, that though in those days 
 they neglected their morality, they kept up their 
 good sense ; but that the beau monde, at present, 
 is only grown more childish, not more innocent, 
 than the former. While I was in this train of 
 thought, an odd fellow, whose face I have often 
 seen at the playhouse, gave me the following let¬ 
 ter with these words : “ Sir, the Lion presents his 
 humble service to you, and desired me to give this 
 into your hands.” 
 
 “From my Den in the Haymarket, March 15. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I have read all your papers, and have stifled 
 my resentment against your reflections upon op¬ 
 eras, until that of this day, wherein you plainly 
 insinuate, that Signior Nicolini and myself have 
 a correspondence more familiar than is consistent 
 with the valor of his character, or the fierceness 
 of mine. I desire you would, for your own sake, 
 forbear such intimations for the future ; and must 
 say it is a great piece of ill-nature in you, to show 
 so great an esteem for a foreigner, and to dis¬ 
 courage a Lion that is your own countryman. 
 
 “I take notice of your fable of the lion and man, 
 but am so equally concerned in that matter, that I 
 shall not be offended to whichsoever of the ani¬ 
 mals the superiority is given. You have misre¬ 
 presented me, in saying that I am a country 
 gentleman, who act only for my diversion; whereas, 
 had I still the same woods to range in which I 
 once had when I was a fox-liunter, I should not 
 resign my manhood for a maintenance ; and assure 
 you, as low as my circumstances are at present, I 
 am so much a man of honor, that I would scorn 
 to be any beast for bread, but a lion. 
 
 “Yours, etc.” 
 
 I had no sooner ended this, than one of my 
 landlady’s children brought me in several others, 
 with some of which I shall make up my present 
 paper, they all having a tendency to the same 
 subject, viz: the elegance of our present diversions. 
 
 « Sir, “ Covent-garden, March 13. 
 
 “ I have been for twenty years under-sexton of 
 
 this parish of St. Paul’s Covent-garden, and have 
 not missed tolling in to prayers six times in all 
 those years ; which office I have performed to my 
 great satisfaction, until this fortnight last past, 
 during which time I find my congregation take the 
 warning of my bell, morning and evening, to go 
 to a puppet-show set forth by one Powell, under 
 the Piazzas. By this means I have not only lost 
 my two customers, whom I used to place for six- 
 ence a-piece over against Mrs. Rachael Eye- 
 right, but Mrs. Rachael herself is gone thither 
 also. There now appear among us none but a 
 few ordinary people, who come to church only to 
 say their prayers, so that. I have no work worth 
 speaking of but on Sundays. I have placed my 
 son at the Piazzas, to acquaint the ladies that the 
 bell rings for the church, and that it stands on the 
 other side of the garden I but they only laugh at 
 the child. 
 
 “I desire you would la\ this before all the whole 
 world, that I may not be made such a tool for the 
 future, and that Punchinello may choose hours 
 less canonical. As things are now, Mr. Powell has 
 a full congregation, while we have a very thin 
 house; which if you can remedy, you will very 
 much oblige, “ Sir, yours, etc.” 
 
 The following epistle, I find, is from the under¬ 
 taker of the masquerade: 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I have observed the rules of my mask so care¬ 
 fully (in not inquiring into persons) that I cannot 
 tell whether you were one of the company or not 
 last Tuesday ; but if you were not, and still de¬ 
 sign to come, I desire you would, for your own 
 entertainment, please to admonish the town, that 
 all persons indifferently are not fit for this sort of 
 diversion. I could wish, Sir, you could make 
 them understand that it is a kind of acting to go 
 in masquerade, and a man should be able to say 
 or do things proper for the dress in which he ap¬ 
 pears. We have now and then rakes in the habit 
 of Roman senators, and grave politicians in the 
 dress of rakes. The misfortune of the thing is, 
 that people dress themselves in what they have a 
 mind to be, and not what they are fit for. There 
 is not a girl in town, but let her have her will in 
 going to a mask, and she shall dress as a shepherd¬ 
 ess. But let me beg of them to read the Arcadia, 
 or some other good romance, before they appear 
 in any such character at my house. The last day 
 we presented, everybody was so rashly habited, 
 that when they came to speak to each other, a 
 nymph with a crook had not a word to say but in 
 the pert style of the pit bawdry ; and a man in the 
 habit of a philosopher was speechless, till an oc¬ 
 casion offered of expressing himself in the refuse 
 of the tyring rooms. We had a judge that danced 
 a minuet with a quaker for his partner, while half- 
 a-dozen harlequins stood by as spectators ; a Turk 
 drank me off two bottles of wine, and a Jew eat 
 me up half a ham of bacon. If I can bring my 
 design to bear, and make the maskers preserve 
 their character in my assemblies, I hope you will 
 allow there is a foundation laid for more elegant 
 and improving gallantries than any the town at 
 present affords, and consequently, that you will 
 give your approbation to the endeavors of, Sir, 
 “Your most obedient, humble servant.” 
 
 I am very glad the following epistle obliges me 
 to mention Mr. Powell a second time in the same 
 paper ; for indeed there cannot be too great en¬ 
 couragement given to his skill in motions*, pro¬ 
 vided he is under proper restrictions. 
 
 ♦Puppet-shows were formerly called motions. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ The opera at the Haymarket, and that under 
 the little Piazza in Covent-garden, being at pre¬ 
 sent the two leading diversions of the town, and 
 Mr. Powell professing in his advertisements to set 
 up Whittington and his Cat against Rinaldo and 
 Armida, my curiosity led me the beginning of 
 last week to view both these performances, and 
 make my observations upon them. 
 
 “First, therefore, I cannot but observe that Mr. 
 Powell wisely forbearing to give his company a 
 bill of fare beforehand, every scene is new and 
 unexpected ; whereas it is certain, that the under¬ 
 takers of the Haymarket, having raised too great 
 an expectation in their printed opera, very much 
 disappoint their audience on the stage. 
 
 “ The King of Jerusalem is obliged to come 
 from the city on foot, instead of being drawn in 
 a triumphant chariot by white horses, as my opera- 
 book had promised me ; and thus while I expected 
 Armida’s dragons should rush forward toward 
 Argentes, I found the hero was obliged to go 
 to Armida, and hand her out of her coach. We 
 had also but a veiy short allowance of thunder 
 and lightning ; though I cannot in this place omit 
 doing justice to the boy who had the direction of 
 the two painted dragons, and made them spit fire 
 and smoke. He flashed out his rosin in such just 
 proportions, and in such due time, that I could 
 not forbear conceiving hopes of his being one day 
 a most excellent player. I saw, indeed, but two 
 things wanting to render his whole action com¬ 
 plete, I mean the keeping his head a little lower, 
 and hiding his candle. 
 
 “ I observe that Mr. Powell and the undertakers 
 of the opera had both the same thought, and I 
 think much about the same time, of introducing 
 animals on their several stages—though indeed, 
 with very different success. The sparrows and 
 chaffinches at the Haymarket fly as yet very irreg¬ 
 ularly over the stage ; and instead of perching on 
 the trees, and performing their parts, these young 
 actors either get into the galleries, or put out the 
 candles; whereas Mr. Powell has so well disci- 
 lined his pig, that in the first scene he and Punch 
 ance a minuet together. I am informed, how¬ 
 ever that Mr. Powell resolves to excel his adver¬ 
 saries in their own way; and introduces larks in 
 his next opera of Susannah, or Innocence Be¬ 
 trayed, which will be exhibited next week, with a 
 pair of new Elders. 
 
 “ The moral of Mr. Powell’s drama is violated, 
 I confess, by Punch’s national reflections on the 
 French, and King Harry’s laying his leg upon the 
 Queen’s lap, in too ludicrous a manner, before so 
 great an assembly. 
 
 “ As to the mechanism and scenery, everything, 
 indeed, was uniform, and of a piece, and the 
 scenes were managed very dextrously; which 
 calls on me to take notice, that at the Haymarket, 
 the undertakers forgetting to change the side- 
 scenes, we were presented with the prospect of 
 the ocean in the midst of a delightful grove ; and 
 though the gentlemen on the stage had very much 
 contributed to the beauty of the grove, by walk¬ 
 ing up and down between the trees, I must own I 
 was not a little astonished to see a well-dressed 
 young fellow i.n a full-bottomed wig, appear in 
 the midst of the sea, and without any visible con¬ 
 cern taking snuff. 
 
 “I shall only observe one thing farther, in 
 which both dramas agree; which is, that by the 
 squeak of their voices the heroes of each are 
 eunuchs; and as the wit in both pieces is equal, 
 
 I must prefer the performance of Mr. Powell, be¬ 
 cause it is in our own language. 
 
 “ I am, etc.” 
 
 53 
 
 No. 15.] SATURDAY, MARCH 11, 1710-11 
 
 Parva leves capiunt animos- Ovid, Ars. Am., i, 159. 
 
 Light minds are pleased with trifles. 
 
 Wiiex I was in France, I used to gaze with great 
 astonishment at the splendid equipages and party- 
 colored habits of that fantastic nation. I was one 
 day in particular contemplating a lady that sat in 
 a coach adorned with gilded Cupids, and finely 
 painted with the loves of Venus and Adonis. 
 The coach was drawn by six milk-white horses, and 
 loaded behind with the same number of powdered 
 footmen. Just before the lady were a couple of 
 beautiful pages, that were stuck among the har¬ 
 ness, and by their gay dresses and smiling fea¬ 
 tures, looked like the elder brothers of the little 
 boys that were carved and painted in every corner 
 of the coach. 
 
 The lady was the unfortunate Cleanthe, who af¬ 
 terward gave an occasion to a pretty melancholy 
 novel. She had, for several years, received the 
 addresses of a gentleman, whom, after a long and 
 intimate acquaintance, she forsook, upon the ac¬ 
 count of this shining equipage, which had been 
 offered to her by one of great riches, but a crazy 
 constitution. The circumstances in which I saw 
 her, were, it seems, the disguises only of a bro¬ 
 ken heart, and a kind of pageantry to cover dis¬ 
 tress—for in two months after she was carried to 
 her grave with the same pomp and magnificence, 
 being sent thither partly by the loss of one lover, 
 and partly by the possession of another. 
 
 I have often reflected with myself on this unac¬ 
 countable humor in womankind, of ■ being smitten 
 with everything that is showy and superficial; 
 and on the numberless evils that befall the sex, 
 from this light fantastical disposition. I myself 
 remember a young lady that was very warmly 
 solicited by a couple of importunate rivals, who, 
 for several months together, did all they could to 
 recommend themselves, by complacency of beha¬ 
 vior and agreeableness of conversation. At length, 
 when the competition was doubtful, and the lady 
 undetermined in her choice, one of the young 
 lovers very luckily bethought himself of adding 
 a supernumerary lace to his liveries, which had so 
 good an effect, that he married her the very week 
 after. 
 
 The usual conversation of ordinary women very 
 much cherishes this natural weakness of being 
 taken with outside and appearance. Talk of a 
 new-married couple, and you immediately hear 
 whether they keep their coach and six, or eat in 
 plate. Mention the name of an absent lady, and 
 it is ten to one but you learn something of her 
 gown and petticoat. A ball is a great help to dis¬ 
 course, and a birth-day furnishes conversation for 
 a twelvemonth after. A furbelow of precious 
 stones, a hat buttoned with a diamond, a brocade 
 waistcoat or petticoat, are standing topics. In 
 short, they consider only the drapery of the spe¬ 
 cies, and never cast away a thought on those orna¬ 
 ments of the mind that make persons illustrious 
 in themselves, and useful to others. When wo¬ 
 men are thus perpetually dazzling one another’s 
 imaginations, and filling their heads with nothing 
 but colors, it is no wonder that they are more 
 attentive to the superficial parts of life than the 
 solid and substantial blessings of it. A girl 
 who has been trained up in this kind of con¬ 
 versation is in danger of every embroidered coat 
 that comes in her way. A pair of fringed gloves 
 may be her ruin. In a word, lace and ribbons, sil¬ 
 ver and gold galloons, with the like glittering 
 gewgaws, are so many lures to women of weak 
 minds and low education, and, when artificially 
 displayed, are able to fetch down the most airy 
 
 R. 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 54 
 
 coquette from the wildest of her flights and ram¬ 
 bles. 
 
 True happiness is of a retired nature, and an 
 enemy to pomp and noise ; it arises, in the first 
 place from the enjoyment of one’s self; and in the 
 next, from the friendship and conversation of a 
 few select companions: it loves shade and soli¬ 
 tude, and naturally haunts groves and fountains, 
 fields and meadows : in short, it feels everything 
 it wants within itself, and receives no addition 
 from multitudes of witnesses and spectators. On 
 the contrary false happiness loves to be in a 
 crowd, and to draw the eyes of the world upon 
 her. She does not receive any satisfaction from 
 the applauses which she gives herself, but from 
 the admiration which she raises in others. She 
 flourishes in courts and palaces, theaters and as¬ 
 semblies, and has no existence but when she is 
 looked upon. 
 
 Aurelia, though a woman of great quality, de¬ 
 lights in the privacy of a country life, and passes 
 away a great part of her time in her own walks 
 and gardens. Her husband, who is her bosom 
 friend and companion in her solitudes, has been 
 in love with her ever since he knew her. They 
 both abound with good sense, consummate virtue 
 and a mutual esteem ; and are a perpetual enter¬ 
 tainment to one another. Their family is under 
 so regular an economy, in its hours of devotion 
 and repast, employment and diversion, that it 
 Looks like a little commonwealth within itself. 
 They often go into company, that they may return 
 with the greater delight to one another; and some¬ 
 times live in town, not to enjoy it so properly, as 
 to grow weary of it, that they may renew in them¬ 
 selves the relish of a country life. By this means 
 they are happy in each other, beloved by their 
 children, adored by their servants, and are be¬ 
 come the envy, or rather the delight of all that 
 Know them. 
 
 How different to this is the life of Fulvia! She 
 considers her husband as her steward, and looks 
 upon discretion and good housewifery as little 
 domestic virtues, unbecoming a woman of quality. 
 She thinks life lost in her own family, and fancies 
 herself out of the world when she is not in the 
 ring, the playhouse, or the drawing-room. She 
 lives in a perpetual motion of body and restless¬ 
 ness of thought, and is never easy in any one 
 place, when she thinks there is more company in 
 another. The missing of an opera the first night, 
 would be more afflicting to her than the death of 
 a child. She pities all the valuable part of her 
 own sex, and calls every woman of a prudent, 
 modest, and retired life, a poor-spirited, unpol¬ 
 ished creature. What a mortification would it be 
 to Fulvia, if she knew that her setting herself to 
 view is but exposing herself, and that she grows 
 contemptible by being conspicuous! 
 
 I cannot conclude my paper without observing, 
 that Virgil lias very finely touched upon this fe¬ 
 male passion for dress and show, in the character 
 of Camilla; who, though she seems to have sha¬ 
 ken off all the other weaknesses of her sex, is 
 still described as a woman in this particular. 
 The poets tell us, that after having made a great 
 slaughter of the enemy, she unfortunately cast 
 her eye on a Trojan, who wore an embroidered 
 tunic, a beautiful coat of mail, with a mantle of 
 the finest purple. “A golden bow,” says he, 
 “ hung upon his shoulder; his garment was buck¬ 
 led with a golden clasp, and his head covered 
 with a helmet of the same shining metal.” The 
 Amazon immediately singled out this well-dressed 
 warrior, being seized with a woman’s longing 
 for the pretty trappings that he was adorned 
 with: 
 
 -Totumque incauta per agmen 
 
 Foemineo prsedae et spoliorum ardebat amore. 
 
 J2n., xi, 782. 
 
 This heedless pursuit after these glittering tri 
 fles, the poet (by a nice concealed moral), repre¬ 
 sents to have been the destruction of his female 
 hero.—C. 
 
 No. 16. j MONDAY, MARCH 19, 1710-11. 
 
 Quid verum atque decens euro et rogo, et omnis in hoc sum. 
 
 Hor., 1 Ep., i, 11. 
 
 What right, what true, what fit we justly call, 
 
 Let this be all my care—for this is all.—P ope. 
 
 I have received a letter, desiring me to be very 
 satirical upon the little muff that is now in fash¬ 
 ion ; another informs me of a pair of silver gar¬ 
 ters buckled below the knee, that have been late¬ 
 ly seen at the Rainbow coffee-house in Fleet- 
 street ; a third sends me a heavy complaint against 
 fringed gloves. To be brief, there is scarce an or¬ 
 nament of either sex which one or other of mv 
 correspondents has not inveighed against with 
 some bitterness, and recommended to my observa¬ 
 tion. I must, therefore, once for all, inform my 
 readers, that it is not my intention to sink the 
 dignity of this, my paper, with reflections upon 
 red heels or top-knots, but rather to enter into the 
 passions of mankind, and to correct those de¬ 
 praved sentiments that give birth to all those lit¬ 
 tle extravagances which appear in their outward 
 dress and behavior. Foppish and fantastic orna¬ 
 ments are only indications of vice, not criminal 
 in themselves. Extinguish vanity in the mind, 
 and you naturally retrench the little superfluities 
 of garniture and equipage. The blossoms will 
 fall of themselves when the root that nourishes 
 them is destroyed. 
 
 I shall therefore, as I have said, apply my reme¬ 
 dies to the first seeds and principles of an affected 
 dress, without descending to the dress itself ; 
 though at the same time I must own that I have 
 thoughts of creating an officer under me, to be 
 entitled the Censor of Small Wares, and of al¬ 
 lotting him one day in the week for the execution 
 of such his office. An operator of this nature 
 might act under me, with the same regard as a 
 surgeon to a physician; the one might be em¬ 
 ployed in healing those blotches and tumors 
 which break out in the body, while the other is 
 sweetening the blood, and rectifying the constitu¬ 
 tion. To speak truly, the young people of both 
 sexes are so wonderfully apt to shoot out into 
 long swords or sweeping trains, bushy head¬ 
 dresses or full-bottomed periwigs, with several 
 other incumbrances of dress, that they stand in 
 need of being pruned very frequently, lest they 
 should be oppressed with ornaments, and overrun 
 with the luxuriancy of their habits. I am much 
 in doubt whether 1 should give the preference to 
 a Quaker that is trimmed close, and almost cut to 
 the quick, or to a beau that is loaden with such a 
 redundance of excrescences. I must therefore de¬ 
 sire my correspondents to let me know how they 
 approve my project, and whether they think the 
 erecting of such a petty censorship may not turn 
 to the emolument of the public ; for I would not 
 do anything of this nature l'ashly and without 
 advice. 
 
 There is another set of correspondents to whom 
 I must address myself in the second place ; I 
 mean such as fill their letters with private scan¬ 
 dal, and black accounts of particular persons and 
 families. The world is so full of ill-nature, that 
 I have lampoons sent me by people who cannot 
 spell, and satires composed by those who scarce 
 know how to write. By the last post in particular, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 55 
 
 I received a packet of scandal which is not 
 legible ; and have a whole bundle of letters in 
 women’s hands, that are full of blots and calum¬ 
 nies ; insomuch, that when I see the name of Cae- 
 lia, Phillis, Pastora, or the like, at the bottom of 
 a scrawl, 1 conclude of course that it brings me 
 some account of a fallen virgin, a faithless wife, 
 or an amorous widow. I must therefore inform 
 these my correspondents, that it is not my design 
 to be a publisher of intrigues and cuckoldoms, or 
 to bring little infamous stories out of their pres¬ 
 ent lurking-holes into broad day-light. If I at¬ 
 tack the vicious, I shall only set upon them in a 
 body: and will not be provoked by the worst 
 usage I can receive from others to make an exam¬ 
 ple of any particular criminal. In short, I have 
 so much of a Drawcansir in me, that I shall pass 
 over a single foe to charge Avliole armies. It is 
 not Lais or Silenus, but the harlot and the drunk¬ 
 ard, whom I shall endeavor to expose; and shall 
 consider the crime as it appears in the species, 
 not as it is circumstanced in an individual. I 
 think it was Caligula, who wished the whole city 
 of Rome had but one neck, that he might behead 
 them at a blow. I shall do, out of humanity, 
 what that emperor would have done in the cruel¬ 
 ty of his temper, and aim every stroke at a col¬ 
 lective body of offenders. At the same time I am 
 very sensible that nothing spreads a paper like 
 private calumny and defamation ; but as my spec¬ 
 ulations are not under this necessity, they are not 
 exposed to this temptation. 
 
 In the next place I must apply myself to my 
 party correspondents, who are continually teasing 
 me to take notice of one another’s proceedings. 
 How often am I asked by both sides, if it is possi¬ 
 ble for me to be an unconcerned spectator of the 
 rogueries that are committed by the party which 
 is opposite to him that writes the letter. About 
 two days since, I was reproached with an old 
 Grecian law, that forbids any man to stand as a 
 neuter, or a looker-on, in the divisions of his 
 country. However, as I am very sensible my 
 paper would lose its whole effect, should it run 
 into the outrages of a party, I shall take care to 
 keep clear of everything which looks that way. 
 If I can any way assuage private inflammations, 
 or allay public ferments, I shall apply myself to it 
 with my utmost endeavors ; but will never let my 
 heart reproach me with having done anything to¬ 
 ward increasing those feuds and animosities that 
 extinguish religion, deface government, and make 
 a nation miserable. 
 
 What 1 have said under the three foregoing 
 heads will, I am afraid, very much retrench the 
 number of my correspondents. I shall therefore 
 acquaint my reader, that if he has started any hint 
 which he is not able to pursue, if he has met with 
 any surprising story which he does not know how 
 to tell, if he has discovered any epidemical vice 
 which has escaped my observation, or has heard of 
 any uncommon virtue which he would desire to 
 publish ; in short, if he has any materials that can 
 furnish out an innocent diversion, I shall promise 
 him my best assistance in the working of them up 
 for a public entertainment. 
 
 This paper my reader w r ill find was intended for 
 an answer to a multitude of correspondents ; but 
 I hope he will pardon me if I single out one of 
 them in particular, who has made me so very hum¬ 
 ble a request, that I cannot forbear complying 
 with it. 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “Sir. “March 15, 1710-11. 
 
 “I am at present so unfortunate as to have no¬ 
 thing to do but to mind my own business; and 
 
 therefore beg of you that you will be pleased to 
 put me into some small post under you. I ob¬ 
 serve that you have appointed your printer and 
 publisher to receive letters and advertisements for 
 the city of London, and shall think myself very 
 much honored by you, if you will appoint me to 
 take in letters and advertisements for the city of 
 Westminster and the duchy of Lancaster. Though 
 I cannot promise to fill such an employment with 
 sufficient abilities, I will endeavor to make up 
 with industry and fidelity what I want in parth 
 and genius. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most obedient servant, 
 
 C. “ Charles Lillie.” 
 
 Ho. 17.] TUESDAY, MARCH, 20, 1710-11. 
 
 Tetrum ante omnia vultum.—Juv., x, 191. 
 
 - A visage rough, 
 
 Deformed, unfeatured. 
 
 Since our persons are not of our own making 
 when they are such as appear defective or un¬ 
 comely, it is, methinks, an honest and laudable 
 fortitude to dare to be ugly; at least to keep our¬ 
 selves from being abashed with a consciousness of 
 imperfections which we cannot help, and in which 
 there is no guilt. I would not defend a haggard 
 beau for passing away much time at a glass and 
 giving softness and languishing graces to defor¬ 
 mity : all I intend is, that we ought to be con¬ 
 tented with our countenance and shape, so far, as 
 never to give ourselves an uneasy reflection on 
 that subject. It is to the ordinary people who are 
 not accustomed to make very proper remarks on 
 any occasion, matter of great jest, if a man enters 
 with a prominent pair of shoulders into an assem¬ 
 bly, or is distinguished by an expansion of mouth, 
 or obliquity of aspect. It is happy for a man that 
 has any of these oddnesses about him, if he can be 
 as merry upon himself, as others are apt to be upon 
 that occasion. When he can possess himself with 
 such a cheerfulness, women and children, wlio are 
 at first frightened at him, will afterward be as much 
 pleased with him. As it is barbarous in others to 
 rally him for natural defects, it is extremely agree¬ 
 able when he can jest upon himself for them. 
 
 Madam Maintenon’s first husband was a hero 
 in this kind, and has drawn many pleasantries 
 from the irregularity of his shape, which he de¬ 
 scribes as very much resembling the letter Z. He 
 diverts himself likewise by representing to his 
 reader the make of an engine and pulley, with 
 which he used to take off his hat. When there 
 happens to be anything ridiculous in a visage, 
 and the owner of it thinks it an aspect of dignity, 
 he must be of very great quality to be exempt 
 from raillery. The best expedient, therefore, is to 
 be pleasant upon himself. Prince Harry and Fal- 
 statf, in Shakspeare, have carried the ridicule upon 
 fat and lean as far as it will go. Falstaff is hu¬ 
 morously called woolsack, bedpresser, and hill of 
 flesh; Harry, a starveling, an elve-skin, a sheath, 
 a bow-case, and a tuck. There is, in several inci¬ 
 dents of the conversation between them, the jest 
 still kept up upon the person. Great tenderness 
 and sensibility in this point is one of the greatest 
 weaknesses of self-love. For my own part, I am 
 a little unhappy in the mould of my face, w r hich is 
 not quite so long as it is broad. Whether this 
 might not partly arise from my opening my mouth 
 much seldomer than other people, and by conse¬ 
 quence not so much lengthening the fibers of my 
 visage, I am not at leisure to determine. How¬ 
 ever it be, I have been often put out of counte¬ 
 nance by the shortness of my face, and was for¬ 
 merly at great pains in concealing it by wearing a 
 
56 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 periwig with a high fore-top, and letting my 
 beard grow. But now I have thoroughly got over 
 this delicacy, and could be contented with a m uch 
 shorter, provided it might qualify me for a mem¬ 
 ber of the merry club, which the following letter 
 gives me an account of. I have received it from 
 Oxford, and as it abounds with the spirit of mirth 
 and good humor, which is natural to that place, I 
 shall set it down word for word as it came to me. 
 
 “ Most Profound Sir, 
 
 “ Having been very well entertained, in the last 
 of your speculations that I have yet seen, by your 
 specimen upon clubs, which I therefore hope you 
 will continue, I shall take the liberty to furnish 
 you with a brief account of such a one as, per¬ 
 haps, you have not seen in your travels, unless it 
 was your fortune to touch upon some of the woody 
 parts of the African continent, in your voyage to 
 or from Grand Cairo. There have arisen in this 
 university (long since you left us without saying 
 anything) several of these inferior hebdomadal so¬ 
 cieties, as the Punning club, the Witty club, and 
 among the rest, the Handsome club : as a bur¬ 
 lesque upon which, a certain merry species, that 
 seem to have come into the world in masquerade, 
 for some years last past have associated themselves 
 together, and assumed the name of the Ugly club. 
 This ill-favored fraternity consists of a president 
 and twelve fellows; the choice of which is not 
 confined by patent to any particular foundation 
 (as St. John’s men would have the world believe, 
 and have therefore erected a separate society with¬ 
 in themselves), but liberty is left to elect from any 
 school in Great Britain, provided the candidates 
 be within the rules of the club, as set forth in a 
 table, entitled, The Act of Deformity : a clause or 
 two of which I shall transmit to you. 
 
 “1. That no person whatsoever shall be ad¬ 
 mitted without a visible quearity in his aspect, or 
 peculiar cast of countenance; of which the presi¬ 
 dent and officers for the time being are to deter¬ 
 mine, and the president to have the casting voice. 
 
 “ 2. That a singular regard be had upon exam¬ 
 ination, to the gibbosity of the gentlemen that 
 offer themselves as founder’s kinsmen ; or to the 
 obliquitv of their figure, in what sort soever. 
 
 “ 3. That if the quantity of any man’s nose be 
 eminently miscalculated, whether as to length or 
 breadth, he shall have a just pretense to be elected. 
 
 “ Lastly, That if there shall be two or more 
 competitors for the same vacancy, cceteris paribus, 
 he that has the thickest skin to have the prefer¬ 
 ence. 
 
 “ Every fresh member, upon his first night, is to 
 entertain the company with a dish of codfish, and 
 a speech in praise of vEsop, whose portraiture 
 they have in full proportion, or rather dispropor¬ 
 tion, over the chimney ; and their design is, as 
 soon as their funds are sufficient, to purchase the 
 heads of Thersites, Duns Scotus, Scarron, Hudi- 
 bras, and the old gentleman in Oldham, with all 
 the celebrated ill faces of antiquity, as furniture 
 for the club-room. 
 
 “ As they have always been professed admirers 
 of the other sex, so they unanimously declare that 
 they will give all possible encouragement to such 
 as will take the benefit of the statute, though 
 none yet have appeared to do it. 
 
 “The worthy president, who is their most de¬ 
 voted champion, has lately shown me two copies 
 of verses, composed by a gentleman of his society; 
 the first, a congratulatory ode, inscribed to Mrs. 
 Touchwood, upon the loss of her two fore teeth; 
 the other, a panegyric upon Mrs. Andiron’s left 
 shoulder. Mrs. Vizard (he says), since the small¬ 
 pox, has growu tolerably ugly, and a top toast in 
 
 the club; but I never heard him so lavish of his 
 fine things, as upon old Hell Trott, who continu¬ 
 ally officiates at their table; her he even adores 
 and extols as the very counterpart of Mother Ship- 
 ton ; in short, Nell (says he) is one of the extra¬ 
 ordinary works of nature; but as for complexion, 
 shape, and features, so valued by others, they are 
 all mere outside and symmetry, which is his 
 aversion. Give me leave to add, that the presi¬ 
 dent is a facetious, pleasant gentleman, and never 
 more so, than when he has got (as he calls them) 
 his dear mummers about him; and he often pro-' 
 tests it does him good to meet a fellow with a right 
 genuine grimace in his air (which is so agreeable 
 in the generality of the French nation); and, as an 
 instance of his sincerity in this particular, he gave 
 me a sight of a list in his pocket-book of all this 
 class, who for these five years have fallen under 
 his observation, with himself at the head of them, 
 and in the rear (as one of a promising and improv¬ 
 ing aspect). 
 
 “ Sir, your obliged and humble servant, 
 
 “Alexander Carbuncle.” 
 
 Oxford, March 12, 1710. R. 
 
 No. 18.] WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21, 1710-11. 
 
 -Equitis quoque jam migravit ab aure voluptas, 
 
 Omnis ad incertos oculos, et gauda vana. 
 
 Hor., 2 Ep. i, 187. 
 
 But now our nobles too are fops and Tain, 
 
 Neglect the sense, but love the painted scene.— Creech. 
 
 It is my design in this paper to deliver down to 
 posterity a faithful account of the Italian opera, 
 and of the gradual progress which it has made 
 upon tl\e English stage; for there is no question 
 but our great-grand-children will be curious to 
 know the reason why their forefathers used to sit 
 together like an audience of foreigners in their 
 own country, and to hear whole plays acted before 
 them in a tongue which they did not understand. 
 
 Arsinoe was the first opera that gave us a taste 
 of Italian music. The great success this opera 
 met with produced some attempts of forming 
 pieces upon Italian plans, which should give a 
 more natural and reasonable entertainment than 
 what can be met with in the elaborate trifles of 
 that nation. This alarmed the poetasters and 
 fiddlers of the town, who were used to deal in a 
 more ordinary kind of ware; and therefore laid 
 down an established rule, which is received as 
 such to this day, “That nothing is capable of being 
 well set to music, that is not nonsense.” 
 
 This maxim was no sooner received, but we im¬ 
 mediately fell to translating the Italian operas; 
 and as there was no great danger of hurting the 
 sense of those extraordinary pieces, our authors 
 would often make words of their own which were 
 entirely foreign to the meaning of the passages 
 they pretended to translate; their chief care bemg 
 to make the numbers of the English verse to an¬ 
 swer to those of the Italian, that both of them 
 might go to the same tune. Thus the famous song 
 in Camilla: 
 
 Barbara, si, t’ intendo, etc. 
 
 Barbarous woman, yes, I know your meaning. 
 
 which expresses the resentments of an angry lover, 
 was translated into that English lamentation : 
 
 Frail are a lover’s hopes, etc. 
 
 And it was pleasant enough to see the most refined 
 persons of the British nation dying away and 
 languishing to notes that were filled with a spirit 
 of rage and indignation. It happened also very 
 frequently, where the sense was rightly translated, 
 the necessary transposition of words, which were 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 drawn out of the phrase of one tongue into that of 
 another, made the music appear very absurd in one 
 tongue that was very natural in the other. I remem¬ 
 ber an Italian verse that ran thus, word for word: 
 
 And turn’d my rage into pity. 
 
 which the English, for rhyme-sake, translated, 
 
 And into pity turned my rage. 
 
 By this means the soft notes that were adapted to 
 pity in the Italian, fell upon the word rage in the 
 English; and the angry sounds that were turned 
 to rage in the original, were made to express pity 
 in the translation. It oftentimes happened like¬ 
 wise, that the finest notes in the air fell upon the 
 most insignificant words in the sentence. I have 
 known the word “and” pursued through the 
 whole gamut, have been entertained with many a 
 melodious “the,” and have heard the most beau¬ 
 tiful graces, quavers, and divisions bestowed upon 
 “then,” “for,” and “from;” to the eternal honor 
 of our English particles. 
 
 The next step to our refinement was the intro¬ 
 ducing ot Italian actors into our opera ; who sang 
 their parts in their own language, at the same time 
 that our countrymen performed theirs in our native 
 tongue. The king or hero of the play generally 
 spoke in Italian, and his slaves answered him in 
 English. The lover frequently made liis court, 
 and gained the heart of his princess, in a language 
 which she did not understand. One would have 
 thought it very difficult to have carried on di¬ 
 alogues after this manner, without an interpreter 
 between the persons that conversed together ; but 
 this was the state of the English stage for about 
 three years. 
 
 At length the audience grew tired of under¬ 
 standing half the opera ; and therefore, to ease 
 themselves entirely of the fatigue of thinking, 
 have so ordered it at present, that the whole opera 
 is performed in an unknown tongue. We no 
 longer understand the language of our own stage; 
 insomuch that I have often been afraid, when I 
 have seen our Italian performers chattering in the 
 vehemence of action, that they have been calling 
 us names, and abusing us among themselves ; but 
 I hope, since we put such an entire confidence in 
 them, they will not talk against us before our faces, 
 though they may do it with the same safety as if 
 it were behind our backs. In the meantime, I 
 cannot forbear thinking how naturally a historian 
 who writes two or three hundred years hence, and 
 does not know the taste of his wise forefathers, will 
 make the following reflections: “ In the beginning 
 of the eighteenth century, the Italian tongue was 
 so well understood in England, that operas were 
 acted on the public stage in that language.” 
 
 One scarce knows how to be serious in the con¬ 
 futation of an absurdity that shows itself at first 
 sight. It does not want any great measure of sense 
 to see the ridicule of this monstrous practice ; but 
 what makes it the more astonishing, it is not the 
 taste of the rabble, but of persons of the greatest 
 politeness, which has established it. 
 
 If the Italians have a genius for music above 
 the English, the English have a genius for other 
 performances of a much higher nature, and capable 
 ot giving the mind a much nobler entertainment. 
 Would one think it was possible (at a time when 
 an author lived that was able to write the Pinedra 
 and Hippolitus), for a people to be so stupidly 
 ond of the Italian opera, as scarce to give a third 
 day’s hearing to that admirable tragedy ? Music 
 is certainly a very agreeable entertainment: but if 
 it would take the entire possession of our ears, if 
 it would make us incapable of hearing sense] if 
 it would exclude arts that have a much greater 
 
 57 
 
 tendency to the refinement of human nature ; I 
 must confess I would allow it no better quarter 
 than Plato has done, who banishes it out of his 
 commonwealth. 
 
 At present our notions of music are so very un¬ 
 certain, that we do not know what it is we like ; 
 only, in general, we are transported with anything 
 that is not English : so it be of a foreign growth, 
 let it be Italian, French, or High Dutch, it is the 
 same thing. In short, our English music is quite 
 rooted out, and nothing yet planted in its stead. 
 
 When a royal palace is burnt to the ground, 
 every man is at liberty to present his plan for a 
 new one ; and though it be but indifferently put 
 together, it may furnish several hints that may be 
 of use to a good architect. I shall take the same 
 liberty, in a following paper, of giving my opinion 
 upon the subject of music; whicli I shall lay down 
 only in a problematical manner, to be considered 
 by those who are masters in the art.—C. 
 
 Ho. 19.] THURSDAY, MARCH 22, 1710-11. 
 
 Di bene fecerunt, inopis me quodque pusilli 
 
 Finxerunt animi, raro et perpauca loquentis. 
 
 Hor., 1 Sat., iv, 17. 
 
 Thank Heaven, that made me of an humble mind; 
 
 To action little, less to words inclined! 
 
 Observing one person behold another, who was 
 an utter stranger to him, with a cast of his eye, 
 which methought expressed an emotion of heart 
 very different from what could be raised by an 
 object so agreeable as the gentleman lie looked 
 at, I began to consider, not without some secret 
 sorrow, the condition of an envious man. Some 
 have fancied that envy has a certain magical force 
 in it, and that the eyes of the envious have, by 
 their fascination, blasted the enjoyments of the 
 happy. Sir Francis Bacon says, some have been 
 so curious as to remark the times and seasons 
 when the stroke of an envious eye is most effectu- 
 ally pernicious, and have observed that it has 
 been when the person envied has been in any cir¬ 
 cumstance of glory and triumph. At such a time 
 the mind of the prosperous man goes, as it were, 
 abroad, among things without him, and is more 
 exposed to the malignity. But I shall not dwell 
 upon speculations so abstracted as this, or repeat 
 the many excellent things which one might col¬ 
 lect out ot authors upon this miserable affection ; 
 but keeping the common road of life, consider the' 
 envious man with relation to these three heads, 
 his pains, his reliefs, and his happiness. 
 
 The envious man is in pain upon all occasions 
 which ought to give him pleasure. The relish of 
 his life is inverted; and the objects which admin¬ 
 ister the higher satisfaction to those who are ex¬ 
 empt from this passion, give the quickest pangs 
 to persons who are subject to it. All the per¬ 
 fections of their fellow-creatures are odious. Youth, 
 beauty, valor, and wisdom, are provocations of 
 their displeasure. What a wretched and apostate 
 state is this : to be offended with excellence, and 
 to hate a man because we approve him ! The 
 condition of the envious man is the most emphati¬ 
 cally miserable ; he is not only incapable of re¬ 
 joicing in another’s merit or success, but lives in 
 a world wherein all mankind are in a plot against 
 his quiet, by studying their own happiness and 
 advantage. Will Prosper is an honest tale-bearer; 
 he makes it his business to join in conversation 
 with envious men. He points to such a handsome 
 young fellow, and whispers that he is secretly 
 married to a great fortune. When they doubt, he 
 adds circumstances to prove it; and never fails to 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 58 
 
 aggravate their distress by assuring them, that, to 
 his knowledge, he has an uncle will leave hirn 
 some thousands. Will has many arts of this kind 
 to torture this sort of temper, and delights in it. 
 When he finds them change color, and say faintly 
 they wish such a piece of news is true, he has the 
 malice to speak some good or other of every man 
 of their acquaintance. 
 
 The reliefs of the envious man, are those little 
 blemishes and imperfections that discover them¬ 
 selves in an illustrious character. It is matter of 
 great consolation to an envious person, when a 
 man of known honor does a thing unworthy of 
 himself, or when any action which was well ex¬ 
 ecuted, upon better information appears so altered 
 in its circumstances, that the fame of it is divided 
 among many, instead of being attributed to one. 
 This is a secret satisfaction to these malignants: 
 for the person whom they could not but admire, they 
 fancy is nearer their own condition as soon as his 
 merit is shared among others. I remember some 
 years ago, there came out an excellent poem with¬ 
 out the name of the author. The little wits, who 
 were incapable of writing it, began to pull in 
 pieces the supposed writer. When that would not 
 do, they took great pains to suppress the opinion 
 that it was his. That again failed. The next 
 refuge was, to say it was overlooked by one man, 
 and many pages wholly written by another. An 
 honest fellow, who sat among a cluster of them in 
 debate on this subject, cried out, “ Gentlemen, 
 if you are sure none of you yourselves had a hand 
 in it, you are but where you were, whoever wrote 
 it.” But the most usual succor to the envious, in 
 cases of nameless merit in this kind, is to keep 
 the property, if possible, unfixed, and by that 
 means to hinder the reputation of it from falling 
 upon any particular person. You see an envious 
 man clear up his countenance, if, in the relation 
 of any man’s great happiness in one point, you 
 mention his uneasiness in another. When he 
 hears such a one is very rich, he turns pale, but 
 recovers when you add that he has many children. 
 In a word, the only sure way to an envious man’s 
 favor is not to deserve it. 
 
 But if we consider the envious man in delight, 
 it is like reading of the seat of a giant in romance; 
 the magnificence of his house consists in the many 
 limbs of men whom he has slain. If any who 
 promised themselves success in any uncommon 
 undertaking miscarry in the attempt, or he that 
 aimed at what would have been useful and laud¬ 
 able, meets with contempt and derision, the envi¬ 
 ous man, under the color of hating vain-glory, can 
 smile with an inward wantonness of heart at the 
 ill effect it may have upon an honest ambition for 
 the future. 
 
 Having thoroughly considered the nature of this 
 passion, I have made it my study how to avoid 
 the envy that may accrue to me from these my 
 speculations ; and if I am not mistaken in myself, 
 I think I have a genius to escape it. Upon hear¬ 
 ing in a coffee-house one of my papers commended, 
 I immediately apprehended the envy that would 
 spring from that applause ; and therefore gave a 
 description of my face the next day; being re¬ 
 solved, as I grow in reputation for wit, to resign 
 my pretensions to beauty. This, I hope, may give 
 some ease to those unhappy gentlemen who do me 
 the honor to torment themselves upon the account 
 of this my paper. As their case is very deplorable, 
 and deserves compassion, I shall sometimes be 
 dull in pity to them, and will, from time to time, 
 administer consolations to them by farther dis¬ 
 coveries of my person. In the meanwhile, if any 
 one says the Spectator has wit, it may be some 
 relief to them to think that he does not show it in 
 
 company. And if any one praises his morality, 
 they may comfort themselves by considering that 
 his face is none of the longest.—R. 
 
 Ho. 20.] FRIDAY, MARCH 23, 1710-11. 
 
 Tliou dog in forehead.—P ope, IIom. 
 
 Among the other hardy undertakings which I 
 have proposed to myself, that of the correction of 
 impudence is what I have very much at heart. 
 This in a particular manner is my province as 
 Spectator ; for it is generally an offense committed 
 by the eyes, and that against such as the offenders 
 would perhaps never have an opportunity of in¬ 
 juring any other way. The following letter is a 
 complaint of a young lady, who sets forth a tres¬ 
 pass of this kind, with that command of herself 
 as befits beauty and innocence, and yet with so 
 much spirit as sufficiently expresses her indigna¬ 
 tion. The whole transaction is performed with 
 the eyes; and the crime is no less than employing 
 them in such a manner, as to divert the eyes of 
 others from the best use they can make of them, 
 even looking up to heaven. 
 
 “ Sir. 
 
 “ There never was (I believe) an acceptable man 
 but had some awkward imitators. Even since the 
 Spectator appeared, have I remarked a kind of 
 men whom 1 choose to call Starers ; that without 
 any regard to time, place, or modesty, disturb a 
 large company with their impertinent eyes. Spec¬ 
 tators make up a proper assembly for a puppet- 
 show or a bear-garden ; but devout supplicants 
 and attentive hearers are the audience one ought 
 to expect in churches. I am, Sir, a member of a 
 small pious congregation near one of the north 
 gates of this city ; much the greater part of us 
 indeed are females, and used to behave ourselves 
 in a regular attentive manner, till very lately one 
 whole aisle has been disturbed by one of these 
 monstrous starers ; he is the head taller than any 
 one in the church ; but for the greater advantage 
 of exposing himself, stands upon a hassock, and 
 commands the whole congregation, to the great 
 annoyance of the devoutest part of the auditory; 
 for what with blushing, confusion, and vexation, 
 we can neither mind the prayers nor sermon. Your 
 animadversion upon this insolence would be a 
 great favor to, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble servant, S. C.” 
 
 I have frequently seen this sort of fellows, and 
 do think there cannot be a greater aggravation of 
 an offense than that it is committed where the cri¬ 
 minal is protected by the sacredness of the place 
 which he violates. Many reflections of this sort might 
 be very justly made upon this kind of behavior, 
 but a starer is not usually a person to be convinced 
 by the reason of the thing ; and a fellow that is 
 capable of showing an impudent front before a 
 whole congregation, and can bear being a public 
 spectacle, is not so easily rebuked as to amend by 
 admonitions. If, therefore, my correspondent does 
 not inform me, that within seven days after this 
 date the barbarian does at least stand upon his 
 own legs only, without an eminence, my friend 
 Will Prosper* has promised to take a hassock op¬ 
 posite to him, and stare against him in defense of 
 the ladies. I have given him directions, according 
 to the most exact rules of optics, to place himself 
 in such a manner, that he shall meet his eyes 
 wherever he throws them. I have hopes, that 
 when Will confronts him, and all the ladies, in 
 
 * See Spect. No. 19, W. Prosper, an honest tale-bearer, etc. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 whose behalf he engages him, cast kind looks and 
 wishes of success at their champion, he will have 
 gome shame, and feel a little of the pain he has so 
 often put others to, of being out of countenance. 
 
 It has, indeed, been time out of mind generally 
 remarked, and as often lamented, that this family 
 of Starers have infested public assemblies. I know 
 no other way to obviate so great an evil, except, 
 in the case of fixing their eyes upon women, some 
 male friend will take the part of such as are under 
 the oppression of impudence, and encounter the 
 eyes of the Starers wherever they meet them. 
 While we suffer our women to be thus impudently 
 attacked, they have no defense, but in the end to 
 cast yielding glances at the Starers. In this case 
 a man who has no sense of shame, has the same 
 advantage over his mistress, as he who has no re¬ 
 gard for his own life has over his adversary.— 
 WhikTthe generality of the 'world are fettered by 
 rules, and move by proper and just methods, 
 he who has no respect to any of them carries away 
 the reward due to that propriety of behavior, with 
 no other merit, but that of having neglected it. 
 
 I take an impudent fellow to be a sort of outlaw 
 in good breeding, and therefore what is said of him 
 no nation or person can be concerned for. For 
 this reason one may be free upon him. I have 
 put myself to great pains in considering this pre¬ 
 vailing quality, which we call impudence, and 
 have taken notice that it exerts itself in a different 
 manner, according to the different soils wherein 
 such subjects of these dominions as are masters of it 
 were born. Impudence in an Englishman is sullen 
 and insolent; in a Scotchman it is untractable and 
 rapacious ; in an Irishman absurd and fawning : 
 as the course of the world now runs, the impudent 
 Englishman behaves like a surly landlord, the 
 Scot like an ill-received guest, and the Irishman 
 like a stranger, who knows he is not welcome. 
 There is seldom anything entertaining either in 
 the impudence of a South or North Briton; but 
 that of an Irishman is always comic. A true and 
 genuine impudence is ever the effect of ignorance 
 without the least sense of it. The best and most 
 successful starers now in this town are of that 
 nation ; they have usually the advantage of the 
 stature mentioned in the above letter of my cor¬ 
 respondent, and generally take their stands in the 
 eye of women of fortune : insomuch that I have 
 known one of them, three months after he came 
 from the plow, with a tolerable good air, lead 
 out a woman from a play, which one of our own 
 breed, after four years at Oxford, and two at the 
 Temple, would have been afraid to look at. 
 
 I cannot tell how to account for it, but these 
 people have usually the preference to our own 
 tools, in the opinion of the sillier part of woman¬ 
 kind. Perhaps it is that an English coxcomb is 
 seldom so obsequious as an Irish one; and when 
 the design of pleasing is visible, an absurdity in 
 the way toward it is easily forgiven. 
 
 But those who are downright impudent, and go 
 on without reflection that they are such, are more 
 to be tolerated, than a set of fellows among us 
 who profess impudence with an air of humor, and 
 think to carry off the most inexcusable of all faults 
 in the world, with no other apology than saying 
 in a gay tone, “ I put an impudent face upon the 
 matter.” No: no man shall be allowed the ad¬ 
 vantages of impudence, who is conscious that he 
 is such. If he knows he is impudent, he may 
 as well be otherwise ; and it shall be expected 
 that he blush, when he sees he makes another do 
 it. For nothing can atone for the want of mo¬ 
 desty : without which beauty is ungraceful, and 
 wit detestable.—11. 
 
 CTATOR. 59 
 
 No. 21.] SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1710-11. 
 
 -Locus est pluribus umbris.—II or., 1 Ep., v, 28. 
 
 There’s room enough, and each may bring his friend. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 I am sometimes very much troubled, when I 
 reflect upon the three great professions of divinity, 
 law, and physic ; how they are each of them over¬ 
 burdened with practitioners, and filled with mul¬ 
 titudes of ingenious gentlemen that starve one 
 another. 
 
 We may divide the clergy, into generals, field- 
 officers, and subalterns. Among the first we may 
 reckon bishops, deans, and archdeacons. Among 
 the second are doctors of divinity, prebendaries, 
 and all that wear scarfs. The rest are compre¬ 
 hended under the subalterns. As for the first class, 
 our constitution preserves it from any redundancy 
 of incumbents, notwithstanding competitors are 
 numberless. Upon a strict calculation, it is found 
 that there has been a great exceeding of late years 
 in the second division, several brevets having been 
 granted for the converting subalterns into scarf-of¬ 
 ficers ; insomuch, that within my memory the 
 price of lutestring is raised above two-pence in a 
 yard. As for the subalterns, they are not to be 
 numbered. Should our clergy once enter into the 
 corrupt practice of the laity by the splitting of 
 their freeholds, they would be able to carry most 
 of the elections in England. 
 
 The body of the law is no less incumbered with 
 superfluous members, that are like Virgil’s army, 
 which he tells us was so crowded, many of them 
 had not room to use their weapons. This pro¬ 
 digious society of men may be divided into the 
 litigious and peaceable. Under the first are com¬ 
 prehended all those who are carried down in 
 coach-fulls to Westminster-hall, every morning in 
 term time. Martial’s description of this species 
 of lawyers is full of humor : 
 
 Iras et verba locant. 
 
 “ Men that hire out their words and angerthat 
 are more or less passionate according as they are 
 paid for it, and allow their client a quantity of 
 wrath proportionable to the fee which they receive 
 from him. I must, however, observe to the reader, 
 that above three parts of those whom I reckon 
 among the litigious are such as are only quarrel¬ 
 some in their hearts, and have no opportunity of 
 showing their passion at the bar. Nevertheless, 
 as they do not know what strifes may arise, they 
 appear at the hall every day, that they may show 
 themselves in readiness to enter the lists, when¬ 
 ever there shall be occasion for them. 
 
 The peaceable lawyers are, in the first place, 
 many of the benchers of the several inns of court, 
 who seem to be the dignitaries of the law, and 
 are endowed with those qualifications of mind 
 that accomplish a man rather for a ruler than a 
 pleader. These men live peaceably in their ha¬ 
 bitations, eating once a-day, and dancing once a 
 year,* for the honor of their respective societies. 
 
 Another numberless branch of peaceable law¬ 
 yers, are those young men who, being placed at 
 the inns of court in order to study the laws of 
 their country, frequent the playhouse more than 
 Westminster-hall, and are seen in all public as¬ 
 semblies except in a court of justice. I shall say 
 nothing of those silent and busy multitudes that 
 are employed within doors in the drawing up of 
 writings and conveyances; nor of those greater 
 numbers that’palliate their want of business with 
 a pretense to such chamber practice. 
 
 If, in the third plape, we look into the profes 
 
 / 
 
 I 
 
 * See Dugdale’a Originea Juridiciales. 
 
00 the spe 
 
 sion of physic, we shall find a most formidable 
 body of inert. The sight of them is enough to 
 make a man serious, for we may lay it down as a 
 maxim, that when a nation abounds in physicians 
 it grows thin of people. Sir William Temple is 
 very much puzzled to find out a reason why the 
 Northern Hive, as he calls it, does not send out 
 such prodigious swarms, and overrun the world 
 with Goths and Vandals, as it did formerly; but 
 had that excellent author observed that there were 
 no students in physic among the subjects of Thor 
 and Woden, and that this science very much 
 flourishes in the north at present, he might have 
 found a better solution for this difficulty than any 
 of those he has made use of. This body of men 
 in our own country may be described like the 
 British army in Ccesar’s time. Some of them slay 
 in chariots, and some on foot. If the infantry do 
 less execution than the charioteers, it is because 
 they cannot be carried so soon into all quarters 
 of the town, and dispatch so much business in so 
 short a time. Beside this body of regular troops, 
 there are stragglers, who, without being duly 
 listed and enrolled, do infinite mischief to those 
 who are so unlucky as to fall into their hands. 
 
 There are beside the above-mentioned, innu¬ 
 merable retainers to physic who, for want of other 
 patients, amuse themselves with the stifling of 
 cats in an air-pump, cutting up dogs alive, or 
 impaling of insects upon the point of a needle for 
 microscopical observations; beside those that 
 are employed in the gathering of weeds, and the 
 chase of butterflies: not to mention the cockle¬ 
 shell-merchants and spider-catchers. 
 
 When I consider how each of these professions 
 are crowded with multitudes that seek their live¬ 
 lihood in them, and how many men of merit there 
 are in each of them, who may be rather said to be 
 of the science, than the profession; I very much 
 wonder at the humor of parents, who will not 
 rather choose to place their sons in a way of life 
 where an honest industry cannot brft thrive, than 
 in stations where the greatest probity, learning, 
 and good sense may miscarry. How many men 
 are country curates, that might have made them¬ 
 selves aldermen of London, by a right improve¬ 
 ment of a smaller sum of money than what is 
 usually laid out upon a learned education ? A 
 sober, frugal person, of slender parts and a slow 
 apprehension, might have thrived in trade, though 
 he starves upon physic; as a man would be well 
 enough pleased to buy silks of one whom lie 
 would not venture to feel his pulse. Vagellius is 
 careful, studious, and obliging, but withal a little 
 thick-skulled; he has not a single client, but 
 might have had abundance of customers. The 
 misfortune is, that parents take a liking to a par¬ 
 ticular profession, and therefore desire their sons 
 may be of it: whereas, in so great an affair of life, 
 they should consider the genius and abilities of 
 their children more than their own inclinations. 
 
 It is the great advantage of a trading nation, 
 that there are very few in it so dull and heavy, 
 who may not be placed in stations of life, which 
 may give them an opportuity of making tlieir 
 fortunes. A well-regulated commerce is not, like 
 law, physic, or divinity, to be overstocked with 
 hands ; but on the contrary flourishes by multi¬ 
 tudes, and gives employment to all its professors. 
 Fleets of merchant-men are so many squadrons of 
 floating shops, that vend our wares and manu¬ 
 factures in all the markets of the world, and find 
 out chapmen under both the tropics.—C. 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 No. 22.] MONDAY, MARCH 26, 1711. 
 
 Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 5. 
 
 -Whatever contradicts my sense 
 
 I hate to see, and never can believe—R oscommon. 
 
 The word Spectator being most usually under* 
 stood as one of the audience at public representa¬ 
 tions in our theaters, I seldom fail of many letters 
 relating to plays and operas. But indeed there are 
 such monstrous things done in both, that if one 
 had not been an eye-witness of them, one could not 
 believe that such matters had really been exhi¬ 
 bited. There is very little which concerns human 
 life, or is a picture of nature, that is regarded by 
 the greater part of the company. The under¬ 
 standing is dismissed from our entertainments. 
 Our mirth is the laughter of fools, and our admi¬ 
 ration the wonder ot idiots ; else such improba¬ 
 ble, monstrous, and incoherent dreams could not 
 go off as they do, not only without the utmost 
 scorn and contempt, but even with the loudest 
 applause and approbation. But the letters of my 
 correspondents will represent this affair in a more 
 lively manner than any discourse of my own; X 
 shall therefore give them to my reader with only 
 this preparation, that they all come from players, 
 and that the business of playing is now so mana¬ 
 ged, that you are not to be surprised when I say 
 one or two of them are rational, others sensitive 
 and vegetative actors, and others wholly inanimate. 
 
 I shall not place these as I have named them, but 
 as they have precedence in the opinion of their 
 audiences. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Your having been so humble as to take notice 
 of the epistles of other animals, emboldens me, 
 who am the wild boar that was killed by Mrs. 
 Tofts, to represent to you, that I think I was 
 hardly used in not having the part of the lion in 
 Hydaspes given to me. It would have been but 
 a natural step for me to have personated that 
 noble creature, after having behaved myself to 
 satisfaction in the part above-mentioned. That 
 of a lion is too great a character for one that never 
 trod the stage before but upon two legs. As to 
 the little resistance which I made, I hope it may 
 be excused, when it is considered that the dart 
 was thrown at me by so fair a hand; I must con¬ 
 fess I had but just put on my brutality ; and Ca¬ 
 milla’s charms were such, that beholding her erect 
 mien, hearing her charming voice, and astonished 
 with her graceful motion, I could not keep up 
 my assumed fierceness, but died like a man. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble admirer, 
 
 “ Thomas Prone.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ This is to let you understand, that the play 
 house is a representation of the world in nothing 
 so much as in this particular, that no one rises in 
 it according to his merit. I have acted several 
 parts of household-stuff with great applause foi 
 many years \ I am one of the men in the hangings 
 in The Emperor of the Moon; I have twice per 
 formed the third chair in an English opera : and 
 have rehearsed the pump in The Fortune-Hunters. 
 I am now grown old, and hope you will recom¬ 
 mend me so effectually, as that I may say some¬ 
 thing before I go off the stage ; in which you will 
 
 do a great act of charity to 
 
 Your most humble servant, 
 
 “William Screene.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Understanding that Mr. Screene has written to 
 you, and desired to be raised from dumb and still 
 
61 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 parts ; I desire, if you give him motion or speech, 
 that you would advance me in my way, and let 
 me keep on in what I humbly presume 1 am mas¬ 
 ter, to wit, in representing human and still life 
 together. I have several "times acted one of the 
 finest flower-pots in the same opera wherein Mr. 
 Screene is a chair; therefore, upon his promotion, 
 request that I may succeed him in the hangings, 
 with my hand in the orange-trees. 
 
 “ Your humble servant, 
 
 “ Ralph Simple.” 
 
 “ Sir, “ Drury-lane, March 24, 1710-11. 
 
 “ I saw your friend the Templar this evening in 
 the pit, and thought he looked very little pleased 
 with the representation of the mad scene of The 
 Pilgrim. I wish, Sir, you would do us the favor 
 to animadvert frequently upon the false taste the 
 town is in,'with relation to plays as well as 
 operas. It certainly requires a degree of under¬ 
 standing to play justly: but such is our condi¬ 
 tion, that we are to suspend our reason to perform 
 our parts. As to scenes of madness, you know, 
 Sir, there are noble instances of this kind in 
 Sliakspeare : but then it is the disturbance of a 
 noble mind, from generous and humane resent¬ 
 ments. It is like that grief winch we have for 
 the decease of our friends. It is no diminution, 
 but a recommendation of human nature, that in 
 such incidents, passion gets the better of reason ; 
 and all we can think to combat ourselves, is im¬ 
 potent against half what we feel. I will not 
 mention that we had an idiot in the scene, and all 
 the sense it is represented to have is that of 
 lust. As for myself, who have long taken pains 
 in personating the passions, I have to-night acted 
 only an appetite. The part I played is Thirst, 
 but it is represented as written rather by a dray¬ 
 man than a poet. I come in with a tub about me, 
 that tub hung with quart pots, with a full gallon 
 at my mouth. I am ashamed to tell you that I 
 pleased very much, and this was introduced as a 
 madness ; but sure it was not human madness, 
 for a mule or an ass may have been as dry as ever 
 I was in my life. 
 
 “ I am Sir, your most obedient 
 
 “ and humble servant.” 
 
 From the Savoy, in the Strand. 
 
 Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ If you can read this with dry eyes, I give you 
 this trouble to acquaint you, that 1 am the unfor¬ 
 tunate King Latinus, and I believe I am the first 
 prince that dated from this palace since John of 
 Gaunt. Such is the uncertainty of all human 
 greatness, that I, who lately never moved without 
 a guard, am now pressed as a common soldier, 
 and am to sail with the first fair wind against my 
 brother Louis of France. It is a very hard thing 
 to put off a character which one has appeared in 
 with applause. This I experienced since the loss 
 of my diadem ; for, upon quarreling with another 
 recruit, I spoke my indignation out of my part 
 in recitativo; 
 
 -Most audacious slave, 
 
 Dar’st thou an angry monarch’s fury brave ? 
 
 The words were no sooner out of my mouth, 
 when a sergeant knocked me down, and asked me 
 if I had a mind to mutiny, in talking things 
 nobody understood. You see, Sir, my unhappy 
 circumstances ; and if by your mediation you can 
 procure a subsidy for a prince (who never failed 
 to make all that beheld him merry at his appear¬ 
 ance), you will merit the thanks of 
 
 “ Your friend, The King ok Latium.” 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 For the good of the Public. 
 
 Within two doors of the masquerade lives an 
 eminent Italian chirurgeon, arrived from the car¬ 
 nival of Venice, of great experience in private 
 cures. Accommodations are provided, and per¬ 
 sons admitted in their masking habits. 
 
 He has cured since his coming hither, in less 
 than a fortnight, four scaramouches, a mountebank 
 doctor, two Turkish bassas, three, nuns, and a 
 morris-dancer. 
 
 N. B. Any person may agree by the great, and 
 be kept in repair by the year. The doctor draws 
 teeth without pulling off your mask.—R. 
 
 No. 23.] TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 1711. 
 
 Saevit atrox Yolscens, nee teli conspicit usquam. 
 
 Auctorem, nec quo se ardens immittere possit. 
 
 Yirg., JEn., ix, 420. 
 
 Fierce Yolscens foams with rage, and gazing round, 
 
 Descry’d not him who gave the fatal wound; 
 
 Nor knew to fix revenge.*- Dryden. 
 
 There is nothing that more betrays a base un¬ 
 generous spirit than the giving of secret stabs to a 
 man’s reputation ; lampoons and satires, that are 
 written with wit and spirit, are like poisoned 
 darts, which not only inflict a wound, but make it 
 incurable. For this reason I am very much 
 troubled when I see the talents of humor and ridi¬ 
 cule in the possession of an ill-natured man. 
 There cannot be a greater gratification to a bar¬ 
 barous and inhuman wit, than to stir up sorrow in 
 the heart of a private person, to raise uneasiness 
 among near relations, and to expose whole families 
 to derision, at the same time that he remains un¬ 
 seen and undiscovered. If beside the accomplish¬ 
 ments of being witty and ill-natured, a man is 
 vicious into the bargain, he is one of the most 
 mischievous creatures that can enter into a civil 
 society. His satire will then chiefly fall upon those 
 who ought to be the most exempt from it. Virtue, 
 merit, and everything that is praiseworthy, will 
 be made the subject of ridicule and buffoonery. 
 It is impossible to enumerate the evils which arise 
 from these arrows that fly in the dark ; and I 
 know no other excuse that is or can be made for 
 them, than that the wounds they give are only 
 imaginary, and produce nothing more than a se¬ 
 cret shame or sorrow in the mind of the suffering 
 person. It must indeed be confessed, that a lam¬ 
 poon or a satire do not carry in them robbery or 
 murder ; but at the same time how many are there 
 that would not rather lose a considerable sum of 
 money, or even life itself, than be set up as a 
 mark of infamy and derision? and in this case a 
 man should consider, that an injury is not to be 
 measured by the notions of him that gives, but of 
 him that receives it. 
 
 Those who can put the best countenance upon 
 the outrages of this nature which are offered them, 
 are not without their secret anguish. I have of¬ 
 ten observed a passage in Socrates’s behavior at 
 his death, in a light vdierein none of the critics 
 have considered it. That excellent man enter- 
 
 * The following indorsement at the top of this paper, No. 
 23, is in a set of the Spectator, in 12mo, of the edition in 
 1712, which contains some MS. notes by a Spanish merchant, 
 who lived at the time of the original publication: 
 
 “ The character of Dr. Swift.” 
 
 This was Mr. Blundell’s opinion; and whether it was well- 
 grounded, ill-grounded, or ungrounded, probably he was not 
 singular in the thought. The intimacy between Swift, Steele, 
 and Addison, was now over; and that they were about this 
 time estranged, appears, from Swift’s own testimony, dated 
 March 16,1710-11. 
 
62 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 taining Pis friends, a little befoie lie drank the 
 bowl of poison, with a discourse on the immor¬ 
 tality of the soul, at his entering upon it says that 
 he does not believe any, the most comic genius, 
 can censure him for talking upon such a subject 
 at such a time. This passage, I think, evidently 
 glances upon Aristophanes, who wrote a comedy on 
 purpose to ridicule the discourses of that divine 
 philosopher. It has been observed by many wri¬ 
 ters, that Socrates was so little moved at this 
 piece of buffoonery, that he was several times pre¬ 
 sent on its being acted upon the stage, and never 
 expressed the ieast resentment of it. But with 
 submission, I think the remark I have here made 
 shows us, that this unworthy treatment made an 
 impression upon his mind, though he had been 
 too wise to discover it. 
 
 When Julius Caesar was lampooned by Catullus, 
 he invited him to supper, and treated him with 
 such a generous civility, that he made the poet 
 his friend ever after. Cardinal Mazarine gave the 
 same kind of treatment to the learned Quillet, 
 who had reflected upon his eminence in a famous 
 Latin poem. The cardinal sent for him, and, af¬ 
 ter some kind expostulations upon what he. had 
 written, assured him of his esteem, and dismissed 
 him with a promise of the next good abbey that 
 should fall, which he accordingly conferred upon 
 him in a few months after. This had so good an 
 effect upon the author, that he dedicated the sec¬ 
 ond edition of his book to the cardinal, after hav¬ 
 ing expunged the passages which had given him 
 offense. 
 
 Sextus Quintus was not of so generous and for¬ 
 giving a temper. Upon his being made pope, 
 the statue of Pasquin was one night dressed in a 
 very dirty shirt, with an excuse written under it, 
 that he was forced to wear foul linen, because his 
 laundress was made a princess. This was a re¬ 
 flection upon the pope’s sister, who before the 
 promotion of her brother, was in those mean cir¬ 
 cumstances that Pasquin represented her. As 
 this pasquinade made a great noise in Rome, the 
 pope offered a considerable sum of money to any 
 person that should discover the author of it. Ihe 
 author, relying upon his holiness’s generosity, as 
 also some private overtures which he had received 
 from him, made the discovery himself; upon 
 which the pope gave him the reward he had 
 promised, but at the same time to disable the 
 satirist for the future, ordered his tongue to be cut 
 out, and both his hands to be chopped off. Are- 
 tine* is too trite an instance. Every one knows 
 that all the’ kings of Europe were his tributaries. 
 Nay, there is a letter of his extant, in. which he 
 makes his boast that he laid the Sophi of Persia 
 under contribution. 
 
 Though, in the various examples which I have 
 here drawn together, these several great men be¬ 
 haved themselves very differently toward the wits 
 of the age who had reproached them ; they all of 
 them plainly showed that they were very sensible 
 of their reproaches, and consequently that they 
 received them as very great injuries. For my own 
 part, I would never trust a man that I thought 
 was capable of giving these secret wounds ; and 
 cannot but think that he would hurt the person 
 whose reputation he thus assaults, in his body or 
 in his fortune, could he do it with the same secu¬ 
 rity. There is, indeed, something very barbar¬ 
 ous and inhuman in the ordinary scribblers of 
 lampoons. An innocent young lady shall be ex¬ 
 posed for an unhappy feature ; a father of a fami¬ 
 ly turned to ridicule for some domestic calamity; 
 a wife made uneasy all her life for a misrepresented 
 
 word or action; nay, a gooa, a temperate, and a 
 just man shall be put out of countenance by the 
 representation of those qualities that should do 
 him honor. So pernicious a thing is wit, when 
 it is not tempered with virtue and humanity. 
 
 I have indeed heard of heedless, inconsiderate 
 writers, that without any malice have sacrificed 
 the reputation of their friends and acquaintances 
 to a certain levity of temper, and a silly ambition 
 of distinguishing themselves by a spirit of raillery 
 and satire : as if it were not infinitely more hon¬ 
 orable to be a good natured man than a wit. 
 Where there is this little petulant humor in an 
 author, he is often very mischievous without de¬ 
 signing to be so. For which reason, I always 
 lay it down as a rule, that an indiscreet man is 
 more hurtful than an ill-natured one ; for as the 
 latter will only attack his enemies, and those he 
 wishes ill to ; the other injures indifferently both 
 friends and foes. I cannot forbear on this occa¬ 
 sion transcribing a fable out of Sir Robert l’Es- 
 trange, which accidentally lies before me. “A 
 company of waggish boys were watching of frogs 
 at the side of a pond, and still as any of them 
 put up their heads, they would be pelting them 
 down again with stones. ‘ Children,’ says one of 
 the frogs, * you never consider, that though this 
 may be play to you, it is death to us.’ ” 
 
 As this week is in a manner set apart and dedi¬ 
 cated to serious thoughts, I shall indulge myself 
 in such speculations as may not be altogether un¬ 
 suitable to the season ; and in the meantime, as 
 the settling in ourselves a charitable frame of mind 
 is a work very proper for the time, I have in this 
 paper endeavored to expose that particular breach 
 of charity which has been generally overlooked 
 bv divines, because they are but few who can be 
 guilty of it.—C. 
 
 No. 24.] WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28, 1711. 
 
 Accurrit quidam notus mibi nomine tantrum 
 Arreptaque manu, Quid agis, dulcissime rerum? 
 
 F Hob., 1, Sat. ix, 3. 
 
 Comes up a fop (I knew him but by fame), 
 
 And seiz’d my hand, and called me by name— 
 
 - My dear! —how dost? 
 
 There are in this town a great number of in¬ 
 significant people, who are by no means fit for the 
 better sort of conversation, and yet have an im¬ 
 pertinent ambition of appearing with those to 
 whom they are not welcome. If you walk in the 
 park, one of them will certainly join with you, 
 though you are in company with ladies ; if you 
 drink a bottle, they will find your haunts. What 
 makes such fellows the more burdensome is, that 
 they neither offend nor please so far as to be taken 
 notice of for either. It is, I presume, for this 
 reason, that my correspondents are willing by my 
 means to be rid of them. The two following let¬ 
 ters are written by persons who suffer by such im¬ 
 pertinence. A worthy old bachelor, who sets in 
 for his dose of claret every night, at such an hour, 
 is teased by a swarm of them ; who, because they 
 are sure of room and good fire, have taken it in 
 their heads to keep a sort of club in his company, 
 though the sober gentleman himself is an utter 
 enemy to such meetings. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The aversion I for some years have had to 
 clubs in general, gave me a perfect relish for your 
 speculation on that subject; but I. have since 
 been extremely mortified by the malicious world s 
 ranking me among the supporters of such imper¬ 
 tinent assemblies. I beg leave to state my case 
 
 * Peter Aretine, infamous for his writings, died in 1556. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 63 
 
 fairly; and that done, I shall expect redress from 
 your judicious pen. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, a bachelor of some standing, and a 
 traveler ; my business, to consult my own good 
 humor, which I gratify without controlling other 
 people’s: I have a room and a whole bed to 
 myself: and I have a dog, a fiddle, and a gun : 
 they please me, and injure no creature alive. My 
 chief meal is a supper, which I always make at a 
 tavern. I am constant to an hour, and not ill- 
 humored ; for which reasons, though I invite no¬ 
 body, I have no sooner supped,than I have a 
 crowd about me of that sort of good company 
 that know not whither else to go. It is true, 
 every man pays his share ; yet as they are intru¬ 
 ders, I have an undoubted right to be the only 
 speaker, or at least the loudest; which I main¬ 
 tain, and that to the great emolument of my au¬ 
 dience. I sometimes tell them their own in pretty 
 free language ; and sometimes divert them with 
 merry tales,*according as I am in humor. I 
 am one of those who live in taverns to a great 
 age, by a sort of regular intemperance; I never 
 go to bed drunk, but always flustered; I wear 
 away very gently; am apt to be peevish, but never 
 angry. Mr. Spectator, if you have kept various 
 company, you know there is in every tavern in 
 town some old humorist or other, who is master 
 of the house as much as he that keeps it. The 
 drawers are all in awe of him ; and all the custom¬ 
 ers who frequent his company, yield him a sort 
 of comical obedience. I ao not know but I may 
 be such a fellow as this myself. But I appeal 
 to you, whether this is to be called a club, be¬ 
 cause so many impertinents will break in upon 
 me, and come without appointment ? Clinch of 
 Barnet has a nightly meeting, and shows to every 
 one that will come in and pay; but then he is the 
 only actor. Why should people miscall things ? 
 If his is allowed to be a concert, why may not 
 mine be a lecture ? However, Sir, I submit it to 
 you, and am. Sir, your most obedient servant, etc. 
 
 “ Thomas Kimbow.” 
 
 “ Goon Sir, 
 
 “You and I were pressed against each other 
 last winter in a crowd, in which uneasy posture 
 we suffered together for almost half an hour. I 
 thank you for all your civilities ever since, in 
 being of my acquaintance wherever you meet me. 
 But the other day you pulled your hat off to me 
 in the Park, when I was walking with my mistress. 
 She did not like your air, and said she wondered 
 what strange fellows I was acquainted with. Dear 
 Sir, consider it as much as my life is worth, if 
 she should think we were intimate: therefore I 
 earnestly entreat you for the future to take no 
 manner of notice of, 
 
 “Sir, your obliged, humble servant, 
 
 . “Will Fashion.” 
 
 A like impertinence is also very troublesome to 
 the superior and more intelligent part of the fair 
 sex. It is, it seems, a great inconvenience, that 
 those of the meanest capacities will pretend to 
 make visits, though indeed they are qualified 
 rather to add to the furniture of the house (by fill¬ 
 ing an empty chair), than to the conversation they 
 enter into when they visit. A friend of mine 
 hopes for redress in tnis case, by the publication 
 of her letter in ray paper ; which she thinks those 
 she would be rid of will take to themselves. It 
 seenw to be written with an eye to one of those pert, 
 giddv, unthinking girls; who, upon the recom¬ 
 mendation only of an agreeable person and a 
 fashionable air, take themselves to be upon a level 
 with women of the greatest merit: 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ I take this way to acquaint you with what 
 common rules and forms would never permit me 
 to tell you otherwise; to wit, that you and I, 
 though equals in quality ard fortune, are by no 
 means suitable companions. You are, it is true, 
 very pretty, can dance, and make a very good 
 figure in a public assembly ; but, alas, Madam, you 
 must go no farther; distance and silence are your 
 best recommendations; therefore let me beg of you 
 never to make me any more visits. You come in 
 a literal sense to see one, for you have nothing to 
 say. I do not say this, that I would by any means 
 lose your acquaintance ; but I would keep it up 
 with the strictest forms of good breeding. Let us 
 pay visits, but never see one another. If you will 
 be so good as to deny yourself always to me, I 
 shall return the obligation by giving the same 
 orders to my servants. When accident makes us 
 meet at a third place, we may mutually lament the 
 misfortune of never finding one another at home, 
 go in the same party to a benefit play, and smile 
 at each other, and put down glasses as we pass 
 in our coaches. Tims we may enjoy as much of 
 each other’s friendship as we are capable of: for 
 there are some people who are to be known only 
 by sight, with which sort of friendship I hope 
 you will always honor, Madam, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble servant, 
 
 “Mary Tuesday.” 
 
 “ P. S. I suscribe myself by the name of the 
 day I keep, that my supernumerary friends may 
 know who I am.” 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 To prevent all mistakes that may happen among 
 gentlemen of the other end of the town, who come 
 but once a week to St. James’s coffee-house, either 
 by miscalling the servants, or requiring such things 
 from them as are not properly within their re¬ 
 spective provinces ; this is to give notice, that 
 Kidney, keeper of the book-debts of the outlying 
 customers, and observer of those who go off with¬ 
 out paying, having resigned that employment, is 
 succeeded by John Sowton ; to whose place of 
 enterer of messages and first coffee-grinder, Wil¬ 
 liam Bird is promoted; and Samuel Burdock comes 
 as shoe-cleaner in the room of the said Bird.—R. 
 
 Ho. 25.] THURSDAY, MARCH 29, 1711. 
 
 -iEgrescitque medendo.— Virol, iEn., xii, 46. 
 
 And sickens by the very means of health. 
 
 The following letter will explain itself, and 
 needs no apology. 
 
 “ Sin, 
 
 “I am one of that sickly tribe who are com¬ 
 monly known by the name of valetudinarians; and 
 ! do confess to you, that I first contracted this ill 
 habit of body, or rather of mind, by the study of 
 physic. I no sooner began to peruse books of this 
 | nature, but I found my pulse was irregular; and 
 ! scarce ever read the account of any disease that 
 ' I did not fancy myself afflicted with.* Dr. Sy¬ 
 denham’s learned treatise of fever threw me into 
 | a lingering hectic, which hung upon me all the 
 while I was reading that excellent piece. I then 
 applied myself to the study of several authors 
 who have written upon phthisical distempers, and 
 by that means fell into a consumption; till at 
 length, growing very fat, I was in a manner 
 : shamed out of that imagination. Hot long after 
 this I found in myself all the symptoms of the 
 
 * Mr. Tickell, in his preface to Addison’s Works, says, that 
 | “Addison never had a regular pulse,” which Steele questions 
 I in bis dedication of The Drummer to Mr. Congreve. 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 64 
 
 gout, except pain; but was cured of it by a treatise 
 upon the gravel, written by a very ingenious 
 author, who (as it is usual for physicians to con¬ 
 vert one distemper into another) eased me of the 
 gout by giving me the stone. I at length studied 
 myself into a complication of distempers; but, 
 accidentally taking into my hand that ingenious 
 discourse written by Sanctorius, I was resolved 
 to direct myself by a scheme of rules, which I 
 had collected, from his observations. The learned 
 world are very well acquainted with that gentle¬ 
 man’s invention; who, for the better carrying on 
 his experiments, contrived a certain mathematical 
 chair, which was so artificially hung upon springs, 
 that it would weigh anything as well as a pair of 
 scales. By this means he discovered how many 
 ounces of his food passed by perspiration, what 
 quantity of it was turned into nourishment, and 
 how much went away by the other channels and 
 distributions of nature. 
 
 “ Having provided myself with this chair, I used 
 to study, eat, drink, and sleep in it; insomuch that 
 I may be said, for these last three years, to have 
 lived in a pair of scales. I compute myself, when 
 I am in full health, to be precisely two hundred 
 weight, falling short of it about a pound after a 
 day’s fast, and exceeding it as much after a very 
 full meal; so that it is my continual employment 
 to trim the balance between these two volatile 
 ounds in my constitution. In my ordinary meals 
 fetch myself up to two hundred weight and half 
 a pound; and if, after having dined, I find my¬ 
 self fall short of it, I drink so much small beer, 
 or eat such a quantity of bread, as is sufficient to 
 make me weight. In my greatest excesses, I do 
 not transgress more than the other half-pound ; 
 which, for my health’s sake, I do the first Monday 
 in every month. As soon as I find myself duly 
 poised after dinner, I walk till I have perspired 
 five ounces and four scruples; and when I discover, 
 by.my chair, that I am so far reduced, I fall to my 
 books, and study away three ounces more. As for 
 the remaining parts of the pound, I keep no ac¬ 
 count of them. I do not dine and sup by the 
 clock, but by my chair ; for when that informs me 
 my pound of food is exhausted, I conclude my¬ 
 self to be hungry, and lay in another with all dili¬ 
 gence. In my days of abstinence I lose a pound 
 and a half, and on solemn fasts am two pounds 
 lighter than on the other days of the year. 
 
 “ I allow myself, one night with another, a 
 quarter of a pound of sleep, within a few grains 
 more or less ; a.nd if, upon my rising, I find that I 
 have not consumed my whole quantity, I take out 
 the rest in my chair. Upon an exact calculation of 
 what I expended and received the last year, which 
 I always register in a book, I find the medium to 
 be two hundred weight, so that I cannot discover 
 that I am impaired one ounce in my health during 
 a whole twelvemonth. And yet. Sir, notwith¬ 
 standing this my great care to ballast myself 
 equally every day, and to keep my body in 
 its proper poise, so it is, that I find myself 
 in a sick and languishing condition. My com¬ 
 plexion is grown very sallow, my pulse low, and 
 my body liydropical. Let me therefore beg you, 
 Sir, to consider me as your patient, and to give me 
 more certain rules to walk by than those I have 
 already observed, and you will very much oblige 
 
 “Your humble servant.” 
 
 This letter puts me in mind of an Italian epi- j 
 taph written on the monument of a valetudinarian: | 
 “Stavo hen, ma. per star meglio, sto qui:” which it 
 is impossible to translate.* The fear of death 
 
 * The following translation, however, may give an English 
 
 often proves mortal, and sets people on methods 
 to save their lives which infallibly destroy them. 
 This is a reflection made by some historians, upon 
 observing that there are many more thousands 
 killed in a flight, than in a battle; and may be 
 applied to those multitudes of imaginary sick 
 persons that break their constitutions by physic, 
 and throw themselves into the arms of death by 
 endeavoring to escape it. This method is not 
 only dangerous, but Below the practice of a rea¬ 
 sonable creature. To consult the preservation of 
 life, as the only end of it—to make our health our 
 business—to engage in no action that is not part 
 of a regimen, or course of physic—are purposes 
 so abject, so mean, so unworthy human nature, 
 that a generous soul would rather die than submit 
 to them. Beside, that a continual anxiety for life 
 vitiates all the relishes of it, and casts a gloom 
 over the whole face of nature; as it is impossible 
 we shoidd take delight in anything that we are 
 every moment afraid of losing. 
 
 I do not mean, by what I have here said, that I 
 think any one to blame for taking due care of their 
 health. On the contrary, as cheerfulness of mind, 
 and capacity for business are in a great measure 
 the effects of a well-tempered constitution, a man 
 cannot be at too much pains to cultivate and pre¬ 
 serve it. But this care, which we are prompted to, 
 not only by common sense, but by duty and in¬ 
 stinct, should never engage us in groundless fears, 
 melancholy apprehensions, and imaginary dis¬ 
 tempers, which are natural to every man who is 
 more anxious to live, than how to live. In short, 
 the preservation of life should be only a secondary 
 concern, and the direction of it our principal. If 
 we have this frame of mind, we shall take the 
 best means to preserve life, without being over- 
 solicitous about the event; and shall arrive at that 
 point of felicity which Martial has mentioned as 
 the perfection of happiness, of neither fearing nor 
 wishing for death. 
 
 In answer to the gentleman, who tempers his 
 health by ounces and by scruples, and instead of 
 complying with those natural solicitations of 
 hunger and thirst, drowsiness, or love of exercise, 
 governs himself by the prescriptions of his chair, I 
 shall tell him a short fable. Jupiter, says the my- 
 thologist, to reward the piety of a certain country¬ 
 man, promised to give him whatever he would ask. 
 The countryman desired that he might have the 
 management of the weather in his own estate. 
 He obtained his request, and immediately dis¬ 
 tributed rain, snow, and sunshine, among his 
 several fields, as he thought the nature of the soil 
 required. At the end of the year, when he expect¬ 
 ed to see a more than ordinary crop, his harvest 
 fell infinitely short of that of his neighbors. 
 Upon which (says the fable) he desired Jupiter 
 to take the weather again into his own hands, or 
 that otherwise he should utterly ruin himself.—C. 
 
 Ho. 26.] FRIDAY, MARCH 30, 1711. 
 
 Pallida mors a 2 quo pulsat pede pauperum tabernaa 
 Regumque turres. 0 beate Sexti, 
 
 Vito sumrna brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam. 
 
 Jam te premet nox, fabulaeque manes, 
 
 Et domus exilis Plutonia.- Hor., 1, Od. iv, 13. 
 
 With equal foot, rich friend, impartial fate 
 Knocks at the cottage and the palace gate: 
 
 Life’s span forbids thee to extend thy cares, 
 
 And stretch thy hopes beyond thy years; 
 
 Night soon will seize, and you must quickly go 
 To storied ghosts, and Pluto’s house below.— Creech. 
 
 When I am in a serious humor, I very often 
 walk by myself in Westminster-abbey : where the 
 
 reader some idea of the Italian epitaph: “ I was well, but 
 trying to be better, I am here.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 gloominess of the place, and the use to which it 
 is applied, with the solemnity of the building, 
 and the condition of the people who lie in it, are 
 apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or 
 rather thoughtfulness that is not disagreeable. I 
 yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the church¬ 
 yard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing my¬ 
 self with the tombstones and inscriptions that I met 
 with in those several regions of the dead. Most 
 of them recorded nothing else of the buried per¬ 
 son, but that he was born upon one day, and died 
 upon another ; the whole history of his life being 
 comprehended in those two circumstances that are 
 common to all mankind. I could not but look 
 upon these registers of existence, whether of brass 
 or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed per¬ 
 sons; who had left no other memorial of them, but 
 that they were born, and that they died. They 
 put me in mind of several persons mentioned in 
 the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding 
 names given them, for no other reason but that 
 they may be killed, and are celebrated for nothing 
 but being knocked on the head. 
 
 Glaucumque, Medontaque, Thersilochumque.— Virg. 
 
 Glaucus, and Melon, and Thersilochus. 
 
 The life of these men is finely described in holy 
 writ by “ the path of an arrow,” which is imme¬ 
 diately closed up and lost. 
 
 Upon my going into the church, I entertained 
 myself with the digging of a grave; and saw in 
 every shovel-full of it that was thrown up, the 
 fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with a kind 
 of fresh mouldering earth that some time or other 
 had a place in the composition of a human body. 
 Upon this I began to consider with myself what 
 innumerable multitudes of people lay confused 
 together under the pavement of that ancient cathe¬ 
 dral ; how men and women, friends and enemies, 
 priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, 
 were crumbled among one another, and blended 
 together in the same common mass; how beauty, 
 strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and 
 deformity, lay undistinguished in the same pro¬ 
 miscuous heap of matter. 
 
 After having thus surveyed the great magazine 
 of mortality, as it were, in the lump, I examined 
 it more particularly by the accounts which I found 
 on several of the monuments which are raised in 
 every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them 
 were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that 
 if it were possible for the dead person to be ac¬ 
 quainted with them, he would blush at the praises 
 which his friends have bestowed upon him. There 
 are others so excessively modest, that they deliver 
 the character of the person departed in Greek or 
 Hebrew, and by that means are not understood 
 once in a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter, 
 
 I found there were poets who had no monuments, 
 and monuments which had no poets. I observed, 
 indeed, that the present war has filled the church 
 with many of these uninhabited monuments, 
 which had been erected to the memory of persons 
 whose bodies were perhaps buried in the plains 
 of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. 
 
 I could not but be very much delighted with 
 several modern epitaphs, which are written with 
 ?reat elegance of expression and justness of 
 mought, and therefore do honor to the living as 
 W'ell as the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to 
 conceive an idea of the ignorance or politeness of 
 i nation from the turn of their public monuments 
 md inscriptions, they should be submitted to the 
 lerusal of men of learning and genius before they 
 ire put in execution. Sir Cloudesly Shovel's 
 nonument has very often given me great offense, 
 nstead of the brave rough English admiral, which 
 
 • 5 
 
 65 
 
 was the distinguishing character of that plain, gal¬ 
 lant man, he is represented on his tomb by the figure 
 of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and reposing 
 himself upon velvet cushions, under a canopy 
 of state. The inscription is answerable to the 
 monument; for instead of celebrating the many 
 remarkable actions he had performed in the service 
 of his country, it acquaints us only with the man¬ 
 ner of his death, in which it was impossible for 
 him to reap any honor. The Dutch, whom we are 
 apt to despise for want of genius, show an infi- 
 nitely greater taste of antiquity and politeness in 
 their buildings and works of this nature than 
 w hat we meet with in those of our own country. 
 The monuments of their admirals, which have 
 been erected at the public expense, represent them 
 like themselves, and are adorned with rostral 
 crowns and naval ornaments, with beautiful fes¬ 
 toons of sea-weed, shells, and coral. 
 
 But to return to our subject. I have left the 
 repository of our English kings for the contempla¬ 
 tion of another day, when I shall find my mind 
 disposed for so serious an amusement. I know 
 that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise 
 dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and 
 gloomy imaginations; but for my own part, 
 though I am always serious, I do not know what 
 it is to be melancholy; and can therefore take a 
 view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes with 
 the same pleasure as in her most gay and delight¬ 
 ful ones. By this means I can improve myself 
 with those objects which others consider with ter¬ 
 ror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, 
 every emotion of envy dies within me; when I read 
 the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate 
 desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of 
 parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with 
 compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents 
 themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for 
 those whom we must quickly follow. When I 
 see kings lying by those who deposed them, when 
 I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the 
 holy men that divided the world with their con¬ 
 tests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and aston¬ 
 ishment on the little competitions, factions, and 
 debates of mankind. When I read the several 
 dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, 
 and some six hundred years ago, I consider that 
 great day when we shall all of us be cotemporaries, 
 and make our appearance together.— C. 
 
 No. 27.] SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 1711. 
 
 Ut nox longa quibus mentitur arnica, diesque 
 Longa videtur opus debentibus; ut piger annus 
 Pupillis, quos dura premit custodia matrum: 
 
 Sic milii tarda fluunt ingrataque tempora, qufe spem 
 Consiliumque morantur agendi gnaviter id, quod 
 -®que pauperibus prodest, locupletibus seque, 
 
 -®que neglectum pueris senibusque nocebit. 
 
 Hor., 1 Ep., 1, 20. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Long as to him, who works for debt, the day; 
 
 Long as the night to her, whose love’s away; 
 
 Long as the year’s dull circle seems to run 
 When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one: 
 
 So slow th’ unprofitable moments roll, 
 
 That lock up all the functions of my soul; 
 
 That keep me from myself, and still delay 
 Life’s instant business to a future day: 
 
 That task, which as we follow, or despise, 
 
 The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise; 
 
 Which done, the poorest can no wants endure, 
 
 And which not done the richest must be poor.— Pope. 
 
 There is scarce a thinking man in the world, 
 who is involved in the business of it, but lives 
 under a secret impatience of the hurry and fatigue 
 he suffers, and has formed a resolution to "fix 
 I himself, one time or other, in such a state as is 
 i suitable to the end of his being. You hear men 
 
66 
 
 THE SPEI 
 
 every day iu conversation profess, that all the 
 honor, power, and riches, which they propose to 
 themselves, cannot give satisfaction enough to re¬ 
 ward them for half the anxiety they undergo m the 
 pursuit or the possession of them. While men are 
 in this temper (which happens very frequently), 
 how inconsistent are they with themselves! 1 hey 
 
 are wearied with the toil they bear, but cannot find 
 in their hearts to relinquish it: retirement is what 
 they want, but they cannot betake themselves to 
 it. While they pant after shade and covert, they 
 still affect to appear in the most glittering scenes 
 of life. Sure this is but just as reasonable as if a 
 man should call for more light, when he has a 
 mind to go to sleep. 
 
 Since then it is certain that our own hearts de¬ 
 ceive us in the love of the world, and that we can- 
 not command ourselves enough to resign it, though 
 we every day wish ourselves disengaged from its 
 allurements ; let us not stand upon a formal taking 
 of leave, but wean ourselves from them while we 
 
 are in the midst of them. 
 
 It is certainly the general intention of the greater 
 part of mankind to accomplish this work, and live 
 according to their own approbation, as soon as 
 they possibly can. But since the duration of life 
 is so uncertain (and that has been a common topic 
 of discourse ever since there was such a thing as 
 life itself), how is it possible that we should defer 
 a moment the beginning to live according to the 
 rules of reason? 
 
 The man of business has ever some one point to 
 carry, and then he tells himself he will bid adieu 
 to all the vanity of ambition. The man of plea¬ 
 sure resolves to take his leave at least, and pait 
 civilly with his mistress; but the ambitious man 
 is entangled every moment in a fresh pursuit, and 
 the lover sees new charms in the object he fancied 
 he could abandon. It is therefore a fantastical 
 way of thinking, when we promise ourselves an 
 alteration in our conduct from change of place and 
 difference of circumstances; the same passions 
 will attend us wherever we are, until they are con¬ 
 quered ; and we can never live to our satisfaction 
 in the deepest retirement, unless we are capable 
 of living so, in some measure, amidst the noise and 
 business of the world. 
 
 I have ever thought men were better known by 
 what could be observed of them from a perusal of 
 their private letters, than any other way. My 
 friend the clergyman, the other day, upon serious 
 discourse with him concerning the danger of pro¬ 
 crastination, gave me the following letters fiom 
 persons with whom he lives in great friendship 
 and intimacy, according to the good breeding and 
 good sense of his character. The first is from a 
 man of business, who is his convert: the second 
 from one who is in no state at all, but carried one 
 way and another by starts. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I know not with what words to express to you 
 the sense I have of the high obligation you have 
 laid upon me, in the penance you enjoined me, of 
 doing some good or other to a person of worth 
 every day I live. The station I am in furnishes 
 me with daily opportunities of this kind; and the 
 noble principle with which you have inspired me, 
 of benevolence to all I have to deal with, quickens 
 my application in everything I undertake. When 
 I relieve merit from discountenance, when I assist 
 a friendless person, when I produce concealed 
 worth, I am displeased with myself, for haying 
 designed to leave the world in order to be virtu¬ 
 ous. I am sorry you decline the occasions which 
 the condition I am in might afford me of enlarging 
 your fortunes; but know I contribute more to your 
 
 3TATOR. 
 
 satisfaction, when I acknowledge I am the better 
 man, from the influence and authority you have 
 over, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most obliged and most humble servant. 
 
 “R. 0.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I am entirely convinced of the truth of what 
 you were pleased to say to me, when I was last 
 with you alone. You told me then of the silly 
 way I was in; but you told me so as I saw you 
 loved me, otherwise I could not obey your com¬ 
 mands in letting you know my thoughts so sin¬ 
 cerely as I do at present. I know ‘ the crea.ture, 
 for whom I resign so much of my character, is all 
 that you said of her ; but then the trifler has some¬ 
 thing in her so undesigning and harmless, that 
 her guilt in one kind disappears by the compari¬ 
 son of her innocence in another. Will you, vir¬ 
 tuous man, allow no alteration of offenses f Must 
 dear Chloe be called by the hard name you pious 
 people give to common women ? I keep the 
 solemn promise I made you, in writing to you the 
 state of my mind, after your kind admonition ; and 
 will endeavor to get the better of this fondness, 
 which makes me so much her humble servant, that 
 I am almost ashamed to subscribe myself yours, 
 
 “T. D.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ There is no state of life so anxious as that of 
 a man who does not live according to the dictates 
 of his own-reason. It will seem odd to you, ' vv ' ie “ 
 
 I assure you that my love of retirement first of all 
 brought me to court; but this will be no riddle 
 when I acquaint you, that I placed myself here 
 with a design of getting so much money as might 
 enable me to purchase a handsome retreat in the 
 country. At present my circumstances enable me, 
 and my duty prompts me, to pass away the re¬ 
 maining part of my life in such a retirement as 1 1 
 at first proposed to myself; but to my great mis- 1 
 fortune I have entirely lost the relish of it, and 
 should now return to the country with greater 
 reluctance than I at first came to court. I am so 
 unhappy, as to know that what I am fond of are 
 trifles, and that what I neglect is of the greatest 
 importance: in short, I find a contest in my own 
 mind between reason and fashion. I remember 
 you once told me, that I might live in the world, 
 and out of it, at the same time. Let me beg of you 
 to explain this paradox more at large to me, that 
 I may conform my life, if possible, both to my 
 duty and my inclination. I am yours, etc. 
 
 R. “RB” 
 
 Letters are directed “For the Spectator, to be 
 left at Mr. Buckley’s, in Little Britain, post paid.” 
 N. B. In the form of a direction, this makes a 
 figure in the last column of the Spectator in folio. 
 
 No. 28.] MONDAY, APRIL 2, 1711. 
 
 -Neque semper arcum 
 
 Tendit Apollo.- Hor., 2 Od., x, 19. 
 
 Nor does Apollo always bend his bow. 
 
 I shall here present my reader with a letter 
 from a projector, concerning a new office which he 
 thinks may very much contribute to the embellish¬ 
 ments of the city, and to the driving barbarity out 
 of our streets. I consider it as a satire upon pro¬ 
 jectors in general, and a lively picture of the whole 
 art of modern criticism. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “Observing that you have thoughts of creating 
 certain officers under you, for the inspection of 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 several petty enormities you yourself cannot attend 
 to; and finding daily absurdities hung out upon 
 the sign-posts of this city, to the great scandal of 
 foreigners, as well as those of our own country, 
 who are curious spectators of the same : I do hum¬ 
 bly propose that you would be pleased to make 
 me your superintendent of all such figures and 
 devices as are or shall be made use of on this occa¬ 
 sion ; with full powers to rectify or expunge what¬ 
 ever I shall find irregular or defective. For want 
 of such an officer, there is nothing like sound lite¬ 
 rature and good sense to be met with in those 
 objects that are everywhere thrusting thenjSfelves 
 out to the eye, and endeavoring to become visible. 
 Our streets are filled with blue boars, black swans, 
 and red lions; not to mention flying pigs, and 
 hogs in armor, with many other creatures more 
 extraordinary than any in the deserts of Africa. 
 Strange! that one who has all the birds and beasts 
 in nature to choose out of, should live at the sign 
 of an Ens Ratio nis! 
 
 “ My first task therefore should be, like that of 
 Hercules, to clear the city from monsters. In the 
 second place, I would forbid that creatures of jar¬ 
 ring and incongruous natures should be joined 
 together in the same sign ; such as the bell and 
 the neat’s tongue, the dog and the gridiron. The 
 fox and the goose may be supposed to have met, 
 but what has the fox and the seven stars to do 
 together ? And when did the lamb and the dol¬ 
 phin ever meet, except upon a sign-post? As for 
 the cat and fiddle, there is a conceit in it; and 
 therefore I do not intend that anything I have here 
 said should affect it. I must, however, observe to 
 you upon this subject, that it is usual for a young 
 tradesman, at his first setting up, to add to his 
 own sign that of the master whom he served; as 
 the husband, after marriage, gives a place to his 
 mistress’s arms in his own coat. This I take to 
 have given rise to many of those absurdities which 
 are committed over our heads ; and, as I am in¬ 
 formed, first occasioned the three nuns and a hare, 
 which we see so frequently joined together. I 
 would therefore establish certain rules, for the 
 determining how far one tradesman may give the 
 sign of another, and in what cases he may be 
 allowed to quarter it with his own. 
 
 “In the third place, I would enjoin every shop 
 to make use of a sign which bears some affinity 
 to the wares in which it deals. What can be more 
 inconsistent than to see a bawd at the sign of the 
 angel, or a tailor at the lion ? A cook should not 
 live at the boot, nor a shoemaker at the roasted 
 pig; and yet for want of this regulation, I have 
 seen a goat set up before the door of a perfumer, 
 and the French king’s head at a sword-cutler’s. 
 
 “An ingenious foreigner observes, that several 
 of those gentlemen who value themselves upon 
 their families, and overlook such as are bred to 
 trade, bear the tools of their forefathers in their 
 coats of arms. I will not examine how true this 
 is in fact. But though it may not be necessary for 
 posterity thus to set up the sign of their fore¬ 
 fathers, I think it highly proper for those who 
 actually profess the trade to show some such 
 marks of it before their doors. 
 
 , “ When the name gives an occasion for an inge¬ 
 nious sign-post, I would likewise advise the owner 
 to take that opportunity of letting the world know 
 who he is. It would have been ridiculous for the 
 ingenious Mrs. Salmon to have lived at the sign 
 of the trout; for which reason she has erected be¬ 
 fore her house the figure of the fish that is her 
 namesake. Mr. Bell has likewise distinguished 
 himself by a device of the same nature: and here. 
 Sir, I must beg leave to observe to you, that this 
 particular figure of a bell has given occasion to 
 
 67 
 
 several pieces of wit in this kind. A man of your 
 reading must know, that Abel Drugger gained 
 great applause by it in the time of Ben Jonson. 
 Our apocryphal heathen god* is also represented 
 by this figure; which in conjunction with the 
 dragon, makes a very handsome picture in several 
 of our streets. As for the bell-savage, which is 
 the sign of a savage man standing by a bell, I was 
 formerly very much puzzled upon the conceit of 
 it, till I accidentally fell into the reading of an 
 old romance translated out of the French ; which 
 gives an account of a very beautiful woman who was 
 tound in a wilderness, and is called in the French 
 La belle Sauvage; and is everywhere translated by 
 our countrymen the bell-savage. This piece of 
 philosophy will, I hope, convince you that I have 
 made sign-posts my study, and consequently 
 qualified myself for the employment which I 
 solicit at your hands. But before I conclude my 
 letter, I must communicate to you another remark, 
 which I have made upon the subject with which I 
 am now entertaining you, namely, that I can give 
 a shrewd guess at the humor of the inhabitant by 
 the sign that hangs before his door. A surly choleric 
 fellow g enerally makes choice of a bear; as men 
 of milder dispositions frequently live at the sign 
 of the lamb. Seeing a punch-bowl painted upon 
 a sign near Charing-cross, and very curiously gar¬ 
 nished with a couple of angels hovering over it, 
 and squeezing a lemon into it, I had the curios¬ 
 ity to ask after the master of the house, and found 
 upon inquiry, as I had guessed by the little agrtmens 
 upon his sign, that he was a Frenchman. I know, 
 Sir, it is not requisite for me to enlarge upon these 
 hints to a gentleman of your great abilities; so, 
 humbly recommending myself to your favor and 
 patronage, “ I remain, etc.” 
 
 I shall add to the foregoing letter another, which 
 came to me by the penny-post. 
 
 “From my own apartment near Charing-cross. 
 “Honored Sir, 
 
 “ Having heard that this nation is a great en- 
 courager of ingenuity, I have brought with me a 
 rope-dancer that was caught in one of the woods 
 belonging to the Great Mogul. He is by birth a 
 monkey; but swings upon a rope, takes a pipe of 
 tobacco, and drinks a glass of ale like any reason¬ 
 able creature. He gives great satisfaction to the 
 quality; and if they will make a subscription for 
 him, I will send for a brother of his out of Hol¬ 
 land, that is a very good tumbler; and also for an¬ 
 other of the same family whom I design for my 
 merry-andrew, as being an excellent mimic, ana 
 the greatest droll in the country where he now is. 
 
 I hope to have this entertainment in readiness for 
 the next winter; and doubt not but it will please 
 more than the opera or puppet-show. I will not 
 say that a monkey is a better man than some of 
 the opera heroes; but certainly he is a better re¬ 
 presentative of a man than the most artificial com¬ 
 position of wood and wire. If you will be pleased 
 to give me a good word in your paper, you shall 
 be every night a spectator at my show for nothing. 
 C. “ I am, etc.” 
 
 No. 29.] TUESDAY, APRIL 3, 1711. 
 
 -Sermo lingua concinnus utraquo 
 
 Suavior: ut Chio nota si commista Falerni est. 
 
 Hor., 1, Sat. x, 23. 
 
 Both tongues united, sweeter sounds produce, 
 
 Like Chian mixed with Falernian juice. 
 
 There is nothing that has more startled our 
 English audience, than the Italian recitativo at its 
 
 * St. George. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 68 
 
 first entrance upon the stage. People were won¬ 
 derfully surprised to hear generals singing the 
 word of command, and ladies delivering messages 
 in music. Our countrymen could not forbear 
 laughing when they heard a lover chanting out a 
 billet-doux, and even the superscription of a letter 
 set to a tune. The famous blunder in an old play 
 of “ Enter a king and two fiddlers solus,” was 
 now no longer an absurdity, when it was impossi¬ 
 ble for a hero in a desert, or a princess in her 
 closet, to speak anything unaccompanied with mu¬ 
 sical instruments. 
 
 But however this Italian method of acting in 
 recitativo might appear at first hearing, I cannot 
 but think it much more just than that which pre¬ 
 vailed in our English opera before this innovation; 
 the transition from an air to recitative music being 
 more natural than the passing from a song to 
 plain and ordinary speaking, which was the com¬ 
 mon method in Purcell’s operas. 
 
 The only fault I find in our present practice, is 
 the making use of the Italian recitativo with Eng¬ 
 lish words. 
 
 To go to the bottom of this matter, I must ob¬ 
 serve that the tone, or (as the French call it) the 
 accent of every nation in their ordinary speech, 
 is altogether different from that of every other 
 people; as we may see even in the Welsh and Scotch 
 who border so near upon us. By the tone or ac¬ 
 cent, I do not mean the pronunciation of each 
 particular word, but the sound of the whole sen¬ 
 tence. Thus it is very common for an English 
 gentleman when he hears a French tragedy, to 
 complain that the actors all of them speak in one 
 tone: and therefore he very wisely prefers his own 
 countrymen, not considering that a foreigner com¬ 
 plains of the same tone in an English actor. 
 
 For this reason, the recitative music, in every 
 language, should be as different as the tone or ac¬ 
 cent of each language; for otherwise, what may 
 properly express a passion in one language will 
 not do it in another. Every one who has been 
 long in Italy, knows very well that the cadences 
 in the recitativo bear a remote affinity to the tone 
 of their voices in ordinary conversation or, to 
 speak more properly, are only the accents of their 
 language made more musical and tuneful. 
 
 Thus the notes of interrogation, or admiration, 
 in the Italian music (if one may so call them) 
 which resemble their accents in discourse on such 
 occasions, are not unlike the ordinary tones of an 
 English voice when we are angry; insomuch that 
 I have often seen our audiences extremely mis¬ 
 taken as to what has been doing on the stage, and 
 expecting to see the hero knock down his messen¬ 
 ger, when he has been asking him a. question; or 
 fancying that he quarrels with his friend when he 
 only bids him good morrow. 
 
 For this reason the Italian artists cannot agree 
 with our English musicians in admiring Purcell s 
 compositions, and thinking his tunes so wonder¬ 
 fully adapted to his words; because both nations 
 do not always express the same passions by the 
 same sounds. 
 
 I am therefore humbly of opinion, that an Eng¬ 
 lish composer should not follow the Italian recita¬ 
 tive too servilely, but make use of many gentle 
 deviations from it, in compliance with his own 
 native language. He may copy out of it all the 
 lulling softness and “dying falls” (as Shakspeare 
 calls them), but should still remember that he 
 ought to accommodate himself to an English au¬ 
 dience; and by humoring the tone of our voices in 
 ordinary conversation, have the same regard to the 
 accent of his own language, as those persons had 
 to theirs whom he professes to imitate. It is ob¬ 
 served, that several of the singing birds of our 
 
 own country learn to sweeten their voices and 
 mellow the harshness of their natural notes, by 
 practicing under those that come from warmer 
 climates. In the same manner I would allow the 
 Italian opera to lend our English music as much 
 as may grace and soften it, but never entirely to 
 annihilate and destroy it. Let the infusion be as 
 strong as you please, but still let the subject mat¬ 
 ter of it be English. 
 
 A composer should fit his music to the genius 
 of the people, and consider that the delicacy of 
 hearing and taste of harmony, has been formed 
 upon those sounds which every country abounds 
 with. In short, that music is of a relative nature, 
 and what is harmony to one ear, may be disso 
 nance to another. 
 
 The same observations which I have made upon 
 the recitative part of music, may be applied to all 
 our songs and airs in general. 
 
 Sio-nior Baptist Lully acted like a man of sense 
 in this particular. He found the French music ex¬ 
 tremely defective, and very often barbarous. How¬ 
 ever, knowing the genius of the people, the humor 
 of their language, and the predjudiced ears he had 
 to deal with, he did not pretend to extirpate the 
 French music and plant the Italian in its stead ; 
 but only to cultivate and civilize it with innume¬ 
 rable graces and modulations which he borrowed 
 from the Italians. By this means the French mu¬ 
 sic is now perfect in its kind'; and when you say 
 it is not so good as the Italian, you only mean that 
 it does not please you so well; for there is scarce a 
 Frenchman Avho would not wonder to hear you 
 give the Italian such a preference. The music of 
 the French is indeed very properly adapted to their 
 pronunciation and accent, as their whole opera 
 wonderfully favors the genius of such a gay, airy 
 people. The chorus, in which that opera abounds, 
 gives the parterre frequent opportunities of joining 
 in concert with the stage. This inclination of the 
 audience to sing along with the actors, so prevails 
 with them, that I have sometimes known the per¬ 
 former on the stage do no more in a celebrated 
 song than the clerk of a parish church, who serves 
 only to raise the psalm, and is afterward drowned 
 in the music of the congregation. Every actor 
 that comes on the stage is a beau. The queens 
 and heroines are so painted, that they appear as 
 ruddy and cherry-cheeked as milk-maids. The 
 shepherds are all embroidered, and acquit them¬ 
 selves in a ball better than our English dancing- 
 masters. I have seen a couple of rivers appear in 
 red stockings; and Alpheus, instead of having his 
 head covered with sedge and bulrushes, making 
 love in a full-bottom periwig and a plume of feath¬ 
 ers; but with a voice so full of shakes and qua¬ 
 vers, that I should have thought the murmurs 
 of a country brook the much more agreeable 
 music. 
 
 I remember the last opera I saw in that merry 
 nation was the Rape of Proserpine, where Pluto, 
 to make the more tempting figure, puts himself in 
 a French equipage, and brings Ascalaphus along 
 with him as his valet de chambre. This is what 
 we call folly and impertinence; but what the 
 French look upon as gay and polite. 
 
 I shall add no more to what I have here offered, 
 than that music, architecture, and painting, as 
 well as poetry and oratory, are to deduce their laws 
 and rules from the general sense and taste of man¬ 
 kind, and not from the principles of those arts 
 themselves; or, in other words, the taste is not tc 
 conform to the art, but the art to the taste. Music 
 is not designed to please only chromatic ears, bill 
 all that are capable of distinguishing harsh fronc 
 disagreeable notes. A man of an ordinary ear is 
 a judge whether a passion is expressed in propel 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 69 
 
 sounds, and whether the melody of those sounds 
 be more or less pleasing.— * C. 
 
 *** Complete sets of this paper for the month 
 of March, are sold by Mr. Greaves, in St. James’s- 
 street; Mr. Lillie, perfumer, the corner of Beaufort- 
 buildings; Messrs. Sanger, Knapton, Round, and 
 Mrs. Baldwin.—Spect. in folio. 
 
 No. 30.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 4, 1711. 
 
 Si, Mimnermus uti censet, sine amore jocisque 
 Nil est jucundum; vivas in amore jocisque. 
 
 Hor., 1 Ep., vi, 65. 
 
 If nothing, as Mimnermus strives to prove, 
 
 Can e’er be pleasant without mirth and love, 
 
 Then live in mirth and love, thy sports pursue. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 One common calamity makes men extremely af¬ 
 fect each other, though they differ in every other 
 particular. The passion of love is the most gene¬ 
 ral concern among men; and I am glad to hear by 
 my last advices from Oxford, that there are a set 
 of sighers in that university, who have erected 
 themselves into a society in honor of that tender 
 passion. These gentlemen are of that sort of ina¬ 
 moratos, who are not so very much lost to common 
 sense, but that they understand the folly they are 
 guilty of; and for that reason separate themselves 
 from all other company, because they will enjoy 
 the pleasure of talking incoherently, without being 
 ridiculous to any but each other. When a man 
 comes into the club, he is not obliged to make any 
 introduction to his discourse, but at once, as he is 
 seating himself in his chair, speaks in the thread 
 of his own thoughts: “She gave me a very oblig¬ 
 ing glance, she never looked so well in her life as 
 this evening;” or the like reflection, without re¬ 
 gard to aDV other member of the society; for in 
 this assembly they do not meet to talk to each 
 Other, but every man claims the full liberty of talk¬ 
 ing to himself. Instead of snuff-boxes and canes, 
 which are the usual helps to discourse with other 
 young fellows, these have each some piece of rib¬ 
 bon, a broken fan, or an old girdle, which they 
 play with while they talk of the fair person remem¬ 
 bered by each respective token. According to the 
 representation of the matter from my letters, the 
 company appear like so many players rehearsing 
 behind the scenes; one is sighing and lamenting 
 his destiny in beseeching terms, another declaim¬ 
 ing he will break his chain, and another, in dumb- 
 show, striving to express his passion by his ges¬ 
 ture. It is very ordinary in the assembly for one 
 of a sudden to rise and make a discourse concern¬ 
 ing his passion in general, and describe the temper 
 of his mind in such a manner, as that the whole 
 company shall join in the description, and feel the 
 force of it. In this case, if any man has declared 
 the violence of his flame in more pathetic terms, 
 he is made president for that night, out of respect 
 to his superior passion. 
 
 We had some years ago in this town, a set of 
 people who met and dressed like lovers, and were 
 distinguished by the name of the Fringe-glove 
 club; but they were persons of such moderate in¬ 
 tellects, even before they were impaired by their 
 passion, that their irregularities could not furnish 
 sufficient variety of folly to afford daily new im¬ 
 pertinences ; by which means that institution 
 dropped. 1 liese fellows could express their pas¬ 
 sion by nothing but their dress, but the Oxoni¬ 
 ans are fantastical now thev are lovers, in propor¬ 
 tion to their learning ancl understanding before 
 they became such. The thoughts of the ancient 
 poets on this agreeable frenzy are translated in 
 honor of some modern beauty; and Chloris is won 
 to-day by the same compliment that was made to 
 
 Lesbia a thousand years ago. But as far as I can 
 learn, the patron of the club is the renowned Don 
 Quixote. The adventures of that gentle knight 
 are frequently mentioned in the society, under the 
 color of laughing at the passion and themselves : 
 but at the same time, though they are sensible of 
 the extravagances of that unhappy warrior, they 
 do not observe, that to turn all the reading of the 
 best and wisest writings into rhapsodies of love, 
 is a frenzy no less diverting than that of the afore¬ 
 said accomplished Spaniard. A gentleman, who, 
 I hope, will continue his correspondence, is lately 
 admitted into the fraternity, and sent me the fol¬ 
 lowing letter: 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “Since I find you take notice of clubs, I beg 
 leave to give you an account of one in Oxford, 
 which you have nowhere mentioned, and perhaps 
 never heard of. We distinguish ourselves by the 
 title of the Amorous Club, are all votaries of Cu¬ 
 pid, and admirers of the fair sex. The reason that 
 we are so little known in the world, is the secrecy 
 which we are obliged to live under in the univer¬ 
 sity. Our constitution runs counter to that of the 
 place wherein we live: for in love there are no 
 doctors, and we all profess so high a passion, that 
 we admit of no graduates in it. Our presidentship 
 is bestowed according to the dignity of passion; 
 our number is unlimited; and our statutes are like 
 those of the Druids, recorded in our own breasts 
 only, and explained by the majority of the com¬ 
 pany. A mistress, and a poem in her praise, will 
 introduce any candidate. Without the latter no 
 one can be admitted; for he that is not in love 
 enough to rhyme, is unqualified for our society. 
 To speak disrespectfully of a woman is expulsion 
 from our gentle society. As we are at present all 
 of us gownsmen, instead of dueling when we are 
 rivals, we drink together the health of our mis¬ 
 tress. The manner of doing this, sometimes in¬ 
 deed creates debates; on such occasions we have 
 recourse to the rules of love among the ancients. 
 
 Naevia sex cyathis, septem Justina bibatur. 
 
 Mart., Epig. i, 72. 
 
 Six cups to Naevia, to Justina seven. 
 
 This method of a glass to every letter of her 
 name, occasioned the other night a dispute of some 
 warmth. A young student who is in love with 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Dimple, was so unreasonable as to 
 begin her health under the name of Elizabethea ; 
 which so exasperated the club, that by common 
 consent we retrenched it to Betty. We look upon 
 a man as no company that does not sigh five times 
 in a quarter of an hour; and look upon a member 
 as very absurd, that is so much himself as to make 
 a direct answer to a question. In fine, the whole 
 assembly is made up of absent men — that is, of 
 such persons as have lost their locality, and whose 
 minds and bodies never keep company with one 
 another. As I am an unfortunate member of this 
 distracted society, you cannot expect a very regu¬ 
 lar account of it; for which reason I hope you will 
 pardon me that I so abruptly subscribe myself, 
 
 “ Sir, your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 “T. B. 
 
 “I forgot to tell you, that Albina, who has six 
 votaries in this club, is one of your readers.”— R. 
 
 No. 31.] THURSDAY, APRIL 5, 1711. 
 
 Sit mihi fas audita loqui- Virg., 2En. vi, 266 
 
 What I have heard, permit me to relate. 
 
 Last night, upon my going into a coffee-house 
 not far from the Haymarket Theater, I diverted 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 70 
 
 myself for above half-an-hour with overhearing 
 the discourse of one, who, by the shabbiness of 
 his dress, the extravagance of his conceptions, and 
 the hurry of his speech, I discovered to be of that 
 species who are generally distinguished by the 
 title of projectors. This gentleman, for I found he 
 was treated as such by his audience, was enter¬ 
 taining a whole table of listeners with the project 
 of an opera, which he told us had not cost him 
 above two or three mornings in the contrivance, 
 and which he was ready to put in execution pro¬ 
 vided he might find his account in it. He said, 
 that he had observed the great trouble and incon¬ 
 venience which ladies were at, in traveling up and 
 down the several shows that are exhibited in dif¬ 
 ferent quarters of the town. The dancing mon¬ 
 keys are in one place; the puppet-show in another; 
 the opera in a third; not to mention the lions, that 
 are almost a whole day’s journey from the politei 
 part of the town. By this means people of figure 
 are forced to lose hall the winter alter their coming 
 to town, before they have seen all the strange 
 sights about it. In order to remedy this great in¬ 
 convenience, our projector drew out of his pocket 
 the scheme of an opera, entitled, The Expedition 
 of Alexander the Great; in which he had disposed 
 all the remarkable shows about town among the 
 scenes and decorations of his piece, the thought, 
 he confessed, was not originally his own, but that 
 he had taken the hint of it from several perform¬ 
 ances which he had seen upon our stage; in one 
 of which there was a raree-show; in another a 
 ladder-dance ; and in others a posture-man, a 
 moving picture, with many curiosities of the like 
 
 nature. . 
 
 This expedition of Alexander opens with his 
 consulting the oracle of Delplios, in which the 
 dumb conjurer who has been visited by so many 
 persons of quality of late years, is to be intro¬ 
 duced as telling his fortune. At the same time 
 Clinch of Barnet is represented in another corner 
 of the temple, as ringing the bells of Delphos, for 
 joy of his arrival. The tent of Darius is to be 
 peopled by the ingenious Mrs. Salmon, where 
 Alexander is to fall in love with a piece of wax- 
 work, that represents the beautiful Statira. When 
 Alexander comes into that country, in which 
 Quintus Curtius tells us the dogs were so exceed¬ 
 ing fierce that they would not lose their hold, 
 though they were cut to pieces limb by limb, and 
 that they would hang upon their prey by their teeth 
 when they had nothing but a mouth left, there is 
 to be a scene of Hockley in the Hole, in which is 
 to be represented all the diversions of that place, 
 the bull-baiting only excepted, which cannot 
 possibly be exhibited in the theater, by reason of 
 the lowness of the roof. The several woods in 
 Asia, which Alexander must be supposed to pass 
 through, will give the audience a sight of mon¬ 
 keys dancing upon ropes, with many other plea¬ 
 santries of that ludicrous species. At the same 
 time, if there chance to be any strange animals in 
 town, whether birds or beasts, they may be either 
 let loose among the woods, or driven across the 
 stage by some of the country people of Asia. In 
 the last great battle, Pinkethman is to personate 
 King Porus upon an elephant, and is to be encoun¬ 
 tered by Powell, representing Alexander the Great, 
 upon a dromedary, which nevertheless Mr. Powell 
 is desired to call by the name of Bucephalus. 
 Upon the close of this great decisive battle, when 
 the two kings are thoroughly reconciled, to show 
 the mutual friendship and good correspondence 
 that reigns between them, they both of them go 
 together to a puppet-show, in which the ingenious 
 Mr. Powell, junior, may have an opportunity of 
 displaying his whole art of machinery, for the di 
 
 version of two monarchs. Some at the table 
 urged, that a N puppet-show was not a suitable en¬ 
 tertainment for Alexander the Great; and that it 
 might be introduced more properly, if we suppose 
 the conqueror touched upon that part of India 
 which is said to be inhabited by the pigmies. 
 But this objection was looked upon as frivolous, 
 and the proposal immediately overruled. Our 
 projector farther added, that after the reconcilia¬ 
 tion of these two kings, they might invite one 
 another to dinner, and either of them entertain his 
 o-uest with the German artist, Mr. Pinkethman’s 
 heathen gods, or any of the like diversions which 
 shall then chance to be in vogue. 
 
 This project was received with very great ap 
 plause by the whole table. Upon which the 
 undertaker told us, that he had not yet communi¬ 
 cated to us above half his design; for that Alex¬ 
 ander being a Greek, it was his intention that the 
 whole opera should be acted in that language, 
 which was a tongue he was sure would wonderfully 
 please the ladies, especially when it was a little 
 raised and rounded by the Ionic dialect; and could 
 not but be acceptable to the whole audience, because 
 there are fewer of them who understand Greek 
 than Italian. The only difficulty that remained, 
 was how to get performers, unless we could per¬ 
 suade some gentlemen of the universities to learn 
 to sing, in order to qualify themselves for the stage; 
 but this objection soon vanished when the projec¬ 
 tor informed us that the Greeks were at present 
 the only musicians in the Turkish empire, and 
 that it would be very easy for our factory at 
 Smyrna to furnish us every year with a colony of 
 musicians, by the opportunity of the Turkey fleet; 
 beside, says he, if we want any single voice for 
 any lower part in the opera, Lawrence can learn 
 to speak Greek, as well as he does Italian, in a 
 fortnight’s time. 
 
 The projector having thus settled matters to the 
 good-liking of all that heard him, he left his seat 
 at the table, and planted himself before the fire, 
 where I had unluckily taken my stand for the con¬ 
 venience of overhearing what he said. Whether 
 he had observed me to be more attentive than ordi¬ 
 nary, I cannot tell, but he had not stood by me 
 above a quarter of a minute, but he turned short 
 upon me on a sudden, and catching me by a but¬ 
 ton of my coat, attacked me very abruptly after 
 the following manner. 
 
 “Beside, Sir, I have heard of a very extraordi¬ 
 nary genius for music that lives in Switzerland, 
 who has so strong a spring in his fingers, that he 
 can make the board of an organ sound like a 
 drum, and if I could but procure a subscription 
 of about ten thousand pounds every winter I 
 would undertake to fetch him over, and oblige 
 him by articles to set everything that should be 
 sung upon the English stage.” After this he 
 looked full in my face, expecting I would make 
 an answer, when, by good luck, a gentleman that 
 had entered the coffee-house since the projector 
 applied himself to me, hearing him talk of his 
 Swiss compositions, cried out in a kind of laugh, 
 “Is our music then to receive farther improve¬ 
 ments from Switzerland?” This alarmed the pro¬ 
 jector, who immediately let go my button, and 
 turned about to answer him. I took the opportu¬ 
 nity of diversion which seemed to be made in 
 favor of me, and laying down my penny upon the 
 bar, retired with some precipitation.—C. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 32.] FRIDAY, APRIL 6, 1711. 
 
 Nil illi larva aut tragicis opus esse cothurnis. 
 
 Hor., Sat. v, 64. 
 
 He wants no tragic vizor to increase 
 
 His natural deformity of face. 
 
 The late discourse concerning the statutes of 
 the Ugly Club, having been so well received at 
 Oxford, that, contrary to the strict rules of the 
 society, they have been so partial as to take my 
 own testimonial, and admit me into that select 
 body ; I could not restrain my vanity of publish¬ 
 ing to the world the honor which is done me. It 
 is no small satisfaction that I have given occasion 
 for the President’s showing both his invention 
 and reading to such advantage as my correspon¬ 
 dent reports he did: but it is not to be doubted 
 there were many very proper hums and pauses in 
 his harangue, which lose their ugliness in the 
 narration, and which my correspondent (begging 
 his pardon) has no very good talent at represent¬ 
 ing. I very much approve of the contempt the 
 society has of beauty. Nothing ought to be laud¬ 
 able in a man, in which his will is not concerned ; 
 therefore our society can follow nature, and where 
 she has thought fit, as it were, to mock herself, 
 we can do so too, and be merry upon the occa¬ 
 sion. 
 
 “ Me. Spectator, 
 
 “Your making public the late trouble I gave 
 you, you will find to have been the occasion of 
 this. Who should I meet at the coffee-house door 
 the other night, but my old friend Mr. President? 
 I saw somewhat had pleased him ; and as soon as 
 he had cast his eye upon me, ‘ Oho, doctor, rare 
 news from London,’ says he; ‘ the Spectator has 
 made honorable mention of the club (man), and 
 published to the world his sincere desire to be a 
 member, with a recommendatory description of 
 his phiz; and though our constitution has made 
 no particular provision for short faces, yet his 
 being an extraordinary case, I believe we shall 
 find a hole for him to creep in at; for I assure you 
 he is not against the cannon : and if his sides are 
 as compact as his joles, he need not disguise him¬ 
 self to make one of us.’ I presently called for the 
 paper to see how you looked in print; and after 
 we had regaled ourselves awhile upon the plea¬ 
 sant image of our proselyte, Mr. President told me 
 I should be his stranger at the next night’s club; 
 where we were no sooner come, and pipes brought, 
 but Mr. President began an harangue upon your 
 introduction to my epistle, setting forth with no 
 less volubility of speech than strength of reasonj 
 * That a speculation of this nature was what had 
 been long and much wanted ! and that he doubted 
 not but it would be of inestimable value to the 
 public, in reconciling even of bodies and souls ; 
 in composing and quieting the minds of men 
 under all corporeal redundancies, deficiencies, and 
 irregularities whatsoever ; and making every one 
 sit down content in his own carcass, though it 
 were not perhaps so mathematically put together 
 as he could wish.’ And again, ‘ How that for want of 
 a due consideration of what you first advance, viz: 
 That our faces are not of our own choosing, peo¬ 
 ple had been transported beyond all good breed¬ 
 ing, and hurried themselves into unaccountable 
 and fatal extravagances ; as how many impartial 
 looking-glasses had been censured and calum¬ 
 niated, nay, and sometimes shivered into ten thou¬ 
 sand splinters, only for a fair representation of 
 the truth ? How many bead-strings and garters 
 had been made accessory and actually forfeited, 
 only because folks must needs quarrel with their 
 own shadows ? And who,’ continues he, ‘ but is 
 deeply sensible, that one great source of the unea¬ 
 
 71 
 
 siness and misery of human life, especially among 
 those of distinction, arises from nothing in the 
 world else, but too severe a contemplation of an 
 indefeasible contexture of our external parts, or 
 certain natural and invincible dispositions to be fat 
 or lean ?—when a little more of Mr. Spectator’s 
 philosophy would take off all this. In the mean¬ 
 time let them observe, that there is not one of their 
 sort, but perhaps, in some age of the world, has 
 been highly in vogue, and may be so again ; nay, 
 in some country or another, ten to one, is so at 
 this day. My Lady Ample is the most miserable 
 woman in the world, purely of her own making. 
 She even grudges herself meat and drink for fear 
 she should thrive by them ; and is constantly 
 crying out, * In a quarter of a year more I shall be 
 quite out of all manner of shape !’ Now the lady’s 
 misfortune seems to be only this, that she is 
 planted in a wrong soil; for go but to the other 
 side of the water, it is a jest at Haerlem to talk of 
 a shape under eighteen stone. These wise traders 
 regulate their beauties as they do their butter, by 
 the pound ; and Miss Cross, when she first arrived 
 in the Low Countries, was not computed to be so 
 handsome as Madam Van Brisket by near half a 
 ton. On the other hand, there is ’Squire Lath, a 
 proper gentleman of 1,500Z. per annum, as well as 
 of unblamable life and conversation; yet would I 
 not be the esquire for half his estate ; for if it was 
 as much more, he would freely part with it all for 
 a pair of legs to his mind. Whereas, in the reign 
 of our first Edward of glorious memory, nothing 
 more modish than a brace of your fine taper sup¬ 
 porters ; and his majesty, without an inch of calf, 
 managed affairs in peace or war as laudably as 
 the bravest and most politic of his ancestors ; and 
 was as terrible to his neighbors under the royal 
 name of Longshanks, as Coeur de Lion to the 
 Saracens before him. If we look farther back into 
 history, we shall find that Alexander the Great 
 wore his head a little over his left shoulder, and 
 then not a soul stirred out till he had adjusted his 
 neck-bone; the whole nobility addressed the 
 prince and each other obliquely, and all matters 
 of importance were concerted and carried on in 
 the Macedonian court, with their polls on one 
 side. For about the first century nothing made 
 more noise in the world than Roman noses, 
 and then not a word of them till they revived 
 again in eighty-eight.* Nor is it so very long since 
 Richard the Third set up half the backs of the 
 nation; and high shoulders, as well as high 
 noses, were the top of the fashion. But to come 
 to ourselves, gentlemen, though I find by my 
 quinquennial observations, that we shall never 
 get ladies enough to make a party in our own 
 country, yet might we meet with better success 
 among some of our allies. And what think you 
 if our board sat for a Dutch piece ? Truly I am 
 of opinion, that as odd as we appear in flesh and 
 blood, we should be no such strange things in 
 mezzotinto. But this project may rest till our 
 number is complete ; and this being our election 
 night, give me leave to propose Mr. Spectator. 
 You see his inclinations, and perhaps we may 
 not have his fellow.’ 
 
 “I found most of them (as is usual in all such 
 cases) were prepared; but one of the seniors 
 (whom by-the-bye, Mr. President had taken all 
 this pains to bring over) sat still, and cocking his 
 chin, which seemed only to be leveled at his 
 nose, very gravely declared, ‘ That in case he had 
 had sufficient knowledge of you, no man should 
 have been more willing to have served you ; but 
 
 ♦On the accession of King William III, in compliment to 
 whom Dryden, in the plates to the translation of Virgil, had 
 jEne&s always represented with a Roman nose. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 72 
 
 that he, for his own part, had always had regard to 
 his own conscience, as well as other people s meiit, 
 and that he did not know but that you might be a 
 handsome fellow ; for, as for your own certificate, 
 it was everybody’s business to speak for themselves.’ 
 Mr. President immediately retorted, ‘ A handsome 
 fellow ! why he is a wit, Sir, and you know the pro¬ 
 verb :’ and to ease the old gentleman of his scru¬ 
 ples cried, ‘ That for matter of merit it was all one, 
 you might wear a mask.’ This threw him into a 
 pause, and he looked desirous of three days to 
 consider on it; but Mr. President improved the 
 thought, and followed him up with an old story, 
 
 < That wits were privileged to wear what masks 
 they pleased in all ages ; and that a wizard had 
 been the constant crown of their labors, which 
 was generally presented them by the hand of 
 gome satyr, and sometimes by Apollo himself: 
 for the truth of which he appealed to the frontis¬ 
 piece of several books, and particularly to the 
 English Juvenal, to which he referred him; and 
 only added, ‘ That such authors were the Larvati 
 or Larva donali of the ancients.’ Jhis cleared up 
 all, and in the conclusion you were chosen proba¬ 
 tioner ; and, Mr. President, put round your health 
 as such, protesting, ‘ That though indeed he talk¬ 
 ed of a wizard, he did not believe all the while 
 you had anv more occasion for it than the cat-a- 
 inountain ;’ so that all you have to do now is to 
 pay your fees, which are here very reasonable, 
 if you are not imposed upon; and you may style 
 yourself Jnfonnis Societatis Socius: which I am 
 desired to acquaint you with ; and upon the same 
 X beg you to accept ot the congratulations of, 
 
 “ Sir your obliged humble servant, 
 
 “ Oxford, March 21. “ A. C. 
 
 Ho. 33.] SATURDAY, APRIL 7, 1711. 
 
 Fervid us tecum puer, et solutis 
 
 Gratiae zonis, properentque nymphae, 
 
 Ft parum comis sine te juventus, 
 
 Mercuriusque.—II or. 1 Od., xxx, 5. 
 
 The graces with their zones unloos’d; 
 
 The nymphs, with beauties all expos’d, 
 
 From every spring, and every plain; 
 
 Thy powerful, hot, and winged hoy; 
 
 And youth, that’s dull without thy joy; 
 
 And Mercury, compose thy train.— Creech. 
 
 A Friend of mine has two daughters, whom I 
 will call Laetitia and Daphne; the former is one 
 of the greatest beauties of the age in which she 
 lives, the latter no way remarkable for any charms 
 in her person. Upon this one circumstance of 
 their outward form, the good and ill of their life 
 seems to turn. Laetitia has not, from hei veiy 
 childhood, heard anything else but commenda¬ 
 tions of her features and complexion, by which 
 means she is no other than nature made her, a 
 very beautiful outside. The consciousness of her 
 charms has rendered her insupportably vain and 
 insolent toward all who have to do with her. 
 Daphne, who was almost twenty before one civil 
 thing had ever been said to her, found herself ob¬ 
 liged to acquire some accomplishments to make up 
 for the want of those attractions which she saw in 
 her sister. Poor Daphne was seldom submitted 
 to in a debate wherein she was concerned; her dis¬ 
 course had nothing to recommend it but the good 
 sense of it, and she was always under a necessity 
 to have very well considered what she was to say 
 before she uttered it; while Laetitia was listened 
 to with partiality, and approbation sat on the 
 countenances of those she conversed with, before 
 she communicated what she had to say. These 
 causes have produced suitable effects, and Laetitia 
 is as insipid a companion as Daphne is an agree¬ 
 
 able one. Laetitia, confident of favor, has studied 
 no arts to please; Daphne, despairing of any incli¬ 
 nation toward her person, has depended only on 
 her merit. Laetitia has always something in her 
 air that is sullen, grave, and disconsolate. Daphne 
 has a countenance that is cheerful, open, and un¬ 
 concerned. A young gentleman saw Laetitia this 
 winter at a play, and became her captive. _ His 
 fortune was such, that he wanted very little intro¬ 
 duction to speak his sentiments to her father. The 
 lover was admitted with the utmost freedom into 
 the family, where a constrained behavior, severe 
 looks, and distant civilities, were the highest fa¬ 
 vors he could obtain of Laetitia; while Daphne 
 used him with the good humor, familiarity, and 
 innocence of a sister: insomuch that he would 
 often say to her, “ Dear Daphne, wert thou but as 
 handsome as Laetitia—” She received such lan¬ 
 guage with that ingenuousness and pleasing mirth 
 which is natural to a woman without design. He 
 still sighed in vain for Laetitia, but found certain 
 relief in the agreeable conversation of Daphne. 
 At length, heartily tired with the haughty imper¬ 
 tinence of Laetitia, and charmed with the repeated 
 instances of good humor he had observed in 
 Daphne, he one day told the latter that he had some¬ 
 thing to say to her he hoped she would be pleased 
 with—“Faith, Daphne,” continued he, “1 am in 
 love with thee, ana despise thy sister sincerely. 
 The manner of his declaring himself gave his mis¬ 
 tress occasion for a very hearty laughter.—“ Nay,” 
 says he, “I knew you would laugh at me, but I 
 will ask your father.” He did so; the father re¬ 
 ceived this intelligence with no less joy than sur¬ 
 prise, and was very glad he had now no care left 
 but for his beauty, which he thought he could 
 carry to market at his leisure. I do not know 
 anything that has pleased me so much for a great 
 while, as this conquest of my friend Daphne s. 
 All her acquaintance congratulate her upon her 
 chance-medley, and laugh at that premeditating 
 murderer her sister. As it is an argument of a 
 light mind, to think the worse of ourselves for the 
 imperfections of our person, it is equally below us 
 to value ourselves upon the advantages of them. 
 The female world seem to be almost incorrigibly 
 gone astray in this particular; for which reason I 
 shall recommend the following extract out of a 
 friend’s letter to the professed beauties, who are a 
 people almost as insufferable as tfie professed 
 
 wits. , , . 
 
 “ Monsieur St. Evremond has concluded one ot 
 his essays with affirming, that the last sighs of a 
 handsome woman are not so much for the loss of 
 her life, as of her beauty. Perhaps this raillery is 
 pursued too far, yet it is turned upon a very obvi¬ 
 ous remark, that woman’s strongest passion is for 
 her own beauty, and that she values it as her fa¬ 
 vorite distinction. From hence it is that all arts 
 which pretend to improve or preserve it, meet with 
 so general a reception among the sex. To say 
 nothing of many false helps and contraband wares 
 of beauty which are daily vended in this great 
 mart, there is not a maiden gentlewoman of good 
 family in any county of South Britain, who has 
 not heard of the virtues of May-dew, or is unfur¬ 
 nished with some receipt or other in favor of her 
 complexion ; and I have known a physician of 
 learning and sense, after eight years’ study in the 
 university, and a course of travels into most coun¬ 
 tries of Europe, owe the first raising of his fortunes 
 to a cosmetic wash. 
 
 “ This has given me occasion to consider how so 
 universal a disposition in womankind, which 
 springs from a laudable motive the desire of 
 pleasing—and proceeds upon an opinion not alto¬ 
 gether groundless—that nature may be helped by 
 
73 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 art—may bo turned to their advantage. And, me- 
 thinks, it would be an acceptable service to take 
 them out of the hands of quacks and pretenders, 
 and to prevent their imposing upon themselves, 
 by discovering to them the true secret and art of 
 improving beauty. 
 
 “ In order to do this, before I touch upon it di¬ 
 rectly, it will be necessary to lay down a few pre¬ 
 liminary maxims, viz:— 
 
 “ That no woman can be handsome by the force 
 of features alone, any more than she can be witty 
 only by the help of speech. 
 
 “ That pride destroys all symmetry and grace, 
 and affectation is a more terrible enemy to fine 
 faces than the small-pox. 
 
 “ That no woman is capable of being beautiful, 
 who is not incapable of being false. 
 
 “And, That what would be odious in a friend is 
 deformity in a mistress. 
 
 “From these few principles, thus laid down, it 
 will be easy to prove, that the true art of assisting 
 beauty consists in embellishing the whole person 
 by the proper ornaments of virtuous and commend¬ 
 able qualities. By this help alone it is, that 
 those who are the favorite work of nature, or, as 
 Mr. Dryden expresses it, the porcelain clay of hu¬ 
 man kind, become animated, and are in a capacity 
 of exerting their charms ; and those who seem to 
 have been neglected by her, like models wrought 
 in haste, are capable in a great measure of finish¬ 
 ing what she has left imperfect. 
 
 “ It is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of 
 that sex, which was created to refine the joys and 
 soften the cares of humanity by the most agreea¬ 
 ble participation, to consider them merely as ob¬ 
 jects of sight. This is abridging them of their 
 natural extent of power, to put them upon a level 
 with their pictures at Kneller’s. How much nobler 
 is the contemplation of beauty heightened by vir¬ 
 tue, and commanding our esteem and love while 
 it draws our observation! How faint and spirit¬ 
 less are the charms of a coquette, when com¬ 
 pared with the real loveliness of Sophronia’s 
 innocence, piety, good humor, and truth ; virtues 
 which add a new softness to her sex, and even 
 beautify her beauty! That agreeableness which 
 must otherwise have appeared no longer in the 
 modest virgin, is now preserved in the tender 
 mother, the prudent friend, and the faithful wife. 
 Colors artfully spread upon canvas may entertain 
 the eye, but not affect the heart; and she who 
 takes no care to add to the natural graces of her 
 person any excellent qualities, may be allowed 
 still to amuse, as a picture, but not to triumph as 
 a beauty. 
 
 “When Adam is introduced by Milton, describ¬ 
 ing Eve in Paradise, and relating to the angel 
 the impressions he felt upon seeing her at her first 
 creation, he does not represent her like a Grecian 
 Venus, by her shape or features, but by the luster 
 of her mind which shone in them, and gave them 
 their power of charming: 
 
 Grace was in all her steps, hcav'n in her eye, 
 
 In all her gestures dignity and love! 
 
 “Without this irradiating power, the proudest 
 fair one ought to know, whatever her glass may 
 tell her to the contrary, that her most perfect fea¬ 
 tures are uninformed and dead. 
 
 “ I cannot better close this moral than by a short 
 epitaph written by Ben Jonson with a spirit which 
 nothing could inspire but such an object as I have 
 been describing: 
 
 Underneath this stone doth lie 
 As much virtue as could die; 
 
 Which when alive did vigor give 
 To as much beauty as could live. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 “ R. B.” 
 
 No. 34.] MONDAY, APRIL 9, 1711. 
 
 -parcit 
 
 Cognatis maculis similis fera- Juv., Sat. xv, 159. 
 
 Iroin spotted skins the leopard does refrain.— Tate. 
 
 The club of which I am a member, is very luck¬ 
 ily composed of such persons as are engaged in 
 different ways of life, and deputed as it were out 
 of the most conspicuous classes of mankind. By 
 this means I am furnished with the greatest va¬ 
 riety of hints and materials, and know everything 
 that passes in the different quarters and divisions 
 not only of this great city, but of the whole king¬ 
 dom. My readers too have the satisfaction to find 
 that there is no rank or degree among them who 
 have not their representative in this club, and that 
 there is always somebody present who will take 
 care of their respective interests, that nothing may 
 be written or published to the prejudice or infringe¬ 
 ment of their just rights and privileges. 
 
 I last night sat very late in company with this 
 select body of friends, who entertained me with 
 several remarks which they and others, had made 
 upon these my speculations, as also with the va¬ 
 rious success which they had met with among 
 their several ranks and degrees of readers. Will 
 Honeycomb told me in the softest manner he 
 could, that there were some ladies (but for your 
 comfort, says Will, they are not those of the most 
 wit) that were offended at the liberties I had taken 
 with the opera and the puppet-show; that some 
 of them were likewise very much surprised, that I 
 should think such serious points as the dress and 
 equipage of persons of quality proper subjects for 
 raillery. 
 
 He was going on, when Sir Andrew Freeport 
 took him up short, and told him, that the papers 
 he hinted at, had done great good in the city, and 
 that all their wives and daughters were the better 
 for them ; and farther added, that the whole city 
 thought themselves very much obliged to me for 
 declaring my generous intentions to scourge vice 
 and folly as they appear in a multitude, without 
 condescending to be a publisher of particular in¬ 
 trigues and cuckoldoms. “In short,” says Sir 
 Andrfew, “if you avoid that foolish beaten road 
 of falling upon aldermen and citizens, and employ 
 your pen upon the vanity and luxury of courts, 
 your paper must needs be of general use.” 
 
 Upon this my friend the Templar told Sir An¬ 
 drew, that he wondered to hear a man of his sense 
 talk after that manner, that the city had always 
 been the province for satire; and that the wits of 
 king Charles’ time jested upon nothing else during 
 his whole reign. He' then showed, by the exam¬ 
 ples of Horace, Juvenal, Boileau, and the best 
 writers of every age, that the follies of the stage 
 and court had never been accounted too sacred 
 for ridicule, how great soever the persons might 
 be that patronized them. “ But after all,” says 
 he, “I think your raillery has made too great an 
 excursion, in attacking several persons of the inns 
 of court; and I do not believe you can show me 
 any precedent for your behavior in that par¬ 
 ticular.” 
 
 My good friend Sir Roger de Coverley who had 
 said nothing all this while, began his speech with 
 a pish! and told us, that he wondered to see so 
 many men of sense so very serious upon fooler¬ 
 ies. “Let our good friend,” says he, “attack every 
 one that deserves it; I would only advise you, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 74 
 
 Mr. Spectator,” applying liimself to me, “to take 
 care how you meddle with country ’squires. They 
 are the ornaments of the English nation; men of 
 good heads and sound bodies! and, let me tell 
 you, some of them take it ill of you, that you men¬ 
 tion fox-hunters with so little respect. 
 
 Captain Sentry spoke very sparingly on this oc¬ 
 casion. What he said was only to commend my 
 prudence in not touching upon the army, and ad¬ 
 vised me to continue to act discreetly in that 
 point. 
 
 By this time I found every subject of my specu¬ 
 lations was taken away from me, by one or other 
 of the club: and began to think myself in the 
 condition of the good man that had one wife who 
 took a dislike to his gray hair, and another to his 
 black, till by their picking out what each of them 
 had an aversion to, they left his head altogether 
 bald and naked. 
 
 While I was thus musing with myself, my wor¬ 
 thy friend the clergyman, who, very luckily for 
 me, was at the club that night, undertook my 
 cause. He told us, that he wondered any order of 
 persons should think themselves too considerable 
 to be advised. That it was not quality, but inno¬ 
 cence, which exempted men from reproof. That 
 vice and folly ought to be attacked wherever they 
 could be met with, and especially when they were 
 placed in high and conspicuous stations of life. 
 He farther added, that my paper would only serve 
 to aggravate the pains of poverty, if it chiefly 
 exposed those who are already depressed, and in 
 some measure turned into ridicule, by the mean¬ 
 ness of their conditions and circumstances. He 
 afterward proceeded to take notice of the great use 
 this paper might be of to the public, by repre¬ 
 hending those vices which are too trivial for the 
 chastisement of the law, and too fantastical for 
 the cognizance of the pulpit. He then advised 
 me to prosecute my undertaking with cheerfulness, 
 and assured me, that whoever might be displeased 
 with me, I should be approved by all those whose 
 raises do honor to the persons on whom they are 
 esfOwed. 
 
 The whole club pay a particular deference to the 
 discourse of this gentleman, and are drawn into 
 what he says as much by the candid, ingenuous 
 manner with which he delivers himself, .as by the 
 strength of argument and force of reason which 
 he makes use of. Will Honeycomb immediately 
 agreed, that what he had said was right ; and 
 that, for his part, he would not insist upon the 
 uarter which he had demanded for the ladies, 
 ir Andrew gave up the city with the same frank¬ 
 ness. The Templar would not stand out, and was 
 followed by Sir Roger and the Captain ; who all 
 agreed that I should be at liberty to carry the war 
 into what quarter I pleased ; provided I continued 
 to combat with criminals in a body, and to assault 
 the vice without hurting the person. 
 
 This debate, which was held for the good of 
 mankind, put me in mind of that which the Ro¬ 
 man triumvirate were formerly engaged in for their 
 destruction. Every man at first stood hard for his 
 friend, till they found that by this means they 
 should spoil their proscription ; and at length, 
 making a sacrifice of all their acquaintance and 
 relations, furnished out a very decent execution. 
 
 Having thus taken my resolutions to march on 
 boldly in the cause of virtue and good sense, and 
 to annoy their adversaries in whatever degree or 
 rank of men they may be found ; I shall be deaf 
 for the future to all the remonstrances that shall 
 be made to me on this account. If Punch grows 
 extravagant, I shall reprimand him veiy freely. 
 If the stage becomes a nursery of folly and im¬ 
 pertinence, I shall not be afraid to animadvert 
 
 upon it. In short, if I meet with anything in 
 city,' court, or country, that shocks modesty or 
 good manners, I shall use my utmost endeavors to 
 make an example of it. I must, however, entreat 
 every particular person, who does me the honor 
 to be a reader of this paper, never to think him¬ 
 self, or any one of his friends or enemies, aimed 
 at in what is said ; for I promise him, never to 
 draw a faulty character which does not fit at least 
 a thousand people ; or to publish a single paper, 
 that is not written in the spirit of benevolence, 
 and with a love of mankind.—C. 
 
 No. 35.] TUESDAY, APRIL 10, 1711. 
 
 Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est. 
 
 Catull. Carm., 39, in Enat. 
 
 Nothing so foolish as the laugh of fools. 
 
 Among all kinds of writing, there is none in 
 which authors are more apt to miscarry than in 
 works of humor, as there is none in which they 
 are more ambitious to excel. It is not an imagina¬ 
 tion that teems with monsters, a head that is filled 
 with extravagant conceptions, which is capable 
 of furnishing the world with diversions of this 
 nature : and yet if we look into the production of 
 several writers, who set up for men of humor, 
 what wild irregular fancies, what unnatural dis¬ 
 tortions of thought do we meet with ? If they 
 speak nonsense, they believe they are talking hu¬ 
 mor ; and when they have drawn together a scheme 
 of absurd, inconsistent ideas, they are not able to 
 read it over to themselves without laughing. These 
 poor gentlemen endeavor to gain themselves the 
 reputation of wits and humorists, by such mon¬ 
 strous conceits as almost qualify them for Bedlam ; 
 not considering that humor should always lie under 
 the check of reason, and that it requires the direc¬ 
 tion of the nicest judgment, by so much the more as 
 it indulges itself in the most boundless freedoms. 
 There is a kind of nature that is to be observed in 
 this sort of compositions, as well as in all other; and 
 a certain regularity of thought which must disco¬ 
 ver the writer to be a man of sense, at the same 
 time that he appears altogether given up to caprice. 
 For my part, when I read the delirious mirth of 
 an unskillful author, I cannot be so barbarous as t® 
 divert myself with it, but am rather apt to pity the 
 man, than laugh at anything he writes. 
 
 The deceased Mr. Shadwell, who had himself a 
 great deal of the talent which I am treating of, 
 represents an empty rake, in one of his plays, as 
 very much surprised to hear one say, that break¬ 
 ing of windows was not humor ; and I question 
 not but several English readers will be as much 
 startled to hear me affirm, that many of those ra¬ 
 ving incoherent pieces which are often spread 
 among us under odd chimerical titles, are rather 
 the offsprings of a distempered brain, than works 
 of humor. 
 
 It is indeed much easier to describe what is not 
 humor, than what is; and very difficult to define 
 it otherwise than as Cowley has done wit, by nega¬ 
 tives. Were I to give my own notions of it, I 
 would deliver them after Plato’s manner, in a kind 
 of allegory—and by supposing Humor to be a 
 person, deduce to him all his qualifications, ac¬ 
 cording to the following genealogy. Truth was 
 the founder of the family, and the father of Good 
 Sense. Good Sense was the father of Wit, who 
 married a lady of collateral line called Mirth, by 
 whom he haa issue Humor. Humor therefore 
 being the youngest of this illustrious family, and 
 descended from parents of such different disposi¬ 
 tions, is very various and unequal in his temper; 
 sometimes you see him putting on grave looks 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 and a solemn habit, sometimes airy in his behavior 
 and fantastic in his dress ; insomuch that at dif¬ 
 ferent times he appears as serious as a judge, and 
 as jocular as a merry-andrew. But as lie has a 
 great deal of the mother in his constitution, what¬ 
 ever mood he is in, he never fails to make his com¬ 
 pany laugh. 
 
 But since there is an impostor abroad, who takes 
 upon him the name of this young gentleman, and 
 would willingly pass for him in the world; to the 
 end that well-meaning persons may not be im¬ 
 posed upon by cheats, I would desire my readers, 
 when they meet with this pretender, to look into 
 his parentage, and to examine him strictly, whether 
 or no he be remotely allied to Truth, and lineally 
 descended from Good Sense; if not, they may con¬ 
 clude him a counterfeit. They may likewise dis¬ 
 tinguish him by a loud and excessive laughter, in 
 which he seldom gets his company to join with 
 him. For as True Humor generally looks serious 
 while everybody laughs about him; False Humor is 
 always laughing, while everybody about him looks 
 serious. I shall only add, if he has not in him 
 a mixture of both parents, that is, if he would 
 pass for the offspring of Wit without Mirth, or 
 Mirth without Wit, you may conclude him to be 
 altogether spurious and a cheat. 
 
 The impostor of whom I am speaking, descends 
 originally from Falsehood, who was the mother of 
 Nonsense, who was brought to bed of a son called 
 Frenzy, who married one of the daughters of 
 Folly, commonly known by the name of Laughter, 
 on whom he begot that monstrous infant of which 
 I have here been speaking. I shall set down at 
 length the genealogical table of False Humor, and, 
 at the same time, place under the genealogy of 
 True Humor, that the reader may at one view be¬ 
 hold their different pedigree and relations:— 
 
 Falsehood. 
 
 Nonsense. 
 
 Frenzy-Laughter. 
 
 False Humor. 
 
 Truth. 
 
 Good Sense. 
 
 Wit-Mirth. 
 
 Humor. 
 
 I might extend the allegory, by mentioning several 
 of the children of false humor, who are more in 
 number than the sands of the sea, and might in 
 particular enumerate the many sons and daughters 
 which he has begot in this island. But as this 
 would be a very invidious task, I shall only ob¬ 
 serve in general, that False Humor differs from the 
 True, as a monkey does from a man. 
 
 First of all, He is exceedingly given to little 
 apish tricks and buffooneries. 
 
 Secondly, He so much delights in mimiciy, that 
 it is all one to him whether he exposes by it vice 
 and folly, luxury and avarice ; or, on the con¬ 
 trary, virtue and wisdom, pain and poverty. 
 
 Thirdly, He is Avonderfully unlucky, insomuch 
 that he will bite the hand that feeds him, and 
 endeavor to ridicule both friends and foes indiffer¬ 
 ently. For having but small talents, he must be 
 merry where he can, not where he should. 
 
 Fourthly, Being entirely void of reason, he pur¬ 
 sues no point either of morality or instruction, 
 but is ludicrous only for the sake of being so. 
 
 Fifthly, Being incapable of anything but mock 
 representations, his ridicule is always personal, 
 and aimed at the vicious man or the writer—not 
 at the vice or the writing. 
 
 I have here only pointed at the whole species of 
 false humorists ; but as one of my principal de¬ 
 
 75 
 
 signs in this paper is to beat down that malignant 
 spirit which discovers itself in the writings of the 
 present age, I shall not scruple, for the future, to 
 single out any of the small wits that infest the 
 world with such compositions as are ill-natured, 
 immoral, and absurd. This is the only exception 
 which I shall make to the general rule I have pre¬ 
 scribed myself, of attacking multitudes, since 
 every honest man ought to look upon himself as 
 in a natural state of war with the libeler and 
 lampooner, and to annoy them wherever they fall 
 in his way. This is but retaliating upon them 
 and treating them as they treat others.—0. 
 
 No. 36.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 11, 1711. 
 
 -Immania monstra 
 
 Perferimus-. Virg. iEn., iii, 583. 
 
 Things the most out of nature we endure. 
 
 I shall not put myself to any farther pains for 
 this day’s entertainment, than barely to publish 
 the letters and titles of petitions from the play¬ 
 house, with the minutes I have made upon the 
 latter for my conduct in relation to them. 
 
 Drury-lane, April the 9th. 
 
 “ Upon reading the project which is set forth in 
 one of your late papers, of making an alliance be¬ 
 tween all the bulls, bears elephants, and lions 
 which are separately exposed to public view in 
 the cities of London and Westminster; together 
 with the other wonders, shows, and monsters 
 whereof you made respective mention in the 
 said speculation — we, the chief actors of this 
 play-house, met and sat upon the said design. It 
 is with great delight that we expect the execu¬ 
 tion of this work: and in order to contribute to it, 
 we have given warning to all our ghosts to get 
 their livelihoods where they can, and not to ap¬ 
 pear among us after day-break of the 16th instant. 
 We are resolved to take this opportunity to part 
 with everything which does not contribute to the 
 representation of human life ; and shall make a 
 free gift of all animated utensils to your projector. 
 The hangings you formerly mentioned are run 
 away ; as are likewise a set of chairs, each of 
 which was met upon two legs going through the 
 Rose tavern at two this morning. We hope. 
 Sir, you will give proper notice to the town 
 that we are endeavoring at these regulations; 
 and that we intend for the future to show no 
 monsters, but men who are converted into such by 
 their own industry and affectation. If you will 
 please be at the house to-night, you will see me 
 do my endeavor to show some unnatural appear¬ 
 ances which are in vogue among the polite and 
 well-bred. I am to represent, in the character of 
 a fine lady dancing, all the distortions which are 
 frequently taken for graces in mien and gesture. 
 This, Sir, is a specimen of the methods we shall 
 take to expose the monsters which come within 
 the notice of a regular theater; and we desire 
 nothing more gross may be admitted by you Spec¬ 
 tators for the future. We have cashiered three 
 companies of theatrical guards, and design our 
 kings shall for the future make love and sit in 
 council without an army ; and wait only your di¬ 
 rection, whether you will have them reinforce 
 King Porus, or join the troops of Macedon. Mr. 
 Pinkethman resolves to consult his pantheon of 
 heathen gods in opposition to the oracle of Del- 
 plios, and doubts not but he shall turn the fortune 
 of Porus, when he personates him. I am desired 
 by the company to inform you, that they submit 
 to your censures; and shall have you in greater 
 veneration than Hercules was of old, if you can 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 76 
 
 drive monsters from the theater ; and think your 
 merit will be as much greater than his, as to con¬ 
 vince is more than to conquer. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most obedient servant, T. D.” 
 
 Sir, 
 
 “ When I acquaint you with the great and unex- 
 
 f ected vicissitudes of my fortune. I doubt not but 
 shall obtain your pity and favor. I have for 
 many years past been Thunderer to the play-house 
 and have not only made as much noise out of the 
 clouds as any predecessor of mine in the theater 
 that ever bore that character, but also have de¬ 
 scended and spoken on the stage as the bold 
 Thunderer in The Rehearsal. When they got me 
 down thus low, they thought fit to degrade me 
 farther, and make me a ghost. I was contented 
 with this for these two last winters; but they carry 
 their tyranny still farther, and not satisfied that I 
 am banished from above ground, they have given 
 me to understand that I am wholly to depart their 
 dominions, and taken from me even my subter¬ 
 raneous employment. Now, Sir, what I desire of 
 you is, that if your undertaker thinks fit to use 
 fire-arms (as other authors have done) in the time 
 of Alexander, I may be a cannon against Porus, 
 or else provide for me in the burning of Perse- 
 polis, or what other method you shall think fit. 
 
 “ Salmoneus of Covent-garden.” 
 
 The petition of all the Devils of the play-house 
 in behalf of themselves and families, setting forth 
 their expulsion from thence, with certificates of 
 their good life and conversation, and praying 
 relief. 
 
 The merit of this petition referred to Mr. Chr. 
 Rich, who made them devils. 
 
 - The petition of the Grave-digger in Hamlet, to 
 command the pioneers in the Expedition of Alex¬ 
 ander. 
 
 Granted 
 
 The petition of William Bullock, to be Hephes- 
 tion to Pinkethman the Great. 
 
 Granted. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 A widow gentlewoman, well born both by father 
 and mother’s side, being the daughter of Thomas 
 Prater, once an eminent practitioner in the law, 
 and of Laetitia Tattle, a family well known in all 
 parts of this kingdom, having been reduced by 
 misfortunes to wait on several great persons, and 
 for some time to be a teacher at a boarding-school 
 of young ladies, giveth notice to the public, that 
 she hath lately taken a house near Bloomsbury- 
 square, commodiously situated next the fields, in 
 a good air; where she teaches all sorts of birds of 
 the loquacious kind, as parrots, starlings, magpies, 
 and others, to imitate human voices in greater 
 perfection than ever was yet practiced. They are 
 not only instructed to pronounce words distinctly, 
 and in a proper tone and accent, but to speak the 
 language with great purity and volubility of tongue, 
 together with all the fashionable phrases and com¬ 
 pliments now in use either at tea tables, or on visit¬ 
 ing-days. Those that have good voices may be 
 taught to sing the newest opera-airs, and, if required 
 to speak either Italian or French, paying something 
 extraordinary above the common rates. They 
 whose friends are not able to pay the full prices, 
 may be taken as half-boarders. She teaches such 
 as are designed for the diversion of the public, and 
 to act in enchanted woods on the theaters, by the 
 great. As she had often observed with much con¬ 
 cern how indecent an education is usually given 
 these innocent creatures, which in some measure 
 is owing to their being placed in rooms next the 
 
 street, where, to the great offense of chaste and 
 tender ears, they learn ribaldry, obscene songs, 
 and immodest expressions from passengers and 
 idle people, as also to cry fish and card-matches, 
 with other useless parts of learning to birds who 
 have rich friends, she has fitted up proper and 
 neat apartments for them in the back part of her 
 said house : where she suffers none to approach 
 them but herself, and a servant-maid who is deaf 
 and dumb, and whom she provided on purpose to 
 prepare their food, and cleanse their cages; haying 
 found by long experience, how hard a thing it is 
 for those to keep silence who have the use of 
 speech, and the dangers her scholars are exposed 
 to, by the strong impressions that are made by 
 harsh sounds and vulgar dialects. In short, if 
 thev are birds of any parts or capacity, she will 
 undertake to render them so accomplished in the 
 compass of a twelvemonth, that they shall be fit 
 conversation for such ladies as love to choose their 
 friends and companions out of this species.—R. 
 
 No. 37.] THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 1711. 
 
 -Non ilia colo calathisve Minervae 
 
 Foemineas assueta manus- Virg. iEn., vii, 805. 
 
 Unbred to spinning, in the loom unskill’d.—D ryden. 
 
 Some months ago, my friend Sir Roger, being in 
 the country, inclosed a letter to me, directed to a 
 certain lady whom I shall here call by the name 
 of Leonora—and as it contained matters of con¬ 
 sequence, desired me to deliver it to her with my 
 own hand. Accordingly I waited upon her lady¬ 
 ship pretty early in the morning, and was de¬ 
 sired by her woman to walk into her lady’s library, 
 till such time as she was in readiness to receive 
 me. The very sound of a lady’s library gave me 
 a great curiosity to see it; and as it was some 
 time before the lady came to me, I had an op¬ 
 portunity of turning over a great many of her 
 books, which were ranged together in a very beau¬ 
 tiful order. At the end of the folios (which were 
 finely bound in gilt) were great jars of china, 
 placed one above another in a very noble piece of 
 architecture. The quartos were separated from 
 the octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which 
 rose in a delightful pyramid. The octavos were 
 bounded by tea-dishes of all shapes, colors and 
 sizes, which were so disposed on a wooden frame, 
 that they looked like one continued pillar in¬ 
 dented with the finest strokes of sculpture, and 
 stained with the greatest variety of dyes. That 
 part of the library which was designed for the re¬ 
 ception of plays and pamphlets, and other loose 
 papers, was inclosed in a kind of square, consisting 
 of one of the prettiest grotesque works that I 
 ever saw, and made up of scaramouches, lions, 
 monkeys, mandarins, trees, shells, and a thou¬ 
 sand other odd figures in china-ware. In the 
 midst of the room was a little japan table, with a 
 quire of gilt paper upon it, ana on the paper a 
 silver snuff-box made in the shape of a little book. 
 I found there were several other counterfeit books 
 upon the upper shelves, which were carved in 
 wood, and served only to fill up the numbers like 
 fagots in the muster of a regiment. I was wonder¬ 
 fully pleased with such a mixed kind of furniture, 
 as seemed very suitable both to the lady and the 
 scholar, and did not know at first whether I should 
 fancy myself in a grotto or in a library. 
 
 Upon my looking into the books, I found there 
 were some few which the lady had bought for 
 her own use, but that most of them had been 
 got together, either because she had heard them 
 praised, or because she had seen the authors of 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 them. Among several that I examined, I very 
 well remember these that follow: 
 
 Ogleby’s Yirgil. 
 
 Dry den’s Juvenal. 
 
 Cassandra. 
 
 Cleopatra. 
 
 Astrsea. 
 
 Sir Isaac Newton’s "Works. 
 
 The Grand Cyrus; with a pin stuck in one of 
 the middle leaves. 
 
 Pembroke’s Arcadia. 
 
 Locke on Human Understanding, with a paper 
 of patches in it. 
 
 A Spelling-book. 
 
 A Dictionary for the explanation of hard words. 
 
 Sherlock upon Death. 
 
 The fifteen comforts of matrimony. 
 
 Sir William Temple’s Essays. 
 
 Father Malebranche’s Search after Truth, trans¬ 
 lated into English. 
 
 A book of Novels. 
 
 The Academy of Compliments. 
 
 Culpepper’s Midwifery. 
 
 The Ladies’ Calling. 
 
 Tales in Yerse by Mr. Durfey: bound in red 
 leather, gilt on the back, and doubled down 
 in several places. 
 
 All the Classic Authors in Wood. 
 
 A set of Elzevirs by the same Hand. 
 
 Clelia: which opened of itself in the place that 
 describes two lovers in a bower. 
 
 Baker’s Chronicle. 
 
 Advice to a Daughter. 
 
 The New Atlantis, with a Key to it. 
 
 Mr. Steele’s Christian Hero. 
 
 A Prayer-book : with a bottle of Hungary Wa¬ 
 ter by the side of it. 
 
 Dr. Sacheverell’s Speech. 
 
 Fielding’s Trial. 
 
 Seneca’s Morals. 
 
 Taylor’s Holy Living and Dying. 
 
 La Ferte’s Instructions for Country Dances. 
 
 I was taking a catalogue in my pocket-book of 
 these and several other authors, when Leonora 
 entered, and upon mv presenting her with a letter 
 for the knight, told me, with an unspeakable 
 race, that she hoped Sir Roger was in good 
 ealth ; I answered yes, for I hate long speeches, 
 and after a bow or two retired. 
 
 Leonora was formerly a celebrated beauty, and 
 is still a very lovely woman. She has been a 
 widow for two or three years, and being unfortu¬ 
 nate in her first marriage, has taken a resolution 
 never to venture upon a second. She has no 
 children to take care of, and leaves the manage¬ 
 ment ot her estate to my good friend Sir Roger. 
 But as the mind naturally sinks into a kind of 
 lethargy, and falls asleep, that is not agitated by 
 some favorite pleasures and pursuits, Leonora has 
 turned all the passion of her sex into a love of 
 books and retirement. She converses chiefly 
 with men (as she has often said herself), but it 
 is only in their writings, and admits of very few 
 male visitants, except my friend Sir Roger, whom 
 she hears with great pleasure, and without scan¬ 
 dal. As her reading has lain very much among 
 romances, it has given her a very particular turn 
 ot thinking, and discovers itself even in her 
 house, her gardens, find her furniture. Sir Roger 
 has entertained me an hour together with a de¬ 
 scription of her country-seat, which is situated 
 in a kind of wilderness, about a hundred miles 
 distant from London, and looks like a little en¬ 
 chanted palace. The rocks about her are shaped 
 into artificial grottos covered with woodbines and 
 jessamines. The woods are cut into shady walks, 
 twisted into bowers, and filled with cages of turtles. 
 
 77 
 
 The springs are made to run among pebbles, and 
 by that means taught to murmur very agreeably. 
 They are likewise collected into a beautiful lake 
 that is inhabited by a couple of swans, and emp¬ 
 ties itself by a little rivulet which runs through a 
 green meadow, and is known in the family by the 
 name of The Purling Stream. The knight like¬ 
 wise tells me, that this lady preserves her game 
 better than any of the gentlemen in the country, 
 not (says Sir Roger) that she sets so great a value 
 upon her partridges and pheasants, as upon her 
 larks and nightingales. For she says that every 
 bird which is killed in her ground, will spoil a 
 concert, and that she shall certainly miss him the 
 next year. 
 
 When I think how oddly this lady is improved 
 by learning, I look upon her with a mixture of 
 admiration and pity. Amidst these innocent en¬ 
 tertainments which she has formed to herself, 
 how much more valuable does she appear than 
 those of her sex, who employ themselves in di¬ 
 versions that are less reasonable, though more in 
 fashion? What improvements would a woman 
 have made, who is so susceptible of impressions 
 from what she reads, had she been guided by 
 such books as have a tendency to enlighten the 
 understanding and rectify the passions, as well 
 as to those which are of little more use than to 
 divert the imagination? 
 
 But the manner of a lady’s employing herself 
 usefully in reading, shall be the subject of another 
 paper in which I design to recommend such par¬ 
 ticular books as may be proper for the improve¬ 
 ment of the sex. And as this is a subject of very 
 nice nature, I shall desire my correspondents to 
 give me their thoughts upon it.—0. 
 
 No. 38.] FRIDAY, APRIL 13, 1711. 
 
 -Cupias non placuisse nimis.—M art. 
 
 One would not please too much. 
 
 A late conversation which I fell into, gave me 
 an opportunity of observing a great deal of beauty 
 in a very handsome woman, and as much wit in 
 an ingenious man, turned into deformity in the 
 one, and absurdity in the other, by the mere force 
 of affectation. The fair one had something in 
 her person (upon which her thoughts were fixed) 
 that she attempted to show to advantage in every 
 look, word, and gesture. The gentleman was as 
 diligent to do justice to his fine parts as the lady 
 to her beauteous form. You might see his ima¬ 
 gination on the stretch to find out something un¬ 
 common, and what they call bright, to entertain 
 her, while she writhed herself into as many dif¬ 
 ferent postures to engage him. When she laughed, 
 her lips were to sever at a greater distance than 
 ordinary, to show her teeth; her fan was to point 
 to something at a distance, that in the reach she 
 may discover the roundness of her arm ; then she 
 is utterly mistaken in what she saw, falls back, 
 smiles at her own folly, and is so wholly discom¬ 
 posed, that her tucker is to be adjusted, her bosom 
 exposed, and the whole woman put into new airs 
 and graces. While she was doing all this, the 
 gallant had time to think of something very pleas¬ 
 ant to say next to her, or to make some unkind 
 observation on some other lady to feed her vanity. 
 These unhappy effects of affectation naturally led 
 me to look into that strange state of mind which 
 so generally discolors the behavior of most people 
 we meet with. 
 
 The learned Dr. Burnet, in his Theory of the 
 Earth, takes occasion to observe, that every thought 
 is attended with a consciousness and representa¬ 
 tiveness ; the mind has nothing presented to it 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 78 
 
 but what is immediately followed by a reflection 
 of conscience, which tells you whether that which 
 was so presented is graceful or unbecoming. This 
 act of the mind discovers itself in the gesture, 
 by a proper behavior in those whose consciousness 
 goes no farther than to direct them in the just 
 progress of their present state or action ; but be¬ 
 trays an interruption in every second thought, 
 when the consciousness is employed in too fondly 
 approving a man’s own conceptions ; which sort 
 of consciousness is what we call affectation. 
 
 As the love of praise is implanted in our bosoms 
 as a strong incentive to worthy actions, it is a very 
 difficult task to get above a desire of it for things 
 that should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose 
 hearts are fixed upon the pleasure they have in 
 the consciousness that they are the objects of love 
 and admiration, are ever changing the air of their 
 countenances, and altering the attitude of their 
 bodies, to strike the hearts of their beholders with 
 new sense of their beauty. The dressing part of 
 our sex, whose minds are the same with the sillier 
 part of the other, are exactly in the like uneasy 
 condition to be regarded for a well-tied cravat, a 
 hat cocked with an uncommon briskness, a very 
 well chosen coat, or other instances of merit, 
 which they are impatient to see unobserved. 
 
 This apparent affectation, arising from an ill- 
 governed consciousness, is not so much to be 
 wondered at in such loose and trivial minds as 
 these : but when we see it reign in characters of 
 worth and distinction, it is what you cannot but 
 lament, not without some indignation. It creeps 
 into the heart of the wise man as well as that of 
 the coxcomb. When you see a man of sense look 
 about for applause, and discover an itching inclin¬ 
 ation to be commended ; lay traps for a little in¬ 
 cense, even from those whose opinion he values in 
 nothing but his own favor; who is safe against 
 this weakness ? or who knows whether he is guil¬ 
 ty of it or not ? The best way to get clear of such 
 a light fondness for applause, is to take all possi¬ 
 ble care to throw off the love of it upon occasions 
 that are not in themselves laudable, but as it ap¬ 
 pears we hope for no praise from them. Of this 
 nature are all graces in men’s persons, dress, and 
 bodily deportment, which will naturally be win¬ 
 ning and attractive if we think not of them, but 
 lose their force in proportion to our endeavor to 
 make them such. 
 
 , When our consciousness turns upon the main 
 design of life, and our thoughts are employed 
 upon the chief purpose either in business or pleas¬ 
 ure, we shall never betray an affectation, for we 
 cannot be guilty of it: but when we give the pas¬ 
 sion for praise an unbridled liberty, our pleasure in 
 little perfections robs us of what is due to us for 
 great virtues, and worthy qualities. How many 
 excellent speeches and honest actions are lost, for 
 want of being indifferent where we ought ? Men 
 are oppressed with regard to their way of speak¬ 
 ing and acting, instead of having their thoughts 
 bent upon what they should do or say; and by 
 that means bury a capacity for great things, by 
 their fear of failing in indifferent things. This, 
 perhaps, cannot be called affectation ; but it has 
 some tincture of it, at least so far, as that their 
 fear of erring in a thing of no consequence, 
 argues they would be too much pleased in per¬ 
 forming it. 
 
 It is only from a thorough disregard to himself 
 in such particulars, that a man can act with a 
 laudable sufficiency; his heart is fixed upon one 
 oint in view ; and he commits no errors, because 
 e thinks nothing an error but what deviates 
 from that intention. 
 
 The wild havoc affectation makes in that part 
 
 of the world which should be most polite, is visi¬ 
 ble wherever we turn our eyes : it pushes men not 
 only into impertinencies in conversation, but also 
 in their premeditated speeches. At the bar it tor¬ 
 ments the bench, whose business it is to cut off all 
 superfluities in what is spoken before it by the 
 practitioner ; as well as several little pieces of in¬ 
 justice which arise from the law itself. I have 
 seen it make a man run from the purpose before 
 a judge, who was, when at the bar himself, so 
 close and logical a pleader, that with all the pomp 
 of eloquence in his power, he never spoke a word 
 too much.* 
 
 It might be borne even here, but it often ascends 
 the pulpit itself; and the declaimer in that sacred 
 place is frequently so impertinently witty, speaks 
 of the last day itself with so many quaint phrases, 
 that there is no man who understands raillery, 
 but must resolve to sin no more. Nay, you may 
 behold him sometimes in prayer, for a proper de¬ 
 livery of the great truths he is to utter, humble 
 himself with so very well-turned phrase, and 
 mention his own unworthiness in a way so very 
 becoming, that the air of the pretty gentleman is 
 preserved under the lowliness of the preacher. 
 
 I shall end this with a short letter I wrote the 
 other day to a very witty man, overrun with the 
 fault I am speaking of: 
 
 “ Dear Sir, 
 
 “ I spent some time with you the other day, and 
 must take the liberty of a friend to tell you of the 
 insufferable affectation you are guilty of in all 
 you say and do. When I gave you a hint of it, 
 you asked me whether a man is to be cold to what 
 his friends think of him? No, but praise is not 
 to be the entertainment of every moment. He 
 that hopes for it must be able to suspend the pos¬ 
 session of it till proper periods of life, or death 
 itself. If you would not rather be commended 
 than be praiseworthy, contemn little merits ; and 
 allow no man to be so free with you, as to praise 
 you to your face. Your vanity by this means will 
 want its food. At the same time your passion for 
 esteem will be more fully gratified; men will 
 praise you in their actions : where you now re¬ 
 ceive one compliment, you will then receive twen¬ 
 ty civilities. Till then you will never have of 
 either, farther than, 
 
 “Sir, your humble servant.” T. 
 
 No. 39.] SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1711. 
 
 Multa fero, ut placem genus irritabile vatum, 
 
 Cum scribo-. Hor., 2 Ep., ii, 102. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace 
 
 This jealous, waspish, wrong-headed rhyming race. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 As a perfect tragedy is the noblest production 
 of human nature, so it is capable of giving the 
 mind one of the most delightful and most improv¬ 
 ing entertainments. A virtuous man (says Seneca) 
 struggling with misfortunes, is such a spectacle as 
 gods might look upon with pleasure; and such a 
 pleasure it is which one meets with in the repre¬ 
 sentation of a well-written tragedy. Diversions 
 of this kind wear out of our thoughts everything 
 that is mean and little. They cherish and culti¬ 
 vate that humanity which is the ornament of our 
 nature. They soften insolence, soothe affliction, 
 and subdue the mind to the dispensations of Pro¬ 
 vidence. 
 
 * This seems to be intended as a compliment to Chancellor 
 Cowper. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 79 
 
 It is no wonder, therefore, that in all the polite 
 nations of the world, this part of the drama has 
 met with public encouragement. 
 
 The modern tragedy excels that of Greece and 
 Rome in the intricacy and disposition of the fable; 
 but, what a Christian writer would be ashamed to 
 own, falls infinitely short of it in the moral part 
 of the performance. 
 
 This I may show more at large hereafter: and 
 in the meantime, that I may contribute something 
 toward the improvement of the English tragedy, 
 I shall take notice, in this and in other following 
 papers, of some particular parts in it that seem 
 liable to exception. 
 
 Aristotle observes, that the Iambic verse in 
 the Greek tongue was the most proper for tra¬ 
 gedy; because at the same time that it lifted up 
 i the discourse from prose, it was that which ap¬ 
 proached nearer to it than any other kind of verse. 
 “For,” says he, “we may observe that men in or¬ 
 dinary discourse very often speak iambics without 
 taking notice of it.” We may make the same ob¬ 
 servation of our English blank verse, which often 
 enters into our common discourse, though we do,- 
 not attend to it, and is such a due medium between 
 rhyme and prose, that it seems wonderfully adapt¬ 
 ed to tragedy. I am therefore very much offended 
 when I see a play in rhyme; which is as absurd 
 in English, as a tragedy of hexameters would 
 have been in Greek or Latin. The solecism is, I 
 think, still greater in those plays that have some 
 scenes in rhyme and some in blank verse, which 
 are to be looked upon as two several languages ; 
 or where we see some particular similes dignified 
 with rhyme at the same time that everything 
 about them lies in blank verse. I would not how¬ 
 ever debar the poet from concluding his tragedy, 
 or, if he pleases, every act of it, with two or three 
 couplets, which may have the same effect as an 
 air in the Italian opera after a long recitativo, and 
 give the actor a graceful exit. Beside that, we see 
 a diversity of numbers in some parts of the old 
 tragedy in order to hinder the ear from being tired 
 with the same continued modulation of voice. 
 For the same reason I do not dislike the speeches 
 in our English tragedy that close with a hemistich, 
 or half verse, notwithstanding the person who 
 speaks after it begins a new verse, without filling 
 up the preceding one; nor with abrupt pauses and 
 breakings off in the middle of a verse, Avhen they 
 humor any passion that is expressed by it. 
 
 Since I am upon this subject, I must observe 
 that our English poets have succeeded much better 
 in the style than in the sentiment of their trage¬ 
 dies. Their language is very often noble and sono¬ 
 rous, but the sense either very trifling or very com¬ 
 mon. On the contrary, in the ancient tragedies, and 
 indeed in those of Corneille and Racine, though 
 the expressions are very great, it is the thought 
 that bears them up and swells them. For my own 
 part., I prefer a noble sentiment that is depressed 
 with homely language, infinitely before a vulgar 
 one that is blown up with all the sound and energy 
 of expression. Whether this defect in our trage¬ 
 dies may arise from want of genius, knowledge, 
 or experience in the writers, or from their compli¬ 
 ance with the vicious taste of their renders, who 
 are better judges of the language than of the sen¬ 
 timents, and consequently relish the one more than 
 the other, I cannot determine. But I believe it 
 might rectify the conduct both of the one and of 
 the other, if the writer laid down the whole con¬ 
 texture of his dialogue in plain English, before he 
 turned it into blank verse: and if tke reader, after 
 the perusal of a scene, would consider the naked 
 thought of every speech in it, when divested of 
 all its tragic ornaments. By this means, without 
 
 being imposed upon bv words, we may judge im¬ 
 partially of the thought, and consider whether it 
 be natural or great enough for the person that ut¬ 
 ters it, whether it deserves to shine in such a blaze 
 of eloquence, or show itself in such a variety of 
 lights as are generally made use of by the writers 
 of our English tragedy. 
 
 I must in the next place observe, that when our 
 thoughts are great and just, they are often obscured 
 by the sounding phrases, hard metaphors, and 
 forced expressions in which they are clothed. 
 Shakspeare is often very faulty in this particular. 
 There is a fine observation in Aristotle to this pur¬ 
 pose, which I have never seen quoted. The ex¬ 
 pression, says he, ought to be very much labored 
 m the inactive parts of the fable, as in descrip¬ 
 tions, similitudes, narrations, and the like; in 
 which the opinions, manners, and passions of 
 men are not represented; for these (namely, the 
 opinions, manners, and passions) are apt to be 
 obscured by pompous phrases and elaborate 
 expressions. Horace, who copied most of his 
 criticisms after Aristotle, seems to have had 
 his eye on the foregoing rule, in the following 
 verses:— 
 
 Et tragicus plerumque dolet sermone pedestri: 
 
 Telepkus et Peleus, cum pauper et exul uterque. 
 
 I’rojicit ampullas et sesquiped&lia verba, 
 
 Si curat cor spectantis tetigisse querela. 
 
 IIor., Ars. Poet., ver. 95. 
 
 Tragedians, too, lay by their state to grieve: 
 
 Peleus and Telephus, exil’d and poor, 
 
 Forget their swelling and gigantic words.— Roscommon. 
 
 Among our modern English poets, there is none 
 who has a better turn for tragedy than Lee; if, in¬ 
 stead of favoring the impetuosity of his genius, 
 he had restrained it, and kept it within its proper 
 bounds. His thoughts are wonderfully suited to 
 tragedy, but frequently lost in such a cloud of 
 words that it is hard to see the beauty of them. 
 There is an infinite fire in his works, but so in¬ 
 volved in smoke that it does not appear in half its 
 luster. He frequently succeeds in the passionate 
 
 E arts of the tragedy, but more particularly where 
 e slackens his efforts, and eases his style of those 
 epithets and metaphors in which he so much 
 abounds. What can be more natural, more soft, 
 or more passionate, than that line in Statira’s 
 speech where she describes the charms of Alexan¬ 
 der’s conversation ? 
 
 Then he would talk—Good gods! how he would talk! 
 
 That unexpected break in the line, and turning 
 the description of his manner of talking into an 
 admiration of it, is inexpressibly beautiful, and 
 wonderfully suited to the fond character of the 
 person that speaks it. There is a simplicity in 
 the words that outshines the utmost pride of ex¬ 
 pression. 
 
 Otway has followed nature in the language of 
 his tragedy, and therefore shines in the passionate 
 parts more than any of our English poets. As 
 there is something familiar and domestic in the 
 fable of his tragedy, more than in those of any other 
 poet, he has little pomp, but great force in his ex¬ 
 pressions. For which reason, though he has admi¬ 
 rably succeeded in the tender and melting part of 
 his tragedies, he sometimes falls into too great 
 familiarity of phrase in those parts, which, by 
 Aristotle’s rule, ought to have been raised and 
 supported by the dignity of expression. 
 
 It has been observed by others, that this poet 
 has founded his tragedy of Venice Preserved on so 
 wrong a plot, that the greatest characters in it are 
 those of rebels and traitors. Had the hero of this 
 play discovered the same good qualities in the 
 defense of his country that he showed for its ruin 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 80 
 
 and subversion, the audience could not enough 
 pity and admire him; but as he is now represented, 
 we can only say of him what the Roman historian 
 says of Catiline, that his fall would have been 
 glorious (si pro patria sic concidissct) , had he so 
 fallen in the service of his country.—0. 
 
 No. 40.] MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1711. 
 
 Ac ne forte putes me quae facere ipse recusem, 
 
 Cum recte tractant alii, laudare maligne; 
 
 Ille per extentum funem mihi posse videtur 
 Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit, 
 
 Irritat, mulcet, falsis terroribus implet, 
 
 Ut magus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis. 
 
 Hor., 2 Ep., i, 208. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Yet lest you think I rally more than teach, 
 
 Or praise, malignant, arts I cannot reach, 
 
 Let me for once presume t’ instruct the times, 
 
 To know the poet from the man of rhymes; 
 
 ’T is 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. 
 
 The English writers of tragedy are possessed 
 with a notion, that when they represent a virtuous 
 or innocent person in distress, they ought not to 
 leave him till they have delivered him out of his 
 troubles, or made him triumph over his enemies. 
 This error they have been lea into by a ridiculous 
 doctrine in modern criticism, that they are obliged 
 to an equal distribution of rewards and punish¬ 
 ments, and an impartial execution of poetical jus¬ 
 tice. Who were the first that established this rule 
 I know not; but I am sure it has no foundation in 
 nature, in reason., or in the practice of the ancients. 
 We find that good and evil happen alike, to all 
 men on this side the grave; and as the principal 
 design of tragedy is to raise commiseration and 
 terror in the minds of the audience, we shall de¬ 
 feat this great end, if we always make virtue and 
 innocence happy and successful. Whatever crosses 
 and disappointments a good man suffers in the 
 body of the tragedy, they will make but a small 
 impression on our minds, when we know that in 
 the last act he is to arrive at the end of his wishes 
 and desires. When we see him engaged in the 
 depth of his afflictions, we are apt to comfort our¬ 
 selves, because we are sure he will find his way 
 out of them; and that his grief, how great soever 
 it may be at present, will soon terminate in glad¬ 
 ness. For this reason, the ancient writers of tra¬ 
 gedy treated men in their plays, as they are dealt 
 with in the world, by making virtue sometimes 
 happy and sometimes miserable, as they found it 
 in the fable which they made choice of, or as it 
 might affect the audience in the most agreeable 
 manner. Aristotle considers the tragedies that 
 were written in either of these kinds, and observes, 
 that those which ended unhappily had always 
 pleased the people, and carried away the prize in 
 the public disputes of the stage, from those that 
 ended happily. Terror and commiseration leave 
 a pleasing anguish on the mind, and fix the audi¬ 
 ence in such a serious composure of thought, as 
 is much more lasting and delightful than any little 
 transient starts of joy and satisfaction. Accord¬ 
 ingly we find, that more of our English tragedies 
 liaVe succeeded, in which the favorites of the au¬ 
 dience sink under their calamities, than those in 
 which they recover themselves out of them. The 
 best plays of this kind are, The Orphan, Venice 
 Preserved, Alexander the Great, Theodosius, All for 
 Love, CEdipus, Oroonoko, Othello, etc. King Lear 
 is an admirable tragedy of the same kind, as Shak- 
 speare wrote it; but as it is reformed according to 
 
 the chimerical notion of poetical justice, in my 
 humble opinion it has lost half its beauty. At the 
 same time I must allow, that there are very noble 
 tragedies which have been framed upon the other 
 plan, and have ended happily; as indeed most of 
 the good tragedies, which have been written since 
 the starting of the above-mentioned criticism, have 
 taken this turn ; as The Mourning Bride, Tamer¬ 
 lane, Ulysses, Phcedra and Hippolytus, with most 
 of Mr. Dryden’s. I must also allow, that many 
 of Shakspeare’s, and several of the celebrated tra¬ 
 gedies of antiquity, are in the same form. I do 
 not therefore dispute against this way of writing 
 tragedies, but against the criticism that would 
 establish this as the only method; and by that 
 means would very much cramp the English tra¬ 
 gedy, and perhaps give a wrong bent to the genius 
 of our writers. 
 
 The tragi comedy, which is the product of the 
 English theater, is one of the most monstrous 
 inventions that ever entered in a poet’s thoughts. 
 An author might as well think of weaving the 
 adventures of H5neas and Hudibras into one poem, 
 as of writing such a piece of motley sorrow. But 
 the absurdity of these performances is so very 
 visible, that I shall not insist upon it. 
 
 The same objections which are made to tragi¬ 
 comedy, may in some measure be applied to all, 
 tragedies that have a double plot in them; which 
 are likewise more frequent upon the English stage, 
 than upon any other; for though the grief of the 
 audience, in such performances, be not changed 
 into another passion, as in tragi-comedies; it is 
 diverted upon another object, which weakens their 
 concern for the principal action, and breaks the 
 tide of sorrow, by throwing it into different chan¬ 
 nels. This inconvenience, however, may in a 
 great measure be cured, if not wholly removed, 
 by the skillful choice of an under plot, which may 
 bear such a near relation to the principal design, 
 as to contribute toward the- completion of it, and 
 be concluded by the same catastrophe. 
 
 ■'--.There is also another particular, which may be 
 reckoned among the blemishes, or rather the false 
 beauties of our English tragedy: I mean those 
 articular speeches which are commonly known 
 y the name of Rants. The warm and passionate 
 parts of a tragedy are always the most taking with 
 the audience; for which reason we often see the 
 players pronouncing, in all the violence of action, 
 several parts of the tragedy which the author wrote 
 with great temper, and designed that they should 
 have been so acted. I have seen Powell very often 
 raise himself a loud clap by this artifice. The 
 poets that were acquainted with this secret, have 
 given frequent occasion for such emotions in 
 the actor, by adding vehemence to words where 
 there was no passion, or inflaming a real passion 
 into fustian. This hath filled the mouths of our 
 heroes with bombast; and given them such senti¬ 
 ments as proceed rather from a swelling than 
 a greatness of mind. Unnatural exclamations, 
 curses, vows, blasphemies, a defiance of mankind, 
 and an outraging of the gods, frequently pass 
 upon the audience for towering thoughts, and 
 have accordingly met with infinite applause. 
 
 I shall here add a remark, which I am afraid 
 our tragic writers may make an ill use of. As our 
 heroes are generally lovers, their swelling and 
 blustering upon the stage very much recommends 
 them to the fair pai't of the audience. The ladies 
 are wonderfully pleased to see a man insulting 
 kings, or affronting the gods, in one scene, and 
 throwing himself at the feet of his mistress in 
 another. Let him behave himself insolently to¬ 
 ward the men, and abjectly before the fair one, 
 and it is ten to one but he proves a favorite with 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 the boxes. Dryden and Lee, in several of their 
 tragedies, have practiced this secret with good 
 success. 
 
 But to show how a rant pleases beyond the most 
 just and natural thought that is not pronounced 
 with vehemence, I would desire the reader, when 
 he sees the tragedy of (Edipus, to observe how 
 auietly the hero is dismissed at the end of the 
 third act, after having pronounced the following 
 lines, in which the thought is very natural, and 
 apt to move compassion : 
 
 To you, good gods, I make my last appeal; 
 
 Or clear my virtues, or my crimes reveal. 
 
 If in the maze of fate I blindly run, 
 
 And backward tread those paths I sought to shun; 
 
 Impute my errors to your own decree! 
 
 My hands are guilty, but my heart is free. 
 
 Let us then observe with what thunder-claps of 
 applause he leaves the stage, after the impieties 
 and execrations at the end of the fourth act; and 
 you will wonder to see an audience so cursed and 
 so pleased at the same time. 
 
 0 that, as oft I have at Athens seen 
 
 [ Where, by the way, there was no stage till many 
 years after (Edipus.] 
 
 The stage arise, and the big clouds descend; 
 
 So now, in every deed, I might behold 
 
 This pon’drous globe, and all yon marble roof, 
 
 Meet, like the hands of Jove, and crush mankind; 
 
 For all the elements, etc. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Having spoken of Mr. Powell, as sometimes 
 raising himself applause from the ill taste of an 
 audience, I must do him the justice to own, that 
 he is excellently formed for a tragedian, and, 
 when he pleases, deserves the admiration of the 
 best judges; as I doubt not but he will in the 
 Conquest of Mexico, which is acted for his own 
 benefit to-morrow night. C. 
 
 No. 41.] TUESDAY, APRIL 17, 1711. 
 
 •-Tu non inventa reperta es.—O vid. Met. i, 654. 
 
 So found, is worse than lost.—A ddison. 
 
 Compassion for the gentleman who writes the 
 following letter should not prevail upon me to 
 all upon the fair sex, if it were not that I find 
 hey are frequently fairer than they ought to be. 
 such impostures are not to be tolerated in civil 
 society, and I think his misfortune ought to be 
 nade public, as a warning for other men to 
 jxamine into what they admire. 
 
 ‘Sir, 
 
 “Supposing you to be a person of general 
 :nowledge, I make my application to you on a 
 'ery particular occasion. I have a great mind to 
 >3 rid of my wife, and hope, when you consider 
 ay case, you will be of opinion I have very just 
 •retensions to a divorce. I am a mere man of 
 he town, and have very little improvement but 
 rtiat I have got from plays. I remember in the 
 nleut Woman, the learned Dr. Cutberd, or Dr. 
 Hter (I forget which), makes one of the causes 
 i separation to be Error Personal —when a man 
 iarries a woman, and finds her not to be the 
 ame woman whom he intended to marry, but 
 nother. If that be law, it is, I presume, exactly 
 jy case. For you are to know, Mr. Spectator, that 
 aere are women who do not let their husbands 
 ce their faces till they are married. 
 
 “Not to keep you in suspense, I mean plainly 
 iat part of the sex who paint. They are some of 
 leia so exquisitely skillful in this way, that give 
 
 81 
 
 them but a tolerable pair of eyes to set up with, 
 and they will make bosom, lips, cheeks and eye¬ 
 brows, by their own industry. As for my dear, 
 never was a man so enamored as I was of her fair 
 ioiehead, neck, and arms, as well as the bright 
 jet of her hair; but to my great astonishment I 
 find they were all the effect of art. Her skin is so 
 tarnished with this practice, that when she first 
 w akes in a morning, she scarce seems young 
 enough to be the mother of her whom I carried to 
 bed the night before. I shall take the liberty to 
 part with her by the first opportunity, unless her 
 lather will make her portion suitable to her real, 
 not her assumed, countenance. This I thought 
 fit to let him and her know by your means. & 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble servant. 
 
 I cannot tell what the law or the parents of the 
 lady will do for this injured gentleman, but must 
 allow he has very much justice on his side. I 
 have indeed very long observed this evil, and 
 distinguished those of our women who wear their 
 own, from those in borrowed complexions, by the 
 Piets and the British. There does not need any 
 great discernment to judge which are which. 
 The British have a lively animated aspect; the 
 Piets, though never so beautiful, have dead unin¬ 
 formed countenances. The muscles of a real 
 face sometimes swell with soft passion, sudden 
 surprise, and are flushed with agreeable confu¬ 
 sions, according as the objects before them, or the 
 ideas presented to them, affect their imagination. 
 But the Piets behold all things with the same air, 
 whether they are joyful or sad; the same fixed 
 insensibility appears upon all occasions. A Piet, 
 though she takes all that pains to invite the ap¬ 
 proach of lovers, is obliged to keep them at a 
 certain distance; a sigh in a languishing lover, 
 if fetched too near her, would dissolve a feature* 
 and a kiss snatched by a forward one, might 
 transfer the complexion of the mistress to the ad¬ 
 mirer. It is hard to speak of these false fair ones, 
 without saying something uncomplaisant, but I 
 would only recommend to them to consider how 
 they like to come into a room new painted; they 
 may assure themselves the near approach of a 
 lady who uses this practice is much more offen¬ 
 sive. 
 
 Will Honeycomb told us one day, an adventure 
 he once had with a Piet. This lady had wit, as 
 well as beauty, at will; and made it her business 
 to gain hearts, for no other reason but to rally the 
 torments of her lovers. She would make great 
 advances to insnare men, but without any manner 
 of scruple break off when there was no provoca¬ 
 tion. Her ill-nature and vanity made my friend 
 very easily proof against the charms of her wit 
 and conversation; but her beauteous form, instead 
 of being blemished by her falsehood and incon¬ 
 stancy, every day increased upon him, and she 
 had new attractions every time he saw her. When 
 she observed Will irrevocably her slave, she 
 began to use him as such, and after many steps 
 toward such a cruelty, she at last utterly ban¬ 
 ished him. The unhappy lover strove in vain, 
 by servile epistles, to revoke his doom; till at 
 length he was forced to the last refuge, a round 
 sum of money to her maid. This corrupt atten¬ 
 dant placed him early in the morning behind the 
 hangings in her mistress’s dressing-room. He 
 stood very conveniently to observe, wdthout being 
 seen. The Piet begins the face she designed to 
 wear that day, and I have heard him protest she 
 had worked a full half hour before he knew her 
 to be the same woman. As soon as he saw the 
 dawn of that complexion, for which he had so 
 
82 
 
 THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 long languished, he thought fit to break from his 
 concealment, repeating that verse of Cowley. 
 
 Th’ adorning theo with so much art 
 Is but a barbarous skill; 
 
 ’T is like the poisoning of a dart, 
 
 Too apt before to kill. 
 
 The Piet stood before him in the utmost confu¬ 
 sion, with the prettiest smirk imaginable on the 
 finished side of her face, pale as ashes on the 
 other. Honeycomb seized all her gallipots and 
 washes, and carried off his handkerchief full oi 
 brushes, scraps of Spanish wool, and vials oi un¬ 
 guents. The lady went into the country, the 
 lover was cured. 
 
 It is certain no faith ought to be kept with 
 cheats, and an oath made to a Piet is ol itseli 
 void. I would therefore exhort all the Britisii 
 ladies to single them out, nor do I know any bin, 
 Lindamira who should be exempt from discovery: 
 for her own complexion is so delicate, that she 
 ought to be allowed the covering it with paint, as 
 a punishment for choosing to be the worst piece 
 of art extant, instead of the master-piece ol na¬ 
 ture. As for my part, who have no expectations 
 from women, and consider them only as they are 
 part of the species, I do not half so much tear 
 offending a beauty, as a woman of sense; I shall 
 therefore produce several faces which have been 
 in public these many years, and never appeared. 
 It will be a very pretty entertainment in the play¬ 
 house (when I have abolished this custom) to 
 see so many ladies, when they first lay it down, 
 incog, in their own faces. 
 
 In the meantime, as a pattern for improving 
 their charms, let the sex study the agreeable >~ta- 
 tira. Her features are enlivened with the cheerlul- 
 ness of her mind, and good-humor gives an 
 alacrity to her eyes. She is graceful without af¬ 
 fecting an air, and unconcerned without appear¬ 
 ing careless. Her having no manner of art in her 
 mind, makes her w T ant none in her person. 
 
 How like is this lady, and how unlike is a 
 Piet, to that description Dr. Donne gives of his 
 mistress: 
 
 -Her pure and eloquent blood 
 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought, 
 
 That one would almost say her body thought. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 A young gentlewoman of about nineteen years 
 of age ( bred in the family of a person of quality, , . 
 
 lately deceased), who paints the finest flesh-color, P e ^ 0d ;: 
 wants a place, and is to be heard of at the house 
 
 audience, not by proper sentiments and expres¬ 
 sions, but by the dresses and decorations ol the 
 sta<re. There is something of this kind very ridi¬ 
 culous in the English theater. When the author 
 has a mind to terrify us, it thunders ; when he 
 would make us melancholy, the stage is darkened. 
 But among all our tragic artifices, I am the most 
 offended at those which are made use of to inspire 
 us with magnificent ideas of the persons that 
 speak. The ordinary method of making a hero, 
 is to clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head, 
 which rises so very high that there is often a 
 Greater length from his chin to the top of his head 
 than to the sole of his foot. One would believe 
 that we thought a great man and a tall man the 
 same thing. This very much embarrasses the 
 actor w T ho is forced to hold his neck extremely 
 stiff and steady all the while he speaks; and not¬ 
 withstanding any anxieties which he pretends for 
 his mistress, his country, or his friends, one may 
 see by his action that his greatest care and concern 
 is to keep the plume of feathers from falling off his 
 head. For my own part, when I see a man utter 
 ino- his complaints under such a mountain of feath¬ 
 ers, I am apt to look upon him rather as an unfor¬ 
 tunate lunatic than a distressed hero. As these 
 superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great 
 man, a princess generally receives her grandeur 
 from those additional incumbrances that fall into 
 her tail—I mean the broad sweeping train that 
 follows her in all her motions, and finds constant 
 employment for a boy who stands behind her to 
 open and spread it to advantage. _ I do not know 
 how others are affected at this sight, but I must 
 confess my eyes are wholly taken up with the 
 page’s part: and, as for the queen, I am not so 
 attentive to anything she speaks, as to the right 
 adjusting of her train, lest it should chance to trip 
 up her heels, or incommode her, as she walks to 
 and fro upon the stage. It is, in my opinion, a 
 very odd spectacle, to see a queen venting her 
 passions in a disordered motion, and a little boy 
 taking care all the while that they do not ruffle 
 the tail of her gown. The parts that the two per¬ 
 sons act on the stage at the same time are very 
 different. The princess is afraid lest she should 
 incur the displeasure of the king her father, or 
 lose the hero her lover, while her attendant is only 
 concerned lest she should entangle her feet in her 
 
 xmcoat. 
 
 We are told, that an ancient tragic poet, to move 
 
 wants a place, and is to be heard of at the house . of audience for his exiled kings and 
 
 of Mynheer Grotesque, a Dutch painter m Bar- j heroes, used to make the actors repre¬ 
 
 sent them in dresses and clothes that were thread- 
 
 bican. __„_ 
 
 N. B. She is also well skilled in the drapery I and*decayed. This artifice for moving pity 
 part, and puts on hoods, and mixes ribbons so as jp contrived as that we have been speak 
 
 “ 1 — of the face, with 1 - - ■ - - ’ - - 
 
 to suit the colors 
 success.—It. 
 
 great 
 
 No. 42.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 18, 1711. 
 
 Garganum mugire putes nemus, aut mare Thuscum; 
 Tantum cum strepitu ludi spectantur, et artes, 
 Divitiseque peregrin*; quibus oblitus actor 
 Cum stetit in scena, concurrit dextera lasv* 
 
 Dixit adhuc aliquid? Nil sane. Quid placet ergo ? 
 Lana Tarentino violas imitata veneno. 
 
 Hor.. 2 Ep., i, 202. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Loud as the wolves on Orca’s stormy steep, 
 
 Howl to the roarings of the northern deep: 
 
 Such is the shout, the long applauding note, 
 
 At Quin’s high plume, or Oldfield’s petticoat: 
 
 Or when from court a birth-day suit bestow’d 
 Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load. 
 
 Booth enters—hark! the universal peal!— 
 
 But has he spoken?—Not a syllable- 
 
 What shook the stage, and made the people stare? 
 Cato’s long wig, flower’d gown, and lacker’d chair. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Aristotle has observed, that ordinary writers in 
 tragedy endeavor to raise terror and pity in their 
 
 seems as ill contrived as that we have been speak 
 ing of to inspire us with a great idea of the per 
 sons introduced upon the stage. In short, 1 
 would have our conceptions raised by the dignity 
 of thought and sublimity of expression, rathe; 
 than by a train of robes or a plume of feathers. 
 
 Another mechanical method of making grea 
 men, and adding dignity to queens, is to accom 
 pany them with halberts and battle-axes. Twi 
 or three shifters of scenes, with the two candle 
 snuffers, make up a complete body of guards upoi 
 the English stage ; and by the addition of a fev 
 porters dressed "in red coats can represent above ; 
 dozen legions. I have sometimes seen a couple oi 
 armies drawn up together upon the stage, whei 
 the poet has been disposed to do honor to hi 
 generals. It is impossible for the reader’s imag 
 ination to multiply twenty men into such pro 
 digious multitudes, or to fancy that . two o 
 three hundred thousand soldiers are fighting in 
 room of forty or fifty yards in compass. Incident 
 of such nature should be told, not represented 
 
the spectator. 
 
 Non tamen intus 
 
 83 
 
 Digna gori promes in scenara: multaque tolles 
 Ex oculis, qua; mox uarret fecundia prsesans. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 182. 
 Yet there are things improper for a scene 
 Which men of judgment only will relate.’ 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 I should, therefore, in this particular, recommend 
 to my countrymen the example of the French 
 stage, where the kings and queens always appear 
 unattended, and leave their guards behind the 
 scenes. I should likewise be glad if we imitated 
 the French in banishing from our stage the noise 
 of drums, trumpets, and huzzas, which is some¬ 
 times so very great, that when there is a battle in 
 the Haymarket theater, one may hear it as far as 
 Charing-cross. 
 
 I have here only touched upon those particulars 
 which are made use of to raise and aggrandize 
 the persons of a tragedy; and shall show, in 
 another paper, the several expedients which are 
 practiced by authors of a vulgar genius to move 
 terroi, pity, or admiration in their hearers. 
 
 The tailor and the painter often contribute to 
 uie success of a tragedy more than the poet. 
 Scenes affect ordinary minds as much as speeches • 
 and our actors are very sensible that a well- 
 dressed play has sometimes brought them as full 
 audiences as a well-written one. The Italians 
 have a very good phrase to express this art of im- 
 posmg upon the spectators by appearances : they 
 call it the “ Fourberia della scena,” “ The knavery 
 or tnckish part of the drama/’ But however the 
 show and outside of the tragedy may work upon 
 the vulgar, the more understanding part of the 
 audience immediately see through it, and de¬ 
 spise it. 
 
 A good poet will give the reader a more lively 
 idea of an army or a battle, in a description, than 
 if he actually saw them drawn up in squadrons 
 and battalions, or engaged in the confusion of a 
 nght. Our minds should be opened to great con¬ 
 ceptions, and inflamed with glorious sentiments 
 by what the actor speaks, more than by what he 
 appears. Can all the trappings or equipage of a 
 king or hero, give Brutus half that pomp and 
 majesty which he receives from a few lines in 
 bhakspeare ?—C. 
 
 No. 43.] THURSDAY, APRIL 19, 1711. 
 
 Has tibi erunt artes; pacisque imponere morem. 
 Jrarcere subjectis, et debellare superbos. 
 
 Virg. iEn., vi, 854. 
 
 Be these thy arts; to bid contention cease, 
 
 Chain up stern wars, and give the nations peace; 
 
 0 er subject lands extend thy gentle sway. 
 
 And teach with iron rod the haughty to obey. 
 
 There are crowds of men, whose great misfor- 
 tune it is that they were not bound to mechanic 
 iv, °'f \ d< i •’ i J t bem S absolutely necessary for 
 t0 + be ^ ld by some continual task or em- 
 ' These are such as we commonly call 
 11 fellows; persons who for want of something 
 to do, out of a certain vacancy of thought rather 
 wWh th 7 ’ are ever meddling with things for 
 nf th ^l 7 1 cannot give you a notion 
 
 lederT better ’ ! ian hy Presenting you with a 
 of ft;/? a ! entleman ; who belongs to a society 
 ot this order of men, residing at Oxford. * 
 
 , Oxford, April 13, 1711. 
 
 Four o clock in the morning 
 
 .krfSjUT ° f l at0 . s P ecu >^ions. I find some 
 sketches toward a history of clubs; but you 
 
 ,eem to me to show them in somewhat too ludi¬ 
 crous a light. I have well weighed that matter. 
 
 nrfv b^W 1 ^ the . niost . important negotiations 
 S p camod on 111 such assemblies. I 
 
 T t™U heref ° re ’ the S ood of mankind (which 
 1 tiust you and I are equally concerned for), 
 
 sake 0 ^ ^ lnStltutlon of that nature for example 
 
 “ I must confess the design and transactions of 
 too many clubs are trifling, and manifestly of no 
 consequence to the nation or public weal. " Those 
 I will give you up. But you must do me then 
 the justice to own, that nothing can be more use- 
 tul oi laudable, than the scheme we go upon 
 
 l\vZ°T ,he H^T eS we 8 callSu“ 
 
 selves 1 he Hebdomadal Meeting. Our president 
 
 continues for a year at least, &d someSmes for 
 
 four or five ; we are all grave, serious, designing 
 
 men in our way; we think it our duty, as far as 
 
 in us lies, to take care the constitution receives 
 
 no harm Ne quid delrimenti res capiat publica _To 
 
 censure doctrine. or facts, persons or things! 
 
 which we do not like; to settle the nation ^at 
 
 home, and to carry on the war abroad, where and 
 
 m what manner we think fit. If other people 
 
 are not of our opinion, we cannot help that. It 
 
 were better they were. Moreover, we now and 
 
 then condescend to direct in some measure the 
 
 little aiiairs of our own university. 
 
 “Verily Mr. Spectator, we are much offended 
 at the act for importing French wines. A bottle 
 
 ^ of S° ] od sol . ld edifying port at honest 
 George s, made a night cheerful, and threw off 
 reserve. But this plaguy French claret will not 
 only cost us more money, but do us less good. 
 Had wm been aware of it before it had gone too 
 far, I must tell you, we would have petitioned to 
 be beard upon that subject. But let that pass. 
 
 1 must let you know likewise, good Sir, that 
 we look upon a certain northern prince’s march 
 in connection with infidels, to be palpably against' 
 our good-will and iking; and for all Monsieur 
 ralmquist, a most dangerous innovation ; and we 
 are by no means yet sure, that some people are 
 not at the bottom of it. At least, my own private 
 letters leave room for a politician, well versed in 
 matters of this nature, to suspect as much, as a 
 penetrating friend, of mine tells me. 
 
 ■“y W J think have a t last done the business 
 with the malcontents in Hungary, and shall clap 
 up a peace there. F 
 
 “ What the neutrality army is to do, or what 
 the army, in Flanders, and what two or three other 
 princes, is not yet fully determined among us • 
 and we wait impatiently for the coming in of the’ 
 next Dyer s, who you must know is our authen¬ 
 tic intelligence, our Aristotle in politics. And 
 indeed, it is but fit there should be some dernier 
 resort, the absolute decider of controversies. 
 
 “We were lately informed, that the gallant 
 trained-bands had patrolled all night long about 
 the streets of London. We indeed, could not 
 imagine any occasion for it, we guessed not a 
 tittle on it aforehand, we were in nothing of the 
 secret; and that city tradesmen, or their appren¬ 
 tices should do duty or work during the holidays, 
 we thought absolutely impossible. But Dyer 
 eing positive in it, and some letters from other 
 people who had talked with some who had it 
 from those who should know, giving some coun¬ 
 tenance to it, the chairman reported from the 
 committee appointed to examine into that affair 
 that it was possible there might be something in 
 
 jL J A Sa 7 to JOU, but my tWO* 
 
 good filends and neighbors, Dominic and Sly¬ 
 boots are just come in, and the coffee is ready L 
 am, in the meantime, “ Mr. Spectator,' 
 
 Your admirer and humble servant, 
 
 “ Abeaham Feoxh.’” 
 
84 
 
 the spectator 
 
 You may observe the turn of tlieir minds tends 
 only to novelty, and not satisfaction in anything. 
 
 ?t iould be disappointment to them to come to 
 certain y in anything, for that would gravel them 
 and put an end to their inquiries which dull 
 fellows do not make for information, but tor exer 
 cise I do not know but this may be a very go 
 way of accounting for what we frequently see 
 to wit that dull fellows prove very good men of 
 business. Business relieves them from their own 
 natural heaviness, by furnishing them with what 
 to do • whereas business to mercurial men is an 
 interruption from their real existence and hap¬ 
 piness" Though the dull part of mankind are 
 harmless in their amusements, it were to be 
 wished they had no vacant time, because they 
 usually undertake something that makes thei 
 wants conspicuous, by their manner of sugptymg 
 them You shall seldom find a dull fellow ot 
 good education, but, if he happens to have any 
 feisure upon his hands, will turn his head to one 
 of those two amusements for ali fools of eminen 
 politics or poetry. The former of these arts is 
 
 the’study of’all Al people in general i but ^ 
 
 dullness is lodged m a person of‘ a qmck am 1 
 life it generally exerts itself m poetry. One mignt 
 here Sion a few military writers, who give 
 great entertainment to the age, by reason that *e 
 stupidity of their heads is quickened by the ala 
 crity of their hearts. This constitution in a dull 
 fellow gives vigor to nonsense, and makes the 
 puddle boil which would otherwise stagnate. T 1 
 British Prince, that celebrated poem, which wa 
 written In the reign of King Charles the second, 
 and deservedly called by the wits of that age m 
 comparable, was the effect of such a happy genius 
 as we me speaking of. From among many other 
 distichs no less to be quoted on this account, I 
 cannot but recite the two following lines . 
 
 tyrant. I have known a bell introduced into 
 several tragedies with good effect; and have seen 
 the whole assembly in a very great alarm all the 
 while it has been ringing. But there is nothing 
 which delights ail'd terrifies our English theater 
 so much as a ghost, especially when lie appears 
 in a bloody shirt. A specter has very often saved 
 a play, though he has done nothing but stalked 
 across the stage, or rose through a cleft of it, and 
 sunk again without speaking one word. 1 here 
 may be a proper season for these several terrors ; 
 and when they only come in as aids and assist¬ 
 ances to the poet, they are not only to be excused, 
 but to be applauded. Thus the sounding of the 
 clock in Venice Preserved makes the hearts ot the 
 whole audience quake; and conveys a stronger 
 terror to the mind than it is possible for words to 
 do The appearance of the ghost in Hamlet is 
 a master-piece in its kind and wrought up with 
 all the circumstances that can create either 
 attention or horror. The mind of the reader is 
 wonderfully prepared for his reception by the dis¬ 
 courses that precede it. His dumb behaviour at 
 his first entrance strikes the imagination very 
 strongly; but every time he enters, he is still 
 more terrifying. Who can read the Bpeech with 
 which young Hamlet accosts him without trem¬ 
 bling? 
 
 A nainted vest Prince Voltiger had on, 
 Which from a naked Piet his grandsire won. 
 
 IIor. Look, my Lord, it comes! 
 
 Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us! 
 
 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn d. # 
 
 Bring’st with thee airs from heav n, or blasts from hell, 
 Be thy events* wicked or charitable; 
 
 Thou com’st in such a questionable shape 
 That I will speak to thee. 111 call thee Hamlet, 
 
 King, Father, Royal Dane. Oh! answer me. 
 
 Let me not hurst in ignorance; but tell 
 Whv thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, 
 
 Have burst their cerements? Why the sepulcher 
 Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn d. 
 
 Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws 
 To cast thee up again? What may this mean? 
 
 That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel 
 Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, 
 
 Making night hideous? 
 
 Here, if the poet had not been vivacious as well 
 as stupid he could not, in the warmth and hurry] 
 of nonsense, have been capable of fo^teng tha 
 neither Prince Voltiger nor his f f® f a 
 
 strip a naked man ot his doublet ; but a tool ot a 
 colder constitution would have staid to have flaye 
 the Piet, and made buff of his skin, for the wea - 
 
 observations to some useful nor- 
 poses of life—what I would propose should be, 
 that we imitated those wise nations, therein 
 every man learns some handicraft work.—Would 
 it not employ a beau prettily enough, if, instead of 
 eternally playing with a snuff-box, he spent some 
 part of ins time in making one ? Such a method 
 as this would very much conduce to the public 
 emolument, by making every man living good for 
 something; for there would then be no one 
 member of human society but would have some 
 little pretension for some degree m it like him 
 who came to Will’s coffee-house, upon the ment 
 of having written a posy of a ring.—R. 
 
 Ho. 44.] FRIDAY, APRIL, 20, 1711. 
 
 Tu, quid ego et populus m 
 
 Now hear what every auditor expects.—R oscommon. 
 
 Among the several artifices which are put in 
 practice by the poets to fill the minds of an au- 
 Sience witS terror, the first place is due to thunder 
 and lightning, which are often made use of at the 
 descending of a god, or the rising of a ghost, at 
 the vanishing of a devil, or at the death of a 
 
 I do not therefore find fault with the artifices 
 above mentioned, when they are introduced with 
 skill, and accompanied by proportionable senti¬ 
 ments and expressions in the writing. 
 
 For the moving of pity, our principal machine 
 is the handkerchief ; and indeed, m our common 
 tragedies, as we should not know very often that 
 the persons are in distress by anything they say, 
 if they did not from time to time apply their 
 handkerchiefs to their eyes. Far be it fromme to 
 think of banishing this instrument of sorrow from 
 the stage; I know a tragedy could not subsist 
 without it; all that I would contend for, is to 
 keep it from being misapplied. In a word, 1 
 would have the actor’s tongue sympathize with his 
 
 eJ A ’disconsolate mother with a child in her hand, 
 has frequently drawn compassion from the au¬ 
 dience, and has therefore gained a place in several 
 tragedies. A modern writer, that observed how 
 this had took in other plays, being resolved to 
 double the distress, and melt his audience twice as 
 much as those before him had done, brought a 
 princess upon the stage with a little boy in one 
 hand, and a girl in the other. This too had a very 
 good effect. A third poet being resolved to out- 
 write all his predecessors, a few years ago intro¬ 
 duced three children with great success : and as J 
 am informed, a young gentleman, who is fully de¬ 
 termined to break the most obdurate hearts, has , 
 tragedy by him, where the first person that appea 
 upon the stage is an afflicted widow m her mourn 
 
 * Events for advents, comings, or visits. We read in othe, 
 copies, intents. 
 
85 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 ing weeds, with lialf-a-dozen fatherless children 
 attending her, like those that usually hang about 
 the figure of Charity. Thus several incidents 
 that are beautiful in a good writer, become ridicu- 
 lous by falling into the hands of a bad one. 
 
 But among all our methods of moving pity or 
 terror, there is none so absurd and barbarous, and 
 which more exposes us to the contempt and ridi¬ 
 cule of our neighbors than that dreadful butcher¬ 
 ing of one another, which is so very frequent upon 
 the English stage. To delight m seeing men 
 stabbed, poisoned, racked, or impaled, is certainly 
 the sign of a cruel temper: and as this is often 
 racticed before the British audience, several 
 rench critics, who think these are grateful spec¬ 
 tacles to us, take occasion from them to represent 
 us as a people that delight in blood. It is indeed 
 very odd, to see our stage strewed with carcasses 
 in the last scenes of a tragedy, and to observe in the 
 wardrobe of the playhouse several daggers, po¬ 
 niards, wheels, bowls for poison, and many other 
 instruments of death. Murder and executions are 
 always transacted behind the scenes in the French 
 theater; which in general is very agreeable to the 
 manners of a polite and civilized people : but as 
 there are no exceptions to this rule on the French 
 stage, it leads them into absurdities almost as ri¬ 
 diculous as that which falls under our present 
 censure. I remember in the famous play of Cor¬ 
 neille, written upon the subject of the Horatii and 
 Curiatii; the fierce young hero who had overcome 
 the Curiatii one after another (instead of beino- 
 congratulated by his sister for his victory, beinS 
 upbraided by her for having slain her lover), in 
 the height of his passion and resentment kills 
 her. If anything could extenuate so brutal an 
 action, it would be the doing of it on a sudden, 
 before the sentiments of nature, reason, or man¬ 
 hood, could take place in him. However, to avoid 
 public bloodshed, as soon as his passion is wrought 
 to its height, he follows his sister the whole length 
 of the stage, and forbears killing her till they are 
 both withdrawn behind the scenes. I must con¬ 
 fess, had he murdered her before the audience, the 
 indecency might have been greater ; but as it is, 
 it appears very unnatural, and looks like killing 
 in cold blood. To give my opinion upon this 
 case, the fact ought not to have been represented, 
 but to have been told, if there was any occasion 
 for it. 
 
 It may not be unacceptable to the reader to see 
 how Sophocles has conducted a tragedy under the 
 like delicate circumstances. Orestes was under 
 the same condition with Hamlet in Shakspeare, 
 his mother having murdered his father, and taken 
 possession of his kingdom in conspiracy with her 
 adulterer. That young prince, therefore, being 
 determined to revenge his father’s death upon those 
 who filled his throne, conveys himself by a beau¬ 
 tiful stratagem info his mother’s apartment, with 
 a resolution to kill her. But because such a spec¬ 
 tacle would have been too shocking to the au¬ 
 dience, this dreadful resolution is executed behind 
 the scenes ; the mother is heard calling out to her 
 son for mercy ; and the son answering her, that 
 she showed no mercy to his father; after which 
 she shrieks out that she is wounded, and by what 
 follows we find that she is slain. I do not re¬ 
 member that in any of our plays there are speeches 
 made behind the scenes, though there are other 
 instances of this nature to be met with in those of 
 the ancients : and I believe my reader will a«ree 
 with me, that there is something infinitely more 
 affecting in this dreadful dialogue between the 
 mother and her son behind the scenes, than could 
 have been in anything transacted before the au- 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 dience. Orestes immediately after meets the usur¬ 
 per at the entrance of his palace ; and by a very 
 happy thought of the poet, avoids killing him 
 before the audience, by telling him that he should 
 live some time in his present bitterness of soul 
 before he would dispatch him, and by ordering 
 him to retire into that part of the palace where he 
 had slain his father, whose murder he would re¬ 
 venge in the very same place where it was com¬ 
 mitted. By this means the poet observes that de¬ 
 cency, which Horace afterward established by a 
 rule, of forbearing to commit parricides or unnatu¬ 
 ral murders before the audience. 
 
 Nec pueros coram populo Medea trueidet. 
 
 Ars. Poet., ver. 185. 
 
 Let not Medea draw her murd’ring knife. 
 
 And spill her children’s blood upon the stage. 
 
 Roscommon, 
 i 
 
 The French have therefore refined too much upon 
 Horace’s rule, who never designed to banish all 
 kinds of death from the stage; but only such as 
 had too much horror in them, and which would 
 have a better effect upon the audience when trans¬ 
 acted behind the scenes. I would therefore re¬ 
 commend to my countrymen the practice of the 
 ancient poets, who were very sparing of their pub¬ 
 lic executions, and _ rather chose to perform them 
 behind the scenes, if it could be done with as great 
 an effect upon the audience. At the same time I 
 must observe, that though the devoted persons of 
 the tragedy were seldom slain before the audience, 
 which has generally something ridiculous in it, 
 their bodies were often produced after their death, 
 which has always something melancholy or terri¬ 
 fying >' so that the killing on the stage does not 
 seem to have been avoided only as an indecency, 
 but also as an improbability. 
 
 Nec pueros coram populo Medea trueidet; 
 
 Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus; 
 
 Aut in avem Progne vertatur, Cadmus in anguem; 
 
 Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 
 
 Hor. Ars. Poet., ver. 185. 
 
 Medea must not draw her murd’ring knife, 
 
 Nor Atreus there his horrid feast prepare; 
 
 Cadmus and Progne’s metamorphoses, 
 
 (She to a swallow turn’d, he to a snake); 
 
 And whatsoever contradicts my sense, 
 
 I hate to see, and never can believe.—R oscommon. 
 
 I have now gone through the several dramatic 
 inventions which are made use of by the ignorant 
 poets to supply the place of tragedy, and' by the 
 skillful to improve it; some of which I would 
 wish entirely rejected, and the rest to be used with 
 caution. It would be an endless task to consider 
 comedy in the same light, and to mention the in¬ 
 numerable shifts that small wits put in practice to 
 raise a laugh. Bullock in a short coat, and Nor¬ 
 ris in a long one, seldom fail of this effect. In 
 ordinary comedies, a broad and narrow-brimmed 
 hat are different characters. Sometimes the wit 
 of the scene lies in a shoulder-belt, and sometimes 
 in a pair of whiskers. A lover running about the 
 stage with his head peeping out of a barrel*, was 
 thought a very good jest in King Charles the 
 Second’s time; and invented by one of the first 
 wits of that age. But because ridicule is not so 
 delicate as compassion, and because the objects 
 that make us laugh are infinitely more numerous 
 than those that make us weep, there is a much 
 greater latitude for comic than tragic artifices, and 
 by consequence a much greater indulgence to be 
 allowed them.—C. 
 
 * The comedy of “The Comical Revemge; or. Love in a 
 ab,” by Sir George Etheridge, 1064. 
 
86 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 Ho. 45,] SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1711. 
 
 Natio comoeda est.—Juv., Sat. iii, 100. 
 
 The nation is a company of players. 
 
 There is nothing which I desire more than a 
 safe and honorable peace, though at the same time 
 1 am very apprehensive of many ill consequences 
 that may attend it. I do not mean in regard to 
 our politics, but to our manners. What an inun¬ 
 dation of ribbons and brocades will break in upon 
 us! What peals of laughter and impertinence 
 shall we be exposed to! For the prevention 
 of these great evils I could heartily wish that 
 there was an act of parliament prohibiting the 
 importation of French fopperies. 
 
 The female inhabitants of our island have al¬ 
 ready received very strong impressions from this 
 ludicrous nation, though by the length of the war 
 (as there is no evil which has not some good at¬ 
 tending it) they are pretty well worn out and for- 
 gottenr I remember the time when some of our 
 well-bred country-women kept their valet de 
 chambre, because, forsooth, a man was much moie 
 handy about them than one of their own sex. I my¬ 
 self have seen one of these male Abigails tripping 
 about the room with a looking-glass in his hand, 
 and combing his lady’s hair a whole morning to¬ 
 gether. Whether or no there was any truth in the 
 story of a lady’s being got with child by one of 
 these her handmaids, I cannot tell: but I think at 
 present the whole race of them is extinct in our 
 own country. 
 
 About the time that several of our sex were ta¬ 
 ken into this kind of service, the ladies likewise 
 brought up the fashion of receiving visits in their 
 beds. It was then looked upon as a piece of ill- 
 breeding for a woman to refuse to see a man be¬ 
 cause she was not stirring ; and a porter would 
 have been thought unfit for his place, that could 
 have made so awkward an excuse. As I love to 
 see everything that is new, I once prevailed upon 
 my friend Will Honeycomb to carry me along with 
 him to one of these traveled ladies, desiring him, 
 at the same time, to present me as a foreigner who 
 could not speak English, that so I might not be 
 obliged to bear a part in the discourse. The lady, 
 though willing to appear undrest, had put on her 
 best looks, and painted herself for our reception. 
 Her hair appeared in a very nice disorder, as the 
 night-gown which was thrown upon her shoulders 
 was ruffled with great care. For my part, I am so 
 shocked with everything which looks immodest in 
 the fair sex, that I could not forbear taking off my 
 eye from her when she moved in bed, and was in 
 the greatest confusion imaginable every time she 
 stirred a leg or an arm. As the coquettes who in¬ 
 troduced this custom grew old, they left it off by 
 degrees, well knowing that a woman of threescore 
 may kick and tumble her heart out without making 
 any impression. 
 
 Seinpronia is at present the most professed ad¬ 
 mirer of the French nation, but is so modest as to 
 admit her visitants no farther than her toilet. It 
 is a very odd sight that beautiful creature makes, 
 when she is talking politics with her tresses flow¬ 
 ing about her shoulders, and examining that face 
 in the glass which does such execution upon all 
 the male standers-by. How prettily does she 
 divide her discourse between her woman and her 
 visitants! What sprightly transitions does she 
 make from an opera or a sermon to an ivory comb 
 or a pincushion ! How have I been pleased to see 
 her interrupted in an account of her travels, by a 
 message to her footman ; and holding her tongue 
 in the midst of a moral reflection, by applying the 
 tip of it to a patch ! 
 
 There is nothing which exposes a woman to 
 
 C T A T 0 R . 
 
 greater dangers, than that gayety and airiness of 
 temper which are natural to most of the sex. It 
 should therefore be the concern of every wise and 
 virtuous woman to keep this sprightliness from 
 degenerating into levity. On the contrary,. the 
 whole discourse and behavior of the French is to 
 make the sex more fantastical, or (as they are 
 pleased to term it) more awakened, than is consis¬ 
 tent either with virtue or discretion. To speak 
 loud in public assemblies, to let every one hear 
 you talk of things that should only be mentioned 
 in private or in whisper, are looked upon as parts 
 of a refined education. At the same time a blush 
 is unfashionable, and silence more ill-bred than 
 anything that can be spoken. In short, discretion 
 and modesty, which in all other ages and coun¬ 
 tries have been regarded as the greatest ornaments 
 of the fair sex, are considered as the ingredients 
 of a narrow conversation, and family behavior. 
 
 Some years ago I was at the tragedy of Macbeth, 
 and unfortunately placed myself under a woman 
 of quality that is since dead, who, as I found by 
 the noise she made, was newly returned from 
 France. A little before the rising of the curtain, 
 she broke out into a loud soliloquy, “When will 
 the dear witches enter ?” and immediately upon 
 their first appearance, asked a lady that sat three 
 boxes from her on her right hand, if those witches 
 were not charming creatures. A little after, as 
 Betterton was in one of the finest speeches of the 
 play, she shook her fan at another lady who sat as 
 far on her left hand, and told her with a whisper 
 that might be heard all over the pit, “We must 
 not expect to see Balloon to-night.” Not long 
 after, calling out to a young baronet by his name, 
 who sat three seats before me, she asked him 
 whether Macbeth’s wife was still alive ; and be¬ 
 fore he could give an answer, fell a talking of the 
 ghost of Banquo. She had by this time formed a 
 little audience to herself, and fixed the attention 
 of all about her. But as I had a mind to hear the 
 play, I got out of the sphere of her impertinence, 
 and planted myself in one of the remotest corners 
 of the pit. 
 
 This pretty childishness of behavior is one ot 
 the most refined parts of coquetry, and is not to 
 be attained in perfection by ladies that do not 
 travel for their improvement. A natural and uncon¬ 
 strained behavior has something in it so agree¬ 
 able, that it is no wonder to see people endeavoring 
 after it. But at the same time it is so very hard 
 to hit, when it is not born with us, that people 
 often make themselves ridiculous in attempting it. 
 
 A very ingenious French author tells us, that 
 the ladies of the court of France in his time 
 thought it ill-breeding, and a kind of female ped¬ 
 antry, to pronounce a hard word right; for which 
 reason they took frequent occasion to use hard 
 words, that they might show a politeness in mur¬ 
 dering them. He farther adds, that a lady of 
 some quality at court having accidentally made 
 use of a hard word in a proper place, and pro¬ 
 nounced it right, the whole assembly was out of 
 countenance for her. 
 
 I must however be so just to own, that there are 
 many ladies who have traveled several thousands 
 of miles without being the worse for it, and have 
 brought home with them all the modesty, discre¬ 
 tion, and good sense that they went abroad with. 
 As, on the contrary, there are great numbers of 
 traveled ladies who have lived all their days 
 within the smoke of London. I have known a 
 woman that never was out of the parish of St. 
 James’s, betray as many foreign fopperies in her 
 carriage, as she could have gleaned in half the 
 countries of Europe.—C. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 No. 46.] MONDAY, APRIL 23, 1711. 
 
 Non bene junctarum discordia semina rerum. 
 
 Ovid. Met., 1, i, ver. 9. 
 
 The jarring seeds of ill-concerted things. 
 
 When I want materials for this paper, it is my 
 custom to go abroad in quest of game; and when 
 I meet any proper subject, I take the first oppor¬ 
 tunity of setting down a hint of it upon paper. 
 At the same time, I look into the letters of my 
 correspondents, and if I find anything suggested in 
 them that may afford matter of speculation, I 
 likewise enter a minute of it in my collection of 
 materials. By this means I frequently carry about 
 me a whole sheetful of hints, that would look like 
 a rhapsody of nonsense to anybody but myself. 
 There is nothing in them bat obscurity and con¬ 
 fusion, raving and inconsistency. In short, they 
 are my speculations in the first principles, that 
 (like tne world in its chaos) are void of all light, 
 distinction, and order. 
 
 About a week since there happened to me a very 
 odd accident, by reason of one of these my papers 
 of minutes which I had accidentally dropped at 
 Lloyd’s coffee-house, where the auctions are usu¬ 
 ally kept. Before I missed it, there was a cluster 
 of people who had found it, and were diverting 
 themselves with it at one end of the coffee-house. 
 It had raised so much laughter among them before 
 I had observed what they were about, that I had 
 not the courage to own it. The boy of the coffee¬ 
 house, when they had done with it, carried it 
 about in his hand, asking everybody if they had 
 dropped a written paper; but nobody challenging 
 it, he was ordered by those merry gentlemen who 
 had before perused it, to get up into the auction 
 pulpit, and read it to the whole room, that if any 
 one would own it, they might. The boy accora- 
 ingly mounted the pulpit, and with a very audible 
 voice read as follows: 
 
 MINUTES. 
 
 Sir Roger de Coverly’s country seat—Yes, for I 
 hate long speeches — Query, if a good Christian 
 may be a conjurer — Childermas-day, saltcellar, 
 house-dog, screech-owl, cricket—Mr. Thomas Incle 
 of London, in the good ship called the Achilles— 
 
 Yarico- JEgrescitque medendo — Ghosts — The 
 
 Lady’s Library—Lion by trade a tailor—Drome¬ 
 dary called Bucephalus — Equipage the lady’s 
 summum bonum —Charles Lillie to be taken notice 
 of—Short face a relief to envy—Redundancies in 
 three professions—King Latinus a recruit—Jew 
 devouring a ham of bacon—Westminster-abbey— 
 Grand Cario—Procrastination—April fools—Blue 
 boars, red lions, hogs in armor—Enter a king and 
 two fiddlers solus —Admission into the Ugly club— 
 J3eauty how improvable — Families of true and 
 false humor—The parrot’s school-mistress—Face 
 half Piet half British—No man to be a hero of a 
 tragedy under six foot—Club of sighers—Letters 
 from flower-pots, elbow-chairs, tapestry-figures, 
 
 lion, thunder-The bell-rings to the puppet- 
 
 show— Old woman with a beard married to a 
 smock-faced boy—My next coat to be turned up 
 with blue—Fable of tongs and gridiron—Flower 
 dyers—The soldier’s prayer—Thank ye for no¬ 
 thing, says the gallipot—Pactolus in stockings 
 with golden clocks to them—Bamboos, cudgels, 
 drum-sticks—Slip of my landlady’s eldest daugh¬ 
 ter—The black mare with a star in her forehead— 
 The barber’s pole—Will Honeycomb’s coat-pocket 
 —Csesar’s behavior and my own in parallel circum¬ 
 stances—Poem in patch-work- Nulli gram est 
 
 pcrcussus Achilles —The female conventicler—The 
 ogle-master. 
 
 The reading of this paper made the whole coffee- 
 
 CTATOR. 87 
 
 house very merry; some of them concluded it was 
 written bv a madman, and others by somebody 
 that had been taking notes out of the Spectator. 
 One who had the appearance of a very substantial 
 citizen, told us, with several political winks and 
 nods, that he wished there was no more in tho 
 paper than what was expressed in it: that for his 
 part, he looked upon the dromedary, the gridiron, 
 and the barber’s pole, to signify more than was 
 usually meant by those words: and that he thought 
 the coffee-man could not do better than to carry 
 the paper to one of the secretaries of state. He 
 farther added, that he did not like the name of the 
 outlandish man with the golden clock in his 
 stockings. A young Oxford scholar, who chanced 
 to be with his uncle at the coffee-house, discovered 
 to us who this Pactolus was: and by that means 
 turned the whole scheme of this worthy citizen into 
 ridicule. While they were making their several 
 conjectures upon this innocent paper, I reached 
 out my arm to the boy as he was coming out of 
 the pulpit, to give it me; which he did accordingly. 
 This drew the eyes of the whole company upon 
 me; but after having cast a cursory glance over it, 
 and shook my head twice or thrice at the reading 
 of it, I twisted it into a kind of match, and lighted 
 my pipe with it. My profound silence, together 
 with the steadiness of my countenance, and the 
 gravity of my behavior during this whole trans¬ 
 action, raised a very loud laugh on all sides of me; 
 but as I had escaped all suspicion of being the 
 author, I was very well satisfied, and applying 
 myself to my pipe and the Postman, took no 
 farther notice of anything that had passed about 
 me. 
 
 My reader will find, that I have already made 
 use of above half the contents of the foregoing 
 paper; and will easily suppose, that those sub¬ 
 jects which are yet untouched were such provisions 
 as I had made for his future entertainment. But 
 as I have been unluckily prevented by this acci¬ 
 dent, I shall only give him the letters which re¬ 
 lated to the two last hints. The first of them 1 
 should not have published, were I not informed that 
 there is many a husband who suffers very much 
 in his private affairs by the indiscreet zeal of such 
 a partner as is hereafter mentioned; to whom I 
 may apply the barbarous inscription quoted by 
 the Bishop of Salisbury in his travels: Dum nimia 
 pia est facta est impia. “Through too much piety 
 she became impious.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I am one of those unhappy men that are 
 plagued with a gospel gossip, so common among 
 dissenters (especially friends). Lectures in the 
 morning, church-meetings at noon, and prepara¬ 
 tion-sermons at night, take up 60 much of her 
 time, it is very rare she knows what we have for 
 dinner, unless when the preacher is to be at it. 
 With him come a tribe, all brothers and sisters it 
 seems; while others, really such, are deemed no 
 relations. If at any time I have her company 
 alone, she is a mere sermon pop-gun, repeating 
 aud discharging texts, proofs, and applications so 
 perpetually, that however weary I may go to bed, 
 the noise in my head will not let me sleep till 
 toward morning. The misery of my case, and 
 great numbers of such sufferers, plead your pity 
 and speedy relief; otherwise I must expect, in a 
 little time, to be lectured, preached, and prayed 
 into want, unless the happiness of being sooner 
 talked to death prevent it. 
 
 “I am, etc. 
 
 “R. G” 
 
 The second letter, relative to the ogling-master, 
 runs thus: 
 
88 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, , , , 
 
 Rm an Irisli gGiitlGni8.ii tliat have traveled 
 
 many years for my improvement; during which 
 time 1 have accomplished myself in the whole art 
 of oo-lino-, as it is at present practiced in the 
 polite nations of Europe. Being thus qualified, 
 I intend, by the advice of my friends, to set up 
 for an ogling-master. I teach the church ogle in 
 the mbrning, and the play-house ogle by candle¬ 
 light. I have also brought over with me a new 
 flying ogle fit for the ring; which I teach in the 
 dusk of the evening, or in any hour of the day, 
 by darkening one of my windows. I have a 
 manuscript by me called The Complete Ogler, 
 which I shall make ready to show on any oc¬ 
 casion. In the meantime, I beg you will publish 
 the substance of this letter in an advertisement, 
 and you will very much oblige, 
 
 “Your, etc.” 
 
 < 
 
 No. 47.] TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 1711. 
 
 Ride, si sapis- 
 
 Mart. 
 
 Laugh, if you are wise. 
 
 Mr. Hobbs, in his Discourse of Human Nature, 
 which, in my humble opinion, is much the best of 
 all his works, after some very curious observations 
 upon laughter, concludes thus: “ The passion of 
 laughter is nothing else but sudden glory aiising 
 from some sudden conception of some eminency in 
 ourselves, bv comparison with the infirmities of 
 others, or with our own formerly : for men laugh 
 at the follies of themselves past, when they come 
 suddenly to remembrance, except they bring with 
 them any present dishonor.” 
 
 According to this author, therefore, when we 
 hear a man laugh excessively, instead of saying 
 he is very merry, we ought to tell him he is very 
 proud. And indeed, if we look into the bottom 
 of this matter, we shall meet with many observa¬ 
 tions to confirm us in this opinion. Every one 
 laughs at somebody that is in an inferior state of 
 folly to himself. It was formerly the custom for 
 every °Teat house in England to keep a tame fool 
 dressecl in petticoats, that the heir of the family 
 might have an opportunity of joking upon him, 
 and diverting himself with his absurdities. For 
 the same reason, idiots are still in request in most 
 of the courts of Germany, where there is not a 
 prince of any great magnificence, who has not two 
 or three dressed, distinguished, undisputed fools 
 in his retinue, whom the rest of the courtiers are 
 always breaking their jests upon. > t 
 
 The Dutch, who are more famous for their in¬ 
 dustry and application than for wit and humor, 
 hang up in several of their streets what they, call 
 the sign of the Gaper, that is, the head of an idiot 
 dressed in a cap and bells, and gaping in a most 
 immoderate manner. This is a standing jest at 
 Amsterdam. 
 
 Thus every one diverts himself with some per¬ 
 son or other that is below him in point of under¬ 
 standing, and triumphs in the superiority of his 
 genius, while he has such objects of derisiou before 
 his eyes. Mr. Dennis has very well expressed this 
 in a couple of humorous lines, which are part of a 
 translation of a satire in Monsieur Boileau: 
 
 Thus one fool lolls his tongue out. at another, 
 
 And shakes his empty noddle at his brother. 
 
 Mr. Hobbs’s reflection gives us the reason why 
 the insignificant people above-mentioned are stir¬ 
 rers up of laughter among men of a gross taste: but 
 as the more understanding part of mankind do 
 not find their risibility affected by such ordinary 
 objects, it may be worth the while to examine into 
 
 the several provocatives of laughter in men of 
 superior sense and knowledge. 
 
 In the first place I must observe, that there is 
 a set of merry drolls, whom the common people of 
 all countries admire, and seem to love so well, 
 “that they could eat them,” according to the old 
 proverb: I mean those circumforaneous wits whom 
 every nation calls by the name of that dish of 
 meat which it loves best: in Holland they are 
 termed Pickled Herrings ; in France, Jean Pot¬ 
 tages ; in Italy, Macaronies ; and in Great Britain, 
 Jack Puddings. These merry wags, from what¬ 
 soever food they receive their titles, that they may 
 make their audiences laugh, always appear in a 
 fool’s coat, and commit such blunders and mis¬ 
 takes in every step they take, and every word they 
 utter, as those who listen to them would be 
 ashamed of. 
 
 But this little triumph of the understanding, 
 under the disguise of laughter, is nowhere more 
 visible than in that custom which prevails every¬ 
 where among us on the first day of the present 
 month, when everybody takes it into his head to 
 make as many fools as he can. In proportion as 
 there are more follies discovered, so there is. more 
 laughter on this day than on any other in. the 
 whole year. A neighbor of mine, who is a 
 haberdasher by trade, and a very shallow con¬ 
 ceited fellow, makes his boast that for these ten 
 years successively he has not made less than a 
 hundred April fools. My landlady had a falling 
 out with him about a fortnight ago, for sending 
 every one of her children upon some sleeveless 
 errand, as she terms it. Her eldest son went to 
 buy a halfpenny-worth of inkle at a shoemaker s; 
 the eldest daughter was dispatched half a mile to 
 see a monster ; and in short the whole family of 
 innocent children made April fools. Nay, my 
 landlady herself did not escape him.. This empty 
 fellow has laughed upon these conceits ever since. 
 
 This art of wit is well enough, when confined 
 to one day in a twelvemonth; but there is an inge¬ 
 nious tribe of men sprung up of . late years, who 
 are for making April fools every day in the year. 
 These gentlemen are commonly distinguished by 
 the name of Biters; a race of men that are.perpe¬ 
 tually employed in laughing at those mistakes 
 which are of their own production. 
 
 Thus we see, in proportion as one man is more 
 refined than another, he chooses his fool out of . a 
 lower or higher class of mankind; or to speak, in 
 a more philosophical language, that secret elation 
 or pride of heart which is generally called laugh¬ 
 ter, arises in him, from his comparing himself with 
 an object below him, whether it so happens that it 
 be a natural or an artificial fool. It is, indeed, 
 very possible that the persons we laugh at may in 
 the main of their characters be much wiser men 
 than ourselves ; but if they would have us laugh’ 
 at them, they must fall short of us in those re¬ 
 spects which stir up this passion. 
 
 I am afraid I shall appear too abstracted m my 
 speculations, if I show, that when a man of wit 
 makes us laugh, it is by betraying some oddness 
 or infirmity in his own character, or in the repre¬ 
 sentation which he makes of others ; and that 
 when we laugh at a brute, or even at an inanimate 
 thing, it is at some action or incident that bears 
 a remote analogy to any blunder or absurdity in 
 reasonable creatures. 
 
 But to come into common life; I shall pass by 
 the consideration of those stage coxcombs that are 
 able to shake a whole audience, and take notice 
 of a particular sort of men who are such provokers 
 of mirth in conversation, that it is impossible for 
 a club or merry meeting to subsist without them 
 I mean those honest gentlemen that are always 
 
• THE S P E 
 
 exposed to the wit and raillery of their well- 
 wishers and companions- that are pelted by men, 
 women, and children, friends and foes, and in a 
 word, stand as butts in conversation, for every one 
 to shoot at that pleases. I know several of these 
 butts who are men of wit and sense, though by 
 some odd turn of humor, some unlucky cast in 
 their person or behavior, they have always the 
 misfortune to make the company merry. The 
 truth of it is, a man is not qualified for a butt, 
 who has not a good deal of wit and vivacity, even 
 in the ridiculous side of his character. A stupid 
 butt is only fit for the conversation of ordinary 
 people: men of wit require one that v f ill give them 
 play, and bestir himself in the absurd part of his 
 behavior. A butt with these accomplishments 
 frequently gets the laugh on his side and turns the 
 ridicule upon him that attacks him. Sir John 
 Falstaff was a hero of this species, and gives a 
 good description of himself in his capacity of a 
 butt, after the following manner: “Men of all 
 sorts,” says that merry knight, “take a pride to 
 gird at me. The brain of man is not able to in¬ 
 vent anything that tends to laughter more than I 
 invent, or is invented on me. I am not only witty 
 in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.” 
 
 G. 
 
 No. 48.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 25, 1711. 
 
 -Per multas aditum sibi ssepe figuras 
 
 Kepperit- Ovid, Met. xiv, 652. 
 
 Through various shapes he often finds access. 
 
 > My correspondents take it ill if I do not, from 
 time to time, let them know I have received their 
 letters. The most effectual way will be to publish 
 some of them that are upon important subjects; 
 which I shall introduce with a letter of my own 
 that I wrote a fortnight ago to a fraternity who 
 thought fit to make me an honorary member. 
 
 To the President and Fellows of the Ugly Club. 
 
 “ May it please your Deformities. 
 
 “I have received the notification of the honor 
 you have done me, in admitting me into your 
 society. I acknowledge my want of merit, and 
 for that reason shall endeavor at all times to make 
 up my own failures, by introducing and recom¬ 
 mending to the club persons of more undoubted 
 qualifications than I can pretend to. I shall next 
 week come down in the stage-coach, in order to 
 take my seat at the board; and shall bring with 
 me a candidate of each sex. The persons 1 shall 
 present to you, are an old beau and a modern Piet, 
 if they are not so eminently gifted by nature as 
 our assembly expects, give me leave to say their 
 acquired ugliness is greater than any that has ever 
 yet appeared before you. The beau has varied his 
 dress every day in his life for these thirty years 
 past, and still added to the deformity he was born 
 with. The Piet lias still greater merit toward us, 
 and has, ever since she came to years of discre¬ 
 tion, deserted the handsome party, and taken all 
 possible pains to acquire the face in which I shall 
 present her to your consideration and favor. 
 
 “I am, Gentlemen, 
 
 “Your most obliged humble servant, 
 
 “ The Spectator.” 
 
 “P. S. I desire to know whether you admit 
 people of quality.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator. April 17. 
 
 “To show you there are among us of the vain 
 weak sex, some that have honesty and fortitude 
 enough to dare to be uglv, and willing to be 
 thought so, I apply myself to you, to beg your 
 
 CTATOR. 39 
 
 interest and recommendation to the Ugly club. If 
 my own word will not be taken (though in this 
 case a woman’s may), I can bring credible wit¬ 
 nesses of my qualifications for their company, 
 whether they insist upon hair, forehead, eyes, 
 cheeks, or chin; to which I must add, that I find 
 it easier to lean to my left side than to my right. 
 I hope I am in all respects agreeable; and for 
 humor and mirth, I will keep up to the president 
 himself. All the favor I will pretend to is, that as 
 I am the first woman who has appeared desirous 
 of good company and agreeable conversation, I 
 may take, and keep, the upper end of the table. 
 And indeed I think they want a carver, which I 
 can be, after as ugly a manner as they could wish. 
 I desire your thoughts of my claim as soon as you 
 can. Add to my features the length of my face, 
 which is a full half-yard; though I never knew the 
 reason of it till you gave one for the shortness of 
 yours. If I knew a name ugly enough to belong 
 to the above described face, I would feign one; 
 but, to my unspeakable misfortune, my name is 
 the only disagreeable prettiness about me; so 
 prithee make one for me that signifies all the de¬ 
 formity in the world. You understand Latin, but 
 be sure bring it in with'my being, in the sincerity 
 of my heart, 
 
 “Your most frightful admirer and servant, 
 
 “Hecatissa.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I read your discourse upon affectation, and 
 from the remarks made in it, examined my own 
 heart so strictly, that I thought I had found out 
 its most secret avenues, with a resolution to be 
 aware of them for the future. But alas! to my 
 sorrow I now understand that I have several follies 
 which I do not know the root of. I am an old 
 fellow, and extremely troubled with the gout; but 
 having always a strong vanity toward being pleas¬ 
 ing in the eyes of women, I never have a moment’s 
 ease, but I am mounted in high heeled shoes, with 
 a glazed wax-leather instep. Two days after a 
 severe fit, I was invited to a friend’s house in the 
 city, where I believed I should see ladies; and 
 with my usual complaisance, crippled myself to 
 wait upon them. A very sumptuous table, agree¬ 
 able company, and kind reception, were but so 
 many importunate additions to the torment I was 
 in. A gentleman of the family observed my con¬ 
 dition; and soon after the queen’s health, he in 
 the presence of the Avhole company, with his own 
 hands, degraded me into an old pair of his own 
 shoes. This operation, before fine ladies, to me 
 (who am by nature a coxcomb) was suffered with 
 the same reluctance as they admit the help of men 
 in the greatest extremity. The return of ease made 
 me forgive the rough obligation laid upon me, 
 which at that time relieved my body from a dis¬ 
 temper, and will my mind forever from a folly. 
 For the charity received, I return my thanks this 
 way. Your most humble servant. 
 
 “Sir, Epping, April 18. 
 
 “We have your papers here the morning they 
 come out, and we have been very well entertained 
 with your last, upon the false ornaments of per¬ 
 sons who represent heroes in a tragedy. What 
 made your speculation come very seasonably 
 among us is, that we have now at this place a 
 company of strollers, who are far from offending 
 in the impertinent splendor of the drama. They 
 are so far from falling into these false gallantries, 
 that the stage is here in its original situation of a 
 cart. Alexander the Great was acted by a fellow 
 in a paper cravat. The next day the Earl of Essex 
 seemed to have no distress but his poverty; and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 90 
 
 my Lord Foppington the same morning wanted 
 any better means to show himself a fop, than by 
 wearing stockings of different colors. In a word, 
 though they have had a full barn for many days 
 together, our itinerants are still so wretchedly 
 poor, that without you can prevail to send us the 
 furniture you forbid at the play-house, the heroes 
 appear only like sturdy beggars, and the heroines 
 gipsies. We have had but one part which was 
 performed and dressed with propriety, and that 
 was Justice Clodpate. This was so well done, 
 that it offended Mr. Justice Overdo, who, in the 
 midst of our whole audience, was (like Quixote in 
 the puppet-show) so highly provoked, that he told 
 them, if they would move compassion, it should 
 be in their own persons, and not in the characters 
 of distressed princes and potentates. He told them, 
 if they were so good at finding the way to people’s 
 hearts, they should do it at the end of bridges or 
 church porches, in their proper vocation of beg¬ 
 gars. This, the justice says, they must expect, 
 since they could not be contented to act heathen 
 warriors, and such fellows as Alexander, but must 
 presume to make a mockery of one of the quorum. 
 
 R. “Your servant.” 
 
 No. 49.] THURSDAY, APRIL 26, 1711. 
 
 -Hominem pagina nostra sapit.— Mart. 
 
 Men and manners I describe. 
 
 It is very natural for a man who is not turned 
 for mirthful meetings of men, or assemblies of the 
 fair sex, to delight in that sort of conversation 
 which we find in coffee-houses. Here a man of my 
 temper is in his element; for if he cannot talk, he 
 can still be more agreeable to his company, as well 
 as pleased in himself, in being only a hearer. It 
 is a secret known but to few, yet of no small use 
 in the conduct of life, that when you fall into a 
 man’s conversation, the first thing you should 
 consider is, whether he has a greater inclination 
 to hear you, or that you should hear him. 1 he 
 latter is the more general desire, and I know very 
 able flatterers that never speak a word in praise 
 of the persons from whom they obtain daily favors, 
 but still practice a skillful attention to whatever 
 is uttered by those with whom they converse. "We 
 are very curious to observe the behavior of great 
 men and their clients; but the same passions and 
 interests move men in lower spheres; and I (that 
 have nothing else to do but make observations) 
 see in every parish, street, lane, and alley, of this 
 populous city, a little potentate that has his court 
 and his flatterers, who lay snares fo^ his affection 
 and favor by the same arts that are practiced upon 
 men in higher stations. 
 
 In the place I most usually frequent, men differ 
 rather in the time of day in which they make a 
 figure, than in any real greatness above one an¬ 
 other. I, who am at the coffee-house at six in the 
 morning, know that my friend Beaver, the haber¬ 
 dasher, has a levee of more undissembled friends 
 and admirers than most of the courtiers or gene¬ 
 rals of Great Britain. Every man about him has, 
 perhaps, a newspaper in his hand; but none can 
 pretend to guess what step will be taken in any 
 one court of Europe, till Mr. Beaver has thrown 
 down his pipe, and declares what measures the 
 allies must enter into upon this new posture of af¬ 
 fairs. Our coffee-house is near one of the inns of 
 court, and Beaver has the audience and admira¬ 
 tion of his neighbors from six till within a quarter 
 of eight, at which time lie is interrupted by the 
 students of the house; some of whom are ready 
 dressed for Westminster at eight in a morning, 
 with faces as busy as if they were retained in 
 
 every cause there; and others come in their night¬ 
 gowns to saunter away their time, as if they never 
 designed to go thither. I do not know that I meet 
 in any of my walks, objects which move both my 
 spleen and laughter so effectually, as those young 
 fellows at the Grecian, Squire’s, Searle’s, and all 
 other coffee-houses adjacent to the law, who rise 
 early for no other purpose but to publish their 
 laziness. One would think these young virtuosos 
 take a gay cap and slippers, with a scarf and party- 
 colored gown, to be the ensigns of dignity; for the 
 vain things approach each other with an air, which 
 shows they regard one another for their vestments. 
 
 I have observed, that the superiority among these 
 proceeds from an opinion of gallantry and fashion. 
 The gentleman in the strawberry sash, who pre¬ 
 sides so much over the rest, has, it seems, sub¬ 
 scribed to every opera this last winter, and is 
 supposed to receive favors from one of the 
 actresses. 
 
 When the day grows too busy for these gentle¬ 
 men to enjoy any longer the pleasures of their 
 dishabille with any manner of confidence, they 
 give place to men who have business or good sense 
 in their faces, and come to the coffee-house either 
 to transact affairs, or enjoy conversation. The 
 persons to whose behavior and discourse I have 
 most regard, are such as are between these two 
 sorts of men ; such as have not spirits too active 
 to be happy and well pleased in a private condi¬ 
 tion, nor complexions too warm to make them ne¬ 
 glect the duties and relations of life. Of these 
 sort of men consist the worthier part of mankind; 
 of these are all good fathers, generous brothers, 
 sincere friends, and faithful subjects. Their en¬ 
 tertainments are derived rather from reason than 
 imagination : which is the cause that there is no 
 impatience or instability in their speech or action. 
 You see in their countenances they are at home, 
 and in quiet possession of the present instant as 
 it passes, without desiring to quicken it by grati¬ 
 fying any passion, or prosecuting any new design. 
 These are the men formed for society, and those 
 little communities which we express by the word 
 neighborhood. 
 
 The coffee-house is the place of rendezvous to 
 all that live near it, who are thus turned to relish 
 calm and ordinary life. Eubulus presides over 
 the middle hours of the day, when this assembly 
 of men meet together. He enjoys a great fortune 
 handsomely, without launching into expense ; and 
 exerts many noble and useful qualities, without 
 appearing in any public employment. His wis¬ 
 dom and knowledge are serviceable to all that 
 think fit to make use of them; and he does the 
 office of a counsel, a judge, an executor, and a 
 friend, to all his acquaintance, not only without 
 the profits which attend such offices, but also 
 without the deference and homage which are 
 usually paid to them. The giving of thanks is 
 displeasing to him. The greatest gratitude you 
 can show him is, to let him see that you are a 
 better man for his services ; and that you are as 
 ready to oblige others, as he is to oblige you. 
 
 In the private exigencies of his friends, he 
 lends at legal value considerable sums which he 
 might highly increase by rolling in the public 
 stocks. He does not consider in whose hands his 
 money will improve most, but where it will do 
 most good. 
 
 Eubulus has so great an authority in his little 
 diurnal audience, that when he -shakes his head 
 at any piece of public news, they all of them ap¬ 
 pear dejected ; and on the contrary, go home to 
 their dinners with a good stomach and cheerful 
 aspect when Eubulus seems to intimate that things 
 go well. Nay, their veneration toward him is so 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 91 
 
 great, tliat when they are in other company they 
 speak and act after him; are wise in his sen¬ 
 tences, and are no sooner sat down at their own 
 tables, but they hope or fear, rejoice or despond, 
 as they saw him do at the cotfee-house. In a 
 word, every man is Eubulus as soon as his back 
 is turned. 
 
 Having here given an account of the several 
 reigns that succeed each other from day-break till 
 dinner-time, I shall mention the monarchs of the 
 afternoon on another occasion, and shut up the 
 whole series of them with the history of Tom the 
 Tyrant ;* who, as the first minister of the coffee¬ 
 house, takes the government upon him between 
 the hours of eleven and twelve at night, and gives 
 his orders in the most arbitrary manner to the 
 servants below him, as to the disposition of 
 liquors, coal, and cinders.—R. 
 
 No. 50.] FRIDAY, APRIL 27, 1711. 
 
 Nunquam aliud natura, aliud sapientia dixit. 
 
 Juv., Sat. xix, 321. 
 
 Good taste and nature always speak the same. 
 
 When the four Indian kings were in this coun¬ 
 ty about a twelvemonth ago, I often mixed with 
 the rabble, and followed them a whole day to¬ 
 gether, being wonderfully struck with the sight of 
 everything that is new or uncommon. I have 
 since their departure, employed a friend to make 
 many inquiries of their landlord the upholsterer, 
 relating to their manners and conversation, as also 
 concerning the remarks which they made in this 
 country ; for next to the forming a right notion of 
 such strangers, I should be desirous of learning 
 what ideas they have conceived of us. 
 
 The upholsterer finding my friend very inquisi¬ 
 tive about these his lodgers, brought him some 
 time since a little bundle of papers, which he as¬ 
 sured him were written by king Sa Ga Yean Qua 
 Rash Tow, and, as he supposes, left behind by 
 some mistake. These papers are now translated, 
 and contain abundance of very odd observations, 
 which I find this little fraternity of kings made 
 during their stay in the isle of Great Britain. I 
 shall present my reader with a short specimen of 
 them m this paper, and may perhaps communicate 
 more to him hereafter. In the article of London 
 are the following -words, which, without doubt 
 are meant of the church of St. Paul: 
 
 “ On the most rising part of the town there 
 stands a huge house, big enough to contain the 
 whole nation of which I am king. Our good 
 brother E Tow 0 Koam, king of the Rivers, is of 
 opinion it was made by the hands of that great 
 God to whom it is consecrated. The kings of 
 Granajali and of the Six Nations believe that it 
 was created with the earth, and produced on the 
 same day with the sun and moon. But for my 
 own part, by the best information that I could get 
 of this matter, I am apt to think that this prodi¬ 
 gious pile was fashioned into the shape it now 
 Dears by several tools and instruments, of which 
 they have a wonderful variety in this country. It 
 was probably at first a huge misshapen rock that 
 grew upon the top of the hill, which the natives 
 of the country (after having cut into a kind of 
 regular figure) bored and hollowed with incredible 
 pains and industry, till they had wrought in it all 
 those beautiful vaults and caverns into which it is 
 divided at this day. As soon as this rock was 
 thus curiously scooped to their liking, a prodigious 
 number of hands must have been employed in 
 
 *The waiter of that coffee-house, frequently nick-named Sir 
 Thomas. 
 
 chipping the outside of it, which is now as smooth 
 as the surface of a pebble ; and is in several 
 places hewn out into pillars that stand like the 
 trunks of so many trees bound about the top with 
 garlands of leaves. It is probable that when this 
 great work was begun, which must have been 
 many hundred years ago, there was some religion 
 among this people; for they give it the name of a 
 temple, and have a tradition that it was designed 
 for men to pay their devotion in. And indeed 
 there are several reasons which make us think 
 that the natives of this country had formerly among 
 them some sort of worship, for they set apart every 
 seventh day as sacred; but upon my going into 
 one of these holy houses on that day, I could not 
 observe any circumstance of devotion in their beha¬ 
 vior. There was indeed a man in black, who was 
 mounted ^.bove the rest, aud seemed to utter some¬ 
 thing •with a great deal of vehemence; but as for 
 those underneath him, instead of paying their 
 worship to the deity of the place, they were most 
 of them bowing and curtseying to one another, 
 and a considerable number of them fast asleep. 
 
 “ The queen of the country appointed two men 
 to attend us, that had enough of our language to 
 make themselves understood in some few particu¬ 
 lars. But we soon perceived that these two were 
 very great enemies to one another, and did not 
 always agree in the same story. We could make 
 shift to gather out of one of them, that this island 
 was very much infested with a monstrous kind of 
 animals, in the shape of men, called whigs ; and 
 he often told us, that he hoped we should meet 
 with none of them in our way, for that if we did, 
 they would be apt to knock us down for being 
 kings. 
 
 “Our other interpreter used to talk very much 
 of a kind of animal called a tory, that was as 
 great a monster as the whig, and would treat us as 
 ill for being foreigners. These two creatures, it 
 seems, are born with a secret antipathy to one 
 another, and engage when they meet as naturally 
 as the elephant and the rhinoceros.* But as we 
 saw none of either of these species, we are apt to 
 think that our guides deceived us with misrepre¬ 
 sentations and fictions, and amused us with an 
 account of such monsters as are not really in their 
 country. 
 
 “ These particulars we made a shift to pick out 
 from the discourse of our interpreters, which we 
 put together as well as we could, being able to 
 understand but here and there a word of what 
 they said, and afterward making up the meaning 
 of it among ourselves. The men of the country 
 are very cunning and ingenious in handicraft 
 works, but withal so very idle, that we often saw 
 young lusty raw-boned fellows carried up and 
 down the streets in little covered rooms, by a 
 couple of porters who are hired for that service. 
 Their dress is likewise very barbarous, for they 
 almost strangle themselves about the neck, and 
 bind their bodies with several ligatures, that we 
 are apt to think are the occasion of several dis¬ 
 tempers among them, which our country is en¬ 
 tirely free from. Instead of those beautiful feath¬ 
 ers with which we adorn our heads, they often 
 buy up a monstrous bush of hair, which covers 
 their heads and falls down in a large fleece below 
 the middle of their backs; and with which they 
 walk up and down the streets, and are as proud 
 of it as if it was of their own growth. 
 
 “We were invited to one of their public diver- 
 
 * Of these two animals the Indian kings could have no 
 ideas, and therefore seem here to be illustrating “ obscurtun 
 per obscurius,” and explaining the monsters spoken of here 
 by animals that were not really in their country. 
 
92 the spe< 
 
 sions, where we hoped to have seen the great men j 
 of their country running down a stag, or pitching . 
 a bar, that we might have discovered who were j 
 the persons of the greatest abilities among them ; 
 but instead of that, they conveyed us into a huge 
 room lighted up with abundance of candles, 
 where this lazy people sat still above three hours 
 to see several feats of ingenuity performed by 
 others, who it seems were paid for it. 
 
 “As for the women of the country, not being 
 able to talk with them, we could only make our 
 remarks upon them at a distance. They let the 
 hair of their heads grow to a great length ; but 
 as the men make a great show with heads of hair 
 that are none of their own, the women, who they 
 say have very fine heads of hair, tie it up in a knot, 
 and cover it from being seen. The women look 
 like angels, and would be more beautiful than the 
 su4, were it not for little black spots that are apt 
 to break out in their faces, and sometimes rise in 
 very odd figures. I have observed that those little 
 blemishes wear off very soon ; but when they dis¬ 
 appear in one part of the face, they are very apt 
 to break out in another, insomuch that I have seen 
 a spot upon the forehead in the afternoon, which 
 was upon the chin in the morning.” 
 
 The author then proceeds to show the absurdity 
 of breeches and petticoats, with many other curi¬ 
 ous observations which I shall reserve for another 
 occasion. I cannot, however, conclude this paper 
 without taking notice, that amidst these wild re¬ 
 marks there now and then appears something very 
 reasonable. I cannot likewise forbear observing, 
 that we are all guilty in some measure of the same 
 narrow way of thinking which we meet with in 
 this abstract of the Indian journal, when we fancy 
 the customs, dresses, and manners of other coun¬ 
 tries are ridiculous and extravagant, if they do 
 not resemble those of our own.—0. 
 
 Ho. 51.] SATURDAY, APRIL 28, 1711. 
 
 Torquet ab obscenis jam nunc sermonibus aurem. 
 
 Hob., 1 Ep., ii, 127. 
 
 He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “My fortune, quality, and person, are such as 
 render me as conspicuous as any young woman in 
 town. It is in my power to enjoy it in all its va¬ 
 nities, but I have from a very careful education, 
 contracted a great aversion to the forward air and 
 fashion which is practiced in all public places and 
 assemblies. I attribute this very much to the 
 style and manner of our plays. I was last, night 
 at the Funeral, where a confident lover in the 
 play, speaking of his mistress, cries out—‘ Oh 
 that Harriet! to fold these arms about the waist 
 of that beauteous, struggling, and at last yielding 
 fair F Such an image as this ought by no means 
 to be presented to a chaste and regular audience. 
 I expect your opinion of this sentence, and re¬ 
 commend to your consideration, as a Spectator, 
 the conduct of the stage at present with relation to 
 chastity and modesty. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your constant reader and well-wisher.” 
 
 I 
 
 The complaint of this young lady is so just, that 
 the offense is gross enough to have displeased per¬ 
 sons who cannot pretend to that delicacy and mo¬ 
 desty of which she is mistress. But there is a 
 great deal to be said in behalf of an author. If 
 the audience would but consider the difficulty of 
 keeping up a sprightly dialogue for five acts to- 
 
 )T ATOR. 
 
 gether, they would allow a writer, when he wants 
 wit, and cannot please any otherwise, to help it 
 out with a little smuttiness. I will answer for the 
 poets, that no one ever wrote bawdry, for any other 
 reason but dearth of invention. When the author 
 cannot strike out of himself any more of that 
 which he has superior to those who make up the 
 bulk of his audience, his natural recourse is to 
 that which he has in common with them ; and a 
 description which gratifies a sensual appetite will 
 please, when the author has nothing about him to 
 delight a refined imagination. It is to such a 
 poverty we must impute this and all other sen¬ 
 tences in plays, which are of this kind, and which 
 are commonly termed luscious expressions.* 
 
 This expedient to supply the deficiencies of wit 
 has been used more or less by most of the authois 
 who have succeeded on the stage ; though I know 
 but one who has professedly written a play upon 
 the basis of the desire of multiplying our spe¬ 
 cies, and that is the polite Sir George Ethe¬ 
 ridge ; if I understand what the lady would be at, 
 in the play called She would if she could .. Other 
 poets have here and there given an intimation 
 that there is this design, under all the disguises 
 and affectations which a lady may put on ; but 
 no author, except this, has made sure work of it, 
 and put the imaginations of the audience upon.this 
 one purpose from the beginning to end of the 
 comedy. It has always fared accordingly ; for 
 whether it be that all who go to this piece would 
 if they could, or that the innocents go to it, to 
 guess only what she would if she could, the play 
 has always been well received. 
 
 It lifts a heavy empty sentence, when there is 
 added to it a lascivious gesture of body ; and 
 when it is too low to be raised even by that, a 
 flat meaning is enlivened by making it a double 
 one. Writers who want genius, never fail of keep¬ 
 ing this secret in reserve, to create a laugh or raise 
 a clap. I, who know nothing of women but from 
 seeing plays, can give great guesses at.the whole 
 structure of the fair sex, by being innocently 
 placed in the pit, and insulted by the petticoats 
 of their dancers ; the advantages of whose pretty 
 persons are a great help to a dull play. When a 
 poet flags in writing lusciously, a pretty girl can 
 move lasciviously, and have the same good con¬ 
 sequence for the author. Dull poets in this case 
 use their audiences as dull parasites do their 
 patrons ; when they cannot longer divert them 
 with their wit or humor, they bait their ears with 
 something which is agreeaule to their temper, 
 though below their understanding. Apicius 
 cannot resist being pleased, if you give him an 
 account of a delicious meal: or Clodius, if you 
 describe a wanton beauty \ though, at the same 
 time, if you do not awake those inclinations in 
 them, no men are better judges of what is just 
 and delicate in conversation. But as I have be¬ 
 fore observed, it is easier to talk to the man than 
 to the man of sense. 
 
 It is remarkable that the writers of least learn¬ 
 ing are best skilled in the luscious way. The 
 poetesses of the age have done wonders in this 
 kind ; and we are obliged to the lady who wrote 
 Ibrahimf, for introducing a preparatory scene to 
 the very action, when the emperor throws his 
 handkerchief as a signal for his mistress to follow 
 
 * Be it said here, to the honor of the author of this paper, 
 that he practiced the lessons which he taught,, and did not 
 reject good advice from what quarter soever it came. He 
 published this lady’s letter, and approved her indignation. 
 He submitted to her censure, condemned .himself publicly, 
 and corrected the obnoxious passage of his play, in a new 
 edition which was published in 1712. 
 j Mrs. Mary Pix. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 him into the most retired part of the seraglio. It 
 must be confessed his Turkish Majesty went off 
 with a good air, but methought we made but a 
 sad figure who waited without. This ingenious 
 gentlewoman, in this piece of bawdry refined 
 upon an author of the same sex*, who, in the 
 Rover, makes a country ’squire strip to his Hol¬ 
 land drawers. For Brunt is disappointed, and 
 the emperor is understood to go on to the utmost. 
 The pleasantry of stripping almost naked has 
 been since practiced (where indeed it should'have 
 been begun) very successfully at Bartholomew 
 fair.f 
 
 It is not to be here omitted, that in one of the 
 above-mentioned female compositions, the Rover 
 is very frequently sent on the same errand; as I 
 take it, above once every act. This is not wholly 
 unnatural; for, they say, the men authors draw 
 themselves in their chief characters, and the 
 women writers may be allowed the same liberty. 
 Thus, as the male wit gives his hero a great for¬ 
 tune, the female gives her heroine a good gallant 
 at the end of the play. But, indeed, there is 
 hardly a play one can go to, but the hero or fine 
 gentleman of it struts off upon the same account, 
 and leaves us to consider what good office he has 
 put us to, or to employ ourselves as we please. 
 To be plain, a man who frequents plays would 
 have a very respectful notion of himself, were he 
 o recollect how often he has been used as pimp 
 to ravishing tyrants, or successful rakes. When 
 the actors make their exit on this good occasion, 
 the ladies are sure to have an examining glance 
 from the pit to see how they relish what passes ; 
 and a few lewd fools are very ready to employ 
 their talents upon the composure or freedom of 
 their looks. Such incidents as these make some 
 ladies wholly absent themselves from the play¬ 
 house ; and others never miss the first day of a 
 playt, lest it should prove too luscious to admit 
 their going with any countenance to it on the 
 second. 
 
 If men of wit, who think fit to write for the 
 stage, instead of this pitiful way of giving delight, 
 would turn their thoughts upon raising it from 
 such good natural impulses as are in the audience, 
 but are choked up by vice and luxury, they would 
 not only please, but befriend us at the same time. 
 If a man had a mind to be new in his way of 
 writing, might not he who is now represented as 
 a fine gentleman, though he betrays the honor 
 and bed of his neighbor and friend, and lies with 
 half the women in the play, and is at last re¬ 
 warded with her of the best character in it;—I 
 say, upon giving the comedy another cast, might 
 not such a one divert the audience quite as well, 
 if at the catastrophe he were found out for a 
 traitor, and met with contempt accordingly ? 
 There is seldom a person devoted to above one 
 darling vice at a time, so that there is room 
 enough to catch at men’s hearts to their good and 
 advantage, if the poets will attempt it with the 
 honesty which becomes their characters. 
 
 There is no man who loves his bottle or his 
 mistress, in a manner so very abandoned, as not 
 to be capable of relishing an agreeable character, 
 that is no way a slave to either of these pursuits. 
 A man that is temperate, generous, valiant, chaste, 
 faithful, and honest, may, at the same time, have 
 wit, humor, good-breeding, and gallantry. While 
 
 * Mrs. Behn. 
 
 -j-The appearance of Lady Mary, a rope-dancer at Bartholo¬ 
 mew fair, gave occasion to this proper animadversion. 
 
 tOn the first night of-the exhibition of a new play, virtu¬ 
 ous women about this time came to see it in masks, then 
 worn by women of the town, as the characteristic mark of 
 their being prostitutes. 
 
 93 
 
 he exerts these latter qualities, twenty occasions 
 might be invented to show he is master of the 
 other noble virtues. Such characters would smite 
 and reprove the heart of a man of sense, when he 
 is given up to his pleasures. He would see he 
 has been mistaken all this while, and be con¬ 
 vinced that a sownd constitution and an innocent 
 mind are the true ingredients for becoming, and 
 enjoying life. All men of true taste would call a 
 man of wit, w T lio should turn his ambition this 
 way, a friend and benefactor to his country ; but 
 I am at a loss what name they would give him, 
 who makes use of his capacity for contrary pur¬ 
 poses.—R. 
 
 No. 52.] MONDAY, APRIL 30, 1711. 
 
 Omnes ut tecum mentis pro talibus annos 
 Exigat, et pulchra faciat te prole parentem. 
 
 VntG. iEn., i, 78. 
 
 To crown thy worth, she shall be ever thine, 
 
 And make thee father of a beauteous line. 
 
 Ax ingenious correspondent, like a sprightly 
 wife, will always have the last word. I did not 
 think my last letter to the deformed fraternity 
 would have occasioned any answer, especially 
 since I had promised them so sudden a visit: but 
 as they think they cannot show too great a vene¬ 
 ration for my person, they have already sent me 
 up an answer. As to the proposal of a marriage 
 between myself and the matchless Hecatissa, I 
 have but one objection to it ; which is, That all 
 the society will expect to be acquainted with her ; 
 and who can be sure of keeping a woman’s heart 
 long where she may have so much choice? I am 
 the more alarmed at this, because the lady seems 
 particularly smitten with men of their make. 
 
 I believe I shall set my heart upon her; and 
 think never the worse of my mistress for an epi¬ 
 gram a smart fellow wrote, as he thought, against 
 her; it does but the more recommend her to me. 
 At the same time I cannot but discover that his 
 malice is stolen from Martial: 
 
 Tacta places; audita places; si non videare, 
 
 Tota places; neutro, si videare, places. 
 
 Whilst in the dark on thy soft hand I hung, 
 
 And heard the tempting Syren in thy tongue, 
 
 What flames, what darts, what anguish I endur’d! 
 But when the candle enter’d, I was cur’d. 
 
 “ Your letter to us we have received, as a sig¬ 
 nal mark of your favor and brotherly affection. 
 We shall be heartily glad to see your short face in 
 Oxford ; and since the wisdom of our legislature 
 has been immortalized in your speculations, and 
 our personal deformities in some sort by you re¬ 
 corded to all posterity, we hold ourselves in gra¬ 
 titude bound to receive, with the highest respect, 
 all such persons as for their extraordinary merit 
 you shall think fit, from time to time, to recom¬ 
 mend unto the board. As for the Pictish damsel, 
 we have an easy chair prepared at the upper end 
 of the table : which we doubt not but she will 
 grace with a very hideous aspect, and much bet¬ 
 ter become the seat in the native and unaffected 
 uncomeliness of her person, than with all the 
 superficial airs of the pencil, which (as you have 
 very ingeniously observed) vanish with a breath, 
 and the most innocent adorer may deface the 
 shrine with a salutation, and in the literal sense 
 of our poets, snatch and imprint his balmy kisses, 
 and devour her melting lips. In short, the only 
 faces of the Pictish kind that will endure the 
 weather, must be of Dr. Carbuncle’s die ; though 
 his, in truth, has cost him a world the painting ; 
 but then he boasts with Zeuxes, in ceternitatem. 
 pingo; and oft jocosely tells the fair ones, would 
 they acquire colors that would stand kissing, they 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 94 
 
 must no longer paint, but drink for a complexion : 
 a maxim that in this our age has been pursued 
 with no ill success ; and has been as admirable 
 in its effects, as the famous cosmetic mentioned 
 in the Postman, and invented by the renowned 
 British Hippocrates of the pestle and mortar; 
 making the party, after a due course, rosy, hale, 
 and airy ; and the best and most approved re¬ 
 ceipt now extant for the fever of the spirits. But 
 to return to our female candidate, who, I under¬ 
 stand, is returned to herself, and will no longer 
 hang out false colors ; as she is the first of her 
 sex that has done us so great an honor, she will 
 certainly in a very short time, both in prose and 
 verse, be a lady of the most celebrated deformity 
 now living, and meet Avith many admirers here 
 as frightful as herself. But being a long-headed 
 gentlewoman, I am apt to imagine she lias some 
 farther design than you have yet penetrated ; and 
 perhaps has more mind to the Spectator than any 
 of his fraternity, as the person of all the Avorld she 
 could like for a paramour. And if so, really I 
 cannot but applaud her choice, and should be glad, 
 if it might lie in my power, to effect an amicable 
 accommodation betAvixt tAvo faces of such different 
 extremes, as the only possible expedient to mend 
 the breed, and rectify the physiognomy of the 
 family on both sides. And again, as she is a lady 
 of a A r ery fluent elocution, you need not fear that 
 your child Avill be born dumb, which otherwise 
 you might have some reason to be apprehensive 
 of. To be plain Avith you, I can see nothing 
 shocking in it; for though she has not a face like 
 a john-apple, yet as a late friend of mine, avIio at 
 sixty-five ventured on a lass of fifteen, very fre¬ 
 quently in the remaining five years of his life gave 
 me to understand, that as old as he then seemed, 
 when they were first married he and his spouse 
 could make but fourscore ; so may Madam Heca- 
 tissa veiy justly allege hereafter, that as long-vis¬ 
 aged as she may then be thought, upon their Aved- 
 ding-day Mr. Spectator and she had but half an 
 ell of face betAvixt them; and this my Avorthy pre¬ 
 decessor, Mr. Serjeant Chin, ahvays maintained to 
 be no more than the true oval proportion between 
 man and wife. But as this may be a new thing to 
 you, avIio have hitherto had no expectations from 
 A\ T omen, I shall allow you Avhat time you think fit 
 to consider on it; not without some hope of seeing 
 at last your thoughts hereupon subjoined to mine, 
 and which is an honor much desired by, 
 
 “ Sir, your assured friend, 
 
 “And most humble servant, 
 “Hugh Goblin, Prases.” 
 
 The following letter has not much in it, but, as' 
 it is written in my own praise, I cannot from my 
 heart suppress it. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ You proposed, in your Spectator of last Tues¬ 
 day, Mr. Hobbs’s hypothesis for solving that \ r ery 
 odd phenomenon of laughter. You have made the 
 hypothesis valuable by espousing it yourself; for 
 had it continued Mr. Hobbs’s, nobody Avould have 
 minded it. Now here this perplexed case arises. 
 A certain company laughed very heartily upon 
 the reading of that very paper of yours ; and the 
 truth on it is, he must be a man of more than or¬ 
 dinary constancy that could stand out against so 
 much comedy, and not do as we did. Now there 
 are few men in the Avorld so far lost to all good 
 sense, as to look upon you to be a man in a state 
 of folly ‘ inferior to himself.’—Pray then how do 
 you justify your hypothesis of laughter ? 
 
 “Your most humble, Q. R. 
 
 “Thursday, the 26th of the month of fools.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 In answer to your letter, I must desire you to 
 recollect yourself; and you will find, that when 
 you did me the honor to be so merry over my pa¬ 
 per, you laughed at the idiot, the German courtier, 
 the gaper, the merry-andrew, the haberdasher, the 
 biter, the butt, and not at 
 
 “ Your humble servant, 
 
 R. “ The Spectator.” 
 
 No. 53.] TUESDAY, MAY 1, 1711. 
 
 -Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 359. 
 
 Ilomer himself hath been observed to nod. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 My correspondents grow so numerous, that 1 
 cannot avoid frequently inserting their applica¬ 
 tions to me. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am glad I can inform you, that your endea¬ 
 vors to adorn that sex, which is the fairest part of 
 the A T isible creation, are well received, and like to 
 prove not unsuccessful. The triumph of Daphne 
 over her sister Lsetitia has been the subject of 
 conversation at several tea-tables where I was 
 present; and I have observed the fair circle not a 
 little pleased to find you considering them as 
 reasonable creatures, and endeavoring to banish 
 that Mahometan custom, which had too much pre¬ 
 vailed even in this island, of treating women as 
 if they had no souls. I must do them the justice 
 to say, that there seems to be nothing Avanting to 
 the finishing of these lovely pieces of human 
 nature, beside the turning and applying their am¬ 
 bition properly, and the keeping them up to a sense 
 of what is their true merit. Epictetus, that plain 
 honest philosopher, as little as he had of gallantry, 
 appears to have understood them as well as the 
 polite St. Evremont, and has hit this point very 
 luckily. ‘When young women,’ says he, ‘arrive 
 at a certain age, they hear themselves called 
 Mistresses, and are made to believe that their 
 only business is to please the men; they im¬ 
 mediately begin to dress, and to place all their 
 hopes in the adorning of their persons; it is there¬ 
 fore,’ continues he, ‘Avorth the while to endeavor 
 by all means to make them sensible that the honor 
 paid to them is only upon account of their con¬ 
 ducting themselves with virtue, modesty, and 
 discretion.’ 
 
 “Noav to pursue the matter yet farther, and to 
 render your cares for the improvement of the fair 
 ones more effectual, I would propose a new method 
 like those applications Avhich are said to convey 
 their virtue by sympathy; and that is, that in 
 order to embellish the mistress, you should give a 
 new education to the lover, and teach the men not 
 to be any longer dazzled by false charms and un¬ 
 real beauty. I cannot but think that if our sex 
 knew ahvays how to place their esteem justly, the 
 other would not be so often wanting to themselves 
 in deserving it. For as the being enamored with 
 a Avoman of sense and virtue is an improvement 
 to a man’s understanding and morals, and the 
 passion is ennobled by the object Avhich inspires 
 it; so on the other side, the appearing amiable 
 to a man of a wise and elegant mind, carries in 
 itself no small degree of merit and accomplish¬ 
 ment. I conclude, therefore, that one way to 
 make the women yet more agreeable is, to make 
 the men more virtuous. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 “R. B.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 95 
 
 " Sir, April 26th. 
 
 “ Yours of Saturday last I read, not without 
 some resentment; but I will suppose when you 
 say you expect an inundation of ribbons and bro¬ 
 cades, and to see many new vanities which the 
 women will fall into upon a peace with France, 
 that you intend only the unthinking part of our 
 sex : and what methods can reduce them to reason 
 is hard to imagine. 
 
 “But, Sir, there are others yet, that your in¬ 
 structions might be of great use to, who, after their 
 best endeavors, are sometimes at a loss to acquit 
 themselves to a censorious world. I am far from 
 thinking you can altogether disapprove of con¬ 
 versation between ladies and gentlemen, regulated 
 by the rules of honor and prudence ; and have 
 thought it an observation not ill-made, that where 
 that was wholly denied, the women lost their wit, 
 and the men their good manners. It is sure from 
 those improper liberties you mentioned, that a sort 
 of undistinguishingpeople shall banish from their 
 drawing-rooms the best-bred men in the world, 
 and condemn those that do not. Your stating this 
 point might, I think, be of good use, as well as 
 much oblige, 
 
 “ Sir, your admirer, and most humble servant, 
 
 “Anna Bella.” 
 
 No answer to this, till Anna Bella sends a de¬ 
 scription of those she calls the best-bred men in 
 the world. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a gentleman who for many years last 
 past have been well known to be truly splenetic, 
 and that my spleen arises from having contracted 
 so great a delicacy, by reading the best authors 
 and keeping the most refined company, that I 
 cannot bear the least impropriety of language, or 
 rusticity of behavior. Now, Sir, I have overlook¬ 
 ed upon this as a wise distemper ; but by late 
 observations find, that every heavy wretch who 
 has nothing to say, excuses his dullness by com¬ 
 plaining of the spleen. Nay, I saw the other day, 
 two fellows in a tavern kitchen set up for it, call 
 for a pint and pipes, and only by guzzling liquors 
 to each other’s health, and wasting smoke in each 
 other’s face, pretend to throw off the spleen. I 
 appeal to you whether these dishonors are to be 
 done to the distemper of the great and the polite. 
 
 I beseech you, Sir, to inform these fellows that 
 they have not the spleen because they cannot talk 
 without the help of a glass at their mouths, or 
 convey their meaning to each other without the 
 interposition of clouds. If you will not do this 
 with all speed, I assure you, for my part, I w r ill 
 wholly quit the disease, and for the future be 
 merry with the vulgar. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your humble servant.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “This is to let you understand that I am a re¬ 
 formed Starer, and conceived a detestation for that 
 practice from what you have written upon the 
 subject. But as you have been very severe upon 
 the behavior of us men at divine service, I hope 
 you will not be so apparently partial to the women 
 as to let them go wholly unobserved. If they do 
 everything that is possible to attract our eyes, are 
 we more culpable than they for looking at them ? 
 
 I happened last Sunday to be shut into a pew, 
 which was full of young ladies, in the bloom of 
 youth and beauty. When the service began, I had 
 not room to kneel at the confession, but as I stood 
 kept my eyes from wandering as well as I was ! 
 able, till one of the young ladies, who is a Peeper, 1 
 resolved to bring down my looks, and fix my de-! 
 
 votion on herself. You are to know, Sir, that a 
 Peeper works with her hands, eyes, and fan ; one 
 of which is continually in motion, while she 
 thinks she is not actually the admiration of some 
 ogler or starer in the congregation. As I stood 
 utterly at a loss how to behave myself, surrounded 
 as I was, this Peeper so placed herself as to be 
 kneeling just before me. She displayed the most 
 beautiful bosom imaginable, which heaved and 
 fell with some fervor, while a delicate and well¬ 
 shaped arm held a fan over her face. It was not in 
 nature to command one’s eyes from this object. I 
 could not avoid taking notice also of her fan, 
 which had on it various figures very improper to 
 behold on that occasion. There lay in the body 
 of the piece a Venus (under a purple canopy 
 furled with curious wreaths of drapery), half 
 naked, attended with a train of Cupids, who were 
 busied in fanning her as she slept. Behind her 
 was drawn a satyr peeping over the silken fence, 
 and threatening to break through it. I frequently 
 offered to turn my sight another way, but was still 
 detained by the fascination of the Peeper’s eyes, 
 who had long practiced a skill in them to recall the 
 parting glances of her beholders. You see my 
 complaint, and I hope you will take these mis¬ 
 chievous people, the Peepers, into your considera¬ 
 tion. I doubt not but you will think a Peeper as 
 much more pernicious than a Starer, as an am¬ 
 buscade is more to be feared than an open assault. 
 
 “I am. Sir, your most obedient servant.” 
 
 This Peeper using both fan and eyes, to be con¬ 
 sidered as a Piet, and proceed accordingly. 
 
 “ King Latinus to the Spectator, Greeting, 
 
 “ Though some may think we descend from our 
 imperial dignity in holding correspondence with 
 a private literator, yet as we have great respect to 
 all good intentions for our service, we do not 
 esteem it beneath us to return you our royal thanks 
 for what you published in our behalf, while under 
 confinement in the enchanted castle of the Savoy, 
 and for your mention of a subsidy for a prince in 
 misfortune. This your timely zeal has inclined 
 the hearts of divers to be aiding unto us, if we 
 could propose the means. We have taken their 
 good-will into consideration, and have contrived 
 a method whicli will be easy to those who shall 
 give the aid, and not unacceptable to us who re¬ 
 ceive it. A concert of music shall be prepared at 
 Haberdasher’s hall, for Wednesday the second 
 of May, and we will honor the said entertainment 
 with our presence, where each person shall be 
 assessed but at two shillings and sixpence. What 
 we expect from you is, that you publish these our 
 royal intentions, with injunction that they be read 
 at all tea-tables within the cities of London and 
 Westminster; and so we bid you heartily farewell. 
 
 “Latinus, 
 
 “King of the Volscians” 
 
 “ Given at our court in Vinegar-yard, Story the 
 third from the earth, April 28, 1711.” 
 
 R. 
 
 No. 54.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 2, 1711. 
 
 -Strenua nos exercet inertia. 
 
 IIor., 1 Ep., xi, 28. 
 
 Laborious idleness our powers employs. 
 
 The following letter being the first that I have 
 received from the learned university of Cam¬ 
 bridge, I could not but do myself the honor of 
 publishing it. It gives an account of a new sect 
 of philosophers which has arisen in that famous 
 residence of learning; and is, perhaps, the only 
 sect this age is likely to produce. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 96 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Cambridge, April 26. 
 
 “Believing you to be a universal encourager of 
 liberal arts and sciences, and glad of any infor¬ 
 mation from the learned world, I thought an ac¬ 
 count of a sect of philosophers very frequent 
 among us, but not taken notice of, as far as 1 can 
 remember, by any writers, either ancient or modern, 
 would not be unacceptable to you. The philo¬ 
 sophers of this sect are, in the language of our uni¬ 
 versity, called loungers. I am of opinion that, as in 
 many other things, so likewise in this, the ancients 
 have been defective, viz., in mentioning no philo¬ 
 sophers of this sort. Some indeed will affirm that 
 they are a kind of Peripatetics, because we see them 
 continually walking about. But I would have 
 these gentlemen consider, that though the an¬ 
 cient Peripatetics walked much, yet they wrote 
 much also ; witness to the sorrow of this sect, 
 Aristotle and others : whereas it is notorious that 
 most of our professors never lay out a farthing 
 either in pen, ink, or paper. Others are for de¬ 
 riving them from Diogenes, because several of the 
 leading men of the sect have a great deal of 
 cynical humor in them, and delight much in sun¬ 
 shine. But then, again, Diogenes was content to 
 have his constant habitation in a narrow tub, 
 while our philosophers are so far from being of 
 his opinion, that it is death to them to be confined 
 within the limits of a good handsome convenient 
 chamber but for half an hour. Others there are 
 who from the clearness of their heads deduce the 
 pedigree of loungers from that great man (I think 
 it was either Plato or Socrates) who, after all his 
 study and learning, professed, that all he then 
 knew was, that he knew nothing. You easily see 
 this is but a shallow argument, and may soon be 
 confuted. 
 
 “I have with great pains and industry made my 
 observations from time to time upon these sages ; 
 and having now all materials ready, am compiling 
 a treatise, wherein I shall set forth the rise and 
 progress of this famous sect, together with their 
 maxims, austerities, manner of living, etc. Hav¬ 
 ing prevailed with a friend who designs shortly 
 to publish a new edition of Diogenes Laertius, to 
 add this treatise of mine by way of supplement, 
 I shall now, to let the work! see what may be ex- 
 
 I jected from me (first begging Mr. Spectator’s 
 eave that the world may see it), briefly touch 
 upon some of my chief observations, and then 
 subscribe myself your humble servant. In the 
 first place I shall give you two or three of their 
 maxims: the fundamental one, upon which their 
 whole system is built, is this, viz: ‘ That Time 
 being an implacable enemy to, and destroyer of, 
 all things, ought to be paid in his own coin, and 
 be destroyed and murdered without mercy, by all 
 the ways that can be invented.’ Another favorite 
 saying of theirs is, ‘That business was designed 
 only for knaves, and study for blockheads.’ A 
 third seemed to be a ludicrous one, but has a great 
 effect upon their lives; and is this, ‘That the devil 
 is at home.’ How for their manner of living: and 
 here I shall have a large field to expatiate in ; but 
 I shall reserve particulars for my intended dis¬ 
 course, and now only mention one or two of their 
 principal exercises, The elder proficients employ 
 themselves in inspecting mores hominum multorum, 
 in getting acquainted with all the signs and win¬ 
 dows in the town. Some are arrived at so great 
 knowledge, that they can tell every time any 
 butcher kills a calf, every time any old woman’s 
 cat is in the straw, and a thousand other matters 
 as important. One ancient philosopher contem¬ 
 plates two or three hours every day over a sun¬ 
 dial ! and is true to the dial. 
 
 -As the dial to the sun, 
 
 Although it he not shone upon. 
 
 Our younger students are content to carry their 
 speculations as yet no farther than bowling-greens, 
 billiard-tables, and such-like places. This may 
 serve for a sketch of my design ; in which I hope 
 I shall have your encouragement. 
 
 “I am, Sir, yours.” 
 
 I must be so just as to observe, I have formerly 
 seen of this sect at our other university ; though 
 not distinguished by the appellation which the 
 learned historian my correspondent reports they 
 bear at Cambridge. They were ever looked upon 
 as a people that impaired themselves more by their 
 strict application to the rules of their order, than 
 any other students whatever. Others seldom hurt 
 themselves any farther than to gain weak eyes, and 
 sometimes head-aches ; but these philosophers are 
 seized all over with a general inability, indo¬ 
 lence, and weariness, and a certain impatience of 
 the place they are in, with a heaviness in remov¬ 
 ing to another. 
 
 The loungers are satisfied with being merely 
 part of the number of mankind, without distin¬ 
 guishing themselves from among them. They 
 may be said rather to suffer their time to pass than 
 to spend it, without regard to the past, or pros¬ 
 pect of the future. All they know of life is only 
 the present instant, and do not taste even that. 
 When one of this order happens to be a man of 
 fortune, the expense of his time is transferred to 
 his coach and horses, and his life is to be mea¬ 
 sured by their motion, not his own enjoyments or 
 sufferings. The chief entertainment one of these 
 philosophers can possibly propose to himself, is 
 to get a relish of dress. This, methinks, might 
 diversify the person he is weary of (his own dear 
 self) to 'himself. I have known these two amuse¬ 
 ments make one of these philosophers make a 
 very tolerable figure in the world; with variety of 
 dresses in public assemblies in town, and quick 
 motion of his horses out of it, now to Bath, now 
 to Tunbridge, then to Newmarket, and then to Lon¬ 
 don, he has in process of time brought it to pass, 
 that his coach and his horses have been mentioned 
 in all those places. When the loungers leave an 
 academic life, and, instead of this more elegant 
 way of appearing in the polite world, retire to the 
 seats of their ancestors, they usually join in a 
 pack of dogs, and employ their days in defending 
 their poultry from foxes. I do not know any 
 other method, that any of this order has ever 
 taken to make a noise in the world; but I shall 
 inquire into such about this town as have arrived 
 at the dignity of being loungers by the force of 
 natural parts, without having ever seen a uni¬ 
 versity ; and send my correspondent, for the em¬ 
 bellishment of his book, the names and history of 
 those who pass their lives without any incidents 
 at all; and how they shift coffee-houses and cho¬ 
 colate-houses from hour to hour, to get over their 
 insupportable labor of doing nothing.—R. 
 
 No. 55.] THURSDAY, MAY 3, 1711. 
 
 -Intus et in jecore segro 
 
 Nascuntur Domini - Pers., Sat. v, 129. 
 
 Our passions play the tyrants in our breasts. 
 
 Most of the trades, professions, .and ways of 
 living among mankind, take their original either 
 from the love of pleasure, or the fear of want. 
 The former, when it becomes too violent, degene¬ 
 rates into luxury, and the latter into avarice. As 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 97 
 
 these two principles of action draw different ways, 
 Persius has given us a very humorous account of 
 a young fellow who was roused out of his bed in 
 order to be sent upon a long voyage by Avarice, 
 and afterward over-persuaded and kept at home 
 by Luxury. I shall set down the pleadings of 
 these two imaginary persons, as they are in the 
 original, with Mr. Dryden’s translation of them: 
 
 Mane, piger, stertis: surge, inquit Avaritia, eja 
 Surge : Negas: instat: surge, inquit. Non queo. Surge 
 Et quid agam ? Itogitas ? saperdas advehe ponto, 
 Castoreum, stuppas, hebenum, thus, lubrica Coa. 
 
 Tolle recens primus piper e sitiente camelo. 
 
 Verte aliquid; jura. Sed Jupiter audiet. Eheu! 
 
 Baro, regustatum digito terebrare salinum 
 Contentus perages, si vivere cum Jove tendis. 
 
 Jam pueris pellem succinctus et oenophorum aptas 
 Ocyus ad nayem. Nil obstat quin trabe vasta 
 iEgaeum rapias, nisi solers Luxuria ante 
 Seductum moncat; quo deinde, insane, ruis? Quo? 
 
 Quid tibi vis ? Calido sub pectore mascula bilis 
 Intumuit, quam non extinxerit urna cicutae? 
 
 Tun’ mare transilias? Tibi torta cannabe fulto 
 Coena sit in transtro? Veientanumque rubellum 
 Exhalet vapida laesum pice sessilis obba ? 
 
 Quid petis? Ut nummi, quos hie quincunce modesto 
 Nutrieras, pergant avidos sudare deunces? 
 
 Indulge genio: carpamus dulcia: nostrum est 
 Quod vivis; cinis, et manes, et fabula lies. 
 
 1 ive memor letbi: fugit hora. Hoc quod loquor, inde est. 
 Eu quid agis ? Duplici in diversum scinderis hamo; 
 Hunccine, ad hunc sequeris ? Sat. v, 132.* 
 
 Whether alone, or in thy harlot’s lap, 
 
 When thou wouldst take a lazy morning’s nap; 
 
 Up, up, says Avarice; thou snor’st again, 
 
 Stretchest thy limbs and yawn’st, but all in vain. 
 
 The rugged tyrant no denial takes; 
 
 At his command th’ unwilling sluggard wakes. 
 
 What must I do? he cries; What? says his lord; 
 
 Why rise, make ready, and go straight aboard: 
 
 With fish, from Euxine seas, thy vessel freight; 
 
 Flax, castor, Coan wines, the precious weight 
 Of pepper, and Sabean incense, take ? 
 
 With thy own hands, from the tir’d camel’s back, 
 
 And with post-haste thy running markets make. 
 
 Be sure to turn the penny: lie and swear, 
 
 ’Tis wholesome sin: but Jove, thou say’st, will hear. 
 Swear, fool, or starve, for the dilemma’s even; 
 
 A tradesman thou! and hope to go to heav’n ? 
 
 Resolv’d for sea, the slaves thy baggage pack, 
 
 Each saddled with his burthen on his back: 
 
 Nothing retards thy voyage now, but he, 
 
 That soft voluptuous prince, call’d Luxury; 
 
 And he may ask this civil question: Friend, 
 
 What dost thou make a-shipboard ? to what end ? 
 
 Art thou of Bethlem’s noble college free ? 
 
 Stark, staring mad, that thou wouldst tempt the sea ? 
 Cubb’d in a cabin, on a mattress laid, 
 
 On a brown George, with lousy swobbers fed; 
 
 Dead wine that stinks of the Borachio, sup 
 From a foul jack or greasy maple cup? 
 
 Say, wouldst thou bear all this, to raise thy store 
 From six i’ th’ hundred to six hundred more ? 
 
 Indulge, and to thy genius freely give; 
 
 For, not to live at ease, is not to live. 
 
 Death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour * 
 
 Does some loose remnant of thy life devour. 
 
 Live while thou liv’st; for death will make us all 
 A name, a nothing but an old wife’s tale. 
 
 Speak: wilt thou Avarice or Pleasure choose 
 To be thy lord ? Take one, and one refuse. 
 
 When a government flourishes in conquests, and 
 s secure from foreign attacks, it naturally falls 
 nto all the pleasures of luxury; and as these plea- 
 ures are very expensive, they put those who are 
 -ddicted to them upon raising fresh supplies of 
 uoney by all the methods of rapaciousness and cor- 
 uption; so that avarice and luxury very often be- 
 ome one complicated principle of action, in those 
 mose hearts are wholly set upon ease, magnifi- 
 ence, and pleasure. The most elegant and cor- 
 ect of all the Latin historians observes, that in 
 ns time, when the most formidable states in the 
 rorld were subdued by the Romans, the republic 
 ank into those two vices of a quite different nature, 
 uxury and avarice:! and accordingly describes 
 
 api h/ Boileau ’ Hat- who has imitated this passage very 
 f Alieui appetens, sui profusus. 
 
 7 
 
 Catiline as one who coveted the wealth of other 
 men, at the same time that he squandered away 
 his own. 1 his observation on the commonwealth, 
 when it was in its height of power and riches, 
 holds good of all governments that are settled in 
 a state of ease and prosperity. At such times 
 men naturally endeavor to outsnine one another in 
 pomp and splendor, and having no fears to alarm 
 them from abroad, indulge themselves in the en¬ 
 joyment of all the pleasures they can get into 
 their possession ; which naturally produces ava¬ 
 rice, and an immoderate pursuit after wealth and 
 riches. 
 
 As I was humoring myself in the speculation 
 of these two great principles of action, I could 
 not forbear throwing my thoughts into a little 
 kind of allegory or fable, with which I shall here 
 present my reader. 
 
 There were two very powerful tyrants engaged 
 in a pemetual war against each other; the name 
 of the first was Luxury, and of the second Ava¬ 
 rice. The aim of each of them was no less than 
 universal monarchy over the hearts of mankind. 
 Luxury had many generals under him, who did 
 him great service, as Pleasure, Mirth, Pomp, and 
 Fashion. Avarice was likewise very strong in his 
 officers, being faithfully served by Hunger, Indus¬ 
 try, Care, and Watchfulness : he had likewise a 
 privy-counselor who was always at his elbow, and 
 whispering something or other in his ear: the 
 
 name of this privy-counselor was Poverty._ 
 
 As Avarice conducted himself by the counsels of 
 Poverty, his antagonist was entirely guided by 
 the dictates and advice of Plenty, who was his 
 first counselor and minister of state, that con¬ 
 certed all his measures for him, and never departed 
 out of his sight. While these two great rivals 
 were thus contending for empire, their conquests 
 were very various:—Luxury got possession of one 
 heart, and Avarice of another. The father of a 
 family would often range himself under the ban¬ 
 ners of Avarice, and the son under those of Luxu¬ 
 ry. The wife and husband would often declare 
 themselves on the two different parties; nay, the 
 same person would very often side with one in his 
 youth, and revolt to the other in his old age. In¬ 
 deed the wise men of the world stood neuter; but, 
 alas! their numbers were not considerable. At 
 length, when these two potentates had wearied 
 themselves with waging war upon one another, 
 they agreed upon an interview, at which none of 
 their counselors were to be present. It is said 
 that Luxury began the parley, and after having 
 represented the endless state of war in Avhich 
 they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frank¬ 
 ness of heart which is natural to him, that he be¬ 
 lieved they two should be very good friends, were 
 it not for the instigations of Poverty, that perni¬ 
 cious counselor, who made an ill use of his ear, 
 and filled him with groundless apprehensions and 
 prejudices. To this Avarice replied, that he 
 looked upon Plenty (the first minister of his an¬ 
 tagonist) to be a much more destructive counselor 
 than Poverty, for that he was perpetually suggest¬ 
 ing pleasures, banishing all the necessary cau¬ 
 tions against want, and consequently undermining 
 those principles on which the government of Ava¬ 
 rice was founded. At last, in order to an accom¬ 
 modation, they agreed upon this preliminary; that 
 each of them should immediately dismiss his 
 privy-counselor. When things were thus far ad¬ 
 justed toward a peace, all other differences were 
 soon accommodated, insomuch that for the future 
 they resolved to live as good friends and confede¬ 
 rates, and to share between them whatever con¬ 
 quests were made on either side. For this reason 
 we now find Luxury and Avarice taking posses- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 98 
 
 sion of the same hoart, and dividing the same 
 person between them. To which I shall only add, 
 that since the discarding of the counselors above- 
 mentioned, Avarice supplies Luxury in the room 
 of Plenty, as Luxury prompts Avarice in the place 
 of Poverty.—C. 
 
 No. 56.] FRIDAY, MAY 4, 1711. 
 
 Felices errore suo- Lucan., i, 454. 
 
 \ ... 
 
 Happy in their mistake. 
 
 The Americans believe that all creatures have 
 souls, not only men and women, but brutes, vege¬ 
 tables, nay, even the most inanimate things, as 
 stocks and stones. They believe the same of all 
 the works of art, as of knives, boats, looking- 
 glasses ; and that as any of these things perish, 
 their souls go into another world, which is in¬ 
 habited by the ghosts of men and women. For 
 this reason they always place by the corpse of 
 their dead friend a bow arid arrows, that he mav 
 make use of the souls of them in the other world, 
 as he did of their wooden bodies in this. How 
 absurd soever such an opinion as this may appeal, 
 our European philosophers have maintained seve¬ 
 ral notions altogether as improbable. Some of 
 Plato’s followers in particular, when they talk of 
 the world of ideas, entertain us with substances 
 and beings no less extravagant and chimerical. 
 Many Aristotelians have likewise spoken as unin¬ 
 telligibly of their substantial forms. I shall only 
 instance Albertus Magnus, who, in his disserta¬ 
 tion upon the loadstone, observing that fire will 
 destroy its magnetic virtues, tells us that he took 
 particular notice of one as it lay glowing amidst 
 a heap of burning coals, and that he perceived a 
 certain blue vapor to arise from it, which he be¬ 
 lieved might be the substantial form, that is, in 
 our West Indian phrase, the soul of the load- 
 
 St °There is a tradition among the Americans, that 
 one of their countrymen descended in a vision to 
 the great repository of souls, or, as we call it 
 here, to the other world : and that upon his return 
 he gave his friends a distinct account of every¬ 
 thing he saw among those regions of the dead. 
 A friend of mine, whom I have formerly men¬ 
 tioned, prevailed upon one of the interpreters of 
 the Indian kings, to inquire of them, if possible, 
 what tradition they have among them of this mat¬ 
 ter: which, as well as he could learn by those 
 many questions which he asked them at several 
 times, was in sqbstance as follows: 
 
 The visionary, whose name was Marraton, after 
 having traveled for a long space under a hollow 
 mountain arrived at length on the confines of this 
 world of spirits, but could not enter it by reason 
 of a thick forest made up of bushes, brambles, 
 and pointed thorns, so perplexed and interwoven 
 with one another that it was impossible to find a 
 passage through it. While he was looking about 
 for some track or pathway that might be worn in 
 any part of it, he saw a huge lion couched under 
 the side of it, who kept his eye upon him in the 
 same posture as when he watches for his prey. 
 The Indian immediately started back, while the 
 lion rose with a spring, and leaped toward him. 
 Being wholly destitute of all other weapons, he 
 stooped down to take a huge stone in his hand ; 
 but to his infinite surprise grasped nothing, and 
 found the supposed stone to be only the apparition 
 of one. If he was disappointed on this side, he 
 was as much pleased on the other, when he found 
 the lion, which had seized on his left shoulder, 
 had no power to hurt him, and was only the 
 ghost of that ravenous creature which it appeared 
 
 to be. He no sooner got rid )f his impotent ene¬ 
 my, but he marched up to the wood, and after 
 having surveyed it for some time, endeavored to 
 press into one part of it that was a little thinner 
 than the rest; when again, to his great surprise, 
 he found the bushes made no resistance, but that 
 he walked through briers and brambles with th< 
 same ease as through the open air; and in short, 
 that the whole wood was nothing else but a wood 
 of shades. He immediately concluded, that this 
 huge thicket of thorns and brakes was designed 
 as a kind of fence or quickset hedge to the ghosts 
 it inclosed ; and that probably their soft sub¬ 
 stances might be torn by these subtile points and 
 prickles, which were too weak to make any impres¬ 
 sions on flesh and blood. With this thought, he 
 resolved to travel through this intricate wood; 
 when by degrees he felt a gale of perfumes breath¬ 
 ing upon him, that grew stronger and sweeter in 
 proportion as he advanced. He had not proceeded 
 much farther, when he observed the thorns and 
 briers to end, and give place to a thousand beau¬ 
 tiful green trees covered with blossoms of the 
 finest scents and colors, that formed a wilderness 
 of sweets, and were a kind of lining to those rag¬ 
 ged scenes which he had before passed through. 
 As he was coming out of this delightful part of 
 the wood, and entering upon the plains it in¬ 
 closed, he saw several horsemen rushing by him, 
 and a little while after heard the cry of a pack of 
 dogs. He had not listened long before he saw the 
 apparition of a milk-white steed, with a young 
 man on the back of it, advancing upon full 
 stretch after the souls of about a hundred beagles, 
 that were hunting down the ghost of a hare, 
 which ran away before them with an unspeakable 
 swiftness. As the man on the milk-white steed 
 came by him, he looked upon him very attentive¬ 
 ly, and found him to be the young prince Nicha- 
 ragua, who died about half a year before, and, by 
 reason of his great virtues, was at that time 
 lamented over all the western parts of America. 
 
 He had no sooner got out of the wood, but he 
 was entertained with such a landscape of flowery 
 plains, green meadows, running streams, sunny 
 hills, and shady vales, as were not to be repre¬ 
 sented by his own expressions, nor, as he said, by 
 the conceptions of others. This happy region 
 was peopled with innumerable swarms of spirits, 
 who applied themselves to exercises and diver¬ 
 sions, according as their fancies led them. Some 
 of them were tossing the figure of a quoit; others 
 were pitching the shadow of a bar ; others were 
 breaking the apparition of a horse ; and multi¬ 
 tudes employing themselves upon ingenious handi¬ 
 crafts with the souls of departed utensils, for that 
 is the name which in the Indian language they 
 give their tools when they are burnt or broken. 
 As he traveled through this delightful scene, he 
 was very often tempted to pluck the flowers that 
 rose everywhere about him in the greatest variety 
 and profusion, having never seen several of them 
 in his own country; but he quickly found, that 
 though they were the objects of his sight, they 
 were not liable to his touch. He at length came 
 to the side of a great river, and being a good fish¬ 
 erman himself, stood upon the banks of it some 
 time to look upon an angler that had taken a great 
 many shapes of fishes, which lay flouncing up and 
 down by him. 
 
 I should have told my reader, that this Indian 
 had been formerly married to one of the greatest 
 beauties of his country, by whom he had several 
 children. This couple were so famous for their 
 love and constancy to one another, that the In¬ 
 dians to this day, when they give a married man 
 joy of his wife, wish they may live together like 
 
the spectator 
 
 Marraton and Yaratilda. Marraton had not stood 
 long by the fisherman when he saw the shadow 
 of his beloved Yaratilda, who had for some time 
 fixed her eye upon him, before he discovered her. 
 Her arms were stretched out toward him, floods 
 of tears ran down her eyes : her looks, her’hands, 
 her voice, called him over to her ; and at the same 
 time seemed to tell him that the river was impass¬ 
 able. Who can describe the passion made up 
 of joy, sorrow, love, desire, astonishment, that 
 rose in the Indian upon the sight of his dear Ya¬ 
 ratilda ? He could express it by nothing but his 
 tears, which ran like a river down his cheeks as 
 he looked upon her. He had not stood in this 
 posture long, before he plunged into the stream 
 that lay before him ; and finding it to be nothing 
 but the phantom of a river, stalked on the boG 
 tom of it till he arose on the other side. At his 
 approach Yaratilda flew into his arms, while Mar¬ 
 raton wished himself disencumbered of that body 
 which kept her from his embraces. After many 
 questions and endearments on both sides, she 
 conducted him to a bower which she had dressed 
 with all the ornaments that could be met with in 
 those blooming regions. She had made it gay 
 beyond imagination, and was every day adding 
 something new to it. As Marraton stood aston¬ 
 ished at the unspeakable beauty of her habita¬ 
 tion, and ravished with the fragrancy that came 
 from every part of it, Yaratilda told him that she 
 was preparing this bower for his reception, as well 
 knowing that his piety to his God, and his faith¬ 
 ful dealing toward men, would certainly bring 
 him to that happy place whenever his life should 
 be at an end. She then brought two of her chil¬ 
 dren to him, who died some years before, and re¬ 
 sided with her in the same delightful bower ; ad¬ 
 vising him to breed up those others which were 
 still with him in such a manner, that they might 
 hereafter all of them meet together in this liappv 
 place. 1 
 
 The tradition tells us farther, that he had after¬ 
 ward a sight of those dismal habitations wdiich 
 are the portion of ill men after death; and men¬ 
 tions several molten seas of gold, in which were 
 plunged the souls of barbarous Europeans, who 
 put to the sword so many thousands of poor In¬ 
 dians for the sake of that precious metal. But 
 having already touched upon the chief points of 
 this tradition, and exceeded the measure of my 
 paper, I shall not give any farther account of it. 
 
 C. 
 
 99 
 
 No. 57.] SATURDAY, MAY 5, 1711. 
 
 Quom praestare potest mulier galeata pudorem, 
 
 Quas fugit a sexu ?- Juv., Sat. vi, 251. 
 
 What sense of shame in woman’s breast can lie, 
 
 Inur’d to arms, and her own sex to fly ? 
 
 When the wife of Hector, in Homer’s Iliad 
 discourses with her husband about the battle in 
 which he was going to engage, the hero, desirino- 
 her to leave the matter to his care, bids her go to 
 her maids, and mind her spinning : by which the 
 poet intimates, that men and women ought to 
 busv themselves in their proper spheres, and on 
 sue i matteis only as are suitable to their respec¬ 
 tive sex. y 
 
 I am at this time acquainted with a youno* gen¬ 
 tleman, who has passed a great part of his life in 
 the nursery, and upon occasion can make a caudle 
 or a sack-posset better than any man in England 
 He is likewise a wonderful critic in cambric and 
 muslins, and he will talk an hour together upon 
 a sweet-meat. He entertains his mother every 
 night with observations that he makes both in 
 
 town and court: as what lady shows the nicest 
 
 ! * anc X . m her 5 lress »* what man of quality wears 
 the iaiiest wig; who has the finest linen, who 
 the prettiest snuff-box; with many other the like 
 cuiious remarks, that may be made in good com¬ 
 pany. ° 
 
 On the other hand, I have very frequently the 
 opportunity of seeing a rural Andromache, who 
 came up to town last winter, and is one of the 
 greatest fox-hunters in the country. She talks of 
 hounds and horses, and makes nothing of leaping 
 over a six-bar gate. If a man tells her a waggish 
 story, she gives him a push with her hand in test 
 and calls him an impudent dog; and if her ser¬ 
 vant neglects his business, threatens to kick him 
 out of the house. I have heard her in her wrath 
 call a substantial tradesman a lousy cur ; and 
 remember one day, when she could not think of 
 the name of a person, she described him in a large 
 company of men and ladies by the fellow with the 
 broad shoulders. 
 
 It those speeches and actions, which in their 
 o wn nature are indifferent, appear ridiculous when 
 they proceed from a wrong sex, the faults and im¬ 
 perfections of one sex transplanted into another 
 appear black and monstrous. As for the men, I 
 shall not in this paper any farther concern my¬ 
 self about them ; but as I would fain contribute 
 to make womankind, which is the most beautiful 
 pait of creation, entirely amiable, and wear out 
 all those little spots and blemishes that are apt 
 to rise among the charms which nature has poured 
 out upon them, I shall dedicate this paper to 
 their service. The spot which I would here en¬ 
 deavor to clear them of, is that party rage which 
 of late years is very much crept into their conver¬ 
 sation. This is, in its nature, a male vice, and 
 made up of many angry and cruel passions that 
 are altogether repugnant to the softness, the mod¬ 
 esty, and those other endearing qualities which 
 are natural to the fair sex. Women were formed 
 to temper mankind, and soothe them into tender¬ 
 ness and compassion ; not to set an edge upon 
 their minds, and blow up in them those passions 
 which are too apt to rise of their own accord. 
 When I have seen a pretty mouth uttering calum¬ 
 nies and invectives, what would I not have «iven 
 to have stopt it ? How I have been troubled to 
 see some of the finest features in the world grow 
 pale and tremble with party rage! Camilla is one 
 of the greatest beauties in the British nation, and 
 yet values herself more upon being the virago of 
 one party, than upon being the toast of both. 
 
 I he dear creature^ about a week ago, encountered 
 the fierce and beautiful Penthesilea across a tea- 
 table, but in the height of her anger, as her hand 
 chanced to shake with the earnestness of the dis¬ 
 pute, she scalded her fingers, and spilt a dish of 
 tea upon her petticoat. Had not this accident 
 broken off the debate, nobody knows where it 
 would have ended. 
 
 There is one consideration which I would ear¬ 
 nestly recommend to all my female readers, and 
 which, I hope, will have some weight with them. 
 
 In short, it is this, that there is nothing so bad 
 for the face as party zeal. It gives an ill-natured 
 cast to the eye, and a disagreeable sourness to the 
 look . beside that it makes the lines too strong, 
 and flushes them worse than brandy. I have seen 
 a woman’s face break out in heats, as she had 
 been talking against a'great lord, whom she had 
 never seen in her life ; and indeed I never knew 
 a party-woman that kept her beauty for a twelve- 
 month. I would therefore advise all my female 
 readers, as they value their complexions, to let 
 alone all disputes of this nature ; though, at the 
 same time, I would give free liberty to all super- 
 
100 
 
 THE SPECTATOR 
 
 animated motherly partisans to be as violent as 
 they please, since there will be no danger either 
 of their spoiling their faces, or of their gaming 
 
 converts. , . , , __ 
 
 For my own part, I think a man makes an 
 
 odious and despicable figure, that is violent in a 
 party * but a woman is too sincere to mitigate the 
 fury of her principles with temper and discretion, 
 and to act with that caution and reservedness 
 which are requisite in our sex. When this unna¬ 
 tural zeal gets into them, it throws them into ten 
 thousand heats and extravagances; their generous 
 souls set no bounds to their love or to their ha¬ 
 tred ; and whether a whig or a tory, a lap-dog or 
 a gallant, an opera or a puppet-show, be the object 
 of it, the passion, while it reigns, engrosses the 
 
 whole woman. ^ ^ 
 
 I remember, when Dr. Titus Oates* was in all 
 his glory, I accompanied ray friend Will Honey¬ 
 comb in a visit to a lady of his acquaintance. 
 We were no sooner sat down, but upon casting 
 my eyes about the room, I found in almost every 
 corner of it a print that represented the doctor m 
 all magnitudes and dimensions. A little alter, as 
 the lady was discoursing with my friend, and 
 held her snuff-box in her hand, who should I see 
 in the lid of it but the doctor! It was not long 
 after this when she had occasion for her handkei - 
 chief, which, upon first opening, discovered among 
 the plaits of it the figure of the doctor. Upon 
 this my friend Will, who loves raillery, told her 
 that if he was in Mr. Truelove s place (for that 
 was the name of her husband), he should be made 
 as uneasy bv a handkerchief as ever Othello was. 
 
 “ I am afraid,” said she, “Mr. Honeycomb you 
 are a tory: tell me truly, are you a friend to the 
 doctor or not?” Will, instead of making her a 
 reply, smiled in her face (for indeed she was very 
 pretty) and told her that one of her patches was 
 dropping off. She immediately adjusted it and 
 looking a little serious, “Well,” says she, I will 
 be hanged if you and your silent friend there aie 
 not against the doctor m your hearts ; I suspected 
 as much by his saying nothing.” Upon this she 
 took her fan in her hand, and upon the opening 
 of it, again displayed to us the figure of the doc¬ 
 tor, who was placed with great gravity among 
 the sticks of it. In a word, I found that the doc¬ 
 tor had taken possession of her thoughts, her dis¬ 
 course, and most of her furniture ; but finding 
 myself pressed too close by her question, I winked 
 upon ray friend to take his leave, which he did 
 accordingly.—0. 
 
 No. 58.] MONDAY, MAY 7, 1711. 
 
 Ut pictura, poesis erit.—H or., Ars. Poet., ver. 361. 
 
 Poems like pictures are. 
 
 Nothing is so much admired, and so little un¬ 
 derstood, as wit. No author that I know of has 
 written professedly upon it, and as for those who 
 make any mention of it, they only treat on the 
 subject as it has accidentally fallen m their way, 
 and that too in little short reflections, or in gener¬ 
 al exclamatory flourishes, without entering into 
 the bottom of the matter. I hope, therefoie, 1 
 shall perform an acceptable work to my country¬ 
 men, if I treat at large upon this subject; which 
 I shall endeavor to do in a manner suitable to it, 
 that I may not incur the censure which a famous 
 critic bestows upon orie who had written a trea¬ 
 tise on “ the sublime,” in a low groveling style. 
 I intend to lay aside a whole week for this under- 
 
 * Though, the name of Dr. T. Oates is made use of here, 
 ,Dr. Sacheverel is the person alluded to. 
 
 taking, that the scheme of my thoughts may not 
 be broken and interrupted ; and I dare promise 
 mvself, if my readers will give me a week s at- 
 tention, that this great city will be very much 
 changed for the better by next Saturday night. 1 
 shall endeavor to make what I say intelligible to 
 ordinary capacities ; but if my readers meet with 
 any paper that in some parts of it may be a little 
 out of their reach, I would not have them dis¬ 
 couraged, for they may assure themselves the next 
 shall be much clearer. 
 
 As the great and only end of these my specula¬ 
 tions is to banish vice and ignorance out of the 
 territories of Great Britain, I shall endeavor as 
 much as possible to establish among us a taste of '* 
 polite writing. It is with this view that I have 
 endeavored to set my readers right in several 
 points relating to operas and tragedies ; and shall 
 from time to time impart my notions of comedy, 
 as I think they may tend to its refinement arid 
 perfection. I find by my bookseller, that these 
 papers of criticism, with that upon humor, have 
 met with a more kind reception than indeed I 
 could have hoped for from such subjects; for which 
 reason I shall enter upon my present undertaking 
 
 with greater cheerfulness. _ run 
 
 In this, and one or two following papers, ! shall 
 trace out the history of false wit, and distinguish 
 the several kinds of it as they have prevailed in 
 different ages of the world. This I think the more 
 necessary at present, because I observed there were 
 attempts on foot last winter to revive some of those 
 antiquated modes of wit that have been long; ex " 
 ploded out of the commonwealth of letters. 1 here 
 were several satires and panegyrics handed about 
 in acrostic, by which means some of the most ar¬ 
 rant undisputed blockheads about the town began 
 to entertain ambitious thoughts, and to set up for 
 polite authors. I shall therefore describe at length 
 those many arts of false wit, in which a writer 
 does not show himself a man of a beautiful genius, 
 
 but of great industry. . . 
 
 The first species of false wit which I have met 
 with is venerable for its antiquity, and has pio- 
 duced several pieces which have lived very near 
 as long as the Iliad itself: I mean those short 
 poems° printed among the minor Greek poets, 
 which resemble the figure of an egg, a pair ot 
 wings, an ax, a shepherd’s pipe, and an altar. 
 
 As for the first, it is a little oval poem, and may 
 not improperly be called a scholar’s egg. I would 
 endeavor to hatch it, or, in more intelligible lan¬ 
 guage, to translate it into English, did not I find 
 the interpretation of it very difficult; for the author 
 seems to have been more intent upon the figure of 
 his poem than upon the sense of it. 
 
 The pair of wings consists of twelve verses, or 
 rather feathers, every verse decreasing gradually 
 in its measure according to its situation in the 
 wino-. The subject of it (as in the rest of the 
 poems which follow) bears some remote affinity 
 with the figure, for it describes a god of love, who 
 is always painted with wings. 
 
 The ax, methinks, would have been a good 
 fio-ure for a lampoon, had the edge of it consisted 
 of the most satirical parts of the work; but as it 
 is in the original, I take it to have been nothing 
 else but the posy of an ax which was consecrated 
 to Minerva, and was thought to have been the 
 same that Epeus made use of in the building of 
 the Trojan horse; which is a hint I shall leave to 
 the consideration of the crities. _ I am apt to think 
 that the posy was written originally upon the ax, 
 like those which our modern cutlers inscribe upon 
 their knives ; and that therefore the posy still re¬ 
 mains in its original shape, though the ax itself is 
 lost. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 The shepherd’s pipe may be said to be full of 
 music, for it is composed of nine different kinds 
 of verses, which by their several lengths resemble 
 the nine stops of the old musical instrument, that 
 is likewise the subject of the poem. 
 
 The altar is inscribed with the epitaph of Troi- 
 lus, the son of Hecuba; which, by the way, makes 
 me believe that these false pieces of wit are much 
 more ancient than the authors to whom they are 
 generally asciibed : at least I will never be per¬ 
 suaded that so fine a writer as Theocritus could 
 have been the author of any such simple works. 
 
 It was impossible for a man to succeed in these 
 perfoi mances who was not a kind of painter, or at 
 least a designer. He was first of all to draw the 
 outline of the subject which he intended to write 
 upon, and afterward conform the description to 
 the figure of his subject. The poetry was to con¬ 
 tract or dilate itself according to the mould in 
 which it was cast. In a word, the verses were to 
 be cramped or extended to the dimensions of the 
 frame that was prepared for them, and to undergo 
 the fate of those persons whom the tyrant Procrus¬ 
 tes used to lodge in his iron bed—if they were too 
 short, he stretched them on a rack; and if thev 
 were too long, chopped off a part of their legs, till 
 they fitted the couch which he had prepared for 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Dryden hints at this obsolete kind of wit in 
 one of the following verses in his Mac Flecno; 
 which an English reader cannot understand, who 
 does not know that there are those little poems 
 above-mentioned in the shape of wings and 
 altars. 
 
 -Choose for thy command 
 
 Some peaceful province in acrostic land; 
 
 There may’st thou wings display, and altars raise, 
 
 And torture one poor word a thousand ways. 
 
 This fashion of false wit was revived by several 
 poets of the last age, and in particular may be met 
 with among Mr. Herbert’s poems; and, if I am not 
 mistaken, in the translation of Du Bartas. I do 
 not remember any other kind of work among the 
 moderns which more resembles the performances 
 I have mentioned, than that famous picture of King 
 Charles the First, which has the whole book of 
 psalms written in the lines of the face and the hair 
 of the head. When I was last at Oxford I perused 
 one of the whiskers, and was reading the other, 
 but could not go so far in it as I would have done 
 by reason of the impatience of my friends and 
 fellow-travelers, who all of them pressed to see 
 such a piece of curiosity. I have since heard that 
 there is now an eminent writing-master in town 
 who has transcribed all the whole Testament in a 
 full-bottomed periwig : and if the fashion would 
 introduce the thick kind of wigs which were in 
 vogue some few years ago, he promises to add two 
 or three supernumerary locks that should contain 
 all the Apocrypha. He designed this wig origi¬ 
 nally for king William, having disposed" of the 
 two books of Kings in the two forks of the fore¬ 
 top ; but that glorious monarch dying before the 
 wig was finished, there is a space left in it for the 
 face of any one that has a mind to purchase it. 
 
 But to return to our ancient poems in picture. 
 
 I would humbly propose, for the benefit of our 
 modern smatterers in poetry, that they would imitate 
 then hiethren among the ancients in those inge¬ 
 nious devices. I have communicated this thought 
 to a young poetical lover of my acquaintance, who 
 intends to present his mistress with a copy of 
 verses made in the shape of her fan; and, if he 
 tells me true, has already finished the three first 
 sticks of it. He has likewise promised me to get 
 the measure of his mistress’s marriage finger, with 
 a design to make a posy in the fashion of a rin°- 
 
 101 
 
 which shall exactly fit it. It is so very easy to 
 enlarge upon a good hint, that I do not question 
 but my ingenious readers will apply what I .have 
 said to many other particulars : and that we shall 
 see the town filled in a very little time with poeti¬ 
 cal tippets, handkerchiefs, snuff-boxes, and the 
 like female ornaments. I shall therefore conclude 
 with a word ol advice to those admirable English 
 authors who call themselves Pindaric writers, that 
 they would apply themselves to this kind of wit 
 without loss ol time, as being provided better than 
 any other poets with verses of all sizes and di¬ 
 mensions.—C. 
 
 No. 59.J TUESDAY, MAY 8, 1711. 
 
 Operose nihil agunt.—S eneca. 
 
 Busy about nothing. 
 
 There is nothing more certain, than that every 
 man would be a wit if he could; and notwith¬ 
 standing pedants of a pretended depth and solidity 
 are apt to decry the writings of a polite author as 
 flash and froth, they all of them show, upon occa¬ 
 sion, that they would spare no pains to arrive at 
 the character of those whom they seem to despise. 
 F°i this reason we often find them endeavoring at 
 works of fancy, which cost them infinite pangs in 
 the pi oduction. The truth of it is, a man had 
 better be a. galley-slave than a wit, were one to 
 gam that title by those elaborate trifles which 
 have been the inventions of such authors as were 
 often masters of great learning, but no genius. 
 
 In my last paper I mentioned some of these 
 false wits among the ancients, and in this shall 
 give the reader two or three other species of them, 
 that flourished in the same early ages of the 
 world. The first I shall produce are the lipo- 
 grammatists or letter-droppers of antiquity, that 
 would take an exception, without any reason, 
 against some particular letter in the alphabet, so 
 as not to admit it once into a whole poem. One 
 Tryphiodorus was a great master in this kind of 
 writing. He composed an Odyssey or epic poem 
 on the adventures of Ulysses, consisting of four 
 and twenty books, having entirely banished the 
 letter a from the first book, which was called Al¬ 
 pha (as lucus a non lucendo) because there was not 
 an alpha in it. His second book was inscribed 
 Beta for the same reason. In short, the poet ex¬ 
 cluded the whole four and twenty letters in their 
 turns, and showed them, one after another, that 
 he could do his business without them. 
 
 It must have been very pleasant to have seen 
 this poet avoiding the reprobate letter, as much 
 as another would a false quantity, and making his 
 escape from it through the several Greek dialects, 
 when he was pressed with it in any particular 
 syllable. For the most apt and elegant word in 
 the whole language was rejected, like a diamond 
 with a flaw in it, if it appeared blemished with a 
 wrong letter. I shall only observe upon this head, 
 that if the work I have here mentioned had been 
 now extant, the Odyssey of Tryphiodorus, in all 
 probability, would have been oftener quoted by 
 our learned pedants, than the Odyssey of Homer. 
 What a perpetual fund would it have been of ob¬ 
 solete words and phrases, unusual barbarisms and 
 rusticities, absurd spellings, and complicated dia¬ 
 lects? I make no question but it would have 
 been looked upon as one of the most valuable 
 treasuries of the Greek tongue. 
 
 I find likewise among the ancients that inge¬ 
 nious kind of conceit, which the moderns distin¬ 
 guish by the name of a rebus, that does not sink 
 a letter, but a whole word, by substituting a pic¬ 
 ture in its place. When Ccesar was one of the 
 masters of the Roman mint, he placed the figure 
 
102 THE SPEC 
 
 of an elephant upon the reverse of the public 
 money; the word Ciesar signifying an elephant m 
 the Punic language. This was artificially con¬ 
 trived by Caesar, because it was not lawful for a 
 private man to stamp his own figure upon the coin 
 of the commonwealth. Cicero, who was so called 
 from the founder of his family, that was marked 
 on the nose with a little wen like a vetch (which 
 is Cicer in Latin), instead of Marcus Tullius Ci¬ 
 cero, ordered the words Marcus Tullius with a 
 figure of a vetch at the end of them, to be inscrib¬ 
 ed on a public monument. This was done pro¬ 
 bably to show that he was neither ashamed of his 
 name nor his family, notwithstanding the envy of 
 his competitors had often reproached him with 
 both. In the same manner, we read of a famous 
 building that was marked in several parts of it 
 with the figures of a frog and a lizard ; those 
 words in Greek having been the names of the 
 architects, who by the laws of their country were 
 never permitted to inscribe their own names upon 
 their works. For the same reason it is thought that 
 the forelock of the horse, in the antique equestrian 
 statue of Marcus Aurelius, represents, at a distance, 
 the shape of an owl, to intimate the country of 
 the statuary who, in all probability, was an Athe¬ 
 nian. This kind of wit was very much in vogue 
 among our own countrymen about an age or two 
 ago, who did not practice it for any oblique rea¬ 
 son, as the ancients above-mentioned, but purely 
 for the sake of being witty. Among innumerable 
 instances that may be given of this nature, I shall 
 produce the device of one Mr. Newberry, as I find 
 it mentioned by our learned Camden in his re¬ 
 mains. Mr. Newberry, to represent his name by 
 a picture, hung up at his door the sign of a yew- 
 tree, that had several berries upon it, and in the 
 midst of them a great golden N hung upon the 
 bough of the tree, which by the help of a little 
 false spelling made up the word N-ew-berry. 
 
 I shall conclude this topic with a rebus, which 
 has been lately hewn out in freestone, and erected 
 over two of the portals of Blenheim House, being 
 the figure of a monstrous lion tearing to pieces a 
 little cock. For the better understanding of which 
 device, I must acquaint my English reader, that 
 a cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by 
 the same word that signifies a Frenchman, as a 
 lion is the emblem of the English nation. Such 
 a device, in so noble a pile of building, looks like 
 a pun in a heroic poem ; and I am very sorry the 
 truly ingenious architect would suffer the statuary 
 to blemish his excellent plan with so poor a con¬ 
 ceit. But I hope what I have said will gain quar¬ 
 ter for the cock, and deliver him out of the lion’s 
 paw. 
 
 I find likewise in ancient times the conceit of 
 making an echo talk sensibly, and give rational 
 answers. If this could be excusable in any writer, 
 it would be in Ovid, where he introduces the Echo 
 as a nymph, before she was worn away into no¬ 
 thing but a voice. The learned Erasmus, though 
 a man of wit and genius, has composed a dialogue 
 upon this silly kind of device, and made use of 
 an echo who seems to have been a very extraordi¬ 
 nary linguist, for she answers the person she talks 
 with in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, according as 
 she found the syllables which she was to repeat 
 in any of these learned languages. Hudibras, in 
 ridicule of this false kind of wit, has described 
 Bruin bewailing the loss of his bear to a solitary 
 Echo, who is of great use to the poet in several 
 distichs, as she does not only repeat after him, 
 but helps out his verse, and furnishes him with 
 rhymes: 
 
 He rag’d, and kept as heavy a coil as 
 
 Stout Hercules for loss of Ilylas: 
 
 TATOR. 
 
 Forcing the valleys to repeat 
 The accents of his sad regret. 
 
 He heat his breast, and tore his hair, 
 
 For loss of his dear crony bear, 
 
 That Echo from the hollow ground, 
 
 His doleful wailings did resound 
 More wistfully by many times, 
 
 Than in small poets’ splay-foot rhymes, 
 
 That make her, in their rueful stories, 
 
 To answer to int’rogatories, 
 
 And most unconscionably depose 
 Things of which she nothing knows; 
 
 And when she has said all she can say, 
 
 ’Tis wrested to the lover’s fancy. 
 
 Quoth he, 0 whither, wicked Bruin, 
 
 Art thou fled to my-Echo, “ruin?” 
 
 I thought th’ hadst scorn’d to budge a step 
 For fear. (Quoth Echo) “ Marry guep.” 
 
 Am I not here to take thy part? 
 
 Then what has quell’d thy stubborn heart? 
 Have these bones rattl’d, and this head 
 So often in thy quarrel bled ? 
 
 Nor did I ever wince or grudge it, 
 
 For thy dear sake (Quoth she), “ Mum budget,” 
 Think’st thou ’twill not be laid i’ th’ dish, 
 
 Thou turn’st thy back? Quoth Echo) “Pish.” 
 To run from those th’ hadst overcome 
 Thus cowardly? (Quoth Echo) “ Mum.” 
 
 But what a vengeance makes thee fly 
 From me too as thine enemy ? 
 
 Or if thou hast no thought of me, 
 
 Nor what I have endur’d for thee; 
 
 Yet shame and honor might prevail 
 To keep thee thus from turning tail: 
 
 For who would grudge to spend his blood in 
 His honor’s cause? (Quoth she) “A pudding.” 
 C. 
 
 No. 60.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 9, 1711. 
 
 Hoc est quod palles? Cur quis non prandeat, hoc esrt? 
 
 Pers., Sat. iii, 85. 
 
 Is it for this you gain those meager looks, 
 
 And sacrifice your dinner to your books ? 
 
 Several kinds of false wit that vanished in the 
 refined ages of the world, discovered themselves 
 again in the times of monkish ignorance. 
 
 As the monks were the masters of all that little 
 learning which was then extant, and had their whole 
 lives entirely disengaged from business, it is no 
 wonder that several of them, who wanted genius 
 for higher performances, employed many hours in 
 the composition of such tricks in writing as re¬ 
 quired much time and little capacity. I have seen 
 half the HSneid turned into Latin rhymes by one 
 of the beaux esprits of that dark age; who says 
 in his preface to it, that the HSneid wanted no¬ 
 thing but the sweets of rhyme to make it the most 
 erfect work in its kind. I have likewise seen a 
 ymn in hexameters to the Virgin Mary, which 
 filled a whole book, though it consisted but of the 
 eight following words: 
 
 Tot, tibi, sunt, Yirgo, dotes, quot, sidera, coelo. 
 
 Thou hast as many virtues, 0 Virgin, as there aro stars in 
 heaven. 
 
 The poet rang the changes upon these eight seve¬ 
 ral words, and by that means made his verses al¬ 
 most as numerous as the virtues and the stars 
 which they celebrated. It is no wonder that men 
 who had so much time upon their hands did not 
 only restore all the antiquated pieces of false wit, 
 but enrich the world with inventions of their own. 
 It was to this age that we owe the production of 
 anagrams, which is nothing else but a transmuta¬ 
 tion of one word into another, or the turning of 
 the same set of letters into different words ; which 
 may change night into day, or black into white, 
 if Chance, who is the goddess that presides over 
 these sorts of composition, shall so direct. _ I re¬ 
 member a witty author, in allusion to this kind of 
 writing, calls his rival, who (it seems) was dis¬ 
 torted, and had his limbs set in places that did 
 not properly belong to them, “ the anagram of a 
 man.” 
 
THE SPE 
 
 When the anagrammatist takes a name to work 
 upon, he considers it at first as a mine not broken 
 up, which will not show the treasure it contains, 
 till he shall have spent many hours in the search 
 of it; for it is his business to find out one word 
 that conceals itself in another, and to examine the 
 letters in all the variety of stations in which they 
 can possibly be ranged. I have heard of a gen¬ 
 tleman, who, when this kind of wit was in fash¬ 
 ion, endeavored to gain his mistress’s heart by it. 
 She was one of the finest women of her age, and 
 known by the name of the Lady Mary Boon. The 
 lover not being able to make anything of Mary, by 
 certain liberties indulged to this kind of writing 
 converted it into Moll; and after having shut him¬ 
 self up for half a year, with indefatigable industry 
 produced an anagram. Upon the presenting it 
 to his mistress, who was a little vexed in her heart 
 to see herself degraded into Moll Boon, she told 
 him, to his infinite surprise, that he had mistaken 
 her sirname, for that it was not Boon, but Boliun. 
 
 -Ibid omnis 
 
 Effusus labor- 
 
 The lover was thunderstruck with his misfortune, 
 insomuch that in a little time after he lost his 
 senses, which indeed had been very much impaired 
 by that continual application he had given to his 
 anagram. 
 
 The acrostic was probably invented about the 
 same time with the anagram , though it is impossi¬ 
 ble to decide whether the inventor of the one or 
 the other, were the greater blockhead. The sim¬ 
 ple acrostic is nothing but the name or title of a 
 person, or thing, made out of the initial letters of 
 several verses, and by that means written, after 
 the manner of the Chinese, in a perpendicular line. 
 But beside these there are compound acrostics, 
 when the principal letters stand two or three deep. 
 I have seen some of them where the verses have 
 not only been edged by a name at each extremity, 
 but have had the same name running down like a 
 seam through the middle of the poem. 
 
 There is another near relation of the anagrams 
 and acrostics, which is commonly called a chro¬ 
 nogram. This kind of wit appears very often on 
 many modern medals, especially those of Ger¬ 
 many, when they represent in the inscription the 
 year in which they were coined. Thus we see on 
 a medal of Gustavus Adolphus the following 
 words, ChrIstVs DuX ergo TrIVMphVs. If you 
 take the pains to pick the figures out of the sev¬ 
 eral words, and range them in their proper order, 
 you will find they amount to mdcxvwii, or 1627, 
 the year in which the medal was stamped ; for as 
 some of the letters distinguish themselves from 
 the rest, and overtop their fellows, they are to be 
 considered in a double capacity, both as letters 
 and as figures. Your laborious German wits will 
 turn over a whole dictionary for one of these inge¬ 
 nious devices. A man would think they were 
 searching after an apt classical term, but instead 
 of that they are looking out a word that has an L, 
 an M, or a D, in it. When therefore we meet with 
 any of these inscriptions, we are not so much to 
 look in them for the thought, as for the year of 
 the Lord. 
 
 The bouts-rimes were the favorites of the French 
 nation for a whole age together, and that at a time 
 when it abounded in wit and learning. They 
 were a list of words that rhyme to one another, 
 drawn up by another hand, and given to a poet, 
 who was to make a poem to the rhymes in the 
 same order that they were placed upon the list: 
 the more uncommon the rhymes were, the more 
 extraordinary was the genius of the poet that 
 could accommodate his verses to them. I do not 
 
 C TAT OR. 1 Q 3 
 
 know any greater instance of the decay of wit and 
 learning among the French (which generally fol¬ 
 lows the declension of empire) than the endeavor¬ 
 ing to restore this foolish kind of wit. If the 
 reader will be at the trouble to see examples of it, 
 let him look into the new Mercure Gallant; where 
 the author every month gives a list of rhymes to 
 be filled up by the ingenious, in order to be com¬ 
 municated to the public in the Mercure for the 
 succeeding month. That for the month of No¬ 
 vember last, which now lies before me, is as fol¬ 
 lows : 
 
 .Lauriers 
 
 .Guerriers 
 
 .Musette 
 
 .Lisette 
 
 .Caesars 
 
 ...Etendars 
 
 .Houlette 
 
 .Folette 
 
 One would be amazed to see so learned a man 
 as Menage talking seriously on this kind of trifle 
 in the following passage: 
 
 “ Monsieur de la Chambre has told me that he 
 never knew what he was going to write when he 
 took his pen into his hand; but that one sentence 
 always produced another. For my own part, I 
 never knew what I should write next when I was 
 making verses. In the first place I got all my 
 rhymes together, and was afterward perhaps three 
 or four months in filling them up. I one day 
 showed Monsieur Gombaud a composition of this 
 nature, in which, among others, I had made use of 
 the four following rhymes, Amaryllis, Phyllis, 
 Marne, Arne; desiring him to give me his opinion 
 of it. He told me immediately, that my verses 
 were good for nothing. And upon my asking his 
 reason, he said, because the rhymes are too com¬ 
 mon ; and for that reason easy to be put into 
 verse. ‘ Marry,’ says I, ‘ if it be so, I am very well 
 rewarded for all the pains I have been at.’ But 
 by Monsieur Gombaud’s leave, ‘notwithstanding 
 the severity of the criticism, the verses were 
 good.’” Vide Menagiana.* Thus far the learned 
 Menage, whom I have translated word for word. 
 
 The first occasion of these bout-rimes made 
 them in some manner excusable, as they were 
 tasks which the French ladies used to impose on 
 their lovers. But when a grave author, like him 
 above-mentioned, tasked himself, could there be 
 anything more ridiculous ? Or would not one be 
 apt to believe that the author played booty, and 
 did not make his list of rhymes till he had finished 
 his poem ? 
 
 I shall only add that this piece of false wit has 
 been finely ridiculed by Monsieur Sarasin, in a 
 poem entitled, La Defaite des Bouts-Rimes, The 
 Rout of the Bouts-Rimes. 
 
 I must subjoin to this last kind of wit the double 
 rhymes, which are used in doggerel poetry, and 
 generally applauded by ignorant readers. If the 
 thought of the couplet in such composition is 
 good, the rhyme adds little to it; and if bad, it 
 will not be in the power of the rhyme to recom¬ 
 mend it. I am afraid that great numbers of those 
 who admire the incomparable Hudibras, do it more 
 on account of those doggerel rhymes than of the 
 parts that really deserve admiration. I am sure I 
 have heard the 
 
 Pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
 
 Was beat with fist, instead of a stick; 
 
 * Tom. i, p. 174, etc., ed. Aiust., 1713. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 104 
 
 and 
 
 There was an ancient sage philosopher 
 Who had read Alexander Ross over: 
 
 more frequently quoted, than the finest pieces of 
 wit in the whole poem.—C. 
 
 Ho. 61.] THURSDAY, MAY 10, 1711. 
 
 Non equidem studeo bullatis ut mihi nugis 
 Paeina turgescat, dare pondus idonea fuino. 
 
 Pers., Sat. v, 19. 
 
 ’T is not indeed my talent to engage 
 In lofty trifles, or to swell my page 
 With wind and noise.— Dryden. 
 
 There is no kind of false wit which has been 
 so recommended by the practice of all ages, as that 
 which consists in a jingle of words, and is com¬ 
 prehended under the general name of punning. 
 It is indeed impossible to kill a weed which the 
 soil has a natural disposition to produce. The 
 seeds of punning are in the minds of all men; and 
 though they may be subdued by reason, reflection, 
 and good sense, they will be very apt to shoot up 
 in the greatest genius that is not broken and cul¬ 
 tivated by the rules of art. Imitation is natural 
 to us, and when it does not raise the mind to 
 poetry, painting, music, or other more noble arts, 
 it often breaks out in puns and quibbles. 
 
 Aristotle, in the eleventh chapter of his book 
 of rhetoric, describes two or three kinds of puns, 
 which he calls paragrams, among the beauties of 
 good writing, and produces instances of them out 
 of some of the greatest authors in the Greek 
 tongue. Cicero has sprinkled several of his 
 works with puns, and in his book where he lays 
 down the rules of oratory, quotes abundance of 
 sayings as pieces of wit, which also upon examina¬ 
 tion prove arrant puns. But the age in which the 
 pun chiefly flourished was in the reign of King 
 James the First. That learned monarch was him¬ 
 self a tolerable punster, and made very few bish¬ 
 ops or privy-counselors that had not some time or 
 other signalized themselves by a clinch or a co¬ 
 nundrum. It was therefore in this age that the 
 pun appeared with pomp and dignity. It had 
 been before admitted into merry speeches and lu¬ 
 dicrous compositions but was now delivered with 
 great gravity from the pulpit, or pronounced in the 
 most solemn manner at the council-table. The 
 greatest authors, in their most serious works, made 
 frequent use of puns. The sermons of Bishop 
 Andrews, and the tragedies of Shakspeare are full 
 of them. The sinner was punned into repentance 
 by the former, as in the latter nothing is more 
 usual than to see a hero weeping and quibbling 
 for a dozen lines together. 
 
 I must add to these great authorities, which 
 seem to have given a kind of sanction to this 
 iece of false wit, that all the writers of rhetoric 
 ave treated of punning with very great respect, 
 and divided the several kinds of it into hard 
 names, that are reckoned among the figures of 
 speech, and recommended as ornaments in dis¬ 
 course. I remember a country schoolmaster of my 
 acquaintance told me once, that he had been in 
 company with a gentleman whom he looked upon 
 to be the greatest paragrammatist among the 
 moderns. Upon inquiry, I found my learned 
 friend had dined that day with Mr. Swan, the fa¬ 
 mous punster; and desiring him to give me some 
 account of Mr. Swan’s conversation, he told me 
 that he generally talked in the Paronomasia , that 
 he sometimes gave into the Ploce, but that in his 
 humble opinion he shone most in the Antanaclasis. 
 
 I must not here omit, that a famous university 
 of this land was formerly very much infested with 
 puns ; but whether or no this might not arise from 
 
 the fens and marshes in which it was situated, and 
 which are now drained, I must leave to the de¬ 
 termination of more skillful naturalists. 
 
 After this short history of punning, one would 
 wonder how it should be so entirely banished out 
 of the learned world as it is at present, especially 
 since it had found a place in the writings of the 
 most ancient poXite authors. To account for this, 
 we must consider that the first race of authors, 
 who were the great-heroes in writing, were desti¬ 
 tute of all rules and arts of criticism; and for that 
 reason, though they excel later writers in great¬ 
 ness of genius, they fell short of them in accuracy 
 and correctness. The moderns cannot reach their 
 beauties, but can avoid their imperfections. When 
 the world was furnished with these authors of the 
 first eminence, there grew up another set of 
 writers, who gained themselves a reputation by 
 the remarks which they made on the works of 
 those who preceded them. It was one of the em¬ 
 ployments of these secondary authors to dis¬ 
 tinguish the several kinds of wit by terms of art, 
 and to consider them as more or less perfect ac¬ 
 cording as they were founded in truth. It is no 
 wmnder, therefore, that even such authors as Iso¬ 
 crates, Plato, and Cicero, should have such little 
 blemishes as are not to be met with in authors of 
 a much inferior character, who have written since 
 those several blemishes were discovered. I do not 
 find that there was a proper separation made be¬ 
 tween puns and true wit by any of the ancient 
 authors, except Quinctilian and Longinus. But 
 when this distinction was once settled, it was very 
 natural for all men of sense to agree in it. As for 
 the revival of this false wit, it happened about the 
 time of the revival of letters; but as soon as it was 
 once detected, it immediately vanished and disap¬ 
 peared. At the same time there is no question, but 
 as it has sunk in one age and risen in another, it 
 will again recover itself in some distant period of 
 time, as pedantry and ignorance shall prevail upon 
 wit and sense. And, to speak the truth, I do very 
 much apprehend, by some of the last winter’s pro¬ 
 ductions, which had their sets of admirers, that 
 our posterity will in a few years degenerate into a 
 race of punsters: at least, a man may be very ex¬ 
 cusable for any apprehensions of this kind, that 
 has seen acrostics handed about the town with 
 great secrecy and applause ; to which I must also 
 add a little epigram called the Witches’ Prayer, 
 that fell into verse when it was read either back¬ 
 ward or forward, excepting only that it cursed one 
 way and blessed the other. When one sees there 
 are actually such painstakers among our British 
 wits, who can tell what it may end in? If we 
 must lash one another, let it be with the manly 
 strokes of wit and satire ; for I am of the old 
 philosopher’s opinion, that if I must suffer from 
 one or the other, I would rather it should be from 
 the paw of a lion than from the hoof of an ass. 
 I do not speak this out of any spirit of party. 
 There is a most crying dullness on both sides. I 
 have seen tory acrostics and whig anagrams, and do 
 not quarrel with either of them because they are 
 whigs or tories, but because they are anagrams 
 and acrostics. 
 
 But to return to punning. Having pursued the 
 history of a pun, from its original to its downfall, 
 I shall here define it to be a conceit arising from 
 the use of two words that agree in the sound, but 
 differ in the sense. The only way, therefore, to 
 try a piece of wit, is to translate it into a different' 
 language. If it bears the test, you may pronounce 
 it true; but if it vanishes in the experiment, you 
 may conclude it to have been a pun. In short, 
 one may say of a pun as the countryman described 
 his nightingale, that it is “vox et praterea nihil," 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “a sound, and nothing but a sound.” On the con¬ 
 trary, one may represent true wit by the descrip¬ 
 tion which Aristenetus makes of a fine woman ; 
 when she is dressed she is beautiful, when she is 
 undressed she is beautiful; or, as Mercerus has 
 translated it more emphatically, “Induitur, formosa 
 est: exuitur, ipsa forma est.”*—0 . 
 
 105 
 
 Ho. 62.] FRIDAY, MAY 11, 1711. 
 
 Scribendi recte sapere est et principium, et forts. 
 
 IIor., Ars. Poet., ver. 309. 
 
 Sound judgment is the ground of writing well. 
 
 Koscommon. 
 
 Mr. Locke has an admirable reflection upon the 
 difference of wit andjudgment, whereby he endea¬ 
 vors to show the reason why they are not always 
 the talents of the same person. His words are as 
 follow: “And hence, perhaps, may be given some 
 reason of that common observation, £ That men 
 who have a great deal of wit, and prompt memo¬ 
 ries, have not always the clearest judgment or 
 deepest reason.’ For wit lying most in the assem¬ 
 blage of ideas, and putting those together with 
 quickness and variety wherein can be found any 
 resemblance or congruity, thereby to make up 
 pleasant pictures, and agreeable visions in the 
 fancy; judgment, on the contrary, lies quite on the 
 other side, in separating carefully one from another 
 ideas wherein can be found the least difference, 
 thereby to avoid being misled by similitude, and 
 by affinity to take one thing for another. This is 
 a way of proceeding quite contrary to metaphor 
 and allusion ; wherein, for the most part, lies that 
 entertainment and pleasantry of wit, which strikes 
 so lively on the fancy, and is therefore so accept¬ 
 able to all people.” 
 
 This is, I think, the best and most philosophi¬ 
 cal account that I have ever met with of wit, 
 which generally, though not always, consists in 
 sucli a resemblance and congruity of ideas as this 
 author mentions. I shall only add to it, by way 
 of explanation, that every resemblance of ideas is 
 not that which we call wit, unless it be such a 
 one that gives delight and surprise to the reader, 
 these two properties seem essential to wit, more 
 particularly the last of them. In order, there¬ 
 fore, that the resemblance in the ideas be wit, 
 it is necessary that the ideas should not lie too 
 neai one another in the nature of things; for 
 where the likeness is obvious, it gives no surprise. 
 
 I o compare one man’s singing to that of another, 
 or to represent the whiteness of any object by that 
 of milk and snow, or the variety of its colors by 
 those of the rainbow, cannot be called wit, unless, 
 beside this obvious resemblance, there be some 
 farther congruity discovered in the two ideas, that 
 is capable of giving the reader some surprise, 
 thus when a poet tells us the bosom of his mis¬ 
 tress is. as white as snow, there is no wit in the 
 comparison; but when lie adds, with a sigh, it is 
 as cold too, it then grows into wit. Every reader’s 
 memory may supply him with innumerable in- 
 dances of the same nature. For this reason, the 
 
 * in cii U( ^ es *. n h er .°i c poets, who endeavor rather 
 .0 fill the mind with great conceptions than to di- 
 vert it with such as are new and surprising, have 
 seldom anything in them that can be called wit, 
 Mr. Locke s account of wit, with this short expla¬ 
 nation, comprehends most of the species of wit, 
 is metaphors, similitudes, allegories, enigmas, 
 mottoes, parables, fables, dreams, visions, dramatic 
 writings, burlesque, and all the methods of al- 
 usion. There are many other species of wit (how 
 
 *Dre sed she is beautiful, undressed she is beauty’s self. 
 
 remote soever they may appear at first sight from 
 the foregoing description) which upon examination 
 will be found to agree with it. 
 
 As true wit generally consists in this resem¬ 
 blance and congruity of ideas, false wit chiefly 
 consists in the resemblance and congruity some¬ 
 times of single letters, as in anagrams, chrono¬ 
 grams, lipograms, and acrostics; sometimes of 
 syllables, as in echoes and doggerel rhymes: some¬ 
 times of words, as in puns and quibbles ; and 
 sometimes of whole sentences or poems, cast into 
 the figures of eggs, axes, or altars: nay, some cany 
 the notion of wit so far, as to ascribe it even to 
 external mimicry; and to look upon a man as an 
 ingenious person that can resemble the tone, pos¬ 
 ture, or face of another. 
 
 As true wit consists in the resemblance of ideas, 
 ^ n d false wit in the resemblance of words, accord¬ 
 ing to the foregoing instances; there is another 
 kind of wit which consists partly in the resem¬ 
 blance of ideas, and partly in the''resemblance of 
 words, which for distinction-sake I shall call 
 mixed wit. This kind of wit is that which 
 abounds in Cowley, more than in any other author 
 that ever wrote. Mr. Waller has likewise a great deal 
 of it. Mr. Dryden is very sparing in it. Milton 
 had a genius much above it. Spenser is in the 
 same class with Milton. The Italians, even in 
 their epic poetiy, are full of it. Monsieur Boileau, 
 who formed himself upon the ancient poets, has 
 everywhere rejected it with scorn. If we look 
 after mixed wit among the Greek writers, we shall 
 find it nowhere but in the epigrammatists. There 
 are indeed some strokes of it in the little poem as¬ 
 cribed to Musaeus, which by that, as well as many 
 other marks, betrays itself to be a modern compo¬ 
 sition. If we look into the Latin writers, we find 
 none of this mixed wit in Yirgil, Lucretius, or Ca¬ 
 tullus ; very little in Horace, but a great deal of it 
 in Ovid, and scarce anything else in Martial. 
 
 Out of the innumerable branches of mixed wit, 
 
 I shall choose one instance which may be met with 
 in all the writers of this class. The passion of 
 love, in its nature, has been thought to resemble 
 fire; for which reason the words fire and flame are 
 made use of to signify love. The witty poets 
 therefore have taken an advantage from the double 
 meaning of the word fire, to make an infinite 
 number of witticisms. Cowley, observing the 
 cold regard of his mistress’s eyes, and at the same 
 time their power of producing love in him, con¬ 
 siders them as burning-glasses made of ice; and 
 finding himself able to live in the greatest ex¬ 
 tremities of love, concludes the torrid zone to be 
 habitable. When his mistress has read his letter 
 written in juice of lemon, by holding it to the fire, 
 he desires her to read it over a second time by 
 love’s flame. When she weeps, he wishes it were 
 inward heat that distilled those drops from the 
 limbeck. When she is absent, he is beyond 
 eighty, that is, thirty degrees nearer the pole than 
 when she is with him. His ambitious love is a 
 fire that naturally mounts upward.;* his happy 
 love is the beams of heaven, and his unhappy 
 love flames of hell. When it does not let him 
 sleep, it is a flame that sends up no smoke; when 
 it is opposed by counsel and advice, it is a fire 
 that rages the more by the winds blowing upon it. 
 Upon the dying of a tree, in which lie had cut his 
 loves, he observed that his written flames had 
 burnt up and withered the tree. When he re¬ 
 solves to give over his passion, he tells us that 
 one burnt like him forever dreads the fire. His 
 heart is an AStna, that instead of Vulcan's shop, 
 incloses Cupid’s forge in it. His endeavoring to 
 drown his love in wine, is throwing oil upon the 
 fire. He would insinuate to his mistress that the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 106 
 
 fire of love, like that of the sun (which produces I 
 so many living creatures), should not only warm, | 
 but beget. Love in another place cooks pleasure 
 at his fire. Sometimes the poet’s heart is frozen 
 in every breast, and sometimes scorched in every 
 eye. Sometimes he is drowned in tears and burnt 
 in love, like a ship set on fire in the middle of 
 the sea. 
 
 The reader may observe in every one of these 
 instances, that the poet mixes the qualities of fire 
 with those of love; and in the same sentence, 
 speaking of it both as a passion and as real fire, 
 surprises the reader with those seeming resem¬ 
 blances or contradictions, that make up all the 
 wit in this kind of writing. Mixed wit therefore 
 is a composition of pun and true wit, and is more 
 or less perfect as the resemblance lies in the ideas 
 or in the words. Its foundations are laid partly 
 in falsehood and partly in truth; reason puts in 
 her claim for one half of it, and extravagance for 
 the other. The only province therefore for this 
 kind of wit is epigram, or those little occasional 
 poems that in their own nature are nothing else but 
 a tissue of epigrams. I cannot conclude this head 
 of mixed wit, without owning that the admirable 
 oet, out of whom I have taken the examples of it, 
 ad as much true wit as any author that ever wrote; 
 and indeed, all other talents of an extraordinary 
 genius. 
 
 It may be expected since I am upon this subject, 
 that I should take notice of Mr. Dryden’s defini¬ 
 tion of wit; which, with all the deference that is 
 due to the judgment of so great a man, is not so 
 properly a definition of wit as of good writing in 
 general. Wit, as he defines it, is “a propriety 
 of words and thoughts adapted to the subject.” 
 If this be a true definition of wit, I am apt to 
 think that Euclid was the greatest wit that ever 
 set pen to paper. It is certain there never was a 
 greater propriety of words and thoughts adapted 
 to the subject, than what that author has made 
 use of in his Elements. I shall only appeal to 
 my reader if this definition agrees with any notion 
 he has of wit. If it be a true one, I am sure Mr. 
 Dryden was not only a better poet, but a greater 
 wit, than Mr. Cowley ; and Yirgil a much more 
 facetious man than either Ovid or Martial. 
 
 Bouhours, whom I look upon to be the most 
 penetrating of all French critics has taken pains 
 to show, that it is impossible for any thought to 
 be beautiful which is not just, and has not its 
 foundation in the nature of things ; that the basis 
 of all wit is truth ; and that no thought can be 
 valuable, of which good sense is not the ground¬ 
 work. Boileau has endeavored to inculcate the 
 same notion in several parts of his writings, both 
 in prose and verse. This is that natural way of 
 writing, that beautiful simplicity, which we so 
 much admire in the compositions of the ancients ; 
 and which nobody deviates from, but those who 
 want strength of genius to make a thought shine 
 in its own natural beauties. Poets who want 
 this strength of gefi'ius to give that majestic sim¬ 
 plicity to nature, which we so much admire in the 
 works of the ancients, are forced to hunt after 
 foreign ornaments, and not to let any piece of 
 wit of what kind soever escape them. I look 
 upon these writers as Goths in poetry, who, like 
 those in architecture, not being able to come up 
 to the beautiful simplicity of the old Greeks and 
 Romans, have endeavored to supply its place 
 with all the extravagances of an irregular fancy. 
 Mr. Dryden makes a very handsome observation 
 on Ovid’s writing a letter from Dido to iEneas, in 
 the following words : “ Ovid,” says he, speaking 
 of Virgil’s fiction of Dido and vEneas, “takes it 
 up after him, even in the same age, and makes an 
 
 ancient heroine of Virgil’s new-created Dido, 
 dictates a letter for her just before her death to 
 the ungrateful fugitive, and very unluckily for 
 himself, is for measuring a sword with a man so 
 much superior in force to him on the same subject. 
 
 I think I may be judge of this, because I have 
 translated both. The famous author of the Art 
 of Love has nothing of his own ; he borrows all 
 from a greater master in his own profession, and, 
 which is worse, improves nothing which he finds. 
 Nature fails him, and, being forced to his old 
 shift, he has recourse to witticism. This passes 
 indeed with his soft admirers, and gives him the 
 preference to Virgil in their esteem.” 
 
 Were I not supported by so great an authority 
 as that of Mr. Dryden, I should not venture to 
 observe, that the taste of most of our English 
 poets, as well as readers, is extremely Gothic. He 
 quotes Monsieur Segrais, for a threefold distinc¬ 
 tion of the readers of poetry; in the first of which 
 he comprehends the rabble of readers, whom he 
 does not treat as such with regard to their quality, 
 but to their numbers and the coarseness of their 
 taste. His words are as follow: “ Segrais has 
 distinguished the readers of poetry, according to 
 their capacity of judging, into three classes.” 
 [He might have said the same of writers too, if 
 he had pleased.] “ In the lowest form he places 
 those whom he calls Les Petits Esprits, such 
 things as our upper-gallery audience in a play¬ 
 house ; who like nothing but the husk and rind 
 of wit, and prefer a quibble, a conceit, an epi¬ 
 gram, before solid sense and elegant expression. 
 These are mob readers. If Virgil and Martial 
 stood for parliament-men, we know already who 
 would carry it. But though they made the great¬ 
 est appearance in the field, and cried the loudest, 
 the best of it is, they are but a sort of French 
 Huguenots, or Dutch boors, brought over in herds, 
 but not naturalized ; who have not lands of two 
 pounds per annum in Parnassus, and therefore 
 are not privileged to poll.* The authors are 
 of the same level, fit to represent them on a 
 mountebank’s stage, or to be masters of the cere¬ 
 monies in a bear-garden ; yet these are they who 
 have the most admirers. But it often happens, 
 to their mortification, that as their readers im¬ 
 prove their stock of sense (as they may by read¬ 
 ing better books, and by conversation with men 
 of judgment), they soon forsake them.” 
 
 I must not dismiss this subject without observ¬ 
 ing, that as Mr. Locke in the passage above-men¬ 
 tioned has discovered the most fruitful source of 
 wit, so there is another of a quite contrary nature 
 to it, which does likewise branch itself out into 
 several kinds. For not only the resemblance, but 
 the opposition of ideas, does very often produce 
 wit; as I could show in several little points, turns, 
 and antitheses, that I may possibly enlarge upon 
 in some future speculation.—C. 
 
 * To poll is used here as signifying to vote; but in proprie¬ 
 ty of speech, the poll only ascertains the majority of votes. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 63.] SATURDAY, MAY 12, 1711. 
 
 Ilumano capiti cervicem pietor equinam 
 Jungere si velit, et varias induce re plumas, 
 
 Uudique collatis membris ut turpiter atrum 
 Desiuat in piscem mulier formosa superne; 
 
 Spectatum admissi risura teneatis amici? 
 
 Credite, Pisones, isti tabulae fore librum 
 Persimilem, cujus, yelut aegri somnia, vanae 
 Fingentur species.— IIor., Ars. Poet., ver. 1. 
 
 If in a picture, Piso, you should see 
 A handsome woman with a fish’s tail, 
 
 Or a man’s head upon a horse’s neck, 
 
 Or limbs of beasts, of the most different kinds, 
 
 Cover’d with feathers of all sorts of birds; 
 
 Would you not laugh, and think the painter mad? 
 Trust me, that book is as ridiculous, 
 
 Whose incoherent style, like sick men’s dreams, 
 
 Varies all shapes, and mixes all extremes. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 It is very hard for the mind to disengage itself 
 from a subject on which it has been long em¬ 
 ployed. Tne thoughts will be rising of them¬ 
 selves from time to time, though we give them 
 no encouragement; as the tossings and fluctua¬ 
 tions of the sea continue several hours after the 
 winds are laid. 
 
 It is to this that I impute my last night’s dream 
 or vision, which formed into one continued alle¬ 
 gory the several schemes of wit, whether false, 
 mixed, or true, that have been the subject of my 
 late papers. 
 
 Metho ught I was transported into a country 
 that was filled with prodigies and enchantments, 
 governed by the goddess of Falsehood, and en¬ 
 titled the Region of False Wit. There was no¬ 
 thing in the fields, the woods, and the rivers, that 
 appeared natural. Several of the trees blossomed 
 in leaf-gold, some of them produced bone-lace, 
 and some of them precious stones. The fountains 
 bubbled in an opera tune, and were filled with 
 stags, wild boars, and mermaids that lived among 
 the waters ; at the same time that dolphins and 
 several kinds of fish played upon the banks, or 
 took their pastime in the meadows. The birds j 
 had many of them golden beaks and human I 
 voices. The flowers perfumed the air with smells 
 of incense, ambergris, and pulvillios ;* and were 
 so interwoven with one another, that they grew 
 up in pieces of embroidery. The winds were 
 filled with sighs and messages of distant lovers. 
 As I was walking to and fro in this enchanted 
 wilderness, I could not forbear breaking out into 
 soliloquies upon the several wonders which lay 
 before me, when, to my great surprise, I found 
 there were artificial echoes in every walk that, by 
 repetitions of certain words which I spoke, agreed 
 with me, or contradicted me, in everything I said. 
 In the midst of my conversation with these in¬ 
 visible companions, I discovered in the center of 
 a very dark grove a monstrous fabric built after 
 the Gothic manner, and covered with innumerable 
 devices in that barbarous kind of sculpture. I 
 immediately went up to it, and found it to be a 
 kind of heathen temple consecrated to the god of 
 Dullness. Upon my entrance I saw the deity of 
 the place dressed in the habit of a monk, with a 
 book in one hand and a rattle in the other. Upon 
 his right hand was Industry, with a lamp burn¬ 
 ing before her ; and on his left Caprice, witli a 
 monkey sitting on her shoulder. Before his feet 
 there stood an altar of a very odd make, which, 
 as 1 afterward found was shaped in that manner 
 to compl} r with the inscription that surrounded it. 
 Upon the altar there lay several offerings of axes, 
 wings, and eggs, cut in paper, and inscribed with 
 verses. The temple was filled with votaries, who 
 applied themselves to different diversions, as 
 
 107 
 
 their fancies directed them. In one part of it I 
 saw a regiment of anagrams, who were conti¬ 
 nually in motion, turning to the right or to the 
 left, facing about, doubling their ranks, shifting 
 their stations, and throwing themselves into all 
 the figures and counter-marches of the most 
 changeable and perplexed exercise. 
 
 Not far from these was the body of acrostics, 
 made up of very disproportioned persons. It was 
 disposed into three columns, the officers planting 
 themselves in a line on the left hand of each 
 column. The officers were all of them at least 
 six feet high, and made three rows of very proper 
 men ; but the common soldiers, who filled up the 
 spaces between the officers, were such dwarfs, 
 cripples, and scarecrows, that one could hardly 
 look upon them without laughing. There were 
 behind the acrostics two or three files of chrono¬ 
 grams, which differed only from the former as 
 their officers were equipped like the figure of 
 Time) with an hour-glass in one hand and a 
 scythe in the other, and took their posts promis¬ 
 cuously among the private men whom they com¬ 
 manded. 
 
 In the body of the temple, and before the 
 very face of the Deity, methought I saw the phan¬ 
 tom of Tryphiodorus, the lipogrammatist, engaged 
 in a ball with four-and-twenty persons, who pur¬ 
 sued him by turns through all the intricacies and 
 labyrinths of a country dance, without being able 
 to overtake him. 
 
 Observing several to be very busy at the western 
 end of the temple, I inquired into what they were 
 doing, and found there was in that quarter the 
 great magazine of rebuses. These were several 
 things of the most different natures tied up in 
 bundles, and thrown upon one another in heaps 
 like fagots. You might behold an anchor, a 
 night-rail, and a hobby-horse, bound up together. 
 One of the workmen seeing me very much sur¬ 
 prised, told me there was an infinite deal of wit 
 in several of those bundles, and that he would 
 explain them to me if I pleased ; I thanked him 
 for his civility, but told him I was in very great 
 haste at that time. As I was going out of the 
 temple, I observed in one corner of it a cluster of 
 men and women laughing very heartily, and 
 diverting themselves at a game of crambo. I 
 heard several double rhymes as I passed by them, 
 which raised a great deal of mirth. 
 
 Not far from these was another set of merry 
 people engaged at a diversion, in which the whole 
 jest was to mistake one person for another. To 
 give occasion for these ludicrous mistakes, they 
 were divided into pairs, every pair being covered 
 from head to foot with the same kind of dress, 
 though perhaps there was not the least resem¬ 
 blance in their faces. By this means an old man 
 was sometimes mistaken for a boy, a woman for 
 a man, and a black-a-moor for a European, which 
 very often produced great peals of laughter. 
 These I guessed to be a party of puns. But being 
 very desirous to get out of this world of magic, 
 which had almost turned my brain, I left the 
 temple, and crossed over the fields that lay about 
 it with all the speed I could make. I was not 
 gone far, before 1 heard the sound of trumpets 
 and alarms, which seemed to proclaim the march 
 of an enemy; and, as I afterward found, was in 
 reality what I apprehended it. There appeared 
 at a great distance a very shining light, and in the 
 midst of it a person of a most beautiful aspect; 
 her name was Truth. On her right hand there 
 marched a male deity, who bore several quivers 
 on his shoulders, and' grasped several arrows in 
 his hand. His name was Wit. The approach 
 of these two enemies filled all the territories of 
 
 * Pulvillios, sweet sefents. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 108 
 
 False Wit with an unspeakable consternation, inso¬ 
 much that the goddess of those regions appeared 
 in person upon her frontiers, with the several 
 inferior deities, and the different bodies of forces 
 which I had before seen in the temple, who were 
 now drawn up in array, and prepared to give 
 their foes a warm reception. As the march of 
 the enemy was very slow, it gave time to the 
 several inhabitants who bordered upon the re¬ 
 gions of Falsehood to draw their forces into a 
 body, with a design to stand upon their guard as 
 neuters, and attend the issue of the combat. 
 
 I must here inform my reader, that the frontiers 
 of the enchanted region which I have before 
 described, were inhabited by a species of Mixed 
 Wit, who made a very odd appearance when they 
 were mustered together in an army. There were 
 men whose bodies were stuck full of darts, and 
 women whose eyes were burning-glasses : men 
 that had hearts of fire, and women that had 
 breasts of snow. It would be endless to describe 
 several monsters of the like nature, that com¬ 
 posed this great army; which immediately fell 
 asunder, and divided itself into two parts, the one 
 half throwing themselves behind the banners of 
 Truth, and the other behind those of Falsehood. 
 
 The goddess of Falsehood was of a gigantic 
 stature, and advanced some paces before the front 
 of her army; but as the dazzling light which 
 flowed from Truth began to shine upon her, she 
 faded insensibly; insomuch that in a little space, 
 she looked rather like a huge phantom, than a 
 real substance. At length, as the goddess of 
 Truth approached still nearer to her, she. fell 
 away entirely, and vanished amidst the bright¬ 
 ness of her presence ; so that there did not re¬ 
 main the least trace or impression of her figure in 
 the place where she had been seen. 
 
 As at the rising of the sun the constellations 
 grow thin, and the stars go out one after another, 
 till the whole hemisphere is extinguished ; such 
 was the vanishing of the goddess : and not only 
 of the goddess herself, but of the whole army that 
 attended her, which sympathized with their 
 leader, and shrank into nothing, in proportion as 
 the goddess disappeared. At the same time the 
 whole temple sank, the fish betook themselves 
 to the streams and the wild beasts to the woods, 
 the fountains recovered their murmurs, the birds 
 their voices, the trees their leaves, the flowers 
 their scents, and the whole face of nature its true 
 and genuine appearance. Though I still con¬ 
 tinued asleep, I fancied myself, as it were, awak¬ 
 ened out of a dream, when I saw this region of 
 prodigies restored to woods and rivers, fields and 
 meadows. 
 
 Upon the removal of that wild scene of won¬ 
 ders, which had very much disturbed my imagi¬ 
 nation, I took a full survey of the persons of Wit 
 and Truth ; for indeed it was impossible to look 
 upon the first, without seeing the other at the 
 same time. There was behind them a strong 
 compact body of figures. The genius of Heroic 
 Poetry appeared with a sword in her hand, and a 
 laurel on her head. Tragedy was crowned with 
 cypress, and covered with robes dipped in blood. 
 Satire had smiles in her look, and a dagger under 
 her garment. Rhetoric was known by her thun¬ 
 derbolt ; and Comedy by her mask. After seve¬ 
 ral other figures, Epigtam marched up in the rear, 
 who had been posted there at the beginning of 
 the expedition, that he might not revolt to tho 
 enemy, whom he was suspected to favor in his 
 heart. I was very much awed and delighted with 
 the appearance of the god of Wit; there was 
 something so amiable, and yet so piercing in his 
 looks, as inspired me at once with love and ter¬ 
 
 ror. As I was gazing on him, to my unspeakable 
 joy he took a quiver of arrows from his shoulder, 
 m order to make me a present of it; but as I was 
 reaching out my hand to receive it of him, I 
 knocked it against a chair, and by that means 
 awaked.—C. 
 
 No. 64.] MONDAY, MAY 14, 1711. 
 
 -Hie vivimus ambitiosa 
 
 I’aupertate omnes-Juv., Sat. iii, 183. 
 
 The face of wealth in poverty we wear. 
 
 The most improper things we commit in the 
 conduct of our lives, we are led into by the force 
 of fashion. Instances might be given, in which 
 a prevailing custom makes us act against the rules 
 of nature, law, and common sense ; but at present 
 I shall confine my consideration to the effect it 
 has upon men’s minds, by looking into our beha¬ 
 vior when it is the fashion to go into mourning. 
 The custom of representing the grief we have for 
 the loss of the dead by our habits, certainly had 
 its rise from the real sorrow of such as were too 
 much distressed to take the proper care they ought 
 of their dress. By degrees it prevailed, that such 
 as had this inward oppression upon their minds, 
 made an apology for not joining with the rest of 
 the world in their ordinary diversions by a dress 
 suited to their condition. This, therefore, was at 
 first assumed by such only as were under real 
 distress ; to whom it was a relief that they had 
 nothing about them so light and gay as to be irk¬ 
 some to the gloom and melancholy of their inward 
 reflections, or that might misrepresent them to 
 others. In process of time this laudable distinc¬ 
 tion of the sorrowful was lost, and mourning is 
 now worn by heirs and widows. You see nothing 
 but magnificence and solemnity in the equipage 
 of the relict, and an air of release from servitude 
 in the pomp of a son who has lost a wealthy 
 father. This fashion of sorrow has now become 
 a generous part of the ceremonial between princes 
 and sovereigns, who, in the language of all na¬ 
 tions, are styled brothers to each other, and put 
 on the purple* upon the death of any potentate 
 with whom they live in amity. Courtiers, and all 
 who wish themselves such, are immediately seized 
 with grief from head to foot upon this disaster to 
 their prince ; so that one may know by the very 
 buckles of a gentleman-usher, what degree of 
 friendship any deceased monarch maintained with, 
 the court to which he belongs. A good courtier’s 
 habit and behavior is hieroglyphical on these oc¬ 
 casions. He deals much in whispers, and you 
 may see he dresses according to the best intelli¬ 
 gence. 
 
 The general affectation among men, of appear¬ 
 ing greater than they are, makes the whole world 
 run into the habits of the court. You see the 
 lady, who the day before was as various as a rain¬ 
 bow, upon the time appointed for beginning to 
 mourn, as dark as a cloud. This humor does not 
 prevail only on those whose fortunes can support 
 any change in their equipage, nor on those only 
 whose incomes demand the wantonness of new 
 appearances; but on such also who have just 
 enough to clothe them. An old acquaintance of 
 mine, of ninety pounds a year, who has naturally 
 the vanity of being a man of fashion deep at his 
 heart, is very much put to it to bear the mortality 
 of princes. He made a new black suit upon the 
 death of the King of Spain, he turned it for the 
 King of Portugal, and he now keeps his chamber 
 while it is scouring for the Emperor. He is a good 
 
 * Royal and princely mourners are clad in purple. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 109 
 
 economist in his extravagance, and makes only a 
 fresh black button on Ins iron-gray suit for any 
 potentate of small territories ; he indeed adds his 
 crape hat-band for a prince whose exploits he has 
 admired in the Gazette. But whatever compli¬ 
 ments may be made on these occasions, the true 
 mourners are the mercers, silkmen, lacemen, and 
 milliners. A prince of a merciful and royal dis¬ 
 position would reflect with great, anxiety upon 
 the prospect of his death, if he considered what 
 numbers would be reduced to misery by that 
 accident only. He would think it of moment 
 enough to direct, that in the notification of his 
 departure, the honor done to him might be re¬ 
 strained to those of the household of the prince 
 to whom it should be signified. He would think 
 a general mourning to be, in a less degree, the 
 same ceremony which is practiced in barbarous 
 nations, of killing their slaves to attend the obse¬ 
 quies of their kings. 
 
 I had been wonderfully at a loss for many 
 months together, to guess at the character of a 
 man who came now and then to our coffee-house. 
 He ever ended a newspaper with this reflection, 
 “Well, I see all the foreign princes are in good 
 health.” If you asked, “ Pray, Sir, what says 
 the Postman from Vienna?” He answered, “Make 
 us thankful, the German princes are all well.”— 
 “What does he say from Barcelona?”—“He does 
 not speak but that the country agrees very well 
 with the new Queen.” After very much inquiry, 
 I found this man of universal loyalty was a 
 wholesale dealer in silks and ribbons. His way 
 is, it seems, if he hires a weaver or workman, to 
 have it inserted in his articles, “that all this shall 
 be well and truly performed, provided no foreign 
 potentate shall depart this life within the time 
 above-mentioned.” It happens that in all public 
 mournings that the many trades which depend up¬ 
 on our habits, are during that folly either pinched 
 with present want, or terrified with the apparent 
 approach of it. All the atonement which men 
 can make for wanton expenses (which is a sort 
 of insulting the scarcity under which others la¬ 
 bor) is, that the superfluities of the wealthy give 
 supplies to the necessities of the poor ; but instead 
 of any other good arising from the affectation of 
 being in courtly habits of mourning, all order 
 seems to be destroyed by it: and the true honor 
 which one court does to another on that occasion, 
 loses its force and efficacy. When a foreign 
 minister beholds the court of a nation (which 
 flourishes in riches and plenty) lay aside, upon 
 the loss of his master, all marks of splendor and 
 magnificence, though the head of such a joyful 
 people, he will conceive a greater idea of the hon¬ 
 or done to his master, than when he sees the 
 generality of the people in the same habit. When 
 one is afraid to ask the wife of a tradesman whom 
 she has lost of her family ; and after some prepa¬ 
 ration, endeavors to know whom she mourns for ; 
 how ridiculous is it to hear her explain herself, 
 “ That we have lost one of the house of Austria!” 
 Princes are elevated so highly above the rest of 
 mankind, that it is a presumptuous distinction to 
 take a part in honors done to their memories, ex¬ 
 cept we have authority for it by being related in 
 a particular manner to the court which pays the 
 veneration to their friendship, and seems to ex¬ 
 press on such an occasion the sense of the uncer¬ 
 tainty of human life in general, by assuming the 
 habit of sorrow, though in the full possession of 
 triumph and royalty. R. 
 
 No. 65.] TUESDAY, MAY 15, 1711. 
 
 -Demetri, teque, Tigelli, 
 
 Discipularum inter jubeo plorare cathedras. 
 
 IIor., 1, Sat. x, 90. 
 
 Demetrius and Tigellius, know your place; 
 
 Go hence, and whine among the school-boy race. 
 
 After having at large explained what wit is, 
 and described the false appearances of it, all that 
 labor seems but a useless inquiry, without some 
 time be tpent in considering the application of it. 
 The seat of wit, when one speaks as a man of the 
 town and the world, is the playhouse; I shall 
 therefore fill this paper with reflections upon the 
 use of it in that place. The application of wit in 
 the theater has as strong an effect upon the man¬ 
 ners of our gentlemen, as the taste of it has upon 
 the writings of our authors. It may, perhaps, 
 look like a very presumptuous work, though not 
 foreign from the duty of a Spectator, to tax the 
 writings of such as have long had the general ap¬ 
 plause of a nation ; but I shall always make rea¬ 
 son, truth, and nature, the measures of praise and 
 dispraise; if those are for me, the generality of 
 opinion is of no consequence against me ; if they 
 are against me, the general opinion cannot long 
 support me. 
 
 Without farther preface, I am going to look 
 into some of our most applauded plays, and see 
 whether they deserve the figure they at present 
 bear in the imaginations of men or not. 
 
 In reflecting upon these works, I shall chiefly 
 dwell upon that for which each respective play is 
 most celebrated. The present paper shall be em¬ 
 ployed upon Sir Fopling Flutter.* The received 
 character of this play is, that it is the pattern of 
 genteel comedy. Dorimant and Harriet are the 
 characters of greatest consequence, and if these 
 are low and mean, the reputation of the play is 
 very unjust. 
 
 I will take for granted, that a fine gentleman 
 should be honest in his actions, and refined in his 
 language. Instead of this, our hero in this piece 
 is a direct knave in his designs, and a clown in 
 his language. Bellair is his admirer and friend ; 
 in return for which, because he is forsooth a great¬ 
 er wit than his said friend, he thinks it reason¬ 
 able to persuade him to marry a young lady, whose 
 virtue, he thinks, will last no longer than till she 
 is a wife, and then she cannot but fall to his 
 share, as he is an irresistible fine gentleman. The 
 falsehood to Mrs. Loveit, and the barbarity of tri¬ 
 umphing over her anguish for losing him, is 
 another instance of his honesty as well as his 
 good-nature. As to his fine language, he calls 
 the orange-woman, who, it seems, is inclined to 
 grow fat, “An overgrown jade, with a flasket 
 of guts before her;” and salutes her with a pretty 
 phrase of “How now, Double Tripe?” Upon 
 the mention of a country-gentlewoman, whom he 
 knows nothing of (no one can imagine why), 
 “he will lay his life she is some awkward ill- 
 fashioned country toad, who, not having above 
 four dozen of hairs on her head, has adorned her 
 baldness with a large white furze, that she may 
 look sparkislily in the fore-front of the king’s box 
 at an old play.” Unnatural mixture of senseless 
 common-place ! 
 
 As to the generosity of his temper, he tells his 
 poor footman, “If he did not wait better,” he 
 would turn him away—in the insolent phrase of, 
 “ I’ll uncase you.” 
 
 Now for Mrs. Harriet. She laughs at obedience 
 to an absent mother, whose tenderness Busy de- 
 
 * “ The Man of the Mode.” Sir Fopling was Beau Hewit, 
 son of Sir Thomas Hewit, of Pishiobury, in Hertfordshire, 
 Bart.; and the author’s own character is represented in Bell- 
 air. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 110 
 
 scribes to be very exquisite, for “that she is so 
 pleased -with finding Harriet again, that she can¬ 
 not chide her for being out of the way.” This 
 witty daughter and fine lady has so little respect 
 for this good woman, that she ridicules her air in 
 taking leave, and cries, “ In what struggle is my 
 
 E oor mother yonder ! See, see, her head tottering, 
 er eyes staring, and her under-lip trembling.” 
 But all this is atoned for, because “ she has more 
 wit than is usual in her sex, and as much malice, 
 though she is as wild as you could wish her, 
 and has a demureness in her looks that makes it 
 so surprising.” Then to recommend her as a fit 
 spouse for his hero, the poet makes her speak her 
 sense of marriage very ingenuously: 1 think,” 
 says she, “ I might be brought to endure him, 
 and that is all a reasonable woman should expect 
 in a husband.” It is, methinks, unnatural, that we 
 are not made to understand, how she that was bred 
 under a silly, pious old mother, that would never 
 trust her out of her sight, came to be so polite. 
 
 It cannot be denied, but that the negligence of 
 everything which engages the attention of the so¬ 
 ber and valuable part of mankind, appears very 
 well drawn in this piece. But it is denied, that 
 it is necessary to the character of a fine gentle¬ 
 man, that he should in that manner trample upon 
 all order and decency. As for the character of 
 Dorimant, it is more of a coxcomb than that of 
 Fopling. He says of one of his companions, that 
 a good correspondence between them is their mu¬ 
 tual interest. Speaking of that friend, he de¬ 
 clares, their being much together “ makes the wo¬ 
 men think the better of his understanding, and 
 judge more favorably of my reputation. It makes 
 him pass upon some for a man of very good 
 sense, and me upon others for a very civil person.” 
 
 This whole celebrated piece is a perfect contra¬ 
 diction to good manners, good sense, and common 
 honesty; and as there is nothing in it but what is 
 built upon the ruin of virtue and innocence, ac¬ 
 cording to the notion of merit in this comedy, I 
 take the shoemaker* to be in reality the fine gen¬ 
 tleman of the play : for it seems he is an atheist, 
 if we may depend upon his character as given by 
 the orange-woman, who is herself far from being 
 the lowest in the play. Sire says of a fine man who 
 is Dorimant’s companion, there “ is not such 
 another heathen in the town, except the shoe¬ 
 maker.” His pretension to be the hero of the dra¬ 
 ma, appears still more in his own description 
 of liis way of living with his lady. “ There is,” 
 says he, “ never a man in town lives more like a 
 gentleman with his wife than I do ; I never mind 
 her motions ; she never inquires into mine. We 
 speak to one another civilly, hate one another 
 heartily; and because it is vulgar to lie and soak 
 together, we have each of us our several settle- 
 bed.” That of “ soaking together ” is as good as 
 if Dorimant had spoken it himself; and I think, 
 since he puts human nature in as ugly a form as 
 the circumstance will bear, and is a staunch un¬ 
 believer, he is very much wronged in having no 
 part of the good fortune bestowed in the last act. 
 
 To speak plain of this whole work, I think 
 nothing but being lost to a sense of innocence and 
 virtue, can make any one see this comedy, without 
 observing more frequent occasion to move sorrow 
 and indignation, than mirtli and laughter. At 
 the same time I allow it to be nature, but it is 
 nature in its utmost corruption and degeneracy.f 
 
 R. 
 
 * Ho also was a real person, and got vast employment by 
 the representation of him in this play. 
 
 f IIow could it he otherwise, when the author of this play 
 was Sir George Etheridge, and the character of Dorimant 
 that of Wilmot, Earl of Rochester? 
 
 No. 66.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 16, 1711. 
 
 Motus doceri gaudet Ionicos 
 Matura virgo, et fingitur artibus 
 Jam nunc, et incestos amores. 
 
 De tenero meditatur ungui. 
 
 IIor. 1, Od. vi, 21. 
 
 Behold a ripe and melting maid 
 Bound ’prentice to the wanton trade: 
 
 Ionian artists, at a mighty price, 
 
 Instruct her in the mysteries of vice, 
 
 What nets to spread, where subtile baits to lay: 
 
 And with an early hand they form the temper’d clay. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 The two following letters are upon a subject of 
 very great importance, though expressed without 
 any air of gravity. 
 
 “ To the Spectator. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I take the freedom of asking your advice in 
 behalf of a young country kinswoman of mine 
 who is lately come to town, and under my care for 
 her education. She is very pretty, but you cannot 
 imagine how unformed a creature it is. She 
 comes to my hands just as nature left her, half 
 finished, and. without any acquired improvements. 
 When I look on her I often think of the Belle 
 Sauvage mentioned in one of your papers. Dear 
 Mr. Spectator, help me to make her comprehend 
 the visible graces of speech, and the dumb elo¬ 
 quence of motion; for she is at present a perfect 
 stranger to both. She knows no way to express 
 herself but by her tongue, and that always to sig¬ 
 nify her meaning. Her eyes serve her only to see 
 with, and she is utterly a foreigner to the language 
 of looks and glances. In this I fancy you could 
 help her better than anybody. I have bestowed 
 two months in teaching her to sigh when she is 
 not concerned, and to smile when she is not 
 pleased, and am ashamed to own she makes little 
 or no improvement. Then she is no more able 
 now to walk, than she was to go at a year old. 
 By walking, you will easily know I mean that 
 regular but easy motion which gives our persons 
 so irresistible a grace, as if we moved to music, 
 and is a kind of disengaged figure ; or, if I may 
 so speak, recitative dancing. But the want of this 
 I cannot blame in her, for I find she has no ear, 
 and means nothing by walking but to change her 
 place. I could pardon too her blushing, if she 
 knew how to carry herself in it, and if it did not 
 manifestly injure her complexion. 
 
 “ They tell me you are a person who have seen 
 the world, and are a judge of fine breeding; which 
 makes me ambitious of some instructions from you 
 for her improvement: which when you have favored 
 me with, I shall farther advise with you about the 
 disposal of this fair forester in marriage: for I will 
 make it no secret to you, that her person and edu¬ 
 cation are to be her fortune. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your very humble servant, 
 
 “ Celimene.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “Being employed by Celimene to make up and 
 send to you her letter, I make bold to recommend 
 the case therein mentioned to your consideration, 
 because she and I happen to differ a little in our 
 notions. I, who am a rough man, am afraid the 
 young girl is in a fairway to be spoiled: therefore, 
 pray, Mr. Spectator, let us have your opinion of 
 this fine thing called fine breeding; for I am afraid 
 it differs too much from that plain thing called 
 good breeding. 
 
 “Your most humble servant.” 
 
 The general mistake among us in the educating 
 our children is, that in our daughters we take care 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Ill 
 
 of their persons and neglect their minds ; in our 
 sons we are so intent upon adorning their minds, 
 that we wholly neglect their bodies. It is from 
 this that you shall see a youn^ lady celebrated 
 and admired in all the assemblies about town, 
 when her elder brother is afraid to come into a 
 room. From this ill management it arises, that 
 we frequently observe a man's life is half spent, 
 betore lie is taken notice of; and a woman in the 
 prime of her years is out of fashion and neglected. 
 The boy I shall consider upon some other occa¬ 
 sion, and at present stick to the girl: and I am the 
 more inclined to this, because 1 have several let¬ 
 ters which complain to me, that ray female readers 
 have not understood me for some days last past, 
 and take themselves to be unconcerned in the pre¬ 
 sent turn ot my writing.—When a girl is safely 
 brought from her nurse, before she is capable of 
 forming one single notion of anything in life, she 
 is delivered to the hands of her dancing-master; 
 and with a collar round her neck, the prettv, wild 
 thing is taught a fantastical gravity of beliavior, 
 and forced to a particular way of holding her head, 
 heaving her breast, and moving with her whole 
 bodv; and all this under pain of never having a 
 husband, it she steps, looks, or moves awry. 
 This gives the young lady wonderful workings of 
 imagination, what is to pass between her and 
 this husband, that she is every moment told of, 
 and for whom she seems to be educated. Thus her 
 fancy is engaged to turn all her endeavors to the 
 ornament of her person, as what must determine her 
 good and ill in this life: and she naturally thinks, 
 it she is tall enough, she is wise enough, for any¬ 
 thing for which her education makes her think she 
 is designed. To make her an agreeable person 
 is the main purpose of her parents ; to that is all 
 their cost, to that all their care directed; and from 
 this general folly of parents we owe our present 
 numerous race of coquettes. These reflections 
 puzzle me, when I think of giving my advice on 
 the subject of managing the wild thing mentioned 
 in the letter of my correspondent. But sure there 
 is a middle way to be followed; the management 
 of a young lady’s person is not to be overlooked, 
 but the erudition* of her mijid is much more to be 
 regarded. According as this is managed, you will 
 see the mind follow the appetites of the body, or 
 the body express the virtues of the mind. 
 
 Cleomira dances with all the elegance of motion 
 imaginable; but her eyes are so chastised with the 
 simplicity and innocence of her thoughts, that she 
 raises in her beholders admiration and good-will, 
 but no loose hope or wild imagination. The true 
 art in this case is, to make the mind and body im¬ 
 prove together; and, if possible, to make gesture 
 follow thought, and not let thought be employed 
 upon gesture.—R. 
 
 No. 67.] THURSDAY, MAY 17, 1711. 
 
 Saltare elegantius quam necesse est proboe.— Sallust. 
 
 Too fine a dancer for a virtuous woman. 
 
 Lucian, in one of his dialogues, introduces a 
 philosopher chiding his friend for his being a 
 lover of dancing and a frequenter of balls. The 
 other undertakes the defense of his favorite diver¬ 
 sion, which, he says, was first invented by the 
 goddess Rhea, and preserved the life of Jupiter 
 himself from the cruelty of his father Saturn. He 
 proceeds to show, that it had been approved by 
 the greatest men in all ages ; that Homer calls 
 Mcrion a fine dancer; and says, that the graceful 
 
 * Erudition seems to be hero used in an uncommon sense 
 for cultivation or instruction. 
 
 mien and great agility which he had acquired by 
 that exercise, distinguished him above the rest in 
 the armies both of Greeks and Trojans. 
 
 He adds, that Pyrrhus gained more reputation 
 by inventing the dance which is called after his 
 name, than by all his other actions: that the Lace¬ 
 daemonians, who were the bravest people in 
 Greece, gave great encouragement to this diver¬ 
 sion, and made their Hormus (a dance much re¬ 
 sembling the Frencli Brawl) famous all over Asia: 
 that there were still extant some Thessalonian 
 statues erected to the honor of their best dancers; 
 and that he wondered how his brother philosopher 
 could declare himself against the opinions of those 
 two persons whom he professed so much to 
 admire—Homer and Hesiod; the latter of which 
 compares valor and dancing together, and says, 
 that “the gods have bestowed fortitude, on some 
 men, and on others a disposition for dancing.” 
 
 Lastly, he puts him in mind that Socrates (who, 
 in the judgment of Apollo, was the wisest of men), 
 was not only a professed admirer of this exercise 
 in others, but learned it himself when he was an 
 old man. 
 
 The morose philosopher is so much affected by 
 these and some other authorities, that he becomes 
 a convert to his friend, and desires he would take 
 him with him when he went to his next ball. 
 
 I love to shelter myself under the examples of 
 great men; and I think I have sufficiently showed 
 that it is not below the dignity of these my specu¬ 
 lations to take notice of the following letter, which 
 I suppose is sent me by some substantial trades¬ 
 man about ’Change. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I am a man in years, and by an honest indus¬ 
 try in the world have acquired enough to give my 
 children a liberal education, though I was an utter 
 stranger to it myself. My eldest daughter, a girl of 
 sixteen, has for some time been under the tuition of 
 Monsieur Rigadoon, a dancing-master in the city; 
 and I was prevailed upon by her and her mother to 
 go last night to one of his balls. I must own to 
 ou, Sir, that having never been to such a place 
 efore, I was very much pleased and surprised 
 with that part of his entertainment which he called 
 French Dancing. There were several young men 
 and women whose limbs seemed to have no other 
 motion but purely what the music gave them. 
 After this part was over, they began a diversion 
 which they call country dancing, and wherein 
 there were also some things not disagreeable, and 
 divers emblematical figures, composed, as I guess, 
 by wise men, for the instruction of youth. 
 
 “Among the rest, I observed one which, I think, 
 they call ‘Hunt the Squirrel,’ in which, while the 
 woman flies, the man pursues her ; but as soon as 
 she turns, he runs awav, and she is obliged to 
 follow. 
 
 “ The moral of this dance does, I think, very 
 aptly recommend modesty and discretion to the 
 female sex. 
 
 “But as the best institutions are liable to cor¬ 
 ruption, so, Sir, I must acquaint you, that very 
 great abuses are crept into this entertainment. I 
 was amazed to see my girl handed by and hand¬ 
 ing young fellows with so much familiarity; and 
 I could not have thought it had been in the child. 
 They very often made use of a most impudent and 
 lascivious step called ‘Setting,’ which 1 know not 
 how to describe to you, but by telling you that it 
 is the very reverse of ‘ Back to Back.’ ‘At last an 
 impudent young dog bid the fiddlers play a dance 
 called ‘Moll Pately,’ and after having made two 
 or three capers, ran to his partner, locked his arms 
 in hers, and whisked her round cleverly above 
 
THE SPE 
 
 ground in such a manner that I, who sat upon one 
 of the lowest benches, saw farther above her shoe 
 than I can think fit to acquaint you with. I could 
 no longer endure those enormities; wherefore, just 
 as my girl was going to be made a whirligig, I ran 
 in, seized on the child, and carried her home. 
 
 “ Sir, I am not yet old enough to be a fool. I 
 suppose this diversion might be first invented to 
 keep up a good understanding between young men 
 and women, and so far I am not against it; but I 
 shall never allow of these things. I know not 
 what you will say to this case at present, but am 
 sure, had you been with me, you would have seen 
 matter of great speculation. 
 
 “I am, yours,” etc.* 
 
 I must confess I am afraid that my correspond¬ 
 ent had too much reason to be a little out of humor 
 at the treatment of his daughter, but I conclude 
 that he would have been much more so, had lie 
 seen one of those kissing dances in which Will 
 Honeycomb assures me they are obliged to dwell 
 almost a minute on the fair one’s lips or they will 
 be too quick for the music, and dance quite out 
 of time. 
 
 I am not able, however, to give my final sentence 
 against this diversion ; and am ot Mr. Cowley’s 
 opinion, that so much of dancing, at least, as be¬ 
 longs to the behavior and a handsome carriage of 
 the body, is extremely useful, if not absolutely 
 necessary. 
 
 We generally form such ideas of people at first 
 sight, as we are hardly ever persuaded to lay aside 
 afterward ; for this reason, a man would wish to 
 have nothing disagreeable or uncomely in his ap¬ 
 proaches, and to be able to enter a room with a good 
 grace. 
 
 I might add, that a moderate knowledge in the 
 little rules of good breeding, gives a man some 
 assurance, and makes him easy in all companies. 
 For want of this, I have seen a professor of a libe¬ 
 ral science at a loss to salute a lady ; and a most 
 excellent mathematician not able to determine 
 whether he should stand or sit while my lord 
 drank to him. 
 
 It is the proper business of a dancing-master to 
 regulate these matters ; though I take it to be a 
 just observation, that unless you add something 
 of your own to what these fine gentlemen teach 
 you, and which they are wholly ignorant of them¬ 
 selves, you will much sooner get the character of 
 an affected fop than a well-bred man. 
 
 As for country dancing, it must indeed be con¬ 
 fessed that the great familiarities between the two 
 sexes on this occasion may sometimes produce 
 very dangerous consequences; and I have often 
 thought that few ladies’ hearts are so obdurate as 
 not to be melted by the charms of music, the force 
 of motion, and a handsome young fellow, who is 
 continually playing before their eyes, and con¬ 
 vincing them that he has the perfect use of all his 
 limbs. 
 
 But as this kind of dance is the particular in¬ 
 vention of our own country, and as every one is 
 more or less a proficient in it, I would not dis¬ 
 countenance it; but rather suppose it may be 
 practiced innocently by others as well as myself, 
 who am often partner to my landlady’s eldest 
 daughter. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 Having heard a good character of the collection 
 of pictures which is to be exposed for sale on 
 Friday next; and concluding from the following 
 letter, that the person who collected them is a man 
 of no inelegant taste, I will be so much his friend 
 as to publish it, provided the reader will only 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 look upon it as filling up the place of an adver¬ 
 tisement : 
 
 From the Three Chairs, in the Piazzas, Covent-Garden. 
 “ Sir, May 16, 1711. 
 
 “As you are a spectator, I think we who make 
 it our business to exhibit anything to public view, 
 ought to apply ourselves to you for your appro¬ 
 bation. I have traveled Europe to furnish out a 
 show for you, and have brought with me what has 
 been admired in every country through which I 
 passed. You have declared in many papers, that 
 your greatest delights are those of the eye, which I 
 do not doubt but I shall gratify with as beautiful 
 objects as yours ever beheld. If castles, forests, 
 ruins, fine women, and graceful men, can please 
 you, I dare promise you much satisfaction, if you 
 will appear at my auction on Friday next. A 
 sight is, I suppose, as grateful to a Spectator as a 
 treat to another person, and therefore I hope you 
 will pardon this invitation from, “Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble servant, 
 
 X. “ J. Graham.” 
 
 Ho. 68.] FRIDAY, MAY 18, 1711. 
 
 Nos duo turba sumus-OvrD Met., i, 355. 
 
 We two are a multitude. • 
 
 One would think that the larger the company is 
 in which we are engaged, the greater variety of 
 thoughts and subjects would be started in dis¬ 
 course ; but instead of this, we find that conversa¬ 
 tion is never so much straitened and confined as 
 in numerous assemblies. When a multitude meet 
 together on any subject of discourse, their de¬ 
 bates are taken up chiefly with forms and general 
 positions; nay, if we come into a more contracted 
 assembly of men and women, the talk generally 
 runs upon the weather, fashion, news, and the like 
 public topics. In proportion as conversation gets 
 into clubs and knots of friends, it descends into 
 particulars, and grows more free and communi¬ 
 cative : but the most open, instructive, and unre¬ 
 served discourse, is that which passes between 
 two persons who are familiar and intimate friends. 
 On these occasions, a man gives a loose to every 
 passion and every thought that is uppermost, dis¬ 
 covers his most retired opinions of persons and 
 things, tries the beauty and strength of his senti¬ 
 ments, and exposes his whole soul to the examina¬ 
 tion of his friend. 
 
 Tully was the first who observed, that friend¬ 
 ship improves happiness and abates misery, by 
 the doubling of our joy, and dividing of our grief; 
 a thought in which he hath been followed by all 
 the essayers upon friendship that have written 
 since his time. Sir Francis Bacon has finely de¬ 
 scribed other advantages, or as he calls them, 
 fruits of friendship; and, indeed, there is no sub¬ 
 ject of morality which has been better handled 
 and more exhausted than this. Among the several 
 fine things which have been spoken of it, I shall 
 beg leave to quote some out of a very ancient 
 author, whose book would be regarded by our 
 modern wits as one of the most shining tracts of 
 morality that is extant, if it appeared under the 
 name of a Confucius, or of any celebrated Grecian 
 philosopher: I mean the little apocryphal treatise, 
 entitled The Wisdom of the Son of Sirach. How 
 finely has he described the art of making friends 
 by an obliging and affable behavior! — and laid 
 down that precept, which a late excellent author 
 has delivered as his own, That we should have 
 many well-wishers, but few friends. _ “ Sweet 
 language will multiply friends ; and a fair-speak¬ 
 ing tongue will increase kind greetings. Be in 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 peace with many, nevertheless have but one coun¬ 
 selor of a thousand.”* With what prudence 
 does he caution us in the choice of our friends! 
 And with what strokes of nature (I could almost 
 say of humor) has he described the behavior of a 
 treacherous and self-interested friend! “If thou 
 wouldst get a friend, prove him first, and be not 
 hasty to credit him: for some man is a friend for 
 his own occasion, and will not abide in the day 
 of thy trouble. And there is a friend, who 
 being turned to enmity and strife, will discover 
 thy reproach ” Again, “Some friend is a com¬ 
 panion at the table, and will not continue in the 
 day of thy affliction: but in thy prosperity he will 
 be as thyself, and will be bold over thy servants. 
 If thou be brought low he will be against thee, 
 and hide himself from thy face ”f What can be 
 more strong and pointed than the following verse? 
 “Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take 
 heed of thy friends.” In the next words he 
 particularizes one of those fruits of friendship 
 which is described at length by the two famous 
 authors above-mentioned, and falls into a general 
 eulogium of friendship, which is very just as well 
 as very sublime. “A faithful friend is a strong 
 defense; and he that hath found such a one hath 
 found a treasure. Nothing doth countervail a 
 faithful friend, and his excellency is invaluable. 
 A faithful friend is the medicine of life; and they 
 that fear the Lord shall find him. Whoso fearetli 
 the Lord shall direct his friendship aright; for as 
 he is^ so shall his neighbor (that is his friend) be 
 also, i I do not remember to have met with any 
 saying that has pleased me more than that of a 
 friend s being the medicine of life, to express the 
 efficacy of friendship in healing the pains and 
 anguish which naturally cleave to our existence in 
 this world; and am wonderfully pleased with the 
 turn in the last sentence, that a virtuous man shall 
 as a blessing meet with a friend who is as virtuous 
 as himselt. There is another saying in the same 
 author, which would have been very much ad¬ 
 mired in a heathen writer: “Forsake not an old 
 friend, for the new is not comparable to him: a 
 new friend is a.s new wine; when it is old thou 
 with pleasure.Ӥ With what strength 
 nf allusion, and force of thought, has he described 
 the breaches and violations of friendship?—“Who- 
 30 casteth a stone at the birds frayeth them 
 away; and he that upbraideth his friend, break- 
 3 th friendship. Though thou drawest a sword at 
 a friend, yet despair not, for there may be a re¬ 
 turning to favor. If thou hast opened thy mouth 
 against thy friend, fear not, for there may be a 
 econciliation; except for upbraiding, or pride, 
 
 )r disclosing of secrets, or a treacherous wound ; 
 or, for these things every friend will depart.”|| 
 We may observe in this and several other precepts 
 n this author, those little familiar instances and 
 Lustrations which are so much admired in the 
 noral writings of Horace and Epictetus. There 
 tre very beautiful instances of this nature in the 
 ollowing passages, which are likewise written on 
 ne same subject: *“Whoso discoveretli secrets 
 oseth his credit, and shall never find a friend to 
 us mmd. Love thy friend and be faithful to him; 
 mt it thou bewrayeth his secret, follow no more 
 ■iter him: for as a man hath destroyed his enemy 
 o hast thou lost the love of thy friend; as one 
 hat letteth a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou 
 3t thy friend go, and shall not get him again: 
 3ilow after him no more, for lie is too far off - he 
 3 as a roe escaped out of the snare. As for a 
 'ound it may be bound up, and after reviling 
 
 113 
 
 there may be a reconciliation; but he that be¬ 
 wrayeth secrets is without hope.”* 
 
 Among the several qualifications of a good 
 friend, this wise man has very justly singled out 
 constancy and faithfulness, as the principal: 
 to these, others have added virtue, knowledge, 
 discretion, equality in age and fortune, and,°a8 
 Ciceio calls it, Morum comitas, “a pleasantness of 
 temper. If I were to give opinion upon such an 
 exhausted subject, I should join to these other 
 qualifications, a certain equability or evenness of 
 behavior. A man often contracts a friendship 
 with one whom perhaps he does not find out till 
 after a year’s conversation; when on a sudden some 
 latent ill humor breaks out upon him, which he 
 never discovered or suspected at his first entering 
 into an intimacy with him. There are several 
 persons who in some certain periods of their lives 
 are inexpressibly agreeable, and in others as odious 
 and detestable. Martial has given us a very 
 pretty picture of one of this species, in the fol¬ 
 lowing epigram : 
 
 Difficilis, facilis, jucundus, acerbus es idem, 
 
 Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te.—Epig. xii, 47. 
 
 In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, 
 
 Thou’rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; 
 
 Ilast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, 
 There is no living with thee, nor without thee. 
 
 It is very unlucky for a man to be entangled in a 
 friendship with one, who, by these changes and 
 vicissitudes of humor, is sometimes amiable and 
 sometimes odious: and as most men are at some 
 times in admirable frame and disposition of mind, 
 it should be one of the greatest tasks of wisdom 
 to keep ourselves well when we are so, and never 
 to go out of that which is the agreeable part of 
 our character.—C. 
 
 Ho. 69.] SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1711. 
 
 Hie segetes, illic veniunt felicius uvas: 
 
 Arborei foetus alibi, atque injussa virescunt 
 Gramina. _ Norme vides, croceos at Tmolus odores, 
 India mittit ebur, molles sua thura Sahaei ? 
 
 At Chalybes nudi ferrum, virosaque Pontus 
 Castorea, Eliadum palmas Epirus equarum ? 
 Continuo has leges aeternaque foedera certis 
 Imposuit natura locis- Virg. Georg., i, 54. 
 
 This ground with Bacchus, that with Ceres suits; 
 That other loads the trees with happy fruits, 
 
 A fourth with grass, unhidden, decks the ground: 
 Thus Tmolus is with yellow saffron crown’d; 
 
 India black ebon and white iv’ry bears; 
 
 And soft Idume weeps her od’rous tears: 
 
 Thus Pontus sends her beaver stones from far: 
 
 And naked Spaniards temper steel for war: 
 
 Epirus for th’ Elean chariot breeds 
 
 (In hopes of palms) a race of running steeds. 
 
 This is th’ original contract; these the laws 
 Impos’d by nature, and by nature’s cause.— Dryden. 
 
 *Ecclus., vi, 5, 6. 
 
 + Ibid, vi, 15—18. 
 
 1 Ibid, xxii, 20—22. 
 
 8 
 
 f Ibid, vi, 7, et seq. 
 glbid. ix, 10. 
 
 There is no place in the town which I so much 
 love to frequent as the Royal Exchange. It gives 
 me a secret satisfaction, and in some measure grati¬ 
 fies my vanity, as I am an Englishman, to see so 
 rich an assembly of. countrymen and foreigners, 
 consulting together upon the private business of 
 mankind, and making this metropolis a kind of 
 emporium for the whole earth. 1 must confess 1 
 look upon high-change to be a great council, in 
 which all considerable nations have their repre¬ 
 sentatives. Factors in the trading world are what 
 ambassadors are in the politic world; they ne¬ 
 gotiate affairs, conclude treaties, and maintain a 
 good correspondence between those wealthy socie¬ 
 ties of men that are divided from one another by 
 seas and oceans, or live on the different extremities 
 of a continent. I have often been pleased to hear 
 disputes adjusted between an inhabitant of Japan 
 
 * Ecclus., xxvii, 16, et eeq: 
 
114 THE SPE< 
 
 and an alderman of London; or to see a subject 
 of the Great Mogul entering into a league with 
 one of the Czar of Muscovy. 1 am infinitely de¬ 
 lighted in mixing with these several ministers of 
 commerce, as they are distinguished by their dif¬ 
 ferent walks and different languages. Sometimes 
 I am jostled among a body of Armenians ; some¬ 
 times I am lost in a crowd of Jews ; and some¬ 
 times make one in a group of Dutchmen. I am a 
 Dane, Swede, or Frenchman, at different times ; or 
 rather fancy myself, like the old philosopher, who 
 upon being asked what countryman he was, re¬ 
 plied, that he was a citizen of the world. 
 
 Though I very frequently visit this busy multi¬ 
 tude of people, I am known to nobody there but 
 my friend Sir Andrew, who often smiles upon me 
 as he sees me bustling in the crowd, but at the 
 same time connives at my presence without taking 
 farther notice of me. There is indeed a merchant 
 of Egypt, who just, knows me by sight, having 
 formerly remitted me some money to Grand Cairo; 
 but as I am not versed in modern Coptic, our con¬ 
 ferences go no farther than a bow and a grimace. 
 
 This grand scene of business gives me an infi¬ 
 nite variety of solid and substantial entertainments. 
 As I am a great lover of mankind, my heart 
 naturally overflows with pleasure at, the sight of 
 a prosperous and happy multitude, insomuch that 
 at many public solemnities I cannot forbear ex¬ 
 pressing my joy with tears that have stolen down 
 my cheeks. For this reason I am wonderfully de¬ 
 lighted to see such a body of men thriving in their 
 own private fortunes, and at the same time pro¬ 
 moting the public stock; or, in other words, rais¬ 
 ing estates for their own families, by bringing into 
 their country whatever is wanting, and carrying 
 out of it whatever is superfluous. 
 
 Nature seems to have taken a particular care to 
 disseminate her blessings among the different re¬ 
 gions of the world, with an eye to this mutual in¬ 
 tercourse and traffic among mankind, that the 
 natives of the several parts of the globe might 
 have a kind of dependence upon one another, and 
 be united together by their common interest. Al¬ 
 most every degree produces something peculiar to 
 it. The food often grows in one country, and the 
 sauce in another. "The fruits of Portugal are 
 corrected by the produce of Barbadoes, and the 
 infusion of a China plant is sweetened by the pith 
 of an Indian cane. The Phillipic Islands give a 
 flavor to our European bowls. The single dress 
 of a woman of quality is often the product of a 
 hundred climates. The muff and the fan come 
 together from different ends of the earth. The 
 scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet 
 from beneath the pole. The brocade petticoat 
 rises out of the mines of Peru, and the diamond 
 necklace out of the bowels of Indostan. 
 
 If we consider our own country in its natural 
 prospect, without any of the benefits and advan¬ 
 tages of commerce, what a barren uncomfortable 
 spot of earth falls to our share ! Natural histori¬ 
 ans tell us, that no fruit grows originally among 
 us, beside hips and haws, acorns and pig-nuts, 
 with other delicacies of the like nature; that our 
 climate of itself, and without the assistance of art, 
 can make no farther advances toward a plum than 
 to a sloe, and carries an apple to no greater per¬ 
 fection than a crab: that our melons, our peaches, 
 our figs, our apricots, and cherries, are strangers 
 among us, imported in different ages, and natu¬ 
 ralized in our English gardens ; and that they 
 would all degenerate and fall away into the trash 
 of our own country, if they were wholly neglected 
 -by the planter, and left to the mercy of our sun 
 and soil. Nor has traffic more enriched our vege¬ 
 table world, than it has improved the whole face 
 
 1TATOR. 
 
 of nature among us. Our ships are laden with 
 the harvest of every climate. Our tables are 
 stored with spices, and oils, and wines. Our 
 rooms are filled with pyramids of China, and 
 adorned with the workmanship of Japan. Our 
 morning’s draught comes to us from the remotest 
 corners of the earth. We repair our bodies by the 
 drugs of America, and repose ourselves under In¬ 
 dian canopies. My friend, Sir Andrew, calls the 
 vineyards of France our gardens; the Spice- 
 islaiids our hot-beds; the Persians our silk- 
 weavers, and the Chinese our potters. Nature, 
 indeed, furnishes us with the bare necessaries of 
 life, but traffic gives us a great variety of what is 
 useful, and at the same time supplies us with 
 everything that is convenient ana ornamental. 
 Nor is it the least part of this our happiness, that 
 while we enjoy the remotest products of the north 
 and south, we are free from those extremities of 
 weather which give them birth : that our eyes are 
 refreshed with the green fields of Britain, and at 
 the same time that our palates are feasted with 
 fruits that rise between the tropics. 
 
 For these reasons there are not more useful 
 members in a commonwealth than merchants.— 
 They knit mankind together in a mutual inter¬ 
 course of good offices, distribute the gifts of na¬ 
 ture, find work for the poor, add wealth to the 
 rich, and magnificence to the great. Our English 
 merchant converts the tin of his own country into 
 gold, and exchanges its wool for rubies. The Ma¬ 
 hometans are clothed in our British manufacture, 
 and the inhabitants of the frozen zone warmed 
 with the fleeces of our sheep. 
 
 When I have been upon the ’Change, I have 
 often fancied one of our old kings standing in 
 person, where he is represented in effigy, and 
 looking down upon the wealthy concourse of peo¬ 
 ple with which that place is every day filled. In 
 this case, how would he be surprised to hear all 
 the languages of Europe spoken in this little spot 
 of his former dominions, and to see so many pri¬ 
 vate men, who in his time would have been the 
 vassals of some powerful baron, negotiating like 
 princes for greater sums of money than were for¬ 
 merly to be met with in the royal treasury!— 
 Trade, without enlarging the British territories, 
 has given us a kind ot additional empire. It has 
 multiplied the number of the rich, made our 
 landed estates infinitely more valuable than they 
 were formerly, and added to them an accession 
 of other estates as valuable as the lands them¬ 
 selves.—C. 
 
 No. 70.] MONDAY, MAY 21, 1711. 
 
 Interdum vulgus rectum vidit.— IIor., 1 Ep. ii, 63. 
 
 Sometimes the vulgar see and judge aright. 
 
 When I traveled, I took a particular delight in 
 hearing the songs and fables that are come frorr 
 father to son, and are most in vogue among the 
 common people of the countries through which 1 
 passed; for it is impossible that anything shoulc 
 be universally tasted and approved by a multi 
 tude, though they are only the rabble of a nation 
 which hath not in it some peculiar aptness tc 
 please and gratify the mind of man. Human na 
 ture is the same in all reasonable creatures ; anc 
 whatever falls in with it, will meet with admirer! 
 among readers of all qualities and conditions 
 Moliere, as we are told by Monsieur Boileau, usee 
 to read all his comedies to an old woman who waf 
 his housekeeper, as she sat with him at her worl 
 by the chimney-corner; and could foretell th( 
 success of his play in the theater, from the recep 
 tion it met at his fire-side—for he tells us th< 
 
the spectator. 
 
 audience always followed the old woman, and never 
 failed to laugh in the same place. 
 
 I know nothing which more shows the essential 
 and inherent perfection of simplicity of thought, 
 above that which I call the Gothic manner in writ¬ 
 ing, than this—that the first pleases all kinds of 
 palates, and the latter only such as have formed 
 to themselves a wrong artificial taste upon little 
 fancilul a.utliors and writers of epigram. Homer, 
 Virgil, or Milton, so far as the language of their 
 poems is understood, will please a reader of plain 
 common sense, who would neither relish nor com¬ 
 prehend an epigram of Martial, or a poem of Cow- 
 ley • so, on the contrary, an ordinary song or 
 ballad that is the delight of the common people, 
 cannot foil to please all such readers as are not 
 unqualified for the entertainment by their affecta¬ 
 tion or ignorance; and the reason is plain—be¬ 
 cause the same paintings of nature which recom¬ 
 mend it to the most ordinary reader will appear 
 beautiful to the most refined. 
 
 , ri'kj son » of _Chevy-Chase j s the favorite 
 
 ballad of the common people of England; and 
 Ben Jonson used to say, he had rather have been 
 the author of it than of all his works. Sir Philip 
 Sydney, in his discourse of Poetry, speaks of it in 
 the following words: “ I never heard the old song 
 of I ercy and Douglas, that I found not my heart 
 more moved than with a trumpet: and yet it is 
 sung by some blind crowder with no rougher 
 voice than rude style ; which being so evil appa¬ 
 reled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil a^e, 
 what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous elo¬ 
 quence of Pindar?” For my own part, I am so 
 professed an admirer of this antiquated song, that 
 I shall give my reader a critique upon it, without 
 an Y farther apology for so doing. 
 
 The gieatest modern critics have laid it down 
 as a rule, that a heroic poem should be founder 
 upon some important precept of morality, adapted 
 to the constitution of the country in which the 
 poet writes. Homer and Virgil have formed their 
 plans in this view. As Greece was a collection of 
 many governments who suffered very much among 
 themselves, and gave the Persian emperor, who 
 was their common enemy, many advantages over 
 them by their mutual jealousies and animosities, 
 Homer,* in order to establish among them a union 
 which was so necessary for their safety, grounds 
 his poem upon the discords of the several Grecian 
 princes who were engaged in a confederacy against 
 an Asiatic prince, and the several advantages 
 which the enemy gained by such discords. At 
 the time the poem we are now treating of was 
 written, the dissensions of the barons,f who were 
 then so many petty princes, ran very high, whether 
 they quarreled among themselves, or with their 
 neighbors, and produced unspeakable calamities 
 to the country. The poet, to deter men from such 
 unnatural contentions, describes a bloody battle 
 and dreadful scene of death, occasioned by the 
 mutual feuds which reigned in the families of an 
 -English and Scottish nobleman. That he de- 
 signed this for the instruction of his poem, we 
 niay learn from his four last lines, in which, 
 after the example of the modern tragedians, he 
 draws from it a precept for the benefit of his 
 readers: 
 
 115 
 
 God save the king, and bless the land 
 In plenty, joy, and peace; 
 
 A nd grant henceforth that foul debate 
 ’'1 wixt noblemen may cease. 
 
 The next point observed by the greatest heroic 
 poets, hath been to celebrate persons and actions 
 which do honor to their country : thus Virgil's 
 was ^ ie founder of Rome, Homer’s a prince 
 °f ail( ^ f° r mason Valerius Flaccus 
 
 and otatius, who were both Romans, might be 
 derided for having chosen the expedition 
 ot the Golden Fleece, and the wars of Thebes, for 
 the subjects of their epic writings. 
 
 The poet before us has not only found out a 
 hero in his own country, but raises the reputation 
 of it by several incidents. The English are'the 
 first who take the field, and the last who quit it. 
 The English bring only fifteen hundred to the 
 battle ; the Scotch two thousand. The English 
 keep the field with fifty-three; the Scotch retire 
 with fifty-five ; all the rest on each side being 
 slain in battle. But the most remarkable cir¬ 
 cumstance of this kind is the different manner in 
 which the Scotch and English kings receive the 
 news of this fight, and of the great men’s deaths 
 w ho commanded in it: 
 
 This news was brought to Edinburgh, 
 
 Where Scotland’s king did reign, 
 
 That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
 Was with an arrow slain. 
 
 0 heavy news, King James did say, 
 
 Scotland can witness be, 
 
 I have not any captain more 
 Of such account as he. 
 
 Like tidings to King Henry came 
 Within as short a space,* 
 
 That Percy of Northumberland 
 Was slain in Chevy-chase. 
 
 Now God be with him, saith our king, 
 
 Sith’t will no better be, 
 
 I trust I have, within my realm 
 Eive hundred good as he. 
 
 Yet shall not Scot or Scotland say, 
 
 But I will vengeance take, 
 
 And be revenged on them all 
 For brave Lord Percy’s sake. 
 
 This vow full well the king perform’d 
 After on Humble-down, 
 
 In one day fifty knights were slain, 
 
 With lords of great renown. 
 
 And of the rest of small account 
 Did many thousands die, etc. 
 
 At the same time that our poet show's a laudable 
 partiality to his countrymen, he represents the 
 Scots after a manner not unbecoming so bold and 
 brave a people:— 
 
 Earl Douglas on a milk-white steed, 
 
 Most like a baron bold, 
 
 Kode foremost of the company, 
 
 W'hose armor shone like gold. 
 
 His sentiments and actions are every wav suitable 
 to a hero. One of us two, says he, must die: I 
 am an earl as well as yourself, so that you can 
 have no pretense for refusing the combat: how 
 ever, says he, it is pity, and indeed wmuld be a 
 sin, that so many innocent men should perish for 
 our sakes; rather let you and I end our quarrel in 
 a single fight:— 
 
 apposition is strangely incorrect. At the time 
 
 S in m he / erS ^ n government ( most Probably) did 
 exwt In his days there was a jealousy amonv the Gre 
 
 and Asiatics, not between Greeks and Persians. Not Hen 
 UD. I, cap. i, et seq.—L. 
 
 ,„n h * ba i t,e ° f 0tterburn > usually called Chevy-Chase i 
 the reigns of Richard Il/of Engla 
 and Robert II, of Scotland. Others, with less probabil 
 have brought down the action to the reigns of Henrv IV 
 England, and James I, of Scotland. ^ • 
 
 Ere thus I will out-braved be, 
 
 One of us two shall die; 
 
 I know thee well, an earl thou art, 
 Lord Percy, so am I. 
 
 But trust me, Percy, pity it were 
 And great offense to kill 
 Any of these our harmless men, 
 For they have done no ill. 
 
 * Impossible! for it was more than three times the distance. . 
 
116 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 Let thou and I the battle try. 
 
 And set our men aside; 
 
 Accurs’d be he, Lord Percy said, 
 
 By whom it is deni’d. 
 
 When these brave men had distinguished them¬ 
 selves in the battle, and in single combat with 
 each other, in the midst of a generous parley, full 
 of heroic sentiments, the Scottish earl falls ; and 
 with his dying words encourages his men to re¬ 
 venge his death, representing to them, as the most 
 bitter circumstance of it, that his rival saw him 
 fall:— 
 
 With that there came an arrow keen 
 Out of an English bow, 
 
 Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart 
 A deep and deadly blow. 
 
 Who never spoke more words than these, 
 
 Eight on, my merry-men all, 
 
 For why? my life is at an end, 
 
 Lord Percy sees my fall. 
 
 Merry-men, in the language of those times, is no 
 more than a cheerful word for companions and 
 fellow-soldiers. A passage in the eleventh book 
 of Virgil’s iEneid is very much to be admired, 
 where Camilla, in her last agonies, instead of 
 weeping over the wound she had received, as one 
 might have expected from a warrior of her sex, 
 considers only (like the hero of whom we are now 
 speaking) how the battle should be continued after 
 her death: 
 
 Turn sic expirans, etc.—2En., xi, 820. 
 
 A gathering mist o’erclouds her cheerful eyes, 
 
 And from her cheeks the rosy color flies, 
 
 Then turns to her, whom, of her female train, 
 
 She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain: 
 
 “Acca, ’tis past! he swims before my sight, 
 
 Inexorable death; and claims his right. 
 
 Bear my last words to Turnus: fly with speed, 
 
 And bid him timely to my charge succeed: 
 
 Kepel the Trojans, and the town relieve: 
 
 Farewell-.” Dryden. 
 
 Turnus did not die in so heroic a manner, 
 though our poet seems to have had his eye upon 
 Turnus’s speech in the last verse :— 
 
 Lord Percy sees my fall. 
 
 --Vicisti, et victum tendere palmas 
 
 Ausonii videre.— JEn., xii, 936. 
 
 The Latin chiefs have seen me beg my life. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Earl Percy’s lamentation over his enemy is 
 generous, beautiful, and passionate ; I must only 
 caution the reader not to let the simplicity of the 
 style, which one may well pardon in so old a 
 poet, prejudice him against the greatness of the 
 thought:— 
 
 Then leaving life, Earl Percy took 
 The dead man by the hand, 
 
 And said, Earl Douglas, for thy life 
 Would I had lost my land. 
 
 0 Christ! my very heart doth bleed 
 With sorrow for thy sake; 
 
 For sure a more renowned knight 
 Mischance did never take. 
 
 The beautiful line, “ Taking the dead man by the 
 hand,” will put the reader in mind of ^Eneas’s 
 behavior toward Lausus, whom he himself had 
 slain as he came to the rescue of his aged 
 father:— 
 
 At vero ut vultum vidit morientis, et ora, 
 
 Ora modis Anchisiades pallentia miris; 
 
 Ingemuit, miserans graviter, dextramque tetendit. 
 
 iEN., x, 821. 
 
 The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead; 
 
 He griev’d, he wept, then grasp’d his hand, and said, etc. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 I shall take another opportunity to consider the 
 other parts of this old song.—C. 
 
 JTATOR. 
 
 Ho. 71.] TUESDAY, MAY 22, 1711. 
 
 Scribere jussit amor.— Ovid. Epist., iv, 10. 
 
 Love bade me write. 
 
 The entire conquest of our passions is so diffi¬ 
 cult a work, that they who despair of it should 
 think of a less difficult task, and only attempt to 
 regulate them. But there is a third thing which 
 may contribute not only to the ease, but also to 
 the pleasure of our life ; and that is refining our 
 passions to a greater elegance than we receive 
 them from nature. When the passion is love, this 
 work is performed in innocent, though rude and 
 uncultivated minds, by the mere force and dignity 
 of the object. There" are forms which naturally 
 create respect in the beholders, and at once inflame 
 and chastise the imagination. Such an impress¬ 
 ion as this giving an immediate ambition to de¬ 
 serve, in order to please. This cause and effect 
 are beautifully described by Mr. Dryden in the 
 fable of Cymon and Iphigenia. After he has re¬ 
 presented Cymon so stupid, that 
 
 lie whistled as he went, for want of thought; 
 
 He makes him fall into the following scene, and 
 shows its influence upon him so excellently, that 
 it appears as natural as wonderful— 
 
 It happened on a summer’s holiday, 
 
 That to the greenwood shade he took his way; 
 
 His quarter-staff, which he could ne’er forsake, 
 
 Hung half before, and half behind his back. 
 
 He trudg’d along, unknowing what he sought. 
 
 And whistled as he went for want of thought. 
 
 By chance conducted, or by thirst constrain’d, 
 
 The deep recesses of the grove he gain’d, 
 
 Where in a plain defended hy the wood, 
 
 Crept through the matted grass a crystal flood, 
 
 By which an alabaster fountain stood; _ 
 
 And on the margin of the fount was laid 
 (Attended by her slaves) a sleeping maid— 
 
 Like Dian and her nymphs, when, tir’d with sport, 
 
 To rest by cool Eurotas they resort: 
 
 The dame herself the goddess well express’d, 
 
 Not more distinguish’d by her purple vest, 
 
 Than by the charming features of her face, 
 
 And e’en in slumber a superior grace; 
 
 Her comely limbs compos’d with decent care, 
 
 Her body shaded with a light cymar; 
 
 Her bosom to the view was only bare; 
 
 The fanning wind upon her bosom blows, 
 
 To meet the fanning wind her bosom rose; 
 
 The fanning wind and purling streams continue her reposo 
 The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes, 
 
 And gaping mouth, that testified surprise; 
 
 Fix’d on her face, nor could remove his sight, 
 
 New as he was to love, and novice in delight; 
 
 Long mute he stood, and leaning on his staff, 
 
 His wonder witness’d with an idiot laugh; 
 
 Then would have spoke, but by his glimm’ring sense 
 First found his want of words, and fear’d offense; 
 
 Doubted for what he was he should be known, 
 
 By his clown-accent, and his country-tone. 
 
 But lest this fine description should be excepted 
 against, as the creation of that great master Mr. 
 Dryden, and not an account of what has really 
 ever happened in the world, I shall give you 
 verbatim the epistle of an enamored footman in 
 the country to his mistress. Their surnames shall 
 not be inserted, because their passions demand a 
 greater respect than is due to their quality. J ames 
 is servant in a great family, and Elizabeth waits 
 upon the daughter of one as numerous, some 
 miles off her lover. James, before he beheld 
 Betty, was vain of his strength, a rough wrestler, 
 and quarrelsome cudgel-player; Betty a public 
 dancer at may-poles, a romp at stool-ball: he 
 always following idle women, she playing among 
 the peasants: he a country bully, she a country 
 coquette. But love has made her constantly in 
 her mistress’s chamber, where the young lady 
 gratifies a secret passion of her own, by making 
 Betty talk of James; and James is become a con¬ 
 stant waiter near his master’s apartment, in read- 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 ing, as well as he can, romances. I cannot learn 
 who Molly is, who it seems walked ten miles to 
 carry the angry message, which gave occasion to 
 what follows 
 
 “ My dear Betty, May 14, 1711. 
 
 “ Remember your bleeding lover who lies bleed¬ 
 ing at the wounds Cupid made with the arrows he 
 borrowed at the eyes of Venus, which is your 
 sweet person. 
 
 “Nay more, with the token you sent me for my 
 love and service offered to your sweet person ; 
 which was your base respects to my ill condi¬ 
 tions ; when, alas! there is no ill conditions in 
 me, but quite contrary: all love and purity, es¬ 
 pecially to your sweet person ; but all this I take 
 as a jest. 
 
 “But the sad and dismal news which Molly 
 brought me, struck me to the heart, which was, it 
 seems, and is, your ill conditions for my love and 
 respects to you. 
 
 “ For she told me, if I came forty times to you, 
 you would not speak with me, which words I am 
 sure is a great grief to me. 
 
 “Now, my dear, if I may not be permitted to 
 your sweet company, and to have the happiness 
 of speaking with your sweet person, I beg the 
 favor of you to accept of this my secret mind and 
 thoughts, which hath so long lodged in my breast, 
 the which if you do not accept, I believe will go 
 nigh to break my heart. 
 
 “For indeed, my dear, I love you above all the 
 beauties I ever saw in my life. 
 
 “ The young gentleman, and my master’s daugh¬ 
 ter, the Londoner that is come down to marry her, 
 sat in the arbor most part of last night. Oh, dear 
 Betty, must the nightingales sing to those who 
 many for money, and not to us true lovers ! Oh, 
 my dear Betty, that we could meet this night 
 where we used to do in the wood! 
 
 1 ' “ Now, my dear, if I may not have the blessing 
 of kissing your sweet lips, I beg I may have the 
 happiness of kissing your fair hand, with a few 
 hnes from your dear self, presented by whom you 
 please or think fit. I believe, if time would per¬ 
 mit me, I could write all day; but the time being 
 short, and paper little, no more from your never- 
 failing lover till death. “ James_ 
 
 117 
 
 Poor J ames ! since his time and paper were so 
 short, I that have more than I can use well of both, 
 will put the sentiments of this kind letter (the 
 style of which seems to be confused with the 
 scraps he had got in hearing and reading what 
 he did not understand) into what he meant to 
 express. 
 
 “Dear Creature, 
 
 Can you then neglect him who has forgot all 
 his recreations and enjoyments, to pine away his 
 life m t hinking of you ? When I do so, you ap- 
 
 h™ ™ n ’ S “f w ' as J ames Hirst. lie was a servant to 
 ] n ?' {■ dwar<1 W° r «ey, Esq., and in delivering a parcel of 
 hw master, gave by mistake this letter, which he 
 o™ nf Vi repar !f f ? r h T r sweetheart > and kept in its stead 
 blnmW 1 ! ter s - IIe quickly returned to rectify the 
 
 Bettv In « late ‘ Unfortunately the letter to 
 
 Betty was the first that presented itself to Mr. Wortley, who 
 
 mmed ftiumnn 18 C V n ° sity in readin » the ^ve-tale of his ena- 
 Sn S‘T' J ^ ne ?, r , e 3 uested to have it returned iu 
 man w? 8 ’ saia , hlH master, “you shall bo a great 
 
 man, and this letter must appear in the Spectator ” S 
 
 H r"?, es succeeded in putting an end to Betty's “ill condi¬ 
 tions, and obtained her consent to marry him; but the mar¬ 
 riage was prevented by her sudden death. James Hirst 
 after > ^ r . 0 “ h j s regard and love for Betty, married her 
 sister, and died about thirteen years ago, by Pennistone iu 
 the neighborhood of Wortley, near Leeds. Betty’s sister 
 and successor was probably the Molly who walked ten miles 
 Jetted ^ aUgry messa S e wh icli occasioned the preceding 
 
 pear more amiable to me than Venus does in the 
 most beautiful description that ever was made of 
 her. All this kindness you return with an accu¬ 
 sation, that 1 do not love you : but the contrary is 
 so manifest, that I cannot think you in earnest. 
 But the certainty given me in your message by 
 Molly, that you do not love me, is what robs me 
 of all comfort. She says you will not see me : if 
 you can have so much cruelty, at least write to 
 me, that I may kiss the impression made by your 
 fair hand. I love you above all things ; and in 
 my condition, what you look upon with indiffer¬ 
 ence is to me the most exquisite pleasure or pain. 
 Our young lady and a fine gentleman from Lon¬ 
 don, who are to marry for mercenary ends, walk 
 about our gardens, and hear the voice of evening 
 nightingales, as if for fashion-sake they courted 
 those solitudes, because they have heard lovers do 
 so. Oh Betty! could I hear these rivulets mur¬ 
 mur, and birds sing, while you stood near me, 
 how little sensible should I be that we are both 
 servants, that there is anything on earth above us! 
 Oh! I could write to you as long as I love you, 
 till death itself. “James.” 
 
 N. B. By the words ill conditions, James means, 
 in a woman coquetry, in a man inconstancy.—R. 
 
 No. 72. WEDNESDAY, MAY 23, 1711, 
 
 -Genus imxnortale manet, multosque per annos 
 
 Stat fortuna domus, et avi numerantur avorum. 
 
 Virg. Georg., iv, 208. 
 
 Th’ immortal line in sure succession reigns, 
 
 The fortune of the family remains, 
 
 And grandsires’ grandsons the long list contains. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Having already given my reader an account of 
 several extraordinary clubs, both ancient and mo¬ 
 dern, I did not design to have troubled him with 
 any more narratives of this nature ; but I have 
 lately received information of a club, which I can 
 call neither ancient nor modern, that I dare say 
 will be no less surprising to my reader than it 
 was to myself; for which reason I shall commu¬ 
 nicate it to the public as one of the greatest curi¬ 
 osities in its kind. 
 
 A friend of mine complaining of a tradesman 
 who is related to him, after having represented 
 him as a very idle, worthless fellow, who neglected 
 his family, and spent most of his time over a bot¬ 
 tle, told me, to conclude his character, that he 
 was a member of the Everlasting club. So very 
 odd a title raised my curiosity to inquire into the 
 nature ol a club that had such a sounding name ; 
 upon which, my friend gave me the following ac¬ 
 count : 
 
 The Everlasting club consists of a hundred 
 members, who divide the whole twenty-four hours 
 among them in such a manner, that the club sits 
 day and night from one end of the year to another; 
 no party presuming to rise till they are relieved 
 by those who are in course to succeed them. By 
 this means a member of the Everlasting club 
 never wants company; for, though he is not upon 
 duty himself, he is sure to find some who are ; so 
 that if he be disposed to take a whet, a nooning, 
 an evening draught, or a bottle after midnight, he 
 goes to the club, and finds a knot of friends to his 
 mind. 
 
 It is a maxim in this club, that the steward 
 never dies ; for as they succeed one another by 
 way of rotation, no man is to quit the great elbow r - 
 chair which stands at the upper end of the table, 
 till his successor is in readiness to fill it; inso- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 118 
 
 much that there has not been a sede vacante in the 
 memory of man. 
 
 This club was instituted toward the end (or as 
 some of them- say, about the middle) of the civil 
 wars, and continued without interruption till the 
 time of the great fire,* which burnt them out, and 
 dispersed them for several weeks. _ The steward 
 at that time maintained his post till he had like 
 to have been blown up with a neighboring house 
 (which was demolished in order to stop the fire); 
 and would not leave the chair at last, till he had 
 emptied all the bottles upon the table, and received 
 repeated directions from the club to withdraw 
 himself. This steward is frequently talked of in 
 the club and looked upon by every member of it 
 as a greater man than the famous captain men¬ 
 tioned in my Lord Clarendon, who was burnt in 
 his ship because he would not quit it without or¬ 
 ders. It is said, that toward the close of 1700, 
 being the great year of jubilee, the club had under 
 consideration whether they should break up or 
 continue their session ; but after many speeches 
 and debates, it was at length agreed to sit out the 
 other century. This resolution passed in a gen¬ 
 eral club nemine contradicente. 
 
 Having given this short account of the institu¬ 
 tion and continuation of the Everlasting club, I 
 should here endeavor to say something of the 
 manners and characters of its several members, 
 which I shall do according to the best lights I 
 have received in this matter. 
 
 It appears by their books in general, that since 
 their first institution, they have smoked fifty tons 
 of tobaccco, drunk thirty thousand butts of ale, 
 one thousand hogsheads of red port, two hundred 
 barrels of brandy, and a kilderkin of small beer. 
 There has been likewise a great consumption of 
 cards. It is also said, that they observe the law in 
 Ben Jonson’s club,f which orders the fire to be al¬ 
 ways kept in (focus perennis esto ), as well for the 
 convenience of lighting their pipes, as to cure the 
 dampness of the club-room. They have an old 
 woman in the nature of a vestal, whose business 
 it is to cherish and perpetuate the fire which burns 
 from generation to generation, and has seen the 
 glass-house fires in and out above a hundred 
 times. 
 
 The Everlasting club treats all other clubs with 
 an eye of contempt, and talks even of the Kit-Cat 
 and October as of a couple of upstarts. Their 
 ordinary discourse (as much as I have been able 
 to learn of it) turns altogether upon such adven¬ 
 tures as have passed in their own assembly; of 
 members who have taken the glass in their turns 
 for a week together, without stirring out of the 
 club; of others who have smoked a hundred pipes 
 at a sitting ; of others, who have not missed their 
 morning’s draught for twenty years together.— 
 Sometimes they speak in raptures of a run of ale 
 in King Charles’s reign; and sometimes reflect 
 with astonishment upon games at whist, which 
 have been miraculously recoveied by members of 
 the society, when in all human probability the 
 case was desperate. 
 
 They delight in several old catches, which they 
 sing at all hours to encourage one another to 
 moisten their clay, and grow immortal by drink¬ 
 ing; with many other edifying exhortations of the 
 like nature. 
 
 There are four general clubs held in a year, at 
 which time they fill up vacancies, appoint waiters, 
 confirm the old fire-maker, or elect a new one, set¬ 
 tle contributions for coals, pipes, tobacco, and 
 other necessaries. 
 
 * Anno. 1666. 
 
 f See the Leges Conviviales of this club, in Langbaine’s 
 Lives of English Poets, etc.* Art., Ben Jonson. 
 
 The senior member has outlived the whole club 
 twice over, and has been drunk with the grand¬ 
 fathers of some of the present sitting members.—C. 
 
 No. 73.] THURSDAY, MAY 24, 1711. 
 
 -0 Dea certe!—Y ieg. Jin., i, 328. 
 
 0 Goddess! for no less you seem. 
 
 It is very strange to consider, that a creature 
 like man, who is sensible of so many weaknesses 
 and imperfections, should be actuated by a love of 
 fame : that vice and ignorance, imperfection and 
 misery, should contend for praise, and endeavor 
 as much as possible to make themselves objects of 
 admiration. 
 
 But notwithstanding man’s essential perfection 
 is but very little, his comparative perfection may 
 be very considerable. If he looks upon himself 
 in an abstracted light, he has not much to boast 
 of; but if he considers himself with regard to 
 others, he may find occasion of glorying, if not 
 in his own virtues, at least in the absence of 
 another’s imperfections. This gives a different 
 turn to the reflections of the wise man and the 
 fool. The first endeavors to shine in himself, and 
 the last to outshine others. The first is humbled 
 by a sense of his own infirmities, the last is lifted 
 up by the discovery of those which he observes in 
 other men. The wise man considers what he 
 wants, and the fool what he abounds in. The 
 wise man is happy when he gains his own appro¬ 
 bation, and the fool when he recommends himself 
 to the applause of those about him. 
 
 But however unreasonable and absurd this pas¬ 
 sion for admiration may appear in such a creature 
 as man, it is not wholly to be discouraged ; since 
 it often produces very good effects, not only as it 
 restrains him from doing anything which is mean 
 and contemptible, but as it pushes him to ac¬ 
 tions which are great and glorious. The princi¬ 
 ple may be defective or faulty, but the conse¬ 
 quences it produces are so good, that, for the bene¬ 
 fit of mankind, it ought not to be extinguished. 
 
 It is observed by Cicero, that men of the greatest 
 and the most shining parts are the most actuated 
 by ambition ; and if we look into the two sexes, 
 I believe we shall find this principle of action 
 stronger in women than in men. 
 
 The passion for praise, which is so very vehement 
 in the fair sex, produces excellent effects in women 
 of sense, who desire to be admired for that only 
 which deserves admiration; and I think we may 
 observe, without a compliment to them, that many 
 of them do not only live in a more uniform course 
 of virtue, but with an infinitely greater regard to 
 their honor, than what we find in the generality of 
 our own sex. How many instances have we of 
 chastity, fidelity, devotion! How many ladies 
 distinguish themselves by the education of their 
 children, care of their families, and love of their 
 husbands,—which are the great qualities and 
 achievements of woman-kind, as the making of 
 war, the carrying on of traffic, the administration 
 of justice, are those by which men grow famous, 
 and get themselves a name. 
 
 But as this passion for admiration, when it 
 works according to reason, improves the beautiful 
 part of our species in everything that is laudable; 
 so nothing is more destructive to them, when it is 
 governed by vanity and folly. What I have there¬ 
 fore here to say, only regards the vain part of the 
 sex, whom for certain reasons, which the reader 
 will hereafter see at larg;e, I shall distinguish by 
 the name of idols. An idol is wholly taken up in 
 the adorning of her person. You see in every 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 119 
 
 posture of her body, air of her face, and motion of 
 ner head, that it is her business and employment 
 to gain adorers. For this reason vour idols ap¬ 
 pear in all public places and assemblies, in order to 
 seduce men to their worship. The play-house is 
 very frequently filled with idols ; several of them 
 are carried in procession every evening about the 
 ryig, and several of them set up their worship 
 even in churches. They are to be accosted in the 
 language proper to the Deity/ Life and death are 
 in their power : joys of heaven and pains of hell, 
 are at their disposal: paradise is in their arms, and 
 eternity in every moment that you are present with 
 them. Rapi&res, transports and ecstasies, are the 
 rewards which they confer: sighs and tears, prayers 
 and broken hearts, are the offerings which are 
 paid to them. Their smiles make men happy; 
 their frowns drive them to despair. I shall only 
 add under this head, that Ovid’s book of the Art 
 of Love is a kind of heathen ritual, which con¬ 
 tains all the forms of worship which are made use 
 of to an idol. 
 
 It would be as difficult a task to reckon up these 
 different kinds of idols, as Milton’s was to num¬ 
 ber those that were known in Canaan, and the 
 lands adjoining. Most of them are worshiped, 
 like Moloch, in fire and flames. Some of them, 
 like Baal, love to see their votaries cut and slash¬ 
 ed, and shedding their blood for them. Some of 
 them, like the idol in the apocrypha, must have 
 treats and collations prepared for them every night. 
 It has indeed been known, that some of them have 
 been used by their incensed worshipers like the 
 Chinese idols, who are whipped and scourged 
 when they refuse to comply with the prayers that 
 are offered to them. 
 
 I must here observe, that those idolaters who 
 devote themselves to the idols I am here speaking 
 of, differ very much from all other kinds of idol¬ 
 aters. For as others fall out because they worship 
 different idols, these idolaters quarrel because they 
 worship the same. 
 
 The intention therefore of the idol is quite con¬ 
 trary to the wishes of the idolaters ; as the one 
 desires to confine the idol to himself, the whole 
 business and ambition of the other is to multiply 
 adorers. This humor of an idol is prettily de¬ 
 scribed in a tale of Chaucer. He represents one 
 of them sitting at a table with three of her vota¬ 
 ries about her, who are all of them courting her 
 favor, and paying their adorations. She smiled 
 upon one, drank to another, and trod upon the 
 other’s foot which was under the table. Now 
 which of these three, says the old bard, do you 
 think was the favorite ? In troth, says he, not 
 one of all the three. 
 
 The behavior of this old idol in Chaucer, puts 
 me in mind of the beautiful Clarinda, one of the 
 greatest idols among the moderns. She is wor¬ 
 shiped once a week by candlelight, in the midst 
 of a large congregation, generally called an assem¬ 
 bly. Some of the gayest youths in the nation en¬ 
 deavor to plant themselves in her eye, while she 
 sits in form with multitudes of tapers burning 
 about her. To encourage the zeal of her idola¬ 
 ters, she bestows a mark of her favor upon every 
 one of them, before they go out of her presence. 
 She asks a question of one, tells a story to anoth¬ 
 er, glances an ogle upon a third, takes a pinch of 
 snuff from the fourth, lets her fan drop by acci¬ 
 dent to give the fifth an occasion of taking it 
 U P >'—bi short, every one goes away satisfied with 
 his success, and encouraged to renew his devo¬ 
 tions on the same canonical hour that day seven- 
 night. 
 
 An idol may be undeified by many accidental 
 causes. Marriage in particular is a kind of coun¬ 
 
 ter-apotheosis, or a deification inverted.—When a 
 man becomes familiar with his goddess, she quick¬ 
 ly sinks into a woman. 
 
 ^ Old age is likewise a great decayer of your idol. 
 1 he truth of it is, there is not a more unhappy be¬ 
 ing than a superannuated idol, especially when 
 she has contracted such airs and behavior as are 
 only graceful when her worshipers are about her. 
 
 Considering, therefore, that in these and many 
 other cases the woman generally outlives the idol, 
 I must return to the moral of this paper, and de¬ 
 sire my fair readers to give a proper direction to 
 their passion for being admired; in order to which, 
 they must endeavor to make themselves the objects 
 of a reasonable and lasting admiration. This is 
 not to be hoped for from beauty, or dress, or fash¬ 
 ion, but from those inward ornaments which are 
 not to be defaced by time or sickness, and which 
 appear most amiable to those who are most ac¬ 
 quainted with them.—C. 
 
 No. 74.] FRIDAY, MAY 25, 1711. 
 
 -Pendent opera interrupta- 
 
 Virg. iEn., iv, 88. 
 
 The works unfinished and neglected lie. 
 
 In my last Monday's paper I gave some general 
 instances of those beautiful strokes which please 
 the reader in the old song of Chevy-Chase; I 
 shall here, according to my promise, be more par¬ 
 ticular, and show that the sentiments in that 
 ballad are extremely natural and poetical, and 
 full of the majestic simplicity which we admire 
 in the greatest of the ancient poets ; for which 
 reason I shall quote several passages of it, in 
 which the thought is altogether the same with 
 what we meet in several passages of the JEneid ; 
 not that I would infer from thence, that the poet 
 (whoever he was) proposed to himself any imita¬ 
 tion of those passages, but that he was directed 
 to keep them in general by the same kind of 
 poetical genius, and by the same copyings after 
 nature. 
 
 Had this old song been filled with epigrammati- 
 cal turns and points of wit, it might perhaps have 
 pleased the wrong taste of some readers; but it 
 would never have become the delight of the com¬ 
 mon people, nor have Avarmed the heart of Sir 
 Philip Sidney like the sound of a trumpet; it is 
 only nature that can have this effect, and please 
 those tastes which are the most unprejudiced, or 
 the most refined. I must, however, beg leave to 
 dissent from so great an authority as that of Sir 
 Philip Sidney, in the judgment which he has 
 passed as to the rude style and evil apparel of 
 this antiquated song; for there are se\*eral parts 
 in it where not only the thought but the language 
 is majestic, and the numbers sonorous ; at least 
 the apparel is much more gorgeous than many of 
 the poets made use of in Queen Elizabeth’s time, 
 as the reader will see in several of the following 
 quotations. 
 
 What can be greater than either the thought or 
 the expression in that stanza. 
 
 To drive the deer with hound and horn 
 Earl Percy took his way! 
 
 The child may rue that is unborn 
 The hunting of that day! 
 
 This way of considering the misfortunes which 
 this battle would bring upon posterity, not only 
 on those who were born immediately after the 
 battle, and lost their fathers in it, but on those 
 also who perished in future battles which took 
 their rise from this quarrel of the two earls, is 
 
120 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 wonderfully beautiful, and conformable to the way J 
 of thinking among the ancient poets. 
 
 Audiet pugnas vitio parentum 
 Bara juventus.—H or. 1, Od. ii, 23. 
 
 Posterity, thinn’d by their fathers’ crimes, 
 
 Shall read with grief the story of their times. 
 
 What can be more sounding and poetical, or re¬ 
 semble more the majestic simplicity of the an¬ 
 cients, than the following stanzas ? 
 
 The stout Earl of Northumberland 
 A vow to God did make, 
 
 His pleasure in the Scottish woods 
 Three summers’ days to take: 
 
 With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 
 
 All chosen men of might, 
 
 Who knew full well in time of need, 
 
 To aim their shafts aright. 
 
 The hounds ran swiftly through the woods 
 The nimble deer to take: 
 
 And with their cries the hills and dales 
 An echo shrill did make. 
 
 -Yocat ingenti clamore Cithaeron 
 
 Taygetique canes, domitrixque Epidaurus equorum: 
 
 Et vox assensu nemorum ingeminata remugit. 
 
 Georg., iii, 43. 
 
 Cithaeron loudly calls me to my way; 
 
 Thy hounds, Taygetus, open and pursue the prey: 
 
 High Epidaurus urges on my speed, 
 
 Fam’d for his hills, and for his horses’ breed: 
 
 From hills and dales the cheerful cries rebound; 
 
 For Echo hunts along, and propagates the sound. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, 
 
 His men in armor bright; 
 
 Full twenty hundred Scottish spears, 
 
 All marching in our sight. 
 
 All men of pleasant Tividale. 
 
 Fast by the river Tweed, etc. 
 
 The country of the Scotch warriors, described in 
 these two last verses, has a fine romantic situa¬ 
 tion, and affords a couple of smooth words for 
 verse. If the reader compares the foregoing six 
 lines of the song with the following Latin verses, 
 he will see how much they are written in the 
 spirit of Virgil: 
 
 Adversi campo apparent, hustasque reductis 
 Protendunt longe dextris; et spicula vibrant:— 
 
 Quique altum Pracneste viri, quique arva Gabinae 
 Junonis, gelidumque Anienem, et roscida rivis 
 Hernica saxa colunt:—qui rosea rura Velini, 
 
 Qui Tetricae horrentes rupes, montemque Severum, 
 Casperiamque colunt, Forulusque et flumen Himellae: 
 
 Qui Tiberim Fabarimque bibunt,- 
 
 JEn., xi, 605; viii, 6S2, 712. 
 
 Advancing in a line, they couch their spears- 
 
 -Prasneste sends a chosen band, 
 
 With those who plow Saturnia’s Gabine land: 
 
 Beside the succors which cold Anien yields; 
 
 The rocks of Hernicus-beside a band, 
 
 That followed from Yelinum’s dewy land- 
 
 And mountaineers that from Severus came: 
 
 And from the craggy cliffs of Tetrica; _ 
 
 And those where yellow Tiber takes his way, 
 
 And where Himella’s wanton waters play: 
 
 Casperia sends her arms, with those that lie 
 By Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli.— Dryden. 
 
 But to proceed: 
 
 Earl Douglas on a milk-white steed, 
 
 Most like a baron bold, 
 
 Bode foremost of the company— 
 
 Whose armor shone like gold. 
 
 Turnus ut antevolans tardum praecesserat agmen, etc. 
 Yidisti, quo Turnus equo, quibus ibat in armis 
 Aureus- ^En., ix, 47, 269. 
 
 Our English archers bent their bows, 
 
 Their hearts were good and true; 
 
 At the first flight of arrows sent, 
 
 Full threescore Scots they slew. 
 
 They clos’d full fast on every side, 
 
 No slackness there was found; 
 
 And many a gallant gentleman 
 Lay gasping on the ground. 
 
 With that there came an arrow keen 
 Out of an English bow, 
 
 Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, 
 
 A deep and deadly blow. 
 
 iEneas was wounded after the same manner by 
 an unknown hand in the midst of a parley. 
 
 Has inter voces, media inter talia verba, 
 
 Ecce viro stridens alis allapsa sagitta est, 
 
 Incertum qua pulsa manu- -3£n., xii, 318. 
 
 Thus, while he spoke, unmindful of defense, 
 
 A winged arrow struck the pious prince; 
 
 But whether from a human hand it came, 
 
 Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame.— Dryden. 
 
 | But of all the descriptive parts of this song, there 
 are none more beautiful than the four following 
 stanzas, which have a great force and spirit in 
 them, and are filled with very natural circum- 
 i stances. The thought in the third stanza was 
 never touched by any other poet, and is such a 
 one as would have shined in Homer or in Virgil: 
 
 So thus did both these nobles die, 
 
 Whose courage none could stain; 
 
 An English archer then perceiv’d 
 The noble earl was slain. 
 
 He had a bow bent in his hand, 
 
 Made of a trusty tree, 
 
 An arrow of a cloth-yard long, 
 
 Unto the head drew he. 
 
 Against Sir Hugh Montgomery 
 So right his shaft he set, 
 
 The gray-goose wing that was thereon 
 In his heart-blood was wet. 
 
 This fight did last from break of day 
 Till setting of the sun; 
 
 For when they rang the evening bell 
 The battle scarce was done. 
 
 One may observe, likewise, that in the catalogue 
 of the slain, the author has followed the example 
 of the great ancient poets, not only in giving a 
 long list of the dead, but by diversifying it with 
 little characters of particular persons. 
 
 And with Earl Douglas there was slain 
 Sir Hugh Montgomery, 
 
 Sir Charles Carrel, that from the field 
 One foot would never fly. 
 
 Sir Charles Murrel of Batcliffe too, 
 
 His sister’s son was he; 
 
 Sir David Lamb, so well esteem’d, 
 
 Yet saved could not be. 
 
 The familiar sound in these names destroys the 
 majesty of the description; for this reason I do 
 not mention this part of the poem but to show 
 the natural cast of thought which appears in it, 
 as the two last verses look almost like a transla- 
 | tion of Virgil. 
 
 -Cadit et Bipheus justissimus unus 
 
 Qui fuit in Teucris et servantissimus aequi. 
 
 Diis aliter visum- iEn., ii, 426. 
 
 Then Bipheus fell in the unequal fight, 
 
 Just of his word, observant of the right: 
 
 Ileav’n thought not so.—D ryden. 
 
 In the catalogue of the English who fell, Wither- 
 ington’s behavior is in the same manner parti¬ 
 cularized very artfully, as the reader is prepared 
 for it by that account which is given of him in 
 the beginning of the battle ; though I am satisfied 
 your little buffoon readers (who have seen that 
 passage ridiculed in Hudibras) will not be able 
 to take the beauty of it; for which reason I dare 
 not so much as quote it. 
 
 Then stepp’d a gallant ’squire forth, 
 
 Witlierington was his name, 
 
 Who said, I would not have it told 
 To Henry our king for shame, 
 
 That e’er my captain fought on foot, 
 
 And I stood looking on. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 121 
 
 Nou pudet, 0 Rutuli, cunctis pro talibus unam 
 Objeetaro animam? numerouo an viribus a^qui 
 Non sumus?- JEn., xii, 229. 
 
 For ehame, Rutilians, can you bear the sight 
 Of one expos’d fur all, in single light? \ 
 
 Can we before the face of heav'n confess 
 
 Our courage colder, or our numbers less?— Drtden. 
 
 TThat can be more natural, or more moving, than 
 the circumstances in which he describes the beha¬ 
 vior of those women who had lost their husbands 
 on this fatal day ? 
 
 Next day did many widows come 
 Their husbands to bewail; 
 
 They wash'd their wounds in brinish tears, 
 
 But all would not prevail. 
 
 Their bodies bathed in purple blood, 
 
 They bore with them away; 
 
 They kiss’d them dead a thousand times, 
 
 When they were clad in clay. 
 
 Thus we see how the thoughts of this poem, which 
 naturally arise from the subject, are always simple, 
 and sometimes exquisitely noble; that the lan¬ 
 guage is often very sounding, and that the whole 
 is written with a true poetical spirit. 
 
 If this song had been written in the Gothic 
 manner, which is the delight of all our little wits 
 whether writers or readers, it would not have hit 
 the taste of so many ages, and have pleased the 
 readers of all ranks and conditions. I shall only 
 beg pardon for such a profusion of Latin quota¬ 
 tions ; which I should not have made use of, 
 but that I feared my own judgment would have 
 looked too singular on such a subject, had not 
 I supported it by the practice and authority of 
 
 No. 75.] SATURDAY, MAY 26, 1711. 
 
 Omnifi Aristippum decuit color, et status, et res. 
 
 LLor., 1 Ep., xvii, 23. 
 
 All fortune fitted Aristippus well.— Creech. 
 
 It is with some mortification that I suffered the 
 raillery of a fine lady of my acquaintance, for call¬ 
 ing, in one of my papers,* Dorimant a clown. 
 She was so unmerciful as to take advantage of 
 my invincible taciturnity, and on that occasion 
 with great freedom to consider the air, the height, 
 the face, the gesture of him, who could pretend to 
 judge so arrogantly of gallantry. She is full of 
 motion, jaunty and lively in her impertinence, 
 and one of those that commonly pass, among the 
 ignorant, for persons who have a great deal of 
 humor. She had the play of Sir Fopling in her 
 hand, and after she had said it was happy for her 
 there was not so charming a creature as Dorimant 
 now living, she began with a theatrical air and 
 tone of voice to read, by way of triumph over me, 
 some of his speeches. “ ’Tis she! that lovely 
 air, that easy shape, those wanton eyes, and ail 
 those melting charms about her mouth, which 
 Medley spoke of ; I’ll follow the lottery, and put 
 in for a prize with my friend Bellair.” 
 
 Tn love the victors from the vanquish’d fly; 
 
 They fly that wound, and they wound that die! 
 
 Then turning over the leaves, she reads alter¬ 
 nately, and speaks ; 
 
 And you and Loveit to her cost shall find 
 
 I fathom all the depths of woman-kir d. 
 
 Oh the fine gentleman! But here, continues she, 
 is the passage I admire most, where he begins to 
 tease Loveit, and mimic Sir Fopling. Oh, the 
 
 *S pect., No. £ 5 . 
 
 I, that I may successful prove, 
 
 Transform myself to what you love. 
 
 Then how like a man of the town, so wild and 
 gay is that! 
 
 The wise will find a diff’rence in ouij fate, 
 
 You wed a woman, I a good estate. 
 
 It would have been a very wild endeavor for a 
 man of my temper to offer any opposition to so 
 nimble a speaker as my fair enemy is ; but her 
 discourse gave me very many reflections when I 
 had left her company. Among others, I could 
 not but consider with some attention, the false 
 impressions the generality (the fair sex more es¬ 
 pecially) have of what should be intended, when 
 they say a “ fine gentlemanand could not help 
 revolving that subject in my thoughts, and set¬ 
 tling, as it were, an idea of that character in my 
 own imagination. 
 
 No man ought to have the esteem of the rest of 
 the world, for any actions which are disagreeable 
 to those maxims which prevail as the standards of 
 behavior in the country wherein he lives. What 
 is opposite to the eternal rules of reason and good 
 sense must be excluded from any place in the 
 carriage of a well-bred man. I did not, I confess, 
 explain myself enough on this subject, when I 
 called Dorimant a clown, and made it an instance 
 of it, that lie called the orange wench Double 
 Tripe: I should have shown, that humanity 
 obliges a gentleman to give no part of human¬ 
 kind reproach, for what they whom they reproach, 
 may possibly have in common with the most 
 virtuous and worthy among us. When a gen¬ 
 tleman speaks coarsely, he has dressed himself 
 clean to no purpose. The clothing of our minds 
 certainly ought to he regarded before that of our 
 bodies. To betray in a man’s talk a corrupt 
 imagination, is a much greater offense against the 
 conversation of gentlemen than any negligence of 
 dress imaginable. But this sense of the matter 
 is so far from being received among people of 
 condition, that Vocifer even passes for a fine gen¬ 
 tleman. He is loud, haughty, gentle, soft, lewd, 
 and obsequious by turns, just as a little un¬ 
 derstanding and great impudence prompt him 
 at the present moment. He passes among the 
 silly part of our women for a man of wit, because 
 he is generally in doubt. He contradicts with a 
 shrug, and confutes with a certain sufficiency, in 
 professing such and such a thing is above his 
 capacity. What makes his character the plea¬ 
 santer is, that he is a professed deluder of women; 
 and because the empty coxcomb has no regard to 
 anything that is of itself sacred and inviolable, I 
 have heard an unmarried lady of fortune say, it 
 is a pity so fine a gentleman as Vocifer is so great 
 an atheist. The crowds of such inconsiderable 
 creatures, that infest all places of assembling, 
 every reader will have in his eye from his own 
 observation ; hut would it not be worth consider¬ 
 ing what sort of figure a man who formed himself 
 upon those principles among us which are agree¬ 
 able to the dictates of honor and religion would 
 make in the familiar and ordinary occurrences of 
 life? 
 
 I hardly have observed any one fill his several 
 duties of life better than Ignotus. All the under 
 parts of his behavior, and such as are exposed to 
 common observation, have their rise in him from 
 great and noble motives. A firm and unshaken 
 expectation of another life makes him become 
 this ; humanity and good-nature, fortified by the 
 
 We meet with the same heroic sentiment in Virgil, j pretty satire, in his resolving to he a coxcomb to 
 
 please, since noise and nonsense have such power¬ 
 ful charms. 
 
 I 
 
122 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 sense of virtue, liave the same effect upon him as 
 the neglect of all goodness has upon many others. 
 Being firmly established in all matters of import¬ 
 ance, that certain inattention which makes men’s 
 actions look easy, appears in him with greater 
 beauty: by a thorough contempt of little excellen¬ 
 cies, he is perfectly master of them. This temper 
 of mind leaves him under no necessity of study¬ 
 ing his air, and he has this peculiar distinction, 
 that his negligence is unaffected. 
 
 He that can work himself into a pleasure in 
 considering this being as an uncertain one, and 
 think to reap an advantage by its discontinuance, 
 is in a fair way of doing all things with a graceful 
 unconcern, and a gentleman-like ease. Such a 
 one does not behold his life as a short, transient, 
 perplexing state, made up of trifling pleasures 
 and great anxieties ; but sees it in quiteanother 
 light: his griefs are momentary and his joys im¬ 
 mortal. Reflection upon death is not a gloomy 
 and sad thought of resigning everything that he 
 delights in, but it is a short night followed by an 
 endless day. What I would here contend for is, 
 that the more virtuous the man is, the nearer he 
 will naturally be to the character of genteel and 
 agreeable. A man whose fortune is plentiful, 
 shows an ease in his countenance, and confidence 
 in his behavior, which he that is under wants and 
 difficulties cannot assume. It is thus with the 
 state of the mind; he that governs his thoughts 
 with the everlasting rules of reason and sense, 
 must have something so inexpressibly graceful in 
 his words and actions, that every circumstance 
 must become him. The change of persons or 
 things around him does not at all alter his situa¬ 
 tion, but he looks disinterested in the occurrences 
 with which others are distracted, because the 
 reatest purpose of his life is to maintain an in- 
 ifference both to it and all its enjoyments. In a 
 word, to be a fine gentleman is to be a generous 
 and a brave man. What can make a man so 
 much in constant good humor, and shine, as we 
 call it, than to be supported by what can never 
 fail him, and to believe that whatever happens to 
 him was the best thing that possibly could befall 
 him, or else he on whom it depends would not 
 have permitted it to have befallen him at all!—R. 
 
 No. 76.] MONDAY, MAY 28, 1711. 
 
 Ut tu fortunam, sic nos te, Celce. feremus. 
 
 IIor., 1 Ep., viii, 17. 
 
 As you your fortune bear, we will bear you.— Creech. 
 
 There is nothing so common as to find a man, 
 whom in the general observation of his carriage 
 you take to be of a uniform temper, subject to such 
 unaccountable starts of humor and passion, that 
 he is as much unlike himself, and differs as much 
 from the man you at first thought him, as any two 
 distinct persons can differ from each other. This 
 
 f iroceeds from the want of forming some law of 
 ife to ourselves, or fixing some notion of things 
 in general, which may affect us in such a manner 
 as to create proper habits both in our minds and 
 bodies. The negligence of this leaves us exposed 
 not only to an unbecoming levity in our usual 
 conversation, but also to the same instability in 
 our friendships, interests, and alliances. A man 
 who is but a mere spectator of what passes around 
 him, and not engaged in commerces of any con¬ 
 sideration, is but an ill judge of the secret motions 
 of the heart of man, and by what degrees it is actu¬ 
 ated to make such visible alterations in the same 
 person: but, at the same time, when a man is no way 
 concerned in the effect of such inconsistencies in 
 the behavior of men of the world, the speculation 
 
 must be in the utmost degree both diverting and in¬ 
 structive ; yet to enjoy such observations in the 
 highest relish, he ought to be placed in a post of di¬ 
 rection, and have the dealings of their fortunes to 
 them. I have therefore been wonderfully diverted 
 with some pieces of secret history, which an anti¬ 
 quary, my very good friend, lent me as a curiosity. 
 They are memoirs of the private life of Pharamond 
 of France. “ Pharamond,” says my author, “ was a 
 prince of infinite humanity and generosity, and at 
 the same time the most pleasant and facetious 
 companion of his time. He had a peculiar taste 
 in him, which would have been unlucky in any 
 prince but himself; he thought there could be no 
 exquisite pleasure in conversation but among 
 equals; and would pleasantly bewail himself that 
 he always lived in a crowd, but was the only man 
 in France that could never get into company. 
 This turn of mind made him delight in midnight 
 rambles, attended only with one person of his 
 bedchamber. He would in these excursions get 
 acquainted with men (whose temper he had a 
 mind to try) and recommend them privately to 
 the particular observation of his first minister. 
 He generally found himself neglected by his new 
 acquaintance as soon as they had hopes of grow¬ 
 ing great; and used on such occasions to remark, 
 that it was a great injustice to tax princes of for¬ 
 getting themselves in their high fortunes, when 
 there were so few that could with constancy bear 
 the favor of their very creatures.” My author in 
 these loose hints has one passage that gives us a 
 very lively idea of the uncommon genius of Phara¬ 
 mond. He met with one man whom he had put to 
 all the usual proofs he made of those he had a mind 
 to know thoroughly, and found him for his pur¬ 
 pose. In discourse with him one day, he gave 
 him an opportunity of saying how much would 
 satisfy all his wishes. The prince immediately 
 revealed himself, doubled the sum, and spoke to 
 him in this manner: “ Sir, you have twice what 
 you desired, by the favor of Pharamond ; but look 
 to it, that you are satisfied with it, for it is the 
 last you shall ever receive. I from this moment 
 consider you as mine ; and to make you truly so, 
 I give you my royal word you shall never be 
 greater or less than you are at present. Answer 
 me not (concluded the prince, smiling), but enjoy 
 the fortune I have put you in, which is above my 
 own condition : for you have hereafter nothing 
 to hope or to fear.” 
 
 His majesty having thus well chosen and bought 
 a friend and companion, he enjoyed alternately all 
 the pleasures of an agreeable private man, and a 
 great and powerful monarch. He gave himself, 
 with his companion, the name of the merry tyrant; 
 for he punished his courtiers for their insolence and 
 folly, not by any act of public disfavor, but by 
 humorously practicing upon their imaginations. 
 If he observed a man untractable to his inferiors, 
 he would find an opportunity to take some favor¬ 
 able notice of him, and render him insupportable. 
 He knew all his own looks, words, ana actions 
 had their interpretations; and his friend, Monsieur 
 Eucrate (for so heAvas called), having a great soul 
 without ambition, he could communicate all his 
 thoughts to him, and fear no artful use would be 
 made of that freedom. It was no small delight 
 when they were in private, to reflect upon all 
 which had passed in public. 
 
 Pharamond would often, to satisfy a vain fool 
 of power in his country, talk to him in a full 
 court, and with one whisper make him despise all 
 his old friends and acquaintance. He was come 
 to that knoAvledge of men by long observation, 
 that he Avould profess altering the whole mass of 
 blood in some tempers, by thrice speaking to them. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 As fortune was in his power, he gave himself con¬ 
 stant entertainment in managing the mere follow¬ 
 ers of it with the treatment they deserved. He 
 would by a skillful cast of his eye, and half a 
 smile, make two fellows who hated, embrace, and 
 fall upon each other’s necks, with as much eager¬ 
 ness as if they followed their real inclinations, and 
 intended to stifle one another. When he was in 
 high good humor, he would lay the scene with 
 Eucrate, and on a public night exercise the pas¬ 
 sions of his whole court. He was pleased to see 
 a haughty beauty watch the looks of a man she 
 had long despised, from observation of his being 
 taken notice of by Pharamond; and the lover con¬ 
 ceive higher hopes than to follow the woman he 
 was dying for the day before. In a court, where 
 men speak affection in the strongest terms, and 
 dislike in the faintest, it was a comical mixture 
 of incidents to see disguises thrown aside in one 
 case, and increased on the other, according as 
 favor or disgrace attended the respective objects 
 of men’s approbation or disesteem. Pharamond, 
 in his mirth upon the meanness of mankind, used 
 to say, “As he could take away a man’s five 
 senses, he could give him a hundred. The man 
 in disgrace shall immediately lose all his natural 
 endowments, and he that finds favor have the 
 attributes of an angel.” He would carry it so far 
 as to say, “ It should not be only so in the opinion 
 of the lower part of court, but the men themselves 
 shall think thus meanly or greatly of themselves 
 as they are out or in, the good graces of a court.” 
 
 A monarch who had wit and humor, like Pha¬ 
 ramond, must have pleasures which no man else 
 can ever have the opportunity of enjoying. He 
 gave fortune to none but those whom he knew 
 could receive it without transport. He made a 
 noble and generous use of his observations, and 
 did not regard his ministers as they wore agree¬ 
 able to himself, but as they were useful in his 
 kingdom. By this means the king appeared in 
 every officer of state; and no man had a participa¬ 
 tion of the power, who had not a similitude of the 
 virtue of Pharamond.—R. 
 
 No. 77.] TUESDAY, MAY 29, 1711. 
 
 Non convivere licet, nec urbe tota 
 Quisquam est tam prope tain proculque nobis. 
 
 Mart., Epig. i, 87. 
 
 What correspondence can I hold with you, 
 
 Who are so near, and yet so distant too? 
 
 My friend Will Honeycomb is one of those sort 
 of men who are very absent in conversation, and 
 what the French call a reveur and d distrait. A 
 little before our club-time last night, we Avere 
 walking together in Somerset-gardens, where Will 
 icked up a small pebble of so odd a make, that 
 e said he would present it to a friend of his, an 
 eminent virtuoso. After we had Avalked some 
 time, I made a full stop with my face tOAvard the 
 west, which Will knowing to be my usual Avay of 
 asking Avhat’s o’clock of an afternoon, immedi¬ 
 ately pulled out his Avatch, and told me we had 
 seven minutes good. We took a turn or two more, 
 when to my great surprise, I suav him squirt away 
 his watch a considerable Avay into the Thames, 
 and Avith great sedateness in liis looks put up the 
 ebble he had before found into his fob. As I 
 ave naturally an aversion to much speaking, and 
 do not love to be the messenger of ill news, espe¬ 
 cially when it comes too late to be useful, I left him 
 to be convinced of his mistake in due time, and 
 continued my Avalk, reflecting on these little ab¬ 
 sences and distractions in mankind, and resolving 
 to make them the subject of a future speculation. 
 
 123 
 
 I was the more confirmed in my design, when I 
 considered that they were very often blemishes in 
 the characters of men of excellent sense; and 
 helped to keep up the reputation of that Latin 
 proverb, which Mr. Dryden has translated in the 
 following lines:— 
 
 Great wit to madness sure is near allied, 
 
 And thin partitions do their bounds divide.* 
 
 Mv reader does, I hope, perceive, that I distin¬ 
 guish a man who is absent, because he thinks of 
 something else, from one who is absent because he 
 thinks of nothing at all. The latter is too inno¬ 
 cent a creature to be taken notice of; but the dis¬ 
 tractions of the former may, I believe, be generally 
 accounted for from one of these reasons: 
 
 Either their minds are wholly fixed on some 
 particular science, which is often the case Avith 
 mathematicians and other learned men ; or are 
 Avholly taken up with some violent passion, such 
 as anger, fear, or love, which ties the mind to 
 some distant object; or lastly, these distractions 
 proceed from a certain vivacity and fickleness in a 
 man’s temper, which, while it raises up infinite 
 numbers of ideas in the mind, is continually push¬ 
 ing it on, Avithout alloAving it to rest on any parti¬ 
 cular image. Nothing therefore is more unnatural 
 than the thoughts and conceptions of such a man, 
 which are seldom occasioned either by the com¬ 
 pany he is in, or any of those objects which are 
 placed before him. While you fancy he is admir¬ 
 ing a beautiful woman, it is an even Avager that he 
 is solving a proposition in Euclid : and while you 
 may imagine he is reading the Paris Gazette, it is 
 far from being impossible that he is pulling down 
 and rebuilding the front of his country house. 
 
 At the same time that I am endeavoring to ex¬ 
 pose this weakness in others, I shall readily con¬ 
 fess that I once labored under the same infirmity 
 myself. The method I took to conquer it was a 
 firm resolution to learn something from whatever 
 I was obliged to see or hear. There is a way of 
 thinking, if a man can attain to it, by which he 
 may strike somewhat out of anything. I can at 
 present observe those starts of good sense and 
 struggles of unimproved reason in the conversa¬ 
 tion of a clown, with as much satisfaction as the 
 most shining periods of the most finished orator; 
 and can make a shift to command my attention at 
 a puppet-show or an opera, as well as at Ham¬ 
 let or Othello. I always make one of the com¬ 
 pany I am in ; for though I say little myself, my 
 attention to others, and those nods of approbation 
 Avhich I never bestoAV unmerited, sufficiently show 
 that I am among them. Whereas Will Honey¬ 
 comb, though a felloAV of good sense, is every day 
 doing and saying a hundred things, which he 
 afterward confesses, with a well-bred frankness, 
 were somewhat mal-a-propos and undesigned. 
 
 I chanced the other day to get into a coffee¬ 
 house Avhere Will was standing in the midst of 
 several auditors, Avhom he had gathered round 
 him, and Avas giving them an account of the per¬ 
 son and character of Moll Hinton. My appearance 
 before him just put him in mind of me, without 
 making him reflect that I was actually present. 
 So that keeping his eyes full upon me, to the great 
 surprise of his audience, he broke off his first 
 harangue, and proceeded thus: — “Why now' 
 there’s my friend,” mentioning me by name, “he 
 is a felloAV that thinks a great deal, but never 
 opens his mouth; I Avarrant you he is now thrust¬ 
 ing his short face into some coffee-house about 
 ’Change. I was his bail in the time of the Popish 
 
 * Nullum magnum ingenium sine inixtura dementias.— Se¬ 
 neca De Tranquil. Anim., cap. xv. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 124 
 
 lot, •when he was taken up for a Jesuit.” If he 
 ad looked on me a little longer, he had certainly 
 described me so particularly without ever consi¬ 
 dering what led him into it, that the whole com¬ 
 pany must necessarily have found me out: for 
 which reason remembering the old proverb, “ Out 
 of sight out of mind,” I left the room ; and upon 
 meeting him an hour afterward, was asked by 
 him, with a great deal of good humor, in what 
 part of the world I lived, that he had not seen me 
 these three days. 
 
 Monsieur Bruyere has given us the character of 
 an absent man with a great deal of humor, which 
 he has pushed to an agreeable extravagance : with 
 the heads of it I shall conclude my present 
 paper. 
 
 “Menalcas,” says that excellent author, “ comes 
 down in the morning, opens his door to go out, 
 but shuts it again, because he perceives that he 
 has his night-cap on; and examining himself 
 farther, finds that he is but half-shaved, that he 
 has stuck his sword on his right side, that his 
 stockings are about his heels, and that his shirt is 
 over his breeches. When he is dressed, he goes 
 to court, comes into the drawing-room, and walk¬ 
 ing bolt upright under a branch of candlesticks, 
 his wig is caught by one of them, and hangs 
 dangling in the air. All the courtiers fall a laugh¬ 
 ing, but Menalcas laughs louder than any of them, 
 and looks about for the person that is the jest of 
 the company. Coming down to the court-gate he 
 finds a coach, which taking for his own, he whips 
 into it; and the coachman drives off, not doubting 
 but he carries his master. As soon as he stops, 
 Menalcas throjvs himself out of the coach, crosses 
 the court, ascends the stair-case, and runs through 
 all the chambers with the greatest familiarity; re¬ 
 poses himself on a couch, and fancies himself at 
 home. The master of the house at last comes in; 
 Menalcas rises to receive him, and desires him to 
 sit down; he talks, muses, and then talks again. 
 The gentleman of the house is tired and amazed; 
 Menalcas is no less so, but is every moment in 
 hopes that his impertinent guest will at last end 
 his tedious visit. Night comes on, when Menalcas 
 is hardly undeceived. 
 
 “When he is playing at 'backgammon, he calls 
 for a full glass of wine and water ; it is his turn 
 to throw; he has the box in one hand, and his 
 glass in the other; and being extremely dry, and 
 unwilling to lose time, he swallows down both the 
 dice, and at the same time throws his wino into 
 the tables. He writes a letter, and flings the sand 
 into the ink-bottle ; he writes a second, and mis¬ 
 takes the superscriptions. A nobleman receives 
 one of them, and upon opening it reads as follows: 
 ‘I would have you, honest Jack, immediately 
 upon the receipt of this, take in hay enough to 
 serve me the winter. His farmer receives the 
 other, and is amazed to see in it, ‘My lord, I re¬ 
 ceived your grace’s commands, with an entire sub¬ 
 mission too.’—If he is at an entertainment, you 
 may see the pieces of bread continually multi¬ 
 plying round his plate. It is true the rest of the 
 company want it, as well as their knives and forks, 
 which Menalcas does not let them keep long. 
 Sometimes in a morning he puts his whole family 
 in a hurry, and at last goes out without being able 
 to stay for his coach or dinner, and for that day 
 you may see him in every part of the town, ex¬ 
 cept the very place where be had appointed to be 
 upon business of importance. You would often 
 take him for everything that he is not; for a fel¬ 
 low quite stupid, for he hears nothing; for a fool, 
 for he talks to himself, and has a hundred grim¬ 
 aces and motions in his head, which are altogether 
 involuntary; for a proud man for he looks full 
 
 upon you, and takes no notice of your saluting 
 him. The truth of it is, his eyes are open, but he 
 makes no use of them and neither sees you—nor 
 any man, nor anything else. He came once from 
 his country-house, and his own footmen attempt¬ 
 ed to rob him, and succeeded. They held a flam¬ 
 beau to his throat, and bid him deliver his purse ; 
 he did so, and coming home told his friends he 
 had been robbed; they desired to know the par¬ 
 ticulars : ‘Ask my servants,’ says Menalcas, ‘for 
 they were with me.’ ”—X. 
 
 No. 78.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 30, 1711. 
 
 Cum talis sis, utinam noster esses! 
 
 Could we but call so great a genius ours! 
 
 The following letters are so pleasant that I 
 doubt not but the reader will be as much diverted 
 with them as I was. I have nothing to do in this 
 day’s entertainment, but taking the sentence from 
 the end of the Cambridge letter, and placing it at 
 the front of my paper, to show the author 1 wish 
 him my companion with as much earnestness as he 
 invites me to be his. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I send you the inclosed, to be inserted (if you 
 think them worthy of it) in your Spectatqrs; in 
 which so surprising a genius appears, that it is 
 no wonder if all mankind endeavors to get .some¬ 
 what into a paper which will always live. 
 
 “As to the Cambridge affair, the humor was 
 really carried on in the way I describe it. How¬ 
 ever, you have a full commission to put out or in, 
 and to do whatever you think fit with it. I have 
 already had the satisfaction of seeing you take 
 that liberty with some things I have before sent 
 ou. Go on, Sir, and prosper. You have the 
 est wishes of, Sir, your very affectionate, and 
 obliged, humble servant.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Cambridge. 
 
 “ You well know it is of great consequence to 
 clear titles, and it is of importance that it be done 
 in the proper season ; on which account this is to 
 assure you that the club of Ugly Faces was insti¬ 
 tuted originally at Cambridge, in the merry reign 
 of King Charles II. As in great bodies of men it 
 is not difficult to find members enough for such a 
 club, so (I remember) it was then feared, upon 
 their intention of dining together, that the Hall 
 belonging to Clare-hall, the ugliest then in the town 
 (though now the neatest), would not be large 
 enough handsomely to hold the company. Invi¬ 
 tations were made to very great numbers, but very 
 few accepted them without much difficulty. One 
 pleaded that being at London, in a bookseller’s 
 shop, a lady going by with a great belly longed to 
 kiss him. He had certainly been excused, but 
 that evidence appeared, that indeed one in Lon¬ 
 don did pretend she longed to kiss him, but that 
 was only a pick-pocket, who during his kissing 
 her stole away all his money. Another would 
 have got off by a dimple in his chin ; but it was 
 proved upon him, that he had, by coming into a 
 room, made a woman miscarry, and frightened 
 two children into fits. A third alleged, that he 
 was taken by a lady for another gentleman, who 
 was one of the handsomest in the university; but 
 upon inquiry it was found that the lady had actu¬ 
 ally lost one eye, and the other was very much 
 upon the decline. A fourth produced letters out 
 of the country in his vindication, in which a 
 gentleman offered him his daughter, who had 
 lately fallen in love with him, with a good fortune: 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 but it was made to appear, that the young lady 
 was amorous, and had like to have run away with 
 her father’s coachman—so that it was supposed, 
 that her pretense of falling in love with him, was 
 only in order to be well married. It was pleasant 
 to hear the several excuses which were made, in¬ 
 somuch that some made as much interest to be ex¬ 
 cused, as they would from serving sheriff; how¬ 
 ever, at last the society was formed, and proper 
 officers were appointed ; and the day was fixed for 
 the entertainment, which was in venison season. 
 A pleasant fellow of King’s college (commonly 
 called Crab, from his sour look, and the only man 
 who did not pretend to get off) was nominated for 
 chaplain ; and nothing was wanting but some one 
 to sit in the elbow chair by way of president, at 
 the upper end of the table; and there the business 
 stuck, for there was no contention for superiority 
 there. This affair made so great a noise, that the 
 King, who was then at Newmarket, heard of it, 
 and was pleased merrily and graciously to say, 
 ‘He could not be there himself, but he would send 
 them a brace of bucks.’ 
 
 “I would desire you, Sir, to set this affair in a 
 true light, that posterity may not be misled in so 
 important a point: for when the wise man wiio 
 shall write your true history shall acquaint the 
 world, that you had a diploma sent from the Ugly 
 Club at Oxford, and that by virtue of it you w r ere 
 admitted into it, what a learned war will there be 
 among future critics about the original of that club, 
 which both universities will contend so w r armly 
 for? And perhaps some hardy Cantabrigian 
 author may then boldly affirm, that the word Ox¬ 
 ford was an interpolation of some Oxonian instead 
 of Cambridge. This affair will be best adjusted 
 in your lifetime ; but I hope your affection to 
 your mother will not make you partial to your 
 aunt. 
 
 “To tell you, Sir, my own opinion: though I 
 cannot find any ancient records of any acts of the 
 society of the Ugly Faces, considered in a public 
 capacity; yet, in a private one, they have certainly 
 antiquity on their side. I am persuaded they will 
 hardly give place to the Loungers, and the Loun¬ 
 gers are of the same standing with the university 
 itself. 
 
 “Though we well know. Sir, you want no 
 motives to do justice, yet I am commissioned to 
 tell you, that you are invited to be admitted ad 
 eunaem at Cambridge; and I believe I may venture 
 safely to deliver this as the wish of our whole 
 university.” 
 
 To Mr. Spectator. 
 
 “ The humble petition of who and which, 
 
 “ SHOWETH, 
 
 “ That your petitioners being in a forlorn and 
 destitute condition, know not to whom we should 
 a pply ourselves for relief, because there is hardly 
 any man alive who hath not injured us. Nay, we 
 speak it with sorrow, even you yourself, whom we 
 should suspect of such a practice the last of all 
 mankind, can hardly acquit yourself of having 
 given us some cause of complaint. We are de¬ 
 scended of ancient families, and kept up our 
 dignity and honor many years, till the jack-sprat 
 that supplanted us. How often have we found 
 ourselves slighted by the clergy in their pulpits, 
 and the lawyers at the bar! Nay, how often have 
 we heard, in one of the most polite and august 
 assemblies in the universe, to our great mortifica¬ 
 tion, these words, ‘That that that noble lord 
 urged;’ which if one of us had justice done, 
 would have sounded nobler thus, ‘that which 
 that noble lord urged.’ Senates themselves, the 
 guardians of British liberty, have degraded us, 
 
 125 
 
 and preferred that to us; and yet no decree was 
 ever given against us. In the very acts of parlia¬ 
 ment, in which the utmost right should be done to 
 everybody, word, and thing, we find ourselves 
 often either not used, or used one instead of 
 another. In the first and best prayer children are 
 taught, they learn to misuse us: ‘Our Father which 
 art in heaven,’ should be, ‘Our Father who art in 
 heaven;’ and even a Convocation, after long de¬ 
 bates, refused to consent to an alteration of it. In 
 our general Confession we say, ‘Spare thou them, 
 0 God, which confess their faults,’ which ought 
 to be, ‘who confess their faults.’ What hopes 
 then have we of having justice done us, when the 
 makers of our very prayers and laws, and the 
 most learned in all faculties, seem to be in a con¬ 
 federacy against us, and our enemies themselves 
 must be our judges ? 
 
 “The Spanish proverb says, IIsabio muda conscio, 
 il necio no; i. e. ‘A wise man changes his mind, a 
 fool never will.’ So that we think you, Sir, a very 
 proper person to address to, since we know you 
 to be capable of being convinced, and of changing 
 your judgment. You are well able to settle this 
 affair, and to you we submit our cause. We de¬ 
 sire you to assign the butts and bounds of each 
 of us; and that for the future we may both enjoy 
 our own. We would desire to be heard by our 
 counsel, but that we fear in their very pleadings 
 they would betray our cause: beside, we have been 
 oppressed so many years, that we can appear in 
 no other way but in forma pauperis. All which 
 considered, we hope you will be pleased to do 
 that which to right and justice shall appertain. 
 
 R. “And your petitioners,” etc. 
 
 No. 79.] THURSDAY, MAY 31, 1711. 
 
 Odorant peccare boni virtutis amore. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xvi, 52. 
 
 Tho good, for virtue's sake, abhor to sin.—C reech. 
 
 I have received very many letters of late from 
 my female correspondents, most of whom are very 
 angry with me for abridging their pleasures, and 
 looking severely upon things in themselves in¬ 
 different. But I think they are extremely unjust 
 to me in this imputation. All I contend for is that 
 those excellencies which are to be regarded but in 
 the second place should not precede more weighty 
 considerations. The heart of man deceives him, 
 in spite of the lectures of half a life spent in 
 discourses on the subjection of passion ; and I do 
 not know why one may not think the heart of a 
 woman as unfaithful to itself. If we grant an 
 equality in the faculties of both sexes, the minds 
 of women are less cultivated with precepts, and 
 consequently may, without disrespect to them, be 
 accounted more liable to illusion, in cases wherein 
 natural inclination is out of the interests of virtue. 
 I shall take up my present time in commenting 
 upon a billet or two which came from ladies, ana 
 from thence leave the reader to judge whether I 
 am in the right or not, in thinking it is possible 
 fine women may be mistaken. The following ad¬ 
 dress seems to have no other design in it, but to 
 tell me the writer will do what she pleases, for all 
 me. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am young, and very much inclined to follow 
 the paths of innocence; but at the same time, as I 
 have a plentiful fortune, and am of quality, I am 
 unwilling to resign the pleasure of distinction, 
 some little satisfaction in being admired in general, 
 and much greater in being beloved by a gentleman, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 126 
 
 whom I design to make my husband. But I have 
 a mind to put off entering into matrimony till 
 another winter is over my head, which (whatever, 
 musty Sir, you may think of the matter) I design 
 to pass away in hearing music, going to plays, 
 visiting, and all other satisfactions which fortune 
 and youth, protected by innocence and virtue, can 
 procure for, 
 
 “Sir, your most humble servant, M. T. 
 
 “My lover does not know I like him, therefore, 
 having no engagements upon me, I think to stay 
 and know whether I may not like any one else 
 better.” 
 
 I have heard Will Honeycomb say, “A woman 
 seldom writes her mind but in her postscript.” I 
 think this gentlewoman has sufficiently discovered 
 hers in this. I will lay what wager she pleases 
 against her present favorite, and can tell her, that 
 she will like ten more before she is fixed, and then 
 will take the worst man she ever liked in her life. 
 There is no end of affection taken in at the eyes 
 only; and you may as well satisfy those eyes with 
 seeing, as control any passion received by them 
 only. It is from loving by sight, that coxcombs 
 so frequently succeed with women, and very often 
 a young lady is bestowed by her parents to a man 
 who weds her as innocence itself, though she has, 
 in her own heart, given her approbation of a dif¬ 
 ferent man in every assembly she was in the whole 
 year before. What is wanting among women as 
 well as among men, is the love of laudable things, 
 and not to rest only in the forbearance of such as 
 are reproachful. 
 
 How far removed from a woman of this light 
 imagination is Eudosia! Eudosia has all the arts 
 of life and good-breeding with so much ease, that 
 the virtue of her conduct looks more like instinct 
 than choice. It is as little difficult to her to think 
 justly of persons and things, as it is to a woman 
 of different accomplishments to move ill or look 
 awkward. That which was, at first, the effect of 
 instruction, is grown into a habit; and it would 
 be as hard for Eudosia to indulge a wrong sug¬ 
 gestion of thought, as it would be to Flavia, the 
 fine dancer, to come into a room with an unbecom¬ 
 ing air. 
 
 But the misapprehensions people themselves 
 have of their own state of mind, is laid down 
 with much discerning in the following letter, 
 which is but an extract of a kind epistle from my 
 charming mistress Hecatissa, who is above the 
 vanity of external beauty, and is the better judge 
 of the perfections of the mind. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I write this to acquaint you, that very many 
 ladies, as well as myself, spend many hours more 
 than we used at the glass, for want of the female 
 library, of which you promised us a catalogue. I 
 hope, Sir, in the choice of authors for us, you will 
 have a particular regard to books of devotion. 
 What they are, and how many, must be your chief 
 care ; for upon the propriety of such writings de¬ 
 pends a great deal. I have known those among 
 us, who think if they every morning and evening 
 spend an hour in their closet, and read over so 
 many prayers in six or seven books of devotion, 
 all equally nonsensical, with a sort of warmth 
 (that might as well be raised by a glass of wine, 
 or a dram of citron), they may all the rest of their 
 time go on in whatever their particular passion 
 leads them to. The beauteous Philautia, who is 
 (in your language) an idol, is one of these vota¬ 
 ries ; she has a very pretty-furnished closet, to 
 which she retires at her appointed hours. This is 
 her dressing-room, as well as chapel; she has con¬ 
 
 stantly before her a large looking-glass; and upon 
 the table, according to a very witty author, 
 
 Together lie her prayer-book and paint, 
 
 At once t’ improve the sinner and the saint. 
 
 “It must be a good scene, if one could be pre¬ 
 sent at it, to see this idol by turns lift up her eyes 
 to heaven and steal glances at her own dear per¬ 
 son. It cannot but be a pleasing conflict between 
 vanity and humiliation. When you are upon this 
 subject, choose books which elevate the mind 
 above the world, and give a pleasing indifference 
 to little things in it. For want of such instruc¬ 
 tions I am apt to believe so many people take it 
 in their heads to be sullen, cross, ana angry, under 
 pretense of being abstracted from the affairs of 
 this life, when at the same time they betray their 
 fondness for them by doing their duty as a task, 
 and pouting and reading good books for a week 
 together. Much of this I take to proceed from the 
 indiscretion of the books themselves, whose very 
 titles of weekly preparations, and such limited 
 godliness, lead people of ordinary capacities into 
 great errors, and raise in them a mechanical re¬ 
 ligion, entirely distinct from morality. I know a 
 lady so given up to this sort of devotion, that 
 though she employs six or eight hours of the 
 twenty-four at cards, she never misses one constant 
 hour of prayer, for which time another holds her 
 cards, to which she returns with no little anxious¬ 
 ness till two or three in the morning. All these 
 acts are but empty shows, and, as it were, compli¬ 
 ments made to virtue; the mind is all the while 
 untouched with any true pleasure in the pursuit 
 of it. From thence I presume it arises, that so 
 many people call themselves virtuous, from no 
 other pretense to it but an absence of ill. There 
 is Dulciamara, the most insolent of all creatures 
 to her friends and domestics, upon no other pre¬ 
 tense in nature, but that (as her silly phrase is) 
 ‘ no one can say black is her eye.’ She has no 
 secrets, forsooth, which should make her afraid to 
 speak her mind, and therefore she is imperti¬ 
 nently blunt to all her acquaintance, and unsea¬ 
 sonably imperious to all her family. Dear Sir, be 
 pleased to put such books into our hands, as may 
 make our virtue more inward, and convince some 
 of us, that, in a mind truly virtuous, the scorn of 
 vice is always accompanied with the pity of it. 
 This and other things are impatiently expected 
 from you by our whole sex ; among the rest by, 
 “Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 R. “B. D.” 
 
 No. 80.] FRIDAY, APRIL 1, 1711. 
 
 Coelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt. 
 
 IIok. 1 Ep. ix, 27. 
 
 Those that beyond sea go, will sadly find, 
 
 They change their climate only, not their mind. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 In the year 1688, and on the same day of that 
 year, were born in Cheapside, London, two fe¬ 
 males of exquisite feature and shape; the one we 
 shall call Brunetta, the other Phillis. A close in¬ 
 timacy between their parents made each of them 
 the first acquaintance the other knew in the world. 
 They played, dressed babies, acted visitings, 
 learned to dance and make courtesies, together. 
 They were inseparable companions in all the little 
 entertainments their tender years were capable 
 of; which innocent happiness continued until the 
 beginning of their fifteenth year, when it happen¬ 
 ed that Phillis had a head-dress on, which became 
 her so very well, that instead of being beheld any 
 more with pleasure for their amity to each other, 
 the eyes of the neighborhood were turned to re- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 mark them with comparison of their beauty. 
 They now no longer enjoyed the ease of mind and 
 leasing indolence in which they were formerly 
 appy, but all their words and actions were mis¬ 
 interpreted by each other, and every excellence in 
 their speech and behavior was looked upon as an 
 act of emulation to surpass the other. These be¬ 
 ginnings of disinclination soon improved into a 
 formality of behavior, a general coldness, and by 
 natural steps into an irreconcilable hatred. 
 
 These two rivals for the reputation of beauty, 
 were, in their stature, countenance, and mien, so 
 very much alike, that if you were speaking of 
 them in their absence, the words in which you de¬ 
 scribed the one must give you an idea of the other. 
 They were hardly distinguishable, you would 
 think, when they were apart, though extremely 
 different when together. What made their enmity 
 the more entertaining to all the rest of their sex 
 was, that in detraction from each, neither could 
 fall upon any terms which did not hit herself as 
 much as her adversary. Their nights grew rest¬ 
 less with meditation of new dresses to outvie each 
 other, and inventing new devices to recall ad¬ 
 mirers, who observed the charms of the one rather' 
 than those of the other, on the last meeting. Their 
 colors failed at each other’s appearance, flushed 
 with pleasure at the report of a disadvantage, and 
 their countenances withered upon instances of ap¬ 
 plause. The decencies to which women are oblig¬ 
 ed, made these virgins stifle their resentment so 
 far as not to break into open violences, while they 
 equally suffered the torments of a regulated anger. 
 Their mothers, as it is usual, engaged in the 
 quarrel, and supported the several pretensions of 
 their daughters with all that ill-chosen sort of ex¬ 
 pense which is common with people of plentiful 
 fortunes and mean taste. The girls preceded their 
 parents like queens of May, in all the gaudy 
 colors imaginable, on every Sunday to church, and 
 were exposed to the examination of the audience 
 for superiority of beauty. 
 
 During this constant struggle it happened, that 
 Phillis one day at public prayers smote the heart 
 of a gay West Indian, who appeared in all the 
 colors which can affect an eye that could not dis¬ 
 tinguish between being fine and tawdry. This 
 American, in a Summer-island suit, was too shin¬ 
 ing and too gay to be resisted by Phillis, and too 
 intent upon her charms to be diverted by any of 
 the labored attractions of Brunetta. Soon after, 
 Brunetta had the mortification to see her rival dis¬ 
 posed of in a wealthy marriage, while she was 
 only addressed to in a manner that showed she 
 w r as the admiration of all men, but the choice of 
 none. Phillis was carried to the habitation of her 
 spouse in Barbadoes. Brunetta had the ill-nature 
 to inquire for her by every opportunity, and had 
 the misfortune to hear of her being attended by 
 numeious slaves, fanned into slumbers by succes¬ 
 sive bands of them, and carried from place to 
 place in all tlie pomp of barbarous magnificence. 
 Biunetta could not endure these repeated advices, 
 but employed all her arts and charms in laying 
 baits for any of condition of the same island, out 
 of a mere ambition to confront her once more 
 before she died. She at last succeeded in her 
 design, and was taken to wife by a gentleman 
 whose estate was contiguous to that of her ene¬ 
 my s husband. It would be endless to enumerate 
 the many occasions on which these irreconcilable 
 beauties labored to excel each other; but in process 
 of time it happened, that a ship put into the 
 island consigned to a friend of Phillis, who had 
 directions to give her the refusal of all goods for 
 apparel, before Brunetta could be alarmed of their 
 arrival. He did so, and Phillis was dressed in a 
 
 127 
 
 few days in a brocade more gorgeous and costly 
 than had ever before appeared in that latitude. 
 Brunetta languished at the sight, and could by no 
 means come up to the bravery of her antagonist. 
 She communicated her anguish of mind to a faith¬ 
 ful friend, who, by an interest in the wife of Phil¬ 
 lis’s merchant, procured a remnant of the same 
 silk for Brunetta. Phillis took pains to appear in 
 all public places where she was sure to meet Bru¬ 
 netta ; Brunetta was now prepared for the insult, 
 and came to a public ball in a plain black silk 
 in ant u a, attended, by a beautiful negro girl in a 
 petticoat of the same brocade with which Phillis 
 was attired. This drew the attention of the 
 whole company, upon which the unhappy Phillis 
 swooned away, and was immediately conveyed to 
 her house. As soon as she came to herself, she 
 fled from her husband’s house, went on board a 
 ship in the road, and is now landed in inconsola¬ 
 ble despair at Plymouth. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 After the above melancholy narration, it may 
 perhaps be a relief to the reader to peruse the fol¬ 
 lowing expostulation: 
 
 “To Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The just Remonstrance of affronted THAT. 
 
 “Though I deny not the petition of Mess. WHO 
 and WHICH, yet you should not suffer them to be 
 rude, and to call honest people names: for that 
 bears very hard on some of those rules of decency 
 which you are justly famous for establishing. 
 They may find fault, and correct speeches in the 
 senate and at the bar, but let them try to get them¬ 
 selves so often, and with so much eloquence, re¬ 
 peated in a sentence, as a great orator doth fre¬ 
 quently introduce me. 
 
 “‘My lords!’ says he, ‘with humble submis¬ 
 sion, That That I say is this; That, That That 
 gentleman has advanced, is not That That he 
 should have proved to your lordships.’ Let these 
 two questionary petitioners try to do thus with 
 their Whos and their Whiches. 
 
 “ What great advantange was I of to Mr. Dry- 
 den in his Indian Emperor, 
 
 ‘ You force me still to answer you in That ? — 
 
 to furnish out a rhyme to Morat ? and what a poor 
 figure would Mr. Bayes have made without his 
 ‘ Egad and all That?’ How can a judicious man 
 distinguish one thing from another, without say¬ 
 ing, ‘This here,’ or ‘ That there?’ And how can a 
 sober man, without using the expletives of oaths 
 (in which indeed the rakes and bullies have a 
 great advantage over others), make a discourse of 
 any tolerable length, without ‘That is;’ and if he 
 be a very grave man indeed, without ‘ That is to 
 say?’ And how instructive as well as entertain¬ 
 ing are those usual expressions in the mouths of 
 great men, ‘Such things as That,’ and ‘The like 
 of That.’ 
 
 “I am not against reforming the corruptions of 
 speech you mention, and own there are proper 
 seasons for the introduction of other words beside 
 That; but I scorn as much to supply the place of 
 a Who or a Which at every turn, as They are une¬ 
 qual always to fill mine; and I expect good lan¬ 
 guage and civil treatment, and hope to receive it 
 for the future: That, That I shall only add is, 
 That I am, “Yours, 
 
 R- “That.” 
 
128 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 81. SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 1711. 
 
 Qualis ubi audito venantum murmure tigris 
 
 Horruit in xnaculas- Stat. Theb. ii, 128. 
 
 As when the tigress hears the hunter’s din, 
 
 Dark angry spots distain her glossy skin. 
 
 About tlie middle of last winter I went to see 
 an opera at the theater in the Hay-market, where 
 I could not but take notice of two parties of very 
 fine women, that had placed themselves in the 
 opposite side-boxes, and seemed drawn up in a 
 kind of battle array one against another. After a 
 short survey of them, I found they were patched 
 differently; the faces on one hand being spotted 
 on the right side of the forehead, and those upon 
 the other on the left. I quickly perceived that 
 they cast hostile glances upon one another; 
 and. that their patches were placed in those diffe¬ 
 rent situations, as party-signals to distinguish 
 friends from foes. In the middle-boxes, between 
 these two opposite bodies, were several ladies who 
 patched indifferently on both sides of their faces, 
 and seemed to sit there with no other intention 
 but to see the opera. Upon inquiry I found that 
 the body of Amazons on my right hand were 
 whigs, and those on my left tories; and that those 
 who had placed themselves in the middle boxes 
 were a neutral party, whose faces had not yet 
 declared themselves. These last, however, as I 
 afterward found, diminished daily, and took their 
 party with one side or the other; insomuch that I 
 observed, in several of them, the patches which 
 were before dispersed equally, are now all gone 
 over to the whig or tory side of the face. The 
 censorious say, that the men, whose hearts are 
 aimed at, are very often the occasions that one 
 part of the face is thus dishonored, and lies under 
 a kind of disgrace, while the other is so much set 
 off and adorned by the owner: and that the 
 patches turn to the right or to the left, according 
 to the principles of the man who is most in favor. 
 But whatever may be the motives of a few fantas¬ 
 tical coquettes, who do not patch for the public 
 good so much as for their own private advantage, 
 it is certain, that there are several women of honor 
 who patch out of principle, and with an eye to 
 the interest of their country.—Nay, I am informed 
 that some of them adhere so steadfastly to their 
 party, and are so far from sacrificing their zeal for 
 the public to their passion for any particular per¬ 
 son, that, in a late draught of marriage articles, a 
 lady has stipulated with her husband, that what¬ 
 ever his opinions are, she shall be at liberty to 
 patch on whicli side she pleases. 
 
 I must here take notice, that Rosalinda, a famous 
 whig partisan, has most unfortunately a very 
 beautiful mole on the tory part of her forehead ; 
 which being very conspicuous, has occasioned 
 many mistakes, and given a handle to her enemies 
 to misrepresent her face, as though it had revolted 
 from the whig interest. But, whatever this natu¬ 
 ral patch may seem to insinuate, it is well known 
 that her notions of government are still the same. 
 This unlucky mole, however, has misled several 
 coxcombs; and, like the hanging out of false 
 colors, made some of them converse with Rosa¬ 
 linda in what they thought the spirit of her party, 
 when on a sudden she has given them an unex¬ 
 pected fire, that has sunk them all at once. If 
 Rosalinda is unfortunate in her mole, Nigranilla 
 is as unhappy in a pimple, which forces her, 
 against her inclinations, to patch on the whig 
 side. 
 
 I am told that many virtuous matrons, who for¬ 
 merly have been taught to believe that this artifi¬ 
 cial spotting of the face was unlawful, are now T 
 reconciled by a zeal for their cause, to what they 
 could not be prompted to by a concern for their 
 
 beauty. This way of declaring war upon one 
 another, puts me in mind of what is reported of 
 the tigress—that several spots rise in her skin 
 when she is angry, or, as Mr. Cowley has imitated 
 the verses that stand as the motto of this paper, 
 
 -She swells with angry pride, 
 
 And calls forth all her spots on every side.* 
 
 When I was in the theater the time above-men¬ 
 tioned, I had the curiosity to count the patches 
 on both sides, and found the tory patches to be 
 about twenty stronger than the whig; but to make 
 amends for this small inequality, I the next morn¬ 
 ing found the whole puppet-show filled with faces 
 spotted after the whiggish manner. Whether or 
 no the ladies had retreated hither in order to rally 
 their forces I cannot tell; but the next night they 
 came in so great a body to the opera, that they 
 outnumbered the enemy. 
 
 This account of party-patches will, I am afraid, 
 appear improbable to those who live at a distance 
 from the fashionable world ; but as it is a dis¬ 
 tinction of a very singular nature, and what per¬ 
 haps may never meet with a parallel, I think I 
 should not have discharged the office of a faithful 
 Spectator, had not I recorded it. 
 
 I have, in former papers, endeavored to expose 
 this party-rage in women, as it only serves to ag¬ 
 gravate the hatreds and animosities that reign 
 among men, and in a great measure deprives the 
 fair sex of those peculiar charms with which na¬ 
 ture has endowed them. 
 
 When the Romans and Sabines were at war, and 
 just upon the point of giving battle, the women, 
 who were allied to both of them, interposed with 
 so many tears and entreaties, that they prevented 
 the mutual slaughter which threatened both par¬ 
 ties, and united them together in a firm and last¬ 
 ing peace. 
 
 I would recommend this noble example to our 
 British ladies, at a time when their country is torn 
 with so many unnatural divisions, that if they 
 continue, it will be a misfortune to be born in it. 
 The Greeks thought it so improper for women to 
 interest themselves in competitions and conten¬ 
 tions, that for this reason, among others, they for¬ 
 bade them, under pain of death, to be present at 
 the Olympic games, notwithstanding these were 
 the public diversions of all Greece. 
 
 As our English women exceed those o.f all na¬ 
 tions in beauty, they should endeavor to outshine 
 them in all other accomplishments proper to the 
 sex, and to distinguish themselves as tender 
 mothers and faithful wives, rather than as furious 
 partisans. Female virtues are of a domestic turn. 
 The family is the proper province for private 
 women to shine in. If they must be showing 
 their zeal for the public, let it not be against those 
 who are perhaps of the same family, or at least of 
 the same religion or nation, but against those who 
 are the open, professed, undoubted enemies of 
 their faith, liberty, and country. When the Ro¬ 
 mans were pressed with a foreign enemy, the 
 ladies voluntarily contributed all their rings and 
 jewels to assist the government under a public 
 exigence, which appeared so laudable an action in 
 the eyes of their countrymen, that from thence¬ 
 forth it was permitted by a law to pronounce pub¬ 
 lic orations at the funeral of a woman in praise 
 of the deceased person, which till that time was 
 peculiar to men. Would our English ladies, in¬ 
 stead of sticking on a patch against those of their 
 own country, show themselves so truly public- 
 spirited as to sacrifice every one her necklace 
 against the common enemy, what decrees ought 
 not to be made in favor of them ? 
 
 * Davideis, Book III, page 409, Vol. II, 1710. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Since I am recollecting upon this subject such 
 passages as occur to my memory out ot‘ ancient 
 authors, I cannot omit a sentence in the celebrated 
 fuueial oration of Pericles, which he made in 
 honor of those brave Athenians that were slain 
 in a fight with the Lacedaemonians.* After hav¬ 
 ing addressed himself to the several ranks and 
 orders of his countrymen, and shown them how 
 they should behave themselves in his public 
 cause, he turns to the female part of the audi¬ 
 ence : “And as for you/' says he, “ I shall advise 
 you in very few words. Aspire only to those 
 vntues that are peculiar to your sex ; follow your 
 natural modesty, and think it your greatest com¬ 
 mendation not to be talked of one way or other/’ 
 C. 
 
 No. 82.] MONDAY, JUNE 4, 1711. 
 
 -Caput domina Tenale sub hasta. 
 
 Juv., Sat. iii, 33. 
 
 His fortune ruin’d, and himself a slave. 
 
 Passing under Ludgatef the other day, I heard a 
 voice brawling for charity, which I thought I had 
 somewhere heard before. Coming near to the grate, 
 the prisoner called me by my name, and desired 
 I would throw something into the box ; I was out 
 of countenance for him, and did as he bid me, by 
 putting in half-a-crown. I went away, reflect¬ 
 ing upon the strange constitution of some men, 
 and liow meanly they behave themselves in all 
 sorts of conditions. The person who begged of 
 me is now, I take it, fifty : I was well acquainted 
 with him till about the age of twenty-five ; at 
 which time a good estate fell to him by the death 
 of a relation. L T pon coming to this unexpected 
 ^ood fortune, he ran into all the extravagances 
 imaginable ; was frequently in drunken disputes, 
 broke drawers’ heads, talked and swore loud, was 
 unmannerly to those above, and insolent to those 
 below him. I could not but remark, that it was 
 the same baseness of spirit which worked in his 
 behavior in both fortunes : the same littl^ mind 
 was insolent in riches, and shameless in poverty. 
 This accident made me muse upon the circum¬ 
 stance of being in debt in general, and solve in 
 my mind what tempers were most apt to fall into 
 this error of life, as well as the misfortune it must 
 needs be to languish under such pressures. As 
 for myself, my natural aversion to that sort of 
 conversation which makes a figure with the gene¬ 
 rality of mankind, exempts me from any tempta¬ 
 tions to expense; and all my business lies within 
 a very narrow compass, which is only to give an 
 honest man who takes care of my estate, proper 
 vouchers for his quarterly payments to me, and 
 observe what linen my laundress brings and takes 
 away with her once a week. My steward brings 
 his receipt ready for my signing; and I have a 
 pretty implement with the respective names of 
 shuts, cravats, handkerchiefs, and stockings, with 
 pioper numbers, to know how to reckon with my 
 laundress. This being almost all the business 'I 
 ha\ e m the world for the care of my own affairs, 
 
 1 am at lull leisure to observe upon what others 
 dh relation to their equipage and economy. 
 vY hen I walk the street and observe the hurry 
 about me in this town, J 
 
 y* here, with like haste, through several ways they run* 
 Some to undo, and some to be undone! ’ 
 
 I say, when I behold this vast variety of persons 
 
 *Thuycd. “Hist.,” L. II, p. 130, edit. H. Steph., 1588, folio. 
 T Ludgate was a prison for such debtors as were freemen of 
 me city of London; it was taken down in the year 1762, and 
 the prisoners removed to the London workhouse. 
 
 129 
 
 and humors, with the pains they both take for the 
 accomplishment of the ends mentioned in the 
 abo\ e verses of Denham,* I cannot much wonder 
 at the endeavor after gain, but am extremely as- 
 tonished that men can be so insensible of the dan- 
 ger of running into debt. One would think it 
 impossible that a man who is given to contract 
 debts should not know, that his creditor has, 
 from that moment in which he transgresses pay¬ 
 ment, so much as that demand comes to, in his 
 debtor’s honor, liberty, and fortune. One would 
 think he did not know that his creditor can say 
 the worst thing imaginable of him, to-wit, “ That 
 he is unjust,” without defamation; and can seize 
 his peison, without being guilty of an assault. 
 j. ct such is the loose and abandoned turn of some 
 men’s minds, that they can live under these con¬ 
 stant apprehensions, and still go on to increase 
 the cause of them. Can there be a more low and 
 servile condition, than to be ashamed or afraid to 
 see any one man breathing? Yet he that is much 
 in debt, is in that condition with relation to twenty 
 different people. There are indeed circumstances 
 wherein men of honest natures may become liable 
 to debts, by some unadvised behavior, in any great 
 point of their lite, or mortgaging a man’s honesty 
 as a security for that of another, and the like ; but 
 these instances are so particular and circumstan¬ 
 tiated, that they cannot come within general con¬ 
 siderations. For one such case as one of these, 
 there are ten where a man, to keep up a farce of 
 retinue and grandeur within his own house, shall 
 shrink at the expectation of surly demands at his 
 doors. The debtor is the creditor’s criminal; and 
 all the officers of power and state, whom we behold 
 make so great a figure, are no other than so many 
 persons in authority to make good his charge 
 against him. .Human society depends upon his 
 having the vengeance law allots him ; and the 
 debtor owes his liberty to his neighbor, as much 
 as the murderer does his life to his prince. 
 
 Our gentry are, generally speaking, in debt; 
 and many families have put it into a kind of 
 method of being so from generation to generation. 
 The father mortgages when his son is very young; 
 and the boy is to marry, as soon as he is at age’ 
 to redeem it and find portions for his sisters. 
 
 1 his, forsooth, is no great inconvenience to him ; 
 lor he may wench, keep a public table, or feed 
 dogs, like a worthy English gentleman, till he 
 has out-run half his estate, and leave the same 
 incumbrance upon his first-born, and so on ; till 
 one man of more vigor than ordinary goes quite 
 through the estate, or some man of sense comes 
 into it, and scorns to have an estate in partner¬ 
 ship, that is to say, liable to the demand or insult 
 of any man living. There is my friend Sir An¬ 
 drew, though for many years a great and general 
 trader, was never the defendant in a law-suit, in 
 all the perplexity of business, and the iniquity of 
 mankind at present; no one had any color for the 
 least complaint against his dealings with him. 
 
 1 his is certainly as uncommon, and in its propor¬ 
 tion as laudable in a citizen, as it is in a general 
 never to have suffered a disadvantage in fight. 
 How different from this gentleman is Jack True¬ 
 penny, who has been an old acquaintance of Sir 
 Andrew and myself trom boys, but could never 
 learn our caution. Jack has a whorish, unresist¬ 
 ing good-nature, which makes him incapable of 
 having a property in anything. His fortune, his 
 reputation, his time, and his capacity, are at any 
 man s service that comes first. When he was at 
 school he was whipped thrice a week for faults 
 he took upon him to excuse others; since he came 
 
 ♦From his poem entitled “Cooper’s Hill.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 130 
 
 into the business of the world, he has been ar¬ 
 rested twice or thrice a-year for debts he had 
 nothing to do with, but as surety for others; and 
 I remember when a friend of his had suffered in 
 the vice of the town, all the physic his friend 
 took was conveyed to him by Jack, and inscribed 
 “A bolus or an electuary for Mr. Truepenny. 
 Jack had a good estate left him, which came to 
 nothing; because he believed all who pretended 
 to demands upon it. This easiness and creaulity 
 destroy all the other merit he has; and he has all 
 his life been a sacrifice to others, without ever re¬ 
 ceiving thanks, or doing one good action. 
 
 I will end this discourse with a speech which 1 
 heard Jack make to one of his creditors (of whom 
 he deserved gentler usage) after lying a whole 
 night in custody at his suit. 
 
 “ Sir ; your ingratitude for the many kindnesses 
 I have done you, shall not make me unthankful 
 for the good you have done me, in letting me 
 see there is such a man as you in the world. I 
 am obliged to you for the diffidence I shall have 
 all the rest of my life : I shall hereafter trust no 
 man so far as to be in his debt.” R. 
 
 No. 83.] TUESDAY, JUNE 5, 1711. 
 
 -Animum nictura pascit inani. 
 
 Virg. 2En., l, 464. 
 
 And with the shadowy picture feeds his mind. 
 
 When the weather hinders me from taking my 
 diversions without doors, I frequently. make a 
 little party with two or three select friends, to 
 visit anything curious that may be seen under 
 covert. My principal entertainments of this na¬ 
 ture are pictures, insomuch that when I have 
 found the weather set in to be very bad, I have 
 taken a whole day’s journey to see a gallery that 
 is furnished by the hands of great masters. By 
 this means, when the heavens are filled with 
 clouds, when the earth swims in rain, and all 
 nature wears a lowering countenance, I withdraw 
 myself from these uncomfortable scenes into the 
 visionary worlds of art; where I meet with shill¬ 
 ing landscapes, gilded triumphs, beautiful faces, 
 and all those other objects which fill the mind with 
 gay ideas, and disperse that gloominess which is 
 apt to hang upon it in those dark disconsolate 
 
 seasons. . 
 
 I was some weeks ago in a course oi these divei- 
 
 sions, which had taken such an entire possession 
 of my imagination, that they formed in it a short 
 morning’s dream, which I shall communicate to 
 my reader, rather as the first sketch and outlines 
 of a vision, than as a finished piece. 
 
 I dreamt that I was admitted into a long, spa¬ 
 cious gallery, which had one side covered with 
 pieces of all the famous painters who are now 
 living, and the other with the works of the great¬ 
 est masters that are dead. 
 
 On the side of the living, I saw several persons 
 busy in drawing, coloring, and designing. On 
 the side of the dead painters, I could not discover 
 more than one person at work, who was exceed¬ 
 ingly slow in his motions, and wonderfully nice 
 
 in his touches. . 
 
 I was resolved to examine the several artists 
 that stood before me, and accordingly applied 
 myself to the side of the living. The first I ob¬ 
 served at work in this part of the gallery was 
 Vanity, with his hair tied behind him in a 
 ribbon,' and dressed like a Frenchman. All the 
 faces he drew were very remarkable for their 
 smiles, and a certain smirking air which he be¬ 
 stowed indifferently on every age and degree of 
 
 either sex. The toujours gai appeared even in hifc 
 judges, bishops, and privy counselors In a 
 word, <\11 his high, were pstits in&itTcs y find 8.11 his 
 women coquettes. The drapery of his figures was 
 extremely well suited to his laces, and was made 
 up of all the glaring colors that could be mixed 
 together ; every part of the dress was in a flutter, 
 and endeavored to distinguish itself above the 
 res t 
 
 On the left hand of Vanity stood a laborious 
 workman who I found was his humble admirer, 
 and copied after him. He was dressed like a 
 German, and had a very hard name, that sounded 
 something like Stupidity. 
 
 The third artist that I looked over was Fan- 
 tasque, dressed like a Venetian scaiamouch. He 
 had an excellent hand at chimera, and dealt very 
 much in distortions and grimaces. He would 
 sometimes affright himself with the phantoms 
 that flowed from his pencil. In short, the most 
 elaborate of his pieces was at best but a tenifying 
 dream ; and one could say nothing more of his 
 finest figures, than that they were agreeable 
 monsters. 
 
 The fourth person I examined was very remark¬ 
 able for his hasty hand, which left his pictures so 
 unfinished that the beauty in the picture (which 
 was designed to continue as a monument of it to 
 posterity) faded sooner than in the person after 
 whom it was drawn. He made so much haste to 
 dispatch his business, that he neither gave himself 
 time to clean his pencils, nor mix his colors. The 
 name of this expeditious workman was Avarice. 
 
 Not far from this artist I saw another of a quite 
 different nature, who was dressed in the habit 
 of a Dutchman, and known by the name of In¬ 
 dustry. His figures were wonderfully labored. 
 If he drew the portraiture of a man, he did not 
 omit a single hair in his face; if the figuie of a 
 ship, there was not a rope among the tackle that 
 escaped him. He had likewise hung a great part 
 of the wall with night pieces, that seemed to 
 show themselves by the candles which were 
 lighted up in several parts of them; and were so 
 inflamed by the sunshine which accidentally fell 
 upon them, that at first sight I could scarce for¬ 
 bear crying out “ Fire.” 
 
 The “five foregoing artists were the most con¬ 
 siderable on this side the gallery ; there were 
 indeed several others whom I had not time to 
 look into., One of them, however, I could not 
 forbear observing, who was very busy in retouch¬ 
 ing the finest pieces, though he produced no 
 originals of his own. His pencil aggravated 
 every feature that was before overcharged, loaded 
 every defect, and poisoned every color it touched. 
 Though this workman did so much mischief on 
 the side of the living, he never turned his eye 
 toward that of the dead. His name was Envy. 
 
 Having taken a cursory view of one side of the # 
 gallery, 1 turned myself to that which was filled 
 by the works of those great masters that were 
 dead; when immediately I fancied myself stand¬ 
 ing before a multitude of spectators, and thou¬ 
 sands of eyes looking upon me at once : for all 
 before me appeared so like men and women, that 
 I almost forgot they were pictures. Raphael’s 
 figures stood in one row, Titian’s in another, 
 Guido Rheni’s in a third. One part of the wall 
 was peopled by Hannibal Carracce, another by 
 Correggio, and another by Rubens. To be short, 
 there was not a great master among the dead who 
 had not contributed to the embellishment of this 
 side of the gallery. The persons that owed their 
 being to these several masters, appeared all of 
 them to be real and alive, and differed among 
 one another only in the variety of theii shapes. 
 
131 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 complexions, and clothes ; so that they looked 
 like different nations of the same species. 
 
 Observing an old man (who was the same per¬ 
 son I before mentioned as the only artist that was 
 at work on this side of the gallery) creeping up 
 and down from one picture to another, and re¬ 
 touching all the fine pieces that stood before me, 
 I could not but be very attentive to all his mo¬ 
 tions. I found his pencil was so very light, that 
 it worked imperceptibly, and, after a thousand 
 touches, scarce produced any visible effect in the 
 picture on which he was employed. However, 
 as he busied himself incessantly, and repeated 
 touch after touch without rest or intermission, he 
 wore oft insensibly every little disagreeable gloss 
 that hung upon a figure. He also added such a 
 beautiful brown to the shades and mellowness to 
 the colors, that he made every picture appear 
 more perfect than when it came fresh from the 
 master’s pencil. I could not forbear looking 
 upon the face of this ancient workman, and im¬ 
 mediately by the long lock of hair upon his fore¬ 
 head, discovered him to be Time. 
 
 Whether it were because the thread of my 
 dream was at an end I cannot tell; but, upon my 
 taking a survey of this imaginary old man, my 
 6leep left. me.—C. 
 
 No. 84.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE, 6, 1711. 
 
 -Quis talia fando 
 
 Myrmidonum Dolupomve aut duri miles Ulyssei 
 Temperet a lachrymis?— Virg. Jin., ii, 6. 
 
 Who con such woes relate, without a tear, 
 
 As stern Ulysses must have wept to hear ? 
 
 Looking over the old manuscript wherein the 
 private actions of Pharamond are set down by 
 way of table-book, I found many things which 
 gave me great delight; and as human life 
 turns upon the same principles and passions in 
 all ages, I thought it very proper to take minutes 
 of wliat passed in that age, for the instruction of 
 this. The antiquary who lent me these papers 
 
 f avc me a character of Eucrate, the favorite of 
 haramond, extracted from an author who lived 
 in that court. The account he gives both of the 
 prince and this his faithful friend, will not be 
 improper to insert here, because I may have occa¬ 
 sion to mention many of their conversations, into 
 which these memorials of them may give light. 
 
 “ Pharamond, when he had a mind to retire for 
 an hour or two from the hurry of business and 
 fatigue of ceremony, made a signal to Eucrate, by 
 putting his hand to his face, placing his arm ne¬ 
 gligently on a window, or some such action as 
 appeared indifferent to all the rest of the com¬ 
 pany. Upon such notice, unobserved by others 
 (for their entire intimacy was always a secret), 
 Eucrate repaired to his own apartment to receive 
 the king. There was a secret access to this part 
 of the court, at which Eucrate used to admit 
 many, whose mean appearance in the eyes of 
 the ordinary waiters and doorkeepers made them be 
 repulsed trom other parts of the palace. Such as 
 these were let in here by order of Eucrate, and 
 had audiences of Pharamond. This entrance 
 Pharamond called the ‘gate of the unhappy/ and 
 the tears of the afflicted who came before him, he 
 would say were bribes received by Eucrate; for 
 Eucrate had the most compassionate spirit of all 
 men living, except his generous master, who was 
 always kindled at the least affliction which was 
 communicated to him. In regard for the miser¬ 
 able, Eucrate took particular care that the proper 
 forms of distress, and the idle pretenders to sor¬ 
 row, about courts, who wanted only supplies to 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 luxury, should never obtain favor by his means ; 
 but the distresses.which arise from the many inex¬ 
 plicable occurrences that happen among men, the 
 unaccountable alienation of parents from their 
 children, cruelty of husbands to wives, poverty 
 occasioned from shipwreck or fire, the falling out 
 of friends, or such other terrible disasters to 
 which the life of man is exposed,—in cases of 
 this nature, Eucrate was the patron, and enjoyed 
 this part of the royal favor so much without 
 being envied, that it was never inquired into, by 
 whose means, w r hat no one else cared for doing 
 was brought about. 
 
 “ One evening, when Pharamond came into the 
 apartment of Eucrate, he found him extremely 
 dejected: upon which he asked (with a smile 
 that Avas natural to him), ‘ What, is there any 
 one too miserable to be relieved by Pharamond, 
 that Eucrate is melancholy ?’ * I fear there is/ 
 answered the favorite : ‘ A person Avithout, of a 
 good air, well dressed, and though a man in the 
 strength of life, seems to faint under some incon¬ 
 solable calamity. All his features seem suffused 
 with agony of mind; but I can observe in him, 
 that it is more inclined to break aAA r ay in tears 
 than rage. I asked him wliat he would have. 
 He said he would speak to Pharamond. 1 desired 
 his business. He could hardly say to me, 
 
 ‘ Eucrate, carry me to the king, my story is not 
 to be told twice ; I fear I shall not be able to 
 speak it at all.’ Pharamond commanded Eucrate 
 to let him enter; he did so, and the gentleman 
 approached the king Avith an air which spoke 
 him under the greatest concern in Avhat manner to 
 demean himself. The king, who had a quick 
 discerning, relieved him from the oppression he 
 was under; and with the most beautiful compla¬ 
 cency said to him, ‘ Sir, do not add to that load 
 of soitoav I see in your countenance the aAve of 
 my presence. Think you are speaking to your 
 friend. If the circumstances of your distress Avill 
 admit of it, you shall find me so/ To Avliom the 
 stranger : ‘ Oh, excellent Pharamond, name not a 
 friend to the unfortunate Spinamont.* I had 
 one, but he is dead by my oavh hand ; but, oh 
 Pharamond, though it Avas by the hand of Spina¬ 
 mont, it Avas by the guilt of Pharamond. I come 
 not, oh excellent prince, to implore your pardon ; 
 
 I come to relate my soitoav, a sorrow too great for 
 human life to support; from henceforth shall all 
 occurrences appear dreams, or short intervals of 
 amusement from this one affliction, which has 
 seized my very being. Pardon me, oh Phara¬ 
 mond, if my griefs give me leave, that I lay before 
 you in the anguish of a wounded mind, that you, 
 good as you are, are guilty of the generous biood 
 spilt this day by this unhappy hand. 0 that it 
 had perished before that instant!’ Here the 
 stranger paused, and recollecting his mind, after 
 some little meditation, he went on in a calmer 
 tone and gesture as folloAvs : 
 
 “ There is an authority due to distress, and as 
 none of human race is above the reach of sorrow, 
 none should be above the hearing the voice of 
 it; I am sure Pharamond is not. Know then, 
 that I have this morning unfortunately killed in 
 a duel, the man whom of all men living I most 
 loved. I command myself too much in your royal 
 presence, to say Pharamond gave me my friend! 
 Pharamond has taken him from me! I will not 
 say, shall the merciful Pharamond destroy his 
 own subjects? Will the father of his country 
 murder his people ? But the merciful Pharamond 
 
 * Mr. Thornhill, the gentleman here alluded to under the 
 fictitious or translated name of Spinamont, killed Sir Choh 
 mondley Deering, of Kent, hart., in a duel, May 9,1711. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 132 
 
 does destroy his subjects, the father of his coun¬ 
 try does murder his people. Fortune is so much 
 the pursuit of mankind, that all glory and honor 
 is in the power of a prince, because he has the 
 distribution of their fortunes. It is therefore the 
 inadvertency, negligence, or guilt, of princes to 
 let anything grow into custom which is against 
 their laws. A court can make fashion and duty 
 walk together ; it can never, without the guilt of 
 a court, happen that it shall not be unfashionable 
 to do what is unlawful. But, alas ! in the do¬ 
 minions of Pharamond, by the force of a tyrant 
 custom, which is misnamed a point of honor, the 
 duelist kills his friend whom he loves ; and the 
 judge condemns the duelist while he approves 
 his behavior. Shame is the greatest of all evils ; 
 what avail laws, when death only attends the 
 breach of them, and shame obedience to them ? 
 As for me, 0 Pharamond, were it possible to de¬ 
 scribe the nameless kinds of compunctions and 
 tendernesses I feel, when I reflect upon the little 
 accidents in our former familiarity, my mind 
 swells into sorrow which cannot be resisted 
 enough to be silent in the presence of Pharamond. 
 (With that he fell into a flood of tears, and wept 
 aloud.) Why should not Pharamond hear the 
 anguish he only can relieve others from in time 
 to come? Let him hear from me, what they feel 
 who have given death by the false mercy of his 
 administration, and form to himself the vengeance 
 called for by those who have perished by his 
 negligence.’ ”—R. 
 
 No. 85.] THURSDAY, JUNE 7, 1711. 
 
 Interdum speciosa locis, morataque recte 
 Fabula, nullius Veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
 
 ** Valdius oblectat populum, meliusque moratur, 
 
 Quam versus inopes rerum, nugseque canorae. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 319. 
 
 When the sentiments and manners please, 
 
 And all the characters are wrought with ease, 
 
 Your tale, though void of beauty, force, and art, 
 
 More strongly shall delight, and wax-m the heart; 
 
 Than where a lifeless pomp of verse appears. 
 
 And with sonorous trifles charms our ears.— Francis. 
 
 It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see 
 any written or printed paper upon the ground, to 
 take it up and lay it aside carefully, as not know¬ 
 ing but it may contain some portion of their Alco¬ 
 ran. I must confess I have so much of the Mus¬ 
 sulman in me, that I cannot forbear looking into 
 every printed paper which comes in my way, under 
 whatsoever despicable circumstances it may ap¬ 
 pear; for as no mortal author, in the ordinary fate 
 and vicissitude of things, knows to what use his 
 works may sometime or other be applied, a man 
 may often meet with very celebrated names in a 
 paper of tobacco. I have lighted my pipe more 
 than once with the writings of a prelate; and know 
 a friend of mine, who, for these several years, has 
 converted the essays of a man of quality into a 
 kind of fringe for his candlesticks. I remember 
 in particular, after having read over a poem of an 
 eminent author on a victory, I met with several 
 fragments of it upon the next rejoicing day, which 
 had been employed in squibs and crackers, and 
 by that means celebrated its subject in a double 
 capacity. I once met with a page of Mr. Baxter 
 under a Christmas-pie. Whether or no the pastry¬ 
 cook had made use of it through chance or wag¬ 
 gery, for the defense of that superstitious viande, 
 I know not; but upon the perusal of it, I conceived 
 so good an idea of the author’s piety, that I bought 
 the whole book. I have often profited by these 
 accidental readings, and have sometimes found 
 very curious pieces that are either out of print, or 
 not to be met with in the shops of our London 
 
 booksellers. For this reason, when my friends 
 take a survey of my library, they are very much 
 surprised to find upon the shelf of folios, two long 
 band-boxes standing upright among my books ; 
 till I let them see that they are both of them lined 
 with deep erudition and abstruse literature. I 
 might likewise mention a paper-kite, from which I 
 have received great improvement; and a hat-case 
 which I would not exchange for all the beavers in 
 Great Britain. This my inquisitive temper, or 
 rather impertinent humor of prying into all sorts 
 of writing, with my natural aversion to loquacity, 
 gives me a good deal of employment when I enter 
 any house in the country; for I cannot for my 
 heart leave a room before I have thoroughly stud¬ 
 ied the Avails of it, and examined the several print¬ 
 ed papers which are usually pasted upon them. 
 The last piece that I met with upon this occasion 
 gave me most exquisite pleasure. My reader will 
 think I am not serious, when I acquaint him that 
 the piece I am going to speak of was the old bal¬ 
 lad of the Two Children in the Wood, which is 
 one of the darling songs of the common people, 
 and has been the delight of most Englishmen in 
 some part of their age. 
 
 This song is a plain simple copy of nature, des¬ 
 titute of the helps and ornaments of art. The 
 tale of it is a pretty tragical story, and pleases for 
 no other reason but because it is a copy of nature. 
 There is even a despicable simplicity in the verse; 
 and yet, because the sentiments appear genuine 
 and unaffected, they are able to move the mind of 
 the most polite reader with inward meltings of 
 humanity and compassion. The incidents grow 
 out of the subject, and are such as are the most 
 proper to excite pity; for which reason the whole 
 narration has something in it very moving, not¬ 
 withstanding the author of it (whoever he was) 
 has delivered it in such an abject phrase and poor¬ 
 ness of expression, that the quoting any of it 
 would look like a design of turning it into ridicule. 
 But though the language is mean, the thoughts, 
 as I have before said, from one end to the other, 
 are natural, and therefore cannot fail to please 
 those who are not judges of language, or those 
 who notwitstanding they are judges of language, 
 have a true and unprejudiced taste of nature. The 
 condition, speech, and behavior, of the dying 
 parents, with the age, innocence, and distress, of 
 the children, are set forth in such tender circum¬ 
 stances, that it is impossible for a reader of com¬ 
 mon humanity not to be affected with them. As 
 for the circumstance of the robin-red-breast, it is 
 indeed a little poetical ornament; and to show the 
 genius of the author amidst all his simplicity, it 
 is just the same kind of fiction which one of the 
 greatest of the Latin poets has made use of upon 
 a parallel occasion; I mean that passage in Horace, 
 where he describes himself Avhen he was a child 
 fallen asleep in a desert wood, and covered with 
 leaves by the turtles that took pity on him. 
 
 Me fabulosae vulture in Appulo, 
 
 Altricis extra limen Apulige, 
 
 Ludo fatigatumque somno 
 Fronde nova pueruni palumbes 
 Texere- 4 Od. iii. 
 
 Me when a child, as tired with play 
 Upon the Apulian hills I lay 
 In careless slumbers bound, 
 
 The gentle doves protecting found, 
 
 And cover’d me with myrtle leaves. \ 
 
 I have heard that the late Lord Dorset, who had 
 the greatest wit tempered with the greatest can¬ 
 dor, and was one of the -finest critics as well as 
 the best poets of his age, had a numerous collec¬ 
 tion of old English ballads, and took a particular 
 pleasure in the reading of them. I can affirm the 
 same of Mr. Dryden, and know several of the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 most refined writers of our present age who are 
 of the same humor. 
 
 I might likewise refer my reader to Moliere’s 
 thoughts on this subject, as he expressed them in 
 the character of the Misanthrope; but those only 
 who are endowed with a true greatness of soul 
 and genius, can divest themselves of the little 
 images of ridicule, and admire nature in her sim¬ 
 plicity and nakedness. As for the little con¬ 
 ceited wits of the age, who can only show their 
 judgment by finding fault, they cannot be sup¬ 
 posed to admire these productions which have 
 nothing to recommend them but the beauties of 
 nature, when they do not know how to relish 
 even those compositions that, with all the beauties 
 of nature, have also the additional advantages of 
 art.—L. & 
 
 Ho. 86.] FRIDAY, JUNE 8, 1711. 
 
 Heu quam. difficile est crimen non prodere vultu! 
 
 Ovid, Met. ii, 447. 
 
 How in the looks does conscious guilt appear. —Addison. 
 
 There are several arts, which all men are in 
 some measure masters of, without having been at 
 the pains of learning them. Every one that 
 speaks or reasons is a grammarian and a logician, 
 though he may be wholly unacquainted with the 
 rules of grammar or logic, a^ they are delivered 
 in books and systems. In the same manner, 
 every one is in some degree a master of that art 
 which is generally distinguished by the name of 
 Physiognomy : and naturally forms to himself the 
 character or fortune of a stranger, from the fea¬ 
 tures and lineaments of his face. We are no 
 sooner presented to any one we never saw before, 
 but we are immediately struck with the idea of a 
 proud, a reserved, an affable, or good-natured man ; 
 and upon our first going into a company of stran¬ 
 gers, our benevolence or aversion, awe or con¬ 
 tempt, rises naturally toward several particular 
 persons, before we have heard them speak a 
 single word, or so much as know who they are. 
 
 Eveiy passion gives a particular cast to the 
 countenance, and is apt to discover itself in some 
 feature or other. I have seen- an eye curse for 
 half an hour together, and an eyebrow call a man 
 a scoundrel. Nothing is more common than for 
 lovers to complain, resent, languish, despair, and 
 die, in dumb-show. For my own part, I am so 
 apt to frame a notion of every man’s humor or 
 circumstances by his looks, that I have sometimes 
 employed myself from Charing-Cross to the Royal 
 
 xchan G e, in drawing the characters of those who 
 have passed by me. When I see a man with a 
 sour riveled face, I cannot forbear pitying his 
 wife : and when I meet with an open ingenuous 
 countenance, think on the happiness of his 
 friends, his family, and relations. 
 
 I cannot lecollect the author of a famous saying 
 to a sti anger, who stood silent in his company. 
 
 Speak, that I may see thee.” But, with sub¬ 
 mission, I think we may be better known by our 
 look.', than by our words, and that a man’s speech 
 is much more easily disguised than his counte- 
 nance. In this case, however, I think the air of 
 the whole face is much more expressive than the 
 lines of it. The truth of it is, the air is generally 
 nothing else but the inward disposition of the 
 mind made visible. 
 
 Those who have established physiognomy into 
 an art, and laid down rules of judging men’s 
 tempers by their faces, have regarded the°features 
 much more than the air Martial has a pretty 
 epigram on this subject: 
 
 133 
 
 Crine ruber, niger ore, brevis pede, lumino lapsus : 
 
 Rem magnam praestas, Zoile, si bonus es.—Epig. liv, 12. 
 
 Thy beard and head are of a different die; 
 
 Short of one foot, distorted in an eye: 
 
 With all these tokens of a knave complete, 
 
 Shouldst thou be honest, thou'rt a devilish cheat. 
 
 I have seen a very ingenious author on this 
 subject, who founds his speculations on the suppo¬ 
 sition, that as a man hath in the mould of his face 
 a remote likeness to that of an ox, a sheep, a lion, 
 a hog, or any other creature; he hath the same 
 resemblance in the Irame of his mind, and is sub¬ 
 ject to those passions which are predominant in 
 the creature that appears in his countenance. Ac 
 cordingly he gives the prints of several faces that 
 are ol a different mould, and by a little over¬ 
 charging the likeness, discovers the figures of 
 these several kinds of brutal faces in human fea¬ 
 tures* I remember, in the life of the famous 
 Prince of Conde, the writer observes, the face of 
 that prince was like the face of an eagle, and that 
 prince was very well pleased to be told so. In 
 this case therefore we maybe sure, that he had 
 in his mind some general implicit motion of this 
 art of physiognomy which I have just now men¬ 
 tioned ; and that when his courtiers told him his 
 face was made like an eagle’s, he understood them 
 in the same manner as if they had told him, 
 there was something in his looks, which showed 
 him to be strong, active, piercing, and of a royal 
 descent. Whether or no the different motions of 
 the animal spirits, in different passions, may have 
 any effect upon the mould of the face when the 
 lineaments are pliable and tender, or whether the 
 same kind of souls require the same kind of 
 habitations, I shall leave to the consideration of the 
 curious. In _ the meantime I think nothing can 
 be more glorious than for a man to give the lie*to 
 his face, and to be an honest, just, good-natured 
 man, in spite of all those marks and signatures 
 which nature seems to have set upon him for the 
 contrary. This very often happens among those 
 who, instead of being exasperated by their own 
 looks, or envying the looks of others, apply 
 themselves entirely to the cultivating of their 
 minds, and getting those beauties which are more 
 lasting, and more ornamental. I have seen many 
 an amiable piece of deformity; and have observed 
 a certain cheerfulness in as bad a system of fea¬ 
 tures as ever was clapped together, which hath 
 appeared more lovely than all the blooming 
 charms of an insolent beauty. There is a double 
 praise due to virtue, when it is lodged in a body 
 that seems to have been prepared for the reception 
 of vice; in many such cases the soul and body 
 do not seem to be fellows. 
 
 Socrates was an extraordinary instance of this 
 nature. 1 here chanced to be a great physiogno¬ 
 mist in his time at Athens, who had made strange 
 discoveries of men’s tempers and inclinations by 
 their outward appearances. Socrates’ disciples, 
 that they might put.this artist to the trial, carried 
 him to their master, whom he had never seen be¬ 
 fore, and did not know he was then in company 
 with him. After a short examination of his face, 
 l] ie Physiognomist pronounced him the most lewd, 
 libidinous, drunken old fellow that he had ever 
 met with in his whole life. Upon which the dis¬ 
 ciples all burst out a-laughing, as thinking they 
 had detected the falsehood and vanity of his art 
 But Socrates told them, that the principles of his 
 art might be very true, notwithstanding his pre 
 sent mistake; for that he himself was naturally 
 
 *This doubtless refers to Baptist,a della Porta’s famous 
 book De Humana Physiognomia; which has run through 
 many editions, both in Latin and Italian. He died in 1010. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 134 
 
 inclined to those particular vices which the phy¬ 
 siognomist had discovered in his countenance, 
 but that he had conquered the strong disposi¬ 
 tions he was born with, by the dictates of phi¬ 
 losophy.* 
 
 We are indeed told by an ancient author,! that 
 Socrates very much resembled Silenus in his face; 
 which we find to have been very rightly observed 
 from .the statues and busts of both, that are still 
 extant; as well as on several antique seals and 
 recious stones, which are frequently enough to 
 e met with in the cabinets of the curious. But 
 however observations of this nature may some¬ 
 times hold, a wise man should be particularly 
 cautious how he gives credit to a man’s outward 
 appearance. It is an irreparable injustice we are 
 guilty of toward one another, when we are pre¬ 
 judiced by the looks and features of those whom 
 we do not know. How often do we conceive 
 hatred against a person of worth, or fancy a man 
 to be proud or ill-natured by his aspect, whom we 
 think we cannot esteem too much when we are 
 acquainted with his real character ? Dr. Moore, 
 in his admirable System of Ethics, reckons this 
 particular inclination to take a prejudice against 
 a man for his looks, among the smaller vices 
 in morality, and, if I remember, gives it the 
 name of a “prosopolepsia.”t —L. 
 
 No. 87.] SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1711. 
 
 -Nimium ne crede colori.— Yirg., Eel. ii, 17. 
 
 Trust not too much to an enchanting face.— Deaden. 
 
 It has been the purpose of several of my specu¬ 
 lations to bring people to an unconcerned beha¬ 
 vior, with relation to their persons, whether beau¬ 
 tiful or defective. As the secrets of the Ugly club 
 were exposed to the public, that men might see 
 there were some noble spirits in the age who are 
 not at all displeased with themselves upon con¬ 
 siderations which they have no choice in; so the dis¬ 
 course concerning Idols tended to lessen the value 
 people put upon themselves from personal advan¬ 
 tages and gifts of nature. As to the latter species 
 of mankind—the beauties, whether male or fe¬ 
 male— they are generally the most untractable 
 people of all others. You are so excessively per¬ 
 plexed with the particularities in their behavior, 
 that to be at ease, one would be apt to wish there 
 were no such creatures. They expect so great 
 allowances, and give so little to others, .that they 
 who have to deal with them find, in the main, a 
 man with a better person than ordinary, and a 
 beautiful woman, might be very happily changed 
 for such to whom nature has been less liberal. 
 The handsome fellow is usually so much a gen¬ 
 tleman, and the fine woman has something so 
 becoming, that there is no enduring either of 
 them. It lias therefore been generally my choice 
 to mix with cheerful ugly creatures, rather than 
 gentlemen who are graceful enough to omit or to 
 do what they please, or beauties who have charms 
 enough to do and say what would be disobliging 
 in any but themselves. 
 
 Diffidence and presumption, upon account of our 
 persons, are equally faults ; and both arise from 
 the want of knowing, or rather endeavoring to 
 know ourselves, and for what we ought to be 
 valued or neglected. But indeed I did not ima¬ 
 
 * Cicer. Tusc. Qu. 5 et De Facto. f Plat. Conviv. 
 
 {A Greek word, used in the N. T. Rom., ii, 11, and Eph. vi, 
 9: where it is said that “ God is no respecter of persons.”— 
 Here it signifies a prejudice against a person formed from his 
 countenance, ect., too hastily. 
 
 gine these little considerations and coquetries 
 could have the ill consequences I find they have 
 by the following letters of my correspondents, 
 where it seems beauty is thrown into the account, 
 in matters of sale, to those who receive no favor 
 from the charmers. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, June 4. 
 
 “After I have assured you I am in every respect 
 one of the handsomest young girls about town, I 
 need be particular in nothing but the make of mv 
 face, which has the misfortune to be exactly oval. 
 This I take to proceed from a temper that natu¬ 
 rally inclines me both to speak and hear. 
 
 “ With this account you may wonder how I can 
 have the vanity to offer myself as a candidate, 
 which I now do, to the society where the Specta¬ 
 tor and Hecatissa have been admitted with so much 
 applause. I don’t want to be put in mind how 
 very defective I am in everything that is ugly: 
 I am too sensible of my own unworthiness in this 
 particular, and therefore I only propose myself as 
 a foil to the club. 
 
 “You see how honest I have been to confess all 
 my imperfections, which is a great deal to come 
 from a woman, and what I hope you will encour¬ 
 age with the favor of your interest. 
 
 “ There can be no objection made on the side 
 of the matchless Hecatissa, since it is certain I 
 shall be in no danger of giving her the least occa¬ 
 sion of jealousy; and then a joint stool in the 
 very lowest place at the table is all the honor that 
 is coveted by 
 
 “ Your most humble and obedient servant, 
 
 “ Rosalinda.” 
 
 “ P. S. I have sacrificed my necklace to put into 
 the public lottery against the common enemy. 
 And last Saturday, about three o’clock in the af¬ 
 ternoon, I began to patch indifferently on both 
 sides of my face. ,, 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, London, June 7, 1711. 
 
 “ Upon reading your late dissertation concern¬ 
 ing idols, I cannot but complain to you that there 
 are, in six or seven places of this city, coffee¬ 
 houses kept by persons of that sisterhood. These 
 idols sit and receive all day long the adoration of 
 the youth within such and such districts, 
 know, in particular, goods are not entered as they 
 ought to be at the custom-house, nor law reports 
 perused at the temple, by reason of one beauty 
 who detains the young merchants too long near 
 ’Change, and another fair one who keeps the stu¬ 
 dents at her house when they should be at study. 
 It would be worth your while to see how the idol¬ 
 aters alternately offer incense to their idols, and 
 what heart-burnings arise in those who wait for 
 their turn to receive kind aspects from those little 
 thrones which all the company, but these lovers, 
 call the bars. I saw a gentleman turn as pale as 
 ashes, because an idol turned the sugar in a tea- 
 dish for his rival, and carelessly called the boy to 
 to serve him, with a ‘ Sirrah! why don’t you give 
 the gentleman the box to please himself?’ Cer¬ 
 tain it is, that a very hopeful young man was ta¬ 
 ken with leads in his pockets below-bridge, where 
 he intended to drown himself, because his idol 
 would wash the dish in which she had but just 
 drunk tea, before she would let him use it. 
 
 “I am. Sir, a person past being amorous, and 
 do not give this information out of envy or jeal¬ 
 ousy, but I am a real sufferer by it. These lovers 
 take anything for tea and coffee ; I saw one yes¬ 
 terday surfeit to make his court! and all his 
 rivals, at the same time, loud in the commenda¬ 
 tion of liquors that went against everybody in the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 room that was not in love. While these young 
 fellows resign their stomachs with their hearts, 
 and drink at the idol in this manner, we wTio 
 come to do business or talk politics are utterly 
 poisoned. They have also drams for those w r ho 
 are more enamored than ordinary ; and it is very 
 common for such as are too low in constitution to 
 ogle the idol upon the strength of tea, to fluster 
 themselves with warmer liquors: thus all pre¬ 
 tenders advance as fast as they can to a fever or a 
 diabetes. I must repeat to you, that I do not 
 look with an evil eye upon the profit of the idols 
 or the diversions of the lovers ; what I hope from 
 this remonstrance, is only that we plain people 
 may not be served as if we were kfolaters; but 
 that from the time of publishing this in your 
 paper, the idols would mix ratsbane only for 
 their admirers, and take more care of us who 
 don’t love them. “ I am. Sir, yours, 
 
 R. “ T. T.” 
 
 Ho. 88.] MONDAY, JUNE 11, 1711. 
 
 Quid doiniui fa dent, audent cum talia fures ? 
 
 Virg., Eel. iii, 16. 
 
 What will not masters do, when servants thus presume ? 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, May 30, 1711. 
 
 “ I have no small value for your endeavors to 
 lay before the world what may escape their obser¬ 
 vation, and yet highly conduces to their service. 
 You have, I think, succeeded very well on many 
 subjects ; and seem to have been conversant in 
 very different scenes of life. But in the consider¬ 
 ations of mankind, as a Spectator, you should not 
 omit circumstances which relate to the inferior 
 part of the world, any more than those which 
 concern the greater. There is one thing in par¬ 
 ticular, which I wonder you have not touched 
 upon—and that is the general corruption of man¬ 
 ners in the Servants of Great Britain. I am a 
 man that have traveled and seen many nations, 
 but have for seven years last past resided con¬ 
 stantly in London or within twenty miles of it. 
 In this time I have contracted a numerous ac¬ 
 quaintance among the best sort of people, and 
 have hardly found one of them happy in their 
 servants. This is matter of great astonishment 
 to foreigners, and all such as have visited foreign 
 countries ; especially since we cannot but observe, 
 that there is no part of the world where servants 
 have those privileges and advantages as in Eng¬ 
 land. They have nowhere else such plentiful 
 diet, large wages, or indulgent liberty. There is 
 no place where they labor less, and yet where they 
 are so little respectful, more wasteful, more negli¬ 
 gent, or where they so frequently change their 
 masters. To this 1 attribute, in a great measure, 
 the frequent robberies and losses which we suffer 
 on the high-road and in our own houses. That 
 indeed which gives me the present thought Of this 
 kind is, that a careless groom of mine has spoiled 
 me the prettiest pad in the world with only riding 
 him ten miles ; and I assure you, if I were to 
 make a register of all the horses I have known 
 thus abused by the negligence of servants, the 
 number would mount a regiment. I wish you 
 would give us your observations, that we may 
 know how to treat these rogues, or that we mas¬ 
 ters may enter into measures to reform them. 
 Pray give us a speculation in general about ser¬ 
 vants, and you make me, “Yours, 
 
 “ Philo-Britannicus.” 
 
 “ P. S. Pray do not omit the mention of grooms 
 in particular.” 
 
 135 
 
 This honest gentleman, who is so desirous that 
 I should write a satire upon grooms, lias a great 
 deal of reason for his resentment; and I know no 
 evil which touches all mankind so much as this 
 of the misbehavior of servants. 
 
 The complaint of this letter runs wholly upon 
 men-servants ; and I can attribute the licentious¬ 
 ness which has at present prevailed among them, 
 to nothing but what a hundred before me have 
 ascribed it to the custom of giving board-wages. 
 This one instance of false economy is sufficient to 
 debauch the whole nation of servants, and makes 
 them as it were but for some part of their time in 
 that quality. They are either attending in places 
 where they meet and run into clubs, or else, if 
 they wait at taverns, they eat after their masters, 
 and reserve their wages for other occasions. From 
 hence it arises, that they are but in a lower de 
 gree what their masters themselves are ; and usu 
 ally affect an imitation of their manners : and you 
 have in liveries, beaux, fops and coxcombs, in as 
 high perfection as among people that keep equip¬ 
 ages. It is a common humor among the retinue 
 of the people of quality, when they are in their 
 revels—that is, when they are out of their mas¬ 
 ters’ sight—to assume in a humorous way the 
 names and titles of those whose liveries they wear. 
 By which means, characters and distinctions be¬ 
 come so familiar to them, that it is to this, among 
 other causes, one may impute a certain insolence 
 among our servants, that they take no notice of 
 any gentleman, though they know him ever so 
 well, except he is an acquaintance of their master. 
 
 My obscurity and taciturnity leave me at liberty, 
 without scandal, to dine, if 1 think fit, at a com¬ 
 mon ordinary, in the meanest as well as the most 
 sumptuous house of entertainment. Falling in 
 the other day at a victualling-house near the house 
 of peers, I heard the maid come down and tell 
 the landlady at the bar, that my lord bishop 
 swore he would throw her out at the window, if 
 she did not bring up more mild beer, and that my 
 lord duke would have a double mug of purl. 
 My surprise was increased, in hearing loud and 
 rustic voiced speak and answer to each other 
 upon the public affairs, by the names of the most 
 illustrious of our nobility; till of a sudden one 
 came running in, and cried the house was rising. 
 Down came all the company together, and away! 
 The ale-house was immediately filled with clamor, 
 and scoring one mug to the marquis of such a 
 place, oil and vinegar to such an earl, three 
 quarts to my new lord for wetting his title, and 
 so forth. It is a thing too notorious to mention 
 the crowds of servants, and their insolence, near 
 the courts of justice, and the stairs toward the su¬ 
 preme assembly, where there is a universal mock¬ 
 ery of all order, such riotous clamor and licen¬ 
 tious confusion, that one would think the whole 
 nation lived in iest, and that there were no such 
 thing as rule and distinction among us. 
 
 The next place of resort, wherein the servile 
 world are let loose, is at the entrance of Hyde- 
 park, while the gentry are at the ring. Hither 
 people bring their lackeys out of state, and here 
 it is that all they say at their tables, and act in 
 their houses, is communicated to the whole town. 
 There are men of wit in all conditions of life; 
 and mixing with these people at their diversions, 
 I have heard coquettes and prudes as well rallied, 
 and insolence and pride exposed (allowing for 
 their want of education) with as much humor and 
 good sense, as in the politest companies. It is a 
 general observation, that all dependents run in 
 some measure into the manners and behavior of 
 those whom they serve. You shall frequently 
 meet with lovers and men of intriguo among the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 136 
 
 lackeys as wjll as at White’s or in the side-boxes. 
 I remember some years ago an instance of this 
 kind. A footman to a captain of the guards 
 used frequently, when his master was out of the 
 way, to carry on amours and make assignations 
 in his master’s clothes. The fellow had a very 
 good person, and there are very many women who 
 think no farther than the outside of a gentleman: 
 beside which he was almost as learned a man as 
 the colonel* himself: I say, thus qualified, the 
 fellow could scrawl billets-doux so well, and fur¬ 
 nish a conversation on the common topics, that he 
 had, as they call it, a great deal of business on his 
 hands. It happened one day, that coming down 
 a tavern stairs, in his master’s fine guard coat, 
 with a well-dressed woman masked, he met the 
 colonel coming up with other company; but with 
 ready assurance he quitted his lady, came up to 
 him, and said, “ Sir, I know you have too much 
 respect for yourself to cane me in this honorable 
 habit. But you see there is a lady in the case, 
 and on that score also you will put off your anger 
 till I have told you all another time.” After a 
 little pause the colonel cleared up his countenance, 
 and with an air of familiarity whispered to his 
 man apart, “ Sirrah, bring the lady with you to 
 ask pardon for you then aloud, “ Look to it, 
 Will, I’ll never forgive you else.” The fellow 
 went back to his mistress, and telling her with 
 a loud voice and an oath, that was the honestest 
 fellow in the world, conveyed her to a hackney- 
 coach. 
 
 But the many irregularities committed by ser¬ 
 vants in the places above-mentioned, as well as in 
 theaters, of which masters are generally the oc¬ 
 casions, are too various not to need being re¬ 
 sumed on another occasion.—R. 
 
 Ho. 89.] TUESDAY, JUNE 12, 1711. 
 
 -Petite hinc, juvenesque senesque, 
 
 Finem ammo certum, miserisque viatica canis. 
 
 Cras hoc fiet. Idem eras flet. Quid ? quasi magnum, 
 Nempe diem donas? sed cum lux altera venit, 
 
 Jam eras hesternum consumpsimus; ecce aliud cras 
 Egerit hos annos, et semper paulum erit ultra. 
 
 Nam quamvis prope te, quamvis temone sub uno, 
 Vertentem sese frustra sectabere canthum. 
 
 Pers., Sat. v, 64. 
 
 Pers. From thee both old and young with profit learn 
 The bounds of good and evil to discern. 
 
 Corn. Unhappy he, who does this work adjourn, 
 
 And to to-morrow would the search delay: 
 
 His lazy morrow Avill be like to-day. 
 
 Pers. But is one day of ease too much to borrow ? 
 
 Corn. Yes, sure; for yesterday was once to-morrow. 
 That yesterday is gone, and nothing gain’d; 
 
 And all thy fruitless days will thus be drain’d; 
 
 For thou hast more to-morrows yet to ask, 
 
 And wilt be ever to begin thy task; 
 
 Who, like the hindmost chariot-wheels, are curst, 
 
 Still to be near, but ne’er to reach the first.— Dryden. 
 
 As my correspondents upon the subject of love 
 are very numerous, it is my design, if possible, to 
 range them under several heads, and address my- 
 selt to them at different times. The first branch 
 of them, to whose service I shall dedicate this 
 paper, are those that have to do with women of 
 dilatory tempers, who are for spinning out the 
 time of courtship to an immoderate length, with¬ 
 out being able either to close with their lovers or 
 to dismiss them. I have many letters by me filled 
 with complaints against this sort of women. In 
 one of them no less a man than a brother of the 
 coif f tells me, that he began his suit vicesimo nono 
 
 ^Iii the Spect. in folio, and in the edit, of 1712, in 8vo., 
 this officer is styled both captain and colonel, 
 fi. e. A serjeant at law. 
 
 Caroli secundi, before he had been a twelvemonth 
 at the Temple; that he prosecuted it for many 
 years after he was called to the bar ; that at pre¬ 
 sent he is a serjeant at law ; and notwithstanding 
 he hoped that matters would have been long since 
 brought to an issue, the fair one still demurs. I 
 am so well pleased with this gentleman’s phrases 
 that I shall distinguish this sect of women by the 
 title of Demurrers. I find by another letter from 
 one who calls himself Thyrsis, that his mistress 
 has been demurring above these seven years. But 
 among all my plaintiffs of this nature,! most pity 
 the unfortunate Philander, a man of a constant 
 passion and plentiful fortune, who sets forth that 
 the timorous and irresolute Sylvia has demurred 
 till she is past child-bearing. Strephon appears 
 by his letter to be a very choleric lover, and is 
 irrevocably smitten with one that demurs out of 
 self-interest. He tells me with great passion that 
 she has bubbled him out of his youth ; that she 
 drilled him to five and fifty, and that he verily 
 believes she will drop him in his old age, if she 
 can find her account in another. I shall conclude 
 this narrative with a letter from honest Sam Hope- 
 well, a very pleasant fellow, who it seems has at 
 last.married a Demurrer. I must only premise, 
 that Sam, who is a very good bottle-companion, 
 has been the diversion of his friends, upon ac¬ 
 count of his passion, ever since the year one thou¬ 
 sand six hundred and eighty-one. 
 
 “ Dear Sir, 
 
 “ You know very well my passion for Mrs. Mar¬ 
 tha, and what a dance she has led me. She took 
 me out at the age of two-and-twenty, and dodged 
 Avith me above thirty years. I have loved her till 
 she is grown as gray as a cat, and am with much 
 ado become the master of her person, such as it 
 is, at present. She is however in my eye a very 
 charming old woman. We often lament that we 
 did not marry sooner, but she has nobody to 
 blame for it but herself. You know very well 
 that she would never think of me while she had 
 a tooth in her head. I have put the date of my 
 passion (anno arnoris trigesimo primo instead of 
 posy on my wedding-ring. I expect you should 
 send me a congratulatory letter, or, if you please, 
 an epithalamium upon this occasion. 
 
 “ Mrs. Martha’s and yours eternally, 
 
 “ Sam Hopewell.” 
 
 In order to banish an evil out of the world, that 
 does not only produce a great uneasiness to pri¬ 
 vate persons, but has also a very bad influence on 
 the public, I shall endeavor to show the folly of 
 demurrage, from two or three reflections which I 
 earnestly recommend to the thoughts of my fair 
 readers. 
 
 First of all, I would have them seriously think 
 on the shortness of their time. Life is not long 
 enough for a coquette to play all her tricks in. A 
 timorous woman drops into her grave before she 
 is done deliberating. Were the age of man the 
 same that it was before the flood, a lady might 
 sacrifice half a century to a scruple, and be two 
 or three ages in demurring. Had she nine hundred 
 years good, she might hold out to the conversion 
 of the Jews before she though fit to be prevailed 
 upon. But, alas ! she ought to play her part in 
 haste, when she considers that she is suddenly to 
 quit the stage, and make room for others. 
 
 In the second place, I would desire my rem 
 readers to consider that as the term of life is short, 
 that of beauty is much shorter. The finest skin 
 wrinkles in a few years, and loses the strength 
 of its coloring so soon, that we have scarce time 
 to admiro it. I might embellish this subject with 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 roses and rainbows, and several other ingenious 
 conceits, which 1 may possibly reserve for another 
 opportunity. 
 
 There is a third consideration which I would 
 likewise recommend to a demurrer—and that is, 
 the great danger of her falling in love when she 
 is about threescore, if she cannot satisfy her 
 doubts and scruples before that time. There is 
 a kind of latter spring, that sometimes gets into 
 the blood of an old woman, and turns her into a 
 very odd sort of an animal. I would therefore 
 have the demurrer consider what a strange figure 
 she will make, if she chances to get over all diffi¬ 
 culties, and comes to a final resolution, in that 
 unseasonable part of her life. 
 
 I would not however be understood, by any¬ 
 thing I have here said, to discourage thak natural 
 modesty in the sex, which renders a retreat from 
 the first approaches of a lover both fashionable 
 and graceful. All that I intend is, to advise 
 them, when they are prompted by reason and in¬ 
 clination, to demur only out of form, and so far 
 as decency requires. A virtuous woman should 
 reject the first offer of marriage, as a good man 
 does that of a bishopric; but I would advise neither 
 the one nor the other to persist in refusing what 
 they secretly approve. I would in this particular 
 propose the example of Eve to all her daughters, 
 as Milton has represented her in the following 
 passage, which I cannot forbear transcribing 
 entire, though only the twelve last lines are to my 
 purpose. 
 
 _ The rib he form’d and fashion'd with his hands: 
 Under his forming hands a creature grew, 
 
 Man-like, but different sex; so lovely fair, 
 
 That what seem’d fair in all the world, seem’d now 
 Mean, or in her summ’d up, in her contain’d, 
 
 And in her looks; which from that time infus’d 
 Sweetness into my heart unfelt before, 
 
 And into all things from her air inspir’d 
 The spirit of love and amorous delight. 
 
 She disappear’d, and left me dark; I wak’d 
 To find her, or forever to deplore 
 Her loss, and other pleasures all abj ure: 
 
 When out of hope, behold her, not far off, 
 
 Such as I saw her in my dream, adorn’d 
 \\ ith what all earth or heaven could bestow 
 To make her amiable. On she came, 
 
 Led by her heavenly Maker though unseen, 
 
 And guided by his voice, nor uninform’d 
 Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites: 
 
 Grace was in all her steps, Heav’n in her eye, 
 
 In every gesture dignity and love. 
 
 I, overjoyed, could not foi-bear aloud: 
 
 “ This turn hath made amends: thou has fulfill’d 
 Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign! 
 
 Giver of all things fair: but fairest this 
 Of all thy gifts, nor enviest. 1 now see 
 Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself.” 
 
 She heard me thus, and though divinely brought, 
 
 Yet innocence and virgin modesty, 
 
 Her virtue, and the conscience of her worth, 
 
 That would be woo’d, and not unsought be won, 
 
 Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retir’d, 
 
 The more desirable—or, to say all, 
 
 Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought, 
 
 W rought in her so, that seeing me sh£ turn’d. 
 
 I follow’d her: she what was honor knew, 
 
 And with obsequious majesty approv’d 
 My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower 
 1 led her blushing like the morn- 
 
 L - Paradise Lost, viii, 469—511. 
 
 No. 90.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 13, 1711. 
 
 -Magnus sine viribus ignis 
 
 lneassum furit- Virg., Georg, iii, 99. 
 
 In all the rage of impotent desire, 
 
 The feel a quenchless flame, a fruitless fire. 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, a consideration 
 more effectual to extinguish inordinate desires in 
 the soul of man, than the notions of Plato and 
 his followers upon that subject. They tell us, 
 
 137 
 
 that every passion which has been contracted by 
 the soul during her residence in the body remains 
 with her in a separate state; and that the soul in 
 the body, or out of the body, differs no more than 
 the man docs from himself when he is in his 
 house, or in open air. When therefore the obscene 
 passions in particular have once taken root, and 
 spread themselves in the soul, they cleave to her 
 inseparably, and remain in her forever, after the 
 body is cast off and thrown aside. As an argument 
 to confirm this their doctrine, they observed that a 
 lewd youth who goes on in a continued course of 
 voluptuousness, advances by degrees into a libidi¬ 
 nous old man ; and that the passion survives in 
 the mind when it is altogether dead in the body; 
 nay, that the desire grows more violent, and (like 
 all other habits) gathers strength by age, at the 
 same time that it has no power of executing its 
 own purposes. If, say they, the soul is the most 
 subject to these passions at a time when it has the 
 least instigations from the body, we may well sup¬ 
 pose she will still retain them when she is entire¬ 
 ly divested of it. The very substance of the soul 
 is festered with them, the gangrene is gone too 
 far to be ever cured ; the inflammation will rage 
 to all eternity. 
 
 In this therefore (say the Platonists) consists 
 the punishment of a voluptuous man after death. 
 He is tormented with desires which it is impossi¬ 
 ble for him to gratify ; solicited by a passion that 
 lias neither objects nor organs adapted to it. He 
 lives in a state of invincible desire and impo¬ 
 tence, and always burns in the pursuit of what he 
 always despairs to possess. It is for this reason 
 (says Plato) that the souls of the dead appear 
 frequently in cemeteries, and hover about the 
 places where their bodies are buried, still hanker¬ 
 ing after their old brutal pleasures, and desiring 
 again to enter the body that gave them an oppor¬ 
 tunity of fulfilling them. 
 
 Some of our most eminent divines have made 
 use of this Platonic notion, so far as it regards 
 the subsistence of our passions after death, with 
 great beauty and strength of reason. Plato in¬ 
 deed carries the thought very far when he grafts 
 upon it his opinion of ghosts appearing in places 
 of burial. Though, I must confess, if one did 
 believe that the departed souls of men and women 
 wandered up and down these lower regions, and 
 entertained themselves with the sight of their 
 species, one could not devise a more proper hell 
 for an impure spirit than that which Plato has 
 touched upon. 
 
 The ancients seem to have drawn such a state 
 of torments in the description of Tantalus, who 
 was punished with the rage of an eternal thirst, 
 and set up to the chin in water that fled from his 
 lips whenever he attempted to drink it. 
 
 Virgil, who has cast the whole system of Pla¬ 
 tonic philosophy, so far as it relates to the soul 
 of man, into beautiful allegories, in the sixth 
 book of his ^Eneid gives us the punishment of a 
 voluptuary after death, not unlike that which we 
 are here speaking of : 
 
 -Lucent genialibus altis 
 
 A urea fulcra toris, epulaeque ante ora paratae 
 Kegifico luxu: furiarum maxima juxta 
 Accubat, et manibus prohibet contingore mensas; 
 Exurgitque facem attollens, atque intonat ore. 
 
 They lie below on golden beds display’d, 
 
 And genial feasts with regal pomp are made: 
 
 The queen of furies by their side is set, 
 
 And snatches from their mouths the untasted meat 
 Which, if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears, 
 Tossing her torch, and thundering in their ears. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 That I may a little alleviate the severity of this 
 my speculation (which otherwise may lose me 
 
138 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 several of my polite readers), I shall translate a 
 story that has been quoted upon another occasion 
 by one of the most learned men of the present 
 age, as I find it in the original. The reader will 
 see it is not foreign to my present subject, and I 
 dare say will think it a lively representation of a 
 person lying under the torments of such a kind 
 of tantalism, or Platonic hell, as that which we 
 have now under consideration. Monsieur Pontig- 
 nan, speaking of a love-adventure that happened 
 to him in the country, gives the following account 
 of it.* 
 
 “When I was in the country last summer, I 
 was often in company with a couple of charming 
 women, who had all the wit and beauty one could 
 desire in female companions, with a dash of co¬ 
 quetry, that from time to time gave me a great 
 many agreeable torments. I was, after my way, 
 in love with both of them, and had such frequent 
 opportunities of pleading my passion to them 
 when they were asunder, that I had reason to hope 
 for particular favors from each of them. As I 
 was walking one evening in my chamber with 
 nothing about me but my night-gown, they both 
 came into my room, and told me they had a very 
 pleasant trick to put upon a gentleman that was 
 in the same house, provided 1 would bear a part 
 in it. Upon this they told me such a plausible 
 story, that I laughed at their contrivance, and 
 agreed to do whatever they should require of me. 
 They immediately began to swaddle me up in my 
 night-gown, with long pieces of linen, which they 
 folded about me till they had wrapped me in 
 above a hundred yards of swath. My arms were 
 pressed to my sides, and my legs closed together 
 by so many wrappers one over another, that J 
 looked like an Egyptian mummy. As I stood 
 bolt-upright upon one end in this antique figure, 
 one of the ladies burst out a-laughing. “And 
 now, Pontignan,” says she, “ we intend to perform 
 the promise that we find you have extorted from 
 each of us. You have often asked the favor of 
 us, and I dare say you are a better-bred cavalier 
 than to refuse to go to bed to two ladies that de¬ 
 sire it of you.” After having stood a fit of laugh¬ 
 ter, I begged them to uncase me, and do with me 
 what they pleased. “No, no,” said they, “we 
 like you very w T ell as you are;” and upon that 
 ordered me to be carried to one of their houses, 
 and put to bed in all my swaddles. The room 
 was lighted up on all sides: and I was laid very 
 decently between a pair of sheets, with my head 
 (which was indeed the only part I could move) 
 upon a very high pillow: this was no sooner done, 
 but my two female friends came into bed to me in 
 their finest night-clothes. You may easily guess 
 at the condition of a man that saw a couple of the 
 most beautiful women in the world undressed and 
 a-bed wfith him, without being able to stir hand 
 or foot. I begged them to release me, and strug¬ 
 gled all I could to get loose, which 1 did with so 
 much violence, that about midnight they both 
 leaped out of the bed, crying out they were un¬ 
 done. But seeing me safe, they took their posts 
 again, and renewed their raillery. Finding all 
 my prayers and endeavors were lost, I composed 
 myself as well as I could, and told them that if 
 they would not unbind me, I would fall asleep 
 between them, and by that means disgrace them 
 forever. But, alas! this was impossible; could I 
 have been disposed to it, they would have pre¬ 
 vented me by several little ill-natured caresses 
 
 * The substance of the story here paraphrased is taken 
 from a little book entitled Academie Galante, printed at Paris 
 and in Holland in 1682, and afterward at Amst., in 1708. See 
 that edit., p. 125; and first Dutch edit., p. 160. 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 and endearments which they bestowed upon me. 
 As much devoted as I am to womankind, I would 
 not pass such another night to be master of the 
 whole sex. My reader will doubtless be curious 
 to know what became of me the next morning. 
 Why truly my bed-fellows left me about an hour 
 before day, and told me, if I would be good and 
 lie still, they would send somebody to take me up 
 as soon as it was time for me to rise. Accordingly 
 about nine o’clock in the morning an old woman 
 came to unswathe me. I bore all this very 
 patiently, being resolved to take my revenge on 
 my tormentors, and to keep no measures with 
 them as soon as I was at liberty; but upon asking 
 my old woman what w r as become of the two ladies, 
 she told me she believed they were by that time 
 within sight of Paris, for that they went away in 
 a coach and six before five o’clock in the morn¬ 
 ing.”—L. 
 
 No. 91.] THURSDAY, JUNE 14,1711. 
 
 In furias ignemque/ruunt; amor omnibus idem. 
 
 Virg., Georg, iii, 244. 
 
 -They rush into the flame; 
 
 For love is lord of all, and is in all the same.—D ryden. 
 
 Though the subject I am now going upon 
 would be much more properly the foundation of a 
 comedy, I cannot forbear inserting the circum¬ 
 stances which pleased me in the account a young 
 lady gave me of the loves of a family in town, 
 which shall be nameless ; or rather, for the better 
 sound and elevation of the history, instead of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Sucli-a-one, I shall call them by feigned 
 names. Without farther preface you are to know 
 that within the liberties of the city of Westminster 
 lives the lady Honoria, a widow about the age of 
 forty, of a healthy constitution, gay temper, and 
 elegant person. She dresses a little too much 
 like a girl, affects a childish fondness in the tone 
 of her voice, sometimes a pretty sullenness in the 
 leaning of her head, and now and then a downcast 
 of her eyes on her fan. Neither her imagination 
 nor her health would ever give her to know that 
 she is turned of twenty; but that in the midst of 
 these pretty softnesses and airs of delicacy and 
 attraction, she has a tall daughter within a fort¬ 
 night of fifteen, who impertinently comes into the 
 room, and towers so much toward woman, that 
 her mother is always checked by her presence, 
 and every charm of Honoria droops at the entrance 
 of Flavia. The agreeable Flavia would be what 
 she is not, as well as her mother Honoria; but all 
 their beholders are more partial to an affectation 
 of what a person is growing up to, than of what 
 has been already enjoyed, and is gone forever. It 
 is therefore allowed to Flavia to look forward, but 
 not to Honoria to look back. Flavia is no way 
 dependent on her mother with relation to her for¬ 
 tune, for which reason they live almost upon an 
 equality in conversation ; and as Honoria has 
 given Flavia to understand that it is ill-bred to be 
 always calling mother, Flavia is as well pleased 
 never to be called child. It happens by this 
 means, that these ladies are generally rivals in all 
 places where they appear ; and the words mother 
 and daughter never pass between them but out of 
 spite. Flavia one night at a play observing Hono¬ 
 ria draw the eyes of several in the pit, called to a 
 lady who sat by her, and bid her ask her mother 
 to lend her her snuff-box for one moment. Another 
 time, when a lover of Honoria was on his knees 
 beseeching the favor to kiss her hand, Flavia, 
 rushing into the room, kneeled down by him and 
 asked her blessing. Several of these contradic¬ 
 tory acts of duty have raised between them such 
 a coldness, that they generally converse when they 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 are in mixed company, by way of talking at one 
 another, and not to one another. Honoria is ever 
 complaining of a certain sufficiency in the young 
 women of this age, who assume to themselves an 
 authority of carrying all things before them, as if 
 they were possessors of the esteem of mankind, 
 and all who were but a year before them in the 
 world were neglected or deceased. Flavia, upon 
 such a provocation, is sure to observe, that there 
 are people who can resign nothing, and know not 
 how to give up what they know they cannot hold: 
 that there are those who will not allow youth their 
 follies, not because they are themselves past them, 
 but because they love to continue in them. These 
 beauties rival each other on all occasions, not that 
 they have always had the same lovers, but each 
 has kept up a vanity to show the other the charms 
 of her lover. Dick Crastin and Tom Tulip, 
 among many others, have of late been pretenders 
 in this family—Dick to Honoria, Tom to Flavia. 
 Dick is the only surviving beau of the last age, 
 and Tom almost the only one that keeps up that 
 order of men in this. 
 
 1 wish I could repeat the little circumstances 
 of a conversation of the four lovers with the spirit 
 in which the young lady I had my account from 
 represented it at a visit where I had the honor to 
 be present; but it seems Dick Crastin, the admirer 
 of Honoria, and Tom Tulip, the pretender to Fla¬ 
 via, were purposely admitted together by the 
 ladies, that each might show the other that her 
 lover had the superiority in the accomplishments 
 of that sort of creature whom the sillier part of 
 women call a fine gentleman. As this age has a 
 much more gross taste in courtship, as well as in 
 everything else, than the last had, these gentlemen 
 are instances of it in their different manner of ap¬ 
 plication. Tulip is ever making allusions to the 
 vigor of his person, the sinewy force of his make; 
 while Crastin professes a wary observation of the 
 turns of his mistress’s mind. Tulip gives him¬ 
 self the airs of a resistless ravisher, Crastin prac¬ 
 tices those of a skillful lover. Poetry is the inse¬ 
 parable property of every man in love ; and as 
 men of wit write verses on those occasions, the 
 rest of the world repeat the verses of others. These 
 servants of the ladies were used to imitate their 
 manner of conversation, and allude to one another, 
 rather than interchange discourse in what they 
 said when they met. Tulip the other day seized 
 his mistress’s hand, and repeated out of Ovid’s 
 Art of Love, 
 
 ’T is I can in soft battles pass the night, 
 
 Yet rise next morning vigorous for the fight, 
 
 Fresh as the day, and active as the light. 
 
 Upon hearing this, Crastin, with an air of defe¬ 
 rence, played with Honoria’s fan, and repeated, 
 
 Sedley has that prevailing gentle art, 
 
 That can with a resistless charm impart 
 The loosest wishes to the chastest heart; 
 liaise such a conflict, kindle such a fire, 
 
 Between declining virtue and desire, 
 
 Till the poor vanquish’d maid dissolves away 
 In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day.* 
 
 When Crastin had uttered these verses with a 
 tenderness which at once spoke passion and re¬ 
 spect, Honoria cast a triumphant glance at Flavia, 
 as exulting in the elegance of Crastin’s courtship, 
 and upbraiding her with the homeliness of Tu¬ 
 lip’s. Tulip understood the reproach, and in 
 return began to applaud the wisdom of old amor¬ 
 ous gentlemen, who turned their mistress’s ima¬ 
 gination as far as possible from what they had 
 long themselves forgot, and ended his discourse 
 
 * These verses on Sir Charles Sedley, are from Lord Roches¬ 
 ter's Imitation of Horace, 1 Sat. x. 
 
 139 
 
 with a sly commendation of the doctrine of Pla 
 tonic love ; at the same time he ran over, with a 
 laughing eye, Crastin’s thin legs, meager looks, 
 and spare body. The old gentleman immediately 
 left the room with some disorder, and the conver¬ 
 sation fell upon untimely passion, after-love, and 
 unseasonable youth. Tulip sang, danced, moved 
 before the glass, led his mistress half a minuet, 
 hummed 
 
 Celia, the fair, in the bloom of fifteen! 
 
 when there came a servant with a letter to him, 
 which was as follows:— 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I understand very well what you meant by 
 your mention of Platonic love. I shall be glad to 
 meet you immediately in Hyde-park, or behind 
 Montague-house, or attend you to Barn-elms, or 
 any other fashionable place that’s fit for a gentle¬ 
 man to die in, that you shall appoint for, 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble, servant, 
 
 “Richard Crastin.” 
 
 Tulip’s color changed at the reading of this 
 epistle ; for which reason his mistress snatched it 
 to read the contents. While she was doing so. 
 Tulip went away; and the ladies now agreeing in 
 a common calamity, bewailed together the danger 
 of their lovers. They immediately undressed to 
 go out, and took hackneys to prevent mischief; 
 but after alarming all parts of the town, Crastin 
 was found by his widow in his pumps at Hyde- 
 park, which appointment Tulip never kept, but 
 made his escape into the country. Flavia tears 
 her hair for his inglorious safety, curses and de¬ 
 spises her charmer, and is fallen in love with 
 Crastin ; which is the first part of the history of 
 the rival mother. R. 
 
 No. 92.] FRIDAY, JUNE 15, 1711. 
 
 -Convivae prope dissentire videntur, 
 
 Poscentes vario multum diversa palato; 
 
 Quid dem? Quid non dem?— IIor,., 2 Ep., ii, 61. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 -What would you have me do, 
 
 When out of twenty I can please not two ?— 
 
 One likes the pheasant’s wing, and one the leg; 
 
 The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg; 
 
 Hard task, to hit the palate of such guests.— Pope. 
 
 Looking over the late packets of letters which 
 have been sent to me, I found the following one: 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Your paper is a part of my tea equipage; and 
 my servant knows my humor so well, that calling 
 for my breakfast this morning (it being my usual 
 hour), she answered, the Spectator was not yet 
 come in ; but that the tea-kettle boiled, and she 
 expected it every moment. Having thus in part 
 signified to you the esteem and veneration which 
 I have for you, I must put you in mind of the 
 catalogue of books which you have promised to 
 recommend to our sex; for I have deferred furnish¬ 
 ing my closet with authors, till I receive your 
 advice in this particular, being your daily disciple 
 and humble servant, 
 
 “Leonora.” 
 
 In answer to my fair disciple, whom I am very 
 proud of, I must acquaint her and the rest of my 
 readers, that since I have called out for help in. 
 my catalogue of a lady’s library, I have received 
 many letters upon that head, some of which I shall 
 give an account of. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 140 
 
 In the first class I shall take notice of those 
 which come to me from eminent booksellers, who 
 every one of them mention with respect the authors 
 they have printed, and consequently have an eye 
 to their own advantage more than to that of the 
 ladies. One tells me, that he thinks it absolutely 
 necessary for women to have true notions of right 
 and equity, and that therefore they cannot peruse 
 a better book than Dalton’s Country Justice. 
 Another thinks they cannot be without The Com¬ 
 plete Jockey. A third, observing the curiosity 
 and desira of prying into secrets, which he tells 
 me is natural to the fair sex, is of opinion this 
 female inclination, if well directed, might turn 
 very much to their advantage, and therefore recom¬ 
 mends to me Mr. Mede upon the Revelations. A 
 fourth lays it down as an unquestioned truth, that 
 a lady cannot be thoroughly accomplished, who 
 has not read The Secret Treaties and Negotiations 
 of Marshal d’Estrades. Mr. Jacob Tonson, junior, 
 is of opinion, that Eayle’s Dictionary might be 
 of very great use to the ladies, in order to make 
 them general scholars. Another, whose name I 
 have forgotten, thinks it highly proper that every 
 woman with child should read Mr. Wall’s History 
 of Infant Baptism; as another is very importunate 
 with me to recommend to all my female readers 
 The Finishing Stroke; being a ^Vindication of the 
 Patriarchal Scheme, etc. 
 
 In the second class I shall mention books which 
 are recommended by husbands, if I may believe 
 the writers of them. Whether or no they are real 
 husbands, or personated ones, I cannot tell ; but 
 the books they recommend are as followA Para- 
 lirase on the History of Susannah. Rules to 
 eep Lent. The Christian’s Overthrow prevented. 
 A Dissuasive from the Playhouse. The Virtues 
 of Campliire, with directions to make Camphire 
 Tea. The Pleasure of a Country Life. The Go¬ 
 vernment of the Tongue. A letter dated Cheap- 
 side, desires me that I would advise all young 
 wives to make themselves mistresses of Wingate’s 
 Arithmetic, and concludes with a Postscript, that 
 he hopes I will not forget The Countess of Kent’s 
 Receipts. 
 
 I may reckon the ladies themselves as a third 
 class among these my correspondents, and privy- 
 counselors. In a letter from one of them, I am 
 advised to place Pharamond* at the head of my 
 catalogue, and if I think proper, to give the 
 second place to Cassandra.f Coquetilla begs me 
 not to think of nailing women upon their knees 
 with manuals of devotion, nor of scorching their 
 faces with books of housewifery. Florella desires 
 to know if there are any books written against 
 prudes, and entreats me, if there are, to give them 
 a place in my library. Plays of all sorts have 
 their several advocates: All for Love is mentioned 
 in above fifteen letters; Sophonisba, or HannibaPs 
 Overthrow in a dozen: The Innocent Adultery is 
 likewise highly approved; Mithridates, King of 
 Pontus, has many friends; Alexander the Great 
 and Aurengzebe have the same number of voices; 
 but Theodosius, or the Force of Love, carries it 
 from all the rest. 
 
 I should, in the last place, mention such books 
 as have been proposed by men of learning, and 
 those who appear competent judges of this mat¬ 
 ter, and must here take occasion to thank A. B., 
 whoever it is that conceals himself under these 
 two letters, for his advice upon this subject. But 
 as I find the work I have undertaken to be very 
 difficult, I shall defer the executing of it till I am 
 farther acquainted with the thoughts of my judi- 
 
 * f Two celebrated French romances, written by M. La Cal- 
 pronede. 
 
 cious cotemporaries, and have time to examine the 
 several books they offer to me: being resolved, in 
 an affair of this moment, to proceed'with the 
 greatest caution. 
 
 In the meanwhile, as I have taken the ladies 
 under my particular care, 1 shall make it my busi¬ 
 ness to find out in the best authors, ancient and 
 modern, such passages as may be for their use, 
 and endeavor to accommodate them as well as I 
 can to their taste; not questioning but the valua¬ 
 ble part of the sex will easily pardon me, if from 
 time to time I laugh at those little vanities and 
 follies which appear in the behavior of some of 
 them, and which are more proper for ridicule than 
 a serious censure. Most books being calculated 
 for male readers, and generally written with an 
 eye to men of learning, makes a work of this na¬ 
 ture the more necessary ; beside, I am the more 
 encouraged, because I flatter myself that I see 
 the sex daily improving by these my speculations 
 My fair readers are already deeper scholars than 
 the beaux. I could name some of them who talk 
 much better than several gentlemen that make a 
 figure at Will’s and as I frequently receive letters 
 from the fine ladies and pretty fellows, I cannot 
 but observe that the former are superior to the 
 other, not only in the sense but in the spelling. 
 This cannot but have a good effect upon the female 
 world, and keep them from being charmed by 
 those empty coxcombs that have hitherto been ad¬ 
 mired among the women, though laughed at among 
 the men. 
 
 I am credibly informed that Tom Tattle passes 
 for an impertinent fellow, that Will Trippet begins 
 to be smoked, and that Frank Smoothly himself 
 is within a month of a coxcomb, in case I think 
 fit to continue this paper. For my part, as it is 
 my business in some measure to detect such as 
 would lead astray weak minds by their false pre¬ 
 tenses to wit and judgment, humor and gallantry, 
 I shall not fail to lend the best light I am able to 
 the fair sex for the continuation of these their dis¬ 
 coveries.—L. 
 
 & 
 
 No. 33.] SATURDAY, JUNE 16, 1711. 
 
 -Spatio brevi 
 
 Spem longarn reseces: dum loquimur, fugerit invida 
 
 iEtas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. 
 
 Hor. 1 Od. xi, 6. 
 
 Thy lengthen’d hopes with prudence bound 
 Proportion’d to the flying hour; 
 
 While thus we talk in careless ease, 
 
 The envious moments wing their flight, 
 
 Instant the fleeting pleasure seize, 
 
 Nor trust to-morrow’s doubtful light.— Francis. 
 
 We all of us complain of the shortness of time, 
 saith Seneca, and yet have much more than we 
 know what to do with. Our lives, says he, are 
 spent either in doing nothing at all, or in doing 
 nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that 
 we ought to do. We are always complaining our 
 days are few, and acting as though there would be 
 no end of them. That noble philosopher has de¬ 
 scribed our inconsistency with ourselves in this 
 particular, by all those various turns of expres¬ 
 sion and thought which are peculiar to his 
 writings. 
 
 I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent 
 with itself in a point that bears some affinity to 
 the former. Though we seem grieved at the short¬ 
 ness of life in general, we are wishing every pe 
 riod of it an end. The minor longs to be at age, 
 then to be a man of business, then to make up an 
 estate, then to arrive at honors, then to retire. 
 Thus, although the whole life is allowed by every 
 one to be short, the several divisions of it appear 
 long and tedious. We are lengthening our span 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 141 
 
 in general, but would fain contract tbe parts of 
 which it is composed. ' he usurer would be very 
 well satisfied to have all the time annihilated that 
 lies between the present moment and next quarter- 
 day. The politician would be contented to lose 
 three years in his life, could he place things in 
 the posture which he fancies they will stand in 
 after such a revolution of time. The lover would 
 be glad to strike out of his existence all the mo¬ 
 ments that are to pass away before the happy 
 meeting. I hus, as last as our time runs, we 
 should be very glad in most parts of our lives that 
 it ran much faster than it does. Several hours of 
 the day hang upon our hands, nay we wish away 
 whole years; and travel through time as through 
 a country filled with mauy Avild and empty wastes, 
 which we would fain hurry over, that we may ar¬ 
 rive at those several little settlements or imagina¬ 
 ry points of rest which are dispersed up and down 
 in it. 
 
 If we divide the life of most men into twenty 
 parts, we shall find, that at least nineteen of them 
 are mere gaps and chasms, which are neither 
 filled with pleasure nor business. I do not, how¬ 
 ever, include in this calculation the life of those 
 men who are in a perpetual hurry of affairs, but 
 of those only who are not always engaged in 
 scenes of action ; and I hope I shall not do an un¬ 
 acceptable piece of service to these persons, if I 
 point out to them certain methods for the filling 
 up their empty spaces of life. The methods 1 
 shall propose to them are as follow: 
 
 The first is the exercise of virtue, in the most 
 general acceptation of the word. The particular 
 scheme which comprehends the social virtues, may 
 give employment to the most industrious temper, 
 and find a man in business more than the most ac¬ 
 tive station of life. To advise the ignorant, relieve 
 the needy, comfort the afflicted, are duties that fall 
 in our way almost every day of our lives. A man 
 has frequently opportunities of mitigating the 
 fierceness of a party ; of doing justice to the cha¬ 
 racter of a deserving man ; of softening the envi¬ 
 ous, quieting the angry, and rectifying the preju¬ 
 diced ; 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. 
 
 There is another kind of virtue that may find 
 employment for those retired hours in which we 
 are altogether left to ourselves, and destitute of 
 company and conversation; I mean that inter¬ 
 course and communication which every reasonable 
 creature ought to maintain with the great Author 
 °f his being. The man who lives under an habit¬ 
 ual sense of the divine presence keeps up a per¬ 
 petual cheerfulness of temper, and enjoys every 
 moment the satisfaction of thinking himself in 
 company with his dearest and best of friends. 
 Tin: time never lies heavy upon him ; it is impos¬ 
 sible for him to be alone. His thoughts and pas¬ 
 sions are the most busied at such hours when 
 those of other men are the most inactive. He no 
 so.omi steps out of the world but his heart burns 
 with devotion, swells with hope, and triumphs in 
 the consciousness of that presence which every¬ 
 where sunounds him; or, on the contrary, pours 
 out its fears, its sorrows, its apprehensions, to the 
 great supporter of its existence. 
 
 I haA e here only considered the necessity of a 
 man s being virtuous, that he may have something 
 to do ; but if Ave consider farther, that the exercise 
 of virtue is not only an amusement for the time it 
 lasts, but that its influence extends to those parts 
 of our existence which lie beyond the grave, and 
 that our whole eternity is to take its color from 
 those hours which Ave here employ in virtue or in 
 
 vice, the argument redoubles upon us for putting 
 in practice this method of passing away our time. 
 
 ” ^ 1<in a man has but a little stock to improve, 
 and has opportunities of turning it all to good ac¬ 
 count, what shall we think of him if he suffers 
 nineteen parts of it to lie dead, and perhaps em¬ 
 ploys even the twentieth to his ruin or disadvant¬ 
 age t But because the mind cannot be always in 
 its fervors, nor strained up to a pitch of virtue, 
 it is necessary to find out proper employments for 
 it in its relaxations. 
 
 The next method therefore that I would propose 
 to fill up our time, should be useful and innocent 
 diversions. I must confess I think it is below 
 reasonable creatures to be altogether conversant in 
 such diversions as are merely innocent, and have 
 nothing else to recommend them but that there is 
 no hurt in them. Whether any kind of gaming 
 has eA r en thus much to say for itself I shall not 
 determine ; but I think it is very Avonderful to see 
 persons of the best sense parsing aAvay a dozen 
 hours together in shuffling and dividing a pack of 
 cards, with no other conversation but what is 
 made up of a few game phrases, and no other 
 ideas but those of black or red spots ranged to¬ 
 gether in different figures. Would not a man 
 laugh to hear any one of this species complaining 
 that life is short? ° 
 
 The stage might be made a perpetual source of 
 the most noble and useful entertainments, were it 
 under proper regulations. 
 
 But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably 
 as in the conversation of a well-chosen friend. 
 There is indeed no blessing of life that is any 
 way comparable. to the enjoyment of a discreet 
 and virtuous friend. It eases and unloads the 
 mind, clears and improves the understanding, en¬ 
 genders thoughts and knowledge, animates virtue 
 and good resolutions, soothes and allays the pas¬ 
 sions, and finds employments for most of the va¬ 
 cant hours of life. 
 
 Next to such an intimacy with a particular per¬ 
 son, one would endeavor after a more general con¬ 
 versation Avith such as are able to entertain and 
 improve those with Avhom they converse, which 
 are qualifications that seldom go asunder. 
 
 There are many other useful employments of 
 life, which one Avould endeavor to multiply, that 
 one might on all occasions have recourse to some¬ 
 thing, rather than suffer the mind to lie idle, or 
 run adrift with any passion that chances to rise 
 in it. 
 
 A man that has a taste of music, painting, or ar¬ 
 chitecture, is like one that has another sense, when 
 compared with such as have no relish of those 
 arts. The florist, the planter, the gardener, the 
 husbandman, when they are only as accomplish¬ 
 ments to the man of fortune, are great reliefs to a 
 country life, and many Avays useful to those who 
 are possessed of them. 
 
 But of all the diversions of life, there is none 
 so proper to fill up its empty spaces as the read¬ 
 ing of useful and entertaining authors. But this 
 I shall only touch upon, because it in some mea¬ 
 sure interferes with the third method, which I 
 shall propose in another paper, for the employ¬ 
 ment of our dead inactive hours, and which I 
 shall only mention in general to be the pursuit of 
 knowledge.—L. 
 
142 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 94. MONDAY, JUNE 18, 1711. 
 
 --Hoc est 
 
 Vivere bis, vita posse prime frui. 
 
 Mart. Epig. xxiii, 10. 
 
 The present joys of life we doubly taste, 
 
 By looking back with pleasure to the past. 
 
 The last method which I proposed in my Satur¬ 
 day’s paper, for filling up those empty spaces of 
 life which are so tedious and burdensome to idle 
 people, is the employing ourselves in the pursuit 
 of knowledge. I remember Mr. Boyle, speaking 
 of a certain mineral, tells us, that a man may 
 consume his whole life in the study of it, without 
 arriving at the knowledge of all its qualities. 
 The truth of it is, there is not a single science, or 
 any branch of it, that might not furnish a man 
 with business for life, though it were much longer 
 than it is. 
 
 I shall not here engage on those beaten sub¬ 
 jects of the usefulness of knowledge ; nor of the 
 pleasure and perfection it gives the mind ; nor on 
 the methods of obtaining it; nor recommend any 
 particular branch of it ; all which have been the 
 topics of many other writers ; but shall indulge 
 myself in a speculation that is more uncommon, 
 and may therefore perhaps be more entertaining. 
 
 I have before shown how the unemployed parts 
 of life appear long and tedious, and shall here 
 endeavor to show how those parts of life which 
 are exercised in study, reading, and the pursuits 
 of knowledge, are long, but not tedious, and by 
 that means discover a method of lengthening our 
 lives, and at the same time of turning all the 
 parts of them to our advantage. 
 
 Mr. Locke observes, “ That we get the idea of 
 time or duration, by reflecting on that train of 
 ideas which succeed one another in our minds : 
 that for this reason, -when we sleep soundly with¬ 
 out dreaming, we have no perception of time, or 
 the length of it while we sleep ; and that the mo¬ 
 ment wherein we leave off to think, till the mo¬ 
 ment we begin to think again, seems to have 
 no distance.” To which the author adds, “ and 
 so I doubt not but it would be to a waking man 
 if it were possible for him to keep only one idea 
 in his,mind, without variation, and the succession 
 of others ; and we see, that one who fixes his 
 thoughts very intently on one thing, so as to 
 take but little notice of the succession of ideas 
 that pass in his mind while he is taken up with 
 that earnest contemplation, lets slip out of his ac¬ 
 count a good part of that duration, and thinks 
 that time shorter than it is.” 
 
 We might carry this thought farther : and con- 
 sider a man as, on one side, shortening his time 
 by thinking on nothing, or but a few things ; so 
 on the other, as lengthening it, by employing his 
 thoughts on many subjects, or by entertaining a 
 quick and constant succession of ideas. Accord¬ 
 ingly, Monsieur Malebranche, in his Inquiry af¬ 
 ter Truth (which was published several years be¬ 
 fore Mr. Locke’s Essay on Human Understanding), 
 tells us, “ that it is possible some creatures may 
 think half an hour as long as we do a thousand 
 years ; or look upon that space of duration which 
 we call a minute, as an hour, a week, a month, or 
 a whole age.” 
 
 This notion of Monsieur Malebranche is capa¬ 
 ble of some little explanation from what I have 
 quoted out of Mr. Locke ; for if our notion of 
 time is produced by our reflecting on the suc¬ 
 cession of ideas in our mind, and this succession 
 may be infinitely accelerated or retarded, it will 
 follow, that different beings may have different 
 lotions of the same parts of duration, according 
 
 s their ideas, which we suppose are equally dis¬ 
 
 tinct in each of them, follow one another in a 
 greater or less degree of rapidity. 
 
 There is a famous passage in the Alcoran, 
 which looks as if Mahomet had been possessed 
 of the notion we are now speaking of. It is there 
 said that the Angel Gabriel took Mahomet out of 
 his bed one morning to give him a sight of all 
 things in the seven heavens, in paradise, and in 
 hell, which the prophet took a distinct view of: 
 and after having held ninety thousand conferences 
 with God, Avas brought back again to his bed. 
 All this, says the Alcoran, was transacted in so 
 small a space of time, that Mahomet at his return 
 found his bed still warm, and took up an earthen 
 pitcher, which w r as thrown down at the very in¬ 
 stant that the Angel Gabriel carried him away, 
 before the Avater was all spilled.* 
 
 There is a very pretty story in the Turkish 
 tales, which relates to this passage of that famous 
 impostor, and bears some affinity to the subject 
 Ave are now upon. A sultan of Egypt, Avho was 
 an infidel, used to laugh at this circumstance in 
 Mahomet’s life, as what was altogether impossible 
 and absurd ; but conversing one day Avith a great 
 doctor in the law, who had the gift of Avorking 
 miracles, the doctor told him he would quickly 
 convince him of the truth of this passage in the 
 history of Mahomet, if he would consent to do 
 Avhat he should desire of him. Upon this the sul¬ 
 tan was directed to place himself by a huge tub 
 of water, which he did accordingly; and as he 
 stood by the tub amid a circle of his great men, 
 the holy man bid him plunge his head into the 
 water, and draAv it up again. The king accord¬ 
 ingly thrust his head into the water, and at 
 the same time found himself at the foot of a 
 mountain on the sea-shore. The king immedi¬ 
 ately began to rage against his doctor for this 
 piece of treachery and Avitclicraft; but at length, 
 knowing it was in vain to be angry, he set him¬ 
 self to think on proper methods for getting a live¬ 
 lihood in this strange country. Accordingly he 
 applied himself to some people Avliom he suav at 
 work in a neighboring wood : these people con¬ 
 ducted him to a town that stood at a little distance 
 from the Avood, where, after some adventures, he 
 married a woman of great beauty and fortune. 
 He liA r ed with this woman so long, that he had by 
 her seven sons and seven daughters. He was af¬ 
 terward reduced to great want, and forced to think 
 of plying in the streets as a porter for his liveli¬ 
 hood. One day as he Avas walking alone by the 
 sea-side, being seized Avith many melancholy re¬ 
 flections upon his former and his present state of 
 life, Avhich had raised a fit of devotion in him, he 
 threAv off his clothes with a design to Avash him¬ 
 self, according to the custom of the Mahometans, 
 before he said his prayers. 
 
 After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner 
 raised his head above the water but he found 
 himself standing by the side of the tub, with the 
 great men of his court about him, and the holy 
 man at his side. He immediately upbraided his 
 teacher for having sent him on such a course of 
 adventures, and betrayed him into so long a state 
 of misery and servitude; but was wonderfully 
 surprised when he heard that the state he talked 
 of Avas only a dream and delusion ; that he had 
 not stirred from the place Avhere he then stood; 
 and that he had only dipped his head into the 
 Avater, and immediately taken it out again. 
 
 The Mahometan doctor took this occasion of 
 instructing the sultan, that nothing Avas impossi- 
 
 * The Spectator’s memory hath here deceived him; no such 
 passage is to be found in the Alcoran, though it possibly may 
 in some of the histories of Mahomet’s life. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ble with God ; and that He, with whom a thou¬ 
 sand years arc but as one day, can, if He pleases, 
 make a single day, nay, a single moment, appear 
 to any of his creatures as a thousand years. 
 
 I shall leave my reader to compare these east¬ 
 ern fables with the notions of those two great 
 philosophers whom I have quoted in this paper; 
 and shall only, by way of application, desire him 
 to consider how we may extend life beyond its 
 natural dimension, by applying ourselves dili¬ 
 gently to the pursuits of knowledge. 
 
 i he hours of a wise man are lengthened by his 
 ideas, as those of a fool are by his passions. The 
 time of the one is long, because lie does not 
 know what to do with it; so is that of the other, 
 because he distinguishes every moment of it with 
 useful or amusing thoughts ; or, in other words, 
 because the one is always wishing it away, and 
 the other always enjoying it. 
 
 How different is the view of past life, in the man 
 who is grown old in knowledge and wisdom, 
 from that of him who is grown old in ignorance 
 and folly! The latter is like the owner of a bar¬ 
 ren country, that fills his eve with the prospect 
 of naked hills and plains, which produce nothing 
 either profitable or ornamental; the other beholds 
 a beautiful and spacious landscape divided into 
 delightful gardens, green meadows, fruitful fields, 
 and can scarce cast his eye on a single spot of his 
 possessions, that is not covered with some beau¬ 
 tiful plant or flower. L. 
 
 No. 95.] TUESDAY, JUNE 19, 1711. 
 
 Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent.—S eneca Trao. 
 Light sorrows loose the tongue, hut great enchain.—P. 
 
 Having read the two following letters with much 
 pleasure, I cannot but think the good sense of 
 them will be as agreeable to the town as anything 
 I could say either on the topics they treat of, or 
 any other; they both allude to former papers of 
 mine, and I do not question but the first, which 
 is upon mourning, will be thought the production 
 of a man who is well acquainted with the gener¬ 
 ous yearnings of distress in a manly temper, which 
 is above the relief of tears. A speculation of my 
 own on that subject I shall defer till another oc¬ 
 casion. 
 
 The second letter is from a lady of a mind as 
 great as her understanding. There is, perhaps, 
 something in the beginning of it which I ought 
 in modesty to conceal; but I have so much este'em 
 for this correspondent, that I will not alter a tittle 
 of what she writes, though I am thus scrupulous 
 at the price of being ridiculous. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I was very well pleased with your discourse 
 upon general mourning, and should be obliged to 
 you if you would enter into the matter more 
 deeply, and give us your thoughts upon the com¬ 
 mon sense the ordinary people have of the demon¬ 
 strations of grief, who prescribe rules and fash¬ 
 ions to the most solemn affliction ; such as the 
 loss of the nearest relations and dearest friends. 
 You cannot go to visit a sick friend, but some 
 impeltinent waiter about him observes the muscles 
 of your face as strictly as it they were prognostics 
 of his death or recovery. If he happens to be 
 taken from you, you are immediately surrounded 
 with numbers of these spectators, who expect a 
 melancholy shrug of your shoulders, a patlietical 
 shake of your head, and an expressive distortion 
 of your face, to measure your affection and value 
 for the deceased. But there is nothing, on these 
 occasions, so much in their favor as immoderate 
 weeping. As all their passions are superficial, 
 
 143 
 
 they imagine the seat of love and friendship to be 
 placed visibly in the eyes. They judge what 
 stock of kindness you had for the living, by the 
 quantity of tears you pour out for the dead : so 
 that if one body wants that quantity of saltwater 
 another abounds with, he is in great danger of 
 being thought insensible or ill-natured. They are 
 strangers to friendship whose grief happens not 
 to be moist enough to wet such a parcel of hand¬ 
 kerchiefs. But experience has told us nothing is 
 so fallacious as this outward sign of sorrow; and 
 the natural history of our bodies will teach us 
 that this flux of the eyes, this faculty of weeping 
 is peculiar only to some constitutions. We ob¬ 
 serve in the tender bodies of children, when 
 crossed in their little wills and expectations, how 
 dissolvable they are into tears. If this were what 
 grief is in men, nature would not be able to sup¬ 
 port them in the excess of it for one moment. 
 Add to this observation, how quick is their trans¬ 
 ition from this passion to that of their joy! I 
 will not say we see often, in the next tender things 
 to children, tears shed without much grieving. 
 Thus it is common to shed tears without much 
 sorrow, and as common to suffer much sorrow 
 without shedding tears. Grief and weeping are 
 indeed frequent companions ; but, I believe, never 
 in their highest excesses. As laughter does not 
 proceed from profound joy, so neither does weep¬ 
 ing from profound sorrow. The sorrow which 
 appears so easily at the eyes, cannot have pierced 
 deeply into the heart. The heart, distended with 
 grief, stops all the passages for tears or lamentations. 
 
 “ Now, Sir, what I would incline you to in all 
 this is, that you would inform the shallow critics 
 and observers upon sorrow, that true affliction la¬ 
 bors to be invisible, that it is a stranger to cere- 
 mony, and that it bears in its own nature a digni- 
 ty much above the little circumstances which are 
 affected under the notion of decency. You must 
 know, Sir. I have lately lost a dear friend, for 
 whom I have not yet shed a tear, and for that 
 reason your animadversions on that subject would 
 be the more acceptable to, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble servant, “ B. D.” 
 
 “ Mr - Spectator, J une the 15th. 
 
 “ As I hope there are but few who have so little 
 gratitude as not to acknowledge the usefulness of 
 your pen, and to esteem it a public benefit .; so I 
 am sensible, be that as it will, you must neverthe¬ 
 less find the secret and incomparable pleasure of 
 doing good, and be a great sharer in the enter¬ 
 tainment you give. I acknowledge our sex to be 
 much obliged, and I hope improved, by your la¬ 
 bors, and even your intentions more particularly 
 tor our service. If it be true, as it is sometimes 
 said, that our sex have an influence on the other, 
 your paper may be a yet more general good. Your 
 directing us to reading is certainly the best means 
 to our instruction ; but I think with you, caution 
 in that particular very useful, since the improve¬ 
 ment of our understandings may or may not be of 
 service to us, according as it is managed. It has 
 been thought we are not generally so ignorant as 
 ill-taught, or that our sex does not so often want 
 wit, judgment, or ^knowledge, as the right appli¬ 
 cation of them. You are so well-bred, as to say 
 your fair readers are already deeper scholars than 
 the beaux, and that you could name some of them 
 that talk much better than several gentlemen that 
 make a figure at Will’s. This may possibly be, 
 and no great compliment, in my opinion, even 
 supposing your comparison to reach Tom’s and 
 the Grecian. Surely you are too wise to think 
 that the real commendation of a woman. Were 
 it not rather to be wished we improved in our own 
 
 i 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 144 
 
 sphere, and approved ourselves better daughters, 
 bettef wives, mothers, and friends ? 
 
 “ I cannot but agree with the judicious trader 
 in Cheapside (though I am not at all prejudiced 
 in his favor) in recommending the study of arith¬ 
 metic ; and must dissent even from the authority 
 which you mention, when it advises the making 
 our sex scholars. Indeed a little more philosophy, 
 in order to the subduing our passions to our rea¬ 
 son might be sometimes serviceable, and a treatise 
 of that nature I should approve of even in ex¬ 
 change for Theodosius, or the Force of Love; 
 but as I well know you want not hints, I will 
 proceed no farther than to recommend the Bishop 
 of Cambray’s Education of a Daughter, as it is 
 translated into the only language I have any 
 knowledge of, though perhaps very much to its 
 disadvantage. I have heard it objected against 
 that piece, that its instructions are not of general 
 use, but only fitted for a great lady: but I confess 
 I am not of that opinion ; for I do not remember 
 that there are any rules laid down for the expenses 
 of a woman—in which particular only I think a 
 gentlewoman ought to differ from a lady of the 
 best fortune, or highest quality, and not in their 
 principles of justice, gratitude, prudence, or mod¬ 
 esty. I ought perhaps to make an apology for 
 this long epistle ; bnt as I rather believe you a 
 friend to sincerity than ceremony, shall only as¬ 
 sure you I am, 
 
 * “ Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 T. “ Annabella.” 
 
 No. 96.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20, 1711. 
 
 -Amicum 
 
 Mancipium domino, et frugi.— IIor. 2 Sat. vii, 2. 
 
 -The faithful servant, and the true.— Creech. 
 
 “Mr Spectator, 
 
 “I have frequently read your discourse upon 
 servants, and as I am one myself, have been much 
 offended that in that variety of forms wherein you 
 considered the bad, you found no place to mention 
 the good. There is, however, one observation of 
 yours I approve, which is, ‘That there are men of 
 wit and good sense among all orders of men, and 
 that servants report most of the good or ill which 
 is spoken of their masters.’ That there are men 
 of sense who live in servitude, I have the vanity 
 to say I have felt to my woeful experience. You 
 attribute very justly the source of our general in¬ 
 iquity to board-wages, and the manner of living 
 out of a domestic way; but I cannot give you my 
 thoughts on this subject any way so well as by a 
 short account of my own life, to this the forty- 
 fifth year of my age—that is to say, from my first 
 being a foot-boy at fourteen, to my present station 
 of a nobleman’s porter in the year of my age 
 above-mentioned. 
 
 “Know then, that my father was a poor tenant 
 to the family of Sir Stephen Rackrent. Sir Ste¬ 
 phen put me to school, or rather made me follow 
 his son Harry to school, from my ninth" year; and 
 there, though Sir Stephen paid something for my 
 learning, I was used like a servant, and was forced 
 to get what scraps of learning I could by my own 
 industry, for the schoolmaster took very little 
 notice of me. My young master was a lad of 
 very sprightly parts; and my being constantly 
 about him, and loving him, was no small ad¬ 
 vantage to me. My master loved me extremely, 
 and has often been whipped for not keeping me at 
 a distance. He used always to say, that when he 
 came to his estate I should have a lease of my 
 father’s tenement for nothing. I came up to town 
 with him to Westminster-school; at which time he 
 
 taught me at night all he learnt, and put me to 
 find out words in the dictionary when he was 
 about his exercise. It was the will of Providence 
 that master Harry was taken very ill of a fever, of 
 which he died within ten days after his first fall¬ 
 ing sick. Here was the first sorrow I ever knew; 
 and I assure you, Mr. Spectator, I remember the 
 beautiful action of the sweet youth in his fever, as 
 fresh as if it were yesterday. If he wanted any¬ 
 thing, it must be given him by Tom. When I let 
 anything fall through the grief I was under, he 
 would cry, ‘Do not beat the poor boy; give him 
 some more julep for me, nobody else shall give it 
 me.’ He Avould strive to hide his being so bad, 
 when he saw I could not bear his being in so much 
 danger, and comforted me, saying, ‘Tom, Tom, 
 have a good heart.’ When 1 was holding a cup 
 at his mouth, he fell into convulsions; and at this 
 very time I hear my dear master’s last groan. I 
 was quickly turned out of the room, and left to. 
 sob and beat my head against the wall at my 
 leisure. The grief I was in was inexpressible : 
 and everybody thought it would have cost me my 
 life. In a few days my old lady, who was one of 
 the housewives of the world, thought of turning 
 me out of doors, because I put her in mind of her 
 son. Sir Stephen proposed putting me to pren¬ 
 tice ; but my lady being an excellent manager, 
 would not let her husband throw away his money 
 in acts of charity. I had sense enough to be 
 under the utmost indignation, to see her discard, 
 with so little concern, one her son had loved so 
 much; and went out of the house to ramble where- 
 ever my feet would carry me. 
 
 “The third day after I left Sir Stephen’s family, 
 I was strolling up and down in the walks of the 
 Temple. A young gentleman of the house, who 
 (as I heard him say afterward) seeing me half- 
 starved and well-dressed, thought me an equipage 
 ready to his hand after very little inquiry more than 
 ‘Did I want a master?’ bid me follow him ; I did 
 so, and in a very little while thought myself the 
 happiest creature in the world. My time was 
 taken up in carrying letters to wenches, or mes¬ 
 sages to young ladies of my master’s acquaintance. 
 We rambled from tavern to tavern, to the play¬ 
 house, the Mulberry-garden,* and places of resort; 
 where my master engaged every flight in some 
 new amour, in which and drinking he spent all his 
 time when lie had money. During these extrava¬ 
 gances, I had the pleasure of lying on the stairs 
 of a tavern half a night, playing at dice with 
 other servants, and the like idleness. When my 
 master was moneyless, I was generally employed 
 in transcribing amorous pieces of poetry, old songs, 
 and new lampoons. This life held till my master 
 married, and he had then the prudence to turn 
 me off, because I was in the secret of his intrigues. 
 
 “I was utterly at a loss what course to take 
 next; when at last I applied myself to a fellow- 
 sufferer, one of his mistresses, a woman of the 
 town. She happening at that time to be pretty 
 full of money, clothed .me from head to foot; and 
 knowing me to be a sharp fellow, employed me 
 accordingly. Sometimes I was to go abroad with 
 her, and when she had pitched upon a young 
 fellow she thought for her turn, I was to be drop¬ 
 ped as one she could not trust. She would often 
 cheapen goods at the New Exchange;! and when 
 she had a mind to be attacked she would send me 
 away on an errand. When an humble servant 
 
 * The mulberry-garden was a place of elegant entertain¬ 
 ment near Buckingham-house (now the Queen’s Palace), 
 somewnat like the modern Yauxhall. 
 
 fThe New Exchange was situated between Durham-yard 
 and York-buildings in the Strand. It was the fashionable 
 mart of millinery wares till 1737, when it was taken down, 
 and dwelling-houses erected on the spot. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 and she were beginning a parley, I came im¬ 
 mediately, and told her Sir John was come home: 
 then she w ould order another coach to prevent 
 being dogged. The lover makes signs to me as I 
 get behind the coach; 1 shake my head—it was 
 impossible: 1 leave my lady at the next turning 
 and tollow the cully to know r how to fall in his 
 way on another occasion. Beside good offices of 
 this nature, I wrote all my mistress’s love letters; 
 some from a lady that saw such a gentleman at 
 such a place in such a colored coat—some showing 
 the terrors she was in of a jealous old husband— 
 others explaining that the severity of her parents 
 was such (though her fortune was settled) that she 
 was willing to run away with such a one, though 
 she knew he was but a younger brother. In a 
 word, my half education and love of Idle books 
 made me outwrite all that made love to her by 
 ay of epistle; and as she was extremely cunning, 
 she did well enough in company by a skillful 
 affectation of the greatest modesty. In the 
 midst of all this, I was surprised with a letter 
 from her, and a ten-pound note. 
 
 145 
 
 Ho. 97.] THURSDAY, JUNE, 21,1711. 
 
 Projecere animas 
 
 Virg. Mn., vi, 436. 
 
 They prodigally threw their lives away. 
 
 u ‘Honest Tom, 
 
 “ *Y ou will never see me more. I am married 
 to a very cunning country gentleman, who might 
 possibly guess something if I kept you still; there¬ 
 fore farewell.’ 
 
 W hen this place was lost also in marriage, 
 I was resolved to go among quite another people' 
 for the future, and got in butler to one of those 
 families where there is a coach kept, three or four 
 sei vants, a clean house, and a good general out¬ 
 side upon a small estate. Here I lived very com¬ 
 fortably for some time, until I unfortunately found 
 my master, the very gravest man alive, in the 
 garret with the chambermaid. I knew the world 
 too well to think of staying there; and the next 
 day pretended to have received a letter out of the 
 country that my father was dying, and got my 
 discharge with a bounty for my discretion. 
 
 “ The next I lived with was a peevish single 
 man, whom I stayed with for a year and a half. 
 Most part of the time I passed very easily ; for 
 when I began to know him, I minded no more 
 than he meant, what he said: so that one day in a 
 good humor he said, ‘I was the best man he ever 
 had, by my want of respect to him.’ 
 
 “These, Sir, are the chief occurrences of my life; 
 and I will not dwell upon very many other places 
 I have been in, where I have been the strangest 
 fellow in the world, where nobody in the world 
 had such servants as they, where sure they were 
 the unluckiest people in the world for servants, 
 and so forth. All I mean by this representation 
 is, to show you that we poor servants are 'not 
 (what you called us too generally) all rogues ; but 
 that we are what we are, according to the example 
 of our superiors. In the family I am now in, I 
 am guilty of no one sin but lying; which I do 
 with a grave face in my gown and staff every day 
 1 li\ e, and almost all day long, in denying my 
 lord to impertinent suitors, and my lady to un¬ 
 welcome visitants. But, Sir, I am to let you know 
 that 1 am, when I can get abroad, a leader of the 
 sei\ ants. I am he that keeps time with beating my 
 cudgel against the boards in the gallery at an 
 opeia . I am he that am touched so properly at a 
 tragedy, when the people of quality are staring at 
 one another during the most important incidents 
 When you hear in a crowd a cry in the right place’ 
 a hum where the point is touched in a speedh or 
 a huzza set up where it is the voice of the people: 
 you may conclude it is begun or joined by, Sir 
 “ Your more than humble servant, ' 
 
 “ Thomas Trusty.” 
 
 10 
 
 Among the loose papers which I have frequently 
 spoken of heretofore, I find a conversation between 
 1 haramond and Eucrate upon the subject of duels, 
 and the copy of an edict issued in consequence 
 of that discourse. 
 
 Eucrate argued, that nothing but the most 
 severe and vindictive punishment, such as placing 
 the bodies of the offenders in chains, and put¬ 
 ting them to death by the most exquisite tor¬ 
 ments, would be sufficient to extirpate a crime 
 which had so long prevailed, and was so firmly 
 fixed in the opinion of the world as great and 
 laudable. The king answered, “that indeed in¬ 
 stances of ignominy were necessary in the cure of 
 this evil; but, considering that it prevailed only 
 among such as had a nicety in their sense of 
 honor, and that it often happened that a duel was 
 fought to save appearances to the world, when 
 both parties were in their hearts in amity and re¬ 
 conciliation to each other, it was evident that 
 turning the mode another way would effectually 
 put a stop to what had been only as a mode; that 
 to such persons poverty and shame were torments 
 sufficient; that lie would not go farther in punish¬ 
 ing in others, crimes which he was satisfied he 
 himself was most guilty of, in that he might have 
 prevented them by speaking his displeasure soon¬ 
 er.” Beside which the king said, “he was in 
 general averse to tortures, which was putting 
 human nature itself, rather than the criminal, to 
 disgi ace; and that he would be sure not to use 
 this means where the crime was but an ill effect 
 arising from a laudable cause, the fear of shame.” 
 The king, at the same time, spoke with much 
 giace upon the subject of mercy; and repented 
 of many acts of that kind which had a magnifi¬ 
 cent aspect in the doing, but dreadful consequences 
 m the example. “Mercy to particulars,” he ob¬ 
 served, “was cruelty in the general. That though 
 a prince could not revive a dead man by taking 
 the life of him who killed him, neither could he 
 make reparation to the next that should die by 
 the evil example ; or answer to himself for the 
 partiality in not pardoning the next as well as the 
 former offender.—As for me,” says Pharamond, 
 
 “ I have conquered France, and yet have given 
 laws to my people. The laws are my methods of 
 life; they are not a diminution but a direction to 
 my power. I am still absolute to distinguish the 
 innocent and the virtuous, to give honors to the 
 brave and generous ; I am absolute in my good 
 will; none can oppose my bounty, or prescribe 
 rules for my favor. While I can, as I please, re¬ 
 ward the good, I am under no pain that I cannot 
 pardon the wicked ; for which reason,” continued 
 Pharamond, “I will effectually put a stop to this 
 evil, by exposing no more the tenderness of my 
 nature to the importunity of having the same re¬ 
 spect to those who are miserable by their fault, 
 and those who are so by their misfortune. Flat¬ 
 terers (concluded the king, smiling) repeat to us 
 princes, that we are heaven’s vicegerents : let us 
 be so, and let the only thing out of our power be 
 to do ill.” 
 
 Soon after the evening wherein Pharamond and 
 Eucrate had this conversation, the following edict 
 was published against duels 
 
 pharamond’s edict against duels. 
 
 Pharamond , King of the Gauls, to all his loving, 
 subjects sendeth greeting: 
 
 “Whereas it has come to our royal notice and 
 observation, that, in contempt of all laws divine 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 146 
 
 and human, it is of late oecome a custom among 
 the nobility and gentry of this our kingdom, upon 
 slight and trivial as well as great and urgent pro¬ 
 vocations, to invite each other into the field—there, 
 by their own hands, and of their own authority, 
 to decide their controversies by combat; we have 
 thought fit to take the said custom into our royal 
 consideration, and find, upon inquiry into the 
 usual causes whereon such fatal decisions have 
 arisen, that by this wicked custom, maugre all the 
 precepts of our holy religion and the rules of 
 right reason, the greatest act of the human mind, 
 forgiveness of injuries, is become vile and shame¬ 
 ful ; that the rules of good society and virtuous 
 conversation are hereby inverted; that the loose, 
 the vain, and the impudent, insult the careful, the 
 discreet, and the modest; that all virtue is sup- 
 ressed, and all vice supported, in the one act of 
 eing capable to dare to the death. We have also 
 farther, with great sorrow of mind, observed that 
 this dreadful action, by long impunity (our royal 
 attention being employed upon matters of more 
 general concern), is become honorable, and the 
 refusal to engage in it ignominious. In these our 
 royal cares and inquiries we are yet farther made 
 to understand, that the persons of most eminent 
 worth, and most hopeful abilities, accompanied 
 with the strongest passion for true glory, are 
 such as are most liable to be involved in the dan¬ 
 gers arising from this license.—Now, taking the 
 said premises into our serious consideration, and 
 well weighing that all such emergencies (where¬ 
 in the mind is incapable of commanding itself, 
 and where the injury is too sudden or too exquisite 
 to be borne) are particularly provided for by laws 
 heretofore enacted; and that the qualities of less 
 injuries, like those of ingratitude, are too nice 
 and delicate to come under general rules; we do 
 resolve to blot this fashion or wantonness of anger, 
 out of the minds of our subjects, by our royal 
 resolutions declared in this edict as follow: 
 
 “No person who either sends or accepts a chal¬ 
 lenge, or the posterity of either, though no death 
 ensues thereupon, shall be, after the publication of 
 this our edict, capable of bearing office in these 
 our dominions. 
 
 “The person who shall prove the sending or 
 receiving a challenge, shall receive to his own 
 use and property the whole personal estate of both 
 arties ; and their real estate shall be, imme- 
 iately vested in the next heir of the offenders, 
 in as ample manner as if the said offenders were 
 actually deceased. 
 
 “In cases where the laws (which we have al¬ 
 ready granted to our subjects) admit of an appeal 
 for blood; when the criminal is condemned by 
 the said appeal, he shall not only suffer death, 
 but his whole estate, real, mixed, and personal, 
 shall from the hour of his death be vested in the 
 next heir of the person whose blood he spilt. 
 
 “ That it shall not hereafter be in our royal 
 power, or that of our successors, to pardon the 
 said offenses or restore the offenders in their 
 estates, honor, or blood, forever. 
 
 “ Given at our court of Blois, the 8tli of Feb¬ 
 ruary, 420, in the second year of our reign.”—T. 
 
 No. 98.] FRIDAY, JUNE 22, 1711. 
 
 -Tanta est quaerendi cura clecoris. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 500. 
 
 So studiously their persons they adorn. 
 
 There is not so variable a thing in nature as a 
 lady’s head-dress. Within my own memory, I 
 have known it rise and fall above thirty degrees. 
 About ten years ago it shot up to a very great 
 
 height, insomuch that the female part of our 
 species, were much taller than the men.* The wo¬ 
 men were of such an enormous stature that “ we ap¬ 
 peared as grasshoppers before them.” At present 
 the whole sex is in a manner dwarfed, and 
 shrunk into a race of beauties that seem almost 
 another species. I remember several ladies, who 
 were once very near seven foot high, that at pre¬ 
 sent want some inches of five. How they came 
 to be thus curtailed I cannot learn ; whether the 
 whole sex be at present under any penance which 
 we know nothing of; or whether they have cast 
 their head-dresses in order to surprise us with 
 something in thatkind which shall be entirely new; 
 or whether some of the tallest of the sex, being 
 too cunning for the rest, have contrived this me¬ 
 thod to make themselves appear sizeable—is still 
 a secret; though I find most are of opinion, they 
 are at present like trees new lopped and pruned, 
 that will certainly sprout up and flourish with 
 greater heads than before. For my own part, as 
 I do not love to be insulted by women who are 
 taller than myself, I admire the sex much more 
 in their present humiliation, which has reduced 
 them to their natural dimensions, than when they 
 had extended their persons and lengthened them¬ 
 selves out into formidable and gigantic figures. 
 
 I am not for adding to the beautiful edifices of 
 nature, nor for raising any whimsical superstruc¬ 
 ture upon her plans: I must, therefore, repeat it, 
 tliat I am highly pleased with the coiffure now in 
 fashion, and think it shows the good sense which 
 at present very much reigns among the valuable 
 part of the sex. One may observe that women in 
 all ages have taken more pains than men to adorn 
 the outside of their heads ; and indeed 1 very 
 much admire, that those female architects, who 
 raise such wonderful structures out of ribbons, lace, 
 and wire, have not been recorded for their respec¬ 
 tive inventions. It is certain there have^ been as 
 many orders in these kinds of building, as in 
 those which have been made of marble. Some¬ 
 times they rise in the shape of a pyramid, some¬ 
 times like a tower, and sometimes like a steeple. 
 In Juvenal’s time the building grew by several 
 orders and stories, as he has very humorously 
 described it: 
 
 Tot premit ordinibus, tot adhuc compagibus altum 
 
 iEdificat caput; Andromaohen a fronte videbis; 
 
 Post minor est; aliam credas.- Juv., Sat. vi, 501. 
 
 With curls on curls they build her head before, 
 
 And mount it with a formidable tow’r; 
 
 A giantess she seems: but look behind, 
 
 And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind.— Dryden. 
 
 But I do not remember in any part of my reading, 
 that the head-dress aspired to so great an extra¬ 
 vagance as in the fourteenth century ; when, it 
 was built up in a couple of cones or spires, Avhich 
 stood so exceedingly high on each side of the 
 head, that a woman, who was but a pigmy with¬ 
 out her head-dress, appeared like a colossus upon 
 putting it on. Monsieur Paradin says, “ that 
 these old-fashioned fontanges rose an ell above 
 the head; that they were pointed like steeples, 
 and had long loose pieces of crape fastened to the 
 tops of them, which were curiously fringed, and 
 hung down their backs like streamers.” 
 
 The women might possibly have carried this 
 Gothic building much higher, had not a famous 
 monk, Thomas Conecte by name, attacked it 
 
 *This refers to the commode (called by the French “fon- 
 tange ”), a kind of head-dress worn by the ladies at the be¬ 
 ginning of the last century, which by means of wire Itore up 
 their hair and fore-part of the cap, consisting of many folds 
 of fine lace, to a prodigious height. The transition from this 
 to the opposite extreme was very abrupt and sudden. 
 
 f Numb, xiii, 33. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 with groat zeal and resolution. This holy man 
 traveled from place to place to preach down this 
 monstrous commode; and succeeded so well in it, 
 that, as the magicians sacrificed their books to 
 the flames upon the preaching of an apostle, many 
 of the women threw down their head-dresses in 
 the middle of the sermon, and made a bonfire of 
 them within sight of the pulpit. He was so re¬ 
 nowned, as well for the sanctity of his life as his 
 manner of preaching, that he had often a congrega¬ 
 tion of twenty thousand people ; the men pfacing 
 themselves on the one side of hi* pulpit, and the 
 women on the other, appeared (to use the simili¬ 
 tude of an ingenious writer) like a forest of cedars 
 with their heads reaching to the clouds. He so 
 warmed and animated the people against this 
 monstrous ornament, that it lay under a kind of 
 persecution; and whenever it appeared in public, 
 was pelted down by the rabble, who flung stones 
 at the persons that wore it. But notwithstanding 
 this prodigy vanished while the preacher was 
 among them, it began to appear again some 
 months after his departure, or, to tell it in Mon¬ 
 sieur Paradin’s own words, “the women, that, 
 like snails in a fright, had drawn in their horns, 
 shot them out again as soon as the danger was 
 over.” This extravagance of the women’s head¬ 
 dresses in that age, is taken notice of by Mon¬ 
 sieur d’Argentre in his history of Bretagne, and 
 by other historians, as well as the person I have 
 here quoted. 
 
 It is usually observed, that a good reign is the 
 only proper time for making laws against the 
 exorbitance of power ; in the same manner an 
 excessive head-dress may be attacked the most 
 effectually when the fashion is against it. I do 
 therefore recommend this paper to my female 
 readers by way of prevention. 
 
 I would desire the fair sex to consider how im- 
 ossible it is for them to add anything that can 
 e ornamental to what is already the master-piece 
 of nature. The head has the most beautiful ap¬ 
 pearance, as well as the highest station, in a 
 human figure. Nature has laid out all her art 
 in beautifying the face ; she has touched it with 
 vermilion, planted in it a double row of ivory, 
 made it the seat of smiles and blushes, lighted it 
 up and enlivened it with the brightness of the 
 eyes, hung it on each side with curious organs 
 of sense, given it airs and graces that cannot be 
 described, and surrounded it with such a flowing 
 shade of hair as sets all its beauties in the most 
 agreeable light. In short, she seems to have de¬ 
 signed the head as the cupola to the most glorious 
 of her works: and when we load it with such 
 a pile of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy 
 the symmetry of the human figure, and foolishly 
 contrive to call off the eye from great and real 
 beauties, to childish gew-gaws, ribbons, and bone- 
 lace.—L 
 
 No. 99.] SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1711. 
 
 —-Turpi secernis honestum.—Iloa. 1 Sat. vi, 63. 
 
 i ou know to fix the bounds of right and wrong. 
 
 The club, of which I have often declared my¬ 
 self a member, were last night engaged in a dis¬ 
 course upon that which passes for the chief point 
 of honor among men and women ; and started a 
 great many hints upon the subject, which I thought 
 were entirely new. I shall therefore method¬ 
 ize the several reflections that arose upon this 
 occasion, and present ray reader with them for 
 the speculation of this day; after having pre¬ 
 mised, that if there is anything in this°paper 
 which seems to differ with any passage of last 
 
 147 
 
 Thursday’s, the reader will consider them as the 
 sentiments of the club, and the other as my own 
 private thoughts, or rather those of Pharamond. 
 
 The great point of honor in men is courage, 
 .and in women chastity. If a man loses his honor 
 in one encounter, it is not impossible for him 
 to regain it in another: a slip in a woman’s 
 honor is irreparable. I can give no reason for 
 fixing the point of honor to these two qualities, 
 unless it be that each sex sets the greatest value 
 on the qualification which renders them the most 
 amiable in the eyes of the contrary sex. I should 
 believe the choice would have fallen on wisdom 
 or virtue ; or had women determined their own 
 point of honor, it is probable that wit or good-na¬ 
 ture would have carried it against chastity. 
 
 Nothing recommends a man more to the female 
 sex than courage; whether it be that they are 
 pleased to see one who is a terror to others fall 
 like a slave at their feet; or that this quality sup¬ 
 plies their own principal defect, in guarding them 
 from insults, and avenging their quarrels ; or that 
 courage is a natural indication of a strong and 
 sprightly constitution. On the other side, nothing 
 makes women more esteemed by the opposite sex 
 than chastity; whether it be that we always prize 
 those most who are hardest to come at ; or that 
 nothing beside chastity, with its collateral atten¬ 
 dants, truth, fidelity, and constancy, gives the 
 man a property in the person he loves, and con¬ 
 sequently endears her to him above all things. 
 
 I am very much pleased with a passage in the 
 inscription on a monument erected in West¬ 
 minster abbey to the late Duke and Duchess of 
 Newcastle. “Her name was Margaret Lucas, 
 youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester ; 
 a noble family, for all the brothers were valiant* 
 and all the sisters virtuous.” 
 
 In books of chivalry, where the point of honor 
 is strained to madness, the whole story runs on 
 chastity and courage. The damsel is mounted 
 on a white palfrey, as an emblem of her innocence ; 
 and, to avoid scandal, must have a dwarf for her 
 page. She is not to think of a man, until some 
 misfortune has brought a knight-errant to her 
 relief. The knight falls in love, and, did not 
 gratitude restrain her from murdering her deli¬ 
 verer, would die at her feet by her disdain. How¬ 
 ever, he must waste many years in the desert, 
 before her virgin heart can think of a surrender! 
 The knight goes off, attacks everything he meets 
 that is bigger and stronger than himself, seeks all 
 opportunities of being knocked on the head, and 
 after seven years’ rambling returns to his mistress 
 whose chastity has been attacked in the meantime 
 by giants and tyrants, and undergone as many 
 trials as her lover’s valor. 
 
 In Spain, where there are still great remains of 
 this romantic humor, it is a transporting favor for 
 a lady to cast an accidental glance on her lover 
 from a window, though it be two or three stories 
 high ; as it is usual for a lover to assert his pas¬ 
 sion for his mistress, in a single combat with a, 
 mad bull. 
 
 The great violation in point of honor from man 
 o man, is giving the lie. One map tell another 
 he whores, drinks, blasphemes, and' it may pass 
 unresented ; but to say he lies, though but in 
 jest, is an affront that nothing but blood can ex¬ 
 piate. The reason perhaps maybe, because no 
 other vice implies a want of courage so much as 
 the making a. lie ; and therefore telling a man he 
 lies, is touching him in the most sensible part of 
 honor, and indirectly calling him a coward. I 
 cannot admit under this head what Herodotus 
 tells us of the ancient Persians—that from the 
 age of five years to twenty they instruct their 
 
148 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 sons only in three things, to manage the horse, to 
 make use of the bow, and to speak truth. 
 
 The placing the point of honor in this false kind 
 of courage, has given occasion to the very refuse 
 of mankind, who have neither virtue nor common 
 sense, to set up for men of honor. An English peer 
 who has not long been dead,* used to tell a plea¬ 
 sant story of a French gentleman that visited him 
 early one morning at Paris, and after great profes¬ 
 sions of respect, let him know that he had it in lus 
 power to oblige him; which, in short, amounted 
 to this—that he believed he could tell his lordship 
 the person’s name who jostled him as he came out 
 from the opera: but before he would proceed, lie 
 begged his lordship that he would not deny him 
 the honor of making him his second. Hie En¬ 
 glish lord, to avoid being drawn into a very fool¬ 
 ish affair, told him he was under engagements for 
 his two next duels to a couple of particular friends, 
 upon which the gentleman immediately withdrew, 
 hoping his lordship would not take it ill if he 
 meddled no farther in an affair from whence he 
 himself was to receive no advantage. 
 
 The beating down this false notion of honor in 
 so vain and lively a people as those of Fiance, is 
 deservedly looked upon as one of the most glorious 
 parts of their present king’s reign. It is a pity 
 but the punishment of these mischievous notions 
 should have in it some particular circumstances of 
 shame and infamy : that those who are slaves to 
 them may see, that instead of advancing their re- 
 utations, they lead them to ignominy and dis- 
 
 onor. , . , 
 
 Death is not sufficient to deter men who make 
 it their glory to despise it; but if every one that 
 fought a duel were to stand in the pillory, it would 
 quickly lessen the number of these imaginary men 
 of honor, and put an end to so absurd a practice. 
 
 When honor is a support to virtuous principles, 
 and runs parallel with the laws of God and our 
 country, it cannot be too much cherished and en¬ 
 couraged : but when the dictates of honor are con¬ 
 trary to those of religion and equity, they are the 
 greatest depravations of human nature, by giving 
 wrong ambitions and false ideas of what is good 
 and laudable ; and should therefore be exploded 
 by all governments, and driven out as the bane 
 and plague of human society. L. 
 
 No. 100.] MONDAY, JUNE 25, 1711. 
 
 Nil esco contulerim jucundo sanus amico. 
 
 ° Hor. 1 Sat. v, 44. 
 
 The greatest blessing is a pleasant friend. 
 
 A man advanced in years that thinks fit to look 
 back upon his former life, and call that only life 
 which was passed with satisfaction and enjoy¬ 
 ment, excluding all parts which were not pleasant 
 to him, will find himself very young, if not in 
 his infancy. Sickness, ill-humor and idleness 
 will have robbed him of a great share of that 
 space Ave ordinarily call our life. It is therefore the 
 duty of every man that would be true to himself, 
 to obtain, if possible, a disposition to be pleased, 
 and place himself in a constant aptitude for the sat¬ 
 isfactions of his being. _ Instead of this, you 
 hardly see a man who is not uneasy in pro¬ 
 portion to his advancement in the arts of life. 
 An affected delicacy is the common improvement 
 we meet with in those who pretend to be refineo 
 above others. They do not aim at true pleasures 
 themselves, but turn their thoughts upon observ- 
 
 * The editor has been told this was William Cavendish, the 
 first duke of Devonshire, who died August 18, 1707. 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 ing the false pleasures of other men. Such people 
 are valetudinarians in society, and they should no 
 more come into company than a sick man should 
 come into the air. If a man is too Aveak to bear 
 what is refreshment to men in health, he must still 
 keep his chamber. When any one in Sir Roger s 
 company complains he is out of order, he imme¬ 
 diately calls for some posset-drink for him; for 
 which reason that sort of people who are ever be- 
 Availing their constitution in other places, are the 
 cheerfulest imaginable when he is present. 
 
 It is a wonderful thing that so many, and they 
 not reckoned absurd, shall entertain those with 
 whom they converse, by giving them a history of 
 their pains and aches, and imagine such narra¬ 
 tions their quota of the conversation. This is of 
 all other the meanest help to discourse, and a man 
 must not think at all, or think himself very in¬ 
 significant, when he finds an account of his head¬ 
 ache answered by another’s asking Avhat news by 
 the last mail. Mutual good humor is a dress we 
 ought to appear in whenever we meet, and we 
 should make no mention of what concerns our¬ 
 selves, without it be of matters wheiein oui 
 friends ought to rejoice; but indeed there are 
 crowds of people who put themselves in no meth¬ 
 od of pleasing themselves or others; such are 
 those whom we usually call indolent persons.— 
 Indolenoe is, methinks, an intermediate state be¬ 
 tween pleasure and pain, and very much unbecom¬ 
 ing any part of our life after we are out of the 
 nurse’s arms. Such an aversion to labor creates a 
 constant Aveariness, and one would think should 
 make existence itself a burden. The indolent 
 man descends from the dignity of his nature, 
 and makes that being which was rational merely 
 vegetative. His life consists only in the meie in¬ 
 crease and decay of a body, which, with relation 
 to the rest of the world, might as well have been 
 uninformed, as the habitation of a reasonable 
 
 mind. , .. 
 
 Of this kind is the life of that extraordinary 
 
 couple, Harry Tersett and his lady. Harry was, 
 in the days of his celibacy, one of those pert crea¬ 
 tures who have much vivacity and little under¬ 
 standing ; Mrs. Rebecca Quickly, whom he mar¬ 
 ried, had all that the fire of youth and a lively 
 manner could do toward making an agieeable 
 woman. These two people of seeming meiit fell 
 into each other’s arms ; and passion being sated, 
 and no reason or good sense in either to succeed 
 it, their life is now at a stand ; their meals are 
 insipid and their time tedious ; their fortune has 
 placed them above care, and their loss of taste 
 reduced them below diversion. When Ave talk of 
 these as instances of inexistence, we do not mean 
 that in order to live, it is necessary we should be 
 ahvays in jovial crews, or crowned with chaplets 
 of roses, as the merry fellows among the ancients 
 are described ; but it is intended, by considering 
 these contraries of pleasure, indolence and too 
 much delicacy, to show that it is piudence to pie- 
 serve a disposition in ourselves to receive a certain 
 delight in all Ave hear and see. 
 
 This portable quality of good humor seasons 
 all the parts and occurrences Ave meet with in such 
 a manner, that there are no moments lost: but 
 they all pass with so much satisfaction, that the 
 heaviest of loads (AA T hen it is a load), that of time, 
 is never felt by us. Yarilas has this quality to the 
 highest perfection, and communicates it wherever 
 he appears. The sad, the merry, the seveie, the 
 melancholy, shoAV a neAV cheerfulness when he 
 comes among them. At the same time no one can 
 repeat anything that Varilas has ever said that de¬ 
 serves repetition ; but the man has that innate 
 goodness of temper, that he is welcome to every- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 body?because every man thinks he is so to him. 
 He does not seem to contribute anything to the 
 mirth of the company; and yet upon reflection you 
 find it all happened by his being there. I thought 
 it was whimsically said of a gentleman, that if 
 Varilas had wit, it would be the best wit in the 
 world. It is certain, when a well-corrected, lively 
 imagination and good breeding are added to a 
 sweet disposition, they qualify it to be one of the 
 greatest blessings as well as pleasures of life. 
 
 Men would come into company with ten times 
 the pleasure they do, if they were sure of hearing 
 nothing that would shock them, as well as expect¬ 
 ed what would please them. When we know 
 every person that is spoken of is represented by 
 one who has no ill-will, and everything that is 
 mentioned described by one that is apt to set it in 
 the best light, the entertainment must be delicate, 
 because the cook has nothing brought to his hand 
 but what is the most excellent in its kind; Beauti¬ 
 ful pictures are the entertainments of pure minds, 
 and deformities of the corrupted. It is a degree 
 toward the life of angels, when we enjoy conver¬ 
 sation wherein there is nothing presented but in 
 its excellence; and a degree toward that of de¬ 
 mons, wherein nothing is shown but in its de¬ 
 generacy. X. 
 
 Ho. 101.] TUESDAY, JUNE 26, 1711, 
 
 Romulus, et Liber pater, et cum Castore Pollux, 
 
 Post ingentia facta, deorum in templa recepti; 
 
 Dum terras hominumque colunt genus, aspera bella 
 Componunt, agros assignant, oppida condunt; 
 Ploravere suis non respondere favorem 
 Speratum meritis:- Hoe. 2 Ep. i, 5. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Edward and Henry, now tho boast of fame, 
 
 And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name, 
 
 After a life of generous toils endur’d, 
 
 The Gaul subdu’d, or property secur’d, 
 
 Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm’d, 
 
 Or laws establish’d, and the world reform’d: 
 
 Clos’d their long glories with a sigh to find 
 Th’ unwilling gratitude of base mankind.— Pope. 
 
 “Censure,” says a late ingenious author, “is 
 the tax a man pays to the public for being emi¬ 
 nent.” It is a folly for an eminent man to think 
 of escaping it, and a weakness to be affected with 
 it. All the illustrious persons of antiquity, and 
 indeed of every age in the world, have passed 
 through this fiery persecution. There is no cfefense 
 against reproach but obscurity; it is a kind of 
 concomitant to greatness, as satires and invectives 
 were an essential part of a Roman triumph. 
 
 If men of eminence are exposed to censure on 
 one hand, they are as much liable to flattery on 
 the other. If they receive reproaches which are 
 not due to them, they likewise receive praises 
 which they do not deserve. In a word, the man 
 in a high post is never regarded with an indiffer- 
 ent eye, but always considered as a friend or an 
 enemy. For this reason persons in great stations 
 have seldom their true characters drawn till several 
 years after their deaths. Their personal friend¬ 
 ships and enmities must cease, and the parties 
 thev were engaged in be at an end, before their 
 faults or their virtues can have justice done them. 
 When writers have the least opportunities of 
 know ing the truth, they are in the best disposition 
 to tell it. r 
 
 . It is therefore the privilege of posterity to ad¬ 
 just the characters of illustrious persons, and to 
 set matters right between those antagonists, who 
 by their rivalry for greatness divided°a whole ave 
 into factions. We can now allow Caesar to be & a 
 great man without derogating from Pompey ; and 
 celebrate the virtues of Cato, without detracting 
 from those of Caesar. Every one that has been 
 
 149 
 
 long dead has a due proportion of praise allotted 
 him, in which, while he lived, his friends were too 
 profuse, and his enemies too sparing. 
 
 According to Sir Isaac Newton’s calculations, 
 the last comet that made its appearance in 1680, 
 imbibed so much heat by its approaches to the 
 sun, that it would have been two thousand times 
 hottei than red hot iron, had it been a globe of that 
 metal; and that supposing it as big as the earth, and 
 at the same distance from the sun, it would be 
 fifty thousand years in cooling, before it recovered 
 its natural temper. In the like manner, if an En¬ 
 glishman considers the great ferment into which 
 our political world is thrown at present, and how 
 intensely it is heated in all its parts, he cannot 
 suppose that it will cool again in less than three 
 hundred years. In such a tract of time it is pos¬ 
 sible that the heats oi the present age may be ex¬ 
 tinguished, and our several classes of great men 
 represented under their proper characters. Some 
 emineut historian may then probably arise that 
 will not write rccentibus odiis (as Tacitus expres¬ 
 ses it)—with the passions and prejudices of a co- 
 temporary author—but make an impartial distri¬ 
 bution of fame among the great men of the pre¬ 
 sent age. 
 
 I cannot forbear entertaining myself very often 
 with the idea of such an imaginary historian de¬ 
 scribing the reign of Anne the first, and introdu¬ 
 cing it with a preface to his reader that he is now 
 entering upon the most shining part of the En¬ 
 glish story. The great rivals in fame will be then 
 distinguished according to their respective merits, 
 and shine in their proper points of light. Such a 
 one (says the historian), though variously repre¬ 
 sented by the writers of his own age, appears to 
 have been a man of more than ordinary abilities, 
 great application and uncommon integrity : nor 
 was such a one (though of an opposite "party and 
 interest) inferior to him in any of these respects. 
 The several antagonists who now endeavor to de¬ 
 preciate one another, and are celebrated or traduced 
 by different parties, will then have the same body 
 of admirers, and appear illustrious in the opinion 
 of the whole British nation. The deserving man, 
 who can now recommend himself to the esteem of 
 but half his countrymen, will then receive the ap- ^ 
 probations and applauses of a whole age. 
 
 Among the several persons that flourish in this 
 glorious reign, there is no question but such a fu¬ 
 ture historian, as the person of whom I am speak¬ 
 ing, will make mention of the men of genius and 
 learning, who have now any figure in the British 
 nation. For my own part, I often flatter myself 
 with the honorable mention which will then be 
 made of me ; and have drawn up a paragraph in 
 my own imagination, that I fancy will not be al¬ 
 together unlike what will be found in some page 
 or other of this imaginary historian. 
 
 It was under this reign* says he, that the Spec¬ 
 tator published those little diurnal essays which are 
 still extant. We know very little of the name or 
 person of this author, except only that he was 
 a man of a very short face, extremely addicted 
 to silence and so great a lover of knowledge, that 
 he made a voyage to grand Cairo for no other rea¬ 
 son but to take the measure of a pyramid. His 
 chief friend was one Sir Roger de Coverley, a 
 whimsical country knight—and a Templar, whose 
 name he has not transmitted to us. He lived as a 
 lodger at the house of a widow-woman, and was a 
 great humorist in all parts of his life. This is all 
 we can affirm with any certainty of his person 
 and character. As for his speculations, notwith¬ 
 standing thd several obsolete words and obscure 
 phrases of the age in which he lived, we still un¬ 
 derstand enough of them to see the diversions and 
 
150 THE SPE 
 
 characters of the English nation in his time: not 
 but that we are to make allowance for the mirth 
 and humor of the author, who has doubtless 
 strained many representations of things beyond 
 the truth. For if we interpret his words in their 
 literal meaning, we must suppose that women of the 
 first quality used to pass away whole mornings at 
 a puppet-show: that they attested their principles 
 by their patches : that an audience would sit out 
 an evening, to hear a dramatical performance writ¬ 
 ten in a language which they did not understand: 
 that chairs and flower-pots were introduced as 
 actors upon the British stage : that a promiscuous 
 assembly of men and women were allowed to 
 meet at midnight in masks within the verge of the 
 court; with many improbabilities of the like na¬ 
 ture. We must, therefore, in these and the like 
 cases, suppose that these remote hints and allu¬ 
 sions aimed at some certain follies which were 
 then in vogue, and which at present we have not 
 any notion of. We may guess by several passages 
 in the speculations,'that there were writers who 
 endeavored to detract from, the works of this 
 author: but as nothing of this nature is come 
 down to us, we cannot guess at any objections that 
 could be made to this paper. If we consider his 
 style with that indulgence which we must show 
 to old English Avriters, or if we look into the va¬ 
 riety of his subjects*- with those several critical 
 dissertations, moral reflections, 
 
 * * * * *•* * * 
 
 The following part of the paragraph is so much 
 to my advantage, and beyond anything I can pre¬ 
 tend to, that I hope my reader Avill excuse mo for 
 not inserting it. —L . 
 
 No. 102.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 27, 1711. 
 
 --Lusus ammo debent aliquando dari, 
 
 Ad cogitanduin melior ut redeat sibi. 
 
 The mind ought sometimes to be diverted, that it may re¬ 
 turn the better to thinking. 
 
 I do not know whether to call the following let¬ 
 ter a satire upon coquettes, or a representation of 
 their several fantastical accomplishments, or what 
 other title to give it; but, as it is, I shall commu¬ 
 nicate it to the public. It will sufficiently explain 
 its own intentions, so that I shall give it my reader 
 at length, without either preface or postscript. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Women are armed with fans as men with 
 swords, and sometimes do more execution with 
 them. To the end, therefore, that ladies may be 
 entire mistresses of the Aveapon they bear, I have 
 erected an academy for the training up of young 
 women in the exercise of the fan, according to the 
 most fashionable airs and motions that are now 
 practiced at court. The ladies who carry fans 
 under me are draAvn up tAvice a-day in my great 
 hall, Avhere they are instructed in the use of their 
 arms, and exercised by the following words of 
 command: Handle your fans, Unfurl your fans, 
 Discharge your fans, Ground your fans, Recover 
 your fans, Flutter your fans. By the right obser¬ 
 vation of these feAV plain words of command, a 
 woman of a tolerable genius, Avho Avill apply her¬ 
 self diligently to her excercise for the space of but 
 one-half-year, shall be able to give her fan all the 
 graces that can possibly enter into that little modish 
 machine. 
 
 “ But to the end that my readers may form to 
 themselves a right notion of this exercise, I beg 
 leave to explain it to them in all its parts. When 
 my female regiment is drawn up in array, Avith 
 every <one her Aveapon in her hand, upon my giv¬ 
 ing the word to Handle their fans, each of them 
 
 IT ATOR. 
 
 shakes her fan at me with a smile, then giv^s her 
 right-hand woman a tap upon the shoulder, then 
 presses her lips with the extremity of her fan, then 
 lets her arms fall in an easy motion, and stands in 
 readiness to receive the next word of command. 
 All this is done with a close fan, and is generally 
 learned in the first Aveek. 
 
 “ The next motion is that of Unfurling the fan, 
 in which are comprehended several little flirts and 
 vibrations, as also gradual and deliberate open¬ 
 ings, Avitli many voluntary fallings asunder in the 
 fan itself, that are seldom learned under a month’s 
 practice. This part of the exercise pleases the 
 spectators more than any other, as it discovers on 
 a sudden an infinite number of cupids, garlands, 
 altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like agree¬ 
 able figures that display themselves to view—- 
 Avhile every one in the regiment holds a picture in 
 her hand. 
 
 “Upon my giving the Avord to Discharge their 
 fans, they give one general crack that may be 
 heard at a considerable distance when the wind 
 sets fair. This is one of the most difficult parts 
 of the exercise : but I have several ladies with me, 
 Avho at their first entrance could not give a pop 
 loud enough to be heard at the farther end of a 
 room, who can uoav discharge a fan in such a 
 manner, that it shall make a report like a pocket- 
 pistol. I have likewise taken care (in order to 
 hinder young women from letting off their fans in 
 Avrong places or on unsuitable occasions) to show 
 upon what subject the crack of a fan may come in 
 properly: I have likewise invented a fan, with 
 which a girl of sixteen, by the help of a little wind 
 which is inclosed about one of the largest sticks, 
 can make as loud a crack as a woman of fifty with 
 an ordinary fan. 
 
 “When the fans are thus discharged, the word 
 of command, in course, is to Ground their fans. 
 This teaches a lady to quit her fan gracefully 
 when she throws it aside in order to take up a 
 pack of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a fall¬ 
 ing pin, or apply herself to any other matter of 
 importance. This part of the exercise, as it only 
 consists in tossing a fan with an air upon a long 
 table (which stands by for that purpose), may be 
 learned in tAVo days’ time as well as in a twelve- 
 month. 
 
 “When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I 
 generally let them Avalk about the room for some 
 time; when, on a sudden (like ladies that look 
 upon their Avatches after a long visit), they all of 
 them hasten to their arms, catch them up in a 
 hurry, and place themselves in their proper sta¬ 
 tions, upon my calling out. Recover your fans. 
 This part of the exercise is not difficult, provided 
 a woman applies her thoughts to it. 
 
 “ The fluttering of the fan is the last, and indeed 
 the master-pieces of the Avhole exercise ; but if a 
 lady does not mis-spend her time, she may make 
 herself mistress of it in three months. I generally 
 lay aside the dog-days and the hot time of the 
 summer for the teaching this part of the exercise; 
 for as soon as ever I pronounce, Flutter your fans, 
 the place is filled with so many zephyrs and gentle 
 breezes as are very refreshing in that season of the 
 year, though they might be dangerous to ladies 
 of a tender constitution in any other. 
 
 “There is an infinite variety of motions to be 
 made use of in the flutter of a fan. There is the 
 angry flutter, the modest flutter, the timorous flut¬ 
 ter, and the amorous flutter. Not to be tedious, 
 there is scarce any emotion in the mind Avhich 
 does not produce a suitable agitation in the fan; 
 insomuch, that if I only see the fan of a disci¬ 
 plined lady, I know very well whether she laughs, 
 frowns, or blushes. I have seen a fan so very 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 angry, that it would have been dangerous for the 
 absent lover who provoked it to have come within 
 the wind of it; and at other times so very lan¬ 
 guishing, that I have been glad for the lady’s sake 
 the lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I 
 need not add, that a fan is either a prude or 
 coquette, according to the nature of the person 
 who bears it. To conclude my letter, I must ac¬ 
 quaint you that I have from my own observation 
 compiled a little treatise for the use of my scholars, 
 entitled, The Passions of the Fan; which I will 
 communicate to you, if you think it may be of use 
 to the public. I shall have a general review On 
 Thursday next; to which you shall be very wel¬ 
 come if you will honor it with your presence, 
 
 “I am, etc. 
 
 “P. S. I teach young gentlemen the whole art 
 of gallanting a fan. 
 
 “N. B. I have several little plain fans made for 
 this use, to avoid expense.” 
 
 No. 103.] THURSDAY, JUNE 28, 1711. 
 
 -Sibi quivis 
 
 Speret idem, sudet multum, frustraque laboret. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., v. 240. 
 
 Such all might hope to imitate at ease: 
 
 Yet while they strive the same success to gain, 
 
 Should find then 1 labor and their hopes are vain. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 My friend the divine having been used with 
 words of complaisance (which he thinks could be 
 properly applied to no one living, and I think 
 could be only spoken of him, and that in his ab¬ 
 sence), was so extremely offended with the exces¬ 
 sive way of speaking civilities among us, that he 
 made a discourse against it at the club, which he 
 concluded with this remark, “that he had not 
 heard one compliment made in our society since 
 its commencement.” Every one was pleased with 
 his conclusion ; and as each knew his good-w T ill 
 to the rest, he was convinced that the many pro¬ 
 fessions of kindness and service, which we ordi¬ 
 narily meet with, are not natural where the heart 
 is well inclined: but are a prostitution of speech, 
 seldom intended to mean any part of what they 
 express, never to mean all they express. Our 
 reverend friend, upon this topic, pointed to us two 
 or three paragraphs on this subject in the first ser¬ 
 mon of the first volume of the late archbishop’s 
 posthumous works. I do not know that I ever 
 read anything that pleased me more ; and as it is 
 the praise of Longinus, that he speaks of the sub¬ 
 lime in a style suitable to it, so one may say of 
 this author upon sincerity, that he abhors any 
 pomp of rhetoric on this occasion, and treats it 
 with a more than ordinary simplicity, at once to 
 be a preacher and an example. With what com¬ 
 mand of himself does he lay before us, in the lan¬ 
 guage and temper of his profession, a fault which, 
 by the least liberty and warmth of expression, 
 would be the most lively wit and satire! But his 
 heart was better disposed, and the good man chas¬ 
 tised the great wit in such a manner, that he was 
 able to speak as follows : 
 
 “—Among too many other instances of the great 
 corruption and degeneracy of the age wherein we 
 live, the great and general want of sincerity in 
 conversation is none of the least. The world is 
 grown so full of dissimulation and compliment, 
 that men’s words are hardly any signification of 
 their thoughts; and if any man measure his words 
 
 * See Archbishop Tillotson’s Sermon on Sincerity, from 
 John, chap, i, ver. 47, being the last discourse he preachod 
 July 29, 1694. lie died Nov. 24, following. 
 
 151 
 
 by his heart, and speak as lie thinks, and do not 
 express more kindness to every man than men 
 usually have for any man, he can hardly escape 
 the censure of want of breeding. The old English 
 plainness and sincerity—that generous integrity 
 of nature, and honesty of disposition, which 
 always argues true greatness of mind and is usu¬ 
 ally accompanied with undaunted courage and 
 resolution, is in a great measure lost among us. 
 There hath been a long endeavor to transform us 
 into foreign manners and fashions, and to bring us 
 to a servile imitation of none of the best of our 
 neighbors, in some of the worst of their qualities. 
 The dialect of conversation is now-a-days so 
 swelled with vanity and compliment, and so sur¬ 
 feited (as I may say) of expressions of kindness 
 and respect, that if a man that lived an age or two 
 ago should return into the world again, he would 
 really want a dictionary to help him to understand 
 his own language, and to know the true intrinsic 
 value of the phrase in fashion—and would hardly 
 at first believe at what a low rate the highest 
 strains and expressions of kindness imaginable do 
 commonly pass in current payment: and when he 
 should come to understand it, it would be a great 
 while before he could bring himself with a good 
 countenance and a good conscience to converse 
 with men upon equal terms, and in their own way. 
 
 “And in truth it is hard to say, whether it 
 should more provoke our contempt or our pity, to 
 hear what solemn expressions of respect and kind¬ 
 ness will pass between men, almost upon no occa¬ 
 sion; how great honor and esteem they will declare 
 for one whom perhaps they never saw before, and 
 how entirely they are all on the sudden devoted 
 to his service and interest, for no reason; liow 
 infinitely and eternally obliged to him, for no 
 benefit; and how extremely they will be concerned 
 for him, yea, and afflicted too, for no cause. I 
 know it is said, in justification of this hollow kind 
 of conversation, that there is no harm, no real 
 deceit in compliment, but the matter is well 
 enough, so long as we understand one another ; e< 
 verba valent ut nummi, “words are like money;” 
 and wh'ep the current value of them is generally 
 understood, no man is cheated by them. This is 
 something, if such words were anything; but being 
 brought into the account, they are mere ciphers. 
 However it is still a just matter of complaint, that 
 sincerity and plainness are out of fashion, and 
 that our language is running into a lie ; that men 
 have almost quite perverted the use of speech, and 
 made words to signify nothing; that the greatest 
 part of the conversation of mankind is little else 
 but driving a trade of dissimulation ; insomuch 
 that it would make a man heartily sick and weary 
 of the world, to see the little security that is in 
 use and practice among men.” 
 
 When the vice is placed in this contemptuous 
 light, he argues unanswerably against it, in words 
 and thoughts so natural, that any man who reads 
 them would imagine he himself could have been 
 the author of them. ' 
 
 “ If the show of anything be good for anything, 
 I am sure sincerity is better : for why does any 
 man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is 
 not, but because he thinks it good to have such a 
 uality as he pretends to ? For to counterfeit and 
 issemble, is to put on the appearance of some 
 real excellency. Now the best way in the world 
 to seem to be anything, is really to be what he 
 would seem to be. Beside, that it is many times 
 as troublesome to make good the pretense of a good 
 quality, as to have it; and if a man have it not, 
 it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it; 
 and then all his pains and labor to seem to have 
 it, are lost.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 152 
 
 In another part of the same discourse he goes 
 on to show, that all artifice must naturally tend to 
 the disappointment of him that practices it. 
 
 “ Whatsoever convenience may be thought to be 
 m falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over; 
 but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because 
 it brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and 
 suspicion, so that he is not believed when he 
 speaks truth, nor trusted when perhaps he means 
 honestly. When a man has once forfeited the re¬ 
 putation of his integrity, he is set fast, and 
 nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor 
 falsehood.”—R. 
 
 No. 104.] FRIDAY, JUNE 29, 1711. 
 
 -Qualis equos Threissa fatigat 
 
 Ilarpalyce.- Virg. Jin., i, 316. 
 
 With such array Harpalyce bestrode 
 Her Thracian courser.— Jjryden. 
 
 It would be a noble improvement!, or rather a 
 recovery of what we call good breeding, if nothing 
 were to pass among us for agreeable which was 
 the least transgression against that rule of life 
 called decorum, or a regard to decency. This 
 would command the respect of mankind, because 
 it carries in it deference to their good opinion, as 
 humility lodged in a worthy mind is always at¬ 
 tended with a certain homage which no haughty 
 soul, with all the arts imaginable, will ever be able 
 to purchase. 
 
 T ully says, virtue and decency are so nearly re¬ 
 lated, that it is difficult to separate them from each 
 other but in our imagination. As the beauty of 
 the body always accompanies the health of it, so 
 certainly is decency concomitant to virtue. As 
 beauty of body, with an agreeable carriage, pleases 
 the eye, and that pleasure consists in that we 
 observe all the parts with a certain elegance are 
 roportioned to each other; so does decency of 
 ehavior which appears in our lives obtain the ap¬ 
 probation of all with whom we converse, from the 
 order, consistency, and moderation of our words 
 and actions. This flows from the reverence we 
 bear toward every good man and to the world in 
 general; for to be negligent of what any one thinks 
 of you, does not only show you arrogant, but 
 abandoned. In all these considerations we are to 
 distinguish how one virtue differs from another. 
 As it is the part of justice never to do violence, it 
 is of modesty never to commit offense. In the 
 last particular lies the whole force of what is 
 called decency; to this purpose that excellent mo¬ 
 ralist above-mentioned talks of decency ; but this 
 quality is more easily comprehended by an ordi¬ 
 nary capacity, than expressed with all his elo¬ 
 quence. This decency of behavior is generally 
 transgressed among all orders of men ; nay, the 
 very women, though themselves created as it were 
 for ornament, are often very much mistaken in this 
 ornamental part of life. It would, methinks, be a 
 short rule for behavior, if every young lady in her 
 dress, words, and actions, were only to recommend 
 herself as a sister, daughter, or wife, and make 
 herself the more esteemed in one of those charac¬ 
 ters. The care of themselves with regard to the 
 families in which women are born, is the best mo¬ 
 tive for their being courted to come into the alli¬ 
 ance of other houses. Nothing can promote this 
 end more than a strict preservation of decency. I 
 should be glad if a certain equestrian order of la¬ 
 dies, some of whom one meets in an evening at 
 every outlet of the town, would take this subject 
 into their serious consideration. In order there¬ 
 unto the following letter may not be wholly un¬ 
 worthy their perusal. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Going lately to take the air in one of the most 
 beautiful evenings this season has produced ; as I 
 was admiring the serenity of the sky, the lively 
 colors of the fields, and the variety of the land¬ 
 scape every way around me, my eyes were sud¬ 
 denly called off from these inanimate objects by a 
 little party of horsemen I saw passing the road. 
 The greater part of them escaped my particular 
 observation, by reason that my whole attention 
 was fixed on a very fair youth who rode in the 
 midst of them, and seemed to have been dressed 
 by some description in a romance. His features, 
 complexion, and habit, had a remarkable effemi¬ 
 nacy, and a certain languishing vanity appeared 
 in his air. His hair, well curled and powdered, 
 hung to a considerable length on his shoulders, 
 and was wantonly tied, as if by the hands of his 
 mistress, in a scarlet ribbon, which played like a 
 streamer behind him ; he had a coat and waist¬ 
 coat of blue camlet trimmed and embroidered with 
 silver ; a cravat of the finest lace ; and wore, in a 
 smart cock, a little beaver hat edged with silver, 
 and made more sprightly by a feather. His horse, 
 too, which was a pacer, was adorned after the 
 same airy manner, and seemed to share in the va¬ 
 nity of the rider. As I was pitying the luxury of 
 this young person, who appeared to me to have 
 been educated only as an object of sight, I per¬ 
 ceived on my nearer approach, and as I turned my 
 eyes downward, a part of the equipage I had not 
 seen before, which was a petticoat of the same with 
 the coat and waistcoat. After this discovery, I 
 looked again on the face of the fair Amazon who 
 had thus deceived me, and thought those features 
 which had before offended me by their softness, 
 were now strengthened into as improper a bold¬ 
 ness ; and though her eyes, nose, and mouth 
 seemed to be formed with perfect symmetry, I am 
 not certain whether she, who in appearance was a 
 very handsome youth, may not be in reality a very 
 indifferent woman. 
 
 “ There is an objection which naturally presents 
 itself against those occasional perplexities and 
 mixtures of dress, which is, that they seem to 
 break in upon that propriety and distinction of 
 appearance in which the beauty of different char¬ 
 acters is preserved ; and if they should be more 
 frequent than they are at present, would look like 
 turning our public assemblies into a general 
 masquerade. The model of this Amazonian hunt¬ 
 ing-habit for ladies was, as I take it, first import¬ 
 ed from France, and well enough expresses the 
 gayety of a people who are taught to do anything, 
 so it be with an assurance; but I cannot help 
 thinking it sits awkwardly yet on our English 
 modesty. The petticoat is a kind of incumbrance 
 upon it; and if the Amazons should think fit to 
 go on in this plunder of our sex’s ornaments, they 
 ought to add to their spoils, and complete their 
 triumph over us, by wearing the breeches. 
 
 “ If it be natural to contract insensibly the man¬ 
 ners of thos« we imitate, the ladies who are 
 pleased with assuming our dresses will do us 
 more honor than we deserve, but they will do it 
 at their own expense. Why should the lovely 
 Camilla deceive us in more shapes than her own, 
 and affect to be represented in her picture with a 
 gun and a spaniel; while her elder brother, the 
 heir of a worthy family, is drawn in silks like his 
 sister ? The dress and air of a man are not well 
 to be divided ; and those who would not be con 
 tent with the latter, ought never to think of assum¬ 
 ing the former. There is so large a portion of 
 natural agreeableness among the fair sex of our 
 island, that they seem betrayed into these romantic 
 
THE SPE 
 
 habits without having the same occasion for 
 them with their inventors : all that needs to be de¬ 
 sired of them is, that they would be themselves— 
 that is, what nature designed them. And to see 
 their mistake when they depart from this, let them 
 look at a man who affects the softness and effemi¬ 
 nacy of a woman, to learn how their sex must ap¬ 
 pear to us when approaching to the resemblance 
 of a man. 
 
 T. “I am, Sir, your most humble servant.” 
 
 No. 105.] SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1711. 
 
 -Id arbitror 
 
 Adprime in vita esse utile, ne quid nimis. 
 
 Ter. Andr., act. 1, sc. 1. 
 
 I take it to be a principal rule of life, not to be too much 
 addicted to any one thing. 
 
 Too much of anything, is good for nothing.— Eng. Prov. 
 
 My friend Will Honeycomb values himself very 
 much upon what he calls the knowledge of man¬ 
 kind, which has cost him many disasters in his 
 youth ; for Will reckons every misfortune that he 
 has met with among the women, and every ren¬ 
 counter among the men, as parts of his education ; 
 and fancies he should never have been the man he 
 is, had he not broke windows, knocked down 
 constables, disturbed honest people with his mid¬ 
 night serenades, and beat up a lewd woman’s 
 quarters, when he was a young fellow. The en- 
 gagingin adventures of this nature Will calls the 
 studying of mankind ; and terms this knowledge 
 of the town the knowledge of the world. Will 
 ingenuously confesses that for half his life his 
 head ached every morning with reading of men 
 overnight; and at present comforts himself under 
 certain pains which he endures from time to time, 
 that without them he could not have been ac¬ 
 quainted with the gallantries of the age. This 
 Will looks upon as the learning of a gentleman, 
 and regards all other kinds of science as the ac¬ 
 complishments of one whom he calls a scholar, a 
 bookish man, or a philosopher. 
 
 For these reasons Will shines in mixed compa¬ 
 ny, where he has the discretion not to go out of 
 his depth, and has often a certain way of making 
 his real ignorance appear a seeming one. Our 
 club however has frequently caught him tripping, 
 at which times they never spare him. For as 
 Will often insults us with his knowledge of the 
 town, we sometimes take our revenge upon him 
 by our knowledge of books. 
 
 He was last week producing two or three let¬ 
 ters which he wrote in his youth to a coquette lady. 
 The raillery of them was natural and well enough 
 for a mere man of the town: but, very unluckily, 
 several ot the words were wrong spelt. Will 
 laughed this off at first as well as he could ; but 
 finding himself pushed on all sides, and especial¬ 
 ly by the Templar, he told us with a little pas¬ 
 sion, that lie never liked pedantry in spelling, 
 and that he spelt like a gentleman, and not like a 
 scholar: upon this Will had recourse to his old 
 topic of showing the narrow-spirited ness, the 
 pride, and ignorance of pedants; which he car¬ 
 ried so far, that upon my retiring to my lodgings, 
 
 I could not forbear throwing together such reflec¬ 
 tions as occurred to me upon that subject. 
 
 A man who has been brought up among books, 
 and is able to talk of nothing else, is a very indif¬ 
 ferent companion, and what we call a "pedant. 
 But, methinks, we should enlarge the title, and 
 give it to every one that does not know how to 
 think out of his profession and particular way of 
 jfo. 
 
 C TAT OR. 153 
 
 What is a "reater pedant than a mere man of 
 the town ? Bar him the play-houses, a catalogue 
 of the reigning beauties, and an account of a few 
 fashionable distempers that have befallen him, 
 and you strike him dumb. How many a pretty 
 gentleman’s knowledge lies all within the verge 
 of the court? He will tell you the names of the 
 principal favorites, repeat the shrewd sayings of 
 a man of quality; whisper an intrigue that is not 
 yet blown upon by common fame; or, if the 
 sphere of his observations is a little larger than 
 ordinary, will perhaps enter into all the incidents, 
 turns, and revolutions, in a game of ombre. When 
 he has gone thus far, he has shown you the whole 
 circle of his accomplishments; his parts are 
 drained, and he is disabled from any further con¬ 
 versation. What are these but rank pedants ? 
 and yet these are the men who value themselves 
 most on their exemption from the pedantry of 
 colleges. 
 
 I might here mention the military pedant, who 
 always talks in a camp—and is storming towns, 
 making lodgments, and fighting battles, from one 
 end of the year to the other. Everything he 
 speaks smells of gunpowder ; if you take away 
 his artillery from him, he has not a word to say 
 for himself. I might likewise mention the law 
 pedant, that is perpetually putting cases, repeat¬ 
 ing the transactions of Westminster-hall, wrang¬ 
 ling with you upon the most indifferent circum¬ 
 stances of life, and not to be convinced of the 
 distance of a place, or of the most trivial point in 
 conversation, but by dint of argument. The state 
 pedant is wrapped up in news, and lost in politics. 
 If you mention either of the kings of Spain or 
 Poland, lie talks very notably ; but if you go out 
 of the Gazette,* you drop him. In short, a mere 
 courtier, a mere soldier, a mere scholar, a mere 
 anything, is an insipid pedantic character, and 
 equally ridiculous. 
 
 Of all the species of pedants which I have men¬ 
 tioned, the book pedant is much the most sup¬ 
 portable ; he has at least an exercised understand¬ 
 ing, a head which is full, though confused—so 
 that a man who converses with him may often re¬ 
 ceive from him hints of things that are worth 
 knowing, and what he may possibly turn to his 
 own advantage, though they are of little use to the 
 owner. The worst kind of pedants among 
 learned men, are such as are naturally endued 
 with a very small share of common sense, and 
 have read a great number of books without taste 
 or distinction. 
 
 The truth of it is, learning, like traveling, and 
 all other methods of improvement, as it finishes 
 good sense, so it makes a silly man ten thousand 
 times more insufferable, by supplying variety of 
 matter to his impertinence, and giving him an op¬ 
 portunity of abounding in absurdities. 
 
 Shallow pedants cry up one another much more 
 than men of solid and useful learning. To read 
 the titles they give an editor, or collator of a maim 
 script, you would take him for the glory of the 
 commonwealth of letters, and the wonder of his 
 age! when perhaps upon examination you find 
 that he has only rectified a Greek particle, or laid 
 out a whole sentence in proper commas. 
 
 They are obliged indeed to be thus lavish of 
 their praises, that they may keep one another in 
 countenance; and it is no wonder if a great deal 
 of knowledge which is not capable of making a 
 man wise, lias a natural tendency to make him 
 vain and arrogant.—L. 
 
 * A newspaper, so called from gazette, the name of a piece 
 of current money, which was the stated price at which it was 
 originally sold. 
 
154 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 106.] MONDAY, JULY 2, 1711. 
 
 -Hinc tibi copia 
 
 Manabit ad plenum, beuigno 
 Ruris honorum opulenta cornu. 
 
 Hor. 1 Od. xyii, 14. 
 
 Here plenty’s liberal born shall pour 
 Of fruits for thee a copious show’r, 
 
 Rich honors of the quiet plain. 
 
 Having often received an invitation from my 
 friend Sir Roger de Coverley, to pass away a 
 month with him in the country, I last week ac¬ 
 companied him thither, and am settled with him 
 for some time at his country-house, where I in¬ 
 tend to form several of my ensuing speculations. 
 Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my 
 humor, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, 
 dine at his own table or in my chamber as I think 
 fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me 
 be merry. When the gentlemen of the country 
 come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. 
 As I have been walking in his fields I have ob¬ 
 served them stealing a sight of me over a hedge, 
 and have heard the knight desiring them not to 
 let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at. 
 
 I am the more at ease in Sir Roger’s family, be¬ 
 cause it consists of sober and staid persons; for 
 as the knight is the best master in the world, he 
 seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved 
 by all about him, his servants never care for leav¬ 
 ing him; by this means his domestics are all in 
 years, and grown old with their master. You 
 would take his valet-de-chambre for his brother, 
 his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the 
 gravest men that I have ever seen, and his coach¬ 
 man has the looks of a privy-counselor. You see 
 the goodness of the master even in his old house¬ 
 dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable 
 with great care and tenderness, out of regard to 
 his past services, though he has been useless for 
 several years. 
 
 I could not but observe with a great deal of 
 pleasure, the joy that appeared in the countenances 
 of these ancient domestics upon my friend’s arri¬ 
 val at his country seat. Some of them could not 
 refrain from tears at the sight of their old master; 
 every one of them pressed forward to do some¬ 
 thing for him, and seemed discouraged if they 
 were not employed. At the same time the good 
 old knight, with a mixture of the father and 
 the master of the family, tempered the inquiries 
 after his own affairs with several kind questions 
 relating to themselves. This humanity and good¬ 
 nature engages everybody to him, so that when 
 he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family 
 are in good humor, and none so much as the per¬ 
 son whom he diverts himself with; on the con¬ 
 trary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of 
 old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a 
 secret concern in the looks of all his servants. 
 
 My worthy friend has put me under the par¬ 
 ticular care of his butler, who is a very prudent 
 man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-ser¬ 
 vants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, be¬ 
 cause they have often heard their master talk of 
 me as his particular friend. 
 
 My chief companion, when Sir Roger is divert¬ 
 ing himself in the woods or the fields, is a very 
 venerable man who is ever with Sir Roger, and 
 has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain 
 above thirty years. This gentleman is a person 
 of good sense and some learning, of a very regu¬ 
 lar life and obliging conversation: he heartily 
 loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much 
 in the old knight’s esteem, so that he lives in the 
 family rather as a relation than a dependent. 
 
 I have observed in several of my papers, that 
 my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, 
 
 is something of a humorist; and that his virtues, 
 as well as imperfections, are as it were tinged by 
 a certain extravagance, which makes them par¬ 
 ticularly his, and distinguishes them from those 
 of other men. This cast of mind, as it is gen¬ 
 erally very innocent in itself, so it renders his 
 conversation highly agreeable, and more delight¬ 
 ful than the same degree of sense and virtue would 
 appear in their common and ordinary colors. As 
 1 was walking with him last night, he asked me 
 how I liked the good man whom I have just now 
 mentioned ? and without staying for my answer, 
 told me that he was afraid of being insulted with 
 Latin and Greek at his own table; for which reason 
 he desired a particular friend of liis at the univer¬ 
 sity to find him out a clergyman rather of plain 
 sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a 
 clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a 
 man that understood a little of backgammon. “My 
 friend,” says Sir Roger, “found me out this gentle¬ 
 man, who, beside the endowments required of him, 
 is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does 
 not show it. I have given him the patronage of 
 the parish ; and because I know his value, have 
 settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he 
 outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in 
 my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has 
 now been with me thirty years ; and though he 
 does not know I have taken notice of it, has never 
 in all that time asked anything of me for himself, 
 though he is every day soliciting me for something 
 in behalf of one or other of my tenants his parish¬ 
 ioners. There has not been a lawsuit in the parish 
 since he has lived among them ; if any dispute 
 arises, they apply themselves to him for the de¬ 
 cision: if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, 
 which I think never happened above once or twice 
 at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling 
 with me, I made him a present of all the good 
 sermons which have been printed in English, and 
 only begged of him that every Sunday he would 
 pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accord¬ 
 ingly he has digested them into such a series, that 
 they follow one another naturally, and make a 
 continued system of practical divinity.” 
 
 As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the 
 gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and 
 upon the knight’s asking him who preached to¬ 
 morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us, the 
 bishop of St. Asaph* in the morning, and Dr. 
 South in the afternoon. He then showed us his 
 list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw 
 with a great deal of pleasure Archbishop Tillot- 
 son, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, 
 with several living authors who have published 
 discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw 
 this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much 
 approved of my friend’s insisting upon the quali¬ 
 fications of a good aspect and a clear voice; for I 
 was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure 
 and delivery, as well as with the discourses he 
 pronounced, that I think I never passed any time 
 more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after 
 this manner, is like the composition of a poet in 
 the mouth of a graceful actor. 
 
 I could heartily wish that more of our country 
 clergy would follow this example; and instead of 
 wasting their spirits in laborious compositions of 
 their own, would endeavor after a handsome elocu¬ 
 tion, and all those other talents that are proper to 
 enforce what has been penned by great masters. 
 This would not only be more easy to themselves, 
 but more edifying to the people.—L. 
 
 * Dr. William Fleetwood. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 107.] TUESDAY, JULY 3, 1711. 
 
 iEsopo ingentem statuam posuero Attici, 
 
 Serv unique collocaruut aeterna iu basi, 
 
 Patere honoris scirent ut cunctis viam. 
 
 Phedr. Epilog. 1, 2. 
 
 The Athenians erected a large statue to TEsop, and placed 
 him, though a slave, on a lasting pedestal: to show, that the 
 way to honor lies open indifferently to all. 
 
 The reception, manner of attendance, undis¬ 
 turbed freedom and quiet, which I meet with 
 here in the country, has confirmed me in the 
 opinion I always had, that the general corruption 
 of manners in servants is owiner to the conduct of 
 
 o 
 
 masters. The aspect of every one in the family 
 carries so much satisfaction, that it appears 
 he knows the happy lot which has befallen him in 
 being a member of it. There is one particular 
 which I have seldom seen but at Sir Roger’s; it is 
 usual in all other places, that servants fly from 
 the parts of the house through which their master 
 is passing ; on the contrary, here they industri¬ 
 ously place themselves in his way ; and it is on 
 both sides, as it were, understood as a visit, when 
 the servants appear without calling. This pro¬ 
 ceeds from the humane and equal temper of the 
 man of the house, who also perfectly well knows 
 how to enjoy a great estate with such economy as 
 ever to be much beforehand. This makes his own 
 mind untroubled, and consequently unapt to vent 
 peevish expressions, or give passionate or incon¬ 
 sistent orders to those about him. Thus respect 
 and love go together; and a certain cheerfulness 
 in performance of their duty is the particular dis¬ 
 tinction of the lower part of this family. When 
 a servant is called before his master, he does not 
 come with an expectation to hear himself rated for 
 some trivial fault, threatened to be stripped, or 
 used with any other unbecoming language, which 
 mean masters often give to worthy servants ; but 
 it is often to know, what road he took that he 
 came so readily back according to order : whether 
 he passed by such a ground ; if the old man who 
 rents it is in good health; or whether he gave Sir 
 Roger’s love to him, or the like. 
 
 A man who preserves a respect founded on his 
 benevolence to his dependents, lives rather like a 
 prince than a master in his family: his orders are 
 received as favors rather than duties; and the dis¬ 
 tinction, of approaching him is part of the re¬ 
 ward for executing what is commanded by him. 
 
 There is another circumstance in which my 
 friend excels in his management, which is the 
 manner of rewarding his servants. He has ever 
 been of opinion, that giving his cast clothes to be 
 worn by valets has a very ill effect upon little 
 minds, and creates a silly sense of equality be¬ 
 tween the parties, in persons affected only with 
 outward things. I have heard him often pleasant 
 on this occasion, and describe a young gentleman 
 abusing his man in that coat, which a month or 
 two before was the most pleasing distinction he 
 was conscious of in himself. He would turn his 
 discourse still more pleasantly upon the bounties 
 of the ladies in this kind ; and I have heard him 
 say he knew a fine woman, who distributed re¬ 
 wards and punishments in giving becoming or 
 unbecoming dresses to her maids. 
 
 But my good friend is above these little instances 
 of good-will, in bestowing only trifles on his serv¬ 
 ants: a good servant to him is sure of having it in 
 his choice very soon of being no servant at all. 
 As I before observed, he is so good a husband, 
 and knows so thoroughly that the skill of the 
 purse is the cardinal virtue of this life ; I say he 
 knows so well that frugality is the support of 
 generosity, that he can often spare a large fine 
 when a tenement falls, and give that settlement 
 
 155 
 
 to a good servant who has a mind to go into the 
 world, or make a stranger pay the nne to that 
 servant for his more comfortable maintenance, if 
 he stays in his service. 
 
 A man of honor and generosity considers it 
 would be miserable to himself to have no will but 
 that of another, though it were of the best person 
 breathing, and, for that reason, goes on as fast 
 as he is able to put his servants into independent 
 livelihoods. The greatest part of Sir Roger’s 
 estate is tenanted by persons tvho have served 
 himself or his ancestors. It was to me extremely 
 pleasant to observe the visitants from several parts 
 to welcome his arrival into the country: and all the 
 difference that I could take notice of between the 
 late servants who came to see him, and those who 
 stayed in the family was, that these latter were look¬ 
 ed upon as finer gentlemen and better courtiers. 
 
 This manumission and placing them, in a way 
 of livelihood, I look upon as only what is due to a 
 good servant; which encouragement will make his 
 successor be as diligent, as humble, and as ready 
 as he was. There is something wonderful in the 
 narrowness of those minds which can be pleased, 
 and be barren of bounty to those who please them. 
 
 One might on this occasion, recount the sense 
 that great persons in all ages have had of the 
 merit of their dependents, and the heroic services 
 which men have done their masters in the ex 
 tremity of their fortunes, and shown to their un¬ 
 done patrons that fortune was all the difference 
 between them; but as I design this my speculation 
 only as a gentle admonition to thankless masters, 
 I shall not go out of the occurrences of common life, 
 but assert it as a general observation, that I never 
 saw, but in Sir Roger’s family and one or two more, 
 good servants treated as they ought to be. Sir 
 Roger’s kindness extends to their children’s child¬ 
 ren; and this very morning he sent his coachman’s 
 grandson to ’prentice. I shall conclude this paper 
 with an account of a picture in his gallery, where 
 there are many which will deserve my future obser¬ 
 vation. 
 
 At the upper end of this handsome structure I 
 saw the portraiture of two young men standing in 
 a river, the one naked, the other in a livery. The 
 person supported seemed^ half dead, but still so 
 much alive as to show in his face exquisite joy 
 and love toward the other. I thought the fainting 
 figure resembled my friend Sir Roger, and looking 
 at the butler who stood by me, for an account of it, 
 he informed me that the person in the livery was a 
 servant of Sir Roger’s who stood on the shore 
 while his master was swimming, and observing him 
 taken with some sudden illness and sink under 
 water jumped in and saved him. He told me Sir 
 Roger took off the dress he was in as soon as he 
 came home, and by a great bounty at that time, 
 followed by his favor ever since, had made him 
 master of that pretty seat which we saw at a 
 distance as we came to this house. I remembered, 
 indeed, Sir Roger said, there lived a very worthy 
 gentleman, to whom he was highly obliged, with¬ 
 out mentioning anything farther. Upon my 
 looking a little dissatisfied at some part of the 
 picture, my attendant informed me that it was 
 against Sir Roger’s will, and at the earnest request 
 of the gentleman himself, that he was drawn in 
 the habit in which he had saved his master. R. 
 
 No. 108.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 4, 1711. 
 
 Gratis anhelans, multa agendo nihil agens. 
 
 Phedr., Fab. v, 2. 
 
 Out of breath to no purpose, and very busy about nothing. 
 
 As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir 
 Roger before his house, a country fellow brought 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 156 
 
 him a huge fish, which, he told him, Mr. William 
 Wimble* had caught that very morning; and that 
 he presented it with his service to him, and in¬ 
 tended to come and dine with him. At the same 
 time he delivered a letter, which my friend read 
 to me as soon as the messenger left him. 
 
 “ Sir Roger, 
 
 “I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the 
 best I have caught this season. I intend to come 
 and stay with you a week, and see how the perch 
 bite in the Black river. I observed with some 
 concern, the last time I saw you upon the bowling- 
 green, that your whip wanted a lash to it; I will 
 bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last 
 week, which I hope will serve you all the time you 
 are in the country. I have not been out of the 
 saddle for six days last past, having been at Eton 
 with Sir John’s eldest son. He takes to his learn¬ 
 ing hugely. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 “Will Wimble.” 
 
 This extraordinary letter, and message that 
 accompanied it, made me very curious to know 
 the character and quality of the gentleman who 
 sent them; which I found to be as follow:—Will 
 Wimble is younger brother to a baronet, and de¬ 
 scended of the ancient family of the Wimbles. 
 He is now between forty and fifty; but being bred 
 to no business and born to no estate, he generally 
 lives with his elder brother as superintendent of 
 his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better than 
 any man in the country, and is very famous for 
 finding out a hare. He is extremely well versed 
 in all the little handicrafts of an idle man. He 
 makes a May-fly to a miracle: and furnishes the 
 whole country with angle-rods. As he is a good- 
 natured, officious fellow, and very much esteemed 
 upon account of his family, he is a welcome guest 
 at every house, and keeps up a good correspond¬ 
 ence among all the gentlemen about him. He 
 carries a tulip root in his pocket from one to an¬ 
 other, or exchanges a puppy between a couple 
 of friends that live perhaps in the opposite sides 
 of the country. Will is a particular favorite of all 
 the young heirs, whom he frequently obliges with 
 a net that he has weaved, or a setting-dog that he 
 has made himself. He now and then presents a 
 pair of garters of his own knitting to their mothers 
 and sisters; and raises a great deal of mirth among 
 them, by inquiring as often as lie meets them 
 “how they wear!” These gentleman-like manu¬ 
 factures and obliging little humors, make Will the 
 darling of the country. 
 
 Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of 
 him, when he saw him make up to us with two or 
 three hazle twigs in his hand that he had cut in 
 Sir Roger’s woods, as he came through them in 
 his way to the house. I was very much pleased 
 to observe on one side the hearty and sincere wel¬ 
 come with which Sir Roger received him, and on 
 the other, the secret joy which his guest discovered 
 at the sight of the good old knight. After the 
 first salutes were over, Will desired Sir Roger to 
 lend him one of his servants to carry a set of shuttle¬ 
 cocks he had with him in a little box, to a lady 
 that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he 
 had promised such a present for above this half¬ 
 ear. Sir Roger’s back was no sooner turned, but 
 onest Will began to tell me of a large cock phea¬ 
 sant that he had sprung in one of the neighboring 
 woods, with two or three other adventures of the 
 same nature. Odd and uncommon characters are 
 the game that I look for and most delight in; for 
 
 * A Yorkshire gentleman, whose name was Mr. Thomas 
 Morecraft. 
 
 which reason I was as much pleased with the 
 novelty of the person that talked to me, as he 
 could be for his life with the springing of a phea¬ 
 sant, and therefore listened to him with more than 
 ordinary attention. 
 
 In the midst of his discourse the bell rang to 
 dinner, where the gentleman I have been speaking 
 of had the pleasure of seeing the huge jack he 
 had caught served up for the first dish in a most 
 sumptuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it 
 he gave us a long account how he had hooked it, 
 played with it, foiled it, and at length drew it out 
 upon the bank—with several other particulars that 
 lasted all the first course. A dish of wild fowl 
 that came afterward furnished conversation for the 
 rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late 
 invention of Will’s for improving the quail-pipe. 
 
 Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I 
 was secretly touched with compassion toward the 
 honest gentleman that had dined with us; and 
 could not but consider with a great deal of con¬ 
 cern, how so good a heart and such busy hands 
 were wholly employed in trifles; that so much 
 humanity should be so little beneficial to others, 
 and so much industry so little advantageous to 
 himself. The same temper of mind and applica¬ 
 tion to affairs, might have recommended him to 
 the public esteem, and have raised his fortune in 
 another station of life. What good to his country 
 or himself might not a trader or a merchant have 
 done with such useful though ordinary qualifica¬ 
 tions ! 
 
 Will Wimble’s is the case of many a younger 
 brother of a great family, who had rather see their 
 children starve like gentlemen, than thrive in a 
 trade or profession that is beneath their quality. 
 This humor fills several parts of Europe with 
 pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trad¬ 
 ing nation like ours, that the younger sons, though 
 incapable of any liberal art or profession, may be 
 placed in such a way of life, as may perhaps en¬ 
 able them to vie with the best of their family. 
 Accordingly we find several citizens that were 
 launched into the world with narrow fortunes, 
 rising by an honest industry to greater estates than 
 those of their elder brothers. It is not improba¬ 
 ble but Will was formerly tried at divinity, law, 
 or physic; and that, finding his genius did not lie in 
 that way, his parents gave him up at length to his 
 own inventions. But certainly, however improper 
 he might have been for studies of a higher nature, 
 he was perfectly well turned for the occupations 
 of trade and commerce. As I think this is a point 
 which cannot be too much inculcated, I shall 
 desire my reader to compare what I have here 
 written with what I have said in my twenty-first 
 speculation.—L. 
 
 No. 109.] THURSDAY, JULY 5, 1711. 
 
 Abnormis sapiens- Hor. 2 Sat. ii, 3. 
 
 Of plain good sense, untutor’d in the schools. 
 
 I was this morning walking in the gallery, 
 when Sir Roger entered at the end opposite to me, 
 and advancing toward me, said he was glad to 
 meet me among his relations the De Coverleys, 
 and hoped I liked the conversation of so much 
 good company, who were as silent as myself. I 
 knew he alluded to the pictures, and as he is a 
 gentleman who does not a little value himself upon 
 his ancient descent, I expected he would give me 
 some account of them. We were now arrived at 
 the upper end of the gallery, when the knight 
 faced toward one of the pictures, and as we stood 
 before it, he entered into the matter after his blunt 
 way of saying things as they occur to his imagi- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 nation, without regular introduction, or care to 
 preserve the appearance of chain of thought. 
 
 “It is,” said he, “worth while to consider the 
 force of dress; and how the persons of one -age 
 differ from those of another, merely by that only. 
 One may observe also, that the general fashion of 
 one age has been followed by one particular set 
 of people in another, and by them preserved from 
 one generation to another. Thus the vast jetting 
 coat and small bonnet, which was the habit in 
 Henry the Seventh’s time, is kept on the yeomen 
 of the guard; not without a good and politic view, 
 because they look a foot taller, and a foot and a 
 half broader—beside that the cap leaves the face 
 expanded, and consequently more terrible and 
 fitter to stand at the entrance of palaces. 
 
 “ This predecessor of ours, you see, is dressed 
 after this manner, and his cheeks would be no 
 larger than mine were he in a hat as I am. He 
 was the last man that won a prize in the Tilt-yard 
 (which is now a common street before Whitehall). 
 You see the broken lance that lies there by his 
 right foot. He shivered that lance of his adver¬ 
 sary all to pieces ; and bearing himself, look you, 
 Sir, in this manner, at the same time he came 
 within the target of the gentleman who rode 
 against him, and taking him with incredible force 
 before him on the pummel of his saddle, he in 
 that manner rode the tournament over, with an air 
 that showed he did it rather to perform the rules 
 of the lists, than to expose his enemy: however, 
 it appeared he knew how to make use of a victory, 
 and with a gentle trot he marched up to a gallery 
 where their mistress sat (for they were rivals), and 
 let him down with laudable courtesy and pardon¬ 
 able insolence. I do not know but it might be 
 exactly where the coffee-house* is now. 
 
 “You are to know this my ancestor was not 
 only of a military genius, but fit also for the arts 
 of peace, for he played on the bass-viol as well as 
 any gentleman at court; you see where his viol 
 hangs by his basket-liilt sword. The action at 
 the Tilt-yard, vou may be sure, won the fair lady, 
 who was a maid of honor and the greatest beauty 
 of her time; here she stands, the next picture. 
 You see, Sir, my great great great grandmother 
 has on the new-fashioned petticoat, except that 
 the modern is gathered at the waist; my grand¬ 
 mother appears as if she stood in a large drum, 
 whereas the ladies now walk as if they were in a 
 go-cart. For all this lady was bred at court, she 
 became an excellent country-wife; she brought ten 
 children, and when I show you the library, you 
 shall see in her own hand (allowing for the diffe¬ 
 rence of the language) the best receipt now in Eng¬ 
 land both for a hasty-pudding and a white-pot. 
 
 “If you please to fall back a little, because it is 
 necessary to look at the three next pictures at one 
 view; these are three sisters. She on the right 
 hand who is so very beautiful, died a maid; 
 the next to her, still handsomer, had the same 
 fate, against her will; this homely thing in the 
 middle had both their portions added to her own, 
 and was stolen by a neighboring gentleman, a 
 man of stratagem and resolution; for he poisoned 
 three mastiffs to come at her, and knocked down 
 two deer-stealers in carrying her off. Misfortunes 
 happen in all families. The theft of this romp, 
 and so much money, was no great matter to our 
 estate. But the next heir that possessed it was 
 this soft gentleman whom you see there. Observe 
 the small buttons, the little boots, the laces, the 
 slashes about his clothes, and above all the pos¬ 
 ture he is drawn in (which to be sure was his own 
 choosing): you see he sits with one hand on a 
 
 157 
 
 desk, writing, and looking as it were another way, 
 
 | like an easy writer, or a somietteer. He was one 
 of those that had too much wit to know how to 
 live in the world; he was a man of no justice, 
 but great good manners ; he ruined everybody that 
 had anything to do with him, but never said a 
 rude thing in his life; the most indolent person in 
 the world, he would sign a deed that passed away 
 half his estate with his gloves on, but would not 
 put on his hat before a lady if it were to save his 
 country. He is said to be the first that made love 
 by squeezing the hand. He left the estate with 
 ten thousand pounds debt upon it; but, however, 
 by all hands I have been informed, that he was 
 every way the finest gentleman in the world. 
 That debt lay heavy on our house for one genera¬ 
 tion, but it was retrieved by a gift from that 
 honest man you see there, a citizen of our name, 
 but nothing at all akin to us. I know Sir Andrew 
 Freeport has said behind my back, that this man 
 was descended from one of the ten children of the 
 maid of honor I showed you above: but it was 
 never made out. We winked at the thing indeed, 
 because money was wanting at that time.” 
 
 Here I saw my friend a little embarrassed, and 
 turned my face to the next portraiture. 
 
 Sir Roger went on with his account of the gal¬ 
 lery in the following manner: “ This man (point¬ 
 ing to him I looked at) I take to be the honor of 
 our house. Sir Humphry de Coverley; he was in 
 his dealings as punctual as a tradesman, and as 
 generous as a gentleman. He would have thought 
 himself as much undone by breaking his word, as 
 if it were to be followed by bankruptcy. He 
 served his country as knight of the shire to his 
 dying day. He found it no easy matter to main¬ 
 tain an integrity in his words and actions even in 
 things that regarded the offices which were incum¬ 
 bent upon him, in the care of his own affairs and 
 relations of life, and therefore dreaded (though he 
 had great talents) to go into employments of state, 
 where he must be exposed to the snares of ambi¬ 
 tion. Innocence of life, and great ability, were 
 the distinguishing parts of his character; the lat¬ 
 ter, he had often observed, had led to the destruc¬ 
 tion of the former, and he used frequently to 
 lament that great and good had not the same 
 signification. He was an excellent husbandman, 
 but had resolv.ed not to exceed such a degree of 
 wealth; all above it he bestowed in secret bounties 
 many years after the sum he aimed at for his own 
 use was attained. Yet he did not slacken his in¬ 
 dustry, but to a decent old age spent the life and 
 fq§une which were superfluous to himself, in the 
 service of his friends and neighbors.” 
 
 Here we were called to dinner, and Sir Roger 
 ended the discourse of this gentleman, by telling 
 me, as we followed the servant, that this his an¬ 
 cestor was a brave man, and narrowly escaped be¬ 
 ing killed in the civil wars ; “ for,” said he, “ he 
 was sent out of the field with a private mes¬ 
 sage, the day before the battle of Worcester.” 
 The whim of narrowly escaping by having been 
 within a day of danger, with other matters above- 
 mentioned, mixed with good sense, left me at a 
 loss whether I was more delighted with my friend’s 
 wisdom or simplicity. R. 
 
 No. 110.] FRIDAY, JULY 6, 1711. 
 
 Horror ubique animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent. 
 
 Vikg. iEn., ii, 755. 
 
 All things are full of horror and affright, 
 
 And dreadful e’en the silence of the night.— Dryden. 
 
 At a little distance from Sir Roger’s house, 
 among the ruins of an old abbey, there is a long 
 
 * The Tilt-yard coffee-house, still in being. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 158 
 
 walk of aged elms ; which are shot up so very 
 high, that when one passes under them, the rooks 
 and crows that rest upon the tops of them seem 
 to be cawing in another region. I am very much 
 delighted with this sort of noise, which I consider 
 as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who 
 supplies the wants of his own creation, and who, 
 in the beautiful language of the psalms* feedeth 
 the young ravens that call upon him. I like this 
 retirement the better, because of an ill report it 
 lies under of being haunted ; for which reason (as 
 I have been told in the family) no living creature 
 ever walked in it beside the chaplain. My good 
 friend the butler desired me with a very grave face 
 not to venture myself in it after sunset, for that one 
 of the footmen had been almost frightened out of 
 his wits by a spirit that appeared to him in the 
 shape of a black horse without a head ; to which 
 he added, that about a month ago one of the maids, 
 coming home late that way with a pail of milk 
 upon her head, heard such a rustling among the 
 bushes that she let it fall. 
 
 I was taking a walk in this place last week be 
 tween the hours of nine and ten, and could not 
 but fancy it one of the most proper scenes in the 
 world for a ghost to appear in. The ruins of the 
 abbey are scattered up and dawn on every side, 
 and half covered with ivy and elder bushes, the 
 harbors of several solitary birds which seldom 
 make their appearance till the dusk of the even¬ 
 ing. The place was formerly a churchyard, and 
 has still several marks in it of graves and bury¬ 
 ing places. There is such an echo among the old 
 ruins and vaults that, if you stamp but a little 
 louder than ordinary, you hear the sound repeated. 
 At the same time the walk of elms, with the 
 croaking of the ravens which from time to time 
 are heard from the tops of them, looks exceedingly 
 solemn and venerable. These objects naturally 
 raise seriousness and attention ; and when night 
 heightens the awfulness of the place, and pours 
 out her supernumerary horrors upon everything 
 in it, I do not at all wonder that weak minds fill 
 it with specters and apparitions. 
 
 Mr. Locke, in his chapter of the Association of 
 Ideas, has very curious remarks to show how, by 
 the prejudice of education, one idea often intro¬ 
 duces into the mind a whole #t that bear no 
 resemblance to one another in the nature of things. 
 Among several instances of this kind he produces 
 the following : “ The ideas of goblins and sprites 
 have really no more to do with darkness than 
 light: yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these 
 often on the mind of a child, and raise them there 
 together, possibly he shall never be able to sepa¬ 
 rate them again so long as he lives ; but darkness 
 shall ever after bring with it those frightful ideas, 
 and they shall be so joined, that he can no more 
 bear the one than the other.” 
 
 As I was walking in this solitude, where the 
 dusk of the evening conspired with so many other 
 occasions of terror, I observed a cow grazing not 
 far from me, which an imagination that was apt 
 to startle might easily have construed into a black 
 horse without a head: and I dare say the poor foot¬ 
 man lost his wits upon some such trivial occasion. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger has often told me with a 
 great deal of mirth that, at his first coming to his 
 estate, he found three parts of his house altogether 
 useless ; that the best room in it had the reputa¬ 
 tion of being haunted, and by that means was 
 locked up ; that noises had been heard in his long 
 gallery, so that he could not get a servant to enter 
 it after eight o’clock at night,; that the door of 
 one of his chambers was nailed up, because there 
 
 went a story in the family that a butler had for¬ 
 merly hanged himself in it; and that his mother, 
 who lived to a great age, had shut up half the 
 rooms in the house, in which either her hjusband, 
 a son, or a daughter, had died. The knight see¬ 
 ing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, 
 and himself in a manner shut out of his own 
 house, upon the death of his mother ordered all 
 the apartments to be flung open, and exorcised by 
 his chaplain, who lay in every room one after 
 another, and by that means dissipated the fears 
 which had so long reigned in the family. 
 
 I should not thus have been particular upon 
 these ridiculous horrors, did I not find them so 
 very much prevail in all parts of the country. 
 At the same time I think a person who is thus 
 terrified with the imagination of ghosts and spec¬ 
 ters much more reasonable than one who, contrarv 
 to the reports of all historians, sacred and pro¬ 
 fane, ancient and modern, and to the traditions 
 of all nations, thinks the appearance of spirits 
 fabulous and groundless. Could not I give my¬ 
 self up to this general testimony of mankind, I 
 should to the relations of particular persons who 
 are now living, and whom I cannot distrust in 
 other matters of fact. I might here add, that not 
 only the historians, to whom we may'join the 
 poets, but likewise the philosophers of antiquity, 
 have favored this opinion. Lucretius himself, 
 though by the course of his philosophy he was 
 obliged to maintain that the soul did not exist 
 separate from the body, makes no doubt of the 
 reality of apparitions, and that men have often 
 appeared after their death. This I think very 
 remarkable : he was so pressed with the matter of 
 fact, which he could not have the confidence to 
 deny that he was forced to account for it by one 
 of the most absurd unphilosophical notions that 
 w r as ever started. He tells us, that the surfaces 
 of all bodies are perpetually flying off from their 
 respective bodies, one after another; and that 
 these surfaces, or thin cases that included each 
 other while they were joined in the body, like the 
 coats of an onion, are sometimes seen entire when 
 they are separated from it; by which means we 
 often behold the shapes and shadows of persons 
 who are either dead or absent.* 
 
 I shall dismiss this paper with a story out of 
 Josephus,f not so much for the sake of the story 
 itself as for the moral reflections with which the 
 author concludes it, and which I shall here set , 
 down in his ow r n words :—“ Glaphyra, the daugh¬ 
 ter of King Archelaus, after the death of her two 
 first husbands (being married to a third, v T ho was 
 brother to her first husband, and so passionately in 
 love with her, that he turned off his former wife 
 to make room for this marriage), had a very odd 
 kind of a dream. She fancied that she saw her 
 first husband coming toward her, and that she 
 embraced him with great tenderness ; when in the 
 midst of the pleasure which she expressed at the 
 sight of him, he reproached her after the following 
 manner : ‘ Glaphyra/ says he, ‘ thou hast made 
 good the old saying, that women are not to be 
 trusted. Was not I the husband of thy virginity'/ 
 Have not I children by thee ? How couldst thou 
 forget our loves so far as to enter into a second 
 marriage, and after that into a third, nay, to take 
 for thy husband a rpan who has so shamelessly 
 crept into the bed Of his brother ? However, for 
 the sake of our passed loves, I shall free thee from 
 thy present reproach, and make thee mine forever.’ 
 Glaphyra told this dream to several women of her 
 acquaintance, and died soon after.” I thought 
 
 * Psu,!., cxlvii, 9. 
 
 * Lucret., iv, 34, etc. 
 
 j Autiquit. Jud., lib. xvii, cap. 15, sect. 4, 5. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 chis story might not be impertinent in this place, 
 wherein I speak of those things. Beside that the 
 example deserves to be taken notice of, as it con¬ 
 tains a most certain proof of the immortality of 
 the soul, and of Divine Providence. If any man 
 thinks these facts incredible, let him enjoy his 
 own opinion to himself, but let him not endeavor 
 to disturb the belief of others, who by instances 
 of this nature are excited to the studv of virtue. 
 
 - L. 
 
 No. 111.] SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1711. 
 
 Inter silvas academi quaere re verum. 
 
 Hor. 2 Ep. ii, 45. 
 
 To search for truth in academic groves. 
 
 The course of my last speculation led me in¬ 
 sensibly into a subject upon which I always medi¬ 
 tate with great delight; I mean the immortality 
 of the soul. I was yesterday walking alone in 
 one of my friend’s woods, and lost myself in it 
 very agreeably, as I was running over in my mind 
 the several arguments that established this great 
 point, which is the basis of morality, and the 
 source of all the pleasing hopes and secret joys 
 that can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. 
 I considered those several proofs, drawn : 
 
 First, from the nature of the soul itself, and 
 particularly its immateriality, which, though not 
 absolutely necessary to the eternity of its dura¬ 
 tion, has, I think, been evinced to almost a de¬ 
 monstration. 
 
 Secondly, from its passions and sentiments, as 
 particularly from its love of existence, its horror 
 of annihilation, and its hopes of immortality, 
 with that secret satisfaction which it finds in the 
 
 ( >ractice of virtue, and that uneasiness which fol- 
 ows in it upon the commission of vice. 
 
 Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, 
 whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, 
 are all concerned in this great point. 
 
 But among these and other excellent arguments 
 for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn 
 from the perpetual progress of the soul to its per¬ 
 fection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it; 
 which is a hint that I do not remenjber to have 
 seen opened and improved by others who have 
 written on this subject, though it seems to me to 
 carry a great weight with it. How can it enter 
 into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is 
 capable of such immense perfections, and of re- j 
 ceiving new improvements to all eternity, shall 
 fall away into nothing almost as soon as it is cre¬ 
 ated ? Are such abilities made for no purpose ? 
 A brute arrives at the point of perfection that he 
 can never pass : in a few years he has all the en¬ 
 dowments he is capable of: and, were he to live 
 ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is 
 at present. Were a human soul thus at a stand 
 in her accomplishments ; were her faculties to be 
 full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements, 
 
 I could imagine it might fall away insensibly, 
 and drop at once into a state of annihilation. 
 But can we believe a thinking being, that is in a 
 perpetual progress of improvements, and travel¬ 
 ing on from perfection to perfection, after having 
 just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, 
 and made a few discoveries of his infinite good¬ 
 ness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first 
 setting out, and in the beginning of her inquiries? 
 
 A man, considered in his present state, seems 
 only sent into the world to propagate his kind. 
 He provides himself with a successor, and imme¬ 
 diately quits his post to make room for him. 
 
 -1 he res 
 
 Hyeredem alterius, velut unda supervenit undam. 
 
 Hor. 2 Ep. ii, 175. 
 
 -Heir crowds heir, as ip a rolling flood 
 
 Wave urges wave. Creech, 
 
 159 
 
 He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver 
 it down to others. This is not surprising to con¬ 
 sider in animals, which are formed for our use, 
 and can finish their business in a short life. The 
 silkworm, after having spun her task, lays her 
 eggs and dies. But a man can never have taken 
 in his full measure of knowledge, has not time 
 to subdue his passions, establish his soul in vir¬ 
 tue and come up to the perfection of his nature, 
 before he is hurried off the stage. Would an in¬ 
 finitely wise Being make such glorious creatures 
 for so mean a purpose ? Can he delight in the 
 production of such abortive intelligences, such 
 short-lived reasonable beings ? Would he give us 
 talents that are not to be exerted ? capacities that 
 are never to be gratified ? How can we find that 
 wisdom, which shines through all his works in 
 the formation of man, without looking on this 
 world as only a nursery for the next, and believ¬ 
 ing that the several generations of rational crea¬ 
 tures, which rise up and disappear in such quick 
 successions, are only to receive their first rudi¬ 
 ments of existence here, and afterward to be trans¬ 
 planted into a more friendly climate, where they 
 may spread and flourish to all eternity! 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and 
 triumphant consideration in religion than this of 
 the perpetual progress which the soul makes to¬ 
 ward the perfection of its nature, without ever ar¬ 
 riving at a period in it. To look upon the soul as 
 going on from strength to strength, to consider that 
 she is to shine forever with new accessions of 
 glory, and brighten to all eternity ; that she will 
 be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to 
 knowledge ; carries in it something wonderfully 
 agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the 
 mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleas 
 ing to God himself, to see his creation forever 
 beautifying in his eyes, and drawing nearer to 
 him, by greater degrees of resemblance.^ 
 
 Methinks this single consideration of the pro¬ 
 gress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be suffi¬ 
 cient to extinguish all envy in inferior natures, 
 and all contempt in superior. That cherubim, 
 which now appears as a God to a human soul, 
 knows very well that the period will come about 
 in eternity, when the human soul shall be as per¬ 
 fect as he himself now is : nay, when she shall 
 look down upon that degree of perfection, as 
 much as she now falls shoi't of it. It is true, the 
 higher nature still advances, and by that means 
 preserves his distance and superiority in the scale 
 of being; but he knows that how high soever 
 the station is of which he stands possessed at 
 present, the inferior nature will at length mount 
 up to it, and shine forth in the same degree of 
 glory. 
 
 With what astonishment and veneration may 
 we look into our own souls, where there are such 
 hidden stores of virtue and knowledge, such in- 
 exhausted sources of perfection? We know not 
 yet what we shall be, nor will it ever enter into 
 the heart of man to conceive the glory that will 
 be always in reserve for him. The soul, consi¬ 
 dered with its Creator, is like one of those ma¬ 
 thematical lines that may draw nearer to another 
 for all eternity without a possibility of touching 
 it ;* and can there be a thought so transporting, 
 as to consider ourselves in these perpetual ap¬ 
 proaches to him, who is not only the standard of 
 perfection but of happiness!—L. 
 
 * Those lines are what the geometricians call the asymp 
 totes of the hyperbola, and the allusion to them here is, per¬ 
 haps, one of the mast beautiful that has ever been mado 
 
160 
 
 THE SPECTATOR 
 
 Ho. 112.] MONDAY, JULY 9, 1711. 
 
 First in obedience to thy country’s rites, 
 
 Worship th’ immortal gods.—P ythag. 
 
 I am always very well pleased with a country ! 
 Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh ' 
 day were only a human institution, it would be 
 the best method that could have been thought of 
 for polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is 
 certain, the country people would soon degenerate 
 into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there 
 not such frequent returns of a stated time, in 
 which the whole village meet together with their* 
 best faces, and in their cleanest habits, to con¬ 
 verse with one another upon different subjects, 
 hear their duties explained to them, and join to¬ 
 gether in adoration of the supreme Being. Sun¬ 
 day clears away the rust of the whole week, not 
 only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of 
 religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appear¬ 
 ing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all 
 such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in 
 the eye of the village. A country fellow distin¬ 
 guishes himself as much in the churchyard, as a 
 citizen does upon the ’Change, the whole parish- 
 politics being generally discussed in that place 
 either after sermon or before the bell rings. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, 
 has beautified the inside of his church with seve¬ 
 ral texts of his own choosing. He lias likewise 
 given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the 
 communion table at his own expense. He has often 
 told me, that at his coming to his estate he found 
 his parishioners very irregular: and that in order 
 to make them kneel and join in the responses, he 
 gave every one of them a hassock and a common- 
 prayer book : and at the same time employed an 
 itinerant singing-master, who goes about the coun¬ 
 try for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the 
 tunes of the Psalms; upon which they now very 
 much value themselves, and indeed outdo most 
 of the country churches that I have ever heard. 
 
 As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congre¬ 
 gation, he keeps them in very good order, and 
 will suffer nobody to sleep in it beside himself; 
 for if by chance he has been surprised into a short 
 nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands 
 up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody 
 else nodding, either wakes them himself or sends 
 his servants to them. Several other of the old 
 knight’s particularities break out upon these 
 occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out 
 a verse in the singing Psalms half a minute after 
 the rest of the congregation have done with it; 
 sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of 
 his devotion, he pronounces amen three or four 
 times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands 
 up when everybody else is upon their knees, to 
 count the congregation, or see if any of his ten¬ 
 ants are missing. 
 
 I was yesterday very much surprised to hear 
 my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling 
 out to one John Matthews to mind what he was 
 about, and not disturb the congregation. This 
 John Matthews it seems is remarkable for being 
 an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his 
 heels for his diversion. This authority of the 
 knight, though exerted in that odd manner which 
 accompanies him in all the circumstances of life, 
 has a very good effect upon the parish, who are 
 not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in 
 his behavior; beside that the general good sense 
 and worthiness of his character make his friends 
 observe these little singularities as foils that 
 rather set off than blemish his good qualities. 
 
 As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody pre¬ 
 sumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the 
 
 church. The knight walks down from his seat in 
 the chancel between a double row of his tenants, 
 that stand bowing to him on each side; and every 
 now and then inquires how such a one’s wife, or 
 mother, or son, or father do, "whom he does not 
 see at church ; which is understood as a secret 
 reprimand to the person that is absent. 
 
 The chaplain has often told me that, upon a 
 catechising day, when Sir Roger has been pleased 
 with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a 
 Bible to be given to him next day for his en¬ 
 couragement ; and sometimes accompanies it with 
 a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has 
 likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk’s 
 place; and that he may encourage the young fel¬ 
 lows to make themselves perfect in the church 
 service, has promised upon the death of the pre¬ 
 sent incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it 
 according to merit. 
 
 The fair understanding between Sir Roger and 
 his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in 
 doing good, is the more remarkable, because the 
 very next village is famous for the differences and 
 contentions that arise between the parson and the 
 squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. The 
 parson is always preaching at the squire; and the 
 squire, to be revenged on the parson, never comes 
 to church. The squire has made all his tenants 
 atheists and tithe-stealers ; while the parson in¬ 
 structs them every Sunday in the dignity of his 
 order, and insinuates to them, in almost every 
 sermon, that he is a better man than his patron. 
 In short, matters are come to such an extremity, 
 that the squire has not said his prayers either m 
 public or private this half year; and the parson 
 threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, 
 to pray for him in the face of the whole con¬ 
 gregation. 
 
 Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in 
 the country, are very fatal to the ordinary people, 
 who are so used to be dazzled with riches, that 
 they pay as much deference to the understanding 
 of a man of an estate, as of a man of learning; 
 and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, 
 how important soever it may be, that is preached 
 to them, when they know there are several men 
 of five hundred a year who do not believe it.—L. 
 
 No. 113.] TUESDAY, JULY, 10, 1711. 
 
 -Ha?rent infixi pectore vultus. 
 
 Vikg. iEn., ix, 4. 
 
 Her looks were deep imprinted in his heart. 
 
 Ix my first description of the company in which 
 I pass most of my time, it may be remembered, 
 that I mentioned a great affliction which my 
 friend Sir Roger had met with in his youth ; 
 which was no less than a disappointment in 
 love. It happened this evening, that we fell into 
 a very pleasing walk at a distance from his house. 
 As soon as we came into it, “It is,” quoth the 
 good old man, looking round him with a smile, 
 “ very hard, that any part of my land should be 
 settled upon one who has used me so ill as the 
 perverse widow did ; and yet I am sure I could 
 not see a sprig of any bough of this whole walk 
 of trees, but I should reflect upon her and her 
 severity. She has certainly the finest hand of 
 any woman in the world. You are to know, this 
 was the place wherein I used to muse upon her; 
 
 | and by that custom I can never come into it but 
 the same tender sentiments revive in my mind, as 
 if I had actually walked with that beautiful crea- 
 ■ ture under these shades. I have been fool enough 
 ! to carve her name on the bark of several of these 
 j trees ; so unhappy is the condition of men in love, 
 j to attempt the removing of their passion by the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 161 
 
 methods which serve only to imprint it deeper. 
 She lias certainly the finest hand of any woman 
 in the world.” 
 
 Here followed a profound silence; and I was 
 not displeased to observe my friend falling so 
 naturally into a discourse which I had ever before 
 taken notice he industriously avoided. After a 
 very long pause, he entered upon an account of 
 this great circumstance in his life, with an air 
 which I thought raised my idea of him above 
 what I had ever had before; and gave me the pic¬ 
 ture of that cheerful mind of his, before it received 
 that stroke which has ever since affected his words 
 and actions. But he went on as follows :— 
 
 “I came to my estate in my twenty-second 
 year, and resolved to follow the steps of the 
 most worthy of my ancestors who have inhabited 
 this spot of earth before me, in all the methods 
 of hospitality and good neighborhood, for the 
 sake of my fame; and in country sports and re¬ 
 creations, for the sake of my health. In my 
 twenty third year I was obliged to serve as she¬ 
 riff of the county ; and in my servants, officers, 
 and whole equipage indulged the pleasure of a 
 young man (who did not think ill of his own 
 person) in taking that public occasion of showing 
 my figure and behavior to advantage. You may 
 easily imagine to yourself what appearance I made, 
 who am pretty tall, rode well, and was very well 
 dressed, at the head of a whole country, with 
 music before me, a feather in my hat, and my horse 
 well bitted. I can assure you I was not a little 
 pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from 
 all the balconies and windows as I rode to the hall 
 where the assizes were held. But, when I came 
 there, a beautiful creature in a "widow's habit sat 
 in court to hear the event of a cause concerning 
 her dower. This commanding creature (who was 
 born for the destruction of all who beheld her) 
 put on such a resignation in her countenance, 
 and bore the whispers of all around the court 
 with such a pretty uneasiness, I warrant you, and 
 then recovered herself from one eye to another, 
 until she was perfectly confused by meeting some¬ 
 thing so wistful in all she encountered, that at 
 last, with a murrain to her, she cast her bewitch¬ 
 ing eye upon me. I no sooner met it but I bowed 
 like a great surprised booby; and knowing her 
 cause to be the first which came on, I cried, like 
 a captivated calf as I was, ‘ Make way for the 
 defendant’s witnesses.’ This sudden partiality 
 made all the country immediately see the sheriff 
 also was become a slave to the fine widow. Dur¬ 
 ing the time her cause was upon trial, she be¬ 
 haved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep 
 attention to her business, took opportunities to 
 have little billets handed to her counsel, then 
 would be in such a pretty confusion, occasioned, 
 you must know, by acting before so much com¬ 
 pany, that not only I, but the whole court was 
 rejudiced in her favor ; and all that the next 
 eir to her husband had to urge was thought so 
 groundless and frivolous, that when it came to 
 her counsel to reply, there was not half so much 
 said as every one beside in the court thought he 
 could have urged to her advantage. You must 
 understand, Sir, this perverse woman is one of 
 those unaccountable creatures that secretly rejoice 
 in the admiration of men, but indulge themselves 
 in no farther consequences. Hence it is that she 
 has ever had a train of admirers, and she removes 
 from her slaves in town to those in the country, 
 according to the seasons of the year. She is a 
 reading lady, and far gone in the pleasures of 
 friendship. She is always accompanied by a 
 confidant, who is witness to her daily protestations 
 against our sex, and consequently a bar to her 
 11 
 
 first steps toward love, upon the strength of her 
 own maxims and declarations. 
 
 “However, I must need say, this accomplished 
 mistress ot mine has distinguished me above the 
 rest, and has been known to declare Sir Roger de 
 Coverley was the tamest and most humane of all 
 the brutes in the country. I was told she said so 
 by one who thought he rallied me ; but upon the 
 strength of this slender encouragement of being 
 thought less detestable, I made new liveries, new- 
 paired my coach-horses, sent them all to town to 
 be bitted, and taught to throw their legs well, and 
 move all together, before I pretended to cross the 
 country, and wait upon her. As soon as I thought 
 my retinue suitable to the character of my fortune 
 and youth, I set out from hence to make my ad¬ 
 dresses. The particular skill of this lady has ever 
 been to inflame your wishes, and yet command re¬ 
 spect. To make her mistress of this art, she has 
 a greater share of knowledge, wit, and good sense 
 than is usual even among men of merit. Then 
 she is beautiful beyond tne race of women. If 
 you will not let her go on with a certain artifice 
 with her eyes, and the skill of beauty, she will 
 arm herself with her real charms, and strike you 
 with admiration instead of desire. It is certain 
 that if you were to behold the whole woman, there 
 is that dignity in her aspect, that composure in 
 her motion, that complacency in her manner, that 
 if her form makes you hope, her merit makes you 
 fear. But then again, she is such a desperate 
 scholar, that no country gentleman can approach 
 her without being a jest. As I was going to tell 
 ou, when I came to her house I was admitted to 
 er presence with great civility ; at the same time 
 she placed herself to be first seen by me in such 
 an attitude, as I think you call the posture of a 
 picture, that she discovered new charms, and I at 
 last came toward her with such an awe as made 
 me speechless. This she no sooner observed but 
 she made her advantage of it, and began a dis¬ 
 course to me concerning love and honor, as they 
 both are followed by pretenders and the real vota¬ 
 ries to them. When she discussed these points 
 in a discourse which, I verily believe, was as 
 learned as the best philosopher in Europe could 
 ossibly make, she asked me whether she was so 
 appy as to fall in with my sentiments on these 
 important particulars. Her confidant sat by her, 
 and upon my being in the last confusion and 
 silence, this malicious aid of hers, turning to her, 
 says, ‘I am very glad to observe Sir Roger pauses 
 upon this subject, and seems resolved to deliver 
 all his sentiments upon the matter when he pleases 
 to speak.’ They both kept their countenances, 
 and after I had sat half an hour meditating how 
 to behave before such profound casuists, I rose up 
 and took my leave. Chance has since that time 
 thrown me very often in her way, and she as often 
 has directed a discourse to me which I could not 
 understand. This barbarity has kept me ever at 
 a distance from the most beautiful object my eyes 
 ever beheld. It is thus also she deals with all 
 mankind, and you must make love to her as you 
 would conquer the sphinx, by posing her. But 
 were she like other women, and that there were 
 any talking to her, how constant must the pleasure 
 of that man be, who could converse with such a 
 creature. But, after all, you may be sure her 
 heart is fixed on some one or other: and yet I have 
 been credibly informed—but who can believe half 
 that is said?—after she had done speaking to me, 
 she put her hand to her bosom, and adjusted her 
 tucker: then she cast her eyes a little down, upon 
 my beholding her too earnestly. They say she 
 sings excellently: her voice in her ordinary speech 
 has something in it inexpressibly sweet. You 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 162 
 
 must know I dined with her at a public table the 
 day after I first saw her, and she helped me to 
 some tansy in the eye of all the gentlemen in the 
 country. She has certainly the finest hand of any 
 woman in the world. I can assure you, Sir, were 
 you to behold her, you would be in the same 
 condition; for as her speech is music, her form is 
 angelic. But I find I grow irregular while I am 
 talking of her ; but indeed it would be stupidity 
 to be unconcerned at such perfection. Oh, the ex¬ 
 cellent creature! she is as inimitable to all women, 
 as she is inaccessible to all men.” 
 
 I found my friend begin to rave, and insensibly 
 led him toward the house, that we might be joined 
 by some other company ; and am convinced that 
 the widow is the secret cause of all that inconsist¬ 
 ency which appears in some part of my friend’s 
 discourse ; though he has so much command of 
 himself as not directly to mention her, yet accord¬ 
 ing to that of Martial, which one knows not how 
 to render into English, durn facet hanc loquitur. I 
 shall end this paper with that whole epigram, 
 which represents with much humor my honest 
 friend’s condition :— 
 
 Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Naevia Rufo, 
 
 Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur: 
 
 Coenat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est 
 Naevia: si non sit Naevia, mutus erit 
 Scriberet hesterna, patri cum luce salutem, 
 
 Naevia lux, inquit, Naevia numen, ave.—Epig. i, 69. 
 
 Let Rufus weep, rejoice, stand, sit, or walk, 
 
 Still he can nothing hut of Naevia talk; 
 
 Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute, 
 
 Still he must speak of Naevia, or be mute. 
 
 He wrote to his father, ending with this line— 
 
 I am, my lovely Naevia, ever thine. 
 
 No. 114.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 11, 1711. 
 
 -Paupertatis pudor et fuga. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xviii, 24. 
 
 -The dread of nothing more 
 
 Than to he thought necessitous and poor.—P ooly. 
 
 Economy in our affairs has the same effect upon 
 our fortunes which good breeding has upon our 
 conversation. There is a pretending behavior 
 in both cases, which instead of making men es¬ 
 teemed, renders them both miserable and con¬ 
 temptible. We had yesterday, at Sir Roger’s, a 
 set of country gentlemen who dined with him ; 
 and after dinner the glass was taken, by those who 
 pleased, pretty plentifully. Among others I ob¬ 
 served a person of a tolerable good aspect, who 
 seemed to be more greedy of liquor than any of 
 the company, and yet methought he did not taste 
 it with delight. As he grew warm, he was suspi¬ 
 cious of everything that was said, and as he ad¬ 
 vanced toward being fuddled, his humor grew 
 worse. At the same time his bitterness seemed to 
 be rather an inward dissatisfaction in his own 
 mind, than any dislike he had taken to the com¬ 
 pany. Upon hearing his name, I knew him to be 
 a gentleman of a considerable fortune in this 
 country, but greatly in debt. What gives the un¬ 
 happy man this peevishness of spirit is, that his 
 estate is dipped, and is eating out with usury; 
 and yet he has not the heart to sell any part of it. 
 His proud stomach, at the cost of restless nights, 
 constant inquietudes, danger of affronts, and a 
 thousand nameless inconveniences, preserves this 
 canker in his fortune, rather than it shall be said 
 he is a man of fewer hundreds a year than he has 
 been commonly reputed. Thus he endures the 
 torment of poverty, to avoid the name of being 
 less rich. If you go to his house, you see great 
 plenty; but served in a manner that shows it is 
 all unnatural, and that the master’s mind is not at 
 home. There is a certain waste and carelessness 
 
 in the air of everything, and the whole appears 
 but a covered inaigence, a magnificent poverty. 
 That neatness and cheerfulness which attend the 
 table of him who lives within compass, is want¬ 
 ing, and exchanged for a libertine way of service 
 in all about him. 
 
 This gentleman’s conduct, though a very com¬ 
 mon way of management, is as ridiculous as that 
 officer’s would be, who had but few men under his 
 command, and should take the charge of an ex¬ 
 tent of country rather than of a small pass. To 
 pay for, personate, and keep in a man’s hands, a 
 greater estate than he really has, is of all others 
 the most unpardonable vanity, and must in the 
 end reduce the man who is guilty of it to dishon¬ 
 or. Yet if we look round us m any county of 
 Great Britain, we shall see many in this fatal 
 error; if that may be called by so soft a name, 
 which proceeds from a false shame of appearing 
 what they really are, when the contrary behavior 
 would in a short time advance them to the condi¬ 
 tion which they pretend to. 
 
 Laertes has fifteen hundred pounds a year; 
 which is mortgaged for six thousand pounds ; but 
 it is impossible to convince him, that if he sold as 
 much as would pay off that debt, he would save 
 four shillings in the pound,* which he gives for 
 the vanity of being the reputed master of it. Yet 
 if Laertes did this, he would perhaps be easier in 
 his own fortune ; but then Irus, a fellow of yes¬ 
 terday, who has but twelve hundred a year, would 
 be his equal. Rather than this should be, Laertes 
 goes on to bring well-born beggars into the world, 
 and every twelvemonth charges his estate with at 
 least one year’s rent more by the birth of a child. 
 
 Laertes and Irus are neighbors, whose way of 
 living are an abomination to each other. Irus is 
 moved by the fear of poverty, and Laertes by the 
 shame of it. Though the motive of action is of 
 so near affinity in both, and may be resolved into 
 this, “ that to each of them poverty is the greatest 
 of all evils,” yet are their manners widely differ¬ 
 ent. Shame of poverty makes Laertes launch into 
 unnecessary equipage, vain expense, and lavish 
 entertainments. Fear of poverty makes Irus al¬ 
 low himself only plain necessaries, appear with¬ 
 out a servant, sell his own corn, attend his labor¬ 
 ers, and be himself a laborer. Shame of poverty 
 makes Laertes go every day a step nearer to it; 
 and fear of poverty stirs up Irus to make every 
 day some farther progress from it. 
 
 These different motives produce the excesses 
 which men are guilty of in the negligence of and 
 provision for themselves. Usury, stock-jobbing, 
 extortion, and oppression, have their seed in the 
 dread of want; and vanity, riot, and prodigality, 
 from the shame of it; but both these excesses are 
 infinitely below the pursuit of a reasonable crea¬ 
 ture. After we have taken care to command so 
 much as is necessary for maintaining ourselves in 
 the order of men suitable to our character, the care 
 of superfluities is a vice no less extravagant than 
 the neglect of necessaries would have been before. 
 
 Certain it is, that they are both out of nature, 
 when she . is followed by reason and good sense. 
 It is from this reflection that I always read Mr. 
 Cowley with the greatest pleasure. His magnan¬ 
 imity is as much above that of other considerable 
 men, as his understanding ; and it is a true dis¬ 
 tinguishing spirit in the elegant abthor who pub¬ 
 lished his works, to dwell so much upon the tem¬ 
 per of his mind and the moderation of his desires. 
 By this means he has rendered his friend as amia¬ 
 ble as famous. That state of life which bears the 
 
 * Viz: the land tax. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 face of poverty with Mr. Cowley's great vulgar,* 
 is admirably described : and it is no small satis¬ 
 faction to those of the same turn of desire, that 
 he uroduces the authority of the wisest men of 
 the best age of the world, to strengthen his opin¬ 
 ion of the ordinary pursuits of mankind. 
 
 It would methinks be no ill maxim of life, if, 
 according to that ancestor of Sir Roger whom I 
 lately mentioned, every man would point to him¬ 
 self what sum he would resolve not to exceed. He 
 might by this means cheat himself into a tran¬ 
 quillity on this side of that expectation, or convert 
 what he should get above it to nobler uses than 
 his own pleasures or necessities. This temper of 
 mind would exempt a man from an ignorant envy 
 of restless men above him, and a more inexcusa- 
 sable contempt of happy men below him. This 
 would be sailing by some compass, living with 
 some design ; but to be eternally bewildered in 
 prospects of future gain, and putting on unneces¬ 
 sary armor against improbable blows of fortune, 
 is a mechanic being which has not good sense for 
 its direction, but is carried on by a sort of acquired 
 instinct toward things below our consideration, 
 and unworthy our esteem. It is possible that the 
 tranquillity I now enjoy at Sir Roger’s may have 
 created in me this way of thinking, which is so 
 abstracted from the common relish of the world: 
 but as I am now in a pleasing arbor surrounded 
 with a beautiful landscape, I find no inclination 
 so strong as to continue in these mansions so re¬ 
 mote from the ostentatious scenes of life ; and am 
 at this present writing philosopher enough to 
 conclude with Mr. Cowley: - T. 
 
 If e’er ambition did my fancy cheat 
 With any wish so mean as to be great; 
 
 Continue, Heav’n, still from me to remove 
 The humble blessings of that life I love. 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 115.] THURSDAY, JULY 12, 1711. 
 
 -Ut sit mens sana in corpore sano. 
 
 Juv., Sat. x, 356. 
 
 Pray for a sound mind in a sound body. 
 
 Bodily labor is of two kinds,—either that 
 which a man submits to for his livelihood, or that 
 which he undergoes for his pleasure. The latter 
 of them generally changes the name of labor for 
 that of exercise, but differs only from ordinary la¬ 
 bor as it rises from another motive. 
 
 A country life abounds in both these kinds of 
 labor—and for that reason gives a man a greater 
 stock of health, and consequently a more perfect 
 enjoyment of himself, than any other way of life. 
 I consider the body as a system of tubes.and 
 glands, or, to use a more rustic phrase, a bundle 
 of pipes and strainers, fitted to one another after 
 so wonderful a manner as to make a proper en¬ 
 gine for the soul to work with. This description 
 does not only comprehend the bowels, bones, ten¬ 
 dons, veins, nerves, and arteries, but every muscle, 
 and every ligature, which is a composition of 
 fibers, that are so many imperceptible tubes or 
 pipes interwoven on all sides with invisible glands 
 or strainers. 
 
 This general idea of a human body, without 
 considering it in the niceties of anatomy, lets us 
 see how absolutely necessary labor is for the right 
 preservation of it. There must be frequent mo¬ 
 tions and agitations, to mix, digest, and separate 
 the juices contained in it, as well as to clear and 
 cleanse that infinitude of pipes and strainers of 
 
 * Hence, ye profane, I hate ye all, 
 
 Both the great vulgar and the small. 
 
 Cowley’s Paraphr. of Hor. 3 Od. i. 
 
 CTATOR. 103 
 
 which it is composed, and to give their solid parts 
 a more firm and lasting tone. Labor or exercise 
 ferments the humors, casts them into their proper 
 channels, throws off redundancies, and helps na¬ 
 ture in those secret distributions, without which 
 the body cannot subsist in its vigor, nor the soul 
 act witli cheerfulness. 
 
 I might here mention the effects which this has 
 upon all the faculties of the mind, by keeping the 
 understanding clear, the imagination untroubled, 
 and refining those spirits which are necessary for 
 the proper exertion of our intellectual faculties, 
 during the present laws of union between soul and 
 body. It is to a neglect in this particular that we 
 must ascribe the spleen, which is so frequent in 
 men of studious and sedentary tempers, as well 
 as the vapors, to which those of the other sex are 
 so often subject. 
 
 Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for 
 our well-being, uature would not have made the 
 body so proper for it, by giving such an activity 
 to the limbs, and such a pliancy to every part as 
 necessarily produce those compressions, exten¬ 
 sions, contortions, dilations, and all other kinds of 
 motions that are necessary for the preservation of 
 such a system of tubes and glands as has been be¬ 
 fore mentioned. And that we might not want in¬ 
 ducements to engage us in such an exercise of the 
 body as is proper for its welfare, it is so ordered 
 that nothing valuable can be procured without it. 
 Not to mention riches and honor, even food and 
 raiment are not to be come at without the toil of 
 the hands and the sweat of the brows. Provi¬ 
 dence furnishes materials, but expects that we 
 should work them up ourselves. The earth must 
 be labored before it gives its increase ; and when 
 it is forced into its several products, how many 
 hands must they pass through before they are fit 
 for use ? Manufactures, trade, and agriculture, 
 naturally employ more than nineteen parts of the 
 species in twenty; and as for those who are not 
 obliged to labor, by the condition in which they 
 are born, they are more miserable than the rest of 
 mankind, unless they indulge themselves in that 
 voluntary labor which goes by the name of exer¬ 
 cise. 
 
 My. friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable 
 man in business of this kind, and has hung several 
 parts of his house with the trophies of his former 
 labors. The walls of his great hall are covered 
 with the horns of several kinds of deer that he 
 has killed in the chase, which he thinks the most 
 valuable furniture of his house, as they afford him 
 frequent topics of discourse, and show that he has 
 not been idle. At the lower end of the hall is a 
 large otter’s skin stuffed with hay, which his 
 mother ordered to be hung up in that manner, and 
 the knight looks upon it with great satisfaction,, 
 because it seems he was but nine years old when 
 his dog killed him. A little room adjoining to 
 the hall is a kind of arsenal filled with guns of 
 several sizes and inventions, with which the 
 knight has made great havoc in the woods, and 
 destroyed many thousands of pheasants, part¬ 
 ridges, and woodcocks. His stable-doors are 
 patched with noses that belonged to foxes of the 
 knight’s own hunting down. Sir Roger showed 
 me one of them that for distinction sake has a 
 brass nail struck through it, which cost him about 
 fifteen hours riding, carried him through half a 
 dozen counties, killed him a brace of geldings, 
 and lost above half his dogs. This the knight 
 looks upon as one of the greatest exploits of Ids 
 life. The perverse widow, whom I have given 
 some account of, was the death of several foxes ; 
 for Sir Roger has told me, that in the course of 
 his amours he patched the western door of his 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 164 
 
 stable. Whenever the "widow was cruel, the foxes 
 were sure to pay for it. In proportion as his pas¬ 
 sion for the widow abated and old age came on, he 
 loft off fox-hunting; but a hare is not yet safe that 
 sits within ten miles of his house. 
 
 There is no kind of exercise which I would so 
 recommend to my readers of both sexes as this of 
 riding, as there is none which so much conduces 
 to health, and is every way accommodated to the 
 body, according to the idea which I have given 
 of it, Doctor Sydenham is very lavish in its 
 praises; and if the English reader would see the 
 mechanical effects of it described at length, he 
 may find them in a book published not many 
 years since, under the title of Medicina Gymnastica.* 
 For my own part, when I am in town, for want 
 of these opportunities, I exercise myself an hour 
 every morning upon a dumb-bell that is placed in 
 a corner of my room, and it pleases me the more 
 because it does everything that I require of it in 
 the most profound silence. My landlady and her 
 daughters are so well acquainted with my hours 
 of exercise, that they never come into my room to 
 disturb me while I am ringing. 
 
 When I was some years younger than I am at 
 present, I used to employ myself in a more labo¬ 
 rious diversion, which I learned from a Latin trea¬ 
 tise of exercises that is written with great erudition :f 
 it is there called the fighting with a man’s own 
 shadow, and consists in the brandishing of two 
 short sticks grasped in each hand, and loaden 
 with plugs of lead at either end. This opens the 
 chest, exercises the limbs, and gives a man all the 
 pleasure of boxing, without the blows. I could 
 wish that several learned men would lay out that 
 time which they employ in controversies and dis¬ 
 putes about nothing, in this method of fighting 
 with their own shadows. It might conduce very 
 much to evaporate the spleen, which makes them 
 uneasy to the public as well as to themselves. 
 
 To conclude, as I am a compound of soul and 
 body, I consider myself as obliged to a double 
 scheme of duties; and think I have not fulfilled 
 the business of the day when I do not thus employ 
 the one in labor and exercise, as well as the other 
 in study and contemplation. 
 
 No. 116.] FRIDAY, JULY 13, 1711. 
 
 -Vocat ingenti clamore Cithaeron, 
 
 Taygetique canes.— Virg. Georg, iii, 43. 
 
 The echoing hills and chiding hounds invite. 
 
 Those who have searched into human nature ob¬ 
 serve that nothing so much shows the nobleness 
 of the soul, as that its felicity consists in action. 
 Every man has such an active principle in him,/ 
 that he will find out something to employ himself 
 upon, in whatever place or state of life he is 
 posted. I have heard of a gentleman who was 
 under close confinement in the Bastile seven years, 
 during which time he amused himself in scatter¬ 
 ing a few small pins about his chamber, gathering 
 them up again, and placing them in different 
 figures on the arm of a great chair. He often told 
 his friends afterward, that unless he had found 
 out this piece of exercise, he verily believed he 
 should have lost his senses. 
 
 After what has been said, I need not inform my 
 readers that Sir Roger, with whose character I 
 hope they are at present pretty well acquainted, 
 has in his youth gone through the whole course 
 of those rural diversions which the country 
 
 * By Francis Fuller, M. A. 
 
 -j- This is Hieronymus Mercurialis’s celebrated book, Artis 
 Gymnasticse apud Antiquos, etc. Libri sex. Venet., 1569, 
 4to. See lib. iv, cap. 5, and lib. vi, cap. 2. 
 
 abounds in; and which seem to be extremely well 
 suited to that laborious industry a man may ob¬ 
 serve here in a far greater degree than in towns 
 and cities. I have before hinted at some of my 
 friend’s exploits: he has in his youthful days taken 
 forty coveys of partridges in a season; and tired 
 many a salmon with a line consisting of but a 
 single hair. The constant thanks and good wishes 
 of the neighborhood always attended him on ac¬ 
 count of his remarkable enmity toward foxes ; 
 having destroyed more of these vermin in one 
 year, than it was thought the whole country could 
 have produced. Indeed the knight does not scru¬ 
 ple to own among his most intimate friends, that 
 in order to establish his reputation this way, he 
 has secretly sent for great numbers of them out of 
 other countries, which he used to turn loose about 
 the country by night, that he might the better 
 signalize himself in their destruction the next day. 
 His hunting horses were the finest and best man¬ 
 aged in all these parts. His tenants are still full 
 of the praises of a gray stone-horse that unhap- 
 ily staked himself several years since, and was 
 uried with great solemnity in the orchard. 
 
 Sir Roger being at present too old for fox-hunt 
 ing, to keep himself in action, has disposed of 
 his beagles and got a pack of stop-hounds. What 
 these want in speed, he endeavors to make amends 
 for by the deepness of their mouths and the va¬ 
 riety of their notes, which are suited in such a 
 manner to each other, that the whole cry makes 
 up a complete concert. He is so nice in this par¬ 
 ticular, that a gentleman having made him a pre¬ 
 sent of a very fine hound the other day, the knight 
 returned it by the servant with a great many ex¬ 
 pressions of civility ; but desired him to tell his 
 master that the dog he had sent was indeed a most 
 excellent bass, but that at present he only wanted 
 a counter-tenor. Could I believe my friend had 
 ever read Shakspeare, I should certainly conclude 
 he had taken the hint from Theseus in the Mid- 
 summer Night’s Dream :— 
 
 My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
 
 So Su’d,* so sanded;! and their heads are hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning dew. 
 Crook’d-kneed and dew-lap’d like Thessalian bulls, 
 
 Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouths like bells, 
 
 Each under each. A cry more tunable 
 Was never halloo’d to, nor cheer’d with horn. 
 
 Sir Roger is so keen at this sport, that he has 
 been out almost every day since I came down; and 
 upon the chaplain’s offering to lend me his easy 
 pad, I was prevailed on yesterday morning to 
 make one of the company. I was extremely 
 pleased, as we rode along, to observe the general 
 benevolence of all the neighborhood toward my 
 friend. The farmers’ sons thought themselves 
 happy if they could open a gate for the good old 
 knight as he passed by; which he generally re¬ 
 quited with a nod or a smile, and a kind inquiry 
 after their fathers or uncles. 
 
 After we had ridden about a mile from home, 
 we came upon a large heath, and the sportsmen 
 began to beat. They had done so for some time, 
 when, as I was at a little distance from the rest of 
 the company, I saw a hare pop out from a small 
 furze-brake almost under my horse’s feet. I mark¬ 
 ed the way she took, which I endeavored to make 
 the company sensible of by extending my arm ; 
 but to no purpose, till Sir Roger, who knows that 
 none of my extraordinary motions are insignifi¬ 
 cant, rode up to me and asked me if puss was 
 gone that way? Upon my answering yes, he im¬ 
 mediately called in the dogs, and put them upon 
 the scent. As they were going off, I heard one 
 of the country fellows muttering to his companion, 
 
 * Mouthed, chapped. f Marked with small spots. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “that ’twas a wonder they had not lost all their 
 Bport, for want of the silent gentleman’s crying, 
 Stole away.” 
 
 This, with my aversion to leaping hedges, made 
 me withdraw to a rising ground, from whence I 
 could have the pleasure of the whole chase, with¬ 
 out the fatigue of keeping in with the hounds. 
 The hare immediately threw them above a mile 
 behind her; but I was pleased to find that, instead 
 of running straight forward, or, in hunter’s lan¬ 
 guage, “flying the country,” as I was afraid she 
 might have done, she wheeled about, and de¬ 
 scribed a sort of circle round the hill where I had 
 taken my station, in such a manner as gave me a 
 very distinct view of the sport. I could see her 
 first pass by, and the dogs some time afterward 
 unraveling the whole track she had made, and 
 following her through all her doubles, I was at 
 the same time delighted in observing that defer¬ 
 ence which the rest of the pack paid to each par¬ 
 ticular hound, according to the character he had 
 acquired among them. If they were at fault, and 
 an old hound of reputation opened but once, he 
 was immediately followed by the whole cry; while 
 a raw dog, or one who was a noted liar, might 
 have yelped his heart out, without being taken 
 notice of. 
 
 The hare now, after having squatted two or 
 three times, and being put up again as often, came 
 still nearer to the place where she was at first 
 started. The dogs pursued her, and these were 
 followed by the jolly knight, who rode upon a 
 white gelding, encompassed by his tenants and 
 servants, and cheering his hounds with all the 
 gayety of five-and-twenty. One of the sportsmen 
 rode up to me, and told me, that he was sure the 
 chase was almost at an end, because the old 
 dogs, which had hitherto lain behind, now headed 
 the pack. The fellow was in the right. Our hare 
 took a large field just under us, followed by the 
 full cry in view. I must confess the brightness 
 of the weather, the cheerfulness of everything 
 around me, the chiding of the hounds, which was 
 returned upon us in a double echo from two neigh¬ 
 boring hills, with the hallooing of the sportsmen, 
 and the sounding of the horn, lifted my spirits 
 into a most lively pleasure, which I freely in¬ 
 dulged because I -was sure it was innocent. If I 
 was under any concern, it was on account of the 
 poor hare, that was now quite spent, and almost 
 within the reach of her enemies; when the hunts¬ 
 man getting forward, threw down his pole before 
 the dogs. They were now within eight yards of 
 that game which they had been pursuing for almost 
 as many hours; yet on the signal before-mentioned 
 they all made a sudden stand, and though they 
 continued opening as much as before, durst not 
 once attempt to pass beyond the pole. At the 
 same time Sir Roger rode forward, and alighting, 
 took up the hare in his arms; which he soon after 
 delivered up to one of his servants with an order 
 if she could be kept alive, to let her go in his great 
 orchard ; where it seems he has several of these 
 prisoners of war, who live together in a very com¬ 
 fortable captivity. I was highly pleased to see 
 the discipline of the pack, and the good-nature of 
 the knight, who could not find in his heart to 
 murder a creature that had given him so much 
 diversion. 
 
 As we were returning home, I remembered that 
 Monsieur Paschal, in his most excellent discourse 
 on the Misery of Man, tells us, that all our endea¬ 
 vors after greatness proceed from nothing but a 
 desire of being surrounded by a multitude of per¬ 
 sons and affairs that may hinder us from looking 
 into ourselves, which is a view we cannot bear. 
 He afterward goes on to show that our love of 
 
 165 
 
 sports comes from the same reason, and is par¬ 
 ticularly severe upon hunting. “What,” says he, 
 “unless it be to urown thought, can make them 
 throw awav so much time and pains upon a silly 
 animal, which they might biiy cheaper in the 
 market?” The foregoing reflection is certainly 
 just, when a man suffers his whole mind to be 
 drawn into liis sports, and altogether loses him¬ 
 self in the woods ; but does not affect those who 
 propose afar more laudable end from this exercise, 
 J mean the preservation of health, and keeping 
 all the organs of the soul in a condition to execute 
 her orders. Had that incomparable person whom 
 I last quoted been a little more indulgent to him¬ 
 self in this point, the world might probably have 
 enjoyed him much longer; whereas, through too 
 great an application to his studies in his youth, 
 he Contracted that ill habit of body, which, after 
 a tedious sickness, carried him off in the fortieth 
 year of his age; and the whole history we have of 
 his life till that time, is but one continued account 
 of the behavior of a noble soul struggling under 
 innumerable pains and distempers. 
 
 For my own part, I intend to hunt twice a week 
 during my stay with Sir Roger; and shall pre¬ 
 scribe the moderate use of this exercise to all my 
 country friends, as the best kind of physic for 
 mending a bad constitution, and preserving a 
 good one. 
 
 I cannot do this better, than in the following 
 lines out of Mr. Dryden : 
 
 The first physicians by debauch were made; 
 
 Excess began, and Sloth sustains the trade. 
 
 By chase our long-liv’d fathers earn’d their food; 
 
 Toil strung the nerves, and purifi’d the blood: 
 
 But we their sons, a pamper’d race of men, 
 
 Are dwindled down to three-score years and ten. 
 
 Better to hunt in fields for health unbought, 
 
 Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. 
 
 The wise for cure on exercise depend; 
 
 God never made his work for man to mend. 
 
 X. 
 
 Ho. 117] SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1711. 
 
 -Ipsi sibi somnia fingunt.— Tiro., Eel. viii, 108. 
 
 With voluntary dreams they cheat their minds. 
 
 There are some opinions in which a man 
 should stand neuter, without engaging his assent 
 to one side or the other. Such a hovering faith 
 as this, which refuses to settle upon his determi¬ 
 nation, is absolutely necessary in a mind that is 
 careful to avoid errors and prepossessions. When 
 the arguments press equally on both sides in mat¬ 
 ters that are indifferent to us, the safest method is 
 to give up ourselves to neither. 
 
 It is with this temper of mind that I consider 
 the subject of witchcraft. Whenever I hear the 
 relations that are made from all parts of the 
 world, not only from Norway and Lapland, from 
 the East and West Indies, but from every partic¬ 
 ular nation in Europe, I cannot forbear thinking 
 that there is such an intercourse and commerce 
 with evil spirits, as that which we express by the 
 name of witchcraft. But when I consider that the 
 ignorant and credulous parts of the world abound 
 most in these relations, and the persons among 
 us, who are supposed to engage in such an infer¬ 
 nal commerce, are people of a weak understanding 
 and crazed imagination—and at the same time 
 reflect upon the many impostures and delusions 
 of this nature that have been detected in all ages, 
 I endeavor to suspend my belief till I hear more 
 certain accounts than any which have yet come 
 to my knowledge. In short, when I consider the 
 question, whether there are such persons in the 
 world as those we call witches, my mind is di¬ 
 vided between two opposite opinions, or rather 
 
16( 5 THE SPE( 
 
 (to speak ray thoughts freely) I believe in general 
 that there is, and has been, such a thing as witch¬ 
 craft ; but at the same time can give no credit to 
 any particular instance of it. 
 
 I am engaged in this speculation, by some oc¬ 
 currences that I met with yesterday, which I shall 
 give my reader an account of at large. As I was 
 walking with my friend Sir Roger by the side ot^ 
 one of his woods, an old woman applied herself 
 to me for my charity. Her dress and figure put 
 me in mind of the following description in Ot¬ 
 way : 
 
 In a close lane, as I pursu’d my journey, 
 
 I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double, 
 
 Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself. 
 
 Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall’d and red; 
 
 Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem’d wither’d; 
 And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapt 
 The tatter’d remnant of an old striped hanging, 
 
 Which served to keep her carcass from the cold: 
 
 So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
 
 Her lower weeds were all o’er coarsely patch’d 
 With different color’d rags, black, red, white, yellow, 
 
 And seem’d to speak variety of wretchedness. 
 
 As I was musing on this description, and com¬ 
 paring it with the object before me, the knight 
 told me, that this very old woman had the repu¬ 
 tation of a witch all over the country ; that her 
 lips were observed to be always in motion ; and 
 that there was not a switch about her house which 
 her neighbors did not believe had carried her sev¬ 
 eral hundreds of miles. If she chanced to stum¬ 
 ble, they always found sticks or straws that lay 
 in the figure of a cross before her. If she made 
 any mistake at church, and cried amen in a wrong 
 place, they never failed to conclude that she was 
 saying her prayers backward. There was not a 
 maid in the parish that would take a pin of her, 
 though she should offer a bag of money with it. 
 She goes by the name of Moll White, and has 
 made the country ring with several imaginary ex¬ 
 ploits which are palmed upon her. If the dairy¬ 
 maid does not make her butter come so soon as 
 she would have it, Moll White is at the bottom of 
 the churn. If a horse sweats in the stable, Moll 
 White has been upon his back. If a hare makes 
 an unexpected escape from the hounds, the hunts¬ 
 man curses Moll White. “Nay,” says Sir Ro¬ 
 ger, “ I have known the master of the pack, upon 
 such an occasion, send one of his servants to see 
 if Moll White had been out that morning.” 
 
 This account raised my curiosity so far, that I 
 begged my friend Sir Roger to go with me into 
 her hovel, which stood in a solitary corner under 
 the side of the wood. Upon our first entering, 
 Sir Roger winked to me, and pointed to something 
 that stood behind the door, which, upon looking 
 that way, I found to be an old broom-staff. At 
 the same time he whispered me in the ear to take 
 notice of a tabby cat that sat in the chimney cor¬ 
 ner, which, as the old knight told me, lay under 
 as bad a report as Moll White herself ; for beside 
 that Moll is said often to accompany her in the 
 same shape, the cat is reported to have spoken 
 twice or thrice in her life, and to have played sev¬ 
 eral pranks above the capacity of an ordinary 
 cat. 
 
 I was secretly concerned to see human nature 
 in so much wretchedness and disgrace, but at the 
 same time could not forbear smiling to hear Sir 
 Roger, who is n little puzzled about the old wo¬ 
 man, advising her as a justice of peace to avoid 
 all communication with the devil, and never to 
 hurt any of her neighbor’s cattle. We concluded 
 our visit with a bounty which was very accept¬ 
 able. 
 
 In our return home Sir Roger told me that old 
 Moll had been often brought before him for ma- 
 
 1TATOR. 
 
 king children spit pins, and giving maids the 
 nightmare ; and that the country people would be 
 tossing her into a pond and trying experiments 
 with her every day, if it was not for him and his 
 chaplain. 
 
 1 have since found upon inquiry that Sir Roger 
 was several times staggered with the reports that 
 had been brought him concerning this old woman, 
 and would frequently have bound her over to the 
 county sessions, had not his chaplain with much 
 ado persuaded him to the contrary. 
 
 I have been the more particular in this account, 
 because I hear there is scarcely a village in England 
 that has not a Moll White in it. When an old 
 woman begins to doat, and grow chargeable to a 
 parish, she is generally turned into a witch, and 
 fills the whole country with extravagant fancies, 
 imaginary distempers, and terrifying dreams. In 
 the meantime, the poor wretch that is the innocent 
 occasion of so many evils, begins to be frighted at 
 herself, and sometimes confesses secret commerces 
 and familiarities that her imagination forms in a 
 delirious old age. This frequently cuts oft’ charity 
 from the greatest objects of compassion, and in¬ 
 spires people with a malevolence toward those 
 poor decrepid parts of our species, in whom hu¬ 
 man nature is defaced by infirmity and dotage.—L 
 
 No. 118.] MONDAY, JULY 16, 1711. 
 
 - H;eret lateri lethalis arundo.— Virg., Ain. iv, 73. 
 
 -The fatal dart 
 
 Sticks in his side, and rankles in his heart.— Dryden. 
 
 This agreeable seat is surrounded with so many- 
 pleasing walks, which are struck out of a wood, 
 in the midst of which the house stands, that one 
 can hardly be weary of rambling from one laby¬ 
 rinth of delight to another. To one used to live in 
 the city, the charms of the country are so exquisite 
 that the mind is lost in a certain transport which 
 raises us above ordinary life, and yet is not strong 
 enough to be inconsistent with tranquillity. This 
 state of mind was I in—ravished with the mur¬ 
 mur of waters, the whisper of breezes, the sing¬ 
 ing of birds ; and whether I looked up to the hea¬ 
 vens, down on the earth, 6r turned to the prospects 
 around me, still struck with new sense of plea¬ 
 sure ; when I found by the voice of my friend, 
 who walked by me, that we had insensibly strolled 
 into the grove sacred to the widow. “ This wo¬ 
 man,” says he, “ is of all others the most unintel¬ 
 ligible; she either designs to marry or she does not. 
 What is the most perplexing of all is, that she 
 doth not either say to her lovers she has any res¬ 
 olution against that condition of life in general, 
 or that she banishes them ; but conscious of her 
 own merit, she permits their addresses, without 
 fear of any ill consequence, or want of respect, 
 from their rage or despair. She has that in her as¬ 
 pect against which it is impossible to offend. A 
 man whose thoughts are constantly bent upon so 
 agreeable an object, must be excused if the ordinary 
 occurrences in conversation are below his atten¬ 
 tion. I call her indeed perverse, but, alas ! why 
 do I call her so ?—because her superior merit is 
 such, that I cannot approach her without awe— 
 that my heart is checked by too much esteem : I 
 am angry that her charms are not more accessible, 
 that I am mqre inclined to worship than salute 
 her. How often have I wished her unhappy, that 
 I might have an opportunity of serving her! and 
 how often troubled in that very imagination at 
 giving her the pain of being obliged! Well, I 
 have led a miserable life in secretupon her account; 
 but fancy she would have condescended to have 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 some regard for me, if it had not been tor that 
 watchful animal her confidant. 
 
 “ Of all persons under the sun” (continued he, 
 (Killing me by my name), “be sure to set a mark 
 upon confidants: they are of all people the most 
 impertinent. What is most pleasaut to observe in 
 them is, that they assume to themselves the merit 
 of persons whom they have in their custody. Or- 
 estilla is a great fortune, and in wonderful dan¬ 
 ger of surprises, therefore full of suspicious of the 
 feast indifferent thing, particularly careful of new 
 acquaintance, and of growing too familiar with 
 the old. Thermista, her favorite woman, is every 
 whit as careful of whom she speaks to, and what 
 she says. Let the ward be a beauty, her confidant 
 shall treat you with an air of distance; let her be 
 a fortune, and she assumes the suspicious beha¬ 
 vior of her friend and patroness, thus it is that 
 very many of our unmarried women of distinction 
 are to all intents and purposes married, except the 
 consideration of different sexes. They are directly 
 under the conduct of their whisperer ; and think 
 they are in a state of freedom, while they can 
 prate with one of these attendants of all men in 
 general, and still avoid the man they most like. 
 You do not see one heiress in a hundred whose 
 fate does not turn upon this circumstance of choos¬ 
 ing a confidant. Thus it is that the lady is ad¬ 
 dressed to, presented, and flattered only by proxy, 
 in her woman. In my case, how is it possible 
 that-” Sir Roger was proceeding in his ha¬ 
 
 rangue, when we heard the voice of one speaking 
 very importunately, and repeating these words, 
 “ What, not one smile?” We followed the sound 
 till we came to a close thicket, on the other side of 
 which we saw a young woman sitting as it were 
 in a personated sullenness just over a transparent 
 fountain. Opposite to her stood Mr. William, Sir 
 Roger’s master of the game. The knight whis¬ 
 pered me, “ Hist, these are lovers.’ The hunts¬ 
 man looking earnestly at the shadow of the young 
 maiden in the stream—“Othou dear picture, if 
 thou couldst remain there in the absence of that 
 fair creature whom you represent in the water, 
 how willingly could I stand here satisfied forever, 
 without troubling my dear Betty herself with any 
 mention of her unfortunate William, whom she is 
 angry with! But alas! when she pleases to be 
 gone, thou wilt also vanish—yet let me talk to 
 thee while thou dost stay. Tell my dearest Betty 
 thou dost not more depend upon her, than does 
 her William ; her absence will make away with 
 me as well as thee. If she offers to remove thee, 
 I will jump into these waves to lay hold on thee— 
 herself, her own dear person, I must never em¬ 
 brace again. Still do you hear me without one 
 smile—it is too much to bear.” He had no soon¬ 
 er spoken these words, but he made an offer of 
 throwing himself into the water: at which his 
 mistress started up, and at the next instant he 
 jumped across the fountain, and met. her in an em¬ 
 brace. She, half recovering from her fright, said 
 in the most charming voice imaginable, and with 
 a tone of complaint, “1 thought how well you 
 would drown yourself. No, no, you will not 
 drown yourself till you have taken your leave of 
 Susan Holiday.” The huntsman, with a tender¬ 
 ness that spoke the most passionate love, and 
 with his cheek close to hers, whispered the softest 
 vows of fidelity in her ear, and cried, “ Do not, 
 mv dear, believe a word Kate Willow says ; she is 
 spiteful, and makes stories, because she loves to 
 hear me talk to herself for your sake.” “Look you 
 there ” quoth Sir Roger, “do you see there, all mis¬ 
 chief comes from confidants ! But let.us not inter¬ 
 rupt them; the maid is honest, and the man dare 
 not be otherwise, for he knows I loved her lather: I 
 
 167 
 
 will interpose in this matter, and hasten the wed¬ 
 ding. Kate Willow is a witty, mischievous wench 
 in the neighborhood, who was a beauty ; and 
 makes me hope I shall see the perverse widow in 
 her condition. She was so flippant in her answers 
 to all the honest fellows that came near her, and 
 so very vain of her beauty, that she has valued 
 herself upon her charms till they have ceased.— 
 She therefore now makes it her business to pre¬ 
 vent other young women from being more discreet 
 than she was herself: however, the saucy thing 
 said the other day well enough, ‘ Sir Roger and I 
 must make a match, for we are both despised by 
 those we loved.’ The hussy has a great deal of 
 power wherever she comes, and has her share of 
 cunning. 
 
 “ However, when I reflect upon this woman, I 
 do not know whether in the main I am the worse 
 for having loved her : whenever she is recalled to 
 my imagination, my youth returns, and I feel a 
 forgotten warmth in my veins. This affliction in 
 my life has streaked all my conduct with a soft¬ 
 ness, of which I should otherwise have been inca¬ 
 pable. It is owing, perhaps, to this dear image in 
 my heart that I am apt to relent, that I easily for¬ 
 give, and that many desirable things are grown 
 into my temper, which I should not have arrived 
 at by better motives than the thought of being 
 one day hers. I am pretty well satisfied such a 
 passion as I have had is never well cured ; and 
 between you and me, I am often apt to imagine it 
 has had some whimsical effect upon my brain: 
 for I frequently find, that in my most serious dis¬ 
 course I let fall some comical familiarity of speech 
 or odd phrase that makes the company laugh. 
 However, I cannot but allow she is a most excel¬ 
 lent woman. When she is in the country, I war¬ 
 rant she does not run into dairies, but reads upon 
 the nature of plants : she has a glass hive, and 
 comes into the garden out of books to see them 
 work, and observe the policies of their common¬ 
 wealth. She understands everything. I would 
 give ten pounds to hear her argue with my friend 
 Sir Andrew Freeport about trade. No, no, for all 
 she looks so innocent as it were, take my word for 
 it she is no fool.”—T. 
 
 No. 119.] TUESDAY, JULY 17, 1711. 
 
 Urbem quam dicunt Roman, Meliboee, putavi 
 Stultus ego huic nostras similem- Yirg., Eel. i, 20. 
 
 The city men call Rome, unskillful clown, 
 
 I thought resembled this our humble town.—Y\ arton. 
 
 The first and most obvious reflections which 
 arise in a man who changes the city for the coun¬ 
 try, are upon the different manners of the people 
 whom he meets with in those two different scenes 
 of life. By manners I do not mean morals, but 
 behavior and good-breeding, as they show them¬ 
 selves in the town and in the country. 
 
 And here in the first place I must observe a very 
 great revolution that has happened in this article 
 of good-breeding. Several obliging deferences, 
 condescensions, and submissions, with many out¬ 
 ward forms and ceremonies that accompany them, 
 were first of all brought up among the politer part 
 of mankind, who lived in courts and cities, and 
 distinguished themselves from the rustic part of 
 the species (who on all occasions acted bluntly 
 and naturally) by such a mutual complaisance 
 and intercourse of civilities. These forms of con¬ 
 versation by degrees multiplied and grew trouble¬ 
 some ; the "modish world found too great a con¬ 
 straint in them, and have therefore thrown most 
 of them aside. Conversation, like the Romish 
 religion, was so encumbered with show and cere- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 168 
 
 mony, that it stood in need of a reformation to 
 retrench its superfluities, and restore it to its 
 natural good sense and beauty. At present, there¬ 
 fore, an unconstrained carriage, and a certain 
 openness of behavior, are the height of good¬ 
 breeding. The fashionable world is grown free 
 and easy; our manners sit more loosely upon us. 
 Nothing is so modish as an agreeable negligence. 
 In a word, good-breeding shows itself most, where 
 to an ordinary eye it appears the least. 
 
 If after this we look on the people of mode 
 in the country, we find in them the manners of 
 the last age. They have no sooner fetched them¬ 
 selves up to the fashions of the polite world, but 
 the town has dropped them, and are nearer to the 
 first state of nature, than to those refinements 
 which formerly reigned in the court, and still 
 prevailed in the country. One may now know a 
 man that never conversed in the world, by his 
 excess of good-breeding. A polite country esquire 
 shall make you as many bows in half an hour, as 
 would serve a courtier for a week. There is infin¬ 
 itely more to do about place and precedency in a 
 meeting of justices’ wives, than in an assembly of 
 duchesses. 
 
 This rural politeness is very troublesome to a 
 man of my temper, who generally take the chair 
 that is next me, and walk first or last, in the front 
 or in the rear, as chance directs. I Jiave known my 
 friend Sir Roger’s dinner almost cold before the 
 company could adjust the ceremonial, and be pre¬ 
 vailed upon to sit down ; and have heartily pitied 
 my old friend, when I have seen him forced to 
 pick and cull his guests, as they sat at the several 
 parts of his table, that he might drink their healths 
 according to their respective ranks and Qualities. 
 Honest Will Wimble, who I should have thought 
 had been altogether uninfected with ceremony, 
 
 f ives me abundance of trouble in this particular. 
 
 'hough he has been fishing all the morning, he 
 will not help himself at dinner till I am served. 
 When we are going out of the hall, he runs behind 
 me; and last night as we were walking into the 
 fields, stopped short at a stile until I came up to 
 it, and upon my making signs to him to get over, 
 told me with a serious smile, that sure I believed 
 they had no manners in the country. 
 
 There has happened another revolution in the 
 point of good-breeding, which relates to the con¬ 
 versation among men of mode, and which I can¬ 
 not but look upon as very extraordinary. It was 
 certainly one of the first distinctions of a well- 
 bred man to express everything that had the 
 most remote appearance of being obscene, in mod¬ 
 est terms and distant phrases ; while the clown, 
 who had no such delicacy of conception and ex¬ 
 pression, clothed his ideas in those plain, homely 
 terms that are the most obvious and natural. 
 This kind of good manners was perhaps carried 
 to an excess, so as to make conversation too stiff, 
 formal, and precise : for which reason (as hypo¬ 
 crisy in one age is generally succeeded by atheism 
 in another) conversation is in a great measure re¬ 
 lapsed into the first extreme; so that at present sev¬ 
 eral of our men of the town, and particularly those 
 who have been polished in France, make use of the 
 most coarse, uncivilized words in our language, 
 and utter themselves often in such a manner as a 
 clown would blush to hear. 
 
 This infamous piece of good-breeding, which 
 reigns among the coxcombs of the town, has not 
 yet made its way into the country: and as it is 
 impossible for such an irrational way of conver¬ 
 sation to last long among a people that make any 
 profession of religion, or show of modesty, if 
 the country gentlemen get into it, they will cer¬ 
 tainly be left in the lurch. Their good-breeding 
 
 will come too late to them, and they will be 
 thought a parcel of lewd clowns, while they fan¬ 
 cy themselves talking together like men of wit 
 and pleasure. 
 
 As the two points of good-breeding, which I 
 have hitherto insisted upon, regard behavior and 
 conversation, there is a third which turns upon 
 dress. In this, too, the country are very much 
 behindhand. The rural beaux are not yet got out 
 of the fashion that took place at the time of the 
 revolution, but ride about the country in red coats 
 and laced hats, while the women in many parts 
 are still trying to outvie one another in the height 
 of their head-dresses. 
 
 But a friend of mine, who is now upon the 
 western circuit, having promised to give me an 
 account of the several modes and fashions that 
 prevail in the different parts of the nation through 
 which he passes, I shall defer the enlarging upon 
 this last topic till I have received a letter from 
 him, which I expect every post.—L. 
 
 No. 120.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 18, 1711. 
 
 -Equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis 
 
 Ingeniuru- Virg., Georg, i, 415. 
 
 -1 deem their breasts inspir’d 
 
 With a divine sagacity.- 
 
 My friend Sir Roger is very often merry with 
 me upon my passing so much of my time among 
 his poultry. He has caught me twice or thrice 
 looking after a bird’s nest, and several times sit¬ 
 ting an hour or two together near a hen and chick¬ 
 ens. He tells me he believes I am personally 
 acquainted with every fowl about his house ; calls 
 such a particular cock my favorite; and frequently 
 complains that his ducks and geese have more of 
 my company than himself. 
 
 I must confess I am infinitely delighted with 
 those speculations of nature which are to be made 
 in a country life; and as my reading has very 
 much lain among books of natural history, I can¬ 
 not forbear recollecting upon this occasion the 
 several remarks which I have met with in authors, 
 and comparing them with what falls under my 
 own observation : the arguments for Providence 
 drawn from the natural history of animals being 
 in my opinion demonstrative. 
 
 The make of every kind of animal is different 
 from that of every other kind ; and yet there is 
 not the least turn in the muscles or twist in the 
 fibers of any one, which does not render them 
 more proper for that particular animal’s way of 
 life than any other cast or texture of them would 
 have been. 
 
 The most violent appetites in all creatures are 
 lust and hunger. The first is a perpetual call 
 upon them to propagate their kind ; the latter to 
 preserve themselves. 
 
 It is astonishing to consider the different de¬ 
 grees of care that descend from the parent to the 
 young, so far as it is absolutely necessary for the 
 leaving a posterity. Some creatures cast their 
 eggs as chance directs them, and think of them 
 no farther ; as insects and several kinds of fish. 
 Others, of a nicer frame, find out proper beds to 
 deposit them in, and there leave them ; as the 
 serpent, the crocodile, and ostrich : others hatch 
 their eggs and tend the birth till it is liable to 
 shift for itself. 
 
 What can we call the principle which directs 
 every different kind of bird to observe a particular 
 plan in the structure of its nest, and directs all 
 the same species to work after the same model ? It 
 cannot be imitation ; for though you hatch a crow 
 under a hen, and never let it see any of the works 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 of its own kind, the nest it makes shall be the 
 same, to the laying of a stick, with all the other 
 nests of the same species. It cannot be reason ; 
 for were animals indued with it to as great a de¬ 
 gree as man, their buildings would be as different 
 as ours, according to the different conveniences 
 that they would propose to themselves. 
 
 Is it not remarkable that the same temper of 
 weather, which raises this genial warmth in ani¬ 
 mals, should cover the trees with leaves, and the 
 fields with grass, for their security and conceal¬ 
 ment and produce such infinite swarms of insects 
 for the support and sustenance of their respective 
 broods ? 
 
 Is it not wonderful that the love of the parent 
 should be so violent while it lasts, and that it 
 should last no longer than is necessary for the 
 preservation of the young ? 
 
 The violence of this natural love is exempli¬ 
 fied by a very barbarous experiment; which I 
 shall quote at length, as I find it in an excellent 
 author, and hope my readers will pardon the men¬ 
 tioning such an instance of cruelty; because there 
 is nothing can so effectually show the strength of 
 that principle in animals of which I am here 
 speaking. “A person, who was well skilled in 
 dissections, opened a bitch, and as she lay in the 
 most exquisite tortures, offered her one of her 
 young puppies, which she immediately fell a lick¬ 
 ing ; and for the time seemed insensible of her 
 own pain. On the removal, she kept her eye fixed 
 on it, and began a wailing sort of cry, which 
 seemed rather to proceed from the loss of her 
 young one, than the sense of her own torments.” 
 
 But notwithstanding this natural love in brutes 
 is much more violent and intense than in rational 
 creatures, Providence has taken care that it should 
 be no longer troublesome to the parent than it is 
 useful to the young : for so soon as the wants of 
 the latter cease, the mother withdraws her fond¬ 
 ness, and leaves them to provide for themselves ; 
 and what is a very remarkable circumstance in 
 this part of instinct, we find that the love of the 
 parent may be lengthened beyond its usual time, 
 if the preservation of the species requires it; as 
 we may see in birds that drive away their young 
 as soon as they are able to get their livelihood, 
 but continue to feed them if they are tied to the 
 nest, or confined within a cage, or by any other 
 means appear to be out of a condition of supply¬ 
 ing their own necessities. 
 
 This natural love is not observed in animals to 
 ascend from the young to the parent, which is not 
 at all necessary for the continuance of the species ; 
 nor indeed in reasonable creatures does it rise in 
 any proportion, as it spreads itself downward ; 
 for in all family affection we find protection grant¬ 
 ed and favors bestowed, are greater motives to 
 love and tenderness, than safety, benefits, or life 
 received. 
 
 One would wonder to hear skeptical men dis¬ 
 puting for the reason of animals, and telling us it 
 is only our pride and prejudices that will not al¬ 
 low them the use of that faculty. 
 
 Reason shows itself in all occurrences of life ; 
 whereas the brute makes no discovery of such a 
 talent, but in what immediately regards his own 
 
 preservation or the continuance of his species._ 
 
 Animals in their generation are wiser than the 
 sons of men ; but their wisdom is confined to a 
 fev particulars, and lies in a very narrow compass. 
 Take a brute out of his instinct, and you find him 
 wholly deprived of understanding. To use an 
 instance that comes often under observation : 
 
 With what caution does the hen provide herself 
 a nest in places unfrequented, and free from noise 
 and disturbance ! when she has laid her eggs in 
 
 169 
 
 such a manner than she can cover them, what care 
 does she take in turning them frequently, that all 
 parts may partake of the vital warmth! when she 
 leaves them, to provide for her necessary suste¬ 
 nance, how punctually does she return before they 
 have time to cool, and become incapable of pro¬ 
 ducing an animal! In the summer you see her 
 giving herself greater freedoms, and quitting her 
 care for above two hours together ; but in winter, 
 when the rigor of the season would chill the prin¬ 
 ciples of life, and destroy the young one, she 
 grows more assiduous in her attendance, and stays 
 away but half the time. When the birth ap¬ 
 proaches, with how much nicety and attention 
 does she help the chick to break its prison ! not 
 to take notice of her covering it from the injuries 
 of the weather, providing it proper nourishment, 
 and teaching it to help itself ; not to mention her 
 forsaking the nest, if after the usual time of reck¬ 
 oning the young one does not make its appear¬ 
 ance. A chemical operation could not be follow¬ 
 ed with greater art or diligence, than is seen in 
 the hatching of a chick; though there are many 
 birds that show an infinitely greater sagacity in 
 all the forementioned particulars. 
 
 But at the same time the hen, that has all this 
 seeming ingenuity (which is indeed absolutely 
 necessary for the propagation of the species), 
 considered in other respects, is without the least 
 glimmering of thought or common sense. She mis¬ 
 takes a piece of chalk for an egg, and sits upon it 
 in the same manner. She is insensible of any in¬ 
 crease or diminution in the number of those she 
 lays. She does not distinguish between her own 
 and those of another species ; and when the birth 
 appears of never so different a bird, will cherish 
 it for her own. In all these circumstances, which 
 do not carry an immediate regard to the subsist¬ 
 ence of herself or her species, she is a very idiot. 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, anything more 
 mysterious in nature than this instinct in animals, 
 which thus rises above reason, and falls infinitely 
 short of it. It cannot be accounted for by any 
 properties in matter, and at the same time works 
 after so odd a manner, that one cannot think it 
 the faculty of an intellectual being. For my own 
 part, I look upon it as upon the principle of gra¬ 
 vitation in bodies, which is not to be explained 
 by any known qualities inherent in the bodies 
 themselves, nor from the laws of mechanism, but, 
 according to the best notions of the greatest phi¬ 
 losophers, is an immediate impression from the 
 first mover, and the divine energy acting on the 
 creatures.—L. 
 
 No. 121.] THURSDAY, JULY 19, 1711. 
 
 -Jovis omnia plena.—V irg., Eel. iii, 66. 
 
 -All things are full of Jove. 
 
 As I was walking this morning in the great 
 yard that belongs to my friend’s country house, I 
 was wonderfully pleased to see the different work¬ 
 ings of instinct in a hen followed by a brood of 
 ducks. The young, upon the sight of a pond, 
 immediately ran into it ; while the stepmother, 
 with all imaginary anxiety, hovered about the 
 borders of it, to call them out of an element that 
 appeared to her so dangerous and destructive. As 
 the different principle which acted in these differ¬ 
 ent animals cannot be termed reason, so when we 
 call it instinct, we mean something Ave have no 
 knowledge of. To me, as I hinted in my last 
 paper, it seems the immediate direction of Provi¬ 
 dence, and such an operation of the Supreme 
 Being as that which determines all the portions of 
 matter to their proper centers. A modem philo- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 170 
 
 sopher, quoted bv Monsieur Bayle in bis learned 
 dissertation on the Souls of Brutes, delivers the 
 same opinion, though in a bolder form of words, 
 where he says, Deus est anifna brutorum, “ God 
 himself is the soul of brutes.” Who can tell 
 what to call that seeming sagacity in animals, 
 which directs them to such food as is proper for 
 them, and makes them naturally avoid whatever 
 is noxious or unwholesome ? Tully has observed, 
 that a lamb no sooner falls from its mother, but 
 immediately and of its own accord it applies 
 itself to the teat. Dampier, in his Travels, tells 
 us, that when seamen are thrown upon any of the 
 unknown coasts of America, they never venture 
 upon the fruit of any tree, how tempting soever it 
 may appear, unless they observe that it is marked 
 with the pecking of birds; but fall on without 
 any fear or apprehension where the birds have 
 been before them. 
 
 But notwithstanding animals have nothing like 
 the use of reason, we find in them all the lower 
 parts of our nature, the passions and senses, in 
 their greatest strength and perfection. And here 
 it is worth our observation, that all beasts and 
 birds of prey are wonderfully subject to anger, 
 malice, revenge, and all the other violent passions 
 that may animate them in search of their proper 
 food : as those that are incapable of defending 
 themselves, or annoying others, or whose safety 
 lies chiefly in their flight, are suspicious, fearful, 
 and apprehensive of everything they see or hear ; 
 while others that are of assistance and use to man, 
 have their natures softened with something mild 
 and tractable, and by that means are qualified for 
 a domestic life. In this case the passions gener¬ 
 ally correspond with the make of the body. We 
 do not find the fury of a lion in so weak and de¬ 
 fenseless an animal as a lamb : nor the meekness 
 of a lamb in a creature so armed for battle and 
 assault as the lion. In the same manner, we find 
 that particular animals have a more or less exqui¬ 
 site sharpness and sagacity in those particular 
 senses which most turn to their advantage, and in 
 which their safety and welfare is the most con¬ 
 cerned. 
 
 Nor must we here omit that great variety of 
 arms with which nature has differently fortified 
 the bodies of several kinds of animals—such as 
 claws, hoofs, horns, teeth, and tusks, a tail, a 
 sting, a trunk, or a proboscis. It is likewise ob¬ 
 served by naturalists, that it must be some hidden 
 principle, distinct from what we call reason, which 
 instructs animals in the use of these their arms, 
 and teaches them to manage them to the best ad¬ 
 vantage ; because they naturally defend them¬ 
 selves with that part in which their strength lies, 
 before the weapon be formed in it: as is remark¬ 
 able in lambs, which, though they are bred within 
 doors and never saw the actions of their own spe¬ 
 cies, push at tliose*who approach them with their 
 foreheads, before the first budding of a horn ap¬ 
 pears. 
 
 I shall add to these general observations an in¬ 
 stance, Avhich Mr. Locke has given us, of Provi¬ 
 dence even in the imperfections of a creature 
 which seems the meanest and most despicable in 
 the whole animal world. “We may,” says he, 
 “ from the make of an oyster, or cockle, conclude, 
 that it has not so many nor so quick senses as a 
 man, or several other * animals; nor if it had, 
 would it, in that state and incapacity of transfer¬ 
 ring itself from one place to another, be bettered 
 by them. What good would sight and hearing 
 do to a creature that cannot move itself to or from 
 the object, wherein at a distance it perceives good 
 or evil? And would not quickness of sensation 
 be an inconvenience to an animal that must be still 
 
 where chance has once placed it, and there receive 
 the afflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul water, 
 as it happens to come to it.” 
 
 I shall add to this instance out of Mr. Locke, 
 another out of the learned Dr. More, who cites it 
 from Cardan, in relation to another animal which 
 Providence has left defective, but at the same 
 time has shown its wisdom in the formation of 
 that organ in which it seems chiefly to have 
 failed. “What is more obvious and ordinary 
 than a mole; and yet what more palpable argu¬ 
 ment of Providence than she ? the members of her 
 body are so exactly fitted to her nature and man¬ 
 ner of life : for her dwelling being under ground 
 where nothing is to be seen, nature has so obscure¬ 
 ly fitted her with eyes, that naturalists can scarce 
 agree whether she have any eyes at all, or no. But 
 for amends, what she is capable of for her defense 
 and warning of danger, she has very eminently 
 conferred upon her ; for she is exceeding quick of 
 hearing. And then her short tail and short legs, 
 but broad fore-feet armed with short claws; we 
 see by the event to what purpose they are, she so 
 swiftly working herself under ground, and making 
 her way so fast in the earth as they that behold it 
 cannot but admire it. Her legs, therefore, are short, 
 that she need dig no more than will serve the 
 mere thickness of her body ; and her fore-feet are 
 broad, that she may scoop away much earth at a 
 time ; and little or no tail she has, because she 
 courses it not on the ground, like the rat or mouse, 
 of whose kindred she is ; but lives under the 
 earth, and is fain to dig herself a dwelling there. 
 And she making her way through so thick an ele¬ 
 ment, which will not yield easily, as the air or the 
 water, it had been dangerous to have drawn so 
 long a train behind her ; for her enemy might fall 
 upon her rear, and fetch her out, before she had 
 completed or got full possession of her works.” 
 
 I cannot forbear mentioning Mr. Boyle’s re¬ 
 mark upon this last creature, who I remember 
 somewhere in his works observes, that though 
 the mole be not totally blind (as it is commonly 
 thought) she has not sight enough to distinguish 
 particular objects. Her eye is said to have but one 
 humor in it, which is supposed to give her the 
 idea of light, but of nothing else, and is so formed 
 that this idea is probably painful to the animal. 
 Whenever she comes up into broad day, she might 
 be in danger of being taken, unless she were thus 
 affected by a light striking upon her eye, and 
 immediately warning her to bury herself in her 
 
 C er element. More sight would be useless to 
 as none at all might be fatal. 
 
 I have only instanced such animals as seem the 
 most imperfect works of nature; and if Provi¬ 
 dence shows itself even in the blemishes of these 
 creatures, how much more does it discover itself 
 in the several endowments which it has variously 
 bestowed upon such creatures as are more or less 
 finished and completed in their several faculties, 
 according to the condition of life in which they 
 are posted. 
 
 I could ■wish our Royal Society would compile 
 a body of natural history, the best that could be 
 gathered together from books and observations. 
 If the several writers among them took each his 
 particular species, and gave us a distinct account 
 of its origin, birth, and education ; its policies, 
 hostilities, and alliances, with the frame and tex¬ 
 ture of its inward and outward parts, and partic¬ 
 ularly those that distinguish it from all other ani¬ 
 mals, with their peculiar aptitudes for the state of 
 being in which Providence has placed them, it 
 would be one of the best services their studies 
 could do mankind, and not a little redound to the 
 glory of the all-wise Contriver. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 171 
 
 It is true, such a natural history, after all the 
 disquisitions of the learned, would be infinitely 
 short and defective. Seas and deserts hide mil¬ 
 lions ot animals from our observation. Innumer¬ 
 able artifices and stratagems are acted in the 
 “ howling wilderness” and in the “ great deep,” 
 that can never come to our knowledge. Beside 
 that there are infinitely more species of creatures 
 which are not to be seen without, nor indeed with, 
 the help of the finest glasses, than of such as are 
 bulky enough for the naked eye to take hold of. 
 However, from the consideration of such animals 
 as lie within the compass of our knowledge, we 
 might easily form a conclusion of the rest; that 
 the same variety of wisdom and goodness runs 
 through the whole creation, and puts every crea¬ 
 ture in a condition to provide for its safety and 
 subsistence in its proper station. 
 
 Tully has given us an admirable sketch of na¬ 
 tural history, in his second book concerning the 
 Nature of the Gods ; and that in a style so raised 
 by metaphors and descriptions, that it lifts the 
 subject above raillery and ridicule, which fre¬ 
 quently fall on such nice observations when they 
 pass through the hands of an ordinary writer.—L. 
 
 No. 122.] FRIDAY, JULY 20, 1711. 
 
 Comes J ucundus in via pro vehiculo est.—F uel., Syr. Frag. 
 An agreeable companion upon the road is as good as a coach. 
 
 A man’s first care should be to avoid the re¬ 
 proaches of his own heart; his next, to escape 
 the censures of the world. If the last interferes 
 with the former, it ought to be entirely neglected ; 
 but otherwise there cannot be a greater satisfac¬ 
 tion to an honest mind, than to see those appro¬ 
 bations which it gives itself, seconded by the ap¬ 
 plauses of the public. A man is more sure of his 
 conduct, when the verdict which he passes upon 
 his own behavior is thus warranted and confirmed 
 by the opinion of all that know him. 
 
 My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who 
 is not only at peace within himself, but beloved 
 and esteemed by all about him. He receives a 
 suitable tribute tor his universal benevolence to 
 mankind, in the returns of affection and good-will 
 which are paid him by every one that lives in his 
 neighborhood. 1 lately met with two or three odd 
 instances of that general respect which is shown 
 to the good old knight. He would needs carry 
 Will Wimble and myself with him to the county 
 assizes. As we were upon the road, Will Wimble 
 joined a couple of plain men who rode before us, 
 and conversed with them for some time ; during 
 which my friend Sir Roger acquainted me with 
 their characters. 
 
 The first of them,” says he, “that has a spa¬ 
 niel by his side, is a yeoman of about a hundred 
 pounds a-year, an honest man. He is just within 
 the game-act, and qualified to kill a hare or a 
 pheasant. He knocks down a dinner with his gun 
 twice or thrice a week ; and by that means lives 
 much cheaper than those who have not so good an 
 estate as himself. He would be a good neighbor 
 if he did not destroy so many partridges. In 
 shot, lie is a very sensible man—shoots fiyin 0- — 
 and has been several times foreman of the pettv- 
 jury. 
 
 “ The other that rides along with him is Tom 
 Touchy, a fellow famous for taking‘the law’ of 
 everybody. There is not one in the town where 
 he lives that he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. 
 The rogue had once the impudence to go to law 
 with the widow. His head is full of costs, dama¬ 
 ges, and ejectments, He plagued a couple of ho¬ 
 
 nest gentlemen so long for a trespass in breaking 
 one ot his hedges, till he was forced to sell the 
 ground it inclosed to defray the charges of the 
 prosecution. His father left him fourscore pounds 
 a year; but he has cast and been cast so often, 
 that he is not now worth thirty. I suppose he is 
 going upon the old business ot the willow-tree.” 
 
 i As Sir Roger was giving me this account of 
 1 om louchy, Will Wimble and his two com¬ 
 panions stopped short till he came up to them. 
 After having paid their respects to Sir Roger, 
 Will told him that Mr. Touchy and he must ap¬ 
 peal to him upon a dispute that arose between 
 them. Will, it seems, had been giving his fellow- 
 traveler an account of his angling one day in 
 such a hole; when Tom Touchy, instead of hear¬ 
 ing out his story, told him that Mr. Such-a-one, 
 if he pleased, might “ take the law of him,” for 
 fishing in that part of the river. My friend Sir 
 Roger heard them both upon a round trot ; and 
 after having paused some time, told them with 
 the air of a man who would not give his judgment 
 rashly, that “ much might be said on both sides.” 
 They were neither of them dissatisfied with the 
 knight’s determination, because neither of them 
 found himself in the wrong by it. Upon which 
 we made the best of our way to the assizes. 
 
 The court was sitting before Sir Roger came ; but 
 notwithstanding all the justices had taken their 
 places upon the bench, they made room for the 
 old knight at the head of them ; who for his repu¬ 
 tation in the country took occasion to whisper in 
 the judge’s ear, that he was glad his lordship had 
 met with so much good weather in his circuit. I 
 was listening to the proceedings of the court with 
 much attention, and infinitely pleased with that 
 great appearance of solemnity which so properly 
 accompanies such a public administration of our 
 laws ; when, after about an hour’s sitting, I ob¬ 
 served, to my great surprise, in the midst of a 
 trial, Sir Roger was getting up to speak. I was 
 in some pain for him, until I found he had acquit¬ 
 ted himself of two or three sentences with a look 
 of much business and great intrepidity. 
 
 Upon his first rising the court was hushed, and 
 a general whisper ran among the country people, 
 that Sir Roger “ was up.” The speech he made 
 was so little to the purpose, that I shall not 
 trouble my readers with an account of it; and I 
 believe was not so much designed by the knight 
 himself to inform the court, as to give him a 
 figure in my eye, and keep up his credit in the 
 country. 
 
 I. was highly delighted when the court rose, to 
 see the gentlemen of the country gathering about 
 my old friend, and striving who should compli¬ 
 ment him most; at the same time that the ordi¬ 
 nary people gazed upon him at a distance, not a 
 little admiring his courage, that he was not afraid 
 to speak to the judge. 
 
 In our return home we met with a very odd 
 accident; which I cannot forbear relating, be¬ 
 cause it shows how desirous all who know Sir 
 Roger ai£ of giving him marks of their esteem. 
 When we were arrived upon the verge of his 
 estate, we stopped at a little inn, to rest ourselves 
 and our horses. The man of the house had, it 
 seems, been formerly a servant in the knight’s 
 family ; and to do honor to his old master, had 
 some time since, unknown to Sir Roger, put him 
 up in a sign-post before the door; so that the 
 knight’s head hung out upon the road about a 
 week before he himself knew anything of the 
 matter. As soon as Sir Roger was acquainted 
 with it, finding that his servant’s indiscretion pro¬ 
 ceeded wholly from affection and good-will, he 
 only told him that he had made him too high a 
 
172 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 compliment; and. when the fellow seemed to 
 think that could hardly be, added with a more 
 decisive look, that it was too great an honor for any 
 man under a duke; but told him at the same time, 
 that it might be altered with a very few touches, 
 and that he himself would be at the charge of it. 
 Accordingly they got a painter, by the knight’s 
 directions, to add a pair of whiskers to the face, and 
 bv a little aggravation to the features to change 
 it to the Saracen’s Head. I should not have 
 known this story, had not the inn-keeper, upon Sir 
 Roger’s alighting, told him in my hearing that his 
 honor’s head was brought last night with the alter¬ 
 ations that he had ordered to be made in it. Upon 
 this, my friend, with his usual cheerfulness, re¬ 
 lated the particulars above-mentioned,and ordered 
 the head to be brought into the room. I could not 
 forbear discovering greater expressions of mirth 
 than ordinary upon the appearance of this mon¬ 
 strous face, under which, notwithstanding it was 
 made to frown and stare in a most extraordinary 
 manner, I could still discover a distant resem¬ 
 blance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing 
 me laugh, desired me to tell him truly it I thought 
 if possible for people to know him in that disguise. 
 I at first kept my usual silence; but upon the 
 knight’s conjuring me to tell him whether it was 
 not still more like himself than a Saracen, I com¬ 
 posed my countenance in the best manner I could, 
 and replied, “ that much might be said on both 
 sides ^ 
 
 These several adventures, with the knight’s be¬ 
 havior in them, gave me as pleasant a day as 
 ever I met with in any of my travels.—L. 
 
 No. 123.] SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1711. 
 
 Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, 
 
 Itectique cultus pectora roborarxt: 
 
 Utcunque defecere mores, 
 
 Dedecorant bene nata culpas.— Hor. 4, Od. iv, 33. 
 
 Yet the best blood by learning is refin’d, 
 
 And virtue arms the solid mind; 
 
 While vice will stain the noblest race, 
 
 And the paternal stamp efface.— Oldisworth. 
 
 As I was yesterday taking the air with my 
 friend Sir Roger, we were met by a fresh-colored 
 ruddy young man who rode by us full speed, with a 
 couple of servants behind him. Upon my inquiry 
 who he was, Sir Roger told me he was a young 
 gentleman of a considerable estate, who had been 
 educated by a tender mother that lived not many 
 miles from the place where we were. She is a 
 very good lady, says my friend, but took so much 
 care of her son’s health, that she has made him 
 good for nothing. She quickly found that read¬ 
 ing was bad for his eyes, and that writing made 
 his head ache. He was let loose among the 
 woods as soon as he was able to ride on horse¬ 
 back, o.r to carry a gun upon his shoulder. To 
 be brief, I found, by my friend’s account of him, 
 that he had got a great stock of health, and 
 nothing else ; and that if it were a man’s business 
 only to live, there would not be a more accom¬ 
 plished young fellow in the whole country. 
 
 The truth of it is, since my residing in these 
 parts, I have seen and heard innumerable in¬ 
 stances of young heirs and elder brothers, who, 
 either from their own reflecting upon the estates 
 they are born to, and therefore thinking all other 
 accomplishments unnecessary, or from hearing 
 these notions frequently inculcated to them by 
 the flattery of their servants and domestics, or 
 from the same foolish thought prevailing in those 
 who have the care of their education, are of no 
 manner of use but to keep up their families, and 
 
 transmit their lands and houses in a line to 
 posterity. 
 
 This makes me often think on a story I have 
 heard of two friends, which I shall give my 
 readers at large, under feigned names. The 
 moral of it may, I hope, be useful, though there 
 are some circumstances which make it rather 
 appear like a novel, than a true story. 
 
 Eudoxus and Leontine began the world with 
 small estates. They were both of them men 
 of good sense and great virtue. They pro¬ 
 secuted their studies together in their earlier 
 years, and entered into such a friendship as lasted 
 to the end of their lives. Eudoxus, at his first set¬ 
 ting out in the world, threw himself into a court, 
 where by his natural endowments and his ac¬ 
 quired abilities, he made his way from one post 
 to another, until at length lie had raised a very 
 considerable fortune. Leontine, on the contrary, 
 sought all opportunities of improving his mind 
 by study, conversation, and travel. He was not 
 only acquainted with all the sciences, but with 
 the most eminent professors of them throughout 
 Europe. He knew perfectly well the interests of 
 its princes, with the customs and fashions of their 
 courts, and could scarce meet with the name of an 
 extraordinary person in the Gazette whom he had 
 not either talked to or seen. In short, he had so 
 well mixed and digested his knowledge of men 
 and books, that he made one of the most accom¬ 
 plished persons of his age. During the whole 
 course of his studies and travels he kept up a 
 punctual correspondence with Eudoxus, who 
 often made himself acceptable to the principal 
 men about court, by the intelligence which he 
 received from Leontine. When they were both 
 turned of forty (an age in which, according to 
 Mr. Cowley, “ there is no dallying with life),” 
 they determined, pursuant to the resolution they 
 had taken in the beginning of their lives, to 
 retire, and pass the remainder of their days in 
 the country. In order to this, they both of them 
 married much about the same time. Leontine, 
 with his own and wife’s fortune, bought a farm 
 of three hundred a year, which lay within the 
 neighborhood of his friend Eudoxus, who had 
 purchased an estate of as many thousands. They 
 were both of them fathers about the same time— 
 Eudoxus having a son born to him, and Leontine 
 a daughter ; but to the unspeakable grief of the 
 latter, his young wife (in whom all his happiness 
 was wrapt up) died in a few days after the birth 
 of her daughter. His affliction would have been 
 insupportable, had not he been comforted by the 
 daily visits and conversations of his friend. A.S 
 they were one day talking together with their 
 usual intimacy, Leontine, considering how inca¬ 
 pable he was of giving his daughter a proper 
 education in his own house, and Eudoxus reflect¬ 
 ing on the ordinary behavior of a son who 
 knows himself to be the heir of a great estate, 
 they both agreed upon an exchange of children, 
 namely, that the boy should be bred up with 
 Leontine as his son, and that the girl should live 
 with Eudoxus as his daughter, until they were 
 each of them arrived at years of discretion. The 
 wife of Eudoxus, knowing that her son could 
 not be so advantageously brought up as under the 
 care of Leontine, and considering at the same 
 time that he would be perpetually under her own 
 eye, was by degrees prevailed upon to fall in with 
 the project. She therefore took Leonilla, for that 
 was the name of the girl, and educated her as her 
 own daughter. The two friends on each side had 
 wrought themselves to such an habitual tenderness 
 for the children who were under their direction, 
 that each of them had the real passion of a father, 
 
173 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 where the title was but imaginary. Florio, the 
 name of the young heir that lived with Leontine, 
 though he had all the duty and affection imaginable 
 for his supposed parent, was taught to rejoice at the 
 sight of Eudoxus, who visited his friend very fre¬ 
 quently, and was dictated by his natural affection, 
 as well as by the rules of prudence, to make himself 
 esteemed and beloved by Florio. The boy was 
 now old enough to know his supposed father’s 
 circumstances, and that therefore he had to make 
 his way in the world by his own industry. This 
 consideration grew stronger in him every day, and 
 produced so good an effect, that he applied him¬ 
 self with more than ordinary attention to the 
 pursuits of everything which Leontine recom¬ 
 mended to him. His natural abilities, which 
 were very good, assisted by the directions of so 
 excellent a counselor, enabled him to make a 
 quicker progress than ordinary through all the 
 parts of his education. Before he was twenty 
 years of age, having finished his studies and exer¬ 
 cises with great applause, he was removed from 
 the university to the inns of court, where there are 
 very few that make themselves considerable profi¬ 
 cients in the studies of the place, who know they 
 shall arrive at great estates without them. This 
 was not Florio’s case ; lie found that three hundred 
 a year was but a poor estate for Leontine and him¬ 
 self to live upon, so that he studied without in¬ 
 termission till he gained a very good insight into 
 the constitution and laws of his country. 
 
 I should have told my reader that, -while Florio 
 lived at the house of his foster-father, he was 
 always an acceptable guest in the family of Eu¬ 
 doxus, where he became acquainted with Leonilla 
 from her infancy. His acquaintance with her by 
 degrees grew into love, which in a mind trained 
 up in all the sentiments of honor and virtue be¬ 
 came a very uneasy passion. He despaired of 
 gaining an heiress of so great a fortune and 
 would rather have died than attempted it by any 
 indirect methods. Leonilla, who was a woman of 
 the greatest beauty, joined with the greatest 
 modesty, entertained at the same time a secret 
 passion for Florio, but conducted herself with so 
 much prudence that she never gave him the least 
 intimation of it. Florio was now engaged in all 
 those arts and improvements that are proper to 
 raise a man’s private fortune and give him a 
 figure in his country, but secretly tormented with 
 that passion which burns with the greatest fury 
 in a virtuous and noble heart, when he received a 
 sudden summons from Leontine to repair to him 
 in the country the next day : for it seems Eudoxus 
 was so filled with the report of his son’s reputa¬ 
 tion, that he could no longer withhold making 
 himselt known to him. The morning after his 
 arrival at the house of his supposed father, Leon¬ 
 tine told him that Eudoxus had something of 
 great importance to communicate to him ; upon 
 which the good man embraced him, and wept. 
 Florio was no sooner arrived at the great house that 
 stood in his neighborhood, but Eudoxus took him 
 by the hand, after the first salutes were over, and 
 conducted him into his closet. He there opened 
 to him the whole secret of his parentage and edu¬ 
 cation, concluding after this manner: “ I have no I 
 other way left of acknowledging my gratitude to 
 Leontine, than by marrying you to his daughter. 
 
 He shall not lose the pleasure of being your father 
 by the discovery I have made to you. Leonilla, 
 too, shall be still my daughter: her filial piety, 
 though misplaced, has been so exemplary, that it 
 deserves the greatest reward I can confer upon it. 
 You shall have the pleasure of seeing a great 
 estate fall to you, which you would have lost the 
 relish of had you known yourself born to it. 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 Continue only to deserve it in the same manner 
 you did before you possessed it. 1 have left your 
 mother in the next room. Her heart yearns to¬ 
 ward you. She is making the same discoveries 
 to Leonilla which I have made to yourself.” 
 Florio was so overwhelmed with this profusion 
 of happiness, that he was not able to make a 
 re ply> but threw himself down at his father’s feet, 
 and, amidst a flood of tears, kissed and embraced 
 his knees, asking his blessing, and expressing in 
 dumb show those sentiments of love, duty, and 
 gratitude, that were too big for utterance. To 
 conclude, the happy pair were married, and half 
 Eudoxus s estate settled upon them. Leontine 
 and Eudoxus passed the remainder of their lives 
 together: and receiving in the dutiful and affec¬ 
 tionate behavior of Florio and Leonilla the just 
 recompense, as well as the natural effects, of that 
 care which they had bestowed upon them in 
 their education.—L. 
 
 Ho. 124.J MONDAY, JULY 23, 1711. 
 
 A great book is a great evil. 
 
 A man who publishes his works in a volume, 
 has an infinite advantage over one who communi¬ 
 cates his writings to the world in loose tracts and 
 single pieces. We do not expect to meet with 
 anything in a bulky volume, till after some heavy 
 preamble, and several words of course, to prepare 
 the reader for what follows. Nay, authors have 
 established it as a kind of rule, that a man ought 
 to be dull sometimes ; as the most severe reader 
 makes allowances for many rests and nodding- 
 places in a voluminous writer. This gives occa¬ 
 sion to the famous Greek proverb which I have 
 chosen for my motto, that, “ a great book is a 
 great evil.” 
 
 On the contrary, those who publish their 
 thoughts in distinct sheets, and as it were by 
 piecemeal, have none of these advantages. We 
 must immediately fall into our subject, and treat 
 every part of it in a lively manner, or our papers 
 are thrown by as dull and insipid. Our matter 
 must lie close together, and either be wholly new 
 in itself, or in the turn it receives from our ex¬ 
 pressions. Were the books of our best authors 
 thus to be retailed by the public, and every page 
 submitted to the taste of forty or fifty thousand 
 readers, I am afraid we should complain of many 
 flat expressions, trivial observations, beaten to¬ 
 pics, and common thoughts, which go off very 
 well in the lump. At the same time, notwith¬ 
 standing some papers may be made up of broken 
 hints and irregular sketches, it is often expected 
 that every sheet should have been a kind of trea¬ 
 tise, and make out in thought what it wants in 
 bulk ; that a point of humor should be worked up 
 in all its parts ; and a subject touched upon in its 
 most essential articles, without the repetitions, 
 tautologies, and enlargements, that are indulged 
 in longer labors. The ordinary writers of moral¬ 
 ity prescribe to their readers after the Galenic 
 way ; their medicines are made up in large quan¬ 
 tities. An essay-writer must practice in the che¬ 
 mical method, and give the virtue of a full draught 
 in a few drops. Were all books reduced thus to 
 their quintessence, many a bulky author would 
 make his appearance in a penny-paper. There 
 would be scarce such a thing in nature as a folio ; 
 the works of an age would be contained on a few 
 shelves ; not to mention millions of volumes that 
 would be utterly annihilated. 
 
 I cannot think that the difficulty of furnishing 
 out separate papers of this nature has hindered 
 authors from communicating their thoughts to the 
 
174 
 
 THE .SPECTATOR. 
 
 world after such a manner: though I must con¬ 
 fess I am amazed that the press should be only 
 made use of in this way by news-writers, and the 
 zealots of parties : as if it were not more advan¬ 
 tageous to mankind, to be instructed in wisdom 
 and virtue, than in politics ; and to be made good 
 fathers, husbands and sons, than counselors ancl 
 statesmen. Had the philosophers and great men 
 of antiquity, who took so much pains in order to 
 instruct mankind, and leave the world wiser and 
 better than they found it; had they, I say, been 
 possessed of the art of printing, there is no ques¬ 
 tion but they would have made such an advantage 
 of it, in dealing out their lectures to the public. 
 Our common prints* would be of great use were they 
 thus calculated to diffuse good sense through the 
 bulk of a people, to clear up their understandings, 
 animate their minds with virtue, dissipate the 
 sorrows of a heavy heart, or unbend the mind 
 from its more severe employments, with innocent 
 amusements. When knowledge, instead of being 
 bound up in books, and kept in libraries and re¬ 
 tirements, is thus obtruded upon the public ; when 
 it is canvassed in every assembly, and exposed 
 upon every table, I cannot forbear reflecting upon 
 that passage in the Proverbs: “ Wisdom cneth 
 without, she uttereth her voice m the streets ; she 
 crieth in the chief place of concourse, m the open¬ 
 ings of the gates. In the city she uttereth her 
 words, saying, How long, ye simple ones, will ye 
 love simplicity ? And the scorners delight m their 
 scorning ? And fools hate knowledge . 
 
 The many letters which come to me from per¬ 
 sons of the best sense in both sexes (for I may 
 pronounce their characters from their way of wri¬ 
 ting) do not a little encourage me in the prosecu¬ 
 tion of this my undertaking: beside that my 
 bookseller tells me, the demand for these my pa¬ 
 pers increases daily. It is at his instance that I 
 shall continue my rural speculations to the end of 
 this month ; several having made up separate sets 
 of them, as they have done of those relating to 
 wit, to operas, to points of morality, or subjects 
 
 of humor. , , T 
 
 I am not at all mortified, ^hen sometimes I see 
 
 my works thrown aside by men of no taste or 
 learning. There is a kind of heaviness and igno¬ 
 rance that hangs upon the minds of ordinary men, 
 which is too thick for knowledge to break 
 through. Their souls are not to be enlightened. 
 
 --Nox atra cava circumvolat umbra. 
 
 Virg., iEn. u, 360. 
 
 three of these dark undermining vermin, and in 
 tend to make a string of them, in order to hang 
 them up in one of my papers, as an example to 
 all such voluntary moles. 
 
 Black night imvraps them in her gloomy shade. 
 
 To these I must apply the fable of the mole 
 that, after having consulted many oculists for the 
 bettering of his sight, was at last provided with 
 a good pair of spectacles ; but upon his endeavor- 
 in «■ to make use of them, his mother told him 
 very prudently, “That spectacles, though they 
 might help the eye of a man, could be of no use 
 to a mole.” It is not therefore for the benefit ot 
 moles that I publish these my daily essays. 
 
 But beside such as are moles through ignorance, 
 there are others who are moles through envy. As 
 it is said in the Latin proverb, “ That one man is 
 a wolf to another;” so, generally speaking, one 
 author is a mole to another. It is impossible for 
 them to discover beauties in one another’s works ; 
 they have eyes only for spots and blemishes: they 
 can indeed see the light, as it is said of the ani¬ 
 mals which are their namesakes, but the idea of 
 it is painful to them ; they immediately shut their 
 eyes upon it, and withdraw themselves into a 
 willful obscurity. I have already caught two or 
 
 * Newspapers. 
 
 Ho. 125.] TUESDAY, JULY 24, 1711. 
 
 Ne, pueri, ne tanta animis assuescite bclla: 
 
 Neu patriae validas in viscera vertite vires. 
 
 V irg., iEn. vi, 832. 
 
 This thirst of kindred blood, my sons, detest, 
 
 Nor turn your force against your country s breast. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 My worthy friend Sir Roger, when we aie talk 
 ing of the malice of parties, very frequently tells 
 us an accident that happened to him when lie was 
 a school-boy which was at the time when the feuds 
 ran high between the Round-heads and Cavaliers. 
 This worthy knight, being then but a stripling, 
 had occasion to inquire which was the wav to 
 St. Anne’s-lane ; upon which the person whom 
 he spoke, instead of answering the question, 
 called him a young popish cur, and asked him 
 who had made Anne a saint? The boy being in 
 some confusion, inquired of the next he met> 
 which was the way to Anne’s-lane ; but was called 
 a prick-eared cur for his pains, and instead of be- 
 in 0, shown the way, was told that she had been a 
 saint before he was born, and would be one after 
 he was hanged. “ Upon this, ’ says Sir Roger, 
 
 “ I did not think fit to repeat the former question, 
 but going into evgry lane of the neighborhood, 
 asked what they called the name of that lane. 
 By which ingenious artifice he found out the 
 place he inquired after, without giving offense to 
 any party. Sir Roger generally closes tins nar¬ 
 rative with reflections on the mischief that pa^ - 
 ties do in the country ; how they spoil good neigh¬ 
 borhood, and make honest gentlemen hate one 
 another ; beside that they manifestly tend to the 
 prejudice of the land-tax, and the destruction of 
 
 the game. , . 
 
 There cannot be a greater judgment befall a 
 country than such a dreadful spirit of division as 
 rends a government into distinct people, and 
 makes them greater strangers and more averse to 
 one another, than if they were actually two differ¬ 
 ent nations. The effects of such a division are 
 pernicious to the last degree, not only with regard 
 to those advantages which they give the common 
 enemy, but to those private evils which they pro¬ 
 duce in the heart of almost every particular per¬ 
 son. This influence is very fatal, both to men s 
 morals and their understandings; it sinks the 
 virtue of a nation, and not only so, but destroys 
 
 even common sense. . 
 
 A furious party spirit, when it rages m its full 
 violence, exerts itself in civil war and bloodshed; 
 and when it is under its greatest restraints natur¬ 
 ally breaks out in falsehood, detraction, calumny, 
 and a partial administration of justice. In a 
 word, it fills a nation with spleen and rancor, 
 and extinguishes all the seeds of good-nature, 
 compassion, and humanity. , 
 
 Plutarch says very finely, “ that a man should 
 not allow himself to hate even his enemies ; be¬ 
 cause,” says he, “if you indulge this passion on 
 some occasions, it will rise of itself m others ; if 
 you hate your enemies, you will contract such a 
 vicious habit of mind, as by degrees will break 
 out upon those who are your friends, or those who 
 are indifferent to you.” I might here observe how 
 admirably this precept of morality (which derives 
 the malignity of hatred from the passion itself, 
 and not from its object) answers to that great 
 rule which was dictated to the world about a 
 
THE SPEC 
 
 hundred years before this philosopher wrote;* but 
 instead of that, I shall only take notice, with a 
 real grief of heart, that the minds of many good 
 men among us appear soured with party princi¬ 
 ples, and alienated from one another in such a 
 manner as seems to me altogether inconsistent 
 with the dictates either of reason or religion. Zeal 
 for a public cause is apt to breed passions in the 
 hearts of virtuous persons, to which the regard of 
 their own private interest would never have be¬ 
 trayed them. 
 
 If this party-spirit has so ill an effect on our 
 morals, it has likewise a very great one upon our 
 judgments. We often hear a poor insipid paper 
 or pamphlet cried up, and sometimes a noble piece 
 deprecated, by those who are of a different prin¬ 
 ciple from the author. One who is actuated by 
 this spirit is almost under an incapacity of dis¬ 
 cerning either real blemishes or beauties. A man 
 of merit in a different principle, is like an object 
 seen in two different mediums, that appears crook¬ 
 ed or broken, however straight and entire it may 
 be in itself. For this reason there is scarce a 
 person of any figure in England, who does not go 
 by two contrary characters, as opposite to one 
 another as light and darkness. Knowledge and 
 learning suffer in a particular manner from this 
 strange prejudice, which at present prevails among 
 all ranks and degrees in the British nation. As 
 men formerly became eminent in learned societies 
 by their parts and acquisitions, they now dis¬ 
 tinguished themselves by the warmth and violence 
 with which they espouse their respective parties.— 
 Books are valued upon the like considerations. 
 
 An abusive, scurrilous style passes for satire, and 
 a dull scheme of party notions is called fine writing. 
 
 There is one piece of sophistry practiced by 
 both sides—and that is, the taking any scandal¬ 
 ous story that has been ever whispered or invented 
 °f a private man for a known undoubted truth, and 
 raising suitable speculations upon it. Calumnies 
 that have never been proved, or have been often 
 refuted, are the ordinary postulatums of these in¬ 
 famous scribblers, upon which they proceed as 
 upon first’ principles granted by all men, though 
 in their hearts they know they are false, or at best 
 very doubtful. When they have laid these foun¬ 
 dations of scurrility, it is no wonder that their 
 superstructure is every way answerable to them. 
 
 If this shameless practice of the present age en¬ 
 dures much longer, praise and reproach will cease 
 to be motives of action in good men. 
 
 There are certain periods of time in all govern¬ 
 ments, when this inhuman spirit prevails. Italy 
 was long torn in pieces by the Guelfs and Ghibel- 
 lines, and France by those who were for and against 
 the League: but it is very unhappy for a man to 
 be born in such a stormy and tempestuous season. 
 
 It is the restless ambition of artful men that thus 
 breaks a people into factions, and draws several 
 well-meaning persons to their interest by a spe¬ 
 cious concern for their country. How many 
 honest minds are filled with uncharitable and 
 barbarous notions, out of their zeal for the public 
 goodi What cruelties and outrages would they 
 not commit against men of an adverse party, 
 whom, they would honor and esteem, if, instead 
 of considering them as they are represented, they 
 knew them as they are? Thus are persons of the 
 greatest probity seduced into shameful errors and 
 prejudices, and made bad men even by that noblest 
 of principles, “the love of their country.” I can¬ 
 not here forbear mentioning the famous Spanish 
 proverb, “If there were neither fools nor knaves 
 in the world, all people would be of one mind.” 
 
 TATOR. 175 
 
 For my own part, I could heartily wish that all 
 honest men would enter into an association, for 
 the support ot one another against the endeavors 
 of those whom they ought to look upon as their 
 common enemies, whatsoever side they may be¬ 
 long to. Were there such an honest body of neu¬ 
 tral forces, we should never see the worst of men 
 in great figures ot life, because they are useful to a 
 party; nor the best unregarded, because they are 
 above practicing those methods which would be 
 grateful to their faction. We should then single 
 every criminal out of the herd, and hunt him 
 down, however formidable and overgrown he 
 might appear: on the contrary, we should shelter 
 distressed innocence, and defend virtue, however 
 beset with contempt or ridicule, envy or defama¬ 
 tion. In short, we should not any longer regard 
 our fellow-subjects as whigs or tories, but should 
 make the man of merit our friend, and the villain 
 our enemy.—0 
 
 No. 126. ] WEDNESDAY, JULY 25, 1711. 
 
 Tros Rutulusve fuat, nullo discrimine liabebo. 
 
 Virg. uEu., x, 108. 
 
 Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me.—D ryden. 
 
 In my yesterday’s paper I proposed, that the 
 honest men of all parties should enter into a kind 
 of association for the defense of one another, and 
 the confusion of their common enemies. As it is 
 designed this neutral body should act with a re¬ 
 gard to nothing but truth and equity, and divest 
 themselves of the little heats and prepossessions 
 that cleave to parties of all kinds, I have prepared 
 for them the following form of an association, 
 which may express their intentions in the most 
 plain and simple manner: 
 
 “We whose names are hereunto subscribed do 
 solemnly declare, that we do in our consciences 
 believe two and two make four; and that we shall 
 adjudge any man whatsoever to be our enemy who 
 endeavors to persuade us to the contrary. We are 
 likewise ready to maintain with the hazard of all 
 that is near and dear to us, that six is less than 
 seven in all times and in all places; and that ten 
 will not be more three years hence than it is at 
 present. We do also firmly declare, that it is our 
 resolution as long as we live to call black black, 
 and white white. And we shall upon all occasions 
 oppose such persons that upon any day of the 
 year shall call black white, or white black, with 
 the utmost peril of our lives and fortunes.” 
 
 Were there such a combination of honest men, 
 who without any regard to places would endea¬ 
 vor to extirpate all such furious zealots as would 
 sacrifice one half their country to the passion and 
 interest of the other; as also such infamous hypo¬ 
 crites that are for promoting their own advantage 
 under color of the public good; with all the pro¬ 
 fligate immoral retainers to each side, that have 
 nothing to recommend them but an implicit sub¬ 
 mission to their leaders: we should soon see that 
 furious party-spirit extinguished, which may in 
 time expose us to the derision and contempt of all 
 the nations about us. 
 
 A member of this society that would thus care¬ 
 fully employ himself in making room for merit, 
 by throwing down the worthless and depraved 
 part of mankind from those conspicuous stations 
 of life to which they have been sometimes ad¬ 
 vanced, and all this without any regard to his 
 private interest, would be no small benefactor to 
 his country. 
 
 I remember to have read in Diodorus Siculus an 
 account of a very active little animal, which I 
 think he calls the ichneumon, that makes it the 
 whole business of his life to break the eggs of the 
 
 * Viz: by Jesus Christ. See Luke, yi, 27—32, etc. 
 
176 
 
 THE SPECTATOR 
 
 crocodile, which, he is always in search after. 
 This instinct is the more remarkable, because the 
 ichneumon never feeds upon the eggs he has 
 broken, nor any other way finds his account in 
 them Were it not for the incessant labors of 
 this industrious animal, Egypt, says the historian, 
 would be overrun with crocodiles, for the Egyp 
 tians are so far from destroying those pernicious 
 creatures, that they worship them as gods. 
 
 If we look into the behavior of ordinary parti¬ 
 sans, we shall find them far from resembling this 
 disinterested animal; and rather acting after the 
 example of the wild Tartars, who are ambitious 
 of destroying a man of the most extraordinary 
 parts and accomplishments, as thinking that upon 
 his decease the same talents, whatever post they 
 qualified him for, enter of course into his de¬ 
 stroyer. 
 
 As in the whole train of my speculations 1 nave 
 endeavored, as much as I am able, to extinguish 
 that pernicious spirit of passion and prejudice 
 which rages with the same violence in all parties, 
 
 I am stilf the more desirous of doing some good 
 in this particular, because I observe that the spirit 
 of party reigns more in the country than in the 
 town. It here contracts a kind of brutality and 
 rustic fierceness, to which men of a politer con¬ 
 versation are wholly strangers. It extends itself 
 even to the return of the bow and the hat; and at 
 the same time that the heads of parties preseive 
 toward one another an outward show of good¬ 
 breeding, and keep up a perpetual intercourse of 
 civilities, their tools that are dispersed m these 
 outlying parts will not so much as mingle together 
 at a cock-match. This humor fills the country 
 with several periodical meetings of Whig jockeys 
 and Tory fox-hunters; not to mention the innu¬ 
 merable curses, frowns, and whispers it produces 
 at a quarter-sessions. . 
 
 I do not know whether I have observed m any 
 of my former papers that my friends Sir Roger de 
 Coverley and Sir Andrew Freeport are of different 
 principles—the first of them inclined to the land¬ 
 ed and the other to the monied interest. . This 
 humor is so moderate in each of them, that it pro¬ 
 ceeds no farther than to an agreeable raillery, 
 which very often diverts the rest of the club. 1 
 find, however, that the knight is a much stronger 
 Tory in the country than in town, which, as he 
 has told me in my ear, is absolutely necessary for 
 the keeping up his interest. In all our journey 
 from London to his house, we did not so much as 
 bait at a Whig inn; or if by chance the coachman 
 stopped at a wrong place, one of Sir Roger’s serv¬ 
 ants would ride up to his master full speed, and 
 whisper to him that the master of the house was 
 against such a one in the last election. This often 
 betrayed us into hard beds and bad cheer , foi we 
 were not so inquisitive about the inn as the inn¬ 
 keeper; and provided our landlord’s principles 
 were sound, did not take any notice of the stale¬ 
 ness of his provisions. This I found still the 
 more inconvenient, because the better the host 
 was, the worse generally were his accommoda¬ 
 tions ; the fellow knowing very well that those 
 who were his friends would take up with coarse 
 diet and a hard lodging. For these reasons, all 
 the while I was upon the road I dreaded entering 
 into a house of any one that Sir Roger had ap¬ 
 plauded for an honest man. 
 
 Since my stay at Sir Roger’s in the country, 1 
 daily find more instances of this narrow paity 
 humor. Being upon the bowling-green at a neigh- 
 boriim market-town the other day (for that is the 
 place°wliere the gentlemen of one side meet once 
 a week), 1 observed a stranger among them of a 
 better presence and genteeler behavior than ordi¬ 
 
 nary; but was much surprised that, notwithstand¬ 
 ing he was a very fair better, nobody would take 
 him up. But upon inquiry, I found that he was 
 one who had given a disagreeable vote in a former 
 parliament, for which reason there was not a man 
 upon the bowling-green who would have so much 
 correspondence with him as to win his money of 
 
 him. . 
 
 Among other instances of this nature, 1 must 
 
 not omit one which concerns myself. Will Wim¬ 
 ble was the other day relating several strange 
 stories that he had picked up, nobody knows 
 where, of a certain great man; and upon my star- 
 ing at him, as one that was surprised to hear such 
 things in the country—which had never been so 
 much as whispered in the town Will stopped 
 short in the thread of his discourse, and after din¬ 
 ner asked my friend Sir Roger in his ear if he was 
 sure that I was not a fanatic. . 
 
 It o-ives me a serious concern to see such a spirit 
 of dissension in the country; not only as it de¬ 
 stroys virtue and common sense, and renders us 
 in a manner barbarians toward one another, but 
 as it perpetuates our animosities, widens our 
 breaches, and transmits our present passions and 
 prejudices to our posterity. For my own part, 1 
 am sometimes afraid that I discover the seeds of a 
 civil war in these our divisions; and therefore cajn- 
 not but bewail, as in their first principles, the 
 miseries and calamities of our children. 0 
 
 No. 127.] THURSDAY, JULY 26, 1711. 
 
 _Quantum est in rebus inane!—P ers. Sat., i, 1. 
 
 How much of emptiness we find in things! 
 
 It is our custom at Sir Roger’s, upon the com¬ 
 ing in of the post, to sit about a pot of coffee, and 
 hear the old knight read Dyer’s Letter; which he 
 does witli his spectacles upon his nose, and in an 
 audible voice, smiling very often at those little 
 strokes of satire which are so frequent in the 
 writings of that author. I afterward communi¬ 
 cate to the knight such packets as I receive under 
 the quality of Spectator. The following letter 
 chancing to please him more than ordinary, I shall 
 publish it at his request. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You have diverted the town almost a whole 
 month at the expense of the. country; it is now- 
 high time that you should give the country their 
 revenge. Since your withdrawing from this 
 place, the fair sex are run into great extrava¬ 
 gances Their petticoats, which began to heave 
 and swell before you left us, are now blown up 
 into a most enormous concave, and rise every day 
 more and more. In short, Sir, since our women 
 know themselves to be out of the eye of the bpec- 
 tator, they will be kept within no compass. You 
 praised them a little too soon, for the modesty ot 
 their head-dresses; for as the humor of a sick per¬ 
 son is often driven out of one limb into another, 
 their superfluity of ornaments, instead of being 
 entirely banished, seems only fallen from their 
 heads upon their lower parts. What they have 
 lost in height they make up in breadth, and con¬ 
 trary to all rules of architecture, widen the foun¬ 
 dations at the same time that they shorten the 
 superstructure. Were they, like Spanish jennets, 
 to impregnate by the wind, they could not have 
 thought on a more proper invention. But as we 
 do not hear any particular use in this petticoat, or 
 that it contains anything more than what was sup¬ 
 posed to be in those of scantier make, we are 
 
 wonderfully at a loss about it. 
 
 “The women give out in defense of these wide 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 bottoms, that they are airy, and very proper for 
 the season; but this I look upon to be only a pre¬ 
 tense, and a piece of art, for it is well known we 
 have not had a more moderate summer these many 
 years, so that it is certain the heat they complain 
 of cannot be in the weather. Beside, I would fain 
 ask these tender-constitutioned ladies, why they 
 should require more cooling than their mothers 
 before them? 
 
 “I find several speculative persons are of opinion 
 that our sex has of late years been very saucy, 
 and that the hoop-petticoat is made use of to keep 
 us at a distance. It is most certain that a wo¬ 
 man’s honor cannot be better intrenched than 
 after this manner in circle within circle, amidst 
 such a variety of outworks and lines of circum- 
 vallation. A female who is thus invested in 
 whalebone, is sufficiently secured against the ap¬ 
 proaches of an ill-bred fellow, who might as well 
 think of Sir George Etherege’s way of making 
 'Love in a Tub,’* as in the midst of so many 
 hoops. 
 
 "Among these various conjectures there are men 
 of superstitious tempers, who look upon the hoop- 
 petticoat as a kind of prodigy. Some will have 
 it that it portends the downfall of the French 
 king, and observe that the farthingal appeared in 
 England a little before the ruin of the Spanish 
 monarchy.! Others are of opinion that it foretells 
 battle and bloodshed, and believe it of the same 
 prognostication as the tail of a blazing star. For 
 ray part, I am apt to think it is a sign that multi¬ 
 tudes are coming into the world rather than ffoin? 
 out of it. 8 
 
 "The first time I saw a lady dressed in one of 
 these petticoats, I could not lorbear blaming her 
 in my own thoughts for walking abroad when she 
 was 'so near her time,’ but soon recovered myself 
 out of my error, when I found all the modish part 
 ot the sex 'as far gone’ as herself. It is generally 
 thought some crafty women have thus betrayed 
 their companions into hoops, that they might 
 make them accessory to their own concealments, 
 and by that means escape the censure of the world: 
 as warv generals have sometimes dressed two or 
 three dozen of their friends in their own habit, 
 that they might not draw upon themselves any 
 particular attacks from the enemy. The strutting 
 petticoat smooths all distinctions, levels the mothe* 
 with the daughter, and sets maids and matrons, 
 wives and widows, upon the same bottom. In the 
 meanwhile, I cannot but be troubled to see so 
 many well-shaped innocent virgins bloated up, 
 *nd waddling up and down like big-bellied wo¬ 
 men. 
 
 Should this fashion get among the ordinary 
 people, our public ways would be so crowded, that 
 we should want street-room. Several congrega¬ 
 tions of the best fashion find themselves already 
 very much straitened ; and if the mode increase, I 
 wish it may not drive many ordinary women into 
 meetings and conventicles. Should our sex at the 
 same time take it into their heads to wear trunk 
 breeches (as who knows what their indignation at 
 this female treatment may drive them to?) a man 
 and his wife would fill a‘whole pew. 
 
 ^ ° U ^now,. to is. recorded of Alexander 
 the Great, that in his Indian expedition he buried 
 several suits of armor, which by his directions 
 were made much too big for any of his soldiers, 
 m order to give posterity an extraordinary idea of 
 him, and make them believe he had commanded 
 
 * See his play so called, act iv, scene 6, where Dufoy a 
 Frenchman, is thrust into a tub without a bottom, which he 
 carries about the stage on his shoulders, his head comine 
 through a hole at the top. 
 f Viz: in 1558. 
 
 12 
 
 177 
 
 an army of giants. I am persuaded that if one of 
 the present petticoats happens to be hung up in 
 any repository of curiosities, it would lead into 
 the same error the generations that lie some re¬ 
 moves from us ; unless we can believe our pos¬ 
 terity will think so disrespectfully of their great¬ 
 grandmothers, that they made themselves mon¬ 
 strous to appear amiable. 
 
 " When I survey this new-fashioned rotunda in 
 all its parts, I cannot but think of the old philo¬ 
 sopher, who after having entered into an Egyp¬ 
 tian temple, and looked about for the idol of the 
 place, at length discovered a little black monkey 
 enshrined in the midst of it, upon which he could 
 not forbear crying out, to the great scandal of the 
 worshipers, ‘ What a magnificent place is here for 
 such a ridiculous inhabitant! * 
 
 " Though you have taken a resolution, in one 
 of your papers, to avoid descending to particular¬ 
 ities of dress, I believe you will not think it be¬ 
 low you, on so extraordinay an occasion, to un¬ 
 hoop the fair sex, and cure this unfashionable 
 tympany that is got among them. I am apt to 
 think the petticoat will shrink of its own accord 
 at your first coming to town ; at least a touch of 
 your pen will make it contract itself like the sen¬ 
 sitive plant, and by that means oblige several who 
 are either terrified or astonished at this portentous 
 novelty, and among the rest, 
 
 C. " Your humble servant,” etc. 
 
 No. 128.] THURSDAY, JULY 27, 1711. 
 
 -Concordia discors.— Lucan., i, 98 . 
 
 -Harmonious discord. 
 
 Women in their nature are much more gay and 
 joyous than men ; whether it be that their blood 
 is more refined, their fibers more delicate, and 
 their animal spirits more light and volatile ; or 
 whether, as some have imagined, there may ’not 
 be a kind of sex in the very soul, I shall not pre¬ 
 tend to determine. As vivacity is the gift of wo¬ 
 men, gravity is that of men. They should each 
 of them therefore keep a watch upon the particu¬ 
 lar bias which nature has fixed in their minds, 
 that it may not draw too much, and lead them 
 out of the paths of reason. This will certainly 
 happen, if the one in every word and action af¬ 
 fects the character of being rigid and severe, and 
 the other of being brisk and airy. Men should 
 beware of being captivated by a kind of savage 
 philosophy, women by a thoughtless gallantry 
 Where these precautions are not observed, the 
 man often degenerates into a cynic, the woman 
 into a coquette ; the man grows sullen and mo¬ 
 rose, the woman impertinent and fantastical. 
 
 By what I have said, we may conclude, men and 
 women were made as counterparts to one another, 
 that the pains and anxieties of the husband might 
 be relieved by the sprightliness and good humor 
 of the wife. When these are rightly tempered, 
 care and cheerfulness go hand in hand; and the’ 
 family, like a ship that is duly trimmed, wants 
 neither sail nor ballast. 
 
 Natural historians observe (for while I am in 
 the country, I must fetch my allusions from 
 thence) that only the male birds have voices ; that 
 their songs begin a little before breeding-time, 
 and end a little after : that while the hen is cov¬ 
 ering her eggs, the male generally takes his stand 
 upon a neighboring bough within her hearing : 
 and by that means amuses and diverts her with 
 his songs during the whole time of her sitting. 
 
 This contract among birds lasts no longer than 
 till a brood of young ones arises from it: so that 
 in the feathered kina, the cares and fatigues of the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 178 
 
 married state, if I may so call it, lie principally 
 upon the female. On the contrary, a,s, in our spe¬ 
 cies, the man and the woman are joined together 
 for life, and the main burden rests upon the for¬ 
 mer, nature has given all the little arts of sooth¬ 
 ing and blandishment to the female, that she may 
 cheer and animate her companion in a constant 
 and assiduous application to the making a provis¬ 
 ion for his family, and the educating of their com¬ 
 mon children. This however is not to be taken 
 so strictly, as if the same duties were not often re¬ 
 ciprocal, and incumbent on both parties; but only 
 to set forth what seems to have been the general 
 intention of nature, in the different inclinations 
 and endowments which are bestowed on the dif¬ 
 ferent sexes. 
 
 But whatever was the reason that man and wo¬ 
 man were made with this variety of temper, if we 
 observe the conduct of the fair sex, we find that 
 they choose rather to associate themselves with a 
 person who resembles them in that light and vol¬ 
 atile humor which is natural to them, than to such 
 as are qualified to moderate and counterbalance 
 it. It has been an old complaint, that the cox¬ 
 comb carries it with them before the man of sense. 
 When we see a fellow loud and talkative, full of 
 insipid life and laughter, we may venture to pro¬ 
 nounce him a female favorite. Noise and flutter 
 are such accomplishments as they cannot with¬ 
 stand. To be short, the passion of an ordinary 
 woman for a man is nothing else than self-love 
 diverted upon another object. She would have 
 the lover a woman in everything but the sex. I 
 do not know a finer piece of satire on this part of 
 womankind, than those lines of Mr. Dryden : 
 
 Our thoughtless sex is caught by outward form, 
 
 And empty noise; and lores itself in man. 
 
 This is a source of infinite calamities to the 
 sex, as it frequently joins them to men who, in 
 their own thoughts, are as fine creatures as them¬ 
 selves ; or if they chance to be good-humored, 
 serve only to dissipate their fortunes, inflame their 
 follies, and aggravate their indiscretions. 
 
 The same female levity is no less fatal to them 
 after marriage than before. It represents to their 
 imaginations the faithful, prudent husband, as an 
 honest, tractable, and domestic animal; and turns 
 their thoughts upon the fine, gay gentleman that 
 laughs, sings, and dresses so much more agree- 
 ably. 
 
 As this irregular vivacity of temper leads astray 
 the hearts of ordinary women in the choice of 
 their lovers and the treatment of their husbands, 
 it operates with the same pernicious influence to¬ 
 ward their children, who are taught to accomplish 
 themselves in all those sublime perfections that 
 appear captivating in the eye of their mother. 
 She admires in her son what she loved in her gal¬ 
 lant ; and by that means contributes all she can 
 to perpetuate herself in a worthless progeny. 
 
 The younger Faustina was a lively instance of 
 this sort of women. Notwithstanding she was 
 married to Marcus Aurelius, one of the greatest, 
 wisest, and best of the Roman emperors, she 
 thought a common gladiator much the prettier 
 entleman; and had taken such care to accomplish 
 er son Commodus according to her own notions 
 of a fine man, that when he ascended the throne 
 of his father, he became the most foolish and 
 abandoned tyrant that ever was placed at the head 
 of the Roman empire, signalizing himself in 
 nothing but the fighting of prizes, and knocking 
 out men’s brains. As he had no taste of true 
 glory, we see him in several medals and statues, 
 which are still extant of him, equipped like a 
 Hercules, with a club and a lion’s skin. 
 
 I have been led into this speculation by the 
 characters I have heard of a country gentleman 
 and his lady, who do not live many miles from 
 Sir Roger. The wife is an old coquette that is 
 always hankering after the diversions of the town; 
 the husband a morose rustic, that frowns and frets 
 at the name of it. The wife is overrun with affec¬ 
 tation, * the husband sunk into brutality. The 
 lady cannot bear the noise of the larks and night¬ 
 ingales, hates your tedious summer-days, and is 
 sick at the sight of shady woods and purling 
 streams; the husband wonders how any one can 
 be pleased with the fooleries of plays and operas, 
 and rails from morning till night at essenced fops 
 and tawdry courtiers. The children are educated 
 in these different notions of their parents. The 
 sons follow their father about his grounds, while 
 the daughters read volumes of love-letters and ro¬ 
 mances to their mother. By this means it comes 
 to pass that the girls look upon their father as a 
 clown, and the boys think their mother no better 
 than she should be. 
 
 How different are the lives of Aristus and Aspa- 
 sia! The innocent vivacity of the one is temper¬ 
 ed and composed by the cheerful gravity of the 
 other. The wife grows wise by the discourses of 
 the husband, and the husband good-humored by 
 the conversations of the wife. Aristus would not 
 be so amiable were it not for his Aspasia, nor As- 
 pasia so much esteemed were it not for her Aris¬ 
 tus. Their virtues are blended in their children, 
 and diffuse through the whole family a perpetual 
 spirit of benevolence, complacency, and satisfac¬ 
 tion.—C. 
 
 No. 129.] SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1711. 
 
 Vertentem sese frustra sectabere canthum, 
 
 Cum rota posterior curras et in axe secundo. 
 
 Pers. Sat., v, 71. 
 
 Thou, like the hindmost chariot-wheels art curst, 
 
 Still to be near, but ne’er to be the first.— Dryden. 
 
 Great masters in painting never care for draw¬ 
 ing people in the fashion: as very well knowing 
 that the head-dress or periwig, that now prevails, 
 and gives a grace to their portraitures at present, 
 will make a very odd figure and perhaps look 
 monstrous in the ey§f, of posterity. For this rea¬ 
 son they often represent an illustrious person in a 
 Roman habit, or some other dress that never va¬ 
 ries. I could wish for the sake of my country 
 friends, that there was such a kind of everlasting 
 drapery to be made use of by all who live at a cer¬ 
 tain distance from the town, and that they would 
 agree upon such fashions as should never be lia¬ 
 ble to changes and innovations. For want of this 
 standing dress, a man who takes a journey into 
 the country is as much surprised as one who 
 walks in a gallery of old family pictures, and 
 finds as great a variety of garbs and habits in the 
 persons he converses with. Did they keep to one 
 constant dress they would sometimes be in the 
 fashion, which they never are as matters are man¬ 
 aged at present. If instead of running after the 
 mode, they would continue fixed in one certain 
 habit, the mode would sometime or other overtake 
 them, as a clock that stands still is sure to point 
 right once in twelve hours. In this case, tnere- 
 fore, I would advise them, as a gentleman did his 
 friend who was hunting about the whole town 
 after a rambling fellow—If you follow him you 
 will never find him, but if you plant yourself at 
 the corner of any one street, I will engage it will 
 not be long before you see him. 
 
 I have already touched upon this subject in a 
 speculation which shows how cruelly the country 
 are led astray in following the town; and equip- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ped in a ridiculous habit, when they fancy them¬ 
 selves in the height of the mode. Since that 
 speculation I have received a letter (which I there 
 hinted at) from a gentleman who is now on the 
 western circuit. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 " Being a lawyer of the Middle-Temple, a Cor- 
 nishman by birth, I generally ride the western 
 circuit* for my health; and as I am not interrupt¬ 
 ed with clients, have leisure to make many obser¬ 
 vations that escape the notice of my fellow-trav¬ 
 elers. 
 
 One .of the most fashionable women I met 
 with in all the circuit was my landlady at Staines, 
 where I chanced to be on a holiday. Her com¬ 
 mode was not half a foot high, and her petticoat 
 within some yards of a modish circumference. 
 In the same place I observed a young fellow with 
 a tolerable periwig, had it not been covered with 
 a hat that was shaped in the Ramilie-cock. As I 
 proceeded in my iourney, I observed the petticoat 
 grew scantier and scantier, and about threescore 
 miles from London was so very unfashionable, 
 that a woman might walk in it without any man¬ 
 ner of inconvenience. 
 
 . “ Not far from Salisbury I took notice of a jus¬ 
 tice of the peace’s lady, who was at least ten years 
 behind-hand in her dress, but at the same time as 
 fine as hands could make her. She was flounced 
 and furbelowed from head to foot; every ribbon 
 was wrinkled, and every part of her garments in 
 curl, so that she looked like one of those animals 
 which in the country we call a Friesland hen. 
 
 “Not many miles beyond this place I was in¬ 
 formed that one of the last year’s little muffs had 
 by some means or other straggled into those parts, 
 and that all the women of fashion were cutting 
 their old muffs in two, or retrenching them, ac¬ 
 cording to the little model which was got among 
 them. I cannot believe the report they have 
 there, that it was sent down franked by a parlia¬ 
 ment-man in a little packet; but probably by next 
 winter this fashion will be at the height in the 
 country, when it is quite out at London. 
 
 “The greatest beau at our next country sessions 
 was dressed in a most monstrous flaxen periwig, 
 that was made in King William’s reign. The 
 wearer of it goes, it seems, in his own hair when 
 he is at home, and lets his wig lie in a buckle for 
 a whole half-year, that he may put it on upon oc¬ 
 casion to meet the judges in it. 
 
 “ I must not here omit an adventure which hap¬ 
 pened to us in a country church upon the frontiers 
 of Cornwall. As we were in the midst of the ser¬ 
 vice, a lady, who is the chief woman of the place, 
 and had passed the winter at London with her 
 husband, entered the congregation in a little head¬ 
 dress, and a hooped petticoat. The people, who 
 were wonderfully startled at such a sight, all of 
 them rose up. Some stared at the prodigious bot¬ 
 tom, and some at the little top of this strange 
 dress. In the meantime the lady of the manor 
 filled the area of the church, and walked up to her 
 pew with an unspeakable satisfaction, amidst the 
 whispers, conjectures, and astonishments of the 
 whole congregation. 
 
 “ L pon our way from hence we saw a youno- fel¬ 
 low riding toward us full gallop, with a bol^wio- 
 and a black silken bag tied to it. He stopped short 
 at the coach, to ask us how far the judges were 
 behind us. His stay was so very short, that we 
 had only time to observe his new silk waistcoat, 
 which was unbuttoned in several places, to let us 
 
 179 
 
 see he had a clean shirt on, which was ruffled 
 down to his middle. 
 
 “ From this place, during our progress through 
 the most western parts of the kingdom, we fan¬ 
 cied ouiselves in King Charles the Second’s reign, 
 the people having made very little variations in 
 their dress since that time. The smartest of the 
 country squiies appears still in the Monmouth- 
 cock, and when they go a wooing (whether they 
 have any post in the militia or not) they generally 
 put on a red coat. We were, indeed, very much, 
 surprised, at the place we lay at last night, to 
 meet with a gentleman that had accoutered him¬ 
 self in a nightcap wig, a coat with long pockets 
 and slit sleeves, and a pair of shoes with high 
 scollop tops ; but we soon found by his conversa¬ 
 tion that he was a person who laughed at the ig¬ 
 norance and rusticity of the country people, ancl 
 was resolved to live and die in the mode. 
 
 Sir, if you think this account of my travels 
 may be of any advantage to the public, I will next 
 year trouble you with such occurrences as I shall 
 meet with in other parts of England. For I am 
 informed there are greater curiosities in the north¬ 
 ern circuit than in the western ; and that a fashion 
 makes it progress much slower into Cumberland 
 than into Cornwall. I have heard in particular, 
 that the Steenkirk* arrived but two months ago at 
 Newcastle, and that there are several commodes in 
 those parts which are worth taking a iournev 
 thither to see.” n J 
 
 No. 180.] MONDAY, JULY 30, 1711. 
 
 -Semperque recentes 
 
 Convectare juvat praedas, et vivere rapto. 
 
 Virg. ^En., vii, 748. 
 
 A plundering race, still eager to invade, 
 
 On spoil they live, and make of theft a trade. 
 
 As I was yesterday riding out in the fields with 
 my friend Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance 
 from us a troop of gipsies. Upon the first discov¬ 
 ery of them, my friend was in some doubt whether 
 he should not exert the justice of the peace upon 
 such a band of lawless vagrants ; but not having 
 his clerk with him, who is a necessary counselor 
 with him on these occasions, and fearing that his 
 poultry might fare the worse for it, let the thought 
 drop but at the same time gave me a particular 
 account of the mischiefs they do in the country, 
 in stealing people’s goods and spoiling their ser¬ 
 vants. ^ “ If a stray piece of linen hangs upon a 
 hedge,” says Sir Roger, “they are sure to have it; 
 if the hog loses his way in the fields, it is ten to 
 one but he becomes their prey: our geese cannot 
 live in peace for them ; if a man prosecutes them 
 with severity, his hen-roost is sure to pay for it. 
 They generally straggle into these parts about 
 this time of the year; and set the heads of our 
 servant-maids so agog for husbands, that we do 
 not expect to have any business done as it should 
 be while they are in the country. I have an hon¬ 
 est dairy-maid who crosses their hands with a 
 iece of silver every summer, and never fails 
 eing promised the handsomest young fellow in 
 the parish for her pains. Your friend the butler 
 has been fool enough to be seduced by them ; and 
 though he is sure to lose a knife, a fork or a spoon 
 every time his fortune is told him, generally shuts 
 himself up in the pantry with an old gipsy for 
 above half an hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweet¬ 
 hearts are the things they live upon, which they 
 bestow very plentifully upon all those who apply 
 themselves to them. You see now' and then some 
 
 *■ Counselors generally go on the circuits through the coun¬ 
 ties in which they are bora and bred. 
 
 * The Steenkirk was a kind of military cravat of black silk; 
 probably first worn at the battle of Steenkirk, fought August 
 2, 1692. * b 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 180 
 
 handsome young jades among tnem : the sluts 
 have white teeth and black eyes.” 
 
 Sir Roger observing that I listened with great 
 attention to his account of a people who were so 
 entirely new to me, told me, that if I -would, they 
 should tell us our fortunes. As I was very well 
 pleased with the knight’s proposal, we rode up, 
 and communicated our hands to them. A Cas¬ 
 sandra of the crew, after having examined my 
 lines very diligently, told me, that I loved a pretty 
 maid in a corner, that I was a good woman’s 
 man, with some other particulars which I do not 
 think proper to relate. Mv friend Sir Roger 
 alighted from his horse, and exposing his palm 
 to two or three that stood by him, they crumpled 
 it all shapes, and diligently scanned every wrinkle 
 that could be made in it; when one of them, who 
 wrs older find more sunburnt tliun tlie rest, told 
 him, that he had a widow in his line of life. 
 Upon which the knight cried, “Go, go, you are 
 an idle baggage and at the same time smiled 
 upon me. The gipsy finding he was not dis¬ 
 pleased in his heart, told him, after a farther 
 inquiry into his hand, that his true-love was con¬ 
 stant, and that she should dream of him to-night. 
 Mv old friend cried pish, and bid her go on. The 
 gipsy told him that he "was a bachelor, but would 
 not be so long; and that he was dearer to some¬ 
 body than he thought. The knight still repeated, 
 
 “ She was an idle baggage,” and bid her go on. 
 “Ah, master,” said the gipsy, “ that roguish leer 
 of yours makes a pretty woman’s heart ache ; you 
 have not that simper about the mouth for nothing.” 
 The uncouth gibberish with which all this was 
 uttered, like the darkness of an oracle, made us 
 the more attentive to it. To be short, the knight 
 left the money with her that he had crossed her 
 hand with, and got up again on his horse. 
 
 As we were riding away, Sir Roger told me, 
 that he knew several sensible people who believed 
 these gipsies now and then foretold very strange 
 things ; and for half an hour together appeared 
 more jocund than ordinary. In the height of his 
 good humor, meeting a common beggar upon the 
 road, who was no conjurer, as he went to relieve 
 him he found his pocket was picked ; that being 
 a kind of palmistry at which this race of vermin 
 
 are very dextrous. > . _ 
 
 I might here entertain my reader with historical 
 remarks on this idle, profligate people, who infest 
 all the countries of Europe, and live in the midsf; 
 of governments in a kind of commonwealth by 
 themselves. But instead of entering into obser¬ 
 vations of this nature, I shall fill the remaining 
 part of my paper with a story which is still fresh 
 in Holland, and was printed in one of our month¬ 
 ly accounts about twenty years ago.. “As the 
 trek-schuyt, or hackney-boat which carries passen¬ 
 gers from Leyden to Amsterdam, was putting off, 
 a boy running along the side of the canal desired 
 to be taken in: which the master of the boat 
 refused, because the lad had not quite money 
 enough to pay the usual fare.* An eminent mer¬ 
 chant being pleased with the looks of the boy, and 
 secretly touched with compassion toward him, 
 paid the money for him, and ordered him to be 
 taken on board. Upon talking with him after¬ 
 ward, he found that he could speak readily in 
 three or four languages, and learned upon farther 
 examination, that he had been stolen away when 
 he was a child by a gipsy, and had rambled ever 
 since with a gang of those strollers up and down 
 several parts of Europe. It happened that the 
 merchant, whose heart seemed to have inclined 
 toward the boy by a secret kind of instinct, had 
 
 himself lost a child some years before. The pa¬ 
 rents, after a long search for him, gave him for 
 drowned in one of the canals with which that 
 country abounds ; and the mother was so afllicted 
 at the loss of a fine boy, who was her only son, 
 that she died for grief of it. Upon laying together 
 all particulars, and examining several moles and 
 marks by which the mother used to describe the 
 child when he was first missing, the boy proved 
 to be the son of the merchant whose heart had so 
 unaccountably melted at the sight of him. The 
 lad was very well pleased to fincT a father who was 
 so rich and likely to leave him a good estate : the 
 father on the other hand was not a little delighted 
 to see a son return to him, whom he had given up 
 for lost, with such a strength of constitution, 
 sharpness of understanding, and skill in lan¬ 
 guages.” Here the printed story leaves off; but 
 if I may give credit to reports, our linguist hav¬ 
 ing received such extraordinary rudiments toward 
 a good education, was afterward trained up in 
 everything that became a gentleman ; wearing off 
 by little and little all the vicious habits and prac¬ 
 tices that he had been used to in the course of his 
 peregrinations. Nay, it is said, that he has since 
 been employed in foreign courts upon national 
 business, with great reputation to himself and 
 honor to those who sent him, and that he has 
 visited several countries as a public minister in 
 which he formerly wandered as a gipsy.—0. 
 
 No. 131.] TUESDAY, JULY 31, 1711. 
 
 -Ipsaj rursum concedite sylvae. 
 
 VntG. Eel., x, 63. 
 
 Once more, ye woods, adieu. 
 
 It is usual for a man who loves country sports 
 to preserve the game in his own grounds, and 
 divert himself upon those that belong to his neigh¬ 
 bor. My friend Sir Roger generally goes two or 
 three miles from his house, and gets into the 
 frontiers of his estate, before he beats about in 
 search of a hare or partridge, on purpose to spare 
 his own fields, where he is always sure of finding 
 diversion, when the worst comes to the worst. 
 By this means the breed about his house has time 
 to increase and multiply, beside that the sport is 
 more agreeable where the game is harder to come 
 at, and where it does not lie so thick as to produce 
 any perplexity or confusion in the pursuit. For 
 these reasons the country gentleman, like the fox, 
 seldom preys near his own home. 
 
 In the same manner I have made a month’s 
 excursion out of the town, which is the great field 
 of game for sportsmen of my species, to try my 
 fortune in the country, where I have started sever¬ 
 al subjects, and hunted them down, with some 
 pleasure to myself, and I hope to others. I am 
 here forced to use a great deal of diligence before 
 I can spring anything to my mind; whereas in 
 town, while I am following one character, it is ten 
 to one but I am crossed in my way by another, 
 and put up such a variety of odd creatures in 
 both sexes, that they foil the scent of one another, 
 and puzzle the chase. My greatest difficulty in 
 the country is to find sport, and in town to choose 
 it. In the meantime, as I have given a whole 
 month’s rest to the cities of London and West¬ 
 minster, I promise myself abundance of new game 
 upon my return thither. 
 
 It is indeed high time for me to leave the coun¬ 
 try, since I find the whole neighborhood begin to 
 grow very inquisitive after my name and charac¬ 
 ter ; my love of solitude, taciturnity, and particu¬ 
 lar way of life, having raised a great curiosity in 
 all these parts. 
 
 * Hardly more than three pence. 
 
181 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 The notions which have been framed of me are 
 various : some look upon me as very proud, some 
 as very modest, and some as very melancholy. 
 Will Wimble, as my friend the butler tells me, 
 observing me very much alone, and extremely 
 silent when I am in company, is afraid I have 
 killed a man. The country people seem to sus¬ 
 pect me for a conjurer; and some of them hear¬ 
 ing of the visit which I made to Moll White, 
 will needs have it that Sir Roger has brought 
 down a cunning man with him, to cure the old 
 woman, and free the country from her charms. 
 So that the character which I go under in part of 
 the neighborhood, is what they call here a White 
 Witch. 
 
 A justice of peace, who lives about five miles 
 off, and is not of Sir Roger’s party, has, it seems, 
 said twice or thrice at his table, that he wishes 
 Sir Roger does not harbor a Jesuit in his house, 
 and that he thinks the gentlemen of the country 
 would do very well to make me give some account 
 of myself. 
 
 On the other side, some of Sir Roger’s friends 
 are afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a 
 designing fellow; and as they have heard that he 
 converses very promiscuously when he is in town, 
 do not know but he has brought down with him 
 some discarded whig, that is sullen, and says 
 nothing because he is out of place. 
 
 Such is the variety of opinions which are here 
 entertained of me, so that I pass among some for a 
 disaffected person, and among others for a popish 
 priest; among some for a wizard, and among oth¬ 
 ers for a murderer ; and all this for no other reason 
 that I can imagine, but because I do not hoot, and 
 halloo, and make a noise. It is true, my friend 
 Sir Roger tells them,—“ That it is my way,” and 
 that I am only a philosopher ;■—but this will not 
 satisfy them. They think there is more in me 
 than he discovers, and that I do not hold my 
 tongue for nothing. 
 
 For these and other reasons I shall set out for 
 London to-morrow, having found by experience 
 that the country is not the place for a person of 
 my temper, who does not love jollity, and what 
 they call good neighborhood. A man that is out 
 of humor when an unexpected guest breaks in 
 upon him, and does not care for sacrificing an 
 afternoon to every chance comer—that will be the 
 master of his own time, and the pursuer of his 
 own inclinations,—makes but a very unsociable 
 figure in this kind of life. I shall therefore retire 
 into the town, if I may make use of that phrase, 
 and get into the crowd again as fast as I can, in 
 order to be alone. I can there raise what specu¬ 
 lations I please upon others without being ob¬ 
 served myself, and at the same time enjoy all the 
 advantages of company with all the privileges of 
 solitude. In the meanwhile, to finish the month, 
 and conclude these my rural speculations, I shall 
 here insert a letter from my friend Will Honey¬ 
 comb, who has not lived a month for these forty 
 years out of the smoke of London, and rallies me 
 after his way upon my country life. 
 
 “ Dear Spec., 
 
 . y suppose this letter will find thee picking of 
 daisies, or smelling to a lock of hay, or passing 
 away thy time in some innocent country diversion 
 of the like nature. I have however orders from 
 the club to summon thee up to town, being all of 
 us cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able to relish 
 our company, after thv conversations with Moll 
 White and Will Wimble. Prithee do not send us 
 up any more stories of a cock and a bull, nor 
 
 frighten the town with spirits and witches._ 
 
 Thy speculations begin to smell confoundedly of 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 woods and meadows. If thou dost not come up 
 quickly, we shall conclude that thou art in love 
 with one of Sir Roger’s dairy-maids. Service to 
 the knight. Sir Andrew is grown the cock of the 
 club since he left us, and if he does not return 
 quickly will make every mother’s son of us com- 
 monwealth’s-men. 
 
 “ Lear Spec., thine eternally, 
 
 “Will Honeycomb. 
 
 No. 132.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1, 1711. 
 
 Qui, aut tempus quid postulet non videt, aut plura loqui¬ 
 tur, aut se ostentat, aut eorum quibuscum est rationem non 
 habet, is ineptus esse dicitur.— Tull. 
 
 That man may be called impertinent, who considers not the 
 circumstances ol time, or engrosses the conversation, or makes 
 himself the subject of his discourse, or pays no regard to the 
 company he is in. 
 
 Having notified to my good friend Sir Roger 
 that I should set out for London the next day, his 
 horses were ready at the appointed hour in the 
 evening’ and attended by one of his grooms, I 
 arrived at the county-town at twilight, in order to 
 be ready for the stage-coach the day following. 
 As soon as we arrived at the inn, the servant who 
 waited upon me inquired of the chamberlain in 
 my hearing what company he had for the coach? 
 The fellow answered, “Mrs. Betty Arable, the 
 great fortune, and the widow her mother; a re¬ 
 cruiting officer (who took a place because they 
 were to go) ; young ’Squire Quickset, her cousin 
 (that her mother wished her to be married to); 
 Ephraim the Quaker, her guardian ; and a gentle¬ 
 man that had studied himself dumb from Sir 
 Roger de Coverley’s.” I observed by what he said 
 ot myself, that according to his office he dealt 
 much in intelligence; and doubted not but there 
 was’ some foundation for his reports of the rest of 
 the company, as well as for the whimsical account 
 he gave of me. The next morning at day-break 
 we were all called; and I, who know my own 
 natural shyness, and endeavor to be as little liable 
 to be disputed with as possible, dressed immedi¬ 
 ately that I might make no one wait. The first 
 preparation for our setting out was, that the cap¬ 
 tain s half-pike was placed near the coachman, and 
 a drum behind the coach. In the meantime the 
 drummer, the captain’s equipage, was very loud, 
 “that none of the captain’s things should be placed 
 so as to be spoiled;” upon which his cloak-bag 
 was fixed in the seat of the coach; and the captain 
 himself, according to a frequent, though invidious 
 behavior of military men, ordered his man to look 
 sharp that none but one of the ladies should have 
 the place he had taken fronting the coach-box. 
 
 We were in some little time fixed in our seats, 
 and sat with that dislike which people not too 
 good-natured usually conceive of each other at 
 first sight. The coach jumbled us insensibly into 
 some sort of familiarity: and we had not moved 
 above two miles, when the widow asked the cap¬ 
 tain what success he had in his recruiting? The 
 officer, with a frankness he believed very graceful, 
 told her, “that indeed he had but very little luck’ 
 and had suffered much by desertion, therefore 
 should be glad to end his warfare in the service 
 of her or her fair daughter. In a word,” continued 
 he, “I am a soldier, and to be plain is my charac¬ 
 ter: you see me. Madam, young, sound, and im¬ 
 pudent ; take me yourself, widow, or give me to 
 her, I will be wholly at your disposal. 1 am a 
 soldier of fortune, ha!”—This was followed by a 
 vain laugh of his own, and a deep silence of all 
 the rest of the company. I had nothing left for 
 it but to fall fast asleep, which I did with all 
 speed. “Come,” said he, “resolve upon it, we 
 
182 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 will make a wedding at the next town : we will 
 make this pleasant companion who is fallen asleep, 
 to be the bride-man; and,” giving the Quaker a 
 clap on the knee, he concluded, “this sly saint, 
 who, I will warrant you, understands what is what 
 as well as you or I, widow, shall give the bride as 
 father.” The Quaker, who happened to be a man 
 of smartness, answered, “Friend, I take it in good 
 part that thou hast given me the authority of a 
 father over this comely and virtuous child; and 1 
 must assure thee, that if I have the giving her, I 
 shall not bestow her on thee. Thy mirth, friend, 
 savoreth of folly ; thou art a person of a light 
 mind; thy drum is a type of thee—it soundeth 
 because it is empty. "Verily, it is not from thy 
 fullness, but thy emptiness, that thou hast spoken 
 this day. Friend, friend, we have hired this coach 
 in partnership with thee, to carry us to the great 
 city ; we cannot go any other way. This worthy 
 mother must hear thee if thou wilt needs utter thy 
 follies ; w r e cannot help it, friend, I say : if thou 
 wilt, v T e must hear thee ; but if thou wert a man 
 of understanding, thou wouldst not take advan¬ 
 tage of thy courageous countenance to abash us 
 children of peace.—Thou art, thou sayest, a sol¬ 
 dier ; give quarter to us, who cannot resist thee. 
 Why didst thou fleer at our friend, who feigned 
 himself asleep? He said nothing; but how dost thou 
 know what he containeth? It thou speakest im¬ 
 proper things in the hearing of this virtuous 
 young virgin, consider it is an outrage against a 
 distressed person that cannot get from thee; to 
 speak indiscreetly what we are obliged to hear, 
 by being hasped up with thee in this public 
 vehicle, is in some degree assaulting on the high¬ 
 road.” . 
 
 Here Ephraim paused, and the captain with a 
 happy and uncommon impudence (which can be 
 convicted and support itself at the same time) 
 cries, “Faith, friend, I thank thee; I should have 
 been a little impertinent if thou hadst not repri¬ 
 manded me. Come, thou art, I see, a smoky old 
 fellow, and I will be very orderly the ensuing part 
 of my journey. I was going to give myself airs, 
 but, ladies, I beg pardon.” 
 
 The captain was so little out of humor, and our 
 company was so far from being soured by this 
 little ruffle, that Ephraim and he took a particular 
 delight in being agreeable to each other for the 
 future; and assumed their different provinces in 
 the conduct of the company. Our reckonings, 
 apartments, and accommodation, fell under Ephra¬ 
 im; and the captain looked to all disputes upon 
 the road, as the good behavior of our coachman, 
 and the right we had. of taking place, as going to 
 London, of all vehicles coming from thence. The 
 occurrences we met with were ordinary, and very 
 little happened which could entertain by the re¬ 
 lation of them: but when I considered the com¬ 
 pany we were in, I took it for no small good- 
 fortune, that the whole journey was not spent in 
 impertinences, which to one part of us might be 
 an entertainment, to the other a suffering. What 
 therefore Ephraim said when we were almost ar¬ 
 rived at London, had to me an air not only of 
 good understanding, but good breeding. Upon 
 the young lady’s expressing her satisfaction in the 
 journey, and declaring how delightful it had 
 been to her, Ephraim declared himself as fol¬ 
 lows: “There is no ordinary part of human life 
 which expresseth so much a good mind, and a 
 right inward man, as his behavior upon meeting 
 with strangers, especially such as may seem the 
 most unsuitable companions to him: such a man, 
 when he falleth in the way with persons of sim¬ 
 plicity and innocence, however knowing he may 
 be in the ways of men, will not vaunt himself 
 
 thereof, but will the rather hide his superiority to 
 them, that he may not be painful unto them. My 
 good friend,” continued he, turning to the officer, 
 “thee and I are to part by and by, and peradven- 
 ture we may never meet again ; but be advised by 
 a plain man: modes and apparel are but trifles to 
 the real man, therefore do not think such a man as 
 thyself terrible for thy garb, nor such a one as me 
 contemptible for mine. When two such as thee 
 and I meet, with affections as we ought to have 
 toward each other, thou shouldst reioice to see my 
 peaceable demeanor, and I should be glad to see 
 thy strength and ability to protect me in it.” T. 
 
 No. 133.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 2, 1711 . 
 
 Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus 
 Tmn chari capitis ?—Hor. 1 Od. xxiv, 1. 
 
 Such was his worth, our loss is such, 
 
 We cannot love too well, or grieve too much. 
 
 Oldisworth. 
 
 There is a sort of delight, which is alternately 
 mixed with terror and sorrow in the contemplation 
 of death. The soul has its curiosity more than 
 ordinarily awakened, when it turns its thoughts 
 upon the conduct of such who have behaved them¬ 
 selves with an equal, a resigned, a cheerful, a gen¬ 
 erous, or heroic temper in that extremity. We are 
 affected with these respective manners of beha¬ 
 vior, as we secretly believe the part ot the dying 
 person imitated by ourselves, or such as we im¬ 
 agine ourselves more particularly capable of. Men 
 of exalted minds march before us like princes, and 
 are to the ordinary race of mankind rather subjects 
 of their admiration than example. However, 
 there are no ideas strike more forcibly upon our 
 imaginations, than those which are raised from 
 reflections upon the exits of great and excellent 
 men. Innocent men who have suffered as crimi¬ 
 nals, though they were benefactors to human 
 society, seem to be persons of the highest dis¬ 
 tinction, among the vastly greater number of 
 human race, the dead. When the iniquity of the 
 times brought Socrates to his execution, how great 
 and wonderful is it to behold him, unsupported 
 by anything but the testimony of his own con¬ 
 science and conjectures of hereafter, receive the 
 poison with an air of warmth and good-humor, 
 and, as if going on an agreeable journey, bespeak 
 some deity to make it fortunate! 
 
 When Phocion’s good actions had met with the 
 like reward from his country, and he was led to 
 death with many other of his friends, they be¬ 
 wailing their fate, he vralking composedly toward 
 the place of his execution, how gracefully does he 
 support his illustrious character to the very last 
 instant! One of the rabble spitting at him as he 
 passed, with his usual authority he called to know 
 if no one was ready to teach this fellow how to 
 behave himself. When a poor-spirited creature 
 that died at the same time for his crimes, bemoan¬ 
 ed himself unmanfully, he rebuked him with this 
 question, “Is it no consolation to such a man as 
 thou art to die with Phocion?” At the instant 
 when he was to die, they asked what commands 
 he had for his son : he answered, “To forget this 
 injury of the Athenians.” Niocles, his friend, 
 under the same sentence, desired he might drink 
 the potion before him : Phocion said “because he 
 never had denied him anything, he would not 
 even this, the most difficult request he had ever 
 made.” 
 
 These instances were very noble and great, and 
 the reflections of those sublime spirits had made 
 deatli to them what it is really intended to be by 
 the Author of nature, a relief from a various being, 
 ever subject to sorrows and difficulties. 
 
 Epaminondas, the Theban general, having re- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ceived in fi<dit a mortal stab with a sword, which 
 was left in his body, lay in that posture till he had 
 intelligence that his troops had obtained the 
 victory, and then permitted it to be drawn out, at 
 which instant he expressed himself in this manner: 
 “I his is not the end of my life, my fellow-sol¬ 
 diers; it is now your Epamiuondas is born, who 
 dies in so much glory.” 
 
 It were an endless labor to collect the accounts, 
 with which all ages have filled the world, of noble 
 and heroic minds that have resigned this being, 
 as if the termination of life were but an ordinary 
 occurrence of it. 
 
 This commonplace way of thinking I fell into 
 from an awkward endeavor to throw off a real 
 and fresh affliction, by turning over books in a 
 melancholy mood; but it is not easy to remove 
 riefs which touch the heart, by applying reme- 
 ies which only entertain the imagination. As 
 therefore this paper is to consist of anything which 
 concerns human life, I cannot help letting the 
 present subject regard what has been the last 
 object of my eyes, though an entertainment of 
 sorrow. 
 
 I went this evening to visit a friend, with a 
 design to rally him, upon a story I had heard of 
 his intending to steal a marriage without the pri¬ 
 vity of us his intimate friends and acquaintance. 
 I came into his apartment with that intimacy 
 which I have done for very many years, and walk¬ 
 ed directly into his bed-chamber, where I found 
 my friend in the agonies of death.—What could I 
 do? The innocent mirth of my thoughts struck 
 upon me like the most flagitious wickedness: I in 
 vain called upon him; he was senseless, and too 
 far spent to have the least knowledge of my sorrow, 
 or any pain in himself. Give me leave then to 
 transcribe my soliloquy, as I stood by his mother, 
 dumb with the weight of grief for a son who was 
 her honor and her comfort, and never till that hour 
 since his birth had been a moment’s sorrow to 
 her. 
 
 “How surprising is the change! From the pos¬ 
 session of vigorous life and strength, to be re¬ 
 duced in a few hours to this fatal extremity! 
 Those lips which look so pale and livid, within 
 these few days gave delight to all who heard their 
 utterance; it was the business, the purpose of his 
 being, next to obeying him to whom he is gone, 
 to please and instruct, and that for no other end 
 but to please and instruct. Kindness was the 
 motive of his actions, and with all the capacity 
 requisite for making a figure in a contentious 
 world, moderation, good-nature, affability, temper¬ 
 ance, and chastity, were the arts of his" excellent 
 life.—There as he lies in helpless agony, no wise 
 man who knew him so well as I, but would re¬ 
 sign all the world can bestow to be so near the 
 end of such a life. Why does my heart so little 
 obey my reason as to lament thee, thou excellent 
 man?—Heaven receive him or restore him!—Thy 
 beloved mother, thy obliged friends, thy helpless 
 servants, stand around thee without distinction. 
 How much wouldst thou, hadst thou thy senses, say 
 to each of us! 
 
 “ But now that good heart bursts, and he is at 
 rest. With that breath expired a soul who never 
 indulged a passion unfit for the place he is gone 
 to. Where are now thy plans of justice, of truth, 
 of honor ? Of what use the volumes thou hast 
 collated, the arguments thou hast invented, the 
 examples thou hast followed ? Poor were the ex¬ 
 pectations of the studious, the modest, and the 
 good, if the reward of their labors were only to 
 be expected from man. No, my friend; thy 
 intended pleadings, thy intended good offices to 
 thy friends, thy intended services to thy country. 
 
 183 
 
 are already performed (as to thy concern in them) 
 in his sight, before whom the past, present, and 
 future appear at one view. While others with 
 their talents were tormented with ambition, with 
 vain-glory, with envy, with emulation—how well 
 didst thou turn thy mind to its own improvement 
 in things out of the power of fortune: in probity, 
 in integrity, in the practice and study of justice I 
 How silent thy passage, how private thy journey, 
 how glorious thy end! ‘Many have I known 
 more famous, some more knowing, not one so in¬ 
 nocent.’ ” —R. 
 
 No. 134 ] FRIDAY, AUGUST 3, 1711. 
 
 -Opiferque per orbem 
 
 Dicor- Ovid. Met., i, 521. 
 
 And am the great physician call’d below.— Dryden. 
 
 During my absence in the country, several 
 packets have been left for me, which were not for¬ 
 warded to me, because I was expected every day 
 in town. The author of the following letter dated 
 from Tower-hill, having sometimes been enter¬ 
 tained with some learned gentlemen in plush- 
 doublets,* who have vended their wares from a 
 stage in that place, has pleasantly enough ad¬ 
 dressed to me as no less a sage in morality, than 
 those are in physic. To comply with his kind 
 inclination to make my cures famous, I shall give 
 you his testimonial of my great abilities at large 
 in his own words. 
 
 “Sir, Tower-hill, July 5, 1711. 
 
 “Your saying the other day there is something 
 wonderful in the narrowness of those minds 
 which can be pleased, and be barren of bounty to 
 those who please them, makes me in pain that I 
 am not a man of power. If I were, you should 
 soon see how much I approve your speculations. 
 In the meantime, I beg leave to supply that ina¬ 
 bility with the empty tribute of an honest mind, 
 by telling you plainly, I love and thank you for 
 your daily refreshments. I constantly peruse 
 your paper as I smoke my morning’s pipe 
 (though I cannot forbear reading the motto be¬ 
 fore I fill and light), and really it gives a grateful 
 relish to every whiff; each paragraph is fraught 
 either with useful or delightful notions, ana I 
 never fail of being highly diverted or improved. 
 The variety of your subject surprises me as much 
 as a box of pictures did formerly in which there 
 was only one face, that, by pulling some pieces 
 of isinglass over it, was changed into a grave 
 senator or a Merry-Andrew, a patched lady or a 
 nun, a beau or a black-a-moor, a prude or a co¬ 
 quette, a country esquire or a conjurer, with many 
 other different representations very entertaining 
 (as you are), though still the same at the bottom. 
 This w'as a childish amusement, when I was car¬ 
 ried awav with outward appearance ; but you 
 make a deeper impression, and affect the secret 
 springs of the mind ; you charm the fancy, soothe 
 the passions, and insensibly lead the reader to 
 that sweetness of temper that you so well describe ; 
 vou rouse generosity with that spirit, and inculcate 
 humanity with that ease, that he must be miserably 
 stupid that is not affected by you. I cannot say, 
 indeed, that you have put impertinence to silence, 
 or vanity out of countenance; but methinks, 
 you have bid as fair for it as any man that ever 
 appeared upon a public stage ; and offer an in¬ 
 fallible cure of vice and folly, for the price of one 
 enny. And since it is usual for those who receive 
 enefit by such famous operators, to publish an 
 advertisement that others may reap the same 
 
 * Viz: Quack-doctors. 
 
184 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 advantage, I think myself obliged to declare to all 
 the world, that having for a long time been sple¬ 
 netic, ill-natured, froward, suspicious and unso¬ 
 ciable—by the application of your medicines, 
 taken only with half an ounce of right Virginia 
 tobacco for six successive mornings, I am become 
 open, obliging, officious, frank, and hospitable. 
 
 I am, 
 
 “ Your humble servant and great admirer, 
 
 “George Trusty.” 
 
 The careful father and humble petitioner here¬ 
 after mentioned, who are under difficulties about 
 the just management of fans, will soon receive 
 proper advertisements relating to the professors 
 in tnat behalf, with their places of abode and me¬ 
 thods of teaching. 
 
 “Sir, July 5, 1711. 
 
 “ In your Spectator of June the 27th, you tran¬ 
 scribe a letter sent to you from a new sort of 
 muster-master, who teaches ladies the whole exer¬ 
 cise of the fan. I have a daughter just come to 
 town, who though she has always held a fan in 
 her hand at proper times, yet she knows no more 
 howto use it according to true discipline, than 
 an awkward school-boy does to make use of his 
 new sword. I have sent for her on purpose to 
 learn the exercise, she being already very well 
 accomplished in all other arts which are neces¬ 
 sary for a young lady to understand ; my request 
 is, that you will speak to your correspondent on 
 my behalf, and in your next paper let me know 
 wliat he expects, either by the month or the quar¬ 
 ter for teaching ; and where he keeps his place 
 of rendezvous. I have a son too, whom I would 
 fain have taught to gallant fans, and should be 
 glad to know what the gentleman will have for 
 teaching them both, I finding fans for practice at 
 my own expense. This information will in the 
 highest manner oblige, Sir, your most humble 
 servant, “ William Wiseacre.” 
 
 “As soon as my son is perfect in this art 
 (which I hope will be in a year’s time, for the 
 boy is pretty apt), I design he shall learn to ride 
 the great horse (although he is not yet above 
 twenty years old), if his mother, whose darling 
 he is, will venture him.” 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “ The humble Petition of Benjamin Easy , Gent. 
 
 “ 8HOWETH, 
 
 “ That it was your petitioner’s misfortune to 
 walk to Hackney church last Sunday, where to 
 his great amazement he met with a soldier of your 
 own training ; she furls a fan, recovers a fan, and 
 goes through the whole exercise of it to admira¬ 
 tion. This well-managed officer of yours has, to 
 my knowledge, been the ruin of above five young 
 gentlemen beside myself, and still goes on lay¬ 
 ing waste wheresoever she comes, whereby the 
 whole village is in great danger. Our humble 
 request is therefore, that this bold Amazon be 
 ordered immediately to lay down her arms, or 
 that you would issue forth an order, that we who 
 have been thus injured may meet at .the place of 
 general rendezvous, and there be taught to ma¬ 
 nage our snuff-boxes, in such a manner as we 
 may be an equal match for her; 
 
 “ And your petitioner shall ever pray,” etc. 
 
 R. 
 
 No. 135.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 4 , 1711 . 
 
 Est brevitate opus, ut currat sententia- 
 
 Hob. 1 Sat. x, a. 
 
 Let brevity dispatch the rapid thought. 
 
 I have somewhere read of an eminent person, 
 who used in his private offices of devotion to 
 give thanks to Heaven that he was born a 
 Frent hman : for my own part, I look upon it as a 
 peculiar blessing that I was born an Englishman. 
 Among many other reasons, I think myself very 
 happy in my country, as the language of it is 
 wonderfully adapted to a man who is sparing of 
 his words, and an enemy to loquacity. 
 
 As I have frequently reflected on my good for¬ 
 tune in this particular, I shall communicate to the 
 public my speculations on the English tongue, 
 not doubting but they will be acceptable to all 
 my curious readers. 
 
 The English delight in silence more than any 
 other European nation, if the remarks which are 
 made on us by foreigners are true. Our discourse 
 is not kept up in conversation, but falls into 
 more pauses and intervals than in our neighbor¬ 
 ing countries; as it is observed, that the matter 
 of our writings is thrown much closer together, 
 and lies in a narrower compass than is usual in 
 the works of foreign authors ; for, to favor our 
 natural taciturnity, when we are obliged to utter 
 our thoughts, we do it in the shortest way we are 
 able, and give as quick a birth to our conceptions 
 as possible. 
 
 This humor shows itself in several remarks that 
 we may make upon the English language. As 
 first of all by its abounding in monosyllables, 
 whicfy gives us an opportunity of delivering our 
 thoughts in few sounds. This indeed takes off 
 from the elegance of our tongue, but at the same 
 time expresses our ideas in the readiest manner, 
 and consequently answers the first design of 
 speech better than the multitude of Syllables, 
 which makes the words of other languages more 
 tunable and sonorous. The sounds of our Eng¬ 
 lish words are commonly like those of string- 
 music, short and transient, which rise and perish 
 upon a single touch ; those of other languages are 
 like the notes of wind-instruments, sweet and 
 swelling, and lengthened out into a variety of 
 modulation. 
 
 In the next place we may observe, that where 
 the words are not monosyllables, we often make 
 them so, so much as lies in our power, by our 
 rapidity of pronunciation ; as it generally hap¬ 
 pens in most of our long words which are de¬ 
 rived from the Latin, where we contract the 
 length of the syllables that gives them a grave 
 and solemn air in their own language, to make 
 them more proper for dispatch, and more con¬ 
 formable to the genius of our tongue. This we 
 may find in a multitude of words, as “ liberty, 
 conspiracy, theater, orator,” etc. 
 
 The same natural aversion to loquacity has of 
 late years made a very considerable alteration in 
 our language, by closing in one syllable the ter¬ 
 mination of our preterperfect tense, as in these 
 words, “drown’d, walk’d, arriv’d,” for “drowned, 
 walked, arrived,” which has very much disfi¬ 
 gured the tongue, and turned a tenth part of our 
 smoothest words into so many clusters of conso¬ 
 nants. This is the more remarkable, because the 
 want of vowels in our language has been the 
 general complaint of our politest authors, who 
 nevertheless are the men that have made these 
 retrenchments, and consequently very much in¬ 
 creased our former scarcity. 
 
 This reflection on the words that end in ed, I 
 have heard in conversation from one of the greatest 
 
THE SPE 
 
 geniuses this age has produced * I think we 
 may add to the foregoing observation, the change 
 which has happened in our language, by the 
 abbreviation of several words that are terminated 
 in “ eth,” by substituting an s in the room of the 
 last syllable, as in “ drowns, walks, arrives,” 
 and innumerable other words, which in the pro¬ 
 nunciation of our forefathers were “ drowneth, 
 walketh, arriveth.” This has wonderfully mul¬ 
 tiplied a letter which was before too frequent in 
 the English tongue, and added to that hissing in 
 our language, which is taken so much notice of 
 by foreigners ; but at the same time humors our 
 taciturnity, and eases us of many superfluous 
 syllables. 
 
 I might here observe, that the same single letter 
 on many occasions does the office of a whole 
 word, and represents the “his” and “her” of 
 our forefathers. There is no doubt but the ear of 
 a foreigner, which is the best judge in this case, 
 would very much disapprove of such innovations, 
 which indeed we do ourselves in some measure, 
 by retaining the old termination in writing, and 
 in all solemn offices of our religion. 
 
 As in the instances I have given we have epi¬ 
 tomized many of our particular words to the de¬ 
 triment of our tongue, so on other occasions we 
 have drawn two words into one, which has likewise 
 very much untuned our language, and clogged it 
 with consonants — as “mayn’t can’t, shan’t, 
 won’t,” and the like, for “ may not, cannot, shall 
 not, will not,” etc. 
 
 __ It is perhaps this humor of speaking no more 
 than we needs must, which has so miserably cur¬ 
 tailed some of our words, that in familiar writ¬ 
 ings and conversations they often lose all but 
 their first syllables, as in “mob, rep. pos. incog.” 
 and the like; and as all ridiculous words make 
 their first entry into a language by familiar 
 phrases, I dare not answer for these," that they 
 will not in time be looked upon as a part of our 
 tongue. We see some of our poets have been so 
 indiscreet as to imitate Hudibras’s doggerel ex¬ 
 pressions in their serious compositions, by throw¬ 
 ing out the signs of our substantives which are 
 essential to the English language. Nay, this 
 humor of shortening our language had once run 
 so far, that some of our celebrated authors, among 
 whom we may reckon Sir Roger L’Estrange in 
 particular, began to prune their words of all 
 superfluous letters, as they termed them, in order 
 to adjust the spelling to the pronunciation ; 
 which would have confounded all our etymolo¬ 
 gies, and have quite destroyed our tongue. 
 
 We may here likewise observe, that our proper 
 names, when familiarized in English, generally 
 dwindle to monosyllables, whereas in other 
 modern languages they receive a softer turn on 
 this occasion, by the addition of a new syllable.— 
 Nick, in Italian, is Nicolini : Jack, in French, 
 Jeannot; and so of the rest. 
 
 There is another particular in our language 
 which is a great instance of our frugality of 
 woids, and that is the suppressing of several par¬ 
 ticles hich must be produced in other tongues to 
 make a sentence intelligible. This perplexes the 
 best writers, when they find the relatives ‘whom,’ 
 ‘which,’ or ‘they,’ at their mercy, whether they 
 h&ve admission, or not; and will never be de- 
 cided until we have something like an academy, 
 that by the best authorities and rules drawn from 
 the analogy of languages, shall settle all contro¬ 
 versies between grammar and idiom. 
 
 * This was probably Dean Swift, who has made the same 
 observation in his proposal for correcting, improving, and 
 ascertaining the English tongue, etc. See Swift’s Works. 
 
 CTATOR. 185 
 
 I have only considered our language as it shows 
 the genius and natural temper of the English, 
 wdiich is modest, thoughtful and sincere, and 
 which perhaps may recommend the people, though 
 it has spoiled the tongue. We might perhaps car¬ 
 ry the same thought into other languages, and de¬ 
 duce a great part of what is peculiar to them 
 from the genius of the people who speak them. 
 It is certain, the light talkative humor of the 
 French has not a little infected their tongue, w r hich 
 might be shown by many instances; as the genius 
 of the Italians, which is so much addicted to music 
 and ceremony, has moulded all their words and 
 phrases to those particular uses. The stateliness 
 and gravity of the Spaniards shows itself to per¬ 
 fection in the solemnity of their language ; and 
 the blunt honest humor of the German sounds bet¬ 
 ter in the roughness of the High-Dutch, than it 
 would in a politer tongue.—C. 
 
 No. 136.] MONDAY, AUGUST 6, 1711. 
 
 -Parthis mendacior.—H or. 2 Ep. i, 112. 
 
 A greater liar Parthia never bred. 
 
 According to the request of this strange fellow, 
 I shall print the following letter : 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I shall without any manner of preface or apol¬ 
 ogy acquaint you, that I am, and ever have been, 
 from my youth upward, one of the greatest liars 
 this island has produced. I have read all the mo¬ 
 ralists upon the subject, but could never find any 
 effect their discourses had upon me, but to add to 
 my misfortune by new thoughts and ideas, and 
 making me more ready in my language, and capa¬ 
 ble of sometimes mixing seeming truths with my 
 improbabilities. With this strong passion toward 
 falsehood in this kind, there does not live an hon- 
 ester man, or a sincerer friend; but my imagina¬ 
 tion runs away with me; and whatever is started, 
 I have such a scene of adventures appear in an 
 instant before me, that I cannot help uttering 
 them, though, to my immediate confusion, I can¬ 
 not but know I am liable to be detected by the 
 first man I meet. 
 
 “ Upon occasion of the mention of the battle of 
 Pultowa,* I could not forbear giving an account 
 of a kinsman of mine, a young merchant who was 
 bred at Moscow, that had too much mettle to at¬ 
 tend books of entries and accounts, when there was 
 so active a scene in the country where he resided, 
 and followed the Czar as a volunteer. This warm 
 youth (born at the instant the thing was spoken of) 
 was the man who unhorsed the Swedish general; he 
 was the occasion that the Muscovites kept their 
 fire in so soldier-like a manner; and brought up 
 those troops which were covered from the enemy 
 at the beginning of the day; beside this, he had at 
 last the good fortune to be the man who took Count 
 Piper.f With all this fire I knew my cousin to 
 be the civilest creature in the world. He never 
 made any impertinent show of his valor, and then 
 he had an excellent genius for the world in every 
 other kind. I had letters from him (here I felt 
 in my pockets) that exactly spoke the Czar’s 
 character, which I knew perfectly well; and I 
 could not forbear concluding, that I lay with his 
 imperial majesty twice or thrice a week all the 
 while he lodged at Deptford.t What is worse 
 than all this, it is impossible to speak to me but 
 
 * Fought July 8,1709, between Charles XII, of Sweden, and 
 Peter I, Emperor of Russia; wherein Charles was entirely 
 defeated. 
 
 + Prime Minister of Charles XII. 
 
 * In the spring of the year 1698. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 186 
 
 occasion of coming out with 
 
 you give me some 
 one lie or other, that has neither wit, humor, pros¬ 
 pect of interest, or any other motive that I can 
 think of in nature. The other day, when one 
 was commending an eminent and learned divine, 
 what occasion in the world had I to say, ‘Me- 
 thinks he would look more venerable if he were 
 not so fair a man V I remember the company 
 smiled. I have seen the gentleman since, and he is 
 coal black. I have intimations every day in my life 
 that nobody believes me; yet I am never the better. 
 
 I was saying something the other day to an old 
 friend at Will’s coffee-house, and he made me no 
 manner of answer; but told me that an acquaint¬ 
 ance of Tully the orator having two or three times 
 together said to him, without receiving any ans¬ 
 wer, ‘that upon his honor he was but that very 
 month forty years of age,’ Tully answered, ‘ Sure¬ 
 ly you think me the most incredulous man in the 
 world, if I do not believe what you have told me 
 every day these ten years.’ The mischief of it is 
 I find myself wonderfully inclined to have been 
 present at every occurrence that is spoken of be¬ 
 fore me; this has led me into many inconveniences, 
 but indeed they have been the fewer, because I am 
 no ill-natured man, and never speak things to any 
 man’s disadvantage. I never directly defame, but 
 I do what is as bad in the consequence, for I have 
 often made a man say such and such a lively ex¬ 
 pression, who was born a mere elder brother. 
 When one has said in my hearing, ‘ such a one is 
 no wiser than he should be,’ I immediately have 
 replied, ‘Now ’faith, I cannot see that; he said a 
 very good thing to my lord such-a-one, upon such 
 an occasion,’ and the like. Such an honest dolt 
 as this has been watched in every expression he 
 uttered, upon my recommendation of him, and con¬ 
 sequently been subject to the more ridicule. I 
 once endeavored to cure myself of this impertinent 
 quality, and resolved to hold my tongue for seven 
 days together ; I did so ; but then I had so many 
 winks and unnecessary distortions of my face upon 
 what anybody else said, that I found I only forbore 
 the expression, and that I still lied in my heart to 
 every man I met with. You are to know one 
 thing (which I believe you will say is a pity con¬ 
 sidering the use I should have made of it), I 
 never traveled in my life; but I do not know whe¬ 
 ther I could have spoken of any foreign country 
 with more familiarity than I do at present, in com¬ 
 pany who are strangers to me. I have cursed the 
 inns in Germany; commended the brothels at Ve¬ 
 nice—the freedom of conversation in France ; and 
 though I was never out of this dear town, and 
 fifty miles about it, have been three nights togeth¬ 
 er dogged by bravos, for an intrigue with a car¬ 
 dinal’s mistress at Rome. 
 
 * “ It were endless to give you particulars of this 
 kind; but I can assure you, Mr. Spectator, there 
 are about twenty or thirty of us in this town—I 
 mean by this town the cities of London and West- 
 minster—I say there are in town a sufficient num¬ 
 ber of us to make a society among ourselves ; and 
 since we cannot be believed any longer, I beg of 
 you to print this my letter, that we may meet to¬ 
 gether, and be under such regulation as there may 
 be no occasion for belief or confidence among us. 
 If you think fit, we might be called ‘the histo¬ 
 rians,’ for liar is become a very harsh word. And 
 that a member of the society may not hereafter be 
 ill received by the rest of the world, I desire you 
 would explain a little this sort of men, and not 
 let us historians be ranked, as we are in the ima¬ 
 ginations of ordinary people, among common 
 liars, makebates, impostors and incendiaries.— 
 For your instruction herein, you are to know that 
 a historian in conversation is only a person of 
 
 so pregnant a fancy, that he cannot be contented 
 with ordinary occurrences. I know a man of 
 quality of our order, who is of the wrong side of 
 forty-three, and has been of that age, according 
 to Tully’s jest, for some years since, whose vein 
 is upon the romantic. Give him the least occa¬ 
 sion, and he will tell you something so very par¬ 
 ticular that happened in such a year, and in such 
 company, where by-the-bye was present such a 
 one, who was afterward made such a thing. Out 
 of all these circumstances, in the best language in 
 the world, he will join together with such proba¬ 
 ble incidents an account that shows a person of 
 the deepest penetration, the honestest mind, and 
 withal something so humble when he speaks of 
 himself, that you would admire. Dear Sir, why 
 should this be lying ? there is nothing so instruct¬ 
 ive. He has withal the gravest aspect—some¬ 
 thing so very venerable and great! Another of 
 these historians is a young man whom we would 
 take in, though he extremely wants parts: as peo¬ 
 ple send children (before they can learn any¬ 
 thing) to school, to keep them out of harm’s way. 
 He tells things which have nothing at all in them, 
 and can neither please nor displease, but merely 
 take up your time to no manner of purpose, no 
 manner of delight; but he is good-natured, and 
 does it because he loves to be saying something 
 to you, and entertain you. 
 
 “ I could name you a soldier that hath done 
 very great things without slaughter ; he is prodi¬ 
 giously dull and slow of head, but what he can 
 say is forever false, so that we must have him. 
 
 “ Give me leave to tell you of one more, who is 
 a lover ; he is the most afflicted creature in the 
 world lest what happened between him and a 
 great beauty should ever be known. Yet again 
 he comforts himself, ‘ Hang the jade her woman. 
 If money can keep the slut trusty, I will do it, 
 though I mortgage every acre ; Antony and Cleo¬ 
 patra for that; All for Love and the World well 
 Lost.’ 
 
 “ Then, Sir, there is my little merchant, honest 
 Indigo of the ’Change, there is my man for loss 
 and gain ; there is tare and tret, there is lying all 
 round the globe; he has such a prodigious intelli¬ 
 gence, he knows all the French are doing, or what 
 we intend or ought to intend, and has it from 
 such hands. But, alas, whither am I running !— 
 while I complain, while I remonstrate to you, even 
 all this is a lie, and there is not one such person 
 of quality, lover, soldier, or merchant, as I have 
 now described in the whole world that I know of. 
 But I will catch myself once in my life, and in 
 spite of nature speak one truth, to wit, that I am, 
 
 T. “ Your humble servant,” etc. 
 
 No. 137.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 7, 1711 
 
 At htec etiam servis semper libera fuerunt, timerent, gau- 
 derent, dolerent, suo potius quam alterius arbitrio. 
 
 Tull. Epist. 
 
 Even slaves were always at liberty to fear, rejoice, and 
 grieve, at their own rather than another’s pleasure. 
 
 It is no small concern to me, that I find so 
 many complaints from that part of mankind 
 whose portion it is to live in servitude, that those 
 whom they depend upon will not allow them to 
 be even as happy as their condition will admit of. 
 There are, as these unhappy correspondents in¬ 
 form me, masters who are offended at a cheerful 
 countenance, and think a servant is broke loose 
 from them, if he does not preserve the utmost 
 awe in their presence. There is one who says, if 
 he looks satisfied, his master asks him, “What 
 makes him so pert this morning?” if a little 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 sour, “Hark ye, Sirrah, are not you paid your 
 wages ?” The poor creatures live in the iuost 
 extreme misery together ; the master knows not 
 how to preserve respect, nor the servant how to 
 give it. It seems this person is of so sullen a na¬ 
 ture that he knows but little satisfaction in the 
 midst of a plentiful fortune, and secretly frets to see 
 any appearance of content in one that lives upon 
 the hundredth part of his income, while he is un¬ 
 happy in the possession of the whole. Uneasy 
 persons, who cannot possess their own minds, 
 vent their spleen upon all who depend upon them: 
 which, I think, is expressed in a lively manner in 
 the following letters: 
 
 "Sir, August 2, 1711. 
 
 “ I have read your Spectator of the third of the 
 last month, and wish 1 had the happiness of being 
 preferred to serve so good a master as Sir Roger. 
 The character of my master is the very reverse of 
 that good and gentle knight’s. All his directions 
 are given, and his mind revealed by way of con¬ 
 traries : as when anything is to be remembered, 
 with a peculiar cast of face he cries, ‘ 13e sure to 
 forget now.’ If I am to make haste back, ‘ Do not 
 come these two hours ; be sure to call by the way 
 upon some of your companions.’ Then another 
 excellent way of his is, if he sets me anything to 
 do, which he knows must necessarily take up half 
 a day, he calls ten times in a quarter of an hour 
 to know whether I have done yet. This is his man¬ 
 ner; and the same perverseness runs through all his 
 actions, according as the circumstances vary. Be¬ 
 side all this, he is so suspicious, that he submits 
 himself to the drudgery of a spy. He is as unhap¬ 
 py himself as he makes his servants ; he is con¬ 
 stantly watching us, and we differ no more in plea¬ 
 sure and liberty than as a jailer and a prisoner. He 
 lays traps for faults ; and no sooner makes a dis¬ 
 covery, out falls into such language, as I am more 
 ashamed of for coming from him, than for being 
 directed to me. This, Sir, is a short sketch of a 
 master I have served upward of nine years ; and 
 though I have never wronged him, I confess my 
 despair of pleasing him has very much abated my 
 endeavor to do it. If you will give me leave to 
 steal a sentence out of my master’s Clarendon, I 
 shall tell you mv case in a word, ‘ being used worse 
 than I deserved, I cared less to deserve well than 
 I had done.’ 
 
 “ I am. Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 “ Ralph Valet.” 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Specter, 
 
 “I am the next thing to a lady’s woman, and 
 am under both my lady and her woman. I am so 
 used by them both, that I should be very glad to 
 see them in the Specter. My lady herself is of no 
 mind in the world, and for that reason her woman 
 is of twenty minds in a moment. My lady is one 
 that never knows what to do with herself; she 
 pulls on and puts off everything she wears twenty 
 times before she resolves upon it for that day. I 
 stand at one end of the room and reach things to 
 her woman. When my lady asks for a thing, I 
 hear, and have half brought it, when the woman 
 meets me in the middle of the room to receive it, 
 and at that instant she says, ‘No, she will not 
 have it. I hen I go back, and her woman comes 
 up to her, and by this time she will have that and 
 two or three things more in an instant. The wo¬ 
 man and I run to each other; I am loaded and 
 delivering the things to her, when my lady says 
 she wants none of all these things, and we are the 
 dullest creatures in the world, and she the unhap- 
 piest woman living, for she shall not be dressed 
 in any time. Thus we stand, not knowing what 
 
 187 
 
 to do, when our good lady, with all the patience 
 in the world, tells us as plain as she can speak, 
 that she will have temper because we have no 
 manner of understanding; and begins again to 
 dress, and see if we can find out, of ourselves, 
 what we are to do. When she is dressed she 
 goes to dinner, and after she has disliked every¬ 
 thing there she calls for her coach, then com¬ 
 mands it in again, and then she will not go out at 
 all, and then will go, too, and orders the chariot. 
 Now, good Mr. Specter, I desire you would, in the 
 behalf of all who serve froward ladies, give out 
 in your paper that nothing can be done without al¬ 
 lowing time for it, and that one cannot be back 
 again with what one was sent for, if one is called 
 back before one can go a step for what they want. 
 And if you please, let them know that all mis¬ 
 tresses are as like as all servants. 
 
 “I am your loving friend, 
 
 “Patience Giddy.” 
 
 These are great calamities ; but I met the other 
 day in the Five fields, toward Chelsea, a pleas¬ 
 anter tyrant than either of the above represented. 
 A fat fellow was puffing on in his open waistcoat; 
 a boy of fourteen in a livery, carrying after him 
 his cloak, upper-coat, hat, wig, and sword. The 
 poor lad was ready to sink with the weight, and 
 could not keep up with his master, who turned 
 back every half furlong, and wondered what made 
 the lazy young dog lag behind. 
 
 There is something very unaccountable, that 
 people cannot put themselves in the condition of 
 the persons below them, when they consider the 
 commands they give. But there is nothing more 
 common, than to see a fellow (who if he were 
 reduced to it, would not be hired by any man liv¬ 
 ing) lament that he is troubled with the most 
 worthless dogs in nature. 
 
 It would, perhaps, be running too far out of 
 common life to urge, that he who is not master 
 of himself and his own passions, cannot be a 
 proper master of another. Equanimity in a man’s 
 own words and actions, will easily diffuse itself 
 through his whole family. Pamphilio has the 
 happiest household of any man I know, and that 
 proceeds from the humane regard he has to them 
 in their private persons, as well as in respect that 
 they are his servants. If there be any occasion, 
 wherein they may in themselves be supposed to 
 be unfit to attend to their master’s concerns h J 
 reason of any attention to their own, he is so 
 good as to place himself in their condition. I 
 thought it very becoming in him, when at dinner 
 the other day, he made an apology for want of 
 more attendants. He said, “ One of my footmen 
 is gone to the wedding of his sister, and the other 
 I do not expect to wait, because his father died 
 but two days ago.”—T. 
 
 No. 138.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 1711. 
 
 Utitur in re non dubia testibus non necessariis.—T ull. 
 
 He uses unnecessary proofs in an indisputable point. 
 
 One meets now and then with persons who are 
 extremely learned and knotty in expounding clear 
 cases. Tully tells us of an author that spent 
 some pages to prove that generals could not per¬ 
 form the great enterprises which have made them 
 so illustrious, if they had not had men. He 
 asserted also, it seems, that a minister at home, 
 no more than a commander abroad, could do any¬ 
 thing without other men were his instruments and 
 assistants. On this occasion he produces the 
 example of Themistocles, Pericles, Cyrus, and 
 Alexander himself, whom he denies to have been 
 capable of effecting what they did, except they 
 
lg g THE SPE ( 
 
 had been followed by others. It is pleasant; 
 enough to see such persons contend without op¬ 
 ponents, and triumph without victory. _ j 
 
 The author above-mentioned by the orator is 
 placed forever in a very ridiculous light, and we 
 meet every day in conversation.such as deserve 
 the same kind of renown, for troubling those with 
 whom they converse with the like certainties. 
 The persons that I have always thought to deserve 
 the highest admiration in this kind are your or¬ 
 dinary story-tellers, who are most religiously care¬ 
 ful of keeping to the truth in every particular 
 circumstance of a narration, whether it concerns 
 the main end or not. A gentleman whom I had 
 the honor to be in company with the other day, 
 upon some occasion that he was pleased to take, 
 said, he remembered a very pretty repartee made 
 by a very witty man in King Charles’s time upon 
 the like* occasion. “ I remember,” said he, upon 
 entering into the tale, “ much about the time of 
 Oates’s plot, that a cousin-german of mine and I 
 were at the Bear in Holborn. No, I am out, it 
 was at the Cross-keys; but Jack Thomson was 
 there, for he was very great with the gentleman 
 who made the answer. But I am sure it was 
 spoken somewhere thereabouts, for we drank 
 a bottle in that neighborhood every evening; 
 but no matter for all that, the thing is the same ; 
 but-” 
 
 He was going on to settle the geography of the 
 jest when I left the room, wondering at this odd 
 turn of head, which can play away its words with 
 uttering nothing to the purpose, still observing its 
 own impertinences, and yet proceeding in them. 
 
 I do not question but he informed the rest of his 
 audience, who had more patience than I, of the 
 birth and parentage, as well as the collateral alli¬ 
 ances of his family who made the repartee, and 
 of him who provoked him to it. 
 
 It is no small misfortune to any who have a 
 just value for their time, when this quality of be¬ 
 ing so very circumstantial, and careful to be exact, 
 happens to show itself in a man whose quality 
 obliges them to attend his proofs that it is now 
 day, and the like. But this is augmented when 
 the same genius gets into authority, as it often 
 does. Nay, I have known it more than once as¬ 
 cend the very pulpit. One of this sort taking it 
 in his head to be a great admirer of Dr. Tillotson 
 and Dr. Beveridge, never failed of proving out of 
 these great authors, things which no man living 
 would have denied him upon his own single 
 authority. One day, resolving to come to the 
 point in hand, he said, “According to that excel¬ 
 lent divine ” I will enter upon the matter, or in 
 his words, in his fifteenth sermon of the folio 
 edition, page 160,- 
 
 “ I shall briefly explain the words, and then 
 consider the matter contained in them.” 
 
 This honest gentleman needed not, one would 
 think, strain his modesty so far as to alter his 
 design of “ entering upon the matter,” to that of 
 “ briefly explaining.” But so it was, that he 
 would not even be contented with that authority, 
 but added also the other divine to strengthen his 
 method, and told us, with the pious and learned 
 Dr. Beveridge, page 4th of his ninth volume, “ I 
 shall endeavor to make it as plain as I can from 
 the words which I have now read, wherein for 
 
 that purpose we shall consider-” This wiseacre 
 
 was reckoned by the parish, who did not under¬ 
 stand him, a most excellent preacher : but that he 
 read too much, and was so humble that he did not 
 trust enough to his own parts. 
 
 Next to these ingenious gentlemen, who argue 
 for what nobody can deny them, are to be ranked 
 a sort of people who do not indeed attempt to 
 
 1TATOR. 
 
 prove insignificant things, but are ever laboring to 
 raise arguments with you about matters you will 
 give up to them without the least controversy. 
 One of these people told a gentleman who said he 
 saw Mr. Such-a-one go this morning at nine of the 
 clock toward the Gravel-pits : “ Sir, I must beg 
 your pardon for that, for though I am very loth 
 to have any dispute with you, yet I must take the 
 liberty to tell you it was nine when I saw him at 
 St. James’s.” When men of this genius are 
 pretty far gone in learning, they will put you to 
 prove that snow is white, and when you are upon 
 that topic can say that there is really no such 
 thing as color in nature ; in a word, they can turn 
 what little knowledge they have into a ready 
 capacity of raising doubts ; into a capacity of 
 being always frivolous and always unanswerable. 
 It was of two disputants of this impertinent and 
 laborious kind that the cynic said, “ one of these 
 fellows is milking a ram, and the other holds the 
 pail.” 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 “ The exercise of the snuff-box, according to 
 the most fashionable airs and motions, in opposi¬ 
 tion to the exercise of the fan, will be taught with 
 the best plain or perfumed snuff, at Charles Lil¬ 
 lie’s, perfumer, at the corner of Beaufort’s build¬ 
 ings, in the Strand, and attendance given for the 
 benefit of the young merchants about the Exchange 
 for two hours every day at noon, except Saturdays, 
 at a toy-shop near Garraway’s coffee-house. There 
 will be likewise taught the ceremony of the snuff¬ 
 box, or rules for offering snuff to a stranger, a 
 friend, or a mistress, according to the degrees of 
 familiarity or distance, with an explanation of the 
 careless, the scornful, the politic, and the surly 
 pinch, and the gestures proper to each of them. 
 
 “N. B. The undertaker does not question but 
 in a short time to have formed a body of regular 
 snuffboxes ready to meet and make head against 
 all the regiment of fans which have been lately 
 disciplined, and are now in motion.”—T. 
 
 No. 139.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, 1711. 
 
 Yera gloria radices agit, atque etiam propagatur; ficta 
 omnia celeriter, tanquam liosculi, decidunt, nec simulatum 
 potest quidquam esse diuturnum.— Tull. 
 
 True glory takes root, and even spreads; all false pre¬ 
 tenses, like flowers, fall to the ground; nor can any counter¬ 
 feit last long. 
 
 Of all the affections which attend human life, 
 the love of glory is the most ardent. According 
 as this is cultivated in princes, it produces the 
 greatest good or the greatest evil. Where sover¬ 
 eigns have it by impressions received from educa¬ 
 tion only, it creates an ambitious rather than a 
 noble mind : where it is the natural bent of the 
 prince’s inclination, it prompts him to the pursuit 
 of things truly glorious. The two greatest men 
 now in Europe (according to the common accepta¬ 
 tion of the word great) are Lewis King of France, 
 and Peter Emperor of Russia. As it is certain 
 that all fame does not arise from the practice of 
 virtue, it is, methinks, no unpleasing amusement 
 to examine the glory of these potentates, and dis¬ 
 tinguish that which is empty, perishing and fri¬ 
 volous, from what is solid, lasting, and important. 
 
 Lewis of France had his infancy attended by 
 crafty and worldly men, who made extent of ter¬ 
 ritory the most glorious instance of power, and 
 mistook the spreading of fame for the acquisition 
 of honor. The young monarch’s heart was by 
 such conversation easily deluded into a fondness 
 for vain glory, and upon these unjust principles 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 to form or fall in with suitable projects of inva¬ 
 sion, rapine, murder, and all the guilts that at¬ 
 tend war when it is unjust. At the same time 
 this tyranny was laid, sciences and arts were en¬ 
 couraged in the most generous manner, as if men 
 of higher faculties were to be bribed to permit the 
 massacre of the rest of the world. Every super¬ 
 structure which the court of France built upon 
 their first designs, which were in themselves vi¬ 
 cious, was suitable to its false foundation. The 
 ostentation of riches, the vanity of equipage, 
 shame of poverty, and ignorance of modesty, 
 were the common arts of life ; the generous love 
 of one woman was changed into gallantry for 
 all the sex, and friendships among men turned 
 into commerces of interest, or mere professions. 
 “ hile these were the rules of life, perjuries in 
 the prince, and a general corruption of manners 
 in the subject, were the snares in which France 
 has entangled all her neighbors.” With such 
 false colors have the eyes of Lewis been en¬ 
 chanted, from the debauchery of his early youth 
 to the superstition of his present old age.* Hence 
 it is, that he has the patience to have statues 
 erected to his prowess, his valor, his fortitude, 
 and in the softness and luxury of a court to be 
 applauded for magnanimity and enterprise in mil¬ 
 itary achievements. 
 
 Peter Alexovitz of Russia, when he came to 
 years of manhood, though he found himself em¬ 
 peror of a vast and numerous people, master of 
 an endless territory, absolute commander of the 
 lives and fortunes of his subjects, in the midst of 
 this unbounded power and greatness, turned his 
 thoughts upon himself and people with sorrow. 
 Sordid ignorance and a brute manner of life, this 
 generous prince beheld and contemned, from the 
 light of his own genius. His judgment suggested 
 this to him, and his courage prompted him to 
 amend it. In order to this, he did not send to 
 the nation from whence the rest of the world has 
 borrowed its politeness, but himself left his dia¬ 
 dem to learn the true way to glory and honor, 
 and application to useful arts, wherein to employ 
 the laborious, the simple, the honest part of his 
 people. Mechanic employments and operations 
 were very justly the first objects of his favor and 
 observation. With this glorious intention he trav¬ 
 eled into foreign nations in an obscure manner, 
 above receiving little honors where he sojourned, 
 but prying into what was of more consequence, 
 their arts of peace and of war. By this means has 
 this great prince laid the foundation of a great 
 and lasting fame, by personal labor, personal 
 knowledge, personal valor. It would be injury to 
 any of antiquity to name them with him. Who 
 but himself ever-left a throne to learn to sit in it 
 with more grace? Who ever thought himself 
 mean in absolute power, till he had learned to 
 use it ? 
 
 If we consider this wonderful person, it is per¬ 
 plexity to know where to begin his encomium. 
 Others may in a metaphorical or philosophic sense 
 bo said to command themselves, but this emperor 
 is also literally under his own command. How 
 generous and how good was his entering his own 
 name as a private man in the army he raised, that 
 none in it might expect to outrun the steps with 
 which he himself advanced! By such measures 
 this god-like prince learned to conquer, learned to 
 use his conquests. How terrible has he appeared 
 in battle, how gentle in victory ! Shall then the 
 base arts of the Frenchman be held polite, and 
 the honest labors of the Russian barbarous ? * No • 
 barbarity is the ignorance of true honor, or placing 
 anything instead of it. The unjust prince is ig¬ 
 
 189 
 
 noble and barbarous, the good prince only re¬ 
 nowned and glorious. 
 
 Though men may impose upon themselves what 
 they please by their corrupt imaginations, truth 
 will ever keep its station : and as glory is nothing 
 else but the shadow of virtue, it will certainly 
 disappear at the departure of virtue. But how 
 carefully ought the true notions of it to be pre¬ 
 served, and how industrious should we be to en¬ 
 courage any impulses toward it! The Westmins¬ 
 ter school-boy that said the other day he could 
 not sleep or play for the colors in the hall,* ought 
 to be free from receiving a blow forever. 
 
 But let us consider what is truly glorious ac¬ 
 cording to the author I have to-day quoted in the 
 front of my paper. 
 
 The perfection of glory, says Tully, consists in 
 these three particulars : “ That the people love us ; 
 that they have confidence in us ; that being af¬ 
 fected with a certain admiration toward us, they 
 think we deserve honor.” This was spoken of 
 greatness in the commonwealth. But if one were 
 to form a consummate glory under our constitu¬ 
 tion, one must add to the above-mentioned felici¬ 
 ties a certain necessary inexistence, and disrelish 
 of all the rest, without the prince’s favor. He 
 should, methinks, have riches, power, honor, 
 command, glory ; but riches, power, honor, com¬ 
 mand, and glory, should have no charms, but as 
 accompanied with the affection of his prince. He 
 should, methinks, be popular because a favorite, 
 and a favorite because popular. Were it not to 
 make the character too imaginary, I would give 
 him sovereignty over some foreign territory, and 
 make him esteem that an empty addition without 
 the kind regards of his own prince. One may 
 merely have an idea of a man thus composed and 
 circumstantiated, and if he were so made for pow¬ 
 er without an incapacity! of giving jealousy, he 
 would be also glorious without possibility of re¬ 
 ceiving disgrace. This humility and this import¬ 
 ance must make his glory immortal. 
 
 These thoughts are apt to draw me beyond the 
 usual length of this paper; but if I could sup¬ 
 pose such rhapsodies could outlive the common 
 fate of ordinary things, I would say these sketch¬ 
 es and faint images of glory were drawn in 
 August, 1711, when John, Duke of Marlborough, 
 made that memorable march wherein he took the 
 French lines without bloodshed.—T. 
 
 No. 140.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 10, 1711. 
 
 -Anirnum curis nunc hue, nunc dividit illuc. 
 
 V irg. jEn., iv, 285. 
 
 This way and that the anxious mind is torn. 
 
 When I acquaint my reader that I have many 
 other letters not yet acknowledged, I believe he 
 will own what I have a mind he should believe, 
 that I have no small charge upon me, but am a 
 person of some consequence in this world. I 
 shall therefore employ the present hour oniy in 
 reading petitions in the order as follows:— 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have lost so much time already, that I desire, 
 upon the receipt hereof, you will sit down imme¬ 
 diately and give me your answer. And I would 
 know of you whether a pretender of mine really 
 loves me. As well as I can, I will describe his 
 
 * The colors taken at Blenheim, in 1704, were fixed up in 
 V> estminster-hall, after having been carried in procession 
 through the city. 
 
 t The sense seems to require “ without a capacity,” but all 
 the copies read as here. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 190 
 
 manners. When he sees me he is always talking 
 of constancy, but vouchsafes to visit me but once 
 a fortnight, and then is always in haste to begone. 
 When 1 am sick, I hear he says he is mightily 
 concerned, but neither comes nor sends, because, 
 as he tells his acquaintance with a sigh, he does 
 not care to let me know all the power I have over 
 him, and how impossible it is for him to live with¬ 
 out me. When he leaves the town, he writes once 
 in six weeks, desires to hear from me, complains 
 of the torment of absence, speaks of flames, tor¬ 
 tures, languishings, and extasies. He has the 
 cant of an impatient lover, but keeps the pace of 
 a lukewarm one. You know I must not go faster 
 than he does, and to move at this rate is as tedi¬ 
 ous as counting a great clock. But you are to 
 know he is rich, and my mother says, as he is slow 
 he is sure ; he will love me long, if he love me 
 little ; but I appeal to you whether he loves at all. 
 Your neglected, humble servant, 
 
 “Lydia Novell.” 
 
 “ All these fellows who have money are ex¬ 
 tremely saucy and cold ; pray, Sir, tell them of it.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I have been delighted with nothing more 
 through the whole course of your writings, than 
 the substantial account you lately gave of wit, 
 and I could wish you would take some other oppor¬ 
 tunity to express further the corrupt taste the age 
 is run into ; which I am chiefly apt to attribute to 
 the prevalency of a few popular authors, whose 
 merit in some respects lias given a sanction to 
 their faults in others. Thus the imitators of Mil- 
 ton seem to place all the excellency of that sort of 
 writing either in the uncouth or antique words, or 
 something else which was highly vicious, though 
 pardonable in that great man.* The admirers of 
 what we call point, or turn, look upon it as the 
 particular happiness to which Cowley, Ovid, and 
 others, owe their reputation, and therefore endea¬ 
 vor to imitate them only in such instances. What 
 is just, proper, and natural, does not seem to be 
 the question with them, but by what means a 
 quaint antithesis may be brought about, how one 
 word may be made to look two ways, and what 
 will be the consequence of a forced allusion. 
 Now, though such authors appear to me to resem¬ 
 ble those who make themselves fine, instead of 
 being well-dressed, or graceful : yet the mischief 
 is, that these beauties in them, which I call ble¬ 
 mishes, are thought to proceed from luxuriance of 
 fancy and overflowing of good sense. In one 
 word, they have the character of being too witty ; 
 but if you would acquaint the world they are not 
 witty at all, you would, among others, oblige, Sir, 
 “ Your most benevolent reader, 
 
 “R. D.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I am a young woman, and reckoned pretty; 
 therefore you will pardon me that I trouble you to 
 decide a wager between me and a cousin of mine, 
 who is always contradicting one because he un¬ 
 derstands Latin : pray. Sir, is Dimple spelt with 
 a single or double p ? I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your very humble servant, 
 
 “ Betty Saunter.” 
 
 “ Pray, Sir, direct thus, ‘ To the kind Querist.’ 
 and leave it at Mr. Lillie’s, for I do not care to be 
 known in the thing at all. I am, Sir, again, your 
 humble servant.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I must needs tell you there are several of your 
 papers I do not much like. You are often so nice 
 there is no enduring you, and so learned there is 
 no understanding you. What have you to do 
 with our petticoats V Your humble servant, 
 
 “ Parthenope.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Last night, as I was walking in the Park, I met 
 a couple of friends. ‘Prithee, Jack,’ says one 
 of them, ‘let us go and drink a glass of wine, 
 for I am fit for nothing else.’ This put me upon 
 reflecting on the many miscarriages which happen 
 in conversations over wine, when men go to the 
 bottle to remove such humors as it only stirs up 
 and awakens. This I could not attribute more to 
 anything than to the humor of putting company 
 upon others which men do not like themselves. 
 Pray, Sir, declare in your papers, that he who is a 
 troublesome companion to himself, will not be an 
 agreeable one to others. Let people reason them¬ 
 selves into good humor before they impose them¬ 
 selves upon their friends. Pray, Sir, be as elo¬ 
 quent as you can upon this subject, and do human 
 life so much good, as to argue powerfully, that it 
 is not every one that can swallow who is fit to 
 drink a glass of wine. 
 
 “ Your most humble servant.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I this morning cast my eye upon your paper 
 concerning the expense of time. You are very 
 obliging to the women, especially those who are 
 not young and past gallantry, by touching so 
 gently upon gaming : therefore I hope you do not 
 think it wrong to employ a little leisure time in 
 that diversion ; but I should be glad to hear you 
 say something upon the behavior of some of the 
 female gamesters. 
 
 “I have observed ladies, who in all other re¬ 
 spects are gentle, good-humored, and the very 
 pinks of good breeding ; who, as soon as the 
 ombre-table is called for, and sit down to their 
 business, are immediately transmigrated into the 
 veriest wasps in nature. 
 
 “You must know I keep my temper, and win 
 their money ; but am out of countenance to take 
 it, it makes them so very uneasy. Be pleased, 
 dear Sir, to instruct them to lose with a better 
 grace, and you will oblige, Yours, 
 
 “ Rachel Basto.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Your kindness to Leonora in one of your pa¬ 
 pers, has given me encouragement to do myself 
 the honor of writing to you. The great regard 
 you have so often expressed for the instruction, 
 and improvement of our sex will, I hope, in your 
 own opinion, sufficiently excuse me from making 
 any apology for the impertinence of this letter. 
 The great desire I have to embellish my mind with 
 some of those graces which you say are so becom¬ 
 ing, and which you assert reading helps us to, has 
 made me uneasy until I am put in a capacity of 
 attaining them. This, Sir, I shall never think 
 myself in, until you shall be pleased to recom¬ 
 mend some author or authors to my perusal. 
 
 “I thought indeed, when I first cast my eye on 
 Leonora’s letter, that I should have had no occa¬ 
 sion for requesting it of you ; but to my very 
 great concern, I found on the perusal of that Spec¬ 
 tator, I was entirely disappointed, and am as 
 much at a loss how to make use of my time for 
 that end as ever. Pray, Sir, oblige me at least 
 with one scene, as you were pleased to entertain 
 Leonora with your prologue. I write to you not 
 only my own sentiments, but also those of several 
 
 * So Philips in his Cyder is careful to misspell the words 
 “orchat, sovran,” after Milton, etc. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 others of my acquaintance, who are as little 
 pleased with the ordinary manner of spending 
 one s time as mvself : and if a fervent desire after 
 knowledge, and a great sense of our present ig¬ 
 norance, may be thought a good presage and earn¬ 
 est of improvement, you may look upon your time 
 you shall bestow in answering this request not 
 thrown away to no purpose. And I cannot but 
 add that, unless you have a particular and more 
 than ordinary regard for Leonora, I have a better 
 title to your favor than she : since I do not con¬ 
 tent myself with a tea-table reading of your pa¬ 
 pers, but it is my entertainment very often when 
 alone in my closet. To show I am capable of im¬ 
 provement, and hate flattery, I acknowledge I do 
 not like some of your papers ; but even there I 
 am readier to call in question my own shallow 
 understanding than Mr. Spectator’s profound 
 judgment. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, your already (and in hopes of being 
 more your) obliged servant, 
 
 “ Parthenia.” 
 
 This last letter is written with so urgent and 
 serious an air, that I cannot but think it incum¬ 
 bent upon me to comply with her commands, 
 which I shall do very suddenly.—T. 
 
 No. 141.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 11, 1711. 
 
 -Migravit ab aure voluptas 
 
 Omnis.— Hor., 1 Ep. ii, 187. 
 
 Taste, that eternal wanderer, that flies 
 
 From head to ears, and now from ears to eyes.— Pope. 
 
 In the present emptiness of the town, I have 
 several applications from the lower part of the 
 players, to admit suffering to pass for acting. 
 They in very obliging terms desire me to let a 
 fall on the ground, a stumble, or a good slap on 
 the back, be reckoned a jest. These gambols I 
 shall tolerate for a season, because I hope the evil 
 cannot continue longer than until the people of 
 condition and taste return to town. The method, 
 some time ago, was to entertain that part of the 
 audience who have no faculty above that of eye¬ 
 sight with rope-dancers, and tumblers; which 
 was a way discreet enough, because it prevented 
 confusion and distinguished such as could show 
 all the postures which the body is capable of, 
 from those who were to represent all the passions 
 to which the mind is subject. But though this 
 was prudently settled, corporeal and intellectual 
 actors ought to be kept at a still wider distance 
 than to appear on the same stage at all ; for which 
 reason I must propose some methods for the im¬ 
 provement of the bear-garden, by dismissing all 
 bodily actors to that quarter. 
 
 . cases of greater moment, where men appear 
 in public, the consequence and importance of the 
 thing can bear them out. And though a pleader 
 or preacher is hoarse or awkward, the weight of 
 his matter commands respect and attention ; but 
 in theatrical speaking, if the performer is not ex¬ 
 actly proper and graceful, he is utterly ridiculous. 
 In cases where there is little else expected but the 
 pleasure of the ears and eyes, the least diminution 
 of that pleasure is the highest offense. In actincr, 
 barely to perform the part is not commendable, 
 but to be the least out is contemptible. To avoid 
 these difficulties and delicacies, I am informed, 
 that while I was out of town, the actors have 
 flown in the air, and played such pranks, and run 
 such hazards, that none but the servants of the 
 fire-office, tilers, and masons, could have been able 
 
 CTATOR. 191 
 
 to perform the like.* The author of the following 
 letter, it seems, has been of the audience at one of 
 these entertainments, and has accordingly com¬ 
 plained to me upon it: but I think he has been to 
 the utmost degree severe against what is excep¬ 
 tionable in the play he mentions, without dwelling 
 so much as he might have done on the author’s 
 most excellent talent of humor. The pleasant 
 pictures he has drawn of life should have been 
 more kindly mentioned, at the same time that he 
 banishes his witches, who are too dull devils to 
 be attacked with so much warmth. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Upon a report that Moll White had followed 
 you to town, and was to act a part in the Lanca¬ 
 shire Witches, I went last week to see that play. 
 It was my fortune to sit next to a country justice 
 of the peace, a neighbor (as he said) of Sir Roger’s, 
 who pretended to show her to us in one of the 
 dances. There was witchcraft enough in the en¬ 
 tertainment almost to incline me to believe him; 
 Ben Jonsonf was almost lamed ; voung Bullockf 
 narrowly saved his neck: the audience was asto¬ 
 nished ; and an old acquaintance of mine, a person 
 of worth, whom I would have bowed to in the pit, 
 at two yards distance, did not know me. 
 
 “If you were what the country people reported 
 ou—a white witch—I could have wished you had 
 een there to have exercised that rabble of broom¬ 
 sticks with which we were haunted for above three 
 hours. I could have allowed them to set Clod in 
 the tree, to have scared the sportsmen, plagued 
 the justice, and employed honest Teague with his 
 holy water4 This was the proper use of them in 
 comedy, if the author had stopped here; but I 
 cannot conceive what relation the sacrifice of the 
 black lamb, and the ceremonies of their worship 
 to the devil,£ have to the business of mirth and 
 humor. 
 
 “The gentleman who wrote this play, and has 
 drawn some characters in it very justly, appears 
 to have been misled in his witchcraft by an un¬ 
 wary following the inimitable Shakspeare. The 
 incantations in Macbeth have a solemnity admi¬ 
 rably adapted to the occasion of that tragedy, and 
 fill the mind with a suitable horror; beside that 
 the witches are a part of the story itself, as we 
 find it very particularly related in Hector Boetius, 
 from whom he seems to have taken it. This 
 therefore is a proper machine where the business 
 is dark, horrid,, and bloody; but it is extremely 
 foreign from the affair of comedy. Subjects of this 
 kind, which are in themselves disagreeable, can at 
 no time become entertaining, but by passing 
 through an imagination like Sliakspeare’s to form 
 them ; for which reason Mr. Dryden would not 
 allow even Beaumont and Fletcher capable of 
 imitating him. 
 
 But Shakspeare’s magic could not copied be: 
 
 Within that circle none durst walk but he. 
 
 “ I should not, however, have troubled you with 
 these remarks, if there were not something else in 
 this comedy, which wants to be exercised more 
 than the witches: I mean the freedom of some 
 passages, which I should have overlooked if I had 
 not observed that those jests can raise the loudest 
 mirth, though they are painful to right sense, and 
 an outrage upon modesty. 
 
 “We must attribute such liberties to the taste 
 of that age : but indeed by such representations a 
 
 * Alluding to Skadwell’s comedy of the Lancashire Witches, 
 which had been lately acted several times, and was adver¬ 
 tised for the very night in which this Spectator is dated, 
 f The names of two actors then upon the stage, 
 j Different incidents in the play of the Lancashire Witches 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 192 
 
 poet sacrifices the best part of liis audience to the 
 worst; and, as one would think, neglects the 
 boxes, to write to the orange-wenches. 
 
 “ I must not conclude till I have taken notice 
 of the moral with which this coinedj ends. The 
 two young ladies having given a notable example 
 of outwitting those who had a right in the dispo¬ 
 sal of them, and marrying without the consent of 
 parents—one of the injured parties, who is easily 
 reconciled, winds up all with this remark, 
 
 -Design whate’er we will, 
 
 There is a fate which overrules us still.* 
 
 “We are to suppose that the gallants are men 
 of merit, but if they ldtd been rakes, the excuse 
 might have served as well. Hans Carvel’s wife 
 was of the same principle, but has expressed it 
 with a delicacy which shows she is not serious in 
 her excuse, but in a sort of humorous philosophy 
 turns off the thought of her guilt, and says. 
 
 That if weak women go astray, 
 
 Their stars are more in fault than they. 
 
 “ This no doubt is a full reparation, and dis¬ 
 misses the audience with very edifying impres¬ 
 sions. 
 
 “ These things fall under a province you have 
 partly pursued already, and therefore demands 
 your animadversion, for the regulating so noble 
 an entertainment as that of the stage. It were to 
 be wished that all who write for it hereafter would 
 raise their genius, by the ambition of pleasing 
 people of the best understanding; and leave 
 others to show nothing of the human species but 
 risibility, to seek their diversion at the bear-gar¬ 
 dens, or some other privileged place, where reason 
 and good manners have no right to disturb them. 
 
 “I am, etc.” 
 
 “August 8, 1711.” T. 
 
 No. 142.] MONDAY, AUGUST 13, 1711. 
 
 Irrupta tenet copula- Hor. 1 Od. xiii, 12. 
 
 Whom love’s unbroken bond unites. 
 
 The following being genuine, and the images 
 of a worthy passion, I am willing to give the old 
 lady’s admonition to myself, and the representa¬ 
 tion of her own happiness, a place in my writings. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, August 9, 1711. 
 
 “ I am now in the sixty-seventh year of my age, 
 and read you with approbation ; but methinks you 
 do not strike at the root of the greatest evil in life, 
 which is the false notion of gallantry in love. It 
 is, and has long been, upon a very ill foot; but I 
 who have been a wife forty years, and was bred 
 up in a way that has made me ever since very 
 happy, see through the folly of it. In a word, 
 Sir, when I was a young woman, all who avoided 
 the vices of the age were very carefully educated, 
 and all fantastical objects were turned out of our 
 sight. The tapestry-hangings, with the great and 
 venerable simplicity of the Scripture stories, had 
 better effects than now the loves of Venus and 
 Adonis, or Bacchus and Ariadne, in your fine pre¬ 
 sent prints. The gentleman I am married to made 
 love to me in rapture, but it was the rapture of a 
 Christian and a man of honor, not of a romantic 
 hero or a whining coxcomb. This put our life 
 upon a right basis. To give you an idea of our 
 regard one to another, I inclose to you several 
 of his letters, written forty years ago, when my 
 lover; and one written the other day, after so 
 many years’ cohabitation. 
 
 “Your servant, 
 
 “Andromache.” 
 
 “Madam, August 7, 1671. 
 
 “If my vigilance, and ten thousand wishes for 
 your welfare and repose, could have any force, 
 you last night slept in security, and had every 
 good angel in your attendance. To have my 
 thoughts ever fixed on you, to live in constant fear 
 of every accident to which human life is liable, 
 and to send up my hourly prayers to avert them 
 from you ; I say, Madam, thus to suffer, is what I 
 do for her who is in pain at my approach, and 
 calls all my tender sorrow impertinence. You are 
 now before my eyes, my eyes that are ready to 
 flow with tenderness, but cannot give relief to my 
 gushing heart, that dictates what I am now say¬ 
 ing, and yearns to tell you all its acliings. How 
 art thou, oh my soul, stolen from thyself! how is 
 all my attention broken! my books are blank 
 paper, and my friends intruders. I have no hope 
 of quiet but from your pity. To grant it would 
 make more for your triumph. To give pain is the 
 tyranny, to make happy the true empire of beauty. 
 If you would consider aright, you would find an 
 agreeable change in dismissing the attendance of 
 a slave, to receive the complaisance of a compa¬ 
 nion. I bear the former in hopes of the latter con¬ 
 dition. As I live in chains without murmuring 
 at the power which inflicts them, so I could enjoy 
 freedom without forgetting the mercy that gave it. 
 
 “ I am, Madam. 
 
 “Your most devoted, most obedient servant.” 
 
 “ Though I made him no declarations in his 
 favor, you see he had hopes of me when he wrote 
 this in the month following :— 
 
 “ Madam, September 3,1671. 
 
 “ Before the light this morning dawned upon 
 the earth I awoke, and lay in expectation of its 
 return, not that it could give any new sense of joy 
 to me, but as I hoped it would bless you with its 
 cheerful face, after a quiet which I wished you 
 last night. If my prayers are heard,.the day ap¬ 
 peared with all the influence of a merciful Creator 
 upon your person and actions. Let others, my 
 lovely charmer, talk of a blind being that disposes 
 their hearts ; I contemn their low images of love. 
 I have not a thought which relates to you, that I 
 cannot with confidence beseech the All-seeing 
 Power to bless me in. May he direct you in all 
 your steps, and reward your innocence, your sanc¬ 
 tity of manners, your prudent youth, and becom¬ 
 ing piety, with the continuance of his grace and 
 protection. This is an unusual language to 
 ladies ; but you have a mind elevated above the 
 giddy notions of a sex ensnared by flattery, and 
 misled by a false and short adoration into a solid 
 and long contempt. Beauty, my fairest creature, 
 palls in the possession, but I love also your mind; 
 your soul is as dear to me as my own ; and if the 
 advantages of a liberal education, some know¬ 
 ledge, and as much contempt of the world, joined 
 with the endeavors toward a life of strict virtue 
 and religion, can qualify me to raise new ideas in 
 a breast so well disposed as yours is, our days 
 will pass away with joy; and old age, instead of 
 introducing melancholy prospects of decay, give 
 us hope of eternal youth in a better life. I have 
 but few minutes from the duty of my employment 
 to write in, and without time to read over what I 
 have written ; therefore beseech you to pardon the 
 first hints of my mind, which I have expressed in 
 so little order. 
 
 “ I am, dearest creature, 
 
 “ Your most obedient, most devoted servant,”* 
 
 * The concluding distitch of Shadwell’s play. 
 
 * Richard Steele. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 “The two next were written after the day for 
 our marriage was fixed :— 
 
 “Madam, September 25th, 1671. 
 
 “ It is the hardest thing in the world to be in 
 love, and yet attend business. As for me, all that 
 speak to me find me out, and I must lock myself 
 up, or other people will do it for me. A gentle¬ 
 man asked me this morning, * What news from 
 Holland?’ and I answered, ‘She is exquisitely 
 handsome.’ Another desired to know when I had 
 been last at Windsor; I replied, ‘She designs to 
 go with me.’ Prithee, allow me at least to kiss 
 your hand before the appointed day, that my mind 
 may be in some composure. Methinks I could 
 write a volume to you, but all the language on 
 earth would fail in saying how much, and with 
 what disinterested passion. 
 
 “ I am ever yours.”* 
 
 “Dear Creature, September 30, 1671, 
 
 seven in the morning. 
 
 “ Next to the influence of heaven, I am to thank 
 you that I see the returning day with pleasure. 
 To pass my evenings in so sweet a conversation, 
 and have the esteem of a woman of your merit, 
 has in it a particularity of happiness no more to 
 be expressed than returned. But I am, my lovely 
 creature, contented to be on the obliged side, and 
 to employ all my days in new endeavors to con¬ 
 vince you and all the world of the sense I have of 
 your condescension in choosing, 
 
 “Madam, your most faithful, 
 
 most obedient, humble servant.”* 
 
 “ He was, when he wrote the following letter, 
 as agreeable and pleasant a man as any in Eng¬ 
 land :— 
 
 “ Madam, October 20, 1671, 
 
 “ I beg pardon that my paper is not finer, but I 
 am forced to write from a coffee-house where I am 
 attending about business. There is a dirty crowd 
 of busy faces all around me talking of money, 
 while all my ambition, all my wealth, is love : 
 love, which animates my heart, sweetens my 
 humor, enlarges my soul, and affects every action 
 of my life. It is to my lovely charmer I owe that 
 many noble ideas are continually affixed to my 
 words and actions : it is the natural effect of that 
 generous passion to create in the admirers some 
 similitude of the object admired; thus, my dear, 
 am I every day to improve from so sweet a com¬ 
 panion. Look up, my fair one, to that heaven 
 which made thee such, and join with me to im¬ 
 plore its influence on our tender, innocent hours, 
 and beseech the author of love to bless the rites 
 he has ordained, and mingle with our happiness 
 a just sense of our transient condition, and a re¬ 
 signation to his will, which only can regulate our 
 minds to a steady endeavor to please him and 
 each other. 
 
 “ I am, forever, your faithful servant.”* 
 
 “ I will not trouble you with more letters at 
 this time, but if you saw the poor withered hand 
 which sends you these minutes, I am sure you 
 would smile to think that there is one who is so 
 gallant as to speak of it still as so welcome a 
 present, after forty years’ possession of the woman 
 whom he writes to. 
 
 “Madam, June 23, 1711. 
 
 “ I heartily beg your pardon for my omission 
 to write yesterday.* It was no failure of my ten- 
 
 CTATOR. 193 
 
 der regard for you; but having been very much 
 perplexed in my thoughts on the subject of my 
 last, made me determine to suspend speaking of 
 it until I came myself. But, my lovely creature, 
 know it is not in the power of age, or misfortune, 
 or any other accident wdiich hangs over human 
 life, to take from me the pleasing esteem I have 
 for you, or the memory of the bright figure you 
 appeared in, when you gave your hand and heart 
 to, 
 
 “ Madam, your most grateful husband, 
 
 and obedient servant.”—T.* 
 
 No. 143.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 14, 1711. 
 
 Non est vivere, sed valere, vita.—M artial, Epig. lxx, 6. 
 
 For life is only life, when blest with health. 
 
 It is an unreasonable thing some men expect 
 of their acquaintance. They are ever complain¬ 
 ing that they are out of order, or displeased, or 
 they know not how, and are so far from letting 
 that be a reason for retiring to their own homes, 
 that they make it their argument for coming into 
 company. What has anybody to do with ac¬ 
 counts of a man’s being indisposed, but his phy¬ 
 sician? If a man laments in company, where 
 the rest are in humor enough to enjoy themselves, 
 he should not take it ill if a servant is ordered to 
 present him with a porringer of caudle or posset- 
 drink, by way of admonition that he go home to 
 bed. That part of life which we ordinarily un¬ 
 derstand by the word conversation, is an indul¬ 
 gence to the sociable part of our make ; and 
 should incline us to bring our proportion of good¬ 
 will or good-humor among the friends we meet 
 with, and not to trouble them with relations 
 which must of necessity oblige them to a real or 
 feigned affliction. Cares, distresses, diseases, 
 uneasinesses, and dislikes of our own, are by no 
 means to be obtruded upon our friends. If we 
 would consider how little of this vicissitude of 
 motion and rest, which we call life, is spent with 
 satisfaction, we should be more tender of our 
 friends than to bring them little sorrows which 
 do not belong to them, There is no real life but 
 cheerful life ; therefore valetudinarians should be 
 sworn, before they enter into company, not to say 
 a word of themselves until the meeting breaks up. 
 It is not here pretended that we should be always 
 sitting with chaplets of flowers round our heads, 
 or be crowned with roses in order to make our 
 entertainment agreeable to us ; but if (as it is 
 usually observed) they who resolve to be merry, 
 seldom are so ; it will be much more unlikely for 
 us to be well pleased, if they are admitted who 
 are always complaining they are sad. Whatever 
 we do, we should keep up the cheerfulness of 
 our spirits, and never let them sink below an incli¬ 
 nation at least to be well pleased. The way to this, 
 is to keep our bodies in exercise, our minds at ease. 
 That insipid state "wherein neither are in vigor, is 
 not to be accounted any part of our portion of 
 being. When we are in the satisfaction of some 
 innocent pleasure, or pursuit of some laudable 
 design, we are in the possession of life, of human 
 life. Fortune will give us disappointments 
 enough, and nature is attended with infirmities 
 enough, without our adding to the unhappy side 
 of our account by our spleen or ill-humor. Poor 
 Cottilus, among so many real evils, a chronical 
 
 * Richard Steele. 
 
 f The letters in this No. 142, are all genuine, written origin¬ 
 ally hy Steele, and actually sent, with but little variation, to 
 Mrs. Seurlock, afterward Lady Steele. See Steele’s Letters, 
 vol. i, p. 11, et seq., cr. Svo., 1787, 2 vols. 
 
 13 
 
 ♦Richard Steele. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 194 
 
 distemper and a narrow fortune, is never heard to 
 complain. That equal spirit of his, which any 
 man may have, that, like him, will conquer pride, 
 vanity, and affectation, and follow nature, is not 
 to he broken, because it has no points to contend 
 for. To be anxious for nothing but what nature 
 demands as necessary, if it is not the way to an 
 estate, is the way to what men aim at by getting 
 an estate. This temper will preserve health in 
 the body, as well as tranquillity in the mind. 
 Cottilus sees the world in a hurry, with the same 
 scorn that a sober person sees a man drunk. 
 Had he been contented with what he ought to 
 have been, how could, says he, such a one have 
 met with such a disappointment ? If another 
 had valued his mistress for what he ought to have 
 loved her, he had not been in her power. If her 
 virtue had had a part of his passion, her levity 
 had been his cure; she could not then have been 
 false and amiable at the same time. 
 
 Since we cannot promise ourselves constant 
 health, let us endeavor at such a temper as may 
 be our best support in the decay of it. Uranius 
 has arrived at that composure of soul, and 
 wrought himself up to such a neglect of every¬ 
 thing with which the generality of mankind is 
 enchanted, that nothing but acute pains can give 
 him disturbance, and against those too he will 
 tell his intimate friends he has a secret which 
 gives him present ease. Uranius is so thoroughly 
 persuaded of another life, and endeavors so sin¬ 
 cerely to secure an interest in it, that he looks 
 upon pain but as a quickening of his pace to a 
 home, where he shall be better provided for than 
 in his present apartment. Instead of the melan¬ 
 choly views which others are apt to give them¬ 
 selves, he will tell you that he has forgot he is 
 mortal, nor will he think of himself as such. He 
 thinks at the time of his birth he entered into an 
 eternal being ; and the short article of death he 
 will not allow an interruption of life ; since that 
 moment is not of half the duration as his ordinary 
 sleep. Thus is his being one uniform and consis¬ 
 tent series of cheerful diversions and moderate 
 cares, without fear or hope of futurity. Health to 
 him is more than pleasure to another man, and 
 sickness less affecting to him than indisposition 
 is to others. 
 
 I must confess, if one does not regard life after 
 this manner, none but idiots can pass it away 
 with any tolerable patience. Take a fine lady 
 who is of a delicate frame, and you may observe, 
 from the hour she rises, a certain weariness of all 
 that passes about her. I know more than one 
 who is much too nice to be quite alive. They 
 are sick of such strange frightful people they 
 meet; one is so awkward, and another so dis¬ 
 agreeable, that it looks like a penance to breathe 
 the same air with them. You see this is so very 
 true, that a great part of ceremony and good 
 breeding among the ladies turns upon their un¬ 
 easiness ; and I will undertake, if the how-do- 
 e-servants of our women were to make a weekly 
 ill of sickness, as the parish-clerks do of mor¬ 
 tality, you would not find in an account of seven 
 days, one in thirty that was not downright sick 
 or indisposed, or but a very little better than she 
 was, and so forth. 
 
 It is certain, that to enjoy life and health as a 
 constant feast, we should not think pleasure ne¬ 
 cessary ; but, if possible, to arrive at an equality 
 of mind. It is as mean to be overjoyed upon 
 occasions of good fortune, as to be dejected in 
 circumstances of distress. Laughter in one con¬ 
 dition, is as unmanly as weeping in another. We 
 should not form our minds to expect transport on 
 every occasion, but know how to make it enjoy¬ 
 
 ment to be out of pain. Ambition, envy, vagrant 
 desire, or impertinent mirth, will take up our 
 minds, without we can possess ourselves in that 
 sobriety of heart which is above all pleasures, 
 and can be felt much better than described. But 
 the ready way, I believe, to the right enjoyment 
 of life is, by a prospect toward another, to have 
 but a very mean opinion of it. A great author 
 of our time* has set this in an excellent light, 
 when, with a philosophical pity of human life, 
 he spoke of it in his Theory of the Earth in the 
 following manner : 
 
 “ For what is this life but a circulation of little 
 mean actions ? We lie down and rise again, 
 dress and undress, feed and wax hungry, work or 
 play, and are weary, and then we lie down again, 
 and the circle returns. We spend the day in 
 trifles, and when the night comes we throw our¬ 
 selves into the bed of folly, among dreams, and 
 broken thoughts, and wila imaginations. Our 
 reason lies asleep by us, and we are for the time 
 as arrant brutes as those that sleep in the stalls or 
 in the field. Are not the capacities of man 
 higher than these ? And ought not his ambition 
 and expectations to be greater ? Let us be adven¬ 
 turers for another world. It is at least a fair and 
 noble chance ; and there is nothing in this worth 
 our thoughts or our passions. If we should be 
 disappointed, we are still no worse than the rest 
 of our fellow-mortals ; and if we succeed in our 
 expectations, we are eternally happy.”—T. 
 
 No. 144.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 15, 1711. 
 
 -Noris quam elegans formarum “Spectator” siem. 
 
 Ter. Eun., Act. iii, Sc. 5. 
 
 You shall see how nice a judge of beauty I am. 
 
 Beauty has been the delight and torment of the 
 world ever since it began. The philosophers have 
 felt its influence so sensibly, that almost every one 
 of them has left us some saying or other, which 
 intimated that he knew too well the power of it. 
 Onef has told us, that a graceful person is a more 
 powerful recommendation than the best letter that 
 can be written in your favor. Another} desires 
 the possessor of it to consider it as a mere gift 
 of nature, and not any perfection of his own. A 
 third§ calls it a “short-lived tyranny;” afourth|| a 
 “silent fraud,” because it imposes upon us with¬ 
 out the help of language; but I think Carneades 
 spoke as much like a philosopher as any of them, 
 though more like a lover, when he calls it “roy¬ 
 alty without force.”1T It is not indeed to be de¬ 
 nied, but there is something irresistible in a beau¬ 
 teous form; the most severe will not pretend, that 
 they do not feel an immediate prepossession in 
 favor of the handsome. No one denies them the 
 rivilege of being first heard, and being regarded 
 efore others in matters of ordinary consideration. 
 At the same time the handsome should consider 
 that it is a possession, as it were, foreign to them. 
 No one can give it himself, or preserve it when 
 they have it. Yet so it is, that people can bear 
 any quality in the world better than beauty. It is 
 the consolation of all who are naturally too much 
 affected with the force of it, that a little attention, 
 if a man behave with judgment, will cure them. 
 Handsome people usually are so fantastically 
 pleased with themselves, that if they do not kill 
 at first sight, as the phrase is, a second interview 
 disarms them of all their jtower. But I shall 
 
 * Dr. Thomas Burnet, master of the Charter-house. Theo- 
 ria Telluris, 4to., Amst., 1699, p. 241. 
 
 f Aristotle. J Plato. g Socrates. || Theophrastus. 
 
 Rather, “A sovereignty that needs no military force;” 
 this is the proper meaning of the original. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 make this paper rather a warning-piece to give 
 notice where the danger is, than to propose in¬ 
 stinct 1011 s how to avoid it when you have fallen 
 in the way of it. Handsome men shall be the 
 subject of another chapter, the women shall take 
 up the present discourse. 
 
 Amaryllis, who has been in town but one win¬ 
 ter, is extremely improved in the arts of o- 0 od 
 breeding, without leaving nature. She has not 
 lost the native simplicity of her aspect, to substi¬ 
 tute that patience of being stared at, which is the 
 usual triumph and distinction of a town lady. 
 In public assemblies you meet her careless eye 
 diverting itself with the objects around her, insen¬ 
 sible that she herself is one of the brightest in 
 the place. 
 
 Dulcissa is quite another make; she is almost a 
 beauty by nature, but more than one by art. If it 
 were possible for her to let her fan or any limb 
 about her rest, she would do some part of the exe¬ 
 cution she meditates; but though she designs her¬ 
 self a prey, she will not stay to be taken. No 
 painter can give you words for the different as¬ 
 pects of Dulcissa in half a moment, wherever she 
 appears : so little does she accomplish what she 
 takes so much pains for, to be gay and careless. 
 
 Merab is attended with all the charms of wo¬ 
 men and accomplishments of man. It is not to 
 be doubted but she has a great deal of wit, if she 
 were not such a beauty; and she would have more 
 beauty had she not so much wit. Affectation pre¬ 
 vents her excellences from walking together. If she 
 has a mind to speak such a thing, it must be done 
 with such an air of her body ; and if she has an 
 inclination to look very careless, there is such a 
 smart thing to be said at the same time, that 
 the design of being admired destroys itself.— 
 Thus the unhappy Merab, though a wit and beau¬ 
 ty, is allowed to be neither, because she will al¬ 
 ways be both. 
 
 Albacinda has the skill as well as the power of 
 pleasing. Her form is majestic, but her aspect 
 humble. All good men should beware of the de¬ 
 stroyer. She will speak to you like your sister, 
 until she has you sure : but is the most vexatious 
 of tyrants when you are so. Her familiarity of 
 behavior, her indifferent questions and general 
 conversation, make the silly part of her votaries 
 full of hopes, while the wise fly from her power. 
 She well knows she is too beautiful and too witty 
 to be indifferent to any who converse with her, 
 and therefore knows she does not lessen herself 
 by familiarity, but gain» occasions of admiration 
 by seeming ignorance of her perfections. 
 
 , ..'? u< ^ os ^ a a< ids to the height of her stature a no¬ 
 bility of spirit which still distinguishes her above 
 the rest of her sex. Beauty in others is lovely, in 
 others agreeable, in others attractive; but in Eu- 
 dosia it is commanding. Love toward Eudosia is 
 a sentiment like the love of glory. The lovers of 
 other women are softened into fondness—the ad- 
 mil ers of Eudosia exalted into ambition. 
 
 Eucratia presents herself to the imagination 
 with a more kindly pleasure, and, as she is woman, 
 her praise is wholly feminine. If we were to 
 form an image of dignity in a man, we should 
 give him wisdom and valor, as being essential to 
 the character of manhood. In like manner, if you 
 describe a right woman in a laudable sense, she 
 should have gentle softness, tender fear, and all 
 those parts of life which distinguish her from the 
 other sex; with some subordination to it, but such 
 an inferiority that makes her still more lovely. 
 Eucratia is that creature—she is all over woman, 
 kindness is all her art, and beauty all her arms! 
 Her look, her voice, her gesture, and whole be¬ 
 havior, is truly feminine. A goodness mixed 
 
 195 
 
 with fear gives a tincture to all her behavior. It 
 would be savage to offend her, and cruelty to use 
 art to gain her. Others are beautiful, but, Eucratia, 
 thou art beauty! 
 
 Omniamante is made for deceit; she lias an as¬ 
 pect as innocent as the famed Lucrece, but a mind 
 as wild as the more tamed Cleopatra. Her face 
 speaks a vestal, but her heart a Messalina. Who 
 that beheld Omniamante’s negligent, unobserving 
 air, would believe that she hid under that regard- 
 loss mannei the witty prostitute, the rapacious 
 wench, the prodigal courtesan? She can, when 
 she pleases, adorn those eyes with tears like an 
 intant that is chid; she can cast down that pretty 
 face in confusion, while you rage with jealousy, 
 and storm at her perfidiousness: she can wipe her 
 eyes, tremble and look frightened, until you fancy 
 yourself a brute for your rage, own yourself an 
 offender, beg pardon, and make her new presents. 
 
 But I go too far in reporting only the dangers in 
 beholding the beauteous, which I design for the 
 instruction of the fair as well as their beholders ; 
 and shall end this rhapsody with mentioning what 
 I thought was well enough said of an ancient 
 sage* to a beautiful youth, whom he saw admir¬ 
 ing his own figure in brass. “What,” said the 
 philosopher, “could that image of yours say for 
 itself if it could speak?”—“It might say,” ans¬ 
 wered the youth, “that it is very beautiful.” “And 
 are not you ashamed,” replied the cynic, “to value 
 yourselt upon that only of which a piece of brass 
 is capable?”—T 
 
 No. 145.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 16, 1711. 
 
 Stultitiam patiuntur opes.—II or. 1 Ep. xviii, 20. 
 
 Their folly pleads the privilege of wealth. 
 
 If the following enormities are not amended 
 upon the first mentioning, I desire farther notice 
 from my correspondents. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am obliged to you for your discourse the 
 other day upon frivolous disputants, who with 
 great warmth and enumeration of many circum¬ 
 stances and authorities, undertake to prove matters 
 which nobody living denies. You cannot em¬ 
 ploy yourself more usefully than in adjusting the 
 laws of disputation in coffee-houses and accidental 
 companies, as well as in more formal debates. 
 Among many other things which your own ex¬ 
 perience must suggest to you, it will be very 
 obliging if you please to take notice of wagerers. 
 I will not here repeat what Hudibras says of such 
 disputants, which is so true, that it is almost pro¬ 
 verbial; but shall only acquaint you with a set of 
 young fellows of the inns of court, whose fathers 
 have provided for them so plentifully, that they 
 need not be very anxious to get law into their 
 heads for the service of their country at the bar; 
 but are of those who are sent (as the phrase of 
 parents is) to the Temple to know how to ‘keep 
 their own.’ One of these gentlemen is very loud 
 and captious at a coffee-house which I frequent, 
 and being in his nature troubled with a humor 
 of contradiction, though withal excessively igno¬ 
 rant, he has found a way to indulge this temper, 
 go on in idleness and ignorance, and yet still give 
 himself the air of a very learned and knowing 
 man, by the strength of his pocket. The mis¬ 
 fortune of the thing is, I have, as it happens 
 sometimes, a greater stock of learning than of 
 money. The gentleman I am speaking of takes 
 advantage of the narrowness of my circumstances 
 
 * Antisthenes, the founder of the sect of Cynic philosophers. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 196 
 
 in such a manner, that he has read all that I can j 
 pretend to, and runs me down with such a positive 
 air, and with such powerful arguments; that from ! 
 a very learned person I am thought a mere pre¬ 
 tender. Not long ago 1 was relating that I had 
 read such a passage in Tacitus: up starts my 
 young gentleman in a full company, and pulling 
 out his purse offered to lay me ten guineas, to be 
 staked immediately in that gentleman’s hands 
 (pointing to one smoking at another table), that I 
 was utterly mistaken. I was dumb for want of 
 ten guineas; he went on unmercifully to triumph 
 over my ignorance how to take him up, and told 
 the whole room he had read Tacitus twenty times 
 over, and such a remarkable incident as that could 
 not escape him. He has at this time three con¬ 
 siderable wagers depending between him and some 
 of his companions who are rich enough to hold 
 an argument with him. He has five guineas upon 
 questions in geography—two that the Isle of 
 Wight is a peninsula, and three guineas to one 
 that the world is round. We have a gentleman 
 comes to our coffee-house, who deals mightily in 
 antique scandal; my disputant has laid him twenty 
 pieces upon a point of history, to wit, that Cfesar 
 never lay with Cato’s sister, as is scandalously re¬ 
 ported by some people. 
 
 “There are several of this sort of fellows in 
 town, who wager themselves into statesmen, histo¬ 
 rians, geographers, mathematicians, and every 
 other art, when the persons with whom they talk 
 have not wealth equal to their learning. I beg of 
 you to prevent in these youngsters this compen¬ 
 dious way of wisdom, which costs other people 
 so much time atid pains; and you will oblige 
 “Your humble servant.” 
 
 “Coffee-house, near the Temple.” 
 
 “Mr Spectator, Aug. 12, 1711. 
 
 “Here’s a young gentleman that sings opera- 
 tunes or whistles in a full house. Pray let him 
 know that he has no right to act here as if he were 
 in an empty room. Be pleased to divide the 
 spaces of a public room and certify whistlers, 
 singers, and common orators, that are heard farther 
 than their portion of the room, comes to, that the 
 law is open and that there is an equity which will 
 relieve us from such as interrupt us in our lawful 
 discourse, as much as against such who stop us 
 on the road. I take these persons, Mr. Spectator, 
 to be such trespassers as the officer in your stage¬ 
 coach, and am of the same sentiment with counselor 
 Ephraim. It is true the young man is rich, and, 
 as the vulgar say, needs not care for anybody; but 
 sure that is no authority for him to go whistle where 
 he pleases. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble servant. 
 
 “P. S. I have chambers in the Temple, and here 
 are students that learn upon the hautboy; pray de¬ 
 sire the benchers, that all lawyers who are pro¬ 
 ficients in wind-musicjnay lodge to the Thames.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “We are a company of young women who pass 
 our time very much together, and obliged by the 
 mercenary humor of the men to be as mercenarily 
 inclined as they are. There visits among us an 
 old bachelor whom each of us has a mind to. 
 The fellow is rich, and knows he may have any 
 of us, therefore is particular to none, but exces¬ 
 sively ill-bred. His pleasantry consists in romp¬ 
 ing; he snatches kisses by surprise, puts his hands 
 in our necks, tears our fans, robs us of our rib¬ 
 bons, forces letters out of our hands, looks into 
 any of our papers, and a thousand other rude¬ 
 nesses. Now what I will desire of you is, to 
 acquaint him, by printing this, that if he does not 
 
 marry one of us very suddenly, we have all 
 agreed, the next time he pretends to be merry, to 
 affront him, and use him like a clown as he is. 
 In the name of the sisterhood I take my leave of 
 you, and am as they all are, 
 
 “Your constant reader, and well-wisher.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I and several others of your female readers 
 have conformed ourselves to your rules, even to 
 our very dress. There is not one of us but has 
 reduced our outward petticoat to its ancient size¬ 
 able circumference, though indeed we retain still 
 a quilted one underneath; which makes us not 
 altogether unconformable to the fashion ; but it is 
 on condition Mr. Spectator extends not his cen¬ 
 sure so far. But we find you men secretly ap¬ 
 prove our practice, by imitating our pyramidical 
 form. The skirt of your fashionable coats forms 
 as large a circumference as our petticoats; as these 
 are set out with whalebone, so are those with wire, 
 to increase and sustain a bunch of fold that hangs 
 down on each side; and the hat, I perceive, is de¬ 
 creased in just proportion to our head-dresses. 
 We make a regular figure, but I defy your mathe¬ 
 matics to give name to the form you appear in. 
 Your architecture is mere Gothic, and betrays a 
 worse genius than ours; therefore if you are 
 partial to your own sex, I shall be less than I am 
 now “Your humble servant.”—T. 
 
 No. 146.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 17, 1711. 
 
 Nemo vir magnus sine aliquo afflatu divino unquam fuit. 
 
 Toll. 
 
 No man was ever great without some degree of inspiration. 
 
 We know the highest pleasure our minds are 
 capable of enjoying with composure, when we 
 read sublime thoughts communicated to us by men 
 of great genius and eloquence: such is the enter¬ 
 tainment we meet with in the philosophic parts 
 of Cicero’s writings. Truth and good sense have 
 there so charming a dress, that they could hardly 
 be more agreeably represented with the addition 
 of poetical fiction, and the power of numbers. 
 This ancient author, and a modern one, have fallen 
 into my hands within these few days; and the im¬ 
 pressions they have left upon me have at the 
 present quite spoiled me for a merry fellow. The 
 modern is that admirable writer, the author of 
 The Theory of Earth. The subjects with which 
 I have lately been entertained in them both bear 
 a near affinity; they are upon inquiries into here¬ 
 after, and the thoughts of the latter seem to me to 
 be raised above those of the former, in proportion 
 to his advantages of scripture and revelation. If 
 I had a mind to it, I could not at present talk of 
 anything else; therefore I shall translate a passage 
 in the one, and transcribe a paragraph out of the 
 other, for the speculation of this day. Cicero 
 tells us,* that Plato reports Socrates, upon re¬ 
 ceiving his sentence, to have spoken to his judges 
 in the following manner: 
 
 “ I have great hopes, 0 my judges, that it is 
 infinitely to my advantage that 1 am sent to death; 
 for it must of necessity be, that one of these two 
 things must be the consequence. Death must 
 take away all these senses, or convey me to an¬ 
 other life. If all sense is to be taken away, and 
 death is no more than that profound sleep without 
 dreams, in which we are sometimes buried, oh, 
 heavens ! how desirable it is to die ! How many 
 days do we know in life preferable to such a state? 
 But if it be true that death is but a passage to 
 
 * Tusculan. Question, lib. 1. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 Places which they who live before us do now in¬ 
 habit, how much still happier is it to go from 
 those who call themselves judges to appear before 
 those that really are such ; before Minos, Rhada- 
 manthus, vLacus, and Triptolemus, and to meet 
 men who have lived with justice and truth! Is 
 this, do you think, no happy journey? Do you 
 think it nothing to speak with Orpheus, Musseus, 
 Homer, and Hesiod ? I would, indeed, suffer 
 many deaths to enjoy these things. With what 
 particular delight should I talk to Palamedes, 
 Ajax, and others, who like me have suffered by 
 the iniquity of their judges. I should examine 
 the wisdom of that great prince who carried such 
 mi ghty forces against Troy; and argue with Ulys¬ 
 ses and Sisyphus upon difficult points, as I have 
 in conversation here, without being in danger of 
 being Qmidemned. But let not those among you 
 who hav^ pronounced me an innocent man be 
 afraid of death. No harm can arrive at a good 
 man, whether dead or living ; his affairs are al¬ 
 ways under the direction of the gods ; nor will I 
 believe the fate which is allotted to me myself 
 tills day to have arrived by chance ; nor have I 
 aught to say either against my judges or accusers, 
 
 but that they thought they did me an injury.- 
 
 But I detain you too long ; it is time that I retire 
 to death, and you to your affairs of life ; which 
 of us has the, better is known to the gods, but to 
 no mortal man.” 
 
 The divine Socrates is here represented in a fig¬ 
 ure worthy his great wisdom and philosophy, 
 worthy the greatest mere man that ever breathed. 
 But the modern discourse is written upon a sub¬ 
 ject no less than the dissolution of nature itself. 
 
 0 how glorious is the old age of that great man, 
 who has spent his time in such contemplations as 
 has made this being, what only it should be, an 
 education for heaven! Pie has, according to the 
 lights of reason and revelation which seemed to 
 him clearest, traced the steps of Omnipotence. 
 He has, with a celestial ambition, as far as it is 
 consistent with humility and devotion, examined 
 the ways of Providence from the creation to the 
 dissolution of the visible world. How pleasing 
 must have been the speculation, to observe Nature 
 and Providence move together, the physical and mo¬ 
 ral world march the same pace: to observe paradise 
 and eternal spring the seat of innocence, troubled 
 seasons and angry skies the portion of wickedness 
 and vice! When this admirable author has re¬ 
 viewed all that is past, or is to come, which re¬ 
 lates to the habitable world, and run through the 
 whole fate of it, how could a guardian angel, that 
 had attended it through all its courses or changes, 
 speak more emphatically at the end of his charge’ 
 than does our author when he makes, as it were, 
 a funeral oration over this globe, looking to the 
 point where it once stood ? 
 
 “ Let us only, if you please, to take leave of 
 this subject, reflect upon this occasion on the va¬ 
 nity and transient glory of this habitable world. 
 How, by the force of one element breaking loose 
 upon the rest, all the varieties of nature, all the 
 works of art, all the labors of men are reduced to 
 nothing. All that we admired and adored before, 
 as great arid magnificent, is obliterated or van¬ 
 ished; and another form and face of things, plain 
 simple, and everywhere the same, overspreads the 
 whole earth. Where are now the great empires of 
 the world, and their great imperial cities? their 
 pillars, trophies, and monuments of glory ? show 
 me where they stood, read the inscription, tell me 
 the victor’s name. What remains, what impres¬ 
 sions, w^iat difference, or distinction, do you see 
 in this mass of fire ? Rome itself, eternal'Rome, 
 the great city, the empress of the world, whose 
 
 CTATOR. 197 
 
 | domination and superstition, ancient and modern, 
 make a great part of the history of this earth, 
 I what is become of her now ? She laid her foun- 
 [ dations deep, and her palaces were strong and 
 sumptuous. ‘ She glorified herself and lived de¬ 
 liciously, and said in her heart, I sit a queen, and 
 shall see no sorrow.’ But her hour is come, she is 
 wiped away from the face of the earth, and buried 
 in everlasting oblivion. But it is not cities only, 
 and works of men’s hands ; but the everlasting 
 hills, the mountains and rocks of the earth, are 
 melted as wax before the sun, and ‘ their place is 
 nowhere found.’ Here stood the Alps, the load of 
 the earth that covered many countries, and reached 
 their arms from the ocean to the Black Sea ; this 
 huge mass of stone is softened and dissolved as a 
 tender cloud into rain. Here stood the African 
 mountains, and Atlas with his top above the 
 clouds ; there was frozen Caucasus, and Taurus, 
 and Imaus, and the mountains of Asia ; and yon¬ 
 der, toward the north, sttfod the Riphman hills, 
 clothed in ice and snow. All these are vanished’ 
 dropt away as the snow upon their heads. ‘ Great 
 and marvelous are thy works, just and true are 
 thy ways, thou King of saints! hallelujah.’”* 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 147.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 18,1711. 
 
 Pronunciato est vocis, et vultus est gestus moderatio cum 
 venustate. —Toll. 
 
 Good delivery is a graceful management of the voice, coun¬ 
 tenance, and gesture. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The well reading of the Common-prayer is of 
 so great importance, and so much neglected, that 
 I take the liberty to offer to your consideration 
 some particulars on that subject. And what more 
 worthy your observation than this ? A thing so 
 public, and of so high consequence. It is indeed 
 wonderful, that the fifequent exercise of it should 
 not make the performers of that duty more expert 
 in it. This inability, as I conceive, proceeds from 
 the little care that is taken of their reading while 
 boys, and at school, where, when they have got 
 into Latin, they are looked upon as above Eng¬ 
 lish, the reading of which is wholly neglected, or 
 at least read to very little purpose, without any 
 due observations made to them of the proper ac¬ 
 cent and manner of reading ; by this means they 
 have acquired such ill habits as will not easily be 
 removed. The only way that I know of to remedy 
 this, is to propose some person of great ability 
 that way as a pattern for them ; example being 
 more effectual to convince the learned, as well as 
 instruct the ignorant. 
 
 “You must know, Sir, I have been a constant 
 frequenter of the service of the Church of Eng¬ 
 land for above these four years last past, and until 
 Sunday was sevennight never discovered, to so 
 great a degree, the excellency of the Common - 
 Prayer. When, being at St. James’ Garlick Hillf 
 church, I heard the service read so distinctly, so 
 emphatically, and so fervently, that it was next to 
 an impossibility to be inattentive. My eyes and 
 my thoughts could not wander as usual, but were 
 confined to my prayers. I then considered I ad¬ 
 dressed myself to the Almighty, ,and not to a 
 beautiful face. And when I reflected on my 
 former performances of that duty, I found I had 
 
 * Burnet’s Theory of the Earth, 16S4, fol., hook III, chap. 
 
 12, p. 110, 111. ’ ’ ’ * 
 
 t Or Garlick-hithe. The rector of this parish at that time 
 was Mr. Philip Stubbs, afterward archdeacon of St. Albans, 
 whose excellent manner of performing the service was long 
 remembered by the parishioners. 
 
198 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 ran it over as a matter of form, in comparison to 
 the manner in which I then discharged it. My 
 mind was really affected, and fervent wishes ac¬ 
 companied ray words. The Confession was read 
 with such resigned humility, the Absolution with 
 such a comfortable authority, the Thanksgivings 
 with such a religious joy, as made me feel those 
 affections of the mind in a manner I never did be¬ 
 fore. To remedy therefore the grievance above 
 complained of, I humbly propose, that this excel¬ 
 lent reader, upon the next and every annual 
 assembly of the clergy of Sion-college, and all 
 other conventions, should read prayers before 
 them. | For then those that are afraid of stretching 
 their mouths, and spoiling their soft voices, will 
 learn to read with clearness, loudness and strength. 
 Others that affect a rakish, negligent air, by fold¬ 
 ing their arms, and lolling on their books, will be 
 taught a decent behavior, and comely erection of 
 body. Those that read so fast as if impatient of 
 their work, may learn to speak deliberately.' 
 There is another sort of persons, whom I call' 
 Pindaric readers, at being confined to no set mea¬ 
 sure : these pronounce five or six words with great j 
 deliberation, and the five or six subsequent -ones 
 with as great celerity ; the first part of a sentence 
 with a very exalted voice, and tire latter part with 
 a submissive one : sometimes again, with one sort 
 of a tone, and immediately after with a very dif¬ 
 ferent one. These gentlemen will learn of my 
 admired reader an evenness of voice and delivery; 
 and all who are innocent of these affectations, 
 but read with such an indifferency as if they did 
 not understand the language, may then be in¬ 
 formed of the art of reading movingly and fervent^ 
 ly, how to place the emphasis and give the proper 
 accent to each word, and how to vary the voice 
 according to the nature of the sentence. There is 
 certainly a very great difference between the read¬ 
 ing a prayer and a gazette, which I beg of you to 
 inform a set of readers, who affect, forsooth, a cer¬ 
 tain gentleman-like familiarity of tone, and mend 
 the language as they go on, crying, instead of 
 ‘ pardoneth and absolveth,’ ‘ pardons and ab¬ 
 solves.’ These are often pretty classical scholars, 
 and would think it an unpardonable sin to read 
 Virgil or Martial with so little taste as they do di¬ 
 vine service. 
 
 “This indifference seems to me to arise from 
 the endeavor of avoiding the imputation of cant, 
 and the false notion of it. It will be proper, 
 therefore, to trace the origin and signification of 
 this word. ‘ Cant’ is by some people, derived 
 from one Andrew Cant, who, they say, was a 
 Presbyterian minister in some illiterate part of 
 Scotland, who by exercise and use had obtained 
 the faculty, alias gift, of talking in the pulpit in 
 such a dialect, that it is said he was understood 
 by none but his own congregation, and not by all 
 of them. Since Master Cant’s time, it has been 
 understood in a larger sense, and signifies all sud¬ 
 den exclamations, whinings, unusual tones, and 
 in fine all praying and preaching, like the un¬ 
 learned of the Presbyterians. But I hope a proper 
 elevation of voice, a due emphasis and accent, are 
 not to come within this description. So that our 
 readers may still be as unlike the Presbyterians as 
 they please. The dissenters (I mean such as I 
 have heard) do indeed elevate their voices, but it 
 is with sudden jumps from the lower to the high¬ 
 er part of them ; and that with so little sense or 
 skill, that their elevation and cadence is bawling 
 and muttering. They make use of an emphasis, 
 but so improperly, that it is often placed on some 
 very insignificant particle, as upon ‘ if’or ‘ and.’ 
 Now if these improprieties have so great an effect 
 on the people as we see they have, how great an 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 influence would the service of our church, con¬ 
 taining the best prayers that ever were composed, 
 and that in terms most affecting, most humble, 
 and most expressive of our wants, and depend¬ 
 ence on the object of our worship, disposed in 
 most proper order, and void of all confusion ; 
 what influence, I say, would these prayers have* 
 were they delivered with a due emphasis and ap¬ 
 posite rising and variation of voice, the sentence 
 concluded with a gentle cadence, and, in a word, 
 with such an accent and turn of speech as is pe¬ 
 culiar to prayer ? 
 
 “ As the matter of worship is now managed, in 
 dissenting congregations, you find insignificant 
 words and phrases raised by a lively vehemence ; 
 in our own churches, the most exalted sense de- 
 reciated, by a dispassionate indolence. 1 reraem- 
 
 er to have heard Dr. S-e* say in his pulpit, of 
 
 the Common-Prayer, that, at least, it was as per¬ 
 fect as anything of human institution. If the 
 gentlemen who err in this kind would please to 
 recollect the many pleasantries they have read 
 upon those who recite good things with an ill 
 grace, they would go on to think, that what, in 
 that case is only ridiculous, in themselves is im¬ 
 pious. But leaving this to their own reflections, I 
 shall conclude this trouble with what Caesar said 
 upon the irregularity of tone in one who read be¬ 
 fore him, ‘ Do you read or sing ? If you sing, 
 you sing very ill.’t 
 
 T. “Your most humble servant.” 
 
 No. 148.] MONDAY, AUGUST 20, 1711. 
 
 -Exempta juvat spinis e pluribus una. 
 
 Hor. 2 Ep. ii, 212. 
 
 Better one thorn pluck'd out, than all remain. 
 
 My correspondents assure me, that the enormi¬ 
 ties which they lately complained of, and I pub¬ 
 lished an account of, are so far from being amend¬ 
 ed, that new evils arise every day to interrupt 
 their conversation, in contempt oi my reproofs. 
 My friend who writes from the coffee-house near 
 the Temple, informs me that the gentleman who 
 constantly sings a voluntary in spite of the whole 
 company, was more musical than ordinary after 
 reading my paper ; and has not been contented 
 with that, but has danced up to the glass in the 
 middle of the room, and practiced minuet steps to 
 his own humming. The incorrigible creature has 
 gone still farther, and in the open coffee-house, 
 with one hand extended as leading a lady in it, 
 he has danced both French and country-dances, 
 and admonished his supposed partner by smiles 
 and nods to hold up her head and fall back, ac¬ 
 cording to the respective facings and evolutions 
 of the dance. Before this gentleman began this 
 his exercise, he was pleased to clear his throat by 
 coughing and spitting a full half hour ; and as 
 soon as he struck up, he appealed to an attorney’s 
 clerk in the room, whether he hit as he ought, 
 “Since you from death have saved me?” and then 
 asked the young fellow (pointing to a chancery- 
 bill under his arm), whether that was an opera 
 score he carried or not?—without staying for an 
 answer, he fell into the exercise above-mentioned, 
 and practiced his airs to the full house who were 
 turned upon him, without the least shame or re¬ 
 pentance for his former transgressions. 
 
 I am to the last degree at a loss what to do with 
 this young fellow, except I declare him an out¬ 
 law, and pronounce it penal for any one to speak 
 
 * Probably Dr. Sinai ridge, 
 t Si legis, cantas: si cantos, male cantos. 
 
190 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 to him in the said house which he frequents, and 
 direct that he be obliged to drink his tea and 
 coffee without sugar, and not receive from any 
 person whatsoever anything above mere necessa¬ 
 ries. * 
 
 As we in England are a sober people, and gene¬ 
 rally inclined rather to a certain bashfulness of 
 behavior in public, it is amazing whence some fel¬ 
 lows come whom one meets with in this town; 
 they do not at all seem' to be the growth of our 
 island; the pert, the talkative, all such as have no 
 sense of the observation of others, are certainly 
 of foreign extraction. As-for my own part, I am 
 as much surprised when I see a talkative English¬ 
 man, as I should be to see the Indian pine grow¬ 
 ing on one of our quickset hedges. Where these 
 creatures get sun enough, to make them such 
 lively animals and dull men, is above my philo¬ 
 sophy. 
 
 T here are another kind of impertinents which a 
 man is perplexed with in mixed company, and 
 those are your loud speakers. These treat man¬ 
 kind as if they were all deaf; they do not express 
 but declare themselves. Many of these are guilty 
 of this outrage out of vanity, because they think 
 all they say is well; or they have their own per¬ 
 sons in such veneration, that they believe nothing 
 which concerns them can be insignificant to any¬ 
 body else. For these people’s sake, I have often 
 lamented that we cannot close our ears with as 
 much ease as we can our eyes. It is very uneasy 
 that we must necessarily be under persecution. 
 Next to these bawlers, is a troublesome creature 
 who comes with the air of your friend and your 
 intimate, and that is your whisperer. There is 
 one of them at a coffee-house which I myself fre¬ 
 quent, who observing me to be a man pretty well 
 made for secrets, gets by me, and with a whisper 
 tells me things which all the town knows. It is 
 no very hard matter to guess at the source of this 
 impertinence, which is nothing else but a method 
 or mechanic art of being wise. You never see any 
 frequent in it, whom you can suppose to have any¬ 
 thing in the world to do. These persons are 
 worse than bawlers, as much as a secret enemy is 
 more dangerous than a declared one. I wish that 
 my coffee-house friend would take this for arfcinti- 
 mation, that I have not heard a word he told 
 me for these several years ; whereas he now thinks 
 me the most trusty repository of his secrets. The 
 whisperers have a pleasant way of ending the 
 close conversation with saying aloud, " Do not 
 you think so?” Then whisper again, and then 
 aloud, “ But you know that person;” then whisper 
 again. The thing would be well enough, if they 
 whispered to keep the folly of what they say 
 among friends ; but, alas, they do it to preserve 
 the importance of their thoughts. I am sure I 
 could name you more than one person whom no 
 man living ever heard talk upon any subject in 
 nature, or ever saw in his whole life with a book 
 in his hand, that, I know not how, can whisper 
 something like knowledge of what has and does 
 )ass in the world; which you would think he 
 earned from some familiar spirit that did not 
 think him worthy to receive the whole story. But 
 in truth whisperers deal only in half accounts of 
 what they entertain you with. A great help to 
 their discourse is, “ That the town says, and peo¬ 
 ple begin to Talk very freely, and they had it from 
 persons too considerable to be named, what they 
 will tell you when things are riper.” My friend 
 has winked upon me any day since 1 came to 
 town last, and has communicated to me as a secret, 
 that he designed in a very short time to tell me a 
 secret; but i shall know what he means, he now 
 assures me, in less than a fortnight’s time. 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 But I must not omit the dearer part of man¬ 
 kind, I mean the ladies, to take up a whole paper 
 upon grievances which concern the men only; 
 but shall humbly propose, that we change fools 
 for an experiment only. A certain s6t of ladies 
 complain they are frequently perplexed with a 
 visitant, who affects to be wiser than they are ; 
 which character he hopes to preserve by an obstin¬ 
 ate gravity, and great guard against discovering 
 hiwopinion upon any occasion whatsoever. A 
 gainful silence has hitherto gained him no farther 
 advantage, than that as he might, if he had be¬ 
 haved himself with freedom, been excepted against 
 but as to this and that particular, he now offends 
 in the whole. To relieve these ladies, my good 
 friends and correspondents, I shall exchange my 
 dancing outlaw for thgir dumb visitant, and assign 
 the silent gentleman all the haunts of the dancer; 
 in order to which, I have sent them by the penny- 
 post the following letters for their conduct in their 
 new conversations:— 
 
 itfSlR, 
 
 :< “ I have, you may be sure, heard of your irregu¬ 
 larities witiiout regard to my observations upon 
 you ; but shall not treat you with so much rigor 
 as you deserve. If you will give yourself the 
 trouble to repair to the place mentioned in the 
 postscript* to this letter at seven this evening, 
 you will be conducted into a spacious room, well- 
 lighted, where there are ladies and music. You 
 will see a young lady laughing next the window 
 to the street; you may take her out, for she loves 
 you as well as she does any man, though she 
 never saw you before. She never thought in her 
 life, any more than yourself. She will not be 
 surprised when you accost her, nor concerned 
 when you leave her. Hasten from a place where 
 you are laughed at, to one where you will be 
 admired. You are of no consequence, therefore 
 go where you will be welcome for being so. 
 
 »*». • “ Your humble servant.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ The ladies whom you visit, think a wise man 
 the most impertinent creature living, therefore 
 you cannot be offended that they are displeased 
 with you. Why will you take pains to appear 
 wise, where you would not be the more esteemed 
 for being really so ? Come to us ; forget the gig¬ 
 glers ; let your inclination go along with you 
 whether you speak or are silent; and let all such 
 women as are in a clan or sisterhood, go their own 
 way; there is no room for you in that company 
 who are of the common taste of the sex. 
 
 “ For women born to be controll’d 
 Stoop to the forward and the bold; 
 
 Affect the haughty and the proud, 
 
 The gay, the frolic, and the loud.”f 
 
 No. 149.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 21, 1711. 
 
 Cui in manu sit quern esse dementem velit, 
 
 Quern sapere, quem sanari, quern hi morbum injici. 
 Quem contra amari, quem accersiri, quem expeti. 
 
 Caxtj. apud Tmx. 
 
 Who has it in her power to make men mad, 
 
 Or wise, or sick, or well: and who can choose 
 The object of her appetite at pleasure. 
 
 The following letter, and my answer, shall take 
 up the present speculation :— 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am the young widow of a country gentle¬ 
 man, who has left me entire mistress of a large 
 
 *No postscript in the Spect., in f. 
 t Waller. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 200 
 
 fortune, which he agreed to as an equivalent for 
 the difference in our years. In these circumstances 
 it is not extraordinary to have a crowd of ad¬ 
 mirers; which I have abridged in my own thoughts, 
 and reduced to a couple of candidates only, both 
 young, and neither of them disagreeable in their 
 persons : according to the common way of com¬ 
 puting, in one the estate more than deserves my 
 fortune, in the other my fortune more than de¬ 
 serves the estate. When I consider the first, I 
 own I am so far a woman I cannot avoid being 
 delighted with the thoughts of living great; but 
 then he seems to receive such a degree of courage 
 from the knowledge of what he has, he looks as 
 if he was going to confer an obligation on me ; 
 and the readiness he accosts me with, makes me 
 jealous I am only hearing a repetition of the 
 same things he had said to a hundred women be¬ 
 fore. When I consider the other, I see myself ap¬ 
 proached with so much modesty and respect, and 
 such a doubt of himself, as betrays, methinks, 
 an affection within, and a belief at the same time 
 that he himself would be the only gainer by my 
 consent. What an unexceptionable husband could 
 I make out of both ! but since that is impossible, 
 I beg to be concluded by your opinion. It is ab¬ 
 solutely in your power to dispose of 
 
 “ Your most obedient servant, 
 
 “ Sylvia.” 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “You do me great honor in your application 
 to me on this important occasion ; I shall there¬ 
 fore talk to you with the tenderness of a father, 
 in gratitude for your giving me the authority of 
 one. You do not seem to make any great distinc¬ 
 tion between these gentlemen as to their persons ; 
 the whole question lies upon their circumstances 
 and behavior. If the one is less respectful because 
 he is rich, and the other more obsequious because 
 he is not so, they are in that point moved by the 
 same principle, the consideration of fortune, and 
 ou must place them in each other’s circumstances 
 efore you can judge of their inclination. To 
 avoid confusion in discussing this point, I will 
 call the richer man Strephon, and the other Florio. 
 If you believe Florio with Strephon’s estate would 
 behave himself as he does now, Florio is certainly 
 our man ; but if you think Strephon, were he in 
 lorio’s condition, would be as obsequious as 
 Florio is now, you ought for your own sake to 
 choose Strephon ; for where the men are equal, 
 there is no doubt riches ought to be a reason for 
 preference. After this manner, my dear child, I 
 would have you abstract them from their circum¬ 
 stances ; for you are to take it for granted, that he 
 who is very humble only because he is poor, is the 
 very same man in nature, with him who is haughty 
 because he is rich. 
 
 “ When you have gone thus far, as to consider 
 the figure they make toward you ; you will please, 
 my dear, next to consider the appearance you 
 make toward them. If they are men of discern¬ 
 ing, they can observe the motives of your heart: 
 and Florio can see when he is disregarded only 
 upon account of fortune, which makes you to him 
 a mercenary creature ; and you are still the same 
 thing to Strephon, in taking him for his wealth 
 only; you are therefore to consider whether you 
 had rather oblige, than receive an obligation. 
 
 “ The marriage life is always an insipid, a vex¬ 
 atious, or a happy condition. The first is, when 
 two people of no genius or taste for themselves 
 meet together, upon such a settlement as has been 
 thought reasonable by parents and conveyancers 
 from an exact valuation of the land and cash of 
 both parties. In this case the young lady’s per¬ 
 son is no more regarded than the house and im¬ 
 
 provements in purchase of an estate; but she 
 goes with her fortune, rather than her fortune 
 with her. These make up the crowd or vulgar of 
 the rich, and fill up the lumber of the human 
 race, without beneficence toward those below them, 
 or respect toward those above them ; and lead a 
 despicable, independent, and useless life, without 
 sense of the laws of kindness, good-nature, mutual 
 offices, and the elegant satisfactions which flow 
 from reason and virtue. ' 
 
 “ The vexatious life arises from a conjunction, 
 of two people of quick taste and resentment, put 
 together for reasons well known to their friends, 
 in which especial care is taken to avoid (what 
 they think the chief of evils) poverty, and insure 
 to them riches, with every evil beside. These 
 good people live in a constant constraint before 
 company, and too great familiarity alone. When 
 they are within observation, they fret at each 
 other’s carriage and behavior; when alone, they 
 revile each other’s person and conduct. In com¬ 
 pany they are in a purgatory, when only together 
 in a hell. 
 
 “ The happy marriage is, when two persons 
 meet and voluntarily make choice of each other 
 without principally regarding or neglecting the 
 circumstances of fortune or beauty. These may 
 still love in spite of adversity or sickness: the 
 former we may in some measure defend ourselves 
 from, the other is the portion of our very make. 
 When you have a true notion of this sort of pas¬ 
 sion, your humor of living great will vanish out 
 of your imagination, and you will find love lias 
 nothing to do with state. Solitude, with the per¬ 
 son beloved, has a pleasure, even in a woman’s 
 mind, beyond show or pomp. You are therefore 
 to consider which of your lovers will like you 
 best undressed ; which will bear with you most 
 when out of humor; and your wmy to this is to 
 ask of yourself, which of them you value most 
 for his own sake ? and by that judge which gives 
 the greatest instances of his valuing you for your¬ 
 self only. 
 
 “After you have expressed some sense of the 
 humble approach of Florio, and a little distain at 
 Strephon’s assurance in his address, you cry out, 
 ‘What an unexceptionable husband could I make 
 out of both !’ It would therefore, methinks, be a 
 good way to determine yourself. Take him in 
 whom what you like is not transferable to another; 
 for if you choose otherwise, there is no hopes 
 your husband will ever have what you liked in 
 his rival; but intrinsic qualities in one man may 
 very probably purchase everything that is adven¬ 
 titious to another. In plainer terms ; he whom 
 you take for his personal perfections will sooner 
 arrive at the gifts of fortune, than he whom you 
 take for the sake of his fortune attain to personal 
 perfections. If Strephon is not as accomplished 
 and agreeable as Florio, marriage to you will never 
 make him so ; but marriage to you may make 
 Florio as rich as Strephon. Therefore to make 
 a sure purchase, employ fortune upon certainties, 
 but do not sacrifice certainties to fortune. 
 
 “ I am, your most obedient, 
 
 T. “ Humble servant.” 
 
 Ho. 150.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 22, 1711. 
 
 Nil habct infelix paupertas durius in se 
 
 Quam quod ridiculos homines facit- 
 
 Juv., Sat. iii, 152. 
 
 Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool, 
 
 And wit in rags is turn’d to ridicule.— Drydf.n. 
 
 As I was walking in my chamber the morning 
 before I went last into the country, I heard the 
 hawkers with great vehemence crying about a 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 pnper, entitled, The Ninety-nine Plagues of an 
 Empty Purse. I had indeed some time before 
 observed that the orators of Grub-street had dealt 
 very much in plagues. They have already pub¬ 
 lished m the same month, The Plagues of Matri¬ 
 mony, The Plagues of a Single Life, The Nine¬ 
 teen Plagues of a Chambermaid, The Plagues of 
 a Coachman, The Plagues of a Footman, and The 
 Hague of Plagues. The success these several 
 plagues met with, probably gave occasion to the 
 above-mentioned poem on an empty purse. How¬ 
 ever that be, the same noise so frequently repeated 
 under my window, drew me insensibly to think 
 on some of those inconveniences and mortifica¬ 
 tions which usually attend on poverty, and, in 
 short, gave birtli to the present speculation ; for 
 alter my tancy had run over the most obvious and 
 common calamities which men of mean fortunes 
 aie liable to, it descends to those little insults and 
 contempts which, though they may seem to dwin¬ 
 dle into nothing when a man offers to describe 
 them, are perhaps in themselves more cutting and 
 insuperable than the former. Juvenal, with a 
 great deal of humor and reason, tells us, that 
 nothing bore harder upon a poor man in his time, 
 than the continual ridicule which his habit and 
 dress afforded to the beaux of Rome : 
 
 201 
 
 Quid, quod materiam praebet causasque jocorum 
 Omnibus Lie idem; si foeda et seissa lacerna, 
 
 Si toga sordidula est, et rupta calceus alter 
 Pelle patet, vel si consuto vulnere crassum 
 Atque recens linum ostendit non una cicatrix. 
 
 Juv., Sat. iii, 147. 
 
 Add that the rich have still a gibe in store, 
 
 And will be monstrous witty on the poor; 
 
 For the torn surtout and the tatter’d vest. 
 
 The wretch and all his wardrobe are a jest; 
 
 The greasy gown sullied with often turning, 
 
 Oives a good hint to say the man’s in mourning; 
 
 Or if the shoe is ript, or patch is put, 
 
 He s wounded, see the plaster on his foot.— Dryden. 
 
 It is on this occasion that he afterward adds 
 the reflection which I have chosen for my motto. 
 
 Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool, 
 
 And wit in rags is turn’d to ridicule.— Dryden. 
 
 It must be confessed, that few things make a 
 man appear more despicable, or more prejudice 
 his hearers against what he is going to offer, than 
 an awkward or pitiful dress; insomuch that I fan¬ 
 cy, had Tully himself pronounced one of his ora¬ 
 tions with a blanket about his shoulders, more 
 people would have laughed at his dress than have 
 admired his eloquence. This last reflection made 
 me tvonder at a set of men, who, without being 
 subjected to it by the unkindness of their fortunes, 
 are contented to draw upon themselves the ridicule 
 of the world in this particular. I mean such as 
 take it into their heads that the first regular step 
 to be a wit is to commence a sloven. It is certain 
 nothing has so much debased that which must 
 have been otherwise so great a character; and 
 1 know not how to account for it, unless it may 
 possibly be in complaisance to those narrow minds 
 who can have no notion of the same persons pos¬ 
 sessing different accomplishments ; or that it is a 
 son of sacrifice which some men are contented to 
 make to calumny, by allowing it to fasten on one 
 part of their character, while they are endeavoring 
 to establish another. & 
 
 . Yet however unaccountable this foolish custom 
 
 is, I am afraid it could plead a long prescription • 
 and probably give too much occasion for the vul¬ 
 gar definition still remaining among us of a hea¬ 
 then philosopher. 
 
 I have seen the speech of a Terra filius, spoken 
 in King Charles the Second’s reign ; in which he 
 describes two very eminent men, who were per¬ 
 haps the greatest scholars of their age ; and after 
 
 having mentioned the entire friendship between 
 them, concludes that, “ they had but one mind 
 one purse, one chamber, and one hat.” Hie men 
 of business were also infected with a sort of sin¬ 
 gularity little better than this. I have heard my 
 father say, that a broad brimmed hat, short hair, 
 and unfolded handkerchief, were in his time abso- 
 utely necessary to denote a “ notable man ;” and 
 that he had known two or three, who aspired to 
 the character of “very notable,” wear shoe strings 
 with great success. & 
 
 i T °^ e A° n0r of ° ur P resent age, it must be al¬ 
 lowed, that some of our greatest geniuses for wit 
 
 and business hav ? almost entirely broken the neck 
 
 of these absurdities. 
 
 Victor, after having dispatched the most im¬ 
 portant affairs of the commonwealth, has appear- 
 i at a " assembly, where all the ladies have de¬ 
 clared him the genteelest man in the company • 
 and in Atticus,* though every way one of the 
 greatest geniuses the age has produced, one sees 
 nothing particular in his dress or carriage to de¬ 
 note his pretensions to wit and learning : so that 
 at present a man may venture to cock up his hat 
 and wear a fashionable wig, without being taken 
 for a rake or a fool. 
 
 The medium between a fop and a sloven is what 
 a man of sense would endeavor to keep ; yet I re¬ 
 member Mr. Osborn advises his son to appear in 
 ns habit rather above than below his fortune - and 
 tells him that he will find a handsome suit of 
 clothes always procures some additional respect.f 
 I have indeed myself observed that my banker 
 ever bows lowest to me when I wear my full-bot¬ 
 tomed wig ; and writes me “Mr.” or “Esq ” ac¬ 
 cording as he sees me dressed. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with an adventure 
 which I was myself an eye-witness of very lately 
 I happened the other day to call in at a cele¬ 
 brated coffee-house near the Temple. I had not 
 been there long when there came in an elderly 
 man very meanly dressed, and sat down by me; he 
 had a threadbare loose coat on, which it was plain 
 he wore to keep himself warm, and not to favor 
 his under suit, which seemed to have been at least 
 its cotemporary ; his short wig and hat were both 
 answerable to the rest of his apparel. He was no 
 sooner seated than he called for a dish of tea; but 
 as several gentlemen in the room wanted other 
 things, the boys of the house did not think them¬ 
 selves at leisure to mind him. I could observe 
 the old fellow was very uneasy at the affront, and 
 at his being obliged to repeat his commands sev¬ 
 eral times to no purpose; until at last one of the 
 lads presented him with some stale tea in a broken 
 dish, accompanied with a plate of brown sugar ; 
 which so raised his indignation, that after several 
 obliging appellations of dog and rascal, he asked 
 him aloud before the whole company, “why he 
 should be used with less respect than that fop 
 tnGTG l pointing to o, WGll-drossod. young gentle- 
 man who was drinking tea at the opposite^table. 
 The boy of the house replied with a good deal of 
 pertness, that his master had two sorts of cus¬ 
 tomers, and that the gentleman at the other table 
 had given him many a sixpence for wiping his 
 shoes. By this time the young Templar, who 
 found his honor concerned in the dispute, and 
 til at the eyes of the whole coffee-house were upon 
 him, had thrown aside a paper he held in his 
 hand, and was coming toward us, while we at the 
 table, made what haste we could to get awav from 
 the impending quarrel, but we were alfof us 
 surprised to see him, as he approached nearer, put 
 
 * Probably Mr. Addison. 
 
 t Advice to a Son by Francis Osborn, Esq., part 1, sect, 23. 
 
202 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 on an air of deference and respect. To whom 
 the old man said, “Hark you, sirrah, I will pay 
 off your extravagant bills once more, but will take 
 effectual care for the future, that your prodigality 
 shall not spirit up a parcel of rascals to insult 
 
 your father.” . 
 
 Though I by no means approve either the im¬ 
 pudence of the servants or the extravagance of 
 the son, I cannot but think the old gentleman was 
 in some measure justly served for walking in mas¬ 
 querade, I mean in appearing in a dress so much 
 beneath his quality and estate.—X. 
 
 Ho. 151.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 23, 1711. 
 
 Maximas A'irtutes jacere omnes necesse est voluptate domi- 
 nante.—T ull, de Fin. 
 
 Where pleasure prevails, all the greatest virtues will lose 
 their power. 
 
 I know no one character that gives reason a 
 greater shock, at the same time that it presents a 
 good ridiculous image to the imagination, than 
 that of a man of wit and pleasure about the town. 
 This description of a man of fashion, spoken by 
 some with a mixture of scorn and ridicule,, by 
 others with great gravity as a laudable distinc¬ 
 tion, is in everybody’s mouth that spends any 
 time in conversation. My friend, Will Honey¬ 
 comb, has this expression very frequently ; and I 
 never could understand by the story which fol¬ 
 lows upon his mention of such a one, but that his 
 man of wit and pleasure was either a drunkard 
 too old for wenching, or a young lewd fellow with 
 some liveliness, who would converse with you, 
 receive kind offices of you, at the same time de¬ 
 bauch your sister, or lie with your wife. Accord¬ 
 ing to this description, a man of wit, when he 
 could have wenches for crowns apiece which he 
 liked quite as well, would be so extravagant as 
 to bribe servants, make false friendships, fight.re¬ 
 lations ; I say, according to him, plain and sim¬ 
 ple vice was too little for a man of wit and plea¬ 
 sure ; but he would leave an easy and accessible 
 wickedness, to come at the same thing with only 
 the addition of certain falsehood and possible 
 murder. Will thinks the town grown very dull, 
 in that we do not hear so much as we used, to do 
 of these coxcombs, whom (without observing it) 
 he describes as the most infamous rogues in na¬ 
 ture, with relation to friendship, love, or conver¬ 
 sation. . . 
 
 When pleasure is made the chief pursuit of life, 
 it will necessarily follow that such monsters as 
 these will arise from a constant application to 
 such blandishments as naturally root out the force 
 of reason and reflection, and substitute in their 
 place a general impatience of thought, and a con¬ 
 stant pruriency of inordinate desire. 
 
 Pleasure, when it is a man’s chief purpose, dis¬ 
 appoints itself; and the constant application to it 
 palls the faculty of enjoying it, though it leaves 
 the sense of our inability for that we wish, with a 
 disrelish of everything else. Thus the interme¬ 
 diate seasons of the man of pleasure are more 
 heavy than one would impose upon the vilest 
 criminal. Take him when he is awaked too.soon 
 after a debauch, or disappointed in following a 
 worthless woman without truth, and there is no 
 man living whose being is such a weight of vex¬ 
 ation as his is. He is an utter stranger to the 
 pleasing reflections in the evening of a well-spent 
 day, or the gladness of heart or quickness of spirit 
 in the morning after a profound sleep or indolent 
 slumbers. He is not to be at ease any longer than 
 he can keep reason and good sense without his 
 curtains ; otherwise he will be haunted w ith the 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 reflection, that he could not believe such a one the 
 woman that upon trial he found her. What has 
 he got by his conquest, but to think meanly of 
 her for whom a day or two before he had the high¬ 
 est honor ? And of himself for perhaps wrong¬ 
 ing the man whom of all men living he himself 
 would least willingly have injured ? 
 
 Pleasure seizes the whole man who addicts him¬ 
 self to it, and will not give him leisure for any 
 good office in life which contradicts the gayety oi 
 the present hour. You may indeed observe in 
 people of pleasure a certain complacency and ab¬ 
 sence of all severity, which the habit of a loose 
 unconcerned life gives them ; but tell the man of 
 pleasure your secret wants, cares, or sorrows, and 
 you will find that he has given up the delicacy of 
 his passions to the cravings of his appetites. He 
 little knows the perfect joy he loses, for the dis¬ 
 appointing gratifications which he pursues. He 
 looks at Pleasure as she approaches, and comes to 
 him with the recommendation of warm wishes, 
 gay looks, and graceful motion ; but he does not 
 observe how she leaves his presence with disorder, 
 impotence, downcast shame, and conscious imper¬ 
 fection. She makes our youth inglorious, our age 
 shameful. 
 
 Will Honeycomb gives us twenty intimations 
 in an evening of several hags whose bloom was 
 given up to his arms ; and would raise a value to 
 himself for having had, as the phrase is, “ very 
 good women.” Will’s good women are the com¬ 
 fort of his heart, and support him, I warrant, by 
 the memory of past interviews with persons of 
 their condition ! No, there is not in the world an 
 occasion wherein vice makes so fantastical a fig¬ 
 ure, as at the meeting of two old people who have 
 been partners in unwarrantable pleasure. To tell 
 a toothless old lady that she once had a good set, 
 or a defunct wencher that he was the admired 
 thing of the town, are satires instead of applauses; 
 but, on the other side, consider the old age of 
 those who have passed their days in labor, indus¬ 
 try, and virtue, their decays make them but ap¬ 
 pear the more venerable, and the imperfections of 
 their bodies are beheld as a misfortune to human 
 society that their make is so little durable. 
 
 But to return more directly to my man of wit 
 and pleasure. In all orders of men, wherever this 
 is the chief character, the person who wears it is 
 a negligent friend, father, and husband, and en¬ 
 tails poverty on his unhappy descendants. Mort¬ 
 gages, diseases, and settlements, are the legacies 
 a man of wit and pleasure leaves to his family. 
 All the poor rogues that make such lamentable 
 speeches after every sessions at Tyburn, were, in 
 their way, men of wit and pleasure before they 
 fell into" the adventures which brought them 
 thither. 
 
 Irresolution and procrastination in all a man’s 
 affairs, are the natural effects of being addicted to 
 pleasure. Dishonor to the gentleman, and bank¬ 
 ruptcy to the trader, are the portion of either 
 whose chief purpose of life is delight. The chief 
 cause that this pursuit has been in all ages received 
 with so much quarter from the soberer part of 
 mankind, has been, that some men of great talents 
 have sacrificed themselves to it. 3 he shining 
 qualities of such people have given a beauty to 
 whatever they were engaged in, and a mixture of 
 wit has recommended madness. For let any man 
 who knows what it is to have passed much time 
 in a series of jollity, mirth, wit, or humorous en¬ 
 tertainments, look back at what he was all that 
 while a-doing, and he will find that he has been 
 at one instant sharp to some man he is sorry to 
 have offended ; impertinent to some one it was 
 cruelty to treat with such freedom, ungraoefully 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 noisy at such a time, unskillfully open at such a 
 time ; unmercifully calumnious at such a time ; 
 and, from the whole course of his applauded sat¬ 
 isfactions, unable in the end to recollect any cir¬ 
 cumstance which can add to the enjoyment of his 
 own mind alone, or which he would put his char¬ 
 acter upon with other men. Thus it is with those 
 who are best made for becoming pleasures ; but 
 how monstrous is it in the generality of mankind 
 who pretend this way, without genius or inclina¬ 
 tion toward it! The scene, then, is wild to an 
 extravagance : this is, as if fools should mimic 
 madmen. Pleasure of this kind is the intemper¬ 
 ate meals and loud jollities of the common rate 
 of country gentlemen, whose practice and way of 
 enjoyment is to put an end as fast as they can, to 
 that little particle of reason they have when they 
 are sober. These men of wit and pleasure dis¬ 
 patch their senses as fast as possible, by drinking 
 until they cannot taste, smoking until they cannot 
 see, and roaring until they cannot hear.—T. 
 
 Ho. 152.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 24, 1711. 
 
 Like leaves on trees the race of man is found. 
 
 Pope’s IIom. 
 
 There is no sort of people whose conversation 
 is so pleasant as that of military men, who derive 
 their courage and magnanimity from thought and 
 reflection. The many adventures which attend 
 their way of life makes their conversation so full 
 of incidents, and gives them so frank an air in 
 speaking of what they have been witnesses of, 
 that no company can be more amiable than that 
 of men of sense who are soldiers. There is a cer¬ 
 tain irregular way in their narrations or discourse, 
 which has something more warm and pleasing 
 than we meet with among men who are used to 
 adjust and methodize their thoughts. 
 
 I was this evening walking in the fields with 
 my friend Captain Sentry, and I could not, from 
 the many relations which I drew him into of what 
 passed when he was in the service, forbear express¬ 
 ing my wonder, that the “ fear of death,” which 
 we, the rest of mankind, arm ourselves against 
 with so much contemplation, reason, and philoso¬ 
 phy, should appear so little in camps, that com¬ 
 mon men march into open breaches, meet opposite 
 battalions, not only without reluctance, but with 
 alacrity. My friend answered what I said in the 
 following manner : “ What you wonder at may 
 very naturally be the subject of admiration to all 
 who are not conversant in camps ; but when a 
 man has spent some time in that way of life, he 
 observes a certain mechanic courage which the 
 ordinary race of men become masters of from act¬ 
 ing always in a crowd. They see indeed many 
 drop, but then they see many more alive; they 
 observe themselves escape very narrowly, and 
 they do not know why they should not again. 
 Beside which general way of loose thinking, they 
 usually spend the other part of their time in 
 pleasures upon which their minds are so entirely 
 bent, that short labors or dangers are but a cheap 
 purchase ot jollity, triumph, victory, fresh quar¬ 
 ters, new scenes, and uncommon adventures. 
 Sucli are the thoughts of the executive part of an 
 aimy, and indeed of the gross of mankind in 
 gi iicial, but # none ot these men of mechanical 
 courage have ever made any great figure in the 
 profession of arms. Those who are formed for 
 command, are such as have reasoned themselves, 
 out of a consideration of greater good than length 
 of days, into such a negligence of their being,° as 
 to make it their first position, that it is one day to 
 be resigned ;—and since it is, in the prosecution 
 
 203 
 
 | of worthy actions and service of mankind, they 
 I can put it to habitual hazard. The event of our 
 , designs, say they, as it relates to others, is uncer¬ 
 tain ; but as it relates to ourselves it must be pros¬ 
 perous, while we are in the pursuit of our duty, 
 and within the terms upon which Providence has 
 ensured our happiness, whether we die or live, 
 j All that nature has prescribed must be good ; and 
 | as death is near to us, it is absurdity to fear it. 
 Fear loses its purpose when we are sure it cannot 
 ! preserve us, and w T e should draw resolution to 
 meet it from the impossibility to escape it. With¬ 
 out a resignation to the necessity of dying, there 
 can be no capacity in man to attempt anything 
 that is glorious : but when they have once attained 
 to that perfection, the pleasures of a life spent in 
 martial adventures are as great as any of which 
 the human mind is capable. The force of reason 
 gives a certain beauty mixed with conscience of 
 well-doing and thirst of glory to all which before 
 was terrible and ghastly to the imagination. Add 
 to this, that the fellowship of danger, the com¬ 
 mon good of mankind, the general cause, and the 
 manifest virtue you may observe in so many men 
 who made no figure until that day, are so many 
 incentives to destroy the little considerations of 
 their own persons. Such are the heroic part of 
 soldiers, who are qualified for leaders. As to the 
 rest whom I before spoke of, I know not how it 
 is, but they arrive at a certain habit of being void 
 of thought, insomuch that on occasion of the most 
 imminent danger they are still in the same indiffe¬ 
 rence. Hay, I remember an instance of a gay 
 Frenchman,* who was led on in battle by a supe¬ 
 rior officer (whose conduct it was his custom to 
 speak of always with contempt and raillery), and 
 in the beginning of the action received a wound 
 he was sensible was mortal; his reflection on this 
 occasion was, ‘ I wish I could live another hour, 
 to see how this blundering coxcomb will get clear 
 of this business.’ 
 
 “ I remember two young fellows who rode in 
 the same squadron of a troop of horse, who were 
 ever together; they ate, they drank, they intrigued; 
 in a word, all their passions and affections seemed 
 to tend the same way, and they appeared service¬ 
 able to each other in them. We were in the dusk 
 of the evening to march over a river, and the 
 troop these gentlemen belonged to were to be 
 transported in a ferry-boat, as fast as they could. 
 One of the friends was now in the boat, while the 
 other was drawn up with others by the water-side, 
 waiting the return of the boat. A disorder hap¬ 
 pened in the passage by an unruly horse; and a 
 gentleman who had the rein of his horse negli¬ 
 gently under his arm, was forced into the water 
 by his horse’s jumping over. The friend on the 
 shore cried out, ‘Who is that drowned, trow?’ He 
 was immediately answered, ‘Your friend Harry 
 Thompson.’ He very gravely replied, ‘Ay, he 
 had a mad horse.’ This short epithet from such 
 a familiar, without more words, gave me, at that 
 time under twenty, a very moderate opinion of the 
 friendship of companions. Thus is affection and 
 every other motive of life in the generality rooted 
 out by the present busy scene about them ; they 
 lament no man whose capacity can be supplied by 
 another; and where men converse without deli¬ 
 cacy, the next man you meet will serve as well as 
 he whom you have lived with half your life. To 
 such the devastation of countries, the misery of 
 inhabitants, the cries of the pillaged, and the silent 
 sorrow of the great unfortunate, are ordinary ob- 
 
 ^ * Tlie Frenchman here alluded to was the Chevalier de 
 Flourilles, a lieutenant-general under the Prince of Conde, at 
 the battle of Senelf, in 1674. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 204 
 
 jects ; their minds are bent upon the little gratifi¬ 
 cations of their own senses and appetites, forgetful 
 of compassion, insensible of glory, avoiding only 
 shame ; their whole hearts taken up with the tri¬ 
 vial hope of me ting and being merry. These 
 are the people who make up the gross of the sol 
 diery. But the fine gentleman in that band of 
 men is such a one as I have now in my eye, who 
 is foremost in all danger to which he is ordered. 
 His officers are his friends and companions, as 
 they are men of honor and gentlemen ; the private 
 men his brethren, as they are of his species. He 
 is beloved of all that behold him. They wish 
 him in danger as he views their ranks, that they 
 may have occasions to save him at their crwn 
 hazard. Mutual love is the order of the files 
 where he commands; every man, afraid for him¬ 
 self and his neighbor, not lest their commander 
 should punish them, but lest he should be offend¬ 
 ed. Such is his regiment who knows mankind, 
 and feels their distresses so far as to prevent them. 
 Just in distributing what is their due, he would 
 think himself below their tailor to wear a snip of 
 their clothes in lace upon his own ; and below the 
 most rapacious agent should he enjoy a farthing 
 above his own pay. Go on, brave man! immortal 
 glory is thy fortune, and immortal happiness thy 
 reward.”—T. 
 
 No. 153.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1711. 
 
 Habet natui'a ufc aliarum omnium rerum sic vivendi mo- 
 dum, senectus autem peracto aetatis est tanquam tabulae. 
 Cujus defatigationcm fugere debemus, Praesertim. adjuncta 
 eatietate.— Tull, de Senect. 
 
 Life, as well as all other things, hath its bounds assigned 
 by nature; and its conclusion, like the last act of a play, is 
 old age, the fatigue of which we ought to shun, especially 
 when our appetites are fully satisfied. 
 
 Of all the impertinent wishes which we hear 
 expressed in conversation, there is not one more 
 unworthy a gentleman or a man of liberal educa¬ 
 tion, than that of wishing one’s self younger. I 
 have observed this wish is usually made upon 
 sight of some object which gives the idea of a past 
 action, that it is no dishonor to us that we cannot 
 now repeat; or else on what was in itself shame¬ 
 ful when we performed it. It is a certain sign of 
 a foolish or a dissolute mind if we Avant our youth 
 again only for the strength of bones and sineAVS 
 which we once were masters of. It is (as my 
 author has it) as absurd in an old man to Avish for 
 the strength of youth, as it would be in a young 
 man to Avish for the strength of a bull or a horse. 
 These Avishes are both equally out of nature, which 
 should direct in all things that are not contradic¬ 
 tory to justice, law, and reason. But though 
 every old man has been young, and every young 
 one hopes to be old, there seems to be a most un¬ 
 natural misunderstanding between those two 
 stages of life. This unhappy want of commerce 
 arises from the insolent arrogance or exultation in 
 youth, and the irrational despondence or self-pity 
 in age. A young man Avhose passion and ambi¬ 
 tion is to be good and wise, and an old one Avho 
 has no inclination to be lewd or debauched, are 
 quite unconcerned in this speculation ; but the 
 cocking young fellow who treads upon the toes 
 of his elders, and the old felloAv Avho envies the 
 saucy pride he sees him in, are the objects of our 
 present contempt and derision. Contempt and 
 derision are harsh Avords ; but in what manner can 
 one give advice to a youth in the pursuit and pos¬ 
 session of sensual pleasures, or afford pity to an 
 old man in the impotence and desire of enjoying 
 them? When young men in public places betray 
 in their deportment an abandoned resignation to 
 
 their appetites, they give to sober minds a prospect 
 of a despicable age, which, if not interrupted by 
 death in the midst of their follies, must certainly 
 come. When an old man beAvails the loss of sucn 
 gratifications Avhich are past, he discovers a mon¬ 
 strous inclination to that Avhich it is not in the 
 course of Providence to recall. The state of an 
 old man, Avho is dissatisfied merely for his being 
 such, is the most out of all measures of reason and 
 good sense of any being we have any account of 
 from the highest angel to the lowest Avorm. How 
 miserable is the contemplation to consider a libidi¬ 
 nous old man (Avhile all created beings, beside 
 himself and devils, are following the order of Pro¬ 
 vidence) fretting at the course of things, and being 
 almost the sole malcontent in the creation. But 
 let us a little reflect upon what he has lost by the 
 number of years. The passions which he had in 
 youth are not to be obeyed as they Avere then, but 
 reason is more powerful now Avithout the distur¬ 
 bance of them. An old gentleman, the other day, 
 in discourse Avitli a friend of his (reflecting upon 
 son*; adventures they had in youth together) cried 
 out, “Oh Jack, those Avere happy days!” “That 
 is true,” replied his friend, “but rnethinks we go 
 about our business more quietly than Ave did then.” 
 One would think it should be no small satisfac¬ 
 tion to have gone so far in our journey that the 
 heat of the day is over Avith us. When life itself 
 is a fever, as it is in licentious youth, the plea¬ 
 sures of it are no other than the dreams of a man 
 in that distemper; and it is as absurd to Avish the 
 return of that season of life, as for a man in health 
 to be sorry for the loss of gilded palaces, fairy 
 Avalks, and flowery pastures, with which he remem¬ 
 bers he Avas entertained in the troubled slumbers 
 of a fit of sickness. 
 
 As to all the rational and worthy pleasures of 
 our being — the conscience of a good fame, the 
 contemplation of another life, the respect and com¬ 
 merce of honest men, our capacities for such enjoy¬ 
 ments are enlarged by years. While health en¬ 
 dures, the latter part of life, in the eye of reason, 
 is certainly the more eligible. The memory of a 
 well-spent youth gives a peaceable, unmixed, and 
 elegant pleasure to the mind ; and to such who are 
 so unfortunate as not to be able to look back on 
 youth Avith satisfaction, they may give themselves 
 no little consolation that they are under no temp¬ 
 tation to repeat their follies, and that they at pre¬ 
 sent despise them. It was prettily said, “ He that 
 Avould be long an old man, must begin early to be 
 one:” it is too late to resign a thing after a man is 
 robbed of it; therefore it is necessary that before 
 the arrival of age Ave bid adieu to the pursuits of 
 youth, otlierAvise sensual habits Avill live in our 
 imaginations, when our limbs cannot be subser¬ 
 vient to them. The poor felloAv Avho lost his arm 
 last siege, Avill tell you, he feels the fingers that 
 are buried in Flanders ache every cold morning at 
 Chelsea. 
 
 The fond humor of appearing in the gay and 
 fashionable world, and being applauded for trivial 
 excellencies, is what makes youth have age in con¬ 
 tempt, and makes age resign Avith so ill a grace 
 the qualifications of youth ; but this in both sexsfes 
 is inverting all things, and turning the natural 
 course of our minds, Avhiqh should build their ap¬ 
 probations and dislikes upon what nature and 
 reason dictate, into chimera and confusion. 
 
 Age in a virtuous person, of either sex, carries 
 in it an authority which makes it preferable to all 
 the pleasures of youth. If to be saluted, and at¬ 
 tended, and consulted with deference, are instances 
 of pleasure, they are such as never fail a virtuous 
 old age. In the enumeration of the imperfections 
 and advantages of the younger and later years of 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 man, they are so near in their condition, that, me- 
 thinks, it should be incredible we see so little 
 commerce of kindness between them. If we con¬ 
 sider youth and age with Tully, regarding the 
 affinity to death, youth has many more chances to 
 be near it than age ; what youth can say more than 
 an old man, “he shall live until night?” Youth 
 catches distempers more easily, its sickness is 
 more violent, and its recovery more doubtful. The 
 youth indeed hopes for more days, so cannot the 
 old man. The youth’s hopes are ill-grounded ; 
 for w hat is more foolish than to place any confi¬ 
 dence upon an uncertainty? But the old man has 
 not room so much as to hope ; he is still happier 
 than the youth ; he has already enjoyed what the 
 other does but hope for. One wishes to live long, 
 the other has lived long. But, alas ! is there any¬ 
 thing in human life, the duration of which can be 
 called long? There is nothing which must end, 
 to be valued for its continuance. If hours, days, 
 months, and years pass away, it is no matter what 
 hour, what day, what month, or what year we die. 
 The applause of a good actor is due to him at 
 whatever scene of the play he makes his exit. It 
 is thus in the life of a man of sense; a short life 
 is sufficient to manifest himself a man of honor 
 and virtue ; when he ceases to be such he has lived 
 too long; and while he is such, it is of no conse¬ 
 quence to him how long he shall be so, provided 
 lie is so to his life’s end.—T. 
 
 205 
 
 Ho. 154.] MONDAY, AUGUST 27, 1711. 
 
 Nemo repente fuit turpissimus- Juv., Sat. ii, 83. 
 
 No man e’er reach’d the heights of vice at first.— Tate. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You are frequent in the mention of matters 
 which concern the feminine world, and take upon 
 you to be very severe against men upon all those 
 occasions: but all this while I am afraid you have 
 been very little conversant with women, or you 
 would know the generality of them are not so 
 angry as you imagine at th.e general vices among 
 us. I am apt to believe (begging your pardon) 
 that you are still what I myself was once, a queer 
 modest fellow; and therefore, for your informa¬ 
 tion, shall give you a short account of myself, 
 and the reasons why I was forced to wench, drink, 
 play and do everything which are necessary to the 
 character of a man of wit and pleasure, to be well 
 with the ladies. 
 
 “You are to know, then, that I was bred a gen¬ 
 tleman, and had the finishing part of my educa¬ 
 tion under a man of great probity, wit, and learn¬ 
 ing, in one of our universities. I will not deny 
 but this made my behavior and mien bear in it a 
 figure of thought rather than action; and a man of 
 a quiet contrary character who never thought in 
 his life, rallied me one day upon it, and said, ‘he 
 believed I was still a virgin.’ There was a young 
 ladv of virtue present, and I was not displeased 
 to favor the insinuation; but it had a quite con- 
 tiary efiect from what I expected. I was ever 
 after treated with great coldness both by that lady 
 and all the rest of my acquaintance. In a very 
 little time I never came into a room but I coulcl 
 hear a whisper, ‘Here comes the maid.’ A girl of 
 humor would on some occasion say, ‘Why 5 , how 
 do you know more than any of us?’ An expres¬ 
 sion of that kind was generally followed by a 
 loud laugh. In a word, for no other fault in the 
 world than that they really thought me as in¬ 
 nocent as themselves, I became of no consequence 
 among them, and was received always upon the 
 foot of a jest. This made so strong an impression 
 
 | upon me, that I resolved to be as agreeable as the 
 best ot the men who laughed at me; but I observed 
 it was nonsense for me to be impudent at first 
 among those who knew me. My character for 
 modesty was so notorious wherever I had hitherto 
 appeared, that I resolved to show my new face in 
 new quarters of the world. My first step I chose 
 with judgment; fori went to Astrop,* and came 
 down among a crowd of academics, at one dash, 
 the impudentest fellow they had ever seen in their 
 lives. Flushed with this success, I made love, 
 and was happy. Upon this conquest I thought it 
 would be unlike a gentleman to stay long with my 
 mistress, and crossed the country to Bury.f I 
 could give you a very good account of myself at 
 that place also. At these two ended my first sum¬ 
 mer of gallantry. —The winter following, you 
 would wonder at it, but I relapsed into modesty 
 upon coming among people of figure in London, 
 yet not so much but that the ladies who had for¬ 
 merly laughed at me, said, ‘Bless us, how wonder¬ 
 fully that gentleman is improved!’ Some famil¬ 
 iarities about the play-houses toward the end of 
 the ensuing winter, made me conceive new hopes 
 of adventures. And instead of returning the next 
 summer to Astrop or Bury, I thought myself 
 qualified to go to Epsom, and followed a young 
 woman, whose relations were jealous of my place 
 m her favor, to Scarborough. I carried my point, 
 and in my third year aspired to go to Tunbridge, 
 and in the autumn of the same year made my ap¬ 
 pearance at Bath. I was now got into the way of 
 talk proper for ladies, and was run into a vast 
 acquaintance among them, which I always im¬ 
 proved to the best advantage. In all this course of 
 time, and some years following, I found a sober 
 modest man was always looked upon by both 
 sexes as a precise unfashioned fellow of no life or 
 spirit. It was ordinary for a man who had been 
 drunk in good company, or passed a night with a 
 wench, to speak of it next day before women for 
 whom he had the greatest respect. He was re¬ 
 proved, perhaps, with a blow of the fan, or with 
 an ‘Oh fie!’ but the angry lady still preserved an 
 apparent approbation in her countenance. He 
 was called a strange wicked fellow a sad wretch; 
 he shrugs his shoulders, swears, receives another 
 blow, swears again he did not know he swore, and 
 all was well. You might often see men game in 
 the presence of women, and throw at once for 
 more than they were worth, to recommend them¬ 
 selves as men of spirit. I found by long ex¬ 
 perience, that the loosest principles and the most 
 abandoned behavior, carried all before them in 
 pretensions to women of fortune. y The encourage¬ 
 ment given to people of this stamp, made me soon 
 throw off the remaining impressions of a sober 
 education. In the above-mentioned places, as 
 well as in town, I always kept company with 
 those who lived most at large; and in due process 
 of time I was a very pretty rake among the men, 
 and a very pretty fellow among the women. I 
 must confess, I had some melancholy hours upon 
 the account of the narrowness of my fortune, but 
 my conscience at the same time gave me the com¬ 
 fort that I had qualified myself for marrying a 
 fortune. 
 
 “When I had lived in this manner some time, 
 and became thus accomplished, I was now in the 
 twenty-seventh year of my age, and about the 
 forty-seventh of my constitution, my health and 
 estate wasting very fast; when I happened to fall 
 into the company of a very pretty young lady in 
 
 * Astrop-wells, in Oxfordshire; into which Doctor Radcliffe 
 “ put a toad.’’ 
 
 t Bury-fair. A place of fashionable resort. 
 
 t 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 206 
 
 her own disposal. I entertained the company, as 
 we men of gallantry generally do, with the many 
 haps and disasters, watchings under windows, 
 escapes from jealous husbands, and several other 
 perils. The young thing was wonderfully charm¬ 
 ed with one that knew the world so well, and 
 talked so fine: with Desdernona, all her lover said 
 affected her; ‘it was strange ; it was wondrous 
 strange/ In a word, I saw the impression I had 
 made upon her, and with a very little application 
 the pretty thing has married me. There is so 
 much charm in her innocence and beauty, that I 
 do now as much detest the course I have been in 
 for many years, as ever I did before I entered 
 into it. 
 
 “ What I intend, Mr. Spectator, by writing all 
 this to you, is that you would, before you go any 
 farther with your panegyrics on the fair sex, give 
 them some lectures upon their silly approbations. 
 It is that I am weary of vice, and that it was 
 not my natural way, that I am now so far recovered 
 as not to bring this dear believing creature to con¬ 
 tempt and poverty for her generosity to me. At 
 the same time tell the youth of good education of 
 our sex, that they take too little care of improving 
 themselves in little things. A good air at enter¬ 
 ing into a room, a proper audacity in expressing 
 himself with gayety and gracefulness, would make 
 a young gentleman of virtue and sense capable ot 
 discountenancing the shallow rogues, that shine 
 among the women. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, I do not doubt but you are a 
 very sagacious person, but you are so great with 
 Tully of late, tliat I fear you will contemn these 
 things as matters of no consequence: but believe 
 me, Sir, they are of the highest importance to 
 human life; and if you can do anything toward 
 opening fair eyes, you will lay an obligation upon 
 all your cotemporaries who are fathers, hus¬ 
 bands, or brothers to females. 
 
 “Your most affectionate, humble servant, 
 
 T. “Simon Honeycomb.” 
 
 Mo. 155.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 28, 1711. 
 
 -Ilae nugre seria ducunt 
 
 In mala- Hon., Ars. Poet., y, 451. 
 
 These things which now seem frivolous and slight, 
 
 Will prove of serious consequence.—R oscommon. 
 
 I have more than once taken notice of an inde¬ 
 cent license taken in discourse, wherein the con¬ 
 versation on one part is involuntary, and the 
 effect of some necessary circumstance. This hap¬ 
 pens in traveling together in the same hired coach, 
 sitting near each other in any public assembly, or 
 the like. I have, upon making observations of 
 this sort, received innumerable messages from 
 that part of the fair sex whose lot in life it is to 
 be of any trade or public way of life. They are 
 all, to a woman, urgent with me to lay before the 
 world the unhappy circumstances they are under, 
 from the unreasonable liberty which is taken in 
 their presence, to talk on what subject is thought 
 fit by every coxcomb who wants understanding or 
 breeding. One or two of these complaints I shall 
 set down. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I keep a coffee-house, and am one of those 
 whom you have thought fit to mention as an Idol 
 some time ago. I suffered a good deal of raillery 
 upon that occasion; but shall heartily forgive you, 
 who are the cause of it, if you will do me justice 
 in another point. What I ask of you is, to ac¬ 
 quaint my customers (who are otherwise very 
 good ones) that I am unavoidably hasped in my 
 bar and cannot help hearing the improper dis¬ 
 
 courses they are pleased to entertain me with. 
 They strive who shall say the most immodest 
 things in my hearing. At the same time half a 
 dozen of them loll at the bar staring just in my 
 face, ready to interpret my looks and gestures ac¬ 
 cording to their own imaginations. In this pas¬ 
 sive condition I know not where to cast my eyes, 
 place my hands, or what to employ myself in. 
 But this confusion is to be a jest, and I hear them 
 say in the end, with an insipid air of mirth and 
 subtlety, ‘Let her alone; she knows as well as we, 
 for all she looks so/ Good Mr. Spectator, per¬ 
 suade gentlemen that it is out of all decency. Say 
 it is possible a woman may be modest and yet 
 keep a public-house. Be pleased to argue, that in 
 truth the affront is the more unpardonable because 
 I am obliged to suffer it, and cannot fly from it. 
 
 I do assure you, Sir, the cheerfulness of life which 
 would arise from the honest gain I have, is utter¬ 
 ly lost on me from the endless, flat, impertinent 
 pleasantries which I hear from morning to night. 
 In a word, it is too much for me to bear; and I de¬ 
 sire you to acquaint them, that I will keep pen 
 and ink at the bar, and write down all they say to 
 me, and send it to you for the press. It is pos¬ 
 sible when they see how empty what they speak, 
 without the advantage of an impudent counte¬ 
 nance and gesture, will appear, they may come to 
 some sense of themselves ,and the insults they are 
 guilty of toward me.** 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 “The Idol.” 
 
 This representation is so just, that it is hard to 
 speak of it without an indignation which per¬ 
 haps would appear too elevated to such as can be 
 guilty of this inhuman treatment, where they see 
 they affront a modest, plain, and ingenuous be¬ 
 havior. This correspondent is not the only suf¬ 
 ferer in this kind, for I have long letters both 
 from the Royal and Hew Exchange on the same 
 subject. They tell me that a young fop cannot 
 buy a pair of gloves, but he is at the same time 
 straining at some ingenious ribaldry to say to the 
 young woman who helps them on. It is no small 
 addition to the calamity that the rogues buy as 
 hard as the plainest and modestest customers they 
 have; beside which, they loll upon their counters 
 half an hour longer than they need, to drive away 
 other customers, who are to share their imperti¬ 
 nences with the milliner, or go to another shop. 
 Letters from ’Change-alley are full of the same 
 evil; and the girls tell me, except I can chase some 
 eminent merchants from their shops they shall in 
 a short time fail. It is very unaccountable, that 
 men can have so little deference to all mankind 
 who pass by them, as to bear being seen toying 
 by twos and threes at a time, with no other pur¬ 
 pose but to appear gay enough to keep up a light 
 conversation or common-place jests, to the injury 
 of her whose credit is certainly hurt by it, though 
 their own may be strong enough to bear it. When 
 we come to have exact accounts of these conver¬ 
 sations, it is not to be doubted but that their dis¬ 
 courses will raise the usual style of buying and 
 selling. Instead of the plain downright lying, 
 and asking and bidding so unequally to what they 
 will really give and take, we may hope to have 
 from these fine folks an exchange of compliments. 
 There must certainly be a great deal of pleasant 
 difference between the commerce of lovers, and 
 that of all other dealers, who are in a kind, ad¬ 
 versaries. A sealed bond, or a bank-note, would 
 be a pretty gallantry to convey unseen into the 
 hands of one whom a director is charmed with; 
 otherwise the city-loiterers are still more unreason¬ 
 able than those at the other end of the town. At 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 the New Exchange they are eloquent for want of 
 cash, but in the citv they ought with cash to sup¬ 
 ply their want of eloquence. 
 
 If one mi "lit be serious on this prevailing folly, 
 one might observe that it is a melancholy thing’ 
 when the world is mercenary even to the buying 
 and selling our very persons; that young womeif, 
 though they have never so great attractions from 
 nature, are never the nearer being happily dispos¬ 
 ed of in marriage; I say, it is very hard under 
 this necessity, it shall not be possible for them to 
 go into a way of trade for their maintenance, but 
 their very excellencies and personal perfections 
 shall be a disadvantage to them, and subject them 
 to be treated as if they stood there to sell their 
 persons to prostitution. There cannot be a more 
 melancholy circumstance to one who has made 
 any observation in the world, than one of those 
 erring creatures exposed to bankruptcy. When 
 that happens, none of those toying fools will do 
 any more *han any other man they meet, to pre¬ 
 serve her from infamy, insult, and distemper. A 
 woman is naturally more helpless than the other 
 sex; and a man of honor and sense should have 
 this in his view in all manner of commerce with 
 her. Were this well weighed, inconsideration, 
 ribaldry, and nonsense, would not be more natural 
 to entertain women with, than men; and it would 
 be as much impertinence to go into a shop of one of 
 these young women without buying, as into that 
 of any other trader. I shall end this speculation 
 with a letter I have received from a pretty milliner 
 in the city. 
 
 207 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have read your account of beauties, and was 
 not a little surprised to find no character of 
 myself in it. I do assure you I have little else to 
 do but to give audience, as I am such. Here are 
 merchants of no small consideration who call in 
 as certainly as they go to ’ Change, to say some¬ 
 thing of my roguish eye. And here is one who 
 makes me once or twice a week tumble over all 
 my goods, and then owns it was only gallantry 
 to see me act with these pretty hands": then lays 
 out three-pence in a little ribbon for his wrist- 
 bandstand thinks he is a man of great vivacity. 
 There is an ugly thing not far off me, whose shop 
 is frequented only by people of business, that is 
 all day long as busy as possible. Must I, that 
 am a beauty, be treated with for nothing but my 
 beauty ? Be pleased to assign rates to my kind 
 glances, or make all pay who come to see me, or 
 I shall be undone by ray admirers for want of 
 customers. Albacinda, Eudosia, and all the rest, 
 would be used just as we are, if they were in our 
 condition ; therefore pray consider the distress 
 of us the lower order of beauties, and I shall be 
 “ Your obliged, humble servant.”—T. 
 
 No. 156.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 29, 1711. 
 
 -Sed tu simul obligasti 
 
 Perfidum votis caput, enitescis 
 
 Pulchrior multo.— IIor. 2 Od. viii, 5. 
 
 -But thou, 
 
 When once thou hast broke some tender vow. 
 
 All peijur d, dost more charming growl 
 
 I no not think anything could make a plea¬ 
 santer entertainment, than the history of the 
 reigning favorites among the women from time 
 to time about this town. In such an account 
 we ought to have a faithful confession of each 
 lady for what she liked such and such a man, and 
 he ought to tell us by what particular action 
 or dress he believed he should be most successful. 
 As for my part, I have always made as easy a 
 
 judgment when a man dresses for the ladies, .as 
 when he is equipped for hunting or coursing: — 
 the woman’s man is a person in his air and be¬ 
 havior quite different from the rest of our 
 species ; his garb is more loose and negligent, his 
 manner more soft and indolent; that is to say, in 
 both these cases there is an apparent endeavor to 
 appear unconcerned and careless. In catching 
 buds the fowlers have a method of imitating 
 their voices to bring them to the snare ; and your 
 women’s men have always a similitude of the 
 creatures they hope to betray, in their own con¬ 
 versation. A woman’s man is very knowing in 
 all that passes from one family to another, °has 
 pretty little officiousnesses, is not at a loss what is 
 good for a cold, and it is not amiss if he has a 
 bottle of spirits in his pocket in case of any 
 sudden indisposition. 
 
 Curiosity having been my prevailing passion, 
 and indeed the sole entertainment of my life, I 
 have sometimes made it my business to examine' 
 the course of intrigues as well as the manners 
 and accomplishments of such as have been most 
 successful that way. In all my observation, I 
 never knew a man of good understanding a gene¬ 
 ral favorite ; some singularity in his behavior, 
 some whim in his way of life, and what would 
 have made him ridiculous among the men, has 
 recommended him to the other sex. I should 
 be very sorry to offend a people so fortunate as 
 those of whom I am speaking ; but let any one 
 look over the old beaux, and he will find the man 
 of success was remarkable for quarreling imper¬ 
 tinently for their sakes, for dressing unlike the 
 rest of the world, or passing his days in an in¬ 
 sipid assiduity about the fair sex to gain the 
 figure he had made among them. Add to this, 
 that he must have’ the reputation of being well 
 with other women, to please any one woman of 
 gallantry; for you are to know, that there is 
 mighty ambition among the lighter part of the 
 sex, to gain slaves from the dominion of others. 
 My friend Will Honeycomb says it was a com¬ 
 mon bite with him, to lay suspicions that he was 
 'avored by a lady’s enemy, (that is, some rival 
 Deauty,) to be well with herself. A little spite is 
 natural to a great beauty : and it is ordinary to 
 snap up a disagreeable fellow lest another should 
 have him. That impudent toad Bareface fares 
 well among all the ladies he converses with, for 
 no other reason in the world but that he has the 
 skill to keep them from explanation with one 
 another. Did they know there is' not one who 
 likes him in her heart, each would declare her 
 scorn of him the next moment; but he is well 
 received by them because it is the fashion, and 
 opposition to each other brings them insensibly 
 into an imitation of each other. What adds to 
 him the greatest grace, is, that the pleasant thief, 
 as they call him, is the most inconstant creature 
 living, has a most wonderful deal of wit and 
 humor, and never wants something to say ; be¬ 
 side all which, he has a most spiteful, dangerous 
 tongue if you should provoke him. 
 
 To make a woman’s man, he must not be a man 
 of sense, or a fool; the business is to entertain, 
 and it is much better to have a faculty of arguing, 
 than a capacity of judging right. But the plea¬ 
 santest of all the women’s equipage are your 
 regular visitants ; these are volunteers in theii 
 service, without hopes of pay or preferment. It 
 is enough that they can lead out from a pub¬ 
 lic place, they are admitted on a public day, 
 and can be allowed to pass away part of that 
 heavy load, their time, in the company of the 
 fair. But commend me above all others to those 
 who are known for your ruiners of ladies • these 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 208 
 
 are the choicest spirits which our age produces. 
 We have several of these irresistible gentlemen 
 among us when the company is in town. These 
 fellows are accomplished with the knowledge of 
 the ordinary occurrences about court and town, 
 have that sort of good breeding which is exclu¬ 
 sive of all morality, and consists only in being 
 publicly decent, privately dissolute. 
 
 It is wonderful how far a fond opinion of her¬ 
 self can carry a woman, to make her have the 
 least regard to a professed known woman’s man ; 
 but as scarce one of all the women who are in 
 the tour of gallantries ever hears anything of what 
 is the common sense of sober minds, but are en¬ 
 tertained with a continual round of flatteries, they 
 cannot be mistresses of themselves enough to 
 make arguments for their own conduct from the 
 behavior of these men to others. It is so far oth¬ 
 erwise, that a general fame for falsehood in this 
 kind, is a recommendation ; and the. coxcomb, 
 loaded with the favors of many others, is received 
 like a victor that disdains his trophies, to be a 
 victim to the present charmer. 
 
 If you see a man more full of gesture than or¬ 
 dinary in a public assembly, if loud upon no oc¬ 
 casion, if negligent of the company round him, 
 and yet laying wait for destroying by that negli¬ 
 gence, you may take it for granted that he has ru¬ 
 ined many a fair one. The woman’s man express¬ 
 es himself wholly in that motion which we call 
 strutting. An elevated chest, a pinched hat, a 
 measurable step, and a sly surveying eye, are the 
 marks of him. How and then you see a gentle¬ 
 man with all these accomplishments : but, alas, 
 any one of them is enough to undo thousands : 
 when a gentleman with such perfections adds to 
 it suitable learning, there should be public warn¬ 
 ing of his residence in town, that we may remove 
 our wives and daughters. It happens sometimes 
 that such a tine man has read all the miscellany 
 poems, a few of our comedies, and has the trans¬ 
 lation of Ovid’s Epistles by heart. “ Oh if it were 
 possible that such a one could be as true as he is 
 charming ; but that is too much, the women will 
 share such a dear false man : a little gallantry to 
 hear him talk one would indulge one’s self in, let 
 him reckon the sticks of one’s fan, say something 
 of the Cupids in it; and then call one so many 
 soft names which a man of his learning has at his 
 fingers’ ends. There sure is some excuse for 
 frailty, when attacked by such force against a 
 weak woman.” Such is the soliloquy of many a 
 lady one might name, at the sight of one of those 
 who makes it no iniquity to go on from day to 
 day in the sin of woman-slaughter.. 
 
 It is certain that people are got into a way of 
 affectation, with a manner of overlooking the most 
 solid virtues, and admiring the most trivial excel¬ 
 lencies. The woman is so far from expecting to 
 be contemned for being a very injudicious silly 
 animal, that while she can preserve her features 
 and her mien, she knows she is still the object of 
 desire ; and there is a sort of secret ambition, 
 from reading frivolous books, and keeping as fri¬ 
 volous company, each side to be amiable in per¬ 
 fection, and arrive at the characters of the Dear 
 Deceiver and the Perjured Fair.—T. 
 
 No. 157.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 30, 1711. 
 
 -Genius, natale comes qui temperat astrum, 
 
 Katuras Deus human® mortalis in unum 
 
 Quodque caput- Hor. 2 Ep. ii, 187. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 -That directing pow’r, 
 
 Who forms the genius in the natal hour: 
 
 That God of nature, who, within us still, 
 
 Inclines our action, not constrains our will.—P ope. 
 
 I am very much at a loss to express by any 
 word that occurs to me in our language, that 
 which is understood by indoles in Latin. The na¬ 
 tural disposition to any particular art, science, pro¬ 
 fession, or trade, is very much to be consulted in 
 the care of youth, and studied by men for their 
 own conduct when they form to themselves any 
 scheme of life. It is wonderfully hard, indeed, for 
 a man to judge of his own capacity impartially. 
 That may look great to me which may appear 
 little to another ; and I may be carried by fond¬ 
 ness toward myself so far, as to attempt things too 
 high for my talents and accomplishments. But it 
 is not, methinks,so very difficult a matter to make 
 a judgment of the abilities of others, especially 
 of those who are in their infancy. My common¬ 
 place book directs me on this occasion to mention 
 the dawning of greatness in Alexander, who being 
 asked in his youth to contend for a prize in the 
 Olympic games, answered he would if he had 
 kings to run against him. Cassius, who was one 
 of the conspirators against Cfesar, gave as great a 
 proof of his temper, when in his childhood he 
 struck a play-fellow, the son of Sylla, for saying 
 his father was master of the Roman people. Scipio 
 is reported to have answered, when some flatterers 
 at supper were asking him what the Romans 
 should do for a general after his death, “Take 
 Marius.” Marius was then a very boy, and had 
 given no instances of his valor ; but it was visible 
 to Scipio, from the manners of the youth, that he 
 had a soul for the attempt and execution of great 
 undertakings. I must confess I have very often 
 with much sorrow, bewailed the misfortune of the 
 children of Great Britain, when I consider the ig¬ 
 norance and undiscerning of the generality of 
 schoolmasters. The boasted liberty we talk of, is 
 but a mean reward for the long servitude, the many 
 heart-aches and terrors, to which our childhood is 
 exposed in going through a grammar-school. 
 Many of these stupid tyrants exercise their cruel¬ 
 ty without any manner of distinction of the ca¬ 
 pacities of children, or the intention of parents in 
 their behalf. There are many excellent tempers 
 which are worthy to be nourished and cultivated 
 with all possible diligence and care, that were 
 never designed to be acquainted with Aristotle, 
 Tully, or Virgil ; and there are as many who have 
 capacities for understanding every word those 
 great persons have written, and yet were not bom to 
 have any relish of their writings. For want of 
 this common and obvious discerning in those who 
 have the care of youth, we have so many hundred 
 unaccountable creatures every age whipped up 
 into great scholars, that are forever near a right 
 understanding, and will never arrive at it. These 
 are the scandal of letters, and these are generally 
 the men who are to teach others. The sense of 
 shame and honor is enough to keep the world it¬ 
 self in order without corporal punishment, much 
 more to train the minds of uncorrupted and inno¬ 
 cent children. It happens, I doubt not, more 
 than once in a year, that a lad is chastised for a 
 blockhead, when it is good apprehension that 
 makes him incapable of knowing what his teach¬ 
 er means. A brisk imagination very often may 
 suggest an error, which a,lad could not have fallen 
 into, if he had been as heavy in conjecturing as 
 
THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 his master in explaining. But there is no mercy 
 even toward a wrong interpretation of his mean- 
 mg ; tlie sufferings of the scholar’s body are to 
 rectify the mistakes of his mind. 
 
 I am confident that no boy, who will not be 
 allured to letters without blows, will ever be 
 brought to anything with them. A great or £ood 
 mind must necessarily be the worse for such indig'- 
 mties; and it is a sad change, to lose of its virtde 
 for the improvement of its knowledge. No one 
 who has gone through what they call a great 
 school, but must remember to have seen children 
 ot excellent and ingenuous natures (as has after¬ 
 ward appeared in their manhood): I say no man 
 has passed through this way of education but 
 must nave seen an ingenuous creature, expiring 
 With shame with pale looks, beseeching sorrow, 
 and silent tears, throw up its honest eyes, and 
 kneel on its tender knees to an inexorable block¬ 
 head to be forgiven the false quantity of a word 
 m making a Latin verse. The child is punished 
 and the next day he commits a like crime, and so 
 a third with the same consequence. I would fain 
 ask any reasonable man, whether this lad, in the 
 simplicity of his native innocence, full of shame 
 and capable of any impression from that grace of 
 soul, was not fitter for any purpose in this life 
 than after that spark of virtue is extinguished in 
 him, though he is able to write twenty verses in 
 an evening. 
 
 Seneca says, after his exalted way of talking 
 As the immortal gods never learnt any virtue 
 though they are indued with all that is good • so 
 there are some men who have so natural a propen¬ 
 sity to what they should follow, that they learn it 
 almost as soon as they hear it.” Plants and vege- 
 taoles are cultivated into the production of finer 
 traits than they would yield without that care • 
 and yet we cannot entertain hopes of producing a 
 tender, conscious spirit into acts of virtue, with¬ 
 out the same methods as are used to cut timber 
 or give new shape to a piece of stone. 
 
 It is wholly to this dreadful practice, that we 
 may attribute a certain hardiness and ferocity 
 which some men, though liberally educated, carry 
 about them in all their behavior. To be bred like 
 a gentleman, and punished like a malefactor, must 
 as we see it does, produce that illiberal sauciness 
 which we see sometimes in men of letters. 
 
 The Spartan boy who suffered the fox (which 
 he had stolen and hid under his coat) to eat into 
 his bowels, I dare say had not half the wit or pet¬ 
 ulance which we learn at great schools among us : 
 but the glorious sense of honor, or rather fear of 
 shame, which he demonstrated in that action, was 
 worth all the learning in the world without it. 
 
 It is methinks, a very melancholy considera¬ 
 tion that a little negligence can spoil us, but 
 great industry is necessary to improve us; the 
 most excellent natures are soon depreciated, but 
 
 ZnA T P vf-f are m OI l g 1 before the y are exalted into 
 g od habits. To help this by punishments, is 
 
 the same thing as killing a man to cure him of a 
 
 in S iw Per ’ ^ hen he COmes to sufFer punishment 
 m that one circumstance, he is brought below the 
 
 existence of a rational creature, and is in the state 
 
 J> rate to* raove s only by the admonition of 
 thi? n . But “ n ce this custom of educating by 
 the lash is suffered by the gentry of Great Britain, 
 
 I would prevail only that honest heavy lads may 
 be dismissed from slavery sooner than‘'they are at 
 present and not whipped on to their fourteenth or 
 fifteenth year, whether they expect any progress 
 fiom them or not. Let the child’s capacity be 
 forthwith examined, and he sent to some mechanic 
 way of life, without respect to his birth, if nature 
 designed him for nothing higher : let him go be- 
 14 ° 
 
 209 
 
 f°i e he has innocently suffered, and is debased into 
 a dereliction of mind for being what it is no guilt 
 to be, a plain man. I would not here be supposed 
 to have said, that our learned men of either robe 
 who have been whipped at school, are not still 
 men of noble and liberal minds; but I am sure 
 they would have been much more so than they 
 are, had they never suffered that infamy. 
 
 But though there is so little care, as I have ob¬ 
 served, taken, or observation made of the natural 
 strain of men, it is no small comfort to me, as a 
 spectator, that there is any right value set upon 
 the bona indoles of other animals ; as appears by 
 the following advertisement handed about the 
 county of Lincoln, and subscribed by Enos Tho¬ 
 mas, a person whom I have not the honor to know 
 
 but suppose to be profoundly learned in horse¬ 
 flesh:— 
 
 “A chesnut horse called Caesar, bred by James 
 Darcy, Esquire, at Sedbury, near Richmond, in 
 the county of York ; his grandam was his old 
 royal mare, and got by Blunderbuss, which was 
 got by Helmsley Turk, and he got by Mr. Cou- 
 rants Arabian, which got Mr. Minshul’s Jew’s- 
 I rump. Mr. Caesar sold him to a nobleman (com¬ 
 ing five years old, when he had but one sweat) for 
 three hundred guineas. A guinea a leap and trial, 
 and a shilling the man. “Enos Thomas.” 
 
 No. 158.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 31, 1711. 
 
 -Nos hasc novimus esse nihil.— Martial, xiii, 2. 
 
 We know these things to he mere trifles. 
 
 Out of a firm regard to impartiality, I print these 
 letters, let them make for me or not. 
 
 ‘Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have observed through the whole course of 
 your rhapsodies (as, you once very well called 
 them) you are very industrious to overthrow all 
 that many your superiors, who have gone before 
 you, have made their rule of writing. I am now 
 between fifty and sixty, and had the honor to be 
 well with the first men of taste and gallantry in 
 the joyous reign of Charles the Second. We then 
 had, I humbly presume, as good understandings 
 among us as any now can pretend to. As for 
 yourself, Mr. Spectator, you seem with the utmost 
 arrogance to undermine the very fundamentals 
 upon which we conducted ourselves. It is mon¬ 
 strous to set up for a man of wit, and yet deny that 
 honor in a woman is anything else but peevish¬ 
 ness, that inclination is “ not”* the best rule of 
 life, or virtue and vice anything else but health 
 and disease. We had no more to do but to put a 
 lady into a good humor, and all we could wish 
 followed of course. Then, again, your Tully, and 
 your discourses of another life, are the very bane 
 of mirth and good humor. Prithee do not value 
 thyself on thy reason at that exorbitant rate, and 
 the dignity of human nature ; take my word for 
 it, a setting-dog has as good reason as any man 
 in England. Had you (as by your diurnals one 
 would think you do) set up for being in vogue in 
 town, you should have fallen in with the bent of 
 passion and appetite ; your songs had then been 
 in every pretty mouth in England, and your little 
 distiches had been the maxims of the fair and the 
 witty to walk by : but, alas. Sir, what can you 
 hope for from entertaining people with what must 
 needs make them like themselves worse than they 
 did before they read you ? Had you made it your 
 
 * Spect. in folio. Altered in the 8vo. of 1712, when “not” 
 was left out. 
 
210 THE SPEC 
 
 business to describe Corinna charming, though in¬ 
 constant ; to find something in human nature 
 itself to make Zoilus excuse himself for being 
 fond of her; and to make every man in good 
 commerce with his own reflections, you had done 
 something worthy our applause ; but indeed. Sir, 
 we shall not commend you for disapproving us. I 
 have a great deal more to say to you, but I shall 
 sum it all up in this one remark. In short. Sir, 
 you do not write like a gentleman. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble servant.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The other day as we were several of us at a 
 tea-table, and according to custom and your own 
 advice had the Spectator read among us. It was 
 that paper wherein you are pleased to treat with 
 great freedom that character which you call a wo¬ 
 man’s man. We gave up all the kinds you have 
 mentioned, except those who, you say, are our 
 constant visitants. I was upon the occasion com¬ 
 missioned by the company to write to you and tell 
 you, ‘ that we shall not part with the men we 
 have at present, until the men of sense think fit 
 to relieve them, and give us their company in their 
 stead.’ You cannot imagine but that we love to 
 hear reason and good sense better than the ribald¬ 
 ry we are at present entertained with, but we must 
 have company, and among us very inconsiderable 
 is better than none at all. We are made for the 
 cements of society, and came into the world to 
 create relations among mankind; and solitude is 
 an unnatural being to us. If the men of good 
 understanding would forget a little of their seve¬ 
 rity, they would find their account in it; and 
 their wisdom would have a pleasure in it, to which 
 they are now strangers. It is natural among us, 
 when men have a true relish of our company and 
 our value, to say everything with a better grace; 
 and there is without designing it something orna¬ 
 mental in what men utter before women, which is 
 lost or neglected in conversations of men only. 
 Give me leave to tell you, Sir, it would do you no 
 great harm if you yourself came a little more into 
 our company : it would certainly cure you of a 
 certain positive and determining manner in which 
 you talk sometimes. In hopes of your amend¬ 
 ment, 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your gentle reader.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Your professed regard to the fair sex may, per¬ 
 haps, make them value your admonitions when 
 they will not those of other men. I desire you. 
 Sir, to repeat some lectures upon subjects which 
 you have now and then in a cursory manner only 
 'just touched. I would have a Spectator wholly 
 written upon good breeding ; and after you have 
 asserted that time and place are to be very much 
 considered in all our actions, it will be proper to 
 dwell upon behavior at church. On Sunday last, 
 a grave and reverend man preached at our church. 
 There was something particular in his accent, but 
 without any manner of affectation. This particu¬ 
 larity a set of gigglers thought the most necessary 
 thing to be taken notice of in his whole discourse, 
 and made it an occasion of mirth during the whole 
 time of sermon. You should see one of them 
 ready to burst behind a fan, another pointing to a 
 companion in another seat, and a fourth with an 
 arch composure, as if she would if possible stifle 
 her laughter. There were many gentlemen who 
 looked it them steadfastly, but this they took for 
 ogling and admiring them. There was one of 
 the merry ones in particular, that found out but 
 just then that she had but five fingers, for she fell 
 a reckoning the pretty pieces of ivory over and 
 
 TATOR. 
 
 over again, to find herself employment and not 
 laugh out. Would it not be expedient, Mr. Spec¬ 
 tator, that the churchwarden should hold up his 
 wand on these occasions, and keep the decency of 
 the place as a magistrate does the peace in a tu¬ 
 mult elsewhere ? ” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a woman’s man, and read with a very 
 fine lady your paper, wherein you fall upon us 
 whom you envy : what do you think I did ? You 
 must know she was dressing: I read the Spectator 
 to her, and she laughed at the places where she 
 thought I was touched ; I threw away your moral, 
 and taking up her girdle, cried out. 
 
 Give me but what this ribbon bound, 
 
 Take all the rest the “sun”* goes round.f 
 
 “ She smiled, Sir, and said you were a pedant; 
 so say of me what you please, read Seneca and 
 quote him against me if you think fit, 
 
 T. “I am. Sir, your humble servant.” 
 
 No. 159.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1711. 
 
 -Omnem, quae nunc obducta tuenti 
 
 Mortales hebetat visus tibi, et humida eircum 
 Caligat, nubem eripiam- Virg. iEn., ii, 604. 
 
 The cloud, which intercepting the clear light, 
 
 Hangs o’er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight, 
 
 I will remove- 
 
 When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several 
 oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. 
 Among others I met with one entitled, The Visions 
 of Mirza, which I have read over with great plea¬ 
 sure. I intend to give it to the public when I 
 have no other entertainment for them ; and shall 
 begin with the first vision, which I have transla¬ 
 ted word for word as follows : 
 
 “ On the fifth day of the moon, which accord¬ 
 ing to the custom of my forefathers I always keep 
 holy, after having washed myself, and offered up 
 my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills 
 of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in 
 meditation and prayer. As I was here airing my¬ 
 self on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a 
 profound contemplation on the vanity of human 
 fife; and passing from one thought to another, 
 ‘Surely,’ said I, ‘man is but a shadow, and life a 
 dream.’ While I was thus musing, I cast my 
 eyes, toward the summit of a rock that was not 
 far from me, where I discovered one in the habit 
 of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in 
 his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to 
 his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound 
 of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a va¬ 
 riety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, 
 and altogether different from anything I had ever 
 heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly 
 airs that are played to the departed souls of good 
 men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear 
 out the impressions of the last agonies, and quali¬ 
 fy them for the pleasures of that happy place. 
 My heart melted away in secret raptures. 
 
 “ I had been often told that the rock before me 
 was the haunt of genius; and that several had 
 been entertained with music who had passed by 
 it, but never heard that the musician had before 
 made himself visible. When he had raised my 
 thoughts by those transporting airs which he 
 played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, 
 as I looked upon him like one astonished, he 
 beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand 
 directed me to approach the place where he sat. I 
 drew near with that reverence which is due to a 
 
 * World. 
 
 f From Waller’s verses on a lady’s girdle. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 superior nature ; and as my heart was entirely sub¬ 
 dued by the captivating strains I had heard“ I fell 
 down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled 
 upon me with a look of compassion and affability 
 that familiarized him to my imagination, and at 
 or !f. e ^spelled all the fearg and apprehensions 
 with which I approached him. He lifted me from 
 the ground and taking me by the hand, ‘ Mirza,’ 
 said lie, ‘ I have heard thee in thy soliloquies : 
 follow me. ^ 
 
 ‘‘He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the 
 rock, and placing me on the top of it—‘ Cast thy 
 eyes eastward,’ said he, ‘ and tell me what thou 
 seest. ‘ 1 see,’ said I, ‘ a huge valley, and a pro¬ 
 digious tide of water rolling through it.’—‘ The 
 valley that thou seest.’ said be ‘ is tbe Vnlo ^e 
 
 211 
 
 valley that thou seest,’said he, ‘ is~ the Yale of 
 Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is 
 part of the great tide of eternity.’—‘ What is the 
 reason, said I, ‘ that the tide I see rises out of a 
 thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a 
 thick mist at the other ?’—‘ What thou seest,’ said 
 he, ‘ is that portion of eternity which is called 
 time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from 
 the bevinnino- of the world to itc — > 
 
 the beginning of the world to its consummation. 
 Examine now,’ said he, ‘ this sea that is bounded 
 
 _' ; —> 13 uuuuueu 
 
 with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou 
 discoverest in it.’—‘ I see a bridge,’ said I, ‘stand- 
 mg in the midst of the tide.’—‘ The bridge thou 
 seest, said he, ‘is human ljfe; consider it atten¬ 
 tively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I 
 found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire 
 arches, with several broken arches, which, added 
 to those that were entire, made up the number 
 about a hundred. As I was counting the arches, 
 tie genius told me that this bridge consisted at 
 hrst ot a thousand arches : but that a great flood 
 swept awny the rest, and left the bridge in the ru¬ 
 inous conaition I now beheld it. ‘ Rut tell me 
 
 farther,^ said he, ‘ w r hat thou discoverest on it.’_‘I 
 
 f 66 mui *^udes people passing over it,’ said I, 
 ‘and a black cloud hanging on each end of it ’ 
 As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the 
 passengers dropping through the bridge into the 
 great tide that flowed underneath it: and, upon 
 farther examination, perceived there were innu¬ 
 merable trap-doors that lay concealed in the 
 bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, 
 but they fell through them into the tide, and imme¬ 
 diately disappeared. These hidden pitfalls were 
 set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so 
 that throngs of people no sooner broke through 
 the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They 
 grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied 
 and lay closer together toward the end of the 
 arches that were entire. 
 
 “There were indeed some persons, but their 
 number was very small, that continued a kind of 
 hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell 
 through one after another, being quite tired and 
 spent with so long a walk. 
 
 “I passed some time in the contemplation of this 
 wondeiful structure, and the great variety of ob- 
 jects which it presented. My heart was filled 
 w it l a deep melancholy to see several dropping 
 unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, 
 and catching at everything that stood by them to 
 save themselves. Some were looking up toward 
 hea\ en in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst 
 of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight 
 Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles 
 that glittered in their eyes and danced before them- 
 but often when they thought themselves within 
 the reach of them, their footing failed, and down 
 they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observ¬ 
 ed some with scimitars in their hands, and others 
 with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge 
 thrusting several persons on trap-aoors which aid 
 
 not seem to lie in their way, and which they might 
 them eSCa l )C( ^ * lfu ^ th <‘y not been thus forced upon 
 
 “ I he genius seeing me indulge myself on this 
 melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long 
 enough upon it. ‘ Take thine eyes off the bridge/ 
 said he, ‘and tell me if thou yet seest anything 
 hou dost not comprehend.’ Upon looking up, 
 What mean,’ said 1 ‘those great flights ofU 
 that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and 
 settling upon it from time to time? 1 see vultures 
 harpms ravens, cormorants, and among many 
 other feathered creatures several little winged 
 bovs, that perch in great numbers upon the middle 
 arches. —‘These,’ said the genius, are ‘ Envy, 
 Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like 
 cares and passions that infest human life.’ 
 
 “I here fetched a deep sigh. ‘Alas,’ said I, 
 man was made in vain! how is he given away 
 to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swal¬ 
 lowed up in death!’ The genius, being moved 
 with compassion toward me, bid me quit so un¬ 
 comfortable a prospect. ‘Look no more,’ said he 
 ‘on man in the first stage of his existence, in his 
 setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that 
 thick mist into which the tide bears the several 
 generations of mortals that fall into it.’ I directed 
 my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the 
 good genius strengthened it with any supernatu¬ 
 ral force, or dissipated part of the mist that was 
 before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the 
 valley opening at the farther end, and spreading 
 torth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock 
 of adamant running through the midst of it, and 
 dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still 
 rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could 
 discover nothing in it: but the other appeared to 
 me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands 
 that were covered with fruits and flowers, and 
 interwoven with a thousand little shining seas 
 that ran among them. I could see persons dressed 
 m glorious habits with garlands upon their heads 
 passing among the trees, lying down by the sides 
 ot fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and 
 could hear a confused harmony of singing-birds, ' 
 falling waters, human voices, and musical instru¬ 
 ments Gladness grew in me upon the discovery 
 of so delightful a scene. I wished for the-wings 
 of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy 
 seats: but the genius told me there was no pas¬ 
 sage to them, except through the gates of death 
 that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 
 
 ‘ Ihe islands,’ said he, ‘that lie so fresh and green- 
 before thee, and with which the whole face of the 
 ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are 
 more in number than the sands on the sea-shore • 
 there are myriads of islands behind those which- 
 thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thine 
 eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. 
 These are the mansions of good men after death 
 who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue 
 in which they excelled, are distributed among 
 these several islands; which abound with plea¬ 
 sures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to 
 the relishes and perfections of those who are 
 settled in them ; every island is a paradise accom¬ 
 modated to its respective inhabitants. Are not 
 these, 0 Mirza, habitations worth contending for? 
 Does life appear miserable, that gives thee oppor¬ 
 tunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be 
 feared, that will convey thee to so happy an exist¬ 
 ence ? Think not man was made in vain, who has 
 such an eternity reserved for him.’ I gazed with 
 inexpressible pleasure on these hajipy islands. 
 
 At length, said I, show me now, I beseech thee, 
 the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds 
 which cover the ocean on the other side of the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 212 
 
 rock of adamant. The genius making me no an¬ 
 swer, I turned about to address myself to him a 
 second time, but I found that he had left me. I 
 then turned again to the vision which I had been 
 so long contemplating; but instead of the rolling 
 tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I 
 saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, 
 with oxen, sheep, and camels, grazing upon the 
 
 sides of it.” G - 
 
 The End of the First Vision of Mirza. 
 
 No. 160.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1711. 
 
 -Cui mens divinior, atque os 
 
 Maena sonaturum des nomini3 hujus honorem. 
 
 Hor. 1 Sat. iv, 43. 
 
 On bim confer the Poet’s sacred name, 
 
 Whose lofty voice proclaims the heavenly flame. 
 
 There is no character more frequently given to 
 a writer, than that of being a genius. I have 
 heard many a little sonnetteer called a fine genius. 
 There is not a heroic scribbler in the nation, that 
 has not his admirers who think him a great 
 genius; and as for your smatterers in tragedy, 
 there is scarce a man among them who is not cried 
 up by one or other for a prodigious genius. 
 
 My design in this paper is to consider what is 
 properly a great genius, and throw some thoughts 
 together on so uncommon a subject. 
 
 Among great geniuses, those lew draw the admi¬ 
 ration of all the world upon them, and stand up 
 as the prodigies of mankind, who by the mere 
 strength of natural parts, and without any assist¬ 
 ance of art or learning, have produced works that 
 were the delight of their own times, and the won¬ 
 der of posterity. There appears something nobly 
 wild and extravagant in these great natural 
 geniuses, that is infinitely more beautiful than all 
 turn and polishing of what the French call a bel 
 esprit, by which they would express a genius re¬ 
 fined by conversation, reflection, and the reading 
 of the most polite authors. The greatest genius 
 which runs through the arts and sciences, takes a 
 kind of tincture from them, and falls unavoidably 
 into imitation. 
 
 Many of these great natural geniuses that were 
 never disciplined and broken by rules of art, are 
 to be found among the ancients, and in particular 
 among those of the more eastern parts of the 
 world. Homer has innumerable flights that Virgi. 
 was not able to reach; and in the Old Testament 
 we find several passages more elevated and sublime 
 than any in Homer. At the same time that we 
 allow a greater and more daring genius to the an¬ 
 cients, we must own that the greatest of them very 
 much failed in, or, if you will, that they were 
 much above, the nicety and correctness of the 
 moderns. In their similitudes and allusions, pro¬ 
 vided there was a likeness, they did not much 
 trouble themselves about the decency of the com¬ 
 parison : thus Solomon resembles the nose of his 
 beloved to the tower of Lebanon, which looketh 
 toward Damascus ; as the coming of a thief in the 
 night, is a similitude of the same kind in the New 
 Testament. It would be endless to make collec¬ 
 tions of this nature; Homer illustrates one of his 
 heroes encompassed with the enemy, by an ass in 
 a field of corn that has his sides belabored by all 
 the boys of the village without stirring a foot for 
 it; and another of them tossing to and fro in his 
 bed and burning with resentment, to a piece of 
 flesh broiled on the coals. This particular failure 
 in the ancients opens a large field of raillery to 
 the little wits, who can laugh at an indecency, but 
 not relish the sublime in these sorts of writing. 
 The present emperor of Persia, conformably to 
 
 this eastern way of thinking, amidst a great many 
 pompous titles, denominates himself “the sun of 
 glory,” and “the nutmeg of delight.” In short, 
 to cut off all caviling against the ancients, and 
 particularly those of the warmer climates, who 
 bad most heat and life in their imaginations, we 
 are to consider that the rule of observing what the 
 French call the bienstance in an allusion, has been 
 found out of later years, and in the colder regions 
 of the world; where we could make some amends 
 for our want of force and spirit, by a scrupulous 
 nicety and exactness in our compositions. Our 
 countryman, Shakspeare, was a remarkable in¬ 
 stance of this first kind of great geniuses.. 
 
 I cannot quit this head without observing that 
 Pindar was a great genius of the first class, who 
 was hurried on by a natural fire and impetuosity 
 to vast conceptions of things and noble sallies of 
 imagination. At the same time, can anything be 
 more ridiculous than for men of a sober and mode¬ 
 rate fancy to imitate this poet’s way of wiiting, 
 in those monstrous compositions which go among 
 us under the name of Pindarics? When I see 
 people copying works, which, as Horace has repre¬ 
 sented them, are singular in their kind, and inimi¬ 
 table ; when I see men following irregularities by 
 rule, and by the little tricks of art straining after 
 the most unbounded flights of nature, I cannot 
 but apply to them that passage in Terence : 
 
 -Incerta haec si tu postules 
 
 Ratione certa facere, nihilo plus agas, 
 
 Quam si des operam, ut cum ratione insanias. 
 
 Etjn., act 1, sc. 1. 
 
 You may as well pretend to be mad and in your senses at 
 the same time, as to think of reducing these uncertain things 
 to any certainty by reason. 
 
 In short, a modern Pindaric writer, compared 
 with Pindar, is like a sister among the Camisars* 
 compared with Virgil’s Sibyl: there is the distor¬ 
 tion, grimace, and outward figure, but nothing of 
 that divine impulse which raises the mind above 
 itself, and makes the sounds more than human.. 
 
 There is another kind of great geniuses which 
 I shall place in a second class, not as I think 
 them inferior to the first, but only for distinction s 
 sake, as they are of a different kind. The second 
 class of great geniuses are those that have formed 
 themselves by rules, and submitted the greatness 
 of their natural talents to the corrections and re¬ 
 straints of art. Such among the Greeks were 
 Plato and Aristotle; among the Romans, Virgil 
 and Tully; among the English, Milton and Sir 
 Francis Bacon. 
 
 The genius in both these classes of authors may 
 be equally great, but shows itself after a different 
 manner. In the first, it is like a rich soil in a 
 happy climate, that produces a whole wilderness 
 of noble plants rising in a thousand beautiful 
 landscapes without any certain order or regularity. 
 In the other it is the same rich soil under the same 
 happy climate, that has been laid out in walks and 
 parterres, and cut into shape and beauty by the 
 skill of the gardener. 
 
 The great danger in the latter kind of geniuses is, 
 lest they cramp their own abilities too much by 
 imitation, and form themselves altogether upon 
 models, without giving the full play to their own 
 
 * More commonly known by the name of the French Pro¬ 
 phets, a set of enthusiasts originally of the Cevennes in 
 France, who came into England about the year 1707, and had 
 at first a considerable number of votaries. A fuller account 
 of the rise and progress of this strange sect may be gained 
 from two pamphlets: one in French, entitled.“Le Theatre 
 sacre de Cevennes, ou Recit de diverses Merveilles nouvelle- 
 ment operees dans cette Partie de la Province de Languedoc. 
 Lond., 1707, 12mo.” The other in English, viz. “A Brayd 
 plucked from the Burning; exemplified in the unparalleled 
 case of Samuel Keimer, etc., London, 1718,12mo.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 natural parts. An imitation of the best authois 
 is not to compare with a good original; and I be¬ 
 lieve we may observe that very few writers make 
 an extraordinary figure in the world, who have not 
 something in their way of thinking or expressing 
 themselves, that is peculiar to them, and entirely 
 their own. 
 
 It is odd, to consider what great geniuses are 
 sometimes thrown away upon trifles. 
 
 “ I once saw a shepherd,” says a famous Italian 
 author, “ who used to divert himself in his soli¬ 
 tudes with tossing up eggs and catching them 
 again without breaking them : in which he had 
 arrived to so great a degree of perfection, that he 
 would keep up four at a time for several minutes 
 together playing in the air, and falling into his 
 hands by turns. I think,” says the author, “ I 
 never saw a greater severity than in the man’s 
 face; for by his wonderful perseverance and appli¬ 
 cation, he had contracted the seriousness and gra¬ 
 vity of a privy-counselor; and I could not but 
 reflect with myself, that the same assiduity and 
 attention, had they been rightly applied, f might’* 
 have made him a greater mathematician than Ar¬ 
 chimedes.” 
 
 No. 161.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 1711. 
 
 Ipse dies agitat festos, fususque per herbain, 
 
 Ignis ubi in medio et socii cratera coronant, 
 
 Te libans, Lenaee, yocat; pecorisque magistris 
 Velocis jaculi certamina ponit in ulmo, 
 
 Corporaque agresti nudat praadura palasstra. 
 
 Hanc olim veteres vitam coluere Sabini, 
 
 Hanc Remus et frater. Sic fortis Etruria crevit, 
 
 Scilicet et rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma. 
 
 Virg. Georg., ii, 527. 
 Himself, in rustic pomp, on holydays, 
 
 To rural pow’rs a just oblation pays; 
 
 And on the green his careless limbs displays: 
 
 The hearth is in the midst: the herdsmen, round 
 The cheerful fire, provoke his health in goblets crown’d. 
 He calls on Bacchus, and propounds the prize, 
 
 The groom his fellow-groom at buts defies, 
 
 And bends his bow, and levels with his eyes: 
 
 Or, stript for wrestling, smears his limbs with oil, 
 
 And watches with a trip his foe to foil. 
 
 Such was the life the frugal Sabines led; 
 
 So Remus and his brother king were bred: 
 
 From whom th’ austere Etrurian virtue rose; 
 
 And this rude life our homely fathers chose; 
 
 Old Rome from such a race deriv’d her birth, 
 
 The seat of empire, and the conquer’d earth.— Dryden. 
 
 I am glad that my late going into the country 
 has increased the number of my correspondents, 
 one of whom sends me the following letter : 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Though you are pleased to retire from us so 
 soon into the city, I hope you will not think the 
 affairs of the country altogether unworthy of your 
 inspection for the future. I had the honor of see- 
 i n g your short face at Sir Roger de Coverley’s, 
 and have ever since thought your person and 
 writings both extraordinary. Had you stayed 
 there a few days longer, you would have seen a 
 country wake, which you know in most parts of 
 England is the eve-feast of the dedication of our 
 churches. I was last week at one of these assem¬ 
 blies which was held in a neighboring parish • 
 w here I found their green covered with a promis¬ 
 cuous multitude of all ages and both sexes, who 
 esteem one another more or less the following part 
 of the year, according as they distinguish them- 
 selves at tliis time. *1 he whole company were in 
 their holiday clothes, and divided into several 
 parties, all of them endeavoring to show them¬ 
 selves in those exercises wherein they excelled 
 and to gain the approbation of the lookers-on. ’ 
 
 “I found a ring of cudgel players, who were 
 
 213 
 
 breaking one another’s heads in order to make 
 some impression on their mistress’ hearts. I ob¬ 
 served a lusty young fellow, who had the misfor¬ 
 tune of a broken pate; but what considerably 
 added to the anguish of the wound, was his over¬ 
 hearing an old man who shook his head, and said, 
 ‘ 1 hat he questioned now if Black Kate would 
 marry him these three years.’ I was diverted 
 from a farther observation of these combatants by 
 a foot-ball match, which was on the other side of 
 the green : where Tom Short behaved himself so 
 well, that most people seemed to agree, ‘ it was im¬ 
 possible that he should remain a bachelor until 
 the next wake.’ Having played many a match 
 myself, I could have looked longer on this sport, 
 had I not observed a country girl, who was posted 
 on an eminence at some distance from me, and was 
 making so many odd grimaces, and writhing and 
 distorting her whole body in so strange a manner, 
 as made me very desirous to know the meaning of 
 it. Upon my coming up to her, I found that she 
 was overlooking a ring of wrestlers, and that her 
 sweetheart, a person of small stature, was con¬ 
 tending with a huge brawny fellow, who twirled 
 him about, and shook the little man so violently, 
 that by a secret sympathy of hearts it produced 
 all those agitations in the person of his mistress, 
 who, I dare say, like Celia in Shakspeare on the 
 same occasion, could have wished herself f invis¬ 
 ible to catch the strong fellow by the leg.’* The 
 squire of the parish treats the whole company 
 every year with a hogshead of ale ; and proposes 
 a beaver hat as a recompense to him who gives most 
 falls. This has raised such a spirit of emulation 
 in the youth of the place, that some of them have 
 rendered themselves very expert at this exercise i 
 and I was often surprised to see a fellow’s heels 
 % U P> by a trip which was given him so smartly 
 that I could scarcely discern it. I found that the 
 old wrestlers seldom entered the ring until some 
 one was grown formidable by having thrown two 
 or three of his opponents ; but kept themselves as 
 it were a reserved body to defend the hat, which 
 is always hung up by the person who gets it in 
 one of the most conspicuous parts of the house, 
 and looked upon by the whole family as redound¬ 
 ing much more to their honor than a coat of arms. 
 There was a fellow who was so busy in regulating 
 all the ceremonies, and seemed to carry such an 
 air of importance in his looks, that I could not 
 help inquiring who he was, and was immediately 
 answered, ‘ That he did not value himself upon 
 nothing, for that he and his ancestors had won so 
 many hats, that his parlor looked like a haber¬ 
 dasher’s shop.’ However, this thirst of glory in 
 them all was the reason that no one man stood 
 ‘ lord of the ring ’ for above three falls while I was 
 among them. 
 
 “ The young maids who were not lookers-on at 
 these exercises, were themselves engaged in some 
 diversion ; and upon my asking a farmer’s son of 
 my own parish what he was gazing at with so 
 much attention, he told me, ‘ That he was seeino 1 
 Betty Welch,’ whom I knew to be his sweetheart 
 ‘ pitch a bar.’ 
 
 “ In short, I found the men endeavored to show 
 the women they were no cowards, and that the 
 whole company strove to recommend themselves 
 to each other, by making it appear that they were 
 all in a perfect state of health, and fit'to undergo 
 any fatigues of bodily labor. 
 
 “Your judgment upon this method of love 
 and gallantry, as it is at present practiced among 
 us in the country, will very much oblige, 
 
 “ Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 * “ Would,” Spect. in folio. 
 
 *“As You Like it,” act i, sc. 6. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 214 
 
 If I would here put on the scholar and politi¬ 
 cian, I might inform my readers how these bodily 
 exercises or games were formerly encouraged in 
 all the commonwealths of Greece ; from whence 
 the Romans afterward borrowed their pentathlum, 
 which was composed of running, wrestling, leap¬ 
 ing, throwing, and boxing, though the prizes were 
 generally nothing but a crown of cypress or pars¬ 
 ley, hats not being in fashion in those days : that 
 there is an old statute, which obliges every man 
 in England, having such an estate, to keep and 
 exercise the long-bow : by which means our an¬ 
 cestors excelled all other nations in the use of 
 that weapon, and we had all the real advantages, 
 without the inconvenience of a standing army; 
 and that I once met with a book of projects, in 
 which the author considering to what noble ends 
 that spirit of emulation, which so remarkably 
 shows itself among our common people in these 
 wakes, might be directed, proposes that for the im¬ 
 provement of all our handicraft trades there should 
 be annual prizes set up for sucii persons as were 
 most excellent in their several arts. But laying 
 aside all these political considerations, which 
 might tempt me to pass the limits of my paper, I 
 confess the greatest benefit and convenience that I 
 can observe in these country festivals, is the bring¬ 
 ing young people together, and giving them an 
 opportunity of showing themselves in the most 
 advantageous light. A country fellow that throws 
 his rival upon bis back, has generally as good 
 success with their common mistress ; as nothing 
 is more usual than for a nimble-footed wench to 
 get a husband at the same time that she wins a 
 smock. Love and marriages are the natural ef¬ 
 fects of these anniversary assemblies. I must 
 therefore very much approve the method by which 
 my correspondent tells me each sex endeavors to 
 recommend itself to the other, since nothing seems 
 more likely to promise a healthy offspring, or a 
 happy cohabitation. And I believe I may assure 
 my country friend, that there has been many a 
 court lady who would be contented to exchange 
 her crazy young husband for Tom Short, and 
 several men of quality who would have parted 
 with a tender yoke-fellow for Black Kate. 
 
 I am the more pleased with having love made 
 the principal end and design of these meetings, 
 as it seems to be most agreeable to the intent for 
 which they were at first instituted, as we are in¬ 
 formed by the learned Dr. Kennet,* with whose 
 words I shall conclude my present paper. 
 
 “ These wakes,” says he, “were in imitation of 
 the ancient love-feasts ; and were first established 
 in England by Pope Gregory the Great, who, in 
 an epistle to Melitus the abbot, gave orders that 
 they should be kept in sheds or arbories made up 
 with the branches or boughs of trees around the 
 church.” 
 
 He adds, “ that this laudable custom of wakes 
 prevailed for many ages, until the nice Puritans 
 began to exclaim against it as a remnant of popery; 
 and by degrees the precise humor grew so popu¬ 
 lar, that at an Exeter assizes the Lord Chief Baron 
 Walter made an order for the suppression of all 
 wakes; but on Bishop Laud’s complaining of 
 this innovating humor, the king commanded the 
 order to be reversed.”—X. 
 
 *In his Parochial Antiquities, 4to., 1695, p. 610, 614. 
 
 No. 162.] WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 5/1711. 
 
 -Servetur ad imum, 
 
 Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 
 
 Hoe., Ars. Poet., v, 126. 
 
 Keep one consistent plan from end to end. 
 
 Nothing that is not a real crime makes a man 
 appear so contemptible and little in the eyes of 
 the world as inconstancy, especially when it re¬ 
 gards religion or party. In either of these cases, 
 though a man perhaps does but his duty in chang¬ 
 ing his side, he not only makes himself hated by 
 those he left, but is seldom heartily esteemed by 
 those he comes over to. 
 
 In these great articles of life, therefore, a man’s 
 conviction ought to be very strong, and if possi¬ 
 ble so well timed, that worldly advantages may 
 seem to have no share in it, or mankind will be 
 ill-natured enough to think he does not change 
 sides out of principle, but either out of levity of 
 temper, or prospects of interest. Converts and 
 renegadoes of all kinds should take particular 
 care to let the world see they act upon honorable 
 motives : or, whatever approbations they may re¬ 
 ceive from themselves, and applauses irom those 
 they converse with, they may be very well assured 
 Bat they are the scorn of all good men, and the 
 public marks of infamy and derision. 
 
 Irresolution on the schemes of life which offer 
 themselves to our choice, and inconstancy in 
 pursuing them, are the greatest and most univer¬ 
 sal causes of all our disquiet and unhappiness. 
 When ambition pulls one way, interest another, 
 inclination a third, and perhaps reason contrary 
 to all, a man is likely to pass his time but ill who 
 has so many different parties to please. When 
 the mind hovers among such a variety of allure¬ 
 ments, one had better settle on a way of life that 
 is not the very best we might have chosen, than 
 grow old without determining our choice, and go 
 out of the world as the greatest part of mankind 
 do, before we have resolved how to live in it. 
 There is but one method of setting ourselves at rest 
 in this particular, and that is by adhering stead¬ 
 fastly to one great end as the chief and ultimate 
 aim of all our pursuits. If we are firmly resolved 
 to live up to the dictates of reason, without any 
 regard to wealth, reputation, or the like considera¬ 
 tions, any more than as they fall in with our 
 principal design, we may go through life with 
 steadiness and pleasure ; but if we act by several 
 broken views, and will not only be virtuous, but 
 wealthy, popular, and everything that has a value 
 set upon it by the world, we shall live and die in 
 misery and repentance. 
 
 One would take more than ordinary care to 
 guard one’s self against this particular imperfec¬ 
 tion, because it is that which our nature very 
 strongly inclines us to ; for if we examine our¬ 
 selves thoroughly, we shall find that we are the 
 most changeable beings in the universe. In re¬ 
 spect of our understanding, we often embrace and 
 reject the very same opinions ; whereas beings 
 above and beneath us have probably no opinions 
 at all, or, at least, no wavering and uncertainties in 
 those they have. Our superiors are guided by in¬ 
 tuition, and our inferiors by instinct. In respect 
 of our wills, we fall into crimes and recover out of 
 them, are amiable or odious in the eyes of our 
 great Judge, and pass our whole life in offending 
 and asking pardon. On the contrary, the beings 
 underneath us are not capable of sinning, nor those 
 above us of repenting. The one is out of the 
 possibilities of duty, and the other fixed in an 
 eternal course of sin, or an eternal course of 
 virtue. 
 
 There is scarce a state of life, or stage in. it. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 215 
 
 which does not produce changes and revolutions 
 in the mind of man. Our schemes of thought in 
 infancy are lost in those of youth ; these too take 
 a different turn in manhood, until old age often 
 leads us back into our former infancy. A new 
 title or an unexpected success throws us out of 
 ourselves, and in a manner destroys our iden¬ 
 tity. A cloudy day, or a little sunshine, have 
 as great an influence on many constitutions, as 
 the most real blessing or misfortunes. A dream 
 varies our being, and changes our condition while 
 it lasts ; and every passion, not to mention health 
 and sickness, and the greater alterations in body 
 and mind, makes us appear almost different crea¬ 
 tures. If a man is so distinguished among other 
 beings by this infirmity, what can we think of 
 such as make themselves remarkable for it even 
 among their own species? It is a very trifling 
 character to be one o£ the most variable beings of 
 the most variable kind, especially if we consider 
 that he who is the great standard of perfection 
 has in him no shadow of change, but “ is the 
 same yesterday, to-day, and forever.” 
 
 As this mutability of temper and inconsistency 
 with ourselves is the greatest weakness of human 
 nature, so it makes the person who is remarkable 
 for it in a very particular manner, more ridiculous 
 than any other infirmity whatsoever, as it sets 
 him in a greater variety of foolish lights, and dis¬ 
 tinguishes him from himself by an opposition of 
 party-colored characters. The most humorous 
 character in Horace is founded upon this uneven¬ 
 ness of temper, and irregularity of conduct: 
 
 ---Sardus habebat 
 
 Ille Tigellius hoc: Caesar, qui cogere posset, 
 
 Si peteret per amicitiam patris, atque suam, non 
 Quidquam proficeret: si collibuisset, ab ovo 
 Usque ad mala citaret, Io Bacche, modo summa 
 \ oce, modo hac, resonat quae ehordis quatuor ima, 
 
 Nil aequale homini fuit illi: saepe velut qui 
 Currebat fugiens hostem: persaepe velut qui 
 Junonis sacra ferret: habebat saepe ducentos, 
 
 Saepe decern servos: modo reges atque tetrarchas, 
 
 Omnia magna loquens: modo sit rnihi mensa tripes, et 
 Concha salis puri, et toga, quae defendere frigus, 
 
 Quamvis craesa, queat. Deces centena dedisses 
 Huic parco, paucis contento, quinque diebus 
 Nil erat in loculis. Noctes vigilabat ad ipsum 
 Mane: diem totum stertebat. Nil fuit unquam 
 Sic impar sibi- Hor. 1 Sat. iii. 
 
 Instead of translating this passage in Horace, I 
 shall entertain my English reader with the de¬ 
 scription of a parallel character, that is wonder¬ 
 fully well finished by Mr. Dryden, and raised 
 upon the same foundation : 
 
 In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: 
 
 A man so various, that he seemed to be 
 Not one, but all mankind’s epitome. 
 
 Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; 
 
 \V as everything by starts and nothing long: 
 
 But in the course of one revolving moon, 
 
 A\ as chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: 
 then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, 
 .beside ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 
 
 Blest madman who could every hour employ, 
 
 \\ ith something new to wish, or to enjoy!* 
 
 No. 163.] THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1711. 
 
 Si quid ego adjuero, curamve levasso 
 time nunc te coquit, et versat sub pectore fixa, 
 -hcquid erit pretii?—Exx. apud Tullium. 
 
 Say, will you thank me if I bring you rest, 
 
 And ease the torture of your troubled breast? 
 
 Inquiries after happiness, and rules for attain¬ 
 ing it, are not so necessary and useful to mankind 
 as the arts of consolation, and supporting one’s self 
 under affliction. The utmost we can hope for in 
 
 From Dryden’s “Absalom and Achitophel.” Perhaps it is 
 needless to mention, that this character was meant for Goorsre 
 ' nhers, duke of Buckingham, author of the liehearsal. 
 
 this world is contentment; if we aim at anything 
 higher, we shall meet with nothing but grief and 
 disappointment. A man should direct all his 
 studies and endeavors at making himself easy 
 now, and happy hereafter. 
 
 The truth ol it is, if all the happiness that is 
 dispersed through the whole race of mankind in 
 this world were drawn together, and put into the 
 possession of any single man, it would not make 
 a very happy being. Though, on the contrary, if 
 the miseries of the whole species were fixed in a 
 single person, they would make a very miserable 
 one. 
 
 I am engaged in this subject by the following 
 letter, which, though subscribed by a fictitious 
 name, I have reason to believe is not imaginary : 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am one of your disciples, and endeavor to 
 live up to your rules, which I hope will incline 
 you to pity my condition. I shall open it to you 
 in a very few words. About three years since, a 
 gentleman, whom I am sure, you yourself would 
 have approved, made his addresses to me. He 
 had everything to recommend him but an estate; 
 so that my friends, who all of them applauded hii 
 person, would not for the sake of both of us favor 
 his passion. For my own part, I resigned myself 
 up entirely to the direction of those who knew 
 the world much better than myself, but still lived 
 in hopes that some juncture or other would make 
 me happy in the man whom, in my heart, I pre¬ 
 ferred to all the world; being determined, if I 
 could not have him, to have nobody else. About 
 three months ago I received a letter from him, ac¬ 
 quainting me, that by the death of an uncle lie 
 had a considerable estate left him, which he said 
 was welcome to him upon no other account, but 
 as he hoped it would remove all difficulties that 
 lay in the way to our mutual happiness. You 
 may well suppose, Sir, with how much joy I re¬ 
 ceived this letter, which was followed by several 
 others filled with those expressions of love and 
 joy, which I verily believed nobody felt more sin¬ 
 cerely, nor knew better how to describe, than the 
 gentleman I am speaking of. But, Sir, how shall 
 I be able to tell it you! by the last week’s post I 
 received a letter from an intimate friend of this 
 unhappy gentleman, acquainting me, that as he 
 had just settled his affairs! and was preparing for 
 his journey, he fell sick of a fever and died. It 
 is impossible to express to you the distress I am 
 in upon this occasion. I can only have recourse 
 to my devotions, and to the reading of good books 
 for my consolation; and as I always take a par¬ 
 ticular delight in those frequent advices and ad¬ 
 monitions which you give the public, it would be 
 a very great piece of charity in you to lend me 
 your assistance in this conjuncture. If, after the 
 reading of this letter, you find yourself in a 
 humor, rather to rally and ridicule, than to com¬ 
 fort me, I desire you would throw it into the fire, 
 and think no more of it; but if you are touched 
 with my misfortune, which is greater than I know 
 how to bear, your counsels may very much sup¬ 
 port and will infinitely oblige the afflicted 
 
 “ Leonora.” 
 
 A disappointment in love is more hard to get 
 over than any other; the passion itself so softens 
 and subdues the heart, that it disables it from 
 struggling or bearing up against the woes and dis¬ 
 tresses which befall it. The mind meets with 
 other misfortunes in her whole strength; she 
 stands collected within herself, and sustains the 
 shock with all the force which is natural to her; but 
 a heart in love has its foundation sapped, and 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 216 
 
 immediately sinks under the weight of accidents 
 that are disagreeable to its favorite passion. 
 
 In afflictions men generally draw their consola¬ 
 tions out of books of morality, which indeed are 
 of great use to fortify and strengthen the mind 
 against the impressions of sorrow. Monsieur St. 
 Evremont, who does not approve of this method, 
 recommends authors who are apt to stir up mirth in 
 the mind of the readers, and fancies Don Quixote 
 can give more relief to a heavy heart than Plu¬ 
 tarch or Seneca, as it is much easier to divert grief 
 than to conquer it. This doubtless may have its 
 effects on some tempers. I should rather have 
 recourse to authors of a quite contrary kind, that 
 give us instances of calamities and misfortunes, 
 and show human nature in its greatest distresses. 
 
 If the afflictions we groan under be very heavy, 
 we shall find some consolation in the society of 
 as great sufferers as ourselves, especially when we 
 find our companions men of virtue and merit. If 
 our afflictions are light, we shall be comforted by 
 the comparison we make between ourselves and 
 our fellow-sufferers. A loss at sea, a fit of sick¬ 
 ness, or the death of a friend, are such trifles, 
 when we consider whole kingdoms laid in ashes, 
 families put to the sword, wretches shut up in 
 dungeons, and the like calamities of mankind, 
 that we are out of countenance for our own weak¬ 
 ness, if we sink under such little strokes of for¬ 
 tune. 
 
 Let the disconsolate Leonora consider, that at 
 the very time in which she languishes for the loss 
 of her deceased lover, there are persons in several 
 parts of the world just perishing in shipwreck; 
 others crying out for mercy in the terrors of a 
 death-bed repentance; others lying under the tor¬ 
 tures of an infamous execution, or the like dread¬ 
 ful calamities; and she will find her sorrows van¬ 
 ish at the appearance of those which are so much 
 greater and more astonishing. 
 
 I would farther propose to the consideration of 
 my afflicted disciple, that possibly what she now 
 looks upon as the greatest misfortune, is not 
 really such in itself. For my own part, I ques¬ 
 tion not but our souls in a separate state will look 
 back on their lives in quite another view, than 
 what they had of them in the body; and what 
 they now consider as misfortunes and disap¬ 
 pointments, will very often appear to have been 
 escapes and blessings. 
 
 The mind that hath any cast toward devotion, 
 naturally flies to it in its afflictions. 
 
 When I was in France I heard a very remark¬ 
 able story of two lovers, which I shall relate at 
 length in my to-morrow’s paper, not only because 
 the circumstances of it are extraordinary, but be¬ 
 cause it may serve as an illustration to all that 
 can be said on this last head, and show the power 
 of religion in abating that particular anguish which 
 seems to lie so heavily on Leonora. The story 
 was told me by a priest, as I traveled with him in 
 a stage-coach. I shall give it my reader as well 
 as I can remember, in his own words, after I 
 have premised, that if consolations may be drawn 
 from a wrong religion, and a misguided devotion, 
 they cannot but flow much more naturally from 
 those which are founded upon reason and estab¬ 
 lished in good sense.—L. 
 
 No. 164.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1711. 
 
 Ilia; quis ct me, inquit, miser am, et te perdidit, Orpheu t 
 Jamque yale; feror ingenti circumdata nocte, 
 
 Invalidasque tibi tendens heu! non tua pa-lmas. 
 
 Virg., iv Georg., 404. 
 
 Then thus the bride: Wliat fury seiz’d on thee, 
 
 Unhappy man! to lose thyself and me? 
 
 And now farewell! involy’d in shades of night, 
 
 Forever I am ravish’d from thy sight: 
 
 In vain I reach my feeble hands to join 
 
 In sweet embraces, ah! no longer thine.—D ryden. 
 
 Constantia was a woman of extraordinary wit 
 and beauty, but very unhappy in a father, who 
 having arrived at great riches by his own indus¬ 
 try, took delight in nothing butnis money. Theo¬ 
 dosius* was the younger son of a decayed family, 
 of great parts and learning improved by a genteel 
 and virtuous education. When he was in the 
 twentieth year of his age he became acquainted with 
 Constantia, who had not then passed her fifteenth. 
 As he lived but a few miles distant from her 
 father’s house, he had frequent opportunities of - 
 seeing her; and by the advantages of a good per¬ 
 son and pleasing conversation, made such an im¬ 
 pression on her heart as it was impossible for time 
 to efface. He was himself no less smitten with 
 Constantia. A long acquaintance made them still 
 discover new beauties in each other, and by de¬ 
 grees raised in them that mutual passion which 
 had an influence on their following lives. It un¬ 
 fortunately happened, that in the midst of this 
 intercourse of love and friendship, between Theo¬ 
 dosius and Constantia, there broke out an irre¬ 
 parable quarrel between their parents, the one 
 valuing himself too much upon his birth, and the 
 other upon his possessions. The father of Con¬ 
 stantia was so incensed at the father of Theodo¬ 
 sius, that he contracted an unreasonable aversion 
 toward his son, insomuch that he forbade him his 
 house, and charged his daughter, upon her duty, 
 never to see him more. In the meantime, to 
 break off all communication between the two 
 lovers, whom he knew entertained secret hopes of 
 some favorable opportunity that should bring 
 them together, he found out a young gentleman 
 of good fortune and an agreeable person, whom he 
 pitched upon as a husband for his daughter. He 
 soon concerted this affair so well, that he told 
 Constantia it was his design to marry her to such 
 a gentleman, and that her wedding should be 
 celebrated on such a day. Constantia, who was 
 overawed with the authority of her father, and 
 unable to object anything against so advantageous 
 a match, received the proposal with a profound 
 silence, which her father commended in her, as 
 the most decent manner of a virgin’s giving her 
 consent to an overture of that kind. The noise 
 of this intended marriage soon reached Theodo¬ 
 sius, who, after a long tumult of passions, which 
 naturally rise in a lover’s heart on such an occa¬ 
 sion, wrote the following letter to Constantia : 
 
 “ The thought of my Constantia, which for 
 some years has been my only happiness, is now 
 become a greater torment to me than I am able to 
 bear. Must I then live to see you another’s ? 
 The streams, the fields, and meadows, where we 
 have so often talked together, grow painful to 
 me; life itself is become a burden. May you long 
 be happy in the world, but forget that there was 
 ever such a man in it as Theodosius.” 
 
 This letter was conveyed to Constantia that 
 very evening, who fainted at the reading of it; 
 
 * The Theodosius and Constantia of Dr. Langhorne, a col¬ 
 lection of letters, in 2 vols. 12mo., takes its rise from this 
 paper. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 and the next morning she was much more alarmed 
 by two °r three messengers, that came to her 
 father s Uouse, one after another, to inquire if they 
 had heard anything of Theodosius, who it seems 
 had left his chamber about midnight, and could 
 nowhere be found. The deep melancholy which 
 had hung upon his mind some time before, made 
 them apprehend the worst that could befall him. 
 uonstantia, who knew that nothing but the report 
 of her marriage could have driven him to such 
 extremities, was not to be comforted. She now 
 accused herself for having so tamely given an ear 
 to the proposal of a husband, ana looked upon 
 the new lover as the murderer of Theodosius. In 
 shoit, she resolved to suffer the utmost effects of 
 her father s displeasure, rather, than comply with 
 a marriage whicli appeared to her so full of guilt 
 a P“ hotTor. The father, seeing himself entirely 
 rid of Theodosius, and likely to keep a conside¬ 
 rable portion in his family, was not very much 
 concernea at the obstinate refusal of his daughter; 
 and did not find it very difficult to excuse him¬ 
 self upon that account to his intended son-in-law, 
 who had all along regarded this alliance rather as 
 a marriage of convenience than of love. Con¬ 
 stantia had now no relief but in her devotions 
 and exetcises of religion, to which her afflictions 
 had so entirely subjected her mind, that after some 
 years had abated the violence of her sorrows, and 
 settled her thoughts in a kind of tranquillity, she 
 resolved to pass the remainder of her days in a 
 convent. Her father was not displeased with a 
 resolution which would save money in his family, 
 and readily complied with his daughter’s inten¬ 
 tions. Accordingly, in the twenty-fifth year of 
 her age, while her beauty was yet in all its height 
 and bloom, he carried her to a neighboring city, 
 in older to look out a sisterhood of nuns among 
 ■*v horn to place his daughter. There was in this 
 place a father of a convent who was very much 
 renowned for his piety and exemplary life; and 
 as it is usual in the Romish church for those who 
 are under any great affliction, or trouble of mind, 
 to apply themselves to the most eminent confes¬ 
 sors for pardon and consolation, our beautiful 
 votary took the opportunity of confessing herself 
 to this celebrated father. 
 
 We must now return to Theodosius, who, the 
 verv morning that the above-mentioned inquiries 
 had been made after him, arrived at a religious 
 house in the city where now Constantia resided; 
 an< “ during that secrecy and concealment of the 
 lathers ol the convent, which is very usual upon 
 any extraordinary occasion, he made himself one 
 ol the order, with a private vow never to inquire 
 alter Constantia ; whom he looked upon as given 
 away to his rival upon the day on which, accord¬ 
 ing to common fame, their marriage was to have 
 been solemnized. Having in his youth made a 
 good progress in learning, that he might dedicate 
 ninself more entirely to religion, he entered into 
 holy orders, and in a few years became renowned 
 for his sanctity of life, and those pious sentiments 
 which he inspired into all who conversed with 
 urn. It was this holy man to whom Constantia 
 had determ,ned to apply herself in confession, 
 though neither she nor any other, beside the prio^ 
 of the convent, knew anything of his name or 
 family 1 he gay, the amiable Theodosius had 
 now taken upon him the name of Father Francis 
 and was so tar concealed in a long beard, a shaven 
 head, and a religious habit, that it was impossible 
 to discover the man of the world in the venerable 
 conventual. 
 
 • As he wa « one morning shut up in his confes¬ 
 sional Constantia, kneeling by him, opened the 
 state of her soul to him; and after liavino- o-i ve n 
 
 217 
 
 him the history of a life full of innocence, she 
 burst out into tears, and entered upon that part of 
 her story in which he himself had so great a 
 share. “My behavior,” says she, “has, I fear, 
 been the death of a man who had no other fault 
 but that of loving me too much. Heaven only 
 knows how dear he was to me while he lived, and 
 how bitter the remembrance of him has been to 
 me since his death.” She here paused, and lifted 
 up her eyes that streamed with tears toward the 
 father; w ho was so moved witli the sense of her 
 soirows, that he could only command his voice, 
 which was broke with sighs and sobbings, so far 
 as to bid her proceed. She followed his direc¬ 
 tions, and in a Hood of tears poured out her heart 
 before him. The father could not forbear weep¬ 
 ing aloud, insomuch that in the agonies of his 
 grief the seat shook under him. Constantia, who 
 thought the good man was thus moved by his 
 compassion toward her, and by the horror of her 
 guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition to ac¬ 
 quaint him with that vow of virginity in which 
 she was going to engage herself, as the proper 
 atonement for her sins, and the only sacrifice she 
 could make to the memory of Theodosius. The 
 father, who by this time had pretty well composed 
 himself, burst out again in tears upon hearing that 
 name to which he had been so long disused, and 
 upon receiving this instance of an unparalleled 
 fidelity from one who he thought had several 
 years since given herself up to the possession of 
 another. Amidst the interruptions of his sorrow, 
 seeing his penitent overwhelmed with grief, he 
 was only able to bid her from time to time be com¬ 
 forted; to tell her that her sins were forgiven her— 
 that her guilt was not so great as she apprehend¬ 
 ed—that she should not suffer herself to be af¬ 
 flicted above measure. After which he recovered 
 himself enough to give her the absolution in form; 
 directing her at the same time to repair to him 
 again the next day, that he might encourage her 
 in the pious resolution she had taken, and give 
 her suitable exhortations for her behavior in it. 
 Constantia retired, and the next morning renewed 
 her applications. Theodosius, having manned 
 his soul with proper thoughts and reflections, ex¬ 
 erted himself on this occasion in the best manner 
 he could to animate his penitent in the course of 
 life she was entering upon, and wear out of her 
 mind those groundless fears and apprehensions 
 which had taken possession of it; concluding with 
 a promise to her that he would from time to time 
 continue his admonitions when she should have 
 taken upon her the holy vail. “ The rules of our 
 respective orders,” says he, “ will not permit that 
 I should see you, but ^ou may assure yourself not 
 only of having a place in my prayers, but of receiv¬ 
 ing such frequent instructions as I can convey to 
 you by letters. Go on cheerfully in the glorious 
 course you have undertaken, and you will quickly 
 find such a peace and satisfaction in your mind, 
 which it is not in the power of the world to 
 
 give. 
 
 Constantia’s heart was so elevated with the dis¬ 
 course of Father Francis, that the very next day 
 she entered upon her vow. As soon as the so¬ 
 lemnities of her reception were over, she retired, 
 as it is usual, with the abbess into her own apart¬ 
 ment. 
 
 The abbess had been informed the night before 
 of all that had passed between her novitiate and 
 Father Francis : from whom she now delivered to 
 her the following letter : 
 
 “ As the first fruits of those joys and consola¬ 
 tions which you may expect from the life you are 
 now engaged in, I must acquaint you that Theo¬ 
 dosius, whose death sits so heavy upon your 
 
218 THE SPE 
 
 thoughts, is still alive ; and that the father, to 
 whom you have confessed yourself, was once that 
 Theodosius whom you so much lament. The 
 love which we have had for one another will 
 make us more happy in its disappointment than it 
 could have done in its success. Providence has 
 disposed of us for our advantage, though not ac¬ 
 cording to our wishes. Consider your Theodosius 
 still as dead, but assure yourself of one who will 
 not cease to pray for you in Father 
 
 “ Francis.” 
 
 Constantia saw that the hand-writing agreed 
 with the contents of the letter: and upon reflect¬ 
 ing on the voice of the person, the behavior, and 
 above all, the extreme sorrow of the father during 
 her confession, she discovered Theodosius in 
 every particular. After having wept with tears of 
 joy, “ It is enough,” says she, “ Theodosius is 
 still in being: I shall live with comfort and die 
 in peace.” 
 
 The letters which the father sent her afterward, 
 are yet extant in the nunnery where she resided ; 
 and are often read to the young religious, in order 
 to inspire them with good resolutions and senti¬ 
 ments of virtue. It so happened, that after Con¬ 
 stantia had lived about ten years in the cloister, a 
 violent fever broke out in the place, which swept 
 away great multitudes, and among others Theodo¬ 
 sius. Upon his death-bed he sent his benediction 
 in a very moving manner to Constantia, who at 
 that time was so far gone in the same fatal dis¬ 
 temper, that she lay delirious. Upon the interval 
 which generally precedes death in sickness of this 
 nature, the abbess, finding that the physicians had 
 given her over, told her that Theodosius was just 
 gone before her, and that he had sent her his ben¬ 
 ediction in his last moments. Constantia received 
 it with pleasure. “And now,” says she, “If I do 
 not ask anything improper, let me be buried by 
 Theodosius. My vow reaches no farther than the 
 grave; what I asx is, I hope, no violation of it. 
 
 She died soon after, and was interred according 
 to her request. . 
 
 Their tombs are still to be seen, with a short 
 Latin inscription over them, to the lollowing pur¬ 
 pose : 
 
 “Here lie the bodies of Father Francis and Sis¬ 
 ter Constance. They were lovely in their lives, 
 and in their deaths they were not divided.”—C. 
 
 - L. 
 
 Ho. 165.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1711. 
 
 -Si forte necesse est, 
 
 Fingere cinctutis non exandita Cethegis 
 Continget: dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., v, 4S. 
 
 -If you would unheard-of things express, 
 
 Invent new words; we can indulge a muse, 
 
 Until the license rise to an abuse.—C reech. 
 
 I have often wished, that as in our constitution 
 there are several persons whose business is to 
 watch over our laws, our liberties, and commerce, 
 certain men might be set apart as superintend¬ 
 ents of our language, to hinder any words of a 
 foreign coin from passing among us; and in partic¬ 
 ular to prohibit any French phrases from becoming 
 current in this kingdom, when those of our own 
 stamp are altogether as valuable. The present 
 war has so adulterated our tongue with strange 
 words, that it would be impossible for one of our 
 great-grandfathers to know what his posterity 
 have been doing, were he to read their exploits in 
 a modern newspaper. Our warriors are very in¬ 
 dustrious in propagating the French language, at 
 the same time that they are so gloriously success- 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 ful in beating down their power. Our soldiers 
 are men of strong heads for action, and perform 
 such feats as they are not able to express. They 
 want words in their own tongue to tell us what 
 it is they achieve, and therefore send us over ac¬ 
 counts of their performances in a jargon of phrases 
 which they learn among their conquered enemies. 
 They ought however to be provided with secreta¬ 
 ries, and assisted by our foreign ministers, to tell 
 their story for them in plain English, and to let 
 us know in our mother tongue what it is our 
 brave countrymen are about. The French would 
 indeed be in the right to publish the news of the 
 present war in the English phrases, and make 
 their campaigns unintelligible. Their people 
 might flatter themselves that things are not so 
 bad as they really are, were they thus palliated 
 with foreign terms, and thrown into shades and 
 obscurity; but the English cannot be too clear in 
 their narrative of those actions which have raised 
 their country to a higher pitch of glory than it 
 ever yet arrived at, and which will be still the 
 more admired the better they are explained. 
 
 For my part, by that time a siege is carried on 
 two or three days, I am altogether lost and bewil¬ 
 dered in it, and meet with so many inexplicable 
 difficulties, that I scarce know which side has the 
 better of it, until I am informed by the Tower 
 guns that the place is surrendered. I do indeed 
 make some allowances for this part of the war : 
 fortifications have been foreign inventions, and 
 upon that abound in foreign terms. But when 
 we have won battles which may be described in 
 our own language, why are our papers filled with 
 so many unintelligible exploits, and the French 
 obliged to lend us a part of their tongue before 
 we can know how they are conquered ? They 
 must be made accessory to their own disgrace, as 
 the Britons were formerly so artificially wrought 
 in the curtain of the Roman theater, that they 
 seemed to draw it up in order to give the specta¬ 
 tors an opportunity of seeing their own defeat 
 celebrated upon the stage: for so Mr. Dryden has 
 translated that verse in Virgil: 
 
 Purpurea iutexti tollunt aulsea Britanni.— Georg, iii, 25. 
 
 Which interwoven Britons seem to raise, 
 
 And show the triumph that their shame displays. 
 
 The histories of all our former wars are trans¬ 
 mitted to us in our vernacular idiom, to use the 
 phrase of a great modern critic.* I do not find in 
 any of our chronicles, that Edward the Third 
 ever ‘reconnoitered’ the enemy, though he often dis¬ 
 covered the posture of the French, and as often van¬ 
 quished them in battle. The Black Prince passed 
 many a river without the help of ‘ pontoons,’ 
 and filled a ditch with fagots as successfully as 
 the generals of our times do it with ‘fascines.’ Our 
 commanders lose half their praise, and our people 
 half their joy, by means of those hard words and 
 dark expressions in which our newspapers do so 
 much abound. I have seen many a prudent citi¬ 
 zen, after having read every article, inquire of his 
 next neighbor what news the mail had brought. 
 
 I remember in that remarkable year, when our 
 country was delivered from the greatest fears and 
 apprehensions, and raised to the greatest height 
 of gladness it had ever felt since it was a na¬ 
 tion,—I mean the year of Blenheim,—I had the 
 copy of a letter sent me out of the country, which 
 was written from a young gentleman in the ai my 
 to his father, a man of good estate and plain 
 sense. As the letter was very modishly checker¬ 
 ed with this modern military eloquence, I shall 
 present my reader with a copy of it: 
 
 Dr. Richard Bentley. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 219 
 
 “ SlE, 
 
 “ Upon the junction of the French and Bavarian 
 armies, they took post behind a great morass, 
 which they thought impracticable. Our general 
 the next day sent a party of horse to ‘ reconnoiter’ 
 them from a little ‘hauteur,’ at about a quarter of 
 an hour s distance from the army, who returned 
 ain to the camp unobserved through several 
 efiles,’ in one of which they met with a party 
 of French that had been ‘marauding,’ and made 
 them all prisoners at discretion. The day after a 
 drum arrived at our camp, with a message which 
 he would communicate to none but the general; 
 he was followed by a trumpet, who, they say, be¬ 
 haved himself very saucilv, with a message from 
 the Duke of Bavaria. The next morning our 
 army, being divided into two ‘corps,’ made a 
 movement toward the enemy. You will hear in 
 the public prints how we treated them, with the 
 other circumstances of that glorious day. I had 
 the good fortune to be in that regiment that push¬ 
 ed the ‘gens d’armes.’ Several French battalions, 
 which some say were a ‘ corps de reserve,’ made a 
 show of resistance; but it only proyed a ‘ gascon¬ 
 ade,’ for upon our preparing to fill up a little 
 ‘ fosse,’ in order to attack them, they beat the 
 ‘chamade,’ and sent us a ‘carte blanche.’ Their 
 * commandant,’ with a great many other general 
 officers, and troops without number, are made pri¬ 
 soners of war, and will, I believe, give you a 
 visit in England, the ‘ cartel’ not being yet settled, 
 ftot questioning but these particulars will be very 
 welcome to you, I congratulate you upon them, 
 and am your most dutiful son,” etc. 
 
 The father of the young gentleman, upon the 
 perusal of the letter, found it contained great 
 news but could not guess what it was. He im¬ 
 mediately communicated it to the curate of the 
 parish, who, upon the reading of it, being vexed 
 to see anything he could not understand, fell into 
 a kind of passion, and told him, that his son had 
 sent him a letter that was neither fish, flesh, nor 
 good red-herring. “I wish,” says he, “the cap¬ 
 tain may be ‘ compos mentis:’ he talks of a saucy 
 trumpet, and a drum that carries messages ; then 
 who is this ‘carte blanche?’ He must either banter 
 us, or he is out of his senses.” The father, who 
 always looked upon the curate as a learned man, 
 began to fret inwardly at his son’s usage, and pro¬ 
 ducing a letter which he had written to him about 
 three posts before: “You see here,” says he, 
 “when he writes for money he knows how to speak 
 intelligibly enough; there is no man in England 
 can express himself clearer, when he wants a new 
 furniture for his horse.” In short, the old man 
 was so puzzled upon the point, that it might have 
 fared ill w T ith his son, had he not seen all the 
 prints about three days after filled with the same 
 terms of art, and that Charles only wrote like 
 other men.—L. 
 
 No. 166.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1711. 
 
 ~ Quod nee Jovis ira, nec ignis. 
 
 Nec poterit ferruin, nec edax abolere vetustas. 
 
 Ovid, Met. xv, 871. 
 
 —--Which nor dreads the rage 
 
 Of tempests, fire, or war, or wasting age.—W elsted. 
 
 Aristotle tells us, that the world is a copy or 
 transcript of those ideas which are in the mind 
 of the first Being, and that those ideas which are in 
 the mind of man are a transcript of the world. To 
 this we may add, that words are the transcript of 
 those ideas which are in the mind of man, and 
 that writing or printing is the transcript of words. 
 
 As the Supreme Being has expressed, and as it 
 were, printed his ideas in the creation, men express 
 
 their ideas in books, which by this great inven¬ 
 tion of these latter ages may last as long as the 
 sun and moon, and perish only in the general 
 wreck of nature. Thus Cowley, in his poem on 
 the Resurrection, mentioning the destruction of 
 the universe has these admirable lines: 
 
 Now all the wide-extended sky, 
 
 And all th’ harmonious worlds on high, 
 
 And Virgil’s Sacred work shall die. 
 
 There is no other method of fixing those 
 thoughts which arise and disappear in the mind 
 of man, and tiansmitting them to the last periods 
 of time; no other method of giving a permanency 
 to our ideas and preserving the knowledge of any 
 particular person, when his body is mixed with 
 the common mass of matter, and his soul retired 
 into the world of spirits. Books are the legacies 
 that a great genius leaves to mankind, which are 
 delivered down from generation to generation, as 
 presents to the posterity of those who are yet 
 unborn. 
 
 All other arts of perpetuating our ideas continue 
 but a short time. Statues can last but a few thou¬ 
 sands of years, edifices fewer, and colors still 
 fewer than edifices. Michael Angelo, Fontana, 
 and Raphael, will hereafter be what Phidias, Vi¬ 
 truvius, and Apelles are at present; the names of 
 great statuaries, architects, and painters, whose 
 works are lost. The several arts are expressed in 
 mouldering materials. Nature sinks under them, 
 and is not able to support the ideas which are im¬ 
 pressed upon it. 
 
 The circumstance which gives authors an ad¬ 
 vantage above all these great masters is this, that 
 they can multiply their originals: or rather can 
 make copies of their works, to what number they 
 please, which shall be as valuable as the originals 
 themselves. This gives a great author something 
 like a prospect of eternity, but at the same time de¬ 
 prives him of those other advantages which artists 
 meet with. The artist finds greater returns in profit, 
 as the author in fame. What an inestimable price 
 would a Virgil or a Homer, a Cicero or an Aris¬ 
 totle bear, were their works, like a statue, a build- 
 ing, or a picture, to be confined only in one place, 
 and made the property of a single person! 
 
 If writings are thus durable, and may pass from 
 age to age through the whole course of time, how 
 careful should an author be of committing any¬ 
 thing to print that may corrupt posterity, and 
 poison the minds of men with vice and error! 
 Writers of great talents, who employ their parts 
 in propagating immorality, and seasoning vicious 
 sentiments with wit and humor, are to be looked 
 upon as the pests of society, and the enemies of 
 mankind. They leave books behind them (as it 
 is said of those who die in distempers, which 
 breed an ill-will toward their own species), to 
 scatter infection and destroy their posterity. They 
 act the counterparts of a Confucius or a Socrates ; 
 and seem to have been sent into the world to de¬ 
 prave human nature, and sink it into the condition 
 of brutality. 
 
 I have seen some Roman Catholic authors who 
 tell us that vicious writers continue in purgatory 
 so long as the influence of their writings continues 
 upon posterity: “for purgatory, ” say they, “ is 
 nothing else but a cleansing us of our sins, which 
 cannot be said to be done away, so long as they 
 continue to operate, and corrupt mankind. The 
 vicious author,” say they, “sins after death ; and 
 so long as he continues to sin, so long must he ex¬ 
 pect to be punished.” Though the Roman Catho¬ 
 lic notion of purgatory be indeed very ridiculous, 
 one cannot but think, that if the soul after death 
 has any knowledge of what passes in this world, 
 that of an immoral writer would receive much 
 
220 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 more regret from the sense of corrupting, than 
 satisfaction from the thought of pleasing, his sur¬ 
 viving admirers. 
 
 To take off from the severity of this speculation, 
 
 I shal] conclude this paper with a story of an 
 atheistical author, who at a time whenhe lay dan¬ 
 gerously sick, and had desired the assistance ol a 
 neighboring curate, confessed to him with great 
 contrition, that nothing sat more heavy at his heart 
 than the sense of his having seduced the age by 
 his writings, and that their evil influence was 
 likely to continue even after his death. The 
 curate upon farther examination finding the peni¬ 
 tent in the utmost agonies of despair, and being 
 himself a man of learning, told him, that he 
 hoped his case was not so desperate as he ap¬ 
 prehended, since he found that he was so very 
 sensible of his fault, and so sincerely repented of 
 it. The penitent still urged the evil tendency of 
 his book to subvert all religion, and the little 
 ground of hope there could be for one whose 
 writings would continue to do mischief when his 
 body was laid in ashes. The curate, finding no 
 other way of comforting him, told him that he did 
 well in being afflicted for the evil design with 
 which he published his book; but that he ought 
 to be very thankful that there was no danger of 
 its doing any hurt: that his cause was so very bad, 
 and his arguments so weak, that he did not ap¬ 
 prehend any ill effects of it: in short, that he might 
 rest satisfied his book could do no more mischief 
 after his death, than it had done while he was 
 living. To which he added, for his farther satis¬ 
 faction, that he did not believe any beside his par¬ 
 ticular friends and acquaintance had ever been at 
 the pains of reading it, or that anybody after his 
 death would ever inquire after it. The dying man 
 had still so much of the frailty of an author in 
 him, as to be cut to the heart with these consola¬ 
 tions; and, without answering the good man, 
 asked his friends about him (with a peevishness 
 that is natural to a sick person) where they had pick¬ 
 ed up such a blockhead? and whether they thought 
 him a proper person to attend one in his condition? 
 The curate, finding that the author did not expect 
 to be dealt with as a real and sincere penitent, but 
 as a penitent of importance, after a short admoni¬ 
 tion withdrew ; not questioning but he should be 
 again sent for if the sickness grew desperate. 
 The author however recovered, and has since 
 written two or three other tracts with the same 
 spirit, and very luckily for his poor soul, with the 
 same success.*—C. 
 
 No. 167.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1711. 
 
 -Fuit haud ignobilis Argis, 
 
 Qui se credebat miros audire tragoedos, 
 
 In vacuo leetus sessor, plausorque theatro; 
 
 Csetera qui vitae servaret munia recto 
 More; bonus sane vicinus, amabilis bospes, _ 
 
 Comis in uxorem; posset qui ignoscere servis, 
 
 Et signo lseso non insanire lagenae; 
 
 Posset qui rupem et puteum vitare patentem. 
 
 Hie, ubi cognatorum opibus curisque refectus, 
 Expulit elleboro morbum bilemque meraco, 
 
 Et redit ad sese; Pol me occidistis, amici, 
 
 Non servajstis, ait; cui, sic extorta voluptas, 
 
 Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error. 
 
 Hor. 2 Ep, ii, 128. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 There liv’d in Primo Georgii (they record) 
 
 A worthy member, no small fool, a lord; 
 
 Who, though the house was up, delighted sate, 
 
 Heard, noted, answer’d as in full debate; 
 
 In all but this, a man of sober life, 
 
 Pond of his friend, and civil to his wife; 
 
 * The atheistical writer here alluded to, might, perhaps, be 
 Mr. Poland, who is said, by a writer in the Examiner, to have 
 been the butt of the Tatler, and for the same reasons, probar 
 bly, of the Spectator. 
 
 )TATOR. 
 
 Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell, 
 
 And much too wise to walk into a well. 
 
 Him the damn'd doctor and his friends immur’d; 
 
 They bled, they cupp’d, they purg’d, in short they cur’d, 
 
 Whereat the gentleman began to stare- 
 
 “ My friends,” he cried: “pox take you for your caret 
 That from a patriot of distinguish’d note, 
 
 Have bled and purg’d me to a simple vote.” — Pope. 
 
 The unhappy force of an imagination unguided 
 by the check of reason and judgment, was the 
 subject of a former speculation. My reader may 
 remember that he has seen in one of my papers a 
 complaint of an unfortunate gentleman, who was 
 unable to contain himself (when any ordinary 
 matter was laid before him) from adding a few 
 circumstances to enliven plain narrative. That 
 correspondent was a person of too warm a com¬ 
 plexion to be satisfied with things merely as they 
 stood in nature, and therefore formed incidents 
 which should have happened to have pleased him 
 in the story. The same ungoverned fancy which 
 pushed that correspondent on, in spite of himself, 
 to relate public and notorious falsehoods, makes 
 the author of the following letter do the same in 
 private; one is a prating, the other a silent liar. 
 
 There is little pursued in the errors of either of 
 these worthies, but mere present amusement : but 
 the folly of him who lets his fancy place him in 
 distant scenes untroubled and uninterrupted, is 
 very much preferable to that of him who is ever 
 forcing a belief, and defending his untruths with 
 new inventions. But I shall hasten to let this 
 liar in*, soliloquy, who calls himself a castle- 
 builder, describe himself with the same unre¬ 
 servedness as formerly appeared in my correspon¬ 
 dent above-mentioned. If a man were to be 
 serious on this subject, he might give very grave 
 admonitions to those who are following anything 
 in this life, on which they think to place their 
 hearts, and tell them they are really castle-builders. 
 Fame, glory, wealth, honor, have in the prospect 
 pleasing illusions; but they who come to possess 
 any of them will find they are ingredients toward 
 happiness, to be regarded only in the second place: 
 and that when they are valued in the first degree 
 they are as disappointing as any of the phantoms 
 in the following letter:— 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, September 6, 1711. 
 
 “I am a fellow of a very odd frame of mind, as 
 you will find by the sequel; and think myself fool 
 enough to deserve a place in your paper. I am 
 unhappily far gone in building, and am one of 
 that species of men who are properly denominated 
 castle builders, who scorn to be beholden to the earth 
 for a foundation, or dig in the bowels of it for 
 materials; but erect their structures in the most 
 unstable of elements, the air ; fancy alone laying 
 the line, marking the extent, and shaping the 
 model. It would be difficult to enumerate what 
 august palaces and stately prorticos have grown 
 under my forming imagination, or what verdant 
 meadows and shady groves have started into 
 being by the powerful feat of a warm fancy. A 
 castle-builder is even just what he pleases, and as 
 such I have grasped imaginary scepters, and de¬ 
 livered uncontrollable edicts, from a throne to 
 which conquered nations yielded obeisance. I 
 have made I know not how many inroads into 
 France, and ravaged the very Heart of that 
 kingdom ; I have dined in the Louvre, and drank 
 champagne at Versailles; and I would have you 
 take notice, I am not only able to vanquish a peo- 
 le already ‘cowed’ and accustomed to flight but 
 could, Almanzor-like,* drive the British general 
 
 * Alluding to a furious character in Dryden’s Conquest of 
 Granada, 
 
221 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 from the field, were I less a Protestant, or had 
 ever been affronted by the confederates. There is 
 no art or profession, whose most celebrated mas¬ 
 ters 1 have not eclipsed. Wherever I have afford- 
 ed iny salutary presence, fevers have ceased to 
 burn and agues to shake the human fabric. When 
 an eloquent fit has been upon me, an apt gesture 
 and proper cadence have animated each sentence, 
 and gazing crowds have found their passions 
 worked up into rage, or soothed into a calm. I 
 am short, and not very well made; yet upon sight 
 of a fine woman, I have stretched into proper 
 stature, and killed with a good air and mien. 
 These are the gay phantoms that dance before my 
 waking eyes, and compose my day-dreams. I 
 should be the most contented, happy man alive, 
 were the chimerical happiness which springs from 
 the paintings of fancy less fleeting and transitory. 
 But alas! it is with grief of mind I tell you, the 
 least breath of wind has often demolished my 
 magnificent edifices, swept away my groves, and 
 left no more trace of them than if they had never 
 been. My exchequer has sunk and vanished by a 
 rap on my door; .the salutation of a friend has 
 cost me a whole continent; and in the same moment 
 I have been pulled by the sleeve, my crown has 
 fallen from my head. The ill consequence of these 
 reveries is inconceivably great, seeing the loss of 
 imaginary possessions makes impressions of real 
 woe. . Beside, bad economy is visible and apparent 
 in builders of invisible mansions. My tenants’ 
 advertisements of ruins and dilapidations often 
 cast a damp on my spirits, even in the instant 
 when the sun in all his splendor, gilds my eastern 
 alaces. Add to this, the pensive drudgery in 
 uilding, and constant grasping aerial trowels, 
 distracts and shatters the mind, and the fond 
 builder of Babels is often cursed with an inco¬ 
 herent diversity and confusion of thoughts. I do 
 not know to whom I can more properly apply my¬ 
 self for relief from this fantastical evil, than to 
 yourself; whom I earnestly implore to accom¬ 
 modate me with a method how to settle my head 
 and cool my brain-pan. A dissertation on castle- 
 building may not only be serviceable to myself, 
 but all architects, who display their skill in the 
 thin element. Such a favor would oblige me to 
 make my next soliloquy not contain the praises 
 of my dear self, but of the Spectator, who shall, 
 by complying with this, make me 
 
 “His obliged,humble servant, 
 
 T- “Vitruvius.” 
 
 No. 168.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 12, 1711. 
 
 -Pectus pracceptis format amicis.—HoR. 2 Ep. i, 128. 
 
 Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art.—P ope. 
 
 . It would be arrogance to neglect the applica¬ 
 tion of my correspondents so far, as not sometimes 
 to insert their animadversions upon my paper; 
 that ol this day shall be therefore wholly composed 
 of the hints which they have sent me. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I send you this to congratulate your late 
 choice of a subject, for treating on which you de- 
 sei vc public thanks ; I mean that on those licensed 
 tyiants the schoolmasters. If you can disarm 
 them of their rods, you will certainly have your old 
 age reverenced by all the young gentlemen of 
 Great Britain who are now between seven and se¬ 
 venteen years. You may boast that the incompa¬ 
 rably wise Quintilian and you are of one mind in 
 this particular. ‘ Si cui est (says he) mens tarn 
 illiberalis ut objurgatione non corrigatur, is etiam ad 
 plagas, ut pessima quceque mancipia, durabitur; y i. e. 
 
 ‘ If any child be of so disingenuous a nature, as 
 not to stand corrected by reproof, he, like the very 
 worst ot slaves, will be hardened even against 
 blows themselves.’ And afterward, ‘ Pudet dicere 
 in quce probra nefandi homines isto ccedendi jure abu- 
 tantur; i. e. ‘ 1 blush to say how shamefully those 
 wicked men abuse the power of correction.’ 
 
 \ T, ls ^ re d myself, Sir, in a very great school,* 
 of which the master was a Welshman, but cer¬ 
 tainly descended from a Spanish family, as plain¬ 
 lyappeared from his temper as well as his name.f 
 ^ \^ G J 0U j u< ^£ e what sort of a schoolmaster 
 a Welshman ingrafted on a Spaniard would make. 
 So very dreadful had he made himself to me, that 
 although it is above twenty years since I felt his 
 heavy hand, yet still once a month at least I 
 dream of him, so strong an impression did he 
 make on my mind. It is a sign he has fully ter- 
 lified me waking, who still continues to haunt me 
 sleeping. 
 
 “ And yet I may say without vanity, that the 
 business of the school was what I did without 
 great difficulty; and I was not remarkably un¬ 
 lucky ; and yet such was the master’s severity, 
 that once a month, or oftener, I suffered as much 
 as would have satisfied the law of the land for a 
 petty larceny. 
 
 “ Many a white and tender hand, which the 
 fond mother had passionately kissed a thousand 
 and a thousand times, have I seen whipped until 
 it was covered with blood ; perhaps for smiling, 
 or for going a yard and a half out of a gate, or 
 for writing an o for an a, or an a for an o. These 
 were our great faults! Many a brave and noble 
 spirit has been there broken ; others have run from 
 thence, and were never heard of afterward. It is 
 a worthy attempt to undertake the cause of dis- 
 tiessed youth ; and it is a noble piece of knight- 
 enantry to enter the list against so many armed 
 pedagogues.. It is pity but we had a set of men, 
 polite in their behavior and method of teaching, 
 who should be put into a condition of being above 
 flattering or fearing the parents of those they in- 
 stiuct. We might then possibly see learning be¬ 
 come a pleasure, and children delighting them¬ 
 selves in that which they now abhor for coming 
 upon such hard terms to them. What would be 
 still a greater happiness arising from the care of 
 such instructors, would be, that we should have 
 no more pedants, nor any bred to learning who 
 had not genius for it. 
 
 “ I am, with the utmost sincerity. Sir, 
 
 “Your most affectionate, humble servant.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Richmond, Sept. 5, 1711. 
 
 “ I am a boy, of fourteen years of age, and have 
 for this last year been under the tuition of a doc¬ 
 tor of divinity, who has taken the school of this 
 place under his cared From the gentleman’s 
 great tenderness to me and friendship to my father, 
 
 I am very happy in learning my book with plea¬ 
 sure. We never leave off our diversions any 
 farther than to salute him at hours of play when 
 he pleases to look on. It is impossible for any of 
 us to love our own parents better than we do him. 
 He never gives any of us a harsh word, and we 
 think it the greatest punishment in the world 
 when he will not speak to any of us. My bro¬ 
 ther and I are both together inditing this let¬ 
 ter. He is a year older than I am, but is now 
 ready to break his heart that the doctor has not 
 
 *Eton. 
 
 f Dr. Charles Eoderick, master, the provost of Eton-school, 
 and afterward master of King’s College, Cambridge. 
 
 JThis was Dr. Nicholas Brady, who joined in the new 
 version of the Psalms, and was author of several volumes 
 of sermons. 
 
222 THE SPE 
 
 taken any notice of him these three days. If you 
 please to print this he will see it, and, we hope, 
 takino- it for my brother’s earnest desire to be re¬ 
 stored* to his favor, he will again smile upon him. 
 
 “ Your most obedient servant, T. S.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You have represented several sort of imperti- 
 nents singly; I wish you would now proceed 
 and describe some of them in sets. It often hap¬ 
 pens in public assemblies, that a party who came 
 thither together, or whose impertinences are of 
 an equal pitch, act in concert, and are so full of 
 themselves as to give disturbance to all that are 
 about them. Sometimes you have a set of whis¬ 
 perers who lay their heaas together in order to 
 sacrifice every body within their observation ; 
 sometimes a set of laughers that keep up an insi¬ 
 pid mirth in their own corner, and by their noise 
 and gestures show they have no respect for the 
 rest of the company. You frequently meet with 
 these sets at the opera, the play, the water-works,* 
 and other public meetings, where their whole 
 business is to draw off the attention of the spec¬ 
 tators from the entertainment and to fix it upon 
 themselves ; and it is to be observed that the im¬ 
 pertinence is ever loudest, when the set happens 
 to be made up of three or four females who have 
 got what you call a woman’s man among them. 
 
 “ I am at a loss to know from whom people of 
 fortune should learn this behavior, unless it be 
 from the footmen who keep their places at a new 
 play, and are often seen passing away their time 
 in sets at all-fours in the face of a full house, and 
 with a perfect disregard to the people of quality 
 sitting on each side of them. 
 
 “ For preserving therefore the decency of public 
 assemblies, methinks it would be but reasonable 
 that those who disturb others should pay at least 
 a double price for their places ; or rather, women 
 of birth and distinction should be informed, that 
 a levity of behavior in the eyes of people of under¬ 
 standing degrades them below their meanest at¬ 
 tendants ; and gentlemen should know that a fine 
 coat is a livery, when the person Avho wears it dis¬ 
 covers no higher sense than that of a footman. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, your most humble servant.” 
 
 “Bedfordshire, Sept. 1, 1711. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am one of tflose whom everybody calls a 
 poacher, and sometimes go out to course with a 
 brace of greyhounds, a mastiff, and a spaniel or 
 two ; and when I am weary with coursing, and 
 have killed hares enough,! go to an alehouse to 
 refresh myself. I beg the favor of you (as you 
 set up for a reformer) to send us word how many 
 dogs you will allow us to go with, how many full 
 pots of ale to drink, and how many hares to kill 
 in a day, and you will do a great piece of service 
 to all the sportsmen. Be quick, then, for the time 
 of coursing is come on. Yours in haste, 
 
 T. “ Isaac Hedgeditch.” 
 
 * This was the Water-theater, a famous show of those 
 times, invented by one Mr. Winstanley, and exhibited at the 
 lower end of Piccadilly; consisting of sea-gods, goddesses, 
 nymphs, mermaids, tritons, etc., playing and spouting out 
 water, and fire mingled with water, etc., performed every 
 evening between five and six. 
 
 f Enow. 
 
 CT ATOR. 
 
 No. 169.] THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1711. 
 
 Sic vita erat: facile omnes perferre ac pati: 
 
 Cum quibus erat cunque una, his sese dedere 
 Eorum obsequi studiis: adversus neiniui; 
 
 Nunquam praeponens se aliis. Ita faeillime 
 
 Sine invidia invenias laudem-- 
 
 Ter. Andr., act 1, sc. 1. 
 
 His manner of life was this: to bear with everybody’s 
 humors; to comply with the inclinations and pursuits of 
 those he conversed with; to contradict nobody; never to as¬ 
 sume a superiority over others. This is the ready way to 
 gain applause without exciting envy. 
 
 Man is subject to innumerable pains and sor¬ 
 rows by the very condition of humanity, and yet, 
 as if nature had not sown evils enough in life, 
 we are continually adding grief to grief, and ag¬ 
 gravating the common calamity by our cruel treat¬ 
 ment of one another. Every man’s natural weight 
 of afflictions is still made more heavy by the envy, 
 malice, treachery, or injustice of his neighbor. 
 At the same time that the storm beats upon the 
 whole species, we are falling foul upon one 
 another. 
 
 Half the misery of human life might be extin¬ 
 guished, would men alleviate the general curse 
 they lie under, by mutual offices of compassion, 
 benevolence, and humanity. There is nothing, 
 therefore, which we ought more to encourage in 
 ourselves and others, than that disposition of 
 mind which in our language goes under the title 
 of good-nature, and which I shall choose for the 
 subject of this day’s speculation. 
 
 Good-nature is more agreeable in conversation 
 than wit, and gives a certain air to the counten¬ 
 ance, which is more amiable than beauty. It 
 shows virtue in the fairest light, takes off in some 
 measure from the deformity of vice, and makes 
 even folly and impertinence supportable. 
 
 There is no society or conversation to be kept up 
 in the world without good-nature, or something 
 which must bear its appearance, and supply its 
 place. For this reason mankind have been forced 
 to invent a kind of artificial humanity, which is 
 what we express by the word good-breeding. For 
 if we examine thoroughly the idea of what we 
 call so, we shall find it to be nothing else but an 
 imitation and mimicry of good-nature, or, in 
 other terms, affability, complaisance, and easiness 
 of temper reduced into an art. 
 
 These exterior shows and appearances of huma¬ 
 nity render a man wonderfully popular and be¬ 
 loved, when they are founded upon a real good¬ 
 nature ; but without it, are like hypocrisy in reli¬ 
 gion, or a bare form of holiness, which, when it is 
 discovered, makes a man more detestable than 
 professed impiety. 
 
 Good-nature is generally born with us ; health, 
 prosperity, and kind treatment from the world are 
 the great cherishers of it where they find it; but 
 nothing is capable of forcing it up, where it does 
 not grow of itself. It is one of the blessings of a 
 happy constitution, which education may improve, 
 but not produce. 
 
 Xenophon, in the life of his imaginary prince, 
 whom he describes as a pattern for real ones, is 
 always celebrating the philanthropy or good-na¬ 
 ture of his hero, which he tells us he brought into 
 the world with him, and gives many remarkable 
 instances of it in his childhood, as well as in all 
 the several parts of his life.* Nay, on his death¬ 
 bed, he describes him as being pleased, that while 
 his soul returned to him who made it, his body 
 should incorporate with the great mother of all 
 things, and by that means become beneficial to all 
 mankind. For which reason he gives his sons a 
 
 * Xenoph. De Cyri Instit., lib. viii, cap. vii, ec. 3, edit. J. A 
 Em. 8vo., tom. i, p. 550. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. one 
 
 Wo. 170.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1711. 
 
 positive order not to enshrine it in gold or silver, 
 but to lay it in the earth as soon as the life was 
 gone out of it. 
 
 An instance of such an overflowing of hu¬ 
 manity, such an exuberant love to mankind, 
 could not have entered into the imagination of 
 a writer, who had not a soul filled with great 
 ideas, and a general benevolence to mankind. 
 
 In that celebrated passage of Sallust, where 
 Gassar and Cato are placed in such beautiful, but 
 opposite lights,* Caesar’s character is chiefly 
 made up of good-nature, as it showed itself in 
 all its forms toward his friends or his enemies, 
 his servants or dependents, the guilty or the 
 distressed. As for Cato’s character, it is ra¬ 
 ther awful than amiable. Justice seems most 
 agreeable to the nature of God, and mercy to that 
 ot man. A being who has nothing to pardon in 
 himself, may reward every man according to his 
 works; but he whose very best actions must be 
 seen with grains of allowance, cannot be too 
 mild, moderate, and forgiving. For this reason, 
 among all the monstrous characters in human 
 nature, there is none so odious, nor indeed so 
 exquisitely ridiculous, as that of a rigid, severe 
 temper in a worthless man. 
 
 . T , s P aI "t of good-nature, however, which con¬ 
 sists in the pardoning and overlooking of faults, 
 is to be exercised only in doing ourselves justice, 
 and that too in the ordinary commerce and occur¬ 
 rences of life : for in the public administrations 
 of justice, mercy to one may be cruelty to 
 others. J 
 
 It is grown almost into a maxim, that good- 
 natured men are not always men of the most wit. 
 This observation, in my opinion, has no founda¬ 
 tion in nature. The greatest wits I have con¬ 
 versed with, are men eminent for their humanity. 
 
 I take, therefore, this remark to have been occa¬ 
 sioned by two reasons. First, because ill-nature 
 among ordinary observers passes for wit. A 
 spiteful saying gratifies so many little passions 
 in those who hear it, that it generally meets with 
 a good reception. The laugh rises upon it, and 
 the man who utters it is looked upon as a shrewd 
 satirist. This may be one reason, why a great 
 many pleasant companions appear so surprisingly 
 dull, when they have endeavored to be merry 3 in 
 print ; the public being more just than private 
 clubs or assemblies, in distinguishing between 
 what is wit, and what is ill-nature. 
 
 Another reason why the good-natured man may 
 sometimes bring his wit in question, is, perhaps, 
 because he is apt to be moved with compassion 
 tor those misfortunes or infirmities, which another 
 would turn into ridicule, and by that means gain 
 the reputation of a wit. The ill-natured man, 
 though but of equal parts, gives himself a larger 
 field to expatiate in ; he exposes those failings in 
 human nature which the other would cast a vail 
 over, laughs at vices which the other either ex¬ 
 cuses or conceals, gives utterance to reflections 
 which the other stifles, falls indifferently upon 
 triends or enemies, exposes the person who has 
 obliged him, and in short, sticks at nothing that 
 may establish his character as a wit. It is no 
 wonder, therefore, that he succeeds in it better 
 thmi the man of humanity,+ as a person who 
 makes use of indirect methods is more likely to 
 grow rich than the fair trader.—L. 
 
 * Sallust. Bell. Catil., c. liv. 
 
 f If Dr. Swift’s wit was to be subjected to this scrutiny it 
 would be circumscribed within a very narrow compass The 
 chief source from which it sprung was the indignation that 
 gnawed his heart. 
 
 In amoro lime omnia insunt vitia: injuria?, 
 feuspiciones, iniuikitke, iuduciaj, 
 
 Bellum, pax rursum - Ter. Eun., act i, sc. 1. 
 
 In love are all these ills: suspicions, quarrels, 
 rongs, reconcilements, war, and peace again —Coi.eman. 
 
 Upon looking over the letters of my female 
 coi lespondents, I find several from women com 
 plaining of jealous husbands, and at the same 
 time protesting their own innocence ; and desir¬ 
 ing my advice on this occasion. I shall therefore 
 take this subject into my consideration ; and the 
 "; illjn8 jy> because I find that the Marquis 
 of Halifax, who in his Advice to a Daughter, lias 
 instructed a wife how to behave herself & toward a 
 false, an intemperate, a choleric, a sullen, a covet¬ 
 ous or a silly husband, has not spoken one word 
 of a jealous husband. 
 
 “ Jealousy is that pain which a man feels from 
 the apprehension that he is not equally beloved 
 by the person whom he entirely loves.” Now 
 because our inward passions and inclinations can 
 never make themselves visible, it is impossible 
 for a jealous man to be thoroughly cured of his 
 suspicions. His thoughts hang at best in a state 
 of doubtfulness and uncertainty ; and are never 
 capable of receiving any satisfaction on the ad¬ 
 vantageous side; so that his inquiries are most 
 successful when they discover nothing. His 
 pleasure arises from his disappointments, and his 
 life is spent in pursuit of a secret that destroys 
 his happiness if he chance to find it. 
 
 . -Am aident love is always a strong ingredient 
 m his passion; for the same affection which stirs 
 up the jealous man’s desires, and gives the party 
 beloved so beautiful a figure in his imagination, 
 makes him believe she kindles the same passion 
 in others, and appears as amiable to all beholders. 
 And as jealousy thus arises from an extraordinary 
 love, it is of so delicate a nature, that it scorns to 
 take up with anything less than an equal return 
 of love. Not the warmest expressions of affec¬ 
 tion, the softest and most tender hypocrisy are 
 able to give any satisfaction where we are not 
 persuaded that the affection is real, and the satis¬ 
 faction mutual. For the jealous man wishes him¬ 
 self a kind of deity to the person he loves. He 
 would be the only pleasure of her senses, the 
 employment of her thoughts, and is angry at 
 everything she admires, or takes delight in, be¬ 
 side himself. 
 
 Phaedra’s request to his mistress, upon his leav¬ 
 ing her for three days, is inimitably beautiful and 
 natural: 
 
 Cum milite isto praesens, absens ut sies: 
 
 Dies noctesque me ames: me desideres: ' 
 
 Me somnies: me expectes: de me cogites: 
 
 Me speres: me te obleetes: mecurn tota sis: 
 
 Meus fac sis postremo animus, quando ego sum tuus. 
 
 Ter. Eun., act i, sc. 2. 
 
 Be with yon soldier present, as if absent. 
 
 All night and day love me: still long for me: 
 
 Dream, ponder still “ on ” me: wish, hope for me 
 Delight in me: be all in all with me: 
 
 Give your whole heart, for mine’s all yours, to me. 
 
 Coleman. 
 
 The jealous man’s disease is of so malignant a 
 nature, that it converts all it takes into its own 
 nourishment. A cool behavior sets him on the 
 rack, and is interpreted as an instance of aversion 
 or indifference ; a fond one raises his suspicions, 
 and looks too much like dissimulation and arti¬ 
 fice. If the person he loves be cheerful, her 
 thoughts must be employed on another; and if 
 sad, she is certainly thinking on himself. In 
 short, there is no word or gesture so insignificant, 
 
 I but it gives him new hints, feeds his suspicions. 
 
224 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 and furnishes him with fresh matters of discovery: 
 so that if we consider the effects of his passion, one 
 would rather think it proceeded from an invete¬ 
 rate hatred, than an excess of love; for certainly 
 none can meet with more disquietude and unea¬ 
 siness than a suspected wife, if w T e except the 
 jealous husband. 
 
 But the great unhappiness of this passion is, 
 that it naturally tends to alienate the affection 
 which it is so solicitous to engross; and that for 
 these two reasons, because it lays too great a con¬ 
 straint on the words and actions of the suspected 
 person, and at the same time shows you have no 
 honorable opinion of her; both of which are 
 strong motives to aversion. 
 
 Nor is this the worst effect of jealousy; for it 
 often draws after it a more fatal train of conse¬ 
 quences, and makes the person you suspect guilty 
 of the very crimes you are so much afraid of. 
 It is very natural for such who are treated ill and 
 upbraided falsely, to find out an intimate friend 
 that will hear their complaints, condole their 
 sufferings, and endeavor to soothe and assuage 
 their secret resentments. Beside, jealousy puts 
 a woman often in mind of an ill thing that she 
 would not otherwise perhaps have thought of, 
 and fills her imagination with such an unlucky 
 idea, as in time grows familiar, excites desire, 
 and loses all the shame and horror which might 
 at first attend it. Nor is it a wonder if she who 
 suffers wrongfully in a man’s opinion of her, and 
 has therefore nothing to forfeit in his esteem, re¬ 
 solves to give him reason for his suspicions, and 
 to enjoy the pleasure of the crime, since she must 
 undergo the ignominy. Such probably were the 
 considerations that directed the wise man in his 
 advice to husbands : “ Be not jealous over the 
 wife of thy bosom, and teach her not an evil 
 lesson against thyself.”* 
 
 And here among the other torments which this 
 passion produces, we may usually observe that 
 none are greater mourners than jealous men, 
 when the person who provokes their jealousy is 
 taken from them. Then it is that their love 
 breaks out furiously, and throws off all the mix¬ 
 tures of suspicion which choked and smothered 
 it before. The beautiful parts of the character 
 rise uppermost in the jealous husband’s memory, 
 and upbraid him with the ill-usage of so divine a 
 creature as was once in his possession ; while all 
 the little imperfections, that were before so un¬ 
 easy to him, wear off from his remembrance, and 
 show themselves no more. 
 
 We may see by what has been said, that jeal¬ 
 ousy takes the deepest root in men of amorous 
 dispositions ; and of these we find three kinds 
 who are most overrun with it. 
 
 The first are those who are conscious to them¬ 
 selves of any infirmity, whether it be weakness, 
 old age, deformity, ignorance, or the like. These 
 men are so well acquainted with the unamiable 
 part of themselves, that they have not the con¬ 
 fidence to think they are really beloved; and are 
 so distrustful of their own merits, that all fond¬ 
 ness towards them puts them out of countenance, 
 and looks like a jest upon their persons. They 
 grow suspicious on their first looking in a glass, 
 and are stung with jealousy at the si^ht of a 
 wrinkle. A handsome fellow immediately alarms 
 them, and everything that looks young, or gay, 
 turns their thoughts upon their wives. 
 
 A second sort of men, who are most liable to 
 this passion, are those of cunning, wary, and dis¬ 
 trustful tempers. It is a fault very justly found 
 in histories composed by politicians, that they 
 
 leave nothing to chance or humor, but are still 
 for deriving every action from some plot or con¬ 
 trivance, for drawing up a perpetual scheme of 
 causes and events, and preserving a constant cor¬ 
 respondence between the camp and the council- 
 table. And thus it happens in the affairs of love 
 with men of too refined a thought. They put a 
 construction on a look, and find out a design in a 
 smile ; they give new senses and significations 
 to words and actions; and are ever tormenting 
 themselves with fancies of their own raising. 
 They generally act in a disguise themselves, and 
 therefore mistake all outward shows and appear¬ 
 ances for hypocrisy in others ; so that I believe 
 no men see less of the truth and reality of things, 
 than these great refiners upon incidents, who are 
 so wonderfully subtile and over-wise in their con¬ 
 ceptions. 
 
 Now what these men fancy they know of wo¬ 
 men by reflection, your lewd and vicious men 
 believe they have learned by experience. They 
 have seen the poor husband so misled by tricks 
 and artifices, and in the midst of his inquiries 
 so lost and bewildered in a crooked intrigue, that 
 they still suspect an underplot in every female 
 action ; and especially where they see any re¬ 
 semblance in the behavior of two persons, are 
 apt to fancy it proceeds from the same design in 
 both. These men therefore bear hard upon the 
 suspected party, pursue her close through all her 
 turnings and windings, and are too well acquaint¬ 
 ed with the chase, to be flung off by any false 
 steps, or doubles. Beside, their acquaintance 
 and conversation has lain wholly among the vin 
 cious part of womankind, and therefore it is no 
 wonder they censure all alike, and look upon the 
 whole sex as a species of impostors. But if, not¬ 
 withstanding their private experience, they can 
 get over these prejudices, and entertain a favor¬ 
 able opinion of some women ; yet their own loose 
 desires will stir up new suspicions from another 
 side, and make them believe all men subject to 
 the same inclinations with themselves. 
 
 Whether these or other motives are most predo 
 minant, we learn from the modern histories of 
 America, as well as from our own experience in 
 this part of the world, that jealousy is no northern 
 passion, but rages most in those nations that lie 
 nearest the influence of the sun. It is a misfor¬ 
 tune for a woman to be born between the tropics ; 
 for there lie the hottest regions of jealousy, which 
 as you come northward cools all along with the 
 climate, till you scarce meet with anything like 
 it in the polar circle. Our own nation is very 
 temperately situated in this respect; and if we 
 meet with some few disordered with the violence 
 of this passion, they are not the proper growth 
 of our country, but are many degrees nearer the 
 sun in their constitutions than in their climate. 
 
 After this frightful account of jealousy, and the 
 
 E ersons who are most subject to it, it will be 
 ut fair to show by what means the passion may 
 be best allayed, and those who are possessed 
 with it set at ease. Other faults indeed are not 
 under the wife’s jurisdiction, and should, if pos¬ 
 sible, escape her observation ; but jealousy calls 
 upon her particularly for its cure, and deserves 
 all her art and application in the attempt. Be¬ 
 side she has this for her encouragement, that her 
 endeavors will be always pleasing, and that she 
 will still find the affection of her husband rising 
 toward her in proportion as his doubts and sus¬ 
 picions vanish; for, as we have seen all along, 
 there is so great a mixture of love and jealousy as 
 is well worth the separating. But this shall be 
 the subject of another paper.—L. 
 
 * Ecclesiasticus, Lx, 1. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 225 
 
 No 171.J SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1711. 
 
 Credula res amor est—- 
 
 Ovid. Met., vii, 826. 
 
 Love is a credulous passion. 
 
 Having in my yesterday’s paper discovered the 
 nature of jealousy, and pointed out the persons 
 who are most subject to it, I must here apply my¬ 
 self to my fair correspondents, who desire to live 
 well with a jealous husband, and to ease his mind 
 of its unjust suspicions. 
 
 The first rule I shall propose to be observed is, 
 that you never seem to dislike in another what 
 the jealous man is himself guilty of, or to admire 
 anything in which he himself does not excel. A 
 jealous man is very quick in his applications ; he 
 knows how to find a double edge in an invective, 
 and to draw a satire on himself out of a panegyric 
 on another. He does not trouble himself to con¬ 
 sider the person, but to direct the character ; and 
 is secretly pleased or confounded, as he finds more 
 or less of nimself in it. The commendation of 
 anything in another stirs up his jealousy, as it 
 shows you have a value for others beside himself; 
 but the commendation of that, which he himself 
 wants, inflames him more, as it shows that in 
 some respects you prefer others before him. 
 Jealousy is admirably described in this view by 
 Horace in his ode to Lydia: 
 
 Quum tu, Lydia, Telephi 
 Cervicem roseam, et cerea Telephi 
 Laudas brachia, veb mecum 
 Fervens difficili bile tumet jecur: 
 
 Tunc nec mens mihi. nec color 
 Certa sede manet; humor et in genas 
 Furtim labitur, arguens 
 Quam lentis peditus macerer ignibus. 
 
 1 Od., xiii, 1. 
 
 When Telephus his youthful charms, 
 
 His rosy neck and winding arms, 
 
 With endless rapture you recite, 
 
 And in the pleasing name delight; 
 
 My heart inflamed by jealous heats, 
 
 With numberless resentments beats: 
 
 From my pale cheek the color flies, 
 
 And all the man within me dies: 
 
 By turns my hidden grief appears 
 In rising sighs and falling tears. 
 
 That show too well the warm desires, 
 
 The silent, slow, consuming fires, 
 
 Which on my inmost vitals prey, 
 
 And melt my very soul away. 
 
 The jealous man is not indeed angry if you dis¬ 
 like another; but if you find those faults which 
 are to be found in his own character, you discover 
 not only your dislike of another but of himself. 
 In short, he is so desirous of engrossing all your 
 love, that he is grieved at the want of any charm, 
 which he believes has power to raise it; and if lie 
 finds by your censures on others that he is not so 
 agreeable in your opinion as he might be, he natu¬ 
 rally concludes you could love him better if he 
 had other qualifications, and that by consequence 
 your affection does not rise so high as he thinks it 
 ought. If therefore his temper be grave or sullen, 
 you must not be too much pleased with a jest, or 
 transported with anvthing that is gay and divert- 
 ing. If his beauty be none of the best, you must 
 be a professed admirer of prudence, or any other 
 quality he is master of, or at least vain enough to 
 j think he is. 
 
 In the next place, you must be sure to be free 
 and open in your conversation with him, and to 
 let m light upon your actions, to unravel all your 
 designs, and discover every secret, however triflino- 
 or indifferent. A jealous husband has a particu¬ 
 lar aversion to winks and whispers ; and if he 
 does not see to the bottom of everything, will be 
 sure to go beyond it in his fears and suspicions. 
 He will always expect to be your chief confidant ; 
 and where he finds himself kept out of a secret’ 
 
 will believe there is more in it than there should 
 be. And here it is of great concern, that you pre¬ 
 serve the character of your sincerity uniform and 
 of a piece ; for if he once finds a false gloss put 
 upon any single action, he quickly suspects all 
 the rest; his working imagination immediately 
 takes a false hint, and runs off with it into several 
 remote consequences, till he has proved very inge¬ 
 nious in working out his own misery. 
 
 If both these methods fail, the best way will be 
 to let him see you are much cast down and afflicted 
 for the ill opinion he entertains of you, and the 
 disquietudes he himself suffers for your sake. 
 There are many who take a kind of barbarous 
 pleasure in the jealousy of those who love them, 
 that insult over an aching heart, and triumph in 
 their charms, which are able to excite so much 
 uneasiness: 
 
 Ardeat ipsa licet, tormentis gaudet amantis. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 208. 
 
 Though equal pains her peace of mind destroy, 
 
 A lover’s torments give her spiteful joy. 
 
 But these often carry the humor so far, till their 
 affected coldness and indifference quite kills all 
 the fondness of a lover, and are then sure to meet 
 in their turn with all the contempt and scorn that 
 is due to so insolent a behavior. On the contrary, 
 it is very probable a melancholy, dejected carriage’ 
 the usual effects of injured innocence, may soften 
 the jealous husband into pity, make him sen¬ 
 sible of the wrong he does you, and work out of 
 his mind all those fears and suspicions that make 
 you both unhappy. At least it will have this 
 good effect, that he will keep his jealousy to him¬ 
 self, and repine in private, either because he is 
 sensible it is a weakness, and will therefore hide 
 it from your knowledge, or because he will be apt 
 to fear some ill effect it may produce in cooling 
 your love toward him, or diverting it to another. 
 
 There is still another secret that can never fail, 
 if you can once get it believed, and which is often 
 practiced by women of greater cunning than vir¬ 
 tue. This is to change sides for a while with the 
 jealous man, and to turn his own passion upon 
 himself; to take some occasion of growing jealous 
 of him, and to follow the example he himself hath 
 set you. This counterfeited jealousy will bring 
 him a great deal of pleasure, if he thinks it real ; 
 for he knows experimentally how much love goes 
 along with this passion, and will beside feel some- 
 thing like the satisfaction of a revenge, in seeing 
 you undergo all his own tortures. But this, in¬ 
 deed, is an artifice so difficult, and at the same 
 time so disingenuous, that it ought never to be put 
 in practice but by such as have skill enough to 
 cover the deceit, and innocence to render it ex¬ 
 cusable. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with the story of 
 Herod and Mariamne, as I have collected it out 
 of Josephus;* which may serve almost as an ex¬ 
 ample to whatever can be said on this subject. 
 
 Mariamne had all the charms that beauty, birth, 
 wit, and youth, could give a woman, and Herod 
 all the love that such charms are able to raise in a 
 warm and amorous disposition. In the midst of 
 this his fondness for Mariamne, he put her brotliei 
 to death, as he did her father not many years 
 after. The barbarity of the action was represented 
 to Mark Antony, who immediately summoned 
 Herod into Egypt, to answer for the crime that 
 was there laid to his charge. Herod attributed 
 the summons to Antony’s desire of Mariamne, 
 whom, therefore, before his departure, he gave 
 into the custody of his uncle Joseph, with private 
 
 * Antiquities of the Jews, book xv, chap. 3, sect. 6, 6,9, 
 chap. 7, sect. 1, 2, etc. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 226 
 
 orders to put her to death, if any such violence 
 was' offered to himself. This Joseph was much 
 delighted with Mariamne’s conversation, and en¬ 
 deavored, with all his art and rhetoric, to set out 
 the excess of Herod’s passion for her; but when 
 he still found her cold and incredulous, he incon¬ 
 siderately told her, as a certain instance of her 
 lord’s affection, the private orders he had left be¬ 
 hind him, which plainly showed, according to 
 Joseph’s interpretation, that he could neither live 
 nor die without her. This barbarous instance of 
 a wild unreasonable passion, quite put out, for a 
 time, those little remains of affection she still had 
 for her lord. Her thoughts were so wholly taken 
 up with the cruelty of his orders, that she could 
 not consider the kindness that produced them, 
 and therefore represented him in her imagination, 
 rather under the frightful idea of a murderer than 
 a lover. 
 
 Herod was at length acquitted and dismissed 
 by Mark Antony, when his soul was all in flames 
 for his Mariamne ; but before their meeting he was 
 not a little alarmed at the report he had heard of 
 his uncle’s conversation ana familiarity with her 
 in his absence. This therefore was the first dis¬ 
 course he entertained her with, in which she found 
 it no easy matter to quiet his suspicions. But at 
 last he appeared so well satisfied of her innocence, 
 that from reproaches and wranglings he fell to tears 
 and embraces. Both of them wept very tenderly 
 at their reconciliation, and Herod poured out his 
 whole soul to her in the warmest protestations of 
 love and constancy; when amidst all his sighs 
 and languishings she asked him, whether the pri¬ 
 vate orders he left with his uncle Joseph were an 
 instance of such an inflamed affection. The jea¬ 
 lous king was immediately roused at so unex- 
 ected a question, and concluded his uncle must 
 ave been too familiar with her, before he would 
 have discovered such a secret. In short, he put 
 his uncle to death, and very difficultly prevailed 
 upon himself to spare Mariamne. 
 
 After this he was forced on a second journey 
 into Egypt, when he committed his lady to the 
 care of Sohemus, with the same private orders he 
 had before given his uncle, if any mischief befell 
 himself. In the meanwhile Mariamne so won 
 upon Sohemus by her presents and obliging con¬ 
 versation, that she drew all the secret from him, 
 with which Herod had intrusted him ; so that after 
 his return, when he flew to her with all the tran¬ 
 sports of joy and love, she received him coldly 
 with sighs and tears, and all the marks of indiffe¬ 
 rence and aversion. This reception so stirred up 
 his indignation, that he had certainly slain her 
 with his own hands, had not he feared he himself 
 should have become the greater sufferer by it. It 
 was not long after this, when he had another vio¬ 
 lent return of love upon him : Mariamne was 
 therefore sent for to him, whom he endeavored to 
 soften and reconcile with all possible conjugal car¬ 
 esses and endearments ; but she declined his em¬ 
 braces, and answered all his fondness with bitter 
 invectives for the death of her father, and her 
 brother. This behavior so incensed Herod, that he 
 very hardly refrained from striking her; when in 
 the heat of their quarrel there came in a witness, 
 suborned by some of Mariamne’s enemies, who 
 accused her to the king of a design to poison him. 
 Herod was now prepared to hear ’anything in her 
 rejudice, and immediately ordered her servant to 
 e stretched upon the rack; who in the extremity 
 of his torture confessed, that his mistress’s aver¬ 
 sion to the king arose from something Sohemus 
 had told her; but as for any design of poisoning, 
 he utterly disowned the least knowledge of it. 
 This confession quickly proved fatal to Sohemus, 
 
 who now lay under the same suspicions and sen¬ 
 tence that Joseph had before him, on the like oc¬ 
 casion. Nor would Herod rest here; but accused 
 her with great vehemence of a design upon his 
 life, and, by his authority with the judges, had 
 her publicly condemned and executed. Herod 
 soon after her death grew melancholy and dejected, 
 retiring from the public administration of affairs 
 into a solitary forest, and there abandoning him¬ 
 self to all the black considerations, which natu¬ 
 rally arise from a passion made up of love, re¬ 
 morse, pity, and despair. He used to rave for his 
 Mariamne, and to call upon her in his distracted 
 fits: and in all probability would soon have fol¬ 
 lowed her, had not his thoughts been seasonably 
 called off from so sad an object by public storms, 
 which at that time very nearly threatened him.— L. 
 
 No. 172.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1711. 
 
 Non solum scientia, qu® est remota a justitia, calliditaa 
 potius quam sapientia est appellanda; verum etiam animus 
 paratus ad periculum, si sua cupiditate, non utilitate com- 
 muni, impellitur, audaciae potius nomen habeat, quam forti- 
 tudinis- Plato apud Tull. 
 
 As knowledge, without justice, ought to be called cunning, 
 rather than wisdom; so a mind prepared to meet danger, if 
 excited by its own eagerness, and not the public good, de¬ 
 serves the name of audacity, rather than that of fortitude. 
 
 There can be no greater injury to human so¬ 
 ciety than that good talents among the men should 
 be held honorable to those who are endowed with 
 them without any regard how they are applied. 
 The gifts of nature and accomplishments of art 
 are valuable but as they are exerted in the interest 
 of virtue, or governed by the rules of honor. We 
 ought to abstract our minds from the observation 
 of an excellence in those we converse with till, we 
 have taken some notice, or received some good in¬ 
 formation of the disposition of their minds: other¬ 
 wise the beauty of their persons, or the charms of 
 their wit, may make us fond of those whom our 
 reason and judgment will tell us we ought to 
 abhor. 
 
 When we suffer ourselves to be thus carried 
 away by mere beauty or mere wit, Omniamante, 
 with all her vice, will bear away as much of our 
 good will as the most innocent virgin, or discreet- 
 est matron; and there cannot be a more abject 
 slavery in this world, than to dote upon what we 
 think we ought to condemn. Yet this must be 
 our condition in all the parts of life, if we suffer 
 ourselves to approve anything but what tends to 
 the promotion of what is good and honorable. If 
 we would take true pains with ourselves to con¬ 
 sider all things by the light of reason and justice, 
 though a man were in the height of youth and 
 amorous inclinations, he would look upon a co¬ 
 quette with the same contempt, or indifference, as 
 he would upon a coxcomb. The wanton carriage 
 in a woman would disappoint her of the admira¬ 
 tion she aims at; and the vain dress or discourse 
 of a man would destroy the comeliness of his 
 shape, or goodness of his understanding. I say 
 the goodness of his understanding; for it is no 
 less common to see men of sense commence cox¬ 
 combs, than beautiful women become immodest. 
 When this happens in either, the favor we are 
 naturally inclined to give to the good qualities 
 they have from nature should abate in proportion. 
 But however just it is to measure the value of men 
 by the application of their talents, and not by the 
 eminence of those qualities abstracted frora their 
 use: I say, however just such a way of judging is, 
 in all ages as well as this, the contrary has pre¬ 
 vailed upon the generality of mankind. How 
 many lewd devices have been preserved from one 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 age to another, which had perished as soon as they 
 were made, if painters and sculptors had been 
 esteemed as much for ,the purpose as the execution 
 of then designs! 1 Modest and well-governed im¬ 
 aginations have by this means lost the represen- 
 tation of ten thousand charming portraitures, 
 filled with images of innate truth, generous zeal, 
 courageous faith, and tender humanity; instead 
 of which satyrs, furies, and monsters are recom- 
 mended by those arts to a shameful eternity 
 1 he unjust application of laudable talents is 
 tolerated in the general opinion of men, not only 
 in such cases as are here mentioned, but also in 
 matters which concern ordinary life. If a lawyer 
 were to be esteemed only as he uses his parts in 
 eontendmg for justice, and were immediately des¬ 
 picable when he appeared in a cause which he 
 could not but know was an unjust one, how honor¬ 
 able would his character be ? And how honorable 
 is it. in such among us, who follow the profession 
 no otherwise, than as laboring to protect the in¬ 
 jured, to subdue the oppressor, to imprison the 
 careless debtor, and do right to the painful arti- 
 “Cer ? But many of this excellent character are 
 overlooked by the greater number; who affect 
 covering a weak place in a client’s title, diverting 
 the course of an inquiry, or finding a skillful 
 refuge to palliate a falsehood : yet it is still called 
 eloquence in the latter, though thus unjustly em¬ 
 ployed : but resolution in an assassin is accord- 
 ing to leason quite as laudable, as knowledge and 
 wisdom exercised in the defense of an ill cause. 
 
 Were the intention steadfastly considered as the 
 measure of approbation, all falsehood would soon 
 be out of countenance; and an address in impos- 
 mg upon mankind, would be as contemptible in 
 one state of life as another. A couple of cour¬ 
 tiers making professions of esteem, would make 
 the same figure after a breach of promise, as two 
 knights of the post convicted of perjury. But 
 conversation is fallen so low in point of morality, 
 that—as they say in a bargain, “let the buyer 
 look to it so in friendship, he is the man in 
 danger who is most apt to believe. He is the 
 more likely to suffer in the commerce, who begins 
 with the obligation of being the more ready to 
 enter into it. J 
 
 But those men only are truly great, who place 
 their ambition rather in acquiring to themselves 
 the conscience of worthy enterprises, than in the 
 prospect of glory which attends them. These ex¬ 
 alted spirits would rather be secretly the authors 
 of events which are serviceable to mankind, than, 
 without being such, to have the public fame of it. 
 Where therefore an eminent merit is robbed by 
 artifice or detraction, it does but increase by such 
 endeavors of its enemies. The impotent pains 
 which are taken to sully it, or diffuse it among a 
 crowd to the injury of a single person, will na¬ 
 turally produce the contrary effect; the fire will 
 blaze out, and burn up all that attempt to smother 
 what they cannot extinguish. 
 
 There is but one thing necessary to keep the 
 possession of true glory, which is, to hear the 
 opposers of it with patience, and preserve the 
 virtue by which it was acquired. When a 
 man is thoroughly persuaded that he ought neither 
 to admiie, wish for, or pursue anything but what 
 is exactly his duty, it is not in the power of sea¬ 
 sons, persons, or accidents, to diminish his value 
 He only is a great man who can neglect the ap¬ 
 plause of the multitude, and enjoy himself inde¬ 
 pendent of its favor. This is indeed an arduous 
 task; but it should comfort a glorious spirit, that 
 it is the nighest step to which human nature can 
 arrive. Triumph, applause, acclamation, are dear 
 to the mind of man; but it is still a more exqui- 
 
 227 
 
 ; site delight to say to yourself, you have done well, 
 j than to hear the whole human race pronounce you 
 glonous, except you yourself can join with them 
 in vour own reflections. A mind thus equal and 
 uniform may be deserted by little fashionable ad¬ 
 mirers and followers, but will ever be had in rev¬ 
 erence by souls like itself. The branches of the 
 oak endure all the seasons of the year, though its 
 leaves fall.off in autumn; and these too will be 
 restored with the returning spring._T 
 
 Ho. 173.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1711. 
 
 ~—^Remove fera monstra, tuaique 
 Saxificos vultus, quacunque ea, tolle Medusa. 
 
 Ovid. Met., v, 215. 
 
 Hence with those monstrous features, and, 0! spare 
 That Gorgon’s look and petrifying stare.—P. 
 
 In a late paper I mentioned the project of an 
 ingenious author for the erecting of several handi¬ 
 craft prizes to be contended for by our British ar¬ 
 tisans, and the influence they might have toward 
 the improvement of our several manufactures. I 
 have since that been very much surprised by the 
 following advertisement, which I find in the Post¬ 
 boy of the 11th instant, and again repeated in the 
 Postboy of the 15th : 
 
 “ On the 9th of October next will be run for upon 
 Colsehill-heath, in Warwickshire, a plate of six 
 guineas value, three heats, by any horse, mare, or 
 gelding, that hath not won above the value of 5/.• 
 the winning horse to be sold for 10/., to carry ten 
 stone weight, if fourteen hands high; if above or 
 under to carry or be allowed weight for inches, 
 and to be entered Friday the 5th at the Swan 
 m Colsehill, before six in the evening. Also a 
 plate of less value to be run for by asses. The 
 same day a gold ring to be grinned for by men.” 
 
 The first of these diversions that is to be ex¬ 
 hibited by the 10/. race-liorses, may probably have 
 its use; but the two last, in which the asses and 
 men are concerned, seem to me altogether extraor¬ 
 dinary and unaccountable. Why they should 
 keep running asses at Colsehill, or how making 
 mouths turn to account in Warwickshire, more 
 than in any other parts of England, I cannot com¬ 
 prehend. I have looked over all the Olympic 
 games, and do not find anything in them like an 
 ass-race, or a match at grinning. However it be, 
 
 I am informed that several asses are now kept in 
 body-clothes, and sweated every morning upon 
 the heath; and that all the country fellows within 
 ten miles of the Swan grin an hour or two in 
 their glasses every morning, in order to qualify 
 themselves for the 9th of October. The prize 
 which is proposed to be grinned for has raised 
 such an ambition among the common people of 
 out-grinning one another, that many very discern¬ 
 ing persons are afraid it should spoil most of the 
 faces in the county; and that a Warwickshire 
 man will be known by his grin, as Roman Catho¬ 
 lics imagine a Kentish man is by his tail. The 
 gold ring, which is made the prize of deformity, 
 is just the reverse of the golden apple that was 
 formerly made the prize of beauty, and should 
 carry for its posy the old motto inverted : 
 
 “ Detur tetriori, 
 
 Jf 
 
 Or, to accommodate it to the capacity of the com¬ 
 batants, 
 
 The frightfuH’st grinner 
 Be the winner. 
 
 In the meanwhile I would advise a Dutch 
 painter to be present at this great controversy of 
 faces, in order to make a collection of the most 
 remarkable grins that shall be there exhibited. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 228 
 
 I must not here omit an account which I lately 
 received of one of these grinning matches from a 
 gentleman, who, upon reading the above-men¬ 
 tioned advertisement, entertained a coffee-house 
 with the following narrative :—Upon the taking 
 of Namur, amidst other public rejoicings made 
 on that occasion, there was a gold ring given by 
 a whig justice of peace to be grinned for. The 
 first competitor that entered the lists was a black 
 swarthy Frenchman, who accidentally passed that 
 way; and being a man naturally of a withered 
 look, and hard features, promised himself good 
 success. He was placed upon a table in the great 
 point of view, and looking upon the company like 
 Milton’s Death, 
 
 Grinn’d horribly a ghastly smile:- 
 
 His muscles were so drawn together on each 
 side of his face, that he showed twenty teeth at a 
 grin, and put the country in some pain, lest a 
 foreigner should carry away the honor of the day; 
 but upon a farther trial they found he was master 
 only of the merry grin. 
 
 The next that mounted the table was a malcon¬ 
 tent in those days, and a great master in the whole 
 art of grinning, but particularly excelled in the 
 angry grin. He did his part so well, that he is 
 said to have made half a dozen women miscarry; 
 but the justice being apprised by one who stood 
 near him, that the fellow who grinned in his face 
 was a Jacobite, and being unwilling that a disaf¬ 
 fected person should win the gold ring, and be 
 looked upon as the best grinner in the country, he 
 ordered the oaths to be tendered unto him upon 
 his quitting the table, which the grinner refusing, 
 he was set aside as an unqiiaiified person. There 
 were several other grotesque figures that pre¬ 
 sented themselves, which it would be too tedious 
 to describe. I must not however omit a plow¬ 
 man, who lived in the further part of the country, 
 and being very lucky in a pair of long lantern- 
 jaws, wrung his face into such a hideous grimace, 
 that every feature of it appeared under a different 
 distortion. The whole company stood astonished 
 at such a complicated grin, and were ready to 
 assign the prize to him, had it not been proved 
 by one of his antagonists, that he had practiced 
 with verjuice for some days before, and had a 
 crab found upon him at the very time of grinning; 
 upon which the best judges of grinning declared 
 it as their opinion, that he was not to be looked 
 upon as a fair grinner, and thei'efore ordered him 
 to be set aside as a cheat. 
 
 The prize, it seems, at length fell upon a cob¬ 
 bler, Giles Gorgon by name, who produced seve¬ 
 ral new grins of his own invention, having been 
 used to cut faces for many years together over his 
 last. At the very first grin he cast every human 
 feature out of his countenance, at the second he 
 became the face of a spout, at the third a baboon, 
 at the fourth the head of a bass viol, and at the 
 fifth a pair of nut-crackers. The whole assembly 
 wondered at his accomplishments, and bestowed 
 the ring on him unanimously; but what he esteem¬ 
 ed more than all the rest, a country wench, whom 
 he had wooed in vain for above five years before, 
 was so charmed with his grins, and the applauses 
 which he received on all sides, that she married 
 him the week following, and to this day wears 
 the prize upon her finger, the cobbler having 
 made use of it as his wedding-ring. 
 
 This paper might perhaps seem very imperti¬ 
 nent, if it grew serious in the conclusion. It 
 would nevertheless leave to the consideration of 
 those who are the patrons of this monstrous trial 
 of skill, whether or no they are not guilty, in 
 some measure, of an affront to their species, in 
 
 treating after this manner the “ human face 
 divine,” and turning that part of us, which has 
 so great an image impressed upon it, into the im¬ 
 age of a monkey; whether the raising such silly 
 competitions among the ignorant, proposing prizes 
 for such useless accomplishments, filling the com* 
 mon people’s heads with such senseless ambitions, 
 and inspiring them with such absurd ideas of su¬ 
 periority and pre-eminence has not in it something 
 immoral, as well as ridiculous.—L. 
 
 No. 174.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 19, 1711. 
 
 IIecc memini et victum frustra contendere Thyrsin. 
 
 Yirg. Eel., vii, 69. 
 
 The whole debate in memory I retain, 
 
 When Thyrsis argued warmly, but in vain.—P. 
 
 There is scarce anything more common than 
 animosities between parties that cannot subsist 
 but by their agreement: this was well represented 
 in the sedition of the members of the human body 
 in the old Roman fable.* It is often the case of 
 lesser confederate states against a superior power, 
 which are hardly held together though their una- 
 nimity is necessary for their common safety ; and 
 this is always the case of the landed and trading 
 interests of Great Britain: the trader is fed by 
 the product of the land, and the landed man can¬ 
 not be clothed but by the skill of the trader; and 
 yet those interests are ever jarring. 
 
 We had last winter an instance of this at our 
 club, in Sir Roger de Coverley and Sir Andrew 
 Freeport, between whom there is generally a con¬ 
 stant, though friendly, opposition of opinions. It 
 happened that one of the company, in an histori¬ 
 cal discourse, was observing that Carthaginian 
 faith was a proverbial phrase to intimate breach 
 of leagues. Sir Roger said it could hardly be 
 otherwise : that the Carthaginians were the greatest 
 traders in the world; and as gain is the chief end 
 of such a people, they never pursue any other; 
 the means to it are never regarded : they will, if it 
 comes easily, get money honestly; but if not, they 
 will not scruple to attain it by fraud, or cozenage: 
 and indeed, what is the whole business of the 
 trader’s account, but to overreach him who trusts 
 to his memory ? But were that not so, what can 
 there great and noble be expected from him whose 
 attention is forever fixed upon balancing his 
 books, and watching over his expenses? And at 
 best, let frugality and parsimony be the virtues of 
 the merchant, how much is his punctual dealing 
 below a gentleman’s charity to the poor, or hospi¬ 
 tality among his neighbors! 
 
 Captain Sentry observed Sir Andrew very dili¬ 
 gent in hearing Sir Roger, and had a mind to turn 
 the discourse, by taking notice—in general, from 
 the highest to the lowest parts of human society, 
 there was a secret, though unjust way, among 
 men, of indulging the seeds of ill-nature and envy, 
 by comparing their own state of life to that 
 of another, and grudging the approach of their 
 neighbor to their own happiness; and, on the 
 other side, he, who is less at his ease, repines at 
 the other, who he thinks has unjustly the advant¬ 
 age over him. Thus the civil and military lists 
 look upon each other with much ill-nature ; the 
 soldier repines at the courtier’s power, and the 
 courtier rallies the soldier’s honor ; or, to come 
 to lower instances, the private men in the horse 
 and foot of an army, the carmen and coachmen in 
 the city streets, mutually look upon each other 
 with ill-will, when they are in competition for 
 quarters, or the way in their respective motions. 
 
 * Livii. Hist. Dec., I, lib. ii, cap. ii. 
 

 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 U 
 
 It is very well, good captain,” interrupted Sir 
 Andreev: vo u may attempt to turn the discourse 
 it you think fit; but I must however have a word 
 or two with Sir Roger, who, I see, thinks he has 
 paid me off, and been very severe upon the mer- 
 
 ^emhi'd Q- S R 1 not >” continued he, “ at this time 
 remind Sir Roger of the great and noble monu- 
 ments of charity and public spirit, which have 
 been erected by merchants since the reformation, 
 but at present content myself with what he allows 
 
 t a ffT ny ai ! d fru £ alit 7- If it were consist¬ 
 ent with the quality of so ancient a baronet as Sir 
 oger, to keep an account, or measure things by 
 the most infallible way, that of numbers, he 
 would prefer our parsimony to his hospitality. If 
 to drink so many hogsheads is to be hospitable, 
 e do not contend for the fame of that virtue : 
 Dut it would be worth while to consider whether 
 so many artificers, at work ten days together by 
 m y appointment, or so many peasants made merry 
 on bir Roger’s charge, are the men more obliged ? 
 
 I believe the families of the artificers will thank 
 me more than the household of the peasants shall 
 Mr Hoger. Sir Roger gives to his men, but I 
 place mine above the necessity or obligation of 
 my bounty I am in very little pain for the Ro¬ 
 man proverb upon the Carthaginian traders; the 
 Homans were their professed enemies; I am only 
 sorry no Carthaginian histories have come to our 
 ands ; we might have been taught perhaps by 
 them some proverbs against the Roman generosi¬ 
 ty, in righting, for, and bestowing, other people’s 
 goods. But since Sir Roger has taken occasion, 
 trom an old proverb, to be out of humor with 
 merchants, it should be no offense to offer one not 
 quite so old in their defense. When a man hap- 
 pens to break in Holland, they say of him, that 
 be has not kept true accounts.’ This phrase, 
 peiliaps, among us would appear a soft or humo¬ 
 rous way of speaking, but with that exact nation 
 it bears the highest reproach. For a man to be 
 mistaken m the calculation of his expense, in his 
 ability to answer future demands, or to be imper¬ 
 tinently sanguine in putting his credit to too great 
 adventure, are all instances of as much infamy, as 
 with gayer nations to be failing in courage, or 
 common honesty. 
 
 . y umbers are so much the measure of every¬ 
 thing that is valuable, that it is not possible to 
 demonstrate the success of any action, or the pru¬ 
 dence ot any undertaking without them. I say 
 this m answer to what Sir Roger is pleased to say, 
 tnat little that is truly noble can be expected from 
 one.who is ever poring on his cash-book, or bal- 
 ncmg ns accounts.’ When I have my returns 
 from abroad, I can tell to a shilling, by the help 
 o numbers the profit or loss by my adventure ; 
 but I ought also to be able to show that I had 
 reason for making it, either from my own experi- 
 ence, or that of other people, or from a reasonable 
 piesumption that my returns will be sufficient to 
 answer my expense and hazard; and this is never 
 to be done without the skill of numbers. For in- 
 
 wTfnV am *?, trade to Turkey, I ought before- 
 
 t0 kn ° w the , d «mand of our manufactures 
 there, as well as of their silks, in England and 
 the customary prices that are given ior both in 
 each country I ought to have a clear knowledge 
 of these matters beforehand, that I may presume 
 upon sufficient returns to answer the charge of the 
 
 fit f ! ed ° Ut f ’ the frei S ht and insurance 
 out and home, the customs to the Queen, and the 
 
 interest of my own money, and beside all these 
 expenses a reasonable profit to myself. How what 
 is there of scandal in this skill ? What has the 
 merchant done, that he should be so little in the 
 good graces of Sir Roger? He throws down no 
 
 229 
 
 man s inclosures, and tramples upon no man’s 
 corn ; he takes nothing from the industrious labo- 
 ier; he pays the poor man for his work ; he com¬ 
 municates lus profit with mankind ; by the prepa¬ 
 ration of his cargo, and the manufacture of liis 
 returns, he furnishes employment and subsistence 
 t° Skater numbers than the richest nobleman; and 
 even the nobleman is obliged to him for finding 
 out foreign markets for the produce of his estate, 
 and for making a great addition to his rents ; and 
 yet it is certain that none of all these things could 
 
 be done by lam without the exercise of his skill in 
 numbers. 
 
 “ Tkis i® tj 16 economy of the merchant; and the 
 conduct of the gentleman must be the same, un¬ 
 less, by scorning to be the steward, he resolves the 
 stewaid shall be the gentleman. The gentleman, 
 no more than the merchant, is able, without the 
 help of numbers, to account for the success of any 
 action, or the prudence of any adventure. If for 
 instance, the chase is his whole adventure, his 
 only returns must be the stag’s horns in the great 
 
 wr-H. * , tke £? x ’ s nose u P on the stable-door. 
 Without doubt Sir Roger knows the full value of 
 these returns ; and if beforehand he had compu¬ 
 ted the charges of the chase, a gentleman of his 
 discretion would certainly have hanged up all his 
 dogs ; he would never have brought back so many 
 fane lioises to the kennel; he would never have 
 gone so often, like a blast, over fields of corn. If 
 such too had been the conduct of all his ancestors, 
 he might truly have boasted at this day, that the 
 antiquity of his family had never been sullied by 
 a tiade ; a merchant had never been permitted with 
 his whole estate to purchase room for his picture 
 in the gallery of the Coverley’s, or to claim his 
 descent from the maid of honor. But it is very 
 happy for Sir Roger that the merchant paid so 
 deal for his ambition. It is the misfortune of 
 many other gentlemen to turn out of the seats of 
 their ancestors, to make way for such new masters 
 as have been more exact in their accounts than 
 themselves ; and certainly he deserves the estate 
 a great deal better who has got it by his industry, 
 than he who has lost it by his negligence.” 
 
 Ho. 175.] THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20,1711. 
 
 Proximus a tectis ignis defenditur a?gre._ 
 
 Ovid. Rem. Arm., y, 625. 
 
 To save your house from neighb’ring fire is hard.— Tate. 
 
 I shall this day entertain my readers with two 
 or three letters I have received from my corres¬ 
 pondents : the first discovers to me a species of 
 females which have hitherto escaped my notice 
 and is as follows : 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a young gentleman of a competent for¬ 
 tune, and a sufficient taste of learning, to spend 
 five or six hours every day very agreeably among 
 m y books. That I might have nothing to divert 
 me from my studies, and to avoid the noises of 
 coaches and chairmen, I have taken lodgings in a 
 veiy nanow street not far from Wliitehall ; but it 
 is my misfortune to be so posted, that my lodg¬ 
 ings are directly opposite to those of a Jezebel. 
 You are to know, Sir, that a Jezebel (so called by 
 the neighborhood from displaying her pernicious 
 charms at her window) appears constantly dressed 
 at her sash, and has a thousand little tricks and 
 fooleries, to attract the eyes of all the idle young 
 fellows in the neighborhood. I have seen more 
 than six persons at once from their several win¬ 
 dows observing the Jezebel I am now complaining 
 
I 
 
 230 THE SPE 
 
 of. I at first looked on her myself with the high¬ 
 est contempt, could divert myself with her airs for 
 half an hour, and afterward take up my Plutarch 
 with great tranquillity of mind ; but was a little 
 vexed to find that in less than a month she had 
 considerably stolen upon my time, so that I re¬ 
 solved to look at her no more. But the Jezebel, 
 who, as I suppose, might think it a diminution to 
 her honor to have the number of her gazers les¬ 
 sened, resolved not to part with me so, and began 
 to play so many new tricks at her window, that it 
 was impossible for me to forbear observing her. I 
 verily believe she put herself to the expense of a 
 new Avax baby on purpose to plague me ; she used 
 to dandle and play with this figure as imperti¬ 
 nently as if it had been a real child: sometimes 
 she Avotild let fall a glove or a pin-cushion in the 
 street, and shut or open her casement three or four 
 times in a minute. When I had almost weaned 
 myself from this, she came in her shift sleeves, 
 and dressed at the window. I had no way left, 
 but to let down the curtains, which I submitted 
 to, though it considerably darkened my room, and 
 was pleased to think that I had at last got the bet¬ 
 ter of her ; but was surprised the next morning to 
 hear her talking out of her window quite across 
 the street, Avith another woman that lodges over 
 me. I am since informed that she made her a 
 visit, and got acquainted with her within three 
 hours after the fall of my window-curtains. 
 
 “Sir, I am plagued every moment in the day, 
 one way or other, in my oAvn chambers ; and the 
 Jezebel has the satisfaction to know, that though 
 I am not looking at her, I am listening to her im¬ 
 pertinent dialogues, that pass over my head. I 
 would immediately change my lodgings, but that 
 I think it might look like a plain confession that 
 I am conquered ; and beside this, I am told that 
 most quarters of the town are infested with these 
 creatures. If they are so, I am sure it is such an 
 abuse, as a lover of learning and silence ought to 
 take notice of. “ I am, Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 I am afraid by some lines in this letter, that my 
 oung student is touched with a distemper Avhich 
 e hardly seems to dream of, and is too far gone 
 in it to receive advice. HoAvever, I shall animad¬ 
 vert in due time, on the abuse which he mentions, 
 having myself observed a nest of Jezebels near 
 the Temple, Avho make it their diversion to draw 
 up the eyes of young Templars, that at the same 
 time they may see them stumble in an unlucky 
 gutter Avhich runs undej the window. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have lately read the conclusion of your forty- 
 seventh speculation upon butts with great plea¬ 
 sure and have ever since been thoroughly persuaded 
 that one of those gentlemen is extremely neces¬ 
 sary to enliven conversation. I had an entertain¬ 
 ment last week upon the water for a lady to whom 
 I make my addresses, Avith several of our friends 
 of both sexes. To divert the company in general, 
 and to shoAA r my mistress in particular my genius 
 for raillery, I took one of the most celebrated butts 
 in town along w T ith me. It is Avith the utmost 
 shame and confusion that I must acquaint you 
 with the sequel of my adventure. As soon as we 
 were got into the boat, I played a sentence or two 
 at my butt, which I thought very smart, when my 
 ill-genius, who I verily believe inspired him pure¬ 
 ly for my destruction, suggested to him such a re¬ 
 ply, as got all the laughter on his side. I was 
 dashed at so unexpected a turn; which the butt 
 perceiving, resolved not to let me recover myself, 
 and pursuing his victory, rallied and tossed me ip 
 a most unmerciful and barbarous manner until 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 avc came to Chelsea. I had some small success 
 Avhile we Avere eating cheese-cakes ; but coming 
 home, he renewed his attacks with his former good 
 fortune, and equal diversion to the whole compa¬ 
 ny. In short, Sir, I must ingenuously own that I 
 never Avas so handled in all my life ; and to com¬ 
 plete my misfortune, I am since told that the butt, 
 flushed Avith his late victory, has made a visit or 
 two to the dear object of my wishes, so that I am 
 at once in danger of losing all my pretensions to 
 wit, and my mistress into the bargain. This, Sir, 
 is a true account of my present troubles, which 
 you are the more obliged to assist me in, as you 
 were yourself in a great measure the cause of 
 them, by recommending to us an instrument, and 
 not instructing us at the same time how to play 
 upon it. 
 
 “ I have been thinking whether it might not be 
 highly convenient, that all butts should wear an 
 inscription affixed to some part of their bodies, 
 showing on which side they are to be come at, 
 and if any of them are persons of unequal tem¬ 
 pers, there should be some method taken to inform 
 the world at Avhat time it is safe to attack them, 
 and when you had best let them alone. But, sub¬ 
 mitting these matters to your more serious consid¬ 
 eration, 
 
 “ I am, Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 I have, indeed, seen and heard of several young 
 gentlemen under the same misfortune with my 
 present correspondent. The best rule I can lay 
 doAvn for them to avoid the like calamities for the 
 future, is thoroughly to consider, not only whether 
 their companions are weak, but whether themselves 
 are wits. (I 
 
 The following letter comes to me from Exeter, 
 and being credibly informed that what it contains 
 is matter of fact, I shall give it my readers as it 
 was sent to me; 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Exeter, Sept. 7 . 
 
 “ You were pleased in a late speculation to take 
 notice of the incon\ T enience we lie under in the 
 country, in not being able to keep pace with the 
 fashions. But there is another misfortune which 
 we are subject to, and is no less grievous than the 
 former, which has hitherto escaped your observa¬ 
 tion. I mean the having things palmed upon us 
 for London fashions, which were never once heard 
 of there. 
 
 “A lady of this place had some time since a 
 box of the newest ribbons sent doAvn by the coach. 
 Whether it Avas her OAvn malicious invention, or 
 the wantonness of a London milliner, I am not 
 able to inform you ; but, among the rest, there 
 was one cherry-colored ribbon, consisting of about 
 half a dozen yards, made up in the figure of a 
 small headdress. The aforesaid lady had the as¬ 
 surance to affirm, amid a circle of female inquis¬ 
 itors who were present at the opening of the box, 
 that this was the newest fashion worn at court. 
 Accordingly, the next Sunday, Ave had several fe¬ 
 males, who came to church with their heads 
 dressed wholly in ribbons, and looked like so 
 many victims ready to be sacrificed. This is still 
 a reigning mode among us. At the same time we 
 have a set of gentlemen who take the liberty to 
 appear in all public places without any buttons to 
 their coats, which they supply Avith several little 
 silver hasps, though our freshest advices from 
 London make no mention of any such fashion ; 
 and Ave are sometimes shy of affording matter to 
 the button-makers for a second petition. 
 
 “ What I Avould humbly propose to the public is, 
 that there may be a society erected in London, to 
 consist of the most skillful persons of both sexes, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 for the inspection of modes and fashions; and 
 that hereafter no person or persons shall presume 
 to appear singularly habited in any part of the 
 country, without a testimonial from the aforesaid 
 society, that their dress is answerable to the mode 
 at London. By this means. Sir, we shall know a 
 little whereabout we are. 
 
 “if you could bring this matter to bear, you 
 would very much oblige great numbers of your 
 country friends: and among the rest, your very 
 humble servant, 
 
 X. “Jack Modish.” 
 
 No. 176.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1711. 
 
 Parvula, pumilio (charitou mia), tota merum sal. 
 
 Lucr., iv, 1155. 
 
 A little, pretty, witty, charming she! 
 
 There are, in the following letter piatters, which 
 I, a bachelor, cannot be supposed to be acquainted 
 with : therefore shall not pretend to explain upon 
 it until further consideration, but leave the author 
 of the epistle to express his condition his own way. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I do not deny but you appear in many of 
 your papers to understand human life pretty well; 
 but there are very many things which you cannot 
 possibly have a true notion of, in a single life, 
 these are such as respect the married state ; other¬ 
 wise I cannot account for your haying overlooked 
 a very good sort of people, which are commonly 
 called iir scorn ‘the Hen-pecked.’ You are to 
 understand that I am one of those innocent mor¬ 
 tals who suffer derision under that word, for being 
 governed by the best of wives. It would be 
 worth your consideration to enter into the nature 
 of affection itself, and tell us, according to your 
 philosophy, why it is that our dears shall ao as 
 they will with us ; shall be froward, ill-natured, 
 assuming ; sometimes whine, at others rail, then 
 swoon away, then come to life, have the use of 
 speech to the greatest fluency imaginable, and then 
 sink away again, and all because they fear we do 
 not love them enough ; that is, the poor things 
 love us so heartily, that they cannot think it pos¬ 
 sible we should be able to love them in so great 
 a degree, which makes them take on so. I say, 
 Sir, a true good-natured man, whom rakes and 
 libertines call hen-pecked, shall fall into all these 
 different modes with his dear life, and at the same 
 time see they are wholly put on ; and yet not be 
 hard-hearted enough to tell the dear good creature 
 that she is a hypocrite. 
 
 “ This sort of good men is very frequent in the 
 populous and wealthy city of London, and is the 
 true hen-pecked man. The kind creature cannot 
 break through his kindnesses so far as to come to 
 an explanation with the tender soul, and therefore 
 goes on to comfort her when nothing ails her, to 
 appease her when she is not angry, and to give 
 her his cash when he knows she does not want it; 
 rather than be uneasy for a whole month, which 
 is computed by hard-hearted men, the space of 
 time which a froward woman takes to come to 
 herself, if you have courage to stand out. 
 
 “ There are indeed several other species of the 
 hen-pecked, and in my opinion they are certainly 
 the best subjects the queen has ; and for that rea¬ 
 son I take it to be your duty to keep us above 
 contempt. 
 
 “ I do not know whether I make myself under¬ 
 stood in the representation of a hen-pecked life, 
 but I shall take leave to give you an account of 
 myself, and my own spouse. You are to know 
 that I am reckoned no fool, have on several occa¬ 
 sions been tried whether I will take ill-usage, 
 and the event has been to my advantage; and 
 
 231 
 
 yet there is not such a slave in Turkey as I 
 am to my dear. She has a good share of wit, and 
 is what you call a very pretty agreeable woman. 
 I perfectly dote on her, and my affection to her 
 gives me all the anxieties imaginable but that of 
 jealousy. My being thus confident of her, I take, 
 as much as I can judge of my heart, to be the rea¬ 
 son, that whatever she does, though it be ever so 
 much against my inclination, there is still left 
 something in her manner that is amiable. She 
 will sometimes look at me with an assumed gran¬ 
 deur, and pretend to resent that I have not had 
 respect enough for her opinion in such an in¬ 
 stance in company. I cannot but smile at the 
 pretty anger she is in, and then she pretends she 
 is used like a child. In a word, our great debate 
 is, which has the superiority in point of under¬ 
 standing. She is eternally forming an argument 
 of debate: to which I very indolently answer, 
 
 ‘ Thou art mighty pretty.’ To this she answers, 
 ‘All the world but you think I have as much 
 sense as yourself.’ I repeat to her, ‘ Indeed you 
 are pretty.’ Upon this there is no patience ; she 
 will throw down anything about her, stamp, and 
 pull off her head-clothes. ‘ Fie, my dear,’ say I, 
 
 ‘ how can a woman of your sense fall into such an 
 intemperate rage ?’ This is an argument that 
 never fails. ‘Indeed, my dear,’ says she, ‘you 
 make me mad sometimes, so you do, with the silly 
 way you have of treating me like a pretty idiot. ‘ 
 Well, what have I got by putting her in a good 
 humor? Nothing, but that I must convince her 
 of my good opinion by my practice ; and then 1 
 am to give her possession of my little ready 
 money, and, for a day and a half following, dis¬ 
 like all she dislikes, and extol everything she ap¬ 
 proves. I am so exquisitely fond of this darling, 
 that I seldom see any of my friends, am uneasy 
 in all companies till I see her again ; and when I 
 come home she is in the dumps, because she says 
 she is sure I came so soon only because I think 
 her handsome. I dare not upon this occasion 
 laugh; but though I am one of the warmest 
 churchmen in the kingdom, I am forced to rail at 
 the times, because she is a violent Whig. Upon 
 this we talk politics so long, that she is convinced 
 I kiss her for her wisdom. It is a common prac¬ 
 tice with me to ask her some question concerning 
 the constitution, which she answers me in general 
 out of Harrington’s Oceana. Then I commend 
 her strange memory, and her arm is immediately 
 locked in mine. While I keep her in this temper 
 she plays before me, sometimes dancing in the 
 midst of the room, sometimes striking an air at 
 her spinnet, varying her posture and her charms 
 in such a manner that I am in continual pleasure. 
 She will play the fool if I allow her to be wise ; 
 but if she suspects I like her for her trifling, she 
 immediately grows grave. 
 
 “ These are the toils in which I am taken, and 
 I carry off my servitude as well as most men ; 
 but my application to you is in behalf of the hen¬ 
 pecked in general, and I desire a dissertation from 
 you in defense of us. You have, as I am informed, 
 very good authorities in our favor, and hope you 
 will not omit the mention of the renowned So¬ 
 crates, and his philosophic resignation to his wife 
 Xantippe. This would be a very good office to 
 the world in general, for the hen-pecked are pow¬ 
 erful in their qualities and numbers, not only in 
 cities, but in courts ; in the latter they are ever 
 the most obsequious, in the former the most 
 wealthy of all men. When you have considered 
 wedlock thoroughly, you ought to enter into the 
 suburbs of matrimony, and give us an account of 
 the thraldom of kind keepers, and irresolute lov- 
 I ers; the keepers who cannot quit their fair ones, 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 232 
 
 though they see their approaching ruin ; the lovers 
 who dare not marry, though they know they never 
 shall be happy without the mistresses whom they 
 cannot purchase on other terms. 
 
 “ What will be a greater embellishment to your 
 discourse will be, that you may find instances of 
 the haughty, the proud, the frolic, the stubborn, 
 who are each of them in secret downright slaves 
 to their wives or mistresses. I must beg of you 
 in the last place to dwell upon this, that the wise 
 and valiant in all ages have been hen-pecked ; 
 and that the sturdy tempers who are not slaves to 
 affection, owe that exemption to their being en¬ 
 thralled by ambition, avarice, or some meaner 
 passion. I have ten thousand thousand things 
 more to say, but my wife sees me writing, and 
 will, according to custom, be consulted, it I do 
 not seal this immediately. “ Yours, 
 
 T. “Nathaniel Henroost.” 
 
 No. 177.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1711. 
 
 -Quis enim bonus, aut face dignus 
 
 Arcana, qualem Cereris vult esse sacerdos, 
 
 Ulla aliena sibi credat mala?- Juv., Sat. xv, 140. 
 
 Who can all sense of others’ ills escape, 
 
 Is but a brute, at best, in human shape.—T ate. 
 
 In one of my last week’s papers I treated of ! 
 good-nature, as it is the effect of constitution ; I | 
 shall now speak of it as a moral virtue. The first 
 may make a man easy in himself and agreeable to 
 others, but implies no merit in him that is pos¬ 
 sessed of it. A man is no more to be praised 
 upon this account, than because he has a regular 
 pulse, or a good digestion. This good-nature, 
 however, in the constitution, which Mr. Dryden 
 somewhere calls a “milkiness of blood,” is an 
 admirable groundwork for the other. In order, 
 therefore, to try our good-nature, whether it arises 
 from the body or the mind, whether it be founded 
 in the animal or rational part of our nature : in a 
 word, whether it be such as is entitled to any other 
 reward, beside that secret satisfaction and con¬ 
 tentment of mind which is essential to it, and the 
 kind reception it procures us in the world, we 
 must examine it by the following rules : 
 
 First; whether it acts with steadiness and uni¬ 
 formity in sickness and in health, in prosperity 
 and in adversity; if otherwise, it is to be looked 
 upon as nothing else but an irradiation of the 
 mind from some new supply of spirits, or a more 
 kindly circulation of the blood. Sir Francis Bacon 
 mentions a cunning solicitor, who would never 
 ask a favor of a great man before dinner ; but took 
 care to prefer his petition at a time when the party 
 petitioned had his mind free from care, and his 
 appetites in good humor. Such a transient, tem¬ 
 porary good-nature as this, is not that philan¬ 
 thropy, that love of mankind, which deserves 
 the title of a moral virtue. 
 
 The next way of a man’s bringing his good¬ 
 nature to the test, is to consider whether it operates 
 according to the rules of reason and duty : for if, 
 notwithstanding its general benevolence to man¬ 
 kind, it makes no distinction between its objects, 
 if it exerts itself promiscuously toward the de¬ 
 serving and the undeserving, if it relieves alike 
 the idle and the indigent, if it gives itself up to 
 the first petitioner and lights upon any one rather 
 by accident than choice, it may pass for an amiable 
 instinct, but must not assume the name of a moral 
 virtue. 
 
 The third trial of good-nature will be the ex¬ 
 amining ourselves, whether or no we are able to 
 exert it to our own disadvantage, and employ it 
 on proper objects, notwithstanding any little pain, 
 
 want, or inconvenience which may arise to our¬ 
 selves from it. In a word, whether we are willing 
 to risk any part of our fortune, our reputation, 
 or health, or ease, for the benefit of mankind. 
 Among all these expressions of good-nature I 
 shall single out that which goes under the general 
 name of charity, as it consists in relieving the 
 indigent; that being a trial of this kind which 
 offers itself to us almost at all times, and in every 
 place. ■ £• 
 
 I should propose it as a rule, to every one who 
 is provided with any competency of fortune more 
 than sufficient for the necessaries of life, to lay 
 aside a certain portion of his income for the use 
 of the poor. This I would look upon as an offer¬ 
 ing to Him who has a right to the whole, for the 
 use of those whom, in the passage hereafter men¬ 
 tioned, he has described as his own representa¬ 
 tives upon earth. At the same time we should 
 manage our charity with such prudence and cau¬ 
 tion, that we may not hurt our own friends or 
 relations, while we are doing good to those who 
 are strangers to us. 
 
 This may possibly be explained better by an ex¬ 
 ample than by a rule. 
 
 Eugenius is a man of a universal good-nature ; 
 and generous beyond the extent of his fortune ; 
 but withal so prudent in the economy of his af¬ 
 fairs, that what goes out in charity is made up by 
 good management. Eugenius has what the world 
 calls £200 a year ; but never values himself above 
 nine score, as not thinking he has a right to the 
 tenth part, which he always appropriates to char¬ 
 itable uses. To this sum he frequently makes 
 other voluntary additions, insomuch that in a good 
 ear, for such he accounts those in which he has 
 een able to make greater bounties than ordinary, 
 he has given above twice that sum to the sickly 
 and indigent. Eugenius prescribes to himself 
 many particular days of fasting and abstinence, 
 in order to increase his private bank of charity, 
 and sets aside what would be the current expenses 
 of those times for the use of the poor.. He often 
 goes afoot where his business calls him, and at 
 the end of his walk has given a shilling, which 
 in his ordinary methods of expense would have 
 gone for coach-hire, to the first necessitous person 
 that has fallen in his way. I have known him, 
 when he has been going to a play or an opera, 
 divert the money, which was designed for that 
 purpose, upon an object of charity whom he has 
 met with in the street; and afterward pass his 
 evening in a coffee-house, or at a friend’s fire-side, 
 with much greater satisfaction to himself, than he 
 could have received from the most exquisite en¬ 
 tertainments of the theater. By these means he 
 is generous without impoverishing himself, and 
 enjoys his estate by making it the property of 
 others. 
 
 There are few men so cramped in their private 
 affairs, who may not be charitable after this man¬ 
 ner, without any disadvantage to themselves, or 
 prejudice to their families. It is but sometimes 
 sacrificing a diversion or convenience to the poor, 
 and turning the usual course of our expenses into 
 a better channel. This is, 1 think, not only the 
 most prudent and convenient, but the most meri¬ 
 torious piece of charity, which we can put in 
 practice. By this method, we in some measure 
 share the necessities of the poor at the same time 
 that we relieve them, and make ourselves not only 
 their patrons, but their fellow-sufferers. 
 
 Sir Thomas Brown, in the last part of his Re- 
 ligio Medici, in which he describes his charity 
 in several heroic instances, and with a noble heat 
 of sentiment, mentions that verse in the Proverbs 
 of Solomon, “He that giveth to the poor, lendeth 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 233 
 
 to the Lord There is more rhetoric in that 
 one sentence, says he, than in a library of ser¬ 
 mons; and, indeed, if those sentences were under¬ 
 stood by the reader, with the same emphasis as 
 they are delivered by the author, we needed not 
 those volumes of instructions, but might be hon¬ 
 est by an epitome.f 
 
 This passage of Scripture is, indeed, wonder¬ 
 fully persuasive ; but I think the same thought is 
 carried much farther in the New Testament, 
 where our Savior tells us, in a most pathetic man¬ 
 ner, that he shall hereafter regard the clothing of 
 the naked, the feeding of the hungry, and the vis¬ 
 iting of the imprisoned, as offices done to himself, 
 and reward them accordingly.$ Pursuant to those 
 passages in Holy Scripture, I have somewhere 
 met with the epitaph of a charitable man, which 
 has very much pleased me. I cannot recollect the 
 words, but the sense of it is to this purpose : 
 What I spent 1 lost; what I possessed is left to 
 others; what I gave away remains with me.§ 
 
 Since I am thus insensibly engaged in sacred 
 writ, I cannot forbear making an extract of sev¬ 
 eral passages which 1 have always read w T ith great 
 delight in the Book of Job. It is the account 
 which that holy man gives of his behavior in the 
 days of his prosperity, and if considered only as 
 a human composition, is a finer picture of a char¬ 
 itable and good-natured man than is to be met 
 with in any other author. 
 
 “ Oh that I were as in months past, as in the 
 days when God preserved me : when his candle 
 shined upon my head, and when by his light I 
 walked through darkness ; when the Almighty 
 was yet with me ; when my children were about 
 me; when I washed my steps with butter, and the 
 rock poured me out rivers of oil. 
 
 “ When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; 
 and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me. 
 Because I delivered the poor that cried, and the 
 fatherless, and him that had none to help him. 
 The blessing of him that was ready to perish 
 came upon me, and I caused the widow’s heart to 
 sing for joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet 
 was I to the lame; I was a father to the poor, and 
 the cause which I knew not I searched out, Did 
 not I weep for him that was in trouble ? was not 
 my soul grieved for the poor ? Let me be weigh¬ 
 ed in an even balance, that God may know mine 
 integrity. If I did despise the cause of my man¬ 
 servant or of my maid-servant when they contend¬ 
 ed with me; what then shall I do when God riseth 
 up ? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer 
 him ? Did not he that made me in the womb, 
 make him ? and did not one fashion us in the 
 womb ? If I have withheld the poor from their 
 desire, or have caused the eyes of the widow to 
 fail: Or have eaten my morsel myself alone, and 
 the fatherless hath not eaten thereof: If I have 
 seen any perish for want of clothing, or any poor 
 without covering; If his loins have not blessed 
 me, and if he were not warmed with the fleece of 
 my sheep: If I have lifted up my hand against the 
 fatherless, when I saw my help in the gate ; then 
 let mine arm fall from my shoulder-blade, and 
 mine arm be broken from the bone. If I have re¬ 
 joiced at the destruction of him that hated me, or 
 
 *Prov., xix, 17. 
 
 T Brown’s Eel. Medici, part II, sect. 13, f., 1659, p. 29. 
 
 I Matt., xxv, 31, et seq. 
 
 i The epitaph alluded to is (or was) in St. George’s Church 
 
 at Doncaster in Yorkshire, and runs in old English thus:_ 
 
 How now, who is heare ? That I spent, that I had; 
 
 I, Robin of Doncastere, That I gave, that I have; 
 
 And Margaret ray feare That I left, that I lost. 
 
 A. D., 1579. 
 
 Quoth Robertus Byrks, who in this world did reign three¬ 
 score years and seven, and yet lived not one. 
 
 lifted up myself when evil found him : (neither 
 have I suffered my mouth to sin, by wishing a 
 curse to his soul). The stranger did not lodge in 
 the street; but I opened my doors to the traveler. 
 If my land cry against me, or that the furrows 
 likewise therefore complain : If I have eaten the 
 fruits thereof without money, or have caused the 
 owners thereof to lose their life ; let thistles grow 
 instead of wheat, and cockle instead of barley.”* 
 
 No. 178.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1711. 
 
 -Hor. 2 Ep. ii, 133. • 
 
 Comis in uxorem— 
 
 Civil to his wife.— Pope. 
 
 I cannot defer taking notice of this letter :— 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am but too good a judge of your paper of 
 the 15th instant, which is a master-piece ; 1 mean 
 that of jealousy : but I think it unworthy of you 
 to speak of that torture in the breast of a man, 
 and not to mention also the pangs of it in the 
 heart of a woman. You have very judiciously, 
 and with the greatest penetration imaginable, 
 considered it as woman is the creature of whom 
 the diffidence is raised; but not a word of a man, 
 who is so unmerciful as to move jealousy in his 
 wife, and not care whether she is so or not. It is 
 possible you may not believe there are such ty¬ 
 rants in the world; but alas, I can tell you of a 
 man who is ever out of humor in his wife’s com¬ 
 pany, and the pleasantest man in the world every¬ 
 where else ; the greatest sloven at home when he 
 appears to none but his family, and most exactly 
 well dressed in all other places. Alas, Sir, is it of 
 course, that to deliver one’s self wholly into a man’s 
 power without possibility of appeal to any other ju¬ 
 risdiction but his own reflections, is so little an ob¬ 
 ligation to a gentleman, that he can be offended 
 and fall into a rage, because my heart swells tears 
 into my eyes when I see him in a cloudy mood ? 
 I pretend to no succor, and hope for no relief but 
 from himself ; and yet he that has sense and jus¬ 
 tice in everything else, never reflects, that to come 
 home only to sleep off an intemperance, and 
 spend all the time he is there as if it were a pun¬ 
 ishment, cannot but give the anguish of a jealous 
 mind. He always leaves his home as if he were 
 going to a court, and returns as if he were enter¬ 
 ing a jail. I could add to this, that from his com- 
 
 E and his usual discourse, he does not scruple 
 j thought an abandoned man, as to his mo¬ 
 rals. Your own imagination will say enough to 
 you concerning the condition of me his wife; and 
 I wish you would be so good as to represent to 
 him, for he is not ill-natured, and reads you 
 much, that the moment I hear the door shut after 
 him, I throw myself upon my bed, and drown 
 the child he is so fond of with my tears, and often 
 frighten it with my cries ; that I curse my being ; 
 that I run to my glass all over bathed in sorrows, 
 and help the utterance of my inward anguish by 
 beholding the gush of my own calamities as my 
 tears fall from my eyes. This looks like an ima¬ 
 gined picture to tell you, but indeed this is one of 
 my pastimes. Hitherto I have only told you the 
 general temper of my mind, how shall I give you 
 an account of the distraction of it ? Could you 
 but conceive how cruel I am one moment in my 
 resentment, and at the ensuing minute when I 
 place him in the condition my anger would bring 
 him to, how compassionate ; it would give you 
 some notion how miserable I am, and how little I 
 
 * Job, xxix, 2, etc.; xxx, 25, etc.; xxxi, 6, etc., passim. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 234 
 
 deserve it. When I remonstrate with the great¬ 
 est gentleness that is possible against unhand¬ 
 some appearances, and that married persons are 
 under particular rules ; when he is in the best hu¬ 
 mor to receive this, I am answered only, That I 
 expose my own reputation and sense if I appear 
 jealous. I wish, good Sir, you would take, this 
 into serious consideration, and admonish hus¬ 
 bands and wives what ‘terms they ought to keep 
 toward each other. Your thoughts on this im¬ 
 portant subject will have the greatest reward, that 
 which descends on such as feel the sorrows of the 
 afflicted. Give me leave to subscribe myself, 
 
 “Your unfortunate humble servant, 
 
 “ Celinda.” 
 
 I had it in my thoughts, before I received the let¬ 
 ter of this lady, to consider this dreadful passion in 
 the mind of a woman; and the smart she seems to 
 feel does not abate the inclination I had to recom¬ 
 mend to husbands a more regular behavior, than to 
 give the most exquisite of torments to those who 
 love them, nay, whose torments would be abated 
 if they did not love them. 
 
 It is wonderful to observe how little is made of 
 this inexpressible injury, and how easily men get 
 into a habit of being least agreeable, where they 
 are most obliged to be so. But this subject de¬ 
 serves a distinct speculation, and I shall observe 
 for a day or two the behavior of two or three hap¬ 
 py pairs I am acquainted with, before I pretend 
 to make a system of conjugal morality. I design 
 in the first place to go a few miles out of town, 
 and there I know where to meet one who practices 
 all the parts of a fine gentleman in the duty of a 
 husband. When he was a bachelor, much busi¬ 
 ness made him particularly negligent in his habit; 
 but now there is no young lover living so exact in 
 the care of his person. One who asked why he 
 was so long washing his mouth, and so delicate 
 in the choice and wearing of his linen, was an¬ 
 swered : “ Because there is a woman of merit 
 obliged to receive me kindly, and I think it incum¬ 
 bent upon me to make her inclination go along 
 with her duty.” 
 
 If a man would give himself leave to think, he 
 would not be so unreasonable as to expect de¬ 
 bauchery and innocence could live in commerce 
 together : or hope that flesh and blood is capable 
 of so strict an alliance, as that a fine woman must 
 go on to improve herself till she is as good and im- 
 assive as an angel, only to preserve fidelity to a 
 rute and a satyr. The lady who desires me for 
 her sake to end one of my papers with the follow¬ 
 ing letter, I am persuaded thinks such a perseve¬ 
 rance very impracticable : 
 
 “ Husband, 
 
 “ Stay more at home. I know where you visited 
 at seven of the clock on Thursday evening. The 
 colonel whom you charged me to see no more is in 
 town. 
 
 T. “Martha Housewife.” 
 
 No. 179.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1711. 
 
 Centurse seniorum agitant expertia frugis: 
 
 Celsi prastereunt austera poemata rhamnes, 
 
 Omne tulit punctual qui miscuit utile dulci, 
 Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., v, 341. 
 
 Old age is only fond of moral truth, 
 
 Lectures too grave disgust aspiring youth; 
 
 But he who blends instruction with delight, 
 
 Wins every reader, nor in vain shall write.—P. 
 
 1 may cast my readers under two general divis¬ 
 ions, the mercurial and the saturnine. The first 
 are the gay part of my disciples, who require 
 
 speculations of wit and humor ; the others are 
 those of a more solemn and sober turn, who find 
 no pleasure but in papers of morality and sound 
 sense. The former call everything that is serious, 
 stupid; the latter look upon everything as imper¬ 
 tinent that is ludicrous. Were I always grave, 
 one half of my readers would fall off from me ; 
 were I always merry, I should lose the other. I 
 make it, therefore, my endeavor to find out enter¬ 
 tainments for both kinds, and by that means, per¬ 
 haps, consult the good of both, more than I should 
 do, did I always write to the particular taste of 
 either. As they neither of them know what I 
 proceed upon, the sprightly reader, who takes up 
 my paper in order to be diverted, very often finds 
 himself engaged unawares in a serious and profit¬ 
 able course of thinking ; as, on the contrary, the 
 thoughtful man who, perhaps, may hope to find 
 something solid, and full of deep reflection, is very 
 often insensibly betrayed into a fit of mirth. In 
 a word, the reader sits down to my entertainment 
 without knowing his bill of fare, and has there¬ 
 fore at least the pleasure of hoping there may be 
 a dish to his palate. 
 
 I must confess, were I left to myself, I would 
 rather aim at instructing than diverting; but if we 
 will be useful to the world, we must take it as we 
 find it. Authors of professed severity discourage 
 the looser part of mankind from having anything 
 to do with their writings. A man must have vir¬ 
 tue in him, before he will enter upon the reading 
 of a Seneca or an Epictetus. The very title of a 
 moral treatise has something in it austere and 
 shocking to the careless and inconsiderate. 
 
 For this reason several unthinking persons fall 
 in my way who would give no attention to lectures 
 delivered with a religious, serious or a philoso¬ 
 phic gravity. They are insnared into sentiments 
 of wisdom and virtue when they do not think of 
 it; and if by that means they arrive only at such 
 a degree of consideration as may dispose them to 
 listen to more studied and elaborate discourses, I 
 shall not think my speculations useless. I might 
 likewise observe, that the gloominess in which 
 sometimes the minds of the best men are involved, 
 very often stands in need of such little incitements 
 to mirth and laughter, as are apt to disperse me¬ 
 lancholy, and put our faculties in good humor. 
 To which some will add, that the British climate, 
 more than any other, makes entertainments of this 
 nature in a manner necessary. 
 
 If what I have here said does not recommend, 
 it will at least excuse, the variety of my specu¬ 
 lations. I would not willingly laugh but in order 
 to instruct, or if I may sometimes fail in this 
 point, when my mirth ceases to be innocent. A 
 scrupulous conduct in this particular has, perhaps, 
 more merit in it than the generality of readers 
 imagine; did they know how many thoughts oc¬ 
 cur in a point of humor, which a discreet author 
 in modesty suppresses ; how many strokes of rail 
 lery present themselves, which could not fail to 
 please the ordinary taste of mankind, but are 
 stifled in their birth by reason of some remote 
 tendency which they carry in them to corrupt the 
 minds of those who read them: did they know 
 how many glances of ill-nature are industriously 
 avoided for fear of doing injury to the reputation 
 of another, they would be apt to think kindly of 
 those writers who endeavor to make themselves 
 diverting, without being immoral. One may ap¬ 
 ply to these authors that passage of Waller: 
 
 Poets lose half the praise they would have got, 
 
 Were it but known what they discreetly blot. 
 
 As nothing is more easy than to be a wit, with 
 all the above-mentioned liberties, it requires some 
 
THE SPE 
 
 . genius and invention to appear such without 
 them. 
 
 What I have here said is not only in regard to 
 the public, but with an eye to my particular cor¬ 
 respondent, who has sent me the following letter, 
 which I have castrated in some places upon these 
 considerations: 
 
 “Sir; 
 
 “Having lately seen your discourse upon a 
 match of grinning, I cannot forbear giving you an 
 account ot a whistling match, which, with many 
 others, I was entertained with about three years 
 since at the Bath. The prize was a guinea, to be 
 conferred upon the ablest Whistler, that is, on him 
 who could whistle clearest, and go through his 
 time without laughing, to which at the same time he 
 was provoked by the antic postures of a merry- 
 andrew, who was to stand upon the stage and 
 play his tricks in the eye of the performer. There 
 were three competitors for the guinea. The first 
 was a plowman of a very promising aspect; his 
 features were steady, and his muscles composed 
 in so inflexible stupidity, that upon his first ap¬ 
 pearance every one gave the guinea for lost. The 
 pickled-herring however found the way to shake 
 lim; for upon his whistling a country jig, this un¬ 
 lucky wag danced to it with such a variety of dis¬ 
 tortions and grimace, that the countryman could 
 not forbear smiling upon him, and by that means 
 spoiled his whistle, and lost the prize. 
 
 _ “The next that mounted the stage was an under¬ 
 citizen of the Bath, a person remarkable among 
 the inferior people of that place for his great 
 wisdom, and his broad band.* He contracted his 
 mouth with much gravity, and, that he might dis- 
 ose his mind to be more serious than ordinary, 
 egan the tune of the Children in the Wood. He 
 went through part of it with good success, when 
 on a sudden the wit at his elbow, who had ap¬ 
 peared wonderfully grave and attentive for some 
 time, gave him a touch upon the left shoulder, and 
 stared him in the face with so bewitching a grin, 
 that the whistler relaxed his fibers into a kind of 
 simper, and at length burst out into an open laugh. 
 The third who entered the lists was a footman, 
 who in defiance of the merry-andrew and all his 
 arts, whistled a Scotch tune, and an Italian sonata, 
 with so settled a countenance that he bore away 
 the prize to the great admiration of some hun¬ 
 dreds of persons, who, as well as myself, were 
 present at this trial of skill. Now, Sir, I humbly 
 conceive, what you have determined of the grin- 
 ners, the whistlers ought to be encouraged, not 
 only as their art is practice without distortion, but 
 as it improves country-music, promotes gravity, 
 and teaches ordinary people to keep their counte¬ 
 nances, if they see anything ridiculous in their 
 betters; beside that it seems an entertainment very 
 particularly adapted to the Bath, as it is usual for 
 a rider to whistle to his horse when he would 
 make his water pass. 
 
 “I am, Sir,” etc. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 “After haying dispatched these two important 
 points ot grinning and whistling, I hope you will 
 oblige the world with some reflections upon yawn¬ 
 ing, as I have seen it practiced on a twelfth-night 
 among other Christmas gambols at the house of a 
 vety worthy gentleman, who always entertains 
 his tenants at that time of the year. They yawn 
 for a Cheshire cheese, and began about midnight, 
 when the whole company is disposed to be drowsy! 
 He that yawns widest, and at the same time so 
 
 CTATOR. 235 
 
 naturally as to produce the most yawns among 
 the spectators, carries home the cheese. If you 
 handle this subject as you ought, I question not 
 but your paper will set half the kingdom a yawn¬ 
 ing, though I dare promise you it will neVer make 
 anybody fall asleep.”—L. 
 
 No. 180.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 26, 1711. 
 
 -Delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. ii, 14. 
 
 The monarch’s folly makes the people rue.—P. 
 
 The following letter has so much weight and 
 good sense, that I cannot forbear inserting it, 
 though it relates to a hardened sinner, whom I 
 have very little hopes of reforming, viz: Louis 
 XIY, of France. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Amidst the variety of subjects of which you 
 have treated, I could wish it had fallen in your 
 way to expose the vanity of conquests. This 
 thought would naturally lead one to the French 
 king, who has been generally esteemed the great¬ 
 est conqueror of our age, till her majesty’s armies 
 had torn from him so many of his countries, and 
 deprived him of the fruit of all his former victories. 
 For my own part, if I were to draw his picture, I 
 should be for taking him no lower than to the 
 peace of Ryswick, just at the end of his triumphs, 
 and before his reverse of fortune: and even then I 
 should not forbear thinking his ambition had 
 been vain, and unprofitable to himself and his 
 people. 
 
 “As for himself, it is certain he can have gained 
 nothing by his conquests, if they have not render¬ 
 ed him master of more subjects, more riches, or 
 greater power. What I shall be able to offer upon 
 these heads, I resolve to submit to your considera¬ 
 tion. 
 
 “To begin then with his increase of subjects. 
 From the time he came of age, and has been a 
 manager for himself, all the people he had ac¬ 
 quired were such only as he had reduced by his 
 wars, and were left in his possession by the peace; 
 he had conquered not above one-third of Flanders, 
 and consequently no more than one-third part of 
 the inhabitants of that province. 
 
 “About one hundred years ago the houses in 
 that country were all numbered, and by a just 
 computation the inhabitants of all sorts could not 
 then exceed 750,000 souls. And if any man will 
 consider the desolation by almost perpetual wars, 
 the numerous armies that have lived almost ever 
 since at discretion upon the people, and how much 
 of their commerce has been removed for more se¬ 
 curity to other places, he will have little reason 
 to imagine that their numbers have since increas¬ 
 ed; and therefore with one-third part of that pro¬ 
 vince that prince can have gained no more than 
 one-third part of the inhabitants, or 250,000 new 
 subjects, even though it should be supposed they 
 were all contented to live still in their native 
 country, and transfer their allegiance to a new 
 master. 
 
 “The fertility of this province, its convenient 
 situation for trade and commerce, its capacity for 
 furnishing employment and subsistence to great 
 numbers, and the vast armies that have been 
 mai ntained here, make it credible that the remaining 
 two-thirds of Flanders are equal to all his other 
 conquests; and consequently by all, he cannot have 
 gained more than 750,000 new subjects, men, wo¬ 
 men, and children, especially if a reduction shall 
 be made of such as have retired from the con 
 queror, to live under their old masters. 
 
 * In 1707. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 236 
 
 “It is time now to set liis loss against his profit, 
 and to show for the new subjects lie had acquired, 
 how many old ones he had lost in the acquisition. 
 I think that in his wars he has seldom brought 
 less into the field, in all places, than 200,000 
 fighting men, beside what has been left in gar¬ 
 risons; and I think the common computation is, 
 that of an army, at the end of a campaign, with¬ 
 out sieges or battles, scarce four-fifths can be mus¬ 
 tered of those that came into the field at the 
 beginning of the year. His wars at several times, 
 until the last peace, have held about twenty years; 
 and if 40,000 yearly lost, or a fifth part of his 
 armies, are to be multiplied by 20, he cannot have 
 lost less than 800,000 of his old subjects, and all 
 able-bodied men; a greater number than the new 
 subjects he had acquired. 
 
 “But this loss is not all. Providence seems to 
 have equally divided the whole mass of mankind 
 into different sexes, that every woman may have 
 her husband, and that both may equally contribute 
 to the continuance of the species. It follows then, 
 that for all the men that have been lost, as many 
 women must have lived single, and it were but 
 charity to believe, they have not done all the ser¬ 
 vice they were capable of doing in their genera¬ 
 tion. In so long a course of years great part of 
 them must have died, and all the rest must go off 
 at last, without leaving any representatives be¬ 
 hind. By this account he must have lost not only 
 800,000 subjects, but double that number, and all 
 the increase that was reasonably to be expected 
 from it. 
 
 “ It is said in the last war there was a famine 
 in his kingdom which swept away two millions 
 of his people. This is hardly credible. If the 
 loss was only one-fifth part of that sum, it was 
 very great. But it is no wonder there should 
 be famine, where so much of the people’s sub¬ 
 stance is taken away for the king’s use, that they 
 have not sufficient left to provide against acci¬ 
 dents : where so many of the men are taken from 
 the plow to serve the king in his wars, and a 
 great part of the tillage is left to the weaker 
 hands of so many women and children. What¬ 
 ever was the loss, it must undoubtedly be placed 
 to the account of his ambition. 
 
 “ And so must also the destruction or banish¬ 
 ment of 3 or 400,000 of his reformed subjects ; he 
 could have no other reasons for valuing those 
 lives so very cheap but only to recommend him¬ 
 self to the bjgotry of the Spanish nation. 
 
 “ How should there be industry in a country 
 where all property is precarious ? What subject 
 will sow his land, that his prince may reap the 
 whole harvest? Parsimony and frugality must 
 be strangers to such a people; for will any man 
 save to-day, what he has reason to fear will be 
 taken from him to-morrow? And where is the 
 encouragment for marrying ? Will any man think 
 of raising children without any assurance of cloth¬ 
 ing for their backs, or so much as food for their 
 bellies? And thus, by his fatal ambition, he must 
 have lessened the number of his subjects, not 
 only by slaughter and destruction, but, by pre¬ 
 venting their very births, he has done as much as 
 was possible toward destroying posterity itself. 
 
 “ Is this then the great, the invincible Louis ? 
 This the immortal man, the tout puissant, or the 
 almighty, as his flatterers have called him? Is 
 this the man that is so celebrated for his con¬ 
 quests ? For every subject he has acquired, has 
 ne not lost three that were his inheritance ? Are 
 not his troops fewer, and those neither so well 
 fed, or clothed, or paid, as they were formerly, 
 though lie has now so much greater cause to exert 
 himself ? And what can be the reason of all this. 
 
 but that his revenue is a great deal less, his sub¬ 
 jects are either poorer, or not so many to be 
 plundered by constant taxes for his use ? 
 
 “ It is well for him he had found out a way to 
 steal a kingdom ;* if he had gone on conquering 
 as he did before, his ruin had been long since fin¬ 
 ished. This brings to my mind a saying of 
 King Pyrrhus, after he had a second time beat the 
 Romans in a pitched battle, and was compli¬ 
 mented by his generals; ‘ Yes,’ says he, * such 
 another victory, and I am quite undone.’ And 
 since I have mentioned Pyrrhus, I will end with 
 a very good, though known story of this ambitious 
 madman. When he had shown the utmost fond¬ 
 ness for his expedition against the Romans, 
 Cineas, his chief minister, asked him what he 
 proposed to himself by this war ? ‘ Why,’ says 
 
 Pyrrhus, ‘ to conquer the Romans, and reduce all 
 Italy to my obedience.’ ‘ What then ?’ says Ci¬ 
 neas. ‘ To pass over into Sicily,’ says Pyrrhus, 
 ‘ and then all the Sicilians must be our subjects.’ 
 ‘And what does your majesty intend next?’ 
 ‘Why truly ;’ says the king, ‘to conquer Carthage 
 and make myself master of all Africa.’ ‘ And 
 what, Sir,’ says the minister, ‘ is to be the end of 
 all your expeditions ?’ ‘ Why then,’ says the 
 
 king, ‘ for the rest of our lives we will sit down 
 to good wine.’ ‘ How, Sir,’ replied Cineas, ‘ to 
 better than we have now before us ? Have we not 
 already as much as we can drink ?’ 
 
 “ Riot and excess are not the becoming charac¬ 
 ters of princes; but if Pyrrhus and Louis had de¬ 
 bauched like Yitellius, they had been less hurtful 
 to their people. 
 
 “ Your humble servant, 
 
 T. “ Philarithmus.’’ 
 
 Ho. 181.] THURSDAY, SEPT. 27, 1711. 
 
 His lacrymis vitam damus, et miserescimus ultro. 
 
 Virg. iEn., ii, 145. 
 
 Mov’d by these tears, we pity and protect. 
 
 I am more pleased with a letter that is filled 
 with touches of nature than of wit. The follow¬ 
 ing one is of this kind : 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “Among all the distresses which happen in 
 families, I do not remember that you have touched 
 upon the marriage of children without the consent 
 of their parents. I am one of these unfortunate 
 persons. I was about fifteen when I took the lib¬ 
 erty to choose for myself; and have ever since 
 languished under the displeasure of an inexorable 
 father, who, though he sees me happy in the best 
 of husbands, and blessed with very fine children, 
 can never be prevailed upon to forgive me. He 
 was so kind to me before this unhappy accident, 
 that indeed it makes my breach of duty in some 
 measure inexcusable; and at the same time creates 
 in me such a tenderness toward him, that I love 
 him above all things, and would die to be recon¬ 
 ciled to him. I have thrown myself at his feet, 
 and besought him with tears to pardon me; but he 
 always pushes me away, and spurns me from him. 
 I have written several letters to him, but he will 
 neither open nor receive them. About two years 
 ago I sent my little boy to him, dressed in new 
 apparel; but the child returned to me crying, be¬ 
 cause he said his grandfather would not see him, 
 and had ordered him to be put out of his house. 
 My mother is won over to my side, but dares not 
 
 * The kingdom of Spain, seized by Louis XIV, in 1701, for 
 his grandson, as left him by the will of Charles II, which the 
 enemies of Trance looked upon as forged, or made when 
 Charles was “ non compos.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 mention me to my father, for fear of provoking 
 him. About a month ago he lay sick upon his 
 bed, and in great danger of his life ; I was pierced 
 to the heart at the news, and could not forbear 
 going to inquire after his health. My mother took 
 this opportunity of speaking in my behalf: she 
 told him, with abundance of tears, that I was 
 come to see him, that I could not speak to her for 
 weeping, and that I should certainly break my 
 heart it he refused at that time to give me his 
 blessing, and be reconciled to me. He Avas so far 
 from relenting toward me, that he bid her speak 
 no more of me, unless she had a mind to disturb 
 him in his last moments; for, Sir, you must know 
 that he has the reputation of an honest and reli¬ 
 gious man, which makes my misfortune so much 
 the greater. God be thanked he has since recov¬ 
 ered: but his severe usage has given me such a 
 blow that I shall soon sink under it, unless I may 
 be relieved by any impressions which the reading 
 of this in your paper may make upon him. 
 
 “ I am,” etc. 
 
 Of all hardnesses of heart there is none so in¬ 
 excusable as that of parents toward their children. 
 An obstinate, inflexible, unforgiving temper is 
 odious upon all occasions; but here it is unnatu¬ 
 ral. The love, tenderness, and compassion which 
 are apt to arise in us toward those who depend 
 upon us, is that by which the whole world of life 
 is upheld. The supreme Being, by the transcen¬ 
 dent excellency and goodness of his nature, ex¬ 
 tends his mercy toward all his works; and because 
 his creatures have not such a spontaneous benevo¬ 
 lence and compassion toward those who are under 
 their care and protection, he has implanted in them 
 an instinct, that supplies the place of this inhe¬ 
 rent goodness. I have illustrated this kind of 
 instinct in former papers, and have shown how it 
 runs through all the species of brute creatures, as 
 indeed the whole animal creation subsists by it. 
 
 This instinct in man is more general and uncir¬ 
 cumscribed than in brutes, as being enlarged by 
 the dictates of reason and duty. For if we con¬ 
 sider ourselves attentively, we shall find that we 
 are not only inclined to love those who descend 
 from us, but that we bear a kind of natural affec¬ 
 tion to everything which relies upon us for its 
 good and preservation. Dependence is a perpe¬ 
 tual call upon humanity, and a greater incitement 
 to tenderness and pity, than any other motive 
 whatsoever. 
 
 The man, therefore, who, notwithstanding any 
 passion or resentment, can overcome this powerful 
 instinct, and extinguish natural affection, debases 
 his mind even below brutality, frustrates, as much 
 as in him lies, the great design of Providence, 
 and strikes out of his nature one of the most 
 divine principles that is planted in it. 
 
 Among innumerable arguments which might be 
 brought against such an unreasonable proceeding, 
 
 I shall only insist on one. We make it the condi¬ 
 tion of our forgiveness that we forgive others. In 
 our very prayers we desire no more than to be 
 treated by this kind of retaliation. The case 
 therefore before us seems to be what they call a 
 “ case in point;” the relation between the child 
 and father, being what comes nearest to that be¬ 
 tween a creature and its/Creator. If the father is 
 inexorable to the child who has offended, let the 
 offense be of never so high a nature, how will he 
 address himself to the supreme Being, under the 
 tender appellation of a father, and desire of him 
 such a forgiveness as he himself refuses to grant ? 
 
 To this I might add many other religious, as 
 well as many prudential considerations; but if the 
 last mentioned motive does not prevail, I despair 
 
 237 
 
 of succeeding by any other, and shall therefore 
 conclude my paper with a very remarkable story, 
 which is recorded in an old chronicle published 
 by Freher, among the writers of the German 
 history. 
 
 Eginhart, who was secretary to Charles the 
 Great, became exceedingly popular by his behavior 
 in that post. His great abilities gained him the 
 favor of his master, and the esteem of the whole 
 court. Imma, the daughter of the emperor, was 
 so pleased with his person and conversation, that 
 she fell in love with him. As she was one of the 
 greatest beauties of the age, Eginhart answered 
 her with a more than equal return of passion. 
 They stifled their flames for some time, under the 
 apprehension of the fatal consequences that might 
 ensue. Eginhart at length resolving to hazard 
 all rather than live deprived of one whom his 
 heart was so much set upon, conveyed himself 
 one night into the princess’s apartment, and 
 knocking gently at the door, was admitted as a 
 person who had something to communicate to her 
 trom the emperor. He was with her in private 
 most part of the night; but upon his preparing to 
 go away about break of day, he observed that 
 there had fallen a great snow during his stay with 
 the princess. This very much perplexed, him, 
 lest the prints of his feet in the snow might make 
 discoveries to the king, who often used to visit 
 his daughter in the morning. He acquainted the 
 Princess Imma with his fears: who after some 
 consultations upon the matter, prevailed upon 
 him to let her carry him through the snow upon her 
 own shoulders. It happened that the emperor, not 
 being able to sleep, was at that time up and walk¬ 
 ing in his chamber, when upon looking through 
 the window he perceived his daughter tottering 
 under her burden and carrying his first minister 
 across the snow; which she had no sooner done, 
 but she returned again with the utmost speed to 
 her own apartment. The emperor was exceed¬ 
 ingly troubled and astonished at this accident; 
 but resolved to speak nothing of it until a proper 
 opportunity. In the meantime, Eginhart know¬ 
 ing that what he had done could not be long a 
 secret, determined to retire from court; and in 
 order to it begged the emperor that he would be 
 pleased to dismiss him, pretending a kind of dis¬ 
 content at his not having been rewarded for his 
 long services. The emperor would not give a 
 direct answer to his petition, but told him he 
 would think of it, and appointed a certain day 
 when he would let him know his pleasure. He 
 then called together the most faithful of his coun¬ 
 selors, and acquainting them with his secretary’s 
 crime, asked them their advice in so delicate an 
 affair. They most of them gave their opinion, 
 that the person could not be too severely punish¬ 
 ed, who had thus dishonored his master. Upon 
 the whole debate, the emperor declared it was his 
 opinion, that Eginhart’s punishment would rather 
 increase than diminish the shame of his family, 
 and that therefore he thought it the most advisa¬ 
 ble to wear out the memory of the fact, by marry¬ 
 ing him to his daughter. Accordingly Eginhart 
 was called in, and acquainted by the emperor, 
 that he should no longer have any pretense of 
 complaining his services were not rewarded, for 
 that the Princess Imma should be given him in 
 marriage, with a dower suitable to her quality; 
 which was soon after performed accordingly.—L. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 238 
 
 No. 182.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1711. 
 
 Plus aloes quam mellis habet-Juv., Sat. vi, 180. 
 
 The bitter overbalances the sweet. 
 
 As all parts of human life come under my ob¬ 
 servation, my reader must not make uncharitable 
 inferences from my speaking knowingly of that 
 sort of crime which is at present treated of. He 
 will, I hope, suppose I know it only from the let¬ 
 ters of correspondents, two of which you shall 
 have as follow : 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ It is wonderful to me, that among the many 
 enormities which you have treated of, you have 
 not mentioned that of wenching, and particularly 
 the ensnaring part. I mean that it is a thing very 
 fit for your pen, to expose the villany of the prac¬ 
 tice of deluding women. You are to know, Sir, 
 that I myself am a woman who have been one of 
 the unhappy that have fallen into this misfortune, 
 and that by the insinuation of a very worthless 
 fellow, who served others in the same manner, 
 both before my ruin and since that time. I had, 
 as soon as the rascal left me, so much indignation 
 and resolution as not to go upon the town, as the 
 phrase is, but took to work for my living in an 
 obscure place, out of the knowledge of all with 
 whom I was before acquainted. 
 
 “ It is the ordinary practice and business of life 
 with a set of idle fellows about this town to write 
 letters, send messages, and form appointments 
 with little raw unthinking girls, and leave them 
 after possession of them, without any mercy, to 
 shame, infamy, poverty, and disease. Were you 
 to read the nauseous impertinences which are 
 written on these occasions, and to see the silly 
 creatures sighing over them, it could not but be 
 matter of mirth as well as pity. A little ’prentice 
 girl of mine has been for some time applied to by 
 an Irish fellow, who dresses very fine, and struts 
 in a lace coat, and is the admiration of seam¬ 
 stresses, who are under age in town. Ever since 
 I had some knowledge of the matter, I have de¬ 
 barred my ’prentice from pen, ink, and paper. 
 But the other day he bespoke some cravats of me: 
 I went out of the shop, and left his mistress to 
 ut them up in a band-box in order to be sent to 
 im when his man called. When I came into the 
 shop again, I took occasion to send her away, and 
 found in the bottom of the box written these 
 words, ‘ Why would you ruin a harmless creature 
 that loves you ?’ then in the lid, ‘ There is no re¬ 
 sisting Strephon I searched a little further, and 
 found in the rim of the box, ‘At eleven o’clock at 
 night come in a hackney-coach at the end of our 
 street.’ This was enough to alarm me ; I sent 
 away the things, and took my measures accord¬ 
 ingly. An hour or two before the appointed time, 
 I examined my young lady, and found her trunk 
 stuffed Avith impertinent letters and an old scroll 
 of parchment in Latin, which her lover had sent 
 her as a settlement of fifty pounds a year. Among 
 other things, there Avas also the best lace I had 
 in my shop to make him a present for cravats. I 
 was very glad of this latter circumstance, because 
 I could very conscientiously SA\ r ear against him 
 that he had enticed my servant away, and was 
 her accomplice in robbing me : I procured a war¬ 
 rant against him accordingly. Everything was 
 now prepared, and the tender hour of love ap¬ 
 proaching, I Avho had acted for myself in my 
 youth the same senseless part, knew Iioav to man¬ 
 age accordingly ; therefore, after having locked 
 up my maid, and not being so much unlike her 
 in height and shape, as in a huddled way not to 
 pass for her, I delivered the bundle designed to 
 
 be carried off, to her lover s man, who came with 
 the signal to receive them. Thus I followed after 
 to the coach, where when I saw his master take 
 them in, I cried out, thieves ! thieves! and the 
 constable with his attendants seized my expecting 
 lover. I kept myself unobserved until I saw the 
 crowd sufficiently increased, and then appeared to 
 declare the goods to be mine; and had the satis¬ 
 faction to see my man of mode put into the 
 round-house, with the stolen wares by him, to be 
 produced in evidence against him the next morn¬ 
 ing. This matter is notoriously known to be fact; 
 and I have been contented to save my ’prentice, 
 and take a year’s rent of this mortified lover, not 
 to appear further in the matter. This was some 
 penance; but, Sir, is this enough for a villany of 
 much more pernicious consequence than the trifles 
 for which he was to have been indicted ? Should 
 not you, and all men of any parts or honor, put 
 things upon so right a foot, as that such a rascal 
 should not laugh at the imputation of what he 
 was really guilty, and dread being accused of that 
 for Avhich he Avas arrested. 
 
 In a word, Sir, it is in the power of you, and 
 such as I hope you are, to make it as infamous to 
 rob a poor creature of her honor as her clothes. I 
 leave this to your consideration, only take leave 
 (which I cannot do without sighing) to remark to 
 you that if this had been the sense of mankind 
 thirty years ago, I should have avoided a life spent 
 in poverty and shame. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 “ Alice Threadneedle.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, Round House, Sept. 9. 
 
 “I am a man of pleasure about town, but by 
 the stupidity of a dull rogue of a justice of peace, 
 and an insolent constable, upon the oath of an old 
 harridan, am imprisoned here for theft, when I 
 designed only fornication. The midnight magis¬ 
 trate, as he conveyed me along, had you in his 
 mouth, and said this Avould make a pure story for 
 the Spectator. I hope. Sir, you won’t pretend to 
 wit, and take the part of dull rogues of business. 
 The world is so altered of late years, that there 
 was not a man who would knock down a watch¬ 
 man in my behalf, but I was carried off with as 
 much triumph as if I had been a pickpocket. At 
 this rate there is an end of all the wit and humor 
 in the Avorld. The time was, when all the honest 
 Avhoremasters in the neighborhood would have 
 rose against the cuckolds in my rescue. If forni¬ 
 cation is to be scandalous, half the fine things that 
 have been Avritten by most of the wits of the last age 
 may be burned by the common hangman. Harkee, 
 Mr. Spec., do not be queer: after having done 
 some things pretty well, don’t begin to write at 
 that rate that no gentleman can read thee. Be 
 true to loAm, and burn your Seneca. You do not 
 expect me to write my name from hence, but I am, 
 T. “Your unknown, humble servant,” etc. 
 
 No. 183.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, ±711. 
 
 Sometimes fair truth in fiction we disguise; 
 
 Sometimes present her naked to men’s eyes. 
 
 Pope’s Hom. 
 
 Fables were the first pieces of wit that made 
 their appearance in the world, and have been still 
 highly valued, not only in times of the greatest 
 simplicity, but among the most polite ages of 
 mankind. Jotham’s fable of the trees* is the old¬ 
 est that is extant, and as beautiful as any which 
 have been made since that time. Nathan’s fable 
 
 * Judges ix, 8—15. 
 
of the poor man and his lamb* is likewise more 
 ancient than any that is extant, beside the above- 
 mentioned, and had so good an effect, as to con¬ 
 vey instruction to the ear of a king, without of¬ 
 fending it, and to bring a man after God’s own 
 heart to a right sense of his guilt and his duty. 
 We find HSsop in the most distant ages of Greece ; 
 and if we look into the very beginnings of the 
 commonwealth of Rome,f we see a mutiny among 
 the common people appeased by a fable of the 
 belly and the limbs, which was indeed very proper 
 to gain the attention of an incensed rabble, at a 
 time when perhaps they would have torn to pieces 
 any man who had preached the same doctrine 
 to them in an open and direct manner. As fables 
 took their birth in the very infancy of learning, 
 they never flourished more than when learning 
 was at its greatest height. To justify this asser¬ 
 tion, I shall put my reader in mind of Horace, the 
 greatest wit and critic in the Augustan age ; and 
 of Boileau, the most correct poet among the mod¬ 
 erns ; not to mention La Fontaine, who by this 
 way of writing is come more into vogue than any 
 other author of our times. 
 
 The fables I have here mentioned are raised al¬ 
 together upon brutes and vegetables, with some 
 of our own species mixed among them, when the 
 moral hath so required. But beside this kind of 
 fable, there is another in which the actors are pas¬ 
 sions, virtues, vices, and other imaginary persons 
 of the like nature. Some of the ancient critics 
 will have it, that the Iliad and Odyssey of Ho¬ 
 mer, are fables of this nature: and that the sev¬ 
 eral names of gods and heroes are nothing else 
 but the affections of the mind in a visible shape 
 and character. Thus they tell us, that Achilles, 
 in the first Iliad, represents anger, or the irascible 
 part of human nature ; that upon drawing his 
 sword against his superior in a full assembly, 
 Pallas is only another name for reason, which 
 checks and advises him upon that occasion ; and 
 at her first appearance touches him upon the head, 
 that part of the man being looked upon as the seat 
 of reason. And thus of the rest of the poem. 
 As for the Odyssey, I think it is plain that Ho¬ 
 race considered it as one of these allegorical fables, 
 by the moral which he has given us of several 
 parts of it. The greatest Italian wits have ap¬ 
 plied themselves to the writing of this latter kind 
 of fables. Spenser’s Fairy-Queen is one continued 
 series of them from the beginning to the end of 
 that admirable work. If we look into the finest 
 prose authors of antiquity, such as Cicero, Plato, 
 Xenophon, and many others, we shall find that 
 this was likewise their favorite kind of fable. I 
 shall only further observe upon it, that the first 
 of this sort that made any considerable figure in 
 the world, was that of Hercules meeting with 
 Pleasure and Virtue : which was invented by 
 Prodicus, who lived before Socrates, and in the 
 first dawnings of philosophy. He used to travel 
 through Greece by virtue of this fable, which pro¬ 
 cured him a kind reception in all the market 
 towns, where he never failed telling it as soon as 
 he had gathered an audience about him. 
 
 After this short preface, which I have made up 
 of such materials as my memory does at present 
 suggest to me, before I present my reader with a 
 fable of this kind, which I design as the enter¬ 
 tainment of the present paper, I must in a few 
 words open the occasion of it. 
 
 In the account which Plato gives us of the con¬ 
 versation and behavior of Socrates, the moraine 
 he was to die, he tells the following circumstance: 
 
 239 
 
 When Socrates “his” fetters were knocked off, 
 (as was usual to be done on the day that the con¬ 
 demned person was to be executed), being seated 
 in the midst of his disciples, and laying one of 
 his legs over the other, in a very unconcerned pos¬ 
 ture, lie began to rub it where it had been galled 
 by the iron ; and whether it was to show the in¬ 
 difference with which he entertained the thoughts 
 of his approaching death, or (after his usual man¬ 
 ner), to take every occasion of philosophizing 
 upon some useful subject, he observed the plea¬ 
 sure of that sensation which now arose in those 
 very parts of his leg, that just before had been so 
 much pained by the fetter. Upon this he reflected 
 on the nature of pleasure and pain in general, and 
 how constantly they succeed one another. To 
 this he added, that if a man of a good genius for a 
 fable were to represent the nature of pleasure and 
 pain in that way of writing, he would probably 
 join them together after such a manner, that it 
 would be impossible for the one to come into any 
 place without being followed by the other. 
 
 It is possible, that if Plato had thought it proper 
 at such a time to describe Socrates launching out 
 into a discourse which was not of a piece with the 
 business of the day, he would have enlarged upon 
 this hint, and have drawn it out into some beau¬ 
 tiful allegory or fable. But since he has not done 
 it, I shall attempt to write one myself in the spirit 
 of that divine author. 
 
 “There were two families which from the be¬ 
 ginning of the world were as opposite to each 
 other as light and darkness. The one of them 
 lived in heaven, and the other in hell. The 
 youngest descendant of the first family was Plea¬ 
 sure, who was the daughter of Happiness, who 
 was the child of Virtue, who was the offspring of 
 the Gods. These, as I said before, had their ha¬ 
 bitation in heaven. The youngest of the oppo¬ 
 site family was Pain, who was the son of Misery, 
 who was the child of Vice, who was the offspring 
 of the Furies. The habitation of this race of 
 beings was in hell. 
 
 “ The middle station of nature between these 
 two opposite extremes was the earth, which was 
 inhabited by creatures of a middle kind, neither 
 so virtuous as the one, nor so vicious as the other, 
 but partaking of the good and bad qualities of 
 these two opposite families. Jupiter considering 
 that the species, commonly called man, was too 
 virtuous to be miserable, and too vicious to be 
 happy ; that he might make a distinction between 
 the good and the bad, ordered the two youngest 
 of the above mentioned families. Pleasure, who 
 was the daughter of Happiness, and Pain, who 
 was the son of Misery, to meet one another upon 
 this part of nature which lay in the half-way be¬ 
 tween them, having promised to settle it upon 
 them both, provided they could agree upon the 
 division of it, so as to share mankind between 
 them. 
 
 “ Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their 
 new habitation, but they immediately agreed upon 
 this point, that Pleasure should take possession 
 of the virtuous, and Pain of the vicious part of 
 that species which was given up to them. But 
 upon examining to which of them any individual 
 they met with belonged, they found each of them 
 had a right to him : for that, contrary to what they 
 had seen in their old places of residence, there 
 was no person so vicious who had not some good 
 in him, nor any person so virtuous who had not 
 in him some evil. The truth of it is, they gener¬ 
 ally found upon search, that in the most vicious 
 man Pleasure might lay claim to a hundredth 
 part, and that in the most virtuous man Pain 
 might come in for at least two-thirds. This they 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 *2 Sam., xii, 1—4. 
 
 t Liv. Hist., lib. ii, sect. 32, etc. Florus, lib. i, c. 23. 
 
240 THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 saw would occasion endless disputes between 
 
 them, unless they could come to some accommo¬ 
 dation. To this end there was a marriage pro¬ 
 posed between them, and at length concluded. 
 By this means it is that we find pleasure and pain 
 are such constant yoke-fellows ; and that they 
 either make their visits together, or are never far 
 asunder. If Pain comes into a heart, he is quickly 
 followed by Pleasure; and if Pleasure enters, you 
 may be sure Pain is not far off. 
 
 “ But notwithstanding this marriage was very 
 convenient for the tw r o parties, it did not seem to 
 answer the intention of Jupiter in sending them 
 among mankind. To remedy, therefore, this in¬ 
 convenience, it was stipulated between them by 
 article, and confirmed by the consent of each fa¬ 
 mily, that notwithstanding they here possessed 
 the species indifferently ; upon the death of every 
 single person, if he was found to have in him a 
 certain proportion of evil, he should be dispatched 
 into the infernal regions by a passport from Pain, 
 there to dwell with Misery, Vice, and the Furies. 
 Or, on the contrary, if he had in him a certain pro- 
 ortion of good, he should be dispatched into 
 eaven by a passport from Pleasure, there to dwell 
 with Happiness, Virtue, and the Gods.” 
 
 No. 184.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1711. 
 
 -Operc in longo fas est obrepere somnum. 
 
 Hor. Ars. Poet., v, 360. 
 
 -Who labors long may be allowed sleep. 
 
 When a man has discovered a new vein of hu¬ 
 mor, it often carries him much further than he ex¬ 
 pected from it. My correspondents take the hint 
 I give them, and pursue it into speculations which 
 I never thought of at my first starting it. This 
 has been the fate of my paper on the match of 
 grinning, which has already produced a second 
 paper on parallel subjects, and brought me the 
 following letter by the last post. I shall not pre¬ 
 mise anything to it further, than that it is built on 
 matter of fact, and is as follows: 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “You have already obliged the world with a 
 discourse upon grinning, and have since proceeded 
 to whistling, from whence you at length came to 
 yawning ; from this I think you may make a very 
 natural transition to sleeping. I therefore recom¬ 
 mend to you for the subject of a paper the follow¬ 
 ing advertisement, which about two months ago 
 was given into everybody’s hands, and may be 
 seen, with some additions, in the Daily Courant 
 of August the 9th.: 
 
 “ ‘ Nicholas Hart, who slept last year in St. 
 Bartholomew’s Hospital, intends to sleep this year 
 at the Cock and Bottle in Little-Britain.’ 
 
 “ Having since inquired into the matter of fact, 
 I find that the above-mentioned Nicholas Hart is 
 every year seized with a periodical fit of sleeping, 
 which begins upon the fifth of August, and ends 
 on the eleventh of the same month: That 
 
 On the first of that month he grew dull; 
 
 On the second, appeared drowsy; 
 
 On the third, fell a yawning ; 
 
 On the fourth, began to nod ; 
 
 On the fifth, dropped asleep ; 
 
 On the sixth, was heard to snore ; 
 
 On the seventh, turned himself in his bed ; 
 
 On the eighth, recovered his former posture; 
 
 On the ninth, fell a stretching 
 
 On the tenth, about midnight, awaked ; 
 
 On the eleventh in the morning, called for a lit¬ 
 tle small beer. 
 
 “ This account I have extracted out of the jour¬ 
 nal of this sleeping worthy, as it has been faith¬ 
 fully kept by a gentleman of Lincoln’s-inn, who 
 
 has undertaken to be his historiographer. I have 
 sent it to you, not only as it represents the actions 
 of Nicholas Hart, but as it seems a very natural pic¬ 
 ture of the life of many an honest English gentle¬ 
 man, whose whole history very often consists of 
 yawning, nodding, stretching, turning, sleeping, 
 drinking, and the like extraordinary particulars. 
 
 I do not question, Sir, that if you pleased, you 
 could put an advertisement not unlike the above- 
 mentioned, of several men of figure ; that Mr. John 
 Sucli-a-one, gentleman, or Thomas Such-a-one, 
 esquire, who slept in the country last summer, in¬ 
 tends to sleep in town this winter. The worst of 
 it is, that the drowsy part of our species is chiefly 
 made up of very honest gentlemen, who live qui¬ 
 etly among their neighbors, without ever disturb¬ 
 ing the public peace. They are drones without 
 stings. I could heartily wish, that several turbu¬ 
 lent^ restless, ambitious spirits, would for a while 
 change places with these good men, and enter 
 themselves into Nicholas Hart’s fraternity. Could 
 one but lay asleep a few busy heads which I could 
 name, from the first of November next to the first 
 of May ensuing,* I question not but it would very 
 much redound to the quiet of particular persons, 
 as well as to the benefit of the public. 
 
 “But to return to Nicholas Hart: I believe, Sir, 
 you will think it a very extraordinary circum¬ 
 stance for a man to gain his livelihood by sleep¬ 
 ing, and that rest should procure a man sustenance 
 as well as industry ; yet so it is, that Nicholas got 
 last year enough to support himself for a twelve- 
 month. I am likewise informed that he has this 
 year had a very comfortable nap. The poets value 
 themselves very much for sleeping on Parnassus, 
 but I never heard they got a groat by it. On the 
 contrary, our friend Nicholas gets more by sleep¬ 
 ing than he could by working, and may be more 
 properly said, than ever Homer was, to have had 
 golden* dreams. Juvenal indeed mentions a 
 drowsy husband who raised an estate by snoring, 
 but then he is represented to have slept what 
 the common people call a dog’s sleep; or if 
 his sleep was real, his wife was awake, and 
 about her business. Your pen, which loves 
 to moralize upon all subjects, may raise some¬ 
 thing, methinks, on this circumstance also, and 
 point out to us those set of men, who, instead 
 of growing rich by an honest industry, recom¬ 
 mend themselves to the favors of the great, by 
 making themselves agreeable companions in the 
 participations of luxury and pleasure. 
 
 “ I must further acquaint you. Sir, that one of 
 the most eminent pens in Grub-street is now em¬ 
 ployed in writing the dream of this miraculous 
 sleeper, which I hear will be of a more than ordi¬ 
 nary length, as it must contain all the particulars 
 that are supposed to have passed in his imagina¬ 
 tion during so long a sleep. He is said to have 
 gone already through three days and three nights 
 of it, and to have comprised in them the most re¬ 
 markable passages of the four first empires of the 
 world. If he can keep free from party-strokes, 
 his work may be of use ; but this I much doubt, 
 having been informed by one of his friends and 
 confidants, that he has spoken some things of 
 Nimrod with too great freedom. 
 
 “ I am ever, Sir,” etc.—L. 
 
 No. 185.] TUESDAY, OCT. 2, 1711. 
 
 Tantsene animis coelestibus ir® ? 
 
 ViRG. iEn., i, 15. 
 
 And dwells such fury in celestial breasts ? 
 
 There is nothing in which men more deceive 
 themselves than in what the world calls zeal. 
 
 * The time in which the parliament usually site. 
 

 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 There are so many passions which hide them¬ 
 selves under it, and so many mischiefs arising 
 from it, that some have gone so far as to say it 
 would have been for the benefit of mankind if it 
 had never been reckoned in the catalogue of vir¬ 
 tues. It is certain, where it is once laudable and 
 prudential, it is a hundred times criminal and 
 erroneous: nor can it be otherwise, if we consider 
 that it operates with equal violence in all reli¬ 
 gions, however opposite they may be to one 
 another, and in all the subdivisions of each reli¬ 
 gion in particular. 
 
 We are told by some of the Jewish rabbins, 
 that the first murder was occasioned by a reli¬ 
 gious controversy; and if we had the whole his¬ 
 tory of zeal from the days of Cain to our own 
 times, we should see it filled with so many scenes 
 of slaughter and bloodshed, as would make a 
 wise man very careful how lie suffers himself to 
 be actuated by such a principle when it only re¬ 
 gards matters of opinion and speculation. 
 
 I would have every zealous man examine his 
 heart thoroughly, and, I believe, he will often 
 find, that what he calls a zeal for his religion, 
 is either pride, interest, or ill-nature. A man who 
 differs from another in opinion, sets himself 
 above him in his own judgment, and in several 
 particulars pretends to be the wiser person. This 
 is a great provocation to the proud man, and 
 gives a very keen edge to what he calls his zeal. 
 And that this is the case very often, we may ob¬ 
 serve from the behavior of some of the most zeal¬ 
 ous for orthodoxy, who have often great friend¬ 
 ships and intimacies with vicious, immoral men, 
 provided they do but agree with them in the same 
 scheme of belief. The reason is, because the 
 vicious believer gives the precedency to the vir¬ 
 tuous man, and allows the good Christian to be 
 the worthier person, at the same time that he 
 cannot come up to his perfection. This we find 
 exemplified in that trite passage which we see 
 quoted in almost every system of ethics, though 
 upon another occasion : 
 
 241 
 
 •Yideo meliora proboque, 
 
 Doteriora sequor 
 
 Ovid. Met,, vii, 20. 
 
 I see the right, and I approve it too; 
 
 Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue.— Tate. 
 
 On the contrary, it is certain, if our zeal were 
 true and genuine, we should be much more angry 
 with a sinner than a heretic; since there are 
 several cases which may excuse the latter before 
 his great Judge, but none which can excuse the 
 former. 
 
 Interest is likewise a great inflamer and sets a 
 i man on persecution under the color of zeal. For 
 this reason we find none are so forward to pro- 
 mote the true worship by fire and sword, as those 
 who find their present account in it. But I shall 
 extend, the word interest to a larger meaning than 
 what is generally given it, as it relates to our 
 spiritual safety and welfare, as well as to our 
 emporal. A man is glad to gain numbers on his 
 side, as they serve to strengthen him in his pri¬ 
 vate opinions Every proselyte is like a new 
 argument for the establishment of his faith. It 
 makes him beheve that his principles carry con¬ 
 viction with them, and are the more likely to be 
 tiue, when he finds they are conformable to the 
 reason of others, as well as to his own. And 
 that this temper of mind deludes a man very 
 often into an opinion of his zeal, may appear 
 from the common behavior of the atheist, who 
 maintains and spreads his opinions with as much 
 neat as those who believe they do it only out of a 
 passion for God’s glory. 
 
 Ill-nature is another dreadful imitator of zeal.— 
 16 
 
 Many a good man may have a natural rancor and 
 malice in his heart, which has been in some 
 measure quelled and subdued by religion: but if 
 it finds pretense of breaking out, which does 
 not seem to him inconsistent with the duties of 
 a Christian, it throws off all restraint, and rages 
 * n fui 7- Zeal is, therefore, a great ease to a 
 malicious man, by making him believe he does 
 God service, while he is gratifying the bent of a 
 perverse, revengeful temper. For this reason we 
 find, that most of the massacres and devastations 
 which have been in the world, have taken their 
 rise from a furious pretended zeal. 
 
 I love to see a man zealous in a good matter, 
 and especially when his zeal shows itself for ad¬ 
 vancing morality, and promoting the happiness 
 of mankind. But when I find the instruments 
 he works with are racks and gibbets, galleys and 
 dungeons: when he imprisons men’s persons, 
 confiscates their estates, ruins their families, and 
 burns the body to save the soul, I cannot stick to 
 pronounce of such a one, that (whatever he may 
 think of his faith and religion), his faith is vain, 
 and his religion unprofitable. 
 
 After having treated of these false zealots in 
 religion, I cannot forbear mentioning a monstrous 
 species of men, who one would not think had any 
 existence in nature, were they not to be met with 
 in ordinary conversation—I mean the zealots in 
 atheism. One would fancy that these men, though 
 they fall short, in every other respect, of those 
 who make a profesion of religion, would at least 
 outshine them in this particular, and be exempt 
 from that single fault which seems to grow out 
 of the imprudent fervors of religion. But so it 
 is, that infidelity is propagated with as much 
 fierceness and contention, wrath and indignation, 
 as if the safety of mankind depended upon it. 
 There is something so ridiculous and perverse in 
 this kind of zealots, that one does not know how 
 to set them out in their proper colors. They are 
 a sort of gamesters who are eternally upon the 
 fret, though they play for nothing. They are 
 perpetually teasing their friends to come over to 
 them, though at the same time they allow that 
 neither of them shall get anything by the bargain. 
 In short, the zeal of spreading atheism is, if pos¬ 
 sible, more absurd than atheism itself. 
 
 Since I have mentioned this unaccountable zeal 
 which appears in atheists and infidels, I must 
 further observe, that they are likewise in a most 
 particular manner possessed with the spirit of 
 bigotry. They are wedded to opinions full of 
 contradiction and impossibility, and at the same 
 time look upon the smallest difficulty in an article 
 of faith as a sufficient reason for rejecting it. 
 Notions that fall in with the common reason of 
 mankind, that are conformable to the sense of all 
 ages, and all nations, not to mention their ten¬ 
 dency for promoting the happiness of societies, 
 or ox particular persons, are exploded as errors 
 and prejudices ; and schemes erected in their stead 
 that are altogether monstrous and irrational, and 
 require the most extravagant credulity to embrace 
 them. I would fain ask one of these bigoted in¬ 
 fidels, supposing all the great points of atheism, 
 as the casual or eternal formation of the world, the 
 materiality of a thinking substance, the mortality 
 of the soul, the fortuitous organization of the 
 body, the motions and gravitation of matter, 
 with the like particulars, were laid together and 
 formed into a kind of creed, according to the 
 opinions of the most celebrated atheists ; I say, 
 supposing such a creed as this were formed, and 
 imposed upon any one people in the world, whe¬ 
 ther it would not require an infinitely greater 
 measure of faith, than any set of articles which 
 
242 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ad- 
 
 they so violently oppose. Let me therefore 
 vise this generation of wranglers, for their own 
 and for the public good, to act at least so con¬ 
 sistently with themselves, as not to burn with 
 zeal for irreligion, and with bigotry for nonsense. 
 
 C. 
 
 No. 186.] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1711. 
 
 Coelum ipsum petimus stultitia— Hor. 3 Od. i. 
 High Heaven itself our impious rage assails.—d?. 
 
 38. 
 
 Upon my return to my lodgings last night, I 
 found a letter from my worthy friend the clergy¬ 
 man, whom I have given some account of in my 
 former papers. He tells me in it that he was 
 particularly pleased with the latter part of my 
 yesterday’s speculation ; and at the same time 
 inclosed the following essay, which he desires me 
 to publish as the sequel to that discourse. It con¬ 
 sists partly of uncommon reflections, and partly 
 of such as have been already used, but now set in 
 a stronger light. 
 
 “ A believer may be excused by the most har¬ 
 dened atheist for endeavoring to make him a con¬ 
 vert, because he does it with an eye to both their 
 interests. The atheist is inexcusable who tries to 
 gain over a believer, because he does not propose 
 the doing himself or the believer any good by 
 such a conversion. 
 
 “ The prospect of a future state is the secret 
 comfort and refreshment of my soul; it is that 
 which makes nature look gay about me; it doubles 
 all my pleasures, and supports me under all my 
 afflictions. I can look at disappointments and 
 misfortunes, pain and sickness, death itself, and 
 what is worse than death, the loss of those who 
 are dearest to me, with indifference, so long as I 
 keep in view the pleasures of eternity, and the 
 state of being in which there will be no fears nor 
 apprehensions, pains nor sorrows, sickness nor 
 separation. Why will any man be so imperti¬ 
 nently officious as to tell me all this is only fancy 
 and delusion? Is there any merit in being the 
 messenger of ill news ? If it is a dream, let me 
 enjoy it, since it makes me both the happier and 
 better man. 
 
 “ I must confess I do not know how to trust a 
 man who believes neither heaven nor hell, or in 
 other words, a future state of rewards and punish¬ 
 ments. Not only natural self-love, but reason, 
 directs us to promote our own interests above all 
 things. It can never be for the interest of a be¬ 
 liever to do me a mischief, because he is sure upon 
 the balance of accounts to find himself a loser by 
 it. On the contrary, if he considers his own 
 welfare in his behavior toward me, it will lead 
 him to do me all the good he can, and at the same 
 time restrain him from doing me any injury. An 
 unbeliever does not act like a reasonable creature, 
 if he favors me contrary to his present interest, 
 or does not distress me when it turns to his pres¬ 
 ent advantage. Honor and good-nature may in¬ 
 deed tie up his hands ; but as these would be 
 very much strengthened by reason and principle, 
 so without them they are only instincts, or wa¬ 
 vering, unsettled notions, which rest on no foun- 
 • dation. 
 
 “ Infidelity has been attacked with so good suc¬ 
 cess of late years, that it is driven out of all its 
 outworks. The atheist has not found his post 
 tenable, and is therefore retired into deism, and a 
 disbelief of revealed religion only. But the truth 
 of it is, the greatest number of this set of men 
 are those who, for want of a virtuous education, or 
 examining the grounds of religion, know so very 
 
 little of the matter in question, that their infi¬ 
 delity is but another term for their ignorance. 
 
 “As folly and inconsiderateness are the founda¬ 
 tions of infidelity, the great pillars and supports 
 of it are either a vanity of appearing wiser than 
 the rest of mankind, or an ostentation of courage 
 in despising the terrors of another world, which 
 have so great an influence on what they call 
 weaker minds; or an aversion to a belief that must 
 cut them off from many of those pleasures they 
 propose to themselves, and fill them with remorse 
 for many of those they have already tasted. 
 
 “The great received articles of the Christian re¬ 
 ligion have been so clearly proved, from the 
 authority of that divine revelation in which they 
 are delivered, that it is impossible for those who 
 have ears to hear, and eyes to see, not to be con¬ 
 vinced of them. But were it possible for any¬ 
 thing in the Christian faith to be erroneous, I can 
 find no ill consequences in adhering to it. The 
 great points of the incarnation and sufferings of 
 our Savior produce naturally such habits of virtue 
 in the mind of man, that, I say, supposing it 
 were possible for us to be mistaken in them, the 
 infidel himself must at least allow, that no other 
 system of religion could so effectually contribute 
 to the heightening of morality. They give us 
 great ideas of the dignity of human nature, and 
 of the love which the Supreme Being bears to his 
 creatures, and consequently engage us in the 
 highest acts of duty toward our Creator, our 
 neighbor, and ourselves. How many noble argu¬ 
 ments has St. Paul raised from the chief articles 
 of our religion, for the advancing of morality in 
 its three great branches! To give a single ex¬ 
 ample in each kind. What can be a stronger 
 motive to a firm trust and reliance on the mercies 
 of our Maker, than the giving us his Son to suf¬ 
 fer for us? What can make us love and esteem 
 even the most inconsiderable of mankind, more 
 than the thought that Christ died for him? Or 
 what dispose us to set a stricter guard upon the 
 purity of our hearts, than our being members of 
 Christ, and a part of the society of which that 
 immaculate person is the head? But these are 
 only a specimen of those admirable enforcements 
 of morality, which the apostle has drawn from the 
 history of our blessed Savior. 
 
 “If our modern infidels considered these mat¬ 
 ters with that candor and seriousness which they 
 deserve, we should not see them act with such a 
 spirit of bitterness, arrogance, and malice. They 
 would not be raising such insignificant cavils, 
 doubts, and scruples, as may be started against 
 everything that is not capable of mathematical 
 demonstration; in order to unsettle the mind of the 
 ignorant, disturb the public peace, subvert mo¬ 
 rality, and throw all things into confusion and 
 disorder. If none of these reflections can have any 
 influence on them, there is one that perhaps may, 
 because it is adapted to their vanity, by which 
 they seem to be guided much more than their 
 reason. I would therefore have them consider, 
 that the wisest and best of men, in all ages of the 
 world, have been those who lived up to the re¬ 
 ligion of their country, when they saw nothing in 
 it opposite to morality, and to the best lights they 
 had of the divine nature. Pythagoras’s first rule 
 directs us to worship the gods ‘as it is ordained 
 by law,’ for that is the most natural interpretation 
 of the precept. Socrates, who was the most re¬ 
 nowned among the heathens, both for wisdom 
 and virtue, in his last moments desires his friends 
 to offer a cock to iEsculapius: doubtless out of a 
 submissive deference to the established worship 
 of his country. Xenophon tells us, that his prince 
 (whom he sets forth as a pattern of perfection), 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 when he found his death approaching, offered sa¬ 
 crifices on the mountains to the Persian Jupiter, 
 and the Sun, ‘according to the custom of the Per¬ 
 sians; for those are the words of the historian.* 
 Nay, the Epicureans and atomical philosophers 
 showed a very remarkable modesty in this particu¬ 
 lar; for though the being of a God was entirely re¬ 
 pugnant to their schemes of natural philosophy, 
 they conten^d themselves with the denial of a 
 Providence, asserting at the same time the ex¬ 
 istence of gods in general ; because they would 
 not shock the common belief of mankind, and the 
 religion of their country.”—L. 
 
 No. 187.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1711. 
 
 -Miseri quibus 
 
 Intent ata nites- Hor. 1 Od. v, 2. 
 
 Ah, wretched they! whom Pyrrha’s smile 
 
 And unsuspected arts beguile! —Duncome. 
 
 The intelligence given by this correspondent is 
 so important and useful, in order to avoid the per¬ 
 sons he speaks of, that I shall insert his letter at 
 length. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I do not know that you have ever touched 
 upon a certain species of women, whom we ordi¬ 
 narily call jilts. You cannot possibly go upon a 
 more useful work, than the consideration of these 
 dangerous animals. The coquette is indeed one 
 degree toward the jilt; but the heart of the former 
 is bent upon admiring herself, and giving false 
 hopes to her lovers; but the latter is not contented 
 to be extremely amiable, but she must add to that 
 advantage a certain delight in being a torment to 
 others. Thus Avhen her lover is in full expectation 
 of success, the jilt shall meet him with a sudden 
 indifference and admiration in her face atjiis being 
 surprised that he is received like a stranger, and 
 a cast of her head another way with a pleasant 
 scorn of the fellow’s insolence. It is very prob¬ 
 able the lover goes home utterly astonished and 
 dejected, sits down to his scrutoire, sends her word 
 in the most abject terms, that he knows not what 
 he has done, that all which was desirable in this 
 life is so suddenly vanished from him, that the 
 charmer of his soul should withdraw the vital 
 heat from the heart which pants for her. He con¬ 
 tinues a mournful absence for some time, pining 
 in secret, and out of humor with all things that 
 he meets with. At length he takes a resolution to 
 try his fate, and explains with her resolutely upon 
 her unaccountable carriage. He walks up to her 
 apartment, with a thousand inquietudes, and 
 doubts in what manner he shall meet the first cast 
 of her eye; when upon his first appearance she 
 flies toward him, wonders where he has been, ac¬ 
 cuses him of his absence, and treats him with a 
 familiarity as surprising as her former coldness. 
 This good correspondence continues until the 
 lady observes the lover grows happy in it, and 
 then she interrupts it with some new inconsistency 
 of behavior. For (as I just now said) the hap¬ 
 piness of a jilt consists only in the power of 
 making others uneasy. But such is the folly of 
 this sect of women, that they carry on this pretty 
 skittish behavior, until they have no charms left to 
 render it supportable. Corinna, that used to torment 
 all who conversed with her with false glances, and 
 little heedless unguarded motions, that were to 
 betray some inclination toward the man she would 
 insnare, finds at present all she attempts that way 
 
 * Xenopb. Cyropaed., lib. 8, p. 500. Ed. Hutchins, 1747, 8to. 
 
 243 
 
 unregarded; and is obliged to indulge the pit in 
 her constitution, by laying artificial plots, writing 
 perplexing letters from unknown hands, and 
 making all the young fellows in love with her, 
 until they find out who she is. Thus, as before 
 she gave torment by disguising her inclination, 
 she is now obliged to do it by hiding her person. 
 
 “As for my own part, Mr. Spectator, it has been 
 my unhappy fate to be jilted from my youth up¬ 
 ward; and as my taste has been very much toward 
 intrigue, and having intelligence with women oi 
 wit, iny whole life has passed away in a series of 
 impositions. I shall, for the benefit of the present 
 race of young men, give some account of my 
 loves. I know not whether you have ever heard 
 of the famous girl gbout town called Kitty. This 
 creature (for I must take shame upon myself) was 
 my mistress in the days when keeping was in 
 fashion. Kitty, under the appearance of being 
 wild, thoughtless, and irregular in all her words 
 and actions, concealed the most accomplished jilt 
 ol her time. Her negligence had to me a charm 
 in it like that of chastity, and want of desires 
 seemed as great a merit as the conquest of them. 
 1 he air she gave herself was that of a romping 
 girl, and whenever I talked to her with any turn 
 of fondness, she would immediately snatch off my 
 periwig, try it upon herself in the glass, clap her 
 arms a-kimbo, draw my sword, and make passes 
 on the wall, take off my cravat, and seize it to 
 make some other use of the lace, or run into some 
 other unaccountable rompishness, until the time I 
 had appointed to pass away with her was over. 
 I went from her full of pleasure at the reflection 
 that I had the keeping of so much beauty in a 
 woman who, as she was too heedless to please me, 
 was also too inattentive to form a design to wrong 
 me. Long did I divert every hour that hung 
 heavy upon me in the company of this creature, 
 whom 1 looked upon as neither guilty nor inno¬ 
 cent, but could laugh' at myself for my unac¬ 
 countable pleasure in an expense upon her, until 
 in the end it appeared my pretty insensible was 
 with child by my footman. 
 
 “This accident roused me into disdain against 
 all libertine women, under what appearance so¬ 
 ever they hid their insincerity, and I resolved 
 after that time to converse with none but those 
 who lived within the rules of decency and honor. 
 To this end I formed myself into a more regular 
 turn of behavior, and began to make visits, fre¬ 
 quent assemblies, and lead our ladies from the 
 theaters, with all the other insignificant duties 
 which the professed servants of the fair place 
 themselves in constant readiness to perform. In 
 a very little time (having a plentiful fortune), 
 fathers and mothers began to regard me as a good 
 match, and I found easy admittance into the best 
 families in town to observe their daughters; but I, 
 who was born to follow the fair to no purpose, 
 have by the force of my ill stars, made my ap¬ 
 plication to three jilts successively. 
 
 “Hyaena is one of those who form themselves 
 into a melancholy and indolent air, and endea¬ 
 vor to gain admirers from their inattention to all 
 around them. Hyaena can loll in her coach, with 
 something so fixed in her countenance, that it is 
 impossible to conceive her meditation is employed 
 only on her dress, and her charms in that posture. 
 If it were not too coarse a simile, I should say, 
 Hyaena, in the figure she affects to appear in, is a 
 spider in the midst of a cobweb, that is sure to 
 destroy every fly that approaches it. The net 
 Hyaena throws is so fine, that you are taken in it 
 before you can observe any part of her work. I 
 attempted her for a long ana weary season, but I 
 found her passion went no further than to be ad- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 244 
 
 mired; and she is of that unreasonable temper, as 
 not to value the inconstancy of her lovers, pro¬ 
 vided she can boast she once had their addresses. 
 
 “Biblis was the second I aimed at, and her va¬ 
 nity lay in purchasing the adorers of others, and 
 not in rejoicing in their love itself. Biblis is no 
 man’s mistress, but every woman’s rival. As soon 
 as I found this, I fell in love with Chloe, who is 
 my present pleasure and torment. I have written 
 to her, danced with her, and fought for her, and 
 have been her man in the sight and expectation 
 of the whole town these three years, and thought 
 myself near the end of my wishes; when the other 
 day she called me into her closet, and told me, 
 with a very grave face, that she was a woman of 
 honor, and scorned to deceive a man who loved 
 her with so much sincerity as she saw I did, and 
 therefore she must inform me that she was by 
 nature the most inconstant creature breathing, and 
 begged me not to marry her; if I insisted upon it, 
 I should; but that she was lately fallen in love 
 with another. What to do or say I know not, but 
 desire you to inform me, and you will infinitely 
 oblige, 
 
 “Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 0. “Charles Yellow.” 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Mr. Sly, haberdasher of hats, at the corner of 
 Devereux-court, in the Strand, gives notice, that 
 he has prepared very neat hats, rubbers and 
 brushes, for the use of young tradesmen in the last 
 year of apprenticeship, at reasonable rates.—T. 
 
 No. 188.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5, 1711. 
 
 Laitus sum laudari a te laudato viro.—T ull. 
 
 It gives me pleasure to be praised by you, 'whom all men 
 praise. 
 
 He is a very unhappy man who sets his heart 
 upon being admired by the multitude, or affects a 
 general and undistinguishing applause among men. 
 What pious men call the testimony of a good, con¬ 
 science, should be the measure of our ambition in 
 this kind; that is to say, a man of spirit should 
 contemn the praise of the ignorant, and like being 
 applauded for nothing but what he knows in his 
 own heart he deserves. Beside which, the charac¬ 
 ter of the person who commends you is to be con¬ 
 sidered, before you set a value upon his esteem. 
 The praise of an ignorant man is only good-will, 
 and you should receive his kindness as he is a 
 good neighbor in society, and not as a good judge 
 of your actions in point of fame and reputation. 
 The satirist said very well of popular praise and 
 acclamations, “Give the tinkers and cobblers their 
 presents again, and learn to live of yourself.”* 
 It is an argument of a loose and ungoverned mind 
 to be affected with the promiscuous approbation 
 of the generality of mankind; and a man of virtue 
 should be too delicate for so coarse an appetite of 
 fame. Men of honor should endeavor only to 
 please the worthy, and the man of merit should 
 desire to be tried only by his-peers. I thought it 
 a noble sentiment which I heard yesterday uttered 
 in conversation: “I know,” said a gentleman, “a 
 way to be greater than any man. If he has worth 
 in him, I can rejoice in his superiority to me ; and 
 that satisfaction is a greater act of the soul in me, 
 than any in him which can possibly appear to 
 me.” This thought could proceed but from a 
 candid and generous spirit; and the approbation 
 of such minds is what may be esteemed true 
 
 * — -Tollat sua munera cerdo: 
 
 Tecum habita. - Pers., Sat. iv, 51. 
 
 praise: for with the common race of men there is 
 nothing commendable but what they themselves 
 may hope to be partakers of, and arrive at; but 
 the motive truly glorious is, when the mind is set 
 rather to do things laudable, than to purchase re¬ 
 putation. Where there is that sincerity as the 
 foundation of a good name, the kind opinion of 
 virtuous men will be an unsought, but a necessary 
 consequence. The Lacedaemonians, though a 
 plain people, and no pretenders to politeness, had 
 a certain delicacy in their sense of glory, and 
 sacrificed to the Muses when they entered upon 
 any great enterprise. They would have the com¬ 
 memoration of their actions be transmitted by the 
 purest and most untainted memorialists. The 
 din which attends victories and public triumphs, 
 is by far less eligible than the recital of the actions 
 of great men by honest and wise historians. It is 
 a frivolous pleasure to be the admiration of gap¬ 
 ing crowds; but to have the approbation of a good 
 man in the cool reflections of his closet, is a grati¬ 
 fication worthy a heroic spirit. The applause of 
 the crowd makes the head giddy, but the attesta¬ 
 tion of a reasonable man makes the heart glad. 
 
 What makes the love of popular or general 
 praise still more ridiculous, is that it is usually 
 given for circumstances which are foreign to the 
 persons admired; Thus they are the ordinary at¬ 
 tendants on power and riches, which may be taken 
 out of one man’s hands, and put into another’s. 
 The application only, and not the possession, 
 makes those outward things honorable. The vul¬ 
 gar and men of sense agree in admiring men for 
 having what they themselves would rather be pos¬ 
 sessed of; the wise man applauds him whom he 
 thinks most virtuous, the rest of the world, him 
 who is most wealthy. 
 
 When a man is in this way of thinking, I do 
 not know what can occur to one more monstrous, 
 than to see persons of ingenuity address their 
 services and performances to men no way addicted 
 to liberal arts. In these cases, the praise on one 
 hand, and the patronage on the other, are equally 
 the objects of ridicule. Dedications to ignorant 
 men are as absurd as any of the speeches of Bul- 
 finch in the Droll. Such an address one is apt to 
 translate into other words ; and when the different 
 parties are thoroughly considered, the panegyric 
 generally implies no more than if the author 
 should say to the patron ; “ My very good lord, 
 you and I can never understand one another; 
 therefore I humbly desire we may be intimate 
 friends for the future.” 
 
 The rich may as well ask to borrow of the 
 oor, as the man of virtue and merit hope for ad- 
 ition to his character from any but such as him¬ 
 self. He that commends another engages so much 
 of his own reputation as he gives to that person 
 commended ; and he that has nothing laudable in 
 himself is not of ability to be such a surety. 
 The wise Phocion was so sensible how dangerous 
 it was to be touched with what the multitude 
 approved, that upon a general acclamation made 
 when he was making an oration, lie turned to an 
 intelligent friend who stood near him, and asked 
 in a surprised manner, “What slip have I made?” 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with a billet which 
 has fallen into my hands, and was written to a 
 lady from a gentleman whom she had highly 
 commended. The author of it had formerly been 
 her lover. When all possibility of commerce be¬ 
 tween them on the subject of love was cut off, she 
 spoke so handsomely of him, as to give occasion 
 to this letter. 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “I should be insensible, to a stupidity, if I 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 245 
 
 could forbear making my acknowledgments for 
 your late mention of me with so much applause. 
 It is, I think, your fate to give me new senti¬ 
 ments : as you formerly inspired me with the 
 true sense of love, so do you now with the true 
 sense of glory. As desire had the least part in the 
 passion I heretofore professed toward you, so has 
 vanity no share in the glory to which you have 
 now raised me. Innocence, knowledge, beauty, 
 virtue, sincerity, and discretion, are the constant 
 ornaments of her who has said this of me. Fame 
 is a babbler, but I have arrived at the highest 
 lory in this world, the commendation of the most 
 eserving person in it.”—T. 
 
 No. 189.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1711. 
 
 -Patriae pietatis imago.—T iro. 2En., x, 824. 
 
 An image of paternal tenderness. 
 
 The following letter being written to my book¬ 
 seller, upon a subject of which I treated some time 
 since, I shall publish it in this paper, together 
 with the letter that was inclosed in it:— 
 
 “Mr. Buckley, 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator having of late descanted upon 
 the cruelty of parents to their children, I have 
 been induced (at the request of several of Mr. 
 Spectator’s admirers) to inclose this letter, which 
 I assure you is the original from a father to his 
 own son, notwithstanding the latter gave but lit¬ 
 tle or no provocation. It would be wonderfully 
 obliging to the world, if Mr. Spectator would 
 give us his opinion of .it in some of his specula¬ 
 tions, and particularly to (Mr. Buckley), 
 
 “ Your humble servant.” 
 
 “ Sirrah, 
 
 “You are a saucy, audacious rascal, and both 
 fool and mad, and i care not a farthing whether 
 you comply or no ; that does not raze out my im¬ 
 pressions of your insolence, going about railing 
 at me, and the next day to solicit my favor. 
 These are inconsistencies, such as discover thy 
 reason depraved. To be brief, I never desire to 
 see your face ; and, sirrah, if you go to the work- 
 house, it is no disgrace to me for you to be sup¬ 
 ported there ; and if you starve in the streets, I’ll 
 never give anything underhand in your behalf. 
 If I have anything more of your scribbling non¬ 
 sense, I’ll break your head the first time I set 
 sight on you. You are a stubborn beast; is this 
 your gratitude for my giving you money? You 
 rogue, I’ll better your judgment, and give you a 
 greater sense of your duty to (I regret to say) 
 your father, etc. 
 
 “P. S. It’s prudent for you to keep out of my 
 sight; for to reproach me that might overcomes 
 right, on the outside of your letter, I shall give 
 you a great knock on the skull for it.” 
 
 Y as there ever such an image of paternal ten¬ 
 derness ! It w r as usual among some of the Greeks 
 to make their slaves drink to excess, and then ex¬ 
 pose them to their children, who by that means 
 conceived an early aversion to a vice which makes 
 men appear so monstrous and irrational. I have 
 exposed this picture of an unnatural father with 
 the same intention, that its deformity may deter 
 others from its resemblance. If the reader has a 
 mind to see a father of the same stamp repre¬ 
 sented in the most exquisite strokes of humor, he 
 may meet with it in one of the finest comedies 
 that ever appeared upon the English stage: I 
 mean the part of Sir Sampson in Love for Love. 
 
 I must not, however, engage myself blindly on 
 the side of the son, to whom the fond letter above 
 
 written was directed. His father calls him a 
 “ saucy and audacious rascal ” in the first line, 
 and I am afraid, upon examination, he will prove 
 but an ungracious youth. “ To go about railing” 
 at his father, and to find no other place but “ the 
 outside of his letter ” to tell him “ that might 
 overcomes right,” if it does not discover “Iiis 
 reason to be depraved,” and “that he is either 
 fool or mad, ’ as the choleric old gentleman tells 
 him, we may at least allow that the father will do 
 very well in endeavoring to “ better his judgment, 
 and give him a greater sense of his duty.” But 
 whether this may be brought about by “ break¬ 
 ing his head,” or “ giving him a great knock on 
 the skull, ought, I think, to be well considered. 
 Upon the -whole, I wish the father has not met 
 with his match, and that he may not be as equally 
 paired with his son, as the mother in Virgil:— ” 
 
 -Crudelis tu quoque mater: 
 
 Crudelis mater magis, an puer improbus ille ? 
 
 Improbus ille puer, crudelis tu quoque mater. 
 
 Eel., xiii, 48. 
 
 0 barbarous mother, thirsting to destroy! 
 
 More cruel was the mother or the boy ? 
 
 Both, both alike delighted to destroy, 
 
 Th’ unnatural mother, and the ruthless boy. 
 
 I Warton. 
 
 Or like the crow and her egg in the Greek pro¬ 
 verb :— 
 
 Bad the crow, bad the egg. 
 
 I must here take notice of a letter which I have 
 received from an unknown correspondent, upon 
 the subject of my paper, upon which the foregoing 
 letter is likewise founded. The writer of it seems 
 very much concerned lest the paper should seem 
 to give encouragement to the disobedience of chil¬ 
 dren toward their parents ; but if the writer of it 
 will take the painsto read it over again atten¬ 
 tively, I dare say his apprehensions will vanish. 
 Pardon and reconciliation are all the penitent 
 daughter requests, and all that I contend for in 
 her behalf; and in this case I may use the saying 
 of an eminent wit, who, upon some great man’s 
 pressing him to forgive his daughter, who had 
 married against his consent, told them he could 
 refuse nothing to their instances, but that he would 
 have them remember there was difference between 
 giving and forgiving. 
 
 I must confess, in all controversies between 
 parents and their children, I am naturally preju¬ 
 diced in favor of the former. The obligations on 
 that side can never be acquitted, and I think it is 
 one of the greatest reflections upon human nature, 
 that paternal instinct should be a stronger motive 
 to love than filial gratitude ; that the receiving of 
 favors should be a less inducement to a good will, 
 tenderness, and commiseration, than the confer¬ 
 ring of them ; and that the taking care of any 
 person should endear the child or dependent more 
 to the parent or benefactor, than the parent or 
 benefactor to the child or dependent : yet so it 
 happens, that for one cruel parent we meet with a 
 thousand undutiful children. This is, indeed, 
 wonderfully contrived (as I have formerly ob¬ 
 served) for the support of every living species : 
 but at the same time that it shows the wisdom of 
 the Creator, it discovers the imperfection and de¬ 
 generacy of the creature. 
 
 The obedience of children to their parents is the 
 basis of all government, and set forth as the mea¬ 
 sure of that obedience which we owe to those 
 whom Providence hath placed over us. 
 
 It is father Le Compte, if I am not mistaken, 
 who tells us how want of duty in this particular 
 is punished among the Chinese, insomuch that if 
 a son should be known to kill, or so much as to 
 strike his father, not only the criminal, but his 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 246 
 
 whole family would be rooted out, nay, the inhab¬ 
 itants of the place where he lived would be put to 
 the sword, nay, the place itself would be razed to 
 the ground, and its foundations sown with salt. 
 For, say they, there must have been an utter de¬ 
 pravation of manners in that clan or society of 
 people who could have bred up among them so 
 lorrid an offender. To this I shall add a passage 
 out of the first book of Herodotus. That histor¬ 
 ian, in his account of the Persian customs and 
 religion, tells us, it is their opinion that no man 
 ever killed his father, or that it is possible such a 
 crime should be in nature ; but that if anything 
 like it should ever happen, they conclude that the 
 reputed son must have been illegitimate, supposi¬ 
 titious, or begotten in adultery. Their opinion 
 in this particular shows sufficiently what a notion 
 they must have had of undutifulness in general. 
 
 No. 190.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1711. 
 
 Servitus crescit nova- Hor. 2 Od. viii, 18. 
 
 A slavery to former times unknown. 
 
 Since I madq some reflections upon the general 
 negligence used in the case of regard toward 
 women, or, in other words, since I talked of wench¬ 
 ing, I have had epistles upon that subject, which 
 I shall, for the present entertainment, insert as 
 they lie before me. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “As your speculations are not confined to any 
 part of human life, but concern the wicked as well 
 as the good, I must desire your favorable accept¬ 
 ance of what I, a poor strolling girl about town, 
 have to say to you. I was told by a Roman Cath¬ 
 olic gentleman who picked me up last week, and 
 who, I hope is absolved for what passed between 
 us ; I say, I was told by such a person, who en¬ 
 deavored. to convert me to his own religion, that 
 in countries where popery prevails, beside the 
 advantages of licensed stews, there are large en¬ 
 dowments given for the Incurabili, I think he 
 called them, such as are past all remedy, and are 
 allowed such maintenance and support as to keep 
 them without further care until they expire. This 
 manner of treating poor sinners has, methinks, 
 great humanity in it; and as you are a person 
 who pretend to carry your reflections, upon all 
 subjects whatever that occur to you, with candor, 
 and act above the sense of what misinterpreta¬ 
 tion you may meet with, I beg the favor of you 
 to lay before all the world the unhappy condition 
 of us poor vagrants, who are really in a way of 
 labor instead of idleness. There are crowds of 
 us whose manner of livelihood has long ceased to 
 be pleasing to us : and who would willingly lead 
 a new life, if the rigor of the virtuous did not for¬ 
 ever expel us from coming into the world again. 
 As it now happens, to the eternal infamy of the 
 male sex, falsehood among you is not reproachful, 
 but credulity in women is infamous. 
 
 “Give me leave, Sir, to give you my history. 
 You are to know that I am a daughter of a man 
 of a good reputation, tenant to a man of quality. 
 The heir of this great house took it in his head to 
 cast a favorable eye upon me, and succeeded. I 
 do not pretend to say he promised me marriage : 
 I was not a creature silly enough to be taken by 
 so foolish a story: but lie ran away with me up to 
 this town, and introduced me to a grave matron, 
 with whom I boarded for a day or two with great 
 gravity, and was not a little pleased with the 
 change of my condition, from that of a country 
 life to the finest company, as I believed, in the 
 
 whole world. My humble servant made me un¬ 
 derstand that I should always be kept in the plen¬ 
 tiful condition I then enjoyed : when after a verjr 
 great fondness toward me, he one day took his 
 leave of me for four or five days. In the evening 
 of the same day my good landlady came to me, 
 and observing me very pensive, began to comfort 
 me, and with a smile told me I must see the 
 world. When I was deaf to all she could say to 
 divert me, she began to tell me with a very frank 
 air that I must be treated as I ought, and not take 
 these squeamish humors upon me, for my friend 
 had left me to the town ; and, as their phrase is, 
 she expected I would see company, or I must be 
 treated like what I had brought myself to. This 
 put me into a fit of crying; and I immediately, in 
 a true sense of my condition, threw myself on the 
 floor, deploring my fate, calling upon all that was 
 good and sacred to succor me. While I was in 
 all this agony, I observed a decrepid old fellow 
 come into the room, and looking with a sense of 
 pleasure in his face at all my vehemence and trans¬ 
 port. In a pause of my distresses I heard him 
 say to the shameless old woman who stood by me, 
 
 ‘ She is certainly a new face, or else she acts it 
 rarely.’ With that the gentlewoman, who was 
 making her market of me, in all the turns of my 
 person, the heaves of my passion, and the suitable 
 changes of my posture, took occasion to commend 
 my neck, my shape, my eyes, my limbs. All this 
 was accompanied with such speeches as you may 
 have heard horse-coursers make in the sale of 
 nags, when they are warranted for their sound¬ 
 ness. You understand by this time that I was 
 left in a brothel, and exposed to the next bidder 
 who could purchase me of my patroness. This 
 is so much the work of hell : the pleasure in the 
 possession of us wenches abates in proportion to 
 the degrees we go beyond the bounds of inno¬ 
 cence; and no man is gratified, if there is nothing 
 left for him to debauch. Well, Sir, my first man, 
 when I came upon the town, was Sir Jeoffry Foi¬ 
 ble, who was extremely lavish to me of his mo¬ 
 ney, and took such a fancy to me that he would 
 have carried me off, if my patroness would have 
 taken any reasonable terms for me ; but as he 
 was old, his covetousness was his strongest pas¬ 
 sion, and poor I was soon left exposed to be the 
 common refuse of all the rakes and debauchees in 
 town. I cannot tell whether you will do me jus¬ 
 tice or no, till I see whether you print this or not; 
 otherwise, as I now live with Sal.* I could give 
 you a very just account of who and wha is togeth¬ 
 er in this town. You perhaps wont believe it; 
 but I know of one who pretends to be a very good 
 Protestant, who lies with a Roman Catholic : but 
 more of this hereafter, as you please me. There 
 do come to our house the greatest politicians of 
 the age ; and Sal is more shrewd than anybody 
 thinks. Nobody can believe that such wise men 
 could go to bawdy-houses out of idle purposes. 
 I have heard them often talk of Augustus Ciesar, 
 who had intrigues with the wives of senators, not 
 out of wantonness but stratagem. 
 
 “ It is a thousand pities you should be so se¬ 
 verely virtuous as I fear you are ; otherwise, after 
 one visit or two, you would soon understand that 
 we women of the town are not such useless cor¬ 
 respondents as you may imagine : you have un¬ 
 doubtedly heard that it was a courtesan who dis¬ 
 covered Catiline's conspiracy. If you print this 
 I’ll tell you more: and am in the meantime, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble servant, 
 
 “ Rebecca Nettletop.” 
 
 * A celebrated courtesan and procuress of those times. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ Me. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am an idle young woman that would work 
 ray livelihood, but that I am kept in such a man¬ 
 ner as I cannot stir out. My tyrant is an old jeal¬ 
 ous fellow, who allows me nothing to appear in. 
 I have but one shoe and one slipper; no head¬ 
 dress. and no upper petticoat. As you set up for 
 a reformer, I desire you would take me out of this 
 wicked way, and keep me yourself. 
 
 “ Eve Afterday.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am to complain to you of a set of imperti¬ 
 nent coxcombs, who visit the apartments of us 
 women of the town, only, as they call it, to see 
 the world. I must confess to you, this to men of 
 delicacy might have an effect to cure them ; but 
 as they are stupid, noisy, and drunken fellows, it 
 tends only to make vice in themselves, as they 
 think, pleasant and humorous, and at the same 
 time nauseous in us. I shall, Sir, hereafter, from 
 time to time give you the names of these wretches 
 who pretend to enter our houses merely as Specta¬ 
 tors. These men think it wit to use us ill : pray 
 tell them, however worthy we are of such treat¬ 
 ment, it is unworthy them to be guilty of it to¬ 
 ward us. Pray, Sir, take notice of this, and pity 
 the oppressed : I wish we could add to it, the in¬ 
 nocent.” T. 
 
 No. 191.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1711. 
 
 -Deluding vision of the night.— Pope. . 
 
 Some ludicrous schoolmen have put the case, 
 that if an ass were placed between two bundles of 
 hav, which affected, his senses equally on each 
 side, and tempted him in the very same degree, 
 whether it would be possible for him to eat of 
 either. They generally determine this question to 
 the disadvantage of the ass, who, they say, would 
 starve in the midst of plenty, as not having a 
 single grain of free-will to determine him more to 
 the one than to the other. The bundle of hay on 
 either side striking his sight and smell in the same 
 proportion, would keep him in perpetual suspense, 
 like the two magnets, which travelers have told 
 us, are placed one of them in the roof, and the 
 other in the floor of Mahomet’s burying-place at 
 Mecca, and by that means, say they, pull the im¬ 
 postor’s iron coffin with such an equal attraction, 
 that it hangs in the air between both of them. As 
 for the ass’s behavior in such nice circumstances, 
 whether he would starve sooner than violate his 
 neutrality to the two bundles of hay, I shall not 
 presume to determine; but only take notice of the 
 conduct of our own species in the same perplexity. 
 When a man has a mind to venture his money in 
 a lottery, every figure of it appears equally allur¬ 
 ing, and as likely to succeed as any of its fellows. 
 They all of them have the same pretensions to 
 good luck, stand upon the same foot of competi¬ 
 tion, and no manner of reason can be given why 
 a man should prefer one to the other before the 
 lottery is drawn. In this case, therefore, caprice 
 very often acts in the place of reason, and forms 
 to itself some groundless, imaginary motive, where 
 real and substantial ones are wanting. I know a 
 well-meaning man that is very well pleased to 
 risk his good fortune upon the number 1711, be¬ 
 cause it is the vear of our Lord. I am acquainted 
 witli a tacker that would give a good deal for the 
 number 134.* * On the contrary, I have been told 
 
 *In the year 1704 a bill was brought into the house of 
 commons against occasional conformity; and in order to make 
 it pass through the house of lords, it was proposed to tack it 
 to a money-bill. This occasioned warm debates, and at 
 
 247 
 
 of a certain zealous dissenter, who being a great 
 enemy to popery, and believing that bad men are 
 the most fortunate in this world, will lay two to 
 one on the number 666 against any other number, 
 because, says he, it is the number of the beast.* 
 Several would prefer the number 12,000 before 
 any other, as it is the number of the pounds in 
 the great prize. In short, some are pleased to 
 find their own age in their number; some that have 
 got a number which makes a pretty appearance in 
 the ciphers; and others, because it is the same 
 number that succeeded in the last lottery. Each 
 of these, upon no other grounds, thinks he stands 
 fairest for the great lot, and that he is possessed of 
 what may not be improperly called “the golden 
 number. ”f 
 
 These principles of election are the pastimes 
 and extravagances of human reason, which is of 
 so busy a nature, that it will be exerting itself in 
 the meanest trifles, and working even when it 
 wants materials. The wisest of men are some¬ 
 times actedj by such unaccountable motives, as 
 the life of the fool and the superstitious is guided 
 by nothing else. 
 
 I am surprised that none of the fortune-tellers, 
 or, as the French call them, the Diseurs de bonne 
 Aventure, who publish their bills in every 
 quarter of the town, have turned our lotteries to 
 their advantage. Did any of them set up for a 
 caster of fortunate figures, what might he not get 
 by his pretended discoveries and predictions? 
 
 I remember among the advertisements in the 
 Post-Boy of September the 27th, I was surprised 
 to see the following one: 
 
 “This is to give notice, that ten shillings over 
 and above the market price, will be given for the 
 ticket in the 1,500,000?. lottery, No. 132, by Nath. 
 Cliff, at the Bible and Three Crowns in Cheap- 
 side.” 
 
 This advertisement has given great matter of 
 speculation to coffee-house theorists. Mr. Cliff’s 
 principles and conversation have been canvassed 
 upon this occasion, and various conjectures made 
 why he should thus set his heart upon No. 132. 
 I have examined all the powers in those numbers, 
 broken them into fractions, extracted the square 
 and cube root, divided and multiplied them all 
 ways, but could not arrive at the secret until about 
 three days ago, when I received the following letter 
 from an unknown hand; by which I find that Mr. 
 Nath. Cliff is only the agent, and not the prin¬ 
 cipal, in this advertisement. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am the person that lately advertised I would 
 give ten shillings more than the current price for 
 the ticket No. 132 in the lottery now drawing; 
 which is a secret I have communicated to some 
 friends, who rally me incessantly upon that ac 
 count. You must know I have but one ticket, for 
 which reason, and a certain dream I have lately 
 had more than once, I resolved it should be the 
 number I most approved. I am so positive that I 
 have pitched upon the great lot, that I could 
 almost lay all I am worth upon it. My visions 
 are so frequent and strong upon this occasion, 
 that I have not only possessed the lot, but dis¬ 
 posed of the money which in all probability it 
 will sell for. This morning in particular, I set up 
 an equipage which I look upon to be the gayest 
 in the town; the liveries are very rich, but not 
 
 length it was put to the vote; when 134 were for tacking, 
 but a large majority being against it, the motion was over 
 ruled, and the bill miscarried. 
 
 * In the ltevelations. See ch. xiii, ver. 18. 
 
 Alluding to the number so called in the Calendar. 
 Actuated. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 248 
 
 gaudy. I should be very glad to see a speculation 
 or two upon lottery subjects, in which you would 
 oblige all people concerned, and in particular, 
 
 “Your most humble Servant, 
 “George Gosling.” 
 
 “P. S. Dear Spec., if I get the 12,000 pounds. 
 I’ll make thee a handsome present.” 
 
 After having wished my correspondent good 
 luck, and thanked him for his intended kindness, 
 I shall for this time dismiss the subject of the 
 lottery, and only observe, that the greatest part 
 of mankind are in some degree guilty of my 
 friend Gosling’s extravagance. We are apt to rely 
 upon future prospects, and become really ex¬ 
 pensive while we are only rich in possibility. We 
 live up to our expectations, not to our possessions, 
 and make a figure proportionable to what we may 
 be, not what we are. We outrun our present in¬ 
 come, as not doubting to disburse* ourselves out 
 of the profits of some future place, project, or re¬ 
 version that we have in view. It is through this 
 temper of mind, which is so common among us, 
 that we see tradesmen break, who have met with 
 no misfortunes in their business ; and men of 
 estates reduced to poverty, who have never suf¬ 
 fered from losses or repairs, tenants, taxes, or law¬ 
 suits. In short, it is this foolish, sanguine temper, 
 this depending upon contingent futurities, that 
 occasions romantic generosity, chimerical gran¬ 
 deur, senseless ostentation, and generally ends in 
 beggary and ruin. The man who will live above 
 his present circumstances is in great danger of 
 living in a little time much beneath them; or, as 
 the Italian proverb runs, “The man who lives by 
 hope, will die by hunger.” 
 
 It should be an indispensable rule in life, to con¬ 
 tract our desires to our present condition, and, 
 whatever may be our expectations, to live within 
 the compass of what we actually possess. It will 
 be time enough to enjoy an estate when it comes 
 into our hands; but if we anticipate our good for¬ 
 tune, we shall lose the pleasure of it when it ar¬ 
 rives, and may possibly never possess what we 
 have so foolishly counted upon.—L. 
 
 Ho. 192.] WEDNESDAY, OCT. 10, 1711. 
 
 -Uno ore omnes omnia 
 
 Bona dicere, et laudare fortunas meas, 
 
 Qui gnatum haberem tali ingenio prseditum. 
 
 Ter. Andr., act., sc. 1. 
 
 -All the world 
 
 With one accord said all good things, and prais’d 
 My happy fortunes, who possess a son 
 So good, so liberally disposed. -Colman. 
 
 I stood the other day, and beheld a father sitting 
 in the middle of a room with a large family of 
 children about him : and methought I could ob¬ 
 serve in his countenance different motions of de¬ 
 light, as he turned his eye toward the one or the 
 other of them. The man is a person moderate in 
 his designs for their preferment and welfare ; and 
 as he has an easy fortune he is not solicitous to 
 make a great one. His eldest son is a child of a 
 very towardly disposition, and as much as the 
 father loves him, I dare say he will never be a 
 knave to improve his fortune. I do not know any 
 man who has a juster relish of life than the per¬ 
 son I am speaking of, or keeps a better guard 
 against the terrors of want, or the hopes of gain. 
 It is usual, in a crowd of children, for the parent 
 to name out of his own flock all the great officers 
 
 of the kingdom. There is something so very sur¬ 
 prising in the parts of a child of a man’s own, 
 that there is nothing too great to be expected from 
 his endowments. I know a good woman who has 
 but three sons, and there is, she says, nothing she 
 expected with more certainty, than that she shall 
 see one of them a bishop, the other a judge, and 
 the third a court-physician. The hunfor is, that 
 anything which can happen to any man’s child, is 
 expected by every man for his own. But my 
 friend, whom I am going to speak of, does not 
 flatter himself with such vain expectations, but 
 has his eye more upon the virtue and disposition 
 of his children than their advancement or wealth. 
 Good habits are what will certainly improve a 
 man’s fortune and reputation ; but, on the other 
 side, affluence of fortune will not as probably pro¬ 
 duce good affections of the mind. 
 
 It is very natural for a man of a kind disposi¬ 
 tion to amuse himself with the promises his ima¬ 
 gination makes to him of the future condition of 
 his children, and to represent to himself the figure 
 they shall bear in the world after he has left it. 
 When his prospects of this kind are agreeable, his 
 fondness gives as it were a longer date to his own 
 life; and the survivorship of a worthy man in 
 his son, is a pleasure scarce inferior to the hopes 
 of the continuance of his own life. That man is 
 happy who can believe of his son, that he will es¬ 
 cape the follies and indiscretions of which he him¬ 
 self was guilty, and pursue and improve every¬ 
 thing that was valuable in him. The continuance 
 of his virtue is much more to be regarded than 
 that of his life ; but it is the most lanlentable of 
 all reflections, to think that the heir of a man’s 
 fortune, is such a one as will be a stranger to his 
 friends, alienated from the same interests, and a 
 promoter of everything which he himself dis¬ 
 approved. An estate in possession of such a suc¬ 
 cessor to a good man, is worse than laid waste; 
 and the family, of which he is the head, is in a 
 more deplorable condition than that of being ex¬ 
 tinct. 
 
 When I visit the agreeable seat of my honored 
 friend Ruricola, and walk from room to room re¬ 
 volving many pleasing occurrences, and the ex¬ 
 pressions of many just sentiments I have heard 
 him utter, and see the booby his heir in pain, 
 while he is doing the honors of his house to the 
 friend of his father, the heaviness it gives one is 
 not to be expressed. Want of genius is not to be 
 imputed to any man, but want of humanity is a 
 man’s own fault. The son of Ruricola (whose 
 life was one continued series of worthy actions, 
 and gentleman-like inclinations) is the companion 
 of drunken clowns, and knows no sense of praise 
 but in the flattery he receives from his own ser¬ 
 vants ; his pleasures are mean and inordinate, his 
 language base and filthy, his behavior rough and 
 absurd. Is this creature to be accounted the suc¬ 
 cessor of a man of virtue, wit, and breeding? At 
 the same time that I have this melancholy pros¬ 
 pect at the house where I miss my old friend, I 
 can go to a gentleman’s not far off, where he has a 
 daughter who is the picture both of his body and 
 mind, but both improved with the beauty and 
 modesty peculiar to her sex. It is she who sup¬ 
 plies the loss of her father to the world; she, 
 without his name or fortune, is a truer memorial 
 of him, than her brother who succeeds him in 
 both. Such an offspring as the eldest son of my 
 friend perpetuates his father in the same manner 
 as the appearance of his ghost would : it is indeed 
 Ruricola, but it is Ruricola grown frightful. 
 
 I know not to what to attribute the brutal turn 
 which this young man has taken, except it may 
 be to a certain severity and distance which his 
 
 * Disburse seems to stand here for reimburse. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 father used toward him, and might perhaps have 
 occasioned a dislike to those modes of life, which 
 were not made amiable to him bv freedom and 
 affability. 
 
 We may promise ourselves that no such excres¬ 
 cence will appear in the family of the Cornelii, 
 where the father lives with his sons like their eld¬ 
 est brother, and the sons converse with him as if 
 they did it for no other reason but that he is the 
 wisest man of their acquaintance. As the Corne¬ 
 lii* are eminent traders, their good correspondence 
 with each other is useful to all that know them, as 
 well as to themselves : and their friendship, good¬ 
 will, and kind offices, are disposed of jointly as 
 well as their fortune, so that no one ever obliged 
 one of them, who had not the obligation multi¬ 
 plied in returns from them all. 
 
 It is the most beautiful object the eyes of man 
 can behold to see a man of worth and his son live 
 in an entire unreserved correspondence. The mu¬ 
 tual kindness and affection between them, give an 
 inexpressible satisfaction to all who know them. 
 It is a sublime pleasure which increases by the 
 participation. It is as sacred as friendship, as 
 pleasurable as love, and as joyful as religion. 
 This state of mind does not only dissipate sorrow, 
 which would be extreme without it, but enlarges 
 pleasures which would otherwise be contemptible. 
 The most indifferent thing has its force and beauty 
 when it is spoke by a kind father, and an insigni¬ 
 ficant trifle has its weight when offered by a duti¬ 
 ful child. I know not how to express it, but I 
 think I may call it a “ transplanted self-love.” 
 All the enjoyments and sufferings which a man 
 meets with are regarded only as they concern him 
 in the relation he has to another. A man’s very 
 honor receives a new value to him, when he thinks 
 that, when he is in his grave, it will be had in re¬ 
 membrance that such an action was done by such- 
 a-one’s father. Such considerations sweeten the 
 old man’s evening, and his soliloquy delights him 
 when he can say to himself, “No man can tell my 
 child, his father was either unmerciful, or unjust. 
 My son shall meet many a man who shall say to 
 him, ‘I was obliged to thy father: and be my 
 child a friend to his child forever.’ ” 
 
 It is not in the power of all men to leave illus¬ 
 trious names or great fortunes to their posterity, 
 but they can very much conduce to their having 
 industry, probity, valor, and justice. It is in 
 every man’s power to leave his son the honor of 
 descending from a virtuous man, and add the 
 blessings of heaven to whatever he leaves him. I 
 shall end this rhapsody with a letter to an excel¬ 
 lent young man of my acquaintance, who has 
 lately lost a worthy father. 
 
 “Dear Sir, 
 
 “I know no part of life more impertinent than 
 the office of administering consolation : I will not 
 enter into it, for I cannot but applaud your grief. 
 The virtuous principles you had from that excel¬ 
 lent man, whom you have lost, have wrought in 
 you as they ou^ht, to make a youth of three-and- 
 twenty incapable of comfort upon coming into 
 possession of a great fortune. I doubt not but 
 you will honor his memory by a modest enjoy¬ 
 ment of his estate ; and scorn to triumph over his 
 grave, by employing in riot, excess, and debauch- 
 
 * By the Cornelii, the Spectator is supposed to mean the 
 family of the Eyles’s, merchants of distinction; of whom 
 Francis Kyles, Esq., the father, who was a director of the 
 East India Company, and alderman of London, was created a 
 baronet 1 George I. Ilis eldest surviving son, Sir John 
 Eyles, Bart., was afterward lord-mayor in 1727: and another 
 of his sons, Sir Joseph Eyles, Knt., was sheriff of London in 
 
 249 
 
 ery, what he purchased with so much industry, 
 prudence, and Avisdom. This is the true way to 
 show the sense you have of your loss, and to take 
 away the distress of others upon the occasion. 
 You cannot recall your father by your grief, but 
 you may revive him to his friends by your con¬ 
 duct.” r p > 
 
 No. 193.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1711. 
 
 Ingentem forihus domus alta superbis 
 
 Mane salutantum totis vomit sodibus undam. 
 
 ViRG. Georg., ii, 461. 
 
 His lordship’s palace view, whose portals proud 
 
 Each morning vomit forth a cringing crowd. 
 
 Warton, etc. 
 
 When we look round us, and behold the strange 
 variety of faces and persons which fill the streets 
 with business and hurry, it is no unpleasant 
 amusement to make guesses at their different pur¬ 
 suits, and judge by their countenances what it is 
 that so anxiously engages their present attention. 
 Of all this busy crowd, there are none who would 
 give a man inclined to such inquiries better di¬ 
 version tor his thoughts, than those whom we 
 call good courtiers, and such as are assiduous at 
 the levees of great men. These worthies are got 
 into a habit of being servile Avith an air, and enjoy 
 a certain vanity in being known for understanding 
 how the world passes. In the pleasure of this 
 they can rise early, go abroad sleek and well- 
 dressed, with no other hope or purpose, but to 
 make a bow to a man in court favor, and be 
 thought, by some insignificant smile of his, not a 
 little engaged in his interests and fortunes. It is 
 wondrous, that a man can get over the natural ex¬ 
 istence and possession of his own mind so far as 
 to take delight either in paying or receiving such 
 cold and repeated civilities. But what maintains 
 the humor is, that outward show is what most 
 men pursue, rather than real happiness. Thus 
 both the idol, and idolater, equally impose upon 
 themselves in pleasing their imaginations this 
 way. But as there are very many of her majesty’s 
 good subjects who are extremely uneasy at their 
 own seats in the country, wffiere all from the skies 
 to the center of the earth is their own, and have a 
 mighty longing to shine in courts, or to be part¬ 
 ners in the power of the world ; I say, for the 
 benefit of these, and others who hanker after being 
 in the whisper with great men, and vexing their 
 neighbors with the changes they would be capable 
 of making in the appearance of a country ses¬ 
 sions, it would not, methinks, be amiss to give an 
 account of that market for preferment, a great 
 man’s levee. 
 
 For aught I know, this commerce between the 
 mighty and their slaves, very justly represented, 
 might do so much good, as to incline the great to 
 regard business rather than ostentation ; and make 
 the little know the use of their time too well to 
 spend it in vain applications and addresses. The 
 famous doctor in Moorfields, who gained so much 
 reputation for his horary predictions, is said to 
 have had in his parlor different ropes to little bells 
 which hung in the room above stairs, where the 
 doctor thought fit to be oraculous. If a girl had 
 been deceived by her lover, one bell was pulled ; 
 and it a peasant had lost a cow, the servant rang 
 another. This method was kept in respect to all 
 other passions and concerns, and the skillful waiter 
 below sifted the inquirer, and gave the doctor no¬ 
 tice accordingly. The levee of a great man is 
 laid after the same manner, and twenty whispers, 
 false alarms, and private intimations, pass back¬ 
 ward and forward from the porter, the valet, and 
 the patron himself, before the gaping crew, who 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 250 
 
 are to pay their court, are gathered together. 
 When the scene is ready, the doors fly open and 
 discover his lordship. ^ 
 
 There are several ways of making this first ap¬ 
 pearance. You may be either half-dressed, and 
 washing yourself, which is indeed the most stately; 
 but this way of opening is peculiar to military 
 men, in whom there is something graceful in ex¬ 
 posing themselves naked : but the politicians, or 
 civil officers, have usually affected to be more re¬ 
 served, and preserve a certain chastity of deport¬ 
 ment. Whether it be hierogdyphical or not, this 
 difference in the military ana civil list, I will not 
 say ; but have ever understood the fact to be, that 
 the close minister is buttoned up, and the brave 
 officer open-breasted on these occasions. 
 
 However that is, I humbly conceive the business 
 of a levee is to receive the acknowledgments of a 
 multitude, that a man is wise, bounteous, valiant, 
 and powerful. When the first shot of eyes is 
 made, it is wonderful to observe how much sub¬ 
 mission the patron’s modesty can bear, and how 
 much servitude the client’s spirit can descend to. 
 In the vast multiplicity of business, and the 
 crowd about him, my lord’s parts are usually so 
 great, that, to the astonishment of the whole 
 assembly, he has something to say to every man 
 there, and that so suitable to his capacity as any 
 man may judge that it is not without talents men 
 can arrive at great employments. I have known a 
 great man ask a flag-officer, which way was the 
 wind ; a commander of horse, the present price of 
 oats : and a stock-jobber, at what discount such a 
 fund was, with as much ease as if he had been 
 bred to each of those several ways of life. Now 
 this is extremely obliging ; for at the same time 
 that the patron informs himself of matters, he 
 gives the person of whom he inquires an opportu¬ 
 nity to exert himself. What adds to the pomp of 
 those interviews is, that it is performed with the 
 greatest silence and order imaginable. The pa¬ 
 tron is usually in the midst of the room, and some 
 humble person gives him a whisper, which his 
 lordship answers aloud, “It is well. Yes, I am 
 of your opinion. Pray inform yourself further, 
 you may be sure of my part in it.” This happy 
 man is dismissed, and my lord can turn himself 
 to a business of a quite different nature, and off¬ 
 hand give as good an answer as any great man is 
 obliged to. For the chief point is to keep in ge¬ 
 nerals ; and if there be anything offered that is 
 particular, to be in haste. 
 
 But we are now in the height of the affair, and 
 my lord’s creatures have all had their whispers 
 round to keep up the farce of the tiling, and the 
 dumb-show is become more general. He casts his 
 eye to that corner, and there to Mr. Such-a-one ; 
 to the other, “ And when did you come to town ? ” 
 And perhaps just before he nods to another ; and 
 enters with him, “ But, Sir, I am glad to see you, 
 now I think of it.” Each of those are happy for the 
 next four-and-twenty hours ; and those who bow 
 in ranks undistinguished, and by dozens at a 
 time, think they have very good prospects if they 
 may hope to arrive at such notices half a year 
 hence. 
 
 The satirist says, there is seldom common sense 
 in high fortune ;* and one would think, to behold 
 a levee, that the great were not only infatuated 
 with their station, but also that they believed all 
 below were seized too ; else how is it possible 
 they could think of imposing upon themselves 
 and others in such a degree, as to set up a levee 
 for anything but a direct farce? But such is the 
 
 * Ilarus enim ferme sensus communis in ilia 
 Eortuna — Juv., viii, 73. 
 
 weakness of our nature, that when men are a little 
 exalted in their condition, they immediately con¬ 
 ceive they have additional senses, and their capa¬ 
 cities enlarged not only above other men, but 
 above human comprehension itself. Thus it is or¬ 
 dinary to see a great man attend one listening, 
 bow to one at a distance, and call to a third at the 
 same instant. A girl in new ribbons is not more 
 taken with herself, nor does she betray more ap¬ 
 parent coquetries, than even a wise man in such a 
 circumstance of courtship. I do not know any¬ 
 thing that I ever thought so very distasteful as the 
 affectation which is recorded of Caesar, to wit: 
 that he would dictate to three several writers 
 at the same time. This was an ambition below 
 the greatness and candor of his mind. He indeed 
 (if any man had pretensions to greater faculties 
 than any other mortal) was the person ; but such 
 a way of acting is childish, and inconsistent with 
 the manner of our being. It appears from the 
 very nature of things, that there cannot be any¬ 
 thing effectually dispatched in the distraction of a 
 public levee ; but the whole seems to be a conspi¬ 
 racy of a set of servile slaves, to give up their 
 own liberty to take away their patron’s under¬ 
 standing.—T. 
 
 No. 194.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 12, 1711. 
 
 -Difficili bile tumet jecur.— Hor. 1 Od. xiii, 4. 
 
 With jealous pangs my bosom swells. 
 
 The present paper shall consist of two letters 
 which observe upon faults that are easily cured 
 both in love and friendship. In the latter, as far 
 as it merely regards conversation, the person who 
 neglects visiting an agreeable friend is punished 
 in the very transgression ; for a good companion 
 is not found in every room we go into. But the 
 case of love is of a more delicate nature, and the 
 anxiety is inexpressible, if every little instance of 
 kindness is not reciprocal. There are things in 
 this sort of commerce which there are not words 
 to express, and a man may not possibly know how 
 to represent what may yet tear his heart into ten 
 thousand tortures. To be grave to a man’s mirth, 
 inattentive to his discourse, or to interrupt either 
 with something that argues a disinclination to be 
 entertained by him, has in it something so disa¬ 
 greeable, that the utmost steps which may be 
 made in further enmity cannot give greater tor¬ 
 ment. The gay Corinna, who sets up for an indif¬ 
 ference and becoming heedlessness, gives her 
 husband all the torment imaginable out of mere 
 indolence, with this peculiar vanity, that she is to 
 look as gay as a maid in the character of a wife. 
 It is no matter what is the reason of a man’s grief, 
 if it be heavy as it is. Her unhappy man is con¬ 
 vinced that she means him no dishonor, but pines 
 to death because she will not have so much defer¬ 
 ence to him as to avoid the appearances of it. The 
 author of the following letter is perplexed with an 
 injury that is in a degree yet less criminal, and yet 
 the source of the utmost unhappiness. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have read your papers which relate to jeal¬ 
 ousy, and desire your advice in my case, which 
 you will say is not common. I have a wife, of 
 whose virtue I am not in the least doubtful; yet I 
 cannot be satisfied she loves me, which gives me 
 as great uneasiness as being faulty the other way 
 would do. I know not whether I am not yet more 
 miserable than in that case, for she keeps posses¬ 
 sion of my heart, without the return of hers. I 
 would desire your observations upon that temper 
 J in some women, who will not condescend to con- 
 
THE SPE 
 
 vince their husbands of their innocence or their 
 love, but are wholly negligent of what reflections 
 the poor men make upon their conduct (so they 
 cannot call it criminal), when at the same time a 
 little tenderness of behavior, or regard to show an 
 inclination to please them, would make them en¬ 
 tirely at ease. Do not such women deserve all the 
 misinterpretation which they neglect to avoid? 
 Or are they not in the actual practice of guilt, who 
 care not whether they are thought guilty or not ? 
 If my wife does the most ordinary thing, as visit¬ 
 ing her sister, or taking the air with her mother, 
 it is always carried with the air of a secret. Then 
 she will sometimes tell a thing of no consequence, 
 as if it was only want of memory made her con¬ 
 ceal it before; and this only to dally with my 
 anxiety. I have complained to her of this beha¬ 
 vior in the gentlest terms imaginable, and be- 
 seeched her not to use him, who desired only to 
 live with her like an indulgent friend, as the most 
 morose and unsociable husband in the world. It 
 is no easy matter to describe our circumstance, but 
 it is miserable with this aggravation, that it might 
 be easily mended, and yet no remedy endeavored. 
 She reads you, and there is a phrase or two in this 
 letter which she will know came from me. If we 
 enter into an explanation which may tend to our 
 future quiet by your means, you shall have our 
 joint thanks: in the meantime I am (as much as 
 I can in this ambiguous condition be anything), 
 Sir, 
 
 “ Your humble Servant.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Give me leave to make you a present of a cha¬ 
 racter not yet described in your papers, which is 
 that of a man who treats his friend with the same 
 odd variety which a fantastical female tyrant prac¬ 
 tices toward her lover. I have for some time had 
 a friendship with one of those mercurial persons. 
 The rogue I know loves me, yet takes advantage 
 of my fondness for him to use me as he pleases. 
 We are by turns the best friends and greatest 
 strangers imaginable. Sometimes you would 
 think us inseparable ; at other times he avoids me 
 for a long time, yet neither he nor I know why. 
 When we meet next by chance, he is amazed he 
 has not seen me, is impatient for an appointment 
 the same evening; and when I expect he would 
 have kept it, I have known him slip away to 
 another place ; where he has sat reading the news; 
 when there is no post; smoking his pipe, which 
 he seldom cares for ; and staring about him in 
 company with whom he has had nothing to do, as 
 if he wondered how he came there. 
 
 “ That I may state my case to you the more fully, 
 
 I shall transcribe some short minutes I have taken 
 of him in my almanac since last spring ; for you 
 must know there are certain seasons of the year, 
 according to which, I will not say our friendship, 
 but the enjoyment of it rises or falls. In March 
 and April he was as various as the weather ; in 
 May and part of June, I found him the sprightli- 
 est fellow in the world : in the dog-days he was 
 much upon the indolent; in September very agree¬ 
 able, but very busy ; and since the glass fell last 
 to changeable, he has made three appointments 
 with me, and broke them every one. However, I 
 have good hopes ol him this winter, especially if 
 you will lend me your assistance to reform him, 
 which will be a great ease and pleasure to, Sir, 
 
 “ \ our most humble servant.” 
 
 “ October 9, 1711.” 
 
 T. 
 
 CTATOR. * . 251 
 
 No. 195.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1711. 
 
 Fools not to know that half exceeds the whole, 
 
 How blest the sparing meal and temperate bowl! 
 
 There is a storv in the Arabian Nights Tales 
 of a king who had long languished under an ill 
 habit of body, and had taken abundance of reme¬ 
 dies to no purpose. At length, says the fable, a 
 physician cured him by the following method ; he 
 took a hollow ball of wood, and filled it with se¬ 
 veral drugs ; after which he closed it up so artifi¬ 
 cially that nothing appeared. He likewise took a 
 mall, and after having hollowed the handle, and 
 that part which strikes the ball, he inclosed in 
 them several drugs after the same manner as in 
 the ball itself. He then ordered the Sultan, who 
 was his patient, to exercise himself early in the 
 morning with these rightly prepared instruments, 
 till such time as he should sweat; when, as the 
 story goes, the virtue of the medicaments perspir¬ 
 ing through the wood had so good an influence on 
 the Sultan’s constitution, that they cured him of 
 an indisposition which all the compositions he 
 had taken inwardly had not been able to remove. 
 This eastern allegory is finely contrived to show 
 us how beneficial bodily labor is to health, and 
 that exercise is the most effectual physic. I have 
 described in my hundred and fifteenth paper, from 
 the general structure and mechanism of a human 
 body, how absolutely necessary exercise is for its 
 preservation. I shall in this place recommend 
 another great preservative of health, which in 
 many cases produces the same effects as exercise, 
 and may, in some measure, supply its place, where 
 opportunities of exercise are wanting. The pre¬ 
 servative I am speaking of is temperance, which 
 has those particular advantages above all other 
 means of health, that it may be practiced by all 
 ranks and conditions, at any season, or in any 
 place. It is a kind of regimen into which every 
 man may put himself, without interruption to 
 business, expense of money, or loss of time. If 
 exercise throws off all superfluities, temperance 
 prevents them ; if exercise clears the vessels, tem¬ 
 perance neither satiates nor overstrains them ; if 
 exercise raises proper ferments in the humors, 
 and promotes the circulation of the blood, tem¬ 
 perance gives nature her full play, and enables 
 her to exert herself in all her force and vigor ; if 
 exercise dissipates a growing distemper, temper¬ 
 ance starves it. 
 
 Physic for the most part is nothing else but the 
 substitute of exercise or temperance. Medicines 
 are indeed absolutely necessary in acute distemp¬ 
 ers, that cannot wait the slow operations of these 
 two great instruments of health ; but did men 
 live in an habitual course of exercise and temper¬ 
 ance, there could be but little occasion for them. 
 Accordingly we find that those parts of the world 
 are the most healthy, where they subsist by the 
 chase ; and that men lived longest when theirlives 
 were employed in hunting, and when they had 
 little food beside what they caught. Blistering, 
 cupping, bleeding, are seldom of use but to the 
 idle and intemperate ; as all those inward appli¬ 
 cations which are so much in practice among us, 
 are for the most part nothing else but expedients 
 to make luxury consistent with health. The 
 apothecary is perpetually employed in counter¬ 
 mining the cook and the vintner. It is said of 
 Diogenes, that meeting a young man who was 
 going to a feast, he took him up in the street and 
 carried him to his own friends, as one who was 
 running into imminent danger, had not he pre¬ 
 vented him.* What would that philosopher have 
 said, had he been present at the gluttony of a 
 
 * Diog. Laert., Yitse Pliilosoph., lib. vi, cap. 2, n. 6. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 252 
 
 modern meal ? would not he have thought the 
 master of a family mad, and have begged his ser¬ 
 vants to tie down his hands, had he seen him de¬ 
 vour a fowl, fish, and flesh ; swallow oil and vine¬ 
 gar, wines and spices; throw down salads of 
 twenty different herbs, sauces of a hundred ingre¬ 
 dients, confections and fruits of numberless sweets 
 and flavors ? What unnatural motions and coun¬ 
 ter-ferments must such a medley of intemperance 
 produce in the body ? For my part, when I be¬ 
 hold a fashionable table set out in all its magnifi¬ 
 cence, I fancy that I see gouts and dropsies, fevers 
 and lethargies, with other innumerable distemp¬ 
 ers, lying in ambuscade among the dishes. 
 
 Nature delights in the most plain and simple 
 diet. Every animal, but man, keeps to one dish. 
 Herbs are the food of this species, fish of that, 
 and flesh of a third. Man falls upon everything 
 that comes in his way ; not the smallest fruit or 
 excrescence of the earth, scarce a berry or a mush¬ 
 room, can escape him. 
 
 It is impossible to lay down any determinate 
 rule for temperance, because what is luxury in 
 one may be temperance in another; but there are 
 few that have lived any time in the world, who 
 are not judges of their own constitutions, so far 
 as to know what kinds and what proportions of 
 food do best agree with them. Were I to consider 
 my readers as my patients, and to prescribe such 
 a Kind of temperance as is accommodated to all 
 persons, and such as is particularly suitable to 
 our climate and way of living, 1 would copy the 
 following rules of a very eminent physician. 
 “ Make your whole repast out of one dish. If you 
 indulge in a second, avoid drinking anything 
 strong until you have finished your meal; at the 
 same time abstain from all sauces, or at least such 
 as are not the most plain and simple.” A man 
 could not be well guilty of gluttony, if he stuck 
 to these few obvious and easy rules. In the first 
 case there would be no variety of tastes to solicit 
 his palate, and occasion excess ; nor in the sec¬ 
 ond, any artificial provocatives to relieve satiety, 
 and create a false appetite. Were I to prescribe a 
 rule for drinking, it should be formed upon a say¬ 
 ing quoted by Sir William Temple: “The first 
 glass for myself, the second for my friends, the 
 third for good-humor, and the fourtli for mine 
 enemies.” But because it is impossible for one 
 who lives in the world to diet himself ahvays in 
 so philosophical a manner, I think every man 
 should have his days of abstinence according as 
 his constitution will permit. These are great re¬ 
 liefs to nature, as they qualify her for struggling 
 with hunger and thirst whenever any distemper or 
 duty of life may put her upon such difficulties; 
 and at the same time give her an opportunity of 
 extricating herself from her oppressions, and re¬ 
 covering the several tones and springs of her dis¬ 
 tended vessels. Beside that, abstinence well-timed 
 often kills a sickness in embryo, and destroys the 
 first seeds of an indisposition. It is observed by 
 two or three ancient authors,* that Socrates, not¬ 
 withstanding he lived in Athens during that great 
 plague which has made so much noise through all 
 ages, and has been celebrated at different times by 
 such eminent hands ; I say, notwithstanding that 
 he lived in the times of this devouring pestilence, 
 he never caught the least infection, which those 
 writers unanimously ascribe to that uninterrupted 
 temperance which he always observed. 
 
 And here I cannot but mention an observation 
 which I have often made, upon reading the lives 
 of the philosophers, and comparing them with 
 
 * Diogenes Laertius, in Yit. Socratis.—Eliarn in Yar. Hist, 
 lib. xiii, cap. 27, etc. 
 
 any series of kings or great men of the same 
 number. If we consider these ancient sages, a 
 great part of whose philosophy consisted in a 
 temperate and abstemious course of life, one 
 would think the life of a philosopher and the life 
 of a man were of two different dates. For we 
 find that the generality of these wise men were 
 nearer a hundred than sixty years of age, at the 
 time of their respective deaths. But the most re¬ 
 markable instance of the efficacy of temperance 
 toward the procuring of long life, is what me meet 
 with in a little book published by Lewis Cornaro 
 the Venetian; which I the rather mention, because 
 it is of undoubted credit, as the late Venetian am¬ 
 bassador, who was of the same family, attested 
 more than once in conversation, when he resided 
 in England. Cornaro, who was the author of the 
 little treatise I am mentioning, was of an infirm 
 constitution, until about forty, when by obstinate¬ 
 ly persisting in an exact course of temperance, he 
 recovered a perfect state of health; insomuch that 
 at fourscore he published his book, which has 
 been translated into English under the title of 
 Sure and Certain Methods of Attaining a Long 
 and Healthy Life. He lived to give a third or 
 fourth edition of it; and after having passed his 
 hundredth year, died without pain or agony, and 
 like one who falls asleep. The treatise I mention 
 has been taken notice of by several eminent 
 authors, and is written with such a spirt of cheer¬ 
 fulness, religion, and good sense, as are the natural 
 concomitants of temperance and sobriety. The 
 mixture of the old man in it is rather a recom¬ 
 mendation than a discredit to it. 
 
 Having designed this paper as the sequel to 
 that upon exercise, I have not here considered 
 temperance as it is a moral virtue, which I shall 
 make the subject of a future speculation, but only 
 as it is the means of health.—L. 
 
 No. 196.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1711. 
 
 Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit sequus. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xi, 30. 
 
 True happiness is to no place confined, 
 
 But still is found in a contented mind. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “There is a particular fault which I have ob¬ 
 served in most of the moralists in all ages, and 
 that is, that they are always professing them¬ 
 selves, and teaching others, to be happy. This 
 state is not to be arrived at in this life, therefore 
 I would recommend to you to talk in a humbler 
 strain than your predecessors have done, and 
 instead of presuming to be happy, instruct us only 
 to be easy. The thoughts of him who would be 
 discreet, and aim at practicable things, should 
 turn upon allaying our pain, rather than promot¬ 
 ing our joy. Great inquietude is to be avoided, 
 but great felicity is not to be attained. The great 
 lesson is equanimity, a regularity of spirit, which 
 is a little above cheerfulness and below mirth. 
 Cheerfulness is always to be supported if a man 
 is out of pain, but mirth, to a prudent man, should 
 always be accidental. It should naturally arise 
 out of the occasion, and the occasion seldom be 
 laid for it; for those tempers who want mirth to 
 be pleased, are like the constitutions which flag 
 without the use of brandy. Therefore, I sav, let 
 your precept be, ‘be easy.’ That mind is disso¬ 
 lute and ungoverned, which must be hurried out 
 of itself by loud laughter or sensual pleasure, or 
 else be wholly inactive. 
 
 “There are a couple of old fellows of my ac¬ 
 quaintance who meet every day and smoke a pipe. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 and by their mutual love to each other, though 
 they have been men of business and bustle in the 
 world, enjoy a greater tranquillity than either 
 could have worked himself into by any chapter 
 of Seneca. Indolence of body and mind, when 
 we aim at no more, is very frequently enjoyed; 
 but the very inquiry after happiness lias some¬ 
 thing restless in it, which a man who lives in a 
 series of temperate meals, friendly conversations, 
 and easy slumbers, gives himself no trouble about. 
 While men of refinement are talking of tranquil¬ 
 lity, he possesses it. 
 
 “What I would by these broken expressions re¬ 
 commend to you, Mr. Spectator, is, that you would 
 speak ot the way ot life which plain men may 
 pursue, to fill up the spaces of time with satisfac¬ 
 tion. It is a lamentable circumstance, that wisdom, 
 or, as you call it, philosophy, should furnish ideas 
 only for the learned; and that a man must be a 
 philosopher to know how to pass away his time 
 agreeably. It would therefore be worth your 
 pains to place in a handsome light the relations 
 and affinities among men, which render their con¬ 
 versations with each other so grateful, that the 
 highest talents give but an impotent pleasure in 
 comparison with them. You may find descrip¬ 
 tions and discourses which will render the fire¬ 
 side of an honest artificer as entertaining as your 
 own club is to you. Good-nature has an endless 
 source of pleasure in it: and the representation of 
 domestic life filled with its natural gratifications, 
 instead of the necessary vexations which are gen¬ 
 erally insisted upon in the writings of the witty, 
 will be a very good office to society. 
 
 “The vicissitudes of labor and rest in the lower 
 part ot mankind, make their being pass away 
 with that sort of relish which we express by the 
 word comfort; and should be treated of by you, 
 who are a spectator, as well as such subjects 
 which appear indeed more speculative, but are 
 less instructive. In a word, Sir, I would have 
 you turn your thoughts to the advantage of such 
 as want you most; and show that simplicity, in¬ 
 nocence, industry, and temperance, are arts which 
 lead to tranquillity as much as learning, wisdom, 
 knowledge, and contemplation. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “T. B.” 
 
 “Me. Spectator, Hackney, Oct. 12. 
 
 . “I ara the young woman whom you did so much 
 justice to some time ago, in acknoAvledging that 
 1 am perfect mistress of the fan, and use it with 
 the utmost knowledge and dexterity. Indeed the 
 world, as malicious as it is, will allow, that from 
 a hurry of laughter I recollect myself the most 
 v, make a courtsey, and let fall my hands 
 before me, closing my fan at the same instant, the 
 best of any woman in England. I am not a little 
 delighted that I have had your notice and appro¬ 
 bation ; and however other young women may 
 1 ally me out of envy, I triumph in it, and de¬ 
 mand a place in your friendship. You must there¬ 
 in! e permit me to lay before you the present state 
 of my mind. I was reading your Spectator of the 
 ytli instant, and thought the circumstance of the 
 ass divided between the two bundles of hay, 
 m Inch equally affected his senses, was a lively re¬ 
 presentation of my present condition; for you are 
 to know that I am extremely enamored with two 
 young gentlemen, who at this time pretend to me. 
 One must hide nothing when one is asking advice 
 therefoie I will own to you, that I am very amor¬ 
 ous, and very covetous. My lover Will is very 
 .rich, and my lover Tom very handsome. I can 
 have either of them when I please ; but when I 
 debate the question in my own mind, I cannot 
 
 CTATOR. 253 
 
 take Tom for fear of losing Will’s estate, nor enter 
 upon Will’s estate, and bid adieu to Tom’s person. 
 I am very young, and yet no one in the world, 
 dear Sir, lias the main chance more in her head 
 flian myself. Tom is the gayest, the blithest 
 creature ! He dances well, is veiy civil, and di- 
 j verting at all hours and seasons. Oh ! he is the 
 joy of my eyes! But then again Will is so very 
 rich and careful of the main. How many pretty 
 dresses does Tom appear in to charm me! But 
 then it immediately occurs to me, that a man of 
 his circumstances is so much the poorer. Upon 
 the whole, I have at last examined both these de¬ 
 sires of love and avarice, and upon strictly weigh¬ 
 ing the matter, I begin to think I shall be cove¬ 
 tous longer than fond, therefore if you have 
 nothing to say to the contrary, I shall take Will. 
 Alas, poor Tom! 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 T. “Biddy Loveless.” 
 
 Ho. 197.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1711. 
 
 Alter rixatur de lana sa3pe caprina, 
 
 Propugnat nugis armatus: scilicet, ut non 
 Sic mihi prirno fides; et, vere quod placet, ut non 
 Acriter elatrem ? Pretium aetas altera sordet. 
 
 Ambigitur quid enim! Castor sciat, an Docilis plus, 
 Brundusium Numici melius via ducat, an Appi. 
 
 Hor. 1, Ep. xviii, 15.— 
 
 On trifles some are earnestly absurd; 
 
 You’ll think the world depends on every word. 
 
 What! is not every mortal free to speak ? 
 
 I’ll give my reasons, though I break my neckl 
 And what’s the question? If it shines or rains; 
 
 Whether ’tis twelve or fifteen miles to Staines.— Pitt. 
 
 Every age a man passes through, and way of 
 life he engages in, has some particular vice or im¬ 
 perfection naturally cleaving to it, which will re¬ 
 quire his nicest care to avoid. The several weak¬ 
 nesses to which youth, old age, and manhood are 
 exposed, have long since been set doAvn by many 
 both of the poets and philosophers; but I do not 
 remember to have met with any author who has 
 treated of those ill habits men are subject to, not 
 so much by reason of their different ages and 
 tempers, as the particular professions or business 
 in which they were educated and brought up. 
 
 I am the more surprised to find this subject so 
 little touched on, since what I ara here speaking 
 of is so apparent, as not to escape the most vul¬ 
 gar observation. The business men are chiefly 
 conversant in does not only give a certain cast or 
 turn to their minds, but it is very often apparent 
 in their outward behavior, and some of the most 
 indifferent actions of their lives. It is this air 
 diffusing itself over the whole man, which helps 
 us to find out a person at his first appearance; so 
 that the most careless observer fancies he can 
 scarce be mistaken in the carriage of a seaman, or 
 the gait of a tailor. 
 
 The liberal arts, though they may possibly have 
 less effect on our external mien and behavior, 
 make so deep an impression on the mind, as is 
 very apt to bend it wholly one way. 
 
 The mathematician will take little else than de 
 monstration in the most common discourse, and 
 the schoolman is as great a friend to definition 
 and syllogisms. The physician and divine are 
 often heard to dictate in private companies with 
 the same authority which they exercise over their 
 patients and disciples: while the lawyer is putting 
 cases, and raising matter for disputation, out of 
 everything that occurs. 
 
 I may possibly some time or other animadvert 
 more at large on the particular fault each profes¬ 
 sion is most infected with; but shall at presenl 
 wholly apply myself to the cure of what I Iasi 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 254 
 
 mentioned, namely, that spirit of strife and con- ’ 
 tention in the conversations of gentlemen of the 
 long robe. 
 
 This is the more ordinary, because these gentle¬ 
 men regarding argument as their own proper pro¬ 
 vince, and very often making ready money of it, 
 think it unsafe to yield before company. They 
 are showing in common talk how zealously they 
 could defend a cause in court, and therefore fre¬ 
 quently forget to keep their temper, which is 
 absolutely requisite to render conversation pleasant 
 and instructive. 
 
 Captain Sentry pushes this matter so far, that I 
 have heard him say, “ he has known but few 
 pleaders that were tolerable company.” 
 
 The captain, who is a man of good sense, but 
 dry conversation, was last night giving me an ac¬ 
 count of a discourse, in which he had lately been 
 engaged with a young wrangler in the law. “I 
 was giving my opinion,” says the captain, "with¬ 
 out apprehending any debate that might arise 
 from it, of a general’s behavior in a battle that 
 was fought some years before either the templar or 
 myself were born. The young lawyer immedi¬ 
 ately took me up, and by reasoning above a quarter 
 of an hour upon a subject which I saw he under¬ 
 stood nothing of, endeavored to show me that my 
 opinions were ill-grounded. Upon which,” says 
 the captain, “ to avoid any further contests, I 
 told him, that truly I had not considered those 
 several arguments which he had brought against 
 me, and that there might be a great, deal in them.” 
 "Ay, but,” says my antagonist, who would not 
 let me escape so, "there are several things to be 
 urged in favor of your opinion which you have 
 omitted ;” and thereupon began to shine on the 
 other side of the question. "Upon this,” says the 
 captain, “I came over to my first sentiments, and 
 entirely acquiesced in his reasons for my so doing. 
 Upon which the templar again recovered his for¬ 
 mer posture, and confuted both himself and me a 
 third time. In short,” says my friend, "I found 
 he was resolved to keep me at sword’s length, and 
 never let me close with him; so that I had nothing 
 left but to hold my tongue, and give my antago¬ 
 nist free leave to smile at his victory, who I found, 
 like Hudibras, could still change sides, and still 
 confute.”* 
 
 For my own part, I have ever regarded our inns 
 of court as nurseries of statesmen and lawgivers, 
 which makes me often frequent that part of the 
 town with great pleasure. 
 
 Upon my calling in lately at one of the most 
 noted Temple coffee-houses, I found the whole 
 room, which was full of young students, divided 
 into several parties, each of which was deeply 
 engaged in some controversy. The management 
 of the late ministry was attacked and defended 
 with great vigor; and several preliminaries to 
 the peace were proposed by some, and rejected 
 by others; the demolishing of Dunkirk was so 
 eagerly insisted on, and so warmly controverted, 
 as had like to have produced a challenge. In 
 short, I observed that the desire of victory, whet¬ 
 ted with the little prejudices of party and inter¬ 
 est, generally carried the argument to such a 
 height, as made the disputants insensibly con¬ 
 ceive an aversion toward each other, and part 
 with the highest dissatisfaction on both sides. 
 
 The managing an argument handsomely being 
 so nice a point, and what I have seen so very few 
 excel in, I shall here set down a few rules on that 
 head, which, among other things, I gave in writ¬ 
 ing to a young kinsman of mine, who had made 
 so great a proficiency in the law, that he began to 
 
 *Part i, cant. 1, ver. 69, 70. 
 
 plead in company, upon every subject that was 
 started. 
 
 Having the entire manuscript by me, I may, 
 perhaps, from time to time, publish such parts of 
 it as 1 shall think requisite for the instruction of 
 the British youth. What regards my present pur¬ 
 pose is as follows: 
 
 Avoid disputes as much as possible. In order 
 to appear easy and well-bred in conversation, you 
 may assure yourself that it requires more wit, as 
 well as more good humor, to improve than to 
 contradict the notions of another : but if you are 
 at any time obliged to enter on an argument, give 
 your reasons with the utmost coolness and mo¬ 
 desty, two things which scarce ever fail of mak 
 ing an impression on the hearers. Beside, if you 
 are neither dogmatical, nor show either by your 
 actions or words that you are full of yourself, all 
 will the more heartily rejoice at your victory. 
 Nay, should you be pinched in your argument, 
 you may make your retreat with a very good 
 grace. You were never positive, and are now 
 glad to be better informed. This has made some 
 approve the Socratical way of reasoning, where, 
 while you scarce affirm anything, you can hardly 
 be caught in an absurdity; and though possibly 
 you are endeavoring to bring over another to 
 your opinion, which is firmly fixed, you seem 
 only to desire information from him. 
 
 In order to keep that temper which is so diffi¬ 
 cult, and yet so necessary to preserve, you may 
 please to consider, that nothing can be more un¬ 
 just or ridiculous, than to be angry with another 
 because he is not of your opinion. The interests, 
 education, and means by which men attain their 
 knowledge, are so very different, that it is impos¬ 
 sible they should all think alike; and he has at 
 least as much reason to be angry with you, as 
 you with him. Sometimes, to keep yourself cool, 
 it may be of service to ask yourself fairly, what 
 might have been your opinion, had you all the 
 biases of education and interest your adversary 
 may possibly have? But if you contend for the 
 honor of victory alone, you may lay down this as 
 an infallible maxim, that you cannot make a more 
 false step, or give your antagonists a greater ad¬ 
 vantage over you, than by falling into a passion. 
 
 When an argument is over, how many weighty 
 reasons does a man recollect, which his heat and 
 violence made him utterly forget! 
 
 It is yet more absurd to be angry with a man 
 because he does not apprehend the force of your 
 reasons, or gives weak ones of his own. If you 
 argue for reputation, this makes your victory the 
 easier; he is certainly in all respects an object of 
 your pity, rather than anger; and if he cannot 
 comprehend what you do, you ought to thank 
 nature for her favors, who has given you so much 
 the clearer understanding. 
 
 You may please to add this consideration, that 
 among your equals no one values your anger, 
 which only preys upon its master ; and perhaps 
 you may find it not very consistent either with 
 prudence or your ease, to punish yourself when¬ 
 ever you meet with a fool or a knave. 
 
 Lastly, if you propose to yourself the true end 
 of argument, which is information, it may be a 
 seasonable check to your passion; for if you 
 search purely after truth, it will be almost indif¬ 
 ferent to you where you find it. I cannot in this 
 place omit an observation which I have often 
 ! made, namely, That nothing procures a man 
 more esteem and less envy from the whole com¬ 
 pany, than if he chooses the part of moderator, 
 without engaging directly on either side in a dis¬ 
 pute. This gives him the character of impartial, 
 furnishes him with an opportunity of sifting 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 things to the bottom, showing his judgment, and 
 of sometimes making handsome compliments to 
 to each of the contending parties. 
 
 I shall close this subject with giving you one 
 caution. When you have gained a victory do not 
 push it too far; it is sufficient to let the company 
 and your adversary see it is in your power, but 
 that you are too generous to make use of it.—X. 
 
 No. 198.] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1711. 
 
 Cervae* luporum praeda rapaoium, 
 
 Sectamur ultro, quos opimus 
 Fallere et effugere ost triumphus. 
 
 Hor. 4 Od. iv, 50. 
 
 We, like “weak hinds,” the brinded wolf provoke, 
 
 And when retreat is victory, 
 
 Rush on, though sure to die.— Oldisworth. 
 
 There is a species of women, whom I shall dis¬ 
 tinguish by the name of salamanders. Now a 
 salamander is a kind of heroine in chastity, that 
 treads upon fire, and lives in the midst of flames 
 without being hurt. A salamander knows no 
 distinction of sex in those she converses with, 
 grows familiar with a stranger at first sight, and 
 is not so narrow-spirited as to observe whether 
 the person she talks to be in breeches or petti¬ 
 coats. She admits a male visitant to her bed-side, 
 plays with him a whole afternoon at picquet, 
 walks with him two or three hours by moonlight, 
 and is extremely scandalized at the unreasonable¬ 
 ness of a husband, or the severity of a parent, 
 that would deb^r the sex from such innocent li¬ 
 berties. Your salamander is therefore a perpetual 
 declaimer against jealousy, an admirer of the 
 French good breeding, and a great stickler for free¬ 
 dom in conversation. In short, the salamander 
 lives in an invincible state of simplicity and in¬ 
 nocence. Her constitution is preserved m a kind 
 of natural frost. She wonders what people mean 
 by temptations, and defies mankind to do their 
 worst. Her chastity is engaged in a constant 
 ordeal, or fiery trial; like good Queen Emma, 
 the pretty innocent walks blindfolded among 
 burning plowshares, without being scorched or 
 singed by them. 
 
 It is not therefore for the use of the salamander, 
 whether in a married or a single state of life, that 
 I design the following paper ; but for such fe¬ 
 males only as are made of flesh and blood, and 
 find themselves subject to human frailties. 
 
 As for this part of the fair sex who are not of 
 the salamander kind, I would most earnestly 
 advise them to observe a quite different conduct 
 in their behavior ; and to avoid as much as pos¬ 
 sible what religion calls temptations, and the 
 world opportunities. Did they but know how 
 many thousands of their sex have been gradually 
 betrayed from innocent freedoms to ruin and in¬ 
 famy ; and how many millions of ours have begun 
 witli flatteries, protestations, and endearments, 
 but ended with reproaches, perjury, and perfi¬ 
 diousness; they would shun like death the very 
 first approaches of one that might lead them into 
 inextricable labyrinths of guilt and misery. I 
 must so far give up the cause of the male world, 
 as to exhort the female sex in the language of 
 Chamont in the Orphan : 
 
 Trust not to man, we are by nature false, 
 
 Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and inconstant: 
 
 When a man talks of love, with caution trust him: 
 
 But if he swears, he’ll certainly deceive thee. 
 
 * All the editions of Horace read cervi; the Spectator al¬ 
 tered it to cervae, to adapt it more peculiarly to the subject 
 of this paper. 
 
 255 
 
 I might very much enlarge upon this subject, 
 but shall conclude it witli a story which I lately 
 heard from one of our Spanish officers, *and which 
 may show the danger a woman incurs by too 
 great familiarities with a male companion. 
 
 An inhabitant of the kingdom of Castile, being 
 a man of more than ordinary prudence, and of 
 a grave composed behavior, determined about the 
 fiftieth year of his age to enter upon wedlock. 
 In order to make himself easy in it, he cast his 
 eye upon a young woman who had nothing to 
 lecommend her but her beauty and her education, 
 her parents having been reduced to great poverty 
 by the Avars, which for some years have laid that 
 whole country waste. The Castilian havino* 
 made his addresses to her and married her, they 
 lived together in perfect happiness for some time ; 
 when at length the husband’s affairs made it ne¬ 
 cessary for him to take a voyage to the kingdom 
 of' Naples, where a great part of his estate lay. 
 The wife loved him too tenderly to be left behind 
 him. They had not been a-sliipboard above a 
 day, when they unluckily fell into the hands of 
 an Algerine pirate, who carried the whole com¬ 
 pany on shore, and made them slaves. The Cas¬ 
 tilian and his Avife had the comfort to.be under 
 the same master; Avho seeing how dearly they 
 loved one another, and gasped after their liberty, 
 demanded a most exorbitant price for their ran¬ 
 som. The Castilian, though he Avould rather 
 have died in slavery himself, than have paid such 
 a sum as he found Avould go near to ruin him, 
 was so moved with compassion for his wife, that 
 he sent repeated orders to his friend in Spain 
 (who happened to be his next relation), to sell 
 his estate, and transmit the mpney to him. His 
 friend hoping that the terms of his ransom might 
 be made more reasonable, and unwilling to sell 
 an estate which he himself had some prospect of 
 inheriting, formed so many delays, that three 
 whole years passed away without anything being 
 done for the setting them at*liberty. 
 
 There happened to live a French renegado in 
 the same place where the Castilian and his Avife 
 were kept prisoners. As this fellow had in him 
 all the vivacity of his nation, he often entertained 
 the captives Avith accounts of his own adventures; 
 to which he sometimes added a song, or a dance, 
 or some other piece of mirth, to divert them dur¬ 
 ing their confinement. His acquaintance Avith 
 the manners of the Algerines enabled him like¬ 
 wise to do them several good offices. The Cas¬ 
 tilian, as he was one day in conversation with 
 this renegado, discovered to him the negligence 
 and treachery of his correspondent in Castile, 
 and at the same time asked his advice Iioav he 
 should behave himself in that exigency : he fur¬ 
 ther told the renegado, that he found it would be 
 impossible for him to raise the money, unless he 
 might go over to dispose of his estate. The re¬ 
 negado, after having represented to him that his 
 Algerine master would never consent to his re¬ 
 lease upon such a pretense, at length contrived 
 a method for the Castilian to make his escape in 
 the habit of a seaman. The Castilian succeeded 
 in his attempt; and having sold his estate, being 
 afraid lest the money should miscarry by the Avay, 
 and determined to perish Avith it rather than lose 
 one who was much dearer to him than his life, 
 he returned himself in a little vessel that was 
 going to Algiers. It is impossible to describe 
 the joy he felt upon this occasion, Avhen he con¬ 
 sidered that he should soon see the wife Avhorn he 
 
 * Yiz: one of the English officers who had been employod 
 in the war in Spain. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 256 
 
 so much loved, and endear himself more to her, 
 by this uncommon piece of generosity. 
 
 The renegado, during the husband’s absence, 
 so insinuated himself into the good graces of his 
 young Avife, and so turned her head Avith stories 
 of gallantry, that she quickly thought him the 
 finest gentleman she had ever conversed with. 
 To be brief, her mind Avas quite alienated from 
 the honest Castilian, Avhom she Avas taught to 
 look upon as a formal old fellow, unworthy the 
 ossession of so charming a creature. She had 
 een instructed by the renegado how to manage 
 herself upon his arrival; so that she received him 
 with an appearance of the utmost love and gra¬ 
 titude, and at length persuaded him to trust their 
 common friend the renegado with the money he 
 had brought over for their ransom ; as not ques¬ 
 tioning but he would beat down the terms and 
 negotiate the affair more to their advantage than 
 they themselves could do. The good man ad¬ 
 mired her prudence, and folloAved her advice. I 
 wish I could conceal the sequel of this story ; 
 but since I cannot, I shall dispatch it in as few 
 words as possible. The Castilian having slept 
 longer than ordinary the next morning, upon his 
 awaking .found his Avife had left him. He imme¬ 
 diately arose and inquired after her, but Avas told 
 that she was seen with the renegado about break 
 of day. In a AA r ord, her lover having got all 
 things ready for their departure, they soon made 
 their escape out of the territories of Algiers, 
 carried aAvay the money, and left the Castilian 
 in captivity; who, partly through the cruel treat¬ 
 ment of the incensed Algerine his master, and 
 partly through the unkind usage of his unfaith¬ 
 ful wife, died some few months after.—L. 
 
 No. 199.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1711. 
 
 -Seribere jussit amor.— Ovid, Ep. iv, 10. 
 
 Love bade me Avrite. 
 
 Tiie following letters are Avritten with such an 
 air of sincerity that I cannot deny the inserting 
 of them :— 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Though you are everywhere m your writings 
 a friend to Avomen, I do not remember that you 
 have directly considered the mercenary practice 
 of men in the choice of wives. If you Avill 
 please to employ your thoughts upon that subject, 
 you would easily conceHe the miserable condition 
 many of us are in, who not only from the laAvs of 
 custom and modesty are restrained from making 
 any advances toward our wishes, but are also, 
 from the circumstance of fortune, out of all 
 hopes of being addressed to by those whom Ave 
 love. Under all these disadvantages I am obliged 
 to apply myself to you, and hope I shall prevail 
 on you to print in your very next paper the fol¬ 
 lowing letter, which is a declaration of passion 
 to one who has made some faint addresses to me 
 for some time. I believe he ardently loves me, 
 but the inequality of my fortune makes him think 
 he cannot answer it to the Avorld, if he pursues 
 his designs by way of marriage ; and I believe, 
 as he does not want discerning, he discovered me 
 looking at him the other day unaAvares, in such a 
 manner, as has raised his hopes of gaining me on 
 terms the men call easier. But my heart was very 
 full on this occasion, and if you know what love 
 and honor are, you will pardon me that I use no 
 further arguments with you, but hasten to my let¬ 
 
 ter to him, whom I call Oroondates ;* because if I 
 do not succeed, it shall look like romance ; and if 
 I am regarded, you shall receive a pair of gloves 
 at my Avedding, sent to you under the name of 
 Statira.” 
 
 “ To Oroondates. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “After very much perplexity in myself, and re¬ 
 volving how to acquaint you with my own seuti- 
 ments, and expostulate with you concerning yours, 
 
 I have chosen this way ; by which means I can be 
 at once revealed to you, or, if you please, lie con¬ 
 cealed. If I do not within a few days find the 
 effect which I hope from this, the whole affair 
 shall be buried in oblivion. But, alas ! what am 
 I going to do, when I am about to tell you that I 
 love you ? But after I have done so, I am to as¬ 
 sure you, that with all the passion which ever en¬ 
 tered a tender heart, I know I can banish you 
 from my sight forever, when I am convinced that 
 you have no inclinations toward me but to my 
 dishonor. But, alas ! Sir, why should you sacri¬ 
 fice the real and essential happiness of life to the 
 opinion of a world, that moves upon no other 
 foundation but professed error and prejudice ? 
 You all can observe that riches alone do not make 
 you happy, and yet give up everything else when 
 it stands in competition with riches. Since the 
 world is so bad, that religion is left to us silly 
 women, and you men act generally upon princi¬ 
 ples of profit and pleasure, I will talk to you 
 without arguing from anything but what may be 
 most to your advantage, as a man of the world. 
 And I will lay before you the state of the case, 
 supposing that you had it in your power to make 
 me your mistress or your wife, and hope to con¬ 
 vince you that the latter is more for your interest, 
 and will contribute more to your pleasure. 
 
 “ We will suppose, then, the scene was laid, and 
 you were now in expectation of the approaching 
 evening wherein I was to meet you, ana be carried 
 to what convenient corner of the town you thought 
 fit, to consummate all which your wanton imagi¬ 
 nation has promised to you in the possession of 
 one who is in the bloom of youth, and in the re¬ 
 putation of innocence. You would soon have 
 enough of me, as I am sprightly, young, gay, and 
 airy. When fancy is sated, and finds all the pro¬ 
 mises it made itself false, where is now the inno¬ 
 cence which charmed you ? The first hour you 
 are alone, you will find that the pleasure of a de¬ 
 bauchee is only that of a destroyer. He blasts all 
 the fruit he tastes ; and where the brute has been 
 devouring, there is nothing left worthy the relish 
 of the man. Reason resumes her place after ima¬ 
 gination is cloyed : and I am with the utmost dis¬ 
 tress and confusion to behold myself the cause of 
 uneasy reflections to you, to be visited by stealth, 
 and dwell for the future with two companions (the 
 most unfit for each other in the world) solitude 
 and guilt. I will not insist upon the shameful 
 obscurity we should pass our time in, nor run over 
 the little short snatches of fresh air, and free 
 commerce, which all people must be satisfied with, 
 whose actions will not bear examination, but leave 
 them to your reflections, who have seen enough 
 of that life, of which I have but a mere idea, 
 
 “ On the other hand, if you can be so good and 
 generous as to make me your wife, you may pro¬ 
 mise yourself all the obedience and tenderness 
 with which gratitude can inspire a virtuous wo¬ 
 man. Whatever gratifications you may promise 
 yourself from an agreeable person, whatever com- 
 
 *A celebrated name in Mademoiselle Scudery’s French 
 romance of The Grand Cyrus, etc. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 257 
 
 pliances from an easy temper, whatever con¬ 
 solations from a sincere friendship, you may ex¬ 
 pect as the due of your generosity. \Vhat at pre¬ 
 sent in your ill view you promise yourself from 
 me, will be followed with distaste and satiety: but 
 the transports of a virtuous love are the least part 
 of its happiness. The raptures of innocent pas¬ 
 sion are but like lightning to the day, they rather 
 interrupt than advance the pleasure of it. How 
 happy, then, is that life to be, where the highest 
 pleasures of sense are but the lowest parts of its 
 felicity? 
 
 “ How am I to repeat to you the unnatural re¬ 
 quest of taking me in direct terms. I know there 
 stands between me and that happiness, the haugh¬ 
 ty daughter of a man who can give you suitability 
 to your fortune. But if you weigh the attend¬ 
 ance and behavior of her who comes to you in 
 partnership of your fortune, and expects an equi¬ 
 valent, with that of her who enters your house as 
 honored and obliged by that permission, whom of 
 the two will you choose? You, perhaps, will 
 think fit to spend a day abroad in the common en¬ 
 tertainments of men of sense and fortune; she 
 will think herself ill-used in that absence’ and 
 contrive at home an expense proportioned to the 
 appearance which you make in the world. She is 
 in all things to have a regard to the fortune which 
 she brought you, I to the fortune to which you in¬ 
 troduce me. The commerce between you two will 
 eternally have the air of a bargain, between us of 
 a friendship ; joy will ever enter into the room 
 with you, and kind wishes attend my benefactor 
 when he leaves it. Ask yourself how would you 
 be pleased to enjoy forever the pleasure of having 
 laid an immediate obligation on a grateful mind ? 
 Such will be your case with me. In the other 
 mairiage you will live in a constant comparison 
 of benefits, and never know the happiness of con¬ 
 ferring or receiving any. 
 
 “ It may be you will, after all, act rather in the 
 prudential way, according to the sense of the or¬ 
 dinary world. I know not what I think or say, 
 when that melancholy reflection comes upon me • 
 i but shall only add more, that it is in your power 
 to make me your grateful wife, but never your 
 abandoned mistress.”—T. 
 
 Ho. 200.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1711. 
 
 Yincit amor patriae.-V irg. iEn., vi, 823. 
 
 The noblest motive is the public good. 
 
 The ambition of princes is many times as hurt¬ 
 ful to themselves as to their people. This cannot 
 be doubted of such as prove unfortunate in their 
 wars, but it is often true too of those who are cele¬ 
 brated tor their successes. If a severe view were 
 to be taken of their conduct, if the profit and loss 
 by their wars could be justly balanced, it would 
 be rarely found that the conquest is sufficient to 
 repay the cost. 
 
 As I was the other day looking over the letters 
 °f * 0 ?.? or . r€ : s P on de n ts, I took this hint from that 
 ot 1 hilarithmus ; which has turned my present 
 thought* upon political arithmetic, an art of great¬ 
 er use than entertainment. My friend has offered 
 an Essay toward proving that Lewis XIV, with 
 all his acquisitions, is not master of more people 
 than at the beginning of his wars; nay, that for 
 every subject lie had acquired, he had‘lost three 
 that were his inheritance. If Philarithmus is not 
 mistaken in Ins calculations, Lewis must have 
 been impoverished by his ambition. 
 
 The prince, for the public good, has a sovereign 
 property in every private person’s estate; and 
 consequently his riches must increase or decrease 
 m proportion to the number and riches of his sub¬ 
 
 jects. For example ; if sword or pestilence should 
 destroy all the people of this metropolis (God for- 
 bid there should be room for such a supposition ! 
 
 s ^ ou ^ he the case), the queen must 
 needs lose a great part of her revenue, or at least 
 what is charged upon the city must increase the 
 burden upon the rest of her subjects. Perhaps 
 the inhabitants here are not above a tenth part of 
 the whole ; yet as they are better fed, and clothed, 
 and lodged, than her other subjects, the customs 
 and excises upon their consumption, the imposts 
 upon their houses, and other taxes, do very pro- 
 bably make a fifth part of the whole revenue of 
 the crown. But this is not all; the consumption 
 of the city takes off a great part of the fruits of 
 the whole island ; and as it pays such a propor¬ 
 tion of the rent or yearly value of the lands in 
 the country, so it is the cause of paying such a 
 proportion of taxes upon those lands. The loss 
 then of such a people must needs be sensible to 
 the piinee, and visible to the whole kingdom. 
 
 On the other hand, if it should please God to drop 
 from heaven a new people, equal in number and 
 riches to the city, I should be ready to think their 
 excises, customs, and house rent would raise as 
 great a revenue to the crown as would be lost in 
 the former case. And as the consumption of this 
 new body would be a new market for the fruits of 
 the country, all the lands, especially those most 
 adjacent, would rise in their yearly value, and pay 
 greater yearly taxes to the public. The gain in 
 this case would be as sensible as the former loss. 
 
 Whatsoever is assessed upon the general, is 
 levied upon individuals. It were worth the while 
 then to consider what is paid by, or by means of, 
 the meanest subjects, in order to compute the value 
 of every subject to the prince. 
 
 For my own part, I should believe that seven- 
 eighths of the people are without property in 
 themselves, or the heads of their families, and 
 forced to work for their daily bread ; and that of 
 this sort there are seven millions in the whole 
 island of Great Britain: and yet one would ima¬ 
 gine that seven-eighths of the whole people should 
 consume at least three-fourths of the whole fruits 
 of the country. If this is the case, the subjects 
 without property pay three-fourths of the rents 
 and consequently enable the landed men to pay 
 three-fourths of their taxes. How if so great a 
 part of the land-tax were to be divided by seven 
 millions, it would amount to more than three shil¬ 
 lings to every head. And thus as the poor are the 
 cause, without which the rich could not pay this 
 tax, even the poorest subject is, upon this account 
 worth three shillings yearly to the prince. 
 
 Again : one would imagine the consumption of 
 seven-eighths of the whole people should pav 
 two-thirds of all the customs and excises. Ancl 
 if this sum too should be divided by seven mil¬ 
 lions, viz: the number of poor people, it would 
 amount to more than seven shillings to every 
 head. and therefoie with this and the former 
 sum, every poor subject, without property, except 
 of his limbs or labor, is worth at least ten shillings 
 yearly to the sovereign. So much then the queen 
 loses with every one of her old, and gains with 
 every one of her new subjects. 
 
 When I was got into this way of thinking I 
 presently grew conceited of the argument, and 
 was just preparing to write a letter of advice to a 
 member of parliament, for opening the freedom of 
 our towns and trades, for taking away all manner 
 of distinctions between the natives and foreign¬ 
 er, for repealing our laws of parish settlements, 
 and removing every other obstacle to the increase 
 of the people. But as soon as I had recollected 
 with what inimitable eloquence my fellow-labor- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 258 
 
 ers had exaggerated the mischiefs of selling the 
 birth-right of Britons for a shilling,* of spoiling 
 the pure British blood with foreign mixtures, of 
 introducing a confusion of languages and reli¬ 
 gions, and of letting in strangers to eat the bread 
 out of the mouths of our owu people, I became so 
 humble as to let my project fall to the ground, and 
 leave my country to increase by the ordinary way 
 of generation. 
 
 As I have always at heart the public good, so I 
 am ever contriving schemes to promote it: and I 
 think I may without vanity pretend to have con¬ 
 trived some as wise as any of the castle-builders. 
 
 I had no sooner given up my former project, but 
 my head was presently full of draining fens and 
 marshes, banking out the sea, and joining new 
 lands to my country; for since it is thought im¬ 
 practicable to increase the people to tne land, I 
 fell immediately to consider how much would be 
 gained to the prince by increasing the land to the 
 
 people. / 
 
 If the same omnipotent power which made the 
 world, should at this time raise out of the ocean, 
 and join to Great Britain, an equal extent of land, 
 with equal buildings, corn, cattle, and other con¬ 
 veniences and necessaries of life, but no men, 
 women, nor children, I should hardly believe this 
 would add either to the riches of the people, or 
 revenue of the prince; for since the present build¬ 
 ings are sufficient for all the inhabitants, if any 
 of them should forsake the old to inhabit the new 
 part of the island, the increase of house-rent in 
 this would be attended with an equal decrease of 
 it in the other. Beside, we have such a sufficien¬ 
 cy of corn and cattle, that we give bounties to our 
 neighbors to take what exceeds of the former off 
 our hands, and we will not suffer any of the latter 
 to be imported upon us by our fellow-subjects; and 
 for the remaining product of the country, it is al¬ 
 ready equal to all our markets. But if all 
 these things should be doubled to the same 
 buyers, the owners must be glad with half 
 their present prices, the landlord with half 
 their present rents; and thus, by so great an en¬ 
 largement of the country, the rents in the whole 
 would not increase, nor the taxes to the public. 
 
 On the contrary, I should believe they would be 
 very much diminished; for as the land is only 
 valuable for its fruits, and these are all per¬ 
 ishable, and for the most part must either be 
 used within the year, or perish without use, 
 the owners will get rid of them at any rate, 
 rather than they should waste in their possession: 
 so that it is probable the annual production of those 
 erishable things, even of the tenth part of them, 
 eyond all possibility of use, will reduce one half 
 of their value. It seems to be for this reason that 
 our neighbor merchants, who engross all the spices, 
 and know how great a quantity is equal to the 
 demand, destroy all that exceeds it. It were 
 natural, then, to think that the annual production 
 of twice as much as can be used, must reduce all 
 to an eighth part of their present prices; and thus 
 this extended island would not exceed one-fourth 
 part of its present value, or pay more than one- 
 fourth part of the present tax. 
 
 It is generally observed, that in countries of the 
 greatest plenty there is the poorest living; like the 
 schoolman’s ass in one of my speculations, the 
 people almost starve between two meals. The truth 
 is, the poor, which are the bulk of a nation, work 
 only that they may live; and if with two days’ 
 
 * This is an ironical allusion to some of the popular argu¬ 
 ments that had been urged in the year 1708, when a bill was 
 brought in for the naturalization of foreign protestants; 
 which, on account of the odium raised against it, did not pass 
 into a law. * 
 
 labor they can get a wretched subsistence for a 
 week, they will hardly be brought to work the 
 other four. But then with the wages of two days 
 they can neither pay such prices tor their provi¬ 
 sions, nor such excises to the government. 
 
 That paradox, therefore, in old Hesiod, that 
 “half is more than the whole,” is very applicable 
 to the present case; since nothing is more true in 
 political arithmetic, than that the same people 
 with half a country is more valuable than with the 
 whole. I begin to think there was nothing absurd 
 in Sir. W. Petty, when he fancied that if all the 
 highlands of Scotland and the whole kingdom of 
 Ireland were sunk in the ocean, so that the people 
 were all saved and brought into the lowlands of 
 Great Britain; nay, though they were to be reim¬ 
 bursed the value of their estates by the body of 
 the people, yet both the sovereign and the subjects 
 in general would be enriched by the very loss. 
 
 If the people only make the riches, the father of 
 ten children is a greater benefactor to his country 
 •than he who has added to it 10,000 acres of land, 
 and no people. It is certain Lewis has joined vast 
 tracts of land to his dominions: but if Philarithmus 
 says true, that he is not now master of so many 
 subjects as before; we may then account for his 
 not being able to bring such mighty armies into 
 the field, and for their being neither so well fed, nor 
 clothed, nor paid as formerly. The reason is plain; 
 Lewis must needs have been impoverished not 
 only by his loss of subjects, but by his acquisition 
 of lands.—T. 
 
 No. 201 ] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1711. 
 
 Keligentem esse oportet, religiosum nefas. 
 
 Incerti Autoris apud Am,. Gell. 
 
 A man should be religious, not superstitious. 
 
 It is of the last importance to season the passions 
 of a child with devotion, which seldom dies in a 
 mind that has received an early tincture of it. 
 Though it may seem extinguished for a while by 
 the cares of the world, the heats of youth, or the 
 allurements of vice, it generally breaks out and 
 discovers itself again as soon as discretion, con¬ 
 sideration, age, or misfortunes, have brought the 
 man to himself. The fire may be covered and 
 overlaid, but cannot be entirely quenched and 
 smothered. 
 
 A state of temperance, sobriety, and justice, 
 without devotion, is a cold, lifeless, insipid con¬ 
 dition of virtue ; and is rather to be styled philo¬ 
 sophy than religion. Devotion opens the mind to 
 great conceptions, and fills it with more sublime 
 ideas than any that are to be met with in the most 
 exalted science; and at the same time warms and 
 agitates the soul more than sensual pleasure. 
 
 It has been observed by some writers, that man 
 is more distinguished from the animal world by de¬ 
 votion than by reason, as several brute creatures 
 discover in their actions something like a faint 
 glimmering of reason, though they betray in no 
 single circumstance of their behavior anything 
 that bears the least affinity to devotion. It is cer¬ 
 tain, the propensity of the mind to religious wor¬ 
 ship, the natural tendency of the soul to fly to 
 some superior being for succor in dangers, and dis¬ 
 tresses, the gratitude to an invisible superintendent 
 which arises in us upon receiving any extraordi¬ 
 nary and unexpected good fortune, the acts of love 
 and admiration with which the thoughts of men 
 are so wonderfully transported in meditating upon 
 the divine perfections, and the universal concur¬ 
 rence of all the nations under heaven in the great ar¬ 
 ticle of adoration, plainly show that devotion or re¬ 
 ligious worship must be the effect of tradition from 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 some first founder of mankind, or that it is con¬ 
 formable to the natural light of reason, or that it 
 proceeds from an instinct implanted in the soul 
 itself. For my own part, I look upon all these to 
 be the concurrent causes : but whichever of them 
 shall be assigned as the principle of divine wor¬ 
 ship. it manifestly points to a Supreme Being as 
 the first author of it. 
 
 I may take some other opportunity of consider¬ 
 ing those particular forms and methods of devo¬ 
 tion which are taught us by Christianity; but 
 shall here observe into what errors even this divine 
 principle may sometimes lead us, when it is not 
 moderated by that right reason which was given 
 us as the guide of all our actions. 
 
 The two great errors into which a mistaken de¬ 
 votion may betray us, are enthusiasm and super¬ 
 stition. 
 
 There is not a more melancholy object than a 
 man who has his head turned with religious en¬ 
 thusiasm. A person that is crazed, though with 
 pride or malice, is a sight very mortifying to hu¬ 
 man nature; but when the distemper arises from 
 any indiscreet fervors of devotion, or too intense 
 an application of the mind to its mistaken duties, 
 it deserves our compassion in a more particular 
 manner. We may however learn this lesson from 
 it, that since devotion itself (which one would be 
 apt to think could not be too warm) may disorder 
 the mind, unless its heats are tempered with cau¬ 
 tion and prudence, W’e should be particularly care¬ 
 ful to keep our reason as cool as possible, and to 
 uard ourselves in all parts of life against the in- 
 uence of passion, imagination, and constitution. 
 Devotion, when it does not lie under the check 
 of'reason, is very apt to degenerate into enthusi¬ 
 asm. When the mind finds herself very much 
 inflamed with her devotions, she is too much in¬ 
 clined to think they are not of her own kindling, 
 but blown up by something divine within her. 
 If she indulges this thought too far, and humors 
 the growing passion, she at last flings herself into 
 imaginary raptures and ecstasies; and when once 
 she fancies herself under the influence of a divine 
 impulse, it is no wonder if she slights human or¬ 
 dinances, and refuses to comply with any estab¬ 
 lished form of religion, as thinking herself direc¬ 
 ted by a much superior guide. 
 
 As enthusiasm is a kind of excess in devotion, 
 superstition is the excess, not only of devotion, but 
 of religion in general, according to an old heathen 
 saying, quoted by Aulus Gellius,* “Religentem esse 
 oportet, religiosum nefas;” “A man should be reli¬ 
 gious, not superstitious.” For, as the author tells 
 us, Nigidius observed upon this passage/that the 
 Latin words which terminate in osus, generally 
 imply vicious characters, and the having of any 
 quality to an excess. 
 
 An enthusiast in religion is like an obstinate 
 clown, a superstitious man like an insipid courtier. 
 Enthusiasm has something in it of madness, su¬ 
 perstition of folly. Most of the sects that fall short 
 of the church of England have in them strong 
 tinctures ot enthusiasm, as the Roman-catholic 
 religion is one huge overgrown body of childish 
 and idle superstitions. 
 
 The Roman catholic church seems indeed irre¬ 
 coverably lost in this particular. If an absurd 
 dress or behavior be introduced into the world, it 
 will soon be found out and discarded. On the con¬ 
 trary, a habit or ceremony, though never so ridicu¬ 
 lous, which has taken sanctuary in the church 
 sticks in it forever. A Gothic bishop, perhaps^ 
 thought it proper to repeat such a form in such 
 particular shoes or slippers; another fancied it 
 
 *Noctea Attica;, lib. iv, cap. 9. 
 
 259 
 
 would be very decent if such a part of public de¬ 
 votions was performed with a miter on his head, 
 and a crosier in his hand. To this a brother Van- 
 dal, as wise as the others, adds an antic dress, 
 which he conceived would allude very aptly to 
 such and such mysteries, till by degrees the whole 
 office has degenerated into an empty show. 
 
 lheii successors see the vanity and inconveni¬ 
 ence of the ceremonies; but instead of reforming, 
 perhaps add others, which they think more signi¬ 
 ficant, and which take possession in the same 
 manner, and are never to be driven out after they 
 have been once admitted. I have seen the Pope 
 officiate at St. Peter’s, where, for two hours to¬ 
 gether, he was busied in putting on or off his 
 different accouterments, according to the different 
 parts he was to act in them. 
 
 Nothing is so glorious in the eyes of mankind 
 and ornamental to human nature, setting aside the 
 infinite advantages which arise from it, as a strong, 
 steady, masculine piety; but enthusiasm and super¬ 
 stition are the weaknesses of human reason, that 
 expose us to the scorn and derision of infidels, 
 and sink us even below the beasts that perish. 
 
 Idolatry may be looked upon as another error 
 arising from mistaken devotion ; but because re¬ 
 flections on that subject would be of no use to an 
 English reader, I shall not enlarge upon it.—L. 
 
 No. 202.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1711. 
 
 Saepe decern vitiis instructor, odit et horret. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xviii, 25. 
 
 Tho’ ten times worse themselves, you’ll frequent view 
 Iliose who with keenest rage will censure you._P. 
 
 The other day, as I passed along the street, I 
 saw a sturdy ’prentice-boy disputing with a hack¬ 
 ney-coachman ; and in an instant, upon some word 
 of piovocation, throw off his hat and periwig 
 clench his fist, and strike the fellow a slap on the 
 face; at the same time calling him rascal, and tell¬ 
 ing him he was a gentleman’s son. The young 
 gentleman was, it seems, bound to a blacksmith; 
 and tlie debate arose about payment for some work 
 done about a coach, near which they fought. His 
 master, during the combat, was full of his boy’s 
 ptaises; and as he called to him to play with his 
 hand and foot, and throw in his head, he made all 
 us who stood around him of his party, by declar¬ 
 ing the boy had very good friends, and he could 
 trust him with untold gold. As I am generally in 
 the theory of mankind, I could not but make my 
 reflections upon the sudden popularity which was 
 raised about the lad ; and perhaps with my friend 
 Tacitus, fell into observations upon it, which were 
 too great for the occasion ; or ascribed this general 
 favor to causes which had nothing to do toward 
 it. But the young blacksmith’s being a gentle¬ 
 man, was, methought, what created him good¬ 
 will from his present equality with the mob about 
 him* Add to this, that he was so much a gentle— 
 man, as not, at the same time that he called him¬ 
 self such, to use as rough methods for his defense 
 as his antagonist. The advantage of his having 
 good friends, as his master expressed it, was not 
 lazily urged; but he showed himself superior to 
 the coachman in the personal qualities of courage 
 and activity, to confirm that of his being well 
 allied, before his birth was of any service to him. 
 
 If one might moralize from this silly story, a 
 man would say, that whatever advantages of for¬ 
 tune, birth, or any other good, people possess 
 above the rest of the world, they should show 
 collateral eminences beside those distinctions; 
 or those distinctions will avail only to keep up* 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 260 
 
 common decencies and ceremonies, and not to 
 preserve a real place of favor or esteem in 
 the opinion and common sense of their fellow- 
 
 creatures. , 
 
 The folly of people’s procedure, m imagining 
 that nothing more is necessary than property and 
 superior circumstances to support them in distinc¬ 
 tion, appears in no way so much as in the domes¬ 
 tic part of life. It is ordinary to feed their humors 
 into unnatural excrescences, if I may so speak, 
 and make their whole being a wayward and un¬ 
 easy condition, for want of the obvious reflection 
 that every part of human life is a commerce. 1t is 
 not only paying wages, and giving commands, 
 that constitutes a master of a family; but pru¬ 
 dence, equal behavior, with readiness to protect 
 and cherish them, is what entitles a man to that 
 character in their very hearts and sentiments. It 
 is pleasant enough to observe, that men expect 
 from their dependents, from their sole motive of 
 fear, all the good effects which a liberal education, 
 and affluent fortune, and every other advantage, 
 cannot produce in themselves. A man will have 
 his servant just, diligent, sober, and chaste, for 
 no other reason but the terror of losing his mas¬ 
 ter’s favor; when all the laws, divine and human, 
 cannot keep him whom he serves within bounds, 
 with relation to any one of those virtues. But both 
 in o-reat and ordinary affairs, all superiority, which 
 is not founded on merit mid virtue, is suppoited 
 only by artifice and stratagem. Thus you see flat¬ 
 terers are the agents in families of humorists, and 
 those who govern themselves by anything but 
 reason. Make-bates, distant relations, poor kins¬ 
 men, and indigent followers, are the try which 
 support the economy of a huraorsome rich man. 
 He is eternally whispered with intelligence of who 
 are true or false to him in matters of no conse¬ 
 quence, and he maintains twenty friends to defend 
 him against the insinuations of one who would 
 perhaps cheat him of an old coat. 
 
 I shall not enter into further speculation upon 
 this subject at present, but think the following 
 letters and petition are made up of proper senti¬ 
 ments on this occasion. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a servant to an old lady who is governed 
 by one she calls her friend, who is so familial a one, 
 that she takes upon her to advise her without 
 beino- called to it, and makes her uneasy with all 
 about her. Pray, Sir, be pleased to give us some 
 remarks upon voluntary counselors ; and let these 
 people know, that to give anybody advice, is to 
 say to that person, ‘I am your betters.’ Pray, 
 Sir, as near as you can, describe that eternal flirt 
 and disturber of families, Mrs. Taperty, who is 
 always visiting, and putting people in a way, as 
 they call it. If you can make her stay at home 
 one evening, you will be a general benefactor of 
 all the ladies’ women in town, and particularly to, 
 “ Your loving friend, Susan Civil.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a footman, and live with one of those 
 men, each of whom is said to be one of the best- 
 humored men in the world, but that he is pas¬ 
 sionate. Pray be pleased to inform them, that he 
 who is passionate, and takes no care to command 
 his hastiness, does more injury to his friends and 
 servants in one half hour, than whole years can 
 atone for. This master of mine, who is the best 
 man alive in common fame, disobliges somebody 
 every day he lives ; and strikes me for the next 
 thing I do, because he is out of humor at it. If 
 these gentlemen knew' that they do all the mis¬ 
 chief that is ever done in conversation, they 
 
 w r ould reform ; and I who have been a Spectator 
 of a gentleman at dinner for many years, have 
 seen that indiscretion does ten times more mis¬ 
 chief than ill-nature. But you will represent this 
 better than 
 
 “ Your abused humble servant, 
 
 “ Thomas Smoky.” 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “The humble petition of John Steward, Robert 
 Butler, Harry Cook, and Abigail Chambers, in 
 behalf of themselves and their relations belong¬ 
 ing to and dispersed in the several services of 
 most of the great families within the cities of 
 London and Westminster: 
 
 “ Showeth, 
 
 “ That in many of the families in which your 
 petitioners live and are employed, the several 
 heads of them are wholly unacquainted with what 
 is business, and are very little judges when they 
 are well or ill used by us your said petitioners. 
 
 “ That for want of such skill in their own af¬ 
 fairs, and by indulgence of their own laziness and 
 pride, they continually keep about them certain 
 mischievous animals called spies. 
 
 “That w r henever a spy is entertained, the peace 
 of that house is from that moment banished. 
 
 “ That spies never give an account of good ser¬ 
 vices, but represent our mirth and freedom, by the 
 words, wantonness and disorder. 
 
 “ That in all families where there are spies, 
 there is a general jealousy and misunderstanding. 
 
 “ That the masters and mistresses of such 
 houses live in continual suspicion of their ingenu¬ 
 ous and true servants, and are given up to the 
 management of those who are false and peifidious. 
 
 “ That such masters and mistresses who enter¬ 
 tain spies, are no longer more than ciphers in 
 their own families; and that we your petitioners, 
 are with great disdain obliged to pay all our 
 respects, and expect all our maintenance from 
 such spies. 
 
 “Your petitioners therefore most humbly pray, 
 that you would represent the premises to all 
 persons of condition; and your petitioners, as 
 in duty bound, shall forever pray,” etc.—-T. 
 
 No. 203.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1711. 
 
 Phoebe pater, si das hujus mihi nominis usum 
 Nec falsa Clymene culpam sub imagine celat; 
 
 Pignora da, genitor——- Ovid, Met. ii, 38. 
 
 Illustrious parent! if I yet may claim 
 The name of son, 0 rescue me from shame; 
 
 My mother’s truth confirm; all doubt remove 
 By tender pledges of a father's love. 
 
 There is a loose tribe of men whom I have not 
 yet taken notice of, that ramble into all the cor¬ 
 ners of this great city, in order to seduce such 
 unfortunate females as fall into their walks. 
 These abandoned profligates raise up issue in 
 every quarter of the town, and very often for a 
 valuable consideration, father it upon the church¬ 
 warden. By this means there are several married 
 men who have a little family in most of the pa¬ 
 rishes of London and Westminster, and several 
 bachelors who are undone by a charge of children. 
 
 When a man once gives himself this liberty of 
 preying at large, and living upon the common, lie 
 finds so much game in a populous city, that it is 
 surprising to consider the numbers which he 
 sometimes propagates. We see many a young 
 fellow who is scarce of age, that could lay his 
 claim to the jus trium liberoruin, or the privileges 
 which were granted by the Roman laws to all such 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 as were fathers of three children. Nay, I have 
 heard a rake, who was not quite five-and-twenty 
 declare himself the father of a seventh son, and 
 very prudently determine to breed him up a phy¬ 
 sician. In short, the town is full of these younc 
 patriarchs, not to mention several battered beaux 3 , 
 who like heedless spendthrifts that squander away 
 their estates before they are master of them, have 
 raised up their whole stock of children before 
 
 261 
 
 marriage. 
 
 . 1 m»st not here omit the particular whim of an 
 impudent libertine, that had a little smattering of 
 heialdiy ; and, observing how the genealogies of 
 great families were often drawn up in the shape 
 of tiees, had taken a fancy to dispose of his own 
 illegitimate issue in a figure of the same kind : 
 
 ~--Nec longum tempus et ingens 
 
 Exiit ad coelum ramis felicibus arbos, 
 
 Miraturque novas frondes, et non sua poma. 
 
 Virg., Georg, ii, 80. 
 
 And in short space the laden boughs arise, 
 ith happy fruit advancing to the skies: 
 
 The mother plant admires the leaves unknown 
 Ot alien trees, and apples not her own.— Dryden. 
 
 The trunk of the tree was marked with his own 
 name, Will Maple. Out of the side of it grew a 
 large barren branch,. inscribed Mary Maple, the 
 name of his unhappy wife. The head was adorn¬ 
 ed with five huge boughs. On the bottom of the 
 first w'as written in capital characters, Kate Cole, 
 who branched out into three sprigs, viz : William’ 
 Richard, and Rebecca. Sal Twiford gave birth to 
 another bough that shot up into Sarah, Tom, Will 
 and Frank. The third arm of the tree had only a 
 single infaut on it, with a space left for a second, 
 the parent from whom it sprung being near her 
 time when the author took this ingenious device 
 into his head. The other great boughs were very 
 plentifully loaded with fruit of the same kind : 
 beside which there were many ornamental 
 branches that did not bear. In short, a more 
 flourishing tree never came out of the herald’s 
 office. 
 
 What makes this generation of vermin so very 
 prolific, is the indefatigable diligence with which 
 they apply themselves to their business. A man 
 does not undergo more watchings and fatigues in 
 a campaign, than in the course of a vicious amour. 
 As it is said of some men, that they make their 
 business their pleasure,. these sons of darkness 
 may be said to make their pleasure their business. 
 
 might conquer their corrupt inclinations 
 with half the pains they are at in gratifying them 
 Nor is the invention of these men less to be ad¬ 
 mired than their industry and vigilance. There 
 is a fragment of Apollodorus the comic poet (who 
 was cotemporary with Menander) which is full 
 of humor, as follows : “ Thou mayest shut up thy 
 doors,” says he, “with bars and bolts. It will be 
 impossible for the blacksmith to make them so 
 last, but a cat and a whore-master will find a way 
 through them.” In a word, there is no head so 
 lull of stratagems as that of a libidinous man. 
 
 Were I to propose a punishment for this infa¬ 
 mous race of propagators, it should be to send 
 them, after the second or third offense, into our 
 American colonies, in order to people those parts 
 of her majesty’s dominions where there is a want 
 of inhabitants, and in the phrase of Diogenes, 
 to plant men Some countries punish this 
 crime with death; but I think such a punishment 
 would be sufficient, and might turn this genera¬ 
 tive faculty to the advantage of the public 
 In the meantime, until these.gentlemen may be 
 thus disposed of, I would earnestly exhort them 
 to take care of those unfortunate creatures whom 
 they have brought into the world by these indi¬ 
 
 rect methods, and to give their spurious children 
 such an education as may render them more vir¬ 
 tuous than their parents. This is the best atone¬ 
 ment they can make for their own crimes, and in¬ 
 deed the only method that is left for them to 
 repair their past miscarriages. 
 
 1 w ould likewise desire them to consider,whether 
 they are not bound in common humanity, as well 
 as by all the obligations of religion and nature, to 
 make some provision for those whom they have 
 not only given life to, but entailed upon them 
 though very unreasonably, a degree of shame and 
 disgrace. And here I cannot but take notice of 
 those depraved notions which prevail among us 
 and which must have taken rise from our natural 
 inclination to favor a vice to which we are so 
 \ery prone, namely, that bastardy and cuckoldom 
 should be looked upon as reproaches; and that the 
 ignominy which is only due to lewdness and false¬ 
 hood, should fall in so unreasonable a manner 
 upon the persons who are innocent. 
 
 I have been insensibly drawn into this discourse 
 by the following letter, which is drawn up with 
 such a spirit of sincerity, that I question not but 
 the wwiter of it has represented his case in a true \ 
 and genuine light. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I am one of those people who by the general 
 opinion of the world are counted both infamous 
 and unhappy. 
 
 “ My father is a very eminent man in this king¬ 
 dom, and one who bears considerable offices in it. 
 
 I am his son, but my misfortune is, that I dare 
 not call him father, nor he without shame own me 
 as Ins issue, I being illegitimate, and therefore de- 
 pinedol that endearing tenderness and unparal¬ 
 leled satisfaction which a good man finds m the 
 love and conversation of a parent. Neither have 
 I the opportunities to render him the duties of a 
 son, he having always carried himself at so vast 
 a distance, and with such superiority toward me, 
 that by long use I have contracted a timorousness 
 when before him, which hinders me from declar¬ 
 ing my own necessities, and giving him to under¬ 
 stand the inconveniences I undergo. 
 
 “ It is my misfortune to have been neither bred 
 a scholar, a soldier, nor to any kind of business, 
 which renders me entirely incapable of making 
 piovision lor myself without his assistance; ana 
 this cieates a continual uneasiness in my mind, 
 fearing I shall in time want bread; my father, if 
 1 may so call him, giving me but very faint assu¬ 
 rances of doing anything for me. 
 
 “ I have hitherto lived somewdiat like a gentle¬ 
 man, and it would be very hard for me to labor for 
 my living. I am in continual anxiety for my fu¬ 
 ture fortune, and under a great unhappiness in 
 losing the sweet conversation and friendly advice 
 of my parents; so that I cannot look upon myself 
 otliei wise than as a monster, strangely sprung up 
 in nature, which every one is ashamed to own. 
 
 I am thought to be a man of some natural 
 parts, and by the continual reading what you 
 have offered the world, become an admirer thereof, 
 which has drawn me to make this confession ; at 
 the same lime, hoping, if anything herein shall 
 touch you with a sense of pity, you would then 
 allow me the favor of your opinion thereupon ; 
 as also what part I, being unlawfully born, may 
 claim of the man’s affection who begot me, and 
 how far in your opinion I am to be thought his 
 son, or he acknowledged as my father. Your 
 sentiments and advice herein will be a great con¬ 
 solation and satisfaction to, 
 
 C. “ Sir, your admirer, etc. W. B.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 262 
 
 No. 204 ] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1711. 
 
 Urit grata protervitas, 
 
 Et vultus nimium lubricus aspici. 
 
 IIor. 1 Od. six, 7. 
 
 Her face too dazzling for the sight, 
 
 Her winning coyness fires my soul, 
 
 I feel a strange delight. 
 
 I am not at all displeased that I am become the 
 courier of love, and that the distressed in that 
 passion convey their complaints to each other by 
 my means. The following letters have lately come 
 to my hands, and shall have their place with great 
 willingness. As to the reader’s entertainment, he 
 will, 1 hope, forgive the inserting such particulars 
 as to him may, perhaps, appear frivolous, but are 
 to the persons who wrote them of the highest con¬ 
 sequence. I shall not trouble you with the pre¬ 
 faces, compliments, and apologies, made to me 
 before each epistle when it was desired to be 
 inserted : but in general they tell me, that the per¬ 
 sons to whom they are addressed have intimations, 
 by phrases and allusions in them, from whence 
 they came. 
 
 “To THE SoTHADES. 
 
 “The word, by which I address you, gives you, 
 who understand Portugese,* a lively image of the 
 tender regard I have for you. The Spectator’s 
 late letter from Statira gave me the hint to use the 
 same method of explaining myself to you. I am 
 not affronted at the design your late behavior dis¬ 
 covered you had in your addresses to me; but I 
 impute it to the degeneracy of the age, rather 
 than your particular fault. As I aim at nothing 
 more than being yours, I am willing to be a 
 stranger to your name, your fortune, or any figure 
 which your wife might expect to make in the 
 world, provided my commerce with you is not to 
 be a guilty one. I resign gay dress, the pleasures 
 of visits, equipage, plays, balls, and operas, for 
 that one satisfaction of having you forever mine. 
 I am willing you shall industriously conceal the 
 only cause of triumph which I can know in this 
 life. I wish only to have it my duty, as well as 
 my inclination,, to study your happiness. If this 
 has not the effect this letter seems to aim at, you 
 are to understand that I had a mind to be rid of 
 you, and took the readiest Avay to pall you with 
 an offer of what you would never desist pursuing 
 while you received ill usage. Be a true man ; be 
 mv slave while you doubt me, and neglect me 
 when you think I love you. I defy you to find 
 out what is your present circumstance with me : 
 but I know, while I can keep this suspense, 
 
 “ I am your admired 
 
 “Belinda.” 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “It is a strange state of mind a man is in, when 
 the very imperfections of the woman he loves turn 
 into excellences and advantages. I do assure you, 
 I am very much afraid of venturing upon you. I 
 now like you in spite of my reason, and think it 
 an ill circumstance to owe one’s happiness to no¬ 
 thing but infatuation. I can see you ogle all the 
 young fellows who look at you, and observe your 
 
 * The Portugese word Saudades (here inaccurately written 
 Sothades) signifies, the most refined, most tender, and ardent 
 desires for something absent, accompanied with a solicitude 
 and anxious regard, which cannot be expressed by one word 
 in any other language. “Saudade,” say the dictionaries, 
 “ significa Finissimo sentimiento del bien ausente, com deseo 
 de posseerlo.”—Hence the word Saudades comprehends every 
 good wish; and Muitas Saudades is the highest wish and com¬ 
 pliment that can be paid to another. So if a person is ob¬ 
 served to be melancholy, and is asked, “What ails him?” if 
 he answers, Tenho Saudades; it is understood to mean, “I 
 am under the most refined torment for the absence of my 
 love; or from being absent from my country,” etc. 
 
 eye wander after new conquests every moment you 
 are in a public place; and yet there is such a 
 beauty in all your looks and gestures, that I can¬ 
 not but admire you in the very act of endeavoring 
 to gain the hearts of others. My condition is the 
 same with that of the lover in the Way of the 
 World. I have studied your faults so long, that 
 they are become as familiar to me, and I like them 
 as well as I do my own. Look to it, Madam, and 
 consider whether you think this gay behavior will 
 appear to me as amiable when a husband, as it 
 does now to me a lover. Things are so far ad¬ 
 vanced that we must proceed ; and I hope you will 
 lay it to heart, that it will be becoming in me to 
 appear still your lover, but not in you to be still 
 my mistress. Gayety in the matrimonial life is 
 graceful in one sex, but exceptionable in the other. 
 As you improve these little hints, you will ascer¬ 
 tain the happiness or uneasiness of, 
 
 “ Madam, your most obedient, 
 
 “ Most humble servant, 
 
 “T. D.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “When I sat at the window, and you at the 
 other end of the room by my cousin, I saw you 
 catch me looking at you. • Since you have the 
 secret at last, which I am sure you should never 
 have known but by inadvertency, what my eyes 
 said was true. But it is too soon to confirm it 
 with my hand, therefore shall not subscribe my 
 name.” \ 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ There were other gentlemen nearer, and i 
 know no necessity you were under to take up that 
 flippant creature’s fan last night; but you shall 
 never touch a stick of mine more, that’s pos. 
 
 “Phillis.” 
 
 “ To Colonel R-s in Spain.* 
 
 “ Before this can reach the best of husbands and 
 the fondest lover, those tender names will be of no 
 more concern to me. The indisposition in which 
 you, to obey the dictates of your honor and duty, 
 left me, has increased upon me : and I am ac¬ 
 quainted by my physicians I cannot live a week 
 longer. At this time my spirits fail me; and it 
 is the ardent love I have for you that carries 
 me beyond my strength, and enables me to tell 
 you, the most painful thing in the prospect of 
 death is, that I must part wuth you. But let it be 
 a comfort to you, that I have no guilt hangs upon 
 me, no unrepented folly that retards me; but I 
 pass away my last hours in reflection upon the 
 happiness we have lived in together, ana in sor¬ 
 row that it is so soon to have an end. This is a 
 frailty which I hope is so far from criminal, that 
 methinks there is a kind of piety in being so un¬ 
 willing to be separated from a state which is the 
 institution of heaven, and in which we have lived 
 according to its laws. As we know no more of the 
 next life, but that it will be a happy one to the 
 good, and miserable to the wicked, why may we 
 not please ourselves, at least to alleviate the diffi- 
 I culty of resigning this being, in imagining that 
 we shall have a sense of what passes below, and 
 may possibly be employed in guiding the steps 
 of those with whom we walked with innocence 
 when mortal ? Why may not I hope to go on in 
 my usual work, and, though unknown to you, be 
 assistant in all the conflicts of your mind! Give 
 me leave to say to you, 0 best of men, that I can- 
 
 * The person to whom this letter is addressed was generally 
 believed to be Colonel Rivers, at the time when this paper 
 was first published. 
 
203 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 not figure to myself a greater happiness than in 
 such an employment. To be present at all the 
 adventures to which human life is exposed, to 
 administer slumber to thy eye-lids, in the agonies 
 of a fever, to cover thy beloved face in the day of 
 battle, to go with thee a guardian angel incapable 
 of wound or pain, where I have longed to attend 
 thee when a weak, a fearful woman: these, my 
 dear, are the thoughts with which 1 warm my poor 
 languid heart. But, indeed, I am not capable, 
 under my present weakness, of bearing the strong 
 agonies of mind I fall into, when I form to my¬ 
 self the grief you will be in, upon your first hear¬ 
 ing of my departure. 1 will not dwell upon this, 
 because your kind and generous heart will be but 
 the more afflicted, the more the person for whom 
 you lament offers you consolation. My last breath 
 will, if I am myself, expire in a prayer for you. 
 I shall never see thy face again. Farewell for¬ 
 ever.”—T. 
 
 Ho. 205.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1711. 
 
 Decipimur specie recti- IIor., Ars. Poet., v, 25 . 
 
 Deluded by a seeming excellence.—R oscommon. 
 
 When I meet with any vicious character that is 
 not generally known, in order to prevent its doing 
 mischief, I draw it at length, and set it up as a 
 scarecrow: by which means I do not only make an 
 example of the person to whom it belongs, but 
 give warning to all her majesty’s subjects, that 
 they may not suffer by it. Thus, to change the 
 allusion, I have marked out several of the shoals 
 and quicksands of life, and am continually em¬ 
 ployed in discovering those which are still con¬ 
 cealed, in order to keep the ignorant and unwary 
 from running upon them. It is with this inten¬ 
 tion that I publish the following letter, which 
 brings to light some secrets of this nature. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ There are none of your speculations which I 
 read over with greater delight, than those which 
 are designed for the improvement of our sex. You 
 have endeavored to correct our unreasonable fears 
 and superstitions, in your seventh and twelfth 
 papers; our fancy for equipage, in your fifteenth ; 
 our love of puppet-shows, in your thirty-first; our 
 notions of beauty, in your thirty-third; our incli¬ 
 nation for romances, in your thirty-seventh ; our 
 passion for French fopperies, in your forty-fifth; 
 our manhood and party zeal, in your fifty-seventh; 
 opr abuse of dancing, in your sixty-sixth and 
 sixty-seventh; our levity, in your hundred and 
 twenty-eighth; our love of coxcombs, in vour 
 hundred and fifty-fourth and hundred and fifty - 
 seventh; our tyranny over the hen-pecked, in your 
 hundred and seventy-sixth. You have described 
 the I ict, in your torty-first; the Idol, in your 
 seventy-third ; the Demurrer, in your eighty-ninth; 
 the Salamander, in your hundred and ninety-eighth. 
 T ou have likewise taken to pieces our dress, and 
 represented to us the extravagances we are often 
 guilty of in that particular. ou have fallen upon 
 our patches., in your fiftieth and eighty-first; our 
 commodes, in your ninety-eighth ; our fans, in your 
 bundled and second; our riding-habits, in your 
 hundred and fourth ; our hoop-petticoats, in your 
 hundred and twenty-seventh; beside a great many 
 little blemishes which you have touched upon in 
 your several other papers, and in those many let¬ 
 ters that are scattered up and down your works. 
 At the same time we must own that the compli¬ 
 ments you pay our sex are innumerable, and that 
 those very faults which you represent in us, are 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 neither black in themselves, nor, as you own, uni¬ 
 versal among us. But, Sir, it is plain that these 
 your discourses are calculated for none but the 
 fashionable part of womankind, and for the use 
 ol those who are rather indiscreet than vicious. 
 But, Sir, there is a sort of prostitutes in the lower 
 part ol our sex, who are a scandal to us, and very 
 well deserve to fall under your censure. I knoAV# 
 it would debase your paper too much to enter into 
 the behavior of these female libertines: but, as 
 your remarks on some part of it would be a doing 
 of justice to several women of virtue and honor, 
 whose reputations suffer by it, I hope you will not 
 think it improper to give the public some accounts 
 of this nature. You must know. Sir, I am pro¬ 
 voked to write you this letter, by the behavior of 
 an infamous woman, who, having passed her 
 youth in a most shameless state of prostitution, is 
 now one of those who gain their livelihood by 
 seducing others that are younger than themselves, 
 and by establishing a criminal commerce between 
 the two sexes. Among several of her artifices to 
 get money, she frequently persuades a vain young 
 fellow, that such woman of quality, or such a cele¬ 
 brated toast, entertains a secret passion for him, 
 and wants nothing but an opportunity of revealing 
 it. Nay, she has gone so far as to write letters in 
 the name of a woman of figure, to borrow money 
 of one of these foolish Roderigos,* which she has 
 afterward appropriated to her own use. In the 
 meantime, the person who has lent the money, has 
 thought a lady under obligations to him, who 
 scarce knew his name; and wondered at her ingrati¬ 
 tude when he has been with her, that she has not 
 owned the favor, though at the same time he was 
 too much a man of honor to put her in mind of it. 
 
 “When this abandoned baggage meets with a 
 man who has vanity enough to give credit to rela¬ 
 tions of this nature, she turns him to very good 
 account bv repeating praises that were never ut¬ 
 tered, and delivering messages that were never 
 sent. As the house of this shameless creature is 
 frequented by several foreigners, I have heard of 
 another artifice, out of which she often raises 
 money. The foreigner sighs after some British 
 beauty, whom he only knows by fame; upon 
 which she promises, if lie call be secret, to procure 
 him a meeting. The stranger, ravished at his 
 good fortune, gives her a present, and iii a little 
 time is introduced to some imaginary title: for 
 vou must know that this cunning purveyor has 
 her representatives upon this occasion, of some of 
 the finest ladies in the kingdom. By this means, 
 as I am informed, it is usual enough to meet with 
 a German count in foreign countries, that shall 
 make his boast of favors he has received from 
 women of the highest ranks, and the most unble¬ 
 mished characters. Now, Sir, what safety is there 
 for a woman’s reputation, when a lady may be 
 thus prostituted as it were by proxy, and be re 
 puted an unchaste woman; as the Hero in the 
 ninth book of Dryden’s Virgil is looked upon as 
 a coward, because the phantom which appeared in 
 His likeness ran away from Turnus? You may 
 depend upon what.I relate to you to be matter of 
 fact, and the practice of more than one of these 
 female panders. If you print this letter, I may 
 give you some further accounts of this vicious race 
 of women. 
 
 “ Your humble servant, 
 
 “ Belvidera.” 
 
 I shall add two other letters on different sub¬ 
 jects to fill up my paper. 
 
 * Alluding to the character so named in Shakspeare’s Othello. 
 
264 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a country clergyman, and hope you "will 
 lend me your assistance in ridiculing some little 
 indecencies which cannot so properly be exposed 
 from the pulpit. 
 
 “ A widow lady, who straggled this summer 
 from London into my parish for the benefit of the 
 air, as she says, appears every Sunday at church 
 with many fashionable extravagances, to the great 
 astonishment of my congregation. 
 
 “ But what gives us the most offense is her thea¬ 
 trical manner of singing the Psalms. She intro¬ 
 duces about fifcy Italian airs into the hundredth 
 psalm; and while we begin, ‘All people’ in the old 
 solemn tune of our forefathers, she in a quite dif¬ 
 ferent key runs divisions on the vowels, and adorns 
 them with the graces of Nicolini; if she meets 
 with ‘ eke’ or ‘ aye,’ which are frequent in the me¬ 
 ter of Hopkins and Sternhold, Ave are certain to 
 hear her quavering them half a minute after us, 
 to some sprightly airs of the opera, 
 
 “ I am very far from being an enemy to church 
 music; but fear this abuse of it may make my 
 parish ridiculous, Avho already look on the sing¬ 
 ing psalms as an entertainment, and not part of 
 their devotion : beside I am apprehensive that the 
 infection may spread; for ’Squire Squeekum, Avho 
 by his voice seems (if I may use the expression) 
 to be cut out for an Italian singer, Avas last Sun¬ 
 day practicing the same airs. 
 
 “I know the lady’s principles, and that she will 
 plead the toleration, which (as she fancies) alloAvs 
 her nonconformity in this particular; but I beg 
 you to acquaint her that singing the Psalms in a 
 different tune from the rest of the congregation is a 
 sort of schism not tolerated by that act. 
 
 “I am. Sir, your very humble Servant. 
 
 “R. S.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “In your paper upon temperance, you prescribe 
 to us a rule for drinking out of Sir William Tem¬ 
 ple, in the following words: ‘The first glass for 
 myself, the second for my friends, the third for 
 good humor, and the fourth for mine enemies.’ 
 Now, Sir, you must know, that I have read this 
 your Spectator, in a club whereof I am a member; 
 when our president told us there was certainly an 
 error in the print, and that the word glass should 
 be bottle; and therefore has ordered me to inform 
 you of this mistake, and to desire you to publish 
 the following erratum: In the paper of Saturday, 
 Octob. 13, col. 3, line 11, for ‘glass,’ read ‘bottle.’ 
 
 “Yours, 
 
 L. “Robin Goodfellow.” 
 
 No. 206.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1711. 
 
 Quanto quisque sibi plura negaverit, 
 
 A diis plura feret- Hor. 3 Od. xvi, 21. 
 
 They that do much themselves deny, 
 
 Receive more blessings from the sky.—C reech. 
 
 There is a call upon mankind to value and es¬ 
 teem those who set a moderate price upon their 
 own merit; and self-denial is frequently attended 
 with unexpected blessings, which in the end 
 abundantly recompense such losses as the modest 
 seem to suffer in the ordinary occurrences of life. 
 Then the curious tell us, a determination in our 
 favor or to our disadvantage is made upon our 
 first appearance, even before they know anything 
 of our characters, but from the intimations men 
 gather from our aspect. A man, they say, Avears 
 the picture of his mind in his countenance; and one 
 man’s eyes are spectacles to his, who looks at him 
 to read his heart. But though that way of raising 
 
 an opinion of those we behold in public is very- 
 fallacious, certain it is that those, who by their 
 AA r ords and actions take as much upon themselves, 
 as they can but barely demand in the strict scru¬ 
 tiny of their deserts, will find their account lessen 
 every day. A modest man preserves his character, 
 as a frugal man does his fortune; if either of them 
 live to the height of either, one will find losses, 
 the other errors, which he has not stock by him to 
 make up. It were therefore a just rule, to keep 
 your desires, your words, and actions, within the 
 regard you observe your friends have for you; 
 and never, if it were in a man’s power, to take as 
 much as he possibly might, either in preferment 
 or reputation. My Avalks have lately been among 
 the mercantile part of the world ; and one gets 
 phrases naturally from those with whom one con¬ 
 verses. I say then, he that in his air, his treat¬ 
 ment of others, or an habitual arrogance to him¬ 
 self, gives himself credit for the least article of 
 more wit, wisdom, goodness, or valor, than he can 
 possibly produce if he is called upon, will find 
 the Avorld break in upon him, and consider him as 
 one who has cheated them of all the esteem they 
 had before alloAved him. This brings a commis¬ 
 sion of bankruptcy upon him; and he that might 
 have gone on to his life’s end in a prosperous 
 Avay, by aiming at more than he should is no 
 longer proprietor of Avhat he really had before, but 
 his pretensions fare as all things do Avhich are 
 torn instead of being divided. 
 
 There is no one living Avould deny Cinna the 
 applause of an agreeable and facetious wit; or 
 could possibly pretend that there is not something 
 inimitably unforced and diverting in his manner of 
 delivering all his sentiments in conversation, if 
 he were able to conceal the strong desire of ap¬ 
 plause which he betrays in every syllable he ut¬ 
 ters. But they who commrse with him see that all 
 the civilities they could do to him, or the kind 
 things they could say to him, would fall short of 
 what he expects; and therefore, instead of show¬ 
 ing him the esteem they haA r e for his merit, their 
 reflections turn only upon that they observe he 
 has of it himself. 
 
 It you go among the women, and behold Glori- 
 ana trip into a room with that theatrical ostenta¬ 
 tion of her charms, Mirtilla with that soft regu¬ 
 larity in her motion, Chloe with such an indifferent 
 familiarity, Corinna with such a fond approach, 
 and Roxana Avith such a demand of respect in the 
 great gravity of her entrance; you find all the sex, 
 Avho understand themselves and act naturally, 
 wait only for their absence, to tell you that all 
 these ladies Avould impose themselves upon you; 
 and each of them carry in their behavior a con¬ 
 sciousness of so much more than they should pre¬ 
 tend to, that they lose what Avould otherwise be 
 given them. 
 
 I remember the last time I savv Macbeth, I was 
 Avonderfully taken with the skill of the poet, in 
 making the murderer form fears to himself from 
 the moderation of the prince whose life he was go¬ 
 ing to take away. He says of the king: “He bore his 
 faculties so meekly;” and justly inferred from 
 thence, that all divine and human power Avould 
 join to avenge his death, who had made such an 
 abstinent use of dominion. All that is in a man’s 
 power to do to advance his oAvn pomp and glory, 
 and forbears, is so much laid up against the day of 
 distress; and pity will always be his portion in 
 adversity, Avho acted with gentleness in pros¬ 
 perity. 
 
 The great officer who foregoes the advantages he 
 might take to himself, and renounces all pru¬ 
 dential regards to his own person in danger, has 
 so far the merit of a volunteer; and all his honors 
 
265 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 aud glories are unenvied, for sharing the common 
 fate with the same frankness as they do who have 
 no such endearing circumstances to part with. 
 But if there were no such considerations as the 
 good effect which self-denial has upon the sense 
 of other men toward us, it is of all qualities the 
 most desirable for the agreeable disposition in 
 which it places our own minds. I cannot tell 
 what better to say of it, than that it is the very con¬ 
 trary of ambition ; and that modesty allays all 
 those passions and inquietudes to which that vice 
 exposes us. He that is moderate in his wishes, 
 from reason and choice, and not resigned from 
 sourness, distaste, or disappointment, doubles all 
 the pleasures of his life. The air, the season, a 
 sunshiny day, or a fair prospect, are instances 
 of happiness; and that which he enjoys in common 
 with all the world (by his exemption from the en¬ 
 chantments by which all the world are bewitched), 
 are to him uncommon benefits and new acquisi¬ 
 tions. Health is not eaten up with care, nor plea¬ 
 sure interrupted by envy. It. is not to him of any 
 consequence what this man is famed for, or for 
 what the other is preferred. He knows there is in 
 such a place an uninterrupted walk; he can meet 
 in such a company an agreeable conversation. He 
 has no emulation, he is no man’s rival, but every 
 man’s well-wisher; can look at a prosperous man, 
 with a pleasure in reflecting that hi hopes he is as 
 happy as himself; and has his mind and his for¬ 
 tune (as far as prudence will allow) open to the 
 unhappy and to the stranger. 
 
 Lucceius has learning, wit, humor, eloquence, 
 but no ambitious prospects to pursue with these 
 advantages; therefore to the ordinary world he is 
 erliaps thought to want spirit, but known among 
 is friends to have a mind of the most consum¬ 
 mate greatness. He wants no man's admiration, 
 is in no need of pomp. His clothes please him if 
 they are fashionable and warm ; his companions 
 are agreeable if they are civil and well-natured. 
 There is with him no occasion for superfluity at 
 meals, or jollity in company; in a word, for any¬ 
 thing extraordinary to administer delight to him. 
 
 ' Want of prejudice, and command of appetite, are 
 the companions -which make his journey of life so 
 easy, that he in all places meets with more wit, 
 more good cheer and more good humor, than 
 is necessary to make him enjoy himself with plea¬ 
 sure aud satisfaction.—T. 
 
 No. 207.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1711. 
 
 Omnibus in terris, quae sunt a Gadibus usque 
 Auroram et Gangem, pauci dignoscere possunt 
 Vera bona, atque i’lis multum diversa, remota 
 Erroris nebula- j uv ., Sat. x, 1. 
 
 Look round the habitable world, how few 
 Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue ? 
 
 How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, 
 
 Prompts the fond wish, or lifts the suppliant voice? 
 
 Dryden, Johnson, etc. 
 
 In my last Saturday’s paper, I laid down some 
 thoughts upon devotion in general, and shall here 
 show what were the notions of the most refined 
 heathens on this subject, as they are represented 
 in Plato’s dialogue upon prayer, entitled Alcibia- 
 des the Second, v hicli doubtless gave occasion to 
 Juvenal’s tenth satire, and to the second satire of 
 Persius; as the last of these authors has almost 
 transcribed the preceding dialogue, entitled Alci- 
 biades the First, in his fourth satire. 
 
 The speakers in this dialogue upon prayer, are 
 Socrates and Alcibiades ; and the substance of it 
 (when drawn together out of the intricacies and 
 digressions) as follows: 
 
 Socrates meeting his pupil Alcibiades, as he was 
 
 going to his devotions, and observing his eyes to 
 be fixed upon the earth with great seriousness and 
 attention, tells him, that he had reason to be 
 thoughtful on that occasion, since it was possible 
 for a man to bring down evils upon himself by his 
 own prayers; and that those things which the gods 
 send him in answer to his petitions, might turn to 
 ms destruction. 1 his, says he, may not only 
 happen when a man prays for what he knows is 
 mischievous in its own nature, as (Edipus im¬ 
 plored the gods to sow dissension between his 
 sons; but when he prays for what he believes 
 would be for his good, and against what he be¬ 
 lieves would be to his detriment. This the 
 philosopher shows must necessarily happen 
 among us, since most men are blinded with 
 ignorance, prejudice, or passion, which hinder 
 them from seeing such things as are really bene¬ 
 ficial to them. For an instance, he asks Alcibia¬ 
 des, whether he would not be thoroughly pleased 
 and satisfied if that god, to whom he was going 
 to address himself, should promise to make him 
 the sovereign of the whole earth? Alcibiades 
 answers, that he should, doubtless, look upon 
 such a promise as the greatest favor that could be 
 bestowed upon him. Socrates then asks him, if 
 after receiving this great favor he would be con¬ 
 tented to lose his life? Or if he would receive it 
 though he was sure he should make an ill use of 
 it? To both which questions Alcibiades answers 
 in the negative. Socrates then shows him, from 
 the examples of others, how these might very 
 probably be the effects of such a blessing. He 
 then adds, that other reputed pieces of good for¬ 
 tune's that of having a son, or procuring the 
 highest post in a government, are subject to the 
 like fatal consequences; which nevertheless, says 
 he, men ardently desire, and would not fail to pray 
 for, if they thought their prayers might be effectu¬ 
 al for the obtaining of them. 
 
 Having established this great point, that all the 
 most apparent blessings in this life are obnoxious 
 to such dreadful consequences, and that no man 
 knows what in its event would prove to him a 
 blessing or a curse, he teaches Alcibiades after 
 what manner he ought to pray. 
 
 In the first place, he recommends to him, as the 
 model of his devotions, a short prayer which a 
 Greek poet composed for the use of his friends, in 
 the following words : “0 Jupiter, give us those 
 things which are good for us, whether they are 
 such things as we pray for, or such things as we 
 do not pray for: and remove from us those things 
 which are hurtful, though they are such things as 
 we pray for.” 
 
 In the second place, that his disciple may ask 
 such things as are expedient for him, he shows 
 him, that it is absolutely necessary to apply him¬ 
 self to the study of true wisdom, and to the 
 knowledge of that which is his chief good, and 
 the most suitable to the excellence of his nature. 
 
 In the third and last place he informs him, that 
 the best methods he could make use of to draw 
 down blessings upon himself, and to render his 
 prayers acceptable, would be to live in a constant 
 practice of his duty toward the gods, and toward 
 men. Under this head he very much recommends 
 a form of prayer the Lacedaemonians make use of, 
 in which they petition the gods, “to give them all 
 good things so long as they were virtuous.” 
 Under this head, likewise, he gives a very re¬ 
 markable account of an oracle to the following 
 purpose: 
 
 When the Athenians in the war with the Lace¬ 
 daemonians received many defeats both by sea and 
 land, they sent a message to the oracle of Jupi¬ 
 ter Ammon, to ask the reason why they who 
 
TEE SPECTATOR. 
 
 266 
 
 erected so many temples to the gods, and adorned 
 them with such costly offerings ; why they who 
 had instituted so many festivals, and accompanied 
 them with such pomps and ceremonies ; in short, 
 why they who had slain so many hecatombs at 
 their altars, should be less successful than the 
 Lacedaemonians, who fell so short of them in these 
 particulars? To this, says he, the oracle made 
 the following reply: “ I am better pleased with 
 the prayers of the Lacedaemonians than with all 
 the oblations of the Greeks.” As this prayer im¬ 
 plied and encouraged virtue in those who made it; 
 the philosopher proceeds to show how^the most 
 vicious man might be devout, so far as victims 
 could make him, but that his offerings were re¬ 
 garded by the gods as bribes, and his petitions as 
 blasphemies. He likewise quotes, on this occa¬ 
 sion, two verses out of Homer,* in which the poet 
 says, “that the scent of the Trojan sacrifices was 
 carried up to heaven by the winds ; but that it 
 was not acceptable to the gods, who were dis¬ 
 pleased with Priam and all his people.” 
 
 The conclusion of this dialogue is very remark¬ 
 able. Socrates having deterred Alcibiades from 
 the prayers and sacrifice which he was going to 
 offer, by setting forth the above-mentioned diffi¬ 
 culties of performing that duty as he ought, adds 
 these words : “We must therefore wait until such 
 time as we may learn how we ought to behave our¬ 
 selves toward the gods and toward men.” “But 
 when will that time come?” says Alcibiades, 
 “ and who is it that will instruct us ? for I would 
 fain see this man, whoever he is.” “ It is one,” 
 says Socrates, “ who takes care of you ; but as 
 Homer tells us, that Minerva removed the mist 
 from Diomede’s eyes that he might plainly dis¬ 
 cover both gods and men,f so the darkness that 
 hangs upon your mind must be removed before 
 you are able to discern what is good and what is 
 evil.” “Let him remove from my mind,” says 
 Alcibiades, “the darkness and what else he pleases, 
 I am determined to refuse nothing he shall order 
 me, whoever he is, so that I may become the better 
 man by it.” The remaining part of this dialogue 
 is very obscure: there is something in it that 
 would make us think Socrates hinted at himself, 
 when he spoke of this divine teacher who was to 
 come into the world, did not he own that he him¬ 
 self was in this respect as much at a loss, and in 
 as great distress as the rest of mankind. 
 
 Some learned men look upon this conclusion as 
 a prediction of our Savior, or at least that So¬ 
 crates, like the high-priest,+ prophesied unknow¬ 
 ingly, and pointed at that Divine Teacher who 
 was to come into the world some ages after him. 
 However that may be, we find that this great 
 philosopher saw, by the light of reason, that it 
 was suitable to the goodness of the Divine nature, 
 to send a person into the world who should in¬ 
 struct mankind in the duties of religion, and, in 
 particular, teach them how to pray. 
 
 Whoever reads this abstract of Plato’s discourse 
 on prayer, will, I believe, naturally make this re¬ 
 flection, “ That the great founder of our religion, 
 as well by his own example as in the form of 
 prayer which he taught his disciples,§ did not 
 only keep up to those rules which the light of na¬ 
 ture had suggested to this great philosopher, but 
 instructed his disciples in the whole extent of this 
 duty, as well as of all others. He directed them to 
 the proper object of adoration, and taught them, 
 according to the third rule above-mentioned, to 
 apply themselves to him in their closets, without 
 show or ostentation, and to worship him in spirit 
 
 and in truth.” As the Lacedaemonians in their 
 form of prayer implored the gods in general to 
 give them all good things so long as they were 
 virtuous, we ask in particular “ that our offenses 
 may be forgiven, as we forgive those of others.” 
 If we look into the second rule wdiich Socrates 
 has prescribed, namely, that we should apply our¬ 
 selves to the knowledge of such things as are best 
 for us, this too is explained at large in the doc¬ 
 trines of the Gospel, where we are taught in sev¬ 
 eral instances to regard those things as curses, 
 which appear as blessings in the eye of the world: 
 and, on the contrary, to esteem those things as 
 blessings, which to the generality of mankind 
 appear as curses. Thus, in the form which is 
 prescribed to us, we only pray for that happiness 
 which is our chief good, and the great end of our 
 existence, when we petition the Supreme Being for 
 the coming of his kingdom, being solicitous for 
 no other temporal blessings but our daily susten¬ 
 ance. On the other side, we pray against nothing 
 but sin, and against evil in general, leaving it 
 with Omniscience to determine what is really 
 such. If we look into the first of Socrates, hxs 
 rules of prayer, in which he recommends the 
 above-mentioned form of the ancient poet, we find 
 that form not only comprehended, but very much 
 improved in the petition, wherein we pray to the 
 Supreme Being that his will may be done : which 
 is of the same force with that form which our Sa¬ 
 vior used, when he prayed against the most pain¬ 
 ful and most ignominious of deaths, “Neverthe¬ 
 less not my will, but thine be done.”* This 
 comprehensive petition is the most humble, as 
 well as the most prudent, that can be offered up 
 from the creature to his Creator, as it supposes 
 the Supreme Being wills nothing but what is for 
 our good, and that he knows better than ourselves 
 what is so.—L. 
 
 No. 208.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1711. 
 
 -Veniunt spectentur ut ipsse. 
 
 Ovid., Ars. Am., 1. i, 99. 
 
 To be themselves a spectacle they come. 
 
 I have several letters from people of good sense, 
 who lament the depravity or poverty of taste the 
 town is fallen into with relation to plays and pub¬ 
 lic spectacles. A lady in particular observes, that 
 there is such a levity in the minds of her own sex, 
 that they seldom attend to anything but imper¬ 
 tinences. It is indeed prodigious to observe how 
 little notice is taken of the most exalted parts of 
 the best tragedies in Shakspeare; nay, it is not 
 only visible that sensuality has devoured all great¬ 
 ness of soul, but the under-passion .(as I may so 
 call it) of a noble spirit, Pity, seems to be a 
 stranger to the generality of an audience. The 
 minds of men are indeed very differently disposed; 
 and the reliefs from care and attention are of one 
 sort in a great spirit, and of another in an ordin¬ 
 ary one. The man of a great heart and a serious 
 complexion, is more pleased with instances of 
 generosity and pity, than the light and ludicrous 
 spirit can possibly be with the highest strains of 
 mirth and laughter. It is therefore a melancholy 
 prospect when we see a numerous assembly lost 
 to all serious entertainments, and such incidents 
 as should move one sort of concern, excite in them 
 a quite contrary one. In the tragedy of Macbeth, 
 the other night, when the lady who is conscious 
 of the crime of murdering the king seems utterly 
 astonished at the news, and makes an exclamation 
 at it, instead of the indignation which is natural 
 
 * Iliad, viii, 548, etc. 
 
 | Caiaphas, John xi, 49. 
 
 flbid. v, 127. 
 
 I Matt, vi, 9, etc.; Luke xi, 2. 
 
 * Luke xxvi, 42; Matt, xxii, 39. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 267 
 
 to the occasion, that expression is received with a 
 loud laugh. They were as merry when a criminal 
 was stabbed. It is certainly an occasion of re¬ 
 joicing when the wicked are seized in their de¬ 
 signs ; but I think it is not such a triumph as is 
 exerted by laughter. 
 
 You may generally observe, that the appetites 
 are sooner moved than the passions. A sly ex¬ 
 pression which alludes to bawdry, puts a whole 
 row into a pleasing smirk ; when a good sentence 
 that describes an inward sentiment of the soul, is 
 received with the greatest coldness and indiffer¬ 
 ence. A correspondent of mine, upon this sub¬ 
 ject, has divided the female part of the audience, 
 and accounts for their prepossessions against this 
 reasonable delight, in the following manner:— 
 “ The prude,” says he, “ as she acts always in 
 contradiction, so she is gravely sullen at a come¬ 
 dy, and extravagantly gay at a tragedy. The co¬ 
 quette is so much taken up with throwing her 
 eyes around the audience, and considering the ef¬ 
 fect of them, that she cannot be expected to ob¬ 
 serve the actors but as they are her rivals, and 
 Take off the observation of the men from herself. 
 Beside these species of women, there are the ex¬ 
 amples, or the first of the mode. These are to be 
 supposed too well acquainted with what the actor 
 was going to say to be moved at it. After these 
 one might mention a certain flippant set of fe¬ 
 males who are mimics, and are wonderfully di¬ 
 verted with the conduct of all the people around 
 them, and are spectators only of the audience. 
 But what is of all the most to be lamented, is the 
 loss of a party whom it would be worth preserv¬ 
 ing in their right senses upon all occasions, and 
 these are those whom we may indifferently call the 
 innocent, or the unaffected. You may sometimes 
 see one of these sensibly touched with a well- 
 wrought incident; but then she is immediately so 
 impertinently observed by the men, and frowned 
 at by some insensibly superior of her own sex, 
 that she is ashamed, and loses the enjoyment of 
 the most laudable concern, pity. Thus the whole 
 audience is afraid of letting fall a tear, and shun 
 as a weakness the best and worthiest part of our 
 sense.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “As you are one that doth not only pretend to 
 reform, but effect it among people of any sense, 
 makes me (who am one of the greatest of your 
 admirers) give you this trouble to desire you will 
 settle the method of us females knowing when one 
 another is in town; for they have now got a trick 
 of never sending to their acquaintance when they 
 first come; and if one does not visit them within 
 the week which they stay at home, it is a mortal 
 quarrel. Now, de.ar Mr. Spec., either command 
 them to put it in the advertisement of yotfr paper, 
 which is generally read by our sex, or else order 
 them to breathe their saucy footmen (who are 
 good for nothing else) by sending them to tell all 
 their acquaintance. If you think to print this, 
 pray put it into a better style as to the spelling 
 part. The town is now filling every day, and it 
 cannot be deferred, because people take advantage 
 of one another by this means, and break off ac¬ 
 quaintance, and are rude. Therefore pray put this 
 in your paper as soon as you can possibly, to pre¬ 
 vent any future miscarriages of this nature. I 
 am, as I ever shall be, dear Spec., 
 
 “Your most„obedient, humble servant, 
 
 “Mxny Meanwell.” 
 
 “ Pray settle what is to be a proper notification 
 of a person’s being in town, and how that differs 
 according to people’s quality.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, October 20. 
 
 “I have been out of town, so did not meet with 
 your paper, dated September the 28th, wherein 
 you, to my heart’s desire, exposed that cursed vice 
 of ensnaring poor young girls, and drawing them 
 from their friends. I assure you without flattery' 
 it has saved a ’prentice of mine from ruin ; and 
 in token of gratitude, as well as for the benefit 
 of my family, I have put it in a frame and glass, 
 and hung it behind my counter. I shall take care 
 to make my young ones read it every morning, 
 to fortify them against such pernicious rascals. I 
 know not whether what you wrote was matter of 
 fact, or your own invention; but this I will take 
 my oath on, the first part is so exactly like what 
 happened to my ’prentice, that had I read your 
 paper then, I should have taken your method to 
 nave secured a villain. Go on and prosper. 
 
 “ Your most obliged humble servant.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Without raillery, I desire you to insert this 
 word for word in your next, as you value a lover’s 
 prayers. You see it is a hue and cry after a stray 
 heart (with the marks and blemishes under¬ 
 written); which whoever shall bring to you shall 
 receive satisfaction. Let me beg of you not to 
 fail, as you remember the passion you had for her 
 to whom you lately ended a paper: 
 
 “ Noble, generous, great, and good, 
 
 But never to be understood; 
 
 Fickle as the wind still changing, 
 
 After every female ranging, 
 
 Panting, trembling, sighing, dying, 
 
 But addicted much to lying: 
 
 When the syren songs repeats, 
 
 Equal measures still it beats; 
 
 Whoe’er shall wear it, it will smart her, 
 
 T. And whoe’er takes it, takes a tartar.” 
 
 No. 209.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 30, 1711. 
 
 Of earthly goods, the best is a good wife; 
 
 A bad, the bitterest curse of human life.—S imonides. 
 
 There are no authors I am more pleased with 
 than those who show human nature in a variety 
 of views, and describe the several ages of the 
 world in their different manners. A reader can¬ 
 not be more rationally entertained, than by com¬ 
 paring the virtues and vices of his own times 
 with those which prevailed in the times of his 
 forefathers; and drawing a parallel in his mind 
 between his own private character, and that of 
 other persons, whether of his own age, or of the 
 ages that went before him. The contemplation 
 of mankind under these changeable colors is apt 
 to shame us out of any particular vice, or ani¬ 
 mate us to any particular virtue ; to make us 
 pleased or displeased with ourselves in the most 
 proper points, to clear our minds of prejudice and 
 prepossession, and to rectify that narrowness of 
 temper which inclines us to think amiss of those 
 who differ from us. 
 
 If we look into the manners of the most remote 
 ages of the world, we discover human nature in 
 her simplicity; and the more we come downward 
 toward our own times, may observe her hiding 
 herself in artifices and refinements, polished in¬ 
 sensibly out of her original plainness, and at 
 length entirely lost under form and ceremony, and 
 (what we call) good-breeding. Read the accounts 
 of men and women as they are given us by the 
 most ancient writers, both sacred and profane, and 
 you would think you were reading the history of 
 another species. 
 
 Among the writers of antiquity, there are none 
 who instruct us more openly in the manners of 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 268 
 
 their respective times in which they lived, than j 
 those who have employed themselves in satiie, j 
 under what dress soever it may appear: as there 
 are no other authors whose province it is to enter 
 so directly into the ways of men, and set their 
 miscarriages in so strong a light. 
 
 Simonides, a poet famous in his generation, is, 
 
 I think, author of the oldest satire that is now ex¬ 
 tant; and, as some say, of the first that was ever 
 written. This poet, who flourished about four hun¬ 
 dred years after the siege of Troy, shows by his way 
 of writing, the simplicity, or rather coarseness,, of 
 the age in which he lived. I have taken notice, 
 in my hundred-and-sixty-first speculation, that 
 the rule of observing what the French call the 
 Bienscance in an allusion, has been found out of 
 latter years; and that the ancients, provided there 
 was a likeness in their similitudes, did not much 
 trouble themselves about the decency of the com<- 
 parison. The satires or iambics of Simonides, 
 with which I shall entertain my readers in the 
 present paper, are a remarkable instance of what 
 1 formerly advanced. The subject of this satire 
 is woman. He describes the sex in their several 
 characters, which he derives to them from a fanci¬ 
 ful supposition raised upon the doctrine of pre¬ 
 existence. He tells us that the gods formed the 
 souls of women out of those seeds and principles 
 which compose several kinds of animals and ele¬ 
 ments; and that their good or bad dispositions 
 arise in them according as such and such seeds 
 and principles predominate in their constitutions. 
 
 I have translated the author very faithfully, and 
 if not word for word (which our language would 
 not bear), at least so as to comprehend every 
 one of his sentiments, without adding anything 
 of my own. I have already apologized for this 
 author’s want of delicacy, and must further pre¬ 
 mise, that the following satire affects only some 
 of the lower part of the sex, and not those who 
 have been refined by a polite education, which was 
 not so common in the age of this poet. 
 
 “ In the beginning God made the souls of wo¬ 
 man-kind out of different materials, and in a sep¬ 
 arate state from their bodies. 
 
 “ The souls of one kind of women were formed 
 out of those ingredients which compose a swine. 
 A woman of this make is a slut in her house and 
 a glutton at her table. She is uncleanly in her 
 person, a slattern in her dress, and her family is 
 no better than a dunghill. 
 
 “A second sort of female soul was formed out 
 of the same materials that enter into the composi¬ 
 tion of a fox. Such a one is what we call a nota¬ 
 ble discerning woman, who has an insight into 
 everything whether it be good or bad. In this spe¬ 
 cies of females there are some virtuous and some 
 vicious. 
 
 “A third kind of women were made up of ca¬ 
 nine particles. These are what we commonly call 
 scolds, who imitate the animals out of which they 
 were taken, that are always busy and barking, 
 that snarl at every one who comes in their way, and 
 live in perpetual clamor. 
 
 “The fourth kind of women were made out of 
 the earth. These are your sluggards, who pass 
 away their time in indolence and ignorance, 
 hover over the fire a whole winter, and apply 
 themselves with alacrity to no kind of business 
 but eating. 
 
 “ The fifth species of females were made out of 
 the sea. These are women of variable, uneven 
 tempers, sometimes all storm and tempest, some¬ 
 times all calm and sunshine. The stranger who 
 sees one of these in her smiles and smoothness, 
 would cry her up for a miracle of good-humor ; 
 
 but on a sudden her looks and her words ar» 
 changed, she is nothing but fury and outrage, 
 noise and hurricane. 
 
 “ The sixth species were made up of the ingre 
 dients which compose an ass, or a beast of bur 
 den. These are naturally exceeding slothful, but, 
 upon the husband’s exerting his authority, will 
 live upon hard fare, and do everything to please 
 him. They are however far from being averse to 
 venereal pleasures, and seldom refuse a male com¬ 
 panion. 
 
 “ The cat furnished materials for a seventh spe¬ 
 cies of women, who are of a melancholy, froward, 
 un ami able nature, and so repugnant to the offers 
 of love that they fly in the face of their husband 
 when he approaches them with conjugal endear¬ 
 ments. This species of women are likewise sub¬ 
 ject to little thefts, cheats, and pilferings.. 
 
 “The mare with a flowing mane, which was 
 never broke to any servile toil and labor, com¬ 
 posed an eighth species of women. These are 
 they who have little regard for their husbands, 
 who pass away their time in dressing, bathing, 
 and perfuming ; who throw their hair into the 
 nicest curls, and trick it up with the fairest flowers 
 and garlands, A woman of this species is a very 
 pretty thing for a stranger to look upon, but very 
 detrimental to the owner, unless it be a king or a 
 prince who takes a fancy to such a toy. 
 
 “The ninth species of females were taken out 
 of the ape. These are such as are both ugly and 
 ill-natured, who have nothing beautiful in them¬ 
 selves, and endeavor to detract from or ridicule 
 everything which appears so in others. 
 
 “The tenth and last species of women were 
 made out of the bee; and happy is the man who 
 gets such a one for his wife. She is altogether 
 faultless and unblamable. Her family flourishes 
 and improves by her good management. She 
 loves her husband, and is beloved by him. She 
 brings him a race of beautiful and virtuous chil¬ 
 dren. She distinguishes herself among her sex. 
 She is surrounded with graces. She never sits 
 among the loose tribe of women, nor passes away 
 her time with them in wanton discourses. She is 
 full of virtue and prudence, and is the best wife 
 that Jupiter can bestow on man.” 
 
 I shall conclude these iambics with the motto 
 of this paper, which is a fragment of the same 
 author, “A man cannot possess anything that is 
 better than a good woman, nor anything that is 
 worse than a bad one.” 
 
 As the poet has shown a great penetration in 
 this diversity of female characters, he has avoid¬ 
 ed the fault which Juvenal and Monsieur Boileau 
 are guilty of, the former in his sixth, and the 
 other in his last satire, where they have endeavor¬ 
 ed to .expose the sex in general, without doing 
 justice to the valuable part of it. Such leveling 
 satires are of no use to the world; and for this 
 reason I have often wondered how the French 
 author above-mentioned, who was a man of ex¬ 
 quisite judgment, and a lover of virtue, could 
 think human nature a proper subject for satire in 
 another of his celebrated pieces, which is called 
 the Satire upon Man. What vice or frailty can a 
 discourse correct, which censures the whole spe¬ 
 cies alike, and endeavors to show by some super¬ 
 ficial strokes of wit, that brutes are the more 
 excellent creatures of the two ? A satire should 
 expose nothing but what is corrigible, and make 
 a due discrimination between those who are and 
 those who are not, the proper objects of it.—L. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 210.] WEDNESDAY, OCT. 31, 1711. 
 
 Nescio quomodo inhaeret in mentibus quasi saeuloruin quo- 
 dam auguriuni futuror urn: idque in maximis ingeuiis altis- 
 pimisque animis et existit maxime, et apparet facillime. 
 
 Cic., Tusc. Quacst. 
 
 There is, I know not how, in minds a certain presage, as it 
 were, of a future existence, this has the deepest root, and is 
 most discoverable, in the greatest geniuses and most exalted 
 souls. 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I am fully persuaded that one of the best 
 springs of generous and worthy actions, is the 
 having generous and worthy thoughts of our¬ 
 selves. Whoever has a mean opinion of the dig¬ 
 nity of his nature, will act in no higher a rank 
 than he has allotted himself in his own estima¬ 
 tion. If he considers his being as circumscribed 
 by the uncertain term of a few years, his designs 
 will be contracted into the same narrow span he 
 * imagines is to bound his existence. How can he 
 exalt his thoughts to anything great and noble, 
 who only believes that after a short turn on the 
 stage of this world, he is to sink into oblivion, 
 and to lose his consciousness forever? 
 
 “ For this reason I am of opinion, that so use¬ 
 ful and elevated a contemplation as that of the 
 soul’s immortality cannot be resumed too often. 
 There is not a more improving exercise to the hu¬ 
 man mind, than to be frequently reviewing its 
 own great privileges and endowments; nor a more 
 effectual means* to awaken in us an ambition 
 raised above low objects and little pursuits, than 
 to value, ourselves as heirs of eternity. 
 
 “ It is a very great satisfaction to consider the 
 best and wisest of mankind in all nations and 
 ages, asserting as with one voice this their birth¬ 
 right, and to find it ratified by an express revela¬ 
 tion. At the same time if we turn our thoughts 
 inward upon ourselves, we may meet with a kind 
 of secret sense concurring with the proofs of our 
 own immortality. 
 
 “You have, in my opinion, raised a good pre¬ 
 sumptive argument from the increasing appetite 
 the mind has to knowledge, and to the extending 
 its own faculties, which cannot be accomplished, 
 as the more restrained perfection of lower crea¬ 
 tures may, in the limits of a short life. I think 
 another probable conjecture may be raised from 
 our appetite to duration itself, and from a reflec¬ 
 tion on our progress through the several stages of 
 it. ‘ We are complaining,’ as you observed in a 
 former speculation, ‘of the shortness of life, and 
 yet are perpetually hurrying over the parts of it, 
 to arrive at certain little settlements or imaginary 
 points of rest, which are dispersed up and down 
 in it.’ 
 
 “ Now let us consider what happens to us when 
 we arrive at these imaginary points of rest. Do 
 we stop our motion and sit down satisfied in the 
 settlement we have gained ? or are we not remov¬ 
 ing the boundary, and marking out new points of 
 rest, to which we press forward with the like 
 eagerness, and which cease to be such as fast as 
 we attain them ? Our case is like that of a tra¬ 
 veler upon the Alps, who should fancy that the 
 top of the next hill must end his journey, because 
 it terminates his prospect; but he no sooner ar¬ 
 rives at it, than he sees new ground and other 
 hills beyond it, and continues to travel on as 
 before. 
 
 “ This is so plainly every man’s condition in 
 life, that there is no one who has observed any¬ 
 thing, but may observe, that as fast as his time 
 wears away, his appetite to something future re- 
 
 269 
 
 mains. The use therefore I would make of it is, 
 that since Nature (as some love to express it) does 
 nothing in vain, or to speak properly, since the 
 Author of our being has planted no wandering 
 passion in it, no desire which has not its object, 
 futurity is the proper object of the passion so 
 constantly excrcisea about it: and this restless¬ 
 ness in the present, this assigning ourselves over 
 to further stages of duration, this successive grasp¬ 
 ing at somewhat still to come, appears to me 
 (whatever it may be to others) as a kind of 
 instinct, or natural symptom, which the mind of 
 man has of its own immortality. 
 
 “ I take it at the same time for granted, that the 
 immortality of the soul is sufficiently established 
 by other arguments : and, if so, this appetite, 
 which otherwise would be very unaccountable and 
 absurd, seems very reasonable, and adds strength 
 to the conclusion. But I am amazed when I con¬ 
 sider there are creatures capable of thought, who, 
 in spite of every argument, can form to themselves 
 a sullen satisfaction in thinking otherwise. There 
 is something so pitifully mean in the inverted am¬ 
 bition of that man who can hope for annihilation, 
 and please himself to think that his whole fabric 
 shall one day crumble into dust, and mix with 
 the mass of inanimate beings, that it equally de¬ 
 serves our admiration and pity. The mystery 
 of such men’s unbelief is not hard to be pene¬ 
 trated; and indeed amounts to nothing more than 
 a sordid hope that they shall not be immortal, 
 because they dare not be so. 
 
 “ This brings me back to my first observation, 
 and gives me occasion to say further, that as 
 worthy actions spring from worthy thoughts, so 
 worthy thoughts are likewise the consequence of 
 worthy actions. But the wretch who has de¬ 
 graded himself below the character of immor¬ 
 tality, is very willing to resign his pretensions to 
 it, and to substitute in its room a dark negative 
 happiness in the extinction of his being. 
 
 “ The admirable Shakspeare has given us a 
 strong image of the unsupported condition of 
 such a person in his last minutes, in the second 
 part of King Henry the Sixth, where Cardinal 
 Beaufort, who had been concerned in the murder 
 of the good Duke Humphry, is represented on his 
 death-bed. After some short confused speeches, 
 which show an imagination disturbed with guilt, 
 just as he is expiring, King Henry, standing by 
 him full of compassion, says. 
 
 Lord Cardinal! if thou thinkest on heaven’s bliss, 
 
 Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope!— 
 
 lie dies and makes no sign!- 
 
 “ The despair which is here shown, without a 
 word or action on the part of a dying person, is 
 beyond what can be painted by the most forcible 
 expressions whatever. 
 
 “ I shall not pursue this thought further, but only 
 add, that as annihilation is not to be had with a 
 wish, so it is the most abject thing in the world 
 to wish it. What are honor, fame, wealth, or 
 power, when compared with the generous expec¬ 
 tation of a being without end, and a happiness 
 adequate to that being? 
 
 “ I shall trouble you no further; but with a 
 certain gravity which these thoughts have given 
 me, I reflect upon some things people say of you 
 (as they will of all men who distinguish them¬ 
 selves), which I hope are not true, and wish you 
 as good a man as you are an author. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 T. “T. D.” 
 
 * Mean. 
 
270 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 211.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1711. 
 
 Fictis meminerit nos jocari fabulis.—P h.edr., 1.1, Prol. 
 
 Let it be remembered that we sport in fabled stories. 
 
 Having lately translated the fragment of an 
 old poet, which describes womankind under seve¬ 
 ral characters, and supposes them to have drawn 
 their different manners and dispositions from 
 those animals and elements out of which he tells 
 us they were compounded ; I had some thoughts 
 of giving the sex their revenge, by laying together 
 in another paper the many vicious characters 
 which prevail in the male world, and showing 
 the different ingredifents that go to the making up 
 of such different humors and constitutions. Ho¬ 
 race has a thought which is something akin to 
 this, when, in order to excuse himself to his mis¬ 
 tress for an invective which he had written 
 against her, and to account for that unreason¬ 
 able fury with which the heart of man is often 
 transported, he tells us that, when Prometheus 
 made his man of clay, in the kneading up of the 
 heart, he seasoned it with some furious particles 
 of the lion. But upon turning this plan to and 
 fro in my thoughts, I observed so many unac¬ 
 countable humors in man, that I did not know 
 out of what animals to fetch them. Male souls 
 are diversified with so many characters, that the 
 world has not variety of materials sufficient to 
 furnish out their different tempers and inclina¬ 
 tions. The creation, with all its animals and 
 elements, would not be large enough to supply 
 their several extravagancies. 
 
 Instead therefore, of pursuing the thought of 
 Simonides, I shall observe, that as he has exposed 
 the vicious part of women from the doctrine of 
 ore-existence, some of the ancient philosophers 
 have in a manner satirized th<? vicious part of the 
 luman species in general, from a notion of the 
 soul’s post-existence, if I may so call it: and that 
 as Simonides describes brutes entering into the 
 composition of women, others have represented 
 human souls as entering into brutes. This is 
 commonly termed the doctrine of transmigration, 
 which supposes that human souls, upon their 
 leaving the body, become the.souls of such kinds 
 of brutes as they most resemble in their manners ; 
 or to give an account of it as Mr. Dryden has 
 described it, in his translation of Pythagoras’s 
 speech in the fifteenth book of Ovid, where that 
 philosopher dissuades his hearers from eating 
 flesh : 
 
 Thus all things are but alter’d, nothing dies, 
 
 And here and there th’ unbodied spirit flies: 
 
 By time, or force, or sickness dispossess’d, 
 
 And lodges where it lights, in bird or beast: 
 
 Or hunts without till ready limbs it find, 
 
 And actuates those according to their kind: 
 
 From tenement to tenement is toss’d, 
 
 The soul is still the same, the figure only lost. 
 
 Then let not piety be put to flight, 
 
 To please the taste of glutton appetite: 
 
 But suffer inmate souls secure to dwell, 
 
 Lest from their seats your parents you expel: 
 
 With rabid hunger feed upon your kind, 
 
 Or from a beast dislodge a brother’s mind. 
 
 Plato, in the vision of Eurus the Armenian, 
 which I may possibly make the subject of a fu¬ 
 ture speculation, records some beautiful transmi¬ 
 grations ; as that the soul of Orpheus, who was 
 musical, melancholy, and a woman-hater, entered 
 into a swan ; the soul of Ajax, which was all 
 wrath and fierceness, into a lion; the soul of Aga¬ 
 memnon, that was rapacious and imperial, into 
 an eagle; and the soul of Thersites, who was a 
 mimic and a buffoon, into a monkey. 
 
 Mr. Congreve, in a prologue to one of his come¬ 
 dies, has touched upon this doctrine with great 
 humor: 
 
 Thus Aristotle's soul of old that was. 
 
 May now be damn’d to animate an ass; 
 
 Or in this very house, for aught we know, 
 
 Is doing painful penance in some beau. 
 
 I shall fill up this paper with some letters 
 which my last Tuesday’s speculation has pro¬ 
 duced. My following correspondents will show, 
 what I there observed, that the speculation of 
 that day affects only the lower part of the sex. 
 
 “ Prom my house in the Strand, 
 October 3, 1711. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Upon reading your Tuesday’s paper, I find by 
 several symptoms in my constitution that I am a 
 bee. My shop, or, if you please to call it so, my 
 cell, is in that great hive of females which goes 
 by the name of the New Exchange ; where I am 
 daily employed in gathering together a little 
 stock of gain from the finest flowers about the 
 town, I mean the ladies and the beaux. I have a 
 numerous swarm of children, to whom I give the 
 best education I am able. But, Sir, it is my mis¬ 
 fortune to be married to a drone, who lives upon 
 what I get, without bringing anything into the com¬ 
 mon stock. Now, Sir, as on the one hand I take care 
 not to behave myself toward him like a wasp, so 
 likewise I would not have him look upon me as 
 a humble bee; for which reason I do all I can to 
 put him upon laying up provisions for a bad day, 
 and frequently represent to him the fatal effects 
 his sloth and negligence may bring upon us in 
 our old age. I must beg that you will join with 
 me in your good advice upon this occasion, and 
 you will forever oblige 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Melissa.” 
 
 “ Sir, Piccadilly, October 31, 1711. 
 
 “ I am joined in wedlock for my sins to one of 
 those fillies who are described in the old poet 
 with that hard name you gave us the other day. 
 She has a flowing mane, and a skin as soft as 
 silk. But, Sir, she passes half her life at her 
 glass, and almost ruins me in ribbons. For my 
 own part, I am a plain handicraft man, and in 
 danger of breaking by her laziness and expensive¬ 
 ness. Pray, master, tell me in your next paper, 
 whether I may not expect of her so much 
 drudgery as to take care of her family, and curry 
 her hide in case of refusal. 
 
 “ Your loving Friend, 
 
 “Barnaby Brittle.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Cheapside, October 30. 
 
 “ I am mightily pleased with the humor of the 
 cat; be so kind as to enlarge upon that subject. 
 
 “ Yours till death, 
 
 “Josiah Henpeck.” 
 
 “P. S. You must know I am married to a gri¬ 
 malkin.” 
 
 ( c Sir, Wapping, October 31, 1711. 
 
 “ Ever since your Spectator of Tuesday last 
 came into our family, my husband is pleased to 
 call me his Oceana, because the foolish old poet 
 that you have translated says, that the souls of 
 some women are made of sea-water. This, it 
 seems, has encouraged my saucebox to be witty 
 upon me. When I am angry, he cries, ‘ Prithee, 
 my dear, be calm ;’ when I chide one of my ser¬ 
 vants, ‘ Prithee, child, do not bluster.’ He had 
 the impudence about an hour ago to tell me, that 
 he was a seafaring man, and must expect to divide 
 his life between storm and sunshine. When I 
 bestir myself with any spirit in my family, it is 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ‘high sea’ in his house; and when I sit still 
 without doing anything, his affairs forsooth are 
 ‘windbound.’ When 1 ask him whether it rains, 
 he makes answer, ‘It is no matter, so that it be 
 fair weather within doors.’ In short, Sir, I can¬ 
 not speak my mind freely to him, but I either 
 swell or rage, or do something that is not fit for a 
 civil woman to hear. Pray, Mr. Spectator, since 
 you are so sharp upon other women, let us know 
 what materials your wife is made of, if you have 
 one. I suppose you would make us a parcel of 
 poor-spirited, tame, insipid creatures ; but. Sir, I 
 would have you to know, we have as good pas¬ 
 sions in us as yourself, and that a woman was 
 never designed to be a milk-sop. 
 
 Ij. “Martha Tempest.” 
 
 No. 212.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 2,1711. 
 
 -Eripe turpi 
 
 Colla jugo, liber sum die age— Hor. 2 Sat. vii, 92. 
 
 -Loose thy neck from this ignoble chain, 
 
 And boldly say thou'rt free.—C reech. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I never look upon my dear wife, but I think 
 of the happiness Sir Roger de Coverley enjoys, in 
 having such a friend as you to expose in proper 
 colors the cruelty and perverseness of his mis¬ 
 tress. I have very often wished you visited in 
 our family, and were acquainted with my spouse ; 
 she would afford you, for some months at least, 
 matter enough for one Spectator a week. Since 
 we are not so happy as to he of your acquaintance, 
 give me leave to represent to you (*ur present cir¬ 
 cumstances as well as I can in writing. You are 
 to know, then, that I am not of a very different 
 constitution from Nathaniel Henroost, whom you 
 have lately recorded in your speculations; and 
 have a wife who makes a more tyrannical use of 
 the knowledge of my easy temper than that lady 
 ever pretended to. We had not been a month 
 married, when she found in me a certain pain to 
 give offense, and an indolence that made me bear 
 little inconveniences rather than dispute about 
 them. From this observation it soon came to 
 ass, that if I offered to go abroad, she would get 
 etween me and the door, kiss me, and say she 
 could not part with me; then down again 1 sat. 
 In a day or two after this first pleasant step to¬ 
 ward confining me, she declared to me, that 1 was 
 all the world to her, and she thought she ought to 
 be all the world to me. ‘ If,’ said she, ‘ my dear 
 loves me as much as I love him, he will never be 
 tired of my company.’ This declaration was fol¬ 
 lowed by my being denied to all my acquaintance; 
 and it very soon came to that pass, that to give an 
 answer at the door, before my face, the servants 
 would ask her whether I was within or not; and 
 she would answer no, with great fondness, and 
 tell me I was a good dear. I will not enumerate 
 more little circumstances, to give you a livelier 
 sense of my condition; but tell you in general, 
 that from such steps as these at first, I now live 
 the life of a prisoner of state; my letters are 
 opened, and I have not the use of pen, ink, and 
 paper, but in her presence. I never go abroad, 
 except she sometimes takes me with her in her 
 coach to take the air, if it may be called so, when 
 we drive, as we generally do, with the glasses up. 
 I have overheard my servants lament my condi¬ 
 tion, but they dare not bring me messages without 
 her knowledge, because they doubt my resolution 
 to stand by them. In the midst of this insipid 
 way of life, an old acquaintance of mine, Tom 
 Meggot, who is a favorite with her, and allowed 
 
 271 
 
 to visit me in her company because he sings pret¬ 
 tily, has roused me to rebel, and conveyed his in¬ 
 telligence to me in the following manner: My 
 wife is a great pretender to music, and very igno¬ 
 rant of it; but tar gone in the Italian taste. Tom 
 goes to Armstrong, the famous fine writer of mu¬ 
 sic, and desires him to put this sentence of Tully 
 m the scale of an Italian air, and write it out for 
 my spouse from him. An Me milii Liber cuimulicr 
 imperat ? Cuileyes imponit, prcescribit, jubet, vetat 
 Quod videtur ? Qui nihil vmperanti neyare, nihil re- 
 cusare audet ? Poscit ? dandum est. Vocal ? ve- 
 niendum. Ejicii ? abeundum. Minitatur ? extimi- 
 scendum. ‘ Does he live like a gentleman who is 
 commanded by a woman ? He to whom she gives 
 law, grants and denies what she pleases ? who 
 can neither deny her anything she asks, or refuse 
 to do anything she commands ?’ 
 
 “To be short, my wife was extremely pleased 
 with it; said the Italian was the only language 
 for music; and admired how wonderfully tender 
 the sentiment was, and how pretty the accent is 
 of that language ; with the rest that is said by 
 rote on that occasion. Mr. Meggot is sent for to 
 sing this air, which he performs with mighty ap¬ 
 plause ; and my wife is in ecstasy, on the occa¬ 
 sion, and glad to find, by my being so much 
 pleased, that I was at last come into the notion of 
 the Italian: ‘for,’ said she, ‘it grows upon one 
 when one once comes to know a little of the lan- 
 guage ; and pray, Mr. Meggot, sing again those 
 notes, Nihil lmperanti negare, nihil recusare.’ You 
 may believe I was not a little delighted with my 
 friend Tom’s expedient to alarm me, and in obedi¬ 
 ence to his summons I give all this story thus at 
 large ; and I am resolved, when this appears in 
 the Spectator, to declare for myself. The manner 
 of the insurrection I contrive by your means, 
 which shall be no other than that Tom Meggot, 
 who is at our tea-table every morning, shall read 
 it to us ; and if my dear can take the hint, and 
 say not one word, but let this be the beginning of 
 a new life without further explanation, it is very 
 well; for as soon as the Spectator is read out, I 
 shall, without more ado, call for the coach, name 
 the hour when I shall be at home, if I come at all; 
 if I do not, they may go to dinner. If my spouse 
 only swells and says nothing, Tom and I go out 
 together, and all is well, as 1 said before; but if 
 she begins to command or expostulate, you shall 
 in my next to you receive a full account of her re¬ 
 sistance and'submission, for submit the dear thing 
 must, to, 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 “Anthony Freeman.” / 
 
 “ P. S. I hope I need not tell you that I desire 
 this may be in your very next.” 
 
 No. 213.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3,1711. 
 
 -Mens sibi conscia recti.—Y irg., iEn. i, 608. 
 
 A good intention. 
 
 It is the great art and secret of Christianity, if 
 I may use that phrase, to manage our actions to 
 the best advantage, and to direct them in such a 
 manner that everything we do may turn to ac¬ 
 count at that great day, when everything we have 
 done will be set before us. 
 
 In order to give this consideration its full 
 weight, we may cast all our actions under the di¬ 
 vision of such as are in themselves either good, 
 evil, or indifferent. If we divide our intentions 
 after the same manner and consider them with 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 272 
 
 regard to our actions, we may discover that great j 
 art and secret of religion which I have here men¬ 
 tioned. 
 
 A good intention, joined to a good action, gives 
 it its proper force and efficacy; joined to an evil 
 action, extenuates its malignity, and in some cases 
 takes it wholly away ; and joined to an indiffer¬ 
 ent action, turns it to a virtue, and makes it meri¬ 
 torious as far as human actions can be so. 
 
 In the next place, to consider in the same man¬ 
 ner the influence of an evil intention upon our 
 actions. An evil intention perverts the best of 
 actions, and makes them, in reality, what the 
 fathers with a witty kind of zeal have termed the 
 virtues of the heathen world, so many shining 
 sins.* It destroys the innocence of an indifferent, 
 action, and gives an evil action all possible black¬ 
 ness and horror, or, in the emphatical language of 
 sacred writ, makes “ sin exceeding sinful.”f 
 
 If, in the last place, we consider the nature of 
 an indifferent intention, we shall find that it de¬ 
 stroys the merit of a good action; abates, but 
 never takes away, the malignity of an evil action ; 
 and leaves an indifferent action in its natural state 
 of indifference. 
 
 It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to pos¬ 
 sess our minds with an habitual good intention, 
 and to aim all our thoughts, words, and actions 
 at some laudable end, whether it be the glory of 
 our Maker, the good of mankind, or the benefit of 
 our own souls. 
 
 This is a sort of thrift or good husbandry in 
 moral life, which does not throw away any single 
 action, but makes every one go as far as it can. It 
 multiplies the means of salvation, increases the 
 number of our virtues and diminishes that of our 
 vices. 
 
 There is something very devout, though not so 
 solid, in Acosta’s answer to Limborch, w r ho objects 
 to him, the multiplicity of ceremonies in the Jew¬ 
 ish religion, as washings, dresses, meats, purga¬ 
 tions, and the like. The reply which the Jew 
 makes upon this occasion, is, to the best of my 
 remembrance, as follows : “ There are not duties 
 enough,” says he, “ in the essential parts of the 
 law, for a zealous and active obedience. I ime, 
 place, and person are requisite, before you have 
 an opportunity of putting a moral virtue into 
 practice. We have therefore,” says he, “ enlarged 
 the sphere of our duty, and made many things, 
 which are in themselves indifferent, a part of our 
 religion, that we may have more occasions of 
 showing our love to God, and in all the circum¬ 
 stances of life, by doing something to please 
 him.” 
 
 Monsieur St. Evremond has endeavored to pal¬ 
 liate the superstitions of the Roman Catholic re¬ 
 ligion with the same kind of apology, where he 
 pretends to consider the different spirits of the 
 Papists and the Calvinists, as to the great points 
 wherein they disagree. He tells us, that the 
 former are actuated by love, and the other by fear; 
 and that in their expressions of duty and devo¬ 
 tion toward the Supreme Being, the former seems 
 particularly careful to do everything which may 
 possibly please him, and the other to abstain from 
 everything which may possibly displease him. 
 
 But notwithstanding this plausible reason with 
 which both the Jew and the Roman Catholic 
 would excuse their respective superstitions, it is 
 certain there is something in them very pernicious 
 to mankind, and destructive to religion ; because 
 the injunction of superfluous ceremonies makes 
 such actions duties, as were before indifferent, and 
 by that means renders religion more burdensome 
 
 and difficult than it is in its own nature, betrays 
 many into sins of omission which they could not 
 otherwise be guilty of, and fixes the mind of the 
 vulgar to the shadowy, unessential points, instead 
 of the more weighty and more important matters 
 of the law. 
 
 This zealous and active obedience, however, 
 takes place in the great point we are recommend¬ 
 ing ; for if, instead of prescribing to ourselves in¬ 
 different actions as duties, we apply a good inten¬ 
 tion to all our most indifferent actions, we make 
 our very existence one continued act of obedience, 
 we turn our diversions and amusements to our 
 eternal advantage, and are pleasing Him (whom 
 we are made to please) in all the circumstances 
 and occurrences of life. 
 
 It is this excellent frame of mind, this holy of¬ 
 ficiousness (if I may be allowed to call it such), 
 which is recommended to us by the apostle in that 
 uncommon precept wherein he directs us to pro¬ 
 pose to ourselves the glory of our Creator in all 
 our most indifferent^ actions, “ whether we eat or 
 drink, or whatsoever we do.”* 
 
 A person, therefore, who is possessed with such 
 an habitual good intention as that which I have 
 been here speaking of, enters upon no single cir¬ 
 cumstance of life, without considering it as well¬ 
 pleasing to the great Author of his being, con¬ 
 formable to the dictates of reason, suitable to 
 human nature in general, or to that particular sta¬ 
 tion in which Providence has placed him. He 
 lives in a perpetual sense of the Divine Presence, 
 regards himself as acting, in the whole course of 
 his existence, under the observation and inspec¬ 
 tion of that Being, who is privy to all his motions 
 and all his thoughts, who knows his “down-sit¬ 
 ting and his uprising, who is about his path, and 
 about his bed, and spieth out all his ways.”f In 
 a word, he remembers that the eye of his Judge is 
 always upon him, and in every action he reflects 
 that he is doing what is commanded or allowed 
 by him who will hereafter either reward or punish 
 it. This was the character of those holy men of 
 old, who, in that beautiful phrase of Scripture, 
 are said to have “ walked with God.”| 
 
 When I employ myself upon a paper of mora¬ 
 lity, I generally consider how I may recommend 
 the particular virtue which I treat of, by the pre¬ 
 cepts or examples of the ancient heathens; by 
 that means, if possible, to shame those who have 
 greater advantages of knowing their duty, and 
 therefore greater obligations to perform it, into a 
 better course of life; beside, that many among us 
 are unreasonably disposed to give a fairer hearing 
 to a Pagan philosopher than to a Christian writer. 
 
 I shall, therefore, produce an instance of this 
 excellent frame of mind in a speech of Socrates, 
 which is quoted by Erasmus. This great philoso¬ 
 pher on the day of his execution, a little before 
 the draught of poison was brought to him, enter¬ 
 taining his friends with a discourse on the immor¬ 
 tality of the soul, has these words: “Whether or 
 no God will approve of my actions, I know not; 
 but this I am sure of, that I have at all times 
 made it my endeavor to please him, and I have a 
 good hope that this my endeavor will be accepted 
 by him.” We find in these words of that great 
 man the habitual good intention which I would 
 here inculcate, and with which that divine philo¬ 
 sopher always acted. 1 shall only add, that Eras¬ 
 mus, who was an unbigoted Roman catholic, was 
 so much transported with this passage of Socrates, 
 that he could scarce forbear looking upon him as 
 a saint, and desiring him to pray for him; or as 
 
 * Splendida pecc-ata. 
 
 •f Rom., vii, 13. 
 
 * 1 Cor., x, 31. 
 
 I Gen. v, 22; vi, 9. 
 
 f Psalm. cxxxix, 2,3. 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 tliat ingenious and learned writer has expressed 
 himself in a much more lively manner; “ When I 
 reflect on such a speech, pronounced by such a 
 person, I can scarce forbear crying out, ‘ Sancte 
 Socrates, ora pro nobis.’ 0 holy Socrates, pray for 
 us.”—L. r J 
 
 No. 214.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1711. 
 
 -Perierunt tempora longi 
 
 Servitii- Juv., Sat. iii, 124. 
 
 A long dependence in an hour is lost.—D rydex. 
 
 I did some time ago lay before the world the 
 unhappy condition of the trading part of man¬ 
 kind, who suffer by want of punctuality in the 
 dealings of persons above them; but there is a set 
 of men who are much more the objects of compas¬ 
 sion than even those, and these are the dependents 
 on grea,t men, whom they are pleased to take un¬ 
 der their protection as such as are to share in their 
 friendship and favor. These indeed, as well from 
 the homage that is accepted from them as the hopes 
 which are given to them, are become a sort of cre¬ 
 ditors; and these debts, being debts of honor, 
 ought, according to the accustomed maxim, to be 
 first discharged. 
 
 When I speak of dependents, I would not be 
 understood to mean those who are worthless in 
 themselves, or who, without any call, will press 
 into the company of their betters. Nor, when I 
 speak of patrons, do I mean those who either 
 have it not in their power, or have no obligation 
 to assist their friends; but I speak of such leagues 
 where there is power and obligation on the one 
 part, and merit and expectation on the other. 
 
 . The division of patron and client, may, I be¬ 
 lieve, include a third of our nation: the want of 
 merit and real worth in the client, will strike out 
 about ninety-nine in a hundred of these; and the 
 want of ability in patrons, as many of that kind. 
 But, however, I must beg leave to say, that he who 
 will take up another’s time and fortune in his ser¬ 
 vice, though he has no prospect of rewarding his 
 merit toward him, is as unjust in his dealings as 
 he who takes up goods of a tradesman without 
 intention or ability to pay him. Of the few of the 
 class which I think fit to consider, there are not 
 two in ten who succeed, insomuch that I know a 
 man of good sense who put his son to a black¬ 
 smith, though an offer was made him of his 
 being received as a page to a man of quality. 
 There are not more cripples come out of the wars 
 than there are from those great services; some 
 through discontent lose their speech, some their 
 memories, others their senses, or their lives; and 
 I seldom see a man thoroughly discontented, but 
 I conclude he has had the favor of some great 
 man. I have known of such as have been for 
 twenty years together within a month of a good 
 employment, but never arrived at the happiness 
 of being possessed of anything. 
 
 1 here is nothing more ordinary, than that a 
 man, who has got into a considerable station, shall 
 immediately alter his manner of treating all his 
 friends, and fiom that moment he is to deal with 
 you as if he were your fate. You are no longer 
 to be consulted, even in matters which concern 
 yourself; but your patron is of a species above 
 you, and a free communication with you is not to 
 be expected. This, perhaps, may be your condi¬ 
 tion all the while he bears office; and when that is 
 at an end, you are as intimate as ever you were, 
 and he will take it very ill if you keep the dis¬ 
 tance he prescribed you toward him in his gran¬ 
 deur. One would think this should be a behavior 
 a man could fall into with the worst grace imagi- 
 
 273 
 
 liable; but they who know the world have seen it 
 more than once. I have often, with secret pity, 
 leatd the same man who has professed his abhor¬ 
 rence against all kind of passive behavior, lose 
 minutes, hours, days, and years, in a fruitless at¬ 
 tendance on one who had no inclination to befriend 
 him. It is very much to be regretted, that the 
 gieat have one particular privilege above the rest 
 ol the world, ol being slow in receiving impres¬ 
 sions of kindness, and quick in taking offense. 
 1 he elevation above the rest of mankind, except 
 m very great minds, makes men so giddy, that 
 they do not see after the same manner they did be¬ 
 fore. Thus they despise their old friends, and 
 strive to extend their interests to new pretenders. 
 By this* means it often happens, that when you 
 come to know how you lost such an employment, 
 you will find the man who got it never dreamed 
 of it; but, forsooth, he was to be surprised into it, 
 oi pei haps solicited to receive it. Upon such oc¬ 
 casions as these a man may perhaps grow out of 
 humor. If you are so, all mankind will fall in 
 with the patron, and you are a humorist and un- 
 tractable if you are capable of being sour at a dis¬ 
 appointment: but it is the same thing whether you 
 do or do not resent ill-usage, you will be used af- 
 tei the same manner; as some good mothers will be 
 sure to whip their children till they cry, and then 
 whip them for crying. 
 
 There are but two ways of doing anything with 
 gieat people, and those are by making yourself 
 eithei considerable or agreeable. The former is 
 not to be attained but by finding a way to live 
 without them, or concealing that you want them; 
 the latter is only by falling into their taste and 
 pleasures. This is, of all the employments in the 
 world, the most servile, except it, happens to be 
 of. your own natural humor. For to be agreeable 
 to another, especially if he be above you, is not to 
 be possessed of such qualifies and accomplish¬ 
 ments as should render you 1 agreeable in yourself 
 but such as make you agreeable in respect to him. 
 An imitation of his faults, or a compliance, if 
 not subservience to his vices, must be the measure 
 of your conduct. 
 
 When it comes to that, the unnatural state a 
 man lives in, when his patron pleases, is ended; 
 and his guilt and complaisance are objected to 
 him, though the man who rejects him for his vices 
 was not only his partner, but seducer. Thus the 
 client (like a young woman who has given up the 
 innocence which made her charming) has not only 
 lost his time, but also the virtue which could ren¬ 
 der him capable of resenting the injury which is 
 done him. 
 
 It would be endless to recount the tricks of turn - 
 iug you off from themselves to persons who have 
 less power to serve you, the art of being sorry for 
 such an unaccountable accident in your" behavior, 
 that such a one (who, perhaps, has never heard 
 of you) opposes your advancement; and if you 
 have anything more than ordinary in you, you are 
 flattered with a whisper, that it is no wonder peo¬ 
 ple are so slow in doing for a man of your talents, 
 and the like. 
 
 After all this treatment, I must still add the 
 pleasantest insolence of all, which I have once or 
 twice seen; to wit, that when a silly rogue has 
 thrown away one part in three of his life in un¬ 
 profitable attendance, it is taken wonderfully ill 
 that he withdraws, and is resolved to employ the 
 rest for himself. 
 
 When we consider these things, and reflect upoD 
 so many honest natures (which one, who makes 
 observation of what passes, may have seen) that 
 
 * These. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 274 
 
 have miscarried by such sort of applications, it is 
 too melancholy a scene to dwell upon ; therefore I 
 shall take another opportunity to discourse of 
 good patrons, and distinguish such as have done 
 their duty to those who have depended upon them, 
 and were not able to act without their favor. 
 Worthy patrons are like Plato’s Guardian Angels, 
 who are always doing good to their wards ; but 
 negligent patrons are like Epicurus’s gods, that 
 lie lolling on the clouds, and, instead of blessings, 
 pour down storms and tempests on the heads of 
 those that are offering incense to them.* 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 215.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1711. 
 
 -Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 
 
 Emollit mores, nec sinet esse feros. 
 
 Ovid, de Ponto, II, ix, 47. 
 Ingenuous arts, where they an entrance find, 
 
 Soften the manners, and subdue the mind. 
 
 k 
 
 I consider a human soul without education like 
 marble in the quarry, which shows none of its 
 inherent beauties, until the skill of the polisher 
 fetches out the colors, makes the surface shine, and 
 discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein 
 that runs through the body of it. Education, 
 after the same manner, when it works upon a 
 noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue 
 and perfection, which without such helps are 
 never able to make their appearance. 
 
 If my reader will give me leave to change the 
 allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of 
 the same instance to illustrate the force of educa¬ 
 tion, which Aristotle has brought to explain his 
 doctrine of substantial forms, when lie tells us 
 that a statue lies hid in a block of marble ; and 
 that the art of the statuary only clears away the 
 superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. 
 The figure is in stone, the sculptor only finds it. 
 What sculpture is to a block of marble, education 
 is to a human soul. The philosopher, the saint, 
 or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man, 
 very often lie hid and concealed in a plebeian, 
 which a proper education might have disinterred, 
 and have brought to light. I am therefore, much 
 delighted with reading the accounts of savage 
 nations, and with contemplating those virtues 
 which are wild and uncultivated; to see courage 
 exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obsti¬ 
 nacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness 
 and despair. 
 
 Men’s passions operate variously, and appear in 
 different kinds of actions, according as they are 
 more or less rectified and swayed by reason. 
 When one hears of negroes, who upon the death 
 of their masters, or upon changing their service, 
 hang themselves upon the next tree, as it frequent¬ 
 ly happens in our American plantations, who can 
 forbear admiring their fidelity, though it ex¬ 
 presses itself in so dreadful a manner? What 
 might not that savage greatness of soul which ap- 
 ears in these poor wretches on many occasions 
 e raised to were it rightly cultivated? And what 
 color of excuse can there be for the contempt with 
 which we treat this part of our species? that we 
 should not put them upon the common foot of 
 humanity; that we should only set an insignificant 
 fine upon the man who murders them; nay, that 
 we should, as much as in us lies, cut them off 
 from the prospect of happiness in another world 
 as well as in this, and deny them that which we 
 look upon as the proper means for attaining it? 
 
 *The Spectator has not justly represented here the gods of 
 Epicurus: they were supposed to he indolent and uninterest¬ 
 ed in the affairs of men, but not malignant or cruel beings. 
 
 Since I am engaged on this subject, I cannot 
 forbear mentioning a story which I have lately 
 heard, and which is so well attested, that I have 
 no manner of reason to suspect the truth of it. I 
 may call it a kind of wild tragedy that passed 
 about twelve years ago at St. Christopher’s, one 
 of our British Leeward islands. The negroes, who 
 were the persons concerned in it, were all of them 
 the slaves of a gentleman, who is now in Eng¬ 
 land. 
 
 This gentleman, among his negroes, had a 
 young woman, who was looked upon as a most 
 extraordinary beauty by those of her own com¬ 
 plexion. He had at the same time two young 
 fellows, who were likewise negroes and slaves, 
 remarkable for the comeliness of their persons, 
 and for the friendship which they bore to one 
 another. It unfortunately happened that both of 
 them fell in love with the female negro above- 
 mentioned, who would have been very glad to 
 have taken either of them for her husband, pro¬ 
 vided they would agree between themselves which 
 should be the man. But they were both so pas¬ 
 sionately in love with her, that neither of them 
 would think of giving her up to his rival; and at 
 the same time were so true to one another, that 
 neither of them would think of gaining her with¬ 
 out his friend’s consent. The torments of these 
 two lovers were the discourse of the family to 
 which they belonged, who could not forbear ob¬ 
 serving the strange complication of passions 
 which perplexed the hearts of the poor negroes, 
 that often dropped expressions of the uneasiness 
 they underwent, and how impossible it was for 
 either of them ever to be happy. 
 
 After a long struggle between love and friend¬ 
 ship, truth and jealousy, they one day took a walk 
 together into a wood, carrying their mistress along 
 with them : where, after abundance of lamenta¬ 
 tions, they stabbed her to the heart, of which she 
 immediately died. A slave who was at his work 
 not far from the place where this astonishing piece 
 of cruelty was committed, hearing the shrieks of 
 the dying person, ran to see what was the occa¬ 
 sion of them. He there discovered the woman 
 lying dead upon the ground, with the two negroes 
 on each side of her, kissing the dead corpse, 
 weeping over it, and beating their breasts in the 
 utmost agonies of grief and despair. He im¬ 
 mediately ran to the English family with the news 
 of what he had seen ; who, upon coining to the 
 place, saw the woman dead, and the two negroes 
 expiring by her with wounds they had given them¬ 
 selves. 
 
 We see in this amazing instance of barbarity, 
 what strange disorders are bred in the minds of 
 those men whose passions are not regulated by 
 virtue, and disciplined by reason. Though the 
 action which I have recited is in itself full of 
 guilt and horror, it proceeded from a temper of 
 mind which might have produced very noble 
 fruits, had it been informed and guided by a suit¬ 
 able education. 
 
 It is therefore an unspeakable blessing to be 
 born in those parts of the world where wisdom 
 and knowledge flourish ; though it must be con¬ 
 fessed, there are, even in these parts, several poor 
 uninstructed persons, who are but little above the 
 inhabitants of those nations of which I have been 
 here speaking; as those who have had the advan¬ 
 tage of a more liberal education rise above one 
 another by several different degrees of perfection. 
 For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, 
 we see it sometimes only begun to be chipped, 
 sometimes rough-hewn, and but just sketched into 
 a human figure ; sometimes we see the man ap¬ 
 pearing distinctly in all his limbs and features, 
 
the s p e c t a T 0 R. 
 
 sometimes we find the figure wrought up to a 
 great elegancy, but seldom meet with any to which 
 the hand of a Phidias or Praxiteles could not give 
 several nice touches and finishings. 
 
 Discourses of morality, and reflections upon 
 human nature, are the best means we can make 
 use of to improve our minds, and gain a true 
 knowledge of ourselves, and consequently to re¬ 
 cover our souls out of the vice, ignorance, and 
 prejudice, which naturally cleave to them. I have 
 all along professed myself in this paper a pro¬ 
 moter of these great ends; and I flatter myself that 
 I do from day to day contribute something to the 
 polishing of men’s minds: at least my design is 
 laudable, whatever the execution may be. I must 
 confess I am not a little encouraged in it by many 
 letters which I receive from unknown hands, in 
 approbation of my endeavors; and must take this 
 opportunity of returning my thanks to those who 
 write them, and excusing myself for not inserting 
 several of them in my papers, which I am sem 
 sible would be a very great ornament to them. 
 Should I publish the praises which are so well 
 penned, they would do honor to the persons who 
 write them, but my publishing of them would, I 
 fear, be a sufficient instance to the world that’ I 
 did not deserve them.—C. 
 
 275 
 
 No. 216.] WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1711. 
 
 Siquidem hercle possis, nil prius, neque fortius 
 Veruru si incipies, neque perficies naviter, 
 
 Atque, ubi pati non poteris, cum nemo expetet, 
 
 Infecta pace, ultro ad earn venies, indicans 
 Te amare, et ferre non posse : actum est, ilicet, 
 
 Peristi: eludet, ubi te victum senserit. 
 
 Ter. Eun., Act. i, Sc. 1. 
 
 0 brave! oh excellent! if you maintain #! 
 
 But it you try, and can’t go through with spirit, 
 
 And finding you can’t bear it, uninvited, 
 
 Your peace unmade, all of your own accord, 
 
 You come and swear you love, and can’t endure it, 
 Goodnight! all’s over! ruin’d! and undone! 
 
 She 11 jilt you, when she sees you in her power. 
 
 Colman. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 “To Mr. Spectator. 
 
 “This is to inform you, that Mr. Freeman had 
 no sooner taken coach, but his lady was taken 
 with a terrible fit of the vapors, which it is feared 
 will make her miscarry, if not endanger her life- 
 therefore, dear Sir, if you know of any receipt 
 that is good against this fashionable reignino- dis¬ 
 temper, be pleased to communicate it for the^good 
 of the public, and you will oblige yours, 
 
 “A. Noewill.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 The uproar was so great as soon as I had read 
 the Spectator concerning Mrs. Freeman, that after 
 many revolutions in her temper, of raging, swoon¬ 
 ing, railing fainting, pitying herself, and reviling 
 nei husband, upon an accidental coming in of a 
 neighboring lady (who says she has written to 
 you also), she had nothing left for it but to fall 
 into a fit. I had the honor to read the paper to 
 her, and have pretty good command of counte¬ 
 nance and temper on such occasions; and soon 
 ^und my historical name to be Tom Meg-o-ot in 
 your writings, but concealed myself until I saw 
 how it affected Mrs. Freeman. She looked fre¬ 
 quently at her husband, as often at me and she 
 did not tremble as she filled tea, until she came to 
 the circumstance of Armstrong’s writing out a 
 piece of Tully for an opera tune. Then she burst 
 out, she was exposed, she was deceived, she was 
 wronged and abused. The tea-cup was thrown 
 o t le fire; and without taking vengeance on her 
 
 spouse, she said to me, that I was a pretending 
 coxcomb, a meddler that knew not what it was to 
 interpose in so nice an affair as between a man 
 and his wife. To which Mr. Freeman: ‘Madam 
 were I less lond of you than I am, I should not 
 have taken this way of writing to the Spectator 
 to inform a woman, whom God and nature has 
 placed under my direction, with what I request of 
 lien; but since you are so indiscreet as not to take 
 the hint which I gave you in that paper, I must 
 tell you, Madam, m so many words, that you have 
 for a long and tedious space of time acted a part 
 unsuitable to the sense you ought to have of the 
 subordination in which you are placed. And I 
 must acquaint you, once for all, that the fellow 
 without ‘Ha, Tom!—(here the footman entered 
 and answered, Madam) ‘Sirrah, don’t you know 
 my voice? Look upon me when I speak to you.’ 
 
 ‘I say. Madam, this fellow here is to know of 
 me myself, whether I am at leisure to see com¬ 
 pany or not. I am from this hour master of this 
 house; and my business in it, and everywhere 
 else is to behave myself in such a manner, as it 
 sliall be hereafter an honor to you to bear my 
 name; and your pride that you are the delight, the 
 darling, and ornament of a man of honor, useful 
 and esteemed by his friends; and I no longer one 
 that has buried some merit in tfie world, in com¬ 
 pliance to a Iroward humor which has grown upon 
 an agreeable woman by his indulgence.’ Mr Free¬ 
 man ended this with a tenderness in his aspect 
 and a downcast eye, which showed he was ex¬ 
 tremely moved at the anguish he saw her in • for 
 she sat swelling with passion, and her eyes firmly 
 fixed on the fire; when I, fearing he would lose all 
 again took upon me to provoke her out of that 
 amiable sorrow she was in, to fall upon me; upon 
 I 18a ^ very seasonably for my friend, that 
 indeed Mr. Freeman was become the common talk 
 of the town; and that nothing was so much a jest 
 as when it was said in company, Mr. Freeman had 
 promised to come to such a place. Upon which 
 the good lady turned her softness into downright 
 rage and threw the scalding teakettle upon your 
 humble servant, flew into the middle of the room 
 and cried out she was the unfortunatest of all wo¬ 
 men. Others kept family dissatisfactions for hours 
 ot privacy and retirement. No apology was to be 
 made to her, no expedient to be found, no previous 
 manner of breaking what was amiss in her; but all 
 the world was to be acquainted with her errors, 
 without the least admonition. Mr. Freeman was 
 going to make a softening speech, but I interposed’: 
 ‘Look you. Madam, I have nothing to say to this 
 matter, but you ought to consider you are now 
 past a chicken; this humor, which was well enough 
 in a girl, is insufferable in one of your motherly 
 character. With that she lost all patience, and 
 new directly at her husband’s periwig. I got her 
 in my arms, and defended my friend; he making 
 signs at the same time that it was too much ; I 
 beckoning, nodding, and frowning over her shoul¬ 
 der, that he was lost if he did not persist. In 
 this manner we flew around and round the room 
 in a moment, until the lady I spoke of above and 
 servants entered; upon which she fell upon the 
 couch as breathless. I still kept up my friend: 
 but he, with a very silly air, bid them bring the 
 coach to the door, and we went off; I being forced 
 to bid the coachman drive on. We were no sooner 
 come to my lodgings, but all his wife’s relations 
 came to inquire after him; and Mrs. Freeman’s 
 mother wrote a note, wherein she thought never 
 to have seen this day, and so forth. 
 
 “In a word. Sir, I am afraid we are upon a 
 thing we have no talents for; and I can observe 
 already, my friend looks upon me rather as a man. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 276 
 
 that knows a weakness of him that he is ashamed 
 of, than one who has rescued him from slavery. 
 Mr. Spectator, I am but a young fellow, and if 
 Mr. Freeman submits, I shall be looked upon as an 
 incendiary, and never get a wife as' long as I 
 breathe. He has indeed sent word home he shall 
 lie at Hampstead to-night; but I believe fear of 
 the first onset after this rupture has too great a 
 place in this resolution. Mrs. Freeman has a very 
 pretty sister; suppose I delivered him up, and 
 articled with her mother for her bringing him 
 home. If he has not courage to stand it (you are 
 a great casuist), is it such an ill thing to bring 
 myself off as well as I can ? What makes me 
 doubt my man is, that I find he thinks it reasona¬ 
 ble to expostulate at least with her ? and Captain 
 Sentry will tell you, if you let your orders be 
 disputed, you are no longer a commander. I wish 
 you could advise me how to get clear of this busi¬ 
 ness handsomely. “ Yours, 
 
 T. “ Tom Meggot.” 
 
 Ho. 217.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1711. 
 
 -Tunc foemina simplex, 
 
 Et pariter toto repetitur clamor ab antro. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 326. 
 
 Then unrestrain’d by rules of decency, 
 
 TIT assembled females raise a general cry. 
 
 I shall entertain my reader to-day with some 
 letters from my correspondents. The first of them 
 is the description of a club, whether real or ima¬ 
 ginary I cannot determine; but am apt to fancy, 
 that the writer of it, whoever she is, has formed a 
 kind of nocturnal orgie out of her own fancy. 
 Whether this be so or not, her letter may conduce 
 to the amendment of that kind of persons who are 
 represented in it, and whose characters are frequent 
 enough in the world. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ In some of your first papers you were pleased 
 to give the public a very diverting account of sev¬ 
 eral clubs and nocturnal assemblies ; but I am a 
 member of a society which has wholly escaped 
 your notice, I mean a club of She-Romps. We 
 take each a hackney-coach, and meet once a week 
 in a large upper-chamber, which we hire by the 
 year for that purpose ; our landlord and his family, 
 who are quiet people, constantly contriving to be 
 abroad on our club-night. We are no sooner come 
 together, than we throw off all that modesty and 
 reservedness with which our sex are obliged to 
 disguise themselves in public places. I am not 
 able to express the pleasure we enjoy from ten at 
 night till four in the morning, in being as rude as 
 ou men can be for your lives. As our play runs 
 igh, the room is immediately filled with broken 
 fans, torn petticoats, lappets, or head-dresses, 
 flounces, furbelows, garters, and working-aprons. 
 I had forgot to tell you at first, that beside the 
 coaches we come in ourselves, there is one which 
 stands always empty to carry off our dead men, 
 for so we call all those fragments and tatters with 
 which the room is strewed, and which we pack up 
 together in bundles, and put into the aforesaid 
 coach. It is no small diversion for us to meet the 
 next night at some member’s chamber, where every 
 one is to pick out what belongs to her from this 
 confused bundle of silks, stuffs, laces, and ribbons. 
 I have hitherto given you an account of our diver¬ 
 sion on ordinary club-nights ; but must acquaint 
 you further, that once a month we demolish a 
 prude, that is, we get some queer, formal creature 
 in among us, and unrig her in an instant. Our 
 last month’s prude was so armed and fortified in 
 
 whalebone and buckram, that we had much ado 
 to come at her ; but you would have died with 
 laughing to have seen how the sober, awkward 
 thing looked when she was forced out of her in- 
 trenchments. In short, Sir, it is impossible to 
 give you a true notion of our sport, unless you 
 would come one night among us ; and though it 
 be directly against the rules of our society to ad¬ 
 mit a male visitant, we repose so much confidence 
 in your silence and taciturnity, that it was agreed 
 by the whole club, at our last meeting, to give you 
 entrance for one night as a Spectator. 
 
 “I am your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Kitty Termagant.” 
 
 « P. S. We shall demolish a prude next Thurs¬ 
 day.” 
 
 Though I thank Kitty for her kind offer, I do 
 not at present find in myself any inclination, to 
 venture my person with her and her romping 
 companions. I should regard myselt as a second 
 Clodius intruding on the mysterious rites of the 
 Bona Dea, and should apprehend being demol¬ 
 ished as much as the prude. 
 
 The following letter comes from a gentleman, 
 whose taste I find is much too delicate to endure 
 the least advance toward romping. I may per¬ 
 haps hereafter improve upon the hint he has 
 given me, and make it the subject of. a whole 
 Spectator; in the meantime take it as it follows 
 in his own words : 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ It is my misfortune to be in love with a young 
 creature who is daily committing faults, which, 
 though they give me the utmost uneasiness, 1 
 know not flow to reprove her for, or even acquaint 
 her with. She is pretty, dresses well, is rich, 
 and good-humored ; but either wholly neglects, 
 or has no notion of that which polite people have 
 agreed to distinguish by the name of delicacy. 
 After our return from a walk the other day she 
 threw herself into an elbow-chair, and professed 
 before a large company, that she was all over in a 
 sweat. She told me this afternoon that her stom¬ 
 ach ached; and was complaining yesterday at 
 dinner of something that stuck in her teeth. I 
 treated her with a basket of fruit last summer, 
 which she ate so very greedily, as almost made me 
 resolve never to see her more. In short, Sir, I be¬ 
 gin to tremble whenever I see her about to speak 
 or move. As she does not want sense, if she takes 
 these hints I am happy; if not, I am more than 
 afraid, that these things, which shock me even in 
 the behavior of a mistress, will appear insup¬ 
 portable in that of a wife. 
 
 “I am, Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 My next letter comes from a correspondent 
 whom I cannot but very much value, upon the 
 account which she gives of herself. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am happily arrived at a state of tranquillity, 
 which few people envy, I mean that of an old 
 maid ; therefore being wholly unconcerned in all 
 that medley of follies which our sex is apt to con¬ 
 tract from their silly fondness of yours, I read 
 your railleries on us without provocation. I can 
 say with Hamlet, 
 
 -Man delights not me, 
 
 Nor woman either. 
 
 “Therefore, dear Sir, as you never spare your 
 own sex, do not be afraid of reproving what is 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ridiculous in ours, and you will oblige at loast 
 one woman who is, 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Susannah Frost.” 
 
 “Mu. Spectator, 
 
 “I am wife to a clergyman, and cannot help 
 thinking that in your tenth or tithe character of 
 womankind you meant myself, therefore I have no 
 quarrel against you for the other nine characters. 
 
 “ Your humble Servant,” 
 
 x - “A. B.” 
 
 Xo. 218.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1711. 
 
 Quid de quoquc viro, et cui dicas, soepe caveto. 
 
 Hor. Ep. xvii, 68. 
 
 -—-Have a care 
 
 Of whom you talk, to whom, and what, and where. 
 
 POOLEY. 
 
 I happened the other day, as my way is, to 
 stroll into a little coffee-house beyond Aldgate ; 
 and as I sat there, two or three very plain sensible 
 men were talking of the Spectator. One said, he 
 had that morning drawn the great benefit ticket; 
 another wished he had; but a third shook his 
 head and said, “It was a pity that the writer of 
 that paper was such a sort of man, that it was no 
 great matter whether he had it or no. He is, it 
 seems, said the good man, “ the most extrava¬ 
 gant creature in the. world ; has run through vast 
 sums, and yet been in continual want: a man, for 
 all he talks so well of economy, unfit for any of 
 the offices of life by reason of his profuseness. 
 It would be an unhappy thing to be his wife, his 
 child, or his friend ; and yet he talks as well of 
 those duties of life as any one.” Much reflection 
 has brought me to so easy a contempt for every¬ 
 thing which is false, that this heavy accusation 
 gave me no manner of uneasiness ; but at the 
 same time it threw me into deep thought upon the 
 subject of fame in general; and I could not but 
 pity such as were so weak, as to value what the 
 common people say out of their own talkative 
 temper to the advantage or diminution of those 
 whom they mention, without being moved either 
 by malice or good-will. It will be too long to 
 expatiate upon the sense all mankind have of 
 fame, and the inexpressible pleasure which there 
 is in the approbation of worthy men, to all who 
 are capable of worthy actions ; but methinks one 
 may divide the general word fame, into three dif¬ 
 ferent species, as it regards the different orders of 
 mankind who have anything to do with it. Fame 
 therefore may be divided into glory, which res¬ 
 pects the hero ; reputation, which is preserved by 
 every gentleman ; and credit, which must be sup¬ 
 ported by every tradesman. These possessions in 
 fame are dearer than life to those characters of 
 men, or rather are the life of these characters. 
 Glory, while the hero pursues great and noble 
 enterprises, is impregnable; and all the assail¬ 
 ants of his renown do but show their pain and 
 impatience of its brightness, without throwing the 
 least shade upon it. If the foundation of a high 
 name be virtue and service, all that is offered 
 against it is but rumor, which is too short-lived 
 to stand up in competition with glory, which is 
 everlasting. J 
 
 Reputation, which is the poicion of every man 
 who would live with the elegant and knowing 
 part of mankind, is as stable as glory, if it be as 
 well founoed ; and the common cause of human 
 society is thought concerned when we hear a man 
 of good behavior calumniated. Beside which, ac¬ 
 cording to a prevailing custom among us, every 
 
 277 
 
 man has his defense in his own arm ; and reproach 
 is soon checked, put out of ’countenance, and over¬ 
 taken by disgrace. 
 
 The most unhappy of all men, and the most 
 exposed to the malignity or wantonness of the 
 common voice, is the trader. Credit is undone in 
 whispers. The tradesman’s wound is received 
 from one who is more private and more cruel than 
 the ruffian with the lantern and dagger. The 
 manner of repeating a man’s name,—As : “ Mr. 
 Cash, Oh ! do you leave your money at his shop? 
 Why, do you know Mr. Searoom ? He is indeed a 
 general merchant.” I say, I have seen, from the 
 iteration of a man’s name hiding one thought of 
 him, and explaining what you Hide, by saying 
 something to liis advantage when you speak, a mer¬ 
 chant hurt in his credit; and him who, every day 
 he lived, literally added to the value of his native 
 country, undone by one who was only a burden 
 and a blemish to it. Since everybody who knows 
 the world is sensible of this great evil, how care¬ 
 ful ought a man to be in his language of a mer¬ 
 chant? It may possibly be in the power of a 
 very shallow creature to lay the ruin of the best fam¬ 
 ily in the most opulent city; and the more so, the 
 more highly he deserves of his country; that is 
 to say, the further he places his wealth out of his 
 hands, to draw home that of another climate. 
 
 In this case an ill word may change plenty into 
 want, and by a rash sentence a free and generous 
 fortune may in a few days be reduced to beggary. 
 How little does a giddy prater imagine, that an 
 idle phrase to the disfavor of a merchant, may be 
 as pernicious in the consequence, as the forgery of 
 a deed to bar an inheritance would be to a gentle¬ 
 man ? Land stands where it did before a gentleman 
 was calumniated, and the state of a great action 
 is just as it was before calumny was offered to di¬ 
 minish it, and there is time, place, and occasion 
 expected to unravel all that is contrived against 
 those characters: but the trader who is ready only 
 for probable demands upon him, can have no ar¬ 
 mor against the inquisitive, the malicious and the 
 envious, who are prepared to fill the cry to his 
 dishonor. Fire and sword are slow engines of de¬ 
 struction, in comparison of the babbler in the 
 case of the merchant. 
 
 For this reason, I thought it an inimitable piece 
 of humanity of a gentleman of my acquaintance, 
 who had great variety of affairs, and used to talk 
 with warmth enough against gentlemen by whom 
 he thought himself ill dealt with; that he would 
 never let anything be urged against a merchant 
 (with whom he had any difference) except in a 
 court of justice. He used to say, that to speak ill 
 of a merchant was to begin his suit with judgment 
 and execution. One cannot, I think, say more on 
 this occasion, than to repeat, that the merit of the 
 merchant is above that of all other subjects; for 
 while he is untouched in his credit, his hand-wri¬ 
 ting is a more portable coin for the service of his 
 fellow-citizens, and his word the gold of Ophir to 
 the country wherein he resides.—T. 
 
 No. 219.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1711. 
 
 Vix ea nostra toco. - Ovld. Met., xiii, 141. 
 
 These I scarce call our own. 
 
 There are but few men who are not ambitious 
 of distinguishing themselves in the nation or 
 country where they live, and of growing consider¬ 
 able among those with whom they converse. There 
 is a kind of grandeur and respect, which the 
 meanest and most insignificant part of mankind 
 endeavor to procure in the little circle of their 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 278 
 
 friends and acquaintance. The poorest mechanic, 
 nay, the man who lives upon common alms, gets 
 him his set of admirers, and delights in that su¬ 
 periority which he enjoys over those who are in 
 some respects beneath him. This ambition, which 
 is natural to the soul of man, might, methinks, 
 receive a very happy turn; and, if it were rightly 
 directed, contribute as much to a person’s advan¬ 
 tage, as it generally does to his uneasiness and 
 disquiet. 
 
 I shall therefore put together some thoughts on 
 this subject, which I have not met with in other 
 writers; and shall set them down as they have oc¬ 
 curred to me, without being at the pains to con¬ 
 nect or methodize them. 
 
 All superiority and pre-eminence that one man 
 oan have over another, may be reduced to the no¬ 
 tion of quality, which, considered at large, is 
 either, that of fortune, body, or mind. The first 
 is that which consists in birth, title, or riches: it 
 is the most foreign to our natures, and what we 
 can the least call our own of any of the three 
 kinds of quality. In relation to the body, quality 
 arises from health, strength, or beauty; which are 
 nearer to us, and more a part of ourselves than 
 the former. Quality, as it regards the mind, has 
 its rise from knowedge or virtue; and is that 
 which is more essential to us, and more intimately 
 united with us than either of the other two. 
 
 The quality of fortune, though a man has less 
 reason to value himself upon it than on that of the 
 body or mind, is however the kind of quality 
 which makes the most shining figure in the eye 
 of the world. 
 
 As virtue is the most reasonable and genuine 
 source of honor, we generally find in titles an in¬ 
 timation of some particular merit that should re¬ 
 commend men to the high stations which they 
 possess. Holiness is ascribed to the pope; majes¬ 
 ty to kings: serenity or mildness of temper to 
 princes; excellence or perfection to ambassadors; 
 grace to archbishops; honor to peers; worship or 
 venerable behavior to magistrates; and reverence, 
 which is of the same import as the former, to the 
 inferior clergy. 
 
 In the founders of great families, such attributes 
 of honor are generally correspondent with the vir¬ 
 tues of the person to whom they are applied; but 
 in the descendants, they are too often the marks 
 rather of grandeur than of merit. The stamp and 
 denomination still continues, but the intrinsic 
 value is frequently lost. 
 
 The death-bed shows the emptiness of titles in 
 a true light. A poor dispirited sinner lies tremb¬ 
 ling under the apprehensions of the state he is 
 entering on: and is asked by a grave attendant 
 how his holiness does ? Another hears himself 
 addressed to under the title of highness or excel¬ 
 lency, who lies under such mean circumstances of 
 mortality as are the disgrace of human nature. 
 Titles at such a time look rather like insults and 
 mockery than respect. 
 
 The truth of it is, honors are in this world un¬ 
 der no regulation; true quality is neglected, virtue 
 is oppressed, and vice triumphant. The last day 
 will rectify this disorder, and assign to every one 
 a station suitable to the dignity of his character. 
 Ranks will be then adjusted, and precedency set 
 right. 
 
 Methinks we should have an ambition, if not to 
 advance ourselves in another world, at least to 
 preserve our post in it, and outshine our inferiors 
 in virtue here, that they may not be put above us 
 in a state which is to settle the distinction for 
 eternity. 
 
 Men in Scripture are called strangers and so¬ 
 journers upon earth, and life a pilgrimage. Se¬ 
 
 veral heathen, as well as Christian authors, under 
 the same kind of metaphor, have represented the 
 world as an inn, which was only designed to fur¬ 
 nish us with accommodations in this our passage. 
 It is therefore very absurd to think of setting up 
 our rest before we come to our journey’s end, and 
 not rather to take care of the reception we shall 
 there meet with, than to fix our thoughts on the 
 little conveniences and advantages which we en- 
 one above another in the way to it. 
 pictetus makes use of another kind of allusion, 
 which is very beautiful, and wonderfully proper to 
 incline us to be satisfied with the post in which 
 Providence has placed us. We are here, says he, 
 as in a theater, where every one has a part allotted 
 to him. The great duty which lies upon a man is 
 to act his part in perfection. We may indeed say, 
 that our part does not suit us, and tnat we could 
 act another better. But this, says the philoso¬ 
 pher, is not our business. All tnat we are con¬ 
 cerned in is to excel in the part which is given us. 
 If it be an improper one, the fault is mot in us, 
 but in Him who has cast our several parts, and is 
 the great disposer of the drama.* 
 
 The part that was acted by this philosopher 
 himself was but a very indifferent one, for he 
 lived and died a slave. His motive to content¬ 
 ment in this particular, receives a very great en¬ 
 forcement from the above-mentioned considera¬ 
 tion, if we remember that our parts in the other 
 world will be new cast, and that mankind will be 
 there ranged in different stations of superiority 
 and pre-eminence, in proportion as they have here 
 excelled one another in virtue, and performed in 
 their several posts of life the duties which belong 
 to them. 
 
 There are many beautiful passages in the little 
 apocryphal book, entitled. The Wisdom of Solo¬ 
 mon, to set forth the vanity of honor, and the like 
 temporal blessings which are in so great repute 
 among men, and to comfort those who have not 
 the possession of them. It represents in very 
 warm and noble terms this advancement of a good 
 man in the other world, and the great surprise 
 which it will produce among those who are his 
 superiors in this. “ Then shall the righteous man 
 stand in great boldness before the face of such as 
 have afflicted him, and made no account of his la¬ 
 bors. When they see it they shall be troubled 
 with terrible fear, and shall be amazed at the 
 strangeness of his salvation, so far beyond all that 
 they looked for. And they repenting and groan¬ 
 ing for anguish of spirit, shall say within them¬ 
 selves, This was he whom we had some time in 
 derision, and a proverb of reproach. We fools 
 accounted his life madness, and his end to be 
 without honor. How is he numbered among the 
 children of God, and his lot among the saints! ”f 
 
 If the reader would see the description of a life 
 that is passed away in vanity and among the 
 shadows of pomp and greatness, he may see it 
 very finely drawn in the same place.J In the 
 meantime, since it is necessary, m the present 
 constitution of things, that order and distinction 
 should be kept up in the world, we should be 
 happy if those who enjoy the upper stations in it, 
 would endeavor to surpass others in virtue as 
 much as in rank, and by their humanity and con¬ 
 descension make their superiority easy and accept¬ 
 able to those who are beneath them, and if, on the 
 contrary, those who are in meaner posts of life, 
 would consider how they may better their condi¬ 
 tion hereafter, and by a just deference and sub¬ 
 mission to their superiors, make them happy in 
 
 * Vid. Epicteti Enchirid., cap. 23. 
 f Wisd. v, 1—5. 
 
 + Ib. 8—1 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 279 
 
 those blessings with which Providence has thought 
 fit to distinguish them.—C. 
 
 No. 220.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1711. 
 
 Iiumoresquc serit varios- 
 
 Virg. 2En., xii, 22S. 
 
 A thousand rumors spreads. 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 "Why will you apply to my father for my love? 
 I cannot help it if ne will give you my person; 
 but I assure you it is not in his power, nor even 
 in my own, to give you my heart. Dear Sir, do 
 but consider the ill-consequence of such a match; 
 you are fifty-five, I twenty-one. You are a man 
 of business, and mightily conversant in arithme¬ 
 tic and making calculations; be pleased therefore 
 to consider what proportion your spirits bear to 
 mine; and when you have made a just estimate of 
 the necessary decay on one side, and the redund¬ 
 ance on the other, you will act accordingly. This 
 perhaps is such language as you may not expect 
 from a young lady; but my happiness is at stake, 
 and I must talk plainly. I mortally hate you; 
 and so, as you and my father agree, you may take 
 me or leave me: but if you will be so good as 
 never to see me more, you will forever oblige, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 "Henrietta.” 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ There are so many artifices and modes of false 
 wit, and such a variety of humor discovers itself 
 among its votaries, that it would be impossible to 
 exhaust so fertile a subject, if you would think fit 
 to resume it. The following instances may, if you 
 think fit, be added by way of appendix to your 
 discourses on that subject. 
 
 “ That feat of poetical activity mentioned by 
 Horace, of an author who could compose two 
 hundred verses while he stood upon one leg, has 
 been imitated (as I have heard) by a modern wri¬ 
 ter; who, priding himself on the hurry of his in¬ 
 vention, thought it no small addition to his fame 
 to have each piece minuted with the exact number 
 of hours or days it cost him in the composition. 
 He could taste no praise until he had acquainted 
 you in how short space of time he had deserved 
 it; and was not so much led to an ostentation of 
 his art, as of his dispatch: 
 
 -;-Aceipe, si vis, 
 
 Accipe jam tabulas; detur nobis locus, hora, 
 
 Cuetodes: videainus uter plus scribere possit. 
 
 Hor. 1 Sat. iv, 14. 
 
 Hero s pen and ink, and time, and place; let’s try, 
 
 Who can write most, and fastest, you or I. —Creech. 
 
 "This was the whole of his ambition; and 
 therefore I cannot but think the flights of this ra¬ 
 pid author very proper to be opposed to those la- 
 bonous nothings which you have observed were 
 the delight of the German wits, and in which 
 they so happily got rid of such a tedious quantity 
 of their time. J 
 
 "I have known a gentleman of another turn of 
 humor, who, despising the name of an author 
 never printed his works, but contracted his talent^ 
 and by the help of a very fine diamond which he 
 wore on his little finger, was a considerable poet 
 upon glass. He had a very good epigrammatic 
 wit; and there was not a parlor or tavern window 
 where he visited or dined for some years, which 
 did not receive some sketches or memorials of it. 
 It was his misfortune at last to lose his genius 
 
 and his ring to a sharper at play, and he has not 
 attempted to make a verse since. 
 
 " But of all contractions or expedients for wit, I 
 admire that of an ingenious projector whose book 
 I have seen. This virtuoso being a mathemati¬ 
 cian, has, according to his taste, thrown the art of 
 poetry into a short problem, and contrived tables, 
 by which any one, without knowing a word of 
 grammar or sense, may to his great comfort be 
 able to compose, or rather to erect, Latin verses.* 
 His tables are a kind ol poetical logarithms, which 
 being divided into several squares, and all in¬ 
 scribed with so many incoherent words, appear to 
 the eye. somewhat like a fortune-telling screen. 
 What a joy must it be to the unlearned operator to 
 find that these words being carefully collected and 
 written down in order according to the problem, start 
 of themselves into hexameter and pentameter 
 verses ? A friend of mine, who is a student in astro¬ 
 logy meeting with this book, performed the oper¬ 
 ation, by the rules there set down; he showed his 
 verses to the next of his acquaintance, who hap¬ 
 pened to understand Latin; and being informed 
 they described a tempest of wind, very luckily 
 prefixed them, together with a translation, to an 
 almanac he was just then printing, and was sup¬ 
 posed to have foretold the last great storm.f 
 
 “ I think the only improvement beyond this 
 would be that which the late Duke of Bucking¬ 
 ham mentioned to a stupid pretender to poetry, 
 as a project of a Dutch mechanic, viz. a mill to 
 make verses. This being the most compendious 
 method of all which have been yet proposed, may 
 deserve the thoughts of our modern virtuosi who 
 are employed in new discoveries for the public 
 good ; and it may be worth the while to consider, 
 whether in an island where few are content with¬ 
 out being thought wits, it will not be a common 
 benefit that wit, as w T ell as labor, should be made 
 cheap. " I am. Sir, your humble Servant,” etc. 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 " I often dine at a gentleman’s house where 
 there are two young ladies in themselves very 
 agreeable, but very cold in their behavior, be¬ 
 cause they understand me for a person that is to 
 * break my mind,’ as the phrase is, very suddenlv 
 to one of them. But I take this way to acquaint 
 them that I am not in love with either of them, 
 in hopes they will use me with that agreeable 
 freedom and indifference which they do all the 
 rest of the world, and not to drink to one another 
 only, but sometimes cast a kind look, with their 
 service to, “ Sir, your humble Servant.” 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 "I am a young gentleman, and take it for a 
 piece of good-breeding to pull off my hat when I 
 see anything peculiarly charming in any woman, 
 whether I know her or not. 1 take care that 
 there is nothing ludicrous or arch in my manner, 
 as if I were to betray a woman into a salutation 
 by way of jest or humor; and yet except I am 
 acquainted with her, I find she ever takes it for a 
 rule, that she is to look upon this* civility and 
 homage I pay to her supposed merit, as an im¬ 
 pertinence or forwardness which she is to observe 
 and neglect. I wish, Sir, you wrnuld settle the 
 business of salutation; and please to inform me 
 how I shall resist the sudden impulse I have to 
 be civil to what gives an idea of merit; or tell 
 
 * Tnis is no fiction of the Spectator’s, as might naturally ho 
 imagined. There was a projector of this kind named John 
 Peter,, who published a very thin pamphlet in 8to., entitled, 
 artificial Versifying, a New Way to make Latin verses, Lond., 
 1678, 
 
 t Viz: November 26, 1703. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 280 
 
 these creatures how to behave themselves in re¬ 
 turn to the esteem I have for them. My affairs 
 are such that your decision will be a favor to me, 
 if it be only to save the. unnecessary expense of 
 wearing out my hat so fast as I do at present. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, yours, 
 
 “ T. D.” 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 “ There are some that do know me, and won’t 
 bow to me.” 
 
 No 221.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1711. 
 
 -Ab ovo 
 
 Usque ad mala- Hor., Sat. 3,1.1, v. 6. 
 
 From eggs, which first set are upon the hoard, 
 
 To apples ripe, with which it last is stor’d. 
 
 When I have finished any of my speculations 
 it is my method to consider which of the ancient 
 authors have touched upon the subject that I treat 
 of. By this means I meet with some celebrated 
 thought upon it, or a thought of my own ex¬ 
 pressed in better words, or some similitude for 
 the illustration of my subject. This is what gives 
 birth to the motto of a speculation, which I rather 
 choose to take out of the poets than the prose- 
 writers, as the former generally give a finer turn 
 to a thought than the latter, and by couching it 
 in few words, and in harmonious numbers, make 
 it more portable to the memory. 
 
 My reader is therefore sure to meet with at 
 least one good line in every paper, and very often 
 finds his imagination entertained by a hint that 
 awakens in his memory some beautiful passage 
 of a classic author. 
 
 It was a saying of an ancient philosopher,* 
 which I find some of our writers have ascribed to 
 Queen Elizabeth, who perhaps might have taken 
 occasion to repeat it, that a good face is a letter 
 of recommendation. It naturally makes the be¬ 
 holders inquisitive into the person who is the 
 owner of it, and generally prepossesses them in his 
 favor. A handsome motto lias the same effect. 
 Beside that it always gives a supernumerary 
 beauty to a paper, and is sometimes in a manner 
 necessary, when the writer is engaged in what 
 may appear a paradox to vulgar minds, as it 
 shows that he is supported by good authorities, 
 and is not singular in his opinion. 
 
 I must confess the motto is of little use to an 
 unlearned reader, for which reason I consider it 
 only as “ a word to the wise.” But as for my un¬ 
 learned friends, if they cannot relish the motto, 
 I take care to make provision for them in the 
 body of my paper. If they do not understand 
 the sign that is hung out, they know very well 
 by it that they may meet with entertainment in 
 the house; and I think I was never better pleased 
 than with a plain man’s compliment, who upon 
 his friend’s telling him that he would like the 
 Spectator much better if he understood the motto, 
 replied that “ good wine needs no bush.” 
 
 I have heard of a couple of preachers in a 
 country town, who endeavored which should 
 outshine one another, and draw together the 
 greatest congregation. One of them being well 
 versed in the Fathers, used to quote every now 
 and then a Latin sentence to his illiterate hearers, 
 who it seems found themselves so edified by it, 
 that they flocked in greater numbers to this learned 
 man than to his rival. The other finding his con¬ 
 gregation mouldering every Sunday, and hearing 
 at length what was the occasion of it, resolved to 
 give his parish a little Latin in his turn; but being 
 
 unacquainted with any of the Fathers, he digested 
 into his sermon the whole book of Qua Genus, ad¬ 
 ding however such explications to it as he thought 
 might be for the benefit of his people. He after¬ 
 ward entered upon As in Prasenti, which he con¬ 
 verted in the same manner to the use of his parish¬ 
 ioners. This in a very little time thickened his 
 audience, filled his church, and routed his antago¬ 
 nist. 
 
 The natural love to Latin, which is so preva¬ 
 lent in our common people, makes me think that 
 my speculations fare never the worse among them 
 for that little scrap which appears at the head of 
 them ; and what the more encourages me in the 
 use of quotations in an unknown tongue, is, that 
 I hear the ladies, whose approbation I value more 
 than that of the whole learned world, declare 
 themselves in a more particular manner pleased 
 with my Greek mottoes. 
 
 Designing this day’s work for a dissertation 
 upon the two extremities of my paper, and having 
 already dispatched my motto, I shall, in the next 
 place, discourse upon those single capital letters, 
 which are placed at the end of it, and which have 
 afforded great matter of speculation to the curious. 
 I have heard various conjectures upon this subject. 
 Some tell us that C is the mark of those papers 
 that are written by the clergymen, though others 
 ascribe them to the club in general: that the 
 papers marked with R were written by my friend 
 Sir Roger; that L signifies the lawyer, whom I 
 have described in my second speculation; and 
 that T stands for the trader or merchant. But the 
 letter X, which is placed at the end of some few 
 of my papers, is that which has puzzled the whole 
 town, as they cannot think of any name which 
 begins with that letter, except Xenophon and 
 Xerxes, who can neither of them be supposed to 
 have had any hand in these speculations. 
 
 In answer to these inquisitive gentlemen, who 
 have many of them made inquiries of me by let¬ 
 ter, I must tell them the reply of an ancient phi¬ 
 losopher, who carried something hidden under his 
 cloak. A certain acquaintance desiring him to 
 let him know what it was he covered so carefully: 
 “I cover it,” says he, “ on purpose that you should 
 not know.” I have made use of these obscure 
 marks for the same purpose. They are, perhaps, 
 little amulets or charms to preserve the paper 
 against the fascination and malice of evil eyes: 
 for which reason I would not have my reader sur¬ 
 prised, if hereafter he sees any of my papers 
 marked with a Q, a Z, a Y, etc., or with the word 
 Abracadabra.* 
 
 I shall however so far explain myself to the 
 reader, as to let him know that the letters C, L, 
 and X, are cabalistical, and carry more in them 
 than it is proper for the world to be acquainted 
 with. Those who are versed in the philosophy of 
 Pythagoras, and swear by the Tetrarchtys, that is 
 the number four,f will know very well that the 
 number ten, which is signified by the letter X 
 (and which has so much perplexed the town), has 
 in it many particular powers; that it is called by 
 the Platonic writers the complete number ; that 
 one, two, three, and four put together make up 
 the number ten; and that ten is all. But these 
 are not mysteries for ordinary readers to be let 
 into. A man must have spent many years in hard 
 
 * A noted charm for agues: said to have been invented by 
 Basilides, a heretic of the second century, who taught that 
 very subliine mysteries were contained in the number 365, 
 (viz: not only the days of the year, but the different orders 
 of celestial beings, etc.), to which number the Hebrew letters 
 that compose the word Abracadabra, are said to amount. 
 
 f See Stanley’s Lives of the Philosophers, page 527, 2d edit. 
 1687, folio. \ 
 
 * Aristotle, or, according to some Diogenes. See Diogenes 
 Laertius, lib. v, cap. 1, n. 11. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 study before he can arrive at the knowledge of 
 them. 
 
 We had a rabbinical divine in England, who 
 was chaplain to the Earl of Essex, in Queen Eliz¬ 
 abeth’s time, that had an admirable head for secrets 
 of this nature. Upon his taking the doctor of 
 divinity’s degree, he preached before the univer¬ 
 sity of Cambridge, upon the first verse of the 
 first chapter of the first book of Chronicles, “ in 
 which,” says he, “ you have the three following 
 words: b 
 
 ‘Adam, Sheth, Enosh.’” 
 
 He divided this short text into many parts, and 
 by discovering several mysteries in each word, 
 made a most learned and elaborate discourse. The 
 name of this profound preacher was Dr. Alabas¬ 
 ter, of whom the reader may find a more particu¬ 
 lar account in Dr. Fuller’s book of English Wor¬ 
 thies. This instance will, I hope, convince my 
 readers that there may be a great deal of fine 
 writing in the capital letters which bring up the 
 rear of my paper, and give them some satisfac¬ 
 tion in that particular. But as for the full expli¬ 
 cation of these matters, I must refer them to time, 
 which discovers all things.—C. 
 
 No. 222.] WEDNESDAY, NOV. 14, 1711. 
 
 Cur alter fratrum, eessare, et ludere, et ungi, 
 
 Prasfierat Herodis palmetis pinguibus- 
 
 Hor. 2 Ep. ii, 133. 
 
 "W hy, of two brothers, one his pleasure loves, 
 
 Prefers his sports to Herod’s fragrant groves.— Creech. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ There is one thing I have often looked for in 
 your papers, and have as often wondered to find 
 myself disappointed; the rather, because I think 
 it a subject every way agreeable to your design, 
 and by being left unattempted by others, it seems 
 reserved as a proper employment for you; I mean 
 a disquisition, from whence it proceeds, that men 
 of the brightest parts, and most comprehensive 
 genius, completely furnished with talents for any 
 province in human affairs; such as by their wise 
 lessons of economy to others, have made it evi¬ 
 dent that they have the justest notions of life, and 
 
 of true sense in the conduct of it-~; from what 
 
 unhappy contradictious cause it proceeds, that 
 persons thus finished by nature and by art, should 
 so often fail in the management of that which 
 thev so well understand, and want the address to 
 make a right application of their own rules. This 
 is certainly a prodigious inconsistency in beha¬ 
 vior, and makes much such a figure in morals, as 
 a monstrous birth in naturals; with this difference 
 only, which greatly aggravates the wonder, that 
 it happens much more frequently: and what a 
 blemish does it cast upon wit and learning in the 
 general account of the world! In how disadvan¬ 
 tageous a light does it expose them to the busy 
 class of mankind, that there should be so many 
 instances of persons who have so conducted their 
 lives m spite of these transcendent advantages, as 
 neither to be happy in themselves nor useful to 
 their friends; when everybody sees it was entirely 
 in their own power to be eminent in both these 
 characters. lor my part, I think there is no re¬ 
 flection more astonishing, than to consider one of 
 these gentlemen spending a fair fortune, runnino- 
 in everybody’s debt without the least apprehen¬ 
 sion of a future reckoning, and at last leaving not 
 only his own children, but possibly those of other 
 people, by his means, in starving circumstances; 
 while a fellow, whom one would scarce suspect to 
 nave a human soul, shall perhaps raise a vast es¬ 
 
 281 
 
 tate out of nothing, and be the founder of a fami¬ 
 ly capable of being very considerable in their 
 country, and doing many illustrious services to 
 it. That this observation is just, experience has 
 put beyond all dispute. But though the fact be 
 so evident and glaring, yet the causes of it are 
 still in the dark; which makes me persuade my¬ 
 self, that it would be no unacceptable piece of en¬ 
 tertainment to the town, to inquire into the hidden 
 sources of so unaccountable an evil. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble servant.” 
 
 What this correspondent wonders at, has been 
 matter of admiration ever since there was any 
 such tiling as human life. Horace reflects upon 
 this inconsistency very agreeably in the character 
 of Tigellius, whom he makes a mighty pretender 
 to economy, and tells you, you might one day hear 
 
 him speak the most philosophic things imaginable 
 concerning being contented with a little, and his 
 contempt of everything but mere necessaries; and 
 in half a week after spend a thousand pounds. 
 When he says this of him with relation to ex¬ 
 pense, he describes him as unequal to himself in 
 every other circumstance of life. Indeed, if we 
 consider lavish men carefully, we shall find it 
 always proceeds from a certain incapacity of pos¬ 
 sessing themselves, and finding enjoyment in their 
 own minds. Mr. Dryden has expressed this very 
 excellently in the character of Zimri: 
 
 A man so various that he seem’d to he 
 Not one, but all mankind’s epitome. 
 
 Stiff in opinion, always in the wrong, 
 
 Was everything by starts, and nothing long! 
 
 But in the course of one revolving moon, 
 
 Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon, 
 
 Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, 
 Beside ten thousand freaks that died in thinking; 
 Bless’d madman, who could every hour employ 
 In something new to wish, or to enjoy! 
 
 In squandering wealth was his peculiar art, 
 
 Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 
 
 I his loose state of the soul hurries the extrava¬ 
 gant from one pursuit to another; and the reason 
 that his expenses are greater than another’s, is, 
 that his wants are also more numerous. But what 
 makes so many go on in this way to their lives’ 
 end, is, that they certainly do not know how con¬ 
 temptible they are in the eves of the rest of man¬ 
 kind, or, rather, that indeed they are not so 
 contemptible as they deserve. Tully says, it is 
 the greatest of wickedness to lessen your pater¬ 
 nal estate. And if a man would thoroughly con¬ 
 sider how much worse than banishment it must be 
 to his child, to ride by the estate which should 
 have been his, had it not been for his father’s in¬ 
 justice to him, he would be smitten with the reflec¬ 
 tion more deeply than can be understood by any 
 but one who is a father. Sure there can be noth¬ 
 ing more afflicting, than to think it had been hap¬ 
 pier for his son to have been born of any other 
 man living than himself. 
 
 It is not perhaps much thought of, but it is cer¬ 
 tainly a very important lesson, to learn how to 
 enjoy ordinary life, and to be able to relish your 
 being without the transport of some passion, or 
 gratification of some appetite. For want of this 
 capacity, the world is filled with whetters, tipplers, 
 cutters, sippers, and all the numerous train of 
 those who, for want of thinking, are forced to be 
 ever exercising their feeling or tasting. It would 
 be hard on this occasion to mention the harmless 
 smokers of tobacco, and takers of snuff. 
 
 The slower part of mankind, whom my corres¬ 
 pondent wonders should get estates, are the more 
 immediately formed for that pursuit. They can 
 expect distant things without impatience, because 
 they are not carried out of their way either u>y 
 violent passion, or keen appetite to anything. To 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 282 
 
 men addicted to delights, business is an interrup¬ 
 tion; to such as are cold to delights, business is 
 an entertainment. For which reason it was said 
 to one who commended a dull man for his appli¬ 
 cation, “ No thanks to him; if he had no business, 
 he would have nothing to do.”—T 
 
 No. 223.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1711. 
 
 0 suavis anima! qualem te dicam bonam 
 
 Antehac fuisse, tales cum sint peliquiae! 
 
 Peledr., iii, i, 5. 
 
 0 sweet soul! how good must you have been heretofore} 
 when your remains are so delicious! 
 
 When I reflect upon the various fate of those 
 multitudes of ancient writers who flourished in 
 Greece and Italy, I consider time as an immense 
 ocean, in which many noble authors are entirely 
 swallowed up, many very much shattered and 
 damaged, some quite disjointed and broken into 
 pieces, while some have wholly escaped the com¬ 
 mon wreck ; but the number of the last is very 
 small, 
 
 Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto. 
 
 Virg. iEn., i, ver. 122. 
 
 One here and there floats on the vast abyss. 
 
 Among the mutilated poets of antiquity there 
 is none whose fragments are so beautiful as those 
 of Sappho. They give us a taste of her way of 
 writing, which is perfectly conformable with that 
 extraordinary character we find of her in the re¬ 
 marks of those great critics who were conversant 
 with her works when they were entire. One may 
 see by what is left of them, that she followed na¬ 
 ture in all her thoughts, without descending to 
 those little points, conceits, and turns of wit with 
 which many of our modern lyrics are so misera¬ 
 bly infected. Her soul seems to have been made up 
 of love and poetry. She felt the passion in all its 
 warmth, and described it in all its symptoms. She 
 is called by ancient authors the tenth muse; and by 
 Plutarch is compared to Cacus the son of Vulcan, 
 who breathed out nothing but flame. I do not 
 know by the character that is given of her works, 
 whether it is not for the benefit of mankind that 
 they are lost. They are filled with such bewitch¬ 
 ing tenderness and rapture, that it might have 
 been dangerous to have given them a reading. 
 
 An inconstant lover, called Phaon, occasioned 
 reat calamities to this poetical lady. She fell 
 esperately in love with him, and took a voyage 
 into Sicily> in pursuit of him, he having with¬ 
 drawn himself thither on purpose to avoid her. 
 It was in that island, and on this occasion, she is 
 supposed to have made the Hymn to Venus, with 
 a translation of which I shall present my reader. 
 Her Hymn was ineffectual for procuring that 
 happiness which she prayed for in it. Phaon 
 was still obdurate, and Sappho so transported 
 with the violence of her passion, that she was re¬ 
 solved to get rid of it at any price. 
 
 There was a promontory in Acarnania called 
 Leucate, on the top of which was a little temple 
 dedicated to Apollo. In this temple it was usual 
 for despairing lovers to make their vows in secret, 
 and afterward to fling themselves from the top of 
 the precipice into the sea, where they were some¬ 
 times taken up alive. This place was therefore 
 called the Lover’s Leap; and whether or no the 
 fright they had been m, or the resolution that 
 could push them to so dreadful a remedy, or the 
 bruises which they often received in their fall, 
 banished all the tender sentiments of love, and 
 gave their spirits another turn; those who had 
 taken this leap were observed never to relapse into 
 
 that passion. Sappho tried the cure, but perished 
 in the experiment. 
 
 After having given this short account of Sap¬ 
 pho, so far as it regards the following ode, I shall 
 subjoin the translation of it as it was sent me by 
 a friend whose admirable Pastorals and Winter- 
 piece have been already so well received. The 
 reader will find in it that pathetic simplicity, 
 which is so peculiar to him, and so suitable to the 
 ode he has here translated. This ode in the Greek 
 (beside those beauties observed by Madam Dacier) 
 has several harmonious turns in the words, which 
 are not lost in the English. I must further add, 
 that the translation has preserved every image and 
 sentiment of Sappho, notwithstanding it has all 
 the ease and spirit of an original. In a word, if 
 the ladies have a mind to know the manner of 
 writing practiced by the so much celebrated Sap¬ 
 pho, they may here see it in its genuine and 
 natural beauty, without any foreign or affected 
 ornaments. 
 
 A HYMN TO VENUS. 
 
 0 Venus, beauty of the skies, 
 
 To whom a thousand temples rise, 
 
 Gaily false in gentle smiles, 
 
 Full of love-perplexing wiles; 
 
 0 goddess! from my heart remove 
 The wasting cares and pains of love. 
 
 If ever thou hast kindly heard 
 A song in soft distress preferr’d, 
 
 Propitious to my tuneful vow, 
 
 0 gentle goddess! hear me now. 
 
 Descend, thou bright, immortal guest, 
 
 In all thy radiant charms confess’d. 
 
 Thou once didst leave almighty Jove, 
 
 And all the golden roofs above: 
 
 The car thy wanton sparrows drew, 
 
 Hovering in air they lightly flew; 
 
 As to my bower they wing’d their way, 
 
 I saw their quivering pinions play. 
 
 The birds dismiss’d (while you remain) 
 
 Bore back their empty car again: 
 
 Then you with looks divinely mild, 
 
 In every heavenly feature smil’d, 
 
 And ask’d what new complaints I made, 
 
 And why I call’d you to my aid? 
 
 What frenzy in my bosom rag’d, 
 
 And by what cure to be assuag’d ? 
 
 What gentle youth I would allure, 
 
 Whom in my artful toils secure ? 
 
 Who does thy tender heart subdue, 
 
 Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who ? 
 
 Though now he shuns thy longing arms, 
 
 He soon shall court thy slighted charms; 
 Though now thy offerings he despise, 
 
 He soon to thee shall sacrifice; 
 
 Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn, 
 
 And be thy victim in his turn. 
 
 Celestial visitant, once more 
 Thy needful presence I implore! 
 
 In pity come, and ease my grief, 
 
 Bring my distemper’d soul relief, 
 
 Favor thy suppliant’s hidden fires, 
 
 And give me all my heart desires. 
 
 Madam Dacier observes, there is something very 
 pretty in that circumstance of this ode, wherein 
 Venus is described as sending away her chariot 
 upon her arrival at Sappho’s lodgings, to denote 
 that it was not a short transient visit which she 
 intended to make her. This ode was preserved 
 by an eminent Greek critic, who inserted it entire 
 in his works, as a pattern of perfection in the 
 structure of it. 
 
 Longinus has quoted another ode of this great 
 poetess, which is likewise admirable in its kind, 
 and has b£en translated by the same hand with 
 the foregoing one. I shall oblige my reader with 
 it in another paper. In the meanwhile, I cannot 
 but wonder, that these two finished pieces have 
 never been attempted before by any of our own 
 
283 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 countrymen. But the truth of it is, the composi¬ 
 tions of the ancients, which have not in them 
 any of those unnatural witticisms that are the 
 delight of ordinary readers, are extremely difficult 
 to render into another tohgue, so as the beau¬ 
 ties of the original may not appear weak and 
 faded in the translation.--C. 
 
 Ho. 224.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1711. 
 
 —-Fulgente trahit constrictos gloria curru 
 
 Non minus ignotos generosls'- Hor. 1 Sat. vi, 23. 
 
 Chain’d to her shining car, Fame draws along 
 
 W ith equal whirl the great and vulgar throng. 
 
 If we look abroad upon the great multitude of 
 mankind, and endeavor to trace out the principles 
 of action in every individual, it will, I think, seem 
 highly probable, that ambition runs through the 
 whole species, and that every man, in proportion 
 to the vigor of his complexion, is more or less ac¬ 
 tuated by it. It is, indeed, no uncommon thing 
 to meet with men, who by the natural bent of 
 their inclinations, and without the discipline of 
 philosophy, aspire not to the heights of power 
 and grandeur; who never set their hearts upon a 
 numerous train of clients and dependencies, nor 
 other gay appendages of greatness; who are con¬ 
 tented with a competency, and will not molest 
 their tranquillity to gain an abundance. But it is 
 not therefore to be concluded that such a man is 
 not ambitious; his desires may have cut out an¬ 
 other channel, and determined him to other pur¬ 
 suits; the motive however, may be still the same; 
 and in these cases likewise the man may be 
 equally pushed on with the desire of distinction. 
 
 Though the pure consciousness of worthy ac¬ 
 tions, abstracted from the views of popular ap¬ 
 plause, be to a generous mind an ample reward, 
 yet the desire of distinction was doubtless im¬ 
 planted in our natures as an additional incentive 
 to exert ourselves in virtuous excellence. 
 
 This passion, indeed, like all others, is fre¬ 
 quently perverted to evil and ignoble purposes: 
 so that we may account for many of the excel¬ 
 lencies and follies of life upon the same innate 
 principle, to-wit, the desire of being remarkable: 
 for this, as it has been differently cultivated by 
 education, study, and converse, will bring forth 
 suitable effects as it falls in with an ingenuous 
 disposition, or a corrupt mind. It does accord- 
 ingly express itself in acts of magnanimity or 
 selfish cunning, as it meets with a good or a weak 
 understanding. As it has been employed in em¬ 
 bellishing the mind, or adorning the outside, it 
 renders the man eminently praiseworthy or ridi¬ 
 culous. Ambition therefore is not to be confined 
 only to one passion or pursuit; for as the same 
 humors in constitutions, otherwise different, affect 
 the body after different manners, so the same as¬ 
 piring principle within us sometimes breaks forth 
 upon one object, sometimes upon another. 
 
 Ii, cannot be doubted, but that there is as great 
 a desire of glory in a ring of wrestlers or cudgel- 
 players, as in any other more refined competition 
 for superiority. No man that could avoid it, 
 wouul ever suffer his head to be broken but out of 
 a principle of honor, Jhis is the secret spring 
 that p.i>hes them forward; and the superiority 
 which they gain above the undistinguished many, 
 does more than repair those wounds they have 
 received in the combat. It is Mr. Waller’s opin¬ 
 ion, that Julius Caesar, had he not been master 
 of the Roman empire, would, in all probability, 
 have made an excellent wrestler: 
 
 Great Julius, on the mountains bred, 
 
 A flock perhaps or herd had led; 
 lie that the world subdu’d, had been 
 But the best wrestler on the green. 
 
 That lie subdued the world, was owing to the ac¬ 
 cidents of art and knowledge; had he not met 
 with those advantages, the same sparks of emula¬ 
 tion would have kindled within him, and prompt¬ 
 ed him to distinguish himself in some enterprise 
 of a lower nature. Since therefore no man’s lot is 
 so unalterably fixed in this life, but that a thou¬ 
 sand accidents may either forward or disappoint 
 his advancement, it is, methinks, a pleasant and 
 inoffensive speculation, to consider a great man as 
 divested of all the adventitious circumstances of 
 fortune, and to bring him down in one’s imagina¬ 
 tion to that low station of life, the nature of which 
 bears some distant resemblance to that high one 
 lie is at present possessed of. Thus one may view 
 him exercising in miniature those talents of nature, 
 which being drawn out by education to their full 
 length, enable him for the discharge of some im¬ 
 portant employment. On the other hand, one may 
 raise uneducated merit to such a pitch of greatness, 
 as may seem equal to the possible extent of his 
 improved capacity. 
 
 Thus nature furnishes man with a general ap¬ 
 petite of glory, education determines it to this or 
 that particular object. The desire of distinction 
 is not, I think, in any instance more observable 
 than in the variety of outsides and new appear¬ 
 ances, which the modish part of the world are 
 obliged to provide, in order to make themselves 
 remarkable; for anything glaring and particular, 
 either in behavior or apparel, is known to have 
 this good effect, that it catches the eye, and will 
 not suffer you to pass over the person ‘so adorned 
 without due notice and observation. It has like¬ 
 wise, upon this account, been frequently resented 
 as a very great slight, to leave any gentleman out 
 of a lampoon or satire, who has as much right to 
 be there as his neighbor, because it supposes the 
 person not eminent enough to be taken notice of. 
 To this passionate fondness for distinction are 
 owing various frolicsome and irregular practices, 
 as sallying out into nocturnal exploits, breaking 
 of windows, singing of catches, beating the watch, 
 getting drunk twice a day, killing a great number 
 of horses; with many other enterprises of the like 
 fiery nature; for certainly many a man is more 
 rakish and extravagant than he would willingly be, 
 were there not others to look on and give their 
 approbation. 
 
 One very common, and at the same time the 
 most absurd ambition that ever showed itself in 
 human nature, is that which comes upon a man 
 with experience and old age, the season when it 
 might be expected he should be wisest; and there¬ 
 fore it cannot receive any of those lessening cir¬ 
 cumstances which do, in some measure, excuse 
 the disorderly ferments of youthful blood; I mean 
 the passion for getting money, exclusive of the 
 character of the provident father, the affectionate 
 husband, or the generous friend. It may be re¬ 
 marked, for the comfort of honest poverty, that 
 this desire reigns most in those who have but few 
 good qualities to recommend them. This is a 
 weed that will grow in a barren soil. Humanity, 
 good-nature, and the advantages of a liberal edu¬ 
 cation, are incompatible with avarice. It is 
 strange to see how suddenly this abject passion 
 kills all the noble sentiments and generous ami 
 bitions that adorn human nature; it renders the 
 man who is overrun with it a peevish and cruel 
 master, a severe parent, and unsociable husband, 
 a distant and mistrustful friend. But it is more 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 284 
 
 to the present purpose to consider it as an absurd 
 passion of the heart, rather than as a vicious af¬ 
 fection of the mind. As there are frequent in¬ 
 stances to be met with of a proud humility, so 
 this passion, contrary to most others, affects ap¬ 
 plause, by avoiding all show and appearance: for 
 this reason it will not sometimes endure even the 
 common decencies of apparel. “A covetous man 
 will call himself poor, that you may soothe his 
 vanity by contradicting him.” Love and the de¬ 
 sire of glory, as they are the most natural, so they 
 are capable of being refined into the most delicate 
 and rational passions. It is true, the wise man 
 who strikes out of the secret paths of a private 
 life, for honor and dignity, allured by the splen¬ 
 dor of a court, and the unfelt weight of public 
 employment, whether he succeeds in his attempts 
 or no, usually comes near enough to this painted 
 greatness to discern the daubing ; he is then de¬ 
 sirous of extricating himself out of the hurry of 
 life, that h# may pass away the remainder of his 
 days in tranquillity and retirement. 
 
 It may be thought then but common prudence 
 in a man not to change a better state for a worse, 
 nor ever to quit that which he knows he shall take 
 up again with pleasure; and yet if human life be 
 not a little moved with the gentle gales of hopes 
 and fears, there may be some danger of its stag¬ 
 nating in an unmanly indolence and security. It 
 is a known story of Domitian, that after he had 
 possessed himself of the Roman empire, his de¬ 
 sires turned upon catching flies. Active and 
 masculine spirits in the vigor of youth neither 
 can nor ought to remain at rest. If they debar 
 themselves from aiming at a noble object, their de¬ 
 sires will move downward, and they will feel 
 themselves actuated by some low and abject pas¬ 
 sion. Thus, if you cut off the top branches of a 
 tree, and will not suffer it to grow any higher, it 
 will not therefore cease to grow, but will quickly 
 shoot out at the bottom. The man indeed who 
 goes into the world only with the narrow views 
 of self-interest, who catches at the applause of an 
 idle multitude, as he can find no solid contentment 
 at the end of his journey, so he deserves to meet 
 with disappointments in his way; but he who is 
 actuated by a noble principle; whose mind is so 
 far enlarged as to take in the prospect of his coun¬ 
 try’s good; who is enamored with that praise 
 which is one of the fair attendants of virtue, and 
 values not those acclamations which are not 
 seconded by the impartial testimony of his own 
 mind; who repines not at the low station which 
 Providence has at present allotted him, but yet 
 would willingly advance himself by justifiable 
 means to a more rising and advantageous ground; 
 such a man is warmed with a generous emulation; 
 it is a virtuous movement in him to wish and to 
 endeavor that his power of doing good may be 
 equal to his will. 
 
 The man who is fitted out by nature, and sent 
 into the world with great abilities, is capable of 
 doing great good or mischief in it. It ought 
 therefore to be the care of education to infuse into 
 the untainted youth early notions of justice and 
 honor, that so the possible advantages of good 
 parts may not take an evil turn, nor be perverted 
 to base and unworthy purposes. It is the business 
 of religion and philosophy not so much to ex¬ 
 tinguish our passions, as to regulate and direct 
 them to valuable well-chosen objects. When these 
 have pointed out to us which course we may law¬ 
 fully steer, it is no harm to set out all our sail; if 
 the storms and tempests of adversity should rise 
 upon us, and not suffer us to make the haven 
 where we would be, it will however prove no small 
 consolation to us in these circumstances, that we 
 
 have neither mistaken our course, nor fallen into 
 calamities of our own procuring. 
 
 Religion therefore (were we to consider it no 
 further than as it interposes in the affairs of thia 
 life) is highly valuable, and worthy of great vene¬ 
 ration; as it settles the various pretensions, and 
 otherwise interfering interests of mortal men, and 
 thereby consults the harmony and order of the 
 great community; as it gives a man room to play 
 liis part and exert his abilities ; as it animates to 
 actions truly laudable in themselves, in their ef¬ 
 fects beneficial to society; as it inspires rational 
 ambition, correct love and elegant desire.—Z. 
 
 No. 225.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1711. 
 
 Nullum nuruen abest si sit prudentia.- 
 
 Juv., Sat. x, 365. 
 
 Prudence supplies the want of every good. 
 
 I have often thought if the minds of men were 
 laid open, we should see but little difference be¬ 
 tween that of the wise man, and that of the fool. 
 There are infinite reveries, numberless extrava¬ 
 gances, and a perpetual train of vanities which 
 pass through both. The great difference is, that 
 the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts 
 for conversation, by suppressing some, and com¬ 
 municating others; whereas the other lets them all 
 indifferently fly out in words. This sort of dis¬ 
 cretion, however, has no place in private conver¬ 
 sation between intimate friends. On such occa¬ 
 sions the wisest men very often talk like the 
 weakest; for indeed the talking with a friend is 
 nothing else but thinking aloud. 
 
 Tully has therefore very justly exposed a pre¬ 
 cept delivered by some ancient writers, that a man 
 should live with his enemy in such a manner, as 
 might leave him room to become his friend; and 
 with his friend in such a manner, that if he be¬ 
 came his enemy, it should not be in his power to 
 hurt him. The first part of this rule, which re¬ 
 gards our behavior toward an enemy, is indeed 
 very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but 
 the latter part of it, which regards our behavior 
 toward a friend, savors more of cunning than of 
 discretion, and would cut a man off from the 
 greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms 
 of conversation with a bosom friend. Beside that, 
 when a friend is turned into an enemy, and, as the 
 son of Siracli calls him,* “a bewrayer of secrets,” 
 the world is just enough to accuse the perfidious¬ 
 ness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of 
 the person who confided in him. 
 
 Discretion does not only show itself in words, 
 but in all the circumstances of action, and is like 
 an under-agent of Providence, to guide and direct 
 us in the ordinary concerns of life. 
 
 There are many more shining qualities in the 
 mind of man, but there is none so useful as dis¬ 
 cretion; it is this indeed which gives a value to all 
 the rest, which sets them at work in their proper 
 times and places, and turns them to the advantage 
 of the person who is possessed of them. Without 
 it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence 
 virtue itself looks like weakness: the best parts 
 only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, 
 and active to his own prejudice. 
 
 Nor does discretion only make a man the master 
 of his own parts, but of other men’s. The dis¬ 
 creet man finds out the talents of those he con¬ 
 verses with, and knows how to apply them to 
 proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into par¬ 
 ticular communities and divisions of men, we may 
 
 * Eccles., vi, 9, xxvii, 17. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 observe that it is the discreet man, not the witty, 
 nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the 
 conversation, and gives measures to the society. 
 A man with great talents, but void of discretion, 
 is like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind, 
 endued with an irresistible force, which for want 
 of sight is of no use to him. 
 
 Though a man has all other perfections, and 
 wants discretion, he will be of no great conse¬ 
 quence in the world ; but if he has this single 
 talent in perfection, and but a common share of 
 others, he may do what he pleases in his particular 
 station of life. 
 
 At the same time that I think discretion the 
 most useful talent a man can be master of, I look 
 upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, 
 mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points out 
 the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most 
 proper and laudable methods of attaining them. 
 Cunning has only private selfish aims, and sticks 
 at nothing which may make them succeed. Dis¬ 
 cretion has large and extended view's, and like a 
 well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon. 
 Cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that dis¬ 
 covers the minutest objects which are near at hand, 
 but is not able to discern things at a distance. 
 Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a 
 greater authority to the person who possesses it. 
 Cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, 
 and makes a man incapable of bringing about 
 even those events which he might have done, had 
 he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the 
 perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the 
 duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct, that 
 only looks out after our immediate interests and 
 welfare. Discretion is only found in men of strong- 
 sense and good understandings : cunning is often 
 to be met with in brutes themselves, and in per¬ 
 sons who are but the fewest removes from them. 
 In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion, 
 and may pass upon weak men, in the same man¬ 
 ner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and 
 gravity for wisdom. 
 
 The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet 
 man, makes him look forward into futurity, and 
 consider what will be his condition millions of 
 ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He 
 knows that the misery or happiness whicli are re¬ 
 served for him in another world, lose nothing 
 of their reality by being at so great distance from 
 him. The objects do not appear little to him be¬ 
 cause they are remote. He considers that those 
 pleasures and pains.which lie hid in eternity, ap¬ 
 proach nearer to him every moment, and will be 
 present with him in their full weight and measure, 
 as much as those pains and pleasures which he 
 feels at 'this very instant. For this reason he is 
 careful to secure to himself that which is the 
 proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate 
 design of his being. He carries his thoughts to 
 the end of every action, and considers the most 
 distant as well as the most immediate effects of it. 
 He supersedes every little prospect of gain and 
 advantage which offers itself here, if he does not 
 find it consistent with his views of a hereafter. 
 In a word, his hopes are full of immortality, his 
 schemes are large and glorious, and his conduct 
 suitable to one who knows his true interest, and 
 how to pursue it by proper methods. 
 
 I have, in this essay upon discretion, considered 
 it both as an accomplishment and as a virtue, and 
 have therefore described it in its full extent; not 
 only as it is conversant about worldly affairs, but 
 as it regards our whole existence ; not only as it 
 is the guide of a mortal creature, but as it is in 
 general the director of a reasonable being. It is 
 in this light, that discretion is represented by the 
 
 285 
 
 wise man, who sometimes mentions it under the 
 name of discretion, and sometimes under that of 
 wisdom. It is indeed (as described in the latter 
 part of tliis paper), the greatest wisdom, but at 
 the same time in the power of every one to attain. 
 Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition 
 easy; or to speak of her in the words of the apo¬ 
 cryphal writer whom I quoted in my last Satur¬ 
 day’s paper,* “ Wisdom is glorious, and never 
 fadeth away, yet she is easily seen of them that 
 love her, and found of such as seek her. She 
 preventeth them that desire her, in making her¬ 
 self first known unto them. He that seeketh her 
 early, shall have no great travel; for he shall find 
 her sitting at his doors. To think therefore upon 
 her is the perfection of wisdom, and whoso watch- 
 eth for her shall quickly be without care. For 
 she goeth about seeking such as are worthy of her, 
 showeth herself favorably unto them in the ways, 
 and meeteth them in every thought.”—C. 
 
 Ho. 226.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1711. 
 
 -Mutum est pictura poema. 
 
 A picture is a poem without words. 
 
 fl have very often lamented, and hinted my 
 sorrow in several speculations, that the art of 
 painting is made so little use of to the improve¬ 
 ment of our manners. When we consider that it 
 places the action of the person represented in the 
 most agreeable aspect imaginable, that it does not 
 only express the passion or concern as it sits upon 
 him who is drawn, but has, under those features, 
 the height of the painter’s imagination, what 
 strong images of virtue and humanity might we 
 not expect would be instilled into the mind from 
 the labors of the pencil ? This is a poetry which 
 would be understood with much less capacity, and 
 less expense of time, than what is taught by wri¬ 
 ting ; but the use of it is generally perverted, and 
 that admirable skill prostituted to the basest and 
 most unworthy ends. Who is the better man for 
 beholding the most beautiful Venus, the best 
 wrought Bacchanal, the images of sleeping Cu¬ 
 pids, languishing Nymphs, or anjr 0 f the repre¬ 
 sentations of gods, goddesses, demi-gods, satyrs, 
 Polyphemes, sphynxes, or fauns ? But if the vir¬ 
 tues and vices, which are sometimes pretended to 
 be represented under such draughts, were given us 
 by the painter in the characters of real life, and 
 the persons of men and women whose actions 
 have rendered them laudable or infamous ; we 
 should not see a good history piece without re¬ 
 ceiving an instructive lecture. There needs no 
 other proof of this truth, than the testimony of 
 every reasonable creature who has seen the car¬ 
 toons in her majesty’s gallery at Hampton-court. 
 These are representations of no less actions than 
 those of our blessed Savior and his apostles. As 
 I now sit and recollect the warm images which the 
 admirable Raphael had raised, it is impossible, 
 even from the faint traces in one’s memory of 
 what one has not seen these two years, to be un¬ 
 moved at the horror and reverence which appear 
 in the whole assembly when the mercenary man 
 fell down dead; at the amazement of the man 
 born blind, when he first received sight; or at the 
 graceless indignation of the sorcerer, when he is 
 
 * Wisdom of Solomon, chap, vi, ver. 12—16. 
 f The speculation was written with the generous design of 
 promoting a subscription just then set on foot for having the 
 cartoons of Raphael copied and engraved by Signior Nicola 
 Dorigny, who had been invited over from Rome by several of 
 the nobility, and to whom the Queen had given her license 
 for that purpose. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 286 
 
 struck blind. The lame, when they first find 
 strength in their feet, stand doubtful of their new 
 vigor. The heavenly apostles appear acting these 
 great things with a deep sense of the infirmities 
 which they relieve, but no value of themselves 
 who administer to their weakness. They know 
 themselves to be but instruments ; and the gener¬ 
 ous distress they are painted in when divine hon¬ 
 ors are offered to them, is a representation in the 
 most exquisite degree of the beauty of holiness. 
 When St. Paul is preaching to the Athenians, 
 with what wonderful art are almost all the differ¬ 
 ent tempers of mankind represented in that ele¬ 
 gant audience ? You see one credulous of all that 
 is said ; another wrapped up in deep suspense ; 
 another saying, there is some reason in what he 
 says ; another angry that the apostle destroys a 
 favorite opinion which he is unwilling to give up; 
 another wholly convinced, and holding out his 
 hands in rapture ; while the generality attend, 
 and wait for the opinion of those who are of 
 leading characters in the assembly. I will not 
 pretend so much as to mention that chart on which 
 is drawn the appearance of our blessed Lord after 
 his resurrection. Present authority, late suffer¬ 
 ings, humility, and majestic, despotic command, 
 and divine love, are at once seated in his celestial 
 aspect. The figures of the eleven apostles are all 
 in the same passion of admiration, but discover it 
 differently according to their characters. Peter re¬ 
 ceives his master’s orders on his kne'es with an 
 admiration mixed with a more particular atten¬ 
 tion : the two next with a more open ecstasy, 
 though still constrained by an awe of the Divine 
 presence. The beloved disciple, whom I take to 
 be the right of the two first figures, has in his 
 countenance wonder drowned in love : and the 
 last personage, whose back is toward the specta¬ 
 tor, and his side toward the presence, one would 
 fancy to be St. Thomas, as abashed by the con¬ 
 science of his former diffidence, which perplexed 
 concern it is possible Raphael thought too hard a 
 task to draw, but by this acknowledgment of the 
 difficulty to describe it. 
 
 The whole work is an exercise of the highest 
 piety in the painter ; and all the touches of a re¬ 
 ligious mind are expressed in a manner much 
 more forcible than can possibly be performed by 
 the most moving eloquence. These invaluable 
 pieces are very justly in the hands of the greatest 
 and most pious sovereign in the world ; and can¬ 
 not be the frequent object of every one at their own 
 leisure : but as an engraver is to the painter what 
 a printer is to the author, it is worthy her majes¬ 
 ty’s name that she has encouraged that noble 
 artist, Monsieur Dorigny, to publish these works 
 of Raphael. We have of this gentleman a piece 
 of the Transfiguration, which, I think, is held a 
 work second to none in the world. 
 
 Methinks it would be ridiculous in our people 
 of condition, after their large bounties to foreign¬ 
 ers of no name or merit, should they overlook this 
 occasion of haying, for a trifling subscription, a 
 work which it is impossible for a man of sense to 
 behold, without being warmed with the noblest 
 sentiments that can be inspired by love, admira¬ 
 tion, compassion, contempt of this world, and ex¬ 
 pectation of a better. 
 
 It is certainly the greatest honor we can do our 
 country, to distinguish strangers of merit who ap¬ 
 ply to us with modesty and diffidence, which 
 generally accompanies merit. No opportunity of 
 this kind ought to be neglected, and a modest be¬ 
 havior should alarm us to examine whether we do 
 not lose something excellent under that disadvan¬ 
 tage in the possessor of that quality. My skill 
 in paintings, where one is not directed by the pas¬ 
 
 sion of the picture, is so inconsiderable, that I am 
 in very great perplexity when I offer to speak of 
 any performances of painters of landscapes, build¬ 
 ings, or single figures. This makes me at a loss 
 how to mention the pieces which Mr. Boul ex¬ 
 poses to sale by auction on Wednesday next in 
 Chandos-street: but having heard him commend¬ 
 ed by those who have bought of him heretofore, 
 for great integrity in his dealing, and overheard 
 him himself (though a laudable painter) say, 
 nothing of his own was fit to come into the room 
 with those he had to sell, I feared I should lose an 
 occasion of serving a man of worth, in omitting 
 to speak of his auction.—T. 
 
 No. 227.J TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1711. 
 
 Wretch that I am! ah, whither shall I go? 
 
 Will you not hear me, nor regard my woe ? 
 
 I’ll strip, and throw me from yon rock so high, 
 
 Where Olpis sits to watch the scaly fry. 
 
 Should I he drown’d, or ’scape with life away, 
 
 If cur’d of love, you, tyrant, would be gay. —Tkeoob. 
 
 In my last Thursday’s paper, I made mention 
 of a place called The Lover’s Leap, which I find 
 has raised a great curiosity among several of my 
 correspondents. I there told them that this leap 
 was used to be taken from a promontory of Leu- 
 cas. This Leucas was formerly a part of Acar- 
 nania, being joined to it by a narrow neck of land, 
 which the sea has by length of time overflowed 
 and washed away ; so that at present Leucas is 
 divided from the continent, and is a little island 
 in the Ionian sea. The promontory of this island, 
 from whence the lover took his leap, was formerly 
 called Leucate. If the reader has a mind to know 
 both the island and the promontory by their mod¬ 
 ern titles, he will find in his map the ancient 
 island of Leucas under the name of St. Mauro, 
 and the ancient promontory of Leucate under the 
 name of the Cape of St. Mauro. 
 
 Since I am engaged thus far in antiquity, I 
 must observe that Theocritus, in the motto prefixed 
 to my paper, describes one of the despairing shep¬ 
 herds addressing himself to his mistress after the 
 following manner: “Alas! what will become of 
 me ! wretch that I am ! Will you not bear me ? 
 I’ll throw off my clothes, and take a leap into that 
 part of the sea which is so much frequented by 
 Olpis the fisherman. And though I should es¬ 
 cape with my life, I know you will be pleased with 
 it.” I shall leave it with the critics to determine 
 whether the place, which this shepherd so partic¬ 
 ularly points out, was not the above-mentioned 
 Leucate, or at least some other lover’s leap, which 
 was supposed to have had the same effect. I can¬ 
 not believe, as all the interpreters do, that the 
 shepherd means nothing further here than that he 
 would drown himself, since he represents the issue 
 of his leap as doubtful, by adding, that if he 
 should escape with life he knows his mistress 
 would be pleased with it: which is, according 
 to our interpretation, that she would rejoice any 
 wav to get rid of a lover who was so troublesome 
 to her. 
 
 After this short preface, I shall present my 
 reader with some letters which I have received, 
 upon this subject. The first is sent me by a phy¬ 
 sician. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The lover’s leap, which you mention in your 
 223d paper, was generally, I believe, a very effec¬ 
 tual cure for love, and not only for love, but for all 
 other evils. In short, Sir, I am afraid it was such 
 a leap as that which Hero took to get rid of h© 
 
THE SPE 
 
 assion for Leander. A man is in no danger of 
 reakiug his heart, who breaks his neck to pre¬ 
 vent it. I know very well the wonders which 
 ancient authors relate concerning this leap ; and 
 in particular, that very many persons who tried it, 
 escaped not only with their lives but their limbs. 
 If by this means they got rid of their love, though 
 it may in part be ascribed to the reasons you give 
 for it; why may not we suppose that the cold bath, 
 into which they plunged themselves, had also 
 some share in their cure ? A leap into the sea, or 
 into any creek of salt waters, very often gives a 
 new motion to the spirits, and a new turn to the 
 blood ; for which reason we prescribe it in dis¬ 
 tempers which no other medicine will reach. I 
 could produce a quotation out of a very venerable 
 author, in which the frenzy produced by love is 
 compared to that which is produced by the biting 
 of a mad dog. But as this comparison is a little 
 too coarse for your paper, and might look as if it 
 were cited to ridicule the author who has made 
 use of it, I shall only hint at it, and desire you to 
 consider whether, if the frenzy produced by these 
 two different causes be of the same nature, it may 
 not very properly be cured by the same means. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble servant, and Well-wisher, 
 
 “AESCULAPIUS.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a young woman crossed in love. My 
 story is very long and melancholy. To give you 
 the heads of it: A young gentleman, after having- 
 made his applications to me for three years to¬ 
 gether, and filled my head with a thousand dreams 
 ot happiness, some few days since married another. 
 Pray tell me in what part of the world your pro¬ 
 montory lies, which you call The Lover’s Leap, 
 and whether one may go to it by land ? But, 
 alas ! I am afraid it has lost its virtue, and that a 
 woman of our times would find no more relief in 
 taking such a leap, than in singing a hymn to 
 Venus. So that I must cry out with Dido in 
 Dryden’s Virgil: 
 
 Ah! cruel heav’n, that made no cure for love! 
 
 “ Your disconsolate Servant, 
 
 “ Athenais.” 
 
 “ Mister Spictatur, 
 
 “My heart is so full of lofes and passions for 
 Mrs. Gwinifrid, and she is so pettish and overrun 
 with cholors against me, that if I had the good 
 happiness to have my dwelling (which is placed 
 by my creat cranfather upon the pottom of a hill) 
 no farther distance but twenty mile from the Lofer’s 
 Leap, I would indeed indeafor to preak my neck 
 upon it on purpose. Now, good Mister Spictatur 
 of Creat Pritain, you must know it there is in Caer¬ 
 narvonshire a fery pig mountain, the clory of all 
 Wales, which is named Penmainmaure, and you 
 must also know, it is no great journey on foot 
 from me ; but the road is stony and bad for shoes. 
 Now, there is upon the forehead of this mountain 
 a very high rock (like a parish steeple), that com- 
 eth a huge deal over the sea ; so when I am in my 
 melancholies, and I do throw mvself from it, I do 
 desire my fery good friend to tell me in his Spic¬ 
 tatur, if I shall be cure of my griefous lofes; for 
 theie is the sea clear as glass, and as creen as a 
 leek. Then likewise if I be drown and preak my 
 neck, if Mrs. Gwinifrid will not lofe me afterward. 
 Pray be speedy in your answers, for I am in Crete 
 haste, and it is my tesires to do my pusiness with¬ 
 out loss of time. I remain with cordial affec¬ 
 tions, your ever lofing friend, 
 
 “ Davyth ap Shenkyn.” 
 
 CTATOR. 287 
 
 “T. S. My law-suits have brought me to Lon¬ 
 don, but I have lost my causes; and so have made 
 my resolutions to go down and leap before the 
 frosts begin; for I am apt to take colds.” 
 
 Ridicule, perhaps, is a better expedient against 
 love than sober advice, and I am of opinion that 
 Hudibras and Don Quixote may be as effectual to 
 cure the extravagances of this passion, as any of 
 the old philosophers. I shall therefore publish 
 very speedily the translation of a little Greek ma¬ 
 nuscript, which is sent me by a learned friend. It 
 appears to have been a piece of those records 
 which were kept in the little temple of Apollo, 
 that stood upon the promontory of Leucate. The 
 reader will find it to be a summary account of se¬ 
 veral persons who tried the lover’s leap, and of 
 the success they found in it. As there seem to be 
 in it some anachronisms, and deviations from the 
 ancient orthography, I am not wholly satisfied 
 myself that it is authentic, and not rather the pro¬ 
 duction of one ot those Grecian sophisters, who 
 have imposed upon the world several spurious 
 works of this nature. I speak this by way of 
 precaution, because I know there are several wri¬ 
 ters ot uncommon erudition, who would not fail 
 to expose my ignorance, if they caught me trip¬ 
 ping in a matter of so great moment.—C. 
 
 No. 228.] WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1711. 
 
 Percunctatorem fugito, nam garrulus idem est. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xviii, 69. 
 
 Tli’ inquisitive will blab; from such refrain: 
 
 Their leaky ears no secret can retain.—S hard. 
 
 There is a creature who has all the organs of 
 speech, a tolerably good capacity for conceiving 
 what is said to it, together with a pretty proper 
 behavior in all the occurrences of common life; 
 but naturally very vacant of thought in itself, and 
 therefore forced to apply itself to foreign assist¬ 
 ances. Of this make is that man who is very in¬ 
 quisitive. Y ou may often observe, that though 
 he speaks as good sense as any man upon anything 
 with which he is well acquainted, he cannot trust 
 to the range of his own fancy to entertain him¬ 
 self upon that foundation, but goes on still to new 
 inquiries. Thus, though you know he is fit for 
 the most polite conversation, you shall see him 
 very well contented to sit by a jockey, giving an 
 account of the many revolutions in his horse’s 
 health, what potion he made him take, how that 
 agreed with him, how afterward he came to his 
 stomach and his exercise, or any the like imperti¬ 
 nence; and be as well pleased as if you talked to 
 him on the most important truths. This humor 
 is far from making a man unhappy, though it may 
 subject him to raillery; for he generally falls in 
 with a person who seems to be born for him, which 
 is your talkative fellow. It is so ordered, that 
 there is a secret bent, as natural as the meeting of 
 different sexes, in these two characters, to supply 
 each other’s wants. I had the honor the other 
 day to sit in a public room, and saw an inquisi¬ 
 tive man look with an air of satisfaction upon the 
 approach of one of these talkers. The man of 
 ready utterance sat down by him, and rubbing his 
 head, leaning on his arm, and making an uneasy 
 countenance he began: “ There is no manner of 
 news to-day. I cannot tell what is the matter 
 with me, but I slept very ill last night; whether 
 I caught cold or no, I know not, but 1 fancy I do 
 not wear shoes thick enough for the weather, and 
 I have coughed all this week. It must be so, for 
 the custom of washing my head winter and sum- 
 
288 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 mer with cold water, prevents any injury from the 
 season entering that way; so it must come in at 
 my feet; but 1 take no notice of it: as it comes so 
 it goes. Most of our evils proceed from too much 
 tenderness; and our faces are naturally as little 
 able to resist the cold as other parts. The Indian 
 answered very well to a European, who asked 
 him how he could go naked: ‘I am all face.’” 
 
 I observed this discourse was as welcome to my 
 general inquirer as any other of more consequence 
 could have been; but somebody calling our talker 
 to another part of the room, the inquirer told the 
 next man who sat by him, that Mr. Such-a-one, 
 who was just gone from him, used to wash his 
 head in cold water every morning; and so repeat¬ 
 ed almost verbatim all that had been said to him. 
 
 The truth is, the inquisitive are the funnels of 
 conversation; they do not take in anything for 
 their own use, but merely to pass it to another. 
 
 They are the channels through which all the good 
 and evil that is spoken in town are conveyed. 
 
 Such as are offended at them, or think they suf¬ 
 fer by their behavior, may themselves mend that 
 inconvenience, for they are not a malicious people, 
 and if you will supply them, you may contradict 
 anything they have said before by their own 
 mouths. A further account of a thing is one of 
 the gratefulest goods that can arrive to them; and 
 it is seldom that they are more particular than to 
 say, “ The town will have it, or I have it from a 
 good hand; ” so that there is room for the town to 
 know the matter more particularly, and for a bet¬ 
 ter hand to contradict what was said by a good 
 one. 
 
 I have not known this humor more ridiculous 
 
 than in a father, who has been earnestly solicitous , _ 
 
 to have an account how his son has passed his lei-'* coim try; and I have at length, by the assistance 
 
 were to know, from the man of the first quality to 
 the meanest servant, the different intrigues, senti¬ 
 ments, pleasures, and interests of mankind, would 
 it not be the most pleasing entertainment imagina¬ 
 ble to enjoy so constant a farce, as the observing 
 mankind much more different from themselves in 
 their secret thoughts and public actions, than in 
 their nightcaps and long periwigs ? 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Plutarch tells us, that Caius Gracchus, the 
 Roman, was frequently hurried by his passions 
 into so loud and tumultuous a way of speaking, 
 and so strained his voice, as not to be able to pro¬ 
 ceed. To remedy this excess, he had an ingeni¬ 
 ous servant, by name Licinius, always attending 
 him with a pitch-pipe, or instrument to regulate 
 the voice; who, whenever he heard his master 
 begin to be high, immediately touched a soft note, 
 at which, ’tis said, Caius would presently abate 
 and grow calm. 
 
 “ Upon recollecting this story, I have frequently 
 wondered that this useful instrument should have 
 been so long discontinued; especially since we 
 find that this good office of Licinius has preserved 
 his memory for many hundred years, which, me- 
 thinks, should have encouraged some one to re 
 vive it, if not for the public good, yet for his own 
 credit. It may be objected, that our loud talkers 
 are so fond of their own noise, that they would 
 not take it well to be checked by their servants. 
 But granting this to be true, surely any of their 
 hearers have a very good title to play a soft note 
 in their own defense. To be short, no Licinius 
 appearing, and the noise increasing, I was resolved 
 to give this late long vacation to the good of my 
 
 gen- 
 
 sure hours; if it be in a way thoroughly insignifi¬ 
 cant, there cannot be a greater joy than an inquirer 
 discovers in seeing him follow so hopefully his 
 own steps. But this humor among men is most 
 pleasant when they are saying something which 
 is not wholly proper for a third person to hear, 
 and yet is in itself indifferent. The other day 
 there came in a well-dressed young fellow, and 
 two gentlemen of this species immediately fell a 
 whispering his pedigree. I could overhear by 
 breaks, “She was his aunt;” then an answer, 
 “ Aye, she was, of the mother’s side; ” then again, 
 in a little lower voice, “ His father wore generally 
 a darker wig;” answer, “Rot much, but this 
 tleman wears higher heels to his shoes.” 
 
 As the inquisitive, in my opinion, are such 
 merely from a vacancy in their own imaginations, 
 there is nothing, methinks, so dangerous as to 
 communicate secrets to them; for the same temper 
 of inquiry makes them as impertinently commu¬ 
 nicative; but no man, though he converses with 
 them, need put himself in their power, for they 
 will be contented with matters of less moment as 
 well. When there is fuel enough, no matter what 
 it is.-Thus the ends of sentences in the news¬ 
 
 papers, as 
 occasions 
 
 discover the event,” are read by them, and consid¬ 
 ered not as mere expletives. 
 
 One may see now and then this humor accom¬ 
 panied with an insatiable desire of knowing what 
 passes without turning it to any use in the world 
 but merely their own entertainment. A mind 
 which is gratified this way is adapted to humor 
 and pleasantry, and formed for an unconcerned 
 character in the world; and, like myself, to be a 
 mere Spectator. This curiosity, without malice 
 or self-interest, lays up in the imagination a maga¬ 
 zine of circumstances which cannot but entertain 
 when they are produced in conversation. If one 
 
 “ This wants confirmation,”—“ This 
 many speculations,” and “ Time will 
 
 of an ingenious artist (who works for the Royal 
 Society), almost completed my design, and shall 
 be ready in a short time to furnish the public with 
 what number' of these instruments they please, 
 either to lodge at coffee-houses, or cariy for their 
 own private use. In the meantime I shall pay 
 that respect to several gentlemen, who I know will 
 be in danger of offending against this instrument, 
 to give them notice of it by private letters, in 
 which I shall only write, ‘ get a Licinius.’ 
 
 “ I should now trouble you no longer, but that 
 I must not conclude without desiring you to ac¬ 
 cept one of these pipes, which shall be left for you 
 with Buckley; and which I hope will be servicea¬ 
 ble to you, since as you are silent yourself, you 
 are most open to the insults of the noisy. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, etc., 
 
 “W. B.” 
 
 “ I had almost forgot to inform you, that as an 
 improvement in this instrument, there will be a 
 particular note, which I shall call a hush-note; 
 and that is to be made use of against a long story, 
 swearing, obsceneness, and the like.” T. 
 
 No. 229.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1711. 
 
 -Spirat adhuc amor, 
 
 Vivuntque commissi calores 
 
 -ZEolise fidibus paellas.—H or. 4 Od. ix, 4. 
 
 Nor Sappho’s amorous flames decay; 
 
 Her living songs preserve their charming art, 
 
 Her verse still breathes the passions of her heart. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 Among the many famous pieces of antiquity 
 which are still to be seen at Rome, there is the 
 trunk of a statue which has lost the arms, legs, 
 and head; but discovers such an exquisite work¬ 
 manship in what remains of it, that Michael An¬ 
 gelo declared he had learned his whole art from it. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Indeed he studied it so attentively, that he made 
 most of his statues, and even his pictures, in that 
 gusto, to make use of the Italian phrase; for 
 winch reason this maimed statue is still called 
 Michael Angelo’s school. 
 
 A fi agment of Sappho, which I design for the 
 subject ot this paper, is in as great reputation 
 among the poets and critics, as the mutilated figure 
 above-mentioned is among the statuaries and 
 painters/ Several of our countrymen, and Mr. 
 Dry den in particular, seem very often to have co¬ 
 pied after it in their dramatic writings, and in 
 their poems upon love. 
 
 Whatever might have been the occasion of this 
 English reader will enter into the beauties 
 ot it, it lie supposes it to have been written in 
 tlie person of a lover sitting by his mistress. I 
 shall set to view three different copies of this 
 beautiful original; the first is a translation by Ca- 
 • tuilus, the second by Monsieur Boikau, and the 
 last by a gentleman whose translation of the 
 Hymn to venus has been so deservedly admired.* 
 
 289 
 
 Blest as th’ immortal gods is he, 
 the youth who fondly sits by thee, 
 And hears and sees tliee all the while 
 fcoltly speak and sweetly smile. 
 
 Twas this depriv’d my soul of rest, 
 
 And raised such tumults in my breast; 
 lor while I gaz’d, in transport tost, 
 
 My breath was gone, my voice was lost: 
 
 My bosom glow’d; the subtile flame 
 Kan quick through all my vital frame: 
 O er my dim eyes a darkness hung- 
 My ears with hollow murmurs rung. 
 
 In dewy damps my limbs were chill’d- 
 My blood with gentle horrors thrill’d • 
 My feeble pulse forgot to play; 
 
 I fainted, sank, and died away. 
 
 AD LESBIAM. 
 
 Die mi par esse deo videtur, 
 
 Ille, si fas est, superare divos, 
 
 Qui scdens adversus identidem te 
 
 Spectat, et audit. 
 
 Dulce ndentem; misero quod omnis 
 Eripit sensus mihi: nam simul te 
 Lesbia, adspexi, nihil est super mi 
 
 Quod loquar aniens. 
 
 Lingua sed torpet: tenues sub artus 
 Flamma dimanat: sonitu suopte 
 Tinniunt aures: gemini tegunter 
 
 Lumina nocte. 
 
 My learned reader will know very well the 
 reason why one of these verses is printed in Italic 
 letters;! and if he compares this translation with 
 the original will find.that the three first stanzas 
 are rendered almost word for word, and not only 
 with the same elegance, but with the same short 
 turn of expression which is so remarkable in the 
 Creek, and so peculiar to the Sapphic ode I 
 cannot imagine for what reason Madam Dacier 
 has told us, that this ode of Sappho is preserved 
 entire in Longinus, since it is manifest to any one 
 who looks into that author’s quotation of it, that 
 there must at least have been another stanza 
 which is not transmitted to us. 
 
 t "i kfi secon< \ translation of this fragment which 
 I shall here cite, is that of Monsieur Boileau 
 
 Heureux! qui pres de toi, pour toi seule soupire • 
 Qui jouit du plaosir de t’eutendre parler: 
 
 Qrn te voit quelquefois doucement lui sourire: 
 
 Les dieux, dans son bonheur, peuvent-ils l’egaler? 
 
 Instead of giving any character of this last 
 translation I shall desire my learned reader to 
 ok into the criticisms which Longinus has made 
 upon the original. By that means he will know 
 o which of the translations he ought to give the 
 preference. I shall only add, that this trafislation 
 is written m the very spirit of Sappho, and as 
 
 possibly ? u fe. ^ g “ iUS ° f ° Ur ‘“S Ua S e WiU 
 Longinus has observed, that this description of 
 
 tW in ^PP! 10 1S an exact co Py of nature, and 
 that all the circumstances, which follow one an¬ 
 other in such a hurry of sentiments, notwithstand¬ 
 ing they appear repugnant to each other, are really 
 such as happen in the frenzies of love. 
 
 I wonder that not one of the critics or editors, 
 through whose hands this ode has passed, has 
 
 ipbffL 0 K a p? n / r T ft raention a circumstance 
 related by Plutarch. 1 hat author, in the famous 
 
 story of Antiochus, who fell in love with Strato- 
 mce, his mother-in-law, and (not daring to dis- 
 cover his passion) pretended to be confined to his 
 
 S1C r kQeS f’ tell f U8 > that Erasistratus, the 
 physician, found out the nature of his distemper 
 by those symptoms of love which he had learned 
 fiom Sappho s Avntings. Stratonice was in the 
 room of the love-sick prince, when these symp¬ 
 toms discovered themselves to his physician? and 
 it is piobable that they were not very ‘different 
 from those which Sappho here describes in a 
 lovei sitting by his mistress. The story of Antio¬ 
 chus, is so well known, that I need not add the 
 
 subject.—o' WhlCh JmS n0 relation to “y present 
 
 No. 230.j FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1711. 
 
 Je sens de veine en veine une subtile flamme 
 Counr par tout mon corps, si-tot que je te vois : 
 Et dans les doux transports, ou s’egare mon ame, 
 Je ne seaurois trouver de langue, ni de voix. 
 
 Un nuage confus se repand sur ma vue, 
 
 j! Pl ^ 8 -’ j - C t0mbe en de douces ^ngueurs; 
 
 Dn P fr hal - C1 - ne ’ interdite , esperdue, ’ 
 
 Un frisson me saisit, je tremble, je me meurs. 
 
 The reader will see that this is rather an imita- 
 
 ' » J tt™ 18 ? tlon - , The circumstances do not 
 le so thick together and follow one another with 
 
 ro a w 6 M™ 0 * and D emotion as in the origins 
 (n short. Monsieur Boileau has given us all the 
 ooetry, but not all the passion of this famous frao- 
 
 , 1 in the last place, present my reader 
 with the English translation. 3 
 
 hoSirdUo” ” pr ° plu “ accedunt ’“bitom 
 
 resemble the gods in nothing so much as in doirur 
 good to their fellow-creatures. 5 ® 
 
 * Ambrose Philips. 
 
 f it is wanting in the old copies, and has been t. 
 
 -onjecture as above. But in a curious edition ? by 
 
 lentil tl?*? iQ 1738 | « to * 
 
 oqucndim.” lj diScovered > ] me is given thus: « Voce 
 
 19 
 
 Human nature appears a very deformed, or a 
 very beautiful object, according to the different 
 hghts m which it is viewed. When we see men 
 ot inflamed passions, or of wicked designs, tearimr 
 one another to pieces by open violence, or unde£ 
 mining each other by secret treachery ; when we 
 observe base and narrow ends pursued by io- I10 - 
 minious and dishonest means; when we"behold 
 men mixed m society as if it were for the destruc- 
 tion of it; we are even ashamed of our species, 
 and out of humor with our own being. But in 
 another light, when we behold them mild, good 
 and benevolent, full of a generous regard for the 
 public prosperity, compassionating each other’s 
 distresses, and relieving each other’s wants, we 
 can hardly believe they are creatures of the same 
 Kind. In this view they appear gods to each 
 otber, in the exercise of the noblest power, that 
 o doing good; and the greatest compliment we 
 lave ever been able to make to our own being, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 290 
 
 has been by calling this disposition of mind hu¬ 
 manity. We cannot but observe a pleasure aris¬ 
 ing in our own breast upon the seeing or hearing 
 of a generous action, even when we are wholly 
 disinterested in it. I cannot give a more proper 
 instance of this, than by a letter from Pliny, in 
 which he recommends a friend in the most hand¬ 
 some manner, and methinks it would be a great 
 pleasure to know the success of this epistle, though 
 each party concerned in it has been so many hun¬ 
 dred years in his grave. 
 
 “To Maximus. 
 
 “ What I should gladly do for any friend of 
 yours, I think I may now with confidence request 
 for a friend of mine. Arrianus Maturius is the 
 most considerable man in his country: when I 
 call him so, I do not speak with relation to his 
 fortune, though that is very plentiful, but to his 
 integrity, justice, gravity, and prudence; his ad¬ 
 vice is useful to me in business, and his judgment 
 in matters of learning. His fidelity, truth, and 
 good understanding, are very great; beside this, he 
 loves me as you do, than which I cannot say any¬ 
 thing that signifies a warmer affection. He has 
 nothing that’s aspiring ; and, though he might 
 rise to the highest order of nobility, he keeps him¬ 
 self in an inferior rank: yet 1 think myself 
 bound to use my endeavors to serve and promote 
 him; and would therefore find the means of add- 
 ; ng something to his honors while he neither ex¬ 
 pects nor knows it, nay, though he should refuse 
 it. Something, in short, I would have for him 
 that may be honorable, but not troublesome; 
 and I entreat that you will procure him the first 
 thing of this kind that offers, by which you will 
 not only oblige me, but him also; for though he 
 does not covet it, I know he will be as grateful 
 in acknowledging your favor as if he had asked 
 it.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The reflections in some of your papers on the 
 servile manner of education now in use, have 
 given birth to an ambition, which, unless you dis¬ 
 countenance it, will, I doubt, engage me in a very 
 difficult, though not ungrateful adventure. I am 
 about to undertake, for the sake of the British 
 youth, to instruct them in such a manner, that the 
 most dangerous page in Virgil or Homer may be 
 read by them with much pleasure, and with per¬ 
 fect safety to their persons. 
 
 “ Could I prevail so far as to be honored with 
 the protection of some few of them (for I am not 
 hero enough to rescue many), my design is to re¬ 
 tire with them to an agreeable solitude, though 
 within the neighborhood of a city, for the conve¬ 
 nience of their being instructed in music, danc¬ 
 ing, drawing, designing, or any other such accom¬ 
 plishments, which it is conceived may make as 
 proper diversions for them, and almost as plea¬ 
 sant, as the little sordid games which dirty school¬ 
 boys are so much delighted with. It may easily 
 be imagined, how such a pretty society, convers¬ 
 ing with none beneath themselves, and sometimes 
 admitted, as perhaps not unentertaining parties, 
 among better company commended and caressed 
 for their little performances, and turned by such 
 conversations to a certain gallantry of soul, might 
 be brought early acquainted with some of the 
 most polite English writers. This having given 
 them some tolerable taste of books, they would 
 make themselves masters of the Latin tongue by 
 methods far easier than those in Lilly, with as 
 little difficulty or reluctance as young ladies learn 
 to speak French, or to sing Italian operas. When 
 they had advanced thus far it would be time to 
 
 form their taste something more exactly. One 
 that had any true relish for fine writing, might 
 with great pleasure both to himself and them, run 
 over together with them the best Roman histo¬ 
 rians, poets, and orators, and point out their more 
 remarkable beauties; give them a short scheme of 
 chronology, a little view of geography, medals, 
 astronomy, or what else might best feed the busy 
 inquisitive humor so natural to that age. Such 
 of them as had the least spark of genius, when it 
 was once awakened by the shining thoughts and 
 great sentiments of those admired writers, could 
 not, I believe, be easily withheld from attempting 
 that more difficult sister language, whose exalted 
 beauties they would have heard so often celebrated 
 as the pride and wonder of the whole learned 
 world. In the meanwhile, it would be requisite 
 to exercise their style in writing any little pieces 
 that ask more of fancy than of judgment: and 
 that frequently in their native language; which 
 every one metliinks should be most concerned to 
 cultivate, especially letters, in which a gentleman 
 must have so frequent occasions to distinguish 
 himself. A set of genteel good-natured youths 
 fallen into such a manner of life, would form al¬ 
 most a little academy, and doubtless prove no 
 such contemptible companions, as might not often 
 tempt a wiser man to mingle himself in their di¬ 
 versions, and draw them into such serious sports 
 as might prove nothing less instructing than the 
 gravest lessons. I doubt not but it might be made 
 some of their favorite plays, To contend which of 
 them should recite a beautiful part of a poem or 
 oration most gracefully, or sometimes to join in 
 acting a scene in Terence, Sophocles, or our own 
 Shakspeare. The cause of Milo might again be 
 pleaded before more favorable judges, Csesar a 
 second time be taught to tremble, and another race 
 of Athenians be afresh enraged at the ambition of 
 another Philip. Amidst these noble amusements, 
 we could hope to see the early dawnings of their 
 imagination daily brighten into sense, their inno¬ 
 cence improve into virtue, and their inexperi¬ 
 enced good nature directed to a generous love of 
 their country. 
 
 T. “I am,” etc. 
 
 No. 231.] SATURDAY, NOY. 24, 1711. 
 
 0 pudor! 0 pietas!- Mart., viii, 78. 
 
 0 modesty I 0 piety! 
 
 Looking over the letters which I have lately 
 received from my correspondents, I met with the 
 following one, which is written with such a spirit 
 of politeness, that I could not but be very much 
 pleased with it myself, and question not but it 
 will be as acceptable to the reader. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You, who are no stranger to public assemblies, 
 cannot but have observed the awe they often strike 
 on such as are obliged to exert any talent before 
 them. This is a sort of elegant distress, to which 
 ingenuous minds are the most liable, and may 
 therefore deserve some remarks in your paper. 
 Many a brave fellow, who has put his enemy to 
 flight in the field, has been in the utmost disorder 
 upon making a speech before a body of his friends 
 at home. One would think there was some kind 
 of fascination in the eyes of a large circle of peo¬ 
 ple, when darting all together upon one person. 
 I have seen a new actor in a tragedy so bound up 
 by it as to be scarce able to speak or move, and 
 have expected he would have died above three 
 acts before the dagger or cup of poison were 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 brought in. It would not be amiss, if such a one 
 were at first introduced as a ghost or statue, until 
 he recovered his spirits, and grew tit for some liv¬ 
 ing part. 
 
 “As this sudden desertion of one’s self shows a 
 diffidence, which is not displeasing, it implies at 
 the same time the greatest respect to an audience 
 that can be. It is a sort of mute eloquence, which 
 pleads for their favor much better than words 
 could do; and we find their generosity naturally 
 mo\ ed to support those who are in so much per¬ 
 plexity to entertain them. I was extremely 
 pleased with a late instance of this kind at the 
 opera of Almahide, in the encouragement given 
 to a young singer* whose more than ordinary 
 concern on her first appearance, recommended her 
 no less than her agreeable voice and just perform¬ 
 ance. Mere bashfulness without merit is awk¬ 
 ward; and merit without modesty insolent. But 
 modest merit has a double claim to acceptance, 
 and generally meets with as many patrons as be¬ 
 holders. “I am,'” etc. 
 
 291 
 
 It is impossible that a person should exert him¬ 
 self to advantage in an assembly, whether it be 
 his part either to sing or speak, who lies under 
 too great oppressions of modesty. I remember, 
 upon talking with a friend of mine concerning the 
 force of pronunciation, our discourse led us°into 
 the enumeration of the several organs of speech 
 which an orator ought to have in perfection, as 
 the tongue, the teeth, the lips, the nose, the pa- 
 late, and the windpipe. Upon which, says my 
 friend, “ \ ou have omitted the most material or 
 gan of them all, and that is the forehead.” 
 
 But notwithstanding an excess of modesty ob¬ 
 structs the tongue and renders it unfit for its offices, 
 a due j^oportion of it is thought so requisite 
 to an orator, that rhetoricians have recommended 
 it. to their disciples as a particular in their art. 
 Cicero tells us that he never liked an orator who 
 did. not appear in some little confusion at the 
 beginning of his speech, and confesses that he 
 himself never entered upon an oration without 
 trembling and concern. It is indeed a kind of de¬ 
 ference which is due to a great assembly, and 
 seldom fails to raise a benevolence in the audi¬ 
 ence toward the person who speaks. My cor¬ 
 respondent has taken notice that the bravest men 
 often appear timorous on these Occasions, as in¬ 
 deed we may observe, that there is generally no 
 creature more impudent than a coward: 
 
 -Lingua melior, sed frigida bello 
 
 Dextera- Virg. ^En., xi, 338. 
 
 -Bold at the council-board; 
 
 But cautious in the field he shunn’d the sword. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 A bold tongue and a feeble arm are the quali¬ 
 fications of Drances in Virgil; as Homer, to ex¬ 
 press a man both timorous and saucy, makes use 
 of a kind of point, which is very rarely to be met 
 with in his waitings, namely, that he had the eyes 
 of a dog, but the heart of a deer.f 
 
 A just and reasonable modesty does not only re- 
 commend eloquence, but sets off every great talent 
 which a man can be possessed of. It heightens 
 all the virtues which it accompanies; like the 
 shades in paintings, it raises and rounds every 
 figure, and makes the colors more beautiful 
 though not so glaring as they would be without it! 
 
 Modesty is not only an ornament, but also a 
 guard to virtue. It is a kind of quick and deli¬ 
 cate feqjing in the soul wffiich makes her shrink 
 
 * Mrs. Barbier. See a curious account of this lady, in Sir 
 John Hawkins’s History of Music, vol. v, p. 156. 
 
 t Iliad, i, 225. 
 
 and withdraw herself from everything that has 
 danger in it. It is such an exquisite sensibility, 
 as v arns her to shun the first appearance of every¬ 
 thing which i^ hurtful. ' 
 
 I cannot at present recollect either the place or 
 time of wliat 1 am going to mention ; but I have 
 
 fi 0mew iere lr l ^ 10 history of ancient Greece, 
 that the women of the country were seized with 
 an unaccountable melancholy, which disposed 
 several of them to make away with themselves. 
 I he senate, after having tried many expedients to 
 prevent this self-murder, which was so frequent 
 among them, published an edict, that if any wo- 
 man whatever should lay violent hands upon 
 herself, her corpse should be exposed naked in the 
 street, and dragged about the city in the most 
 public manner. This edict immediately put a 
 stop to the practice which was before so common. 
 V e may see in this instance the strength of female 
 modesty, which was able to overcome even the vio¬ 
 lence of madness and despair. The fear of shame 
 m the fair sex was in those days more prevalent 
 than that of death. 
 
 If modesty has so great an influence over our 
 actions, and is in many cases so impregnable a 
 fence to viitue: what can more undermine morality 
 than that politeness which reigns among the un- 
 thinking part of .mankind, and treats as unfash- 
 ionable the most ingenuous part of our behavior* 
 which recommends impudence as good-breeding,’ 
 and keeps. a man always in countenance, not 
 because he is innocent, but because he is shame¬ 
 less? » 
 
 Seneca thought modesty so great a check to 
 vice, that he prescribes to us the practice of it in 
 secret, and advises us to raise it in ourselves upon 
 imaginary occasions, when such as are real do not 
 offer themselves; for this is the meaning of his 
 precept. That when we are by ourselves, and in 
 our greatest solitudes, we should fancy that Cato 
 stands before us and sees everything we do. In 
 short, if you banish modesty out of the world 
 she carries away with her half the virtue that is 
 in it. 
 
 After these reflections on modesty, as it is a 
 virtue; I must observe, that there is a vicious 
 modesty which justly deserves to be ridiculed, and 
 which those persons very often discover who 
 value themselves most upon a well-bred confi¬ 
 dence. This happens when a man is ashamed to 
 act up to his reason, and would not upon any con¬ 
 sideration be surprised at the practice of those 
 duties, for the performance of which be was sent 
 into the world. Many an impudent libertine 
 would blush to be caught in a serious discourse 
 and would scarce be able to show his head after 
 having disclosed a religious thought. Decency 
 of behavior, all outward show of virtue, and ab¬ 
 horrence of vice are carefully avoided by this set 
 of shamefaced people, as what would disparage 
 heir gayety of temper, and infallibly bring them 
 o dishonor. This is such a poorness of spirit, 
 such a despicable cowardice, such a degenerate, 
 abject state of mind, as one would think human 
 nature incapable of, did we not meet with frequent 
 instances ot it in ordinary conversation. 
 
 There is another kind of vicious modesty which 
 makes a man ashamed of his person, his birth, 
 lis profession, his poverty, or the like misfor- 
 jimes, which it was not in his choice to prevent, 
 and is not in his power to rectify. If a man ap¬ 
 pears ridiculous by any of the afore-mentioned 
 ciicumstances, he becomes much more so by being 
 out of countenance for them. They should rather 
 give him occasion to exert a noble spirit, and to 
 palliate those imperfections which are not in his 
 power, by those perfections which are; or to use a. 
 
292 * THE SPE 
 
 very witty allusion of an eminent author, he 
 should imitate Csesar, who, because his head was 
 bald, covered that defect with laurels.—C. 
 
 No. 232.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1711. 
 
 Nihil largiundo gloriam adeptus est. 
 
 Sallust, Bel. Cat. 
 
 By bestowing nothing he acquired glory. 
 
 My wise and good friend, Sir Andrew Freeport, 
 divides himself almost equally between the town 
 and the country. His time in town is given up to 
 the public, and the management of his private 
 fortune; and after every three or four days spent 
 in this manner, he retires for as many to his seat 
 within a few miles of the town, to the enjoyment 
 of himself, his family, and his friend. Thus 
 business and pleasure, or rather, in Sir Andrew, 
 labor and rest, recommend each other. They take 
 their turns with so quick a vicissitude, that neither 
 becomes a habit, or takes possession of the whole 
 man; nor is it possible he should be surfeited with 
 either. I often see him at our club in good humor, 
 and yet sometimes too with an air ot care in his 
 looks; but in his country retreat he is always 
 unbent, and such a companion as I could desire; 
 and therefore 1 seldom fail to make one with him 
 when he is pleased to invite me. 
 
 The other day, as soon as we were got into his 
 chariot, two or three beggars on each side hung 
 upon the doors, and solicited our charity with the 
 usual rhetoric of a sick wife or husband at home, 
 three or four helpless little children all starving 
 with cold and hunger. We were forced to part 
 with some money to get rid of their importunity; 
 and then we proceeded on our journey with the 
 blessings and acclamations of these people. 
 
 “Well, then,” says Sir Andrew, “we go off with 
 the prayers and good wishes of the beggars, and 
 perhaps too our healths will be drank at the next 
 alehouse: so all we shall be able to value our¬ 
 selves upon is, that we have promoted the trade 
 of the victualer and the excises of the govern¬ 
 ment. But how few ounces of wool do we see 
 upon the backs of these poor creatures? And 
 when they shall next fall in our way, they will 
 hardly be better dressed; they must always live in 
 rags to look like objects of compassion. If their 
 families too are such as they are represented, 'tis 
 certain they cannot be better clothed, and must be a 
 great deal worse fed. One would think potatoes 
 should be all their bread, and their drink the pure 
 element; and then what goodly customers are the 
 farmers like to have for their wool, corn, and cattle? 
 Such customers, and such a consumption, cannot 
 choose but advance the landed interest, and hold 
 up the rents of the gentlemen. 
 
 “But, of all men living, we merchants, who live 
 by buying and selling, ought never to encourage 
 beggars. The goods which we export are indeed 
 the product of the lands, but much the greatest 
 part of their value is the labor of the people ; but 
 how much of these people's labor shall we export 
 while we hire them to sit still? The very alms 
 they receive from us are the wages of idleness. I 
 have often thought that no man should be per¬ 
 mitted to take relief from the parish, or to ask it 
 in the street, until he has first purchased as much 
 as possible of his own livelihood by the labor of 
 his own hands; and then the public ought only to 
 be taxed to make good the deficiency. If this 
 rule was strictly observed, we should see every¬ 
 where such a multitude of new laborers, as would 
 in all probability reduce the prices of all the 
 manufactures. It is the very life of merchandise 
 
 CT ATOR. 
 
 to buy cheap and sell dear. The merchant ought 
 to make his outset as cheap as possible, that he 
 may find the greater profit upon his returns; and 
 nothing will enable him to do this like the reduc¬ 
 tion of the price of labor upon all our manufac¬ 
 tures. This too would be the ready way to in¬ 
 crease the number of our foreign markets. The 
 abatement of the price of the manufacture would 
 pay for the carriage of it to more distant countries; 
 and this consequence would be equally beneficial 
 both to the landed and trading interests. As so 
 great an addition of laboring hands would produce 
 this happy consequence both to the merchant and 
 the gentleman, our liberality to common beggars, 
 and every other obstruction to the increase of la¬ 
 borers, must be equally pernicious to both.” 
 
 Sir Andrew then went on to affirm, that the re¬ 
 duction of the prices of our manufactures by the 
 addition of so many new hands, would be no in¬ 
 convenience to any man ; but observing I was 
 somewhat startled at the assertion, he made a 
 short pause, and then resumed the discourse.. “It 
 may seem,” says he, “a paradox, that the price of 
 labor should be reduced without an abatement of 
 wages, or that wages can be abated without any 
 inconvenience to the laborer, and yet nothing is 
 more certain than that both these things may hap- . 
 pen. The wages of the laborers make the greatest 
 part of the price of everything that is useful; and 
 if in proportion with the wages the prices of all 
 other things should be abated, every laborer with 
 less wages would still be able to purchase as many 
 necessaries of life; where then would be the incon¬ 
 venience? But the price of labor may be reduced 
 by the addition of more hands to a manufacture, 
 and yet the wages of persons remain as high as 
 ever. The admirable Sir William Petty has given 
 examples of this in some of his writing* one of 
 them, as I remember, is that of a watch, which I 
 shall endeavor to explain so as shall suit my pre¬ 
 sent purpose. It is certain that a single watch 
 could not be made so cheap in proportion by only 
 one man, as a hundred watches by a hundred; for 
 as there is vast variety in the work, no one person 
 could equally suit himself to all the parts of it; 
 the manufacture would be tedious, and at last but 
 clumsily performed. But if a hundred watches 
 were to be made by a hundred men, the cases may 
 be assigned to one, the dials to another, the wheels 
 to another, the springs to another, and every other 
 part to a proper artist. As there would be no need 
 of perplexing any one person with too much 
 variety, every one would be able to perform his 
 single part with greater skill and expedition; and 
 the hundred watches would be finished in one 
 fourth part of the time of the first one, and every 
 one of them at one-fourth part of the cost, though 
 the wages of every man were equal. The reduc¬ 
 tion of the price of the manufacture would in¬ 
 crease the demand of it; all the same hands would 
 be still employed, and as well paid. The same 
 rule will hold in the clothing, the shipping, and 
 all other trades whatsoever. And thus an ad¬ 
 dition of hands to our manufactures will only re¬ 
 duce the price of them; the laborer will still have 
 as much wages, and will consequently be enabled 
 to purchase more conveniences of life; so that 
 every interest in the nation would receive a be¬ 
 nefit from the increase of our working people. 
 
 “Beside, I see no occasion for this charity to 
 common beggars, since every beggar is an inhabi¬ 
 tant of a parish, and every parish is taxed to the 
 maintenance of their own poor. For my «vn part 
 I cannot be mightily pleased with the laws which 
 have done this, which have provided better to feed 
 than employ the poor. We have a tradition from 
 our forefathers, that after the first of those laws 
 
293 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 was made, they were insulted with that famous 
 song: 
 
 Hang sorrow and cast away care,* 
 
 The parish is bound to find us, etc. 
 
 And if we will be so good-natured as to maintain 
 them without work, they can do no less in return 
 than sing us ‘The merry Beggars.’ 
 
 “What then? Am I against all acts of charity? 
 God forbid! I know of no virtue in the Gospel 
 that is in more pathetic expressions recommended 
 to our practice. ‘I was hungry, and ye gave me no 
 meat; thirsty, and ye gave me no drink; naked, 
 and ye clothed me not; a stranger, and ye took me 
 not in; sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.’ 
 Our blessed Savior treats the exercise and neglect 
 of charity toward a poor man, as the performance 
 or breach of this duty toward himself. I shall 
 endeavor to obey the will of my Lord and Master; 
 and therefore if an industrious man shall sub¬ 
 mit to the hardest labor and coarsest fare, rather 
 than endure the sham of taking relief from the 
 parish, or asking it in the street, this is the 
 hungry, the thirsty, the naked; and I ought to 
 believe, if any man is come hither for shelter 
 against persecution or oppression, this is the 
 stranger, and I ought to take him in. If any 
 countryman of our own is fallen into the hands 
 of infidels, and lives in a state of miserable cap- 
 tivity, this is the man in prison, and I should con¬ 
 tribute to his ransom, I ought to give to a 
 hospital of invalids, to recover as many useful 
 subjects as I can; but I shall bestow none of my 
 bounties upon an almshouse of idle people ; and 
 for the same reason I should not think it a re¬ 
 proach to me if I had withheld my charity from 
 those common beggars. But we prescribe better 
 rules than we are able to practice; we are ashamed 
 not to give into the mistaken customs of our 
 country: but at the same time, I cannot but think 
 it a reproach worse than that of common swearing, 
 that the idle and the abandoned are suffered in the 
 name of Heaven and all that is sacred, to extort 
 from Christian and tender minds a supply to a 
 profligate way of life, that is always to be sup¬ 
 ported, but never relieved.”—Z. 
 
 Ho. 233.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1711. 
 
 -—Tanquam haec sint nostri medicina furoris, 
 
 Aut deus ille malis homiuam mitescere discat. 
 
 Virg. Eel., x, y. 60. 
 
 As if by these my sufferings I could ease; 
 
 Or by my pains the god of love appease.—D ryden. 
 
 I shall in this paper discharge myself of the 
 promise I have made to the public, by obliging 
 them with the translation of the little Greek manu¬ 
 script, which is said to have been a piece of those 
 records that were preserved in the temple of 
 Apollo,, upon the promontory of Leucate. It is a 
 short history of the Lover’s Leap, and is inscribed, 
 An account of persons, male and female, who of¬ 
 fered up their vows in the temple of the Pythian 
 Apollo in the forty-sixth Olympiad, and leaped 
 from the promontory of Leucate into the Ionian 
 sea, in order to cure themselves of the passion of 
 love. 
 
 This account is very dry in many parts, as only 
 mentioning the name of the lover who leaped, the 
 person he leaped for, and relating in short, that 
 he was either cured, or killed, or maimed, by the 
 fall. It indeed gives the names of so many, who 
 died by it, that it would have looked like a bill 
 of mortality, had I translated it at full length; I 
 have therefore made an abridgement of it, and 
 only extracted such particular' passages as have 
 
 something extraordinary either in the case or in 
 the cure, or in th$ fate of the person who is men¬ 
 tioned in it. After this short preface take the ac¬ 
 count as follows: 
 
 Battus, the son of Menalcas the Sicilian, leaped 
 foi Bombyca the musician : got rid of his passion 
 v ith the loss of his right leg and arm, which 
 were broken in the fall. 
 
 Melissa, in love with Daphnis, very much 
 bruised but escaped with life. 
 
 .Cynisca the wife of .Eschines, beino- in love 
 with Lycus; and -Eschines her husband being in 
 lo\ e with Luiilla (which had made this married 
 couple very uneasy to one another for several 
 years); both the husband and the wife took the 
 leap by consent; they both of them escaped, and 
 have lived very happily together ever since. 
 
 . Larissa, a virgin of Thessaly, deserted by Plex- 
 lppus, after a courtship of three years: she stood 
 upon the brow of the promontory for some time, 
 and after having thrown down a ring, a bracelet! 
 and a little picture, with other presents which she 
 had received from Plexippus, she threw herself 
 into the sea, and was taken up alive. 
 
 . E. Larissa, before she leaped, made an offer¬ 
 ing of a silver Cupid in the temple of Apollo. 
 
 Simaetha, in love with Daphnis the Myndian 
 perished in the fall. 
 
 Charixus, the brother of Sappho, in love with 
 Rhodope the courtesan, having spent his whole 
 estate upon her, was advised by his sister to leap 
 in the beginning of his amour, but would not 
 hearken to her until he was reduced to his last 
 talent; being forsaken by Rhodope, at length re¬ 
 solved to take the leajD. Perished in it. 
 
 Aridaeus, a beautiful youth of Epirus, in love 
 with Praxinoe, the wife of Thespis; escaped with¬ 
 out damage, saving only that two of his fore-teeth 
 were struck out and his nose a little flatted. 
 
 Cleora, a widow of Ephesus, being inconsola¬ 
 ble for the death of her husband, was resolved to 
 take this leap in order to get rid of her passion 
 for his memory : but being arrived at the promon¬ 
 tory, she there met with Dimmachus, the Milesian, 
 and qfter a short conversation with him, laid aside 
 the thoughts of her leap, and married him in the 
 temple of Apollo. 
 
 N. B. Her widow’s weeds are still to be seen 
 hanging up in the western corner of the temple. 
 
 Oiphis, the fisherman, having received a box on 
 the ear from Thestylis the day before, and being 
 determined to have no more to do with her, leaped, 
 and escaped with life. 
 
 Atalanta, an old maid, whose cruelty had seve¬ 
 ral years before driven two or three despairing 
 lovers to this leap : being now in the fifty-fifth 
 year of her age, and in love with an officer of 
 Sparta, broke her neck in the fall. 
 
 Hipparchus, being passionately fond of his own 
 wife, who was enamored of Bathyllus, leaped, and 
 died of his fall; upon which his wife married her 
 gallant. 
 
 . Tettyx, the dancing master, in love with Olym¬ 
 pia, an Athenian matron, threw himself from the 
 rock with great agility, but was crippled in the 
 fall. 
 
 Diagoras, the usurer, in love with his cook- 
 maid; he peeped several times over the precipice, 
 but his heart misgiving him, he went back, and 
 married her that evening. 
 
 Cinoedus, after having entered his own name in 
 the Pythian records, being asked the name of the 
 person whom he leaped for, and being ashamed to 
 discover it, he was set aside, and not suffered to 
 leap. 
 
 Eunica, a maid of Paphos, aged nineteen, in 
 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 294 
 
 love with Eurybates. Hurt in the fall, but recov¬ 
 ered. 
 
 N. B. This was the second time of her leaping. 
 
 Hesperus, a young man of Tarentum, in love 
 with his master’s daughter. Drowned, the boats 
 not coming in soon enough to his relief. 
 
 Sappho, the Lesbian, in love with Phaon, ar¬ 
 rived at the temple of Apollo habited like a bride, 
 in garments as white as snow. She wore a gar¬ 
 land of myrtle on her head, and carried in her 
 hand the little musical instrument of her own in¬ 
 vention. After having sung a hymn to Apollo, 
 she hung up her garland on one side of his altar, 
 and her harp on the other. She then tucked up 
 her vestments like a Spartan virgin, and amidst 
 thousands of spectators, who were anxious for her 
 safety and offered up vows for her deliverance, 
 marched directly forward to the utmost summit 
 of the promontory, where, after having repeated a 
 stanza of her own verses, which we could not 
 hear, she threw herself off the rock with such in¬ 
 trepidity as was never before observed in any who 
 had attempted that dangerous leap. Many who 
 were present related, that they saw her fall into 
 the sea, from whence she never rose again; though 
 there were others who affirmed that she never came 
 to the bottom of her leap, but that she was 
 changed into a swan as she fell, and that they saw 
 her hovering in the air under that shape. But 
 whether or no the whiteness and fluttering of her 
 garments might not deceive those who looked 
 upon her, or whether she might not really be met¬ 
 amorphosed into that musical and melancholy 
 bird, is still a doubt among the Lesbians. 
 
 Alcaeus, the famous lyric poet, who had for some 
 time been passionately in love with Sappho, ar¬ 
 rived at the promontory of Leucate that very even¬ 
 ing in order to take the leap upon her account; 
 but hearing that Sappho had been there before 
 him, and that her body could be nowhere found, 
 he very generously lamented her fall, and is said 
 to have written his hundred and twenty-fifth ode 
 upon that occasion. 
 
 Leaped in this Olympiad. 
 
 Males.124 
 
 Females .126 
 
 250 
 
 Cured. 
 
 Males.51 
 
 Females.69 
 
 C. 120 
 
 Ho. 234. ] WEDNESDAY, HOY. 28, 1711. 
 
 Vellem in amicitia sic erraremus.—Hon. 1 Sat. iii, 41. 
 
 I wish this error in your friendship reign’d.—C reech. 
 
 You very often hear people, after a story has 
 been told with some entertaining circumstances, 
 tell it over again with particulars that destroy the 
 jest, but give light into the truth of the narration. 
 This sort of veracity, though it is impertinent, has 
 something amiable in it, because it proceeds from 
 the love of truth, even in frivolous occasions. If 
 such honest amendments do not promise an agree¬ 
 able companion, they do a sincere friend ; for 
 which reason one should allow them so much of 
 our time, if we fall into their company, as to set 
 us right in matters that can do us no manner of 
 harm, whether the facts be one way or the other. 
 Lies which are told out of arrogance and ostenta¬ 
 tion, a man should detect in his own defense, be¬ 
 cause he should not be triumphed over. Lies 
 
 which are told out of malice he should expose, 
 both for his own sake and that of the rest of man¬ 
 kind, because every man should rise against a 
 common enemy; but the officious liar-, many have 
 argued, is to be excused, because it does some 
 man good, and no man hurt. The man who made 
 more than ordinary speed from a fight in w r hich 
 the Athenians were beaten, and told them they 
 had obtained a complete victory, and put the 
 whole city into the utmost joy and exultation, 
 was checked by the magistrates for this falsehood; 
 but excused himself by saying, “ 0 Athenians! 
 am I your enemy because I gave you tw r o happy 
 days V” This fellow did to a whole people what 
 an acquaintance of mine do.es every day he lives, 
 in some eminent degree, to particular persons. 
 He is ever lying people into good humor, and as 
 Plato said it was allowable in physicians to lie to 
 their patients to keep up their spirits, I am half 
 doubtful whether my friend’s behavior is not as 
 excusable. His manner is to express himself sur¬ 
 prised at the cheerful countenance of a man whom 
 he observes diffident of himself; and generally by 
 that means makes his lie a truth. He will, as if 
 he did not know anything of the circumstance, 
 ask one whom he knows at variance with another, 
 what is the meaning that Mr. Such-a-one, naming 
 his adversary, does not applaud him with that 
 heartiness which formerly he has heard him ? 
 “He said, indeed,” continues he, “I would rather 
 have that man for my friend than any man in 
 England ; but for an enemy—” This melts the 
 erson he talks to, who expected nothing but 
 ownright raillery from that side. According as 
 he sees his practice succeed, he goes to the oppo¬ 
 site party,-and tells him, he cannot imagine how 
 it happens that some people know one another so 
 little; “You spoke with so much coldness of a 
 gentleman wflio said more good of you, than, let 
 me tell you, any man living deserves.” The suc¬ 
 cess of one of these incidents was that the next 
 time one of the adversaries spied the other, he 
 hems after him in the public street, and they must 
 crack a bottle at the next tavern, that used to turn 
 out of the other’s way to avoid one another’s eye¬ 
 shot. He will tell one beauty she was commend¬ 
 ed by another, nay, he will say she gave the wo¬ 
 man he speaks to the preference in a particular 
 for which she herself is admired. The pleasant¬ 
 est confusion imaginable is made through the 
 whole town by my friend’s indirect offices. You 
 shall have a visit, returned after half a year’s ab¬ 
 sence, and mutual railing at each other every day 
 of that time. They meet with a thousand lamen¬ 
 tations for so long a separation, each party nam¬ 
 ing herself for the greatest delinquent, if the other 
 can possibly be so good as to forgive her, which 
 she has no reason in the world, but from the 
 knowledge of her goodness, to hope for. Very 
 often a whole train of railers of each side tire 
 their horses in setting matters right which they 
 have said during the war between the parties; and 
 a whole circle of acquaintance are put into a 
 thousand pleasing passions and sentiments, in¬ 
 stead of the pangs of anger, envy, detraction, and 
 malice. 
 
 The worst evil I ever observed this man’s false¬ 
 hood occasion, has been, that he turned detraction 
 into flattery. He is well skilled in the manners of 
 the world, and by overlooking what men really 
 are, he grounds his artifices upon what they have 
 a mind to be. Upon this foundation, if two dis¬ 
 tant friends are brought together, and the cement 
 seems to be weak, he never rests until he finds 
 new appearances to take off all remains of ill- 
 will, and that by new misunderstandings they are 
 thoroughly reconciled. 
 
 
THE S P E C T ATOR. 
 
 “To Mr. Spectator. 
 
 “Devonshire, Nov. 14, 1711. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ There arrived in this neighborhood, two days 
 ago, one of vour gay gentlemen of the town, who 
 being attended at his entry with a servant of his 
 own, beside a countryman he had taken up for a 
 guide, excited the curiosity of the village to learn 
 whence and what he might be. The countryman 
 (to whom they applied as most easy of access) 
 knew little more than that the gentleman came 
 from London to travel and see fashions, and was, 
 as he heard say, a freethinker.* What religion 
 that might be, he could not tell: and for his own 
 part, if they had not told him the man was a free¬ 
 thinker, he should have guessed, by his way of 
 talking, he was little better than a heathen; ex¬ 
 cepting only ihat he had been a good gentleman 
 to him, and made him drunk twice in one day 
 over and above what they had bargained for. 
 
 “I do not look upon the simplicity of this, and 
 several odd inquiries with which 1 shall not trou¬ 
 ble you, to be wondered at, much less can I think 
 that our youths of fine wit, and enlarged under¬ 
 standings, have any reason to laugh. There is no 
 necessity that every ’squire in Great Britain should 
 know what the word freethinker stands for ; but it 
 were much to be wished, that they who value them¬ 
 selves upon that conceited title, were a little better 
 instructed in what, it ought to stand for; and that 
 they would not persuade themselves a man is really 
 and truly a freethinker, in any tolerable sense, 
 merely by virtue of his being an atheist, or an in¬ 
 fidel of any other distinction. It may be doubted 
 with good reason, whether there ever was in nature 
 a more abject, slavish, and bigoted generation than 
 the tribe of beaux-esprits, at present so prevailing 
 in this island. Their pretension to be freethinkers, 
 is no other than rakes have to be free-livers, and 
 savages to be freemen; that is, they can think 
 whatever they have a mind to, and give themselves 
 up to whatever conceit the extravagancy of their 
 inclination or their fancy, shall suggest; they can 
 think as wildly as they talk and act, and will not 
 endure that their wit should be controlled by such 
 formal things as decency and common sense. De¬ 
 duction, coherence, consistency, and all the rules 
 of reason they accordingly disdain, as too precise 
 and mechanical for men of a liberal education. 
 
 “This, as far as I could ever learn from their 
 writings, or my own observation, is a true account 
 of the British freethinker. Our visitant here, who 
 gave occasion to this paper, has brought with him 
 a new system of common sense, the particulars of 
 which I am not yet acquainted with, but will lose 
 no opportunity of informing myself whether it con¬ 
 tain anything worth Mr. Spectator’s notice. In 
 the meantime, Sir, I cannot but think it would be 
 for the good of mankind, if you would take this 
 subject into your consideration, and convince the 
 hopeful youth of our nation, that licentiousness is 
 not freedom; or, if such a parodox will not be un¬ 
 derstood, that a prejudice toward atheism is not 
 impartiality. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “Philonous. ” 
 
 . * T 1 ’® P er son here alluded to was probably Mr. Toland, who 
 is said by the Examiner to have been the butt of the Tatler 
 and Spectator. 
 
 T. 
 
 295 
 
 j No. 235.] THURSDAY, NOV. 29, 1711. 
 
 ■--—Papulares 
 
 Vicentem strepitus- Hor., Ars. Poet., v. 81. 
 
 Awes the tumultuous noises of the pit.—R oscommon. 
 
 There is nothing which lies more within the 
 province of a Spectator than public shows and 
 diversions : and as among these there are none 
 which can pretend to vie with those elegant enter¬ 
 tainments that are exhibited in our theaters, I 
 think it particularly incumbent on me to take no¬ 
 tice of everything that is remarkable in such nu¬ 
 merous and refined assemblies. 
 
 It is observed, that of late years there has been 
 a certain person in the upper gallery of the play¬ 
 house, who, when he is pleased with anything that 
 is acted upon the stage, expresses his approbation 
 by a loud knock upon the benches or the wainscot, 
 which may be heard over the whole theater. This 
 person is commonly known by the name of the. 
 “ Trunk-maker in the upper gallery.” Whether 
 it be that the blow he gives on these occasions re¬ 
 sembles that which is often heard in the shops of 
 such artisans, or that he was supposed to have been 
 a real trunk-maker, who, after the finishing of his 
 day’s work, useil to unbend his mind at these 
 public diversions with his hammer in his hand, I 
 cannot certainly tell. There are some, I know, 
 who have been foolish enough to imagine it is a 
 spirit which haunts the upper gallery, and from 
 time to time makes those strange noises ; and the 
 rather, because he is observed to be louder than 
 ordinary every time the ghost of Hamlet appears. 
 Others have reported, that it is a dumb man, who 
 has chosen this way of uttering himself when he 
 is transported with anything he sees or hears. 
 Others will have it to be the playhouse thunderer, 
 that exerts himself after this manner in the upper 
 gallery, when he has nothing to do upon the roof. 
 
 But having made it my business to get the best 
 information I could in a matter of this moment, I 
 find that the trunk-maker, as he is commonly 
 called, is a large black man whom nobody knows. 
 He generally leans forward on a huge oaken plank 
 with great attention to everything that passes upon 
 the stage. He is never seen to smile ; but upon 
 hearing anything that pleases him, he takes up his 
 staff with both hands, and lays it upon the next 
 piece of timber that stands in his way with ex¬ 
 ceeding vehemence: after which, he composes him¬ 
 self in his former posture, till such time as some¬ 
 thing new sets him again at work. 
 
 It has been observed, his blow is so well-timed, 
 that the most judicious critic could never except 
 against it. As soon as any shining thought is ex¬ 
 pressed in the poet, or any uncommon grace ap¬ 
 pears in the actor, he smites the bench or wainscot. 
 If the audience does not concur with him, he smites 
 a second time; and if the audience is not yet 
 awakened, looks around him with great wrath, 
 and repeats the blow a third time, which never 
 fails to produce the clap. He sometimes lets the 
 audience begin the clap of themselves, and at the 
 conclusion of their applause ratifies it with a sin¬ 
 gle thwack. 
 
 He is of so great use to the playhouse, that it 
 is said a former director of it, upon his not being 
 able to pay his attendance by reason of sickness, 
 kept one in pay to officiate for him until such 
 time as he recovered ; but the person so employ¬ 
 ed, though he laid about him with incredible vio¬ 
 lence, did it in such wrong places, that the aud¬ 
 ience soon found out that it was not their old 
 friend the trunkmaker. 
 
 It has been remarked, that he lias not yet exert¬ 
 ed himself with vigor this season. He sometimes 
 plies at the opera; and upon Nicolini’s first ap- 
 
296 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 appearance was said to have demolished three 
 benches in the fury of his applause. He has bro¬ 
 ken half a dozen oaken planks upon Dogget,* 
 and seldom goes away from a tragedy of Shaks- 
 peare without leaving the wainscot extremely 
 shattered. 
 
 The players do not only connive at his obstrep¬ 
 erous approbation, but very cheerfully repair at 
 their own cost whatever damages he makes. They 
 once had a thought of erecting a kind of wooden 
 anvil for his use, that should be made of a very 
 sounding plank, in order to render his strokes 
 more deep and mellow; but as this might not 
 have been distinguished from the music of a ket¬ 
 tle-drum, the project was laid aside. 
 
 In the meanwhile, I cannot but take notice of 
 the great use it is to an audience, that a person 
 should thus preside over their heads like the di¬ 
 rector of a concert, in order to awaken their atten¬ 
 tion, and beat time to their applauses ; or to raise 
 my simile, I have sometimes fancied the trunk- 
 maker in the upper gallery to be like Virgil’s 
 ruler of the winds, seated upon the top of a moun¬ 
 tain, who, when he struck his scepter upon the 
 side of it, roused a hurricane, and set the whole 
 cavern in an uproar.f 
 
 It is certain the trunk-maker has saved many a 
 good play, and brought many a graceful actor 
 into reputation, who would not otherwise have 
 been taken notice of. It is very visible, as the 
 audience is not a little abashed, if they find them¬ 
 selves betrayed into a clap, when their friend in 
 the upper gallery does not come into it, so the ac¬ 
 tors uo not value themselves upon the clap, but 
 regard it as a mere brutum fulmen, or empty noise, 
 when it has not the sound of the oaken plant in 
 it. I know it has been given out by those who 
 are enemies,to the trunk-maker, that he has some¬ 
 times been bribed to be id the interest of a bad 
 poet, or a vicious player ; but this is a surmise 
 which has no foundation: his strokes are always 
 just, and his admonitions seasonable: he does not 
 deal about his blows at random, but always hits 
 the right nail upon the head. The inexpressible 
 force wherewith he lays them on, sufficiently 
 shows the evidence and strength of his convic¬ 
 tion. His zeal for a good author is indeed outra¬ 
 geous, and breaks down every fence and partition, 
 every board and plank, that stands within the 
 expression of his applause. 
 
 As I do not care for terminating my thoughts 
 in barren speculations, or in reports of pure mat¬ 
 ter of fact, without drawing something from 
 them for the advantage of my countrymen, I shall 
 take the liberty to make an humble proposal, that 
 whenever the trunk-maker shall depart this life, 
 or whenever he shall have lost the spring of his 
 arm by sickness, old age, infirmity, or the like, 
 some able-bodied critic should be advanced to 
 this post, and have a competent salary settled 
 on him for life, to be furnished with bamboos for 
 operas, crabtree cudjels for comedies, and oaken 
 plants for tragedy, at the public expense. And 
 to the end that this place should be always dis¬ 
 posed of according to merit, I would have none 
 preferred to it, who has not given convincing 
 proofs both of a sound judgment, and a strong 
 arm; and who could not, upon occasion, either 
 knock down an ox, or write a comment upon Ho¬ 
 race’s Art of Poetry. In short, I would have him 
 a due composition of Hercules and Apollo, and so 
 
 * Thomas Dogget, an excellent comic actor, who was for 
 many years joint manager of the play-house with Wilkes and 
 Colley Cibber, of whom the reader may find a particular ac¬ 
 count in Cibber’s Apology for his own Life, 
 f iEneid, i, 85. 
 
 rightly qualified for this important office, that the 
 trunk-maker may not be missed by our poster¬ 
 ity.—C. 
 
 No. 236.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 1711. 
 
 -Dare jura maritis. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 398. 
 
 With laws connubial tyrants to restrain. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You have not spoken in so direct a manner 
 upon the subject of marriage as that important 
 case deserves. It would not be improper to ob¬ 
 serve upon the peculiarity in the youth of Great 
 Britain of railing and laughing at that institu¬ 
 tion : and when they fall into it, from a profligate 
 habit of mind, being insensible of the satisfaction 
 in that way of life, and treating their wives with 
 the most barbarous disrespect. 
 
 “Particular circumstances, and cast of temper, 
 must teach a man the probability of mighty un¬ 
 easinesses in that state (for unquestionably some 
 there are whose very dispositions are strangely 
 averse to conjugal friendship) j but no one, I be¬ 
 lieve, is by his own natural complexion prompted 
 to tease and torment another for no reason but be¬ 
 ing nearly allied to him. And can there be any¬ 
 thing more base, or serve to sink a man so much 
 below his own distinguishing characteristic (I 
 mean reason), than by returning evil for good in 
 so open a manner, as that of treating a helpless 
 creature with unkindness, who has had so good 
 an opinion of him as to believe what he said re¬ 
 lating to one of the greatest concerns of life, by 
 delivering her happiness in this world to his care 
 and protection ? Must not that man be abandon¬ 
 ed even to all manner of humanity, who can de¬ 
 ceive a woman with appearances of affection and 
 kindness, for no other end but to torment her 
 with more ease and authority? Is anything more 
 unlike a gentleman, than when his honor is en¬ 
 gaged for the performing his promises, because no¬ 
 thing but that can oblige him to it, to become after¬ 
 ward false to his word, and be alone the occasion 
 of misery to one whose happiness he but lately 
 pretended was dearer to him than his own ?— 
 Ought such a one to be trusted in his common 
 affairs ? or treated but as one whose honesty con¬ 
 sisted only in his incapacity of being otherwise ? 
 
 “ There is one cause of this usage no less ab¬ 
 surd than common, wdiich takes place among the 
 more unthinking men ; and that is the desire to 
 appear to their friends free and at liberty, and 
 without those trammels they have so much ridi¬ 
 culed. To avoid this they fly into the other ex¬ 
 treme, and grow tyrants that they may seem mas¬ 
 ters. Because an uncontrollable command of 
 their own actions is a certain sign of entire do¬ 
 minion, they wont so much as recede from the 
 government even in one muscle of their faces. 
 A kind look they believe would be fawning, and 
 a civil answer yielding the superiority. To this 
 must we attribute an austerity they betray in eve¬ 
 ry action. What but this can put a man out of 
 humor in his wife’s company, though he is so dis- 
 tinguisliingly pleasant everywhere else? The 
 bitterness of his replies, and thfe severity of his 
 frowns to the tenderest of wives, deafly demon¬ 
 strate, that an ill-grounded fear of being thought 
 too submissive, is at the bottom of this, as I am 
 willing to call it, affected moroseness; but if it be 
 such, only put on to convince his acquaintance of 
 his entire dominion, let him take care of the con¬ 
 sequence, which will be certain and worse than 
 the present evil; his seeming indifference will by 
 degrees grow into real contempt, and it it doth 
 

 THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 not wholly alienate the affections of his wife for¬ 
 ever from him, make both him and her more mis¬ 
 erable than if it really did so. 
 
 “However inconsistent it may appear, to be 
 thought a well-bred person has no small share in 
 this clownish behavior. A discourse therefore 
 relating to good breeding toward a loving and 
 tender wife, would be of great use to this sort of 
 gentlemen. Could you but once convince them, 
 that to be civil at least is not beneath the charac¬ 
 ter of a gentleman, nor even tender affection to¬ 
 ward one who would make it reciprocal, betrays 
 any softness or effeminacy that the most mascu¬ 
 line disposition need be ashamed ofcould you 
 satisfy them of the generosity of voluntary civil¬ 
 ity, and the greatness of soul that is conspicuous 
 in benevolence without immediate obligations; 
 could you recommend to people’s practice the say¬ 
 ing of the gentleman quoted in one of your spec¬ 
 ulations, ‘that he thought it incumbent upon him 
 to make the inclinations of a woman of merit go 
 along with her dutycould you, I say, persuade 
 these men of the beauty and reasonableness of 
 this sort of behavior, I have so much charity, for 
 some of them at least, to believe you would con¬ 
 vince them of a thing they are only ashamed to 
 allow. Beside, you would recommend that state 
 in its truest, and consequently its most agreeable 
 colors; and the gentlemen, who have for any time 
 been such professed enemies to it, when occasion 
 should serve, would return you their thanks for 
 assisting their interest in prevailing over their 
 prejudices. Marriage in general would by this 
 means bo a more easy and comfortable condition; 
 the husband would be nowhere so well satisfied 
 as in his own parlor, nor the wife so pleasant as 
 in the company of her husband. A desire of be- 
 ing agreeable in the lover would be increased in 
 the husband, and the mistress be more amiable by 
 becoming the wife. Beside all which, I am apt 
 to believe we should find the race of men grow 
 wiser as their progenitors grew kinder, and the 
 affection of their parents would be conspicuous in 
 the wisdom of their children; in short, men would 
 in general be much better humored than they are, 
 did they not so frequently exercise the worst turns 
 of their temper where they ought to exert the 
 best.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a woman who left the admiration of this 
 whole town to throw myself (for love of wealth) 
 into the arms of a fool." When I married him, I 
 could have had any one of several men of sense 
 who languished for me; but my case is just. I 
 believed my superior understanding would form 
 him into a tractable creature. But, alas! my 
 spouse has cunning and suspicion, the insepara¬ 
 ble companions of little minas; and every attempt 
 I make to divert, by putting on an agreeable air, 
 a sudden cheerfulness, or kind behavior, he looks 
 upon as the first act toward an insurrection 
 against his undeserved dominion over me. Let 
 e\ery one who is still to choose, and hopes to go¬ 
 vern a fool, remember 
 
 “ Tristissa.” 
 
 297 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, St. Martin’s, Nov. 25. 
 
 t “ T ! lis is to c ° m P lain of an evil practice which 
 1 think very well deserves a redress, though you 
 have not as yet taken any notice of it- if you 
 mention it in your paper, it may perhaps have a 
 very good effect. What I mean is, the distur¬ 
 bance some people give to others at church by 
 their repetition of the prayers after the minister- 
 and that not only in the prayers, but also in the 
 absolution; and the commandments fare no better, 
 
 which are in a particular manner the priest’s of¬ 
 fice : this 1 have known done in so audible a man¬ 
 ner, that sometimes their voices have been as loud 
 as his. As little as you would think it, this is 
 frequently done by people seemingly devout. 
 1 his irreligious inadvertency is a thing extremely 
 offensive : but I do not recommend it as a thing I 
 give you liberty to ridicule, but hope it may be 
 amended by the bare mention. 
 
 “ Sir, your very humble Servant, 
 
 T. « T . s.” 
 
 Ho. 237.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1 , 1711 
 
 Yisu carentcm magna pars veri latet. 
 
 Seneca, in (Edip. 
 
 They that are dim of sight see truth by halves. 
 
 It is very reasonable to believe, that part of the 
 pleasure which happy minds shall enjoy in a fu¬ 
 ture state, will arise from an enlarged contempla¬ 
 tion of the Divine Wisdom in the government of 
 the world, and a discovering of the secret and 
 amazing steps of Providence, from the beginning 
 to the end of time. Nothing seems to be an en¬ 
 tertainment more adapted to the nature of man, if 
 we consider that curiosity is one of the strongest 
 and most lasting appetites implanted in us, and 
 that admiration is one ol our most pleasing pas¬ 
 sions; and what a perpetual succession of enjoy¬ 
 ments will be afforded to both these, in a scene so 
 laige and various as shall then be laid open to our 
 view in the society of superior spirits, who per¬ 
 haps will join with us in so delightful a prospect. 
 
 It is not impossible, on the contrary, that part 
 of the punishment of such as are excluded from 
 bliss, may consist not only in their being denied 
 this privilege, butin having their appetites at the 
 same time vastly increased without any satisfac¬ 
 tion afforded to them. In these, the vain pursuit 
 of knowledge shall, perhaps, add to their infelici¬ 
 ty, and bewilder them into labyrinths of error, 
 daikness, distraction, and uncertainty of every¬ 
 thing but their own evil state. Milton has thus 
 represented the fallen angels reasoning together in 
 a kind of lespite trom their torments, and creating 
 to themselves a new disquiet amidst their very 
 amusements : he could not properly have described 
 the sport of condemned spirits, without that cast 
 of lion oi and melancholy he has so judiciously 
 mingled with them ! J 
 
 Others apart sat on a hill retir’d, 
 
 In thoughts more elevate, and reason’d high 
 Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, 
 
 Fix'd fate, freewill, foreknowledge absolute, 
 
 And found no end in wandering mazes lost.* 
 
 In our present condition, which is a middle 
 state, oui minds are as it were checkered with 
 truth and falsehood : and as our faculties are nar¬ 
 row, and our views imperfect, it is impossible but 
 our curiosity must meet with many repulses. The 
 business of mankind in this life being rather to 
 act than to know, their portion of knowledge is 
 dealt to them accordingly. 
 
 From hence it is, that the reason of the inqui¬ 
 sitive has so long been exercised with difficulties, 
 in accounting for the promiscuous distribution of 
 good and evil to the virtuous and the wicked in 
 this tforld. From hence come all those pathetic 
 complaints of so many tragical events which hap¬ 
 pen to the wise and the good; and of such sur¬ 
 prising prosperity, which is often the lotf of the 
 guilty and the foolish; that reason is sometimes 
 puzzled, and at a loss what to pronounce upon so 
 mysterious a dispensation. 
 
 * Parad. Lost, b. ii, v. 557. 
 f Spect., in folio, for reward, etc. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 298 
 
 Plato expresses his abhorrence of some fables 
 of the poets, which seem to reflect on the gods as 
 the authors of injustice; and lays it down as a 
 principle, that whatever is permitted to befall a 
 just man, whether poverty, sickness, or any of 
 those things which seem to be evils, shall either 
 in life or death conduce to his good. My reader 
 will observe how agreeable this maxim is to what 
 we find delivered by greater authority. Seneca has 
 written a discourse purposely on this subject:* in 
 which he takes pains, after the doctrine of the 
 Stoics, to show that adversity is not in itself an 
 evil: and mentions a noble saying of Demetrius, 
 that “nothing would be more unhappy than a man 
 who had never known affliction.” He compares 
 prosperity to the indulgence of a fond mother to 
 a child, which often proves his ruin; but the af¬ 
 fection of the Divine Being to that of a wise father, 
 who would have his sons exercised with labor, 
 disappointments, and pain, that they may gather 
 strength and improve their fortitude. On this oc¬ 
 casion, the philosopher rises into that celebrated 
 sentiment, that there is not on earth a spectacle 
 more worthy the regard of a Creator intent on his 
 works, than a brave man superior to his sufferings : 
 to which he adds, that it must be a pleasure to Ju¬ 
 piter himself to look down from heaven, and see 
 Cato amidst the ruins of his country preserving 
 his integrity. 
 
 This thought will appear yet more reasonable, 
 if we consider human life as a state of probation, 
 and adversity as the post of honor in it, assigned 
 often to the best and most select spirits. 
 
 But what I would chiefly insist on here is, that 
 we are not at present in a proper situation to judge 
 of the councils by which Providence acts, since 
 but little arrives at our knowledge, and even that 
 little we discern imperfectly; or according to the 
 elegant figure in holy writ, “ we see but in part, 
 and as in a glass darkly.”! It is to be considered 
 that Providence in its economy regards the whole 
 system of time and things together, so that we 
 cannot discover the beautiful connection between 
 incidents which lie widely separate in time; and 
 by losing so many links of the chain, our reason¬ 
 ings become broken and imperfect. Thus those 
 parts of the moral world which have not an abso¬ 
 lute, may yet have a relative beauty, in respect of 
 some other parts concealed from us, but open to 
 his eye before whom “ past,” “ present,” and “ to 
 come,” are set together in one point of view: and 
 those events, the permission oi which seems now 
 to accuse his goodness, may in the consummation 
 of things both magnify his goodness, and exalt 
 his wisdom. And this is enough to check our 
 presumption, since it is in vain to apply our mea¬ 
 sures of regularity to matters of •which we know 
 neither the antecedents nor the consequents, the 
 beginning nor the end. 
 
 I shall relieve my readers from this abstracted 
 thought, by relating here a Jewish tradition con¬ 
 cerning Moses, which seems to be a kind of para¬ 
 ble, illustrating what I have last mentioned. That 
 great prophet, it is sahl, was called up by a voice 
 from heaven to the top of a mountain; where, in a 
 conference with the Supreme Being, he was ad¬ 
 mitted to propose to him some questions concern¬ 
 ing his administration of the universe. In the 
 midst of this divine colloquy lie was commanded 
 to look down on the plain below. At the foot of 
 the mountain there issued out a clear spring of 
 water, at which a soldier alighted from his horse 
 to drink. He was no sooner gone than a little boy 
 
 *Vid. Senec. “Be constantia sapientis, sive quod in eapi- 
 entem non cadit injuria.” 
 f 1 Oor., siii, 12. 
 
 came to the same place, and finding a purse of 
 gold which the soldier had dropped, took it up 
 and went away with it. Immediately after this 
 came an infirm old man, weary with age and tra¬ 
 veling, and having quenched his thirst sat down 
 to rest himself by the side of the spring. The 
 soldier, missing his purse, returns to search for it, 
 and demanded it of the old man, who affirms he 
 had not seen it, and appeals to Heaven in witness 
 of his innocence. The soldier, not believing his 
 protestations, kills him. Moses fell on his face 
 with horror and amazement, when the Divine 
 voice thus prevented his expostulation : “ Be not 
 surprised, Moses, nor ask why the Judge of the 
 whole earth has suffered this thing to come to 
 pass. The child is the occasion that the blood of 
 the old man is spilt; but know that the old man 
 whom thou sawest was the murderer of that child’s 
 father.” 
 
 Ho. 238.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1711. 
 
 Nequicquam populo bibulas donaveris aures; 
 liespue quod non es- 
 
 Persius, Sat. iv, 50. 
 
 No more to flattering crowds thine ear incline, 
 
 Eager to drink the praise which is not thine. 
 
 Brewster. 
 
 Among all the diseases of the mind, there is not 
 one more epidemical or more pernicious than the 
 love of flattery. For as where the juices of the 
 body are prepared to receive the malignant influ¬ 
 ence, there the disease rages with most violence; 
 so in this distemper of the mind, where there is 
 ever a propensity and inclination to suck in the 
 poison, it cannot be but that the whole order of 
 reasonable action must be overturned; for, like 
 music, it 
 
 -So softens and disarms the mind 
 
 That not one arrow can resistance find. 
 
 First, we flatter ourselves, and then the flattery 
 of others is sure of success.’ It awakens our self- 
 love within, a party which is ever ready to revolt 
 from our better judgment, and join the enemy 
 without. Hence it is, that the profusion of favors 
 we so often see poured upon the parasite, are re¬ 
 presented to us by our self-love, as justice done to 
 the man who so agreeably reconciled us to our¬ 
 selves. When we are overcome by such soft in¬ 
 sinuations and ensnaring compliances, we gladly 
 recompense the artifices that are made use of to 
 blind our reason, and which triumph over the 
 weaknesses of our temper and inclination. 
 
 But were every man persuaded from how mean 
 and low a principle this passion is derived, there 
 can be no doubt that the person who should at¬ 
 tempt to gratify it, would then be as contemptible 
 as he is now successful. It is the desire of some 
 quality we are not possessed of, or inclination to 
 be something we are not, which are the causes of 
 our giving ourselves up to that man who bestows 
 upon us the characters and qualities of others; 
 which perhaps suit us as ill, and were as little de¬ 
 signed for our wearing, as their clothes. Instead 
 of going out of our own complexional nature into 
 that of others, it were abetter and more laudable 
 industry to improve our own, and instead of a 
 miserable copy become a good original; for there 
 is no temper, no disposition, so rude and untract- 
 able, but may in its own peculiar cast and turn be 
 brought to some agreeable use in conversation, or 
 in the affairs of life. A person of a rougher de¬ 
 portment, and less tied up to the usual ceremonies 
 of behavior, will, like Manly in the play,* please 
 
 * Wycherley’s comedy of the Plain Dealer. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 I 
 
 by the grace which Nature gives to every action 
 wherein she is complied with; the brisk and lively 
 will not want their admirers, and even a more re¬ 
 served and melancholy temper may at some times 
 be agreeable. 
 
 When there is not vanity enough awake in a 
 man to undo him, the flatterer stirs up that dor¬ 
 mant weakness and inspires him with merit 
 enough to be a coxcomb. But if flattery be the 
 most sordid act that can be complied with, the art 
 of praising justly is as commendable; for it is 
 laudable to praise well; as poets at one and the 
 same time give immortality, and receive it them¬ 
 selves as a reward. Both are pleased : the one 
 while he receives the recompense of merit, the 
 other while he shows he knows how to discern 
 it; but above all, that man is happy in this art, 
 who, like a skillful painter, retains the features 
 and complexion, but still softens the picture into 
 the most agreeable likeness. 
 
 There can hardly, I believe, be imagined a more 
 desirable pleasure, than that of praise unmixed 
 with any possibility of flattery. Such was that 
 which Germanicus enjoyed, when, the night before 
 a battle, desirous of some sincere mark of the es¬ 
 teem of his legions for him, he is described by 
 Tacitus listening in a disguise to the discourse of 
 a soldier, and wrapped up in the fruition of his 
 glory, while with an undesigned sincerity they 
 raised his noble and majestic mien, his affability, 
 is valor, conduct and success in war. How must 
 a man have his heart full-blown with joy in such 
 an article of glory as this ? What a spur and en¬ 
 couragement still to proceed in those steps which 
 had already brought him to so pure a taste of the 
 greatest of mortal enjoyments ? 
 
 It sometimes happens that even enemies and 
 envious persons bestow the sincerest marks of es¬ 
 teem when they least design it. Such afford a 
 greater pleasure, as extorted by merit, and freed 
 from all suspicion of favor or flattery. Thus it is 
 with Malvolio : he has w T it, learning, and discern¬ 
 ment, but tempered with an alloy of envy, self- 
 love, and detraction. Malvolio turns pale at the 
 mirth and good humor of the company, if it cen¬ 
 ter not in his person ; he grows jealous and dis¬ 
 pleased when he ceases to be the only person 
 admired, and looks upon the commendations paid 
 to another as a detraction from his merit, and an 
 attempt to lessen the superiority he affects ; but 
 by this very method, he bestows such praise as 
 can never be suspected of flattery. His uneasi¬ 
 ness and distaste are so many sure and certain 
 signs of another’s title to that glory he desires, 
 and has the mortification to find himself not pos¬ 
 sessed of. 
 
 A good name is fitly compared to a precious 
 ointment,* and when we are praised with skill 
 and decency, it is indeed the most agreeable per¬ 
 fume ; but if too strongly admitted into the brain 
 of a less vigorous and happy texture, it will, like 
 too strong an odor, overcome the senses, and prove 
 pernicious to those nerves it was intended to re¬ 
 fresh. A generous mind is of all others the most 
 sensible of praise and dispraise; and a noble 
 spirit is as much invigorated with its due propor¬ 
 tion of honor and applause, as it is depressed bv 
 neglect and contempt. But it is only persons far 
 above the common level who are thus affected with 
 either of these extremes; as in a thermometer, it is 
 only the purest and most sublimated spirit that is 
 either contracted or dilated by the benignity or in¬ 
 clemency of the season. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The translations which you have lately given 
 
 299 
 
 us from the Greek, in some of your last papers, 
 have been the occasion of my looking into some 
 ol those authors; among whom I chanced on a 
 collection of letters which pass under the name of 
 Aristaenetus. Of all the remains of antiquity, I 
 believe there can be nothing produced of an air so 
 gallant and polite; each letter contains a little 
 novel or adventure, which is told with all the 
 beauties of language, and heightened with a lux¬ 
 uriance of wit. There are several of them trans¬ 
 lated;* but with such wide deviations from the 
 original, and in a style so far differing from the 
 author’s, that the translator seems rather to have 
 taken hints for the expressing his own sense and 
 thoughts, than to have endeavored to render those 
 of Aristaenetus. In the following translation, I 
 have kept as near the meaning of the Greek as I 
 could, and have only added a few words to make 
 the sentences in English sit together a little better 
 than they would otherwise have done. The story 
 seems to be taken from that of Pygmalion and the 
 statue of Ovid : some of the thoughts are of the 
 same turn, and the whole is written in a kind of 
 poetical prose.” 
 
 “Philopinax to Chromation. 
 
 “ Never was a man more overcome with so fan¬ 
 tastical a passion as mine : I have painted a beau¬ 
 tiful woman, and am despairing, dying for the 
 picture. My own skill has undone me; it is not 
 the dart of Venus, but my own pencil has thus 
 wounded me. Ah, me! with what anxiety am I ne¬ 
 cessitated to adore my own idol! How miserable 
 am I, while every one must as much pity the 
 painter as he praises the picture, and own my tor¬ 
 ment more than equal to my art! But why do I 
 thus complain ? Have there not been more un¬ 
 happy and unnatural passions than mine ? Yes, 
 I have seen the representations of Phaedra, Nar¬ 
 cissus, and Pasiphae. Phaedra was unhappy in her 
 love: that of Pasiphse was monstrous: and while 
 the other caught at his beloved likeness, he de¬ 
 stroyed the watery image, which ever eluded his 
 embraces. The fountain represented Narcissus to 
 himself, and the picture both that and him thirst¬ 
 ing after his adored image. But I am yet less 
 unhappy, I enjoy her presence continually, and if 
 I touch her, I destroy not the beauteous form, but 
 she looks pleased, and a sweet smile sits in the 
 charming space which divides her lips. One would 
 swear that voice and speech were issuing out, and 
 that one’s ears felt the melodious sound. How 
 often have I, deceived by a lover’s credulity, 
 hearkened if she had not something to whisper 
 me ! and when frustrated of my hopes, how often 
 have I taken my revenge in kisses from her cheeks 
 and eyes, and softly wooed her to my embrace, 
 while she (as to me it seemed) only withheld her 
 tongue the more to inflame me. But, madman that 
 I am, shall I be thus taken w T itli the representa¬ 
 tion only of a beauteous face, and flowing hair, 
 and thus waste myself and melt to tears for a 
 shadow ? Ah, sure it is something more, it is a 
 reality; for see her beauties shine out with new 
 luster, and she seems to upbraid me with unkind 
 reproaches. Oh, may I have a living mistress of 
 this form, that when I shall compare the work of 
 nature with that of art, I may be still at a loss 
 which to choose, and be long perplexed with the 
 pleasing uncertainty ! ”—T. 
 
 * By Tom Brown and others. See his Works, 4 vols., 12mo. 
 
 * Eccles., vii, 1. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 300 
 
 Ho. 239.] TUESDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1711. 
 
 -Bella, horriila bella!—ViRG. iEx., vi, 86. 
 
 -Wars, horrid wars!—D eyden. 
 
 I have sometimes amused myself with consid¬ 
 ering the several methods of managing a debate 
 which have obtained in the world. 
 
 The first races of mankind used to dispute, as 
 our ordinary people do now-a-day, in a kind of 
 wild logic, uncultivated by rules of art. 
 
 Socrates introduced a catechetical method of ar¬ 
 guing. Ho would ask his adversary question upon 
 question, until he had convinced him out of his 
 own mouth, that his opinions were wrong. This 
 way of debating drives an enemy up into a cor¬ 
 ner, seizes all the passes through which he can 
 make an escape, and forces him to surrender at 
 discretion. 
 
 Aristotle changed this method of attack, and 
 invented a great variety of little weapons, called 
 syllogisms. As in the Soeratic way of dispute 
 you agree to everything your opponent advances; 
 in the Aristotelic, you are still denying and con¬ 
 tradicting some part or other of what he says. So¬ 
 crates conquers you by stratagem, Aristotle by 
 force. The one takes the town by sap, the other 
 sword in hand. 
 
 The universities of Europe, for many years, 
 carried on their debates by syllogism, insomuch 
 that we see the knowledge of several centuries 
 laid out into objections and answers, and all the 
 good sense of the age cut and minced into almost 
 an infinitude of distinctions. 
 
 When our universities found there was no end 
 of wrangling, this way, they invented a kind of 
 argument, which is not reducible to any mood or 
 figure in Aristotle. It was called the Argumen- 
 tum Basilinum (others write it Bacilinum or Ba- 
 culinum), which is pretty w r ell expressed in our 
 English word club-law. 'When they were not able 
 to confute their antagonist, they knocked him 
 down. It was their method, in these polemical 
 debates, first to discharge their syllogisms, and 
 afterward to betake themselves to their clubs, 
 until such time as they had one way or other con¬ 
 founded their gainsayers. There is in Oxford a 
 narrow defile (to make use of a military term) 
 where the partisans used to encounter; for which 
 reason it still retains the name of Logic-lane. I 
 have heard an old gentleman, a physician, make 
 his boasts, that when he was a young fellow he 
 marched several times at the head of a troop of 
 Scotists,* and cudgeled a body of Smiglesians,f 
 half the length of High-street, until they had 
 dispersed themselves for shelter into their respect¬ 
 ive garrisons. 
 
 This humor, I find, went very far in Erasmus’s 
 time. For that author tells us, that upon the re¬ 
 vival of Greek letters, most of the universities in 
 Europe were divided into Greeks and Trojans. 
 The latter were those who bore a mortal enmity 
 to the language of the Grecians, insomuch that if 
 they met witli any who understood it, they did 
 not fail to treat him as a foe. Erasmus himself 
 had, it seems, the misfortune to fall into the hands 
 of a party of Trojans, who laid him on with so 
 many blows and buffets that he never forgot their 
 hostilities to his dying day. 
 
 There is a way of managing an argument not 
 much unlike the former, which is made use of by 
 states and communities, when they draw up a 
 
 * The followers of Duns Scotus, a celebrated doctor of the 
 schools, who flourished about the year 1300, and from his op¬ 
 posing some favorite doctrines of Thomas Aquinas, gave rise 
 to a new party called Scotists, in opposition to the Thomists, 
 or followers of the other. 
 
 | The followers of Martin Smiglecius, a famous logician of 
 the 16th century. 
 
 hundred thousand disputants on each side, and 
 convince one another by dint of sword. A cer¬ 
 tain grand monarch* was so sensible of his 
 strength in this way of reasoning, that he wrote 
 upon his great guns —Ratio ultima regum, “ The 
 logic of kings;” but, God be thanked, he is now 
 pretty well baffled at his own weapons. When 
 one has to do with a philosopher of this kind, one 
 should remember the old gentleman’s saying, who 
 had been engaged in an argument with one of the 
 Roman emperors.f Upon his friends telling him 
 that he wondered he would give up the question, 
 when he had visibly the better of the dispute; “I 
 am never ashamed,” says he, “ to be confuted by 
 one who is master of fifty legions.” 
 
 I shall but just mention another kind of reason¬ 
 ing, which may be called arguing by poll; and 
 another, which is of equal force, in which wagers 
 are made use of as arguments, according to the 
 celebrated line in Hudibras.J 
 
 But the most notable way of managing a con¬ 
 troversy, is that which we may call arguing by 
 torture. This is a method of reasoning which has 
 been made use of with the poor refugees, and 
 which was so fashionable in our country during 
 the reign of Queen Mary, that in a passage of an 
 author quoted by Monsieur Bayle, it is said the 
 price of wood was raised in England, by reason 
 of the executions that were made in Smithfield.§ 
 These disputants convince their adversaries with 
 a sorites,|| commonly called a pile of fagots. The 
 rack is also a kind of syllogism which has been 
 used with good effect, and has made multitudes 
 of converts. Men were formerly disputed out of 
 their doubts, reconciled to truth by force of reason, 
 and won over to opinions by the candor, sense, 
 and ingenuity of those who had the right on their 
 side; but this method of conviction operated too 
 slowly. Pain was found to be much more enlight¬ 
 ening than reason. Every scruple was looked 
 upon as obstinacy, and not to be removed but by 
 engines invented for that purpose. In a word, 
 the application of whips, racks, gibbets, galleys, 
 dungeons, fire and fagot, in a dispute, may be 
 looked upon as popish refinements upon the old 
 heathen logic. 
 
 There is another way of reasoning which seldom 
 fails, though it be of a quite different nature to 
 that I have last mentioned. I mean, convincing 
 a man by ready money, or, as it is ordinarily 
 called, bribing a man to an opinion. This method 
 has often proved successful, when all the others 
 have been made use of to no purpose. A man 
 who is furnished with arguments from the mint, 
 will convince his antagonist much sooner than 
 one who draws them from reason and philosophy. 
 Gold is a wonderful clearer of the understanding; 
 it dissipates every doubt and scruple in an instant; 
 accommodates itself to the meanest capacities; si¬ 
 lences the loud and clamorous, and brings over 
 the most obstinate and inflexible. Philip of Ma- 
 cedon was a man of most invincible reason this 
 way. He refuted by it all the wisdom of Athens, 
 confounded their statesmen, struck their orators 
 dumb, and at length argued them out of all their 
 liberties. r 
 
 Having here touched upon the several methods 
 of disputing, as they have prevailed in different 
 ages of the world, I shall very suddenly give my 
 
 * Louis XIV, of France. 
 
 + The Emperor Adrian, 
 t Part 2, c. 1, v. 297. 
 
 ft The author quoted is And. Ammonius. See his life in 
 Bayle’s Diet.—The Spectator’s memory deceived him in ap 
 plying the remark, which was made in the reign of Henry 
 VIII. It was ( however, much more applicable to that of 
 Queen Mary. 
 
 U A sorites is a heap of propositions thrown together. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 301 
 
 reader an account of the whole art of caviling; 
 which shall be a full and satisfactory answer to 
 all such papers and pamphlets as have yet ap¬ 
 peared against the Spectator.—C. 
 
 No. 240.] WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1711. 
 
 -Aliter non fit, Avite, liber.— Mart., Er. i, 17. 
 
 Of such materials, Sir, are books composed. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am one of the most genteel trades in the city, 
 and understand thus much of liberal education, as 
 to have an ardent ambition of being useful to 
 mankind, and to think that the chief end of being, 
 as to this life. I had these good impressions 
 given me from the handsome behavior of a learned, 
 generous, and wealthy man toward me, when I 
 first began the world. Some dissatisfaction be¬ 
 tween me and my parents made me enter into it 
 with less relish of business than I ought; and to turn 
 off this uneasiness, I gave myself to criminal 
 
 S leasures, some excesses, and a general loose con- 
 uct. I know not what the excellent man above- 
 mentioned saw in me, but he descended from the 
 superiority of his wisdom and merit to throw him¬ 
 self frequently into my company. This made me 
 soon hope that I had something in me worth cul¬ 
 tivating, and his conversation made me sensible 
 of satisfactions in a regular Way, which I had 
 never before imagined. When he was grown fa¬ 
 miliar with me, he opened himself like a good 
 angel, and told me he had long labored to ripen me 
 into a preparation to receive his friendship and 
 advice, both which I should daily command, and 
 the use of any part of his fortune, to apply the 
 measures he should propose to me, for the im¬ 
 provement of my own. I assure you, I cannot re¬ 
 collect the goodness' and confusion of the good 
 man when he spoke to this purpose to me, without 
 melting into tears: but in a word. Sir, I must 
 hasten to tell you, that my heart burns with grati¬ 
 tude toward him, and he is so happy a man, that 
 it can never be in my power to return him his fa¬ 
 vors in kind, but I am sure I have made him the 
 most agreeable satisfaction I could possibly, in 
 being ready to serve others to my utmost ability, 
 as far as is consistent with the prudence he pre¬ 
 scribes to me. Dear Mr. Spectator, I do not owe 
 to him only the good-will and esteem of my own 
 relations (who are people of distinction), the pre¬ 
 sent ease and plenty of my circumstances, but 
 also the government of my passions, and regula¬ 
 tion of my desires. I doubt not. Sir, but in your 
 imagination such virtues as these of my worthy 
 friend, bear as great a figure as actions which are 
 more glittering in the common estimation. What 
 1 would ask of you, is to give us a whole Specta¬ 
 tor upon heroic virtue in common life, which may 
 incite men to the same generous inclinations, as 
 have by this admirable person been shown to, and 
 raised in, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble Servant.” 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a country clergyman, of a good plentiful 
 estate, and live as the rest of my neighbors, with 
 great hospitality. I have been ever reckoned 
 among the ladies the best company in the world, 
 and have access as a sort of favorite. I never 
 came in public but I saluted them, though in great 
 assemblies all around; where it was seen how gen¬ 
 teelly I avoided hampering my spurs in their 
 petticoats, while I moved among them; and on the 
 other side how prettily they courtsied and received 
 
 me, standing in proper rows, and advancing as 
 fast as they saw their elders, or their betters, dis¬ 
 patched by me. But so it is, Mr. Spectator, that 
 all our good breeding is of late lost by the un- 
 happy arrival of a courtier, or town gentleman, 
 who came lately among us. This person, when- 
 i ever he came into a room, made a profound bow, 
 and fell back, then recovered with a soft air, and 
 made a bow to the next, and so to one or two 
 more, and then took the gross of the room, by 
 passing them in a continual bow until he arrived 
 at the person he thought proper particularly to 
 entertain. 1 his he did with so good a grace and 
 assurance,, that it is taken for the present fashion ; 
 and there is no young gentlewoman within several 
 miles of this place has been kissed ever since his 
 i first appearance among us. We country gentle¬ 
 man cannot begin again and learn these fine and 
 reserved airs; and our conversation is at a stand, 
 until we have your judgment for or against kiss¬ 
 ing by way of civility or salutation; which is im¬ 
 patiently expected by your friends of both sexes, 
 but by none so much as 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “Rustic Sprightly.” 
 
 ‘‘Mr. Spectator, December 3, 1711. 
 
 “I was the other night at Philaster, where I ex¬ 
 pected to hear your famous trunk-maker, but was 
 unhappily disappointed of his company, and saw 
 another person who had the like ambition to dis¬ 
 tinguish himself in a noisy manner, partly by 
 vociferation or talking loud, and partly by his 
 bodily agility. This was a very lusty fellow, but 
 withal a sort of beau, who getting into one of the 
 side boxes on the stage before the curtain drew, 
 was disposed to show the whole audience his 
 activity by leaping over the spikes; he passed 
 from thence to one of the entering doors, where 
 he took snuff with a tolerable good grace, dis¬ 
 played his fine clothes, made two or three feint 
 passes at the curtain with his cane, then faced 
 about and appeared at t'other door. Here he 
 affected to survey the whole house, bowed and 
 smiled at random, and then showed his teeth, 
 which were some of them indeed very white. 
 After this, he retired behind the curtain, and ob¬ 
 liged us with several views of his person from 
 every opening. 
 
 “During the time of acting he appeared fre¬ 
 quently in the prince’s apartment, made one at 
 the hunting-match, and was very forward in the 
 rebellion.* If there were no injunctions to the 
 contrary, yet this practice must be confessed to 
 diminish the pleasure of the audience, and for 
 that reason to be presumptuous and unwarrant¬ 
 able ; but since her majesty’s late command has 
 made it criminal,! you have authority to take 
 notice of it. 
 
 “Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 T. “Charles Easy.” 
 
 * Different scenes in the play of Philaster. 
 f In the playbills about this time there was this clause, 
 “ By her majesty’s command no person is to be admitted be¬ 
 hind the scenes.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 302 
 
 Ho. 241.J TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1711. 
 
 -Semperque relinqui 
 
 Sola liibi, semper longarn incomitata videtur 
 Ire viam- Virg. iEn., iv, 466. 
 
 All sad she seems, forsaken, and alone; 
 
 And left to wander wide through paths unknown.—P. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Though you have considered virtuous love in 
 most of its distresses, I do not remember that you 
 have given us any dissertation upon the absence 
 of lovers, or laid down any methods how they 
 should support themselves under those long sepa¬ 
 rations which they are sometimes forced to under¬ 
 go. I am at present in this unhappy circumstance, 
 having parted with the best of husbands, who is 
 abroad in the service of his country, and may not 
 possibly return for some years. His warm and 
 generous affection while we were together, with 
 the tenderness which he expressed to me at part¬ 
 ing, make his absence almost insupportable. I 
 think of him every moment of the day, and meet 
 him every night in my dreams. Everything 1 
 see puts me in mind of him. I apply myself with 
 more than ordinary diligence to the care of his 
 family and his estate; but this, instead of reliev¬ 
 ing me, gives me but so many occasions of wish¬ 
 ing for his return. I frequent the rooms where I 
 used to converse with him, and not meeting him 
 there, sit down in his chair and fall a weeping. I 
 love to read the books he delighted in, and to con¬ 
 verse with the persons whom he esteemed. I 
 visit his picture a hundred times a day, and place 
 myself over-against it whole hours together. I 
 pass a great part of my time in the walks where I 
 used to lean upon his arm, and recollect in my 
 mind the discourses which have there passed be¬ 
 tween us: I look over the several prospects and 
 points of view which we used to survey together, 
 fix my eye upon the objects which he has made 
 me take notice of, and call to mind a thousand 
 agreeable remarks which he has made on those oc¬ 
 casions. I write to him by every conveyance, and 
 contrary to other people, am always in good hu¬ 
 mor when an east wind blows, because it seldom 
 fails of bringing me a letter from him. Let me 
 entreat you, Sir, to give me your advice upon this 
 occasion, and to let me know how I may relieve 
 myself in this my widowhood. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “Asteria.” 
 
 Absence is what the poets call death in love, 
 and has given occasion to abundance of beautiful 
 complaints in those authors who have treated of 
 this passion in verse. Ovid’s Epistles are full of 
 them. Otway’s Monimia talks very tenderly upon 
 this subject: 
 
 -It was not kind 
 
 To leave me like a turtle here alone, 
 
 To droop and mourn the absence of my mate. 
 
 When thou art from me every place is desert; 
 
 And I, methinks, am savage and forlorn. 
 
 Thy presence only ’tis can make me blest, 
 
 Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul. 
 
 Orphan, Act. ii. 
 
 The consolations of lovers on these occasions 
 are very extraordinary. Beside those mentioned 
 by Asteria, there are many other motives of com¬ 
 fort which are made use of by absent lovers. 
 
 I remember in one of Scudery’s Romances, a 
 couple of honorable lovers agreed at their parting 
 to set aside one half hour in the day to think 
 of each other during a tedious absence. The ro¬ 
 mance tells us, they both of them punctually ob¬ 
 served the time thus agreed upon ; and that what- 
 evercompany or business they were engaged in, 
 they left it abruptly as soon ds the clock warned 
 
 them to retire. The romance further adds, that 
 the lovers expected the return of this stated hour 
 with as much impatience as if it had been a real 
 assignation, and enjoyed an imaginary happiness, 
 that was almost as pleasing to them as what they 
 would have found from a real meeting. It was an 
 inexpressible satisfaction to these divided lovers, 
 to be assured that each was at the same time em¬ 
 ployed in the same kind of contemplation, and 
 making equal returns of tenderness and affection. 
 
 If I may be allowed to mention a more serious 
 expedient for the alleviating of absence, I shall 
 take notice of one which I have known two per¬ 
 sons practice, who joined religion to that elegance 
 of sentiment with which the passion of love gen¬ 
 erally inspires its votaries. This was, at the re¬ 
 turn of such an hour, to offer up a certain prayer 
 for each other which they had agreed upon before 
 their parting. The husband, who is a man that 
 makes a figure in the polite world as well as in 
 his own family, has often told me, that he could 
 not have supported an absence of three years 
 without this expedient. 
 
 Strada, in one of his Prolusions,* gives an ac¬ 
 count of a chimerical correspondence between two 
 friends by the help of a certain loadstone, which 
 had such virtue in it, that if it touched two several 
 needles, when one of the needles so touched began 
 to move, the other, though at never so great a dis¬ 
 tance, moved at the same time, and in the same 
 manner. He tells us, that the two friends being 
 each of them possessed of one of these needles, 
 made a kind of dial-plate, inscribing it with four- 
 and-twenty letters, in the same manner as the 
 hours of the day are marked upon the ordinary 
 dial-plate. They then fixed one of i;he needles on 
 each of these plates in such a manner, that it 
 could move round without impediment, so as to 
 touch any of the four-and-twenty letters. Upon 
 their separating from one another into distant 
 countries, they agreed to withdraw themselves 
 punctually into their closets at a certain hour of 
 the day, and to converse with one another by 
 means of this their invention. Accordingly when 
 they were some hundred miles asunder, each of 
 them shut himself up in his closet at the time ap¬ 
 pointed, and immediately cast his eye upon his 
 dial-plate. If he had a mind to write anything 
 to his friend, he directed his needle to every letter 
 that formed the words which he had occasion for, 
 making a little pause at the end of every word or 
 sentence, to avoid confusion. The friend in the 
 meanwhile saw his own sympathetic needle mov¬ 
 ing of itself to every letter which that of his cor¬ 
 respondent pointed at. By this means they talked 
 together across a whole continent, and conveyed 
 their thoughts to one another in an instant over 
 cities or mountains, seas or deserts. 
 
 If Monsieur Scudery, or any other writer of ro¬ 
 mance, had introduced a necromancer, who is 
 generally in the train of a knight-errant, making 
 a present to two lovers of a couple of these above- 
 mentioned needles, the reader would not have 
 been a little pleased to have seen them corres¬ 
 ponding with one another when they were guard¬ 
 ed by spies and watches, or separated by castles 
 and adventures. 
 
 In the meanwhile, if ever this invention should 
 be revived or put in practice, I would propose that 
 upon the lover’s dial-plate there should be written 
 not only the four-and-twenty letters, but several 
 entire words which have always a place in pas¬ 
 sionate epistles; as flames, darts, die, language, 
 absence, Cupid, heart, eyes, hang, drown, and the 
 like. This would very much abridge the lover’s 
 
 * Lib. ii, prol. 6. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 303 
 
 pains in this way of writing a letter, as it would 
 enable him to express the most useful and signi¬ 
 ficant words with a single touch of the needle.—C. 
 
 No. 242.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1711. 
 
 Creditur, ex medio quia res arcessit, habere 
 Sudoris minimum - II 0R . 2 Ep. i, 1C8. 
 
 To write on vulgar themes, is thought an easy task. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ T our speculations do not so generally prevail 
 over men’s manners as I could wish. A former 
 paper of yours concerning the misbehavior of 
 people who are necessarily in each others com¬ 
 pany in traveling, ought to have been a lasting 
 admonition against transgressions of that kind. 
 But I had the fate of your Quaker, in meeting 
 with a rude fellow in a stage-coach, who enter¬ 
 tained two or three women of us (for there was no 
 man beside himself) with language as indecent as 
 ever was heard upon the water. The impertinent 
 observations which the coxcomb made upon our 
 shame and confusion were such, that it is an un¬ 
 speakable grief to reflect upon them. As much 
 as you have declaimed against dueling, I hope 
 vou will do us the justice to declare, that if the 
 brute has courage enough to send to the place 
 where he saw us all alight together to get rid of 
 him, there is not one ot us but has a lover who 
 shall avenge the insult. It would certainly be 
 worth your consideration, to look into the fre¬ 
 quent misfortunes of this kind, to which the mod¬ 
 est and innocent are exposed, by the licentious 
 behavior of such as are as much strangers to good¬ 
 breeding as to virtue. Could we avoid hearing 
 y hat we do not approve, as easily as we can see¬ 
 ing what.is disagreeable, there were some conso¬ 
 lation ; but since in a box at a play, in an assem¬ 
 bly of ladies, or even in a pew at church, it is in 
 the power of a gross coxcomb to utter what a wo¬ 
 man cannot avoid hearing, how miserable is her 
 condition who comes within the power of such 
 irapertinents ? and how necessary is it to repeat 
 invectives against such behavior? If the licen¬ 
 tious had not utterly forgot what it is to be mod¬ 
 est, they would know that offended modesty la¬ 
 bors under one of the greatest sufferings to which 
 human life can be exposed. If these brutes could 
 reflect thus much, though they want shame, they 
 could be moved by their pity, to abhor an impu¬ 
 dent behavior in the presence of the chaste and 
 innocent. If you will oblige us with a Spectator 
 on this subject, and procure it to be pasted against 
 every stage-coach in Great Britain as the law of 
 the journey, you will highly oblige the whole 
 sex, for which you have professed so great an 
 esteem ; and in particular, the two ladies my late 
 fellow-sufferers, and, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 .. , r “ Rebecca Ridinghood.” 
 
 Mr. Spectator, 
 
 '• The matter which I am now goino- to sen 
 you, is an unhappy story in low life,°and wn 
 recommend itsell, so that you must excuse th 
 manner of expressing it. A poor, idle, drunke 
 weaver m bpitalfields has a faithful, laboriou 
 wife, who by her frugality and industry has lai 
 by her as much money as purchased her a ticke 
 m the present lottery. She had hid this ver v pri 
 vately in the bottom of a trunk, and had Uv» 
 her number to a friend and confidant, who ha< 
 promised to keep the secret, and bring her new 
 of the success. The poor adventurer was one da 
 gone abroad, when her careless husband, supectinj 
 
 she had some money, searches every corner, till at 
 length he finds this same ticket; which he imme¬ 
 diately carries abroad, sells, and squanders away 
 the money, without his wife’s suspecting anything 
 of the matter. A day or two after this, this friend, 
 who was a woman, comes and brings the wife 
 word, that she had a benefit of £500. The poor 
 cieature, overjoyed, flies up stairs to her husband, 
 who was then at work, and desires him to leave 
 his loom for that evening, and come and drink 
 with a friend of his and hers below. The man 
 received this cheerful invitation as bad husbands 
 sometimes do, and after a cross word or two, told 
 hei he wouldn t come. His wife, with tenderness, 
 renewed her importunity, and at length said to 
 him, ‘My love ! I have within these few months, 
 unknown to you, scraped together as much money 
 cis lias bought us a ticket in the lottery, and now 
 here is Mrs. Quick come to tell me, that it is come 
 up this morning a £500 prized The husband re¬ 
 plies immediately, ‘You lie, you slut, vou have 
 no ticket, for I have sold it.’ The poor woman 
 upon this faints away in a fit, recovers, and is 
 now run distracted. As she had no design to de- 
 fiaud her husband, but was willing only to par¬ 
 ticipate in his good fortune, every one pities her, 
 but thinks her husband’s punishment but just! 
 This, Sir, is a matter of fact, and would, if the 
 persons and circumstances were greater, in a well- 
 wrought play be called Beautiful Distress. I have 
 only sketched it out with chalk, and know a good 
 hand can make a moving picture with worse ma¬ 
 terials. “ Si r y> e tc. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am what the world calls a warm fellow, and 
 by good success in trade I have raised myself to 
 a capacity of making some figure in the world • 
 but no matter for that, I have now under my guar- 
 dianship a couple of nieces, who will certainly 
 make me run mad ; which you will not wonder at, 
 when I tell you they are female virtuosos, and 
 during the three years and a half that I have had 
 them under my care, they never in the least in¬ 
 clined their thoughts toward any one single part of 
 the character of a notable woman. W hile they 
 should have been considering the proper in°re- 
 dients for a sack-posset, you should hear a dispute 
 concerning the magnetic virtue of the loadstone, 
 or perhaps the pressure of the atmosphere. Their 
 language is peculiar to themselves, and they scorn 
 to express themselves on the meanest trifle with 
 words that are not of a Latin derivation. But 
 this were supportable still, would they suffer me 
 
 e njpy an uninterrupted ignorance; but unless 
 1 fall in with their abstracted ideas of things (as 
 they call them) I must not expect to smoke one 
 pipe in quiet. In a late fit of the gout I" com¬ 
 plained of the pain of that distemper, when my 
 niece Kitty begged leave to assure me,’that what 
 ever I might think, several great philosophers, 
 both ancient and modern, were of opinion, that 
 both pleasure and pain were imaginary distinc¬ 
 tions, and that there was no such thing as either 
 m rerum natura. I have often heard them affirm 
 that the file was not hot; and one day when I, 
 w ith the authority of an old fellow, desired one 
 of them to put my blue cloak on my knees, she 
 answeied, ‘ Sir, I will reach the cloak ; but take 
 notice, I do not do it as allowing your description; 
 for it might as well be called yellow as blue ; for 
 color is nothing but the various infractions of 
 the rays of the sun.’ Miss Molly told me one 
 day, that to say snow was white, is allowing a 
 vulgar error, for as it contains a great quantity of 
 nitrous particles, it might more reasonably be sup¬ 
 posed to be black. In short, the young hussies 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 304 
 
 would persuade me, that to believe one’s eyes is a 
 sure way to be deceived; and have often advised me 
 by no means to trust anything so fallible as my 
 senses. What I have to beg of you now is, to 
 turn one speculation to the due regulation of fe¬ 
 male literature, so far, at least, as to make it con¬ 
 sistent with the quiet of such whose fate it is to 
 be liable to its insults ; and to tell us the differ¬ 
 ence between a gentleman that should make cheese¬ 
 cakes and raise a paste, and a lady that reads 
 Locke, and understands the mathematics. In 
 which you will extremely oblige 
 
 “ Your hearty friend and humble Servant, 
 
 T. “ Abraham Thrifty.” 
 
 No. 243.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1711. 
 
 i’ormam quidem ipsarn, Maree fili, ct tanquam faciem bo- 
 nesti vides: qute -i oculis cemeretur, mirabiies amores (_ut 
 ait Plato) excitaret sapienti.c.—Tux. OQic. 
 
 You see, my son Marcus, virtue as if it were embodied, 
 which if it could be made the object of sight, would (as Plato 
 says) excite in us a wonderful love of wisdom. 
 
 I do not remember to have read anv discourse 
 written expressly upon the beauty ancL loveliness 
 of virtue, without considering it as a duty, and as 
 the means of making us happy both now and 
 hereafter. I design therefore this speculation as 
 an essay upon that subject, in which I shall con¬ 
 sider virtue no further than as it is in itself of an 
 amiable nature, after I have premised, that I un¬ 
 derstand by the word virtue such a general notion 
 as is affixed to it by the writers of morality, and 
 which by devout men generally goes under the 
 name of religion, and by men of the world under 
 the name of honor. 
 
 Hypocrisy itself does great honor, or rather jus¬ 
 tice, to religion, and tacitly acknowledges it to be 
 an ornament to human nature. The hypocrite 
 would not be at so much pains to put on the ap¬ 
 pearance of virtue, if he did not know it was the 
 most proper and effectual means to gain the love 
 and esteem of mankind. 
 
 We learn from Hierocles, it was a common say¬ 
 ing among the heathens, that the wise man hates 
 nobody, but only loves the virtuous. 
 
 Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts 
 to show how amiable virtue is. “We love a vir¬ 
 tuous man,” says he, “who lives in the remotest 
 parts of the earth, though we are altogether out 
 of the reach of his virtue, and can receive from it 
 no manner of benefit.” Nay, one who died sev¬ 
 eral ages ago, raises a secret fondness and benevo¬ 
 lence for him in our minds, when we read his 
 story. Nay, what is still more, one who has 
 been the enemy of our country, provided his wars 
 were regulated by justice and humanity, as in the 
 instance of Pyrrhus, whom Tully mentions on 
 this occasion in opposition to Hannibal. Such is 
 the natural beauty arrd loveliness of virtue. 
 
 Stoicism, which was the pedantry of virtue, as¬ 
 cribes all good qualifications of what kind soever 
 to the virtuous man. Accordingly, Cato, in the 
 character Tully has left of him, carried matters so 
 far, that he would not allow any one but a virtuous 
 man to be handsome. This "indeed looks more 
 like a philosophical rant than the real opinion of 
 a wise man ; yet. this was what Cato very seriously 
 maintained. In short, the stoics thought they 
 could not sufficiently represent the excellence of 
 virtue, if they did not comprehend in the notion 
 of it all possible perfections ; and therefore did 
 not only suppose, tl*at it was transcendently beau¬ 
 tiful in itself, but that it made the very body 
 
 amiable, and banished every kind of deformity 
 from the person in whom it resided. 
 
 It is a common observation, that the most aban¬ 
 doned to all sense of goodness, are apt to wish 
 those who are related to them of a different char¬ 
 acter ; and it is very observable, that none are 
 more struck with the charms of virtue in the fair 
 sex, than those who by their very admiration of it 
 are carried to a desire of ruining it. 
 
 A virtuous mind in a fair body is indeed a fine 
 picture in a good light, and therefore it is no won¬ 
 der that, it makes the beautiful sex all over charms. 
 
 As virtue in general is of an amiable and lovely 
 nature, there are some particular kinds of it "which 
 are more so than others, and these are such as dis¬ 
 pose us to do good to mankind. Temperance and 
 abstinence, faith and devotion, are in themselves 
 perhaps as laudable as any other virtues ; but 
 those which make a man popular and beloved, 
 are justice, charity, munificence, and, in short, all 
 the good qualities which render us beneficial to 
 each other. For this reason even an extravagant 
 man, who has nothing else to recommend him 
 but a false generosity, is often more beloved and 
 esteemed than a person of a much more finished 
 character, who is defective in this particular. 
 
 The two great ornaments of virtue, which show 
 her in the most advantageous views, and make 
 her altogether lovely, are cheerfulness and good¬ 
 nature. These generally go together, as a man 
 cannot be agreeable to others who is not easy 
 within himself. They are both very requisite in 
 a virtuous mind, to keep out melancholy from the 
 many serious thoughts it is engaged in, and to 
 hinder its natural hatred of vice from souring into 
 severity and censoriousness. 
 
 If virtue is of this amiable nature, what can we 
 think of those who can look upon it with an eye 
 of hatred and ill-will, or can suffer their aversion 
 for a party to blot out all the merit of the person 
 who is engaged in it? A man must be exces¬ 
 sively stupid, as well as uncharitable, who be¬ 
 lieves that there is no virtue but on his own side, 
 and that there are not men as honest as himself 
 who may differ from him in political principles. 
 Men may oppose one another in some particulars, 
 but ought not to carry their hatred to those quali¬ 
 ties which are of so amiable a nature in them¬ 
 selves, and have nothing to do with the points in 
 dispute. Men of virtue, though of different in¬ 
 terests ought to consider themselves as more near¬ 
 ly united with one another, than with the vicious 
 part of mankind, who embark with them in the 
 same civil concerns. We should bear the same 
 love toward a man of honor who is a living an¬ 
 tagonist, which Tully tells us in the fore-men¬ 
 tioned passage, every one naturally does to an 
 enemy that is dead. In short, we should esteem 
 virtue though in a foe, and abhor vice though in a 
 friend. 
 
 I speak this with an eye to those cruel treat¬ 
 ments which men of all sides are apt to give the 
 characters of those who do not agree with them. 
 How many persons of undoubted probity and ex¬ 
 emplary virtue, on either side, are blackened and 
 defamed ? How many men of honor exposed to 
 public obloquy and reproach? Those therefore 
 who are either the instruments or abettors in such 
 infernal dealings, ought to be looked upon as 
 persons who make use of religion to promote their 
 cause, not of their cause to promote religion.—C. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 244.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1711. 
 
 -Judex et callidus audis, 
 
 •lion. 2 Sat. vii, lul. 
 
 A judge of painting you, a connoisseur. 
 
 “ Covent Garden, Dec. 7. 
 
 '* Mu. Spectator, 
 
 “ I cannot, without a double injustice, forbear 
 expressing to you the satisfaction which a whole 
 clan of virtuosos have received from those hints 
 which you have lately given the town on the car¬ 
 toons of the inimitable Raphael. It should, me- 
 thinks, be the business of a Spectator to improve 
 the pleasures of sight, and there cannot be a more 
 immediate way to it thau by recommending the 
 study and observation of excellent drawings and 
 pictures. When I first went to view those of Ra¬ 
 phael which you have celebrated, I must confess I 
 was but barely pleased; the next time I liked 
 them better, but at last, as I grew better acquaint¬ 
 ed with them, I fell deeply in love with them; 
 like wise speeches, they sunk deep into my heart; 
 for you know, Mr. Spectator, that a man of wit 
 may extremely affect one for the present, but if he 
 has not discretion, his merit soon vanishes away; 
 while a wise man that has not so great a stock of 
 wit, shall nevertheless give you a far greater and 
 more lasting satisfaction. Just so it is in a pic¬ 
 ture that is smartly touched, but not well studied; 
 one may call it a witty picture, though the painter 
 in the meantime be in danger of being called a 
 fool. On the other hand, a picture that is tho¬ 
 roughly understood in the whole, and well per¬ 
 formed in the particulars, that is begun on the 
 foundation of geometry, carried on by the rules 
 of perspective, architecture, and anatomy, and 
 perfected by a good harmony, a just and natural 
 coloring, and such passions and expressions of 
 the mind as are almost peculiar to Raphael; this 
 is Avhat you may justly style a wise picture, and 
 which seldom fails to strike us dumb, until we 
 ca/i assemble all our faculties to make but a toler¬ 
 able judgment upon it. Other pictures are made 
 for the eyas only, as rattles are made for children’s 
 ears; and certainly that picture that only pleases 
 the eye, without representing some well-chosen 
 part of nature or other, does but show what fine 
 colors are to be sold at the color-shop, and mocks 
 the works of the Creator. If the best imitator of 
 nature is not to be esteemed the best painter, but 
 he that makes the greatest show and glare of co¬ 
 lors; it will necessarily follow, that he who can 
 array himself in the most gaudy draperies is best 
 drest, and he that can speak loudest the best ora¬ 
 tor. Every man when he looks on a picture 
 should examine it according to that share of rea¬ 
 son he is master of, or he will be in danger of 
 making a wrong judgment. If men as they walk 
 abroad would make more frequent observations on 
 those beauties of Nature which every moment 
 resent themselves to their view, they would be 
 etter judges when they saw her well imitated at 
 home. This would help to correct those errors 
 which most pretenders fall into, who are over- 
 hasty in their judgments, and will not stay to let 
 reason come in for a share in the decision. It is 
 for want of this that men mistake in this case, 
 and in common life, a wild extravagant pencil for 
 one that is truly bold and great, an impudent fel¬ 
 low for a man of true courage and bravery, hasty 
 and unreasonable actions for enterprises of spirit 
 and resolution, gaudy coloring for that which is 
 truly beautiful, a false and insinuating discourse 
 for simple truth elegantly recommended. The 
 parallel will hold through all the parts of life and 
 painting too; and the virtuosos above-mentioned 
 will be glad to see you draw it with your terms of 
 20 
 
 305 
 
 art. As tfie shadows in a picture represent the 
 serious or melancholy, so the lights do the bright 
 and lively thoughts. As there should be but one 
 forcible light in a picture which should catcli the 
 eye and fall on the hero, so there should be but 
 one object of our love, even the Author of nature. 
 These and the like reflections, well improved, 
 might very much contribute to open the beauty of 
 that art, and prevent young people from being 
 poisoned by the ill gusto of an extravagant work¬ 
 man that should be imposed upon us. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble Servant.” 
 
 “Mu. Spectator, 
 
 “ Though I am a woman, yet I am one of those 
 who confess themselves highly pleased with a 
 speculation you obliged the world with some time 
 ago, from an old Greek poet you call Simonides, 
 in relation to the several natures and distinctions 
 of our own sex. I could not but admire how 
 justly the characters of the women in this age 
 fall in with the times of Simonides, there being 
 no one of those sorts I have not some time or 
 other of my life met with a sample of. But, Sir, 
 the subjects of this present address are a set of 
 women, comprehended, I think, in the ninth spe¬ 
 cies of that speculation, called the Apes : the de¬ 
 scription of whom I find to be, ‘ That they are 
 such as are both ugly and ill-natured, who have 
 nothing beautiful themselves, and endeavor to de¬ 
 tract from, or ridicule, everything that appears so 
 in others.’ Now, Sir, this sect, as I have been 
 told, is very frequent in the great town where you 
 live; but as my circumstance in life obliges me 
 to reside altogether in the country, though not 
 many miles from London, 1 cannot have met with 
 a great number of them, nor indeed is it a desira¬ 
 ble acquaintance, as I have lately found by expe¬ 
 rience. You must know, Sir, that at the begin¬ 
 ning of this summer a family of these apes came 
 and settled for the season not far from the place 
 where I live. As they were strangers in the coun¬ 
 try, they were visited by the ladies about them, 
 of whom I was one, with a humanity usual in 
 those who pass most of their time in solitude. 
 The apes lived with us very agreeably our own 
 way until toward the end of the summer, when 
 they began to bethink themselves of returning to 
 town; then it was, Mr. Spectator, that they began 
 to set themselves about the proper and distin¬ 
 guishing business of their character; and as it is 
 said of evil spirits, that they are apt to carry 
 away a piece of the house they are about to leave, 
 the apes, without regard to common mercy, civili¬ 
 ty, or gratitude, thought fit to mimic and fall foul 
 on the faces, dress, and behavior of their innocent 
 neighbors, bestowing abominable censures and 
 disgraceful appellations, commonly called nick¬ 
 names, on all of them; and, in short, like true fine 
 ladies, made their honest plainness and sincerity 
 matter of ridicule. I could not but acquaint you 
 with these grievances, as well as at the desire of 
 all the parties injured, as from my own inclina¬ 
 tion. I hope. Sir, if you cannot propose entirely 
 to reform this evil, you will take such notice of it in 
 some of your future speculations, as may put the 
 deserving part of our sex on their guard against 
 these creatures; and at the same time the apes 
 may be sensible, that this sort of mirth is so far 
 from an innocent diversion, that it is in the high¬ 
 est degree that vice which is said to comprehend 
 all others. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 T. “ CONSTANTIA FlELD.” 
 
306 THE SPE 
 
 No. 245.J TUESDAY, DECEMBER 11,1711. 
 
 Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris. 
 
 Hoa., Ars. Poet., v, 338. 
 
 Fictions, to please, should wear the face of truth. 
 
 There is nothing which one regards so much 
 with an eye of mirth and pity as innocence, when 
 it has in it a dash of folly. At the same time 
 that one esteems the virtue, one is tempted to 
 laugh at the simplicity which accompanies it. 
 When a man is made up wholly of the dove, 
 without the least grain of the serpent in his com¬ 
 position, he becomes ridiculous in many circum¬ 
 stances of life, and very often discredits his best 
 actions. The Cordeliers tell a story of their foun¬ 
 der St. Francis, that as he passed the streets in 
 the dusk of the evening, he discovered a young 
 fellow with a maid in a corner; upon which the 
 good man, say they, lifted up his hands to heaven 
 with secret thanksgiving, that there was still so 
 much Christian charity in the world. The inno¬ 
 cence of the saint made him mistake the kiss of 
 the lover for a salute of charity. I am heartily 
 concerned when 1 see a virtuous man without a 
 competent knowledge of the world; and if there 
 be any use in these my papers, it is this, that 
 without representing vice under any false allur¬ 
 ing notions, they give my reader an insight into 
 the ways of men, and represent human nature in 
 all its changeable colors. The man who has not 
 been engaged in any of the follies of the world, 
 or, as Shakspeare expresses it, “hackney’d in the 
 ways of men,” may here find a picture of its fol¬ 
 lies and extravagances. The virtuous and the in¬ 
 nocent may know in speculation what they could 
 never arrive at by practice, and by this means 
 avoid the snares of the crafty, the corruptions of 
 the vicious, and the reasonings of the prejudiced. 
 Their minds may be opened without being vitia¬ 
 ted. 
 
 it is with an eye to my following correspond¬ 
 ent, Mr. Timothy Doodle, who seems a very well- 
 meaning man, that I have written this short pre¬ 
 face, to which I shall subjoin a letter from the said 
 Mr. Doodle. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 I could heartily wish that you would let us 
 know your opinion upon several innocent diver¬ 
 sions which are in use among us, and which are 
 very proper to pass away a winter night for those 
 who do not care to throw away their time at an 
 opera, or at the play-house. I would gladly 
 know, in particular, what notion you have of hot- 
 cockles; as also, whether you think that questions 
 and commands, mottos, similes, and cross-purpo¬ 
 ses, have not more mirth and wit in them than 
 those public diversions which are grown so very 
 fashionable among us. If you would recommend 
 to our wives and daughters, who read your papers 
 with a great deal of pleasure, some of those 
 sports and pastimes that may be practiced within 
 doors, and by the fire-side, we, who are masters 
 of families, should be hugely obliged to you. I 
 need not tell you that I would have these sports 
 and pastimes not only merry but innocent; for 
 which reason I have not mentioned either whisk 
 or lanterloo, nor indeed so much as one-and- 
 thirty. After having communicated to you my 
 request upon this subject, I will be so free as to 
 tell you how my wife and I pass away these tedi¬ 
 ous winter evenings with a great deal of pleasure. 
 Though she be young and handsome, and good- 
 humored to a miracle, she does not care for gad¬ 
 ding abroad like others of her sex. There is a 
 very friendly man, a colonel in the army, whom I 
 am mightily obliged to for his civilities, that comes 
 
 1TATOR. 
 
 to see me almost every night; for he is not one of 
 those giddy young fellows that cannot live out of a 
 playhouse. When we are together, we very often 
 make a party at Blind-man’s-Buff, which is a sport 
 that I like the better, because there is a good deal 
 of exercise in it. The colonel and I are blinded 
 by turns, and you would laugh your heart out to 
 see what pains* my dear takes to hoodwink us, so 
 that it is impossible for us to see the least glimpse 
 of light. The poor colonel sometimes hits his 
 nose against a post, and makes us die with laugh¬ 
 ing. I have generally had the good luck not to 
 hurt myself, but I am veij often above half an 
 hour before I can catch either of them; for you 
 must know we hide ourselves up and down in cor¬ 
 ners, that we may have the more sport. I only 
 give you this hint as a sample of such innocent 
 diversions as I would have you recommend; and 
 am most esteemed Sir, 
 
 “ Your ever loving Friend, 
 
 “ Timothy Doodle.” 
 
 The following letter was occasioned by my last 
 Thursday’s paper upon the absence of lovers, and 
 the methods therein mentioned of making such 
 absence supportable: 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ Among the several ways of consolation which 
 absent lovers make use of while their souls are in 
 that state of departure, which you say is death in 
 love, there are some very material ones that have 
 escaped your notice. Among these, the first and 
 most received is a crooked shilling, which has ad¬ 
 ministered great comfort to our forefathers, and is 
 still made use of on this occasion with very good 
 effect in most part of her majesty’s dominions. 
 There are some, I know, who think a crown piece 
 cut into two equal parts, and preserved by the dis¬ 
 tant lovers, is of more sovereign virtue than the 
 former. But since opinions are divided in this 
 particular, why may not the same persons make 
 use of both ? The figure of a heart, whether cut 
 in stone or cast in metal, whether bleeding upon 
 an altar, stuck with darts, or held in the hand of 
 a Cupid, has always been looked upon as talisma- 
 nic in distresses of this nature. I am acquainted 
 with many a brave fellow, who carries his mis¬ 
 tress in the lid of his snuff box, and by that expe¬ 
 dient has supported himself under the absence of 
 a whole campaign. For my own part I have tried 
 all these remedies, but never found so much bene¬ 
 fit from any as from a ring, in which my mis¬ 
 tress’s hair is plaited together very artistically in 
 a kind of true-lover’s knot. As 1 have received 
 great benefit from this secret, I think myself 
 obliged to communicate it to the public for the 
 good of my fellow-subjects. I desire you will add 
 this letter as an appendix to your consolations 
 upon absence, and am 
 
 “ Your very humble Servant, 
 
 “ T. B.” 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with a letter from a 
 university gentleman, occasioned by my last 
 Tuesday’s paper, wherein I gave some account of 
 the great feuds which happened formerly in those 
 learned bodies, between the modern Greeks and 
 Trojans. ^ 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ This will give you to understand, that there 
 is at present, in the society whereof I am a mem¬ 
 ber, a very considerable Dody of Trojans, who, 
 upon a proper occasion, would not fail to declare 
 ourselves. In the meanwhile we do all we can to 
 annoy our enemies by stratagem, and are resolved 
 
THE SPE 
 
 by the first opportunity to attack Mr. Joshua 
 Barnes,* whom we look upon as the Achilles of 
 the opposite party. As for myself, I have had the 
 reputation ever since I came from school of being 
 a trusty Trojan, and am resolved never to give 
 uarter to the smallest particle of Greek, wherever 
 chance to meet it. It is for this reason I take it 
 very ill of you, that you sometimes hang out 
 Greek colors at the head of your paper, and some¬ 
 times give a word of the enemy even in the body 
 of it. When I meet with anything of this nature, 
 I throw down your speculations upon the table, 
 with that form of words which we make use of 
 when we declare war upon 2,11 author, 
 
 Graecum est, non potest legi. 
 
 I give you this hint, that you may for the future 
 abstain from any such hostilities at your peril. 
 
 C. “ Troilus.” 
 
 No. 246.] WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 12,1711. 
 
 No amorous hero ever gave thee birth, 
 
 Nor ever tender goddess brought thee forth: 
 
 Some rugged rock’s hard entrails gave thee form, 
 
 And raging seas produced thee in a storm: 
 
 A soul well suiting thy tempestuous kind, 
 
 So rough thy manners, so untam’d thy mind.—P ope. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ As your paper is part of the equipage of the 
 tea-table, I conjure you to print what I now write 
 to you; fori have no other way to communicate 
 what I have to say to the fair sex on the most im¬ 
 portant circumstances of life, even‘the care of 
 children.’ I do not understand that you profess 
 your paper is always to consist of matters which 
 are only to entertain the learned and polite, but 
 that it may agree with your design to publish 
 some which may tend to the information of man¬ 
 kind in general: and when it does so, you do more 
 than writing wit and humor. Give me leave then 
 to tell you, that of all the abuses that ever you 
 have as yet endeavored to reform, certainly not 
 one wanted so much your assistance as the abuse 
 in the nursing of children. It is unmerciful to 
 see, that a woman endowed with all the perfec¬ 
 tions and blessings of nature can, as soon as she 
 is delivered, turn off her innocent, tender, and 
 helpless infant, and give it up to a woman that is 
 (ten thousand to one) neither in health nor good 
 condition, neither sound in mind nor body, that 
 has neither honor nor reputation, neither love nor 
 pity for the poor babe, but more regard for the 
 money than for the whole child, and never will 
 take further care of it than what by all the encou¬ 
 ragement of money and presents she is forced to; 
 like ^Esop’s earth, which would not nurse the plant 
 of another ground, although never so much im¬ 
 proved, by reason that plant was not of its own 
 production. And since another’s child is no more 
 natural to a nurse, than a plant to a strange and 
 different ground, how can it be supposed that the 
 child should thrive : and if it thrives, must it not 
 imbibe the gross humors and qualities of the 
 nurse, like a plant in a different ground, or like a 
 graft upon a different stock ? Do we not observe, 
 that a lamb sucking a goat changes very much its 
 nature, nay even its skin and wool into the goat 
 kind ? The power of a nurse over a child, by in¬ 
 fusing into it with her milk her qualities and dis¬ 
 position, is sufficiently and daily observed. Hence 
 came that old saying concerning an ill-natured 
 and malicious fellow, that‘he had imbibed his 
 malice with his nurse’s milk, or that some brute 
 
 CTATOR. 307 
 
 or other had been his nurse.’ Hence Romulus and 
 Remus were said to have been nursed by a wolf: 
 Telephus the son of Hercules by a hind; Delias 
 the son of Neptune by a mare; and ^Egisthus by a 
 goat; not that they had actually sucked such crea¬ 
 tures, as some simpletons have imagined, but that 
 their nurses had been of such a nature and temper, 
 and infused such into them. 
 
 “Many instances maybe produced from good 
 authorities and daily experience, that children ac¬ 
 tually suck in the several passions and depraved 
 inclinations of their nurses, as anger, malice, fear, 
 melancholy, sadness, desire, and aversion. This 
 Diodorus, lib. 2, witnesses, when he speaks, say¬ 
 ing, that Nero, the emperor’s nurse had been very 
 much addicted to drinking; which habit Nero re¬ 
 ceived from his nurse, and was so very particular 
 in this, that the people took so much notice of it, 
 as instead of Tiberius Nero, they called him Bi- 
 berius Mero. The same Diodorus also relates of 
 Caligula, predecessor to Nero, that his nurse 
 used to moisten the nipples of her breast frequent¬ 
 ly with blood, to make Caligula take the better 
 hold of them: which, says Diodorus, was the 
 cause that made him so blood-thirsty and cruel all 
 his lifetime after, that he not only committed fre¬ 
 quent murder by his own hand, but likewise 
 wished that all human kind wore but one neck, 
 that he might have the pleasure to cut it off. Such¬ 
 like degeneracies astonish the parents, who not 
 knowing after whom the qhild can take, see one 
 incline to stealing, another to drinking, cruelty, 
 stupidity; yet all these are not minded. Nay, it 
 is easy to demonstrate, that a child, although it 
 be born from the best of parents, may be corrupt¬ 
 ed by an ill-tempered nurse. How many children 
 do we see daily brought into fits, consumptions, 
 rickets, &c., merely by sucking their nurses when 
 in a passion or fury? but indeed almost any disor¬ 
 der of the nurse is a disorder to the child, and 
 few nurses can be found in this town but what la¬ 
 bor under some distemper or other. The first 
 question that is generally asked a young woman 
 that wants' to be a nurse, why she should be a 
 nurse to other people’s children, is answered, by 
 her having an ill husband, and that she must 
 make shift to live. I think now this very answer 
 is enough to give anybody a shock, if duly consi¬ 
 dered; for an ill husband may, or ten to one if he 
 does not, bring home to his wife an ill distemper, 
 or at least vexation and disturbance. Beside, as 
 she takes the child out of mere necessity, her food 
 will be accordingly, or else very coarse at best; 
 whence proceeds an ill-concocted and coarse food 
 for the child; for as the blood, so is the milk: and 
 hence I am very well assured proceeds the scur¬ 
 vy, the evil, and many other distempers. I beg 
 of you, for the sake of the many poor infants that 
 may and will be saved by weighing this case seri¬ 
 ously, to exhort the people with the utmost vehe¬ 
 mence, to let the children suck their own mothers,, 
 both for the benefit of mother and child. For the 
 general argument, that a mother is weakened by- 
 giving suck to her children, is vain and simple. I 
 will maintain that the mother grows stronger by 
 it, and will have her health better than she would 
 have otherwise. She will find it the greatest cure 
 and preservative for the vapors and future miscar¬ 
 riages, much beyond any other remedy whatsoev¬ 
 er. Her children will be like giants, whereas oth¬ 
 erwise they are but living shadows, and like 
 unripe fruit; and certainly if a woman is strong 
 enough to bring forth a child, she is beyond all. 
 doubt strong enough to nurse it afterward. It 
 grieves me to observe and consider how many 
 poor children are daily ruined by careless nurses; 
 and yet how tender ought they to be to a poor in- 
 
 * The noted Greek professor of the university of Cambridge. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 308 
 
 fant, since the least hurt or blow, especially upon 
 tlie head, may make it senseless, stupid, or other¬ 
 wise miserable forever! 
 
 “ But I cannot well leave this subject as yet; for 
 it seems to me very unnatural, that a woman that 
 has fed a child as part of herself for nine months, 
 should have no desire to nurse it further, when 
 brought to light and before her eyes, and when by 
 its cry it implores her assistance and the office ol 
 a mother. Do not the very crudest of brutes 
 tend their young ones with all the care and delight 
 imaginable! How can she be called a mother that 
 will° not nurse her young ones ? The earth is 
 called the mother of all things, not because she 
 produces, but because she maintains and nurses 
 what she produces. The generation of the infant 
 is the effect of desire, but the care of it argues 
 virtue and choice. I am not ignorant but that 
 there are some cases of necessity, where a mother 
 cannot give suck, and then out of two evils the 
 least must be chosen; but there are so very few, 
 that I am sure in a thousand there is hardly one 
 real instance; for if a woman does but know that 
 her husband can spare about three or six shillings 
 a week extraordinary (although this is but seldom 
 considered), she certainly, with the assistance of 
 her gossips, will soon persuade the good man to 
 send the child to nurse, and easily impose upon 
 him by pretending indisposition. This cruelty is 
 supported by fashion, and nature gives place to 
 
 custom. ., _ , „ 
 
 q< “ Sir, your humble Servant. 
 
 Ho. 247.] THURSDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1711. 
 
 Their untir’d lips a wordy torrent pour.—H csiod. 
 
 We are told by some ancient authors, that So¬ 
 crates was instructed in eloquence by a woman, 
 whose name, if I am not mistaken, was Aspasia. 
 
 I have indeed very often looked upon that ait. as 
 the most proper for the female sex, and I think 
 the universities would do well to consider whether 
 they should not fill the rhetoric chairs with she- 
 professors. 
 
 It has been said in the praise of some men, that 
 they could talk whole hours together upon any¬ 
 thing; but it must be owned to the honor of the 
 other sex, that there are many among them who 
 can talk whole hours together upon nothing. I 
 have known a woman branch out into a long ex¬ 
 tempore dissertation upon the edging of a petti¬ 
 coat, and chide her servant for breaking a china 
 cup, in all the figures of rhetoric. 
 
 Were women permitted to plead in courts ol ju¬ 
 dicature, I am persuaded they would carry the elo¬ 
 quence of the bar to greater heights than it has 
 et arrived at. If any one doubt this, let him but 
 e present at those debates which frequently arise 
 among the ladies of the British fishery. 
 
 The first kind, therefore, of female orators which 
 I shall take notice of, are those who are employed 
 in stirring up the passions; a part of rhetoric in 
 which Socrates' wife had perhaps made a greater 
 proficiency than his above-mentioned teacher. 
 
 The second kind of female orators are those who 
 deal in invectives, and who are commonly known 
 by the name of the censorious. The imagination 
 and elocution of this sort of rhetoricians is won¬ 
 derful. With what a fluency of invention, anc 
 copiousness of expression, will they enlarge upon 
 every little slip in the behavior of another! With 
 how many different circumstances, and with what 
 variety of phrases, will they tell over the same 
 story! I have known an old lady make an un¬ 
 happy marriage the subject of a month’s conver¬ 
 
 sation. She blamed the bride in one place; pitied 
 her in another; laughed at her in a third; won¬ 
 dered at her in a fourth; was angry with her in a 
 fifth; and, in short, wore out a pair of coach-horses 
 in expressing her concern for her. At length, 
 after having "quite exhausted the subject on this 
 side, she made a visit to the new-married pair, 
 praised the wife for the prudent choice she had 
 made, told her the unreasonable reflections which 
 some malicious people had cast upon her, and de¬ 
 sired that they might be better acquainted. The 
 censure and approbation of this kind of women 
 are therefore only to be considered as helps to dis¬ 
 course. * 
 
 A third kind of female orators may be compre¬ 
 hended under the word gossips. Mrs. Fiddle-Fad¬ 
 dle is perfectly accomplished in this sort of elo¬ 
 quence ; she launches out into descriptions of 
 christenings, runs divisions upon a .head-diess, 
 knows every dish of meat that is served up in our 
 neighborhood, and entertains her company a whole 
 afternoon together with the wit of her little boy, 
 before he is able to speak. 
 
 The coquette may be looked upon as a fourth 
 kind of female orator. To give herself the larger 
 field for discourse, she hates and loves in the same 
 breath, talks to her lap-dog or parrot, is uneasy in 
 all kinds of weather, and in every; part of the 
 room. She has false quarrels and feigned obliga¬ 
 tions to all the men of her acquaintance; sighs 
 when she is not sad, and laughs when she is not 
 merry. The coquette is in particular a great mis¬ 
 tress of that part of oratory whicli is called ac¬ 
 tion, and indeed seems to speak for no other pur¬ 
 pose, but as it gives her an opportunity of stirring 
 a limb, or varying a feature, of glancing her eyes, 
 or playing with her fan. 
 
 As for newsmongers, politicians, mimics, story¬ 
 tellers, with other characters of that nature which 
 give birth to loquacity, they are as commonly 
 found among the men as the women : for which 
 reason I shall pass them over in silence. 
 
 I have often been puzzled to assign a cause why 
 women should have this talent of a ready utter¬ 
 ance in so much greater perfection than men. I 
 have sometimes fancied that they have not a re¬ 
 tentive power, or the faculty of suppressing their 
 thoughts, as men have, but that they are necessi¬ 
 tated to speak everything they think; and if so, 
 it would perhaps furnish a very strong argument 
 to the Cartesians for the supporting of their doc¬ 
 trine that the soul always thinks. But as several 
 are of opinion that the fair sex are not altogether 
 strangers to the art of dissembling and concealing 
 their thoughts, I have been forced to relinquish 
 that opinion, and have therefore endeavored to 
 seek after some better reason. In order to it, a 
 friend of mine, who is an excellent anatomist, has 
 promised me by the first opportunity to dissect a 
 woman’s tongue, and to examine whether there 
 may not be in it certain juices which render it so 
 wonderfully voluble or flippant, or whether the 
 fibers of it may not be made up of a finer or more 
 pliant thread; or whether there are not in it some 
 particular muscles which dart it up and down by 
 such sudden glances and vibrations; or vffiether, 
 in the last place, there, may not be certain Undis¬ 
 covered channels running from the head and the 
 heart to this little instrument of loquacity,.and 
 conveying into it a perpetual affluency of animal 
 spirits. Nor must I omit the reason wdiich Hudi- 
 bras has given, why those who can talk on trifles 
 speak with the greatest fluency.; namely, that the 
 tongue is like a race-horse, which runs the faster 
 the lesser weight it carries. 
 
 Which of these reasons soever may be looked 
 upon as the most probable, I think the Irishman’s 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 thought was very natural, who after some hours’ 
 conversation with a female orator, told her, that 
 he believed her tongue was very glad when she 
 was asleep, for that it had not a moment’s rest all 
 the while she was awake. 
 
 That excellent old ballad of The Wanton Wife 
 of Bath has the following remarkable lines : 
 
 I think, quoth Thomas, women’s tongues 
 Of aspen leaves are made. 
 
 And Ovid, though in the description of a very 
 barbarous circumstance, tells us, that when the 
 tongue of a beautiful female was cut out, and 
 thrown upon the ground, it could not forbear mut¬ 
 tering even in that posture: 
 
 --Comprensam forcipe linguam 
 
 Abstulit ense fero, radix micat ultima linguae. 
 
 Ipsa jacet, terraquae tremens immurmurat atrae; 
 Utque salire solet mutilatm,cauda colubrae 
 Palpitat- Met. vi, 556. 
 
 -The blade had cut 
 
 Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root, 
 
 The mangled part still quiver’d on the ground, 
 Murmuring with a faint imperfect sound; 
 
 And as a serpent writhes his wounded train, 
 
 Uneasy, panting, and possessed with pain.—C roxall. 
 
 If a tongue would be talking without a mouth, 
 what could it have done when it had all its or¬ 
 gans of speech, and accomplices of sound about 
 it? I might here mention the story of the Pippin 
 Woman, had I not some reason to look upon it as 
 fabulous.* 
 
 I must confess I am so wonderfully charmed 
 with the music of this little instrument, that I 
 would by no means discourage it. All that I aim 
 at by this dissertation is, to cure it of several dis¬ 
 agreeable notes, and in particular of those little 
 jarrings and dissonances which arise from anger, 
 censoriousness, gossipping and coquetry. In 
 short, I would always have it tuned by good¬ 
 nature, truth, discretion, and sincerity.—U. 
 
 No. 248.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 14, 1711. 
 
 Hoc maxime officii est, ut quisque maxime opis indigeat, ita 
 ei potissimum opitulari.—T ull., Off. i, 16. 
 
 It is a principal point of duty, to assist another most when 
 he stands most in need of assistance. 
 
 There are none who deserve superiority over 
 others in the esteem of mankind, who do not 
 make it their endeavor to be beneficial to society; 
 and who upon all occasions which their circum¬ 
 stances of life can administer, do not take a cer¬ 
 tain unfeigned pleasure in conferring benefits of 
 one kind or other. Those whose great talents and 
 high birth have placed them in conspicuous sta¬ 
 tions of life are indispensably obliged to exert 
 some noble inclinations for the service of the 
 world, or else such advantages become misfor¬ 
 tunes, and shade and privacy are a more eligible 
 portion. Where opportunities and inclinations 
 are given to the same person, we sometimes see 
 sublime instances of virtue, which so dazzle our 
 imaginations, that we look with scorn on all which 
 in lower scenes of life we may ourselves be able 
 to practice. But this is a vicious way of think¬ 
 ing; and it bears some spice of romantic madness, 
 for a man to imagine that he must grow ambitious, 
 or seek adventures, to be able to do great actions. 
 It is in every man’s power in the world who is above 
 mere poverty, not only to do things worthy, but 
 
 * The crackling crystal yields, she sinks, she dies; 
 
 Her head chopp’d off, from her lost shoulders flies: 
 Pippins she cried, but death her voice confounds, 
 
 And pip-pip-pip along the ice resounds. 
 
 309 
 
 heroic. The great foundation of civil virtue is 
 self-denial; and there is no one above the necessi¬ 
 ties of life, but has opportunities of exercising 
 that noble quality, and doing as much as his cir¬ 
 cumstances will bear for the ease and convenience 
 of other men; and he who does more than ordi¬ 
 nary men practice upon such occasions as occur 
 in his life, deserves the value of his friends, as if 
 he had done enterprises which are usually attend¬ 
 ed with the highest glory. Men of public spirit 
 differ rather in their circumstances than their vir¬ 
 tue; and the man who does all he can, in a low 
 station, is more a hero than he who omits any 
 worthy action he is able to accomplish in a great 
 one. It is not many years ago since Lapirius, in 
 wrong of his elder brother, came to a great, estate 
 by the gift of his father, by reason of the disso¬ 
 lute behavior of the first-born. Shame and con¬ 
 trition reformed the life of the disinherited youth, 
 and he became as remarkable for his good quali¬ 
 ties as formerly for his errors. Lapirius, who 
 observed his brother’s amendment, sent him on a 
 new-year’s day in the morning the following 
 letter: 
 
 “Honored Brother, 
 
 “ I inclose to you the deeds whereby my father 
 gave me this house and land. Had he lived till 
 now, he would not have bestowed it in 4 that man¬ 
 ner; he took it from the man you were, and I re¬ 
 store it to the man you are. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your affectionate brother, 
 
 “ and humble servant, 
 
 “P. T.” 
 
 As great and exalted spirits undertake tire pur¬ 
 suit of hazardous actions for the good of others, 
 at the same time gratifying their passion for glo¬ 
 ry; so do worthy minds in the domestic way of 
 life deny themselves many advantages, to satisfy 
 a generous benevolence, which they bear to their 
 friends oppressed with distresses and calamities. 
 Such natures one may call stories of Providence, 
 which are actuated by a secret celestial influence 
 to undervalue the ordinary gratifications of wealth, 
 to give comfort to a heart loaded with affliction, to 
 save a falling family, to preserve a branch of 
 trade in their neighborhood, to give work to the 
 industrious, preserve the portion of the helpless 
 infant, and raise the head of the mourning father. 
 People whose hearts are wholly bent toward plea¬ 
 sure, or intent upon gain, never hear of the noble 
 occurrences among men of industry and humani- 
 tv. It would look like a city romance, to tell 
 tliem of the generous merchant, who the other 
 day sent his billet to an eminent trader, under diffi¬ 
 culties to support himself, in whose fall many 
 hundreds beside himself had perished; but be¬ 
 cause I think there is more spirit and true gal¬ 
 lantry in it than in any letter I have ever read from 
 Streplion to Phillis, I shall insert it even in the 
 mercantile honest style in which it was sent: 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I have heard of the casualties which have in¬ 
 volved you in extreme distress at this time; and 
 knowing you to be a man of great good-nature, in¬ 
 dustry, and probity, have resolved to stand by 
 you. Be of good cheer; the bearer brings with 
 him five thousand pounds, and has my order to 
 answer your drawing as much more on my account. 
 
 I did this in haste, for fear I should come too late 
 for your relief; but you may value yourself with 
 me to the sum of fifty thousand pounds; for I can 
 very cheerfully run the hazard of being so much 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 310 
 
 less rich than I am now, to save an honest man 
 whom I love. 
 
 “Your Friend and Servant, 
 
 “W. S”* 
 
 I think there is somewhere in Montaigne, men¬ 
 tion made of a family-book, wherein all the occur¬ 
 rences that happened from one generation of that 
 house to another were recorded. Were there such 
 a method in the families which are concerned in 
 this generosity, it would be a hard task for the 
 greatest in Europe to give in their own, an in¬ 
 stance of a benefit better placed, or conferred with 
 a more graceful air. It has been heretofore urged 
 how barbarous and inhuman is any unjust step 
 made to the disadvantage of a trader; and by how 
 much such an act toward him is detestable, by so 
 much of an act of kindness toward him is lauda¬ 
 ble. I remember to have heard a bencher of the 
 Temple tell a story of a tradition in their house, 
 where they had formerly a custom of choosing 
 kings for such a season, and allowing him his ex¬ 
 penses at the charge of the society. One of our 
 kings,f said my friend, carried his royal inclina¬ 
 tion a little too far, and there was a committee or¬ 
 dered to look into the management of his treasury. 
 Among other things it appeared, that his majesty 
 walking incog, in the cloister, had overheard a 
 poor man say to another, “ Such a small sum 
 would make me the happiest man in the world.’’ 
 The king, out of his royal compassion, privately 
 inquired into his character, and finding him a 
 proper object of charity, sent him the money. 
 When the committee read the report, the house 
 passed his accounts with a plaudite without further 
 examination, upon the recital of this article in 
 them : 
 
 For making a man happy.£10 0 0 
 
 T. 
 
 Ho. 249.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1711. 
 
 Mirth out of 6eason is a grievous ill.—F rag. Yet. Poet. 
 
 When I make a choice of a subject that has not 
 been treated on by others, I throw together my re¬ 
 flections on it without any order or method, so that 
 they may appear rather in the looseness and free¬ 
 dom of an essay, than in the regularity of a set 
 discourse. It is after this manner that I shall 
 consider laughter and ridicule in my present 
 paper. 
 
 Man is the merriest species of the creation; all 
 above and below him are serious. He sees things 
 in a different light from other beings, and finds 
 his mirth arising from objects that perhaps cause 
 something like pity or displeasure in higher na¬ 
 tures. Laughter is indeed a very good counter¬ 
 poise to the spleen; and it seems but reasonable 
 that we should be capable of receiving joy from 
 what is no real good to us, since we can receive 
 grief from what is no real evil. 
 
 I have in my forty-seventh paper raised a specu¬ 
 lation on the notion of a modern philosopher,^ 
 who describes the first motive of laughter to be a 
 secret comparison which we make between our¬ 
 selves and the persons we laugh at; or, in other 
 words, that satisfaction wlxich we receive from the 
 opinion of some pre-eminence in ourselves, when 
 we see the absurdities of another, or when we re¬ 
 
 * The merchant involved in distress by casualties was one 
 Mr. Moreton, a linen-draper; and the generous merchant, 
 here so justly celebrated, was Sir William Scawen. 
 
 f This king, it is said, was beau Nash, director of the pub¬ 
 lic diversions at Bath, who was in King William’s time a stu¬ 
 dent in the Temple, 
 t Hobbes. 
 
 fleet on any past absurdities of our own. This 
 seems to hold in most cases, and we may observe 
 that the vainest part of mankind are the most ad¬ 
 dicted to this passion. 
 
 I have read a sermon of a conventual in the 
 church of Rome, on those words of the wise man, 
 “ I said of Laughter, it is mad ; and of mirth, 
 what does it?” Upon which he laid it down as a 
 point of doctrine, that laughter was the effect of 
 original sin, and that Adam could not laugh be¬ 
 fore the fall. 
 
 Laughter, while it lasts, slackens and unbraces 
 the mind, weakens the faculties, and causes a kind 
 of remissness and dissolution in all the powers of 
 the soul; and thus far it may be looked upon as a 
 weakness in the composition of human nature. 
 But if we consider the frequent reliefs we receive 
 from it, and how often it breaks the gloom which 
 is apt to depress the mind and damp our spirits, 
 with transient, unexpected gleams of joy, one 
 would take care not to grow too wise for so great 
 a pleasure of life. 
 
 The talent of turning men into ridicule, and ex¬ 
 posing to laughter those one converses with, is the 
 qualification of little ungenerous tempers. A 
 young man with this cast of mind cuts himself 
 off from all manner of improvement. Every one 
 has his flaws and weaknesses: nay, the greatest 
 blemishes are often found in the most shining 
 characters; but what an absurd thing is it to pass 
 over all the valuable parts of a man, and fix our 
 attention on his infirmities ? to observe his imper¬ 
 fections more than his virtues ? and to make use 
 of him for the sport of others, rather than for our 
 own improvement ? 
 
 We therefore very often find that persons the 
 most accomplished in ridicule are those that are 
 very shrewd at hitting a blot, without exerting any¬ 
 thing masterly in themselves. As there are many 
 eminent critics who never wrote a good line, there 
 are many admirable buffoons that animadvert upon 
 every single defect in another, without ever disco¬ 
 vering the last beauty of their own. By this 
 means, these unlucky little wits often gain repu¬ 
 tation in the esteem of vulgar minds, and raise 
 themselves above persons of much more laudable 
 characters. 
 
 If the talent of ridicule were employed to laugh 
 men out of vice and folly, it might be of some 
 use to the world; but instead of this, we find that 
 it is generally made use of to laugh men out of 
 virtue and good sense, by attacking everything 
 that is solemn and serious, decent and praise¬ 
 worthy in human life. 
 
 We may observe that in the first ages of the 
 world, when the great souls and master-pieces of 
 human nature were produced, men shined by a 
 noble simplicity of behavior, and were strangers 
 to those little embellishments which are so fash 
 ionable in our present conversation. And it is very 
 remarkable, that notwithstanding we fall short 
 at present of the ancients in poetry, painting, ora¬ 
 tory, history, architecture, and all the noble arts 
 and sciences which depend more upon genius than 
 experience, we exceed them as much in doggerel 
 humor, burlesque, and all the trival arts of ridi¬ 
 cule. We meet with more railleiy among the 
 moderns, but more good sense among the ancients. 
 
 The two great branches of ridicule in writing 
 are comedy and burlesque. The first ridicules 
 persons by drawing them in their proper charac¬ 
 ters, the other by drawing them quite unlike them¬ 
 selves. Burlesque is therefore of two kinds; the 
 first represents mean persons in the accouterments 
 of heroes; the other describes great persons acting 
 and speaking like the basest among the people. 
 Don Quixote is an instance of the first, and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Lucian’s gods of the second. It is a dispute 
 among the critics, whether burlesque poetry runs 
 best in heroic verse, like that of the Dispensary; 
 or in doggerel, like that of Hudibras. I think, 
 where the Tow character is to be raised, the heroic 
 is the proper measure; but when a hero is to be 
 pulled down and degraded, it is done best in dog- 
 gerel. 
 
 If Hudibras had been set out with as much wit 
 and humor in neroic verse as he is in doggerel, he 
 would have made a much more agreeable figure 
 than he does; though the generality of his readers 
 are so wonderfully pleased with the double rhymes, 
 that I do not expect many will be of my opinion 
 in this particular. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay upon laughter with 
 observing that the metaphor of laughing, applied 
 to fields and meadows when they are in flower, or 
 to trees when they are in blossom, runs through 
 all languages; which I have not observed of any 
 other metaphor, excepting that of fire and burning 
 when they are applied to love. This shows that 
 we naturally regard laughter, as what is in itself 
 both amiable and beautiful. For this reason like¬ 
 wise Venus has gained the title of Philomedes 
 “the laughter-loving dame,” as Waller has trans¬ 
 lated it, and is represented by Horace as the god¬ 
 dess who delights in laughter. Milton, in a joy 
 ous assembly of imaginary persons, has given us 
 a very poetical figure of Laughter. His whole 
 band of mirth is so finely described, that I shall 
 set down the passage at length: 
 
 But come, thou goddess fair and free 
 In heaven ycleped* Euphrosyne, 
 
 And by men, heart-easing mirth, 
 
 Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
 With two sister Graces more, 
 
 To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore. 
 
 Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
 Jest and youthful jollity, 
 
 Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
 
 Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, 
 
 Such as hung on Hebe’s cheek, 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek; 
 
 Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides; 
 
 Come, and trip it as you go, 
 
 On the light fantastic toe; 
 
 And in thy right hand lead with thee 
 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; 
 
 And if I give thee honor due, 
 
 Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
 
 To live with her, and live with thee, 
 
 In unreproved pleasures, free. 
 
 C. L’ Allegro, v, 11, etc. 
 
 No. 250.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1711. 
 
 Disce docendus adhuc, quae censet amiculus, ut si 
 Caucus iter monstrare velit; tamen aspice si quid 
 Et nos, quod cures proprium fecisse, loquamur, 
 
 Hor. Ep. 1, xvii, 3. 
 
 Yet hear what an unskillful friend can say: 
 
 As if a blind man should direct your way; 
 
 So I myself, though wanting to be taught, 
 
 May yet impart a hint that’s worth your thought. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You see the nature of my request by the Latin 
 motto which I address to you. I am very sensible 
 I ought not to use many words to you, who are 
 one of but few; but the following piece, as it re¬ 
 lates to speculation, in propriety of speech, being 
 a curiosity in kind, begs your patience. It was 
 found in a poetical virtuoso’s closet among his 
 rarities; and since the several treatises of thumbs, 
 ears, and noses, have obliged the world, this of 
 eyes is at your service. 
 
 “The first eye of consequence (under the invi¬ 
 
 * i. e. called-Euphrosyne is the name of one of the 
 
 Graces. 
 
 311 
 
 sible Author of all) is the visible luminary of the 
 universe. This glorious Spectator is said never 
 to open his eyes at his rising in a morning, with¬ 
 out having a whole kingdom of .adorers in Per¬ 
 sian silk waiting at his levee. Millions of crea¬ 
 tures derive their sight from this original, who 
 beside his being the great director of optics, is the 
 surest test whether eyes be of the same species 
 with that of an eagle, or that of an owl. The one 
 he emboldens with a manly assurance to look, 
 speak, act, or plead, before the faces of a numer¬ 
 ous assembly; the other he dazzles out of counte¬ 
 nance into a sheepish dejectedness. The sun¬ 
 proof eye dares lead up a dance in a full court: 
 and without blinking at the luster of beauty, can 
 distribute an eye of proper complaisance to a 
 room crowded with company, each of which de¬ 
 serves particular regard; while the other sneaks 
 from conversation; like a fearful debtor who never 
 dares look out, but when he can see nobody, and 
 nobody him. 
 
 “ The next instance of optics is the famous Ar¬ 
 gus, who (to speak in the language of Cambridge) 
 was one of a hundred; and being used as a spy in 
 the affairs of jealousy, was obliged to have all his 
 eyes about him. We have no account of the par¬ 
 ticular colors, casts, and turns, of this body of 
 eyes; but as he was pimp for his mistress Juno, it 
 is probable he used all the modern leers, sly 
 glances, and other ocular activities, to serve his 
 purpose. Some look upon him as the then king 
 at arms to the heathenish deities: and make no 
 more of his eyes than of so many spangles of his 
 herald’s coat. 
 
 “ The next upon the optic list is old Janus, who 
 stood in a double-sighted capacity, like a person 
 placed betwixt two opposite looking-glasses, and 
 so took a sort of retrospective cast at one view. 
 Copies of this double-faced way are not yet out 
 of fashion with many professions, and the in¬ 
 genious artists pretend to keep up this species by 
 double-headed canes and spoons; but there is no 
 mark of this faculty, except in the emblematical 
 way, of a wise general having an eye to both front 
 ana rear, or a pious man taking a review and pros¬ 
 pect of his past and future state at the same time. 
 
 “ I must own, that the names, colors, qualities 
 and turns of eyes, vary almost in every head; for, 
 not to mention the common appellations of the 
 black, and the blue, the white, the gray, and the 
 like; the most remarkable are those that borrow 
 their titles from animals, by virtue of some par¬ 
 ticular quality of resemblance they bear to the 
 eyes of the respective creatures; as that of a 
 greedy rapacious aspect takes its name from the 
 cat, that of a sharp piercing nature from the hawk, 
 those of an amorous roguish look derive their 
 title even from the sheep, and we say such-a-one 
 has a sheep’s-eye, n'ot so much to denote the in¬ 
 nocence, as the simple slyness, of the cast. Nor 
 is this metaphorical inoculation a modern inven¬ 
 tion, for we find Homer taking the freedom to 
 place the eye of an ox, bull, or cow, in one of his 
 principal goddesses, by that frequent expression 
 of 
 
 The ox-eyed venerable Juno. 
 
 “Now as to the peculiar qualities of the eye, 
 that fine part of our constitution seems as much 
 the receptacle and seat of our passions, ap¬ 
 petites, and inclinations, as the mind itself; at 
 feast it is the outward portal to introdnee them to 
 the house within, or rather the common thorough¬ 
 fare to let our affections pass in and out. Love, 
 anger, pride, and avarice, all visibly move in those 
 little orbs. I know a young lady that cannot see 
 a certain gentleman pass by without showing a 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 12 
 
 secret desire of seeing, him again by a dance in j 
 her eye-balls, nay, she cannot, for the heart of her, 
 help looking half a street’s length after any man 
 in a gay dress. You cannot behold a covetous 
 spirit walk by a goldsmith’s shop without casting 
 a wishful eye at the heaps upon the counter. 
 Does not a haughty person show the temper of 
 his soul in the supercilious roll of his eye? and 
 how frequently in the height of passion does that 
 moving picture in our head start and stare, gather 
 a redness and quick flashes of lightning, and 
 make all its humors sparkle with fire, as Virgil 
 finely describes it, 
 
 -Ardentis ab ore 
 
 Scintillas absistunt: oculis micat acribus ignis. 
 
 iEN., xii, 101. 
 
 -From his wide nostrils flies 
 
 A fiery stream, and sparkles from his eyes. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 “As for the various turns of the eyesight, such 
 as the voluntary or involuntary, the half or the 
 whole leer, I shall not enter into a very particular 
 account of them; but let me observe, that oblique 
 vision, when natural, was anciently the mark of 
 bewitchery and magical fascination, and to this 
 day it is a malignant ill look ; but when it is 
 forced and affected, it carries a wanton design, and 
 in playhouses, and other public places, this ocu¬ 
 lar intimation is often an assignation for bad 
 practices. But this irregularity in vision, to¬ 
 gether with such enormities, as tipping the wink, 
 the circumspective roll, the side-peep through a 
 thin hood or fan, must be put in the class of He- 
 teroptics, as all wrong notions of religion are 
 ranked under the general name of Heterodox. All 
 the pernicious applications of sight are more im¬ 
 mediately under the direction of a Spectator, and 
 I hope you will arm your readers against the 
 mischiefs which are daily done by killing eyes, 
 in which you will highly oblige your wounded 
 unknown friend, “T. B.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You professed in several papers your particu¬ 
 lar endeavors in the province of Spectator, to cor¬ 
 rect the offenses committed by Starers, who dis¬ 
 turb whole assemblies without any regard to time, 
 place, or modesty. You complained also, that 
 a starer is not usually a person to be convinced 
 by the reason of the thing, nor so easily rebuked 
 as to amend by admonitions. I thought therefore 
 fit to acquaint you with a convenient mechanical 
 way, which may easily prevent or correct staring, 
 by an optical contrivance of new perspective- 
 glasses, short and commodious like opera glasses, 
 fit for short-sighted people as well as others, these 
 glasses making the objects appear either as they 
 are seen by the naked eye, or njore distinct, though 
 somewhat less than life, or bigger and nearer. A 
 person may, by the help of this invention, take a 
 view of another without the impertinence of - 
 staring; at the same time it shall not be possible 
 to know whom or what he is looking at. One 
 may look toward his right or left hand, when he 
 is supposed to look forward. This is set forth at 
 large in the printed proposals for the sale of these 
 glasses, to be had at Mr. Dillon’s in Longacre, 
 next to the White Hart. Now, Sir, as your Spec¬ 
 tator has occasioned the publishing of this inven¬ 
 tion for the benefit of modest spectators, the in¬ 
 ventor desires your admonitions concerning the 
 decent use of it; and hopes, by your recommenda¬ 
 tion, that for the future beauty may be beheld 
 without the torture and confusion which it suffers 
 from the insolence of starers. By this means you 
 will relieve the innocent from an insult which 
 theie is no law to punish, though it is a greater 
 
 offense than many which are within the cogni¬ 
 zance of justice.” 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble servant 
 Q. “Abraham Spy.’* 
 
 No. 251] TUESDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1711. 
 
 -Linguae centum sunt, oraque centum, 
 
 Ferrea vox - Virg. iEn., vi, 625. 
 
 -A hundred mouths, a hundred tongues, 
 
 And throats of brass inspir’d with iron lungs.— Dryden. 
 
 There is nothing which more astonishes a fo¬ 
 reigner, and frights a country ’squire, than the 
 Cries of London. My good friend Sir Roger often 
 declares that he cannot get them out of his head 
 or go to sleep for them, the first week that he is in 
 town. On the contrary, Will Honeycomb calls 
 them the Ramage de la Ville, and prefers them to 
 the sound of larks and nightingales, with all the 
 music of fields and woods. I have lately received 
 a letter from some very odd fellow upon this sub¬ 
 ject, which I shall leave with my reader, without 
 saying anything further of it. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I am a man out of all business, and wotfld 
 willingly turn my head to anything for an 
 honest livelihood. I have invented several pro¬ 
 jects for raising many millions of money without 
 burdening the subject, but I cannot get the par¬ 
 liament to listen to me, who look upon me, for¬ 
 sooth, as a crack, and a projector; so that despair¬ 
 ing to enrich either myself or my country by this 
 public-spiritedness, I would make some proposals 
 to you relating to a design which I have very 
 much at heart, and which may procure me a 
 handsome subsistence, if you will be pleased to 
 recommend it to the cities of London and West¬ 
 minster. 
 
 “The post I would aim at, is to be comptroller- 
 general of the London Cries, which are at present 
 under no manner of rules or discipline. I think 
 I am pretty well qualified for this place, as being 
 a man of very T strong lungs, of great insight into 
 all the branches of our British trades and manu¬ 
 factures, and of a competent skill in music. 
 
 “ The Cries of London may be divided into 
 vocal and instrumental. As for the latter, they 
 are at present under a very great disorder. A 
 freeman of London has the privilege of disturb¬ 
 ing a whole street for an hour together, with a 
 twanking of a brass kettle or fryingpan. The 
 watchman’s thump at midnight startles us in our 
 beds as much as the breaking in of a thief. The 
 sowgelder’s horn has indeed something musical 
 in it, but this is seldom heard within the liberties. 
 I would therefore propose, that no instrument of 
 this nature should be made use of, which I have 
 not tuned and licensed, after having carefully ex¬ 
 amined in what manner it may affect the ears of 
 her majesty’s liege subjects. 
 
 “ Vocal cries are of a much larger extent, and 
 indeed so full of incongruities and barbarisms, 
 that we appear a distracted city to foreigners, who 
 do not comprehend the meaning of such enormous 
 outcries. Milk is generally sold in a note above 
 E-la, and in sounds so exceedingly shrill, that it 
 sets our teeth on edge. The chimney-sweeper is 
 confined to no certain pitch ; he sometimes utters 
 himself in the deepest bass, and sometimes in the 
 sharpest treble; sometimes in the highest, and 
 sometimes in the lowest note of the gamut. The 
 same observation might be made on the retailers 
 of small coal, not to mention broken glasses, or 
 brick-dust. In these, therefore, and the like 
 cases, it should be my care to sweeten and mellow 
 the voices of these itinerant tradesmen, before 
 
THE SPE 
 
 they make their appearanceyn our streets, as also 
 to accommodate their cries to their respective 
 wares, and to take care in particular, that those 
 may not make the most noise who have the least 
 to sell, which is very observable in the venders of 
 card-matches, to whom I cannot but apply that 
 old proverb of ‘ Much cry, but little wool.’ 
 
 “ Some of these last mentioned musicians are 
 so very loud in the sale of these trifling manufac¬ 
 tures, that an honest splenetic gentleman of my 
 acquaintance bargained with one of them never 
 to come into the street where he lived. But 
 what was the effect of this contract ? W hy the 
 whole tribe of card-matchmakers which frequent 
 that quarter passed by his door the very next 
 day, in hopes of being bought off after the same 
 manner. 
 
 “ It is another great imperfection in our Lon¬ 
 don Cries, that there is no just time nor measure 
 observed in them. Our news should indeed be 
 published in a very quick time, because it is a 
 commodity that will not keep cold. It should 
 not, however, be cried with the same precipitation 
 as five. Yet this is generally the case. A bloody 
 battle alarms the town from one end to another in 
 an instant. Every motion of the French is pub¬ 
 lished in so great a hurry, that one would think 
 the enemy were at our gates. This likewise I 
 would take upon me to regulate in such a man¬ 
 ner, that there should be some distinction made 
 between the spreading of a victory, a march, or 
 an encampment, a Dutch, a Portugal, or a Span¬ 
 ish mail. Nor must I omit under this head those 
 excessive alarms with which several boisterous 
 rustics infest our streets in turnip season ; and 
 which are more inexcusable, because they are 
 wares which are in no danger of cooling upon 
 their hands. 
 
 “ There are others wdio affect a very slow time, 
 and are in my opinion much more tunable than 
 the former. The cooper in particular swells his 
 last note in a hollow voice, that is not without its 
 harmony ; nor can I forbear being inspired with 
 a most agreeable melancholy, when I hear that 
 sad and solemn air with which the public are 
 very often asked, if they have any chairs to 
 mend ? Your own memory may suggest to you 
 many other lamentable ditties of the same nature, 
 in which the music is wonderfully languishing 
 and melodious. 
 
 “ I am always pleased with that particular 
 time of the year which is proper for the pickling 
 of dill and cucumbers ; but alas ! this cry, like 
 the song of the nightingale, is not heard above 
 two months. It would therefore be worth while 
 to consider, whether the same air might not in 
 some cases be adapted to other w r ords. 
 
 “It might likewise deserve our most serious 
 consideration, how far, in a well regulated city, 
 those humorists are to be tolerated, who, not con¬ 
 tented with the traditional cries of their forefath¬ 
 ers, have invented particular songs and tunes of 
 their own : such as was, not many years since, 
 the pastry-man, commonly known by the name 
 of the Colly-Molly-Puff: * and such as is at this 
 day the vender of powder and wash-balls, who, if 
 1' am rightly informed, goes under the name of 
 Powder-Wat. 
 
 “ I must not here omit one particular absurdity 
 which runs through this whole vociferous genera¬ 
 tion, and which renders their cries very often not 
 
 * This little man was but just able to support the basket 
 of pastry which he carried on his head, and sung in a very 
 peculiar tone the cant words which passed into his name 
 Colly-Molly-Puff. There is a half-sheet print of him in the 
 Set of London Cries, M. Lauron, del P. Tempest, exc. Gran¬ 
 ger’s Biographical History of England. 
 
 CTATOR. 313 
 
 only incommodious, but altogether useless to the 
 public. J mean that idle accomplishment which 
 they all of them aim at, of crying so as not to be 
 understood. Whether or no they have learned 
 this from several of our affected singers, I will 
 not take upon me to say ; but most certain it is, 
 that people know the wares they deal in rather by 
 their tunes than by their w^rds ; insomuch that I 
 have sometimes seen a country boy run out to buy 
 apples ot a bellows-mender, and gingerbread from 
 a grinder of knives and scissors. Nay, so 
 strangely infatuated are some very eminent ar¬ 
 tists of this very particular grace in a cry, that 
 none but their acquaintance are able to guess at 
 their profession ; for who else can know, that 
 ‘ work if I had it’ should be the signification of 
 a corn-cutter ? 
 
 “ Forasmuch, therefore, as persons of this rank 
 are seldom men of genius or capacity I think it 
 would be very proper that some men of good sense 
 and sound judgment should preside over these 
 public cries, who should permit none to lift up 
 their voices in our streets, that have not tunable 
 throats, and are not only able to overcome the 
 noise of the crowd, and the rattling of coaches, 
 but also to vend their respective merchandises in 
 apt phrases and in the most distinct and agreeable 
 sounds. I do therefore humbly recommend my¬ 
 self as a person rightly qualified for this post ; and 
 if I meet with fitting encouragement, shall com¬ 
 municate some other projects which I have by me, 
 that may no less conduce to the emolument of the 
 public. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, etc. 
 
 C. “ Ralph Crotchet.’* 
 
 No. 252. ] WEDNESDAY, DEC. 19, 1711. 
 
 Erranti, passimque oculos per cuncta ferenti. 
 
 V mo. iEn., ii, 570. 
 
 Exploring every place with curious eyes.* 
 
 “Mr Spectator, 
 
 “I am very sorry to find by your discourse 
 upon the eye, that you have not thoroughly stud¬ 
 ied the nature and force of that part of a beaute¬ 
 ous face. Had you ever been in love, you would 
 have said ten thousand things, which it seems did 
 not occur to you. Do but reflect upon the non¬ 
 sense it makes men talk ; the flames which it is 
 said to kindle, the transport it raises, the dejection 
 it causes in the bravest men, and if you do be¬ 
 lieve those things are expressed to an extrava¬ 
 gance, yet you will own, that the influence of it 
 is very great, which moves men to that extrava¬ 
 gance. Certain it is, that the whole strength of 
 the mind is sometimes seated there ; that a kind 
 look imparts all that a year’s discourse could give 
 you, in one moment. What matters it what she 
 says to you ? ‘ see how she looks,’ is the language 
 of all who know what love is. When the mind 
 is thus summed up, and expressed in a glance, did 
 you never observe a sudden joy arise in the coun¬ 
 tenance of a lover ? Did you never see the at¬ 
 tendance of years paid, overpaid in an instant? 
 You a Spectator, and not know that the intelli¬ 
 gence of the affection is carried on by the eye 
 only ; that good-breeding has made the tongue 
 falsify the heart, and act a part of continual re¬ 
 straint, while nature has preserved the eyes to 
 
 * ADAPTED. 
 
 With various power the wonder-working eye 
 Can awe, or soothe, reclaim, or lead astray. 
 
 The motto in the original folio was different, and likewise 
 taken from Virg., Eel. iii, 103. 
 
 Nescio quis teneros oculus mihi fascinat agnos. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 314 
 
 herself, that she may not be disguised or misrep¬ 
 resented. The poor bride can give her hand, and 
 say, * I do,’ with a languishing air, to the man she 
 is obliged by cruel parents to take for mercenary 
 reasons, but at the same time she cannot look as 
 if she loved ; her eye is full of sorrow, and reluc¬ 
 tance sits in a tear, while the offering of a sacrifice 
 is performed in what jve call the marriage cere¬ 
 mony. Do you never go to plays ? Cannot you 
 distinguish between the eyes of those who go to 
 see, from those who come to be seen ? I am a 
 woman turned of thirty, and am on the observa¬ 
 tion a little ; therefore, if you or your correspond¬ 
 ent had consulted me in your discourse on the 
 eye, I could have told you that the eye of Leonora 
 is slily watchful while it looks negligent; she 
 looks round her without the help of the glasses 
 you speak of, and yet seems to be employed on 
 objects directly before her. This eye is what af¬ 
 fects chance-medley, and on a sudden, as if it at¬ 
 tended to another thing, turns all its charms 
 against an ogler. The eye of Lusitania is an in¬ 
 strument of premeditated murder ; but the design 
 being visible, destroys the execution of it; and 
 with much more beauty than that of Leonora, it 
 is not half so mischievous. There is a brave sol¬ 
 dier’s daughter in town, that by her eye has been 
 the death of more than ever her father made fly 
 before him. A beautiful eye makes silence elo¬ 
 quent, a kind eye makes contradiction an assent, 
 an enraged eye makes beauty deformed. This 
 little member gives life to every other part about 
 us, and I believe the story of Argus implies no 
 more, than that the eye is in every part; that is to 
 say, every other part would be mutilated, were not 
 its force represented more by the eye than even by 
 itself. But this is heathen Greek to those who 
 have not conversed by glances. This, Sir, is a 
 language in which there can be no deceit, nor can 
 a skillful observer be imposed upon by looks, even 
 among politicians and courtiers. If you do me 
 the honor to print this among your speculations, 
 I shall in my next make you a present of secret 
 history, by translating all the looks of the next 
 assembly of ladies and gentlemen into words, to 
 adorn some future paper. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your faithful Friend, 
 
 “Mary Heartfree.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have a sot of a husband that lives a very 
 scandalous life : who wastes away his body and 
 fortune in debaucheries ; and is immovable to all 
 the arguments that I can urge to him. I would 
 gladly know whether in some cases a cudgel 
 may not be allowed as a good figure of speech, 
 and whether it may not be lawfully used by a 
 •female orator. 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Barbara Crabtree.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Though I am a practitioner in the law of some 
 standing, and have heard many eminent pleaders 
 in my time, as well as other eloquent speakers of 
 both universities, yet I agree with you, that wo¬ 
 men are better qualified to succeed in oratory than 
 the men, and believe this is to be resolved into 
 natural causes. You have mentioned only the 
 volubility of their tongues ; but what do you 
 think of the silent flattery of their pretty faces, 
 and the persuasion which even an insipid dis¬ 
 course carries with it when flowing from beautiful 
 lips, to which it would be cruel to deny anything ? 
 It is certain, too, that they are possessed of some 
 springs of rhetoric which men want, such as tears, 
 fainting fits, and the like, which I have seen em¬ 
 
 ployed upon occasion, with good success. Yon 
 must know that I am a plain man, and love mj 
 money ; yet I have a spouse who is so great an 
 orator in this way, that she draws from me what 
 sum she pleases. Every room in my house is fur¬ 
 nished with trophies of her eloquence, rich cabi¬ 
 nets, piles of china, japan screens, and costly jars; 
 and if you were to come into my great parlor, you 
 would fancy yourself in an India warehouse. 
 Beside this she keeps a squirrel, and I am 
 doubly taxed to pay for the china he breaks. She 
 is seized with periodical fits about the time of the 
 subscriptions to a new opera, and is drowned in 
 tears alter having seen any woman there in finer 
 clothes than herself. These are arts of persua¬ 
 sion purely feminine, and which a tender heart 
 cannot resist. What I would therefore desire of 
 you, is, to prevail with your friend who has pro¬ 
 mised to dissect a female tongue, that he would 
 at the same time give us the anatomy of the fe¬ 
 male eye, and explain the springs and sluices 
 which feed it with such ready supplies of moist¬ 
 ure ; and likewise show by what means, if possi¬ 
 ble, they may be stopped at a reasonable expense. 
 Or indeed, since there is something so moving in 
 the very image of weeping beauty, it would be 
 worthy his art to provide, that these eloquent 
 drops may no more be lavished on trifles, or em¬ 
 ployed as servants to their wayward wills ; but 
 reserved for serious occasions in life, to adorn 
 generous pity, true penitence, or real sorrow. 
 
 T. “ I am,” etc. 
 
 Ho. 253.] THURSDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1711 
 
 Indignor quicquam reprehendi, non quia crasse 
 Compositum, illepideve putetur, sed quia nuper. 
 
 Hoe. 1 Ep. ii, 76. 
 
 I feel my honest indignation rise, 
 
 When with affected air a coxcomb cries, 
 
 The work I own has elegance and ease, 
 
 But sure no modern should presume to please. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 There is nothing which more denotes a great 
 mind than the abhorrence of envy and detraction. 
 This passion reigns more among bad poets than 
 any other set of men. 
 
 As there are none more ambitious of fame than 
 those who are conversant in poetry, it is very 
 natural for such as have not succeeded in it, to de¬ 
 preciate those who have. For since they cannot 
 raise themselves to the reputation of their fellow- 
 writers, they must endeavor to sink that to their 
 own pitch, if they would still keep themselves 
 upon a level with them. 
 
 The greatest wits that ever were produced in 
 one age, lived together in so good an understand¬ 
 ing, and celebrated one another with so much 
 generosity, that each of them receives an additional 
 luster from his cotemporaries, and is more famous 
 tor having lived with men of so extraordinary a 
 genius, than if he had himself been the sole won¬ 
 der of the age. I need not tell my reader, that I 
 here point at the reign of Augustus; and I believe 
 he will be of my opinion, that neither Virgil nor 
 Horace would have gained so great a reputation 
 in the world, had they not been the friends and 
 admirers of each other. Indeed all the great 
 writers of that age, for whom singly we have so 
 great an esteem, stand up together as vouchers for 
 one another’s reputation. But at the same time 
 that Virgil was celebrated by Gallus, Propertius, 
 Horace, Varius, Tucca, and Ovid, we know that 
 Bavius and Mievius were his declared foes and 
 calumniators. 
 
 In our own country a man seldom sets up for a 
 poet, without attacking the reputation of all his 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 brothers in the art. The ignorance of the moderns, 
 the scribblers of the age, the decay of poetry, are 
 the topics of detraction with which lie makes his 
 entrance into the world : but how much more 
 noble is the fame that is built on candor and in- 
 enuity, according to those beautiful lines of 
 ir John Denham, in his poem on Fletcher’s 
 works: 
 
 But whither am I stray’d ? I need not raise, 
 
 Trophies to thee from other men’s dispraise; 
 
 Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, v 
 
 Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt 
 Of Eastern kings, who to secure their reign, 
 
 Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain. 
 
 I am sorry to find that an author, who is very 
 justly esteemed among the best judges, has admit¬ 
 ted some strokes of this nature into a very fine 
 poem ; I mean the Art of Criticism,* which was 
 published some months since, and is a master¬ 
 piece in its kind. The observations follow one 
 another like those in Horace’s Art of Poetry, with¬ 
 out that methodical regularity which would have 
 been requisite in a prose author. They are some 
 of them uncommon,f but such as the reader must 
 assent to, when he sees them explained with that 
 elegance and perspicuity in which they are de¬ 
 livered. As for those which are the most known, 
 and the most received, they are placed in so beau¬ 
 tiful a light, and illustrated with such apt allu¬ 
 sions, that they have in them all the graces of 
 novelty and make the reader who was before ac¬ 
 quainted with them, still more convinced of their 
 truth and solidity. And here give me leave to 
 mention what Monsieur Boileau has so very well 
 enlarged upon in the preface to his works, that wit 
 and fine writing do not consist so much in ad¬ 
 vancing things that are new, as in giving thing's 
 that are known an agreeable turn. It is impos¬ 
 sible for us, who live in the latter ages of the 
 world, to make observations in criticism, morality, 
 or in any art or science, which have not been 
 touched upon by others. We have little else left 
 us, but to represent the common sense of mankind 
 in more strong, more beautiful, or more uncommon 
 lights. If a reader examines Horace’s Art of 
 Poetry, he will find but very few precepts in it, 
 which he may not meet with in Aristotle, and 
 which were not commonly known by all the poets 
 of the Augustan age. His way of expressing and 
 applying them, not his invention of them, is what 
 we are chiefly to admire. 
 
 For this reason I think there is nothing in the 
 world so tiresome as the works of those critics 
 who write in a positive dogmatic way, without 
 either language, genius, or imagination. If the 
 reader would see how the best of the Latin critics 
 wrote, he may find their manner very beautifully 
 described in the characters of Horace, Petronius, 
 Quintilian, and Longinus, as they are drawn in 
 the essay of which I am now speaking. 
 
 Since I have mentioned Longinus, who in his 
 reflections has given us the same kind of sublime, 
 which he observes in the several passages that oc¬ 
 casioned them; I cannot but take notice that our 
 English author has after the same manner exem¬ 
 plified several of his precepts in the very precepts 
 themselves. I shall produce two or three in¬ 
 stances of this kind. Speaking of the insipid 
 smoothness which some readers are so much in 
 love with, he has the following verses: 
 
 These equal syllables alone require, 
 
 Tho’ oft the ear the open vowels tire, 
 
 While expletives their feeble aid do join, 
 
 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line. 
 
 * See Pope’s Works, vol. v, p. 201, 6 vols., Edit. Lond. 12mo, 
 1770. 
 
 fSee Essay on the Genius and Writings of Pope, sect. Ill, 
 p. 97, 2d od., 1763. 
 
 315 
 
 The gaping of the vowels in the second line, 
 the expletive “do” in the third, and the ten 
 monosyllables in the fourth, give such a beauty 
 to this passage, as would have been very mucn 
 admired in an ancient poet. The reader may ob¬ 
 serve the following lines in the same view: 
 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
 
 That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 And afterward. 
 
 ’Tis not enough no harshness gives offense, 
 
 The sound must seem an echo to the sense. 
 
 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, 
 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; 
 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
 
 The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. 
 When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw. 
 
 The line too labors, and the words move slow; 
 
 Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
 
 Kies o’er the unbending corn, and skims along the main. 
 
 The beautiful distich upon Ajax in the forego¬ 
 ing lines puts me in mind of a description in Ho¬ 
 mer’s Odyssey, which none of the critics have taken 
 notice of. It is where Sisyphus is represented 
 lifting his stone up the hill, which is no sooner 
 carried to the top of it, but it immediately tumbles 
 to the bottom. This double motion of the stone 
 is admirably described in the number of these 
 verses, as in the four first it is heaved up by 
 several spondees intermixed with proper breath¬ 
 ing-places, and at last trundles down in a con¬ 
 tinued line of dactyls; 
 
 I turn’d my eye, and as I turn’d, survey’d 
 A mournful vision! the Sisyphian shade: 
 
 With many a weary step, and many a groan, 
 
 Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone: 
 
 The huge round stone, resulting with a bound, 
 
 Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 It would be endless to quote verses out of Vir¬ 
 gil which have this particular kind of beauty in 
 the numbers ; but I may take an occasion in a 
 future paper, to show several of them which have 
 escaped the observations of others. 
 
 I cannot conclude this paper without taking no¬ 
 tice that we have three poems in our tongue, 
 which are of the same nature, and each of them a 
 master-piece in its kind; the Essay on Translat¬ 
 ed Verse,* the Essay on the Art of Poetry, and 
 the Essay upon Criticism.—C. 
 
 No. 254.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, 1711. 
 
 Virtuous love is honorable, but lust increaseth sorrow. 
 
 When I consider the false impressions which 
 are received by the generality of the world, I am 
 troubled at none more than a certain levity of 
 thought, which many young women of quality 
 have entertained, to the hazard of their charac¬ 
 ters, and the certain misfortune of their lives. The 
 first of the following letters may best represent the 
 faults I would now point at; and the answer to it, 
 the temper of mind in a contrary character. 
 
 “My Dear Harriet, 
 
 “If thou art she, but oh how fallen, how chang¬ 
 ed, what an apostate! how lost to all that is gay 
 and agreeable! To be married I find is to be 
 buried alive; I cannot conceive it more dismal to 
 be shut up in a vault to converse with the shades 
 of my ancestors, than to be carried down to an 
 old manorhouse in the country, and confined to 
 the conversation of a sober husband, and an awk¬ 
 ward chambermaid. For variety I suppose you 
 may entertain yourself with madam in her gro- 
 
 * By the earl of Roscommon. 
 
316 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 gram gown, the spouse of your parish vicar, who 
 has by this time, I am sure, well furnished you 
 with receipts for making salves and possets, dis¬ 
 tilling cordial waters, making sirups, and apply¬ 
 ing poultices. 
 
 “Blest solitude! I wish thee joy, my dear, of 
 thy loved retirement, which indeed you would per¬ 
 suade me is very agreeable, and different enough 
 from what I have here described: but, child, I am 
 afraid thy brains are a little disordered with ro¬ 
 mances and novels. After six month’s marriage 
 to hear thee talk of love, and paint the country 
 scenes so softly, is a little extravagant; one would 
 think you lived the lives of sylvan deities, or 
 roved among the walks of paradise, like the first 
 happy pair. But pray thee leave ’these whimsies, 
 and come to town in order to live and talk like 
 other mortals. However, as I am extremely in¬ 
 terested in your reputation, I would willingly 
 give you a little good advice at your first ap¬ 
 pearance under the character of a married woman. 
 It is a little insolent in me, perhaps, to advise a 
 matron; but I am so afraid you will make so silly 
 a figure as a fond wife, that I cannot help warning 
 you not to appear in any public places with your 
 husband, and never to saunter about St. James’s- 
 park together: if you presume to enter the ring at 
 Hyde-park together, you are ruined forever: nor 
 must you take the least notice of one another, at 
 the playhouse, or opera, unless you would be 
 laughed at for a very loving couple, most happily 
 paired in the yoke of wedlock. I would recom¬ 
 mend the example of an acquaintance of ours to 
 your imitation; she is the most negligent and 
 fashionable wife in the world; she is hardly ever 
 seen in the same place with her husband, and if 
 they happen to meet, you -would think them per¬ 
 fect strangers; she was never heard to name him 
 in his absence, and takes care he shall never be 
 the subject of any discourse that she has a share 
 in. I hope you will propose this lady as a pattern, 
 though 1 am very much afraid you will be so silly 
 as to think Portia, etc., Sabine and Roman wives, 
 much brighter examples. I wish it may never 
 come into your head to imitate those antiquated 
 creatures so far as to come into public in the 
 habit, as well as air, of a Roman matron. T on 
 make already the entertainment at Mrs. Modish’s 
 tea-table: she says; she always thought you a dis¬ 
 creet person, and qualified to manage a family 
 with admirable prudence; she dies to see what de¬ 
 mure and serious airs wedlock has given you, but 
 she says, she shall never forgive your choice ot so 
 gallant a man as Bellamour, to transform him into 
 a mere sober husband; it was unpardonable. You 
 see, my dear, we all envy your happiness, and no 
 person more than 
 
 “Your humble Servant 
 
 “Lydia.” 
 
 “Be not in pain, good madam, for my appear¬ 
 ance in town; I shall frequent no public places, or 
 make any visits where thecharacter of a modest wife 
 is ridiculous. As for your wild raillery on matri¬ 
 mony, it is all hypocrisy; you, and all the hand¬ 
 some young women of your acquaintance, show 
 yourselves to no other purpose, than to gain a con¬ 
 quest over some man of worth, in order to bestow 
 your charms and fortune on him. There is no in¬ 
 decency in the confession; the design is modest 
 and honorable, and all your affectation cannot 
 disguise it. 
 
 “I am married and have no other concern but 
 to please the man I love; he is the end of every 
 care I have ; If I dress, it is for him ; If I read a 
 poem, or a play, it is to qualify myself for a con¬ 
 versation agreeable to his tastoj he is almost the 
 
 end of my devotions; half my prayers are for his 
 happiness. I love to talk of him, and never hear 
 him named but with pleasure and emotion. I am 
 your friend, and wish you happiness, but am sorry 
 to see, by the air of your letter, that there are a 
 set of women who are got into into the common¬ 
 place raillery of everytliing that is sober, decent, 
 and proper: matrimony and the clergy are the 
 topics of people of little wit and no understanding. 
 
 I own to you, 1 have learned of the vicar’s wife 
 all you tax me with. She is a discreet, ingenious, 
 pleasant, pious woman; I wish she had the hand¬ 
 ling of you and Mrs. Modish; you would find, if 
 you were too free with her, she would soon make 
 you as charming as ever you were ; she would 
 make you blush as much as if you never had been 
 fine ladies. The vicar, madam, is so kind as to 
 visit my husband, and his agreeable conversation 
 has brought him to enjoy many sober happy hours 
 when even I am shut out, and my dear master is 
 entertained only with his own thoughts. These 
 things, dear madam, will be lasting satisfactions, 
 when the fine ladies and the coxcombs, by whom 
 they form themselves, are irreparably ridiculous, 
 ridiculous in old age. 
 
 “ I am, Madam 
 
 “Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Mary Home.” 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You have no goodness in the world, and are 
 not in earnest in anything you say that is serious, 
 if you do not send me a plain answer to this. I 
 happened some days past to be at the play, where, 
 during the time of the performance, I could not 
 keep my eyes off from a beautiful young creature 
 who sat just before me, and who, I have been since 
 informed, has no fortune. It would utterly ruin 
 my reputation for discretion to marry such a one, 
 and by what I can learn she has a character of 
 great modesty, so that there is nothing to be 
 thought on any other way. My mind has ever 
 since been so wholly bent on her, that I am much 
 in danger of doing something very extravagant, 
 without your speedy advice to, 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble servant.” 
 
 I am sorry I cannot answer this impatient gen¬ 
 tleman, but by another question. 
 
 “ Dear Correspondent, 
 
 “ Would you marry to please other people, or 
 yourself?”—T. 
 
 Ho. 255.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1711. 
 
 Landis amore tunics ? sunt certa piacula, quas te 
 Ter uure lecto poterunt recreare libello. 
 
 Hor. Ep. 1, lib. i, ver. 36. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 Know there are rhymes, which (fresh and fresh applei’d) 
 Will cure the arrant’st puppy of his pride.— Pope. 
 
 The soul, considered abstractedly from its pas¬ 
 sions, is of a remiss and sedentary nature, slow 
 in its resolves, and languishing in its executions. 
 The use, therefore, of the passions is to stir it up, 
 and to put it upon action, to awaken the under¬ 
 standing, to enforce the will, and to make the 
 whole man more vigorous and attentive in the pro- 
 secution*of his designs. As this.is the end of the 
 passions in general, so it is particularly ot ambi¬ 
 tion, which pushes the soul to such actions as aie 
 apt to procure honor and reputation to the actor. 
 But if we carry our reflections higher, we may 
 discover further ends of Providence in implanting 
 this passion in mankind. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 It was necessary for the world, that arts should 
 be invented and improved, books written and 
 transmitted to posterity, nations conquered and 
 civilized. Now, since the proper and genuine 
 motives to these, and the like great actions, would 
 only influence virtuous minds; there would be but 
 small improvements in the world, were there not 
 some common principle of action working equally 
 with all men : and such a principle is ambition, 
 or a desire of fame, by which great endowments 
 are not suffered to lie idle and useless to the public, 
 and many vicious men are overreached, as it were, 
 and engaged contrary to their natural inclinations, 
 in a glorious and laudable course of action. For 
 we may further observe, that men of the greatest 
 abilities are most fired with ambition; and that, on 
 the contrary, mean and narrow minds are the least 
 actuated by it: whether it be that a man’s sense 
 of his own incapacities makes him despair of 
 coming at fame, or that he has not enough range 
 of thought to look out for any good which does 
 not more immediately relate to his interest or con¬ 
 venience; or that Providence, in the very frame of 
 his soul, would not subject him to such a passion 
 as would be useless to the world, and a torment 
 to himself. 
 
 Were not this desire of fame very strong, the 
 difficulty of obtaining it, and the danger of losing 
 it 'when obtained, would be sufficient to deter a 
 man from so vain a pursuit. 
 
 How few are there who are furnished with abili¬ 
 ties sufficient to recommend their actions to the 
 admiration of the world, and to distinguish them¬ 
 selves from the rest of mankind ! Providence for 
 the most part sets us upon a level, and observes a 
 kind of proportion in its dispensations toward us. 
 If it renders us perfect in one accomplishment, it 
 generally leaves us defective in another, and seems 
 careful rather of preserving every person from 
 being mean and deficient in his qualifications, 
 than of making any single one eminent or extra¬ 
 ordinary. 
 
 Among those who are the most richly endowed 
 by nature, and accomplished by their own indus¬ 
 try, how few are there whose virtues are not ob- 
 scured by the ignorance, prejudice, or envy of 
 their beholders ! Some men cannot discern be¬ 
 tween a noble and a mean action. Others are apt 
 to attribute them to some false end or intention; 
 and others purposely misrepresent, or put a wrong 
 interpretation on them. But the more to enforce 
 this consideration, we may observe, that those are 
 generally most unsuccessful in their pursuit after 
 tame, who are most desirous of obtaining it. It 
 is Sallust’s remark upon Cato, that the less he 
 coveted glory, the more he acquired it.* 
 
 Men take an ill-natured pleasure in crossing out 
 inclinations, and disappointing us in what our 
 hearts are most set upon. When therefore they 
 have discovered the passionate desire of fame in the 
 ambitious man (as no temper of mind is more apt 
 to show' itself), they become sparing and reserved 
 in their commendations, they envy him the satis¬ 
 faction of an applause, and look on their praises 
 rather as a kindness done to his person, than as 
 a tribute paid to his merit. Others who are 
 free from this natural perverseness of temper, 
 grow* wary in their praises of one who sets too 
 great a value on them, lest they should raise him 
 too high in his own imagination, and by conse¬ 
 quence remove him to a greater distance from 
 themselves. 
 
 But, further, this desire of fame naturally be¬ 
 trays the ambitious man into such indecencies as 
 are lessening to his reputation. He is still afraid 
 
 317 
 
 lest any of his actions should be thrown away in 
 private, lest his deserts should be concealed from 
 the notice of the world, or receive any disad¬ 
 vantage from the reports which others make of 
 them. This often sets them on empty boasts and 
 ostentations ot himself, and betrays him into vain 
 fantastical recitals of his own performances. His 
 discourse generally leans one way, and, whatever 
 is the subject of it, tends obliquely either to the 
 detracting from others, or to the extolling of him¬ 
 self. Vanity is the natural weakness of an ambi¬ 
 tious man, which exposes him to the secret scorn 
 and derision of those he converses with, and 
 ruins the character he is so industrious to advance 
 by it. For though his actions are never so glori¬ 
 ous, they lose their luster when they are drawn at 
 large, and set to show' by his own hand; and as 
 the world is more apt to find fault than to 
 commend, the boast will probably be censured, 
 when the great action that occasioned it is for¬ 
 gotten. 
 
 Beside, this very desire of fame is looked on as 
 a meanness and imperfection in the greatest char¬ 
 acter. A solid and substantial greatness of soul 
 looks dow r n with a generous neglect on the cen¬ 
 sures and applauses of the multitude, and places 
 a man beyond the little noise and strife of tongues. 
 Accordingly, we find in ourselves a secret awe and 
 veneration for the character of one who moves 
 above us in a regular and illustrious course of vir¬ 
 tue, without any regard to our good or ill opin¬ 
 ions of him, to our reproaches or commendations. 
 As, on the contrary, it is usual for us, when we 
 would take off from the fame and reputation of an 
 action, to ascribe it to vain glory and a desire of 
 fame in the actor. Nor is this common judgment 
 and opinion of mankind ill founded: for certain¬ 
 ly it denotes no great bravery of mind, to be 
 worked up to any noble action by so selfish a mo¬ 
 tive, and to do that out of a desire of fame, which 
 we could not be prompted to by a disinterested 
 love to mankind, or by a generous passion for the 
 glory of him who made us. 
 
 Thus is fame a thing difficult to be obtained by 
 all, but particularly by those who thirst after it, 
 since most men have so much either of ill-nature, 
 or of wariness, as not to gratify or soothe the 
 vanity of the ambitious man; and since this very 
 thirst after fame naturally betrays him into such 
 indecencies as are a lessening to his reputation, 
 and is itself looked upon as a weakness in the 
 greatest characters. 
 
 In the next place, fame is easily lost, and as 
 difficult to be preserved as it was at first to 
 be acquired. But this I shall make the subject 
 of a following paper.—0. 
 
 No. 256.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1711, 
 
 Fame is an ill you may with ease obtain, 
 
 A sad oppression, to be borne with pain.— Hesiod. 
 
 There are many passions and tempers of mind 
 which naturally dispose us to depress and villify 
 the merit of one rising in the esteem of mankind. 
 All those who made their entrance into the world 
 with the same advantages, and were once looked 
 on as his equals, are apt to think the fame of his 
 merits a reflection on their own indeserts ; and 
 will therefore take care to reproach him with the 
 scandal of some past action, or derogate from the 
 worth of the present, that they may still keep him 
 on the same level with themselves. The like kind 
 of consideration often stirs up the envy of such 
 as were once his superiors, who think it a detrac¬ 
 tion from their merit to see another get ground 
 
 *Sal. Bel. Catil., c. 49. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 318 
 
 upon them, and overtake them in the pursuits of 
 glory; and will therefore endeavor to sink his re¬ 
 putation, that they may the better preserve their 
 own. Those who were once his equals envy and 
 defame him, because they now see him their supe¬ 
 rior; and those who were once his superiors, be¬ 
 cause they look upon him as their equal. 
 
 But further, a man whose extraordinary reputa¬ 
 tion thus lifts him up to the notice and observa¬ 
 tion of mankind, draws a multitude of eyes upon 
 him, that will narrowly inspect every part of him, 
 consider him nicely in all views, and not be a 
 little pleased when they have taken him in the 
 worst and most disadvantageous light. There are 
 many who find a pleasure in contradicting the 
 common reports of fame, and in spreading abroad 
 the weaknesses of an exalted character. They 
 publish their ill-natured discoveries with a secret 
 pride, and applaud themselves for the singularity 
 of their judgment, which has searched deeper than 
 others, detected what the rest of the world have 
 overlooked, and found a flaw in what the gene¬ 
 rality of mankind admire. Others there are who 
 proclaim the errors and infirmities of a great man 
 with an inward satisfaction and complacency ,if they 
 discover none of the like errors and infirmities in 
 themselves; for while they are exposing another’s 
 weaknesses, they are tacitly aiming at their own 
 commendations, who are not subject to the like 
 infirmities, and are apt to be transported with a 
 secret kind of vanity, to see themselves superior, 
 in some respects, to one of a sublime and cele¬ 
 brated reputation. Hay, it very often happens, 
 that none are more industrious in publishing the 
 blemishes of an extraordinary reputation, than 
 such as lie open to the same censures in their own 
 characters, as either hoping to excuse their own 
 defects by the authority of so high an example, or 
 to raise an imaginary applause to themselves, for 
 resembling a person of an exalted reputation, 
 though in the blamable parts of his character. 
 If all these secret springs of detraction fail, yet 
 very often a vain ostentation of wit sets a man on 
 attacking an established name, and sacrificing it 
 to the mirth and laughter of those about him. A 
 satire or a libel on one of the common stamp, 
 never meets with that reception and approbation 
 among its readers, as what is aimed at a person 
 whose merit places him upon an eminence, and 
 gives him a more conspicuous figure among men. 
 Whether it be, that we think it shows greater art 
 to expose and turn to ridicule a man •whose char¬ 
 acter seems so improper a subject for it, or that we 
 are pleased, by some implicit kind of revenge, to 
 see him taken down and humbled in his reputa¬ 
 tion, and in some measure reduced to our own 
 rank, who had so far raised himself above us, in 
 the reports and opinions of mankind. 
 
 Thus we see how many dark and intricate mo¬ 
 tives there are to detraction and defamation, and 
 how many malicious spies are searching into the 
 actions of a great man, who is not always the 
 best prepared for so narrow an inspection. For 
 we may generally observe, that our admiration of 
 a famous man lessens upon our nearer acquaint¬ 
 ance with him : and that we seldom hear the de¬ 
 scription of a celebrated person, without a cata¬ 
 logue of some notorious weaknesses and infirmi¬ 
 ties. The reason may be, because any little slip 
 is more conspicuous and observable in his con¬ 
 duct than in another’s, as it is not of a piece with 
 the rest of his character; or because it is impossi¬ 
 ble for a man at the same time to be attentive to 
 the more important part of his life, and to keep a 
 watchful eye over all the inconsiderable circum¬ 
 stances of his behavior and conversation; or be¬ 
 cause, as we have before observed, the same tem¬ 
 
 per of mind which inclines us to a desire of fame, 
 naturally betrays us into such slips and unwari¬ 
 nesses, as are not incident to men of a contrary 
 disposition. 
 
 After all, it must be confessed, that a noble and 
 triumphant merit often breaks through and dissi¬ 
 pates these little spots and sullies in its reputa¬ 
 tion; but if by a mistaken pursuit after fame, or 
 through human infirmity, any false step be made 
 in the more momentous concerns of life, the whole 
 scheme of ambitious designs is broken and dis¬ 
 appointed. The smaller stains and blemishes 
 may die away, and disappear amidst the bright¬ 
 ness that surrounds them: but a blot of a deeper 
 nature casts a shade on all the other beauties, and 
 darkens the whole character. How difficult, there¬ 
 fore. is it to preserve a great name, when he that 
 has acquired it is so obnoxious to such little 
 weaknesses and infirmities as are no small dimi¬ 
 nution to it when discovered; especially when 
 they are so industriously proclaimed, and aggra¬ 
 vated by such as were once his superiors or 
 equals; by such as would set to show their judg¬ 
 ment, or their wit, and by such as are guilty, or 
 innocent of the same slips or misconducts in their 
 own behavior. 
 
 But were there none of these dispositions in 
 others to censure a famous man, nor any such 
 miscarriages in himself, yet would he meet with 
 no small trouble in keeping up his reputation, in 
 all its height and splendor. There must be al¬ 
 ways a noble train of actions to preserve his fame 
 in life and motion. For when it is once at a stand, 
 it naturally flags and languishes. Admiration is 
 a very short-lived passion, that immediately de¬ 
 cays upon growing familiar with its object, unless 
 it be still fed with fresh discoveries, and kept 
 alive by a new perpetual succession of miracles 
 rising up to its view. And even the greatest 
 actions of a celebrated person labor under this 
 disadvantage, that, however surprising and extra¬ 
 ordinary they may be, they are no more than what 
 are expected from him ; but, on the contrary, if 
 they fall anything below the opinion that is con¬ 
 ceived of him. though they might raise the repu¬ 
 tation of another, they are a diminution to his. 
 
 One would think there should be something 
 wonderfully pleasing in the possession of fame, 
 that, notwithstanding all these mortifying consi¬ 
 derations, can engage a man in so desperate a 
 pursuit; and yet if we consider the little happi¬ 
 ness that attends a great character, and the mul¬ 
 titude of disquietudes to which the desire of it 
 subjects an ambitious mind, one would be still 
 the more surprised to see so many restless can¬ 
 didates for glory. 
 
 * Ambition raises a secret tumult in the soul ; it 
 inflames the mind, and puts it into a violent 
 hurry of thought. It is still reaching after an 
 empty, imaginary good, that has not in it the 
 power to abate or satisfy it. Most other things 
 we long for, can allay the cravings of their proper 
 sense, and for a while set the appetite at rest; but 
 fame is a good so wholly foreign to our natures, 
 that we have no faculty in the soul adapted to 
 it, nor any organ in the body to relish it; an ob¬ 
 ject of desire, placed out of the possibility of frui¬ 
 tion. It may indeed fill the mind for awhile 
 with a giddy kind of pleasure, but it is such a 
 pleasure as makes a man restless and uneasy 
 under it; and which does not much satisfy the 
 present thirst, as it excites fresh desires, and sets 
 the soul on new enterprises. For how few ambi¬ 
 tious men are there who have got as much fame 
 as they desired, and whose thirst after it has not 
 been as eager in the very height of their reputa¬ 
 tion, as it was before they became known and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 eminent among men? There is not any circum¬ 
 stance in Caesar’s character which gives me a 
 greater idea of him, than a saying which Cicero 
 tells us he frequently made use of "in private con¬ 
 versation, “ That he was satisfied with his share 
 of life and fame.” “Se satis vel ad naturam, vel ad 
 gloriam vixisse.” Many indeed have given over 
 their pursuits after fame, but that has proceeded 
 either from the disappointments they have met in 
 it, or from their experience of the little pleasure 
 which attends it, or from the better informations 
 or natural coldness of old age; but seldom from a 
 full satisfaction and acquiescence in their present 
 enjoyments of it. 
 
 Nor is fame only unsatisfying in itself, but the 
 desire of it lays us open to many accidental 
 troubles which those are free from, who have no 
 such a tender regard for it. How often is the am¬ 
 bitious man cast down and disappointed, if he 
 receives no oraise where he expected it? Nay, 
 how often is ne mortified with the very praises he 
 receives, if they do not rise so high as he thinks 
 they ought; which they seldom do unless increas¬ 
 ed by flattery, since tew men have so good an 
 opinion of us as we have of ourselves? But if 
 the ambitious man can be so much grieved even 
 with praise itself, how will he be able to bear up 
 under scandal and defamation? for the same 
 temper of mind which makes him desire fame 
 makes him hate reproach. If he can be transport¬ 
 ed with the extraordinary praises of men, he will 
 be as much dejected by their censures. How little, 
 therefore, is the happiness of an ambitious man’ 
 who gives every one a dominion over it, who thus 
 subjects himself to the good or ill speeches of 
 others, and puts it in the power of every mali¬ 
 cious tongue to throw him into a fit of melancholy, 
 and destroy his natural rest and repose of mind; 
 especially when we consider that the world is 
 more apt to censure than applaud, and himself 
 fuller of imperfections than virtues. 
 
 We may further observe, that such a man will 
 be more grieved for the loss of fame, than he could 
 have been pleased with the enjoyment of it. For 
 though the presence of this imaginary good can¬ 
 not make us happy, the absence of it may make 
 us miserable: because in the enjoyment of an 
 object we only find that share of pleasure which it 
 is capable of giving us, but in the loss of it we do 
 not proportion our grief to the real value it bears, 
 but to the value our fancies and imaginations set 
 upon it. 
 
 So inconsiderable is the satisfaction that fame 
 brings along with it, and so great the disquietudes 
 to which it makes us liable. The desire of it 
 stirs up very uneasy motions in the mind, and is 
 rather inflamed than satisfied by the presence of 
 the thing desired. The enjoyment of it brings 
 but very little pleasure, though the loss or want 
 of it be very sensible and afflicting; and even 
 this little happiness is so very precarious, that 
 it wholly depends upon the will of others. 
 We are not only tortured by the reproaches which 
 are offered us, but are disappointed by the silence 
 of men when it is unexpected; and humbled even 
 by their praises.—C. 
 
 No. 257.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1711 
 
 No slumber seals the eye of Providence, 
 
 Present to every action we commence.—II ob^us. 
 
 That I might not lose myself upon a subject of 
 so great extent as that of fame, 1 have treated it 
 in a particular order and method. I have first of 
 all considered the reasons why Providence may 
 have implanted in our mind such a principle of 
 
 319 
 
 action. I have in the next place shown from 
 ! many considerations, first, that fame is a thing 
 difficult to be obtained, and easily to be lost; 
 secondly, that it brings the ambitious man very 
 little happiness, but subjects him to much un¬ 
 easiness and dissatisfaction. I shall in the last 
 place show, that it hinders us from obtaining an 
 end which we have abilities to acquire, and which 
 is accompanied by fullness of satisfaction. I need 
 not tell my reader, that I mean by this end’, that 
 happiness which is reserved for us in another 
 world, which every one has abilities to procure, 
 and which will bring along with it “fullness of joy 
 and pleasures for evermore.” J J ’ 
 
 How the pursuit after fame may hinder us in the at¬ 
 tainment of this great end, I shall leave the reader 
 to collect from the three following considerations; 
 
 First, Because the strong desire of fame breeds' 
 several vicious habits in the mind. 
 
 Secondly, Because many of those actions, which 
 are apt to procure fame, are not in their nature 
 conducive to this our ultimate happiness. 
 
 Thirdly, Because if we should allow the same 
 actions to be the proper instruments, both of ac¬ 
 quiring fame, and of procuring this happiness, 
 they would nevertheless fail in the attainment of 
 this last end, if they proceeded from a desire of 
 the first. 
 
 These three propositions are self-evident to 
 those who are versed in speculations of morality. 
 For which reason I shall not enlarge upon them, but 
 proceed to a point of the same nature, which may 
 open to us a more uncommon field of speculation. 
 
 From what has been already observed, I think we 
 may make a natural conclusion, that it is the great¬ 
 est folly to seek the praise or approbation of 
 any being, except the Supreme, and that for these 
 two reasons; because no other being can make a 
 right judgment of us, and esteem us according to 
 our merits ; and because we can procure no con¬ 
 siderable benefit or advantage from the esteem and 
 approbation of any other being. 
 
 , l 11 the first place, no other being can make a 
 right judgment of us, and esteem us acccording to 
 our merits. Created beings see nothing but our 
 outside, and can therefore only frame a judgment 
 of us from our exterior actions and behavior; but 
 how unfit these are to give us a right notion of 
 each other’s perfections, may appear from several 
 considerations. There are many virtues, which in 
 their own nature are incapable of any outward re¬ 
 presentation; many silent perfections in the soul 
 of a good man, which are great ornaments to 
 human nature, but not able to discover themselves 
 to the knowledge of others; they are transacted in 
 private without noise or show, and are only visible 
 to the great Searcher of hearts. What actions can 
 express the entire purity of thought which refines 
 and sanctifies a virtuous man ? That secret rest and 
 contentedness of mind, which gives him a perfect 
 enjoyment of his present condition? That in¬ 
 ward pleasure and complacency which he feels in 
 doing good? That delight and satisfaction which 
 he takes in the prosperity and happiness of 
 another? These and the like virtues are the hidden 
 beauties of a soul, the secret graces which cannot 
 be discovered by a mortal eye, but make the soul 
 lovely and precious in his sight from whom no 
 secrets are concealed. Again, there are many 
 virtues which want an opportunity of exerting 
 and showing themselves in actions. Every virtue 
 requires time and place, a proper object and a fit 
 conjecture of circumstances, for the due exercise 
 of it. A state of poverty obscures all the virtues 
 of liberality and munificence. The patience and 
 fortitude of a martyr and confessor lie concealed 
 in the flourishing times of Christianity. Some 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 320 
 
 virtues are only seen in affliction, and some in 
 prosperity ; some in a private, and otlieis in a 
 public capacity. But the great Sovereign of the 
 world beholds every perfection in its obscurity, 
 and not only sees what we do, but what we would 
 do. He views our behavior in every concurrence 
 of affairs, and sees u$ engaged in all the possi¬ 
 bilities of action. He discovers the martyr and 
 confessor without the trial of flames and tortures, 
 and will hereafter entitle many to the reward of 
 actions which they had never the opportunity of 
 performing. Another reason why men cannot 
 form a right judgment of us is, because the same 
 actions may be aimed at different ends, and arise 
 from quite contrary principles. Actions are of so 
 mixed a nature, and so full of circumstances, that 
 as men pry into them more or less, or observe 
 some, parts more than others, they take different 
 hints, and put contrary interpretations on them; 
 so that the same actions may represent a man as 
 hypocritical and designing to one, which make 
 him appear a saint or hero to another. He, there¬ 
 fore, who looks upon the soul through its outward 
 actions, often sees it through a deceitful medium, 
 which is apt to discolor and pervert the object; so 
 that, on this account also, he is the only proper 
 judge of our perfections, who does not guess at 
 the sincerity of our intentions from the goodness 
 of our actions but weighs the goodness of our 
 actions by the sincerity of our intentions. 
 
 But further, it is impossible for outward actions 
 to represent the perfections of the soul, because 
 they can never show the strength of those prin¬ 
 ciples from whence they proceed. They are not 
 aclequate expressions of our virtues, and can only 
 show us what habits are in the soul, without dis¬ 
 covering the degree and perfection of such habits. 
 They are at best but weak resemblances of our in¬ 
 tentions, faint and imperfect, that may acquaint 
 us with the general design, but can never express 
 the beauty and life of the original. But the great 
 Judge of all the earth knows every different state 
 and degree of human improvement, from those 
 weak stirrings and tendencies of the will which 
 have not yet formed themselves into regular pur¬ 
 poses and designs, to the last entire finishing and 
 consummation of a good habit. He beholds the 
 first imperfect rudiments of a virtue in the soul, 
 and keeps a watchful eye over it in all its pro¬ 
 gress, until it has received every grace it is ca¬ 
 pable of, and appears in its full beauty and per¬ 
 fection. Thus we see, that none but the Supreme 
 Being can esteem us according to our proper 
 merits, since all others must judge of us from pur 
 outward actions; which can never give them a just 
 estimate of us, since there are many perfections 
 of a man which are not capable of appearing in 
 actions ; many which, allowing no natural inca¬ 
 pacity of showing themselves, want an opportuni¬ 
 ty of doing it; should they all meet with an oppor¬ 
 tunity of appearing by actions, yet those actions 
 maybe misinterpreted, and applied to wrong prin¬ 
 ciples : or, though they plainly discovered the 
 principles from whence they proceeded, they 
 could never show the degree, strength, and per¬ 
 fection of those principles. 
 
 And as the Supreme Being is the only proper 
 judge of our perfections, so he is the only fit re¬ 
 warder of them. This is a consideration that 
 comes home to our interest, as the other adapts 
 itself to our ambition. And what could the most 
 aspiring, or the most selfish man desire more, were 
 he to form the notion of a Being to whom he 
 would recommend himself, than such a knowledge 
 as can discover the least appearance of perfection 
 in him, and such a goodness as will proportion a 
 reward to it? 
 
 Let the ambitious man, therefore, turn all his 
 clesire of fame this way; and, that he may propose 
 to himself a fame worthy of his ambition, let him 
 consider, that if he employs his abilities to the 
 best advantage, the time will come when the 
 Supreme Governor of the world, the great Judge 
 of mankind, who sees every degree of perfection 
 in others, and possible perfection in himself, shall 
 proclaim his worth before men and angels, and 
 pronounce to him in the presence of the whole 
 creation that best and most significant of applause, 
 “Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter 
 thou into thy Master’s joy.”—0. 
 
 No. 258 .] WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 26,1711. 
 
 Divide et impera. 
 
 Divide and rule. 
 
 Pleasure and recreation of one kind or other 
 are absolutely necessary to relieve our minds and 
 bodies from too constant attention and labor: 
 where therefore public diversions are tolerated, it 
 behooves persons of distinction, with their power 
 and example, to preside over them in such a man¬ 
 ner as to check anything that tends to the corrup¬ 
 tion of manners, or which is too mean or trivial 
 for the entertainment of reasonable creatures. As 
 to the diversions of this kind in this town, we 
 owe them to the arts of poetry and music. My 
 own private opinion, with relation to such recrea¬ 
 tions, I have heretofore given v/ith all the frank¬ 
 ness imaginable; what concerns those arts at 
 present the reader shall have from my correspond¬ 
 ents. The first of the letters with which I acquit 
 myself for this day, is written by one who pro¬ 
 poses to improve our entertainments of dramatic 
 poetry, and the other comes from three persons, 
 who, as soon as named, will be thought capable 
 of advancing the present state of music. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am considerably obliged to you for your 
 speedy publication of my last in yours of the 18th 
 instant, and am in no small hopes of being set¬ 
 tled in the post of Comptroller of the Cries. Of 
 all the objections I have hearkened after in public 
 coffee-houses, there is but one that seems to carry 
 any weight with it, viz: That such a post would 
 come too near the nature of a monopoly. Now, 
 Sir, because I would have all sorts of people made 
 easy, and being willing to have more strings than 
 one to my bow ; in case that a comptroller should 
 fail me, 1 have since formed another project, which 
 being grounded on the dividing of a present mo¬ 
 nopoly, I hope will give the public an equivalent 
 to their full content. You know, Sir, it is allowed, 
 that the business of the stage is, as the Latin has 
 it, jucunda et idonea dicere vitce. Now, there be¬ 
 ing but one dramatic theater licensed for the de¬ 
 light and profit of this extensive metropolis, I do 
 humbly propose, for the convenience of such of 
 its inhabitants as are too distant from Covent- 
 garden, that another theater of ease may be erected 
 in some spacious part of the city; and that the 
 direction thereof may be made a franchise in fee 
 to me and my heirs forever. And that the. town 
 may have no jealousy of my ever coming into a 
 union with the set of actors now in being, I do 
 further propose to constitute for my deputy my 
 near kinsman and adventurer, Kit Crotchet,* whose 
 long experience and improvements in those affairs 
 need no recommendation. It was obvious to every 
 spectator, what a quite different foot the stage was 
 
 * Christopher Rich. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 upon during his government; and had he not 
 been bolted out of his trap doors, his garrison 
 might have held out forever; he having by long 
 pains and perseverance arrived at the art of ma¬ 
 king his army fight without pay or provisions. I 
 must confess it is with a melancholy amazement 
 I see so wonderful a genius laid aside, and the 
 late slaves of the stage now become its masters ; 
 dunces that will be sure to suppress all theatrical 
 entertainments and activities that they are not 
 able themselves to shine in ! 
 
 “ Every man that goes to a play is not obliged 
 to have either wit or understanding ; and I insist 
 upon it, that all who go there should see some¬ 
 thing which may improve them in away of which 
 they are capable. In short. Sir, I would have 
 something done, as well as said, on the stage. A 
 man may have an active body, though he has not 
 a quick conception ; for the imitation therefore of 
 such as are, as 1 may so speak, corporeal wits, or 
 nimble fellows, I would fain ask any of the pres¬ 
 ent mismanages, why should not rope-dancers, 
 vaulters, tumblers, ladder-walkers, and posture- 
 masters appear again on our stage ? After such a 
 representation, a five-bar gate would be leaped 
 with a better grace next time any of the audience 
 went a hunting. Sir, these things cry aloud for 
 reformation, and fall properly under the province 
 of Spectator-general; but how indeed should it 
 be otherwise, while fellows (that for twenty years 
 together were never paid but as their master was 
 in the humor) now presume to pay others more 
 than ever they had in their lives ; and in con¬ 
 tempt of the practice of persons of condition, 
 have the insolence to owe no tradesman a farthing 
 at the end of the week. Sir, all I propose is the 
 public good ; for no one can imagine I shall ever 
 get a private shilling by it; therefore I hope you 
 will recommend this matter in one of your this 
 week’s papers, and desire, when my house opens, 
 
 I you will accept the liberty of it for the trouble 
 you have received from, 
 
 “ Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Ralph Crotchet.” 
 
 “ P. S. I have assurances that the trunk-maker 
 will declare for us.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “We whose names are subscribed, think you i 
 the properest person to signify what we have to j 
 offer the town in behalf of ourselves and the art 
 which we profess, music. We conceive hopes of 
 your favor from the speculations on the mistakes j 
 which the-town run ‘into with regard to their ; 
 pleasure of this kind ; and believing your method 
 of judging is, that you consider music only valu-; 
 able, as it is agreeable to, and heightens the pur¬ 
 pose of poetry, we consent that it is not only the i 
 true way of relishing that pleasure, but also that 
 without it a composure of music is the same thing 
 as a poem, where all the rules of poetical num¬ 
 bers are observed, though the words have no sense 
 or meaning ; to say it shorter, mere musical sounds 
 are in our art no other than nonsense verses are in 
 poetry. Music, therefore, is to aggravate what is 
 intended by poetry; it must always have some 
 passion or sentiment to express, or else violins, 
 voices, or any other organs of sound, afford an 
 entertainment very little above the rattles of chil¬ 
 dren. It was from this opinion of the matter, that 
 when Mr. Clayton had finished his studies in 
 Italy, and brought over the opera ef Arsinoe, that 
 Mr. Haym and Mr. Dieupart, who had the honor 
 to be well known and received among the nobility 
 and gentry, were zealously inclined to assist by 
 their solicitations, in introducing so elegant an 
 21 
 
 321 
 
 entertainment as the Italian music grafted upon 
 English poetry. For this end, Mr. Dieupart and 
 Mr. Haym, according to their several opportuni¬ 
 ties, promoted the introduction of Arsinoe,anddid 
 it to the best advantage so great a novelty would 
 allow. It is not proper to trouble you with par¬ 
 ticulars of the just complaints we all of us have 
 to make ; but so it is, that without regard to our 
 obliging pains, we are all equally set aside in the 
 present opera. Our application, therefore, to you 
 is only to insert the letter in your paper, that the 
 town may know we have all three joined together 
 to make entertainments of music' for the future 
 at Mr. Clayton’s house in York-buildings. What 
 we promise ourselves, is to make a subscription 
 of two guineas, for eight times ; and that the en¬ 
 tertainment, with the names of the authors of the 
 poetry, may be printed, to be sold in the house, 
 with an account of the several authors of the vo¬ 
 cal as well as the instrumental music for each 
 night; the money to be paid at the receipt of the 
 tickets, at Mr. Charles Lillie’s. It will, we hope, 
 Sir, be easily allowed, that we are capable of un¬ 
 dertaking to exhibit, by our joint force and dif¬ 
 ferent qualifications, all that can be done in mu¬ 
 sic ; but lest you should think so dry a thing as 
 an account of our proposal should be a matter un¬ 
 worthy of your paper, which generally contains 
 something of public use, give us leave to say, 
 that favoring our design is no less than reviving 
 an art which runs to ruin by the utmost barbar¬ 
 ism under an affectation of knowledge. We aim 
 at establishing some settled notion of what is 
 music, at recovering from neglect and want very 
 many families who depend upon it, at making all 
 foreigners who pretend to succeed in England to 
 learn the language of it as we ourselves have 
 done, and not to be so insolent as to expect a 
 whole nation, a refined and learned nation, should 
 submit to learn theirs. In a word, Mr. Spectator, 
 with all deference and humility, we hope to be¬ 
 have ourselves in this undertaking in such a man¬ 
 ner, that all Englishmen, who have any skill in 
 music may be furthered in it for their profit or di¬ 
 version by what new things we shall produce ; 
 never pretending to surpass others, or asserting 
 that anything which is a science is not attainable 
 by all men of all nations who have proper genius 
 for it. We say, Sir, what we hope for, it is not 
 expected will arrive to us by contemning others, 
 but through the utmost diligence recommending 
 ourselves. We are, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servants, 
 
 “ Thomas Clayton, 
 
 “ Nicolino Ham, 
 
 T “ Charles Dieupart.’ 
 
 No. 231) J THURSDAY, DECEMBER 27, 1711. 
 
 Quod decet honestum est, et quod honestum est decet. 
 
 Ttjll. 
 
 What is becoming is honorable, and what is honorable is 
 becoming. 
 
 There are some things which cannot come un 
 der certain rules, but which one would think 
 could not need them. Of this kind are outward 
 civilities and salutations. These, one would im¬ 
 agine, might be regulated by every man’s common 
 sense, without the help of an instructor : but that 
 which we call common sense suffers under that 
 word : for it sometimes implies no more than that 
 faculty which is common to all men, but some¬ 
 times signifies right reason, and what all men 
 should consent to. In this latter acceptation of 
 the phrase, it is no great wonder people err so 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 322 
 
 much against it, since it is not every one who is 
 possessed of it, and there are fewer, who against 
 common rules and fashions, dare obey its dictates. 
 As to salutations, which I was about to talk of, I 
 observe, as I stroll about town, there are great 
 enormities committed with regard to this particu¬ 
 lar. You shall sometimes see a man begin the 
 offer of a salutation, and observe a forbidding air, 
 or escaping eye, in the person he is going to 
 salute, and stop short in the poll of his neck. 
 This in the person who believed he could do it 
 with a good grace, and was refused the opportu¬ 
 nity, is justly resented with coldness the whole 
 ensuing season. Your great beauties, people in 
 much: favor, or by any means or for any purpose 
 overflattered, are apt to practice this, 'which one 
 may call the preventing aspect, and throw their 
 attention another way, lest they should confer a 
 bow or a courtesy upon a person who might not 
 appear to deserve that dignity. Others you shall 
 find so obsequious, and so very courteous, as 
 there is no escaping their favors of this kind. 
 Of this sort may be a man who is in the fifth or 
 sixth degree of iavor with a minister. This good 
 creature is resolved to show the world, that great 
 honors cannot at all change his manners ; he is 
 the same civil person he ever was ; he will ven¬ 
 ture his neck to bow out of a coach in full speed, 
 at once to show he is full of business, and yet not 
 so taken up as to forget his old friend. With a 
 man who is not so well-formed for courtship and 
 elegant behavior, such a gentleman as this seldom 
 finds his account in the return of his compliments; 
 but he will still go on, for he is in his own way, 
 and must not omit; let the neglect fall on your 
 side, or where it will, his business is still to be 
 well-bred to the end. I think I have read, in one 
 of our English comedies, a description of a fellow 
 that affected knowing everybody, and for want 
 of judgment in time and place, would bow and 
 smile in the face of a judge sitting in the court, 
 would sit in an opposite gallery and smile in the 
 minister’s face as he came up into the pulpit, and 
 nod as if he alluded to some familiarities between 
 them in another place. But now I happen to 
 speak of salutation at church, I must take notice 
 that several of my correspondents have impor¬ 
 tuned me to consider that subject, and settle the 
 point of decorum in that particular. 
 
 I do not pretend to be the best courtier in the 
 world, but I often on public occasions thought 
 it a very great absurdity in the company (during 
 the royal presence) to exchange salutations from 
 all parts of the room, when certainly common 
 sense should suggest, that all regards at that time 
 should be engaged, and cannot bo diverted to any 
 other object, without disrespect to the sovereign. 
 But as to the complaint of my correspondents, it 
 is not to be imagined what offense some of them 
 take at the custom of saluting in places of wor¬ 
 ship. I have a very angry letter from a lady,, who 
 tells me of one of her acquaintance, who, out of 
 mere pride and a pretense to be rude, takes upon 
 her to return no civilities done to her in the time 
 of divine service, and is the most religious woman, 
 for no other reason than to appear a woman of the 
 best quality in the church. This absurd custom 
 had better be abolished than retained ; if it were 
 but to prevent evils of no higher a nature than 
 this is ; but I am informed of objections much 
 more considerable. A dissenter of rank and dis¬ 
 tinction was lately prevailed upon by a friend of 
 his to come to one of the greatest congregations 
 of the church of England about town. After the 
 service was over, he declared he was very well 
 satisfied with the little ceremony which was used 
 toward God Almighty; but at the same time he 
 
 feared he should not be able to go through those 
 required toward one another: as to this point he 
 was in a state of despair, and feared he was not 
 well-bred enough to be a convert. There have 
 been many scandals of this kind given to our 
 Protestant dissenters, from the outward pomp and 
 respect we take to ourselves in our religious assem¬ 
 blies. A Quaker who came one day into a church, 
 fixed his eye on an old lady with a carpet larger 
 than that from the pulpit before her, expecting 
 when she would hold forth. An anabaptist who 
 designs to come over himself, and all his family, 
 within a few months, is sensible they want breed¬ 
 ing enough for our congregations, and has sent 
 his two eldest daughters to learn to dance, that 
 they may not misbehave themselves in church. It 
 is worth considering whether, in regard to awk¬ 
 ward people with scrupulous consciences, a good 
 Christian of the best air in the world ought not 
 rather to deny herself the opportunity of showing 
 so many graces, than keep a bashful proselyte 
 without the pale of the church.—T. 
 
 No. 260 .] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1711. 
 
 Singula de nobis anni praedantur euntes. 
 
 Hor. 3 Ep. ii, 55. 
 
 Years following years steal something every day, 
 
 At last they steal us from ourselves away.— Pore. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am now in the sixty-fifth year of my age, and 
 having been the greater part of my days a man of 
 pleasure, the decay of my faculties is a stagnation 
 of my life. But how is it, Sir, that my appetites 
 are increased upon me with the loss of power to 
 gratify them? I write this like a criminal, to 
 warn people to enter upon what reformation they 
 please to make in themselves in their youth, and 
 not expect they shall be capable of it from a fond 
 opinion some have often in their mouths, that if 
 we do not leave our desires, they will leave us. It 
 is far otherwise; I am now as vain in my dress, 
 and as flippant, if I see a pretty woman, as when 
 in my youth I stood upon a bench in the pit to 
 survey the whole circle of beauties. The folly is 
 so extravagant with me, and I went on with so 
 little check of my desires or resignation of them, 
 that I can assure you, I very often, merely to en¬ 
 tertain my own thoughts, sit with my spectacles 
 on, writing love-letters to the beauties that have 
 been long since in their graves. This is to warm 
 my heart with the faint memory of delights which 
 were once agreeable to me: but how much happier 
 would my life have been now, if I could have 
 looked back on any worthy action done for my 
 country ? if I had laid out that which I profused 
 in luxury and wantonness, in acts of generosity 
 or charity ? I have lived a bachelor to this day ; 
 and instead of a numerous offspring, with which 
 in the regular ways of life I might possibly have 
 delighted myself, I have only to amuse myself 
 with the repetition of old stories and intrigues 
 which no one will believe I ever was concerned in. 
 I do not know whether you have ever treated of 
 it or not; but you cannot fall on a better subject, 
 than that of the art of growing old. In such a 
 lecture you must propose, that no one set his heart 
 upon what is transient; the beauty grows wrinkled 
 while we are yet gazing at her. The witty man 
 sinks into a numorist imperceptibly, for want of 
 reflecting that all things around him are in a flux, 
 and continually changing; thus he is in the space 
 of ten or fifteen years surrounded by a new set of 
 people, whose manners are as natural to them 
 as his delights, method of thinking and mode 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 323 
 
 of living, were formerly to him and his friends. 
 But the mischief is, he looks upon the same 
 kind of error which he himself was guilty 
 of with an eye of scorn, and with that sort of ill- 
 will which men entertain against each other for 
 different opinions. Thus a crazy constitution and 
 an uneasy mind is fretted with vexatious passions 
 for younor men’s doing foolishly what it is folly to 
 do at all. Dear Sir, this is my present state of 
 mind; I hate those I should laugh at, and envy 
 those I contemn. The time of youth and vigorous 
 manhood, passed the way in which 1 have dispos¬ 
 ed of it, is attended with these consequences; but 
 to those who live and pass away life as they ought, 
 all parts of it are equally pleasant; only the mem- 
 ory of good and worthy actions is a feast which 
 must give a quicker relish to the soul than ever it 
 could possibly taste in the highest enjoyments or 
 jollities of youth. As for me, if I sit down in my 
 great chair and begin to ponder, the vagaries of a 
 child are not more ridiculous than the circumstan¬ 
 ces which are heaped up in my memory; fine 
 gowns, country dances, ends of tunes, interrupted 
 conversations, and midnight quarrels, are what 
 must necessarily compose my soliloquy. I beg 
 of you to print this, that some ladies of my ac¬ 
 quaintance, and my years, may be persuaded to 
 wear warm nightcaps this cold season; and that 
 my old friend Jack Tawdry may buy him a cane, 
 and not creep with the air of a strut. I must add 
 to all this, that if it were not for one pleasure, 
 which I thought a very mean one until of very 
 late years, I should have no one great satisfaction 
 left; but if I live to the tenth of March 1714, and 
 all my securities are good, I shall be worth fifty 
 thousand pounds. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble servant, 
 
 “Jack Afterday.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You will infinitely oblige a distressed lover, 
 if you will insert in your very next paper the fol¬ 
 lowing letter to my mistress. You must know, I 
 am not a person apt to despair, but she has got an 
 odd humor of stopping short unaccountably, and 
 as she herself told a confidant of hers, she has cold 
 fits. These fits shall last her a month or six weeks 
 together; and as she falls into them without pro¬ 
 vocation, so it is to be hoped she will return from 
 them without the merit of new services. But life 
 and love will not admit of such intervals, there¬ 
 fore pray let her be admonished as follows: 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “I love you, and honor you; therefore pray 
 do not tell me of waiting until decencies, until 
 forms, until humors, are consulted and grati¬ 
 fied. If you have that happy constitution as 
 to be indolent for ten weeks together, you should 
 consider that all that while I burn in impatience 
 and fevers; but still you say it will be time enough, 
 though I and you too grow older while we are yet 
 talking. Which do you think the most reasonable, 
 thatyou should alter a state of indifference for happi¬ 
 ness, and that to oblige me; or I live in torment, 
 and that to lay no manner of obligation on you? 
 While I indulge your insensibility I am doing noth¬ 
 ing! if you favor my passion, you are bestowing 
 bright desires, gay hopes, generous cares, noble re¬ 
 solutions and transporting raptures upon, 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “Your most devoted, humble Servant.” 
 ‘‘Mr. Spectator, n 
 
 “Here is a gentlewoman lodges in the same 
 house with me, that I never did any injury to in 
 
 | my whole life; and she is always railing at me to 
 those that she knows will tell me of it. Do not 
 you think she is in love with me? or would you 
 have me break my mind yet, or not? 
 
 “Your Servant, 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “T. B” 
 
 “I am a footman in a great family, and am in 
 love with the house maid. We were all at hot- 
 cockles last night in the hall these holidays; when 
 I lay down and was blinded, she pulled off her 
 shoe, and hit me with the heel such a rap, as 
 almost broke my head to pieces. Pray, Sir, was 
 this love or spite?”—T. 
 
 No. 2(il.J SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29, 1711. 
 
 Wedlock’s an ill men eagerly embrace. 
 
 My father, whom I mentioned in my first specu¬ 
 lation, and whom I must always name with honor 
 and gratitude, has very frequently talked to me 
 upon the subject of marriage. I was in my younger 
 years engaged partly by his advice and partly by 
 my own inclinations, in the courtship of a person 
 who had a great deal of beauty, and did not at my 
 first approaches seem to have any aversion to 
 me; but as my natural taciturnity hindered me 
 from showing myself to the best advantage, she 
 by degrees began to look upon me as a very silly 
 fellow, and being resolved to regard merit more 
 than anything else in the persons who made their 
 applications to her, she married a captain of dra¬ 
 goons who happened to be beating up for recruits 
 in those parts. 
 
 This unlucky accident has given me an aversion 
 to pretty fellows ever since, and discouraged me 
 from trying my fortune with the fair sex. The 
 observations which I made at this conjuncture, 
 and the repeated advices which I received at that 
 time from the good old man above-mentioned, 
 have produced the following essay upon love and 
 marriage. 
 
 The pleasantest part of a man’s life is generally 
 that which passes in courtship, provided his pas¬ 
 sion be sincere, and the party beloved kind with 
 discretion. Love, desire, hope, all the pleasing 
 emotions of the soul rise in the pursuit. 
 
 It is easier for an artful man who is not in love, 
 to persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, 
 and to succeed in his pursuits, than for one who 
 loves with the greatest violence. True love has 
 ten thousand griefs, impatiencies, and resentments, 
 that render a man unamiable in the eyes of the 
 person vvhose affection he solicits; beside that it 
 sinks his figure, gives him fears, apprehensions, 
 and poorness of spirit, and often makes him ap¬ 
 pear ridiculous where he has a mind to recom¬ 
 mend himself. 
 
 Those marriages generally t abound most with 
 love and constancy, that are preceded by a long 
 courtship. The passion should strike root, ana. 
 gather strength before marriage be grafted on it. 
 A long course of hopes and expectations fixes the 
 idea in our minds, and habituates us to a fond¬ 
 ness of the person beloved. 
 
 There is nothing of so great importance to us, 
 as the good qualities of one to whom we join our¬ 
 selves for life; they do not make our present state 
 agreeable, but often determine our happiness to all 
 eternity. Where the choice is left to friends, the 
 chief point under consideration is an estate; where 
 the parties choose for themselves, their thoughts 
 turn most upon the person. They have both their 
 reasons. The first would procure many conveni¬ 
 ences and pleasures of life to the party whose 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 324 
 
 interests they espouse; and at the same time may 
 hope that the wealth of their friends will turn to 
 their own credit and advantage. The others are 
 preparing for themselves a perpetual feast. A 
 good person does not only raise but continue love, 
 and breeds a secret pleasure and complacency in 
 the beholder, when the first heats of desire are ex¬ 
 tinguished. It puts the wife or husband in coun¬ 
 tenance both among friends and strangers, and 
 generally fills the family with a healthy and 
 beautiful race of children. 
 
 I should prefer a woman that is agreeable in my 
 own eye, and not deformed in that of the world, 
 to a celebrated beauty. If you marry one remark¬ 
 ably beautiful^you must have a violent passion 
 for her, or you have not the proper taste for her 
 charms; ana if you have such a passion for her, it 
 is odds but it would be imbittered with fears and 
 jealousies. 
 
 Good-nature and evenness of temper will give 
 you an easy companion for life; virtue and good 
 sense an agreeable friend; love and constancy, a 
 good wife or husband. Where we meet one per¬ 
 son with all these accomplishments, we find a 
 hundred without any one of them. The world, 
 notwithstanding, is more intent on trains and 
 equipages, and all the showy parts of life; we 
 love rather to dazzle the multitude, than consult 
 our proper interests; and, as I have elsewhere ob¬ 
 served, it is one of the most unaccountable pas¬ 
 sions of human nature, that we are at greater 
 pains to appear easy and happy to others, than 
 really to make ourselves so. Of all disparities, 
 that in humor makes the most unhappy marriages, 
 yet scarce enters into our thoughts at the con¬ 
 tracting of them. Several that are in this respect 
 unequally yoked, and uneasy for life with a person 
 of a particular character, might have been pleased 
 and happy with a person of a contrary one, not¬ 
 withstanding they are both perhaps equally vir¬ 
 tuous and laudable in their kind. 
 
 Before marriage we cannot be too inquisitive 
 and discerning in the faults of the person beloved, 
 nor after it too dim-sighted and superficial. How¬ 
 ever perfect and accomplished the person appears 
 to you at a distance, you will find many blemishes 
 and imperfections in her humor, upon a more in¬ 
 timate acquaintance, which you never discovered 
 or perhaps suspected. Here, therefore, discretion 
 and good-nature are to show their strength; the 
 first will hinder your thoughts from dwelling on 
 what is disagreeable, the other will raise in you all 
 the tenderness of compassion and humanity, and 
 by degrees soften those very imperfections into 
 beauties. 
 
 Marriage enlarges the scene of our happiness 
 and miseries. A marriage of love is pleasant; a 
 marriage of interest easy; and a marriage where 
 both meet, happy. A happy marriage has in it all 
 the pleasures of friendship, all the enjoyments of 
 sense and reason, and indeed all the sweets of life. 
 Nothing is a greater mark of a degenerate and vi¬ 
 cious age, than the common ridicule which passes 
 on this state of life. It is, indeed, only happy in 
 those who can look down with scorn and neglect 
 on the impieties of the times, and tread the paths 
 of life together in a constant uniform course of 
 virtue.—0. 
 
 No. 262.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1711. 
 
 Nulla venenato littera mista joco est. 
 
 Ovid. Taist., ia, 566. 
 
 ADAPTED. 
 
 My paper flows from no satiric vein, 
 
 Contains no poison, and conveys no pain. 
 
 I think myself highly obliged to the public 
 for their kind acceptance of a paper which vis¬ 
 
 its them every morning, and has in it none of 
 those seasonings which recommend so many of 
 the writings which are in vogue among us. 
 
 As, on the one side, my paper has not in it a 
 single word of news, a reflection in politics, nor a 
 stroke of party ; so, on the other, there are no 
 fashionable touches of infidelity, no obscene ideas, 
 no satires upon priesthood, marriage, and the like 
 popular topics of ridicule ; no private scandal ; 
 nor anything that may tend to the defamation of 
 particular persons, families, or societies. 
 
 There is not one of those above-mentioned sub¬ 
 jects that would not sell a very indifferent paper, 
 could I think of gratifying the public by such 
 mean and base methods. But notwithstanding I 
 have rejected everything that savors of party, 
 everything that is loose and immoral, and every¬ 
 thing that might create uneasiness in the minds 
 of particular persons, I find that the demand for 
 my papers has increased every month since their 
 first appearance in the world. This does not per¬ 
 haps reflect so much honor upon myself as on 
 my readers, who give a much greater attention to 
 discourses of virtue and morality than ever I ex¬ 
 pected, or indeed could hope. 
 
 When I broke loose from that great body of 
 writers who have employed their wit and parts in 
 propagating vice and irreligion, I did not question 
 but I should be treated as an odd kind of fellow, 
 that had a mind to appear singular in my way of 
 writing : but the general reception I have found 
 convinces me that the world is not so corrupt as 
 we are apt to imagine ; and that if those men of 
 parts who have been employed in vitiating the 
 age, had endeavored to rectify and amend it, they, 
 needed not to have sacrificed their good sense and 
 virtue to their fame and reputation. No man is 
 so sunk in vice and ignorance, but there are still 
 some hidden seeds of goodness and knowledge 
 in him ; which give him a relish of such reflec¬ 
 tions and speculations as have an aptness to im¬ 
 prove the mind, and make the heart better. 
 
 I have shown in a former paper, with how 
 much care I have avoided all such thoughts as 
 are loose, obscene, or immoi^l ; and I believe my 
 reader would still think the better of me, if 
 he knew the pains I am at in qualifying what I 
 write after such a manner that nothing may be in¬ 
 terpreted as aimed at private persons. For this rea¬ 
 son, when I draw any faulty character, I consider 
 all those persons to whom the malice of the world 
 may possibly apply it, and take care to dash it 
 with such particular circumstances as may pre¬ 
 vent all such ill-natured applications.. If I write 
 anything on a black man, I run over in my mind 
 all the eminent persons in the nation who are of 
 that complexion: when I place an imaginary 
 name at the head of a character, I examine every 
 syllable and letter of it, that it may not bear any 
 resemblance to one that is real. I know very well 
 the value which every man sets upon his reputa¬ 
 tion, and how painful it is to be exposed to the 
 mirth and derision of the public, and should 
 therefore scorn to divert my reader at the expense 
 of any private man. 
 
 As I have been thus tender of every particular 
 person’s reputation, so I have taken more than 
 ordinary care not to give offense to those who ap¬ 
 pear in the higher figures of life. I w r ould not 
 make myself merry even with a piece of paste¬ 
 board that is invested with a public character ; for 
 which reason I have never glanced upon the late 
 designed procession of his Holiness and his at¬ 
 tendants, notwithstanding it might have afforded 
 matter to many ludicrous speculations. Among 
 those advantages which the public may reap from 
 this paper, it is not the least, that it draws men a 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 minds off from the bitterness of party, and fur¬ 
 nishes them with subjects of discourse that may 
 be treated without warmth or passion. This is 
 said to have been the first design of those gentle¬ 
 men who set on foot the Royal Society ; and had 
 then a very good effect, as it turned many of the 
 greatest geniuses of that age to the disquisitions 
 of natural knowledge, who, if they had engaged 
 m politics with the same parts and application, 
 might have set their country in a flame. The air- 
 pump, the barometer, the quadrant, and the like 
 inventions, were thrown out to those busy spirits, 
 as tubs and barrels are to a whale, that he may 
 let the ship sail on without disturbance, wdiile 
 he diverts himself with those innocent amuse¬ 
 ments. 
 
 I have been so very scrupulous in this particu¬ 
 lar of not hurting any man’s reputation, that I 
 have forborne mentioning even such authors as I 
 could not name with honor. This I must confess 
 to have been a piece of very great self-denial ; for 
 as the public relishes nothing better than ridicule 
 which turns upon a writer of any eminence, so 
 there is nothing which a man that has but a very 
 ordinary talent in ridicule may execute with 
 greater ease. One might raise laughter for a quar¬ 
 ter of a year together upon the works of a person 
 who has published but a very few volumes. For 
 which reason I am astonished, that those who 
 have appeared against this paper, have made so 
 very little of it. The criticisms which I have 
 hitherto published, have been made with an in¬ 
 tention rather to discover beauties and excellencies 
 in the writers of my own time, than to publish 
 any of their faults and imperfections. In the 
 meanwhile I should take it for a very great favor 
 from some of my underhand detractors, if they 
 would break all measures with me, so far as to 
 give me a pretense for examining their perform¬ 
 ances with an impartial eye : nor shall I look 
 upon it as any breach of charity to criticise the 
 author so long as I keep clear of the person. 
 
 In the. meanwhile, until I am provoked to 
 such hostilities, I shall from time to time endeavor 
 to do justice to those who have distinguished 
 themselves in the politer parts of learning, and 
 to point out such beauties in their works as may 
 have escaped the observation of others. 
 
 As the first place among our English poets is 
 due to Milton ; and as I have drawn more quota- 
 tions out of him than from any other, I shall en¬ 
 ter into a regular criticism upon his Paradise Lost, 
 which I shall publish every Saturday, until I have 
 given my thoughts upon that poem. I shall not, 
 however, presume to impose upon others my own 
 particular judgment on this author, but only de¬ 
 liver it as my private opinion. Criticism is of a 
 very laige extent, and every particular master in 
 tins art has his favorite passages in an author 
 which do not equally strike the best judges. It 
 will be sufficient for me, if I discover many beau- 
 ties or imperfections which others have not atten¬ 
 ded to, and I should be very glad to see any of 
 our eminent writers publish their discoveries on 
 the same subject. In short, I would always be 
 understood to write my papers of criticism in the 
 spirit which Horace has expressed in these two 
 famous lines: 
 
 --Si quid novisti rectius istis, 
 
 Candid us linperti; si non, lus utcro mecum. 
 
 1 Ep. yi, ult. 
 
 If you hare made any better remarks of your own com¬ 
 municate them with candor; if not, make use of these I nre- 
 sent you with.—C. 1 
 
 325 
 
 No. 263.] TUESDAY, JANUARY 1 , 1711-12. 
 
 Gratulor quod eum quem nccesse erat diligere, qualiscun- 
 que esset, talem habeinus ut libenter quoque diligamus. 
 
 Trebonius apud Tull. 
 
 I am glad that he whom I must have loved from duty, 
 whatever he had been, is such a one as I can love from in¬ 
 clination. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 , “ I am the happy father of a very towardly son, 
 m At hom I do not only see my life, but also my 
 manner of life, renewed. It would be extremely 
 beneficial to society, if you would frequently re¬ 
 sume subjects which serve to bind these sort of 
 relations faster, and endear the ties of blood with 
 those of good-will, protection, observance, in¬ 
 dulgence, and veneration. I would, njethinks, 
 have this done after an uncommon method, and 
 do not think any one, who is not capable of writ¬ 
 ing a good play, fit to undertake a work wherein 
 there will necessarily occur so many secret in¬ 
 stincts, and biases of human nature which would 
 pass unobserved by common eyes. I thank 
 Heaven I have no outrageous offense against my 
 own excellent parents to answer for; but when I 
 am now and then alone, and look back upon my 
 past life, from my earliest infancy to this time, 
 there are many faults which I committed that did 
 not appear to me, even until I myself became a 
 father. I had not until then a notion to the 
 yearnings of a heart, which a man has when he 
 sees his child do a laudable thing, or the sudden 
 damp which seizes him when he fears he will act 
 something unworthy. It is not to be imagined 
 what a remorse touched me for a long train of 
 childish negligences of my mother, when I saw 
 my wife the other day look out of the window, 
 and turn as pale as ashes upon seeing my young¬ 
 est boy sliding upon the ice. These slight inti¬ 
 mations will give you to understand, that there 
 are numberless little crimes which children take 
 no notice of while they are doing, which, upon 
 reflection, when they shall themselves become fa¬ 
 thers, they will look upon with the utmost sorrow 
 and contrition, that they did not regard before 
 those whom they offended were to be no more 
 seen. How many thousand things do I remember 
 which would have highly pleased my father, and 
 I omitted for no other reason, but that I thought 
 what he proposed, the effect of humor and old 
 age, which I am now convinced had reason and 
 good sense in it. I cannot now go into the parlor 
 to him, and make his heart glad with an account 
 of a matter which was of no consequence, but that 
 I told it, and acted in it. The good man and wo¬ 
 man are long since in their graves, who used to sit 
 and plot the welfare of us their children, while, 
 perhaps, we were sometimes laughing at the old 
 folks, at another end of the house. The truth of 
 it is, were we merely to follow nature in these 
 great duties of life, though we have strong instinct 
 toward the performing of them, we should be on 
 both sides very deficient. Age is so unwelcome 
 to the generality of mankind, and growth toward 
 manhood so desirable to all, that resignation to 
 decay is too difficult a task in the father ; and de¬ 
 ference, amidst the impulse of gay desires, appears 
 unreasonable to the son. There are so few who 
 can grow old with a good grace, and yet fewer who 
 can come slow enough into the world, that a fa¬ 
 ther, were he to be actuated by his desires, and a 
 son, were he to consult himself only, could nei¬ 
 ther of them behave himself as he ought to the 
 other. But when reason interposes against in¬ 
 stinct, wdiere it would carry either out of the in¬ 
 terests of the other, there arises that happiest 
 intercourse of good offices between those dearest 
 
326 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 relations of human life. The father, according to 
 the opportunities which are offered to him, is 
 throwing down blessings on the son, and the son 
 endeavoring to appear the worthy offspring of 
 such a father. It is after this manner that Camil- 
 lus and his firstborn dwelt together. Camillus 
 enjoys a pleasing and indolent old age, in which 
 passion is subdued, and reason exalted. He waits 
 the day of his dissolution with a resignation 
 mixed with delight; and the son fears the acces¬ 
 sion of his father’s fortune with diffidence, lest he 
 should not enjoy or become it as well as his prede¬ 
 cessor. Add to this, that the father knows that he 
 leaves a friend to the children of his friends, an 
 easy landlord to his tenants, and an agreeable 
 companion to his acquaintance. He believes his 
 son’s behavior will make him frequently remem¬ 
 bered, but never wanted. This commerce is so 
 well cemented, that without the pomp of saying, 
 ‘ Son, be a friend to such-a-one when I am gone 
 Camillus knows, being in his favor is direction 
 enough to the grateful youth who is to succeed 
 him, without the admonition of his mentioning it. 
 These gentlemen are honored all in their neigh¬ 
 borhood, and the same effect which the court has 
 on the manners of a kingdom, their characters 
 have on all who live within the influence of 
 them. 
 
 “My son and I are not of fortune to communi¬ 
 cate our good actions or intentions to so many as 
 these gentlemen do ; but I will be bold to say, my 
 son has, by the applause and approbation which 
 his behavior toward me has gained him, occa¬ 
 sioned that many an old man beside myself has 
 rejoiced. Other men’s children follow the exam¬ 
 ple of mine, and I have the inexpressible happi¬ 
 ness of overhearing our neighbors, as we ride by, 
 point to their children, and say, with a voice of 
 joy, ‘ There they go.’ 
 
 “You cannot, Mr. Spectator, pass your time 
 better than in insinuating the delights which those 
 relations, well regarded, bestow upon each other. 
 Ordinary passages are no longer such, but mutual 
 love gives an importance to the most indifferent 
 things, and a merit to actions the most insignifi¬ 
 cant. When we look round the world, ana ob¬ 
 serve the many misunderstandings which are 
 created by the malice and insinuation of the 
 meanest servants between people thu^ related, how 
 necessary will it appear that it were inculcated, 
 that men would be upon their guard to support a 
 constancy of affection, and that grounded upon 
 the principles of reason, not the impulses of in¬ 
 stinct. 
 
 “ It is from the common prejudices which men 
 receive from their parents, that hatreds are kept 
 alive from one generation to another; and when 
 men act by instinct, hatred will descend when 
 good offices are forgotten. For the degeneracy of 
 human life is such, that our anger is more easily 
 transferred to our children, than our love. Love 
 always gives something to the object it delights in, 
 and anger spoils the person against whom it is 
 moved of something laudable in him ; from this 
 degeneracy, therefore, and a sort of self-love, we 
 are more prone to take up the ill-will of our pa¬ 
 rents, than to follow them in their friendships. 
 
 “ One would think there should need no more 
 to make man keep up this sort of relation with 
 the utmost sanctity, than to examine their own 
 hearts. If every father remembered his own 
 thoughts and inclinations when he was a son, and 
 every son remembered what he expected from his 
 father, when he himself was in a state of depen¬ 
 dence, this one reflection would preserve men from 
 being dissolute or rigid in these several capacities. 
 The power and subjection between them, when 
 
 broken, make them more emphatically tyrants and 
 rebels against each other, with greater cruelty of 
 heart, than the disruption of states and empires 
 can possibly produce. I shall end this application 
 to you with two letters, which passed between a 
 mother and son very lately, and are as follows: 
 
 “Dear Frank, 
 
 “If the pleasures, which I have the grief to 
 hear you pursue in town, do not take up all your 
 time, do not deny your mother so much of it as to 
 read seriously this letter. You said before Mr. 
 Letacre, that an old woman might live very well 
 in the country upon half my jointure, and that 
 your father was a fond fool to give me a rent 
 charge of eight hundred a-year to the prejudice of 
 his son. What Letacre said to you upon that oc¬ 
 casion, you ought to have borne with more decen¬ 
 cy, as he was your father’s well beloved servant, 
 than to have called him countiy-put. In the first 
 place, Frank, I must tell you, I will have my rent 
 duly paid, for I will make up to your sisters for 
 the partiality I was guilty of, in making your 
 father do so much as he has done for you. I may, 
 it seems, live upon half my jointure! I lived 
 upon much less, Frank, when I carried you from 
 place to place in these arms, and could neither 
 eat, dress, or mind anything for feeding and tend¬ 
 ing you a weakly child, and shedding tears when 
 the convulsions you were then troubled with re¬ 
 turned upon you. By my care you outgrew them, 
 to throw away the vigor of your youth in the 
 arms of harlots, and deny your mother what is 
 not yours to detain. Both your sisters are crying 
 to see the passion which I smother; but if you 
 please to go on thus like a gentleman of the town, 
 and forget all regards to yourself and family, I 
 shall immediately enter upon your estate for the 
 arrear due to me, and, without one tear more, con¬ 
 temn you for forgetting the fondness of your mo¬ 
 ther, as much as you have the example of your 
 father. 0 Frank, do I live to omit writing myself, 
 “Your affectionate mother, 
 
 “A. T.” 
 
 “Madam, 
 
 “I will come down to-morrow and pay the 
 money on my knees. Pray write so no more. I 
 will take care you never shall, for I will be forever 
 hereafter, 
 
 “ Your most dutiful son, 
 
 ti JP fjp *> 
 
 “ I will bring down new hoods for my sisters. 
 Pray let all be forgotten.” 
 
 c. 
 
 No. 264.] WEDNESDAY, JAN. 2, 1711-12. 
 
 -Secretum iter et fallentis semita vitfe. 
 
 Hoe.. 1 Ep. xviii, 103. 
 
 ADAPTED. 
 
 In public walks let who will shine or stray, 
 
 I’ll silent steal through life in my own way. 
 
 It lias been from age to age an affectation to 
 love the pleasures of solitude, among those who 
 cannot possibly be supposed qualified for passing 
 life in that manner. This people have taken up 
 from reading the many agreeable things which 
 have been written cn that subject, for which we are 
 beholden to excellent persons who delighted in 
 being retired, and abstracted from the pleasures 
 that enchant the generality of the world. This 
 way of life is recommended indeed with great 
 beauty, and in such a manner as disposes the 
 reader for the time to pleilsing forgetfulness, or 
 negligence of the particular hurry of life in which 
 
THE SPE 
 
 he is engaged, together with a longing for that 
 state which he is charmed with in description. 
 But when we consider the world itself, and how 
 few there are capable of a religious, learned, or 
 philosophic solitude, we shall be apt to change a 
 regard to that sort of solitude, for being a little 
 singular in enjoying time after the way a man him¬ 
 self likes best in the world, without going so far 
 as wholly to withdraw from it. I have often ob¬ 
 served, there is not a man breathing who does not 
 differ from all other men as much in the senti¬ 
 ments of his mind as the features of his face. 
 The felicity is, when any one is so happy as to 
 find out and follow what is the proper bent of his 
 genius, and turn all his endeavors to exert him¬ 
 self according as that prompts him. Instead of 
 this, which is an innocent method of enjoying a 
 man’s self, and turning out of the general tracks 
 wherein you have crowds of rivals, there are those 
 who pursue their own way out of a sourness and 
 spirit of contradiction. These men do everything 
 which they are able to support, as if guilt and im¬ 
 punity could not go together. They choose a thing 
 only because another dislikes it; and affect for¬ 
 sooth an inviolable constancy in matters of no 
 manner of moment. Thus sometimes an old fel¬ 
 low shall wear this or that sort of cut in his clothes 
 with great integrity, while all the rest of the world 
 are degenerated into buttons, pockets, and loops 
 unknown to their ancestors. As insignificant as 
 even this is, if it were searched to the bottom, you 
 perhaps would find it not sincere, but that he is 
 in the fashion in his heart, and holds out from 
 mere obstinacy. But I am running from my in¬ 
 tended purpose, which was to celebrate a certain 
 particular manner of passing away life, in contra¬ 
 diction to no man, but with a resolution to con¬ 
 tract none of the exorbitant desires by which 
 others are enslaved. The best way of separating 
 a man’s self from the world, is to give up the de¬ 
 sire of being known to it. After a man has pre¬ 
 served his innocence, and performed all duties in¬ 
 cumbent upon him, his time spent in his own way 
 is what makes his life differ from that of a slave. 
 If they who affect show and pomp knew how 
 many of their spectators derided their trivial 
 taste, they would be very much less elated, and 
 have an inclination to examine the merit of all 
 they have to do with: they would soon find out 
 that there are many who make a figure below what 
 their fortune or merit entitles them to, out of mere 
 choice, and an elegant desire of ease and disen- 
 cumbrauce. It would look like romance to tell 
 you in this age, of an old man who is contented 
 to pass for a humorist, and one who does not un¬ 
 derstand the figure he ought to make in the world, 
 while he lives in a lodging of ten shillings a- 
 week with only one servant; while he dresses 
 himself according to the season in cloth or in 
 stuff, and has no one necessary attention to any¬ 
 thing but the bell which calls to prayers twice a 
 day: I say it would look like a fable to report 
 that this gentleman gives away all which is the 
 overplus of a great fortune by secret methods to 
 other men. If he has not the pomp of a numer¬ 
 ous train, and of professors of service to him, he 
 has every day he lives the conscience that the 
 widow, the fatherless, the mourner, and the 
 stranger, bless his unseen hand in their prayers. 
 This humorist gives up all the compliments which 
 people of his own condition could make him, for 
 the pleasure of helping the affiicted, supplying 
 the needy, and befriending the neglected. This 
 humorist keeps to himself much more than he 
 wants, and gives a vast refuse of his superfluities 
 to purchase heaven, and by freeing others from 
 
 CTATOR. 327 
 
 the temptations of worldly want, to carry a reti¬ 
 nue with him thither. 
 
 Of all men who affect living in a particular way, 
 next to this admirable character, 1 am the most 
 enamored of Irus, whose condition will not admit 
 of such largesses, and who perhaps would not be 
 capable of making them if it were. Irus, though 
 lie is now turned of fifty, has not appeared in the 
 world in his rear character since five-and-twenty, 
 at which age he ran out a small patrimony, 
 and spent some time after with rakes who had 
 lived upon him. A course of ten years time pass¬ 
 ed in all the little alleys, by-paths, and sometimes 
 open taverns and streets of this town, gave Irus a 
 perfect skill in judging of the inclinations of 
 mankind, and acting accordingly. He seriously 
 considered he was poor, and the general horror 
 which most men have of all who are in that con¬ 
 dition. Irus judged very rightly, that while he 
 could keep his poverty a secret, he should not feel 
 the weight of it; he improved this thought into 
 an affectation of closeness and covetousness. 
 Upon this one principle he resolved to govern his 
 future life ; and in the thirty-sixth year of his 
 age he repaired to Long-lane, and looked upon 
 several dresses which hung there deserted by their 
 first masters, and exposed to the purchase of the 
 best bidder. At this place he exchanged his gay 
 shabbiness of clothes fit for a much younger man, 
 to warm ones that would be decent for a much 
 older one. Irus came out thoroughly equipped 
 from head to foot, with a little oaken cane, in the 
 form of a substantial man that did not mind his 
 dress, turned of fifty. He had at this time fifty 
 pounds in ready money; and in this habit, with 
 this fortune, he took his present lodging in St. 
 John-street, at the mansion house of a tailor’s 
 widow, who washes, and can clear-starch his 
 bands. From that time to this he has kept the 
 main stock, without alteration under or over to the 
 value of five pounds. He left off all his old ac¬ 
 quaintance to a man, and all his arts of life, ex¬ 
 cept the play of backgammon, upon which he 
 has more than borne his charges. Irus has, ever 
 since he came into this neighborhood, given all 
 the intimations he skillfully could of being a 
 close hunks worth money: nobody comes to visit 
 him, he receives no letters, and tells his money 
 morning and evening. He lias from the public 
 papers a knowledge of what generally passes, 
 shuns all discourses of money, but shrugs his 
 shoulders when you talk of securities; he denies 
 his being rich, with the air which all do who are 
 vain of being so. He is the oracle of a neighbor¬ 
 ing justice of the peace, who meets him at the 
 coffee-house; the hopes that what he has must 
 come to somebody, and that he has no heirs, have 
 that effect wherever he is known, that he has every 
 day three or four invitations to dine at different 
 places, which he generally takes care to choose in 
 such a manner as not to seem inclined to the 
 richer man. All the young men respect him, and 
 say he is just the same man he was when they 
 were boys! He uses no artifice in the world, but 
 makes use of men’s designs upon him to get a 
 maintenance out of them. This he carries on by 
 a certain peevishness (which he acts very well;, 
 that no one would believe could possibly enter 
 into the head of a poor fellow. His mien, his 
 dress, his carriage, and his language, are such, 
 that you would be at a loss to guess whether in 
 the active part of his life he had been a sensible 
 citizen, or scholar that knew the world. These 
 are the great circumstances in the life of Irus, and 
 thus does he pass away his days a stranger to 
 mankind; and at his death, the worst that will 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 328 
 
 be said of him will be, that he got by every man 
 who had expectations from him, more than he 
 had to leave him. 
 
 I have an inclination to print the following let¬ 
 ters ; for I have heard the author of them has some¬ 
 where or other seen me, and by an excellent facul¬ 
 ty in mimicry my correspondents tell me he can 
 assume my air, and give my taciturnity a slyness 
 which diverts more than anything I could say if 
 I were present. Thus I am glad my silence is 
 atoned for to the good company in town. He has 
 carried his skill in imitation so far, as to have 
 forged a letter from my friend Sir Roger in such 
 a manner, that any one but I, who am thorough¬ 
 ly acquainted with him, would have taken it for 
 genuine. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Having observed in Lilly’s grammar how 
 sweetly Bacchus and Apollo run in a verse; I have 
 (to preserve the amity between them) called in 
 Bacchus to the aid of my profession of the thea¬ 
 ter. So that while some people of quality are be¬ 
 speaking plays of me to be acted on such a day, 
 and others, hogsheads for their houses against 
 such a time; I am wholly employed in the agree¬ 
 able service of wit and wine. Sir, I have sent 
 you Sir Roger de Coverley’s letter to me, which 
 
 g ray comply with in favor of the Bumper Tavern. 
 
 e kind, for you know a player’s utmost pride is 
 the approbation of the Spectator. 
 
 “I am your admirer, though unknown, 
 
 “Richard Estcourt.” 
 
 “TO MR. ESTCOURT. 
 
 “AT HIS HOUSE IN COVENT-GARDEN. 
 
 “Coverley, December 10th, 1711. 
 “Old Comical One, 
 
 “ The hogsheads of neat port came safe, and 
 have gotten thee good reputation in these parts; 
 and I am glad to hear, that a fellow who has been 
 laying out his money ever since he was born, for 
 the mere pleasure of wine, has bethought himself 
 of joining profit and pleasure together. Our sex¬ 
 ton (poor man), having received strength from thy 
 wine since his fit of the gout, is hugely taken 
 with it; he says it is given by nature for the use 
 of families, and that no steward’s table can be 
 without it; that it strengthens digestion, excludes 
 surfeits, fevers, and physic; which green wines 
 of any kind cannot do. Pray get a pure snug 
 room, and I hope next term to help to fill your 
 Bumper with our people of the club ; but you 
 must have no bells stirring when the Spectator 
 comes; I forbore ringing to dinner while he was 
 down with me in the country. Thank you for 
 the little hams and Portugal onions: pray keep 
 some alwavs by you. You know my supper is 
 only good Cheshire cheese, best mustard, a golden 
 pippin, attended with a pipe of John Sly’s best. 
 Sir Harry has stolen all your songs, and tells the 
 story of the 5th of November to perfection. 
 “Yours to serve you, 
 
 “Roger de Coverley.” 
 
 “ We have lost old John since you were here.” 
 T. ’ J 
 
 No. 265.] THURSDAY, JANUARY 3, 1711-12 
 
 Pixerit e multis aliquis, quid virus in angues 
 
 Adjicis ? et rabidas tradis ovile lupai. 
 
 Ovid., de Art. Am., iii, 
 
 But some exclaim: What frenzy rules your mind? 
 
 Would you increase the craft of womankind? 
 
 Teach them new wiles and arts? As well you may 
 
 Instruct a snake to bite, or wolf to prey.— Congreve. 
 
 One of the fathers, if I am rightly informed, 
 has defined a woman to be an animal that delights 
 in finery. I have already treated of the sex in 
 two or three papers, conformably to this defini¬ 
 tion; and have in particular observed, that in all 
 ages they have been more careful than the men to 
 adorn that part of the head which we generally 
 call the outside. 
 
 This observation is so very notorious, that when 
 in ordinary discourse we say a man has a fine 
 head, a long head, or a good head, we express our¬ 
 selves metaphorically, and speak in relation to his 
 understanding ; whereas when we say of a wo¬ 
 man, she has a fine, a long, or a good head, we 
 speak only in relation to her commode. 
 
 It is observed among birds, that nature has la¬ 
 vished all her ornaments upon the male, who very 
 often appears in a most beautiful head-dress : 
 whether it be a crest, a comb, a tuft of feathers, 
 or a natural little plume, erected like a kind of 
 pinnacle on the very top of the head. As Nature 
 on the contrary has poured out her charms in the 
 greatest abundance upon the female part of our 
 species, so they are very assiduous in bestowing 
 upon themselves the finest garnitures of art. The 
 peacock, in all his pride, does not display half 
 the colors that appear in the garments of a British 
 lady, when she is dressed either for a ball or a 
 birthday. 
 
 But to return to our female heads. The ladies 
 have been for some time in a kind of moulting 
 season with regard to that part of their dress, 
 having cast great quantities of ribbon, lace, and 
 cambric, and in some measure reduced that part 
 of the human figure to the beautiful globular form, 
 which is natural to it. We have for a great while 
 expected what kind of ornament would be substi¬ 
 tuted in the place of those antiquated commodes. 
 Our female projectors were all the last summer so 
 taken up with the improvement of their petticoats, 
 that they had not time to attend to anything else; 
 but having at length sufficiently adorned their 
 lower parts, they now begin to turn their thoughts 
 upon the other extremity, as well remembering 
 the old kitchen proverb, “ that if you light the fire 
 at both ends, the middle will shift for itself.” 
 
 I am engaged in this speculation by a sight 
 which I lately met with at the opera. As I was 
 standing in the hinder part of a box, I took notice 
 of a little cluster of women sitting together in the 
 prettiest colored hood that I ever saw. One of 
 them was blue, another yellow, and another phi- 
 lomot; the fourth was of a pink color, and the 
 fifth of a pale green. I looked with as much 
 pleasure upon this little party-colored assembly, 
 as upon a bed of tulips, and did not know at first 
 whether it might not be an embassy of Indian 
 queens; but upon my going about into the pit, 
 and taking them in front, I was immediately un¬ 
 deceived, and saw so much beauty in every face, 
 that I found, them all to be English. Such eyes 
 and lips, cheeks and foreheads, could be the growth 
 of no other country. The complexion of their 
 faces hindered me from observing any further the 
 color of their hoods, though I could easily perceive, 
 by that unspeakable satisfaction which appeared 
 in their looks, that their own thoughts were 
 wholly taken up on those pretty ornaments they 
 wore upon their heads. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 I am informed that this fashion spreads daily, 
 insomuch that the Whig and Tory ladies begin 
 already to hang out different colors, and to show 
 their principles in their head-dress. Nay, if I 
 may believe my friend Will Honeycomb, there is 
 a certain old coquette of his acquaintance, who 
 
 329 
 
 intends to appear very suddenly in a rainbow 
 hood, like the Iris in Dryden’s Virgil, not ques- 
 
 tioning but that among such a variety of colors 
 she shall have a charm for every heart. 
 
 My friend Will, who very much values himself 
 upon his great insight into gallantry, tells me, 
 that he can already guess at the humor a lady is 
 in by her hood, as the courtiers of Morocco know 
 the disposition of their present emperor by the 
 color of the dress which he puts on. When Me- 
 lesinda wraps her head in flame color, her heart is 
 set upon execution. When she covers it with pur¬ 
 ple, 1 would not, says he, advise her lover to ap¬ 
 proach her; but if she appears in white, it is 
 peace, and he may hand her out of her box with 
 safety. 
 
 Will informs me likewise, that these hoods may 
 be used as signals. Why else, says he, does Cor¬ 
 nelia .always put on a black hood when her hus¬ 
 band is gone into the country? 
 
 Such are ray friend Honeycomb’s dreams of gal¬ 
 lantry. For my own part, I impute this diversity 
 of colors in the hoods to the diversity of com¬ 
 plexion in the faces of my pretty countrywomen. 
 Ovid, in his Art of Love, has given some precepts 
 as to this particular, though I fifld they are differ¬ 
 ent from those which prevail among the moderns. 
 He recommends a red striped silk to the pale com¬ 
 plexion; white to the brown, and dark to the fair. 
 On the contrary, my friend Will, who pretends to 
 be a greater master in this art than Ovid, tells me, 
 that the palest features look the most agreeable in 
 white sarcenet; that a face which is over-flushpd 
 appears to advantage in the deepest scarlet; and 
 that the darkest complexion is not a little allevia¬ 
 ted by a black hood. In short, he is for losing 
 the color of the face in that of the hood, as a fire 
 burns dimly, and a candle goes half out in the 
 light of the sun. “ This,” says he, “your Ovid 
 himself has hinted, where he treats of these mat¬ 
 ters, when he tells us that the blue-water nymphs 
 are dressed in sky-colored garments; and that Au¬ 
 rora, who always appears in the light of the rising 
 sun, is robed in saffron.” 
 
 Whether these his observations are justly 
 grounded I cannot tell; but I have often known 
 him, as we have stood together behind the ladies, 
 praise or dispraise the complexion of a face which 
 he never saw, from observing the color of her 
 hood, and [he] has been very seldom out in these 
 his guesses. 
 
 As I have nothing more at heart than the honor 
 and improvement of the fair sex, I cannot con¬ 
 clude this paper without an exhortation to the 
 British ladies, that they would excel the women 
 of all other nations as much in virtue and good 
 sense as they do in beauty; which they may cer¬ 
 tainly do, if they will be as industrious to cultivate 
 their minds as they are to adorn their bodies. In 
 the meanwhile I shall recommend to their most 
 serious consideration the saying of an old Greek 
 poet: 
 
 The mind, not the dress, adorneth woman 
 
 c. 
 
 No. 266.] FRIDAY, JANUARY 4, 1711-12. 
 
 Id vero est, quod ego mihi puto palmarium 
 Me reperisse, quomodo adolescentulus 
 . leretrieum ingenia et mores possit noscere; 
 Mature ut cum cognorit, perpetuo oderit. 
 
 Ter. Eun., act., v, sc. 4. 
 
 This I conceive to be my master-piece, that I have dis¬ 
 covered how inexperienced youth may detect the artifices 
 over ^ WOmen ’ ant * ^ knowing them early, detest them for- 
 
 No vice or wickedness which people fall into 
 from indulgence to desires which are natural to all, 
 ought to place them below the compassion of the 
 virtuous part of the world : which indeed often 
 makes me a little apt to suspect the sincerity of 
 their virtue, who are too warmly provoked at 
 other people’s personal sins. The unlawful com¬ 
 merce of the sexes is of all others the hardest to 
 avoid; and yet there is no one which you shall 
 hear the rigider part of womankind speak of with 
 so little mercy. It is very certain that a modest 
 woman cannot abhor the breach of chastity too 
 much; but pray let her hate it for herself, and only 
 pity it in others. Will Honeycomb calls these 
 over-offended ladies, the outrageously virtuous. 
 
 I do not design to fall upon failures in general, 
 with relation to the gift of chastity, but at present 
 only enter upon that large field, and begin with 
 the consideration of poor and public whores. The 
 other evening, passing along near Covent-garden, 
 I was jogged on the elbow as I turned into the pi¬ 
 azza, on the right hand coming out of James- 
 street, by a slim young girl of about seventeen, 
 who with a pert air asked me if I was for a pint 
 of wine. I do not know but I should have in¬ 
 dulged my curiosity in having some chat with 
 her, but that I am informed the man of the Bum¬ 
 per knows me; and it would have made a story 
 for him not veiy agreeable to some part of my 
 writings, though I have in others so frequently 
 said, that I am wholly unconcerned in any scene 
 I am in but merely as a Spectator. This impedi¬ 
 ment being in my way, we stood under one of the 
 arches by twilight; and there I could observe as 
 exact features as I had ever seen, the most agreea¬ 
 ble shape, the finest neck and bosom, in a word, 
 the whole person of a woman exquisitely beauti¬ 
 ful. She affected to allure me with a forced want¬ 
 onness in her look and air; but I saw it checked 
 with hunger and cold : her eyes were wan and 
 eager, her dress thin and tawdry, her mien genteel 
 and childish. This strange figure gave me much 
 anguish of heart, and to avoid being seen with 
 her, I went away, but could not forbear giving her 
 a crown. The poor thing sighed, courtsied, and 
 with a blessing expressed with the utmost vehe¬ 
 mence, turned from me. This creature is what 
 they call “ newly come upon the town,” but who, 
 falling I suppose into cruel hands, was left in the 
 first month from her dishonor, and exposed to 
 pass through the hands and discipline of one of 
 those hags of hell whom we call bawds. But lest 
 I should grow too suddenly grave on this subject, 
 and be myself outrageously good, I shall turn - to 
 a scene in one of Fletcher’s plays, where this cha¬ 
 racter is drawn, and the economy of whoredom 
 most admirably described. The passage I would 
 point to is in the third scene of .he second act of 
 The Humorous Lieutenant. Leucippe, who is agent 
 for the king’s lust, and bawds at the same time 
 for the whole court, is very pleasantly introduced, 
 reading her minutes as a person of business, with 
 two maids, her under-secretaries, taking instruc¬ 
 tions at a table before her. Her women, both 
 those under her present tutelage, and those which 
 she is laying wait for, are alphabetically set down 
 in her book; and as she is looking over the letter 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 330 
 
 C in a muttering voice, as if between soliloquy 
 and speaking out, she says, 
 
 Her maidenhead will yield me; let me see now ; 
 
 She is not fifteen they say; for her complexion— 
 
 Cloe, Cloe, Cloe, here I have her, 
 
 Cloe, the daughter of a country gentleman; 
 
 Her age upon fifteen. Now her complexion— 
 
 A lovely brown; here ’tis; eyes black and rolling, 
 
 The body neatly built; she strikes a lute well; 
 
 Sings most enticingly. These helps consider’d, 
 
 Her maidenhead will amount to some three hundred, 
 
 Or three hundred and fifty crowns: ’twill bear it handsomely; 
 Her father’s poor, some little share deducted, 
 
 To buy him a hunting nag-. 
 
 The creatures are very well instructed in the 
 circumstances and manners of all who are any 
 way related to the fair one whom they have a de¬ 
 sign upon. As Cloe is to be purchased with 350 
 crowns, and the father taken off with a pad; the 
 merchant’s wife next to her, who abounds in 
 plenty, is not to have downright money, but the 
 mercenary part of her mind is engaged with a pre¬ 
 sent of plate and a little ambition. She is made 
 to understand that it is a man of quality who dies 
 for her. The examination of a young girl for 
 business, and the crying down her value for being 
 a slight thing, together with every other circum¬ 
 stance in the scene, are inimitably excellent, and 
 have the true spirit of comedy; though it were to 
 be wished the author had added a circumstance 
 which should make Leucippe’s business more 
 odious. 
 
 It must not be thought a digression from my in¬ 
 tended speculation, to talk of bawds in a dis¬ 
 course upon wenches: for a woman of the town is 
 not thoroughly and properly such, without having 
 gone through the education of one of these houses. 
 But the compassionate case of very many is, that 
 they are taken into such hands without any the 
 least suspicion, previous temptation, or admoni¬ 
 tion to what place they are going;. The last week 
 I went to an inn in the city to inquire for some 
 provisions which were sent Dy a wagon out of the 
 country; and as I waited in one of the boxes till 
 the chamberlain had looked over his parcels, I 
 heard an old and young voice repeating the ques¬ 
 tions and responses of the church-catechism. I 
 thought it no breach of good manners to peep at a 
 crevice, and look in at people so well employed; 
 but who should I see there but the most artful 
 procuress in town, examining a most beautiful 
 country girl, who had come up in the same wagon 
 with my things, “ whether she was well educated, 
 could forbear playing the wanton with servants 
 and idle fellows, of which this town, says she, is 
 too full.” At the same time, “whether she knew 
 enough of breeding, as that if a ’squire or a gen¬ 
 tleman, or one that was her betters, should give 
 her a civil salute, she could courtesy and be hum¬ 
 ble nevertheless.” Her innocent “ forsooths, 
 yeses, and’t please yous, and she would do her 
 endeavor,” moved the good old lady to take her 
 out of the hands of a country bumpkin, her bro¬ 
 ther, and hire her for her own maid. I staid till 
 I saw them all march out to take coach; the bro¬ 
 ther loaded with a great cheese, he prevailed upon 
 her to take for her civilities to his sister. This 
 poor creature’s fate is not far off that of hers 
 whom I spoke of above; and it is not to be doubt¬ 
 ed, but after she has been long enough a prey to 
 lust, she will be delivered over to famine. The 
 ironical commendation of the industry and cha¬ 
 rity of these antiquated ladies, these directors of 
 sin, after they can no longer commit it, makes up 
 the beauty of the inimitable dedication to the 
 Plain-Dealer, and is a master-piece of raillery on 
 this vice. But to understand all the purlieus of 
 this game the better, and to illustrate this subject 
 
 in future discourses, I must venture myself, with 
 my friend Will, into the haunts of beauty and gal¬ 
 lantry; from pampered vice in the habitations of 
 the wealthy, to distressed indigent wickedness 
 expelled the harbors of the brothel.—T. 
 
 No. 267.] SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1711-12. 
 
 Cedite Romani scriptores, cedite Graii. 
 
 Propert. El. 34, lib. 2, ver. 95. 
 
 Give place, ye Roman and ye Grecian wits. 
 
 There is nothing in nature so irksome as gene¬ 
 ral discourses, especially when they turn chiefly 
 upon words. For this reason I shall wave the 
 discussion of that point which was started some 
 years since, whether Milton’s Paradise Lost may 
 be called an heroic poem ? Those who will not 
 give it that title, may call it (if they please) a 
 divine poem. It will be sufficient to its per¬ 
 fection, if it has in it all the beauties of the high¬ 
 est kind of poetry: and as for those who allege it 
 is not an heroic poem, they advance no more to 
 the diminution of it, than if they should say 
 Adam is not _<Eneas, nor Eve Helen. 
 
 I shall therefore examine it by the rule of epic 
 poetry, and see whether it falls short of the Iliad 
 or iEneid, in the beauties which are essential to 
 that kind of writing. The first thing to be con¬ 
 sidered in an epic poem is the fable, which is 
 perfect or impCTfect, according as the action 
 which it relates is more or less so. This action 
 should have three qualifications in it. First, it 
 should be but one action. Secondly, it should 
 be an entire action; and Thirdly, it should be a 
 great action. To consider the action of the Iliad, 
 iEneid, and Paradise Lost, in these three several 
 lights. Homer, to preserve the unity of his 
 action, hastens into the midst of things, as Horace 
 has observed. Had he gone up to Leda’s egg, or 
 begun much later, even at the rape of Helen, or 
 the investing of Troy, it is manifest that the story 
 of the poem would have been a series of several 
 actions. He therefore opens his poem with the 
 discord of his princes, and artfully interweaves, 
 in the several succeeding parts of it, an account 
 of everything material which relates to them, 
 and had passed before that fatal dissension. After 
 the same manner HCneas makes his first appear¬ 
 ance in the Tyrrhene seas, and within sight of 
 Italy, because the action proposed to be celebrated 
 was that of his settling himself in Latium. But 
 because it was necessary for the reader to know 
 what had happened to him in the taking of Troy, 
 and in the preceding parts of his voyage, V irgil 
 makes his hero relate it by way of episode in the 
 second and third books of the iEneid. The con¬ 
 tents of both which books come before those of 
 the first book in the thread of the story, though 
 for preserving this unity of action they follow 
 them in the disposition of the poem. Milton, in 
 imitation of these two great poets, opens his Pa¬ 
 radise Lost with an infernal council plotting the 
 fall of man, which is the action he proposed to 
 celebrate; and as for those great actions, which 
 preceded in point of time, the battle of the angels, 
 and the creation of the world (which would have 
 entirely destroyed the unity of the principal 
 action, had he related them in the same order that 
 they happened), he cast them in the fifth, sixth, 
 ana seventh books, by way of episode to this 
 noble poem. 
 
 Aristotle himself allows, that Homer has no¬ 
 thing to boast of as to the unity of his fable, 
 though at the same time that great critic and phi¬ 
 losopher endeavored to palliate this imperfection 
 
331 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 in the Greek poet, by imputing it in some measure 
 to the very nature of an epic poem. Some have 
 been of opinion, that the HSueid also labors in 
 this particular, and has Episodes which may be 
 looked upon as excrescences rather than as parts 
 of the action. On the contrary, the poem which 
 we have now under our consideration, hath no 
 other episodes than such as naturally arise from 
 the subject, and yet is filled with such a multi¬ 
 tude of astonishing incidents, that it gives us 
 at the same time a pleasure of the greatest variety 
 and of the greatest simplicity; uniform in its na¬ 
 ture, though diversified in the execution * 
 
 I must observe also, that as Virgil, in the poem 
 which was designed to celebrate the origin of 
 the Roman empire, has described the birth of its 
 great rival, the Carthaginian commonwealth ; Mil- 
 ton, with the like art in his poem on the fall of 
 man, has related the fall of those angels who are 
 his professed enemies. Beside the many other 
 beauties in such an episode, its running parallel 
 with the great action of the poem, hinders it from 
 breaking the unity so much as another episode 
 would have done, that had not so great affinity 
 with the principal subject. In short this is the 
 same kind of beauty which the critics admire in 
 the Spanish Friar, or the Double Discovery, where 
 the two different plots look like counterparts and 
 oopies of one another. 
 
 The second qualification required in the action 
 of an epic poem is, that it should be an entire 
 action. An action is entire when it is complete 
 in all its parts; or as Aristotle describes it, when 
 it consists of a beginning, a middle, and an end. 
 Nothing should go before it, be intermixed with 
 it, or follow after it, that is not related to it. As, 
 on the contrary, no single step should be omitted 
 in that just and regular process which it must be 
 supposed to take from its origin to its consum¬ 
 mation. Thus we see the anger of Achilles in 
 its birth, its continuance, and effects ; and ^Eneas’s 
 settlement in Italy carried on through all the op¬ 
 positions in his way to it both by sea and land. 
 The action in Milton excels (I think) both the 
 former in this particular: we see it contrived 
 in hell, executed upon earth, and punished by 
 Heaveu. The parts of it are told in the most dis¬ 
 tinct manner, and grow out of one another in the 
 most natural order. 
 
 The third qualification of an epic poem is its 
 greatness. The anger of Achilles was of such 
 consequence that it embroiled the kings of Greece, 
 destroyed the heroes of Troy, and engaged all 
 the gods in factions. .Eneas’s settlement in Italy 
 produced the Ctesars and gave birth to the Roman 
 empire. Milton’s subject was still greater than 
 either of the former; it does not determine the 
 fate of single persons or nations; but of a whole 
 species. The united powers of hell are joined 
 together for the destruction of mankind, which 
 they effected in part, and would have completed, 
 had not Omnipotence itself interposed. The 
 principal actors are man in his greatest per¬ 
 fection, and woman in her highest beauty. Their 
 enemies are the fallen angels; the Messiah their 
 friend, and the Almighty their protector. In 
 short everything that is great ;n the whole circle 
 of being, whether within the verge of nature, or 
 out of it, has a proper part assigned it in this 
 admirable poem. 
 
 In poetry, as in architecture, not only the 
 whole, but the principal members, and every 
 part of them, should be great. I will not pre¬ 
 sume to say, that the book of games in the Eneid, 
 or that in the Iliad, are not of this nature: nor to 
 
 reprehend Virgil’s simile of the top, and many 
 others of the same kind in the Iliad, as liable to 
 any censure in this particular; but I think we 
 may say, without derogating from those wonder¬ 
 ful performances, that there is an unquestionable 
 magnificence in every part of Paradise Lost, and 
 indeed a much greater than could have been 
 formed upon any pagan system. 
 
 But Aristotle, by the greatness of the action, 
 does not only mean that it should be great in its na¬ 
 ture, but also in its duration, or in other words, that 
 it should have a due length in it, as well as what we 
 roperly call greatness. The just measure of this 
 ind of magnitude, he explains by the following 
 similitude: An animal no bigger than a mite, 
 cannot appear perfect to the eye, because the sight 
 takes it in at once, and has only a confused idea 
 of the whole, and not a distinct idea of all its 
 parts; if, on the contrary, you should suppose an 
 animal of ten thousand furlongs in length, the 
 eye would be so filled with a single part of it, that 
 it could not give the mind an idea of the whole. 
 What these animals are to the eye, a very short or a 
 very long action would be to the memory. The 
 first would be, as it were, lost and swallowed up by 
 it, and the other difficult to be contained in it. 
 Homer and Virgil have shown their principal art 
 in this particular; the action of the Iliad, and that 
 of the .Eneid, were in themselves exceedingly short, 
 but are so beautifully extended and diversified by 
 the invention of episodes, and the machinery of 
 gods, with the like poetical ornament, that they 
 make up an agreeable story, sufficient to employ 
 the memory without- overcharging it. Milton’s 
 action is enriched with such a variety of circum¬ 
 stances, that I have taken as much pleasure in 
 reading the contents of his books, as in the best in¬ 
 vented story I ever met with. It is possible, that 
 the traditions on which the Iliad ana .Eneid were 
 built, had more circumstances in them than the 
 history of the fall of man, as it is related in Scrip¬ 
 ture. Beside, it was easier for Homer and Vir¬ 
 gil to dash the truth with fiction, as they were in 
 no danger of offending the religion of their coun¬ 
 try by it. But as for Milton, he had not only a 
 very few circumstances upon which to raise his 
 poem, but was also obliged to proceed with the 
 greatest caution in everything that he added out 
 of his own invention. And indeed, notwith¬ 
 standing all the restraint he was under, he has 
 filled his story with so many surprising incidents, 
 which bear so close an analogy with what is de¬ 
 livered in holy writ, that it is capable of pleasing 
 the most delicate reader, without giving offense to 
 the most scrupulous. 
 
 The modern critics have collected from several 
 hints in the Iliad and Eneid the space of time, 
 which is taken up by the action of each of those 
 poems ; but as a great part of Milton’s story was 
 transacted in regions that lie out of the reach 
 of the sun and the sphere of day, it is impossi¬ 
 ble to gratify the reader with such a calculation, 
 which mdeea would be more curious than in¬ 
 structive ; none of the critics, either ancient or 
 modern, having laid down rules to circumscribe 
 the action of an epic poem with any determined 
 number of years, days, or hours. 
 
 This piece of criticism on Milton’s Paradise 
 Lost shall be carried on in the following Satur¬ 
 day’s paper.—L. 
 
 * The clause in Italics is not in the original paper in folio. 
 
332 
 
 1'HE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 268.] MONDAY, JANUARY 7, 1711-12. 
 
 Minus aptus acutis 
 
 Naribus horum hommurn.—IiOR. 1 bat. m, 
 
 - -—-unfit 
 
 1'or lively sallies of corporeal wit.—C reech. 
 
 It is not that I think I have been more witty 
 than I ought of late, that at present I wholly 
 forbear any attempts toward it; I am of opinion 
 that I ought sometimes to lay before the world 
 the plain letters of my correspondents in the art¬ 
 less dress in which they hastily send them, that 
 the reader may see I am not accuser and judge 
 myself, but that the indictment is properly and 
 fairly laid before I proceed against the criminal. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ As you are spectator-general, I apply my sell 
 to you in the following case, viz: I do not weai a 
 sword, but I often divert myself at the theater, 
 where I frequently see a set of fellows pull plain 
 people, by way of humor or frolic by the nose, 
 upon frivolous or no occasions. A friend of mine 
 the other night applauding what a graceful exit 
 Mr. Wilks made, one of those nose-wringers over¬ 
 hearing him, pinched him by the nose. I was 
 in the pit the other night (when it was very much 
 crowded), a gentleman leaning upon me, and very 
 heavily, I very civilly requested him to remove 
 his hand; for which he pulled me by the nose. 
 I would not resent it in so public a place, be¬ 
 cause I was unwilling to create a disturbance; 
 but have since reflected upon it as a thing that is 
 unmanly and disingenuous, renders the nose- 
 puller odious, and makes the person pulled by 
 the nose look little and contemptible. This 
 grievance I humbly request you would endeavoi 
 to redress. 
 
 “ I am your admirer, etc. 
 
 able them to keep mistresses, horses, hounds; to 
 drink, feast, and game with their companions, pay 
 their debts contracted by former extravagancies, 
 or some such vile and unworthy end: and indulge 
 themselves in pleasures which are a shame and 
 scandal to human nature. Now as for women; 
 how few of them are there, who place the happi¬ 
 ness of their marriage in the having a wise and 
 virtuous friend? One who will be faithful and 
 just to all, and constant and loving to them? 
 Who with care and diligence will look after and 
 improve the estate, and, without grudging, allow , 
 whatever is prudent and convenient? Rather, ho^w 
 few are there, who do not place their happiness in 
 outshining others in pomp and show? and that do 
 not think within themselves when they have mar¬ 
 ried such a rich person, that none of their ac¬ 
 quaintance shall appear so fine in their equipage, 
 so adorned in their persons, or so magnificent m 
 their furniture as themselves? Thus their heads 
 are filled with vain ideas ; and I heartily wish I 
 could say that equipage and show were not the 
 chief good of so many women as I fear it is. 
 
 “After this manner do both sexes deceive them¬ 
 selves, and bring reflections and disgrace upon the 
 most happy and most honorable state of life; 
 whereas, if they would but correct their depraved 
 taste, moderate their ambition, and place their 
 happiness upon proper objects, we should not find 
 felicity in the marriage state such a wonder in the 
 world as it now is. 
 
 “Sir, if you think these thoughts worth insert¬ 
 ing among your own, be pleased to give them a 
 belter dress: and let them pass abroad ; and you 
 
 will oblige 
 
 “Your Admirer, 
 
 “A. B ” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ James Easy.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Your discourse of the 29th of December, * on 
 love and marriage, is of so useful a kind, that I 
 cannot forbear adding my thoughts to yours on 
 this subject. Methinks it is a misfortune, that the 
 marriage-state, which in its own nature is. adapted 
 to give us the completest happiness this life is 
 capable of, should be so uncomfortable a one to so 
 many as it daily proves. But the mischief gen¬ 
 erally proceeds from the unwise choice people 
 make for themselves, and an expectation of happi¬ 
 ness from things not capable of giving it. Nothing 
 but the good qualities of the person beloved can 
 be a foundation for a love of judgment and dis¬ 
 cretion; and whoever expects happiness from any¬ 
 thing but virtue, wisdom, good-humor, and a 
 similitude of manners, will find themselves widely 
 mistaken. But how few are there who seek after 
 these things, and do not rather make riches their 
 chief, if not their only aim? How rare is it for a 
 man, when he engages himself in the thoughts of 
 marriage, to place his hopes of having in such a 
 woman a constant agreeable companion? One 
 who will divide his cares, and double his joys ? 
 Who will manage that share of his estate he in¬ 
 trusts to her with care, with prudence and fru¬ 
 gality, govern his house with economy and dis¬ 
 cretion, and be an ornament to himself and family? 
 Where shall we find the man who looks out for 
 one who places her chief happiness in the practice 
 of virtue, and makes her duty her continual plea¬ 
 sure? No, men rather seek for money as the com¬ 
 plement of all their desires ; and, regardless of 
 what kind of wives they take, they think riches 
 will be a minister to all kind of pleasures, and en- 
 
 “ As I was this day walking in the street, there 
 happened to pass by on the other side of the way 
 a beauty, whose charms were so attracting, that it 
 drew my eyes wholly on that side, insomuch that 
 I neglected my own way, and chanced to run my 
 nose & directly against a post: which the lady no 
 sooner perceived, but she fell into a fit.of laughter, 
 though at the same time she was sensible that she 
 herself was the cause of my misfortune, which, in 
 my opinion, was the greater aggravation of her 
 crinle. I being busy wiping off the blood which 
 trickled down my face, had not time to acquaint 
 her with her barbarity, as also with my resolution, 
 viz: never to look out of my way for one of her 
 sex more: therefore, that your humble servant may 
 be revenged, he desires you to insert this in one 
 of your next papers, which he hopes will be a 
 warning to all the rest of the women-gazers, as 
 well as to poor 
 
 “Anthony Gape. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I desire to know in your next, if the merry 
 game of ‘The parson has lost his cloak,’ is not 
 mightily in vogue among the fine ladies this 
 Christmas, because I see they wear hoods of all 
 colors, which I suppose is for that purpose. If it 
 is, and you think it proper, I will carry some .of 
 these hoods with me to our ladies in Yorkshire: 
 because they enjoined me to bring them something 
 from London that was very new. If you can tell 
 anything in which I can obey their commands 
 more agreeably, be pleased to inform me, and you 
 
 will extremely oblige 
 
 “ Your humble Servant. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, Oxford, Dec. 29. 
 
 “ Since you appear inclined to be a friend to the 
 
 *No. 261. 
 
T.HE SPECTATOR. 
 
 333 
 
 distressed, I beg you would assist me in an affair 
 under which 1 have suffered very much. The 
 reigning toast of this place is Patetia; I have pur¬ 
 sued her with the utmost diligence this twelve¬ 
 month, and find nothing stands in my way but 
 one who flatters her more than I can. Pride is 
 her favorite passion; therefore if you would be so 
 far my friend as to make a favorable mention of 
 me in one of your papers, I believe I should not 
 fail in my addresses. The scholars stand in rows, 
 as they did to be sure in your time, at her pew- 
 door; and she has all the devotion paid to her by 
 a crowd of youths who are unacquainted with the 
 sex, and have inexperience added to their passion. 
 However, if it succeeds according to my vows, 
 you will make me the happiest man in the world, 
 and the most obliged among all 
 
 “Your humble Servants.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I came to my mistress’s toilet this morning, 
 for I am admitted when her face is stark naked : 
 she frowned and cried pish when I said a thing 
 that I stole; and I will be judged by you whether 
 it was not very pretty. ‘Madam,’ said I, ‘you 
 shall forbear that part of your dress ; it may be 
 well in others, but you cannot place a patch where 
 it does not hide a beauty.’”—T. 
 
 No. 269.J TUESDAY, JANUARY 8, 1711-12. 
 
 -iEvo rarissima nostro 
 
 Simplicity. -Ovid, Ars. Am., i, 241. 
 
 Most rare is now our old simplicity.—D ryden. 
 
 I was this morning surprised with a great knock¬ 
 ing at the door, when my landlady’s daughter 
 came up to me, and told me that there was a man 
 below desired to speak with me. Upon my asking 
 her who it was, she told me it was a very grave 
 elderly person, but that she did know his name. 
 I immediately went down to him, and found him 
 to be the coachman of my worthy friend, Sir 
 Roger de Coverley. He told me that his master 
 came to town last night, and would be glad to take 
 a turn with me in Gray’s-inn walks. As I was 
 wondering with myself what had brought Sir 
 Roger to town, not having lately received any 
 letter from him, he told me that his master was 
 come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that 
 he desired I would immediately meet him. 
 
 I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of 
 the old knight, though I did not much wonder at 
 it, having heard him say more than once in private 
 discourse, that he looked upon Prince Eugenio 
 (for so the knight always calls him) to be a 
 greater man than Scanderbeg. 
 
 I was no sooner come into Gray’s-inn walks, but 
 I heard my frihnd hemming twice or thrice to 
 himself with great vigor, for he loves to clear his 
 pipes in good air (to make use of his own phrase), 
 and is not a little pleased with any one who takes 
 notice of the strength which he still exerts in his 
 morning hems. 
 
 I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of 
 the good old man, who, before he saw me, was en¬ 
 gaged in conversation with a beggar-man that had 
 asked an alms of him. I could hear my friend 
 chide him for not finding out some work ; but at 
 the same time saw him put his hand in his pocket 
 and give him six-pence. 
 
 Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, 
 consisting of many kind shakes of the hand, and 
 several affectionate looks which we cast upon one 
 another. After which the knight told me my 
 good friend his chaplain was very well, and much 
 
 at my service, and that the Sunday before he had 
 made a most incomparable sermon out of Dr. 
 Barrow. “I have lett,” says he, “all my affairs 
 in his hands, and being willing to lay an obliga¬ 
 tion upon him, have deposited with him thirty 
 mai ks, to be distributed among liis poor parish* 
 ioners,” 
 
 He then proceeded to acquaint me with the wel¬ 
 fare of Will Wimble. Upon which he put his 
 hand into his fob and presented me in his name 
 with a tobacco-stopper, telling me that Will had 
 been busy all the beginning of the winter in turn¬ 
 ing great quantities of them; and that he made a 
 present of one to every gentleman in the country 
 who has good principles, and smokes. He added, 
 that poor Will was at present under great tribula¬ 
 tion, for that Tom Touchy had taken the law of 
 him for cutting some hazel sticks out of one of 
 his hedges. 
 
 Among other pieces of news which the knight 
 brought from Ins country-seat, he informed me 
 that Moll White was dead, and that about a month 
 after her death the wind was so very high that it 
 blew down the end of one of his barns. “ But for 
 my own part,” says Sir Roger, “I do not think 
 that the old woman had any hand in it.” 
 
 He afterward fell into an account of the diver¬ 
 sions which had passed in his house during the 
 holidays: for Sir Roger, after the laudable custom 
 of his ancestors, always keeps open house at 
 Christmas. 
 
 I learned from him that he had killed eight fat 
 hogs, for this season, that he had dealt about his 
 chines very liberally among his neighbors, and 
 that in paiticular he had sent a string of hogs’ 
 puddings with a pack of cards to every poor 
 family in the parish. “ I have often thought,” 
 says Sir Roger, “it happens very well that Christ¬ 
 mas should tall out in the middle of winter. It 
 is the most dead uncomfortable time of the year, 
 when the poor people would suffer very much 
 from their poverty and cold, if they had not good 
 cheer, warm fires, and Christmas gambols to sup¬ 
 port them. I love to rejoice their poor hearts at 
 this season, and to see the whole village merry in 
 my great hall. I allow a double quantity of malt 
 to my small-beer, and set it a running for twelve 
 days to every one that calls for it. I have always 
 a piece of cold beef and a mince-pie upon the 
 table, and am wonderfully pleased to see my ten¬ 
 ants pass away a whole evening in playing their 
 innocent tricks, and smutting one another. Our 
 friend Will Wimble is as merry as any of them, 
 and shows a thousand roguish tricks upon these 
 occasions.” 
 
 I was very much delighted with the reflection 
 of my old friend, which carried so much goodness 
 in it. He then launched out into the praise of the 
 ate act of parliament for securing the Church of 
 England,* and told me with great satisfaction, that 
 he believed it already began to take effect, for that 
 a rigid dissenter, who chanced to dine at his 
 rouse on Christmas day, had been observed to eat 
 very plentifully of his plum-porridge. 
 
 After having dispatched all our country matters. 
 Sir Roger made several inquiries concering the 
 club, and particularly of his old antagonist Sir 
 Andrew Freeport. He asked me with a kind of 
 smile whether Sir Andrew had not taken advan¬ 
 tage of his absence, to vent among them some of 
 ris republican doctrines; but soon after gathering 
 up his countenance into a more than ordinary 
 seriousness, “Tell me truly,” says he, “don’t you 
 think Sir Andrew had a hand in the Pope’s pro- 
 
 *Stat. 10 Ann, cap. 2. The act against occasional con¬ 
 formity.. 
 
 v 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 334 
 
 cession?” But without giving me time to answer 
 him, “ Well, well,” says he, “ I know you are a 
 wary man, and do not care to talk of public 
 
 matters.” . 
 
 The knight then asked me if I had seen Prince 
 Eugenio, and made me promise to get him a stand 
 in some convenient place where he might have a 
 full sight of that extraordinary man, whose pre¬ 
 sence did so much honor to the British nation. 
 He dwelt very long on the praises of this great 
 general, and i have found that since I was with 
 him in the country, he had drawn many observa¬ 
 tions together out of his reading in Baker’s Chro¬ 
 nicle and other authors, who always lie in his 
 liall-window, which very much redound to the 
 honor of this prince. 
 
 Having passed away the greatest part of the 
 morning in hearing the knight’s reflections, which 
 were partly private and partly political, he asked 
 me if I would smoke a pipe with him over a dish 
 of coffee at Squire’s? As I love the old man, I 
 take delight in complying with everything that 
 is agreeable to him, and accordingly waited on 
 him to the coffee-house, where his venerable figure 
 drew upon us the eyes of the whole room. He had 
 no sooner seated himself at the upper end of the 
 high table, but he called for a clean pipe, a paper 
 of tobacco, a dish of coffee, a wax-candle, and the 
 Supplement,* with such an air of cheerfulness and 
 good-humor, that all the boys in the coffee-room 
 (who seemed to take pleasure in serving him) 
 were at once employed on his several errands, in¬ 
 somuch that nobody else could come at a dish of 
 tea, until the knight had got all his conveniences 
 about him.—L. 
 
 No. 270.] WEDNESDAY, JAN. 9, 1711-12. 
 
 Discit enim citias, meminitque libentius illud, 
 
 Quod quis deridet, quam, quod probat.- 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. ii, 262. 
 
 For what’s derided by the censuring crowd, 
 
 Is thought on more than what is just and good. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 There is a lust in man no power can tame, 
 
 Of loudly publishing his neighbor’s shame; 
 
 On eagle’s wings invidious scandals liy, 
 
 While virtuous actions are but born, and die. 
 
 E. of Corse. 
 
 Sooner we learn, and seldomer forget, 
 
 What critics scorn, than what they highly rate. 
 
 Hughes’s Letters, vol. ii, p. 222. 
 
 I no not know that I have been in greater de¬ 
 light for these many years, than in beholding the 
 boxes at the play the last time The Scornful Lady 
 was acted. So great an assembly of ladies placed 
 in gradual rows in all the ornaments of jewels, 
 silks, and colors, gave so lively and gay an im¬ 
 pression to the heart, that methought the season 
 of the year was vanished; and I did. not think it 
 an ill expression of a young fellow who stood 
 near me, that called the boxes those “beds of tu¬ 
 lips.” It was a pretty variation of the prospect, 
 when any one of those fine ladies rose up and did 
 honor to herself and friend at a distance, by court- 
 seying; and gave opportunity to that friend to 
 show her charms to the same advantage in return¬ 
 ing the salutation. Here that action is as proper 
 and graceful, as it is at church unbecoming and 
 impertinent. By the way I must take the liberty 
 to observe that* I did not see any one who is 
 usually so full of civilities at church, offer at any 
 such indecorum during any part of the action of 
 the play. Such beautiful prospects gladden our 
 minds, and when considered in general, give inno¬ 
 cent and pleasing ideas. He that dwells upon 
 
 * A periodical paper 
 
 any one object of beauty, may fix his imagination 
 to his disquiet; but the contemplation of a whole 
 assembly together is a defense against the en¬ 
 croachment of desire. At least to me, who have 
 taken pains to look at beauty abstracted from the 
 consideration of its being the object of desire; at 
 power, only as it sits upon another, without any 
 hopes of partaking any share of it; at wisdom 
 and capacity, without any pretensions to rival or 
 envy its acquisitions: I say to me, who am really 
 free from forming any hopes by beholding the 
 persons of beautiful women, or warming myself 
 into ambition from the successes of other men, 
 this world is not only a mere scene, but a very 
 pleasant one. Did mankind but know the freedom 
 which there is in keeping thus aloof from the 
 world, I should have more imitators, than the 
 powerfullest man in the nation has followers. To 
 be no man’s rival in love, or competitor in busi¬ 
 ness, is a character which, if it does not recom¬ 
 mend you as it ought to benevolence among those 
 whom you live with, yet has it certainly this ef¬ 
 fect, that you do not stand so much in need of 
 their approbation, as you would if you aimed at 
 it more, in setting your heart on the same things 
 which the generality doat on. By this means, 
 and with this easy philosophy, I am never less at 
 a play than when I am at the theater; but indeed 
 I am seldom so well pleased with action as in that 
 place; for most men follow nature no longer than 
 while they are in their nightgowns, and all the 
 busy part of the day are in characters which they 
 neither become, nor act in with pleasure to them¬ 
 selves or their beholders. But to return to my la¬ 
 dies : I was very well pleased to see so great a 
 crowd of them assembled at a play, wherein the 
 heroine, as the phrase is, is so just a picture of 
 the vanity of the sex in tormenting their admirers. 
 The lady who pines for the man whom she treats 
 with so much impertinence and inconstancy, is 
 drawn with much art and humor. Her resolutions 
 to be extremely civil, but her vanity rising just at 
 the instant she resolved to express herself kindly, 
 are described as by one who had studied the sex. 
 But when my admiration is fixed upon this excel¬ 
 lent character, and two or three others in the play, 
 I must confess I was moved with the utmost in¬ 
 dignation, at the trivial, senseless, and unnatural 
 representation of the chaplain. It is possible 
 there may be a pedant in holy orders, and we have 
 seen one or two of them in the world: but such a 
 driveler as Sir Roger,* so bereft of all manner of 
 pride, which is the characteristic of a pedant, is 
 what one would not believe would come into the 
 head of the same man who drew the rest of the 
 play. The meeting between Welford and him 
 shows a wretch without any notion of the dignity 
 of his function; and it is out of all common sense 
 that he should give an account of himself “ as one 
 sent four or five miles in a morning, on foot, for 
 eggs.” It is not to be denied, but this part, and 
 that of the maid whom he makes love to, are ex¬ 
 cellently well performed; but a thing which is 
 blamable in itself, grows still more so by the suc¬ 
 cess in the execution of it. It is so mean a thing 
 to gratify a loose age with a scandalous repre¬ 
 sentation of what is reputable among men, not to 
 say what is sacred, that no beauty, no excellence 
 in an author ought to atone for it; nay, such ex¬ 
 cellence is an aggravation of his guilt, and an ar¬ 
 gument that he errs against the conviction of his 
 own understanding and conscience. Wit should 
 be tried by this rule, and an audience should rise 
 
 * In former times priests were distinguished by the addi¬ 
 tion of Sir to their Christian names, as if they had been 
 knights. See Dodsley’s Old Plays, passim. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 335 
 
 imaginations, and produce the three following let¬ 
 ters for the entertainment of the day:— 
 
 against such a scene as throws diwn the reputa¬ 
 tion of anything, which the consideration of reli- 
 gion or decency should preserve from contempt. 
 .But all this evil arises from this one corruption of 
 mind, that makes men resent offenses against their 
 virtue less than those against their understand¬ 
 ing. An author shall write as if he thought there 
 was not one man of honor or woman of chastity 
 in the house, and come off with applause : for an 
 insult upon all the ten commandments with the 
 little critics is not so bad as the breach of a 
 
 Uni v7 j t * Ine an< ^ place. Half wits do not ap¬ 
 prehend the miseries that must necessarily flow 
 Irom a degeneracy of manners; nor do they know 
 tlnat order is the support of society. Sir Roger 
 and his mistress are monsters of the poet’s own 
 forming; the sentiments in both of them are such 
 as do not arise in fools of their education. We all 
 know that a silly scholar, instead of being below 
 every one he meets with, is apt to be exalted above 
 the rank of such as are really his superiors : his 
 arrogance is always founded upon particular no¬ 
 tions of distinction in his own head, accompanied 
 with a pedantic scorn of all fortune and pre-emi¬ 
 nence, when compared with his knowledge and 
 learning. This very one character of Sir Roger, 
 as silly as it really is, has done more toward the 
 disparagement of holy orders, and consequently 
 of \ irtue itself, than all the wit of that author, or 
 any other, could make up for in the conduct 
 of the longest life after it. I do not pre¬ 
 tend, m saying this, to give myself airs of more 
 virtue than my neighbors, but assert it from the 
 principles by which mankind must always be 
 governed. Sallies of imagination are to be over¬ 
 looked, when they are committed out of warmth 
 in the recommendation of what is praiseworthy; 
 but a deliberate advancing of vice, with all the 
 wit in the world, is as ill an action as any that 
 comes before the magistrate, and ought to be re¬ 
 ceived as such by the people.—T. 
 
 Ho. 271.] THURSDAY, JAN. 10, 1711-12. 
 
 Mille trahens varios adverso sole colores. 
 
 Virg., ,®n. iv, 701. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 I was last Thursday in an assembly of ladies, 
 where there were thirteen different colored hoods. 
 Your Spectator of that day lying upon the table, 
 they ordered me to read it to them, which I did 
 with a very clear voice, until I came to the Greek 
 verse at the end of it. I must confess I was a 
 little startled at its popping upon me so unex¬ 
 pectedly However, I covered my confusion as 
 well as I could, and after having muttered two or 
 three hard words to myself, laughed heartily, and 
 cried, ‘a very good jest, faith.’ The ladies de¬ 
 sired me to explain it to them; but I begged their 
 pardon for that, and told them, that if it had been 
 proper for them to hear, they might be sure the 
 author would not have wrapped it up in Greek. I 
 then let drop several expressions, as if there was 
 something in it that was not fit to be spoken be¬ 
 fore a company of ladies. Upon which the ma¬ 
 tron of the assembly, who was dressed in a cherry- 
 colored hood, commended the discretion of the 
 writer for having thrown his filthy thoughts into 
 Greek, which was likely to corrupt but few of his 
 readers. At the same time she declared herself 
 very, well pleased that he had not given a decisive 
 opinion upon the new-fashioned hoods; ‘for to 
 tell you truly, says she, ‘I was afraid he would 
 have made us ashamed to show our heads.’ Now, 
 Sii, you must know, since this unlucky accident 
 happened to me in a company of ladies, among 
 whom I passed for a most ingenious man, I have 
 consulted one who is well versed in the Greek 
 language, and he assures me upon his word that 
 your late quotation means no more than that 
 “ manners, not dress, are the ornaments of a wo¬ 
 man. If this comes to the knowledge of my fe¬ 
 male admirers, I shall be very hard put to it to 
 bring myself off handsomely. In the meanwhile, 
 
 I give you this account, that you may take care 
 hereafter not to betray any of your well-wishers 
 into the like inconveniences. It is in the number 
 of these that I beg leave to subscribe myself, 
 
 “Tom Trippit.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 Drawing a thousand colors from the light.—D ryden. 
 
 I receive a double advantage from the letters of 
 my correspondents; first, as they show me which 
 of my papers are most acceptable to them; and in 
 the next place, as they furnish me with materials 
 for new speculations. Sometimes indeed I do not 
 make use of the letter itself, but form the hints of 
 it into plans of my own invention ; sometimes I 
 take the liberty to change the language or thought 
 into my own way of speaking and thinking, and 
 always (if it can be done without prejudice to the 
 sense) omit the many compliments and applauses 
 which are usually bestowed upon me. 
 
 Beside the two advantages above-mentioned, 
 which 1 receive from the letters that are sent me, 
 they give me an opportunity of lengthening out 
 my paper by the skillful management of the sub- 
 scribing part at the end of them, which perhaps 
 does not a little conduce to the ease both of my¬ 
 self and reader. J 
 
 Some will have it, that I often write to myself 
 and am the only punctual correspondent I have! 
 This objection would indeed be material, were the 
 letters 1 communicate to the public stuffed with 
 my own commendations; and if instead of endea¬ 
 voring to divert or instruct my readers, I admired 
 in them the beauty of my own performances. But 
 I shall leave these wise conjecturers to their own 
 
 “Your readers are so well pleased with your 
 character of Sir Roger de Coverley, that there ap¬ 
 peared a sensible joy in every coffee-house, upon 
 hearing the old knight was come to town. I am 
 now with a knot of his admirers, who make it 
 their joint -request to you, that you would give us 
 public notice of the window or balcony 'where the 
 knight intends to make his appearance. He has 
 already given great satisfaction to several who 
 have seen him at Squires’s coffee-house. If you 
 think fit to place your short face at Sir Roger’s 
 left elbow, we shall take the hint, and gratefully 
 acknowledge so great a favor. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “ ^ our most devoted, humble Servant, 
 
 “C. D.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ Knowing that you are very inquisitive after 
 everything that is curious in nature, I will wait 
 on you if you please, in the dusk of the evening, 
 with my show upon my back, which I carry about 
 with me in a box, as only consisting of a man, a 
 woman, and a horse. The two first are married, 
 in which state the little cavalier has so well ac¬ 
 quitted himself, that his lady is with child. The 
 big-bellied woman and her husband, with their 
 whimsical palfrey, are so very light, that when 
 they are put together into a scale, an ordinary 
 
336 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 man may weigh down the whole family. I he 
 little man is a bully in his nature; but when he 
 grows choleric, 1 confine him to his box until his 
 wrath is over, by which means I have hitherto 
 prevented him from doing mischief. His horse is 
 likewise very vicious, for which reason I am 
 forced to tie him close to his manger with a pack¬ 
 thread. The woman is a coquette. She struts as 
 much as it is possible for a lady of two feet high, 
 and would ruin me in silks, were not the quantity 
 that goes to a large pincushion sufficient to make 
 her a gown and petticoat. She told me the other 
 day, that she heard the ladies wore colored hoods, 
 and ordered me to get her one of the finest blue. 
 I am forced to comply with her demands while she 
 is in her present condition, being very willing to 
 have more of the same breed. I do not know what 
 she may produce me, but provided it be a show I 
 shall be very well satisfied. Such novelties* 
 should not, I think, be concealed from the British 
 Spectator; for which reason I hope you will ex¬ 
 cuse this presumption in 
 
 “Your most dutiful, most obedient, 
 
 “ and most humble Servant, 
 
 I, “S. T.” 
 
 \ 
 
 No. 272.] FRIDAY, JANUARY, 11, 1711-12. 
 
 -Longa est injuria, long® 
 
 Ambages- ViRQ. Mn., i, 345. 
 
 Great is the injury, and long the tale. 
 
 Me. Spectatoe, 
 
 “ The occasion of this letter is of so great im¬ 
 portance, and the circumstances of it such, that I 
 know you will but think it just to insert it, in pre¬ 
 ference of all other matters that can present them¬ 
 selves to your consideration. I need not, after 
 I have said this, tell you that I am in love. 
 The circumstances of my passion I shall let you 
 understand as well as a disordered mind will ad¬ 
 mit. ‘ That cursed pickthank, Mrs. Jane !’ Alas, 
 
 I am railing at one to you by her name, as famil¬ 
 iarly as if you were acquainted with her as well 
 as myself : but I will tell you all, as fast as the 
 alternate interruptions of love and anger will give 
 me leave. There is the most agreeable young wo¬ 
 man in the world, whom I am passionately in 
 love with, and from whom I have for some space 
 of time received as great marks of favor as were 
 fit for her to give, or me to desire. The successful 
 progress of the affair, of all others the most essen¬ 
 tial toward a man’s happiness, gave a new life and 
 spirit not only to my behavior and discourse, but 
 also a certain grace to all my actions in the com¬ 
 merce of life, in all things however remote from 
 love. You know the predominant passion spreads 
 itself through all a man’s transactions, and exalts 
 or depresses him according to the nature of such 
 passion. But alas ! I have not yet begun my 
 story, and what is the use of making sentences 
 and observations when a man is pleading for his 
 life ? To begin then. This lady has corresponded 
 with me under the names of love, she my Belinda, 
 I her Cleanthes. Though I am thus well got into 
 the account of my affair, I cannot keep in the 
 thread of it so much as to give you the character 
 of Mrs. Jane, whom I will not hide under a bor¬ 
 rowed name; but let you know, that this creature 
 has been, since I knew her, very handsome (though 
 I will not allow her even ‘ she has been’ for the fu¬ 
 ture,) and during the time of her bloom and beau¬ 
 ty, was so great a tyrant to her lovers, so over- 
 
 * Three dwarfs, a little man, a woman equally diminutive 
 and a horse proportionably so, were on exhibition in London 
 about this tune. 
 
 valued herself, and underrated all her pretenders, 
 that they have deserted her to a man: and she 
 knows no comfort but that common one to all in 
 her condition, the pleasure of interrupting the 
 amours of others. It is impossible but you must 
 have seen several of these volunteers in malice, 
 who pass their whole time in the most laborious 
 way of life in getting intelligence, running from 
 place to place with new whispers, without reaping 
 any other benefit but the hopes of making others 
 as unhappy as themselves. Mrs. Jane happened 
 to be at a place where I, with many others well 
 acquainted with my passion for Belinda, passed a 
 Christmas evening. There was among the rest a 
 young lady, so free in mirth, so amiable in a just 
 reserve that had accompanied it; I wrong her to 
 call it a reserve, but there appeared in her a mirth 
 or cheerfulness which was not a forbearance of 
 more immoderate jov, but the natural appearance 
 of all which could now from a mind possessed oi 
 a habit of innocence and purity. I must have ut¬ 
 terly forgot Belinda to have taken no notice of 
 one who was growing np to the same womanly 
 virtues which shine to perfection in her, had I not 
 distinguished one who seemed to promise to the 
 world the same life and conduct with my faithful 
 and lovely Belinda. When the company broke 
 up, the fine young thing permitted me to take 
 care of her home. Mrs. Jane saw my particular 
 regard to her, and was informed of my attending 
 her to her father’s house. She came early to Be¬ 
 linda the next morning, and asked her ‘ if Mrs. 
 Such-a-one had been with her?’—‘No.’ ‘If Mr. 
 Such-a-one’s lady ?’—‘No.’—‘ Nor your cousin 
 Such-a-one?’—‘No.’—‘Lord,’ says Mrs. Jane, 
 ‘what is the friendship of women?—Nay, they 
 may well laugh at it.—And did no one tell you 
 anything of the behavior of your lover, Mr. Wliat- 
 d’ye-call, last night? But perhaps it is nothing 
 
 to vou that he is to be married to young Mrs.- 
 
 on “Tuesday next?’ Belinda was here ready to 
 die with rage and jealousy. Then Mrs. Jane 
 goes on : ‘ I have a young kinsman who is clerk 
 to a great conveyancer, who shall show y6u the 
 rough draught of the marriage settlement. The 
 world says, her father gives him two thousand 
 pounds more than he could have with you. I 
 went innocently to wait on Belinda as usual, but 
 was not admitted; I wrote to her, and my letter 
 was sent back unopened. Poor Betty, her maid, 
 who is on my side, has been here just now blub¬ 
 bering, and told me the whole matter. She says 
 she did not think I could be so base; and that she 
 is now so odious to her mistress, for having so 
 often spoke well of me, that she dare not mention 
 me more. All our hopes are placed in having 
 these circumstances fairly represented in the Spec¬ 
 tator, which Betty says she dare not but bring up 
 as soon as it is brought in; and has promised, 
 when you have broke the ice, to own this was laid 
 between us, and when I can come to a hearing, the 
 young lady will support what we say by her testi¬ 
 mony, that I never saw her but that once in my 
 whole life. Dear Sir, do not omit this true rela¬ 
 tion, nor think it too particular, for there are 
 crowds of forlorn coquettes who intermingle 
 themselves with our ladies, and contract familiari¬ 
 ties out of malice, and with no other design but 
 to blast the hopes of lovers, the expectation of pa¬ 
 rents, and the benevolence of kindred. I doubt 
 not but I shall be, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most obliged, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Cleanthes.” 
 
 “ Sir, Will’s Coffee-house, Jan. 10. 
 
 “ The other day entering a room adorned with 
 the fair sex, I offered, after the usual manner, to 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 oacli of them a kiss; but one, more scornful than 
 the rest, turned her cheek, I did not think it 
 proper to take any notice of it until 1 had asked 
 your advice. 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ E. S 
 
 The correspondent is desired to say which cheek 
 the offender turned to him. 
 
 advertisement. 
 
 From the parish-vestry, January 9. 
 
 All ladies who come to church in the new-fash¬ 
 ioned hoods, are desired to be there before divine 
 service begins, lest they divert the attention of the 
 congregation. 
 
 Ralph. 
 
 No. 273.] SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 1711-12. 
 
 -Notandi sunt tibi mores. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., yer. 156. 
 
 Note well the manners. 
 
 Having examined the action of Paradise Lost, 
 let us in the next place consider the actors. This 
 is Aristotle’s method of considering, first the 
 fable, and secondly the manners; or, as we gener¬ 
 ally call them, in English, the fable and the cha¬ 
 racters. 
 
 Homer has excelled all the heroic poets that 
 ever wrote in the multitude and variety of his cha¬ 
 racters. Every God that is admitted into his 
 poem, acts a part which would have been suitable 
 to no other deity. His princes are as much dis¬ 
 tinguished by their manners, as by their domin¬ 
 ions; and even those among them, whose charac¬ 
 ters seem wholly made up of courage, differ from 
 one another as to the particular kinds of courage 
 in which they excel. In short, there is scarce a 
 speech or action in the Iliad, which the reader 
 may not ascribe to the person who speaks or acts, 
 without seeing his name at the head of it. 
 
 Homer does not only outshine all other poets in 
 the variety, but also in the novelty of his charac¬ 
 ters. He has introduced among his Grecian prin¬ 
 ces a person who had lived thrice the age of man, 
 and conversed with Theseus, Hercules, Polyphe¬ 
 mus, and the first race of heroes. His principal 
 actor is the son of a goddess, not to mention the 
 offspring of other deities, who have likewise a 
 place in his poem, and the venerable Trojan prince, 
 who was the father of so many kings and heroes. 
 There is in these several characters of Homer, a 
 certain dignity as well as novelty, which adapts 
 them in a more peculiar manner to the nature of a 
 heroic poem. Though, at the same time, to give 
 them the greater variety, he has described a Vul¬ 
 can, that is a buffoon, among his gods, and a Ther- 
 sites among his mortals. 
 
 Virgil falls infinitely short of Homer in the cha¬ 
 racters of his poem, both as to their variety and 
 novelty. HSneas is indeed a perfect character; 
 but as for Achates, though he is styled the hero’s 
 friend, he does nothing in the whole poem which 
 may deserve that title. Gyas, Mnestheus, Serges- 
 tus, and Cloanthes, are all of them men of the 
 same stamp and character : 
 
 -Fortemque Gyan, fortemque Cloanthem. 
 
 There are, indeed, several natural incidents in 
 the part of Ascanius; and that of Dido cannot 
 be sufficiently admired. I do not see anythino- 
 new or particular in Turnus. Pallas and Evander 
 are remote copies of Hector and Priam, as Lausus 
 and Mezentius* are almost parallels to Pallas and 
 Evander. The characters of Nisus and Eurvalus 
 22 J 
 
 337 
 
 I are beautiful, but common. We must not forget 
 j ^be parts of Sinon, Camilla, and some few others. 
 I which are fine improvements on the Greek poet 
 In short, there is neither that variety nor noveltv 
 in the persons of the HSneid, which we meet witn 
 in those of the Iliad. 
 
 if we look into the characters of Milton, we 
 
 ?. * ,, 1 iat * ias Produced all the variety 
 
 his fable was capable of receiving. The whole 
 species of mankind was in two persons at the 
 time to which the subject of his poem is confined. 
 We have, however, four distinct characters in 
 these two persons. We see man and woman in 
 the highest innocence and perfection, and in the 
 most abject state of guilt and infirmity. The two 
 last characters are, indeed, very common and ob¬ 
 vious, but the two first are not only more magnifi- 
 cent, but more new than any characters either in 
 Virgil or Homer, or indeed m the whole circle of 
 nature. 
 
 Milton was so sensible of this defect in the 
 subject of his poem, and of the few characters it 
 would afford him, that he has brought into it two 
 actors of a shadowy and fictitious nature, in the 
 persons of Sin and Death, by which means he has 
 wrought into the body of his fable a very beauti¬ 
 ful and well-invented allegory. But notwith¬ 
 standing the fineness of this allegory may atone 
 for it in some measure, I cannot think that persons 
 of such a chimerical existence are proper actors in 
 an epic poem; because there is not that measure 
 of probability annexed to them, which is requisite 
 in writings of this kind, as I shall show more at 
 large hereafter. 
 
 . Virgil has indeed admitted Fame as an actress 
 in the ^Eneid, but the part she acts is very short, 
 tlie most admired circumstances in 
 that divine work. We find in mock-heroic poems 
 particularly in the Dispensary and the Butrin' 
 several allegorical persons of this nature, which 
 are very beautiful in these compositions, and may 
 perhaps be used as an argument, that the authors 
 of them were of opinion such characters might 
 have a place in an epic work. For my own part 
 I should be glad the reader would think so, for 
 the sake of the poem I am now examining: and 
 must fui thei add, that if such empty, unsubstan¬ 
 tial beings may be ever made use of on this occa¬ 
 sion never were any more nicely imagined, and 
 employed in more proper actions, than those of 
 which I am now speaking. 
 
 Another principal actor in this poem is the 
 great enemy of mankind. The part of Ulysses in 
 Homer’s Odyssey is very much admired by Aris¬ 
 totle, as perplexing that fable with very agreeable 
 plots and intricacies, not only by the many ad¬ 
 ventures in his voyage, and the subtilty of his be¬ 
 havior, but by the various concealments and dis¬ 
 coveries of his person in several parts of that 
 poem. But the crafty being I have now men- 
 tioned makes a much longer voyage than Ulysses, 
 puts in practice many more wiles and stratagems’ 
 and hides himself under a greater variety of shapes 
 and appearances, all of which are severally de¬ 
 tected, to the great delight and surprise of the 
 reader. 
 
 We may likewise observe with how much art 
 the poet has varied several characters of the per¬ 
 sons that speak in his infernal assembly. On the 
 contrary, how has he represented the whole 
 Godhead exerting itself toward man in its full be¬ 
 nevolence under the threefold distinction of a 
 Creator, a Redeemer, and a Comforter! 
 
 Nor must we omit the person of Raphael, who, 
 amidst his tenderness and friendship for man, 
 shows such a dignity and condescension in all his 
 speech and behavior, as are suitable to a superior 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 338 
 
 nature. The angels are, indeed, as much diversi¬ 
 fied in Milton, and distinguished by their proper 
 parts, as the gods are in Homer and Yirgil. The 
 reader will find nothing ascribed to Uriel, Gabriel, 
 Michael, or Raphael; which is not in a particular 
 manner suitable to their respective characters.* 
 
 There is another circumstance in the principal 
 actors of the Iliad and iEneid, which gives a pe¬ 
 culiar beauty to those two poems, and was there¬ 
 fore contrived with very great judgment. I mean 
 the authors having chosen for their heroes, persons 
 who were so nearly related to the people for whom 
 they wrote. Achilles was a Greek, and iEneas 
 the remote founder of Rome. By this means their 
 countrymen (whom they principally propose to 
 themselves for their readers) were particularly at¬ 
 tentive to all the parts of their story, and sympa¬ 
 thized with their heroes in all their adventures. 
 A Roman could not but rejoice in the escapes, suc¬ 
 cesses, and victories, of JSneas, and be grieved at 
 any defeats, misfortunes, or disappointments that 
 befel him; as a Greek must have had the same re¬ 
 gard for Achilles. And it is plain, that each of 
 those poems have lost this great advantage, among 
 those readers to whom their heroes are as stran¬ 
 gers, or indifferent persons. 
 
 Milton’s poem is admirable in this respect, since 
 it is impossible for any of its readers, whatever 
 nation, country, or people, he may belong to, not 
 to be related to the persons who are the principal 
 actors in it; but what is still infinitely more to its 
 advantage, the principal actors in this poem are 
 not only our progenitors, but our representatives. 
 We have an actual interest in everything they do, 
 and no less than our utmost happiness is concern¬ 
 ed, and lies at stake in all their behavior. 
 
 I shall subjoin, as a corollary to the foregoing 
 remark, an admirable observation out of Aristotle, 
 which has been very much misrepresented in the 
 quotations of some modern critics : “ If a man of 
 perfect and consummate virtue falls into a misfor¬ 
 tune, it raises our pity, but not our terror, because 
 we do not fear that it may be our own case, who 
 do not resemble the suffering person.” But, as 
 that great philosopher adds “ if we see a man of 
 virtue mixed with infirmities fall into any misfor¬ 
 tune, it does not only raise our pity but our ter¬ 
 ror; because we are afraid that the like misfor¬ 
 tunes may happen to ourselves, who resemble the 
 character of the suffering person.” 
 
 I shall take another opportunity to observe, 
 that a person of an absolute and consummate vir¬ 
 tue should never be introduced into tragedy, and 
 shall only remark in this place, that the foregoing 
 observation of Aristotle, though it may be true in 
 other occasions, does not hold in this; because in 
 the present case, though the persons who fall into 
 misfortune are of the most perfect and consum¬ 
 mate virtue, it is not to be considered as what may 
 possibly be, but what actually is our own case; 
 since we are embarked with them on the same 
 bottom, and must be partakers of their happiness 
 or misery. 
 
 In this, and some other very few instances, 
 Aristotle’s rules for epic poetry (which he had 
 drawn from his reflections upon Homer) cannot 
 be supposed to quadrate exactly with the heroic 
 poems which have been made since his time; 
 since it is plain his rules would still have been 
 more perfect, could he have perused the ./Eneid, 
 which was made some hundred years after his 
 death. 
 
 In my next; I shall go through other parts of 
 Milton’s poem ; and hope that what I shall there 
 
 * These two last sentences were not in the original paper 
 in folio. 
 
 advance, as well as what I have already written, 
 will not only serve as a comment upon Milton, 
 but upon Aristotle.—L. 
 
 No. 274.] MONDAY, JANUARY 14, 1711-12. 
 
 Audire est operae pretium, procedere recte 
 
 Q,ui maschis non vultis- 
 
 Hob. 1 Sat. ii, 37 
 
 All you, who think the city ne’er can thrive 
 
 Till every cuckold-maker’s flay’d alive, 
 
 Attend.- Pope. 
 
 I have upon several occasions (that have occur¬ 
 red since I first took into my thoughts the pre¬ 
 sent state of fornication) weighed with myself in 
 behalf of guilty females, the impulses of flesh 
 and blood, together with the arts and gallantries 
 of crafty men; and reflect with some scorn that 
 most part of what we in our youth think gay and 
 polite, is nothing else but a habit of indulging a 
 pruriency that way. It will cost some labor to 
 bring people to so lively a sense of this, as to re¬ 
 cover the manly modesty in the behavior of my 
 men readers, and the bashful grace in the faces 
 of my women; but in all cases which come into 
 debate, there are certain things previously to be 
 done before we can have a true light into the sub¬ 
 ject matter: therefore it will, in the first place, be 
 necessary to consider the impotent wenchers and 
 industrious hags, who are supplied with, and are 
 constantly supplying, new sacrifices to the devil 
 of lust. You are to know, then, if you are so hap¬ 
 py as not to know it already, that the great havoc 
 which is made in the habitations of beauty and 
 innocence, is committed by such as can only lay 
 waste and not enjoy the soil. When you observe 
 the present state of vice and virtue, the offenders 
 are such as one would think should have no im¬ 
 pulse to what they are pursuing; as in business, 
 you see sometimes fools pretend to be knaves, so 
 in pleasure, you will find old men set up for 
 wenchers. This latter sort of men are the great 
 basis and fund of iniquity in the kind we are 
 speaking of; you shall have an old rich man often 
 receive scrawls from the several quarters of the 
 town, with descriptions of the new wares in their 
 hands, if he will please to send word when he 
 will be waited on. This interview is contrived, 
 and the innocent is brought to such indecencies, as 
 from time to time banish shame and raise desire. 
 With these preparatives the hags break their 
 wards by little and little, until they are brought 
 to lose all apprehensions of what shall befall them 
 in the possession of younger men. It is a com¬ 
 mon postscript of a hag to a young fellow whom 
 she invites to a new woman, “She has, I assure 
 you, seen none but old Mr. Such-a-one.” It 
 pleases the old fellow that the nymph is brought 
 to him unadorned, and from his bounty she is ac¬ 
 commodated with enough to dress her for other 
 lovers. This is the most ordinary method of 
 bringing beauty and poverty into the possession 
 of the town: but the particular cases of kind 
 keepers, skillful pimps, and all others who drive 
 a separate trade, and are not in the general society 
 or commerce of sin, will require distinct conside¬ 
 ration. At the same time that we are thus severe 
 on the abandoned, we are to represent the case of 
 others with that mitigation as the circumstances 
 demand. Calling names does no good; to speak 
 worse of anything than it deserves, does only 
 take off from the credit of the accuser, and has 
 implicitly the force of an apology in the behalf 
 of the person accused. We shall, therefore, ac¬ 
 cording as the circumstances differ vary our ap- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 pellations of these criminals : those who offend 
 only against themselves, and are not scandals to 
 society, but, out of deference to the sober part of 
 the world, have so much good left in them as to 
 be ashamed, must not be huddled in the common 
 word due to the worst of women; but regard is to 
 be had to their circumstances when they fell, to 
 the uneasy perplexity under which they lived 
 under senseless and severe parents, to the im¬ 
 portunity of poverty, to the violence of a passion 
 in its beginning well grounded, and all other alle¬ 
 viations which make unhappy women resign the 
 characteristics of their sex, modesty. To do other¬ 
 wise than thus, would be to act like a pedantic 
 Stoic, who thinks all crimes alike, and not like an 
 impartial Spectator, who looks upon them with 
 all the circumstances that diminish or enhance 
 the guilt. I am in hopes, if this subject be well 
 
 E ursued, women will hereafter from their infancy 
 e treated with an eye to their future state in the 
 world; and not have their tempers made too un- 
 tractable from an improper sourness and pride, or 
 too complying from familiarity or forwardness 
 contracted at their own houses. After these hints 
 on this subject, I shall end this paper with the 
 following genuine letter; and desire all who think 
 they may be concerned in future speculations on 
 this subject, to send in what they have to say for 
 themselves for some incidents in their lives, in 
 order to have proper allowances made for their 
 conduct. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, Jan. 5, 1711-12. 
 
 “ The subject of your yesterday’s paper is of so 
 great importance, that the thorough handling of it 
 may be so very useful to the preservation of many 
 an innocent young creature, that I think every one 
 is obliged to furnish you with what lights he can 
 to expose the pernicious arts and practices of 
 those unnatural women called bawds. In order 
 to this, the inclosed is sent you, which is verbatim 
 the copy of a letter written by a bawd of figure 
 in this town to a noble lord. I have concealed 
 the names of both, my intention being not to ex¬ 
 pose their persons, but the thing. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, your humble servant.” 
 
 “My Lord, 
 
 “I, having a great esteem for your honor, and 
 a better opinion of you than of any of the quali¬ 
 ty, makes me acquaint you of an affair that I 
 hope will oblige you to know. I have a niece 
 that came to town about a fortnight ago. Her pa¬ 
 rents being lately dead, she came to me, expect¬ 
 ing to have found me in so good a condition as to 
 set her up in a milliner’s shop. Her father gave 
 fourscore pound with her for five years : her time 
 is out, and she is not sixteen : as pretty a black 
 gentlewoman as ever you saw; a little woman, 
 which 1 know your lordship likes; well-shaped, 
 and as fine a complexion for red and white as ever 
 I saw; I doubt not but your lordship will be of 
 the same opinion. She designs to go down about 
 a month hence, except I can provide for her, which 
 I cannot at present. Her father was one with 
 whom all he had died with him, so there is four 
 children left destitute; so if your lordship thinks 
 proper to make an appointment where I shall wait 
 on you with my niece, by a line or two, I stay for 
 vour answer; for I have no place fitted up since I 
 left my house, fit to entertain your honor. I told 
 her she should go with me to see a gentleman, a 
 very good friend of mine; so I desire you to take 
 no notice of mv letter, by reason she is ignorant 
 of the ways of the town. My lord, I desire if 
 you meet us to come alone; for upon my word and 
 
 339 
 
 honor you are the first that I ever mentioned her 
 to. So I remain 
 
 “Your Lordship’s 
 Most humble Servant to command.” 
 
 “I beg you to burn it when you’ve read it.” 
 
 No. 275.] TUESDAY, JANUARY 15, 1711-12. 
 
 -Tribus Anticyris caput insanabile- 
 
 Hoa., Ars. Poet., ver. 300. 
 
 A head, no hellebore can cure. 
 
 I was yesterday engaged in an assembly of vir¬ 
 tuosos, where one of them produced many curious 
 observations which he had lately made in the 
 anatomy of a human body. Another of the com¬ 
 pany communicated to us several wonderful dis¬ 
 coveries which he had also made on the same 
 subject, by the help of very fine glasses. This 
 gave birth to a great variety of uncommon re¬ 
 marks, and furnished discourse for the remaining 
 part of the day. 6 
 
 The different opinions which were started on 
 this occasion presented to my imagination so 
 many new ideas, that by mixing with those which 
 were already there, they employed my fancy all 
 the last night, and composed a very wild, extra¬ 
 vagant dream. 
 
 1 was invited, methought, to the dissection of a 
 beau’s head, and a coquette’s heart, which were 
 both of them laid on a table before us. An ima¬ 
 ginary operator opened the first with a great deal 
 of nicety, which upon a cursory and superficial 
 view, appeared like the head of another man; but 
 upon applying our glasses to it, we made a very 
 odd discovery, namely, that what we looked upon 
 as brains, were not such in reality, but a heap of 
 strange materials wound up in that shape and tex¬ 
 ture, and packed together with wonderful art in 
 the several cavities of the skull. For, as Homer 
 tells us, that the blood of the gods is not real 
 blood, but only something like it; so we found 
 that the brain of a beau is not a real brain, but 
 only something like it. 
 
 The pineal gland, which many of our modern 
 philosophers suppose to be the seat of the soul, 
 smelt verv strong of essence and orange-flower 
 water, and was encompassed with a kind of horny 
 substance, cut into a thousand little faces or mir¬ 
 rors, which were imperceptible to the naked eye, 
 insomuch that the soul, if there had been any 
 here, must have been always taken up in contem¬ 
 plating her own beauties. 
 
 We observed a large antrum or cavity in the 
 sinciput, that was filled with ribbons, lace, and 
 embroidery, wrought together in a most curious 
 piece of net-work, the parts of which were like¬ 
 wise, imperceptible to the naked eye. Another of 
 these antrums or cavities was stuffed with in¬ 
 visible billets-doux, love-letters, pricked dances, 
 and other trumpery of the same nature. In 
 another we found a kind of powder, which set the 
 whole company a sneezing, and by the scent dis¬ 
 covered itself to be right Spanish. The several 
 other cells were stored with commodities of the 
 same kind, of which it would be tedious to give 
 the reader an exact inventory. 
 
 There was a large cavity on each side the head, 
 which I must not omit. That on the right side 
 was filled with fictions, flatteries, and falsehoods, 
 vows, promises, and protestations : that on the 
 left with oaths and imprecations. There issued 
 out a duct from each of these cells, which ran into 
 the root of the tongue, where both joined together, 
 and passed forward in one common duct to the 
 
340 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 tip of it. We discovered several little roads or 
 canals running from the ear into the brain, and 
 took particular care to trace them out through 
 their several passages. One of them extended 
 itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical 
 instruments. Others ended in several bladders 
 which were filled either with wind or froth. 
 But the large canal entered into a great cavity of 
 the skull, from whence there went another canal 
 into the tongue. This great cavity was filled with 
 a kind of spongy substance, which the French 
 anatomists call gallimatias, and the English non¬ 
 sense. 
 
 The skins of the forehead were extremely tough 
 and thick, and, what very much surprised us, had 
 not in them any single blood-vessel that we were 
 able to discover, either with or without our glasses; 
 from whence we concluded that the party, when 
 alive, must have been entirely deprived of the 
 faculty of blushing. 
 
 The os cribriforme was exceedingly stuffed, and 
 in some places damaged with snuff. We could 
 not but take notice in particular of that small 
 muscle which is not often discovered in dissec¬ 
 tion, and draws the nose upward, when it ex¬ 
 presses the contempt which the owner of it has, 
 upon seeing anything he does not like, or hearing 
 anything he does not understand. I need not 
 tell my learned reader, this is that muscle which 
 performs the motion so often mentioned by the 
 Latin poets, when they talk of a man’s cocking 
 his nose, or playing the rhinoceros. 
 
 We did not 'find anything very remakable in 
 the eye, saving only, that the musculi amatorii, 
 or, as we may translate it into English, the ogling 
 muscles, were very much worn and decayed with 
 use ; whereas, on the contrary, the elevator, or 
 the muscle which turns the eye toward heaven, 
 did not appear to have been used at all. 
 
 I have only mentioned in this dissection such 
 new discoveries as we were able to make, and 
 have not taken any notice of those parts which 
 seem to be met with in common heads. As for 
 the skull, the face, and indeed the whole outward 
 shape and figure of the head, we could not dis¬ 
 cover any difference from what we observe in the 
 heads of other men. We were informed that the 
 person to whom this head belonged, had passed 
 for a man above five-and-thirty years: during 
 which time he ate and drank like other people, 
 dressed well, talked loud, laughed frequently, 
 and on particular occasions had acquitted him¬ 
 self tolerably at a ball or an assembly ;. to which 
 one of the company added, that a certain knot of 
 ladies took him for a wit. He was cut off in the 
 flower of his age by the blow of a paring-shovel, 
 having been surprised by an eminent citizen, 
 as he was tendering some civilities to his 
 wife. 
 
 When we had thoroughly examined this head, 
 with all its apartments, and its several kinds of 
 furniture, we put up the brain such as it was, into 
 its proper place, and laid it aside under a broad 
 piece of scarlet cloth, in order to be prepared, and 
 kept in a great repository of dissections; our 
 operator telling us that the preparation would 
 not be so difficult as that of another brain, for 
 that he had observed several of the little pipes 
 and tubes which ran through the brain were al¬ 
 ready filled with a kind of mercurial substance, 
 which he looked upon to be true quicksilver. 
 
 He applied himself in the next place to the 
 coquette’s heart, which he likewise laid open with 
 great dexterity. There occurred to us many par¬ 
 ticularities in this dissection ; but being unwil¬ 
 ling to burden my reader’s memory too much, I 
 
 shall reserve this subject for the speculation of 
 
 another dav.—L. 
 
 •/ 
 
 No. 276.] WEDNESDAY, JAN. 16, 1711-12. 
 
 Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum. 
 
 Hor. 1 Sat. iii, 42. 
 
 Misconduct screen’d behind a specious name. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I hope you have philosophy enough to be 
 capable of hearing the mention of your faults. 
 Your papers which regard the fallen part of the 
 fair sex are, I think, written with an indelicacy 
 which makes them unworthy to be inserted in the 
 writings of a moralist who knows the world. I 
 cannot allow that you are at liberty to observe 
 upon the actions of mankind with the freedom 
 which you seem to resolve upon ; at least, if you 
 do so, you should take along with you the dis¬ 
 tinction of manners of the world, according to 
 the quality and wav of life of the persons con¬ 
 cerned. A man of breeding speaks of even mis¬ 
 fortune among ladies, without giving it the most 
 terrible aspect it can bear; and this tenderness 
 toward them is much more to be preserved when 
 you speak of vices. All mankind are so far re¬ 
 lated, that care is to be taken in things to which 
 all are liable, you do not mention what concerns 
 one in terms which shall disgust another. Thus 
 to tell a rich man of the indigence of a kinsman 
 of his, or abruptly to inform a virtuous woman of 
 the lapse of one who until then was in the same 
 degree of esteem with herself, is a kind of in¬ 
 volving each of them in some participation of 
 those disadvantages. It is therefore expected 
 from every writer, to treat his argument in such 
 a manner, as is most proper to entertain the sort 
 of readers to whom his discourse is directed. It is 
 not necessary when you write to the tea-table, 
 that you should draw vices which carry all the 
 horror of shame and contempt: if you paint an 
 impertinent self-love, an artful glance, an assumed 
 complexion, you say all which you ought to sup¬ 
 pose they can possibly be guilty of. * When you 
 talk with limitation, you behave yourself so as 
 that you may expect others in conversation may 
 second your raillery; but when you do it in a 
 style which everybody else forbears in respect 
 to their quality, they have an easy remedy 
 in forbearing to read you, and hearing no more 
 of their faults. A man that is now and then 
 guilty of an intemperance is not be called a 
 drunkard; but the rule of polite raillery is to 
 speak of a man’s faults as if you loved him. Of 
 this nature is what was said by Csesar: when one 
 was railing with an uncourtly vehemence, and 
 broke out with, * What must we call him who was 
 taken in an intrigue with another man’s wife?’ 
 Caesar answered very gravely, ‘A careless, fellow.’ 
 This was at once a reprimand for speaking of a 
 crime which in those days had not the abhor¬ 
 rence attending it as it ought, as well as an inti¬ 
 mation that all intemperate behavior before su¬ 
 periors loses its aim, by accusing in a method 
 unfit for the audience. A word to the wise. All 
 I mean here to say to you is, that the most free 
 person of quality can go no farther than being a 
 kind woman ; and you should never say of a man 
 of figure worse than that he knows the world. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Francis Courtly.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a woman of an unspotted reputation 
 and know nothing I have ever done which should 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 encourage such insolence; but here was one the 
 other day, and he was dressed like a gentleman 
 too, who took the liberty to name the words ‘lusty 
 iellow in my presence. I doubt not but you will 
 resent it in behalf of, 
 
 “ Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Celia.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 ^ ou lately put out a dreadful paper, wherein, 
 you promise a full account of the state of criminal 
 love, and call all the fair who have transgressed 
 in that kind by one very rude name which I do 
 not care to repeat: but I desire to know of you 
 whether I am or am not one of those ? My case 
 is as follows : I am kept by an old bachelor who 
 took me so young that I know not how he came 
 by me. He is a bencher of one of the inns of 
 court, a very gay, healthy old man, which is a 
 very lucky thing for him: who has been, he tells 
 me; a scowerer, a scamperer, a breaker of win¬ 
 dows, and invader of constables, in the days of 
 yore, when all dominion ended with the day, 
 and males and females met helter-skelter, and 
 the scowerers drove before them all who pretended 
 to keep up order or rule to the interruption of 
 love and honor. This is his way of talk, for he 
 is very gay when he visits me ; but as his former 
 knowledge of the town has alarmed him into an 
 invincible jealousy, he keeps me in a pair of slip¬ 
 pers, neat bodice, warm petticoats, and my own 
 hair woven in ringlets, after a manner, he says, 
 he remembers. I am not mistress of one farthing 
 of money, but have all necessaries provided for 
 me, under the guard of one who procured for him 
 while h^ had any desires to gratify. I know 
 nothing of a wench’s life but the reputation of it: 
 
 I have a natural voice, and a pretty untaught 
 step in dancing. His manner is to bring an old 
 fellow who has been his servant from his youth, 
 and is gray-headed. This man makes on the 
 violin a certain jiggish noise to which I dance, 
 and v hen that is over I sing to him some loose 
 air that has more wantonness than music in it. 
 You must have seen a strange windowed house 
 near Hydepark, which is so built that no one can 
 look out of any of the apartments: my rooms are 
 after this manner, and I never see man, woman, 
 or child, but in company with the two persons 
 above-mentioned. He sends me in all the books, 
 pamphlets, plays, operas, and songs, that come 
 out; and his utmost delight in me, as a woman, is 
 to talk over his old amours in my presence, to 
 play with my neck, say f the time was,’ give me 
 a kiss, and bid me be sure to follow the directions 
 °f m y guardian (the above-mentioned lady), and 
 I shall never want. The truth of my case is, I sup¬ 
 pose, that I was educated for a purpose he did 
 not know lie should be unfit for when I came to 
 years. Now, Sir, what I ask of you as a casuist, 
 is to tell me how far in these circumstances I am 
 innocent, though submissive: he guilty, though 
 impotent? 5 J 6 
 
 “I am. Sir, your constant Reader, 
 
 “ PuCELLA.” 
 
 “ To the Man called the Spectator. 
 
 “ Friend, 
 
 “Forasmuch as at the birth of thy labor, thou 
 didst promise upon thy word, that, letting alone 
 the vanities that do abound, thou wouldst only 
 endeavor to straighten the crooked morals of this 
 our Babylon, I gave credit to thy fair speeches, 
 and admitted one of thy papers, every day, save 
 Sunday, into my house, for the edification of my 
 daughter Tabitha, and to the end that Susanna the 
 
 341 
 
 wife of my bosom might profit thereby. But, alas! 
 my mend, I find that thou art a liar, and that the 
 ti uth is not in thee; else why didst thou in a paper 
 w nch thou didst lately put forth, make mention 
 ol those vain coverings for the heads of our fe¬ 
 males, which thou lovest to liken unto tulips, and 
 re late )y sprung up among us? Nay, why 
 didst thou make mention of them in such a seem- 
 ing, as if thou diast approve the invention, inso¬ 
 much that my daughter Tabitha beginneth to wax 
 wanton, and to lust after these foolish vanities ? 
 Surely thou dost see with the eyes of the flesh. 
 Verily, therefore, unless thou dost speedily amend, 
 and leave off following thine own imaginations, I 
 will leave off thee. 
 
 “Thy Friend, 
 
 “ As hereafter thou dost demean thyself, 
 
 T- “ Hezekiah Broadbrim.” 
 
 No. 277.] THURSDAY, JANUARY 17, 1711-12. 
 
 -fas est et ab hoste doceri. 
 
 Ovid, Met., lib. iv, vor. 426. 
 Receive instruction from an enemy. 
 
 I presume I need not inform the polite part of 
 my readers, that before our correspondence with 
 France was unhappily interrupted by the war, our 
 ladies had all their fashions from thence; which 
 the milliners took care to furnish them with by 
 means ol a jointed baby, that came regularly over 
 once a month, habited after the manner of the 
 most eminent toasts in Paris. 
 
 I am credibly informed, that even in the hottest 
 time of the war, the sex made several efforts, and 
 raised large contributions toward the importation 
 of this wooden mademoiselle. 
 
 Whether the vessel they sent out was lost or 
 taken, or whether its cargo was seized on by the 
 officers of the custom-house as a piece of contra¬ 
 band goods, I have not yet been able to learn: it is 
 however certain, that their first attempts were 
 without success, to the no small disappointment 
 of our whole female world; but as their con¬ 
 stancy and application, in a matter of so great im¬ 
 portance, can never be sufficiently commended, so 
 I am glad to find, that in spite of all opposition, 
 they have at length carried their point, of which 
 I received advice by the two following letters : 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am so great a lover of whatever is French, 
 that I lately discarded an humble admirer, be¬ 
 cause he neither spoke that tongue nor drank 
 claret. I have long bewailed in secret the cala¬ 
 mities of my sex during the war, in all which 
 time we have labored under the insupportable 
 inventions of English tire-women, who though 
 they sometimes copy indifferently well, can never 
 compose with that ‘ gout’ they do in France. 
 
 “ I was almost in despair of ever more seeing a 
 model from that dear country, when last Sunday 
 I overheard a lady in the next pew to me whisper 
 another, that at the Seven Stars, in King-street, 
 Covent-garden, there was a mademoiselle com¬ 
 pletely dressed, just come from Paris. 
 
 “ I was in the utmost impatience during the 
 remaining part of the service, and as soon as ever 
 it was over, having learnt the milliner’s ‘ addresse,’ 
 
 I went directly to her house in King-street, but 
 was told that the French lady was at a person’s 
 of quality in Pall-mall, and would not be back 
 again until very late that night. I was therefore 
 obliged to renew my visit early this morning, 
 and had then a full view of the deal- moppet from 
 head to foot. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 342 
 
 “ You cannot imagine, worthy Sir, how ridi¬ 
 culously I find we have been trussed up during 
 the war„ and how infinitely the French dress ex¬ 
 cels ours. ' f 
 
 “ The mantua has no lead in the sleeves, and 
 I hope we are not lighter than the French ladies, 
 so as to want that kind of ballast; the petticoat 
 has no whalebone, but sits with an air altogether 
 gallant and degage : the coiffure is inexpressibly 
 pretty, and in short, the whole dress has a thou¬ 
 sand beauties in it which I would not have as 
 yet made too public. 
 
 “I thought fit, however, to give you this notice, 
 that you may not be surprised at my appearing d 
 la mode de Paris on the next birth-night. 
 
 “ I am Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Teraminta.” 
 
 Within an hour after I had read this letter, I re¬ 
 ceived another from the owner of the puppet. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ On Saturday last, being the 12th instant, there 
 arrived at my house in King-street, Covent-garden, 
 a French baby for the year 1712. I have taken the 
 utmost care to have her dressed by the most cele¬ 
 brated tire-women and mantua-makers in Paris, 
 and do not find that I have any reason to be sorry 
 for the expense I have been at in her clothes and 
 importation: however, as I know no person who is 
 so good a judge of dress as yourself, if you please 
 to call at my house in your way to the city, and 
 take a view of her, I promise to amend whatever 
 you shall disapprove in your next paper, before I 
 exhibit her as a pattern to the public. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble Admirer, 
 
 “and most obedient Servant, 
 
 “Betty Cross-stitch.” 
 
 As I am willing to do anything in reason for the 
 service of my countrywomen, and had much 
 rather prevent faults than find them, I went last 
 night to the house of the above-mentioned Mrs. 
 Cross-stitch. As soon as I entered, the maid of 
 the shop, who, I suppose, was prepared for my 
 coming, without asking me any questions, intro¬ 
 duced me to the little damsel, and ran away to 
 call her mistress. 
 
 The puppet was dressed in a cherry-colored 
 gown and petticoat, with a short working apron 
 over it, which discovered her shape to the most 
 advantage. Her hair was cut and divided very 
 prettily, with several ribbons stuck up and down 
 in it. The milliner assured me, that her com- 
 lexion was such as was worn by the ladies of the 
 est fashion in Paris. Her head was extremely 
 high, on which subject having long since declarec. 
 my sentiments, I shall say nothing more to it at 
 present. I was also offended at a small patch she 
 wore on her breast, which I cannot suppose is 
 placed there with any good design. 
 
 Her necklace was of an immoderate length, 
 being tied before in such a manner, that the two 
 ends hung down to her girdle; but whether these 
 supply the place of kissing-strings in our enemy’s 
 country, and whether our British ladies have any 
 occasion for them, I shall leave to their serious 
 consideration. 
 
 After having observed the particulars of her 
 dress, as I was taking a view of it altogether, the 
 shopmaid, who is a pert wench, told me that 
 mademoiselle had something very curious in the 
 tying of her garters; but as I pay a due respect 
 even to a pair of sticks when they are under pet¬ 
 ticoats, I did not examine into that particular. 
 Upon the whole, I was well enough pleased with 
 the appearance of this gay lady, and the more so, 
 
 because she is not talkative; a quality very rarely 
 to be met with in the rest of her countrywomen. 
 
 As 1 was taking my leave, the milliner further 
 informed me, that with the assistance of a watch¬ 
 maker, who was her neighbor, and the ingenious 
 Mr. Powel, she had also contrived another puppet, 
 which by the help of several little springs to be 
 wound up within it, could move all its limbs, and 
 that she had sent it over to her correspondent in 
 ; 3 aris to be taught the various leanings and bend¬ 
 ings of the head, the risings of the bosom, the 
 courtesy, and recovery, the genteel trip, and the 
 agreeable jet, as they are all now practiced at the 
 court of France. 
 
 She added, that she hoped she might depend 
 upon having my encouragement as soon as it ar¬ 
 rived; but as this was a petition of too great im¬ 
 portance to be answered extempore, I left her 
 without a reply, and made the best of my way to 
 Will Honeycomb’s lodgings, without whose ad¬ 
 vice I never communicate anything to the public 
 of this nature.—X. 
 
 No. 278.] FRIDAY, JANUARY 18, 1711-12. 
 
 -Sermones ego mallem 
 
 Repentes per humuin.- 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. ii, 250. 
 
 I rather choose a low and creeping style. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “Your having done considerable services in this 
 great city, by rectifying the disorders of families, 
 and several wives having preferred your advice and 
 directions to those of their husbands, emboldens 
 me to apply to you at this time. I am a shop¬ 
 keeper, and though but a young man, I find by 
 experience that nothing but the utmost diligence 
 both of husband and wife (among trading people) 
 can keep affairs in any tolerable order. My wife, 
 at the beginning of our establishment, showed 
 herself very assisting to me in my business as 
 much as could lie in her way, and I have reason 
 to believe it was with her inclination; but of late 
 she has got acquainted with a schoolman, who 
 values himself for his great knowledge in the 
 Greek tongue. He entertains her frequently in the 
 shop with discourses of the beauties and excel¬ 
 lencies of that language; and repeats to her several 
 assages out of the Greek poets, wherein he tells 
 er there is unspeakable harmony and agreeable 
 sounds that all other languages are wholly un¬ 
 acquainted with. He has so infatuated her with 
 this jargon, that instead of using her former dili¬ 
 gence in the shop, she now neglects the affairs of 
 the house, and is wholly taken up with her tutor 
 in learning by heart scraps of Greek, which she 
 vents upon all occasions. She told me some days 
 ago, that whereas I use some Latin inscriptions in 
 my shop, she advised me with a great deal of con¬ 
 cern to have them changed into Greek ; it being a 
 language less understood, would be more confor¬ 
 mable to the mystery of my profession; that our 
 good friend would be assisting to us in this work; 
 and that a certain faculty of gentlemen would find 
 themselves so much obliged to me, that they 
 would infallibly make my fortune. In short, her 
 frequent importunities upon this, and other im¬ 
 pertinences of the like nature, make me very un¬ 
 easy; and if your remonstrances have no more 
 effect upon her than mine, I am afraid I shall be 
 obliged to ruin myself to procure her a settlement* 
 at Oxford with her tutor, for she is already too 
 mad for Bedlam. Now, Sir, you see the danger 
 my family is exposed to, and the likelihood of my 
 wife’s becoming both troublesome and useless, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 unloss her reading herself in your paper may make 
 her reflect. She is so very learned that I cannot 
 pretend by word of mouth to argue with her. 
 She laughed out at your ending a paper in Greek, 
 and said it was a hint to women of literature, and 
 very civil not to translate it to expose them to the 
 vulgar. You see how it is with, 
 
 “ Sir, your humble Servant.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ If you have that humanity and compassion in 
 your nature that you take such pains to make one 
 think you have, you will not deny your voice to a 
 distressed damsel, who intends to be determined 
 by your judgment in a matter of great importance 
 to her. You must know then, there is an agree¬ 
 able young fellow, to whose person, wit, and 
 humor nobody makes any objection, that pretends 
 to have been long in love with me. To this I 
 must add (whether it proceeds from the vanity of 
 my nature, or the seeming sincerity of my lover, 
 I will not pretend to say;, that I verily believe he 
 has a real value for me ; which, if true, you will 
 allow may justly augment his merit with his mis¬ 
 tress. In short, I am so sensible of his good 
 qualities, and what I owe to his passion, that I 
 think I could sooner resolve to give up my liberty 
 to him than anybody else, were there not an ob¬ 
 jection to be made to his fortunes, in regard they 
 do not answer the utmost mine may expect, and 
 are not sufficient to secure me from undergoing the 
 reproachful phrase, so commonly used, ‘that she 
 has played the fool.’ Now though I am one of 
 those few who heartily despise equipage, dia¬ 
 monds, and a coxcomb, yet since such opposite 
 notions from mine prevail in the world, even 
 among the best, and such as are esteemed the most 
 prudent people, I cannot find in my heart to re¬ 
 solve upon incurring the censure of those wise folks, 
 which I am conscious I shall do, if, when I enter 
 into a married state, I discover a thought beyond 
 that of equaling, if not advancing my fortunes. 
 Under this difficulty I now labor, not being in the 
 least determined whether I shall be governed by 
 the vain world, and the frequent examples I meet 
 ' with, or hearken to the voice of my lover, and the 
 motions I find in my heart in favor of him. Sir, 
 your opinion and advice in this affair is the only 
 thing I know can turn the balance, and which I 
 earnestly entreat I may receive soon; for until I 
 have your thoughts upon it, I am engaged not to 
 give my swain a final discharge. 
 
 “Beside the particular obligation you will lay 
 on me, by giving this subject room in one of your 
 papers, it is possible it may be of use to some 
 others of my sex, who will be as grateful for the 
 favor as, 
 
 “ Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “Florinda.” 
 
 “P. S. To tell you the truth I am married to 
 him already, but pray say something to justify 
 me.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You will forgive us professors of music if we 
 make a second application to you, in order to pro¬ 
 mote our design of exhibiting entertainments of 
 music in York-buildings. It is industriously in- 
 si nyated that our intention is to destroy operas 
 in general, but we beg of you to insert this plain 
 explanation of ourselves in your paper. Our pur¬ 
 pose is only to improve our circumstances, by im¬ 
 proving the art which we profess. We see it 
 utterly destroyed at present; and as we were the 
 persons who introduced operas, we think it a 
 groundless imputation that we should set up 
 
 343 
 
 against the opera itself. What we pretend to assert 
 is, that the songs of different authors injudiciously 
 put together, and a foreign tone and manner which 
 are expected in everything now performed among 
 us, has put music itself to a stand; insomuch that 
 the ears of the people cannot now be entertained 
 with anything but what has an impertinent gayety, 
 without any just spirit, or a languisliment of notes, 
 without any passion, or common sense. We hope 
 those persons of sense and quality who have done 
 us the honor to subscribe, will not be ashamed of 
 their patronage toward us, and not receive im¬ 
 pressions that patronizing us is being for or 
 against the opera, but truly promoting their own 
 diversions in a more just and elegant manner than 
 has been hitherto performed. 
 
 “ We are, Sir, your most humble Servants, 
 
 “ Thomas Clayton, 
 “Nicolino Haym, 
 “Charles Dieupart.” 
 
 “ There will be no performances in York-build¬ 
 ings until after that of the subscription.”—T. 
 
 No. 279.] SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1711-12. 
 
 Reddere personae scit conyenientia cuique 
 
 Hor. Ars. Poet., v, 316. 
 
 lie knows what best befits each character. 
 
 We have already taken a general survey of the 
 fable and characters in Milton’s Paradise Lost. 
 The parts which remain to be considered, accord¬ 
 ing to Aristotle’s method, are the sentiments and 
 the language. Before I enter upon the first of 
 these, I must advertise my reader, that it is my 
 design, as soon as I have finished my general re¬ 
 flections on these four several heads, to give par¬ 
 ticular instances out of the poem which is now 
 before us of beauties and imperfections which 
 may be observed under each of them, as also of 
 such other particulars as may not properly fall 
 under any of them. This I thought fit to premise, 
 that the reader may not judge too hastily of this 
 piece of criticism, or look upon it as imperfect, 
 before he has seen the whole extent of it. 
 
 The sentiments in an epic poem are the thoughts 
 and behavior which the author ascribes to the 
 persons whom he introduces, and are just when 
 they are conformable to* the characters of the 
 several persons. The sentiments have likewise a 
 relation to things as well as persons, and are then 
 perfect when they are such as are adapted to the 
 subject. If in either of these cases the poet en¬ 
 deavors to argue or explain, to magnify or dimi¬ 
 nish, to raise love or hatred, pity or terror, or any 
 other passion, we ought to consider whether the 
 sentiments he makes use of are proper for those 
 ends. Homer is censured by the critics for his 
 defect as to this particular in several parts of the 
 Iliad and Odyssey, though at the same time those 
 who have treated this great poet with candor, have 
 attributed this defect to the times in which he 
 lived. It was the fault of the age and not of 
 Homer, if there wants that delicacy in some of his 
 sentiments, which now appears in the works of 
 men of a much inferior genius. Beside, if there 
 are blemishes in any particular thoughts, there is 
 an infinite beauty in the greatest part of them. In 
 short, if there are many poets who would not have 
 fallen into the meanness of some of his senti¬ 
 ments, there are none who could have risen up to 
 the greatness of others. Virgil has excelled all 
 others in the propriety of his sentiments. Milton 
 shines likewise very much in this particular: nor 
 must we omit one consideration which adds to his 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 344 
 
 honor and reputation. Homer and Yirgil intro¬ 
 duced persons whose characters are commonly 
 known among men, and such as are to be met with 
 either in history or in ordinary conversation. 
 Milton’s characters, most of them, lie out of nature, 
 and were to be formed purely by his own inven¬ 
 tion. It shows a greater genius in Shakspeare to 
 have drawn his Caliban, than his Hotspur, or 
 Julius Caesar: the one was to be supplied out of 
 his own imagination, whereas the other might 
 have been formed upon tradition, history, and ob 
 servation. It was much easier therefore for Ho¬ 
 mer to find proper sentiments for an assembly of 
 Grecian generals, than for Milton to diversify his 
 infernal council with proper characters, and in¬ 
 spires them with a variety of sentiments. The 
 love of Dido and iEneas are only copies of what 
 lias passed between other persons. Adam and 
 Eve, before the fall, are a different species from 
 that of mankind, who are descended from them; 
 and none but a poet of the most unbounded in¬ 
 vention, and the most exquisite judgment, could 
 have filled their conversation and behavior with 
 so many apt circumstances during their state of 
 innocence. 
 
 Nor is it sufficient for an epic poem to be filled 
 with such thoughts as are natural, unless it abound 
 also with such as are sublime. Yirgil in this par¬ 
 ticular falls short of Homer. He has not indeed 
 so many thoughts that are low and vulgar ; but at 
 the same time has not so many thoughts that are 
 sublime and noble. The truth of it is, Yirgil sel¬ 
 dom rises into very astonishing sentiments, where 
 he is not fired by the Iliad. He everywhere charms 
 and pleases us by the force of his own genius ; but 
 seldom elevates and transports us where he does 
 not fetch his hints from Homer. 
 
 Milton’s chief talent, and indeed his distinguish¬ 
 ing excellence, lies in the sublimity of his thoughts. 
 There are others of the moderns who rival him in 
 every other part of poetry ; but in the greatness of 
 his sentiments he triumphs over all the poets, both 
 modern and ancient, Homer only excepted. It is 
 impossible for the imagination of man to distend 
 itself with greater ideas, than those which he has 
 laid together in his first, second, and sixth books. 
 The seventh, which describes the creation of the 
 world, is likewise wonderfully sublime, though 
 not so apt to stir up emotion in the mind of the 
 reader, nor consequently so perfect in the epic 
 way of writing, because? it is filled with less ac¬ 
 tion. Let the judicious reader compare what 
 Longinus has observed on several passages in 
 Homer, and he will find parallels for most of 
 them in the Paradise Lost. 
 
 From what has been said we may infer, that as 
 there are two kinds of sentiments, the natural and 
 the sublime, which are always to be pursued in a 
 heroic poem, there are also two kinds of thoughts 
 which are carefully to be avoided. The first are 
 such as are affected and unnatural; the second 
 such as are mean and vulgar. As for the first 
 kind of thoughts, we meet with little or nothing 
 that is like them in Yirgil. He has none of those 
 trifling points and puerilities that are so often to 
 be met with in Ovid, none of the epigrammatic 
 turns of Lucan, none of those swelling sentiments 
 which are so frequent in Statius and Claudian, 
 none of those mixed embellishments of Tasso. 
 Everything is just and natural. His sentiments 
 show that he had a perfect insight into human na¬ 
 ture, and that he knew everything which was the 
 most proper to affect it. 
 
 Mr. Dryden has in some places, which I may 
 hereafter take notice of, misrepresented Yirgil’s 
 way of thinking as to this particular, in the 
 translation he has given us of the iEneid. I do 
 
 not remember that Homer any where falls into 
 the faults above-mentioned, which were indeed 
 the false refinements of latter ages. Milton, it 
 must be confessed, has sometimes erred in this 
 respect, as I shall show more at large in another 
 paper ; though considering how all the poets of 
 the age in which he wrote were infected with this 
 wrong way of thinking, he is rather to be ad 
 mired that he did not give more into it, than that 
 he did sometimes comply with the vicious taste 
 which still prevails so much among modern 
 writers. 
 
 But since several thoughts may be natural which 
 are low and groveling, an epic poet should not 
 only avoid such sentiments as are unnatural or 
 affected, but also such as are mean and vulgar. 
 Homer has opened a great field of raillery to men 
 of more delicacy than greatness of genius by the 
 homeliness of some of his sentiments. But as I 
 have before said, these are rather to be imputed to 
 the simplicity of the age in which he lived, to 
 which I may also add, of that which he described, 
 than to any imperfection in that divine poet. 
 Zoilus among the ancients, and Monsieur Per- 
 rault among the moderns, pushed their ridicule 
 very far upon him, on account of some such senti¬ 
 ments. There is no blemish to be observed in Yir¬ 
 gil under this head, and but a very few in Milton. 
 
 I shall give but one instance of this improprie¬ 
 ty of thought in Homer, and at the same time 
 compare it with an instance of the same nature, 
 both in Yirgil and Milton. Sentiments which 
 raise laughter can very seldom be admitted with 
 any decency into a heroic poem, whose business 
 it is to excite passions of a much nobler nature. 
 Homer, however, in his characters of Yulcan and 
 Thersites, in his story of Mars and Yenus, in his 
 behavior of Irus, and in other passages, has been 
 observed to have lapsed into the burlesque charac¬ 
 ter, and to have departed from that serious air 
 which seems essential to the magnificence of an 
 epic poem. I remember but one laugh in the 
 whole ZEneid, which rises in the fifth book, upon 
 Monoetes, where he is represented as thrown over¬ 
 board, and drying himself upon a rock. But this 
 piece of mirth is so well-timed that the severest 
 critic can have nothing to say against it; for it is 
 the book of games and diversions, where the rea¬ 
 der’s mind may be supposed sufficiently relaxed 
 for such an entertainment. The only piece of 
 pleasantry in Paradise Lost, is where the evil 
 spirits are described as rallying the angels upon 
 the success of their newly-invented artillery. This 
 passage I look upon to be the most exceptionable in 
 the whole poem, as being nothing else but a string 
 of puns, and those, too, very indifferent ones: 
 
 -Satan beheld their plight, 
 
 And to his mates thus in derision call’d: 
 
 “ 0 friends, why come not on those victors proud ? 
 
 Ere while they fierce were coming; and when we, 
 
 To entertain them fair with open front 
 
 And breast (what could we more ?) propounded terms 
 
 Of composition, straight they chang’d their minds, 
 
 Flew off, and into strange vagaries fell 
 
 As they would dance; yet for a dance they seem’d 
 
 Somewhat extravagant, and wild: perhaps 
 
 For joy of offer’d peace; but I suppose 
 
 If our proposals once again were heard, 
 
 We should compel them to a quick result.” 
 
 To whom thus Belial in like gamesome mood: 
 
 “ Leader, the terms we sent were terms of weight, 
 
 Of hard contents, and full of force urged home: 
 
 Such as we might perceive amus’d them all, 
 
 And stumbled many; who receives them right, 
 
 Had need from head to foot well understand; 
 
 Not understood, this gift they have beside, 
 
 They show us when our foes walk not ujiright.” 
 
 Thus they among themselves in pleasant vein 
 
 Stood scoffing- 
 
 Milton’s Par. Lost, b. vi, 1. 609, etc. 
 
 L. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 345 
 
 No. 280.] MONDAY, JANUARY 21, 1711-12. 
 
 Priucipibus placuisse viris non ultima laus est. 
 
 IIor. 1 Ep. xvi, 35. 
 
 To please the great is not the smallest praise. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 The desire of pleasing makes a man agreeable 
 or unwelcome to those with whom he converses, 
 according to the motive from which that inclina¬ 
 tion appears to flow. If your concern for pleas¬ 
 ing others arises from an innate benevolence, it 
 never fails of success; if from a vanity to excel, 
 its disappointment is no less certain. What we 
 call an agreeable man, is he who is endowed with 
 the natural bent to do acceptable things from a 
 delight he takes merely as sucli; and the affec¬ 
 tation of that character is what constitutes a fop. 
 Under these leaders one may draw up all those 
 who make any manner of figure, except in dumb- 
 show. A rational and select conversation is com¬ 
 posed of persons, who have the talent of pleasing 
 with delicacy of sentiments flowing from habitual 
 chastity of thought; but mixed company-is fre¬ 
 quently made up of pretenders to mirth, and is 
 usually pestered with constrained, obscene, and 
 painful witticisms. Now and then you may meet 
 with a man so exactly formed for pleasing, that it 
 is no matter what he is doing or saying ; that is 
 to say, that there need be no manner of impor¬ 
 tance in it, to make him gain upon everybody 
 who hears or beholds him. This felicity is not 
 the gift of nature only, but must be attended with 
 happy circumstances, which add a dignity to the 
 familiar behavior which distinguishes him whom 
 we call an agreeable man. It is from this that 
 everybody loves and esteems Polycarpus. He is 
 in the vigor of his age and the gayety of life, but 
 has passed through very conspicuous scenes in it; 
 though no soldier, he has shared the danger, and 
 acted with great gallantry and generosity on a de¬ 
 cisive day of battle. To have those qualities 
 which only make other men conspicuous in the 
 world as it were supernumerary to him, is a cir¬ 
 cumstance which gives weight to his most indif¬ 
 ferent actions : for as a known credit is ready cash 
 to a trader, so is acknowledged merit immediate 
 distinction, and serves in the place of equipage to 
 a gentleman. This renders Polycarpus graceful 
 in mirth, important in business, and regarded 
 with love, in every ordinary occurrence. But not 
 to dwell upon characters which have such par¬ 
 ticular recommendation to our hearts, let us turn 
 our thoughts rather to the methods of pleasing 
 which must carry men through the world who 
 cannot pretend to such advantages. Falling in 
 with a particular humor or manner of one above 
 ou, abstracted from the general rules of good 
 t ehavior, is the life of a slave. A parasite differs 
 in nothing from the meanest servant, but that the 
 footman hires himself for bodily labor, subjected 
 to go and come at the will of his master, but the 
 other gives up his very soul; he is prostituted to 
 speak, and professes to think, after the mode of 
 him whom he courts. This servitude to a patron, 
 in an honest nature, would be more grievous than 
 that of wearing his livery; therefore we shall 
 speak of those things only which are worthy and 
 ingenuous. 
 
 The happy talent of pleasing either those above 
 you or below you, seems to be wholly owing to 
 the opinion they have of your sincerity. This 
 quality is to atteijd the agreeable man in all the 
 actions of his life; and I think there need no more 
 be said in honor of it, than that it is what forces 
 the approbation of your opponents. The guilty 
 man has an honor for the judge who with justice 
 pronounces against him the sentence of death 
 
 itself. The author of the. sentence at the head 
 of this paper, was an excellent judge of human 
 life, and passed his own in company the most 
 agreeable that ever was in the world. Augustus 
 lived among his friends, as if he had his fortune 
 to make in his own court. Candor and affability, 
 accompanied with as much power as ever mortal 
 was vested with, were what made him in the 
 utmost manner agreeable among a set of admirable 
 men, who had thoughts too high for ambition, 
 and views too large to be gratified by what 
 he could give them in the disposal of an em¬ 
 pire, without the pleasures of their mutual con¬ 
 versation. A certain unanimity of taste and 
 judgment, which is natural to all of the same 
 order in the species, was the band of this society! 
 and the emperor assumed no figure in it, but what 
 he thought was his due from his private talents 
 and qualifications, as they contributed to advance 
 the pleasures and sentiments of the company. 
 
 Cunning people, hypocrites, all who are but half 
 virtuous, or half wise, are incapable of tasting the 
 refined pleasure of such an equal company as 
 could wholly exclude the regard of fortune in their 
 conversations. Horace, in the discourse from 
 whence I take the hint of the present speculation, 
 lays down excellent rules for conduct in conver¬ 
 sation with men of power; but he speaks with an 
 air of one who had no need of such an application 
 for anything which related to himself. It shows 
 he understood what it was to be a skillful courtier, 
 by just admonitions against importunity, and 
 showing how forcible it was to speak modestly of 
 your own wants. There is, indeed, something 
 so shameless in taking all opportunities to speak 
 of your own affairs, that he who is guilty of it 
 toward him on whom he depends, fares like a 
 beggar who exposes his sores, which, instead of 
 moving compassion, makes the man he begs of 
 turn away from the object. 
 
 I cannot tell what is become of him, but I re¬ 
 member about sixteen years ago an honest fellow, 
 who so justly understood how disagreeable the 
 mention or appearance of his want would make 
 him, that I have often reflected upon him as a 
 counterpart of Irus, whom I have formerly men¬ 
 tioned. This man, whom I have missed for some 
 years in my walks, and have heard was some way 
 employed about the army, made it a maxim, that 
 good wigs, delicate linen, and a cheerful air, were 
 to a poor dependent the same that working tools 
 are to a poor artificer. It was no small entertain¬ 
 ment to me, who knew his circumstances, to see 
 him, who had fasted two days, attribute the thin¬ 
 ness they told him of, to the violence of some gal¬ 
 lantries he had lately been guilty of. The skillful 
 dissembler carried on this with the utmost ad¬ 
 dress; and if any suspected his affairs were nar¬ 
 row, it was attributed to indulging himself in 
 some fashionable vice rather than an irreproach¬ 
 able poverty, which saved his credit with those on 
 whom he depended. 
 
 The main art is to be as little troublesome as 
 you can, and make all you hope for come rather 
 as a favor from your patron than claim from you. 
 But I am here prating of what is the method of 
 pleasing so as to succeed in the world, when there 
 are crowds, who have in city, town, court, and 
 country, arrived to considerable acquisitions, and 
 yet seem incapable of acting in any constant tenor 
 of life, but have gone on from one successful error 
 to another: therefore I think I may shorten this 
 inquiry after the method of pleasing; and as the 
 old beau said to his son, once for all, “Pray, Jack, 
 be a fine gentleman';” so may I to my reader, 
 abridge my instructions, and finish the art of 
 pleasing in a word, “ Be rich.”—T. 
 
346 the spectator. 
 
 Ho. 281.] TUESDAY, JANUARY 22, 1711-12. 
 
 Pectoribus inhi'ans spirantia consulit exta. 
 
 Virg. Ain., iv, 64. 
 
 Anxious the reeking entrails he consults. 
 
 Haying already given an account of tlie dissec¬ 
 tion of the beau’s head, with the several discove¬ 
 ries made on that occasion; I shall here, according 
 to my promise, enter upon the dissection of a co¬ 
 quette’s heart, and communicate to the public such 
 particularities as we observed in that curious piece 
 of anatomy. 
 
 I should perhaps have waved this undertaking, 
 had I not been put in mind of my promise by se¬ 
 veral of my unknown correspondents, who are 
 very importunate with me to make an example of 
 the coquette, as I have already done of the beau. 
 It is therefore in compliance with the request of 
 my friends, that I have looked over the minutes 
 of my former dream, in order to give the public 
 an exact relation of it, which I shall enter upon 
 without further preface. 
 
 Our operator, before he engaged in this vision¬ 
 ary dissection, told us, that there was nothing in 
 his art more difficult than to lay open the heart of 
 a coquette, by reason of the many labyrinths and 
 recesses which are to be found in it, and which do 
 not appear in the heart of any other animal. 
 
 He desired us first of all to observe the pericar¬ 
 dium, or outward case of the heart, which we did 
 very attentively; and by the help of our glasses 
 discerned in it millions of little scars, which seem 
 to have been occasioned by the points of innumer¬ 
 able darts and arrows, that from time to time had 
 glanced upon the outward coat; though we could 
 not discover the smallest orifice, by which any of 
 them had entered and pierced the inward sub¬ 
 stance. 
 
 Every smatterer in anatomy knows that this pe¬ 
 ricardium, or case of the heart, contains in it a 
 thin reddish liquor, supposed to be bred from the 
 vapors which exhale out of the heart, and being 
 stopped here, are condensed into this watery sub¬ 
 stance. Upon examining this liquor, we found 
 that it had in it all the qualities of that spirit 
 which is made use of in the thermometer, to show 
 the change of weather. 
 
 Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the 
 company assured us he himself had made with 
 this liquor, which he found in great quantity 
 about the heart of a coquette whom he had for¬ 
 merly dissected. He affirmed to us, that he had 
 actually inclosed it in a small tube made after the 
 manner of a weather-glass; but that instead of ac¬ 
 quainting him with the variations of the atmos¬ 
 phere, it showed him the qualities of those persons 
 who entered the room where it stood. He affirmed 
 also, that it rose at the approach of a plume of 
 feathers, an embroidered coat, or a pair of fringed 
 gloves; and that it fell as soon as an ill-shaped 
 periwig, a clumsy pair of shoes, or an unfashion¬ 
 able coat came into his house. Nay, he proceeded 
 so far as to assure us, that upon his laughing 
 aloud when he stood by it, the liquor mounted 
 very sensibly, and immediately sunk again upon 
 his looking serious. In short, lie told us, that he 
 knew very well, by this invention, whenever he 
 had a man of sense or a coxcomb in his room. 
 
 Having cleared away the pericardium, or the 
 case, and liquor above-mentioned, we came to the 
 heart itself. The outward surface of it was ex¬ 
 tremely slippery, and the mucro, or point, so very 
 cold withal, that upon endeavoring to take hold 
 of it, it glided through the fingers like a smooth 
 piece of ice. 
 
 The fibers were turned and twisted in a more 
 intricate and perplexed manner than they are 
 
 usually found in other hearts; insomuch that the 
 whole heart was wound up together in a Gordian 
 knot, and must have had very irregular and une¬ 
 qual motions, while it was employed in its vital 
 function. 
 
 One thing we thought very observable, namely, 
 that upon examining all the vessels which came 
 into it, or issued out of it, we could not discover 
 any communication that it had with the tongue. 
 
 We could not but take notice likewise, that se¬ 
 veral of those little nerves in the heart which are 
 affected by the sentiments of love, hatred, and 
 other passions, did not descend to this before us 
 from the brain, but from the muscles which lie 
 about the eye. 
 
 Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found 
 it to be extremely light, and consequently very 
 hollow, which I did not wonder at, when, upon 
 looking into the inside of it, I saw multitudes of 
 cells or cavities, running one within another as 
 our historians describe the apartments of Rosa¬ 
 mond’s bower. Several of these little hollows 
 were stuffed with innumerable sorts of trifles, 
 which I shall forbear giving any particular ac¬ 
 count of, and shall therefore only take notice of 
 what lay first and uppermost, which upon our un¬ 
 folding it, and applying our microscopes to it, ap¬ 
 peared to be a flame-colored hood. 
 
 We are informed that the lady of this heart, 
 when living, received the addresses of several who 
 made love to her, and did not only give each of 
 them encouragement, but made every one she 
 conversed with believe that she regarded him with 
 an eye of kindness; for which reason we expected 
 to have seen the impressions of multitudes of 
 faces among the several plaits and foldings of the 
 heart; but to our great surprise not a single print 
 of this nature discovered itself until we came into 
 the very core and center of it. We there observed 
 a little figure, which, upon applying our glasses 
 to it, appeared dressed in a very fantastic manner. 
 The more I looked upon it, the more I thought I 
 had seen the face before, but could not possibly 
 recollect either the place or time; when at length, 
 one of the company, who had examined this figure 
 more nicely than the rest, showed us plainly by 
 the make of its face, and the several turns of its 
 features, that the little idol which was thus lodged 
 in the very middle of the heart was the deceased 
 beau, whose head I gave some account of in my 
 last Tuesday’s paper. 
 
 As soon as we had finished our dissection, we 
 resolved to make an experiment of the heart, not 
 being able to determine among ourselves the na¬ 
 ture of its substance, which differed in so many 
 particulars from that of the heart in other females. 
 Accordingly we laid it in a pan of burning coals, 
 when we observed in it a certain salamandiine 
 quality, that made it capable of living in the midst 
 of fire and flame, without being consumed, or so 
 much as singed. 
 
 As we were admiring this strange phenomenon, 
 and standing round the heart in a circle, it gave a 
 most prodigious sigh, or rather crack, and dis¬ 
 persed all at once in smoke and vapor. This ima¬ 
 ginary noise, which, methought, was louder than 
 the burst of a cannon, produced such a violent 
 shake in my brain, that it dissipated the fumes of 
 sleep and left me in an instant broad awake.—L. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 347 
 
 No. 282 ] WEDNESDAY, JAN. 23, 1711-12. 
 
 -Spcs incerta futuri.—Vma., iEn. viii, 580. 
 
 Hopes and fears in equal balance laid.— Dryden. 
 
 It i^ lamentable thing that every man is full 
 of complaints, and constantly uttering sentences 
 against the fickleness of fortune, when people ge¬ 
 nerally bring upon themselves all the calamities 
 they fall into, and are constantly heaping up mat¬ 
 ter for their own sorrow ana disappointment. 
 That which produces the greatest part of the de¬ 
 lusions of mankind, is a false hope which people 
 indulge with so sanguine a flattery to themselves, 
 that their hearts are bent upon fantastical advant¬ 
 ages which they have no reason to believe should 
 ever have arrived to them. By this unjust mea¬ 
 sure of calculating their happiness, they often 
 mourn with real affliction for imaginary losses. 
 When I am talking of this unhappy way of ac¬ 
 counting for ourselves, I cannot but reflect upon a 
 particular set of people, who in their own favor, 
 resolve everything that is possible into what is 
 probable, and then reckon on that probability as 
 on what mustcertainly happen. Will Honeycomb, 
 upon my observing his looking on a lady with 
 some particular attention, gave me an account of 
 the great distresses which had laid waste that 
 very fine face, and had given an air of melancholy 
 to a very agreeable person. That lady and a 
 couple of sisters of hers, were, said Will, fourteen 
 years ago, the greatest fortunes about town; but 
 without having any loss, by bad tenants, by bad 
 securities, or any damage by sea or land, are re¬ 
 duced to very narrow circumstances. They were 
 at that time the most inaccessible, haughty beau¬ 
 ties in town; and their pretensions to take upon 
 them at that unmerciful rate, were raised upon the 
 following scheme, according to which all their 
 lovers were answered. 
 
 “ Our father is a youngish man, but then our 
 mother is somewhat older, and not likely to have 
 any children : his estate being 800Z. per annum, at 
 twenty years’ purchase, is worth 16,000/. Our 
 uncle, who is above fifty, has 400Z. per annum, 
 which, at the aforesaid rate, is 8,000Z. There is a 
 widow aunt, who has 10,000/. at her own disposal, 
 left by her husband, and an old maiden aunt who 
 has 6,000Z. Then our father’s mother has 900Z. 
 per annum, which is worth 18,000/. and 1,000Z. 
 each of us has of our own, which cannot be taken 
 from us. These summed up together stand thus: 
 
 Father’s. 
 
 ...800. 
 
 . 16,000 
 
 Uncle’s . 
 
 ...400. 
 
 . 8,000 
 
 Aunts’. 
 
 (10,000) 
 
 ) 6,000$ . 
 
 . 16,000 
 
 Grandmother’s . 
 
 ...900. 
 
 . 18,000 
 
 Own 1,000 each. 
 
 Total .. 
 
 . 3,000 
 
 ...61,000 
 
 This, equally divided between us three, amounts 
 to 20,000/. each : an allowance being given for an 
 enlargement upon common fame, we may lawfully 
 pass for 30,000/. fortunes.” 
 
 In prospect of this, and the knowledge of their 
 own personal merit, every one was contemptible 
 in their eyes, and they refused those offers which 
 had been frequently made them. But mark the 
 end. The mother dies, the father is married again 
 and has a son; on him was entailed the father’s, 
 uncle’s, and grandmother’s estate. This cut off 
 42,000/. The maiden aunt married a tall Irish¬ 
 man, and with her went the 6,000/. The widow 
 died, and left but enough to pay her debts and 
 bury her; so that there remained for these three 
 girls but their own 1,000/. They had by this time 
 
 passed their prime; and got on the wrong side of 
 thirty; and must pass the remainder of their days, 
 upbraiding mankind that they mind nothing but 
 money, and bewailing that virtue, sense, and mo¬ 
 desty, are had at present in no manner of estima¬ 
 tion. 
 
 I mention this case of ladies before any other, 
 because it is the most irreparable; for though 
 youth is the time least capable of reflection, it is 
 in that sex the only season in which they can ad¬ 
 vance their fortunes. But if we turn our thoughts 
 to the men, we see such crowds unhappy, from no 
 other reason than an ill-grounded hope, that it is 
 hard to say which they rather deserve, our pity or 
 contempt. It is not unpleasant to see a fellow, 
 after growing old in attendance, and after having 
 passed half a life in servitude, call himself the 
 unhappiest of all men, and pretend to be disap¬ 
 pointed, because a courtier broke his word. He 
 that promises himself anything but what may na¬ 
 turally arise from his own property or labor, and 
 goes beyond the desire of possessing above two 
 parts in three even of that, lays up for himself an 
 increasing heap of afflictions and disappoint¬ 
 ments. There are but two means in the world of 
 gaining^ by other men, and these are by being 
 either agreeable, or considerable. The generality 
 of mankind do all things for their own sakes; and 
 when you hope anything from persons above you, 
 if you cannot say, “I can be thus agreeable, or 
 thus serviceable,” it is ridiculous to pretend to the 
 dignity of being unfortunate when they leave you; 
 you were injudicious in hoping for any other than 
 to be neglected for such as can come within these 
 descriptions of being capable to please or serve 
 your patron, when his humor or interests call for 
 their capacity either way. 
 
 It would not, methinks, be a useless comparison 
 between the condition of a man who shuns all the 
 pleasures of life, and of one who makes it his 
 business to pursue them. Hope in the recluse 
 makes his austerities comfortable, while the luxu¬ 
 rious man gains nothing but uneasiness from his 
 enjoyments. What is the difference in happiness 
 of him who is macerated by abstinence, and his 
 who is surfeited with excess? He who resigns 
 the world has no temptation to envy, hatred, ma¬ 
 lice, anger, but is in constant possession of a se¬ 
 rene mind; he who follows the pleasures of it, 
 which are in their very nature disappointing, is 
 in constant search of care, solicitude, remorse, and 
 confusion. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Jan. the 14th, 1712. 
 
 “ I am a young woman, and have my fortune to 
 make, for which reason I come constantly to 
 church to hear divine service, and make conquests: 
 but one great hinderance to my design is, that our 
 clerk, who was once a gardener, has this Christ¬ 
 mas so overdecked the church with greens, that he 
 has quite spoiled my prospect; insomuch that I 
 have scarce seen the young baronet I dress at 
 these three weeks, though we have both been very 
 constant at our devotions, and do not sit above 
 three pews off. The church, as it is now equipped, 
 looks more like a green-house than a place of wor¬ 
 ship. The middle aisle is a very pretty shady 
 walk, and the pews look like so many arbors on 
 each side of it. The pulpit itself has such clust¬ 
 ers of ivy, holly, and rosemary, about it, that a 
 light fellow in our pew took occasion to say, that 
 lie congregation heard the word out of a bush, 
 ike Moses. Sir Anthony Love’s pew in particu- 
 ar is so well hedged, that all my batteries have 
 no effect. I am obliged to shoot at random among 
 lie boughs, without taking any manner of aim. 
 Mr. Spectator, unless you will give orders for 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 348 
 
 removing these greens, I shall grow a very awkward 
 creature at church, and soon have little else to do 
 there but to say my prayers. I am in haste, dear 
 Sir, your most obedient Servant, 
 
 T. “ Jenny Simper.” 
 
 No. 283. ] THURSDAY, JAN. 24, 1711-12. 
 
 Magister artis ingenique largitor 
 
 Venter- Pers, Prol., ver. 10. 
 
 Necessity is the mother of invention. 
 
 English Proverbs. 
 
 Lucian rallies the philosophers in his time, who 
 could not agree whether they should admit riches 
 into the number of real goods ; the professors of 
 the severer sects threw them quite out, while others 
 as resolutely inserted them. 
 
 I am apt to believe, that as the world grew 
 more polite, the rigid doctrines of the first were 
 wholly discarded; and I do not find any one so 
 hardy at present as to deny that there are very 
 great advantages in the enjoyment of a plentiful 
 fortune. Indeed the best and wisest ot men, 
 though they may possibly despise a good part of 
 those things which the world calls pleasures, can, 
 I think, hardly be insensible of that weight and 
 dignitv which a moderate share of wealth adds to 
 their characters, counsels, and actions. 
 
 We find it a general complaint in professions 
 and trades, that the richest members of them are 
 chiefly encouraged, and this is falsely imputed to 
 the ill-nature of mankind, who are ever bestowing 
 their favors on such as least want them. Whereas 
 if we fairly consider their proceedings in this 
 case, we shall find them founded on undoubted 
 reason: since, supposing both equal in their 
 natural integrity, I ought in common prudence, 
 to fear foul play from an indigent person, rather 
 than from one whose circumstances seem to have 
 placed him above the bare temptation of money. 
 
 This reason also makes the commonwealth re¬ 
 gard her richest subjects, as those who are most 
 concerned for her quiet and interest, and conse¬ 
 quently fittest to be intrusted with her highest 
 employments. On the contrary, Catiline’s saying 
 to those men of desperate fortunes who applied 
 themselves fo him, and of whom he afterward 
 composed his army, that they had nothing to 
 hope for, but from a civil war, was too true not 
 to make the impressions he desired. 
 
 I believe I need not fear but that what I have 
 said in praise of money, will be more than suf¬ 
 ficient with most of my readers to excuse the 
 subject of my present paper, which I intend as an 
 essay on the ways to raise a man’s fortune, or the 
 art of growing rich. 
 
 The first and most infallible method toward the 
 attaining of this end is thrift. All men are not 
 equally qualified for getting money, but it is in 
 the power of every one alike to practice this 
 virtue, and I believe there are very few persons 
 who, if they please to reflect on their past lives, 
 will not find that had they saved all those little 
 sums which they have spent unnecessarily, they 
 might at present have been masters of a compe¬ 
 tent fortune. Diligence justly claims the next 
 place to thrift; I find both these excellently well 
 recommended to common use in the three follow¬ 
 ing Italian proverbs: 
 
 Never do that by proxy which you can do yourself, 
 
 Never defer that till to-morrow which you can do to-day, 
 
 Nev^r neglect small matters and expenses. 
 
 A third instrument of growing rich is method 
 in business, which, as well as the two former, is 
 also attainable by persons of the meanest capa¬ 
 cities. 
 
 The famous De Witt, one of the greatest states¬ 
 men of the age in which he lived, being asked by 
 a friend how he was able to dispatch that multi¬ 
 tude of affairs in which he was engaged ? replied, 
 that his whole art consisted in doing one^Qjung at 
 once. “ If,” says he, “ I have any necessary dis¬ 
 patches to make, I think of nothing else until 
 those are finished: if any domestic affairs require 
 my attention, I give myself up wholly to them 
 until they are set in order.” 
 
 In short, we often see men of dull and phleg¬ 
 matic tempers arriving to great estates, by mak¬ 
 ing a regular and orderly disposition of their bu¬ 
 siness, and that without it the greatest parts and 
 most lively imaginations rather puzzle their af¬ 
 fairs, than bring them to a happy issue. 
 
 From what has been said, I think I may lay it 
 down as a maxim, that every man of good com¬ 
 mon sense may, if he please, in his particular 
 station of life, most certainly be rich. The reason 
 why we sometimes see that men of the greatest 
 capacities are not so, is either because they de¬ 
 spise wealth in comparison of something else j 
 or at least are not content to be getting an estate, 
 unless they may do it in their own way, and at 
 the same time enjoy all the pleasures and gratifi¬ 
 cations of life. 
 
 But beside these ordinary forms of growing 
 rich, it must be allowed that there is room, for 
 genius as well in this as in all other circum- 
 stances of life. 
 
 Though the ways of getting money were long 
 since very numerous, and though so many new 
 ones have been found out of late years, there is 
 certainly still remaining so large a field for in¬ 
 vention, that a man of an indifferent head might 
 easily sit down and draw up such a plan for the 
 conduct and support of his life, as was never yet 
 once thought ot. 
 
 We daily see methods put in practice by hungry 
 and ingenious men, which demonstrate the power 
 of invention in this particular. 
 
 It is reported of Scaramouch, the first famous 
 Italian comedian, that being at Paris and in great 
 want, he bethought himself of constantly plying 
 near the door of a noted perfumer in that city, 
 and when anyone came out who had been buying 
 snuff, never failed to desire a taste of them: when 
 he had by this means got together a quantity 
 made up of several different sorts, he sold it 
 ao-ain at a lower rate to the same perfumer, who, 
 finding out the trick, called it “ Tabac de mille 
 dears” or, “ Snuff of a thousand flowers.” The 
 story further tells us, that by this means he got a 
 very comfortable subsistence, until making too 
 much haste to grow rich, he one day took such an 
 unreasonable pinch out of the box of a Swiss offi¬ 
 cer, as engaged him in a quarrel, and obliged him 
 to quit this ingenious way of life. 
 
 Nor can I in this place omit doing justice to a 
 youth of my own country, who though he is scarce 
 yet twelve years old, has with great industry and 
 application attained to the art of beating the gre¬ 
 nadier’s march on his chin. I am credibly in¬ 
 formed that by this means he does not only main¬ 
 tain himself and his mother, but that he is laying 
 up money every day, with a design, if the war 
 continues, to purchase a drum at least, if not a 
 pair of colors. 
 
 I shall conclude these instances with the device of 
 the famous Rabelais, when he was at a great dis¬ 
 tance from Paris, and without money to bear his ex¬ 
 penses thither. The ingenious author being thus 
 sharp-set, got together a convenient quantity of 
 brick-dust, and having disposed of it into several 
 papers, wrote upon one, “Poison for monsieur ; 
 upon a second, “ Poison for the dauphin, and on 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 a third, “ Poison for the king/’ Having made this 
 provision for the royal family of France, he laid 
 his papers Bo that his landlord, who was an in¬ 
 quisitive man, and a good subject, might get a 
 sight of them. 
 
 The plot succeeded as he desired. The host 
 gave immediate intelligence to the secretary of 
 state. The secretary presently sent down a spe¬ 
 cial messenger, who brought up the traitor to 
 court and provided him at the king’s expense 
 with proper accommodations on the road. As 
 soon as he appeared, he was known to be the 
 celebrated Rabelais, and his powder upon exami¬ 
 nation being found very innocent, the jest was 
 only laughed at; for which a less eminent droll 
 would have been sent to the galleys. 
 
 Trade and commerce might doubtless be still 
 varied a thousand ways, out of which would arise 
 such branches as have not yet been touched. 
 1 he famous Doily is still fresh in every one’s 
 memory, who raised a fortune by finding out ma¬ 
 terials for such stuffs as might at once be cheap 
 and genteel. I have heard it affirmed, that had 
 not he discovered this frugal method of gratifying 
 our pride, we should hardly have been able to 
 carry on the last war. 
 
 I regard trade not only as highly advantageous 
 to the commonwealth in general, but as the most 
 natural and likely method of making a man’s for¬ 
 tune : having observed, since my being a Specta¬ 
 tor in the world, greater estates got about ’Change, 
 than at Whitehall or St. James’s. I believe I 
 may also add, that the first acquisitions are gene¬ 
 rally attended with more satisfaction, and as good 
 a conscience. 
 
 I must not, however, close this essay without 
 observing, that what has been said is only in¬ 
 tended for persons in the common ways of thriv¬ 
 ing, and is not designed for those men who from 
 low beginnings push themselves up to the top of 
 states, and the most considerable figures in life. 
 My maxim of saving is not designed for such as 
 these, since nothing is more usual than for thrift 
 to disappoint the ends of ambition; it being al¬ 
 most impossible that the mind should be intent 
 upon trifles, while it is at the same time forming 
 some great design. 
 
 I may therefore compare these men to a great 
 poet, who, as Longinus says, while he is full of 
 the most magnificent ideas, is not always at lei¬ 
 sure to mind the little beauties and niceties of 
 his art. 
 
 I would, however, have all my readers take 
 great care how they mistake themselves for un¬ 
 common geniuses, and men above rule, since it is 
 very easy for them to be deceived in this parti 
 cular.—X. 
 
 No. 284.] FRIDAY, JANUARY 25, 1711-12. 
 
 Posthabui tamen illorum mea seria ludo.* 
 
 Virg., Eel. vii, 17. 
 
 Their mirth to share, I bid my business wait. 
 
 Ax unaffected behavior is without question a 
 very great charm; but under the notion of being 
 unconstrained and disengaged, people take upon 
 them to be itnconcerned in any duty of life. A 
 general negligence is what they assume upon all 
 occasions, and set up for an aversion to all man¬ 
 ner of business and attention. “ I am the care- 
 lessest creature in the world, I have certainly the 
 worst memory of any man living,” are frequent 
 expressions in the mouth of a pretender of this 
 sort. It is a professed maxim with these people 
 
 * The motto of the original paper in folio was what is now 
 the motto of No. 54. “ Strenua nos exercet inertia.”—H or. 
 
 349 
 
 never to think; there is something so solemn in 
 reflection, they, forsooth, can never give them¬ 
 selves time for such a way of employing them¬ 
 selves. It happens often that this sort of man is 
 heavy enough in his nature to be a good proficient 
 in such matters as are attainable by industry; but, 
 alas ! he has such an ardent desire to be what he 
 is not, to be too volatile, to have the faults of a 
 person of spirit, that he professes himself the 
 most unfit man living for any manner of applica¬ 
 tion. When this humor enters into the head of a 
 female, she generally professes sickness upon 
 all occasions, and acts all things with an indis¬ 
 posed air. She is offended, but her mind is too 
 lazy to raise her to anger, therefore she lives only as 
 actuated by a violent spleen, and gentle scorn. 
 She has hardly curiosity to listen to scandal of 
 her acquaintance, and has never attention enough 
 to hear them commended. This affectation In 
 both sexes makes them vain of being useless, and 
 take a certain pride in their insignificancy. 
 
 Opposite to this folly is another no less unrea¬ 
 sonable, and that is, the “ impertinence of being 
 always in a hurry.” There are those who visit 
 ladies,-and beg pardon, before they are well seated 
 in their chairs, that they just called in, but are 
 obliged to attend business of importance else¬ 
 where the very next moment. Thus they run 
 from place to place, professing that they are 
 obliged to be still in another company than that 
 which they are in. These persons who are just 
 a-going somewhere else should never be detained; 
 let all the world allow that business is to be 
 minded, and their affairs will be at an end. Their 
 vanity is to be importuned, and compliance with 
 their multiplicity of affairs will effectually dis¬ 
 patch them. The traveling ladies, who have half 
 the town to see in' an afternoon, may be pardoned 
 for being in a constant hurry; but it is inexcusa¬ 
 ble in men to come where they have no business, 
 to profess they absent themselves where they 
 have. It has been remarked by some nice observ¬ 
 ers and critics, that there is nothing discovers the 
 true temper of a person so much as his letters. I 
 have by me two epistles, which are written by two 
 people of the different humors above-mentioned. 
 It is wonderful that a man cannot observe upon 
 himself when he sits down to write, but that he 
 will gravely, commit himself to paper the same 
 man that he is in the freedom of conversation. I 
 have hardly seen a line from any of these gentle¬ 
 men, but spoke them as absent from what they 
 were doing, as they profess they are when they 
 come into company. For the folly is, that they 
 have persuaded themselves they really are busy. 
 Thus their whole time is spent in suspense of the 
 present moment to the next, and then from the 
 next to the succeeding, which, to the end of life is 
 to pass away with pretense to many things, and 
 execution of nothing. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ The post is just going out, and I have many 
 other letters of very great importance to write this 
 evening, but I could not omit making my compli¬ 
 ments to you for your civilities to me when I was 
 last in town. It is my misfortune to be so full 
 of business, that I cannot tell you a thousand 
 things I have to say to you. I must desire you 
 to communicate the contents of this to no one 
 living: but believe me to be, with the greatest 
 fidelity, 
 
 “ Sir, your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Stephen Courier.’ 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “I hate writing, of all things in the world; how- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 350 
 
 ever, though I have drank the waters, and am 
 told I ought not to use my eyes so much, I cannot 
 forbear writing to you, to tell you I have been to 
 the last degree hipped since I saw you. How 
 could you entertain such a thought, as that I 
 could hear of that silly fellow with patience? 
 Take my word for it, there is nothing in it; and 
 you may believe it when so lazy a creature as I 
 am undergo the pains to assure you of it, by 
 taking pen, ink, and paper in my hand. Forgive 
 this; vou know I shall not often offend in this 
 kind. 
 
 “I am very much your Servant, 
 
 “ Bridget Eitherdown.” 
 
 “ The fellow is of your country, prithee send 
 me word, however, whether he has so great an 
 estate.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, Jan. 24, 1712. 
 
 “I am clerk of the parish from whence Mrs. 
 Simper sends her complaint, in your Spectator of' 
 Wednesday last. I must beg of you to publish 
 this as a public admonition to the aforesaid Mrs. 
 Simper, otherwise all my honest care in the dis¬ 
 position of the greens in the church will have no 
 effect; I shall therefore, with your leave, lay be¬ 
 fore you the whole matter. I was formerly, as 
 she charges me, for several years a gardener in the 
 county of Kent: but I most absolutely deny that it 
 was out of any affection I retain for my old em¬ 
 ployment that I have placed my greens so liberally 
 about the church, but out of a particular spleen I 
 conceived against Mrs. Simper (and others of the 
 same sisterhood) some time ago. As to herself, I 
 had one day set the hundredth Psalm, and was 
 singing the first line in order to put the congrega¬ 
 tion into the tune; she was all the while courtseying 
 to Sir Anthony, in so affected and indecent a man- 
 / ner, that the indignation I conceived at it made me 
 forget myself so far, as from the tune of that psalm 
 to wander into Southwell tune, and from thence into 
 Windsor tune, still unable to recover myself, until 
 I had with the utmost confusion set a new one. 
 Nay, I have often seen her rise up and smile, and 
 courtsey to one at the lower end of the church in 
 the midst of a Gloria Patri; and when I have 
 spoken the assent to a prayer with a long Amen, 
 uttered with decent gravity, she has been rolling 
 her eyes round about in such a manner, as plainly 
 showed, however she was moved, it was not to¬ 
 ward a heavenly object. In fine, she extended her 
 conquests so far over the males, and raised such 
 envy in the females, that what between the love 
 of those, and the jealousy of these, I was almost 
 the only person that looked in a prayer-book all 
 church-time. I had several projects in my head 
 to put a stop to this growing mischief; but as I 
 have long lived in Kent, and there often heard how 
 the Kentish men evaded the Conqueror, by carry¬ 
 ing green boughs over their heads, it put roe in 
 mind of practicing this device against Mrs. Simper. 
 I find I have preserved many a young man from 
 her eye-shot by this means: therefore humbly pray 
 the boughs may be fixed, until she shall give se¬ 
 curity for her peaceable intentions. 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 T. “ Francis Sternhold.” 
 
 No. 235.] SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1711-12. 
 
 Ne, quicunque Deus, quicunque adhibebitur heros, 
 
 Regali conspectus in auro nuper et ostro, 
 
 Migret in obscuras humili sermone tabernas; 
 
 Aut, dum vitat humum, nubes et inania captet. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., Ter. 227. 
 
 But then they did not wrong themselves so much, 
 
 To make a god, a hero, or a king, 
 
 (Stript of his golden crown, and purple robe) 
 
 Descend to a mechanic dialect; 
 
 Nor (to avoid such meanness) soaring high, 
 
 With empty sound, and airy notions fly.— Roscommon. 
 
 Having already treated of the fable, the charac¬ 
 ters, and sentiments in Paradise Lost, we are in 
 the last place, to consider the language; and as 
 the learned world is very much divided upon 
 Milton as to this point, I hope they will excuse 
 me if I appear particular in any of my opinions, 
 and incline to those who judge most advanta¬ 
 geously of the author. 
 
 It is requisite that the language of a heroic 
 poem should be both perspicuous and sublime. 
 In proportion as either of these two qualities are 
 wanting, the language is imperfect. Perspicuity 
 is the first and most necessary qualification; inso¬ 
 much that a good-natured reader sometimes over¬ 
 looks a little slip even in the grammar or syntax, 
 where it is impossible for him to mistake the 
 poet’s sense. Of this kind is that passage in 
 Milton, wherein he speaks of Satan: 
 
 -God and his Son except, 
 
 Created thing naught valu’d he nor shunn’d: 
 
 and that in which he describes Adam and Eve: 
 
 Adam the goodliest man of men since bom 
 His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve. 
 
 It is plain, that in the former of these passages, 
 according to the natural syntax, the Divine Per¬ 
 sons mentioned in the first line are represented as 
 created beings; and that, in the other, Adam and 
 Eve are confounded with their sons and daughters. 
 Such little blemishes as these, when the thought 
 is great and natural, we should, with Horace, im¬ 
 pute to a pardonable inadvertency, or to the weak¬ 
 ness of human nature, which cannot attend to 
 each minute particular, and give the last finishing 
 to every circumstance in so long a work. The 
 ancient critics, therefore, who were actuated by a 
 spirit of candor, rather than that of caviling, in¬ 
 vented certain figures of speech, on purpose to 
 palliate little errors of this nature in the writings 
 of those authors who had so many greater beauties 
 to atone for them. 
 
 If clearness and perspicuity were only to be 
 consulted, the poet would have nothing else to do 
 but to clothe his thoughts in the most plain and 
 natural expressions. But sinoe it often happens 
 that the most obvious phrases, and those which 
 are used in ordinary conversation, become too 
 familiar to the ear, and contract a kind of mean¬ 
 ness by passing through the mouths of the vulgar; 
 a poet should take particular care to guard him¬ 
 self against idiomatic ways of speaking. Ovid 
 and Lucan have many poornesses of expression 
 upon this account, as taking up with the first 
 phrases that offered, without putting themselves 
 to the trouble of looking after such as would not 
 only have been natural, but also elevated and 
 sublime. Milton has but few failings in this kind, 
 of which, however, you may meet with some in¬ 
 stances, as in the following passages: 
 
 Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars, 
 
 White, black, and gray, with all their trumpery 
 
 Here pilgrims roam- 
 
 -A while discourse they hold, 
 
 No fear lest dinner cool; when thus began 
 
 Our author- 
 
 Who of all ages to succeed, but feeling 
 The evil on him brought by me, will curse 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 My head,—ill fare our ancestor impure, 
 For this we may thank Adam. 
 
 great masters in composition know very 
 well that many an elegant phrase becomes im¬ 
 proper for a poet or an orator, when it has been 
 debased by common use. For this reason the 
 woiks of ancient authors, which are written in 
 dead languages, have a great advantage over those 
 which are written in languages that are now 
 spoken. Were there any mean phrases or idioms 
 in V lrgil or Homer, they would not shock the ear 
 ot the most delicate modern reader, so much as ! 
 they would have done that of an old Greek or! 
 Roman, because we never hear them pronounced 
 in our streets, or in ordinary conversation. 
 
 It is not therefore sufficient, that the language 
 of an epic poem be perspicuous, unless it be also 
 sublime. To this end it ought to deviate from 
 tne common forms and ordinary phrases of speech. 
 The judgment of a poet very much discovers itself 
 m, shunning the common roads of expression, 
 without falling into such ways of speech as may 
 seem stiff and unnatural: he must not swell into a j 
 false sublime, by endeavoring to avoid the other 
 extreme. Among the Greeks, HSschylus, and 
 sometimes Sophocles, were guilty of this fault;' 
 among the Latins, Claudian and Statius ; and 
 among our own countrymen, Shakspeare and Lee. 
 In these authors the affectation of greatness often 
 hurts the perspicuity of .the style, as in many 
 others the endeavor after perspicuity prejudices 
 its greatness. r J 
 
 Aristotle has observed, that the idiomatic stvle 
 may be avoided, and the sublime formed, by the 
 following methods. First, by the use of meta¬ 
 phors: such are those of Milton: 
 
 Imparadis d in one another’s arms. 
 
 ■-And in his hand a reed 
 
 Stood waving tipp’d with fire.-. 
 
 The grassy clods now calv’d-... . 
 
 Spangled with eyes-., 
 
 In these and innumerable other instances, the 
 metaphors are very bold but just: I must however 
 observe, that if the metaphors are not so thick 
 sown in Milton, which always savors too much 
 of wit, that they never clash with one another 
 which, as Aristotle observes, turns a sentence into 
 a kind of enigma or riddle; and that he seldom 
 has recourse to them where the proper and natural 
 words will do as well. * 
 
 Another way of raising the language, and 
 giving it a poetical turn, is to make use of the 
 idioms of other tongues. Virgil is full of the 
 Greek forms of speech, which the critics call 
 Hellenisms, as Horace in his odes abounds with 
 them much more than Virgil. I need not mention 
 the several dialects which Homer has made use of 
 for this end. Milton, in conformity with the 
 practice of the ancient poets, and with Aristotle’s 
 luie, has infused a great many Latinisms, as well 
 as Giaecisms, and sometimes Hebraisms, into the 
 language of his poem; as toward the beginning 
 of it: ® h 
 
 Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 
 In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel. 
 
 1 et to their general’s voice they soon obey’d_ 
 
 —- —Who shall tempt with wandering feet 
 The dark unbottom’d infinite abyss, 
 
 And through the palpable obscure find out 
 His uncouth way, or spread his airy flight 
 Upborne with indefatigable wings 
 Over the vast abrupt ? 
 
 -So both ascend 
 
 In the visions of God.- Book n. 
 
 Under this head may be reckoned the placing the 
 adjective after the substantive, the transposition 
 ot words, the turning the adjective into a sub- 
 stantive, with several other foreign modes of 
 
 351 
 
 I speech which this poet has naturalized to give 
 his verse the greater sound, and throw it out of 
 prose. 
 
 The third method mentioned by Aristotle, is 
 what agrees with the genius of the Greek lan¬ 
 guage more than with that of any other tongue, 
 and is therefore more used by Homer than by any 
 ot ler poet. I mean the lengthening of a phrase 
 by the addition of words, which may either be 
 inserted or omitted, as also by the extending or 
 contracting of particular words by the insertion 
 or omission of certain syllables. Milton has put 
 m practice this method of raising his language, 
 as far as the nature of our tongue will permit, as 
 m the passage above-mentioned, eremite, for what 
 is hermit in common discourse. If you observe 
 the measure of his verse, he has with great judg¬ 
 ment suppressed a syllable in several words and 
 shortened those of two syllables into one’- by 
 which method, beside the above-mentioned ad¬ 
 vantage, he has given a greater variety to his 
 numbers. But this practice is more particularly 
 remarkable in the names of persons and of 
 Countries, as Beelzebub, Hessebon, and in many 
 other particulars, wherein he has either changed 
 the name, or made use of that which is not the 
 most commonly known, that he might the better 
 deviate from the language of the vulgar. 
 
 1 he same reason recommended to° him several 
 old words; which also makes his poem appear the 
 more venerable, and gives it a greater air of anti¬ 
 quity. 
 
 . mus t likewise take notice, that there are in 
 Milton se\ eral words of liis own coining as “ccr- 
 berean, miscreated, hell-doomed, embryoA atoms ” 
 and many others. If the reader is offended At 
 this liberty in our English poet, I would recom¬ 
 mend to him a discourse in Plutarch, which shows 
 us how frequently Homer has made use of the 
 same liberty. 
 
 Milton, by the above-mentioned helps, and by 
 the choice of the noblest words and phrases which 
 our tongue would afford him, has carried our lan¬ 
 guage to a greater height than any of the Eno-lish 
 poets have ever done before or after him,°and 
 made the sublimity of his style equal to that of 
 his sentiments. 
 
 I have been the more particular in these obser- 
 vations on Milton’s style, because it is in that part 
 of hun m which he appears the most singular. 
 The remarks I have here made upon the practice 
 ot other poets, with my observations out of Aris¬ 
 totle, will perhaps alleviate the prejudice which 
 some have taken to his poem upon this account; 
 though after all I must confess that I think hi s 
 style, though admirable in general, is in some 
 places too much stiffened and obscured by the 
 frequent use of those methods which Aristotle has 
 prescribed for the raising of it. 
 
 1 his ledundancy of those several wavs of speech 
 which Aristotle calls “foreign language ” and 
 with which Milton has so very much enriched, 
 and in some places darkened, the language of his 
 poem, was the more proper for his use, because 
 his poem is written in blank verse. Rhvme 
 without any other assistance, throws the langua^A 
 off from prose, and very often makes an indiffer¬ 
 ent. phrase pass unregarded; but where the verse 
 is not built upon rhymes, there pomp of sound 
 and energy of expression are indispensably neces- 
 sary tn support the style, and keep it from falling 
 into the flatness of prose. 
 
 Those who have not a taste for this elevation of 
 style, and are apt to ridicule a poet when he de¬ 
 parts from the common forms of expression, would 
 do well to see how Aristotle has treated an an¬ 
 cient author called Euclid, fo” his insipid mirth 
 
352 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 upon this occasion. Mr. Dryden used to call 
 these sort of men his prose-critics. 
 
 I should, under this head of the language, con¬ 
 sider Milton’s numbers, in which he has made 
 use of several elisions, which are not customary 
 among other English poets, as may be particularly 
 observed in his cutting off the letter Y, when it 
 precedes a vowel. This, and some other innova¬ 
 tions in the measure of his verse, has varied his 
 numbers in such a manner, as makes them inca¬ 
 pable of satiating the ear, and cloying the reader, 
 which the same uniform measure would certainly 
 have done, and which the perpetual returns of 
 rhyme never fail to do in long narrative poems. I 
 shall close these reflections upon the language of 
 Paradise Lost with observing, that Milton has 
 copied after Homer rather than Virgil in the length 
 of his periods, the copiousness of his phrases, 
 and the running of his verses into one another. 
 
 L. 
 
 Ho. 286.] MONDAY, JANUARY 28, 1711-12. 
 
 Nomina honesta praetenduntur vitiis. 
 
 Tacit. Ann., 1. xiv, c. 21. 
 
 Specious names are lent to cover vices. 
 
 “ York, Jan. 18, 1711-12. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I pretend not to inform a gentleman of so 
 much taste, whenever he pleases to use it; but it 
 may not be amiss to inform your readers, that there 
 is a false delicacy, as well as a true one. True 
 delicacy, as I take it, consists in exactness of 
 judgment and dignity of sentiment, or, if you 
 will, purity of affection, as this is opposed to cor¬ 
 ruption and grossness. There are pedants in 
 breeding, as well as in learning. The eye that 
 cannot bear the light is not delicate, but sore. A 
 good constitution appears in the soundness and 
 vigor of the parts, not in the squeamishness of 
 the stomach; and a false delicacy is affectation, 
 not politeness. What then can be the standard 
 of delicacy, but truth and virtue ? Virtue, which 
 as the satirist long since observed, is real honor: 
 whereas the other distinctions among mankind are 
 merely titular. Judging by that rule, in my opin¬ 
 ion, and in that of many of your virtuous female 
 readers, you are so far from deserving Mr. Court¬ 
 ly’s accusation, that you seem too gentle, and to 
 allow too many excuses for an enormous crime, 
 which is the reproach of the age, and is in all its 
 branches and degrees expressly forbidden by that 
 religion we pretend to profess: and whose laws, 
 in a nation that calls itself Christian, one would 
 think should take place of those rules which men 
 of corrupt minds, and those of weak understand¬ 
 ings, follow. I know not anything more perni¬ 
 cious to good manners, than the giving fair names 
 to foul actions: for this confounds vice and vir¬ 
 tue, and takes off that natural horror we have to 
 evil. An innocent creature, who would start at 
 the name of strumpet, may think it pretty to be 
 called a mistress, especially if her seducer has 
 tkken care to inform her, that a union of hearts is 
 the principal matter in the sight of heaven, and 
 that the business at church is a mere idle ceremo¬ 
 ny. Who knows not that the difference between 
 obscene and modest words expressing the same 
 action, consists only in the accessory idea, for 
 there is nothing immodest in letters and syllables. 
 Fornication and adultery are modest words; be¬ 
 cause they express an evil action as criminal, and 
 so as to excite horror and aversion; whereas words 
 representing the pleasure rather than the sin, are, 
 for this reason, indecent and dishonest. Your 
 papers would be chargeable with something worse 
 
 than indelicacy, they would be immoral, did you 
 treat the detestable sins of uncleanness in the 
 same manner as you rally an impertinent self-love 
 and an artful glance; as those laws would be very 
 unjust that should chastise murder and petty lar¬ 
 ceny with the same punishment. Even delicacy 
 requires that the pity shown to distressed indigent 
 wickedness, first betrayed into, and then expelled 
 the harbors of the brothel, should be changed to 
 detestation, when we consider pampered vice in 
 the habitations of the wealthy. The most free 
 person of quality, in Mr. Courtly’s phrase, that 
 is, to speak properly, a woman of figure who has 
 forgot her birth and breeding, dishonored her re¬ 
 lations and herself, abandoned her virtue and re¬ 
 putation, together with the natural modesty of her 
 sex, and risked her very soul, is so far from de¬ 
 serving to be treated with no worse character than 
 that of a kind woman, which is, doubtless, Mr. 
 Courtly’s meaning (if he has any), that one can 
 scarce " be too severe on her, inasmuch a$ she 
 sins against greater restraints, is less exposed, 
 and liable to fewer temptations; than beauty in 
 poverty and distress. It is hoped, therefore, Sir, 
 that you will not lay aside your generous design 
 of exposing that monstrous wickedness of the 
 town, wTiereby a multitude of innocents are sacri¬ 
 ficed in a more barbarous manner than those who 
 were offered to Moloch. The unchaste are pro¬ 
 voked to see their vice exposed, and the chaste 
 cannot rake into such filth without danger of de¬ 
 filement, but a mere spectator may look into the 
 bottom, and come off without partaking in the 
 guilt. The doing so will convince us you pursue 
 public good, and not merely your own advantage; 
 but if your zeal slackens, how can one help think¬ 
 ing that Mr. Courtly’s letter is but a feint to get 
 off from a subject, in which either your own, or 
 the private and base ends of others to whom you 
 are partial, or those of whom you are afraid, 
 would not endure a reformation ? 
 
 “ I am. Sir, 
 
 “ Your humble Servant and Admirer, so long 
 as you tread in the paths of truth, virtue, 
 ana honor.” 
 
 “ Trin. Coll. Cantab. Jan. 12, 1711-12. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ It is my fortune to have a chamber-fellow, 
 with whom, though I agree very well in many 
 sentiments, yet there is one in which we are as 
 contrary as light and darkness. We are both in 
 love. His mistress is a lovely fair, and mine a 
 lovely brown. Now, as the praise of our mistresses’ 
 beauty employs much of our time, we have 
 frequent quarrels in entering upon that subject, 
 while each says all he can to defend his choice. 
 For my own part, I have racked my fancy to the 
 utmost; and sometimes with the greatest warmth 
 of imagination have told him, that night was 
 made before day, and many more fine things, 
 though without any effect; nay, last night I could 
 not forbear saying, with more heat than judgment, 
 that the devil ought to be painted white. Now 
 my desire is, Sir, that you would be pleased to 
 give us in black and white your opinion in the 
 matter of dispute between us: which will either 
 furnish me with fresh and prevailing arguments to 
 maintain my own taste, or make me with less re¬ 
 pining allow that of my chamber-fellow. I know 
 very well that I have J ack Cleveland* and Bond’s 
 Horace on my side; but then he has such a band 
 of rhymers and romance-writers, with which he 
 
 * See Poems by J. Cleveland, 1653, 24mo. The Senses’ Fes¬ 
 tival, p. 1. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 opposes me, and is so continually chiming to the 
 tune of golden tresses, yellow locks, milk, marble, 
 ivory, silver, swans, snow, daisies, doves, and the 
 Lord knows what; which he is always sounding 
 with so much vehemence in my ears, that he often 
 puts me in a brown study Iioav to answer him; 
 and 1 find that I am in a fair way to be quite con¬ 
 founded, without your timely assistance afforded 
 to, bir, 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Philobrune.” 
 
 No. 287.] TUESDAY, JANUARY 29, 1711-12. 
 
 Dear native land, liow do the good and wise 
 
 Thy happy clime and countless blessings prize! 
 
 Men and. 
 
 I look upon it as a peculiar happiness, that 
 were I to choose of what religion I would be, and 
 under what government I would live, I should 
 most certainly give the preference to that form of 
 religion and government which is established in 
 my own country. In this point I think I am de¬ 
 termined by reason and conviction;- but if I shall 
 be told that I am actuated by prejudice, I am sure 
 it is an honest prejudice; it is a prejudice that 
 arises from the love of my country, and therefore 
 such a one as I will always indulge. I have in 
 several papers endeavored to express my duty and 
 esteem for the church of England, and design this 
 as an essay upon the civil part of our constitution, 
 having often entertained myself with reflections 
 on this subject, which I have not met with in 
 other writers. 
 
 That form of government appears to me the 
 most reasonable, which is most conformable to the 
 eq uality that we find in human nature, provided 
 it be consistent with public peace and tranquillity. 
 This is what may properly be called liberty, 
 which exempts one man from subjection to anoth¬ 
 er, so far as the order and economy of government 
 will permit. 
 
 Liberty should reach every individual of a 
 people, as they all share one common nature; if it 
 only spreads among particular branches, there had 
 better be none at all, since such a liberty only ao-- 
 gravates the misfortune of those who are deprived 
 of it, by setting before them a disagreeable sub¬ 
 ject of comparison. 
 
 This liberty is best preserved, where the legis- 
 lative power is lodged in several persons, espe¬ 
 cially if those persons are of different ranks and 
 interests, for where they are of the same rank, 
 and consequently have an interest to manage pe¬ 
 culiar to that rank, it differs but little from a des- 
 potical government in a single person. But the 
 greatest security a people can have for their liber¬ 
 ty, is when the legislative power is in the hands 
 of persons so happily distinguished, that by pro¬ 
 viding foi the particular interests of their several 
 ranks, they are providing for the whole body of 
 the people: or, in other words, when there is no 
 part of the people that has not a common interest 
 with at least one part of the legislators. 
 
 If there be but one body of legislators, it is no 
 better than a tyranny; if there are only two, there 
 will want a casting voice, and one of them must 
 at length be swallowed up by the disputes and 
 contentions that will necessarily arise between 
 them. Four would have the same inconvenience 
 as two, and a greater number would cause too 
 much confusion. I could never read a passage in 
 Fqlvbius and another in Cicero to this purpose, 
 without a secret pleasure in applying it to the 
 English constitution, which it suits much better 
 than the Roman. Both these great authors give 
 
 353 
 
 the pre-eminence to a mixed government, consist¬ 
 ing of three branches, the regal, the noble, and the 
 popular. They had, doubtless, in their thoughts, 
 the constitution of the Roman commonwealth, in 
 which the consul represented the king, the senate 
 the nobles, and the tribunes the people. This di¬ 
 vision of the three powers in the Roman constitu¬ 
 tion was by no means so distinct .and natural, as 
 it is in the English form of government. Among 
 several objections that might be made to it, I think 
 the chief are those that affect the consular power 
 which had only the ornaments without the force 
 of the regal authority. Their number had not a 
 casting voice in it; for which reason, if one did 
 not chance to be employed abroad, while the other 
 sat at home, the public business was sometimes at 
 a stand, while the consuls pulled two different 
 wavs in it. Beside, I do not find that the consuls 
 had ever a negative voice in the passing of a law, 
 or decree of the senate; so that indeed they were 
 rather the chief body of the nobility, or the first 
 ministers of state, than a distinct branch of the 
 sovereignty, in which none can be looked upon as 
 a part, who are not a part of the legislature. Had 
 the consuls been invested with the regal authority 
 to as great a degree as our monarchs, there would 
 never have been any occasions for a dictatorship, 
 which had in it the power of all the three orders, 
 and ended in the subversion of the whole consti¬ 
 tution. 
 
 Such a history as that of Suetonius, which 
 gives us a succession of absolute princes, is to me 
 an unanswerable argument against despotic pow¬ 
 er. Where the prince is a man of wisdom and 
 virtue, it is indeed happy for his people that he is 
 absolute; but since in the common run of man¬ 
 kind, foi one that is wise and good you find ten 
 of a contrary character, it is very dangerous for a 
 nation to stand to its chance, or to have its 
 public happiness or misery depend on the virtue 
 or vices of a single person. Look into the histo- 
 ry I have mentioned, or into any series of abso¬ 
 lute princes, how many tyrants must you read 
 through, before you come to an emperor that 
 is supportable. But this is not all; an honest 
 private man often grows cruel and abandoned, 
 when converted into an absolute prince. Give a 
 man power of doing what he pleases with impu- 
 mt y> you extinguish his fear, and consequently 
 overturn in him one of the great pillars of mora¬ 
 lity. This, too, we find confirmed by matter of 
 fact. How many hopeful heirs apparent to grand 
 empires, when in the possession of them, have 
 become such monsters of lust and cruelty as are a 
 reproach to human nature I 
 
 borne tell us we ought to make our governments 
 on earth like that in heaven, which, say they, is 
 altogether monarchical and unlimited. Was man 
 like his Creator in goodness and justice, I should 
 be for allowing this great model; but where good¬ 
 ness and justice are not essential to the ruler, I 
 would by no means put myself into his hands to 
 be disposed of according to his particular will 
 and pleasure. 
 
 It is odd to consider the connection between 
 despotic government and barbarity, and how the 
 making oi one person more than man, makes the 
 rest less. Above nine parts of the world in ten 
 are in the lowest state ol slavery, and consequent¬ 
 ly sunk in the most gross and brutal ignorance. 
 European slavery is indeed a state of liberty, if 
 compared with that which prevails in the other 
 three divisions of the world: and therefore it is no 
 wonder that those who grovel under it, have many 
 tracks of light among them, of which the others 
 are wholly destitute. 
 
 Riches and plenty are the natural fruits of-lib- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 354 
 
 erty, and where these abound, learning and all 
 the liberal arts will immediately lift up their 
 heads and flourish. As a man must have no slav¬ 
 ish fears and apprehensions hanging upon his 
 mind, who will indulge the flights of fancy or 
 speculation, and push his researches into all the 
 abstruse corners of truth, so it is necessary for 
 him to have about him a competency of all the 
 conveniences of life. 
 
 The first thing every one looks after, is to pro¬ 
 vide himself with necessaries. This point will 
 engross our thoughts until it be satisfied. If this 
 is taken care of to our hands, we look out for 
 pleasures and amusements ; and among a great 
 number of idle people, there will be many whose 
 pleasures will lie in reading and contemplation. 
 These are the two great sources of knowledge, 
 and as men grow wise they naturally love to com¬ 
 municate their discoveries; and others seeing the 
 happiness of such a learned life, and improving 
 by their conversation, emulate, imitate, and sur¬ 
 pass one another, until a nation is filled with 
 races of wise and understanding persons. Ease 
 and plenty are therefore the great cherishers of 
 knowledge; and as most of the despotic govern¬ 
 ments of the world have neither of them, they are 
 naturally overrun with ignorance and barbarity. 
 In Europe, indeed, notwithstanding several of its 
 princes are absolute, there are men famous for 
 knowledge and learning; but the reason is, be¬ 
 cause the subjects are many of them rich and 
 wealthy, the prince not thinking fit to exert him¬ 
 self in his full tyranny like the princes of the 
 eastern nations, lest his subjects should be invited 
 to new-mould their constitution, having so many 
 prospects of liberty within their view. But in all 
 despotic governments, though a particular prince 
 may favor arts and letters, there is a natural de¬ 
 generacy of mankind, as you may observe from 
 Augustus’s reign, how the Romans lost themselves 
 by degrees until they fell to an equality with the 
 most barbarous nations that surrounded them. 
 Look upon Greece under its free states, and you 
 would think its inhabitants lived in different cli¬ 
 mates, and under different heavens, from those 
 at present, so different are the geniuses which 
 are formed under Turkish slavery, and Grecian 
 liberty. 
 
 Beside poverty and want, there are other rea¬ 
 sons that debase the minds of men who live under 
 slavery, though I look on this as the principal. 
 This natural tendency of despotic power to igno¬ 
 rance and barbarity, though not insisted upon by 
 others, is, I think, an unanswerable argument 
 against that form of government, as it shows how 
 repugnant it is to the good of mankind and the 
 perfection of human nature, which ought to be the 
 great ends of all civil institutions.—L. 
 
 No. 288.] WEDNESDAY, JAN. 30, 1711-12. 
 
 — Pavor est utrique molestus. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. vi, 10. 
 
 Both fear alike. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “When you spoke of the jilts and coquettes, 
 you then promised to be very impartial, and not 
 to spare even your own sex, should any of their 
 secret or open faults come under your cognizance; 
 which has given me encouragement to describe a 
 certain species of mankind under the denomina¬ 
 tion of male jilts. They are gentlemen who do 
 not design to marry, yet, that they may appear to 
 have some sense of gallantry, think they must pay 
 theii devoirs to one particular fair; in order to 
 
 which, they single out from among the herd of 
 females her to whom they design to make their 
 fruitless addresses. This done, they first take 
 every opportunity of being in her company, and 
 they never fail upon all occasions to be particular 
 to her, laying themselves at her feet, protesting the 
 reality of their passion with a thousand oaths, 
 soliciting a return, and saying as manv fine things 
 as their stock of wit will allow : and if they are 
 not deficient that way, generally speak so as to 
 admit of a double interpretation ; which the 
 credulous fair is too apt to turn to her own advan¬ 
 tage, since it frequently happens to be a raw, in¬ 
 nocent young creature, who thinks all the world 
 as sincere as herself, and so her unwary heart be¬ 
 comes an easy prey to those deceitful monsters, 
 who no sooner perceive it, but immediately they 
 grow cool, and shun her whom they before seemed 
 so much to admire, and proceed to act the same 
 common place villany toward another. A cox¬ 
 comb, flushed with many of these infamous victo¬ 
 ries, shall say he is sorry for the poor fools, protest 
 and vow he never thought of matrimony, and 
 wonder talking civilly can be so strangely misin¬ 
 terpreted. Now, Mr. Spectator, you that are a 
 professed friend to love, will, I hope, observe 
 upon those who abuse that noble passion, and 
 raise it in innocent minds by a deceitful affecta¬ 
 tion of it, after which they desert the enamored. 
 Pray bestow a little of your counsel on those fond 
 believing females who already have, or are in 
 danger of having, broken hearts; in which you 
 will oblige a great part of this town, but in a par¬ 
 ticular manner, 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “Your (yet heart-whole) Admirer, 
 
 “ and devoted humble Servant, 
 
 “Melainia.” 
 
 Melainia’s complaint is occasioned by so gene¬ 
 ral a folly, that it is wonderful one could so long 
 overlook it. But this false gallantry proceeds 
 from an impotence of mind, which makes those 
 who are guilty of it incapable of pursuing what 
 they themselves approve. Many a man wishes a 
 woman his wife whom he dare not take for such. 
 Though no one has power over his inclinations or 
 fortunes, he is a slave to common fame. For this 
 reason, I think Melainia gives them too soft a 
 name in that of male coquets. I know not why 
 irresolution of mind should not be more contempti¬ 
 ble than impotence of body; and these frivolous 
 admirers would be too tenderly used, in being 
 only included in the same term with the insuffi¬ 
 cient another way. They whom my correspon¬ 
 dent calls male coquets, should hereafter be called 
 fribblers. A fribbler is one who professes rapture 
 and admiration for the woman whom he addresses, 
 and dreads nothing so much as her consent. His 
 heart can flutter by the force of imagination, but 
 cannot fix from the force of judgment. It is not 
 uncommon for the parents of young women of 
 moderate fortune to wink at the addresses of frib¬ 
 blers, and expose their children to the ambiguous 
 behavior which Melainia complains of, until by the 
 fondness to one they are to lose, they become in¬ 
 capable of love toward others, and, by consequence, 
 in their future marriage lead a joyless or a mise¬ 
 rable life. As therefore I shall, in the specula¬ 
 tions which regard love, be as severe as I ought 
 on jilts and libertine women, so will I be as little 
 merciful to insignificant and mischievous men. 
 In order to this, all visitants who frequent fami¬ 
 lies wherein there are young females, are forth¬ 
 with required to declare themselves, or absent 
 from places where their presence banishes such as 
 would pass their time more to the advantage of 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 those whom they visit. It is a matter of too great 
 moment to be dallied with : and I .shall expect 
 from all my young people a satisfactory account 
 of appearances. Strephon has from the publica¬ 
 tion hereof seven days to explain the riddle he 
 presented to Eudamia; and Chloris an hour after 
 this comes to her hand, to declare whether she 
 will have Philotas, whom a woman of no less 
 merit than herself, and of superior fortune, lan 
 guishes to call her own. 
 
 355 
 
 No. 289. ] THURSDAY, JAN. 31, 1711-12. 
 
 A itas summa brevis spem nos vetat inehoare longam. 
 
 ilOR. 1 Od. iv, 15. 
 
 Life s span forbids us to extend our cares, 
 
 And stretch our hopes beyond our years.— Creech. 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Since so many dealers turn authors, and write 
 quaint advertisements in praise of their wares, 
 one who from an author turned dealer may be al¬ 
 lowed for the advancement of trade to turn author 
 again. I will not however set up, like sd»ne of 
 them, for selling cheaper than the most able honest 
 tradesman can; nor dq I send this to be better 
 known for choice and cheapness of China and 
 Japan wares, tea, fans, muslins, pictures, arrack, 
 and other Indian goods. Placed as I am in Lead- 
 enhall-street, near the India company, and the 
 center of that trade, thanks to my fair customers, 
 my -warehouse is graced as well as the benefit 
 days of my plays and operas; and'the foreign 
 goods I sell, seem no less acceptable than the for¬ 
 eign books I translated, Rabelais, and Don Quix¬ 
 ote. This the critics allow me, and while they 
 like my wares they may dispraise my writings.— 
 But as it is not so well known yet, that I frequent¬ 
 ly cross the seas of late, and speak in Dutch and 
 trench, beside other languages, I have the con- 
 veniency of buying and importing rich brocades, 
 Dutch atlases, with gold and silver, or without, 
 and other foreign silks of the newest modes and 
 best fabrics, fine Flanders lace, linens, and pic¬ 
 tures, at the best hand; this my new way of trade 
 I have fallen into, I cannot better publish than 
 by an application to you. My wares are fit only 
 for such of your readers; and I would beg of you 
 to print this address in your paper, that those 
 whose minds you adorn may take the ornaments 
 for their persons and houses from me. This, Sir, 
 if I may presume to beg it, will be the greater 
 favor, as 1 have lately received rich silks and fine 
 lace to a considerable value, which will be sold 
 cheap for a quick return, and as I have also a 
 large stock of other goods. Indian silks were 
 formerly a great branch of our trade; and since 
 ■we must not sell them, we must seek amends by 
 dealing in others. This I hope will plead for one 
 who would lessen the number of teasers of the 
 Muses, and who, suiting his spirit to his circum¬ 
 stances, humbles the poet to exalt the citizen. 
 Like a true tradesman, I hardly ever look into any 
 books, but those of accounts. To say the truth, I 
 cannot, I think, give you a better idea of my being 
 a downright man of traffic, than by acknowledg¬ 
 ing I oftener read the advertisements, than the 
 matter of even your paper. I am under a great 
 temptation to take this opportunity of admonish- 
 ing other writers to follow my example, and 
 trouble the town no more; but as it is mv present 
 business to increase the number of buyers rather 
 than sellers, I hasten to tell you that I am. Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble, 
 
 “ and most obedient Servant, 
 
 T. “ Peter Motteux.” 
 
 T. 
 
 Upon taking my seat in a coffee-house I often 
 draw the eyes of the whole room upon me, when 
 in the hottest seasons of news, and at a time per¬ 
 haps that the Dutch mail is just come in, they 
 hear me ask the coffee-man for His last week’s bill 
 o moitality . I find that I have been sometimes 
 taken on this occasion for a parish sexton, some¬ 
 times for an undertaker, and sometimes for a doc¬ 
 tor of physic. In this, however, I am guided by 
 the spirit of a philosopher, as I take occasion 
 from thence to reflect upon the regular increase 
 and diminution of mankind, and consider the 
 several various ways through which we pass from 
 life to eternity. I am very well pleased with 
 these weekly admonitions, that bring into my mind 
 such thoughts as ought to be the daily entertain¬ 
 ment of every reasonable creature; and consider 
 with pleasure to myself, by which of those de¬ 
 liverances, or, as we commonly call them, distem¬ 
 pers, I may possibly make my escape out of this 
 Avorld of sorrows, into that condition of existence, 
 wherein I hope to be happier and better than it is 
 possible for me at present to conceive. 
 
 But this is not ail the use I make of the above- 
 mentioned weekly paper. A bill of mortality is, 
 in my opinion, an unanswerable argument for a 
 Pi evidence. How can we, without supposing 
 ourselves under the constant care of a Supreme 
 Being, give any possible account for that nicepro.- 
 portion, which we find in every great city, be¬ 
 tween the deaths and births of its inhabitants, and 
 between the number of males and that of females 
 brought into the world? What else could adjust 
 in so exact a manner the recruits of every nation 
 to its losses, and divide these new supplies of 
 people into such equal bodies of both sexes ? 
 Chance could never hold the balance Avith so 
 steady a hand. Were we not counted out by an 
 intelligent supervisor, we should sometimes be 
 oveicharged with multitudes, and at others waste 
 away into a desert: we should be sometimes a 
 populus yirorum, as Florus elegantly expresses it, a 
 generation of males, and at others a species of 
 women. We may. extend this consideration to 
 every species of living creatures, and consider the 
 whole animal -world as a huge army made up of 
 innumerable corps, if I may use that term, whose 
 quotas have been kept entire near five thousand 
 years, in so wonderful a manner, that there is not 
 probably a single species lost during this long 
 tract of time. Could we have general bills of 
 mortality of every kind of animals, or particular 
 ones of every species in each continent or island, 
 
 I could almost say in every wood, marsh, or 
 mountain, what astonishing instances would they 
 be of that Providence which W'atches over all his- 
 works ? 
 
 I have heard of a great man in the Romish 
 church, who upon reading those words in the fifth: 
 chapter of Genesis, “And all the days that Adam 
 lived were nine hundred and thirty years, and he 
 died ; and all the days of Seth were nine hundred 
 and twelve years, and he dic'd; and all the days 
 of Methuselah were nine hundred and sixty-nine 
 years, and he died;” immediately shut himself up 
 in a convent, and retired from the world, as not. 
 thinking anything in this life worth pursuing, 
 which had not regard to another. 
 
 The truth of it is, there is nothing in history 
 which is so improving to the reader as those ac¬ 
 counts which we meet with of the deaths of emi- 
 
356 THE SPE( 
 
 nent persons, and of their behavior in that dread- , 
 ful season. I may also add, that there are no 
 parts in history which affect and please the reader 
 in so sensible a manner. The reason I take to be 
 this, there is no other single circumstance in the 
 story of any person, which can possibly be the 
 case of every one who reads it. A battle or a 
 triumph are conjectures in which not one man in 
 a million is likely to be engaged : but when we see 
 a person at the point of death, we cannot forbear 
 being attentive to everything he says or does, 
 because we are sure that some time or other we 
 shall ourselves be in the same melancholy cir¬ 
 cumstances. The general, the statesman, or the 
 philosopher, are perhaps characters which we may 
 never act in, but the dying man is one whom, 
 sooner or later, we shall certainly resemble. 
 
 It is, perhaps, for the same kind of reason, that 
 few books written in English have been so much 
 perused as Dr. Sherlock’s Discourse upon Death ; 
 though at the same time I must own,, that he 
 who has not perused this excellent piece, has 
 not perhaps read one of the strongest persuasives 
 to a religious life that ever was written in any 
 language. 
 
 The consideration with which I shall close this 
 essay upon death, is one of the most ancient and 
 most beaten morals that has been recommended 
 to mankind. But its being so very common, and 
 so universally received, though it takes away 
 from it the grace of novelty, adds very much, to 
 the weight of it, as it shows that it falls in with 
 the general sense of mankind. In short, I would 
 have every one consider that he is in this life 
 nothing more than a passenger, and that he is 
 not to set up his rest here, but to keep an atten¬ 
 tive eye upon that state of being to which he ap¬ 
 proaches every moment, and tvhich will be forever 
 fixed and permanent. This single consideration 
 would be sufficient to extinguish the bitterness of 
 hatred, the thirst of avarice, and the cruelty of 
 ambition. 
 
 I am very much pleased with the passage of 
 Antiphanes, a very ancient poet, who lived near a 
 hundred years before Socrates, which represents 
 the life of man under this view, as I have here 
 translated it word for word. “ Be not grieved,” 
 says he, “ above measure for thy deceased friends. 
 They are not dead, but have only finished that 
 journey which it is necessary for every one of us to 
 take. We ourselves must go to that great place 
 of reception in which they are all of them assem¬ 
 bled, and in this general rendezvous of mankind, 
 live together in another state of being.” 
 
 I think I have, in a former paper, taken notice 
 of these beautiful metaphors in Scripture, where 
 life is termed a pilgrimage, and those who pass 
 through it are called strangers and sojourners 
 upon earth. I shall conclude this with a story 
 which I have somewhere read in the travels of 
 Sir John Chardin. That gentleman, after having 
 told us that the inns which receive the caravans 
 tin Persia, and the eastern countries, are called by 
 'the name of caravansaries, gives us a relation to 
 the following purpose:— 
 
 “A dervise traveling through Tartarv, being 
 arrived at the town of Balk, went into the king’s 
 palace by mistake, as thinking it to be a public 
 inn or caravansary. Having looked about him 
 -for some time, he entered into a long gallery, 
 where he laid down his wallet, and spread his 
 carpet, in order to repose himself upon it, after 
 the manner of the eastern nations. He had not 
 been long in this posture before he was discovered 
 by some of the guards, who asked him what was 
 his business in that place? The dervise told 
 them he intended to take up his night’s lodging 
 
 ! TAT OR. 
 
 in that caravansary. The guards let him know, 
 in a very angry manner, that the house he was in 
 was not a caravansary, but the king’s palace. It 
 happened that the king himself passed through 
 the gallery during this debate, and smiling at the 
 mistake of the dervise, asked him how he could 
 possibly be so dull as not to distinguish a palace 
 from a caravansary; ‘ Sir,’ says the dervise, ‘ give 
 me leave to ask your majesty a question or two. 
 Who were the persons that lodged in this house 
 when it was first built ?’ The king replied, ‘ His 
 ancestors.’ ‘And who,’ says the dervise, ‘was 
 he last person that lodged here ?’ The king re¬ 
 plied, ‘His father.’ ‘And who is it,’ says the 
 dervise, ‘ that lodges here at present ?’ The king 
 told him, that it was he himself. ‘And who,’ 
 says the dervise, ‘ will be here after you ?’ The 
 king answered, ‘ The young prince, his son.’ ‘Ah, 
 Sir,’ said the dervise, ‘ a house that changes its in¬ 
 habitants so often, and receives such a perpetual 
 succession of guests, is not a palace but a cara¬ 
 vansary.’ ”—L. 
 
 Ho. 290.] FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1711-12. 
 
 Projicit ampullas et Besquipedalia verba. 
 
 Hor., Are. Poet., ver. 97.* 
 
 Forgets his swelling and gigantic words. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 The players, who know I am very much their 
 friend, take all opportunities to express a grati¬ 
 tude to me for being so. They could not have a 
 better occasion of obliging me, than one which 
 they lately took hold of. They desired my friend 
 Will Honeycomb to bring me to the reading of a 
 new tragedy ; it is called The Distressed Mother. 
 
 I must confess, though some days are passed 
 since I enjoyed that entertainment, the passions 
 of the several characters dwell strongly upon my 
 imagination ; and I congratulate the age, that 
 they are at last to see truth and human life repre¬ 
 sented in the incidents which concern heroes and 
 heroines. The style of the play is such as be¬ 
 comes those of the first education, and the senti¬ 
 ments worthy those of the highest figure. It was 
 a most exquisite pleasure to me, to observe real 
 tears drop from the eyes of those who had long 
 made it their profession to dissemble affliction ; 
 and the player who read frequently threw down 
 the book, until he had given vent to the humanity 
 which rose in him at some irresistible touches of 
 the imagined sorrow. We have seldom had any 
 female distress on the stage, which did not, upon 
 cool examination, appear to flow from the weak¬ 
 ness rather than the misfortune of the person 
 represented : but in this tragedy you are not en¬ 
 tertained with the ungoverned passions of such 
 as are enamored of each other, merely as they 
 are men and women, but their regards are founded 
 upon high conceptions of each other’s virtue and 
 merit; and the character which gives name to the 
 play, is one who has behaved herself with heroic 
 virtue in the most important circumstances of a 
 female life, those of a wife, a widow, and a 
 mother. If there be those whose minds have 
 been too attentive upon the affairs of life, to have 
 any notion of the passion of love in such extremes 
 as are known only to particular tempers, yet in 
 the above-mentioned considerations, the sorrow 
 of the heroine will move even the generality of 
 mankind. Domestic virtues concern all the world, 
 and there is no one living who is not interested 
 that Andromache should be an inimitable character. 
 
 * The motto in the original paper in folio was from Horace 
 likewise.—“ Spirat tragicum satis, et feliciter audet.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 The generous affection to the memory of her de¬ 
 ceased husband, that tender care for her son, 
 which is ever heightened with the consideration 
 of his father, and these regards preserved in spite 
 of being tempted with the possession of the high¬ 
 est greatness, are what cannot but be venerable 
 even to such an audience as at present frequents 
 the English theater. My friend will Honeycomb 
 commended several tender things that were said, 
 and told me they were very genteel; but whispered 
 me, that he feared the piece was not busy enough 
 for the present taste. To supply this, he recom¬ 
 mended to the players to be very careful in their 
 scenes ; and, above all things, that every part 
 should be perfectly new dressed. I was very, 
 glad to find that they did not neglect my friend’s 
 admonition, because there are a great many in this 
 class of criticism who may be gained by it; but 
 indeed the truth is, that as to the work itself, it is 
 everywhere Nature. The persons are of the high¬ 
 est quality in life, even that of princes ; but their 
 quality is not represented by the poet, with direc¬ 
 tions that guards and waiters should follow them 
 in every scene, but their grandeur appears in 
 greatness of sentiment, flowing from minds wor¬ 
 thy their condition. To make a character truly 
 £reat, this author understands, that it should have 
 its foundation in superior thoughts and maxims 
 of conduct. It is very certain, that many an hon¬ 
 est woman would make no difficulty, though she 
 had been the wife of Hector, for the sake of a 
 kingdom, to marry the enemy of her husband’s 
 family and country; and indeed who can deny 
 but she might be still an honest woman, but no 
 heroine i* that may be defensible, nay laudable, 
 in one character, which would be in the highest 
 degree exceptionable in another. When Cato 
 Uticensis killed himself, Cottius, a Roman of 
 ordinary quality and character, did the same thing; 
 upon which one said, smiling, “Cottius might 
 have lived, though Csesar has seized the Roman 
 liberty. Cottius’s condition might have been 
 the same, let things at the upper end of the world 
 pass as they would. What is further very extra¬ 
 ordinary in that work, is, that the persons are all 
 of them laudable, and their misfortunes arise 
 rather from unguarded virtue, than propensity to 
 vice. The town has an opportunity of doing 
 itself justice in supporting the representations of 
 passion, sorrow, indignation, even despair itself, 
 within the rules of decency, honor, and good- 
 breeding ; and since there is none can flatter him¬ 
 self his life will be always fortunate, they may 
 here see sorrow as they would wish to bear it 
 whenever it arrives. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 I am appointed to act a part in the new tra¬ 
 gedy called The Distressed Mother. It is the cele¬ 
 brated grief of Orestes which I am to personate ; 
 but I shall not act as I ought, for I shall feel it too 
 intimately to be aide to utter it. I was last night 
 repeating a paragraph to myself, which I took 3 to 
 be an expression of rage, and in the middle of the 
 sentence t.iere was a stroke of self-pity which 
 quite unmanned me Be pleased, Sir, to print 
 this letter, that when I am oppressed in this man¬ 
 ner at such an interval, a certain part of the 
 audience may not think I am out; and I hope 
 with this allowance, to do it with satisfaction. ' 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ \ our most humble servant, 
 
 “ George Powell.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ As I was walking the other day in the Park, I 
 saw a gentleman with a very short face; I desire 
 
 357 
 
 to know whether it was you. Pray inform me as 
 soon as you can, lest I become the most heroic 
 Hecatissa’s rival. 
 
 “ 1 our humble Servant to command, 
 
 “ Sophia.” 
 
 “ Dear Madam, 
 
 “H is not me you are in love with, for I was 
 very ill, and kept my chamber all that day. 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant, 
 r ^* “ The Spectator.” 
 
 No. 291.] SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2,1711-12. 
 
 ———Ubi plura nitent iu carmine, non ego paucis 
 Unenuar maculis, quas aut incuria fudit, 
 
 Aut humana parum cavet natura.- 
 
 IIor., Ars. Poet., ver. 351. 
 
 But in a poem elegantly writ, 
 
 I will not quarrel with a slight mistake, 
 
 Such as our nature’s frailty may excuse.—R oscommon. 
 
 I have now considered Milton’s Paradise Lost 
 under those four great heads of the fable, the 
 characters, the sentiments, and the language ; and 
 have shown that he excels in general under each 
 of these heads. 1 hope that 1 have made several 
 discoveries which may appear new, even to those 
 who are versed in critical learning. Were I in¬ 
 deed to choose my readers, by whose judgment I 
 would stand or fall, they should not be such as 
 are acquainted only with the French and Italian 
 critics, but also with the ancient and modern who 
 have written in either of the learned languages. 
 Above all, I would have them well versed in the 
 Gieek and Latin poets, without which a man very 
 often fancies that he understands a critic, when in 
 reality lie does not comprehend his meaning. 
 
 It is in criticism as in all other sciences and 
 speculations ; one who brings with him any im¬ 
 plicit notions and observations, which he has 
 made in his reading of the poets, will find his 
 own reflections methodized and explained, and 
 perhaps several little hints that have passed in 
 his mind, perfected and improved in the works of 
 a good critic ; whereas one who has not these 
 previous lights is very often an utter stranger to 
 what he reads, and apt to put a wrong interpreta¬ 
 tion upon it. r 
 
 Nor is it sufficient that a man, who sets up for 
 a judge iu criticism, should have perused the 
 authors above-mentioned, unless he has also a 
 clear and logical head. Without this talent he is 
 perpetually puzzled and perplexed amidst his own 
 blunders, mistakes the sense of those he would 
 confute, or, if he chances to think right, does not 
 know how to convey his thoughts to another with 
 clearness and perspicuity. Aristotle, who was the 
 best critic, was also one of the best logicians that 
 ever appeared in the world. 
 
 Mr. Locke’s Essay on Human Understanding 
 would be thought a very odd book for a man to 
 make himself master of, who would get a reputa¬ 
 tion by critical writings; though at the same time 
 it is veiy ceitain, that an author who has not 
 learned the art of distinguishing between words 
 and things, and of ranging his thoughts and set¬ 
 ting them in proper lights, whatever notions he 
 may have, will lose himself in confusion and ob¬ 
 scurity. I might further observe that there is not 
 a Greek or Latin critic, who has not shown, even 
 in the style of his criticisms, that he was a mas¬ 
 ter of all the elegance and delicacy of his native 
 tongue. 
 
 9 he truth of it is, there is nothing more absurd, 
 than for a man to set up for a critic, without a 
 good insight into all the parts of learning; 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 358 
 
 whereas many of those, who have endeavored to 
 signalize themselves by works of this nature, 
 among our English writers, are not only defective 
 in the above-mentioned particulars, but plainly 
 discover, by the phrases which they make use of, 
 and by their confused way of thinking, that they 
 are not acquainted with the most common and 
 ordinary systems of arts and sciences. A few 
 general rules extracted out of the French authors, 
 with a certain cant of words, has sometimes set 
 up an illiterate heavy writer for a most judicious 
 and formidable critic. 
 
 One great mark, by which you may discover a 
 critic who has neither taste nor learning, is this, 
 that he seldom ventures to praise any passage in 
 an author which has not been before received and 
 applauded by the public, and that his criticism 
 turns wholly upon little faults and errors.. This 
 part of a critic is so very easy to succeed in, that 
 we find every ordinary reader, upon the publish¬ 
 ing of a new poem, has wit and ill-nature enough 
 to turn several passages of it into ridicule, and 
 very often in the right place. This Mr. Dryden 
 has very agreeably remarked in these two cele¬ 
 brated lines : 
 
 Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; 
 
 He who would search for pearls, must dive helow. 
 
 A true critic ought to dwell rather upon excel¬ 
 lencies than imperfections, to discover the con¬ 
 cealed beauties of a writer, and communicate to 
 the world such things as are worth their observa¬ 
 tion. The most exquisite words, and finest strokes 
 of an author, are those which very often appear 
 the most doubtful and exceptionable to a man who 
 wants a relish for polite learning; and they are 
 these, which a sour undistinguishing critic gene¬ 
 rally attacks with the greatest violence. Tully 
 observes, that it is very easy to brand or fix a 
 mark upon what he calls verbum ardens, or as it 
 may be rendered into English, “ a glowing, bold 
 expression,” and to turn it into ridicule by a cold 
 ill-natured criticism. A little wit is equally capa¬ 
 ble of exposing a beauty and of aggravating a 
 fault; and though such a treatment of an author 
 naturally produces indignation in the mind of an 
 understanding reader, it has however its effect 
 among the generality of those whose hands it falls 
 into, the rabble of mankind being very apt.to 
 think that everything which is laughed at, with 
 any mixture of wit, is ridiculous in itself. 
 
 Such a mirth as this is always unseasonable in 
 a critic, as it rather prejudices the reader than 
 convinces him, and is capable of making a beau¬ 
 ty, as well as a blemish, the subject of derision. 
 A man who cannot write with wit on a proper 
 subject, is dull and stupid; but one who shows it 
 in an improper place, is as impei'4inent and ab¬ 
 surd. Beside, a man who has the gift of ridicule 
 is apt to find fault with anything that gives him 
 an opportunity of exerting his beloved talent, and 
 very often censures a passage, not because there 
 is any fault in it, but because he can be merry 
 upon it. Such kinds of pleasantry are vei’y unfair 
 and disingenuous in works of criticism, in which 
 the greatest masters, both ancient and modern, 
 have always appeared with a serious and instruc¬ 
 tive air. 
 
 As I intend in my next paper to show the de¬ 
 fects in Milton’s Paradise Lost, I thought fit to 
 premise these few particulars, to the end that the 
 reader may know 1 enter upon it as on a very un¬ 
 grateful work, and that I shall just point at the 
 imperfections without endeavoring to inflame 
 them with ridicule. I must also observe with 
 Longinus, that the productions of a great genius, 
 with many lapses and inadvertences, are infinitely 
 
 preferable to the works of an inferior kind,of au¬ 
 thor, which are scrupulously exact, and conform¬ 
 able to all the rules of correct writing. 
 
 I shall conclude my paper with a story out of 
 Boccalini, which sufficiently shows us the opinion 
 that judicious author entertained of the sort of 
 critics I have been here mentioning. A famous 
 critic, says he, having gathered together all the 
 faults of an eminent poet, made a present of 
 them to Apollo, who received them very gracious¬ 
 ly, and resolved to make the author a suitable re¬ 
 turn for the trouble he had been at in collecting 
 them. In order to this, he set before him a sack 
 of wlxeat, as it had been thrashed out of the sheaf. 
 He then bid him pick out the chaff from among 
 the corn, and lay it aside by itself. The critic 
 applied himself to the task with great industry 
 and pleasure, and, after having made the due 
 separation, was presented by Apollo with the 
 chaff for his pains.—L. 
 
 No. 292.] MONDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1711-12. 
 
 Illam, quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit, 
 
 Componit 1'urtim, subsequiturque decor. 
 
 Tibul. 4, Eleg. ii, 8. 
 
 Whate’er she does, where’er her steps she bends, 
 
 Grace on each action silently attends. 
 
 As no one can be said to enjoy health, who is 
 only not sick, without he feel within himself a 
 lightsome and invigorating principle, which will 
 not suffer him to remain idle, but still spurs him 
 on to action; so in the practice of every virtue, 
 there is some additional grace required to give a 
 claim of excelling in this or that particular action. 
 A diamond may want polishing, though the value 
 may be intrinsically the same; and the same good 
 may be done with different degrees of luster. No 
 man should be contented with himself that he 
 barely does well, but he should perform every¬ 
 thing in the best and most becoming manner that 
 he is able. 
 
 Tully tells us he wrote his book of Offices, be¬ 
 cause there was no time of life in which some cor¬ 
 respondent duty might not be practiced: nor is 
 there a duty without a certain decency accompa¬ 
 nying it, by which every virtue it is joined to 
 will seem to be doubled. Another may do the 
 same thing, and yet the action want that air and 
 beauty which distinguish it from others ; like 
 that inimitable sunshine Titian is said to have 
 diffused over his landscapes; which denotes them 
 his, and has been always unequaled by any other 
 person. 
 
 There is no one action in which this quality I 
 am speaking of will be more sensibly perceived, 
 than in granting a request, or doing an office of 
 kindness. Mummius, by his way of consenting 
 to a benefaction, shall make it lose its name; while 
 Carus doubles the kindness and the obligation. 
 From the first, the desired request drops indeed 
 at last, but from so doubtful a brow, that the 
 obliged has almost as much reason to resent the 
 manner of bestowing it, as to be thankful for the 
 favor itself. Carus invites with a pleasing air, 
 to give him an opportunity of doing an act of hu¬ 
 manity, meets the petition half way, and con¬ 
 sents to a request with a countenance which pro¬ 
 claims the satisfaction of his mind in assisting 
 the distressed. 
 
 The decency then that is to be observed in libe¬ 
 rality, seems to consist in its being performed with 
 such cheerfulness, as may express the godlike 
 pleasure to be met with in obliging one’s fellow- 
 creatures; that may show good-nature and benevo¬ 
 lence overflowed, and do not, as in some men, run 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 upon the tilt, and taste of the sediments of a 
 grudging, incommunicative disposition. 
 
 Since 1 have intimated that the greatest deco¬ 
 rum is to be preserved in the bestowing our good 
 offices, I will illustrate it a little, by an example 
 drawn from private life, which carries with it such 
 a profusion ot liberality, that it can be exceedec 
 by nothing but the humanity and good-nature 
 which accompanies it. It is a letter of Pliny, 
 which 1 shall here translate, because the action 
 will best appear in its first dress of thought, with¬ 
 out any foreign or ambitious ornaments. 
 
 “ Pliny to Quintilian. 
 
 “ Though I am fully acquainted with the con- 
 tentmgnt and just moderation of your mind, and 
 the conformity the education you have given your 
 daughter bears to your own character; yet since 
 she is suddenly to be married to a person of dis¬ 
 tinction, whose figure in the world makes it ne¬ 
 cessary for her to be at a more than ordinary ex- 
 ense, in clothes and equipage suitable to her hus- 
 and’s quality; by which, though her intrinsic 
 worth be not augmented, yet will it receive both 
 ornament and luster: and knowing your estate to 
 be as moderate as the riches of your mind are 
 abundant, I must challenge to myself some part 
 of the burden; and as a parent of your child, I 
 present her with twelve hundred and fifty crowns, 
 toward these expenses; which sum had been much 
 larger, had I not feared the smallness of it would 
 be the greatest inducement with you to accept of 
 it. Farewell. 5 ’ 
 
 Thus should a benefaction be done with a good 
 grace, and shine in the strongest point of light; it 
 should not only answer all the hopes and exigen¬ 
 cies of the receiver, but even outrun his wishes. 
 It is this happy manner of behavior which adds 
 new charms to it, and softens those gifts of art 
 and nature, which otherwise would be rather dis¬ 
 tasteful and agreeable. Without it, valor would 
 degenerate into brutality, learning into pedantry, 
 and the genteelest demeanor into affectation. 
 Even Religion itself, unless Decency be the hand¬ 
 maid which waits upon her, is apt to make peo¬ 
 ple appear guilty of sourness and ill-humor: but 
 this shows Virtue in her first original form, adds 
 a comeliness to Religion, and gives its professors 
 the justest title to “ the beauty of holiness.” A 
 man fully instructed in this art, may assume a 
 thousand shapes, and please in all; he may do a 
 thousand actions shall become none other but him¬ 
 self; not that the things themselves are different, 
 but the manner of doing them. 
 
 If you examine each feature by itself, Aglaura 
 and Calliclea are equally handsome; but take 
 them in the whole, and you cannot suffer the com¬ 
 parison: the one is full of numberless nameless 
 graces, the other of as many nameless faults. 
 
 The comeliness of person, and the decency of 
 behavior, add infinite weight to what is pro¬ 
 nounced by any one. It is the want of this that 
 often makes the rebukes and advice of old ri«-id 
 persons of no effect, and leave a displeasure^in 
 minds of those they are directed to : but youth 
 and beauty, if accompanied with a graceful and 
 becoming severity, are of mighty force to raise, 
 even in the most profligate, a sense of shame! 
 in Milton, the devil is never described ashamed 
 but once, and that at the rebuke of a beauteous 
 angel: 
 
 So spake the cherub; and his grave rebuke, 
 
 Severe in youthful beauty, added grace 
 Invincible. Abash’d the devil stood, 
 
 And felt how awful Goodness is, and saw 
 
 Virtue in her own shape how lovely! saw and pin’d 
 
 Ilis loss. 
 
 359 
 
 The care of doing nothing unbecoming has ac¬ 
 companied the greatest minds to their last mo¬ 
 ments. They avoided even an indecent posture 
 in the very article of death. Thus Caisar gather¬ 
 ed his robe about him, that he might not fall in a 
 manner unbecoming of himself; and the greatest 
 concern that appeared in the behavior of Lucretia 
 when she stabbed herself, was, that her body 
 should lie in an attitude worthy the mind wliicn 
 had inhabited it: 
 
 —-Ne uon procumbat honeste, 
 
 Extrema htec etiam cura cadentis erat. 
 
 Ovid, Fast, iii, 833. 
 
 ’T was her last thought, how decently to fall. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a young woman without a fortune; but 
 of a very high mind: that is, good Sir, I am to 
 the last degree proud and vain. I am ever rail¬ 
 ing at the rich, for doing things, which, upon 
 search into my heart, I find I am only angry at, 
 because I cannot do the same myself. I wear the 
 hooped petticoat, and am all in calicoes when the 
 finest are in silks. It is a dreadful thing to be 
 poor and proud; therefore, if you please, a lecture 
 on that subject for the satisfaction of your uneasy 
 humble Servant, 
 
 Z. “Jezebel.” 
 
 No. 293.] TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1711-12. 
 
 The prudent still have fortune on their side. 
 
 Frag., Vet. Poet. 
 
 The famous Grecian, in his little book wherein 
 he lays down maxims for a man’s advancing him¬ 
 self at court, advises his reader to associate him¬ 
 self with the fortunate, and to shun the company 
 of the unfortunate ; which, notwithstanding the 
 baseness of the precept to an honest mind, may 
 rave something useful in it, for those who push 
 their interest in the world. It is certain, a great 
 Dart of what we call good or ill fortune, rises out 
 of right or wrong measures and schemes of life. 
 When I hear a man complain of his being unfor¬ 
 tunate in all his undertakings, I shrewdly sus¬ 
 pect him for a very weak man in his affairs. In 
 conformity with this way of thinking. Cardinal 
 Richelieu used to say, that unfortunate and im¬ 
 prudent were but two words for the same thing. 
 As the cardinal himself had a great share both 
 of prudence and good fortune, his famous antago¬ 
 nist, the Count d Olivares, was disgraced at the 
 court of Madrid, because it was alleged against 
 lim that he had never any success in his under¬ 
 takings. This, says an eminent author, was in¬ 
 directly accusing him of imprudence. 
 
 Cicero recommended Pompey to the Romans for 
 their general upon three accounts, as he was a 
 man of courage, conduct, and good fortune. It 
 was, perhaps, for the reason above-mentioned, 
 namely, that a series of good fortune supposes a 
 prudent management in the person whom it befalls, 
 that not only Sylla the dictator, but several of the 
 Roman emperors, as is still to be seen upon their 
 medals, among their other titles, gave themselves 
 that of Felix or Fortunate. The heathens, indeed, 
 seem to have valued a man more for his good for¬ 
 tune than for any other quality, which I think is 
 very natural for those who have not a strong 
 belief of another world. For how can I conceive 
 a man crowned with many distinguishing bless¬ 
 ings that has not some extraordinary fund of merit 
 and perfection in him, which lies open to the 
 Supreme eye, though perhaps it is not discovered 
 by my observation? What is the reason Homer’s 
 and Virgil’s heroes do not form a resolution, or 
 strike a blow, without the conduct and direction 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 360 
 
 of some deity? Doubtless, because the poets 
 esteemed it the greatest honor to be favored by 
 the gods, and thought the best way. of praising a 
 man was, to recount those favors which naturally 
 implied an extraordinary merit in the person on 
 whom they descended. 
 
 Those who believe a future state of rewards and 
 punishments act very absurdly, if they form their 
 opinions of a man’s merit from his successes. But 
 certainly, if I thought the whole circle of our 
 being was included between our births and deaths. 
 
 I should think a man’s good fortune the measure 
 and standard of his real merit, since Providence 
 would have no opportunity of rewarding his virtue 
 and perfections,but in the present life. A virtuous 
 unbeliever, who lies under the pressure of mis¬ 
 fortunes, has reason to cry out, as they say Brutus 
 did, a little before his death : “0 Virtue, I have 
 worshiped thee as a substantial good, but I find 
 thou art an empty name.” 
 
 But to return to our first point. Though Pru¬ 
 dence does undoubtedly in a great measure pro¬ 
 duce our good or ill fortune in the world, it is 
 certain there are many unforeseen accidents and oc¬ 
 currences, which very often pervert the finest 
 schemes that can be laid by human wisdom. “The 
 race is not always to the swift nor the battle to 
 the strong.” Nothing less than infinite wisdom 
 can have an absolute command over fortune; the 
 highest degree of it which man can possess, is by 
 no means equal to fortuitous events, and to such 
 contingencies as may rise in the prosecution of our 
 affairs. Nay, it very often happens, that prudence, 
 which has always in it a great mixture of caution, 
 hinders a man from being so fortunate, as he 
 might possibly have been without it. A person 
 who only aims at what is likely to succeed, and 
 follows closely the dictates of human prudence, 
 never meets with those great and unforeseen suc¬ 
 cesses, which are often the effect of a sanguine 
 temper or a more happy rashness; and this per¬ 
 haps may be the reason, that, according to the 
 common observation, Fortune, like other females, 
 delights rather in favoring the voung than the 
 old. 
 
 Upon the whole, since man is so short-sighted 
 a creature, and the accidents which may happen 
 to him so various, I cannot but be of Dr. Tillot- 
 son’s opinion in another case, that were there 
 any doubt of Providence, yet it certainly would 
 be very desirable there should be such a Being 
 of infinite wisdom and goodness, on whose direc¬ 
 tion we might rely in the conduct of human 
 life. 
 
 It is a great presumption to ascribe our suc¬ 
 cesses to our own management, and not to esteem 
 ourselves upon any blessing, rather as it is the 
 bounty of Heaven than the acquisition of our own 
 prudence. I am very well pleased with a medal 
 which was struck by Queen Elizabeth, a little 
 after the defeat of the invincible armada, to per¬ 
 petuate the memory of that extraordinary event. 
 It is well known how the King of Spain, and 
 others who were the enemies of that great prin¬ 
 cess, to derogate from her glory, ascribed the ruin 
 of their fleet rather to the violence of storms and 
 tempests, than to the bravery of the English. 
 Queen Elizabeth, instead of looking upon this as 
 a diminution of her honor, valued herself upon 
 such a signal favor of Providence, and according¬ 
 ly, in the reverse of the medal above-mentioned, 
 has represented a fleet beaten by a tempest, and 
 falling foul upon one another, with that religious 
 inscription, “Afflavit Deus, et dissipantur.'’ “ He 
 blew with his wind, and they were scattered.” 
 
 It is remarked of a famous Grecian general, 
 
 whose name I cannot at present recollect,* and 
 who had been a particular favorite of Fcfrtune,, 
 that upon recounting his victories among his 
 friends, he added at the end of several great 
 actions, “And in this fortune had no share.” 
 After which it is observed in history, that he 
 never prospered in anything he undertook. 
 
 As arrogance and a conceitedness of our own 
 abilities are very shocking and offensive to men 
 of sense and virtue, we may be sure they are 
 highly displeasing to that Being who delights in 
 a humble mind, and by several of his dispensa¬ 
 tions seems purposely to show us, that our own 
 schemes, or prudence, have no share in our ad¬ 
 vancements. 
 
 Since on this subject I have already admitted 
 several quotations, which have occurred \o ray 
 memory upon writing this paper, I will conclude 
 it with a little Persian fable. A drop of water 
 fell out of a cloud into the sea, and finding itself 
 lost in such an immensity of fluid matter, broke 
 out into the following reflection: “Alas! What an 
 inconsiderable]- creature am I in this prodigious 
 ocean of waters! My existence of no concern to 
 the universe; I am reduced to a kind of nothing, 
 and am less than the least of the works of God.” 
 It so happened that an oyster, which lay in the 
 neighborhood of this drop, chanced to gape and 
 swallow it up in the midst of this its humble so¬ 
 liloquy. The drop, says the fable, lay a great 
 while hardening in the shell, until by degrees it 
 was ripened into a pearl, which falling into the 
 hands of a diver, after a long series of adventures, 
 is at present that famous pearl which is fixed on 
 the top of the Persian diadem.—L. 
 
 No. 294.] WEDNESDAY, FEB 6, 1711-12. 
 
 Difficile est plurimum virtutem revereri qui semper secun- 
 da fortuna sit usus.—T ull, ad Herennium. 
 
 The man who is always fortunate, cannot easily have much 
 reverence for virtue. 
 
 Insolence is the crime of all others which every 
 man is apt to rail at; and yet there is one respect 
 in which almost all men living are guilty of it, 
 and that is in the case of laying a greater value 
 upon the gifts of fortune than we ought. It is 
 here in England come into our very language as a 
 propriety of distinction, to say, when we would 
 speak of persons to their advantage, “They are 
 people of condition.” There is no doubt but the 
 proper use of riches implies, that a man should 
 exert all the good qualities imaginable; and if we 
 mean by a man of condition or quality, one who, 
 according to the wealth he is master of, shows 
 himself just, beneficent, and charitable, that term 
 ought very deservedly to be had in the highest 
 veneration; but when wealth is used only as it is 
 the support of pomp and luxury, to be rich is very 
 far from being a recommendation to honor and re¬ 
 spect. It is indeed the greatest insolence imagin¬ 
 able, in a creature who would feel the extremes of 
 thirst and hunger, if he did not prevent his ap¬ 
 petites, before they call upon him, to be so forget¬ 
 ful of the common necessities of human nature, as 
 never to cast an eye upon the poor and needy. 
 The fellow who escaped from a ship which struck 
 upon a rock in the west, and joined with the 
 country people to destroy his brother sailors, and 
 make her a wreck, was thought a most execrable 
 
 * Timotheus the Athenian. See Shaw’s edit, of Lord Ba¬ 
 con’s Works, 4to., vol. i, p. 219. 
 
 f Altered from insignificant, according to a direction in 
 Spect. in folio., No. 295. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 creature; but does not every man who enjoys the 
 possession of what he naturally wants and is un¬ 
 mindful of the unsupplied distress of other men, 
 betray the same temper' of mind? When a man 
 looks about him, and, with regard to riches and 
 poverty, beholds some drawn in pomp and equip¬ 
 age, and they, and their very servants, with an air of 
 scorn and triumph, overlooking the multitude that 
 pass by them; and in tlio same street a creature of 
 the same make, crying out, in the name of all that 
 is good and sacred, to behold his misery, and give 
 him some supply against hunger and nakedness; 
 who would believe these two beings were of the 
 same species? But so it is, that the consideration 
 of fortune has taken up all our minds, and as I 
 have often complained, poverty and riches stand 
 in our imaginations in the places of guilt and in¬ 
 nocence. But in all seasons there will be some 
 instances of persons who have souls too large to 
 be taken with popular prejudices, and, while the 
 rest of mankind are contending for superiority in 
 power and wealth, have their thoughts bent upon 
 the necessities of those below them. The charity 
 schools, which have been erected of late years, are 
 the greatest instances of public spirit the age has 
 
 f )roduced. But, indeed, when we consider how 
 ong this sort of beneficence has been on foot, it is 
 rather from the good management of those in¬ 
 stitutions, than from the number or value of the 
 benefactions to them, that they make so great a 
 figure. One would think it impossible that in the 
 space of fourteen years there should 'not have been 
 five thousand pounds bestowed in gifts this way, 
 nor sixteen hundred children, including males and 
 females, put out to methods of industry. It is 
 not allowed me to speak of luxury and folly with 
 the severe spirit they deserve; I shall only there¬ 
 fore say, I shall very readily compound with any 
 lady in a hooped petticoat, if she give the price 
 of one half yard of the silk toward clothing, feed¬ 
 ing, and instructing an innocent helpless creature 
 of her own sex, in one of these schools. The 
 consciousness of such an action will give her 
 features a nobler life on this illustrious day,* than 
 all the jewels that can hang in her hair, or can be 
 clustered in her bosom. It would be uncourtly 
 to speak in harsher words to the fair, but to men 
 one may take a little more freedom. It is mon¬ 
 strous how a man can live with so little reflection, 
 as to tancy he is not in a condition very unjust 
 and disproportioned to the rest of mankind, while 
 he enjoys wealth, and exerts no benevolence or 
 bounty to others. As for this particular occasion 
 oi these schools, there cannot any offer more 
 worthy a generous mind. Would you do a hand¬ 
 some thing without return; do it for an infant that 
 is not sensible of the obligation. Would you do 
 it for public good: do it for one who will be an 
 honest artificer. Would you do it for the sake of 
 heaven; give it to one who shall be instructed in 
 the worship of him for whose sake you gave it. 
 
 It is, methmks, a most laudable institution this, 
 if it were of no other expectation than that of 
 producing a race of good and useful servants, who 
 will have more than a liberal, a religious educa¬ 
 tion. What would not a man do in common pru¬ 
 dence, to lay out in purchase of one about him, 
 who would" add to all his orders he gave, the 
 weight of the commandments, to enforce an obe¬ 
 dience to them ? for one who would consider his 
 master as his father, his friend, and benefactor, 
 upon easy terms, and in expectation of no other 
 return, but moderate wages and gentle usage? It 
 is the common vice of children, to run too much 
 
 * The birthday of her majesty Queen Anne, who was born 
 Feb. 6, 1665, and died Aug. 1,1714, aged 49. 
 
 3TATOR. 361 
 
 among the servants; from such as are educated in 
 these places they would see nothing but lowliness 
 in the servant, which would not be disingenuous 
 in the child. All the ill offices and defamatory 
 whispers, which take their birth from domestics, 
 ^would be prevented, if this charity could be made 
 universal: and a good man might have a know¬ 
 ledge of the whole life of the persons he designs 
 to take into his house for his own service, or that 
 of his family or children, long before they were 
 admitted. 1 his would create endearing depen- 
 dencies; and the obligation would have a paternal 
 air in the master, who would be relieved from 
 much care and anxiety by the gratitude and dili¬ 
 gence of a humble friend, attending him as his 
 servant. I fall into this discourse from a letter 
 sent to me, to give me notice that fifty boys would 
 be clothed, and take their seats (at the charge of 
 some generous benefactors) in St. Bride’s church, 
 on Sunday next. I wish I could promise to my¬ 
 self anything which my correspondent seems to 
 expect from a publication of it in this paper; for 
 there can be nothing added to what so many ex¬ 
 cellent and learned men have said on this occa¬ 
 sion. But that there may be something here which 
 would move a generous mind, like that of him 
 who wrote to me, I shall transcribe a handsome 
 paragraph of Dr. Snape’s sermon on these chari¬ 
 ties, which my correspondent inclosed with his 
 letter. 
 
 “ The wise Providence has amply compensated 
 the disadvatages of the poor, and indigent, in 
 wanting many of the conveniencies of this life, 
 by a more abundant provision for their happiness 
 in the next. Had they been higher born, or more 
 richly endowed, they would have wanted this man¬ 
 ner of education, of which those only enjoy the 
 benefit, who are low enough to submit to it; where 
 they have such advantages without money, and 
 without price, as the rich cannot purchase with it. 
 The learning which is given, is generally more 
 edifying to them, than that which is sold to others. 
 Thus do they become exalted in goodness, by 
 being depressed in fortune, and their poverty is, 
 in reality, their preferment.” 
 
 No. 295.] THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 1711-12. 
 
 Prodiga non sentit pereuntem foemina censum: 
 
 At velut exhausta redivivus pullulet arda 
 Nummus, et e pleno semper tollatur acervo, 
 
 Non unquam reputat, quanti sibi gaudia constent. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 361. 
 
 But womankind, that never knows a mean, 
 
 Down to the dregs their sinking fortunes drain. 
 
 Hourly they give, and spend, and waste and wear, 
 
 And think no pleasure can be bought too dear. 
 
 Dkyden. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am turned of my great climacteric, and am 
 naturally a man of a meek temper. About a do¬ 
 zen years ago I was married, for my sins, to a 
 young woman of good family, and of a high 
 spirit; but could not bring her to close with me, 
 before I had entered into a treaty with her, longer 
 than that of the grand alliance." Among other ar¬ 
 ticles, it was therein stipulated, that she should 
 have 400Z. a-year for pin-money, which I obliged 
 myself to pay quarterly into the hands of one 
 who acted as her plenipotentiary in that affair. I 
 have ever since religiously observed my part in 
 this solemn agreement. Now, Sir, so it is, that 
 the lady has had several children since I married 
 her; to which, if I should credit our malicious 
 neighbors, her pin-money has not a little contri¬ 
 buted. The education of these my children who, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 362 
 
 contrary to ray expectation, are born to me every ; 
 year, straitens me so much, that I have begged 
 their mother to free me from the obligation of the 
 above-mentioned pin-money, that it may go to¬ 
 ward making a provision for her family. This 
 proposal makes her noble blood swell in her veins, 
 insomuch that, finding me a little tardy in my last 
 quarter’s payment, she threatens me every day to 
 arrest me; and proceeds so far as to tell me that if 
 I do not do her justice, I shall die in a jail. To 
 this she adds, when her passion will let her argue 
 calmly, that she has several plav-debts on her 
 hands, which must be discharged very suddenly, 
 and that she cannot lose her money as becomes a 
 woman of fashion, if she makes me any abate¬ 
 ment in this article. I hope, Sir, you will take an 
 occasion from hence to give your opinion upon a 
 subject which you have not yet touched, and inform 
 us if there are any precedents for this usage among 
 our ancestors; or whether you find any mention of 
 pin-money in Grotius, Puffendorf, or any other of 
 the civilians. 
 
 “ I am ever the humblest of your Admirers, 
 
 “ Josiah Fribble, Esq.” 
 
 As there is no man living who is a more pro¬ 
 fessed advocate for the fair sex than myself, so 
 there is none that would be more unwilling to in¬ 
 vade any of their ancient rights and privileges; 
 but as the doctrine of pin-money is of a late date, 
 unknown to our great-grandmothers, and not yet 
 received by many of our modern ladies, I think it 
 is for the interest of both sexes to keep it from 
 spreading. 
 
 Mr. Fribble may not, perhaps, be much mista¬ 
 ken where he intimates, that the supplying a 
 man’s wife with pin-money, is furnishing her with 
 arms against himself, and in a manner, becoming 
 accessory to his own dishonor. We may, indeed, 
 generally observe, that in proportion as a woman 
 is more or less beautiful, and her husband ad¬ 
 vanced in years, she stands in need of a greater or 
 less number of pins, and, upon a treaty of mar¬ 
 riage, rises or falls in her demands accordingly. 
 It must likewise be owned, that high quality in a 
 mistress does very much inflame this article in 
 the marriage-reckoning. 
 
 But where the age and circumstances of both 
 parties are pretty much upon a level, I cannot but 
 think the insisting upon pin-money is very extra¬ 
 ordinary; and yet we find several matches broken 
 off upon this very head. What would a foreigner, 
 or one who is a stranger to this practice, think of 
 a lover that forsakes his mistress, because he is 
 not willing to keep her in pins? But what would 
 he think of the mistress, should he be informed 
 that she asks five or six hundred pounds a year 
 for this use? Should a man unacquainted with 
 our customs be told the sums which are allowed 
 in Great Britain, under the title of pin-money, 
 what a prodigious consumption of pins would he 
 think there was in this island ? “ A pin a day,” 
 
 says our frugal proverb, “ is a groat a year;” so 
 that, according to this calculation, my friend 
 Fribble’s wife must every year make use of eight 
 million six hundred and forty thousand new 
 pins. 
 
 I am not ignorant that our British ladies allege 
 they comprehend under this general term several 
 other conveniences of life; I could therefore wish, 
 for the honor of my countrywomen, that they had 
 rather called it needle-money, which might have 
 implied something of good housewifery, and not 
 have given the malicious world occasion to think, 
 that dress and trifles have always the uppermost 
 place in a woman’s thoughts. 
 
 1 know several of my fair readers urge in de¬ 
 
 fense of this practice, that it is but a necessary 
 provision they make for themselves, in case their 
 husband proves a churl, or miser; so that they con¬ 
 sider this allowance as a kind of alimony, which 
 they may lay their claim to, without actually sep¬ 
 arating from their husbands. But, with submis¬ 
 sion, I think a woman who will give up herself to 
 a man in marriage, where there is the least room 
 for such an apprehension, and trust her person to 
 one whom she will not rely on for the common 
 necessaries of life, may very properly be accused 
 (in the phrase of a homely proverb) of being 
 “ penny wise and pound foolish.” 
 
 It is observed of over-cautious generals, that 
 they never engage in battle without securing a re¬ 
 treat, in case the event should not answer their 
 expectations; on the other hand, the greatest con¬ 
 querors have burnt their ships, or broke down the 
 bridges behind them, as being determined either 
 to succeed or die in the engagement. In the same 
 manner I should very much suspect a woman who 
 takes such precautions for her retreat, and con¬ 
 trives methods how she may live happily, without 
 the affection of one to whom she joins herself for 
 life. Separate purses between man and wife are, 
 in my opinion, as unnatural as separate beds. A 
 marriage cannot be happy, where the pleasures, 
 inclinations, and interests of both parties are not 
 the same. There is no greater incitement to love 
 in the mind of man, than the sense of a person’s 
 depending upon him for her ease and happiness; 
 as a woman uses all her endeavors to please the 
 person whom she looks upon as her honor, her 
 comfort, and her support. 
 
 For this reason, 1 am not very much surprised 
 at the behavior of a rough country ’squire, who, 
 being not a little shocked at the proceeding of a 
 young widow that would not recede from her de¬ 
 mands of pin-money, was so enraged at her mer¬ 
 cenary temper, that he told her in great wrath, 
 “ As much as she thought him her slave, he would 
 show all the world he did not care a pin for her.” 
 Upon which he flew out of the room, and never 
 saw her more. 
 
 Socrates in Plato’s Alcibiades, says he was in¬ 
 formed by one who had traveled through Persia, 
 that as he passed over a great tract of land, and 
 inquired what the name of the place was, they 
 told him it was the Queen’s Girdle : to which he 
 adds, that another wide field which lay by it, was 
 called the Queen’s Vail; and that in the same 
 manner there was a large portion of ground set 
 aside for every part of her majesty’s dress. These 
 lands might not be improperly called the Queen 
 of Persia’s pin-money. 
 
 I remember my friend Sir Roger, who, I dare 
 say, never read this passage in Plato, told me some 
 time since, that upon his courting the perverse 
 widow (of whom I have given an account in 
 former papers) he had disposed of a hundred acres 
 in a diamond ring, which he would have presented 
 her with, had she thought fit to accept it; and that 
 upon her wedding-day, she should have carried 
 on her head fifty of the tallest oaks upon his 
 estate. He further informed me, that he would 
 have given her a coal-pit to keep her in cle.an 
 linen, that he would have allowed her the profits 
 of a windmill for her fans, and have presented her 
 once in three years with the shearing of his sheep 
 for her under-petticoats. To which the knight 
 always adds, that though he did not care for fine 
 clothes himself, there should not have been a 
 woman in the country better dressed than my 
 Lady Coverley. Sir Roger, perhaps, may in this, 
 as well as in many other of his devices, appear 
 somewhat odd and singular; but if the humor of 
 pin-money prevails, 1 think it would be very 
 
THE SPE 
 
 proper for every gentleman of an estate to mark 
 out so many acres of it under the title of “ The 
 Pins.”—L. 
 
 No. 296.J FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 1711-12. 
 
 —Nugis addere poudus.—II or. 1 Ep. xix, 42. 
 
 Add weight to trifles. 
 
 “Dear Spec., 
 
 “Having lately conversed much with the fair 
 sex on the subject of your speculations (which, 
 since their appearance in public, have been the 
 chief exercise of the female loquacious faculty), I 
 found the fair ones possessed with a dissatisfac¬ 
 tion at your prefixing Greek mottoes to the frontis- 
 
 f fieces of your late papers; and as a man of gal- 
 antry, I thought it a duty incumbent on me to 
 impart it to you in hopes of a reformation, which 
 is only to be effected by a restoration of the Latin 
 to the usual dignity in your papers, which of late 
 the Greek, to the great displeasure of your female 
 readers, has usurped; for though the Latin has the 
 recommendation of being as unintelligible to 
 them as the Greek, yet being written in the same 
 character with their mother tongue, by the assist¬ 
 ance of a spelling-book it is legible; which qua¬ 
 lity the Greek wants: and since the introduction 
 of operas into this nation, the ladies are so 
 charmed with sounds abstracted from their ideas, 
 that they adore and honor the sound of Latin, as 
 it is old Italian. I am a solicitor for the fair sex, 
 and therefore think myself in that character more 
 likely to be prevalent in this request, than if I 
 should subscribe myself by my proper name. 
 
 “J. M.” 
 
 “ I desire you may insert this in one of your 
 speculations, to show my zeal for removing the 
 dissatisfaction of the fair sex, and restoring you 
 to their favor.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I was some time since in company with a 
 young officer, who entertained us with the con¬ 
 quest he had made over a female neighbor of his : 
 when a gentleman who stood by, as I suppose, 
 envying the captain’s good fortune, asked him 
 what reason he had to believe the lady admired 
 him? ‘Why,’ says he, ‘my lodgings are opposite 
 to hers, and she is continually at her window either 
 at work, reading, taking snuff, or putting herself 
 in some toying posture, on purpose to draw my 
 eyes that way.’ The confession of this vain sol¬ 
 dier made me reflect on some of my own actions: 
 for you must know, Sir, I am often at a window 
 which fronts the apartments of several gentlemen, 
 who I doubt not have the same opinion of me. I 
 must own I love to look,at them all, one for being 
 well dressed, a second for his fine eye, and one 
 particular one, because he is the least man I ever 
 saw; but there is something so easy and pleasant 
 in the manner of my little man, that I observe he 
 is a favorite of all His acquaintance. I could go 
 on to tell you of many others, that I believe think 
 I have encouraged them from my window: but 
 pray let me have your opinion of the use of a win¬ 
 dow, in the apartment of a beautiful lady; and 
 how often she may look out at the same man, 
 without being supposed to have a mind to jump 
 out to him. 
 
 “Yours, 
 
 “ Aurelia Careless.” 
 Twice. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have for some time made love to a lady, who 
 received it with all the kind returns I ought to 
 
 CTATOR. 363 
 
 expect: but, without any provocation that I know 
 of, she has of late shunned me with the utmost 
 abhorrence, insomuch that she went out of church 
 last Sunday, in the midst of divine service, upon 
 my coming into the same pew. Pray, Sir, what 
 must I do in this business ? 
 
 “ Your Servant, 
 
 “ Euphues.” 
 
 Let her alone ten days. 
 
 “York, Jan. 20, 1711-12. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “We have in this town a sort of people who 
 retend to wit, and write lampoons; I have lately 
 een the subject of one of them. The scribbler 
 had not genius enough in verse to turn my age, as 
 indeed I am an old maid, into raillery, for affect¬ 
 ing a youthier turn than is consistent with my 
 time of day; and therefore he makes the title of 
 his madrigal, the character of Mrs. Judith Love- 
 bane, born in the year 1680. What I desire of you 
 is, that you disallow that a coxcomb, who pre¬ 
 tends to write verse, should put the most mali¬ 
 cious thing he can say in prose. This I humbly 
 conceive will disable our country wits, who, in¬ 
 deed, take a great deal of pains to say anything 
 in rhyme, though they say it very ill. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Susanna Lovebane.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “We are several of us, gentlemen and ladies, 
 who board in the same house, and after dinner one 
 of our company (an agreeable man enough other¬ 
 wise) stands up and reads your paper to us all. 
 We are the civilest people in the world to one an¬ 
 other, and therefore I am forced to this way of 
 desiring our reader when he is doing this office, 
 not to stand afore the fire. This will be a general 
 good to our family this cold weather. He will, 
 I know, take it to be our common request when 
 he comes to these words, ‘ Pray, Sir, sit down;’ 
 which I desire you to insert, and you will par¬ 
 ticularly oblige, 
 
 “Your daily Reader, 
 
 “Charity Frost.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I am a great lover of dancing, but cannot 
 perform so well as some others; however, by my 
 out-of-the-way capers, and some original grimaces, 
 I do not fail to divert the company, particularly 
 the ladies, who laugh immoderately all the time. 
 Some, who pretend to be my friends, tell me they 
 do it in derision, and would advise me to leave it 
 off, withal that I make myself ridiculous. I do 
 not know what to do in this affair, but I am re¬ 
 solved not to give over upon any account, until I 
 have the opinion of the Spectator. 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 “John Trott.” 
 
 “ If Mr. Trott is not awkward out of time, he has 
 a right to dance let who will laugh; but if he has 
 no ear he will interrupt others; and I am of opin¬ 
 ion he should sit still. Given under my hand this 
 fifth of February, 1711-12. 
 
 T. “The Spectator.” 
 
 No. 297.] SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1711-12. 
 
 -velut si 
 
 Egregio inspersos reprendas corpore nacvos. 
 
 IIor. 1 Sat. vi, 66. 
 
 As perfect 'beauties somewhere have a mole.—C reech. 
 
 After what I have said in my last Saturday’s 
 paper, I shall enter on the subject of this without 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 364 
 
 further preface, and remark the several defects 
 which appear in the fable, the characters, the sen¬ 
 timents, and the language of Milton’s Paradise 
 Lost; not doubting but the reader will pardon me, 
 if I allege at the same time whatever may be said 
 for the extenuation of such defects. The first im¬ 
 perfection which I shall observe in the fable is, 
 that the event of it is unhappy. 
 
 The fable of every poem is, according to Aristo¬ 
 tle’s division, either simple or implex. It is call¬ 
 ed simple when there is no change of fortune in 
 it: implex, when the fortune of the chief actor 
 changes from bad to good, or from good to bad. 
 The implex fable is thought the most perfect: I 
 suppose, because it is more proper to stir up the 
 passions of the reader, and to surprise him with 
 a great variety of accidents. 
 
 The implex fable is therefore of two kinds : in 
 the first, the chief actor makes his way through a 
 long series of dangers and difficulties, until he ar¬ 
 rives at honor and prosperity, as we see in the 
 stories of Ulysses and HEneas; in the second, the 
 chief actor in the poem falls from some eminent 
 pitch of honor and prosperity, into misery and 
 disgrace. Thus we see Adam and Eve sinking 
 from a state of innocence and happiness, into the 
 most abject condition of sin and sorrow. 
 
 The most taking tragedies among the ancients 
 were built on this last sort of implex fable, par¬ 
 ticularly the tragedy of CEdipus, which proceeds 
 upon a story, if we may believe Aristotle, the 
 most proper for tragedy that could be invented by 
 the wit of man. 1 have taken some pains in a 
 former paper to show, that this kind of implex 
 fable, wherein the event is unhappy, is more apt to 
 affect an audience than that of the first kind; not¬ 
 withstanding many excellent pieces among the 
 ancients, as well as most of those which have 
 been written of late years in our own country, are 
 raised upon contrary plans. I must however own, 
 that I think this kind of fable, which is the most 
 perfect in tragedy, is not so proper for an heroic 
 poem. 
 
 Milton seems to have been sensible of this im¬ 
 perfection in his fable, and has therefore endea¬ 
 vored to cure it by several expedients ; particular¬ 
 ly by the mortification which the great adversary 
 of mankind meets with upon his return to the as¬ 
 sembly of infernal spirits, as it is described in a 
 beautiful passage of the third book; and likewise 
 by the vision wherein Adam, at the close of the 
 poem, sees his offspring triumphing over his great 
 enemy, and himself restored to a happier paradise 
 than that from which he fell. 
 
 . There is another objection against Milton’s fa¬ 
 ble, which is indeed almost the same with the 
 former, though placed in a different light, namely. 
 That the hero in the Paradise Lost is unsuc¬ 
 cessful, and by no means a match for his enemies. 
 This gives occasion for Mr. Dryden’s reflection, 
 that the devil was in reality Milton’s hero. I 
 think I have obviated this objection in my first 
 paper. The Paradise Lost is an epic, or narrative 
 poem, and lie that looks for a hero in it, searches 
 for that which Milton never intended; but if he 
 will indeed fix the name of a hero upon any per¬ 
 son in it, it is certainly the Messiah who is the 
 hero, both in the principal action and the chief 
 episodes. Paganism could not furnish out a real 
 action for a fable greater than that of the Iliad or 
 HEneid, and therefore a heathen could not form a 
 higher notion of a poem than one of that kind 
 which they call an heroic. Whether Milton’s is 
 not of a sublimer nature I will not presume to de¬ 
 termine; it is sufficient that I show there is in the 
 Paradise Lost all the greatness of plan, regularity 
 
 of design, and masterly beauties which we disco¬ 
 ver in Homer and Virgil. 
 
 I must in the next place observe, that Milton 
 has interwoven in the texture of this fable some 
 particulars which do not seem to have probability 
 enough for an epic poem, particularly in the ac¬ 
 tions which he ascribes to Sin and Death, and the 
 picture which he draws of the “Limbo of Vani¬ 
 ty,” with other passages in the second book. 
 Such allegories rather savor of the spirit of 
 Spenser and Ariosto, than of Homer and Virgil. 
 
 In the structure of his poem he has likewise 
 admitted too many digressions. It is finely ob¬ 
 served by Aristotle, that the author of an heroic 
 poem should seldom speak himself, but throw as 
 much of his work as he can into the mouths of 
 those who are his principal actors. Aristotle has 
 given no reason for this precept: but I presume it 
 is because the mind of the reader is more awed, 
 and elevated, when he hears HEneas or Achilles 
 speak, than when Virgil or Homer talk in their 
 own persons. Beside that, assuming the charac¬ 
 ter of an eminent man is apt to fire the imagina¬ 
 tion, and raise the ideas of the author. Tully 
 tells us, mentioning his dialogue of old age, in 
 which Cato is the chief speaker, that upon a re¬ 
 view of it he was agreeably imposed upon, and 
 fancied that it was Cato, and not he himself, who 
 uttered his thoughts on that subject. 
 
 If the reader would be at the pains to see how 
 the story of the Iliad and the AEneid is delivered 
 by those persons who act in it, he will be sur¬ 
 prised to find how little either of these poems 
 proceeds from the authors. Milton has, in the 
 general disposition of his fable, very finely ob¬ 
 served this great rule; insomuch that there is 
 scarce a tenth part of it which comes from the 
 poet; the rest is spoken either by Adam or Eve, 
 or by some good or evil spirit who is engaged, 
 either in their destruction, or defense. 
 
 From what has been here observed, it appears, 
 that digressions are by no means to be allowed of 
 in an epic poem. If the poet, even in the ordi¬ 
 nary course of his narration, should speak as little 
 as possible, he should certainly never let his nar¬ 
 ration sleep for the sake of any reflections of his 
 own. I have often observed with a secret admi¬ 
 ration, that the longest reflection in the HEneid is 
 in that passage of the tenth book, where Turnus 
 is represented as dressing himself in the spoils 
 of Pallas, whom he had slain. Virgil here dets 
 his fable stand still, for the sake of the following 
 remark. “How is the mind of man ignorant of 
 futurity, and unable to bear prosperous fortune 
 with moderation! The time will come when 
 Turnus shall wish that he had left the body of 
 Pallas untouched, and curse the day on which he 
 dressed himself in these spoils.” As the great 
 event of the HEneid, and the death of Turnus, 
 whom MEneas slew because he saw him adorned 
 with the spoils of Pallas, turns upon this incident, 
 Virgil went out of his way to make this reflection 
 upon it, without which so small a circumstance 
 might possibly have slipped out of his reader’s 
 memory. Lucan, who was an injudicious poet, 
 lets drop his story very frequently for the sake of 
 his unnecessary digressions, or his diverticula, as 
 Scaliger calls them. If he gives us an account of 
 the prodigies which preceded the civil war, he de¬ 
 claims upon the occasion, and shows how much 
 happier it would be for man, if he did not feel 
 his evil fortune before it comes to pass: and suffer 
 not only by its real weight, but by the apprehen¬ 
 sion of it. Milton’s complaint for his blindness, 
 his panegyric on marriage, his reflections on 
 Adam and Eve’s going naked, of the angels’ eat- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ing, and several other passages in his poem, are 
 liable to the same exception, though I must con¬ 
 fess there is so great a beauty in these very di¬ 
 gressions, that I would not wish them out of his 
 poem. 
 
 I have in a former paper spoken of the charac¬ 
 ters of Milton’s Paradise Lost, and declared my 
 opinion as to the allegorical persons who are in¬ 
 troduced in it. 
 
 If we look into the sentiments, I think they are 
 sometimes defective under the following heads ; 
 first, as there are several of them too much point¬ 
 ed, and some that even degenerate into puns. Of 
 this last kind I am afraid is that in the first book, 
 where, speaking of the pigmies, he calls them 
 
 --The small infantry 
 
 Warr’d on by cranes- 
 
 Another blemish that appears in some of his 
 thoughts, is his frequent allusion to heathen fa¬ 
 bles, which are not certainly of a piece with the 
 divine subject of which he treats. I do not find 
 fault with these allusions where the poet himself 
 represents them as fabulous, as lie does in some 
 places, but where he mentions them as truths and 
 matters of fact. The limits of my paper will not 
 give me leave to be particular in instances of this 
 kind; the reader will easily remark them in his 
 perusal of the poem. 
 
 A third fault in his sentiments is an uneasy os¬ 
 tentation of learning, which likewise occurs very 
 frequently. It is certain that both Homer and Vir¬ 
 gil were masters of all the learning of their 
 times, but it shows itself in their works after an 
 indirect and concealed manner. Milton seems 
 ambitious of letting us know, by his excursions 
 on free-will and predestination, and his man}^ 
 glances upon history, astronomy, geography, and 
 the like, as well as by the terms and phrases he 
 sometimes makes use of, that he was acquainted 
 with the whole circle of arts and sciences. 
 
 If, in the last place, we consider the language 
 of this great poet, we must allow what I have 
 hinted in a former paper, that it is often too much 
 labored, and sometimes obscured by old words, 
 transpositions, and foreign idioms. Seneca’s ob¬ 
 jection to the style of a great author, “ Riget ejus 
 oratio, nihil in ca placidum, nihil lene,” is what 
 many critics make to Milton. As I cannot wholly 
 refute it, so I have already apologized for it in an¬ 
 other paper: to which 1 may further add, that 
 Milton’s sentiments and ideas were so wonderfully 
 sublime, that it would have been impossible for 
 him to have represented them in their full strength 
 and beauty, without having recourse to these for¬ 
 eign assistances. Our language sunk under him, 
 and was unequal to that greatness of soul which 
 furnished him with such glorious conceptions. 
 
 A second fault in his language is, that he often 
 affects a kind of jingle in his words, as in the fol¬ 
 lowing passages and many others: 
 
 And brought into the world a world of woe. 
 
 -Begirt th’ Almighty throne 
 
 Beseeching or besieging- 
 
 This tempted our attempt- 
 
 At one slight bound high overleap’d all bound. 
 
 I know there are figures for this kind of speech; 
 that some of the greatest ancients have been guilty 
 of it, and that Aristotle himself has given it a 
 place in his rhetoric among the beauties of that 
 art. But as it is in itself poor and trifling, it is, 
 
 I think, at present universally exploded by all 
 the masters of polite writing. 
 
 The last fault which I shall take notice of in 
 Milton’s style, is the frequent use of what the 
 learned call technical words, or terms of art. It 
 is one of the greatest beauties of poetry, to make 
 
 365 
 
 hard things intelligible, and to deliver what is 
 abstruse of itself in such eaSy language as may 
 be understood by ordinary readers, beside, that 
 the knowledge of a poet should rather seem born 
 with him, or inspired, than drawn with books and 
 systems. I have often wondered how Mr. Dryden 
 could translate a passage out of Virgil after the 
 following manner: 
 
 Tack to the larboard and stand off to sea, 
 
 Veer starboard sea and land.- 
 
 Milton makes use of larboard in the same man¬ 
 ner.. V hen he is upon building, he mentions 
 doric pillars, pilasters, cornice, frieze, architrave. 
 When he talks of heavenly bodies, you meet with 
 ecliptic and eccentric, the trepidation, stars drop¬ 
 ping from the zenith, rays culminating from the 
 equator: to which might be added many instances 
 of the like kind in several other arts and sciences. 
 
 I shall in my next papers give an account of 
 the many particular beauties in Milton, which 
 would have been too long to insert under those 
 general heads I have already treated of, and with 
 which I intend to conclude this piece of cri¬ 
 ticism.—L. 
 
 Ho. 298.] MONDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1711-12. 
 
 Nusquam tuta tides- 
 
 Virg. uEn., iv, 373. 
 
 Honor is nowhere safe. 
 
 “London, Feb. 9, 1711-12. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a virgin, and in no case despicable, but 
 yet such as I am I must remain, or else become, 
 it is to be feared, less happy; for I find not the 
 least good effect from the good correction you 
 some time since gave that too free, that looser part 
 of our sex which spoils the men ; the same con¬ 
 nivance at the vices, the same easy admittance of 
 addresses, the same vitiated relish of the conver¬ 
 sation of the greatest rakes (or, in a more fash¬ 
 ionable way of expressing one’s self, of such as 
 have seen the world most) still abounds, increases, 
 multiplies. 
 
 “ The humble petition, therefore, of many of 
 the most strictly virtuous and of myself is, that 
 you will once more exert your authority, and that 
 according to your late promise, your full, your 
 impartial authority, on this sillier branch of our 
 kind ; for why should they be the uncontrollable 
 mistresses of our fate ? Why should they with 
 impunity indulge the males in licentiousness 
 while single, and we have the dismal hazard and 
 plague of reforming them when married ? Strike 
 home. Sir, then, and spare not, or all our maiden 
 hopes, our gilded hopes of nuptial felicity are 
 frustrated, are vanished, and you yourself as well 
 as Mr. Courtly, will, by smoothing over immodest 
 practices whth the gloss of soft and harmless 
 names, forever forfeit our esteem. Nor think that 
 I am herein more severe than need be ; if I have 
 not reason more than enough, do you and the 
 world judge from this ensuing account, which, I 
 think, will prove the evil to be universal. 
 
 “You must know, then, that since your repre¬ 
 hension of this female degeneracy came out, I 
 have had a tender of respects from no less than 
 five persons, of tolerable figure too, as times go : 
 but the misfortune is that four of the five are pro¬ 
 fessed followers of the mode. They would face 
 me down, that all women of good sense ever were, 
 and ever will be, latitudinarians in wedlock; 
 and always did and will give and take, what they 
 profanely term conjugal liberty of conscience. 
 
 “ The two first of them, a captain and a mer- 
 
THE SPECT ATO R. 
 
 366 
 
 chant, to strengthen their arguments, pretend to 
 repeat after a couple of ladies of quality and wit, 
 that Venus was always kind to Mars ; and what 
 soul that has the least spark of generosity can 
 deny a man of bravery anything ? And how piti¬ 
 ful a trader that, whom no woman but his own 
 wife will have correspondence and dealings with? 
 Thus these ; while the third, the country squire, 
 confessed, that indeed he was surprised into good¬ 
 breeding, and entered into the knowledge of the 
 world unawares ; that dining the other day at a 
 gentleman’s house, the person who entertained 
 was obliged to leave him with his wife and nieces; 
 where they spoke with so much contempt of an 
 absent gentleman for being so slow at a hint, that 
 he resolved never to be drowsy, unmannerly, or 
 stupid, for the future, at a friend’s house ; and on 
 a hunting morning not to pursue the game either 
 with the husband abroad or with the wife at home. 
 
 “ The next that came was a tradesman, no less 
 full of the age than the former ; for he had the 
 gallantry to tell me, that at a late junket which 
 he was invited to, the motion being made, and the 
 question being put, it was, by maid, wife, and 
 widow, resolved neniine contradicente, that a young 
 sprightly journeyman is absolutely necessary in 
 their way of business : to which they had the as¬ 
 sent and concurrence of the husbands present. I 
 dropped him a courtsey, and gave him to under¬ 
 stand that this was his audience of leave. 
 
 “ I am reckoned pretty, and have had very 
 many advances beside these ; but have been very 
 averse to hear any of them, from my observation 
 on those above-mentioned, until I hoped some 
 good from the character of my present admirer, a 
 clergyman. But I find even among them there 
 are indirect practices relating to love, and our 
 treaty is at present a little in suspense, until some 
 circumstances are cleared. There is a charge 
 against him among the women, and the case is 
 this : It is alleged, that a certain endowed female 
 would have appropriated herself to, and consoli¬ 
 dated herself with, a church'’ which my divine 
 now enjoys (or, which is the same thing, did 
 rostitute herself to her friends doing this for 
 er); that my ecclesiastic, to obtain the one, did 
 engage himself to take off the other that lay on 
 hand ; but that on his success in the spiritual, he 
 again renounced the carnal. 
 
 “ I put this closely to him, and taxed him with 
 disingenuity. He to clear himself made the sub¬ 
 sequent defense, and that in the most solemn 
 manner possible:—that he was applied to, and 
 instigated to accept of a benefice :—that a condi¬ 
 tional offer thereof was indeed made him at first, 
 but with disdain by him rejected :—that when 
 nothing (as they easily perceived) of this nature 
 could bring him to their purpose, assurance of his 
 being entirely unengaged beforehand, and safe 
 from all their after-expectations (the only strata¬ 
 gem left to draw him in), was given him :—that 
 pursuant to this the donation itself was without 
 delay, before several reputable witnesses, tendered 
 to him gratis, with the open profession of not the 
 least reserve, or most minute condition ; but that 
 yet immediately after induction, his insidious 
 introducer (or her crafty procurer, which you 
 will) industriously spread the report which had 
 reached my ears, not only in the neighborhood of 
 that said church, but in London, in the university, 
 in mine and his own country, and wdierever else 
 it might probably obviate his application to any 
 other woman, and so confine him to this alone : 
 in a word, that as he never did make any previous 
 offer of his service, or the least step to her affec¬ 
 tion ; so on his discovery of these designs thus 
 laid to trick him, he could not but afterward, in 
 
 justi'ce to himself, vindicate both his innocence 
 and freedom, by keeping his proper distance. 
 
 “ This is his apology, and I think I shall be 
 satisfied with it. But I cannot conclude my te¬ 
 dious epistle without recommending to you not 
 only to resume your former chastisement, but to 
 add to your criminals the simoniacal ladies, who 
 seduce the sacred order into the difficulty of 
 either breaking a mercenary troth made to them, 
 whom they ought not to deceive, or by breaking 
 or keeping it offending against Him whom they 
 cannot deceive. Your assistance and labors of 
 this sort would be of great benefit, and your 
 speedy thoughts on this subject would be very 
 seasonable to, Sir, 
 
 “.Your most humble servant, 
 
 “Chastity Loveworth.” 
 
 No. 299.] TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 12,1711-12. 
 
 Malo Venusinam, quam te, Cornelia, mater 
 Gracchorum, si cum magnis virtutibus alters 
 Grande supercilium, et numeras in dote triumphos. 
 Tolle tuum precor Annibalem, Yictumque Syphacem 
 In castris; et cum tota Carthagine migra. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 166. 
 
 Some country girl, scarce to a courtsey bred, 
 
 Would I much rather than Cornelia wed; 
 
 If supercilious, haughty, proud and vain, 
 
 She brought her fathers triumphs in her train, 
 
 Away with all your Carthaginian state; 
 
 Let vanquish'd Hannibal without doors wait, 
 
 Too burly and too big to pass my narrow gate. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 It is observed, that a man improves more by 
 reading the story of a person eminent for prudence 
 and virtue, than by the finest rules and precepts 
 of morality. In the same manner a representa¬ 
 tion of those calamities and misfortunes which a 
 weak man suffers from wrong measures, an d ill- 
 concerted schemes of life, is apt to make a deeper 
 impression upon our minds, than the wisest max¬ 
 ims and instructions that can be given us, for 
 avoiding the like follies and indiscretions in our 
 own private conduct. It is for this reason that I 
 lay before my readers the following letter, and 
 leave it with him to make his own use of it, with¬ 
 out adding any reflections of my own upon the 
 subject matter. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Having carefully perused a letter sent you by 
 Josiah Fribble, Esq., with your subsequent dis¬ 
 course upon pin-money, I do presume to trouble 
 you with an account of my own case, which I 
 look upon to be no less deplorable than that of 
 ’Squire Fribble. I am a person of no extraction, 
 having begun the world with a small parcel of 
 rusty iron, and was for some years commonly 
 known by the name of Jack Anvil.* I have 
 naturally a very happy genius for getting money, 
 insomuch that by the age of five-and-twenty I 
 had scraped together four thousand two hundred 
 pounds, five shillings and a few odd pence. I 
 then launched out into considerable business, and 
 became a bold trader both by sea and land, which 
 in a few years raised- me a very great fortune. 
 For these my good services I was knighted in the 
 thirty-fifth year of my age, and lived with great 
 
 * It has been said by some, that the author of this letter 
 alluded here to-Gore, of Tring, and Lady Mary Comp¬ 
 
 ton; but others with more probability have assured the an¬ 
 notator, that the letter referred to Sir Ambrose Crowley and 
 his lady. See Tat., ed. 1786, cr. Svo., vol. v, additional notes, 
 p. 405 and 406. N. B. This ironmonger changed his name 
 from Crowley to Crawley, a folly which seems to be ridiculed 
 here by the change of Anvil into Envil, absurdly made by his 
 lady. 
 
THE SUE CT A TOR. 
 
 dignity among my city neighbors by the name of 
 Sir John Anvil. Being in my temper very ambi¬ 
 tious, I was now bent upon making a family, and 
 accordingly resolved that my descendants should 
 have a dash of good blood in their veins. In 
 order to this, I made love to the Lady Mary Odd¬ 
 ly, an indigent young woman of quality. To 
 cut short the marriage-treaty, I threw her a carte 
 blanche, as our newspapers call it, desiring her to 
 write upon it her own terms. She was very con¬ 
 cise in her demands, insisting only that the dis¬ 
 posal of my fortune, and the regulation of my 
 family should be entirely in her hands. Her 
 father and brothers appeared exceedingly averse to 
 this match, and would not see me for some time : 
 but at present are so well reconciled, that they dine 
 with me almost every day, and have borrowed 
 considerable sums of me ; which my Lady Mary 
 very often twits me with, when she would show 
 me how kind her relations are to me. She had no 
 portion, as I told you before ; but what she wanted 
 in fortune she makes up in spirit. She at first 
 changed my name to Sir John Envil, and at pres¬ 
 ent writes herself Mary Enville. I have had 
 some children by her, whom she has christened 
 with the surnames of her family, in order, as she 
 tells me, to wear out the homeliness of their pa¬ 
 rentage by the father’s side. Our eldest son is 
 the honorable Oddly Enville, Esq., and our eldest 
 daughter Harriet Enville. Upon her first coming 
 into my family, she turned off a parcel of very 
 careful servants who had been long with me, and 
 introduced in their stead a couple of black-a- 
 moors, and three or four very genteel fellows in 
 laced liveries, beside her French woman, who is 
 perpetually making a noise in the house in a 
 language which nobody understands, except my 
 Lady Mary. She next set herself to reform every 
 room in my house, having glazed all my chimney- 
 pieces with looking-glasses, and planted every 
 corner with such heaps of china, that I am ob¬ 
 liged to move about my own house with the 
 greatest caution and circumspection, for fear of 
 hurting some of our brittle furniture. She makes 
 an illumination once a week with wax candles in 
 one of our largest rooms, in order as she phrases 
 it, to see company ; at which time she always 
 desires me to be abroad, or to confine myself to 
 the cock-loft, that I may not disgrace her amon^ 
 her visitants of quality. Her footmen, as I told 
 you before, are such beaux, that I do not much 
 care for asking them questions; when I do, they 
 answer with a saucy frown, and say that every¬ 
 thing which I find fault with was done by my 
 Ladv Mary’s order. She tells me that she in¬ 
 tends they shall wear swords with their next 
 liveries, having lately observed the footmen of 
 two or three persons of quality hanging behind 
 the coach with swords by their sides. As soon as 
 the first honeymoon was over, I represented to her 
 the unreasonableness of those daily innovations 
 which she made in my family; but she told me I 
 was no longer to consider myself as Sir Jphn 
 Anvil, but as her husband; and added with a 
 frown, that I did not seem to know who she was. 
 
 I was surprised to be treated thus, after such 
 familiarities as had passed between us. But she 
 has since given me to know, that whatever freedoms 
 she may sometimes indulge me in, she expects in 
 general to be treated with the respect that is due 
 to her birth and quality. Our children have been 
 trained up from their infancy with so many ac¬ 
 counts of their mother’s family, that they know 
 the stories of all the great men and women it has 
 produced. Their mother tells them, that such-a- 
 one commanded in such a sea-engagement, that 
 their great-grandfather had a horse shot under him 
 
 367 
 
 at Edge-hill, that their uncle was at the siege of 
 Buda, and that her mother danced in a ball at 
 court with the Duke of Monmouth ; with abund¬ 
 ance of fiddle-faddle of the same nature. I was 
 the other day a little out of countenance at a 
 question of my little daughter Harriet, who asked 
 rn ®» T lth a S rea k deal °f innocence, why I never 
 told her of the generals and admirals that had 
 been in my family? As for my eldest son, Oddly, 
 he has been so spirited up by his mother, that if 
 he does not mend his manners I shall go near to 
 disinherit him. He drew his sword upon me 
 before he was nine years old, and told me that he 
 e ~P e . c ^ et used like a gentleman: upon my 
 
 offering to correct him for his insolence, my Lady 
 Mary stepped in between us, and told me 1 ought 
 to consider there was some difference between his 
 mother and mine. She is perpetually finding out 
 the features of her own relations in every one of 
 my children, though, by the way, I have a little 
 chubfaced boy as like me as he can stare, if I durst 
 say so; but what most angers me, when she sees 
 me playing with any of them upon my knee, she 
 has begged me more than once to converse with 
 the children as little as possible, that they may 
 not learn any of my awkward tricks. 
 
 ‘ \ ou must further know, since I am opening 
 my heart to you, that she thinks herself my supe¬ 
 rior in sense, as she is in quality, and therefore 
 treats me as a plain well-meaning man, who does 
 not know the world. She dictates to me in my 
 own business, sets me right in points of trade, 
 and if I disagree with her about any of my ships 
 at sea, wonders that I will dispute with her, when 
 I know very well that her great-grandfather was 
 a flag-officer. 
 
 “ To complete my sufferings, she has teased me 
 for this quarter of a year last past to remove into 
 one of the squares at the other end of the town, 
 promising, for my encouragement, that I shall 
 have as good a cock-loft as any gentleman in the 
 square ; to which the Honorable Oddly Enville, 
 Esq., always adds, like a jack-a-napes as he is,* 
 that he hopes it will be as near the court as pos- 
 sible. * 1 
 
 “ In short, Mr. Spectator, I am so much out of 
 my natural element, that to recover my old v 7 ay 
 of life I would be content to begin the world 
 again, and be plain Jack Anvil: but, alas! I am 
 in for life, and am bound to subscribe myself, with 
 great sorrow of heart, 
 
 •“Your humble Servant, 
 
 ■k- “John Enville, Kn’t.” 
 
 No. 300.] TUESDAY, FEB. 13, 1711-12. 
 
 -Diversum vitio vitium prope majus. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xviii, 5. 
 
 -Another failing of the mind, 
 
 Greater than this, of quite a different kind.—P ooley. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ When you talk of the subject of love, and the 
 relations arising from it, methinks you should 
 take care to leave no fault unobserved which con¬ 
 cerns the state of marriage. The great vexation 
 that I have observed in it is, that the wadded 
 couple seem to w’ant opportunities of being often 
 enough alone together, and are forced to quarrel 
 and be fond before company. Mr. Hotspur and 
 his lady, in a room full of their friends, are ever 
 saying something so smart to each other, and that 
 but just within rules, that the whole company 
 stand in the utmost anxiety and suspense, for fear 
 of their falling into extremities which they could 
 not be present at. On the other side, Tom Fadcllc 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 368 
 
 and liis pretty spouse, wherever they come, are 
 billing and cooing at such a rate, as they think 
 must do our hearts good to behold them. Cannot 
 you possibly propose a mean between being wasps 
 and doves in public? I should think, if you ad¬ 
 vised to hate or love sincerely it would be better; 
 for if they would be so discreet as to hate from 
 the very bottoms of their hearts, their aversion 
 would be too strong for little gibes every moment; 
 and if they loved with that calm and noble valor 
 which dwells in the heart, with a warmth like 
 that of life-blood, they would not be so impatient 
 of their passions as to fall into observable fond¬ 
 ness. This method, in each case, would save ap¬ 
 pearances; but as those who offend on the fond 
 side are much the fewer, I would have you begin 
 with them, and go on to take notice of a most im- 
 ertinent license married women take, not only to 
 e very loving to their spouses in public, but also 
 make nauseous allusions to private familiarities, 
 and the like. Lucina is a lady of the greatest dis¬ 
 cretion, you must know, in the world; and withal 
 very much a physician. Upon the strength of 
 these two qualities there is nothing she will not 
 speak of before us virgins; and she every day talks 
 with a very grave air in such a manner, as is very 
 improper so much as to be hinted at, but to obvi¬ 
 ate the greatest extremity. Those whom they call 
 good bodies, notable people, hearty neighbors, 
 and the purest, goodest company in the world, are 
 the great offenders in this kind. Here I think I 
 have laid before you an open field for pleasantry; 
 and hope you will show these people that at least 
 they are not witty; in which you will save from 
 many a blush a daily sufferer, who is very much 
 your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Susannah Love worth.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “In yours of Wednesday, the 30th past, you 
 and your correspondents are very severe on a sort 
 of men, whom you call male coquets; but without 
 any other reason, in my apprehension, than that 
 of paying a shallow compliment to the fair sex, 
 by accusing some men of imaginary faults, that 
 the women may not seem to be the more faulty 
 sex; though at the same time you suppose there 
 are some so weak as to be imposed upon by fine 
 things and false addresses. I cannot persuade 
 myself that your design is to debar the sexes the 
 benefit of each other’s conversation within the 
 rules of honor; nor will you, I dare say, recom¬ 
 mend to them, or encourage the common tea-table 
 talk, much less that of politics and matters of 
 state, and if these are forbidden subjects of dis¬ 
 course, then as long as there are any women in 
 the world who take a pleasure in hearing them¬ 
 selves praised, and can bear the sight of a man 
 prostrate at their feet, so long I shall make no 
 wonder that there are those of the other sex who 
 will pay them those impertinent humiliations. 
 We should have few people such fools as to prac¬ 
 tice flattery, if all were so wise as to despise it. 
 I do not deny but you would do a meritorious act, 
 if you could prevent all impositions on the sim¬ 
 plicity of young women; but I must confess, I 
 do not apprehend you have laid the fault on the 
 proper persons ; and if I trouble you with my 
 thoughts upon it, I promise myself your pardon. 
 Such of the sex as are raw and innocent, and 
 most exposed to these attacks, have, or their pa¬ 
 rents are much to blame if they have not, one to 
 advise and guard them, and are obliged them¬ 
 selves to take care of them; but if these, who 
 ought to hinder men from all opportunities of this 
 sort of conversation, instead of that encourage 
 and promote it, the suspicion is very just that 
 
 there are some private reasons for it; and I will 
 leave it to you to determine on which side a part 
 is then acted. Some women there are who are ar¬ 
 rived at years of discretion, 1 mean are got out 
 of the hands of their parents and governors, and 
 are set up for themselves, who are yet liable to 
 these attempts; but if these are prevailed upon, 
 you must excuse me if I lay the fault upon them, 
 that their wisdom is not grown with their years. 
 My client, Mr. Strephon, whom you summoned 
 to declare himself, gives you thanks however for 
 your warning, and begs the favor only to enlarge 
 his time for a week, or to the last day of the term, 
 and then he will appear gratis, and pray no day 
 over. “Yours, 
 
 “ Philanthropos.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I was last night to visit a lady whom I much 
 esteem, and always took for my friend ; but met 
 with so very different a reception from what I ex¬ 
 pected, that I cannot help applying myself to you 
 on this occasion. In the room of that civility and 
 familiarity I used to be treated with by her, an 
 affected strangeness in her looks, and coldness in 
 her behavior, plainly told me I was not the wel¬ 
 come guest which the regard and tenderness she 
 has so often expressed for me gave me reason to 
 flatter myself to think I was. Sir, this is certainly 
 a great fault, and I assure you a very common 
 one; therefore I hope you will think it a fit sub¬ 
 ject for some part of a Spectator. Be pleased to 
 acquaint us how we must behave ourselves toward 
 this valetudinary friendship, subject to so many 
 heats and colds, and you will oblige, 
 
 “ Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Miranda.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I cannot forbear acknowledging the delight 
 your late Spectators on Saturdays have given me; 
 for they are written in the honest spirit of criti¬ 
 cism, and called to my mind the following four 
 lines I had read long since in a prologue to a play 
 called Julius Csesar,* which has deserved a better 
 fate. The verses are addressed to the little 
 critics : 
 
 Show your small talent, and let that suffice ye; 
 
 But grow not vain upon it, I advise ye. 
 
 For every fop can find out faults in plays; 
 
 You’ll ne’er arrive at knowing when to praise. 
 
 “Yours, 
 
 T. “D. G ” 
 
 No. 301.] THURSDAY, FEB. 14, 1711-12. 
 
 Possint ut juvenes visere fervidi 
 Multo non sine risu 
 
 Dilapsam in cineres facem.—H or. 4 Od. xiii, 26. 
 
 That all may laugh to see that glaring light, 
 
 Which lately shone so fierce and bright, 
 
 End in a stink at last, and vanish into night.— Anon. 
 
 We are generally so much pleased with any lit¬ 
 tle accomplishments, either of body or mind, 
 which have once made us remarkable in the world, 
 that we endeavor to persuade ourselves it is not 
 in the power of time to rob us of them. We are 
 eternally pursuing the same methods which first 
 procured us the applauses of mankind. It is from 
 this notion that an author writes on, though he 
 is come to dotage; without ever considering that 
 his memory is impaired, and that he hath lost 
 that life, and those spirits, which formerly raised 
 
 * A tragedy by William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, fol., 
 1629, and much the most regular and dramatic piece of this 
 noble author. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 his fancy, and fired his imagination. The same 
 folly hinders a man from submitting his behavior 
 to his age, and makes Clodius, who was a cele¬ 
 brated dancer at five-and-twenty, still love to hob¬ 
 ble in a minuet, though lie is past threescore. It 
 is this, in a word, which fills the town with elder¬ 
 ly fops a,nd superannuated coquettes. 
 
 Canidia, a lady of this latter species, passed by 
 me yes lei day in a coach. Canidia was a haughty 
 beauty of the last age, and was followed by crowds 
 of adorers, whose passions only pleased her, as 
 they gave her opportunities of playing the tyrant. 
 She then contracted that awful cast of the eye and 
 forbidding frown, which she has not yet laid 
 aside, and has still all the insolence of beauty 
 without its charms. If she now attracts the eyes 
 of any beholders, it is only by being remark¬ 
 ably ridiculous; even her own sex laugh at her 
 affectation; and the men, who always enjoy an 
 ill-natured pleasure in seeing an imperious beauty 
 humbled and neglected, regard her with the same 
 satisfaction that a free nation sees a tyrant in dis¬ 
 grace. 
 
 Will Honeycomb, who is a great admirer of the 
 gallantries in King Charles the Second’s reign, 
 lately communicated to me a letter written by a 
 wit of that age to his mistress, who it seems was 
 a lady of Canidia’s humor; and though I do not 
 always approve of my friend Will’s taste, I liked 
 this letter so well that I took a copy of it, with 
 which I shall here present my reader: 
 
 “To CtOE. 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ Since my waking thoughts have never been 
 able to influence you in my favor, I am resolved 
 to try whether my dreams can make any impres¬ 
 sion on you. To this end I shall give you an ac¬ 
 count ot a very odd one which my fancy presented 
 to me last night, within a few hours after I left 
 you. 
 
 . “ Methought I was unaccountably' conveyed 
 into the most delicious place mine eyes ever be¬ 
 held: it was a large valley divided by a river of 
 the purest water I had ever seen. The ground on 
 each side of it rose by an easy ascent, and was 
 covered with flowers of an infinite variety, which, 
 as they were reflected in the water, doubled the 
 beauties of the place, or rather formed an ima¬ 
 ginary scene more beautiful than the real. On 
 each side of the river was a range of lofty trees, 
 whose boughs were loaded with almost as many 
 birds as leaves. Every tree was full of harmony. 
 
 “I had not gone far in this pleasant valley, 
 when I perceived that it was terminated by a most 
 magnificent temple. The structure was ancient 
 and regular. On the top of it was figured the god 
 Saturn, in the same shape and dress as the poets 
 usually represent Time. 
 
 “As I was advancing to satisfy my curiosity 
 by a nearer view, I was stopped by an object far 
 nioie beautiful than any 1 had before discover- 
 e .,} n * w hole place. I fancy, Madam, you 
 will easily guess that this could hardly be any- 
 thing but yourself: in reality it was so; you lay 
 extended on the flowers by the side of the river, 
 so that your hands, which were thrown in a neg¬ 
 ligent posture, almost touched the water. Your 
 eyes were closed; but if your sleep deprived me 
 of the satisfaction of seeing them, it left me at 
 leisure to contemplate several other charms which 
 disappear when your eyes are open. I could not 
 but admire the tranquillity you slept in, espe¬ 
 cially when I considered the uneasiness you pro¬ 
 duce in so many others. 
 
 “ While I was wholly taken up in these reflec¬ 
 tions, the doors of the temple flew open, with a 
 
 369 
 
 very great noise; and lifting up my eyes, I saw 
 two figures in human shape, coming into the val- 
 ley. Upon a nearer survey, I found them to be 
 Youth and Love. r I lie first was encircled with a 
 kind of purple light, that spread a glory over all 
 the place: the other held a flaming torch in his 
 hand. I could observe, that all the way as they 
 came tow aid us the colors of the flowers appear¬ 
 ed more lively, the trees shot out in blossoms, the 
 birds threw themselves into pairs, and serenaded 
 them as they passed : the whole face of nature 
 glowed with new beauties. They were no sooner 
 arrived at the place where you lay, than they 
 seated themselves on each side of you. On their 
 appioach methought I saw a new bloom arise in 
 your face, and new charms diffuse themselves over 
 your whole person. You appeared more than 
 mortal; but to my great surprise, continued fast 
 asleep, though the two deities made several gentle 
 efforts to awaken you. 
 
 Affter a short time. Youth (displaying a pair 
 of wings, which I had not before taken notice of) 
 flew off. Love still remained, and holding the 
 torch which he had in his hand before your face, 
 you still appeared as beautiful as ever. The 
 glaring of the light in your eyes at length awaken¬ 
 ed you; when, to my great surprise, instead of 
 acknowledging the favor of the deity, you frowned 
 upon him, and struck the torch out of his hand 
 into the river. The god, after having regarded 
 you with a look that spoke at once his pity and 
 displeasure, flew away. Immediately a kind of 
 gloom overspread the whole place. At the same 
 time I saw a hideous specter enter at one end of 
 the valley. His eyes were sunk into his head, 
 his face was pale and withered, and his skin 
 puckered up in wrinkles. As he walked on the 
 sides of the bank the river froze, the flowers faded, 
 the trees shed their blossoms, the birds dropped 
 from off the boughs, and fell dead at his feet. By 
 these marks I knew him to be Old Age. Yon 
 were seized with the utmost horror and amaze¬ 
 ment at his approach. You endeavored to have 
 fled, but the phantom caught you in his arms. You 
 may easily guess at the change you suffered in this 
 embrace. For my own part, though I am still 
 too full of the dreadful idea, I will not shock you 
 with a description of it. I was so startled at the 
 sight, that my sleep immediately left me, and I 
 found myself awake, at leisure to consider of a 
 dream which seems too extraordinary to be with¬ 
 out a meaning. I am. Madam, with the greatest 
 passion, 
 
 “ Your most obedient, 
 
 X. “ most humble Servant,” etc. 
 
 No. 302.J FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1711-12. 
 
 -Lachrymffique decorae, 
 
 Gratior et pulchro veniens in corpore yirtus. 
 
 Virg. iEn., v, 343. 
 
 Becoming sorrows, and a virtuous mind 
 More lovely in a beauteous form enshrin’d. 
 
 I READ what I give for the entertainment of this 
 day with a great deal of pleasure, and publish it 
 just as it came to my hands. I shall be very glad 
 to find there are many guessed at for Emilia. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “If this paper has the good fortune to be ho¬ 
 nored with a place in your writings, I shall be the 
 more pleased, because the character of Emilia is 
 not an imaginary but a real one. I have indus¬ 
 triously obscured the whole by the addition of one 
 or two circumstances of no consequence, that the 
 person it is drawn from might still be concealed, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 370 
 
 and that the writer of it might not be in the least 
 suspected, and for some other reasons, I choose 
 not to give it in the form of a letter: but if, be¬ 
 side the faults of the composition, there be any¬ 
 thing in it more proper for a correspondent than 
 the Spectator himself to write, I submit it to your 
 better judgment, to receive any other model you 
 think fit. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your very humble Servant.” 
 
 There is nothing which gives ofie so pleasing a 
 prospect of human nature, as the contemplation 
 of wisdom and beauty: the latter is the peculiar 
 portion of that sex which is therefore called fair; 
 but the happy concurrence of both these excel¬ 
 lencies in the same person, is a character too celes¬ 
 tial to be frequently met with. Beauty is an over¬ 
 weening self-sufficient thing, careless of providing 
 itself any more substantial ornaments; nay, so 
 little does it consult its own interests, that it too 
 often defeats itself, by betraying that innocence, 
 which renders it lovely and desirable. As there¬ 
 fore virtue makes a beautiful woman appear more 
 beautiful, so beauty makes a virtuous woman 
 really more virtuous. While I am considering 
 these two perfections gloriously united in one per¬ 
 son, I Cannot help representing to my mind the 
 image of Emilia. 
 
 Who ever beheld the charming Emilia, without 
 feeling in his breast at once the glow of love, and 
 the tenderness of virtuous friendship? The un¬ 
 studied graces of her behavior, and the pleasing 
 accents of her tongue, insensibly draw you on to 
 wish for a nearer enjoyment of them; but even her 
 smiles carry in them a silent reproof to the im¬ 
 pulses of licentious love. Thus, though the at- 
 tractives of her beauty play almost irresistibly 
 upon you, and create desire, you immediately 
 stand corrected, not by the severity, but the de¬ 
 cency, of her virtue. That sweetness and good- 
 humor, which is so'visible in her face, naturally 
 diffuses itself into every word and action : a man 
 must be a savage, who, at the sight of Emilia, is 
 not more inclined to do her good, than gratify 
 himself. Her person as it is thus studiously em¬ 
 bellished by nature, thus adorned with unpreme¬ 
 ditated graces, is a fit lodging for a mind so 
 fair and lovely; there dwell rational piety, modest 
 hope, and cheerful resignation. 
 
 Many of the prevailing passions of mankind 
 do undeservedly pass under the name of religion; 
 which is thus made to express itself in action, ac¬ 
 cording to the nature of the constitution in which 
 it resides; so that were we to make a judgment 
 from appearances, one would imagine religion in 
 some is little better than sullenness and reserve, 
 in many fear, in others the despondings of a 
 melancholy complexion, in others the formality 
 of insignificant unaffecting observances, in others 
 severity, in others ostentation. In Emilia it is a 
 principle founded in reason, and enlivened with 
 hope; it does not break forth into irregular fits and 
 sallies of devotion, but it is a uniform and con¬ 
 sistent tenor of action; it is strict without severity; 
 compassionate without weakness; it is the perfec¬ 
 tion of that good-humor which proceeds from 
 the understanding, not the effect of an easy con¬ 
 stitution. 
 
 By a generous sympathy in nature, we feel our¬ 
 selves disposed to mourn when any of our fellow- 
 creatures are afflicted; but injured innocence and 
 beauty in distress is an object that carries in it 
 something inexpressibly moving; it softens the 
 most manly heart with the tenderest sensations 
 of love and compassion, until at length it con¬ 
 fesses its humanity, and flows out into tears. 
 
 Were I to relate that part of Emilia’s life which 
 has given her an opportunity of exerting the 
 heroism of Christianity, it would make too sad, 
 too .tender a story; but when I consider her alone 
 in the midst of her distresses, looking beyond 
 this gloomy vale of affliction and sorrow, into the 
 joys of heaven and immortality, and when I see 
 her in conversation thoughtless and easy, as if she 
 were the most happy creature in the world, I am 
 transported with aamiration. Surely never did 
 such a philosophic soul inhabit such a beauteous 
 form! For beauty is often made a privilege 
 against thought and reflection ; it laughs at 
 wisdom, and will not abide the gravity of its in¬ 
 structions. 
 
 Were I able to represent Emilia’s virtues in 
 their proper colors, and their due proportions, 
 love or flattery might perhaps be thought to have 
 drawn the picture larger than life; but as this is 
 but an imperfect draught of so excellent a charac¬ 
 ter, and as I cannot, I will not, hope to have any in¬ 
 terest in her person, all that I can say of her is but im¬ 
 partial praise extorted from me by the prevailing 
 brightness of her virtues. So rare a pattern of 
 female excellence ought not to be concealed, but 
 should be set out to the view and imitation of the 
 world; for how amiable does virtue appear thus, 
 as it were, made visible to us, in so fair an ex¬ 
 ample ! 
 
 Honoria’s disposition is of a very different turn: 
 her thoughts are wholly bent upon conquest and 
 arbitrary power. That she has some wit and 
 beauty nobody denies, and therefore has the esteem 
 of all her acquaintance as a woman of an agree¬ 
 able person and conversation; but (whatever her 
 husband may think of it) that is not sufficient for 
 Honoria: she waves that title to respect as a mean 
 acquisition, and demands veneration in the right 
 of an idol; for this reason, her natural desire of 
 life is continually checked with an inconstant 
 fear of wrinkles and old age. 
 
 Emilia cannot be supposed ignorant of her per¬ 
 sonal charms, though she seems to be so; but she 
 will not hold her happiness upon so precarious a 
 tenure, while her mind is adorned with beauties 
 of a more exalted and lasting nature. When in 
 the full bloom of youth and beauty we saw her 
 surrounded with a crowd of adorers, she took no 
 pleasure in slaughter and destruction, gave no 
 false deluding hopes which might increase the 
 torments of her disappointed lovers; but having 
 for some time given to the decency of a virgin 
 coyness, and examined the merit of their several 
 pretensions, she at length gratified her own, by 
 resigning herself to the ardent passion of Bromius. 
 Bromius was then master of many good qualities 
 and a moderate fortune, which was soon after un¬ 
 expectedly increased to a plentiful estate. This 
 for a good while proved his misfortunes, as it 
 furnished his inexperienced age with the oppor¬ 
 tunities of evil company, and a sensual life. He 
 might have longer wandered in the labyrinths of 
 vice and folly, had not Emilia’s prudent conduct 
 won him over to the government of his reason. 
 Her ingenuity has been constantly employed in 
 humanizing his passions, and refining his plea¬ 
 sures. She has showed him, by her own example, 
 that virtue is consistent with decent freedoms, 
 and good-humor, or rather that it cannot subsist 
 without them. Her good sense readily instructed 
 her, that a silent example, and an easy unrepining 
 behavior, will always be more persuasive than 
 the severity of lectures and admonitions; and that 
 there is so much pride interwoven into the make 
 of human nature, that an obstinate man must only 
 take the hint from another, aiid then be left to ad¬ 
 vise and correct himself. Thus by an artful train 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 of management, and unseen persuasions, having 
 at first brought him not to dislike, and at length to 
 be pleased with that which otherwise he would 
 not have borne to hear of, she then knew how to 
 press and secure this advantage; by approving it 
 as his thought, and seconding it as his proposal. 
 By this means she has gained an interest in some 
 ot his leading passions, and made them accessory 
 to his reformation. J 
 
 There is another particular of Emilia’s conduct 
 whicii I cannot forbear mentioning : to some, per¬ 
 haps, it may at first sight appear but a trifling in¬ 
 considerable circumstance; but, for my part, I 
 think it highly worthy of observation, and to be 
 recommended to the consideration of the fair sex. 
 I have often thought wrapping-gowns and dirty 
 linen, with all that huddled economy of dress 
 which passes under the name of “a mob,” the 
 bane of conjugal love, and one of the readiest 
 means imaginable to alienate the affection of a 
 husband, especially a fond one. I have heard 
 some ladies who have been surprised by company 
 in such a dishabille, apologize for it after this 
 manner: “ Truly, I am ashamed to be caught in 
 this pickle: but my husband and I were sitting all 
 alone by ourselves, and I did not expect to & see 
 such good company.” This, by the way, is a fine 
 compliment to the good man, which it is ten to 
 one but he returns in dogged answers and a 
 churlish behavior, without knowing what it is 
 that puts him out of humor. 
 
 . Emilia’s observation teaches her, that as little 
 inadvertencies and neglects cast a blemish upon a 
 great character ; so the neglect of apparel, even 
 among the most intimate friends, does insensibly 
 lessen their regards to each other, by creating a 
 familiarity too low and contemptible. She under¬ 
 stands the importance of those things which the 
 generality account trifles; and considers every¬ 
 thing as a matter of consequence that has the least 
 tendency toward keeping up or abating the affec¬ 
 tion of her husband: him she esteems as a fit ob¬ 
 ject to employ her ingenuity in pleasing, because 
 he is to be pleased for life. 
 
 By the help of these, afid a thousand other 
 nameless arts, which it is easier for her to practice 
 than for another to express, by the obstinacy of 
 her goodness and unprovoked submission, in spite 
 of all her afflictions and ill-usage, Bromius is 
 become a man of sense and a kind husband, and 
 Emilia a happy wife. 
 
 . Ye guardian angels, to whose care Heaven has 
 intrusted its dear Emilia, guide her still forward 
 in the paths of virtue, defend her from the inso¬ 
 lence and wrongs of this undiscerning world : at 
 length, when we must no more converse with such 
 purity on earth, lead her gently hence, innocent 
 and unreprovable, to a better place, where, by an 
 easy transition from what she now is, she may 
 shine forth an angel of light._T. 
 
 371 
 
 No. 303.] SATURDAY, FEB. 16, 1711-12. 
 
 -Volet haec sub luce videri, 
 
 Judicis argutum quae non formidat acumen. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 363. 
 
 -Some choose the clearest light, 
 
 And boldly challenge the most piercing eye. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 I have seen, in the works of a modern philoso¬ 
 pher, a map of the spots in the sun. My last 
 paper of the faults and blemishes in Milton’s 
 Paradise Lost may be considered as a piece of the 
 same nature. To pursue the illusion: as it is ob¬ 
 served that among the bright parts of the luminous 
 body above-mentioned there are some which glow 
 
 more intensely, and dart a stronger light than 
 vn 1S ’> SO ’ notwithstanding I have already shown 
 Milton s poem to be very beautiful in general, I 
 shall now proceed to take notice of such beauties 
 as appear to me more exquisite than the rest. 
 Milton has proposed the subject of his poem in 
 the following verses: 
 
 < >f man’s first disobedience, and the fruit 
 Ot that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 Brought death into the world and all our woe, 
 vv ith loss ot Eden, till one greater man 
 Restore us, and regain the blissful seat. 
 
 Sing, heavenly Muse! 
 
 These lines are, perhaps, as plain, simple, and 
 unadorned, as any of the whole poem, in which 
 particular the author has conformed himself to the 
 example of Homer, and the precept of Horace. 
 
 His invocation to a work which turns in a great 
 measure upon the creation of the world, is very 
 properly made to the Muse who inspired Moses in 
 those oooks from whence our author drew his sub¬ 
 ject, and to the Holy Spirit, who is therein repre¬ 
 sented as operating after a particular manner in 
 the first production of nature. This whole exor¬ 
 dium rises very happily into noble language and 
 sentiments, as I think the transition to the fable is 
 exquisitely beautiful and natural. 
 
 The nine days’ astonishment, in which the 
 angels lay entranced after their dreadful overthrow 
 and fall from heaven, before they could recover 
 either the use of thought or speech, is a noble cir¬ 
 cumstance, and very finely imagined. The divi¬ 
 sion of hell into seas of fire, and into firm ground 
 impregnated with the same furious element, with 
 that particular circumstance of the exclusion of 
 Hope from those infernal regions, are instances of 
 the same great and fruitful invention. 
 
 . The thoughts in the first speech and descrip¬ 
 tion of Satan, who is one of the principal actors 
 ill this poem, are wonderfully proper to give us a 
 full idea of him. His pride, envy, and revenge 
 obstinacy, despair, and impenitence, are all of 
 them very artfully interwoven. In short, his first 
 speech is a complication of all those passions 
 winch discover themselves separately in several 
 other of his speeches in the poem. The whole 
 part of this great enemy of mankind is filled Avith 
 such incidents, as are very apt to raise and terrify 
 the reader’s imagination. Of this nature, in the 
 book now before us, is his being the first that 
 awakens out of the general trance, with his pos- 
 tuie on the burning lake; his rising from it, and 
 the description of his shield and spear : 
 
 Tima Satan talking to his nearest mate, 
 
 With head up-lift above the wave, and eyes 
 That sparkling blaz'd, his other parts beside 
 Prone on the flood extended long and large 
 
 Lay floating many a rood- 
 
 Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool 
 His mighty stature; on each hand the flames 
 Driv’n backward slope their pointing spires, and roll’d 
 In billows, leave i’ th’ midst a horrid vale. 
 
 Then, with expanded wings he steers his flight 
 Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air 
 
 That felt unusual weight- 
 
 -Ilis pond’rous shield, 
 
 Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 
 
 Behind him cast; the broad circumference 
 Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
 Through optic glass the Tuscan artists view 
 At ev’ning from the top of Fesole, 
 
 Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 
 
 Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe. 
 
 His spear (to equal which the tallest pine ' 
 
 Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast 
 Of some great admiral, were but a wand) 
 
 He walk’d with, to support uneasy steps 
 Over the burning marl-- 
 
 To which we may add his call to the fallen 
 angels that lay plunged and stupified in the sea. 
 of fire: * 
 
 Ho call’d so loud, that all the hollow deep 
 Of hell resounded. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 372 
 
 But there is no single passage in the whole 
 poem worked up to a greater sublimity, than that 
 wherein his person is described in those celebrated 
 lines : 
 
 -He above the rest 
 
 # In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 
 Stood like a tower, etc. 
 
 His sentiments are every way answerable to his 
 character, and suitable to a created being of the 
 most exalted and most depraved nature. Such is 
 that in which he takes possession of his place of 
 torments : 
 
 -Hail, horrors! hail, 
 
 Infernal world! and thou, profoundest hell, 
 
 Receive thy new possessor, one who brings 
 A mind not to be chang’d by place or time. 
 
 And afterward: 
 
 -Here at least 
 
 We shall be free! th’ Almighty hath not built 
 Here for his envy; will not drive us hence: 
 
 Here we may reign secure; and in my choice 
 To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; 
 
 Better to reign in hell, than serve in heav’n. 
 
 Amidst those impieties which this enraged 
 spirit utters in other places of the poem, the 
 author has taken care to introduce none that is not 
 big with absurdity, and incapable of shocking a 
 religious reader; his words, as the poet himself 
 describes them, bearing only a “ semblance of 
 worth, not substance.” He is, likewise, with 
 great art described as owning his adversary to be 
 Almighty. Whatever perverse interpretation he 
 puts on the justice, mercy, and other attributes of 
 the Supreme Being, he frequently confesses his 
 omnipotence, that being the perfection he was 
 forced to allow him, and the only consideration 
 which could support his pride under the shame of 
 his defeat. 
 
 Nor must I here omit that beautiful circumstance 
 of his bursting out into tears, upon his survey 
 of those innumerable spirits whom he had in¬ 
 volved in the same guilt and ruin with himself: 
 
 -He now prepar’d 
 
 To speak: whereat their doubled ranks they bend 
 From wing to wing, and half inclose him round 
 With all his peers: Attention held them mute. 
 
 Thrice he essay’d, and thrice, in spite of scorn, 
 
 Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth- 
 
 The catalogue of evil spirits has abundance of 
 learning in it, and a very agreeable turn of poetry, 
 which rises in a great measure from its describing 
 the places where they were worshiped, by those 
 beautiful marks of rivers so frequent among the 
 ancient poets. The author had, doubtless, in this 
 place Homer’s catalogue of ships, and Virgil’s list 
 of warriors, in his view. The characters of Mo¬ 
 loch and Belial prepare the reader’s mind for 
 their respective speeches and behavior in the sec¬ 
 ond and sixth books. The account of Thammuz 
 is finely romantic, and suitable to what we read 
 among the ancients of the worship which was 
 paid to that idol; 
 
 *--Thammuz came next behind, 
 
 Whose annual wound in Lebanon allur’d 
 The Syrian damsels to lament his fate 
 In am’rous ditties all a summer’s day; 
 
 While smooth Adonis from his native rock 
 Ran purple to the sea, suppos’d with blood 
 Of Thammuz yearly wounded: the love tale 
 Infected Sion’s daughter with like heat, 
 
 Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch 
 Ezekiel saw; when, by the vision led, 
 
 His eyes survey’d the dark idolatries 
 Of alienated Judah- 
 
 * This quotation from Milton, and the paragraph immedi¬ 
 ately following it were not in the first publication of this paper 
 in folio. 
 
 The reader will pardon me if I insert as a note 
 on this beautiful passage, the account given us by 
 the late ingenious Mr. Maundrell of this ancient 
 piece of worship, and probably the first occasion 
 of such a superstition. u We came to a fair large 
 river; doubtless the ancient river Adonis, as fa¬ 
 mous for the idolatrous rites performed here in la¬ 
 mentation of Adonis. We had the fortune to see 
 what may be supposed to be the occasion of that 
 opinion which Lucian relates concerning this 
 river, viz: That this stream, at certain seasons of 
 the year, especially about the feast of Adonis, is 
 of a bloody color; which the heathens looked 
 upon as proceeding from a kind of sympathy in 
 the river for the death of Adonis, who was killed 
 by a wild boar in the mountains, out of which 
 this stream rises. Something like this we saw ac¬ 
 tually come to pass; for the water was stained to 
 a surprising redness: and, as we observed in tra¬ 
 veling, had discolored the sea a great way into a 
 reddish hue, occasioned doubtless by a sort of 
 minium, or red earth, washed into the river by the 
 violence of the rain, and not by any stain from 
 Adonis’s blood.” 
 
 The passage in the catalogue, explaining the 
 manner how spirits transform themselves by con¬ 
 traction or enlargement of their dimensions, is in¬ 
 troduced with great judgment, to make way for 
 several surprising accidents in the sequel of the 
 poem. There follows one at the very end of the 
 first book, which is what the French critics call 
 marvelous, but at the same time probable, by rea¬ 
 son of the passage last mentioned. As soon as the 
 infernal palace is finished, we are told the multi¬ 
 tude ana rabble of spirits immediately shrunk 
 themselves into a small compass, that there might 
 be room for such a numberless assembly in this 
 capacious hall. But it is the poet’s refinement 
 upon this thought which I most admire, and which 
 indeed is very noble in itself. For he tells us, 
 that notwithstanding the vulgar among the fallen 
 spirits contracted their forms, those of the first 
 rank and dignity still preserved their natural di¬ 
 mensions: 
 
 Thus incorporeal spirits to smallest forms 
 Reduc’d their shapes immense, and were at large, 
 Though without number, still amidst the hall 
 Of that infernal court. But far within, 
 
 And in their own dimensions like themselves, 
 
 The great seraphic lords and cherubim 
 In close recess and secret conclave sat, 
 
 A thousand demi-gods on golden seats, 
 
 Frequent and full- 
 
 The character of Mammon, and the description 
 of the Pandsemonium, are full of beauties. 
 
 There are several other strokes in the first book 
 wonderfully poetical, and instances of that sub¬ 
 lime genius so peculiar to the author. Such is 
 the description of Azazel’s stature, and the infer¬ 
 nal standard which he unfurls; as also of that 
 ghastly light by which the fiends appear to one 
 another in their place of torments : 
 
 The seat of desolation, void of light, 
 
 Save what the glimm’ring of those livid flames 
 Casts pale and dreadful- 
 
 The shout of the whole host of fallen angels 
 when drawn up in battle array: 
 
 -The universal host up sent 
 
 A shout that tore hell’s concave, and beyond 
 Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night. 
 
 The review, which the leader makes of his in 
 fernal army: 
 
 -He through the armed files 
 
 Darts his experienc’d eye, and soon traverse 
 
the spectator. 
 
 Tho whole battalion views, their order due 
 Their visages and stature as of gods, 
 
 Their number last he sums; and now his heart 
 Distends with pride, and hard’ning in his strength 
 Glories- ° 
 
 The flash of light which appeared upon the 
 drawing of their swords : 
 
 He spalce; and to confirm his words out flew 
 Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
 Ot mighty cherubim; the sudden blaze 
 Far round illumin’d hell. 
 
 The sudden production of the Pandaemonium : 
 
 Anon out of the earth a fabric huge 
 Dose like an exhalation, with the sound 
 Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet. 
 
 The artificial illuminations made in it; 
 
 -From the arch’d roof 
 
 Pendent by subtile magic, many a row 
 Of starry lamps and blazing cressets,* fed 
 With Naphtha and Asphaltus, yielded light 
 As from a sky.-- 
 
 . There are also several noble similes and allu¬ 
 sions in the first book of Paradise Lost. And here 
 I must observe, that when Milton alludes either to 
 things or persons, he never quits his simile until 
 it rises to some very great idea, which is often 
 foreign to the occasion that gave birth to it. The 
 resemblance does not, perhaps, last above a line 
 or two, but the poet runs on with the hint until 
 he has raised out of it some glorious image or 
 sentiment, pi oper to inflame the mind of the reader, 
 and to give it that sublime kind of entertain¬ 
 ment which is suitable to the nature of an heroic 
 poem. Those who are acquainted with Homer’s 
 and Virgil’s way of writing, cannot but be 
 pleased with this kind of structure in Milton’s 
 similitudes. I am the more particular on this 
 head, because ignorant readers, who have formed 
 their taste upon the quaint similes and little turns 
 of wit, which are so much in vogue among modern 
 poets, cannot relish these beauties, which are of a 
 much higher nature, and are therefore apt to cen¬ 
 sure Milton’s comparisons, in which they do not 
 see any surprising points of likeness. Monsieur 
 Perrault was a man ot this vitiated relish, and for 
 that very reason has endeavored to turn into ridi¬ 
 cule several of Homer’s similitudes, which he 
 calls “ comparaisons a longue queue,” “ long-tailed 
 comparisons.” I shall conclude this paper on the 
 first book of Milton with the answer which Mon¬ 
 sieur Boileau makes to Perrault on this occasion; 
 
 “ Comparisons,” says he, “ in odes and epic poems, 
 are not introduced only to illustrate and embellish 
 the discourse, but to amuse and relax the mind of 
 the reader, by frequently disengaging him from 
 too paintul an attention to the principal subject, 
 and by leading him into other agreeable images. 
 Homer,, says he, excelled in this particular, whose 
 comparisons abound with such images of nature 
 as are proper to relieve and diversify his subjects. 
 He continually instructs the reader, and makes 
 him take notice, even in objects which are every 
 day betore his eyes, of such circumstances as he 
 should not otherwise have observed. To this he 
 adds, .as a maxim universally acknowledged, 
 
 “ that it is not necessary in poetry for the points 
 of the comparison to correspond with one another 
 exactly, but that a general resemblance is suffi¬ 
 cient, and that too much nicety in this particular 
 savors of the rhetorician and epigrammatist. 
 
 In short, if Ave look into the conduct of Homer 
 Virgil, and Milton, as the great fable is the soul 
 
 * Cresset, i. e., a blazing light set on a beacon, in French 
 “croisette,” because beacons formerly had crosses on their 
 
 tops.—J ohnson. 
 
 373 
 
 of each poem, so to give their works an agreeable 
 variety, their episodes are so many short fables, 
 and their similes so many short episodes; to 
 which you may add, if you please, that their meta¬ 
 phors are so many short similes. If the reader 
 considers the comparisons in the first book of Mil- 
 ton, of the sun in an eclipse, of the sleeping levi- 
 athan, of the bees swarming about their hive of 
 the fairy dance, in the view wherein 1 have here 
 placed them, lie will easily discover the great 
 beauties that are in each of those passages.-_L. 
 
 Ho. 304.J MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1711-12. 
 
 \ ulnus alit venis et casco carpitur igni. 
 
 VlRU. JEn., iv, 2. 
 
 A latent fire preys on bis feverish veins. 
 
 The circumstances of my correspondent, whose 
 letter I now insert, are so frequent, that I cannot 
 Avant compassion so much as to forbear laying it 
 before the town. There is something so mean 
 and inhuman in a direct Smithfield bargain for 
 children, that if this lover carries his point, and 
 observes the rules he pretends to follow, I do not 
 only wish him success, but also that it may ani¬ 
 mate others to follow his example. I know not 
 one motive relating to this life which could pro¬ 
 duce so many honorable and worthy actions, as 
 the hopes of obtaining a woman of merit. There 
 would ten thousand Avays of industry and honest 
 ambition be pursued by young men, who believed 
 that the persons admired had value enough for 
 then passion to attend the event of their °’ood 
 fortune in all their applications, in order to make 
 their circumstances fall in with the duties they 
 owe to themselves, their families, and their coun¬ 
 try. All these relations a man should think of 
 Avho intends to go into the state of marriage, and 
 expects to make it a state of pleasure and satis¬ 
 faction. 
 
 “Me. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have for some years indulged a passion for a 
 young lady of age and quality suitable to my own, 
 but very much superior in fortune. It is the 
 fashion Avitli paients (how justly I leave you to 
 judge) to make all regards give way to the ar¬ 
 ticle of wealth. From this one consideration 
 it is, that I have concealed the ardent love I 
 liav e for her; but I am beholden to the force of 
 my love for many advantages which I reaped from 
 it toward the better conduct of my life. A certain 
 complacency to all the world, a strong desire to 
 oblige wherever it lay in my power, and a cir¬ 
 cumspect behavior in all my Avords and actions, 
 have rendered me more particularly acceptable to 
 all my friends and acquaintance. Love has had 
 the same good effect upon my fortune, and I have 
 increased in riches, in proportion to my advance¬ 
 ment in those arts which make a man agreeable 
 and amiable. There is a certain sympathy which 
 av ill tell my mistress from these circumstances, 
 that it is I who wrote this for her reading, if you 
 Avill please to insert it. Ihere is not a downright 
 enmity, but. a great coldness between our parents; 
 so that if either of us declared any kind senti¬ 
 ments foi each other, her friends Avould be very 
 backward to lay an obligation upon our family, 
 and mine, to receive it from hers. Under these 
 delicate circumstances it is no easy matter to act 
 with safety. I have no reason to fancy my mis¬ 
 tress has any regard for me, but from a very dis¬ 
 interested value which I have for her. If from 
 any hint in any future paper of yours she gives 
 me the least encouragement, I doubt not but I 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 374 
 
 shall surmount all other difficulties; and inspired 
 by 60 noble a motive for the care of my fortune, 
 as the belief she is to be concerned in it, I will 
 not despair of receiving her one day from her 
 father’s own hand. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Clytander.” 
 
 “To his Worship the Spectator. 
 
 “ The humble petition of Anthony Title-page, 
 stationer, in the center of Lincoln’s-inn-fields. 
 
 “ Showeth, 
 
 “ That your petitioner and his forefathers, have 
 been sellers of books for time immemorial: that 
 your petitioner’s ancestor, Crouchback Title-page, 
 was the first of that vocation in Britain; who 
 keeping his station (in fair weather) at the corner 
 of Lothbury, was, by way of eminency, called 
 ‘The Stationer,’ a name which from him all suc¬ 
 ceeding booksellers have affected to bear: that the 
 station of your petitioner and his father has been 
 in the place of his present settlement ever since 
 that square has been built: that your petitioner 
 has formerly had the honor of your worship’s 
 custom, and hopes you never had reason to com¬ 
 plain of your pennyworths : that particularly he 
 sold you your first Lilly’s Grammar, and at the 
 same time a Wit’s Commonwealth, almost as good 
 as new: moreover, that your first rudimental 
 essays in spectatorship were made in your peti¬ 
 tioner’s shop, w'here you often practiced for hours 
 together, sometimes on the little hieroglyphics 
 either gilt, silvered, or plain, which the Egyptian 
 woman on the other side of the shop had wrought 
 in gingerbread, and sometimes on the English 
 youths who in sundry places there were exer¬ 
 cising themselves in the traditional sports of the 
 field. 
 
 “ From these considerations it is; that your pe¬ 
 titioner is encouraged to apply himself to you, 
 and to proceed humbly to acquaint your worship, 
 that he has certain intelligence that you receive 
 great numbers of defamatory letters designed by 
 their authors to be published, wdiich you throw 
 aside and totally neglect: Your petitioner there¬ 
 fore prays, that you will please to bestow on him 
 those refuse letters, and he hopes by printing 
 them to get a more plentiful provision for his 
 family; or, at the worst, he may be allowed to 
 sell them by the pound weight to his good cus¬ 
 tomers the pastry-cooks of London and West¬ 
 minster. 
 
 “And your Petitioner shall ever pray,” etc. 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “ The humble petition of Bartholomew Ladylove, 
 of Round-court, in the parish of St. Martin’s 
 in the Fields, in behalf of himself and neigh¬ 
 bors. b 
 
 “Showeth, 
 
 “ That your petitioners have, with great indus¬ 
 try and application, arrived at the most exact art 
 of invitation or entreaty: that by a beseeching air 
 and persuasive address, they have for many years 
 last past peaceably draw T n in every tenth passen¬ 
 ger, whether they intended or not to call at their 
 shops, to come in and buy; and from that softness 
 of behavior have arrived among tradesmen at the 
 gentle appellation of ‘The Fawners.’ 
 
 “ That there have of late set up among us cer¬ 
 tain persons from Monmouth street and Long-lane, 
 who by the strength of their arms, and loudness 
 
 of their throats, draw off the regard of all pas¬ 
 sengers from your said petitioners ; from which 
 violence they are distinguished by the name of 
 ‘The Worriers.’ 
 
 “ That while your petitioners stand ready to re¬ 
 ceive passengers with a submissive bow, and 
 repeat with a gentle voice, ‘ Ladies, what do you 
 want? pray look in here;’ the worriers reach out 
 their hands at pistol-shot, and seize the customers 
 at arms’ length. 
 
 “ That while the fawners strain and relax the 
 muscles of their faces, in making a distinction be¬ 
 tween a spinster in a colored scarf and a hand¬ 
 maid in a straw hat, the worriers use the same 
 roughness to both, and prevail upon the easiness 
 of the passengers, to the impoverishment of your 
 petitioners. 
 
 “Your petitioners therefore most humbly pray, 
 that the worriers may not be permitted to inhabit 
 the politer parts of the town; and that Round- 
 court may remain a receptacle for buyers of a 
 more soft education. 
 
 “And your Petitioners,” etc. 
 
 *** The petition of the New-exchange, concern¬ 
 ing the arts of buying and selling, and particu¬ 
 larly valuing goods, by the complexion of the 
 seller, will be considered on another occasion.—T. 
 
 No. 305.] TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 1711-12. 
 
 Non tali auxilio, nec defensoribus istis 
 
 Tempus eget.- Virg. jEn., ii, 521. 
 
 These times want other aids.—D ryden. 
 
 Our late newspapers being full of the project 
 now on foot in the court of France for establish¬ 
 ing a political academy, and I myself having re¬ 
 ceived letters from several virtuosos among my 
 foreign correspondents, which give some light 
 into that affair, I intend to make it the subject of 
 this day’s speculation. A general account of this 
 project may be met with in the Daily Courant of 
 last Friday, in the following words, translated 
 from the Gazette of Amsterdam : 
 
 Paris, February 12. “It is confirmed, that the 
 King has resolved to establish a new academy for 
 politics, of "which the Marquis de Torcy, minister 
 and secretary of state, is to be protector. Six 
 academicians are to be chosen, endowed with pro¬ 
 per talents, for beginning to form this academy, 
 into which no person is to be admitted under 
 twenty-five years of age: they must likewise have 
 each an estate of t"wo thousand livres a year, either 
 in possession, or to come to them by inheritance. 
 The King will allow to each a pension of a thou¬ 
 sand livres. They are likewise to have able mas¬ 
 ters to teach them the necessary sciences, and to 
 instruct them in all the treaties of peace, alliance, 
 and others, "which have been made in several ages 
 past. These members are to meet twice a week 
 at the Louvre. From this seminary are to be 
 chosen secretaries to embassies, wdio by degrees 
 may advance to higher employments.” 
 
 Cardinal Richelieu’s politics made France the 
 terror of Europe. The statesmen who have ap¬ 
 peared in that nation of late years have, on the 
 contrary, rendered it either the pity or contempt 
 of its neighbors. The cardinal erected that 
 famous academy which has carried all the parts 
 of polite learning to the greatest height. His 
 chief design in that institution "was to divert the 
 men of genius from meddling with politics, a pro¬ 
 vince in which he did not care to have any one 
 else interfere with him. On the contrary, the 
 Marquis de Torcy seems resolved to make several 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 375 
 
 young men in France as wise as himself, and is 
 therefore taken up at present in establishing a 
 nursery of statesmen. 
 
 Some private letters add, that there will also be 
 erected a seminary of petticoat politicians, who 
 are to be brought up at the feet of Madame de 
 Maiutenon, and to be dispatched into foreign 
 courts upon any emergencies of state: but as the 
 news of this last project has not been yet confirm¬ 
 ed, I shall take no further notice of it. 
 
 Several of my readers may doubtless remember 
 that upon the conclusion of the last war, which 
 had been carried on so successfully by the enemy, 
 their generals were many of them transformed into 
 ambassadors; but the conduct of those who have 
 commanded in the present war, has it seems, 
 brought so little honor and advantage to their 
 great monarch, that he is resolved to trust .his af¬ 
 fairs no longer in the hands of those military gen¬ 
 tlemen. 
 
 The regulations of this new academy very 
 much deserve our attention. The students are to 
 have in possession or reversion, an estate of two 
 thousand French livres per annum, which, as the 
 present exchange runs, will amount to at least one 
 hundred and twenty-six pounds English. This, 
 with the royal allowance of a thousand livres, 
 will enable them to find themselves in coffee and 
 snuff; not to mention newspapers, pens and ink, 
 wax and wafers, with the like necessaries for 
 politicians. 
 
 A man must be at least five-and-twenty before 
 he can be initiated into the mysteries of this aca¬ 
 demy, though there is no question but many 
 rave persons of a much more advanced age, who 
 ave been constant readers of the Paris Gazette, 
 will be glad to begin the world anew, and enter 
 themselves upon this list of politicians. 
 
 The society of these hopeful young gentlemen 
 is to be under the direction of six professors, who, 
 it seems, are to be speculative statesmen, and 
 drawn out of the body of the royal academy. 
 These six wise masters, according to my private 
 letters, are to have the following parts allotted to 
 them. 
 
 The first is to instruct the students in state 
 legerdemain; as how to take off the impression 
 of a seal, to split a wafer, to open a letter, to fold 
 it up again, with other the like ingenious feats of 
 dexterity and art. When the students have ac¬ 
 complished themselves in this part of their pro¬ 
 fession, they are to be delivered into the hands of 
 their second instructor, who is a kind of posture- 
 master. 
 
 This artist is to teach them how to nod judi¬ 
 ciously, to shrug up their shoulders in a dubious 
 case, to connive with either eye, and in a word, 
 the whole practice of political grimace. 
 
 The third is a sort of language-master, who is 
 to instruct them in a style proper for a minister 
 in his ordinary discourse. And to the end that 
 this college of statesmen may be thoroughly prac¬ 
 ticed in the political style, they are to make use 
 of it in their common conversations, before they 
 are employed either in foreign or domestic affairs. 
 If one of them asks another what o’clock it is, the 
 other is to answer him indirectly, and, if possi¬ 
 ble, to turn off the question. If he is desired to 
 change a louisd’or, he must beg time to consider 
 of it. If it be inquired of him whether the King 
 is at Versailles or Marly, he must answer in a 
 whisper. If he be asked thq news of the last Ga¬ 
 zette, or the subject of a proclamation, lie is to 
 reply that he has not yet read it; or if he does not 
 care for explaining himself so far, he needs only 
 draw up his brow in wrinkles, or elevate the left 
 shoulder. 
 
 The fourth professor is to teach the whole art 
 of political characters and hieroglyphics; and to 
 the end that they may be perfect also in this prac¬ 
 tice, they are not to send a note to one another 
 (though it be but to borrow a Tacitus or a Maclii- 
 avel) which is not written in cipher. 
 
 Their fifth professor, it is thought, will be 
 chosen out of the society of Jesuits, and is to be 
 well read in the controversies of probable doc¬ 
 trines, mental reservation, and the rights of prin¬ 
 ces. This learned man is to instruct them in the 
 grammar, syntax, and construing part of Treaty 
 Latin; how to distinguish between the spirit and 
 the letter, and likewise demonstrate how the same 
 form of jvords may lay an obligation upon any 
 prince in Europe, different from that which it lays 
 upon his most Christian Majesty. He is likewise 
 to teach them the art of finding flaws, loop-holes, 
 and evasions in the most solemn compacts, and 
 particularly a great rabbinical secret, revived of 
 late years by the fraternity of Jesuits, namely, 
 that contradictory interpretations of the same arti¬ 
 cle may both of them be true and valid. 
 
 When our statesmen are sufficiently improved 
 by these several instructors, they are to receive 
 their last polishing from one who is to act among 
 them as master of the ceremonies. This gentle¬ 
 man is to give them lectures upon the important 
 points of the elbow-chair and the stair-head, to 
 instruct them in the different situations of the 
 right hand, and to furnish them with bows and 
 inclinations of all sizes, measures, and propor¬ 
 tions. In short, this professor is to give the soci¬ 
 ety their stiffening, and infuse into their manners 
 that beautiful political starch, which may qualify 
 them for levees, conferences, visits, and make 
 them shine in what vulgar minds are apt to look 
 upon as trifles. 
 
 I have not yet heard any further particulars, 
 which are to be observed in this society of un¬ 
 fledged statesmen; but I must confess, had I a son 
 of five-and-twenty, that should take it into his 
 head at that age to set up for a politician, I think 
 I should go near to disinherit him for a blockhead. 
 Beside, I should be apprehensive lest the same 
 arts which are to enable him to negotiate between 
 potentates, might a little infect his ordinary beha¬ 
 vior between man and man. There is no question 
 but these young Machiavels will in a little time 
 turn their college upside down with plots and 
 stratagems, and lay as many schemes to circum¬ 
 vent one another in a frog or a salad, as they may 
 hereafter put in practice to overreach a neighbor¬ 
 ing prince or state. 
 
 We are told that the Spartans?, though they pun¬ 
 ished theft in the young men when it was disco¬ 
 vered, looked upon it as honorable if it succeeded. 
 Provided the conveyance was clean and unsus¬ 
 pected, a youth might afterward boast of it. This, 
 say the historians, was to keep them sharp, and 
 to hinder them from being imposed upon, either 
 in their public or private negotiations. Whether 
 any such relaxations of morality, such little jeux 
 d’esprit, ought not to be allowed in this intended 
 seminary of politicians, I shall leave to the wis¬ 
 dom of their founder. 
 
 In the meantime, we have fair warning given 
 us by this doughty body of statesmen: and as 
 Sylla saw many Mariuses in Caesar, so I think we 
 may discover many Torcys in this college of aca¬ 
 demicians. Whatever we think of ourselves, I 
 am afraid neither our Smyrna nor St. James’s will 
 be a match for it. Our coffee-houses are, indeed, 
 very good institutions; but whether or no these 
 our British schools of politics may furnish out as 
 able envoys and secretaries as an academy that is 
 set apart for that purpose will deserve our serious 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 376 
 
 consideration, especially if we remember that our 
 country is more famous for producing men of in¬ 
 tegrity than statesmen; and that, on the contrary, 
 French truth and British policy make a conspicu¬ 
 ous figure in nothing: as the Earl of Rochester 
 has very well observed in his admirable poem upon 
 that barren subject.—L. 
 
 No. 306.] WEDNESDAY, FEB. 20, 1711-12. 
 
 -Quae forma, ut se tibi semper 
 
 Imputet?- Juv., Sat. vi, 177. 
 
 What beauty, or what chastity, can bear • 
 
 So great a price, if stately and severe 
 She still insults?—D kyden. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I write this to communicate to you a misfor¬ 
 tune which frequently happens, and therefore de¬ 
 serves a consolatory discourse on the subject. I 
 was within this half-year in the possession of as 
 much beauty and as many lovers as any young 
 lady in England. But my admirers have left me, 
 and I cannot complain of their behavior. I have 
 within that time had the small-pox : and this face, 
 which (according to many amorous epistles which 
 I have by me) was the seat of all that is beautiful 
 in woman, is now disfigured with scars. It goes 
 to the very soul of me to speak what I really 
 think of my face; and though I think I did not 
 overrate my beauty while I had it, it has ex¬ 
 tremely advanced in its value with me, now it is 
 lost. There is one circumstance which makes my 
 case very particular; the ugliest fellow that ever 
 retended to me, was and is most in my favor, and 
 e treats me at present the most unreasonably. If 
 you could make him return an obligation which he 
 owes me, in liking a person that is not amiable. But 
 there is, I fear, no possibility of making passion 
 move by the rules of reason and gratitude. But say 
 what you can to one who has survived herself, 
 and knows not how to act in a new being. My 
 lovers are at the feet of my rivals, my rivals are 
 every day bewailing me, and I cannot enjoy what 
 I am, by reason of the distracting reflection upon 
 what I was. Consider the woman I was did not 
 die of old age, but I was taken off in the prime of 
 youth, and according to the course of nature may 
 have forty years after-life to come. I have nothing 
 of myself left which I like, but that 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 # “ Parthenissa.” 
 
 When Louis of France had lost the battle of 
 Ramilies, the addresses to him at that time were 
 full of his fortitude, and they turned his misfor¬ 
 tune to his glory; in that, during his prosperity, 
 he could never have manifested his heroic con¬ 
 stancy under distresses, and so the world had lost 
 the most eminent part of his character. Parthe- 
 nissa’s condition gives her the same opportunity: 
 and to resign conquests is a task as difficult in a 
 beauty as a hero. In the very entrance upon this 
 work she must burn all her love-letters; or since 
 she is so candid as not to call her lovers, who fol¬ 
 low her no longer, unfaithful, it would be a very 
 good beginning of a new life from that of a 
 beauty, to send them back to those who wrote 
 them, with this honest inscription, “ Articles of a 
 marriage treaty broken off by the small-pox.” I 
 have known but one instance where a matter of 
 this kind went on after a like misfortune, where 
 the lady, who was a woman of spirit, wrote this 
 billet to her lover:— 
 
 Sir, 
 
 “ If you flattered me before I had this terrible 
 malady, pray come and see me now: but if you 
 sincerely liked me, stay away, for I am not the 
 same 
 
 “ CORINNA.” 
 
 The lover thought there was something so 
 sprightly in her behavior, that he answered: 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ I am not obliged since you are not the same 
 woman, to let you know whether I flattered you or 
 not; but I assure you I do not, when I tell you I 
 now like you above all your sex, and hope you 
 will bear what may befall me when we are both 
 one, as well as you do what happens to yourself 
 now you are single; therefore I am ready to take 
 such a spirit for my companion as soon as you 
 please. 
 
 “ Amilcar.” 
 
 If Parthenissa can now possess her own mind 
 and think as little of her beauty as she ought to 
 have done when she had it, there will be no great 
 diminution of her charms; and if she was for¬ 
 merly affected too much with them, an easy beha¬ 
 vior will more than make up for the loss of them. 
 Take the whole sex together, and you find those 
 who have the strongest possession of men’s hearts 
 are not eminent for their beauty. You see it often 
 happen that those who engage men to the greatest 
 violence, are such as those who are strangers to 
 them would take to be remarkably defective for 
 that end. The fondest lover I know, said to me 
 one day in a crowd of women at an entertainment 
 of music, “ You have often heard me talk of my 
 beloved; that woman there,”continued he, smiling, 
 when he had fixed my eve, “ is her very picture.” 
 The lady he showed me was by much the least re¬ 
 markable for beauty of any in the whole assembly; 
 but having my curiosity extremely raised, I could 
 not keep my eyes oft’ her. Her eyes at last met 
 mine, and with a sudden surprise she looked 
 round her to see who near her was remarkably 
 handsome that I was gazing at. This little act 
 explained the secret. She did not understand her¬ 
 self for the object of love, and therefore she was 
 so. The lover is a very honest, plain man; and 
 what charmed him was a person that goes along 
 with him in the cares and joys of life, not taken 
 up with herself, but sincerely attentive, with a 
 ready and cheerful mind, to accompany him in 
 either. 
 
 I can tell Parthenissa for her comfort, that the 
 beauties, generally speaking, are the most imper 
 tinent and disagreeable of women. An apparent 
 desire of admiration, a reflection upon their own 
 merit, and a precise behavior in their general con 
 duct, are almost inseparable accidents in beauties. 
 All you obtain of them, is granted to importunity 
 and solicitation for what did not deserve so mucn 
 of your time, and you recover from the possession 
 of it as out of a dream. 
 
 You are ashamed of the vagaries of fancy which 
 so strangely misled you, and your admiration of a 
 beauty, merely as such, is inconsistent with a tol¬ 
 erable reflection upon yourself. The cheerful 
 good-humored creatures, into whose heads it 
 never entered that they could make any man un¬ 
 happy, are the persons formed for making men 
 happy. There is Miss Liddy can dance a jig, 
 raise paste, write a good hand, keep an account, 
 give a reasonable answer, and do as she is bid; 
 while her eldest sister, Madam Martha, is out of 
 humor, has the spleen, learns by reports of people 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 of higher quality new ways of being uneasy and 
 displeased; and this happens for no reason in the 
 world, but that poor Liddy knows she has no such 
 thing as a certain negligence that is so becoming; 
 that there is not I know not what in her airj and 
 that if she talks like a fool, there is no one will 
 say, “Well! I know not what it is, but every¬ 
 thing pleases when she speaks it.” 
 
 Ask any of the husbands of your great beauties, 
 and they will tell you that they hate their wives 
 nine hours of every day they pass together. There 
 is such a particularity forever affected by them 
 that they are encumbered with their charms in all 
 they say or do. They pray at public devotions as 
 they are beauties. They converse on ordinary oc¬ 
 casions as they are beauties. Ask Belinda what 
 it is o’clock, and she is at a stand whether so 
 great a beauty should answer you. In a word, I 
 think, instead of offering to administer consola¬ 
 tion to Parthenissa, I should congratulate her me¬ 
 tamorphosis; and however she thinks she was not 
 the least insolent in the prosperity of her charms, 
 she was enough so to find she may make herself a 
 much more agreeable creature in her present ad¬ 
 versity. The endeavor to please is highly promo¬ 
 ted by a consciousness that the approbation of the 
 person you would be agreeable to, is a favor you 
 do not deserve; for in this case assurance of suc¬ 
 cess is the most certain way to disappointment. 
 Good-nature will always supply the absence of 
 beauty, but beauty cannot long supply the absence 
 of good-nature. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 “Madam, February 18.- 
 
 “ I have yours of this day, wherein you twice 
 bid me not disoblige you, but you must explain 
 yourself further, before I know what to do. 
 
 “ Your most obedient Servant, 
 
 T. “The Spectator.” 
 
 Ho. 307.] THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 1711-12. 
 
 -Versate diu, quid ferre recusent, 
 
 Quid valeant humeri.- 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 39. 
 
 -Often try what weight you can support, 
 
 And what your shoulders are too weak to bear. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 I am so well pleased with the following letter, 
 that I am in hopes it will not be a disagreeable 
 present to the public:— 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Though I believe none of your readers more 
 admire your agreeable manner of working up 
 trifles than myself, yet as your speculations are 
 now swelling into volumes, and will in all proba¬ 
 bility pass down to future ages, methinks I would 
 have no single subject in them, wherein the ge¬ 
 neral good of mankind is concerned, left unfi¬ 
 nished. 
 
 “ 1 have a long time expected with great impa¬ 
 tience that you would enlarge upon the ordinary 
 mistakes which are committed in the education of 
 our children. I the more easily flattered myself 
 that you would one time or other resume this con¬ 
 sideration, because you tell us that your 168th 
 paper was only composed of a few broken hints ; 
 but finding myself hitherto disappointed, I have 
 ventured to send you my own thoughts on this 
 subject. 
 
 “ I remember Pericles, in his famous oration at 
 the funeral of those Athenian young men who per¬ 
 ished in the Samian expedition, has a thought 
 very much celebrated by several ancient critics, 
 
 377 
 
 namely, that the loss which the commonwealth 
 suffered by the destruction of its youth, was like 
 the loss which the year would suffer by the de¬ 
 struction of the spring. The prejudice which the 
 public sustains from a wrong education of child- 
 len, is an evil of the same nature, as it in a man¬ 
 ner starves posterity, and defrauds our country of 
 those persons, who, with due care, might make 
 an eminent figure in their respective posts of life. 
 
 1 have seen a book written by Juan Huartes, a 
 Spanish physician, entitled Examen de Ingenios, 
 wherein he lays it down as one of his first posi¬ 
 tions, that nothing but nature can qualify a man 
 for leai ning; and that without a proper tempera¬ 
 ment for the particular art or science which he 
 studies, his utmost pains and application, assisted 
 by the ablest masters, will be to no purpose. 
 
 “He illustrates this by the example of Tully’s 
 son Marcus. J 
 
 “Cicero, in order to accomplish his son in that 
 sort of learning which he designed him for, sent 
 him to Athens, the most celebrated academy at 
 that time in the world, and where a vast concourse, 
 out of the most polite nations, could not but 
 furnish the young gentleman with a multitude of 
 great examples and accidents that might insen¬ 
 sibly have instructed him in his designed studies. 
 He placed him under the care of Cratippus, who 
 was one of the greatest philosophers of the age, 
 and as if all the books which were at that time 
 written had not been sufficient for his use, he com¬ 
 posed others on purpose for him: notwithstanding 
 all this, history informs us that Marcus proved a 
 mere blockhead, and that nature (who, it seems, 
 was even with the son for her prodigality to the 
 father) rendered him incapable of improving by 
 all the rules of eloquence, the precepts of philo¬ 
 sophy, his own endeavors, and the most refined 
 conversation in Athens. This author therefore 
 proposes, that there should be certain triers or 
 examiners appointed by the state, to inspect the 
 genius of every particular boy, and to allot him 
 the part that is most suitable to his natural 
 talents. 
 
 “ Plato in one of his dialogues tells us, that So¬ 
 crates, who was the son of a midwife, used to say, 
 that as his mother, though she was very skillful 
 in her profession, could not deliver a woman un¬ 
 less she was first with child, so neither could he 
 himself raise knowledge out of a mind where 
 nature had not planted it. 
 
 “Accordingly, the method this philosopher 
 took, of instructing his scholars by several inter¬ 
 rogatories or questions, was only helping the 
 birth, and bringing their own thoughts to light. 
 
 “ The Spanish doctor above-mentioned, as his 
 speculations grew more refined, asserts that every 
 kind of wit has a particular science correspond¬ 
 ing to it, and in which alone it can be truly ex¬ 
 cellent. As to those geniuses, which may seem to 
 have an equal aptitude for several things, he re¬ 
 gards them as so many unfinished pieces of nature 
 wrought off in haste. 
 
 “There are indeed but very few to whom nature 
 has been so unkind, that they are not capable of 
 shining in some science or other. There is a cer¬ 
 tain bias toward knowledge in every mind, which 
 may be strengthened and improved by proper ap¬ 
 plications. 
 
 “ The story of Clavius* is very well known. 
 He was entered in a college of Jesuits, and after 
 having been tried at several parts of learning, was 
 upon the point of being dismissed as a hopeless 
 
 * Christopher Clavius, a geometrician and astronomer 
 author of five volumes in folio, who died at Rome in 1612, 
 aged 75. 
 
378 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 blockhead, until one of the fathers took it into his 
 head to make an essay of his arts in geometry, 
 which, it seems, hit his genius so luckily, that he 
 afterward became one of the greatest mathemati¬ 
 cians of the age. It is commonly thought that the 
 sagacity of these fathers, in discovering the talent 
 of a young student, has not a little contributed 
 to the figure which their order has made in the 
 world. 
 
 “ How different from this manner of education 
 is that which prevails in our own country ! where 
 nothing is more usual than to see forty or fifty 
 boys of several ages, tempers, and inclinations, 
 ranged together in the same class, employed upon 
 the same authors, and enjoined the same tasks! 
 Whatever their natural genius may be, they are all 
 to be made poets, historians, and orators alike. 
 They ate all obliged to have the same capacity, to 
 bring in the same tale of verse, and to furnish 
 out the same portion of prose. Every boy is 
 bound to have as good a memory as the captain , 
 of the form. To be brief, instead of adapting 
 studies to the particular genius of a youth, we ex- 
 
 E ect from the young man, that he should adapt 
 is genius to his studies. This, I must confess, is 
 
 not so much to be imputed to the instructor as to the 
 
 E arent, who will never be brought to believe, that 
 is son is not capable of performing as much as 
 his neighbor’s, and that he may not make him 
 whatever he has a mind to. 
 
 “ If the present age is more laudable than those 
 which have gone before it in any single particu¬ 
 lar, it is in that generous care which several well- 
 disposed persons have taken in the education of 
 poor children: and as in these charity-schools there 
 is no place left for the overweening fondness of a 
 parent, the directors of them would make them 
 beneficial to the public, if they considered the 
 precept which I have been thus long inculcating. 
 They might easily, by well examining the parts 
 of those under their inspection, make a just dis¬ 
 tribution of them into proper classes and divi¬ 
 sions, and allot to them this or that particular 
 study, as their genius qualifies them for profes¬ 
 sions, trades, handicrafts, or service, by sea or 
 land. 
 
 “ How is this kind of regulation wanting in the 
 three great professions! 
 
 “ Dr. South, complaining of persons who took 
 upon them holy orders, though altogether un¬ 
 qualified for the sacred function, says somewhere, 
 that many a man runs his head against a pulpit, 
 who might have done his country excellent service 
 at the plow-tail. 
 
 “In like manner many a lawyer, who makes but 
 an indifferent figure at the bar, might have made 
 a very elegant waterman, and have shone at the 
 Temple stairs, though he can get no business in 
 the house. 
 
 “ I have known a corn-cutter, who with a right 
 education would have been an excellent physi¬ 
 cian. 
 
 To descend lower, are not our streets filled 
 with sagacious draymen, and politicians in liver¬ 
 ies? We have several tailors of six feet high, and 
 meet with many a broad pair of shoulders that 
 are thrown away upon a barber, when perhaps at 
 the same time we see a pigmy porter reeling under 
 a burden, who might have managed a needle with 
 much dexterity, or have snapped his fingers with 
 geat ease to himself, and advantage to the public. 
 
 ‘‘The Spartans, though they acted with the 
 spirit which I am here speaking of, carried it 
 much further than what I propose. Among them 
 it was not lawful for the father himself to brinw 
 up his children after his own fancy. As soon as 
 they were seven years old, they were all listed in 
 
 j several companies, and disciplined by the public. 
 The old men were spectators of their performances, 
 who often raised quarrels among them, and set 
 them at strife with one another, that by those 
 early discoveries they might see how their several 
 talents lay, and, without any regard to their quali- 
 ty, disposed of them accordingly, for the service 
 of the commonwealth. By this means, Sparta 
 soon became the mistress of Greece, and famous 
 through the whole world for her civil and military 
 discipline. 
 
 “ If you think this letter deserves a place 
 among your speculations, I may perhaps trouble 
 you with some other thoughts on the same subject. 
 
 X. “ I am,” etc. 
 
 Ho. 308.] FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 1711-12. 
 
 -J am proterva 
 
 Fronte petet Lalage maritime 
 
 Hor. 1 Od. 5, lib. ii, ver. 15. 
 
 -Lalage will soon proclaim 
 
 Her love, nor blush to own her flame.—C reech. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I give you this trouble in order to propose my¬ 
 self to you as an assistant in the weighty cares 
 which you have thought fit to undergo for the 
 public good. I am a very great lover of women, 
 that is to say, honestly; and as it is natural to 
 study what one likes, I have industriously ap¬ 
 plied myself to understand them. The present 
 circumstance relating to them is, that I think there 
 wants under you, as Spectator, a person to be dis¬ 
 tinguished and vested in the power and quality 
 of a censor on marriages. I lodge at the Temple, 
 and know, by seeing women come hither, and 
 afterward observing them conducted by their 
 counsel to judges’ chambers, that there is a custom 
 in case of making conveyance of a wife’s estate, 
 that she is carried to a judge’s apartment, and left 
 alone with him, to be examined in private, whether 
 she has not been frightened or sweetened by her 
 spouse into the act she is going to do, or whether 
 it is of her own free will. Now. if this be a 
 method founded upon reason and equity, why 
 should there not be also a proper officer for ex¬ 
 amining such as are entering into the state of 
 matrimony, whether they are forced by parents on 
 one side, or moved by interest only on the other, 
 to come together, and bring forth such awkward 
 heirs as are the product of half love and con¬ 
 strained compliances? There is nobody, though 
 I say it myself, would be fitter for this office than 
 I am: for I am an ugly fellow, of great wit and 
 sagacity. My father was a hale country ’squire, 
 my mother a witty beauty of no fortune. The 
 match was made by consent of my mother’s parents 
 against her own, and I am the child of the rape 
 on the wedding night; so that I am as healthy and 
 as homely as my father, but as sprightly and 
 agreeable as my mother. It would be of great 
 ease to you, if you would use me under you, that 
 matches might be better regulated for the future, 
 and we might have no more children of squabbles. 
 
 I shall not reveal all my pretensions until I receive 
 your answer: and am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant 
 
 “Mules Palfrey.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am one of those unfortunate men within the 
 city-walls, who am married to a woman of quality, 
 but her temper is somewhat different from that of 
 Lady Anvil. My lady’s whole time and thoughts 
 aie spent in keeping up to the mode both in ap¬ 
 parel and furniture. All the goods in my house 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 have been chauged three times in seven years. I 
 have had seven children by her: and by our mar¬ 
 riage-articles she was to have her apartment new 
 furnished as often as she lay in. Nothing in our 
 house is useful but that which is fashionable; my 
 pewter holds out generally half a year, my plate 
 a full twelvemonth; chairs are not fit to sit in that 
 were made two years since, nor beds fit for any¬ 
 thing but to sleep in, that have stood up above 
 that time. My dear is of opinion that an old 
 fashioned grate consumes coals, but gives no heat. 
 If she drinks out of glasses of last year she can 
 not distinguish wine from small-beer. Oh, dear 
 Sir, you may guess all the rest. 
 
 “Yours.” 
 
 “P. S. I could bear even all this, if I were not 
 obliged also to eat fashionably. I have a plain 
 stomach, and have a constant loathing of whatever 
 comes to my own table; for which reason I dine 
 at the chop-house three days in the week; where 
 the good company wonders they never see you of 
 late. I am sure, by your unprejudiced discourses, 
 you love broth better than soup.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Will’s, Feb. 19. 
 
 “You may believe you are a person as much 
 talked of as any man in town. I am one of your 
 best friends in this house, and have laid a wager, 
 you are so candid a man, and so honest a fellow, 
 that you will print this letter, though it is in re¬ 
 commendation of a newspaper called The Histo¬ 
 rian. I have read it carefully, and find it written 
 with skill, good-sense, modesty, and fire. You 
 must allow the town is kinder to you than you 
 deserve; and I doubt not but you have so much 
 sense of the world’s change of humor, and insta¬ 
 bility of all human things, as to understand, that 
 the only way to preserve favor is to communicate 
 it to others with good-nature and judgment. You 
 are so generally read, that what you speak of will 
 be read. This, with men of sense and taste, is 
 all that is wanting to recommend The Histori an . 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your daily Advocate, 
 
 “Reader Gentle.” 
 
 I was very much surprised this morning that 
 any one should find out my lodging, and know it 
 so well as to come directly to my closet-door, and 
 knock at it, to give me the following letter. When 
 I came out I opened it, and saw, by a very strong 
 pair of shoes and a warm coat the bearer had on, 
 that he walked all the way to bring it me, though 
 dated from York. My misfortune is that I cannot 
 talk, and I found the messenger had so much of 
 me, that he could think better than speak. He 
 had, I observed, a polite discerning, hid under a 
 shrewd rusticity. He delivered the paper with a 
 Yorkshire tone and a town leer. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The privilege you have indulged John Trot 
 has proved of very bad consequence to our illus¬ 
 trious assembly, which, beside the many excellent 
 maxims it is founded upon, is remarkable for the 
 extraordinary decorum observed in it. One in¬ 
 stance of which is, that the carders (who are 
 always of the first quality) never begin to play 
 until the French dances are finished, and the 
 country dances begin; but John Trot having now 
 got your commission in his pocket (which every 
 one here has a profound respect for) has the as¬ 
 surance to set up for a minuet-dancer. Not only 
 so, but he has brought down upon us the whole 
 body of the Trots, which are very numerous, 
 with their auxiliaries the hobblers and the skip¬ 
 pers, by which means the time is so much wasted, 
 
 379 
 
 that unless we break all rules of government, it 
 must redound to the utter subversion of the brag- 
 table, the discreet members of which value time, 
 as Fribble’s wife does her pin-money. We are 
 pretty well assured that your indulgence to Trot 
 was only in relation to country dances; however, 
 we have deferred issuing an order of council upon 
 the premises, hoping to get you to join with us, 
 that Trot, nor any of his clan, presume for the 
 future to dance any but country dances, unless a 
 hornpipe upon a festival day. If you will do 
 this, you will oblige a great many ladies, and 
 particularly your most humble Servant, 
 
 “York, Feb. 16. “Eliza Sweepstakes.” 
 
 “I never meant any other than that Mr. Trot 
 should confine himself to country dances. And 
 I further direct, that he shall take out none but 
 his own relations according to their nearness of 
 blood, but any gentlewoman may take out him. 
 “London, Feb. 21. “ The Spectator.” 
 
 T. - 
 
 No. 309.] SATURDAY, FEB. 23, 1711-12. 
 
 Di, quibus imperium est Animarum, TJmbraeque sflentes 
 Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia late: 
 
 Sit milii fas audita loqui! sit numine vestro 
 Pandere res alta terra et caligine mersas. 
 
 * Virg. iEn. vi, ver. 264. 
 
 Ye realms, yet unreveal’d to human sight, 
 
 Ye gods, who rule the regions of the night, 
 
 Ye gliding ghosts, permit me to relate 
 
 The mystic wonders of your silent state.— Dryden. 
 
 I have before observed in general, that the per¬ 
 sons whom Milton introduces into his poem always 
 discover such sentiments and behavior as are 
 in a peculiar manner conformable to their respec¬ 
 tive characters. Every circumstance in tlieir 
 speeches and actions is with great justice and 
 delicacy adapted to the persons who speak and 
 act. As the poet very much excels in this con¬ 
 sistency of his characters, I shall beg leave to 
 consider several passages of the second book in 
 this light. That superior greatness and mock- 
 majesty which is ascribed to the prince of the fallen 
 angels, is admirably preserved in the beginning 
 of this book. His opening and closing the debate; 
 his taking on himself that great enterprise, at the 
 thought of which the whole infernal assembly 
 trembled; his encountering the hideous phantom 
 who guarded the gates of hell, and appeared to 
 him in all his terrors; are instances of that proud 
 and daring mind which could not brook submis-v 
 sion, even to Omnipotence ! 
 
 Satan was now at band, and from bis seat 
 Tbe monster, moving onward, came as fast 
 With horrid strides; hell trembled as he strode. 
 
 Th’ undaunted fiend what this might be admir’d, 
 Admir’d, not fear’d- 
 
 The same boldness and intrepidity of behavior 
 discovers itself in the several adventures which he 
 meets with, during his passage through the regions 
 of unformed matter, and particularly in his address 
 to those tremendous powers who are described as 
 presiding over it. 
 
 The part of Moloch is likewise, in all its circum¬ 
 stances, full of that fire and fury which distinguish 
 this spirit from the rest of the fallen angels. He 
 is described in the first book as besmeared with 
 the blood of human sacrifices, and delighted with 
 the tears of parents, and the cries of children. In 
 the second book he is marked out as the fiercest 
 spirit that fought in heaven; and if we consider 
 the figure which he makes in the sixth book, 
 where the battle of the angels is described, we find 
 it every way answerable to the same furious, 
 enraged character: 
 
380 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 -Where the might of Gabriel fought, 
 
 And with fierce ensigns pierc’d the deep array 
 Of Moloch, furious king, who him defied. 
 
 And at his chariot-wheels to drag him bound 
 Threaten’d, nor from the Holy One of heav’n. 
 
 Refrain’d his tongue blasphemous: but anon, 
 
 Down cloven to the waist, with shatter’d arms 
 And uncouth pain fled bellowing. 
 
 It may be worth while to observe, that Milton 
 has represented this violent impetuous spirit, who 
 is hurried on by such precipitate passions, as the 
 first that rises in the assembly to give his opinion 
 upon their present posture of affairs. Accordingly 
 he declares himself abruptly for war, and appears 
 incensed at his companions for losing so much 
 time as even to deliberate upon it. All his senti 
 ments are rash, audacious and desperate. Such 
 as that of arming themselves with their tortures, 
 and turning their punishments upon him who in¬ 
 flicted them 
 
 -No, let us rather choose, 
 
 Arm’d with hell flames and fury, all at once 
 O’er heaven’s high tow’rs to force resistless way, 
 Turning our tortures into horrid arms 
 Against the tort’rer; when to meet the noise 
 Of his almighty engine he shall hear 
 Infernal thunder, and for lightning see 
 Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 
 Among his angels; and his throne itself 
 Mix’d with Tartarian sulphur, and strange fire, 
 
 His own invented torments.- 
 
 His preferring annihilation to shame or misery is 
 also highly suitable to his character; as the com¬ 
 fort he draws from their disturbing the peace of 
 heaven, that if it be not victory it is revenge, is a 
 sentiment truly diabolical, and becoming the bit¬ 
 terness of this implacable spirit. 
 
 Belial is described in the first book as the idol of 
 the lewd and luxurious. He is in the second book, 
 pursuant to that description, characterized as timo¬ 
 rous and slothful; and if we look into the sixth 
 book, we find him celebrated in the battle of angels 
 for nothing but that scoffing speech which he 
 makes to Satan, on their supposed advantage over 
 the enemy. As his appearance is uniform, and 
 of a-piece, in these three several views, we find 
 his sentiments in the infernal assembly everyway 
 conformable to his character. Such are his appre¬ 
 hensions of a second battle, his horrors of annihi¬ 
 lation, his preferring to be miserable rather than 
 “ not to be.” I need not observe, that the contrast 
 of thought in this speech, and that which precedes 
 it, gives an agreeable variety to the debate. 
 
 Mammon’s character is so fully drawn in the 
 first book, that the poet adds nothing to it in the 
 second. We were before told, that he was the 
 first who taught mankind to ransack the earth for 
 gold and silver, and that he was the architect of 
 Pandsemonium, or the infernal palace, where the 
 evil spirits were to meet in council. His speech 
 in this book is every way suitable to so depraved 
 a character. How proper is that reflection of their 
 being unable to taste the happiness of heaven, 
 were they actually there, in the mouth of one, 
 who, while he was in heaven, is said to have had 
 his mind dazzled with the outward pomps and 
 glories of the place, and to have been more intent 
 on the riches of the pavement than on the beatific 
 vision. I shall also leave the reader to judge how 
 agreeable the following sentiments are to the same 
 character: 
 
 -This deep world 
 
 Of darkness do we dread ? IIow oft amidst 
 Thick clouds and dark doth heav’n’s all-ruling sire 
 Choose to reside, his glory unobscur’d, 
 
 And with the majesty of darkness round 
 
 Covers his throne; from whence deep thunders roar. 
 
 Mustering their rage, and heaven resembles hell! 
 
 As he our darkness, cannot we his light 
 
 Imitate when we please? Thi3 desert soil 
 Wants not her hidden luster, gems and gold; 
 
 Nor want we skill or art, from whence to raise 
 Magnificence; and what can heav’n show more ? 
 
 Beelzebub, who is reckoned the second in dig¬ 
 nity that fell, and is, in the first book, the second 
 that awakens out of the trance, and confers with 
 Satan upon the situation of their affairs, maintains 
 his rank in the book now before us. There is a 
 wonderful majesty described in his rising up to 
 speak. He acts as a kind of moderator between 
 the two opposite parties, and proposes a third un¬ 
 dertaking, which the whole assembly gives into. 
 The motion he makes of detaching one of their 
 body in search of a new world, is grounded upon 
 a project devised by Satan, and cursorily propos¬ 
 ed by him in the following lines of the first book; 
 
 Space may produce new worlds, whereof so rife 
 There went a fame in heav’n, that he ere long 
 Intended to create, and therein plant 
 A generation, whom his choice regard 
 Should favor equal to the sons of heav’n: 
 
 Thither, if but to pry, shall be perhaps 
 Our first eruption, thither or elsewhere: 
 
 For this infernal pit shall never hold 
 Celestial spirits in bondage, nor th’ abyss 
 Long under darkness cover. But these thoughts 
 Full counsel must mature:- 
 
 It is on this project that Beelzebub grounds his 
 proposal; 
 
 -What if wo find 
 
 Some easier enterprise ? There is a place 
 (If ancient and prophetic fame in heav’n 
 Err not), another world, the happy seat 
 Of some new race call’d man, about this time 
 To be created like to us, though less 
 In pow’r and excellence, but favor’d more 
 Of him who rules above; so was his will 
 Pronounc’d among the gods, and by an oath, 
 
 That shook heav’n’s whole circumference, confirm’d. 
 
 Their rising all at once was as the sound 
 Of thunder heard remote- 
 
 The diversions of the fallen angels, with the par¬ 
 ticular account of their place of habitation, are de¬ 
 scribed with great pregnancy of thought, and copi¬ 
 ousness of invention. The diversions are every 
 way suitable to beings who had nothing left them 
 but strength and knowledge misapplied. Such 
 are their contentions at the race, and in feats of 
 arms, with their entertainment in the following 
 lines: 
 
 Others with vast Typhasan rage more fell 
 Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air 
 In whirlwind; hell scarce holds the wild uproar. 
 
 Their music is employed in celebrating their 
 own criminal exploits, and their discourse in 
 
 The reader may observe how just it was, not to 
 omit in the first book the project upon which 
 the whole poem turns; as also that the prince of 
 the fallen angels was the only proper person to 
 give it birth, and that the next to him in dignity 
 was the fittest to second and support it. 
 
 There is beside, I think, something wonder¬ 
 fully beautiful, and very apt to affect the reader’s 
 imagination, in this ancient prophesy or report in 
 heaven, concerning the creation of man. Nothing 
 could show more the dignity of the species, than 
 this tradition which ran of them before their exis¬ 
 tence. They are represented to have been the talk 
 of heaven before they were created. Virgil, in 
 compliment to the Roman commonwealth, makes 
 the heroes of it appear in their state of pre-exis¬ 
 tence; but Milton does a far greater honor to 
 mankind in general, as he gives us a glimpse of 
 them even before they are in being. 
 
 The rising of this great assembly is described 
 in a very sublime and poetical manner. 
 
381 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 sounding the unfathomable depths of fate, free¬ 
 will, and foreknowledge. 
 
 The several circumstances in the description of 
 hell are finely imagined; as the four rivers which 
 disgorge themselves into the sea of fire, the ex¬ 
 tremes of cold and heat, and the river of oblivion. 
 The monstrous animals produced in that infernal 
 world are represented by a single line, which gives 
 us a more horrid idea of them, than a much longer 
 description would have done: 
 
 -Nature breeds, 
 
 Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things, 
 
 Abominable, inutterablo, and worse 
 
 Than fables yet have feign’d, or fear conceiv’d, 
 
 Gorgons and hydras, and chimeras dire. 
 
 This episode of the fallen spirits, and their 
 place of habitation, comes in very happily to un¬ 
 bend the mind of the reader from its attention to 
 the debate. An ordinary poet would indeed have 
 spun out so many circumstances to a great length, 
 and by that means have weakened, instead of illus¬ 
 trated, the principal fable. 
 
 The flight of Satan to the gates of hell is finely 
 imagined. 
 
 I have already declared my opinion of the alle¬ 
 gory concerning sin and death, which is, however, 
 a very finished piece in its kind, when it is not 
 considered as a part of an epic poem. The genea¬ 
 logy of the several persons is contrived with great 
 delicacy. Sin is the daughter of Satan, and Death 
 the offspring of Sin. The incestuous mixture be¬ 
 tween Sin and Death produces those monsters 
 and hell-hounds which from time to time enter 
 into their mother, and tear the bowels of her who 
 gave them birth. 
 
 These are the terrors of an evil conscience, and 
 the proper fruits of sin, which naturally rise from 
 the apprehensions of death. This last beautiful 
 moral is, I think, clearly intimated in the speech 
 of Sin, where, complaining of this her dreadful 
 issue, she adds. 
 
 Before mine eyes in opposition sits 
 
 Grim Death, my son and foe, who sets them on, 
 
 And me his parent would full soon devour 
 For want of other prey, but that he knows 
 His end with mine involv’d.- 
 
 I need not mention to the reader the beautiful 
 circumstance in the last part of this quotation. 
 He will likewise observe how naturally the three 
 persons concerned in this allegory are tempted by 
 one common interest to enter into a confederacy 
 together, and how properly Sin is made the por¬ 
 tress of hell, and the only being that can open the 
 gates to that world of tortures. 
 
 The descriptive part of this allegory is likewise 
 very strong, and full of sublime ideas. The figure 
 of Death, the regal crown upon his head, his 
 menace of Satan, his advancing to the combat, the 
 outcry at his birth, are circumstances too noble to 
 be passed over in silence, and extremely suitable to 
 this king of terrors. I need not mention the just¬ 
 ness of thought which is observed in the genera¬ 
 tion of these several symbolical persons; that Sin 
 was produced upon the first revolt of Satan, that 
 Death appeared soon after he was cast into hell, 
 and that the terrors of conscience were conceived 
 at the gate of this place of torments. The descrip¬ 
 tion of the gates is very poetical, as the opening 
 of them is full of Milton’s spirit: 
 
 -On a sudden open fly 
 
 With impetuous recoil and jarring sound 
 Th’ infernal doors, and on their hinges grate 
 Ilarsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook 
 Of Erebus. She open’d, but to shut 
 Excell’d her pow’r; the gates wide opeu stood, 
 
 That with extended wings a banner’d host 
 Under spread ensigns marching might pass through 
 
 CT ATOR. 
 
 With horse and chariots rank’d in loose array; 
 
 So wide they stood, and like a furnace mouth 
 
 Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame. 
 
 Tn Satan’s voyage through the chaos there are 
 several imaginary persons described, as residing 
 in that immense waste of matter. This may, per¬ 
 haps, be conformable to the taste of those critics 
 who are pleased with nothing in a poet which has 
 not life and manners ascribed to it: but for my 
 own part, I am pleased most with those passages 
 in this description which carry in them a greater 
 measure of probability, and are such as might 
 possibly have happened. Of this kind is his first 
 mounting in the smoke that rises from the infer¬ 
 nal pit, his falling into a cloud of niter, and the 
 like combustible materials, that by their explosion 
 still hurried him forward in his voyage: his 
 springing upward like a pyramid of fire, with his 
 laborious passage through that confusion of ele¬ 
 ments which the poet calls 
 
 The womb of nature, and perhaps her grave. 
 
 The glimmering light which shot into the chaos 
 from the utmost verge of the creation, with the 
 distant discovery of the earth that hung close by 
 the moon, are wonderfully beautiful and poetical. 
 
 No. 310.] MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1711-12. 
 
 Connubio j ungam stabili.- 
 
 Vms. JEn., i, 77. 
 
 I’ll tie the indissoluble marriage-knot. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a certain young woman that love a cer¬ 
 tain young man very heartily; and my father and 
 mother were for it a great while, but now they 
 say I can do better, but I think I cannot. They 
 bid me not love him, and I cannot unlove him. 
 What must I do ? Speak quickly. 
 
 “ Biddy Dow-bake.” 
 
 “Dear Spec., Feb. 19, 1712. 
 
 “ I have loved a lady entirely for this year and 
 a half, though for a great part of the time (which 
 has contributed not a little to my pain) I have 
 been debarred the liberty of conversing with her. 
 The ground of our difference was this; that when 
 we had inquired into each other’s circumstances, 
 we found that at our first setting out in the world, 
 we should owe five hundred pounds more than 
 her fortune would pay off. My estate is seven 
 hundred pounds a-year, beside the benefit of tin 
 mines. Now, dear Spec., upon this state of the 
 case, and the lady’s positive declaration that there 
 is still no other objection, I beg you will not fail 
 to insert this, with your opinion, as soon as possi¬ 
 ble, whether this ought to be esteemed a just cause 
 or impediment why we should not be joined, and 
 you will forever olilige yours sincerely, 
 
 “ Dick Lovesick.” 
 postscript. 
 
 “ Sir, if I marry this lady by the assistance of 
 your opinion, you may expect a favor for it.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have the misfortune to be one of those un¬ 
 happy men who are distinguished by the name of 
 discarded lovers; but I am the less mortified at 
 my disgrace, because the young lady is one of 
 those creatures who set up for negligence of men, 
 are forsooth the most rigidly virtuous in the world, 
 and yet their nicety will permit them at the com¬ 
 mand of parents to go to bed to the most utter 
 
382 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 stranger that can be proposed to them. As to me, 
 myself, I was introduced by the father of my mis¬ 
 tress; but find I owe my being at first received to 
 a comparison of my estate with that of a former 
 lover, and that I am now in like manner turned 
 off to give way to a humble servant still richer 
 than I am. What makes this treatment the more 
 extravagant is, that the young lady is in the man¬ 
 agement of this way of fraud, and obeys her fa¬ 
 ther’s orders on these occasions without any man¬ 
 ner of reluctance, but does it with the same air 
 that one of your men of the world would signify 
 the necessity of affairs for turning another out of 
 office. When I came home last night, I found this 
 letter from my mistress :— 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I hope you will not think it any manner of 
 disrespect to your person or merit/, that the intended 
 nuptials between us are interrupted. My father 
 says he has a much better offer for me than you 
 can make, and has ordered me to break off the 
 treaty between us. If it had proceeded, I should 
 have behaved myself with all suitable regard to 
 you, but as it is, I beg we may be strangers for 
 the future. Adieu. “Lydia.” 
 
 “ This great indifference on this subject, and 
 the mercenary motives for making alliances, is 
 what I think lies naturally before you, and I beg 
 of you to give me your thoughts upon it. My 
 answer to Lydia was as follows, which I hope you 
 will approve : for you are to know the woman’s 
 family affect a wonderful ease on these occasions, 
 though they expect it should be painfully received 
 on the man’s side :— 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ I have received yours, and knew the prudence 
 of your house so well, that I always took care to 
 be ready to obey your commands, though they 
 should be to see you no more. Pray give my ser¬ 
 vice to all the good family. Adieu. 
 
 “ Clitophon.” 
 
 “ The opera subscription is full.” 
 
 MEMORANDUM. 
 
 The censor of marriage to consider this letter, 
 and report the common usages on such treaties, 
 with how many pounds or acres are generally es¬ 
 teemed sufficient reason for preferring a new to an 
 old pretender; with his opinion what is proper to 
 be determined in such cases for the future. See 
 No. 308, let. 1. 
 
 “Mu Spectator, 
 
 “ There is an elderly person lately left off busi¬ 
 ness and settled in our town, in order, as he 
 thinks, to retire from the world; but he has 
 brought with 4dm such an inclination for tale¬ 
 bearing, that he disturbs both himself and all our 
 neighborhood. Notwithstanding this frailty, the 
 honest gentleman is so happy as to have no ene¬ 
 my : at the same time he has not one friend who 
 will venture to acquaint him with his weakness. 
 It is not to be doubted, but if this failing were set 
 in a proper light, he would quickly perceive the 
 indecency and evil consequences of it. Now, Sir, 
 this being an infirmity, which I hope may be cor¬ 
 rected, and knowing that he pays much Reference 
 to you, I beg that when you are at leisure to give 
 us a speculation on gossiping, you would think 
 of my neighbor. You will hereby oblige several 
 who will be glad to find a reformation in their 
 gray-haired friend: and how becoming will it be 
 ■for him, instead of pouring forth words at all ad¬ 
 
 ventures, to set a watch before the door of his 
 mouth, to refrain his tongue, to check its impetu¬ 
 osity, and guard against the sallies of that little 
 pert, forward, busy person; which, under a sober 
 conduct, might prove a useful member of society! 
 In compliance with those intimations, I have 
 taken the liberty to make this address to you. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most obscure Servant, 
 
 “ Philantiiropos.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ This is to petition you in behalf of myself 
 and many more of your gentle readers, that at any 
 time when you may have private reasons against 
 letting us know what you think yourself, you 
 would be pleased to pardon us such letters of your 
 correspondent as seem to be of no use but to the 
 printer. 
 
 “ It is further our humble request, that you 
 would substitute advertisements in the place of 
 such epistles; and that in order hereunto Mr. 
 Buckley may be authorized to take up of your 
 zealous friend Mr. Charles Lillie, any quantity of 
 words he shall from time to time have occasion 
 for. 
 
 “ The many useful parts of knowledge which 
 may be communicated to the public this way will, 
 we hope, be a consideration in favor of your pe¬ 
 titioners. 
 
 “ And your Petitioners,” etc. 
 
 Note. That particular regard be had to this pe¬ 
 tition; and the papers marked letter R. may be 
 carefully examined for the future.—T. 
 
 No. 311.] TUESDAY, FEB. 26, 1711-12. 
 
 Nec Veneris pharetris macer est, aut lampa.de fervet; 
 
 Inde faces ardent, verriunt a dote sagittae. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 137. 
 
 He sighs, adores, and courts her ev’ry hour: 
 
 Who would not do as much for such a dowor?—1 )ryi>en. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am amazed that, among all the variety of 
 characters with which you have enriched your 
 speculations, you have never given us a picture 
 of those audacious young fellows among us who 
 commonly go by the name of the fortune-stealers. 
 You must know, Sir, I am one who live in a con¬ 
 tinual apprehension of this sort of people, that lie 
 in wait, day and night, for our children, and may 
 be considered as a kind of kidnappers within the 
 law. I am the father of a young heiress, whom 
 I begin to look upon as marriageable, and who 
 has looked upon herself as such for above these 
 six years. She is now in the eighteenth year of 
 her age. The fortune-hunters have already cast 
 their eyes upon her, and take care to plant them¬ 
 selves in her view whenever she appears in any 
 public assembly. I have myself caught a young 
 jackanapes, with a pair of silver-fringed gloves, 
 in the very fact. You must know. Sir, 1 have kept 
 her as a prisoner of state ever since she was in 
 her teens. Her chamber-windows are cross-barred; 
 she is not permitted to go out of the house but 
 with her keeper, who is a staid relation of my 
 own; I have likewise forbid her the use of pen 
 and ink, for this twelvemonth last past, and do 
 not suffer a band-box to be carried into her room 
 before it has been searched. Notwithstanding 
 these precautions, I am at my wit’s end for fear of 
 any sudden surprise. There were, two or three 
 nights ago, some fiddles heard in the street, which I 
 am afraid portend me no good; not to mention a tall 
 Irishman, that has been seen walking before my 
 
THE SPE 
 
 house more than once this winter. My kinswoman 
 likewise informs me, that the girl has talked to 
 her twice or thrice of a gentleman in a fair wig, 
 and that she loves to go to church more than ever 
 she did in her life. She gave me the slip about a 
 week ago, upon which my whole house was in 
 alarm. I immediately dispatched a hue and cry 
 after her to the ’Change, to her mantuamaker, anti 
 to the young ladies that visit her; but after above an 
 hour s search she returned of herself, having been 
 taking a walk, as she told me, bv Rosamond’s 
 pond. I have hereupon turned ofr her woman, 
 doubled her guards, and given new instructions 
 to mv relation, who, to give her her due, keeps a 
 watchful eye over all her motions. This, Sir, 
 keeps me in a perpetual anxiety, and makes me 
 very often watch when my daughter sleeps, as I 
 am afraid she is even with me in her turn. Now, 
 Sir, what I would desire of you is, to represent 
 to this fluttering tribe of young fellows, who are 
 for making their fortunes by these indirect means, 
 that stealing a man’s daughter for the sake of her 
 portion is but a kind of a tolerated robbery, and 
 that they make but a poor amends to the father, 
 whom they plunder after this manner, by going 
 to bed with his child. Dear Sir, be speedy in 
 your thoughts upon this subject, that, if possible, 
 they may appear before the disbanding of the 
 army. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Tim. Watchwell.” 
 
 Themistocles, the great Athenian general, being 
 asked whether he would rather choose to marry 
 his daughter to an indigent man of merit, or to a 
 worthless man of an estate, replied, that he should 
 prefer a man without an estate to an estate with¬ 
 out a man. The worst of it is, our modern fortune- 
 hunters are those who turn their heads that way, 
 because they are good for nothing else. If "a 
 young fellow finds he can make nothing of Coke 
 and Littleton, he provides himself with a ladder 
 of ropes, and by that means very often enters upon 
 the premises. 
 
 The same art of scaling has been likewise prac¬ 
 ticed with good success by many military engi¬ 
 neers. Stratagems of this nature make parts and 
 industry superfluous, and cut short the way to 
 riches. 
 
 Nor is vanity a less motive than idleness to this 
 kind of mercenary pursuit. A fop, who admires ! 
 his person in a glass, soon enters into a resolution 
 of making his fortune by it, not questioning but 
 that every woman that falls in his wav will do 
 him as much justice as he does himself. When an I 
 heiress sees a man throwing particular graces into 
 his ogle, or talking loud within her hearing, she 
 ought to look to herself ; but if withal she ob¬ 
 serves a pair of red heels, a patch, or any other 
 particularity in his dress, she cannot take too 
 much care of her person. These are baits not to 
 be trifled with, charms that have done a world of 
 execution, and made their way into hearts which 
 have been thought impregnable. The force of a 
 man with these qualifications is so well known, 
 that I am credibly informed there are several 
 female undertakers about the ’Change, who, upon 
 the arrival of a likely man out of the neighboring 
 kingdom, will furnish him with a proper dress 
 from head to foot, to be paid for at a double price 
 on the day of marriage. 
 
 We must, however, distinguish between for¬ 
 tune-hunters and fortune-stealers. The first are 
 those assiduous gentlemen who employ their 
 whole lives in the chase, without ever coming at 1 
 the quarry. Suffenus has combed and powdered 
 
 C T A T 0 R. 333 
 
 at the ladies for thirty years together ; and taken 
 his stand in a side-box, until lie lias grown 
 wrinkled under their eyes. He is now laying the 
 same snares for the present generation of ^beauties 
 which lie practiced on their mothers. Cottilus, 
 after having made his applications to more than 
 you meet with in Mr. Cowley’s ballad of. mis¬ 
 tresses, was at last smitten with a city lady of £ 20 ,- 
 000 sterling ; but died of old age before he could 
 biing matters to bear. Nor must I here omit my 
 worthy friend Mr. Honeycomb, who has often 
 told us in the club, that lor twenty-years succes- 
 sively, upon the death of a childless rich man, he 
 immediately drew on his boots, called for his 
 horse, and made up to the widow. When he 
 is rallied upon his ill-success. Will, with his usual 
 gayety, tells us, that he always found her pre- 
 engaged. 1 
 
 Widows are indeed the great game of your for¬ 
 tune-hunters. There is scarce a young fellow in 
 the town, of six feet high, that has not passed in 
 review before one or other of these wealthy relicts. 
 Hudibras’s Cupid, who 
 
 “-—took his stand 
 
 Upon a widow’s jointure* land,” 
 
 Is daily employed in throwing darts, and kind¬ 
 ling flames. But as for widows, they are such a 
 subtile generation of people, that they may be left 
 to their own conduct; or if they make a false 
 step in it, they are answerable for it to nobody 
 but themselves. The young, innocent creatures 
 who have no knowledge and experience of the 
 world, are those whose safety I would principally 
 consult in this speculation. The'stealing of such 
 a one should, in my opinion, be as punishable as 
 a rape. Where there is no judgment there is no 
 choice ; and why the inveigling a woman before 
 she is come to years of discretion should not be 
 as criminal as the seducing of her before she is ten 
 years old, I am at a loss to comprehend.—L. 
 
 No. 312.] WEDNESDAY, FEB. 27, 1711-12. 
 
 Quod huic officium, quae laus, quod decus erit tanti, quod 
 adipisci cum dolore corporis vclit, qui dolorem summum 
 malum sibi persuaserit? Quam porro quis ignominiam, 
 quam turpitudinem non pertulerit, ut effugiat dolorem, si 
 id summum malum esse decreverit?—T ull. 
 
 \\ hat duty, what praise, or what honor will he think worth 
 enduring bodily pain for, who has persuaded himself that, 
 pain is the chief evil? Nay, to what ignominy, to what 
 baseness, will he not stoop, to avoid pain, if he has deter¬ 
 mined it to be the chief evil ? 
 
 It is a very melancholy reflection, that men are 
 usually so weak, that it is absolutely necessary 
 for them to know sorrow and pain, to be in their 
 right senses. Prosperous people (for happy there 
 are none) are hurried away with a fond sense of 
 their present condition, and thoughtless of the 
 mutability of fortune. Fortune is a term which 
 we must use in such discourses as these, for what 
 is wrought by the unseen hand of the Disposer of 
 all things. But methinks the disposition of a 
 mind which is truly great, is that which makes 
 misfortunes and sorrows little when they befall 
 ourselves, great and lamentable \vhen they befall 
 other men. The most unpardonable malefactor 
 in the world going to his death, and bearing it 
 with composure, would win the pity of those who 
 should behold him ; and this not because his ca¬ 
 lamity is deplorable, but because he seems him¬ 
 self not to deplore it. We suffer for him who is 
 
 * The name of the widow here alluded to was Tomson. Sec 
 Grey’s edit, of Hudibras, vol. i, part i, canto iii, p. 212, 213. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 384 
 
 less sensible of bis own misery, and are inclined 
 to despise him who sinks under the weight of his 
 distresses. On the other hand, without any touch 
 of envy, a temperate and well governed mind looks 
 down on such as are exalted with success, with a 
 certain shame for the imbecility of human nature, 
 that can so far forget how liable it is to calamity 
 as to grow giddy with only the suspense of sor¬ 
 row, which is the portion of all men. He, there¬ 
 fore, who turns his face from the unhappy man, 
 who will not look again when his eye is cast upon 
 modest sorrow, who shuns affliction like a conta¬ 
 gion, does but pamper himself up for a sacrifice, 
 and contract in himself a greater aptitude to mis¬ 
 ery by attempting to escape it. A gentleman, 
 where I happened to be last night, fell into a dis¬ 
 course which I thought showed a good discerning 
 in him. He took notice, that wherever men have 
 looked into their heart for the idea of true excel¬ 
 lence in human nature, they have found it to con 
 sist in suffering after a right manner, and with a 
 good grace. Heroes are always drawn bearing 
 sorrows, struggling with adversities, undergoing 
 all kinds of hardships, and having, in the service 
 of mankind, a kind of appetite to difficulties and 
 dangers. The gentleman went on to observe that 
 it is from this secret sense of the high merit which 
 there is in patience under calamities, that the 
 writers of romances, when they attempt to furnish 
 out characters of the highest excellence, ransack na¬ 
 ture for things terrible ; they raise a new creation 
 of monsters, dragons, and giants ; where the dan¬ 
 ger ends, the hero ceases : when he has won an 
 empire, or gained his mistress, the rest of his 
 story is not worth relating. My friend carried 
 his discourse so far as to say, that it was for 
 higher beings than men to join happiness and 
 greatness in the same idea ; but that in our condi¬ 
 tion we have no conception of superlative excel¬ 
 lence, or heroism, but as it is surrounded with 
 a shade of distress. 
 
 It is certainly the proper education we should 
 give ourselves, to be prepared for the ill events 
 and accidents we are to meet with in a life sen¬ 
 tenced to be a scene of sorrow; but instead of 
 this expectation, we soften ourselves with pros¬ 
 pects of constant delight, and destroy in our 
 minds the seeds of fortitude and virtue, which 
 should support us in hours of anguish. The 
 constant pursuit of pleasure has in it something 
 insolent and improper for our being. There is a 
 pretty sober liveliness in the Ode of Horace to 
 Delius, where he tells him, loud mirth, or im¬ 
 moderate sorrow, inequality of behavior either in 
 adversity or prosperity, are alike ungraceful in 
 man that is born to die. Moderation in both cir¬ 
 cumstances is peculiar to generous minds. Men 
 of that sort ever taste the gratifications of health, 
 and all other advantages of life, as if they were 
 liable to part with them, and when bereft of" them, 
 resign them with a greatness of mind which shows 
 they know their value and duration. The con¬ 
 tempt of pleasure is a certain preparatory for the 
 contempt of pain. Without this, the mind is, as 
 it were, taken suddenly by an unforeseen event; 
 but he that has always, during health and pros¬ 
 perity, been abstinent in his satisfactions, enjoys, 
 in the worst of difficulties, the reflection, that his 
 anguish is not aggravated with the comparison of 
 past pleasures which upbraid his present condi¬ 
 tion. Tully tells us a story after Pompey, which 
 gives us a good taste of the pleasant manner the 
 men of wit and philosophy had in old times, of 
 alleviating the distresses of life by the force of 
 reason and philosophy. Pompey, when he came 
 to Rhodes, had a curiosity to visit the famous 
 philosopher Possidonius ; but finding him in his 
 
 sick bed, he bewailed the misfortune that he 
 should not hear a discourse from him : “But you 
 may,’’ answered Possidonius; and immediately 
 entered into the point of stoical philosophy, which 
 says, pain is not an evil. During the discourse, 
 upon every puncture he felt from his distemper, 
 he smiled and cried out, “ Pain, pain, be as im¬ 
 pertinent and troublesome as you please, I shall 
 never own that thou art an evil.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Having seen in several of your papers a con¬ 
 cern for the honor of the clergy, ana their doing 
 everything as becomes their character, and par¬ 
 ticularly performing the public service with a due 
 zeal and devotion ; I am the more encouraged to 
 lay before them, by your means, several expres¬ 
 sions used by some of them in their prayers be¬ 
 fore sermon, which I am not well satisfied in. 
 As their giving some titles and epithets to great 
 men, which are indeed due to them in their sev¬ 
 eral ranks and stations, but not properly used, I 
 think, in our prayers. Is it not contradiction to 
 say, illustrious, right reverend, and right honora¬ 
 ble poor sinners ? These distinctions are suited 
 only to our state here, and have no place in heav¬ 
 en ; we see they are omitted in the liturgy; which, 
 I think, the clergy should take for their pattern in 
 their own forms of devotion.* There is another 
 expression which I would not mention, but that I 
 have heard it several times before a learned con¬ 
 gregation, to bring in the last petition of the 
 prayer in these words, ‘0 let not the Lord be 
 angry, and I will speak but this once ;’ as if there 
 was no difference between Abraham’s interceding 
 for Sodom, for which he had no warrant, as we 
 can find, and our asking those things which we 
 are required to pray for; they would therefore 
 have much more reason to fear his anger if they 
 did not make such petitions to him. There is 
 another pretty fancy. When a young man has a 
 mind to let us know who gave him his scarf, he 
 speaks a parenthesis to the Almighty. * Bless, as 
 I am in duty bound to pray, the right-honorable 
 the countess ;’ is not that as much as to say, 
 
 ‘ Bless her, for thou knowest I am her chaplain V 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 T. “J. 0” 
 
 Ho. 313.] THURSDAY, FEB. 28, 1711-12. 
 
 Exigite ut mores teneros ceu pollice ducat, 
 
 Ut si quis cera vultum facit— -Juv., Sat. vii, 227. 
 
 Bid him beside his daily pains employ, 
 
 To form the tender manners of the boy, 
 
 And work him, like a waxen babe, with art, 
 
 To perfect symmetry in every part.— Ch. Dryden. 
 
 I shall give the following letter no other re¬ 
 commendation than by telling my readers that 
 
 * In the original publication of this paper in folio, there 
 was the following passage, left out when the papers were 
 printed in volumes in 1712:— 
 
 [Another expression which I take to be improper, is this, 
 “the whole race of mankind,” when they pray for all men; 
 for race signifies lineage or descent; and if the race of man¬ 
 kind may be used for the present generation (though, I think, 
 not very fitly), the whole race takes in all from the beginning 
 to the end of the world. I don’t remember to have met 
 with that expression, in their sense, anywhere but in the old 
 version of Psalm xiv, which those men, I suppose, have but 
 little esteem for. And some, when they have prayed for all 
 schools and nurseries of good learning, and true religion, 
 especially the two universities, add these words, “Grant that 
 from them, and all other places dedicated to thy worship 
 and service, may come forth such persons,” etc. But what 
 do they mean by all other places ? It seems to me, that this 
 is either a tautology, as being the same with all schools and 
 nurseries before expressed, or else it runs too far; for there 
 are several places dedicated to the divine service, which can 
 not properly be intended here ,]—Spectator in folio. 
 
385 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 it comes from the same hand with that of last 
 Thursday. » * * * * 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I send you, according to my promise, some 
 further thoughts on the education of youth, in 
 which I intend to discuss that famous question, 
 ‘Whether the education of a public school, or 
 under a private tutor, is to be preferred ?’ 
 
 “ -A- s some of the greatest men in most ages 
 have been of very different opinions in this mat¬ 
 ter, I shall give a short account of what I think 
 may be best urged on both sides, and afterward 
 leave every person to determine for himself. 
 
 “It is certain from Suetonius, that the Romans 
 thought the education of their children a business 
 properly belonging to the parents themselves ; 
 and Plutarch, in the Life of Marcus Cato, tells us, 
 that as soon as his son was capable of learning, 
 Cato would suffer nobody to teach him but him¬ 
 self, though he had a servant named Chilo, who 
 was an excellent grammarian, and who taught a 
 great many other youths. 
 
 “ On the contrary, the Greeks seemed more in¬ 
 clined to public schools and seminaries. 
 
 “A private education promises, in the first 
 place, virtue and good breeding ; a public school, 
 manly assurance, and an early knowledge in the 
 ways of the world. 
 
 . “ Mr. Locke, in his celebrated treatise on educa¬ 
 tion, confesses that there are inconveniences to be 
 feared on both sides: ‘ If,’ says he, ‘ I keep my 
 son at home, he is in danger of becoming my 
 young master; if I send him abroad ; it is scarce 
 possible to keep him from the reigning contagion 
 of rudeness and vice. He will perhaps be more 
 innocent at home, but more ignorant of the world, 
 and more sheepish when he comes abroad.’ How¬ 
 ever, as this learned author asserts that virtue is 
 much more difficult to be obtained than a know¬ 
 ledge of the world, and that vice is a more stubborn, 
 as well as a more dangerous fault than sheepish¬ 
 ness, he is altogether for a private education ; and 
 the more so, because he does not see why a youth, 
 with right management, might not attain the same 
 assurance in his father’s house, as at a public 
 school. To this end, he advises parents to accus¬ 
 tom their sons to whatever strange faces come to 
 the, house : to take them with them when they 
 visit their neighbors, and to engage them in con¬ 
 versation with men of parts and breeding. 
 
 “ It may be objected to this method, that con¬ 
 versation is not the only thing necessary : but 
 that unless it be a conversation with such as are 
 in some measure their equals in parts and years, 
 there can be no room for emulation, contention, 
 and several of the most lively passions of the 
 mind; which, without being sometimes moved 
 by these means, may possibly contract a dullness 
 and insensibility. 
 
 One of the greatest writers our nation ever 
 produced observes, that a boy who forms parties, 
 and makes himself popular in a school or a college, 
 would act the same part with equal ease in a 
 senate or a privy-council; and Mr. Osborne, 
 speaking^ like a man versed in the ways of the 
 world affirms, that the well laying and carrying 
 on of a design to rob an orchard, trains up a 
 youth insensibly to caution, secrecy, and circum¬ 
 spection, and fits him for matters of greater im¬ 
 portance. 
 
 “ In short, a private education seems the most 
 natural method for the forming of a virtuous man; 
 a public education for making a man of business! 
 The first would furnish out a good subject for 
 Plato’s republic, the latter a member for a com- 
 
 mUnit ^5° VerrUn With arti ^ ce ^ corru Ption. 
 
 “ It must, however, be confessed, that a person 
 ao the head of a public school has sometimes so 
 ,k°y s un dcr his direction, that it is impos¬ 
 sible he should extend a due proportion of his 
 care to each of them. This is however, in reality 
 the fault of the age, in which we often see twenty 
 parents, who, though each expects his son should 
 be made a. scholar, are not contented all together 
 to make it worth while for any man of liberal 
 education to take upon him the care of their in¬ 
 struction. 
 
 In our great schools, indeed, this fault has 
 been of late years rectified, so that we have at pre¬ 
 sent not only ingenious men for the chief masters, 
 but such as have proper ushers and assistants 
 under them. I must nevertheless own, that for 
 want of the same encouragement in the country, 
 we have many a promising genius spoiled and 
 abused in those little seminaries. 
 
 “ I am the more inclined to this opinion, hav¬ 
 ing myself experienced the usage of two rural 
 masters, each of them very unfit for the trust they 
 took upon them to discharge. The first imposed 
 much more upon me than my parts, though none 
 of the w T eakest, could endure; and used me bar¬ 
 barously for not performing impossibilities. The 
 latter was of quite another temper; and a boy who 
 would run upon his errands, wash his coffee-pot, 
 or ring the bell, might have as little conversation 
 with any of the classics as he thought fit. I have 
 known a lad at this place excused his exercise for 
 assisting the cook-maid; and remember a neigh¬ 
 boring gentleman’s son was among us five years, 
 most of which time he employed in airing and 
 watering our master’s gray pad. I scorned to 
 compound for my faults by doing any of these 
 elegant offices, and was accordingly the best 
 scholar, and the worst used of any boy in the 
 school. 
 
 “ I shall conclude this discourse with an ad¬ 
 vantage mentioned by Quintilian, as accompany¬ 
 ing a public way of education, which I have not 
 yet taken notice of; namely, that we very often 
 contract such friendships at school, as are a ser¬ 
 vice to us all the following parts of our lives. 
 
 “ I shall give you under this head, a story very 
 well known to several persons, and which you 
 may depend upon as real truth. 
 
 “ Every one, who is acquainted with Westmin- 
 ster-school, knows that there is a curtain which 
 used to be drawn across the room, to separate the 
 upper school from the lower. A youth happened, 
 by some mischance, to tear the above-mentioned 
 curtain. The severity of the master* was too well 
 known for the criminal to expect any pardon for 
 such a fault; so that the boy, who was of a meek 
 temper, was terrified to death at the thoughts of 
 his appearance, when his friend who sat next to 
 him bade him be of good cheer, for that he would 
 take the fault on himself. He kept his word 
 accordingly. As soon as they were grown up to 
 be men, the civil war broke out, in which our two 
 friends took the opposite sides; one of them fol¬ 
 lowed the parliament, the other the royal party. 
 
 “ As their tempers were different, the youth 
 who had torn the curtain endeavored to raise 
 himself on the civil list, and the other, who had 
 borne the blame of itj on the military. The first 
 succeeded so well, that he was in a short time 
 made a judge under the protector. The other 
 was engaged in the unhappy enterprise of Pen- 
 ruddock and Groves in the West. I suppose, Sir, 
 
 I need not acquaint you with the event of that 
 undertaking. Every one knows that the royal 
 party was routed, and all the heads of them. 
 
 * Busby. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 386 
 
 among whom was the curtain champion, impri¬ 
 soned at Exeter. It happened to be his friend’s 
 lot at that time to go the western circuit. The 
 trial of the rebels, as they were then called, was 
 very short, and nothing now remained but to pass 
 sentence on them; when the judge hearing the 
 name of his old friend, and observing his face 
 more attentively, which he had not seen for many 
 years, asked him if he was not formerly a West¬ 
 minster scholar? By the answer, he was soon 
 convinced that it was his former generous friend: 
 and without saying anything more at that time, 
 made the best of his way to London, where em¬ 
 ploying all his power and interest with the pro¬ 
 tector, he saved liis friend from the fate of his un¬ 
 happy associates. 
 
 “The gentleman whose life was thus preserved 
 by the gratitude of his school-fellow, was after¬ 
 ward the father of a son, whom he lived to see 
 promoted in the church, and who still deservedly 
 fills one of the highest stations in it.”* 
 
 X. 
 
 No. 314.] FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1711-12. 
 
 Tandem desine matrem 
 
 Tempestiva sequi viro.- 
 
 Hor. 1 Od. xxiii, 11. 
 
 Attend thy mother’s heels no more, 
 
 Now grown mature for man, and ripe for joy. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, February 7, 1711-12. 
 
 "I am a young man about eighteen years of age, 
 and have been in love with a young woman of the 
 same age about this half year. I go to see her 
 six days in the week, but never could have the 
 happiness of being with her alone. If any of her 
 friends are at home, she will see me in their com¬ 
 pany; but if they be not in the way, she flies to her 
 chamber. I can discover no signs of her aversion: 
 but either a fear of falling into the toils of matri¬ 
 mony, or a childish timidity, deprives us of an 
 interview apart, and drives us upou the difficulty 
 of languishing out our lives in fruitless expecta¬ 
 tion. Now, Mr. Spectator, if you think us ripe 
 for economy, persuade the dear creature, that to 
 pine away into barrenness and deformity under a 
 mother’s shade, is not so honorable, nor does she 
 appear so amiable, as she would in full bloom. 
 
 [There is a great deal left out before he con¬ 
 cludes.] 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Bob Harmless.” 
 
 If this gentleman be really no more than eighteen, 
 I must do him the justice to say, he is the most 
 knowing infant I have yet met with. He does 
 not, I fear, yet understand, that all he thinks of is 
 another woman; therefore, until he has given a 
 further account of himself, the young lady is 
 hereby directed to keep close to her mother. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 I cannot comply with the request in Mr. Trot’s 
 letter: but let it go just as it came to my hands 
 for being so familiar with the old gentleman, as 
 rough as he is to him. Since Mr. Trot has an am¬ 
 bition to make him his father-in-law, he ought to 
 treat him with more respect; beside, his style to 
 me might have been more distant than he has 
 thought fit to afford me: moreover, his mistress 
 
 * The gentleman here alluded to was Colonel Wake, father 
 to Dr. Wake, bishop of Lincoln, and afterward Archbishop of 
 Canterbury. As Penruddock in the course of the trial takes 
 occasion to say, “he sees Judge Nicholas on the bench,” it is 
 most likely that ho was the judge of the assize, who tried 
 this cavalier. 
 
 shall continue in her confinement, until he has 
 found out which word in his letter is not rightly* 
 spelt. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I shall ever own myself your obliged, humble 
 servant, for the advice you gave me concerning 
 my dancing; which, unluckily, came too late: for 
 as I said, I would not leave off capering until I 
 had your opinion of the matter. I was at our 
 famous assembly the day before I received your 
 papers, and there was observed by an old gentle¬ 
 man, who was informed I had a respect for his 
 daughter. He told me I was an insignificant 
 little fellow, and said, that for the future he would 
 take care of his child, so that he did not doubt 
 but to cross my amorous inclinations. The lady 
 is confined to her chamber, and for my part, I am 
 ready to hang myself with the thoughts that I 
 have danced myself out of favor with her father. 
 I hope you will pardon the trouble I give; but shall 
 take it for a mighty favor, if you will give me a 
 little more of your advice to put me in a right way 
 to cheat the old dragon ana obtain my mistress. 
 I am once more, Sir, 
 
 “ Your obliged, humble Servant, 
 
 “ John Trot.” 
 
 “York, Feb. 23, 1711-12. 
 
 “ Let me desire you to make what alterations 
 you please, and insert this as soon as possible. 
 Tardon mistakes by haste.” 
 
 I never do pardon mistakes by haste. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 “Sir, Feb. 27, 1711-12. 
 
 “ Pray be so kind as to let me know what you 
 esteem to be the chief qualification of a good poet, 
 especially of one who writes plays; and you will 
 very much oblige, Sir, 
 
 “ Your very humble Servant, 
 
 “N. B.” 
 
 To be a very well-bred man. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You are to know that I am naturally brave, 
 and love fighting as well as any man in England. 
 This gallant temper of mine makes me extremely 
 delighted with battles on the stage. I give you 
 this trouble to complain to you that Nicolini re¬ 
 fused to gratify me in that part of the opera for 
 which I have most taste. I observe it is become 
 a custom, that whenever any gentlemen are particu¬ 
 larly pleased witli a song, at their crying out, 
 ‘ Encore,’ or * Altro Volto,’ the performer is so 
 obliging as to sing it over again. 1 was at the opera 
 the last time Hydaspes was performed. At that part 
 of it where the hero engages with the lion, the 
 graceful manner with which he put that terrible 
 monster to death gave me so great a pleasure, and 
 at the same time so iust a sense of that gentle¬ 
 man’s intrepidity and conduct, that I could not 
 forbear desiring a repetition of it, by crying out 
 ‘ Altro Volto, 7 in a very audible voice ; ana my 
 friends flatter me that I pronounced those words 
 with a tolerable good accent, considering that was 
 but tho third opera I had ever seen in my life. 
 Yet, notwithstanding all this, there was so little 
 regard had to me, that the lion was carried off, 
 and went to bed, without being killed any more 
 that night. Now, Sir, pray consider that I did 
 not understand a word of what Mr. Nicolini said 
 to this cruel creature ; beside, I have no ear for 
 
 * In the original publication in folio, it is printed “ wright- 
 ly,” the mis-spelt word probably in Mr. Trot’8 letter. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 music; so that, during the long dispute between 
 them, the whole entertainment I had was from my 
 eyes. Why then have not I as much right to have 
 a graceful action repeated as another has a pleas¬ 
 ing sound, since he only hears, as I only see, and 
 we neither of us know that there is any reasonable 
 thing a-doing? Pray, Sir, settle the business of 
 this claim in the audience, and let us know when 
 we may cry ‘Altro Volto * Anglice , ‘Again, Again,’ 
 for the future. I am an Englishman, and expect 
 some reason or other to be given me, and perhaps 
 an ordinary one may serve; but I expect your 
 answer. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Toby Rentfree.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, • Nov. 29. 
 
 “ \ ou must give me leave, among the rest of 
 your female correspondents, to address you about 
 an affair which has already given you many a 
 speculation ; and which, I know, I need not tell 
 you has had a very happy influence over the adult 
 part of our sex; but as many of us are either too 
 old to learn, or too obstinate in the pursuit of the 
 vanities which have been bred up with us from 
 our infancy, and all of us quitting the stage while 
 you are prompting us to act our part well; you 
 ought, methinks, rather to turn your instructions 
 for the benefit of that part of our sex who are yet 
 in their native innocence, and ignorant of the vices 
 and that variety of unhappiness that reign among us, 
 “I must tell you, Mr. Spectator, that it is as 
 much a part of your office to oversee the education 
 of the female part of the nation, as well as of the 
 male; and to convince the world you are not par¬ 
 tial, pray proceed to detect the mal-administration 
 of governesses as successfully as you have expos¬ 
 ed that of pedagogues ; and rescue our sex from 
 the prejudice and tyranny of education as well as 
 that of your own, who, without* your seasonable 
 interposition, are like to improve upon the vices 
 tliat are now in vogue. 
 
 “ I who know the dignity of your post, as Spec¬ 
 tator, and the authority a skillful eye ought to bear 
 in the female world, could not forbear consulting 
 you, and beg your advice in so critical a point, as 
 is that of the education of young gentlewomen. 
 Haying already provided myself with a very con¬ 
 venient house in a good air, I am not without hope 
 but that you will promote this generous design. 
 
 I must further tell you, Sir, that all who shall be 
 committed to my conduct, beside the usual accom¬ 
 plishments of the needle, dancing, and the French 
 tongue, shall not fail to be your constant readers. 
 
 It is therefore my humble petition, that you will 
 entertain the town on this important subject, and 
 so far oblige a stranger, as to raise a curiosity 
 and inquiry in my behalf, by publishing the fol¬ 
 lowing advertisement. 
 
 “ lam, Sir, 
 
 “ 1 our constant Admirer, 
 
 “M. W.” 
 
 387 
 
 I his is to give notice, that the Spectator has 
 taken upon him to be visitant of all boarding- 
 schools where young women are educated ; and 
 designs to proceed in the same office after the 
 same manner that the visitants of colieges do in 
 the two famous universities of this land 
 All lovers who write to the Spectator, are de- 
 sirod to forbear one expression which is in most 
 of the letters to him, either out of laziness or 
 want of invention, and is true of not above two 
 thousand women in the whole world : viz. “ She 
 has in her all that is valuable in woman.”—T. 
 
 No. 315.] SATURDAY, MARCH 1, 1711-12. 
 
 Nec Deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 Incident- Hor., Ars. Poet., ver. 191. 
 
 Never presume to make a god appear, 
 
 But for a business worthy of a god.—R oscommon. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Boarding-School for young Gentlewomen, 
 which was formerly kept on Mile-End-Green, be- 
 ing laid down, there is now one set up almost op¬ 
 posite to it, at the two Golden Balls, and much 
 more convenient in every respect; where beside 
 the common instructions given to young gentle¬ 
 women, they will be taught the whole art of pastry 
 and preserving, with whatever may render them 
 accomplished. Those who please to make trial 
 of the vigilance and ability of the persons con¬ 
 cerned, may inquire at the Two Golden Balls on 
 Mile-End-Green, near Stepney, where they will 
 receive further satisfaction. 
 
 Horace advises a poet to consider thoroughly 
 the nature and force of his genius. Milton seems 
 to have known perfectly well wherein his strength 
 lay, and has therefore chosen a subject entirely 
 conformable to those talents of which he was 
 master. As his genius was wonderfully turned 
 to the sublime, his subject was the noblest that 
 could have entered into the thoughts of man. 
 Eveiything that is truly great and astonishing 
 has a place in it. The whole system of the intel¬ 
 lectual world ; the chaos, and the creation ; heav¬ 
 en, earth, and hell; enter into the constitution of 
 his poem. 
 
 Having in the first and second books represented 
 the infernal world with all its horrors, the thread 
 of his fable naturally leads him into the opposite 
 regions of bliss and glory. 
 
 . Milton’s majesty forsakes him anywhere, it is 
 in those parts of his poem where the divine per¬ 
 sons are introduced as speakers. One may, I 
 hink, observe, that the author proceeds with a 
 find of fear and trembling, while lie describes 
 the sentiments of the Almighty. He dares not 
 give his imagination its full play, but chooses to 
 confine himself to such thoughts as are drawn 
 iiom the books of the most orthodox divines, and 
 to such expressions as may be met with in Scrip¬ 
 ture, the beauties, therefore, which we are to look 
 for in these speeches, are not of a poetical nature, 
 n°i proper to fill the mind with sentiments of 
 grandeur, as with thoughts of devotion. The 
 passions which they are designed to raise, are a 
 divine love and religious fear. The particular 
 beauty of the speeches in the third book, consists 
 m that shortness and perspicuity of style, in 
 v hich the poet has couched the greatest mysteries 
 of Christianity, and drawn together in a regular 
 scheme, the whole dispensation of Providence 
 with respect to man. He has represented all the 
 abstruse doctrines of predestination, free-will and 
 grace, as also the great points of the incarnation 
 and redemption (which naturally grow up in a, 
 poem that treats of the fall of man), with great 
 energy of expression, and in a clearer and stronger 
 light than 1 ever met with in any other writer. 
 As these points are dry in themselves to the gen¬ 
 erality of readers, the concise and clear manner 
 in which he has treated them is very much to be 
 admired, as is likewise that particular art which 
 he has made use of in the interspersing of all 
 those graces of poetry which the subject was 
 capable of receiving. 
 
 rhe survey of the whole creation, and of every¬ 
 thing that is transacted in it, is a prospect worthy 
 of Omniscience, and as much above that in whicn 
 Virgil has drawn his Jupiter, as the Christian 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 388 
 
 idea of the Supreme being is more rational and 
 sublime than that of the Heathens. The particu¬ 
 lar objects on which he is described to have cast 
 his eye, are represented in the most beautiful and 
 lively manner:— 
 
 “ Now had th’ Almighty Father from above 
 
 (From the pure empyrean where he sits 
 
 High thron’d above all height) bent down his eye, 
 
 His own works and their works at once to view. 
 
 About him all the sanctities of heaven 
 Stood thick as stars, and from his sight receiv’d 
 Beatitude past utt’rance. On his right 
 The radiant image of his glory sat, 
 
 His only Son. On earth he first beheld 
 Our two first parents, yet the only two 
 Of mankind, in the happy garden plac’d, 
 
 Reaping immortal fruits of joy and love; 
 Uninterrupted joy, unrival’d love, 
 
 In blissful solitude. He then survey’d 
 Hell and the gulf between, and Satan there 
 Coasting the wall of heav’n on this side night, 
 
 In the dull air sublime; and ready now 
 To stoop with varied wings and willing feet 
 On the bare outside of this world, that seem’d 
 Firm land imbosom’d without firmament; 
 
 Uncertain which, in ocean, or in air, 
 
 Him God beholding from his prospect high, 
 
 Wherein past, present, future, he beholds, 
 
 Thus to his only Son foreseeing spake.” 
 
 Satan’s approach to the confines of the creation 
 is finely imaged in the beginning of the speech 
 which immediately follows. The elfects of this 
 speech in the blessed spirits, and in the divine 
 person to whom it was addressed, cannot but fill 
 the mind of the reader with a secret pleasure and 
 complacency: 
 
 “Thus while God spake, ambrosial fragrance fill’d 
 All heav’n, and in the blessed spirits elect 
 Sense of new joy ineffable diffus’d. 
 
 Beyond compare the Son of God was seen 
 Most glorious; in him all his Father shone 
 Substantially expressed; and in his face 
 Divine compassion visibly appear’d, 
 
 Love without end, and without measure grace.” 
 
 I need not point out the beauty of that circum¬ 
 stance wherein the whole host of angels are repre¬ 
 sented as standing mute ; nor show how proper 
 the occasion was to produce such a silence in 
 heaven. The close of this divine colloquy, with 
 the hymn of angels that follows upon it, are so 
 wonderfully beautiful and poetical, that I should 
 not forbear inserting the Avhole passage, if the 
 bounds of my paper would give me leave :— 
 
 “ No sooner had the Almighty ceas’d but all 
 The multitude of angels with a shout! 
 
 (Loud as from numbers without number, sweet 
 As from blest voices) utt’ring joy, heav’n rung 
 With jubilee, and loud hosannas fill’d 
 Th’ eternal regions,” etc., etc.- 
 
 Satan’s walk upon the outside of the universe, 
 which at a distance appeared to him of a globular 
 form, but upon his nearer approach looked like an 
 unbounded plain, is natural and noble; as his 
 roaming upon the frontiers of the creation, be¬ 
 tween that mass of matter which was wrought 
 into a world, and that shapeless, unformed heap 
 of materials which still lay in chaos and confu¬ 
 sion, strikes the imagination with something as¬ 
 tonishingly great and wild. I have before spoken 
 of the Limbo of Vanity, which the poet places 
 upon this outermost surface of the universe, and 
 shall here explain myself more at large on that and 
 other parts of the poem, which are of the same 
 shadowy nature. 
 
 Aristotle observes that the fable of an epic 
 oem should abound in circumstances that are 
 otli credible and astonishing; or. as the French 
 critics choose to phrase it, the fable should be 
 filled with the probable and the marvelous. This 
 rule is as fine and just as any in Aristotle’s whole 
 Art of Poetry. 
 
 If the fable is only probable, it differs nothing 
 
 from a true history ; if it is only marvelous, it is 
 no better than a romance. The great secret, there¬ 
 fore, of heroic poetry, is to relate such circum¬ 
 stances as may produce in the reader at the same 
 time both belief and astonishment. This is brought 
 to pass iu a well-chosen fable, by the account of 
 such things as have really happened, or at least 
 of such things as have happened according to the 
 received opinions of mankind. Milton’s fable is 
 a masterpiece of this nature : as the war in heav¬ 
 en, the condition of the fallen angels, the state of 
 innocence, the temptation of the serpent and the 
 fall of man ; though they are very astonishing in 
 themselves, and are not only credible, but actual 
 points of faith. 
 
 The next method of reconciling miracles with 
 credibility, is by a happy 'invention of the poet; 
 as in particular, when he introduces agents of a 
 superior nature, who are capable of effecting what 
 is wonderful, and what is not to be met with in 
 the ordinary course of things. Ulysses’ ship be¬ 
 ing turned into a rock, and ^Eneas’s fleet into a 
 shoal of water-nymphs, though they are very 
 surprising accidents, are nevertheless probable 
 when we are told, that they were the gods who 
 thus transformed them. It is this kind of ma¬ 
 chinery which fills the poems both of Homer and 
 Virgil with such circumstances as are wonderful 
 but not impossible, and so frequently produce in 
 the reader the most pleasing passion that can rise 
 in the mind of man, which is admiration. If 
 there be any instance in the JSneid liable to 
 exception upon this account, it is in the beginning 
 of the third book, where .(Eneas is represented as 
 tearing up the myrtle that dropped blood. To 
 qualify this wonderful circumstance, Polydorus 
 tells a story from the root of the myrtle, that 
 the barbarous inhabitants of the country having 
 pierced him with spears and arrows, the wood 
 which was left in'his body took root in his wounds, 
 and gave birth to that bleeding tree. This cir¬ 
 cumstance seems to have the marvelous without 
 the probable, because it is represented as proceed¬ 
 ing from natural causes, without the interposition 
 of any god, or other supernatural power capable 
 of producing it. The spears and arrows grow of 
 themselves without so much as the modern help 
 of enchantment. If we look into the fiction of 
 Milton’s fable, though we find it full of surpris¬ 
 ing incidents, they are generally suited to our no¬ 
 tions of the things and persons described, and 
 tempered with a due measure of probability. I 
 must only make an exception to the Limbo of 
 Vanity, with his Episode of Sin and Death, and 
 some of the imaginary persons in his chaos. 
 These passages are astonishing, but not credible; 
 the reader cannot so far impose upon himself as 
 to see a possibility in them ; they are the descrip¬ 
 tion of dreams and shadows, not of things or 
 persons. I know that many critics look upon 
 the stories of Circe, Polypheme, the Sirens, nay 
 the whole Odyssey and Iliad, to be allegories ; 
 but allowing this to be true, they are fables, 
 which, considering the opinions of mankind that 
 prevailed in the age of the poet, might possibly 
 have been according to the letter. The persons 
 are such as might have acted what is ascribed to 
 them, as the circumstances in which they are re¬ 
 presented might possibly have been truths and 
 realities. This appearance of probability is so 
 absolutely requisite in the greater kinds of poetry, 
 that Aristotle observes the ancient tragic writers 
 made use of the names of such great men as had 
 actually lived in the world, though the tragedy 
 proceeded upon adventures they were never en¬ 
 gaged in, on purpose to make the subject more 
 credible. In a word, beside the hidden meaning 
 
THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 of an epic allegory, the plain, literal sense ought 
 to appear probable. The story should be such as 
 an ordinary reader may acquiesce in, whatever 
 natural, moral, or political truth may be discov¬ 
 ered in it by men of greater penetration. 
 
 Satan, after having long wandered upon the 
 surface or outmost wall of the universe, discovers 
 at last a wide gap in it, which led into the crea¬ 
 tion and is described as the opening through 
 which the angels pass to and fro into the lower 
 world, upon their errands to mankind. His sit- 
 tmg upon the brink of this passage, and taking a 
 survey of the whole face of nature that appeared 
 to nun new and fresh in all its beauties, with the 
 simile illustrating the circumstance, fills the mind 
 of the leader with as surprising and glorious an 
 idea as any that arises in the whole poem. He 
 looks down into that vast hollow of the universe 
 with the eye, or (as Milton calls it in his first 
 book) with the ken of an angel. He surveys 
 all the wonders in the immense amphitheater that 
 lies between both the poles of heaven, and takes 
 in at one view the whole round of the creation. 
 
 His flight between the several worlds that 
 shone on every side of him, with the particular 
 description of the sun, are set forth in all the wan- 
 tonness of a luxuriant imagination. His shape, 
 speech, and behavior upon his transforming him¬ 
 self into an angel of light, are touched with ex¬ 
 quisite beauty. The poet’s thoughts of directing 
 Satan to the sun, which, in the vulgar opinion of 
 mankind, is the most conspicuous part of the 
 creation, and the placing in it an angel, is a cir¬ 
 cumstance very finely contrived, and the more 
 adjusted to a poetical probability, as it was a 
 received doctrine among the most famous philoso¬ 
 phers, that every orb had its intelligence ; and as 
 an apostle in sacred writ is said to have seen such 
 an angel in the sun. In the answer which this 
 angel returns to the disguised evil spirit, there is 
 such a becoming majesty as is altogether suitable 
 to a superior being. The part of it in which he 
 represents himself as present at the creation, is 
 very noble in itself, and not only proper where it 
 is introduced, but requisite to prepare the reader 
 for what follows in the seventh book :•— 
 
 389 
 
 ‘ I when at his word the formless mass, 
 
 Ihis world s material mould, came to a heap; 
 Confusion heard his voice, and wild Uproar 
 Stood rul’d, stood vast infinitude confin’d, 
 
 Till at his second bidding Darkness fled, 
 
 Light shone,” etc. 
 
 In the following part of the speech he points 
 out the earth with such circumstances, that the 
 reader can scarce forbear fancying himself em¬ 
 ployed on the same distant view of it: 
 
 downward on that globe, whose hither side 
 With light from hence, though but reflected, shines: 
 That place is earth, the seat of man, that light 
 His day,” etc. 
 
 I must not conclude my reflections upon this 
 third book of Paradise Lost, without taking no- 
 tice of that celebrated complaint of Milton with 
 which it opens, and which certainly deserves all 
 the praises that have been given it; though, as I 
 have before hinted, it may rather be looked upon 
 as an excrescence, than as an essential part of the 
 poem The same observation might be applied to 
 that beautiful digression upon hypocrisy in the 
 same book. 
 
 L. 
 
 No. 316.] MONDAY, MARCH 3,1711-12. 
 
 Libertas; quae sera, tamen respexit inertem. 
 
 Virg., Eel. i. 28 
 
 Freedom, which came at length, though slow to com©. 
 
 Drtdsn. 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 I* you ever read a letter which is sent with 
 the more pleasure for the reality of its complaints, 
 tins may have reason to hope for a favorable ac¬ 
 ceptance; and if time be the most irretrievable 
 loss, the regrets which follow will be thought. I 
 hope, the most justifiable. The regaining of my 
 liberty from a long state of indolence and inacti¬ 
 vity, and the desire of resisting the further en¬ 
 croachments of idleness, make me apply to you- 
 and the uneasiness with which I recollect the past 
 years, and the apprehension with which I expect 
 the future, soon determine me to it. Idleness is so 
 general a distemper, that I cannot but imagine 
 a speculation on this subject will be of universal 
 use. There is hardly any one person without 
 some allo\ r of it; and thousands beside myself 
 spend more time in an idle uncertainty which to 
 begin first of two affairs, than would have been 
 sufficient to have ended them both. The occasion 
 of this seems to be the want of some necessary 
 employment, to put the spirits in motion, and 
 awaken them out of their lethargy. If I had less 
 leisure, I should have more; for 1 should then 
 find my time distinguished into portions, some for 
 business, and others for the indulging of plea- 
 suies, but now one face of indolence overspreads 
 the whole, and I have no landmark to direct my¬ 
 self by. Were one’s time a little straitened by 
 business, like water inclosed in its banks, it 
 would have some determined course; but unless it 
 be put into some channel it has no current, but be¬ 
 comes a deluge without either use or motion. 
 
 ‘‘When Scauderbeg, Prince of Epirus, was dead, 
 the Turks, who had but too often felt the force of 
 his arm in the battles he had won from them, ima¬ 
 gined that by wearing a piece of his bones near 
 their heart, they should be animated with a vigor 
 force like to that which inspired him when 
 living. As I am like to be but of little use while 
 I live, I am resolved to do what good I can after 
 my decease; and have accordingly ordered my 
 bones to be disposed of in this manner for the 
 good of my countrymen, who are troubled with 
 too exorbitant a degree of fire. All fox-hunters, 
 upon wearing me, would in a short time be 
 brought to endure their beds in a morning, and 
 perhaps even quit them with regret at ten. Instead 
 of hurrying away to tease a poor animal, and run 
 away from their own thoughts, a chair or a cha- 
 liot would be thought the most desirable means 
 of performing a remove from one place to another. 
 
 I should be a cure for the unnatural desire of John 
 Trot for dancing, and a specific to lessen the in¬ 
 clination Mrs. Fidget has to motion, and cause her 
 always to give her approbation to the present 
 place she is in. In fine, no Egyptian mummy 
 was ever half so useful in physic, as I should be 
 to these feverish constitutions, to repress the vio¬ 
 lent sallies ol youth, and give each action its 
 proper weight and repose. 
 
 “ I can stifle any violent inclination, and op¬ 
 pose a torrent of anger, or the solicitations of re¬ 
 venge, with success. Indolence is a stream which 
 flows slowly on, but yet undermines the founda¬ 
 tion of every virtue. A vice of a more lively na¬ 
 ture were a more desirable tyrant than this rust 
 of the mind, which gives a tincture of its nature 
 to every action of one’s life. It were as little ha¬ 
 zard to be lost in a storm, as to lie thus perpetu¬ 
 ally becalmed; and it is to no purpose to have 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 390 
 
 •within one the seeds of a thousand good qualities, 
 if we want the vigor and resolution necessary for 
 the exerting them. Death brings all persons back 
 to an equality; and this image of it, this slumber 
 of the mind, leaves no difference between the 
 greatest genius and the meanest understanding. 
 A faculty of doing things remarkably praise¬ 
 worthy, thus concealed, is of no more use to the 
 owner, than a heap of gold to the man who dares 
 not use it. 
 
 “ To-morrow, is still the fatal time when all is 
 to be rectified. To-morrow comes, it goes, and 
 still I please myself with the shadow, while I 
 lose the reality; unmindful that the present time 
 alone is ours, the future is yet unborn, and the 
 past is dead, and can only live (as parents in their 
 children) in the actions it has produced. 
 
 “ The time we live ought not to be computed by 
 the number of years, but by the use that has been 
 made of it: thus, it is not the extent of ground, 
 but the yearly rent which gives the value to the 
 estate. Wretched and thoughtless creatures, in 
 the only place where covetousness were a virtue, 
 we turn prodigals! Nothing lies upon our hands 
 with such uneasiness, nor have there been so many 
 devices for any one thing, as to make it slide away 
 imperceptibly and to no purpose. A shilling shall 
 be hoarded up with care, while that which is 
 above the price of an estate is flung away with 
 disregard and contempt. There is nothing, now- 
 a-days, so much avoided as a solicitous improve¬ 
 ment of every part of time; it is a report must be 
 shunned as one tenders the name of a wit and a 
 fine genius, and as one fears the dreadful charac¬ 
 ter of a laborious plodder; but notwithstanding 
 this, the greatest wits any age has produced 
 thought far otherwise; for who can think either 
 Socrates or Demosthenes lost any reputation, by 
 their continued pains both in overcoming the de¬ 
 fects and improving the gifts of nature? All are 
 acquainted with the labor and assiduity with 
 which Tully acquired his eloquence. Seneca in 
 his letters to Lucilius assures him, there was not 
 a day in which he did not either write something, 
 or read and epitomize some good author; and I 
 remember Pliny in one of his letters, where he 
 gives an account of the various methods he used 
 to fill up every vacancy of time, after several em¬ 
 ployments which he enumerates: ‘sometimes,’ 
 says he, ‘ I hunt: but even then I carry with me 
 a pocket-book, that while my servants are busied 
 in disposing of the nets and other matters, I may 
 be employed in something that may be useful to 
 me in my studies; and that if I miss of my game, 
 I may at the least bring home some of my own 
 thoughts with me, and not have the mortification 
 of having caught nothing all day. 
 
 “ Thus, Sir, you see, how many examples I re¬ 
 call to mind, and what arguments I use with my¬ 
 self, to regain my liberty: but as I am afraid it is 
 no ordinary persuasion that will be of service, I 
 shall expect your thoughts on this subject with 
 the greatest impatience, especially since the good 
 will not be confined to me alone, but will be of 
 universal use. For there is no hope of amend¬ 
 ment where men are pleased with their ruin, and 
 while they think laziness is a desirable character; 
 whether it be that they like the state itself, or that 
 they think it gives them a new luster when they 
 do exert themselves, seemingly to be able to do 
 that without labor and application, which others 
 attain to but with the greatest diligence. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your most obliged, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Samuel Slack.” 
 
 Clytander to Cleone. 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ Permission to love you is all that I desire to 
 conquer all the difficulties those about you place 
 in my way, to surmount and acquire all those 
 qualifications you expect in him who pretends to 
 the honor of being, 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “Your most devoted, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Clytandek.” 
 
 No. 317.] TUESDAY, MARCH 4, 1711-12. 
 
 -Fruges consumere nati.— IIor. 1 Ep. ii, 27. 
 
 -Born to drink and eat.— Creech. 
 
 Augustus, a few minutes before his death, asked 
 his friends who stood about him, if they thought 
 he had acted his part well; and upon receiving 
 such an answer as was due to his extraordinary 
 merit, “ Let me then,” says he, “ go off the stage 
 with your applause; ” using the expression with 
 which the Roman actors made their exit at the 
 conclusion of a dramatic piece.* I could wish 
 that men, while they are in health, would consider 
 well the nature of the part they are engaged in, 
 and what figure it will make in the minds of those 
 they leave behind them, whether it was worth 
 coming into the World for; whether it be suitable 
 to a reasonable being; in short, whether it appears 
 graceful in this life, or will turn to advantage in 
 the next. Let the sycophant or the buffoon, the 
 satirist, or the good companion, consider with 
 himself, when his body shall be laid in the grave, 
 and his soul pass into another state of existence, 
 how much it will redound to his praise to have it 
 said of him, that no man in England ate better, 
 that he had an admirable talent at turning his 
 friends into ridicule, that nobody outdid him at 
 an ill-natured jest, or that he never went to bed 
 before he had dispatched his third bottle. These 
 are, however, very common funeral orations, 
 and eulogiums on deceased persons w r ho have 
 acted among mankind with some figure and repu¬ 
 tation. 
 
 But if we look into the bulk of our species, 
 they are such as are not likely to be remembered a 
 moment after their disappearance. They leave 
 behind them no traces of their existence, but are 
 forgotten as though they had never been. They 
 are neither w T anted by the poor, regretted by the 
 rich, nor celebrated by the learned. They are 
 neither missed in the commonwealth, nor lamented 
 by private persons. Their actions are of no sig- 
 nificancy to mankind, and might have been per¬ 
 formed by creatures of much less dignity than 
 those Avho are distinguished by the faculty of rea¬ 
 son. An eminent French author speaks some¬ 
 where to the following purpose : I have often seen 
 from my chamber-window two noble creatures, 
 both of them of an erect countenance and en¬ 
 dowed with reason. These two intellectual beings 
 are employed from morning to night in rubbing 
 two smooth stones one upon another: that is, as 
 the vulgar phrase is, in polishing marble. 
 
 My friend, Sir Andrew Freeport, as we were 
 sitting in the club last night, gave us an account 
 of a sober citizen, who died a few days since. 
 This honest man of greater consequence in his 
 ow r n thoughts than in the eye of the wmrld, had 
 for some years past kept a journal of his life. Sir 
 Andrew showed us one week of it. Since the oc¬ 
 currences set down in it mark out such a road of 
 
 *Vos valete et plaudite. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 391 
 
 action as that I have been speaking of, I shall 
 resent my reader with a faithful copy of it; after 
 aviug first informed him, that the deceased per¬ 
 son had in his youth been bred to trade, but find¬ 
 ing himself not so well turned for business, he 
 had for several years last past lived altogether 
 upon a moderate annuity.* 
 
 Monday, eight o’clock. I put on my clothes, 
 and walked into the parlor. 
 
 Nine o’clock, ditto. Tied my knee-strings and 
 washed my hands. 
 
 Hours ten, eleven, and twelve. Smoked three 
 
 £ ipes of Virginia. Read the Supplement and 
 'aily Courant. Things go ill in the north. Mr. 
 Nisby’s opinion thereupon. 
 
 One o’clock in the afternoon. Chid Ralph for 
 mislaying my tobacco-box. 
 
 Two o’clock. Sat down to dinner. Mem. Too 
 many plums and no suet. 
 
 From three to four. Took my afternoon’s nap. 
 From four to six. Walked into the fields. Wind 
 S. S. E. 
 
 From six to ten. At the club. Mr. Nisby’s 
 opinion about the peace. 
 
 Ten o’clock. Went to bed, slept sound. 
 
 Tuesday , being holiday, eight o’clock. Rose as 
 usual. 
 
 Nine o’clock. Washed hands and face, shaved, 
 put on my double-soled shoes. 
 
 Ten, eleven, twelve. Took a walk to Islington. 
 One. Took a pot of Mother Cob’s mild. 
 Between two and three. Returned, dined on a 
 knuckle of veal and bacon. Mem. Sprouts want- 
 
 hree. Nap as usual. 
 
 From four to six Coffee-house. Read the news. 
 A dish of twist. Grand vizier strangled. 
 
 From six to ten. At the club. Mr. Nisby’s ac¬ 
 count of the Great Turk. 
 
 Ten. Dream of the grand vizier. Broken 
 sleep. 
 
 Wednesday, eight o’clock. Tongue of my shoe- 
 buckle broke. Hands but not face. 
 
 Niue. Paid off the butcher’s bill. Mem. To be 
 allowed for the last leg of mutton. 
 
 Ten, eleven. At the coffee-house. More work 
 in the north. Stranger in a black wig asked me 
 how stocks went. 
 
 From twelve to one. Walked in the fields. 
 Wind to the south. 
 
 From one to two. Smoked a pipe and a half. 
 Two. Dined as usual. Stomach good. 
 
 Three. Nap broke by the falling of a pewter 
 dish. Mem. Cook-maid in love, and grown care¬ 
 less. 
 
 From four to six. At the coffee-house. Advice 
 from Smyrna that the grand vizier was first of all 
 strangled, and afterward beheaded. 
 
 Six o’clock in the evening. Was half an hour 
 in the club before anybody else came. Mr. Nisby 
 of opinion that the grand vizier was not strangled 
 the sixth instant. 
 
 Ten at night. Went to bed. Slept without 
 waking until nine the next morning. 
 
 Thursday, nine o’clock. Stayed within until 
 two o’clock for Sir Timothy ; who did not bring 
 me my aunuity according to his promise. 
 
 * This journal was, it may be, genuine, but certainly pub¬ 
 lished here as a banter on a gentleman who was a member 
 of a congregation of dissenters, commonly called Indepen¬ 
 dents, where a Mr. Nesbit officiated at that time as minister. 
 The curious may find information “ satis superque,” con¬ 
 cerning Mr. Nestit, in John Dunton’s account of his Life, 
 Errors, and Opinions. The person who kept this insipid 
 journal led just such a life as is described and ridiculed here, 
 and was continually asking or quoting his pastor’s opinion 
 on every subject. 
 
 ; Two in the afternoon. Sat down to dinner. 
 Loss of appetite. Small beer sour. Beef over¬ 
 corned. 
 
 Three. Could not take my nap. 
 
 Four and five. Gave Ralph a box on the ear. 
 Turned off my cook-maid. Sent a messenger to 
 Sir Timothy. Mem. I did not go to the club to¬ 
 night. Went to bed at nine o’clock. 
 
 Friday. Passed the morning in meditation 
 upon Sir Timothy, who was with me a quarter 
 beforeMwelve. 
 
 Twelve o’clock. Bought a new head to my 
 cane, and a tongue to my buckle. Drank a glass 
 of purl to recover appetite. 
 
 Two and three. Dined and slept well. 
 
 From four to six. Went to the coffee-house. 
 Met Mr. Nisby there. Smoked several pipes. 
 Mr. Nisby of opinion that laced coffee is bad for 
 the head. 
 
 Six o’clook. At the club as steward. Sat late. 
 
 Twelve o’clock. Went to bed, dreamt that I 
 drank small beer with the grand vizier. 
 
 Saturday. Waked at eleven, walked in the 
 fields, wind N.E. 
 
 Twelve. Caught in a shower. 
 
 One in the afternoon. Returned home and dried 
 myself. 
 
 Two. Mr. Nisby dined with me. First course, 
 marrow-bones; second, ox-cheek, with a bottle of, 
 Brooks and Hellier. 
 
 Three. Overslept myself. 
 
 Six. Went to the club. Like to have fallen 
 into a gutter. Grand Vizier certainly dead. 
 
 I question not but the reader will be surprised 
 to find the above-mentioned journalist taking so 
 much care of a life that was filled with such in¬ 
 considerable actions, and received so very small 
 improvements ; and yet if we look into the beha¬ 
 vior of many whom we daily converse with, we 
 shall find the most of their hours are taken up 
 in those three important articles of eating, drink¬ 
 ing, and sleeping. I do not suppose that man 
 loses his time, who is not engaged in public 
 affairs, or in an illustrious course of action. On 
 the contrary, I believe our hours may very often 
 be more profitably laid out in such transactions 
 as make no figure in the world, than in such as 
 are apt to draw upon them the attention of man¬ 
 kind. One may become wiser and better by se¬ 
 veral methods of employing one’s-self in secrecy 
 and silence, and do what is laudable without 
 noise or ostentation. I would, however, recom¬ 
 mend to every one of my readers, the keeping a 
 journal of their lives for one week, and setting 
 down punctually their whole series of employ¬ 
 ment during that space of time. This kind of 
 self-examination would give them a true state of 
 themselves, and incline them to consider seriously 
 what they are about. One day would rectify the 
 omissions of another, and make a man weigh all 
 those indifferent actions, which, though they are 
 easily forgotten, must certainly be accounted for. 
 
 No. 318.] WEDNESDAY, MARCH 5, 1711-12. 
 
 -Non omnia possumus omnes.—V irg., Eel. viii, 63. 
 
 With different talents form’d, we variously excel.* 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ A certain vice, which you have lately at¬ 
 tacked, has not yet been considered by you as 
 
 * This motto is likewise prefixed to Spectator, No. 404. The 
 original motto on this paper in folio was, 
 
 ltideat, et pulset lasciva decentius aetas. 
 
 IIor. Ep. ii, 2, ult. 
 
 Lascivious age might better play the fool. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 392 
 
 growing so deep in the heart of man, that the 
 affectation outlives the practice of it. You must 
 have observed, that men who have been bred in 
 arms preserve to the most extreme and feeble old 
 age, a certain daring in their aspect. In like 
 manner, they who have passed their time in gal¬ 
 lantry and adventure, keep up, as well as they 
 can, the appearance of it, and carry a petulant 
 inclination to their last moments. Let this serve 
 for a preface to a relation I am going to give you 
 of an old beau in town, that has not only been 
 amorous, and a follower of women in general, but 
 also, in spite of the admonition of gray hairs, 
 been from his sixty-third year to his present 
 seventieth in an actual pursuit of a young lady, 
 the wife of his friend, and a man of merit. The 
 gay old Escalus has wit, good health, and is per¬ 
 fectly well-bred; but, from the fashion and man¬ 
 ners of the court when he was in his bloom, has 
 such a natural tendency to amorous adventure, 
 that he thought it would be an endless reproach 
 to him to make no use of a familiarity he was 
 allowed at a gentleman’s house, whose good-hu¬ 
 mor and confidence exposed his wife to the ad¬ 
 dresses of any who should take it into their head 
 to do him the good office. It is not impossible 
 that Escalus might also resent that the husband 
 was particularly negligent of him; and though 
 he gave many intimations of a passion toward the 
 wife, the husband either did not see them, or put 
 him to the contempt of overlooking them. In 
 the mean time Isabella (for so we shall call our 
 heroine), saw his passion, and rejoiced in it, as a 
 foundation for much diversion, and an opportu¬ 
 nity of indulging herself in the dear delight of 
 being admired, addressed to, and flattered, with 
 no ill consequence to her reputation. This lady 
 is of a free and disengaged behavior, ever in 
 good-humor, such as is the image of innocence 
 with those who are innocent, and an encourage¬ 
 ment to vice with those who are abandoned. 
 From this kind of carriage, and an apparent ap¬ 
 probation of his gallantry, Escalus had frequent 
 opportunities of laying amorous epistles in her 
 way, fixing his eyes attentively upon her actions, 
 of performing a thousand little offices which are 
 neglected by the unconcerned, but are so many 
 approaches toward happiness with the enamored. 
 It was now, as is above hinted, almost the end 
 of the seventh year of his passion, when Escalus, 
 from general terms, and the ambiguous respect 
 which criminal lovers retain in their addresses, 
 began to bewail that his passion grew too violent 
 for him to answer any longer for his behavior 
 toward her, and that he hoped she would have 
 consideration for his long and patient respect, to 
 excuse the emotions of a heart now no longer 
 under the direction of the unhappy owner of it. 
 Such, for some months, had been the language of 
 Escalus both in his talk and his letters to Isa¬ 
 bella, who returned all the profusion of kind 
 things which had been the collection of fifty years, 
 
 ‘ I must not hear you ; you will make me forget 
 that you are a gentleman; 1 would not willingly 
 lose you as a friend;’ and the like expressions, 
 which the skillful interpret to their own advan¬ 
 tage, as well as knowing that a feeble denial is a 
 modest assent. I should have told you, that 
 Isabella, during the whole progress of this amour, 
 communicated it to her husband; and that an ac¬ 
 count of Escalus’s love was their usual entertain¬ 
 ment after half a day’s absence. Isabella, there¬ 
 fore, upon her lover’s late more open assaults, 
 with a smile told her husband she could hold out 
 no longer, but that his fate was now come to a 
 crisis. After she had explained herself a little 
 further, with her husband’s approbation she pro- I 
 
 ceeded in the following manner. The next time 
 that Escalus was alone with her, and repeated his 
 importunity, the crafty Isabella looked on her fan 
 with an air of great attention, as considering of 
 what importance such a secret was to her; and 
 upon the repetition of a warm expression, she 
 looked at him with an eye of fondness, and told 
 him he was past that time of life which could make 
 her fear he would boast of a lady’s favor; then turn¬ 
 ed away her head, with a very well-acted confusion, 
 which favored the escape of the aged Escalus. This 
 adventure was matter of great pleasantry to Isabella 
 and her spouse; and they had enjoyed it two days 
 before Escalus could recollect himself enough to 
 form the following letter: 
 
 “Madam, 
 
 “What happened the other day gives me a 
 lively image of the inconsistency of human pas¬ 
 sions and inclinations. We pursue what we are 
 denied, and place our affections on what is absent, 
 though we neglected it when present. As long as 
 you refused my love, your refusal did so strongly 
 excite my passion, that I had not once the leisure 
 to think of recalling my reason to aid me against 
 the design upon your virtue. But when that 
 virtue began to comply in my favor, my reason 
 made an effort over my love, and let me see the 
 baseness of my behavior in attempting a woman 
 of honor. I own to you, it was not without the 
 most violent struggle that I gained this victory 
 over myself; nay I will confess my shame, and 
 acknowledge, I could not have prevailed but by 
 flight. However, Madam, I beg that you will 
 believe a moment’s weakness has not destroyed 
 the esteem I had for you, w r hich was confirmed by 
 so many years of obstinate virtue. You have 
 reason to rejoice that this did not happen within 
 the observation of one of the young fellows, who 
 would have exposed your weakness, and gloried 
 in his own brutish inclinations. 
 
 “I am, Madam, 
 
 “Your most devoted, humble Servant.” 
 
 “Isabella, with the help of her husband, re¬ 
 turned the following answer: 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I cannot but account myself a very happy wo¬ 
 man, in having a man for a lover that can write so 
 w'ell, and give so good a turn to a disappointment. 
 Another excellence you have above all other pre¬ 
 tenders I have heard of; on occasions where the 
 most reasonable men lose all their reason, you 
 have yours most powerful. We have each of us 
 to thank our genius, that the passion of one abat¬ 
 ed in proportion as that of the other grew violent. 
 Does it not yet come into your head to imagine, 
 that I knew my compliance was the greatest 
 cruelty I could be guilty of toward you? In re¬ 
 turn for your long and faithful passion, I must 
 let you know that you are old enough to become a 
 little more gravity ; but if you will leave me, and 
 coquet it anywhere else, may your mistress 
 yield. 
 
 T. “Isabella.” 
 
 No. 319.] THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1711-12. 
 
 Quo teneam vultus mutantem protea nodo ? 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. i, 90. 
 
 Say while they change on thus, what chains can bind 
 These varying forms, this Proteus of the mind 1 
 
 Francis. 
 
 I have endeavored in the course of my papers 
 to do justice to the age, and have taken care as 
 much as possible to keep myself a neuter between 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 both sexes. I have neither spared the ladies out 
 of complaisance, nor the men out of partiality; 
 but notwithstanding the great integrity with 
 which I have acted in this particular, I find my- 
 self taxed w ith an inclination to favor my own 
 half of the species. Whether it be that the wo¬ 
 men afford a more fruitful field for speculation, or 
 whether they run more in my head than the men, 
 I cannot tell; but I shall set down the charge as it 
 is laid against me in the following letter: 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I always make one among a company of young 
 females, who peruse your speculations every 
 morning. I am at present commissioned by our 
 whole assembly to let you know, that we fear you 
 are a little inclined to be partial toward your own 
 sex. We must however acknowledge, with all 
 due gratitude, that in some cases you have given 
 our revenge on the men, and done us justice. 
 We comd not easily have forgiven you several 
 strokes in the dissection of the coquette’s heart, 
 if you had not, much about the same time, made 
 a sacrifice to us of a beau’s skull. 
 
 “ ^ ou may, however, Sir, please to remember, 
 that not long since you attacked our hoods and 
 commodes in such a manner, as to use your own 
 expression, made very many of us ashamed to 
 show our heads. We must therefore beg leave to 
 represent to you, that we are in hopes, if you will 
 please to make a due inquiry, the men in all ages 
 would be found to have been little less whimsical 
 in adorning that part than ourselves. The differ¬ 
 ent forms of their wigs, together with the various 
 cocks of their hats, all flatter us in this opinion. 
 
 “I had a humble servant last summer, who the 
 first time he declared himself was in a full-bot¬ 
 tomed wig: but the day after, to my no small sur¬ 
 prise, he accosted me in a thin natural one. I 
 received him, at this our second interview, as a 
 perfect stranger, but was extremely confounded 
 when his speech discovered who he was. I re¬ 
 solved, therefore, to fix his face in my memory for 
 the future: but as I was walking in the park the 
 same evening, he appeared to me in one of those 
 wigs that I think you call a night-cap, which had 
 altered him more effectually than before. He after¬ 
 ward played a couple of black riding wigs upon 
 me with the same success, and, in short, assumed 
 a new face almost every day in the first month of 
 his courtship. 
 
 . “ I observed afterward, that the variety of cocks 
 into which he moulded his hat had not a little con¬ 
 tributed to his impositions upon me. 
 
 “ let, as if all these ways were not sufficient 
 to distinguish their heads, you must doubtless, 
 Sir, have observed, that great numbers of young 
 fellows have, for several months last past, taken 
 upon them to wear feathers. 
 
 We hope, therefore, that these may with as 
 much justice be called Indian princes, as you have 
 styled a woman in a colored hood an Indian 
 queen; and that you will in due time take these 
 airy gentlemen into consideration. 
 
 “ We the more earnestly beg that you would put 
 a stop to this practice, since it has already lost us 
 one of the most agreeable members of our society, 
 who, after having refused several good estates, and 
 two titles, was lured from us last week by a mixed 
 feather. 
 
 “ I am ordered to present you with the respects 
 of our whole company, and am. Sir, 
 
 “ Your very humble Servant, 
 
 “ Dorinda.” 
 
 “Note. The person wearing the feather, though 
 
 • 393 
 
 our friend took him for an officer in the guards, 
 has proved to be an errant linen-draper.”* 
 
 I am not now at leisure to give my opinion 
 upon the hat and feather: however, to wipe off the 
 present imputation, and gratify my female cor¬ 
 respondent, I shall here print a letter which I 
 lately received from a man of mode, who seems to 
 have a very extraordinary genius in his way. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I presume I need not inform you, that among 
 men of dress it is a common phrase to say, ‘ Mr. 
 Such-a-one has struck a bold stroke;’ by which we 
 understand, that he is the first man who has had 
 courage enough to lead up a fashion. Accordingly 
 when our tailors take measure of us, they always 
 demand, whether we will have a plain suit or 
 strike a bold stroke?’ I think I may without 
 vanity say, that I have struck some of the boldest 
 and most successful strokes of any man in Great 
 Britain. I was the first that struck the long 
 pocket about two years since: I was likewise the 
 author of the frosted button, which when I saw 
 the town come readily into, being resolved to 
 strike while the iron was hot, I produced much 
 about the same time the scollop flap, the knotted 
 cravat, and made a fair push for the silver-clocked 
 stocking. 
 
 X few months after I brought up the modish 
 jacket, or the coat with close sleeves. I struck 
 this at first in a plain Doily; but that failing, I 
 struck it a second time in blue camlet, and re¬ 
 peated the stroke in several kinds of cloth, until 
 at last it took effect. There are two or three 
 young fellows at the other end of the town who 
 have always their eye upon me, and answer me 
 stroke for stroke. I was once so unwary as to 
 mention my fancy in relation to a new-fashioned 
 surtout before one of these gentlemen, who was 
 disingenuous enough to steal my thought, and by 
 that means prevented my intended stroke. 
 
 I have a design this spring to make very con¬ 
 siderable innovations in the waistcoat; and have 
 already begun with a coup d’essai upon the sleeves, 
 which has succeeded very well. 
 
 “I must further inform you, if you will promise 
 to encourage, or at least to connive at me, that it 
 is my design to strike such a stroke the begin¬ 
 ning of the next month as shall surprise the whole 
 town. 
 
 “ I do not think it prudent to acquaint you with 
 all the particulars of my intended dress; but will 
 only tell you, as a sample of it, that I shall very 
 speedily appear at White’s in a cherry-colored 
 hat. I took this hint from the ladies* hoods, 
 which I look upon as the boldest stroke that sex 
 has struck for these hundred years last past. 
 
 “I am. Sir, 
 
 “ Your most obedient, most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Will Sprightly.” 
 
 I have not time at present to make any reflec¬ 
 tions on this letter; but must not however omit 
 that having shown it to Will Honeycomb, he de¬ 
 sires to be acquainted with the gentleman who 
 wrote it.f—X. 
 
 * Only an ensign in the train-bands.— Spec, in folio. 
 
 t This last paragraph was not in the original publication in 
 folio. 
 
THE SPECTATO R. 
 
 394 
 
 No. 320.] FRIDAY, MARCH 7, 1711-12. 
 
 -Non pronuba Juno, 
 
 Non Hymenaous aclest, non illi gratia lecto. 
 Eumenides tenuere faces de funere raptas: 
 
 Eumenides stravere torum- 
 
 Ovid, Met., vi, 428. 
 
 Nor Hymen nor the Graces here preside, 
 
 Nor Juno to befriend the blooming bride; 
 
 But fiends with fun’ral brands the process led, 
 
 And furies waited at the genial bed.*— Croxal. 
 
 4 Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You have given many hints in your papers to 
 the disadvantage of persons of your own sex, 
 who lay plots upon women. Among other hard 
 words you have published the term ‘Male Coquets/ 
 and been very severe upon such as give them¬ 
 selves the liberty of a little dalliance of heart, and 
 playing fast and loose between love and indiffer¬ 
 ence, until perhaps an easy young girl is reduced 
 to sighs, dreams, and tears, and languishes away 
 her life for a careless coxcomb, who looks aston¬ 
 ished, and wonders at such an effect from what in 
 him was all but common civility. Thus you have 
 treated the men who were irresolute in marriage; 
 but if you design to be impartial, pray be so 
 honest as to print the information I now give you 
 of a certain set of women who never coquet for 
 the matter, but, with a high hand, marry whom they 
 please to whom they please. As for my part I should 
 not have concerned myself with them, but that 1 
 understand I am pitched upon by them to be mar¬ 
 ried, against my will, to one I never saw in my life. 
 It has been my misfortune, Sir, very innocently, 
 to rejoice in a plentiful fortune, of which I am 
 master, to bespeak a fine chariot, to give directions 
 for two or three handsome snuffboxes, and as 
 many suits of fine clothes; but before any of these 
 were ready, I heard reports of my being to be 
 married to two or three different young women. 
 Upon my taking notice of it to a young gentle¬ 
 man who is often in my company, he told me 
 smiling, I was in the inquisition. You may 
 believe I was not a little startled at what he meant, 
 and more so when he asked me if I had bespoke 
 anything of late that w r as fine. I told him several; 
 upon which he produced a description of my 
 person, from the tradesmen whom I had employed, 
 and told me that they had certainly informed 
 against me. Mr. Spectator, whatever the world 
 may think of me, I am more coxcomb than fool, 
 and I grow very inquisitive upon this head, not 
 a little pleased with the novelty. My friend 
 told me, there were a certain set of women of 
 fashion, whereof the number of six made a com¬ 
 mittee, who sat thrice a week, under the title of 
 ‘ The Inquisition on Maids and Bachelors.’ It 
 seems, whenever there comes such an unthinking 
 gay thing as myself to town, he must want all 
 manner of necessaries, or be put into the inquisi¬ 
 tion by the first tradesman he employs. They 
 have constant intelligence witli cane-sliops, per¬ 
 fumers, toy-men, coach-makers, and china-houses. 
 From these several places these undertakers for 
 marriages have as constant and regular corres¬ 
 pondence as the funeral-men have with vintners 
 and apothecaries. All bachelors are under their 
 immediate inspection; and my friend produced 
 to me a report given into their board, wherein an 
 old uncle of mine, who came to town with me, 
 and myself were inserted, and we stood thus: the 
 uncle smoky, rotten, poor; the nephew^ raw, but 
 no fool; sound at present, very rich. My informa- 
 
 t The motto to this paper in the original publication in 
 folio, was, 
 
 Has sunt quai tenui sudant in Cyclade. 
 
 Juv., Sat. vi, 258. 
 
 How hard they labor in their little sphere. 
 
 | tion did not end here; but my friend’s advices are 
 so good, that he could show me a copy of the 
 letter sent to the young lady who is to have me; 
 which I inclose to you: — 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ This is to let you know, that you are to be 
 married to a beau that comes out on Thursday, six 
 in the evening. Be at the park. You cannot but 
 know a virgin fop; they have a mind to look 
 saucy, but are out of countenance. The board 
 has denied him to several good families. I wish 
 you joy. “ Corinna.” 
 
 What makes my correspodent’s case the more 
 deplorable is, that, as I find by the report from my 
 censor of marriages, the friend he speaks of is 
 employed by the inquisition to take him in, as 
 the phrase is. After all that is told him, he has 
 information only of one woman that is laid for 
 him, and that the wrong one; for the lady commis¬ 
 sioners have devoted him to another than the 
 person against whom they have employed their 
 agent his friend to alarm him. The plot is laid 
 so well about this young gentleman, that he has 
 no friend to retire to, no place to appear in, or 
 part of the kingdom to fly into, but he must fall 
 into the notice, and be subject to the power of the 
 inquisition. They have their emissaries and sub¬ 
 stitutes in all parts of this united kingdom. The 
 first step they usually take, is to find from a cor¬ 
 respondence, by their messengers and whisperers, 
 with some domestic of the bachelor (who is to be 
 hunted into the toils they have laid for him), what 
 are his manners, his familiarities, his good quali¬ 
 ties, or vices; not as the good in him is a recom¬ 
 mendation, or the ill a diminution, but as they 
 affect to contribute to the main inquiry, what 
 estate he has in him. When this point is well re¬ 
 ported to the board, they can take in a wild roar¬ 
 ing fox-hunter, as easily as a soft, gentle young 
 fop of the town. The way is to make all places 
 uneasy to him, but the scenes in which they have 
 alloted him to act. His brother huntsmen, bottle 
 companions, his fraternity of fops, shall be brought 
 into the conspiracy against him. This matter is 
 not laid in so barefaced a manner before him as to 
 have intimated, Mrs. Such-a-one would make him 
 a very proper wife; but, by the force of their cor¬ 
 respondence, they shall make it (as Mr. Waller 
 said of the marriage of the dwarfs) as imprac¬ 
 ticable to have any woman beside her they design 
 him, as it would have been in Adam to have re¬ 
 fused Eve. The man named by the commission 
 for Mrs. Such-a-one shall neither be in fashion, 
 nor dare ever to appear in company, should he at¬ 
 tempt to evade their determination. 
 
 The female sex wholly govern domestic life; 
 and by this means, when they think fit they can 
 sow dissensions between the dearest friends, nay, 
 make father and son irreconcilable enemies, in 
 spite of all the ties of gratitude on one part, and 
 the duty of protection to be paid on the other. 
 The ladies of the inquisition understand this per¬ 
 fectly well; and where love is not a motive to a 
 man’s choosing one whom they allot, they can 
 "with very much art insinuate stories to the disad¬ 
 vantage of his honesty or courage, until the crea¬ 
 ture is too much dispirited to bear up against a 
 general ill reception, "which he everywhere meets 
 with, and in due time falls into their appointed 
 wedlock for shelter. I have a long letter bearing 
 date the fourth instant, which gives me a large ac¬ 
 count of the policies of this court; and find there 
 is now before them a very refractory person, who 
 has escaped all their machinations for two years 
 last past; but they have prevented two successive 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 matches winch wore of his own inclination ; the 
 one by a report that his mistress was to be mar¬ 
 ried, and the very day appointed, wedding-clothes 
 bought, and all things ready for her being given 
 to another; the second time by insinuating to all 
 his mistress’s friends and acquaintance, that he 
 had been false to several other women and the 
 like. The poor man is now reduced to profess he 
 designs to lead a single life; but the inquisition 
 give out to all his acquaintance, that nothing is 
 intended but the gentleman’s own welfare and 
 happiness. When this is urged, he talks still 
 more humbly, and protests he aims only at a life 
 without pain or reproach; pleasure, honor, or 
 riches, are things for which he has no taste. But 
 notwithstanding all this, and what else he may 
 defend himself with, as that the lady is too old or 
 too young: of a suitable humor, or the quite con¬ 
 trary; and that it is impossible they can ever do 
 other than wrangle from June to January, every¬ 
 body tells him all this is spleen, and he must have 
 a wife; while all the members of the inquisition 
 are unanimous in a certain woman for him, and 
 they think they all together are better able to judge 
 than he, or any other private person whatsoever. 
 
 ** Sir, Temple, March 3, 1711. 
 
 “Your speculation this day on the subject of 
 idleness has employed me, ever since I read it, in 
 sorrowful reflections on my having loitered away 
 the term (or rather the vacation) of ten years in 
 this place, and unhappily suffered a good chamber 
 and study to lie idle as long. My books (except 
 those I have taken to sleep upon) have been 
 totally neglected, and my Lord Coke and other 
 venerable authors were never so slighted in their 
 lives. I spend most of the day at a neighboring 
 coffee-house, where we have what I may call a 
 lazy club. We generally come in night-gowns, 
 with our stockings about our heels, and sometimes 
 but one on. Our salutation at entrance is a yawn 
 and a stretch, and then without more ceremony we 
 take our place at tho lolling-table, where our dis¬ 
 course is, what I fear you would not read, there¬ 
 fore shall not insert. But I assure you, Sir, I 
 heartily lament this loss of time, and am now re¬ 
 solved (if possible, with double diligence) to re¬ 
 trieve it, being effectually awakened, by the argu¬ 
 ments of Mr. Slack, out of the senseless stupidity 
 that has so long possessed me. And to demon¬ 
 strate that penitence accompanies my confessions, 
 and constancy my resolutions, I have locked my 
 door for a year, and desire you would let my 
 companions know I am not within. I am, with 
 great respect, “ Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient Servant, 
 
 “N. B.” 
 
 No. 321.] SATURDAY, MARCH 8, 1711-12. 
 
 Nec satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto. 
 
 IIor., Ars. Poet., ver. 99. 
 
 ’Tis not enough a poem’s finely writ: 
 
 It must affect and captivate the soul. 
 
 Those who know how many volumes have been 
 written on the poems of Homer and Virgil will 
 easily pardon the length of my discourse upon 
 Milton. The Paradise Lost, is looked upon, by 
 the best judges, as the greatest production, or at 
 least the noblest work of genius, in our language, 
 and therefore deserves to be set before an English 
 reader in its full beauty. For this reason, though 
 I have endeavored to give a general idea of its 
 graces and imperfections in my first six papers, I 
 thought myself obliged to bestow one upon every 
 book in particular. The first three books I have 
 already dispatched, and am now entering upon the 
 
 395 
 
 fourth. I need not acquaint my reader that there 
 are multitudes of beauties in this great author, es¬ 
 pecially in the descriptive parts of this poem, 
 which I have not touched upon; it being my in¬ 
 tention to point out those only which appear to be 
 the most exquisite, or those which are not so obvi¬ 
 ous to ordinary readers. Every one that has read 
 the critics who have written upon the Odyssey, 
 the Iliad, and the ^Eneid, knows very well, that 
 though they agree in their opinions of the great 
 beauties in those poems, they have, nevertheless, 
 each of them discovered several master-strokes, 
 which have escaped the observation of the rest. 
 In the same manner, I question not but any writer 
 who shall treat of this subject after me, may find 
 several beauties in Milton, which I have not taken 
 notice of. I must likewise observe, that as the 
 greatest masters of critical learning differ among 
 one another, as to some particular points in an 
 epic poem, I have not bound myself scrupulously 
 to the rules which any of them have laid down 
 upon that art, but have taken the liberty some¬ 
 times to join with one, and sometimes with anoth¬ 
 er, and sometimes to differ from all of them, when 
 I have thought that the reason of the thing was 
 on my side. 
 
 We may conclude the beauties of the fourth 
 book under three heads. In the first are those pic¬ 
 tures of still-life, which we meet with in the de¬ 
 scription of Eden, Paradise, Adam’s Bower, etc. 
 In the next are the machines, which comprehend 
 the speeches and behavior of the good and bad 
 angels. In the last is the conduct of Adam and 
 Eve, who are the principal actors in the poem. 
 
 In the description of Paradise, the poet has ob¬ 
 served Aristotle’s rule of lavishing all the orna¬ 
 ments of diction on the weak inactive parts of the 
 fable which are not supported by the beauty of 
 sentiments and characters. Accordingly the read¬ 
 er may observe, that the expressions are more 
 florid and elaborate in these descriptions, than in 
 most other parts of the poem. I must further add, 
 that though the drawings of gardens, rivers, rain¬ 
 bows, and the like dead pieces of nature, are 
 justly censured in an heroic poem, when they run 
 out into an unnecessary length—the description 
 of Paradise would have been faulty, had not the 
 poet been very particular in it, not only as it is 
 the scene of the principal action, but as it is re¬ 
 quisite to give us an idea of that happiness from 
 which our first parents fell. The plan of it is 
 wonderfully beautiful, and formed upon the short 
 sketch which we have of it in holy writ. Milton’s 
 exuberance of imagination has poured forth such 
 a redundancy of ornaments on this seat of happi¬ 
 ness and innocence, that it would be endless to 
 point out each particular. 
 
 I must not quit this head without further ob¬ 
 serving, that there is scarce a speech of Adam or 
 Eve in the whole poem, wherein the sentiments 
 and allusions are not taken from this their delight¬ 
 ful habitation. The reader, during their whole 
 course of action, always finds himself in the walks 
 of Paradise. In short, as the critics have re¬ 
 marked, that in those poems wherein shepherds 
 are the actors, the thoughts ought always to take 
 a tincture from the woods, fields, and rivers; so 
 we may observe, that our first parents seldom lose 
 sight of their happy station in anything they 
 speak or do: and if the reader will give me leave 
 to use the expression, that their thoughts are al¬ 
 ways “ paradisaical.” 
 
 We are in the next place to consider the ma¬ 
 chines of the fourth nook. Satan being now 
 within prospect of Eden, and looking round upon 
 the glories of the creation, is filled with senti¬ 
 ments differeni from those which he discovered 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 396 
 
 while he was in hell. The place inspires him 
 with thoughts more adapted to it. He reflects 
 upon the happy condition from whence he fell, 
 and breaks forth into a speech that is softened 
 with several transient touches of remorse and 
 self-accusation : but at length he confirms himself 
 in impenitence, and in his design of drawing man 
 into Ids own state of guilt and misery. This con¬ 
 flict of passions is raised with a great deal of art, 
 as the opening of his speech to the sun is very 
 bold and noble: 
 
 “0 thou that, with surprising glory crown’d, 
 
 Look’st from thy sole dominion like the god 
 Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars 
 Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call, 
 
 But with no friendly voice: and add thy name, 
 
 0 Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, 
 
 That bring to my remembrance from what state 
 I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.” 
 
 This speech is, I think, the finest that is 
 ascribed to Satan, in the whole poem. The evil 
 spirit afterward proceeds to make his discoveries 
 concerning our first parents, and to learn after 
 what manner they may be best attacked. His 
 bounding over the walls of Paradise; his sitting 
 in the shape of a cormorant upon the tree of life, 
 which stood in the center of it, and overtopped all 
 the other trees of the garden; his alighting among 
 the herd of animals, which are so beautifully re¬ 
 presented as playing about Adam and Eve, to¬ 
 gether with his transforming himself into different 
 shapes, in order to hear their conversation; are 
 circumstances that give an agreeable surprise to 
 the reader, and are devised with great art, to con¬ 
 nect that series of adventures in which the poet 
 has engaged this artificer of fraud. 
 
 The thought of Satan’s transformation into a 
 cormorant, and placing himself on the tree of life, 
 seems raised upon that passage in the Iliad, where 
 two deities are described as perching on the top 
 of an oak in the shape of vultures. 
 
 His planting himself at the ear of Eve under 
 the form of a toad, in order to produce vain 
 dreams and imaginations, is a circumstance of the 
 same nature: as his starting up in his own form 
 is wonderfully fine, both in the literal description, 
 and in the moral which is concealed under it. His 
 answer upon his being discovered, and demanded 
 to give an account of himself, is conformable to 
 the pride and intrepidity of his character: 
 
 “ Know ye not, then,” said Satan, fill’d with scorn, 
 
 “ Know ye not me! Ye knew me once no mate 
 For you, there sitting where you durst not soar; 
 
 Not to know me argues yourself unknown, 
 
 The lowest of your throng”- 
 
 Zeplion’s rebuke, with the influence it had on 
 Satan, is exquisitely graceful and moral. Satan 
 is afterward led away to Gabriel, the chief of the 
 guardian angels, who kept watch in Paradise. 
 His disdainful behavior on this occasion is so re¬ 
 markable a beauty, that the most ordinary reader 
 cannot but take notice of it. Gabriel’s discover¬ 
 ing his approach at a distance, is drawn with 
 great strength and liveliness of imagination: 
 
 “ 0 friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet 
 Hasting this way, and now by glimpse discern 
 Ithuriel and Zephon through the shade, 
 
 And with them comes a third of regal port 
 But faded splendor wan; who by his gait 
 And fierce demeanor seems the prince of hell; 
 
 Not likely to part hence without contest; 
 
 Stand firm, for in his look defiance low’rs.” 
 
 The conference between Gabriel and Satan 
 abounds with sentiments proper for the occasion, 
 and suitable to the persons of the two speakers. 
 Satan clothing himself with terror when he pre¬ 
 pares for the combat is truly sublime, and at least 
 equal to Homer’s description of Discord, celebra¬ 
 
 ted by Longinus, or to that of Fame in Virgil, 
 who are both represented with their feet standing 
 upon the earth, and their heads reaching above 
 the clouds: 
 
 While thus he spake, th’ angelic squadron bright 
 Turn’d fiery red, sharp’ning in mooned horns 
 Their phalanx, and began to hem him round 
 With ported spears, etc. 
 
 -On the other side Satan alarm’d, 
 
 Collecting all his might, dilated stood 
 Like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved. 
 
 His stature reach’d the sky, and on his crest 
 Sat Horror plum’d.- 
 
 I must here take notice, that Milton is every¬ 
 where full of hints, and sometimes literal transla¬ 
 tions, taken from the greatest of the Greek and 
 Latin poets. But this I may reserve for a dis¬ 
 course by itself, because I would not break the 
 thread of these speculations, that are designed for 
 English readers, with such reflections as would be 
 of no use but to the learned. 
 
 I must, however, observe in this place, that the 
 breaking off the combat between Gabriel and Sa¬ 
 tan, by the hanging out of the golden scales in 
 heaven, is a refinement upon Homer’s thought, 
 who tells us, that before the battle between Hector 
 and Achilles, Jupiter weighed the event of it in a 
 pair of scales. The reader may see the whole 
 passage in the 22d Iliad. 
 
 V irgil, before the last decisive combat, describes 
 Jupiter in the same manner, as weighing the 
 fates of Turnus and HSneas. Milton, though he 
 fetched this beautiful circumstance from the Iliad 
 and HCneid, does not only insert it as a poetical 
 embellishment, like the authors above-mentioned, 
 but makes an artful use of it for the proper carry¬ 
 ing on of his fable, and for the breaking off the 
 combat between the two warriors, who were upon 
 the point of engaging. To this we may further 
 add, that Milton is the more justified in this pas¬ 
 sage, as we find the same noble allegory in holy 
 writ, where a wicked prince, some few hours be¬ 
 fore he was assaulted and slain, is said to have 
 been “ weighed in the scales, and to have been 
 found wanting.” 
 
 I must here take notice, under the head of the 
 machines, that Uriel’s gliding down to the earth 
 upon a sunbeam, with the poet’s device to make 
 him descend, as well in his leturn to the sun as in 
 his coming from it, is a prettiness that might have 
 been admired in a little fanciful poet, but seems 
 below the genius of Milton. The description of 
 the host of armed angels walking their nightly 
 round in Paradise is of another spirit: 
 
 So saying, on he led his radiant files. 
 
 Dazzling the moon; 
 
 as that account of the hymns which our -first pa¬ 
 rents used to hear them sing in these their mid¬ 
 night walks is altogether divine, and inexpressi¬ 
 bly amusing to the imagination. 
 
 'We are, in the last place, to consider the part 
 which Adam and Eve act in the fourth book. The 
 description of them as they first appeared to Sa¬ 
 tan, is exquisitely drawn, and sufficient to make 
 the fallen angel gaze upon them with all that 
 astonishment, and those emotions of envy, in 
 which he is represented: 
 
 Two of far nobler shape, erect and tall, 
 
 Godlike erect, with native honor clad 
 In naked majesty, seem’d lords of all; 
 
 And worthy seem’d; for in their looks divine 
 The image of their glorious Maker shone, 
 
 Truth, wisdom, sanctitude severe and pure; 
 
 Severe, but in true filial freedom plac’d; 
 
 For contemplation he and valor form’d, 
 
 For softness she and sweet attractive grace, 
 
 He for God only, she for God in him. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 His fkir largo front, and eye sublime, declared 
 Absolute rule: and hyacinthian locks 
 Round from his parted forelock manly hung 
 Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad. 
 
 She, as a vail, down to her slender waist 
 Her unadorned golden tresses wore. 
 
 Dishevel’d, but in wanton ringlets wav’d.— 
 
 So pass’d they naked on, nor shunn’d the sight 
 Of God or angel, for they thought no ill: 
 
 So hand in hand they pass’d, the loveliest pair 
 That ever since in love’s embraces met. 
 
 There is a fine spirit of poetry in the lines 
 which follow, wherein they are described as sit¬ 
 ting on abed of flowers by the side of a fountain, 
 amidst a mixed assembly of animals. 
 
 The speeches of these two first lovers flow 
 equally from passion and sincerity. The profes¬ 
 sions they make to one another are full of warmth; 
 but at the same time founded on truth. In a word, 
 they are the gallantries of Paradise: 
 
 -When Adam, first of men- 
 
 “ Sole partner and sole part of all these joys, 
 
 Dearer thyself than all;-- 
 
 Rut let us ever praise Him, and extol 
 His bounty, following our delightful task, 
 
 To prune these growing plants, and tend these flow’rs, 
 Which were it toilsome, yet with thee were sweet.” 
 
 To whom thus Eve replied: “ 0 thou for whom, 
 
 And from whom, I was form’d, flesh of thy flesh, 
 
 And without whom am to no end, my guide 
 And head, what thou hast said is just and right. 
 
 For we to Him indeed all praises owe, 
 
 And daily thanks: I chiefly, who enjoy 
 So far the happier lot, enjoying thee 
 Pre-eminent by so much odds, while thou 
 Like consort to thyself canst nowhere find,” etc. 
 
 The remaining part of Eve’s speech, in which 
 she gives an account of herself upon her first cre¬ 
 ation, and the manner in which she was brought 
 to Adam, is, I think, as beautiful a passage as 
 any in Milton, or perhaps in any other poet what¬ 
 soever. These passages are all worked off with 
 so much art, that they are capable of pleasing the 
 most delicate reader without offending the most 
 severe. 
 
 “That day I oft remember, when from sleep,” etc. 
 
 A poet of less judgment and invention than this 
 reat author, would have found it very difficult to 
 ave filled these tender parts of the poem with 
 sentiments proper for a state of innocence; to have 
 described the warmth of love, and the professions 
 of it, without artifice or hyperbole; to have made 
 the man speak the most endearing things without 
 descending from his natural dignity, and the 
 woman receiving them without departing from 
 the modesty of her character: in a word, to adjust 
 the prerogatives of wisdom and beauty, and make 
 each appear to the other in its proper force and 
 loveliness. This mutual subordination of the 
 two sexes is wonderfully kept up in the whole 
 
 E oem, as particularly in the speech of Eve I have 
 . efore mentioned, and upon the conclusion of it 
 in the following lines: 
 
 So spake our general mother, and with eyes 
 Of conjugal attraction unreprov’d, 
 
 And meek surrender, half-embracing lean’d 
 On our first father; half her swelling breast 
 Naked met his under the flowing gold 
 Of her loose tresses hid; he in delight 
 Both of her beauty and submissive charms 
 Smil’d with superior love.- 
 
 The poet adds, that the devil turned away with 
 envy at the sight of so much happiness. 
 
 We have another view of our first parents in 
 their evening discourses, which is full of pleasing 
 images and sentiments suitable to their condition 
 and characters. The speech of Eve in particular, 
 is dressed up in such a soft and natural turn of 
 words and sentiments, as cannot be sufficiently 
 admired. 
 
 I shall closo my reflections upon this book with 
 
 397 
 
 observing the masterly transition which the poet 
 makes to their evening worship in the following 
 lines: ® 
 
 Thus at their shady lodge arriv’d, both stood, 
 
 Both turned, and under open sky ador’d 
 The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav’n, 
 vYhich they beheld, the moon’s resplendent globe. 
 And starry pole: “ Thou also mad’st the night, 
 Maker omnipotent, and thou the day,” etc. 
 
 Most of the modern heroic poets have imitated 
 the ancients, in beginning a speech without pre¬ 
 mising that the person said thus or thus; but as 
 it is easy to imitate the ancients in the omission 
 of two or three words, it requires judgment to do 
 it in such a manner as they shall 'not be missed, 
 and that the speech may begin naturally without 
 them. There is a fine instance of this kind out of 
 Homer, in the twenty-third chapter of Longinus. 
 
 Ho. 322.] MONDAY, MARCH 10, 1711-12. 
 
 -Ad humum moerore gravi deducit et angit. 
 
 IIok. Ars. Poet., v, 110. 
 
 -Grief wrings her soul, and bends it down to earth. 
 
 Francis. 
 
 It is often said, after a man has heard a story 
 with extraordinary circumstances, “it is a very 
 good one, if it be true :” but as for the following 
 relation, I should be glad were I sure it were false. 
 It is told with such simplicity, and there are so 
 many artless touches of distress in it, that I fear 
 it comes too much from the heart:— 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Some years ago it happened that I lived in the 
 same house with a young gentleman of merit, 
 with whose good qualities I was so much taken, 
 as to make it my endeavor to show as many as I 
 was able in myself. Familiar converse improved 
 general civilities into an unfeigned passion on 
 both sides. He watched an opportunity to declare 
 himself to me, and I, who could not expect a man 
 of so great an estate as his, received his addresses 
 in such terms, as gave him no reason to believe I 
 was displeased with them, though I did nothing 
 to make him think me more easy than was decent. 
 His father was a very hard, worldly man, and 
 proud; so that there was no reason to believe he 
 would easily be brought to think there was any¬ 
 thing in any woman’s person, or character, that 
 could balance the disadvantage of an unequal 
 fortune. In the meantime the son continued his 
 application to me, and omitted no occasion of de¬ 
 monstrating the most disinterested passion imagi¬ 
 nable to me; and in plain direct terms offered to 
 marry me privately, and keep it so till he should 
 be so happy as to gain his father’s approbation, 
 or become possessed of his estate. I passionately 
 loved him, and you will believe I did not deny 
 such a one what was my interest also to grant. 
 However, I was not so young as not to take the 
 precaution of carrying with me a faithful servant, 
 who had been also my mother’s maid, to be pre¬ 
 sent at the ceremony. When that was over, I 
 demanded a certificate to be signed by the minis¬ 
 ter, my husband, and the servant I just now spoke 
 of. After our nuptials, w*e conversed together 
 very familiarly in the same house: but the re¬ 
 straints we were generally under, and the inter¬ 
 views we had being stolen and interrupted, made 
 our behavior to each other have rather the impa¬ 
 tient fondness which is visible in lovers, than the 
 regular and gratified affection which is to be ob¬ 
 served in man and wife. This observation made 
 the father very anxious for his son, and press him 
 to a match he had in his eye for him. To relieve 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 398 
 
 my husband from this importunity, and conceal 
 the secret of our marriage, which I had reason to 
 know would not be long in my power in town, it 
 was resolved that I should retire into a remote 
 place in the country, and converse under feigned 
 names by letter. We long continued this way of 
 commerce; and I with my needle, a few books, 
 and reading over and over my husband’s letters, 
 passed my time in a resigned expectation of better 
 days. Be pleased to take notice, that within four 
 months after I left my husband I was delivered 
 of a daughter, who died within a few hours after 
 her birth. This accident, and the retired manner 
 of life I led, gave criminal hopes to a neighboring 
 brute of a country gentleman, whose folly was the 
 source of all my affliction. This rustic is one of 
 those rich clowns who supply the want of all 
 manner of breeding by the neglect of it, and with 
 noisy mirth, half understanding, and ample for¬ 
 tune, force themselves upon persons and things, 
 without any sense of time or place. The poor ig¬ 
 norant people where I lay concealed, and now 
 passed for a widow, wondered I could be so shy 
 and strange, as they called it, to the squire; and 
 were bribed by him to admit him whenever he 
 thought lit: I happened to be sitting in a little 
 parlor which belonged to my own part of the 
 house, and musing over one of the fondest of my 
 husband’s letters, in which I always kept the cer¬ 
 tificate of my marriage, when this rude fellow 
 came in, and with the nauseous familiarity of such 
 unbred brutes, snatched the papers out of my 
 hand. I was immediately under so great a con¬ 
 cern, that I threw myself at his feet, and begged 
 of him to return them. He, with the same odious 
 pretense to freedom and gayety, swore he would 
 read them. I grew more importunate, he more 
 curious, till at last, with an indignation arising 
 from a passion I then first discovered in him, he 
 threw the papers into the fire, swearing that since 
 he was not to read them, the man who wrote them 
 should never be so happy as to have me read them 
 over again. It is insignificant to tell you my tears 
 and reproaches made the boisterous calf leave the 
 room ashamed and out of countenance, when I 
 had leisure to ruminate on this accident with 
 more than ordinary sorrow. However, such was 
 then my confidence in my husband, that I wrote 
 to him the misfortune, and desired another paper 
 of the same kind. He deferred writing two or 
 three posts, and at last answered me in general, 
 that he could not then send me what I asked for; 
 but when he could find a proper conveyance, I 
 should be sure to have it. From this time his 
 letters were more cold every day than the other, 
 and, as he grew indifferent, I grew jealous. This 
 has at last brought me to town, where 1 find both 
 the witnesses of my marriage dead, and that my 
 husband, after three months’ cohabitation, has 
 buried a young lady whom he married in obedi¬ 
 ence to his father. In a word, he shuns and dis¬ 
 owns me. Should I come to the house and con¬ 
 front him, the father would join in supporting him 
 against me, though he believed my story: should 
 I talk it to the world, what reparation can I ex¬ 
 pect for an injury I cannot make out? I believe he 
 means to bring me, through necessity, to resign 
 my pretensions to him for some provision for my 
 life; but I will die first. Pray bid him remember 
 what he said, and how he was charmed when he 
 laughed at the heedless discovery I often made of 
 myself: let him remember how awkward I was in 
 my indifference toward him before company: ask 
 him, how I, who could never conceal my love for 
 him, at his own request, can part with him for¬ 
 ever? Oh, Mr. Spectator, sensible spirits know 
 no indifference in marriage: what then do you 
 
 think is my piercing affliction?—I leave you to 
 represent my distress your own way, in which I 
 desire you to be speedy, if you have compassion 
 for innocence exposed to infamy. 
 
 T. “Octavia.” 
 
 Ho. 323.] TUESDAY, MARCH 11, 1711-12. 
 
 -Modo vir, modo feemina.—V irg. 
 
 Sometimes a man sometimes a woman.* 
 
 The journal with which I presented my reader 
 on Tuesday last, has brought me in several letters 
 with accounts of many private lives cast into that 
 form. I have the “Rake’s Journal,” the “Sot’s 
 Journal,” the “ Whoremaster’s Journal,” and 
 among several others, a very curious piece, enti¬ 
 tled, “The Journal of a Mohock.” By these in¬ 
 stances, I find that the intention of my last Tues¬ 
 day’s paper has been mistaken by many of my 
 readers. I did not design so much to expose vice 
 as idleness, and aimed at those persons who 
 passed away their time rather in trifles and im¬ 
 pertinence, than in crimes and immoralities. Of¬ 
 fenses of this latter kind are not to be dallied 
 with, or treated in so ridiculous a manner. In 
 short, my journal only holds up folly to the light, 
 and shows the disagreeableness of such actions as 
 are indifferent in themselves, and blamable only 
 as they proceed from creatures endowed with 
 reason. 
 
 My following correspondent, who calls herself 
 Clarinda, is such a journalist as I require. She 
 seems by her letter to be placed in a modish state 
 of indifference between vice and virtue, and to be 
 susceptible of either, were there proper pains 
 taken with her, Had her journal been filled with 
 gallantries, or such occurrences as had shown her 
 wholly divested of her natural innocence, not¬ 
 withstanding it might have been more pleasing to 
 the generality of readers, I should not have pub¬ 
 lished it: but as it is only the picture of a lazy 
 life, filled with a fashionable kind of gayety and 
 laziness, I shall set down five days of it, as 1 have 
 received it from the hand of my fair correspon¬ 
 dent. 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You having set your readers an exercise in one 
 of your last week’s papers, I have performed mine 
 according to your orders, and herewith send it you 
 inclosed. You must know, Mr. Spectator, that I 
 am a maiden lady of a good fortune, who have 
 had several good matches offered me for these ten 
 years last past, and have at present warm applica¬ 
 tions made to me by ‘A Very Pretty Fellow.’ As 
 I am at my own disposal, I come, up to town every 
 winter, and pass my time in it after the manner 
 you will find in the following journal, which I be¬ 
 gan to write the very day after your Spectator 
 upon that subject.” 
 
 Tuesday night. Could not go to sleep till one 
 in the morning for thinking of my journal. 
 
 Wednesday. From eight till ten. Drank two 
 dishes of chocolate in bed, and fell asleep after 
 them. 
 
 From ten to eleven. Ate a slice of bread and 
 butter, drank a dish of bohea, and read the Spec¬ 
 tator. 
 
 From eleven to one. At my toilette, tried a 
 new hood. Gave orders forYeny to be combed 
 and washed. Mem. I look best in blue. _ 
 
 *This motto, not to be found in Virgil, was probably 
 quoted from memory, instead of the following lines: 
 
 —Et iuvenis quondam, nunc foemina. 
 
 Virg. iEn., -yi, 448. 
 
 A man before, now to a woman chang’d. 
 
TIIE SPECTATOR. 
 
 399 
 
 From one till half an hour after two. Drove to 
 the ’Change. Cheapened a couple of fans. 
 
 Till four. At dinner. Mem. Mr. Froth passed 
 by in his new liveries. 
 
 From four to six. Dressed; paid a visit to old 
 Lady Blithe and her sister, having before heard 
 they were gone out of town that day. 
 
 From six to eleven. At basset. Mom. Never 
 set again upon the ace of diamonds. 
 
 Thursday. From eleven at night to eight in the 
 morning. Dreamed that I punted* to Mr. Froth. 
 
 . From eight to ten. Chocolate. Read two acts 
 in Aurengzebe a-bed. 
 
 From ten to eleven. Tea-table. Sent to borrow 
 Lady Faddle’s Cupid for Veny. Read the play¬ 
 bills. Received a letter from Mr. Froth. Mem. 
 Locked it up in my strong box. 
 
 Rest of the morning. Fontange, the tire-wo¬ 
 man, her account of my lady Blithe’s wash. 
 Broke a tooth in my little tortoise-shell comb. Sent 
 Frank to know how my Lady Hectic rested after 
 her monkey’s leaping out at window. Looked 
 
 E ale. Fontange tells me my glass is not true, 
 'ressed by three. 
 
 From three to four. Dinner cold before I sat 
 down. 
 
 From four to eleven. Saw company, Mr. 
 Froth’s opinion of Milton. His accounts of the 
 Mohocks. His fancy for a pincushion. Picture 
 in the lid of his snuff-box. Old Lady Faddle 
 promises me her woman to cut my hair. Lost 
 five guineas at crimp. 
 
 Twelve o’clock at night. Went to bed. 
 
 Friday. Eight in the morning. A-bed. Read 
 over all Mr. Froth’s letters. Cupid and Veny. 
 
 Ten o’clock. Stayed within all day, not at 
 home. 
 
 From ten to twelve. In conference with my 
 mantuamaker. Sorted a suit of ribbons. Broke 
 my blue china cup. 
 
 From twelve to one. Shut myself up in my 
 chamber, practiced Lady Betty Modley’s skuttle.f 
 One in the afternoon. Called for my flowered 
 handkerchief. Worked half a violet leaf in it. 
 Eyes ached and head out of order. Threw by my 
 work, and read over the remaining part of Au¬ 
 rengzebe. 
 
 From three to four. Dined. 
 
 From four to twelve. Changed my mind, dressed, 
 went abroad, and played at crimp till midnight. 
 Found Mrs. Spitely at home. Conversation: Mrs. 
 Brilliant’s necklace false stones. Old Lady Love- 
 day going to be married to a young fellow that is 
 not worth a groat. Miss Prue gone into the coun¬ 
 try. Tom Townley has red hair. Mem. Mrs. 
 Spitely whispered in my ear, that she had some¬ 
 thing to tell me about Mr. Froth ; I am sure it is 
 not true. 
 
 Between twelve and one. Dreamed that Mr. 
 Froth lay at my feet, and called me Indamora. 
 
 Saturday. Rose at eight o’clock in the morn¬ 
 ing. Sat down to my toilette. 
 
 From eight to nine. Shifted a patch for half 
 an hour before I could determine it. Fixed it 
 above my left eyebrow. 
 
 From nine to twelve. Drank my tea and dressed. 
 From twelve to two. At chapel. A great deal 
 of good company. Mem. The third air in the 
 new opera. Lady Blithe dressed frightfully. 
 
 From three to four. Dined. Miss Kitty called 
 upon me to go to the opera before I was risen 
 from table. 
 
 From dinner to six. Drank tea. Turned off a 
 footman for being rude to Veny. 
 
 Six o’clock. Went to the opera. I did not see 
 Ar'" Froth till the beginning of the second act. 
 Mr. froth talked to a gentleman in a black wig' 
 bowed to a lady in the front box. Mr. Froth and 
 ms friend clapped Nicolini in the third act. Mr. 
 f roth cried out “ Ancora.” Mr. Froth led me to 
 my chair. I think he squeezed my hand. 
 
 Eleven at night. Went to bed. Melancholy 
 dreams. Methought Nicolini said he was Mr. 
 Froth. 
 
 Sunday. Indisposed. 
 
 Monday. Eight o’clock. Waked by Miss Kitty. 
 Aurengzebe lay upon the chair by me. Kitty 
 repeated without book the eight best lines in the 
 play. Went in our mobs* to the dumb man, 
 according to appointment. Told me that my 
 lover’s name began with a G. Mem. The con- 
 jureif was within a letter of Mr. Froth’s name, etc. 
 
 “Upon looking back into this journal, I find 
 that I am at a loss to know whetner I pass my 
 time well or ill; and indeed never thought of 
 considering how I did it before I perused your 
 speculations upon that subject. I scarce find a 
 single action in these five days that I can thor¬ 
 oughly approve of, except in the working upon 
 the violet-leaf, which I am resolved to finish the 
 first day l am at leisure. As for Mr. Froth and 
 Veny, I did not think they took up so much of 
 my time and thoughts as I find they do upon my 
 journal.. The latter of them I will turn off, if 
 ou insist upon it; and if Mr. Froth does not 
 ring matters to a conclusion very suddenly, I 
 will not let my life run away in a dream. 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Clarinda.” 
 
 To resume one of the morals of my first paper, 
 and to confirm Clarinda in her good inclinations, 
 
 I would have her consider what a pretty figure 
 she would make among posterity, were the history 
 of her whole life published like these five days 
 of it. I shall conclude my paper with an epitaph 
 written by an uncertain author on Sir Philip Sid¬ 
 ney's sister, a lady who seems to have been of a 
 temper very much different from that of Clarinda. 
 The last thought of it is so very noble, that I. dare 
 say my reader will pardon me the quotation. 
 
 ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE. 
 
 “ Underneath this marble hearse 
 Lies the subject of all verse, 
 
 Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother; 
 
 Death, ere thou hast kill’d another, 
 
 Fair and learn’d, and good as she, 
 
 Time shall throw a dart at thee.” 
 
 L. 
 
 No. 324.] WEDNESDAY, MAR. 27, 1711-12. 
 
 0 curvae in terris animse, et c-oelestium inanes! 
 
 Pf.rs, Sat. ii, 61. 
 
 0 souls, in whom no heavenly fire is found, 
 
 Flat minds, and ever groveling on the ground! J 
 
 Drydex. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The materials you have collected toward a 
 general history of clubs, make so bright a part of 
 your Speculations, that I think it is but a justice 
 we all owe the learned world, to furnish you with 
 such assistances as may promote that useful work. 
 
 * A huddled economy of dress so called, 
 f Duncan Campbel. 
 
 JThe motto prefixed to this paper in its original form in 
 folio, was taken from Juvenal: 
 
 * A term in the game of basset. 
 fA pace of affected precipitation. 
 
 Saevis inter se convenit ursis. 
 Even bears with bears agree. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 400 
 
 For this reason I could not forbear communica¬ 
 ting to you some imperfect informations of a set 
 of men (if you will allow them a place in that 
 species of being) who have lately erected them¬ 
 selves into a nocturnal fraternity, under the title 
 of the Mohock Club, a name borrowed, it seems, 
 from a sort of cannibals in India, who subsist 
 upon plundering and devouring all the nations 
 about them. The president is styled ‘ Emperor 
 of the Mohocks and his arms are a Turkish 
 crescent, which his imperial majesty bears at 
 present in a very extraordinary manner engraved 
 upon his forehead. Agreeable to their name, the 
 avowed design of their institution is mischief; 
 and upon this foundation all their rules and orders 
 are framed. An outrageous ambition of doing 
 all possible hurt to their fellow-creatures, is the 
 reat cement of their assembly, and the only quali- 
 cation required in the members. In order to 
 exert this principle in its full strength and per¬ 
 fection, they take care to drink themselves to a 
 pitch, that is, beyond the possibility of attending 
 to any motions of reason or humanity; then 
 make a general sally, and attack all that are so 
 unfortunate as to walk the streets through which 
 they patrol. Some are knocked down, others 
 cut and carbonadoed. To put the watch to a 
 total rout, and mortify some of those inoffensive 
 militia, is reckoned a coup d’eclat. The particular 
 talents by which these misanthropes are distin¬ 
 guished from one another, consist in the various 
 kinds of barbarities which they execute upon their 
 prisoners. Some are celebrated for a happy dex¬ 
 terity in tipping the lion upon them ; which is per¬ 
 formed by squeezing the nose flat to the face, and 
 boring out the eyes with their fingers. Others 
 are called the dancing-masters, and teach their 
 scholars to cut capers, by running swords through 
 their legs ; a new invention whether originally 
 French I canuot tell. A third are the tumblers, 
 whose office it is to set women on their heads, 
 and commit certain indecencies, or rather barbari¬ 
 ties, on the limbs which they expose. But these 
 I forbear to mention, because they cannot but be 
 very shocking to the reader as well as the Specta¬ 
 tor. In this manner they carry on a war against 
 mankind • and by the standing maxims of their 
 policy, are to enter into no alliances but one, and 
 that is offensive and defensive with all bawdy- 
 houses in general, of which they have declared 
 themselves protectors and guarantees. 
 
 “ I must own, Sir, these are only broken, inco¬ 
 herent memoirs of this wonderful society ; but 
 they are the best I have been yet able to procure : 
 for, being but of late established, it is not ripe for 
 a just history; and, to be serious, the chief design 
 of this trouble is to hinder it from ever being so. 
 You have been pleased, out of a concern for the 
 good of your countrymen, to act, under the char¬ 
 acter of Spectator, not only the part of a looker- 
 on, but an overseer of their actions ; and when¬ 
 ever such enormities as this infest the town, we 
 immediately fly to you for redress. I have reason 
 to believe, that some thoughtless youngsters, out 
 of a false notion of bravery, and an immoderate 
 fondness to be distinguished for fellows of fire, 
 are insensibly hurried into this senseless, scanda¬ 
 lous project. Such will probably stand corrected 
 by your reproofs, especially if you inform them, 
 that it is not courage for half a score fellows, mad 
 with wine and lust, to set upon two or three so¬ 
 berer than themselves ; and that the manners of 
 Indian savages are not becoming accomplishments 
 to an English fine gentleman. Such of them as 
 have been bullies and scowerers of a long stand¬ 
 ing, and are grown veterans in this kind of ser¬ 
 vice, are, I fear, too hardened to receive any im¬ 
 
 pressions from your admonitions. But I beg you 
 would recommend to their perusal your ninth 
 Speculation. They may there be taught to take 
 warning from the club of Duelists ; and be put in 
 mind, that the common fate of those men of hon¬ 
 or was to be hanged. 
 
 “I am. Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ March 10,1711-12. “ Philanthropos.” 
 
 The following letter is of a quite contrary 
 nature ; but I add it here that the reader may ob¬ 
 serve, at the same view, how amiable ignorance 
 may be, when it is shown in its simplicities ; and 
 how detestable in barbarities. It is written by an 
 honest countryman to his mistress, and came to 
 the hands of a lady of good sense, wrapped about 
 a thread paper, who has long kept it by her as an 
 image of artless love. 
 
 “ To her I very much respect , Mrs. Margaret Clark. 
 
 “ Lovely, and 0 that I could write loving Mrs. 
 Margaret Clark, I pray you let affection excuse 
 presumption. Having been so happy as to enjoy 
 the sight of your sweet countenance and comely 
 body, sometimes when I had occasion to buy 
 treacle or liquorish powder at the apothecary’s 
 shop, I am so enamored with you, that I can no 
 more keep close my flaming desires to become 
 your servant.* And I am the more bold now to 
 write to your sweet self, because I am now my 
 own man, and may match where I please ; for my 
 father is taken away, and now I am come to my 
 living, which is ten yard land, and a house ; and 
 there is never a yard landf in our field, but it is 
 as well worth ten pounds a year as a thief is 
 worth a halter, and all my brothers and sisters 
 are provided for: beside, I have good house¬ 
 hold stuff, though I say it, both brass and pewter, 
 linens and woolens ; and though my house be 
 thatched, yet, if you and I match, it shall go hard 
 but I will have one-half of it slated. If you 
 think well of this motion, I will wait upon you 
 as soon as my new clothes are made, and hay- 
 harvest is in. I could, though I say it, have good 
 * * * * ” The rest is torn off; and posterity 
 must be contented to know, that Mrs. Margaret 
 Clark was very pretty; but are left in the dark 
 as to the name of her lover.—T. 
 
 * This letter was really conveyed, in the manner here men¬ 
 tioned, to a Mrs. Cole, the wife of a churlish attorney, in or 
 near Northampton, who would not suffer her to correspond 
 with anybody. It was written by a substantial freeholder in 
 Northamptonshire, whose name was Gabriel Bullock, and 
 given to Steele by his friend, the ingenious antiquary, Mr. 
 Browne Willis. Mrs. Cantrell, niece to Mrs. Cole, fortunately 
 remembered what was torn off from the letter by a child at 
 play, so that it is given here entire on good authority.—P. 
 
 “ . . . . good matches among my neighbors. My mother, 
 peace be with her soul! the good old gentlewoman, has left 
 me good store of household linen of her own spinning, a 
 chest full. If you and I lay our means together, it shall 
 go hard but I will pave the way to do well. Your loving 
 servant till death, Mister Gabriel Bullock, now my father is 
 dead.” 
 
 f A yard land (vergata terra .) in some counties contains 20 
 acres, in some 24, and in others 30 acres of land. — Lee Tertnee 
 de la Ley. Ed. 16C7. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 325.] THURSDAY, MAR. 13, 1711-12. 
 
 -Quid frustra simulacra fugacia captas? 
 
 Quod petis, est nusquam: quod amas, avertere, pcrdcs 
 
 Ista repercusse, quam cernis, imagiuis umbra est, 
 
 Nil liabet ista sui: tecum venitque, manetque; 
 
 Tecum discedit, si tu discedere possis. 
 
 Ovid, Met. iii, 432. 
 
 (From the fable of Narcissus.) 
 
 What could, fond youth, this helpless passion move? 
 
 What kindled in thee this unpitied love? 
 
 Thy own warm blush within the water glows; 
 
 With thee the color’d shadow comes and goes;' 
 
 Its empty being on thyself relies; 
 
 Step thou aside, and the frail charmer dies. 
 
 Addison. 
 
 Will Honeycomb diverted us last night with an 
 account of a young fellow’s first discovering his 
 passion to his mistress. The young lady was 
 one, it seems, who had long before conceived a 
 favorable opinion of him, and was still in hopes 
 that he would some time or other make his ad¬ 
 vances. As he was one day talking with her in 
 company of her two sisters, the conversation 
 happening to turn upon love, each of the yoimg 
 ladies was, by way of raillery, recommending a 
 wife to him ; when to the no small surprise of her 
 who languished for him in secret, he told them, 
 with a more than ordinary seriousness, that his* 
 heart had been long engaged to one whose name 
 he thought himself obliged in honor to conceal ; 
 but that he could show her picture in the lid of 
 his snuff-box. The young lady, who found her¬ 
 self most sensibly touched by this confession, took 
 the first opportunity that offered of snatching his 
 box out of liis hand. He seemed desirous of re¬ 
 covering it; but finding her resolved to look into 
 the lid, begged her, that, if she should happen to 
 know the person, she would not reveal her name. 
 Upon carrying it to the window, she was very 
 agreeably surprised to find there was nothing 
 within the lid but a little looking-glass; on which, 
 after she had viewed her own face with more pleas¬ 
 ure than ever she had done before, she returned 
 the box with a smile, telling him she could not 
 but admire his choice. 
 
 Will, fancying that this story took, immediately 
 fell into a dissertation on the usefulness of look¬ 
 ing-glasses ; and, applying himself to me, asked 
 if there were any looking-glasses in the times of 
 the Greeks and Romans; for that he had often ob¬ 
 served, in the translations of poems out of those 
 languages, that people generally talked of seeing 
 themselves in wells, fountains, lakes, and rivers. 
 Nay, says he, I remember Mr. Dryden, in his 
 Ovid, tells us of a swinging-fellow, called Poly- 
 pheme, that made use of the sea for his looking- 
 glass, and could never dress himself to advantage 
 but in a calm. 
 
 My friend Will, to show us the whole compass 
 of his learning upon this subject, further informed 
 us, that there were still several nations in the 
 world so very barbarous as not to have any look- 
 ing-glasses among them; and that he had lately 
 read a voyage to the South Sea, in which it is 
 said that the ladies of Chili always dressed their 
 heads over a basin of water. 
 
 I am the more particular in my account of 
 Will’s last night’s lecture on these natural mirrors, 
 as it seems to bear some relation to the following 
 letter, which I received the day before. 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 401 
 
 place in the same book, where the poet lets us 
 know, that the first women immediately after her 
 creation ran to a looking-glass, and became so 
 enamored of her own face, that she had never re¬ 
 moved to view any of the other works of nature, 
 had she not been led off to a man? If you think 
 fit to set down the whole passage from Milton, 
 vour readers will be able to judge for themselves, 
 
 fi nd ii7- e ( 3 uotation will not a little contribute to 
 the filling up of your paper. 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “R. T.” 
 
 The last consideration urged by my querist is 
 so strong, that I cannot forbear closing with it. 
 ihe passage he alludes to is part of Eve’s speech 
 to Adam, and one of the most beautiful passages 
 in the whole poem. 
 
 That day I oft remember, when from sleep 
 I first awak’d, and found myself repos’d 
 Under a shade of flow’rs, much wond’ring where 
 And what 1 was, whence thither brought, and how. 
 hot distant far from thence a murmuring sound 
 Of waters issu’d from a cave, and spread 
 Into a liquid plain, and stood unmov’d, 
 
 Pure as th’ expanse of heaven: I thither went 
 With unexperienc’d thought, and laid me down 
 On the green hank, to look into the clear 
 Smooth lake, that to me seem’d another sky 
 As I bent down to look, just opposite 
 A shape within the watery gleam appear’d, 
 
 Bending to look on me: I started hack, 
 
 It started hack; but pleas’d I soon return’d, 
 
 Pleas’d it return’d as soon with answering looks 
 Of sympathy and love: there I had fix’d 
 Mine eyes till now, and pin’d with vain desire, 
 
 Had not a voice thus warn’d me: “ What thou seest, 
 What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself; 
 
 With thee it came and goes: but follow me, 
 
 And I will bring thee where no shadow stays 
 Thy coming and thy soft embraces; he 
 Whose image thou art, him shalt thou enjoy 
 Inseparably thine: to him shalt bear 
 Multitudes like thyself, and thence be called 
 Mother of human race.” What could I do. 
 
 But follow straight, invisibly thus led? 
 
 Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall, 
 
 Under a plantain; yet, methought, less fair, 
 
 Less winning soft, less amiably mild, 
 
 Than that smooth watery image; back I turn’d; 
 
 Thou following criedst aloud, “Return, fair Eve' 
 Whom fly’st thou? Whom thou fly’st, of him thou art, 
 His flesh, his bone; to give thee being, I lent 
 Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, 
 
 Substantial life, to have thee by my side, 
 
 Henceforth an individual solace dear: 
 
 Part of my soul, I seek thee, and thee claim 
 My other half!”—With that thy gentle hand 
 Seiz’d mine; I yielded, and from that time see 
 How beauty is excell’d by manly grace 
 And wisdom, which alone is truly fair. 
 
 So spake our general mother-. 
 
 X. 
 
 No. 326.] FRIDAY, MARCH 14, 1711-12. 
 
 Inclusam Danaen turris ahenea, 
 Robustmque fores, et vigilum canum 
 Tristes exubise munierant satis 
 Nocturnis ab adulteris: 
 
 Si non—-- 
 
 Hor., Lib. iii, Od. xvi, 1. 
 
 Of watchful dogs an odious ward 
 Right well one hapless virgin guard, 
 
 When in a tower of brass immur’d, 
 
 By mighty bars of steel secur’d, 
 
 Although by mortal rake-hells lewd 
 With all their midnight arts pursued, 
 
 Had not-- 
 
 Francis, vol. ii, p. 77. 
 
 “I have read your last Saturday’s observations 
 on the fourth book of Milton with great satisfac¬ 
 tion, and am particularly pleased with the hid¬ 
 den moral which you have taken notice of in 
 several parts of the poem. The design of this 
 letter is to desire your thoughts, whether there 
 may not also be some moral couched under that 
 26 
 
 ADAPTED. 
 
 Be to her faults a little blind, 
 
 Be to her virtues very kind, 
 
 And clap your padlock on her mind. 
 
 Padlock. 
 
 " Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Your correspondent’s letter relating to for- 
 ! tune-hunters, and your subsequent discourse upon 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 402 
 
 it, have given me encouragement to send you a 
 state of my case, by which you will see, that the 
 matter complained of is a common grievance both 
 to city and country. 
 
 “I am a country gentleman of between five and 
 six thousand a year. It is my misfortune to have 
 a very fine park and an only daughter; upon which 
 account I have been so plagued with deer-stealers 
 and fops, that for these four years past I have 
 scarce enjoyed a moment’s rest. I look upon my¬ 
 self to be in a state of war; and am forced to keep 
 a constant watch in my seat, as a governor would 
 do that commanded a town on the frontier of an 
 enemy’s country. I have indeed pretty well se¬ 
 cured my park; having for this purpose provided 
 myself of four keepers, who are lett-handed, and 
 handle a quarter-staff beyond any other fellows in 
 the country. And for the guard of my house, 
 beside a band of pensioner-matrons and an old 
 maiden relation whom I keep on constant duty, I 
 have blunderbusses always charged, and fox-gins 
 planted in private places about my garden, of 
 which I have given frequent notice in the neigh¬ 
 borhood; yet so it is, that in spite of all my care, 
 
 I shall every now and then have a saucy rascal 
 ride by, reconnoitering (as I think you call it) 
 under my windows, as sprucely dressed as if he 
 were going to a ball. I am aware of this way of 
 attacking a mistress on horseback, having heard 
 that it is a common practice in Spain; and have 
 therefore taken care to remove my daughter from 
 the road-side of the house, and to lodge her next 
 the garden. But to cut short my story. What 
 can a man do after all? I durst not stand for 
 member of parliament last election, for fear of 
 some ill consequence from my being off my post. 
 What I would therefore desire of you is, to pro¬ 
 mote a project I have set on foot, and upon which 
 I have written to some of my friends, and that is, 
 that care may be taken to secure our daughters by 
 law, as well as our deer; and that some honest 
 gentleman, of a public spirit, would move for 
 leave to bring in a bill for the better preserving 
 of the female game. “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your humble Servant.” 
 
 “Mile-End Green, March 6, 1711-12. 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Here is a young man walks by our door every 
 day about the dusk of the evening. He looks up 
 at my window, as if to see me; and if I steal to¬ 
 ward it to peep at him, he turns another way, and 
 looks frightened at finding what he was looking for. 
 The air is very cold; and pray let him know, that, 
 if he knocks at the door, he will be carried to the 
 parlor fire, and I will come down soon after, and 
 give him an opportunity to break his mind. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “Mary Comfit.” 
 
 “If I observe he cannot speak, I’ll give him 
 time to recover himself, and ask him how he 
 does.” 
 
 “ Dear Sir, 
 
 “I beg you to print this without delay, and by 
 the first opportunity give us the natural causes of 
 longing in women: or put me out of fear that my 
 wife will one time or other be delivered of some¬ 
 thing as monstrous as anything that has yet ap¬ 
 peared to the world; for they say the child is to 
 bear a resemblance of what was desired by the 
 mother. I have been married upward of six years, 
 have had four children and my wife is now big 
 with the fifth. The expenses she has put me to, 
 in procuring what she has longed for during her 
 
 pregnancy with them, would not only have hand¬ 
 somely defrayed the charges of the month, but of 
 their education too; her fancy being so exorbitant in 
 the first year or two, as not to confine itself to the 
 usual objects of eatables and drinkables, but run¬ 
 ning out after equipages and furniture, and the 
 like extravagances. To trouble you only with a 
 few of them; when she was with child of Tom, 
 ray eldest son, she came home one day just faint¬ 
 ing, and told me she had been visiting a relation, 
 whose husband had made her a present of a 
 chariot and a stately pair of horses: and that she 
 was positive she could not breathe a week longer, 
 unless she took the air in the fellow to it of her 
 own within that time. This, rather than lose an 
 heir, I readily complied with. Then the furni¬ 
 ture of her best room must be instantly changed 
 or she should mark the child with some of the 
 frightful figures of the old-fashioned tapestry. 
 Well, the upholsterer was called, and her longing 
 saved that bout. When she went with Molly, she 
 had fixed her mind upon a new set of plate, a.nd 
 as much china as would have furnished an Indian 
 shop: these also I cheerfully granted, for fear of 
 being father to an Indian pagod. Hitherto I found 
 her demands rose upon every concession; and had 
 she gone on, I had been ruined ; but by good 
 fortune, with her third, which was Peggy, the 
 height of her imagination came down to the corner 
 of a venison-pasty, and brought her once even 
 upon her kness to gnaw off the ears of a pig from 
 the spit. The gratifications of her palate were 
 easily preferred to those of her vanity: and some¬ 
 times a partridge, or a quail, or a wheat-ear, or 
 the pestle of a lark, were cheerfully purchased; 
 nay, I could be contented though I were to feed 
 her with green-peas in April, or cherries in May. 
 But with the babe she now goes, she is turned girl 
 again, and fallen to eating of chalk, pretending it 
 "will make the child’s skin white; and nothing will 
 serve her but I must bear her company, to pievent 
 its having a shade of my brown. In this, how¬ 
 ever, I have ventured to deny her. No longer ago 
 than yesterday, as we were coming to toAvn, she 
 saw a parcel of crows, so heartily at breakfast on 
 a piece of horse-flesh, that she had an invincible 
 desire to partake with them, and (to my infinite 
 surprise) begged the coachman to cut her off a 
 slice, as if it were for himself, which the fellow 
 did; and as soon as she came home, she fell to it 
 with such an appetite, that she seemed rather to 
 devour than eat it. What her next sally will be I 
 cannot guess; but, in the meantime, my request to 
 you is, that if there be any way to come at these 
 wild unaccountable rovings of imagination by 
 reason and argument, you’d speedily afford us 
 your assistance. This exceeds the grievance of 
 pin-money ; and I think in every settlement there 
 ought to be a clause inserted, that the father 
 should be answerable for the longings of his 
 daughter. But I shall impatiently expect your 
 thoughts in this matter, and am, 
 
 “ Sir, your most obliged, and 
 
 . “Most faithful, humble Servant, “T. B.' 
 
 “Let me know whether you think the next 
 child will love horses as much as Molly does 
 china-ware.”—T. 
 
 No. 327.] SATURDAY, MARCH 15, 1711-12. 
 
 —Major rerum mihi nascitur ordo. _ 
 
 Virg., iEn. vu, 48. 
 
 A larger scene of action is display’d.—D ryden. 
 
 We were told in the foregoing book, how the 
 evil spirit practiced upon Eve as she lay asleep, 
 in order to inspire her with thoughts of vanity, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 pride, and ambition. The author, who shows a won- 
 aei ful ait throughout his whole poem, for preparin' 1- 
 the reader for the several occurrences that arise 
 in it, founds, upon the above-mentioned circum¬ 
 stance, the first part of the fifth book. Adam, 
 upon his awaking, finds Eve still asleep, with an 
 unusual discomposure in her looks. Tne posture 
 in which he regards her is described with a ten¬ 
 derness not to be expressed, as the whisper with 
 which he awakens her is the softest that ever was 
 conveyed to a lover’s ear. 
 
 His wonder wiui, to find awaken’d Eve 
 ith tresses discompos’d, and glowing cheek, 
 
 As through unquiet rest: he, on his side 
 leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love 
 Hung over her enamor’d, and beheld 
 Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, 
 
 Shot forth peculiar graces; then, with voice 
 Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, 
 
 Her hand soft touching, whisper’d thus: “Awake, 
 
 My fairest, my espous’d, my latest found, 
 
 Heav n’s last best gift, my ever new delight, 
 
 Awake: the morning shines, and the fresh field 
 Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring 
 Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, 
 
 Mdiat drops of myrrh, and what the balmy reed 
 How nature paints her colors, how the bee 
 Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.” 
 
 Such whispering wak’d her, but with startled eye 
 On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake: 
 
 0 sole, in whom my thoughts find all repose. 
 
 My glory, my perfection! glad I see 
 Thy face, and morn return’d- 
 
 403 
 
 courtship of Milton’s Adam, and could not be 
 heard by Eve in her state of innocence, excepting 
 only in a dream produced on purpose to taint her 
 imagination. Other vain sentiments of the same 
 kind, in this relation of her dream, will be obvi¬ 
 ous to every reader. Though the catastrophe of 
 the poem is finely presaged on this occasion, the 
 particulars of it are so artfully shadowed, that 
 t ley do not anticipate the story which follows in 
 the ninth book I shall only add, that though 
 the vision itself is founded upon truth, the cir¬ 
 cumstances of it are full of that wildness and in¬ 
 consistency which are natural to a dream. Adam, 
 conformable to his superior character for wisdom 
 instructs and comforts Eve upon this occasion: 
 
 So cheer’d h e his fair spouse, and she was cheer’d. 
 
 But silently a gentle tear let fall 
 
 From either eye, and wip’d them with her hair: 
 
 1 wo other precious drops, that ready stood 
 Each in their crystal sluice, he, ere they fell, 
 
 Biss d, as the gracious signs of sweet remorse 
 And pious awe, that fear’d to have offended. 
 
 I cannot but take notice, that Milton, in the 
 conferences between Adam and Eve, had his eye 
 very much upon the book of Canticles, in which 
 there is a noble spirit of eastern poetry, and very 
 often not unlike what we meet with" in Homer 
 who is generally placed near the age of Solomon! 
 1 think there is no question but the poet in the 
 preceding speech remembered those two passao-es 
 which are spoken on the like occasion, and filled 
 with the same pleasing images of nature. 
 
 “My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up 
 my love, my fair one, and come away! for, lo! the 
 winter is past, the rain is over and gone, the flow¬ 
 ers appear on the earth, the time of the singino- 0 f 
 birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard 
 in our land. The fig-tree putteth forth her green 
 fags, and the vines with the tender grapes give a 
 good smell Arise, my love, my fair one, and 
 come away! 
 
 “ Come, my beloved! let us go forth into the 
 faeld, let us get up early into the vineyards, let us see 
 whether the vine flourish, whether the tender 
 grapes appear, and the pomegranates bud forth.” 
 
 His preferring the garden of Eden to that 
 
 -Where the sapient king 
 
 Held dalliance with his fair Egyptian spouse, 
 
 hisTfind^ ^ P ° 6t had this deli S htful scene in 
 
 Eve’s dream is full of those high conceits en¬ 
 gendering pride, which, we are told, the devil en- 
 
 nart V nf e H l°h lnSti V nt ,° ^ 0f this kind W that 
 part of it ^here she fancies herself awakened by 
 
 Adam in the following beautiful lines: J 
 
 ‘‘SVooT P ?hVs h ile U nt ET6? N r is the P leasant time, 
 xne cool, the silent, save where silence yields 
 
 To the night-warbling bird, that now awake 
 
 lines sweetest his love-labor’d song: now reigns 
 
 I ull-orb d the moon, and with more pleasing fight 
 
 Shadowy sets off the face of things. In vain 
 
 If none regard. Heav’n wakes with all his eves 
 
 Whom to behold but thee, nature’s desire 7 ’ 
 
 AthSfaS K gh ,u al ! things J°y> with ravishment, 
 Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze!” 
 
 injudicious poet would have made Adam 
 talk through the wfiole work in such sentiments as 
 these: but flattery and falsehood are not the 
 
 The morning hymn is written in imitation of 
 one of those psalms where, in the overflowing of 
 gratitude and praise, the Psalmist calls not only 
 upon the angels, but upon the most conspicuous 
 parts of the inanimate creation to join with him. in 
 extolling their common Maker. Invocations of this 
 nature fall the mind with glorious ideas of God’s 
 works, and awaken that divine enthusiasm which 
 is so natural to devotion. But if this calling upon 
 the dead parts of nature is at all times a proper 
 kind of worship, it was in a particular manner 
 suitable to our first parents, who had the creation 
 fiesh upon their minds, and had not seen the vari- 
 
 ous dispensations of Providence, nor consequently 
 could be acquainted with those many topics of 
 praise which might afford matter to the devotions 
 of their posterity. I need not remark the beauti¬ 
 ful spirit of poetry which runs through the whole 
 hymn, nor the holiness of that resolution with 
 which it concludes. 
 
 Having already mentioned those speeches which 
 are assigned to the persons in this poem, I pro¬ 
 ceed to the description which the poets give us of 
 RaphaeL Hm departure from before the throne 
 and his flight through the choirs of angels is 
 finely imagined. As Milton everywhere fills his 
 poem with circumstances that are marvelous 
 and astonishing, he describes the gate of heaven 
 as framed after such a manner, that it opened of 
 itself upon the approach of the angel who was to 
 pass through it. w 
 
 -Till at the gate 
 
 Of heav’n arriv’d, the gate self-open’d wide 
 On golden hinges turning, as by work 
 Divine, the sovereign Architect had fram’d. 
 
 The poet here seems to hare regarded two or 
 three passages in the 18tli Iliad, as that in partic- 
 ular where speaking of Vulcan, Homer says, that 
 he had made twenty tripods running on golden 
 wheels; which, upon occasion, might o-o of them 
 selves to the assembly of the gods, and, when 
 there was no more use for them, return again after 
 the same manner. Scaliger has rallied Homer 
 ™7 severely upon this point, as M. Dacier has 
 endeavored to defend it. I will not pretend to 
 determine whether, in this particular of Homer, 
 the marvelous does not lose sight of the probable. 
 As the miraculous workmanship of Milton’s gates 
 is not so extraordinary as this of the tripods, so I 
 am persuaded he would not have mentioned it, 
 had not he been supported in it by a passage in 
 the Scripture, which speaks of wheels in heaven 
 ia lad life in them, and moved of themselves, 
 or stood still, in conformity with the cherubim 
 wfaom they accompanied. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 404 
 
 There is no question but Milton had this cir¬ 
 cumstance in his thoughts; because in.the follow¬ 
 ing book he describes the chariot of the Messiah 
 with living wheels, according to the plan in Eze¬ 
 kiel’s vision :— 
 
 -'Forth rushed with whirlwind sound 
 
 The chariot of paternal* Deity. 
 
 Flashing thick flames, wheel within wheel undrawn, 
 Itself instinct with spirit-. 
 
 I question not but Bossu, and the two Daciers. 
 who are for vindicating everything that is censured 
 in Homer, by something parallel in holy writ, 
 would have been very well pleased had they 
 thought of confronting Vulcan’s tripods with 
 Ezekiel’s wheels. 
 
 Raphael’s descent to the earth, with the figure 
 of his person, is represented in very lively colors. 
 Several of the French, Italian, and English poets, 
 have given a loose to their imaginations in the 
 description of angels: but I do not remember to 
 have met with any so finely drawn, and so con¬ 
 formable to the notions which are given of them 
 in Scripture, as this in Milton. After having set 
 him forth in all his heavenly plumage, and repre¬ 
 sented him as alighted upon the earth, the poet 
 concludes his description with a circumstance 
 which is altogether new, and imagined with the 
 greatest strength of fancy: 
 
 -Like Maia’s son he stood, 
 
 And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance fill d 
 The circuit wide-. 
 
 Raphael’s reception by the guardian angels, his 
 passing through the wilderness of sweets, his 
 distant appearance to Adam, have all the graces 
 that poetry is capable of bestowing.. The author 
 afterward gives us a particular description of Eve 
 in her domestic employments: 
 
 So saying, with dispatchful looks in haste 
 She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent, 
 
 What choice to choose for delicacy best, 
 
 What order, so contrived, as not to mix 
 Tastes not well join’d, inelegant, but bring 
 Taste after taste, upheld with kindliest change; 
 
 Bestirs her then,” etc. 
 
 Though in this, and other parts of the same 
 book, the subject is only the housewifery of our 
 first parents, 'it is set off with so many pleasing 
 images and strong expressions, as make it none of 
 the least agreeable parts in this divine work. 
 
 The natural majesty of Adam, and, at the same 
 time, his submissive behavior to the superior 
 being who had vouchsafed to be his guest; the 
 solemn “hail” which the angel bestows upon the 
 mother of mankind, with the figure of Eve min¬ 
 istering at the table; are circumstances which de¬ 
 serve to be admired. 
 
 Raphael’s behavior is every way suitable to the 
 dignity of his nature, and to that character of a 
 sociable spirit with which the author has so judi¬ 
 ciously introduced him. He had received instruc¬ 
 tions to converse with Adam, as one friend con¬ 
 verses with another, and to warn him of the 
 enemy, who was contriving his destruction: ac¬ 
 cordingly, he is represented as sitting down at 
 table wfith Adam, and eating of the fruits of Pa¬ 
 radise. The occasion naturally leads him to his 
 discourse on the food of angels. After having 
 thus entered into conversation with man upon 
 more indifferent subjects, he warns him of his 
 obedience, and makes a natural transition to the 
 
 * This epithet, to say the least, is superfluous, being essen¬ 
 tially included in the very idea of Deity. If used in contra¬ 
 distinction from filial, it is idolatrous, and repugnant to the 
 doctrine established in the original records of Christianity. 
 This is not noted here as a curious criticism, but as a very 
 serious truth. 
 
 history of that fallen angel who was employed in 
 the circumvention of our first parents. 
 
 Had I followed Monsieur Bossu’s method in my 
 first paper on Milton, I should have dated the ac¬ 
 tion of Paradise Lost from the beginning of Ra¬ 
 phael’s speech in this book, as he supposes the 
 action of the FEneid to begin in the second book of 
 that poem. I could allege many reasons for my 
 drawing the action of the uEneid rather from its 
 immediate beginning in the first book, than from 
 its remote beginning in the second: and show 
 why I have considered the sacking of Troy as an 
 episode, according to the common acceptation of 
 that word. But as this would be a dry unenter¬ 
 taining piece of criticism, and perhaps unneces¬ 
 sary to those who have read my first papers, I 
 shall not enlarge upon it. Whichever of the no¬ 
 tions be true, the unity of Milton’s action is pre¬ 
 served according to either of them; whether we 
 consider the fall of man in its immediate begin¬ 
 ning, as proceeding from the resolutions taken , in 
 the infernal council, or in its more remote begin¬ 
 ning, as proceeding from the first revolt, of the 
 angels in heaven. The occasion which Milton 
 assigns for this revolt, as it is founded on hints in 
 holy writ, and on the opinion of some great 
 writers, so it was the most proper that the poet 
 could have made use of. 
 
 The revolt in heaven is described with great 
 force of imagination, and a fine variety of circum¬ 
 stances. The learned reader cannot but be pleased 
 with the poet’s imitation of Homer in the last of 
 the following lines: 
 
 At length into the limits of the north 
 They came, and Satan took his royal seat 
 High on a hill, far blazing, as a mount 
 liais’d on a mount, -with pyramids and tow’rs 
 From diamond quarries hewn, and rocks of gold, 
 
 The palace of great Lucifer (so call 
 That structure in the dialect of men 
 Interpreted)-— 
 
 Homer mentions persons and things, which, he 
 tells us, in the language of the gods are called by 
 different names from those they go by in the lan¬ 
 guage of men. Milton has imitated him with his 
 usual judgment in this particular place, wherein 
 he has likewise the authority of Scripture to jus¬ 
 tify him. The part of Abdiel, who was the only 
 spirit that in this infinite host of Angels pre¬ 
 served his allegiance to his Maker, exhibits to us 
 a noble moral of religious singularity. The zeal 
 of the seraphim breaks forth in a becoming 
 warmth of sentiments and expressions, as the 
 character which is given us of him denotes that 
 generous scorn and intrepidity which attend he¬ 
 roic virtue. The author, doubtless, designed it 
 as a pattern to those who live among mankind in 
 their present state of degeneracy and corruption : 
 
 So spake the seraph Abdiel, faithful found 
 Among the faithless, faithful only he; 
 
 Among innumerable false, unmov’d, 
 
 Unshaken, unseduc’d, unterrified; 
 
 His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal: 
 
 Nor number nor example with him wrought 
 To swerve from truth, or change his constant mind, 
 Though single. From amidst them forth he pass d, 
 Long way thro’ hostile scorn, which he sustain’d 
 Superior, nor of violence fear’d aught; 
 
 And, with retorted scorn, his back he turned 
 L. On those proud tow’rs to swift destruction doom’d. 
 
 No. 328.] MONDAY, MARCH 17, 1711-12. 
 
 Nullum a labore me reclinat otium. 
 
 Hor. Epod. xvn, 24. 
 
 Day chases night, and night the day, 
 
 But no relief to me convey.—D cncombe. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I believe that this is the first complaint 
 that ever was made to you of this nature, so you 
 
THE SPE CTATOR, 
 
 are the first person I ever could prevail upon my¬ 
 self to lay it before. When I tell you 1 have a 
 healthy, vigorous constitution, a plentiful estate, 
 no inordinate desires, and am married to a virtuous 
 lovely woman, who neither wants wit nor good 
 nature, and by whom I have a numerous offspring 
 to perpetuate ray family, you will naturally con¬ 
 clude me a happy man. But, notwithstanding 
 these promising appearances, I am so far from it, 
 that the prospect of being ruined and undone by 
 a sort of extravagance, which of late years is in a 
 less degree crept into every fashionable family, 
 deprives me of all the comforts of life, and ren¬ 
 ders me the most anxious, miserable man on earth. 
 My wife, who was the only child and darling care 
 of an indulgent mother, employed her early years 
 in learning all those accomplishments we gene¬ 
 rally understand by good-breeding and polite 
 education. She sings, dances, plays on the lute 
 and harpsichord, paints prettily, is a perfect mis¬ 
 tress of the French tongue, and has made a con¬ 
 siderable progress in Italian. She is beside ex¬ 
 cellently skilled in all domestic sciences, as pre¬ 
 serving, pickling, pastry, making wines of fruits 
 of our own growth, embroidering, and needle¬ 
 works of every kind. Hitherto, you will be apt 
 to think there is very little cause of complaint; 
 but suspend your opinion till I have further ex¬ 
 plained myself, and then, I make no question, you 
 will come over to mine. You are not to imagine I 
 find fault that she possesses or takes delight in 
 the exercises of those qualifications I just now 
 mentioned; ’tis the immoderate fondness she has 
 to them that I lament, and that what is only de¬ 
 signed for the innocent amusement and recreation 
 of life is become the whole business and study of 
 hers. The six months we are in town (for the 
 year is equally divided between that and the 
 country), from almost break of day till noon, the 
 whole morning is laid out in practicing with her 
 several masters; and, to make up the losses oc¬ 
 casioned by her absence in summer, every day in 
 the week their attendance is required; and as they 
 are all people eminent in their professions, their 
 skill and time must be recompensed accordingly. 
 So how far these aricles extend, I leave you. to 
 judge. Limning, one would think, is no expensive 
 diversion; but, as she manages the matter, ’tis a 
 very considerable addition to her disbursements ; 
 which you will easily believe, when you know 
 she paints fans for all her female acquaintance, 
 and draws all her relations’ pictures in miniature; 
 the first must be mourned by nobody but Colmar’ 
 and the other set by nobody but Charles Mather.* 
 What follows is still much worse than the former; 
 for, as I told you she is a great artist at her needle, 
 ’tis incredible what sums she expends in embroi¬ 
 dery ; for, beside what is appropriated to her 
 personal use, as mantuas, petticoats, stomachers, 
 handkerchiefs, purses, pin-cushions, and working- 
 aprons, she keeps four French Protestants con¬ 
 tinually employed in making divers pieces of 
 superfluous furniture, as quilts, toilets, hangings 
 for closets, beds, window-curtains, easy chairs, 
 and tabourets; nor have I any hopes of ever re¬ 
 claiming her from this extravagance, while she 
 obstinately persists in thinking it a notable piece 
 of good housewifery, because they are madeathome, 
 and she has had some share in the performance. 
 There would be no end of relating to vpu the par¬ 
 ticulars of the annual charge, in furbishing her 
 store-room with a profusion of pickles and & pre¬ 
 serves; for she is not contented with having every¬ 
 thing, unless it be done every way, in which she 
 consults an hereditary book of receipts; for her- 
 
 405 
 
 female ancestors have been always famed for good 
 housewifery, one of whom is made immortal, by 
 giving her name to an eye-water and two sorts of 
 puddings. I cannot undertake to recite all her 
 medicinal preparations, as salves, sere-cloths, 
 powders, confects, cordials, ratafia, persico, orange- 
 flower, and cherry-brandy, together with innu¬ 
 merable sorts of simple waters. But there is 
 nothing I lay so much to my heart as that de¬ 
 testable catalogue of counterfeit wines, which de¬ 
 li ve their names from the fruits, herbs or trees, of 
 whose juices they are chiefly compounded. They 
 are loathsome to the taste, and pernicious to the 
 health; and as they seldom survive the year, and 
 then are thrown away, under a false pretense of 
 frugality, I may affirm they stand me in more 
 than if I entertained all our visitors with the best 
 burgundy and champagne. Coffee, chocolate, and 
 green, imperial, peco, and bohea teas, seem to be 
 trifles; but when the pauper appurtenances of the 
 tea-table are added, they swell the account higher 
 than one would imagine. cannot conclude with¬ 
 out doing her justice in 'one article, where her 
 frugality is so remarkable, I must not deny her 
 the merit of it, and that is in relation to her child¬ 
 ren, who are all confined, both boys and girls, to 
 one large room in the remotest part of the house, 
 with bolts on the doors and bars to the windows, 
 under the care and tuition of an old woman, who 
 had been dry-nurse to her grandmother. This is 
 their residence all the year round ; and, as they 
 are never allowed to appear, she prudently thinks 
 it needless to be at any expense in apparel or 
 learning. Her eldest daughter to this day would 
 have neither read nor wrote, if it had not been for 
 the butler, who being the son of a country attor¬ 
 ney, lias taught her such a hand as is generally 
 used for engrossing bills in chancery. By this 
 time I have sufficiently tired your patience with 
 my domestic grievances; which I hope you will 
 agree could not well be contained in a narrow 
 compass, when you consider what a paradox I 
 undertook to maintain in the beginning of ray 
 epistle, and which manifestly appears to be but 
 too melancholy a truth. And now I heartily wish 
 the relation I have given of my misfortunes may 
 be of use and benefit to the public. By the ex¬ 
 ample I have set before them, the truly virtuous 
 wives may learn to avoid these errors which have 
 so unhappily misled mine, and which are visibly, 
 these three:—First, in mistaking the proper ob¬ 
 jects of her esteem, and fixing her affections upon 
 such things as are only the trappings and decora¬ 
 tions of her sex. Secondly, in not distinguishing 
 what becomes the different stages of life. And, 
 lastly, the abuse and corruption of some excellent 
 qualities, which, if circumscribed within just 
 bounds, Avould have been the blessing and pros¬ 
 perity of her family; but by a vicious extreme, 
 are like to be the bane and destruction of it.”—T. 
 
 •At the date of this paper a noted toyman in Fleet-street. 
 
 Ho. 328.*] MONDAY, MARCH 17, 1711-12. 
 
 Delectata ilia urbanitate tam stulta. 
 
 Petron. Arb. 
 
 Delighted with unaffected plainness. 
 
 That useful part of learning which consists in 
 emendations, knowledge of different readings, and 
 
 *As many of our readers may be pleased to see, “ in puris 
 naturalibus,” the original paper, in room of which the pre¬ 
 sent number was very early substituted, and as this curiosi¬ 
 ty may now be inoffensively gratified, it is here faithfully re¬ 
 printed from the copy in folio, in its order, marked as at first, 
 No. 328*, only with the addition of an asterisk. It had the 
 signature T at the bottom; but see the desire annexed to the 
 short letter in the following note, both which made the con¬ 
 cluding part of No. 330 in the original publication of these 
 papers in folio. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 40G 
 
 the like, is what in all ages persons extremely 
 wise and learned have had in great veneration. 
 For this reason I cannot but rejoice at the follow¬ 
 ing epistle, which lets us into, the true author of 
 the letter to Mrs. Margaret Clark, part of which I 
 did myself the honor to publish in a former paper. 
 
 I must confess I do not naturally affect critical 
 learning; but finding myself not so much regarded 
 as I am apt to flatter myself I may deserve from 
 some professed patrons of learning, I could not but 
 do myself the justice to show I am not a stranger 
 to such erudition as they smile upon, if I were 
 duly encouraged. However, this is only to let the 
 world see what I could do; and I shall not give 
 my reader any more of this kind, if he will forgive 
 the ostentation I show at present. 
 
 “ Sir, March 13, 1711-12. x 
 
 “Upon reading your paper of yesterday, I took 
 the pains to look out a copy I had formerly taken, 
 and remembered to be very like your last letter : 
 comparing them, I found they were the very same; 
 and have, underwritten, sent you that part of it 
 which you say was torn off. I hope you will in¬ 
 sert it, that posterity may know ’twas Gabriel 
 Bullock that made love in that natural style of 
 which you seem to be so fond. But, to let you 
 see I have other manuscripts in the same way, I 
 have sent you inclosed three copies, faithfully 
 taken by my own hand from the originals, which 
 were written by a Yorkshire gentleman of a good 
 estate to Madam Mary, and an uncle of hers, a 
 knight very well known by the most ancient gentry 
 in that and several other counties of Great Bri¬ 
 tain. I have exactly followed the form and spelling. 
 I have been credibly informed that Mr. William Bul¬ 
 lock, the famous comedian, is the descendant of this 
 Gabriel, who begot Mr. William Bullock’s great¬ 
 grandfather on the body of the above-mentioned 
 Mrs. Margaret Clark. As neither Speed, nor 
 Baker, nor Selden, take notice of it, I will not 
 pretend to be positive; but desire that the letter 
 may be reprinted, and what is here recovered may 
 be in Italics. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your daily Reader.” 
 
 “ To her I very much respect, Mrs. Marg. Clark.” 
 
 “Lovely, and oh that I could say loving Mrs. 
 Margaret Clark, I pray you let affection excuse 
 presumption. Having been so happy as to enjoy 
 the sight of your sweet countenance and comely 
 body sometimes when I had occasion to buy treacle 
 or liquorish powder at the apothecary’s shop, I 
 am so enamored with you, that I can no more 
 keep close my flaming desire to become your 
 servant. And I am the more bold now to 
 write to your sweet self, because I am now my 
 own man, and may match where I please; for my 
 father is taken away; and now I am come to my 
 living, which is ten yard land and a house; and 
 there is never a yard of land* in our field but is 
 as well worth ten pounds a year as a thief’s worth 
 a halter; and all my brothers and sisters are pro¬ 
 vided for: beside I have good household stuff, 
 though I say it, both brass and pewter, linens and 
 woolens; and though my house be thatched, yet 
 if you and I match, it shall go hard but I will 
 have one half of it slated. If you shall think 
 well of this motion, I will wait upon you as soon 
 as my new clothes are made, and hay-harvest is 
 in. I could, though I say it have good matches in 
 our town; hut my mother ( God’s peace be with her) 
 charged me on her death-bed to marry a gentlewoman, 
 
 * In some countries 20, in some 24, and in others 30 acres 
 of land .—Virgata Terra 
 
 one who had been well trained up in the sewing and 
 cookery. I do not think but that if you and I can 
 agree to marry, and lay our means together, 1 shall 
 be made grand juryman ere two or three years come 
 about, and that will be a great credit to us. If 1 
 could have got a messenger for sixpence, I would have 
 sent one on purpose, and some trifle or other for a 
 token of my love; but I hope there is nothing lost for 
 that neither. So, hoping you will take this letter in 
 good part, and answer it with what care and speed 
 you can, I rest and remain 
 
 “ Yours, if my own, 
 
 “ Sweeepston, “ Mr. Gabriel Bullock 
 Leicestershire. “ now my father is dead.” 
 
 “ When the coal carts come, I shall send oftener; 
 and may come in one of them myself.”* 
 
 “ For Sir William to go to london at Westminster re¬ 
 member a parlement. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “William, i hope that you are well, i write to 
 let you know that i am in* trouble about a lady 
 your nease ; and i do desire that you will be my 
 friend; for when i did com to see her at your hall, 
 i was mighty Abuesed. i would fain a see you at 
 topecliff, and thay would not let me go to you; but 
 i desire that you will be our friends, for it is no 
 dishonor neither for you nor she, for God did make 
 us all. i wish that i might see yu, for they say 
 that you are a good man; and many doth wounder 
 at it, but madam norton is abuesed and ceated two 
 i believe, i might a had many a lady, but I con 
 have none but her with a good consons, for there 
 is a God that know our hearts, if you and ma¬ 
 dam norton will come to York, there i shill meet 
 you, if God be willing, and if you be pleased, so 
 be not angterie till you know the trutes of things. 
 
 “ I give my to me lady, and 
 to Mr. Aysenby, and to 
 
 “ George Nelson. madam norton, March 
 
 the 19th, 1706.” 
 
 “ This is for madam inary norton disforth Lady she 
 went to York. 
 
 “ Madam Mary. Deare loving sweet lady, i 
 hope you are well. Do not go to london, for they 
 will put you in the nunnery, and heed not Mrs. 
 Lucy what she saith to you, for she will ly and 
 ceat you. go from to another place, and we will gate 
 wed so with speed, mind what i write to you, for 
 if they gate you to london they will keep you there; 
 and so let us gate wed, and we will both go. so 
 if you go to london, you rueing yourself, so heed 
 not what none of them saith to you: let us gate 
 wed, and we shall lie to gader any time, i will 
 do anything for you to my poore. i hope the 
 devil will faile them all, for a hellish company 
 there be. from their cursed trick and mischiefus 
 ways good lord bless and deliver both you and 
 me. 
 
 “ I think to be at York the 24 day.’ 
 
 “This is for madam marry norton to go to london for a 
 lady that belongs to dishforth. 
 
 “ Madam Mary i hope you are well, i am soary 
 that you went away from York, deare loving sweet 
 lady, i writt to let you know that i do remain faith 
 full; and if can let me know where i can meet you 
 i will wed you, and I will do anything to my 
 poor; for you are a good woman, and will be a 
 loving Misteris. i am in troubel for you, so if you 
 will come to york i will wed you. so with speed 
 come, and I will have none but you. so, sweet. 
 
 * See No. 324, and note, where this letter is given imper 
 fectly, and supplied otherwise. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 love, heed not what to say to me, and will) speed 
 come; heed not what none of them say to you; 
 your Maid makes you believe ought. 
 
 “ So deare love think of Mr. george Nillson with 
 speed; i sent 2 or 3 letters before. 
 
 “ I gave misteris elcock some nots, and thay 
 put me in pruson all the night for me pains, and 
 non new wliear i was, and I did gat cold. 
 
 “ But it is for mrs. Lucy to go a good way from 
 home, for in york and round about she is known ; 
 to writ any more her deeds, the same will tell 
 hor soul is black "within, hor corkis stinks of hell. 
 
 “March 19th, ]706.”* 
 
 No. 329.] TUESDAY, MARCH 18, 1711-12. 
 
 Ire tamen restat, Numa quo devenit et Ancus. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. vi, 27. 
 
 With Ancus, and with Numa, kings of Rome, 
 
 We must descend into the silent tomb. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me t’other 
 night, that he had been reading my paper upon 
 Westminster-abbey, in which, says he, there are 
 a great many ingenious fancies. He told me at 
 the same time, that he observed, I had promised 
 another paper upon the tombs, and that he should 
 be glad to go and see them with me, not having 
 visited them since he had read history. I could 
 not imagine at first how this came into the 
 knight’s head, till I recollected that he had been 
 busy all last summer upon Baker’s Chronicle, 
 which he has quoted several times in his disputes 
 with Sir Andrew Freeport since his last- coming to 
 town. Accordingly I promised to call upon him 
 the next morning, that we might go together to 
 the abbey. 
 
 I found the knight under the butler’s hands, 
 who always shaves him. He was no sooner 
 dressed, than he called for a glass of the widow 
 Truby’s w T ater, which he told me he always drank 
 before he went abroad. He recommended me a 
 dram of it at the same time with so much hearti¬ 
 ness, that I could not forbear drinking it. As soon 
 as I had got it down, I found it very unpalatable; 
 upon which the knight, observing that I had made 
 several wry faces, told me that he knew I should 
 not like it at first, but that it was the best thing in 
 the world against the stone or gravel. 
 
 I could have wished indeed that he had ac¬ 
 quainted me with the virtues of it sooner; but it 
 was too late to complain, and I knew what he 
 had done was out of good-will. Sir Roger told 
 me further, that he looked upon it to be very good 
 for a man while he stayed in town, to keep off 
 
 * In a MS. written by Dr. Birch, now before the annotator, 
 it is said, that an original number of the Spectator in folio 
 was withdrawn at the time of its republication in volumes, 
 on the remonstrance of a family who conceived themselves 
 injured by its appearance in print. It was, most probably, 
 this very paper. 
 
 The following short letter, with the desire annexed to it, 
 a.re subjoined to No. 330 in the original publication of the 
 Spectator in folio: as they evidently relate to this paper 
 which was suppressed very soon after its original date, they 
 are here reprinted for the first time. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, March 18,1711-12. 
 
 “The ostentation you showed yesterday [March 17] would 
 have been pardonable, had you provided better for the two 
 extremities of your paper, and placed in the one the letter R, 
 in the other, 
 
 Nescio quid meditans nugarum et totus in illis. 
 
 A word to the wise. 
 
 “I am your humble Servant, 
 
 “ T. Trash.” 
 
 According to the emendation of the above correspondent, 
 the reader is desired, in the paper of the 17th, to read R, 
 
 for T. 
 
 C T A T 0 R. 4Q7 
 
 infection, and that he got together a quantity of 
 it upon the first news of the sickness being at 
 Dantzick: when of a sudden turniug short to one 
 ot his servants, who stood behind him, he bid 
 him call a hackney-coach, and take care it was an 
 elderly man that drove it. 
 
 He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Tru- 
 by s water, telling me that the widow Truby was 
 one who did more good than all the doctors and 
 apothecaries in the country; that she distilled 
 every poppy that grew within five miles of her ; 
 that she distributed her water gratis among all 
 sorts of people: to which the knight added, that 
 she had a very great jointure, and that the whole 
 country would fain have it a match between him 
 and her; “ and truly,” says Sir Roger, “ if I had 
 not been engaged, perhaps I could not have done 
 better.” 
 
 His discourse was broken off by his man’s telling 
 him he had called a coach. Upon our going to 
 it, after having cast his eye upon the wheels] he 
 asked the coachman if his axletree was good; 
 upon the fellow’s telling him he would warrant it, 
 the knight turned to me, told me he looked like’ 
 an honest man, and went in without further 
 ceremony. 
 
 We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping 
 out his head, called the coachman down from his 
 box, and, upon presenting himself at the window, 
 asked him if he smoked. As I was considering 
 what this would end in, he bid him stop by the 
 way at any good tobacconist’s, and take in a roll 
 of their be$t Virginia. Nothing material hap¬ 
 pened in the remaining part of our journey, till 
 we were set down at the west end of the abbey. 
 
 As we went up the body of the church, the 
 knight pointed at the trophies upon one of the 
 new monuments, and cried out, “ A brave man, 
 I warrant him!” Passing afterward by Sir Cloudes- 
 ly Shovel, he flung his hand that way, and cried, 
 “ Sir Cloudesly Shovel! a very gallant man.” 
 As we stood before Busby’s tomb, the knight 
 uttered himself again after the same manner: 
 “Dr. Busby! a great man! he whipped my 
 grandfather; a very great man! I should have 
 gone to him myself, if I had not been a block¬ 
 head : a very great man !” 
 
 We were immediately conducted into the little 
 chapel on the right hand. Sir Roger planting 
 himself at our historian’s elbow, was very atten¬ 
 tive to everything he said, particularly to the 
 account he gave us of the lord who had cut off 
 the king of Morocco’s head. Among several other 
 figures, he was very well pleased to see the states¬ 
 man Cecil upon his knees; and concluding them 
 all to be great men, was conducted to the figure 
 which represents that martyr to good housewifely 
 who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our 
 interpreter’s telling us that she was a maid of 
 honor to Queen Elizabeth, the knight was very 
 inquisitive into her name and family; and, after 
 having regarded her finger for some time, “ 1 
 wonder,” says he, “that Sir Richard Baker has 
 said nothing of her in his Chronicle.” 
 
 We were then conveyed to the two coronation 
 chairs, where my old friend, after having heard 
 that the stone under the most ancient of them, 
 which was brought from Scotland, was called 
 Jacob’s pillar, sat himself down in the chair, and, 
 looking like the figure of an old Gothic king, 
 asked our interpreter, what authority they had 
 to say that Jacob had ever been in Scotland? 
 The fellow, instead of returning him an answer, 
 told him, that he hoped his honor would pay his 
 forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled 
 upon being thus trepanned ; but our guide not in¬ 
 sisting upon his demand, the knight soon re- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 408 
 
 covered his good humor, and whispered in my 
 ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw 
 those chairs, it would go hard but he would get 
 a tobacco stopper out of one or t’other of them. 
 
 Sir Roger in the next place, laid his hand upon 
 Edward the Third’s sword, and leaning upon the 
 pommel of it, gave us the whole history of the 
 Black Prince: concluding, that in Sir Richard 
 Baker’s opinion, Edward the third was one of the 
 greatest princes that ever sat upon the English 
 throne. 
 
 We were then shown Edward the Confessor’s 
 tomb; upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that 
 he was the first who touched for the evil: and 
 afterward Henry the Fourth’s; upon which he 
 shook his head, and told us there was fine reading 
 in the casualties of that reign. 
 
 Our conductor then pointed to that monument 
 where there is the figure of one of our English 
 kings without a head; and upon giving us to 
 know, that the head, which was of beaten silver, 
 had been stolen away several years since ; “ Some 
 whig, I’ll warrant you,” says Sir Roger; “you 
 ought to lock up your kings better; they will 
 carry off the body too, if you don’t take care.” 
 
 The glorious name of Henry the Fifth and Queen 
 Elizabeth gave the knight great opportunities of 
 shining, and of doing justice to Sir Richard Ba¬ 
 ker, who, as our knight observed with some sur¬ 
 prise, had a great many kings in him, whose 
 monuments he had not seen in the abbey. 
 
 For my own part, I could not but be pleased to 
 see the knight show such an honest passion for 
 the glory of his country, and such a respectful 
 gratitude to the memory of its princes. 
 
 I must not omit, that the benevolence of my 
 good old friend, which flows out toward every 
 one he converses with, made him very kind to 
 our interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extra¬ 
 ordinary man: for which reason he shook him 
 by the hand at parting, telling him, that he 
 should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in 
 Norfolk buildings, and talk over these matters 
 with him more at leisure.—L. 
 
 No. 330.] WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19, 1711-12. 
 
 Maxima debetur pueris reyerentia- 
 
 Juv., Sat. xiv, 48. 
 
 To youth the greatest reverence is due. 
 
 The following letters, written by two very con¬ 
 siderate correspondents, both under twenty years 
 of age, are very good arguments of the necessity 
 of taking into consideration the many incidents 
 which affect the education of youth. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I have long expected that, in the course of 
 your observations upon the several parts of 
 human life, you would one time or other fall 
 upon a-subject, which, since you have not, I take 
 the liberty to recommend to you. What 1 mean 
 is, the patronage of young modest men to such 
 as are able to countenance, and introduce them 
 into the world. For want of such assistances, a 
 youth of merit languishes in obscurity or poverty 
 when his circumstances are low, and runs into 
 riot and excess when his fortunes are plentiful. I 
 cannot make myself better understood, than by 
 sending you a history of myself, which I shall 
 desire you to insert in your paper, it being the 
 only way I have of expressing my gratitude for 
 the ^highest obligations imaginable. 
 
 “ I am the son of a merchant of the city of 
 London, who, by many losses, was reduced from 
 
 a very luxuriant trade and credit to very narrow 
 circumstances, in comparison to that of his former 
 abundance. This took away the vigor of his 
 mind, and all manner of attention to a fortune 
 which he now thought desperate; insomuch that 
 he died without a will, having before buried my 
 mother, in the midst of his other misfortunes. I 
 was sixteen years of age when I lost my father; 
 and an estate of 200Z. a-year came into my pos¬ 
 session, without friend or guardian to instruct me 
 in the management or enjoyment of it. The na¬ 
 tural consequence of this was (though I wanted 
 no director, and soon had fellows who found me 
 out for a smart young gentleman, and led me into 
 all the debaucheries of which I was capable), 
 that my companions and I could not well be 
 supplied without running into debt, which I did 
 very frankly, till I was arrested, and conveyed, 
 with a guard strong enough for the most despe¬ 
 rate assassin, to a bailiff’s house, where I lay four 
 days surrounded with very merry, but not very 
 agreeable company. As soon as I had extricated 
 myself from this shameful confinement, I reflected 
 upon it with so much horror, that I deserted all 
 my old acquaintance, and took chambers in an 
 inn of court, with a resolution to study the law 
 with all possible application. I trifled away a 
 whole year in looking over a thousand intricacies, 
 without a friend to apply to in any case of doubt; 
 so that I only lived there among men as little 
 children are sent to school before they are capable 
 of improvement, only to be out of harm’s way. 
 In the midst of this state of suspense, not know¬ 
 ing how to dispose of myself, I was sought for by 
 a relation of mine; who, upon observing a good 
 inclination in me, used me with great familiarity, 
 and carried me to his seat in the country. When 
 I came there he introduced me to all the good 
 company in the county; and the great obligation 
 I have to him for this kind notice, and residence 
 with him ever since, has made so strong an im¬ 
 pression upon me, that he has an authority of a 
 father over me, founded upon the love of a bro¬ 
 ther. I have a good study of books, a good stable 
 of horses always at my command ; and, though I 
 am not now quite eighteen years of age, familiar 
 converse on his part, and a strong inclination to 
 exert myself on mine, have had an effect upon me 
 that makes me acceptable wherever I go. Thus, Mr. 
 Spectator, by this gentleman’s favor and patron¬ 
 age, it is my own fault if I am not wiser and richer 
 every day I live. I speak this as well by subscrib¬ 
 ing the initial letters of my name to thank him, as to 
 incite others to an imitation of his virtue. It would 
 be a worthy work to show what great charities 
 are to be done without expense, and how many 
 noble actions are lost, out of inadvertency, in 
 persons capable of performing them, if they were 
 put in mind of it. If a gentleman of figure in a 
 county would make his family a pattern for sobri¬ 
 ety, good sense, and breeding, and would kindly 
 endeavor to influence the education and growing 
 prospects of the younger gentry about him, I am 
 apt to believe it would save him a great deal of 
 stale beer on a public occasion, and render him 
 the leader of his country from their gratitude to 
 him, instead of being a slave to their riots and 
 tumults, in order to be made their representative. 
 The same thing might be recommended to all 
 who have made any progress in any parts of 
 knowledge, or arrived at any degree in a profes¬ 
 sion : others may gain preferments and fortunes 
 from their patrons; but I have, I hope, received 
 from mine good habits and virtues. I repeat to 
 you, Sir, my request to print this, in return for 
 all the evil a helpless orphan shall ever escape 
 and all the good he shall receive in this life 
 
THE SPE 
 
 both which are wholly owing to this gentleman’s 
 favor to 
 
 • " Sir, your most obedient Servant, 
 
 "S. P” 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 "I am a lad of about fourteen. I find a mighty 
 pleasure in learning. I have been at the Latin 
 school four years. I don’t know I ever played 
 truant, or neglected any task my master set me in 
 my life. I think on what I read in school as I go 
 home at noon and night, and so intently, that I 
 have often gone half a mile out of my way, not 
 minding whither I went. Our maid tells me she 
 often hears me talk Latin in my sleep, and I dream 
 two or three nights in a week I am reading Juve¬ 
 nal and Homer. My master seems as well pleased 
 with my performances as any boy’s in the same 
 class. 1 think, if I know my own mind, I would 
 choose rather to be a scholar than a prince without 
 learning. I have a very good, affectionate father; 
 but though very rich, yet so mighty near, that he 
 thinks much ot the charges of my education. He 
 often tells me he believes my schooling will ruin 
 him; that I cost him God knows what in books. 
 
 I tremble to tell him I want one. I am forced to 
 keep my pocket-money, and lay it out for a book 
 now and then, that he don’t know of. He has or¬ 
 dered my master to buy no more books for me, but 
 says he will buy them himself. I asked him for 
 Horace t’other day, and he told me in a passion he 
 did not believe I was fit for it, but only my master 
 had a mind to make him think I had got a great 
 way in my learning. 1 am sometimes a month 
 behind other boys in getting the books my master 
 gives orders for. All the boys in the school, but 
 I, have the classic authors in usurn Delphini, gilt 
 and lettered on the back. My father is often reck¬ 
 oning up how long I have been at school, and tells 
 me he fears I do little good. My father’s carriage 
 so discourages me, that he makes me grow dull 
 and melancholy. My master wonders what is the 
 matter with me; I am afraid to tell him; for he is 
 a man that likes to encourage learning, and would 
 be apt to chide my father, and, not knowing his 
 temper, may make him worse. Sir, if you have 
 any love for learning, I beg you would give me 
 some instructions in this case, and persuade pa¬ 
 rents to encourage their children when they find 
 them diligent and desirous of learning. I have 
 heard some parents say, they would do anything 
 for their children, if they would but mind their 
 learning: I would be glad to be in their place. 
 Dear Sir, pardon my boldness. If you will but 
 consider and pity my case, I will pray for your 
 prosperity as long as I live. 
 
 "Your humble Servant, 
 
 "James Discipulus.” 
 
 "London, March 2, 1711.” 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 331.] THURSDAY, MARCH 20, 1711-12. 
 
 -Stolid am prabet tibi yellore barbem.— 
 
 Pers., Sat. ii, 28. 
 
 Holds out bis foolish beard for thee to pluck. 
 
 When I was last with my friend Sir Roger in 
 Westmi nster-abbey, I observed that he stood longer 
 than ordinary before the bust of a venerable old 
 man. I was at a loss to guess the reason of it; 
 when, after some time, he pointed to the figure, 
 and asked me if I did not think that our forefath¬ 
 ers looked much wiser in their beards than we do 
 without them ? " For my part,” says he, " when 
 
 I am walking in my gallery in the country, and 
 see my ancestors, who many of them died before 
 
 ctator. 409 
 
 they were of my age, I cannot forbear regarding 
 them as so many old patriarchs, and, at the same 
 time, looking upon myself as an idle smock-faced 
 young fellow. I love to see your Abrahams, your 
 Isaacs, and your Jacobs, as we have them in old 
 pieces ol tapestry, with beards below their gir¬ 
 dles, that cover half the hangings.” The knight 
 added, “if I would recommend beards in one of 
 my papers, and endeavor to restore human faces 
 to their ancient dignity, that, upon a month's 
 warning, he would undertake to lead up the fash¬ 
 ion himself in a pair of whiskers.” 
 
 I smiled at my friend s fancy; but, after we 
 pai ted, could not forbear reflecting on the meta¬ 
 morphosis our faces have undergone in this par¬ 
 ticular. r 
 
 .The beaid, conformable to the notion of my 
 friend Sir Roger, was for many ages looked upon as 
 the type of wisdom. Lucian more than once ral¬ 
 lies the philosophers of his time, who endeavored 
 to rival one another in beards; and represents a 
 learned man who stood for a professorship in phi¬ 
 losophy, as unqualified for it by the shortness of 
 his beard. 
 
 yElian, in his account of Zoilus, the pretended 
 critic, who wrote against Homer and Plato, and 
 thought himself wiser than all who had gone be¬ 
 fore him, tells us that this Zoilus had a very long 
 beard that hung down upon his breast, but no 
 hair upon his head, which he always kept close 
 shaved, regarding, it seems, the hairs of his head 
 as so many suckers, which, if they had been suf¬ 
 fered to grow, might have drawn away the nour¬ 
 ishment from his chin, and by that means have 
 starved his beard. 
 
 I have read somewhere, that one of the popes 
 refused to accept an edition of a saint’s works, 
 which were presented to him, because the saint, 
 in his effigies before the book, was drawn without 
 a beard. 
 
 We see by these instances what homage the 
 world has formerly paid to beards; and that a bar¬ 
 ber was not then allowed to make those depreda¬ 
 tions on the faces of the learned, which have been 
 permitted him of late years. 
 
 Accordingly several wise nations have been so 
 extremely jealous of the least ruffle offered to their 
 beards, that they seem to have fixed the point of 
 honor principally in that part. The Spaniards 
 were wonderfully tender in this particular. Don 
 Quevedo, in his third vision on the last judgment, 
 has carried the humor very far, when he tells us 
 that one of his vain-glorious countrymen after 
 having received sentence, was taken into custody 
 by a couple of evil spirits; but that his guides 
 happening to disorder his mustachios, they were 
 forced to recompense them with a pair of curling- 
 irons, before they could get him to file off. 
 
 If we look into the history of our own nation, 
 we shall find that the beard flourished in the 
 Saxon heptarchy, but was very much discouraged 
 under the Norman line. It shot out, however, 
 from time to time, in several reigns under different 
 shapes. The last effort it made seems to have 
 been in Queen Mary’s days, as the curious reader 
 may find, if he pleases to peruse the figures of 
 Cardinal Pole and Bishop Gardiner; though, at 
 the same time, I think it may be questioned, if 
 zeal against popery has not induced our Protestant 
 painters to exteud the beards of these two perse¬ 
 cutors beyond their natural dimensions, in order 
 to make them appear the more terrible. 
 
 I find but few beards worth taking notice of in 
 the reign of King James the First. 
 
 During the civil wars there appeared one, which 
 makes too great a figure in story to be passed over 
 in silence; I mean that of the redoubted Hudibras, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 410 
 
 an account of which Butler has transmitted to 
 posterity in the following lines : 
 
 Ilis tawny beard was th’ equal grace 
 Both of his wisdom and his face; 
 
 In cut and dye so like a tile, 
 
 A sudden view it would beguile; 
 
 The upper part thereof was whey, 
 
 The nether orange mixt with gray. 
 
 The whisker continued for some time among us 
 after the extirpation of beards; but this is a sub¬ 
 ject Avliich I shall not here enter upon, having 
 discussed it at large in a distinct treatise, which 
 I keep by me in manuscript, upon the mustachio. 
 
 If my friend Sir Roger’s project of introducing 
 beards should take effect, I fear the luxury of the 
 present age would make it a very expensive 
 fashion. There is no question but the beaux 
 would soon provide themselves with false ones of 
 the lightest colors, and the most immoderate 
 lengths. A fair beard of the tapestry size, which 
 Sir Roger seems to approve, could not come under 
 twenty guineas. The famous golden beard of 
 JEsculapius would hardly be more valuable than 
 one made in the extravagance of the fashion. 
 
 Beside, we are not certain that the ladies would 
 not come into the mode, when they take the air 
 on horseback. They already appear in hats and 
 feathers, coats and periwigs : and I see no reason 
 why we may not suppose that they would have 
 their riding-beards on the same occasion. 
 
 I may give the moral of this discourse in another 
 paper.—X. 
 
 Ho. 332.] FRIDAY, MARCH 21, 1712. 
 
 -Minus aptus acutis 
 
 Naribus horum hominum- Hor. 1 Sat. iii, 29. 
 
 He cannot bear the raillery of the age.— Creech. 
 
 “Dear Short Face, 
 
 “ In your speculation of Wednesday last, you 
 have given us some account of that worthy soci¬ 
 ety of brutes, the Mohocks; wherein you have 
 particularly specified the ingenious performances 
 of the lion tippers, the dancing-masters, and the 
 tumblers: but as you acknowledged you had not 
 then a perfect history of the whole club, you might 
 very easily omit one of.the most notable species 
 of it, the sweaters, which may be reckoned a sort 
 of dancing-masters too. It is, it seems, the cus¬ 
 tom for half a dozen, or more, of these well-dis¬ 
 posed savages, as soon as they have inclosed the 
 persons upon whom they design the favor of a 
 sweat, to whip out their swords, and holding them 
 parallel to the horizon, they describe a sort of 
 magic circle round about him with the points. As 
 soon as this piece of conjuration is performed, 
 and the patient without doubt already beginning 
 to wax warm, to forward the operation, that mem¬ 
 ber of the circle toward whom he is so rude as to 
 turn his back first, runs his sword directly into 
 that part of the patient whereon school-boys are 
 punished; and as it is very natural to imagine this 
 will soon make him tack about to some other 
 point, every gentleman does himself the same jus¬ 
 tice as often as he receives the affront. After this 
 jig has gone two or three times round, and the pa¬ 
 tient is thought to have sweat sufficiently, he is 
 very handsomely rubbed down by some attend¬ 
 ants, who carry with them instruments for that 
 purpose, and so discharged. This relation I had 
 from a friend of mine, who has lately been under 
 this discipline. He tells me he had the honor to 
 dance before the emperor himself, not without the 
 applause and acclamations both of his imperial 
 majesty and the whole ring; though I dare say, 
 neither I, nor any of his acquaintance, ever 
 
 dreamt he would have merited any reputation by 
 his activity. 
 
 “ I can assure you, Mr. Spectator, I was very 
 near being qualified to have given you a faithful 
 and painful account of this walking bagnio, if I 
 may so call it, myself. Going the other night 
 along Fleet-street, and having, out of curiosity, 
 just entered into discourse with a wandering fe¬ 
 male who was traveling the same way, a couple 
 of fellows advanced toward us, drew their swords, 
 and cried out to each other, ‘A sweat! a sweat!’ 
 Whereupon, suspecting they were some of the 
 ringleaders of the bagnio, I also drew my sword, 
 and demanded a parley; but finding none would 
 be granted me, and perceiving others behind them 
 filing off with great diligence to take me in flank, 
 
 I began to sweat for fear of being forced to it: 
 but very luckily betaking myself to a pair of heels, 
 which I had good reason to believe would do me 
 justice, I instantly got possession of a very snug 
 corner in a neighboring alley that lay in my rear; 
 which post I maintained for above half an hour 
 with great firmness and resolution, though not 
 letting this success so far overcome me as to make 
 me unmindful of the circumspection that was ne- - 
 cessary to be observed upon my advancing again 
 toward the street; by v hich prudence and good 
 management I made a handsome and orderly re¬ 
 treat, having suffered no other damage in this ac¬ 
 tion than the loss of my baggage, and the dislo¬ 
 cation of one of my shoe-heels, which last I am 
 just now informed is in a fair way of recovery. 
 These sweaters, by what I can learn from my 
 friend, and by as near a view as I was able to 
 take of them myself, seem to me to have at present 
 but a rude kind of discipline among them. It is 
 probable, if you would take a little pains, with 
 them, they might be brought into better order. 
 But I’ll leave this to your own discretion; and 
 will only add, that if you think it worth while to 
 insert this by way of caution to those who have a 
 mind to preserve their skins whole from this sort 
 of cupping, and tell them at the same time the ha¬ 
 zard of treating with night-walkers, you will per¬ 
 haps oblige others, as well as 
 
 “ Your very humble Servant, 
 
 “ Jack Lightfoot.” 
 
 “ P. S. My friend will have me acquaint you, 
 that though he would not willingly detract from 
 the merit of that extraordinary strokesman, Mr. 
 Sprightly, yet it is his real opinion, that some of 
 those fellows who are employed as rubbers to this 
 new-fashioned bagnio, have struck as bold strokes 
 as ever he did in his life. 
 
 “ I had sent this four-and-twenty hours sooner, 
 if I had not had the misfortune of being in a 
 great doubt about the orthography of the word 
 bagnio. I consulted several dictionaries, but 
 found no relief: at last having recourse both to 
 the bagnio in Hewgate-street, and to that in 
 Chancery-lane, and finding the original manu¬ 
 scripts upon the sign-posts of each to agree liter¬ 
 ally with my own spelling, I returned home full 
 of satisfaction, in order to dispatch this epistle.” 
 
 “ Mr Spectator, 
 
 “As you have taken most of the circumstances of 
 human life into your consideration, we the under¬ 
 written thought it not improper for us also to re¬ 
 present to you our condition. We are three ladies 
 who live in the country, and the greatest improve¬ 
 ment we make is by reading. We have taken a 
 small journal of our lives, and find it extremely 
 opposite to your last Tuesday’s speculation. We 
 rise by seven, and pass the beginning ot each day 
 in devotion, and looking into those affairs that 
 
411 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 fall within the occurrences of a retired life; in 
 the afternoon we sometimes enjoy the good com¬ 
 pany of some friend or neighbor, or else work or 
 read: at night we retire to our chambers, and take 
 leave of each other for the whole night at ten 
 o’clock. We take particular care never to be 
 sick of a Saturday. Mr. Spectator, we are all 
 very good maids, but ambitious of characters 
 which we think more laudable, that of being very 
 good wives. If any of your correspondents in¬ 
 quire for a spouse for an honest country gentleman, 
 whose estate is not dipped, and wants a wife that 
 can save half his revenue, and yet make a better 
 figure than any of his neighbors of the same estate, 
 with finer-bred women, you shall have farther 
 notice from, 
 
 “ Sir, your courteous Readers, 
 
 “ Martha Busie, 
 
 “ Deborah Thrifty, 
 
 T. “ Alice Early.” 
 
 No. 333.] SATURDAY, MARCH 22, 1711-12. 
 
 -vocat in eertamina divos.—V iro. 
 
 He calls embattled deities to arms. 
 
 We are now entering upon the sixth book of 
 Paradise Lost, in which the poet describes the 
 battle of the angels ; having raised his reader’s 
 expectation, and prepared him for it by several 
 passages in the preceding books. I omitted 
 quoting these passages in my observations on the 
 former books, having purposely reserved them for 
 the opening of this, the subject of which gave 
 occasion to them. The Author’s imagination was 
 so inflamed with this great scene of action, that 
 wherever he speaks of it, he rises, if possible, 
 above himself. Thus, where he mentions Satan 
 in the beginning of his poem : 
 
 -Him the Almighty Power 
 
 Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky, 
 
 With hideous ruin and combustion down 
 To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 
 In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
 
 Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms. 
 
 We have likewise several noble hints of it in 
 the infernal conference: 
 
 0 prince! 0 chief of many-throned powers, 
 
 That led th’ embattled seraphim to war, 
 
 Too well I see, and rue the dire event, 
 
 That with sad overthrow and foul defeat 
 Hath lost us heav’n; and all this mighty host 
 In horrible destruction laid thus low. 
 
 But see! the angry victor has recall’d 
 His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 
 Back to the gates of heav’n. The sulphurous hail 
 Shot after us in storm, o’erblown, hath laid 
 The fiery surge, that from the precipice 
 Of heav’n receiv’d us falling: and the thunder, 
 Wing’d with red lightning, and impetuous rage, 
 Perhaps has spent his shafts, and ceases now 
 To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. 
 
 There are several other very sublime images on 
 the same subject in the first book, as also in the 
 second : 
 
 What when we fled amain, pursued and struck 
 With heav’n’s afflicting thunder, and besought 
 The deep to shelter us: this hell then seem’d 
 A refuge from those wounds.- 
 
 In short, the poet never mentions anything of 
 this battle, but in such images of greatness and 
 terror as are suitable to the subject. Among 
 several others I cannot forbear quoting that pas¬ 
 sage where the Power, who is described as pre¬ 
 siding over the chaos, speaks in the second 
 l ook: 
 
 CT ATOR. 
 
 Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarch old, 
 
 With falt’ring speech and visage incompos’d, 
 
 Answer’d, “I know thee, stranger, who thou art, 
 
 That mighty leading angel, who of late 
 Made head against heaven’s King, tho’ overthrown. 
 
 I saw and heard; for such a num’rous host 
 Fled not in silence through the frighted deep 
 With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, 
 
 Confusion worse confounded; and heaven’s gates 
 Pour’d out by millions her victorious bands 
 Pursuing ”- 
 
 It required great pregnancy of invention, and 
 strength of imagination to fill this battle with 
 such circumstances as should raise and astonish 
 the mind of the reader; and at the same time an 
 exactness of judgment, to avoid everything that 
 might appear light or trivial. Those who look 
 into Homer are surprised to find his battles still 
 rising one above another, and improving in horror 
 to the conclusion of the Iliad. Milton’s fight of 
 angels is wrought up with the same beauty. It is 
 ushered in with such signs of wrath as are suitable 
 to Omnipotence incensed. The first engagement 
 is carried on under a cope of fire, occasioned by 
 the flights of innumerable burning darts and 
 arrows which are discharged from either host. 
 The second onset is still more terrible, as it is 
 filled with those artificial thunders, which seem 
 to make the victory doubtful, and produce a kind 
 of consternation even in the good angels. This 
 is followed by the tearing up of mountains and 
 promontories; till in the last place the Messiah 
 comes forth in the fullness of majesty and terror. 
 The pomp of his appearance, amidst the roarings 
 of his thunders, the flashes of his lightnings, and 
 the noise of his chariot-wheels, is described with 
 the utmost flights of human imagination. 
 
 There is nothing in the first and last day’s 
 engagement which does not appear natural, and 
 agreeable enough to the ideas most readers would 
 conceive of a fight between two armies of angels. 
 
 The second day’s engagement is apt to startle 
 an imagination which has not been raised and 
 qualified for such a description, by the reading 
 of the ancient poets, and of Homer in particular. 
 It was certainly a very bold thought in our author, 
 to ascribe the first use of artillery to the rebel 
 angels. But as such a pernicious invention may 
 be well supposed to have proceeded from sucn 
 authors, so it enters very probably into the 
 thoughts of that being, who is all along described 
 as aspiring to the majesty of his Maker. Such 
 engines were the only instruments he could have 
 made use of to imitate those thunders, that in all 
 poetry both sacred and profane, are represented as 
 the arms of the Almighty. The tearing up the 
 hills was not altogether so daring a thought as 
 the former. We are, in some measure, prepared 
 for such an incident by the description of the 
 giants’ war, which we meet with among the an¬ 
 cient poets. What still made this circumstance 
 the more proper for the poet’s use, is the opinion 
 of many learned men, that the fable of the giants’ 
 war which makes so great a noise in antiquity, 
 and gave birth to the sublimest description in 
 Hesiod’s works, was an allegory founded upon 
 this very tradition of a fight between the good 
 and bad angels. 
 
 It may, perhaps, be worth while to consider 
 with what judgment Milton, in this narration, 
 has avoided everything that is mean and trivial 
 in the descriptions of the Latin and Greek poets; 
 and at the same time improved every great hint 
 which he met with in their works upon this sub¬ 
 ject. Homer, in that passage which Longinus has 
 celebrated for its sublimeness, and which Virgil 
 and Ovid have copied after him, tells us that the 
 giants threw Ossa upon Olympus, and Pelion 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 412 
 
 upon Ossa. He adds an epithet to Pelion, which 
 very much swells the idea, by bringing up to 
 the reader’s imagination all the woods that grew 
 upon it. There is further a greater beauty in his 
 singling out by name these three remarkable 
 mountains so well known to the Greeks. This 
 last is such a beauty, as the scene of Milton’s war 
 could not possibly furnish him with. Claudian, 
 in his fragment upon the giant’s war, has given 
 full scope to that wildness of imagination which 
 was natural to him. He tells us that the giants 
 tore up whole islands by the roots, and threw them 
 at the gods. He describes one of them in parti¬ 
 cular, taking up Lemnos in his arms, and whirl¬ 
 ing it to the skies, with all Vulcan’s shop in the 
 midst of it. Another tears up Mount Ida, with 
 the river Enipeus, which ran down the sides of 
 it; but the poet, not content to describe him with 
 this mountain upon his shoulders, tells us that 
 the river flowed down his back as he held it up 
 in that posture. It is visible to every judicious 
 reader that such ideas savor more of the burlesque 
 than of the sublime. They proceed from a wanton- j 
 ness of imagination, and rather divert the mind 
 than astonish it. Milton has taken everything 
 that is sublime in these several passages, and 
 composes out of them the following great image: 
 
 From their foundations loos’rung to and fro, 
 
 They pluck’d the seated hills, with all their load, 
 
 Rocks, waters, woods, and by the shaggy tops 
 Uplifting bore them in their hands. 
 
 We have the full majesty of Homer, in this 
 short description, improved by the imagination 
 of Claudian without its puerilities. 
 
 I need not point out the description of the 
 fallen angels seeing the promontories hanging 
 over their heads in such a dreadful manner, with 
 the other numberless beauties in this book, which 
 are so conspicuous, that they cannot escape the 
 notice of the most ordinary reader. 
 
 There are indeed so many wonderful strokes of 
 poetry in this book, and such a variety of sublime 
 ideas, that it would have been impossible to have 
 given them a place within the bounds of this 
 paper. Beside that I find it in a great measure 
 done to my hand at the end of my Lord Roscom¬ 
 mon’s Essay on Translated Poetry. I shall refer 
 my reader thither for some of the master-strokes 
 of the sixth book of Paradise Lost, though at the 
 same time there are many others which that noble 
 author has not taken notice of. 
 
 Milton, notwithstanding the sublime genius he 
 was master of, has in this book drawn to his 
 assistance all the helps he could meet with among 
 the ancient poets. The sword of Michael, which 
 makes so great a havoc among the bad angels, 
 was given him, we are told, out of the armory of 
 God : 
 
 -But the sword 
 
 Of Michael from the armory of God 
 Was giv’n him, temper’d so that neither keen 
 Nor solid might resist that edge: it met 
 The sword of Satan, with steep force to smite 
 Descending, and in half cut sheer- 
 
 This passage is a copy of that in Virgil, 
 wherein the poet tells us, that the Sword of iEneas, 
 which was given him by a deity, broke into pieces 
 the sword of Turnus which came from a mortal 
 forge. As the moral in this place is divine, so 
 by the way we may observe, that the bestowing 
 on a man who is favored by heaven such an alle¬ 
 gorical weapon is very conformable to the old 
 eastern way of thinking. Not only Homer has 
 made use of it, but we find the Jewish hero in 
 the Book of Maccabees, who had fought the bat¬ 
 tles of the chosen people with so much glory and 
 
 success, receiving in his dream a sword from the 
 hand of the prophet Jeremiah. The following 
 passage, where Satan is described as wounded by 
 the sword of Michael, is in imitation of Homer. 
 
 The griding sword with discontinuous wound 
 Pass’d through him; but th’ ethereal substanoe clos’d, 
 Not long divisible; and from the gash 
 A stream of nectarous humor issuing flow’d 
 Sanguine (such as celestial spirits may bleed), 
 
 And all his armor stain’d.- 
 
 Homer tells in the same manner, that upon Dio- 
 medes wounding the gods, there flowed from the 
 wound an ichor, or pure kind of blood, which was 
 not bred from mortal viands : and that, though 
 the pain was exquisitely great, the wound soon 
 closed up and healed in those beings who are 
 vested with immortality. 
 
 I question not but Milton, in his description of his 
 furious Moloch flying from the battle, and bellow¬ 
 ing with the wound he had received, had his eye 
 on Mars in the Iliad: who upon his being wound¬ 
 ed, is represented as retiring put of the tight, and 
 | making an outcry louder than that of a whole 
 army when it begins the charge. Homer adds, 
 that the Greeks and Trojans, who were engaged in a 
 general battle, were terrified on each side with the 
 bellowing of this wounded deity. The reader 
 will easily observe how Milton has kept all the 
 horror of this image, without running into the 
 ridicule of it: 
 
 -Where the might of Gabriel fought, 
 
 And with fierce ensigns pierc’d the deep array 
 Of Moloch, furious king! who him defi’d, 
 
 And at his charioUwheels to drag him bound, 
 Threaten’d, nor from the Holy One of heav’n 
 Refrain’d his tongue blasphemous: but anon 
 Down cloven to the waist, with shatter’d arms 
 And uncouth pain fled bellowing.- 
 
 Milton has likewise raised his description in 
 this book with many images taken out of the 
 poetical parts of Scripture. The Messiah’s chariot, 
 as I have before taken notice, is formed upon a 
 vision of Ezekiel, who, as Grotius observes, has 
 very much in him of Homer’s spirt in the poetical 
 parts of his prophesy. 
 
 The following lines in that glorious commission 
 which is given the Messiah to extirpate the host 
 of rebel angels, is drawn from a sublime passage 
 in the Psalms: 
 
 Go then, thou mightiest, in thy Father’s might, 
 
 Ascend my chariot, guide the rapid wheels 
 That shake heav’n’s basis; bring forth all my war, 
 
 My bow, my thunder, my almighty arms 
 Gird on, and sword on thy puissant thigh. 
 
 The reader will easily discover many other 
 strokes of the same nature. 
 
 There is no question but Milton had heated his 
 imagination with the fight of the gods in Homer, 
 before he entered upon this engagement of the 
 angels. Homer there gives us a scene of men, he¬ 
 roes, and gods, mixed together in battle. Mars 
 animates the contending armies, and lifts up his 
 voice in such a manner, that it is heard distinctly 
 amidst all the shouts and confusion of the fight. 
 Jupiter at the same time thunders over their heads 
 while Neptune raises such a tempest, that the 
 whole field of battle, and all the tops of the 
 mountains, shake about them. The poet tell us, 
 that Pluto himself, whose habitation was in the 
 very center of the earth, was so affrighted at the 
 shock, that he leaped from his throne. Homer 
 afterward describes Vulcan as pouring down a 
 storm of fire upon the river Xanthus, and Minerva 
 as throwing a rock at Mars; who he tells us, covered 
 seven acres in his fall. 
 
 As Homer has introduced into the battle of the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 gods everything that is great and terrible in na¬ 
 ture, Milton has filled his fight of good and bad 
 angels with all the like circumstances of horror. 
 The shout of armies, the rattling of brazen chariots, 
 the hurling of rocks and mountains, the earth¬ 
 quake, the fire, the thunder, are all of them 
 employed to lift up the reader’s imagination, and 
 give him a suitable idea of so great an action. 
 With what art has the poet represented the whole 
 body of the earth trembling, even before it was 
 created! 
 
 All heav’n resounded; and had earth been then, 
 
 All earth had to its center shook.- 
 
 In how sublime and just a manner does he 
 afterward describe the whole heaven shaking under 
 the wheels of the Messiah’s chariot, with that ex¬ 
 ception to the throne of God! 
 
 -Under his burning •wheels 
 
 The steadfast empyrean shook throughout, 
 
 All but the throne itself of God.- 
 
 Notwithstanding the Messiah appears clothed 
 with so much terror and majesty, the poet has still 
 found means to make his readers conceive an idea 
 of him beyond what he himself is able to describe: 
 
 Yet half his strength he put not forth, but check’d 
 His thunder in mid volley; for he meant 
 Not to destroy, but root them out of heaven. 
 
 In a word, Milton’s genius, which was so great 
 in itself, and so strengthened by all the helps of 
 learning, appears in this book every way equal to 
 the subject, which was the most sublime that 
 could enter into the thoughts of a poet. As he 
 knew all the arts of affecting the mind, he has 
 given it certain resting-places, and opportunities 
 of recovering itself from time to time ; several 
 speeches, reflections, similitudes, and the like 
 reliefs, being interspersed to diversify his nar¬ 
 ration, and ease the attention of the reader. 
 
 L. 
 
 No. 334.] MONDAY, MARCH 24, 1711-12. 
 
 -Voluisti, in suo genere, unumqucmque nostrum quasi 
 
 quendam esse Roscium, dixistique non tarn ea quee recta 
 essent probari, quam quae prava sunt fastidiis aclhsert-s- 
 cere.—Cic. de Gestu. 
 
 You would have each of us be a kind of Roscius in his wav; 
 and you have said that fastidious men are not so much 
 pleased with what is right, as disgusted at what is wrong. 
 
 It is very natural to take for our whole lives a 
 light impression of a thing, which at first fell 
 into contempt with us for want of consideration. 
 The real use of a certain qualification (which the 
 wiser part of mankind look upon as at best an 
 indifferent thing, and generally a frivolous circum¬ 
 stance) sjiows the ill consequence of such pre¬ 
 possessions. What I mean, is the art, skill, ac¬ 
 complishment, or whatever you will call it, of 
 dancing. I knew a gentleman of great abilities, 
 who bewailed the want of his education to the 
 end of a very honorable life. He observed that 
 there was not occasion for the common use of 
 great talents; that they are but seldom in demand; 
 and that these very great talents were often ren¬ 
 dered useless to a man for want of small attain¬ 
 ments. A good mien (a becoming motion, gesture, 
 and aspect) is natural to some men; but even these 
 would be highly more graceful in their carriage, 
 if what they do from the force of nature were con¬ 
 firmed and heightened from the force of reason. 
 To one who has not at all considered it, to men¬ 
 tion the force of reason on such a subject will ap¬ 
 pear fantastical; but when you have a little at¬ 
 tended to it, an assembly of men will have quite 
 
 413 
 
 another view; and they will tell you, it is evident 
 from plain and infallible rules, wny this man with 
 those beautiful features, and a w r ell-fashioned 
 person, is not so agreeable as he who sits by him 
 without any of those advantages. When we read, 
 w r e do it without any exerted act of memory that 
 presents the shape of the letters; but habit makes 
 us do it mechanically, without staying, like 
 children, to recollect and join those letters. A 
 man "who has not had the regard of his gesture in 
 any part of his education, will find himself unable 
 to act with freedom before new company, as a 
 child that is but now learning, would be to read 
 without hesitation. It is for the advancement 
 of the pleasure we receive in being agreeable to 
 each other in ordinary life, that one would wish 
 dancing were generally understood as conducive, 
 as it really is, to a proper deportment in matters 
 that appear the most remote from it. A man of 
 learning and sense is distinguished from others as 
 he is such, though he never runs upon points too 
 difficult for the rest of the world; in like manner 
 the reaching out of the arm, and the most ordinary 
 motion, discovers whether a man ever learnt to 
 know what is the true harmony and composure of 
 his limbs and countenance. Whoever has seen 
 Booth, in the character of Pyrrhus, march to his 
 throne to receive Orestes, is convinced that ma¬ 
 jestic and great conceptions are expressed in the 
 very step; but, perhaps, though no other man 
 could perform that incident as well as he does, he 
 himself would do it with a yet greater elevation 
 were he a dancer. This is so dangerons a sub¬ 
 ject to treat with gravity, that I shall not at pre- 
 sent enter into it any further: but the author of the 
 following letter has treated it in the essay he 
 speaks of in such a manner, that I am beholden 
 to him for a resolution, that I will never hereafter 
 think meanly of anything, till I have heard what 
 they who have another opinion of it have to say 
 in its defense. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Since there are scarce any of the arts and 
 sciences that have not been recommended to the 
 world by the pens of some of the professors, 
 masters, or lovers of them, whereby the useful 
 ness, excellence, and benefit arising from them, 
 both as to the speculative and practical part, have 
 been made public, to the great advantage and im¬ 
 provement of such arts and sciences; why should 
 dancing, an art celebrated by the ancients in so 
 extraordinary a manner, be totally neglected by 
 the moderns, and left destitute of any pen to re¬ 
 commend its various excellences and substantial 
 merit to mankind? 
 
 “ The low ebb to which dancing is now fallen, 
 is altogether owing to this silence. The art is 
 esteemed only as an amusing trifle ; it lies alto¬ 
 gether uncultivated, and is unhappily fallen under 
 the imputation of illiterate and mechanic. As 
 Terence, in one of his prologues, complains of 
 the rope-dancers drawing all the spectators from 
 his play; so we may well say, that capering and 
 tumbling is now preferred to, and supplies the 
 place of, just and regular dancing on our theaters. 
 It is, therefore, in my opinion, high time that 
 some one should come in to its assistance, and re¬ 
 lieve it from the many gross and growing errors 
 that have crept into it, and overcast its real beau¬ 
 ties; and, to set dancing in its true light, would 
 show the usefulness and elegance of it, with the 
 pleasure and instruction produced from it; and 
 also lav down some fundamental rules, that might 
 so tend to the improvement of its professors, and in¬ 
 formation of the spectators, that the first might be 
 the better able to perform, and the latter rendered 
 
THE SPECTATO R. 
 
 414 
 
 more capable of judging what is (if there be any¬ 
 thing) valuable in this art. 
 
 “ To encourage therefore some ingenious pen 
 capable of so generous an undertaking, and in 
 some measure to relieve dancing from the disad¬ 
 vantages it at present lies under, I, who teach to 
 dance,* have attempted a small treatise as an 
 Essay toward a History of Dancing : in which I 
 have inquired into its antiquity, origin, and use, 
 and shown what esteem the ancients had for it. I 
 have likewise considered the nature and perfection 
 of all its several parts, and how beneficial and 
 delightful it is both as a qualification and an ex¬ 
 ercise ; and endeavored to answer all objections 
 that have been maliciously raised against it. I 
 have proceeded to give an account of the particu¬ 
 lar dances of the Greeks and Romans, whether 
 religious, warlike, or civil ; and taken particular 
 notice of that part of dancing relating to the 
 ancient stage, in which the pantomimes had so 
 great a share. Nor have I been wanting in giving 
 an historical account of some particular masters 
 excellent in that surprising art; after which I have 
 advanced some observations on modern dancing, 
 both as to the stage, and that part of it so ab¬ 
 solutely necessary for the qualification of gentle¬ 
 men and ladies; and have concluded with some 
 short remarks on the origin and progress of the 
 character by which dances are written down, and 
 communicated to one master from another. If 
 some great genius after this would arise, and ad¬ 
 vance this art to that perfection it seems capable 
 of receiving, what might not be expected from it? 
 For, if we consider the origin of arts and sciences, 
 we shall find that some of them took rise from 
 beginnings so mean and unpromising, that it is 
 very wonderful to think that ever such surprising 
 structures should have been raised upon such 
 ordinary foundations. But what cannot a great 
 genius effect? Who would have thought that the 
 clangorous noise of a smith’s hammers should 
 have given the first rise to music? Yet Macrobius, 
 in his second book, relates that Pythagoras, in 
 passing by a smith’s shop, found that the sounds 
 proceeding from the hammers were either more 
 grave or acute, according to the different weights 
 of the hammers. The philosopher, to improve 
 this hint, suspends different weights by strings of 
 the same bigness, and found in a like manner that 
 the sounds answered to the weights. This being 
 discovered, he found out those numbers which 
 produced sounds that were consonant: as that two 
 strings of the same substance and tension, the one 
 being double the length of the other, gave that 
 interval which is called diapason, or an eighth: 
 the same was also effected from two strings of the 
 same length and size, the one having four times 
 the tension of the other. By these steps, from so 
 mean a beginning, did this great man reduce, what 
 was only before noise, to one of the most de¬ 
 lightful sciences, by marrying it to the mathe¬ 
 matics; and by that means caused it to be one of 
 the most abstract and demonstrative of sciences. 
 Who knows therefore but motion, whether de¬ 
 corous or representative, may not (as it seems 
 highly probable it may) be taken into considera¬ 
 tion by some person capable of reducing it into a 
 regular science, though not so demonstrative as 
 that proceeding from sounds, yet sufficient to 
 entitle it to a place among the magnified arts? 
 
 “ Now, Mr. Spectator, as you have declared 
 yourself visitor of dancing-schools, and this being 
 an undertaking which more immediately respects 
 them, I think myself indispensably obliged, before 
 
 * An Essay toward <j History of Dancing, etc. By John 
 Weaver, 12mo., 1712, 
 
 I proceed to the publication of this my essay, to 
 asK your advice; and hold it absolutely necessary 
 to have your approbation, in order to recommend 
 my treatise to the perusal of the parents of such 
 as learn to dance, as well as to the young ladies 
 to whom, as visitor, you ought to be guardian. 
 
 “ Salop, March 19, “ I am, Sir, 
 
 1711-12. “ Your most humble Servant.” 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 335.] TUESDAY, MARCH 25, 1711-12. 
 
 Itespicere exemplar vitae morumquc jubebo 
 Doctum imitatorem, et veras bine ducere voces. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., 327. 
 Keep Nature’s great original in view, 
 
 And thence the living images pursue.— Francis. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last 
 met together at the club, told me that he had a 
 great mind to see the new tragedy* with me, as¬ 
 suring me at the same time, that he had not been 
 at a play these twenty years. “ The last I saw,” 
 said Sir Roger, “was the Committee, which I 
 should not have gone to neither, had not I been 
 told beforehand that it was a good church of Eng¬ 
 land comedy.” He then proceeded to inquire of me 
 who this distressed mother was; and upon hearing 
 that she was Hector’s widow, he told me that her 
 husband was a brave man, and that when he was 
 a school-boy he had read his life at the end of the 
 dictionary. My friend asked me in the next place, 
 if there would not be some danger in coming 
 home late, in case the Mohocks should be abroad. 
 
 “I assure you,” says he, “I thought I had fallen 
 into their hands last night; for I observed two or 
 three lusty black men that followed me half way 
 up Fleet-street, and mended their pace behind me, 
 in proportion as I put on to get away from them. 
 You must know,” continued the knight with a 
 smile, “I fancied they had a mind to hunt me; for 
 I remember an honest gentleman in my neighbor¬ 
 hood, who was served such a trick in King Charles 
 the Second’s time, for which reason he has not 
 ventured himself in town ever since. I might 
 have shown them very good sport, had this been 
 their design ; for, as I am an old fox-hunter, I 
 should have turned and dodged; and Jiave played 
 them a thousand tricks they had never seen in 
 their lives before.” Sir Roger added, that “ if 
 these gentlemen had any such intention, they did 
 not succeed very well in it; for I threw them out,” 
 says he, “at the end of Norfolk-street, where I 
 doubled the corner, and got shelter in my lodg¬ 
 ings before they could imagine what was become 
 of me. However,” says the knight, “if Captain 
 Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night, 
 and you will both of you call upon me about four 
 o’clock, that we may be at the house before it is 
 full, I will have my own coach in readiness to 
 attend you, for John tells me he has got the 
 fore-wheels mended.” 
 
 The captain, who did not. fail to meet me there 
 at the appointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, 
 for that he had put on the same sword which he 
 made use of at the battle of Steenkirk.f Sir Ro¬ 
 ger’s servants, and among the rest my old friend 
 the butler, had, I found, provided themselves with 
 good oaken plants, to attend their master upon 
 this occasion. When we had placed him in his 
 coach, with myself at his left hand, the captain 
 
 * The Distressed Mother. 
 
 f In 1692. Gentlemen wore about this time a kind of neck¬ 
 cloth called a Steenkirk, probably from its being taken notice 
 of first at this battle. In like manner, and for a similar 
 reason, a wig was called Ramillies, being introduced, or 
 having become fashionable, about the time of that battle, 
 1706. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 before him, and his butler at the head of his foot¬ 
 men in the rear, we convoyed him in safety to the 
 playhouse, where, after having inarched up the 
 entry in good order, the captain and I went in 
 with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. 
 As soon as the house was full, and the candles 
 lighted, my old friend stood up, and looked about 
 him with that pleasure which a mind seasoned 
 with humanity naturally feels in itself, at the 
 sight of a multitude of people who seem pleased 
 with one another, and partake of the same com¬ 
 mon entertainment. I could not but fancy to my¬ 
 self, as the old man stood up in the middle of the 
 pit, that he made a very proper center to a tragic 
 audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the 
 knight told me, that he did not believe the king 
 of Prance himself had a better strut. I was in¬ 
 deed very attentive to my old friend’s remarks, 
 because I looked upon them as a piece of natural 
 criticism, and was well pleased to hear him, at 
 the conclusion of almost every scene, telling me 
 that he could not imagine how the play would 
 end. One while he appeared much concerned for 
 Andromache; and a little while after as much for 
 Hermione; and was extremely puzzled to think 
 what would become of Pyrrhus. 
 
 When Sir Roger saw Andromache’s obstinate 
 refusal to her lover’s importunities, he whispered 
 me in the ear, that he was sure she would never 
 have him; to which he added, with a more than 
 ordinary vehemence, “You can’t imagine, Sir, 
 what it is to have to do with a widow.” Upon 
 Pyrrhus’s threatening to leave her, the knight 
 shook his head aud muttered to himself, “ Ay, do 
 if you can.” This part dwelt so much upon my 
 friend’s imagination, that at the close of the third 
 act, as I "was thinking on something el^e, he whis¬ 
 pered me in my ear, “ These widows, Sir, are the 
 most perverse creatures in the world. But pray,” 
 says he, “you that are a critic, is the play accord¬ 
 ing to yodr dramatic rules, as you call them? 
 Should your people in tragedy always talk to be 
 understood ? Why, there is not a single sentence 
 in this play that I do not know the meaning of.” 
 
 The fourth act very luckily began before I had 
 time to give the old gentleman an answer. 
 “ Well,” says the knight, sitting down with great 
 satisfaction, “ I suppose we are now to see Hec¬ 
 tor’s ghost.” He then renewed his attention, and, 
 from time to time, fell a-praising the widow. He 
 made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her 
 pages, whom at his first entering he took for 
 Astyanax; but quickly set himself right in that 
 particular, though, at the same time, he owned he ; 
 should have been very glad to have seen the little 
 boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine child 
 by the account that is given of him. Upon Her- 
 mione’s going off w r ith a menace to Pyrrhus, the 
 audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger 
 added, “ On my word, a notable young baggage! ” 
 
 As there was a very remarkable silence and 
 stillness in the audience during the whole action, 
 it was natural for them to take the opportunity of 
 the intervals between the acts to express their 
 opinion of the players, and of their respective 
 parts. Sir Roger, hearing a cluster of them praise 
 Orestes, struck in with them, and told them that 
 he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible 
 man. As they were afterward applauding Pyrrhus, 
 Sir Roger put in a second time: “And let me tell 
 you,” says he, “though he speaks but little, I like 
 the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them.” 
 Captain Sentry, seeing two or three wags who sat 
 near us lean with an attentive ear toward Sir Ro¬ 
 ger, and fearing lest they should smoke the knight, 
 plucked him by the eloow, and whispered some¬ 
 thing in his ear, that lasted till the opening of the 
 
 415 
 
 fifth act. The knight was wonderfully attentive 
 to the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus’s 
 death, and, at the conclusion of it, told me it was 
 such a bloody piece of work, that he was glad it 
 was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterward 
 Orestes in his raving fit, he grew more than ordi¬ 
 narily serious, and took occasion to moralize (in 
 his way) upon an evil conscience, adding, that 
 Orestes, in his madness, looked as if he saw 
 something. 
 
 As we were the first that came into the house, 
 so we were the last that went out of it: being re¬ 
 solved to have a clear passage for our old friend, 
 whom we did not care to venture among the jost¬ 
 ling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satis¬ 
 fied with his entertainment, and we guarded him 
 to his lodging in the same manner that we brought 
 him to the play-house, being highly pleased for 
 my own part, not only with the performance of 
 the excellent piece which had been presented, but 
 with the satisfaction which it had given to the 
 good old man.—L. 
 
 Ho. 336.] WEDNESDAY, MARCH 26, 1712. 
 
 -Clamant periise pudorem 
 
 Cuncti pene patres, ea cum reprehendere concr, 
 
 Quae gravis JSsopus, quae doctus Roscius egit: 
 
 Vel quia nil rectum, nisi quod placuit sibi, ducunt; 
 
 Vel quia turpe putant parere minoribus, et quae 
 Imberbes didicere, senes perdenda fateri. 
 
 Hon. 2 Ep. i, 80 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 One tragic sentence if I dare deride, 
 
 Which Betterton’s grave action dignified, 
 
 Or well-mouth’d Booth with emphasis proclaims 
 (Tho’ but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names), 
 
 How will our fathers rise up in a rage, 
 
 And swear all shame is lost in George’s age! 
 
 You’d think no fools disgrac’d the former reign, 
 
 Did not some grave examples yet remain, 
 
 Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill, 
 
 And, having once been wrong, will be so still.— Pope. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ As you are the daily endeavorer to promote 
 learning and good sense, I think myself obliged 
 to suggest to your consideration whatever may 
 promote or prejudice them. There is an evil 
 which has prevailed from generation to generation, 
 which gray hairs and tyrannical custom continue 
 to support; I hope your spectatorial authority will 
 give a seasonable check to the spread of the in¬ 
 fection; I mean old men’s overbearing the strong¬ 
 est sense of their juniors by the mere force of 
 seniority; so that of a young man in the bloom of 
 life, anti vigor of age, to give a reasonable contra¬ 
 diction to his elders, is esteemed an unpardonable 
 insolence, and regarded as reversing the decrees 
 of nature. I am a young man, I confess; yet I 
 honor the gray head as much as any one; however, 
 when, in company with old men, I hear them 
 speak obscurely, or reason preposterously (into 
 which absurdities, prejudice, pride, or interest, 
 Avill sometimes throw the wisest), I count it no 
 crime to rectify their reasonings, unless conscience 
 must truckle to ceremony, and truth fall a sacrifice 
 to complaisance. The stiongest arguments are 
 enervated, and the brightest evidence disappears, 
 before those tremendous reasonings and dazzling 
 discoveries of venerable old age. ‘ You are young 
 giddy-headed fellows; you have not yet had expe¬ 
 rience of the world.’ Thus we young folks find 
 our ambition cramped, and our laziness indulged; 
 since while young we have little room to display 
 ourselves; and, when old, the weakness of nature 
 must pass for strength of sense, and we hope that 
 hoary heads will raise us above the attacks of 
 contradiction. Now, Sir, as you would enliven 
 our activity in the pursuit of learning, take our 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 416 
 
 case into consideration; and, with a gloss on brave 
 Elihu’s sentiments, assert the rights of youth, 
 and, prevent the pernicious encroachments of 
 age. The generous reasonings of that gallant 
 youth would adorn your paper; and I beg you 
 would insert them, not doubting but that they 
 will give good entertainment to the most intelli¬ 
 gent of your readers. 
 
 “ So these three men ceased to answer Job, be¬ 
 cause he was righteous in his own eyes. Then 
 was kindled the wrath of Elihu, the son of Bara- 
 chel the Buzite, of the kindred of Ram. Against 
 Job was his wrath kindled, because he justified 
 himself rather than God. Also, against his three 
 friends was his wrath kindled, because they had 
 found no answer, and yet had condemned Job. 
 Now Elihu had waited till Job had spoken, be¬ 
 cause they were elder than he. When Elihu saw 
 there was no answer in the mouth of these three 
 men, then his wrath was kindled. And Elihu, 
 the son of Barachel the Buzite, answered and said, 
 I am young, and ye are very old; wherefore I was 
 afraid", and durst not show you mine opinion. I 
 said, Days should speak, and multitude of years 
 should teach wisdom. But there is a spirit in 
 man, and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth 
 them understanding. Great men are not always 
 wise; neither do the aged understand judgment. 
 Therefore I said, Hearken to me, I also will show 
 mine opinion. Behold I waited for your words; I 
 gave ear to your reasons, while you searched out 
 what to say. Yea, I attended unto you. And 
 behold there was none of you that convinced Job, 
 or that answered his words : lest you should say, 
 We have found out wisdom : God thrusteth him 
 down, not man. Now he hath not directed his 
 words against me : neither will I answer him with 
 your speeches. They were amazed; they answered 
 no more; they left off speaking. When I had 
 waited (for they spake not, but stood still and 
 answered no more) I said, I will answer also my 
 part; I also will show mine opinion. For I am 
 full of matter, the spirit within me constraineth 
 me. Behold, my belly is as wine which hath no 
 vent, it is ready to burst like new bottles. I will 
 speak that I may be refreshed; I will open my 
 lips and answer. Let me not, I pray you, accept 
 any man’s person, neither let me give flattering 
 titles unto man. For I know not to give flatter¬ 
 ing titles; in so doing my Maker would soon take 
 me away.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have formerly read with great satisfaction 
 your papers about idols, and the behavior of gen¬ 
 tlemen in those coffee-houses where women offici¬ 
 ate; and impatiently waited to see you take India 
 and China shops into consideration: but since 
 you have passed us over in silence, either that 
 you have not as yet thought us worth your notice, 
 or that the grievances we lie under have escaped 
 your discerning eye, I must make my complaints 
 to you, and am encouraged to do it because you 
 seem a little at leisure, at this present writing. I 
 am, dear Sir, one of the top China-women about 
 town; and though I say it, keep as good things, 
 and receive as fine company, as any of this end of 
 the town, let the other be who she will. In short, 
 I am in a fair way to be easy, were it not for a 
 club of female rakes, who, under pretense of 
 taking their innocent rambles forsooth, and di¬ 
 verting the spleen, seldom fail to plague me twice 
 or thrice a day, to cheapen tea, or buy a screen. 
 What else should they mean? as they often re¬ 
 peat it. These rakes are your idle ladies of 
 fashion, who, having nothing to do, employ them¬ 
 selves in tumbling over my ware. One of these 
 
 no-customers (for by the way they seldom or never 
 buy anything) calls for a set of tea-dishes, another 
 for a basin, a third for my best green tea, and even 
 to the punch-bowl, there’s scare a piece in my 
 shop but must be displaced, and the whole agree¬ 
 able architecture disordered, so that I can compare 
 them to nothing but to the night-goblins that take 
 a pleasure to overturn the disposition of plates 
 and dishes in the kitchens of your housewifely 
 maids. Well, after all this racket and clutter, 
 this is too dear, that is their aversion; another 
 thing is charming, but not wanted: the ladies are 
 cured of the spleen, but I am not a shilling the 
 better for it. Lord, what signifies one poor pot of 
 tea, considering the trouble they put me to? Va¬ 
 pors, Mr. Spectator, are terrible things; for though 
 I am not possessed by them myself, I suffer more 
 by them than if I were. Now I must beg you to 
 admonish all such day-goblins to make fewer 
 visits, or to be less troublesome when they come 
 to one’s shop; and to convince them that we 
 honest shopkeepers have something better to do, 
 than to cure folks of the vapors gratis. A young 
 son of mine, a schoolboy, is my secretary, so I 
 hope you will make allowances. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your constant Reader, and 
 “very humble Servant, 
 
 “March 22d. “ Rebecca the distressed” 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 337.] THURSDAY, MARCH 27, 1712. 
 
 Fingit equum tenera docilem cervice magister. 
 
 Ix-e viarn quam monstrat eques- 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. ii, 63. 
 
 The jockey trains the young and tender horse 
 
 While yet soft-mouth’d, and breeds him to the course. 
 
 Creeoh. 
 
 I have lately received a third letter from the 
 gentleman who has already given the public two 
 essays upon education. As his thoughts seem to 
 be very just and new upon this subject, I shall 
 communicate them to the reader. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ If I had not been hindered by some extraordi¬ 
 nary business, I should have sent you sooner my 
 further thoughts upon education. You may 
 please to remember, that in my last letter I en¬ 
 deavored to give the best reasons that could be 
 urged in favor of a private or public education. 
 Upon the whole, it may perhaps be thought that 
 I seemed rather inclined to the latter, though at 
 the same time I confessed that virtue, which ought 
 to be our first principal care, was more usually 
 acquired in the former. 
 
 “ I intend, therefore, in this letter, to offer at 
 methods, by which I conceive boys might be 
 made to improve in virtue as they advance in 
 t letters. 
 
 “I know that in most of our public schools vice 
 is punished and discouraged, whenever it is found 
 out; but this is far from being sufficient, unless 
 our youth are at the same time taught to form a 
 right judgment of things, and to know what is 
 pi'operly virtue. 
 
 “ To this end, whenever they read the lives and 
 actions of such men as have been famous in their 
 generation, it should not be thought enough to 
 make them barely understand so many Greek or 
 Latin sentences; but they should be asked their 
 opinion of such an action or saying, and obliged 
 to give their reasons why they take it to be good 
 or bad. By this means they would insensibly ar¬ 
 rive at proper notions of courage, temperance, 
 honor, and justice. 
 
" There must be great care taken how the ex¬ 
 ample of any particular person is recommended 
 to them in gross; instead of which they ought to 
 be taught wherein such a man, though great in 
 some respects, was weak and faulty in others. 
 For want of this caution, a boy is so often dazzled 
 with the luster of a great character, that he con¬ 
 founds its beauties with its blemishes, and looks 
 even upon the faulty part of it with an eye of ad¬ 
 miration. 
 
 “ I have often wondered how Alexander, who 
 was naturally of a generous and merciful disposi¬ 
 tion, came to be guilty of so barbarous an action 
 as that of dragging the governor of a town after 
 his chariot. I know this is generally ascribed to 
 his passion for Homer: but I lately met with a 
 passage in Plutarch, which, if I am not very much 
 mistaken, still gives us a clearer light into the 
 motives of this action. Plutarch tells us, that 
 Alexander in his youth had a master named Lysi- 
 machus, who, though he was a man destitute of 
 all politeness, ingratiated himself both with 
 Philip and his pupil, and became the second man 
 at court, by calling the king Peleus, the prince 
 Achilles, and himself Phoenix. It is no wonder 
 if Alexander, having been thus used not only to 
 admire but to personate Achilles, should think it 
 glorious to imitate him in this piece of cruelty and 
 extravagance. 
 
 “ To carry this thought yet further, I shall sub¬ 
 mit it to your consideration, whether, instead of a 
 theme or copy of verses, which are the usual exer¬ 
 cises, as they are called in the school phrase, it 
 would not be more proper that a boy should be 
 tasked, once or twice a week, to write down his 
 opinion of such persons and things as occur to 
 him by his reading; that he should descant upon 
 the actions of Turnus or HSneas; show wherein 
 they excelled, or where defective; censure or ap- 
 rove any particular action; observe how it might 
 ave been carried to a greater degree of perfec¬ 
 tion, and how it exceeded or fell short of another. 
 He might at the same time mark what was moral 
 in any speech, and how far it agreed with the cha¬ 
 racter of the person speaking. This exercise 
 would soon strengthen his judgment in what is 
 blamable or praiseworthy, and give him an early 
 seasoning of morality. 
 
 “ Next to those examples which may be met 
 with in books, I very much approve Horace’s way 
 of setting before youth the infamous or honorable 
 characters of their cotemporaries. That poet 
 tells us, this was the method his father made use 
 of to incline him to any particular virtue, or give 
 him an aversion to any particular vice. ‘If,’ 
 says Horace, ‘ my father advised me to live within 
 bounds, and be contented with the fortune he 
 should leave me; “ Do you not see,” says he, “ the 
 miserable condition of Burrus, and the son of 
 Aibus ? Let the misfortunes of those two wretches 
 teach you to avoid luxury and extravagance ? ” If 
 he would inspire me with an abhorrence to de¬ 
 bauchery, “Do not,” says he, “make yourself 
 like Sectanus, when you may be happy in the en¬ 
 joyment of lawful pleasures. How scandalous,” 
 says he, “ is the character of Trebonius, who was 
 lately caught in bed with another man’s wife!”’ 
 To illustrate the force of this method, the poet 
 adds, that as a headstrong patient, who will not 
 at first follow his physician’s prescriptions, grows 
 orderly when he hears that his neighbors die all 
 about him; so youth is often frightened from 
 vice, by hearing the ill report it brings upon 
 others. 
 
 “ Xenophon’s schools of equity, in his life of 
 Cyrus the Great, are sufficiently famous. He tells 
 us, that the Persian children went to school, and 
 27 
 
 employed their time as diligently in learning the 
 principles of justice and sobriety, as the youth in 
 other countries did to acquire the most difficult 
 arts and sciences; their governors spent most part 
 of the day in hearing their mutual accusations 
 one against the other, whether for violence, cheat- 
 ing, slander, or ingratitude; and taught them how 
 to give judgment against those who were found to 
 be anyways guilty of these crimes. I omit the 
 story of the long and short coat, for which Cyrus 
 himself was punished, as a case equally known 
 with any in Littleton. 
 
 “The method which Apuleius tells us the In¬ 
 dian Gymnosophists took to educate their disciples, 
 is still more curious and remarkable. His words 
 are as follow: * When their dinner is ready, before 
 it is served up, the masters inquire of every par¬ 
 ticular scholar how he has employed his time since 
 sunrising: some of them answer, that, having 
 been chosen as arbiters between two persons, they 
 have composed their differences, and made them 
 friends; some, that they have been executing the 
 orders of their parents; and others, that they have 
 either found out something new by their own ap¬ 
 plication, or learnt it from the instructions of their 
 fellows. But if there happens to be any one 
 among them who cannot make it appear that he 
 has employed the morning to advantage, he is im¬ 
 mediately excluded from the company, and 
 obliged to work while the rest are at dinner.’ 
 
 “It is not impossible, that from these several 
 ways of producing virtue in the minds of boys, 
 some general method might be invented. What I 
 would endeavor to inculcate is, that our youth 
 cannot be too soon taught the principles of virtue, 
 seeing the first impressions which are made on the 
 mind are always the strongest. 
 
 “ The archbishop of Cambray makes Telema- 
 chus say, that, though he was young in years, he 
 was old in the art of knowing how to keep both 
 his own and his friend’s secrets. ‘When my 
 father,’ says the prince, ‘ went to the siege of Troy, 
 he took me on his knees, and, after having embraced 
 and blessed me, as he was surrounded by the no¬ 
 bles of Ithaca, “ O my friends,” says he, “ into 
 your hands I commit the education of my son : if 
 ever you loved his father, show it in your care to¬ 
 ward him; but above all, do not omit to form him 
 just, sincere, and faithful in keeping a secret.” 
 These words of my father, says Telemachus, 
 ‘were continually repeated to me by his friends in 
 his absence; who made no scruple of communica¬ 
 ting to me their uneasiness to see my mother sur¬ 
 rounded with lovers, and the measures they de¬ 
 signed to take on that occasion.’ He adds, that 
 he was so ravished at being thus treated like a 
 man, and at the confidence reposed in him, that he 
 never once abused it; nor could all the insinua¬ 
 tions of his father’s rivals ever get him to betray 
 what was committed to him under the seal of se¬ 
 crecy. 
 
 “ There is hardly any virtue which a lad might 
 not thus learn by practice and example. 
 
 “ I have heard of a good man, who used at cer¬ 
 tain times to give his scholars sixpence a-piece, 
 that they might tell him the next day how they 
 had employed it. The third part was always to 
 be laid out in charity, and every boy was blamed 
 or commended, as he could make it appear that he 
 had chosen a fit object. 
 
 “ In short nothing is more wanting to our pub¬ 
 lic schools, than that the masters of them should 
 use the same care in fashioning the manners of 
 their scholars, as in forming their tongues to the 
 learned languages. Wherever the former is omit¬ 
 ted, I cannot help agreeing with Mr. Locke, that 
 a man must have a very strange value for words 
 
118 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 when, preferring the languages of the Greeks and 
 Romans to that which made them such brave men, 
 he can think it worth while to hazard the inno¬ 
 cence and virtue of his son for a little Greek and 
 Latin. 
 
 “ As the subject of this essay is of the highest 
 importance, and what I do not remember to have 
 yet seen treated by any author, I have sent you 
 what occurred to me on it from my own observa¬ 
 tion or reading, and which you may either sup¬ 
 press or publish, as you may think nt. 
 
 X. "I am, Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 No. 338.] FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1712. 
 
 -Nil fait unquam 
 
 Tam dispar sibi- 
 
 .* 
 
 Hor. 1 Sat. iii, 18. 
 
 Made up of naught but inconsistencies. 
 
 I find the tragedy of The Distressed Mother is pub¬ 
 lished to-day. The author of the prologue,! I 
 suppose, pleads an old excuse I have read some¬ 
 where, of “being dull with design:” and the 
 gentleman who wrote the epilogue! has, to my 
 knowledge, so much of greater moment to value 
 himself upon, that he will easily forgive me for 
 publishing the exceptions^ made against gayety at 
 the end of serious entertainments in the following 
 letter: I should be more unwilling to pardon him 
 than anybody, a practice which cannot have any 
 ill consequence but from the abilities of the per¬ 
 son who is guilty of it. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I had the happiness the other night of sitting 
 very near you, and your worthy friend Sir Roger, 
 at the acting of the new tragedy, which you have 
 in a late paper or two, so justly recommended. I 
 was highly pleased with the advantageous situa¬ 
 tion fortune had given me in placing me so near 
 two gentlemen^from one of which I was sure to 
 hear such reflections on the several incidents of 
 the play as pure nature suggested, and from the 
 other, such as flowed from the exactest art and 
 judgment: though I must confess that my curios¬ 
 ity led;me so much to observe the knight’s reflec¬ 
 tions, that I was not so well at leisure to improve 
 myself by yours. Nature, I found, played her 
 part in the knight pretty well, till at the last con¬ 
 cluding lines she entirely forsook him. You must 
 know, Sir, that it is always my custom, when I 
 have been well entertained at a new tragedy, to 
 make my retreat before the facetious epilogue en¬ 
 ters; not but that those pieces are often very well 
 written, but having paid down my half-crown, and 
 made a fair purchase, of as much of the pleasing 
 melancholy as the poet’s art can afford me, or my 
 own nature admit of, I am willing to carry some 
 of it home with me: and cannot endure to be at 
 once tricked out of all, though by the wittiest dex¬ 
 terity in the world. However, I kept my seat the 
 other night, in hopes of finding my own senti¬ 
 ments of this matter favored by your friend’s; 
 when, to my great surprise, I found the knight 
 
 * The original motto to this paper, at its first publication in 
 folio, was likewise from Horace: 
 
 -Servetur ad inum, 
 
 Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. 
 
 Hor. A. P. 
 
 t Steele was the author of the prologue to The Distressed 
 Mother. The excuse alludes to a passage at the end of Tat. 
 No. 38. 
 
 J The author of the epilogue to the play of A. Phillips, 
 called The Distressed Mother , first published in 1712, was Mr. 
 Eustace BudgelL 
 
 entering with equal pleasure into both parts, and 
 as much satisfied with Mrs. Oldfield’s gayety as 
 he had been before with Andromache’s greatness. 
 Whether this were no more than an effect of the 
 knight’s peculiar humanity, pleased to find at last, 
 that, after all the tragical doings, everything was 
 safe and well, I do not know. But for my own 
 part, I must confess I was so dissatisfied, that I 
 was sorry the poet had saved Andromache, and 
 could heartily have wished that he had left her 
 stone-dead upon the stage. For you cannot ima¬ 
 gine, Mr. Spectator, the mischief she was reserved 
 to do me. I found my soul, during the action, 
 gradually worked up to the highest pitch, and 
 felt the exalted passion which all generous minds 
 conceive at the sight of virtue in distress. The 
 impression, believe me. Sir, was so strong upon 
 me, that I am persuaded, if I had been let alone 
 in it, I could, at an extremity, have ventured to 
 defend yourself and Sir Roger against half a 
 score of the fiercest Mohocks; but the ludicrous 
 epilogue in the close extinguished all my ardor, 
 and made me look upon all such noble achieve¬ 
 ments as downright silly and romantic. What 
 the rest of the audience felt, I cannot so well tell. 
 For myself I must declare, that at the end of the 
 play I found my soul uniform, and all of a-piece; 
 but at the end of the epilogue it was so jumbled 
 together, and divided between jest and earnest, 
 that, if you will forgive me an extravagant fancy, 
 I will here set it down. I could not but fancy, if 
 my soul had at that moment quitted my body, and 
 descended to the poetical shades in the posture it 
 was then in, what a strange figure it -would have 
 made among them. They would not have known 
 what to have made of my motley specter, half 
 comic and half tragic, all over resembling a ridic¬ 
 ulous face that at the same time laughs on one 
 side, and cries on the other. The only defense, I 
 think, I have ever heard made for this, as it seems 
 to me the most unnatural tack of the comic tail to 
 the tragic head, is this, that the minds of the au¬ 
 dience must be refreshed, and gentlemen and la¬ 
 dies not sent away to their own homes with too 
 dismal and melancholy thoughts about them: for 
 who knows the consequence of this? We are 
 much obliged, indeed, to the poets, for the great 
 tenderness they express for the safety of our per¬ 
 sons, and heartily thank them for it. But if that 
 be all, pray, good Sir, assure them, that we are 
 none of us likely to come to any great harm; and 
 that, let them do their best, we shall in all proba¬ 
 bility live out the length of our days, and frequent 
 the theaters more than ever. What makes me 
 more desirous to have some reformation of this 
 matter is, because of an ill consequence or two at 
 tending it: for a great many of our church musi¬ 
 cians being related to the theater, they have, in 
 imitation of these epilogues, introduced, in their 
 farewell voluntaries, a sort of music quite foreign 
 to the design of church-services, to the great pre¬ 
 judice of well-disposed people. Those fingering 
 gentlemen should be informed, that they ought to 
 suit their airs to the place and business, and that 
 the musician is obliged to keep to the text as much 
 as the preacher. For want of this, I have found 
 by experience a great deal of mischief. For when 
 the preacher has often, with great piety, and art 
 enough, handled his subject, and the judicious 
 clerk has with the utmost diligence culled out 
 two staves proper to the discourse, and I have 
 found in myself and in the rest of the pew, good 
 thoughts and dispositions, they have been, ail in 
 a moment, dissipated by a merry jig from the or¬ 
 gan-loft. One knows not what further ill effects 
 the epilogues I have been speaking of may in time 
 produce: but this I am credibly informed of, that 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 Paul Lorrain* has resolved upon a very sudden 
 reformation in his tragical dramas; and that, a 
 the next monthly performance', lie designs, insteac 
 of a penitential psalm, to dismiss his audience 
 with an excellent new ballad of his own compos¬ 
 ing. Pray, Sir, do what you can to put a stop to 
 these growing evils, and you will very much 
 oblige 
 
 “ Tour humble Servant, 
 
 “ Physibulus.” 
 
 No. 339.1 SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1712. 
 
 -Ut his exordia primis 
 
 Omnia, et ipse tener mundi eoncreverit orbis. 
 
 Turn durare solum et discludere Nerea ponto 
 Coeperit, et rerum paullatim sumere formas. 
 
 Virg., Eel. vi, 33. 
 
 lie sung the secret seeds of nature’s frame, 
 
 IIow seas, and earth, and air, and active flame, 
 
 Fell through the mighty void, and in their fall, 
 
 Were blindly gather’d in this goodly ball. 
 
 The tender soil then stiff'ning by degrees, 
 
 Shut from the bounded earth the bounding seas; 
 
 The earth and ocean various forms disclose, 
 
 And a new sun to the new world arose.— Dryden. 
 
 Longinus has observed, that there may be a 
 loftiness in sentiments where there is no passion, 
 and brings instances out of ancient authors to 
 support this his opinion. The pathetic, as that 
 great critic observes, may animate and inflame 
 the sublime, but is not essential to it. Accord¬ 
 ingly, as he further remarks, we very often find 
 that those who excel most in stirring up the pas¬ 
 sions very often want the talent of writing in the 
 great and sublime manner, and so on the contrary. 
 Milton has shown himself a master in both these 
 ways of writing. The seventh book, which we 
 are now entering upon, is an instance of that sub¬ 
 lime which is not mixed and worked up with 
 passion. The author appears in a kind of com¬ 
 posed and sedate majesty ; and though the senti¬ 
 ments do not give so great an emotion as those in 
 the former book, they abound with as magnificent 
 ideas. The sixth book, like a troubled ocean, 
 represents greatness in confusion; the seventh 
 affects the imagination like the ocean in a calm, 
 and fills the mind of the reader, without producing 
 in it anything like tumult or agitation. 
 
 The critic above-mentioned, among the rules 
 which he lays down for succeeding in the sublime 
 way of writing, proposes to his reader, that he 
 should imitate the most celebrated authors who 
 have gone before him, and have been engaged in 
 works of the same nature ; as in particular that, 
 if he writes on a poetical subject, lie should con¬ 
 sider how Homer would have spoken on such an 
 occasion. By this means one great genius often 
 catches the flame from another, and writes in his 
 spirit, without copying servilely after him. There 
 are a thousand shining passages in Virgil, which 
 have been lighted up by Homer. 
 
 Milton, though his own natural strength of ge¬ 
 nius was capable of furnishing out a perfect work, 
 has doubtless very much raised and ennobled his 
 conceptions by such an imitation as that which 
 Longinus has recommended. 
 
 # I J1 this book, which gives us an account of the 
 6ix days’ works, the poet received but very few as¬ 
 sistances from heathen writers, who are strangers 
 to the wonders of creation. But as there are 
 
 * Paul Lorrain was the ordinary of Newgate at this time 
 which place he held for many years: he died October 7,1719! 
 In his accounts of the convicts executed at Tyburn, P. Lor¬ 
 rain generally represented them as true penitents, and dying 
 very well, after having lived for the most part very ill: they 
 are humorously styled Paul Lorrain’s saints in the Tatler, 
 No. 63. 
 
 419 
 
 many glorious strokes of poetry upon this subject 
 in holy writ, the author has numberless allusions 
 to them through the whole course of this book. 
 1 he great critic I have before mentioned, though 
 a heathen, has taken notice of tlie sublime manner 
 in which the lawgiver of the Jews has described 
 the creation in the first chapter of Genesis ; and 
 there are many other passages in Scripture which 
 rise up to the same majesty, where the subject is 
 touched upon. Milton has shown his judgment 
 very lemarkably, in making use of such of these 
 as were proper for his poem, and in duly qualify- 
 ing those strains of eastern poetry whicli were 
 suited to readers whose imaginations were set to 
 a higher pitch than those of colder climates. 
 
 Adam s speech to the angel, wherein he desires 
 an account of what had passed within the regions 
 of nature before the creation, is very great and 
 solemn. The following lines, in which he tells 
 him, that the day is not too far spent for him 
 to enter upon such a subject, are exquisite in their 
 kind: 
 
 And the great light of day yet wants to run 
 Much of his race, though steep; suspense in heav’n 
 Held by thy voice, thy potent voice he hears, 
 
 And longer will delay to hear thee tell 
 His generation, etc. 
 
 The angel’s encouraging our first parents in a 
 modest pursuit after knowledge, with the causes 
 which he assigns for the creation of the world, 
 are very just and beautiful. The Messiah, by 
 whom, as we are told in Scripture, the heavens 
 were made, goes forth in the power of his Father, 
 surrounded with a host of angels, and clothed 
 with such a majesty as becomes his entering upon 
 a work which, according to our conceptions, ap¬ 
 pears the utmost exertion of Omnipotence. What 
 a beautiful description has our author raised upon 
 that hint in one of the prophets ! “ And behold 
 
 there came four chariots out from between two 
 mountains, and the mountains were mountains of, 
 brass 
 
 About his chariot numberless were pour’d 
 Cherub and seraph, potentates and thrones, 
 
 And virtues, winged spirits, and chariots wing’d 
 From the armory of God, where stand of old 
 Myriads between two brazen mountains lodg’d 
 Against a solemn day, harness’d at hand, 
 
 Celestial equipage! and now came forth 
 Spontaneous, for within them spirit liv’d, 
 
 Attendant on the Lord: Heav’n open’d wide 
 Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound! 
 
 On golden hinges moving- 
 
 I have before taken notice of these chariots of 
 JocL and of these gates of heaven ; and shall 
 uere only add, that Homer gives us the same idea 
 of the latter, as opening of themselves; though' 
 he afterward takes off from it, by telling us that 
 the hours first of all removed those prodigious 
 heaps of clouds which lay as a barrier before them. 
 
 I do not know anything in the whole poem 
 more sublime than the description which follows, 
 where the Messiah is represented at the head of 
 his angels, as looking down into the chaos, calm- 
 ing its confusion, riding into the midst of it, and 
 drawing the first outline of the creation : 
 
 On hcav’nly ground they stood, and from the shore 
 They view’d the vast immeasurable abyss 
 Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, 
 
 Up from the bottom turn’d by furious winds 
 And surging waves, as mountains to assault 
 Heav’n’s height, and with the center mix the pole. 
 “Silence, ye troubled waves; and thou, deep, peaceP' 
 Said then th’ omnific Word, “ Your discord end!” 
 
 Nor staid, but on the wings of cherubim 
 
 Up-lifted, in paternal glory rode 
 
 Far into Chaos, and the world unborn; 
 
 For Chaos heard his voice. Him all his train 
 Follow’d in bright procession, to behold 
 
420 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Creation, and the wonders of his might. 
 
 Then stay'd the fervid wheels; and in his hand 
 He took the golden compasses, prepar’d, 
 
 In God’s eternal store to circumscribe 
 This universe and all created things: 
 
 One foot he centered, and the other turn’d 
 Round through the vast profundity obscure, 
 
 And said, “ Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, 
 
 This he thy just circumference, 0 world I” 
 
 The thought of the golden compasses is con¬ 
 ceived altogether in Homer’s spirit, and is a very 
 noble incident in this wonderful description. Ho¬ 
 mer, when he speaks of the gods, ascribes to 
 them several arms and instruments with the same 
 greatness of imagination. Let the reader only 
 peruse the description of Minerva’s aegis or buck¬ 
 ler, in the fifth book of the Iliad, with her spear, 
 which would overturn whole squadrons, and her 
 helmet that was sufficient to cover an army drawn 
 out of a hundred cities. The golden compasses, 
 in the above-mentioned passage, appear a very 
 natifral instrument in the hand of him whom 
 Plato somewhere calls the Divine Geometrician. 
 As poetry delights in clothing abstracted ideas in 
 allegories and sensible images, we find a magni¬ 
 ficent description of the creation formed after the 
 same manner in one of the prophets, wherein he 
 describes the Almighty Architect as measuring 
 the waters in the hollow of his hand, meting out 
 the heavens with his span, comprehending the. 
 dust of the earth in a measure, weighing the 
 mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance. 
 Another of them describing the Supreme Being in 
 this great work of creation, represents him as 
 laying the foundations of the earth, and stretch¬ 
 ing a line upon it ; and, in another place, as gar¬ 
 nishing the heavens, stretching out the north over 
 the empty place, and hanging the earth upon 
 nothing. This last noble thought Milton has ex¬ 
 pressed in the following verse : 
 
 And earth self-balanc’d on her center hung. 
 
 The beauties of description in this book lie so 
 very thick, that it is impossible to enumerate 
 them in this paper. The poet has employed on 
 them the whole energy of our tongue. The sev¬ 
 eral great scenes of the creation rise up to view 
 one after another, in such a manner, that the 
 reader seems present at this wonderful work, and 
 to assist among the choirs of angels who are the 
 spectators of it. How glorious is the conclusion 
 of the first day! 
 
 -Thus was the first day ev’n and morn: 
 
 Nor past uneelebrated, nor unsung, 
 
 By the celestial choirs, when orient light 
 Exhaling first from darkness they beheld; 
 
 Birth-day of heav’n and earth! with joy and shout 
 The hollow universal orb they fill’d. 
 
 W e have the same elevation of thought in the 
 third day, when the mountains were brought forth 
 and the deep was made : 
 
 Immediately the mountains huge appear 
 Emergent, and their broad bare backs upheave 
 Into the clouds, their tops ascend the sky: 
 
 So high as heav’n the tumid hills, so low 
 Down sunk a hollow bottom broad and deep, 
 
 Capacious bed of waters-• 
 
 We have also the rising of the whole vegetable 
 world described in this day’s work, which is filled 
 with all the graces that other poets have lavished 
 on their description of the spring, and leads the 
 reader’s imagination into a theater equally sur¬ 
 prising and beautiful. 
 
 The several glories of the heavens make their 
 appearance on the fourth day: 
 
 Eirst in his east the glorious lamp was seen, 
 
 Regent of day, and all the horizon round 
 
 Invested with bright rays, jocund to run 
 
 His longitude through heaven’s high road; the gray 
 
 Dawn, and the Pleiades before him danc’d, 
 
 Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon, 
 
 But opposite in level’d west was set 
 His mirror, with full face borrowing her light 
 From him, for other lights she needed none 
 In that aspect, and still that distance keeps 
 Till night; then in the east her turn she shines, 
 Revolv’d on heaven’s great axle, and her reign 
 With thousand lesser lights dividual holds, 
 
 With thousand thousand stars, that then appear’d 
 Spangling the hemisphere- 
 
 One would wonder how the poet could be so 
 concise in his description of the six days’ works, 
 as to comprehend them within the bounds of 
 an episode, and at the same time, so particular, as 
 to give us a lively idea of them. This is still 
 more remarkable in his account of the fifth and 
 sixth days, in which he has drawn out to our 
 view the whole animal creation, from the reptile 
 to the behemoth. As the lion and the leviathan 
 are two of the noblest productions in the world 
 of living creatures, the reader will find a most 
 exquisite spirit of poetry in the account which 
 our author gives us of them. The sixth day 
 concludes with the formation of man, upon which 
 the angel takes occasion, as he did after the 
 battle in heaven, to remind Adam of his obe¬ 
 dience, which was the principal design of this 
 his visit. 
 
 The poet afterward represents the Messiah re¬ 
 turning into heaven, and taking a survey of his 
 great work. There is something inexpressibly 
 sublime in this part of the poem, where the 
 author describes that great period of time, filled 
 with so many glorious circumstances ; when the 
 heavens and earth were finished ; when the Mes¬ 
 siah ascended up in triumph through the ever¬ 
 lasting gates ; when he looked down with pleasure 
 upon his new creation ; when every part of nature 
 seemed to rejoice in its existence, when the morn¬ 
 ing-stars sang together, and all the sons of God 
 shouted for joy. 
 
 So ev’n and morn accomplish’d the sixth day: 
 
 Yet not till the Creator from his work 
 Desisting, though unwearied, up return’d. 
 
 Up to the heaven of heavens, his high abode; 
 
 Thence to behold his new created world 
 Th’ addition of his empire, how it show’d 
 In prospect from his throne, how good, how fair, 
 Answering his great idea. Up he rode, 
 
 Follow’d with acclamation and the sound 
 Symphonious of ten thousand harps, that tun’d 
 Angelic harmonies: the earth, the air 
 Resounded (thou rememberest, for thou heard’st) • 
 The heavens and all the constellations rung, 
 
 The planets in their station list’ning stood, 
 
 While the bright pomp ascended jubilant. 
 
 “Open, ye everlasting gates!” they sung, 
 
 “Open, ye heavens, your living doors! let in 
 The great Creator from his work return’d 
 Magnificent, his six days’ work—a world.” 
 
 I cannot conclude this book upon the creation, 
 without mentioning a poem which has lately ap¬ 
 peared under that title.* The work was under¬ 
 taken with so good an intention, and is executed 
 with so great a mastery, that it deserves to be 
 looked upon as one of the most useful and noble 
 productions in our English verse. The reader 
 cannot but be pleased to find the depths of philo¬ 
 sophy enlivened with all the charms of poetry, 
 and to see so great a strength of reason amid so 
 beautiful a redundancy of the imagination. The 
 author has shown us that design in all the works 
 of nature which necessarily leads us to the know¬ 
 ledge of the first cause. In short, he has illus- 
 
 * Creation, a philosophical poem; demonstrating the exist¬ 
 ence and providence of God. In seven books. By Sir Richard 
 Blackmore, Knt. M. D., and fellow of the college of physi¬ 
 cians in London. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 trated, by numberless and incontestable instances, 
 that divine wisdom which the son of Sirach has 
 so nobly ascribed to the Supreme Being in his 
 formation of the world, when lie tells us, that 
 “ He created her, he saw her, and numbered her, 
 and poured her out upon all his works,”_L. 
 
 No. 340.] MONDAY, MARCH 31, 1712. 
 
 Quis novus hie nostris successit sedibus hospes ? 
 
 Quem seso ore ferens! quam forti pectore et armis! 
 
 Virg., ^En. iv, 10. 
 
 What chief is this that visits us from far, 
 
 Whose gallant mien bespeaks him train’d to war? 
 
 I take it to be the highest instance of a noble 
 mind, to bear great qualities without discovering 
 in a man’s behavior any consciousness that he is 
 superior to the rest of the world. Or, to say it 
 otherwise, it is the duty of a great person so to 
 demean himself, as that whatever endowments he 
 may have, he may appear to value himself upon 
 no qualities but such as any man may arrive at. 
 Me ought to think no man valuable but for his 
 public spirit, justice, and integrity: and all other 
 endowments to be esteemed only as they contri¬ 
 bute to the exerting those virtues. Such a man, 
 if he is wise or valiant, knows it is of no consid¬ 
 eration to other men that he is so, but as he em¬ 
 ploys those high talents for their use and service. 
 He who affects the applauses and addresses of a 
 multitude, or assumes to himself a pre-eminence 
 upon any other consideration, must soon turn ad¬ 
 miration into contempt. It is certain that there 
 can be no merit in any man who is not conscious 
 of it ; but the sense that it is valuable only-ac¬ 
 cording to the application of it, makes that supe¬ 
 riority amiable, which would otherwise be in¬ 
 vidious. In this light it is considered as a thing 
 in which every man bears a share. It annexes 
 the ideas of dignity, power, and fame, in an 
 agreeable and familiar manner, to him who is 
 possessor of it; and all men who are strangers 
 to him are naturally incited to indulge a curiosity 
 in beholding the person, behavior, feature, and 
 shape of him in whose character, perhaps, each 
 man had formed something in common with him¬ 
 self. 
 
 Whether such, or any other, are the causes, all 
 men have a yearning curiosity to behold a man of 
 heroic worth ; and I have had many letters from 
 all parts of this kingdom, that request I would 
 give them an exact account of the stature, the 
 mien, the aspect of the prince who lately visited 
 England, and has done such wonders for the lib- 
 erty of Europe. It would puzzle the most curious 
 to form to himself the sort of man my several 
 correspondents expect to hear of by the action 
 mentioned, when they desire a description of him. 
 There is always something that concerns them¬ 
 selves, and growing out of their own circum¬ 
 stances, in all their inquiries. A friend of mine 
 in Y ales beseeches me to be very exact in my ac¬ 
 count of that wonderful man, who had marched 
 an army and all its baggage over the Alps; and 
 if possible, to learn whether the peasant who 
 showed him the way, and is drawn in the map, be 
 yet living. A gentleman from the university, 
 who is deeply intent on the study of humanity’ 
 desires me to be as particular, if I had opportu¬ 
 nity, in observing the whole interview between 
 his highness and our late general. Thus do men’s 
 fancies work according to their several educations 
 and circumstances ; but all pay a respect, mixed 
 with admiration, to this illustrious character. I 
 have waited for his arrival in Holland, before 1 
 
 421 
 
 would let my correspondlents know that I have 
 not been so incurious a Spectator as not to have 
 seen Prince Eugene.* It would be very difficult, 
 as I said just now, to answer every expectation 
 of those who have written to me on that head; 
 nor is it possible for me to find words to let one 
 know what an artful glance there is in his coun¬ 
 tenance who surprised Cremona; how daring he 
 appears who forced the trenches of Turin ; but in 
 general I can say that he who beholds him will 
 easily expect from him anything that is to be im¬ 
 agined or executed, by the wit or force of man. 
 1 he prince is of that stature which makes a man 
 most easily become all parts of exercise; has 
 height to be graceful on occasions of state and 
 ceremony, and no less adapted for agility and 
 dispatch : his aspect is erect and composed : his 
 eye lively and thoughtful, yet rather vigilant than 
 sparkling ; his action and address the most easy 
 imaginable, and his behavior in an assembly pe¬ 
 culiarly graceful in a certain art of mixing insen¬ 
 sibly with the rest and becoming one of the 
 company, instead of receiving the courtship of it. 
 The shape of his person and composure of his 
 limbs, are remarkably exact and beautiful. There 
 is in his looks something sublime, which does 
 not seem to arise from his quality or character, 
 but the innate disposition of his mind. It is ap- 
 parent that he suffers the presence of much com- 
 pany, instead of taking delight in it; and he ap¬ 
 peared in public, while with us, rather to return 
 good-will, or satisfy curiosity, than to gratify any 
 taste he himself had of being popular. As his 
 thoughts are never tumultuous in danger, they 
 are as little discomposed on occasions of pomp 
 and magnificence. A great soul is affected, in 
 either case, no farther than in considering the 
 properest methods to extricate itself from them. 
 If this hero has the strong incentives to uncom- 
 mon enterprises that w r ere remarkable in Alex¬ 
 ander, he prosecutes and enjoys the fame of them 
 with the justness, propriety,' and good sense of 
 Caesar. It is easy to observe in him a mind 
 as capable of being entertained with contem¬ 
 plation as enterprise ; a mind ready for great ex¬ 
 ploits, but not impatient for occasions to exert 
 itself. The prince has wisdom, and valor in as 
 high perfection as man can enjoy it; which noble 
 faculties, in conjunction, banish all vain glory, 
 ostentation, ambition, and all other vices which 
 might intrude upon his mind, to make it unequal. 
 These habits and qualities of soul and body, ren¬ 
 der this personage so extraordinary, that lie ap¬ 
 pears to have nothing in him but what every man 
 should have in him, the exertion of his very self, 
 abstracted from the circumstances in w r hich for¬ 
 tune has placed him. Thus, were you to see 
 Prince Eugene, and were told he was a private 
 gentleman, you would say he is a man of modesty 
 and merit. Should you be told that was Prince 
 Eugene, he would be diminished no otherwise, 
 than that part of your distant admiration would 
 turn into a familiar good-will. 
 
 This I thought fit to entertain my reader with, 
 concerning a hero who never w r as equaled but by 
 one man ;f over whom also he has this advan¬ 
 tage, that he has had an opportunity to manifest 
 an esteem for him in his adversity.—T. 
 
 * He stood godfather to Steele’s second son, who was named 
 Eugene after this prince. 
 
 f The Duke of Marlborough, who was at this time turned 
 out of all his public employments. 
 
422 
 
 No. 341.] 
 
 -Revocate animos, masstumque timorem 
 
 Mittite- ViRG. En., i, 206. 
 
 Resume your courage and dismiss your fear. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Having, to oblige my correspondent Physibu- 
 lus, printed his letter last Friday, in relation to 
 the new epilogue, he cannot take it amiss if I now 
 publish another, which I have just received from 
 a gentleman who does not agree with him in his 
 sentiments upon that matter. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I am amazed to find an epilogue attacked in 
 your last Friday’s paper, which lias been so gen¬ 
 erally applauded by the town, and received such 
 honors as were never before given to any in an 
 English theater. 
 
 “ The audience would not permit Mrs. Oldfield 
 to go off the stage the first night till she had re¬ 
 peated it twice ; the secon^ night the noise of 
 encores was as loud as before, and she was again 
 obliged to speak it twice ; the third night it was 
 still called for a second time ; and, in short, con¬ 
 trary to all other epilogues, which are dropped 
 after the third representation of the play, this has 
 already been repeated nine times. 
 
 “I must own, I am the more surprised to find 
 this censure in opposition to the whole town,-in a 
 paper which has been hitherto famous for the can¬ 
 dor of its criticisms. 
 
 “ I can by no means allow your melancholy 
 correspondent, that the new epilogue is unnatural 
 because it is gay. If I had a mind to be learned, 
 I could tell him that the prologue and epilogue 
 were real parts of the ancient tragedy; but every 
 one knows, that, on the British stage, they are 
 distinct performances by themselves, pieces en¬ 
 tirely detached from the play, and no way essen¬ 
 tial to it. 
 
 “ The moment the play ends, Mrs. Oldfield is no 
 more Andromache, but Mrs. Oldfield ; and though 
 the poet had left Andromache stone-dead upon 
 the stage, as your ingenious correspondent phrases 
 it, Mrs. Oldfield might still have spoken a merry 
 epilogue. We have an instance of this in a tra¬ 
 gedy where there is not only a death, but a 
 martyrdom. St. Catharine was there personated 
 by Nell Gwynne; she lies stone dead upon the 
 stage, but, upon those gentlemen’s offering to 
 remove her body, whose business it is to carry 
 off the slain in our English tragedies, she breaks 
 out into that abrupt beginning, of what was very 
 ludicrous, but at the same time thought a very 
 good epilogue: 
 
 Hold! are you mad ? you damn’d confounded dog 
 I am to rise and speak the epilogue. 
 
 “ This diverting manner was always practiced 
 by Mr. Dryden, who, if he was not the best 
 writer of tragedies in his time, was allowed by 
 every one to have the happiest turn for a prologue 
 or an epilogue. The epilogues to Cleomenes, 
 Don Sebastian, The Duke of Guise, Aurengzebe, 
 and Love Triumphant, are all precedents of this 
 nature. 
 
 “ I might further justify this practice by that 
 excellent epilogue which was spoken, a few years 
 since, after the tragedy of Phaedra and Hippoly- 
 tus ;* with a great many others, in which the 
 
 * A tragedy by Mr. Edmund Neal, known by the name of 
 Smith, 8vo. 1707. Addison wrote a prologue to this play 
 when Italian operas were in vogue, to rally the vitated taste 
 of the town in preferring sound to sense. Prior wrote the 
 epilogue here mentioned. 
 
 authors have endeavored to make the audience 
 merry. If they have not all succeeded so well as 
 the writer of this, they have however shown that 
 it was not for want of good-will. 
 
 “ I must further observe that the gayety of it 
 may be still the more proper, as it is at the end 
 of a French play ; since every one knows that na¬ 
 tion, who are generally esteemed to have as polite 
 a taste as any in Europe, always close their tragic 
 entertainments with what they call a petite piece, 
 which is purposely designed to raise mirth, and 
 send away the audience well pleased. The same 
 person who has supported the chief character in 
 the tragedy very often plays the principal part in 
 the petite piece; so that I have myself seen, at 
 Paris, Orestes and Lubin acted the same night by 
 the same man. 
 
 “ Tragi-cornedy, indeed, you have yourself, in a 
 former speculation, found fault with very justly, 
 because it breaks the tide of the passions while 
 they are yet flowing; but this is nothing at all to 
 the present case, where they have had already 
 their full course. 
 
 “As the new epilogue is written conformably 
 to the practice of our best poets, so it is not such 
 a one, which, as the Duke of Buckingham says in 
 his Rehearsal, might serve for any other play; 
 but wholly rises out of the occurrences of the 
 piece it was composed for. 
 
 “ The only reason your mournful correspondent 
 gives against the facetious epilogue, as lie calls it, 
 is, that he has a mind to go home melancholy. I 
 wish the gentleman may not be more grave than 
 wise. For my own part, I must confess, I think 
 it very sufficient to have the anguish of a fictitious 
 iece remain upon me while it is representing; 
 ut I love to be sent home to bed in a good humor. 
 If Physibulus is, however, resolved to be incon¬ 
 solable, and not to have his tears dried up, he 
 need only continue his old custom, and, when he 
 has had his half-crown’s worth of sorrow, slink 
 out before the epilogue begins. 
 
 “It is pleasant enough to hear this tragical 
 genius complaining of the great mischief Andro¬ 
 mache had done him. What was that? Why, she 
 made him laugh. The poor gentleman’s suffer¬ 
 ings put me in mind of Harlequin’s case, who 
 was tickled to death. He tells us soon after, 
 through a small mistake of sorrow for rage, that 
 during the whole action he was so very sorry that 
 he thinks he could have attacked half a score of the 
 fiercest Mohocks in the excess of his grief. I can¬ 
 not but look upon it as a happy accident, that a man 
 who is so bloody-minded in his affliction was di¬ 
 verted from this fit of outrageous melancholy. The 
 valor of this gentleman in his distress brings to 
 one’s memory the Knight of the Sorrowful Counte¬ 
 nance, who lays about him at such an unmerciful 
 rate in an old romance. I shall readily grant him 
 that his soul, as he himself says, would have 
 made a very ridiculous figure, had it quitted the 
 body, and descended to the poetical shades, in 
 such an encounter. 
 
 “As to his conceit of tacking a tragic head with 
 a comic tail, in order to refresh the audience, it is 
 such a piece of jargon, that I don’t know what to 
 make of it. 
 
 “The elegant writer makes a very sudden tran¬ 
 sition from the play-house to the church, and from 
 thence to the gallows. 
 
 “As for what relates to the church, he is of opi¬ 
 nion that the epilogues have given occasion to 
 those merry jigs from the organ-loft, which have 
 dissipated those good thoughts and dispositions 
 he has found in himself, and the rest of the pew, 
 upon the singing of two staves culled out by the 
 judicious and diligent clerk. 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 TUESDAY, APRIL 1, 1712. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 423 
 
 "He fetches his next thought from Tyburn; and 
 seems very apprehensive lest there should happen 
 any innovations in the tragedies of his friend Paul 
 Lorrain. 
 
 "In the meantime. Sir, this gloomy writer, who 
 is so mightily scandalized at a gay epilogue after 
 a serious play, speaking of the fate of those un¬ 
 happy wretches who are condemned to suffer an 
 ignominious death by the justice of our laws, en¬ 
 deavors to make the reader merry on so improper 
 an occasion, by those poor burlesque expressions 
 of tragical dramas and monthly performances. 
 
 “I am, Sir, with great respect, 
 
 "Your most obedient, most humble Servant, 
 
 X. “ Philomedes.” 
 
 No. 342.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 2, 1712. 
 
 Justiciee partes sunt non violare homines; verecundiae non 
 
 offendere.—T ull. 
 
 Justice consists in doing no injury to men; decency, in giving 
 
 them no offense. 
 
 As regard to decency is a great rule of life in 
 general, but more especially to be oonsulted by 
 the female world, I cannot overlook the following 
 letter, which describes an egregious offender. 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 "I was this day looking over your papers ; and 
 reading in that of December the 6th, with great de¬ 
 light, the amiable grief of Asteria for the absence 
 of her husband, it threw me into a great deal of 
 reflection. I cannot say but this arose very much 
 from the circumstances of my own life, who am a 
 soldier, and expect every day to receive orders, 
 which will oblige me to leave behind me a wife 
 that is very dear to me, and that very deservedly. 
 She is at present, I am sure, no way below your 
 Asteria for conjugal affection: but I see the be¬ 
 havior of some women so little suited to the cir¬ 
 cumstance wherein my wife and I shall soon be, 
 that it is with a reluctance, I never knew before, I 
 am going to my duty. What puts me to present 
 pain is, the example of a young lady, whose story 
 you shall have as well as I can give it you. ‘Hor- 
 tensius, an officer of good rank in her Majesty’s 
 service, happened, in a certain part of England, 
 to be brought to a country gentleman’s house, 
 where he was received with that more than ordi¬ 
 nary welcome with which men of domestic lives 
 entertain such few soldiers whom a military life, 
 from the variety of adventures, has not rendered 
 overbearing, but humane, easy, and agreeable. 
 Hortensius stayed here some time, and had easy 
 access at all hours, as well as unavoidable conver¬ 
 sation at some parts of the day, with the beautiful 
 Sylvana, the gentleman’s daughter. People who 
 live in the cities are wonderfully struck with every 
 little country abode they see when they take the 
 air; and it is natural to fancy they could live in 
 every neat cottage (by which they pass) much 
 happier than in their present circumstances. The 
 turbulent way of life which Hortensius was used 
 to made him reflect with much satisfaction on all 
 the advantages of a sweet retreat one day; and 
 among the rest, you will think it not improbable 
 it might enter into his thought, that such a woman 
 as Sylvana would consummate the happiness. The 
 world is so debauched with mean considerations, 
 that Hortensius knew it would be received as an 
 act of generosity, if he asked for a woman of the 
 highest merit, without further questions, of a 
 parent who had nothing to add to her personal 
 qualifications. The wedding was celebrated at 
 her father’s house. When that was over, the 
 generous husband did not proportion his provision 
 
 for her to the circumstances of her fortune, but 
 considered his wife as his darling, his pride, 
 and his vanity; or, rather, that it was in the wo¬ 
 man lie had chosen that a man of sense could 
 show pride or vanity with an excuse, and there¬ 
 fore adorned her with rich habits and valuable 
 jewels. He did not, however, omit to admonish 
 her, that he did his very utmost in this; that it 
 was an ostentation he could not be guilty of but 
 to a woman he had so much pleasure in, desiring 
 her to consider it as such; and begged of her also 
 to take these matters rightly and believe the gems, 
 the gowns, the laces, would still become her better, 
 if her air and behavior was such, that it might 
 appear she dressed thus rather in compliance to 
 his humor that way, than out of any value she 
 herself had for the trifles. To this lesson, too 
 hard for a woman, Hortensius added, that she 
 must be sure to stay with her friends in the 
 country till his return. As soon as Hortensius 
 departed, Sylvana saw, in her looking-glass, that 
 the love he conceived for her was wholly owing 
 to the accident of seeing her; and she was con¬ 
 vinced it was only her misfortune the rest of man¬ 
 kind had not beheld her, or men of much greater 
 quality and merit had contended for one so gen¬ 
 teel, though bred in obscurity; so very witty, 
 though never acquainted with court or town. She 
 therefore resolved not to hide so much excellence 
 from the world; but, without any regard to the 
 absence of the most generous man alive, she is 
 now the gayest lady about this town, and has shut 
 out the thoughts of her husband, by a constant 
 retinue of the vainest young fellows this age has 
 produced; to entertain whom she squanders away 
 all Hortensius is able to support her with, though 
 that supply is purchased with no less difficulty 
 than the hazard of life.” 
 
 “Now, Mr. Spectator, would it not be a work 
 becoming your office, to treat this criminal as she 
 deserves? You should give it the severest reflec¬ 
 tions you can. You should tell women that they 
 are more accountable for behavior in absence, than 
 after death. The dead are not dishonored by 
 their levities; the living may return, and be laugh¬ 
 ed at by empty fops, who will not fail to turn 
 into ridicule the good man, who is so unreason¬ 
 able as to be still alive, and come and spoil good 
 company. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble Servant.” 
 
 All strictness of behavior is so unmercifully 
 laughed at in our age, that the other much worse 
 extreme is the more common folly. But let any 
 woman consider, which of the two offenses a hus¬ 
 band would the more easily forgive, that of being 
 less entertaining than she could to please com¬ 
 pany, or raising the desires of the whole room to 
 his disadvantage, and she will easily be able to 
 form her conduct. We have indeed carried wo¬ 
 men’s characters too much into public life, and 
 you shall see them now-a-days affect a sort of 
 fame: but I cannot help venturing to disoblige 
 them for their service, by telling them, that the 
 utmost of a woman’s character is contained in do¬ 
 mestic life; she is blamable or praiseworthy ac¬ 
 cording as her carriage affects the house of her 
 father or husband. All she has to do in this world 
 is contained within the duties of a daughter, a 
 sister, a wife, and a mother. All these may be 
 well performed, though a lady should not be the 
 very finest woman at an opera or an assembly. 
 They are likewise consistent with a moderate share 
 of wit, a plain dress, and a modest air. But 
 when the very brains of the sex are turned, and 
 they place their ambition on circumstances, whero- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 424 
 
 in to excel is no addition to what is truly com¬ 
 mendable; where can this end, but, as it frequently 
 does, in their placing all their industry, pleasure, 
 aud ambition, on things wich will naturally make 
 the gratifications of life last, at best, no longer 
 than youth and good fortune? When we consider 
 the least ill consequence, it can be no less than 
 looking on their own condition, as years advance, 
 with a disrelish of life, and falling into contempt 
 of their own persons, or being the derision of 
 others. But when they considered themselves as 
 they ought, no other than an additional part of 
 the species (for their own happiness and comfort, 
 as well as that of those for whom they were born), 
 their ambition to excel will be directed accord¬ 
 ingly; and they will in no part of their lives want 
 opportunities of being shining ornaments to their 
 fathers, husbands, brothers, or children.—T. 
 
 No. 343.] THURSDAY, APRIL 3, 1712. 
 
 -Errat, et illinc 
 
 Hue venit, hinc illuc, et quoslibet occupat artus 
 Spiritus; aeque feris humana in corpora transit, 
 
 Inque feras noster- Ovid, Metam. xv, 165. 
 
 -All things are but alter’d; nothing dies; 
 
 And here and there th’ unbodied spirit flies, 
 
 By time, or force, or sickness dispossess’d, 
 
 And lodges, where it lights, in man or beast. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Will Honeycomb, who loves to show upon oc¬ 
 casion all the little learning he has picked up, 
 told us yesterday at the club, that he thought there 
 might be a great deal said for the transmigration 
 of souls; and that the eastern parts of the world 
 believed in that doctrine to this day. “Sir Paul 
 Rycaut,” says he, “gives us an account of several 
 well-disposed Mahometans that purchase the free¬ 
 dom of any little bird they see confined to a cage, 
 and think they merit as much by it as we should 
 do here by ransoming any of our countrymen 
 from their captivity at Algiers. You must know,” 
 says Will, “ the reason is, because they consider 
 every animal as a brother or sister in disguise; 
 and therefore think themselves obliged to extend 
 their charity to them though under such mean 
 circumstances. They’ll tell you,” says Will, 
 “that the soul of a man, when he dies, im¬ 
 mediately passes into the body of another man, or 
 of some brute, which he resembled in his humor, 
 or his fortune, when he was one of us.” 
 
 As I was wondering what this profusion of 
 learning would end in, Will told us, that “ Jack 
 Freelove, who was a fellow of whim, made love 
 to one of those ladies who throw away all their 
 fondness on parrots, monkeys, and lap-dogs. 
 Upon going to pay her a visit one morning, he 
 wrote a very pretty epistle upon this hint. Jack,” 
 says he, “was conducted into the parlor, where 
 he diverted himself for some time with her favor¬ 
 ite monkey, which w'as chained in one of the 
 windows: till at length observing a pen and ink 
 lie by him, he wrote the following letter to his 
 mistress in the person of the monkey; and, upon 
 her not coming down so soon as he expected, left 
 it in the wundow, and went about his business. 
 
 “ The lady soon after coming into the parlor, 
 and seeing her monkey look upon a paper with 
 great earnestness, took it up, and to this day is in 
 some doubt,” says Will, “whether it was written 
 by Jack or the monkey.” 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ Not having the gift of speech, I have a long 
 time waited in vain for an opportunity of making 
 myself known to you: and having at present the 
 
 conveniences of pen, ink, and paper, by me, I 
 gladly take the occasion of giving you my history 
 in writing, which I could not do by word of mouth. 
 You must know, Madam, that about a thousand 
 years ago I was an Indian brachman, and versed 
 m all those mysterious secrets which your Euro- 
 
 E ean philosopher, called Pythagoras, is said to 
 ave learned from our fraternity. I had so ingra¬ 
 tiated myself by my great skill in the occult 
 sciences, with a demon whom I conversed with, 
 that he promised to grant me whatever I should 
 ask of him. I desired that my soul might never 
 ass into the body of a brute creature; but this, 
 e told me, was not in his power to grant me. I 
 then begged that, into whatever creature I should 
 chance to transmigrate, I might still retain my 
 memory, and be conscious that I was the sai^e 
 person who lived in different animals. This, he 
 told me, was within his power, and accordingly 
 promised, on the word of a demon, that he would 
 grant me what I desired. From that time forth I 
 lived so very unblamably, that I was made presi¬ 
 dent of a college of brachmans, an office which I 
 discharged with great integrity till the day of my 
 death. 
 
 “ I was then shuffled into another human body, 
 and acted my part so well in it, that I became 
 first minister to a prince who reigned upon the 
 banks of the Ganges. I here lived in great honor 
 for several years, but by degrees lost ail the inno¬ 
 cence of the brachman, being obliged to rifle and 
 oppress the people to enrich my sovereign ; till at 
 length I became so odious, that my master, to re¬ 
 cover his credit with his subjects, shot me through 
 the heart with an arrow, as I was one day address¬ 
 ing myself to him at the head of his army. 
 
 “Upon my next remove, I found myself in the 
 woods under the shape of a jackal, and soon listed 
 myself in the service of a lion. I used to yelp 
 near his den about midnight, which was his time 
 of rousing and seeking after his prey. He always 
 followed me in the rear, and when I had run 
 down a fat buck, a wild goat, or a hare, after he 
 had feasted very plentifully upon it himself, would 
 now and then throw me a bone that was but half- 
 icked, for my encouragement; but upon my 
 eing unsuccessful in two or three chases, he gave 
 me such a confounded gripe in his anger, that I 
 died of it. 
 
 “In my next transmigration I was again set 
 upon two legs, and became an Indian tax-gatherer: 
 but having been guilty of great extravagances, and 
 being married to an expensive jade of a wife, I ran 
 so cursedly into debt, that I durst not show my 
 head. I could no sooner step out of my house 
 but I was arrested by somebody or other that lay 
 in wait for me. As I ventured abroad one night 
 in the dusk of the evening, I was taken up and 
 hurried into a dungeon, where I died a few months 
 after. 
 
 “ My soul then entered into a flying-fish, and 
 in that state led a most melancholy life for the 
 space of six years. Several fishes of prey pur¬ 
 sued me when I was in the water; and if I be¬ 
 took myself to my wings, it was ten to one but I 
 had a flock of birds aiming at me. As I was one 
 day flying amidst a fleet of English ships, I ob¬ 
 served a huge sea-gull whetting his bill, and 
 hovering just over my head : upon my dipping 
 into the water to avoid him, I fell into the mouth 
 of a monstrous shark, that swallowed me down 
 in an instant. 
 
 “ I was some years afterward, to my great sur¬ 
 prise, an eminent banker in Lombard-street; and 
 remembering how I had formerly suffered for want 
 of money, became so very sordid and avaricious, 
 that the whole town cried shame of me. I was a 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 miserable little old fellow to look upon; for I had 
 in a manner starved myself, and was nothing but 
 skin and bone when I died. 
 
 “I was afterward very much troubled and 
 amazed to find myself dwindled into an emmet. 
 I was heartily concerned to make so insignificant 
 a figure, and I did not know but some time or 
 other I might be reduced to a mite, if I did not 
 mend my manners. I therefore applied myself 
 with great diligence to the offices that were allot¬ 
 ted to me, and was generally looked upon as the 
 notablest ant in the whole mole-hill. I was at 
 last picked up, as I was groaning under a burden, 
 by an unlucky cock-sparrow, that lived in the 
 neighborhood, and had before made great depre¬ 
 dations upon our commonwealth. 
 
 “ I then bettered my condition a little, and lived 
 a whole summer in the shape of a bee; but being 
 tired with the painful and penurious life I had un¬ 
 dergone in my two last transmigrations, I fell into 
 the other extreme, and turned drone. As I one 
 day headed a party to plunder a hive, we were re¬ 
 ceived so warmly by the swarm which defended 
 it, that 'we were most of us left dead upon the 
 spot. 
 
 “I might tell you of many other transmigra¬ 
 tions which I went through; how 1 was a town- 
 rake, and afterward did penance in a bay geldino- 
 for ten years; as also how ] was a tailor, a shrimp! 
 and a tom-tit. In the last of these my shapes, I 
 was shot in the Christmas holidays by a young- 
 jackanapes, who W'ould needs try his new gun 
 upon me. 
 
 “ Put I shall pass over these and several other 
 stages of life, to remind you of the young beau 
 who made love to you about six years since. You 
 may remember. Madam, how he masked, and 
 danced, and sung, and played a thousand tricks 
 to gain you; and how he was at last carried off 
 by a cold that he got under your window one night 
 in a serenade. I was that unfortunate young fellow 
 to whom you were then so cruel. Not long after 
 my shifting that unlucky body, I found myself 
 upon a hill in Ethiopia, where I lived in my pre¬ 
 sent grotesque shape, till I was caught by a ser¬ 
 vant of the English factory, and sent over into 
 Great Britain. I need not inform you how I came 
 into your hands. You see, Madam, this is not the 
 first time that you have had me in a chain : I am, 
 however, very happy in this my captivity, as you 
 often bestow on me those kisses and caresses 
 which I would have given the world for when I 
 was a man. I hope tin's discovery of ruy person 
 will not tend to my disadvantage, but that you 
 will still continue your accustomed favors to 
 “ Tour most devoted, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Pugg.” 
 
 “P. S. I would advise your little shock-dog to 
 keep out of my way; for, as I look upon him to 
 be the most formidable of my rivals, I may 
 chance one time or other to give him such a snap 
 as he won’t like.”—L. 
 
 • 
 
 No. 344.] FRIDAY, APRIL 4, 1712. 
 
 -In solo vivendi causa palato est. 
 
 Juv., Sat. xi, 11. 
 
 Such, whose sole bliss is eating; who can give 
 But that one brutal reason why they live? 
 
 Congreve. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 I think it lias not yet fallen into your way to 
 discourse on little ambition, or the many whimsi¬ 
 cal ways men fall into, to distinguish themselves 
 
 425 
 
 among their acquaintance. Such observations, 
 well pursued, would make a pretty history of low 
 life. I myself am got into a great reputation, 
 v men arose (as most extraordinary occurrences in 
 a man s life seem to do) from a mere accident. I 
 was some days ago unfortunately engaged among 
 a set ol gentlemen, who esteemed a man according 
 to the quantity of food he throws down at a meal. 
 Now I, who am ever for distinguishing myself 
 according to the notions of superiority which the 
 rest of the company entertain, ate so immoderately 
 tor their applause, as had like to have cost me my 
 liie. What added to my misfortune was, that 
 having naturally a good stomach, and having 
 lived soberly for some time, my body was as well 
 prepared for this contention as if it had been by 
 appointment. I had quickly vanquished every 
 glutton in the company but one, who was such a 
 piodigy in his way, and withal so very merry 
 during the whole entertainment, that he insensi- 
 Pv betrayed me to continue his competitor, which 
 in a little time concluded in a complete victory 
 over my rival; after which, by way of insult, I ate 
 a considerable proportion beyond what the spec¬ 
 tators thought me obliged in honor to do. The 
 effect, however, of this engagement, has made me 
 resolve never to eat more for renown; and I have, 
 pursuant to this resolution, compounded three 
 wagers I had depending on the strength of my 
 stomach; which happened very luckily, because 
 it was stipulated in our articles either to play or 
 pay. How a man of common sense could be thus 
 engaged is hard to determine: but the occasion 
 of this is, to desire you to iijform several gluttons 
 of my acquaintance, who look on me with envy, 
 that they had best moderate their ambition in 
 time, lest infamy or death attend their success. 
 I forgot to tell you. Sir, with what unspeakable 
 pleasure I received the acclamations of the whole 
 board, W'lien I had almost eat my antagonist into 
 convulsions. It was then that I returned his 
 mirth upon him with such success, as he was 
 hardly able to swallow, though prompted by a 
 desire of fame, and a passionate fondness for dis¬ 
 tinction. I had not endeavored to excel so far, 
 had not the company been so loud in their appro¬ 
 bation of my victory. I do not question but the 
 same thirst after glory has often caused a man to 
 drink quarts Avithout taking breath, and prompted 
 men to many other as difficult enterprises ; which, 
 if otherwise pursued, might turn very much to a 
 man’s advantage. This ambition of mine was 
 indeed extravagantly pursued ; however, I can¬ 
 not help observing, that you hardly ever see a 
 man commended for a good stomach, but he im¬ 
 mediately falls to eating more (though he had 
 before dined), as well to confirm the person that 
 commended him in his good opinion of him, as 
 to convince any other at the table who may have 
 been inattentive enough not to have done justice 
 to his character. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Epicure Mammon.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I have Avritten to you three or four times, to 
 desire you AA ould take notice of an impertinent 
 custom the women, the fine women, have lately 
 fallen into, of taking snuff. This silly trick is 
 attended Avith such a coquette air in some ladies, 
 such a. sedate masculine one in others, that I can¬ 
 not tell Avhich most to complain of; but they are 
 to me equally disagreeable. Mrs. Saunter is so 
 impatient of being Avithout it, that she takes it as 
 often as she does salt at meals : and as she affects 
 a wonderful ease and negligence in all her man- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 426 
 
 ner, an upper lip mixed with snuff and the sauce 
 is what is presented to the observation of all who 
 have the honor to eat with her. The pretty crea¬ 
 ture her niece does all she can to be as disagree¬ 
 able as her aunt; and if she is not as offensive to 
 the eye, she is quite as much to the ear, and 
 makes up all she wants in a confident air, by a 
 nauseous rattle of the nose, when the snuff is de¬ 
 livered, and the fingers make the stops and closes 
 on the nostrils. This, perhaps, is not a very 
 courtly image in speaking of ladies; that is very 
 true: but where arises the offense ? Is it in those 
 who commit, or those who observe it? As for 
 my part, I have been so extremely disgusted with 
 this filthy physic hanging on the lip, that the 
 most agreeable conversation, or person, has not 
 been able to make up for it. As to those who take 
 it for no other end but to give themselves occasion 
 for pretty action, or to fill up little intervals of 
 discourse, I can bear with them; but then they 
 must not use it when another is speaking, who 
 ought to be heard with too much respect to admit 
 of offering at that time from hand to hand the 
 snuff-box. But Flavilla is so far taken with her 
 behavior in this kind, that she pulls out her box 
 (which is indeed full of good Brazil) in the mid¬ 
 dle of the sermon; and, to show she has the auda¬ 
 city of a well-bred woman, she offers it to the 
 men as well as the women who sit near her: but 
 since by this time all the world knows she has a 
 fine hand, I am in hopes she may give herself no 
 further trouble in this matter. On Sunday was 
 seven-night when they came about for the offer¬ 
 ing, she gave her charity with a very good air, but 
 at the same time asked the churchwarden if he 
 would take a pinch. Pray, Sir, think on these 
 things in time, and you will oblige, 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 T. “Your most humble Servant.” 
 
 No. 345.] SATURDAY, APRIL 5, 1712. 
 
 Sanctius his animal, mentisque capaeius altae 
 Deerat adhuc, et quod dominari in caetera posset, 
 
 Nat us homo est-. Ovid, Metarn. i, 76. 
 
 A creature of a more exalted kind 
 
 Was wanting yet, and then was man design’d; 
 
 Conscious of thought, of more capacious breast, 
 
 For empire form’d and fit to rule the rest.— Dryden. 
 
 The accounts which Raphael gives of the battle 
 of angels, and the creation of the world have in 
 them those qualifications which the critics judge 
 requisite to an episode. They are nearly related 
 to the principal action, and have a just connection 
 with the fable. 
 
 The eighth book opens with a beautiful descrip¬ 
 tion of the impression which this discourse of the 
 archangel made on our first parents. Adam after¬ 
 ward, by a very natural curiosity, inquires con¬ 
 cerning the motions of those celestial bodies 
 which make the most glorious appearance among 
 the six days’ works. The poet here, with a great 
 deal of art, represents Eve, as withdrawing from 
 this part of their conversation, to amusements 
 more suitable to her sex. He well knew that the 
 episode in this book, which is filled with Adam’s 
 account of his passion and esteem for Eve, would 
 heve been improper for her hearing, and has there¬ 
 fore devised very just and beautiful reasons for 
 her retiring. 
 
 So spake our sire, and by his countenance seem’d 
 Ent’ring on studious thoughts abstruse; which Eve 
 Perceiving, where she sat retir'd in sight, 
 
 With lowliness majestic from her seat, 
 
 And grace that won who saw to wish her stay, 
 
 Rose; and went forth among her fruits and flowers; 
 
 To visit how they prosper’d, bud and bloom, 
 
 Her nursery: they at her coming sprung, 
 
 And, touch’d by her fair tenance, gladlier grew. 
 
 Yet went she not, as not with such discourse 
 
 Delighted, or not capable her ear 
 
 Of what was high: such pleasure she reserv’d, 
 
 Adam relating, she sole auditress: 
 
 Her husband the relater she preferr’d 
 
 Before the angel, and of him to ask 
 
 Chose rather; he, she knew, would intermix 
 
 Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute 
 
 With conjugal caresses: from his lip 
 
 Not words alone pleas’d her. 0 when meet now 
 
 Such pairs, in love and mutual honor join’d! 
 
 The angel’s returning a doubtful answer to 
 Adam’s inquiries was not only proper for the 
 moral reason which the poet assigns, but because 
 it would have been highly absurd to have given 
 the sanction of an archangel to any particular sys¬ 
 tem of philosophy. The chief points in the 
 Ptolemaic and Copernican hypotheses are de¬ 
 scribed with great conciseness and perspicuity, 
 and at the same time dressed in very pleasing and 
 poetical images. 
 
 Adam, to detain the angel, enters afterward upon 
 his own history, and relates to him the circum¬ 
 stances in which he found himself upon his crea¬ 
 tion ; as also his conversation with his Maker, 
 and his first meeting with Eve. There is no part 
 of the poem more apt to raise the attention of the 
 reader than this discourse of our great ancestor; 
 as nothing can be more surprising and delightful 
 to us, than to hear the sentiments that arose in 
 the first man, while he was yet new and fresh 
 from the hands of his Creator. The poet has in¬ 
 terwoven everything which is delivered upon this 
 subject in holy writ with so many beautiful ima¬ 
 ginations of his own, that nothing can be con¬ 
 ceived more just and natural than this whole 
 episode. As our author knew this subject could 
 not but be agreeable to his reader, he would not 
 throw it into the relation of his six days’ works, 
 but reserved it for a distinct episode, that he 
 might have an opportunity of expatiating upon 
 it more at large. Before I enter on this part of 
 the poem, I cannot but take notice of two shining 
 passages in the dialogue between Adam ana 
 the angel. The first is that wherein our ancestor 
 gives an account of the pleasure he took in con¬ 
 versing with him, which contains a very noble 
 moral:— 
 
 For while I sit with thee I seem in heav’n, 
 
 And sweeter thy discourse is to my ear 
 Than fruits of palm-trees (pleasantest to thirst 
 And hunger both, from labor) at the hour 
 Of sweet repast; they satiate, and soon fill, 
 
 Though pleasant; but thy words, with grace divine 
 Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety. 
 
 The other I shall mention is that in which the 
 angel gives a reason why he should be glad to hear 
 the story Adam was about to relate: 
 
 For I that day was absent, as befell, 
 
 Bound on a voyage uncouth and obscure, 
 
 Far on excursion toward the gates of hell. 
 
 Squar’d in full legion (such command we had) 
 
 To see that none thence issued forth a spy, 
 
 Or enemy, while God was in his work, 
 
 Lest he incens’d at such eruption bold, 
 
 Destruction with creation might have mix’d. 
 
 There is no question but our poet drew the image 
 in what follows from that in Virgil’s sixth book, 
 where yEneas and the Sibyl stand before the ada¬ 
 mantine gates, which are there described as shut 
 upon theplace of torments, and listen to the groans, 
 the clank of chains, and the noise of iron whips, 
 that were heard in those regions of pain and 
 sorrow. 
 
 -Fast, we found, fast shut, 
 
 The dismal gates, and barricado’d strong; 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Rut long ere our approaching, heard within 
 Noise, other than the sound of dance or song, 
 Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage. 
 
 Adam then proceeds to give an account of his 
 condition and sentiments immediately after his 
 creation. How agreeably does he represent the 
 posture in which he found himself, the beautiful 
 landscapes that surrounded him, and the gladness 
 of heart which grew up in him on that occasion! 
 
 -As new wak’d from soundest sleep, 
 
 Soft on the flow’ry herb I found me laid 
 In balmy sweat, which with his beams the sun 
 Soon dry’d, and on the reeking moisture fed. 
 
 Straight toward heaven my wond’ring eyes I turn’d, 
 And gaz’d awhile the ample sky; till rais’d 
 By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung, 
 
 As thitherward endeavoring, and upright 
 Stood on my feet. About me round I saw 
 Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains, 
 
 And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these, 
 Creatures that liv’d and mov’d, and walk’d, or flew, 
 Birds on the branches warbling; all things smil’d 
 With fragrance, and with joy my heart o’erflow’d. 
 
 Adam is afterward described as surprised at his 
 own existence, and taking a survey of himself and 
 of all the works of nature. He likewise is repre¬ 
 sented as discovering, by the light of reason, that 
 he, and everything about him, must have been 
 the effect of some Being infinitely good and pow¬ 
 erful, and that this Being had a right to his wor¬ 
 ship and adoration. His first address to the Sun, 
 and to those parts of the creation which made the 
 most distinguished figure, is very natural and 
 amusing to the imagination : 
 
 “ Thou Sun,” said I, “ fair light, 
 
 And thou enlighten’d earth, so fresh and gay, 
 
 Ye hills, and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains, 
 
 And ye that live and move, fair creatures, tell, 
 
 Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here?” 
 
 His next sentiment, when upon his first going 
 to sleep he fancies himself losing his existence, 
 and falling away into nothing, can never be suffi¬ 
 ciently admired. His dream, in which he still 
 preserves the consciousness of his existence, 
 together with his removal into the garden which 
 was prepared for his reception, are also circum¬ 
 stances finely imagined, and grounded upon what 
 is delivered in sacred story. 
 
 These and the like wonderful incidents in this 
 part of the work, have in them all the beauties of 
 novelty, at the same time that they have all the 
 graces of nature. 
 
 They are such as none but a great genius could 
 have thought of; though, upon the perusal of them, 
 they seem to rise of themselves from the subject 
 of which he treats. In a word, though they are 
 natural, they are not obvious; which is the true 
 character of all fine writing. 
 
 The impression which the interdiction of the 
 tree of life left in the mind of our first parent is 
 described with great strength and judgment ; as 
 the image of the several beasts and birds passing 
 in review before him is very beautiful and lively : 
 
 -Each bird and beast behold 
 
 Approaching two and two, these cow'ring low 
 ith blandishment; each bird 6toop’d on his wing; 
 
 I nam’d them as they pass’d.- 
 
 Adam, in the next place, describes a conference 
 which he held with his Maker upon the subject of 
 solitude. The poet here represents the Supreme 
 Being as making an essay of his own work, and put¬ 
 ting to the trial that reasoning faculty with which 
 he had indued his creature. Adam urges, in this 
 divine colloquy, the impossibility of his being 
 happy though lie was the inhabitant of Paradise, 
 and lord of the whole creation, without the con¬ 
 versation and society of some rational creature who 
 
 427 
 
 should partake those blessings with him. This 
 dialogue, which is supported chiefly by the beauty 
 of the thoughts, without other poetical ornaments, 
 is as fine a part as any in the whole poem. The 
 more the reader examines the justness and delicacy 
 of its sentiments, the more he will find himself 
 pleased with it. The poet has wonderfully pre¬ 
 served the character of majesty and condescension 
 in the Creator, and, at the same time, that of 
 humility and adoration in the creature, as particu¬ 
 larly in the following lines : 
 
 Thus I presumptuous; and the vision bright, 
 
 As with a smile more brighten’d, thus replied, etc. 
 
 -1 with leave of speech implor’d, 
 
 And humble deprecation, thus replied: 
 
 “ Let not my words offend thee, Heavenly Power, 
 
 My Maker, be propitious while I speak,” etc. 
 
 Adam then proceeds to give an account of 
 his second sleep, and of the dream in which he 
 beheld the formation of Eve. The new passion 
 that was awakened in him at the sight of her is 
 touched very finely: 
 
 Under his forming hands a creature grew, 
 
 Manlike, but diff ’rent sex: so lovely fair, 
 
 That what seem’d fair in all the world, seem’d no 
 Mean, or in her 6umm’d up, in her contain’d. 
 
 And in her looks, which from that time infus’d 
 Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before; 
 
 And into all things from her air inspir’d 
 The spirit of love and amorous delight. 
 
 Adam’s distress upon losing sight of this beau¬ 
 tiful phantom, with his exclamations of joy*and 
 gratitude at the discovery of a real creature who 
 resembled the apparition which had been presen¬ 
 ted to him in his dream ; the approaches he makes 
 to her, and his manner of courtship, are all laid 
 together in a most exquisite propriety of senti¬ 
 ments. 
 
 Though this part of the poem is worked up with 
 great warmth and spirit, the love which is describ¬ 
 ed in it is every way suitable to a state of inno¬ 
 cence. If the reader compares the description 
 which Adam here gives of his leading Eve to the 
 nuptial bower, with that which Mr. Dryden has 
 made on the same occasion in a scene of his Fall 
 of Man, he will be sensible of the great care which 
 Milton took to avoid all thoughts on so delicate a 
 subject that might be offensive to religion or good 
 manners. The sentiments are chaste, but not 
 cold; and convey to the mind ideas of the most 
 transporting passion, and of the greatest purity. 
 What a noble mixture of rapture and innocence 
 has the author joined together, in the reflection 
 which Adam makes on the pleasures of love, com¬ 
 pared to those of sense! 
 
 Thus have I told thee all my state, and brought 
 My story to the sum of earthly.bliss 
 Which I enjoy; and must confess to find 
 In all things else delight indeed, but such 
 As us’d or not, works in the mind no change, 
 
 Nor vehement desire; these delicacies 
 I mean of taste, sight, smell, herbs, fruits, and flowers. 
 Walks, and the melody of birds; but here 
 Far otherwise, transported I behold, 
 
 Transported touch; here passion first I felt, 
 
 Commotion strange! in all enjoyments else 
 Superior and unmov’d, here only weak 
 Against the charm of beauty’s powerful glance. 
 
 Or nature fail’d in me, and left some part 
 Not proof enough such object to sustain ; 
 
 Or from my side subducting, took perhaps 
 More than enough; at least on her bestow’d 
 Too much of ornament, in outward show 
 Elaborate, of inward less exact. 
 
 -—When I approach 
 
 Her loveliness, so absolute she seems, 
 
 And in herself complete, so well to know 
 Her own, that what she wills to do or say, 
 
 Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best; 
 
 All higher knowledge in her presence falls 
 Degraded: wisdom in discourse with her 
 Loses discountenanc’d, and like folly shows: 
 
428 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Authority and reason on her wait, 
 
 As one intended first, not after made 
 Occasionally; and, to consummate all, 
 
 Greatness of mind and nobleness their seat 
 Build in her loveliest, and create an awe 
 About her, as a guard angelic plac'd. 
 
 These sentiments of love in our first parent 
 gave the angel such an insight into human nature, 
 that he seems apprehensive of the evils which 
 might befall the species in general, as well as Adam 
 in particular, from the excess of this passion. He 
 therefore fortifies him against it by timely admoni¬ 
 tions; which very artfully prepare the mind of the 
 reader for the occurrences of the next book, where 
 the weakness, of which Adam here gives such dis¬ 
 tant discoveries, brings about that fatal event 
 which is the subject of the poem. His discourse, 
 which follows the gentle rebuke he received from 
 the angel, shows that his love, however violent it 
 might appear, was still founded in reason, and 
 cotisequently not improper for Paradise: 
 
 Neither her outside form’d so fair, nor aught 
 In procreation common to all kinds 
 (Though higher of the genial bed by far, 
 
 And with mysterious reverence I deem), 
 
 So much delights me, as those graceful acts, 
 
 Those thousand decencies that daily flow 
 From all her words and actions, mixt with love 
 And sweet compliance, which declare unfeign’d 
 Union of mind, or in us both one soul; 
 
 Harmony to behold in .vedded pair. 
 
 Adam’s speech, at parting with the angel, has 
 in it a deference and gratitude agreeable to an 
 inferior nature, and at the same time a certain dig¬ 
 nity and greatness suitable to the father of man¬ 
 kind in his state of innocence. 
 
 L. 
 
 No. 346.] MONDAY, APRIL 7, 1712. 
 
 Consuetudinem benignitatis largitioni munerum longe ante- 
 peno. HcCC est gravium hominum atque magnorum; ilia 
 quasi assentatorum populi, multitudinis levitatem volup- 
 tate quasi titillantium.— Tull. 
 
 I esteem a habit of benignity greatly preferable to munifi¬ 
 cence. The former is peculiar to great and distinguished 
 persons; the latter belongs to flatterers of the people, who 
 tickle the levity of the multitude with a kind of pleasure. 
 
 When we consider the offices of human life, 
 there is, methinks, something in what we ordi¬ 
 narily call generosity, which, when carefully ex¬ 
 amined, seems to flow rather from a loose and 
 unguarded temper than an honest and liberal 
 mind. For this reason, it is absolutely necessary 
 that all liberality should have for its basis and 
 support, frugality. By this means the beneficent 
 spirit works in a man from the convictions of 
 reason, not from the impulses of passion. The 
 generous man in the ordinary acceptation, without 
 respect of the demands of his own family, will 
 soon find upon the foot of his account, that he has 
 sacrificed to fools, knaves, flatterers, or the de¬ 
 servedly unhappy, all the opportunities of afford¬ 
 ing any future assistance where it ought to be. 
 Let him therefore reflect, that if to bestow be in 
 itself laudable, should not a man take care to 
 secure an ability to do things praiseworthy as long 
 as he lives? Or could there be a more cruel piece 
 of raillery upon a man who should have reduced 
 his fortune below the capacity of acting according 
 to his natural temper, than to say of him, “ That 
 gentleman was generous?” My beloved author 
 therefore has, in the sentence on the top of my 
 paper, turned his eye with a certain satiety from 
 beholding the addresses to the people by largesses 
 and other entertainments, which he asserts to be 
 in general vicious, and are always to be regulated 
 according to the circumstances of time and a man’s 
 
 own fortune. A constant benignity in commerce 
 with the rest of the world, which ought to run 
 through all a man’s actions, has effects more useful 
 to those whom you oblige, and is less ostentatious 
 in yourself. He turns his recommendation of this 
 virtue on commercial life: and, according to him, 
 a citizen who is frank in his kindnesses, and ab¬ 
 hors severity in his demands; he who, in buying, 
 selling, lending, doing acts of good neighborhood, 
 is just and easy; he who appears naturally averse 
 to disputes, and above the sense of little sufferings; 
 bears a noble character, and does much more good 
 to mankind than any other man’s fortune, without 
 commerce, can possibly support. For the citizen, 
 above all other men, has opportunities of arriving 
 at “that highest fruit of wealth,” to be liberal 
 without the least expense of a man’s own fortune. 
 
 It is not to be denied but such a practice is liable 
 to hazard; but this therefore adds to the obligation, 
 that, among traders, he who obliges is as much 
 concerned to keep the favor a secret as he who re¬ 
 ceives it. The unhappy distinctions among us 
 in England are so great, that to celebrate the inter¬ 
 course of commercial friendship (with which I am 
 daily made acquainted) would be to raise the vir¬ 
 tuous man so many enemies of the contrary party. 
 
 I am obliged to conceal all I know of “ Tom the 
 Bounteous,” who lends at the ordinary interest, 
 to give men of less fortune opportunities of making 
 greater advantages. He conceals, under a rough 
 air and distant behavior, a bleeding compassion 
 and womanish tenderness. This is governed by 
 the most exact circumspection, that there is no 
 industry wanting in the person whom he is to 
 serve, and that he is guilty of no improper ex¬ 
 penses. This I know of Tom ; but who dare say 
 it of so known a tory? The same care I was 
 forced to use some time ago, in the report of an¬ 
 other’s virtue, and said fifty instead of a hundred, 
 because the man I pointed at was a whig. Actions 
 of this kind are popular without being invidious: 
 for every man of ordinary circumstances looks 
 upon a man who has this known benignity in 
 his nature as a person ready to be his friend upon 1 
 such terms as he ought to expect it; and the 
 wealthy, who may envy such a character, can do 
 no injury to its interests, but by the imitation of 
 it, in which the good citizens will rejoice to be 
 rivaled. I know not how to form to myself a 
 greater idea of human life, than in what is the 
 practice of some wealthy men whom I could 
 name, that make no step to the improvement of 
 their own fortunes, wherein they do not also ad¬ 
 vance those of other men, who would languish in 
 poverty without that munificence. In a nation 
 where there are so many public funds to be sup¬ 
 ported, I know not whether he can be called a 
 good subject who does not embark some part of 
 his fortune with the state, to whose vigilance he 
 owes the security of the whole. This certainly is 
 an immediate way of laying an obligation upon 
 many, and extending your benignity the furthest 
 a man can possibly who is not engaged in com¬ 
 merce. But he who trades, beside giving the 
 state some part of this sort of credit he gives his 
 banker, may, in all occurrences of life, have his 
 eye upon removing want from the door of the 
 industrious, and defending the unhappy upright 
 man from bankruptcy. Without this benignity, 
 pride or vengeance will precipitate a man to choose 
 J the receipt of half his demands from one whom 
 he has undone, rather than the whole from one to 
 whom he has shown mercy. This benignity is 
 essential to the character of a fair trader, and any 
 man who designs to enjoy his wealth with honor 
 and self-satisfaction: nay, it would not be hard 
 I to maintain, that the practice of supporting good 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 429 
 
 and industrious men -would earry a man further 
 even to his profit than indulging the propensity 
 of serving and obliging the fortunate. My author 
 argues on this subject, in order to incline men’s 
 minds to those who want them most, after this 
 manner: “We must always consider the nature of 
 things, and govern ourselves accordingly. The 
 wealthy man, when he has repaid you, is upon a 
 balance with you ; but the person whom you 
 favored with a loan, if he be a good man, will 
 think himself in your debt after he has paid you. 
 The wealthy and the conspicuous are not oblig¬ 
 ed by the benefits you do them : they think 
 they conferred a benefit when they received one. 
 Your good offices are always suspected, and it is 
 with them the same thing to expect their favor as 
 to receive it. But the man below you, who knows, 
 in the good you have done him, you respected 
 himself more than his circumstances, does not act 
 like an obliged man only to him from whom he 
 has received a benefit, but also to all who are capa¬ 
 ble of doing him one. And whatever little office 
 he can do for you, he is so far from magnifying it 
 that he will labor to extenuate it in all his actions 
 and expressions. Moreover, the regard to what 
 you do to a great man at best is taken notice of 
 no further than by himself or his family; but what 
 you do to a man of a humble fortune (provided 
 always that he is a good and a modest man) raises 
 the affections toward you of all men of that char¬ 
 acter (of which there are many) in the whole 
 city.” 
 
 There is nothing gains a reputation to a preacher 
 so much as his own practice; I am therefore cast¬ 
 ing about what act of benignity is in the power of 
 a Spectator. Alas! that lies but in a very narrow 
 compass : and I think the most immediately under 
 my patronage are either players, or such whose 
 circumstances bear an affinity with theirs. All, 
 therefore, I am able to do at this time of this kind! 
 is to tell the town, that on Friday the 11th of this 
 instant, April, there will be performed, in York- 
 buildings, a concert of vocal and instrumental 
 music, for the benefit of Mr. Edward Keen, the 
 father of twenty children; and that this day the 
 haughty George Powell hopes all the good-na¬ 
 tured part of the town will favor him, whom they 
 applauded in Alexander, Timon, Lear, and Ores¬ 
 tes, with their company this night, when he 
 hazards all his heroic glory for their approba¬ 
 tion in the humbler condition of honest Jack 
 Falstaff. 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 347.] TUESDAY, APRIL 8, 1712. 
 
 Quia furor, 0 cives! quae tanta licentia ferri! 
 
 Lucan., lib. i, 8. 
 
 What blind, detested fury, could afford 
 
 Such horrid license to the barb'rous sword! 
 
 I no not question but my country readers have 
 been very much surprised at the several accounts 
 they have met with in our public papers, of that 
 species of men among us, lately known by the 
 name of Mohocks. 1 find the opinions of the 
 learned, as to their origin and designs, are alto¬ 
 gether various, insomuch that very many begin to 
 doubt whether indeed there were ever any such so¬ 
 ciety of men. The terror which spread itself over 
 the whole nation some years since on account of 
 the Irish is still fresh in most people’s memories, 
 though it afterward appeared there was not the 
 least ground for that general consternation. 
 
 The late panic fear was, in the opinion of 
 many deep and penetrating persons, of the same 
 nature. These will have it, that the Mohocks are 
 
 like those specters and apparitions which frighten 
 several towns and villages in her majesty’s domin¬ 
 ions, though they were never seen by any of the 
 inhabitants. Others are apt to think that these 
 Mohocks are a kind of bull-beggars, first invented 
 by prudent married men, and masters of families, 
 in order to deter their wives and daughters from 
 taking the air at unseasonable hours; and that 
 when Jhey tell them the “ Mohocks will catch 
 them, it is a caution of the same nature with that 
 of our forefathers, when they bid their children 
 have a care of Raw-head and Bloody-bones. 
 
 For my own part, I am afraid there was too 
 much reason for the great alarm the whole citv 
 has been in upon this occasion; though at the 
 same time I must own, that I am in some doubt 
 whether the following pieces are genuine and au¬ 
 thentic; and the more so, because I am not fully 
 satisfied that the name, by which the emperor 
 subscribes himself, is altogether conformable to 
 the Indian orthography. 
 
 I shall only further inform my readers, that it 
 was some time since I received the following let¬ 
 ter and manifesto, though, for particular reasons, 
 I did not think fit to publish them till now. 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “Finding that our earnest endeavors for the 
 good of mankind have been basely and malicious¬ 
 ly represented to the world, we send you inclosed 
 our imperial manifesto, which it is our will and 
 pleasure that you forthwith communicate to the 
 public, by inserting it in your next daily paper. 
 We do not doubt of your ready compliance in this 
 particular, and therefore bid you heartily farewell. 
 
 (Signed) 
 
 “ Taw Waw Eben Zan Kaladar, 
 
 “ Emperor of the Mohocks.” 
 
 The Manifesto of Taw Waw Eben Zan Kaladar , 
 Emperor of the Mohocks. 
 
 “ Whereas we have received information, from 
 sundry quarters of this great and populous city, 
 of several outrages committed on the legs, arms, 
 noses, and other parts of the good people of Eng- 
 , land, by such as have styled themselves our sub¬ 
 jects; in order to vindicate our imperial dignity 
 from those false aspersions which have been cast 
 on it, as if we ourselves might have encouraged 
 or abetted any such practices, we have, by these 
 presents, thought fit to signify our utmost abhor¬ 
 rence and detestation of all such tumultuous and 
 irregular proceedings; and do hereby further give 
 notice, that if any person or persons has or have 
 suffered any wound, hurt, damage, or detriment, 
 in his or their limb or limbs, otherwise than shall 
 be hereafter specified, the said person or persons, 
 upon applying themselves to such as we shall ap¬ 
 point for the inspection and redress of the griev¬ 
 ances aforesaid, shall be forthwith committed to 
 the care of our principal surgeon, and be cured at 
 our own expense, in some one or other of those 
 hospitals which we are now erecting for that pur¬ 
 pose. 
 
 “ And to the end that no one may, either through 
 ignorance or inadvertency, incur those penalties 
 which we have thought fit to inflict on persons of 
 loose and dissolute lives, we do hereby notify to 
 the public, that if any man be knocked down or 
 assaulted while he is employed in his lawful 
 business, at proper hours, that it is not done by 
 our order; and we do hereby permit and allow 
 any such person, so knocked down or assaulted, 
 to rise again, and defend himself in the best man¬ 
 ner that he is able. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 430 
 
 “We do also command all and every our good 
 subjects, that they do not presume, upon any pre¬ 
 text whatsoever, to issue and sally forth from their 
 respective quarters till between the hours of eleven 
 ana twelve. That they never tip the lion upon 
 man, woman, or child, till the clock at St. Dun- 
 stan’s shall have struck one. 
 
 “That the sweat be never given but between 
 the hours of one and two; always provided, that 
 our hunters may begin to hunt a little after the 
 close of the evening, anything to the contrary 
 herein notwithstanding. Provided also, that if 
 ever they are reduced to the necessity of pinking, 
 it shall always be in the most fleshy parts, and 
 such as are least exposed to view. 
 
 “ It is also our imperial will and pleasure, that 
 our good subjects the sweaters do establish their 
 huminums in such close places, alleys, nooks, and 
 corners, that the patient or patients may not be in 
 danger of catching cold. 
 
 “That the tumblers, to whose care we chiefly 
 commit the female sex, confine themselves to 
 Drury-lane, and the purlieus of the Temple; and 
 that *every other party and division of our sub¬ 
 jects do each of them keep within the respective 
 quarters we have allotted to them. Provided, 
 nevertheless, that nothing herein contained shall 
 in anywise be construed to extend to the hunters, 
 who have our full license and permission to enter 
 into any part of the town wherever their game 
 shall lead them. 
 
 “ And whereas we have nothing more at our 
 imperial heart than the reformation of the cities 
 of London and Westminster, which to our un¬ 
 speakable satisfaction we have in some measure 
 already effected, we do hereby earnestly pray and 
 exhort all husbands, fathers, housekeepers, and 
 masters of families, in either of the aforesaid 
 cities, not only to repair themselves to their re¬ 
 spective habitations at early and seasonable hours, 
 but also to keep their wives and daughters, sons, 
 servants, and apprentices, from appearing in the 
 streets at those times and seasons which may ex- 
 ose them to military discipline, as it is practiced 
 y our good subjects the Mohocks; and we do 
 further promise on our imperial word, that as soon 
 as the reformation aforesaid shall be brought 
 about, we will forthwith cause all hostilities to 
 cease. 
 
 “ Given from our court at the Devil-tavern, 
 X. “ March 15, 1712.” 
 
 No. 348.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 9, 1712. 
 
 Invidiam placcre paras, virtute rclicta? 
 
 IIok. 2 Sat. iii, 13. 
 
 To shun detraction, wouldst thou virtue fly ? 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have not seen you lately at any of the places 
 where I visit, so that I am afraid you are wholly 
 unacquainted with what passes among my part of 
 the world, who are, though 1 say it, without con¬ 
 troversy, the most accomplished and best bred of 
 the town. Give me leave to tell you, that I am 
 extremely discomposed when I hear scandal, and 
 am an utter enemy to all manner of detraction, 
 and think it the greatest meanness that people of 
 distinction can be guilty of. However, it is hardly 
 possible to come into company where you do not 
 find them pulling one another to pieces, and that 
 from no other provocation but that of hearing any 
 one commended. Merit, both as to wit and beauty, 
 is become no other than the possession of a few 
 trifling people’s favor, which you cannot possibly 
 arrive at, if you have really anything in you that 
 
 is deserving. What they would bring to pass is, 
 to make all good and evil consist in report, and 
 with whispers, calumnies, and impertinences, to 
 have the conduct of those reports. by this means, 
 innocents are blasted upon their first appearance 
 in town; and there is nothing more required to 
 make a young woman the object of envy and ha¬ 
 tred, than to deserve love and admiration. This 
 abominable endeavor to suppress or lessen every¬ 
 thing that is praiseworthy is as frequent among 
 the men as the women. If I can remember what 
 passed at a visit last night, it will serve as an in-, 
 stance that the sexes are equally inclined to defa¬ 
 mation, with equal malice and impotence. Jack 
 Triplett came into my Lady Airy’s about eight 
 of the clock. You k#ow the manner we sit at a 
 visit, and I need not describe the circle; but Mr. 
 Triplett came in, introduced by two tapers sup¬ 
 ported by a spruce servant, whose hair is under a 
 cap till my lady’s candles are all lighted up, and 
 the hour of ceremony begins; I say Jack ’Triplett 
 came in, and singing (for he is really good com¬ 
 pany) ‘Every feature, charming creature’-he 
 
 went on, ‘ It is a most unreasonable thing, that 
 people cannot go peaceably to see their friends, 
 but these murderers are let loose. Such a shape! 
 such an air ! what a glance was that as her chariot 
 passed by mine!’-—My lady herself interrupted 
 him; ‘ Pray, who is this fine thing ?’—‘ I warrant/ 
 says another, ‘ ’tis the creature I was telling your 
 ladyship of just now.’—‘You were telling of?’ 
 says Jack; ‘I wish I had been so happy as to 
 have come in and heard you; for I have not words 
 to say what she is; but if an agreeable height, a 
 modest air, a virgin shame, and impatience of 
 being beheld amid ablaze of ten thousand charms’ 
 
 -The whole room flew out-‘ Oh, Mr. 
 
 Triplett!’-When Mrs. Lofty, a known prude, 
 
 said she knew whom the gentleman meant; but 
 she was indeed, as he civilly represented her, im¬ 
 patient of being beheld-Then turning to the 
 
 lady next to her-‘ The most unbred creature 
 
 you ever saw!’ Another pursued the discourse: 
 ‘As unbred, madam, as you may think her, she is 
 extremely belied if she is the novice she appears; 
 she was last week at a ball till two in the morn¬ 
 ing; Mr. Triplett knows whether he was the happy 
 
 man that took care of her home; but’-This was 
 
 followed by some particular exception that each 
 woman in the room made to some peculiar grace 
 or advantage; so that Mr. Triplett was beaten 
 from one limb and feature to another, till he was 
 forced to resign the whole woman. In the end, I 
 took notice Triplett recorded all this malice in his 
 heart; and saw in his countenance, and a certain 
 waggish shrug, that he designed to repeat the con¬ 
 versation : I therefore let the discourse die, and 
 soon after took an occasion to recommend a cer¬ 
 tain gentleman of my acquaintance for a person 
 of singular modesty, courage, integrity, and 
 withal as a man of an entertaining conversation, to 
 which advantages he had a shape and manner pe¬ 
 culiarly graceful. Mr. Triplett, who is a woman’s 
 man, seemed to hear me with patience enough 
 commend the qualities of his mind. He never 
 heard, indeed, but that he was a very honest man, 
 and no fool; but for a finer gentleman, he must 
 ask pardon. Upon no other foundation than this, 
 Mr. Triplett took occasion to give the gentleman’s 
 pedigree, by what methods some part of the es¬ 
 tate was acquired, how much it was beholden to a 
 marriage for the present circumstances of it: after 
 all, he could see nothing but a comman man in 
 his person, his breeding, or understanding. 
 
 “Thus, Mr. Spectator, this impertinent humor 
 of diminishing every one who is produced in con¬ 
 versation to their advantage, runs through the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 world, and T am, I confess, so fearful of the force 
 of ill tongues, that I have begged of all those 
 who are ray well-wishers never to commend 
 me, for it will but bring my frailties into exami- 
 nation, and I had rather be unobserved, than con- 
 spicuous for disputed perfections. I am confident 
 a thousand young people, who would have been 
 ornaments to society, have, from fear of scandal, 
 never dared to exert themselves in the polite arts 
 of life. 1 heir lives have passed away in an odious 
 rusticity, in spite of great advantages of person, 
 genius, and fortune. There is a vicious terror of 
 benig blamed in some well-inclined people, and a 
 wicked pleasure in suppressing them in others ; 
 both which I recommend to your spectatorial 
 wisdom to animadvert upon; and if you can be 
 successful in it, I need not say how much you will 
 deserve of the town ; but new toasts will owe to 
 you their beauty, and new wits their fame. 
 
 “I am. Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 “Mary.” 
 
 431 
 
 Ho. 349.] THURSDAY, APRIL 10, 1712. 
 
 -Quos ille timorum 
 
 Maximus baud urget, lethi metus: inde ruendi 
 In ferrum mens prona viris, animffiaue capaces 
 Mortis - Lucan., i, 454. 
 
 Thrice happy they beneath their northern skies, 
 
 Who that worst fear, the fear of death despise! 
 
 Hence they no cares for this frail being feel 
 But rush undaunted on the pointed steel, ’ 
 
 Provoke approaching fate, and bravely scorn 
 To spare that life which must so soon return. 
 
 , Rowe. 
 
 i AM r ™ uc h Phased with a consolatory 
 letter of Phalaris,* to one who had lost a son that 
 was a young man of great merit. The thought 
 with which he comforts the afflicted father is, to 
 the best of my memory, as follows That he 
 should consider deatli had set a kind of seal upon 
 his son’s character, and placed him out of the 
 reach of vice and infamy: that, while he lived he 
 was still within the possibility of falling away 
 from virtue, and losing the fame of which he was 
 possessed. Death only closes a man’s reputation 
 and determines it as good or bad. 
 
 “ This, among other motives, maybe one reason 
 why we are naturally averse to the launching out 
 into a man’s praise till his head is laid in the dust. 
 While he is capable of changing, we may be 
 forced to retract our opinions. He may forfeit the 
 esteem we have conceived of him, and some time 
 or other appear to us under a different light from 
 what he does at present. In short, as the life of 
 any man cannot be called happy or unhappy, so 
 neither can it be pronounced vicious or virtuous 
 before the conclusion of it. 
 
 It was upon this consideration that Epaminon- 
 das, being asked whether Chabrias, Iphicrates, or 
 he himself, deserved most to be esteemed? “ You 
 must first see us die,” saith he, “before that 
 question can be answered.” 
 
 As there is not a rpore melancholy considera¬ 
 tion to a good man than his being obnoxious to 
 such a change, so there is nothing more glorious 
 than to keep up a uniformity in his actions, and 
 preseive the beauty of his character to the last. 
 
 i he end of a man’s life is often compared to 
 the winding up of a well-written play, where the 
 principal persons still act in character, whatever 
 the fate isjvhich they undergo. There is scarce a 
 
 *Tho reader hardly needs to be told, that the authenticity 
 of the epistles of Plialaris has been suspected, and is susnf- 
 
 wto wrote * 00d > il “ of "»»«» 
 
 great person in the Grecian or Roman history 
 whose death has not been remarked upon by some 
 writer or other, and censured or applauded ac¬ 
 cording to the genius or principles of the person 
 who has descanted on it. Monsieur do St. Evre- 
 mond is very particular in setting forth the con¬ 
 stancy and courage of Petronius Arbiter during his 
 last moments, and thinks he discovers in them a 
 greater firmness of mind and resolution than in the 
 death of Seneca, Cato, or Socrates. There is no q ues- 
 tion but this polite author’s affectation of appear- 
 ing singular in his remarks, and making discover- 
 ies which had escaped the observations of others, 
 threw him into this course of reflection. It was Pe- 
 tionius s merit that he died in the same gayety of 
 temper in which he lived: but as his life was alto- 
 getlier loose and dissolute, the indifference which he 
 showed at the close of it is to be looked upon as a 
 piece of natural carelessness and levity, rather than 
 loititude. The resolution of Socrates proceeded 
 from very different motives, the consciousness of a 
 well-spent life, and the prospectof ahappy eternity. 
 It the ingenious author above-mentioned was so 
 pleased with gayety of humor in a dying man, he 
 might have found a much nobler instance of it in 
 our countryman Sir Thomas More. 
 
 This great and learned man was famous for 
 enlivening his ordinary discourses with wit and 
 pleasantry; and as Erasmus tells him, in an 
 epistle dedicatory, acted in all parts of life like a 
 second Democritus. 
 
 He died upon a point of religion, and is re¬ 
 spected as a martyr by that side for which he suf¬ 
 fered. That innocent mirth, which had been so 
 conspicuous in his life, did not forsake him to the 
 last. He maintained the same cheerfulness of 
 neait upon the scaffold which he used to show at 
 his table; and upon laying his head on the block, 
 gave instances of that good humor with which he 
 had always entertained his friends in the most 
 ordinary occurrences. His death was of a piece 
 with his life. There was nothing in it new, forced, 
 or affected. He did not look upon the severing his 
 head from his body as a circumstance that ought 
 to produce any change in the disposition of his 
 mind; and as he died under a fixed and settled 
 hope of immortality, he thought any unusual de¬ 
 gree of sorrow and concern improper on such an 
 occasion, as he had nothing in it which could 
 deject or terrify him. 
 
 There is no great danger of imitation from this 
 example. Men s natural fears will be sufficient 
 guard against it. I shall only observe, that 
 what was philosophy in this extraordinary man 
 would be frenzy in one who does not resemble him 
 as well in the cheerfulness of his temper as in the 
 sanctity of his life and manners. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with the instance of 
 a person who seems to me to have shown more in¬ 
 trepidity and greatness of soul in his dyino- mo- 
 merits than what we meet with among any of the 
 most celebrated Greeks and Romans. I met with 
 this instance in the History of the Revolutions in 
 Portugal, written by the Abbot de Vertot. 
 
 When Don Sebastian, king of Portugal, had in¬ 
 vaded the territories of Muli Moluc, emperor of 
 Morocco, in order to dethrone him, and set the 
 crown upon the head of his nephew, Moluc was 
 wearing away with a distemper which he himself 
 knew was incurable. However, he prepared for 
 the reception of so formidable an enemy. He was, 
 indeed, so far spent with his sickness, that he did 
 not expect to live out the whole day, when the 
 last decisive battle was given ; but, knowing the 
 fatal consequences that would happen to his child¬ 
 ren and people, in case lie should die before ho 
 put an end to that war, he commanded his princi 
 
432 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 pal officers, that if he died during the engagement, 
 they should conceal his death from the army, and 
 that they should ride up to the litter in which liis 
 corpse was carried, under the pretense of receiv¬ 
 ing orders from him as usual. Before the battle 
 began, he was carried through all the ranks of his 
 army in an open litter, as they stood drawn up in 
 array, encouraging them to fight valiantly in de¬ 
 fense of their religion and country. Finding after¬ 
 ward the battle to go against him, though he was 
 very near his last agonies, he threw himself out 
 of his litter, rallied his army, and led them on to 
 the charge; which afterward ended in a complete 
 victory on the side of the Moors. He had no 
 sooner brought his men to the engagement, but 
 finding himself utterly spent, he was again re¬ 
 placed in his litter, where, laying his finger on 
 his mouth, to enjoin secrecy to his officers who 
 stood about him, he died a few moments after in 
 that posture.—L. 
 
 No. 350.] FRIDAY, APRIL 11, 1712. 
 
 Ea animi elatio quae cernitur in periculis, si justitia vacal pug- 
 natque pro suis commodis, in vitio est.— Tull. 
 
 That elevation of mind which is displayed in dangers, if it 
 wants justice, and fights for its own conveniency, is 
 vicious. 
 
 Captain Sentry was last night at the club, and 
 produced a letter from Ipswich, which liis corre¬ 
 spondent desired him to communicate to his friend 
 the Spectator. It contained an account of an en¬ 
 gagement between a French privateer, commanded 
 by one Dominick Pottiere, and a little vessel of 
 that place laden with corn, the master wffiereof, as 
 I remember was one Goodwin. The Englishman 
 defended himself with incredible bravery, and beat 
 off the French, after having been boarded three or 
 four times. The enemy still came on with greater 
 fury, and hoped by his number of men to carry 
 the prize; till at last the Englishman, finding him¬ 
 self sink apace, and ready to perish, struck ; but 
 the effect which this singular gallantry had upon 
 the captain of the privateer was no other than an 
 unmanly desire of vengeance for the loss he had 
 sustained in his several attacks. Fie told the Ips¬ 
 wich man in a speaking-trumpet, that he would 
 not take him aboard, and that he stayed to see 
 him sink. The Englishman at the same time ob¬ 
 served a disorder in the vessel, which he rightly 
 judged to proceed from the disdain which the 
 ship’s crew had of their captain’s inhumanity. 
 With this hope he went into his boat, and ap¬ 
 proached the enemy. He was taken in by the 
 sailors in spite of their commander: but, though 
 they received him against his command, they 
 treated him, when he was in the ship, in the manner 
 he directed. Pottiere caused his men to hold 
 Goodwin, while he beat him with a stick, till he 
 fainted with loss of blood and rage of heart; after 
 which he ordered him into irons, without allow¬ 
 ing him any food, but such as one or two of the 
 men stole to him under peril of the like usage: 
 and having kept him several days overwhelmed 
 with the misery of stench, hunger, and soreness, 
 he brought him into Calais. The governor of the 
 place was soon acquainted with all that had 
 passed, dismissed Pottiere from his charge with 
 ignominy, and gave Goodwin all the relief which 
 a man of honor would bestow upon an enemy 
 barbarously treated, to recover the imputation of 
 cruelty upon his prince and country. 
 
 When Mr. Sentry had read his letter, full of 
 many other circumstances which aggravate the 
 barbarity, he fell into a sort of criticism upon mag¬ 
 nanimity and courage, and argued that they were 
 
 inseparable; and that courage, without regard to 
 justice and humanity, was no other than the fierce¬ 
 ness of a wild beast. “A good and truly bold 
 spirit,” continued he, “ is ever actuated by reason, 
 and a sense of honor and duty. The affectation of 
 such a spirit exerts itself in an impudent aspect, 
 an overbearing confidence, and a certain negli¬ 
 gence of giving offense. This is visible in all the 
 cocking youths you see about this town, who are 
 noisy in assemblies, unawed by the presence of 
 wise and virtuous men ; in a word, insensible of 
 all the honors and decencies of human life. - A 
 shameless fellow takes advantage of merit clothed 
 with modesty and magnanimity, and, in the eyes 
 of little people, appears sprightly and agreeable: 
 while the man of resolution and true gallantry is 
 overlooked and disregarded, if not despised. 
 There is a propriety in all things; and I believe 
 what you scholars call just and sublime, in oppo¬ 
 sition to turgid and bombast expression, may give 
 you an idea of what I mean, when I say modesty 
 is the certain indication of a great spirit, and im¬ 
 pudence the affectation of it. He that writes with 
 judgment, and never rises into improper warmths, 
 manifests the true force of genius; in like manner, 
 he who is quiet and equal in all his behavior is 
 supported in that deportment by what we may 
 call true courage. Alas! it is not so easy a thing 
 to be a brave man as the unthinking part of man¬ 
 kind imagine. To dare is not all that there is in 
 it. The privateer we were just now talking of 
 had boldness enough to attack his enemy, but not 
 greatness of mind enough to admire the same 
 quality exerted by that enemy in defending him¬ 
 self. Thus his base and little mind was wholly 
 taken up in the sordid regard to the prize of which 
 he failed, and the damage done to his own vessel; 
 and therefore he used an honest man, who defend¬ 
 ed his own from him, in the manner as he would 
 a thief that should rob him. 
 
 “He was equally disappointed, and had not 
 spirit enough to consider, that one case would be 
 laudable, and the other criminal. Malice, rancor, 
 hatred, vengeance, are what tear the breasts of 
 mean men in fight; but fame, glory, conquests, de¬ 
 sires of opportunities to pardon and oblige their op- 
 posers, are what glow in the minds of the gallant.” 
 The captain ended his discourse with a specimen 
 of his book-learning; and gave us to understand 
 that he had read a French author on the subject 
 of justness in point of gallantry. “ I love,” said 
 Mr. Sentry, “ a critic who mixes the rules of life 
 with annotations upon writers. My author,” 
 added he, “ in his discourse upon epic poetry, 
 takes occasion to speak of the same quality of 
 courage drawn in the two different characters of 
 Turn us and iEneas. He makes courage the chief 
 and greatest ornament of Turnus; but in HUneas 
 are many others which outshine it; among the 
 rest, that of piety. Turnus is, therefore, all along 
 painted by the poet full of ostentation, his lan¬ 
 guage haughty and vain-glorious, as placing his 
 honor in the manifestation of his valor: AKneas 
 speaks little, is slow to action, and shows only a 
 sort of defensive courage. If equipage and ad¬ 
 dress make Turnus appear more courageous than 
 HCneas, conduct and success prove .dEneas more 
 valiant than Turnus.”—T. 
 
 No. 351.] SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 1712. 
 
 In tc omnis domus inclinata reoumbit. 
 
 Virg. iEN., xii, 59. 
 
 On tliee the fortunes of our house depond. 
 
 If we look into the three great heroie poems 
 which have appeared in the world, we may 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 observe that thev are built upon very slight founda¬ 
 tions. Homer lived near 300 years after the Tro¬ 
 jan war; and, as the writing of history Avas not 
 then in use among the Greeks, we may very well 
 suppose that the tradition of Achilles and Ulysses 
 had brought down but very few particulars to his 
 knowledge ; though there is no question but he 
 has wrought into his two poems such of their 
 remarkable adventures as were still talked of 
 among his cotemporaries. 
 
 The story of AEneas, on which Virgil founded 
 his poem, was likewise very bare of circum¬ 
 stances, and by that means afforded him an oppor¬ 
 tunity of embellishing it with fiction, and giving 
 a full range to his oAvn invention. We find, how¬ 
 ever, that he has interwoven, in the course of his 
 fable, the principal particulars, which were gene¬ 
 rally believed among the Romans, of HEneas’s 
 voyage and settlement in Italy. 
 
 The reader may find an abridgement of the 
 whole story, as collected out of the ancient his¬ 
 torians, and as it was received among the Romans, 
 in Dionysius Halicarnassus. 
 
 Since none of the critics have considered Virgil’s 
 fable with relation to this history of HEneas, it 
 may not, perhaps, be amiss to examine it in this 
 light, so far as regards my present purpose. 
 Whoever looks into the abridgement above-men¬ 
 tioned, will find that the character of HEneas is 
 filled with piety to the gods, and a superstitious 
 observation of prodigies, oracles, and predictions. 
 Virgil has not only preserved his character in the 
 person of HEneas, but has given a place in his 
 poem to those particular prophesies which he 
 found recorded of him in history and tradition. 
 The poet took the matters of fact as they came 
 down to him, and circumstanced them after his 
 own manner, to make them appear the more na¬ 
 tural, agreeable, or surprising. I believe very 
 many readers have been shocked at that ludicrous 
 prophesy which one of the harpies pronounces to 
 
 433 
 
 whole HEneid, and has given offense to several 
 critics, may be accounted for the same way. 
 V irgil himself, before he begins that relation, pre¬ 
 mises, that what he was going to tell appeared 
 incredible, but that it was justified by tradition. 
 What fuitlier confirms me that this change of the 
 ^ e V. WaS a . ce ^ e b r ated circumstance in the history 
 of HEneas, is, that Ovid has given a place to the 
 same metamorphosis in his account of the hea¬ 
 then mythology. 
 
 None of the critics I have met with have con- 
 sideied the fable of the HEneid in this light, and 
 taken notice how the tradition on which it was 
 founded authorizes those parts in it which appear 
 the most exceptionable. I hope the length of this 
 reflection will not make it unacceptable to the 
 curious part of my readers. 
 
 The history which was the basis of Milton’s 
 poem is still shorter than either that of the Iliacl 
 or HEneid. The poet has likewise taken care to 
 insert eveiy circumstance of it in the body of his 
 fable, . I he ninth book, which we are here to con¬ 
 sider, is raised upon that brief account in Scrip¬ 
 ture, wherein we are told that the serpent was 
 more subtile than any beast of the field ; that he 
 tempted the woman to eat of the forbidden fruit; 
 that she was overcome by this temptation, and 
 that Adam follwed her example. From these few 
 paiticulars, Milton has formed one of the most 
 entertaining fables that invention ever produced. 
 He has disposed of these several circumstances 
 among so many beautiful and natural fictions of 
 his own, that his whole story looks like a com¬ 
 ment upon sacred writ, or rather seems to be a 
 full and complete relation of what the other is 
 only in epitome. I have insisted the longer on 
 this consideration, as I look upon the disposition 
 and contrivance of the fable to be the principal 
 beauty of the ninth book, which has more story 
 it, and is fuller of incidents, than any other in 
 
 in 
 
 fi -m •“ . ,, . . . ~ 7 ' r —-- the whole poem. Satan’s traversing the globe 
 
 fore lAjSLWS , 3 thin of ">8^ 
 
 fore they had built their intended city they should 
 be reduced by hunger to eat their very tables. 
 But, when they hear that this was one of the cir¬ 
 cumstances that had been transmitted to'the Ro¬ 
 mans in the history of HEneas, they will think the 
 poet did very well in taking notice of it. The 
 historian above-mentioned acquaints us, that a 
 prophetess had foretold ^Eneas, he should take 
 his voyage westward, till his companions should 
 eat their tables; and that accordingly, upon his 
 landing in Italy, as they were eating their flesh 
 upon cakes of bread for want of other conve¬ 
 niences, they afterward fed on the cakes them¬ 
 selves ; upon which one of the company said 
 merrily, “We are eating our tables,” They im¬ 
 mediately took the hint, says the historian, and 
 concluded the prophesy to be fulfilled. As Virgil 
 did not think it proper to omit so material a par¬ 
 ticular in the history of HEneas, it may be worth 
 ivhile to consider with how much judgment he has 
 qualified it, and taken off everything that might 
 lave ap'peared improper for a passage in a heroic 
 coem. The prophetess who foretells it is a hungry 
 aarpy, as the person who discovers it is young 
 ^.scanius. ® 
 
 Ileus etiam mensas consumimus! inquit lulus. 
 
 ■En., vii, 116. 
 
 See, we devour the plates on which we feed. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Such an observation, which is beautiful in the 
 nouth of a boy, would have been ridiculous from 
 my other of the company. I am apt to think 
 hat the changing of the Trojan fleet into water- 
 lyrnphs, which is the most violent machine in the 
 
 28 
 
 as fearing to be discovered by the angel of the 
 sun, who had before detected him, is one of those 
 beautiful imaginations with which he introduces 
 this his second series of adventures. Having 
 examined the nature of every creature, and found 
 out one which was the most proper for his pur¬ 
 pose, he again returns to Paradise; and, to avoid 
 discovery, sinks by night with a river that ran 
 under the garden, and rises up again through a 
 fountain that issued from it by the tree of life. 
 The poet, who, as we have before taken notice, 
 speaks as little as possible in his own person, 
 and, after the example of Homer, fills every part 
 of his work with manners and characters, intro¬ 
 duces a soliloquy of this infernal agent, who was 
 thus restless in the destruction of man. He is 
 then described as gliding through the garden, 
 under the resemblance of a mist, in order to find 
 out that creature in which he designed to tempt 
 our first parents. This description has something 
 in it very poetical and surprising : 
 
 So saying, through each thicket dank or dry, 
 
 Like a black mist low creeping, he held on 
 His midnight search, where soonest he might find 
 The serpent: him fast sleeping soon he found 
 In labyrinth of many a round self-roll’d, 
 
 His head the midst, well stor’d with subtile wiles. 
 
 The author afterward gives us a description of 
 the morning, which is wonderfully suitable to a 
 divine poem, and peculiar to that first season of 
 nature. He represents the earth, before it was 
 cursed, as a great altar breathing out its incense 
 from all parts, and sending up a pleasant savor 
 to the nostrils of its Creator; to which he adds a 
 noble idea of Adam and Eve, as offering their 
 
s 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 434 
 
 morning worship, and filling up the universal con¬ 
 cert of praise and adoration: 
 
 Now when a sacred light began to dawn 
 
 In Eden on the humid flowers, that breath’d 
 
 Their morning incense; when all things that breathe 
 
 From the earth’s great altar send up silent praise 
 
 To the Creator, and his nostrils fill 
 
 With grateful smell; forth came the human pair, 
 
 And join’d their vocal worship to their choir 
 Of creatures wanting voice- 
 
 The dispute which follows between our two first 
 parents is represented with great art. It proceeds 
 from a difference of judgment, not of passion, and 
 is managed with reason, not with heat. It is 
 Such a dispute as we may suppose might have 
 happened in Paradise, had men continued happy 
 and innocent. There is a great delicacy in the 
 moralities which are interspersed in Adam’s dis¬ 
 course, and which the most ordinary reader can¬ 
 not but take notice of. That force of love which 
 the father of mankind so finely describes in the 
 eighth book, and which is inserted in my last 
 Saturday’s paper, shows itself here in many fine 
 instances; as in those fond regards he casts to¬ 
 ward Eve at her parting from him; 
 
 Her loug with ardent look his eye pursu’d 
 Delighted, but desiring more her stay. 
 
 Oft he to her his charge of quick return 
 Repeated; she to him as oft engaged 
 To be return’d by noon amid the bow’r. 
 
 In his impatience and amusement during her 
 absence: 
 
 ♦ 
 
 ——-Adam the while, 
 
 Waiting desirous her return, had wove 
 Of choicest flow’rs a garland to adorn 
 Her tresses, and her rural labors crown, 
 
 As reapers oft are wont their rural queen. 
 
 Great joy he promis’d to his thoughts, and new 
 Solace, in her return, so long delay’d. 
 
 But particularly in that passionate speech, 
 where, seeing her irrecoverably lost, he resolves to 
 perish with her, rather than to live without her: 
 
 --Some cursed fraud 
 
 Of enemy hath beguil’d thee, yet unknown, 
 
 And me with thee hath ruin’d; for with thee 
 Certain my resolution is to die: 
 
 How can I live without thee ? How forego 
 Thy sweet converse and love so dearly join’d, 
 
 To live again in these wild woods forlorn? 
 
 Should God create another Eve, and I 
 Another rib afford, yet loss of thee 
 Would never from my heart; no, no! I feel 
 The link of nature draw me; flesh of flesh, 
 
 Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state 
 Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe! 
 
 The beginning of this speech, and the prepara¬ 
 tion to it, are animated with the same spirit as the 
 conclusion, which I have here quoted. 
 
 The several wiles which are put in practice by 
 the tempter, when he found Eve separated from 
 her husband, the many pleasing images of nature 
 which are intermixed in this part of the story, 
 with its gradual and regular progress to the fata 
 catastrophe, are so very remarkable, that it woulc 
 be superfluous to point out their respective beau¬ 
 ties. 
 
 I have avoided mentioning any particular simi¬ 
 litudes in my remarks on this great work, because 
 I have given a general account of them in my 
 paper on the first book. There is one, however, 
 in this part of the poem, which I shall here quote, 
 as it is not only very beautiful, but the closest of 
 any in the whole poem; I mean that where the 
 serpent is described as rolling forward in all his 
 pride, animated by the evil spirit, and conducting 
 Eve to her destruction, while Adam was at too 
 great a distance from her to give her his assist¬ 
 
 ance. These several particulars are all of them 
 wrought into the following similitude: 
 
 --Hope elevates, and joy 
 
 Brightens his crest; as when a wandering fire. 
 
 Compact of unctuous vapor, which the night 
 Condenses, and the cold environs round, 
 
 Kindled through agitation to a flame, 
 
 (Which oft, they say, some evil spirit attends) 
 
 Hovering and blazing with delusive light, 
 
 Misleads th’ amazed night wanderer from his way 
 To bogs and mires, and oft through pond or pool, 
 
 There swallow’d up and lost, from succor far. 
 
 The secret intoxication of pleasure, with all 
 those transient flushings of guilt and joy, which 
 die poet represents in our first parents upon eat¬ 
 ing the forbidden fruit, to those flaggings of spirit, 
 damps of sorrow, and mutual accusations which 
 succeed it, are conceived with a wonderful ima¬ 
 gination, and described in very natural senti¬ 
 ments. 
 
 When Dido, in the fourth ^Eneid, yielded to 
 that fatal temptation which ruined her, Virgil tells 
 us the earth trembled, the heavens were filled with 
 flashes of lightning, and the nymphs howled upon 
 die mountain tops. Milton, in the same poetical 
 spirit, has described all nature as disturbed upoD 
 Eve’s eating the forbidden fruit: 
 
 So saying, her rash hand in evil hour, 
 
 Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck’d, she ate: 
 
 Earth felt the wound, and Nature, from her seat 
 Sighing, through all her works gave signs of woe 
 That all was lost.- 
 
 Upon Adam’s falling into the same guilt, the 
 whole creation appears a second time in convul¬ 
 sions: 
 
 .-He scrupled not to eat 
 
 Against his better knowledge; not deceiv’d, 
 
 But fondly overcome with female charm. 
 
 Earth trembled from her entrails, as again 
 In oangs, and nature gave a second groan; 
 
 Sky low’r’d, and muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept at completing of the mortal sin. 
 
 As all nature suffered by the guilt of our first 
 parents, these symptoms of trouble and consterna¬ 
 tion are wonderfully imagined, not only as prodi¬ 
 gies, but as marks of her sympathizing in the fall 
 of man. 
 
 Adam’s converse with Eve, after having eaten 
 of the forbidden fruit, is an exact copy of that be¬ 
 tween Jupiter and Juno in the fourteenth Iliad. 
 Juno there approaches Jupiter with the girdle 
 which she had received from Venus; upon which 
 he tells her, that she appeared more charming and 
 desirable than she had ever done before, even 
 when their loves were at the highest. The poet 
 afterward describes them as reposing on a summit 
 of Mount Ida, which produced under them a bed 
 of flowers, the lotus, the crocus, and the hyacinth; 
 and concludes his description with their falling 
 asleep. 
 
 Let the reader compare this with the following 
 passage in Milton, which begins with Adam’s 
 speech to Eve: 
 
 For never did thy beauty since the day 
 I saw thee first and wedded thee, adorn’d 
 With all perfections, so inflame my sense 
 With ardor to enjoy thee, fairer now 
 Than ever, bounty of this virtuous tree. 
 
 So said he, and forbore not glance or toy 
 Of amorous intent, well understood 
 Of Eve, whose eye darted contagious fire. 
 
 Her hand he seized, and to a shady bank, 
 
 Thick overhead with verdant roof embower’d, 
 
 He led her nothing loth; flowers were the couch. 
 Pansies, and violets, and asphodel, 
 
 And hyacinth, Earth’s freshest softest lap. 
 
 There they their fill of love and love’s disport 
 Took largely, of their mutual guilt the seal, 
 
 The solace of their sin, till dewy sleep 
 Oppress’d them.-- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 As no poet seems to have ever studied Homer 
 more, or to have more resembled him in the great¬ 
 ness of genius, than Milton, I think I shouhfhave 
 given but a very imperfect account of his beauties, 
 it I had not observed t he most remarkable passages 
 'which look like parallels in these two great au¬ 
 thors. I might, in the course of these criticisms, 
 have taken notice of many particular lines and 
 expressions which are translated from the Greek 
 poet; but as I thought this would have appeared 
 too minute and over curious, I have purposely 
 omitted them. The greater incidents, however, 
 are not only set off by being shown in the same 
 light with several of the same nature in Homer, 
 but by that means may be also guarded against 
 
 435 
 
 the cavils of the tasteless or ignorant.—L. 
 
 No. 352.] MONDAY, APRIL 14, 1712. 
 
 ---Si ad honestatem nati sumus, ea aut sola expetenda 
 
 est, aut certe omni pondere gravior est habenda quain re- 
 liqua omnia.—T ull. 
 
 If wo be made for honesty, either it is solely to be sought, or 
 certainly to be estimated much more highly than all other 
 things. 
 
 Will Honeycomb was complaining to me yester¬ 
 day that the conversation of the town is so altered 
 of late years, that a fine gentleman is at a loss 
 for matter to start a discourse, as well as unable 
 to fall in with the talk he generally meets with. 
 Will takes notice, that there is now an evil under 
 the sun which he supposes to be entirely new, 
 because not mentioned by any satirist, or mor¬ 
 alist, in any age. “Men,” said he, “grow knaves 
 sooner than they ever did since the creation 
 of the world before.” If you read the tragedies 
 of the last age, you find the artful men, and per¬ 
 sons of intrigue, are advanced very far in years, 
 and beyond the pleasures and sallies of youth; 
 but now Will observes, that the young have taken 
 in the vices of the aged, and you shall have a man 
 of five-and-twenty, crafty, false and intriguing, 
 not ashamed to overreach, cozen, and be°-ui?e 
 My friend adds, that till about the latter end of 
 King Charles’s reign there was not a rascal of any 
 eminence under forty. In the places of resort for 
 conversation, you now hear nothing but what re¬ 
 lates to the improving men’s fortunes, without re¬ 
 gard to the methods toward it. This is so fashion¬ 
 able, that young men form themselves upon a 
 certain neglect of everything that is candid, 
 simple, and worthy of true esteem; and affect 
 being yet worse than they are, by acknowledging, 
 in their general turn of mind and discourse, that 
 they have not any remaining value for true honor 
 and honesty; preferring the capacity of being 
 artful to gain their ends, to the merit of despising 
 those ends when they come, in competiton with 
 their honesty. All this is due to the very silly 
 pride that generally prevails, of being valued for 
 the ability of carrying their point; in a word, from 
 the opinion that shallow and inexperienced people 
 entertain of the short-lived force of cunning. But 
 I shall, before I enter upon the various faces which 
 folly, covered with artifice, puts on to impose upon 
 the unthinking, produce a great authority for as¬ 
 serting, that nothing but truth and ingenuity* 
 has any lasting good effect, even upon a man’s 
 fortune and interest. 
 
 “Truth and reality have all the advantages of 
 appearance, and many more. If the show of any¬ 
 thing be good for anything, I am sure sincerity 
 is better; for why does any man dissemble, or 
 
 * Ingenuity seems to be here used for ingenuousness. 
 
 seem to be that which he is not, but because he 
 thinks it good to have such a quality as lie pre¬ 
 tends to? for to counterfeit and dissemble is to 
 put on the appearance of some real excellency. 
 JNlow the best way in the world for a man to seem 
 to be anything, is really to be what he would 
 seem to be. Beside, that it is many times as 
 loublesome to make good the pretense of a good 
 quality, as to have it; and if a man have it not, it 
 is ten to one but lie is discovered to want it, and 
 then ail his pains and labor to seem to have it is 
 lost. 1 here is something unnatural in painting, 
 v Inch a skillful eye will easily discern from native 
 beauty and complexion. 
 
 “It is hard to personate and act a part long- for 
 where truth is not at the bottom, nature will 
 always be endeavoring to return, and will peep 
 out and betray herself one time or other. There¬ 
 fore if any man think it convenient to seem good, 
 let him be so indeed, and then his goodness will 
 appear to everybody’s satisfaction; so that upon 
 all accounts sincerity is true wisdom. Particularly 
 as to the affairs of this world, integrity has many 
 advantages over all the fine and artificial ways of 
 dissimulation and deceit; it is much the plainer 
 and easier, much the safer and more secure way of 
 dealing in the world: it has less trouble and diffi¬ 
 culty, of entanglement and perplexity, of danger 
 and hazard in it; it is the shortest and nearest 
 way to our end, carrying us thither in a straight 
 line, and will hold out and last longest. The arts 
 of deceit and cunning do continually grow weaker 
 and less effectual and serviceable to them that use 
 them; whereas integrity gains strength by use, and 
 the more and longer any man practiceth it, the 
 greater service it does him, by confirming his re¬ 
 putation, and encouraging those with whom he 
 hath to do to repose the greatest trust and confi¬ 
 dence in him, which is an unspeakable advantage 
 in the business and affairs of life. 
 
 “Truth is always consistent with itself, and 
 needs nothing to help it out; it is always near at 
 hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop 
 out before we are aware; whereas a lie is trouble¬ 
 some, and sets a man’s invention upon the rack, 
 and one trick needs a great many more to make it 
 good. It is like a building upon a false founda¬ 
 tion, which constantly stands in need of props to 
 shore it up, and proves at last more chargeable ' 
 than to have raised a substantial building at first 
 upon a true and solid foundation; for sincerity is 
 firm and substantial, and there is nothing hollow 
 and unsound in it, and, because it is plain and 
 open, fears no discovery; of which the crafty man 
 is always in danger; and when he thinks he walks 
 in the dark, all his pretenses are so transparent, 
 that he that runs may read them; he is the last 
 man that finds himself to be found out; and while- 
 he takes it for granted that he makes fools of 
 others, he renders himself ridiculous. 
 
 “Add to all this, that sincerity is the most com¬ 
 pendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for 
 the speedy dispatch of business ; it creates confi¬ 
 dence in those we have to deal with, saves the 
 labor of many inquiries, and brings things to an 
 issue in few words. It is like traveling in a plain 
 beaten road, which commonly brings a man sooner 
 to his journey’s end than byways, in which men 
 often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever 
 convenience may be thought to be in falsehood 
 and dissimulation, it is soon over; but the incon¬ 
 venience of it is perpetual, because it brings a 
 man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, 
 so that he is not believed when he speaks 
 truth, nor trusted when perhaps he means honest¬ 
 ly* When a man has once forfeited the reputation 
 of his integrity, he is set fast; and nothing will 
 
136 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 then serve his turn, neither truth nor false- 
 
 " And I have often thought, that God hath, in 
 his great wisdom, hid from men of false and dis¬ 
 honest minds the wonderful advantages of truth 
 and integrity to the prosperity even of our world¬ 
 ly affairs : these men are so blinded by their cov¬ 
 etousness and ambition, that they cannot look be¬ 
 yond a present advantage, nor forbear to seize 
 upon it, though by ways never so indirect; they 
 cannot see so far as to the remote consequences of 
 a steady integrity, and the vast benefit and advan¬ 
 tages which it will bring a man at last. Were but 
 this sort of men wise and clear-sighted enough to 
 discern this, they would be honest out of very 
 knavery, not out of any love to honesty and vir¬ 
 tue, but with a crafty design to promote and ad¬ 
 vance more effectually their own interests; and 
 therefore the justice of the Divine Providence has 
 hid this truest point of wisdom from their eyes, 
 that bad men might not be on equal terms with 
 the just and upright, and serve their own wicked 
 designs by honest and lawful means. 
 
 “Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the 
 world for a day, and should never have occasion 
 to converse more with mankind, never more need 
 their opinion or good word, it were then no great 
 matter (speaking as to the concernments of this 
 world) if a man spent his reputation all at once, 
 and ventured it at one throw : but if he be to con¬ 
 tinue in the world, and would have the advantage 
 of conversation while he is in it, let him make 
 use of truth and sincerity in all his words and ac¬ 
 tions; for nothing but this will last and hold out 
 to the end; all other arts will fail, but truth and 
 integrity will carry a man through, and bear him 
 out to the last.”—T. 
 
 No. 353.] TUESDAY, APRIL 15, 1712. 
 
 In tenui labor—-- ViRG., Georg, iv, 6. 
 
 Though low the subject it deserves our pains. 
 
 The gentleman who obliges the world in gene¬ 
 ral, and me in particular, with his thoughts upon 
 education, has just sent me the following letter;— 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I take the liberty to send you a fourth letter 
 upon the education of youth. In my last I gave 
 you my thoughts upon some particular tasks, 
 which I conceived it might not be amiss to mix 
 with their usual exercises, in order to give them 
 an early seasoning of virtue; I shall in this pro¬ 
 pose some others, which I fancy might contribute 
 to give them a right turn for the world, and enable 
 them to make their way in it. 
 
 “ The design of learning is, as I take it, either 
 to render a man an agreeable companion to himself, 
 and teach him to support solitude with pleasure; 
 or, if he is not born to an estate, to supply that 
 defect, and furnish him with the means of acquir¬ 
 ing one. A person who applies himself to learn¬ 
 ing with the first of these views, may be said to 
 study for ornament; as he who proposes to him¬ 
 self the second, properly studies for use. The 
 one does it to raise himself a fortune; the other, 
 to set off that which he is already possessed of. 
 But as far the greater part of mankind are included 
 in the latter class, I shall only propose some 
 methods at present for the service of such who 
 expect to advance themselves by their learning. 
 In order to which I shall premise, that many more 
 estates have been acquired by little accomplish¬ 
 ments than by extraordinary ones; those qualities 
 which make the greatest figure in the eye of the 
 world, not being always the most useful in them¬ 
 selves, or the most advantageous to their owners. 
 
 “ The posts which require men of shining and 
 uncommon parts to discharge them are so very 
 few, that many a great genius goes out of the 
 world without ever having had an opportunity to 
 exert itself; whereas persons of ordinary endow¬ 
 ments meet with occasions fitted to their parts and 
 capacities every day in the common occurrences 
 of life. 
 
 “Iam acquainted with two persons who were 
 formerly school-fellows,* and nave been good 
 friends ever since. One of them was not only 
 thought an impenetrable blockhead at school, but 
 still maintained his reputation at the university; 
 the other was the pride of his master, and the 
 most celebrated person in the college of which he 
 was a member. The man of genius is at piesent 
 buried in a country parsonage of eightscore pounds 
 a-year; while the other, with the bare abilities of 
 a common scrivener, has got an estate of above a 
 hundred thousand pounds. # 
 
 “ I fancy, from what I have said, it will almost 
 appear a doubtful case to many a wealthy citizen, 
 whether or no he ought to wish his son should be 
 a great genius; but this I am sure of, that nothing 
 is more absurd than to give a lad the education of 
 one, whom nature has not favored with any par¬ 
 ticular marks of distinction. 
 
 “ The fault, therefore, of our grammar-schools 
 is, that every boy is pushed on to works of 
 genius; whereas it would be far more advanta¬ 
 geous for the greatest part of them to be taught 
 such little practical arts and sciences as do not re- 
 quire any great share of parts to be master of 
 them, and yet may come often into play during 
 the course of a man’s life. 
 
 « Such are all the parts of practical geometry. 
 
 I have known a man contract a friendship with a 
 minister of state upon cutting a dial in his win¬ 
 dow; and remember a clergyman who got one of 
 the best benefices in the west of England, by set¬ 
 ting a country gentleman’s affairs in some method, 
 md giving him an exact survey of his estate. 
 
 “ While I am upon this subject, I cannot for¬ 
 bear mentioning a particular which is of use in 
 every station of life, and which, methinks, every 
 master should teach his scholars; I mean the wri- 
 ting of English letters. To this end, instead of 
 perplexing tliem with. Latin epistles, themes, and 
 verses, there might be a punctual correspondence 
 established between two boys, who might act in 
 any imaginary parts of business, or be allowed 
 sometimes to give a range to their own fancies, 
 and communicate to each other whatever trifles 
 they thought fit, provided neither of them ever 
 failed at the appointed time to answer Ins corres¬ 
 pondent’s letter. 
 
 “ I believe I may venture to affirm, that the ge¬ 
 nerality of boys would find themselves more ad¬ 
 vantaged by this custom, when they come to be 
 men, than by all the Greek and Latin theii masters 
 can teach them in seven or eight years. 
 
 “ The want of it is very visible in many learned 
 persons, who, while they are admiring the styles 
 of Demosthenes or Cicero, want phrases to express 
 themselves on the most common occasions. 1 
 have seen a letter from one of these Latin orators 
 which would have been deservedly laughed at by 
 a common attorney. 
 
 “Under this head of writing, I cannot omit ac¬ 
 counts and short-hand, which are learned with 
 little pains, and very properly come into the num- 
 
 * Swift and Mr. Stratford, a merchant. 
 a plum, and is now lending the government 40,00% yet we 
 were educated together at the same school and iimversify. 
 Swift’s Works, vol. xxii, p. 10, cr., 8vo.— Stratford was after- 
 w r ard a bankrupt. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 437 
 
 bcr of such arts as I have been here recommend.- 
 
 
 
 mg. 
 
 “ You must doubtless, Sir, observe, that I have 
 hitherto chiefly insisted upon these things for 
 such boys as do not appear to have anything ex¬ 
 traordinary in their natural talents, and conse¬ 
 quently are not qualified for the finer parts of 
 learning; yet I believe I might carry this matter 
 still further, and venture to assert, that a lad of 
 genius has sometimes occasion for these little ac¬ 
 quirements, to be as it were the forerunners of his 
 parts, and to introduce him into the world. 
 
 “History is full of examples of persons who, 
 though they have had the largest abilities, have 
 been obliged to insinuate themselves into the favor 
 of great men by these trivial accomplishments; as 
 the complete gentleman, in some of our modern 
 comedies, makes his first advances to his mistress 
 under the disguise of a painter or a dancing- 
 master. 
 
 “ 1 he difference is, that in a lad of genius these 
 are only so many accomplishments, which in 
 another are essentials; the one diverts himself 
 with them, the other works at them. In short, I 
 look upon a great genius with these little addi¬ 
 tions, in the same light as I regard the Grand 
 Seignior, who is obliged, by an express command 
 in the Alcoran, to learn and practice some handi¬ 
 craft trade; though I need not to have gone for 
 my instance further than Germany, where several 
 emperors have voluntarily done the same thing. 
 Leopold the last worked in wood: and I have 
 heard there are several handicraft works of his 
 making to be seen at Vienna, so neatly turned, 
 that the best joiner in Europe might safely own 
 them without any disgrace to his profession * 
 
 “ I would not be thought, by anything I have 
 said, to be against improving a boy’s genius to 
 the utmost pitch it can be carried. What I would 
 endeavor to show in this essay is, that there may 
 be methods taken to make learning advantageous 
 even to the meanest capacities. 
 
 X. “ I am. Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 No. 354.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 16, 1712. 
 
 -Cum magnis virtutibus alters 
 
 Grande supercilium- Jov., Sat. vi, 168. 
 
 Their signal virtues hardly can be borne, 
 
 Dash’d as they are with supercilious scorn. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You have in some of your discourses described 
 most sort of women in their distinct and proper 
 classes, as the ape, the coquette, and many others; 
 but I think you have, never yet said anything of a 
 devotee. A devotee is one of those who disparage 
 religion by their indiscreet and unseasonable in¬ 
 troduction of the mention of virtue on all occa¬ 
 sions. She professes she is what nobody ought 
 to doubt she is; and betrays the labor she is put 
 to, to be what she ought to be with cheerfulness 
 and alacrity. She lives in the world, and denies 
 herself none of the diversions of it, with a con¬ 
 stant declaration how insipid all things in it are 
 to her. She is never herself but at church; there 
 she displays her virtue, and is so fervent in her 
 devotions, that I have frequently seen her pray 
 herself out of breath. While other young ladies 
 in the house are dancing, or playing at questions 
 and commands, she reads aloud in her closet. She 
 says, all love is ridiculous, except it be celestial; 
 but she speaks of the passion of one mortal to 
 
 * The instance of Czar Peter is still more recent, and more 
 
 remarkable. 
 
 another with too much bitterness for one that had 
 no jealousy mixed with her contempt of it. If at 
 any time she sees a man warm in his addresses to 
 his mistress, she will lift up her eyes to heaven, 
 and cry, ‘What nonsense is that fool talking! 
 Will the bell never ring for prayers?’ We have 
 an eminent lady of this stamp in our country, 
 who pietends to amusements very much above the 
 rest of her sex. She never carries a white shock- 
 dog with bells, under her arm, nor a squirrel or 
 dormouse in her pocket, but always an abridged 
 piece of morality, to steal out when she is sure of 
 being observed. When she went to the famous 
 ass-race (which I must confess was but an odd di¬ 
 version to be encouraged by people of rank and 
 figure), it was not, like other ladies, to hear those 
 poor animals bray, nor to see fellows run naked, 
 or to hear country ’squires in bob-wigs and white 
 girdles make love at the side of a coach, and cry, 
 ‘Madam, this is dainty weather.’ Thus she de¬ 
 scribes the diversion; for she went only to pray 
 heartily that nobody might be hurt in the crowd, 
 and to see if the poor fellow’s face, which was 
 distorted with grinning, might any way be brought 
 to itself again. She never chats over her tea, but 
 covers her face, and is supposed in an ejaculation 
 before she tastes a sup. This ostentatious beha¬ 
 vior is such an offense to true sanctity, that it dis¬ 
 parages it, and makes virtue not only unamiable, 
 but also ridiculous. The sacred writings are full 
 of reflections which abhor this kind of conduct, 
 and a devotee is so far from promoting goodness, 
 that she deters others by her example. Folly and 
 vanity in one of these ladies is like vice in a 
 clergyman; it does not only debase him, but 
 makes the inconsiderate part of the world think 
 the worse of religion. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Hotspur. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Xenophon, in his short account of the Spartan 
 commonwealth, speaking of the behavior of their 
 young men in the streets, says, ‘There was so 
 much modesty in their looks, that you might as 
 soon have turned the eyes of a marble statue upon 
 you as theirs; and that in all their behavior they 
 were more modest than a bride when put to bed 
 upon her wedding-night.’ This virtue, which is 
 always subjoined to magnanimity, had such an 
 influence upon their courage, that in battle an 
 enemy could not look them in the face, and they 
 durst not but die for their country. 
 
 “Whenever I walk into the streets of London 
 and Westminster, the countenances of all the young 
 fellows that pass by me make me wish niyself in 
 Sparta: I meet with such blustering airs, big 
 looks, and bold fronts, that, to a superficial ob¬ 
 server, would bespeak a courage above those Gre¬ 
 cians. I am arrived to that perfection in specula¬ 
 tion, that I understand the language of the eyes, 
 which would be a great misfortune to me had I 
 not corrected the testiness of old age by philoso¬ 
 phy. There is scarce a man in a red coat, who 
 does not tell me, with a full stare, he is a bold 
 man; I see several swear inwardly at me, without 
 any offense of mine, but the oddness of my per¬ 
 son : I meet contempt in every street, expressed in 
 different manners, by the scornful look, the eleva¬ 
 ted eyebrow, and the swelling nostrils of the 
 proud and prosperous. The ’prentice speaks his 
 disrespect by an extended finger, and the porter 
 by stealing out his tongue. If a country gentle¬ 
 man appears a little curious in observing the edi¬ 
 fices, signs, clocks, coaches, and dials, it is not to 
 be imagined how the polite rabble of this town, 
 who are acquainted with these objects, ridicule 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 488 
 
 his rusticity. I have known a fellow with a 
 burden on his head steal a hand down from his 
 load, and slily twirl the cock of a ’squire’s hat be¬ 
 hind him: while the offended person is swearing, 
 or out of countenance, all the wag-wits in the 
 highway are grinning in applause of the ingeni¬ 
 ous rogue that gave him the tip, and the folly of 
 him who had not eyes all round his head to pre¬ 
 vent receiving it. These things arise from a ge¬ 
 neral affectation of smartness, wit, and courage. 
 Wycherley somewhere rallies the pretensions this 
 way, bv making a fellow say, ‘ Red breeches are 
 a certain sign of valor;’ and Otway makes a man, 
 to boast his agility, trip up a beggar on crutches. 
 From such hints I beg a speculation on this sub¬ 
 ject: in the meantime, I shall do all in the power 
 of a weak old fellow in my own defense ; for as 
 Diogenes, being in quest of an honest man, 
 sought for him when it was broad day-light with 
 a lantern and candle, so I intend for the future to 
 walk the streets with a dark lantern, which has a 
 convex crystal in it; and if any man stares at me, 
 I give fair warning that I will direct the light full 
 into his eyes. Thus, despairing to find men mo¬ 
 dest, 1 hope by this means to evade their impu¬ 
 dence. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 q\ “ Sophrosunius.” 
 
 No. 355.] THURSDAY, APRIL 17, 1712. 
 
 Non ey;o mordaci distrinxi carmine quenquam. 
 
 Ovid, Trist. ii, 563 
 
 I ne’er in gall dipp’d my envenom’d pen, 
 
 Nor branded the bold front of shameless men. 
 
 I have been very often tempted to write invec¬ 
 tives upon those who have detracted from my 
 works, or spoken in derogation of my person : but 
 I look upon it as a particular happiness, that I 
 have always hindered my resentments from pro¬ 
 ceeding to this extremity. I once had gone 
 through half a satire, but found so many motions 
 of humanity rising in me toward the persons 
 whom I had severely treated, that I threw it into 
 the fire without ever finishing it. I have been 
 angry enough to make several little epigrams and 
 lampoons; and, after having admired them a day 
 or two, have likewise committed them to the 
 flames. These I look upon as so many sacrifices 
 to humanity, and have received much greater sa¬ 
 tisfaction from the suppressing such performances, 
 than I could have done from any reputation they 
 might have procured me, or from any mortifica¬ 
 tion they might have given my enemies, in case I 
 had made them public. If a man has any talent 
 in writing, it shows a good mind to forbear an¬ 
 swering calumnies and reproaches in the same 
 spirit of bitterness in which they are offered. But 
 when a man has been at some pains in making 
 suitable returns to an enemy, and has the instru¬ 
 ments of revenge in his hands, to let drop his 
 wrath, and stifle his resentments, seems to have 
 something in it great and heroical. There is a 
 particular merit in such a way of forgiving an 
 enemy; and the more violent and unprovoked the 
 offense has been, the greater still is the merit of 
 him who thus forgives it. 
 
 I never met with a consideration that is more 
 finely spun, and what has better pleased me, than 
 one in Epictetus, which places an enemy in a new 
 light, and gives us a view of him altogether dif¬ 
 ferent from that in which we are used to regard 
 him. The sense of it is as follows: “ Does a man 
 reproach thee for being proud or ill-natured, envi¬ 
 ous or conceited, ignorant, or detracting? Consi¬ 
 der with thyself whether his reproaches are true. 
 
 If they are not, consider that thou art not the per¬ 
 son whom he reproaches, but that he reviles an 
 imaginary being, and perhaps loves what thou 
 really art, though he hates what thou appearest to 
 be. If his reproaches are true, if thou art the en¬ 
 vious, ill-natured man he takes thee for, give thy¬ 
 self another turn, become mild, affable, and oblig¬ 
 ing, and his reproaches of thee naturally cease. 
 His reproaches may indeed continue, but thou art 
 no longer the person whom he reproaches.”* 
 
 I often apply this rule to myself; and when I 
 hear of a satirical speech or writing that is aimed 
 at me, I examine my own heart whether I deserve 
 it or not. If I bring in a verdict against myself, I 
 endeavor to rectify my conduct for the future in 
 those particulars which have drawn the censure 
 upon me; but if the whole invective be grounded 
 upon a falsehood, I trouble myself no further about 
 it, and look upon my name at the head of it to 
 signify no more than one of those fictitious names 
 made use of by an author to introduce an ima¬ 
 ginary character. Why should a man be sensible 
 of the sting of a reproach, who is a stranger to 
 the guilt that is implied in it? or subject himself 
 to the penalty, when he knows he has never com¬ 
 mitted the crime? This is a piece of fortitude 
 which every one owes to his own innocence, and 
 without which it is impossible for a man of any 
 merit or figure to live at peace with himself, in a 
 country that abounds with wit and liberty. 
 
 The famous Monsieur Balzac, in a letter to the 
 Chancellor of France, who had prevented the pub¬ 
 lication of a book against him, has the following 
 words, which are a lively picture of the greatness 
 of mind so visible in the works of that author: 
 “If it was a new thing, it may be I should not be 
 displeased with the suppression of the first libel 
 that should abuse me; but since there are enough 
 of them to make a small library, I am secretly 
 pleased to see the number increased, and take de¬ 
 light in raising a heap of stones that envy has casl 
 at me without doing me any harm.” 
 
 The author here alludes to those monuments! 
 of the eastern nations, which were mountains of 
 stones raised upon the dead bodies by travelers, 
 that used to cast every one his stone upon it as 
 they passed by. It is certain that no monument 
 is so glorious as one which is thus raised by the 
 hands of envy. For my part, I admire an author 
 for such a temper of mind as enables him to bear 
 an undeserved reproach without resentment, more 
 than for all the wit of any the finest satirical 
 reply. 
 
 Thus far I thought necessary to explain myself 
 in relation to those who have animadverted on 
 this paper, and to show the reasons why I have 
 not thought fit to return them any formal answer. 
 I must further add, that the work would have 
 been of very little use to the public had it been 
 filled with personal reflections and debates; for 
 which reason I never once turned out of my way 
 to observe those little cavils which have been 
 made against it by envy or ignorance. The com¬ 
 mon fry of scribblers, who have no other way of 
 being taken notice of but by attacking what has 
 gained some reputation in the world, would have 
 furnished me with business enough, had they 
 found me disposed to enter the lists with them. 
 
 I shall conclude with the fable of Boccalini’s 
 traveler, who was so pestered with the noise of 
 grasshoppers in his ears, that he alighted from his 
 horse in great wrath to kill them all. “ This,” 
 says the author, “ was troubling himself to no 
 
 *Epict. Encli., cap. 48 and 64, ed. Berk., 1670, 8vo. 
 f There are abundant monuments of the same kind in 
 ! North Britain, where they are called “ cairns.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 439 
 
 manner of purpose. Had he pursued his journey 
 \\ ithout taking notice of them, the troublesome 
 insects would have died of themselves in a very 
 few weeks, and he would have suffered nothing 
 from them.”—L. 
 
 No. 356.] FRIDAY, APRIL 18, 1712. 
 
 •Aptfesima qineque dabunt dii, 
 
 Cliarior est illis homo quam sibi. 
 
 -The gods will grant 
 
 Jnv., Sat. x, 349. 
 
 \\ hat their unerring wisdom sees they want; 
 
 In goodness, as in greatness they excel; 
 
 Ah! that we lov'd ourselves but half as well! 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 It is owing to pride, and a secret affectation of 
 a certain self-existence, that the noblest motive 
 for action that ever was proposed to man is not 
 acknowledged the glory and happiness of their 
 being. The heart is treacherous to itself, and we 
 do not let our reflections go deep enough to receive 
 religion as the most honorable incentive to good 
 and worthy actions. It is our natural weakness 
 to flatter ourselves into a belief, that if we search 
 into our inmost thoughts, we find ourselves wholly 
 disinterested, and divested of any views arising 
 from self-love and vain-glory. But however spirits 
 of a superficial greatness may disdain at first sight 
 to do anything, but from a noble impulse in them¬ 
 selves, without any future regards in this or any 
 other being; upon stricter inquiry they will find, 
 to act worthily, and expect to be rewarded only in 
 another world, is as heroic a pitch of virtue as 
 human nature can arrive at. If the tenor of our 
 actions have any other motive than the desire to 
 be pleasing in the eye of the Deity, it will neces¬ 
 sarily follow that we must be more than men, if 
 we are not too much exalted in prosperity and de¬ 
 pressed in adversity. But the Christian world has 
 a Leader, the contemplation of whose life and suf¬ 
 ferings must administer comfort in affliction, while 
 the sense of liis power and omnipotence must 
 give them humiliation in prosperity. 
 
 It is owing to the forbidding and unlovely con¬ 
 straint with which men of low conceptions act 
 when they think they conform themselves to reli¬ 
 gion, as well as to the more odious conduct of 
 hypocrites, that the word Christian does not carry 
 with it at first view all that is great, worthy, 
 friendly, generous, and heroic. The man who sus¬ 
 pends his hopes of the reward of worthy actions 
 till after death, who can bestow unseen, who can 
 overlook hatred, do good to his slanderer, who 
 can never be angry at his friend, never revengeful 
 to his enemy, is certainly formed for the benefit of 
 society, let these are so far from heroic virtues, 
 that they are but the ordinary duties of a Chris¬ 
 tian. 
 
 When a man with a steady faith looks back on 
 the great catastrophe of this day,* with what 
 bleeding emotions of heart must he contemplate 
 the life and sufferings of his Deliverer ! When 
 his agonies occur to him, how will he weep to re- 
 fleet that he has often forgot them for the glance 
 of a wanton, for the applause of a vain world, for 
 a heap ot fleeting past pleasures, which are at 
 present aching sorrows! 
 
 How pleasing is the contemplation of the lowly 
 steps our Almighty Leader took in conducting us 
 to his heavenly mansions! In plain and apt par¬ 
 able, similitude, and allegory, our great Master 
 enforced the doctrine of our salvation; but they 
 of his acquaintance, instead of receiving what 
 they could not oppose, were offended at the pre- 
 
 * This paper was published on Good Friday, 1712. 
 
 sumption of Jbeing wiser than they. They could 
 not raise their little ideas above the consideration 
 ot him, in those circumstances familiar to them, 
 or conceive that he, who appeared not more terri¬ 
 ble or pompous should have anything more exalt¬ 
 ed than themselves; he in that place, therefore, 
 would no longer ineffectually exert a power which 
 w as incapable of conquering the prepossession of 
 their narrow and mean conceptions. 
 
 Multitudes followed him, and brought him the 
 dumb, the blind, the sick, and maimed; whom 
 w hen their Creator had touched, with a second life 
 they saw, spoke, leaped, and ran. In affection to 
 him, and admiration of his actions, the crowd 
 could not leave him, but waited near him till they 
 were almost as faint and helpless as others they 
 brought for succor. He had compassion on them, 
 and by a miracle supplied their necessities. Oh, 
 the ecstatic entertainment, when they could be¬ 
 hold their food immediately increase to the distri¬ 
 butor’s hand, and see their God in person feeding 
 and refreshing his creatures ! Oh envied happi¬ 
 ness ! But wdry do I say envied ? as if our God 
 did not still preside over our temperate meals, 
 cheerful hours, and innocent conversations. 
 
 But though the sacred story is everywhere full 
 of miracles not inferior to this, and though in the 
 midst of those acts of divinity he never gave the 
 least hint of a design to become a secular prince, 
 yet had not hitherto the apostles themselves any 
 other than hopes of worldly power, preferment, 
 others, and pomp; for Peter, upon an accident of 
 ambition among the apostles, hearing his Master 
 explain that his kingdom was not of this world, 
 was so scandalized that he whom he had so long 
 followed should suffer the ignominy, shame, and 
 death, which he foretold, that he took him aside 
 and said, “Be it far from thee. Lord; this shall 
 not be unto thee ;” for which he suffered a severe 
 reprehension from his Master, as having in his 
 view the glory of man rather than that of God. 
 
 The great change of things began to draw near, 
 when the Lord of nature thought fit, as a Savior 
 and Deliverer, to make his public entry into Jeru¬ 
 salem with more than the power and joy, but none 
 of the ostentation and pomp, of a triumph: he 
 came humble, meek, and lowly : with an unfelt 
 new ecstasy, multitudes strewed his way with 
 garments and olive-branches, crying with loud 
 gladness and acclamation, “Hosannah to the Son 
 of David ! Blessed is he that cometh in the name 
 of the Lord!” At this great King’s accession to 
 the throne, men were not ennobled, but saved ; 
 crimes were not remitted, but sins forgiven. He 
 did not bestow medals, honors, favors ; but health, 
 joy, sight, speech. The first object the blind ever 
 saw was the Author of sight; while the lame ran 
 before, and the dumb repeated the hosannah. 
 
 1 lius attended, he entered into^iis own house, the 
 sacred temple, and by his divine authority expell¬ 
 ed traders and worldlings that profaned it; and 
 thus did he for a time, use a great and despotic 
 power, to let unbelievers understand that it was 
 not want of, but superiority to, all worldly do¬ 
 minion, that made him not exert it. But is this, ' 
 then, the Savior? Is this the Deliverer? Shall 
 this obscure Nazarene command Israel, and sit on 
 the throne of David? Their proud and disdain¬ 
 ful hearts, which were petrified with the love and 
 pride of this world, were impregnable to the re¬ 
 ception of so mean a benefactor ; and were now 
 enough exasperated with benefits to conspire his 
 death. Our Hol'd was sensible of their design, 
 and prepared his disciples for it, by recounting to 
 them now more distinctly what should befall him; 
 but Peter, with an ungrounded resolution, and in 
 a flush of temper, made sanguine protestation, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 440 
 
 that though all men were offended in him, yet 
 would not he be offended. It was a great article 
 of our Savior’s business in the world to bring us 
 to a sense of our inability, without God’s assist¬ 
 ance, to do anything great or good; he therefore 
 told Peter, who thought so well of his courage 
 and fidelity, that they would both fail him, and 
 even he should deny him thrice that very night. 
 
 “ But what heart can conceive, what tongue ut¬ 
 ter the sequel? Who is that yonder, buffeted, 
 mocked, and spurned? Whom do they drag like 
 a felon ? Whither do they carry my Lord, my 
 King, my Savior, and my God ? And will he 
 die to expiate those very injuries ? See where 
 they have nailed the Lord and Giver of life ! How 
 his wounds blacken, his body writhes, and heart 
 heaves with pity and with agony ! 0 Almighty suf¬ 
 ferer, look down, look down from thy triumphant 
 infamy! Lo, he inclines his head to his sacred 
 bosom ! Hark, he groans ! See, he expires ! The 
 earth trembles, the temple rends, the rocks burst, 
 the dead arise! Which are the quick? Which 
 are the dead ? Sure nature, all nature is depart¬ 
 ing with her Creator?”*—T. 
 
 No. 357.] SATURDAY, APRIL, 19, 1712. 
 
 -Quis talia fando 
 
 Temperet a lack ry mis ?- 
 
 Virg. iEn., ii, 6. 
 
 Who can relate such woes without a tear?f 
 
 The tenth book of Paradise Lost has a greater 
 variety of persons in it than any other in the 
 whole poem. The author, upon the winding up 
 of his action, introduces all those who had any 
 concern in it, and shows with great beauty the 
 influence which it had upon each of them. It is 
 like the last act of a well-written tragedy, in 
 which all who had part in it are generally drawn 
 up before the audience, and represented under 
 those circumstances in which the determination 
 of the action places them. 
 
 I shall therefore consider this book under four 
 heads, in relation to the celestial, the infernal, the 
 human, and the imaginary persons, who have 
 their respective parts allotted in it. 
 
 To begin with the celestial persons. The guar¬ 
 dian angels of Paradise are described as returning 
 to heaven upon the fall of man, in order to ap¬ 
 prove their vigilance; their arrival, their manner 
 of reception, with the sorrow which appeared in 
 themselves, and in those spirits who are. said to 
 rejoice, at the conversion of a' sinner, are very 
 finely laid together in the following lines: 
 
 Up into heav’n from Paradise in haste 
 Th’ angelic guards ascended, mute and sad 
 For man; for of his state by this they knew: 
 
 Much wond’ring how the subtile fiend had stol’n 
 Entrance unseen. Soon as th’ unwelcome news 
 From earth arriv’d at heav’n’s gate, displeas’d 
 All were who heard; dim sadness did not spare 
 That time celestial visages; yet, mixt 
 With pity, violated not their bliss. 
 
 About the new-arriv’d, in multitudes 
 Th’ ethereal people ran to hear and know, 
 
 How all befell. They tow’rds the throne supreme 
 Accountable made haste, to make appear, 
 
 With righteous plea, their utmost vigilance, 
 
 And easily approv’d; when the Most High 
 Eternal Father, from his secret cloud 
 Amidst, in thunder utter’d thus his voice. 
 
 * Transcribed from Steele’s Christian Hero, 
 t The motto to this paper, in the original publication in folio, 
 is the same with that which is now prefixed to No. 279. 
 
 Reddere personae soit convenientia cuique. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., 316. 
 
 To each character he gives what best befits. 
 
 The same Divine Person, who in the foregoing 
 parts of this poem interceded for our first parents 
 before their fall, overthrew the rebel angels, and 
 created the world, is now represented as descend¬ 
 ing to Paradise, and pronouncing sentence upon the 
 three offenders. The cool of the evening being a 
 circumstance with which holy writ introduces this 
 great scene, it is poetically described by our 
 author, who has also kept religiously to the form 
 of words in which the three several sentences were 
 passed upon Adam, Eve, and the serpent. He has 
 rather chosen to neglect the numerousness of his 
 verse, than to deviate from those speeches which 
 are recorded on this great occasion. The guilt 
 and confusion of our first parents, standing naked 
 before their judge, is touched with great beauty. 
 Upon the arrival of Sin and Death into the works 
 of the creation, the Almighty is again introduced 
 as speaking to his angels that surrounded him. 
 
 See! with what heat these dogs of hell advance, 
 
 To waste and havoc yonder world, which I 
 So fair and good created, etc. 
 
 The following passage is formed upon that glo¬ 
 rious image in holy writ, which compares the 
 voice of an innumerable host of angels uttering 
 hallelujahs, to the voice of mighty thunderings, 
 or of many waters : 
 
 He ended, and the heav’nly audience loud 
 Sung hallelujah, as the sound of seas, 
 
 Through multitude that sung: “Just are thy ways, 
 Kigkteous are thy decrees in all thy works: 
 
 Who can extenuate thee?-” 
 
 Though the author, in the whole course of his 
 poem, and particularly in the book we are now 
 examining, has infinite allusions to places of 
 Scripture, I have only taken notice in my remarks 
 of such as are of a poetical nature, and which are 
 w r oven with great beauty into the body of his fa¬ 
 ble. Of this kind is that passage in the present 
 book, where, describing Sin and Death as march¬ 
 ing through the works of nature, he adds, 
 
 -Behind her Death 
 
 Close following pace for pace, mounted yet 
 On his pale horse- 
 
 Which alludes to that passage in Scripture so 
 wonderfully poetical, and terrifying to the imagi¬ 
 nation : “ And I looked, and behold a pale horse, 
 and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell 
 followed with him : and power was given unto 
 them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with 
 sword, and with hunger, and with sickness, and 
 with the beasts of the earth.” Under this first 
 head of celestial persons we must likewise take 
 notice of the command which the angels received, 
 to produce the several changes in nature, and 
 sully the beauty of the creation. Accordingly 
 they are represented as infecting the stars and 
 planets with malignant influences, weakening the 
 light of the sun, bringing down the winter into 
 the milder regions of nature, planting winds and 
 storms in several quarters of the sky, storing the 
 clouds with thunder, and, in short, perverting the 
 whole frame of the universe to the condition of 
 its criminal inhabitants. As this is a noble inci¬ 
 dent in the poem, the following lines, in which 
 v r e see the angels heaving up the earth, and 
 placing it in a different posture to the sun from 
 what it had before the fall of man, are conceived 
 with that sublime imagination W’hich was so pe¬ 
 culiar to the author: 
 
 Some say he bid his angels turn askance 
 The poles of earth twice ten degrees and more 
 From the sun’s axle; they with labor push’d 
 Oblique the centric globe-. 
 
441 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 We are in the second place to consider the in¬ 
 fernal agents under the view which Milton has 
 given us of them in this book. It is observed, by 
 those who would set forth the greatness of Virgil’s 
 plan, that he conducts his reader through all the 
 parts of the earth which were discovered in his 
 time. Asia, Africa, and Europe, are the several 
 scenes of his fable. The plan of Milton’s poem 
 is of an infinitely greater extent, and fills the 
 mind with many more astonishing circumstances. 
 Satan, having surrounded the earth seven times, 
 departs at length from Paiadise. We then see him 
 steering his course among the constellations; and, 
 after having traversed the whole creation, pursu¬ 
 ing his voyage through the chaos, and entering 
 into his own infernal dominions. 
 
 His first appearance in the assembly of fallen 
 angels is worked up with circumstances which 
 give a delightful surprise to the reader: but there 
 is no incident in the whole poem which does this 
 more than the transformation of the whole audi¬ 
 ence, that follows the account their leader gives 
 them of his expedition. The gradual change of 
 Satan himself is described after Ovid’s manner, 
 and may vie with any of those celebrated trans¬ 
 formations which are looked upon as the most 
 beautiful parts in that poet’s works. Milton never 
 fails of improving his own hints, and bestowing 
 the last finishing touches to every incident which 
 is admitted into his poem. The unexpected hiss 
 which arises in this episode, the dimensions and 
 bulk of Satan, so much superior to those of the in¬ 
 fernal spirits who lay under the same transforma¬ 
 tion, with the annual change which they are sup¬ 
 posed to suffer, are instances of this kind. The 
 beauty of the diction is very remarkable in this 
 whole episode, as I have observed in the sixth 
 paper of these my remarks the great judgment 
 with which it was contrived. 
 
 1 he parts of Adam and Eve, or the human per¬ 
 sons, come next under our consideration. Milton’s 
 art is nowhere more shown, than in his conduct¬ 
 ing the parts of these our first parents. The rep¬ 
 resentation he gives of them, without falsifying 
 the story, is wonderfully contrived to influence 
 the reader with pity and compassion toward them. 
 Though Adam involves the whole species in 
 misery, his crime proceeds from a\ >kness which 
 every man is inclined to pardon an^ commiserate, 
 as it seems rather the frailty of human nature, 
 than or the person who offended. Every one is 
 apt to excuse a fault which he himself might have 
 fallen into. It was the excessive love for Eve that 
 ruined Adam and his posterity. I need not add, 
 that the author is justified in this particular by 
 many of the fathers and the most orthodox writers. 
 Milton has by this means filled a great part of his 
 poem with that kind of writing which the French 
 critics call the tendre, and which is in a particular 
 manner engaging to all sorts of readers. 
 
 Adam and Eve, in the book we are now consi¬ 
 dering, are likewise drawn with such sentiments 
 as do not only interest the reader in their afflic¬ 
 tions, but raise in him the most melting passions 
 of humanity and commiseration. When Adam 
 sees the several changes of nature produced about 
 him, he appears in a disorder of mind suitable to 
 one who had forfeited both his innocence and his 
 happiness; he is filled with horror, remorse, de¬ 
 spair; in the anguish of his heart, he expostulates 
 with his Creator for having given him an unasked 
 existence: 
 
 Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay 
 To mould me man ? Did I solicit thee 
 From darkness to promote me? or here place 
 In this delicious garden ? As my will 
 Concurr’d not to my being, ’twere but right 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 And equal to reduce me to my dust, 
 
 Desirous to resign, and render back 
 All 1 receiv’d-— 
 
 He immediately after recovers from his pre¬ 
 sumption, owns his doom to be just and begs 
 that the death which is threatened him may be 
 inflicted on him : 
 
 —;-Why delays 
 
 Ills hand to execute what his decree 
 Fix’d on this day ? Why do I over-live ? 
 
 Why am I mock’d with death, and lengthen’d out 
 To deathless pain ? IIow gladly would 1 meet 
 Mortality my sentence, and be eai th 
 Insensible 1 how glad would lay me down. 
 
 As in my mother’s lap 1 There 1 should rest 
 And sleep secure; his dreadful voice no more 
 Would thunder in my ears: no tear of worse 
 To me, and to my offspring, would torment me 
 With cruel expectation-—. 
 
 This whole speech is full of the like emotion, 
 and varied with all those sentiments which we 
 may suppose natural to a mind so broken and 
 disturbed. I must not omit that generous concern 
 which our first father shows in it'for his posterity, 
 and which is so proper to affect the reader: 
 
 -Hide me from the face 
 
 Of God, whom to behold was then my height 
 Of happiness! yet well, if here would end 
 The misery: I deserved it and would bear 
 My own deservings: but this will not serve: 
 
 All that I eat, or drink, or shall beget, 
 
 Is propagated curse. 0 voice once heard 
 Delightfully, “ Increase and multiply 
 
 Now death to hear!--- 
 
 ---In me all 
 
 Posterity stands curst! Fair patrimony, 
 
 That I must leave ye, sons! 0 were I able 
 
 To waste it all myself, and leave ye none 1 
 
 So disinherited, how would ye bless 
 
 Me, now your curse! Ah, whv should all mankind 
 
 For one man’s fault, thus guiltless be condemn’d, 
 
 If guiltless ? But from me what can proceed 
 But all corrupt?- 
 
 Who can afterward behold the father of man¬ 
 kind extended upon the earth, uttering his mid¬ 
 night, complaints, bewailing his existence, and 
 wishing for death, without sympathizing with 
 him in his distress ! 
 
 Thus Adam to himself lamented loud 
 Through the still night; not now (as ere man fell) 
 Wholesome and cool, and mild, but with black air, 
 Accompanied with damps and dreadful gloom, 
 
 Which to his evil conscience repi esented 
 All things with double terror. On the ground 
 Outstretch’d he lay; on the cold ground! and oft 
 Curs’d his creation; death as oft accus’d 
 Of tardy execution- 
 
 The part of Eve in this book is no less passion¬ 
 ate and apt to sway the reader in her favor. She 
 is represented with great tenderness as approach¬ 
 ing Adam, but is spurned from him with a spirit 
 of upbraiding and indignation, conformable to 
 the nature of man, whose passions had now gained 
 the dominion over him. The following passage, 
 wherein she is described as renewing her ad¬ 
 dresses to him, with the whole speech that follows 
 it, have something in them exquisitely moving 
 and pathetic : 
 
 He added not, and from her turn’d: but Eve 
 Not so repuls’d, with tears that ceas’d not flowing, 
 
 And tresses all disorder’d, at his feet 
 Fell humble; and embracing them besought 
 His peace, and thus proceeded in her plaint: 
 
 “ Forsake me not thus, Adam! Witness, Heav’n, 
 
 What love sincere, and rev’rence in my heart 
 I bear thee, and unweeting have offended, 
 
 Unhappily deceiv’d! Thy suppliant 
 I beg, and clasp thy knees. Bereave me not 
 (Whereon I live), thy gentle looks, thy aid, 
 
 Thy counsel in this uttermost distress, 
 
 My only strength and stay! Forlorn of thee, 
 
 Whither shall I betake me? where subsist? 
 
 While yet we live (scarce one short hour, perhaps) 
 Between us two let there be peace,” etc. 
 
THE SPECT ATO R. 
 
 442 
 
 Adam’s reconcilement to her is worked up in 
 the same spirit of tenderness. Eve afterward pro¬ 
 poses to her husband, in the blindness of her 
 despair, that, to prevent their guilt from descend¬ 
 ing upon posterity, they should resolve to live 
 childless ; or, if that could not be done, they 
 should seek their own deaths by violent methods. 
 As those .sentiments naturally engage the reader 
 to regard the mother of mankind with more than 
 ordinary commiseration, they likewise contain a 
 very fine moral. The resolution of dying to end 
 our miseries does not show such a degree of mag¬ 
 nanimity as a resolution to bear them, and submit 
 to the dispensations of Providence. Our author, 
 has, therefore, with great delicacy, represented 
 Eve as entertaining this thought, and Adam as 
 disapproving it. 
 
 We are, in the next place, to consider the ima¬ 
 ginary persons, or Death and Sin, Avho act a large 
 
 { >art in this book. Such beautiful extended al- 
 egories are certainly some of the finest composi¬ 
 tions of genius ; but, as I have below observed, 
 are not agreeable to the nature of an heroic poem. 
 This of Sin and Death is very exquisite in its 
 kind, if not considered as a part of such a work. 
 The truths contained in it are so clear and open, 
 that I shall not lose time in explaining them ; 
 but shall only observe, that a reader, who knows 
 the strength of the English tongue, will be amazed 
 to think how the poet could find such apt words 
 and phrases to describe the actions of those two 
 imaginary persons, and particularly in that part 
 where death is exhibited as forming a bridge 
 over the chaos ; a work suitable to the genius of 
 Milton. 
 
 . Since the subject I am upon gives me an oppor¬ 
 tunity of speaking more at large of such shadowy 
 and imaginary persons as may be introduced into 
 heroic poems, I shall beg leave to explain myself 
 in a matter which is curious in its kind, and 
 which none of the critics have treated of. It is 
 certain Homer and Virgil are full of imaginary 
 persons, who are very beautiful in poetry, when 
 they are just shown without being engaged in any 
 senes of action. Homer, indeed, represents Sleep 
 as a person, and ascribes a short part to him in 
 his Iliad ; but we must consider, that though we 
 now regard such a person as entirely shadowy 
 and unsubstantial, the heathens made statues of 
 him, placed him in their temples, and looked 
 upon him as a real deity. When Homer makes 
 use of other allegorical persons, it is only in short 
 expressions, which convey an ordinary thought 
 to the mind in the most pleasing manner; and 
 may rather be looked upon as poetical phrases, 
 than allegorical descriptions. Instead of telling 
 us that men fiaturally fly when they are terrified, 
 he introduces the persons of Flight and Fear, who, 
 he tells us, are inseparable companions. Instead 
 of saying that the time was come when Apollo 
 ought to have received his recompense, he tells 
 us, that the Hours brought him his reward. In¬ 
 stead of describing the effects which Minerva’s 
 aegis produced in battle, he tells us that the brims 
 of it were encompassed by Terror, Rout, Discoi d, 
 Fury, Pursuit, Massacre, and Death. In the same 
 figure of speaking, lie represents Victory as fol¬ 
 lowing Diomedes; Discord as the mother of fune¬ 
 rals and mourning; Venus as dressed by the 
 Graces; Bellona as wearing Terror and Consterna¬ 
 tion like a garment. I might give several other 
 instances out of Homer, as well as a great many 
 out of Virgil. Milton has likewise very often 
 made use of the same way of speaking, as where 
 he tells us that Victory sat on the right hand of 
 the Messiah, when he marched forth against the 
 rebel angels; that, at the rising of the sun, the 
 
 Hours unbarred the gates of light; that Discord 
 was the daughter of Sin. Of the same nature are 
 those expressions, where, describing the singing 
 of the nightingale, he adds, “ Silence was pleased;” 
 and upon the Messiah’s bidding peace to the chaos, 
 “ Confusion heard his voice.” 1 might add innu¬ 
 merable instances of our poet’s writing in this 
 beautiful figure. It is plain that these I have 
 mentioned, in which persons of an imaginary na¬ 
 ture are introduced, are such short allegories as 
 are not designed to be taken in the literal sense, 
 but only to convey particular circumstances to the 
 reader, after an unusual and entertaining manner. 
 But when such persons are introduced as princi¬ 
 pal actors, and engaged in a series of adventures, 
 they take too much upon them, and are by no 
 means proper for an heroic poem, which ougjit to 
 appear credible in its principal parts, I cannot 
 forbear, therefore, thinking, that Sin and Death 
 are as improper agents in a work of this nature, 
 as Strength and Necessity in one of the tragedies 
 of iEschylus, who represented those two persons 
 nailing down Prometheus to a rock; for which he 
 has been justly censured by the greatest critics. I 
 do not know any imaginary person made use of 
 in a more sublime manner of thinking than that 
 in one of the prophets, who, describing God as 
 descending from heaven, and visiting the sins of 
 mankind, adds that dreadful circumstance, “ Be¬ 
 fore him went the Pestilence.” It is certain that 
 this imaginary person might have been described 
 in all her purple spots. The Fever might have 
 marched before her, Pain might have stood at her 
 right hand, Frenzy on her left, and Death in her 
 rear. She might have been introduced as gliding 
 down from the tail of a comet, or darted upon the 
 earth in a flash of lightning. She might have 
 tainted the atmosphere with her breath. The very 
 glaring of her eyes might have scattered infection. 
 But I believe every reader will think, that in such 
 sublime writings the mentioning of her, as it is 
 done in Scripture, has something in it more just, as 
 well as great, than all that the most fanciful poet 
 could have bestowed upon her in the richness of 
 his imagination.—L. 
 
 No. 358.] MONDAY, APRIL 21, 1712. 
 
 -Desipere in loco. 
 
 IIor. 4 Od. xii, 1. ult. 
 
 ’Tis joyous folly that unbends the mind.—F rancis. 
 
 Charles Lillie attended me the other day, and 
 made me a present of a large sheet of paper, on 
 which is delineated a pavement in Mosaic work, 
 lately discovered at Stunsfield near Woodstock.* 
 A person who has so much the gift of speech as 
 Mr. Lillie, and can carry on a discourse without a 
 reply, had great opportunity on that occasion to 
 expatiate upon so fine a piece of antiquity. Among 
 other things, I remember he gave me his opinion, 
 which he drew from the ornaments of the work, 
 that this was the floor of a room dedicated to 
 Mirth and Concord. Viewing this work, made 
 my fancy run over the many gay expressions I 
 had read in ancient authors, which contained in¬ 
 vitations to lay aside care and anxiety, and give 
 a loose to that pleasing forgetfulness wherein men 
 put off their characters of business, and enjoy 
 their very selves. These hours were usually 
 passed in rooms adorned for that purpose, and set 
 out in such a manner, as the objects all around 
 the company gladdened their hearts; which, joined 
 to the cheerful looks of well-chosen and agreeable 
 
 * Engraved by Vertue iu 1712. See an account of it in 
 Gough’s British Topography, vol. ii, p. 88. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 friends, gave new vigor to the airy, produced the 
 latent fire of the modest, and gave grace to the 
 slow humor of the reserved. A judicious mixture 
 of such company, crowned with chaplets of flowers, 
 and the whole apartment glittering with gay lights, 
 cheered with a profusion of roses, artificial falls 
 ot water, and intervals of soft notes to songs of 
 love and wine, suspended the cares of human 
 life, and made a festival of mutual kindness. 
 Such parties of pleasure as these, and the reports 
 of the agreeable passages in their jollities, have in 
 all ages awakened the dull part of mankind to 
 pretend to mirth and good humor, without capa¬ 
 city for such entertainments; for, if I may be al¬ 
 lowed to say so, there are a hundred men fit 
 for any employment, to one who is capable of 
 passing a night in company of the first taste, 
 without shocking any member of the society, over¬ 
 rating his own part of the conversation, but 
 equally receiving and contributing to the pleasure 
 of the whole company. When one considers such 
 collections of companies in past times, and such 
 as one might name in the present age, with how 
 much spleen must a man needs reflect upon the 
 awkward gayety of those who affect the frolic with 
 an ill grace! I have a letter from a correspondent 
 of mine, who desires me to admonish all loud, 
 mischievous, airy, dull companions, that they are 
 mistaken in what they call a frolic. Irregularity, 
 in itself, is not what creates pleasure and mirth; 
 but to see a man, who knows what rule and de¬ 
 cency are, descend from them agreeably in our 
 company, is what denominates him a "pleasant 
 companion. Instead of that, you find many whose 
 mirth consists only in doing things which do not 
 become them, with a secret consciousness that all 
 the world knows they know better: to this is 
 always added something mischievous to them¬ 
 selves or others. I have heard of some very merry 
 fellows among whom the frolic was started, and 
 passed by a great majority, that every man should 
 immediately draw a tooth ; after which they have 
 gone in a body and smoked a cobbler. The same 
 company, at another night, has each man burned 
 his cravat: and one perhaps, whose estate would 
 bear it, has thrown a long wig and laced hat into 
 the same fire: Thus they have jested themselves 
 stark-naked, and run into the streets and fright¬ 
 ened women very successfully. There is no in¬ 
 habitant of any standing in Covent-garden, but 
 can tell you a hundred good humors, where people 
 have come off with a little bloodshed, and yet 
 scoured all the witty hours of the night. I know 
 a gentleman that has several wounds in the head 
 by watch-poles, and has been thrice run through 
 the body to carry on a good jest. He is very old 
 for a man of so much good humor; but to this day 
 he is seldom merry but he has occasion to be 
 valiant at the same time. But, by the favor of 
 these gentlemen, I am humbly of opinion, that a 
 man may be a very witty man, and never offend 
 one statute of this kingdom, not excepting even 
 that of stabbihg. 
 
 The writers of plays have what they call unity 
 of time a,nd place, to give a justness to their re¬ 
 presentation; and it would not be amiss if all who 
 pretend to be companions would confine their 
 actions to the place of meeting; for a frolic carried 
 further may be better performed by other animals 
 than men. It is not to rid much ground, or do 
 much mischief, that should denominate a pleasant 
 fellow, but that is truly frolic which is the plav 
 of the mind, and consists of various and un¬ 
 forced sallies of imagination. Festivity of spirit 
 is a very uncommon talent, and must proceed 
 from an assemblage of agreeable qualities in the 
 same person. There are some few whom 1 think 
 
 443 
 
 peculiarly happy in it; but it is a talent one cannot 
 name in a man, especially when one considers, 
 that it is never very graceful but where it is re¬ 
 garded by him who possesses it in the second place. 
 1 he best man that 1 know of for heightening the 
 revel gayety of a company is Estcourt, whose 
 jovial humor diffuses itself from the highest 
 person at an entertainment to the meanest waiter. 
 Merry tales, accompanied with apt gestures and 
 lively representations of circumstances and persons, 
 beguile the gravest mind into a consent to be as 
 humorous as himself. Add to this, that when a 
 inan is in his good graces, he has a mimicry that 
 does not debase the person he represents; but 
 v hicli, taking from the gravity of the character, 
 adds to the agreeableness of it. This pleasant 
 fellow gives one some idea of the ancient panto¬ 
 mime, who is said to have given the audience in 
 dumb-show, an exact idea of any character or 
 passion, or an intelligible relation of any public 
 occurrence, with no other expression than that of 
 his looks and gestures. If all who have been 
 obliged to these talents in Estcourt will be at Love 
 for Love to-morrow night, they will but pay him 
 what they owe him, at so easy a rate as being pre¬ 
 sent at a play which nobody would omit seeing, 
 that had, or had not, ever seen it before.—T. 
 
 No. 359.] TUESDAY, APRIL 22, 1712. 
 
 Torva leama lupum sequitur, lupus ipse capellam: 
 
 Florentem cytisum sequitur lasciva capella. 
 
 Virg., Eel. ii, 63. 
 
 Lions the wolves, and wolves the kids pursue, 
 
 The kids sweet thyme,—and still I follow you. 
 
 Warton. 
 
 As we were at the club last night, I observed 
 that my old friend Sir Roger, contrary to his 
 usual custom, sat very silent, and instead of mind¬ 
 ing what was said by the company, was whistling 
 to himself in a very thoughtful mood, and play¬ 
 ing with a cork. I jogged Sir Andrew Freeport, 
 who sat between us; and, as we were both observ¬ 
 ing him, we saw the knight shake his head, and 
 heard him say to himself, “ A foolish woman ; I 
 can’t believe it.” Sir Andrew gave him a gentle 
 pat upon the shoulder, and offered to lay him a 
 bottle of wine that he was thinking of the widow. 
 My old friend started, and recovering out of his 
 brown study, told Sir Andrew, that once in his 
 life he had been in the right. In short, after some 
 little hesitation, Sir Roger told us, in the fullness 
 of his heart, that he had just received a letter 
 from his steward, which acquainted him that his 
 old rival and antagonist in the country, Sir David 
 Dundrura, had been making a visit to the widow. 
 “ However,” says Sir Roger, “ I can never think 
 that she’ll have a man that’s half a year older 
 than I am, and a noted republican into the bar¬ 
 gain.” 
 
 Will Honeycomb, who looks upon love as his 
 particular province, interrupting our friend with a 
 janty laugh, “ I thought, knight,” said he, “ thou 
 hadst lived long enough in the world not to pin 
 I thy happiness upon one that is a woman, and a 
 i widow. I think that, without vanity, I may pre¬ 
 tend to know as much of the female world as any 
 man in Great Britain ; though the chief of my 
 knowledge consists in this, that they are not to be 
 known.” Will immediately, with his usual flu- 
 i ency, rambled into an account of his own amours. 
 “ I am now,” says he, “ upon the verge of fifty” 
 
 | (though, by the way, we all knew he was turned 
 I of threescore). “You may easily guess,” con¬ 
 tinued Will, “ that I have not lived so long in the 
 world without having had some thoughts of 
 
444 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 settling in it, as the phrase is. ,To tell you truly, 
 
 1 have several times tried my fortune that way, 
 though I cannot much boast of my success. 
 
 “ 1 made my first addresses to a young lady in 
 the country ; but, when I thought things were 
 pretty well drawing to a conclusion, her father 
 happening to hear that I had formerly boarded 
 with a surgeon, the old put forbade me his house, 
 and within a fortnight after married his daughter 
 to a fox-hunter in the neighborhood. 
 
 “ I made my next application to a widow, and 
 attacked her so briskly, that I thought myself 
 within a fortnight of her. As I waited upon her 
 one morning, she told me, that she intended to 
 keep her ready money and jointure in her own 
 hand, and desired me to call upon her attorney in 
 Lyon’s Inn, who would adjust with me what it 
 was proper for me to add to it. I was so rebuffed 
 by this overture, that I never inquired either for 
 her or her attorney afterward. 
 
 “ A few months after, I addressed myself to a 
 young lady who was an only daughter, and of a 
 good family. I danced with her at several balls, 
 squeezed her by the hand, said soft things to her, 
 and in short made no doubt of her heart; and 
 though my fortune w r as no w T ay equal to hers, I 
 was in hopes that her fond father would not deny 
 her the man she had fixed her affections upon. But 
 as I went one day to the house, in order to break 
 the matter to him, I found the whole family in 
 confusion, and heard, to my unspeakable surprise, 
 that Miss Jenny w 7 as that very morning run away 
 with the butler. 
 
 “ I then courted a second widow, and am at a 
 loss to this day how I came to miss her, for she had 
 often commended my person and behavior. Her 
 maid indeed told me one day, that her mistress 
 had said she never saw a gentleman with such a 
 spindle pair of legs as Mr. Honeycomb. 
 
 “ After this I laid siege to four heiresses succes¬ 
 sively, and, being a handsome young dog in those 
 days, quickly made a breach in their hearts; but I 
 don’t know how it came to pass, though I seldom 
 failed of getting the daughter’s consent, I could 
 never in my life get the old people on my side. 
 
 “ I could give you an account of a thousand 
 other unsuccessful attempts, particularly of one 
 which I made some years since upon an old wo¬ 
 man, whom I had certainly borne away with flying 
 colors, if her relations had not come pouring in to 
 her assistance from all parts of England; nay I 
 believe I should have got her at last, had she not 
 been carried off by a hard frost.” 
 
 As Will’s transitions are extremely quick, he 
 turned from Sir Roger, and applying himself to 
 me, told me there was a passage in the book I had 
 considered last Saturday, which deserved to be 
 written in letters of gold: and taking out a pocket 
 Milton, read the following lines, which are part of 
 one of Adam’s speeches to Eve after the fall:— 
 
 -Oh! why did God 
 
 Creator wise! that peopled highest heaven 
 With spirits masculine, create at last 
 This novelty on earth, this fair defect 
 Of nature, and not fill the world at once 
 With men, as angels, without feminine? 
 
 Or find some other way to generate 
 
 Mankind ? This mischief had not then befall’n, 
 
 And more that shall befall, innumerable 
 Disturbances on earth, through female snares, 
 
 And straight conjunction with this sex: for either 
 He shall never find out fit mate; but such 
 As some misfortune brings him, or mistake; 
 
 Or whom he wishes most shall seldom gain, 
 
 Through her perverseness; but shall see her gain’d 
 By a far worse; or, if she love, withheld 
 By parents; or his happiest choice too late 
 Shall meet already link’d, and wedlock-bound 
 To a fell adversary, his hate or shame; 
 
 Which infinite calamity shall cause 
 To human life, and household peace confound. 
 
 Sir Roger listened to this passage with great 
 attention: and, desiring Mr. Honeycomb to fold 
 down a leaf at the place, and lend him his book, 
 the knight put it up in his pocket, and told us 
 that lie would read over these verses again before 
 he went to bed.—X. 
 
 No. 360.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 23, 1712. 
 
 -De paupertate tacentes, 
 
 Plus poscente ferent.—H or. 1 Ep. xvii, 43. 
 
 The man who all his wants conceals, 
 
 Gains more than he who all his wants reveals. 
 
 Dumcombe. 
 
 I have nothing to do with the business of this 
 day any further than affixing the piece of Latin 
 on the head of my paper ; which I think a motto 
 not unsuitable; since, if silence of our poverty is 
 a recommendation, still more commendable is his 
 modesty who conceals it by decent dress. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “There is an evil under the sun, which has not 
 yet come within your speculation, and is the cen¬ 
 sure, disesteem, and contempt, which some young 
 fellows meet with from particular persons, for the 
 reasonable methpds they take to avoid them in 
 general. This is by appearing in a better dress 
 than may seem to a relation regularly consistent 
 with a small fortune; and therefore may occasion 
 a judgment of a suitable extravagance in other 
 particulars: but the disadvantage with which the 
 man of narrow circumstances acts and speaks, is 
 so feelingly set forth in a little book called The 
 Christian Hero, that the appearing to be otherwise 
 is not only pardonable but necessary. Every one 
 knows the hurry of conclusions that are made in 
 contempt of a person that appears to be calamitous; 
 which makes it very excusable to prepare one’s- 
 self for the company of those that are of a superior 
 quality and fortune, by appearing to be in a better 
 condition than one is, so far as such appearance 
 shall not make us really worse. 
 
 “ It is a justice due to the character of one who 
 suffers hard reflections from any particular per¬ 
 son upon this account, that such persons would 
 inquire into his manner of spending his time; 
 of which, though no further information can 
 be had than that he remains so many hours 
 in his chamber, yet, if this is cleared, to ima¬ 
 gine that a reasonable creature, wrung with a 
 narrow fortune, does not make the best use of this 
 retirement, would be conclusion extremely un¬ 
 charitable. From what has, or will be said, I 
 hope no consequence can be extorted, implying, 
 that I would have any young fellow spend more 
 time than the common leisure which his studies 
 require, or more money than his fortune or allow¬ 
 ance may admit of; in the pursuit of an acquaint¬ 
 ance with his betters: for, as to his time, the gross 
 of that ought to be sacred to more substantial ac¬ 
 quisitions; for each irrecoverable moment of which 
 he ought to believe he stands religiously account¬ 
 able. And as to his dress, I shall engage myself 
 no further than in the modest defense of two plain 
 suits a year; for being perfectly satisfied in Eutra- 
 
 E elus’s contrivance of making a Mohock of a man, 
 y presenting him with laced and embroidered 
 suits, I would by no means be thought to contro¬ 
 vert that conceit, by insinuating the advantages 
 of foppery. It is an assertion which admits of 
 much proof, that a stranger of tolerable sense, 
 dressed like a gentleman, w T ill be better re¬ 
 ceived by those of quality above him, than one of 
 much better parts, whose dress is regulated by 
 the rigid notions of frugality. A man’s appear¬ 
 ance falls wihtin the censure of every one that sees 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 him; his parts and learning very few are judges 
 of; and even upon these few they cannot at first be 
 well intruded; for policy and good breeding will 
 counsel him to be reserved among strangers, and to 
 support himself only by the common spirit of 
 conversation. Indeed among the injudicious, the 
 words, ‘delicacy, idiom, fine images, structures of 
 periods, genius, fire,’ and the rest, made use of 
 with a frugal and comely gravity, will maintain 
 the figure of immense reading, and the depth of 
 criticism. 
 
 “All gentlemen of fortune, at least the young 
 and middle-aged, are apt to pride themselves a 
 little too much upon their dress, and consequently 
 to value others in some measure upon the same 
 consideration. With what confusion is a man of 
 figure obliged to return the civilities of the hat to a 
 person whose air and attire hardly entitle him to 
 it! for whom nevertheless the other has a particular 
 esteem, though he is ashamed to have it chal¬ 
 lenged in so public a manner. It must be allowed, 
 that an}" young fellow that affects to dress and ap¬ 
 pear genteelly, might, with artificial management, 
 save ten pounds a year; as instead of fine holland 
 he might mourn in sackcloth, and in other par¬ 
 ticulars be proportionably shabby; but of what 
 great service would this sum be to avert any 
 misfortune, while it would leave him deserted by 
 the little good acquaintance he has, and prevent 
 his gaining any other? As the appearance of an 
 easy fortune is necessary toward making one, I 
 don’t know but it might be of advantage some¬ 
 times to throw into one’s discourse certain excla¬ 
 mations about bank stock, and to show a marvel¬ 
 ous surprise upon its fall, as well as the most af¬ 
 fected triumph upon its rise. The veneration and 
 respect which the practice of all ages has pre¬ 
 served to appearances, without doubt suggested 
 to our tradesmen that wise and politic custom, to 
 apply and recommend themselves to the public by 
 all those decorations upon their sign-posts and 
 houses which the most eminent hands in the 
 neighborhood can furnish them with. What can 
 be more attractive to a man of letters, than that 
 immense erudition of all ages and languages, 
 which a skillful bookseller, in conjunction with a 
 painter, shall image upon his column, and the ex¬ 
 tremities of his shop? The same spirit of main¬ 
 taining a handsome appearance reigns among the 
 grave and solid apprentices of the law (here I 
 could be particularly dull in proving the word ap¬ 
 prentice to be significant of a barrister); and you 
 may easily distinguish who has most lately made 
 his pretensions to business, by the whitest and 
 most ornamental frame of his window; if indeed 
 the chamber is aground-room, and has rails before 
 it, the finery is of necessity more extended, and 
 the pomp of business better maintained. And 
 what can be a greater indication of the dignity of 
 dress, than that burdensome finery which is the 
 regular habit of our judges, nobles, and bishops, 
 with which upon certain days we see them incum¬ 
 bered? And though it maybe said, this is awful, 
 and necessary for the dignity of the state, yet the 
 wisest of them have been remarkable, before they 
 arrived at their present stations, for being very 
 well dressed persons. As to my own part, I am 
 near thirty; and since I left school have not been 
 idle, which is a modern phrase for having studied 
 hard. I brought off a clean system of moral 
 philosophy, and a tolerable jargon of metaphy¬ 
 sics, from the university; since that, I have been 
 engaged in the clearing part of the perplexed style 
 and matter of the law, which so hereditarily de¬ 
 scends to all its professors. To all which severe 
 studies I have thrown in, at proper interims, the 
 pretty learning of the classics. Notwithstanding 
 
 445 
 
 which, I am what Shakspeare calls a fellow of no 
 mark or likelihood, which makes me understand 
 the more fully, that since the regular method of 
 making friends and a fortune by the mere force of 
 a profession is so very slow and uncertain, a man 
 should take all reasonable opportunities, by en¬ 
 larging a good acquaintance, to court that time 
 and chance which is said to happen to every 
 man.”—T. 
 
 No. 361.] THURSDAY, APRIL 24, 1712. 
 
 Tartaream intendit vocem, qua protinus omnis 
 
 Contremuit domus- 
 
 Virg. iEn. vii, 514. 
 
 The blast Tartarean spreads its notes around; 
 
 The house astonished trembles at the sound. 
 
 I have lately received the following letter from 
 a country gentleman:— 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The night before I left London I went to see a 
 play called The Humorous Lieutenant. Upon the 
 rising of the curtain I was very much surprised 
 with the great concert of cat-calls which was ex¬ 
 hibited that evening, and began to think with 
 myself that I had made a mistake, and gone to a 
 music-meeting instead of the playhouse. It ap¬ 
 peared indeed a little odd to me, to see so many 
 -persons of quality, of both sexes, assembled to¬ 
 gether at a kind of caterwauling, for 1 cannot look 
 upon that performance to have been anything 
 better, whatever the musicians themselves might 
 think of it. As I had no acquaintance in the 
 house to ask questions of, and was forced to go 
 out of town early the next morning, I could not 
 learn the secret of this matter. What 1 would 
 therefore desire of you is, to give me some account 
 of this strange instrument, which I found the com¬ 
 pany called a cat-call; and particularly to let me 
 know whether it be a piece of music lately come 
 from Italy. For my own part, to be free with you, I 
 would rather hear an English fiddle: though I 
 durst not show my dislike while I was in the 
 playhouse, it being my chance to sit the very next 
 man to one of the performers. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, 
 
 “Your most affectionate Friend, and Servant, 
 
 “John Shallow, Esq.” 
 
 In compliance with Squire Shallow’s request, I 
 design this paper as a dissertation upon the cat¬ 
 call. In order to make myself a master of the 
 subject, I purchased one the beginning of last 
 week, though not without great difficulty, being 
 informed at two or three toy-shops that the players 
 had lately bought them all up. I have since con¬ 
 sulted many learned antiquaries in relation to its 
 origin, and find them very much divided among 
 themselves upon that particular. A fellow of the 
 Royal Society, who is my good friend, and a great 
 proficient in the mathematical part of music, con¬ 
 cludes, from the simplicity of its make, and the 
 uniformity of its sound, that the cat-call is older 
 than any of the inventions of Jubal. He observes 
 very well, that musical instruments took their first 
 rise from the notes of birds, and other melodious 
 animals ; and “ what,” says he, “was more natural 
 than for the first ages of mankind to imitate the 
 voice of a cat, that lived under the same roof with 
 them?” He added, that the cat had contributed more 
 to harmony than any other animal; as we are not 
 only beholden to her for this wind instrument, 
 but for our string-music in general. 
 
 Another virtuoso of my acquaintance will not 
 allow the cat call to be older than Thespis, and is 
 apt to think it appeared in the world soon after the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 446 
 
 ancient comedy; for which reason it has still a 
 place in our dramatic entertainments. Nor must 
 I here omit what a very curious gentleman, who 
 is lately returned from his travels, has more than 
 once assured me, namely, that there wa.s lately dug 
 up at Rome the statue of a Mounts, who holds an 
 instrument in his right hand very much re¬ 
 sembling our modern cat-call. 
 
 There are others who ascribe this invention to 
 Orpheus, and look upon the cat-call to be one of 
 those instruments which that famous musician 
 made use of to draw the beasts about him. It is 
 certain that the roasting of a cat does not call to¬ 
 gether a greater audience of that species than this 
 instrument, if dextrously played upon in proper 
 time and place. 
 
 But, notwithstanding these various and learned 
 conjectures, I cannot forbear thinking that the 
 cat-call is originally a piece of English music. 
 Its resemblance to the voice of some of our British 
 songsters, as well as the use of it, which is pecu¬ 
 liar to our nation, confirms me in this opinion. 
 It has at least received great improvements among 
 us, whether we consider the instrument itself, or 
 those several quavers and graces which are thrown 
 into the playing of it. Every one might be sen¬ 
 sible of this who heard that remarkable overgrown 
 cat-call which was placed at the center of the pit, 
 and presided over all the rest, at the celebrated 
 performances lately exhibited at Drury-lane. 
 
 Having said thus much concerning the origin 
 of the cat-call, we are in the next place to consider 
 the use of it. The cat-call exerts itself to most 
 advantage in the British theater. It very much 
 improves the sound of nonsense, and often goes 
 along with the voice of the actor w T ho pronounces 
 it, as the violin or harpsichord accompanies the 
 Italian recitativo. 
 
 It has often supplied the place of the ancient 
 chorus, in the w r ords of Mr. ***. In short, a bad 
 poet has as great an antipathy to a cat-call as 
 many people have to a real cat. 
 
 Mr. Collier, in his ingenious essay upon music, 
 has the following passage : 
 
 “ I believe it is possible to invent an instrument 
 that shall have a quite contrary effect to those 
 martial ones now in use; an instrument that shall 
 sink the spirits, and shake the nerves and curdle 
 the blood, and inspire despair and cowardice and 
 consternation, at a surprising rate. ’Tis probable 
 the roaring of lions, the warbling of cats and 
 screech-owls, together with a mixture of the howl¬ 
 ing of dogs, judiciously imitated and*compounded, 
 might go a great way in this invention. Whether 
 such anti-music as this might not be of service in 
 a camp, I shall leave to the military men to con¬ 
 sider.” 
 
 What this learned gentleman supposes in specu¬ 
 lation, I have known actually verified in practice. 
 The cat-call has struck a damp into generals, and 
 frightened heroes off the stage. At the first sound 
 of it I have seen a crowned head tremble, and a 
 princess fall into fits. The humorous lieutenant 
 himself could not stand it; nay, I am told that 
 even Almanzor looked like a mouse, and trembled 
 at the voice of this terrifying instrument. 
 
 As it is of a dramatic nature, and peculiarly ap¬ 
 propriated to the stage, I can by no means ap¬ 
 prove the thought of that angry lover, who, after 
 an unsuccessful pursuit of some years, took leave 
 of his mistress in a serenade of cat-calls. 
 
 I must conclude this paper with the account I 
 have lately received of an ingenious artist, who 
 has long studied this instrumemt, and is very well 
 versed in all the rules of the drama. He teaches 
 to play on it by book, and to express by it the 
 whole art of criticism. He has his bass and his 
 
 treble cat-call: the former for tragedy, the latter 
 for comedy; only in tragi-comedies they may both 
 play together in concert. He has a particular 
 squeak, to denote the violation of each of the uni¬ 
 ties, and has different sounds to show whether he 
 aims at the poet or the player. In short, he 
 teaches the smut-note, the fustian-note, the stupid- 
 note, and has composed a kind of air that may 
 serve as an act-tune to an incorrigible play, and 
 which takes in the whole compass of the cat call. 
 L. 
 
 No. 362.] FRIDAY, APRIL 25, 1712. 
 
 Laudibus arguitur vini vinosus.- 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xix, 6. 
 
 He praises wine; and we conclude from thence 
 
 He lik’d his glass on his own evidence. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, Temple, April 24. 
 
 “Several of my friends were this morning got 
 together over a dish of tea in very good health, 
 though we had celebrated yesterday with more 
 glasses than we could have dispensed with, had we 
 not been beholden to Brooke and Hellier. In gra¬ 
 titude therefore to those good citizens, I am, in 
 the name of the company, to accuse you of great 
 negligence in overlooking their merit who have 
 imported true and generous wine, and taken care 
 that it should not be adulterated by the retailers 
 before it comes to the tables of private families, or 
 the clubs of honest fellows. I cannot imagine 
 how a Spectator can be supposed to do his duty, 
 without frequent resumption of such subjects as 
 concern our health, the first thing to be regarded, 
 if we have a mind to relish anything else. It 
 would therefore very well become your spectato- 
 rial vigilance, to give it in orders to your officer 
 for inspecting signs, that in his march he would 
 look into the itinerants who deal in provisions, 
 and inquire where they buy their several wares. 
 Ever since the decease of Colly-Molly-Puff, of 
 agreeable and noisy memory, I cannot say I have 
 observed anything sold in carts, or carried by 
 horse or ass, or, in fine, in any moving market, 
 which is not perished or putrefied; witness the 
 wheelbarrows of rotten raisins, almonds, figs, and 
 currants, which you see vended by a merchant 
 dressed in a second hand suit of a foot-soldier. 
 You should consider that a child may be poi¬ 
 soned for the worth of a farthing; but except his 
 poor parents send to one certain doctor in town, 
 they can have no advice for him under a guinea. 
 When poisons are thus cheap, and medicines thus 
 dear, how can you be negligent in inspecting what 
 we eat and drink, or take no notice of such as the 
 above-mentioned citizens who have been so service¬ 
 able to us of late in that particular? It was a 
 custom among the old Romans, to do him particu¬ 
 lar honors who had saved the life of a citizen. 
 How much more does the world owe to those who 
 prevent the death of multitudes! As these men 
 deserve well of your officers, so such as act to the 
 detriment of our health you ought to represent to 
 themselves and their fellow subjects in the colors 
 which they deserve to wear. I think it would be 
 for the public good, that all who vend wines should 
 be under oath in that behalf. The chairman at 
 the quarter-sessions should inform the country, 
 that the vintner who mixes wine to his customers 
 shall (upon proof that the drinker thereof died 
 within a year and a day after taking it) be deemed 
 guilty of willful murder, and the jury shall be in¬ 
 structed to inquire and present such delinquents 
 accordingly. It is no mitigation of the crime, nor 
 will it be conceived that it can be brought in 
 chance-medley or manslaughter, upon proof that 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 it, shall appear wine joined to wine, or right 
 Herefordshire poured into Port 0 Port: but his 
 selling it for one thing, knowing it to be another, 
 must justly bear the aforesaid guilt of willful mur¬ 
 der: for that he, the said vintner, did an unlawful 
 act willingly in the false mixture, and is therefore 
 with equity liable to all the pains to which a man 
 would be, if it were proved that he designed only 
 to run a man through the arm whom he whipped 
 through the lungs. This is ray third year at the 
 Temple, and this is, or should be, law. An ill 
 intention, well proved, should meet with no allevia¬ 
 tion because it outran itself. There cannot be too 
 great severity used against the injustice as well as 
 cruelty of those who play with men’s lives, by 
 preparing liquors whose nature, for aught they 
 know, may be noxious when mixed, though inno¬ 
 cent when apart : and Brooke and Hellier, who 
 have insured our safety at our meals, and driven 
 jealousy from our cups in conversation, deserve 
 the custom and thanks of the whole town: and it 
 is your duty to remind them of the obligation. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “Tom Pottle.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a person who was long immured in a col¬ 
 lege, read much, saw little; so that I knew no 
 more ot the world than what a lecture or a view 
 of the map taught me. By this means I improved 
 in my study, but became unpleasant in conversa¬ 
 tion. By conversing generally with the dead, I 
 grew almost unfit for the society of the living; so 
 by a long confinement I contracted an ungainly 
 aversion to conversation, and ever discoursed with 
 pain to myself, and little entertainment to others. 
 At last I was in some measure made sensible of 
 my failing, and the mortification of never being 
 spoke* to, or speaking, unless the discourse ran 
 upon books, put me upon forcing myself among 
 men. I immediately affected the politest compa 
 ny, by the frequent use of which 1 hoped to wear 
 off the rust I had contracted : but, by an uncouth 
 imitation of men used to act in public, I got no 
 further than to discover I had a mind to appear a 
 finer thing than I really was 
 
 “ Such 1 was, and such was my condition, when 
 I became an ardent lover, and passionate admirer 
 of the beauteous Belinda. Then it was that I 
 really began to improve. This passion changed 
 all my fears and diffidences in my general beha¬ 
 vior to the sole concern of pleasing her. I had 
 not now to study the action of a gentleman ; but 
 love possessing all my thoughts, made me truly be 
 the thing I had a mind to appear. My thoughts 
 grew free and generous, and the ambition to be 
 agreeable to her 1 admired produced in my carriage 
 a taint similitude of that disengaged manner of my 
 Belinda. The way we are in at present is, that she 
 sees my passion, and sees I at present forbear 
 speaking of it through prudential regards. This 
 respect to her she returns with much civility, and 
 makes my value for her as little a misfortune to 
 me as is consistent with discretion. She sings 
 very charmingly, and is readier to do so at my re¬ 
 quest, because she knows I love her. She will 
 dance with me rather than another for the same 
 reason. My fortune must alter from what it is 
 before I can speak my heart to her; and her cir¬ 
 cumstances are not considerable enough to make 
 up for the narrowness of mine. But I write to 
 you now, only to give you the character of Belin¬ 
 da, as a woman that has address enough to de¬ 
 monstrate a gratitude to her lover, without giving 
 him., hopes of success in his passion. Belinda 
 
 * The preterite for the participle. 
 
 447 
 
 lias, from a great wit, governed by as great pru¬ 
 dence, and both adorned with innocence, the hap¬ 
 piness ot always being ready to discover her real 
 thoughts. She has many of us who now are her 
 admirers; but her treatment of us is so just and 
 proportioned to our merit toward her, and what we 
 are in ourselves, that I protest to you I have 
 neither jealousy nor hatred toward my rivals. 
 Sucli is her goodness, and the acknowledghient of 
 every man who admires her, that he thinks he 
 ought to believe she will take him who best de- 
 seives her. I will not say that this peace among 
 us is not owing to self-love, which prompts each 
 to think himself the best deserver. I think there 
 is something uncommon and worthy of imitation 
 in this lady’s character. If you will please to 
 print my letter, you will oblige the little fraternity 
 ol happy rivals, and in a more particular manner, 
 “ Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “Will Cymon.” 
 
 Xo. 363.] SATURDAY, APRIL 26, 1712. 
 
 ■-Crudelis ubique 
 
 Luc-tus ubique pavor, et plurima mortis imago. 
 
 ViRG., A2n. ii, 368. 
 
 All parts resound with tumults, plaints, and fears, 
 
 And grisly Death in sundry shapes appears. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Milton lias shown a wonderful art in describ¬ 
 ing that variety of passions which arose in our 
 first parents upon the breach of the commandment 
 that had been given them. We see them gradu¬ 
 ally passing from the triumph of their guilt, 
 through remorse, shame, despair, contrition, 
 prayer, and hope, to a perfect and complete repent¬ 
 ance. At the end ot the tenth book they are re¬ 
 presented as prostrating themselves upon the 
 ground, and watering the earth with their tears : 
 to which the poet joins' this beautiful circum¬ 
 stance, that they offered up their penitential 
 prayers on the very place where their judge ap¬ 
 peared to them when he pronounced their sen¬ 
 tence :— 
 
 --They forthwith to the place 
 
 Repairing where he judg’d them, prostrate fell 
 Before him rey’rent, and both confess’d 
 Humbly their faults, and pardon begg’d, with tears 
 Watering the ground-. 
 
 There* is a beauty of the same kind in a tragedy 
 of Sophocles, where CEdipus, after having put 
 out his own eyes, instead of breaking his neck 
 from the palace battlements (which furnishes so 
 elegant an entertainment for our English audience), 
 desires that he may be conducted to Mount Cithaj- 
 ron, in order to end his life in that very place 
 where he was exposed in his infancy, and where 
 he should then have died, had the will of his pa¬ 
 rents been executed. 
 
 As the author never fails to give a poetical turn 
 to his sentiments, he describes in the beginning 
 of this book of acceptance which these their 
 prayers met with a short allegory formed upon 
 that beautiful passage in holy writ, “And another 
 angel came and stood at the altar, having a golden 
 censer; and there was given unto him much in¬ 
 cense, that he should offer it with the prayers of 
 all saints upon thd golden altar, which was before 
 the throne : and the smoke of the incense, which 
 
 * This paragraph was not in the original paper in folio; it 
 was added on the republication of the papers in volumes, 
 when the eighteen numbers, of which Addison’s critique on 
 Paradise Lost consists, seem to have been carefully revised 
 by their author, and to have undergone various and conside¬ 
 rable alterations in consequence of his revisal. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 448 
 
 came with the prayers of the saints, ascended np 
 before God.”* 
 
 -To heaven their prayers 
 
 Flew up, nor miss’d the way, by envious winds 
 Blown vagabond or frustrate; in they pass'd 
 Dimensionless through heavenly doors, then clad 
 With incense, where the golden altar fum’d 
 By their great Intercessor, came in sight 
 Before the Father’s throne-. 
 
 We have the same thought expressed a second 
 time in the intercession of the Messiah, which is 
 conceived in very empliatical sentiments and ex¬ 
 pressions. 
 
 Among the poetical parts of Scripture, which 
 Milton has so finely wrought into this part of his 
 narration, I must not omit that wherein Ezekiel, 
 speaking of the angels who appeared to him in a 
 vision, adds, that every one had four faces, and 
 that their whole bodies, and their backs, and their 
 hands, and their wings, were full of eyes round 
 about: 
 
 -The cohort bright 
 
 Of watchful cherubim, four faces each 
 Had, like a double Janus, all their shape 
 Spangled with eyes-. 
 
 The assembling of all the angels of heaven, to 
 hear the solemn decree passed upon man, is re- 
 resented in very lively ideas. The Almighty is 
 ere described as remembering mercy in the midst 
 of judgment, and commanding Michael to deliver 
 his message in the mildest terms, lest the spirit of 
 man, which w T as already broken with the sense of 
 his guilt and misery, should fail before him: 
 
 -Yet lest they faint 
 
 And the sad sentence rigorously urg’d, 
 
 For I behold them soften’d, and with tears 
 Bewailing their excess, all terror hide. 
 
 The conference of Adam and Eve is full of mov¬ 
 ing sentiments. Upon their going abroad, after 
 the melancholy night which they had passed to¬ 
 gether, they discover the lion and the eagle, each 
 of them pursuing their prey toward the eastern 
 gates of Paradise. There is a double beauty in 
 this incident, not only as it presents great and 
 just omens, which are always agreeable in poetry, 
 but as it expresses that enmity which was now 
 produced in the animal creation. The poet, to 
 show the like changes in nature, as well as to 
 grace his fable with a noble prodigy, represents 
 the sun in an eclipse. This particular incident 
 has likewise a fine effect upon the imagination of 
 the reader, in regard to what follows; for at the 
 same time that the sun is under an eclipse, a 
 bright cloud descends in the western quarter of 
 the heavens filled with a host of angels, and more 
 luminous than the sun itself. The whole theater 
 of nature is darkened, that this glorious machine 
 may appear with all its luster and magnificence : 
 
 -Why in the east 
 
 Darkness ere day’s mid-course? and morning light 
 More orient in yon western cloud that draws 
 O’er the blue firmament a radiant white, 
 
 And slow descends with something heavenly fraught ? 
 He err’d not for by this the heavenly bands 
 Down from a sky of jasper lighted now 
 In Paradise, and on a hill made halt; 
 
 A glorious apparition-. 
 
 I need not observe how properly this author, 
 who always suits his parts to the actors whom he 
 introduces, has employed Michael in the expulsion 
 of our first parents from Paradise. The archangel 
 on this occasion neither appears in his proper 
 shape, nor in the familiar manner with which Ra¬ 
 
 phael. the sociable spirit, entertained the father of 
 mankind before the fall. His person, his port, and 
 behavior, are suitable to a spirit of the highest 
 rank, and exquisitely described in the following 
 passage; 
 
 -Th’ archangel soon drew nigh, 
 
 Not in his shape celestial; but as man 
 Clad to meet man: over his lucid arms 
 A military vest of purple flow’d, 
 
 Livelier than Meliboean, or the grain 
 Of Sarra, worn by kings and heroes old, 
 
 In time of truce: Iris had dipp’d the woof: 
 
 His starry helm, unbuckl’d, show’d him prime 
 In manhood where youth ended; by his side, 
 
 As in a glist’ring zodiac, hung the sword, 
 
 Satan’s dire dread, and in his hand a spear. 
 
 Adam bow’d low; he kindly from his state 
 Inclin’d not, but his coming thus declared. 
 
 Eve’s complaint, upon hearing that she was to 
 be removed from the garden of Paradise, is won¬ 
 derfully beautiful. The sentiments are not only 
 proper to the subject, but have something in them 
 particularly soft and womanish : 
 
 Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? Thus leave 
 Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades, 
 
 Fit haunt of gods, where I had hope to spend 
 Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 
 That must be mortal to us both ? 0 flowers, 
 
 That never will in other climate grow, 
 
 My early visitation, and my last 
 
 At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names! 
 
 Who now shall rear you to the sun, or rank 
 
 Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? 
 
 Thee, lastly, nuptial bower, by me adorn’d 
 
 With what to sight or smell was sweet: from thee 
 
 How shall I part? and whither wander down 
 
 Into a lower world, to this, obscure 
 
 And wild? How shall we breathe in other air 
 
 Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits? 
 
 Adam’s speech abounds with thoughts which 
 are equally moving, but of a more masculine and 
 elevated turn. Nothing can be conceived more 
 sublime and poetical than the following passage 
 in it: 
 
 This most afflicts me, that departing hence 
 As from his face 1 shall be hid, depriv’d 
 His blessed count’nance; here I could frequent, 
 
 With worship, place by place where he vouchsaf’d 
 Presence divine; and to my sons relate, 
 
 On this mount he appeared, under this tree 
 Stood visible, among these pines his voice 
 I heard; here with him at this fountain talk’d: 
 
 So many grateful altars I would rear 
 Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone 
 Of luster from the brook, in memory 
 Or monuments to ages, and thereon 
 Offer sweet-smelling gums and fruits and flow’rs. 
 
 In yonder nether world, where shall I seek 
 His bright appearances, or footsteps trace? 
 
 For though I fled him angry, yet recalled 
 To life prolong’d and promis’d race, I now 
 Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts 
 Of glory, and far off his steps adore. 
 
 The angel afterward leads Adam to the highest 
 mount of Paradise, and lays before him a whole 
 hemisphere, as a proper stage for those visions 
 which were to be represented on it. I have before ob¬ 
 served how the plan of Milton’s poem is, in many 
 particulars, greater than that of the Iliad or 
 HEneid. Virgil’s hero, in the last of these poems, 
 is entertained with a sight of all those who are to 
 descend from him; but though that episode is 
 justly admired as one of the noblest designs in 
 the whole HEneid, every one must allow that this 
 of Milton is of a much higher nature. Adam’s 
 vision is not confined to any particular tribe of 
 mankind, but extends to the whole species. 
 
 In this great review which Adam frakes of all 
 his sons and daughters, the first objects he is pre¬ 
 sented with exhibit to him the story of Cain and 
 Abel, which is drawn together with much close- 
 I ness and propriety of expression. The curiosity 
 
 * Rev., viii, 3, 4. 
 
THE SPE OT ATOR. 
 
 and natural horror which arises in Adam at the 
 sight of the first dying man is touched with great 
 beauty: 
 
 But have I now seen death? Is this the way 
 I must return to native dust? O sight 
 Of terror foul, and ugly to behold! 
 
 Horrid to think, how horrible to feel! 
 
 The second vision sets before him the image of 
 death, in a great variety of appearances. The 
 angel, to give him a general idea of those effects 
 which his guilt had brought upon his posterity, 
 places before him a large hospital, or lazar-house, 
 filled with persons lying under all kinds of mortal 
 diseases. How finely has the poet told us that the 
 sick persons languished under lingering and incu¬ 
 rable distempers, by an apt and judicious use of 
 such imaginary beings as those I mentioned in my 
 last Saturday’s paper! 
 
 Hire was the tossing, deep the groans ; Despair 
 Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch; 
 
 And over them triumphant Death his dart 
 Shook, but delay’d to strike, tho’ oft invok’d 
 With vows, as their chief good and final hope. 
 
 The passion which likewise rises in Adam on 
 this occasion is very natural: 
 
 Sight so deform what heart of rock could long 
 Dry-ey’d behold? Adam could not, but wept 
 Tho’ not of woman born; compassion quell’d 
 His best of man, and gave him up to tears. 
 
 The discourse between the angel and Adam 
 which follows, abounds with noble morals. 
 
 As there is nothing more delightful in poetry 
 than a contrast and opposition of incidents, the 
 author, after this melancholy prospect of death 
 and sickness, raises up a scene of mirth, love, and 
 jollity. The secret pleasure that steals into 
 Adam s heart, as he is intent upon this vision, is 
 imagined with great delicacy. I must not omit 
 the description of the loose female troop, who se¬ 
 duced the sons of God, as they are called in Scrip¬ 
 ture. 
 
 For that fair female troop thou saw’st, that seem’d 
 Of goddesses, so blythe, so smooth, so gay, 
 
 Yet empty of all good, wherein consists 
 Woman’s domestic honor, and chief praise; 
 
 Bred only and completed to the taste 
 Of lustful appetence, to sing, to dance, 
 
 To dress, and troll the tongue, and roll the eye. 
 
 To these that sober race of men, whose lives 
 Religious titled them the sons of God, 
 
 Shall yield up all their virtue, all their fame, 
 
 Ignobly, to the trains and to the smiles 
 Of these fair atheists-. 
 
 The next vision is of a quite contrary nature, 
 and filled with the horrors of war. Adam at the 
 sight of it melts into tears, and breaks out into 
 that passionate speech, 
 
 -0 what are these! 
 
 449 
 
 wanton imaginations which Seneca found fault 
 with, as unbecoming this great catastrophe of na- 
 Uire. If our poet has imitated that verse in which 
 Ovid tells us that there was nothing but sea, and 
 that this sea had no shore to it, he has not set the 
 ought m such a light as to incur the censure 
 ich critics have passed upon it. The latter 
 part of that verse in Ovid is idle and superfluous, 
 but just and beautiful in Milton. 
 
 Jamque mare et tellus nullum discrimen habebant; 
 r<il nisi pontus erat; deerant quoque littora ponto 
 
 Ovid, Metam. i, 291 
 
 Now seas and earth were in confusion lost; 
 
 A world of waters, and without a coast.— Dkyden 
 
 Sea without shore 
 
 •Sea cover’d sea, 
 
 -Milton. 
 
 In Milton, the former part of the description 
 does not forestall the latter. How much more 
 great and solemn on this occasion is that which 
 follows in our English poet. 
 
 —-And in their palaces, 
 
 Where luxury late reign’d, sea-monsters whelp’d 
 And stabled-- 
 
 than that in Ovid, where we are told that the sea- 
 calf lay in those places where the goats were used 
 to browse! The reader may find several other 
 parallel passages in the Latin and English descrip¬ 
 tion of the deluge, wherein our poet has visibly 
 the advantage. The sky’s being overcharged 
 with clouds, the descending of the rains, the ris¬ 
 ing of the seas, and the appearance of the rain¬ 
 bow, are such descriptions as every one must take 
 notice of. The circumstance relating to Paradise 
 is so finely imagined, and suitable to the opinions 
 of many learned authors, that I cannot forbear 
 giving it a place in this paper. 
 
 -Then shall this mount 
 
 Death’s ministers, not men, who thus deal death 
 Inhumanly to men, and multiply 
 Ten thousandfold the sin of him who slew 
 His brother: for of whom such massacre 
 Make they, but of their brethren, men of men ? 
 
 Milton, to keep up an agreeable variety in his 
 visions, after having raised in the mind of his 
 reader the several ideas of terror which are con¬ 
 formable to the description of war, passes on to 
 those softer images of triumphs and festivals, in 
 that vision of lewdness and luxury which ushers 
 in the flood. 
 
 As^ it is visible that the poet had his eye upon 
 Ovid’s account of the universal deluge, the reader 
 may observe with how much judgment he has 
 avoided everything that is redundant or puerile in 
 the Latin poet. We do not here see the wolf 
 swimming among the sheep, nor any of those 
 29 
 
 Of Paradise, by might of waves, he mov’d 
 Out of his place, push’d by the horned flood; 
 
 With all his verdure spoil’d, and trees adrift 
 Down the great river to th’ opening gulf. 
 
 And there take root; an island salt and bare, 
 
 The haunt of seals and ores and sea-mews’ clang. 
 
 The transition which the poet makes from the 
 vision of the deluge, to the concern it occasioned 
 in Adam, is exquisitely graceful, and copied after 
 Virgil, though the first thought it introduces is 
 rather in the spirit of Ovid: 
 
 How didst thou grieve then, Adam, to behold 
 The end of all thy offspring, end so sad, 
 Depopulation! Thee another flood, 
 
 Of tears and sorrow, a flood, thee also drown’d, 
 
 And sunk thee as thy sons: till gently rear’d 
 By th’ angel, on thy feet thou stood’st at last, 
 
 Tho’ comfortless, as when a father mourns 
 His children all in view destroy’d at once. 
 
 I have been the more particular in my quota¬ 
 tions out of the eleventh book of Paradise Lost, 
 because it is not generally reckoned among the 
 most shining books of this poem; for which rea¬ 
 son the reader might be apt to overlook those 
 many passages in it which deserve our admira¬ 
 tion. The eleventh and twelfth are indeed built 
 upon that single circumstance of the removal of 
 our first parents from Paradise; but though this is 
 not in itself so great a subject as that in most of 
 the foregoing books, it is extended and diversified 
 with so many surprising incidents and pleasing 
 episodes, that these two last books can by no 
 means be looked upon as unequal parts of this di¬ 
 vine poem. I must further add, that had not Mil- 
 ton represented our first parents as driven out of 
 Paradise, his fall of man would not have been 
 complete, and consequently his action would have 
 been imperfect.—L. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 450 
 
 No. 364.] MONDAY, APRIL 28, 1712. 
 
 -Nayibus atque 
 
 Quadrigis petimus bene vivere. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xi, 29. 
 
 Anxious through seas and land to search for rest, 
 
 Is but laborious idleness at best.— Francis. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ A lady of my acquaintance, for whom I have 
 too much respect to be easy while she is doing an 
 indiscreet action, has given occasion to this trou¬ 
 ble. She is a widow to whom the indulgence of 
 a tender husband has intrusted the management 
 of a very great fortune, and a son about sixteen, 
 both which she is extremely fond of. The boy 
 has parts of the middle size, neither shining nor 
 despicable, and has passed the common exercises 
 of nis years with tolerable advantage, but is 
 withal what you would call a forward youth: by 
 the help of this last qualification, which serves as 
 a varnish to all the rest, he is enabled to make the 
 best use of his learning, and display it at full 
 length upon all occasions. Last summer he dis¬ 
 tinguished himself two or three times very re¬ 
 markably, by puzzling the vicar before an assem¬ 
 bly of most of the ladies in the neighborhood; 
 and from such weighty considerations as these, as 
 it too often unfortunately falls out, the mother is 
 become invincibly persuaded that her son is a 
 great scholar; and that to chain him down to the 
 ordinary methods of education, with others of his 
 age, would be to cramp his faculties, and do an 
 irreparable injury to his wonderful capacity. 
 
 “ I happened to visit at the house last week, 
 and missing the young gentleman at the tea-table, 
 where he seldom fails to officiate, could not upon 
 so extraordinary a circumstance avoid inquiring 
 after him. My lady told me he was gone out with 
 her woman, in order to make some preparation for 
 their equipage; for that she intended very speed¬ 
 ily to carry him to ( travel.' The oddness of the 
 expression shocked me a little; however, I soon 
 recovered myself enough to let her know, that all 
 I was willing to understand by it was, that she 
 designed this summer to show her son his estate 
 in a distant county, in which he had never yet 
 been. But she soon took care to rob me of that 
 agreeable mistake, and let me into the whole af¬ 
 fair. She enlarged upon young master’s prodi¬ 
 gious improvements, ana his comprehensive 
 knowledge of all book-learning; concluding, that 
 it was now high time he should be made ac¬ 
 quainted with men and things : that she had re¬ 
 solved he should make the tour of France and 
 Italy, but could not bear to have him out of her 
 sight, and therefore intended to go along with him. 
 
 “ I was going to rally her for so extravagant a 
 resolution, but found myself not in a fit humor to 
 meddle with a subject that demanded the most 
 soft and delicate touch imaginable. I was afraid 
 of dropping something that might seem to bear 
 hard either upon the son’s abilities, or the mo¬ 
 ther’s discretion, being sensible that in both these 
 cases, though supported with all the powers of 
 reason, I should, instead of gaining her ladyship 
 over to my opinion, only expose myself to her 
 disesteem : I therefore immediately determined to 
 refer the whole matter to the Spectator. 
 
 “ When I came to reflect at night, as my custom 
 is, upon the occurrences of the day, I could not 
 but believe that this humor of carrying a boy to 
 travel in his mother’s lap, and that upon a pre¬ 
 tense of learning men and things, is a case of an 
 extraordinary nature, and carries on it a peculiar 
 stamp of folly. I did not remember to have met with 
 its parallel within the compass of my observation, 
 though I could call to mind some not extremely 
 
 unlike it. From hence my thoughts took occa¬ 
 sion to ramble into the general notion of travel¬ 
 ing, as it is now made a part of education 
 Nothing is more frequent than to take a lad from 
 grammar and taw, and, under the tuition of some 
 poor scholar, who is willing to be banished for 
 thirty pounds a year and a little victuals, send 
 him crying and sniveling into foreign countries. 
 Thus he spends his time as children do at puppet- 
 shows, and with much the same advantage, in 
 staring and gaping at an amazing variety of 
 strange things; strange indeed to one who is not 
 prepared to comprehend the reasons and mean¬ 
 ing of them, while he should be laying the 
 solid foundations of knowledge in his mind, and 
 furnishing it with just rules to direct his future 
 progress in life under some skillful master of the 
 art of instruction. 
 
 “ Can there be a more astonishing thought in 
 nature, than to consider how men should fall into 
 so palpable a mistake? It is a large field, and 
 may very well exercise a sprightly genius ; but 
 I do not remember you have yet taken a turn in it. 
 I wish, Sir, you would make people understand, 
 that ‘ travel ’ is really the last step to be taken in 
 the institution of youth ; and that to set out with 
 it, is to begin where they should end. 
 
 “ Certainly the true end of visiting foreign parts 
 is to look into their customs and policies, ana ob¬ 
 serve in what particulars they excel or come short 
 of our own ; to unlearn some old peculiarities in 
 our manners, and wear off such awkward stiffnesses 
 and affectations in our behavior, as may possibly 
 have been contracted from constantly associating 
 with one nation of men, by a more free, general, 
 and mixed conversation. But how can any of 
 these advantages be attained by one who is a mere 
 stranger to the customs and policies of his native 
 country, and has not yet fixed in his mind the 
 first principles of manners and behavior? To 
 endeavor it, is to build a gaudy structure without 
 any foundation ; or, if I may be allowed the ex¬ 
 pression, to work a rich embroidery upon a cobweb. 
 
 “ Another end of traveling, which deserves to 
 be considered, is the improving our taste of the 
 best authors of antiquity, by seeing the places 
 where they lived, and of which they wrote; to 
 compare the natural face of the country with the 
 descriptions they have given us, and observe how 
 well the picture agrees with the original. This 
 must certainly be a most charming exercise to the 
 mind that is rightly turned for it; beside that it 
 may in a good measure be made subservient to 
 morality, if the person is capable of drawing just 
 conclusions concerning the uncertainty of human 
 things, from the ruinous alterations time and bar¬ 
 barity have brought upon so many places, cities, 
 and whole countries, which make the most illus¬ 
 trious figures in history. And this hint may be 
 not a little improved by examining every spot of 
 ground that we find celebrated as the scene of 
 some famous action, or retaining any footsteps of 
 a Cato, Cicero, or Brutus, or some such great 
 virtuous man. A nearer view of any such parti¬ 
 cular, though really little and trifling in itself, 
 may serve the more powerfully to warm a gene¬ 
 rous mind to an emulation of their virtues, and 
 a greater ardency of ambition to imitate their 
 bright examples, if it comes duly tempered and 
 prepared for the impression. But this 1 believe 
 you will hardly think those to be, who are so 
 far from entering into the sense and spirit of the 
 ancients, that they do not yet understand their 
 language with any exactness.* 
 
 *The following paragraph, in the first edition of this paper 
 in folio, whether written originally by the Earl of Il&rdwicke, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ But I have wandered from my purpose, which 
 was only to desire you to save, if possible, a fond 
 English mother, and mother’s own son, from 
 being shown a ridiculous spectacle through the 
 most polite part of Europe. Pray tell them, that 
 though to be sea-sick, or jumbled in an outlandish 
 stage-coach, may perhaps be healthful for the 
 constitution of the body, yet it is apt to cause 
 such a dizziness in young empty heads as too 
 often lasts their lifetime. 
 
 “ I am > Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Philip Homebred.” 
 
 ** ® IR > Birchin-lane. 
 
 “ I was married on Sunday last, and went 
 peaceably to bed; but, to my surprise, was 
 awakened the next morning by the thunder of a 
 set of drums. These warlike sounds (methinks) 
 are very improper, in a marriage-concert, and 
 give great offense; they seem to insinuate, that 
 joys of this state are short, and that jars and 
 discord soon ensue. I fear they have been omin¬ 
 ous to many matches, and sometimes proved a 
 prelude to a battle in the honeymoon. A nod 
 from you may hush them; therefore, pray. Sir, let 
 them be silenced, that for the future none but 
 soft airs may usher in the morning of a bridal 
 night; which Will be a favor not only to those 
 who come after, but to me, who can still sub¬ 
 scribe myself, “ Your most hu mble, 
 
 “ and most obedient Servant, 
 
 “ Robin Bridegroom.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I a m one of that sort of women whom the 
 gayer part of our sex are apt to call a prude. But 
 to show them that I have a very little regard to 
 their raillery, I shall be glad to see them all at 
 the Amorous Widow, or the Wanton Wife, which 
 is to be acted for the benefit of Mrs. Porter, on 
 Monday the 28th instant. I assure you I can 
 laugh at an amorous widow, or wanton wife, 
 with as little temptation to imitate them, as I 
 could at any other vicious character. Mrs. Porter 
 obliged me so very much in the exquisite sense 
 she seemed to have of the honorable sentiments 
 and noble passions in the character of Hermione, 
 that I shall appear in her behalf at a comedy’ 
 though I have no great relish for any entertain¬ 
 ments where the mirth is not seasoned with a 
 certain severity, which ought to recommend it to 
 people who pretend to keep reason and authority 
 over all their actions. I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your frequent Reader, 
 
 “ Altamira.” 
 
 451 
 
 or inserted afterward by Sir R. Steele, was probably suppress¬ 
 ed on the first republication, at the request of Addison. It 
 is reprinted here from the Spect. in folio. No. 364. 
 
 1 cannot quit this head without paying my acknowledg¬ 
 ments to one of the most entertaining pieces this age has pro¬ 
 duced. for the pleasure it gave me. You will easily guess 
 that the book I have in my head is Mr. Addison’s Remarks 
 upon Italy. That ingenious gentleman has with so much art 
 and judgment applied his exact knowledge of all the parts 
 of classical learning, to illustrate the several occurrences of 
 his travels, that his work alone is a pregnant proof of what 
 1 have said. Nobody that has a taste this way. can read 
 him going from Rome to Naples, and making Horace and 
 feiims Italicus his chart, but he must feel some uneasiness in 
 himselt to reflect that he was not in his retinue. I am sure 
 I wished it ten times in every page, and that not without a 
 secret vanity to think in what state I should have traveled 
 the Appum road, with Horace for a guide, and in company 
 with a countryman of my own, who, of all men living, knows 
 best how to follow his steps.” 
 
 No. 365.] TUESDAY, APRIL 29, 1712 
 
 \erc magis, quia vere calor redit ossibus-. 
 
 Yirg., Georg, iii, 272. 
 
 But most in spring: the kindly spring inspires 
 Reviving heat, and kindles genial fires. 
 
 adapted. 
 
 Flush’d by the spirit of the genial year, 
 
 Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts. 
 
 Thomson’s Spring, 160, etc. 
 
 The author of the Menagiana acquaints us, 
 that discoursing one day with several ladies of 
 quality about the effects of the month of May, 
 which infuses a kindly warmth into the earth’ 
 
 and all its inhabitants, the Marchioness of S_’ 
 
 who was one of the company, told him, that though 
 she would promise to be chaste in every month 
 beside, she could not engage for herself in May. 
 As the beginning therefore of this month is now 
 very near, i design this paper for a caveat to the 
 fair sex, and publish it before April is quite out, 
 that if any of them should be caught tripping’ 
 they may not pretend they had not timely notice 
 I am induced to this, being persuaded the 
 above-mentioned observation is as well calculated 
 for our climate as for that of France, and that 
 some of our British ladies are of the same con¬ 
 stitution with the French marchioness. 
 
 I shall leave it among physicians to determine 
 what may be the cause of such an anniversary in¬ 
 clination; whether or no it is that the spirits, after 
 having been as it were frozen or congealed by- 
 winter, are now turned loose, and set a rambling; 
 or that the gay prospects of fields and meadows’ 
 with the courtship of the birds in every bush, na¬ 
 turally unbend the mind, and soften it to pleasure: 
 or that, as some have imagined, a woman is 
 prompted by a kind of instinct to throw herself 
 on a bed of flowers, and not to let those beautiful 
 couches, which nature has provided, lie useless. 
 However it be, the effects of this month on the 
 lower part of the sex, who act without disguise, 
 are very visible. It is at this time that we see the 
 young wenches in a country parish dancing round 
 a Maypole, which one of our learned antiquaries 
 supposes to be a relic of a certain pagan worship 
 that I do not think fit to mention. 
 
 It is likewise on the first day of this month that 
 we see the ruddy milkmaid exerting herself in a 
 most sprightly manner under a pyramid of silver 
 tankards, and like the virgin Tarpeia,* oppressed 
 by the costly ornaments which her benefactors lay 
 upon her. J 
 
 I need not mention the ceremony of the green 
 gown, which is also peculiar to this gay season. 
 
 The same periodical love-fit spreads through 
 the whole sex, as Mr. Dryden well observes in liis 
 description of this merry month. 
 
 For thee, sweet month, the groves green liv’ries wear, 
 If not the first, the fairest of the year; 
 
 For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, 
 
 And nature’s ready pencil paints the flowers. 
 
 The sprightly May commands our youth to keep 
 The vigils of her night, and breaks their sleep; 
 
 Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves, 
 Inspires new flames, revives extinguish’d loves. 
 
 Accordingly, among the works of the great 
 masters in painting, who have drawn this genial 
 season of the year, we often observe Cupids con¬ 
 fused with Zephyrs, flying up and down promis¬ 
 cuously in several parts of the picture’. I cannot 
 but adji from my own experience, that about this 
 time of the year love-letters come up to me in 
 great numbers, from all quarters of the nation. 
 
 I received an epistle in particular by the last 
 post from a Yorkshire gentleman, who makes- 
 
 * T. Livii Hist. Dec. i, lib. i, cap. xi. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 452 
 
 heavy complaints of one Zelinda, whom it seems 
 he has courted unsuccessfully these three years 
 
 £ ast. He tells me that he designs to try her this 
 [ay; and if he does not carry his point, he will 
 never think of her more. 
 
 Having thus fairly admonished the female sex, 
 and laid before them the dangers they are exposed 
 to in this critical month, I shall in the next place 
 lay down some rules and directions for their bet¬ 
 ter avoiding those calentures which are so very 
 frequent in this season. 
 
 In the first place, I would advise them never to 
 venture abroad in the fields, but in the company 
 of a parent; a guardian, or some other sober dis¬ 
 creet person. I have before shown how apt they 
 are to trip in the flowery meadow; and shall 
 further observe to them, that Proserpine was out 
 a-maying when she met with that fatal adventure 
 to which Milton alludes when he mentions— 
 
 -That fair field 
 
 Of Erma, where Proserpine gath’ring flowers, 
 
 Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis 
 Was gather’d- 
 
 Since I am got into quotations, I shall conclude 
 this head with Virgil’s advice to young people, 
 while they are gathering wild strawberries and 
 nosegays, that they should have a care of the 
 snake in the grass. 
 
 In the second place, I cannot but approve those 
 prescriptions which our astrological physicians 
 give in their almanacs for this month: such as are 
 “ a spare and simple diet, with a moderate use of 
 phlebotomy.” 
 
 Under this head of abstinence I shall also ad¬ 
 vise my fair readers to be in a particular manner 
 careful how they meddle with romances, chocolate, 
 novels, and the like inflamers, which I look upon 
 as very dangerous to be made use of during this 
 great carnival of nature. 
 
 As I have often declared that I have nothing 
 more at heart than the honor of my dear country¬ 
 women, I would beg them to consider, whenever 
 their resolutions begin to fail them, that there are 
 but one-and-thirty days of this soft season, and 
 that if they can but weather out this one month, 
 the rest of the year will be easy to them. As for 
 that part of the fair sex who stay in town, I would 
 advise them to be particularly cautious how they 
 give themselves up to their most innocent enter¬ 
 tainments. If they cannot forbear the playhouse, 
 I would recommend tragedy to them rather than 
 comedy; and should think the puppet-show much 
 safer for them than the opera, all the while the 
 sun is in Gemini. 
 
 The reader will observe, that this paper is writ¬ 
 ten for the use of those ladies who think it worth 
 while to war against nature in the cause of honor. 
 As for that abandoned crew, who do not think vir¬ 
 tue worth contending for, but give up their repu¬ 
 tation at the first summons, such warnings and 
 premonitions are thrown away upon them. A pros¬ 
 titute is the same easy creature in all months of 
 the year, and makes no difference between May 
 and December.—X. 
 
 .No. 366.] WEDNESDAY, APRIL 30, 1712. 
 
 Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis 
 Arbor a^stiva recreatur aura, 
 
 Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo, 
 
 Dulce loquentem. 
 
 Hor. 1 Od. xxii, 17. 
 
 Set me whereon some pathless plain 
 The swarthy Africans complain, 
 
 To see the chariot of the sun 
 -So near the scorching country run; 
 
 The burning zone, the frozen isles, 
 
 Shall hear me sing of Celia’s smiles; 
 
 All cold, but in her breast, 1 will despise, 
 
 And dare all heat, but that of Celia’s eyes. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 There are such wild inconsistencies in the 
 thoughts of a man in love, that I have often re-" 
 fleeted there can be no reason for allowing him 
 more liberty than others possessed with frenzy, 
 but that his distemper has no malevolence in it to 
 any mortal. That devotion to his mistress kin¬ 
 dles in his mind a general tenderness, which ex¬ 
 erts itself toward every object as well as his fair 
 one. When this passion is represented by writers, 
 it is common with them to endeavor at certain 
 quaintnesses and turns of imagination, which are 
 apparently the work of a mind at ease; but the 
 men of true taste can easily distinguish the exer¬ 
 tion of a mind which overflows with tender senti¬ 
 ments, and the labor of one which is only describ¬ 
 ing distress. In performances of this kind, the 
 most absurd of all things is to be witty; every 
 sentiment must grow out of the occasion, and be 
 suitable to the circumstances of the character. 
 Where this rule is transgressed, the humble ser¬ 
 vant in all the fine things he says, is but showing 
 his mistress how well he can dress, instead of 
 saying how well he loves. Lace and drapery is 
 as much a man, as wit and turn is passion. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The following verses are a translation of a 
 Lapland love-song, which I met with in Scheffer’s 
 history of that country.* I was agreeably sur¬ 
 prised to find a spirit of tenderness and poetry in 
 a region which I never suspected for delicacy. In 
 hotter climates, though altogether uncivilized, I 
 had not wondered if 1 had found some sweet wild 
 notes among the natives, where they live in groves 
 of oranges, and hear the melody of birds about 
 them. But a Lapland lyric, breathing sentiments 
 of love and poetry, not unworthy old Greece or 
 Rome; a regular ode from a climate pinched with 
 frost, and cursed with darkness so great a part of 
 the year: where it is amazing that the poor na¬ 
 tives should get food, or be tempted to propagate 
 their species—this, I confess, seemed a greater 
 miracle to me than the famous stories of their 
 drums, their winds, and enchantments. 
 
 “ I am the bolder in commending this northern 
 song, because I have faithfully kept to the senti¬ 
 ments, without adding or diminishing: and pre¬ 
 tend to no greater praise from my translation, 
 than they who smooth and clean the furs of that 
 country which have suffered by carriage. The 
 numbers in the original are as loose and unequal 
 as those in which the British ladies sport their 
 Pindarics; and perhaps the fairest of them might 
 not think it a disagreeable present from a lover. 
 But I have ventured to bind it in stricter measures, 
 as being more proper for our tongue, though per¬ 
 haps wilder graces may better suit the genius of 
 the Laponian language. 
 
 “It will be necessary to imagine that the author 
 of this song, not having the liberty of visiting his 
 mistress at her father’s house, was in hopes of 
 spying her at a distance in the fields: 
 
 Thou rising sun, whose gladsome ray 
 Invites my fair to rural play, 
 
 Dispel the mist, and clear the skies, 
 
 And bring my Orra to my eyes. 
 
 Oh! were I sure my dear to view, 
 
 I’d climb that pine-tree’s topmost bough 
 Aloft in air that quiv’ring plays, 
 
 And round and round forever gaze. 
 
 * This Lapland love-song is ascribed to Mr. Ambrose Phil¬ 
 lips. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 My Orra Moor, where art thou laid? 
 
 What wood conceals my sleeping maid? 
 
 Fast by the roots enraged I’ll tear 
 The trees that hide my promis’d fair. 
 
 Oh! I could ride the clouds and skies, 
 
 Or on the raven’s pinions rise! 
 
 Ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay, 
 
 And waft a lover on his way! 
 
 My bliss too long my bride denies, 
 
 Apace the wasting summer flies: 
 
 Nor yet the wintry blasts I fear, 
 
 Not storms or night shall keep me here. 
 
 What may for strength with steel compare? 
 
 Oh! love has fetters stronger far? 
 
 By bolts of steel are limbs confin’d 
 But cruel love enchains the mind. 
 
 No longer then perplex thy breast: 
 
 When thoughts torment, the first are best; 
 
 ’Tis mad to go, ’tis death to «tay; 
 
 Away to Orra! haste away! 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, April the 10th. 
 
 “ I am one pf those despicable creatures called 
 a chambermaid, and have lived with a mistress 
 for some time, whom I love as my life, which has 
 made my duty and pleasure inseparable. My 
 
 g reatest delight has been in being employed about 
 ei person; and indeed she is very seldom out of 
 humor for a woman of her quality. But here lies 
 my complaint, Sir. To bear with me is all the 
 encouragement she is pleased to bestow upon me- 
 for she gives her cast-off clothes from me to 
 others; some she is pleased to bestow in the house 
 to those that neither want nor wear them, and 
 some to hangers on that frequent the house daily, 
 who come dressed out in them. This, Sir, is a 
 very mortifying sight to me, who am a little ne¬ 
 cessitous for clothes, and love to appear what I 
 am; and causes an uneasiness, so that I cannot 
 serve with that cheerfulness as formerly; which 
 my mistress takes notice of, and calls envy and 
 ill-temper at seeing others preferred before me. 
 My mistress has a younger sister lives in the 
 house with her, that is some thousands below her 
 in estate, who is continually heaping her favors 
 on her maid; so that she can appear every Sun¬ 
 day, for the first quarter; in a fresh suit of clothes 
 of her mistress’s giving, with all other things 
 suitable. All this I see without envying, but not 
 without wishing my mistress would a little consi¬ 
 der what a discouragement it is to me to have my 
 perquisites divided between fawners and jobbers, 
 which others enjoy entire to themselves. I have 
 spoken to my mistress, but to little purpose; I 
 have desired to be discharged (for indeed I fret 
 myself to nothing), but that she answers with si¬ 
 lence. I beg, Sir, your direction what to do, for I 
 am fully resolved to follow your counsel; who am 
 “ Your admirer and humble Servant, 
 
 “ CONSTANTIA COMB-BRUSH.” 
 
 “ * be g that you will put it in a better dress, 
 and let it come abroad, that my mistress who is 
 an admirer of your speculations, may see it.”_T. 
 
 Ho. 367. j THURSDAY, MAY 1, 1712. 
 
 -Peritur® parcite chart*.—Juv„ Sat. i, 18. 
 
 In mercy spare us, when we do our best 
 
 To make as much waste paper as the rest. 
 
 I have often pleased myself with considering 
 the two kinds of benefits which accrue to the pub¬ 
 lic from these my speculations, and which, were I 
 to speak after the manner of logicians, I would 
 distinguish into the material and the formal. By 
 
 453 
 
 the latter I understand those advantages which 
 my readers receive, as their minds are either im¬ 
 proved or delighted by these my daily labors; but 
 having already several times descanted on my en¬ 
 deavors in this light. I shall at present wholly 
 confine myself to the consideration of the former. 
 By the word material, I mean those benefits which 
 arise to the public from these my speculations, as 
 they consume a considerable quantity of our pa- 
 per-manufacture, employ our artisans in printing, 
 and find business for great numbers of indigent 
 persons. ° 
 
 Our paper-manufacture takes into it several 
 mean mateiials, which could be put to no other 
 use, and affords work for several hands in the col¬ 
 lecting of them which are incapable of any other 
 employment. 1 hese poor retailers, whom we see 
 so busy in every street, deliver in their respective 
 gleanings to the merchant. The merchant carries 
 them in loads to the paper-mill, where they pass 
 through a fresh set of hands, and give life to 
 another trade. Those who have mills on their es¬ 
 tates, by this means considerably raise their rents; 
 and the whole nation is in a great measure sup¬ 
 plied with a manufacture for which formerly she 
 was obliged to her neighbors. 
 
 The materials are no sooner wrought into paper, 
 but they are distributed among the presses, where 
 they again set innumerable artists at work, and 
 furnish business to another mystery. From hence, 
 accordingly as they are stained with news or poli¬ 
 tics they fly through the town in Post-men, Post¬ 
 boys, Daily Courants, Reviews, Medleys, and Ex¬ 
 aminers. Men, women, and children, contend 
 who shall be the first bearers of them,-'and get 
 their daily sustenance by spreading them. In 
 short, when I trace in my mind a bundle of ra f) -s 
 to a quire of Spectators, I find so many han3s 
 employed in every step they take through their 
 whole progress, that while I am writing a Specta¬ 
 tor, I fancy myself providing bread for a multi¬ 
 tude. 
 
 If I do not take care to obviate some of my 
 witty readers, they will be apt to tell me, that my 
 paper, after it is thus printed and published, is 
 still beneficial to the public on several occasions. 
 
 I must confess I have lighted my pipe with my 
 own works for this twelvemonth past. My land¬ 
 lady often sends up her little daughter to desire 
 some of my old Spectators, and has frequently 
 told me that the paper they are printed on is the 
 best in the world to wrap spice in. They like¬ 
 wise make a good foundation for a mutton-pie, as 
 I have more than once experienced, and were very 
 much sought for last Christmas by the whole 
 neighborhood. 
 
 It is pleasant enough to consider the changes 
 that a linen fragment undergoes, by passing 
 through the several hands above-mentioned. The 
 finest pieces of holland, when worn to tatters, 
 assume a new whiteness more beautiful than the 
 first, and often return in the shape of letters to 
 their native country. A lady’s shift may be met¬ 
 amorphosed into billets-doux, and come into her 
 possession a second time. A beau may peruse his 
 cravat after it is worn out, with greater pleasure 
 and advantage than ever he did in a glass. In a 
 word, a piece of cloth, after having officiated for 
 some years as a towel or a napkin, may by this 
 means be raised from a dunghill, and become the 
 most valuable piece of furniture in a prince’s 
 cabinet. 
 
 The politest nations of Europe have endeavored 
 to vie with one another for the reputation of the 
 finest printing. Absolute governments, as well 
 as republics, have encouraged an art which seems 
 to be the noblest and most beneficial that was ever 
 
 4 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 454 
 
 invented among the sons of men. The present 
 King of France, in his pursuits after glory, has 
 particularly distinguished himself by the promot¬ 
 ing of this useful art, insomuch that several books 
 have been printed in the Louvre at his own ex- 
 ense, upon which he sets so great a value, that 
 e considers them as the noblest presents he can 
 make to foreign princes and ambassadors. If we 
 look into the commonwealths of Holland and 
 Venice, we shall tind that in this particular they 
 have made themselves the envy of the greatest 
 monarchies. Elzevir and Aldus are more fre¬ 
 quently mentioned than any pensioner of the one, 
 or doge of the other. 
 
 The several presses which are now in England, 
 and the great encouragement which has been given 
 to learning for some years last past, has made our 
 own nation as glorious upon this account, as for 
 its late triumphs and conquests. The new edi¬ 
 tion which is given us of Caesar’s Commentaries* 
 has already been taken notice of in foreign ga¬ 
 zettes, and is a work that does honor to the Eng¬ 
 lish press. It is no wonder that an edition should 
 be very correct which has passed through the 
 hands of one of the most accurate, learned, and 
 judicious writers this age has produced. The 
 beauty of the paper, of the character, and of the 
 several cuts with which this noble work is illus¬ 
 trated, makes it the finest book that I have ever 
 seen; and is a true instance of the English genius, 
 which, though it does not come the first into any 
 art, generally carries it to greater heights than 
 any other country in the world. I am particularly 
 glad that this author comes from a British print¬ 
 ing-house in so great a magnificence, as he is the 
 first who has given us any tolerable account of 
 our country. 
 
 My illiterate readers, if any such there are, will 
 be surprised to hear me talk of learning as the 
 glory of a nation, and of printing as an art that 
 gains a reputation to a people among whom it 
 flourishes. When men’s thoughts are taken up 
 with avarice and ambition, they cannot look upon 
 anything as great or valuable which does not 
 bring with it an extraordinary power or interest 
 to the person who is concerned in it. But as I 
 shall never sink this paper so far as to engage 
 with Goths and Vandals, I shall only regard such 
 kind of reasoners with that pity which is due to 
 so deplorable a degree of stupidity and ignorance. 
 
 No. 368.] FRIDAY, MAY 2, 1712. 
 
 -Nos decebat 
 
 Lugere ubi esset aliquis in lucem editus, 
 
 Humanae vitae varia reputantes mala: 
 
 At qui labores morte finisset graves, 
 
 Omnes amicos laude et laetitia exequi. 
 
 Eurip. apud TcLii. 
 
 When first an infant draws the vital air, 
 
 Officious grief should welcome him to care: 
 
 But joy should life’s concluding scene attend, 
 
 And mirth be kept to grace a dying friend. 
 
 As the Spectator is in a kind a paper of news 
 from the natural world, as others are from the 
 busy and politic part of mankind, I shall trans¬ 
 late the following letter, written to an eminent 
 French gentleman in this town from Paris, which 
 gives us the exit of a heroine who is a pattern of 
 patience and generosity. 
 
 “ Sir, Paris, April 18, 1712. 
 
 “ It is so many years since you left your native 
 country, that I am to tell you the characters of 
 
 *A most beautiful edition of Caesar’s Memoirs, published 
 about this time in folio, by Dr. Samuel Clarke. 
 
 your nearest relations as much as if you were an 
 utter stranger to them. The occasion of this is to 
 give you an account of the death of Madame de 
 Villacerfe, whose departure out of this life I know 
 not whether a man of your philosophy will call 
 unfortunate or not, since it was attended with 
 some circumstances as much to be desired as to be 
 lamented. She was her whole life happy in an 
 uninterrupted health, and was always honored for 
 an evenness of temper and greatness of mind. On 
 the 10th instant that lady was taken with an in¬ 
 disposition which confined her to her chamber, 
 but was such as was too slight to make her take 
 a sick-bed, and yet too grievous to admit of any 
 satisfaction in being out of it. It is notoriously 
 known that some years ago Monsieur Festeau, one 
 of the most considerable surgeons in Paris, was 
 desperately in love with this lady. Her quality 
 flaced her above any application to her on the ac¬ 
 count of his passion; but as a woman always has 
 some regard to the person whom she believes to 
 be her real admirer, she now took it in her head 
 (upon advice of her physicians, to lose some of her 
 blood) to send for Monsieur Festeau on that occa¬ 
 sion. I happened to be there at that time, and 
 my near relation gave me the privilege to be pre¬ 
 sent. As soon as her arm was stripped bare, and 
 he began to press it in order to raise the vein, his 
 color changed, and I observed him seized with a 
 sudden tremor, which made me take the liberty to 
 speak of it to my cousin with some apprehension. 
 She smiled and said, she knew M. Festeau had no 
 inclination to do her injury. He seemed to recover 
 himself, and smiling also, proceeded in his work. 
 Immediately after the operation, he cried out that 
 he was the most unfortunate of all men, for that 
 he had opened an artery instead of a vein. It is 
 as impossible to express the artist’s distraction as 
 the patient’s composure. I will not dwell on little 
 circumstances, but go on to inform you, that within 
 three days’ time it was thought necessary to take 
 off her arm. She was so far from using Festeau 
 as it would be natural to one of a lower spirit to 
 treat him, that she would not let him be absent 
 from any consultation about her present condition, 
 and on every occasion asked if he was satisfied in 
 the measures that were taken about her. Before 
 this last operation she ordered her will to be 
 drawn, and, after having been about a quarter of 
 an hour alone, she bid the surgeons, of whom poor 
 Festeau w r as one, go on in their work. I know 
 not how to give you the terms of art, but there 
 appeared such symptoms after the amputation of 
 her arm, that it was visible she could not live 
 four-and-twenty hours. Her behavior -was so mag¬ 
 nanimous throughout this whole affair, that I was 
 particularly curious in taking notice of what 
 passed as her fate approached nearer and nearer, 
 and took notice of what she said to all about her, 
 particularly word for word what she spoke to M. 
 Festeau, which was as follows :— 
 
 “ ‘Sir, you give me inexpressible sorrow for the 
 anguish with which I see you overwhelmed. I 
 am removed to all intents and purposed from the 
 interests of human life, therefore I am to begin to 
 think like one wholly unconcerned in it. I do not 
 consider you as one by whose error I have lost my 
 life ; no, you are my benefactor, as you have has¬ 
 tened my entrance into a happy immortality. This 
 is my sense of this accident: but the world in 
 which you live may have thoughts of it to your 
 disadvantage: I have therefore taken care to pro¬ 
 vide for you in my will, and have placed you 
 above what you have to fear from their ill-nature.’ 
 
 “ While this excellent woman spoke these words, 
 Festeau looked as if he received a condemnation 
 to die, instead of a pension for his life. Madame 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 de Villacerfe lived till eight of the clock the next 
 night; and though she must have labored under 
 the most exquisite torments, she possessed her 
 mind with so wonderful a patience, that one may 
 rather say she ceased to breathe, than she died at 
 that hour. You, who had not the happiness to be 
 personally known to this lady, have nothing but 
 to rejoice in the honor you had of being related to 
 bo great merit; but we, who have lost her conver¬ 
 sation, cannot so easily resign our own happiness 
 by reflection upon hers. 
 
 “I am, Sir, vour affectionate kinsman, 
 
 “ ana most obedient, humble Servant, 
 “ Paul Regnaud.” 
 
 There hardly can be a greater instance of an 
 heroic mind than the unprejudiced manner in 
 which this lady weighed this misfortune. The 
 regard of life itself could not make her overlook 
 the contrition of the unhappy man, whose more 
 than ordinary concern for her w'as all his guilt. 
 It would certainly be of singular use to human 
 society to have an exact account of this lady’s 
 ordinary conduct, which was crowned by so un¬ 
 common magnanimity. Such greatness was not 
 to be acquired in the last article; nor is it to be 
 doubted but it was a constant practice of all that 
 is praiseworthy, which made her capable of be¬ 
 holding death, not as the dissolution, but consum¬ 
 mation of her life.—T. 
 
 No. 369.] SATURDAY, MAY 3, 1712. 
 
 Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures, 
 
 Quam quas sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus—. 
 
 Hor., Ars. Poet., 180. 
 
 What we hear moves less than what we see. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 Milton, after having represented in vision the 
 history of mankind to the first great period of na¬ 
 ture, dispatches the remaining part of it in narra¬ 
 tion. He has devised a very handsome reason for 
 the angel’s proceeding with Adam after this man¬ 
 ner; though doubtless the true reason was the 
 difficulty which the poet would have found to 
 have shadowed out so mixed and complicated a 
 story in visible objects. I could wish, however, 
 that the author had done it, whatever pains it 
 might have cost him. To give my opinion freely, 
 I think that the exhibiting part of the history of 
 mankind in vision, and part in narrative, is as if 
 a hi story-painter should put in colors one-half of 
 his subject, and write down the remaining part of 
 it. If Milton’s poem flags anywhere, it is in this 
 narration, where in some places the author has 
 been so attentive to his divinity that he has ne¬ 
 glected his poetry. The narration, however, rises 
 very happily on several occasions, where the sub¬ 
 ject is capable of poetical ornaments, as particu¬ 
 larly in the confusion which he describes among 
 the builders of Babel, and in his short sketch of 
 the plagues of Egypt. The storm of hail and fire, 
 with the darkness that overspread the land for 
 three days, are described with great strength. 
 The beautiful passage which follows is raised 
 upon noble hints in Scripture: 
 
 -Thus with ten wounds, 
 
 The river dragon, tam'd, at length submits 
 To let his sojourners depart: and oft 
 Humbles his stubborn heart; but still, as ice, 
 
 More harden’d after thaw: till in his rage 
 Pursuing whom he late dismiss'd, the sea 
 Swallows him with his host; but them lets pass 
 As on dry land between two crystal walls, 
 
 Aw’d by the rod of Moses so to stand 
 Divided-. 
 
 455 
 
 The river-dragon is an allusion to the crocodile, 
 which inhabits the Nile, from which Egypt derives 
 her plenty. This allusion is taken from that sub¬ 
 lime passage in Ezekiel: “Thus saith the Lord 
 God, Behold I am against thee, Pharaoh, king of 
 k.gypk’ the great dragon that lieth in the midst of 
 his rivers, which hath said, My river is mine own, 
 and I have made it for myself.” Milton has given, 
 us another very noble and poetical image in the 
 same description, which is copied almost word for 
 word out of the history of Moses: 
 
 All night he will pursue, but his approach 
 Darkness defends between till morning watch: 
 
 Then through the fiery pillar and the cloud 
 God looking forth will trouble all his host, 
 
 And craze their chariot wheels: when, by command, 
 Moses once more his potent rod extends 
 Over the sea: the sea his rod obeys; 
 
 On their embattl’d ranks the waves return, 
 
 And overwhelm their war-. 
 
 As the principal design of this episode was to 
 give Adam an idea of the holy person who was to 
 reinstate human nature in that happiness, and per¬ 
 fection from which it had fallen, the poet confines 
 himself to the line of Abraham, from whence the 
 Messiah was to descend. The angel is described 
 as seeing the patriarch actually traveling toward 
 the land of promise, which gives a particular live¬ 
 liness to this part of the narration: 
 
 I see him, but thou canst not, with what faith 
 He leaves his gods, his friends, and native soil, 
 
 Ur of Chaldea, passing now the ford 
 To Haran; after him a cumbrous train 
 Of herds, and flocks, and num’rous servitude; 
 
 Not wand’ring poor, but trusting all his wealth 
 With God, who call’d him in a land unknown. 
 
 Canaan he now attains; I see his tents 
 Pitch’d about Shechem, and the neighboring plain 
 Of Moreh; there by promise he receives 
 Gift to his progeny of all that land; 
 
 From Hamath northward to the desert south: 
 
 (Things by their names I call, though yet unnam’d). 
 
 As Virgil's vision in the sixth JEneid probably 
 gave Milton the hint of this episode, the last line 
 is a translation of that verse where Anchises men¬ 
 tions the names of places, which they were to bear 
 hereafter: 
 
 nsec turn nomina erunt, nunc sunt sine nomine terrse. 
 
 The poet has very finely represented the joy 
 and gladness of heart which rises in Adam upon 
 his discovery of the Messiah. As he sees his day 
 at a distance through types and shadows, he re¬ 
 joices in it: but when he finds the redemption of 
 man completed, and Paradise again renewed, he 
 breaks forth in rapture and transport: 
 
 0 goodness infinite, goodness immense! 
 
 That all this good of evil shall produce, etc. 
 
 I have hinted in my sixth paper on Milton, that 
 an heroic poem, according to the opinion of the 
 best critics, ought to end happily, and leave the 
 mind of the reader, after having conducted it 
 through many doubts and fears, sorrows and dis¬ 
 quietudes, in a state of tranquillity and satisfac¬ 
 tion. Milton’s fable, which had so many other 
 qualifications to recommend it, was deficient in 
 this particular. It is here therefore that the poet 
 has shown a most exquisite judgment, as well as 
 the finest invention, by finding out a method to 
 supply this natural defect in his subject. Accord¬ 
 ingly he leaves the adversary of mankind, in the 
 last view which he gives us of him, under the 
 lowest state of mortification and disappointment. 
 We see him chewing ashes, groveling in the dust, 
 and loaded with supernumerary pains and tor¬ 
 ments. On the contrary, our two first parents are 
 comforted by dreams and visions, cheered with 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 456 
 
 promises of salvation, and in a manner raised to 
 a greater happiness than that which they had for¬ 
 feited. In short, Satan is represented miserable 
 in the height of his triumphs, and Adam trium¬ 
 phant in the height of misery. 
 
 Milton’s poem ends very nobly. The last 
 speeches of Adam and the archangel are full of 
 moral and instructive sentiments. The sleep that 
 fell upon Eve, and the effects it had in quieting 
 the disorders of her mind, produces the same kind 
 of consolation in the reader, who cannot peruse 
 the last beautiful speech, which is ascribed to the 
 mother of mankind, without a secret pleasure and 
 satisfaction: 
 
 Whence thou return’st, and whither went’st, I know; 
 For God is also in sleep, and dreams advise, 
 
 Which he hath sent propitious, some great good 
 Presaging, since, with sorrow and heart’s distress 
 Wearied, I fell asleep; but now led on; 
 
 In me is no delay: with thee to go, 
 
 Is to stay here; without thee here to stay, 
 
 Is to go hence unwilling: thou to me 
 Art all things under heav’n, all places thou, 
 
 Who for my willful crime art banish’d hence; 
 
 This farther consolation yet secure 
 I carry hence; though all by me is lost, 
 
 Such favor I unworthy am vouchsaf’d, 
 
 By me the promis’d seed shall all restore. 
 
 The following lines, which conclude the poem, 
 rise in a most glorious blaze of poetical images and 
 expressions. 
 
 Heliodorus in his iEthiopics acquaints us, that 
 the motion of the gods differs from that of mor¬ 
 tals, as the former do not stir their feet, nor pro¬ 
 ceed step by step, but slide over the surface of the 
 earth by a uniform swimming of the whole body. 
 The reader may observe with how poetical a de¬ 
 scription Milton has attributed the same kind of 
 motion to the angels who were to take possession 
 of Paradise: 
 
 So spake our mother Eve; and Adam heard 
 Well pleas’d, but answer’d not; for now too nigh 
 Th’ archangel stood; and from the other hill 
 To their fix’d station, all in bright array 
 The cherubim descended; on the ground 
 Gliding meteorous, as evening mist 
 Ris’n from a river, o’er the marish glides, 
 
 And gathers ground fast at the lab’rers heel 
 Homeward returning. High in front advanc’d, 
 
 The brandish’d sword of God before them blaz’d 
 Fierce as a comet-. 
 
 The author helped his invention in the follow¬ 
 ing passage, by reflecting on the behavior of the 
 angel who in holy writ has the conduct of Lot 
 and his family. The circumstances drawn from 
 that relation are very gracefully made use of on 
 this occasion: 
 
 In either hand the hast’ning angel caught 
 Our ling’ring parents, and to th’ eastern gate 
 Led them direct; and down the cliff as fast 
 To the subjected plain; then disappear’d, 
 
 They looking back, etc. 
 
 The scene which our first parents are surprised 
 with, upon their looking back on Paradise, won¬ 
 derfully strikes the reader’s imagination, as no¬ 
 thing can be more natural than the tears they shed 
 on that occasion: 
 
 They, looking back, all th’ eastern side beheld, 
 
 Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, 
 
 Wav’d over by that flaming brand, the gate 
 With dreadful faces throng’d and fiery arms: 
 
 Some natural tears they dropp’d, but wip’d them soon; 
 The world was all before them, where to choose 
 Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
 
 If I might presume to offer at the smallest altera¬ 
 tion in this divine work, I should think the poem 
 would end better with the passage here quoted, 
 than the two verses which follow: 
 
 They hand in hand, with wand’ring steps and slow, 
 Through Eden took their solitary way. 
 
 These two verses, though they have their beauty, 
 fall very much below the foregoing passage, and 
 renew in the mind of the reader that anguish 
 which was pretty well laid by that consideration: 
 
 The world was all before them, where to choose 
 
 Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. 
 
 The number of books in Paradise Lost is equal 
 to those of the ^Eneid. Our author in his first edi¬ 
 tion had divided his poem into ten books, but after¬ 
 ward broke the seventh and the eleventh each of 
 them into two different books, by the help of some 
 small additions. This second division was made 
 with great judgment, as any one may see who will 
 be at the pains of examining it. It was not done 
 for the sake of such a chimerical beauty as that of 
 resembling Virgil in this particular, out for the 
 more just and regular disposition of this great 
 work. 
 
 Those who have read Bossu, and many of the 
 critics who have written since his time, will not 
 pardon me if I do not find out the particular moral 
 which is inculcated in Paradise Lost. Though I 
 can by no means think, with the last-mentioned 
 French author, that an epic writer first of all 
 pitches upon a certain moral, as the ground-work 
 and foundation of his poem, and afterward finds 
 out a story to it; I am however of opinion, that 
 no just heroic poem ever was or can be made, 
 from whence one great moral may not be deduced. 
 That which reigns in Milton is the most universal 
 and most useful that can be imagined. It is in 
 short this, that obedience to the will of God makes 
 men happy, and that disobedience makes them 
 miserable. This is visibly the moral of the prin¬ 
 cipal fable, which turns upon Adam and Eve, 
 who continued in Paradise while they kept the 
 command that was given them, and were driven 
 out of it as soon as they had transgressed. This 
 is likewise the moral of the principal episode, 
 which shows us how an innumerable multitude 
 of angels fell from their state of bliss, and were 
 cast into hell upon their disobedience. Beside 
 this great moral, which may be looked upon as 
 the soul of the fable, there are an affinity of under 
 morals which are to be drawn from the several 
 parts of the poem, and which make this work 
 more useful and instructive than any other poem 
 in any language. 
 
 Those who have criticised on the Odyssey, the 
 Iliad, and A2neid, have taken a great deal of pains 
 to fix the number of months or days contained in 
 the action of each of those poems. If any one 
 thinks it worth his while to examine this particu¬ 
 lar in Milton, he will find, that from Adam’s first 
 appearance in the fourth book, to his expulsion 
 from Paradise in the twelfth, the author reckons 
 ten days. As for that part of the action which is 
 described in the three first books, as it does not 
 pass within the regions of nature, I have before 
 observed that it is not subject to any calculations 
 of time. 
 
 I have now finished my observations on a work 
 which does an honor to the English nation. I 
 have taken a general view of it under these four 
 heads—the fable, the characters, the sentiments, 
 and the language, and made each of them the 
 subject of a particular paper. I have in the next 
 place spoken of the censures which our author 
 may incur under each of these heads, which I 
 have confined to two papers, though I might have 
 enlarged the number if I had been disposed to 
 dwell on so ungrateful a subject: I believe, how¬ 
 ever, that the severest reader will not find any 
 little fault in heroic poetry, which this author has 
 fallen into, that does not come under one of those 
 heads among which I have distributed his several 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 blemishes. After having thus treated at large of 
 Paradise Lost, I could not think it sufficient to 
 have celebrated this poem in the whole without 
 descending to particulars. I have therefore be¬ 
 stowed a paper upon each book, and endeavored 
 not only to prove that the poem is beautiful in 
 general, but to point out its particular beauties: 
 and, to determine wherein they consist. I have 
 endeavored to show how some passages are beau¬ 
 tiful by being sublime, others by being soft, others 
 by being natural; which of them are recommended 
 by the passion, which by the moral, which by the 
 sentiment, and which by the expression. I 'have 
 likewise endeavored to show how the genius of 
 the poet shines by a happy invention, a distant 
 allusion, or a judicious imitation; how he has 
 copied or improved Homer or Virgil, and raised 
 his own imaginations by the use which he has 
 made of several poetical passages in Scripture. 
 I might have inserted also several passages in 
 Tasso, which our author has imitated: but, as I 
 do not look upon Tasso to be a sufficient voucher, 
 I would not perplex my reader with such quota¬ 
 tions as might do more honor to the Italian than 
 to the English poet. In short, I have endeavored 
 to particularize those innumerable kinds of beauty 
 which it would be tedious to recapitulate, but 
 which are essential to poetry, and which mav be 
 met with in the works of this great author. Had 
 I thought, at my first engaging in this design, that 
 it would have led me to so great a length, I be¬ 
 lieve I should never have entered upon it ; but 
 the kind reception which it has met with among 
 those whose judgment I have a value for, as well 
 as the uncommon demands which my bookseller 
 tells me have been made for these particular dis¬ 
 courses, give me no reason to repent of the pains 
 I have been at in composing them.—L. 
 
 Ho. 370.] MONDAY, MAY 5, 1712. 
 
 Totus Mundus agit histrionem. 
 
 -All the world’s a stage, 
 
 And all the men and women merely players. 
 
 SUAKSPEAUE. 
 
 Many of my fair readers, as well as very gay 
 and well-received persons of the other sex, are ex¬ 
 tremely perplexed at the Latin sentences at the 
 head of my speculations. I do not know whether 
 I ought not to indulge them with translations of 
 each of them : however, I have to-day taken down 
 from the top of the stage in Drury-lane a bit of 
 Latin which often stands in their view, and sig¬ 
 nifies, that “ The whole world acts the player.” 
 It is certain that if we look all round us, and be¬ 
 hold the different employments of mankind, you 
 hardly see one who is not, as the player is, in an 
 assumed character. The lawyer who "is vehement 
 and loud in the cause wherein he knows he has 
 not the truth of the question on his side, is a 
 player as to the personated part, but incomparably 
 meaner than he as to the prostitution of himself 
 for hire: because the pleader’s falsehood intro¬ 
 duces injustice ; the player feigns for no other end 
 but to divert or instruct you. The divine, whose 
 passions transport him to say anything with any 
 view but promoting the interests of true piety and 
 religion, is a player with a still greater imputa¬ 
 tion of guilt, in proportion to his depreciating a 
 character more sacred. Consider all the different 
 pursuits and employments of men, and you will 
 find half their actions tend to nothing else but 
 disguise and imposture; and all that is done 
 ■which proceeds not from a man’s very self, is the 
 action of a player. For this reason it is that 
 
 457 
 
 make so frequent mention of the stage. It is with 
 me a matter of the highest consideration, what 
 parts are well or ill performed, what passions or 
 sentiments are indulged or cultivated, and conse¬ 
 quently what manners and customs are transfused 
 from the stage to the world, which reciprocally 
 imitate each other. As the writers of epic poems 
 introduce shadowy persons, and represent vices 
 and virtues under the characters of men and 
 women; so I, who am a Spectator in the world, 
 may perhaps sometimes make use of the names of 
 the actors on the stage, to represent or admonish 
 those who transact affairs in the world. When I 
 am commending Wilks for representing the ten¬ 
 derness of a husband and a father in Macbeth, the 
 contrition of a reformed prodigal in Harry the 
 Fourth, the winning emptiness of a youno - man of 
 good nature and wealth in The Trip to the Jubilee, 
 the officiousness of an artful servant in the Fox ; 
 when thus I celebrate Wilks, I talk to all the 
 world who are engaged in any of those circum¬ 
 stances. If I were to speak of merit neglected, 
 misapplied, or misunderstood, might I not say 
 Estcourt has a great capacity? But it is not the 
 interest of others who bear a figure on the sta° r e, 
 that his talents were understood ; it is their busi¬ 
 ness to impose upon him, what cannot become 
 him, or keep out of his hands anything in which 
 he avou Id shine. Were one to raise a suspicion 
 of himself in a man who passes upon the Avorld 
 for a fine thing, in order to alarm him, one might 
 say, If Lord Foppington Avas not on the stage 
 (Cibber acts the false pretensions to a genteel be¬ 
 havior so very justly), he would have in the 
 generality of mankind more that would admire 
 than deride him. When Ave come to characters 
 directly comical, it is not to be imagined what 
 effect a well-regulated stage would have upon 
 men’s manners. The craft of a usurer, the absur¬ 
 dity of a rich fool, the aAvkward roughness of a fel¬ 
 low of half courage, the ungraceful mirth of a 
 creature of half Avit, might forever be put out of 
 countenance by proper parts for Dogget. John¬ 
 son, by acting Corbacchio the other night, must 
 have given all who saw him, a thorough detesta¬ 
 tion of aged avarice. The petulancy of a peevish 
 old felloAV, who loves and hates he knoAvs not 
 why, is very excellently performed by the inge¬ 
 nious Mr. William Penkethman in the Fop’s For¬ 
 tune ; Avhere, in the character of Don Choleric 
 Snap Shorto de Testy, he ansAvers no questions 
 but to those whom he likes, and Avants no account 
 of anything from those he approves. Mr. Pen¬ 
 kethman is also master of as many faces in the 
 dumb scene as can be expected from a man in the 
 circumstances of being ready to perish out of fear 
 and hunger. He wonders throughout the whole 
 scene very masterly, Avithout neglecting his vic¬ 
 tuals. If it be, as I have heard it sometimes men¬ 
 tioned, a great qualification for the world to follow 
 business and pleasure too, what is it in the in¬ 
 genious Mr. Penkethman to represent a sense of 
 pleasure and pain at the same time—as you may 
 see him do this evening? 
 
 As it is certain that a stage ought to be wholly 
 suppressed, or judiciously encouraged, Avhile there 
 is one in the nation, men turned for regular plea¬ 
 sure cannot employ their thoughts more usefully, 
 for the diversion of mankind, than by convincing 
 them that it is in themselves to raise this enter¬ 
 tainment to the greatest height. It Avould be a 
 great improvement, as Avell as embellishment to 
 the theater, if dancing Avere more regarded, and 
 taught to all the actors. One who has the advan¬ 
 tage of such an agreeable girlish person as Mrs. 
 Bicknell, joined with her capacity of imitation, 
 could in proper gesture and motion represent all 
 
 I 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 458 
 
 the decent characters of female life. An amiable 
 modesty in one aspect of a dancer, and assumed 
 confidence in another, a sudden joy in another, a 
 falling-off with an impatience of being beheld, a 
 return toward the audience with an unsteady re¬ 
 solution to approach them, and a well-acted soli¬ 
 citude to please, would revive in the company all 
 the fine touches of mind raised in observing all 
 the objects of affection or passion they had before 
 beheld. Such elegant entertainments as these 
 would polish the town into judgment in their 
 gratifications ; and delicacy in pleasure is the first 
 step people of condition take in reformation from 
 vice. Mrs. Bicknell has the only capacity for this 
 sort of dancing of any on the stage; and I dare 
 say all who see her performance to morrow-night, 
 when sure the romp will do her best for her own 
 benefit, will be of my mind.—T. 
 
 Ho. 371.] TUESDAY, MAY 6, 1712. 
 
 Jamne igitur laudas quod de sapientibus unus. 
 
 Ride bat ? Jcv., Sat. x, 28. 
 
 And shall the sage* your approbation win, 
 
 Whose laughing features wore a constant grin ? 
 
 I shall communicate to my readers the follow¬ 
 ing letter for the entertainment of this day:— 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “You know very well that our nation is more 
 famous for that sort of men who are called ‘ whims’ 
 and * humorists,’ than any other country in the 
 world: for which reason it is observed, that our 
 English comedy excels that of all other nations 
 in the novelty and variety of its characters. 
 
 “ Among those innumerable sets of whims 
 which our country produces, there are none whom 
 I have regarded with more curiosity than those 
 who have invented any particular kind of diver¬ 
 sion for the entertainment of themselves and their 
 friends. My letter shall single out those who 
 take delight in sorting a company that has some¬ 
 thing of burlesque and ridicule in its appearance. 
 I shall make myself understood by the following 
 example. One of the wits of the last age, who 
 was a man of a good estate,! thought he never 
 laid out his money better than in a jest. As he 
 was one year at the Bath, observing that, in the 
 great confluence of fine people, there were several 
 among them with long chins, a part of the visage 
 by which he himself was very much distin¬ 
 guished, he invited to dinner half a score of 
 these remarkable persons, who had their mouths 
 in the middle of their faces. They had no sooner 
 placed themselves about the table but they began 
 to stare upon one another, not being able to ima¬ 
 gine what had brought them together. Our Eng¬ 
 lish proverb says, 
 
 ’Tis merry in the hall, 
 
 When beards wag all. 
 
 It proved so in the assembly I am now speaking 
 of, who seeing so many peaks of faces agitated 
 with eating, drinking, and discourse, and observ¬ 
 ing all the chins that were present meeting toge¬ 
 ther very often over the center of the table, every¬ 
 one grew sensible of the jest, and came into it 
 with so much good humor, that they lived in 
 strict friendship and alliance from that day for¬ 
 ward. 
 
 “ The same gentleman, some time after, packed 
 
 * Democritus. 
 
 f Yillars, the last Duke of Buckingham, and father of the 
 late Lady Mary Wortley Montague. 
 
 together a set of oglers as he called them, consist¬ 
 ing of such as had an unlucky cast in their eyes. 
 His diversion on this occasion was to see the cross 
 bows, mistaken signs, and wrong connivances, 
 that passed amid so many broken and refracted 
 rays of sight. 
 
 “ The third feast which this merry gentleman 
 exhibited was to the stammerers, whom he got 
 together in a sufficient body to fill his table. He 
 had ordered one of his servants, who was placed 
 behind a screen, to write down their table-talk, 
 which was very easy to be done without the help 
 of short hand. It appears by the notes which 
 were taken, that though their conversation never 
 fell, there were not above twenty words spoken 
 during the first course; that upon serving up the 
 second, one of the company was a quarter of an 
 hour in telling them that the ducklings and aspa¬ 
 ragus were very good; and that another took up 
 the same time in declaring himself of the same 
 opinion. The jest did not, however, go off so 
 well as either of the former; for one of the guests 
 being a brave man, and fuller of resentment than 
 he knew how to express, went out of the room, 
 and sent the facetious inviter a challenge in writ¬ 
 ing, which, though it was afterward dropped by 
 the interposition of friends, put a stop to these 
 ludicrous entertainments. 
 
 “ Now, sir, I dare say you will agree with me, that 
 as there is no moral in these jests, they ought to be 
 discouraged, and looked upon rather as pieces of un¬ 
 luckiness than wit. However, as it is natural for 
 one man to refine upon the thought of another; and 
 impossible for any single person, how great soever 
 his parts may be, to invent an art, and bring it to 
 its utmost perfection ; I shall here give you an 
 account of an honest gentleman of my acquaint¬ 
 ance, who, upon hearing the character of the wit 
 above-mentioned, has himself assumed it and en¬ 
 deavored to convert it to the benefit of mankind. 
 He invited half-a-dozen of his friends one day to 
 dinner, who w 7 ere each of them famous for insert¬ 
 ing several redundant phrases in their discourse, 
 as ‘D’ye hear me?—D’ye see?—That is,—And 
 so. Sir.’ Each of his guests making frequent 
 use of his particular elegance, appeared so ridi¬ 
 culous to his neighbor, that he could not but re¬ 
 flect upon himself as appearing equally ridiculous 
 to the rest of the company. By this means, before 
 they had sat long together, every one talking 
 with the greatest circumspection, and carefully 
 avoiding his favorite expletive, the conversation 
 was cleared of its redundancies, and had a greater 
 quantity of sense though less of sound in it. 
 
 “The same well-meaning gentleman took occa¬ 
 sion, at another time, to bring together such of 
 his friends as were addicted to a foolish habitual 
 custom of swearing. In order to show them the 
 absurdity of the practice, he had recourse to the 
 invention above-mentioned, having placed an 
 amanuensis in a private part of the room. After 
 the second bottle, when men open their minds 
 without reserve, my honest friend began to take 
 notice of the many sonorous but unnecessary 
 words that had passed in his house since their 
 sitting down at table, and how much good conver¬ 
 sation they had lost by giving way to such super¬ 
 fluous phrases. ‘What a tax,’ says he, ‘would 
 they have raised for the poor, had we put the 
 laws in execution upon one another!’ Every one 
 of them took this gentle reproof in good part; 
 upon which he told them, that, knowing their 
 conversation would have no secrets in it, he had 
 ordered it to be taken down in writing, and for 
 the humor-sake, would lead it to them, if they 
 pleased. There were ten sheets of it, which 
 might have been reduced to two, had there not 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 been those abominable interpolations I have be¬ 
 fore mentioned. Unon the reading of it in cold 
 blood, it looked rattier like a conference of fiends 
 than of men. In short, every one trembled at 
 himself upon hearing calmly what he had pro¬ 
 nounced amidst the heat and inadvertency of 
 discourse. 
 
 “ I shall only mention another occasion wherein 
 he made use of the same invention to cure a dif¬ 
 ferent kind of men, who are the pests of all polite 
 conversation, and murder time as much as either 
 of the two former, though they do it more inno¬ 
 cently—I mean, that dull generation of story-tel¬ 
 lers. My friend got together about half-a-dozen 
 of his acquaintance, who were infected with this 
 strange malady. The first day one of them, sit¬ 
 ing down, entered upon the siege of Namur, 
 which lasted till four o’clock, their time of part¬ 
 ing. The second day a North Briton took posses¬ 
 sion of the discourse, which it was impossible to 
 get out of his hands so long as the company 
 stayed together. The third day was engrossed 
 after the same manner by a story of the same 
 length. They at last began to reflect upon this 
 barbarous way of treating one another, and by 
 this means awakened out of that lethargy with 
 which each of them had been seized for several 
 years. 
 
 “ As you have somewhere declared, that extra¬ 
 ordinary and uncommon characters of mankind 
 are the game which you delight in, and as I look 
 upon you to be the greatest sportsman, or, if you 
 
 f lease, the Nimrod among this species of writers, 
 thought this discovery would not be unaccept¬ 
 able to you. 
 
 I. “ I am, sir,” etc. 
 
 No. 372.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 7, 1712. 
 
 -Pudet haec opprobria nobis 
 
 Et diei potuisse, et non potuisse refelli. 
 
 Ovid, Met. i, 759. 
 
 To hear an open slander is a curse; 
 
 But not to find an answer is a worse.*— Dryden. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, May 6, 1712. 
 
 “I am sexton of the parish of Covent-garden, 
 and complained to you some time ago, that as I 
 was tolling into prayers at eleven in the morn¬ 
 ing, crowds of people of quality hastened to as¬ 
 semble at a puppet show on the other side of the 
 garden. I had at the same time a very great dises- 
 teem for Mr. Powell, and his little thoughtless 
 commonwealth, as if they had enticed the gentry 
 into those wanderings : but let that be as it will, 
 I now am convinced of the honest intentions of 
 the said Mr. Powell and company and send this 
 to acquaint you, that he has given all the profits 
 which shall arise to-morrow night by his play to 
 the use of the poor charity-children of this parish. 
 I have been informed, sir, that in Holland all per¬ 
 sons who set up any show, or act any stage-play, 
 be the actors either of wood andAvire, or flesh and 
 blood, are obliged to pay out of their gains such 
 a proportion to the honest and industrious poor 
 in the neighborhood ; by this means they make 
 diversion and pleasure pay a tax to labor and 
 industry. I have been told also, that all the time 
 of Lent, in Roman Catholic countries, the persons 
 of condition administer to the necessities of the 
 poor, and attend the beds of lazars and diseased 
 persons. Our protestant ladies and gentlemen 
 are so much to seek for proper ways of passing 
 time, that they are obliged to punchinello for 
 knowing what to do with themselves. Since the 
 
 459 
 
 case is so, I desire only you would entreat our 
 people of quality, who are not to be interrupted 
 in their pleasure, to think of the practice of any 
 moral duty, that they would at least fine for their 
 sins, and give something to these poor children: 
 a little out of their luxury and superfluity would 
 atone, in some measure, for the wanton use of the 
 rest of their fortunes. It would not, methinks, be 
 amiss, if the ladies who hunt the cloisters and 
 passages of the playhouses, were, upon every 
 offense, obliged to pay to this excellent institution 
 of schools of charity. This method would make 
 offenders themselves do service to the public. 
 But in the meantime I desire you would publish 
 this voluntary reparation which Mr. Powell does 
 our parish, for the noise he has made in it by the 
 constant rattling of coaches, drums, trumpets, 
 triurpphs, and battles. The destruction of Troy, 
 adorned with Highland dances, are to make up 
 the entertainment of all who are so well disposed 
 as not to forbear a light entertainment, for no 
 other reason but that it is to do a good action. 
 
 “I am, sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Ralph Bellfry,” 
 
 “I am credibly informed, that all the insinua¬ 
 tions which a certain writer made against Mr. 
 Powell at the Bath, are false and groundless.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ My employment, which is that of a broker, 
 leading me often into taverns about the Exchange, 
 has given me occasion to observe a certain enor¬ 
 mity, which I shall here submit to your animad¬ 
 version. In three or four of these taverns, I have, 
 at different times, taken notice of a precise set of 
 people, with grave countenances, short wigs, black 
 clothes, or dark camlet trimmed with black, and 
 mourning gloves and hat-bands, who meet on 
 certain days at each tavern successively, and keep 
 a sort of moving club. Having often met with 
 their faces, and observed a certain slinking way 
 in their dropping in one after another, I had the 
 curiosity to inquire into their characters, being 
 the rather moved to it by their agreeing in the 
 singularity of their dress; and I find, upon due 
 examination, they are a knot of parish clerks, 
 who have taken a fancy to one another, and per¬ 
 haps settle the bills of mortality over their half¬ 
 pints. I have so great a value and veneration for 
 any who have but even an assenting Amen in 
 the service of religion, that I am afraid lest these 
 persons should incur some scandal by this prac¬ 
 tice; and would therefore have them, without 
 raillery, advised to send the Florence and pullets 
 home to their own houses, and not pretend to live 
 as well as the overseers of the poor. 
 
 “ I am, sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Humphry Transfer.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, May 6th. 
 
 “I was last Wednesday night at a tavern in 
 the city, among a set of men who call themselves 
 ‘the lawyers’ club.’ You must know, sir, this 
 club consists only of attorneys ; and at this meet¬ 
 ing every one proposes the cause he has then in 
 hand to the board, upon which each member 
 gives his judgment according to the experience 
 he lias met with. If it happens that any one puts 
 a case of which they have had no precedent, it is 
 noted down by their clerk, Will Goosequill (who 
 registers all their proceedings), that one of them 
 may go the next day with it to a counsel. This 
 indeed is commendable, and ought to be the prin¬ 
 cipal end of their meeting; but had you been 
 there, to have heard them relate their methods of 
 managing a cause, their manner of drawing out 
 
 * In the original publication in folio, the motto is wanting. 
 
THE SPECT ATO R. 
 
 460 
 
 their bills, and, in short, their arguments upon 
 the several ways of abusing their clients, with the 
 applause that is given to him who has done it 
 most artfully, you would before now have given 
 your remarks on them. They are so conscious 
 that their discourse ought to be kept a secret, that 
 they are very cautious of admitting any person 
 who is not of their profession. When any who 
 are not of the law are let in, the person who intro¬ 
 duces him says he is a very honest gentleman, 
 and he is taken in, as their cant is, to pay costs. 
 I am admitted upon the recommendation of one 
 of their principals, as a very honest, good-natured 
 fellow, that will never be in a plot, and only de¬ 
 sires to drink his bottle and smoke his pipe. You 
 have formerly remarked upon several sorts of 
 clubs ; and as the tendency of this is only to in¬ 
 crease fraud and deceit, I hope you will please 
 to take notice of it. 
 
 “ I am, with respect, your humble Servant. 
 
 T. “ H. R.” 
 
 Ho. 373.] THURSDAY, MAY 8, 1712. 
 
 Fallit enim vitium specie virtutis et umbra. 
 
 Juv., Sat. xiv, 109. 
 
 Vice oft is hid in Virtue’s fair disguise, 
 
 And in her borrow’d form escapes inquiring eyes. 
 
 Mr. Locke, in his treatise of the Human Un¬ 
 derstanding, has spent two chapters upon the 
 abuse of words. The first and palpable abuse of 
 words, he says, is when they are used without 
 clear and distinct ideas; the second, when we are 
 so inconstant and unsteady in the application of 
 them, that we sometimes use them to signify one 
 idea, sometimes another. He adds, that the result 
 of our contemplations and reasonings, while we 
 have no precise ideas fixed to our words, must 
 needs be very confused and absurd. To avoid 
 this inconvenience, more especially in moral-dis¬ 
 courses, where the same word should be constantly 
 used in the same sense, he earnestly recommends 
 the use of definitions. “ A definition,” says he, 
 “ is the only way whereby the precise meaning of 
 moral words can be known.” He therefore accuses 
 those of great negligence who discourse of moral 
 things with the least obscurity in the terms they 
 make use of; since, upon the fore-mentioned 
 ground, he does not scruple to say that he thinks 
 “ morality is capable of demonstration, as well as 
 the mathematics.” 
 
 I know no two words that have been more 
 abused by the different and wrong interpretations 
 which are put upon them, than these two, modesty 
 and assurance. To say such a one is a modest 
 man, sometimes indeed passes for a good charac¬ 
 ter; but at present is very often used to signify a 
 sheepish, awkward fellow, who has neither good 
 breeding, politeness, nor any knowledge of the 
 world. 
 
 Again, a man of assurance, though at first it 
 only denoted a person of a free and open carriage, 
 is now very usually applied to a profligate wretch, 
 who can break through all the rules of decency 
 and morality without a blush. 
 
 I shall endeavor, therefore, in this essay, to re¬ 
 store these words to their true meaning, to prevent 
 the idea of modesty from being confounded with 
 that of sheepishness, and to hinder impudence 
 from passing for assurance. 
 
 If I was put to define modesty, I would call it 
 “ the reflection of an ingenious* mind, either 
 when a man has committed an action for which he 
 censures himself, or fancies that he is exposed to 
 the censure of others.” 
 
 * “ Ingenious ” seems to be here used for “ ingenuous.” 
 
 For this reason a man truly modest is as much 
 so when he is alone as in company, and as subject 
 to a blush in his closet as when the eyes of multi¬ 
 tudes are upon him. 
 
 I do not remember to have met with any in¬ 
 stance of modesty with which I am so well 
 pleased as that celebrated one of the young prince, 
 whose father being a tributary king to the Ro¬ 
 mans, had several complaints laid against him be¬ 
 fore the senate, as a tyrant and oppressor of his 
 subjects. The prince went to Rome to defend his 
 father; but coming into the senate, and hearing a 
 multitude of crimes proved upon him, was so op¬ 
 pressed when it came to his turn to speak, that he 
 was unable to utter a word. The story tells us, 
 that the fathers were more moved at this instance 
 of modesty and ingenuity* than they could have 
 been by the most pathetic oration, and, in short, 
 pardoned the guilty father for this early promise 
 of virtue in the son. 
 
 I take “ assurance to be the faculty of possess¬ 
 ing a man’s self, or of saying and doing indifferent 
 things without any uneasiness or emotion in the 
 mind.” That which generally gives a man assu¬ 
 rance is a moderate knowledge of the world, but, 
 above all, a mind fixed and determined in itself 
 to do nothing against the rules of honor and de¬ 
 cency. An open and assured behavior is the na¬ 
 tural consequence of such a resolution. A man 
 thus armed, if his words or actions are at any 
 time misrepresented, retires within himself, and 
 from a consciousness of his own integrity, assumes 
 force enough to despise the little censures of igno¬ 
 rance and malice. 
 
 Every one ought to cherish and encourage in 
 himself the modesty and assurance I have here 
 mentioned. 
 
 A man without assurance is liable to be made 
 uneasy by the folly or ill-nature of every one he 
 converses with. A man without modesty is lost 
 to all sense of honor and virtue. 
 
 It is more than probable that the prince above- 
 mentioned possessed both these qualifications in a 
 very eminent degree. Without assurance, he 
 would never have undertaken to speak before the 
 most august assembly in the world : without mo¬ 
 desty, he would have pleaded the cause he had 
 taken upon him, though it had appeared ever so 
 scandalous. 
 
 From what has been said, it is plain that mo¬ 
 desty and assurance are both amiable, and may 
 very well meet in the same person. When they 
 are thus mixed and blended together, they com¬ 
 pose what we endeavor to express when we say 
 “ a modest assurance;” by which we understand 
 the just mean between bashfulness and impu¬ 
 dence. 
 
 I shall conclude with observing, that as the 
 same man may be modest and assured, so it is 
 also possible for the same to be both impudent 
 and bashful. 
 
 We have frequent instances of this odd kind of 
 mixture in people of depraved minds and mean 
 education, who, though they are not able to meet 
 a man’s eyes, or pronounce a sentence without 
 confusion, can voluntarily commit the greatest 
 villanies or most indecent actions. 
 
 Such a person seems to have made a resolution 
 to do ill even in spite of himself, and in defiance 
 of all those checks and restraints his temper and 
 complexion seem to have laid in his way. 
 
 Upon the whole, I would endeavor to establish 
 this maxim, that the practice of virtue is the 
 most proper method to give a man a becoming 
 
 * “ Ingenuity ” seems hero to be used in the sense of “ in¬ 
 genuousness.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 assurance in his words and actions. Guilt always 
 seeks to shelter itself in one of the extremes and 
 is sometimes attended with both.—X. 
 
 461 
 
 • Ho. 374.] FRIDAY, MAY 9, 1712. 
 
 J»il actum reputans si quid superesset agendum. 
 
 Lucan, ii, 57. 
 
 He reckon’d not the past, while aught remain’d 
 
 Great to be done, or mighty to be gain'd.—R owe. 
 
 There is a fault, which, though common, wants 
 a name. It is the very contrary to procrastina- 
 nation. As we lose the present hour by delaying 
 from day to day to execute what we ought to do 
 immediately, so most of us take occasion to sit 
 still and throw away the time in our possession 
 by retrospect on what is past, imagining we have 
 already acquitted ourselves, and established our 
 characters in the sight of mankind. But when 
 we thus put a value upon ourselves for what we 
 have already done, any further than to explain 
 ourselves in order to assist our future conduct, 
 that will give us an overweening opinion of our 
 merit, to the prejudice of our present industry. 
 The great rule, methinks, should be, to manage 
 the instant in which we stand, with fortitude, 
 equanimity, and moderation, according to men’s 
 respective circumstances. If our past actions re¬ 
 proach us, they cannot be atoned for by our own 
 severe reflections so effectually as by a contrary 
 behavior. If they are praiseworthy, the memory 
 of them is of no use but to act suitably to them. 
 Thus a good present behavior is an implicit re¬ 
 pentance for any miscarriage in what is past; but 
 present slackness will not make up for past acti¬ 
 vity. Time has swallowed up all that we cotem¬ 
 poraries did yesterday as irrevocably as it has 
 the _ actions of the antediluvians. But we are 
 again awake, and what shall we do to-day—to¬ 
 day, which passes while we are yet speaking? 
 Shall we remember the folly of last night, or re¬ 
 solve upon the exercise of virtue to-morrow? Last 
 night is certainly gone, and to-morrow may never 
 arrive. This instant make use of. Can you 
 oblige any man of honor and virtue? Do it imme¬ 
 diately. Can you visit a sick friend ? Will it re¬ 
 vive him to see you enter, and suspend your own 
 ease and pleasure to comfort his weakness, and 
 hear the impertinences of a wretch in pain? Do 
 not stay to take coach, but be gone. Your mis¬ 
 tress will bring sorrow, and your bottle madness. 
 Go to neither—Such virtues and diversions as 
 these are mentioned because they occur to all men. 
 But every man is sufficiently convinced, that to 
 suspend the use of the present moment, and re¬ 
 solve better for the future only, is an unpardon¬ 
 able folly. What I attempted to consider, was the 
 mischief of setting such a value upon what is 
 past, as to think we have done enough. Let a man 
 have filled all the offices of life with the highest 
 dignity till yesterday, and begin to live only to 
 himself to-day, he must expect he will, in the ef¬ 
 fects upon his reputation, be considered as the 
 man who died yesterday. The man who distin¬ 
 guishes himself from the rest, stands in a press of 
 people : those before him intercept his progress; 
 and those behind him, if he does not urge on* 
 will tread him down. Caesar, of whom it was 
 said that lie thought nothing done while there was 
 left anything for him to do, went on in perform¬ 
 ing the greatest exploits, without assuming to 
 himself a privilege of taking rest upon the foun¬ 
 dation of the merit of his former actions. It was 
 the manner of that glorious captain to write down 
 what soenes he had passed through; but it was 
 
 rather to keep his affairs in method, and capable 
 of a clear review in case they should be examined 
 by others, than that he built a renown upon any¬ 
 thing that was past. I shall produce two frag- 
 ments of his, to demonstrate that it was his rule 
 of life to support himself rather by what he should 
 peilorm, than what he had done already. In the 
 tablet which he wore about him the same year in 
 which he obtained the battle of Pharsalia, there 
 were found these loose notes of his own conduct. 
 It is supposed, by the circumstances they alluded 
 to, that they might be set down the evening of the 
 same night. 
 
 “ My part is now but begun, and my glory must 
 be sustained by the use I make of this victory, 
 otherwise my loss will be greater than that of 
 Pompey. Our personal reputation will rise or fall 
 as we bear our respective fortunes. All my pri¬ 
 vate enemies among the prisoners shall be spared. 
 I will forget this, in order to obtain such another 
 day. Trebutius is ashamed to see me; I will go 
 to his tent, and be reconciled in private. Give all 
 the men of honor, who take part with me, the 
 terms I offered before the battle. Let them owe 
 this to their friends who have been long in my in¬ 
 terests. Power is weakened by the full use of it, 
 but extended by moderation. Galbinius is proud, 
 and will be servile in his present fortune: let him 
 wait. Send for Stertinius: he is modest, and his 
 virtue is worth gaining. I have cooled my heart 
 with reflection, and am fit to rejoice with the army 
 to-morrow. He is a popular general, who can ex¬ 
 pose himself like a private man during a battle; 
 but he is more popular who can rejoice but like a 
 private man after a victory.” 
 
 What is particularly proper for the example of 
 all who pretend to industry in the pursuit of ho¬ 
 nor and virtue, is, that this hero was more than 
 ordinarily solicitous about his reputation, when a 
 common mind would have thought itself in secu¬ 
 rity, and given itself a loose to joy and triumph. 
 But though this is a very great instance of his 
 temper, I must confess I am more taken with his 
 reflections when he retired to his closet in some 
 disturbance upon the repeated ill omens of Cal- 
 phurnia’s dream, the night before his death. The 
 literal translation of that fragment shall conclude 
 this paper. 
 
 “ Be it so then. If I am to die to-morrow, that 
 is what I am to do to-morrow. It will not be 
 then, because I am willing it should be then; nor 
 shall I escape it, because I am unwilling. It is 
 in the gods when, but in myself how, I shall die. 
 If Calphurnia’s dreams are fumes of indigestion, 
 how shall I behold the day after to-morrow! If 
 they are from the gods, their admonition is not to 
 prepare me to escape from their decree, but to meet 
 it. I have lived a fullness of days and of glory: 
 what is there that Caesar has not done with as 
 much honor as ancient heroes ?—Caesar has not 
 yet died! Caesar is prepared to die.”—T. 
 
 No. 375.] SATURDAY, MAY 10, 1712. 
 
 Non possidentem multa vocaveris 
 Recte beatum: rectius occupat 
 Nomen beati, qui deorum 
 Muneribus sapientur uti, 
 
 Duramque callet pauperiem pati, 
 
 Pej usque letho fiagitium timet. 
 
 Hor. 4 Od. ix, 45. 
 
 We barbarously call them blest 
 Who are of largest tenements possest, 
 
 While swelling coffers break their owner’s rest. 
 More truly happy those who can 
 Govern that little empire, man; 
 
 Who spend their treasure freely, as’t was giv’n 
 By the large bounty of indulgent Heav’n; 
 
462 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Who, in a fix’d unalterable state, 
 
 Smile at the doubtful tide of Fate, 
 
 And scorn alike her friendship and her hate 
 Who poison less than falsehood fear, 
 
 Loth to purchase life so dear.—S tepney. 
 
 I have more than once had occasion to mention 
 a noble saying of Seneca the philosopher, that a 
 virtuous person struggling with misfortunes, and 
 rising above them, is an object on which the gods 
 themselves mav look down with delight. I shall 
 therefore set before my reader a scene of this kind 
 of distress in private life, for the speculation of 
 this day. 
 
 An eminent citizen, who had lived in good 
 fashion and credit, was, by a train of accidents, 
 and by an unavoidable perplexity in his affairs, 
 reduced to a low condition. There is a modesty 
 usually attending faultless poverty, which made 
 him rather choose to reduce his manner of living 
 to his present circumstances, than solicit his 
 friends in order to support the show of an estate 
 when the substance was gone. His wife, who was 
 a woman of sense and virtue, behaved herself on 
 this occasion with uncommon decency, and never 
 appeared so amiable in his eyes as now. Instead 
 of upbraiding him with the ample fortune she had 
 brought, or the many great offers she had refused 
 for his sake, she redoubled all the instances of 
 her affection, while her husband was continually 
 ouring out his heart to her in complaints that he 
 ad ruined the best woman in the world. He 
 sometimes came home at a time when she did not 
 expect him, and surprised her in tears, which she 
 endeavored to conceal, and always put on an air 
 of cheerfulness to receive him. To lessen their 
 expense, their eldest daughter (whom I shall call 
 Amanda) was sent into the country, to the house 
 of an honest farmer, who had married a servant 
 of the family. This young woman was appre¬ 
 hensive of the ruin which was approaching, and 
 had privately engaged a friend in the neighbor¬ 
 hood to give her an account of what passed from 
 time to time in her father’s affairs. Amanda was 
 in the bloom of her youth and beauty; when the 
 lord of the manor, who often called in at the farm¬ 
 er’s house, as he followed his country sports, fell 
 passionately in love with her. He was a man of 
 great generosity, but, from a loose education, had 
 contracted a hearty aversion to- marriage. He 
 therefore entertained a design upon Amanda’s vir¬ 
 tue, which at present he thought fit to keep private. 
 The innocent creature, who never suspected his 
 intentions, was pleased with his person; and, 
 having observed his growing passion for her, 
 hoped by so advantageous a match she might 
 quickly be in a capacity of supporting her impo¬ 
 verished relations. One day, as he called to see 
 her, he found her in tears, over a letter she had 
 just received from her friend, which gave an ac¬ 
 count that her father had lately been stripped of 
 everything by an execution. The lover, who with 
 some difficulty found out the cause of her grief, 
 took this occasion to make her a proposal. It is 
 impossible to express Amanda’s confusion when 
 she found his pretensions were not honorable. She 
 was now deserted of all her hopes, and had no 
 power to speak, but, rushing from him in the ut¬ 
 most disturbance, locked herself up in her cham¬ 
 ber. He immediately dispatched a messenger to 
 her father with the following letter: 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I have heard of your misfortunes, and have 
 offered your daughter, if she will live with me, to 
 settle on her four hundred pounds a-year, and to 
 lay down the sum for which you are now dis¬ 
 tressed. I will be so ingenuous as to tell you that 
 
 I do not intend marriage, but if you are wise, you 
 will use your authority with her not to be too nice, 
 when she has an opportunity of saving you and 
 your family, and of making lierself happy. 
 
 “ I am,” etc. 
 
 This letter came to the hands of Amanda’s 
 mother. She opened and read it with great sur¬ 
 prise and concern. She did not think it proper to 
 explain herself to the messenger, but, desiring 
 him to call again the next morning, she wrote to 
 her daughter as follows :— 
 
 “ Dearest Child, 
 
 “Your father and I have just received a letter 
 from a gentleman who pretends love to you, with 
 a proposal that insults our misfortunes, and would 
 throw us to a lower degree of misery than any¬ 
 thing which is come upon us. How could this 
 barbarous man think that the tenderest of parents 
 would be tempted to supply their wants by giving 
 up the best of children to infamy and ruin ? It is 
 a mean and cruel artifice to make this proposal at 
 a time when he thinks our necessities must com¬ 
 pel us to anything; but we will not eat the bread 
 of shame; and therefore we charge thee not to 
 think of us, but to avoid the snare which is laid 
 for thy virtue. Beware of pitying us: it is not so 
 bad as you perhaps have been told. All things 
 will yet be well, and I shall write my child better 
 news. 
 
 “I have been interrupted; I know not how I 
 was moved to say things would mend. As I was 
 going on, I was startled by the noise of one that 
 knocked at the door, and hath brought us an un¬ 
 expected supply of a debt which has long been 
 owing. Oh! I will now tell thee all. It is some 
 days I have lived almost without support, having 
 conveyed what little money I could raise to your 
 poor father. Thou wilt weep to think where he 
 is, yet be assured he will be soon at liberty. That 
 cruel letter would have broke his heart, but I have 
 concealed it from him. I have no companion at 
 present beside little Fanny, who stands watching 
 my looks as I write, and is crying for her sister. 
 She says she is sure you are not well, having dis¬ 
 covered that my present trouble is about you. But 
 do not think I would thus repeat my sorrows to 
 grieve thee. No; it is to entreat thee not to mako 
 them insupportable, by adding what would be 
 worse than all. Let us bear cheerfully an afflic¬ 
 tion which we have not brought on ourselves, and 
 remember there is a Power who can better deliver 
 us out of it than by the loss of thy innocence. 
 Heaven preserve my dear child ! 
 
 “ Thy affectionate Mother, 
 
 u _ » 
 
 The messenger, notwithstanding he promised to 
 deliver this letter to Amanda, carried it first to his 
 master, who he imagined would be glad to have 
 an opportunity of giving it into her hands him¬ 
 self. His master was impatient to know the success 
 of his proposal, and therefore broke open the let¬ 
 ter privately to see the contents. He was not a 
 little moved at so true a picture of virtue in dis¬ 
 tress; but at the same time was infinitely surprised 
 to find his offers rejected. However, he resolved 
 not to suppress the letter, but carefully sealed it 
 up again, and carried it to Amanda. All his en¬ 
 deavors to see her were in vain till she was assured 
 he brought a letter from her mother. He would 
 not part with it but upon condition that she would 
 read it without leaving the room. While she was 
 perusing it, he fixed his eyes on her face with the 
 deepest attention. Her concern gave a new soft¬ 
 ness to her beauty, and, when she Durst into tears, 
 he could no longer refrain from bearing a part in 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 her sorrow, and telling her, that he too had read 
 the letter, and was resolved to make reparation 
 for having been the occasion of it. My reader 
 will not be displeased to see the second epistle 
 which he now wrote to Amanda’s mother. 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 I am full of shame, and will never forgive 
 m jself if I have not your pardon for what I lately 
 wrote. It was far from my intention to add trou¬ 
 ble to the afflicted; nor could .anything but my 
 being a stranger to you have betrayed me into a 
 fault, tor which, if I live, I shall endeavor to make 
 you amends as a son. You cannot be unhappy 
 while Amanda is your daughter; nor shall be, if 
 anything can prevent it which is in the power of, 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ \ our most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 << >> 
 
 This letter he sent by his steward, and soon 
 after went up to town himself to complete the ge¬ 
 nerous act he had now resolved on. By his friend¬ 
 ship and assistance Amanda’s father was quickly 
 in a condition of retrieving his perplexed affairs. 
 To conclude, lie married Amanda, and enjoyed 
 the double satisfaction of having restored a worthy 
 family to their former prosperity, and of making 
 himself happy by an alliance to their virtues. & 
 
 No. 376.] MONDAY, MAY, 16, 1712. 
 
 -Pavone ex Pythagorao. 
 
 Pzrs., Sat. vi, 11. 
 
 From the Pythagorean peacock. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I have observed that the officer you some time 
 ago appointed as inspector of signs, has not done 
 his duty so well as to give you an account of very 
 many strange occurrences in the public streets, 
 which are w 7 orthy of, but have escaped, your no¬ 
 tice. Among all the oddnesses which I have ever 
 met with, that which I am now telling you gave 
 me most delight. You must have observed that 
 all the cries in the street attract the attention of 
 the passengers, and of the inhabitants in the 
 several parts, by something very particular in 
 their tone itself, in the dwelling upon a note, or 
 else making themselves wholly unintelligible by a 
 scream. The person I am so delighted with has 
 nothing to sell, but very gravely receives the 
 bounty of the people, for no other merit but the 
 homage they pay to his manner of signifying to 
 them that he wants a subsidy. You must sure 
 have heard speak of an old man who walks about 
 the city, and that part of the suburbs which lies 
 beyond the Tower, performing the office of a day- 
 w at chin an, followed by a goose, which bears the 
 bob of his ditty, and confirms what he says with 
 a Quack, quack. I gave little heed to the men¬ 
 tion of this known circumstance till, being the 
 other day in those quarters, I passed by a decre- 
 pnl old fellow, with a pole in his hand," who just, 
 then w r as bawling out, ' Half an hour after one 
 o’clock!’ and immediately a dirty goose behind 
 made her response, ‘ Quack, quack.’ I could not 
 forbear attending this grave procession for the 
 length of half a street, with no small amazement 
 to find the whole place so familiarly acquainted 
 with a melancholy midnight voice at noon-day, 
 giving them the hour, and exhorting them of the 
 departure of time, with a bounce at their doors. 
 While I was full of this novelty, I went into a 
 friend’s house, and told him how I was diverted 
 with their whimsical monitor and his equipage. 
 
 463 
 
 My friend gave me the history; and interrupted 
 my commendation of the man, by telling me the 
 livelihood ot these two animals is purchased 
 rather by the good parts of the goose than of the 
 leader; for it seems the peripatetic who walked 
 before her was a watchman in that neighborhood; 
 and the goose of herself, by frequently hearing 
 this tone, out of her natural vigilance, not only 
 observed, but answered it very regularly from 
 time to time. The watchman was so affected with 
 it, that he bought her, and has taken her in part¬ 
 ner only altering their hours of duty from night 
 to day. The town lias come into it, and they live 
 very comfortably. This is the matter of fact. 
 Now I desire you, who are a profound philoso¬ 
 pher, to consider this alliance of instinct and rea¬ 
 son. Your speculation may turn very naturally 
 iipon the force the superior part of mankind may 
 have upon the spirits of such as, like this watch¬ 
 man, may be very near the standard of geese. 
 And you may add to this practical observation, 
 how, in all ages and times, the world has been 
 carried away by odd unaccountable things, which 
 one would think w r ould pass upon no creature 
 which had reason; and under the symbol of this 
 goose, you may enter into the manner and method 
 of leading creatures with their eyes open through 
 thick and thin, for they know not what, they 
 know not why. 
 
 “ All which is humbly submitted to your spec- 
 tatorial wisdom by, “ Sir, 
 
 Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Michael Gander.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have for several years had under my care the 
 government and education of young ladies, which 
 trust I have endeavored to discharge with due re¬ 
 gard to their several capacities and fortunes. I 
 have left nothing undone to imprint in every one 
 of them a humble courteous mind, accompanied 
 with a graceful becoming mien, and have made 
 them pretty much acquainted with the household 
 part of family affairs; but still I find there is 
 something very much wanting in the air of my la¬ 
 dies, different from w r hat I have observed in those 
 who are esteemed your fine-bred women. Now, 
 Sir, I must own to you, I never suffered my girls 
 to learn to dance: but since I have read your dis¬ 
 course of dancing, where you have described the 
 beauty and spirit there is in regular motion, I own 
 myself your convert, and resolve for the future to 
 give my young ladies that accomplishment. But 
 upon imparting my design to their parents, 1 have 
 been made very uneasy for some time, because 
 several of them have declared, that if I did not 
 make use of the master they recommended, they 
 would take away their children. There was 
 Colonel thumper’s lady, a colonel of the train- 
 bands, that has a great interest in her parish; she 
 recommends Mr. Trot for the prettiest master in 
 town; that no man teaches a jig like him, that 
 she has seen him rise six or seven capers together 
 with the greatest ease imaginable; and that his 
 scholars twist themselves more ways than the 
 scholars of any master in town; beside, there is 
 Madam Prim, an alderman’s lady, recommends a 
 master of their own name, but she declares he is 
 not of their family, yet a very extraordinary man 
 in his way; for, beside a very soft air he has in 
 dancing, he gives them a particular behavior at 
 a tea-table, and in presenting their snuff-box; 
 teaches to twirl, slip, or flirt a fan, and how to 
 place patches to the best advantage, either for fat 
 or lean, long or oval faces; for my lady says there 
 is more in these things than the world imagines. 
 But I must confess, the major part of those I am 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 464 
 
 concerned with leave it to me. I desire, therefore, | 
 according to the inclosed direction, you would 
 send your correspondent who has written to you j 
 on that subject to my house. If proper applica- j 
 tion this way can give innocence new charms, and j 
 make virtue legible in the countenance, I shall j 
 spare no charge to make my scholars, in their very I 
 features and limbs, bear witness how careful I j 
 have been in the other parts of their education, i 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant, 
 
 T. “ Rachael Watchful.” 
 
 No. 377.] TUESDAY, MAY 13, 1712. 
 
 Quid quisque vitet, nunquam homini satis 
 
 Cautum est in floras.- 
 
 IIor. 2 Od., xiii, 13. 
 
 What each should fly, is seldom known; 
 
 We unprovided, are undone.— Creech. 
 
 Love was the mother of poetry, and still pro¬ 
 duces, among the most ignorant and barbarous, a 
 thousand imaginary distresses and poetical com¬ 
 plaints. It makes a footman talk like Oroondates, 
 and converts a brutal rustic into a gentle swain. 
 The most ordinary plebeian or mechanic in love 
 bleeds and pines away with a certain elegance and 
 tenderness of sentiments which this passion na¬ 
 turally inspires. 
 
 These inward languisliings of a mind infected 
 with this softness have given birth to. a phrase 
 which is made use of by all the melting tribe, 
 from the highest to the lowest—I mean that of 
 “ dying for love.” 
 
 Romances, which owe their very being to this 
 passion, are full of these metaphorical deaths. 
 Heroes and heroines, knights, ’squires, and dam¬ 
 sels, are all of them in a dying condition. There 
 is the same kind of mortality in our modern tra¬ 
 gedies, where every one gasps, faints, bleeds, and 
 dies. Many of the poets, to describe the execu¬ 
 tion which is done by this passion, represent the 
 fair sex as basilisks, that destroy with their eyes; 
 but I think Mr. Gowley has, with great justness 
 of thought, compared a beautiful woman to a por¬ 
 cupine, that sends an arrow from every part. 
 
 I have often thought that there is no way so ef¬ 
 fectual for the cure of this general infirmity, as a 
 man’s reflecting upon the motives that produce it. 
 When the passion proceeds from the sense of any 
 virtue or perfection in the person beloved, 1 would 
 by no means discourage it; but if a man considers 
 that all his heavy complaints of wounds and 
 deaths rise from some little affectations of coquet¬ 
 ry, which are improved into charms by his own 
 fond imagination, the very laying before himself 
 the cause of his distemper may be sufficient to ef¬ 
 fect the cure of it. 
 
 It is in this view that I have looked over the 
 several bundles of letters which I have received 
 from dying people, and composed out of them the 
 following bill of mortality, which I shall lay be¬ 
 fore my reader without any further preface, as 
 hoping that it may be useful to him in discovering 
 those several places where there is most danger, 
 and those fatal arts which are made use of to de¬ 
 stroy the heedless and unwary:— 
 
 Lysander, slain at a puppet-show on the third 
 of September. 
 
 Thyrsis, shot from a casement in Piccadilly. 
 
 T. S. wounded by Zelinda’s scarlet stocking, as 
 she was stepping out of a coach. 
 
 Will Simple, smitten at the opera by the glance 
 of an eye that was aimed at one who stood by 
 him. 
 
 Tho. Vainlove, lost his life at a ball. 
 
 Tim. Tattle, kindled by the tap of a fan on his 
 left shoulder by Coquetilla, as he was talking 
 carelessly with her in a bow-window. 
 
 Sir Simon Softly, murdered at the playhouse in 
 Drury-lane by a frown. 
 
 Philander, mortally wounded by Cleora, as she 
 was adjusting her tucker. 
 
 Ralph Gapley, Esq., hit by a random-shot at 
 the ring. 
 
 F. R. caught his death upon the water, April 
 the 1st. 
 
 W. W. killed by an unknown hand, that was 
 playing with the glove off upon the side of the 
 front box in Drury-lane. 
 
 Sir Christopher Crazy, Bart., hurt by the brush 
 of a whalebone petticoat. 
 
 Sylvius, shot through the sticks of a fan at St. 
 James’s church. 
 
 Damon, struck through the heart by a diamond 
 necklace. 
 
 Thomas Trusty, Francis Goosequill, William 
 Meanwell, Edward Callow, Esqrs., standing in a 
 row, fell all four at the same time, by an ogle of 
 the Widow Trapland. 
 
 Tom Rattle, chancing to tread upon a lady’s 
 tail as he came out of the playhouse, she turned 
 full upon him, and laid him dead upon the spot. 
 
 Dick Tastewell, slain by a blush from the 
 queen’s box in the third act of the Trip to the Ju¬ 
 bilee. 
 
 Samuel Felt, haberdasher, wounded in his walks 
 to Islington, by Mrs. Susannah Cross-stitch, as 
 she was clambering over a stile. 
 
 R. F. T. W. S. I. M. P., etc., put to death in the 
 last birthday massacre. 
 
 Roger Blinko, cut off in the twenty-first year 
 of his age by a white-wash. 
 
 Musidorus, slain by an arrow that flew out of a 
 dimple, in Belinda’s left cheek. 
 
 Ned Courtly, presenting Flavia with her glove 
 (which she had dropped on purpose), she received 
 it, and took away his life with a courtsey. 
 
 John Gosselin, having received a slight hurt 
 from a pair of blue eyes, as he was making his es¬ 
 cape, was dispatched by a smile. 
 
 Strephon, killed by Clarinda as she looked 
 down into the pit. 
 
 Charles Careless, shot flying by a girl of fifteen, 
 who unexpectedly popped her head upon him out 
 of a coach. 
 
 Josiali Wither, aged threescore and three, sent 
 to his long home by Elizabeth Jetwell, spinster. 
 
 Jack Freelove, murdered by Melissa in her hair. 
 
 William Wiseacre, Gent., drowned in a flood of 
 tears by Moll Common. 
 
 John Pleadwell, Esq., of the middle Temple, 
 barrister-at-law, assassinated in his chambers the 
 sixth inst. by Kitty Sly, who pretended to come 
 to him for his advice.—I. 
 
 No. 378.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 14, 1712. 
 
 Aggredere, 0 magnos! aderit jam tempus, honores. 
 
 Virq., Eel. ix, 48. 
 
 Mature in years, to ready honors move.—D ryden. 
 
 I will make no apology for entertaining the 
 reader with the following poem, which is written 
 by a great genius, a friend of mine* in the coun¬ 
 try, who is not ashamed to employ his wit in the 
 praise of his Maker. 
 
 * Pope. See No. 534. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 MESSIAH 
 
 465 
 
 A SACRED ECLOGUE, 
 
 Composed of several passages of Isaiah the prophet. 
 
 Written in Imitation of Virgil's PoUio. 
 
 nymphs of Solyma! begin the song: 
 
 To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong, 
 
 The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, 
 
 The dreams of Pindus, and th’ Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more—0 Thou my voice inspire, 
 
 »ho touched Isaiah’s hallow’d lips with fire I 
 Rapt into future times, the bard begun: 
 r • 4 A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a eon! 
 
 Isa. xi. 4. From Jesse’s root behold a branch arise, 
 
 VV hose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies ; 
 lh ethereal Spirit o’er its leaves shall move, 
 
 , _ And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
 
 Ye heavens!. from high the dewy nectar pour, 
 a ~P d 8cdb sbenc e shed the kindly shower! 
 
 1 *• db e sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
 
 I rom storms a shelter, and from heat a shade, 
 i *t All crimes 6 hall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail, 
 
 U. 7. Returning Justice lift aloft her scale: 
 
 Peace o’er the world her olive wand extend, 
 
 And white-rob’d Innocence from heaven descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn! 
 
 Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! 
 
 See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
 i y ab ^he mcense of the breathing spring: 
 
 C XEXV. 2 . See lofty Lebahon his head advance, 
 
 See nodding forests on the mountains dance. 
 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
 i -» a Carmel’s flow’ry top perfumes the skies! 
 
 XL d, 4. Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers; 
 Prepare the way! a God, a God appears: 
 
 A God! a God! the vocal hills reply, 
 
 The rocks proclaim th’ approaching Deity. 
 
 Lo earth receives him from the bending skies! 
 4 r" 1 ^i. C ^ 0Wn ’ fountains: and ye valleys, rise! 
 With heads declin’d, ye cedars, homage pay; 
 
 Be smooth, ye rocks; ye rapid floods, give way! 
 
 ... T V le Savior comes! by ancient bards fore told! 
 
 xrn.18. Hear him, ye deaf: and all ye blind, behold! 
 
 'XXXV. “ e from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
 
 ^J} d ° n the sightless eye-ball pour the day. 
 
 Tis He th’ obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
 And bid new music charm th’ unfolding ear: 
 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
 And leap exulting like the bounding roe: 
 
 No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear, 
 xxv. o. * rom every face he wipes off every tear; 
 
 In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
 
 . .. And hell’s grim tyrant feel th’ eternal wound. 
 
 XI. 11. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
 
 Seeks treshest pastures and the purest air, 
 
 Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, 
 
 By day o ersees them, and by night protects, 
 
 I lie tencier Lamb he raises in his arms, 
 
 Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms: 
 a Mankind shall thus his guardian care engage, 
 lx. 6. The promised Father of the future age. 
 u. 4. No more shall nation against nation rise, 
 
 Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 
 
 ^or fields with gleaming steel be cover’d o’er, 
 ihe brazen trumpets kindle rage no more: 
 
 But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
 
 01 00 ™] d the broad falchion in a plow-share end. 
 ixv. 2 t, ZZ. I hen palaces shall rise: the joyful son 
 
 Shall finish what his short-liv’d sire begun; 
 
 Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield 
 
 i ™ the 8ame hand that sow’d shall reap the field. 
 
 . l. 7. ihe swain in barren deserts, with surprise 
 Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise, 
 
 And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
 Eew falls of water murmuring in his ear: 
 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon’s late abodes, 
 
 rli , Q w ? reen reed trembles > and the bulrush nods. 
 di.19. and Waste sandy valleys, once perplex’d with thorn, 
 
 IV. 1.3. The spiry fir and shapely box adorn; 
 
 To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed 
 .. . od’rous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 
 X b, 7, 8 . The lambs with woods shall grace the verdant 
 mead, 
 
 And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead: 
 
 * 6 i ^ eer and bon a t one crib shall meet, 
 
 And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim’s feet: 
 
 The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
 The crested basilisk and speckled snake— 
 
 Pleas d the green luster of the scales survey, 
 
 shsdl^play 611 ^ kec * tongue and pointless sting 
 
 s. 1. Rise crown’d with light, imperial Salem, rise! 
 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes! 
 
 *• 4 . See a long race thy spacious courts adorn! 
 
 See future sons and daughters yet unborn 
 
 30 
 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise. 
 
 Demanding life, impatient for the skies! 
 
 ^n.” b rous nations at thy gates attend, Isa. lx. 3. 
 
 vValk m thy light, and in thy temple bend! 
 
 \ ce , bright altars throng’d with prostrate kings, 
 
 And heap d with products of Saharan springs. lx 6 
 
 \°r thee Idume’s spicy forests blow, 
 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir’s mountains glow, 
 bee heav n its sparkling portals wide display. 
 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day! 
 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the mom, lx 19 20 
 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn, ' ’ 
 
 But lost> dissolv'd in thy superior rays, 
 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 
 °im thy ,, C °^ r ^ : the Light Himself shall shine 
 Reveal d, and God s eternal day be thine! 
 
 the 8kies in smoke decay, li. 6. and 
 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away; n v io 
 
 But fix d His word, His saving power remains; 
 
 Ihy^realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns. 
 
 Xo. 379.] THURSDAY, MAY 15, 1712. 
 
 Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter. 
 
 Pers. Sat. i, 27. 
 
 -Science is not science till reveal’d.— Dryden. 
 
 txxv. 
 
 I HAVE often wondered at that ill-natured posi¬ 
 tion which has sometimes been maintained in the 
 schools, and is comprised in an old Latin verso 
 namely, that “ A man’s knowledge is worth 
 nothing if he communicates what he knows to 
 any one beside. There is certainly no more sen¬ 
 sible pleasure to a good-natured man, than if he 
 can by any means gratify or inform the mind of 
 another, I might add, that this virtue naturally 
 carries its own reward along with it, since it is 
 almost impossible it should be exercised without 
 the improvement of the person who practices it. 
 •y 1 ® leading of books, and the daily occurrences 
 of life, aie continually furnishing us with matter 
 for thought and reflection. It is extremely na¬ 
 tural for us to desire to see such of our thoughts 
 put in the dress of words, without which, indeed, 
 we can scarce have a clear and distinct idea of 
 them ourselves. When they are thus clothed in 
 expressions, nothing so truly shows us whether 
 they are just or false, as those effects which they 
 produce in the minds of others. 
 
 I am apt to flatter myself, that, in the course of 
 these my speculations, I have treated of several 
 subjects, and laid down many such rules for the 
 conduct of a man s life, which my readers were 
 either wholly ignorant of before, or which at least 
 those few who were acquainted with them, looked 
 upon as so many secrets they have found out for 
 the conduct of themselves, but were resolved never 
 to have made public. 
 
 I am the more confirmed in this opinion from 
 my having received several letters, wherein I am 
 censured for having prostituted Learning to the 
 embraces of the vulgar, and made her, as one of 
 my correspondents phrases it, a common strumpet. 
 
 I am charged by another with laying open the ar¬ 
 cana or secrets of prudence to the eyes of every 
 reader. J 
 
 The narrow spirit which appears in the letters 
 of these my correspondents is the less surprising, 
 as it has shown itself in all ages : there is still ex¬ 
 tant an epistle written by Alexander the Great to 
 his tutor Aristotle, upon that philosopher’s pub¬ 
 lishing some part of his writings; in which the 
 prince complains of his having made known to 
 all the world those secrets in learning which he 
 had before communicated to him in private lec¬ 
 tures : concluding, that he had rather excel the 
 rest of mankind in knowledge than in power. 
 
 Louisa de Padilla, a lady of great learning, and 
 countess of Aranda, was in like manner angry 
 with the famous Gratian, upon his publishing his 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 466 
 
 treatise of the Discreto, wherein she fancied that 
 he had laid open those maxims to common readers 
 which ought only to have been reserved for the 
 knowledge of the*’ great. 
 
 These objections are thought by many of so 
 much weight, that they often defend the above- 
 mentioned authors by affirming they have affected 
 such au obscurity in their style and manner of 
 writing, that, though every one may read their 
 works, there will be but very few who can com¬ 
 prehend their meaning. 
 
 Persius, the Latin satirist, affected obscurity 
 for another reason ; with which, however, Mr. 
 Cowley is so offended, that, writing to one of his 
 friends, “You,” says he, “tell me, that you do 
 not know whether Persius be a good poet or no, 
 because you cannot understand him ; for which 
 very reason I affirm that he is not so.” 
 
 However, this art of writing unintelligibly has 
 been very much improved, and followed by sev¬ 
 eral of the moderns, who, observing the general 
 inclination of mankind to dive into a secret, and 
 the reputation many have acquired by concealing 
 their meaning under obscure terms and phrases, 
 resolve, that they may be still more abstruse, 
 to write without any meaning at all. This art, 
 as it is at present practiced by many eminent 
 authors, consists in throwing so many words at a 
 venture into different periods, and leaving the 
 curious reader to find out the meaning of them. 
 
 The Egyptians, who made use of hieroglyphics 
 to signify several things, expressed a man who 
 confined his knowledge and discoveries altogether 
 within himself by the figure of a dark lantern 
 closed on all sides ; which, though it was illu¬ 
 minated within, afforded no manner of light or 
 advantage to such as stood by it. For my own 
 part, as I shall from time to time communicate to 
 the public whatever discoveries I happen to make, 
 I should much rather be compared to an ordinary 
 lamp, which consumes and wastes itself for the 
 benefit of every passenger. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with the story of 
 Rosicrusius’s sepulcher. 1 suppose I need not in¬ 
 form my readers, that this man was the founder 
 of the Rosicrucian sect, and that his disciples 
 still pretend to new discoveries, which they are 
 never to communicate to the rest of mankind.* 
 
 “ A certain person having occasion to dig some¬ 
 what deep in the ground, where this philosopher 
 lay interred, met with a small door, having a wall 
 on each side of it. His curiosity, and the hopes 
 of finding some hidden treasure, soon prompted 
 him to force open the door. He was immediately 
 surprised by a sudden blaze of light, and discov¬ 
 ered a very fair vault. At the upper end of it was 
 a statue of a man in armor, sitting by a table, and 
 leaning on his left arm. He held a truncheon in 
 his right hand, and had a lamp burning before 
 him. The man had no sooner set one foot within 
 the vault than the statue erected itself from its 
 leaning posture, stood bolt upright, and upon the 
 fellow’s advancing another step, lifted up the 
 truncheon in his right hand. The man still ven¬ 
 tured a third step, when the statue, with a furious 
 blow, broke the lamp into a thousand pieces, and 
 left his guest in a sudden darkness. 
 
 “ Upon the report of this adventure, the country 
 people soon came with lights to the sepulcher, 
 and discovered that the statue, which was made 
 of brass, was nothing more than a piece of clock¬ 
 work ; that the floor of the vault was all loose, 
 and underlaid with several springs, which upon 
 
 *See Compte de Ctabalis, par l’Abbe Villars, 1742, 2 vol.°., in 
 12mo., and Pope’s Works, ed. of Warb., vol. i, v. 109,12mo. 
 1770, 6 vola. 
 
 any man’s entering, naturally produced that which 
 had happened.” 
 
 Rosicrusius, say his disciples, made use of this 
 method to show tne world that he had re-invented 
 the ever-burning lamps of the ancients, though 
 he was resolved no one should reap any advan¬ 
 tage from the discovery.—X. 
 
 No. 380.J FRIDAY, MAY 16, 1712. 
 
 Rivalem patientur babe. 
 
 Ovid, Ars. Am., ii, 538. 
 
 With patience bear a rival in thy love. 
 
 “ Sir, Thursday, May 8, 1712. 
 
 “ The character you have in the world of be¬ 
 ing the ladies’ philosopher, and the pretty ad¬ 
 vice I have seen you give to others in your pa¬ 
 pers, make me address myself to you in this ab¬ 
 rupt manner, and to desire your opinion of what 
 in this age a woman may call a lover. I have 
 lately had a gentleman that I thought made 
 pretensions to me, insomuch that most of my 
 friends took notice of it, and thought we were 
 really married. I did not take much pains to 
 undeceive them, and especially a young gentle¬ 
 woman of my particular acquaintance, who was 
 then in the country. She coming to town, and 
 seeing our intimacy so great, gave herself the 
 liberty of taking me to task concerning it. I in¬ 
 genuously told her we were not married, but I 
 did not know what might be the event. She 
 soon got acquainted with the gentleman, and was 
 pleased to take upon her to examine him about it. 
 Now, whether a new face had made a greater con¬ 
 quest than the old I will leave you to judge. I 
 am informed that he utterly denied all pretensions 
 to courtship, but withal professed a sincere friend¬ 
 ship for me ; but, whether marriages are proposed 
 by way of friendship or not, is what I desire to 
 know, and what I may really call a lover ? There 
 are so many who talk in a language fit only for that 
 character, and yet guard themselves against speak¬ 
 ing in direct terms to the point, that it is impos¬ 
 sible to distinguish between courtship and con¬ 
 versation. I hope you will do me justice both 
 upon my lover and my friend, if they provoke me 
 further. In the meantime, I carry it with so 
 equal a behavior, that the nymph and the swain 
 too are mightily at a loss : each believes I, who 
 know them both well, think myself revenged in 
 their love to one another, which creates an irre¬ 
 concilable jealousy. If all comes right again, 
 you shall hear further from, 
 
 “ Sir, your most obedient Servant, 
 
 “ Myrtilla.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, April 28, 1712. 
 
 “Your observations on persons that have be¬ 
 haved themselves irreverently at church, 1 doubt 
 not, have had a good effect on some that have 
 read them : but there is another fault which has 
 hitherto escaped your notice, I mean of such per¬ 
 sons as are there very zealous and punctual to 
 perform an ejaculation that is only preparatory to 
 the service of the church, and yet neglect to join 
 in the service itself. There is an instance of this 
 in a friend of Will Honeycomb’s, who sits oppo¬ 
 site to me. He seldom comes in till the prayers 
 are about half over ; and when he has entered 
 his seat (instead of joining with the congrega¬ 
 tion) he devoutly holds his hat before his face for 
 three or four moments, then bows to all his ac¬ 
 quaintance, sits down, takes a pinch of snuff (if 
 it be the evening service perhaps takes a nap) 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 and spends the remaining time in surveying the 
 congregation. Now, Sir, what I would desire is 
 that you would animadvert a little on this gentle¬ 
 man s practice. In my opinion, this gentleman’s 
 devotion, cap m hand, is only a compliance to the 
 custom of the place, and goes no further than a 
 little ecclesiastical good breeding. If you will 
 not pretend to tell us the motives that bring such 
 triflers to solemn assemblies, yet let me desire 
 that you will g,ve this letter a place in your pa¬ 
 per, and shall remain, Jr 
 
 “ Sir, your obliged, humble Servant, 
 
 “ J. S”* 
 
 " Mr ; Spectator, May the 5th 
 
 “ ri ' he conversation at a club, of which I am a 
 member last night, falling upon vanity and the 
 desire of being admired, put me in mind of 
 relating how agreeably I was entertained at my 
 own door last Thursday, by a clean fresh-colored 
 girl, under the most elegant and the best furnished 
 milk pail I had ever observed. I was glad of 
 such an opportunity of seeing the behavior of a 
 coquette in low life, and how she received the 
 extraordinary notice that was taken of her • 
 which I found had affected every muscle of her 
 tace in the same manner as it does the features of 
 
 mi,- u™!' 6 r t0a ^ at a P* a 7 or * n an assembly, 
 inis hint of mine made the discourse turn upon 
 
 the sense of pleasure ; which ended in a general 
 resolution, that the milkmaid enjoys her vanity 
 as exquisitely as the woman of quality. I think 
 it would not be an improper subject for you to ex¬ 
 amine this frailty, and trace it to all conditions of 
 
 t \ v • 1S recommen ded to you as an occasion 
 of obliging many of your readers ; among the 
 rest, “ Your most humble Servant, 
 
 4137 
 
 Spectator for Sunday next, when they are to ap- 
 P ^ W ™r h V ,u ' )le airs a t the parish church 
 , Y^ ru e ?• ®ir, the mention of this may pos¬ 
 sibly be serviceable to the children ; and sure no 
 one will onnt a good action attended with no ex- 
 P ense> “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your very humble Servant, 
 rp * “ The Sexton.” 
 
 No. 381.J SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1712. 
 
 iEquam memento rebus in arduis 
 Servare mentem, non secus in bonis, 
 
 Ab insolenti temperatam 
 Laetitia, moriture Delli. 
 
 Hor. 2 Od. iii, 1. 
 
 Be calm, my Dellius, and serene, 
 
 However fortune change the scene, 
 
 In thy most dejected state, 
 
 Sink not underneath the weight; 
 
 Nor yet, when happy days begin,’ 
 
 And the full tide comes rolling in 
 Let a fierce, unruly joy, 
 
 The settled quiet of thy mind destroy. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 “ T. B.” 
 
 “ SlR) May 12, 1712. 
 
 “ Coming last week into a coffee-house not far 
 from the Exchange, with my basket under noy 
 arm, a Jew of considerable note, as I am informed, 
 takes half a dozen oranges of me, and at the 
 same time slides a guinea into my hand ; I made 
 him a courtsey, and went my way. He followed 
 me, and finding I was going about my business, 
 he came up with me, and told me plainly that he 
 gave me the guinea with no other intent but to 
 purchase my person for an hour. ‘ Did you so 
 bir, says I: ‘ you gave it me then to make me 
 wicked ; I will keep it to make me honest. How¬ 
 ever not to be in the least ungrateful, I promise 
 you I will lay it out in a couple of rings, and 
 wear them for your sake.’ I am so just, Sir, be¬ 
 side, as to give everybody that asks how I came 
 by my ring this account of my benefactor: but to 
 save me the trouble of telling my tale over and 
 over again, I humbly beg the favor of you to tell 
 it once for all, and you will extremely oblige, 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Betty Lemon.” 
 
 "® IR> St. Bride’s, May 15, 1712. 
 
 " T 1 ® f S rea f deal of pleasure to me, and I dare 
 say will be no less satisfactory to you, that I have 
 an opportunity of informing you, that the gentle¬ 
 men and others of the parish of St. Bride’s have 
 raised a charity-school of fifty girls, as before of 
 hlty boys You were so kind to recommend the 
 boys to the charitable world ; and the other sex 
 hope you will do them the same favor in Friday’s 
 
 is a™'" 1 " *■“" 
 
 I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. 
 1 he latter I consider as an act, the former as a 
 habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient 
 cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are 
 often raised into the greatest transports of mirth 
 who are subject to the greatest depressions of 
 melancholy. On the contrary, cheerfulness, though 
 it does not give the mind such an exquisite glad¬ 
 ness, prevents us from falling into any depths of 
 sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that 
 bleaks through a gloom of clouds and glitters for 
 a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day- 
 lght m the mind, and fills it with a steady and 
 perpetual serenity. 
 
 Men of austere principles look upon mirth as 
 too wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, 
 and as filled with a certain triumph and insolence 
 ot heart that is inconsistent with a life which is 
 every moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. 
 Writers of this complexion have observed, that the 
 bacred Person who was the great pattern of per¬ 
 fection was never seen to laugh. r 
 
 Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of 
 these exceptions ; it is of a serious and composed 
 nature ; it does not throw the mind into a condi¬ 
 tion improper for the present state of humanity 
 andis very conspicuous in the characters of those 
 who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers 
 among the heathens, as well as among those who 
 have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy 
 men among Christians. J 
 
 If we consider cheerfulness in three lights 
 with regard to ourselves, to those we converse 
 with, and to the great Author of our being it 
 will not a little recommend itself on each”of 
 these accounts. The man who is possessed of 
 this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in 
 his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the 
 powers and faculties of his soul. His imagination 
 is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed • 
 his temper is even and unruffled, whether in ac¬ 
 tion or in solitude. He comes with relish to all 
 those goods which nature has provided for him 
 tastes all the pleasures of the creation which, 
 are poured about him, and does not feel the full 
 
 weight of those accidental evils which may befall 
 him. J 
 
 If we consider him in relation to the persons 
 whom he converses with, it naturally produces 
 love and good-will toward him. A cheerful mind 
 is not only disposed to be affable and obliging ; 
 but raises the same good humor in those whf 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 168 
 
 come within its influence. A man finds him¬ 
 self pleased, he does not know why, with the 
 cheerfulness of his companion. It is like a sud¬ 
 den sunshine that awakens a secret delight in the 
 mind, without her attending to it. The heart re¬ 
 joices of its own accord, and naturally flows out 
 into friendship and benevolence toward the person 
 who has so kindly an effect upon it. 
 
 When I consider this cheerful state of mind in 
 its third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a 
 constant habitual gratitude to the great Author 
 of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit 
 praise and thanksgiving to Providence under all 
 its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in 
 the state wherein we are placed, and a secret appro¬ 
 bation of the Divine Will in his conduct toward 
 man. 
 
 There are but two things which, in my opinion, 
 can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of 
 heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt. A 
 man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, 
 can have no title to that evenness and tranquillity 
 of mind which is the health of the soul, and the 
 natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerful¬ 
 ness in an ill man deserves a harder name than 
 language can furnish us with, and is many de¬ 
 grees beyond what we commonly call folly or 
 madness. 
 
 Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a 
 Supreme Being, and consequently of a future state, 
 under whatsoever titles it shelter itself, may like¬ 
 wise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheer¬ 
 fulness of temper. There is something so partic¬ 
 ularly gloomy and offensive to human nature in 
 the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but 
 wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is 
 ossible for a man to outlive the expectation of it. 
 or my own part, I think the being of a God is so 
 little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth 
 we are sure of; and such a truth as we meet with 
 in every object, in every occurrence, and in every 
 thought. If we look into the characters of this tribe 
 of infidels, we generally find they are made up of 
 pride, spleen, and cavil. It is indeed no wonder, 
 that men who are uneasy to themselves should be 
 80 to the rest of the world ; and how is it possible 
 for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, 
 who is in danger every moment of losing his entire 
 existence, and dropping into nothing? 
 
 The vicious man and Atheist have therefore no 
 pretense to cheerfulness, and would act very un¬ 
 reasonably should they endeavor after it. It is 
 impossible for anyone to live in good-humor, and 
 enjoy his present existence, who is apprehensive 
 either of torment or of annihilation; of being mi¬ 
 serable, or of not being at all. 
 
 After having mentioned these two great prin¬ 
 ciples, which are destructive of cheerfulness in 
 their own nature, as well as in right reason, I 
 .cannot think of any other that ought to banish 
 this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain 
 and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and 
 old age, nay death itself, considering the short¬ 
 ness of their duration, and the advantage we may 
 reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. 
 A good mind may bear up under them with for¬ 
 titude, with indolence, and with cheerfulness of 
 heart. The tossing of a tempest does not dis¬ 
 compose him, which he is sure will bring him to 
 a joyful harbor. 
 
 A man who uses his best endeavors to live ac¬ 
 cording to the dictates of virtue and right reason, 
 has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in the 
 consideration of his own nature, and of that Being 
 on whom he has a dependence. If he looks into 
 himself, he"cannot but rejoice in that existence 
 ’NWhich is so lately bestowed upon him, and which 
 
 after millions of ages will be still new and still 
 in its beginning. How many self congratulations 
 naturally arise in the mind, when it reflects on 
 this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a 
 view of those improvable faculties, which in a 
 few years, and even at its first setting out, have 
 made so considerable a progress, and which will 
 still be receiving an increase of perfection, and con¬ 
 sequently an increase of happiness ! The con¬ 
 sciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual dif¬ 
 fusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous man, 
 and makes him look upon himself every moment 
 as more happy than he knows how to conceive. 
 
 The second source of cheerfulness to a good 
 mind is the consideration of that Being on whom 
 we have our dependence, and in whom, though 
 we behold him as yet but in the first faint dis¬ 
 coveries of his perfections, we see everything that 
 we can imagine, as great, glorious, or amiable. 
 We find ourselves everywhere upheld by his 
 goodness, and surrounded with an .immensity of 
 love and mercy. In short, we depend upon a 
 Being, whose power qualifies him to make us 
 happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness 
 and truth engage him to make those happy who 
 desire it of him, and whose unchangeableness 
 will secure us in this happiness to all eternity. 
 
 Such considerations, which every one should 
 perpetually cherish in his thoughts, will banish 
 from us all that secret heaviness of heart which 
 unthinking men are subject to when they lie 
 under no real affliction; all that anguish which 
 we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses 
 us, to which I may likewise add those little crack¬ 
 lings of mirth and folly that are apter to betray 
 virtue than support it; and establish in us 
 such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us 
 pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we 
 converse, and to Him whom we were made to 
 please.—I. 
 
 No. 382.] MONDAY, MAY 19, 1712. 
 
 Habes eonfitentem reum.—T ull. 
 
 The accused confesses his guilt. 
 
 I ought not to have neglected a request of one 
 of my correspondents so long as I have, but I 
 dare say I have given him time to add practice to 
 profession. He sent me some time ago a bottle or 
 two of excellent wine to drink the health of a 
 gentleman who had by the jjenny-post advertised 
 him of an egregious error in. his conduct. My 
 correspondent received the obligation from an un¬ 
 known hand with the candor which is natural to 
 an ingenuous mind; and promises a contrary be¬ 
 havior in that point for the future. He will offend 
 his monitor with no more errors of that kind, but 
 thanks him for his benevolence. This frank car¬ 
 riage makes me reflect upon the amiable atone¬ 
 ment a man makes in the ingenuous acknowledg¬ 
 ment of a fault. All such miscarriages as flow 
 from inadvertency are more than repaid by it; for 
 reason, though not concerned in the injury, em¬ 
 ploys all its force in the atonement. He that 
 says, he did not design to disoblige you in such 
 an action, does as much as if he should tell you, 
 that though the circumstances which displeased 
 was never in his thoughts, he has that respect for 
 you that he is unsatisfied, till it is wholly out of 
 yours. It must be confessed, that when an acknow¬ 
 ledgment of an offense is made out of poorness 
 of spirit, and not conviction of heart, the circum¬ 
 stance is quite different. But in the case of my 
 correspondent, where both the notice is taken, 
 I and the return made in private, the affair begins 
 
469 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 and ends with the highest grace on each side 
 To make the acknowledgment of a fault in the 
 highest manner graceful, it is lucky when the cir¬ 
 cumstances of the offender place nim above any 
 ill consequences from the resentment of the per¬ 
 son offended. A dauphin of France upon a re¬ 
 view of the army, and a command of the king to 
 alter the posture of it by a march of one of the 
 wings, gave an improper order to an officer at the 
 head of a brigade, who told his highness, he pre¬ 
 sumed he had not received the last orders, which 
 were to move a contrary way. The prince, in¬ 
 stead of taking the admonition, which was deli¬ 
 vered in a manner that accounted’for his error 
 With safety to his understanding, shook a cane at 
 the officer, and, with the return of opprobrious 
 language, persisted in his own orders. The 
 whole matter came necessarily before the king, 
 
 ' commanded his son, on foot, to lay his right 
 hand on the gentleman’s stirrup as he sat on 
 horseback in sight of the whole army, and ask his 
 pardon. When the prince touched his stirrup 
 and was going to speak, the officer with an incre¬ 
 dible agility, threw himself on the earth, and 
 kissed his feet. 
 
 The body is very little concerned in the pleasure 
 or sufferings of souls truly great; and the repara¬ 
 tion, when an honor was designed this soldier 
 appeared as much too great to be borne by his 
 gratitude, as the injury was intolerable to his 
 resentment. 
 
 When we turn our thoughts from these extra¬ 
 ordinary occurrences into common life, we see an 
 ingenuous kind of behavior not only make up for 
 faults committed, but in a manner expiate them in 
 the very commission. Thus many things wherein 
 a man has pressed too far, lie implicitly excuses, 
 by owning, “ This is a trespass: you’ll pardon 
 iny confidence : I am sensible 1 have no preten¬ 
 sions to this favor;” and the like. But com¬ 
 mend me to those gay fellows about town who 
 are directly impudent, and make up for it no 
 otherwise than by calling themselves such, and 
 exulting in it. But this sort of carriage which 
 prompts a man against rules to urge what he 
 has a mind to, is pardonable only when you sue 
 for another. When you are confident in prefer¬ 
 ence of yourself to others of equal merit, every 
 man that loves virtue and modesty ought, in de¬ 
 fense of those qualities, to oppose you. But, 
 without considering the morality of the thino-, let 
 us at this time behold only the natural conse¬ 
 quence of candor when we speak of ourselves. 
 
 . The Spectator writes often in an elegant, often 
 in an aigumentative, and often in a sublime style 
 with equal success; but how would it hurt the 
 reputed author of that paper to own, that of the 
 most beautiful pieces under his title, he is barely 
 the publisher ? There is nothing but what a 
 man really performs can be an honor to him; what 
 he takes more than he ought in the eye of the 
 world, he loses in the conviction of his own heart- 
 and a man must lose his consciousness, that is,* 
 his very self, before he can rejoice in any false¬ 
 hood without inward mortification. 
 
 Who lias not seen a very criminal at the bar 
 when his counsel and friends have done all that 
 they could for him in vain, prevail on the whole 
 assembly to pity him, and his judge to recom¬ 
 mend his case to the mercy of the throne, with¬ 
 out offering anything new in his defense, but that 
 he, whom before we wished convicted, became so 
 out of his own mouth, and took upon himself all 
 the shame and sorrow we were just before prepar¬ 
 ing for him ? The great opposition to this kind 
 of candor arises from the unjust idea people ordi¬ 
 narily have of what we call a high spirit. It is 
 
 far from greatness of spirit to persist in the wrong 
 in anything ; nor is it a diminution of greatness 
 of spirit to have been in the wrong Perfection is 
 not the attribute of man, therefore he is not de¬ 
 graded by the acknowledgment of an imper- 
 ection; but it is the work of little minds to imi¬ 
 tate the fortitude of great spirits on worthy occa¬ 
 sions, by obstinacy in the wrong. This obstinacy 
 prevails so far upon them, that they make it ex¬ 
 tend to the defense of faults in their very servants. 
 It would swell this paper to too great a length 
 should I insert all the quarrels and debates which 
 are now on foot in this town; where one party, 
 and in some cases both, is sensible of being on 
 the faulty side, and have not spirit enough to ac¬ 
 knowledge it. Among the ladies the case is very 
 common; for there are very few of them who 
 know that it is to maintain a true and high spirit, 
 to throw away from it all which itself disap- 
 proves, and to scorn so pitiful a shame, as that 
 which disables the heart from acquiring a liberal¬ 
 ity of affections and sentiments. The candid 
 mind, by acknowledging and discarding its faults, 
 has reason and truth for the foundation of all its 
 passions and desires, and consequently is happy 
 and simple: the disingenuous spirit, by indul¬ 
 gence of one unacknowledged error, is entan¬ 
 gled with an after-life of guilt, sorrow, and per¬ 
 plexity.—T. ^ 
 
 No. 383.] TUESDAY, MAY 20, 1712. 
 
 Criminibus debent hortos.-Juv. Sat. i, 75. 
 
 A beauteous garden, but by vice maintain’d. 
 
 As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking 
 on a subject for my next Spectator, I heard two 
 or three irregular bounces at my landlady’s door 
 and upon the opening of it, a loud cheerful voice 
 inquiring whether the philosopher was at home. 
 The child who went to the door answered very 
 innocently, that he did not lodge there. I imme¬ 
 diately recollected that it was my good friend Sir 
 Roger’s voice: and that I had promised to go 
 with him on the water to Spring-garden,* in case 
 it proved a good evening. The knight put me 
 in mind of my promise from the bottom of the 
 staircase, but told me, that if I was speculating 
 lie would stay below until I had done. Upoli 
 my coming down, I found all the children of the 
 amily got about my old friend; and my landlady 
 lerself, who is a notable prating gossip, engaged 
 in a conference with him: being mightily pleased 
 with his stroking her little boy on the head, and 
 bidding him to be a good child and mind his 
 book. 
 
 We were no sooner come to the Temple-stairs, 
 butwe were surrounded with a crowd of watermen] 
 offering us their respective services. Sir Roger] 
 after having looked about him very attentively] 
 spied one with a wooden leg, and immediately 
 gave him orders to get his boat ready. As we 
 were walking toward it, “ You must know,” says 
 Sir Roger, “ I never make use of anybody to row 
 me, that has not lost either a leg or an arm. I 
 would rather bate him a few strokes of his oar 
 than not employ an honest man that has been 
 wounded in the queen’s service. If I was a lord 
 or a bishop, and kept a barge, I would not put 
 a fellow in my livery that had not a wooden leg.” 
 
 .My old friend, after having seated himself, and 
 trimmed the boat with his coachman, who, being 
 a very sober man, always serves for ballast on 
 these occasions, we made the best of our way for 
 
 * Now known by the name of Vauxhall. 
 
470 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Vauxhall* Sir Roger obliged the waterman to 
 give us the history of his right leg: and hearing 
 that he had left it at La Hogue, with many parti¬ 
 culars which passed in that glorious action, the 
 knight, in the triumph of his heart, made several 
 reflections on the greatness of the British nation; 
 as, that one Englishman could beat three French¬ 
 men; that we could never be in danger of popery 
 so long as we took care of our fleet; that the 
 Thames was the noblest river in Europe; that 
 London-bridge was a greater piece of work than 
 any of the seven wonders of the world: with 
 many other honest prejudices which naturally 
 cleave to the heart of a true Englishman. 
 
 After some short pause, the old knight, turning 
 about his head twice or thrice to take a survey of 
 this threat metropolis, bid me observe how thick 
 the city was set with churches, and that there was 
 scarce a single steeple on this side 1 emple-bar. 
 “A most heathenish sight!” says Sir Roger: 
 “there is no religion at this end of the town. The 
 fifty new churches will very much mend the pros¬ 
 pect; but church-work is slow, church-work is 
 slow.” 
 
 I do not remember I have anywhere mentioned 
 in Sir Roger’s character, his custom of saluting 
 everybody that passes by him with a good-mor¬ 
 row or a good-night. This the old man does out 
 of the overflowings of his humanity; though at 
 the same time, it renders him so popular among 
 all his country neighbors, that it is thought to 
 have gone a good way in making him once or 
 twice knight of the shire. He cannot forbear this 
 exercise of benevolence even in town, when he 
 meets with any one in his morning or evening 
 walk. It broke from him to several boats that 
 passed by us upon the water; but, to the knight’s 
 great surprise, as he gave the good-night to two 
 or three young fellows a little before our landing, 
 one of them, instead of returning the civility, 
 asked us what queer old put we had in the boat, 
 and whether he was not ashamed to go a-wencli- 
 ing at his years? with a great deal of the like 
 Thames-ribaldry. Sir Roger seemed a little 
 shocked at first, but at length, assuming a face of 
 magistracy, told us, that if he were a Middlesex 
 justice, he would make such vagrants know tha, 
 ter majesty’s subjects were no more to be abused 
 by water than by land. 
 
 We were now arrived at Spring-garden, which is 
 excellently pleasant at this time of the year. 
 When I considered the fragrancy of the walks 
 and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung 
 upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that 
 walked under their shades, I could not but look 
 upon the place as a kind of Mahometan paradise. 
 Sir Roger told me it put him in mind of a little 
 coppice by his house in the country, which his 
 chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales. 
 “ You must understand,” says the knight, “ there 
 is nothing in the world that pleases a man in love 
 so much as your nightingale. Ah, Mr. Spectator, 
 the many moonlight nights that I have walked by 
 myself, and thought on the widow by the music 
 of the nightingale! ” He here fetched a deep 
 sigh, and was falling into a fit of musing, when a 
 mask, who came behind him, gave him a gentle 
 tap upon the shoulder, and asked him if he would 
 drink a bottle of mead with her ? But the knight 
 being so startled at so unexpected a familiarity, 
 and displeased to be interrupted in his thoughts 
 of the widow, told her “ she was a wanton bag¬ 
 gage; ” and bid her go about her business. 
 
 We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton 
 ale, and a slice of hung beef. When we had done 
 
 * In the original publication in folio, it is printed Fox-hall. 
 
 eating ourselves, the knight called a waiter to 
 him, and bid him carry the remainder to the wa¬ 
 terman that had but one leg. I perceived the fel¬ 
 low stared upon him at the oddness of the mes¬ 
 sage, and was going to be saucy; upon which I 
 ratified the knight’s commands with a peremptory 
 
 look. i 
 
 As we were going out of the garden, my old 
 friend thinking himself obliged, as a member of 
 he quorum, to animadvert upon the morals of the 
 dace, told the mistress of the house, who sat at 
 he bar, that he should be a better customer to her 
 garden if there were more nightingales, and fewer 
 strumpets.—I. 
 
 No. 384.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 21, 1712. 
 
 “Hague May 24, N. S. The same republican hands, -who 
 have so often since the Chevalier de St. George’s recovery 
 killed him in our public prints, have now reduced the young 
 Dauphin of France to that desperate condition of weakness, 
 and death itself, that it is hard to conjecture what method 
 they will take to bring him to life again. Meantime we are 
 assured by a very good hand from Paris, that on the 20th 
 instant this young prince was as well as ever he waa 
 known to be since the day of his birth. As for the other, 
 they are now sending his ghost, we suppose (for they never 
 had the modesty to contradict the assertions of his death), 
 to Commerci in Lorrain, attended only by four gentlemen, 
 and a few domestics of little consideration. The Baron de 
 Bothmar* having delivered in his credentials to qualify 
 him as an ambassador to this state (an office to which his 
 greatest enemies will acknowledge him to be equal), is gone 
 to Utrecht, whence he will proceed to Hanover, but not stay 
 long at that court, for fear the peace should be made during 
 his lamentable absence.”— Post-Boy, May 20. 
 
 I should be thought not able to read, should I 
 overlook some excellent pieces lately come out. 
 My lord bishop of St. Asaphf has just now pub¬ 
 lished some sermons, the preface to which seems 
 to me to determine a great point. He has, like a 
 good man, and a good Christian, in opposition to 
 all the flattery and base submission of false friends 
 to princes, asserted, that Christianity left us where 
 it found us as to our civil rights. The present en¬ 
 tertainment shall consist only of a sentence out 
 of the Post-Boy, and the said preface of the lord 
 of St. Asaph. I should think it a little odd if the 
 author of the Post-Boy should with impunity call 
 men republicans for a gladness on the report of 
 the death of the pretender; and treat Baron Both¬ 
 mar, the minister of Hanover, in such a manner as 
 you see in my motto. I must own, I think every 
 man in England concerned to support the succes¬ 
 sion of that family. 
 
 “ The publishing a few sermons, while I live, 
 the latest of which was preached about eight years 
 since, and the first above seventeen, will make it 
 very natural for people to inquire into the occa¬ 
 sion of doing so; and to such I do very willingly 
 assign these following reasons : 
 
 First, from the observations I have been able 
 to make for these many years last past upon our 
 public affairs, and from the natural tendency of 
 several principles and practices, that have of late 
 been studiously revived, and from what has fol¬ 
 lowed thereupon, I could not help both fearing 
 and presaging, that these nations should some 
 time or other, if ever we should have an enter¬ 
 prising prince upon the throne, of more ambition 
 than virtue, justice, and true honor, fall into the 
 way of all other nations, and lose their liberty. 
 
 “ Nor could I help foreseeing to whose charge a 
 great deal of this dreadful mischief, whenever it 
 should happen, would be laid; whether justly or 
 unjustly, was not my business to determine : but 
 
 * Ambassador from Hanover, and afterward agent here for 
 the Hanoverian family. 
 
 fDr. William Fleetwood. 
 
THE STE 
 
 I resolved, for my own particular part, to deliver 
 myself, as well as I could, from the reproaches and 
 the curses of posterity, by publicly declaring to all 
 the world, that although, in the constant course 
 of nay ministry, I have never failed, on proper oc¬ 
 casions, to recommend, urge, and insist upon the 
 loving, honoring, and reverencing the prince’s 
 person, and holding it, according to the laws, in¬ 
 violable and sacred; and paying all obedience and 
 submission to the laws, though never so hard and 
 inconvenient to private people: yet did I never 
 think myself at liberty, or authorized to tell the 
 people that either Christ, St. Peter, or St. Paul, or 
 airy other holy writer, had, by any doctrine deliv- 
 ered by them, subverted the laws and constitutions 
 of the country in which they lived, or put them 
 in a worse condition, with respect to their civil 
 liberties, than they would have been had they not 
 been Christians. I ever thought it a most impious 
 blasphemy against that holy religion, to father 
 anything upon it that might encourage tyranny, 
 oppression, or injustice, in a prince, or that easily 
 tended to make a free and happy people slaves 
 and miserable. No. People may make themselves 
 as wretched as they will, but let not God be called 
 into that wicked party. When force and violence, 
 and hard necessity, have brought the yoke of ser¬ 
 vitude upon a people’s neck, religion will supply 
 them with a patient and submissive spirit under 
 it till they can innocently shake it off: but cer¬ 
 tainly religion never puts it on. This always 
 was, and this at present is, my judgment of these 
 matters: and I would be transmitted to posterity 
 (for the little share of time such names as mine 
 can live), under the character of one who loved 
 his countiy, and would be thought a good Eng¬ 
 lishman, as well as a good clergyma,n. 
 
 “ This character I thought would be transmitted 
 by the following sermons, which were made for, 
 and preached in, a private audience, when I could 
 think of nothing else but doing my duty on the 
 occasions that were then offered by God’s provi¬ 
 dence, without any manner of design of making 
 them public: and for that reason I give them now 
 as the} were then delivered; by which I hope to 
 satisfy those people who have objected a change 
 of piinciples to me, as if I were not now the same 
 man I formerly was. I never had but one opin¬ 
 ion of these matters; and that, I think, is so rea¬ 
 sonable and well-grounded, that I believe I can 
 never have any other. 
 
 Another reason of my publishing these ser¬ 
 mons at this time is, that I have a mind to do my¬ 
 self some honor by doing what honor I could to 
 the memory ot two most excellent princes, and 
 who have very highly deserved at the hands of all 
 the people of these dominions, who have any true 
 value for the Protestant religion, and the consti¬ 
 tution of the English government, of which they 
 were the great deliverers and defenders. I have 
 lived to see their illustrious names very rudely 
 handled, and the great benefits they did this na¬ 
 tion treated slightly and contemptuously. I have 
 lived to see our deliverance from arbitrary power 
 and popery traduced and vilified by some who 
 formerly thought it was their greatest merit, and 
 made it part ot their boast and glory, to have had 
 a little hand and share in bringing it about; and 
 others who, without it, must have lived in exile, 
 poverty, and misery, meanly disclaiming it, and 
 usin g ill the glorious instruments thereof. Who 
 could expect such a requital of such merit? I 
 have, 1 own it, an ambition of exempting myself 
 from the number of unthankful people: and as I 
 loved and honored those great princes living, and 
 lamented over them when dead, so I would gladly 
 raise them up a monument of praise as lasting as 
 
 OTATOll. 4 71 
 
 anything of mine can be : and I choose to do it at 
 this time, when it is so unfashionable a thing to 
 speak honorably of them. 
 
 “The sermon that was preached upon the Duke 
 oi Gloucester s death was printed quickly after, 
 and is now, because the subject was so suitable, 
 joined to the others. The loss of that most pro¬ 
 mising and hopeful prince was at that time, I saw, 
 unspeakably great; and many accidents since 
 lave convinced us that it could not have been 
 overvalued. That precious life, had it pleased 
 God to have prolonged it the usual space, had 
 saved us many fears and jealousies, and dark dis¬ 
 trusts, and prevented many alarms that have long 
 kept us, and will keep us still, waking and un- 
 easy. Nothing remained to comfort and support 
 us under this heavy stroke, but the necessity it 
 brought the king and nation under of settlino the 
 succession in the house of Hanover, and giving it 
 a hei editary right by act of parliament, as long as 
 it continues Protestant. So much good did God, 
 in his merciful providence, produce from a mis 
 fortune, which we could never otherwise have suf¬ 
 ficiently deplored! 
 
 “ The fourth sermon was preached upon the 
 queen’s accession to the throne, and the first year 
 in which that day was solemnly observed (for by 
 some accident or other it had been overlooked the 
 year before); and every one will see, without the 
 date of it, that it was preached very early in this 
 reign, since I was able only to promise and pre¬ 
 sage its future glories and successes, from the good 
 appearances of things, and the happy turn our af¬ 
 fairs began to take; and could not then count up 
 the victories and triumphs that, for seven years 
 after, made it, in the prophet’s language, a name 
 and a praise among all the people of the earth. 
 Never did seven such years together pass over the 
 head of any English monarch, nor cover it with 
 so much honor. The crown and scepter seemed 
 to be the queen’s least ornaments; those, other 
 princes wore in common with her, and her great 
 personal virtues were the same before and since; 
 but such was the fame of her administration of af- 
 fairs at home, such was the reputation of her wis- 
 dom and felicity in choosing ministers, and such 
 was then esteemed their faithfulness and zeal, 
 their diligence and great abilities, in executing 
 her commands; to such a height of military glory 
 did her great general and her armies carry the 
 British name abroad; such was the harmony and 
 concord betwixt her and her allies; and such was 
 the blessing of God upon all her counsels and un¬ 
 dertakings, that I am as sure as history can make 
 me, no prince of ours ever was so prosperous and 
 successful, so beloved, esteemed, and honored by 
 their subjects and their friends, nor near so formi¬ 
 dable to their enemies. We were, as all the world 
 imagined then, just entering on the ways that pro¬ 
 mised to such a peace as would have answered all 
 the prayers of our religious queen, the care and 
 vigilance of a most able ministry, the payment of 
 a willing and most obedient people, as well as all 
 the glorious toils and hazards of the soldiery; 
 when God, for our sins, permitted the spirit of dis¬ 
 cord to go forth, and by troubling sore the camp, 
 the city, and the country, (and oh that it had al¬ 
 together spared the places sacred to his worship !) 
 to spoil, for a time, this beautiful and pleasing 
 prospect, and give us, in its stead, I know not 
 what—Our enemies will tell the rest wit h pleasure. 
 
 It will become me better to pray to God to restore 
 us to the power of obtaining such a peace as will 
 be to his glory, the safety, honor, and welfare of 
 the queen and her dominions, and the general sa¬ 
 tisfaction of all her high and mighty allies.—T. 
 
 “ May 2, 1712.” 
 
472 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 385.] THURSDAY, MAY 22, 1712. 
 
 _Tkesea pectora juncta fide. —Ovid, 1 Trist. iii. 66. 
 
 Breasts that with sympathizing ardor glow’d, 
 
 And holy friendship, such as Theseus vow’d. 
 
 I intend the paper for this day as a loose essay 
 upon friendship, in which I shall throw ray obser¬ 
 vations together without any set form, that I may 
 avoid repeating what has been often said on this 
 subject. 
 
 Friendship is a strong and habitual inclination 
 in two persons to promote the good and happiness 
 of one another. Though the pleasures and ad¬ 
 vantages of friendship have been largely celebra¬ 
 ted by the best moral writers, and are considered 
 by all as great ingredients of human happiness, 
 we very rarely meet with the practice of this vir¬ 
 tue in the world. 
 
 Every man is ready to give in a long catalogue 
 of those virtues and good qualities he expects to 
 find in the person of a friend, but very few of us 
 are careful to cultivate them in ourselves. 
 
 Love and esteem are the first principles of 
 friendship, which always is imperfect where either 
 of these two is wanting. 
 
 As, on the one hand, we are soon ashamed of 
 loving a man whom we cannot esteem; so, on the 
 other, though we are truly sensible of a man’s 
 abilities, we can never raise ourselves to the 
 warmths of friendship, without an affectionate 
 good-will toward his person. 
 
 Friendship immediately banishes envy under 
 all its disguises. A man who can once doubt 
 whether he should rejoice in his friend’s being 
 happier than himself, may depend upon it that he 
 is an utter stranger to this virtue. 
 
 There is something in friendship so very great 
 and noble, that in those fictitious stories which 
 are invented to the honor of any particular person, 
 the authors have thought it as necessary to make 
 their hero a friend as a lover. Achilles has his 
 Patroclus, and ^Eneas his Achates. In the first 
 of these instances we may observe, for the repu¬ 
 tation of the subject I am treating of, that Greece 
 was almost ruined by the hero’s love, but was pre¬ 
 served by his friendship. 
 
 The character of Achates suggests to us an ob¬ 
 servation we may often make on the intimacies of 
 great men, who frequently choose their compan¬ 
 ions rather for the qualities of the heart than those 
 of the head, and prefer fidelity in an easy, inoffen¬ 
 sive, complying temper, to those endowments 
 which make a much greater figure among man¬ 
 kind. I do not remember that Achates, who is 
 represented as the first favorite, either gives his 
 advice, or strikes a blow, through the whole 
 iEneid. 
 
 A friendship which makes the least noise is 
 very often most useful; for which reason I should 
 prefer a prudent friend to a zealous one. 
 
 Atticus, one of the best men of ancient Rome, 
 was a very remarkable instance of what I am here 
 speaking. This extraordinary person, amid the 
 civil wars of his country, when he saw the designs 
 of all parties equally tended to the subversion of 
 liberty, by constantly preserving the esteem and 
 affection of both the competitors, found means to 
 serve his friends on either side: and, while he 
 sent money to young Marius, whose father was de¬ 
 clared an enemy to the commonwealth, he was 
 himself one of Sylla’s chief favorites, and always 
 near that general. 
 
 During the war between Caesar and Pompey, he 
 still maintained the same conduct. After the 
 death of Caesar, he sent money to Brutus in his 
 troubles, and did a thousand good offices to Anto¬ 
 ny’s wife and friends when that party seemed 
 
 ruined. Lastly, even in that bloody war between 
 Antony and Augustus, Atticus still kept his place 
 in both their friendships: insomuch that the first, 
 says Cornelius Nepos, whenever he was absent 
 from Rome in any part of the empire, wrote punc¬ 
 tually to him what he was doing, what he read, 
 and whither he intended to go; and the latter gave 
 him constantly an exact account of all his affairs. 
 
 A likeness of inclinations in every particular is 
 so far from being requisite to form a benevolence 
 in two minds toward each other, as it is generally 
 imagined, that I believe we shall find some of the 
 firmest friendships to have been contracted be¬ 
 tween persons of different humors; the mind being 
 often pleased with those perfections which are new 
 to it, and which it does not find among its own 
 accomplishments. Beside that a man in some 
 measure supplies his own defects, and fancies 
 himself at second-hand possessed of those good 
 qualities and endowments which are in the pos¬ 
 session of him who in the eye of the world is 
 looked on as his other self. 
 
 The most difficult province in friendship is the 
 letting a man see his faults and errors, which 
 should, if possible, be so contrived, that he may 
 perceive our advice is given him not so much to 
 please ourselves as for his own advantage. The 
 reproaches therefore of a friend should always be 
 strictly just, and not too frequent. 
 
 The violent desire of pleasing in the person re¬ 
 proved, may otherwise change into a despair of 
 doing it, while he finds himself censured for 
 faults he is not conscious of. A mind that is 
 softened and humanized by friendship cannot bear 
 frequent reproaches; either it must quite sink 
 under the oppression, or abate considerably of the 
 value and esteem it had for him who bestows 
 them. 
 
 The proper business of friendship is to inspire 
 life ana courage; and a soul thus supported out¬ 
 does itself; whereas, if it be unexpectedly de¬ 
 prived of these succors, it droops and languishes. 
 
 We are in some measure more inexcusable if we 
 violate our duties to a friend than to a relation; 
 since the former arises from a voluntary choice, 
 the latter from a necessity to which we could not 
 give our own consent. 
 
 As it has been said on one side, that a man 
 ought not to break with a faulty friend, that he 
 may not expose the weakness of his choice; it 
 will doubtless hold much stronger with respect to 
 a worthy one, that he may never be upbraided for 
 having lost so valuable a treasure which was once 
 in his possession.—X. 
 
 No. 386.] FRIDAY, MAY 23, 1712. 
 
 Cum tristibus severe, cum remissis jucunde, cum senibus 
 
 graviter, cum juventute comiter vivere.—T ull. 
 
 The piece of Latin on the head of this paper is 
 part of a character extremely vicious, but 1 have 
 set down no more than may fall in with the rules 
 of justice and honor. Cicero spoke it of Catiline, 
 who, he said, “ lived with the sad severely, with 
 the cheerful agreeably, with the old gravely, with 
 the young pleasantly; ” he added, “ with the wick¬ 
 ed boldly, with the wanton lasciviously.” The 
 two last instances of his complaisance I for¬ 
 bear to consider, having it in my thoughts at pre¬ 
 sent only to speak of obsequious behavior as it 
 sits upon a companion in pleasure, not a man of 
 design and intrigue. To vary with every humor 
 in this manner cannot be agreeable, except it comes 
 from a man’s own temper and natural complexion; 
 to do it out of an ambition to excel that way, is 
 the most fruitless and unbecoming prostitution 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 imaginable. To put on an artful part to obtain no 
 other end but an unjust praise from the undis¬ 
 cerning, is of all endeavors the most despicable. 
 A man must be sincerely pleased to become plea¬ 
 sure, or not to interrupt that of others; for this 
 reason it is a most calamitous circumstance, that 
 many people who want to be alone, or should be 
 so, will come into conversation. It is certain that 
 all men, who are the least given to reflection, are 
 seized with an inclination that way: when, per¬ 
 haps, they had rather be inclined to company; but 
 indeed they had better go home and be tired with 
 themselves, than force themselves upon others to 
 recover their good humor. In all tins, the cased 
 communicating to a friend a sad thought or difA- 
 culty, in order to relieve a heavy heart, stands ex¬ 
 cepted; but what is here meant is, that a man 
 should always go with inclination to the turn of 
 the company he is going into, or not pretend to be 
 of the party. It is certainly a very happy temper 
 to be able to live with all kinds of dispositions, 
 because it argues a mind that lies open to receive 
 what is pleasing to others, and not obstinately 
 bent on any particularity of his own. 
 
 This is it which makes me pleased with the 
 character of my good acquaintance Acasto. You 
 meet him at the tables and conversations of the 
 wise, the impertinent, the grave, the frolic, and 
 the witty; and yet his own character has nothing 
 m it that can make him particularly agreeable to 
 any one sect of men; but Acasto has natural good 
 sense, good nature, and discretion, so that every 
 man enjoys himself in his company; and though 
 Acasto contributes nothing to the entertainment, 
 he never was at a place where he was not welcome 
 a second time. Without the subordinate good 
 qualities of Acasto, a man of wit and learning 
 would be painful to the generality of mankind, 
 instead of being pleasing. Witty men are apt to 
 imagine they are agreeable as such, and by that 
 means grow the worst companions imaginable; 
 they deride the absent or rally the present in a 
 wrong manner, not knowing that if you pinch or 
 tickle a man till he is uneasy in his seat, or un¬ 
 gracefully distinguished from the rest of the com¬ 
 pany, you equally hurt him. 
 
 I was going to say, the true art of being agree¬ 
 able in company (but there can be no such thing 
 as art in it) is to appear well pleased with those 
 you are engaged with, and rather to seem well en¬ 
 tertained, than to bring entertainment to others. 
 A man thus disposed is not indeed what we ordi¬ 
 narily call a good companion, but essentially is 
 such, and in all the parts of his conversation has 
 something friendly in his behavior, which concil¬ 
 iates men s minds more than the highest sallies of 
 wit or starts of humor can possibly do. The fee¬ 
 bleness of age in a man of this turn has some¬ 
 thing which should be treated with respect even in 
 a man no otherwise venerable. The forwardness 
 of youth, when it proceeds from alacrity and not 
 insolence, has also its allowances. The compan- 
 ion who is formed for such by nature, gives to 
 every character of life its due regards, and is 
 ready to account for their imperfections, and re¬ 
 ceive their accomplishments as if they were his 
 own. It must appear that you receive law from, 
 and not give it, to your company, to make you 
 agreeable. 
 
 I remember Tully, speaking, I think, of Anto¬ 
 ny- says, that, In eo facetia erant, qua nulla arte 
 tradi possunt: “He had a witty mirth, which could 
 be acquired by no art.” This quality must be of the 
 kind of which I am now speaking; for all sorts 
 of behavior which depend upon observation and 
 knowledge of life are to be acquired; but that 
 Which no one can describe, and is apparently the 
 
 473 
 
 act of nature, must be everywhere prevalent, be¬ 
 cause everything it meets is a fit occasion to exert 
 it: for he who follows nature can never be impro¬ 
 per or unseasonable. 
 
 How unaccountable then must their behavior be, 
 who, without any manner of consideration of 
 what the company they have just now entered are 
 upon, give themselves the air of a messenger, and 
 make as distinct relations of the occurrences they 
 last met with, as if they had been dispatched from 
 those they talk to, to be punctually exact in a re¬ 
 port of those circumstances! It is unpardonable 
 to those who are met to enjoy one another that a 
 fresh man shall pop in, and give us only the last 
 part of his own life, and put a stop to ours during 
 the history. If such a man comes from ’Change, 
 whether you will or not, you must hear how the 
 stocks go: and, though you are never so intently 
 employed on a graver subject, a young fellow of 
 the other end of the town will take his place and 
 tell you, Mrs. Such-a-one is charmingly hand¬ 
 some, because he just now saw her. But I think 
 I need not dwell on this subject, since I have ac- 
 knoAvledged there can be no rules made for excel¬ 
 ling this way; and precepts of this kind fare like 
 rules for writing poetry, which, it is said, may 
 have prevented ill poets, but never made good 
 ones.—T. 
 
 No. 387.] SATURDAY, MAY 24, 1712. 
 
 Quid pure tranquillet- Hor. 1 Ep. xviii, 102. 
 
 What calms the breast, and makes the mind serene? 
 
 In my last Saturday’s paper I spoke of cheer¬ 
 fulness as it is a moral habit of the mind, and ac¬ 
 cordingly mentioned such moral motives as are 
 apt to cherish and keep alive this happy temper 
 in the soul of man : I shall now consider cheer¬ 
 fulness in its natural state, and reflect on those 
 motives to it, which are indifferent either as to vir¬ 
 tue or vice. 
 
 Cheerfulness is, in the first place, the best pro¬ 
 moter of health. Repinings, and secret murmurs 
 of heart, give imperceptible strokes to those deli¬ 
 cate fibers of which the vital parts are composed, 
 and wear out the machine insensibly: not to men¬ 
 tion those violent ferments which they stir up in 
 the blood, and those irregular disturbed motions 
 which they raise in the animal spirits. I scarce 
 remember, in my own observation, to have met 
 with-many old men, or with such, who (to use our 
 English phrase) wear well, that had not at least a 
 certain indolence in their humor, if not a more 
 than ordinary gayety and cheerfulness of heart. 
 The truth of it is, health and cheerfulness mutu- 
 ally beget each other; with this difference, that we 
 seldom meet with a great degree of health which 
 is not attended with a certain cheerfulness, but 
 very often see cheerfulness where there is no grea 
 degree of health. 
 
 Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to 
 the mind as to the body. It bSnishes all anxious 
 care and discontent, soothes and composes the 
 passions, and keeps the soul in a perpetual calm. 
 But having already touched on this last consider¬ 
 ation, I shall here take notice, that the world in 
 which we are placed is filled with innumerable 
 objects that are proper to raise and keep alive 
 this happy temper of mind. 
 
 If we consider the world in its subserviency to 
 man, one would think it was made for our use; 
 but if we consider it in its natural beauty and 
 harmony, one would be apt to conclude it was 
 made for our pleasure. The sun, which is as the 
 great soul of the universe, and produces all the 
 necessaries of life, has a particular influence in 
 • 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 474 
 
 cheering the mind of man, and making the heart 
 glad. 
 
 Those several living creatures which are made 
 for our service or sustenance, at the same time 
 either fill the woods with their music, furnish us 
 with game, or raise pleasing ideas in us by the 
 delightfulness of their appearance. Fountains, 
 lakes, and rivers, are as refreshing to the imagi¬ 
 nation, as to the soil through which they pass. 
 
 There are writers of great distinction, who have 
 made it an argument for Providence, that the 
 whole earth is ’covered with green rather than 
 with any other color, as being such a right mix¬ 
 ture of light and shade, that it comforts and 
 strengthens the eye, instead of weakening or 
 grieving it. For this reason several painters have 
 a green cloth hanging near them, to ease the eye 
 upon, after too great an application to their color¬ 
 ing. A famous modern philosopher* accounts 
 for it in the following manner. All colors that 
 are more luminous, overpower and dissipate the 
 animal spirits which are employed in sight; 
 on the contrary, those that are more obscure do 
 not give the animal spirits a sufficient exercise; 
 whereas the rays that produce in us the idea of 
 green, fall upon the eye in such a due proportion, 
 that they give the animal spirits their proper 
 play, and, by keeping up the struggle in a just 
 Dalance, excite a very pleasing and agreeable sen¬ 
 sation. Let the cause be what it will, the effect 
 is certain; for which reason, the poets ascribe to 
 this particular color the epithet of cheerful. 
 
 To consider further this double end in the works 
 of nature, and how they are at the same time both 
 useful and entertaining, we find that the most 
 important parts in the vegetable world are those 
 which are the most beautiful. These are the 
 seeds by which the several races of plants are pro¬ 
 pagated and continued, and which are always 
 odged in flowers or blossoms. Nature seems to 
 lide her principal design, and to be industrious 
 in making the earth gay and delightful, while she 
 is carrying on her great w T ork, and intent upon 
 her own preservation. The husbandman, after 
 the same manner, is employed in laying out the 
 whole country into a kind of garden or landscape, 
 and making everything smile about him, while in 
 reality he thinks of nothing but of the harvest, 
 and the increase which is to arise from it. 
 
 We may further observe how Providence has 
 taken care to keep up this cheerfulness in the 
 mind of man, by having formed it after such a 
 manner, as to make it capable of conceiving de¬ 
 light from several objects which seem to have 
 very little use in them; as from the wildness of 
 rocks and deserts, and the like grotesque parts of 
 nature. Those w r ho are versed in philosophy 
 may still carry this consideration higher, by ob¬ 
 serving, that if matter had appeared to us en¬ 
 dowed only with those real qualities which it 
 actually possesses, it would have made but a very 
 jfyless and uncomfortable figure: and why has 
 Providence given *it a power of producing in us 
 such imaginary qualities, as tastes and colors, 
 sounds and smells, heat and cold, but that man, 
 while he is conversant in the lower stations of 
 nature, might have his mind cheered and de¬ 
 lighted with agreeable sensations ? In short, the 
 whole universe is a kind of theater, filled with 
 objects that either raise in us pleasure, amuse¬ 
 ment, or admiration. 
 
 The reader’s own thoughts will suggest to him 
 the vicissitude of day and night, th£ change of 
 seasons, with all that variety of scenes which 
 diversify the face of nature, and fill the mind 
 
 with a perpetual succession of beautiful and 
 pleasing images. 
 
 I shall not here mention the several entertain¬ 
 ments of art, with the pleasures of friendship, 
 books, conversation, and other accidental diver¬ 
 sions of life, because I would only take notice of 
 such incitements to a cheerful temper as offer 
 themselves to persons of all ranks and conditions, 
 and which may sufficiently show us that Provi¬ 
 dence did not design this world should be filled 
 with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart of 
 man should be involved in gloom and melan¬ 
 choly. 
 
 I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of tem¬ 
 per, as it is a virtue in which our countrymen are 
 observed to be more deficient than any other nation. 
 Melancholy is a kind of demon that haunts our 
 island, and often conveys herself to us in an 
 easterly wind. A celebrated French novelist, in 
 opposition to those who begin their romances 
 with the flowery season of the year, enters on 
 his story thus: “ In the gloomy month of Novem¬ 
 ber, when the people of England hang and drown 
 themselves, a disconsolate lover walked out into 
 the fields/’ etc. 
 
 Every one ought to fence against the temper of 
 his climate or constitution, and frequently to in¬ 
 dulge in himself those considerations which may 
 give him a serenity of mind, and enable him to 
 bear up cheerfully against those little evils and 
 misfortunes which are common to human nature, 
 and which, by a right improvement of them, will 
 roduce a satiety of joy, and an uninterrupted 
 appiness. 
 
 At the same time that I would engage my reader 
 to consider the world in its most agreeable lights, 
 I must own there are many evils which naturally 
 spring up amidst the entertainments that are pro¬ 
 vided for us; but these, if rightly considered, 
 should be far from overcasting the mind with 
 sorrow, or destroying that cheerfulness of temper 
 which I have been recommending. This inter- 
 spersion of evil with good, and pain with plea¬ 
 sure, in the works of nature, is very truly as¬ 
 cribed by Mr. Locke, in his Essay on Human 
 understanding to a moral reason, in the following 
 words:— 
 
 “ Beyond all this we may find another reason 
 why God hath scattered up and down several de¬ 
 grees of pleasure and pain, in all the tilings that 
 environ and affect us, and blended them together, 
 in almost all that our thoughts and senses have to 
 do with; that we, finding imperfection, dissatis¬ 
 faction, and want of complete happiness, in all 
 the enjoyments which the creature can afford us, 
 might be led to seek it in the enjoyment of Him 
 ‘ with whom there is fullness of joy, and at whose 
 right-hand are pleasures for evermore.’”— L. 
 
 No. 388.] MONDAY, MAY 26, 1712. 
 
 -Tibi res autiquae laudis et artis 
 
 Iugredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes. 
 
 Virg. Georg, ii, 174. 
 
 For thee I dare unlock the sacred spring, 
 
 And arts disclos’d by ancient sages sing. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ It is my custom, when I read your papers, to 
 read over the quotations in the authors from 
 whence you take them. As you mentioned a 
 passage lately out of the second chapter of Solo¬ 
 mon’s song.it occasioned my looking into it; and, 
 upon reading it, I thought the ideas so exqui¬ 
 sitely soft and tender, that I could not help mak¬ 
 ing this paraphrase of it; which, now it is done. 
 
 *■ Sir Isaac Newton. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 475 
 
 I can as little forbear sending to you. Some 
 marks of your approbation which I have already 
 received, have given me so sensible a taste of 
 them, that I cannot forbear endeavoring after 
 them as often as I can with any appearance of 
 success. “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble Servant. ” 
 
 I 
 
 TUE SECOND CHAPTER OF SOLOMON’S SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 As when in Sharon’s field the blushing rose 
 Does its chaste bosom to the morn disclose, 
 
 Whilst all around the Zephyrs bear 
 The fragrant odors through the air; 
 
 Or as the lily in the shady vale 
 Does o’er each flower with beauteous pride prevail, 
 
 And stands with dews and kindest sunshine bl^;, 
 
 In fair pre-eminence, superior to the rest: 
 
 So if my Love, with happy influence, shed 
 His eyes’ bright sunshine on his lover’s head, 
 
 Then shall the rose of Sharon’s field, 
 
 And whitest lilies, to my beauties yield. 
 
 Then fairest flow’rs with studious art combine, 
 
 The roses with the lilies join, 
 
 And their united charms are less than mine. 
 
 n. 
 
 As much as fairest lilies can surpass 
 A thorn in beauty, or in height the grass; 
 
 So does my love among the virgins, shine, 
 
 Adorn’d with graces more than half divine; 
 
 Or as a tree, that, glorious to behold, 
 
 Is hung with apples all of ruddy gold, 
 
 Hesperian fruit, and, beautifully high, 
 
 Extends its branches to the sky; 
 
 So does my Love the virgins’ eyes invite: 
 
 ’Tis he alone can fix their wand’ring sight, 
 
 Among ten thousand eminently bright. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Beneath his pleasing shade 
 My wearied limbs at ease I laid, 
 
 And on his fragrant boughs reclin’d my head. 
 
 I pull’d the golden fruit with eager haste; 
 
 Sweet was the fruit, and pleasing to the taste: 
 
 With sparkling wine he crown’d the bowl, 
 
 W ith gentle extasies he filled my soul; 
 
 Joyous we sat beneath the shady grove, 
 
 And o’er my head he hung the banners of his love. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I faint! I die! my lab’ringbreast 
 Is with the mighty weight of love opprest; 
 
 I feel the fire possess my heart, 
 
 And pain convey’d to every part. 
 
 Through all my veins the passion flies, 
 
 My feeble soul forsakes its place, 
 
 A trembling faintness seals my eyes, 
 
 And paleness dwells upon my face: 
 
 Oh! let my love with pow’rful odors stay 
 My fainting love-sick soul, that dies away; 
 
 One hand beneath me let him place, 
 
 With t’other press me in a chaste embrace. 
 
 V. 
 
 I charge you, nymphs of Sion, as you go 
 Arm'd with the sounding quiver and the bow, 
 
 Whilst thro’ the lonesome woods you rove, 
 
 You ne’er disturb my sleeping Love. 
 
 Be only gentle Zephyrs there, 
 
 With downy wings to fan the air; 
 
 Let sacred silence dwell around, 
 
 To keep off each intruding sound, 
 
 And when the balmy slumber leaves his eyes, 
 
 May he to joys, unknown till then, arise! 
 
 VI. 
 
 But see! he comes! with what majestic gait 
 He onward bears his lovely state! 
 
 Now through the lattice he appears, 
 
 With softest words dispels my fears, 
 
 Arise, my fair one, and receive 
 All the pleasures love can give! 
 
 For, now the sullen winter’s past, 
 
 No more we fear the northern blast: 
 
 No storms nor threatening clouds appear, 
 
 No falling rains deform the year: 
 
 My love admits of no delay; 
 
 Arise, my fair, and come away! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Already, see! the teeming earth 
 Brings forth the flow’rs, her beauteous birth, 
 
 The dews, and soft-descending show’rs, 
 
 Nurse the new-born tender flow’rs. 
 
 Hark! the birds melodious sing, 
 
 And sweetly usher in the spi'ing. 
 
 Close by his fellow sits the dove, 
 
 And billing whispers her his love. 
 
 The spreading vines with blossoms swell, 
 
 Diffusing round a grateful smell. 
 
 Arise, my fair one, and receive 
 All the blessings love can give: 
 
 For love admits of no delay; 
 
 Arise, my fair, and come away! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 As to its mate the constant dove 
 Flies through the covert of the spicy grove, 
 
 So let us hasten to some lonesome shade; 
 
 There let me safe in thy lov’d arms be laid, 
 
 Where no intruding, hateful noise 
 Shall damp the sound of thy melodious voice; 
 Where I may gaze, and mark each beauteous grace; 
 For sweet thy voice, and lovely is thy face. 
 
 IX. 
 
 As all of me, my Love, is thine, 
 
 Let all of thee be ever mine, 
 
 Among the lilies we will play; 
 
 Fairer, my Love, thou art than they: 
 
 Till the purple morn arise, 
 
 And balmy sleep forsake thine eyes; 
 
 Till the gladsome beams of day 
 Remove the shades of night away! 
 
 Then, when soft sleep shall from thy eyes depart, 
 
 Rise like the bounding roe, or lusty hart, 
 
 Glad to behold the light again 
 From Bethers mountains darting o’er the plain. 
 
 No. 389.] TUESDAY, MAY 27, 1712. 
 
 -Meliora pii docuere parentes.— Hoe. 
 
 Their pious sires a better lesson taught. 
 
 Nothing has more surprised the learned in 
 England, than the price which a small book, en¬ 
 titled Spaccio della Bestia triomfante, bore in a 
 late auction.* This book was sold for thirty- 
 pounds. As it was written by one Jordanus 
 Brunus, a professed Atheist, with a design to 
 depreciate religion, every one was apt to fancy, 
 from the extravagant price it bore, that there must 
 be something in it very formidable. 
 
 I must confess, that happening to get a sight of 
 one of them myself, I could not forbear perusing 
 it with this apprehension ; but found there was so 
 very little danger in it, that I shall venture to 
 give my readers a fair account of the whole plan 
 upon which this wonderful treatise is built. 
 
 The author pretends that Jupiter, once upon a 
 time, resolved on a reformation of the constella¬ 
 tions : for which purpose, having summoned the 
 
 * The book here mentioned was bought by Walter Clavel 
 Esq., at the auction of the library of Charles Barnard, Esq ’ 
 in 1711, for twenty-eight pounds. The same copy became 
 successively the property of Mr. John Nichols, of Mr. Joseph 
 Ames, of Sir Peter Thomson, and of M. C. Tutet, Esq., among 
 whose books it was lately sold by auction, at Mr. Gerrard’s 
 in Litchfield-street. The author of this book, Giordano Bruno, 
 was a native of Nola in the kingdom of Naples, and burnt at 
 Rome by the order of the Inquisition in 1600. Morhoff, 
 speaking of Atheists, says, “ Jordanum tamen Brunum huic 
 
 classi non annumerarem,-manifesta in illo atheism! 
 
 vestigia non deprehendo.” Polyhist. i. 1. 8. 22. Bruno pub¬ 
 lished many other writings said to be atheistical. The book 
 spoken of here was printed, not at Paris, as is said in the 
 title-page, nor in 1544, but at London, and in 1584,12mo., 
 dedicated to .Sir Philip Sidney. It was for some time so little 
 regarded, that it was sold with five other books of the same 
 a.uthor, for twenty-five pence French, at the sale of Mr. Rigor’s 
 library in 1706, but it is now very scarce, and has been sold 
 at the exorbitant price of £50. Niceron. Hommes illust., 
 tom. xvii, p. 221. There was an edition of it in English 
 in 1713. 6 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 476 
 
 stars together, lie complains to them of the great 
 decay of the worship of the gods, which he 
 thought so much the harder, having called several 
 of those celestial bodies by the names of the 
 heathen deities, and by that means made the 
 heavens as it were a book of the pagan theology. 
 Momus tells him that this is not to be wondered 
 at since there were so many scandalous stories of 
 the deities. Upon which the author takes occa¬ 
 sion to cast reflections upon all other religions, 
 concluding that Jupiter, after a full hearing, dis¬ 
 carded the deities out of heaven, and called the 
 stars by the names of the moral virtues. 
 
 This short fable, which has no pretense in it to 
 reason or argument, and but a very small share 
 of wit, has however recommended itself, wholly 
 by its impiety, to those weak men who would 
 distinguish themselves by the singularity of their 
 opinions. 
 
 There are two considerations which have been 
 often urged against Atheists, and which they 
 never yet could get over. The first is, that the 
 greatest and most eminent persons of all ages 
 have been against them, and always complied 
 with the public forms of worship established in 
 their respective countries, when there was nothing 
 in them either derogatory to the honor of the 
 Supreme Being or prejudicial to the good of man¬ 
 kind. 
 
 The Platos and Ciceros among the ancients ; 
 the Bacons, the Boyles, and the Lockes among 
 our own countrymen ; are all instances of what I 
 have been saying ; not to mention any of the di¬ 
 vines, however celebrated, since our adversaries 
 challenge all those, as men who have too much 
 interest in this case to be impartial evidences. 
 
 But what has been often urged as a considera¬ 
 tion of much more weight, is not only the opinion 
 of the better sort, but the general consent of man¬ 
 kind to this great truth ; which I think could not 
 possibly have come to pass, but from one of the 
 three following reasons : either that the idea of a 
 God is innate and co-existent with the mind itself; 
 or that this truth is so very obvious, that it is 
 discovered by the first exertion of reason in per¬ 
 sons of the most ordinary capacities; or, lastly, 
 that it has been delivered down to us through all 
 ages by a tradition from the first man. 
 
 The Atheists are equally confounded, to which¬ 
 ever of these three causes we assign it; they 
 have been so pressed by this last argument from 
 the general consent of mankind, that after great 
 search and pains they pretend to have found out 
 a nation of Atheists, I mean that polite people 
 the Hottentots., 
 
 I dare not shock my readers with a description 
 of the customs and manners of these barbarians, 
 who are in every respect scarce one degree above 
 brutes, having no language among them but a 
 confused gabble, which is neither well understood 
 by themselves nor others. 
 
 It is not, however, to be imagined, how much 
 the Atheists have gloried in these their good 
 friends and allies. 
 
 If we boast of a Socrates or a Seneca, they may 
 now confront them with these great philosophers 
 the Hottentots. 
 
 Though even this point has, not without rea¬ 
 son, been several times controverted, I see no man¬ 
 ner of harm it could do to religion, if we should 
 entirely give them up this elegant part of mankind. 
 
 Methinks nothing more shows the weakness of 
 their cause, than that no division of their fellow- 
 creatures join with them, but those among whom 
 they themselves own reason is almost defaced, 
 and who have little else but their shape which 
 can entitle them to any place in the species. 
 
 Beside these poor creatures, there have now 
 and then been instances of a few crazy people in 
 several nations, who have denied the existence of 
 a Deity. 
 
 The catalogue of these is, however, very short; 
 even Vanini, the most celebrated champion for 
 the cause, professed before his judges that he be¬ 
 lieved the existence of a God ; and, taking up a 
 straw which lay before him on the ground, as¬ 
 sured them, that alone was sufficient to convince 
 him of it; alleging several arguments to prove 
 that it was impossible nature alone could create 
 anything. 
 
 I was the other day reading an account of Casi- 
 mir Liszynski, a gentleman of Poland, who was 
 convicted and executed for this crime. The man¬ 
 ner of his punishment was very particular. As 
 soon as his body was burnt, his ashes were put 
 into a cannon, and shot into the air toward Tar- 
 tary. 
 
 I am apt to believe, that if something like this 
 method of punishment should prevail in England 
 (such is the natural good sense of the British 
 nation), that whether we rammed an Atheist 
 whole into a great gun, or pulverized our infidels, 
 as they do in Poland, we should not have many 
 charges. 
 
 I should however propose, while our ammu¬ 
 nition lasted, that instead of Tartary, we should 
 always keep two or three cannons ready pointed 
 toward the Cape of Good Hope, in order to shoot 
 our unbelievers into the country of the Hotten- 
 tots. 
 
 In my opinion, a solemn, judicial death is too 
 great an honor for an Atheist; though I must 
 allow the method of exploding him, as it is prac¬ 
 ticed in this ludicrous kind of martyrdom, has 
 something in it proper enough to the nature of 
 his offense. 
 
 There is indeed a great objection against this 
 manner of treating them. Zeal for religion is of 
 so active a nature, that it seldom knows where to 
 rest; for which reason I am afraid, after having 
 discharged our Atheists, we might possibly think 
 of shooting off our sectaries: and as one does not 
 foresee the vicissitude of human affairs, it might 
 one time or other come to a man’s own turn to fly 
 out of the mouth of a demiculverin. 
 
 If any of my readers imagine that I have treated 
 these gentlemen in too ludicrous a manner, I must 
 confess, for my own part, I think reasoning against 
 such unbelievers, upon a point that shocks the 
 common sense of mankind, is doing them too 
 great an honor, giving them a figure in the eye of 
 the world, and making people fancy that they 
 have more in them than they really have. 
 
 As for those persons who have any scheme of 
 religious worship, I am for treating such with the 
 utmost tenderness, and should endeavor to show 
 them their errors with the greatest temper and hu¬ 
 manity; but as these miscreants are for throwing 
 down religion in general, for stripping mankind 
 of what themselves own is of excellent use in all 
 great societies, without once offering to establish 
 anything in the room of it, I think the best way 
 of dealing with them, is to retort their own wea¬ 
 pons upon them, which are those of scorn and 
 mockery.—X. 
 
 No. 390.] WEDNESDAY, MAY 28, 1712. 
 
 Non pudendo, sed non faciendo id quod non decet, impu- 
 dentiae nomen effugere debemus.—T ull. 
 
 It is not by blushing, but by not doing what is unbecom¬ 
 ing, that we ought to guard against the imputation of 
 impudence. 
 
 Many are the epistles I receive from ladies ex¬ 
 tremely afflicted that they lie under the observa- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 tion of scandalous people, who love to defame 
 their neighbors, and make the unjustest interpre¬ 
 tation of innocent and indifferent actions. They 
 describe their own behavior so unhappily, that 
 there indeed lies some cause of suspicion upon 
 them. It is certain, that there is no authority for 
 ersons who have nothing else to do, to pass away 
 ours of conversation upon the miscarriages of 
 other people; but since they will do so, they who 
 value their reputation should be cautious of ap¬ 
 pearances to their disadvantage; but very often 
 our young women, as well as the middle-aged, 
 and the gay part of those growing old, without 
 entering into a formal league for that purpose, to 
 a woman agree upon a short way to preserve their 
 characters, and go on in a way that at best is only 
 not vicious. The method is, when an ill-natured 
 or talkative girl has said anything that bears hard 
 upon some part of another’s carriage, this crea¬ 
 ture, if not in any of their little cabals, is run 
 down for the most censorious, dangerous body in 
 the world. Thus they guard their reputation 
 rather than their modesty; as if guilt lay in being 
 under the imputation of a fault, and not in the 
 commission of it. Orbicilla is the kindest poor 
 thing in town, but the most blushing creature 
 living. It is true, she has not lost the sense of 
 shame, but she has lost the sense of innocence. 
 If she had more confidence, and never did any¬ 
 thing which ought to stain her cheeks, would she 
 not be much more modest, without that ambiguous 
 suffusion which is the livery both of guilt and 
 innocence? Modesty consists in being conscious 
 of no ill, and not in being ashamed of having 
 done it. When people go upon any other founda¬ 
 tion than the truth of their own hearts for the con¬ 
 duct of their actions, it lies in the power of scan¬ 
 dalous tongues to carry the world before them, and 
 make the rest of mankind fall in with the ill for 
 fear of reproach. On the other hand, to do what 
 you ought, is the ready way to make calumny 
 either silent, or ineffectually malicious. Spenser, 
 in his Fairy Queen, says admirably to young la¬ 
 dies under the distress of being defamed : 
 
 “The best,” said he; “that I can you advise, 
 
 Is to avoid tli’occasion of the ill; 
 
 For when the cause, whence evil doth arise, 
 
 Removed is, th’ effect surceaseth still. 
 
 Abstain from pleasure, and restrain your will, 
 
 Subdue desire, and bridle loose delight: 
 
 Use scanty diet, and forbear your fill; 
 
 Shun secrecy, and talk in open sight: 
 
 So shall you soon repair your present evil plight.” 
 
 Instead of this care over their words and actions, 
 recommended by a poet in Old Queen Bess’s days, 
 the modern way is to do and say what you please, 
 and yet be the prettiest sort of woman in the 
 world. If fathers and brothers will defend a la¬ 
 dy’s honor, she is quite as^afe as in her own inno¬ 
 cence. Many of the distressed, who suffer under 
 the malice of evil tongues, are so harmless, that 
 they are every day they live asleep till twelve at 
 noon; concern themselves with nothing but their 
 own persons till two; take their necessary food 
 between that time and four; visit, go to the play, 
 and sit up at cards till toward the ensuing morn; 
 and the malicious world shall draw conclusions 
 from innocent glances, short whispers, or pretty 
 familiar railleries with fashionable men, that these 
 fair ones are not as rigid as vestals. It is certain, 
 say these “ goodest” creatures very well, that vir¬ 
 tue does not consist in constrained behavior and 
 wry faces : that must be allowed : but there is a 
 decency in the aspect and manner of ladies, con¬ 
 tracted from a habit of virtue, and from general 
 reflections that regard a modest conduct,—all 
 which may be understood, though they cannot be 
 described. A young woman of this sort claims 
 
 477 
 
 an esteem mixed with affection and honor, and 
 meets with no defamation; or, if she does, the wild 
 malice is overcome with an undisturbed persever¬ 
 ance in her innocence. To speak freely, there are 
 such coveys of coquettes about this town, that if 
 the peace were not kept by some impertinent 
 tongues of their own sex, which keep them under 
 some restraint, we should have no manner of en¬ 
 gagement upon them to keep them in any toler¬ 
 able order. 
 
 As I am a Spectator, and behold how plainly 
 one part of woman-kind balance the behavior of 
 the other, whatever I may think of tale-bearers or 
 slanderers, I cannot wholly suppress them, no 
 more than a general would discourage spies. The 
 enemy would easily surprise him who they knew 
 had no intelligence of their motions. It is so far 
 otherwise with me, that I acknowledge I permit a 
 she-slanderer or two in every quarter of the town, 
 to live in the characters of coquettes, and take all 
 the innocent freedoms of the rest, in order to send 
 me information of the behavior of their respective 
 sisterhoods. 
 
 But as the matter of respect to the world which 
 looks on, is carried on, methinks it is so very easy 
 to be what is in the general called virtuous, that 
 it need not cost one hour’s reflection in a month to 
 preserve that appellation. It is pleasant to hear 
 the pretty rogues talk of virtue and vice among 
 each other. “ She is the laziest creature in the 
 world, but, I must confess, strictly virtuous; the 
 peevishest hussy breathing, but as to her virtue, 
 she is without blemish. She has not the least 
 charity for any of her acquaintance, but I must 
 allow her rigidly virtuous.” As the unthinking 
 parts of the male world call every man a man of 
 honor, who is not a coward; so the crowd of the 
 other sex terms every woman who will not be a 
 wench, virtuous.—T. 
 
 No. 391.] THURSDAY, MAY 29, 1712. 
 
 -Non tu prece poscis emaci, 
 
 Quae nisi seductis nequeas committere divis. 
 
 At bona pars procerum tacita libabit acerra, 
 
 Hayd cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque su- 
 surro: 
 
 Tollere de templis: et aperto vivere voto. 
 
 Mens bona, fama, fides; haec clare, et ut audiat hospea. 
 Ilia sibi introrsum, et sub lingua immurmurat. 0 si 
 Ebullit patrui prasclarum funus? Et, 0 si, 
 
 Sub rastro crepet argenti mibi seria dextro. 
 
 Hercule! pupillumve utinam, quem proximus haeres 
 Impello, expungam!— Pers. Sat. ii, v. 3. 
 
 Thou know’st to join 
 No bribe unhallow’d to a prayer of thine; 
 
 Thine, which can ev’ry ear’s full test abide, 
 
 Nor need be mutter’d to the gods aside! 
 
 No, thou aloud may’st thy petitions trust! 
 
 Thou need’st not whisper; other great ones must; 
 
 For few, my friend, few dare like thee be plain, 
 
 And pray’r’s low artifice at shrines disdain. 
 
 Few from their pious mumblings dare depart, 
 
 And make profession of their inmost heart, 
 
 Keep me, indulgent Heaven, through life sincere. 
 
 Keep my mind sound, my reputation clear. 
 
 These wishes they can speak, and we can hear. 
 
 Thus far their wants are audibly exprest; 
 
 Then sinks the voice, and muttering groans the rest 
 “Hear, hear at length, good Hercules, my vow! 
 
 0 chink some pot of gold beneath my plow! 
 
 Could I, 0 could I, to my ravished eyes 
 See my rich uncle’s pompous funeral rise; 
 
 Or could I once my ward’s cold corpse attend, 
 
 Then all were mine! ” 
 
 Where Homer represents Phoenix, the tutor of 
 Achilles, as persuading his pupil to lay aside his 
 resentments, and give himself up to the entreaties 
 of his countrymen, the poet, in order to make him 
 speak in character, ascribes to him a speech full 
 of those fables and allegories, which okl men take 
 delight in relating, and which are very proper for 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 478 
 
 instruction. “ The gods,” says he, “ suffer them¬ 
 selves to be prevailed upon by entreaties. When 
 mortals have offended them by their transgressions, 
 they appease them by vows and sacrifices. You 
 must know, Achilles, that prayers are the daugh¬ 
 ters of Jupiter. They are crippled by frequent 
 kneeling, have their faces full of cares and 
 wrinkles, and their eyes always cast toward hea¬ 
 ven. They are constant attendants on the goddess 
 Ate, and march behind her. This goddess walks 
 forward with a bold and haughty air; and, being 
 very light of foot, runs through the whole earth 
 grieving and afflicting the sons of men. She gets 
 the start of Prayers, who always follow her, in 
 order to heal those persons whom she wounds. 
 He who honors these daughters of Jupiter, when 
 they draw near to him, receives great benefit 
 from them: but as for him who rejects them, they 
 entreat their father to give his orders to the god¬ 
 dess Ate, to punisli him for his hardness of heart.” 
 This noble allegory needs but little explanation; 
 for, whether the goddess Ate signifies injury, as 
 some have explained it; or guilt in general, as 
 others ; or divine justice, as I am more apt to 
 think; the interpretation is obvious enough. 
 
 I shall produce another heathen fable, relating 
 to prayers, which is of a more diverting kind. 
 One would think, by some passages in it, that it 
 was composed by Lucian, or at least by some au¬ 
 thor who has endeavored to imitate his way of 
 writing; but as dissertations of this nature are 
 more curious than useful, I shall give my reader the 
 fable, without any further inquiries after the author. 
 
 “ Menippus, the philosopher, was a second time 
 taken up into heaven by Jupiter, when, for his 
 entertainment, he lifted up a trap-door that was 
 placed by his footstool. At its rising, there issued 
 through it such a din of cries as astonished the 
 philosopher. Upon his asking what they meant, 
 Jupiter told him they were the prayers that were 
 sent up to him from the earth. Menippus, amid 
 the confusion of voices, which was so great that 
 nothing less than the ear of Jove could distinguish 
 them, heard the words, ‘riches, honor,’ and ‘long 
 life,’ repeated in several different tones and lan¬ 
 guages. When the first hubbub of sounds was 
 over, the trap-door being left open, the voices 
 came up more separate and distinct. The first 
 prayer was a very odd one; it came from Athens, 
 and desired Jupiter to increase the wisdom and 
 the beard of his humble supplicant. Menippus 
 knew it by the voice to be the prayer of his friend 
 Licander, the philosopher. This was succeeded 
 by the petition of one who had just laden a ship, 
 and promised Jupiter, if he took care of it, and 
 returned it home again full of riches, he would 
 make him an offering of a silver cup. Jupiter 
 thanked him for nothing; and, bending down his 
 ear more attentively than ordinary, heard a voice 
 complaining to him of the cruelty of an Ephesian 
 widow, and begged him to breed compassion in 
 her heart. ‘ This,’ says Jupiter, ‘ is a very honest 
 fellow. I have received a great deal of incense 
 from him: I will not be so cruel to him as to hear 
 his prayers.’ He was then interrupted with a 
 whole volley of vows which were made for the 
 health of a tyrannical prince by his subjects who 
 prayed for him in his presence. Menippus was 
 surprised, after having listened to prayers offered 
 up with so much ardor and devotion, to hear low 
 whispers from the same assembly, expostulating 
 with Jove for suffering such a tyrant to live, and 
 asking him how his thunder could lie idle? Ju¬ 
 piter was so offended with these prevaricating 
 rascals, that he took down the first vows, and 
 puffed away the last. The philosopher seeing a 
 great cloud mounting upward, and making its 
 
 way directly to the trap-door, inquired of Jupiter 
 what it meant. ‘This,’ says Jupiter, ‘is the 
 smoke of a whole hecatomb that is offered me by 
 the general of an army, who is very importunate 
 with me to let him cut off a hundred thousand 
 men that are drawn up in array against him. 
 What does the impudent wretch think I see in him, 
 to believe that I will make a sacrifice of so many 
 mortals as good as himself, and all this to his 
 glory forsooth? But hark!’ says Jupiter, ‘there 
 is a voice I never hear but in time of danger: ’tis 
 a rogue that is shipwrecked in the Ionian sea. I 
 saved him on a plank but three days ago, upon 
 his promise to mend his manners; the scoundrel is 
 not worth a groat, and yet has the impudence to 
 offer me a temple, if 1 will keep him from sink¬ 
 ing.—But yonder,’ says he, ‘ is a special youth for 
 you; he desires me to take his father, who keeps a 
 great estate from him, out of the miseries of hu¬ 
 man life. The old fellow shall live till he makes 
 his heart ache, I can tell him that for his pains.’ 
 This was followed by the soft voice of a pious 
 lady, desiring Jupiter that she might appear ami¬ 
 able and charming in the sight of her emperor. 
 As the philosopher was reflecting on this extraor¬ 
 dinary petition, there blew a gentle wind through 
 the trap-door, which he at first mistook for a gale 
 of Zephyrs, but afterward found it to be a breeze 
 of sighs. They smelt strong of flowers and in¬ 
 cense, and were succeeded by most passionate 
 complaints of wounds and torments, fires and ar¬ 
 rows, cruelty, despair, and death. Menippus fan¬ 
 cied that such lamentable cries arose from some 
 general execution, or from wretches lying under 
 the torture; but Jupiter told him that they came 
 up to him from the isle of Paphos, and that he 
 every day received complaints of the same nature 
 from that whimsical tribe of mortals who are 
 called lovers. ‘ I am so trifled with,’ says he, ‘by 
 this generation of both sexes, and find it so im¬ 
 possible to please them, whether I grant or refuse 
 their petitions, that I shall order a western wind 
 for the future to intercept them in their passage, 
 and blow them at random upon the earth.’ The 
 last petition I heard was from a very aged man, of 
 near a hundred years old, begging but for one year 
 more life, and then promising to die contented, 
 i ‘ This is the rarest old fellow !’ says Jupiter; ‘he 
 has made this prayer to me for above twenty years 
 together. When he was but fifty years old, he de¬ 
 sired only that he might live to see his son settled 
 in the world. I granted it. He then begged the 
 same favor for his daughter, and afterward that he 
 might see the education of a grandson. When all 
 this was brought about, he puts up a petition, 
 that he might live to finish a house he was build¬ 
 ing. In short, he is an unreasonable old cur, and 
 never wants an excuse; I will hear no more of 
 him.’ Upon which he flung down the trap door 
 in a passion, and was resolved to give no more 
 audiences that day.” 
 
 Notwithstanding the levity of this fable, the 
 moral of it very well deserves our attention, and 
 is the same with that which has been inculcated 
 by Socrates and Plato, not to mention Juvenal and 
 Persius, who have each of them made the finest 
 satire in their whole works upon this subject. The 
 vanity of men’s wishes, which are the natural 
 prayers of the mind, as well as many of those se¬ 
 cret devotions which they offer to the Supreme 
 Being, are sufficiently exposed by it. Among 
 other reasons for set forms of prayer, I have often 
 thought it a very good one, that by this means the 
 folly and extravagance of men’s desires may be 
 kept within due bounds, and not break out in ab¬ 
 surd and ridiculous petitions on so great and sol¬ 
 emn an occasion.—I. 
 
THE SPE CTATOR. 
 
 No. 392.] FRIDAY, MAY 30, 1712. 
 
 Per ambages et ministeria deorum 
 
 Pra?cipitandus est liber spiritus.— Petron. 
 
 By fable's aid ungorem’d fancy soars, 
 
 And claims the ministry of heavenly powers. 
 
 The Transformation of Fidelio into a Looking-glass. 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 I was lately at a tea-table, where some youn 0, 
 ladies entertained the company with a relation of 
 a coquette in the neighborhood, who had been 
 discovered practicing before her glass. To turn 
 the discourse, which from being witty grew to be 
 malicious, the matron of the family took occasion 
 from the subject to wish that there were to be found 
 among men such faithful monitors to dress the 
 mind by, as we consult to adorn the body. She 
 added that, if a sincere friend were miraculously 
 changed into a looking-glass, she should not be 
 ashamed to ask its advice very often. This whim¬ 
 sical thought worked so much upon my fancy the 
 whole evening, that it produced a very odd dream. 
 
 Met bought that, as I stood before my glass, 
 the image of a youth of an open ingenuous aspect 
 appeared in it, who with a shrill voice spoke in 
 the following manner:— 
 
 “The looking-glass you see was heretofore a 
 man, even I the unfortunate Fidelio. I had two 
 brothers, whose deformity in shape was made up 
 by the clearness of their understandings. It must 
 be owned, however, that (as it generally happens) 
 they had each a perverseness of humor suitable to 
 their distortion of body. The eldest, whose belly 
 sunk in monstrously, was a great coward: and 
 though his splenetic contracted' temper made him 
 take fire immediately, he made objects that beset 
 him appear greater than they were. The second, 
 whose breast swelled into a bold relievo, on the 
 contrary, took great pleasure in lessening every¬ 
 thing, and was perfectly the reverse of his brother. 
 These oddnesses pleased company once or twice, 
 but disgusted when often seen; for which reason! 
 the young gentlemen were sent from court to study 
 mathematics at the university. 
 
 I need not acquaint you, that I was verv well 
 made, and reckoned a bright polite gentleman. I 
 was the confidant and darling of all the fair; and 
 if the old and ugly spoke ill of me, all the world 
 knew it was because I scorned to flatter them. 
 No ball, no assembly was attended until I had 
 been consulted. Flavia colored her hair before 
 me, Celia showed me her teeth, Panthea heaved 
 her bosom. Cleora brandished her diamond; I 
 have seen Chloe’s foot, and tied artificially the 
 garters of Rhodope. 
 
 “It is a general maxim, that those who doat 
 upon themselves can have no violent affection for 
 another: but, on the contrary, I found that the* 
 women’s passion rose for me in proportion to the j 
 love they bore to themselves. This was verified I 
 in my amour with Narcissa, who was so constant 
 to me, that it was pleasantly said, had I been little 
 enough, she would have hung me at her girdle. 
 The most dangerous rival I had was a gay empty 
 fellow, who by the strength of a long intercourse 
 with Narcissa, joined to his natural endowments, 
 had formed himself into a perfect resemblance 
 with her. I had been discarded, had she not ob- 
 served that he frequently asked my opinion about 
 matters of the last consequence. This made me 
 6till more considerable in her eye. 
 
 “ Though I was eternally caressed by the ladies, 
 such was their opinion of my honor, that I was 
 never envied by the men. A jealous lover of Nar¬ 
 cissa one day thought he had caught her in an 
 amorous conversation: for, though he was at such 
 
 479 
 
 a distance that he could hear nothing, he imagined 
 strange things from her airs and gestures. Some¬ 
 times with a serene look she stepped back in a 
 listening posture, and brightened into an innocent 
 smile. Quickly after she swelled into an air of 
 majesty and disdain, then kept her eyes half shut 
 after a languishing manner, then covered her 
 blushes with her hand, breathed a sigh, and 
 seemed ready to sink down. In rushed the furi¬ 
 ous lover: but how great was his surprise to see 
 no one there but the innocent Fidelio, with his 
 back against the wall betwixt two windows. 
 
 “ It were endless to recount all my adventures. 
 Let me hasten to that which cost me my life, and 
 Narcissa her happiness. 
 
 “ She had the misfortune to have the small-pox, 
 upon which I was expressly forbid her sight, it 
 being apprehended that it would increase her dis¬ 
 temper, and that I should infallibly catch it at the 
 first look. As soon as she was suffered to leave 
 her bed, she stole out of her chamber, and found 
 me all alone in an adjoining apartment. She ran 
 with transport to her darling, and without mix¬ 
 ture of fear lest I should dislike her. But oh me! 
 what was her fury when she heard me say, I was 
 afraid and shocked at so loathsome a spectacle! 
 She stepped back, swollen with rage, to see if I 
 had the insolence to repeat it. I did, with this 
 addition, that her ill-timed passion had increased 
 her ugliness. Enraged, inflamed, distracted, she 
 snatched a bodkin and with all her force stabbed 
 me to the heart. Dying, I preserved my sincerity, 
 and expressed the truth, though in broken words; 
 and by reproachful grimaces to the last I mimicked 
 the deformity of my murderess. 
 
 “ Cupid, who always attends the fair, and pitied 
 the fate of so useful a favorite as 1 was, obtained 
 of the destinies, that my body should remain in¬ 
 corruptible, and retain the qualities my mind had 
 possessed. I immediately lost the figure of man, 
 and became smooth, polished, and bright, and to 
 this day am the first favorite wdth the ladies.”—T, 
 
 No. 393.] SATURDAY, MAY 31, 1712. 
 
 Nescio qua praeter solitum dulcedine laeti. 
 
 Yirg. Georg, i. 412. 
 
 Unusual sweetness purer joys inspires. 
 
 Looking over the letters that have been sent me, 
 I chanced to find the following one, which I re¬ 
 ceived about two years ago from an ingenious 
 friend who was then in Denmark :— 
 
 “Dear Sir, Copenhagen, May 1, 1710. 
 
 “ The spring with you has already taken pos¬ 
 session of the fields and woods. Now is the sea¬ 
 son of solitude, and of moving complaints upon 
 trivial sufferings. Now the griefs of lovers begin 
 to flow, and their wounds to bleed afresh. I, too, 
 at this distance from the softer climates, am not 
 without my discontents at present. You perhaps 
 may laugh at me for a most romantic wretch, when 
 I have disclosed to you the occasion of my unea¬ 
 siness; and yet I cannot help thinking my unhap¬ 
 piness real, in being confined to a region which is 
 the very reverse of Paradise. The seasons here 
 are all of them unpleasant, and the country quite 
 destitute of rural charms. I have not heard a bird 
 sing, nor a brook murmur, nor a breeze whisper, 
 neither have I been blest with the sight of a flow¬ 
 ery meadow, these two years. Every wind here is 
 a tempest, and every water a turbulent ocean. I 
 hqye, when you reflect a little, you will not think 
 the grounds of my complaint in the least frivo¬ 
 lous and unbecoming a man of serious thought; 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 480 
 
 since the love of woods, of fields and flowers, of 
 rivers and fountains, seems to be a passion im- 
 lanted in our natures the most early of any, even 
 efore the fair sex had a being. 
 
 “ I am, Sir,” etc. 
 
 Could I transport myself with a wish from one 
 country to another, I should choose to pass my 
 winter in Spain, my spring in Italy, my summer 
 in England, and my autumn in France. Of all 
 these seasons there is none that can vie with the 
 spring for beauty and delightfulness. It bears the 
 same figure among the seasons of the year, that 
 the morning does among the divisions of the day, 
 or youth among the stages of life. The English 
 summer is pleasanter than that of any other coun¬ 
 try in Europe, on no other account but because it 
 has a greater mixture of spring in it. The mild¬ 
 ness of our climate, with those frequent refresh¬ 
 ments of dews and rains that fall among us, keep 
 up a perpetual cheerfulness in our fields, and fill 
 the hottest months of the year with a lively ver¬ 
 dure. 
 
 In the opening of the spring, when all nature 
 begins to recover herself, the same animal plea¬ 
 sure which makes the birds sing, and the whole 
 brute creation rejoice, rises very sensibly in the 
 heart of man. I know none of the poets who 
 have observed so wefl as Milton these secret over¬ 
 flowings of gladness which diffuse themselves 
 through the mind of the beholder, upon surveying 
 the gay scenes of nature: he has touched upon it 
 twice or thrice in his Paradise Lost, and describes 
 it very beautifully under the name of “ vernal de¬ 
 light,” in that passage where he represents the 
 devil himself as almost sensible of it: 
 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue 
 Appear’d, with gay enamel’d colors mix’d: 
 
 On which the sun more glad impress’d his beams 
 Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, 
 
 When God had shower’d the earth; so lovely seem’d 
 That landscape: and of pure now purer air 
 Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
 Vernal delight, and joy able to drive 
 All sadness, but despair, etc. 
 
 Many authors have written on the vanity of the 
 creature, and represented the barrenness of every¬ 
 thing in this world, and its incapacity of produc¬ 
 ing any solid or substantial happiness. As dis¬ 
 courses of this nature are very useful to the sensual 
 and voluptuous, those speculations which show 
 the bright side of things, and lay forth those inno¬ 
 cent entertainments which are to be met with 
 among the several objects that encompass us, are 
 no less beneficial to men of dark and melancholy 
 tempers. It was for this reason that I endeavored 
 to recommend a cheerfulness of mind in my two 
 last Saturday’s papers, and which I would still in¬ 
 culcate, not only from the consideration of our¬ 
 selves, and of that Being on whom we depend, 
 nor from the general survey of that universe in 
 which we are placed at present, but from reflec¬ 
 tions on the particular season in which this paper 
 is written. The creation is a perpetual feast to 
 the mind of a good man; everything he sees cheers 
 and delights him. Providence has imprinted so 
 many smiles on nature, that it is impossible for a 
 mind which is not sunk in more gross and sensual 
 delights, to take a survey of them without several 
 secret sensations of pleasure. The Psalmist has, 
 in several of his divine poems, celebrated those 
 beautiful and agreeable scenes which make the 
 heart glad, and produce in it that vernal delight 
 which I have before taken notice of. 
 
 Natural philosophy quickens this taste of the 
 creation, and renders it not only pleasing to the 
 imagination, but to the understanding. It does 
 not rest in the murmur of brooks and the melody 
 
 of birds, in the shade of groves and woods, or in 
 the embroidery of fields and meadows; but consi¬ 
 ders the several ends of Providence which are 
 served by them, and the wonders of divine wis¬ 
 dom which appear in them. It heightens the 
 pleasures of the eye, and raises such a rational 
 admiration in the soul, as is little inferior to devo¬ 
 tion. 
 
 It is not in the power of every one to offer up 
 this kind of worship to the great Author of na¬ 
 ture, and to indulge these more refined meditations 
 of heart, which are doubtless highly acceptable in 
 his sight; I shall therefore conclude this short es¬ 
 say on that pleasure which the mind naturally 
 conceives from the present season of the year, by 
 the recommending of a practice for which every 
 one lias sufficient abilities. 
 
 I would have my readers endeavor to moralize 
 this natural pleasure of the soul, and to improve 
 this vernal delight, as Milton calls it, into a Chris¬ 
 tian virtue. When we find ourselves inspired 
 with this pleasing instinct, this secret satisfac¬ 
 tion and complacency, arising from the beauties 
 of the creation, let us consider to whom we stand 
 indebted for all these entertainments of sense, and 
 who it is that thus opens his hand, and fills the 
 world with good. The Apostle instructs us to 
 take advantage of our present temper of mind, to 
 graft upon it such a religious exercise as is partic¬ 
 ularly conformable to it, by that precept which ad¬ 
 vises those who are sad to pray, and those who 
 are merry to sing psalms. The cheerfulness of 
 heart which springs up in us from the survey of 
 nature’s works, is an admirable preparation for 
 gratitude. The mind has gone a great way to¬ 
 ward praise and thanksgiving, that is filled with 
 such a secret gladness—a grateful reflection on the 
 Supreme Cause who produces it, sanctifies it in 
 the soul, and gives it its proper value. Such an 
 habitual disposition of mind consecrates every 
 field and wood, turns an ordinary walk into a 
 morning or evening sacrifice, and will improve 
 those transient gleams of joy which naturally 
 brighten up and refresh the soul on such occa¬ 
 sions, into an inviolable and perpetual state of 
 bliss and happiness.—I. 
 
 No. 394.] MONDAY, JUNE 2, 1712. 
 
 Bene colligitur haec pueris et mulierculis et servis et se*- 
 vorum simillimis liberis esse grata: gravi vero homini et 
 ea, qum fiunt, indicio certo ponderanti, probari posse 
 nullo modo.—T ull. 
 
 It is obvious to see, that these things are very acceptable to 
 children, young women, and servants, and to such as most 
 resemble servants; but they can by no means meet with 
 the approbation of people of thought and consideration. 
 
 I have been considering the little and frivolous 
 things which give men access to one another, and 
 power with each other, not only in the common 
 and indifferent accidents of life, but also in mat¬ 
 ters of greater importance. You see in elections 
 for members of parliament, how far saluting rows 
 of old women, drinking with clowns, and being 
 upon a level with the lowest part of mankind, ir 
 that wherein they themselves are lowest, their di 
 versions, will carry a candidate. A capacity fo? 
 prostituting a man’s self in his behavior, and de* 
 scending to the present humor of the vulgar, it 
 perhaps as good an ingredient as any other foi 
 making a considerable figure in the world; and if 
 a man has nothing else or better to think of, ha 
 could not make his way to wealth and distinction 
 by properer methods, than studying the particular 
 bent or inclination of people with whom he con¬ 
 verses, and working from the observation of such 
 their bias in all matters wherein he has any inter 
 
481 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 course with them : for his ease and comfort he 
 may assure himself, lie need not be at the expense 
 of any great talent or virtue to please even those 
 who are possessed of the highest qualifications. 
 Pride, in some particular disguise or other (often 
 a secret to the proud man himself), is the most or¬ 
 dinary spring of action among men. You need 
 no more than to discover what a man values him¬ 
 self for: then of all things admire that quality, 
 but be sure to be failing in it yourself in compari¬ 
 son of the man whom you court. I have heard or 
 read of a secretary of state in Spain, who served 
 a prince who was happy in an elegant use of the 
 Latiu tongue, and often wrote dispatches in it with 
 his own hand. The king showed his secretary a 
 letter he had written to a foreign prince, and under 
 the color of asking his advice, laid a trap for his 
 applause. The honest man read it as a faithful 
 counselor, and not only excepted against his tying 
 himself down too much by some expressions, but 
 mended the phrase in others. You may guess the 
 dispatches that evening did not take much longer 
 time. Mr. Secretary, as soon as he came to his 
 own house, sent for his eldest son, and communi¬ 
 cated to him that the family must retire out of 
 Spain as soon as possible; “for,” said he, “the 
 king knows I understand Latin better than he 
 does.” 
 
 This egregious fault in a man of the world, 
 should be a lesson to all who would make their 
 fortunes: but a regard must be carefully had to 
 the person with whom you have to do; for it is 
 not to be doubted but a great man of common sense 
 must look with secret indignation, or bridled 
 laughter, on all the slaves who stand round him 
 with ready faces to approve and smile at all he 
 says in the gross. It is good comedy enough to 
 observe a superior talking half sentences, and 
 playing a humble admirer’s countenance from one 
 thing to another, with such perplexity, that he 
 knows not what to sneer in approbation of. But 
 this kind of complaisance is peculiarly the manner 
 of courts; in all other places you must constantly 
 o further in compliance with the persons you 
 ave to do with, than a mere conformity of looks 
 and gestures. If you are in a country life, and 
 would be a leading man, a good stomach, a loud 
 voice, and a rustic cheerfulness, will go a great 
 way, provided you are able to drink, and drink 
 anything. But I was just now going to draw the 
 manner of behavior I would advise people to 
 practice under some maxim; and intimated, that 
 every one almost was governed by his pride. 
 There was an old fellow about forty years ago so 
 peevish and fretful, though a man of business, that 
 no one could come at him: but he frequented a 
 particular little coffee-house, where he triumphed 
 over everybody at trick-track and backgammon. 
 The way to pass his office well, was first to be in¬ 
 sulted by him at one of those games in his leisure 
 hours; for his vanity was to show that he was a 
 man of pleasure as well as business. Next to this 
 sort of insinuation, which is called in all places 
 (from its taking its birth in the households of 
 princes) making one’s court, the most prevailing 
 way is, by what better-bred people call a present, 
 the vulgar a bribe. I humbly conceive that such 
 a thing is conveyed with more gallantry in a bil¬ 
 let-doux that should be understood at the Bank, 
 than in gross money, but as to stubborn people, 
 who are so surly as to accept of neither note nor 
 cash, having formerly dabbled in chemistry, I can 
 only say, that one part of matter asks one thing, 
 and another another, to make it fluent; but there 
 is nothing but may be dissolved by a proper mean. 
 Thus, the virtue which is too obdurate for gold or 
 paper, shall melt away very kindly in a liquid. 
 
 STATOR. 
 
 The island of Barbadoes (a shrewd people) ma¬ 
 nage all their appeals to Great Britain by a skillful 
 distribution of citron water* among the whisper¬ 
 ers about men in power. Generous wines do every 
 day prevail, and that in great points, where ten 
 thousand times their value would have been re¬ 
 jected with indignation. 
 
 But, to wave the enumeration of the sundry 
 ways of applying by presents, bribes, management 
 of people’s passions and affections, in such a man¬ 
 ner as it shall appear that the virtue of the best 
 man is by one method or other corruptible, let us 
 look out for some expedient to turn those passions 
 and affections on the side of truth and honor. 
 When a man has laid it down for a position, that 
 parting with his integrity, in the minutest circum¬ 
 stance, is losing so much of his very self, self-love 
 will become a virtue. By this means, good and 
 evil will be the only objects of dislike and appro¬ 
 bation; and he that injures any man, has effectu¬ 
 ally wounded the man of this turn as much as if 
 the harm had been to himself. This seems to be 
 the only expedient to arrive at an impartiality: 
 and a man who follows the dictates of truth and 
 right reason, may by artifice be led into error, but 
 never can into guilt.—T. 
 
 No. 395.] TUESDAY, JUNE 3, 1712. 
 
 Quod nunc ratio est, impetus ante fuit. 
 
 Ovid. Rem. Amor. 10. 
 ’Tis reason now, ’twas appetite before. 
 
 “Beware of the ides of March,” said the Ro¬ 
 man augur to Julius Caesar: “Beware of the 
 month of May,” says the British Spectator to his 
 fair countrywomen. The caution of the first was 
 unhappily neglected, and Caesar’s confidence cost 
 him his life. I am apt to flatter myself that my 
 pretty readers had much more regard to the advice 
 I gave them, since I have yet received very few 
 accounts of any notorious trips made in the last 
 month. 
 
 But though I hope for the best, I shall not pro¬ 
 nounce too positively on this point, till I have 
 seen forty weeks well over; at which period of 
 time, as my good friend Sir Roger has often told 
 me, he has more business as a justice of peace, 
 among the dissolute young people in the country, 
 " an at any other season of the year. 
 
 Neither must I forget a letter which I received 
 near a fortnight since from a lady, who, it seems, 
 could hold out no longer, telling me she looked 
 upon the month as then out, for that she had all 
 along reckoned by the new style. 
 
 On the other hand, I have great reason to bo 
 ieve, from several angry letters which have been 
 sent to me by disappointed lovers, that my ad¬ 
 vice lias been of very signal service to the fair sex, 
 who, according to the old proverb, were “fore¬ 
 warned, forearmed. ” 
 
 One of these gentlemen tells me, that he would 
 have given me a hundred pounds, rather than I 
 should have published that paper; for that his 
 mistress, who had promised to explain herself to 
 him about the beginning of May, upon reading 
 that discourse told him, that she would give him 
 her answer in June, 
 
 Thyrsis acquaints me, that when he desired 
 Sylvia to take a walk in the fields, she told him, 
 the Spectator had forbidden her. 
 
 Another of my correspondents, who writes him¬ 
 self Mat Meager, complains that, whereas he con¬ 
 stantly used to breakfast with his mistress upon 
 
 * Then commonly called Barbadoe-s water. 
 
482 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 chocolate, going to wait upon her the first of May, 
 he found his usual treat very much changed for 
 the worse, and has been forced to feed ever since 
 upon green tea. 
 
 As I began this critical season with a caveat to 
 the ladies, I shall conclude it with a congratula¬ 
 tion, and do most heartily wish them joy of their 
 happy deliverance. 
 
 They may now reflect with pleasure on the dan¬ 
 gers they have escaped, and look back with as 
 much satisfaction on the perils that threatened 
 them, as their great-grandmothers did formerly 
 on the burning plowshares, after having passed 
 through the ordeal trial. The instigations of the 
 spring are now abated. The nightingale gives 
 over her “ lovelabor’d song,” as Milton phrases 
 it; the blossoms are fallen, and the beds of flow¬ 
 ers swept away by the scythe of the mower. 
 
 I shall now allow my fair readers to return to 
 their romances and chocolate, provided they make 
 use of them with moderation, till about the mid¬ 
 dle of the month, when the sun shall have made 
 some progress in the Crab. Nothing is more 
 dangerous than too much confidence and security. 
 The Trojans, who stood upon their guard all the 
 while the Grecians lay before their city, when 
 they fancied the siege was raised, and the danger 
 ast, were the very next night burnt in their beds, 
 must also observe, that as in some climates 
 there is a perpetual spring, so in some female con¬ 
 stitutions there is a perpetual May. These are a 
 kind of valetudinarians in chastity whom I would 
 continue in a constant diet. I cannot think these 
 wholly out of danger, till they have looked upon 
 the other sex at least five years through a pair of 
 spectacles. Will Honeycomb has often assured 
 me that it is easier to steal one of this species, 
 when she is passed her grand climateric, than 
 to carry off an icy girl on this side five-and- 
 twenty; and that a rake of his acquaintance, 
 who had in vain endeavored to gain the affections 
 of a young lady of fifteen, had at last made his 
 fortune by running away with her grandmother. 
 
 But as I do not design this speculation for the 
 evergreens of the sex, I shall again apply myself 
 to those who would willingly listen to the dic¬ 
 tates of reason and virtue, and can now hear me 
 in cold blood. If there are any who have forfeited 
 their innocence, they must now consider them¬ 
 selves under that melancholy view in which 
 Chamont regards his sister, in those beautiful 
 lines: 
 
 -Long she flourish’d, 
 
 Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye, 
 
 Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, 
 
 Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness, 
 
 Then cast it, like a loathsome weed, away. 
 
 On the contrary she who has observed the timely 
 cautions I gave her, and lived up to the rules of 
 modesty, will now flourish like “ a rose in June,” 
 with all her virgin blushes and sweetness about 
 her. I must, however, desire these last to consi¬ 
 der, how shameful it would be for a general, who 
 has made a successful campaign, to be surprised 
 in his winter quarters. It would be no less dis¬ 
 honorable for a lady to lose, in any other month 
 of the year, what she has been at the pains to pre¬ 
 serve in May. 
 
 There is no charm in the female sex that can 
 supply the place of virtue. Without innocence 
 beauty is unlovely, and quality contemptible; 
 good breeding degenerates into wantonness, and 
 wit into impudence. It is observed, that all 
 the virtues are represented by both painters and 
 statuaries under female shapes; but if any one of 
 them has a more particular title to that sex, it is 
 modesty. I shall leave it to the divines to guard 
 
 them against the opposite vice, as they may be 
 overpowered by temptations. It is sufficient for 
 me to have warned them against it, as they may 
 be led astray by instinct. 
 
 I desire this paper may be read with more than 
 ordinary attention, at all tea-tables within the 
 cities of London and Westminster.—X. 
 
 No. 396.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4, 1712. 
 
 Barbara, Celarent, Darii, Ferio, Baralipton. 
 
 Having a great deal of business upon my hands 
 at present, I shall beg the reader’s leave to present 
 him with a letter that I received about half a year 
 ago from a gentleman at Cambridge, who styles 
 himself Peter de Quir. I have kept it by me some 
 months ; and though I did not know at first what 
 to make of it, upon my reading it over very fre¬ 
 quently I have at last discovered several conceits 
 in it: I would not therefore have my reader dis¬ 
 couraged if he does not take them at the first 
 perusal. 
 
 To Mr. Spectator 
 
 “From St. John’s College, Cambridge, Feb. 3, 1712. 
 
 “ The monopoly of puns in this university has 
 been an immemorial privilege of the Johnians;* 
 and we cannot help resenting the late invasion of 
 our ancient right as to that particular, by a little 
 pretender to clenching in a neighboring college, 
 who in application to you by way of letter, a while 
 ago, styled himself Philobrune. Dear Sir, as you 
 are by character a professed well-wisher to specu¬ 
 lation you will excuse a remark which this gentle¬ 
 man’s passion for the brunette has suggested to 
 a brother theorist: it is an offer toward a mecha¬ 
 nical account of his lapse to punning, for he be¬ 
 longs to a set of mortals who value themselves 
 upon an uncommon mystery in the more humane 
 and polite parts of letters. 
 
 “ A conquest by one of this species of females 
 gives a very odd turn to the intellectuals of the 
 captivated person, and very different from that 
 way of thinking which a triumph from the eyes 
 of another, more emphatically of the fair sex, does 
 generally occasion. It fills the imagination with 
 an assemblage of such ideas and pictures as are 
 hardly anything but shade, such as night, the 
 devil, etc. These portraitures very near over¬ 
 power the light of the understanding, almost be¬ 
 night the faculties, and give that melancholy tinc¬ 
 ture to the most sanguine complexion, which this 
 gentleman calls an inclination to be in a brown- 
 study, and is usually attended with worse conse¬ 
 quences, in case of a repulse. During this twi¬ 
 light of intellects, the patient is extremely apt, as 
 love is the most witty passion in nature, to offer 
 at some pert sallies now and then, by way of 
 flourish, upon the amiable enchantress, and un¬ 
 fortunately stumbles upon that mongrel mis¬ 
 created (to speak in Miltonic) kind of wit, vul¬ 
 garly termed the pun. It would not be much 
 
 amiss to consult Dr. T- W-(who is 
 
 certainly a very able projector, and whose system 
 of divinity and spiritual mechanics obtains very 
 much among the better part of our under gradu¬ 
 ates) whether a general intermarriage, enjoined 
 by parliament, between this sisterhood of the 
 olive-beauties and the fraternity of the people 
 called Quakers, would not be a very serviceable 
 expedient, and abate the overflow of light which 
 shines with them so powerfully, that it dazzles 
 
 * The students of St. John’s College. 
 
the spectator. 
 
 their eyes, and dances them into a thousand va- ' 
 garies of error and enthusiasm. These reflections j 
 may impart some light toward a discovery of the ! 
 origin of punning among us, and the foundation 
 of its prevailing so long in this famous body. 
 It is notorious, from the instance under consider¬ 
 ation, that it must be owing chiefly to the use of 
 brown jugs, muddy belch, and the fumes of a cer¬ 
 tain memorable place of rendezvous with us at 
 meals, known by the name of Staincoat Hole: for 
 the atmosphere of the kitchen, like the tail of a 
 comet, predominates least about the fire, but re¬ 
 sides behind, and fills the fragrant receptacle 
 
 Reside, it is further observ¬ 
 able, that the delicate spirits among us, who de¬ 
 clare against these nauseous proceedings, sip tea, 
 and put up for critic and amour, profess likewise 
 an equal abhorrence for punning, the ancient in¬ 
 nocent diversion of this society. After all, Sir, 
 though it may appear something absurd that I 
 seem to approach you with the air of an advocate 
 for punning (you who have justified your censures 
 of the practice in a set dissertation upon that sub¬ 
 ject*) yet I am confident you will think it abun¬ 
 dantly atoned for by observing, that this humbler 
 exercise may be as instrumental in diverting us 
 from any innovating schemes and hypotheses in 
 wit, as dwelling upon honest orthodox logic 
 would be in securing us from heresy in religion. 
 
 Had Mr. W-n’s f researches been confined 
 
 within the bouuds of Ramus or Crackenthorp, 
 that learned newsmonger might have acquiesced 
 in what the holy oracles pronounced upon the de- 
 luge, like other Christians ; and had the surprising* 
 
 ^ r - B-y been content with the employment of 
 
 refining upon Shakspeare’s points and quibbles 
 (for which he must De allowed to possess a su¬ 
 perlative genius), and now and then penning 
 a catch or a ditty, instead of inditing odes and 
 sonnets, the gentlemen of the bon gout in the pit 
 would never have been put to all that grimace in 
 damning the frippery of state, the poverty and 
 languor of thought, the unnatural wit, and inar¬ 
 tificial structure of his dramas. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your very humble Servant, 
 
 “ Peter de Quir.” 
 
 483 
 
 able than what can be met with in such an indo¬ 
 lent happiness, such an indifference to mankind, 
 as that in which the Stoics place their wisdom. 
 As love is the most delightful passion, pity is 
 nothing else but love softened by a degree of sor- 
 iow. In short, it is a kind of pleasing anguish, 
 as well as generous sympathy, that knits man¬ 
 kind together, and blends them in the same com¬ 
 mon lot. 
 
 hose who have laid down rules for rhetoric 
 or poetry advise the writer to work himself up, if 
 possible to the pitch of sorrow which he endea- 
 vots to produce in others. There arc none there- 
 fqie who stir up pity so much as those who in¬ 
 dite their own sufferings. Grief has a natural 
 eloquence belonging to it, and breaks out in more 
 moving sentiments than can be supplied by the 
 finest imagination. Nature on this occasion dic¬ 
 tates a thousand passionate things which cannot 
 be supplied by art. 
 
 It is for this reason that the short speeches or 
 sentences which we often meet with in histories 
 make a deeper impression on the mind of the 
 reader than the most labored strokes in a well- 
 written tragedy. Truth and matter of fact sets 
 the person actually before us in the one, whom 
 fiction places at a greater distance from us in the 
 other. I do not remember to. have seen any 
 ancient or modern story more affecting than a 
 letter of Ann of Boulogne, wife to King Henry 
 the Eighth, and mother to Queen Elizabeth, 
 which is still extant in the Cotton library, as 
 written by her own hand. 
 
 Shakspeare himself could not have made her 
 talk in a strain so suitable to her condition and 
 character. One sees in it the expostulations of a 
 slighted lover, the resentments of an injured 
 woman, and the sorrows of an imprisoned queen. 
 
 I need not acquaint my reader that this princess 
 was then under prosecution for disloyalty to the 
 king’s bed, and that she was afterward publicly 
 beheaded upon the same account; though this 
 prosecution was believed by many to proceed, as 
 she herself intimates, rather from the king’s love 
 to Jane Seymour, than from any actual crime in 
 Ann of Boulogne. 
 
 Queen Ann Boleyn’s last Letter to King Henry. 
 
 “ Sir, Cotton Lib. Otho. C. 10. 
 
 No. 397.] THURSDAY, JUNE 5, 1712. 
 
 —-Dolor ipse disertam 
 
 Fecerat-- Ovid, Metam. xiii, 228. 
 
 Her grief inspired her then with eloquence. 
 
 As the Stoic philosophers discard all passions 
 in general, they will not allow a wise man so 
 much as to pity the afflictions of another. “ If 
 thou seest thy friend in trouble,” says Epictetus, 
 “ thou mayest put on a look of sorrow, and con- 
 dole with him, but take care that thy sorrow be 
 not real.” The more rigid of this sect would not 
 comply so far as to show even such outward 
 appearance of grief; but, when one told them of 
 any calamity that had befallen even the nearest 
 of their acquaintance, would immediately reply, 
 “ What is that to me?” If you aggravated the 
 circumstances of the affliction, and showed how 
 one misfortune was followed by another, the an¬ 
 swer was still, “ all this may be true, but what is 
 it to me?” 
 
 For my own part, I am of opinion compassion 
 does not only refine and civilize human nature, 
 but has something in it more pleasing and agree- 
 
 * See Spect. No. 61. 
 
 “Your grace’s displeasure and my imprison¬ 
 ment, are things so strange unto me, as what to 
 write, or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant. 
 Whereas you send unto me (willing me to confess 
 a truth, and so obtain your favor), by such a one, 
 whom you know to be mine ancient professed ene¬ 
 my, I no sooner received this message by him, 
 than I rightly conceived your meaning; and if, as 
 you say, confessing a truth indeed may procure 
 my safety, I shall with all willingness and duty 
 perform your command. 
 
 “ But let not your grace ever imagine, that your 
 poor wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a 
 fault where not so much as a thought thereof'pre¬ 
 ceded. And to speak a truth, never prince had 
 wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affec : 
 tion, than you have ever found in Ann Boleyn : 
 with which name and place I could willingly have 
 contented myself, if God and your grace’s plea¬ 
 sure had been so pleased. Neither did I at any 
 time so far forget myself in my exaltation or re¬ 
 ceived queenship, but that I always looked for 
 such an alteration as now I find; for the ground' 
 of my preferment being on no surer foundation, 
 than your grace’s fancy, the least alteration I knew 
 was fit and sufficient to draw that fancy to some 
 other subject. You have chosen me from a low 
 
 f Mr. Whiston. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 484 
 
 estate to be your queen and companion, far beyond 
 my desert or desire. If, then, you found me worthy 
 of such honor, good your grace, let not any light 
 fancy, or bad counsel of mine enemies, withdraw 
 youv princelv favor from me; neither let that stain, 
 that unwortny stain, of a disloyal heart toward 
 your good grace, ever cast so foul a blot on your 
 most dutiful wife, and the infant princess your 
 daughter. Try me, good king, but let me have a 
 lawful trial, and let not my sworn enemies sit as 
 my accusers and judges ; yea, let me receive an 
 open trial, for my truth shall fear no open shame; 
 then shall you see either mine innocency cleared, 
 your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the igno¬ 
 miny and slander of the world stopped, or my 
 guilt openly declared. So that, whatsoever God 
 or you may determine of me, your grace may be 
 freed from an open censure; and mine offense 
 being so lawfully proved, your grace is at liberty 
 both before Goa and man, not only to execute 
 worthy punishment on me as an unlawful wife, 
 but to follow your affection already settled on that 
 party, for whose sake I am now as I am, whose 
 name I could some good while since have pointed 
 unto, your grace being not ignorant of my suspi¬ 
 cion therein. 
 
 “ But if you have already determined of me, 
 and that not only my death, but an infamous slan¬ 
 der, must bring you the enjoying of your desired 
 happiness; then I desire of God, that he will par¬ 
 don your great sin therein, and likewise mine ene¬ 
 mies, the instruments thereof; and that he will 
 not call you to a strict account for your unprincely 
 and cruel usage of me, at his general juugment- 
 seat, where both you and myself must shortly ap¬ 
 pear, and in whose judgment I doubt not (whatso¬ 
 ever the world may think of me) mine innocence 
 shall be openly known, and sufficiently cleared. 
 
 “ My last and only request shall be, that myself 
 may only bear the burden of your grace’s displea¬ 
 sure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls 
 of those poor gentlemen, who (as I understand) 
 are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. 
 If ever I have found favor in your sight, if ever 
 the name of Ann Boleyn hath been pleasing in 
 your ears, then let me obtain this request, and I 
 will so leave to trouble your grace any further, 
 with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity, to have 
 your grace in his good keeping, and to direct you 
 in all your actions. From my doleful prison in 
 the Tower, this sixth of May ; 
 
 “ Your most loyal, and ever faithful wife, 
 
 L. “ Ann Boleyn.” 
 
 No. 398.] FRIDAY, JUNE 6, 1712. 
 
 lnsanire pares certa ratione modoque. 
 
 Hor. 2 Sat. iii, 271. 
 
 You’d be a fool 
 
 With art and wisdom, and be mad by rule.— Creech. 
 
 Oynthio and Flavia are persons of distinction 
 in this town, who have been lovers these ten 
 months last past, and wrote to each other for gal¬ 
 lantry-sake under those feigned names ; Mr. Such- 
 a-one and Mrs. Such-a-one not being capable of 
 raising the soul out of the ordinary tracts and 
 passages of life, up to that elevation which makes 
 the life of the enamored so much superior to that 
 of the rest of the world. But ever since the beau¬ 
 teous Cecilia has made such a figure as she now 
 does in the circle of charming women, Cynthio 
 has been secretly one of her adorers. Lsetitia has 
 been the finest woman in town these three months, 
 and so long Cynthio has acted the part of a lover 
 very awkwardly in the presence of Flavia. Fla¬ 
 via has been too blind toward him, and has too 
 
 sincere a heart of her own to observe a thousand 
 things which would have discovered this change 
 of mind to any one less engaged than she was. 
 Cynthio was musing yesterday in the piazza in 
 Covent-garden, and was saying to himself that he 
 was a very ill man to go on in visiting and pro¬ 
 fessing love to Flavia, when his heart was en¬ 
 thralled to another. “ It is an infirmity that I am 
 not constant to Flavia; but it would be still a 
 greater crime, since I cannot continue to love her, 
 to profess that I do. To marry a woman with the 
 coldness that usually indeed comes on after mar¬ 
 riage, is ruining one’s self with one’s eyes open; 
 beside, it is really doing her an injury.” This 
 last consideration forsooth, of injuring her in per¬ 
 sisting, made him resolve to break off upon the 
 first favorable opportunity of making her angry. 
 When he was in this thought, he saw Robin the 
 porter, who waits at Will’s coffee-house, passing 
 by. Robin, you must know, is the best man in 
 town for carrying a billet; the fellow has a thin 
 body, swift step, demure looks, sufficient sense, 
 and knows the town. This man carried Cynthio’s 
 first letter to Flavia, and, by frequent visits ever 
 since, is well known to her. The fellow covers 
 his knowledge of the nature of his messages with 
 the most exquisite low humor imaginable. The 
 first he obliged Flavia to take, was by complain¬ 
 ing to her that he had a wife and three children; 
 and if she did not take that letter, which he was 
 sure there was no harm in, but rather love, his fa¬ 
 mily must go supperless to bed, for the gentleman 
 would pay him according as he did his business. 
 Robin, therefore, Cynthio now thought fit to make 
 use of, and gave him orders to wait before Flavia’s 
 door, and if she called him to her, and asked 
 whether it was Cynthio who passed by, he should 
 at first be loth to own it was, but upon importu 
 nity confess it. There needed not much search 
 into that part of the town, to find a well-dressed 
 hussy fit for the purpose Cynthio designed her. 
 As soon as he believed Robin was posted, he drove 
 by Flavia’s lodgings in a hackney-coach and a 
 woman in it. Robin was at the door talking with 
 Flavia’s maid, and Cynthio pulled up the glass as 
 surprised, and hid his associate. The report of 
 this circumstance soon flew up stairs, and Robin 
 could not deny but the gentleman favored* his 
 master; yet if it was he, he was sure the lady was 
 but his cousin whom he had seen ask for him, ad¬ 
 ding that he believed she was a poor relation, be¬ 
 cause they made her wait one morning till he was 
 awake. Flavia imraediatly wrote the following 
 epistle, which Robin brought to Will’s :— 
 
 ‘‘Sir, June 4, 1712. 
 
 “ It is in vain to deny it, basest, falsest of man¬ 
 kind; my maid as well as the bearer saw you. 
 
 “ The injured Flavia.” 
 
 After Cynthio had read the letter, he asked 
 Robin how she looked, and what she said at the 
 delivery of it. Robin said she spoke short to him, 
 and called him back again, and had nothing to say 
 to him, and bid him and all the men in the world 
 go out of her sight: but the maid followed, and 
 bid him bring an answer. 
 
 Cynthio returned as follows :— 
 
 “June 4, Three afternoon, 1712. 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ That your maid and the bearer have seen me 
 very often is very certain; but I desire to know, 
 being engaged at piquet, what your letter means 
 
 •Resembled. 
 
by" tis in vain to deny it.’ 
 the evening. 
 
 u Your amazed Cynthio.” 
 
 As soon as Robin arrived with this, Flavia an¬ 
 swered : 
 
 "Dear Cynthio, 
 
 " I have walked a turn or two in my antecham¬ 
 ber since I wrote to you, and have recovered my¬ 
 self from an impertinent fit which you ought to 
 forgive me, and desire you would come to me im¬ 
 mediately to laugh off a jealousy that you and a 
 creature of the town went by in a hackney-coach 
 an hour ago. 
 
 “ I am your most humble Servant, 
 
 " Flavia.” 
 
 “ I will not open the letter which my Cynthio 
 wrote upon the misapprehension you must have 
 been under, when you wrote, for want of hearing 
 the whole circumstance:” 
 
 Robin came back in an instant, and Cynthio 
 answered: 
 
 “ Half-an-hour six minutes after three, 
 "Madam, June 4, Will’s Coffee-house. 
 
 " It is certain I went by your lodging with a 
 
 f entlewoman to whom I have the honor to be 
 nown; she is indeed my relation, and a pretty 
 sort ot woman. But your startling manner of 
 writing, and owning you have not done me the 
 honor so much as to open my letter, has in it 
 something very unaccountable, and alarms one 
 that has had thoughts of passing his days with 
 you. But I am born to admire you with all your 
 imperfections. ' J 
 
 " Cynthio.” 
 
 Robin ran back and brought for answer: 
 
 "Exact Sir, there are at Will’s Coffee-house six 
 minutes after three, June 4; one that has had 
 thoughts, and all my little imperfections. Sir, 
 come to me immediately, or I shall determine 
 what may perhaps not be very pleasing to you. 
 
 " Flavia.” 
 
 . Robin gave an account that she looked exces¬ 
 sive an^ry when she gave him the letter; and that 
 he told her, for she asked, that Cynthio only 
 looked at the clock, taking snuff, and wrote two 
 or three words on the top of the letter when he 
 gave him his. 
 
 Now the plot thickened so well, as that Cynthio 
 saw he had not much more to do, to accomplish 
 being irreconcilably banished; he wrote, 
 
 "Madam, 
 
 "I have that prejudice in favor of all you do, 
 that it is not possible for you to determine upon 
 what will not be very pleasing to 
 
 " Your obedient Servant, 
 
 " Cynthio.” 
 
 This was delivered, and the answer returned, in 
 a little more than two seconds: 
 
 "Sir, 
 
 "Is it come to this? You never loved me, and 
 the creature you were with is the properest person 
 for your associate. I despise you, and hope I 
 shall soon hate you as a villain to 
 
 “ The credulous Flavia.” 
 Robin ran back with: 
 
 "Madam, 
 
 "Your credulity when you are to gain your 
 point, and suspicion when you fear to lose it, 
 
 485 
 
 make it a very hard part to behave as becomes 
 your humble slave, « Cynthio.” 
 
 Robin whipt away and returned with, 
 
 " Mr. Wellford, 
 
 "Flavia and Cynthio are no more. I relieve 
 you from the hard part of which you complain, 
 and banish you from my sight forever. 
 
 “ Ann Heart.” 
 
 Robin had a crown for his afternoon’s work; 
 and this is published to admonish Cecilia to 
 avenge the injury done to Flavia.—T. 
 
 No. 399.] SATURDAY, JUNE 7, 1712. 
 
 Ut nemo in sese ten tat descendere! —Pers. Sat. iv, 23. 
 
 None, none descends into himself to find 
 
 The secret imperfections of his mind. —Dryden. 
 
 Hypocrisy at the fashionable end of the town is 
 very different from hypocrisy in the city. The 
 modish hypocrite endeavors to appear more vi¬ 
 cious than he really is, the other kind of hypo¬ 
 crite more virtuous. The former is afraid of every¬ 
 thing that has the show of religion in it, and 
 would be thought engaged in many criminal gal¬ 
 lantries and amours which he is not guilty of. The 
 latter assumes a face of sanctity, and covers a 
 multitude of vices under a seeming religious de¬ 
 portment. 
 
 But there is another kind of hypocrisy, which 
 differs from both these, and -which I intend to 
 make the subject of this paper, I mean that hypo¬ 
 crisy> by which a man does not only deceive the 
 world, but very often imposes on himself; that 
 hypocrisy which conceals liis own heart from him, 
 and makes him believe he is more virtuous than 
 he really is, and either not attend to his vices, or 
 mistake even his vices for virtues. It is this fatal 
 hypocrisy, and self-deceit, which is taken notice 
 of in those words, " Who can understand his er¬ 
 rors? cleanse thou me from secret faults.” 
 
 If the open professors of impiety deserve the 
 utmost application and endeavors of moral wri¬ 
 ters to recover them from vice and folly, how 
 much more may those lay a claim to their care and 
 compassion, who are walking in the paths of death, 
 while they fancy themselves engaged in a course 
 of virtue! I shall endeavor, therefore, to lay 
 down some rules for the discovery of those vices 
 that lurk in the secret corners of the soul, and to 
 show my reader those methods by which he may 
 arrive at a true and impartial knowledge of him¬ 
 self. The usual means prescribed for this pur¬ 
 pose are, to examine ourselves by the rules which 
 are laid down for our direction in sacred writ, and 
 to compare our lives with the life of that person 
 who acted up to the perfection of human nature, 
 and is the standing example, as well as the great 
 guide and instructor, of those who receive his doc¬ 
 trines. Though these two heads cannot be too 
 much insisted upon, I shall but just mention them, 
 since they have been handled by many great and 
 eminent writers. 
 
 I would therefore propose the following meth¬ 
 ods to the consideration of such as would find out 
 their secret faults, and make a true estimate of 
 themselves :— 
 
 In the first place, let them consider well what 
 are the characters which they bear among their 
 enemies. Our friends very often flatter us, as 
 much as our own hearts. They either do not see our 
 faults, or conceal them from us, or soften them by 
 their representations, after such a manner that we 
 think them too trivial to be taken notice of. An 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 I shall stay here all 
 
THE SFECTATOR. 
 
 486 
 
 adversary, on the contrary, makes a stricter search 
 into us, discovers every flaw and imperfection in 
 our tempers; and though his malice may set them 
 in too strong a light, it has generally some ground 
 for what it advances. A friend exaggerates a 
 man’s virtues, an enemy inflames his crimes. A 
 wise man should give a just attention to both of 
 them, so far as they may tend to the improvement 
 of the one, and diminution of the other. Plutarch 
 has written an essay on the benefits which a man 
 may receive from his enemies, and among the good 
 fruits of enmity, mentions this in particular, that 
 by the reproaches which it casts upon us we see 
 the worst side of ourselves, and open our eyes to 
 several blemishes and defects in our lives and con¬ 
 versations, which we should not have observed 
 without the help of such ill-natured monitors. 
 
 In order likewise to come at a true knowledge 
 of ourselves, we should consider on the other hand 
 how far we may deserve the praises and approba¬ 
 tions which the world bestow upon us; whether 
 the actions they celebrate proceed from laudable 
 and worthy motives; and how far we are really 
 possessed of the virtues which gain us applause 
 among those with whom we converse. Such a 
 reflection is absolutely necessary, if we consider 
 how apt we are either to value or condemn our¬ 
 selves by the opinions of others, and to sacrifice 
 the report of our own hearts to the judgment of 
 the world. 
 
 In the next place, that we may not deceive our¬ 
 selves in a point of so much importance, we should 
 not lay too great a stress on any supposed virtues 
 we possess that are of a doubtful nature: and such 
 we may esteem all those in which multitudes of 
 men dissent from us, who are as good and wise as 
 ourselves. We should always act with great cau¬ 
 tiousness and circumspection in points where it is 
 not impossible that we may be deceived. Intem¬ 
 perate zeal, bigotry, and persecution for any party 
 or opinion, how praiseAvorthy soever they may ap¬ 
 pear to weak men of our oAvn principles, produce 
 infinite calamities among mankind, and are highly 
 criminal in their own nature; and yet how many 
 persons eminent for piety suffer such monstrous 
 and absurd principles of action to take root in 
 their minds under the color of virtues! For my 
 own part, I must own I never yet knew any party 
 so just and reasonable, that a man could follow it 
 in its height and violence, and at the same time 
 be innocent. 
 
 We should likewise be very apprehensive of 
 those actions which proceed from natural constitu¬ 
 tion, favorite passions, particular education, or 
 whatever promotes our worldly interest and ad¬ 
 vantage. In these and the like cases, a man’s 
 judgment is easily perverted, and a wrong bias 
 hung upon his mind. These are the inlets of 
 prejudice, the unguarded avenues of the mind, by 
 which a thousand errors and secret faults find aa- 
 mission, Avitliout being observed or taken notice 
 of. A Avise man will suspect those actions to 
 which he is directed by something beside reason, 
 and always apprehend some concealed evil in every 
 resolution that is of a disputable nature, Avhen it 
 is conformable to his particular temper, his age, 
 or way of life, or Avhen it favors his pleasure or 
 his profit. 
 
 There is nothing of greater importance to us 
 than thus diligently to sift our thoughts, and ex¬ 
 amine all these dark recesses of the mind, if we 
 should establish our souls in such a solid and sub¬ 
 stantial virtue, as will turn to account in that 
 great day when it must stand the test of infinite 
 wisdom and justice. 
 
 1 shall conclude this essay with observing that 
 the two kinds of hypocrisy I have here spoken 
 
 of, namely, that of deceiving the world, and that 
 of imposing on ourselves, are touched with won¬ 
 derful beauty in the hundred and thirty-ninth 
 psalm. The folly of the first kind of hypocrisy 
 is there set forth by reflections on God’s omni¬ 
 science and omnipresence, Avhich are celebrated in 
 as noble strains of poetry as any other I ever met 
 Avith, either sacred or profane. The other kind of 
 hypocrisy, Avhereby a man deceives himself, is in¬ 
 timated in the tAvo last verses, where the Psalmist 
 addresses himself to the great Searcher of hearts 
 in that emphatical petition, “ Try me, 0 God ! and 
 seek the ground of my heart: prove me, and exa¬ 
 mine my thoughts. Look well if there be any 
 way of wickedness in me, and lead me in the way 
 everlasting.”—L. 
 
 Ho. 400.] MONDAY, JUNE 9,1712. 
 
 -Latet anguis in herba.—V irg. Eel. iii, 93. 
 
 There’s a snake in the grass.— English Proverbs. 
 
 It should, methinks, preserve modesty and its 
 interests in the world, that the transgression of 
 it always creates offense; and the very purposes 
 of wantonness are defeated by a carriage which 
 has in it so much boldness, as to intimate that fear 
 and reluctance are quite extinguished in an ob¬ 
 ject which Avould be otherwise desirable. It was 
 said of a wit of the last age, 
 
 Sedley* has that prevailing gentle art 
 Which can with a resistless charm impart 
 The loosest wishes to the chastest heart; 
 
 Raise such a conflict, kindle such a fire, 
 
 Between declining virtue and desire, 
 
 That the poor vanquish’d maid dissolves away 
 In dreams all night, in sighs and tears all day. 
 
 This prevailing gentle art was made up of com¬ 
 plaisance, courtship, and artful conformity to the 
 modesty of a woman’s manners. Rusticity, broad 
 expression, and fonvard obtrusion, offend those of 
 education, and make the transgressors odious to 
 all Avho have merit enough to attract regard. It is 
 in this taste that the scenery is so beautifully ord¬ 
 ered in the description which Antony makes, in 
 the dialogue between him and Dolabeila, of Cleo¬ 
 patra in her barge. 
 
 Her galley down the silver Cidnos row’d; 
 
 The tackling silk, the streamers wav’d with gold 
 The gentle winds were lodg’d in purple sails; 
 
 Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were plac’d, 
 Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay; 
 
 She lay, and lean’d her cheek upon her hand, 
 
 And cast a look so languishingly sweet, 
 
 As if, secure of all beholders’ hearts, 
 
 Neglecting she could take them. Boys, like Cupids, 
 Stood fanning with their painted wings the wind 
 That play'd about her face; but if she smil’d, 
 
 A darting glory seem’d to blaze abroad, 
 
 That men’s desiring eyes were never wearied, 
 
 But hung upon the object. To soft flutes 
 
 The silver oars kept time: and while they play’d, 
 
 The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; 
 
 And both to thought-f 
 
 Here the imagination is warmed with all the ob¬ 
 jects presented, and yet is there nothing that is 
 luscious, or what raises any idea more loose than 
 that of a beautiful woman set off to advantage. 
 The like, or a more delicate and careful spirit of 
 modesty, appears in the following passage in ono 
 of Mr. rhilhps’ pastorals : 
 
 Breathe soft; ye winds! ye waters, gently flow! 
 
 Shield her, ye trees! ye flowers, around her grow 1 
 Ye swains, I beg you, pass in silence by! 
 
 My love in yonder vale asleep does lie. 
 
 * Sedley (Sir Cha.), a writer of verses in the reign of 
 Charles IT, with whom he was a great favorite. The noble¬ 
 man’s verses quoted here allude, it has been said, not to Sir 
 Charles Sedley’s writings, but to his personal address;.for 
 we are told that, by studying human nature, he had acquired 
 to an eminent degree the art of making himself agreeable, 
 particularly to the ladies, 
 f Dryden’s “ All for Love,” act iii. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 Desire is corrected when there is a tenderness or 
 admiration expressed which partakes the passion. 
 Licentious language has something brutal in it, 
 which disgraces humanity, and leaves us in the 
 condition of the savages in the field. But it may 
 be asked, To what good use can tend a discourse 
 of this kind at all? It is to alarm chaste ears 
 against such as have, what is above called, the 
 “prevailing gentle art.” Masters of that talent 
 are capable of clothing their thoughts in so soft a 
 dress, and something so distant from the secret 
 purpose of their heart, that the imagination of the 
 unguarded is touched with a fondness, which 
 grows too insensibly to be resisted. Much care 
 and concern for the lady’s welfare, to seem afraid 
 lest she should be annoyed by the very air which 
 surrounds her, and this uttered rather with kind 
 looks, and expressed by an interjection, an “ ah,” 
 or an “ oh,” at some little hazard in moving or 
 making a step, than in any direct profession of 
 love, are the methods of skillful admirers. They 
 are honest arts when their purpose is such, but in¬ 
 famous when misapplied. It is certain that many 
 a young woman in this town lias had her heart 
 irrecoverably won, by men who have not made 
 one advance which ties their admirers, though the 
 females languish with the utmost anxiety. 1 have 
 often, by way of admonition to my female readers, 
 given them warning against agreeable company 
 of the other sex, except they are well acquainted 
 with their characters. Women may disguise it if 
 they think fit; and the more to do it, they may be 
 angry at me for saying it; but I say it is natural 
 to them, that they have no manner of approbation 
 of men, without some degree of love. For this 
 reason he is dangerous to be entertained as a friend 
 or a visitant, who is capable of gaining any emi¬ 
 nent esteem or observation, though it be never so 
 remote from pretensions as a lover. If a man’s 
 heart has not the abhorrence of any treacherous 
 design, he may easily improve approbation into 
 kindness, and kindness into passion. There may 
 possibly be no manner of love between them in 
 the eyes of all their acquaintance; no, it is all 
 friendship; and yet they may be as fond as shep¬ 
 herd and shepherdess in a pastoral, but still the 
 nymph and tne swain may bo to each other, no 
 other, I warrant you, than Pylades and Orestes. 
 
 When Lucy decks with flowers her swelling breast, 
 
 And on her elbow leans, dissembling rest; 
 
 Unable to refrain my madding mind, 
 
 Nor sheep nor pasture worth my care I find. 
 
 Once Delia slept, on easy moss reclin’d, 
 
 Her lovely limbs half bare, and rude the wind; 
 
 I smooth’d her coats, and stole a silent kiss; 
 
 Condemn me, shepherds, if I did amiss. 
 
 Such good offices as these, and such friendly 
 thoughts and concerns for one another, are what 
 make up the amity, as they call it, between man 
 and woman. 
 
 It is the permission of such intercourse that 
 makes a young woman come to the arms of her 
 husband, after the disappointment of four or five 
 passions which she has successively had for dif¬ 
 ferent men, before she is prudeutially given to 
 him for whom she has neither love nor friendship. 
 For what should a poor creature do that has lost 
 all her friends? There’s Mari net the agreeable, 
 has, to my knowledge, had a friendship for Lord 
 Welford, which had like to break her heart: then 
 she had so great a friendship for Colonel Hardy, 
 that she could not endure any woman else should 
 do anything but rail at him. Many and fatal 
 have been the disasters between friends who have 
 fallen out, and their resentments are more keen 
 than ever those of other men can possibly be : but 
 
 C T A T 0 R. 487 
 
 in this it happens, unfortunately, that as there 
 ought to be nothing concealed from one friend to 
 another, the friends of different sexes very often 
 find fatal effects from their unanimity. 
 
 For my part, who study to pass life in as much 
 innocence and tranquillity as I can, I shun the 
 company of agreeable women as much as possible; 
 and must confess that I have, though a tolerable 
 good philosopher, but a low opinion of Platonic 
 love : for which reason I thought it necessary to 
 give my fair readers a caution against it, having, 
 to my great concern, observed the waist of a Pla- 
 tonist lately swell to a roundness which is incon¬ 
 sistent with that philosophy.—T. 
 
 No. 401.] TUESDAY, JUNE 10, 1712. 
 
 In amore haec omnia insunt vitia: injurise, 
 
 Suspiciones, inimicitias, induciae, 
 
 Bell am, pax rursum.— Ter. Eun. act i, sc. 1. 
 
 It is the capricious state of love, to be attended with inju¬ 
 ries, suspicions, enmities, truces, quarreling, and recon¬ 
 cilement. 
 
 I shall publish for the entertainment of this 
 day, an odd sort of a packet, which I have just 
 received from one of my female correspondents. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Since you have often confessed that you are 
 not displeased vour papers should sometimes 
 convey the complaints of distressed lovers to each 
 other, I am in hopes you will favor one who gives 
 you an undoubted instance of her reformation, 
 and at the same time a convincing proof of the 
 happy influence your labors have had over the 
 most incorrigible part of the most incorrigible 
 sex. You must know, Sir, I am one of that spe¬ 
 cies of women, whom you have often character¬ 
 ized under the name of ‘Jilts,’ and that I send 
 ou these lines as well to do public penance for 
 aving so long continued in a known error, as to 
 beg pardon of the party offended. I the rather 
 choose this way, because it in some measure an¬ 
 swers the terms on which he intimated the breach 
 between us might possibly be made up, as you 
 will see by the letter he sent me the next day after 
 I had discarded him; which I thought fit to send 
 you a copy of, that you might the better know the 
 whole case. 
 
 “ I must further acquaint you, that before I 
 jilted him, there had been the greatest intimacy 
 between us for a year and a half together, during 
 all which time I cherished his hopes, and in¬ 
 dulged his flame. I leave you to guess, after this, 
 what must be his surprise, when upon his press¬ 
 ing for my full consent one day, I told him I 
 wondered what could make him fancy he had 
 ever any place in my affections. His own sex 
 allow him sense, and all ours good breeding. His 
 person is such as might, without vanity, make 
 him believe himself not incapable of being be¬ 
 loved. Our fortunes, indeed, weighed in the nice 
 scale of interest, are not exactly equal, which by 
 the way was the true cause of my jilting him; 
 and I had the assurance to acquaint him with the 
 following maxim, that I should always believe 
 that man’s passion to be the most violent who 
 could offer me the largest settlement. I have 
 since changed my opinion^ and have endeavoved 
 to let him know so much by several letters, but 
 the barbarous man has refused them all; so that I 
 have no way left of writing to him but by your 
 assistance. If we can bring him about once more, 
 I promise to send you all gloves and favors, and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 488 
 
 shall desire the favor of Sir Roger and yourself 
 to stand as godfathers, to my first boy. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Amoret.” 
 
 “Philander to Amoret. 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ I am so surprised at the question you were 
 pleased to ask me yesterday, that I am still at a 
 loss what to say to it. At least my answer 
 would be too long to trouble you with, as it 
 would come from a person, who it seems is so 
 very indifferent to you. Instead of it, I shall 
 only recommend to your consideration, the opin¬ 
 ion of one whose sentiments on these matters I 
 have often heard you say are extremely just. * A 
 generous and constant passion,’ says your favorite 
 author, ‘ in an agreeable lover, where there is not 
 too great a disparity in their circumstances, is the 
 greatest blessing that can befall a person beloved; 
 and, if overlooked in one, may perhaps never 
 be found in another.’ 
 
 “ I do not, however, at all despair of being very 
 shortly much better beloved by you than Antenor 
 is at present; since, whenever my fortune shall 
 exceed his, you were pleased to intimate your 
 passion would increase accordingly. 
 
 “ The world has seen me shamefully lose that 
 time to please a fickle woman, which might have 
 been employed much more to my credit and ad¬ 
 vantage in other pursuits. I shall therefore take 
 the liberty to acquaint you, however harsh it may 
 sound in a lady’s ears, that though your love-fit 
 should happen to return, unless you could con¬ 
 trive a way to make your recantation as well 
 known to the public, as they are already apprised 
 of the manner with which you have treated me,- 
 you shall never more see 
 
 “ Philander.” 
 
 “ Amoret to Philander, 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Upon reflection, T find the injury I have done 
 both to you and myself to be so great, that, 
 though the part I now act may appear contrary 
 to that decorum usually observed by our sex, yet 
 I purposely break through all rules, that my 
 repentance may in some measure equal my crime. 
 I assure you, that in my present hopes of recover¬ 
 ing you, I look upon Antenor’s estate with con¬ 
 tempt. The fop was here yesterday in a gilt 
 chariot and new liveries, but I refused to see him. 
 Though I dread to meet your eyes after what has 
 passed, I flatter myself, that, amidst all their con¬ 
 fusion, you will discover such a tenderness in 
 mine, as none can imitate but those who love. I 
 
 shall be all this month at Lady D-’s in the 
 
 country ; but the woods, the fields, and gardens, 
 without Philander, afford no pleasures to the un¬ 
 happy “ Amoret.” 
 
 “ I must desire you, dear Mr. Spectator, to pub¬ 
 lish this my letter to Philander as soon as pos¬ 
 sible, and to assure him that I know nothing at 
 all of the death of his rich uncle in Glouces¬ 
 tershire.”—X. 
 
 No. 402.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11, 1712. 
 
 Ipse sibi tradit Spectator- 
 
 • et quae 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. 181. 
 
 Sent by the Spectator to himself. 
 
 Were I to publish all the advertisements I re¬ 
 ceive from different hands, and persons of dif¬ 
 ferent circumstances and quality, the very men¬ 
 tion of them, without reflections on the several 
 
 subjects, would raise all the passions which can 
 be felt by human minds. As instances of this, I 
 shall give you two or three letters ; the writers of 
 which can have no recourse to any legal power for 
 redress, and seem to have written rather to vent 
 their sorrow than to receive consolation. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a young woman of beauty and quality, 
 and suitably married to a gentleman who dotes 
 on me. But this person of mine is the object of 
 an unjust passion in a nobleman who is very in¬ 
 timate with my husband. This friendship gives 
 him very easy access, and frequent opportunities 
 of entertaining me apart. My heart is in the 
 utmost anguish, and my face is covered over 
 with confusion, when I impart to you another cir¬ 
 cumstance, which is, that my mother, the most 
 mercenary of all women, is gained by this false 
 friend of my husband to solicit me for him. I 
 am frequently chid by the poor believing man 
 my husband, for showing an impatience of his 
 friend’s company; and I am never alone with my 
 mother but she tells me stories of the discretion¬ 
 ary part of the world, and such-a-one, and such-a- 
 one, who are guilty of as much as she advises me 
 to. She laughs at my astonishment; and seems 
 to hint to me, that, as virtuous as she always ap- 
 
 F eared, I am not the daughter of her husband, 
 t is possible that printing this letter may relieve 
 me from the unnatural importunity of my mother, 
 and the perfidious courtship oi my husband’s 
 friend. I have an unfeigned love of virtue, and 
 am resolved to preserve my innocence. The only 
 way I can think of to avoid the fatal consequences 
 of the discovery of this matter is to fly away for¬ 
 ever, which I must do to avoid my husband’s 
 fatal resentment against the man who attempts to 
 abuse him, and the shame of exposing a parent to 
 infamy. The persons concerned will know these 
 circumstances relate to them; and though the re¬ 
 gard to virtue is dead in them, I have some hopes 
 from their fear of shame upon reading this in 
 your paper; which I conjure you to publish, if you 
 have any compassion for injured virtue. 
 
 “ Sylvia.” 
 
 “ Mr Spectator, 
 
 “ I am the husband of a woman of merit, but 
 am fallen in love, as they call it, with a lady of 
 her acquaintance, who is going to be married to a 
 gentleman who deserves her. I am in a trust re¬ 
 lating to this lady’s fortune, which makes my 
 concurrence in this matter necessary; but I have 
 so irresistible a rage and envy rise m me when I 
 consider his future happiness, that against all 
 reason, equity, and common justice, I am ever 
 playing mean tricks to suspend the nuptials. I 
 have no manner of hopes for myself: Emilia (for 
 so I will call her,) is a woman of the most strict 
 virtue; her lover is a gentleman, whom of all 
 others I could wish my friend: but envy and 
 jealousy, though placed so unjustly, waste my 
 very being; and with the torment and sense of a 
 demon, I am ever cursing what I cannot but ap¬ 
 prove. I wish it were the beginning of repen¬ 
 tance, that I sit down and describe my present 
 disposition with so hellish an aspect; but at pre¬ 
 sent the destruction of these two excellent persons 
 would be more welcome to me than their happi¬ 
 ness. Mr. Spectator, pray let me have a paper 
 on these terrible, groundless sufferings, and do all 
 you can to exorcise crowds who are in some de¬ 
 gree possessed as I am. “ Cannibal.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have no other means but this to express my 
 thanks to one man, and my resentment against 
 another. My circumstances are as follow: I have 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 been for five years last past courted by a gentle¬ 
 man of greater fortune than I ought to expect, as 
 the market for women goes. You must, to be 
 sure, have observed people who live in that sort 
 of way, as all their friends reckon it will be a 
 match, and are marked out by all the world for 
 each other. In this view we have been regarded 
 for some time, and I have above these three years 
 loved him tenderly. As he is very careful of his 
 fortune, I have always thought he lived in a near 
 manner, to lay up what he thought was wanting 
 in my fortune to make up what he might expect 
 in another. Within these few months I have ob¬ 
 served his carriage very much altered, and he 
 
 j a ^ e ? ted * certain art of getting me alone, 
 and talking with a mighty profusion of passion¬ 
 ate words, how I am not to be resisted longer, 
 how irresistible his wishes are, and the like. As 
 long as I have been acquainted with him, I could 
 not on such occasions say downright to him ‘you 
 know you may make me yours when you please.’ 
 Jout the other night, he with frankness and imrrn- 
 dence explained to me, that he thought of me only 
 as a mistress. I answered this declaration as it 
 deserved ; upon which he only doubled the terms 
 on which he proposed my yielding. When my 
 anger heightened upon him, he told me he was 
 sorry he had made so little use of the unguarded 
 hours we had been together so remote from com 
 pany, ‘as indeed,’continued he, ‘so we are at 
 present.' I flew from him to a neighboring gen¬ 
 tlewoman’s house, and though her husband was 
 in the room, threw myself on a couch, and burst 
 into a passion of tears. My friend desired her 
 husband to leave the room. ‘But,’ said he, 
 'there is something so extraordinary in this, that 
 I will partake in the affliction; and be it what it 
 will, she is so much your friend, that she knows 
 she may command what services I can do her. 
 The man sat down by me, and spoke so like a 
 brother, that I told him my whole affliction. He 
 spoke of the injury done me with so much indig¬ 
 nation, and animated me against the love he said 
 he saw I had for the wretch who would have be¬ 
 trayed me, with so much reason and humanity to 
 my weakness, that I doubt not of my perse¬ 
 verance. His wife and he are my comforters, and 
 I am under no more restraint in their company 
 than if I were alone; and I doubt not but in a 
 small time contempt and hatred will take place 
 of the remains of affection to a rascal. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, your affectionate Reader, 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, “ Do EI n D a.- 
 
 I had the misfortune to be an uncle before I 
 knew my nephews from my nieces; and now we 
 are grown up to better acquaintance, they deny 
 me the respect they owe. One upbraids me with 
 being their familiar, another will hardly be per¬ 
 suaded that I am an uncle, a third calls me little 
 uncle, and a fourth tells me there is no duty at all 
 due to an uncle. I have a brother-in-law whose 
 son will win all my affection, unless you shall 
 think this worthy of your cognizance, and will be 
 pleased to prescribe some rules for our future re¬ 
 ciprocal behavior. It will be worthy the parti¬ 
 cularity of your genius to lay down rules for 
 his conduct, who was, as it were, born an old 
 man; in which you will much oblige, 
 
 “ Sir, your most obedient Servant, 
 
 “ Cornelius Nepos.” 
 
 489 
 
 No. 403.] THURSDAY, JUNE 12, 1712. 
 
 Qui mores hominum multorum vidit_ 
 
 Of ma ny men he saw the manners 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. r. 142. 
 
 When I consider this great city in its several 
 quarters and divisions, I look upon it as an aggre¬ 
 gate of various nations distinguished from each 
 other by their respective customs, manners, and 
 interests The courts of two countries do not so 
 much differ from one another, as the court and 
 city, in their peculiar ways of life and conversa¬ 
 tion. In short, the inhabitants of St. James’s, 
 notwithstanding they live under the same laws, 
 and speak the same language, are a distinct peo¬ 
 ple from those of Cheapside, who are likewise 
 removed from those of the Temple on one side 
 and those of Smithfield on the other, by several 
 climates and degrees in their ways of thinking and 
 conversing together. 
 
 For this reason, when any public affair is upon 
 the anvil, I love to hear the reflections that rise 
 upon it in the several districts and parishes of 
 London and Westminster, and to ramble up and 
 down a whole day together, in order to make 
 myself acquainted with the opinions of my inge¬ 
 nious countrymen. By this means I know the 
 faces of all the principal politicians within the 
 bills of mortality; and as every coffee-house has 
 some particular statesman belonging to it, who is 
 the mouth of the street where he lives, I always 
 take care to place myself near him, in order to 
 know his judgment on the present posture of 
 affairs. The last progress that I made with this 
 intention, was about three months ago, when we 
 had a current report of the king of France’s death. 
 As I foresaw this would produce a new face of 
 things in Europe, and many curious speculations 
 in our British coffee-houses, I was very desirous 
 to learn the thoughts of our most eminent poli¬ 
 ticians on that occasion. 
 
 That I might begin as near the fountain head 
 as possible, I first of all called in at St. James’s 
 where I found the whole outward room in a buzz’ 
 of politics. The speculations were but very in¬ 
 different toward the door, but grew finer as you 
 advanced to the upper end of the room, and were 
 so very much improved by a knot of theorists, 
 who sat in the inner room, within the steams of 
 the coffee-pot, that I there heard the whole Spa¬ 
 nish monarchy disposed of, and all the line of 
 Bourbon provided for in less than a quarter of an 
 hour. 
 
 I aftei ward called in at Giles’s, where I saw a 
 board of French gentlemen sitting upon the life 
 and death of their grand monarque. Those 
 among them who had espoused the whig interest, 
 very positively affirmed that he departed this life 
 about a week since, and therefore proceeded with¬ 
 out any further delay to the release of their 
 friends in the galleys, and to their own re-estab- 
 lishment, but finding they could not agree among 
 themselves, I proceeded on my intended progress 
 Upon my arrival at Jenny Man’s I saw an alerte 
 young fellow that cocked his hat upon a friend of 
 his who entered just at the same time with myself, 
 and accosted him after the following manner: 
 
 Well, Jack, the old prig is dead at last. Sharp’s 
 the word. Now or never, boy. Up to the walls 
 of Paris directly.” With several other deep re 
 flections of the same nature. 
 
 I met with very little variation in the politics 
 between Charing-cross and Covent-garden. And 
 upon my going into Will’s, I found their dis ¬ 
 course was gone off from the death of the French 
 king to that of Monsieur Boileau, Racine, Cor¬ 
 neille, and several other poets, whom they regrelled 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 404.] FRIDAY, JUNE 13, 1712. 
 
 490 
 
 on this occasion, as persons who would have 
 obliged the world with very noble elegies on the 
 death of so great a prince, and so eminent a pa¬ 
 tron of learning. 
 
 At a coffee-house near the Temple, I found a 
 couple of young gentlemen engaged very smartly 
 in a dispute on the succession to the Spanish 
 monarchy. One of them seemed to have been 
 retained as advocate for the Duke of Anjou, the 
 other for his imperial majesty. They were both 
 for regulating the title to that kingdom by the sta¬ 
 tute laws of England; but finding them going 
 out of my depth, I passed' forward to St. Paul’s 
 churchyard, where I listened with great attention 
 to a learned man, who gave the company an ac¬ 
 count of the deplorable state of France during the 
 minority of the deceased king. 
 
 I then turned on my right hand into Fish-street, 
 where the chief politician of that quarter, upon 
 hearing the news (after having taken a pipe of 
 tobacco, and ruminated for some time), “ If,” says 
 he, “ the king of France is certainly dead, we 
 shall have plenty of mackarel this season : our 
 fishery •will not be disturbed by privateers, as it 
 has been for these ten years past.” He afterward 
 considered how the death of this great man would 
 affect our pilchards,, and by several other remarks 
 infused a general joy into his whole audience. 
 
 I afterward entered a by-coffee-house that stood 
 at the upper end of a narrow lane, where I met 
 with a non-juror, engaged very warmly with a 
 lace-man who was the great support of a neigh¬ 
 boring conventicle. The matter in debate was, 
 whether the late French king was most like Au¬ 
 gustus Caesar or Nero. The controversy was 
 carried on with great heat on both sides; and as 
 each of them looked upon me very frequently 
 during the course of their debate, I was under 
 some apprehension that they would appeal to me, 
 and therefore laid down my penny at the bar, and 
 made the best of my way to Cheapside. 
 
 I here gazed upon the signs for some time, be¬ 
 fore I found one to my purpose. The first object 
 I met in the coffee-room was a person who ex¬ 
 pressed great grief for the death of the French 
 ling; but, upon his explaining himself, I found 
 lis sorrow did not arise from the loss of the 
 monarch, but for his having sold out of the bank 
 about three days before he heard the news of it. 
 Upon which, a haberdasher, who was the oracle 
 of the coffee-house, and had his circle of admirers 
 about him, called several to witness that he had 
 declared his opinion above a week before, that the 
 French king was certainly dead ; to which he 
 added, that, considering the late advices we had re¬ 
 ceived from France, it was impossible that it could 
 be otherwise. As he was laying these together, 
 and dictating to his hearers with great authority, 
 there came in a gentleman from Garraway’s who 
 told us that there were several letters from France 
 just come in, with advice that the king was gone 
 out a-hunting the very morning the post came 
 away: upon which the haberdasher stole off his 
 hat that hung upon a wooden peg by him, and 
 retired to his shop with great confusion. This 
 intelligence put a stop to my travels, which I had 
 
 f >rosecuted with much satisfaction, not being a 
 ittle pleased to hear so many different opinions 
 upon so great an event, and to observe how natu¬ 
 rally upon such a piece of news every one is apt 
 to consider it with regard to his own particular 
 interest and advantage.—L. 
 
 -Non omnia possumus omnes.— Virg. Eel. viii, 63. 
 
 With different talents form’d, we variously excel. 
 
 Nature does nothing in vain: the Creator of the 
 universe has appointed everything to a certain 
 use and purpose, and determined it to a settled 
 course and sphere of action, from which if it in 
 the least deviates, it becomes unfit to answer 
 those ends for which it was designed. In like 
 manner, it is in the dispositions of society, the 
 civil economy is formed in a chain, as well as the 
 natural: and in either case the breach but of one 
 link puts the whole in some disorder. It is, I 
 think, pretty plain, that most of the absurdity 
 and ridicule we meet with in the world is gene¬ 
 rally owing to the impertinent affectation of ex¬ 
 celling in characters men are not fit for, and for 
 which nature never designed them. 
 
 Every man has one or more qualities which 
 may make him useful both to himself and others. 
 Nature never fails of pointing them out; and 
 while the infant continues under her guardian¬ 
 ship, she brings him on in his way, and then 
 offers herself for a guide in what remains of the 
 journey: if he proceeds in that course, he can 
 hardly miscarry. Nature makes good her engage¬ 
 ments; for, as she never promises what she is 
 not able to perform, so she never fails of perform¬ 
 ing what she promises. But the misfortune is, 
 men despise what they may be masters of, and 
 affect what they are not fit for; they reckon them¬ 
 selves already possessed of what tneir genius in¬ 
 clined them to, and so bend all their ambition to 
 excel in what is out of their reach. Thus they 
 destroy the use of their natural talents, in the 
 same manner as covetous men do their quiet and 
 repose: they can enjoy no satisfaction in what 
 they have, because of the absurd inclination they 
 are possessed with for what they have not. 
 
 Cleanthes had good sense, a great memory, and 
 a constitution capable of the closest application. 
 In a word, there was no profession in which 
 Cleanthes might not have made a very good 
 figure; but this will not satisfy him; he takes up 
 an unaccountable fondness for the character of a 
 gentleman: all his thoughts are bent upon this. 
 Instead of attending a dissection, frequenting the 
 courts of justice, or studying the fathers, Cleanthes 
 reads plays, dances, dresses, and spends his time 
 in drawing-rooms. Instead of being a good law¬ 
 yer, divine or physician, Cleanthes is a down¬ 
 right coxcomb, and will remain to all that know 
 him a contemptible example of talents misapplied. 
 It is to this affectation the world owes its whole 
 race of coxcombs. Nature in her whole drama 
 never drew such a part; she lias sometimes made 
 a fool, but a coxcomb is always of a man’s own 
 making, by applying his talents otherwise than 
 Nature designed, who ever bears a high resent¬ 
 ment for being put cut of her course, and never 
 fails of taking her revenge on those that do so. 
 Opposing her tendency in the application of a 
 man’s parts, has the same success as declining 
 from her course in the production of vegetables. 
 By the assistance of art and a hot-bed, we may 
 . possibly extort an unwilling plant, or an untimely 
 salad; but how weak, how tasteless and insipid! 
 Just as insipid as the poetry of Valerio. Valerio 
 had a universal character, was genteel, had learn¬ 
 ing, thought justly, spoke correctly; it w r as be¬ 
 lieved there was nothing in which Valerio did 
 not excel: and it was so far true, that there was 
 but one: Valerio had no genius for poetry, yet 
 he is resolved to be a poet; he writes verses, and 
 I takes great pains to convince the town that 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Valerio is not that extraordinary person he was 
 taken for. 
 
 If men would be content to graft upon Nature, 
 and assist her operations, what mighty effects 
 might we expect ! 1 ully would not stand so much 
 
 alone in oratory, Virgil in poetry, or Caesar in war. 
 To build upon nature is laying a foundation upon 
 a rock; everything disposes itself into order as 
 it were of course, and the whole work is half done 
 as soon as undertaken. Cicero’s genius inclined 
 him to oratory, Virgil’s, to follow the train of the 
 Muses; they piously obeyed the admonition, and 
 were rewarded. Had Virgil attended the bar, 
 his modest and ingenuous virtue would surely 
 have made but a very indifferent figure; and 
 Tully’s declamatory inclination would have been 
 as useless in poetry. Nature, if left to herself, 
 leads us on in the best course, but will do nothing 
 by compulsion and constraint: and if we are not 
 satisfied to go her way, we are always the great¬ 
 est sufferers by it. 
 
 Wherever Nature designs a production, she 
 always disposes seeds proper for it, which are as 
 absolutely necessary to the formation of any moral 
 or intellectual excellence, as they are to the being 
 and growth of plants; and I know not by what 
 fate and folly it is, that men are taught not to 
 reckon him equally absurd that will write verses 
 in spite of Nature, with that gardener that should 
 undertake to raise a jonquil or tulip without the 
 help of their respective seeds. 
 
 As there is no good or bad quality that does 
 not affect both sexes, so it is not to be imagined 
 but the fair sex must have suffered by an affecta¬ 
 tion of this nature, at least as much as the other. 
 The ill effect of it is in none so conspicuous as 
 in the tw r o opposite characters of Caelia and Iras: 
 Caelia has all the charms of person, together with 
 an abundant sweetness of nature, but wants wit, 
 and has a very ill voice; Iras is ugly and ungen- 
 teel, but has wit and good sense. • If Caelia would 
 be silent, her beholders would adore her: if Iras 
 would talk, her hearers would admire her: but 
 Cselia’s tongue, runs incessantly, while Iras gives 
 herself silent airs and soft languors, so that it is 
 difficult to persuade one’s self that Caelia has 
 beauty, and Iras wit: each neglects her own ex¬ 
 cellence, and is ambitious of the other’s character; 
 Iras would be thought to have as much beauty as 
 Caelia, and Caelia as much wit as Iras. 
 
 The great misfortune of this affectation is, that 
 men not only lose a good quality, but also con¬ 
 tract a bad one. They not only are unfit for what 
 they were designed, but they assign themselves to 
 what they are not fit for; and instead of making a 
 very good figure one wav, make a very ridiculous 
 one another. If Semantne would have been satis¬ 
 fied with her natural complexion, she might still 
 have been celebrated by the name of the olive 
 beauty; but Semanthe has taken up an affectation 
 to wdiite and red, and is now distinguished by the 
 character of the lady that paints so well. In a 
 word, could the world be reformed to the obe¬ 
 dience of that famed dictate, “ Follow Nature,” 
 which the oracle of Delphos pronounced to Cicero, 
 when he consulted what course of studies he 
 should pursue, we should see almost every man 
 as eminent in his proper sphere as Tully was in 
 his, and should in a very short time find imperti¬ 
 nence and affectation banished from among the 
 women, and coxcombs, and false characters^from 
 among the men. For my part, I could never con¬ 
 sider this preposterous repugnancy to Nature any 
 otherwise, than not only as the greatest folly, but 
 also one of the most heinous crimes, since it is 
 a direct opposition to the disposition of Provi- 
 
 401 
 
 dence, and (as Tully expresses it) like the sin of 
 the giants, an actual rebellion against Heaven.—Z. 
 
 No. 405.J SATURDAY, JUNE 14, 1712. 
 
 With hymns divine the joyous banquet ends: 
 
 The paeans lengthened till the sun descends! 
 
 The Ureeks restored, the grateful notes prolong: 
 
 Apollo listens, and approves the song. —Pope. 
 
 I am very sorry to find by the opera bills for 
 this day, that we are likely to lose the greatest 
 performer in dramatic music that is now living 
 or that perhaps ever appeared upon a stage. I 
 n ® e “. no . t acquaint my readers that 1 am speaking 
 of Sigmor Nicolini. The town is highly obliged 
 to that excellent artist, for having shown us the 
 Italian music in its perfection, as well as for that 
 generous approbation, he lately gave to an opera 
 of our own country, in which the composer en¬ 
 deavored to do justice to the beauty of the words 
 by following that noble example which has been 
 set him by the greatest foreign masters in that 
 art. 
 
 I could heartily wish there were the same appli¬ 
 cation and endeavors to cultivate and improve our 
 church music as have been lately bestowed on that 
 of the stage. Our composers have one very great 
 incitement to it. They are sure to meet with ex¬ 
 cellent words, and at the same time a wonder¬ 
 ful variety of them. There is no passion that 
 is not finely expressed in those parts of the in¬ 
 spired writings, which are proper for divine songs 
 and anthems. ° 
 
 Theie is a certain coldness and indifference in 
 the phrases of our European languages, when they 
 are compared with the oriental forms of speech • 
 and it happens very luckily, that the Hebrew 
 idioms run into the English tongue with a particu- 
 lar giace and beauty. Our language has received 
 innumerable elegancies, and improvements, from 
 that infusion of Hebraisms, which are derived to 
 it out of the poetical passages in holy writ. They 
 give a force and energy to our expressions, warm 
 and animate our language, and convey our 
 thoughts in more ardent and intense phrases, than 
 any that are to be met with in our own tongue. 
 There is something so pathetic in this kind of 
 diction, that it often sets the mind in a flame, 
 and makes our hearts burn within us. How cold 
 and dead does a prayer appear, that is composed 
 m the most elegant and polite forms of speech, 
 which are natural to our tongue, when it is not 
 heightened by that solemnity of phrase which may 
 be drawn from the sacred writings. It has been 
 said by some of the ancients, that if the gods 
 \veie to talk with men, they would certainly speak 
 in Plato’s style; but I think we may say with jus¬ 
 tice, that when mortals converse with their Crea¬ 
 tor, they cannot do it in so proper a style as in 
 that of the Holy Scriptures. 
 
 If any one would judge of the beauties of poe¬ 
 try that are to be met with in the divine writings, 
 and examine Iioav kindly the Hebrew manners of 
 speech mix and incorporate with the English lan¬ 
 guage; after having perused the Book of Psalms, 
 let him read a literal translation of Horace or Pin¬ 
 dar. He will find in these two last such an ab¬ 
 surdity and confusion of style, with such a com¬ 
 parative poverty of imagination, as will make him 
 very sensible of what I have been here advancing. 
 
 Since we have, therefore, such a treasury of 
 words, so beautiful in themselves, and so proper 
 for the airs of music, I cannot but wonder that 
 persons of distinction should give so little atten- 
 
492 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 tion and encouragement to that kind of music 
 which would have its foundation in reason, and 
 which would improve our virtue in proportion as 
 it raised our delight. The passions that are exci¬ 
 ted by ordinary compositions generally flow from 
 such silly and absurd occasions, that a man is 
 ashamed to reflect upon them seriously; but the 
 fear, the love, the sorrow, the indignation, that 
 are awakened in the mind by hymns and anthems, 
 make the heart better, and proceed from such 
 causes as are altogether reasonable and praise¬ 
 worthy. Pleasure and duty go hand in hand; and 
 the greater our satisfaction is, the greater is our 
 religion. 
 
 Music, among those who were styled the chosen 
 people, was a religious art. The songs of Sion, 
 which we have reason to believe were in high re¬ 
 pute among the courts of the eastern monarchs, 
 were nothing else but psalms and pieces of poetry 
 that adored or celebrated the Supreme Being. 
 The greatest conqueror in this holy nation, after 
 the manner of the old Grecian lyrics, did not only 
 compose the words of his divine odes, but gener¬ 
 ally set them to music himself; after which, his 
 works, though they were consecrated to the taber¬ 
 nacle, became the national entertainment as well 
 as the devotion of his people. 
 
 The first original of the drama was a religious 
 worship, consisting only of a chorus, which was 
 nothing else but a hymn to a deity. As luxury 
 and voluptuousness prevailed over innocence and 
 religion, this form of worship degenerated into 
 tragedies; in which, however, the chorus so far 
 remembered its first office, as to brand everything 
 that was vicious, and recommend everything that 
 was laudable, to intercede with Heaven for the in¬ 
 nocent, and to implore its vengeance on the crim¬ 
 inal. 
 
 Homer and Hesiod intimate to us how this art 
 should be applied, when they represent the Muses 
 as surrounding Jupiter and warbling their hymns 
 about his throne. I might show, from innumer¬ 
 able passages in ancient writers, not only that vo¬ 
 cal and instrumental music were made use of in 
 their religious worship, but that their most favor¬ 
 ite diversions were filled with songs and hymns 
 to their respective deities. Had we frequent en¬ 
 tertainments of this nature among us, they would 
 not a little purify and exalt our passions, give our 
 thoughts a proper turn, and cherish those divine 
 impulses in the soul, which every one feels that 
 has not stifled them by sensual and immoderate 
 pleasures. 
 
 Music, when thus applied, raises noble hints in 
 the mind of the hearer, and fills it with great con¬ 
 ceptions. It strengthens devotion, and advances 
 praise into rapture; it lengthens out every act of 
 worship, and produces more lasting and perma¬ 
 nent impressions in the mind than those which 
 accompany any transient form of words that aro 
 uttered in the ordinary method of religious wor¬ 
 ship.—0. 
 
 No. 406.] MONDAY, JUNE 16, 1712. 
 
 Haec studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant, se- 
 cundas res ornant, adversis solatium et perfugium praebent; 
 delectant domi, non impediuntforis; pernoctant nobiscum, 
 peregrinantur, rusticantur. Tull. 
 
 These studies nourish youth; delight old age; are the orna¬ 
 ment of prosperity, the solacement and the refuge of ad¬ 
 versity ; they are delectable at home, and not burdensome 
 abroad, they gladden us at nights, and on our journeys, 
 and in the country. 
 
 The following letters bear a pleasing image of 
 the joys and satisfactions of private life. The first 
 is from a gentleman to a friend, for whom he has 
 
 a very great respect, and to whom he communi¬ 
 cates the satisfaction he takes in retirement; the 
 other is a letter to me, occasioned by an ode writ¬ 
 ten by my Lapland lover: this correspondent is 
 so kind as to translate another of Scheffer’s songs 
 in a very agreeable manner. I publish them to¬ 
 gether, that the young and old may find some¬ 
 thing in the same paper w»hich may be suitable to 
 their respective tastes in solitude; for I know no 
 fault in the description of ardent desires, provided 
 they are honorable. 
 
 “ Dear Sir, 
 
 “ You have obliged me with a very kind letter; 
 by which I find you shift the scene of your life 
 from the town to the country, and enjoy that mixed 
 state which wise men both delight in and are qua¬ 
 lified for. Methinks most of the philosophers and 
 moralists have run too much into extremes, in 
 praising entirely either solitude or public life; in 
 the former, men generally grow useless by too 
 much rest; and, in the latter, are destroyed by too 
 much precipitation; as waters lying still, putrefy 
 and are good for nothing; and running violently 
 on, do but the more mischief in their passage to 
 others, and are swallowed up and lost the sooner 
 themselves. These who, like you, can make 
 themselves useful to all states, should be like 
 gentle streams, that not only glide through lonely 
 vales and forests, amid the flocks and shepherds, 
 but visit populous towns in their course, and are 
 at once of ornament and service to them. But 
 there is another sort of people who seem designed 
 for solitude, those I mean who have more to hide 
 than to show. As for my own part, I am one of 
 those of whom Seneca says, ‘ Tam umbratiles^ 
 sunt, ut putent, in turbido esse quicquid in luce est.’ 
 Some men, like pictures, are fitter for a corner 
 than a full light; and I believe such as have a na¬ 
 tural bent to solitude are like waters, which may 
 be forced into fountains, and exalted to a great 
 height, may make a much nobler figure, and a 
 much louder noise, but after all, run more smooth¬ 
 ly, equally, and plentifully, in their own natural 
 course upon the ground. The consideration of 
 this would make me very well contented with the 
 possession only of that quiet which Cowley calls 
 the companion of obscurity; but whoever has the 
 Muses too for his companions can never be idle 
 enough to be uneasy. Thus, Sir, you see I would 
 flatter myself into a good opinion of my own wav 
 of living : Plutarch just now told me, that it is in 
 human life as in a game at tables; one may wish 
 he had the highest cast; but, if his chance be oth¬ 
 erwise, lie is even to play it as well as he can, and 
 make the best of it. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most obliged, and most humble Servant. 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The town being so well pleased with the fine 
 
 E icture of artless love, which nature inspired the 
 aplander to paint in the ode you lately printed, 
 we were in hopes that the ingenious translator 
 would have obliged it with the other also which 
 Scheffer has given us; but since he has not, a 
 much inferior hand has ventured to send you this. 
 
 “ It is a custom with the northern lovers to di¬ 
 vert themselves with a song, while they journey 
 through the fenny moors to pay a visit to their 
 mistresses. This is addressed by the lover to his 
 rein-deer, which is the creature that in that coun¬ 
 try supplies the want of horses. The circum¬ 
 stances which successively present themselves to 
 him in his way, are, I believe you will think, na¬ 
 turally interwoven. The anxiety of absence, the 
 gloominess of the roads, and his resolution of 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 frequenting only those, since those only can carry 
 him to the object of his desires; the dissatisfac¬ 
 tion he expresses even at the greatest swiftness 
 with which he is carried, and his joyful surprise 
 at an unexpected sight of his mistress as she is 
 bathing, seem beautifully described in the origi¬ 
 nal. 
 
 “ If all those pretty images of rural nature are 
 lost in the imitation, yet possibly you may think 
 fit to let this supply the place of a long letter, 
 when want of leisure, or indisposition for writing, 
 will not permit our being entertained by your own 
 hand. 1 propose such a time, because, though it 
 is natural to have a fondness for what one does 
 one’s self, yet I assure you, I would not have anv- 
 thing of mine displace a single line of yours.” 
 
 I. 
 
 Haste, my rein-deer, and let us nimbly go 
 
 Our am’rous journey through this dreary waste! 
 
 Haste, my rein-deer! still, still thou art too slow, 
 Impetuous love demands the lightning’s haste. 
 
 n. 
 
 Around us far the rushy moors are spread: 
 
 Soon will the sun withdraw his cheerful ray: 
 
 Darkling and tir’d we shall the marshes tread, 
 
 No lay unsung to cheat the tet^us way. 
 
 III. 
 
 The wat'ry length of these unjoyous moors 
 Does all the fiow’ry meadows’ pride excel: 
 
 Through these I fly to her my soul adores; 
 
 Ye flow’ry meadows, empty pride, farewell. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Each moment from the charmer I’m confined, 
 
 My breast is tortur’d with impatient fires; 
 
 Fly, my rein-deer, fly swifter than the wind, 
 
 Thy tardy feet wing with my fierce desires. 
 
 V. 
 
 Our pleasing toil will then be soon o’erpaid, 
 
 And thou, in wonder lost, shalt view my fair, 
 
 Admire each feature of the lovely maid, 
 
 Her artless charms, her bloom, her sprightly air. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But, lo! with graceful motion there she swims, 
 
 Gently removing each ambitious wave: 
 
 The crowding waves, transported, clasp her limbs: 
 
 When, when, oh when shall I such freedoms have ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 In vain, ye envious streams, so fast ye flow, 
 
 To hide her from her lover’s ardent gaze: 
 
 From every touch you more transparent grow, 
 
 And all reveal’d the beauteous wanton plays. 
 
 No. 407.] TUESDAY, JUNE 17, 1712. 
 
 -abest facundis gratia dictis. 
 
 Ovid, Met. xiii, 127. 
 
 Eloquent words a graceful manner want. 
 
 Most foreign writers, who have given any cha¬ 
 racter of the English nation, whatever vices they 
 ascribe to it, allow, in general, that the people are 
 naturally modest. 5lt proceeds, perhaps, from this 
 oui national virtue, that our orators are observed 
 to make less gesture or action than those of other 
 countries. Our preachers stand stock-still in the 
 pulpit, and will not so much as move a finger to 
 set off the best sermons in the world. Y^e meet 
 with the same speaking statues at our bars, and 
 m all public places of debate. Our words flow 
 from us in a smooth continued stream, without 
 those strainings of the voice, motions of the body, 
 and majesty ot the hand, which are so much cele¬ 
 brated in the orators of Greece and Rome. We 
 can talk of life and death in cold blood, and keep 
 our temper in a discourse which turns upon every¬ 
 thing that is dear td us. Though our zeal breaks 
 out in the finest tropes and figures, it is not able 
 to stir a limb abouEus. I have heard it observed 
 
 493 
 
 more than once, by those who have seen Italy, 
 that an untraveled Englishman cannot relish all 
 the beauties of Italian pictures, because the pos¬ 
 tures which are expressed in them are often such 
 as are peculiar to that country.) One who has not 
 seen an Italian in the pulpit, will not know what 
 to make of that noble gesture in Raphael’s pic¬ 
 ture of St. Paul preaching at Athens, where the 
 apostle is represented as lifting up both his arms, 
 and pouring out the thunder of his rhetoric amid 
 an audience of pagan philosophers. 
 
 It is certain that proper gestures and vehement” 
 exertions of the voice cannot be too much studied 
 by a public orator. They are a kind of comment 
 to what he utters, and enforce everything he says 
 with weak hearers, better than the strongest argu¬ 
 ment he can make use of. They keep the audience 
 awake, and fix their attention to what is delivered 
 to them, at the same time that they show the 
 speaker is in earnest, and affected himself with 
 what he so passionately recommends to others. 
 Violent gestures and vociferation naturally shake 
 the hearts of the ignorant, and fill them with a 
 kind of religious horror. Nothing is more frequent 
 than to see women stand and tremble at the sight 
 of a moving preacher, though he is placed quite 
 out of their hearing; as in England we verv fre¬ 
 quently see people lulled asleep with solief and 
 elaborate discourses of piety, who would be 
 warmed and transported out of themselves by the 
 bellowing and distortions of enthusiasm. 
 
 If nonsense, when accompanied with such an 
 emotion of voice and body, has such an influence 
 on men’s minds, what might we not expect from 
 many of those admirable discourses which are 
 printed in our tongue, were they delivered with a 
 becoming fervor, and with the most agreeable 
 graces of voice and gesture! 
 
 We are told that the great Latin orator very 
 much impaired his health by the laterum contentio, 
 the vehemence of action, with which he used to 
 deliver himself. The Greek orator was likewise so 
 very famous for this particular in rhetoric, that 
 one of his antagonists, whom he had banished 
 rom Athens, reading over the oration which had 
 procured his banishment, and seeing his friends 
 admire it, could not forbear asking them, if they 
 were so much affected by the bare reading of it, 
 how much more they would have been alarmed, 
 had they heard him actually throwing out such a 
 storm of eloquence ? 
 
 How cold and dead a figure, in comparison of 
 these two great men, does an orator often make at 
 the British bar, holding up his head with the most 
 insipid serenity, and stroking the sides of a long 
 wig that reaches down to his middle! The truth 
 of it is, there is often nothing more ridiculous than 
 the gestures of an English speaker : you see some 
 of them running their hands into their pockets as 
 far as ever they can thrust them, and others looking’ f • 
 with great attention on a piece of paper that has 
 nothing written on it; you may see many a smart 
 rhetorician turning his hat in his hands, moulding 
 it into several different cocks, examining some¬ 
 times the lining of it, and sometimes the button! 
 during the whole course of his harangue. A deaf 
 man would think he was cheapening a beaver, 
 when perhaps he is talking of the fate of the Bri¬ 
 tish nation. I remember when I was a young 
 man, and used to frequent Westminster-hall, there 
 was a counselor \gho never pleaded without a 
 piece of packthread in his hand, which he used to 
 twist about a thumb or finger all the while he was 
 speaking: the wags of those days used to call it 
 V the thread of his discourse,” for he was not able 
 to utter a word without it. One of his clients, 
 who was more merry than wise, stole it from him 
 
494 
 
 ♦ 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 one day in the midst of his pleading: but he had 
 better have let it alone, for he lost his cause by his 
 jest. 
 
 I have all along acknowledged myself to be a 
 dumb man, and therefore may be thought a very 
 improper person to give rules for oratory: but I 
 will believe every one will agree with me in this, 
 that we ought either to lay aside all kinds of ges¬ 
 ture (which seems to be very suitable to the ge¬ 
 nius of our nation), or at least to make use of such 
 only as are graceful and expressive.—0. 
 
 No. 408.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18, 1712. 
 
 Decet affectus animi neque •se nimium erigerc, nec subjacere 
 serviliter.—T ull, de Finite us. 
 
 The affections of the heart ought not to be too much indulged, 
 nor servilely depressed. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have always been a very great lover of your 
 speculations, as well in regard to the subject as 
 to your manner of treating it. Human nature I 
 always thought the most useful object of human 
 reason, and to make the consideration of it plea¬ 
 sant and entertaining, I always thought the best 
 employment of human wit: other parts of philo¬ 
 sophy may perhaps make us wiser, but this not 
 only answers that end, but makes us better too. 
 Hence it was that the oracle pronounced Socrates 
 the wisest of all men living, because he judicious¬ 
 ly made choice of human nature for the object of 
 his thoughts; an inquiry into which as much ex¬ 
 ceeds all other learning, as it is of more conse¬ 
 quence to adjust the true nature and measures of 
 right and wrong, than to settle the distances of 
 the planets, and compute the times of their cir¬ 
 cumvolutions. 
 
 “ One good effect that will immediately arise 
 from a near observation of human nature is, that 
 we shall cease to wonder at those actions which 
 men are used to reckon wholly unaccountable; for, 
 as nothing is produced without a cause, so, by ob¬ 
 serving the nature and course of the passions, we 
 shall be able to trace every action from its first 
 conception to its death. We shall no more admire 
 at the proceedings of Catiline or Tiberius, when 
 we know the one was actuated by a cruel jealousy, 
 the other by a furious ambition: for the actions of 
 men follow their passions as naturally as light 
 does heat, or as any other effect flows from its 
 cause; reason must be employed in adjusting the 
 passions, but they must ever remain the principles 
 of action. 
 
 “ The strange and absurd variety that is so ap¬ 
 parent in men’s actions, shows plainly they can 
 never proceed immediately from reason; so pure a 
 fountain emits no such troubled waters. They 
 must necessarily arise from the passions, which 
 are to the mind as the winds to a ship; they only 
 can move it, and they too often destroy it; if fair 
 and gentle, they guide it into the harbor : if con¬ 
 trary and furious, they overset it in the waves. In 
 the same manner is the mind assisted or endan¬ 
 gered by the passions; reason must then take the 
 place of pilot, and can never fail of securing her 
 charge if she be not wanting to herself. The 
 strength of the passions will never be accepted as 
 an excuse for complying with them; they were de¬ 
 signed for subjection; and if £ man suffers them 
 to get the upper hand, he then betrays the liberty 
 of his own soul. 
 
 “As nature has framed the several species of 
 beings as it were in a chain, so man seems to be 
 laced as the middle link between angels and 
 rutes. Hence he participates both of flesh and 
 
 spirit by an admirable tie, which in him occasions 
 a perpetual war of passions; and as a man inclines 
 to the angelic or brute part of his constitution, he 
 is then denominated good or bad, virtuous or 
 wicked; if love, mercy, and good-nature prevail, 
 thev speak him of the angel: if hatred, cruelty, 
 ana envy predominate, they declare his kindred 
 to the brute. Hence it was, that some of the an¬ 
 cients imagined, that as men in this life inclined 
 more to the angel or the brute, so after their death 
 they should transmigrate into the one or the other; 
 and it would be no unpleasant notion to consider 
 the several species of brutes, into which we may 
 imagine that tyrants; misers, the proud, malicious, 
 and ill-natured, might be changed. 
 
 “ As a consequence of this original, all passions 
 are in all men, but all appear not in all; constitu¬ 
 tion, education, custom of the country, reason, 
 and the like causes, may improve or abate the 
 strength of them; but still the seeds remain, 
 which are ever ready to sprout forth upon the least 
 encouragement. I have heard a story of a good 
 religious man, who, having been bred with the 
 milk of a goat, was very modest in public by a 
 careful reflection he made on his actions: but he 
 frequently had an hour in secret, wherein he had 
 his frisks and capers : and if we had an opportu¬ 
 nity of examining the retirement of the strictest 
 philosophers, no doubt, but we should find perpet¬ 
 ual returns of those passions they so artfully con¬ 
 ceal from the public. I remember Machiavel ob¬ 
 serves, that every state should entertain a perpetual 
 jealousy of its neighbors, that so it should never 
 be unprovided when an emergency happens; in 
 like manner, should the reason be perpetually on 
 its guard against the passions, and never suffer 
 them to carry on any design that may be destruc¬ 
 tive of its security: yet at the same time it must 
 be careful that it do not so far break their strength 
 as to render them contemptible, and consequently 
 itself unguarded. 
 
 “ The understanding being of itself too slow 
 and lazy to exert itself into action, it is necessary 
 it should be put in motion by the gentle gales of 
 the passions, which may preserve it from stagna¬ 
 ting and corruption; for they are as necessary to 
 the health of the mind, as the circulation of the 
 animal spirits is to the health of the body: they 
 keep it in life, and strength, and vigor; nor is it 
 possible for the mind to perform its offices with¬ 
 out their assistance. These motions are given U3 
 with our being; they are little spirits that are born 
 and die with us; to some they are mild, easy, and 
 gentle; to others wayward and unruly, yet never 
 too strong for the reins of reason and the guid¬ 
 ance of judgment. 
 
 “ We may generally observe a pretty nice pro¬ 
 portion between the strength of reason and pas¬ 
 sion ; the greatest geniuses have commonly the 
 strongest affections, as, on the other hand, the 
 | weaker understandings have generally the weaker 
 passions; and it is fit the fury of the coursers 
 should not be too great for the strength of the cha¬ 
 rioteer. Young men, whose passions are not a 
 little unruly, give small hopes of their ever being 
 considerable; the fire of youth will of course 
 abate, and is a fault, if it be a fault, that mends 
 every day; but surely, unless a man has fire in 
 youth, he can hardly have warmth in old age. We 
 must therefore be very cautious, lest, while we 
 think to regulate the passions, we should quite 
 extinguish them, which is putting out the light of 
 the soul; for to be without passion, or to be hur¬ 
 ried away with it, makes a man equally blind. 
 The extraordinary severity used in most of our 
 schools has this fatal effect, it breaks the spring 
 of the mind, and most certainly destroys more 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 good geniuses than it can possibly improve. And i 
 surdy it is a mighty mistake that the passions 
 should be so entirely subdued : for little irregula¬ 
 rities are sometimes not only to be borne with, 
 but to be cultivated too, since they are frequently 
 attended with the greatest perfections. All great 
 geniuses have faults mixed with their virtues, and 
 lfghts 6 the flamin £ busb which has thorns among 
 
 Since, therefore, the passions are the princi¬ 
 ples of human actions, we must endeavor to ma¬ 
 nage them so as to retain their vigor, yet keep 
 them under strict command; we must govern them 
 rather like free subjects than slaves, lest, while 
 we intend to make them obedient, they become 
 abject, and unfit for those great purposes to which 
 they were designed. For my part, I must confess, 
 
 1 could never have any regard to that sect of phi- 
 losophers who so much insisted upon an absolute 
 indifference and vacancy from all passion : for it 
 seems to me a thing very inconsistent, for a man 
 to divest himself of humanity in order to acquire 
 tranquillity of mind; and to eradicate the very 
 principles of action, because it is possible they 
 may produce ill effects. J 
 
 I am, Sir, your affectionate Admirer, 
 
 Z. « T _ 
 
 495 
 
 Ho. 409.J THURSDAY, JUNE 19, 1712. 
 
 Musao contingere cuncta lepore.—L uce, i, 933. 
 
 To grace each subject with enliv’ning wit. 
 
 Gratian very often recommends fine taste as 
 the utmost perfection of an accomplished man. 
 
 t ^ii 8 , W °rd ar ises very often in conversation, 
 1 shall endeavor to give some account of it, and 
 to ray down rules how we may know whether we 
 are possessed of it, and how we may acquire that 
 fine taste of Avriting w r hich is so much talked of 
 •among the polite world. 
 
 Most languages make use of this metaphor, to 
 express that faculty of the mind which distin¬ 
 guishes all the most concealed faults and nicest 
 perfections in writing. We may be sure this me¬ 
 taphor would not have been so general in all 
 tongues, had there not been a very great conformity 
 between that mental taste, which is the subject of 
 this paper, and that sensitive taste, which gives 
 us a relish of every different flavor that affects the 
 palate. Accordingly we find there are as many 
 degrees ol refinement in the intellectual faculty as 
 in the sense which is marked out by this common 
 denomination. 
 
 I knew a person who possessed the one in so 
 great a perfection, that, after having tasted ten 
 different kinds of tea, he would distinguish, with¬ 
 out seeing the color of it, the particular sort which 
 was offered him; and not only so, but any two 
 sorts oi them that were mixed together in an equal 
 proportion; nay, he has carried the experiment so 
 tar, as, upon tasting the composition of three dif¬ 
 ferent sorts, to name the parcels from whence the 
 three several ingredients were taken. A man of a 
 fane taste in writing will discern, after the same 
 manner, not only the general beauties and imper- 
 fections of an author, but discover the several ways 
 ot thinking and expressing himself, which diver¬ 
 sify him from all other authors, with the several 
 foreign infusions of thought and language, and 
 the particular authors from whom they were bor¬ 
 rowed. • J 
 
 After having thus far explained what is gener¬ 
 ally meant by a fine taste in writing, and shown 
 the propriety of the metaphor which is used on 
 this occasion, I think I may define it to be “ that 
 faculty of the soul, which discerns the beauties of 
 
 witlwrTi W !, th P leasure ' and the imperfections 
 ? ltb dlsIlk< y It a man would know Avhether he 
 is possessed of this faculty, I would have him 
 (at over the celebrated works of antiquity, which 
 ave s ood the test of so many different ages and 
 
 wW T’ °, r i t lOSe Works araon £ the moderns 
 which have the sanction of the politer part of our 
 
 ?nit £°T leS ‘ lf A T m the perusal of such writ¬ 
 ings, he does not find himself delighted in an ex¬ 
 traordinary manner, or if, upon reading the ad- 
 ™' red P ass . a ?es m such authors, he fimfs a cold- 
 
 tn ^rf'i d i lndlffer , enCe in his thoughts, he ought 
 conclude, not (as is too usual among tasteless 
 
 w? d TV ha u th<3 author wants those perfections 
 adm,red in him, but that he him- 
 self Avants the faculty of discovering them. 
 
 He should, in the second place, be very careful 
 o o serve, Avhether he tastes the distinguishing 
 perfections, or, if J may be allowed to call them 
 so, the specific qualities of the author whom he 
 peruses ; Avhether he is particularly pleased with 
 Invy for Ins manner of telling a story, with Sal¬ 
 lust lor his entering into those internal principles 
 of action which arise from the characters and 
 manners of the persons he describes, or Avith 
 lacitus for displaying those outAvard motives of 
 saiety and interest which gave birth to the whole 
 series of transactions Avhich he relates. 
 
 He may likewise consider hoAV differently he is 
 affected by the same thought which presents itself 
 in a great writer, from what he is Avhen he finds 
 it delivered by a person of an ordinary genius • 
 ioi there is as much difference in apprehending a 
 thought clothed in Cicero’s language, and that of 
 a common author, as in seeing an object by the 
 light of a taper, or by the light of the sun. 
 
 It is very difficult to lay down rules for the 
 acquirement of such a taste as that I am here 
 speaking of. The faculty must, in some degree, 
 be born with us : and it very often happens, that 
 those who have other qualities in perfection, are 
 wholly void of this. One of the most eminent 
 mathematicians of the age has assured me, that 
 the greatest pleasure he took in reading Virgil 
 was in examining ^Eneas’s voyage by the map ; 
 as I question not but many a modern compiler of 
 history would be delighted with little more in 
 that divine author than the bare matter of fact. 
 
 But, notAvithstanding this faculty must in some 
 measure be born with us, there are several methods 
 for cultivating and improving it, and Avithout 
 which it will be very uncertain, and of little use 
 to the person that possesses it. The most natural 
 method for this purpose is to be conversant amono- 
 the writings of the most polite authors. A man 
 Avho has any relish for fine Avriting, either discov¬ 
 ers neAv beauties, or recei\ T es stronger impressions, 
 from the masterly strokes of a great author, every 
 time he peruses him ; beside that he naturallv 
 wears himself into the same manner of speaking 
 and thinking. ° 
 
 Conversation with men of a polite genius is 
 another method for improving our natural taste. 
 
 It is impossible for a man of the greatest parts to 
 consider anything in its whole extent, and in all 
 its variety ol lights. Every man, beside those 
 general obsenrations which are to be made upon 
 an author, forms several reflections that are pecu¬ 
 liar to his oAvn manner of thinking ; so that con¬ 
 versation Avill naturally furnish us with hints 
 which we did not attend to, and make us enjoy 
 other men’s parts and reflections as Avell as our 
 own. This is the best reason I can give for the 
 observation which several have made, that men 
 of great genius in the same way of writing sel¬ 
 dom rise up singly, but at certain periods of time 
 appear together, and in a body; as they did at 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 496 
 
 Rome in the reign of Augustus, and in Greece 
 about the age of Socrates. I cannot think that 
 Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, La Fontaine, 
 Bruyere, Bossu, or the Daciers, would have writ¬ 
 ten so well as they have done, had they not been 
 friends and cotemporaries. 
 
 It is likewise necessary for a man who would 
 form to himself a finished taste of good writing, 
 to be well versed in the works of the best critics, 
 both ancient and modern. I must confess that I 
 could wish there were authors of this kind, who, 
 beside the mechanical rules, which a man of very 
 little taste may discourse upon, would enter into 
 the very spirit and soul of fine writing, and show 
 us the several sources of that pleasure which rises 
 in the mind upon the perusal of a noble work. 
 Thus, although in poetry it be absolutely neces¬ 
 sary that the unities of time, place, and action, 
 with other points of the same nature, should be 
 thoroughly explained and understood, there is 
 still something more essential to the art, some¬ 
 thing that elevates and astonishes the fancy, and 
 gives a greatness of mind to the reader, which 
 few of the critics beside Longinus have consi¬ 
 dered. 
 
 Our general taste in England is for epigram, 
 turns of wit, and forced conceits, which have no 
 manner of influence either for the bettering or en¬ 
 larging the mind of him who reads them, and 
 have been carefully avoided by the greatest wri¬ 
 ters both among the ancients and moderns. I 
 have endeavored, in several of my speculations, 
 to banish this Gothic taste which has taken pos¬ 
 session among us. I entertained the town for a 
 week together with an essay upon wit, in which 
 I endeavored to detect several of those false kinds 
 which have been admired in the different ages of 
 the world, and at the same time to show wherein 
 the nature of true wit consists. I afterward gave an 
 instance of the great force which lies, in a natural 
 simplicity of thought to affect the mind of the 
 reader, from such vulgar pieces as have little else 
 beside this single qualification to recommend them. 
 I have likewise examined the works of the great¬ 
 est poet which our nation, or perhaps any other, 
 has produced, and particularized most of those 
 rational and manly beauties which give a value to 
 that divine work. I shall next Saturday enter 
 upon an essay on “ The Pleasures of the Imagin¬ 
 ation,” which, though it shall consider that subject 
 at large, will perhaps suggest to the reader what 
 it is that gives a beauty to many passages of the 
 finest writers both in prose and verse. As an 
 undertaking of this nature is entirely new, I 
 question not but it will be received with candor. 
 
 No. 410.] FRIDAY, JUNE 20, 1712. 
 
 -Dum foris sunt, nihil vkletur mundius, 
 
 Nec magis compositum quidquam, nec mag is elegans: 
 Quae, cum amatore suo cum coenant, liguriunt. 
 
 Ilarum videre ingluviem sordes, inopiam: 
 
 Quam inhonestae solae sint domi, atque avidae cibi: 
 
 Quo pacto ex jure hesterno panem atrum vorent: 
 
 Nosse omnia hacc, salus est adolescentulis. 
 
 Ter. Eun. act v, sc. 4 . 
 
 When they are abroad, nothing so clean and nicely dressed, 
 and when at supper with a gallant, they do but piddle, and 
 pick the choicest bits: but to see their nastiness and pov¬ 
 erty at home, their gluttony, and how they devour black 
 crusts dipped in yesterday’s broth, is a perfect antidote 
 against wenching. 
 
 Will Honeycomb, who disguises his present 
 decay by visiting the wenches of the town only by 
 way of humor, told us, that the last rainy night, 
 he with Sir Roger de Coverley, was driven into 
 
 the Temple cloister, whither had escaped also a 
 lady most exactly dressed from head to foot. 
 Will made no scruple to acquaint us, that she 
 saluted him very familiarly by his name, and 
 turning immediately to the knight, she said she 
 supposed that was liis good friend Sir Roger de 
 Coverley: upon which nothing less could follow 
 than Sir Roger’s approach to salutation, with 
 “ Madam, the same, at your service.” She was 
 dressed in a black tabby mantua and petticoat, 
 without ribbons ; her linen striped muslin, and 
 in the whole in an agreeable second mourning ; 
 decent dresses being often affected by the creatures 
 of the town, at once consulting cheapness and the 
 pretension to modesty. She went on with a fa¬ 
 miliar, easy air, “ Your friend, Mr. Honeycomb, is 
 a little surprised to see a woman here alone and 
 unattended ; but I dismissed my coach at the 
 gate, and tripped it down to my counsel’s cham¬ 
 bers ; for lawyers’ fees take up too much of a 
 small disputed jointure to admit any other ex- 
 
 E enses but mere necessaries.” Mr. Honeycomb 
 egged they might have the honor of setting her 
 down, for Sir Roger’s servant was gone to call a 
 coach. In the interim the footman returned with 
 “ no coach to be had and there appeared nothing 
 to be done but trusting herself with Mr. Honey¬ 
 comb and his friend, to wait at the tavern at the 
 gate for a coach, or be subjected to all the imper¬ 
 tinence she must meet with in that public place. 
 Mr. Honeycomb, being a man of honor, deter¬ 
 mined the choice of the first, and Sir Roger, as 
 the better man, took the lady by the hand, leading 
 her through all the shower, covering her with his 
 hat, and gallanting a familiar acquaintance through 
 rows of young fellows who winked at Sukey in 
 the state she marched off, Will Honeycomb bring¬ 
 ing up the rear. 
 
 Much importunity prevailed upon the fair one 
 to admit of a collation, where, after declaring she 
 had no stomach, and having eaten a couple of 
 chickens, devoured a truss of salad, and drank a 
 full bottle to her share, she sung the Old Man’s 
 Wish to Sir Roger. The knight left the room for 
 some time after supper, and wrote the following 
 billet, which he conveyed to Sukey, and Sukey to 
 her friend Will Honeycomb. Will has given it to 
 Sir Andrew Freeport, who read it last night to the 
 club:— 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ I am not so mere a country gentleman, but I 
 can guess at the law business you had at the 
 Temple. If you would go down to the country, 
 and leave off all your vanities but your singing, 
 let me know at my lodgings in Bow-street, Cov¬ 
 ent-garden, and you shall be encouraged by your 
 humble servant, “ Roger De Coverley.” 
 
 My good friend could not well stand the rail¬ 
 lery which was rising upon him ; but to put a 
 stop to it, I delivered Will Honeycomb the fol¬ 
 lowing letter, and desired him to read it to the 
 board :— 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Having seen a translation of one of the chap¬ 
 ters in the Canticles into English verse inserted 
 among your late papers, I have ventured to send 
 you the seventh chapter of the Proverbs in a 
 poetical dress. If you think it worthy appearing 
 among your speculations, it will be a sufficient 
 reward for the trouble of 
 
 “Your constant Reader, 
 
 “A. B.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 ^ly son, tli instruction tlizit my words impart 
 Grave on the living tablet of thy heart: 
 
 And all the wholesome precepts that 1 give. 
 Observe with strictest reverence, and live. ? 
 
 Let all thy homage be to Wisdom paid, 
 
 Seek her protection, and implore her aid; 
 
 That she may keep thy soul from harm secure, 
 And turn thy footsteps from the harlot’s door 
 \\ ho with curs d charms lures the unwary in 
 And soothes with flattery their souls to sin. ’ 
 Once from my window, as I cast mine eye 
 On those that passed in giddy numbers by, 
 
 A youth among the foolish youths I spied, 
 
 " l 10 took not sacred wisdom for his guide. 
 
 Just as the sun withdrew his cooler light, 
 
 And evening soft led on the shades of night. 
 
 He stole in covert twilight to his fate, 
 
 And passed the corner near the harlot’s gate, 
 
 When lol a woman comes!--- ’ 
 
 Loose her attire, and such her glaring dress 
 So aptly did the harlot’s miud express: 
 
 Subtile she is, and practic’d in the arts 
 By which the wanton conquers heedless hearts: 
 Stubborn and loud she is; she hates her home; 
 Varying her place and form, she loves to roam: 
 Aow she’s within, now in the street doth stray 
 bow at each corner stands and waits her prey. 
 
 The youth she seiz’d; and laying now aside 
 All modesty, the female’s justest pride 
 She said, with an embrace, “Here at my house 
 Poace-ofTerings are, this day I paid my vows. 
 
 I therefore came abroad to meet my dear 
 And, lo! in happy hour, I find thee here.’ 
 
 My chamber I’ve adorn’d, and o’er my bed 
 Are coy’rings of the richest tap’stry spread-- 
 With linen it is deck’d from Egypt brought' 
 
 And carvings by the curious artist wrought- 
 It wants no perfume Arabia yields 
 In all her citron groves and spicy fields • 
 
 Here all her store of richest odors meets, 
 
 I ll lay thee in a wilderness of sweets; 
 
 Whatever to the sense can grateful be 
 
 I have collected there--I want but thee. 
 
 My husband’s gone a journey far away. 
 
 Much gold he took abroad, and long will stay 
 He named for his return a distant day.” ’ 
 
 Upon her tongue did such smooth mischief dwell. 
 And from her lips such welcome flatt’ry fell 
 Th unguarded youth, in silken fetters tied, 
 
 Itesign d his reason, and with ease complied, 
 thus does the ox to his own slaughter go. 
 
 And thus is senseless of th’ impending blow • 
 
 Thus flies the simple bird into the snare, ’ 
 
 That skillful fowlers for his life prepare. 
 
 But let my sons attend. Attend may they 
 Whom youthful vigor may to sin betray; 
 
 Let them false charmers fly, and guard their hearts 
 Against the wily wanton’s pleasing arts; 
 
 With care direct their steps, nor turn astray 
 To tread the paths of her deceitful way 
 Lest they too late of hei- fell pow’r complain, 
 
 And fall, where many mightier have been slain. 
 
 497 
 
 No. 411.] SATURDAY, JUUE 21, 1712. 
 
 . PAPER I. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Thc perfection of our sight above our other senses. The 
 pleasures ot the imagination arise originally from sisht 
 ihe pleasures of the imagination divided under two heads.’ 
 
 lie pleasures of the imagination in some respects equal to 
 those of the understanding. The extent of the pleasures 
 of the imagination. The advantages a man receives fSS 
 a relish of these pleasures. In what respect they are nre- 
 ferable to those of the understanding. ^ 
 
 Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante 
 Irita solo: juvat integros accedere fontes, 
 
 Atque haunre- Lucr. i. 925. 
 
 In wild unclear’d, to Muses a retreat, 
 
 0 er ground untrod before. I devious roam. 
 
 And deep enamor d into latent springs 
 Presume to peep at coy virgin Naiads. 
 
 Our sight is the most perfect and most delight¬ 
 ful of all our senses. It fills the mind with the 
 largest variety of ideas, converses with its objects 
 at the greatest distance, and continues the longest 
 m action without being tired or satiated with its 
 proper enjoyments. The sense of feeling can 
 
 lnaeed give us a notion of extension, shape, and 
 
 f K eas ent ® r at the eye, except colors: 
 
 but at the same time it is very much straitened, 
 and confined in its operations to the number, 
 bulk, and distance of its particular objects. Our 
 sight seems designed to supply all these defects, 
 and may be considered as a more delicate and 
 d^usive kind of touch, that spreads itself over 
 an infinite multitude of bodies, comprehends the 
 laigest figures, and brings into our reach some of 
 the most remote parts of the universe. 
 
 sense which furnishes the imagina- 
 t on with Hs ideas; so that by “the pleasures of 
 the mag,na ‘on,’- or “fancy” (which I shall use 
 promiscuously), I here mean such as arise from 
 visible objects, either when we have them actually 
 in our view or when we call up their ideas into 
 oui minds by painting, statues, descriptions, or 
 ny the like occasion. We cannot indeed have a 
 single image in the fancy that did not make its 
 first entrance through the sight; but we have the 
 powei of retaining, altering, and compounding: 
 t iose images which we have once received, into 
 an the varieties of picture and vision that are most 
 agreeable to the imagination : for by this faculty, 
 a man in a dungeon is capable of entertaining 
 himself with scenes and landscapes more beautn 
 u than any that can be found in the whole com¬ 
 pass of nature. 
 
 There are few words in the English language 
 hicli are employed in a more loose and uncir- 
 cumscribed sense than those of the fancy and the 
 imagination. I therefore thought it necessary to 
 fix and determine the notion of these two words 
 as I intend to make use of them in the thread of 
 my following speculations, that the reader may 
 conceive rightly what is the subject which I pro¬ 
 ceed upon. I must therefore desire him to re¬ 
 member that by “ the pleasures of the imagina- 
 1( ? n ! .-f B} ean only such pleasures as arise 
 
 originally from sight, and that I divide these 
 pleasures into two kinds; my design being first 
 of all to discourse of those primary pleasures of 
 the imagination, which entirely proceed from 
 such objects as are before our eyes; and in the 
 next place to speak of those secondary pleasures 
 of the imagination which flow from the ideas of 
 visible objects, when the objects are not actually 
 e oie the eye, but are called up into our memo¬ 
 ries, or formed into agreeable visions of things 
 that are either absent or fictitious. 
 
 The pleasures of the imagination, taken in their 
 u extent, are not so gross as those of sense, nor 
 so leflned as those ol the understanding. The 
 last are indeed more preferable, because they are 
 founded on some new knowledge or improvement, 
 in the mind of man; yet it must be confessed, that 
 those of the imagination are as great and as trans¬ 
 porting as the other. A beautiful prospect de¬ 
 fights the soul as much as a demonstration; and a 
 description in Homer has charmed more readers 
 than a chapter in Aristotle. Beside, the pleasures 
 of the imagination have this advantage above 
 those of the understanding, that they are more 
 obvious and more easy to be acquired. It is but 
 opening the eye, and the scene enters. The colors 
 paint themselves on the fancy, with very little at¬ 
 tention of thought or application of mind in the 
 beholder. We are struck, we know not how, with 
 the symmetry of anything we see, and immedi¬ 
 ately assent to the beauty of an object, without 
 inquiring into the particular causes and occasions 
 of it. 
 
 A man of a polite imagination is let into a great 
 many pleasures that the vulgar are not capable of 
 receiving. He can converse with a picture, and 
 find an agreeable companion in a statue. He meets 
 
THE SPECTATO R. 
 
 496 
 
 with a secret refreshment in a description, and 
 often feels a greater satisfaction in the prospect of 
 fields and meadows, than another does in the pos¬ 
 session. It gives him, indeed, a kind of property 
 in everything he sees, and makes the most rude 
 uncultivated parts of nature administer to his 
 pleasures; so that he looks upon the world as it 
 were in another light, and discovers in it a multi¬ 
 tude of charms, that conceal themselves from the 
 generality of mankind. 
 
 There are indeed but very few who know how 
 to be idle and innocent, or have a relish of any 
 pleasures that are not criminal; every diversion 
 they take is at the expense of some one virtue or 
 another, and their very first step out of business 
 is into vice or folly. A man should endeavor, 
 therefore, to make the sphere of his innocent plea¬ 
 sures as wide as possible, that he may retire into 
 them with safety, and find in them such a satis¬ 
 faction as a wise man would not blush to take. 
 Of this nature are those of the imagination, which 
 do not require such a bent of thought as is neces¬ 
 sary to our more serious employments, nor, at the 
 same time, suffer the mind to sink into that negli¬ 
 gence and remissness, which are apt to accompany 
 our more sensual delights, but, like a gentle exer¬ 
 cise to the faculties, awaken them from sloth and 
 idleness, without putting them upon any labor or 
 difficulty. 
 
 We might here add, that, the pleasures of the 
 fancy are more conducive to health than those of 
 the understanding, which are worked out by dint 
 of thinking, and attended with too violent a labor 
 of the brain. Delightful scenes, whether in na¬ 
 ture, painting, or poetry, have a kindly influence 
 on the body as well as the mind : and not only 
 serve to clear and brighten the imagination, but 
 are able to disperse grief and melancholy, and to 
 set the animal spirits in pleasing and agreeable 
 motions. For this reason, Sir Francis Bacon, in 
 his Essay upon Health, lias not thought it impro¬ 
 per to prescribe to his reader a poem or a prospect, 
 where he particularly dissuades him from knotty 
 and subtile disquisitions, and advises him to pur¬ 
 sue studies that fill the mind with splendid and 
 illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contem¬ 
 plations of nature. 
 
 I have in this paper, by way of introduction, 
 settled the notion of those pleasures of the imagi¬ 
 nation which are the subject of my present under¬ 
 taking, and endeavored, by several considerations, 
 to recommend to my reader the pursuit of those 
 pleasures. I shall in my next paper examine the 
 several sources from whence these pleasures are 
 derived.—O. 
 
 No. 412.J MONDAY, JUNE 23, 1712. 
 
 PAPER II. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Three sources of all the pleasures of the imagination, in our 
 survey of outward objects. How what is great pleases the 
 imagination. How what is new pleases the imagination. 
 How what is beautiful in our species pleases the imagina¬ 
 tion. How what is beautiful in general pleases the imagi¬ 
 nation. What other accidental causes may contribute to 
 the heightening of those pleasures. 
 
 -Divisum sic breve fiet opus.— Mart. Ep. iv, 83. 
 
 The work, divided aptly, shorter grows. 
 
 I shall first consider those pleasures of the 
 imagination which arise from the actual view and 
 survey of outward objects : and these, I think, all 
 proceed from the sight of what is great, uncommon, 
 
 or beautiful. There may, indeed, be something 
 terrible or offensive, that the horror or loathsunifc- 
 ness of an object may overbear the pleasure which 
 results from its greatness, novelty, or beauty ; but 
 still there will be such a mixture of delight in the 
 very disgust it gives us, aS any of these three 
 qualifications are most conspicuous and prevail¬ 
 ing. 
 
 By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of 
 any single object, but the largeness of a whole 
 view, considered as one entire piece. Such are 
 the prospects of an open champaign country, a 
 vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of moun¬ 
 tains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse 
 of waters, where we are not struck with the no¬ 
 velty or beauty of the sight, but with that rude, 
 kind of magnificence which appears in many of 
 these stupendous works of nature. Our imagina¬ 
 tion loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp 
 at anything that is too big for its capacity. We 
 are flung into a pleasing astonishment at such un¬ 
 bounded views, and feel a delightful stillness and 
 amazement in the soul at the apprehension of 
 them. The mind of man naturally hates every¬ 
 thing that looks like a restraint upon it, and is 
 apt to fancy itself under a sort of confinement, 
 when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, 
 and shortened on every side by the neighborhood 
 of walls or mountains. On the contrary, a spa¬ 
 cious horizon is an image of liberty, where the 
 eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large 
 on the immensity of its views, and to lose itself 
 amid the variety of objects that offer themselves 
 to its observation. Such wide and undetermined 
 prospects are as pleasing to the fancy as the spe¬ 
 culations of eternity or infinitude are to the under¬ 
 standing. But if there be a beauty or uncommon¬ 
 ness joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled 
 ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and meteors, 
 or a spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, 
 rocks, and meadows, the pleasure still grows upon 
 us, as it arises from more than a single principle. 
 
 Everything that is new or uncommon raises a 
 pleasure in the imagination, because it fills the 
 soul with an agreeable surprise, gratifies its curi 
 osity, and gives it an idea of which it was not be¬ 
 fore possessed. We are indeed so often conver¬ 
 sant with one set of objects, and tired out with so 
 many repeated shows of the same things, that 
 whatever is new or uncommon contributes a little 
 to vary human life, and to divert our minds for a 
 while with the strangeness of its appearance. It 
 serves us for a kind of refreshment, and takes off 
 from that satiety we are apt to complain of, in our 
 usual and ordinary entertainments. It is this that 
 bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the 
 imperfections of nature please us. It is this that 
 recommends variety, where the mind is every in¬ 
 stant called off to something new, and the atten¬ 
 tion not suffered to dwell too long, and waste 
 itself on any particular object. It is this, like¬ 
 wise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and 
 makes it afford the mind a double entertainment. 
 Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of 
 the year pleasant to look upon, but never so much 
 as in the opening of the spring, when they are all 
 new and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, 
 and not yet too much accustomed and familiar to 
 the eye. For this reason there is nothing that 
 more enlivens a prospect than rivers, jetteaus, or 
 falls of water, where the scene is perpetually 
 shifting, and entertaining the sight every moment 
 with something that is new. We are quickly tired 
 with looking upon hills and valleys, where every¬ 
 thing continues fixed and settled in the same place 
 and posture, but find our thoughts a little agita¬ 
 ted and relieved at the sight of such objects as are 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the 
 eye of the beholder. 
 
 But there is nothing that makes its way more 
 directly to the soul than beauty, which immedi- 
 ately diffuses a secret satisfaction and compla¬ 
 cency through the imagination, and gives a finish¬ 
 ing to anything that is great or uncommon. The 
 very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an 
 inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and de¬ 
 light through all its faculties. There is not per¬ 
 haps any real beauty or deformity more in one 
 piece of matter than another, because we might 
 have been so made, that whatsoever now appears 
 loathsome to us might have shown itself agree¬ 
 able; but we find by experience that there are se¬ 
 veral modifications of matter, which the mind, 
 without any previous consideration, pronounces at 
 first sight beautiful or deformed. Thus we see 
 that every different species of sensible creatures 
 has its different notions of beauty, and that each 
 of them is most affected with the beauties of its 
 own kind. This is nowhere more remarkable 
 than in birds of the same shape and proportion, 
 where we often see the male determined in his 
 courtship by the single grain or tincture of a 
 leather, and never discovering any charms but in 
 the color of its species. 
 
 499 
 
 and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up 
 of those different stains of light that show them¬ 
 selves m the clouds of a different situation. For 
 I this reason we find the poets, who are always 
 addressing themselves to the imagination, bor¬ 
 rowing more of their epithets from colors, than 
 ! horn any other topic. 
 
 As the fancy delights in everything that is great, 
 
 : strange, or beautiful, and is still more pleased 
 : the more it finds of these perfections in the same 
 i ® b J ect > S0 lt IS capable of receiving a new satisfac¬ 
 tion by the assistance of another sense. Thus any 
 continued sound, as the music of birds, or a fall 
 of water, awakens every moment the mind of the 
 several beauties of the place that lie before him. 
 beholder, and makes him more attentive to the 
 thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or per¬ 
 fumes, they heighten the pleasures of the imagina¬ 
 tion and make even the colors and verdure of the 
 landscape appear more agreeable ; for the ideas of 
 both senses recommend each other, and are pleas¬ 
 anter together than when they enter the mind sep¬ 
 arately ; as the different colors of a picture, when 
 they are well disposed, set off one another, and 
 receive an additional beauty from the advantage of 
 their situation.—0. 
 
 Scit thalamo servare fidem, sanctasque veretur 
 Connubii leges; non ilium in pectore candor 
 Sohcitat niveus; neque pravurn accendit amorem 
 fcplendida lanugo, yel honesta in vertice crista, 
 Purpureusve nitor pennarum; ast agmina late 
 Foeminea explorat cautus, maculasque requirit 
 Cognatas, paribusque iuterlita corpora guttis; 
 
 faceret, pictis sylvam circum undique monstris 
 Lonfusam aspiceres vulgo partusque biformes, 
 
 Et genus ambiguum, et veneris monumenta nefandee. 
 
 rone merula in nigro se oblectat nigra marito; 
 
 Hmc soeium lasciva petit Philomela canorum, 
 Agnoscitque pares sonitus; hinc noctua tetram 
 Lamtiem alarum, et glaucos miratur ocellos 
 Nempe sibi semper constat, crescitque quotannis 
 Lucida progenies, castos confessa parentes; 
 
 Dum virides inter saltus lucosque sonoros 
 Vere novo exultat, plumasque decora juventus 
 fix pi ica t ad solem patriisque coloribus ardet.* 
 
 The feather’d husband, to his partner true, 
 
 Preserves connubial rites inviolate. 
 
 W ith cold indifference every charm he sees, 
 
 The milky whiteness of the stately neck, 
 
 The shining down, proud crest, and purple wings: 
 
 But cautious, with a searching eye explores 
 The female tribes, his proper mate to find, 
 
 With kindred colors mark’d; did he not so, 
 
 The grove with painted monsters would abound • 
 
 Th’ ambiguous product of unnatural love. 
 
 The blackbird hence selects her sooty spouse • 
 
 The nightingale her musical compeer, 
 
 Lur'd by the well-kno wn voice, the bird of night 
 Smit with his dusky wings and greenish eyes? ’ 
 
 Wooes his dun paramour. The beauteous race 
 »_peak the chaste loves of their progenitors; 
 
 When, by the Spring invited, they exult 
 In woods and fields, and to the sun unfold 
 Their plumes, that with paternal colors glow. 
 
 . There is a second kind of beauty that we find 
 in the several-prodacts of art and nature, which 
 does not work in the imagination with that warmth 
 and violence as the beauty that appears in our 
 pioper species, but is apt, however, to raise in us 
 a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the 
 places or objects in which we discover it. This 
 consists either in the gayety or variety of' colors, 
 in the symmetry and proportion of parts in the 
 arrangement and disposition of bodies, oV in a 
 just mixture and concurrence of all together 
 Among these several kinds of beauty the eye 
 takes most delight in colors. We nowhere meet 
 with a more glorious or pleasing show in nature 
 than what appears in the heavens at the rising 
 
 tWM W0 A U ,!?- Seem ’ fr x°. m his manner of introducing them 
 that Mr. Addison was himself the author of these fine verses 
 
 No. 413.J TUESDAY, JUNE 24, 1712. 
 
 PAPER nr. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Why the necessary cause of our being pleased with what is 
 great, new, or beautiful, unknown. Why the final cause 
 more known and more useful. The final cause of our being 
 p eased with what is great. The final cause of our beinf 
 p eased with what is new. The final cause of our'fceini 
 pleased with what is beautiful in our own species. The 
 final cause of our being pleased with what is beautiful in 
 
 ^cjiGrSii, 
 
 Causa latet, vis est notissima- Ovid, Met. ix 207. 
 
 The cause is secret, but the effect is known.— Addison. 
 
 Though in yesterday’s paper we considered how 
 everything that is great, new or beautiful, is apt 
 to affect the imagination with pleasure, we must 
 own that it is impossible for us to assign the ne- 
 cessaiy cause of this pleasure, because we know 
 neither the nature of an idea, nor the substance of 
 a human soul, which might help us to discover the 
 conformity or disagreeableness of the one to the 
 otfier ; and therefore, for want of such a light 
 all that we can do in speculations of this kind, is 
 to reflect on those operations of the soul that are 
 most agreeable, and to range, under their proper 
 heads, what is pleasing or displeasing to the mind 
 without being able to trace out the several neces¬ 
 sary and efficient causes from whence the pleasure 
 or displeasure arises. 
 
 Final causes lie more bare and open to our obser¬ 
 vation, as there are often a greater variety that be¬ 
 long to the same effect; and these, though they are 
 not altogether so satisfactory, are generally more 
 useful than the other, as they give us greater oc¬ 
 casion of admiring the goodness and wisdom of 
 die first Contriver. 
 
 One of the final causes of our delight in any¬ 
 thing that is great may be this. The Supreme 
 Author of our being has so formed the soul of man 
 that nothing but Himself can be its last, adequate, 
 and proper happiness. Because, therefore, a great 
 part of our happiness must arise from the contem¬ 
 plation of his being, that he might give our souls 
 a just relish for such a contemplation, he has made 
 them naturally delight in the apprehension of what 
 is great or unlimited. Our admiration, which is 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 500 
 
 aver\' pleasing motion of the mind, immediately 
 rises at the consideration of any object that takes 
 up a great deal of room in the faney, and, by con¬ 
 sequence, will improve into the highest pitch of 
 astonishment and devotion when we contemplate 
 his nature, that is neither circumscribed by time 
 nor place, nor to be comprehended by the largest 
 capacity of a created being. 
 
 He has annexed a secret pleasure to the idea of 
 anything that is new or uncommon, that he might 
 encourage us in the pursuit after knowledge, and 
 engage us to search into the wonders of his crea¬ 
 tion ; for every new idea brings such a pleasure 
 with it, as rewards any pains we have taken in its 
 acquisition, and consequently serves as a motive 
 to put us upon fresh discoveries. 
 
 He has made everything that is beautiful in our 
 own species pleasant, that all creatures might be 
 tempted to multiply their kind, and fill the world 
 with inhabitants ; for it is very remarkable that 
 wherever nature is crossed in the production of a 
 monster (the result of any unnatural mixture), the 
 breed is incapable of propagating its likeness, and 
 of founding a new order of creatures ; so that, un¬ 
 less all animals were allured by the beauty of their 
 own species, generation would be at an end, and 
 the earth unpeopled. 
 
 In the last place, he has made everything that 
 is beautiful in all other objects pleasant, or rather 
 has made so many objects appear beautiful, that 
 he might render the whole creation more gay and 
 delightful. He has given almost everything about 
 us the power of raising an agreeable idea in the 
 imagination : so that it is impossible for us to be¬ 
 hold his works with coldness or indifference, and 
 to survey so many beauties without a secret satis¬ 
 faction and complacency. Things would make 
 but a poor appearance to the eye, if we saw them 
 only in their proper figures and motions ; and what 
 reason can we assign for their exciting in us many 
 of those ideas which are different from anything 
 that exists in the objects themselves (for such are 
 light and colors), were it not to add supernume¬ 
 rary ornaments to the universe, and make it more 
 agreeable to the imagination ? We are everywhere 
 entertained with pleasing shows and apparitions : 
 we discover imaginary glories in the heavens and 
 in the earth, and see some of this visionary beauty 
 poured out upon the whole creation : but what a 
 rough, unsightly sketch of nature should we be en¬ 
 tertained with, did all her coloring disappear, and 
 the several distinctions of light and shade vanish? 
 In short, our souls are at present delightfully lost 
 andbewildered in a pleasing delusion, and we walk 
 about like the enchanted hero of a romance, who 
 sees beautiful castles, woods and meadows; and, 
 at the same time, hears the warbling of birds, and 
 the purling of streams : but upon the finishing of 
 some secret spell the fantastic scene breaks up, 
 and the disconsolate knight finds him on a barren 
 heath, or in a solitary desert. It is not improbable 
 that something like this may be the state of the 
 soul after its first separation, in respect of the im¬ 
 ages it will receive from matter ; though indeed, 
 the ideas of colors are so pleasing arid beautiful 
 in the imagination, that it is possible the soul 
 will not be deprived of them, but perhaps find 
 them excited by some other occasional cause, 
 as they are at present by the different impres¬ 
 sions of the subtile matter on the organ of sight. 
 
 I have here supposed that my reader is ac¬ 
 quainted with that great modern discovery, which 
 is at present universally acknowledged by all the 
 inquirers into natural philosophy; namely, that 
 light and colors, as apprehended by the imagina¬ 
 tion, are only ideas in the mind, and not quali¬ 
 ties that have any existence in matter. As this 
 
 J is a truth which has been proved incontestably by 
 many modern philosophers, and is indeed one of 
 ; the finest speculations in that science, if the Eng¬ 
 lish reader would see the notion explained at large, 
 he may find it in the eighth chapter of the second 
 book of Mr. Locke’s Essay on Human Under¬ 
 standing.—0. 
 
 The following letter of Steele io^Addison is reprinted 
 here from the original edition of the Spectator in 
 folio. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, June 24,1712. 
 
 “I would not divert the course of your dis¬ 
 courses, when you seem bent upon obliging the 
 world with a train of thinking, which, rightly 
 attended to, may render the life of every one that 
 reads it more easy and happy for the future. The 
 pleasures of the imagination are what bewilder 
 life, when reason and judgment do not interpose ; 
 it is therefore, a worthy action in you, to look 
 carefully into the powers of fancy, that other men, 
 from the knowledge of them, may improve their 
 joys, and allay their griefs, by a just use of that 
 faculty. I say, Sir, I would not interrupt you 
 in the progress of this discourse ; but if you will do 
 me the favor of inserting this letter in your next 
 paper, you will do some service to the public, 
 though not in so noble a way of obliging, as that 
 of improving their minds. Allow me. Sir, to ac¬ 
 quaint you with a design (of which I am partly 
 author), though it tends to no greater a good than 
 that of getting money. I should not hope for the 
 favor of a philosopher in this matter if it were not 
 attempted under the restrictions which you sages 
 put upon private acquisitions. The first purpose 
 which every good man is to propose to himself, is 
 the service of his prince and country : after that 
 is done, he cannot add to himself, but he must 
 also be beneficial to them. This scheme of gain 
 is not only consistent with that end, but has its 
 very being in subordination to it; for no man can 
 be a gainer here but at the same time he^ himself, 
 or some other, must succeed in their dealings with 
 the government. It is called * The Multiplication 
 Table,’ and is so far calculated for the immediate 
 service of her majesty, that the same person who 
 is fortunate in the lottery of the state, may receive 
 yet further advantage in this table. And I am 
 sure nothing can be more pleasing to her gracious 
 temper than to find out additional methods of in¬ 
 creasing their good fortune who adventure any¬ 
 thing in her service, or laying occasions for others 
 to become capable of serving their country who 
 are at present in too low circumstances to exert 
 themselves. The manner of executing the design 
 is by giving out receipts for half guineas re¬ 
 ceived, which shall entitle the fortunate bearer to 
 certain sums in the table, as is set forth at large 
 in the proposals printed on the 23d instant. There 
 is another circumstance in this design which gives 
 me hopes of your favor to it, and that is what 
 Tully advises, to wit, that the benefit be made as 
 diffusive as possible. Every one that has half a 
 guinea, is put into the possibility, from that small 
 sum, to raise himself an easy fortune: when these 
 little parcels of wealth are, as it were, thus thrown 
 back into the redonation of Providence, we are to 
 expect that some who live under hardships or ob¬ 
 scurity may be produced to the world in the figure 
 they deserve by this means. I doubt not but this 
 last argument will have force with you ; and I 
 cannot add another to it, but what your severity 
 will, I fear, very little regard, which is, that I 
 am, “Sir, your greatest Admirer, 
 
 “ Richard Steele.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 501 
 
 No. 414.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 25,1712. 
 
 PAPER IV. 
 
 OX THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The works of nature more pleasant to the imagination than 
 those of art. The works of nature still more pleasant, the 
 more they resemble those of art. The works of art more 
 pleasant, the more they resemble those of nature. Our En¬ 
 glish plantations and gardens considered in the foreiroimr 
 light. ° & 
 
 -•-Alterius sic 
 
 Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. v. 410. 
 
 But mutually they need each other’s help.— Roscommon. 
 
 If we consider the works of nature and art as 
 they are qualified to entertain the imagination, we 
 shall find the last very defective in comparison 
 of the former ; for though they may sometimes ap¬ 
 pear as beautiful or strange, they can have nothing 
 m them of that vastness and immensity, which af¬ 
 ford so great an entertainment to the mind of the 
 beholder. The one may be as polite and delicate 
 as the other, but can never show herself so august 
 and magnificent in the design. There is something 
 more bold and masterly in the rough, careless strokes 
 of nature, than in the nice touches and embellish¬ 
 ments of art. The beauties of the most stately 
 garden or palace lie in a narrow compass ; the im¬ 
 agination immediately runs them over and requires 
 something else to gratify her ; but in the wide fields 
 of nature, the sight wanders up and down with¬ 
 out confinement, and is fed with an infinite variety 
 of images, without any certain stint or number. 
 For this reason we always find the poet in love 
 with the country life, where nature appears in the 
 greatest perfection, and furnishes out all those 
 scenes that are most apt to delight the imagina- 
 
 Scriptorum chorus omnis amat nemus, et fugit urbes. 
 
 Hor. 2 Ep. ii. 77. 
 
 -To grottoes and to groves we run, 
 
 To ease and silence, every Muse’s son.—P ope. 
 
 Hie secura quies, et nescia fallere vita, 
 
 Speluncie. vivique lacus; hie frigida Tempe, 
 
 Dives opum variarum: hio latis otia fundis, 
 
 Hugitusque bourn, mollesque sub arbore somni. 
 
 Virg. Georg, ii.467. 
 
 Here easy quiet, a secure retreat, 
 
 A harmless life that knows not how to cheat, 
 
 With home bred plenty the rich owner bless, 
 
 And rural pleasures crown his happiness. 
 
 Unvex'd with quarrels, undisturb’d with noise, 
 
 The country king his peaceful realm enjoys : 
 
 Cool grots and living lakes, the fiow’ry pride 
 Of meads, and streams that through the valley glide ; 
 
 - And shady groves, that easy sleep invite, 
 
 And, after toilsome days, a sweet repose at night. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 But though there are several of those wild 
 scenes that are more delightful than any artifi¬ 
 cial shows, yet we find the works of nature still 
 more pleasant, the more they resemble those of 
 art: for in this case our pleasure rises from a 
 double principle; from the agreeabloness of the 
 objects to the eye, and from their similitude to 
 other objects. We are pleased as well with com¬ 
 paring their beauties, as with surveying them and 
 can represent them toour minds, either as copies 
 or originals. Hence it is that we take delight in 
 
 a P[°TT, twhich we ^ ou ^> an d diversified 
 with fields and meadows, woods and rivers- in 
 those accidental landscapes of trees, clouds, and 
 cities, that are sometimes found in the veins of 
 marble; in the curious fretwork of rocks and mot¬ 
 toes; and, in a word, in anything that hath such a' 
 variety or regularity as may seem the effect of de¬ 
 sign in what we call the works of chance. 
 
 If the products of nature rise in value according 
 
 as they more or less resemble those of art, we 
 may be sure that artificial works receive a greater 
 advantage from their resemblance of such as are 
 natural; because here the similitude is not only 
 pleasant, but the pattern more perfect. The pret¬ 
 tiest landscape I ever saw, was one drawn on the 
 walls of a dark room, which stood opposite on 
 one side to a navigable river, and on the other 
 to a park. The experiment is very common in 
 optics. Here you might discover the waves and 
 fluctuations of the water in strong and proper 
 colors, with the picture of a ship entering at one 
 end, and sailing by degrees through the whole 
 piece. On another there appeared the green sha- 
 dows of trees, waving to and fro with the wind, 
 and herds of deer among them in miniature, leap¬ 
 ing about upon the wall. I must confess the no¬ 
 velty of such a sight may be one occasion of its 
 pleasantness to the imagination; but certainly its 
 chief leason is its nearest resemblance to nature, 
 as it does not only, like other pictures, give the 
 color and figure, but the motion of the things it 
 represents. 
 
 We have before observed, that there is generally 
 in nature something more grand and august than 
 what we meet with in the curiosities of art. 
 When, therefore, we see this imitated in any 
 measure, it gives us a nobler and more exalted 
 kind of pleasure than what we received from the 
 nicer and more accurate productions of art. On 
 this account our English gardens are not so en¬ 
 tertaining to the fancy as those in France and 
 Italy, where we see a large extent of ground 
 covered over with an agreeable mixture of garden 
 and forest, which represent everywhere an arti¬ 
 ficial rudeness, much more charming than that 
 neatness and elegancy which we meet with in those 
 of our own country. It might indeed be of ill con¬ 
 sequence to the public, as well as unprofitable to 
 private persons, to alienate so much ground from 
 pasturage and the plow, in many parts of a 
 country that is so well peopled, and cultivated to 
 a fai greater advantage. But why may not a 
 whole estate be thrown into a kind of garden by 
 frequent plantations, that may turn as much to 
 the profit as the pleasure of the owner ? A marsh 
 overgrown with willows, or a mountain shaded 
 with oaks, are not only more beautiful, but more 
 beneficial, than when they lie bare and unadorned. 
 Fields of corn make a pleasant prospect; and if 
 the walks were a little taken care of that lie be¬ 
 tween them, if the natural embroidery of the 
 meadows were helped and improved by some 
 small additions of art, and the several rows of 
 hedges set off by trees and flowers that the soil 
 was capable of receiving, a man might make a 
 pretty landscape of his own possessions. 
 
 Writers who have given us an account of China, 
 tell us the inhabitants of that country laugh at the 
 plantations of our Europeans, which are laid out 
 by the rule and line; because, they say, any per¬ 
 son may place trees in equal rows and uniform 
 figuies. 1 hey choose rather to show a genius in 
 works of this nature, and therefore always con¬ 
 ceal the art by which they direct themselves. 
 
 I hey have a word, it seems, in their language, by 
 which they express the particular beauty of a 
 plantation that thus strikes the imagination at 
 first sight, without discovering what it is that 
 has so agreeable an effect. Our British gardeners, 
 on the contrary, instead of humoring nature, love 
 to deviate from it as much as possible. Our 
 trees rise in cones, globes, and pyramids. We 
 Aee the marks of the scissors upon every plant 
 and bush. I do not know whether I am singular 
 in my opinion, but for my own part, I would ra¬ 
 ther look upon a tree in all its luxuriancy and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 502 
 
 diffusion of boughs and branches, than when it is 
 thus cut and trimmed into a mathematical figure; 
 and cannot but fancy that an orchard in flower 
 looks infinitely more delightful thdh all the little 
 labyrinths of the most finished parterre. But, as 
 our great modelers of gardens have their magazines 
 of plants to dispose of, it is very natural for them 
 to tear up all the beautiful plantations of fruit- 
 trees, and contrive a plan that may most turn to 
 their own profit, in taking off their evergreens, 
 and the like movable plants, with which their 
 shops are plentifully stocked.—0. 
 
 Ho. 415.] THURSDAY, JUNE 26, 1712. 
 
 PAPER V. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Of architecture, as it affects the imagination. Greatness in 
 architecture relates either to the bulk or to the manner. 
 Greatness of hulk in the ancient oriental buildings. The 
 ancient accounts of these buildings confirmed. 1. From the 
 advantages for raising such works, in the first ages of the 
 world, and in eastern climates; 2. From several of them 
 which are still extant. Instances how greatness of manner 
 affects the imagination. A French author’s observations 
 on this subject. Why concave and convex figures give a 
 greatness of manner to works of architecture. Everything 
 that pleases the imagination in architecture, is either great, 
 beautiful, or new. 
 
 Adde tot egregias urbes, operumque laborem. 
 
 Yirg. Georg, ii, 155. 
 
 Witness our cities of illustrious name, 
 
 Their costly labor, and stupendous frame.—D ryden. 
 
 Having already shown how the fancy is affected 
 by the works of nature, and afterward considered 
 in general both the works of nature and of art, 
 how they mutually assist and complete each other 
 in forming such scenes and prospects as are most 
 apt to delight the mind of the beholder, I shall 
 in this paper throw together some reflections on 
 that particular art, which has more immediate ten¬ 
 dency, than any other, to produce those primary 
 leasures of the imagination which have hitherto 
 een the subject of this discourse. The art I mean 
 is that of architecture, which I shall consider 
 only with regard to the light in which the fore¬ 
 going speculations have placed it, without enter¬ 
 ing into those rules and maxims which the great 
 masters of architecture have laid down, and ex¬ 
 plained at large in numberless treatises upon that 
 subject. 
 
 Greatness in the works of architecture may be 
 considered as relating to the bulk and body of 
 structure, or to the manner in which it is built. 
 As for the first, we find the ancients, especially 
 among the eastern nations of the world, infinitely 
 superior to the moderns. 
 
 Not to mention the tower of Babel, of which an 
 old author says, there were the foundations to be 
 seen in his time, which looked like a spacious 
 mountain; what could be more noble than the 
 walls of Babylon, its hanging gardens, and its 
 temple to Jupiter Belus, that rose a mile high 
 by eight several stories, each story a furlong in 
 height, and on the top of which was the Babylon¬ 
 ian observatory? I might here, likewise, take 
 notice of the huge rock that was cut into the 
 figure of Semiramis, with the smaller rocks that 
 lay by it in the shape of tributary kings; the pro¬ 
 digious basin, or artificial lake, wnich took in 
 the whole Euphrates, till such time as a new 
 canal was formed for its reception, with the seve¬ 
 ral trenches through which that river was con¬ 
 veyed. I know there are persons who look upon 
 some of these wonders of art as fabulous; but I 
 
 cannot find any grounds for such a suspicion; un¬ 
 less it be that we have no such works among us 
 at present. There were indeed, many greater 
 advantages for building in those times, albd in 
 that part of the world, than have been met with 
 ever since. The earth was extremely fruitful; 
 men lived generally on pasturage, which requires 
 a much smaller number of hands than agricidture. 
 There were few trades to employ the busy part of 
 mankind, and fewer arts and sciences to give 
 work to men of speculative tempers; and what is 
 more than all the rest, the prince was absolute; so 
 that, when he went to war, he put himself at the 
 head of the whole people; as we find Semiramis 
 leading her three millions to the field, and yet 
 overpowered by the number of her enemies. It 
 is no wonder therefore when she was at peace, 
 and turned her thoughts on building, that she 
 could accomplish such great works, with such a 
 prodigious multitude of laborers: beside that ill 
 her climate there was small interruption of frosts 
 and winters, which make the northern workmen lie 
 half a year idle. I might mention, too, among the 
 benefits of the climate, what historians say of the 
 earth, that it sweated out a bitumen, or natural 
 kind of mortar, which is doubtless the same with 
 that mentioned in the holy writ, as contributing 
 to the structure of Babel; “ Slime they used in¬ 
 stead of mortar.” 
 
 In Egypt we still see their pyramids, which 
 answer to the descriptions that have been made 
 of them; and I question not but a traveler might 
 find out some remains of the labyrinth that 
 covered a whole province, and had a hundred 
 temples disposed among its several quarters and 
 divisions. 
 
 The wall of China is one of these eastern pieces 
 of magnificence, which makes a figure even in the 
 map of the world, although an account of it would 
 have been thought fabulous, were not the wall 
 itself still extant. 
 
 We are obliged to devotion for the noblest 
 buildings that have adorned the several countries 
 of the world. It is this which has set men at 
 work on temples and public places of worship, 
 not only that they might, by the magnificence of 
 the building invite the Deity to reside within it, 
 but that such stupendous works might, at the 
 same time, open the mind to vast conceptions, 
 and fit it to converse with the divinity of the 
 place. For everything that is majestic imprints 
 an awfulness and reverence on the mind of the 
 beholder, and strikes in with the natural greatness 
 of the soul. 
 
 In the second place we are to consider greatness 
 of manner in architecture, which has such force 
 upon the imagination, that a small building, 
 where it appears, shall give the mind nobler ideas 
 than one of twenty times the bulk, where the 
 manner is ordinary or little. Thus, perhaps, a 
 man would have been more astonished with the 
 majestic air that appeared in one of Lysippus’s 
 statues of Alexander, though no bigger than life, 
 than he might have been with mount Atlios, had 
 it been cut into the figure of the hero, according 
 to the proposal of Phidias,* with a river in one 
 hand, and a city in the other. 
 
 Let any one reflect on the disposition of mind 
 he finds in himself at his first entrance into the 
 Pantheon at Rome, and how his imagination is 
 filled with something great and amazing; and, at 
 the same time, consider how little, in proportion, 
 he is affected with the inside of a Gothic cathe¬ 
 dral, though it be five times larger than the other; 
 which can arise from nothing else but the great- 
 
 * Dinocrates. 
 
TIIE SPE 
 
 ness of the manner in the one, and the meanness 
 in the other. 
 
 I have seen an observation upon this subject in 
 a French author, which very much pleased me. 
 It is in Monsieur Freart’s Parallel of the ancient 
 and modern Architecture. I shall give it the reader 
 with the same terms of art which he has made use 
 of. “I am observing,” says he, “a thing which, 
 in my opinion, is very curious, whence it proceeds 
 that in the same quantity of superficies, the one 
 manner seems great and magnificent, and the other 
 poor and trifling; the reason is fine and uncom¬ 
 mon. I sav, then, that to introduce into architecture 
 this grandeur of manner, we ought so to proceed 
 that the division of the principal members of the 
 order may consist but of few parts, that they be all 
 great, and of a bold and ample relievo, and swell- 
 ing ; and that the eye, beholding nothing little 
 and mean, the imagination may be more vigor¬ 
 ously touched and affected with the work that 
 stands before it. For example: in a cornice, if 
 the gola, or cymatium of the corona, the coping, 
 the modillions or dentilli, make a noble show by 
 their graceful projections, if we see none of that 
 ordinary confusion which is the result of those lit¬ 
 tle cavities, quarter rounds of the astragal, and I 
 know not how many other intermingled particu¬ 
 lars, which produce no effect in great and massy 
 works, and which very unprofitably take up place 
 to the prejudice of the principal member, it is most 
 certain that this manner will appear solemn and 
 great; as, on the contrary, that it will have but a 
 poor and mean effect, where there is a redundancy 
 of those smaller ornaments, which divide and scat¬ 
 ter the angles of the sight into such a multitude 
 of rays, so pressed together that the whole will 
 appear but a confusion.” 
 
 Among all the figures in architecture, there are 
 none that have a greater air than the concave and 
 the convex ; and we find in the ancient and mod¬ 
 ern architecture, as well in the remote parts of 
 China, as in countries nearer home, that round 
 pillars and vaulted roofs make a great part of 
 those buildings which are designed for pomp and 
 magnificence. The reason I take to be, because 
 in these figures we generally see more of the body 
 than in those of other kinds. There are, indeed, 
 figures of bodies, where the eye may take in two- 
 thirds of the surface ; but, as in such bodies, the 
 sight must split upon several angles, it does not 
 take in one uniform idea, but several ideas of the 
 same kind. Look upon the outside of a dome, 
 your eye half surrounds it; look upon the inside, 
 and at one glance you have all the prospect of it; 
 the entire concavity falls into your eye at once, 
 the sight being at the center that collects and 
 gathers into it the lines of the whole circumfer¬ 
 ence : in a square pillar, the sight often takes in 
 but a fourth part of the surface ; and in a square 
 concave must move up and down to the different 
 sides, before it is master of all the inward surface. 
 For this reason, the fancy is infinitely more struck 
 with the view of the open air and skies, that 
 passes through an arch, than what comes through 
 a square, or any other figure. The figure of die 
 rainbow does not contribute less to its magnifi¬ 
 cence than the colors to its beauty, as it is very 
 poetically described by the son of Siracli: “Look 
 upon the rainbow, and praise Him that made it; 
 very beautiful is it in its brightness; it encom¬ 
 passes the heavens with a glorious circle, and the 
 hands of the Most High have bended it.” 
 
 Having thus spoken of that greatness which af¬ 
 fects the mind in architecture, I might next show 
 the pleasure that arises in the imagination from 
 what, appears new and beautiful in this art; but 
 as every beholder has naturally a greater taste of ' 
 
 CTATOR. 503 
 
 these two perfections in every building which of¬ 
 fers itself to his view, than of that which I have 
 hitherto considered, I shall not trouble my read¬ 
 ers with any reflections upon it. It is sufficient 
 for my present purpose to observe, that there is 
 nothing in this whole art which pleases the ima¬ 
 gination, but as it is great, uncommon, or beauti¬ 
 ful.—0. 
 
 No. 416.] FRIDAY, JUNE 27, 1712. 
 
 PAPER VI. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The secondary pleasures of the imagination. The several 
 sources of these pleasures (statuary, painting, description, 
 and music) compared together. The final cause of our re¬ 
 ceiving pleasure from these several sources. Of descrip¬ 
 tions in particular. The power of words over the ima¬ 
 gination. Why one reader is more pleased with descrip¬ 
 tions than another. 
 
 Quatenu hoc simile est oculis, quod mente videmus. 
 
 Lucr. ix. 754. 
 
 So far as what we see with our minds, bears similitude to 
 what we see with our eyes. 
 
 I at first divided the pleasures of the imagina¬ 
 tion into such as arise from objects that are 
 actually before our eyes, or that once entered into 
 our eyes, and are afterward called up into the 
 mind either barely by its own operations, or on 
 occasion of something without us, as statues or 
 descriptions. We have already considered the 
 first division, and shall therefore enter on the 
 other, which, for distinction sake, I have called 
 “ The Secondary Pleasures of the Imagination.” 
 When I say the ideas we receive from statues, 
 descriptions, or such-like occasions, are the same 
 that were once actually in our view, it must not 
 be understood that we had once seen the very 
 place, action, or person, that are carved or de¬ 
 scribed. It is sufficient that we have seen places, 
 persons, or actions in general, which bear a re¬ 
 semblance, or at least some remote analogy, with 
 what we find represented ; since it is in the power 
 of the imagination, when it is once stocked with 
 particular ideas, to enlarge, compound, and vary 
 them at her own pleasure. 
 
 Among the different kinds of representation, 
 statuary is the most natural, and shows us some¬ 
 thing likest the object that is represented. To 
 make use of a common instance : let one who is 
 born blind take an image in his hands, and trace 
 out with Ids fingers the different furrows and im¬ 
 pressions of the chisel, and he will easily con¬ 
 ceive how the shape of a man, or beast may be 
 represented by it ; but should he draw his hand 
 over a picture, where all is smooth and uniform, 
 he would never be able to imagine how the several 
 prominences and depressions of a human body 
 should be shown on a plain piece of canvas, that 
 has in it no unevenness or irregularity. Descrip¬ 
 tion runs yet farther from the things it represents 
 than painting; for a picture bears a real resem¬ 
 blance to the original, which letters and syllables 
 are wholly void of. Colors speak all languages, 
 but words are understood only by such a people 
 or nation. For this reason, though men’s neces¬ 
 sities quickly put them on finding out speech, 
 writing is probably of a later invention than 
 painting ; particularly we are told that in Ameri¬ 
 ca, when the Spaniards first arrived there, ex¬ 
 presses were sent to the Emperor of Mexico in 
 paint, and the news of his country delineated by 
 the strokes of a pencil, which was a more natural 
 way than that of writing, though at the same 
 time much more imperfect, because it is impossi¬ 
 ble to draw the little connections of speech, or to 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 504 
 
 give the picture of a conjunction or an adverb. 
 It would yet be more strange to represent visible 
 objects by sounds that have no ideas annexed to 
 them, and to make something like description in 
 music. Yet it is certain, there may be confused, 
 imperfect notions of this nature raised in the im¬ 
 agination by an artificial composition of notes 
 and we find that great masters in the art are 
 able, sometimes to set their hearers in the heat 
 and hurry of a battle, tOv overcast their minds 
 with melancholy scenes and apprehensions of 
 deaths and funerals, or to lull them into pleasing 
 dreams of groves and elysiums. 
 
 In all these instances, this secondary pleasure 
 of the imagination proceeds from that action of 
 the mind which compares the ideas arising from 
 the original objects with the ideas we receive 
 from the statue, picture, description or sound, 
 that represents them. It is impossible for us to 
 give the necessary reason why this operation of 
 the mind is attended with so much pleasure, as I 
 have before observed on the same occasion ; but 
 we find a great variety of entertainments derived 
 from this single principle ; for it is this that not 
 only gives us a relish of statuary, painting, and 
 description, but makes us delight in all the ac¬ 
 tions and arts of mimicry. It is this that makes 
 the several kinds of wit pleasant, which consists, 
 as I have formerly shown, in the affinity of ideas: 
 and we may add, it is this also that raises the lit¬ 
 tle satisfaction we sometimes find in the different 
 sorts of false wit ; whether it consists in the 
 affinity of letters, as an anagram, acrostic ; or of 
 syllables, as in doggerel rhymes, echoes ; or of 
 words, as in puns, quibbles ; or of a whole sen¬ 
 tence or poem, as wings and altars. The final 
 cause, probably of annexing pleasure to this opera¬ 
 tion of the mind, was to quicken and encourage us 
 in our searches after truth, since the distinguishing 
 one thing from another, and the right discerning 
 betwixt our ideas, depend wholly upon our compa¬ 
 ring them together, and observing the congruity or 
 disagreement that appears among the several works 
 of nature. 
 
 But I shall here confine myself to those pleas¬ 
 ures of the imagination which proceed from ideas 
 raised by words, because most of the observations 
 that agree with descriptions are equally applica¬ 
 ble to painting and statuary. 
 
 Words, when well chosen, have so great a force 
 in them, that a description often gives us more 
 lively ideas than the sight of things themselves. 
 The reader finds a scene drawn in stronger colors, 
 and painted more to the life in his imagination, 
 by the help of words, than by an actual survey 
 of the scenes which they describe. In this case, 
 the poet seems to get the better of nature : he 
 takes, indeed, the landscape after her, but gives it 
 more vigorous touches, heightens its beauty, and 
 so enlivens the whole piece, that the images which 
 flow from the objects themselves appear weak and 
 faint, in comparison of those that come from the 
 expressions. The reason, probably, may be, be¬ 
 cause in the survey of any object, we have only 
 so much of it painted on the imagination as 
 comes in at the eye ; but in its description, the 
 poet gives us as free a view of it as he pleases, 
 and discovers to us several parts, that either we 
 did not attend to, or that lay out of our sight 
 when we first beheld it. As we look on any 
 object, our idea of it is, perhaps, made up of two 
 or three simple ideas ; but when the poet repre¬ 
 sents it, he may either give us a more complex 
 idea of it, or only raise in us such ideas as are 
 most apt to affect the imagination. 
 
 It may be here worth our while to examine how 
 it comes to pass that several readers, who are all 
 
 acquainted with the same language, and know 
 the meaning of the words they read, should nev¬ 
 ertheless have a different relish of the same de¬ 
 scriptions. We find one transported with a pas¬ 
 sage, which another runs over with coldness and 
 indifference; or finding the representation ex¬ 
 tremely natural, where another can perceive noth¬ 
 ing of likeness and conformity. This different 
 taste must proceed either from the perfection 
 of imagination in one more than in another, or 
 from the different ideas that several readers affix 
 to the same words. For, to have a true relish and 
 form a right judgment of a description, a man 
 should be born with a good imagination, and 
 must have well weighed the force and energy that 
 lie in the several words of a language, so as to be 
 able to distinguish which are most significant 
 and expressive of their proper ideas, and what 
 additional strength and beauty they are capable 
 of receiving from conjunction with others. The 
 fancy must be warm, to retain the print of those 
 images it hath received from outward objects, and 
 the judgment discerning, to know what express-, 
 ions are most proper to clothe and adorn them to 
 the best advantage. A man who is deficient in 
 either of these respects, though he may receive 
 the general notion of a description, can never see 
 distinctly all its particular beauties ; as a person 
 with a weak sight may have the confused prospect 
 of a place that lies before him, without entering 
 into its several parts, or discerning the variety of 
 its colors in their full glory and perfection.—0. 
 
 No. 417.] SATURDAY, JUNE 28, 1712. 
 
 PAPER VII. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 How a whole set of ideas hang together, etc. A natural cause 
 assigned for it. How to perfect the imagination of a writer. 
 Who among the ancient poets had this faculty in its great¬ 
 est perfection. Homer excelled in imagining what is great; 
 Virgil in imagining what is beautiful; Ovid in imagining 
 what is new. Our countryman, Milton, very perfect in all 
 these three respects. 
 
 Quem tu, Melpomene, semel 
 Nascentem placido lumine videris, 
 
 Non ilium labor Istlimius 
 Clarabit pugilem, non equus impiger, etc. 
 
 Sed quas Tibur aquae fertile perfluunt, 
 
 Et spissse nemorum comae, 
 
 Fingent iEolio carmine nobilem.— IIOR. 4 Od.iii, 1 
 
 He on whose birth the lyric queen 
 Of numbers smil’d, shall never grace 
 The Isthmian gauntlet, or be seen 
 First in the fam’d Olympic race. 
 
 But him the streams that warbling flow 
 Rich Tibur's fertile meads along, 
 
 And shady groves, his haunts shall know, 
 
 The master of th’ iEolian song.— Atterbury. 
 
 We may observe, that any single circumstance 
 of what we have formerly seen often raises up a 
 whole scene of imagery, and awakens numberless 
 ideas that before slept in the imaginat ion ; such a 
 particular smell or color is able to fill the mind, 
 on a sudden, with the picture of the fields or gar¬ 
 dens where we first met with it, and to bring up into 
 view all the variety of images that once attended 
 it. Our imagination takes the hint, and leads us 
 unexpectedly into cities or theaters, plains or 
 meadows. We may further observe, when the 
 fancy thus reflects on the scenes that have passed 
 in it formerly, those which were at first pleasant 
 to behold, appear more so upon reflection, and 
 that the memory heightens the delightfulness of 
 the original. A Cartesian would account for both 
 these instances in the following manner : 
 
 The set of ideas which we receive from such a 
 prospect or garden, having entered the mind at the 
 same time, have a set of traces, belongingto them 
 
THE SPE 
 
 in the brain, bordering very near upon one an¬ 
 other; when, therefore, any one of these ideas 
 arises in the imagination, and consequently dis¬ 
 patches a flow of animal spirits to its proper 
 trace, these spirits, in the violence of their motion, 
 run not only into the trace to which they were 
 more particularly directed, but into several of 
 those that lie about it. By this means, they 
 awaken other ideas of the same set, which imme¬ 
 diately determine a new dispatch of spirits, that 
 in the same manner open other neighboring traces, 
 till at last the whole set of them is blown up, and 
 the whole prospect or garden flourishes in the ima¬ 
 gination. But because the pleasure we receive 
 from these places far surmounted, and overcame 
 the little disagreeable ness we found in them, for 
 this reason there was at first a wider passage worn 
 in the pleasure traces, and on the contrary, so 
 narrow a one in those which belonged to the dis¬ 
 agreeable ideas, that they were quickly stopped 
 up, and rendered incapable of receiving any ani¬ 
 mal spirits, and consequently of exciting any 
 unpleasant ideas in the memory. 
 
 It would be in vain to inquire whether the 
 power of imagining things strongly proceeds from 
 any greater perfection in the soul, or from any 
 nicer texture in the brain of one man than of 
 another. But this is certain, that a noble writer 
 should be born with this faculty in its full strength 
 and vigor, so as to be able to receive lively ideas 
 from outward objects, to retain them long, and to 
 range them together upon occasion, in such figures 
 and representations, as are most likely to hit the 
 fancy of the reader. A poet should take as much 
 pains in forming his imagination, as a philosopher 
 in cultivating his understanding. He must gain 
 a due relish^of the works of nature, and be thor¬ 
 oughly conversant in the various scenery of a 
 country life. 
 
 When he is stored with country images, if he 
 would go beyond pastoral, and the lower kinds of 
 poetry, he ought to acquaint himself with the 
 pomp and magnificence of courts. He should be 
 very well versed in everything that is noble and 
 stately in the productions of art, whether it ap¬ 
 pear in painting or statuary; in the great works 
 of architecture which are in their present glory, 
 or in the ruins of those which flourished in for¬ 
 mer ages. 
 
 Such advantages as these help to open a man’s 
 thoughts, and to enlarge his imagination, and will 
 therefore have their influence on all kinds of 
 writing, if the author knows how to make right 
 use of them. And among those of the learned 
 languages who excel in this talent, the most per¬ 
 fect in their several kinds are perhaps Homer, 
 Virgil, and Ovid. The first strikes the imagina¬ 
 tion wonderfully with what is great, the second 
 with what is beautiful, and the last, with what is 
 strange. Reading the Iliad is like traveling through 
 a country uninhabited, where the fancy is enter¬ 
 tained with a thousand savage prospects of vast 
 deserts, wide, uncultivated marshes, huge forests, 
 misshapen rocks and precipices. On the contrary, 
 the HEneid is like a well-ordered garden, where it 
 is impossible to find out any part "unadorned, or to 
 cast our eyes upon a single spot that does not pro¬ 
 duce some beautiful plant or flower. But when 
 we are in the Metamorphoses, we are walking on 
 enchanted ground, and see nothing but scenes of 
 magic lying around us. 
 
 Horner is in his province when he is describing 
 a battle or a multitude, a hero or a god. Virgil is 
 never better pleased than when he is in his elys- 
 ium, or copying out an entertaining picture. Ho¬ 
 mer’s epithets generally mark out what is great ; 
 Virgil’s what is agreeable. Nothing can be more 
 
 CTATOR. 505 
 
 magnificent than the figure Jupiter makes in the 
 first Iliad, nor more charming than that of Venus 
 in the first HEneid. 
 
 He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows, 
 
 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod, 
 
 The stamp of Fate, and sanction of the god: 
 
 High heav n with trembling the dread signal took, 
 
 And all Olympus to the center shook.— Pope. 
 
 Dixit: et avertens rosea cervice refulsit 
 Ambrosiaeijue coma) divinum vertice odorem 
 Spiravere; pedes vestis defluxit ad imos, 
 
 Et vera incessu patuit dea.- Virg. iEn. i. 406. 
 
 Thus having said, she turn’d and made appear 
 Her neck refulgent, and dishevel’d hair; 
 
 Which, flowing from her shoulders, reach’d the ground, 
 And widely spread ambrosial scents around: 
 
 In length of train descends her sweeping gown, 
 
 And by her graceful walk the queen of love is known. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Homer’s persons are most of them godlike and 
 terrible; Virgil has scarce admitted any into his 
 poem who are not beautiful, and has taken partic¬ 
 ular care to make his hero so. 
 
 •-Lumenque juventae 
 
 Purpureum, et lastos ocuiis aftlarat honores. 
 
 Virg. iEn. i. 594. 
 
 And gave his rolling eyes a sparkling grace, 
 
 And breath’d a youthful vigor on his face.—D ryden. 
 
 In a word, Homer fills his readers with sublime 
 ideas, and I believe has raised the imagination of 
 all the good poets that have come after him. I 
 shall only instance Horace, who immediately takes 
 fire at the first hint of any passage in the Iliad or 
 Odyssey, and always rises above himself when he 
 has Homer in his view. Virgil has drawn to¬ 
 gether into his HEneid, all the pleasing scenes 
 his subject is capable of admitting, and, in his 
 Georgies, has given us a collection of the most 
 delightful landscapes that can be made out of 
 fields and woods, herds of cattle, and swarms of 
 bees. 
 
 Ovid, in his Metamorphoses, has shown us how 
 the imagination may be affected by what is strange. 
 He describes a miracle in every story, and always 
 gives us the sight of some new creature at the end 
 of it. His art consists chiefly in well-timing his 
 description, before the first shape is quite worn 
 off, and the new one perfectly finished ; so that 
 he everywhere entertains us with something wo 
 never saw before, and shows us monster after mon¬ 
 ster to the end of the Metamorphoses. 
 
 If I were to name a poet that is a perfect master 
 in all these arts of working on the imagination, I 
 think Milton may pass for one ; and if his Paradise 
 Lost falls short of the HEneid or Iliad in this re¬ 
 spect, it proceeds rather from the fault of the lan¬ 
 guage in which it is written, than from any defect 
 of genius in the author. So divine a poem in En¬ 
 glish is like a stately palace built of brick, where 
 one may see architecture in as great a perfection 
 as one of marble, though the materials are of a 
 coarser nature. But to consider it only as it re¬ 
 gards our present subject; what can be conceived 
 greater than the battle of angels, the majesty of 
 Messiah, the stature and behavior of Satan and his 
 peers ? What more beautiful than Pandaemonium, 
 Paradise, Heaven, Angels, Adam, and Eve? What 
 more strange than the creation of the world, the 
 several metamorphoses of the fallen angels, and 
 the surprising adventures their leader meets with 
 in his search after Paradise? No other subject 
 could have furnished a poet with scenes so proper 
 to strike the imagination, as no other poet could 
 have painted those scenes in more strong and lively 
 colors.—0. 
 
506 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No 418.J MONDAY, JUNE 30, 1712. 
 
 PAPER VIII, 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Why anything that is unpleasant to behold pleases the im¬ 
 agination when well described. Why the imagination re¬ 
 ceives a more exquisite pleasure from the description of 
 what is great, new, or beautiful. The pleasure still height¬ 
 ened if what is described raises passion in the mind. Disa¬ 
 greeable passions pleasing when raised by apt descriptions. 
 Why terror and grief are pleasing to the mind when excited 
 by description. A particular advantage the writers in poetry 
 and fiction have to please the imagination. What liberties 
 are allowed them. 
 
 -Ferat et rubus asper amonum.—Vma. Eel. iii. 89. 
 
 The rugged thorn shall bear the fragrant rose. 
 
 The pleasures of these secondary views of the 
 imagination are of a wider and more universal 
 nature than those it has when joined with sight ; 
 for not only what is great, strange, or beautiful, 
 but anything that is disagreeable when looked upon 
 pleases us in an apt description. Here, therefore, 
 we must inquire after a new principle of pleasure, 
 which is nothing else but the action of the mind, 
 which compares the ideas that arise from words 
 with the ideas that arise from the objects them¬ 
 selves ; and why this operation of the mind is at¬ 
 tended with so much pleasure, we have before con¬ 
 sidered. For this reason, therefore, the description 
 of a dunghill is pleasing to the imagination, if the 
 image be represented to our minds by suitable ex¬ 
 pressions ; though, perhaps, this may be more 
 properly called the pleasure of the understanding 
 than of the fancy, because we are not so much de¬ 
 lighted with the image that is contained in the 
 description, as with the aptness of the description 
 to excite the image. 
 
 But if the description of what is little, common, 
 or deformed, be acceptable to the imagination, the 
 description of what is great, surprising, or beauti¬ 
 ful, is much more so ; because here we are not 
 only delighted with comparing the representation 
 with the original, but are highly pleased with the 
 original itself. Most readers, I believe, are more 
 charmed with Milton’s description of paradise, 
 than of hell ; they are both, perhaps, equally per¬ 
 fect in their kind ; but in the one, the brimstone 
 and sulphur are not so refreshing to the imagina¬ 
 tion, as the beds of flowers and the wilderness of 
 sweets in the other. 
 
 There is yet another circumstance which recom¬ 
 mends a description more than all the rest; and 
 that is, if it represents to us such objects as are apt 
 to raise a secret ferment in the mind of the reader, 
 and to work with violence upon his passions. For, 
 in this case, we are at once warned and enlightened, 
 so that the pleasure becomes more universal, and 
 is several ways qualified to entertain us. Thus in 
 painting, it is pleasant to look on the picture of 
 any face where the resemblance is hit; but the 
 pleasure increases if it be the picture of a face that 
 is beautiful, and is still greater, if the beauty be 
 softened with an air of melancholy or sorrow. The 
 two leading passions which the more serious parts 
 of poetry endeavor to stir up in us are terror and 
 pity. And here, by the way, one would wonder 
 how it comes to pass that such passions as are 
 very unpleasant at all other times, are very agree¬ 
 able when excited by proper descriptions. It is not 
 strange that we should take delight in such pas¬ 
 sages as are apt to produce hope, joy, admiration, 
 love, or the like emotions, in us, because they ne¬ 
 ver rise in the mind without an inward pleasure 
 which attends them. But how comes it to pass 
 that we should take delight in being terrified or 
 dejected by a description, when we find so much 
 
 uneasiness in the fear or grief which we receive 
 from any other occasion ? 
 
 If we consider, therefore, the nature of this plea¬ 
 sure, we shall find that it does not arise so properly 
 from the description of what is terrible, as from the 
 reflection we make on ourselves at the time of read¬ 
 ing it. When we look on such hideous objects, we 
 are not a little pleased to think we are in no dan¬ 
 ger of them.* We consider them, at the same time, 
 as dreadful and harmless ; so that, the more fright¬ 
 ful appearance they make, the greater is the plea¬ 
 sure we receive from the sense of our own safety. 
 In short, we look upon the terrors of a description 
 with the same curiosity and satisfaction that we 
 survey a dead monster. 
 
 -Informe cadave 
 
 Protrahitur: nequeunt expleri corda tuendo 
 Terribiles oculos, vultum, villosaque setis 
 Pectori semiferi, atque extinctos saucibus ignes. 
 
 Virg. iEn. viii. 264. 
 
 -They drag him from his den. 
 
 The wond’ring neighborhood, with glad surprise, 
 
 Behold his shagged breast, his giant size, 
 
 His mouth that fiames no more, and his extinguish’d eyes. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 It is for the same reason that we are delighted with 
 the reflecting upon dangers that are past, or in 
 looking on a precipice at a distance, which would 
 fill us with a different kind of horror if we saw it 
 hanging over our heads. 
 
 In the like maimer, when we read of torments, 
 wounds, deaths, and the like dismal accidents, our 
 pleasure does not flow so properly from the grief 
 which such melancholy descriptions give us, as 
 from the secret comparison which we make be¬ 
 tween ourselves and the person who suffers. Such 
 representations teach us to set a just value upon 
 our own condition, and make us prize our good 
 fortune, which exempts us from the like calamities. 
 This is, however, such a kind of pleasure as we 
 are not capable of receiving, when we see a person 
 actually lying under the tortures that we meet 
 with in a description ; because, in this case, the 
 object presses too close upon our senses, and bears 
 so hard upon us, that it does not give us time or 
 leisure to reflect on ourselves. Our thoughts are 
 so intent upon the miseries of the sufferer, that we 
 cannot turn them upon our own happiness. 
 Whereas, on the contrary, we consider the misfor¬ 
 tunes we read in history or poetry, either as past 
 or as fictitious ; so that the reflection upon our¬ 
 selves rises in us insensibly, and overbears the 
 sorrow we conceive for the sufferings of the af¬ 
 flicted. 
 
 But because the mind of man requires some¬ 
 thing more perfect in matter than what it finds 
 there, and can never meet with any sight in nature 
 which sufficiently answers its highest ideas of 
 pleasantness; or, in other words, because the 
 imagination can fancy to itself things more great, 
 strange, or beautiful, than the eye ever saw, and 
 is still sensible of some defect in what it has 
 seen ; on this account, it is the part of a poet 
 to humor the imagination in our own notions, by 
 mending and perfecting nature where he describes 
 a reality, and by adding greater beauties than 
 are put together in nature, where he describes a 
 fiction. 
 
 He is not obliged to attend her in the slow ad¬ 
 vances which she makes from one season to an¬ 
 other or to observe her conduct in the successive 
 production of plants and flowers. He may draw 
 into his description all the beauties of the spring 
 and autumn, and make the whole year contribute 
 something to render it the more ageeeable. His 
 
 * Suave mari magno turbantibus sequora yeutis, etc. 
 
 Lucr 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 507 
 
 rose-trees, woodbines, and jessamines, may flower 
 together, and his beds be covered at the same tune 
 with lilies, violets, &nd fln 13 .r 3 .nths. His soil is 
 not restrained to any particular set of plants, but 
 is proper either for oaks or myrtles, and adapts 
 itself to the products of every climate. Oranges 
 may grow wild in it; myrrh may be met with in 
 every hedge ; and if he thinks it proper to have a 
 grove of spices, he can quickly command sun 
 enough to raise it. If all this will not furnish out 
 an agreeable scene, he can make several new spe¬ 
 cies of flowers, with richer scents and higher col¬ 
 ors than any that grow in the gardens of nature. 
 His concerts of birds may be as lull and harmoni¬ 
 ous, and his woods as thick and gloomy as lie 
 pleases. He is at no more expense in along vista 
 than a short one, and can as easily throw his cas¬ 
 cades from a precipice of half a mile high, as from 
 one of twenty yards. He has his choice of the 
 winds, and can turn the course of his rivers in all 
 the variety of meanders that are most delighttu 
 to the reader’s imagination. In a word, he has the 
 modeling of Nature in his own hands, and may 
 give her what charms he pleases, provided lie 
 does not reform her too much, and run into ab¬ 
 surdities by endeavoring to excel.—0. 
 
 No. 419.] TUESDAY, JULY 1, 1712. 
 
 PAPER IX. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Of that kind of poetry which Mr. Dryden calls “ the fairy way 
 of writing.” How a poet should be qualified for it. lhe 
 pleasures of the imagination that arise from it. this re¬ 
 spect why the moderns excel the ancients. Why the English 
 excel the moderns. Who the best among the English. Of 
 emblematical persons. v 
 
 __mentis gratissimus error. 
 
 HOR. 2 Ep. n. 140. 
 
 The sweet delusion of a raptur d mind. 
 
 There is a kind of writing, wherein the poet 
 quite loses sight of nature, and entertains his 
 reader’s imagination with the characters and ac¬ 
 tions of such persons as have many of them no 
 existence but what lie bestows on them, buch 
 are fairies, witches, magicians, demons, and de¬ 
 parted spirits. This Mr. Dryden calls " the fairy 
 wav of writing,” which is indeed more difficult 
 than any other that depends on the poet’s fancy, 
 because he has no pattern to follow in it, and 
 must work altogether out of his own invention. 
 
 There is a very odd turn of thought required 
 for this sort of writing; and it is impossible for 
 a poet to succeed in it, w T lio has not a paiticu- 
 lar cast of fancy, and an imagination, natural y 
 fruitful and superstitious. Beside this, lie ought 
 to be very 'well versed in legends and iables, 
 antiquated romances, and the traditions of nurses 
 and old women, that he may fall in with our natu¬ 
 ral prejudices, and humor those notions which we 
 have imbibed in our infancy. For otherwise lie 
 will be apt to make his fairies talk like people ol 
 his own species, and not like other sets of beings, 
 who converse with different objects, and think in 
 a different manner from that of mankind. 
 
 Sylvia deducti cqveant, me judicc, fauni, 
 
 Ne velut inati triviis, ac pene foremes, 
 
 Aut nimium teneris juveneutur versibus —• 
 
 IIor. Ars. Poet. v. 244. 
 
 Let not the wood-born aatyr fondly sport 
 
 With am’rous verses, as if bred at court. Francis. 
 
 I do not say, with Mr. Bays, in the Rehearsal that 
 spirits must not be confined to speak sense : but it 
 
 is certain their sense ought to be a little discolored 
 that it may seem particular, and proper to the per¬ 
 son and condition of the speaker. 
 
 These descriptions raise a pleasing kind of hor¬ 
 ror in the mind of the reader, and amuse his ima¬ 
 gination with the strangeness and novelty of the 
 persons w r ho are represented in them. They bring 
 up into our memory the stories we have heard in 
 our childhood, and favor those secret terrors and 
 apprehensions to which the mind of man is natu¬ 
 rally subject. We are pleased with surveying the 
 different habits and behaviors of foreign coun- ./ 
 tries : how much more must we be delighted and 
 surprised when we are led, as it were, into a new 
 creation, and see the persons and manners of 
 another species ! Men of cold fancies, and philo¬ 
 sophical dispositions, object to this kind of poetry, 
 that it has not probability enough to affect the 
 imagination. But to this it may bo answered, 
 that we are sure, in general, there are many intel- 
 lectual beings in the world beside ourselves, and 
 several species of spirits, who are subject to differ¬ 
 ent laws and economies from those of mankind : 
 when we see, therefore, any of these repiesented 
 naturally, we cannot look upon the representation 
 as altogether impossible, nay, many are prepos¬ 
 sessed with such false opinions, as dispose them 
 to believe these particular delusions ; at least we 
 have all heard so many pleasing relations in favor 
 of them, that we do not care for seeing through 
 the falsehood, and willingly give ourselves up to 
 so agreeable an imposture. 
 
 The ancients have not much of this poetry 
 among them ; for, indeed, almost the whole sub- 
 stance of it owes its original to the darkness and 
 superstition of later ages, when pious frauds were 
 made use of to amuse mankind, and frighten them 
 into a sense of their duty. Our forefathers looked 
 upon nature with more reverence and horror, be¬ 
 fore the world was enlightened by learning and 
 philosophy; and loved to astonish themselves 
 with the apprehensions of witchcraft, prodigies, 
 charms, and enchantments. There was not a vil¬ 
 lage in England that had not* a ghost in it; the 
 churchyards were all haunted'; every large com¬ 
 mon had a circle of fairies belonging to it; and 
 there was scarce a shepherd to be met with who 
 
 had not seen a spirit. 
 
 Among all the poets of this kind our English are 
 much the best, by what I have yet seen ; whether 
 it be that we abound with more stories of this na¬ 
 ture, or that the genius of our country is fitter 
 for this sort of poetry. For the English are natu¬ 
 rally fanciful, and very often disposed, by that 
 gloominess and melancholy of temper, which is so 
 frequent in our nation, to many wild notions and 
 visions, to which others are not so liable. < 
 
 Among the English, Shakspeare has incom¬ 
 parably excelled all others. That noble extrava¬ 
 gance of fancy, which he had in so great peifec- 
 tion, thoroughly qualified him to touch this weak, 
 superstitious part of his reader’s imagination ; 
 and made him capable of succeeding, where lie 
 had nothing to support him beside the strength of 
 his own genius. There is something so wild, and 
 yet so solemn, in the speeches of his ghosts, 
 fairies, witches, and the like imaginary persons, 
 that we cannot forbear thinking them natural, 
 though we have no rule by which to judge of 
 them, and must confess, if there are such beings 
 in the world, it looks highly probable they should 
 talk and act as he has represented them. 
 
 There is another sort of imaginary beings, tnat 
 we sometimes meet among the poets, when tlie 
 author represents any passion, appetite, virtue, 
 vice, under a visible shape, and makes . P ' 
 
 I or an actor in his poem. Of this nature aie the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 508 
 
 descriptions of Hunger and Envy in Ovid, of 
 Fame in Virgil, and of Sin and Death in Milton. 
 We find a whole creation of the like shadowy 
 persons in Spenser, who had an admirable talent 
 in representations of this kind. I have discoursed 
 of these emblematical persons in former papers' 
 and shall therefore only mention them in this 
 place. Thus we see how many ways poetry ad¬ 
 dresses itself to the imagination, as it has not 
 only the whole circle of nature for its province, 
 but makes new worlds of its own, shows us per¬ 
 sons who are not to be found in being, and repre¬ 
 sents even the faculties of the soul, with the sev¬ 
 eral virtues and vices, in a sensible shape and 
 character. 
 
 I shall, in my two following papers, consider, 
 in general, how other kinds of writing are quali¬ 
 fied to please the imagination ; with which I in¬ 
 tend to conclude this essay.—0. 
 
 No. 420.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 2, 1712. 
 
 PAPER X. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Wliat authors please the imagination. Who have nothing to 
 do with fiction. IIow history pleases the imagination. How 
 the authors of the new philosophy please the imagination. 
 The bounds and defects of the imagination. Whether 
 these defects are essential to the imagination. 
 
 -Quocunque volent, animum auditoris agunto. 
 
 Hob. Ars. Poet. v. 100. 
 
 And raise men’s passions to what height they will. 
 
 Roscommon. 
 
 As the writers in poetry and fiction borrow their 
 several materials from outward objects, aud join 
 them together at their own pleasure, there are 
 others who are obliged to follow nature more 
 closely, and to take entire scenes out of her. Such 
 are historians, natural philosophers, travelers, 
 geographers, and in a word, all who describe visi¬ 
 ble objects of a real existence. 
 
 It is the most agreeable talent of a historian to 
 be able to draw up his armies and fight his battles 
 in proper expressions, to set before our eyes the 
 divisions, cabals, and jealousies of great men, to 
 lead us step by step into the several actions and 
 events of his history. We love to see the subject 
 unfolding itself by just degrees, and breaking 
 upon us insensibly, that so we may be kept in a 
 pleasing suspense, and have time given us to 
 raise our expectations, and to side with one of the 
 parties concerned in the relation. I confess this 
 shows more the art than the veracity of the histo¬ 
 rian ; but I am only to speak of him as he is 
 qualified to please the imagination, and in this 
 respect Livy has, perhaps, excelled all who ever 
 went before him or have written since his time. 
 He describes everything in so lively a manner, 
 that his whole history is an admirable picture, 
 and touches on such proper circumstances in every 
 story, that his reader becomes a kind of Spectator, 
 and feels in himself all the variety of passions 
 which are correspondent to the several parts of 
 the relation. 
 
 But among this set of writers there are none 
 who more gratify and enlarge the imagination 
 than the authors of the new philosophy, whether 
 we consider their theories of the earth or heavens, 
 the discoveries they have made by glasses, or any 
 other of their contemplations on nature. We are 
 not a little pleased to find every green leaf swarm 
 with millions of animals, that at their largest 
 growth are not visible to the naked eye. There is 
 something very engaging to the fancy, as well as 
 
 to our reason, in the treatises of metals, minerals, 
 plants, and meteors. But when we survey the 
 whole earth at once, and the several planets that 
 lie within its neighborhood, we are filled with a 
 pleasing astonishment, to see so many worlds, 
 hanging one above another, and sliding round 
 their axles in such an amazing pomp and sol¬ 
 emnity. If, after this, we contemplate those wild* 
 fields of ether, that reach in height as far as from 
 Saturn to the fixed stars, and run abroad almost 
 to an infinitude, our imagination finds its capacity 
 filled with so immense a prospect, and puts itself 
 upon the stretch to comprehend it. But if we yet 
 rise higher, and consider the fixed stars as so 
 many vast oceans of flame, that are each of them 
 attended with a different set of planets, and still 
 discover new firmaments and new lights that are 
 sunk further into those unfathomless depths of 
 ether, so as not to be seen by the strongest of our 
 telescopes, we are lost in such a labyrinth of suns 
 and worlds, and confounded with the immensity 
 and magnificence of nature. 
 
 Nothing is more pleasant to the fancy, than to 
 enlarge itself by degrees, in its contemplation of 
 the various proportions which its several objects 
 bear to each other, when it compares the body of 
 man to the bulk of the whole earth, the earth to 
 the circle it describes round the sun, that circle to 
 the sphere of the fixed stars, the sphere of the 
 fixed stars to the circuit of the whole creation, the 
 whole creation itself to the infinite space that is 
 everywhere diffused about it; or when the ima¬ 
 gination works downward, and considers the bulk 
 of a human body in respect of an animal a hun¬ 
 dred times less than a mite, the particular limbs 
 of such an animal, the different springs that 
 actuate the limbs, the spirits which set the springs 
 a-going, and the proportionable minuteness of 
 these several parts, before they have arrived at 
 their full growth and perfection ; but if, after all 
 this, we take the least part of these animal spi¬ 
 rits, and consider its capacity of being wrought 
 into a world that shall contain within those narrow 
 dimensions a heaven and earth, stars and planets, 
 and every different species of living creatures, in 
 the same analogy and proportion they bear to each 
 other in our own universe ; such a speculation, by 
 reason of its nicety, appears ridiculous to those 
 who have not turned their thoughts that way, 
 though at the same time it is founded on no less 
 than the evidence of a demonstration. Nay, we 
 may yet carry it further, and discover in the 
 smallest particle of this little world, a new, inex- 
 hausted fund of matter, capable of being spun out 
 into another universe. 
 
 I have dwelt the longer on this subject, because 
 I think it may show us the proper limits, as well 
 as the defectiveness of our imagination ; how it is 
 confined to a very small quantity of space, and 
 immediately stopped in its operation, when it en¬ 
 deavors to take in anything that is very great or 
 very little. Let a man try to conceive the differ¬ 
 ent bulk of an animal which is twenty, from an¬ 
 other which is a hundred times less than a mite, or 
 to compare in his thoughts a length of a thousand 
 diameters of the earth with that of a million; and 
 he will quickly find that he has no different mea¬ 
 sures in his mind, adjusted to such extraordinary 
 degrees of grandeur or minuteness. The under¬ 
 standing, indeed, opens an infinite space on every 
 side of us ; but the imagination, after a few faint 
 efforts, is immediately at a stand, and finds her¬ 
 self swallowed up in the immensity of the void 
 that surrounds it: our reason can pursue a par- 
 
 
 
 J 
 
 * Vide ed. in folio. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 509 
 
 tide of matter through an infinite variety of divi¬ 
 sions ; but the fancy soon loses sight of it, and 
 feels in itself a kind of chasm, that wants to be 
 filled with matter of a more sensible bulk. We 
 can neither widen nor contract the faculty to the 
 dimensions of either extreme. The object is too 
 big for our capacity when we would comprehend 
 the circumference of a world ; and dwindles into 
 nothing when we endeavor after the idea of an 
 atom. 
 
 It is possible this defect of imagination may 
 not be in the soul itself, but as it acts in conjunc¬ 
 tion with the body. Perhaps there may not be 
 room in the brain for such a variety of impres¬ 
 sions, or the animal spirits may be incapable of 
 figuring them in such a manner as is necessary # 
 to excite so very large or very minute ideas. 
 However it be, we may well suppose that beings 
 of a higher nature very much excel us in this re¬ 
 spect, as it is probable the soul of man will be in¬ 
 finitely more perfect hereafter in this faculty, as 
 well as in all the rest ; insomuch that, perhaps, 
 the imagination will be able to keep pace with 
 the understanding, and to form in itself distinct 
 ideas of all the different modes and quantities of 
 space.—0. 
 
 No. 421.] THURSDAY, JULY 3, 1712. 
 
 PAPER XI. 
 
 ON THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 How those please the imagination who treat of subjects ab¬ 
 stracted from matter, by allusions taken from it. What allu¬ 
 sions most pleasing to the imagination. Great writers how 
 faulty in this respect. Of the art of imagining in general. 
 The imagination capable of'pain as welt as pleasure. In 
 what degree the imagination is capable either of pain or 
 pleasure. 
 
 Ignotis errare locis, ignota videre 
 
 Flumina gaudebat: studio minuente laborem. 
 
 Ovid, Met. vi. 294. 
 
 Tie sought fresh fountains in a foreign soil; 
 
 The pleasure lessen'd the attending toil. —Addison. 
 
 The pleasures of the imagination are not wholly 
 confined to such particular authors as are conver¬ 
 sant in material objects, but are often to be met 
 with among the polite masters of morality, criti¬ 
 cism, and other speculations abstracted from mat¬ 
 ter, who, though they do not directly treat of the 
 visible parts of nature, often draw from them their 
 similitudes, metaphors, and allegories. By these 
 allusions, a truth in the understanding is, as it 
 were, reflected by the imagination; we are able to 
 see something like color and shape in a notion, 
 and to discover a scheme of thoughts traced out 
 upon matter. And here the mind receives a great 
 deal of satisfaction, and has two of its faculties 
 gratified at the same time, while the fancy is busy 
 in copying after the understanding, and transcrib¬ 
 ing ideas out of the intellectual world into the 
 material. 
 
 The great art of a writer shows itself in the 
 choice of pleasing allusions which are generally 
 to be taken from the great or beautiful works of 
 art or nature ; for, though whatever is new or 
 uncommon is apt to delight the imagination, the 
 chief design of an allusion being to illustrate*and 
 explain the passages of an author, it should be 
 always borrowed from what is more known and 
 common, than the passages which are to be ex¬ 
 plained. 
 
 Allegories, when well chosen, are like so many 
 tracks of light in a discourse, that make everything 
 about them clear and beautiful. A noble metaphor, 
 
 when it is placed to an advantage, casts a kind of 
 gloiy round it, and darts a luster through a whole 
 sentence. 1 liese different kinds of allusion are 
 but so many different manners of similitude ; and 
 that they may please the imagination, the likeness 
 ought to be very exact or very agreeable, as we love 
 to see a picture where the resemblance is just, or 
 the posture and air graceful. But we often find 
 eminent writers very faulty in this respect: great 
 scholars are apt to fetch their comparisons and al¬ 
 lusions Bom the sciences in which they are most 
 conversant, so that a man may see the compass of 
 their learning in a treatise on the most indifferent 
 subject. I have read a discourse upon love, which 
 none but a profound chemist could understand, 
 and have heard many a sermon that should only 
 have been preached before a congregation of Car¬ 
 tesians. On the contrary, your men of business 
 usually have recourse to such instances as are too 
 mean and familiar. They are for drawing the 
 reader into a game of chess or tennis, or for lead¬ 
 ing him from shop to shop, in the cant of partic¬ 
 ular tiades and employments. It is certain there 
 may be found an infinite variety of very agreeable 
 allusions in both these kinds j but for the general¬ 
 ity, the most entertaining ones lie in the works of 
 nature, which are obvious to all capacities, and 
 more delightful than what is to be found in arts 
 and sciences. 
 
 It is this talent of affecting the imagination 
 that gives an embellishment to good sense, and 
 makes one man’s compositions more agreeable than 
 another’s. It sets off all writings in general, but 
 is the very life and highest perfection of poetry. 
 Where it shines in an eminent degree, it has pre¬ 
 served several poems for many ages, that have 
 nothing else to recommend them ; and where all 
 the other beauties are present, the work appears 
 dry and insipid if this single one be wanting. It 
 has something in it like creation. It bestows a 
 kind of existence, and draws up to the reader’s 
 view several objects which are not to be found in 
 being. It makes additions to nature, and gives a 
 greater variety to God’s works. In a word, it is 
 able to beautify and adorn the most illustrious 
 scenes in the universe, or to fill the mind with more 
 glorious shows and apparitions than can be found 
 in any part of it. 
 
 We have now discovered the several originals of 
 those pleasures that gratify the fancy ; and here, 
 perhaps, it would not be very difficult to cast un¬ 
 der their proper heads those contrary objects 
 which are apt to fill it with distaste and terror \ 
 for the imagination is as liable to pain as plea¬ 
 sure. When the brain is hurt by any accident, or 
 the mind disordered by dreams or sickness, the 
 fancy is overrun with wild dismal ideas, and ter¬ 
 rified with a thousand hideous monsters of its own 
 framing. 
 
 Eumenidum veluti demens videt agmina Pentheus, 
 
 Et solem geminum, et duplices se ostendere Thebas: 
 
 Aut Agamemnonius scenis agitatus Orestes, 
 
 Armatam facibus matrem et serpentibus atris 
 Cum fugit, ultricesque sedent in limine Dirae. 
 
 ViRG.iEn.iv. 469. 
 
 Like Pentheus, when distracted with his fear, 
 lie saw two suns, and double Thebes, appear; 
 
 Or mad Orestes, when his mother’s ghost 
 Full in his face infernal torches tost, 
 
 And shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight, 
 
 Flies o’er the stage, surpris’d with mortal fright; 
 
 The Furies guard the door, and intercept his flight. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 There is not a sight in nature so mortifying as 
 that of a distracted person, when his imagination 
 is troubled, and his whole soul disordered and 
 confused. Babylon in ruins is not so melan¬ 
 choly a spectacle. But to quit so disagreeable a 
 
THE SPECTATO R. 
 
 510 
 
 subject, I shall only consider, by way of conclu¬ 
 sion, what an infinite advantage this faculty 
 gives an Almighty Being over the soul of man, 
 and how great a measure of happiness or misery 
 we are capable of receiving from the imagination 
 only. 
 
 We have already seen the influence that one 
 man has over the fancy of another, and with what 
 ease he conveys into it a variety of imagery, how 
 great a power then may we suppose lodged in him 
 who knows all the ways of affecting the imagina¬ 
 tion, who can infuse what ideas he pleases, and 
 fill those ideas with terror and delight to what 
 degree he thinks fit! He can excite images in the 
 mind without the help of words, and make 
 scenes rise up before us, and seem present to the 
 eye, without the assistance of bodies, or exterior 
 objects. He can transport the imagination with 
 such beautiful and glorious visions as cannot 
 ossibly enter into our present conceptions, or 
 aunt it with such ghastly specters and appari¬ 
 tions as would make us hope for annihilation, and 
 think existence no better than a curse. In short, 
 he can so exquisitely ravish or torture the soul 
 through this single faculty, as might suffice to 
 make up the whole heaven or hell of any finite 
 being. 
 
 [This essay on the Pleasures of the Imagina¬ 
 tion, having been published in separate papers, I 
 shall conclude it with a table of the principal 
 contents of each paper.*] 
 
 No. 422.] FRIDAY, JULY 4, 1712. 
 
 Haec scripsi non otii abundantia, sed amoris erga te. 
 
 Tull. Epist. 
 
 I have written this, not out of the abundance of leisure, but 
 of my affection toward you. 
 
 I no not know anything which gives greater 
 disturbance to conversation, than the false notion 
 some people have of raillery. It ought, certainly, 
 to be the first point to be aimed at in society, to 
 gain the good-will of those with whom you con¬ 
 verse ; the way to that is, to show you are well 
 inclined toward them. What then can be more 
 absurd than to set up for being extremely sharp 
 and biting, as the term is, in your expressions to 
 our familiars ? A man who has no good quality 
 ut courage, is in a very ill way toward making 
 an agreeable figure in the world, because that 
 which he has superior to other people cannot be 
 exerted without raising himself an enemy. Your 
 gentleman of a satirical vein is in the like condi¬ 
 tion. To say a thing which perplexes the heart 
 of him you speak to, or brings blushes into his 
 face, is a degree of murder; and it is, I think, an 
 unpardonable offense to show a man you do not 
 care whether he is pleased or displeased. But 
 will you not then take a jest ?—Yes : but pray let 
 it be a jest. It is no jest to put me, who am so 
 unhappy as to have an utter aversion to speaking 
 to more than one man at a time, under a necessity 
 to explain myself in much company, and re¬ 
 ducing me to shame and derision, except I per¬ 
 form what my infirmity of silence disables me 
 to do. 
 
 Calisthenes has great wit, accompanied with 
 that quality without which a man can have no 
 wit at all—a sound judgment. This gentleman 
 rallies the best of any man I know ; for he forms 
 his ridicule upon a circumstance which you are, 
 
 * These contents are printed all together in the oi'iginal 
 folio, at the end of No. 421; but are in this edition arranged in 
 their proper places, and placed at the beginnings of the several 
 papers. 
 
 in your heart, not unwilling to grant him ; to wit, 
 that you are guilty of an excess in something 
 which is in itself laudable. He very well under¬ 
 stands what you would be, and needs not fear your 
 anger for declaring you are a little too much that 
 thing. The generous will bear being reproached 
 as lavish, and the valiant as rash, without being 
 provoked to resentment against their monitor. 
 What has been said to be a mark of a good writer 
 will fall in with the character of a good compan¬ 
 ion. The good writer makes his reader better 
 pleased with himself, and the agreeable man 
 makes his friends enjoy themselves, rather than 
 him, while he is in their company. Calisthenes 
 does this with inimitable pleasantry. He whis¬ 
 pered a friend the other day, so as to be overheard 
 by a young officer who gave symptoms of cocking 
 upon the company, “ That gentleman has very 
 much of the air of a general officer.” The youth 
 immediately put on a composed behavior, and 
 behaved himself suitably to the conceptions he 
 believed the company had of him. It is to be 
 allowed that Calisthenes will make a man run 
 into impertinent relations to his own advantage, 
 and express the satisfaction he has in his own 
 dear self, till he is very ridiculous ; but in this 
 case the man is made a fool by his own con¬ 
 sent, and not exposed as such whether he will 
 or no. I take it, therefore, that to make raillery 
 agreeable, a man must either not know he is ral¬ 
 lied, or think never the worse, of himself if he 
 sees he is. 
 
 Acetus is of a quite contrary genius, and is more 
 generally admired than Calisthenes, but not with 
 justice. Acetus has no regard to the modesty or 
 weakness of the person lie rallies ; but if his qual¬ 
 ity or humility gives him any superiority to the 
 man he would fall upon, he has no mercy in mak¬ 
 ing the onset. He can be pleased to see his best 
 friend out of countenance, while the laugh is 
 loud in his own applause. His raillery always 
 puts the company into little divisions and sepa¬ 
 rate interests, while that of Calisthenes cements 
 it, and makes every man not only better pleased 
 with himself, but also with all the rest in the con¬ 
 versation. 
 
 To rally well, it is absolutely necessary that 
 kindness must run through all you say; and you 
 must ever preserve the character of a friena to 
 support your pretensions to be free with a man. 
 Acetus ought to be banished human society, be¬ 
 cause he raises his mirth upon giving pain to the 
 person upon whom he is pleasant. Nothing but 
 the malevolence which is too general toward 
 those who excel could make his company toler¬ 
 ated ; but they with whom he ponverses are 
 sure to see some man sacrificed wherever he is 
 admitted ; and all the credit he has for wit, is 
 owing to the gratification it gives to other mens' 
 ill-nature. 
 
 Minutius has a wit that conciliates a man’s 
 love, at the same time that it is exerted against his 
 faults. He has an art of keeping the person 
 he rallies in countenance, by insinuating that 
 he himself is guilty of the same imperfection. 
 This he does with so much address, that he 
 seems rather to bewail himself, than fall upon 
 his friend. 
 
 It is really monstrous to see how unaccountably 
 it prevails among men to take the liberty of dis¬ 
 pleasing each other. One would think sometimes 
 that the contention is who shall be most disagreea¬ 
 ble. Allusions to past follies, hints which revive 
 what a man has a mind to forget forever, and de¬ 
 serves that all the rest of the world should, are 
 commonly brought forth even in company of men 
 of distinction. They do not thrust with the skill 
 
THE STE 
 
 of fencers, but cut up with the barbarity of 
 butchers. It is, methinks, below the character of 
 men of humanity and good-manners to be capable 
 of mirth while there is any of the company in 
 pain and disorder. They who have the true taste 
 of conversation, enjoy themselves in a communi¬ 
 cation of each other’s excellencies, and not in a 
 triumph over their imperfections. Fortius would 
 have been reckoned a wit if there had never been 
 a fool in the world ; he wants not foils to be a 
 beauty, but has that natural pleasure in observ¬ 
 ing perfection in others, that his own faults 
 are overlooked, out of gratitude, by all his ac¬ 
 quaintance. 
 
 After these several characters of men who suc¬ 
 ceed or fail in raillery, it may not be amiss to re¬ 
 flect a little further what one takes to be the most 
 agreeable kind of it; and that to me appears when 
 the satire is directed against vice, with an air of 
 contempt of the fault, but no ill-will to the 
 criminal. Mr. Congreve’s Doris is a master¬ 
 piece in this kind. It is the character of a 
 woman utterly .abandoned ; but her impudence, 
 by the finest piece of raillery, is made only gen¬ 
 erosity : 
 
 Peculiar therefore is her way, 
 
 Whether by nature taught 
 
 I shall not undertake to say, 
 
 Or by experience bought; 
 
 But who o’ernight obtain’d her grace 
 She can next day disown, 
 
 And stare upon the strange man’s face, 
 
 As one she ne’er had known. 
 
 So well she can the truth disguise, 
 
 Such artful wonder frame, 
 
 The lover or distrusts his eyes, 
 
 Or thinks ’twas all a dream. 
 
 Some censure this as lewd or low, 
 
 Who are to bounty blind; 
 
 For to forget what we bestow 
 Bespeaks a noble mind. 
 
 Ho. 423.] SATURDAY, JULY 5, 1712. 
 
 -Nuper idoneus.—Hon. 3 Od. xxvi. 1. 
 
 Once fit myself. 
 
 1 look upon myself as a kind of guardian to 
 the fair, and am always watchful to observe any¬ 
 thing which concerns their interest. The present 
 aper shall be employed in the service of a very 
 ne young woman; and the admonitions I give 
 her may not be unuseful to the rest of the sex. 
 Gloriana shall be the name of the heroine in to¬ 
 day’s entertainment; and when I have told you 
 that she.is rich, witty, young, and beautiful, you 
 will believe she does not want admirers. She 
 has had since she came to town about twenty-five 
 of those lovers who make their addresses by way 
 of jointure and settlement: these come and go 
 with great indifference on both sides; and as 
 beauteous as she is, a line in a deed has had ex¬ 
 ception enough against it, to outweigh the luster 
 of her eyes, the readiness of her understanding, 
 and the merit of her general character. But 
 among the crowd of such cool adorers, she has 
 two who are very assiduous in their attendance. 
 There is something so extraordinary and artful in 
 their manner of application, that I think it but 
 common justice to alarm her in it. I have done it 
 in the following letter : 
 
 “ Madam, 
 
 “ I have for some time taken notice of two gen¬ 
 tlemen who attend you in all public places, both 
 of whom have also easy access to you at your 
 own house. But the matter is adjusted between 
 
 CTATOR; 
 
 them; and Damon, who so passionately addresses 
 you, has no design upon you; but Strephon, who 
 seems to be indifferent to you, is the man who is>, 
 as they have settled it, to have you. The plot 
 was laid over a bottle of wine; and Strephon, 
 when he first thought of you, proposed to Damon 
 to be his rival. The manner of his breaking it to 
 him, I was so placed at a tavern, that I could not 
 avoid hearing. ‘ Damon,’ said he, with a deep 
 have long languished for that miracle 
 of beauty, Gloriana: and if you will be very stead¬ 
 fastly my rival, I shall certainly obtain her. Do 
 not, continued he, ‘ be offended at this overture; 
 foi I go upon the knowledge of the temper of the 
 woman, rather than any vanity that I should 
 profit by an opposition of your pretensions to 
 those of your humble servant. Gloriana has very 
 good sense,, a quick relish of the satisfactions of 
 life, and will not give herself, as the crowd of 
 women do, to the arms of a man to whom she is 
 indifferent. As she is a sensible woman, expres¬ 
 sions of rapture and adoration will not move her 
 neither: but he that has her must be the object of 
 her desire, not her pity. The way to this end I 
 take to be, that a man’s general conduct should be 
 agreeable, without addressing in particular to the 
 woman he loves. Now, Sir, if you will be so 
 kind as to sigh and die for Gloriana, I will carry 
 it with great respect toward her, but seem void 
 of any thoughts as a lover. By this means I 
 shall be in the most amiable light of which I am 
 capable; I shall be received with freedom, you 
 with reserve.’ Damon, who has himself no de¬ 
 signs of marriage at all, easily fell into the 
 scheme; and you may observe, that wherever you 
 are, Damon appears also. You see he carries on 
 an unaffected exactness in his dress and manner, 
 and strives always to be the very contrary of 
 Strephon. They have already succeeded so far, 
 that your eyes are ever in search of Strephon, and 
 turn themselves of course from Damon. They 
 meet and compare notes upon your carriage; and 
 the letter wdiich was brought to you the other day 
 was a contrivance to remark your resentment. 
 When you saw the billet subscribed Damon, and 
 turned away with a scornful air, and cried ‘im¬ 
 pertinence !’ yon gave hopes to him that shuns you, 
 without mortifying him that languishes for you. 
 
 “ What I am concerned for, Madam, is, that in 
 the disposal of your heart you should know what 
 you are doing, and examine it before it is lost. 
 Strephon contradicts you in discourse with the 
 civility of one who has a value for you, but gives 
 up nothing like one that loves you. This seem¬ 
 ing unconcern gives his behavior the advantage 
 of sincerity, and insensibly obtains your good 
 opinion by appearing disinterested in the pur 
 chase of it. If you watch these correspondents 
 hereafter, you will find that Strephon makes his 
 visit of civility immediately after Damon has 
 tired you with one of love. Though you are 
 very discreet, you will find it no easy matter to 
 escape the toils so well laid; as, when one studies 
 to be disagreeable in passion, the other to be 
 pleasing without it. All the turns of your tem¬ 
 per are carefully watched, and their quick and 
 faithful intelligence gives your lovers irresistible 
 advantage. You will please, Madam, to be upon 
 your guard, and take all the necessary precau¬ 
 tions against one who is amiable to you before 
 you know he is enamored. 
 
 “ I am, Madam, your most obedient Servant.” 
 
 Strephon makes great progress in this lady’s 
 good graces; for most women being actuated by 
 some little spirit of pride and contradiction, he 
 has the good effects of both those motives by 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 512 
 
 this covert way of courtship. He received a mes¬ 
 sage yesterday from Damon in the following 
 words, superscribed “ With speed.” 
 
 “ All goes well: she is very angry at me, and I 
 dare say hates me in earnest. It is a good time 
 to visit. “ Yours.” 
 
 The comparison of Strephon’s gayety to Damon’s 
 languishment strikes her imagination with a pros¬ 
 pect of very agreeable hours with such a man as 
 the former, and abhorrence of the insipid pros¬ 
 pect with one like the latter. To know when a 
 ady is displeased with another, is to know the 
 pest time of advancing yourself. This method of 
 two persons playing into each other’s hand is so 
 dangerous, that I cannot tell how a woman could 
 be able to withstand such a siege. The condition 
 of Gloriana, I am afraid, is irretrievable; for Stre- 
 phon has had so many opportunities of pleasing 
 without suspicion, that all which is left for her to 
 do is to bring him, now she is advised, to an 
 explanation of his passion, and beginning again, 
 if she can conquer the kind sentiments she has 
 already conceived for him. When one shows., 
 himself a creature to be avoided, the other proper 
 to be fled to for succor, they have the whole 
 woman between them, and can occasionally re¬ 
 bound her love and hatred from one to the other, 
 in such a manner as to keep her at a distance 
 from all the rest of the world, and cast lots for 
 the conquest. 
 
 N.B. I have many other secrets which concern 
 the empire of love; but I consider, that, while I 
 alarm my women, I instruct my men.—T. 
 
 Ho. 424.] MONDAY, JULY 7, 1712. 
 
 Est Ulubris, animus si te non deficit aequus. 
 
 IIor. 1 Ep. xi. 36. 
 
 ’Tis not the place disgust or pleasure brings: 
 
 From our own mind our satisfaction springs. 
 
 “ Me. Spectator, London, June 24. 
 
 “ A man who has it in his power to choose his 
 own company, would certainly be much to blame, 
 should he not, to the best of his judgment, take 
 such as are of a temper most suitable to his own; 
 and where that choice is wanting, or where a 
 man is mistaken in his choice, and yet under a 
 necessity of continuing in the same company, it 
 will certainly be his interest to carry himself as 
 easily as possible. 
 
 “ In this I am sensible I do but repeat what has 
 been said a thousand times, at which, however, I 
 think nobody has any title to take exception, but 
 they who never failed to put this in practice. 
 Not to use any longer preface, this being the 
 season of the year in which great numbers of all 
 sorts of people retire from this place of business 
 and pleasure to country solitude, I think it not 
 improper to advise them to take with them as 
 great a stock of good humor as they can; for though 
 a country life is described as the most pleasant of 
 all others, and though it may in truth be so, yet 
 it is so only to those who know how to enjoy leisure 
 and retirement. 
 
 “ As for those who cannot live without the con¬ 
 stant helps of business or company, let them con¬ 
 sider, that in the country there is no exchange, 
 there are no playhouses, no variety of coffee-houses, 
 nor many of those other amusements which serve 
 here as so many reliefs from the repeated occur¬ 
 rences in their own families; but that there the 
 greatest part of their time must be spent within 
 themselves, and consequently it behooves them to 
 consider how agreeable it will be to them before 
 they leave this dear town. 
 
 “ I remember, Mr. Spectator, we were very well 
 entertained, last year, with the advices you gave 
 us from Sir Roger’s country-seat; which I the 
 rather mention, because it is almost impossible 
 not to live pleasantly, where the master of a fa¬ 
 mily is such a one as you there describe your 
 friend, who cannot, therefore (I mean as to his 
 domestic character) be too often recommended to 
 the imitation of others. How amiable is that 
 affability and benevolence with which he treats 
 his neighbors, and every one, even the meanest 
 of his own family ! and yet how seldom imitated! 
 Instead of which we commonly meet with ill-na¬ 
 tured expostulations, noise, and chidings-And. 
 
 this I hinted, because the humor and disposition 
 of the head is what chiefly influences all the other 
 parts of a family. 
 
 “ An agreement and kind correspondence be¬ 
 tween friends and acquaintance is the greatest 
 pleasure of life. This is an undoubted truth; 
 and yet any man who judges from the practice of 
 the world will be almost persuaded to believe 
 the contrary; for how can we .suppose people 
 should be so industrious to make themselves un¬ 
 easy? What can engage them to entertain and 
 foment jealousies of one another upon every the 
 least occasion? Yet so it is, there are people who 
 (as it should seem) delight in being troublesome 
 and vexatious, who (as Tully speaks) mira sunt 
 alacritate ad litigandum, ‘have a certain cheerful¬ 
 ness in wrangling.’ And thus it happens, that 
 there are very few families in which there are not 
 feuds and animosities, though it is every one’s 
 interest, there more particularly, to avoid them, be¬ 
 cause there (as I would willingly hope) no one 
 gives another uneasiness without feeling some 
 share of it.—But I am gone beyond what "I de¬ 
 signed, and had almost forgot what I chiefly pro¬ 
 posed; which was, barely to tell you how hardly 
 we, who pass most of our time in town, dispense 
 with a long vacation in the country; how uneasy 
 we grow to ourselves, and to one another, when 
 our conversation is confined; insomuch that, by 
 Michaelmas, it is odds but we come to downright 
 squabbling, and make as free with one another to 
 our faces as we do with the rest of the world be¬ 
 hind their backs. After I have told you this, I 
 am to desire that you would now and then give 
 us a lesson of good humor, a family-piece, which, 
 since we are all very fond of you, I hope may 
 have some influence upon us. 
 
 “ After these plain observations, give me leave 
 to give you a hint of what a set of company of my 
 acquaintance, who are now gone into the country, 
 and have the use of an absent nobleman’s seat, 
 have settled among themselves to avoid the in¬ 
 conveniences above-mentioned. They are a col¬ 
 lection of ten or twelve, of the same good incli¬ 
 nation toward each other, but of very different 
 talents and inclinations; from hence they hope that 
 the variety of their tempers will only create va¬ 
 riety of pleasures. But as there always will arise, 
 among the same people, either for want of diver¬ 
 sity of objects, or the like causes, a certain satiety, 
 which may grow into ill-humor or discontent, there 
 is a large wing of the house which they design to 
 employ in the nature of an infirmary. Whoever 
 says a peevish thing, or acts anything which be¬ 
 trays a sourness or indisposition to company, is 
 immediately to be conveyed to his chambers in 
 the infirmary; from whence he is not to be re¬ 
 lieved till by his manner of submission, and the 
 sentiments expressed in his petition for that pur¬ 
 pose, he appears to the majority of the company 
 to be again fit for society. You are to understand, 
 j that all ill-natured words or uneasy gestures are 
 I suificient cause for banishment; speaking impa- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 tiently to servants, making a man repeat what he 
 says, or anything that betrays inattention or dis- 
 humor, are also criminal without reprieve. But 
 it is provided, that whoever observes the ill- 
 natured fit coming upon himself, and voluntarily 
 retires, shall be received at his return from the 
 infirmary with the highest marks of esteem. By 
 these and other wholesome methods, it is expected 
 that, if they cannot cure one another, yet at least 
 they have taken care that the ill-humor of one 
 shall not be troublesome to the rest of the com¬ 
 pany There are many other rules which the 
 society have established for the preservation of 
 .®‘ r ® ase . aa< J tranquillity, the effects of which, 
 with the incidents that arise among them, shall 
 be communicated to you from time to time, for 
 the public good, by 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 L - “ R. 0.” 
 
 No. 425.] TUESDAY, JULY 8, 1712. 
 
 Pngora mitescunt Zephyris: ver proterit sestas 
 Interitura, simul 
 
 Pomifer autumn us fruges effuderit, et mox 
 Bruma recurrit iners.— Hor. 4 Od. vii. 9. 
 
 The cold grows soft with western gales, 
 
 The summer over spring prevails, 
 
 But yields to autumn’s fruitful rain, 
 
 As this to winter storms and hails; 
 
 Each loss the hasting moon repairs again. 
 
 Sir W. Temple. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “There is hardly anything gives me a more 
 sensible delight than the enjoyment of a cool still 
 evening, after the uneasiness of a hot sultry day. 
 Such a one I passed not long ago, which made me 
 rejoice when the hour was come for the sun to set, 
 that I might enjoy the freshness of the evening in 
 my garden, which then affords me the pleasantest 
 hours I pass in the whole four-and-twenty. I im¬ 
 mediately rose from my couch and went down into 
 it. You descend at first by twelve stone steps into 
 a large square divided into four grassplots, in each 
 of which is a statue of white marble. This is sep¬ 
 arated from a large parterre by a low wall ; and 
 from thence, through a pair of iron gates, you are 
 led into a long broad walk of the finest turf, set on 
 each side with tall yews, and on either hand bor¬ 
 dered by a canal, which on the right divides the 
 walk from a wilderness parted into a variety of 
 alleys and arbors, and on the left from a kind of 
 amphitheater, which is the receptacle of a great 
 number of oranges and myrtles. The moon shone 
 bright, and seemed then most agreeably to supply 
 the place of the sun, obliging me with as much 
 light as was necessary to discover a thousand 
 pleasing objects, and at the same time divested of 
 all power ot heat. T. he reflection of it in the wa¬ 
 ter, the fanning of the wind rustling on the leaves, 
 the singing of the thrush and nightingale, and the 
 coolness of the walks, all conspired to make me 
 lay aside all displeasing thoughts, and brought 
 me into such a tranquillity of mind as is, I believe, 
 the next happiness to that of hereafter. In this 
 sweet retirement I naturally fell into the repetition 
 of some lines out of a poem of Milton’s, which 
 he entitles II Pensoroso, the ideas of which were 
 exquisitely suited to my present wanderings of 
 thought: 
 
 513 
 
 Like one that hath been led astray 
 Through the heaven’s wide, pathless way, 
 
 And oft, as if her head she bow’d, 
 
 Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
 
 Then let some strange, mysterious dream 
 , wl ^ lts wings in airy stream, 
 
 01 lively portraiture display’d, 
 
 Softly on my eyelids laid : 
 
 And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
 Above, about, or underneath, 
 
 Sent by spirits to mortals’ good, 
 
 Or the unseen genius of the wood. 
 
 “ I reflected then upon the sweet vicissitudes of 
 night and day on the charming disposition of the 
 seasons, and their return again in a perpetual cir¬ 
 cle : and oh ! said I, that I could from these my 
 declining years, return again to my first spring of 
 youth and vigor ; but that, alas ! is impossible ! 
 all that remains within my power is to soften the 
 inconveniences I feel, with an easy, contented 
 mind, and the enjoyment of such delights as this 
 solitude affords me. In this thought, I sat me 
 down on a bank of flowers, and dropped into a 
 slumber, tvliich, whether it were the effect of fumes 
 and vapors, or my present thoughts, I know not- 
 but methought the genius of the garden stood be¬ 
 fore me, and introduced into the walk where I lay 
 this drama and different scenes of the revolution 
 of the year, which while I then saw even in my 
 dream, I resolved to write down, and send to the 
 Spectator:— 
 
 “ The first person whom I saw advancing to¬ 
 ward me was a youth of a most beautiful air 
 and shape, though he seemed not yet arrived at 
 that exact proportion and symmetry of parts 
 which a little more time would have given him • 
 but, however, there was such a bloom in his coun¬ 
 tenance, such satisfaction and joy, that I thought 
 it the most desirable form that I had ever seen 
 
 Sweet bird! that shunn’st the noise and folly, 
 Most musical! most melancholy! 
 
 Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, 
 
 I woo to hear thy ev’ning song: 
 
 And missing thee I walk unseen 
 On the dry, smooth-shaven green, • 
 
 To behold the wand’ring moon, 
 
 Riding near her highest noon, 
 
 33 
 
 IT , . . . --. —'-'W OCCU. 
 
 Me was clothed m a flowing mantle of green silk, 
 interwoven with flowers: he had a chaplet of 
 roses on his head, and a narcissus in his hand: 
 primroses and violets sprang up under his feet, and 
 all nature was cheered at his approach. Flora 
 was on one hand, and Yertumnus on the other, in 
 a robe of changeable silk. After this, I was sur¬ 
 prised to see the moonbeams reflected with a 
 sudden glare from armor, and to see a man com¬ 
 pletely armed advancing witl} his sword drawn. 
 I was soon informed by the genius it was Mars, 
 who had long usurped a place among the attend¬ 
 ants of the Spring. He made way for a softer 
 appearance. It was Venus, without any orna¬ 
 ment but her own beauties, not so much as her 
 own cestus, with which she had encompassed a 
 globe, which she held in her right hand, and in 
 her left hand she had a scepter of gold. After 
 her, followed the Graces,with their arms entwined 
 within one another: their girdles were loosed, and 
 they moved to the sound of soft music, striking 
 the ground alternately with their feet. Then came 
 up the three months which belong to this season. 
 As March advanced toward me, there was, me¬ 
 thought, in his look a louring roughness, which 
 ill befitted a month which was ranked in so soft 
 a season, but as he came forward, his features 
 became insensibly more mild and gentle; he 
 smoothed his brow, and looked with so sweet a 
 countenance, that I could not but lament his de¬ 
 parture, though he made way for April. He 
 appeared in the greatest gayety imaginable, and 
 had a thousand pleasures to attend him: his look 
 was frequently clouded, but immediately returned 
 to its first composure, and remained fixed in a 
 smile. Then came May, attended by Cupid, with 
 his bow strung, and in a posture to let fly an 
 arrow: as he passed by, methought I heard a con¬ 
 fused noise of soft complaints, gentle ecstasies, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 514 
 
 and tender sighs of lovers; vows of constancy, 
 and as many complainings of perfldiousness: all 
 which the winds wafted away as soon as they 
 had reached my hearing. After these, I saw a 
 man advance in the full prime and vigor of his 
 age; his complexion was sanguine and ruddy, 
 his hair blacK, and fell down in beautiful ring¬ 
 lets beneath his shoulders; a mantle of hair-co¬ 
 lored silk hung loosely upon him: he advanced 
 with a hasty step after tne Spring, and sought 
 out the shade and cool fountains which played in 
 the garden. He was particularly well pleased 
 when a troop of Zephyrs fanned him with their 
 wings. He had two companions who walked on 
 each side, that made him appear the most agree¬ 
 able: the one was Aurora, with fingers of roses, 
 and her feet dewy, attired in gray: the other was 
 Yesper, in a robe of azure beset with drops of 
 gold, whose breath he caught while it passed 
 over a bundle of honeysuckles and tuberoses, 
 which he held in his hand. Pan and Ceres fol¬ 
 lowed them with four reapers, wTio danced a mor- 
 rice to the sound of oaten pipes and cymbals. 
 Then came the attendant Months. June retained 
 still some small likeness of Spring; but the other 
 two seemed to step with a less vigorous tread, 
 especially August, who seemed almost to faint, 
 while for half the steps he took, the dog-star 
 leveled his rays full at his head. They passed 
 on, and made way for a person that seemed to 
 bend a little under the weight of years; his beard 
 and hair, which were full grown, were composed 
 of an equal number of black and gray: he wore a 
 robe which he had girt round him, of a yellowish 
 cast, not unlike the color of fallen leaves, which 
 he walked upon. I thought he hardly made 
 amends for expelling the foregoing scene by the 
 large quantity of fruits which he bore in his 
 hands. Plenty walked by his side with a healthy, 
 fresh countenance, pouring out from a horn all the 
 various products of the year. Pomona followed 
 with a glass of cider in her hand, with Bacchus 
 in a chariot drawn by tigers, accompanied by a 
 whole troop of satyrs, fawns, and sylvans. Sep¬ 
 tember, who came next, seemed in his looks to 
 promise a new Spring, and wore the livery of 
 those months. The succeeding month was all 
 soiled with the juice of grapes, as if he had just 
 come from the wine-press. November, though he 
 was in this division, yet by the many stops he 
 made, seemed rather inclined to the Winter, which 
 followed close at his heels. He advanced in the 
 shape of an old man in the extremity of age ; the 
 hair he had was so very white, it seemed a real 
 snow; his eyes were red and piercing, and his 
 beard hung with a great quantity of icicles; he 
 was wrapped up in furs, but yet so pinched with 
 excess of cold, that his limbs were all contracted, 
 and his body bent to the ground, so that he could 
 not have supported himself had it not been for 
 Comus, the god of revels, and Necessity, the 
 mother of Fate, who sustained him on each side. 
 The shape and mantle of Comus was one of the 
 things that most surprised me: as he advanced 
 toward me, his countenance seemed the most 
 desirable I had ever seen. On the fore part of 
 his mantle was pictured joy, delight, and satisfac¬ 
 tion, with a thousand emblems of merriment and 
 jests, with faces looking two ways at once; but as 
 he passed from me I was amazed at a shape so 
 little correspondent to his face; his head was bald, 
 and all the rest of his limbs appeared old and de¬ 
 formed. On the hinder part of his mantle was 
 represented murder,* with disheveled hair and a 
 
 * The English are branded, perhaps unjustly, with being 
 addicted to suicide about this time of the year. 
 
 dagger all bloody, Anger in a robe of scarlet, and 
 Suspicion squinting with both eyes; but above 
 all, the most conspicuous was the battle of the 
 Lapithte and the Centaurs. 1 detested so hideous 
 a shape, and turned my eyes upon Saturn, who 
 was stealing away behind him, with a scythe in 
 one hand and an hour-glass in the other, unob¬ 
 served. Behind Necessity was Vesta, the goddess 
 of fire, with a lamp which was perpetually sup¬ 
 plied with oil, and whose flame was eternal. She 
 cheered the rugged brow of Necessity, and warmed 
 her so far as almost to make her assume the fea¬ 
 tures and likeness of Choice. December, January, 
 and February, passed on after the rest, all in furs; 
 there was little distinction to be made among 
 them; and they were only more or less displeas¬ 
 ing, as they discovered more or less haste toward 
 the grateful return of Spring.”—Z. 
 
 No. 426.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 9, 1712. 
 
 -Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, 
 
 Auri sacra fames?— Virg. iEn. iii. 56. 
 
 0 cursed hunger of pernicious gold! 
 
 What bands of faith can impious lucre hold.—D rtdek. 
 
 A very agreeable friend of mine, the other day, 
 carrying me in his coach into the country to din¬ 
 ner, fell into discourse concerning the “ care of 
 parents due to their children,” and the “ piety of 
 children toward their parents.” He was reflecting 
 upon the succession of particular virtues and 
 qualities there might be preserved from one gen¬ 
 eration to another, if these regards were recipro¬ 
 cally held in veneration; but as he never fails to 
 mix an air of mirth and good-humor with his 
 good sense and reasoning, he entered into the fol¬ 
 lowing relation :— 
 
 “ I will not be confident in what century, or un¬ 
 der what reign it happened, that this want of mu¬ 
 tual confidence and right understanding between 
 father and son was fatal to the family of the Val¬ 
 entines in Germany. Basilius Valentinus was a 
 person who had arrived at the utmost perfection in 
 the hermetic art, and initiated his son Alexandri- 
 nus in the same mysteries; but, as you know, they 
 are not to be attained but by the painful, the pious, 
 the chaste, and pure of heart, Basilius did not 
 open to him, because of his youth, and the devi¬ 
 ations too natural to it, the greatest secrets of 
 which he was master, as well knowing that the 
 operation would fail in the hands of a man so 
 liable to errors in life as Alexandrinus. But be¬ 
 lieving, from a certain indisposition of mind as 
 well as body, his dissolution was drawing nigh, 
 he called Alexandrinus to him, and as he lay on 
 a couch, over-against which his son was seated, 
 and prepared by sending out servants one after 
 another, and admonition to examine that no one 
 overheard them, he revealed the most important 
 of his secrets with the solemnity and language of 
 an adept. ‘My son/said he, ‘many have been 
 the watchings, long the lucubrations, constant the 
 labors of thy father, not only to gain a great and 
 plentiful estate to hi^ posterity, but also to take 
 care that he should have no posterity. Be not 
 amazed, my child : I do not mean that thou shalt 
 be taken from me, but that I will never leave thee, 
 and consequently cannot be said to have posterity. 
 Behold, my dearest Alexandrinus, the effect of 
 what was propagated in nine months. We are not 
 to contradict Nature, but to follow and to help her; 
 just as long as an infant is in the womb of its 
 parent, so long are these medicines of revivifica¬ 
 tion in preparing. Observe this small vial and 
 this little gallipot— in this an unguent, in the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 other a liquor. In these, my child, are collected 
 such powers, as shall revive the springs of life 
 when they aie yet but jusi ceased, and give new 
 strength, new spirits, and, in a word,wholly re¬ 
 store all the organs and senses of the human body 
 to as gieat a duration as :t had before enjoyed 
 from its birth to the day of tie application of these 
 my medicines. But, my beloved son, care must 
 be taken to apply them within ten hours after the 
 breath is out of the body, while yet the clay is 
 warm with its late life, and yet capable of resus¬ 
 citation. I find my frame grown crazy with per¬ 
 petual toil and meditation; and I conjure you, as 
 soon as I am dead, to anoint me with this unguent; 
 and when you see me begin to move, pour into my 
 lips this inestimable liquor, else the force of the 
 ointment will be ineffectual. By this means you 
 will give me life as I have you, and we will from 
 that hour mutually lay asid'e the authority of hav¬ 
 ing bestowed life on each other, live as brethren, 
 and prepare new medicines against such another 
 period of time as will demand another application 
 the same restoratives.’ In a few days after 
 these wonderful ingredients were delivered to 
 Alexandrinus, Basilius departed this life. But 
 such was the pious sorrow of the son at the loss 
 of so excellent a father, and the first transports 
 of grief had so wholly disabled liira from all 
 manner of business, that he never thought of the 
 medicines till the time to which his father had 
 limited their efficacy was expired. To tell the 
 truth, Alexandrinus was a man of wit and plea¬ 
 sure, and considered his father had lived out his 
 natural time; his life was long and uniform, suit¬ 
 able to the regularity of it; but that he himself, 
 poor sinner, wanted a new life, to repent of a very 
 ' bad one hitherto, and, in the examination of his 
 heart, resolved to go on as he did with this natural 
 being of his, but to repent very faithfully, and 
 spend very piously the life to which he should be 
 restored by application of these rarities, when 
 time should come, to his own person. 
 
 “It has been observed, that Providence fre- 
 uently punishes the self-love of men, who would 
 o immoderately for their own offspring, with 
 children very much below their characters and 
 qualifications; insomuch that they only transmit 
 their names to be borne by those who give daily 
 proofs of the vanity of the labor and ambition of 
 their progenitors. 
 
 “It happened thus in the family of Basilius; 
 for Alexandrinus began to enjoy his ample fortune 
 in all the extremities of household expense, furni¬ 
 ture, and insolent equipage; and this he pursued 
 till the day of his own departure began, as he 
 grew sensible, to approach. As Basilius was pun¬ 
 ished with a son very unlike him, Alexandrinus 
 was visited with one of his own disposition. It 
 is natural that ill men should be suspicious; and 
 Alexandrinus, beside the jealousy, had proofs of 
 the vicious disposition ol his son Renatus, for 
 that was his name. 
 
 “ Alexandrinus, as I observed, having very good 
 reasons for thinking it unsafe to trust the real 
 6ecret of his vial and gallipot to any man living, 
 projected to make sure work, and hope for his suc¬ 
 cess depending from the avarice, not the bounty 
 of his benefactor. J 
 
 “With this thought he called Renatus to his 
 bed-side, and bespoke him in the most pathetic 
 gesture and accent. ‘ As much, my son, as you 
 have been addicted to vanity and pleasure, as I 
 also have been before you,* you nor I could escape 
 
 *The word “neither” seems omitted here, though it is not 
 m the original publication in folio, or in the edit, in 8vo. of 
 
 515 
 
 the fame or the good effects of the profound know¬ 
 ledge of our progenitor, the renowned Basilius. 
 His symbol is very well known to the philosophic 
 world; and 1 shall never forget the venerable air 
 ol Jus countenance, when he let me into the pro¬ 
 found mysteries of the smaragdine table of Hermes. 
 
 i ls sai( ^ ^e, “ an< ^ ^ ar removed from all 
 
 coior of deceit; that which is inferior is like that 
 vlnch is superior, by which are acquired and per¬ 
 fected all the miracles of a certain work. The 
 father is the sun, the mother the moon, the wind 
 is in the womb, the earth is the nurse of it, and 
 mother of all perfection. All this must be re¬ 
 ceived with modesty and wisdom.” The chemical 
 people carry, in all their jargon, a whimsical sort 
 ot piety which is ordinary with great lovers of 
 money, and is no more but deceiving themselves, 
 that their regularity and strictness of mariners, for 
 die ends of this world, has some affinity to the 
 innocence of heart which must recommend them 
 to the next.' Renatus wondered to hear his father 
 talk so like an adept, and with such a mixture of 
 piety; while Alexandrinus, observing his attention 
 fixed, proceeded. ‘ This vial, child, and this lit¬ 
 tle earthen pot, will add to thy estate so much as 
 to make thee the richest man in the German em¬ 
 pire. I am going to my long home, but shall not 
 return to common dust.’ Then he resumed a coun¬ 
 tenance of alacrity, and told him, that if within 
 an hour after his death he anointed his whole body, 
 and poured down his throat that liquor which lie 
 had from old Basilius, the corpse would be con¬ 
 verted into pure gold. I will not pretend to ex¬ 
 press to you the unfeigned tenderness that passed 
 between these two extraordinary persons; but if 
 the father recommended the care of his remains 
 with vehemence and affection, the son was not be¬ 
 hindhand in professing that he would not cut the 
 least bit off him, but upon the utmost extremity, 
 or to provide for his younger brothers and sisters. 
 
 “Well, Alexandrinus died, and the heir of his 
 body (as our term is) could not forbear, in the wan¬ 
 tonness of liis heart, to measure the length and 
 breadth of his beloved father, and cast up the en¬ 
 suing value of him before he proceeded to opera¬ 
 tion. When he knew the immense reward of his 
 pains, he began the work: but lo! when he had 
 anointed the corpse all over, and began to apply 
 the liquor, the body stirred, and Renatus, in a 
 fright, broke the vial.”—T. 
 
 Ho. 427.J THURSDAY, JULY 10, 1712. 
 
 Quantum a rerum turpitudine abes, tantum te a verborum 
 libertate sejungas.— Tull. 
 
 We should be as careful of our words as our actions; and as 
 far from speaking as from doing ill. 
 
 It is a certain sign of an ill heart to be inclined 
 to defamation. They who are harmless and inno¬ 
 cent can have no gratification that way; but it ever 
 arises from a neglect of what is laudable in a man’s 
 self, and an impatience of seeing it in another. 
 Else why should virtue provoke? Why should 
 beauty displease in such a degree, that a man 
 given to scandal never lets the mention of either 
 pass by him, without offering something to the 
 diminution of it? A lady, the other day, at a 
 visit, being attacked somewhat rudely by one 
 whose own character has been very roughly 
 treated, answered a great deal of heat and intem¬ 
 perance very calmly, “ Good madam, spare me, 
 who am none of your match; I speak ill of no¬ 
 body, and it is a new thing to me to be ill spoken 
 of.” Little minds think fame consists in the num¬ 
 ber of votes they have on their side among the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 516 
 
 multitude, whereas it is really the inseparable fol¬ 
 lower of good and worthy actions. Fame is as 
 natural a follower of merit, as a shadow is of a 
 body. It is true, when crowds press upon you, 
 this shadow cannot be seen; but when they sepa¬ 
 rate from around you, it will again appear. The 
 lazy, the idle, and the fro ward, are the persons 
 who are most pleased with the little tales which 
 pass about the town to the disadvantage of the 
 rest of the world. Were it not for the pleasure of 
 speaking ill, there are numbers of people who are 
 too lazy to go out of their own houses, and too ill- 
 natured to open their lips in conversation. It was 
 not a little diverting, the other day, to observe a 
 lady reading a post-letter, and at these words, 
 
 “ After all her airs, he has heard some story or 
 other, and the match is broke off;” give orders in 
 the midst of her reading, “Put to the horses.” 
 That a young woman of merit has missed an ad¬ 
 vantageous settlement was news not to be delayed, 
 lest somebody else should have given her malicious 
 acquaintance that satisfaction before her. The 
 unwillingness to receive good tidings is a quality 
 as inseparable from a scandal-bearer, as the readi¬ 
 ness to divulge bad. But, alas! how wretchedly 
 low and contemptible is that state of mind, that 
 cannot be pleased but by what is the subject of 
 lamentation. This temper has ever been, in the 
 highest degree, odious to gallant spirits. The 
 Persian soldier, who was heard reviling Alexander 
 the Great, was well admonished by his officer, 
 “ Sir, you are paid to fight against Alexander, and 
 not to rail at him.” 
 
 Cicero, in one of his pleadings, defending his 
 client from general scandal, says very handsomely, 
 and with much reason, “ There are many who have 
 particular engagements to the prosecutor; there 
 are many who are known to have ill-will to him 
 for whom I appear; there are many who are natur¬ 
 ally addicted to defamation, and envious of any 
 good to any man who may have contributed to 
 spread reports of this kind : for nothing is so 
 swift as scandal, nothing is more easily sent 
 abroad, nothing received with more welcome, 
 nothing diffuses itself so universally. I shall not 
 desire that if any report to our disadvantage has 
 any ground for it, you would overlook or extenu¬ 
 ate it: but if there be anything advanced, with¬ 
 out a person who can say whence he had it, or 
 which is attested by one who forgot who told him 
 of it, or who had it from one of so little consider¬ 
 ation that he did not then think it worth his no¬ 
 tice, all such testimonies as these, I know, you 
 will think too slight to have any credit, against 
 the innocence and honor of your fellow-citizens.” 
 When an ill report is traced, it very often vanishes 
 among such as the orator has here recited. And 
 how despicable a creature must that be who is in 
 pain for what passes among so frivolous a people! 
 There is a town in Warwickshire, of good note, 
 and formerly pretty famous for much animosity 
 and dissension, the chief families of which have 
 now turned all their whispers, backbitings, en¬ 
 vies, and private malices, into mirth and enter¬ 
 tainment, by means of a peevish old gentlewoman, 
 known by the title of the Lady Bluernantle. This 
 heroine had, for many years together, outdone the 
 whole sisterhood of gossips in invention, quick 
 utterance, and unprovoked malice. This good 
 body is of a lasting constitution, though extremely 
 decayed in her eyes, and decrepid in her feet. The 
 two circumstances of being always at home from 
 her lameness, and very attentive from her blind¬ 
 ness, make her lodgings the receptacle of all that 
 passes in town, good or bad; but for the latter she 
 seems to have the better memory. There is an¬ 
 other thing to be noted of her, which is, that as it 
 
 is usual with old peopb, she has a livelier memory 
 of things which passed when she was very young 
 than of late years. Add to all this, that she does 
 not only not love anybody, but she hates every¬ 
 body. The statue la Rome* does not serve to 
 vent malice half so well as this old lady does to 
 disappoint it. She does not know the author of 
 anything that is told her, but can readily repeat 
 the matter itself; therefore, though she exposes 
 all the whole town, she offends no one in it. She 
 is so exquisitely restless and peevish, that she 
 quarrels with all about her, and sometimes in a 
 freak will instantly change her habitation. To 
 indulge this humor, she is led about the grounds 
 belonging to the same house she is in; and the 
 persons to whom she is to remove, being in the 
 plot, are ready to receive her at her own chamber 
 again. At stated times the gentlewoman at whose 
 house she supposes She is at the time, is sent for 
 to quarrel with, according to her common custom. 
 When they have a mind to drive the jest, she is 
 immediately urged to that degree, that she will 
 board in a family with which she has never yet 
 been; and away she will go this instant, and tell 
 them all that the rest have been saying of them. 
 By this means, she has been an inhabitant of 
 every house in the place, without stirring from the 
 same habitation : and the many stories which 
 everybody furnishes her with, to favor that de¬ 
 ceit, make her the general intelligencer of the town 
 of all that can be said by one woman against an¬ 
 other. Thus groundless stories die away, and 
 sometimes truths are smothered under the general 
 word, when they have a mind to discountenance 
 a thing, “ Oh, this is in my Lady Bluemantle’s 
 Memoirs.” 
 
 Whoever receives impressions to the disadvan¬ 
 tage of others, without examination, is to be had 
 in no other credit for intelligence than this good 
 Lady Bluernantle, who is subjected to have her 
 ears imposed upon for want of other helps to bet¬ 
 ter information. Add to this, that other scandal- 
 bearers suspend the use of these faculties which 
 she has lost, rather than apply them to do jus¬ 
 tice to their neighbors ; and I think, for the service 
 of my fair readers, to acquaint them, that there is 
 a voluntary Lady Bluernantle at every visit in 
 town.—T. 
 
 No. 428.] FRIDAY, JULY 11, 1712. 
 
 Occupet extremum, scabies. —Hor. Ars. Poet. v. 417. 
 
 The devil take the hindmost.— English Proverb. 
 
 It is an impertinent and an unreasonable fault 
 in conversation, for one man to take up all the dis¬ 
 course. It may possibly be objected to me myself, 
 that I am guilty in this kind, in entertaining the 
 town every day, and not giving so many able per¬ 
 sons, who have it more in their power, and as 
 much in their inclination, an opportunity to oblige 
 mankind with their thoughts. “Beside,” said 
 one whom I overheard the other day, “ why must 
 this paper turn altogether upon topics of learning 
 and morality? Why should it pretend only to 
 wit, humor, or the like—things which are useful 
 only to amuse men of literature and superior edu¬ 
 cation ? I would have it consist also of all things 
 which may be necessary or useful to any part ■ 
 society; and the mechanic arts should have their 
 place as well as the liberal. The ways of gain, 
 husbandry, and thrift, will serve a greater number 
 of people, than discourses upon what was well 
 said or done by such a philosopher, hero, general, 
 
 * A statue of Pasquin in that city, on which sarcastic re¬ 
 marks were pasted, and thence called Pasquinades. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 or poet.”—I no sooner heard this critic talk of my 
 works, but I minuted what he had said; and from 
 that instant resolved to enlarge the plan of my 
 speculations, by giving notice tor all persons of ail 
 orders, and each sex, that, if they are pleased to 
 send me discourses, with their names and places 
 of abode to them, so that I can be satisfied the 
 writings are authentic, such their labors shall be 
 faithfully inserted in this paper. It will be of 
 much more consequence to a youth, in his appren¬ 
 ticeship, to know by what rules and arts such a 
 one became sheriff of London, than to see the sign 
 of one of his own quality with a lion’s heart in 
 each hand. The world, indeed, is enchanted with 
 romantic and improbable achievements, when the 
 plain path to respective greatness and success, in 
 the way of life a man is in, is wholly overlooked. 
 Is it possible that a young man at present could 
 pass his time better than in reading the history of 
 stocks, and knowing by what secret springs they 
 have such sudden ascents and falls in the same 
 day ? Could lie be better conducted in his way to 
 wealth, which is the great article of life, than in a 
 treatise dated from ’Change-alley by an able pro¬ 
 ficient there ? Nothing certainly can be more 
 useful, than to be well instructed in his hopes and 
 fears; to be diffident when others exult; and with 
 a secret joy buy when others think it their interest 
 to sell. I invite all persons, who have anything 
 to say for the profitable information of the public, 
 to take their turns in my paper : they are welcome, 
 from the late noble inventor of the longitude, to 
 the humble author of strops for razors. If to carry 
 ships in safety, to give help to people tossed in a 
 troubled sea, without knowing to what shore they 
 bear, what rocks to avoid, or what coast to pray 
 for in their extremity, be a worthy labor, and an 
 invention that deserves a statue;-at the same time, 
 he who has found means to let the instrument, 
 which is to make your visage less horrid and your 
 person more snug, easy in the operation, is wor¬ 
 thy of some kind of good reception. If things of 
 high moment meet with renown, those of little 
 consideration, since of any consideration, are not 
 to be despised. In order that no merit may lie hid, 
 and no art unimproved, I repeat it, that I call ar¬ 
 tificers, as well as philosophers, to my assistance 
 in the public service. It would be of great use if 
 we had an exact history of the successes of every 
 great shop within the city-walls, what tracts of 
 land have been purchased by a constant attend¬ 
 ance within a walk of thirty feet. If it could also 
 be noted in the equipage of those who are ascended 
 from the successful trade of their ancestors into 
 figure and equipage, such accounts would quicken 
 industry in the pursuit of such acquisitions, and 
 discountenance luxury in the enjoyment of them. 
 
 . r ^° diversify these kinds of informations, the 
 industry of the female world is not to be unob¬ 
 served. She to whose, household virtues it is 
 owing, that men do honor to her husband, should 
 be recorded with veneration; she who has wasted 
 his labors, with infamy. Wlien we are come into 
 domestic life in this manner, to awaken caution 
 and attendance to the main point, it would not be 
 amiss to give now and then a touch of tragedy, 
 and. uesu ibe that most dreadful of all human con- 
 ditions, the case of bankruptcy: how plenty, credit, 
 cheerfulness, full hopes, and easy possessions, are 
 in an instant turned into penury, faint aspects, 
 diffidence, sorrow, and misery; how the man, who 
 with an open hand the day before could minister 
 to the extremities of others, is shunned to-day bv 
 the friend of his bosom. It would be useful to 
 show how just this is on the negligent, how lament¬ 
 able on the industrious. A paper written by a 
 merchant might give this island a true sense of 
 
 517 
 
 the worth and importance of his character; it 
 might be visible, from what he could say, that no 
 soldier entering a breach adventures more for 
 honor, than the trader does for wealth to his 
 country. In both cases, the adventurers have 
 their own advantage; but I know no cases wherein 
 everybody else is a sharer in the success. 
 
 It is objected by readers of history, that the 
 battles in those narrations are scarce ever to be 
 understood. This misfortune is to be ascribed to 
 the ignorance of historians in the methods of 
 drawing up, changing the forms of a battalia, and 
 the enemy retreating from, as well as approaching 
 to, the charge. But in the discourses from the cor¬ 
 respondents whom I now invite, the danger will 
 be of another kind; and it is necessary to caution 
 them only against using terms of art, and describ¬ 
 ing things that are familiar to them in words that 
 are unknown to their readers. I promise myself 
 a great harvest of new circumstances, persons, and 
 things, from this proposal; and a world which 
 many think they are well acquainted with, dis¬ 
 covered as wholly new. This sort of intelligence 
 will give a lively image of the chain and mutual 
 dependence of human society, take off imperti¬ 
 nent prejudices, enlarge the minds of those whose 
 views are confined to their own circumstances; and, 
 in short, if the knowing in several arts, profes¬ 
 sions, and trades, will exert themselves, it cannot 
 but produce a new field of diversion and instruc¬ 
 tion, more agreeable than has yet appeared.—T. 
 
 No. 429.] SATURDAY, JULY 12, 1712. 
 
 -Populumque falsis dedocet uti 
 
 Vocibus- Hor. 2 Od. ii. 19. 
 
 From cheats of words the crowd she brings 
 To real estimates of things.— Creech. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Since I gave an account of an agreeable set of 
 company which were gone down into the country, 
 I have received advices from thence, that the in¬ 
 stitution of an infirmary for those who should be 
 out of humor has had very good effects. My let¬ 
 ters mention particular circumstances of two or 
 three persons, who had the good sense to retire 
 of their own accord, and notified that they were 
 withdrawn, with the reasons of it to the company, 
 in their respective memorials. 
 
 ‘ The Memorial of Mrs. Mary Dainty, Spinster. 
 
 ‘ Humbly Showeth, 
 
 ‘ That conscious of her own want of merit, ac¬ 
 companied with a vanity of being admired, she 
 had gone into exile of her own accord. 
 
 ‘ She is sensible that a vain person is the most 
 insufferable creature living in a well-bred as¬ 
 sembly. 
 
 ‘ That she desired, before she appeared in pub¬ 
 lic again, she might have assurances, that though 
 she might be thought handsome, there might not 
 more address or compliment be paid to tier than 
 to the rest of the company'. 
 
 ‘That she conceived it a kind of superiority, 
 that one person should take upon him to com¬ 
 mend another. 
 
 ‘ Lastly, that she went into the infirmary, to 
 avoid a particular person, who took upon him to 
 profess an admiration of her. 
 
 She therefore prayed, that to applaud out of due 
 place might be declared an offense, and punished 
 in the same manner with detraction, in that the 
 latter did but report persons defective, and the 
 former made them so. 
 
 ‘ All which is submitted,’ etc. 
 
518 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ There appeared a delicacy and sincerity in this 
 memorial very uncommon, but my friend informs 
 me, that the allegations of it were groundless, in¬ 
 somuch that this declaration of an aversion to 
 being praised, was understood to be no other than 
 a secret trap to purchase it, for which reason it 
 lies still on the table unanswered. 
 
 ‘ The humble Memorial of the Lady Lydia Loller, 
 
 ‘ Showeth, 
 
 ‘ That the Lady Lydia is a woman of quality; 
 married to a private gentleman. 
 
 ‘ That she finds herself neither well nor ill. 
 
 ‘ That her husband is a clown. 
 
 ‘ That Lady Lydia cannot see company. 
 
 ‘ That she desires the infirmary may be her 
 apartineut during her stay in the country. 
 
 ‘ That they would please to make merry with 
 their equals. 
 
 * That Mr. Loller might stay with them if he 
 thought fit.’ 
 
 “ It was immediately resolved, that Lady Lydia 
 was still at London. 
 
 ‘ The humble Memorial of Thomas Sudden, Esq. of 
 the Inner Temple. 
 
 * Showeth, 
 
 * That Mr. Sudden is conscious that he is too 
 much given to argumentation. 
 
 ‘ That he talks loud. 
 
 ‘ That he is apt to think all things matter of 
 debate. 
 
 ‘ That he stayed behind in Westminster-hall, 
 when the late shake of the roof happened, only 
 because a counsel of the other side asserted it was 
 coming down. 
 
 ‘ That he cannot for his life consent to any¬ 
 thing. 
 
 ‘ That he stays in the infirmary to forget himself. 
 
 ‘ That as soon as he has forgot himself he will 
 wait on the company.’ 
 
 “ His indisposition was allowed to be sufficient 
 to require a cessation from company. 
 
 ‘ The Memorial of Frank Jolly. 
 
 ‘Showeth, 
 
 ‘ That he hath put himself into the infirmary, 
 in regard he is sensible of a certain rustic mirth 
 which renders him unfit for polite conversation. 
 
 ‘ That lie intends to prepare himself, by absti¬ 
 nence and thin diet, to be one of the company. 
 
 ‘ That at present he comes into a room as if he 
 were an express from abroad. 
 
 ‘ That he has chosen an apartment with a 
 matted antechamber, to practice motion without 
 being heard. 
 
 ‘ That he bows, talks, drinks, eats, and helps 
 himself before a glass, to learn to act with mode¬ 
 ration. 
 
 ‘ That by reason of his luxuriant health he is 
 oppressive to persons of composed behavior. 
 
 ‘ That he is endeavoring to forget the word 
 “ pshaw, pshaw.” 
 
 * That lie is also weaning himself from his cane. 
 
 ‘ That when he has learned to live without his 
 
 said cane, he will wait on the company,’ etc. 
 
 ‘ The Memorial of John Rhubarb, Esq., 
 
 ‘ Showeth, 
 
 ‘ That your petitioner has retired to the infirmary, 
 but that he is in perfect good health, except that 
 he has by long use, and for want of discourse, 
 contracted a habit of complaint that he is sick. 
 
 * That he wants for nothing under the sun, but 
 what to say, and therefore has fallen into this un¬ 
 happy malady, of complaining that he is sick. 
 
 ‘ That this custom of his makes him, by his 
 own confession, fit only for the infirmary, and 
 therefore he has not waited for being sentenced 
 to it. 
 
 ‘ That he is conscious there is nothing more im¬ 
 proper than such a complaint in good company, 
 in that they must pity, whether they think the 
 lamenter ill or not; and that the complainant must 
 make a silly figure, whether he is pitied or not. 
 
 ‘Your petitioner humbly prays, that he may 
 have time to know how he does, and he will make 
 his appearance.’ 
 
 “ The valetudinarian was likewise easily ex¬ 
 cused; and this society, being resolved not only to 
 make it their business to pass their time agreeably 
 for the present season, but also to commence sucn 
 habits in themselves as may be of use in their 
 future conduct in general, are very ready to give 
 into a fancied or real incapacity to join with their 
 measures, in order to have no humorist, proud 
 man, impertinent or sufficient fellow, break in 
 upon their happiness. Great evils seldom happen 
 to disturb company; but indulgence in particu¬ 
 larities of humor is the seed of making half our 
 time hang in suspense, or waste away under real 
 discomposures. 
 
 “ Among other things, it is carefully provided, 
 that there may not be disagreeable familiarities, 
 no one is to appear in the public rooms undressed, 
 or enter abruptly into each other’s apartment 
 without intimation. Every one has hitherto been 
 so careful in his behavior, that there has but 
 one offender, in ten days’ time, been sent into 
 the infirmary, and that was for throwing away 
 his cards at whist. 
 
 “ He has offered his submission in the follow¬ 
 ing terms:— 
 
 ‘ The humble Petition of Jeoffrey Hotspur, Esq., 
 
 * Showeth, 
 
 ‘Though the petitioner swore, stamped, and 
 threw down his cards, he has all imaginable re¬ 
 spect for the ladies, and the whole company. 
 
 ‘ That he humbly desires it may be considered, 
 in the case of gaming, there are many motives 
 which provoke to disorder. 
 
 * That the desire of gain, and the desire of vic¬ 
 tory are both thwarted in losing. 
 
 ‘ That all conversations in the world, have in¬ 
 dulged human infirmity in this case. 
 
 ‘ Your petitioner, therefore, most humbly prays, 
 that he may be restored to the company: and he 
 hopes to bear ill-fortune with a good grace for the 
 future, and to demean himself so as to be no 
 more than cheerful when he wins, than grave 
 when he loses.’ ”—T. 
 
 No. 430.J MONDAY, JULY 14, 1712. 
 
 Quaere peregrinum, vicina rauca reclamat. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xvii. 62. 
 
 -The crowd replies, 
 
 Go seek a stranger to believe thy lies.— Creech. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “As you are Spectator-general, you may with 
 authority censure whatever looks ill, and is offen¬ 
 sive to the sight; the worst nuisance of tin's kind, 
 methinks, is the scandalous appearance of poor in 
 all parts of this wealthy city. Such miserable 
 objects affect the compassionate beholder with 
 dismal ideas, discompose the cheerfulness of his 
 mind, and deprive him of the pleasure that he 
 might otherwise take in surveying the grandeur 
 of our metropolis. Who can, without remorse, 
 see a disabled sailor, the purveyor of our luxury, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 destitute of necessaries? Who can behold an 
 honest soldier, that bravely withstood the enemy, 
 prostrate and in want among his friends? It 
 were endless to mention all the variety of wretch¬ 
 edness, and the numberless poor that not only 
 hut i^i companies, implore your charity. 
 Spectacles of this nature everywhere occur j and 
 it is unaccountable that, among the many la¬ 
 mentable cries that infest this town, your comp¬ 
 troller-general should not take notice of the most 
 shocking, viz: those of the needy and afflicted. 
 I cannot but think he waved it merely out of good 
 breeding, choosing rather to stifle his resentment 
 than upbraid his countrymen with inhumanity : 
 however, let not charity be sacrificed to popu¬ 
 larity ; and if his ears were deaf to their com¬ 
 plaints, let not your eyes overlook their persons. 
 There are, I know, many impostors among them. 
 Lameness and blindness are certainly very often 
 acted ; but can those who have their sight and 
 limbs employ them better than in knowing whether 
 they are counterfeited or not? I know not which 
 of the two misapplies his senses most, he who 
 pretends himself blind, to move compassion, or he 
 who beholds a miserable object without pitying it. 
 But in order to remove such impediments, I wish, 
 Mr. Spectator, you would give us a discourse upon 
 beggars, that we may not pass by true objects of 
 charity, or give to impostors. I looked out of my 
 window the other morning earlier than ordinary, 
 and saw a blind beggar, an hour before the pas¬ 
 sage he stands in is frequented, with a needle and 
 a thread thriftily mending his stockings. My as¬ 
 tonishment was still greater, when I beheld a 
 lame fellow, whose legs were too big to walk, 
 within an hour after, bring him a pot of ale. I 
 will not mention the shakings, distortions, and 
 convulsions, which many of them practice to gain 
 an alms ; but sure I am they ought to be taken 
 care of in this condition, either by the beadle or 
 the magistrate. They, it seems, relieve their 
 posts according to their talents. There is the 
 voice of an old woman never begins to beg till 
 nine in the evening ; and then she is destitute of 
 lodging, turned out for want of rent, and has the 
 same ill fortune every night in the year. You 
 should employ an officer to hear the "distress of 
 each beggar that is constant at a particular place, 
 who is ever in the same tone, and succeeds be¬ 
 cause his audience is continually changing, though 
 he does not alter his lamentation. If we have 
 nothing else for our money, let us have more 
 invention to be cheated with. All which is sub¬ 
 mitted to your spectatorial vigilance ; and 
 
 “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant.” 
 
 519 
 
 to us, and eclipse the glory of all other charity. 
 It is the utmost reproach to society, that there 
 should be a poor man unrelieved, or a poor rogue 
 unpunished. I hope you will think no part of 
 human life out of your consideration, but will, at 
 your leisure, give us the history of plenty and 
 want, and the natural gradations toward them, 
 calculated for the cities of London and West¬ 
 minster. 
 
 “ 1 am > Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ T. D.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 I beg you would be pleased to take notice of a 
 very great indecency, which is extremely common, 
 though, I think, never yet under your censure. It 
 is. Sir, the strange freedom some ill-bred married 
 people take in company ; the unseasonable fond¬ 
 ness of some husbands, and the ill-timed tender¬ 
 ness of some wives. They talk and act as if 
 modesty was only fit for maids and bachelors, and 
 that too before both. I was once, Mr. Spectator, 
 where the fault I speak of was so very flagrant, 
 that (being, you must know, a very bashful fellow, 
 and several young ladies in the room) I protest I 
 was quite out of countenance. Lucina, it seems, 
 was breeding ; and she did nothing but entertain 
 the company with a discourse upon the difficulty 
 of reckoning to a day, and said she knew those 
 who were certain to an hour; then fell a laughing 
 at a silly, inexperienced creature, who was a month 
 above her time. Upon her husband’s coming in, 
 she put several questions to him ; which he not 
 caring to resolve, ‘ Well,’ cries Lucina, * I shall 
 have em all at night.—But lest I should seem 
 guilty of the very fault I write against, I shall 
 only entreat Mr. Spectator to correct such misde¬ 
 meanors. 
 
 T. 
 
 For higher of the genial bed by far. 
 
 And with mysterious reverence, I deem. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Thomas Meanwell.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I was last Sunday highly transported at our 
 parish church ; the gentleman in the pulpit pleaded 
 movingly in behalf of the poor children, and they 
 for themselves much more forcibly by singing a 
 hymn ; and I had the happiness to be a contribu¬ 
 tor to this little religious institution of innocents, 
 and I am sure I never disposed of my money more 
 to my satisfaction and advantage. The inward 
 joy 1 find in myself, and the good will I bear to 
 mankind, make me heartily wish these pious 
 works may be encouraged, that the present pro¬ 
 moters may reap the delight, and posterity the 
 benefit, of them. But while we are building this 
 beautiful edifice, let not the old ruins remain in 
 view to sully the prospect. While we are culti¬ 
 vating and improving this young, hopeful off¬ 
 spring, let not the ancient and helpless creatures 
 be shamefully neglected. The crowds of poor, or 
 pretended poor, in every place, are a great reproach 
 
 No. 431.] TUESDAY, JULY 15, 1712. 
 
 Quid dulcius hominum generi a natura datum est, quam sui 
 cuique liberi ? —Tull. 
 
 What is there iu nature so dear to man as his own children ? 
 
 I have lately been casting in my thoughts the 
 several unhappinesses of life, and comparing the 
 infelicities of old age to those of infancy. The 
 calamities of children are due to the negligence or 
 misconduct of parents ; those of age, to the past 
 life which led to it. I have here the history of a 
 boy and girl to their wedding day, and think I 
 cannot give the reader a livelier image of the in¬ 
 sipid way in which time uncultivated passes, than 
 by entertaining him with their authentic epistles, 
 expressing all that was remarkable in their lives, 
 till the period of their life above-mentioned. The 
 sentence at the head of this paper, which is only 
 a warm interrogation, “ What is there in nature so 
 dear as a man’s own children to him?” is all the 
 reflection I shall at present make on those who are 
 negligent or cruel in the education of them. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am now entering into my one-and-twentieth 
 year, and do not know that I had one day’s thor¬ 
 ough satisfaction since I came to years of any re¬ 
 flection, till the time they say others lose their 
 liberty—the day of my marriage. I am son to a 
 gentleman of a very great estate, who resolved to 
 keep me out of the vices of the age ; and, in order 
 to it, never let me see anything that he thought 
 could give me the least pleasure. At ten years 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 520 
 
 old I was put to a grammar-school, where my 
 master received orders every post to use me very 
 severely, and have no regard to my having a great 
 estate. At fifteen I was removed to the university, 
 where I lived, out of my father’s great discretion, 
 in scandalous poverty and want, till I was big 
 enough to be married, and I was sent for to see 
 the lady who sends you the underwritten. When 
 we were put together, we both considered that we 
 could not be worse than we were in taking one 
 another, and out of a desire of liberty, entered 
 into wedlock. My father says I am now a man, 
 and may speak to him like another gentleman. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Richard Rentfree.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spec., 
 
 “ I grew tall and wild at my mother’s, who is a 
 gay widow, and did not care for showing me, till 
 about two years and a half ago ; at which time 
 my guardian uncle sent me to a boarding-school, 
 with orders to contradict me in nothing, for I had 
 been misused enough already. I had not been 
 there above a month, when, being in the kitchen, 
 I saw some oatmeal on the dresser; I put two or 
 three corns in my mouth, liked it, stole a handful, 
 went into my chamber, chewed it, and for two 
 months after never failed taking toll of every pen¬ 
 nyworth of oatmeal that came into the house ; but 
 one day playing with a tobacco-pipe between my 
 teeth, it happened to break in my mouth, and the 
 spitting out the pieces left such a delicious rough¬ 
 ness on my tongue that I could not be satisfied 
 till I had champed up the remaining part of the 
 pipe. I forsook the oatmeal, and stuck to the 
 pipes three months, in which time I had dispensed 
 with thirty-seven foul pipes, all to the bowls : they 
 belonged to an old gentleman, father to my gov¬ 
 erness. He locked up the clean ones. I left off 
 eating of pipes, and fell to licking of chalk. I 
 was soon tired of this. I then nibbled all the red 
 wax off our last ball-tickets, and, three weeks after, 
 the black wax from the burying tickets of the old 
 gentleman. Two months after this I lived upon 
 thunderbolts, a certain long, round, bluish stone 
 which I found among the gravel in our garden. I 
 was wonderfully delighted with this ; but thun¬ 
 derbolts growing scarce, I fastened tooth and 
 nail upon our garden wall, which I stuck to 
 almost a twelvemonth, and had, in that time, 
 eeled and devoured half a foot toward our neigh- 
 or’s yard. I now thought myself the happiest 
 creature in the world: and I believe, in my con¬ 
 science, I had eaten quite through, had I had it in 
 my chamber; but now I became lazy and unwil¬ 
 ling to stir, and was obliged to seek food nearer 
 home. I then took a strange hankering to coals ; 
 I fell to scranching them, and had already con¬ 
 sumed, I am certain, as much as would have 
 dressed my wedding dinner, when my uncle came 
 for me home. He was in the parlor with my gov¬ 
 erness, when I was called down. I went in, fell 
 on my knees, for he made me call him father, and 
 when I expected the blessing I asked, the good 
 gentleman, in a surprise, turns himself to my 
 governess, and asks whether this (pointing to me) 
 was his daughter ? ‘ This/ added he, ‘ is the 
 
 very picture of death. My child was a plump¬ 
 faced, hale, fresh-colored girl; but this looks as 
 if she were half-starved, a mere skeleton/ My 
 governess, who is really a good woman, assured 
 my father I had wanted for nothing ; and withal 
 told him I was continually eating some trash or 
 other, and that I was almost eaten up with the 
 green-sickness, her orders being never to cross 
 me. But this magnified but little with my father, 
 who presently, in a kind of pet, paying for my 
 
 board, took me home with him. I had not been 
 long at home, but one Sunday at church (I shall 
 never forget it) I saw a young neighboring gen¬ 
 tleman that pleased me hugely ; I liked him of 
 all men I ever saw in my life, and began to wish 
 I could be as pleasing to him. The very next 
 day he came, with his father, a visiting to our 
 house : we were left alone together, with direc¬ 
 tions on both sides to be in love with one another, 
 and in three weeks’ time we were married. I re¬ 
 gained my former health and complexion, and am 
 now as happy as the day is long. Now, Mr. 
 Spec., I desire you would find out some name for 
 these craving damsels, whether dignified or dis¬ 
 tinguished under some or all of the following 
 denominations : to wit, ‘ Trash-eaters, Oatmeal- 
 chewers, Pipe-champers, Chalk-lickers, Wax-nib- 
 blers, Coal-scranchers, Wall-peelers, or Gravel- 
 diggers ;’ and, good Sir, do your utmost endeavor 
 to prevent (by exposing) this unaccountable folly, 
 so prevailing among the young ones of our sex, 
 who may not meet with such sudden good luck, as, 
 “Sir, your constant Reader, 
 
 “ and very humble Servant, 
 
 “ Sabina Green, 
 
 “ now Sabina Rentfree." 
 
 No. 432 .] WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 1712. 
 
 -Inter strepit anser olores.—Vffifl, Eel. ix. 36. 
 
 He gabbles like a goose amid the swan-like choir.—D ryden. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, Oxford, July 14. 
 
 “ According to a late invitation in one of your 
 papers to every man who pleases to write, I have 
 sent you the following short dissertation against 
 the vice of being prejudiced. 
 
 “Your most humble Servant.” 
 
 “ Man is a sociable creature, and a lover of glory; 
 whence it is, that when several persons are united 
 in the same society, they are studious to lessen 
 the reputation of others, in order to raise their 
 own. The wise are content to guide the springs 
 in silence, and rejoice in secret at their regular 
 progress. To prate and triumph is the part allot¬ 
 ted to the trifling and superficial. The geese 
 were providentially ordained to save the Capitol. 
 Hence it is, that the invention of marks ana de¬ 
 vices to distinguish parties is owing to the beaux 
 and belles of this island. Hats, moulded into dif¬ 
 ferent cocks and pinches, have long bid mutual 
 defiance ; patches have been set against patches in 
 battle array; stocks have risen or fallen in pro¬ 
 portion to head-dresses ; and peace or war been ex¬ 
 pected, as the white or the red hood hath prevailed. 
 These are the standard-bearers in our contending 
 armies, the dwarfs and squires who carry the im¬ 
 presses of the giants or knights, not born to fight 
 themselves, but to prepare the way for the ensuing 
 combat. 
 
 “ It is a matter of wonder to reflect how far 
 men of weak understanding and strong fancy are 
 hurried by their prejudices, even to the believ¬ 
 ing that the whole body of the adverse party 
 are a band of villains and demons. Foreigners 
 complain that the English are the proudest 
 nation under heaven. Perhaps they too have 
 their share ; but be that as it will, general charges 
 against bodies of men is the fault I am writing 
 against. It must be owned, to our shame, that 
 our common people, and most who have not trav¬ 
 eled, have an irrational contempt for the language, 
 dress, customs, and even the shape and minds of 
 other nations. Some men, otherwise of sense, 
 have wondered that a great genius should spring 
 
out °f Ireland ; and think you mad in affirming 
 that fine odes have been written in Lapland 
 
 /‘I Ins spirit of rivalship, which heretofore 
 reigned in the two universities, is extinct, and al¬ 
 most over betwixt college and college. In parishes 
 and schools, the thirst of glory still obtains. At 
 the seasons of football and cock-fighting, these 
 little republicans reassume their national hatred 
 to each other. My tenant in the country is verily 
 persuaded, that the parish of the enemy hath not 
 one honest man in it. 
 
 “I always hated satires against woman, and 
 satires against man: I am apt to suspect a stran¬ 
 ger who laughs at the religion of the faculty- 
 my spleen rises at a dull rogue, who is severe upon 
 mayors and aldermen; and was never better pleased 
 than wuh a piece of justice executed upon the body 
 
 was vel 7 arch u pon parsons. J 
 lie necessities of mankind require various 
 employments; and whoever excels in his province 
 is worthy of praise. All men are not educated 
 
 fiSL 1 rnu ame ? ianner > have all the same 
 talents. I hose who are deficient deserve our com¬ 
 passion and have a title to our assistance. All 
 cannot be bred in the same place; but in all places 
 there arise, at different times, such persons as do 
 onor to their society, which may raise envy in 
 little souls, but are admired and cherished by gen¬ 
 erous spirits. J 6 
 
 . “ Xt \ s certainly a great happiness to be educated 
 in societies of great and eminent men. Their 
 instructions and examples are of extraordinary ad¬ 
 vantage. It is highly proper to instil such a re¬ 
 verence of the governing persons, and concern for 
 the honor of the place, as may spur the growino¬ 
 members to worthy pursuits and honest emula°- 
 tion, but to swell young minds with vain thoughts 
 ol the dignity of their own brotherhood, by debase- 
 lng and vilifying all others, doth them a real in- 
 lury Uy tins means I have found that their efforts 
 have become languid, and their prattle irksome, as 
 th ink mg it sufficient praise that they are children 
 ot so illustrious and ample a family. I should 
 think it a surer as well as more generous method, 
 
 W 1 b f° re ^ eyeS of youth such persons as 
 have made a noble progress in fraternities less talk- 
 
 ed ot ; which seems tacitly to reproach their sloth, 
 who loll so heavily in the seats of mighty improve¬ 
 ment. Active spirits hereby would enlarge their 
 notions; whereas, by a servile imitation of one, or 
 perhaps two admired men, in their own body 
 
 S C Te ° n 7 £? in a sec °ndary and derivative 
 hind of fame. 1 hese.copiers of men, like those of 
 authors or painters, run into affectations of some 
 oddness, which perhaps was not disagreeable in 
 the original, but sits ungracefully on the narrow- 
 souled transcriber. 
 
 “ % su . ch early corrections of vanity, while bovs 
 are growing into men, they will gradually learm 
 not to censure superficially; but imbibe those prin¬ 
 ciples of general kindness and humanity which 
 amne can make them easy to themselves; and be¬ 
 loved by others. 
 
 “Reflections of this nature have expunged all 
 prejudices out of my heart; insomuch, that though 
 I am a firm Protestant, I hope to see the pope and 
 cardinals without violent emotions; and though 1 
 
 pany n at“pa!f s SraVe ' 1 eXpeCt t0 meet 6°<>d com- 
 
 “I am. Sir, your obedient Servant.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I find you are a general undertaker, and have 
 by your correspondents or self, an insight into 
 most things; which makes me apply myself to you 
 at present, in the sorest calamity that ever befell 
 man. My wife has taken something ill of me, and 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 521 
 
 has not snoke one word good or bad to me, or any- 
 wi 7 f in 110 Xam dy, since Friday was seven-night 
 wouM n b USt a maM d V n that case? Your ^vice 
 hu 0 mblc Scrva 8 „r gati °" ^ y ° U1 ' m0St 
 
 “Ralph Thimbleton. ” 
 
 " ^Spectator, July 15, 1712. 
 
 When you want a trifle to fill up a paper in 
 
 wm lay an obiig %sHz^ 
 
 “ Dear Olivia, 
 
 “It is but this moment I have had the happi¬ 
 ness of knowing to whom I am obliged for the pres¬ 
 ent 1 received the second of April. S I am heart fly 
 ddld not come to hand the day before; for I can^ 
 .W ^ Veryhard u P° n P e <>ple to lose their 
 
 J mvdlf L° ffer at 0ne but u 0nce a y ear - 1 congratulate 
 myself however upon the earnest given me of some- 
 
 t nng further intended in my favor; for I am told, 
 
 that the man who is thought worthy by a lady to 
 
 make a fool of, stands fair enough in her opinion 
 
 to become one day her husband. Till such time 
 
 as 1 have the honor of being sworn, I take leave 
 
 to subscribe myself, dear Olivia, your fool elect, 
 
 “Nicodemuncio.” 
 
 No. 433.] THURSDAY, JULY 17, 1712. 
 
 Perlege Masonio cantatas carmine ranas 
 Et frontem nugis solvere disce meis. 
 
 Mart. Epig. xiv. 183. 
 
 To banish anxious thought, and quiet pain, 
 
 Read Homer’s frogs, or my more trifling strain. 
 
 The moral world, as consisting of males and 
 females, is of a mixed nature, and filled with sev- 
 eral customs, fashions, and ceremonies, which 
 would have no place in it were there but one sex. 
 Ha . d our species no females in it, men would be 
 quite different creatures from what they are at 
 present; their endeavors to please the opposite 
 sex polishes and refines them out of those manners 
 which are most natural to them, and often sets 
 them upon modeling themselves, not according 
 to the plans which they approve in their own 
 opnuons, but according to those plans which they 
 think are most agreeable to the female world. In 
 
 . w o buc icuidie world, in 
 
 a word, man would not only be an unhappy, but a 
 lude unfinished creature, were he conversant with 
 none but those of his own make. 
 
 Women, on the other side, are apt to form them¬ 
 selves in everything with regard to that other half 
 of reasonable creatures with whom they are blend¬ 
 ed and confused; their thoughts are ever turned 
 upon appearing amiable to the other sex; they talk 
 | and m ove, and smile, with a design upon us- every 
 feature of their faces, every part of their dress is 
 filled with snares and allurements. There would 
 be no such animals as prudes or coquettes in the 
 world, weie there not such an animal as man. In 
 | - s \ lor L it is the male that gives charms to woman¬ 
 kind, that produces an air in their faces, a grace 
 I ln their motions, a softness in their voices, and a 
 delicacy in their complexions. 
 
 As this mutual legard between the two sexes 
 | tends to the improvement of each of them, we may 
 i observe that men are apt to degenerate into rough 
 • brutal natures, who live as if there were no 
 i sucdl things as women in the world; as, on the 
 contrary, women who have an indifference or aver¬ 
 sion for their counterparts in human nature, are 
 generally sour and unamiable, sluttish and cen¬ 
 sorious. 
 
 I am led into this train of thoughts by a little 
 manuscript which is lately fallen into my hands, 
 
522 
 
 and which I shall communicate to the reader, as I 
 have done some other curious pieces of the same 
 nature, without troubling him with any inquiries 
 about the author of it. It contains a summary ac¬ 
 count of two different states which bordered upon 
 one another. The one was a commonwealth of 
 Amazons, or women without men; the other was 
 a republic of males, that had not a woman in their 
 whole community. As these two states bordered 
 upon one another, it was their way, it seems, to 
 meet upon their frontiers at a certain season of the 
 year, where those among the men who had not 
 made their choice in any former meeting associat¬ 
 ed themselves with particular women, whom they 
 were afterward obliged to look upon as their wives 
 in every one of these yearly rencounters. The child¬ 
 ren that sprung from this alliance, if males, were 
 sent to their respective fathers; if females, contin¬ 
 ued with their mothers. By means of this anniver¬ 
 sary carnival, which lasted about a week, the 
 commonwealths were recruited from time to time, 
 and supplied with their respective subjects. 
 
 These two states were engaged together in a 
 perpetual league, offensive and defensive; so that 
 if any foreign potentate offered to attack either of 
 them, both the sexes fell upon him at once, and filling was 
 quickly brought him to reason. It was remark¬ 
 able that for many ages this agreement continued 
 inviolable between the two states, notwithstanding, 
 as was said before, they were husbands and wives; 
 but this will not appear so wonderful, if we con¬ 
 sider that they did not live together above a week 
 in a year. 
 
 In the account which my author gives of the 
 male republic, there were several customs very re¬ 
 markable. The men never shaved their beards, or 
 pared their nails, above once in a twelvemonth, 
 which was probably about the time of the great 
 annual meeting upon their frontiers. I find the 
 name of a minister of state in one part of their 
 history, who was fined for appearing too frequently 
 in clean linen; and of a certain great general, who 
 was turned out of his post for effeminacy, it having 
 been proved upon him by several credible witnesses 
 that he washed his face every morning. If any 
 member of the commonwealth had a soft voice, a 
 smooth face, or a supple behavior, he was banish¬ 
 ed into the commonwealth of females, where he 
 was treated as a slave, dressed in petticoats, and 
 get a spinning. They had no titles of honor 
 among them, but such as denoted some bodily 
 strength or perfection, as such a one “the tall,” 
 such a one “ the stocky,” such a one “the gruff.” 
 
 Their public debates were generally managed with 
 kicks and cuffs, insomuch that they often came 
 from the council-table with broken shins, black 
 eyes, and bloody noses. When they would re¬ 
 proach a man in the most bitter terms, they would 
 tell him his teeth were white, or that he had a 
 fair skin and a soft hand. The greatest man I 
 meet with in their history was one who could lift 
 five hundred weight, and wore such a prodigious 
 pair of whiskers as had never been seen in the 
 commonwealth before his time. These accom¬ 
 plishments, it seems, had rendered him so pop¬ 
 ular, that if he had not died very seasonably, it 
 is thought he might have enslaved the republic. 
 
 Having made this short extract out of the history 
 of the male commonwealth, I shall look into the 
 history of the neighboring state, which consisted 
 of females ; and, if I find anything in it, will not 
 fail to communicate it to the public.—C. 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Ho. 434.] FRIDAY, JULY 18, 1712. 
 
 Quales Threicise, cum flumina Thermodontis 
 Pulsant, et pictis bellaiitur Amazones armis: 
 
 Seu circum Hippolyten, seu cum se Martia curru 
 Penthesilea refert; magnoque ululanto tumultu, 
 Foeminea exultant lunatis agmina peltis. 
 
 Virgo Jin. xi. 659. 
 
 So march’d the Thracian Amazons of old 
 When Thermedon with bloody billows roll’d; 
 
 Such troops as these in shining arms were seen, 
 
 When Theseus met in fight their maiden queen; 
 
 Such to the field Penthesilea led, 
 
 From the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled; 
 
 W T ith such returned triumphant from the war, 
 
 Her maids with cries attend the lofty car: 
 
 They clash with manly force their moony shields; 
 With female shouts resound the Phrygian fields. 
 
 Dkyden. 
 
 Having carefully perused the manuscript I men¬ 
 tioned in my yesterday’s paper, so far as it relates 
 to the republic of women, I find in it several par¬ 
 ticulars which may very well deserve the reader’s 
 attention. 
 
 The girls of quality, from six to twelve years 
 old, were put to public schools, where they learned 
 to box and play at cudgels, with several other ac¬ 
 complishments of the same nature ; so that no- 
 more usual than to see a little miss 
 home at night with a broken pate, or 
 two or three teeth knocked out of her head. 
 They were afterward taught to ride the great 
 horse, to shoot, dart, or sling, and listed into sev¬ 
 eral companies in order to perfect themselves in 
 military exercises. No woman was to be married 
 till she had killed her man. The ladies of fashion 
 used to play with young lions instead of lap-dogs; 
 and when they made any parties of diversion, 
 instead of entertaining themselves at ombre or 
 piquet, they would wrestle and pitch the bar for a 
 whole afternoon together. There was never any 
 such thing as a blush seen, or a sigh heard, in the 
 commonwealth. The women never dressed but to 
 look terrible; to which end they would some¬ 
 times, after a battle, paint their cheeks with the 
 blood of their enemies. For this reason, likewise, 
 the face which had the most scars was looked 
 upon as the most beautiful. If they found lace, 
 jewels, ribbons, or any ornaments in silver or 
 gold, among the booty which they had taken, they 
 used to dress their horses with it, but never enter¬ 
 tained a thought of wearing it themselves. There 
 were particular rights and privileges allowed to 
 any member of tne commonwealth who was a 
 mother of three daughters. The senate was made 
 up of old women ; for by the laws of the country, 
 none was to be a counselor of state that was not 
 past child-bearing. They used to boast that their 
 republic had continued four thousand years, which 
 is altogether improbable, unless we may suppose, 
 what I am very apt to think, that they measured 
 their time by lunar years. 
 
 There was a great revolution brought about in 
 this female republic by means of a neighboring 
 king, who had made war upon them several years 
 with various success, and at length overthrew 
 them in a very great battle. This defeat they as¬ 
 cribe to severai causes ; some say that the secre¬ 
 tary of state, having been troubled with the va¬ 
 pors, had committed some fatal mistakes in several 
 dispatches about that time. Others pretend that 
 the first minister being big with chilu, could not 
 attend the public affairs, as so great an exigency 
 of state required ; but this I can give no manner 
 of credit to, since it seems to contradict a funda¬ 
 mental maxim in their government which I have 
 before mentioned. My author gives the most 
 probable reason of this great disaster; for he 
 affirms that the general was brought to bed, or (as 
 others say) miscarried the very night before the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 battle: however it was, this signal overthrow 
 obliged them to call in the male republic to their 
 assistance; but notwithstanding their common 
 efforts to repulse the victorious enemy, the war 
 continued for many years before they could en 
 tirelv bring it to a happy conclusion. 
 
 The campaigns which both sexes passed to¬ 
 gether made them so well acquainted with one 
 another, that at the end of the war they did not 
 care for parting. In the beginning of it, they 
 lodged m separate camps, but afterward, as they 
 grew more familiar, they pitched their tents pro¬ 
 miscuously. r 
 
 From this time, the armies being checkered 
 with both sexes, they polished apace. The men 
 used to invite their fellow-soldiers into their quar¬ 
 ters, and would dress their tents with flowers and 
 boughs for their reception. If they chanced to 
 like one more than another, they would be cutting 
 her name in the table, or chalking out her fio-ure 
 upon the wall, or talking of her in a kind of rap¬ 
 turous language, which by degrees improved into 
 verse and sonnet. These were as the first rudi¬ 
 ments of architecture, painting, and poetry, among 
 this savage people. After any advantage over the 
 enemy, both sexes used to jump together, and 
 make a clattering with their swords and shields, 
 tor joy, which in a few years produced several 
 regular tunes and set dances. 
 
 As the two armies romped on these occasions 
 the women complained of the thick, bushy beards 
 and long nails of their confederates, who there¬ 
 upon took care to prune themselves into such fig¬ 
 ures as were most pleasing to their female friends 
 and allies. 
 
 When they had taken any spoils from the en- 
 emy, the men would make a present of everythin^ 
 that w as rich and showy to tne women whom they 
 most admired, and would frequently dress the 
 necks, or heads, or arms of their mistresses, with 
 anything which they thought appeared gay or 
 pretty The women, observing that the men took 
 delight in looking upon them when they were 
 adorned with such trappings and gewgaws, set 
 their heads at work to find out new inventions 
 and to outshine one another in all councils of 
 war or the like solemn meetings. On the other 
 hand, the men, observing how the women’s hearts 
 were set upon finery, began to embellish them¬ 
 selves and look as agreeably as they could in the 
 eyes of their associates. In short, after a few 
 years conversing together, the women had learned 
 o smile, and the men to ogle ; the women grew 
 soft, and the men lively. , ° 
 
 When they had thus insensibly formed one an¬ 
 other, upon the finishing of the war, which con¬ 
 cluded with an entire conquest of their common 
 enemy, the colonels in one army married the colo¬ 
 nels in the other ; the captains in the same man¬ 
 ner took the captains to their wives : the whole 
 body of common soldiers were matched after the 
 example of their leaders. By this means the two 
 lepublics incorporated with one another, and be¬ 
 came tne most flourishing and polite government 
 in the part of the world which they inhabited.—C. 
 
 523 
 
 No. 435.] SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1712. 
 
 Nee duo sunt, et forma duplex, nec foemina did, 
 
 Aec puer, ut possint: neutrumque et utrumque videntur. 
 
 Ovid, Met. iv. 378. 
 
 Both bodies in a single body mix, 
 
 A single body with a double sex.— Addison. 
 
 Most of the papers I give the public are written 
 on subjects that never vary, but are forever fixed 
 
 and immutable. Of this kind are all my more 
 serious essays and discourses ; but there is another 
 sort of speculations, which I consider as occa¬ 
 sional papers, that take their rise from the folly, 
 extravagance, and caprice of the present age. 
 hor I look upon myself as one set to watch the 
 manners and behavior of my countrymen and 
 cotemporaries, and to mark down every absurd 
 fashion, ridiculous custom, or affected" form of 
 sneech, that makes its appearance in the world 
 during the course of these my speculations. The 
 petticoat no sooner began to swell, but I observed 
 its motions. The party-patches had not time to 
 muster themselves before I detected them. I had 
 intelligence of the colored hood the very first time 
 it appeared in a public assembly. I might here 
 mention several other the like contingent sub¬ 
 jects, upon which I have bestowed distinct pa¬ 
 pers. By this means I have so effectually quashed 
 those irregularities which gave occasion to them, 
 that I am afraid posterity will scarce have a suffi¬ 
 cient idea of them to relish those discourses which 
 v ere in no little vogue at the time when they were 
 written. They will be apt to think that the fash¬ 
 ions and customs I attacked were some fantastic 
 conceits of my own, and that their great-grand¬ 
 mothers could not be so whimsical as I have rep¬ 
 resented them. For this reason, when I think on 
 die figure my several volumes of speculations will 
 make about a hundred years hence, I consider 
 them as so many pieces of old plate, where the 
 weight will be regarded, but the fashion lost. 
 
 Among the several female extravagances I have 
 already taken notice of, there is one which still 
 keeps its ground. I mean that of the ladies who 
 dress themselves in a hat and feather, a riding- 
 coat and a periwig, or at least tie up their hair in 
 a bag or ribbon, in imitation of the smart part of 
 the opposite sex. As in my yesterday’s paper I 
 gave an account of the mixture of two sexes in 
 one commonwealth, I shall here take notice of 
 this mixture of two sexes in one person. I have 
 already shown my dislike of this immodest cus¬ 
 tom more than once ; but, in contempt of every¬ 
 thing I have hitherto said, I am informed that tne 
 highways about this great city are still very much 
 infested with these female cavaliers. 
 
 I remember when I was at my friend Sir Roger 
 de Coverley’s about this time twelvemonth, an 
 equestrian lady of this order appeared upon the 
 plains which lay at a distance from his house. I 
 was at that time walking in the fields with my 
 old friend ; and as his tenants ran out on every 
 side to see so strange a sight. Sir Roger asked 
 one of them, who came by us, what it was? To 
 which the country fellow replied, “ ’Tis a gentle¬ 
 woman, saving your worship’s presence, in°a coat 
 and hat.” This produced a great deal of mirth 
 at the knight’s house, where we had a story at the 
 same time of another of his tenants, who meeting 
 this gentlemanlike lady on the highway, was 
 asked by her whether that was Coverlev-hall ? 
 The honest man seeing only the male part of the 
 querist, replied, “ Yes, Sir but upon the second 
 question, whether Sir Roger de Coverley was a 
 married man ? having dropped his eve upon the 
 petticoat, he changed his note into “No, Madam.” 
 
 Had one of these hermaphrodites appeared in 
 Juvenal’s days, with what an indignation should 
 we have seen her described by that excellent sat¬ 
 irist! He would have represented her in her 
 riding-habit as a greater monster than the centaur. 
 
 He would have called for sacrifices or purifving 
 waters, to expatiate the appearance of such a 
 prodigy. He would have invoked the shades of 
 Portia or Lucretia, to see into what the Roman 
 ladies had transformed themselves. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 524 
 
 For my own part, I am for treating the sex 
 with greater tenderness, and have all along made 
 use of the most gentle methods to bring them, off 
 from any little extravagance into which they have 
 sometimes unwarily fallen. I think it, however, 
 absolutely necessary to keep up the partition be¬ 
 tween the two sexes, and to take notice of the 
 smallest encroachments which the one makes upon 
 the other. I hope, therefore, that I shall not 
 hear any more complaints on this subject. I am 
 sure my she-disciples, who peruse these my daily 
 lectures, have profited but little by them, if they are 
 capable of giving in to such an amphibious dress. 
 This 1 should not have mentioned, had I not 
 lately met one of these my female readers in Hyde- 
 park, who looked upon me with a masculine 
 assurance, and cocked her hat full in my face. 
 
 For my part, I have one general key to the 
 behavior of the fair sex. When I see them sin¬ 
 gular in any part of their dress, I conclude it is 
 not without some evil intention; and therefore 
 question not but the design of this strange fashion 
 is to smite more effectually their male beholders. 
 Now to set them right in this particular, 1 would 
 fain have them consider with themselves, whe¬ 
 ther we are not more likely to be struck by a 
 figure entirely female, than with such a one as we 
 may see every day in our glasses. Or, if they 
 please, let them reflect upon their own hearts, 
 and think how they would be affected should they 
 meet a man on horseback in his breeches and jack- 
 boots, and at the same time dressed up in a com¬ 
 mode and a nightraile. 
 
 I must observe that this fashion was first of 
 all brought to us from France, a country which 
 has infected all the nations of Europe with its 
 levity. I speak not this in derogation of a whole 
 people, having more than once found fault with 
 those general reflections which strike at kingdoms 
 or commonwealths in the gross—apiece of cruelty, 
 which an ingenious writer of our own compares to 
 that of Caligula, who wished the Roman people had 
 all but one neck, that he might behead them at a 
 blow. I shall therefore only remark, that as live¬ 
 liness and assurance are in a peculiar manner 
 the qualifications of the French nation, the same 
 habits and customs will not give the same offense 
 to that people which they produce among those of 
 our own country. Modesty is our distinguishing 
 character, as vivacity is theirs: and when this our 
 national virtue appears in that female beauty for 
 which our British ladies are celebrated above all 
 others in the universe, it makes up the most 
 amiable object that the eye of man can possibly 
 behold.—C. 
 
 No 436.] MONDAY, JULY 21, 1712. 
 
 --Verso pollice yulgi 
 
 Quemlibet occidunt populariter.—Juv. Sat. iii. 36. 
 
 With thumbs bent back, they popularly kill.—D ryden. 
 
 Bf.ing a person of insatiable curiosity, I could 
 not forbear going on Wednesday last to a place of 
 no small renown for the gallantry of the lower 
 order of Britons, namely, to the Bear-garden, at 
 Hockley-in-the-Hole; where (as a whitish-brown 
 paper, put into my hands in the street, informed 
 me) there was to be a trial of skill exhibited be¬ 
 tween two masters of the noble science of defense, 
 at two of the clock precisely. I was not a little 
 charmed with the solemnity of the challenge, 
 which ran thus: 
 
 “ I, James Miller, sergeant (lately come from the 
 frontiers of Portugal), master of the noble science 
 of defense, hearing in most places where I have 
 
 been of the great fame of Timothy Buck, of Lon¬ 
 don, master of the said science, do invite him to 
 meet me and exercise at the several weapons fol¬ 
 lowing, viz: 
 
 “ Back sword, Single falchion, 
 
 “ Sword and dagger, Case of falchions, 
 
 “ Sword and buckler, Quarter staff.” 
 
 If the generous ardor in James Miller to dis¬ 
 pute the reputation of Timothy Buck, had some¬ 
 thing resembling the old heroes of romance, Ti¬ 
 mothy Buck returned answer in the same paper 
 with the like spirit, adding a little indignation at 
 being challenged, and seeming to condescend to 
 fight James Miller, not in regard of Miller him¬ 
 self, but in that, as the fame went out, he had 
 fought Parkes of Coventry. The acceptance of 
 the combat ran in these words : 
 
 “ I, Timothy Buck, of Clare-market, master of 
 the noble science of defense, hearing he did fight 
 Mr. Parkes* of Coventry, will not fail (God wil¬ 
 ling) to meet this fair inviter at the time and place 
 appointed, desiring a clear stage and no favor.— 
 Vivat Regina.” 
 
 I shall not here look back on the spectacles of 
 the Greeks and Romans of this kind, but must 
 believe this custom took its rise from the ages of 
 knight-errantry; from those who loved one woman 
 so well, that they hated all men and women else; 
 from those who would fight you, whether you 
 were or were not of their mind; from those who 
 demanded the combat of their cotemporaries, 
 both for admiring their mistress or discommend¬ 
 ing her. I cannot therefore, but lament, that the 
 terrible part of the ancient fight is preserved, 
 when the amorous side of it is forgotten. We 
 have retained the barbarity, but lost the gallantry 
 of the old combatants. I could wish, methinks, 
 these gentlemen had consulted me in the promul¬ 
 gation of the conflict. 1 was obliged by a fair 
 young maid, whom I understood to be called 
 Elizabeth Preston, daughter of the keeper of the 
 garden, with a glass of water; who I imagined 
 might have been, for form’s sake, the general 
 representative of the lady fought for, and from her 
 beauty the proper Amaryllis on these'occasions. 
 It would have run better in the challenge, “ I, 
 James Miller, sergeant, who have traveled parts 
 abroad, and came last from the frontiers of Por¬ 
 tugal, for the love of Elizabeth Preston, do assert 
 that the said Elizabeth is the fairest of women.” 
 Then the answer ; “ I, Timothy Buck, who have 
 staid in Great Britain during all the war in 
 foreign parts for the sake of Susannah Page, do 
 deny that Elizabeth Preston is so fair as the said 
 Susannah Page. Let Susannah Page look on, and 
 I desire of James Miller no favor.” 
 
 This would give the battle quite another turn; 
 and a proper station for the ladies whose complex¬ 
 ion was disputed by the sword, would animate the 
 disputants with a more gallant incentive than the 
 expectation of money from the spectators; though 
 I would not have that neglected, but thrown to 
 that fair one whose lover was approved by the 
 donor. 
 
 * On a large tomb in the great church-yard of Coventry is 
 the following inscription. 
 
 “To the memory of Mr. John Sparkes, a native of this city; 
 he was a man of a mild disposition, a gladiator by profession, 
 who, after having fought 350 bottles in the principal parts 
 of Europe, with honor and applause, at length quitted the 
 stage, sheathed his sword, and with Christian resignation, 
 submitted to the grand victor in the 52d year of his age. 
 
 “ Anno salutis humance, 1733.” 
 
 ITis friend, Sergeant Miller, here mentioned, a man of vast 
 athletic accomplishments, was advanced afterward to the 
 rank of a captain in the British army, and did notable service 
 in Scotland under the Duke of Cumberland in 1745. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Yet considering the thing wants such amend¬ 
 ments, it was carried with great order. James 
 Miller came on first, preceded by two disabled 
 drumtneis, to show, I suppose, that the prospect 
 of maimed bodies did not in the least deter him. 
 There ascended with the daring Miller a gentle¬ 
 man, whose name I could not learn, with a dogged 
 air, as unsatisfied that he was not principal. 
 1 his son of anger lowered at the whole assembly, 
 and, weighing himself as he marched around from 
 side to side, with a stiff knee and shoulder, he 
 gave intimations of the purpose he smothered till 
 he saw the issue of this encounter. Miller had a 
 blue ribbon tied round the sword arm; which 
 ornament I conceive to be the remain of that cus¬ 
 tom of wearing a mistress’s favor on such occa¬ 
 sions of old. 
 
 Miller is a man of six foot eight inches in height, 
 of ii kind but bold aspect, well-fashioned, and 
 ready of his limbs, and such a readiness as spoke 
 his ease in them was obtained from a habit of 
 motion in military exercise. 
 
 The expectation of the spectators was now al¬ 
 most at its height; and the crowd pressing in, 
 several active persons thought they were placed 
 rather according to their fortune than their merit, 
 and took it in their heads to prefer themselves 
 from the open area or pit to the galleries. This 
 dispute between desert and property brought many 
 to the giound, and raised others in proportion to 
 the highest seats by turns, for the space of ten 
 minutes, till limothy Buck came on, and the 
 whole assembly, giving up their disputes, turned 
 their eyes upon the champions. Then it was 
 that every man’s affection turned to one or the 
 other irresistibly. A judicious gentleman near 
 me said, ‘ I could, methinks, be Miller’s second, 
 but I had rather have Buck for mine.” Miller 
 had an audacious look that took the eye; Buck a 
 pet feet composure, that engaged the judgment. 
 Buck came on in a plain coat, and kept all his 
 air till the instant of engaging; at which time he 
 undiessed to his shirt, his arm adorned with a 
 bandage of red ribbon. No one can describe the 
 sudden concern in the whole assembly; the most 
 tumultuous crowd in nature was as still and as 
 much engaged as if all their lives depended on 
 the first blow. The combatants met in the mid¬ 
 dle of the stage, and shaking hands, as removing 
 all malice, they retired with much grace to the 
 extremities of it; from whence they immediately 
 faced about, and approached each other, Miller 
 with a heart full of resolution, Buck with a watch- 
 ful, untroubled countenance: Buck regarding prin- 
 cipaliy his own defense, Miller chiefly thoughtful 
 of annoying his opponent. *It is not easy to 
 describe the many escapes and imperceptible de¬ 
 fenses between two men of quick eyes and ready 
 limbs; but Miller’s heat laid him open to the re¬ 
 buke ot the calm Buck, by a large cut on the 
 forehead. Much effusion of blood covered his 
 eyes in a moment, and the huzzas of the crowd 
 undoubtedly quickened the anguish. The assem¬ 
 bly v as divided into parties upon their different 
 ways of fighting; while a poor nymph in one of 
 the galleries apparently suffered for Miller, and 
 burst into a flood of tears. As soon as his wound 
 was wrapped up, he came on again with a little 
 rage, which still disabled him further. But what 
 brave man can be wounded into more caution and 
 patience? The next was a warm, eager onset 
 which ended in a decisive stroke on the left le«- of 
 Miller. Ihe Lady in the gallery, during this 
 second strife, covered her face, and for my part, 
 
 I could not keep my thoughts from being mostly 
 employed on the consideration of her unhappy 
 circumstance that moment, hearing the clash of 
 
 525 
 
 swords, and apprehending life or victory con¬ 
 cerned her lover in every blow, but not daring to 
 satisfy herself on whom they fell. The wound 
 was exposed to the view of all who could delight 
 in it, and sewed up on the stage. The surly 
 second of Miller declared at this time, that he 
 would that day fortnight fight Mr. Buck at the 
 same weapons, declaring himself the master of the 
 renowned Gorman; but Buck denied him the ho- 
 nor °f that courageous disciple, and, asserting 
 hat he himself had taught that champion, accepted 
 the challenge. 
 
 There is something in human nature very unac¬ 
 countable on such occasions, when we see the 
 people take a painful gratification in beholding 
 these encounters. Is it cruelty that administers • 
 this sort of delight? or is it a pleasure that is taken 
 m the exercise of pity ? It was, methought, pretty 
 remarkable that the business of the day bein^ a 
 trial of skill, the popularity did not run so high as 
 one would have expected on the side of Buck Is 
 it that the people’s passions have their rise in self- 
 love, and thought themselves (in spite of all the 
 courage they had) liable to the fate of Miller, but 
 could not so easily think themselves qualified 
 like Buck? 
 
 Tully speaks of this custom with less horror 
 than one would expect, though he confesses it was 
 much abused in his time, and seems directly to 
 approve of it under its first regulations, when cri¬ 
 minals only fought before the people. “Crudele 
 gladiatorum spectaculum et inhumanum nonnullis 
 videri solet; et hand scio annon ita sit ut nunc Jit; 
 cum verb sontes ferro depugnabant, auribus fortasse 
 multa, oculis quidem nulla, poterat esse fortior contra 
 dolorem et mortem disciplina.” The shows of gla¬ 
 diators may be thought barbarous and inhuman, 
 and I know not but it is so as it is now prac¬ 
 tised; but in those times when only criminals 
 were combatants, the ear perhaps might receive 
 many better instructions, but it is impossible 
 that anything which affects our eyes should for¬ 
 tify us so well against pain and death.” 
 
 No. 437.] TUESDAY, JULY 22, 1712. 
 
 i une impune hscc facias ? Tune hie homines adolescentulos, 
 Imperifccs rerum, eductos, libere, in fraudum illicis ? 
 Sollicitando et pollicitando eorum animos lactas ? 
 
 Ac meretricios amores nuptiis conglutinas ? 
 
 Ter. And. act v. sc. 4. 
 
 Shall you escape with impunity; you who lay snares for 
 young men of a liberal education, but unacquainted with 
 the world, and by force of importunity and promises draw 
 them in to marry harlots ? 
 
 The other day passed by me in her chariot a 
 lady with that pale and wan complexion which 
 we sometimes see in young people who are fallen 
 into sorrow and private anxiety of mind, which 
 antedate age and sickness. It is not three years 
 ago since she was gay, airy, and a little toward 
 libertine in her carriage; but, methought, I easily 
 forgave her that little insolence, which she so 
 severely pays for in her present condition. Fla- 
 villa, of whom I am speaking, is married to a 
 sullen fool with wealth. Her beauty and merit are 
 lost upon the dolt, who is insensible of perfection 
 in anything. Their hours together are either 
 painful or insipid. The minutes she has to her¬ 
 self in his absence are not sufficient to give vent 
 at her eyes, to the grief and torment of his last 
 conversation. This poor creature was sacrificed 
 with a temper, which, under the cultivation of a 
 man of sense, would have made the most agreea¬ 
 ble companion, into the arms of this loathsome 
 yokefellow, by Sempronia. Sempronia is a good 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 526 
 
 lady, who supports herself in an affluent condi¬ 
 tion, by contracting friendship with rich young 
 widows, and maids of plentiful fortunes at their 
 own disposal, and bestowing her friends upon 
 worthless, indigent fellows; on the other side she 
 ensnares inconsiderate and rash youths of great 
 estates into the arms of vicious women. For this 
 purpose, she is accomplished in all the arts which 
 can make her acceptable at impertinent visits; she 
 knows all that passes in every quarter, and is well 
 acquainted with all the favorite servants, busy- 
 bodies, dependents, and poor relations, of all per¬ 
 sons of condition in the whole town. At the price 
 of a good sum of money, Sempronia, by the in¬ 
 stigation of Flavilla’s mother, brought about the 
 match for the daughter; and the reputation of this, 
 which is apparently, in point of fortune, more 
 than Flavilla could expect, has gained her the 
 visits and the frequent attendance of the crowd 
 of mothers, who had rather see their children 
 miserable in great wealth, than the happiest of 
 the race of mankind in a less conspicuous state of 
 life. When Sempronia is so well acquainted with 
 a woman’s temper and circumstances, that she be¬ 
 lieves marriage would be acceptable to her, and 
 advantageous to the man who shall get her, her 
 next step is to look out for some one, whose con¬ 
 dition has some secret wound in it, and wants a 
 sum yet, in the eye of the world, not unsuitable to 
 her. If such is not easily had, she immediately 
 adorns a worthless fellow with what estate she 
 thinks convenient, and adds as great a share of 
 good humor and sobriety as is requisite. After 
 this is settled, no importunities, arts, and devices, 
 are omitted, to hasten the lady to her happiness. 
 In the general, indeed, she is a person of so strict 
 justice, that she marries a poor gallant to a rich 
 wench, and a moneyless girl to a man of fortune. 
 But then she has no manner of conscience in the 
 disparity, when she has a mind to impose a poor 
 rogue for one of an estate: she has no remorse in 
 adding to it, that he is illiterate, ignorant, and un¬ 
 fashioned; but makes those imperfections argu¬ 
 ments of the truth of his wealth; and will, on 
 such an occasion, with a very grave face, charge 
 the people of condition with negligence in the 
 education of their children. Exception being made, 
 the other day, against an ignorant booby of her 
 own clothing, whom she was putting off for a rich 
 heir : “ Madam,” said she, “ you know there is no 
 making children, who know they have estates, 
 attend their books.” 
 
 Sempronia, by these arts, is loaded with pres¬ 
 ents, importuned for her acquaintance, and admired 
 by those who do not know the first taste of life, as 
 a woman of exemplary good-breeding. But sure 
 to murder and rob are less iniquities, than to raise 
 rofit by abuses as irreparable as taking away life; 
 ut more grievous, as making it lastingly un¬ 
 happy. To rob a lady at play of half her fortune, 
 is not so ill as giving the w r hole and herself to an 
 unworthy husband. But Sempronia can adminis¬ 
 ter consolation to an unhappy fair at home, by 
 leading her to an agreeable gallant elsewhere. 
 She can then preach the general condition of all 
 the people in the married world, and tell an inex- 
 
 { )erienced young woman, the methods of softening 
 ler affliction, and laugh at her simplicity and 
 want of knowledge, with an “ Oh ! my dear, you 
 will know better.” 
 
 The wickedness of Sempronia, one would think, 
 should be superlative; but I cannot but esteem 
 that of some parents equal to it: I mean such as 
 sacrifice the greatest endowments and qualifica¬ 
 tions to base bargains. A parent who forces a 
 child of a liberal and ingenious* spirit into the 
 
 arms of a clown or a blockhead, obliges her to a 
 crime too odious for a name. It is in a degree the 
 unnatural conjunction of rational and brutal be¬ 
 ings. Yet what is there so common, as the be¬ 
 stowing an accomplished woman with such a 
 disparity ? And I could name crowds w r ho lead 
 miserable lives for want of knowledge in their 
 parents of this maxim, that good sense and good 
 nature always go together. That which is attri¬ 
 buted to fools, and called good-nature, is only an 
 inability of observing what is faulty, which turns, 
 in marriage, into a suspicion of everything as 
 such, from a consciousness of that inability. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am entirely of your opinion with relation to 
 the equestrian females, who affect both the mascu¬ 
 line and feminine air at the same time; and cannot 
 forbear making a presentment against another or¬ 
 der of them, who grow very numerous and power¬ 
 ful; and since our language is not very capable of 
 good compound words, I must be contented to call 
 them only ‘ the naked-shouldered.’ These beauties 
 are not contented to make lovers wherever they 
 appear, but they must make rivals at the same 
 time. Were you to see Gatty walk the park at 
 high mall, you would expect those who followed 
 her and those who met her would immediately 
 draw their swords for her. I hope, Sir, you will 
 provide for the future, that women may stick to 
 their faces for doing any further mischief, and not 
 allow any but direct traders in beauty to expose 
 more than the fore-part of the neck, unless you 
 please to allow this after-game to those who are 
 very defective in the charms of the countenance. 
 I can say, to my sorrow, the present practice is 
 very unfair, when to look back is death; and it 
 may be said of our beauties, as a great poet did 
 of bullets, 
 
 They kill and wound, like Parthians, as they fly. 
 
 “I submit this to your animadversion; and am, 
 for the little while I have left, 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, the languishing, 
 
 “ Philanthus. 
 
 “P. S. Suppose you mended my letter, and 
 made a simile about the ‘porcupine;’ but I submit 
 that also.” 
 
 T. - 
 
 No. 438.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 23, 1712. 
 
 -Animum rege, qui, nisi paret, 
 
 Imperat- IIor. 1 Ep. ii. 62. 
 
 -Curb thy soul, 
 
 And check thy rage, which must be rul’d or rule.—C reech. 
 
 It is a very common expression that such a one 
 is very good-natured but very passionate. The 
 expression, indeed, is very good-natured, to allow 
 passionate people so much quarter : but I think a 
 passionate man deserves the least indulgence ima¬ 
 ginable. It is said, it is soon over; that is, all the 
 mischief he does is quickly dispatched, which, I 
 think, is no great recommendation to favor. I 
 have known one of these good-natured passionate 
 men say in a mixed company, even to his own wife 
 or child, such things as the most inveterate enemy 
 of his family would not have spoken, even in ima¬ 
 gination. It is certain that quick sensibility is 
 inseparable from a ready understanding; but why 
 should not that good understanding call to itself 
 all its force on such occasions, to master that sud¬ 
 den inclination to anger ? One of the greatest 
 souls now in the world* is the most subject by 
 nature to anger, and yet so famous, from a con¬ 
 quest of himself this way that he is the known 
 
 * Ingenuous. 
 
 * Lord Somers. 
 
example when you talk of temper and command 
 of a man s self 1 o contain the spirit of anger is 
 the worthiest discipline we can put ourselves to 
 
 a n r a i? ha ' S made an J progress this way, a 
 frivolous fellow in a passion is to him as con¬ 
 temptible as a froward child. It ought to be the 
 study of every man for his own ouiet and peace! 
 When he stands combustible and ready to flame 
 upon everything that touches him, lif/is as 
 
 AA..QV tn himonlf n ri ^ 11 , . ' . 3 
 
 the spectator. 
 
 527 
 
 *„ 4 . \ - J mm, me is as un¬ 
 
 easy to himself as it is to all about him. Syncro- 
 
 fife S h! a , dS ’ ° f R Hvin ^ the most ridiculous 
 
 ! e . Ver °lending and begging pardon. Jf 
 
 W—‘ a Ti! n ! e m r °T without what he was sent 
 
 I ask 1 hat blo 5 khea , d ’ ’ beg.ns he—“ Gentlemen, 
 1 a. k your pardon, but servants now-a-days ”_ 
 
 P at l 8 are laid -they are thrown into 
 tlie middle of the room; his wife stands by in 
 pain for him, which he sees in her face, and an- 
 f.'wu a ? lf u h ? f d f leard a11 she was thinking :— 
 
 t _ toZ ' ^ hat - the devd \ Wh 7 do,1 ’t jou take care 
 to give ° rde r S in these things ? „ Hjs friendg sit 
 
 down to a tasteless plenty of everything, every 
 
 nasst,n eXP f ° g n T insu * ts from hl8 ^pertinent 
 passions. In a word, to eat with, or visit Syncro- 
 
 E s f a m,r° other . tha » gomgto see him exercise 
 „nL; 7, exercise their patience, and his own 
 
 inwl!vi ra u nStrOUS j that the shame and confusion 
 behold' hr'^.good-natured angry man must needs 
 behoid his friends, while he thus lays about him, 
 does not give him so much reflection, as to create 
 an amendment. This is the most scandalous dis- 
 use of reason imaginable : all the harmless part 
 ot him is no more than that of a bulldog, they 
 
 One nfT) ?° than , the T «e not offended. 
 
 Une of these good-natured angry men shall in an 
 
 instant, assemble together so many allusions to 
 secret circumstances, as are enough to dissolve 
 the peace of all the families and friends he is ac¬ 
 quainted with in a quarter of an hour, and yet the 
 next moment be the best-natured man in the whole 
 
 W vi! d '.y° u Would see passion in its purity 
 without mixture of reason, behold it represented 
 in a mad hero, drawn by a mad poet. Nat. Lee 
 makes lus Alexander say thus : 
 
 Away! begOTic! and give a whirlwind room, 
 
 Ur I will blow you up iike dust! Avaunt! 
 
 Madness but meanly represents my toil 
 internal discord! 
 
 Fury! revenge! disdain and indignation! 
 
 “7 s . wo l 11 ’ n breast, make way for fire and tempest! 
 
 My brain is burst, debate and reason quench’d • 
 
 1 lie storm is up, and my hot bleeding heart ’ 
 bplits with the rack; while passions, like the wind, 
 
 Kise up to heav’n, and put out all the stars. 
 
 Every passionate fellow in town talks half the 
 day with as little consistency, and threatens things 
 as much out of his power. 
 
 The next disagreeable person to the outrageous 
 gentleman, is one of a much lower order of ano-er 
 and he is what we commonly call a peevish fellow’ 
 
 A peevish fellow is one who has some reason in 
 himself for being out of humor, or has a natural 
 incapacity for delight, and therefore disturbs all 
 who are happier than himself with pishes and 
 Fb, h n aW H 0 /. other , well ;bred interjections, at every- 
 i 'll i 1S , said or done in bis presence. There 
 shouid be physic mixed in the food of all which 
 these fellows eat in good company. This deo-ree 
 of anger passes, forsooth, for a delicacy of jude¬ 
 ment, that will not admit of being easily pleased- 
 but none above the character of wearing a peevish 
 man s livery ought to bear with his ill-manners 
 All things among men of sense and condition 
 should pass the censure, and have the protection 
 of the eye of reason. 
 
 No man ought to be tolerated in an habitual 
 humor, whim, or particularly of behavior, by any 
 
 who do not wait upon him for bread. Next to the 
 peevish fellow is the snarler. This gentleman 
 deals mightily in what we call the irony; and as 
 
 t ms! b°J] ° f ?f 0ple exert theinse lves most against 
 
 hefr talk f 7 ° U See their ha ™r best in 
 
 their talk to their servants. “ That is so like vou- 
 
 fb rr ; ^ art the r^est hS- 
 
 t P orin : t V d tke llke - °[ ie w «uld tliink the hec¬ 
 toring, the storming, the sullen, and all the 
 
 shmild be PeC1G !l a i‘ d 8 . ubordina tions of the angry, 
 should be cured, by knowing they live only ai 
 
 pardoned men; and how pitiful is the condition 
 
 of being only suffered ! But I am iirrupted by 
 
 Sent^fT° f anger and the disa PPoint 7 
 
 pened Uil 'f 1 haVG ev - er known > which hap- 
 
 as l saf in h V V T y6t Wntm ^ and 1 overheard 
 s i sat in the back-room at a French bookseller’s 
 
 InZrtTl mt0 ^ sho P a very learned man with 
 a '. GeGt , Solemn a, U though a person of great 
 parts otherwise, slow in understanding anythin^ 
 
 the 1 ^^ ^ agai P, St ! dmself - T be composureof 
 the faulty man, and the whimsical perplexity of 
 
 him that was justly angry, is perfectly new. After 
 
 turn,ng over many volumes, said the seller to the 
 
 buyer, Sir, you know I have long asked you to 
 
 mon, n T e f baCk 1 th ? firSt Volume ° f the Frenc b Ser¬ 
 mons I formerly lent you.”—“ Sir,” said the chap- 
 
 -I • 1 have boobed for it, but cannot find 
 t, it.is certainly lost, and I know not to whom I 
 lent it, it is so many years ago .”—“ Then Sir 
 here is the other volume; I’ll send you home’that,' 
 and please to pay for both.”—“ % friend,” re- 
 p ied^ lie, “canst thou be so senseless as not to 
 know that one volume is as imperfect in my library 
 
 S Op r^ YGS ’ Sir ’ but ifc is /ou have 
 
 naid’?l«? T, olume; aad V t0 be sh ort, 1 will be 
 p Hi. Sn, answered the chapman, “you are 
 
 a youn g man your book is lost; and learn by this 
 little loss to bear much greater adversities, which 
 you must expect to meet with.”—“Yes, Sir, but 
 111 bear when I must, but I have not lost now, for 
 
 1 say you have it, and shall pay me.”_“ Friend 
 
 you grow warm; I tell you the book is lost; and J 
 foresee, in the course even of a prosperous life, 
 that you will meet afflictions to make you mad if 
 you cannot bear this trifle.”—“ Sir, there is’in 
 this case^no need of bearing, for you have the 
 I say. Sir, I have not the book; but 
 your passion will not let you hear enough to be 
 informed that I have it not. Learn resignation of 
 yourself to the distresses of this life : nay, do not 
 fret and fume; it is my duty to tell you, that you 
 aie of an impatient spirit, and an impatient spirit 
 is never without woe.’’-“Was ever anything like 
 , tbls l ~ ^ es > Sir, there have been many things 
 like this: the loss is but a trifle; but your temper 
 is wanton, and incapable of the least pain; there- 
 fore Jet me advise you, be patient; the book is 
 Y * <a ° n °^ 7 ° U ^ or tbat reason lose yourself.” 
 
 No. 439.J THURSDAY, JULY 24, 1712. 
 
 Ili narrata ferunt alio: mensuraque ficti 
 Crescit; et auditis aliquid novus adjicifc auctor. 
 
 Ovn>, Metam. xii. 57. 
 
 Som e tell what they have heard, or tales devise; 
 
 Each fiction still improv’d with added lies. 
 
 Ovid describes the palace of Fame as situated 
 in the very center of the universe, and perforated 
 with so many windows and avenues as gave her 
 
 * By Steel. See No. 324, adfinem. 
 
 This scene passed in the shop of Mr. Vaillant, afterward 
 Messrs, l’ayne and Mackinlay’s, in the strand; and the sul> 
 ject of it was (for it is still in remembrance) a volume of 
 Massillon’s Sermons. The shop is now one of tbe last to 
 which authors wish to have recourse, a trunkmaker’s I 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 528 
 
 the sight of everything that was done in the j 
 heavens, in the earth, and in the sea. The struc¬ 
 ture of it was contrived in so admirable a manner, 
 that it echoed every word which was spoken in 
 the whole compass of nature; so that the palace, 
 says the poet, was always filled with a confused 
 hubbub of low, dying sounds, the voices being 
 almost spent and worn out before they arrived at 
 this general rendezvous of speeches and whispers. 
 
 I consider courts with the same regard to the 
 governments which they superintend, as Ovid’s 
 palace of Fame with regard to the universe. The 
 eyes of a watchful minister run through the whole 
 people. There is scarcely a murmur of complaint 
 that does not reach his ears. They have news- 
 gatherers and intelligencers, distributed into their 
 several walks and quarters, who bring in their re¬ 
 spective quotas, and make them acquainted with 
 the discourse and conversation of the whole king¬ 
 dom or commonwealth where they are employed. 
 The wisest of kings, alluding to these invisible 
 and unsuspected spies, who are planted by kings 
 and rulers over their fello'w-citizens, as well as to 
 those voluntary informers that are buzzing about 
 the ears of a great man, and making their court by 
 such secret methods of intelligence, has given us 
 a very prudent caution;* “ Curse not the king, no 
 not in thy thought, and curse not the rich in thy 
 bedchamber; for a bird of the air shall carry thy 
 voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the 
 matter.” 
 
 As it is absolutely necessary for rulers to make 
 use of other people’s eyes and ears, they should 
 take particular care to do it in such a manner, that 
 it may not bear too hard on the person whose life 
 and conversation are inquired into. A man who 
 is capable of so infamous a calling as that of a 
 spy, is not very much to be relied upon. He can 
 have no great ties of honor, or checks of conscience, 
 to restrain him in those covert evidences, where 
 the person accused has no opportunity of vindica¬ 
 ting himself. He will be more industrious to carry, 
 that which is grateful than that which is true. 
 There will be no occasion for him if he does not 
 hear and see things worth discovery; so that he 
 naturally inflames every word and circumstance, 
 aggravates what is faulty, perverts what is good, 
 and misrepresents what is indifferent. Nor is it 
 to be doubted but that such ignominious wretches 
 let their private passions into these their clandes¬ 
 tine informations, and often wreak their particular 
 spite or malice against the person whom they are 
 set to watch. It is a pleasant scene enough, 
 which an Italian author describes between a spy 
 and a cardinal who employed him. The cardinal 
 is represented as minuting down everything that 
 is told him. The spy begins with a low voice, 
 “ Such a one, the advocate, whispered to one of 
 his friends, within my hearing, that your emi¬ 
 nence was a very great poltroon; ” and, after hav¬ 
 ing given his patron time to take it down, adds, 
 that another called him a mercenary rascal in a 
 public conversation. The cardinal replies, “Very 
 well,” and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, 
 and loads him with reports of the same nature, 
 till the cardinal rises in great wrath, calls him an 
 impudent scoundrel, and kicks him out of the 
 room. . ' 
 
 It is observed of great and heroic minds, that 
 they have not only shown a particular disregard 
 to those unmerited reproaches which have been 
 cast upon them, but have been altogether free 
 from that impertinent curiosity of inquiring after 
 them, or the poor revenge of resenting them. The 
 histories of Alexander and Caesar are full of this 
 
 kind of instances. Vulgar souls are of a quite 
 contrary character. Dionysius, the tyrant of Si¬ 
 cily, had a dungeon which was a very curious 
 piece of architecture; and of which, as I am in¬ 
 formed, there are still to be seen some remains in 
 that island. It was called Dionysius’s Ear, and 
 built with several little windings and labyrinths, 
 in the form of a real ear. The structure of it 
 made it a kind of whispering place, but such a 
 one as gathered the voice of him who spoke into a 
 funnel which was placed at the very top of it. 
 The tyrant used to lodge all his state criminals, 
 or those whom he supposed to be engaged together 
 in any evil designs upon him, in this dungeon. 
 He had at the same time an apartment over it, 
 where he used to apply himself to the funnel, 
 and by that means overheard everything that was 
 whispered in the dungeon. I believe one may 
 venture to affirm, that a Caesar or an Alexander 
 would rather have died by the treason, than have 
 used such disingenuous means for the detecting 
 of it. 
 
 A man who in ordinary life is very inquisitive 
 after everything which is spoken ill of him, passes 
 his time but very indifferently. He is wounded 
 by every arrow that is shot at him, and puts it in 
 the power of every insignificant enemy to disquiet 
 him. Nay, he will suffer from what has been said 
 of him, when it is forgotten by those who said or 
 heard it. For this reason I could never bear one 
 of those officious friends, that would be telling 
 every malicious report, every idle censure, that 
 passed upon me. The tongue of man is so petu¬ 
 lant, and his thoughts so variable, that one should 
 not lay too great a stress upon any present 
 speeches and opinions. Praise and obloquy pro¬ 
 ceed very frequently out of the same mouth upon 
 the same person and upon the same occasion. A 
 generous enemy will sometimes bestow commen¬ 
 dations, as the dearest friend cannot sometimes 
 refrain from speaking ill. The man who is indif¬ 
 ferent in either of these respects gives his opinion 
 at random, and praises and disapproves as he 
 finds himself in humor. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with part of a char¬ 
 acter, which is finely drawn by the Earl of Claren¬ 
 don, in the first book of his History, and which 
 gives us the lively picture of a great man teasing 
 himself with an absurd curiosity. 
 
 “ He had not that application and submission, 
 and reverence for the queen, as might have been 
 expected from his wisdom and breeding; and 
 often crossed her pretenses and desires with more 
 rudeness than was natural to him. Yet he was 
 impertinently solicitous to know what her majesty 
 said of him in private, and what resentments she 
 had toward him. And when by some confidants, 
 who had their ends upon him from those offices, 
 he was informed of some bitter expressions falling 
 from her majesty, he was so exceedingly afflicted 
 and tormented with the sense of it, that sometimes 
 by passionate complaints and representations to 
 the king, sometimes by more dutiful addresses and 
 expostulations with the queen in bewailing his 
 misfortune, he frequently exposed himself, and 
 left his condition worse than it was before, and 
 the eclaircissement commonly ended in the dis¬ 
 covery of the persons from whom he had received 
 his most secret intelligence.”—C. 
 
 * Eccl. x. 20. 
 
 / 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 440.] FRIDAY, JULY 25, 1712. 
 
 Yivere si rcctc nescis, decode peritis.—II or. 2. Ep. ii. 213. 
 
 Learn to live well, or fairly make your will.—P ope. 
 
 I have already given my reader an account of a 
 Bet of merry fellows who are passing their summer 
 together in the country, being provided of a great 
 house, wheie there is not only a convenient apart¬ 
 ment foi every particular person, but a larce tnfir- 
 mary for the reception of such of them as are any 
 way indisposed or out of humor. Having lately 
 received a letter from the secretary of this society. 
 ly order of the whole fraternity, which acquaints 
 me with their behavior during the last week, I 
 'hall here make a present of it to the public. 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 are t° find that you approve the esta¬ 
 blishment which we have here made for the retriev- 
 
 mg of good manners and agreeable conversation, 
 and shall use our best endeavors so to improve 
 ourselves in this our summer retirement, that we 
 may next winter serve as patterns to the town. 
 But to the end that this our institution may be no 
 less advantageous to the public than to ourselves, 
 we shall communicate to you one week of our pro¬ 
 ceedings, desiring you at the same time, if you see 
 anything faulty in them, to favor us with your 
 admonitions ; for you must know. Sir, that it has 
 b;;en proposed among us to choose you for our 
 risitor ; to which I must further add, that one of 
 the college having declared last week he did not 
 like the Spectator of the day, and not being able 
 to assign any just reasons for such his dislike, he 
 was sent to the infirmary nemine contradicente. 
 
 “ O n Monday the assembly was in a very o- 0 od 
 humor, having received some recruits of French 
 claret that morning ; when, unluckily, toward 
 the middle of the dinner, one of the company 
 swore at his servant in a very rough manner for 
 having put too much water in his wine. Upon 
 which the president of the day, who is always the 
 mouth of the company, after having convinced him 
 of the impertinence of his passion, and the insult 
 it had made upon the company, ordered his man 
 to take him from the table, and convey him to the 
 infirmary. There was but one more sent away 
 that day ; this was a gentleman, who is reckoned 
 by some persons one of the greatest wits, and 
 by others one of the greatest boobies about 
 town This you will say is a strange character: 
 but what makes it stranger yei, it is a very true 
 one, for he is perpetually the reverse of him=elf 
 being always merry or dull to excess. We bought 
 him hither to divert us, which he did veiy well 
 upon the road, having lavished away as much wit 
 and laughter upon the hackney-coachmai, as might 
 have served him during his whole stay here, had 
 it been duly managed. He had been lumpish for 
 two or three days, but was so far connived at, in 
 hopes of recovery, that we dispatched one of the 
 briskest fellows among the brotherhood into the 
 infirmary for having told him at table he was not 
 merry But our president observing that he in¬ 
 dulged himself in this long fit of stupidity, and 
 construing it as a contempt of the college, ordered 
 him to retire into the place prepared for such com¬ 
 panions. He was no sooner got into it, but his 
 wit and mirth returned upon him in so violent a 
 manuei, that he shook the whole infirmary with 
 the noise of it, and had so good an effect upon the 
 rest of the patients, that he brought them all out 
 to dinner with him the next day. 
 
 " On Tuesday we were no sooner sat down, but 
 one of the company complained that his head 
 iched ; upon which another asked him, in an in- 
 34 
 
 solent manner, what he did there then ? This in 
 sensibly grew into some warm words ; so that the 
 piesident, in order to keep the peace, gave direc¬ 
 tions to take them both from the table, and lodge 
 them in the infirmary. Not long after, another of 
 the company telling us he knew, by a pain in his 
 shoulder, that we should have some rain, the pre¬ 
 sident ordered him to be removed, and placed as a 
 weather-gkss in the apartment above-mentioned. 
 
 Un Wednesday, a gentleman, having received 
 a letter written in a woman’s hand, and changing 
 color twice or thrice as he read it, desired leave to 
 etire into the infirmary. The president consented, 
 
 irn de w^ him i the , use of P en > ink > and paper, 
 till such time, as he had slept upon it. One of the 
 
 company being seated at the lower end of the ta¬ 
 ble, and discovering his secret discontent, by find¬ 
 ing fault with every dish that was served up, and 
 refusing to laugh at anything that was said, the 
 piesident told him, that he found he was in an 
 uneasy seat, and desired him to accommodate him¬ 
 self better in the infirmary. After dinner, a very 
 honest fellow chancing to let a pun fall from him • 
 his neighbor cried out, ‘ To the infirmary at the 
 same time pretending to be sick at it, as having 
 the same natural antipathy to a pun which some 
 have to a cat. This produced a long debate. Upon 
 the whole, the punster was acquitted, and his 
 neighbor sent off. 
 
 On Thursday, there was but one delinquent. 
 
 1 his was a gentleman of strong voice, but weak 
 understanding. He had unluckily engaged him¬ 
 self in dispute with a man of excellent sense, but 
 of a modest elocution. The man of heat replied 
 to every answer of his antagonist with a louder 
 note than ordinary, and only raised his voice when 
 he should have enforced his argument. Finding 
 himself at length driven to an absurdity, he still 
 reasoned in a more clamorous and confused man¬ 
 ner ; and, to make the greater impression upon 
 his hearers, concluded with a loud thump upon 
 the table. The president immediately ordered 
 him to be carried off, and dieted with water-gruel 
 till such time as he should be sufficiently weak¬ 
 ened for conversation. 
 
 " On Friday there passed very little remarkable, 
 saving only, that several petitions were read of 
 the persons in custody, desiring to be released 
 from their confinement, and vouching for one 
 another’s good behavior for the future. 
 
 On Saturday we received many excuses from 
 persons who had found themselves in an unso¬ 
 ciable temper, and had voluntarily shut them¬ 
 selves up. The infirmary was, indeed, never so 
 lull as on this day, which I was at some loss to 
 account for, till, upon my going abroad, I observed 
 that it was an easterly wind. The retirement of 
 most of my friends has given me opportunity and 
 leisure of writing you this letter, which I must 
 not conclude without assuring you, that all the 
 members of our college, as well those who. are 
 under confinement as those who are at liberty are 
 your very humble servants, though none more 
 than, etc.—C. 
 
 [No. 441. SATURDAY, JULY 26, 1712. 
 
 Si fractus illabatur or bis, 
 
 Impavidum ferient ruinae.—II or. 3 Od. iii. 7. 
 
 Should the whole frame of nature round him break. 
 
 In ruin and confusion hurl’d, 
 lie, unconcern’d, would hear the mighty crack, 
 
 And stand secure amidst a falling world.—A non. 
 
 Man, considered in himself, is a very helpless 
 and a very wretched being. He is subject every 
 moment to the greatest calamities and misfortunes. 
 He is beset with dangers on ail sides ; and may 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 o30 
 
 become unhappy by numberless casualties, which 
 he could not foresee, nor have prevented had he 
 foreseen them. 
 
 It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so 
 many accidents, that we are under the care of One 
 who directs contingencies, and has in his hands 
 the management of everything that is capable of 
 annoying or offending us ; who knows the assist¬ 
 ance we stand in need of, and is always ready to 
 bestow it on those who ask it of him. 
 
 The natural homage which such a creature bears 
 to so infinitely wise and good a Being, is a firm 
 reliance on him for the blessings and conveni¬ 
 ences of life, and a habitual trust in him for 
 deliverance out of all such dangers and difficul¬ 
 ties as may befall us. 
 
 The man who always lives in this disposition 
 of mind, has not the same dark and melancholy 
 views of human nature^as he who considers him¬ 
 self abstractedly from this relation to the Supreme 
 Being. At the same time that he reflects upon 
 his own weakness and imperfection, he comforts 
 himself with the contemplation of those divine 
 attributes which are employed for his safety and 
 his welfare. He finds his want of foresight made 
 up by the Omniscience of him who is his support. 
 Heisnotsensible of hisownwantof strength; when 
 he knows that his helper is almighty. In short, 
 the person who has a firm trust on the Supreme 
 Being, is powerful in his power, wise by his wis¬ 
 dom, happy by his happiness. He reaps the ben¬ 
 efit of every divine attribute, and loses his own 
 insufficiency in the fullness of infinite perfection. 
 
 To make our lives more easy to us, we are com¬ 
 manded to put our trust in him, who is thus able 
 to relieve and succor us: the divine goodness 
 having made such a reliance a duty, notwithstand¬ 
 ing we should have been miserable had it been 
 forbidden us. 
 
 Among several motives which might be made 
 use of to recommend this duty to us, I shall only 
 take notice of these that follow:— 
 
 The first and strongest is, that we are promised 
 he will not fail those who put their trust in him. 
 
 But, without considering the supernatural bless¬ 
 ing which accompanies this duty, we may observe 
 that it has a natural tendency to its own reward, 
 or, in other words, that this firm trust and confi¬ 
 dence in the great Disposer of all things, con¬ 
 tributes very much to the getting clear of any 
 affliction, or to the bearing it manfully. A person 
 who believes he has his succor at hand, and that 
 he acts in the sight of his friend, often exerts 
 himself beyond his abilities, and does wonders 
 that are not to be matched by one who is not ani¬ 
 mated with such a confidence of success. I could 
 produce instances from history, of generals, who, 
 out of a belief that they were under the protection 
 of some invisible assistant, did not only encourage 
 their soldiers to do their utmost, but have acted 
 themselves beyond what they would have done 
 had they not been inspired by such a belief. I 
 might in the same manner show how such a trust 
 in the assistance of an Almighty Being naturally 
 produces patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all 
 other dispositions of the mind that alleviate those 
 calamities which we are not able to remove. 
 
 The practice of this virtue administers great 
 comfort to the mind of man in times of poverty 
 and affliction, but most of all in the hour of death. 
 When the soul is hovering in the last moments of 
 its separation, when it is just entering on another 
 state of existence, to converse with scenes, and 
 objects, and companions, that are altogether new, 
 —what can support her under such tremblings of 
 thought, such fears, such anxiety, such apprehen¬ 
 sions, but the casting of all her cares upon him 
 
 who first gave her being, who has conducted ho/ 
 through one stage of it, and will be always with 
 her, to guide and comfort her in her progress 
 through eternity ? 
 
 David has very beautifully represented this 
 steady reliance on God Almighty in his twenty- 
 third psalm, which is a kind of pastoral hymn, 
 and filled with those allusions which are usual in 
 that kind of writing. As the poetry is very ex¬ 
 quisite, I shall present my reader with the follow¬ 
 ing translation of it:— 
 
 I. 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 
 And feed me with a shepherd’s care; 
 
 His presence shall my wants supply, 
 
 And guard me with a watchful eye : 
 
 My noon-day walks he shall attend, 
 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 II. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 
 Or on the thirsty mountain pant; 
 
 To fertile vales and dewy meads 
 My weary, wand’ring steps he leads , 
 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Though in the paths of death I tread, 
 
 With gloomy horrors overspread, 
 
 My steadfast heart shall know no ill, 
 
 For thou, 0 Lord, art with me still; 
 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Though in a hare and rugged way, 
 
 Through devious, lonely wilds I stray, 
 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile; 
 
 The barren wilderness shall smile 
 
 W T ith sudden greens and herbage crown’d, 
 
 And streams shall murmur all around. 
 
 No. 442.] MONDAY, JULY 28,1712. 
 
 Scribimus indocti doctique- Hor. 2 Ep. i. 117. 
 
 -Those who cannot write, and those who can, 
 
 All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.— Pope. 
 
 I do not know whether I enough explained my¬ 
 self to the world, when I invited all men to be 
 assistant to me in this my work of speculation ; 
 for I have not yet acquainted my readers, that be¬ 
 side the letters and valuable hints I have from 
 time to time received from my correspondents, I 
 have by me several curious and extraordinary 
 papers sent with a design (as no one will doubt 
 when they are published) that they might be 
 printed entire, and without any alteration, byway 
 of Spectator. I must acknowledge also, that I 
 myself, being the first projector of the paper, 
 thought I had a right to make them my own, by 
 dressing them in my own style, by leaving out 
 what would not appear like mine, and by adding 
 whatever might be proper to adapt them to the 
 character and genius of my paper, with which it 
 was almost impossible these could exactly corre¬ 
 spond, it being certain that hardly two men think 
 alike ; and, therefore, so many men so many Spec¬ 
 tators. Beside, I must own my weakness for 
 glory is such, that, if I consulted that only, I 
 might be so far swayed by it, as almost to wish 
 that no one could write a Spectator beside my¬ 
 self ; nor can I deny, but upon the first perusal of 
 those papers, I felt some secret inclinations of ill- 
 will toward the persons who wrote them. This 
 was the impression I had upon the first reading 
 them ; but upon a late review (more for the sake 
 of entertainment than use), regarding them with 
 another eye than I had done at first (for by con¬ 
 verting them as well as I could to my own use, I 
 thought I had utterly disabled them from ever 
 offending me again as Spectators), I found myself 
 
moved by a passion very different, from that of 
 envy ; sensibly touched with pity, the softest and 
 most generous of all passions, when I reflected 
 what a cruel disappointment the neglect of those 
 papers must needs have been to the writers who 
 impatiently longed to see them appear in print 
 ami who no doubt, triumphed to themselves F„ the 
 hopes of having a share with me in the applause 
 
 those Jh Ub k C; “ P ea ? ure so S reat > tha ‘ none but 
 those who have experienced it can have a sense of 
 
 ipnll Iri f U !i I ? a i nn j r of viewin g those papers, l 
 really found I had not done them justice, there 
 
 being something so extremely natural and pecu- 
 
 g M d ? l° me . of them > that I will appeal to 
 the wodd whether it was possible to alter a word 
 in them without doing them a manifest hurt and 
 violence; and whether they can ever appear rightly 
 and as they ought, but in their own native dress and 
 colors And therefore I think I should not only 
 wrong them, but deprive the world of a consider¬ 
 able satisfaction, should I any longer delay the 
 making them public. y 
 
 . t ft T et , 1 bave Published a few of these Specta- 
 s, I doubt not but I shall And the success of 
 them to equal, if not surpass, that of the best of 
 my own An author should take all methods to 
 humble himself in the opinion he has of his own 
 
 woHd m T a, rl Ce ?Kf W !T tho , Se P a P ers appear to the 
 world, I doubt not but they will be followed bv 
 
 vfn ’i and i l Sha11 not re P ine > though I 
 myself shall have left me but a very few days to 
 
 appear in public ; but, preferring the generafweal 
 and advantage to any considerations of myself T 
 am resoived for the future to publish any Specta¬ 
 tor that deserves it entire, and without any aitera- 
 tion ; assuring the world (if there can be need 
 tbat \ lt 1S non e of mine ; and if the authors 
 them t0 subscnbe tbeir n ames, I will add 
 
 * tbi 5 k tbe best way of promoting this gene¬ 
 rous and useful design will be by giving out sub¬ 
 jects or themes of all kinds whatsoever/ on which 
 (with a preamble of the extraordinary benefit and 
 advantage that may accrue thereby to the public) 
 
 I will invite all manner of persons, whether 
 scholars, citizens, courtiers, gentlemen of the 
 town or country, and all beaus, rakes, smarts, 
 prudes coquettes, housewives, and all sorts of 
 wits, whether male or female, and however dis¬ 
 tinguished, whether they be true wits, whole or 
 half wits, or whether arch, dry, natural, acquired 
 genuine, or depraved wits; and persons of all 
 sorts ot tempers and complexions, whether the 
 severe, the delightful, the impertinent, the agree¬ 
 able, the thoughtful, busy or careless, the serene 
 or cloudy, jovial or melancholy, untowardly or 
 easy the cold, temperate, or sanguine; and of 
 hat manners or dispositions soever, whether the 
 ambitious or humble-minded, the proud or pitiful 
 ingenuous or base-minded, good or ill-natured’ 
 public-spirited or selfish ; and under what fortune 
 or circumstance soever, whether the contented or 
 miserable, happy or unfortunate, high or low 
 rich or poor (whether so through want of money' 
 or desire of more), healthy or sickly, married or 
 single ; nay, whether tall or short, fat or lean • 
 and of what trade, occupation, profession, station’ 
 country, faction, party, persuasion, quality, age 
 or condition soever : who have ever made think¬ 
 ing a part of their business or diversion, and have 
 anything worthy to impart on these subjects to the 
 world according to their several and respective 
 talents or geniuses ; and, as the subjects given 
 out hit their tempers, humors, or circumstances or 
 may be made profitable to the public by their p’ar- 
 ticular knowledge or experience in the matter pro¬ 
 posed, to do their utmost on them by such a tune. 
 
 I HE SPECTATOR. 
 
 531 
 
 to the end they may receive the inexpressible and 
 irresistible pleasure of seeing their essays allowed 
 of and rehshed by the rest of mankind; 
 
 1 W ' U i . not ^possess the reader with too ^reat 
 expectation of the extraordinary advantages which 
 
 the S diff d ° l, ?fi to t} l G publ ' C hy these essa vs, when 
 different thoughts and observations of all sorts 
 
 of persons, according to their quality, age sex 
 
 dido ns °p/ pr( fn l r iS ’ humors ’ manners, and con* 
 Hparpot C ‘, S ia be set out b y themselves in the 
 clearest and most genuine light, and as they 
 
 ttTotd. 8 W0U ‘ d Wish t0 ^ 
 
 th JIhJ? 6 f SiS P ro P osed for the present exercise of 
 the adventurers to write Spectators is Money • on 
 
 their h thm bje u all .P e . rsons are desired to send in 
 
 hereof.—rf 8 Wlthm tGn da ^ S after tbe date 
 
 Ho. 443.] TUESDAY, JULY 29, 1712. 
 
 Sublatum ex oculis quarimus invidi.— Hor. 3 Od. xxiv. 32. 
 Snatch’d from our sight, we eagerly pursue, 
 
 And fondly would recall her to our view. 
 
 CAMILLA* TO THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectaor, Venice, July 10, N. S. 
 
 “ 1 T AKE [t extremely ill, that you do not reckon 
 conspicuous persons of your nation are within 
 your cognizance, though out of the dominions of 
 Grent Britain. I little thought, in the green years 
 of my life, that I should ever call it a happiness 
 to be out of dear England ; but as I grew to wo¬ 
 man, I found myself less acceptable in proportion 
 to the increase of my merit. Their ears in Italy 
 are so differently formed from the make of yours 
 in England, that 1 never come upon the stage, but 
 a general satisfaction appears in every counte¬ 
 nance of the whole people. When I dwell upon 
 a note, I behold all the men accompanying me 
 with heads inclining, and falling of their persons 
 on one side, as dying away with me. The wo¬ 
 men too do justice to my merit, and no ill-na¬ 
 tured worthless creature cries, ‘The vain thing ' 
 when I am wrapt up in the performance of mv 
 part, and sensibly touched with the effect my 
 voice has upon all who hear me. I live here dis¬ 
 tinguished as one whom nature has been liberal to. 
 in a graceful person, and exalted mien, and heaven¬ 
 ly voice. These particularities, in this strange 
 country are arguments for respect and generosity 
 to her who is possessed of them. The Italians 
 see a thousand beauties I am sensible I have no 
 pretense to, and abundantly make up to me the 
 inju&tice I received in my own country, of disal¬ 
 lowing me what I really had. The humor of his¬ 
 sing which you have among you, I do not know 
 anything of; and their applauses are uttered in 
 sighs and bearing a part at the cadences of voice 
 with the persons who are performing. I am often 
 put in mind of those complaisant lines of ray own 
 countryman f when he is calling all his faculties 
 together to hear Arabella. 
 
 Let all be hush’d, each softest motion cease. 
 
 Be ev ry loud tumultuous thought at peace* 
 
 And ev’ry ruder gasp of breath, 
 
 Be calm as in the arms of death : 
 
 And thou, most fickle, most uneasy part. 
 
 Thou restless wanderer, my heart, 
 
 Be still; gently, ah! gently leave 
 Thou busy, idle thing, to heave: 
 
 Stir not a pulse; and let my blood, 
 
 That turbulent, unruly flood, 
 
 Be softly staid; 
 
 Let me be all, but my attention, dead. 
 
 * Mrs. 1 ofts, who played the part of Camilla in the operas 
 Oi that name. 
 
 t Mr. Congreve. 
 
532 
 
 THE SPECTAT OR. 
 
 “ The whole city of Venice is as still when I 
 am singing as this polite hearer was to Mrs. Hunt. 
 But when they break that silence, did you know 
 the pleasure I am in, when every man utters his 
 applause by calling me aloud. ‘ The dear crea¬ 
 ture ! The angel ! The Venus ! What attitude she 
 moves with !—Hush, she sings again ! ’ We have 
 no boisterous wits who dare disturb an audience, 
 and break the public peace merely to show they 
 dare. Mr. Spectator, I write this to you thus in 
 haste, to tell you I am so very much at ease here, 
 that I know nothing but joy; and I will not return, 
 but leave you in England to hiss all merit of your 
 own growth off the stage. I know, Sir, you were 
 always my admirer, and therefore I am yours, 
 
 “ Camilla.” 
 
 “ P. S. I am ten times better dressed than ever 
 I was in England.” 
 
 “ Mr! Spectator, 
 
 “ The project in yours of the 11th instant, of 
 furthering tlie correspondence and knowledge of 
 that considerable part of mankind, the trading 
 world, cannot but be highly commendable. Good 
 lectures to young traders may have very good ef¬ 
 fects on their conduct: but beware you propagate 
 no false notions of trade : let none of your corre¬ 
 spondents impose on the world by putting forth 
 base methods in a good light, and glazing them 
 over with improper terms. I would have no 
 means of profit set for copies to others, but such 
 as are laudable in themselves. Let not noise be 
 called industry, nor impudence courage. Let not 
 good fortune be imposed on the world for good 
 management, nor poverty be called folly; impute 
 not always bankruptcy to extravagance, nor an 
 estate to foresight. Niggardliness is not good 
 husbandry, nor generosity profusion. 
 
 “Honestus is a well-meaning and judicious 
 trader, hath substantial goods, and trades with 
 his own stock, husbands his money to the best 
 advantage, without taking all the advantages of 
 the necessities of his workmen, or grinding the 
 face of the poor. Fortunatus is stocked with ig¬ 
 norance, and consequently with self-opinion; the 
 quality of his goods cannot but be suitable to that 
 of his judgment. Honestus pleases discerning 
 people, and keeps their custom by good usage; 
 makes modest profit by modest means, to the 
 decent support of his family; while Fortunatus, 
 blustering always, pushes on, promising much 
 and performing little; with obsequiousness offen¬ 
 sive to people of sense, strikes at all, catches much 
 the greater part, and raises a considerable fortune 
 by imposition on others, to the discouragement 
 and ruin of those who trade in the same way. 
 
 “ I give here but loose hints, and beg you to be 
 very circumspect in the province you have now 
 undertaken : if you perform it successfully, it will 
 be a very great good; for nothing is more wanting 
 than that mechanic industry were set forth with 
 the freedom and greatness of mind which ought 
 always to accompany a man of a liberal education. 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “R. C.” 
 
 ‘'From my shop under the Royal Exchange, 
 July 24.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, July 24, 1712. 
 
 “Notwithstanding the repeated censures that 
 your spectatorial wisdom has passed upon people 
 more remarkable for impudence than wit, there are 
 yet some remaining, who pass with the giddy part 
 of mankind for sufficient sharers of the latter, 
 who have nothing but the former qualification to 
 recommend them. Another timely animadversion 
 .is absolutely necessary ; be pleased, therefore, 
 
 once for all, to let these gentlemen know, that 
 there is neither mirth nor good-humor in hooting 
 a young fellow out of countenance; nor that it 
 will ever constitute a wit, to conclude a tart piece 
 of buffoonery with a ‘ What makes you blush?’ 
 Pray please to inform them again, that to speak 
 what they know is shocking proceeds from ill- 
 nature and a sterility of brain; especially when 
 the subject will not admit of raillery, and their 
 discourse has no pretension to satire but what is 
 in their design to disoblige. I should be very 
 glad, too, if you would take notice, that a daily 
 repetition of the same overbearing insolence is yet 
 more insupportable, and a confirmation of very 
 extraordinary dullness. The sudden publication 
 of this may have an effect upon a notorious of¬ 
 fender of this kind, whose reformation would 
 redound very much to the satisfaction and quiet of 
 “ Your most humble Servant, 
 
 T. “F. B.” 
 
 No. 444.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, 1712. 
 
 Parturiunt montes- Hor. Ars Poet. v. 139. 
 
 The mountain labors.* 
 
 It gives me much despair in the design of re¬ 
 forming the world by my speculations, when I 
 find there always arise, from one generation to 
 another, successive cheats and bubbles, as natur¬ 
 ally as beasts of prey, and those which are to be 
 their food. There is hardly a man in the world, 
 one would think, so ignorant, as not to know that 
 the ordinary quack-doctors who publish their 
 great abilities in little brown billets, distributed 
 to all who pass by, are to a man impostors and 
 murderers; yet such is the credulity of the vulgar, 
 and the impudence of those professors, that the 
 affair still goes on, and new promises, of what 
 was never done before, are made every day. What 
 aggravates the jest is, that even this promise has 
 been made as long as the memory of man can 
 trace it, yet nothing performed, and yet still pre¬ 
 vails. As I was passing along to-aay, a paper 
 given into my hand, by a fellow without a nose, 
 tells us as follows what good news is come to 
 town, to wit, that there is now a certain cure for 
 the French disease, by a gentleman just come from 
 his travels. 
 
 “In Russel-court, over-against the Cannon-ball, 
 at the Surgeon’s-arms in Drury-lane, is lately come 
 from his travels, a surgeon who hath practiced 
 surgery and physic both by sea and land, these 
 twenty-four years. He (by the blessing) cures the 
 yellow-jaundice, green-sickness, scurvy, dropsy, 
 surfeits, long sea-voyages, campaigns, and women’s 
 miscarriages, lying in, etc., as some people that has 
 been lame these thirty years can testify; in short, 
 he cureth all diseases incident to men, women, or 
 children.” 
 
 If a man could be so indolent as to look upon 
 this havoc of the human species, which is made 
 by vice and ignorance, it would be a good ridicu¬ 
 lous work to comment upon the declaration of this 
 accomplished traveler. There is something unac¬ 
 countably taking among the vulgar in those who 
 come from a great way off. Ignorant people of 
 quality, as many there are of such, dote excess¬ 
 ively this way; many instances of which every 
 man will suggest to himself, without any enumer¬ 
 ation of them. The ignorants of lower order, who 
 cannot, like the upper ones, be profuse of their 
 
 * Former motto: 
 
 Quid dignum tanto feret hie promissor hiatu ? 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. v. 138: 
 
 Great cry and little wool.—E nglish Proverb. 
 
money to those recommended by coming from a 
 distance, are no less complaisant than the others 
 
 for they venture their lives from the same admir¬ 
 ation. 
 
 j ^ oc ^ or j s lately come from his travels,” 
 and has “practiced both by sea and land,” and 
 therefore cures “the green-sickness, long sea-voy¬ 
 ages campaigns, and lying-in.” Both by sea and 
 land! I will not answer for the distempers called 
 sea-voyages and campaigns ; but I dare say those 
 o gteen-sickness and lying-in might be as well 
 taken care of if the doctor staid ashore. But the 
 art of managing mankind is only to make them 
 stare a little, to keep up their astonishment, to 
 let nothing be familiar to them, but ever to have 
 something in their sleeve, in which they must 
 think you are deeper than they are. There is an 
 ingenious follow, a barber of my acquaintance, 
 who, beside his broken fiddle and a dried sea- 
 monster, has a twine-cord, strained with two nails 
 at each end, over his window, and the words 
 rainy, dry, wet,” and so forth, written to denote 
 the weather according to the rising or falling of 
 the cord. We very great scholars are not apt to 
 wonder at this: but I observed a very honest 
 tellow, a chance customer, who sat in the chair 
 before me to be shaved, fix his eye upon this 
 miraculous performance during the operation upon 
 his chin and face. When those and his head also 
 were cleared of all incumbrances and excrescences 
 he looked at the fish, then at the fiddle, still grub- 
 ing in his pockets, and casting his eye again at 
 the twine, and the words written on each side; then 
 
 the spectator. 
 
 533 
 
 twelve and from two till six, he attends, for tha 
 good of the public, to bleed for threepence.”_ T 
 
 altered his mind as to farthings, and gave my 
 friend a silver sixpence. The business, as I said 
 is to keep up the amazement; and if my friend 
 had had only the skeleton and kit, he must have 
 been contented with a less payment. But the 
 doctor we 'were talking of adds to his long voy¬ 
 ages the testimony of some people “that has been 
 thirty years lame.” When I received my paper a 
 sagacious fellow took one at the same time, and 
 read till lie came to the thirty years’ confinement 
 of his friends, and went off very well convinced 
 ot the doctors sufficiency. You have many of 
 those prodigious persons, who have had some 
 extraordinary accident at their birth, or a great 
 disaster in some part of their lives. Anythino- 
 however foreign from the business the people want 
 ot you, will convince them of your ability in that 
 you profess. There is a doctor in Mouse-alley 
 near Mapping, 'who sets up for curing cataracts, 
 upon the credit of having, as his bill sets forth 
 lost an eye in the emperor’s service. His patients 
 come m upon this, and he shows the muster-roll 
 which confirms that he was in his imperial mai- 
 esty s troops ; and he puts out their eyes with 
 great success. Mho would believe that a man 
 should be a doctor for the cure of bursten children 
 by declaring that his father and grandfather were 
 both bursten ? But Charles Ingolston, next door 
 to the Harp, in Barbican, has made a pretty penny 
 by that asseveration. The generality go upon their 
 first conception, and think no further • all the rest 
 is granted. They take it, that there is somethin^ 
 uncommon in you, and give you credit for the rest 
 You may be sure it is upon that I go, when some¬ 
 times, let it be to the purpose or not, I keep a Latin 
 sentence in my front; and I was not a little pleased 
 when I observed one of my readers say, casting 
 
 c/ni 9 ye w. P ° n P a P er > "More Latin 
 
 still . VVhat a prodigious scholar is this man!” 
 
 But as 1 have here taken much liberty with this 
 learned doctor, I must make up all I have said bv 
 repeating what he seems to be in earnest in, and 
 honestly to promise to those who will not receive 
 him as a great man—to wit, «that from eight to 
 
 No. 445.] THURSDAY, JULY 31, 1712. 
 
 Tanti non es, ais. Sapis, Luperce.— Mart. Epig. i, 118. 
 
 You say, Lupercus, what I write 
 l n t worth so much: you’re in the right. 
 
 day ir T hi ? h man Y eminent authors 
 wili probably publish their last words. I am 
 
 afraid that few of our weekly historians, who are 
 men that above all others delight in war, will be 
 able to subsist under the weight of a stamp* and 
 an approaching peace. A sheet of blank paper 
 that must have this new imprimatur clapped upon 
 t, before it is qualified to communicate anything 
 to the public, will make its way in the world but 
 very heavily In short, the necessity of carrying 
 a stamp, and the improbability of notifying a 
 bloody battle will, I am afraid, both concur^ the 
 sinking of those thin folios, which have everv 
 other day retailed to us the history of Europe for 
 several years last past. A facetious friend of 
 mine, who loves a pun, calls this present mortalitv 
 among the authors, “ The fall of the leaf ” 
 
 I remember, upon Mr. Baxter’s death, there was 
 published a sheet of very good sayings, inscribed, 
 1 he last words of Mr. Baxter.” The title sold 
 so great a number of these papers, that about a 
 week after there came out a second sheet, inscribed 
 “More last words of Mr. Baxter.” In the same 
 manner, I have reason to think that several inge¬ 
 nious writers, who have taken their leave of the 
 public in farewell papers, will not give over so, 
 but intend to appear again, though perhaps under 
 another form, and with a different title. Be that 
 as it will, it is my business, in this place, to give 
 an account of my own intentions, and to acquaint 
 my reader with the motives by which I act, in this 
 great crisis of the republic of letters. 
 
 I have been long debating in my own heart, 
 whether I should throw up my pen, as an author 
 that is cashiered by the act of parliament which 
 is to operate within this four-and-twenty hours, or 
 whether I should still persist in laying* my specu¬ 
 lations, from day to day, before the public. The 
 argument which prevails with me most on the first 
 side of the question is, that 1 am informed by my 
 bookseller he must raise the price of every single 
 paper to two-pence, or that he shall not be able to 
 pay the duty of it. Now, as I am very desirous 
 my readers should have their learning as cheap as 
 possible, it is with great difficulty that I comply 
 with him in this particular. * J 
 
 However, upon laying my reasons together in 
 the balance, I find that those who plead for the 
 continuance of this work have much the greater 
 weight, for, in the first place, in recompense for 
 the expense to which this will put my readers, it 
 is to be hoped they may receive from every paper 
 so much instruction as will be a very good equiv¬ 
 alent. And, in order to this, I would not advise 
 any one to take it in, who, after the perusal of it, 
 does not find himself two-pence the wiser, or the 
 better man for it, or who, upon examination, does 
 not believe that he has had two-pennyworth of 
 mirth or instruction for his money. 
 
 But I must confess there is another motive 
 ■which prevails with me more than the former. I 
 
 Aug. 1, 1712, the stamp-duty here alluded to took place, 
 and every single half sheet paid a halfpenny to the queen. 
 
 Have you seen the red stamp ? Methinks the stamping is 
 worth a halfpenny. The Observator is fallen; the Medleys 
 are jumbled together with the Flying-Post; the Examiner is 
 deadly sick. The Spectator keeps up, and doubles its price ” 
 
 — Swift's Works, cr. 8vo. vol. xix, p. 173, 
 
THE SPECTATO R. 
 
 5d4 
 
 consider that the tax on paper was given for the I 
 support of the government; and as I have enemies [ 
 who are apt to pervert everything I do or say, I 
 fear they would ascribe the laying down my paper 
 on such an occasion, to a spirit of malcontented- 
 ness, which I am resolved none shall ever justly 
 upbraid me with. No, I shall glory in contributing 
 my utmost to the public weal; and, if my country 
 receives five or six pounds a day by my labors, I 
 shall be very well pleased to find myself so useful 
 a member. 
 
 It is a received maxim, that no honest man 
 should enrich himself by methods that are preju¬ 
 dicial to the community in which he lives; and 
 by the same rule I think we may pronounce the 
 person to deserve very well of his countrymen, 
 whose labors bring more into the public coffers 
 than into his own pocket. 
 
 Since I have mentioned the word enemies, I 
 must explain myself so far as to acquaint my 
 reader, that I mean only the insignificant party- 
 zealots on both sides; men of such poor, narrow 
 souls, that they are not capable of thinking on 
 anything but with an eye to whig or tory. During 
 the course of this paper I have been accused by 
 these despicable wretches of trimming, time-serv¬ 
 ing, personal reflection, secret satire, and the like. 
 Now, though, in these my compositions, it is 
 visible to any reader of common sense, that I 
 consider nothing but my subject, which is always 
 of an indifferent nature, how is it possible for me 
 to write so clear of party, as not to lie open to the 
 censures of those who will be applying every 
 sentence, and finding out persons and things in 
 it, which it has no regard to ? 
 
 Several paltry scribblers and declaimers have 
 done me the honor to be dull upon me in reflec¬ 
 tions of this nature; but, notwithstanding my 
 name has been sometimes traduced by this con¬ 
 temptible tribe of men, I have hitherto avoided 
 all animadversions upon them. The truth of it is, 
 
 I am afraid of making them appear considerable 
 by taking notice of them; for they are like those 
 imperceptible insects which are discovered by the 
 microscope, and cannot be made the subject of 
 observation without being magnified. 
 
 Having mentioned those few who have shown 
 themselves the enemies of this paper, I should be 
 very ungrateful to the public did I not at the same 
 time testify my gratitude to those who are its 
 friends, in which number I may reckon many of 
 the most distinguished persons, of all conditions, 
 parties, and professions, in the isle of Great Britain. 
 
 I am not so vain as to think this approbation is 
 so much due to the performance as to the design. 
 There is, and ever will be, justice enough in the 
 world to afford patronage and protection for those 
 who endeavor to advance truth and virtue, without 
 regard to the passions and prejudices of any par¬ 
 ticular cause or faction. If I have any other 
 merit in me, it is that I have new pointed all the 
 batteries of ridicule. They have been generally 
 planted against persons who have appeared serious 
 rather than absurd ; or at best, have aimed rather 
 at what is unfashionable than what is vicious. 
 For my own part, 1 have endeavored to make 
 nothing ridiculous that is not in some measure 
 criminal. I have set up the immoral man as the 
 object of derision. In short, if I have not formed 
 a new weapon against vice and irreligion, I have 
 at least shown how that weapon may be put to a 
 right use, which has so often fought the battles of 
 impiety and profaneness.—C. 
 
 No. 446.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 1, 1712. 
 
 Quid deceat, quid non; quo yirtus, quo ferat error. 
 
 IIor. Ars. Poet. ver. 308. 
 
 What fit, what not; what excellent, or ill.— Roscommon. 
 
 Since two or three writers of comedy, who are 
 now living, have taken their farewell of the stage, 
 those who succeed them, finding themselves inca¬ 
 pable of rising up to their wit, humor, and gootl 
 sense, have only imitated them in some of those 
 loose unguarded strokes, in which they complied 
 with the corrupt taste of the more vicious part of 
 their audience. When persons of a low genius 
 attempt this kind of writing, they know no differ¬ 
 ence between being merry and being lewd. It is 
 with an eye to some of these degenerate composi¬ 
 tions that I have written the following discourse. 
 
 Were our English stage but half so virtuous as 
 that of the Greeks or Romans, we should quickly 
 see the influence of it in the behavior of all the 
 politer part of mankind. It would not be fash¬ 
 ionable to ridicule religion, or its professors : the 
 man of pleasure would not be the complete gen¬ 
 tleman ; vanity would be out of countenance; 
 and every quality which is ornamental to human 
 nature would meet with that esteem which is due 
 to it. 
 
 If the English stage were under the same regu¬ 
 lations the Athenian was formerly, it would have 
 the same effect that had, in recommending the 
 religion, the government, and public worship, of 
 its country. Were our plays subject to proper 
 inspections and limitations, we might not only 
 pass away several of our vacant hours in the 
 highest entertainments, but should always rise 
 from them wiser and better than we sat down to 
 them. 
 
 It is one of the most unaccountable things in 
 our age, that the lewdness of our theater should 
 be so much complained of, so well exposed, and 
 so little redressed. It is to be hoped, that some 
 time or other we may be at leisure to restrain the 
 licentiousness of the theater, and make it contri¬ 
 bute its assistance to the advancement of morality, 
 and to the reformation of the age. As matters 
 stand at present, multitudes are shut out from this 
 noble diversion, by reason of those abuses and 
 corruptions that accompany it. A father is often 
 afraid that his daughter should be ruined by those 
 entertainments which were invented for the accom¬ 
 plishment and refining of human nature. The 
 Athenian and Roman plays were written with, 
 such a regard to morality, that Socrates used to 
 frequent the one, and Cicero the other. 
 
 It happened once, indeed, that Cato dropped 
 into the Roman theater when the Floralia were to 
 be represented; and as, in that performance, which 
 was a kind of religious ceremony, there were 
 several indecent parts to be acted, the people 
 refused to see them while Cato was present. Mar¬ 
 tial, on this hint, made the following epigram, 
 which we must suppose was applied to some grave 
 friend of his, that had been accidentally present 
 at some such entertainment: 
 
 Nosses jocosm dulce cum sacrum Florae, 
 
 I’estosque lusus, et licentiam vulgi, 
 
 Cur in theatrum, Cato severe, venisti? 
 
 An ideo tan turn veneras, ut exires?—1 Epig. 3. 
 
 Why dost thou come, great censor of thy age, 
 
 To see the loose diversions of the stage ? 
 
 With awful countenance, and brow severe, 
 
 What in the name of gooidness dost thou here? 
 
 See the mix’d crowd! how giddy, lewd, and vain! 
 
 Didst thou come in but to go out again? 
 
 An accident of this nature might happen once 
 in an age among the Greeks or Romans, but they 
 were too wise and good to let the constant nightly 
 entertainment be of such a nature, that people of 
 
THE SPE 
 
 the most sense and virtue could not be at it. 
 Whatever vices are represented upon the stage, 
 they ought *o be so marked and branded by the 
 poet, as not to appear either laudable or amiable 
 in the person who is tainted with them. But if 
 we look into the English comedies above-men¬ 
 tioned, we would think they were formed upon a 
 cjuite contrary maxim, and that this rule, though 
 it held good upon the heathen stage, was not to be 
 T6S[drd6d in Christian theaters. There is another 
 rule, likewise, which was observed by authors of 
 antiquity, and which these modern geniuses have 
 no regard to, and that was, never to choose an 
 improper subject for ridicule. Now, a subject is 
 improper for ridicule, if it is apt to stir up horror 
 and commiseration rather than laughter. For this 
 reason, we do not find any comedy, in so polite 
 an author as Terence, raised upon the violations 
 of the marriage-bed. The falsehood of the wife 
 or husband has given occasion to noble trage¬ 
 dies ; but a Scipio or a Laslius would not have 
 looked upon incest or murder to have been as 
 proper subjects for comedy. On the contrary, 
 cuckoldom is the basis of most of our modern 
 plays. If an alderman appears upon the stage, 
 you may be sure it is in order to be cuckolded. 
 A husband that is a little grave, or elderly, gener¬ 
 ally meets with the same fate. Knights and baro¬ 
 nets, country ’squires, and justices of the quorum, 
 come up to town for no other purpose. I have 
 seen poor Dogget cuckolded in all these capacities. 
 In short, our English writers are as frequently 
 severe upon this innocent, unhappy creature, com¬ 
 monly known by the name of a cuckold, as the 
 ancient comic writers were upon an eating para¬ 
 site, or a vain-glorious soldier. 
 
 At the same time, the poet so contrives matters 
 that the two criminals are the favorites of the 
 audience. We sit still, and wish well to them 
 through the whole play, are pleased when they 
 meet with proper opportunities, and out of humor 
 when they are disappointed. The truth of it is, 
 the accomplished gentleman upon the English 
 stage, is the person that is familiar with other 
 men’s wives, and indifferent to his own ; as the 
 fine woman is generally a composition of spright¬ 
 liness and falsehood. I do not know whether it 
 pioceeds from barrenness of invention, deprava¬ 
 tion of manners, or ignorance of mankind, but I 
 have often wondered that our ordinary poets can¬ 
 not frame to themselves the idea of a fine man 
 who is not a whoremaster, or of a fine woman that 
 is not a jilt. 
 
 I have sometimes thought of compiling a system 
 of ethics out of the writings of those corrupt poets, 
 under the title of Stage Morality. But I have 
 been diverted from this thought by a project which 
 has been executed by an ingenious gentleman of 
 my acquaintance. He lias composed, it seems, the 
 history of a young fellow who has taken all his 
 notions of the world from the stage, and who has 
 directed himself in every circumstance of his life 
 and conversation, by the maxims and examples of 
 the fine gentleman in English comedies. If I can 
 prevail upon him to give me a copy of this new- 
 fashioned novel, I will bestow on it a place in my 
 works, and question not but it may have as good 
 an effect upon the drama, as Don Quixote had 
 upon romance.—0. 
 
 No. 447.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 1712- 
 
 Long exercise, my friend, inures the mind: 
 
 And what we ouce dislik d we jileasing find. 
 
 There is not a common saying which has a 
 better turn of sense in it, than what we often hear 
 
 CTATOR. 635 
 
 in the mouths of the vulgar, that “custom is 
 second nature.” It is indeed able to form the 
 man anew, and to give him inclinations and capac 
 lties altogether different from those he was born 
 with. Dr. Plot, in his History of Staffordshire, 
 tells us of an idiot, that chancing to live within 
 the sound of a clock, and always amusing himself 
 with counting the hour of the day whenever the 
 clock struck, the clock being spoiled by some acci¬ 
 dent, the idiot continued to strike and count the 
 lour without the help of it, in the same manner 
 as he had done when it was entire. Though I 
 uare-not vouch for the truth of this story, it is very 
 certain that custom has a mechanical effect upon 
 the body, at the same time that it has a very extra¬ 
 ordinary influence upon the mind. 
 
 I shall, in this paper, consider one very remark- 
 able effect which custom has upon human nature, 
 and which, if rightly observed, may lead us into 
 very useful rules of life. What I shall here take 
 notice of in custom, is its wonderful efficacy in 
 making everything pleasant to us. A person 
 who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took 
 but little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts 
 so strong an inclination toward it, and gives him¬ 
 self up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end 
 of his being. The love of a retired or busy life 
 will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conver¬ 
 sant in the one or the other, till he is utterly 
 unqualified for relishing that to which he has 
 been for some time disused. Nay, a man may 
 smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till lie is unable to 
 pass away his time without it; not to mention 
 how our delight in any particular study, art, or 
 science, rises and improves, in proportion to the 
 application which we bestow upon it. Thus, what 
 was at first an exercise, becomes at length an 
 entertainment. Our employments are changed 
 into our diversions. The mind grows fond of 
 those actions she is accustomed to, and is drawn 
 with reluctancy from those paths in which she 
 has been used to walk. 
 
 Not only such actions as were at first indifferent 
 to us, but even such as were painful, will by cus¬ 
 tom and practice become pleasant. Sir Francis 
 Bacon observes, in his Natural Philosophy, that 
 our taste is never pleased better than with those 
 things which at first created a disgust in it. He 
 gives particular instances, of claret, coffee, and 
 other liquors, which the palate seldom approves 
 upon the first taste, but, when it has once got a 
 relish of them, generally retains it for life. The 
 mind is constituted after the same manner, and after 
 having habituated herself to any particular exercise 
 or employment, not only loses her first aversion 
 toward it, but conceives a certain fondness and 
 affection for it. I have heard one of the greatest 
 geniuses this age has produced,* who had been 
 trained up in all the polite studies of antiquity, 
 assure me, upon his being obliged to search into 
 several rolls and records, that notwithstanding 
 such an employment was at first very dry and 
 irksome to him, he at last took an incredible plea¬ 
 sure in it, and preferred it even to the reading of 
 Virgil or Cicero. The reader will observe, that I 
 have not here considered custom as it makes things 
 easy, but as it renders them delightful; and though 
 others have often made the same reflections, it is 
 possible they may not have drawn those uses from 
 it, with which I intend to fill the remaining part 
 of this paper. 
 
 If we consider attentively this property of human 
 nature, it may instruct us in very fine moralities. 
 
 In the first place, I would have no man discouraged 
 with that kind of life, or series of action, in 
 
 * Dr. Atterbury 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 536 
 
 which the choice of others, or his own necessities, 
 may have engaged him. It may perhaps be very 
 disagreeable to him at first; but use and applica¬ 
 tion will certainly render it not only less painful, 
 but pleasing and satisfactory. 
 
 In the second place, I would recommend to 
 every one that admirable preceptwhich Pythagoras 
 is said to have given to his disciples, and which 
 that philosopher must have drawn the observation 
 I have enlarged upon, Optimum vita genus eligito, 
 nam consuetudo faciet jucundissimum: “Pitch upon 
 that course of life which is the most excellent, 
 and custom will render it the most delightful.” 
 Men whose circumstances will permit them to 
 choose their own way of life, are inexcusable if 
 they do not pursue that which their judgment 
 tells them is the most laudable. The voice of 
 reason is more to be regarded than the bent of any 
 present inclination, since, by the rule above-men¬ 
 tioned, inclination will at length come over to 
 reason, though we can never force reason to com¬ 
 ply with inclination. 
 
 In the third place, this observation may teach 
 the most sensual and irreligious man to overlook 
 those hardships and difficulties which are apt to 
 discourage him from the prosecution of a virtuous 
 life. “ The gods,” said Hesiod, have placed labor 
 before virtue; the way to her is at first rough and 
 difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the 
 further you advance in it.” The man who pro¬ 
 ceeds in it with steadiness and resolution, will, in 
 a little time, find that “her ways are ways of 
 pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace.” 
 
 To enforce this consideration, we may further 
 observe, that the practice of religion will not only 
 be attended with that pleasure which naturally 
 accompanies those actions to which we are habit¬ 
 uated, but with those supernumerary joys of heart 
 that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure, 
 from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates 
 of reason, and from the prospect of a happy im¬ 
 mortality. 
 
 In the fourth place, we may learn from this 
 observation which we have made on the mind of 
 man, to take particular care when we are once 
 settled in a regular course of life, how we too 
 frequently indulge ourselves in any of the most 
 innocent diversions and entertainments; since the 
 mind may insensibly fall off from the relish of 
 virtuous actions, and, by degrees, exchange that 
 leasure which it takes in the performance of its 
 uty, for delights of a much more inferior and 
 unprofitable nature. 
 
 The last use which I shall make of this remark¬ 
 able property in human nature, of being delighted 
 with those actions to which it is accustomed, is to 
 show how absolutely necessary it is for us to gain 
 habits of virtue in this life, if we would enjoy the 
 leasures of the next. The state of bliss we call 
 eaven will not be capable of affecting those minds 
 which are not thus qualified for it; we must, in 
 this world, gain a relish of truth and virtue, if we 
 would be able to taste that knowledge and perfec¬ 
 tion, which are to make us happy in the next. 
 The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, 
 which are to rise up and flourish in the soul to all 
 eternity, must be planted in her during this her 
 present state of probation. In short, heaven is 
 not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as 
 the natural effect of a religious life. 
 
 On the other hand, those evil spirits, who, by 
 long custom, have contracted in the body habits of 
 lust and sensuality, malice and revenge, and aver¬ 
 sion to everything that is good, just, or laudable, 
 are naturally seasoned and prepared for pain and 
 misery. Their torments have already taken root in 
 them; they cannot be happy when divested of the 
 
 body, unless we may suppose that Providence will 
 in a manner create them anew, and work a miracle 
 in the rectification of their faculties. They may, 
 indeed, taste a kind of malignant pleasure in those 
 actions to which they are accustomed, while in 
 this life ; but when they are removed from all 
 those objects which are here apt to gratify them, 
 they will naturally become their own tormentors, 
 and cherish in themselves those painful habits of 
 mind which are called, in Scripture phrase, “the 
 worm which never dies.” This notion of heaven 
 and hell is so very conformable to the light of 
 nature, that it was discovered by several of the 
 most exalted heathens. It has been finely improved 
 by many eminent divines of the last age, as in 
 particular by Archbishop Tillotson and Dr. Sher¬ 
 lock : but there is none who has raised such noble 
 speculations upon it as Dr. Scott, in the first book 
 of his Christian Life, which is one of the finest 
 and most rational schemes of divinity that is 
 written in our tongue, or in any other. That, excel¬ 
 lent author has shown how every particular custom 
 and habit of virtue will, in its own nature, pro¬ 
 duce the heaven, or a state of happiness, in him 
 who shall hereafter practice it; as, on the contrary, 
 how every custom or habit of vice will be the 
 natural hell of him in whom-it subsists.—C. 
 
 Ho. 448.] MONDAY, AUGUST 4, 1712. 
 
 Foedius hoc aliquid quandoque audebis.—Juv. Sat. ii. 82. 
 
 In time to greater baseness you proceed. 
 
 The first steps toward ill are very carefully to 
 be avoided, for men insensibly go on when they 
 are once entered, and do not keep up a lively ab¬ 
 horrence of the least unworthiness. There is a 
 certain frivolous falsehood that people indulge 
 themselves in, which ought to be had in greater 
 detestation than it commonly meets with. What 
 I mean is a neglect of promises made on small 
 and indifferent occasions, such as parties of plea¬ 
 sure, entertainments, and sometimes meetings out 
 of curiosity, in men of like faculties, to be in each 
 other’s company. There are many causes to which 
 one may assign this light infidelity. Jack Sippet 
 never keeps the hour he has appointed to come to 
 a friend’s to dinner; but he is an insignificant fel¬ 
 low, who does it out of vanity. He could never, 
 he knows, make any figure in company, but by 
 giving a little disturbance at his entry, and there¬ 
 fore takes care to drop in when he thinks you are 
 just seated. He takes his place after having dis¬ 
 composed everybody, and desires there may be no 
 ceremony; then does he begin to call himself the 
 saddest fellow, in disappointing so many places 
 as he was invited to elsewhere. It is the fop’s 
 vanity to name houses of better cheer, and to ac¬ 
 quaint you that he chose yours out of ten dinners 
 which he was obliged to be at that day. The last 
 time I had the fortune to eat with him, he was 
 imagining how very fat he should have been, had 
 he eaten all he had ever been invited to. But it 
 is impertinent to dwell upon the manners of such 
 a wretch as obliges all whom he disappoints, 
 though his circumstances constrain then to be 
 civil to him. But there are those that every one 
 would be glad to see, who fall into the same de* 
 testable habit. It is a merciless thing that any 
 one can be at ease, and suppose a set of people, 
 who have a kindness for him, at that moment 
 waiting out of respect to him, and refusing to 
 taste their food or conversation with the utmost 
 impatience. One of these promisers sometimes 
 shall make his excuses for not coming at all, so 
 late that half the company have only to lament 
 
that they have neglected matters of moment to 
 meet him whom they find a trifler. They imme¬ 
 diately repent of the value they had for him- and 
 such treatment repeated, makes company never 
 depend upon his promise any more; so that he 
 often comes at the middle of a meal, where he is 
 secretly slighted by the persons with whom he 
 eats, and cursed by the servants, whose dinner is 
 delayed by his prolonging their master’s entertain¬ 
 ment. It is wonderful that men guiltv this way 
 could never have observed, that the willing time, 
 the gathering together, and waiting a little before 
 dinner, is the most awkwardly passed away of 
 any part of the four-and-twenty hours. If they 
 did think at all, they would reflect upon their 
 gmlt m lengthening such a suspension of agreea¬ 
 ble life. 1 he constant offending in this way has 
 ln . a degree, an effect upon the honesty of his 
 mind who is guilty of it, as common swearing is 
 a kind of habitual perjury. It makes the soul in¬ 
 attentive to what an oath is, even while it utters 
 it at the lips. Phocion beholding a wordy orator, 
 while he was making a magnificent speech to the 
 People, full of vain promises : “ Methinks,” said 
 he, “ I am now fixing my eves upon a cypress 
 tree; it has all the pomp and beauty imaginable 
 in its branches, leaves, and height; but, alas ' it 
 bears no fruit.” 
 
 Though the expectation which is raised by im¬ 
 pertinent promisers is thus barren, their confidence 
 even after failures, is so great, that thev subsist 
 by still promising on. I have heretofore dis¬ 
 coursed of the insignificant liar, the boaster, and 
 the castle-builder, and treated them as no ill- 
 designing men (though they are to be placed 
 among the frivolously false ones), but persons who 
 lall into that way purely to recommend themselves 
 by their vivacities; but indeed I cannot let heed¬ 
 less promisers, though in the most minute circum¬ 
 stances, pass with so slight a censure. If a man 
 should take a resolution to pay only sums above a 
 hundred pounds, and yet contract with different 
 people debts of five and ten, how long can we 
 suppose he will keep his credit? This man will 
 as long support his good name in business, as he 
 will in conversation, Avho without difficulty makes 
 assignations which he is indifferent whether he 
 keeps or not. 
 
 I am the more severe upon this vice, because I 
 have been so unfortunate as to be a very great 
 criminal myself. Sir Andrew Freeport, and all 
 other my friends who are scrupulous to promises 
 of the meanest consideration imaginable, from a 
 habit of virtue that way, have often upbraided me 
 with it. I take shame upon myself for this crime 
 and more particularly for the greatest I ever com¬ 
 mitted of the sort, that when as agreeable a com¬ 
 pany of gentlemen and ladies as ever were got 
 together, and I forsooth, Mr. Spectator, to be of 
 the party with women of merit, like a booby as I 
 was, mistook the time of meeting, and came the 
 night following. I wish every fool who is negli¬ 
 gent in this kind may have as great a loss as I 
 had in this; for the same company will never meet 
 more, but are dispersed into various parts of the 
 world, and I am left under the compunction that 
 I deserve, in so many different places to be called 
 a trifler. 
 
 This fault is sometimes to be accounted for 
 when desirable people a-e fearful of appearing 
 precise and reserved by deniais; but they will find 
 the apprehension of that imputation will betray 
 them into a childish impotence of mind, and make 
 them promise all who are so kind to ask it of 
 them. T his leads such soft creatures into the 
 misfortune of seeming to return overtures of good¬ 
 will with ingratitude. The first steps in the 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 537 
 
 a man ’ 8 integrity are much more im 
 portant than men are aware of. The man who 
 
 wouId 6 nnf 1 ° 1 hisword in little things, 
 
 • r 'nt suffer in his own conscience so great 
 
 eveff eS ° f con . se( l lience > as he who thinks 
 eveiy little offense against truth and justice a dis¬ 
 paragement. We should not make Ly Idngwe 
 ourselves disapprove habitual to us, i/we would 
 be sine of our integrity. 
 
 I remember a falsehood of the trivial sort 
 
 pose^a^-m lr *t re atlon t0 assignations, that ex- 
 f'r no Vr i a ver y u,i easy adventure. Will 
 
 Innfr T d ^ ? tlnt Were cham ber-fellows in the 
 ner Temple about twenty-five years ago. Thev 
 
 one night sat in the pit together at a corned/ 
 where they both observed and liked the same 
 young woman in the boxes. Their kindness Sr 
 ler entered both hearts deeper than they imagined. 
 Stmt had a good faculty at writing letters of love 
 and made his addresses privately that way; while 
 Trap proceeded in the ordinary course, by money 
 and her waiting-maid. The lady gave theni k 
 encouragement, receiving Trap irfto the utmost 
 oi, and answering at the same time Stint’s let- 
 ters, and givinghim appointments at third places. 
 
 7 iaP be p a P to suspect the epistolary correspon- 
 d ® nce , of Jjis/nend, and discovered also that Stint 
 opened all his letters which came to their common 
 odgings, in order to form his own assignations. 
 Alter much anxiety and restlessness. Trap came 
 to a resolution which he thought would break off 
 their commerce with one another without any 
 lazardous explanation. He therefore wrote a let- 
 
 inT T fe,gl r d hand t0 Mr> Tra P at his Cambers 
 m the Temple. Stint, according to custom, seized 
 
 and opened it and was not a little surprised to 
 find the inside directed to himself, when with 
 great perturbation of spirit he read as follows 
 
 “ Mr. Stint, 
 
 “You have gained a slight satisfaction at the 
 expense ot doing a very heinous crime. At the 
 price of a faithful friend you have obtained an 
 inconstant mistress. I rejoice in this expedient I 
 have thought of to break my mind to you, and tell 
 you you are a base fellow, by a means which does 
 not expose you to the affront except vou deserve 
 it ! know, Sir, as criminal as you are, you have 
 still shame enough to avenge yourself against the 
 hardiness of any one that should publicly tell you 
 ot it. I, therefore, who have received so many 
 secret hurts from you, shall take satisfaction with 
 safety to myself. I call you base, and you must 
 bear it, or acknowledge it; I triumph over you that 
 you cannot come at me; nor do I think it*dishon¬ 
 orable to come in armor to assault him, who was 
 in ambuscade when he wounded me. 
 
 “ What need more be said to convince you of 
 being guilty of the basest practice imaginable 
 than that it is such as has made you liable to be 
 treated after this manner, while you yourself can- 
 not in your own conscience but allow the justice 
 of the upbraidings of 
 
 “ Your injured friend, 
 
 1 * “ Ralph Trap.” 
 
 No. 449.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 5, 1712. 
 
 Tibi scriptus, matrona, libellus.—M art, iii, 68. 
 
 A. book the chastest matron may peruse. 
 
 When I reflect upon my labors for the public, 
 
 1 cannot but observe, that part of the species, of 
 " b,c h I profess myself a friend and guardian, is 
 sometimes treated with severity; that is, there are 
 in my -writings many descriptions given of ill 
 persons, and not yet any direct encomium made 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 538 
 
 on those who are good. When I was convinced 
 of this error, 1 could not but immediately call to 
 mind several of the fair sex of my acquaintance, 
 whose characters deserve to be transmitted to pos¬ 
 terity in writings which will long outlive mine. 
 But I do not think that a reason why I should not 
 give them their place in my diurnal as long as it 
 will last. For the service therefore of my female 
 readers, I shall single out some characters. of 
 maids, wives and widows, which deserve the im¬ 
 itation of the sex. She who shall lead this small 
 illustrious number of heroines shall be the amiable 
 Fidelia. 
 
 Before I enter upon the particular parts of her 
 character, it is necessary to preface, that she is the 
 only child of a decrepid father, whose life is bound 
 up m hers. This gentleman has used Fidelia from 
 her cradle with all the tenderness imaginable, and 
 has viewed her growing perfections with the par¬ 
 tiality of a parent, that soon thought her accom¬ 
 plished above the children of all other men, but 
 never thought she was come to the utmost improve¬ 
 ment of which she herself was capable. This 
 fondness has had very happy effects upon his own 
 happiness; for she reads, she dances, she sings, 
 uses her spinet and lute to the utmost perfection ; 
 and the lady’s use of all these excellencies is to 
 divert the old man in his easy chair, when he is 
 out of the pangs of a chronical distemper. Fidelia 
 is now in the twenty-third year of her age; but 
 the application of many lovers, her vigorous time 
 of life, her quick sense of all that is truly gallant 
 and elegant in the enjoyment of a plentiful for¬ 
 tune, are not able to draw her from the side of her 
 good old father. Certain it is, that there is no 
 kind of affection so pure and angelic as that of a 
 father to a daughter. He beholds her both with 
 and without regard to her sex. In love to our 
 wives there is desire, to our sons there is ambition; 
 but in that to our daughters there is something 
 which there are no words to express. Her life is 
 designed wholly domestic, and she is so ready a 
 friend and companion, that everything that passes 
 about a man is accompanied with the idea ot her 
 presence. Her sex also is naturally so much ex¬ 
 posed to hazard, both as to fortune and innocence, 
 that there is perhaps a new cause of fondness 
 arising from tnat consideration also. None but 
 fathers can have a true sense of these sort of 
 pleasures and sensations; but my familiarity with 
 the father of Fidelia makes me let drop the words 
 which I have heard him speak, and observe upon 
 his tenderness toward her. 
 
 Fidelia, on her part, as I was going to say, as 
 accomplished as she is, with all her beauty, wit, 
 air, and mien, employs her whole time in care and 
 attendance upon her father. How have I been 
 charmed to see one of the most beauteous women 
 the age has produced, on her knees, helping on 
 an old man’s slipper ! Her filial regard to him is 
 what she makes her diversion, her business, and 
 her glory. When she was asked by a friend of her 
 deceased mother, to admit of the courtship of her 
 son, she answered that she had a great respect and 
 gratitude to her for the overture in behalf of one 
 so near to her, but that during her father’s life she 
 would admit into her heart no value for anything 
 that should interfere with her endeavor to make 
 his remains of life as happy and easy as could be 
 expected in his circumstances. The lady admon¬ 
 ished her of the prime of life with a smile; which 
 Fidelia answered with a frankness that always at¬ 
 tends unfeigned virtue : “ It is true, Madam, there 
 are to be sure very great satisfactions to be ex¬ 
 pected in the commerce of a man of honor, whom 
 one tenderly loves; but I find so much satisfaction 
 .‘n the reflection how much I mitigate a good 
 
 man’s pains, whose welfare depends upon my 
 assiduity about him, that I willingly exclude the 
 loose gratifications of passion for the solid reflec¬ 
 tions of duty. I know not whether any man’s 
 wife would be allowed, and (what I still more 
 fear) I know not whether I, a wife, should be 
 willing to be as officious as I am at present about 
 my parent.” The happy father has her declara¬ 
 tion that she will not marry during his life, and 
 the pleasure of seeing that resolution not uneasy 
 to her. Were one to paint filial affection in its 
 utmost beauty, he could not have a more lively 
 idea of it than in beholding Fidelia serving her 
 father at his hours of rising, meals, and rest. 
 
 When the general crowd of female youth are 
 consulting their glasses, preparing for balls, assem¬ 
 blies, or plays; for a young lady who could be 
 regarded among the foremost in those places, 
 either for her person, wit, fortune or conversa¬ 
 tion, and yet contemn all these entertainments, to 
 sweeten the heavy hours of a decrepid parent, is a 
 resignation truly heroic. Fidelia performs the 
 duty of a nurse with all the beauty of a bride; 
 nor does she neglect her person, because of her 
 attendance on him, when lie is too ill to receive 
 company, to whom she may make an appearance. 
 
 Fidelia, who gives him up her youth, does not 
 think it any great sacrifice to add to it the spoil¬ 
 ing of her dress. Her care and exactness in her 
 habit convinces her father of the alacrity of her 
 mind; and she has of all women the best founda¬ 
 tion for affecting the praise of a seeming negli¬ 
 gence. What adds to the entertainment of the 
 good old man is, that Fidelia, where merit and 
 fortune cannot be overlooked by epistolary lovers, 
 reads over the accounts of her conquests, plays 
 on her spinet the gayest airs (and, while she is 
 doing so, you would think her formed only for 
 gallantry) to intimate to him the pleasures she 
 despises for his sake. 
 
 Those who think themselves the patterns of 
 good-breeding and gallantry would be astonished 
 to hear that, in -those intervals when the old gen¬ 
 tleman is at ease, and can bear company, there 
 are at his house, in the most regular order, assem¬ 
 blies of people of the highest merit; where there 
 is conversation without mention of the faults of 
 the absent, benevolence between men and women 
 without passion, and the highest subjects of mo¬ 
 rality treated of as natural and accidental dis¬ 
 course; all of which is owing to the genius of 
 Fidelia, who at once makes her father’s way to 
 another world easy, and herself capable of being 
 an honor to his name in this. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I was the other day at the Bear-garden, in 
 hopes to have seen your short face; but not being 
 so fortunate, I must tell you by way of letter, 
 that there is a mystery among the gladiators which 
 has escaped your spectatorial penetration. For, 
 being in a box at an alehouse near the renowned 
 seat of honor above-mentioned, I overheard two 
 masters of the science agreeing to quarrel on the 
 next opportunity. This was to happen in the 
 company of a set of the fraternity of basket-hilts, 
 who were to meet that evening. When this was 
 settled, one asked the other, ‘ Will you give^cuts 
 or receive?’ The other answered, ‘Receive.’ It 
 was replied, ‘Are you a passionate man l ‘ No, 
 provided you cut no more, nor no deeper than we 
 agree.’ I thought it my duty to acquaint you 
 with this, that the people may not pay their 
 money for fighting, and be cheated. 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Scabbard Rusty.” 
 
539 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 No. 450.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 16, 1712. 
 
 -Quserenda pecuuia priinum, 
 
 Virtus post nummos.— Hor. 1 Ep. i. 53. 
 
 -Get money, money still, 
 
 And then let virtue follow, if she will.—P ope. 
 
 ** Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ All men, through different paths, make at the 
 same common thing, money; and it is to her we 
 owe the politician, the merchant, and the lawyer; 
 nay, to be free with you, I believe to that also we 
 are beholden for our Spectator. I am apt to think, 
 that could we look into our own hearts, we should 
 see money engraved in them in more lively and 
 moving characters than self preservation; for who 
 can reflect upon the merchant hoisting sail in a 
 doubtful pursuit of her, and all mankind sacrific¬ 
 ing their quiet to her, but must perceive that the 
 characters of self-preservation (which were, doubt¬ 
 less, originally the brightest) are sullied, if not 
 wholly defaced; and that those of money (which 
 at first w'as only valuable as a mean to security) 
 are of late so brightened, that the characters of self- 
 preservation, like a less light set by a greater, are 
 become almost imperceptible? Thus has money 
 got the upper hand of what all mankind formerly 
 thought most dear, viz: security; and I wish I 
 could say she had here put a stop to her victories: 
 but, alas ! common honesty fell a sacrifice to her. 
 This is the way scholastic men talk of the greatest 
 good in the world; but I, a tradesman, shall give 
 you another account of this matter in the plain 
 narrative of my own life. I think it proper in 
 the first place, to acquaint my readers, that since 
 my setting out in the world, which was in the 
 year 1660, I never wanted money: having begun 
 with an indifferent good stock in the tobacco- 
 trade, to which I was bred; and by the continual 
 successes it has pleased Providence to bless my 
 endeavors with, am at last arrived at what they 
 call a plum.* To uphold my discourse in the 
 manner of your wits or philosophers, by speaking 
 fine things, or drawing inferences as they pretend, 
 from the nature of the subject, I account it vain; 
 having never found anything in the writings of 
 such men, that did not savor more of the inven¬ 
 tion of the brain, or what is styled speculation, 
 than of sound judgment or profitable observation. 
 
 I will readily grant, indeed, that there is what 
 the wits call natural in their talk; which is the 
 utmost those curious authors can assume to them¬ 
 selves, and is, indeed, all they endeavor at, for 
 they are but lamentable teachers. And what, I 
 pray, is natural? That which is pleasing and 
 easy. And what are pleasing and easy ? Forsooth 
 a new thought, or conceit, dressed up in smooth 
 quaint language, to make you smile and wag your 
 head, as being what you never imagined before, 
 and yet wonder why you had not; mere frothy 
 amusements, fit only for boys or silly women to 
 be caught with! 
 
 “ It is not my present intention to instruct my 
 readers in the methods of acquiring riches; that 
 may be the work of another essay; but to exhibit 
 the real and solid advantages I have found by 
 them in my long and manifold experience; nor 
 yet all the advantages of so worthy and valuable 
 a blessing, (for who does not know or imagine the 
 comforts of being warm or living at ease, and that 
 power and pre-eminence are their inseparable 
 attendants ?) but only to instance the great supports 
 they afford us under the severest calamities and mis¬ 
 fortunes; to show that the love of them is a special 
 antidote against immorality and vice; and that 
 the same does likewise naturally dispose men to 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 actions of piety and devotion. All which I can 
 make out by my own experience, who think my¬ 
 self no ways particular from the rest of mankind, 
 nor better nor worse by nature than generally other 
 men are. 
 
 “In the year 1665, when the sickness * was, I 
 lost by it my wife and two children, which were 
 all rav stock. Probably I might have had more, 
 considering I was married between four and five 
 years; but finding her to be a teeming woman, I 
 was careful, as having then little above a brace of 
 thousand pounds to carry on my trade and main¬ 
 tain a family with. I loved them as usually men 
 do their wives and children, and therefore could 
 not resist the first impulses of nature on so 
 wounding a loss; but I quickly roused myself, 
 and found means to alleviate, and at last con¬ 
 quer, my affliction, by reflecting how that she 
 and her children had been no great expense to 
 me; the best part of her fortune was still left; 
 that my charge being reduced to myself, a jour- 
 neyman, and a maid, I might live far cheaper 
 than before; and that being now a childless wi¬ 
 dower, I might perhaps, marry a no less deserving 
 woman, and with a much better fortune than she 
 brought, which was but 800Z. And to convince 
 my readers that such considerations as these were 
 proper and apt to produce such an effect, I remem¬ 
 ber it was the constant observation at that deplor¬ 
 able time when so many hundreds were swept 
 away daily, that the rich ever bore the loss of 
 their families and relations far better than the 
 oor: the latter, having little or nothing before- 
 and, and living from hand to mouth, placed the 
 whole comfort and satisfaction of their lives in 
 their wives and children, and were therefore, in¬ 
 consolable. 
 
 “ The following year happened the fire; at 
 which time, by good providence, it was my for¬ 
 tune to have converted the greatest part of my 
 effects into ready money, on the prospect of an 
 extraordinary advantage which I was preparing 
 to lay hold on. This calamity was very terrible 
 and astonishing, the fury of the flames being such, 
 that whole streets, at several distant places, were 
 destroyed, at one and the same time, so that (as 
 it is Avell known) almost all our citizens were 
 burnt out of what they had. But what did I then 
 do? I did not stand gazing on the ruins of our 
 noble metropolis; I did not shake my head, wring 
 my hands, sigh, and shed tears; I considered with 
 myself what could this avail? I fell a plodding 
 what advantages might be made of the ready cash 
 I had; and immediately bethought myself that 
 wonderful pennyworths might be bought of the 
 goods that were saved out of the fire. In short, 
 with about 2000Z. and a little credit, I bought as 
 much tobacco as raised my estate to the value of 
 10,0D0Z. I then ‘looked on the ashes of our city, 
 and the misery of its late inhabitants, as an effect 
 of the just wrath and indignation of heaven to¬ 
 ward a sinful and perverse people.' 
 
 “After this I married again: and that wife 
 dying I took another: but both proved to be idle 
 baggages: the first gave me a great deal of plague 
 and vexation by her extravagances, and I became 
 one of the by-words of the city. I knew it would 
 be to no manner of purpose to go about to curb 
 the fancies and inclinations of women, which fly 
 out the more for being restrained; but what I 
 could, I did; I watched her narrowly, and by 
 goodluck found her in the embraces (for which I had 
 two witnesses with me) of a wealthy spark of the 
 court-end of the town; of whom I recovered 15,000Z. 
 which made me amends for what she had idly 
 
 * A cant word used by commercial people, to signify 100,0003. 
 
 * The plague. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 540 
 
 squandered, and put a silence to all my neighbors, 
 taking off my reproach by the gain they saw I had 
 by it. The last died about two years after I mar¬ 
 ried her, in labor of three children. I conjecture 
 they w T ere begotten by a country kinsman of hers, 
 whom, at her recommendation, I took into my 
 family, and gave wages to as a journeyman. What 
 this creature expended in delicacies and high diet 
 for her kinsman (as w T ell as I could compute by 
 the poulterer’s, fishmonger’s, and grocer’s bills), 
 amounted in the said two years to one hundred 
 eighty-six pounds four shillings and five-pence 
 halfpenny. The fine apparel, bracelets, lockets, and 
 treats, etc., of the other, according to the best calcu¬ 
 lation, came, in three years and about three quarters, 
 to seven hundred forty-four pounds seven shillings 
 and nine-pence. After this I resolved never to 
 marry more, and found I had been a gainer by my 
 marriages, and the damage granted me for the 
 abuses of my bed (all charges deducted), eight 
 thousand three hundred pounds within a trifle. 
 
 “ I come now to show the good effects of the 
 love of money on the lives of men, toward render¬ 
 ing them honest, sober, and religious. When I 
 was a young man, I had a mind to make the best 
 of my wits, and overreached a country chap in a 
 
 E arcel of unsound goods; to whom, upon his up- 
 raiding, and threatening to expose me for it, I 
 returned the equivalent of his loss; and upon his 
 good advice, wherein he clearly demonstrated the 
 folly of such artifices, which can never end but in 
 shame, and the ruin of all correspondence, I never 
 after transgressed. Can your courtiers who take 
 bribes, or your lawyers or physicians in their 
 practice, or even the divines Avho intermeddle in 
 worldly affairs, boast of making but one slip in 
 their lives, and of such a thorough and lasting 
 reformation? Since my coming into the world I 
 do not remember I was ever overtaken in drink, 
 save nine times, once at the christening of my 
 first child, thrice at our city feasts, and five times 
 at driving of bargains. My reformation I can 
 attribute to nothing so much as the love and es¬ 
 teem of money, for 1 found myself to be extrava¬ 
 gant in my drink, and apt to turn projector, and 
 make rash bargains. As for women, I never knew 
 any except my wives: for my reader must know, 
 and it is what we may confide in as an excellent 
 recipe, that the love of business and money is 
 the greatest mortifier of inordinate desires imagin¬ 
 able, as employing the mind continually in the 
 careful oversight of what one has, in the eager 
 quest after more, in looking after the negligences 
 and deceits of servants, in the due entering and 
 stating of accounts, in hunting after chaps, and 
 in the exact knowledge of the state of markets; 
 which things whoever thoroughly attends to, will 
 find enough and enough to employ his thoughts 
 on every moment of the day; so that I cannot 
 call to mind, that in all the time I was a hus¬ 
 band, which, off and on, was about twelve years, 
 I ever once thought of my wives but in bed. And, 
 lastly, for religion, I have ever been a constant 
 churchman, both forenoons and afternoons, on 
 Sundays, never forgetting to be thankful for any 
 ain or advantage I had had that day; and on Satur- 
 ay nights, upon casting up my accounts, I always 
 was grateful for the sum of my week’s profits, and 
 at Christmas for that of the whole year. It is true, 
 perhaps, that my devotion has not been the most 
 fervent; which, I think, ought to be imputed to 
 the evenness and sedateness of my temper, which 
 never would admit of any impetuosities of any 
 sort: and I can remember that in my youth and 
 prime of manhood, when my blood ran brisker, I 
 took greater pleasure in religious exercises than at 
 present, or many years past, and that my devotion 
 
 sensibly declined as age, which is dull and un¬ 
 wieldy, came upon me. 
 
 “ I have, I hope, here proved, that the love of 
 money prevents all immorality and vice; which, 
 if you will not allow, you must, that the pursuit 
 of it obliges men to the same kind of life as they 
 would follow if they were really virtuous; which 
 is all I have to say at present, only recommend¬ 
 ing to you, that you would think of it, and turn 
 ready wit into ready money as fast as you can. I 
 conclude, “ Your Servant, 
 
 T. “ Ephraim Weed.” 
 
 No. 451.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 7, 1712. 
 
 -Jam ssevus apertam 
 
 In rabiem verti coepit jocua, et per honestas 
 
 Ire domos impune minax- Hor. 2 Ep. i. 140. 
 
 __Times corrupt and nature ill-inclin’d 
 
 Produc’d the point that left the sting behind; 
 
 Till, friend with friend, and families at strife, 
 
 Triumphant malice rag’d through private life.—P ops. 
 
 There is nothing so scandalous to a govern¬ 
 ment, and detestable in the eyes of all good men, 
 as defamatory papers and pamphlets; but at the 
 same time there is nothing so difficult to tame as 
 a satirical author. An angry writer who cannot 
 appear in print, naturally vents his spleen in 
 libels and lampoons. A gay old woman, says 
 the fable, seeing all her wrinkles represented in a 
 large looking-glass, threw it upon the ground in 
 a passion, and broke it into a thousand pieces; but 
 as she was afterward surveying the fragments with 
 a spiteful kind of pleasure, she could not forbear 
 uttering herself in the following soliloquy. “ What 
 have I got by this revengeful blow of mine? I 
 have only multiplied my deformity, and see a 
 hundred ugly faces, where before I saw but one.” 
 
 It has been proposed to oblige every person 
 that writes a book, or a paper, to swear himself 
 the author of it, and enter down in a public re¬ 
 gister his name and place of abode. 
 
 This indeed would have effectually suppressed 
 all printed scandal, which generally appears under 
 borrowed names, or under none at all. But it is 
 to be feared that such an expedient would not 
 only destroy scandal, but learning. It would 
 operate promiscuously, and root up the coru and 
 tares together. Not to mention some of the most 
 celebrated works of piety, which have proceeded 
 from anonymous authors, who have made it their 
 merit to convey to us so great a charity in secret; 
 there are few works of genius that come out at 
 first with the author’s name. The writer gene¬ 
 rally makes a trial of them in the world before he 
 owns them; and, I believe, very few, who are 
 capable of writing, would set pen to paper, if they 
 knew beforehand that they must not publish 
 their productions but on such conditions. For 
 my own part, I must declare, the papers I pre¬ 
 sent the public are like fairy favors, which 
 shall last no longer than while the author is 
 concealed. 
 
 That which makes it particularly difficult to re¬ 
 strain these sons of calumny and defamation is, 
 that all sides are equally guilty of it, and that 
 every dirty scribbler is countenanced by great 
 names, whose interests he propagates by such vile 
 and infamous methods. I have never yet heard 
 of a ministry who have inflicted an exemplary 
 punishment on an author that has supported their 
 cause with falsehood and scandal, and treated in 
 a most cruel manner the names of those who have 
 been looked upon as their rivals and antagonists. 
 Would a government set an everlasting mark of 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 their displeasure upon one of those infamous 
 writers, who makes his court to them by tearing 
 to pieces the reputation of a competitor, we should 
 quickly see an end put to this race of vermin that 
 are a scandal to government, and a reproach to 
 human nature. Such a proceeding would make a 
 minister of state shine in history, and would fill 
 all mankind with a just abhorrence of persons 
 who should treat him unworthily, and employ 
 against him those arms which he scorned to make 
 use of against his enemies. 
 
 I cannot think that any one will be so unjust as 
 to imagine what I have here said is spoken with 
 respect to any party or faction. Every one who 
 has in him the sentiments either of a Christian or, 
 gentleman, cannot but be highly offended at this 
 wicked and ungenerous practice, which is so 
 much in use among us at present, that it is become 
 a kind of national crime, and distinguishes us 
 from all the governments that lie about us. I 
 cannot but look upon the finest strokes of satire 
 which are aimed at particular persons, and which 
 are supported even with the appearances of truth, 
 to be the marks of an evil mind, and highly cri¬ 
 minal in themselves. Infamy, like other punish¬ 
 ments, is under the direction and distribution of 
 the magistrate, and not of any private person. 
 Accordingly we learn, from a fragment of Cicero, 
 that though there were very few capital punish¬ 
 ments in the twelve tables, a libel or lampoon, 
 which took away the good name of another, was 
 to be punished by death. But this is far from 
 being our case. Our satire is nothing but ribaldry, 
 and Billingsgate. Scurrility passes for wit; and 
 he who can call names in the greatest variety of 
 phrases, is looked upon to have the shrewdest 
 pen. By this means the honor of families is 
 ruined, the highest posts and greatest titles are 
 rendered cheap and vile in the sight of the people, 
 the noblest virtues and most exalted parts ex¬ 
 posed to the contempt of the vicious and the 
 ignorant. Should a foreigner, who knows nothin o- 
 of our private factions, or one who is to act his 
 part in the ivorld when our present heats and 
 animosities are forgot,—should, I say, such a one 
 form to himself a notion of the greatest men of all 
 sides in the British nation, who are now living, 
 from the characters which are given them in some 
 or other of those abominable writings which are 
 daily published among us, what a nation of mon¬ 
 sters must we appear! 
 
 As this cruel practice tends to the utter subver¬ 
 sion of all truth and humanity among us, it de¬ 
 serves the utmost detestation and discouragement 
 of all who have either the love of their country or 
 the honor of their religion at heart. I would 
 therefore earnestly recommend it to the considera¬ 
 tion of those who deal in these pernicious arts of 
 writing, and of those who take pleasure in the 
 reading of them. As for the first, I have spoken 
 of them in former papers, and have not stuck to 
 rank them with the murderer and assassin. Every 
 honest man sets as high a value upon a good 
 name as upon life itself; and I cannot but think 
 that those who privily assault the one, would de¬ 
 stroy the other, might they do it with the same 
 secrecy and impunity. 
 
 As for persons who take pleasure in the reading 
 and dispersing of such detestable libels, I am 
 afraid they fall veiy little short of the guilt of the 
 first composers. By a law of the Emperors Va¬ 
 lenti nian and Valens, it was made death for any 
 person not only to write a libel, but, if he met 
 with one by chance, not to tear or burn it. But 
 because I would not be thought singular in mv 
 opinion of this matter, I shall conclude my paper 
 with the words of Monsieur Bayle, who" was a 
 
 541 
 
 man of great freedom of thought as well as of 
 exquisite learning and judgment. 
 
 “ I cannot imagine, that a man who disperses a 
 libel is less desirous of doing mischief tiian the 
 author himself. But what shall we say of the 
 pleasure which a man takes in the reading of a de¬ 
 famatory libel ? Is it not a heinous sin in the sight 
 of God ? We must distinguish in this point. This 
 pleasure is either an agreeable sensation we are 
 affected with, when we meet with a witty thought 
 which is well expressed, or it is a joy which we 
 conceive from the dishonor of the person who is 
 defamed. I will say nothing to the first of these 
 cases; for perhaps some would think that my mo¬ 
 rality is not severe enough, if I should affirm that 
 a man is not master of those agreeable sensations, 
 any more than of those occasioned by sugar or honey, 
 when they touch his tongue, but as to the second,* 
 every one will own that pleasure to be a heinous 
 sin. The pleasure in the first case is of no con¬ 
 tinuance; it prevents our reason and reflection, 
 and may be immediately followed by a secret 
 grief, to see our neighbor’s honor blasted. If it 
 does not cease immediately, it is a sign that we 
 are not displeased with the ill-nature of the 
 satirist, but are glad to see him defame his enemy 
 by all kinds of stories; and then we deserve the 
 punishment to which the writer of the libel is 
 subject. I shall here add the words of a modern 
 author. St. Gregory, upon excommunicating those 
 writers who had dishonored Castorius, does not 
 except those who read their works; because, says 
 he, if calumnies have always been the delight of 
 the hearers, and a gratification of those persons 
 who have no other advantage over the honest 
 man, is not he who takes pleasure in reading them 
 as guilty as he who composed them? It is an un¬ 
 contested maxim, that they who approve an action, 
 would certainly do it if they could; that is, if 
 some reason of self-love did not hinder them. 
 There is no difference, says Cicero, between ad¬ 
 vising a crime, and approving it when committed. 
 The Roman law confirmed this maxim, having 
 subjected the approvers and authors of this evil 
 to the same penalty. We may, therefore, conclude 
 that those who are pleased with reading defama¬ 
 tory libels, so far as to approve the authors and 
 dispersers of them, are as guilty as if they had 
 composed them; for, if they do not write such 
 libels themselves, it is because they have not the 
 talent of writing, 1 or because they will run no 
 hazard.” 
 
 The author produces other authorities to con¬ 
 firm his judgment in this particular.—C. 
 
 No. 452.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 8, 1712. 
 
 Est natura homiuum novitatis avida.— Plin. apud Lillium. 
 Human nature is fond of novelty. 
 
 There is no humor in my countrymen which I 
 am more inclined to wonder at than their general 
 thirst after news. There are about half-a-dozen 
 ingenious men, who live very plentifully upon 
 this curiosity of their fellow-subjects. They all 
 of them receive the same advices from abroad, 
 and very often in the same words; but their way 
 of cooking it is so different, that there is no citi¬ 
 zen, who has an eye to the public good, that can 
 leave the coffee-house with peace of mind, before 
 he has gi ven every one of them a reading. These 
 several dishes of news are so very agreeable to the 
 Dalate of my countrymen, that they are not only 
 fleased with them when they are served up hot, 
 )ut when they are again set cold before them, 
 by those penetrating politicians who oblige the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 542 
 
 public with their reflections and observations 
 upon every piece of intelligence that is sent us 
 from abroad. The text is given us by one set of 
 writers, and the comment by another. 
 
 But notwithstanding we have the same tale 
 told us in so many different papers, and. if occa¬ 
 sion requires, in so many articles of the same 
 paper; notwithstanding, in a scarcity of foreign 
 posts, we hear the same story repeated by differ¬ 
 ent advices from Paris, Brussels, the Hague, and 
 from every great town in Europe; notwithstand¬ 
 ing the multitude of annotations, explanations, 
 reflections, and various readings, which it passes 
 through, our time lies heavy on our hands till the 
 arrival of a fresh mail; we long to receive further 
 particulars, to hear what will be the next step, or 
 what will be the consequences of that which has 
 been already taken. A westerly wind keeps the 
 whole town in suspense, and puts a stop to con¬ 
 versation. 
 
 This general curiosity has been raised and in¬ 
 flamed by our late wars, and, if rightly directed, 
 might be of good use to a person who has such a 
 thirst awakened in him. Why should not a man, 
 who takes delight in reading everything that is 
 new, apply himself to history, travels, and other 
 writings of the same kind, where he will find per¬ 
 petual fuel for his curiosity, and meet with much 
 more pleasure and improvement than in these 
 >apers of the week? An honest tradesman, who 
 ' anguishes a whole summer in expectation of a 
 battle, and perhaps is baulked at last, may here 
 meet with half a-dozen in a day. He may read 
 the news of a whole campaign in less time than 
 he now bestows upon the products of any single 
 post. Fights, conquests, and revolutions, lie thick 
 together. The reader’s curiosity is raised and 
 satisfied every moment, and his passions disap¬ 
 pointed or gratified, without being detained in a 
 state of uncertainty from day to day, or lying at 
 the mercy of the sea and wind; in short, the mind 
 is not here kept in perpetual gape after know 
 ledge, nor punished with that eternal thirst which 
 is the portion of all our modern newsmongers and 
 coffee-house politicians. 
 
 All matters of fact, which a man did not know 
 before, are news to him; and I do not see how 
 any haberdasher in Cheapside is more concerned 
 in the present quarrel of the Cantons, than he was 
 in that of the League. At least, I believe every 
 one will allow me it is of more importance to an 
 Englishman to know the history of his ancestors 
 than that of his cotemporaries who live upon 
 the bank of the Danube or the Borysthenes. As 
 for those who are of another mind, I shall recom¬ 
 mend to them the following letter from a pro¬ 
 jector who is willing to turn a penny by this re¬ 
 markable curiosity of his countrymen. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You must have observed, that men who fre¬ 
 quent coffee-houses, and delight in news, are 
 pleased with everything that is matter of fact, so 
 it be what they have not heard before. A victory, 
 or a defeat, is equally agreeable to them. The 
 shutting of a cardinal’s mouth pleases them one 
 post, and the opening of it another. They are 
 glad to hear the French court is removed to Marli, 
 and are afterward as much delighted with its re¬ 
 turn to Versailles. They read the advertisements 
 with the same curiosity as the articles of public 
 news; and are as pleased to hear of a piebald 
 horse that is strayed out of a field near Islington, 
 as of a whole troop that have been engaged in 
 any foreign adventure. In short, they have a 
 relish for everything that is news, let the matter 
 
 of it be what it will; or, to speak more properly ; 
 they are men of a voracious appetite, but no taste. 
 Now, Sir, since the great fountain of news, I mean 
 the war, is very near being dried up; and since 
 these gentlemen have contracted such an inextin¬ 
 guishable thirst after it; I have taken their case and 
 my own into consideration, and have thought of a 
 project which may turn to the advantage of us both. 
 
 I have thoughts of publishing a daily paper, which 
 shall comprehend in it all the most remarkable 
 occurrences in every little town, village, and 
 hamlet, that lie within ten miles of London, or, 
 in other words, within the verge of the penny- 
 post. I have pitched upon this scene of intelli¬ 
 gence for two reasons; first because the carriage 
 of letters will be very cheap; and, secondly, be¬ 
 cause I may receive them every day. By this 
 means my readers will have their news fresh 
 and fresh, and many worthy citizens, who cannot 
 sleep with any satisfaction at present, for want of 
 being informed how the world goes, may go to 
 bed contentedly, it being my design to put out 
 my paper every night at nine o’clock precisely. 
 
 I have already established correspondences in 
 these several places, and received very good in¬ 
 telligence. 
 
 “ By my last advices from Knightsbridge I hear 
 that a horse was clapped into the pound on the 
 third instant, and that he was not released when 
 the letters came away. 
 
 “ We are informed from Pankridge,* that a 
 dozen weddings were lately celebrated in the 
 mother-church of that place, but are referred to 
 their next letters for the names of the parties con¬ 
 cerned. 
 
 “ Letters from Brompton advise, that the widow 
 Blight had received several visits from John Mil¬ 
 dew, which affords great matter of speculation in 
 those parts. 
 
 “ By a fisherman who lately touched at Ham¬ 
 mersmith, there is advice from Putney, that a cer¬ 
 tain person well known in that place is like to 
 lose his election for churchwarden; but this being 
 boat-news, we cannot give entire credit to it. 
 
 “Letters from Paddington bring little more 
 than that William Squeak, the sow-gelder, passed 
 through that place the fifth instant. 
 
 “ They advise from Fulham, that things re¬ 
 mained there in the same state they were. They 
 had intelligence, just as the letters came away, of 
 a tub of excellent ale just set abroach at Parson’s 
 Green; but this wanted confirmation. 
 
 “ I have here, Sir, given you a specimen of the 
 news with which I intend to entertain the town, 
 and which, when drawn up regularly in the form of a 
 newspaper, will, I doubt not, be very acceptable 
 to many of those public spirited readers who take 
 more delight in acquainting themselves with other 
 people’s business than their own. I hope a paper 
 of this kind, which lets us know what is done 
 near home, may be more useful to us than those 
 which are filled with advices from Zug and Bender, 
 and make some amends for that dearth of intelli¬ 
 gence, which we may justly apprehend in times of 
 peace. If I find that you receive this project fa¬ 
 vorably, I will shortly trouble you with one or 
 two more; and in the meantime am, most worthy 
 Sir, with all due respect, 
 
 “ Your most obedient, 
 
 C. “ and most humble Servant.” 
 
 * Pancras, then a fashionable place for weddings. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 No. 453.J SATURDAY, AUGUST 9, 1712. 
 
 543 
 
 Non usitata nec tenui forar 
 
 Penna 
 
 lion. 2 0d. xx. 1. 
 
 No weak, no common wing shall bear 
 My rising body through the air.—C keech. 
 
 1 here is not a more pleasing exercise of the 
 mind than gratitude. It is accompanied with 
 such an inward satisfaction that the duty is suffi¬ 
 ciently rewarded by the performance. It is not 
 like the practice of many other virtues, difficult 
 and painful, but attended with so much pleasure, 
 that were there no positive command which en¬ 
 joined it, nor any recompense laid up for it here¬ 
 after, a generous mind would indulge in it, for the 
 natural gratification that accompanies it. 
 
 If gratitude is due from man to man, how much 
 more from man to his Maker ? The Supreme Be¬ 
 ing does not only confer upon us those bounties, 
 which proceed more immediately from his hand, 
 but even those benefits which are conveyed to us 
 by others. Every blessing we enjoy, by what 
 means soever it may be derived upon us, is the 
 gift of him who is the great Author of good, and 
 V ather of mercies. 
 
 It gratitude when exerted toward one another, 
 naturally produces a very pleasing sensation in 
 the mind of a grateful man; it exalts the soul into 
 rapture, when it is employed on this great object 
 of gratitude, on this beneficent Being who has 
 given us everything we already possess, and from 
 whom we expect everything we yet hope for. 
 
 Most of the Avorks of the pagan poets were either 
 direct hymns to their deities, or tended indirectly 
 to the celebration of their respective attributes 
 and perfections. Those who are acquainted with 
 the works of the Greek and Latin poets which are 
 still extant, will, upon reflection, find this obser¬ 
 vation so true, that 1 shall not enlarge upon it 
 One would wonder that more of our Christian 
 poets have not turned their thoughts this Avay 
 especially if we consider that our idea of the Su¬ 
 preme Being is not only infinitely more great and 
 noble than what could possibly enter into the 
 iiea! if a heathen, but filled Avith everything that 
 can raise the imagination, and give an opportu¬ 
 nity for the sublimest thoughts and conceptions. 
 
 Plutarch tells us of a heathen who was singinw 
 a hymn to Diana, in which he celebrated her for 
 her delight in human sacrifices, and other instan¬ 
 ces of cruelty and revenge; upon which a poet 
 who was present at this piece of devotion, and 
 seems to have had a truer idea of the divine 
 nature, told the votary, by way of reproof, that, 
 m recompense for his hymn, he heartily wished 
 e might have a daughter with the same temper 
 with the goddess he celebrated. It was indeed 
 impossible to Avrite the praises of one of those 
 false deities, according to the pagan creed, without 
 a mixture of impertinence and absurdity. 
 
 The Jews who, before the time of Christianity, 
 wmre the only people who had any knowledge of 
 the true God, have set the Christian world an ex- 
 ample how they ought to employ this divine talent 
 of which I am speaking, as that nation produced 
 men of great genius, without considering them as 
 inspired writers, they have transmitted to us many 
 hymns and divine odes, which excel those that 
 are , delivered down to us by the ancient Greeks 
 and Romans, in the poetry, as much as in the 
 subject to Ayhich it was consecrated. This, I think 
 might easily be shown, if there were occasion 
 for it. 
 
 I have already communicated to the public some 
 pieces of divine poetry; and, as they have met 
 with a very favorable reception, I shall, from time 
 to time, publish any work of the same nature. 
 
 which has not yet appeared in print, and may be 
 acceptable to my readers. 
 
 L 
 
 When all thy mercies, 0 my God, 
 
 My rising soul surveys; 
 
 Transported with the view, I’m lost 
 In wonder, love, and praise: 
 
 II. 
 
 0 how shall words with equal warmth 
 The gratitude declare, 
 
 That glows within my ravish’d heart? 
 
 But thou canst read it there. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thy providence my life sustain’d, 
 
 A nd all my wants redress’d 
 When in the silent womb I lay, 1 
 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 
 IV. 
 
 To all my weak complaints and cries, 
 lhy mercy lent an ear, 
 
 y® 1 m y fee We thoughts had learnt 
 xo iorm themselves in pray’r. 
 
 V. 
 
 Unnumber’d comforts to my soul, 
 
 Thy tender care bestow’d, 
 
 Before my infant heart conceiv’d 
 From whom those comforts flow’d. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When in the slipp’ry paths of youth 
 With heedless steps I ran, 
 
 Thine arm unseen convey’d me safe, 
 
 And led me up to man. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Through hidden dangers, toils, and death?, 
 
 It gently clear’d my way, 
 
 And through the pleasing snares of vice. 
 
 More to be fear’d than they. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou 
 V ith health renew’d my face. 
 
 And when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
 
 Reviv’d my soul with grace. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss 
 Has made my cup run o’er, 
 
 And in a kind and faithful friend 
 Has doubled all my store. 
 
 X. 
 
 Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 
 My daily thanks employ; 
 
 Nor is the least a cheei ful heart, 
 
 That tastes those gifts with joy. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Through every period of my life 
 Thy goodness I’ll pursue ; 
 
 And after death in distant worlds 
 The glorious theme renew. 
 
 XII. 
 
 When nature fails, and day and night 
 Divide thy works no more, 
 
 My ever-grateful heart, 0 Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy shall adore. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Through all eternity to Thee 
 A joyful song I’ll raise, 
 
 For oh! eternity’s too short 
 To utter all thy Praise. 
 
 No. 454.] MONDAY, AUGUST 11, 1712. 
 
 Sine me, vacivum tempus ne quod dem mihi 
 Laboris. Ter. Hcaut. act. i. sc. 1. 
 
 G'* e me leave to allow myself no respite from labor. 
 
 It is an inexpressible pleasure to know a little 
 of the world, and be of no character or signifi 
 cancy in it. 
 
THE SPECTATO R. 
 
 544 
 
 To be ever unconcerned, and ever looking on 
 new objects with an endless curiosity, is a delight 
 known only to those who are turned for specula¬ 
 tion : nay, they who enjoy it must value things 
 only as they are the objects of speculation, with¬ 
 out drawing any worldly advantage to themselves 
 from them, but just as they are what contribute to 
 their amusement, or the improvement of the mind. 
 
 I lay one night last week at Richmond; and being 
 restless, not out of dissatisfaction, but a certain 
 busy inclination one sometimes has, I rose at four 
 in the morning, and took boat for London, with a 
 resolution to rove by boat and coach for the next 
 four-and-twenty hours, till the many objects I 
 must needs meet with should tire my imagination, 
 and give me an inclination to a repose more pro¬ 
 found than I was at that time capable of. I beg 
 people’s pardon for an odd humor I am guilty ol, 
 and was often that day, which is saluting any 
 person whom I like, whether I know him or not. 
 This is a particularity would be tolerated in me, 
 if they considered that the greatest pleasure I 
 know I receive at my eyes, and that I am obliged 
 to an agreeable person for coming abroad into my 
 view, as another is for a visit of conversation at 
 their own houses. 
 
 The hours of the day and night are taken up in 
 the cities of London and Westminster, by people 
 as different from each other as those who are born 
 in different centuries. Men of six o’clock give 
 way to those of nine, they of nine to the genera¬ 
 tion of twelve; and they of twelve disappear, and 
 make room for the fashionable world, who have 
 made two o’clock the noon of the day. 
 
 When we first put off from shore, we soon fell 
 in with a fleet of gardeners, bound for the several 
 market ports of London; and it was the most 
 pleasing scene imaginable to see the cheerfulness 
 with which those industrious people plied their 
 way to a certain sale of their goods. The banks 
 on each side are as well peopled, and beautified 
 with as agreeable plantations, as any spot on the 
 earth; but the Thames itself, loaded with the pro¬ 
 duct of each shore, added very much to the land¬ 
 scape. It was very easy to observe their sailing, 
 and the countenances of the ruddy virgins, who 
 were supercargoes, the parts of the town to which 
 they were bound. There was an air in the pur¬ 
 veyors for Covent-garden, who frequently converse 
 Vith morning rakes, very unlike the seeming 
 sobriety of those bound for Stocks-market. 
 
 Nothing remarkable happened in our voyage; 
 but I landed with ten sail of apricot-boats, at 
 Strand-bridge, after having put in at Nine-Elms, 
 and taken in melons consigned by Mr. Cuffe, of 
 that place to Sarah Sewell and Company, at their 
 stall in Covent garden. We arrived at Strand- 
 bridge at six of the clock, and were unloading, 
 when the hackney-coachmen of the foregoing night 
 took their leave of each other at the Dark-house, 
 to go to bed before the day was too far spent. 
 Chimney-sweepers passed by us as we made up 
 to the market, and some raillery happened be¬ 
 tween one of the fruit-wenches and those black 
 men about the Devil and Eve, with allusion to 
 their several professions. I could not believe 
 any place more entertaining than Covent-garden; 
 where I strolled from one fruit-shop to another, 
 with crowds of agreeable young women around 
 me, who were purchasing fruit for their respective 
 families. It was almost eight of the clock before 
 I could leave that variety of objects. I took 
 coach and followed a young lady, who tripped 
 into another just before me, attended by her maid. 
 I saw immediately she was of the family of the 
 Vain-loves. There are a set of these, who, of all 
 "hhigs, affect the play of BlindmanV huff, and lead¬ 
 
 ing men into love for they know not whom, who 
 are fled they know not where. This sort of woman 
 is usually a janty slattern; she hangs on her 
 clothes, plays her head, varies her posture, and 
 changes place incessantly, and all with an appear¬ 
 ance of striving at the same time to hide herself, 
 and yet give you to understand she is in humor to 
 laugh at you. You must have often seen the 
 coachmen make signs with their fingers, as they 
 drive by each other, todntimate how much they 
 have got that day. They can carry on that lan¬ 
 guage to give intelligence where they are driving, 
 in an instant my coachman took the wink to pur¬ 
 sue; and the lady’s driver gave the hint that he 
 was going through Long-acre toward St. James’s; 
 while he whipped up James-street, we drove for 
 King-street, to save the pass at St. Martin’s-lane. 
 The coachmen took care to meet, jostle, and threa¬ 
 ten each other for way, and be entangled at the 
 end of Newport-street and Long-acre. The fright, 
 you must believe, brought down the lady’s coach- 
 door, and obliged her, with her mask off, to in¬ 
 quire into the bustle,—when she sees the man she 
 would avoid. The tackle of the coach-window is so 
 I bad she cannot draw it up again, and she drives 
 on, sometimes wholly discovered, and sometimes 
 half escaped, according to the accident of carriages 
 in her way. One of these ladies keeps her seat in 
 a hackney-coach, as well as the best rider does on 
 a managed horse. The laced shoe on her left foot, 
 with a careless gesture, just appearing on the op¬ 
 posite cushion, held her both firm, and in a proper 
 attitude to receive the next jolt. 
 
 As she was an excellent coach-woman, many 
 were the glances at each other which we had for 
 an hour and a half, in all parts of the town, by 
 the skill of our drivers ; till at last my lady was 
 conveniently lost, with notice from her coachman 
 to ours to make off, and he should hear where she 
 went. This chase was now at an end: and the 
 fellow who drove her came to us, and discovered 
 that he was ordered to come again in an hour, for 
 that she was a silk-worm. I was surprised with 
 this phrase, but found it was a cant among the 
 hackney fraternity for their best customers, women 
 who ramble twice or thrice a week from shop to 
 shop, to turn over all the goods in town without 
 buying anything. The silk-worms are, it seems, 
 indulged by the tradesmen; for, though they never 
 buy, they are ever talking of new silks, laces, and 
 ribbons, and serve the owners in getting them 
 customers, as their common dunners ao in making 
 them pay. 
 
 The day of people of fashion began now to 
 break, and carts and hacks were mingled with 
 equipages of show and vanity; when 1 resolved 
 to walk it, out of cheapness; but my unhappy 
 curiosity is such, that I find it always my interest 
 to take coach; for some odd adventure among 
 beggars, ballad-singers, or the like, detains and 
 throws me into expense. It happened so imme¬ 
 diately: for at the corner of Warwick street, as I 
 was listening to a new ballad, a ragged rascal, a 
 beggar who knew me, came up to. me, and began 
 to turn the eyes of the good company upon me, 
 by telling me he was extremely poor, and should 
 die in the street for want of drink, except I imme¬ 
 diately would have the charity to give him six¬ 
 pence to go into the next ale-house and save his 
 life. He urged, with a melancholy face, that all 
 his family had died of thirst. All the mob have 
 humor, and two or three began to take the jest; 
 by which Mr. Sturdy carried his point, and let me 
 sneak off to a coach. As I drove along, it was a 
 pleasing reflection to see the world so prettily 
 checkered since I left Richmond, and the scene 
 still filling with children of a new hour. This 
 
THE SPECTATOR. • 545 
 
 No. 455.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 12, 1712. 
 
 satisfaction increased as I moved toward the city; 
 and gay signs, well-disposed streets, magnificent 
 public structures, and wealthy shops adorned with 
 contented faces, made the joy still rising till we 
 came into the center of the city, and center of the 
 woi Id of trade, the Exchange of London. As 
 other men in the crowds about me were pleased 
 with their hopes and bargains, 1 found my account 
 in observing them, in attention to their several 
 interests. I, indeed, looked upon myself as the 
 richest man that walked the Exchange that day; 
 for my benevolence made me share the gains of 
 eveiy bargain that was made. It was not the least 
 of my satisfaction in my survey, to go up stairs, 
 and pass the shops of agreeable females; to ob¬ 
 serve so many pretty hands busy in the folding 
 of ribbons, and the utmost eagerness of agreeable 
 faces in the sale of patches, pins, and wires, on 
 each side of the counters, was an amusement in 
 which I could longer have indulged myself, had 
 not the dear creatures called to me, to ask what I 
 wanted, when I could not answer, only “ To look 
 at you.” I went to one of the windows which 
 opened to the area below, where all the several 
 voices lost their distinction, and rose up in a con¬ 
 fused humming; which created in me a reflection 
 that could not come into the mind of any but of 
 one a little too studious; for I said to myself with 
 a kind of pun in thought, “What nonsense is all 
 .the, hurry of this world to those who are above 
 it?” In these, or not much wiser thoughts, I had 
 like to have lost my place at the chop-house, where 
 every man, according to the natural bashfulness 
 or sullenness of our nation, eats in a public room 
 a mess of broth, or chop of meat, in dumb silence, 
 as if they had no pretense to speak to each other 
 on the foot of being men, except they were of each 
 other’s acquaintance. 
 
 I went afterward to Robin’s, and saw people, 
 who had dined with me at the live-penny ordinary 
 just before, give bills for the value of large estates; 
 and could not but behold with great pleasure,' 
 property lodged in, and transferred in a moment 
 from, such as would never be masters of half as 
 much as is seemingly in them, and given from 
 them, every day they live. But before “five in the 
 afternoon I left the city, came to my common scene 
 of Covent-garden, and passed the evening at Will’s 
 in attending the discourses of several sets of 
 people, who relieved each other within my hearing 
 on the subjects of cards, dice, love, learning, and 
 politics. The last subject kept me till I heard the 
 streets in the possession of the bellman, who had 
 now the world to himself, and cried, “Past two 
 0 clock.” This roused me from my seat; and I 
 went to my lodgings, led by a light, whom I put 
 into the discourse of his private economy, and 
 made him give me an account of the charge, hazard, 
 profit, and loss, of a family that depended upon a 
 link, with a design to end my trivial day with the 
 generosity of six-pence, instead of a third part of 
 that sum. When I came to my chambers, I wrote 
 down these minutes; but was at a loss what 
 instruction I should propose to my reader from 
 the enumeration of so many insignificant matters 
 and occurrences; and I thought it of great use, if 
 they could learn with me to keep their minds open 
 to gratification, and ready to receive it from any¬ 
 thing it meets with. This one circumstance will 
 make every face you see give you the satisfaction 
 you now take in beholding that of a friend; will 
 make every object a pleasing one; will make all 
 the good which arrives to any man, an increase of 
 happiness to yourself.—T. 
 
 --Ego apis Matime 
 
 More modoque. 
 
 Grata carpentis thyina per laborem 
 Plurimum- h 0 r. 4 Od. ii. 27. 
 
 --My timorous M use 
 
 Unambitious tracks pursues; 
 
 Does with weak unballast wings, 
 
 About the mossy brooks and springs, 
 
 Like the laborious bee, 
 
 For little drops of honey fly, 
 
 And there with humble sweets contents her industry. 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 The following letters have in them reflections 
 which will seem of importance both to the learned 
 woi Id and to domestic life. There is in the first 
 an allegory so well carried on, that it cannot but 
 be very pleasing to those who have a taste of good 
 writing : and the other billets may have their use 
 in common life : 
 
 ‘Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “As I walked the other clay in a fine garden, 
 and observed the great variety of improvements 
 in plants and flowers, beyond what they otherwise 
 would have been, I was naturally led into a reflec¬ 
 tion upon the advantages of education, of modern 
 culture : how many good qualities in the mind 
 are lost, for want of the like due care in nursing 
 and skillfully managing them ; how many virtues 
 are choked by the multitude of weeds which are 
 suffered to grow among them; how excellent parts 
 are often starved and useless, by being planted in 
 a wrong soil; and how very seldom do these moral 
 seeds produce the noble fruits which might be 
 expected from them by a neglect of proper manur¬ 
 ing, necessary pruning, and an artful management 
 of our tender inclinations and first spring of life. 
 These obvious speculations made me at length 
 conclude, that there is a sort of vegetable princi¬ 
 ple in the mind of every man when he comes into 
 the world. In infants, the seeds lie buried and 
 undiscovered, till after a while they sprout forth 
 in a kind of rational leaves, which are words; and 
 in due season the flowers begin to appear in 
 variety of beautiful colors, and all the gay pictures 
 of youthful fancy and imagination ; at last the 
 fruit knits and is formed, which is green perhaps 
 at first, sour and unpleasant to the taste, and not 
 fit to be gathered: till, ripened by due care and 
 application, it discovers itself in all the noble pro¬ 
 ductions of philosophy, mathematics,close reason¬ 
 ing, and handsome argumentation. These fruits, 
 when they arrive at a just maturity, and are of a 
 good kind, afford the most vigorous nourishment 
 to the minds of men. I reflected further on the 
 intellectual leaves before-mentioned, and found 
 almost as great a variety among them, as in the 
 vegetable world. I could easily observe the smooth 
 shining Italian leaves, the nimble French aspen 
 always in motion, the Greek and Latin evergreens, 
 the Spanish myrtle, the English oak, the Scotch 
 thistle, the Irish shainbrogue, the prickly German 
 and Dutch holly, the Polish and Russian nettle, 
 beside a vast number of exotics imported from 
 Asia, Africa, and America. I saw several barren 
 plants, which bore only leaves, without any hopes 
 of flower or fruit. The leaves of some were fra¬ 
 grant and well-shaped, of others ill-scented and 
 irregular. I wondered at a set of old whimsical 
 botanists, who spent their whole lives in the con¬ 
 templation of some withered Egyptian, Coptic, 
 Armenian, or Chinese leaves; while others made 
 it their business to collect, in voluminous herbals, 
 all the several leaves of some one tree. The flow¬ 
 ers afforded a most diverting entertainment, in a 
 wonderful variety of figures, colors, and scents; 
 however, most of them withered soon, or at best 
 
 35 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 546 
 
 are but annuals. Some professed florists make 
 them their constant study and employment, and 
 despise all fruit; and now and then a few fanciful 
 people spend all their time in the cultivation of a 
 single tulip, or a carnation. But the most agreea¬ 
 ble amusement seems to be the well-choosing, mix¬ 
 ing, and binding together, these flowers in pleasing 
 nosegays, to present to ladies. The scent of Ital¬ 
 ian flowers is observed, like their other perfumes, 
 to be too strong, and to hurt the brain; that of 
 the French with glaring, gaudy colors, yet faint 
 and languid; German and northern flowers have 
 little or no smell, or sometimes an unpleasant one. 
 The ancients had a secret to give a lasting beauty, 
 color, and sweetness, to some of their choice flowers, 
 which flourish to this day, and which few of the 
 moderns can effect. These are becoming enough, 
 and agreeable in their season, and do often hand¬ 
 somely adorn an entertainment; but an over-fond¬ 
 ness of them seems to be a disease. It rarely hap¬ 
 pens to find a plant vigorous enough to have (like 
 an orange tree) at once beautiful and shining leaves, 
 fragrant flowers, and delicious, nourishing fruit. 
 
 “ Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 “Dear Spec. August 6,1712. 
 
 “You have given us, in your Spectator of Sat¬ 
 urday last, a very excellent discourse upon the force 
 of custom, and its wonderful efficacy in making 
 everything pleasant to us. I cannot deny but that 
 I received above two-pennyworth of instruction 
 from your paper, and in the general was very well 
 pleased with it: but I am, without a compliment, 
 sincerely troubled that I cannot exactly be of your 
 opinion, that it makes everything pleasing to us. 
 In short, I have the honor to be yoked to a young 
 lady, who is, in plain English, for her standing, a 
 very eminent scold. She began to break her mind, 
 very freely, both to me and to her servants, about 
 two months after our nuptials ; and, though I have 
 been accustomed to this humor of hers these three 
 years, yet I do not know what is the matter with 
 me, but I am no more delighted with it than I was 
 at the very first, I have advised with her relations 
 about her,and they all tell me that her mother and 
 her grandmother before her were both taken much 
 after the same manner; so that, since it runs in 
 the blood, I have but small hopes of her recovery. 
 I should be glad to have a little of your advice in 
 this matter. I would not willingly trouble you to 
 contrive how it may be a pleasure to me; if you 
 will but put me in a way that I may bear it with 
 indifference, I shall rest satisfied. 
 
 “Dear Spec., 
 
 “Your very humble Servant.” 
 
 “P. S. I must do the poor girl the justice to 
 let you know that this match was none of her own 
 choosing (or indeed of mine either); in consider¬ 
 ation of which, I avoid giving her the least prov¬ 
 ocation ; and, indeed, we live better together than 
 usually folks do who hated one another when they 
 were first joined. To evade the sin against pa¬ 
 rents, or at least to extenuate it, my dear rails at 
 my father and mother, and I curse hers for making 
 the match.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, August 8, 1712. 
 
 “I like the theme you lately gave out extremely, 
 and should be as glad to handle it as any man 
 living. But I find myself no better qualified to 
 write about money than about my wife; for, to tell 
 you a secret, which I desire may go no further, I 
 am master of neither of those subjects. 
 
 “ Yours, 
 
 “ Pill Garltck.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I desire you will print this in italic, so as it 
 may be generally taken notice of. It is designed 
 only to admonish all persons, who speak either at 
 the bar, pulpit, or any public assembly whatsoever, 
 how they discover their ignorance in the use of 
 similes. There are, in the pulpit itself, as well as 
 in other places, such gross abuses in this kind, 
 that I give this warning to all I know. I shall 
 bring them for the future before your spectatorial 
 authority. On Sunday last, one, who shall be 
 nameless, reproving several of his congregation for 
 standing at prayers, was pleased to say, ‘One 
 would think,like the elephant, you had no knees.’ 
 Now I, myself, saw an elephant, in Bartholomew- 
 fair, kneel down to take on his back the ingenious 
 Mr. William Penkethman. 
 
 “Your most humble Servant.” 
 
 No. 456.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 13, 1712. 
 
 De quo libelli in celeberrimis locis proponuntur, huic ne 
 perire quidem tacite conceditur. Tull. 
 
 The man whose conduct is publicly arraigned is not suffered 
 even to be undone quietly. 
 
 Otway, in his tragedy of Venice Preserved, has 
 described the misery of a man whose effects are in 
 the hands of the law, with great spirit. The bit¬ 
 terness of being the scorn and laughter of base 
 minds, the anguish of being insulted by men har¬ 
 dened beyond the sense of shame or pity, and the 
 injury of a man’s fortune being wasted, under 
 pretense of justice, are excellently aggravated in 
 the following speech of Pierre to Jaffier: 
 
 I pass’d this very moment by thy doors, 
 
 And found them guarded by a troop of villains; 
 
 The sons of public rapine were destroying, 
 
 They told me, by the sentence of the law. 
 
 They had commission to seize all thy fortune; 
 
 Nay, more, Priuli’s cruel hand had signed it. 
 
 Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face, 
 
 Lording it o’er a pile of massy plate, 
 
 Tumbled into a heap for public sale; 
 
 There was another making villainous jests 
 At thy undoing. He had ta’en possession 
 Of all thy ancient most domestic ornaments; 
 
 Rich hangings intermix’d and wrought with gold; 
 
 The very bed, which on thy wedding night 
 Received thee to the arms of Belvidera, 
 
 The scene of all thy joys, was violated 
 By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villains, 
 
 And thrown among the common lumber. 
 
 Nothing, indeed, can be more unhappy than the 
 condition of bankruptcy. The calamity which 
 happens to us by ill fortune, or by the injury of 
 others, has in it some consolation; but what arises 
 from our own misbehavior, or error, is the state 
 of the most exquisite sorrow. When a man con¬ 
 siders not only an ample fortune, but even the 
 very necessaries of life, his pretense to food itself, 
 at the mercy of his creditors, he cannot but look 
 upon himself in the state of the dead, with his 
 case thus much worse, that the last office is per¬ 
 formed by his adversaries instead of his friends. 
 From this hour the cruel world does not only take 
 possession of his whole fortune, but even of every¬ 
 thing else which had no relation to it. All his 
 indifferent actions have new interpretations put 
 upon them ; and those whom he has favored in his 
 former life, discharge themselves of their obliga¬ 
 tions to him, by joining in the reproaches of his 
 enemies. It is almost incredible that it should 
 be so ; but it is too often seen that there is a pride 
 mixed with the impatience of the creditor; and 
 there are who would rather recover their own 
 by the downfall of a prosperous man, than be dis¬ 
 charged to the common satisfaction of themselves 
 and their creditors. The wretched man, who was 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 lately master of abundance, is now under the di¬ 
 rection of others ; and the wisdom, economy, good 
 sense, and skill in human life before, by reason of 
 his present misfortune, are of no use to him in the 
 disposition of anything. The incapacity of an 
 infant, or a lunatic, is designed for his provision 
 and accommodation ; but that of a bankrupt with¬ 
 out any mitigation in respect of the accidents by 
 which it arrived, is calculated for his utter ruin, 
 except there be a remainder ample enough, after 
 the discharge of his creditors, to bear also the ex- 
 pense of rewarding those by whose means the effect 
 ot all this labor was transferred from him. This 
 man is to look on and see others giving directions 
 iipon what terms and conditions his goods are to 
 be purchased; and all this usually done, not with 
 an air of trustees to dispose of his effects, but de- 
 strovers to divide and tear them to pieces. 
 
 i here is something sacred in misery to great and 
 good minds; for this reason all wise lawgivers 
 have been extremely tender how they let loose 
 even the man who has right on his side, to act 
 With anv mixture of resentment against the defen¬ 
 dant. Virtuous and modest men, though they be 
 used with some artifice, and have it in their power 
 to avenge themselves, are slow in the application 
 
 ot that power, and are ever constrained to go into 
 rigorous measures. They are careful to demon¬ 
 strate themselves not only persons injured, but 
 also that to bear it longer would be a means to 
 make the offender injure others before they proceed 
 buch men clap their hands upon their hearts, and 
 consider what it is to have at their mercy the life 
 of a citizen. Such would have it to say to their 
 own souls, if possible, that they were merciful 
 when they could have destroyed, rather than when 
 it was m their power to have spared a man, they 
 destioyed. This is a due to the common calamity 
 of human life, due in some measure to our very 
 enemies. They who scruple doing the least injury 
 are cautious of exacting the utmost justice. 
 
 Let any one who is conversant in the variety of 
 human life reflect upon it, and he will find the 
 man who wants mercy has a taste of no enjoyment 
 of any kind. _ There is a natural disrelish of every 
 thing which is good in his very nature, and he is 
 born an enemy to the world. He is ever extremely 
 partial to himself in all his actions, and has no 
 sense of iniquity but from the punishment which 
 shall attend it. The law of the land is his gospel, 
 and all his cases of conscience are determined by 
 his attorney Such men know not what it is to 
 gladden the heart of a miserable man ; that riches 
 are the instruments of serving the purposes of 
 heaven or hell, according to the disposition of the 
 possessor. The wealthy can torment or gratify 
 all who are in their power, and choose to do one 
 or other, as they are affected with love, or hatred 
 to mankind. As for such who are insensible of 
 the concerns of others, but merely as they affect 
 themselves, these men are to be valued only for 
 their mortality, and as we hope better things from 
 their heirs. I could not but read with great de¬ 
 light a letter from an eminent citizen, who has 
 failed, to one who was intimate with him in his 
 better fortune, and able by his countenance to re¬ 
 trieve his lost condition. 
 
 547 
 
 JJ!!? 1 } ^ve lost; and I know (for that reason, as 
 as kindness lo me) you cannot but be in pain 
 
 in cm) abb* ^ • T ° s , ho * ? ou 1 am ^t a man 
 
 incapable of bearing calamity, I will, though a 
 
 fnd ,7if n ’- f y ^ aS1 ? e the distinction betwee.f us, 
 nearer \ Wlt ! tlie j ran kness we did when we were 
 with n °. ar * _ e ^uabty ; as all I do will be received 
 wi h prejudice, all you do will be looked upon 
 with partiality. What I desire of you is S3 
 co “ r ‘ ed all. would smile up,,,’, me, 
 ' ’ sl,u ?“f d ®lt Let that grace and favor 
 
 make nn ! ^ “i"* ,hrc T- T°" W ** turned to 
 Iowa rd P c “ dnes s and indifference that is used 
 ton ard me. All good and generous men will have 
 an eye of kindness for me for my own sake and 
 
 Thprf^ °l the W ° rld wiU re g ;lrd nie for yours, 
 des^neh-v iapPy conta S ,on 1,1 riches, as well as a 
 v IVe ° f ne in Poverty: the rich can make rich 
 Without parting with any of their store; and the 
 onversation ot the poor makes men poor, though 
 they borrow nothing of them. How this is to be 
 
 « ed for 1 know not; but men's estfmation 
 follows us according to the company we keep. If 
 you are what you were to me, you can go a great 
 way toward ray recovery; if you are notTmy good 
 fortune if it ever returns, will return by slower 
 reproaches. J 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your affectionate Friend 
 
 “and humble Servant.’ 
 
 This was answered by a condescension that did 
 not, by long impertinent professions of kindness, 
 insult his distress, but was as follows : 
 
 “Dear Tom, 
 
 I am very glad to hear that you have heart 
 enough to begin the world a second time. I assure 
 you, 1 do not think your numerous family at all 
 diminished (in the gifts of nature, for which I 
 have ever so much admired them) by what has so 
 lately happened to you. I shall not only counte¬ 
 nance your affairs with my appearance for you, 
 but shall accommodate you with a considerable 
 sum at common interest for three years. You 
 know I could make more of it; but I have so 
 great a love ior you, that I can wave opportunities 
 of gain to help you ; for I do not care whether 
 thev say of me after I am dead, that 1 had a hun¬ 
 dred or fifty thousand pounds'more than I wanted 
 when I was living. 
 
 T * “ Your obliged humble Servant.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “It is in vain to multiply words and make 
 apologies for what is never to be defended by the 
 best advocate in the world, the guilt of being un¬ 
 fortunate. All that a man in my condition can do 
 or say, will be received with prejudice by the gen¬ 
 erality of mankind, but I hope not with you ; you 
 nave been a great instrument in helping me to get 
 
 Ho. 457.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 14, 1712. 
 
 Multa et praeclara minantis.— Hor. 2 Sat. iii. 9. 
 Seeming to promise something wondrous great. 
 
 I shall this day lay before my readers a letter 
 written by the same hand with that of last Friday 
 which contained proposals for a printed newspa¬ 
 per that should take in the whole circle of the 
 penny-post. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “The kind reception you gave my last Friday s 
 letter, in which I broached my project of a news¬ 
 paper, encourages me to lay before you two or three 
 more ; for you must know. Sir, that we look upon 
 you to be the Lowndes* of the learned world, and 
 cannot think any scheme practicable or rational 
 before you have approved of it, though all the 
 
 ^ (^Secretary at this time of the Treasury, and director of the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 548 
 
 money we raise by it is on our own funds, and for 
 our private use. 
 
 “I have often thought that a news-letter of 
 whispers, written every post, and sent about the 
 kingdom, after the same manner as that of Mr. 
 Dyer, Mr. Dawkes, or any other epistolary histo¬ 
 rian, might be highly gratifying to the public, as 
 well as beneficial to the author. By whispers I 
 mean those pieces of news which are communica¬ 
 ted as secrets, and which bring a double pleasure 
 to the hearer; first, as they are private history; 
 and, in the next place, as they have always in 
 them a dish of scandal. These are the two chief 
 qualifications in an article of news, which recom¬ 
 mend it, in a more than ordinary manner, to the 
 ears of the curious. Sickness of persons in high 
 posts, twilight visits paid and received by minis¬ 
 ters of state, clandestine courtships and marriages, 
 secret amours, losses at play, applications for 
 places, with their respective successes or repulses, 
 are the materials in which I chiefly intend to deal. 
 
 I have two persons, that are each of them the rep¬ 
 resentative of a species, who are to furnish me 
 with those whispers which I intend to convey to 
 my correspondents. The first of these is Peter 
 Hush, descended from the ancient family of the 
 Hushes. The other is the old Lady Blast, who 
 has a very numerous tribe of daughters in the two 
 great cities of London and Westminster. Peter 
 Hush has a whispering-hole in most of the great 
 coffee-houses about town. If you are alone with 
 him in a wide room, he carries you up into a cor¬ 
 ner of it, and speaks in your ear. I have seen 
 Peter seat himself in a company of seven or eight 
 persons, whom he never saw before in his life ; 
 and, after having looked about to see there was no 
 one that overheard him, has communicated to them 
 in a low voice, and under the seal of secrecy, the 
 death of a great man in the country, who was, 
 perhaps, a fox-hunting the very moment this ac¬ 
 count was given of him. If, upon your entering 
 a coffee-house, you see a circle of heads bending 
 over the table, and lying close to one another, it 
 is ten to one but my friend Peter is among them. 
 I have known Peter publishing the whisper of the 
 day by eight o’clock in the morning at Garraway’s, 
 by twelve at Will’s, and before two at the Smyrna. 
 When Peter has thus effectually launched a secret, 
 I have been very well pleased to hear people 
 whispering it to one another at second-hand, and 
 spreading it about as their own; for you must 
 know, Sir, the great incentive to whispering is the 
 ambition which every one has of being thought in 
 the secret, and being looked upon as a man who 
 has access to greater people than one would imag¬ 
 ine. After having given you this account of Peter 
 Hush, I proceed to that virtuous lady, the old 
 Lady Blast, who is to communicate to me the pri¬ 
 vate transactions of the crimp-table, with all the 
 arcana of the fair sex. The Lady Blast, you must 
 understand, has such a particular malignity in her 
 whisper, that it blights like an easterly wind, and 
 withers every reputation it breathes upon. She 
 has a particular knack at making private weddings, 
 and last winter married about five women of qual¬ 
 ity to their footmen. Her whisper can make an 
 innocent young woman big with child, or fill a 
 healthful young fellow with distempers that are 
 not to be named. She can turn a visit into an in¬ 
 trigue, and a distant salute into an assignation. 
 She can beggar the wealthy, and degrade the noble. 
 In short, she can whisper men base or foolish, 
 jealous or ill-natured; or, if occasion requires, 
 can tell you the slips of their great grandmothers, 
 and traduce the memory of honest coachmen that 
 have been in their graves above these hundred 
 years. By these and the like helps, I question 
 
 not but I shall furnish out a very handsome news¬ 
 letter. If you approve my project, I shall begin 
 to whisper by the very next post, and question not 
 but every one of my customers will be very well 
 pleased with me, when he considers that every 
 piece of news I send him is a word in his ear, and 
 lets him into a secret. 
 
 “Having given you a sketch of this project, I 
 shall, in the next place, suggest to you another for 
 a monthly pamphlet, which I shall likewise sub¬ 
 mit to your spectatorial wisdom. I need not tell 
 you, Sir, that there are several authors in France, 
 Germany, and Holland, as well as in our own 
 country,* who publish every month what thev 
 call, An Account of the Works of the Learned, 
 in which they give us an abstract of all such 
 books as are printed in any part of Europe. Now, 
 Sir, it is my design to publish every month, An 
 Account of the Works of the Unlearned. Several 
 late productions of my own countrymen, who, 
 many of them, make a very eminent figure in the 
 illiterate w T orld, encourage me in this undertaking. 
 I may in this wmrk possibly make a review of 
 several pieces which have appeared in the foreign 
 accounts above-mentioned, though they ought not 
 to have been taken notice of in works which bear 
 such a title. I may likewise take into consider¬ 
 ation such pieces as appear, from time to time, 
 under the names of those gentlemen who compli¬ 
 ment one another in public assemblies by the title 
 of ‘ the learned gentlemen.’ Our party-authors 
 will also afford me a great variety of subjects, not 
 to mention the editors, commentators, and others, 
 who are often men of no learning, or, what is as 
 bad, of no knowledge. I shall not enlarge upon 
 this hint; but, if you think anything can be made 
 of it, I shall set about it with all the pains and 
 application that so useful a work deserves.—C. 
 
 “ I am ever, 
 
 “Most worthy Sir,” etc. 
 
 No. 458.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 15, 1712. 
 
 -Pudor malus- Hor. 
 
 False modesty. 
 
 I could not but smile at the account that was 
 yesterday given me of a modest young gentleman, 
 who, being invited to an entertainment, though he 
 was not used to drink, had not the confidence to 
 refuse his glass in his turn, when on a sudden he 
 grew so flustered, that he took all the talk of the 
 table into his own hands, abused every one of the 
 company, and flung a bottle at the gentleman’s 
 head who treated him. This has given me occa¬ 
 sion to reflect upon the ill effects of a vicious 
 modesty, and to remember the saying of Brutus, 
 as it is quoted by Plutarch, that “the person has 
 had but an ill education, w r ho has not been taught 
 to deny anything.” This false kind of modesty 
 has, perhaps, betrayed both sexes into as many 
 vices as the most abandoned impudence; and is 
 the more inexcusable to reason, because it acts to 
 gratify others rather than itself, and is punished 
 with a kind of remorse, not only like other vicious 
 habits -when the crime is over, but even at the very 
 time that it is committed. 
 
 Nothing is more amiable than true modesty, and 
 nothing is more contemptible than the false. The 
 one guards virtue, the other betrays it. True 
 modesty is ashamed to do anything that is re¬ 
 pugnant to the rules of right reason: false mod¬ 
 esty is ashamed to do anything that is opposite to 
 
 *Mr. Michael de la Koche, 38 vols. 8vo. in Engl, under dif¬ 
 ferent titles, and in Fr. 8 tomes, 24mo. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 the humor of the company. True modesty avoids 
 everything that is criminal, false modesty every¬ 
 thing that is unfashionable. The latter is only a 
 general undetermined instiuct; the former is that 
 instinct, limited and circumscribed by the rules of 
 prudence and religion. 
 
 We may conclude that modesty to be false and 
 vicious which engages a man to do anything that 
 is ill or indiscreet, or which restrains him from 
 doing anything that is of a contrary nature. How 
 many men, in the common concerns of life, lend 
 sums of money whicli they are not able to spare, 
 are bound for persons whom they have but little 
 friendship for, give recommendatory characters of 
 men whom they are not acquainted with, bestow 
 places on those whom they do not esteem, live in 
 such a manner as they themselves do not approve, 
 and all this merely because they have not the 
 confidence to resist solicitation, importunity, or 
 example! 
 
 Nor does this false modesty expose us only to 
 such actions as are indiscreet, but very often to 
 such as are highly criminal. When Xenophanes 
 was called timorous because he would not venture 
 his money in a game at dice: “ I confess,” said he, 
 “that I am exceeding timorous, for I dare not do 
 an ill thing.” On the contrary, a man of vicious 
 modesty complies with everything, and is only 
 fearful of doiug what may look singular in the 
 company where he is engaged. He falls in with 
 the torrent, and lets himself go to every action or 
 discourse, however unjustifiable in itself, so it be 
 in vogue among the present party. This, though 
 one of the most common, is one of the most 
 ridiculous dispositions in human nature, that men 
 should not be ashamed of speaking or acting in a 
 dissolute or irrational manner, but that one who 
 is in their company should be ashamed of gov¬ 
 erning himself by the principles of reason and 
 virtue. 
 
 In the second place, we are to consider false 
 modesty as it restrains a man from doing what is 
 good and laudable. My reader’s own thoughts 
 will suggest to him many instances and examples 
 under this head. I shall only dwell upon one 
 reflection, which I cannot make without a secret 
 concern. We have in England a particular bash¬ 
 fulness in everything that regards religion. A 
 well-bred man is obliged to conceal any serious 
 sentiment of this nature, and very often to appear 
 a greater libertine than he is, that he may keep 
 himself in countenance among the men of mode! 
 Our excess of modesty makes us shamefaced in 
 all the exercises of piety and devotion. This hu¬ 
 mor prevails upon us daily; insomuch that, at 
 many well-bred tables, the master of the house is 
 so very modest a man, that he has not the confi¬ 
 dence to say grace at his own table: a custom 
 which is not only practiced by all the nations 
 about us, but was never omitted by the heathens 
 themselves. English gentlemen who travel into 
 Roman Catholic countries are not a little sur¬ 
 prised to meet with people of the best quality 
 kneeling in their churches, and engaged in their 
 private devotions, though it be not at the hours of 
 public worship. An officer of the army, or a man 
 of wit and pleasure, in those countries, would be 
 afraid of passing not only for an irreligious, but 
 an ill-bred man, should he be seen to go to bed, or 
 sit down at table, without offering up his devo¬ 
 tions on such occasions. The same show of re¬ 
 ligion appears in all the foreign reformed churches, 
 and enters so much into their ordinary conversa¬ 
 tion, that an Englishman is apt to term them 
 hypocritical and precise. 
 
 This little appearance of a religious deportment 
 in our nation may proceed in some measure from 
 
 549 
 
 that modesty which is natural to us; but the great 
 occasion of it is certainly this. Those swarms of 
 sectaries that overran the nation in the time of the 
 great rebellion carried their hypocrisy so high, that 
 tney had converted our whole language into a jar¬ 
 gon of enthusiasm; insomuch that, upon the Res¬ 
 toration, men thought they could not recede too 
 tar trom the behavior and practice of those per- 
 sons who had made religion a cloak to so many 
 vi lainies. This led them into the other extreme; 
 every appearance of devotion was looked upon as 
 puritanical; and falling into the hands of the 
 ridiculers who flourished in that reign, and 
 attacked everything that was serious, it has ever 
 since been out of countenance among us. By this 
 means we are gradually fallen into that vicious 
 modesty which has in some measure worn out 
 trom among us the appearance of Christianity in 
 ordinary life and conversation, and which distin¬ 
 guishes us from all our neighbors. 
 
 Hypocrisy cannot indeed be too much detested, 
 but at the same time it is to be preferred to open 
 impiety They are both equally destructive to the 
 person who is possessed with them; but, in regard 
 to others, hypocrisy is not so pernicious as bare¬ 
 faced irreligion. The due mean to be observed 
 is, “to be sincerely virtuous, and at the same time 
 to let the world see that we are so.” I do not 
 know a more dreadful menace in the holy wri¬ 
 tings than that which is pronounced against those 
 who have this perverted modesty, to be ashamed 
 before men in a particular of such unspeakable 
 importance.—C. 
 
 No. 459.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 16, 1712. 
 
 -Quicquid dignum sapiente bonoque est. 
 
 IIor. 1 Ep. iv. 5. 
 
 -Whate’er befits the wise and good.— Creech. 
 
 Religion may be considered under two general 
 heads. The first comprehends what we are to 
 believe, the other what we are to practice. By 
 those things which we are to believe, I mean 
 whatever is revealed to us in the holy writings, 
 and which we could not have obtained the know¬ 
 ledge of by the light of nature; by the things 
 which we are to practice, I mean all those duties 
 to which we are directed by reason or natural 
 religion. Th^ first of these I shall distinguish by 
 the name of faith, the second by that of morality. 
 
 If we look into the more serious part of man¬ 
 kind, we find many who lay so great a stress upon 
 faith, that they neglect morality; and many who 
 build so much upon morality, that they do not 
 pay a due regard to faith. The perfect man 
 should be defective in neither of these particu¬ 
 lars, as will be very evident to those who con¬ 
 sider the benefits which arise from each of them, 
 and which I shall make the subject of this day’s 
 paper. J 
 
 Notwithstanding this general division of Chris¬ 
 tian duty into morality and faith, and that they 
 have both their peculiar excellencies, the first has 
 the pre-eminence in several respects. 
 
 First, Because the greatest part of morality (as 
 I have stated the notion of it) is of a fixed eternal 
 nature, and will endure when faith shall fail, and 
 be lost in conviction. 
 
 Secondly, Because a person may be qualified to 
 do greater good to mankind, and become more 
 beneficial to the world, by morality without faith, 
 than by faith without morality. 
 
 Thirdly, Because morality gives a greater per¬ 
 fection to human nature, by quieting the mind, 
 moderating the passions, and advancing the hap¬ 
 piness of every man in his private capacity. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 550 
 
 Fourthly, Because the rule of morality is much 
 more certain than that of faith, all the civilized 
 nations of the world agreeing in the great points 
 of morality, as much as they differ in those of 
 faith. 
 
 Fifthly, Because infidelity is not of so malig¬ 
 nant a nature as immorality; or, to put the same 
 reason in another light, because it is generally 
 owned, there may be salvation for a virtuous inn- 
 del (particularly in the case of invincible igno¬ 
 rance), but none for a vicious believer. 
 
 Sixthly, Because faith seems to draw its prin¬ 
 cipal, if not all its excellency, from the influence 
 it has upon morality; as we shall see more at 
 large, if we consider wherein consists the excel¬ 
 lency of faith, or the belief of revealed religion; 
 and this, I think, is, 
 
 First, In explaining and carrying to greater 
 heights several points of morality. 
 
 Secondly, In furnishing new and stronger mo¬ 
 tives to enforce the practice of morality. 
 
 Thirdly, In giving us more amiable ideas of 
 the Supreme Being, more endearing notions of 
 one another, and a truer state of ourselves, both 
 in regard to the grandeur and vileness of our 
 natures. 
 
 Fourthly, By showing us the blackness and de¬ 
 formity of vice, which in the Christian system is 
 so very great, that he who is possessed of all per¬ 
 fection, and the sovereign judge of it, is repre¬ 
 sented by several of our divines as hating sin to 
 the same degree that he loves the sacred person 
 who was made the propitiation of it. 
 
 Fifthly, In being the ordinary and prescribed 
 method of making morality effectual to salvation. 
 
 I have only touched on these several heads, 
 which every one who is conversant in discourses 
 of this nature will easily enlarge upon in his own 
 thoughts, and draw conclusions from them which 
 may be useful to him in the conduct of his life. 
 One I am sure is so obvious, that he cannot miss 
 it, namely, that a man cannot be perfect in his 
 scheme of morality, who does not strengthen and 
 support it with that of the Christian faith. 
 
 Beside this, I shall lay down two or three other 
 maxims, which, I think, we may deduce from what 
 has been said: 
 
 First, That we should be particularly cautious 
 of making anything an article of faith, which does 
 not contribute to the confirmation or improvement 
 of morality. 
 
 Secondly, That no article of faith can be true 
 and authentic, which weakens or subverts the prac¬ 
 tical part of religion, or what I have hitherto called 
 morality. 
 
 Thirdly, That the greatest friend of morality 
 and natural religion cannot possibly apprehend 
 any danger from embracing Christianity, as it is 
 preserved pure and uncorrupt in the doctrines of 
 our national church.* 
 
 There is likewise another maxim which I think 
 may be drawn from the foregoing considerations, 
 which is this; that we should, in all dubious points, 
 consider any ill consequences that may arise from 
 them, supposing they should be erroneous, before 
 we give up our assent to them. 
 
 For example, In that disputable point of perse¬ 
 cuting men for conscience’ sake, beside the lmbit- 
 tering their minds with hatred, indignation, and 
 all the vehemence of resentment, and insnaring 
 them to profess what they do not believe, we cut 
 them off from the pleasures and advantages of 
 society, afflict their bodies, distress their fortunes, 
 hurt their reputations, ruin their families, make 
 their lives painful, or put an end to them. Sure 
 
 when I see such dreadful consequences rising from 
 a principle, I would be as fully convinced of the 
 truth of it, as of a mathematical demonstration, 
 before I would venture to act upon it, or make it a 
 part of my religion. 
 
 In this case the injury done our neighbor is 
 plain and evident: the principle that puts us upon 
 doing it, of a dubious and disputable nature. Mo¬ 
 rality seems highly violated by the one; and 
 whether or no a zeal for what a man thinks the 
 true system of faith may justify it, is very uncer¬ 
 tain. I cannot but think, if our religion produces 
 charity as well as zeal, it will not be for showing 
 itself by such cruel instances. But to conclude 
 with the words of an excellent author, “We have 
 just enough of religion to make us hate, but not 
 enough to make us love, one another.”—C. 
 
 No. 460.] MONDAY, AUGUST 18, 1712. 
 
 Decipimur specie recti.—Hoit. Ars Poet. v. 25. 
 
 Deluded by a seeming excellence.— Roscommon. 
 
 Our defects and follies are too often unknown to 
 us; nay, they are so far from being known to us, 
 that they pass for demonstrations of our worth. 
 This makes us easy in the midst of them, fond to 
 show them, fond to improve them, and to be es¬ 
 teemed for them. Then it is that a thousand unac¬ 
 countable conceits, gay inventions, and extravagant 
 actions, must afford us pleasures, and display us 
 to others in the colors which we ourselves take a 
 fancy to glory in. Indeed there is something so 
 amusing for the time in the state of vanity and ill- 
 grounded satisfaction, that even the wiser world 
 has chosen an exalted word to describe its enchant¬ 
 ments. and called it “The Paradise of Fools.” 
 
 Perhaps the latter part of this reflection may 
 seem a false thought to some, and bear another turn 
 than what I have given; but it is at present none 
 of my business to look after it, who am going to 
 confess that I have been lately among them in a 
 vision. 
 
 Methought I was transported to a hill, green, 
 flowery, and of an easy ascent. Upon the broad 
 top of it resided squint-eyed Error, and Popular 
 Opinion with many heads; two that dealt in sor¬ 
 cery, and were famous for bewitching people with 
 the love of themselves. To these repaired a mul¬ 
 titude from every side, by two different paths which 
 lead toward each of them. Some who had the 
 most assuming air went directly of themselves to 
 Error, without expecting a conductor; others of a 
 softer nature went first to Popular Opinion, from 
 whence, as she influenced and engaged them with 
 their own praises, she delivered them over to his 
 government. 
 
 When we had ascended to an open part of the 
 summit where Opinion abode, we found her enter¬ 
 taining several who had arrived before us. Her 
 voice was pleasing; she breathed odors as she 
 spoke. She seemed to have a tongue for every 
 one; every one thought he heard of something that 
 was valuable in himself, and expected a paradise 
 which she promised as the reward of his merit. 
 Thus w T ere we drawn to folloAv her, till she should 
 bring us where it was to be bestowed; and it was 
 observable, that all the way we went, the company 
 was either praising themselves for their qualifica¬ 
 tions, or one another for those qualifications which 
 they took to be conspicuous in their own charac¬ 
 ters, or dispraising others for wanting theirs or 
 vying in the degrees of them. 
 
 At last we approached a bower, at the entrance 
 of which Error was seated. The trees were thick 
 woven, and the place where he sat artfully con- 
 
 * The Gospel. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 trivod to darken him a little. He was diso-uised 
 in a whitish robe, which he had put on, that he 
 might appear to us with a nearer resemblance to 
 J ruth and as she has a light whereby she mani¬ 
 fests the beauties of nature to the eyes of her 
 adorers, so he had provided himself with a magical 
 wand, that he might do something in imitation of 
 it, and please with delusions. This he lifted sol- 
 emnlv, and, muttering to himself, bid the glories 
 which he kept under enchantment to appear before 
 us. Immediately we cast our eyes on that part of 
 the sky to which he pointed, and observed a thin 
 blue prospect, which cleared as mountains in a 
 summer morning when the mist goes off, and the 
 palace of Vanity appeared to sight. 
 
 The foundation seemed hardly a foundation, but 
 a set of curling clouds, which it stood upon by 
 magical contrivance. The way by which we as¬ 
 cended was painted like a,rainbow; and as we 
 w-ent, the breeze that played about us, bewitched 
 the senses. The walks were gilded all for show; 
 the lowest set of pillars were of the slight fine’ 
 Corinthian order, and the top of the building being 
 rounded, bore so far the resemblance of a bubble. 
 
 At the gate the travelers neither met with a por¬ 
 ter, nor waited till one should appear; every one 
 thought his merits a sufficient passport, and pressed 
 forward. In the hall we met with several phan¬ 
 toms, that roved among us, and ranged the com¬ 
 pany according to their sentiments. There was 
 decreasing Honor, that had nothing to show, but 
 an old coat, of his ancestor’s achievements. There 
 was Ostentation, that made himself his own con¬ 
 stant subject, and Gallantry strutting upon his 
 tiptoes. At the upper end of the hall stood a 
 throne, whose canopy glittered with all the riches 
 that gayety could contrive to lavish on it; and 
 between the gilded arms sat Vanity, decked in the 
 peacock’s feathers, and acknowledged for another 
 Venus by her votaries. The boy who stood beside 
 her for a Cupid, and who made the world to bow 
 before her, was called Self-Conceit. His eyes had 
 everynow and then a cast inward, to the neglect of 
 all objects about him; and the arms which he made 
 use of for conquest, were borrowed from those 
 against whom he had a design. The arrow which 
 he shot at the soldier, was fledged from his own 
 plume of feathers; the dart he directed against the 
 man of wit, was winged from the quills he wrote 
 with; and that which he sent against those who 
 presumed upon their riches, was headed with gold 
 out of their treasuries. He made nets for states¬ 
 men from their own contrivances; he took fire 
 from the eyes of ladies, with which he melted 
 their hearts; and lightning from the tongues of the 
 eloquent, to inflame them with their own glories. 
 At the foot of the throne sat three false Graces: 
 Flattery with a shell of paint, Affectation with a 
 mirror to practice at, ana Fashion ever changing 
 the posture ot her clothes. These applied them¬ 
 selves to secure the conquests which Self-Conceit 
 had gotten, and had each of them their particular 
 polities. Flattery gave new colors and complex¬ 
 ions to all things; Affectation new airs and appear¬ 
 ances, which, as she said, were not vulgar; and 
 Fashion both concealed some home defects, and 
 added some foreign external beauties. 
 
 As I was reflecting upon what I saw, I heard a 
 voice in the crowd bemoaning the condition of 
 mankind, which is thus managed by the breath of 
 Opinion, deluded by Error, fired by Self-Conceit 
 and given up to be trained in all the courses of 
 Vanity, till Scorn or Poverty come upon us. These 
 expressions were no sooner handed about, but I 
 immediately saw a general disorder, till at last 
 there was a parting in one place, and a grave old 
 man, decent and resolute, was led forward to be 
 
 553 
 
 )unished for the words he had uttered. He ap¬ 
 peared inclined to have spoken in his own defense, 
 nit L could not observe that any one was willing 
 to hear him. Vanity cast a scornful smile at him; 
 feeit-Conceit was angry; Flattery, who knew him 
 lor 1 lani-Dealmg, put on a vizard, and turned 
 away. Affectation tossed her fan, made mouths, 
 and called him Envv or Slander; and Fashion 
 would have it that at least he must be Ill-Manners. 
 J bus slighted and despised by all, he was driven 
 out tor abusing people of merit and figure; and I 
 ieai it filinly resolved, that he shouli? be used no 
 better wherever they met with him hereafter. 
 
 I had already seen the meaning of most part of 
 that warning which he had given, and was consid¬ 
 ering how the latter words should be fulfilled, when 
 a mighty noise was heard without, and the door 
 was blackened by a numerous train of harpies 
 crowding in upon us. Folly and Broken-Credit 
 were seen in the house before they entered. Trou¬ 
 ble, bhame, Infamy, Scorn, and Poverty, brought 
 up the rear. Vanity, with her Cupid and Graces, 
 disappeared; her subjects ran into holes and cor- 
 ners; but many of them were found and carried 
 oft (as I was told by one who stood near me) either 
 to prisons or cellars, solitude or little company, the 
 mean arts or the viler crafts of life. “But these,” 
 added he with a disdainful air, “are such who 
 would fondly live here, when their merits neither 
 matched the luster ol the place, nor their riches 
 its expenses. We have seen such scenes as these 
 before now; the glory you saw will all return when 
 the hurry is over.” I thanked him for his infor¬ 
 mation; and, believing him so incorrigible as that 
 he would stay till it was his turn to be taken, I 
 made off to the door, and overtook some few, who 
 though they would not harken to Plain-Dealing’ 
 were now terrified to good purpose by the example 
 of others. But when they had touched the thresh¬ 
 old, it was a strange shock to them to find that the 
 delusion of Error was gone, and they plainly dis¬ 
 cerned the building to hang a little up in the air 
 without any real foundation. At first we saw 
 nothing but a desperate leap remained for us, and 
 I a thousand times blamed my unmeaning curiosity 
 that had brought me into so much danger. But as 
 they began to sink lower in their own minds, 
 methought the place sunk along with us, till they 
 were arrived at the due point of esteem which they 
 ought to have for themselves: then the part of the 
 building in which they stood touched the earth, 
 and we departing out, it retired from our eyes. 
 Now, whether they who stayed in the palace were 
 sensible of this descent, I cannot tell; it was then 
 my opinion that they were not. However it be, my 
 dream broke up at it, and has given me occasion 
 all my life to reflect upon the fatal consequences 
 of following the suggestions of Vanity. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I write to you to desire, that you would again 
 touch upon a certain enormity, which is chiefly in 
 use among the politer and better-bred part of man 
 kind; I mean the ceremonies, bows, courtesies, whis¬ 
 perings, smiles, winks, nods, with other familiar 
 arts of salutation, which take up in our churches 
 so much time that might be better employed, and 
 which seem so utterly inconsistent with the duty 
 and tiue intent of our entering into (hose religious 
 assemblies. I he resemblance which this bears to 
 our indeed proper behavior in theaters, may be 
 some instance of its incongruity in the above-men¬ 
 tioned places. In Roman Catholic churches and 
 chapels abroad, I myself have observed, more than 
 once, persons of the first quality, of the nearest 
 relation, and intimatest acquaintance, passing by 
 one another unknowing,, as it were, and unknown, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 552 
 
 and with so little notice of each other, that it looked 
 like having their minds more suitably and more 
 solemnly engaged; at least it was an acknowledg¬ 
 ment that they ought to have been so. I have been 
 told the same even of the Mahometans, with rela¬ 
 tion to the propriety of their demeanor in the 
 conventions of their erroneous worship; and I 
 cannot but think either of them sufficient laudable 
 patterns^for our imitation in this particular. 
 
 “ I cannot help upon this occasion, remarking on 
 the excellent memories of those devotionists, who 
 upon returning from church shall give a particular 
 account how two or three hundred people were 
 dressed; a thing, by reason of its variety, so diffi¬ 
 cult to be digested and fixed in the head, that it is 
 a miracle to me how two poor hours of divine 
 service can be time sufficient for so elaborate an 
 undertaking, the duty of the place too being jointly, 
 and no doubt oft pathetically, performed along 
 with it. Where it is said in sacred writ, that ‘ the 
 woman ought to have a covering on her head be¬ 
 cause of the angels,’ that last word is by some 
 thought to be metaphorically used, and to signify 
 young men. Allowing this interpretation to be 
 right, the text may not appear to be wholly foreign 
 to our present purpose. 
 
 “ When you are in a disposition proper for writ¬ 
 ing on such a subject, I earnestly recommend this 
 to you: and am, “ Sir 
 
 T. “ Your very humble servant.” 
 
 No. 461.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 19, 1712. 
 
 -Sect non ego credulus illis.—V irg. Eel. ix. 34. 
 
 But I discern their flatt’ry from their praise.— Dryden. 
 
 For want of time to substitute something else 
 in the room of them, I am at present obliged to 
 publish compliments above my desert in the fol¬ 
 lowing letters. It is no small satisfaction to have 
 given occasion to ingenious men to employ their 
 thoughts upon sacred subjects, from the approba¬ 
 tion of such pieces of poetry as they have seen in 
 my Saturday’s papers. I shall never publish verse 
 on that day but what is written by the same hand:* 
 yet shall I not accompany these writings with 
 eulogiums, but leave them to speak for themselves. 
 
 “For the Spectator. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You very much promote the interests of virtue, 
 while you reform the taste of a profane age; and 
 persuade us to be entertained with divine poems, 
 while we are distinguished by so many thousand 
 humors, and split into so many different sects and 
 parties; yet persons of every party, sect, and hu¬ 
 mor, are fond of conforming their taste to yours. 
 You can transfuse your own relish of a poem into 
 all your readers according to their capacity to 
 receive; and when you recommend the pious pas¬ 
 sion that reigns in the verse, we seem to feel the 
 devotion, and grow proud and pleased inwardly, 
 that we have souls capable of relishing what the 
 Spectator approves. 
 
 “ Upon reading the hymns that you have pub¬ 
 lished in some late papers, I had a mind to try 
 yesterday whether I could write one. The cxivth 
 psalm appears to me an admirable ode, and I began 
 to turn it into our language. As I was describing 
 the journey of Israel from Egypt, and added 
 the Divine Presence among them, I perceived a 
 beauty in this psalm, which was entirely new to 
 me, and which I was going to lose; and that is, 
 that the poet utterly conceals the presence of God 
 
 in the beginning of it, and rather lets a possessive 
 pronoun go without a substantive, than ne will so 
 much as mention anything of divinity there. 'Ju¬ 
 dah was his sanctuary, and Israel his dominion or 
 kingdom.’ The reason now seems evident, and 
 this conduct necessary; for, if God had appeared 
 before, there could be no wonder why the moun¬ 
 tains should leap and the sea retire; therefore, that 
 this convulsion of nature may be brought in with 
 due surprise, his name is not mentioned till after¬ 
 ward : and then with a very agreeable turn of 
 thought, God is introduced at once in all his maj¬ 
 esty. This is what I have attempted to imitate in 
 a translation without paraphrase, and to preserve 
 what I could of the spirit of the sacred author. 
 
 “If the following essay be not too incorrigible, 
 bestow upon it a few brightenings from your ge¬ 
 nius, that I may learn how to write better, or to 
 write no more. 
 
 “ Your daily admirer, and humble Servant,” etc. 
 
 PSALM CXIY. 
 
 I. 
 
 When Israel, freed from Pharaoh’s hand, 
 
 Left the proud tyrant and his land, 
 
 The tribes with cheerful homage own 
 Their King, and J udah was bis throne. 
 
 II. 
 
 Across the deep their journey lay, 
 
 The deep divides to make them way, 
 
 The streams of Jordan saw, and fled 
 With backward current to their head. 
 
 III. 
 
 The mountains shook like frighted sheep, 
 
 Like lambs the little hillocks leap; 
 
 Not Sinai on her base could stand, 
 
 Conscious of sov’reign power at hand. 
 
 IY. 
 
 What power could make, the deep divide? 
 
 Make Jordan backward roll his tide ? 
 
 Why did ye leap, ye little hills? 
 
 And whence the fright that Sinai feels? 
 
 V. 
 
 Let every mountain, ev’ry flood, 
 
 Retire, and know th’ approaching God, 
 
 The King of Israel 1 See him here: 
 
 Tremble, thou earth, adore and fear. 
 
 YI. 
 
 He thunders—and all nature mourns; 
 
 The rocks to standing pools he turns; 
 
 Flints spring with fountains at his word, 
 
 And fires and seas confess their Lord.* 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “There are those who take the advantage of 
 your putting a halfpenny value upon yourself 
 above the rest of our daily writers, to defame you 
 in public conversation, and strive to make you 
 unpopular upon the account of this said halfpenny. 
 But, if I were you, I would insist upon that small 
 acknowledgment for the superior merit of yours, 
 as being a work of invention. Give me leave, 
 therefore, to do you justice, and say in your behalf, 
 what you cannot yourself, which is, that your 
 writings have made learning a more necessary part 
 of good-breeding than it was before you appeared; 
 that modesty is become fashionable, and impu¬ 
 dence stands in need of some wit, since you have 
 put them both in their proper lights. Profaneness, 
 lewdness, and debauchery, are not now qualifica¬ 
 tions; and a man may be a very fine gentleman, 
 though he is neither a keeper nor an infidel. 
 
 “I would have you tell the town the story of the 
 Sibyls, if they deny giving you two-pence. Let 
 them know, that those sacred papers were valued 
 at the same rate after two-thirds of them were 
 destroyed, as when there was the whole set. There 
 
 * Addison. 
 
 *By Dr. Isaac Watts. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 553 
 
 are so many of us who will give you your own 
 price, that you may acquaint your non-conformist 
 readers, that they shall not have it, except they 
 come in within such a day, under three-pence. I 
 do not know but you might bring in the ‘ Date 
 Obolum Belisario’ with a good grace. The wit¬ 
 lings come in clusters to two or three coffee-houses 
 which have left you off; and 1 hope vou will make 
 us, who fine to your wit, merry with their charac¬ 
 ters who stand out against it. 
 
 “I am your most humble Servant.” 
 
 “P. S. I have lately got the ingenious authors 
 of blacking for shoes, powder for coloring the hair, 
 pomatum for the hands, cosmetic for the face, to be 
 your constant customers; so that your advertise¬ 
 ments will as much adorn the outward man, as 
 your paper does the inward.” 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 462.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1712. 
 
 Nil ego pnetulerim jucundo sanus amico. 
 
 Hor. 1 Sat. v. 44. 
 
 Nothing so grateful as a pleasant friend. 
 
 People are not aware of the very great force 
 which pleasantry in company has upon all those 
 with whom a man of that talent converses. His 
 faults are generally overlooked by all his acquaint¬ 
 ance; and a certain carelessness, that constantly 
 attends all his actions, carries him on with greater 
 success, than diligence and assiduity do others 
 who have no share of this endowment. Dacinthus 
 breaks his word upon all occasions both trivial and 
 important; and, when he is sufficiently railed at 
 for that abominable quality, they who talk of him 
 end with, “ After all, he is a very pleasant fellow.” 
 Dacinthus is an ill-natured husband, and yet the 
 very women end their freedom of discourse upon 
 this subject, “But after all, he is very pleasant 
 cpmpany.” Dacinthus is neither in point of honor, 
 civility, good-breeding, nor good-nature, unexcep¬ 
 tionable, and yet all is answered, “For he is a very 
 pleasant fellow.” When this quality is conspicu¬ 
 ous in a man who has, to accompany it, manly and 
 virtuous sentiments, there cannot certainly be any¬ 
 thing which can give so pleasing a gratification as 
 the gayety of such a person; but when it is alone, 
 and serves only to gild a crowd of ill qualities, 
 there is no man so much to be avoided as your 
 pleasant fellow. A very pleasant fellow shall turn 
 your good name to a jest, make your character 
 contemptible, debauch your wife or daughter, and 
 yet be received with the rest of the world with 
 welcome wherever he appears. It is very ordinary 
 with those of this character to be attentive only to 
 their own satisfactions, and have very little bowels 
 for the concerns or sorrows of other men; nay, they 
 are capable of purchasing their own pleasures at 
 the expense of giving pain to others. But they 
 who do not consider this sort of men thus care¬ 
 fully, are irresistibly exposed to their insinuations. 
 The author of the following letter carries the mat¬ 
 ter so high, as to intimate that the liberties of 
 England have been at the mercy of a prince merely 
 as he was of this pleasant character : 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 | ably condescend to soothe our humor or temper, 
 1 finds always an open avenue to our soul; espe¬ 
 cially il the flatterer happen to be our superior. 
 
 “ 0 ,ie might give many instances of this in a 
 late English monarch under the title of ' The Gaye- 
 ties ot King Charles II.’ This prince was by 
 natuie extremely familiar, of very easy access, and 
 much delighted to see and be seen; and his happy 
 temper, which in the highest degree gratified his 
 people s vanity, did him more service with his 
 loving subjects than all his other virtues, though 
 it must be confessed he had many. He delighted 
 though a mighty king, to give and take a jest as 
 they say; and a prince of this fortunate disposi¬ 
 tion, who was inclined to make an ill use of his 
 power, may have anything of his people, be it never 
 so much to their prejudice. But this good king 
 made generally a very innocent use, as to the pub- 
 lic, of this ensnaring temper; for, it is well known, 
 he pursued pleasure more than ambition. He 
 seemed to glory in being the first man at cock- 
 matches, horse-races, balls, and plays; lie appeared 
 highly delighted on those occasions, and never 
 tailed to warm and gladden the heart of every 
 spectator. He more than once dined with his 
 good citizens of London on their lord-mayor’s day 
 and did so the year that Sir Robert Viner was 
 mayor. Sir Robert was a very loyal man, and if 
 you will allow the expression, very fond of his 
 sovereign; but what with the joy he felt at heart 
 for the honor done him by his prince, and through 
 the warmth he was in with continual toasting 
 healths to the royal family, his lordship grew a 
 little fond of his majesty, and entered into a 
 familiarity not altogether so graceful in so public 
 a place. The king understood very well how to 
 extricate himself in all kinds of difficulties, and, 
 with a hint to the company to avoid ceremony" 
 stole off and made toward his coach, which stood 
 ready for him in Guildhall yard. But the mayor 
 liked his company so well, and was grown so 
 intimate, that he pursued him hastily, and, catch¬ 
 ing him fast by the hand, cried out with a vehe¬ 
 ment oath and accent, ‘Sir, you shall stay and take 
 t’other bottle.” r I he airy monarch looked kindly 
 at him over his shoulder, and with a smile and 
 graceful air (for I saw him at the time, and do 
 now) repeated this line of the old song: 
 
 He that’s drunk is as great as a king; 
 
 and immediately returned back, and complied with 
 his landlord. 
 
 “I give you this story, Mr. Spectator, because, 
 as I said, 1 saw the passage; and I assure you it 
 is very true, and yet no common one; and when I 
 tell you the sequel, you will say I have a better 
 reason for it. This very mayor afterward erected 
 a statue of his merry monarch in Stocks-market,* 
 and did the crown many and great services; and it 
 was owing to this humor of the king, that his 
 family had so great a fortune shut up in the ex¬ 
 chequer of their pleasant sovereign. The many 
 good-natured condescensions of this prince are 
 vulgarly known; and it is excellently said of him 
 by a great handf which wrote his character, that 
 he was not a king a quarter of an hour together in 
 
 “ There is no one passion which all mankind so 
 naturally give into as pride, nor any other passion 
 which appears in such different disguises. It is 
 to be found in all habits and all complexions. Is 
 it not a question, whether it does more harm or 
 good in the world; and if there be not such a 
 thing as what we may call a virtuous and laudable 
 pride ? 
 
 “ It is this passion alone, when misapplied, that 
 lays us so open to flatterers; and he who can agree- 
 
 *Tlie equestrian statue of Charles II, in Stocks-market, 
 erected at the sole charge of Sir Robert Viner, was originally 
 made for John Sobieski, King of Poland; but by some acci¬ 
 dent it had been left on the workman’s hands. To save time 
 and expense, the Polander was converted into a Briton, and 
 the Turk underneath his horse into Oliver Cromwell to com¬ 
 plete the compliment. Unfortunately the turban on the 
 Turk’s head was overlooked, and left an undeniable proof of 
 this story. See Stowe’s Survey, etc., ed. 1755, p. 517, vol. 1; 
 and Ralph’s Review, etc., ed. 1736, p. 9. 
 
 f Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, who said, that “on apre- 
 meditation, Charles II could not act the part of a king for a 
 moment.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 554 
 
 his whole reign. He would receive visits from 
 fools and half madmen; and at times I have met 
 with people who have boxed, fought at back¬ 
 sword, and taken poison before King Charles II. 
 In a word, he was so pleasant a man, that no one 
 could be sorrowful under his government. This 
 made him capable of baffling, with the greatest 
 ease imaginable, all suggestions of jealousy; and 
 the people could not entertain notions of anything 
 terrible in him, whom they saw every way agree¬ 
 able. This scrap of the familiar part of that 
 prince’s history I thought fit to send you, in com¬ 
 pliance to the request you lately made to your 
 correspondents. “I am. Sir, 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant.” 
 
 Ho. 463.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 21, 1712. 
 
 Omnia quie sensu volvuntur vota diurno, 
 
 Pectore sopito reddit arnica quies. 
 
 Venator defessa toro cum membra reponit, 
 
 Mens tamen ad sylvas et sua lustra redit: 
 
 Judicibus lites, aurigis somnia currus, 
 
 Vmiaque nocturnis meta cavetur equis. 
 
 Me quoque Musarum studium sub nocte silenti 
 Artibus assuetis sollicitare solet.— Claud. 
 
 In sleep, when fancy is let loose to play, 
 
 Our dreams repeat the wishes of the day. 
 
 Though farther toil his tired limbs refuse, 
 
 The dreaming hunter still the chase pursues. 
 
 The judge abed dispenses still the laws, 
 
 And sleeps again o'er the unfinish’d cause. 
 
 The dozing racer hears his chariot roll, 
 
 Smacks the vain whip, and shuns the fancied goal. 
 
 Me too the Muses, in the silent night, 
 
 With wonted chimes of jingling verse delight. 
 
 I was lately entertaining myself with comparing 
 Homer’s balance, in which Jupiter is represented 
 as weighing the fates of Hector and Achilles, with 
 a passage of Virgil, wherein that deity is intro¬ 
 duced as weighing the fates of Turnus and iEneas. 
 I then considered how the same way of thinking 
 prevailed in the eastern parts of the world, as in 
 those noble passages of Scripture, wherein we are 
 told, that the great king of Babylon, the day be¬ 
 fore his death, had been “weighed in the balance, 
 and found wanting.” In other places of the holy 
 writings, the Almighty is described as weighing 
 the mountains in scales, making the weight for the 
 winds, knowing the balancings of the clouds; and 
 in others as weighing the actions of men, and 
 laying their calamities together in a balance. 
 Milton, as I have observed in a former paper, 
 had an eye to several of these foregoing instances 
 in that beautiful description, wherein he repre¬ 
 sents the archangel and the evil spirit as ad¬ 
 dressing themselves for the combat, but parted 
 by the balance which appeared in the heavens, 
 and weighed the consequences of such a battle. 
 
 The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray. 
 
 Hung forth in heav’n his golden scales, yet seen 
 Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign; 
 
 Wherein all things created first he weigh’d. 
 
 The pendulous round earth, with balanc’d air, 
 
 In counterpoise, now ponders all events, 
 
 Battles ami realms; in these he put two weights, 
 
 The sequel each of parting and of fight, 
 
 The latter quirk up flew, and kick’d the beam; 
 
 Which Gabriel spying, thus bespoke the fiend: 
 
 1 ‘Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know’st mine; 
 Neither our own, but giv’n. What folly then 
 To boast what arms can do, since thine no more 
 Than heaven permits; nor mine, though doubled now 
 To trample thee as mire! Eor proof look up, 
 
 And read thy lot jn yon celestial sign, 
 
 Where thou art weighed, and shown how light, how weak, 
 If thou resist.” The fiend looked up, and knew 
 His mounted scale aloft; nor more; but fled 
 Murm’ring, and with him fled the shades of night. 
 
 These several amusing thoughts, having taken 
 possession of my mind some time before I went to 
 
 sleep, and mingling themselves with my ordinary 
 ideas, raised in my imagination a very odd kind 
 of vision. I was, methought, replaced in my 
 study, and seated in my elbow-chair, where I had 
 indulged the foregoing speculations with my lamp 
 burning by me as usual. While I was here medi¬ 
 tating on several subjects of morality, and consid¬ 
 ering the nature of many virtues and vices, as 
 materials for those discourses with which I daily 
 entertain the public, I saw, methought, a pair of 
 golden scales hanging by a chain of the same 
 metal, over the table that stood before me; when, 
 on a sudden, there were great heaps of weights 
 thrown down on each side of them. I found, 
 upon examining these weights, they showed the 
 value of everything that is in esteem among men. 
 I made an essay of them, by putting the weight 
 of wisdom in one scale, and that of riches in 
 another: upon which the latter, to show its com¬ 
 parative lightness, immediately flew up and kicked 
 the beam. 
 
 But, before I proceed, I must inform my reader, 
 that these weights did not exert their natural grav¬ 
 ity till they were laid in the golden balance, inso¬ 
 much that I could not guess which was light or 
 heavy while I held them in my hand. This I 
 found by several instances: for upon my laying a 
 weight in one of the scales, which was inscribed 
 with the word “Eternity,” though I threw in that 
 of Time, Prosperity, Affliction, Wealth, Poverty, 
 Interest, Success, with many other weights which 
 in my hand seemed very ponderous, they were not 
 able to stir the opposite balance; nor could they 
 have prevailed, though assisted with the weight 
 of the Sun, the Stars, and the Earth. 
 
 Upon emptying the scales, I laid several titles 
 and honors, with Pomps, Triumphs, and many 
 weights of the like nature, in one of them; ana 
 seeing a little glittering weight lie by me, I threw 
 it accidentally into the other scale, when, to my 
 great surprise, it proved so exact a counterpoise, 
 that it kept the balance in an equilibrium. This 
 little glittering weight was inscribed upon the 
 edges of it with the word “Vanity.” I found 
 there w^ere several other weights which were 
 equally heavy, and exact counterpoise to one 
 another: a few of them I tried, as Avarice and 
 Poverty, Riches and Content, with some others. 
 
 There were likewise several weights that were 
 of the same figure, and seemed to correspond with 
 each other, but were entirely different when thrown 
 into the scales; as Religion and Hypocrisy, Pe¬ 
 dantry and Learning, Wit and Vivacity, Super¬ 
 stition and Devotion, Gravity and Wisdom, with 
 many others. 
 
 I observed one particular weight lettered on 
 both sides: and, upon applying myself to the 
 reading of it, I found on one side written, “In 
 the dialect of men,” and underneath it, “ Calami¬ 
 ties;” on the other side was written, “In the lan¬ 
 guage of the gods,” and underneath, “Blessings.” 
 I found the intrinsic value of this weight to be 
 much greater than I imagined, for it overpowered 
 Health, Wealth, Good-fortune, and many other 
 weights, which were much more ponderous in my 
 hand than the other. 
 
 There is a saying among the Scotch, that an 
 ounce of mother-wit is worth a pound of clergy: 
 I was sensible of the truth of this saying, when I 
 saw the difference between the weight of Natural 
 Parts and that of Learning. The observations 
 which I made upon these two weights opened to 
 me a new field of discoveries; for, notwithstand¬ 
 ing the weight of the Natural Parts v T as much 
 heavier than that of Learning, I observed that it 
 weighed a hundred times heavier than it did be- 
 i fore, when I put Learning into the same scale 
 
555 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 with it. I made the same observation upon Faith 
 and Morality; for, notwithstanding the latter out¬ 
 weighed the former separately, it received a thou¬ 
 sand times more additional weight from its con¬ 
 junction with the former, than what it had by 
 itself. This odd phenomenon showed itself in 
 other particulars, as in Wit and Judgment, Phi¬ 
 losophy and Religion, Justice and Humanity, Zeal 
 and Charity, depth of Sense and perspicuity of 
 Style, with innumerable other particulars too long 
 to be mentioned in this paper. 
 
 As a dream seldom fails of dashing seriousness 
 with impertinence, mirth with gravity, methought 
 I made several other experiments of a more ludi¬ 
 crous nature, by one of which I found that an 
 English octavo was very often heavier than a 
 French folio; and, by another, that an old Greek 
 or Latin author weighed down a whole library of 
 moderns. Seeing one of the Spectators lying by 
 me, I had it into one of the scales, and flung a 
 two-penny piece into the other. The reader will 
 not inquire into the event, if he remembers the 
 first trial which I have recorded in this paper. I 
 afterward threw both the sexes into the balance: 
 but, as it is not for my interest to disoblige either 
 of them, I shall desire to be excused from telling 
 the result of this experiment. Having an oppor¬ 
 tunity of this nature in my hands, I could not for¬ 
 bear throwing into one scale the principles of a 
 Tory, and into the other those of a Whig; but, as 
 I have all along declared this to be a neutral 
 paper, I shall likewise desire to be silent under 
 this head also; though, upon examining one of 
 the weights I saw the word “ terel” engraven on 
 it in capital letters. 
 
 I made many other experiments; and, though I 
 have not room for them all in this day’s specula¬ 
 tion, I may perhaps reserve them for anotner. I 
 shall only add, that, upon my awaking, I was 
 sorry to find my golden scales vanished; but re¬ 
 solved for the future to learn this lesson from 
 them, not to despise or value any things for their 
 appearances, but to regulate my esteem and pas¬ 
 sions toward them according to their real and 
 intrinsic value.—C. 
 
 No. 464.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 22, 1712. 
 
 Auream quisquis mediocritatem 
 Diligit, tutus caret obsoleti 
 Sordibus tecti, caret invidenda 
 
 Sobrius aula.— IIor. 2 Od. x, 5. 
 
 The golden mean, as she’s too nice to dwell 
 Among the ruins of a filthy cell, 
 
 So is her modesty withal as great, 
 
 To balk the envy of a princely seat.— Norris. 
 
 I am wonderfully pleased when I meet with any 
 passage in an old Greek and Latin author, that is 
 not blown upon, and which I have never met with 
 in a quotation. Of this kind is a beautiful saying 
 in Theognis: “Vice is covered by wealth, and 
 virtue by poverty;” or, to give it in the verbal 
 translation, “ Among men there are some who have 
 their vices concealed by wealth, and others who 
 have their virtues concealed by poverty.” Every 
 man's observation will supply him with instances 
 of rich men, who have several faults and defects 
 that are overlooked, if not entirely hidden, by 
 means of their riches; and, I think, we cannot find 
 a more natural description of a poor man, whose 
 merits are lost in his poverty, than that in the 
 words of the wise man: “There was a little city, 
 and few men within it, and there came a great 
 king against it, and besieged it, and built great 
 bulwarks against it. Now there was found in it a 
 poor wise man, and he, by his wisdom, delivered 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 the city; yet no man remembered that same poor 
 man. Then said I, wisdom is better than strength; 
 nevertheless, the poor man’s wisdom is despised, 
 and his words are not heard.” 
 
 J he middle condition seems to be the most ad¬ 
 vantageously situated for the gaining of wisdom. 
 Poverty turns our thoughts too much upon the 
 supplying of our wants, and riches upon enjoying 
 our superfluities; and, as Cowley has said in an¬ 
 other case, “It is hard for a man to keep a steady 
 eye upon truth, who is alwavs in a battle or a 
 triumph.” 
 
 If we regard poverty and wealth, as they are 
 apt to produce virtues or vices in the mind of 
 man, one may observe that there is a set of each 
 of these growing out of poverty, quite different 
 from that which rises out of wealth. Humility 
 and patience, industry and temperance, are very 
 often the good qualities of a poor man. Human¬ 
 ity and good-nature, magnanimity and a sense of 
 honor, are as often the qualifications of the rich. 
 On the contrary, poverty is apt to betray a man 
 into envy, riches into arrogance. Poverty is too 
 often attended with fraud, vicious compliance, 
 repining, murmur, and discontent; riches expose 
 a man to pride and luxury, a foolish elation of 
 heart, and too great a fondness for the present 
 world. In short, the middle condition is most 
 eligible to the man who would improve himself in 
 virtue; as I have before shown, it is the most ad¬ 
 vantageous for the gaining of knowledge. It was 
 upon this consideration that Agur founded his 
 prayer, which, for the wisdom of it, is recorded 
 in holy writ. “ Two things have I required of 
 thee; deny me them not before I die. Remove far 
 from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty 
 nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me; 
 lest I be full and deny thee, and say, Who is the 
 Lord? or lest I be poor and steal, and take the 
 name of my God in vain.” 
 
 I shall fill the remaining part of my paper with 
 a very pretty allegory, which is wrought into a 
 play by Aristophanes, the Greek comedian. It 
 seems originally designed as a satire upon the 
 rich, though, in some parts of it, it is, like the 
 foregoing discourse, a kind of comparison between 
 wealth and poverty. 
 
 Chremylus, who was an old and a good man, 
 and withal exceeding poor, being desirous to 
 leave some riches to his son, consults the oracle 
 of Apollo upon the subject. The oracle bids him 
 follow the first man he should see upon his going 
 out of the temple. The person he chanced to see 
 was to appearance an old, blind, sordid man, but, 
 upon his following him from place to place, he at 
 last found, by his own confession, that he was 
 Plutus, the god of riches, and that he was just 
 come out of the house of a miser. Plutus further 
 told him, that when he was a boy, he used to 
 declare, that as soon as he came to age he would 
 distribute wealth to no one but virtuous and just 
 men; upon which Jupiter, considering the perni¬ 
 cious consequences of such a resolution, took his 
 sight away from him, and left him to stroll about 
 the world in the blind condition wherein Chremy¬ 
 lus beheld him. With much ado Chremylus pre¬ 
 vailed upon him to go to his house, where he met 
 an old woman in a tattered raiment, who had been 
 his guest for many years, and whose name was 
 Poverty. The old woman refusing to turn out so 
 easily as he would have her, he threatened to 
 banish her not only from his own house, but out 
 of all Greece, if she made any more words upon 
 the matter. Poverty on this occasion pleads her 
 cause very notably, and represents to her landlord, 
 that, should she be driven out of the country, all 
 their trades, arts, and sciences, would be driven 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 556 
 
 out with her; and that if every one was rich, they 
 would never be supplied with those pomps, or¬ 
 naments, and conveniences of life, which made 
 riches desirable. She likewise represented to him 
 the several advantages which she bestowed upon 
 her votaries in regard to their shape, their health, 
 and their activity, by preserving them from gouts, 
 dropsies, unwieldiness, and intemperance. But 
 whatever she had to say for herself, she was at 
 last forced to troop off. Chremylus immediately 
 considered how he might restore Plutus to his 
 sight; and, in order to it, conveyed him to the 
 temple of HCsculapius, who was famous for cures 
 and miracles of this nature. By this means, the 
 deity recovered his eyes, and began to make a 
 right use of them, by enriching every one that 
 was distinguished by piety toward the gods, and 
 justice toward men; and at the same time by tak¬ 
 ing away his gifts from the impious and unde¬ 
 serving. This produces several merry incidents, 
 till in the last act Mercury descends with great 
 complaints from the gods, that since the good 
 men were grown rich, they had received no sacri¬ 
 fices; which is confirmed by a priest of Jupiter, 
 who enters with a remonstrance, that since this 
 late innovation he was reduced to a starving con¬ 
 dition, and could not live upon his office. Clire- 
 myius, who in the beginning of the play was re¬ 
 ligious in his poverty, concludes it with a pro¬ 
 posal, which was relished by all the good men 
 who were now grown rich as well as himself, that 
 they should carry Plutus in a solemn procession 
 to the temple, and install him in the place of 
 Jupiter. This allegory instructed the Athenians 
 in two points; first, as it vindicated the conduct of 
 Providence in its ordinary distributions of wealth; 
 and in the next place, as it showed the great 
 tendency of riches to corrupt the morals of those 
 who possessed them. 
 
 C. 
 
 No. 465.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1712. 
 
 Qua ratione queas traducere leniter sevum; 
 
 Ne te semper inops agitet vexetque cupido; 
 
 Ne pavor, et rerum mediocriter utilium spes. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xviii. 97. 
 
 How you may glide with gentle ease 
 
 Adown the current of your days; 
 
 Nor vex’d by mean and low desires, 
 
 Nor warm’d by wild ambitious fires; 
 
 By hope alarm’d, depress’d by fear, 
 
 For things but little worth your care.— Francis. 
 
 Having endeavored in my last Saturday’s paper 
 to show the great excellency of faith, I shall here 
 consider what are the proper means of strength¬ 
 ening and confirming it in the mind of man. 
 Those who delight in reading books of contro¬ 
 versy, which are written on both sides of the 
 question on points of faith, do very seldom arrive 
 at a fixed and settled habit of it. They are one 
 day entirely convinced of its important truths, and 
 the next meet with something that shakes and 
 disturbs them. The doubt which was laid revives 
 again, and shows itself in new difficulties, and 
 that generally for this reason, because the mind, 
 which is perpetually tost in controversies and 
 disputes, is apt to forget the reasons which once 
 set it at rest, and to be disquieted with any former 
 perplexity, when it appears in a new shape, or is 
 started by a different hand. As nothing is more 
 laudable than an inquiry after truth, so nothing 
 is more irrational than to pass away our whole 
 lives, without determining ourselves one way or 
 other, in those points which are of the last im¬ 
 portance to us. There are indeed many things 
 from which we may withhold our assent; but, in 
 
 cases by which we are to regulate our lives, it is 
 the greatest absurdity to be wavering and unset¬ 
 tled, without closing with that side which appears 
 the most safe and the most probable. The first 
 rule, therefore, which 1 shall lay down, is this; that 
 when bv reading or discourse we find ourselves 
 thoroughly convinced of the truth of any article, 
 and of the reasonableness of our belief in it, we 
 should never after suffer ourselves to call it in 
 question. We may, perhaps, forget the arguments 
 which occasioned our conviction, but we ought 
 to remember the strength they had with us, and 
 therefore still to retain the conviction which they 
 once produced. This is no more than what we do 
 in every common art or science; nor is it possible to 
 act otherwise, considering the weakness and limi¬ 
 tation of our intellectual faculties. It was thus 
 that Latimer, one of the glorious army of martyrs, 
 who introduced the reformation in England, be¬ 
 haved himself in that great conference which was 
 managed between the most learned among the 
 Protestants and Papists in the reign of Queen 
 Mary. This venerable old man, knowing how 
 his abilities were impaired by age, and that it 
 was impossible for him to recollect all those 
 reasons which had directed him in the choice of 
 his religion, left his companions, who were in 
 the full possession of their parts and learning, to 
 baffle and confound their antagonists by the force 
 of reason. As for himself, he only repeated to 
 his adversaries the articles in which he firmly 
 believed, and in the profession of which he was 
 determined to die. It is in this manner that the 
 mathematician proceeds upon propositions which 
 he has once demonstrated; and though the demon¬ 
 stration may have slipped out of his memory, he 
 builds upon the truth, because he knows it was 
 demonstrated. This rule is absolutely necessary 
 for weaker minds, and in some measure for men 
 of the greatest abilities; but to these last I would 
 propose, in the second place, that they should lay 
 up in their memories, and always keep by them 
 in readiness, those arguments which appear to 
 them of the greatest strength, and which cannot 
 be got over by all the doubts and cavils of infi¬ 
 delity. 
 
 But, in the third place, there is nothing which 
 strengthens faith more than morality. Faith and 
 morality naturally produce each other. A man is 
 quickly convinced of the truth of religion, who 
 finds it is not against his interest that it should 
 be true. The pleasure he receives at present and 
 the happiness which he promises himself from it 
 hereafter, will both dispose him very powerfully 
 to give credit to it, according to ^he ordinary ob¬ 
 servation, that we are easy to believe what we 
 wish. It is very certain, that a man of sound 
 reason cannot forbear closing with religion upon 
 an impartial examination of it; but at the same 
 time it is as certain that faith is kept alive in us, 
 and gathers strength from practice more than 
 from speculation. 
 
 There is still another method, which is more 
 persuasive than any of the former; and that is 
 an habitual adoration of the Supreme Being, as 
 well in constant acts of mental worship, as in out¬ 
 ward forms. The devout man does not only 
 believe, but feels there is a Deity. He has actual 
 sensations of him; his experience concurs with 
 his reason; he sees him more and more in all his 
 intercourses with him. and even in this life almost 
 loses his faith in conviction. 
 
 The last method which I shall mention for the 
 giving life to a man’s faith, is frequent retirement 
 from the world, accompanied with religious medi¬ 
 tation. When a man thinks of anything in the 
 darkness of the night, whatever deep impressions 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 557 
 
 No. 466.] MONDAY, AUGUST 25. 1712. 
 
 it may make in his mind, they arc apt to vanish 
 as soon as the day breaks about him. The light 
 and noise of the day, which are perpetually so¬ 
 liciting his senses, and calling on his attention, 
 wear out of his mind the thoughts that imprinted 
 themselves in it, with so much strength, during 
 the silence and darkness of the night. A man 
 finds the same difference as to himself in a crowd 
 and in a solitude: the mind is stunned and daz¬ 
 zled amidst that variety of objects which press 
 upon her in a great city. She cannot apply her¬ 
 self to the consideration of those things which are 
 of the utmost concern to her. The cares or plea¬ 
 sures of the world strike in with every thought, 
 and a multitude of vicious examples gives a kind 
 of justification to our folly. In our retirements 
 everything disposes us to be serious. In courts 
 and cities we are entertained with the works of 
 men; in the country with those of God. One is 
 the province of art, the other of nature. Faith 
 and devotion naturally grow in the mind of every 
 reasonable man, who sees the impressions of 
 divine power and wisdom in every object on 
 which he casts his eye. The Supreme Being has 
 made the best arguments for his own existence, 
 in the formation of the heavens and the earth; 
 and these are arguments which a man of sense 
 cannot forbear attending to, who is out of the 
 noise and hurry of human affairs. Aristotle says, 
 that should a man live under ground, and there 
 converse with works of art and mechanism, and 
 should afterward be brought up into the open 
 day, and see the several glories of the heavenand 
 earth, he would immediately pronounce them the 
 works of such a being as we define God to be. 
 The psalmist has very beautiful strokes of poetry 
 to this purpose, in that exalted strain: “The 
 heavens declare the glory of God; and the firma¬ 
 ment showetli his handy-work. One day telleth 
 ■Another; and one night certifieth another. There is 
 neither speech nor language; but their voices are 
 heard among them. Their sound is gone out 
 into all lands; and their words into the ends of 
 the world.” As such a bold and sublime manner 
 of thinking furnishes very noble matter for an ode, 
 the reader may see it wrought into the following 
 one :— 
 
 I. 
 
 • The spacious firmament on high, 
 
 W ith all the blue ethereal sky, 
 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 
 Their great original proclaim; 
 
 Th’ unwearied sun from day to day, 
 
 Does his Creator’s power display, 
 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 II. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of her birth: 
 
 While all the stars that round her burn, 
 
 And all the planets in their turn, 
 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 III. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball? 
 
 What though no real voice or sound 
 Amid their radiant orbs be found? 
 
 In reason’s ear they all rejoice, 
 
 And utter forth a glorious voice; 
 
 Forever singing as they shine, 
 
 “The Hand that made us is divine.” 
 
 --—Vera incessu patuit dea.— Virg. iEn. i. 409. 
 
 And by her graceful walk the queen of love is known. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 When HSneas, the hero of Virgil, is lost in the 
 wood, and a perfect stranger in the place on 
 which he is landed, he is accosted by a lady in a 
 habit for the chase. She inquires of him, whether 
 he has seen pass by that way any young woman 
 diessed as she was? whether she were following 
 the sport in the wood, or any other way employed^ 
 according to the custom of huntresses ? The hero 
 answers with the respect due to the beautiful ap¬ 
 pearance she made; tells her he saw no such per¬ 
 son as she inquired for; but intimates that he 
 knows her to be of the deities, and desires she 
 would conduct a stranger. Her form, from her 
 first appearance, manifested she was more than 
 mortal; but, though she was certainly a goddess, 
 the poet does not make her known to be the god¬ 
 dess of beauty until she moved. All the charms 
 of an agreeable person are then in their highest 
 exertion; every limb and feature appears with its 
 respective grace. It is from this observation that 
 I cannot help being so passionate an admirer as I 
 am of good dancing. As all art is an imitation 
 of nature, this is an imitation of nature in its 
 highest excellence, and at a time when she is 
 most agreeable. The business of dancing is to 
 display beauty; and for that reason all distor¬ 
 tions and mimicries, as such, are what raise aver¬ 
 sion instead of pleasure; but things that are in 
 themselves excellent, are ever attended with im¬ 
 posture and false imitation. Thus, as in poetry 
 there are laboring fools who write anagrams and 
 acrostics, there are pretenders in dancing, who 
 think merely to do what others cannot, is to excel. 
 Such creatures should be rewarded like him who 
 had acquired a knack of throwing a grain of corn 
 through the eye of a needle, with a bushel to keep 
 his hands in use. The dancers on our stage are 
 very faulty in this kind; and what they mean by 
 writhing themselves into such postures, as it would 
 be a pain for any of the spectators to stand in, 
 and yet hope to please those spectators, is unin¬ 
 telligible. Mr. Prince has a genius, if he were 
 encouraged, would prompt him to better things. 
 In all the dances he invents, you see he keeps 
 close to the characters he represents. He does 
 not hope to please by making his performers move 
 in a manner in which no one else ever did, but by 
 motions proper to the characters he represents. 
 He gives to clowns and lubbards clumsy graces; 
 that is, he makes them practice what they would 
 think graces; and I have seen dances of his which 
 might give hints that would be useful to a comic 
 writer. These performances have pleased the taste 
 of such as have not reflection enough to know their 
 excellence, because they are in nature; and the dis¬ 
 torted motions of others have offended those who 
 could not form reasons to themselves for their 
 displeasure, from their being a contradiction to 
 nature. 
 
 When one considers the inexpressible advan¬ 
 tage there is in arriving at some excellence in this 
 art. it is monstrous to behold it so much neglected. 
 The following letter has in it something very natu¬ 
 ral on this subject: 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a widower with but one daughter: she 
 was by nature much inclined to be a romp; and I 
 had no way of educating her, but commanding a 
 young woman, whom I entertained, to take care 
 of her, to be very watchful in her care and attend¬ 
 ance about her. I am a man of business, and 
 
OT ATOR. 
 
 558 THE SPE 
 
 obliged to be much abroad. The neighbors have 
 told me, that in my absence our maid has let in 
 the spruce servants in the neighborhood to junk 
 etings, while my girl played and romped even in 
 the street. To tell you the plain truth, I caught 
 her once, at eleven years old, at chuck-farthing 
 among the boys. ^ This put me upon new thoughts 
 about ray child, and I determined to place her at 
 a boarding-school; and at the same time gave a 
 very discreet young gentlewoman her maintenance 
 at the same place and rate, to be her companion. 
 I took little notice of my girl from time to time,but 
 saw her now and then in good health, out of harm’s 
 way, and was satisfied. But, by much importu¬ 
 nity, I was lately prevailed w r ith to go to one of 
 their balls. I cannot express to you the anxiety 
 my silly heart was in, when I saw my romp, now 
 fifteen, taken out; I never felt the pangs of a father 
 upon me so strongly in my whole life before, and 
 I could not have suffered more had my whole for¬ 
 tune been at stake. My girl came on with the most 
 becoming modesty I had ever seen, and casting a 
 respectful eye, as if she feared me more than all 
 the audience, I gave a nod, which I think gave 
 her all the spirit she assumed upon it; but she 
 rose properly to that dignity of aspect. My romp, 
 now the most graceful person of her sex, assumed a 
 majesty, which commanded the highest respect; 
 and when she turned to me, and saw my face in 
 rapture, she fell into the prettiest smile, and I saw 
 in all her motions that she exulted in her father’s 
 satisfaction. You, Mr. Spectator, will, better than 
 I can tell 3 'ou, imagine to yourself all the different 
 beauties and changes of aspect in an accomplished 
 young woman, setting forth all her beauties with a 
 design to please no one so much as her father. 
 My girl’s lover can never know half the satisfac¬ 
 tion that I did in her that day. I could not possi¬ 
 bly have imagined that so great an improvement 
 could have been wrought by an art that I always 
 held in itself ridiculous and contemptible. There 
 is, I am convinced, no method like this, to give 
 young women a sense of their own value and dig¬ 
 nity; and I am sure there can be none so expedi¬ 
 tious to communicate that value to others. As for 
 the flippant, insipidly gay, and wantonly forward, 
 whom you behold among dancers, that carriage i.4 
 more to be attributed to the perverse genius of the 
 performers, than imputed to the art itself. For 
 my part, my child has danced herself into my es¬ 
 teem; and i have as great an honor for her as ever 
 I had for her mother, from whom she derived those 
 latent good qualities which appeared in her coun¬ 
 tenance when she was dancing; for my girl, though 
 I say it myself, showed in one quarter of an hour 
 the innate principles of a modest virgin, a tender 
 wife, a generous friend, a kind mother, and an in¬ 
 dulgent mistress. I’ll strain hard but I will pur¬ 
 chase for her a husband suitable to her merit. I 
 am your convert in the admiration of what I 
 thought you jested when you recommended; and 
 if you please to be at my house on Thursday next, 
 I make a ball for my daughter, and you shall see 
 her dance, or, if you will do her that honor, dance 
 with her. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Philopater.” 
 
 I have some time ago spoken of a treatise writ¬ 
 ten by Mr. Weaver on this subject, which is now, 
 I understand, ready to be published. This work 
 sets this matter in a very plain and advantageous 
 light; and 1 am convinced from it, that if the art 
 was under proper regulations, it would be a me¬ 
 chanic way of implanting insensibly, in minds not 
 capable of receiving it so well by any other rules, 
 a sense of good-breeding and virtue. 
 
 Were any one to see Mariamne* dance, let him 
 be never so sensual a brute, I defy him to entertain 
 any thoughts but of the highest respect and esteem 
 toward her. I was showed last week a picture in 
 a lady’s closet, for which she had a hundred differ¬ 
 ent dresses, that she could clap on round the face 
 on purpose to demonstrate the force of habits in 
 the diversity of the same countenance. Motion, 
 and change of posture and aspect, has an effect no 
 less surprising on the person of Mariamne when 
 she dances. 
 
 Chloe is extremely pretty, and as silly as she is 
 pretty. This idiot has a very good ear, and a 
 most agreeable shape; but the folly of the thing 
 is such, that it smiles so impertinently, and affects 
 to please so sillily, that while she dances you see 
 the simpleton from head to foot. For you must 
 know (as trivial as this art is thought to b'e), no 
 one ever was a good dancer that had not a good 
 understanding. If this be a truth, I shall leave 
 the reader to judge, from that maxim, what esteem 
 they ought to have for such impertinents as fly, 
 hop, caper, tumble, twirl, turn round, and jump 
 over their heads; and, in a word, play a thousand 
 pranks which many animals can do better than a 
 man, instead of performing to perfection what the 
 human figure only is capable of performing. 
 
 It may perhaps appear odd, that I, who set up 
 for a mighty lover, at least, of virtue, should take 
 so much pains to recommend what the soberer part 
 of mankind look upon to be a trifle; but, under 
 favor of the soberer part of mankind, 1 think they 
 have not enough considered this matter, and for 
 that reason only disesteem it. I must also, in my 
 own justification, say, that I attempt to bring into 
 the service of honor and virtue everything in na¬ 
 ture that can pretend to give elegant delight. It 
 may possibly be proved, that vice is in itself de¬ 
 structive of pleasure, and virtue in itself conducive 
 to it. If the delights of a free fortune were under 
 proper regulations, this truth would not want 
 much argument to support it; but it would be ob¬ 
 vious to every man, that there is a strict affinity 
 between all tilings that are truly laudable and 
 beautiful, from the highest sentiment of the soul 
 to the most indifferent gesture of the body.— T. 
 
 No. 467.] TUESDAY, AUGUST 26, 1712. 
 
 -Quodcunque mese poterunt audere Camainae, 
 
 Seu tibi par poterunt; seu, quod spes abnuit, ultra; 
 
 Sive minus; certeque canent minus; omne vovemus 
 Hoc tibi: ne tanto careat mihi nomine charta. 
 
 Tibull, ad Messalam, 1 Eleg. iv, 24. 
 
 Whate’er my Muse adventurous dares indite, 
 
 Whether the niceness of thy piercing sight 
 Applaud my lays, or censure what I write, 
 
 To thee I sing, and hope to borrow fame, 
 
 By adding to my page Messala’s name. 
 
 The love of praise is a passion deeply fixed in 
 the mind of every extraordinary person; and those 
 who are most affected with it seem most to par¬ 
 take of that particle of the divinity which dis¬ 
 tinguishes mankind from the inferior creation. 
 The Supreme Being himself is most pleased with 
 praise and thanksgiving: the other part of our 
 duty is but an acknowledgment of our faults, 
 while this is the immediate adoration of his per¬ 
 fections. ’Twas an excellent observation, that we 
 then only despise commendation when we cease 
 to deserve it; and we have still extant two orations 
 of Tully and Pliny, spoken to the greatest and best 
 rinces of all the Roman emperors, who, no doubt, 
 eard with the greatest satisfaction, what even the 
 
 * Probably Mrs. Bicknell. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 most disinterested persons, and at so large a dis¬ 
 tance of time, cannot read without admiration 
 Caesar thought his life consisted in the breath of 
 praise, when he professed he had lived long enough 
 for himself, when he had for his glory Others 
 have sacrificed themselves for a name which was 
 not to begin till they were dead, giving away 
 themselves to purchase a sound which was not to 
 commence till they were out of hearing. But by 
 iP 6 / 1 *' superior excellencies, not only to gain, 
 but, while living, to enjoy a great and universal 
 reputation, is the last degree of happiness which 
 we can hope for here. Bad characters are dispersed 
 abroad with confusion, I hope for example sake, 
 and (as punishments are designed by the civil 
 power) more for the deterring the innocent than 
 the chastising the guilty. The good are less fre¬ 
 quent, whether it be that there are indeed fewer 
 originals of this kind to copy after, or that, through 
 the malignity of our nature, we rather delight in 
 the ridicule than the virtues we find in others. 
 However, it is but just, as well as pleasing, even 
 lor variety, sometimes to give the world a repre¬ 
 sentation of the bright side of human nature, as 
 well as the dark and gloomy. The desire of im- 
 itation may, perhaps, be a greater incentive to the 
 practice of what is good, than the aversion we may 
 conceive at what is blamable; the one immedi¬ 
 ately directs you what you should do, while the 
 other only shows what you should avoid ; and I 
 cannot at present do this with more satisfaction, 
 than by endeavoring to do some justice to the 
 character of Manilius. 
 
 It would far exceed my present design, to give a 
 particular description of Manilius through all the 
 parts of his excellent life. I shall now only draw 
 him in his retirement, and pass over in silence the 
 various arts, the courtly manners, and the unde- 
 sigmng honesty by which he attained the honors 
 he has enjoyed, and which now give a dignity and 
 veneration to the ease he does enjoy. ’Tis here 
 that he looks back with pleasure on the waves and 
 billows through which he has steered to so fair a 
 haven; he is now intent upon the practice of every 
 virtue, which a great knowledge or use of mankind 
 has discovered to be thd most useful to them. Thus 
 in his private domestic employments he is no less 
 glorious than in his public; for it is in reality a 
 more difficult task to be conspicuous in a sedentary 
 inactive life, than in one that is spent in hur v y and 
 business; persons engaged in the latter, like bo¬ 
 dies violently agitated, from the swiftness of their 
 motion, have a brightness added to them, which 
 otten vanishes when they are at rest; but if it 
 then still remain, it must be the seeds of intrinsic 
 worth that thus shine out without any foreign aid 
 or assistance. ° 
 
 His liberality in another might almost bear the 
 name of profusion; he seems to think it laudable 
 even in the excess, like that river which most en¬ 
 riches when it overflows * But Manilius has too 
 perfect a taste of the pleasure of doing good, ever 
 to let it be out of his power; and for that reason 
 he will have a just economy and a splendid fru¬ 
 gality at home, the fountain from whence those 
 streams should flow which he disperses abroad. 
 He looks with disdain on those who propose their 
 death as the time when they are to begin their mu- 
 nificence; lie will both see and enjoy (which he 
 then does in the highest degree) what he bestows 
 himself; he will be the living executor of his own 
 bounty, while they who have the happiness to be 
 itinn his care and patronage, at once pray for 
 the continuation of his life and their own good 
 fortune. No one is out of the reach of his obliga- 
 
 559 
 
 tions; he knows how, by proper and becoming 
 methods, to raise himself to a level with those of 
 t ic highest rank; and his good-nature is a sufficient 
 warrant against the want of those who are so un- 
 happy as to be in the very lowest. One may say 
 ol him, as Pindar bids his Muse say of Theron, 
 
 Swear that Theron sure has sworn 
 No one near him should be poor. 
 
 Swear that none ever had such graceful art, 
 fortune’s free gifts of freely to impart, 
 
 "ith an unenvious hand, and an unbounded heart. 
 
 * The Nile. 
 
 Never did Atticus succeed better in gaining the 
 universal love and esteem of all men; nor steer with 
 more success betvveen the extremes of two contend¬ 
 ing part.*. ’Tis his peculiar happiness that, 
 while he espouses neither with an intemperate zeal, 
 he is not only admired, but, what is a more rare 
 and unusual felicity, lie is beloved and caressed by 
 both; and I never yet saw any person, of whatever 
 age or sex, but was immediately struck with the 
 merit of Manilius. There are many who are ac¬ 
 ceptable to some particular persons, while the rest 
 of mankind look upon them with coldness and 
 indifference; but he is the first whose entire good 
 fortune it is ever to please and to be pleased, 
 wherever he comes to be admired, and wherever 
 he is absent to be lamented. His merit fares like 
 the pictures of Raphael, which are either seen with 
 admiration by all, or at least no one dare own that 
 he has no taste for a composition which has re¬ 
 ceived so universal an applause. Envy and malice 
 hnd it against their interest to indulge slander and 
 o iloquy Tis as hard for an enemy to detract 
 from, as for a friend to add to, his praise. An at¬ 
 tempt upon his reputation is a sure lessening of 
 ones own; and there is but one way to injure 
 him, which is to refuse him his just commenda¬ 
 tions, and be obstinately silent. 
 
 It is below him to catch the sight with any care 
 of dress; his outward garb is but the emblem of 
 his mind. It is genteel, plain, and unaffected; he 
 knows that gold and embroidery can add nothing 
 to the opinion which all have of his merit, and 
 that he gives a luster to the plainest dress, while 
 it is impossible the richest should communicate 
 any to him. He is still the principal figure in the 
 room. He first engages your eye, as if there were 
 some point of light which shone stronger upon 
 him than on any other person. 
 
 He puts me in mind of a story of the famous 
 Hussy d Amboise, who, at an assembly at court 
 where every one appeared with the utmost magnifi¬ 
 cence, relying on his own superior behavior, in¬ 
 stead of adorning himself like the rest, put on 
 that day a plain suit of clothes, and dressed all 
 his servants in the most costly gay habits he could 
 procure. The event was, that the eyes of the 
 whole court were fixed upon him; all the rest 
 looked like his attendants, while he alone had the 
 air of a person of quality and distinction. 
 
 Like Aristippus, whatever shape or condition 
 he appears in, it still sits free and easy upon him- 
 but m some part of his character, Tis true, he dif¬ 
 fers from him; for, as he is altogether equal to the 
 largeness of his present circumstances, the recti¬ 
 tude of his judgment has so far corrected the incli¬ 
 nations of his ambition, that he will not trouble 
 himself with either the desires or pursuits of any¬ 
 thing beyond his present enjoyments. 
 
 A thousand obliging things flow from him upon 
 every occasion; and they were always so just 
 and natural, that it is impossible to think he was 
 at the least pains to look for them. One would 
 think it was the demon of good thoughts that dis¬ 
 covered to him those treasures, which he must 
 have blinded others from seeing, they lay so di 
 rectly in their way. Nothing can equal the plea- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 560 
 
 sure that is taken in hearing him speak, but the 
 satisfaction one receives in the civility and atten¬ 
 tion he pays to the discourse of others. His looks 
 are a silent commendation of what is good and 
 praiseworthy, and a secret reproof to what is licen¬ 
 tious and extravagant. He knows how to appear 
 free and open without danger of intrusion, and to 
 be cautious Avithout seeming reserved. The gra¬ 
 vity of his conversation is always enlivened with 
 his wit and humor, and the gayety of it is tem- 
 ered with something that is instructive, as well as 
 arely agreeable. Thus,with him you are sure not 
 to be merry at the expense of your reason, nor se¬ 
 rious Avith the loss of your good-humor; but by a 
 happy mixture of his temper they either go to¬ 
 gether, or perpetually succeed each other. In fine, 
 his whole behavior is equally distant from con¬ 
 straint and negligence, and he commands your 
 respect while he gains your heart. 
 
 There is in his whole carriage such an engaging 
 softness, that one cannot persuade one’s-self he is 
 ever actuated by those rougher passions, which, 
 wherever they find place, seldom fail of shoAving 
 themselves in the outward demeanor of the person 
 they belong to; but his constitution is a just 
 temperature betAveen indolence on one hand, and 
 violence on the other. He is mild and gentle, 
 wherever his affairs will give him leave to follow 
 his own inclinations; but yet never failing to exert 
 himself with vigor and resolution in the service of 
 his prince, his country, or his friend.—Z. 
 
 No. 468.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27, 1712. 
 
 Erat homo ingeniosus, acutus, acer, et qui plurimum ct salis 
 haberet et fellis, nec candoris minus.— Pun Epist. 
 
 He was an ingenious, pleasant fellow, and one who had a great 
 deal of wit and satire, with an equal share of good-humor. 
 
 My paper is, in a kind, a letter of netvs, but it 
 regards rather vvhat passes in the world of conver¬ 
 sation than that of business. I am very sorry that 
 I have at present a circumstance before me, which 
 is of very great importance to all avIio have a relish 
 for gayety, wit, mirth, or humor; I mean the death 
 of poor Dick Estcourt. I have been obliged to 
 him for so many hours of jollity, that it is but a 
 small recompense, though all I can give him, to 
 pass a moment or tAvo in sadness for the loss of so 
 agreeable a man. Poor Estcourt! the last time I 
 saAV him, we were plotting to show the toAvn his 
 great capacity for acting in its full light, by intro¬ 
 ducing him as dictating to a set of young players, 
 in Avhat manner to speak this sentence, and utter 
 the other passion. He had so exquisite a discern¬ 
 ing of what was defective in any object before him, 
 that in an instant he could show you the ridiculous 
 side of Avhat would pass for beautiful and just, 
 even to men of no ill judgment, before he had 
 pointed at the-failure. He was no less skillful in 
 the knowledge of beauty; and I dare say, there is 
 no one who kneAv him Avell, but can repeat more 
 well-turned compliments, as well as smart repar¬ 
 tees of Mr. Estcourt’s, than of any other man in 
 England. This was easily to be observed in his 
 inimitable faculty of telling a story, in which he 
 would throw in natural and unexpected incidents 
 to make his court to one part, and rally the other 
 part of the company. Then he Avould vary the 
 usage he gave them, according as he saw them 
 bear kind or sharp language. He had the knack 
 to raise up a pensive temper, and mortify an imper¬ 
 tinently gay one, with the most agreeable skill 
 imaginable. There are a thousand things which 
 crowd into my memory, which make me too much 
 concerned to tell on about him. Hamlet holding 
 
 up the skull which the grave-digger threw to him, 
 Avith an account that it Avas the head of the king’s 
 jester, falls into very pleasing reflections, and cries 
 out to his companion, “Alas, poor Yorick! I 
 knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of 
 most exquisite fancy; he hath borne me on his 
 back a thousand times; and now how abhorred in 
 my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here 
 hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how 
 oft. Where De your gibes now? your gambols? 
 your songs? your flashes of merriment, that Avere 
 Avont to set the table on a roar ? not one now to 
 mock your oAvn grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now 
 get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her 
 paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come. 
 Make her laugh at that.” 
 
 It is an insolence natural to the wealthy, to affix, 
 as much as in them lies, the character of a man to 
 his circumstances. Thus it is ordinary with them 
 to praise faintly the good qualities of those below 
 them, and say, It is very extraordinary in such a 
 man as he is, or the like, Avhen they are forced to 
 acknoAvledge the value of him whose lowness up¬ 
 braids their exaltation. It is to this humor only, 
 that it is to be ascribed, that a quick wit in con¬ 
 versation, a nice judgment upon any emergency 
 that could arise, and a most blameless inoffensive 
 behavior, could not raise this man above being re¬ 
 ceived only upon the foot of contributing to mirth 
 and diversion. But he was as easy under that 
 condition, as a man of so excellent talents was 
 capable; and since they would have it> that to 
 divert was his business, he did it with all the 
 seeming alacrity imaginable, though it stung him 
 to the heart that it Avas his business. Men of 
 sense, who could taste his excellencies, were well 
 satisfied to let him lead the way in conversation, 
 and play after his OAvn manner; but fools, who 
 provoked him to mimicry, found he had the indig¬ 
 nation to let it be at their expense who called for 
 it, and he Avould sIioav the form of conceited heavy 
 felloAvs as jest to the company at their own request, 
 in revenge for interrupting him from being a com¬ 
 panion to put on the-character of a jester. 
 
 What Avas peculiarly excellent in this memorable 
 companion was, that in the account he gave of 
 persons and sentiments, he did not only hit the 
 figure of their faces, and manner of their gestures, 
 but he Avould in his narrations fall into their very 
 Avay of thinking, and this Avhen he recounted pas¬ 
 sages wherein men of the best wit Avere concerned, 
 as Avell as such Avherein were represented men of 
 the lowest rank of understanding. It is certainly 
 as great an instance of self-love to a weakness, to 
 be impatient of being mimicked, as any can be 
 imagined. There were none but the vain, the 
 formal, the proud, or those Avho were incapable of 
 amending their faults, that dreaded him; to others 
 he Avas in the highest degree pleasing; and I do 
 not know any satisfaction of any different kind I 
 ever tasted so much, as having got over an impa¬ 
 tience of my seeing myself in the air he could put 
 me when I have displeased him. It is indeed to 
 his exquisite talent this Avay, more than any philo¬ 
 sophy I could read on the subject, that my person 
 is very little of my care, and it is indifferent to me 
 what is said of my shape, my air, my manner, my 
 speech, or my address. It is to poor Estcourt I 
 chiefly owe that I am arrived at the happiness of 
 thinking nothing a diminution to me, Dut what 
 argues a depravity of my will. 
 
 It has as much surprised me as anything in 
 nature, to have it frequently said, that he was not 
 a good player; but that must be owing to a parti¬ 
 ality for former actors in the parts in which he 
 succeeded them, and judging by comparison of 
 what was liked before, rather than by the nature 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 561 
 
 of the thing. When a man of his wit and smart¬ 
 ness could put on an utter absence of common 
 sense in his face, as he did in the character of 
 Bullfinch in the Northern Lass, and an air of 
 insipid cunning and vivacity in the character of 
 Pounce in the Tender Husband, it is folly to dis¬ 
 pute his capacity and success, as he was an actor. 
 
 Poor Esteourt I let the vain and proud be at 
 rest, thou wilt no more disturb their admiration of 
 their dear selves; and thou art no longer to drudge 
 in raising the mirth of stupids, who know nothing 
 of thy merit, for thy maintenance. 
 
 It is natural for the generality of mankind to 
 run into reflections upon our mortality, when dis¬ 
 turbers of the world are laid to rest, but to take no 
 notice when they who can please and divert are 
 pulled from us. But for my part, I cannot but 
 think the loss of such talents, as the man of whom 
 I am speaking was master of, a more melancholy 
 instance of mortality than the dissolution of per¬ 
 sons of never so high characters in the world, 
 whose pretensions were that they were noisy and 
 mischievous. 
 
 But I must grow more succinct, and, as a Spec¬ 
 tator, give an account of this extraordinary man, 
 who, in his way, never had an equal in any age 
 before him, or in that wherein he lived. I speak 
 of him as a companion, and a man qualified for 
 conversation. His fortune exposed him to an obse¬ 
 quiousness toward the worst sort of company, but 
 his excellent qualities rendered him capable of 
 making the best figure in the most refined. I have 
 been present with him among men of the most 
 delicate taste a whole night, and have known him 
 (for he saw it was desired) keep the discourse to 
 himself the most part of it, and maintain his good 
 humor with a countenance, in a language so de¬ 
 lightful, without offense to any person or thing 
 upon earth, still preserving the distance his cir¬ 
 cumstances obliged him to; I say, I have seen him 
 do all this in such a charming manner, that I am 
 sure none of those I hint at will read this without 
 giving him some sorrow for their abundant mirth, 
 and one gush of tears for so many bursts of laugh¬ 
 ter. I wish it were any honor to the pleasant 
 creature’s memory, that my eyes are too much 
 suffused to let me go on-.—T. 
 
 *** The following severe passage in this number of the 
 Spectator in folio, apparently leveled at Dr. Radcliffe, was 
 suppressed in all the subsequent editions: 
 
 It is a felicity his friends may rejoice in, that he had his 
 senses, and used them as he ought to do, in his last moments. 
 It is remarkable that his judgment was in his calm perfection 
 to the utmost article; for when his. wife, out of her fondness, 
 desired that she might send for an illiterate humorist (whom 
 he had accompanied in a thousand mirthful moments, and 
 whose insolence makes fools think he assumes from conscious 
 merit), he answered, “Do what you please, hut he will not 
 come near me. ’ Let poor Estcourt’s negligence about this 
 message convince the unwary of a triumphant empiric’s igno¬ 
 rance and inhumanity. 
 
 No. 469.] THURSDAY, AUGUST 28, 1712. 
 
 Detrahere aliquid alteri, et hominem hominis incommodo 
 suum augere commodum, magis est contra naturam quain 
 mors, quam paupertas, quam dolor, quam caetera qum pos- 
 sunt aut corpori accidere, aut rebus externis.— Tull. 
 
 To detract anything from another, and for one man to multi¬ 
 ply his own conveniences by the inconveniences of another 
 is more against nature than death, than poverty, than pain 
 and the other things which can befall the body, or external 
 Circumstances. 
 
 I am persuaded there are few T men, of generous 
 principles, who would seek after great places, were 
 it not rather to have an opportunity in their hands 
 of obliging their particular friends, or those whom 
 they look upon as men of worth, than to procure 
 wealth and honor for themselves. To an honest 
 36 
 
 mind, the best perquisites of a place are the ad¬ 
 vantages it gives a man of doing good. 
 
 r l hose who are under the great officers of state, 
 and are the instruments by which they act, have 
 more frequent opportunities for the exercise of 
 compassion and benevolence, than their superiors 
 themselves. 1 hese men know every little case 
 that is to come before the great man, and, if they 
 are possessed with honest minds, will consider 
 poverty as a recommendation in the person who 
 applies himself to them, and make the justice of 
 his cause the most powerful solicitor in his behalf. 
 A man of this temper, when he is in a post of 
 business, becomes a blessing to the public. He 
 patronizes the orphan and the widow, assists the 
 friendless, and guides the ignorant. He does not 
 reject the person’s pretensions, who does not know 
 how to explain them, or refuse doing a good office 
 for a man because he cannot pay the fee of it. In 
 short, though he regulates himself in all his pro¬ 
 ceedings by justice and equity, he finds a thousand 
 occasions for all the good-natured offices of gener¬ 
 osity and compassion. 
 
 A man is unfit for such a place of trust, who is 
 of a sour untractable nature, or has any other pas¬ 
 sion that makes him uneasy to those who approach 
 him. Roughness of temper is apt to discounte¬ 
 nance the timorous or modest. The proud man 
 discourages those from approaching him, who are 
 of a mean condition, and who must want his 
 assistance. The impatient man will not give him¬ 
 self time to be informed of the matter that lies 
 before him. An officer, with one or more of these 
 unbecoming qualities, is sometimes looked upon 
 as a proper person to keep off impertinence and 
 solicitation from his superior; but this is a kind 
 of merit that can never atone for injustice which 
 may very often arise from it. 
 
 There are two other vicious qualities which 
 render a man very unfit for such a place of trust. 
 The first of these is a dilatory temper, which 
 commits innumerable cruelties without design. 
 The maxim which several have laid down for a 
 man’s conduct in ordiuary life, should be inviola¬ 
 ble with a man in office, never to think of doing that 
 to-morrow which may be done to-day. A man 
 who defers doing what ought to be done, is guilty 
 of injustice so long as he defers it. The dispatch 
 of a good office is very often as beneficial to the 
 solicitor as the good office itself. In short, if a man 
 compared the inconveniences which another suffers 
 by his delays, with the trifling motives and ad¬ 
 vantages which he himself may reap by such a 
 delay, he would never be guilty of a fault which 
 very often does an irreparable prejudice to the 
 person who depends upon him, and which might 
 be remedied with little trouble to himself. 
 
 But in the last place there is no man so improper 
 to be employed in business, as he who is in any 
 degree capable of corruption; and such a one is 
 the man who, upon any pretense whatsoever, re¬ 
 ceives more than what is the stated and unques¬ 
 tioned fee of his office. Gratifications, tokens of 
 thankfulness, dispatch money, and the like specious 
 terms, are the pretenses under which corruption 
 very frequently shelters itself. An honest man 
 will, however, look on all these methods as unjus¬ 
 tifiable, and will enjoy himself better in a moderate 
 fortune that is gained with honor and reputation, 
 than in an overgrown state that is cankered with 
 the acquisitions of rapine and exaction. Were all 
 our offices discharged with such an inflexible 
 integrity, we should not see men in all ages, who 
 grow up to exorbitant wealth, with the abilities 
 which are to be met with in an ordinary mechanic. 
 
 I cannot but think that such a corruption proceeds 
 chiefly from men’s employing the first that offer 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 562 
 
 themselves, or those who have the character of 
 shrewd worldly men, instead of searching out such 
 as have had a liberal education, and have been 
 trained up in the studies of knowledge and virtue. 
 
 It has been observed, that men of learning who 
 take to business, discharge it generally with greater 
 honesty than men of the world. The chief reason 
 for it I take to be as follows : A man that has 
 spent his youth in reading, has been used to find 
 virtue extolled, and vice stigmatized. A man that 
 has passed his time in the world, has often seen 
 vice triumphant, and virtue discountenanced. Ex¬ 
 tortion, rapine, and injustice, which are branded 
 with infamy in books, often give a man a figure 
 in the world; while several qualities, which are 
 celebrated in authors, as generosity, ingenuity, 
 and good-nature, impoverish and ruin him. This 
 cannot but have a proportionable effect on men 
 whose tempers and principles are equally good 
 and vicious. 
 
 There would be at least this advantage in em¬ 
 ploying men of learning and parts in business; 
 that their prosperity would sit more gracefully on 
 them, and that we should not see many worthless 
 persons shot up into the greatest figures of life.—C. 
 
 No. 470.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 29, 1712. 
 
 Turpe est difficiles habere nil gas, 
 
 Et stultus labor est ineptiarum. 
 
 Mart. 2 Epig. lxxxvi. 
 
 ’Tis folly only, and defect of sense, 
 
 Turns trifles into things of consequence. 
 
 I have been very often disappointed, of late 
 years, when upon examining the new edition of 
 a classic author, I have found above half the 
 volume taken up with various readings. When 
 I have expected to meet with a learned note upon a 
 doubtful passage in a Latin poet, I have only been 
 informed, that such or such ancient manuscripts 
 for an et write an ac, or of some other notable dis¬ 
 covery of the like importance. Indeed, when a 
 different reading gives us a different sense, or a 
 new elegance in an author, the editor does very 
 well in taking notice of it; but when he only en¬ 
 tertains us with the several ways of spelling the 
 same word, and gathers together the various blun¬ 
 ders and mistakes of twenty or thirty different 
 transcribers, they only take up the time of the 
 learned reader, and puzzle the minds of the igno¬ 
 rant. I have often fancied with myself how en¬ 
 raged an old Latin author would be, should he 
 pee the several absurdities in sense and grammar, 
 which are imputed to him by some or other of 
 these various readings. In one he speaks non¬ 
 sense; in another makes use of a word that was 
 never heard of; and indeed there is scarce a sole¬ 
 cism in writing which the best author is not guilty 
 of, if we may be at liberty to read him in the 
 words of some manuscript, which the laborious 
 editor has thought fit to examine in the prosecu¬ 
 tion of his work. 
 
 I question not but the ladies and pretty fellows 
 will be very curious to understand what it is that 
 I have been hitherto talking of. I shall therefore 
 give them a notion of this practice, by endeavor¬ 
 ing to write after several persons who make an 
 eminent figure in the republic of letters. To this 
 end, we will suppose that the folloAving song is 
 an old ode, which I present to the public in a new 
 edition, with the several various readings which 
 I find of it in former editions, and in ancient 
 manuscripts. Those who cannot relish the vari¬ 
 ous readings, will perhaps find their account in 
 the song, which never before appeared in print. 
 
 My love was fickle once and changing, 
 
 Nor e’er would settle in my heart; 
 
 From beauty still to beauty ranging, 
 
 In every face I found a dart. 
 
 ’Twas first a chtrming shape enslav’d me, 
 
 An eye then gave the fatal stroke: 
 
 ’Till by her wit Corinna sav’d me, 
 
 And all my former fetters broke. 
 
 But now a long and lasting anguish 
 For Belvidera I endure: 
 
 Hourly I sigh, and hourly languish, 
 
 Nor hope to find the wonted cure. 
 
 For here the false inconstant lover, 
 
 After a thousand beauties shown, 
 
 Does new surprising charms discover, 
 
 And finds variety in one. 
 
 VARIOUS READINGS. 
 
 Stanza the first, verse the first. And changing.] 
 The and in some manuscripts is written thus, <$•: 
 but that in the Cotton library writes it in three 
 distinct letters. 
 
 Yerse the second. Nor e'er would.] Aldus reads 
 it ever would; but as this would hurt the meter, we 
 have restored it to its genuine reading, by observ¬ 
 ing that synseresis which had been neglected by 
 ignorant transcribers. 
 
 Ibid. In my heart.] Scaliger and others, on my 
 heart. 
 
 Verse the fourth. I found a dart.] The Vatican 
 manuscript for / reads it; but this must have been 
 the hallucination of the transcriber, who probably 
 mistook the dash of the I for a T. 
 
 Stanza the second, verse the second. The fatal 
 stroke .] Scioppius, Salmasius, and many others, 
 for the read a; but I have stuck to the usual 
 reading. 
 
 Verse the third. Till by her wit.] Some manu¬ 
 scripts have it his wit, others your, others their wit. 
 But as I find Corinna to be the name of a woman 
 in other authors, I cannot doubt but it should 
 be her. 
 
 Stanza the third, verse the first. A long and 
 lasting anguish .] The German manuscript reads 
 a lasting passion, but the rhyme will not admit it. 
 
 Verse the second. For Belvidera I endure.] Did 
 not all the manuscripts reclaim, I should change 
 Belvidera into Pelvidera; Pelvis being used by 
 several of the ancient comic writers for a looking- 
 glass, by which means the etymology of the word 
 is very visible, and Pelvidera will signify a lady 
 who often looks in her glass; as indeed she had 
 very good reason, if she had all those beauties 
 which our poet here ascribes to her. 
 
 Verse the third. Hourly I sigh, and hourly lan¬ 
 guish.] Some for the word hourly read daily, and 
 others nightly; the last has great authorities of its 
 side. 
 
 Verse the fourth. The wonted cure.] The elder 
 Stevens reads wanted cure. 
 
 Stanza the fourth, verse the second. After a 
 thousand beauties.] In several copies we meet with 
 a hundred beauties, by the usual error of the tran¬ 
 scribers, who probably omitted a cipher, and had 
 not taste enough to know that the word thousand 
 was ten times a greater compliment to the poet's 
 mistress than a hundred. 
 
 Verse the fourth. And finds variety in one.] 
 Most of the ancient manuscripts have it in two. 
 Indeed so many of them concur in this last read¬ 
 ing, that I am very much in doubt whether it 
 ought not to take place. There are but two rea¬ 
 sons which incline me to the reading as I have 
 published it: first, because the rhyme, and sec¬ 
 ondly, because the sense is preserved by it. It 
 might likewise proceed from tne oscitancy of tran¬ 
 scribers, who, to dispatch their work the sooner, 
 used to write all numbers in cipher, and seeing 
 the figure 1 followed by a little dash of the pen, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 as is customary in old manuscripts, they perhaps 
 mistook the dash for a second figure, and by cast¬ 
 ing up both together, composed out of them the 
 figure 2. But this I shall leave to the learned, 
 without determining anything in a matter of so 
 great uncertainty.—C. 
 
 563 
 
 No. 471.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 30, 1712. 
 
 The wise with hope support the pains of life. 
 
 The time present seldom affords sufficient em¬ 
 ployment to the mind of man. Objects of pain 
 or pleasure, love or admiration, do not lie thick 
 enough together in life to keep the soul in con¬ 
 stant action, and supply an immediate exercise to 
 its faculties. In order, therefore, to remedy this 
 defect, that the mind may not want business, but 
 always have materials for thinking, she is en¬ 
 dowed with certain powers, that can recall what 
 is passed, and anticipate what is to come. 
 
 That wonderful faculty, which we call the mem- 
 ory, is perpetually looking back, when we have 
 nothing present to entertain us. It is like those 
 repositories in several animals that are filled with 
 stores of their former food, on which they may 
 ruminate when their present pasture fails. 
 
 As the memory relieves the mind in her vacant 
 moments, and prevents any chasms of thought by 
 ideas of what is passed, we have other faculties 
 that agitate and employ her for what is to come. 
 These are the passions of hope and fear. 
 
 By these two passions we reach forward into 
 futurity, and bring up to our present thoughts 
 objects that lie hid in the remotest depths of 
 time. We suffer misery and enjoy happiness be¬ 
 fore they are in being; we can set the sun and 
 stars forward, or lose sight of them by wandering 
 into those retired parts of eternity, when the heav¬ 
 ens and earth shall be no more. 
 
 By the way, who can imagine that the existence 
 of a creature is to be circumscribed by time, whose 
 thoughts are not? But I shall, in this paper, con¬ 
 fine myself to that particular passion which goes 
 by the name of hope. 
 
 Our actual enjoyments are so few and transient, 
 that man would be a very miserable being, were 
 he not endowed with this passion, which gives 
 him a taste of those good things that may possi¬ 
 bly come into his possession. “We should hope 
 for everything that is good/’ says the old poet 
 Linus, “because there is nothing which may not 
 be hoped for, and nothing but what the gods are 
 able to give us.” Hope quickens all the still 
 parts of life, and keeps the mind awake in her 
 most remiss and indolent hours. It gives habit¬ 
 ual serenity and good-humor. It is a kind of 
 vital heat in the soul, that cheers and gladdens 
 her, when she does not attend to it. It makes 
 pain easy, and labor pleasant. 
 
 Beside these several advantages which rise from 
 hope, there is another which is none of the least, 
 and that is, its great efficacy in preserving us from 
 setting too high a value on present enjoyments. 
 The saving of Ctesar is very well known. When 
 he had given away all his estate in gratuities 
 among his friends, one of them asked what he 
 had left for himself; to which that great man re- 
 
 § lied, “Hope.” His natural magnanimity hin- 
 ered him from prizing what he was certainly 
 possessed of, and turned all his thoughts upon 
 something more valuable that he had in view. 
 
 I question not but every reader will draw a moral 
 from this story, and apply it to himself without 
 my direction. 
 
 The old story of Pandora’s box (which many of 
 the learned believe was formed arnoDg the heathens 
 
 upon the tradition of the fall of man) shows us 
 how deplorable a state they thought the present 
 life, without hope. To set forth the utmost con¬ 
 dition of misery, they tell us, that our forefather, 
 according to the pagan theology, had a great vessel 
 Presented him by Pandora. Upon his lifting up 
 the lid of it, says the fable, there flew out all the 
 calamities and distempers incident to men, from 
 which, till that time, they had been altogether 
 exempt. Hope, who had been inclosed in the cup 
 with so much bad company, instead of flying off 
 with the rest, stuck so close to the lid of it, that 
 it Avas shut down upon her. 
 
 I shall make but two reflections upon what I 
 have hitherto said. First, that no kind of life is 
 so happy as that which is full of hope, especially 
 AAhen the hope is Avell grounded, and Avhen the 
 object of it is of an exalted kind, and in its nature 
 proper to make the person happy who enjoys it. 
 Inis proposition must be very evident to those 
 Avho consider hoAv feAv are the present enjoyments 
 of the most happy man, and how insufficient to 
 giA r e him an entire satisfaction and acquiescence 
 in them. 
 
 . M y ne *t observation is this, that a religious life 
 is that which most abounds in a well-grounded 
 hope, and such a one as is fixed on objects that 
 are capable of making us entirely happy. This 
 hope in a religious man is much more sure and 
 certain than the hope of any temporal blessing, 
 as it is strengthened not only by reason, but by 
 faith. It has at the same time its eye perpetually 
 fixed on that state, which implies in the very 
 notion of it the most full and the most complete 
 happiness. 
 
 . 1 have before shown how the influence of hope 
 in general sweetens life, and makes our present 
 condition supportable, if not pleasing; but a re¬ 
 ligious hope lias still greater advantages. It does 
 not only bear up the mind under her sufferings, 
 but makes her rejoice in them, as they may be the 
 instruments of procuring her the great and ulti¬ 
 mate end of all her hope. 
 
 Religious hope has likewise this advantage 
 above any other kind of hope, that it is able to 
 revive the dying man, and to fill his mind not only 
 with secret comfort and refreshment, but sometimes 
 Avith rapture and transport. He triumphs in his 
 agonies, Avhile the soul springs forward with delight 
 to the great object which she has ahvays had in 
 vieAv, and leaves the body with an expectation of 
 being reunited to her in a glorious and joyful 
 resurrection. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with those emphati- 
 cal expressions of a lively hope, which the Psalmist 
 made use of in the midst of those dangers and ad¬ 
 versities which surrounded him; for the folloAving 
 passage had its present and personal, as Avell as 
 its future and prophetic sense. “I haA r e set the 
 Lord always before me. Because he is at my right 
 hand I shall not be moved. Therefore my heart 
 is glad, and my glory rejoiceth. My flesh also 
 shall rest in hope. For thou wilt not leave my 
 soul in hell, neither wilt thou suffer thine holy 
 one to see corruption. Thou wilt show me the 
 path of life. In thy presence is fullness of joy, 
 at thy right hand there are pleasures for ever¬ 
 more.”—C. 
 
 No. 472.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1712. 
 
 ■Voluptus 
 Solamenque mali 
 
 ViRG. JEn. iii, 660. 
 
 This only solace his hard fortune sends. —Dryden. 
 
 I received some time ago a proposal, which had 
 a preface to it, wherein the author discoursed at 
 large of the innumerable objects of charity in a 
 
THE SPECTATO R. 
 
 564 
 
 nation, and admonished the rich, who were afflic¬ 
 ted with any distemper of body, particularly to 
 regard the poor in the same species of affliction, 
 and confine their tenderness to them, since it is 
 impossible to assist all who are presented to them. 
 The proposer had been relieved from a malady in 
 his eyes by an operation performed by Sir William 
 Read; and, being a man of condition, had taken a 
 resolution to maintain three poor blind men during 
 their lives, in gratitude for that great blessing. 
 This misfortune is so very great and unfrequent, 
 that one would think an establishment for all the 
 poor under it might be easily accomplished, with 
 the addition of a very few others to those wealthy 
 who are in the same .calamity. However, the 
 thought of the proposer arose from a very good mo¬ 
 tive; and the parceling of ourselves out, as called 
 to particular acts of beneficence, would be a pretty 
 cement of society and virtue. It is the ordinary 
 foundation for men’s holding a commerce with 
 each other, and becoming familiar, that they agree [ 
 in the same sort of pleasure; and sure it may also 
 be some reason for amity, that they are under one 
 common distress. If all the rich who are lame in 
 the gout, from a life of ease, pleasure, and luxury, 
 would help those few who have it without a pre¬ 
 vious life of pleasure, and add a few of such la¬ 
 borious men, who are become lame from unhappy 
 blows, falls, or other accidents of age or sickness; 
 I say, would such gouty persons administer to the 
 necessities of men disabled like themselves, the 
 consciousness of such a behavior, would be the 
 best jalap, cordial, and anodyne, in the feverish, 
 faint, and tormenting vicissitudes of that misera¬ 
 ble distemper. The same may be said of all other, 
 both bodily and intellectual evils. These classes 
 of charity would certainly bring down blessings 
 upon an age and people; and if men were not 
 petrified with the love of this world, against all 
 sense of the commerce which ought to be among 
 them, it would not be an unreasonable bill for a 
 poor man in the agony of pain, aggravated by 
 want and poverty, to draw upon a sick alderman 
 after this form : 
 
 “ Mr. Basil Plenty. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “You have the gout and stone, with sixty thou¬ 
 sand pounds sterling; I have the gout and stone, 
 not worth one farthing; I shall pray for you, and 
 desire you would pay the bearer twenty shillings 
 for value received from, 
 
 “ Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “Lazarus Hopeful. 
 
 “ Cripplegate, August 29,1712.” 
 
 The reader’s own imagination will suggest to 
 him the reasonableness of such correspondences, 
 and diversify them into a thousand forms; but I 
 shall close this, as I began, upon the subject of 
 blindness.* The following letter seems to be writ¬ 
 ten by a man of learning, who is returned to 
 his study after a suspense of an ability to do so. 
 The benefit he reports himself to have received, 
 may well claim the handsomest encomium he can 
 give the operator. 
 
 '‘ Mr. Spectator, . 
 
 “Ruminating lately on your admirable dis¬ 
 courses on the Pleasures of the Imagination, I began 
 to consider to which of our senses we are obliged 
 for the.greatest and most important share of those 
 
 * A benevolent institution in favor of blind people, and 
 Swift’s hospital, seem to have originated from this paper, 
 certainly from the principles of humanity stated in it. 
 
 pleasures; and I soon concluded that it was to the 
 sight. That is the sovereign of the senses, and 
 mother of all the arts and sciences, that have re¬ 
 fined the rudeness of the uncultivated mind to a 
 politeness that distinguishes the fine spirits from 
 the barbarous gout of the great vulgar and the 
 small. The sight is the obliging benefactress that 
 bestows on us the most transporting sensations 
 that we have from the various and wonderful pro¬ 
 ducts of nature. To the sight we owe the amaz¬ 
 ing discoveries of the height, magnitude, and mo¬ 
 tion of the planets; their several revolutions about 
 their common center of light, heat, and motion, 
 the sun. The sight travels yet further to the fixed 
 stars, and furnishes the understanding with solid 
 reasons to prove, that each of them is a sun, mov¬ 
 ing on its own axis, in the center of its own vortex 
 or turbillion, and performing the same offices to its 
 dependent planets that our glorious sun does to 
 this. But the inquiries of the sight will not be 
 stopped here, but make their progress through the 
 immense expanse to the Milky Way, and there 
 divide the blended fires of the galaxy into infinite 
 and different worlds, made up of distinct suns, 
 and their peculiar equipages of planets, till, una¬ 
 ble to pursue this track any further, it deputes the 
 imagination to go on to new discoveries, till it fill 
 the unbounded space with endless worlds. 
 
 “ The sight informs the statuary’s chisel with 
 power to give breath to lifeless brass and marble, 
 and the painter’s pencil to swell the flat canvas 
 with moving figures actuated by imaginary souls. 
 Music, indeed, may plead another original,* since 
 Jubal, by the different falls of his hammer on the 
 anvil, discovered by the air the first rude music 
 that pleased the antediluvian fathers; but then the 
 sight has not only reduced those wilder sounds 
 into artful order and harmony, but conveys that 
 harmony to the most distant parts of the world 
 without the help of sound. To the sight we owe 
 not only all the discoveries of philosophy, but all 
 the divine imagery of poetry that transports the 
 intelligent reader of Homer, Milton, and VirgiL 
 
 “As the sight has polished the world, so does it 
 supply us with the most grateful and lasting plea¬ 
 sure. Let love, let friendship, paternal affection, 
 filial piety, and conjugal duty, declare the joys 
 the sight bestows on a meeting after absence. But 
 it would be endless to enumerate all the pleasures 
 and advantages of sight; every one that has it, 
 every hour he makes use of it, finds them, feels 
 them, enjoys them. 
 
 “ Thus, as our greatest pleasures and knowledge 
 are derived from the sight, so has Providence been 
 more curious in the formation of its seat, the eye, 
 than of the organs of the other senses. That stu¬ 
 pendous machine is composed, in a wonderful 
 manner, of muscles, membranes, and humors. Its 
 motions are admirably directed by the muscles; 
 the perspicuity of the humors transmit the rays 
 of light; the rays are regularly refracted by their 
 figure; the black lining of the sclerotes effectually 
 prevents their being confounded by reflection. It 
 is wonderful indeed to consider how many objects 
 the eye is fitted to take in at once, and successively 
 in an instant, and at the same time to make a 
 judgment of their position, figure, and color. It 
 watches against our dangers, guides our steps, 
 and lets in all the visible objects, whose beauty 
 and variety instruct and delight. 
 
 “ The pleasures and advantages of sight being 
 so great, the loss must be very grievous; of which 
 Milton, from experience, gives the most sensible 
 idea, both in the third book of his Paradise Lost, 
 and in his Samson Agonistes. 
 
 * Mr. Weaver ascribes the discovery to Pythagoras. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ To light, in the former. 
 
 -These I revisit safe, 
 
 Anil feel thy sov’reign vital lamp; but thou 
 Revisit st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 To find thy piercing ray, but find no dawn. 
 
 “ And a little after. 
 
 Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of ev’n or morn, 
 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, 
 
 Or tiocks, or herds, or human face divine; 
 
 But cloud instead, and ever-duriug dark, 
 
 Surround me: from the cheerful ways of men 
 Cut off. and for the book of knowledge fair 
 Presented, with a universal blank 
 Of nature’s works, to me expung’d and raz’d, 
 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
 
 “Again, in Samson Agonistes 
 
 - But chief of all 
 
 O loss of sight! of thee I most complain; 
 
 Blind among enemies! 0 worse than chains, 
 
 Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepid age! 
 
 Light, the prime work of God, to me’s extinct, 
 
 And all her various objects of delight 
 Annull’d- 
 
 -Still as a fool, 
 
 In pow'r of others, never in my own, 
 
 Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half: 
 
 0 dark! dark! dark! amid the blaze of noon! 
 Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, 
 
 Without all hopes of day. 
 
 “The enjoyment of sight then being so great a 
 blessing, and the loss of it so terrible an evil, how 
 excellent and valuable is the skill of that artist 
 which can restore the former, and redress the lat¬ 
 ter! My frequent perusal of the advertisements 
 in the public newspapers (generally the most 
 agreeable entertainment they afford) has presented 
 me with many and various benefits of this kind 
 done to my countrymen, by that skillful artist Dr. 
 Grant, her majesty’s oculist extraordinary, whose 
 happy hand has brought and restored to sight 
 several hundreds in less than four years. Many 
 have received sight by his means who came blind 
 from their mother’s womb, as in the famous in¬ 
 stance of Jones of Newington.”* I myself have 
 been cured by him of weakness in the eyes next 
 to blindness, and am ready to believe anything 
 that is reported of his ability this way; and 
 know that many, who could not purchase his 
 assistance with money, have enjoyed it from his 
 charity. But a list of particulars would swell my 
 letter beyond its bounds : what I have said being 
 sufficient to comfort those w r ho are in the like dis¬ 
 tress, since they may conceive hopes of being no 
 longer miserable in this kind, while there is yet 
 alive so able an oculist as Dr. Grant. 
 
 “I am the Spectator’s humble Servant, 
 
 T- “ Philanthropus.” 
 
 No. 473.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1712. 
 
 Quid? si quis vultu torvo ferus, et pede nudo, 
 Exigua?que togse simulet textorc Catonem; 
 Virtutemne repraeseutet moresque Catonis? 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xix, 12. 
 
 Suppose a man the coarsest gown should wear, 
 fto shoes, his forehead rough, his look severe, 
 
 And ape great Cato in his form and dress; 
 
 Must he his virtues and his mind express? —Creech. 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I am now in the country, and employ most of 
 my time in reading, or thinking upon what I have 
 read. \ our paper comes constantly down to me, 
 
 * This ostentatious oculist was, it seems, originally a cobbler 
 or tinker, afterward a preacher in a congregation of Baptists 
 William Jones was not born blind, and was but very little, if 
 at all, benefited by Grant’s operation, who appears to have 
 been guilty of great fraud and downright forgery, in his ac¬ 
 count and advertisements of this pretended cure. 
 
 565 
 
 and it affects me so much, that I find my thoughts 
 run into your way : and recommend to you a sub¬ 
 ject upon which you have not yet touched, and 
 that is, the satisfaction some men seem to take in 
 their imperfections: I think one may call it glory¬ 
 ing in their insufficiency. A certain great author 
 is of opinion it is I he contrary to envy, though 
 perhaps it may proceed from it. Nothing is so 
 common as to hear men of this sort, speaking of 
 themselves, add to their own merit (as they think) 
 by impairing it, in praising themselves for their 
 defects, freely allowing they commit some few friv¬ 
 olous errors, in order to be esteemed persons of 
 uncommon talents and great qualifications. They 
 aie generally professing an injudicious neglect of 
 dancing, fencing, and riding, as also an unjust 
 contempt for traveling, and the modern languages; 
 as for their part, say they, they never valued or 
 troubled their head about them. This panegyrical 
 satire on themselves certainly is worthy our ani¬ 
 madversion. I have known one of these gentle¬ 
 men think himself obliged to forget the day of an 
 appointment, and sometimes even that you spoke 
 to him; and when you see them, they hope you’ll 
 pardon them, for they have the worst memory in 
 the world". One of them started up the other day 
 in some confusion, and said, ‘Now I think on’t, I 
 am to meet Mr. Mortmain, the attorney, about some 
 business, but whether it is to-day, or to-morrow, 
 ’faith I cannot tell.’ Now, to my certain know¬ 
 ledge, he knew his time to a moment, and was 
 there accordingly. These forgetful persons have, 
 to heighten their crime, generally the best memo¬ 
 ries of any people, as 1 have found out by their re¬ 
 membering sometimes through inadvertency. Two 
 or three of them that I know can say most of our 
 modern tragedies by heart. I asked a gentleman 
 the other day, that is famous for a good carver (at 
 which acquisition he is out of countenance, imag¬ 
 ining it may detract from some of his more essen¬ 
 tial qualifications) to help me to something that 
 was near him ; but he excused himself, and blush¬ 
 ing told me, ‘Of all things he could never carve 
 in his life;’ though it can be proved upon him 
 that he cuts up, disjoints, and uncases, with in¬ 
 comparable dexterity. I would not be understood 
 as if I thought it laudable for a man of quality 
 and fortune to rival the acquisitions of artificers, 
 and endeavor to excel in little handy qualities; no, 
 
 I argue only against being ashamed at what is 
 really praiseworthy. As these pretenses to inge¬ 
 nuity show themselves several ways, you will 
 often see a man of this temper ashamed to be clean, 
 and setting up for wit, only from negligence in 
 his habit. Now I am upon this head, I cannot 
 help observing also upon a very different folly 
 proceeding from the same cause. As these above- 
 mentioned arise from affecting an equality with 
 men of greater talents, from having the same faults, 
 there are others that would come at a parallel with 
 those above them, by possessing little advantages 
 which they want. I heard a young man not long 
 ago, who has sense, comfort himself in his igno¬ 
 rance of Greek, Hebrew, and the Orientals : at the 
 same time that he published his aversion to those 
 languages, he said that the knowledge of them 
 was rather a diminution than an advancement of a 
 man’s character; though,at the same time, I know 
 he languishes and repines he is not master of them 
 himself. Whenever I take any of these fine per¬ 
 sons thus detracting from what they do not under¬ 
 stand, I tell them I will complain to you; and say 
 I am sure you will not allow it an exception 
 against a thing, that he who contemns it is an 
 ignorant in it. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ S. P ” 
 
566 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 " Mu. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a man of a very good estate, and am 
 honorably in love. I hope you will allow, when 
 the ultimate purpose is honest, there may be, with¬ 
 out trespass against innocence, some toying by the 
 way. People of condition are perhaps too distant 
 and formal on those occasions; but however that 
 is, I am to coufess to you that I have written some 
 verses to atone for my offense. You professed 
 authors are a little severe upon us, who write like 
 gentlemen; but if you are a friend to love, you 
 will insert my poem. You cannot imagine how 
 much service it would do me with my fair one, as 
 well as reputation with all my friends, to have 
 something of mine in the Spectator. My crime 
 was, that I snatched a kiss, and my poetical ex¬ 
 cuse as follows: 
 
 I. 
 
 Belinda, see from yonder flowers 
 The bee flies loaded to its cell; 
 
 Can you perceive what it devours ? 
 
 Are they impair’d in show or smell ? 
 
 II. 
 
 So, though I robb’d you of a kiss, 
 
 Sweeter than their ambrosial dew; 
 
 Why are you angry at my bliss? 
 
 Has it at all impoverish’d you ? 
 
 III. 
 
 ’Tis by this cunning I contrive, 
 
 In spite of your unkind reserve, 
 
 To keep my famished love alive, 
 
 Which you inhumanly would starve. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Timothy Stanza/’ 
 
 “ Sir, August 23, 1712. 
 
 “Having a little time upon my hands, I could 
 not think of bestowing it better than in writing an 
 epistle to the Spectator, which I now do, and am, 
 Sir, “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Bob Short. 
 
 “ P. S. If you approve of my style, I am likely 
 enough to become your correspondent. I desire 
 your opinion of it. I design it for that way of 
 writing called by the judicious ‘ the familiar.’ ”—T. 
 
 Ho. 474.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 3, 1712. 
 
 Aspcritas agrestis, et inconcinna.—H or. 1 Ep. xviii. 6. 
 
 Rude, rustic, and inelegant. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Being of the number of those that have lately 
 retired from the center of business and pleasure, 
 my uneasiness in the country where I am arises 
 rather from the society than the solitude of it. To 
 be obliged to receive and return visits from and to 
 a circle of neighbors, who, through diversity of 
 age or inclinations, can neither be entertaining nor 
 serviceable to us, is a vile loss of time, and a sla¬ 
 very from which a man should deliver himself, if 
 possible: for why must I lose the remaining part 
 of my life, because they have thrown away the 
 former part of theirs ? It is to me an insupporta¬ 
 ble affliction, to be tormented with the narrations 
 of a set of people, who are warm in their expres¬ 
 sions of the quick relish of that pleasure which 
 their dogs and horses have a more delicate taste 
 of. I do also in my heart detest and abhor that 
 damnable doctrine and position of the necessity of 
 a bumper, though to one’s own toast; for though 
 it is pretended that these deep potations are used 
 only to inspire gayety, they certainly drown that 
 cheerfulness which would survive a moderate cir¬ 
 culation. If at these meetings it were left to every 
 stranger either to fill his glass according to his 
 own inclination, or to make his retreat when he 
 
 finds he has been sufficiently obedient to that of 
 others, these entertainments would be governed 
 with more good sense, and consequently with more 
 good-breeding, than at present they are. Indeed, 
 where any of the guests are known to measure 
 their fame or pleasure by their glass, proper exhor¬ 
 tations might be used to these to push their fortunes 
 in this sort of reputation; but where it is unsea¬ 
 sonably insisted on to a modest stranger, this 
 drench may be said to be swallowed with the same 
 necessity as if it had been tendered in the horn for 
 that purpose,* with this aggravating circumstance, 
 that it distresses the entertainer’s guest in the same 
 degree as it relieves his horses. 
 
 “ To attend without impatience on account of 
 five-barred gates, double ditches, and precipices, 
 and to survey the orator with desiring eyes, is to 
 me extremely difficult and absolutely necessary, to 
 be upon tolerable terms with him; but then the 
 occasional burstings out into laughter is of all 
 other accomplishments the most requisite. I con¬ 
 fess at present I have not that command of these 
 convulsions as is necessary, to be good company; 
 therefore I beg you would publish this letter, and 
 let me be known all at once for a queer fellow, and 
 avoided. It is monstrous to me, that we who are 
 given to reading and calm conversation, should 
 ever be visited by these roarers; but they think 
 they themselves, as neighbors, may come into our 
 rooms with the same right that they and their dogs 
 hunt in our grounds. 
 
 “ Your institution of clubs I have always ad¬ 
 mired, in which you constantly endeavored the 
 union of the metaphorically defunct, that is, such 
 as are neither serviceable to the busy and enterpris¬ 
 ing part of mankind, nor entertaining to the 
 retired and speculative. There should certainly, 
 therefore, in each county be established a club of 
 the persons whose conversations I have described, 
 who for their own private, as also the public emol¬ 
 ument, should exclude, and be excluded, all other 
 society. Their attire should be the same with their 
 huntsmen’s, and none should be admitted into this 
 green conversation-piece except he had broken his 
 collar-bone thrice. A broken rib or two might also 
 admit a man without the least opposition. The 
 president must necessarily have broken his neck, 
 and have been taken up dead once or twice; for the 
 more maims this brotherhood shall have met with, 
 the easier will their conversation flow and keep 
 up; and when any one of these vigorous invalids 
 had finished his narration of the collar bone, this 
 naturally would introduce the history of the ribs. 
 Beside, the different circumstances of their falls 
 and fractures would help to prolong and diversify 
 their relations. There should also be another cluo 
 of such men, who had not succeeded so well in 
 maiming themselves, but are however in the con¬ 
 stant pursuit of these accomplishments. I would 
 by no means be suspected, by what I have said, to 
 traduce in general the body of fox-hunters; for 
 while I look upon a reasonable creature full speed 
 after a pack of dogs by way of pleasure, and not 
 of business, I shall always make honorable men¬ 
 tion of it. 
 
 “ But the most irksome conversation of all others 
 I have met with in the neighborhood, lias been 
 among two or three of your travelers who have 
 overlooked men and manners, and have passed 
 through France and Italy with the same observa¬ 
 tion that the carriers and stage coachmen do 
 through Great Britain; that is, their stops and 
 stages have been regulated according to the liquor 
 they have met with in their passage. They indeed 
 remember the names of abundance of places, with 
 
 * A liorn is used to administer potions to horses. 
 
THESPE 
 
 the particular fineries of certain churches; but 
 their distinguishing mark is a certain prettiness 
 of foreign languages, the meaning of which they 
 could have better expressed in their own. The 
 entertainment of these fine observers Shakspeare 
 has described to consist 
 
 In talking of the Alps and Apennines, 
 
 The Pyrenean, and the river Po: 
 
 and then concludes with a sigh. 
 
 Now this is worshipful society ? 
 
 “ I would not be thought in all this to hate such 
 honest creatures as dogs; I am only unhappy that 
 I cannot partake in their diversions. But I love 
 them so well, as dogs, that I often go with my 
 pockets stuffed with bread to dispense my favors, 
 or make my way through them at neighbors’ 
 houses. There is in particular a young hound of 
 great expectation, vivacity, and enterprise, that 
 attends my flights wherever he spies me. This 
 creature observes my countenance, and behaves 
 himself accordingly. His mirth, his frolic, and 
 'oy, upon the sight of me, has been observed, and 
 have been gravely desired not to encourage him 
 so much, for it spoiled his parts; but I think he 
 shows them sufficiently in the several boundings, 
 friskings, and scourings, when he makes his court 
 to me; but I foresee in a little time he and I must 
 keep company with one another only, for we are 
 fit for no other in these parts. Having informed 
 you how I do pass my time in the country where I 
 am, I must proceed to tell you how I would pass 
 it, had I such a fortune as would put me above the 
 observance of ceremony and custom. 
 
 “ My scheme of a country life, then, should be 
 as follows: As I am happy in three or four very 
 agreeable friends, these 1 would constantly have 
 with me; and the freedom we took with one an¬ 
 other at school and the university, we would 
 maintain and exert upon all occasions with great 
 courage. There should be certain hours of the 
 day to be employed in reading, during which time 
 it should be impossible for any one of us to enter 
 the other’s chamber, unless by storm. After this 
 we w T ould communicate the trash or treasure we 
 had met with, with our own reflections upon the 
 matter; the justness of which we would controvert 
 with good-humored warmth, and never spare one 
 another out of that complaisant spirit of conver¬ 
 sation, which makes others affirm and deny the 
 same matter in a quarter of an hour. If any of 
 the neighboring gentlemen, not of our turn, should 
 take it in their heads to visit me, I should look 
 upon these persons in the same degree enemies to 
 my particular state of happiness, as ever the French 
 were to that of the public, and I would be at an 
 annual expense in spies to observe their motions. 
 Whenever I should be surprised with a visit, as I 
 hate drinking, 1 would be brisk in swilling bump¬ 
 ers, upon this maxim, that it is better to trouble 
 others with my impatience, than to be troubled 
 myself with theirs. The necessity of an infirmary 
 makes me resolve to fall into that project; and as 
 we should be but five, the terrors of an involuntary 
 separation, which our number cannot so well 
 admit of, would make us exert ourselves in oppo¬ 
 sition to all the particulars mentioned in your 
 institution of that equitable confinement. This 
 my*vay of life, I know, would subject me to the 
 imputation of a morose, covetous, and singular 
 fellow. These and all other hard words, with all 
 manner of insipid jests, and all other reproach, 
 would be matter of mirth to me and my friends; 
 beside, I would destroy the application of the 
 epithets morose and covetous, by a yearly relief 
 of my undeservedly necessitous neighbors, and by 
 treating my friends and domestics with a humanity 
 
 C T A T 0 R. 567 
 
 that should express the obligation to lie rather on 
 my side; and as for the word singular, I was 
 always of opinion every man must be so, to be 
 what one would desire him. 
 
 “ Your very humble Servant, J. R.”* 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ About two years ago I was called upon by the 
 younger part of a country family, by my mother’s 
 side related to me, to visit Mr. Campbell,f the 
 dumb man; for they told me that that was chiefly 
 what brought them to town, having heard wonders 
 of him in Essex. I, who always wanted faith in 
 matters of this kind, was not easily prevailed on 
 to go; but, lest they should take it ill, I went with 
 them; when, to my surprise, Mr. Campbell related 
 all their past life; in short, had he not been pre¬ 
 vented, such a discovery would have come out as 
 would have ruined the next design of their coming 
 to town, viz: buying wedding clothes. Our names 
 
 though he never heard of us before—and wc 
 endeavored to conceal—were as familiar to him as 
 to ourselves. To be sure, Mr. Spectator, he is a 
 very learned and wise man. Being impatient to 
 know my fortune, having paid my respects in a 
 family Jacobus, he told me (after his manner), 
 among several other things, that in a year and nine 
 months I should fall ill of a new fever, be given 
 oyer by my physicians, but should with much 
 difficulty recover; that, the first time I took the air 
 afterward, I should be addressed to by a young 
 gentleman of a plentiful fortune, good sense, and 
 a generous spirit. Mr. Spectator, he is the purest 
 man in the world, for all he said is come to pass, 
 and I am the happiest she in Kent. I have been 
 in quest of Mr. Campbell these three months, and 
 cannot find him out. Now, hearing you are a 
 dumb man too, I thought you might correspond, 
 and be able to tell me something; for I think my¬ 
 self as highly obliged to make his fortune, as he 
 has mine. It is very possible your worship, who 
 has spies all over this tow r n, can inform me how 
 to send to him. If you can, I beseech you be as 
 speedy as possible, and you will highly oblige 
 “Your constant reader and admirer, 
 
 “ Dulcibella Thankley.” 
 
 Ordered, That the inspector I employ about won¬ 
 ders inquire at the Golden-Lion, opposite to the 
 Half-Moon tavern in Drury-lane, into the merit of 
 the silent sage, and report accordingly.—T. 
 
 No. 475.] THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 1712. 
 
 -Quae res in se neque consilium, neque modum 
 
 Habet ullum earn consilio regere non potes. 
 
 Ter. Eun act. i, sc. 1. 
 
 The thing that in itself has neither measure nor considera¬ 
 tion, counsel cannot rule. 
 
 It is an old observation, which has been made 
 of politicians who would rather ingratiate them- 
 
 * This letter was probably written by Steele’s fellow-collegian 
 and friend, the Rev. Mr. Richard Parker. This accomplished 
 scholar was for many years vicar of Embleton, in Northum¬ 
 berland, a living in the gift of Merton college, where he and 
 Steele lived in the most cordial familiarity. Not relishing the 
 rural sports of Bamboroughshire, he declined the interchange 
 of visits with most of the hospitable gentlemen in his neigh¬ 
 borhood ; who, invigorated by their diversions, indulged in 
 copious meals, and were apt to be vociferous in their mirth, 
 and over importunate with their guests, to join in their con¬ 
 viviality. 
 
 f Duncan Campbell announced himself to the public as a 
 Scotch highlander, gifted with the second-sight. lie was, or 
 pretended to be, deaf and dumb, and succeeded in making a 
 fortune to himself by practicing for some years on the credu¬ 
 lity of the vulgar in the ignominious character of a fortune¬ 
 teller. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 568 
 
 selves with their sovereign, than promote his real 
 service, that they accommodate their counsels to 
 his inclinations, and advise him to such actions 
 only as his heart is naturally set upon. The privy 
 counselor of one in love must observe the same 
 conduct, unless he would forfeit the friendship of 
 the person who desires his advice. I have known 
 several odd cases of this nature. Hipparchus was 
 going to marry a common woman; but being re¬ 
 solved to do nothing without the advice of his 
 friend Philander, he consulted him upon the occa¬ 
 sion. Philander told him his mind freely, and 
 represented his mistress to him in such strong 
 colors, that the next morning he received a chal¬ 
 lenge for his pains, and before twelve o’clock was 
 run through the body by the man who had asked 
 his advice. Celia was more prudent on the like 
 occasion. She desired Leonilla to give her opin¬ 
 ion freely upon the young fellow who made his 
 addresses to her. Leonilla, to oblige her, told her 
 with great frankness, that she looked upon him 
 as one of the most worthless.—Celia, foreseeing 
 what a character she was to expect, begged her 
 not to go on, for that she had been privately mar¬ 
 ried to him above a fortnight. The truth of it is, 
 a woman seldom asks advice before she has bought 
 her wedding clothes. When she has made her 
 own choice, for form’s sake, she sends a conge 
 d’elire to her friends. 
 
 If we look into the secret springs and motives 
 that set people at work on these occasions, and 
 put them upon asking advice which they never 
 intend to take; I look upon it to be none of the 
 least, that they are incapable of keeping a secret 
 which is so very pleasing to them. A girl longs 
 to tell her confidante, that she hopes to be married 
 in a little time; and, in order to talk of the pretty 
 fellow that dwells so much in her thoughts, asks 
 her very gravely what she would advise her to do 
 in a case of so much difficulty. Why else should 
 Melissa, who had not a thousand pounds in the 
 world, go into every quarter of the town to ask 
 her acquaintance, whether they would advise her 
 to take Tom Townly, that made his addresses to 
 her, with an estate of five thousand a year ? It is 
 very pleasant, on this occasion, to hear the lady 
 propose her doubts; and to see the pains she is at 
 to get over them. 
 
 I must not here omit a practice that is in use 
 among the vainer part of our own sex, who will 
 often ask a friend’s advice in relation to a fortune 
 whom they are never like to come at. Will Hon¬ 
 eycomb, who is now on the verge of threescore, 
 took me aside not long since, and asked me in his 
 most serious look, whether I would advise him to 
 marry my Lady Betty Single, who, by the way, 
 has one of the greatest fortunes about town. I 
 stared him full in the face upon so strange a ques¬ 
 tion; upon which he immediately gave me an in¬ 
 ventory of her jewels and estate, adding that he 
 was resolved to do nothing in a matter of such 
 consequence without my approbation. Finding 
 he would have an answer, i told him if he could 
 get the lady’s consent he had mine. This is about 
 the tenth match which, to my knowledge. Will 
 has consulted his friends upon, without ever open¬ 
 ing his mind to the party herself. 
 
 I have been engaged in this subject by the fol¬ 
 lowing letter, which comes to me from some nota¬ 
 ble young female scribe, who, by the contents of 
 it, seems to have carried matters so far, that she is 
 ripe for asking advice; but as I would not lose 
 her good-will, nor forfeit the reputation which 1 
 have with her for wisdom, I shall only communi¬ 
 cate the letter to the public, without returning any 
 answer to it. 
 
 | “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Now, Sir, the thing is this; Mr. Shapely is the 
 prettiest gentleman about town. He is very tall, 
 but not too tall neither. He dances like an angel. 
 His mouth is made I do not know how, but it is 
 the prettiest that I ever saw in my life. He is 
 always laughing, for he has an infinite deal of wit- 
 If you did but see how he rolls his stockings ! 
 He has a thousand pretty fancies, and 1 am sure, 
 if you saw him, you would like him. He is a 
 very good scholar, and can talk Latin as fast as 
 English. I wish you could but see him dance. 
 Now you must understand poor Mr. Shapely has 
 no estate; but how can he help that, you know? 
 And yet my friends are so unreasonable as to be 
 always teasing me about him, because he has no 
 estate; but I am sure he has that that is better than 
 an estate; for he is a good-natured, ingenious, 
 modest, civil, tall, well-bred, handsome man; and 
 I am obliged to him for his civilities ever since I 
 saw him. I forgot to tell you that he has black 
 eyes, and looks upon me now and then as if they 
 had tears in them. And yet my friends are so 
 unreasonable, that they would have me be uncivil 
 to him. I have a good portion which they cannot 
 hinder of, and I shall be fourteen on the 29th day 
 of August next, and am therefore willing to settle 
 in the world as soon as I can, and so is Mr. Shapely. 
 But everybody I advise with here, is poor Mr. 
 Shapely’s enemy. I desire therefore you will give 
 me your advice, for 1 know you are a wise man; 
 and if you advise me well, I am resolved to follow 
 it. I heartily wish you could see him dance; and 
 am, 
 
 “Sir, your most humble Servant, B. D. 
 
 C. “He loves your Spectators mightily.” 
 
 No. 476. J FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1712. 
 
 ■-Lucidus ordo.—H or. Ars. Poet. 41. 
 
 Method gives light, 
 
 Among my daily papers which I bestow on the 
 public, there are some which are written with regu¬ 
 larity and method, and others that run out into the 
 wildness of those compositions which go by the 
 name of essays. As for the first, I have the whole 
 scheme of the discourse in my mind before I set 
 my pen to paper. In the other kind of writing, it 
 is sufficient that I have several thoughts on a sub¬ 
 ject, without troubling myself to range them in 
 such order, that they may seem to grow out of one 
 another, and be disposed under the proper heads. 
 Seneca and Montaigne are patterns for writing in 
 this last kind, as Tully and Aristotle excel in the 
 other. When I read an author of genius who 
 writes without method, I fancy myself in a wood 
 that abounds with a great many noble objects, 
 rising among one another in the greatest confusion 
 and disorder. When I read a methodical dis¬ 
 course, I am in a regular plantation, and can place 
 myself in its several centers, so as to take a view of 
 all the lines and walks that are struck from them. 
 You may ramble in the one a whole day together, 
 and every moment discover something or other 
 that is new to you; but when you have done, you 
 will have but a confused imperfect notion of the 
 place : in the other your eye commands the whole 
 prospect, and gives you such an idea of it as is 
 not easily worn out of the memory. 
 
 Irregularity and want of method are only sup¬ 
 portable in men of great learning or genius, who 
 are often too full to be exact, and therefore choose 
 to throw down their pearls in heaps before the 
 reader, rather than be at the pains of stringing 
 them. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 569 
 
 Method is of advantage to a work, both in re¬ 
 spect to the writer and the reader. In regard to 
 the first, it is a great help to his invention. When 
 a man has planned his discourse, he finds a great 
 many thoughts rising out of every head, that do 
 not offer themselves upon the general survey of a 
 subject. His thoughts are at the same time more 
 intelligible, and better discover their drift and 
 meaning, when they are placed in their proper 
 lights and follow one another in a regular series, 
 than when they are thrown together without order 
 and connection. There is always an obscurity in 
 confusion; and the same sentence that would have 
 enlighteued the reader in one part of a discourse, 
 
 f perplexes him in another. For the same reason, 
 ikewise, every thought in a methodical discourse 
 shows itself in its greatest beauty, as the several 
 figures in a piece of painting receive new grace from 
 their disposition in the picture. The advantages of 
 a reader from a methodical discourse, are correspon¬ 
 dent with those of the writer. He comprehends 
 everything easily, takes it in with pleasure, and 
 retains it long. 
 
 Method is not less requisite in ordinary conversa¬ 
 tion than in writing, provided a man would talk to 
 make himself understood. I who hear a thousand 
 coffee-house debates every day, am very sensible of 
 this want of method in the thoughts of my honest 
 countrymen. There is not one dispute in ten which 
 is managed in those schools of politics, where, 
 after the three first sentences, the question is not 
 entirely lost. Our disputants put rge in mind of 
 the cuttle-fish, that when he is unable to extricate 
 himself, blackens all the water about him until he 
 becomes invisible. The man who does not know 
 how to methodize his thoughts, has always, to 
 borrow a phrase from the Dispensary, “a barren 
 superfluity of words:” the fruit is lost amidst the 
 exuberance of leaves. 
 
 Tom Puzzle is one of the most eminent imme- 
 thodical disputants of any that has fallen under 
 my observation. Tom has read enough to make 
 him very impertinent: his knowledge is sufficient 
 to raise doubts, but not to clear them. It is pity 
 that he has so much learning, or that he has not a 
 great deal more. With these qualifications, Tom 
 sets up for a freethinker, finds a great many things 
 to blame in the constitution of his country, and 
 gives shrewd intimations that he does not believe 
 in another world. In short, Puzzle is an atheist 
 as much as his parts will give him leave. He has 
 got about half a dozen common-place topics, into 
 which he never fails to turn the conversation, 
 whatever was the occasion of it. Though the 
 matter in debate be about Douay or Denain, it is 
 ten to one but half his discourse runs'upon the 
 unreasonableness of bigotry and priestcraft. This 
 makes Mr. Puzzle the admiration of all those who 
 have less sense than himself, and the contempt of 
 all those who have more. There is none in town 
 whom Tom dreads so much as my friend Will Dry. 
 Will, who is acquainted with Tom’s logic, when 
 he finds him running off the question, cuts him 
 short with a “What then? We allow all this to 
 be true; but what is it to our present, purpose?” I 
 have know Tom eloquent half an hour together, 
 and triumphing, as he thought, in the superiority 
 of the argument, when he has been non-plused 
 on a sudden by Mr. Dry’s desiring him to tell the 
 company what it was that he endeavored to prove. 
 
 In short, Dry is a man of clear methodical head, 
 but few words, and gains the same advantages over 
 Puzzle, that a small body of regular troops would 
 gain over a numberless undisciplined militia. 
 
 No. 477.] SATDTIDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1712. 
 
 -An me ludit amabilis 
 
 Insania ? Audire, et videor pios 
 Errare per lueos, amamae 
 
 Qos ct aquae subeunt et aura}.—II ob. 3 Od. iv. 5. 
 
 -Do.es airy fancy cheat 
 
 My mind well pleas’d with the deceit? 
 
 I seem to hear, 1 fjeern to move, 
 
 And wander through the happy grove, 
 
 \Y here smooth springs flow, and murm’ring breeze 
 Wantons through the waving trees.— Creech. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “Having lately read your essay on The Plea¬ 
 sures of the Imagination, I was so taken with your 
 thoughts upon some of our English gardens, that 
 I cannot forbear troubling you with a letter upon 
 that subject. I am one, you must know, who am 
 looked upon as a humorist in gardening. I have 
 several acres about my house, which I call roy 
 garden, and which a skillful gardener would not 
 know what to call. It is a confusion of kitchen 
 and parterre, orchard and flower garden, which lie 
 so mixed and interwoven with one another, that 
 if a foreigner who had seen nothing of our coun¬ 
 try, should be conveyed into my garden at his first 
 landing, he would look upon it as a natural wild¬ 
 erness, and one of the uncultivated parts of our 
 country. My flowers grow up in several parts of 
 the garden in the greatest luxuriancy and profu¬ 
 sion. I am so far from being fond of any particu¬ 
 lar one, by reason of its rarity, that if I meet with 
 any one in a field which pleases me, I give it a 
 place in my garden. By this means, when a stran¬ 
 ger walks with me, he is surprised to see several 
 large spots of ground covered with ten thousand 
 different colors, and has often singled out flowers 
 that he might have met with under a common 
 hedge, in a field, or in a meadow, as some of the 
 greatest beauties of the place. The only method 
 I observe in this particular, is to range in the same 
 quarter the products of the same season, that they 
 may make their appearance together, and compose a 
 picture of the greatest variety. There is the same ir¬ 
 regularity in my plantations, which run into as great 
 a wilderness as their natures will permit. I take 
 in none that do not naturally rejoice in the soil; and 
 am pleased, when I am walking in a labyrinth of 
 my own raising, not to know whether the'next tree 
 I shall meet with is an apple or an oak, an elm or 
 a pear-tree. My kitchen has likewise its partic¬ 
 ular quarters assigned it ; for beside the whole¬ 
 some luxury which that place abounds with, I have 
 always thought a kitchen-garden a more pleasant 
 sight than the finest orangery, or artificial green¬ 
 house. I love to see everything in its perfection; 
 and am more pleased to survey my rows of cole- 
 worts and cabbages, with a thousand nameless 
 pot-herbs, springing up in their full fragrancy and 
 verdure, than to see the tender plants of foreign 
 countries kept alive by artificial heats, or wither¬ 
 ing in an air and soil that are not adapted to them. 
 
 I must not omit, that there is a fountain rising in 
 the upper part of my garden, which forms a little 
 wandering rill, and administers to the pleasure as 
 well as the plenty of the place. I have so con¬ 
 ducted it, that it visits most of my plantations: 
 and have taken particular care to let it run in the 
 same manner as it would do in an open field, so 
 that it generally passes through banks of violets 
 and primroses, plats of willow, or other plants, 
 that seem to be of its own producing. There is 
 another circumstance in which I am very particu¬ 
 lar, or, as my neighbors call me, very whimsical: 
 as my garden invites into it all the birds of the 
 country, by offering them the conveniency of 
 springs and shades, solitude and shelter, I do not 
 suffer any one to destroy their nests in the spring. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 570 
 
 or drive them from their usual haunts in fruit-time; 
 I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds 
 than cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for 
 their songs. By this means, I have always the 
 music of the season in its perfection, and am 
 highly delighted to see the jay or the thrush hop ¬ 
 ping about my walks, and shooting before my eye 
 across the several little glades and alleys that 1 pass 
 through. I think there are as many kinds of gar¬ 
 dening as of poetry : your makers of parterres and 
 flower-gardens are epigrammatists and sonneteers 
 in this art; contrivers of bowers and grottoes, treil- 
 lages and cascades, are romance writers. Wise 
 and London are our heroic poets; and if, as a critic, 
 I may single out any passage of their works to 
 commend, I shall take notice of that part in the 
 upper garden at Kensington, which was at first 
 nothing but a gravel-pit. It must have been a fine 
 genius for gardening that could have thought of 
 forming such an unsightly hollow into so beauti¬ 
 ful an area, and to have hit the eye with so un¬ 
 common and agreeable a scene as that which it is 
 now wrought into. To give this particular spot 
 of ground the greater effect, they have made a 
 very pleasing contrast; for, as on one side of the 
 walk you see this hollow basin, with its several 
 little plantations, lying so conveniently under the 
 eye of the beholder, on the other side of it there 
 appears a seeming mount, made up of trees, rising 
 one higher than another, in proportion as they ap¬ 
 proach the center. A spectator, w T ho has not heard 
 this account of it, would think this circular mount 
 was not only a real one, but that it had been actu¬ 
 ally scooped out of that hollow space which I 
 have before mentioned. I never yet met with any 
 one, w 7 ho has walked in this garden, who was not 
 struck with that part of it which I have here men¬ 
 tioned. As for myself, you will find, by the ac¬ 
 count w 7 hich I have already given you, that my 
 compositions in gardening are altogether after the 
 Pindaric manner, and run into the beautiful wild¬ 
 ness of nature, without affecting the nicer elegances 
 of art. What I am now going to mention, will 
 
 f erhaps deserve your attention more than anything 
 have yet said. I find that, in the discourse 
 which I spoke of at the beginning of my letter, 
 you are against filling an English garden with 
 evergreens; and indeed I am so far of your opin¬ 
 ion, that I can by no means think the verdure of 
 an evergreen comparable to that which shoots out 
 annually, and clothes our trees in the summer sea¬ 
 son. But. 1 have often wondered that those w 7 ho 
 are like myself, and love to live in gardens, have 
 never thought of contriving a winter garden, 
 which should consist of such trees only as never 
 cast their leaves. We have very often little 
 snatches of sunshine and fair w T eather in the most 
 uncomfortable parts of the year, and have fre¬ 
 quently several days in November and January 
 that are as agreeable as any in the finest months. 
 At such times, therefore, I think there could not 
 
 be a greater 
 garden as I 
 son the w ho 
 
 fieasure than to w r alk in such a winter 
 iave proposed. In the summer sea- 
 e country blooms, and is a kind of 
 garden; for which reason w r e are not so sensible of 
 those beauties that at this time may be everywhere 
 met with; but when nature is in her desolation, 
 and presents us with nothing but bleak and barren 
 prospects, there is something unspeakably cheerful 
 in a spot of ground which is covered with trees 
 that smile amid all the rigors of wdnter, and give 
 us a view 7 of the most gay season in the midst of 
 that which is the most dead and melancholy. I 
 have so far indulged myself in this thought, that 
 I have set apart a whole acre of ground for the 
 execution of it. The w'alls are covered with ivy 
 instead of vines. The laurel, the horn beam and 
 
 the holly, w 7 ith many other trees and plants of the 
 same nature, grow so thick in it, that you caunot 
 imagine a more lively scene. The glowing redness 
 of the berries, with which they are hung at this 
 time, vies with the verdure of their leaves, and is 
 apt to inspire the heart of the beholder with that 
 vernal delight which you have somewhere taken 
 notice of in your former papers. It is very pleas¬ 
 ant, at the same time, to see the several kinds of 
 birds retiring into this little green spot, and en¬ 
 joying themselves among the branches and foliage, 
 when my great garden, which I have before men¬ 
 tioned to you, does not afford a single leaf for 
 their shelter. 
 
 “You must know. Sir, that I look upon the 
 pleasure which we take in a garden as one of the 
 most innocent delights in human life. A garden 
 was the habitation of our first parents before the 
 fall. It is naturally apt to fill the mind with 
 calmness and tranquillity, and to lay all its turbu¬ 
 lent passions at rest. It gives us a great insight 
 into the contrivances and wisdom of Providence, 
 and suggests innumerable subjects for meditation. 
 I cannot but think the very complacency and sat¬ 
 isfaction which a man takes in these works of 
 nature to be a laudable, if not a virtuous habit of 
 mind. For all which reasons, I hope you will 
 pardon the length of my present letter. 
 
 C. “ I am. Sir,” etc. 
 
 No. 478.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1712. 
 
 -TJnus, 
 
 Quem penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma- 
 
 Hor. Ars. Poet. v. 72. 
 
 Fashion, sole arbitress of dress. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ It happened lately that a friend of mine, who 
 had many things to buy for his family, would 
 oblige me to walk with him to the shops. He was 
 very nice in his way, and fond of having every¬ 
 thing shown; which at first made me very uneasy; 
 but as his humor still continued, the things which 
 I had been staring at along with him began to fill 
 my head, and led me into a set of amusing thoughts 
 concerning them. 
 
 “ I fancied it must be very surprising to any one 
 who enters into a detail of fashions to consider 
 how far the vanity of mankind has laid itself out 
 in dress, what a prodigious number of people it 
 maintains, and what a circulation of money it 
 occasions. Providence in this case makes use of 
 the folly which we will not give up, and it becomes 
 instrumental to the support of those who are wil¬ 
 ling to labor. Hence it is that fringe makers, lace- 
 men, tire-women, and a number of other trades, 
 which would be useless in a simple state of nature, 
 draw their subsistence; though it is seldom seen 
 that such as these are extremely rich, because their 
 original fault being founded upon vanity, keeps 
 them poor by the light inconstancy of its nature. 
 The variableness of fashion turns the stream of 
 business, which flows from it, now into one chan¬ 
 nel, and anon into another; so that different sets 
 of people sink or flourish in their turns by it. 
 
 “ From the shops we retired to the tavern, where 
 I found my friend express so much satisfaction for 
 the bargains he had made, that my moral reflec¬ 
 tions (if I had told them) might have passed fora 
 reproof; so I chose rather to fall in with him. and 
 let the discourse run upon the use of fashions. 
 
 “Here we remembered how much man is gov¬ 
 erned by his senses, how livelily he is struck by the 
 objects which appear to him in an agreeable man¬ 
 ner, how much clothes contribute to make us 
 
THE SPE 
 
 agreeable objects, and how much we owe it to 
 ourselves that we should appear so. 
 
 “We considered man as Delonging to societies; 
 societies as formed of different ranks, and different 
 ranks distinguished by habits, that all proper duty 
 or respect might attend their appearance. 
 
 “We took notice of several advantages which 
 are met with in the occurrences of conversation; 
 how the bashful man has been sometimes so raised, 
 as to express himself with an air of freedom, when 
 he imagines that his habit introduces him to com¬ 
 pany with a becoming manner; and again, how a 
 fool in fine clothes shall be suddeidy heard with 
 attention, till he has betrayed himself; whereas a 
 man of sense, appearing with a dress of negli- 
 ence, shall be but coldly received till hebeproved 
 y time, and established in a character. Such 
 things as these we could recollect to have happened 
 to oujr own knowledge so very often, that we con¬ 
 cluded the author had his reasons, who advises his 
 son to go in dress rather above his fortune than 
 under it. 
 
 “ At last the subject seemed so considerable, that 
 it was proposed to have a repository built for 
 fashions, as there are chambers for medals and 
 other rarities. The building may be shaped as 
 that which stands among the pyramids in the 
 form of a woman’s head. This may be raised 
 upon pillars, whose ornaments shall bear a just rela¬ 
 tion to the design. Thus there may be an imitation 
 of fringe carved in the base, a sort of appearance 
 of lace in the frieze, and a representation of curling 
 locks, with bows of ribands sloping over them, 
 may fill up the work of the cornice. The inside 
 may be divided into two apartments appropriated 
 to each sex. The apartments may be filled with 
 shelves, on which boxes are to stand as regularly 
 as books in a library. These are to have folding 
 doors, which being opened, you are to behold a 
 baby dressed out in some fashion which has flour¬ 
 ished, and standing upon a pedestal, where the 
 time of its reign is marked down. For its further 
 regulation let it be ordered, that every one who 
 invents a fashion shall bring in his box, whose 
 front he may at pleasure have either worked or 
 
 f )ainted with some amorous or gay device, that, 
 ike books with gilded leaves and covers, it may 
 the sooner draw the eyes of the beholders. And to 
 the end that these may be preserved with all due 
 care, let there be a keeper appointed, who shall be 
 a gentleman qualified with a competent knowledge 
 in clothes, so that by this means the place will be 
 a comfortable support for some beau who has spent 
 his estate in dressing. 
 
 “The reasons offered, by which we expected 
 to gain the approbation of the public, were as 
 follows: 
 
 “First, That every one who is considerable 
 enough to be a mode, or has any imperfection of 
 nature or chance, which it is possible to hide by 
 the advantage of clothes, may, by coming to this 
 repository, be furnished herself, and furnish all, 
 who are under the same misfortune, with the most 
 agreeable manner of concealing it; and that on the 
 other side, every one who has anv beauty in face 
 or shape, may also be furnished with the most 
 agreeable manner of showing it. 
 
 “ Secondly, That whereas some of our young 
 gentlemen who travel, give us great reason to sus¬ 
 pect lliat they only go abroad to make or improve 
 a fancy for dress, a project of this nature may be a 
 means to keep them at home; which is in effect the 
 keeping of so much money in the kingdom. And 
 perhaps the balance of fashion in Europe, which 
 now leans upon the side of France, may be so 
 altered for the future, that it may become as com¬ 
 mon with Frenchmen to come to England for their 
 
 CTATOR. 57 j 
 
 finishing stroke of breeding, as it has been for 
 Englishmen to go to France for it. 
 
 “ Thirdly, Whereas several great scholars, who 
 might have been otherwise useful to the world, 
 have spent their time in studying to describe the 
 dresses ot the ancients from dark hints, which 
 they are fain to interpret and support with much 
 learning; it will from henceforth happen that they 
 shall be freed from the trouble, and the world from 
 these useless volumes. This project will be a 
 registry, to which posterity may have recourse, for 
 the clearing such obscure passages as tend that way 
 in authors; and therefore we shall not for the 
 future submit ourselves to the learning of etymol¬ 
 ogy, which might persuade the age to come that 
 the farthingale was worn for cheapness, or the 
 furbelow for warmth. 
 
 “Fourthly, Whereas they, who are old them¬ 
 selves, have often a way of railing at the extrava¬ 
 gance of youth, and the whole age in which their 
 children live; it is hoped that this ill-humor will 
 be much suppressed, when we can have recourse 
 to the fashions of their times, produce them in our 
 vindication, and be able to show that it might 
 have been as expensive in Queen Elizabeth’s time 
 only to wash and quill a ruff, as it is now to buy 
 cravats or neck-handkerchiefs. 
 
 “ We desire also to have it taken notice of, that 
 because we would show a particular respect to 
 foreigners, which may induce them to perfect their 
 breeding here in a knowledge which is very proper 
 for pretty gentlemen, we have conceived the motto 
 for the house in the learned language. There is 
 to be a picture over the door, with a looking glass 
 and a dressing-chair in the middle of it; then on 
 one side are to be seen, one above another, patch- 
 boxes, pincushions, and little bottles; on the other, 
 pow T der bags, puffs, combs, and brushes; beyond 
 these, swords with fine knots, whose points are 
 hidden, and fans almost closed, with the handles 
 downward, are to stand out interchangeably from 
 the sides, until they meet at the top, and form a 
 semicircle over the rest of the figures; beneath 
 all, the writing is to run in this pretty sounding 
 manner: 
 
 Adeste, 0 quotquot sunt, Veneres, Gratise, Cupidines: 
 
 En vobis adsunt in promptu 
 Faces, vincula, spicula; 
 
 Hinc eligite, sumite, regite. 
 
 All ye Venuses, Graces, and Cupids, attend: 
 
 See prepared to your hands, 
 
 Darts, torches, and bands: 
 
 Your weapons here choose, and your empire extend. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 “A. B.” 
 
 The proposal of my correspondent I cannot but 
 look upon as an ingenious method of placing per¬ 
 sons (whose parts make them ambitious to exert 
 themselves in frivolous things) in a rank by them¬ 
 selves. In order to this, 1 would propose that 
 there be a board of directors of the fashionable 
 society; and, because it is a matter of too much 
 weight for a private man to determine alone, I 
 should be highly obliged to my correspondents if 
 they would give in lists of persons qualified for 
 this trust. If the chief coffee-houses, the conver¬ 
 sations of which places are carried on by persons, 
 each of whom has his little number of followers 
 and admirers, would name from among them¬ 
 selves two or three to be inserted, they should 
 be put up with great faithfulness. Old beaux are 
 to be represented in the first place; but as that 
 sect, with relation to dress, is almost extinct, it 
 will, I fear, be absolutely necessary to take in all 
 time-servers, properly so deemed; that is, such as, 
 without any conviction of conscience, or view of 
 interest, change with the world, and that merely 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 572 
 
 from a terror of being out of fashion. Such also, ! 
 •who from facility of temper, and too much obse¬ 
 quiousness, are vicious against their will, and 
 follow leaders whom they do not approve, for 
 want of courage to go their own way, are capa¬ 
 ble persons for this superintendency. Those who 
 are loth to grow old, or would do anything con¬ 
 trary to the course and order of things, out of 
 fondness to be in fashion, are proper candidates. 
 To conclude, those who are in fashion without 
 apparent merit, must be supposed to have latent 
 qualities, which would appear in a post of direc¬ 
 tion; and therefore are to be regarded in forming 
 these lists. Any who shall be pleased according 
 to these, or what further qualifications may occur 
 to himself, to send a list, is desired to do it within 
 fourteen days after this date. 
 
 N. B. The place of the physician to this society, 
 according to the last-mentioned qualification, is 
 already engaged. 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 479.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 1712. 
 
 -Dare jura mantis.— Hor. Ars. Poet. 398. 
 
 To regulate the matrimonial life. 
 
 Many are the epistles I every day receive from 
 husbands who complain of vanity, pride, but, 
 above all, ill-nature in their wives. I cannot tell 
 how it is, but I think I see in all their letters that 
 the cause of their uneasiness is in themselves; 
 and indeed 1 have hardly ever observed the mar¬ 
 ried condition unhappy, but from want of judg¬ 
 ment or temper in the man. The truth is, we 
 generally make love in a style and with senti¬ 
 ments very unfit for ordinary life: they are half 
 theatrical, half romantic. By this means, we raise 
 our imaginations to what is not to be expected in 
 human life; and because Ave did not beforehand 
 think of the creature we are enamored of, as sub¬ 
 ject to dishumor, age, sickness, impatience, or 
 sullenness, but altogether considered her as the 
 object of joy; human nature itself is often im¬ 
 puted to her as her particular imperfection, or 
 defect. 
 
 I take it to be a rule, proper to be observed in 
 all occurrences of life, but more especially in the 
 domestic, or matrimonial part of it, to preserve 
 ahvays a disposition to be pleased. This cannot 
 be supported but by considering things in then- 
 right light, and as nature has formed them, and 
 not as our own fancies or appetites would have 
 them. He then Avho took a young lady to his bed, 
 with no other consideration than the expectation 
 of scenes of dalliance, and thought of her (as I 
 said before) only as she was to administer to the 
 gratification of desire; as that desire flags, will, 
 without her fault, think her charms and her merit 
 abated: from hence must follow indifference, dis¬ 
 like, peevishness, and rage. But the man who 
 brings his reason to support his passion, and be¬ 
 holds what he loves, as liable to all the calamities 
 of human life, both in body and mind, and even 
 at the best Avhat must bring upon him new cares j 
 and new relations; such a lover, I say, will form 
 himself accordingly, and adapt his mind to the 
 nature of his circumstances. This latter person 
 will be prepared to be a father, a friend, an advo¬ 
 cate, a steward for people yet unborn, and has 
 proper affections ready for every incident in the 
 marriage state. Such a man can hear the cries of 
 children Avith pity instead of anger; and, Avhen 
 they run over his head, he is not disturbed at 
 their noise, but is glad of their mirth and health. 
 Tom Trusty has told me, that he thinks it doubles 
 his attention to the most intricate affair he is about, 
 
 to hear his children, for whom all his cares are 
 applied, make a noise in the next room: on the 
 other side, Will Sparkish cannot put on his peri- 
 Avig, or adjust his cravat at the glass, for the noise 
 of those damned nurses and squalling brats; and 
 then ends with a gallant reflection upon the com¬ 
 forts of matrimony, runs out of the hearing, and 
 drives to the chocolate-house. 
 
 According as the husband has disposed in him¬ 
 self, every circumstance in his life is to give him 
 torment or pleasure. When the affection is well 
 placed, and is supported by the considerations of 
 duty, honor, and friendship, which are in the 
 highest degree engaged in this alliance, there can 
 nothing rise in the common course of life, or from 
 the bloAvs or favors of fortune, in which a man 
 will not find matters of some delight unknown to 
 a single condition. 
 
 He that sincerely loves his wife and family, and 
 studies to improve that affection in himself, con¬ 
 ceives pleasure from the most indifferent things; 
 while the married man who has not bid adieu to 
 the fashions and false gallantries of the town, is 
 perplexed Avith everything around him. In both 
 these cases men cannot, indeed, make a sillier 
 figure, than in repeating such pleasures and pains 
 to the rest of the world: but I speak of them only 
 as they sit upon those who are involved in them. 
 As I visit all sorts of people, I cannot indeed but 
 smile, when the good lady tells her husband what 
 extraordinary things the child spoke since he went 
 out. No longer than yesterday I Avas prevailed 
 Avith to go home with a fond husband; and his 
 wife told him, that his son, of his own head, 
 when the clock in the parlor struck two, said 
 papa would come home to dinner presently. 
 While the father has him in a rapture in his 
 arms, and is droAvning him with kisses, the wife 
 tells me he is but just four years old. Then they 
 both struggle for him, and bring him up to me, 
 and repeat his observation of two o clock. I was 
 called upon, by looks upon the child, and then at 
 me, to say something: and I told the father that 
 this remark of the infant of his coming home, and 
 joining the time Avith it, was a certain indication 
 that lie would be a great historian and chronologer. 
 They are neither of them fools, yet received my 
 compliment with great acknowledgment of my 
 prescience. I fared very Avell at dinner, and 
 heard many other notable sayings of their heir, 
 which would haA r e given very little entertainment 
 to one less turned to reflection than J was: but it 
 Avas a pleasing speculation to remark on the hap¬ 
 piness of a life, in which things of no moment 
 give occasion of hope, self-satisfaction, and tri¬ 
 umph. On the other hand, I have known an ill- 
 natured coxcomb, who has hardly improved in 
 anything but bulk, for Avant of this disposition, 
 silence the whole family as a set of silly women 
 and children, for recounting things which were 
 really above his oavii capacity. 
 
 When I say all this, I cannot deny but there are 
 perverse jades that fall to men’s lots, with whom 
 it requires more than common proficiency in phi¬ 
 losophy to be able to live. When these are joined 
 to men of warm spirits, without temper or learn¬ 
 ing, they are frequently corrected with stripes; but 
 one of our famous lawyers* is of opinion that this 
 ought to be used sparingly; as I remember, those 
 are his very words; but as it is proper to draw 
 some spiritual use out of all afflictions, I should 
 rather recommend to those who are \-isited with 
 women of spirit, to form themselves for the Avorld by 
 patience at home. Socrates, who is by all accounts 
 the undoubted head of the sect of the henpecked, 
 
 * Bracton. 
 
573 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 owned and acknowledged that he owed groat part 
 of his virtue to the exercise which his useful wife 
 constantly g*ave it. There are several good in¬ 
 structions may be drawn from his wise answers 
 to the people of less fortitude than himself on her 
 subject. A friend, with indignation, asked how 
 so good a man could live with so violent a crea¬ 
 ture ! He observed to him, that they who learn 
 to keep a good seat on horseback, mount the least 
 manageable they can get; and, when they have 
 mastered them, they are sure never to be discom¬ 
 posed on the backs of steeds less restive. At 
 several times, to different persons, on the same 
 subject, he lias said, “My dear friend, you are 
 oeholden to Xantippe, that I bear so well your 
 flying out in a dispute.” To another, “My hen 
 clacks very much, but she brings me chickens. 
 1 hey that live in a trading street are not dis¬ 
 turbed at the passage of carts.” I would have, 
 if possible, a wise man be contented with his lot, 
 even with a shrew; for, though he cannot make 
 her better, he may, you see, make himself better 
 by her means. 
 
 But, instead of pursuing my design of display¬ 
 ing conjugal love in its natural beauties and attrac¬ 
 tions, I am got into tales to the disadvantage of 
 that state of life. I must say, therefore, that I am 
 verily persuaded, that whatever is delightful in 
 human life is to be enjoyed in greater perfection in 
 the married than in the single condition. He that 
 has this passion in perfection, in occasions of joy, 
 can say to himself, beside his own satisfaction, 
 “How happy will this make my wife and chil¬ 
 dren!” Upon occurrences of distress or danger, 
 can comfort himself, “ But all this while my wife 
 and children are safe.” There is something in it 
 that doubles satisfactions, because others partici¬ 
 pate them; and dispels afflictions because others 
 aie exempt from them. All who are married with¬ 
 out this relish of their circumstance are in either a 
 tasteless indolence and negligence which is hardly 
 to be attained, or else live in the hourly repetition 
 of sharp answers, eager upbraidings, and distract¬ 
 ing reproaches. In a word, the married state, with 
 and without the affection suitable to it, is the com- 
 pletest image of heaven and hell we are capable 
 of receiving in this life.—T. 
 
 Xo. 480.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 10, 1712. 
 
 Itesponsare cupidinitms, contenmere honores 
 Fortis, et in seipso totus teres atque rotundus. 
 
 IIor. 2 Sat. vii, S5. 
 
 He, Sir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf, 
 
 And, greater still, lie’s master of himself: 
 
 Not to and fro, by fears and factions hurl’d, 
 
 But loose to all the interests of the world; 
 
 And while the world turns round, entire and whole. 
 He keeps the sacred tenor of his soul.—P itt. 
 
 The other day, looking over those old manu¬ 
 scripts of which I have formerly given some ac¬ 
 count, and which relate to the character of the 
 mighty Pharamond of France, and the close friend¬ 
 ship between him and his friend Eucrate, I found 
 among the letters, which had been in the custody 
 of the latter, an epistle from a country gentleman 
 to Pharamond, wherein he excuses himself from 
 coming to court. The gentleman, it seems, was 
 contented with his condition, had formerly’been 
 in the king’s service; but at the writing the fol¬ 
 lowing letter had, from leisure and reflection, quite 
 another sense of things than that which he had in 
 the more active part of his life. 
 
 “Monsieur Chezluy to Pharamond. 
 
 “ Dread Sir, 
 
 I have from your own hand (inclosed under 
 the cover of Mr. Eucrate, of your majesty’s bed¬ 
 chamber) a letter which invites me to court. I 
 understand this great honor to be done me more 
 out of respect and inclination to me, rather than 
 regal d to your own service; for which reason I 
 beg leave to lay before your majesty my reasons 
 foi declining to depart from home; and will not 
 doubt but as your motive in desiring my attend- 
 ance was to make me a happier man, when you 
 think that will not be effected by my remove, you 
 will permit me to stay where I am. Those'who 
 have an ambition to appear in courts, have either 
 an opinion that their persons or their talents are 
 particularly formed for the service or ornament of 
 that place; or else are hurried by downright desire 
 of gain, or what they call honor, to take upon them¬ 
 selves whatever the generosity of their master can 
 giv^ them opportunities to grasp at. But your 
 goodness shall not be thus imposed upon by 
 me: I will therefore confess to you, that frequent 
 solitude, and long conversation with such who 
 know no arts whicli polish life, have made me 
 the plainest creature in your dominions. Those 
 less capacities of moving with a good grace, bear¬ 
 ing a ready affability to all around me, and acting 
 with ease before many, have quite left me. I am 
 come to that, with regard to my person, that I 
 consider it only as a machine I am obliged to take 
 care of, in order to enjoy my soul in its faculties 
 with alacrity; well remembering that this habita¬ 
 tion of clay will in a few years be a meaner piece 
 of earth than any utensil about my house. When 
 this is, as it really is, the most frequent reflection 
 I have, you will easily imagine how well I should 
 become a drawing-room; add to this, what shall a 
 man without desires do about the generous Phara¬ 
 mond ? Monsieur Eucrate has hinted to me, that 
 you have thoughts of distinguishing me with titles. 
 As for myself, in the temper of my present mind, 
 appellations of honor would but embarrass dis¬ 
 course, and new behavior toward me perplex me 
 in every habitude of life. I am also to acknow¬ 
 ledge to you, that my children, of whom your 
 majesty condescended to inquire, are all of them 
 mean, both in their persons and genius. The 
 estate my eldest son is heir to, is more than he 
 can enjoy with a good grace. My self-love will 
 not carry me so far as to impose upon mankind 
 the advancement of persons (merely for their being 
 related to me) into high distinctions, who ought 
 for their own sakes, as well as that of the public, 
 to affect obscurity. I wish, my generous prince, 
 as it is in your power to give honors and offices, 
 it were also to give talents suitable to them; were 
 it so, the noble Pharamond would reward the zeal 
 m .y youth with abilities to do him service in 
 my age. 
 
 Those who accept of favor without merit, sup¬ 
 port themselves in it at the expense of your ma¬ 
 jesty. Give me leave to tell you, Sir, this is the 
 reason that we in the country hear so often re¬ 
 peated the word prerogative. That part of your 
 law which is reserved in yourself, for the readier 
 service and good of the public, slight men are 
 eternally buzzing in our ears, to cover their own 
 follies and miscarriages. It would be an addition 
 to the high favor you have done me, if you would 
 let Eucrate send me word how often and in what 
 cases, you allow a constable to insist upon the 
 prerogative. From the highest to the lowest offi¬ 
 cer in your dominions, something of their own car¬ 
 riage they would exempt from examination, under 
 the shelter of the word prerogative. I would fain, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 574 
 
 most noble Pharamond, see one of your officers 
 assert your prerogative by good and gracious 
 actions. When is it used to help the afflicted, to 
 rescue the innocent, to comfort the stranger ? Un¬ 
 common methods, apparently undertaken to attain 
 worthy ends, would never make power invidious. 
 You see, Sir, I talk to you with the freedom ^our 
 noble nature approves in all whom you admit to 
 your conversation. 
 
 “ But to return to your majesty’s letter, I humbly 
 conceive that all distinctions are useful to men, 
 only as they are to act in public; and it would 
 be a romantic madness for a man to be a lord in 
 his closet. Nothing can be honorable to a man 
 apart from the world, but the reflection upon wor¬ 
 thy actions; and lie that places honor in a con¬ 
 sciousness of well-doing, will have but little relish 
 for any outward homage that is paid him ; since 
 what gives him distinction to himself, cannot 
 come within the observation of his beholders. 
 Th us all the words of lordship, honor, and grace, 
 are only repetitions to a man that the king has 
 ordered him to be called so ; but no evidences that 
 there is anything in himself, that would give the 
 man, who applies to him, those ideas, without the 
 creation of his master. 
 
 “ I have, most noble Pharamond, all honors and 
 all titles in your own approbation : I triumph in 
 them as they are your gift, I refuse them as they 
 are to give me the observation of others. Indulge 
 me, my noble master, in this chastity of renown ; 
 let me know myself in the favor of Pharamond ; 
 aud look down upon the applause of the people. 
 
 “ I am in all duty and loyalty, 
 
 “Your majesty’s most obedient 
 “ Subject and Servant, 
 
 “Jean Chezluy.” 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I need not tell with what disadvantages men 
 of low fortunes and great modesty come into the 
 world ; what wrong measures their diffidence of 
 themselves, and fear of offending, often oblige 
 them to take ; and what a pity it is that their 
 greatest virtues and qualities, that shpuld soonest 
 recommend them, are the main obstacle in the 
 way of their preferment. 
 
 “ This, Sir, is my case ; I was bred at a country 
 school, where I learned Latin and Greek. The 
 misfortunes of my family forced me up to town, 
 where a profession of the politer sort has protected 
 me against infamy and want. I am now clerk to 
 a lawyer, and, in times of vacancy and recess 
 from business, have made myself master of Italian 
 and French; and though the progress I have 
 made in my business has gained me reputation 
 enough for one of my standing, yet my mind 
 suggests to me every day that it is not upon that 
 foundation 1 am to build my fortune. 
 
 ‘ The person I have my present dependence 
 upon has it in his nature, as well as in his power, 
 to advance me, by recommending me to a gentle¬ 
 man that is going beyond sea in a public employ¬ 
 ment. I know the printing this letter would point 
 me out to those I want confidence to speak to, 
 and I hope it is not in your power to refuse 
 making anybody happy. 
 
 “ Yours, etc. 
 
 “ September 9, 1712. “ M. D.” 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 481.] THURSDAY, SEPT. 11, 1712. 
 
 -Uti non 
 
 Compositus melius cum Bitho Bacchius. In jus 
 
 Acres procurrunt- Hor. Sat. 1. vii. 19. 
 
 Who shall decide when doctors disagree, 
 
 And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?.—P op*. 
 
 It is sometimes pleasant enough to consider the 
 different notions which different persons have of 
 the same thing. If men of low condition very 
 often set a value on things which are not prized 
 by those who are in a higher station of life, there 
 are many things these esteem which are in no 
 value among persons of an inferior rank. Com¬ 
 mon people are, in particular, very much aston¬ 
 ished when they hear of those solemn contests and 
 debates, which are made among the great upon 
 the punctilios of a public ceremony; and wonder 
 to hear that any business of consequence should 
 be retarded by those little circumstances, which 
 they represent to themselves as trifling and insig¬ 
 nificant. I am mightily pleased with a porter’s 
 decision in one of Mr. Southern’s plays, which is 
 founded upon that fine distress of a virtuous wo¬ 
 man’s marrying a second husband, while the first 
 was yet living. The first husband, who was sup¬ 
 posed to have been dead, returning to his house 
 after a long absence, raises a noble perplexity for 
 the tragic part of the play. In the meanwhile the 
 nurse and the porter conferring upon the difficul¬ 
 ties that would ensue in such a case, honest Sam¬ 
 son thinks the matter may be easily decided, and 
 solves it very judiciously by the old proverb, that, 
 if his first master be still living, “the man must 
 have his mare again.” There is nothing in my 
 time which has so much surprised aud confounded 
 the greatest part of my honest countrymen, as the 
 present controversy between Count Rechteren and 
 Monsieur Mesnager, which employs the wise heads 
 of so many nations, and holds all the affairs of 
 Europe in suspense. 
 
 Upon my going into a coffee-house yesterday, 
 and lending an ear to the next table, which was 
 encompassed with a circle of inferior politicians, 
 one of them, after having read over the news very 
 attentively, broke out into the following remarks: 
 “ I am afraid,” says he, “ this unhappy rupture 
 between the footmen at Utrecht will retard the 
 peace of Christendom. I wish the pope may not 
 be at the bottom of it. His holiness has a very 
 good hand at fomenting a division, as the poor 
 Swiss cantons have lately experienced to their 
 cost. If Monsieur What-d’ye-call-him’s domestics 
 will not come to an accommodation, I do not know 
 how the quarrel can be ended but by a religious 
 I war.” 
 
 “ Why, truly,” says a wiseacre that sat by him, 
 “ were I as the king of France, I would scorn to 
 ; take part with the footmen of either side: here’s 
 | all the business of Europe stands still, because 
 Monsieur Mesnager’s man has had his head broke. 
 If Count Rectrum* had given them a pot of ale 
 after it, all would have been well, without any of 
 this bustle; but they say he’s a warm man, and 
 ; does not care to be made mouths at.” 
 
 Upon this, one that had held his tongue hith¬ 
 erto, began to exert himself; declaring, “ that he 
 was very well pleased the plenipotentiaries of our 
 ! Christian princes took this matter into their seri¬ 
 ous consideration ; for that lackeys were never so 
 saucy and pragmatical as they are now-a-days, 
 and that he should be glad to see them taken 
 down in the treaty of peace, if it might be done 
 without prejudice to the public affairs.” 
 j One who sat at the other end of the table, and 
 I seemed to be in the interests of the French king, 
 
 * Count Rechteren. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 told them, that they did not take the matter ri'dit, 
 for that His Most Christian majesty did not resent 
 this matter because it was an injury done to Mon¬ 
 sieur Mesnager’s footman : “ for,” says he, “ what 
 are Monsieur Mesnager’s footmen to him ? but be¬ 
 cause it was done to his subjects. Now,” says he, 
 . ^ lrie you, it would look very odd for a sub¬ 
 ject of France to have a bloody nose, and his sov¬ 
 ereign not to take notice of it. He is obliged in 
 honor to defend his people against hostilities ; 
 and if the Dutch will be so insolent to a crowned 
 head, as in anywise to cuff or kick those who are 
 under his protection, I think he is in the right to 
 call them to an account for it.” 
 
 1 his distinction set the controversy upon a new 
 foot, and seemed to be very well approved by 
 most that heard it, until a little warm fellow, who 
 had declared himselt a friend to the house of Aus¬ 
 tria, fell most unmercifully upon his Gallic ma¬ 
 jesty, as encouraging his subjects to make mouths 
 at their betters, and afterward screening them 
 from the punishment that was due to their inso¬ 
 lence. To which he added, that the French na¬ 
 tion was so addicted to grimace, that, if there was 
 not ^ stop put to it at the general congress, there 
 would be no walking the streets for them in a 
 time of peace, especially if they continued masters 
 of the West Indies. The little man proceeded 
 with a great deal of warmth, declaring that, if the 
 allies were of his mind, he would oblige the 
 french king to burn his galleys, and tolerate the 
 -rrotestant religion in his dominions, before he 
 would sheath his sword. He concluded with call- 
 mg Monsieur Mesnager an insignificant prig. 
 
 ihe dispute was now growing very warm, and 
 one does not know where it would have ended, 
 had not a young man of about one-and-twenty! 
 who seems to have been brought up with an eye to 
 the law, taken the debate into his hand, and given 
 it as his opinion, that neither Count Rechteren 
 nor Monsieur Mesnager had behaved themselves 
 right in this affair. “ Count Rechteren,” says he, 
 
 “ should have made affidavit that his servants had 
 been affronted, and then Monsieur Mesnao-er 
 would have done him justice, by taking away 
 their liveries from them, or some other way that 
 he might have thought the most proper ; for, let 
 me tell you, if a man makes a mouth at me, I am 
 not to knock the teeth out of it for his pains. 
 
 1 lien again, as for Monsieur Mesnager, upon his 
 servants being beaten, why, he might have had 
 nis action of assault and battery. But as the case 
 now stands, if you will have my opinion, I think 
 they ought to bring it to referees.” 
 
 I heard a great deal more of this conference but 
 1 must confess, with little edification ; for all I 
 could learn at last from these honest gentlemen 
 was, that the matter in debate was of too high a 
 nature for such heads as theirs, or mine, to com¬ 
 prehend.—0. 
 
 575 
 
 tradesman, who dates his letter from Cheapside 
 sends me thanks in the name of a club, who, he 
 tells me, meet as often as their wives will give 
 them leave, and stay together till they are sent 
 tor home. He informs me, that my paper has ad¬ 
 ministered great consolation to their whole club, 
 and desires me to give some further account of 
 bocrates and to acquaint them in whose reign he 
 ived, whether he was a citizen or a courtier, 
 vhether he buried Xantippe, with many other 
 pai icu ars : for that, by his sayings, he appears 
 to have been a very wise man, and a good Chris¬ 
 tian Another, who writes himself Beniamin 
 iiamboo, tells me that, being coupled with a 
 snrew, he had endeavored to tame her by such 
 lawful means as those which I mentioned in my 
 last Tuesday’s paper, and that in his wrath he 
 lad often gone further than Bracton allows in 
 those cases; but that for the future he was re¬ 
 solved to bear it like a man of temper and learn¬ 
 ing, and consider her only as one who lives in his 
 house to teach him philosophy. Tom Dapperwit 
 says, that he agrees with me in that whole dis- 
 course excepting only the last sentence, where I 
 affirm the married state to be either a heaven or a 
 hell. I oin has been at the charge of a penny upon 
 this occasion to tell me, that by his experience it 
 is neither one nor the other, but rather that middle 
 Kind of state, commonly known by the name of 
 purgatory. 
 
 The fair sex have likewise obliged me with their 
 reflections upon the same discourse. A lady, who 
 calls herself Euterpe, and seems a woman of let¬ 
 ters, asks me whether I am for establishing the 
 balic law in every family, and why it is not fit 
 that a woman who has discretion and learning 
 should sit at the helm, when the husband is weak 
 and illiterate ? Another, of a quite contrary char- 
 acter, subscribes herself Xantippe, and tells me 
 that she follows the example of her namesake • 
 or being married to a bookish man, who has no' 
 knowiedge of the world, she is forced to take their 
 affairs into her own hands, and to spirit him up 
 now and then, that he may not grow musty, and 
 unfit for conversation. 
 
 After this abridgment of some letters which 
 are come to my hands upon this occasion, I shall 
 publish one of them at large. 
 
 No. 482.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1712. 
 
 Floriferis ut apes in saltibus omnia libant.— Lucr. iii. 11. 
 
 As from the sweetest flower the lab’ring bee 
 
 Extracts her precious sweets. —Creech.” 
 
 When I have published any single paper that 
 falls in with the popular taste, and pleases more 
 than ordinary, it always brings me in a great re¬ 
 turn of letters. My Tuesday’s discourse, wherein 
 1 gave several admonitions to the fraternity of 
 the henpecked, has already produced me very 
 many correspondents ; the reason I cannot guess 
 at, unless it be, that such a discourse is of general 
 use, and every married man’s money. An honest 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 i -‘7™ ha / e ? iven us a lively picture of that 
 kind of husband who comes under the denomina¬ 
 tion of the henpecked ; but I do not remember 
 that you have ever touched upon one that is of the 
 quite different character, and who, in several 
 places of England, goes by the name of ‘a cot- 
 quean. I have the misfortune to be joined for 
 life with one of this character, who in reality is 
 more a woman than I am. He was bred up under 
 the tuition of a tender mother, till she had made 
 him as good a housewife as herself. He could 
 preserve apricots, and make jellies, before he had 
 been two years out of the nursery. He was never 
 suffered to go abroad, for fear of catching cold • 
 when he should have been hunting down a buck 
 he was by his mother’s side learning how to sea¬ 
 son it, or put it in crust; and was making paper 
 boats with his sisters, at an age when other vouno- 
 gentlemen are crossing the seas, or travelino- into 
 foreign countries. He has the whitest hand that 
 you ever saw in your life, and raises paste better 
 than any woman in England. These qualifica¬ 
 tions make him a sad husband. He is perpetually 
 in the kitchen, and has a thousand squabbles with 
 the cook-maid. He is better acquainted with the 
 milk-score than his steward’s accounts. I fret to 
 death when I hear him find fault with a dish that 
 
576 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 is not dressed to his liking, and instructing liis 
 friends that dine with him in the best pickle for a 
 walnut, or sauce for a haunch of venison. With 
 all this he is a very good-natured husband, and 
 never fell out with me in his life but once, upon 
 the over-roasting of a dish of wild fowl. At the 
 same time I must own, I would rather he was a 
 man of a rough temper, that would treat me harsh¬ 
 ly sometimes, than of such an effeminate busy 
 nature, in a province that does not belong to him. 
 Since you have given us the character of a wife 
 who wears the breeches, pray say something of a 
 husband that wears the petticoat. Why should 
 not a female character be as ridiculous in a man, 
 as a male character in one of our sex ? 
 
 0 . “I am,” etc. 
 
 Ho. 483.] SATURDAY, SEPT. 13, 1712. 
 
 Nec deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 
 
 Incident-— Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 191. 
 
 Never presume to make a god appear, 
 
 But for a business worthy of a god.— Roscommon. 
 
 We cannot be guilty of a greater act of unchar¬ 
 itableness than to interpret the afflictions which 
 befall our neighbors as punishments and judg¬ 
 ments. It aggravates the evil to him who suffers, 
 when he looks upon himself as the mark of Divine 
 vengeance, and abates the compassion of those 
 toward him who regard him in so dreadful a light. 
 This humor, of turning every misfortune into a 
 judgment, proceeds from wrong notions of relig¬ 
 ion, which in its own nature produces good-will 
 toward men, and puts the mildest construction 
 upon every accident that befalls them. In this case, 
 therefore, it is not religion that sours a man’s 
 temper, but it is his temper that sours his religion. 
 People of gloomy, uncheei'ful imaginations, or of 
 envious malignant tempers, whatever kind of life 
 they are engaged in, will discover their natural 
 tincture of mind in all their thoughts, words, and 
 actions. As the finest wines have often the taste 
 of the soil, so even the most religious thoughts 
 often draw something that is particular from the 
 constitution of the mind in which they arise. 
 When folly or superstition strike in with this nat¬ 
 ural depravity of temper, it is not in the power 
 even of religion itself, to preserve the character of 
 the person who is possessed with it from appear¬ 
 ing highly absurd and ridiculous. 
 
 An old maiden gentlewoman, whom I shall con¬ 
 ceal under the name of Nemesis, is the greatest 
 discoverer of judgments that I have met with. 
 She can tell you what sin it was that set such a 
 man’s house on fire, or blew down his barns. 
 Talk to her of an unfortunate young lady that lost 
 her beauty by the small-pox, she fetches a deep 
 sigh, and tells you, that when she had a fine face 
 she was always looking on jt in her glass. Tell 
 her of a piece of good fortune that has befallen one 
 of her acquaintance, and she wishes it may pros¬ 
 per with her, but her mother used one of her nieces 
 very barbarously. Her usual remarks turn upon 
 people who had great estates, but never enjoyed 
 them by reason of some flaw in their own or their 
 father’s behavior. She can give you the reason 
 why such a one died childless; why such a one was 
 cut off in the flower of his youth; why such a one 
 was unhappy in her marriage; why one broke his 
 leg on such a particular spot of ground; and why 
 another w r as killed with a back-sword, rather than 
 with any other kind of weapon. She has a crime 
 for every misfortune that can befall any of her 
 acquaintance; and when she hears of a robbery 
 that has been made, or a murder that has been 
 
 committed, enlarges more on the guilt of the suf¬ 
 fering person, than on that of the thief, or the 
 assassin. In short, she is so good a Christian, that 
 whatever happens to herself is a trial, and what¬ 
 ever happens to her neighbors is a judgment. 
 
 The very description of this folly, in ordinary 
 life, is sufficient to expose it; but, when it appears 
 in a pomp and dignity of style, it is very apt to 
 amuse and terrify the mind of the reader. Hero- 
 dotys and Plutarch very often apply their judg¬ 
 ments as impertinently as the old woman I have 
 before mentioned, though their manner of relating 
 them makes the folly itself appear venerable. In¬ 
 deed, most historians, as well Christian as Pagan, 
 have fallen into this idle superstition, and spoken 
 of ill success, unforeseen disasters, and terrible 
 events, as if they had been let into the secrets of 
 Providence, and made acquainted with that private 
 conduct by which the world is governed. One 
 would think several of our own historians in par¬ 
 ticular had many revelations of this kind made to 
 them. Our old English monks seldom let any of 
 their kings depart in peace, who had endeavored 
 to diminish the power or wealth of which the 
 ecclesiastics were in those times possessed. Wil¬ 
 liam the Conqueror’s race generally found their 
 judgments in the New Forest, where their father 
 had pulled down churches and monasteries. In 
 short, read one of the chronicles written by an 
 author of this frame of mind, and you would think 
 you were reading a history of the kings of Israel 
 or Judah, where the historians were actually in¬ 
 spired, and where, by a particular scheme of Prov¬ 
 idence, the kings were distinguished by judgments, 
 or blessings, according as they promoted idolatry, 
 or the worship of the true God. 
 
 I cannot but look upon this manner of judging 
 upon misfortunes, not only to be very uncharitable 
 in regard to the person on whom they fall, but very 
 presumptuous in regard to him who is supposed 
 to inflict them. It is a strong argument for a state 
 of retribution hereafter, that in this world virtuous 
 persons are very often unfortunate, and vicious 
 persons prosperous; which is wholy repugnant to 
 the nature of a Being who appears infinitely wise 
 and good in all his wrnrks, unless we may suppose 
 that such a promiscuous and undistinguishing 
 distribution of good and evil, which was necessary 
 for carrying on the designs of Providence in this 
 life, will be rectified, and made amends for, in an¬ 
 other. We are not therefore to expect that fire 
 should fall from heaven in the ordinary course of 
 Providence; nor, when we see triumphant guilt or 
 depressed virtue in particular persons, that Om¬ 
 nipotence will make bare his holy arm in the 
 defense of the one, or punishment of the other. 
 It is sufficient that there is a day set apart for the 
 hearing and requiting of both, according to their 
 respective merits. 
 
 The folly of ascribing temporal judgments to 
 any particular crimes, may appear from several 
 considerations. I shall only mention two. First, 
 that, generally speaking, there is no calamity or 
 affliction, which is supposed to have happens as 
 a judgment to a vicious man, w r hich does not some¬ 
 times happen to men of approved religion and 
 virtue. When Diagoras the atheist was on board 
 one of the Athenian ships, there arose a very vio¬ 
 lent tempest; upon w T hich, the mariners told him, 
 that it was a just judgment upon them for having 
 taken so impious a man on board. Diagoras beg¬ 
 ged them to look upon the rest of the ships that 
 were in the same distress, and asked them wdiether 
 or no Diagoras was on board every vessel in the 
 fleet. We are all involved in the same calamities, 
 and subject to the same accidents; and wdien we 
 see any one of the species under any particular 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 oppression, we should look upon it as arising from 
 the common lot of human nature, rather than from 
 the guilt of the person who suffers. 
 
 Another consideration, that may check our pre¬ 
 sumption in putting such a construction upon a 
 misfortune, is this; that it is impossible for us to 
 know what are calamities and what are blessings. 
 How many accidents have passed for misfortunes, 
 which have turned to the welfare and prosperity 
 of the persons to whose lot they have fallen ! How 
 many disappointments have, in their consequences, 
 saved a man from ruin ! If we could look into 
 the effects of everything, we might be allowed to 
 pronounce boldly upon blessings and judgments; 
 but for a man to give his opinion of what he sees 
 but in part, and in its beginnings, is an unjustifia¬ 
 ble piece of rashness and folly. The story of 
 Biton and Clitobus, which was in great reputation 
 among the heathens (for we see it quoted by all 
 the ancient authors, both Greek and Latin, who 
 have written upon the immortality of the soul), 
 may teach us a caution in this matter. These two 
 brothers being the sons of a lady who was priest¬ 
 ess to Juno, drew their mother’s chariot to the 
 temple at the time of a great solemnity, the per¬ 
 sons being absent who, by their office, were to 
 have drawn her chariot on that occasion. The 
 mother was so transported with this instance of 
 filial duty, that she petitioned her goddess to be¬ 
 stow upon them the greatest gift that could be 
 given to men; upon which they were both cast 
 into a deep sleep, and the next morning found dead 
 in the temple. This was such an event as would 
 have been construed into a judgment, had it hap¬ 
 pened to the two brothers after an act of disobedi¬ 
 ence, and would doubtless have been represented 
 as such by any ancient historian who had given us 
 an account of it.—O. 
 
 577 
 
 No. 484.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1712. 
 
 Neque cuiquam tam statim clarum ingenium est, ut possit 
 emergere; nisi illi materia, occasio, fautor etiam, commen 
 datorque contingat.—P lin. Epist. 
 
 Nor has any one so bright a genius as to become illustrious 
 instantaneously, unless it fortunately meets with occasion 
 and employment, with patronage too, and commendation. 
 
 *‘Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Of all the young fellows who are in their pro 
 gress through any profession, none seem to have 
 so good a title to the protection of the men of 
 eminence in it, as the modest man; not so much 
 because his modesty is a certain indication of his 
 merit, as because it is a certain obstacle to the pro 
 during of it. Now, as of all professions this virtue 
 is thought to be more particularly unnecessary in 
 that of the law than in any other, I shall only 
 apply myself to the relief of such who follow this 
 professioh with this disadvantage. What aggra¬ 
 vates the matter is, that those persons who, the 
 better to prepare themselves for this study, have 
 made some progress in others, have, by addicting 
 themselves to letters, increased their natural mod^ 
 esty, and consequently heightened the obstruction 
 to this sort of preferment; so that every one of 
 these may emphatically be said to be such a one as 
 ‘ laboreth and taketh pains, and is still the more 
 behind.’ It may be a matter worth discussing, 
 then, why that which made a youth so amiable to 
 the ancients, should make him appear so ridic¬ 
 ulous to the moderns ? and why, in our days, there 
 should be neglect, and even oppression, of young 
 beginners, iustead of that protection which was 
 the pride of theirs? In the profession spoken of, 
 it is obvious to every one whose attendance is 
 required at Westminster-hall, with what difficulty 
 
 a youth of any modesty has been permitted to 
 make an observation, that could in no wi§e detract 
 from the merit of his elders, and is absolutely 
 necessary for the advancing his own. I have often 
 seen one of these not only molested in his utter¬ 
 ance of something very pertinent, but even plun¬ 
 dered of his question, and by a strong sergeant 
 shouldered out of his rank, which he has recovered 
 with much difficulty and confusion. Now, as 
 great part of the business of this profession might 
 be dispatched by one that perhaps 
 
 -—Abest virtute diserti 
 Messalae, nec scit quantum Casccllius Aulus: 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. 370. 
 
 -wants Messala’s powerful eloquence, 
 
 And is less read than deep Cascellius.—R oscommon. 
 
 so I cannot conceive the injustice done to the pub¬ 
 lic, if the men of reputation in this calling would 
 introduce such of the young ones into business, 
 whose application to this study will let them into 
 the secrets of it, as much as their modesty will 
 hinder them from the practice; 1 say it would be 
 laying an everlasting obligation upon a voung 
 man, to be introduced at first only as a mute, till 
 by this countenance, and a resolution to support 
 the good opinion conceived of him in his betters, 
 his complexion shall be so well settled, that the 
 litigious of this island may be secure of his ob¬ 
 streperous aid. If I might be indulged to speak 
 in the style of a lawyer, I would say, that any one 
 about thirty years of age might make a common 
 motion to the court with as much elegance and 
 propriety as the most aged advocates in the hall. 
 
 I cannot advance the merit of modestv by any 
 argument of my own so powerfully, as by inquir¬ 
 ing into the sentiments the greatest among the 
 ancients of different ages entertained upon this 
 virtue. If we go back to the days of Solomon, 
 we shall find favor a necessary consequence to a 
 shamefaced man. Pliny, the greatest awyer and 
 most elegant writer of the age he lived in, in sev¬ 
 eral of his epistles is very solicitous in recom¬ 
 mending to the public some young men of his own 
 profession, and very often undertakes to become 
 an advocate, upon condition that some one of these 
 his favorites might be joined with him, in order to 
 produce the merit of such, whose modesty other¬ 
 wise would have suppressed it. It may seem 
 very marvelous to a saucy modern, that multum 
 sanguinis, multum verecundice, multum sollicitudinis 
 %n ore; to have the ‘face first full of blood, then 
 the countenance dashed with modesty, and then 
 the whole aspect as of one dying with fear, when 
 a man begins to speak;’ should be esteemed by 
 Pliny the necessary qualifications of a fine speaker. 
 Shakspeare also has expressed himself in the same 
 favorable strain of modesty, when he says: 
 
 -In the modesty of fearful duty 
 
 I read as much as from the rattling tongue, 
 
 Of saucy and audacious eloquence- 
 
 “Now, since these authors have professed them¬ 
 selves for the modest man, even in the utmost con¬ 
 fusions of speech and countenance, why should an 
 intrepid utterance and a resolute vociferation thun¬ 
 der so successfully in our courts of justice? And 
 why should that confidence of speech and beha¬ 
 vior, which seems to acknowledge no superior, and 
 to defy all contradiction, prevail over that defer¬ 
 ence and resignation with which the modest man 
 implores that favorable opinion which the other 
 seems to command ? 
 
 “As the case at present stands, the best consola¬ 
 tion that I can administer, to those who cannot get 
 into that stroke of business (as the phrase is) which 
 Ley deserve, is to reckon every particular acquisi¬ 
 tion of knowledge in this stuay as a real increase 
 ot their fortune; and fully to believe, that one day 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 578 
 
 this imaginary gain will certainly be made out by 
 one more substantial. I wish you would talk to 
 us a little on this head; you will oblige, Sir, 
 
 '‘ Your most humble Servant.” 
 
 The author of this letter is certainly a man of 
 good sense; but I am perhaps particular in my 
 opinion on this occasion : for I have observed that 
 under the notion of modesty, men have indulged 
 themselves in a spiritless sheepishness, and been 
 forever lost to themselves, their families, their 
 friends, and their country. When a man has taken 
 care to pretend to nothing but what he may justly 
 aim at, and can execute as well any other, without 
 injustice to any other, it is ever want of breeding, 
 or courage, to be brow-beaten, or elbowed out of his 
 honest ambition. I have said often, modesty must 
 be an act of the will, and yet it always implies 
 self-denial; for, if a man has an ardent desire to do 
 what is laudable for him to perform, and from an 
 unmanly bashfulness shrinks away, and lets his 
 merit languish in silence, he ought not to be angry 
 at the world that a more unskillful actor succeeds 
 in his part, because he has not confidence to come 
 upon the stage himself. The generosity my cor¬ 
 respondent mentions of Pliny cannot be enough 
 applauded. To cherish the dawn of merit, and 
 hasten its maturity, was a work worthy a noble 
 Roman, and a liberal scholar. That concern which 
 is described in the letter, is to all the world the 
 greatest charm imaginable; but then the modest 
 man must proceed, and show a latent resolution 
 in himself: for the admiration of his modesty 
 arises from the manifestation of his merit. 1 must 
 confess we live in an age wherein a few empty blus¬ 
 terers carry away the praise of speaking, while a 
 crowd of fellows overstocked with knowledge are 
 run down by them : 1 say overstocked, because 
 they certainly are so, as to their service of man¬ 
 kind, if from their very store they raise to them¬ 
 selves ideas of respect and greatness of the occa¬ 
 sion, and I know not what, to disable themselves 
 from explaining their thoughts. I must confess, 
 when I have seen Charles Frankair rise up with a 
 commanding mien, and torrent of handsome words 
 talk a mile off the purpose, and drive down twenty 
 bashful boobies of ten times his sense, who at the 
 same time were envying his impudence, and de¬ 
 spising his understanding, it has been matter of 
 great mirth to me: but it soon ended in a secret 
 lamentation, that the fountains of everything 
 praiseworthy in these realms, the universities, 
 should be so muddied with a false sense of this 
 virtue, as to produce men capable of being so 
 abused. I will be bold to say, that it is a ridicu¬ 
 lous education which does not qualify a man to 
 make his best appearance before the greatest man, 
 and the finest woman, to whom he can address 
 himself. Were this judiciously corrected in the 
 nurseries of learning, pert coxcombs would know 
 their distance: but we must bear with this false 
 modesty in our young nobility and gentry, till 
 they cease at Oxford and Cambridge to grow dumb 
 in the study of eloquence.—T. 
 
 No. 485.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1712. 
 
 Nihil tam firmnm est, cui periculum non sit etiam ab inva- 
 lido.— Quin. Curt. 1. vii. c. 8. 
 
 The strongest things are not so well established as to be out 
 of danger from the weakest. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “My Lord Clarendon has observed, that few 
 men have done more harm than those who have 
 been thought to be able to do least; and there cannot 
 
 be a greater error, than to believe a man, whom 
 we see qualified with too mean parts to do good, 
 to be therefore incapable of doing hurt. There is 
 a supply of malice, of pride, of industry, and 
 even of folly, in the weakest, when he sets his 
 heart upon it, that makes a strange progress in 
 mischief. What may seem to the reader the great¬ 
 est paradox in the reflection of the historian is, I 
 suppose, that folly', which is generally thought 
 incapable of contriving or executing any design, 
 should be so formidable to those whom it exerts 
 itself to molest. But this will appear very plain, 
 if we remember that Solomon says, ‘It is as sport 
 to a fool to do mischief;’ and that he might the more 
 emphatically express the calamitous circumstances 
 of him who falls under the displeasure of this 
 wanton person, the same author adds further, that 
 ‘ A stone is heavy, and the sand weighty, but a 
 fool’s wrath is heavier than them both.’ It is im¬ 
 possible to suppress my own illustration upon this 
 matter, which is, that as the man of sagacity be¬ 
 stirs himself to distress his enemy by methods 
 probable and reducible to reason, so the same rea¬ 
 son will fortify his enemy to elude these his regu¬ 
 lar efforts; but your fool projects, acts, and con¬ 
 cludes, with such notable inconsistency, that no 
 regular course of thought can evade or counterplot 
 his prodigious machinations. My frontispiece, I 
 believe, may be extended to imply, that several 
 of our misfortunes arise from things, as well as 
 persons, that seem of very little consequence. Into 
 what tragical extravagances does Shakspeare hurry 
 Othello, upon the loss of a handkerchief only! 
 And what barbarities does Desdemona suffer, from 
 a slight inadvertency in regard to this fatal trifle! 
 If the schemes of all the enterprising spirits were 
 to be carefully examined, some intervening acci¬ 
 dent, not considerable enough to occasion any de¬ 
 bate upon, or give them any apprehension of, ill 
 consequence from it, will be found to be the occa¬ 
 sion of their ill success, rather than any error in 
 points of moment and difficulty, which naturally 
 engaged their maturest deliberations. If you go 
 to the levee of any great man you will observe 
 him exceeding gracious to several very insignifi¬ 
 cant fellows; and upon this maxim, that the neg¬ 
 lect of any person must arise from the mean opin¬ 
 ion you have of his capacity to do you any service 
 or prejudice; and that this calling his sufficiency 
 in question must give him inclination, and where 
 this is there never wants strength,or opportunity, 
 to annoy you. There is nobody so weak of inven¬ 
 tion, that cannot aggravate, or make some little 
 stories to vilify his enemy; there are very few but 
 have good inclinations to hear them; and it is in¬ 
 finite pleasure to the majority of mankind to level 
 a person superior to his neighbors. Beside, in 
 all matters of controversy, that party which has 
 the greatest abilities labors under this prejudice, 
 that he will certainly be supposed, upon account 
 of his abilities, to have done an injury, when per¬ 
 haps he has received one. It would be tedious to 
 enumerate the strokes that nations and particular 
 friends have suffered from persons very contempt¬ 
 ible. 
 
 “I think Henry IV, of France, so formidable to 
 his neighbors, could no more be secured against 
 the resolute villany of Ravillac, than Villiers, duke 
 of Buckingham, could be against that of Felton. 
 And there is no incensed person so destitute, but 
 can provide himself with a knife or a pistol, if he 
 finds stomach to apply them. That things and 
 persons of no moment should give such powerful 
 revolutions to the progress of those of the greatest, 
 seems a providential disposition to baffle and abate 
 the pride of human sufficiency; as also to engage 
 the humanity and benevolence of superiors to all 
 
579 
 
 the spectator. 
 
 below (hem, by letting them into this secret, that 
 the stronger depends upon the weaker. 
 
 1 am, bir, your very humble Servant.” 
 
 Dear Sir, Temple, Paper-buildings. 
 
 “I received a letter from you some time ago. 
 which I should have answered sooner, had you in¬ 
 formed me in yours to what part of this island I 
 might have directed my impertinence; but, having 
 been led into the knowledge of that matter, tin's 
 handsome excuse is no longer serviceable. My 
 neighbor Prettyman shall be the subject of this 
 letter; who,falling in with the Spectator’s doctrine 
 concerning the month of May, began from that 
 season to dedicate himself to the service of the 
 lair in the following manner. I observed at the 
 beginning of the month he bought him a new 
 nightgown, either side to be worn outward, both 
 equally gorgeous and attractive; but till the end 
 ot the month I did not enter so fully into the 
 knowledge of his contrivance, as the use of that 
 garment has since suggested to me. Now you 
 must know, that all new clothes raise and warm 
 tiie wearers imagination into a conceit of his be¬ 
 luga much finer gentleman than he was before, ban¬ 
 ishing all sobriety and reflection, and givirm him 
 up to gaHantry and amour. Inflamed, therefore, 
 with this wav of thinking, and foil „f the spirit 
 o the month of May, did this merciless youth 
 resolve upon the business of captivating. At first 
 he confined himself to his room, only now and 
 then appearing at Ins window, in his nightgown 
 
 ?, n ir ra f 1CU1 ^ at eaS ^ P osture which expresses 
 the %eiy top and dignity of languishment. It was 
 pleasant to see him diversify his loveliness, some- 
 times obliging the passengers only with a sideface, 
 with a book in his hand; sometimes beino- so gen¬ 
 erous as to expose the whole in the fullness of its 
 beauty; at other times by a judicious throwing 
 back his periwig, he would throw in his ears. 
 You know he is that sort of person which the mob 
 call a handsome, jolly man ; which appearance 
 cannot miss of captives in this part of the town 
 Being emboldened by daily success, he leaves his 
 room with a resolution to extend his conquests- 
 and I have apprehended him in his nightgown 
 T all .P arts of this neighborhood^ 
 
 • f , - ’ being of an amorous complexion, saw 
 
 with indignation, and had thoughts of purchasing 
 a wig m these parts; into which, being at a greater 
 
 distance from the earth, I might hafe thrown a 
 very liberal mixture of white horse-hair, which 
 ould make a fairer and consequently a hand¬ 
 somer appearance, while my situation would se- 
 
 anj di f coveries - But the passion 
 fh e handsome gentleman seems to be so fixed 
 
 trempf W of the budding, that it will be ex¬ 
 tremely difficult to divert it to mine- so that T am 
 re,olve d to stand boldly to ,h, compkxion of' Z 
 
 eyebrow, and prepare me an immense black 
 
 rt g i° f ll ie Sar V e sort structure with that of mv 
 rival. Now, though by this I shall not, perhaps 7 
 essen the number of the admirers of his eomX- 
 ion, I shall have a fair chance to divide the^nas- 
 sengers by the irresistible force of mine. P "‘ 
 
 I expect sudden dispatches from you with 
 dvice of the family your are in now, how to de- 
 poit myself upon this so delicate a conjuncture • 
 tvith some comfortable resolutions in favor of the 
 handsome black man against the handsome fair 
 
 I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 h ‘‘ 1 „ onl 7 ® a L- that it is impossible for me to say 
 how much I am, Yours, ** 
 
 “Robin Shorter.” 
 
 not* mu' 1 Sha11 ! hink ifc a iittle hard, if you do 
 
 hte of t? m - notic * ° f this e P istle > ™ you 
 •itvlid m l'f "'S®" 10 "® Mr - Short’s. I am not 
 
 man of two.” ' V ° *" WWch iS the dee P er 
 
 advertisement. 
 
 London, September 15 . 
 
 Whereas a young woman on horseback, in an 
 equestrian habit, on the 13th instant, in the cven- 
 
 !hts Swn anH Pe fl Ct - t ° r - Wit l ,in 3 “' ik ' and » of 
 this town, and, flying in the face of justice pulled 
 
 off her hat, in which there was a feather, with the 
 
 tinm »Y a ' r ° f a y ° U A? officer » 8a yiug at the same 
 on n’f J°Z s ? rva,lt ». Mr * Spec.,” m words to that 
 pm pose; this is to give notice, that if any person 
 
 sa 1° 16 nan ] e and place of abode of the 
 
 - . d offender, so as she can be brought to justice 
 
 ment!—T maUt ShaU haVe a11 fittln S encourage- 
 
 No. 486.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 17, 1712. 
 
 Audire est operae pretium, prooedere recto 
 Qui moechis non vultis- H 0 r. l fcf a t. ii. 37. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 All you who think the city ne’er can thrive 
 Ill I ev ry cuckold-maker’s flayed alive 
 Attend- p 0PB . 
 
 “C.” 
 
 He wko wote this is a black man, two 
 air °f stairs; the gentleman of whom he writes 
 a fair, and one pair of stairs.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 , 7 i HERE /a ver y man y of my acquaintances 
 followers of Socrates, with more particular regard 
 to that part of his philosophy which we, anfong 
 ourselves, call his domestics; under which denom? 
 ination or title, we include all the conjugal joys 
 and sufferings. We have indeed with iery great 
 pleasure observed, the honor you do the whole 
 fraternity of the henpecked, in placing that illus¬ 
 trious man at our head; and it does in a very great 
 measure baffle the raillery of pert rogues, who 
 have no advantage above us, but in that they are 
 single. But, when you look about into the crowd 
 of mankind, you will find the fair sex reigns with 
 greater tyranny over lovers than husbands. You 
 shall hardly meet one in a thousand who is wholly 
 exempt from their dominion, and those that are so 
 are capable of no taste of life, and breathe and 
 walk about the earth as insignificants. But I am- 
 going to desire your further favor in behalf of our 
 harmless brotherhood, and hope you will show in, 
 a true light the unmarried henpecked, as well as 
 you have done justice to us, who submit to the 
 conduct of our wives. I am very particularly ac¬ 
 quainted with one who is under entire submission 
 to a kind girl as he calls her; and though he 
 knows I have been witness both to the ill usao-e 
 he has received from her, and his inability to re¬ 
 sist her tyranny, he still pretends to make a jest 
 of me for a little more than ordinary obsequious¬ 
 ness to my spouse. No longer than Tuesday last 
 he took me with him to visit his mistress; and he 
 l* S , ee ! n8 ’ been a little in disgrace before, 
 thought by bringing me with him she would con¬ 
 strain herself, and insensibly fall into general dis¬ 
 course with him; and so he might break the ice, 
 and save himself all the ordinary compunctions 
 and mortifications she used to make him suffer 
 before she would be reconciled, after any act of 
 rebellion on his part. When we came into the 
 room we were received with the utmost coldness; 
 and when he presented me as Mr. Such-a-one, his 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 580 
 
 very good fnend, she just had patience to suffer 
 my salutation ; but when he himself, with a very 
 gay air. offered to follow me, she gave him a thun¬ 
 dering box on the ear, called him a pitiful, poor- 
 spirited wretch—how durst he see her face ? His 
 wig and hat fell on different parts of the floor. She 
 seized the wig too soon for him to recover it, and 
 kicking it down stairs, threw herself into an oppo¬ 
 site room, pulling the door after her with a force 
 that you would "have thought the hinges would 
 have given way. We went down, you must think, 
 with no very good countenances; and as we sneak¬ 
 ed off, and were driving home together, he con¬ 
 fessed to me, that her anger was thus highly raised, 
 because he did not think fit to fight a gentle¬ 
 man who had said she was what she was : ‘ but,’ 
 says he ‘ a kind letter or two, or fifty pieces, will 
 put her in humor again.’ I asked him whv he 
 did not part with her ; he answered, he loved her 
 with all the tenderness imaginable, and she had 
 too many charms to be abandoned for a little 
 quickness of spirit. Thus does this illegitimate 
 henpecked overlook the hussy’s having no regard 
 to his very life and fame, in putting him upon an 
 infamous dispute about her reputation ; yet has 
 he the confidence to laugh at me, because I obey 
 my poor dear in keeping out of harm’s way, and 
 not staying too late from my own family, to pass 
 through the hazards of a town full of ranters and 
 debauchees. You, that are a philosopher, should 
 urge in our behalf, that when we bear with a Ho¬ 
 ward woman, our patience is preserved, in consid¬ 
 eration that a breach with her might be a dishonor 
 to children who are descended from us, and whose 
 concern makes us tolerate a thousand frailties, for 
 fear they should redound dishonor upon the inno¬ 
 cent. This, and the like circumstances, which 
 carry with them the most valuable regards of hu¬ 
 man life, may be mentioned for our long-suffering; 
 but, in the case of gallants they swallow ill-usage 
 from one to whom they have no obligation, but 
 a base passion, which it is mean to indulge, and 
 which it would be glorious to overcome. 
 
 “ These sort of fellows are very numerous, and 
 some have been conspicuously such, without 
 shame.; nay, they have carried on the jest in the 
 very article of death, and to the diminution of the 
 wealth and happiness of their families, in bar of 
 those honorably near to them, have left immense 
 wealth to their paramours. What is this but be¬ 
 ing a cully in the grave ! Sure this is being hen¬ 
 pecked with a vengeance ! But, without dwell¬ 
 ing upon these less frequent instances of eminent 
 cullyism, what is there so common as to hear a 
 fellow curse his fate that he cannot get rid of a 
 passion to a jilt, and quote a half line out of 
 a miscellany poem to prove his weakness is na¬ 
 tural ? If they will go on thus, I have nothing 
 to say to it; but then let them not pretend to 
 be free all this while, and laugh at us poor mar¬ 
 ried patients. 
 
 “ I have known one wench in this town carry a 
 haughty dominion over her lovers so well, that 
 she has at the same time been kept by a sea-cap¬ 
 tain in the-Straits, a merchant in the city, a coun¬ 
 try gentleman in Hampshire, and had all her cor¬ 
 respondences managed by one she kept for her 
 own uses. This happy man (as the phrase is) 
 used to write very punctually, every post, letters 
 for the mistress to transcribe. He would sit in his 
 uightgown and slippers, and be as grave giving an 
 account, only changing names, that there was no¬ 
 thing in those idle reports they had heard of such 
 a scoundrel as one of the other lovers was; and 
 how could he think she could condescend so low, 
 after such a fine gentleman as each of them ? For 
 the same epistle said the same thing to, and of, 
 
 every one of them. And so Mr. Secretary and his 
 lady went to bed with great order. 
 
 “ To be short, Mr. Spectator, we husbands shall 
 never make the figure we ought in the imagina¬ 
 tions of young men growing up in the world, ex¬ 
 cept you can bring it about that a man of the 
 town shall be as infamous a character as a woman 
 of the town. But of all that I have met in my 
 time, commend me to Betty Dual; she is the wife 
 of a sailor, and the kept mistress of a man of qual¬ 
 ity ; she dwells with .the latter during the sea¬ 
 faring of the former. The husband asks no ques¬ 
 tions, sees his apartments furnished with riches 
 not his, when he comes into port, and the lover is 
 as joyful as a man arrived at his haven when the 
 other puts to sea. Betty is the most eminently 
 victorious of any of her sex, and ought to stand 
 recorded the only woman of the age in which she 
 lives, who has possessed at the same time two 
 abused and two contented-.” T. 
 
 No. 487.] THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 1712. 
 
 -Cum prostrata sopore 
 
 Urget membra quies, et mens sine pondere ludit.— Petb. 
 
 While sleep oppresses the tired limbs, the mind 
 
 Plays •without weight, and wantons unconfined. 
 
 Though there are many authors who have writ¬ 
 ten on dreams, they have generally considered 
 them only as revelations of what has already hap¬ 
 pened in distant parts of the world, or as presages 
 of what is to happen in future periods of time. 
 
 I shall consider this subject in another light, as 
 dreams may give us some idea of the great excel¬ 
 lency of a human soul, and some intimations of 
 its independency on matter. 
 
 In the first place, our dreams are great instances 
 of that activity which is natural to the human 
 soul, and which it is not in the power of sleep to 
 deaden or abate. When the man appears tired 
 and worn out with the labors of the day, this ac¬ 
 tive part in his composition is still busied and 
 unwearied. When the organs of sense want their 
 due repose and necessary reparations, and the 
 body is no longer able to keep pace with that spir¬ 
 itual substance to which it is united, the soul 
 exerts herself in her several faculties, and contin¬ 
 ues in action until her partner is again qualified 
 to bear her company. In this case dreams look 
 like the relaxations and amusements of the soul, 
 when she is disencumbered of her machine ; her 
 sports and recreations, when she has laid her 
 charge asleep. 
 
 In the second place, dreams are an instance of 
 that agility and perfection which is natural to the 
 faculties of the mind, when they are disengaged 
 from the body. The soul is clogged and retarded 
 in her operations, when she acts' in conjunction 
 with a companion that is so heavy and unwieldy 
 in its motions. But in dreams it is wonderful to 
 observe with what a sprightliness and alacrity she 
 exerts herself. The slow of speech make unpre¬ 
 meditated harangues, or converse readily in lan¬ 
 guages that they are but little acquainted with. 
 The grave abound in pleasantries, the dull in re¬ 
 partees and points of wit. There is not a more 
 painful action of the mind than invention ; yet in 
 dreams it works with that ease and activity, that 
 we are not sensible of when the faculty is employ¬ 
 ed. For instance, I believe every one, some time 
 or other, dreams that he is reading papers, books, 
 or letters ; in which case the invention prompts 
 so readily, that the mind is imposed upon, and 
 mistakes its own suggestions for the compositions 
 of another. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 I shall under this head quote a passage out of 
 the Religio Medici* in which the ingenious au¬ 
 thor gives an account of himself in his dreaming 
 and his waking thoughts. “ We are somewhat 
 more than ourselves in our sleeps, and the slum¬ 
 ber of the body seems to be but the waking of the 
 soul. It is the litigation of sense, but the liberty 
 of reason ; and our waking conceptions do not 
 match the lancies of our sleeps. At my nativity 
 my ascendant was the watery sign of Scorpius ; 
 I was born in the planetary hour of Saturn, and I 
 think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me. 
 I am no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth 
 and galliardise of company ; yet in one dream I 
 can compose a whole comedy, behold the action, 
 apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake at 
 the conceits thereof. Were my memory as faith¬ 
 ful as my reason is theu fruitful, I would never 
 study but in my dreams; and this time also would 
 I choose for my devotions ; but our grosser mem¬ 
 ories have then so little hold of our abstracted un¬ 
 derstandings, that they forget the story, and can 
 only relate to our awaked souls a confused and 
 broken tale of that that has passed. Thus it is 
 observed that men sometimes, upon the hour of 
 their departure, do speak and reason above them¬ 
 selves; for then the soul, beginning to be freed 
 from the ligaments of the body, begins to reason 
 like herself, and to discourse in a strain above 
 mortality.” 
 
 We may likewise observe, in the third place, 
 that the passions affect the mind with greater 
 strength when we are asleep than when we are 
 awake. Joy and sorrow give us more vigorous 
 sensations of pain or pleasure at this time than 
 any other. Devotion, likewise, as the excellent 
 author above-mentioned has hinted, is in a very 
 particular manner heightened and inflamed, when 
 it rises in the soul at a time that the body is thus 
 laid at rest. Every man’s experience will inform 
 him in this matter, though it is very probable, 
 that this may happen differently in different con¬ 
 stitutions. I shall conclude this head with the 
 two following problems, which I shall leave to the 
 solution of my reader. Supposing a man always 
 happy in his dreams and miserable in his waking 
 thoughts, and that his life was equally divided 
 between them : whether would he be more happy 
 or miserable ? Were a man a king in his dreams, 
 and a beggar awake, and dreamt as consequen- 
 tially, and in as continued unbroken schemes, as 
 he thinks when awake : whether he would be in 
 reality a king or a beggar? or, rather, whether he 
 would not be both ? 
 
 There is another circumstance, which methinks 
 gives us a very high idea of the nature of the soul, 
 in regard to what passes in dreams: I mean*that 
 innumerable multitude and variety of ideas which 
 then arise in her. Were that active and watchful 
 being only conscious of her own existence at such 
 a time, what a painful solicitude would our hours 
 of sleep be ! Were the soul sensible of her being 
 alone in her sleeping moments, after the same mam 
 ner that she is sensible of it while awake, the 
 time would hang very heavy on her, as it often 
 actually does when she dreams that she is in such 
 a solitude. 
 
 --Semperque relinqui 
 
 Sola sibi, semper longam incomitata videtur 
 
 Ire viam - Virg. iEn. iv. 476. 
 
 --—-She seems alone 
 
 To wander in her sleep through ways unknown, 
 
 Guileless and dark. - Dryden. 
 
 But thiy observation I only make by the way. 
 What I would here remark, is that wonderful 
 power in the soul, of producing her own company 
 
 581 
 
 on these occasions. She converses with number¬ 
 less beings of her own creation, and is transported 
 into ten thousand scenes of her own raising. She 
 is herself the theater, the actors, and the beholder. 
 I his puts me in mind of a saying which I am in¬ 
 finitely pleased with, and which i’lutarch ascribes 
 to Hei aclitus, that all men while they are awake 
 are in one common world; but that each of them, 
 when he is asleep, is in a world of his own. The 
 waking man is conversant in the world of nature* 
 when he sleeps he retires to a private world that 
 is particular to himself. There seems something 
 in this consideration that intimates to us a natural 
 grandeur and perfection in the soul, which is rather 
 to be admired than explained. 
 
 I must not omit that argument for the excel 
 f nT 0 sou ^ w hich I have seen quoted out 
 ot lertullian, namely, its power of divining in 
 dreams. That several such divinations have been 
 made, none can question who believes the holy 
 wntings, or who has but the least degree of a com¬ 
 mon liistoi ical faith; there being innumerable in¬ 
 stances of this nature in several authors, both 
 ancient and modern, sacred and profane. Whether 
 such dark presages, such visions of the night, pro¬ 
 ceed from any latent power in the soul, during 
 this her state of abstraction, or from any com mu- 
 nication with the Supreme Being, or from any 
 opeiation of subordinate spirits, has been a great 
 dispute among the learned: the matter of fact is, 
 
 I think, incontestable, and has been looked upon 
 as such by the greatest writers, who have been 
 never suspected either of superstition or enthu¬ 
 siasm. 
 
 , J do not suppose that the soul in these instances 
 is entirely loose and unfettered from the body: it 
 is sufficient if she is not so far sunk and immersed 
 in matter, nor entangled and perplexed in her 
 opeiations with such motions of blood and spirits, 
 as when she actuates the machine in its waking 
 hours. The corporeal union is slackened enough 
 to give the mind more play. The soul seems 
 gathered within herself, and recovers that spring 
 which is broke and weakened, when she operates 
 more in concert with the body. 
 
 The speculations I have here made, if they are 
 not arguments, they are at least strong intimations, 
 not only of the excellency of a human soul, but ol 
 its independence on the body; and if they do not 
 prove, do at least confirm these two great points, 
 which are established by many other reasons that 
 are altogether unanswerable.—0. 
 
 No. 488.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1712. 
 
 Quanti emptas? parvo. Quanti Ergo? octo assibus. Eheuf 
 
 Hor. 2 Sat. iii. 156. 
 
 W hat does it cost? Not mucb, upon my word, 
 
 How much, pray ? Wdiy, two-pence. Two-pence, 0 Lord! 
 
 Creech. 
 
 I find by several letters which I receive daily, 
 that many of my readers would be better pleased 
 to pay three-halfpence for my paper than two¬ 
 pence. The ingenious T. W * tells me that I 
 have deprived him of the best part of his break¬ 
 fast; for that, since th^ rise of my paper, he is 
 forced every morning to drink his dish of coffee 
 by itself, without the addition of the Spectator, 
 that used to be better than lacef to it. Eugenius 
 informs me, very obligingly, that he never thought 
 he should have disliked any passage in my paper, 
 
 * Dr. Thomas W'alker, head-master of the Charter-house 
 school, whose scholars Addison and Steele had been. The 
 doctor was head-master 49 years, and died June 12, 1728, in 
 the 81st year of his age. 
 f A little brandy or rum. 
 
 * By Sir T. Brown, M. D. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 582 
 
 but that of late there have been two words in 
 every one of them which he could heartily wisli 
 left out, viz: “ Price Two-pence.” 1 have a letter 
 from a soap-boiler, who condoles with me very 
 affectionately upon the necessity we both lie under 
 of setting a higher price on our commodities since 
 the late tax has been laid upon them, and desiring 
 me, when I write next on that subject, to speak a 
 word or two upon the present duties on Castile 
 soap. But there is none of these my correspond¬ 
 ents who writes with a greater turn of good sense, 
 and elegance of expression, than the generous 
 Philomedes, who advises me to value every Spec¬ 
 tator at six-pence, and promises that he himself 
 will engage for above a hundred of his acquaint¬ 
 ance, who shall take it in at that price. 
 
 Letters from the female world are likewise come 
 to me, in great quantities, upon the same occasion; 
 and, as I naturally bear a great deference to this 
 part of our species, I am very glad to find that 
 those who approve my conduct, in this particular, 
 are much more numerous than those who condemn 
 it. A large family of daughters have drawn me 
 up a very handsome remonstrance, in which they 
 set forth that their father having refused to take in 
 the Spectator, since the additional price was set 
 upon it, they offered him unanimously to bate 
 him the article of bread and butter in the tea- 
 table account, provided the Spectator might be 
 served up to them every morning as usual. Upon 
 this the old gentleman, being pleased, it seems, 
 with their desire of improving themselves, lias 
 granted them the continuance botli of the Spec¬ 
 tator and their bread and butter, having given 
 particular orders that the tea-table shall be set 
 forth every morning with its customary bill of 
 fare, and without any manner of defalcation. I 
 thought myself obliged to mention this particular, 
 as it does honor to this worthy gentleman; and if 
 the young lady Laetitia, who sent me this account, 
 will acquaint me with his name, I will insert it at 
 length m one of my papers, if he desires it. 
 
 I should be very glad to find out any expedient 
 that might alleviate the expense which this my 
 paper brings to any of my readers; and, in order 
 to it, must propose two points to their considera¬ 
 tion. First, that if they retrench any the smallest 
 particular in their ordinary expense, it will easily 
 make up the halfpenny a day which we have now 
 under consideration. Let a lady sacrifice but a 
 single riband to her morning studies, and it will 
 be sufficient: let a family burn but a candle a 
 night less than the usual number, and they may 
 take in the Spectator without detriment to their 
 private affairs. 
 
 In the next place, if my readers will not go to 
 the price of buying my papers by retail, let them 
 have patience, and they may buy them in the 
 lump, without the burthen of a tax upon them. 
 My speculations, when they are sold single, like 
 cherries upon the stick, are delights for the rich 
 and wealthy: after some time they come to market 
 in greater quantities, and are every ordinary man’s 
 money. The truth of it is, they have a certain 
 flavor at their first appearance, from several acci¬ 
 dental circumstances of time, place, and person, 
 which they may lose if they are not taken early; 
 but in this case, every reader is to consider, 
 whether it is not better for him to be half a year 
 behindhand with the fashionable and polite part 
 of the world, than to strain himself beyond his 
 circumstances. My bookseller has now about ten 
 thousand of the third and fourth volumes, which 
 he is ready to publish, having already disposed 
 of as large an edition both of the first and second 
 volume. As he is a person whose head is very 
 well turned to his business, he thinks they would 
 
 be a very proper present to be made to persons at 
 christenings, marriages, visiting days, and the 
 like joyful solemnities, as several other books 
 are frequently given at funerals. He has printed 
 them in such a little portable volume, that many 
 of them may be ranged together upon a single 
 plate; and is of opinion, that a salver of Specta¬ 
 tors would be as acceptable an entertainment to 
 the ladies as a salver of sweetmeats. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with an epigram 
 lately sent to the writer of the Spectator, after 
 having returned my thanks to the ingenious au¬ 
 thor of it: 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “Having heard the following epigram very 
 much commended, I "wonder that it has not yet 
 had a place in any of your papers; I think the 
 suffrage of our poet-laureate should not be over¬ 
 looked, which shows the opinion he entertains of 
 our paper, whether the notion he proceeds upon 
 e true or false. I make bold to convey it to you, 
 not knowing if it has yet come to your hands.” 
 
 ON THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 BY MR. TATE. 
 
 -Aliusque et idem 
 
 Nasceris — Hor. Carm. Saec. 10. 
 
 You rise another and the same. 
 
 When first the Tatler to a mute was turn’d, 
 
 Great Britain for her censor’s silence mourn’d; 
 
 Robbed of his sprightly beams she wept the night, 
 
 Till the Spectator rose, and blaz’d as bright. 
 
 So the first man the sun’s first setting view’d, 
 
 And sigh’d till circling days his joys renew’d. 
 
 Yet, doubtful how that second sun to name, 
 
 Whether a bright successor, or the same, 
 
 So we: but now from this suspense are freed, 
 
 Since all agree, who both with judgment read, 
 
 ’Tis the same sun, and does himself succeed. 
 
 0 . 
 
 No. 469.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1712. 
 
 The mighty force of ocean’s troubled flood. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Upon reading your essay concerning the Pleas¬ 
 ures of the Imagination, I find, among the three 
 sources of those pleasures which you have dis¬ 
 covered, that greatness is one. This has sug¬ 
 gested to me the reason why, of all objects that I 
 have ever seen, there is none which affects my 
 imagination so much as the sea, or ocean. I can¬ 
 not see the heavings of this prodigious bulk of 
 waters, even in a calm, without a very pleasing 
 astonishment; but when it is worked up in a tem- 
 est, so that the horizon on every side is nothing 
 ut foaming billow's and floating mountains, it is 
 impossible to describe the agreeable horror that 
 rises from such a prospect. A troubled ocean, to 
 a man who sails upon it, is, I think, the biggest 
 object that he can see in motion, and consequently 
 gives his imagination one of the highest kinds of 
 pleasure that can arise from greatness. I must 
 confess it is impossible for me to survey this 
 v'orld of fluid matter, without thinking on the 
 hand that first poured it out, and made a proper 
 channel for its reception. Such an object naturally 
 raises in my thoughts the idea of an Almighty 
 Being, and convinces me of his existence as much 
 as a metaphysical demonstration. The imagina¬ 
 tion prompts the understanding, and, by the great¬ 
 ness of the sensible object, produces in it the idea 
 of a Being who is neither circumscribed by time 
 nor space. 
 
 “ As I have made several voyages upon the sea, 
 I have often been tossed in storms, and on that 
 occasion have frequently reflected on the descrip¬ 
 tions of them in ancient poets. I remember 
 
58S 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 Longinus highly recommends one in Homer, be¬ 
 cause the poet has not amused himself with little 
 fancies upon the occasion, as authors of an infe¬ 
 rior genius, whom he mentions, had done, but 
 because he has gathered together those circum¬ 
 stances which are the most apt to terrify the 
 imagination, and which really happen in the 
 raging of a tempest. It is for the same reason 
 that 1 prefer the following description of a ship 
 in a storm, which the Psalmist has made, before 
 any other I have ever met with: 4 They that go 
 down to the sea in ships, that do business in great 
 waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his 
 wonders in the deep. For he commandeth and 
 raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the 
 waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, 
 they go down again to the depths; their soul is 
 melted because of trouble. They reel to andTro, 
 and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their 
 wit’s end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their 
 trouble, and he bringeth them out of their dis¬ 
 tresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that 
 the waves thereof are still. Then they are glad, 
 because they be quiet, so he bringeth them unto 
 their desired haven.’* 
 
 44 By the way, how much more comfortable, as 
 well as rational, is this system of the Psalmist, 
 than the pagan scheme in Virgil and other poets, 
 where one deity is represented as raising a storm, 
 and another as laying it! Were we only to con¬ 
 sider the sublime in this piece of poetry, what 
 can be nobler than the idea it gives us of the 
 Supreme Being thus raising a tumult among the 
 elements, and recovering them out of their con¬ 
 fusion; thus troubling and becalming nature?” 
 
 “ Great painters do not only give us landscapes 
 of gardens, groves, and meadows, but very often 
 employ their pencils upon sea-pieces. 1 could 
 wish you would follow their example. If this 
 small sketch rnay deserve a place among your 
 works, I shall accompany it with a divine ode 
 made by a gentleman upon the conclusion of his 
 travels.” 
 
 I. 
 
 How are thy servants blest! 0 Lord! 
 
 How sure is their defense! 
 
 Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
 
 Their help Omnipotence. 
 
 n. 
 
 In foreign realms and lands remote, 
 
 Supported by thy care, 
 
 Through burning climes I pass’d unhurt, 
 
 And breath’d in tainted air. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thy mercy sweeten’d every soil, 
 
 Made every region please: 
 
 The iioary Alpine hills it warm’d. 
 
 And smooth’d the Tyrrhene seas. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Think, 0 my soul, devoutly think, 
 
 How with affrighted eyes, 
 
 Thou saw’st the wide extended deep 
 In all its horrors rise! 
 
 V. 
 
 Confusion dwelt in ev’ry face, 
 
 And fear in ev’ry heart; 
 
 When waves on waves, and gulfs in gulfs, 
 
 O’ercame the pilot’s art. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet then from all my griefs, 0 Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy set me free, 
 
 While, in the confidence of prayer, 
 
 My soul took hold on thee. 
 
 VII. 
 
 For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
 High on the broken wave, 
 
 I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 
 
 Nor impotent to save. 
 
 CTATOR. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The storm was laid, the winds retir’d, 
 Obedient to thy will; 
 
 The sea that roar’d at thy command, 
 At thy command was still. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 
 Thy goodness I’ll adore, 
 
 And praise thee for thy mercies past. 
 And humbly hope for more. 
 
 X. 
 
 My life, if thou preserv’st my life, 
 
 Thy sacrifice shall be; 
 
 And death, if death must be my doom, 
 Shall join my soul to thee. 
 
 No. 490.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1712. 
 
 Domus et placens uxor.— IIor. 2 Od. xiv. 21. 
 
 Thy house and pleasing wife.—C reech. 
 
 I have very long entertained an ambition to 
 make the word wife the most agreeable and de¬ 
 lightful name in nature. If it be not so in itself, 
 all the wiser part of mankind, from the beginning 
 of the world to this day, has consented in an error. 
 But our unhappiness in England has been, that a 
 few loose men, of genius for pleasure, have turned 
 it all to the gratification of ungoverned desires, in 
 despite of good sense, form and order; when, in 
 truth, any satisfaction beyond the boundaries of 
 reason is but a step toward madness and folly. 
 But is the sense ot joy and accomplishment of 
 desire no way to be indulged or attained? And 
 have we appetites given us not to be at all grati¬ 
 fied ? Yes, certainly. Marriage is an institution 
 calculated for a constant scene of as much delight 
 as our being is capable of. Two persons who 
 have chosen each other out of all the species, with 
 design to be each other’s mutual comfort and en¬ 
 tertainment, have in that action bound themselves 
 to be good-humored, affable, discreet, forgiving, 
 patient, and joyful, with respect to each other’s 
 frailties and perfections, to the end of their lives. 
 The wiser of the two (and it always happens one 
 of them is such) will, for her or his own sake, 
 keep tilings from outrage with the utmost sanc¬ 
 tity. When this union is thus preserved (as I 
 have often said), the most indifferent circum¬ 
 stance administers delight. ' Their condition is 
 an endless source of new gratifications. The mar¬ 
 ried man can say, “If I am unacceptable to all 
 the world beside, there is one whom 1 entirely 
 love that will receive me with joy and transport, 
 and think herself obliged to double her kindness 
 and caresses of me from the gloom with which 
 she sees me overcast. I need not dissemble the 
 sorrow of my heart to be agreeable there; that 
 very sorrow quickens her affection.” 
 
 This passion toward each other, when once well 
 fixed, enters into the very constitution, and the 
 kindness flows as easily and silently as the blood 
 in the veins. When this affection is enjoyed in the 
 most sublime degree, unskillful eyes see nothing 
 of it; but when it is subject to be changed, and 
 has an alloy in it that may make it end in "distaste, 
 it is apt to break into rage, or overflow into fond¬ 
 ness, before the rest of the world. 
 
 Uxander and Viramira are amorous and young, 
 and have been married these two years; yet do 
 they so much distinguish each other in company, 
 that in your conversation with the dear things you 
 are still put to a sort of cross-purposes. Whenever 
 you address yourself in ordinary discourse to Vira¬ 
 mira, she turns her head another way, and the 
 answer is made to the dear Uxander. If you tell a 
 merry tale, the application is still directed to her 
 
 * Ps. evii, 23 et. seqq. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 584 
 
 dear; and when she should commend you, she says j 
 to him, as if be had spoke it, “ That is, my dear, 
 so pretty.”—This puts me in mind of what I have 
 somewhere read in the admired memoirs of the 
 famous Cervantes; where, while honest Sancho 
 Pansa is putting some necessary humble question 
 concerning Rosinante, his supper, or his lodging, 
 the knight of the sorrowful countenance is ever 
 improving the harmless lowly hints of his squire 
 to poetical conceit, rapture, and flight, in contem¬ 
 plation of the dear Dulcinea of his affections. 
 
 On the other side, Dictamnus and Moria are ever 
 squabbling; and you may observe them, all the 
 time they are in company, in a state of impatience. 
 As Uxander and Viramira wish you all gone, that 
 they may be at freedom for dalliance; Dictamnus 
 and Moria wait your absence, that they may speak 
 their harsh interpretations ori each other’s words 
 and actions, during the time you were with them. 
 
 It is certain that the greater part of the evils 
 attending this condition of life arises from fashion. 
 Prejudice in this case is turned the wrong way; 
 ana, instead of expecting more happiness than we 
 shall meet with in it, we are laughed into a pre- 
 ossession, that we shall be disappointed if we 
 ope for lasting satisfactions. 
 
 With all persons who have made good sense the 
 rule of action, marriage is described as the state 
 capable of the highest human felicity. Tully has 
 epistles full of affectionate pleasure, when he 
 writes to his wife, or speaks of his children. But, 
 above all the hints of this kind I have met with 
 in writers of ancient date, I am pleased with an 
 epigram of Martial, in honor of the beauty of his 
 wife Cleopatra. Commentators say it was written 
 the day after his wedding night. When his spouse 
 was retired to the bathing-room in the heat of the 
 day, he, it seems, came in upon her when she was 
 just going into the water. To her beauty and 
 carriage on this occasion we owe the following 
 epigram, which I showed my friend Will Honey¬ 
 comb in French, who has translated it as follows, 
 without understanding the original. I expect it 
 will please the English better than the Latin reader: 
 
 When my bright consort, now nor wife nor maid, 
 Asham'd and wanton, of embrace afraid, 
 
 Fled to the streams, the streams my fair betray’d, 
 
 To my fond eyes she all transparent stood; 
 
 She blush’d; I smil’d at the slight covering flood. 
 
 Thus through the glass the lovely lily glows : 
 
 Thus through the ambient gem shines forth the rose : 
 
 I saw new charms, and plung’d to seize my store, 
 
 Kisses I snatch’d—the waves prevented more. 
 
 My friend would not allow that this luscious 
 account could be given of a wife, and therefore 
 used the word consort; which he learnedly said, 
 would serve for a mistress as well, and give a more 
 gentlemanly turn to the epigram. But under favor 
 of him and all other such fine gentlemen, I cannot 
 be persuaded but that the passion a bridegroom 
 has for a virtuous young woman, will, by little and 
 little, grow into friendship, and then it is ascended 
 to a higher pleasure than it Avas in its first fervor. 
 Without this happens, he is a very unfortunate 
 man who has entered into this state, and left the 
 habitudes of life he might have enjoyed with a 
 faithful friend. But when the wife proves capable 
 of filling serious as well as joyous hours, she 
 brings happiness unknown to friendship itself. 
 Spenser speaks of each kind of love with great 
 justice, and attributes the highest praise to friend¬ 
 ship; and indeed there is no disputing that point, 
 but by making that friendship take its place be¬ 
 tween two married persons. 
 
 Hard is the doubt, and difficult to deem, 
 
 When all three kinds of love together meet, 
 
 And do dispart the heart with power extreme, 
 
 Whether shall weigh the balance down; to wit, 
 
 The dear affection unto kindred sweet, 
 
 Or raging fire of love to womankind, 
 
 Or zeal of friends combin’d by virtues meet: 
 
 But, of them all, the band of virtuous mind, 
 Methinks, the gentle heart should most assured bind. 
 For natural affection soon doth cease, 
 
 And quenched is with Cupid’s greater flame; 
 
 But faithful friendship doth them both suppress, 
 
 And them with mastering discipline doth tame, 
 Through thoughts aspiring to eternal fame, 
 
 For as the soul doth rule the earthly mass, 
 
 And kll the service of the body frame; 
 
 So love of soul doth love of body pass, 
 
 No less than perfect gold surmounts the meanest brass. 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 491.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23,1712. 
 
 -Digna satis fortuna revisit.— Virg. iEn. iii. 318. 
 
 A just reverse of fortune on him waits. 
 
 It is common with me to run from book to book 
 to exercise my mind with many objects, and qual¬ 
 ify myself for my daily labors. After an hour 
 spent in this loitering Avay of reading, something 
 Avill remain to be food to the imagination. The 
 Avritings that please me most on such occasions are 
 stories, for the truth of which there is good au¬ 
 thority. The mind of man is naturally a lover of 
 justice; and Avhen we read a story wherein a crim¬ 
 inal is overtaken, in whom there is no quality 
 Avhich is the object of pity, the soul enjoys a cer¬ 
 tain revenge for the offense done to its nature, in 
 the Avicked actions committed in the preceding 
 art of the history. This Avill be better understood 
 y the reader from the following narration itself, 
 than from anything which I can say to introduce it. 
 
 When Charles, Duke of Burgundy, surnamed 
 The Bold, reigned over the spacious dominions 
 now swalloAved up by the power of France, he 
 heaped many favors and honors upon Claudius 
 Rhynsault, a German, Avho had served him in his 
 wars against the insults of his neighbors. A great 
 part of Zealand was at that time in subjection to 
 that dukedom. The prince himself was a person 
 of singular humanity and justice. Rhynsault, 
 with no other real quality than courage, had dis¬ 
 simulation enough to pass upon his generous and 
 unsuspicious master for a person of blunt honesty 
 and fidelity, without any vice that could bias him 
 from the execution of justice. His highness, pre¬ 
 possessed to his advantage, upon the decease of the 
 governor of his chief toAvn of Zealand, gave Rhyn¬ 
 sault that command. He Avas not long seated in 
 that government, before he cast his eyes upon Sap- 
 phira, a woman of exquisite beauty, the wife of Paul 
 Danvelt, a Avealthy merchant of the city, under his 
 protection and government. Rhynsault Avas a man 
 of a warm constitution, and violent inclination to 
 women, and not unskilled in the soft arts which 
 Avin their favor. He knew Avhat it was to enjoy 
 the satisfactions which are reaped from the pos¬ 
 session of beauty, but was an utter stranger to the 
 decencies, honors, and delicacies that attend the 
 passion toward them in elegant minds. However, 
 he had so much of the world, that he had a great 
 share of the language which usually prevails upon 
 the weaker part of that sex; and he could with his 
 tongue utter a passion with which his heart was 
 wholly untouched. He was one of those brutal 
 minds Avhich can be gratified with the violation of 
 innocence and beauty, Avith'out. the least pity, pas¬ 
 sion, or love, to that with Avhich they are so-much 
 delighted. Ingratitude is a vice inseparable to a 
 lustful man; and the possession of a woman by 
 him, Avho has no thought but allaying a passion 
 painful to himself, is necessarily folloAved by dis¬ 
 taste and aversion. Rhynsault, being resolved to 
 accomplish his will on the Avife of Danvelt, left no 
 arts untried to get into a familiarity at her house; 
 but she knew his character and disposition too well, 
 not to shun all occasions that might insnare her 
 
THE SPE 
 
 into his conversation. The governor despairing of 
 success bv ordinary means, apprehended and im¬ 
 prisoned her husband, under pretense of an infor¬ 
 mation, that he was guilty of a correspondence 
 with the enemies of the duke to betray the town 
 into their possession. This design had its desired 
 effect; and the wife of the unfortunate Danvelt, 
 the day before that which was appointed for his 
 execution, presented herself in the hall of the 
 governor s house, and as he passed through the 
 apartment, threw herself at his feet, and holding 
 his knees, beseeched his mercy. Rhynsault beheld 
 her with a dissembled satisfaction; and, assuming 
 an air of thought and authority, he bid her arise, 
 and told her she must follow him to his closet; 
 and, asking her whether she knew the hand of the 
 letter he pulled out of his pocket, went from her, 
 leaving this admonition aloud; “If you will save 
 your husband, you must give me an account of all 
 you know without prevarication; for everybody 
 is satisfied he was too fond of you to be able to 
 hide from you the names of the rest of the con¬ 
 spirators, or any other particulars whatsoever.” 
 He went to his closet, and soon after the lady was 
 sent for to an audience. The servant knew his 
 distance when matters of state were to be debated; 
 and the governor, laying aside the air with which 
 he had appeared in public, began to be the appli¬ 
 cant, to rally an affliction, which it was in her 
 power easily to remove, and relieve an innocent 
 man from his imprisonment. She easily perceived 
 his intention; and bathed in tears, began to depre¬ 
 cate so wicked a design. Lust, like ambition, 
 takes all the faculties of the mind and body into 
 its service and subjection. Her becoming tears, 
 her honest anguish, the wringing of her hands, 
 and the many changes of her posture and figure in 
 the vehemence of speaking, were but so many 
 attitudes in which he beheld her beauty, and fur¬ 
 ther incentives of his desire. All humanity was 
 lost in that one appetite, and he signified to her in 
 so many plain terms, that he was unhappy till he 
 had possessed her, and nothing less should be the 
 price of her husband’s life; and she must, before 
 the following noon, pronounce the death, or en¬ 
 largement, of Danvelt. After this notification, 
 when he saw Sapphira enough again distracted, to 
 make the subject of their discourse to common eyes 
 appear different from what it was, he called ser¬ 
 vants to conduct her to the gate. Loaded with 
 insupportable affliction, she immediately repaired 
 to her husband; and having signified to his jailers 
 that she had a proposal to make to her husband 
 from the governor, she was left alone Avith him, 
 revealed to him all that had passed, and repre¬ 
 sented the endless conflict shew r as in between love 
 to his person and fidelity to his bed. It is easy to 
 imagine the sharp affliction this honest pair was in 
 upon such an incident, in lives not used to any 
 but ordinary occurrences. The man was bridled 
 by shame from speaking what his fear prompted, 
 upon so near an approach of death; but let fall 
 words that signified to her, he should not think 
 her polluted, though she had not yet confessed to 
 him that the governor had violated her person, 
 since he knew her will had no part in the action! 
 She parted from him with this oblique permission 
 to save a life he had not resolution enough to 
 resign for the safety of his honor. 
 
 The next morning the unhappy Sapphira at¬ 
 tended the governor, and being led into a remote 
 apartment, submitted to bis desires. Rhynsault 
 commended her charms, claimed her familiarity 
 after what had passed between them, and with an 
 air of gayety, in the language of agallant, bid her 
 return and take her husband out of prison: “ but,” 
 continued he, “ my fair one must not be offended 
 
 CTATOE. 585 
 
 that I have taken care he should not be an inter¬ 
 ruption to our future assignations.” These last 
 words foreboded what she found when she came to 
 the jail—her husband executed by the order of 
 Rhynsault! 
 
 It was remarkable that the woman, who was full 
 of tears and lamentations during the whole course 
 of her affliction, uttered neither sigh nor complaint, 
 but stood fixed with grief at this consummation 
 ot her misfortunes. She betook herself to her 
 abode; and after having in solitude paid her de¬ 
 votions to Him who is the avenger of inuocence, 
 she lepaired privately to court. Her person, and 
 a certain grandeur of sorrow, negligent of forms, 
 gained her passage into the presence of the duke 
 her sovereign. As soon as she came into the pres¬ 
 ence, she broke forth into the following words: 
 
 Behold, 0 mighty Charles, a wretch weary of 
 life, though it has always been spent with inno¬ 
 cence and virtue. It is not in your power to 
 redress my injuries, but it is to avenge them. And 
 if the protection of the distressed, and the punish¬ 
 ment of oppressors is a task worthy a prince, I 
 bring the Duke of Burgundy ample matter for 
 doing honor to his own great name, and wiping 
 the infamy off of mine.” 
 
 When she had spoken this, she delivered the 
 Duke a paper reciting her story. He read it with 
 all the emotions that indignation and pity could 
 raise in a prince jealous of his honor in the beha¬ 
 vior of his officers, and prosperity of his subjects. 
 
 Upon an appointed day, Rhynsault was sent for 
 to court, and, in the presence of a few of the coun¬ 
 cil, confronted by Sapphira. The prince asking, 
 “Do you know that lady?” Rhynsault, as soon 
 as he could recover his surprise, told the duke he 
 would marry her, if his highness would please to 
 think that a reparation. The duke seemed con¬ 
 tented with this answer, and stood by during the 
 immediate solemnization of the ceremony. At 
 the conclusion of it he told Rhynsault, “Thus far 
 you have done as constrained by ray authority : I 
 shall not be satisfied of your kind usage of her, 
 without you sign a gift of your whole estate to 
 her after your decease. To the performance of 
 this also the duke was a witness. When these 
 twm acts were executed, the duke turned to the lady 
 and told her, “It now remains for me to put you 
 in quiet possession of what your husband has so 
 bountifully bestowed on you;” and ordered the 
 immediate execution of Rhynsault.—T. 
 
 C. J 
 
 No. 492.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 24, 1712. 
 
 Quicquid est boni moris, levitate, extinguitur. —Seneca. 
 Levity of behavior is the bane of all that is good and virtuous. 
 
 “ Tunbridge, Sept. 18. 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a young woman of eighteen years of age, 
 and I do assure you a maid of unspotted reputa¬ 
 tion, founded upon a very careful carriage in all 
 my looks, words, and actions. At the same time 
 I must own to you, that it is with much constraint 
 to flesh and blood that my behavior is so strictly 
 irreproachable ; for I am naturally addicted to 
 mirth, to gayety, to a free air, to motion, and gad¬ 
 ding. Now, what gives me a great deal of anxiety, 
 and is some discouragement in the pursuit of vir¬ 
 tue, is, that the young women who run into greater 
 freedoms with the men are more taken notice of 
 than I am. The men are such unthinking sots, 
 that they do not prefer her who restrains all her 
 passions and affections, and keeps much within 
 the bounds of what is lawful, to her who goes to 
 the utmost verge of innocence, and parleys at the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 586 
 
 very brink of vice, whether she shall be a wife or 
 a mistress. But I must appeal to your spectatorial 
 wisdom, who, I find, have passed very much of 
 your time in the study of woman, whether this is 
 not a most unreasonable proceeding. 1 have read 
 somewhere that Hobbes of Malmesbury asserts, 
 that continent persons have more of what they 
 contain Ilian those who give a loose to their de¬ 
 sires. According to this rule, let there be equal 
 age, equal wit, and equal good-humor, in the wo¬ 
 man of prudence, and her of liberty, what stores 
 has he to expect who takes the former? What 
 refuse must he be contented with who chooses the 
 latter? Well, but I sat down to write to you to 
 vent my indignation against several pert creatures 
 who are addressed to and courted in this place, 
 while poor I, and two or three like me, are wholly 
 unregarded. 
 
 “Every one of these affect gaining the hearts of 
 your sex. This is generally attempted by a parti¬ 
 cular manner of carrying themselves with famil¬ 
 iarity. Glycera has a dancing walk, and keeps 
 time in her ordinary gait. Cliloe, her sister, who 
 is unwilling to interrupt her conquests, comes into 
 the room before her with a familiar run. Dulcissa 
 takes advantage of the approach of the winter, and 
 has introduced a very pretty shiver; closing up 
 her shoulders, and shrinking as she moves. All 
 that are in this mode carry their fans between both 
 hands before them. Dulcissa, herself, who is au¬ 
 thor of this air, adds the pretty run to it; and has 
 also, when she is in a very good humor, a taking 
 familiarity in throwing herself into the lowest seat 
 in the room, and letting her hooped petticoats fall 
 with a lucky decency about her. I know she 
 practices this way of sitting down in her chamber; 
 and indeed she does it as well as you may have 
 seen an actress fall down dead in a tragedy. Not 
 the least indecency in her posture. If you have 
 observed what pretty carcasses are carried off at 
 the end of a verse at the theater, it will give you a 
 notion how Dulcissa plumps into a chair. Here 
 is a little country girl that is very cunning, that, 
 makes her use of being young and unbred, and 
 outdoes the ensnarers who are almost twice her 
 age. The air that she takes is to come into com- 
 any after a walk, and is very successfully out of 
 reath upon occasion. Her mother is in the secret, 
 and calls her romp, and then looks round to see 
 what young men stare at her. 
 
 “It would take up more than can come into one 
 of your papers, to enumerate all the particular airs 
 of the younger company in this place. But I can 
 not omit Dulceorella, whose manner is the most 
 indolent imaginable, but still as watchful of con¬ 
 quest as the busiest virgin among us. She has a 
 peculiar art of staring at a young fellow, till she 
 sees she has got him, and inflamed him by so much 
 observation. When she sees she has him, and he 
 begins to toss his head upon it, she is immediately 
 short-sighted, and labors to observe what he is at 
 a distance, with her eyes half shut. Thus the 
 captive that thought her first struck, is to make 
 very near approaches, or be wholly disregarded. 
 This artifice has done more execution than all the 
 ogling of the rest of the women here, with the 
 utmost variety of half glances, attentive heedless¬ 
 ness, childish inadvertencies, haughty contempt, 
 or artificial oversights. After I have said thus 
 much of ladies among us who fight thus regularly, 
 I am to complain to you of a set of familiar romps, 
 who have broken through all common rules, and 
 have thought of a very effectual way of showing 
 more charms than all of us. These, Mr. Spectator, 
 are the swingers. You are to know these careless 
 pretty creatures are very innocents again ; and 
 it is to be no matter what they do, for it is all 
 
 i harmless freedom. They get on ropes, as you 
 j must have seen the children, and are swung 
 . their men visitants. The jest is, that Mr. Sucli- 
 a-one can name the color of Mrs. Such-a-one’a 
 stockings; and she tells him he is a lying thief, so 
 he is, and full of roguery; and she will lay a wa¬ 
 ger. and her sister shall tell the truth if lie says 
 right, and he cannot tell what color her garters 
 are of. In this diversion there are very many 
 pretty shrieks, not so much for fear of falling, as 
 that their petticoats should untie; for there is a 
 great care had to avoid improprieties: and the 
 lover who swings the lady is to tie her clothes 
 very close with his hatband, before she admits him 
 to throw up her heels. 
 
 “ Now, Mr. Spectator, except you can note these 
 wantonnesses in their beginnings, and bring us 
 sober girls into observation, there is no help for 
 it; we must swim with the tide; the coquettes are 
 too powerful a party for us. To look into the 
 merit of a regular and well-behaved woman is a 
 slow thing. A loose, trivial song gains their affec¬ 
 tions, when a wise homily is not attended to. 
 There is no other "way but to make war upon them, 
 or we must go over to them. As for my part, I 
 will show all the world it is not for want of charms 
 that I stand so long unasked; and if you do not 
 take measures for the immediate redress of us 
 rigids, as the fellows call us, I can move with a 
 speaking mien, can look significantly, can lisp, 
 can trip, can loll, can start, can blush, can rage, 
 can weep, if I must do it, and can be frightened 
 as agreeably as any she in England. All which 
 is humbly submitted to your spectatorial consid¬ 
 eration, with all humility, by 
 
 “Your most humble Servant, 
 
 T. “ Matilda Mohaib.” 
 
 No. 493.] THURSDAY, SEPT. 25, 1712. 
 
 Qualem commendes, etiam atque etiam aspice, ne mox 
 lncutiant aliena tibi peccata pudorem.—H or. 1 Ep. xviii. 70. 
 
 Commend not, till a man is thoroughly known: 
 
 A rascal prais'd, you make his faults your own.—A non. 
 
 It is no unpleasant matter of speculation to con¬ 
 sider the recommendatory epistles that pass round 
 this town from hand to hand, and the abuse people 
 put upon one another in that kind. It is, indeed, 
 come to that pass, that, instead of being the testi¬ 
 mony of merit in the person recommended, the 
 true reading of a letter of this sort is, “ The bearer 
 hereof is so uneasy to me, that it will be an act of 
 charity in you to take him off my hands; whether 
 you prefer him or not, it is all one; for I have no 
 manner of kindness for him, or obligation to him 
 or his; and do what you please as to that.” As 
 negligent as men are in this respect, a point of 
 honor is concerned in it; and there is nothing a 
 | man should be more ashamed of, than passing a 
 worthless creature in the service or interest of a 
 [ man who has never injured you. The women, 
 
 I indeed, are a little too keen in their resentments 
 to trespass often this way; but you shall some¬ 
 times know, that the mistress and the maid shall 
 quarrel, and give each other very free language, 
 and at last the lady shall be pacified to turn her 
 out of doors, and give her a very good word to 
 anybody else. Hence, it is that you see, in a year 
 and half's time, the same face a domestic in all 
 parts of the town. Good-breeding and good-na¬ 
 ture lead people in a great measure to this injus¬ 
 tice: when suitors of no consideration will have 
 confidence enough to press upon their superiors, 
 those in power are tender of speaking the excep¬ 
 tions they have against them, and are mortgaged 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 into promises out of their impatience of importu¬ 
 nity. In this latter case, it would be a very useful 
 inquiry to know the history of recommendations. 
 There are, you must know, certain abettors of this 
 way of torment, who make it a profession to man¬ 
 age the affairs of candidates. These gentlemen 
 let out their impudence to their clients, and supply 
 any defective recommendation, by informing how 
 such and such a man is to be attacked. They will 
 tell you, get the least scrap from Mr. Such-a-one, 
 and leave the rest to them. When one of these 
 undertakers has your business in hand, you may 
 be sick, absent in town or country, and the patron 
 shall be worried, or you prevail. 1 remember to have 
 been shown a gentleman some years ago, who 
 punished a whole people for their facility in giv¬ 
 ing their credentials. This person had belonged 
 to a regiment which did duty in the West Indies, 
 and, by the mortality of the place, happened to be 
 commanding officer in the colony. He oppressed 
 his subjects with great frankness, till be became 
 sensible that he was heartily hated by every man 
 under his command. When he had carried his 
 point to be thus detestable, in a pretended fit of 
 aishumor, and feigned uneasiness of living where 
 he found he was so universally unacceptable, he 
 communicated to the chief inhabitants a design 
 he had to return for England, provided they would 
 
 f ive him ample testimonials of their approbation. 
 
 'he planters came into it to a man, and, in propor¬ 
 tion to his deserving the quite contrary, the words 
 justice, generosity, and courage, were inserted in his 
 commission, not omitting the general good-liking 
 of people of all conditions in the colony. The 
 gentleman returns for England, and withiu a few 
 months after, came back to them their governor, 
 on the strength of their own testimonials. 
 
 Such a rebuke as this cannot indeed happen to 
 easy recommenders, in the ordinary course of 
 things, from one hand to another; but how would 
 a man bear to have it said to him, “ The person I 
 took into confidence on the credit you gave him, 
 has proved false, unjust, and has not answered 
 any way the character you gave me of him ?” 
 
 I cannot but conceive very good hopes of that 
 rake Jack Toper of the Temple, for an honest scru¬ 
 pulousness in this point. A friend of his meeting 
 with a servant that had formerly lived with Jack, 
 and having a mind to take him, sent to him to 
 know what faults the fellow had, since he could 
 not please such a careless fellow as he was. His 
 answer was as follows : 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ Thomas that lived w T ith me was turned away 
 because he was too good for me. You know I live 
 in taverns ; he is an orderly sober rascal, and 
 thinks much to sleep in an entry until two in the 
 morning. He told me one day; when he was dress¬ 
 ing me, that he wondered I was not dead before 
 now, since I went to dinner in the evening, and went 
 to supper at two in the morning. We were com¬ 
 ing down Essex-street one night a little flustered, 
 and I was giving him the word to alarm the watch; 
 he had the impudence to tell me it was against the 
 law. You that are married, and live one day after 
 another the same way, and so on a whole week, I 
 dare say will like him, and he will be glad to have 
 his meat in due season. The fellow is certainly 
 very honest. My service to your lady. 
 
 “Yours, J. T.” 
 
 Now this was very fair dealing. Jack knew 
 very well that though the love of order made a 
 man very awkward in his equipage, it was a val¬ 
 uable quality among the queer people who live by 
 rule; and had too much good sense and good na¬ 
 
 587 
 
 ture to let the fellow starve, because he was not 
 fit to attend his vivacities. 
 
 I shall end this discourse with a letter of recom 
 mendation from Horace to Claudius Nero. You 
 will see in that letter a slowness to ask a favor, a 
 stiong reason tor being unable to deny his good 
 word any longer, and that it is a service to the 
 person to whom he recommends, to comply with 
 what is asked; all which are necessary circum¬ 
 stances, both in justice and good-breeding, if a 
 man would ask so as to have reason to complain 
 of a denial; and indeed a man should not in strict¬ 
 ness ask otherwise. In hopes the authority of 
 Horace, who perfectly understood how to live with 
 great men, may have a good effect toward amend¬ 
 ing this facility in people of condition, and the 
 confidence of those who apply to them without 
 merit, I have translated the epistle. 
 
 “To Claudius Nero. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ Septimius, who Avaits upon you with this, is 
 very Avell acquainted with the place you are pleased 
 to alloAV me in your friendship. For when he be¬ 
 seeches me to recommend him to your notice, in 
 j such a manner as to be received by you, who are 
 j delicate in the choice of your friends and domes¬ 
 tics, lie knoAvs our intimacy, and understands my 
 ability to serve him better than I do myself. I 
 have defended myself against his ambition to be 
 yours, as long as I possibly could; but fearing the 
 imputation of hiding my poAver in you out of 
 mean and selfish considerations, I am at last pre¬ 
 vailed upon to give you this trouble. Thus to 
 avoid the appearance of a greater fault, I have put 
 on this confidence. If you can forgive this trans¬ 
 gression of modesty in behalf of a friend, receive 
 this gentleman into your interests and friendship, 
 and take it from me that he is an honest and a 
 brave man.” 
 
 No. 494.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1712. 
 
 iEgritudinem laudare, unam rem maxime detestabilem, quo¬ 
 rum est tandem philosophorum ?— Cicero. 
 
 AA hat kind of philosophy is it to extol melancholy, the most 
 detestable thing in nature ? 
 
 About an age ago it Avas the fashion in England 
 for every one that Avould be thought religious, to 
 throw as much sanctity as possible into his face, 
 and in particular to abstain from all appearances 
 of mirth and pleasantry, which Avere looked upon 
 as the marks of a carnal mind. The saint Avas of 
 a sorrowful countenance, and generally eaten up 
 Avith spleen and melancholy. A gentleman, Avho 
 was lately a great ornament* to the learned Avorld, 
 has diverted me more than once with an account 
 of the reception which he met with from a very 
 famous independent minister, who was head of a 
 collegef in those times. This gentleman Avas then 
 a young adventurer in the republic of letters, and 
 just fitted out for the university Avith a good cargo 
 of Latin and Greek. His friends Avere resolved 
 that he should try his fortune at an election which 
 was drawing near in the college, of which the in¬ 
 dependent minister Avhom I have before mentioned 
 was governor. The youth, according to custom, 
 waited on him in order to be examined. He Avas 
 received at the door by a servant Avho Avas one of 
 that gloomy generation that were then in fashion. 
 
 * The gentleman here alluded to was Anthony Henley, 
 Esq., who died much lamented in August, 1711. 
 
 fThe head of a college was Dr. Thomas Goodwin, S. T. P., 
 President of Magdalen College in Oxford, and one of the as¬ 
 sembly of divines who sat at Westminster. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 588 
 
 He conducted him, with great silence and serious¬ 
 ness, to a long gallery, which was darkened at 
 noon-day, and had only a single candle burning in 
 it. After a short stay in this melancholy apart¬ 
 ment, he was led into a chamber hung with black, 
 where he entertained himself for some time by the 
 glimmering of a taper, until at length the head of 
 the college came out to him from an inner room, 
 with half a dozen nightcaps upon his head, and 
 a religious horror in his countenance. The young 
 man trembled; but his fears increased, when in¬ 
 stead of being asked what progress he had made 
 in learning, he was examined how he abounded in 
 grace. His Latin and Greek stood him in little 
 stead: he was to give an account only of the state 
 of his soul; whether he was of the number of the 
 elect; what was the occasion of the conversion; 
 upon what day of the month, and hour of the day it 
 happened; how it was carried on, and when com¬ 
 pleted. The whole examination was summed up 
 with one short question, namely: whether he was 
 prepared for death ? The boy, who had been bred 
 up by honest parents, was frightened out of his wits 
 at the solemnity of the proceeding, and especially 
 by the last dreadful interrogatory; so that, upon 
 making his escape out of this house of mourning, 
 he could never be brought a second time to the ex¬ 
 amination, as not being able to go through the ter¬ 
 rors of it. 
 
 Notwithstanding this general form and outside 
 of religion is pretty well worn out among us, there 
 are many persons who, by a natural uncheerfulness 
 of heart, mistaken notions of piety, or weakness 
 of understanding, love to indulge this uncomfort¬ 
 able way of life, and give up themselves a prey to 
 grief and melancholy. Superstitious fears and 
 groundless scruples cut them off from the pleasures 
 of conversation, and all those social entertain¬ 
 ments, which are not only innocent but laudable; 
 as if mirth was made for reprobates, and cheerful¬ 
 ness of heart denied those who are the only per¬ 
 sons that have a proper title to it. 
 
 Sombrius, is one of these sons of sorrow. He 
 thinks himself obliged in duty to be sad and dis¬ 
 consolate. He looks on a sudden fit of laughter 
 as a breach of his baptismal vow. An innocent 
 jest startles him like blasphemy. Tell him of one 
 who is advanced to a title of honor, he lifts up his 
 hands and eyes; describe a public ceremony, he 
 shakes his head; show him a gay equipage, he 
 blesses himself. All the little ornaments of life 
 are pomps and vanities. Mirth is wanton, and 
 wit profane. He is scandalized at youth for being 
 lively, and at childhood for being playful. He sits 
 at a christening, or a marriage feast, as at a funeral; 
 sighs at the conclusion of a merry story, and grows 
 devout when the rest of the company grow pleasant. 
 After all, Sombrius is a religious man, and would 
 have behaved himself very properly, had he lived 
 when Christianity was under a general persecution. 
 
 I would by no means presume to tax such char¬ 
 acters with hypocrisy, as is done too frequently: 
 that being a vice which I think none but He who 
 knows the secrets of men’s hearts should pretend 
 to discover in another, where the proofs of it do 
 not amount to a demonstration. On the contrary, 
 as there are many excellent persons who are 
 weighed down by this habitual sorrow of heart, 
 they rather deserve our compassion than our re¬ 
 proaches. I think, however, they would do well 
 to consider whether such a behavior does not deter 
 men from a religious life, by representing it as an 
 unsociable state, that extinguishes all joy and 
 gladness, darkens the face of nature, and destroys 
 the relish of being itself. 
 
 I have, in former papers, shown how great a 
 tendency there is to cheerfulness in religion, and 
 
 how such a frame of mind is not only the most 
 lovely, but the most commendable in a virtuous 
 person. In short, those who represent religion in so 
 un ami able a light, are like the spies sent by Moses 
 to make a discovery of the land of promise, when 
 by their reports they discouraged the people from 
 entering upon it. Those who show us the joy, the 
 cheerfulness, the good-humor, that naturally spring 
 up in this happy state, are like the spies bringing 
 along with them the clusters of grapes, and deli¬ 
 cious fruits, that might invite their companions 
 into the pleasant country which produced them* 
 
 An eminent pagan writerf has made a discourse 
 to show that the atheist, who denies a God, does 
 him less dishonor than the man who owns his 
 being, but at the same time believes him to be 
 cruel, hard to please, and terrible to human nature. 
 “ For my own part,” says he, “ I would rather it 
 should be said of me, that there was never any such 
 man as Plutarch, than that Plutarch was ill-na¬ 
 tured, capricious, or unhuman.” 
 
 If we may believe our logicians, man is distin¬ 
 guished from all other creatures by the faculty of 
 laughter. He has a heart capable of mirth, and 
 naturally disposed to it. It is not the business of 
 virtue to extirpate the affections of the mind, but 
 to regulate them. It may moderate and restrain, 
 but was not designed to banish gladness from the 
 heart of man. Religion contracts the circle of our 
 pleasures, but leaves it wide enough for her vota¬ 
 ries to expatiate in. The contemplation of the 
 Divine Being, and the exercise of virtue, are, in 
 their own nature, so far from excluding all glad¬ 
 ness of heart, that they are perpetual sources of 
 it. In a word, the true spirit of religion cheers, 
 as well as composes, the soul; it banishes indeed 
 all levity of behavior, all vicious and dissolute 
 mirth; but in exchange fills the mind with a per¬ 
 petual serenity, uninterrupted cheerfulness, and 
 an habitual inclination to please others, as well as 
 to be pleased in itself.—0. 
 
 No. 495.] SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 27,1712. 
 
 Duris ut ilex tonsa bipennibus, 
 
 Nigrae feraci frondis in Algido, 
 
 Per damna, per csedes, ab ipso 
 Ducit opes animunique ferro.—IIOR. 4 Od. iv. 57. 
 
 —Like an oak on some cold mountain brow, 
 
 At ev’ry wound they sprout and grow: 
 
 The ax and sword new vigor give, 
 
 And by their ruins they revive.— Anon. 
 
 As I am one who, by my profession, am obliged 
 to look into all kinds of men, there are none whom 
 I consider with so much pleasure, as those who 
 have anything new or extraordinary in their char¬ 
 acters, or ways of living. For this reason, I have 
 often amused myself with speculations on the race 
 of people called Jews, many of whom I have met 
 with in most of the considerable towns which I 
 have passed through in the course of my travels. 
 They are, indeed, so disseminated through all the 
 trading parts of the world, that they are become 
 the instruments by which the most distant nations 
 converse with one another, and by which mankind 
 are knit together in a general correspondence. 
 They are like the pegs and nails in a great build¬ 
 ing, which, though they are but little valued in 
 themselves, are absolutely necessary to keep the 
 whole frame together. 
 
 That I may not fall into any common beaten 
 tracks of observation, I shall consider this people 
 in three views. First, with regard to their number; 
 
 *Num. cb. xiii. 
 
 -j-piut. Opera, tom i, p. 286. H. Steph. 1572, 12mo. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 secondly, their dispersion; and thirdly, their ad¬ 
 herence to their religion: and afterward endeavor 
 to show, first, what natural reasons, and, secondly, 
 what providential reasons, may be assigned for 
 these three remarkable particulars. 
 
 The Jews are looked upon by many to be as 
 numerous at present, as they were formerly in the 
 land of Canaan. 
 
 This is wonderful, considering the dreadful 
 slaughter made of them under some of the Roman 
 emperors, which historians describe by the death 
 of many hundred thousands in a war; and the 
 innumerable massacres and persecutions they have 
 undergone in Turkey, as well as in all Christian 
 nations in the world. The rabbins, to express the 
 great havoc which has been sometimes made of 
 them, tell us after their usual manner of hyperbole, 
 that here were such torrents of holy blood shed, 
 as carried rocks of a hundred yards in circumfer¬ 
 ence above three miles into the sea. 
 
 Their dispersion is the second remarkable par¬ 
 ticular in this people. They swarm over all the 
 East., and are settled in the remotest parts of China. 
 They are spread through most of the nations in 
 Europe and Africa, and many families of them are 
 established in the West Indies; not to mention 
 whole nations bordering on Prester-John’s country, 
 and discovered in the inner parts of America, if 
 we may give any credit to their own writers. 
 
 Their firm adherence to their religion is no^ less 
 remarkable than their numbers and dispersion, 
 especially considering it as persecuted or con¬ 
 temned over the face of the 'whole earth. This is 
 likewise the more remarkable, if w T e consider the 
 frequent apostasies of this people, when they lived 
 under their kings in the land of promise, and 
 within sight of their temple. 
 
 If in the next place Ave examine what may be 
 the natural reasons for these three particulars 
 which we find in the Jews, and which are not to 
 be found in any other religion or people, I can, in 
 the first place, attribute their numbers to nothing 
 but their constant employment, their abstinence, 
 their exemption from wars, and above all, their 
 frequent marriages; for they look on celibacy as 
 an accursed state, and generally are married before 
 twenty, as hoping the Messiah may descend from 
 them. 
 
 The dispersion of the Jews into ail the nations 
 of the earth is the second remarkable particular 
 of that people, though not so hard to be accounted 
 for. They Avere always in rebellions and tumults 
 while they had the temple and holy city in view, 
 for which reason they have often been driven out 
 of their old habitations in the land of promise. 
 They have as often been banished out of most 
 other places where they have settled, which must 
 very much disperse and scatter a people, and 
 oblige them to seek a livelihood where they can 
 find it. Beside, the w T hole people is now a race 
 of such merchants as are wanderers by profes¬ 
 sion, and, at the same time, are in most, if not 
 all places, incapable of either lands or offices that 
 might engage them to make any part of the world 
 their home. 
 
 This dispersion would probably have lost their 
 religion, had it not been secured by the strength of 
 its constitution; for they are to live all in a body, 
 and generally within the same inclosure; to marry 
 among themselves, and to eat no meats that are 
 not killed or preserved their own w T ay. This shuts 
 them out from all table conversation, and the most 
 agreeable intercourses of life; and, by consequence, 
 excludes them from the most probable means of 
 conversation. 
 
 If, in the last place, we consider what providen¬ 
 tial reasons may be assigned for these three par¬ 
 
 589 
 
 ticulars, we shall find that their numbers, disper¬ 
 sion, and adherence to their religion, have fur¬ 
 nished every age, and every nation of the Avorld, 
 with the strongest arguments for the Christian 
 faith, not only as these very particulars are foretold 
 of them, but as they themselves are the deposito¬ 
 ries of these, and all the other prophesies, Avhich 
 tend to their OAvn confusion. Their number fur¬ 
 nishes us with a sufficient cloud of witnesses that 
 attest the truth of the .old Bible. Their disper¬ 
 sion spreads these witnesses through all parts of 
 the Avorld. The adherence to their religion makes 
 their testimony unquestionable. Had the wdiole 
 body of Jews been converted to Christianity, we 
 should certainly have thought all the prophesies 
 of the Old Testament, that relate to the coming 
 and history of our blessed Savior, forged by 
 Christians, and have looked upon them, with the 
 prophesies of the Sibyls, as made many years 
 after the events they pretended to foretell.—0. 
 
 No. 496.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 29, 1712. 
 
 Gnatum pariter uti his decuit, aut etiam amplius, 
 
 Quod ilia aetas magis ad h*c idonea est. 
 
 Terent. Heaut. act. i. sc. 1. 
 
 Your son ought to have shared in these things, because 
 youth is best suited to the enjoyment of them. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Those ancients who were the most accurate in 
 their remarks on the genius and temper of man¬ 
 kind, by considering the various bent and scope 
 of our actions, throughout the progress of life, 
 have with great exactness allotted inclinations and 
 objects of desire particular to every stage, accord¬ 
 ing to the different circumstances of our conversa¬ 
 tion and fortune through the several periods of it. 
 Hence they were disposed easily to excuse those 
 excesses Avhich might possibly arise from a too 
 eager pursuit of the affections more immediately 
 proper to each state. They indulged the levity 
 of childhood "with tenderness, overlooked the 
 gayety of youth with good nature, tempered the 
 froward ambition and impatience of ripened man¬ 
 hood with discretion, and kindly imputed the 
 tenacious avarice of old men to their Avant of relish 
 of any other enjoyment. Such allowances as these 
 Avere no less advantageous to common society than 
 obliging to particular persons ; for, by maintain¬ 
 ing a decency and regularity in the course of life, 
 they supported the dignity of human nature, 
 ■which then suffers the greatest violence Avhen the 
 order of things is inverted ; and in nothing is it 
 more remarkably vilified and ridiculous, than 
 when feebleness preposterously attempts to adorn 
 itself with that outward pomp and luster, which 
 serve only to set off the bloom of youth with bet¬ 
 ter advantage. I was insensibly carried into re¬ 
 flections of this nature by just now meeting Pau¬ 
 lino (avIio is in his climacteric) bedecked Avith the 
 utmost splendor of dress and equipage, and giving 
 an unbounded loose to all manner of pleasure, 
 while his only son is debarred all innocent diver¬ 
 sion, and may be seen frequently solacing himself 
 in the Mall with no other attendance than one an¬ 
 tiquated servant of his father’s for a companion 
 and director. 
 
 “ It is a monstrous want of reflection, that a 
 man cannot consider, that w T hen he cannot resign 
 the pleasures of life in his decay, of appetite and 
 inclination to them, his son must have a much 
 uneasier task to resist the impetuosity of growing 
 desires. The skill therefore should, metliinks, be, 
 to let a son want no lawful diversion, in propor¬ 
 tion to his future fortune, and the figure lie is to 
 make in the world. The first step toAvard virtue 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 590 
 
 that T have observed, in young men of condition 
 that have run into excesses, has been, that they 
 had a regard to their quality and reputation in 
 the management of their vices. Narrowness in 
 their circumstances has made many youths, to 
 supply themselves as debauchees, commence cheats 
 and rascals. The father who allows his son to 
 the utmost ability avoids this latter evil, which 
 as to the world is much greater than the former. 
 But the contrary practice has prevailed so much 
 among some men, that I have known them deny 
 them what was merely necessary for education 
 suitable to their quality. Poor young Antonio is 
 a lamentable instance of ill-conduct in this kind. 
 The young man did not want natural talents ; but 
 the father of him was a coxcomb, who affected 
 being a fine gentleman so unmercifully, that he 
 could not endure, in his sight, or the frequent 
 mention of one, who was his son; growing into 
 manhood, and thrusting him out of the gay world. 
 I have often thought the father took a secret pleas¬ 
 ure, in reflecting that, when that fine house and 
 seat came into the next hands, it would revive his 
 memory, as a person who knew how to enjoy 
 them, from observation of the rusticity and igno¬ 
 rance of his successor. Certain it is, that a man 
 may, if he will, let his heart close to the having 
 no regard to anything but his dear self, even with 
 exclusion of his very dear children. I recommend 
 this subject to your consideration, and am, Sir, 
 “Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “T. B.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, London, Sept. 26, 1712. 
 
 “ I am just come from Tunbridge, and have 
 since my return read Mrs. Matilda Mohair’s letter 
 to you. She pretends to make a mighty story 
 about the diversion of swinging in that place. 
 What was done, was only among relations, and 
 no man swung any woman who was not second 
 cousin at furthest. She is pleased to say, care 
 was taken that the gallants tied the ladies’ legs 
 before they were wafted into the air. Since she 
 is so spiteful, I will tell you the plain truth. 
 There was so much nicety observed, since we 
 were all, as I just now told you, near relations : 
 but Mrs. Mohair herself has been swung there, 
 and she invents all this malice, because it was ob¬ 
 served she has crooked legs, of which I was an 
 eye witness. 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Rachel Shoestring.” 
 
 “ Tunbridge, Sept. 26, 1712. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ We have just now read your paper, containing 
 Mohair’s letter. It is an invention of her own 
 from one end to the other; and I desire you would 
 print the inclosed letter by itself, and shorten it 
 so as to come within the compass of your half 
 sheet. She is the most malicious minx in the 
 world, for all she looks so innocent. Do not leave 
 out that part about her being in love with her 
 father’s butler, which makes her shun men ; for 
 that is the truest of it all. 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Sarah Trice. 
 
 “ P. S. She has crooked legs.” 
 
 “Tunbridge, Sept. 26, 1712. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “All that Mrs. Mohair is so vexed at against 
 the good company of this place is, that we all 
 know she has crooked legs. This is certainly true. 
 I do not care for putting my name, because one 
 would not be in the power of the creature. 
 
 “Your humble Servant, unknown.” 
 
 “Tunbridge, Sept. 26, 1712. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ That insufferable prude, Mrs. Mohair, who has 
 told such stories of the company here, is with 
 child, for all her nice airs and her crooked legs. 
 Pray be sure to put her in for both these two things, 
 and you will oblige everybody here, especially 
 
 “ Your humble Servant, 
 
 T. “Alice Bluegarter.” 
 
 No. 497.] TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 1712. 
 
 A cunning old fox this! 
 
 A favor well bestowed is almost as great an 
 honor to him who confers it as to him who receives 
 it. What indeed makes for the superior reputa¬ 
 tion of the patron in this case is, that he is always 
 surrounded with specious pretenses of unworthy 
 candidates, and is often alone in the kind inclina¬ 
 tion he has toward the well-deserving. Justice is 
 the first quality in the man who is in a post of 
 direction ; and I remember to have heard an old 
 gentleman talk of the civil wars, and in his rela¬ 
 tion give an account of a general officer, who with 
 this one quality, without any shining endow¬ 
 ments, became so popularly beloved and honored, 
 that all decisions between man and man were laid 
 before him by the parties concerned, in a private 
 way ; and they would lay by their animosities 
 implicity, if he bid them be friends, or submit 
 themselves in the wrong without reluctance, if he 
 said it, without waiting the judgment of courts- 
 martial. His manner was to keep the dates of all 
 commissions in his closet, and wholly dismiss from 
 the service such who were deficient in their duty; 
 and after that took care to prefer according to the 
 order of battle. His familiars were his entire 
 friends, and could have no interested vieAvs in 
 courting his acquaintance ; for his affection was 
 no step to their preferment, though it was to their 
 reputation. By this means, a kind aspect, a salu¬ 
 tation, a smile and giving out his hand, had the 
 weight of what is esteemed by vulgar minds more 
 substantial. His business was very short, and he 
 who had nothing to do but justice, was never af¬ 
 fronted with a request of a familiar daily visitant 
 for what was due to a brave man at a distance. 
 Extraordinary merit he used to recommend to the 
 king for some distinction at home ; till the order 
 of battle made way for his rising in the troops. 
 Add to this, that he had an excellent manner of 
 getting rid of such who he observed were good at 
 a halt, as his phrase was. Under this description 
 he comprehended all those who were contented to 
 live without reproach, and had no promptitude 
 in their minds toward glory. These fellows were 
 also recommended to the king, and taken off of 
 the general’s hands into posts wherein diligence 
 and common honesty were all that were necessary. 
 This general had no weak part in his line, but 
 every man had as much care upon him, and as 
 much honor to lose as himself. Every officer could 
 answer for what passed where he was; and the 
 general's presence was never necessary anywhere, 
 but where he had placed himself at the first dis¬ 
 position, except that accident happened from ex¬ 
 traordinary efforts of the enemy which he could 
 not foresee ; but it was remarkable that it never 
 fell out from failure in his own troops. It must 
 be confessed the world is just so much out of order, 
 as an unworthy person possesses what should be 
 in the direction of him who has better pretensions 
 to it. 
 
 Instead of such a conduct as this old fellow 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 591 
 
 used to describe in his general, all the evils which 
 have ever happened among mankind have arose 
 from-the wanton disposition of the favors of the 
 powerful. It is generally all that men of modesty 
 and virtue can do, to fall in with some whimsical 
 turn in a great man, to make way for things of real 
 and absolute service. In the time of Don Sebas¬ 
 tian of Portugal, or some time since, the first min¬ 
 ister would let nothing come near him but what 
 bore the most profound face of wisdom and gra¬ 
 vity. 1 hey carried it so far, that for the greater 
 show of their profound knowledge, a pair of spec¬ 
 tacles tied on their noses, with a black ribbon 
 round their heads, was what completed the dress 
 of those who made their court at his levee, and 
 none with naked noses were admitted to his pres¬ 
 ence. A blunt honest fellow, who had a command 
 in the train of artillery, had attempted to make an 
 impression upon the porter, day after day in vain, 
 until at length he made his appearance in a very 
 thoughtful dark suit of clothes and two pairof spec¬ 
 tacles on at once. He was conducted from room 
 to room, with great deference, to the minister ; 
 and, carrying on the farce of the place, he told his 
 excellency that he had pretended in this manner 
 to be wiser than he really was, but with no ill 
 intention ; but he was honest Such-a-one of the 
 train, and he came to tell him that they wanted 
 wheelbarrows and pickaxes. The thing hap¬ 
 pened not to displease, the great man was seen to 
 smile, and the successful officer was reconducted 
 with the same profound ceremony out of the house. 
 
 When Leo X, reigned pope of Rome, his holi¬ 
 ness, though a man of sense, and of an excellent 
 taste of letters, of all things affected fools, buffoons, 
 humorists and coxcombs. Whether it were from 
 vanity, and that he enjoyed no talents in other 
 men but what were inferior to him, or whatever it 
 was, he carried it so far, that his whole delight 
 was in finding out new fools, and, as our phrase 
 is, playing them off, and making them show them¬ 
 selves to advantage. A priest of his former ac¬ 
 quaintance suffered a great many disappointments 
 in attempting to find access to him in a regular 
 character, until at last in despair he retired from 
 Rome, and returned in an equipage so very fan¬ 
 tastical, both as to the dress of himself and ser¬ 
 vants, that the whole court were in an emulation 
 who should first introduce him to his holiness. 
 What added to the expectation his holiness had 
 of the pleasure he should have in his follies, was, 
 that this fellow, in a dress the most exquisitely 
 ridiculous, desired he might speak to him alone, 
 for he had matters of the highest importance, 
 upon which he wanted a conference. Nothing 
 could be denied to a coxcomb of so great hope°; 
 but when they were apart, the impostor revealed 
 himself, and spoke as follows :— 
 
 “ Do not be surprised, most holy father, at see¬ 
 ing, instead of a coxcomb to laugh at, your old 
 friend, who has taken this way of access to ad¬ 
 monish you of your own folly. Can anything 
 show your holiness how unworthily you treat 
 mankind, more than my being put upon this diffi¬ 
 culty to speak with you? It is a degree of folly 
 to delight to see it in others, and it is the greatest 
 insolence imaginable to rejoice in the disgrace of 
 human nature. It is a criminal humility in a per¬ 
 son of your holiness’s understanding, to believe 
 you cannot excel but in the conversation of half¬ 
 wits, humorists, coxcombs, and buffoons. If your 
 holiness has a mind to be diverted like a rational 
 man, you have a great opportunity for it, in dis¬ 
 robing all the impertiuents you have favored of all 
 their riches and trappings at once, and bestowing 
 them on the humble, the virtuous, and the meek° 
 
 If your holiness is not concerned for the sake of 
 
 virtue and religion, be pleased to reflect, that for 
 the sake of your own safety, it, is not proper to be 
 so very much in jest. When the pope is thus 
 merry, the people will in time begin to think many 
 things,which they have hitherto beheld with great 
 veneration, are in themselves objects of scorn and 
 derision. If they once get a trick of knowing 
 how to laugh, your holiness’s saying this sentence 
 in one nightcap, and the other with the other, the 
 change of your slippers, bringing you your staff in 
 the midst of a prayer, then stripping you of one 
 vest, and clapping on a second during divine ser¬ 
 vice, will be found out to have nothing in it. 
 Considei, Sir, that at this rate a head will be reck- 
 oned never the wiser for being bald; and the igno¬ 
 rant will be apt to say, that going barefoot does 
 not at all help on in the way to heaven. The 
 red cap and the cowl will fall under the same con¬ 
 tempt; and the vulgar will tell us to our faces, 
 that we shall have no authority over them but 
 from the force of our arguments and the sanctity 
 of our lives.” 
 
 No. 498.] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1712. 
 
 -Frustra retinacula tendens 
 
 Fertur equis auriga, neque audit currus habenas. 
 
 Virg. Georg, i. 514. 
 
 Nor reins, nor curbs, nor cries, the horses fear, 
 
 But force along the trembling charioteer.— Dryden. 
 
 To the Spectator-General of Great Britain, 
 
 “From the further end of the Widow’s Coffee-house 
 in Devereux-Court, Monday evening, twenty-eight 
 minutes and a half past six. 
 
 “ Dear Dumb, 
 
 “In short, to use no other preface, if I should 
 tell you that I have seen a hackney-coachman, 
 when lie has come to set down his fare, which has 
 consisted of two or three very fine ladies, hand 
 them out, and salute every one of them with an 
 air of familiarity, without giving the least offense, 
 you would perhaps think me guilty of a gasconade. 
 But to clear myself from that imputation, and to 
 explain this matter to you, I assure you that there 
 are many illustrious youths within this city, who 
 frequently recreate themselves by driving of a 
 hackney-coach; but those whom, above all others, 
 I would recommend to you, are the young gentle¬ 
 men belonging to the inns of court. We have, I 
 think, about a dozen coachmen, who have cham¬ 
 bers here in the Temple; and, as it is reason¬ 
 able to believe others will follow their example, 
 we may perhaps in time (if it shall be thought 
 convenient), be drove to Westminster by our own 
 fraternity, allowing every fifth person to apply his 
 meditations this way, which is but a modest com¬ 
 putation, as the humor is now likely to take. It 
 is to be hoped, likewise, that there are in the other 
 nurseries of the law to be found a proportionable 
 number of these hopeful plants, springing up to 
 the everlasting renown of their native country. 
 Of how long standing this humor has been, I know 
 not. vThe first time I had any particular reason to 
 take notice of it was about this time twelvemonth, 
 when, being upon Hampstead-heath with some of 
 these studious young men, who went thither purely 
 for the sake of contemplation, nothing would serve 
 them but I must go through a course of this phi¬ 
 losophy too; and, being ever willing to embellish 
 myself with any commendable qualification, it 
 was not long ere they persuaded me into the coach 
 box; nor indeed much longer, before I underwent 
 the fate of my brother Phaeton; for, having drove 
 about fifty paces with pretty good success, through 
 my own natural sagacity, together with the good 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 592 
 
 instructions of mv tutors, who, to give them their 
 due, were on all hands encouraging and assisting 
 me in this laudable undertaking; I say, Sir, hav¬ 
 ing drove about fifty paces with pretty good suc¬ 
 cess, I must needs be exercising the lash; which 
 the horses resented so ill from my hands, that they 
 gave a sudden start, and thereby pitched me di¬ 
 rectly upon my head, as I very well remembered 
 about half an hour afterward; which not only de¬ 
 prived me of all the knowledge I had gained for 
 fifty yards before, but had like to have broke my 
 neck into the bargain. After such a severe repri¬ 
 mand, you may imagine I was not very easily 
 prevailed with to make a second attempt; and, in¬ 
 deed, upon mature deliberation, the whole science 
 seemed, at least to me, to be surrounded with so 
 many difficulties, that, notwithstanding the un¬ 
 known advantages which might have accrued to 
 me thereby, I gave over all hopes of attaining it; 
 and I believe had never thought of it more but 
 that my memory has been lately refreshed by see¬ 
 ing some of these ingenious gentlemen ply in the 
 open streets, one of which I saw receive so suita¬ 
 ble a reward to his labors, that though I know you 
 are no friend to story-telling, yet I must beg leave 
 to trouble you with this at large. 
 
 “About a fortnight since, as I was diverting my¬ 
 self with a pennyworth of walnuts at the Temple- 
 gate, a lively young fellow in a fustian jacket shot 
 by me, beckoned a coach, and told the coachman 
 he wanted to go as far as Chelsea. They agreed 
 upon the price, and this young gentleman mounts 
 the coach-box; the fellow, staring at him, desired 
 to know if he should not drive until they were 
 out of town. ‘No, no/ replied he. He was then 
 going to climb up to him, but received another 
 check, and was then ordered to get into the coach, 
 or behind it, for that he wanted no i instructors; ‘ but 
 be sure you dog you,’ says he, ‘do not you bilk 
 me.’ The fellow thereupon surrendered his whip, 
 scratched his head and crept into the coach. Hav¬ 
 ing myself occasion to go into the Strand about 
 the same time, we started both together; but the 
 street being very full of coaches, and he not so 
 able a coachman as perhaps he imagined himself, 
 
 I had soon got a little way before him; often, 
 however, having the curiosity to cast my eye back 
 upon him, to observe how he behaved himself in 
 this high station; which he did with great com¬ 
 posure, until he came to the pass, which is a, mili¬ 
 tary term the brothers of the whip have given to 
 the strait at St. Clement’s church. When he was 
 arrived near this place, where are always coaches 
 in waiting, the coachmen began to suck up the 
 muscles of their cheeks, and to tip the wink upon 
 each other, as if they had some roguery in their 
 heads, which I was immediately convinced of, for 
 he no sooner came within reach, but the first of 
 them with his whip took the exact dimensions of 
 his shoulders, which he very ingeniously called 
 indorsing: aud, indeed, I must say, that every 
 one of them took due care to indorse him as he 
 came through their hands. He seemed at first a 
 little uneasy under the operation, and was jjoing 
 in all haste to take the numbers of their ccmches; 
 but at length, by the mediation of the worthy 
 gentleman in the coach, his wrath was assuaged, 
 and he prevailed upon to pursue his journey; 
 though I thought they had clapped such a spoke 
 in his wheel, as had disabled him from being a 
 coachman for that day at least; for I am only mis¬ 
 taken, Mr. Speck., if some of these indorsements 
 were not wrote in so strong a hand that they are 
 still legible. Upon my inquiring the reason of 
 this unusual salutation, they told me, that it was 
 a custom among them, whenever they saw a brother 
 tottering or unstable in his post, to lend him a hand, 
 
 in order to settle him again therein. For my part, 
 
 I thought their allegations but reasonable, and so 
 marched off. Beside our coachmen, we abound in 
 divers other sorts of ingenious robust youth,who, 
 
 I hope, will not take it ill if I defer giving you an 
 account of their several recreations to another op¬ 
 portunity. In the meantime, if you would but 
 bestow a little of your wholesome advice upon our 
 coachmen, it might, perhaps, be a reprieve to some 
 of their necks. ' As I understand you have seve¬ 
 ral inspectors under you, if you would but send 
 one among us here in the Temple, I am persua¬ 
 ded he would not want employment. But I leave 
 this to your own consideration, and am, Sir, 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Moses Greenbag.” 
 
 “P. S. I have heard our critics in the coffee¬ 
 houses hereabout, talk mightily of the unity of 
 time and place. According to my notion of the 
 matter, 1 have endeavored at something like it in 
 the beginning of my epistle. I desire to be in¬ 
 formed" a little as to that particular. In my next 
 I design to give you some account of excellent 
 watermen, who are bred to the law, and far outdo 
 the land students above-mentioned.” 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 499.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 2,1712. 
 
 - Nimis uncis 
 
 Naribus indulges-- Pers. Sat. i. 40. 
 
 -You drive the jest too far.—D ryden. 
 
 My friend Will Honeycomb has told me, for 
 above this half-year, that he had a great mind to 
 try his hand at a Spectator, and that he would fain 
 have one of his writing in my works. This morn¬ 
 ing I received from him the following letter, which, 
 after having rectified some little orthographical 
 mistakes, I shall make a present of to the public: 
 
 “Dear Spec., 
 
 “I was about two nights ago in company with 
 very agreeable young people of both sexes, where, 
 talking of some of your papers which are written 
 on conjugal love, there arose a dispute among us, 
 whether there was not more bad husbands in the 
 world than bad wives. A gentleman, who was 
 advocate for the ladies, took this occasion to tell 
 us the story of a famous siege in Germany, which 
 I have since found related in my historical dic¬ 
 tionary, after the following manner: When the 
 Emperor Conrade the Third had besieged Guel- 
 phus, duke of Bavaria, in the city of Hensberg, 
 the women, finding that the town could not possi¬ 
 bly hold out long, petitioned the emperor that 
 they might depart out of it, with so much as each 
 of them could carry. The emperor, knovving that 
 they could not convey away many of their effects, 
 granted them their petition : when the women, to 
 his great surprise, came out of the place with 
 every one her husband upon her back. The em¬ 
 peror was so moved with the sjght, that he burst 
 into tears; and, after having very much extolled the 
 women for their conjugal affection, gave the men 
 to their wives, and received the duke into his 
 favor. 
 
 “The ladies did not a little triumph at this 
 story, asking us at the same time, whether in our 
 consciences we believed that the men of any town 
 in Great Britain would, upon the same offer, and 
 at the same conjuncture, have laden themselves 
 with their wives; or rather, whether they would 
 not have been glad of such an opportunity to get 
 rid of them ? To this my very good friend, Tom 
 Dapperwit, who took upon him to be the mouth 
 
HE SPECTATOR. 
 
 of our sex replied that they would be very much 
 to blame if they would not do the same good 
 office for the women, considering that their 
 strength would be greater and their burdens 
 lighter. As we were amusing ourselves with 
 discourses of this nature, in order to pass away 
 the evening, which now begins to grow tedious, 
 we fell into that laudable and primitive diversion 
 of questions aud commands. I was no sooner 
 vested with the regal authority, but I enjoined 
 all the ladies, under pain of my displeasure, to 
 tell the company ingenuously, in case they had 
 been in the siege above-mentioned, and had the 
 same offers made them as the good women of that 
 place, what every one of them would have brought 
 off with her, and have thought most worth the 
 saving? There were several merry answers made 
 to my question, which entertained us till bed¬ 
 time. This filled my mind with such a huddle 
 of ideas, that upon my going to sleep, I fell into 
 the following dream: 
 
 “ I saw a town of this island, which shall be 
 nameless, invested on every side, and the inhabit¬ 
 ants of it so straitened as to cry for quarter. The 
 general refused any other terms than those granted 
 to the above-mentioned town of Hensberg, namely, 
 that the married women might come out with what 
 they could bring along with them. Immediately 
 the city gates flew open, and a female procession 
 appeared, multitudes of the sex following one an¬ 
 other in a row, and staggering under their respec¬ 
 tive burdens. I took my stand upon an eminence 
 in the enemy’s camp, which was appointed for the 
 general rendezvous of these female carriers, being 
 very desirous to look into their several ladings. 
 The first of them had a huge sack upon her shoul¬ 
 ders, which she set down with great care. Upon 
 the opening of it, when I expected to have seen 
 her husband shot out of it, I found it was filled 
 with china-ware. The next appeared in a more 
 decent figure, carrying a handsome young fellow 
 upon her back: I could not forbear commending 
 the young woman for her conjugal affection, when, 
 to my great surprise, I found that she had left the 
 ood man at home and brought away her gallant, 
 saw the third, at some distance, with a little 
 withered face peeping over her shoulder, whom I 
 could not suspect for any but her spouse, until, 
 upon her setting him down, I heard her call him 
 dear pug, and found him to be her favorite mon¬ 
 key. A fourth brought a huge bale of cards along 
 with her; and the fifth a Bolonia lap-dog; for her 
 husband, it seems, being a very burly man, she 
 thought it would be less trouble for her to bring 
 away little Cupid. The next was the wife of a 
 rich usurer, laden with a bag of gold; she told 
 us that her spouse was very old, and by the course 
 of nature could not expect to live long; and that 
 to show her tender regards for him, she had saved 
 that which the poor man loved better than his life. 
 The next came toward us with her son upon her 
 back, who, we were told, was the greatest rake 
 in the place, but so much the mother’s darling, 
 that she left her husband behind with a large 
 family of hopeful sons and daughters, for the 
 sake of this graceless youth. 
 
 “It would be endless to mention the several 
 persons, with their several loads, that appeared to 
 me in this strange vision. All the place about me 
 was covered with packs of ribbons, brocades, em¬ 
 broidery, and ten thousand other materials, suffi¬ 
 cient to have furnished a whole street of toy¬ 
 shops. One of the women, having a husband, 
 who was none of the heaviest, was bringing him 
 off upon her shoulders, at the same time that she 
 carried a great bundle of Flanders lace under her 
 arm: but findiug herself so overladen, that she 
 38 
 
 593 
 
 could not save both of them, she dropped „he good 
 man, and brought away the bundle. In short, I 
 found but one husband among this great mountain 
 of baggage, who was a lively cobbler, that kicked 
 and spurred all the while his wife was carrying 
 him on, and, as it was said, had scarce passed a 
 day in his life without giving her the discipline 
 of the strap. 
 
 “I cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec., with¬ 
 out telling thee one very odd whim in this my 
 dream. I saw, methought, a dozen women em¬ 
 ployed in bringing off one man; I could not guess 
 who it should be, until upon his nearer approach 
 I discovered thy short phiz. The women all de¬ 
 clared that it was for the sake of thy works, and 
 not thy person, that they brought thee off, and that 
 it was on condition that thou shouldst continue 
 the Spectator. If thou thinkest this dream will 
 make a tolerable one, it is at thy service, from, 
 
 “Dear Spec., 
 
 “ Thine, sleeping and waking, 
 
 “Will Honeycomb.” 
 
 The ladies will see by this letter what I have 
 often told them, that Will is one of those old- 
 fashioned men of wit and pleasure of the town, 
 that shows his parts by raillery on marriage, 
 and one who has often tried his fortune that way 
 without success. I cannot however dismiss his 
 letter, without observing, that the true story on 
 which it is built does honor to the sex, and that, 
 in order to abuse them, the writer is obliged to 
 have recourse to dream and fiction. 
 
 0 . 
 
 Ho. 500.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1712. 
 
 ---Hue natas adjice septem, 
 
 Et totidem juvenes; et mox generosque nurusque. 
 Quaerite nunc, habeat quam nostra superbia causam. 
 
 Ovid, Met. vi. 182. 
 
 Seven are my daughters of a form divine, 
 
 With seven fair sons, an indefective line. 
 
 Go, fools, consider this, and ask the cause, 
 
 From which my pride its strong presumption draws. 
 
 Croxal. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “You, who are so well acquainted with the 
 story of Socrates, must have read how, upon his 
 making a discourse concerning love, he pressed 
 his point with so much success, that all the bach¬ 
 elors in his audience took a resolution to marry 
 by the first opportunity, and that all the married 
 men immediately took horse, and galloped home 
 to their wives. I am apt to think your discourses, 
 in which you have drawn so many agreeable pic¬ 
 tures of marriage, have had a very good effect this 
 way in England. We are obliged to you, at least, 
 for having taken off that senseless ridicule, which 
 for many years the witlings of the town have 
 turned upon their fathers and mothers. For my 
 own part I was born in wedlock, and I do not 
 care who knows it; for which reason, among 
 many others, I should look upon myself as a 
 most insufferable coxcomb, did I endeavor to 
 maintain that cuckoldom was inseparable from 
 marriage, or to make use of husband and wife 
 as terms of reproach. Nay, Sir, I will go one 
 step further, and declare to you before the whole 
 world, that I am a married man, and at the same 
 time I have so much assurance as not to be ashamed 
 of what I have done. 
 
 “ Among the several pleasures that accompany 
 this state of life, and which you have described in 
 your former papers, there are two you have not 
 taken notice of, and which are seldom cast into 
 the account, by those who write on this subject. 
 You must have observed, in your speculations on 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 594 
 
 human natuie, that nothing is more gratifying to 
 the mind of man than power or dominion; and 
 this I think myself amply possessed of, as I am 
 the father of a family. I am perpetually taken up 
 in giving out orders, in prescribing duties, in hear¬ 
 ing parties, in administering justice, and in dis¬ 
 tributing rewards and punishments. To speak in 
 the language of the centurion, I say unto one. Go, 
 and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; 
 and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it. In 
 short, Sir, I look upon my family as a patriarchal 
 sovereignty, in which I am myself both king and 
 riest. All great governments are nothing else 
 ut clusters of these little private royalties, and 
 therefore I consider the masters of families as 
 small deputy-governors presiding over the several 
 little parcels and divisions of their fellow-subjects. 
 As I take great pleasure in the administration of 
 my government in particular, so I look upon my¬ 
 self not only as a more useful, but as a much 
 greater and happier man than any bachelor in 
 England, of my own rank and condition. 
 
 “ There is another accidental advantage in mar¬ 
 riage, which has likewise fallen to my share; I 
 mean the having a multitude of children. These 
 I cannot but regard as very great blessings. When 
 I see my little troop before me, I rejoice in the 
 additions which I have made to my species, to 
 my country, and to my religion, in having pro¬ 
 duced such a number of reasonable creatures, citi¬ 
 zens, and Christians. I am pleased to see myself 
 thus perpetuated; and as there is no production 
 comparable to that of a human creature, I am 
 more proud of having been the occasion of ten 
 such glorious productions, than if I had built a 
 hundred pyramids at my own expense, or pub¬ 
 lished as many volumes of the finest wit and 
 learning. In what a beautiful light has the holy 
 Scripture represented Abdon, one of the judges of 
 Israel, who had forty sons and thirty grandsons, 
 that rode on threescore and ten ass-colts, accord¬ 
 ing to the magnificence of the eastern countries! 
 How must the heart of the old man rejoice when 
 he saw such a beautiful procession of his own 
 descendants, such a numerous cavalcade of his 
 own raising! For my own part, I can sit in my 
 parlor with great content, when I take a review 
 of half-a-dozen of my little boys mounting upon 
 hobby-horses, and of as many little girls tutoring 
 their babies, each of them endeavoring to excel 
 the rest, and to do something that may gain my 
 favor and approbation. I cannot question but he 
 who has blessed me with so many children will 
 assist my endeavors in providing for them. There 
 is one thing I am able to give each of them, which 
 is a virtuous education. I think it is Sir Francis 
 Bacon’s observation, that in a numerous family of 
 children, the eldest is often spoiled by the pros¬ 
 pect of an estate, and the youngest by being the 
 darling of the parent; but that som,e other in the 
 middle, who has not perhaps been regarded, has 
 made his way into the world, and overtopped the 
 rest. It is my business to implant in every one 
 of my children the same seeds of industry, and 
 the same honest principles. By this means, I 
 think I have a fair chance, that one or other of 
 them may grow considerable in some or other way 
 of life, whether it be in the army or in the fleet, in 
 trade or in any of the three learned professions; 
 for you must know, Sir, that from long experience 
 and observation, I am persuaded of what seems a 
 paradox to most of those with whom I converse, 
 namely, that a man who has many children, and 
 gives them a good education, is more likely to 
 raise a family, than he who has but one, notwith¬ 
 standing he leaves him his whole estate. For this 
 reason, I cannot forbear amusing myself with find¬ 
 
 ing out a general, an admiral, or an alderman of 
 London, a divine, a physician, or a lawyer, among 
 my little people who are now perhaps in petti¬ 
 coats; and when I see the motherly airs of my 
 little daughters when they are playing with their 
 uppets, I cannot but flatter my sell that their hus- 
 anas and children will be happy in the posses¬ 
 sion of such wives and mothers. 
 
 “ If you are a father, you will not, perhaps, 
 think this letter impertinent; but if you are a 
 single man, you will not know the meaning of it, 
 and probably throw it into the fire. Whatever 
 you determine of it, you may assure yourself that 
 it comes from one who is 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant, and Well-wisher, 
 0. “ Philogamus.” 
 
 No. 501.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1712. 
 
 Durum. Sed levins fit patientia 
 
 Quicquid corrigere est nefas.— Hor. 1 Od. xxiv. 19. 
 
 ’Tis hard: hut when we needs must hear, 
 
 Enduring patience makes the burden light.—C reech. 
 
 As some of the finest compositions among the 
 ancients are in allegory, I have endeavored, in 
 several of my papers, to revive that way of wri¬ 
 ting, and hope I have not been altogether unsuc¬ 
 cessful in it; for I find there is always a great 
 demand for those particular papers, and cannot 
 but observe that several authors have endeavored 
 of late to excel in works of this nature. Among 
 these, I do not know any one who has succeeded 
 better than a very ingenious gentleman, to whom 
 I am obliged for the following piece, and who was 
 the author of the vision in the 460th paper: 0. 
 
 “ How are we tortured with the absence of what 
 we covet to possess, when it appears to be lost to 
 us! What excursions does the soul make in im¬ 
 agination after it! and how does it turn into itself 
 again, more foolishly fond and dejected at the dis¬ 
 appointment ! Our grief, instead of having re¬ 
 course to reason, which might restrain it, searches 
 to find a further nourishment. It calls upon 
 memory to relate the several passages and cir¬ 
 cumstances of satisfaction which we formerly en¬ 
 joyed; the pleasures we purchased by those riches 
 that are taken from us; or the power and splendor 
 of our departed honors, or the voice, the words, 
 the looks, the temper, and affections, of our friends 
 that are deceased. It needs must happen from 
 hence that the passion should often swell to such 
 a size as to burst the heart which contains it, if 
 time did not make these circumstances less strong 
 and lively, so that reason should become a more 
 equal match for the passion, or if another desire 
 which becomes more present did not overpower 
 them with a livelier representation. These are 
 thoughts which I had when I fell into a kind of 
 vision upon this subject, and may therefore stand 
 for a proper introduction to a relation of it. 
 
 “I found myself upon a naked shore, with com¬ 
 pany whose afflicted countenances witnessed their 
 conditions. Before us flowed a water, deep, silent, 
 and called the River of Tears, which, issuing from 
 two fountains on an upper ground, encompassed 
 an island that lay before us. The boat which 
 plied in it was old and shattered, having been 
 sometimes overset by the impatience and haste of 
 single passengers to arrive at the other side. This 
 immediately was brought to us by Misfortune who 
 steers it, and we were all preparing to take our 
 places, when there appeared a woman of a mild 
 and composed behavior, who began to deter us 
 from it, by representing the dangers which would 
 attend our voyage. Hereupon some who knew 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 her for Patience, and some of those, too, who 
 until then cried the loudest, were persuaded by 
 her, and returned back. The rest of us went in, 
 and she (whose good-nature would not suffer her 
 to forsake persons in trouble) desired leave to 
 accompany us, that she might at least administer 
 some small comfort or advice while we sailed. 
 We were no sooner embarked but the boat was 
 pushed off, the sheet was spread; and being filled 
 ■with sighs, which are the winds of that country, 
 we made a passage to the further bank, through 
 several difficulties of which the most of us seemed 
 utterly regardless. 
 
 “When we landed, we perceived the island to 
 be strangely overcast with fogs, which no bright¬ 
 ness could pierce, so that a kind of gloomy horror 
 sat always brooding over it. This had something 
 in it very shocking to easy tempers, insomuch that 
 some others whom Patience had by this time gained 
 over, left us here, and privily conveyed themselves 
 round the ver?e of the island, to find a ford by 
 which she tola them they might escape. 
 
 For my part, I still went along with those 
 who were for piercing into the center of the place- 
 and joining ourselves to others whom we found 
 upon the same journey, we marched solemnly as 
 at a funeial, through bordering hedges of rose¬ 
 mary and through a grove of yew trees, which 
 love to overshadow tombs and flourish in church¬ 
 yards. Here we heard on every side the wailings 
 and complaints of several of the inhabitants, wlio 
 bad cast themselves disconsolately at the feet of 
 trees; and as we chanced to approach any of 
 these, we might perceive them wringing their 
 hands, beating their breasts, tearing their hair 
 or after some other manner visibly agitated with 
 vexation. Our sorrows were heightened by the 
 influence of what we heard and saw, and one of 
 our number was-wrought up to such a pitch of 
 wildness, as to talk of hanging himself upon a 
 bough which shot temptingly across the path we 
 traveled in; but he was restrained from it by 
 the kind endeavors of our above-mentioned com¬ 
 panion. 
 
 “We had now gotten into the most dusky 
 silent part of the island, and by the redoubled 
 sounds of sighs, which made a doleful whistling 
 in the branches, the thickness of air, which occa* 
 sioned faintish respiration, and the violent throb- 
 bings of heart, which more and more affected us, 
 we found that we approached the Grotto of Grief. 
 
 It was a wide, hollow and melancholy cave, sunk 
 deep in a dale, and watered by rivulets that had a 
 color between red and black. These crept slow 
 and half congealed among its windings, and 
 mixed their heavy murmurs with the echo of 
 groans that rolled through all the passages. In 
 the most retired parts of it sat the doleful being 
 herself; the path to her was strewed with goads 
 stings, and thorns; and her throne on which she 
 sat was broken into a rock, with ragged pieces 
 pointing upward for her to lean upon. A heavy 
 mist hung above her: her head oppressed with it 
 reclined upon her arm. Thus did she reign over 
 her disconsolate subjects, full of herself to stu¬ 
 pidity, m eternal pensiveness, and the profoundest 
 silence. On one side of her stood Dejection just 
 dropping into a swoon, and Paleness wastino- to a 
 skeleton; on the other side where Care inwardly 
 tormented with imaginations, and Anguish suf¬ 
 fering outward troubles to suck the blood from her 
 heart in the shape of vultures. The whole vault 
 had a genuine dismalness in it, which a few scat¬ 
 tered lamps, whose bluish flames arose and sunk 
 m their urns, discovered to our eyes with increase, 
 some of us fell down, overcome and spent with 
 *hat they suffered in the way, and were given 
 
 595 
 
 over to those tormentors that stood on either hand 
 o . c presence; others, galled and mortified with 
 pam, recovered the entrance, where Patience, whom 
 We « w- behind) was still waiting to receive us. 
 
 With her (whose company was now become 
 more grateful to us by the want we had found of 
 her) we winded round the grotto, and ascended at 
 the back of it, out of the mournful dale in whose 
 bottom it lay. On this eminence we halted by her 
 advice, to pant for breath; and lifting our eyes 
 which until then were fixed downward, felt a sul¬ 
 len sort of satisfaction, in observing through the 
 shades what numbers had entered the island. This 
 satisfaction, which appears to have ill-nature in it 
 was excusable, because it happened at a time when 
 we weie too much taken up with our own concern 
 to have respect to that of others; and therefore we 
 did not consider them as suffering, but ourselves 
 as not suffering in the most forlorn estate. It had 
 also the groundwork of humanity and compassion 
 in it, though the mind was too dark and too deeply 
 engaged to perceive it; but as we proceeded on¬ 
 ward, it began to discover itself, and, from ob¬ 
 serving that others were unhappy, we came to 
 question one another, when it was that we met 
 and what were the sad occasions that broug]^, us* 
 together. Then we heard our stories, we com¬ 
 pared them, we mutually gave and received pity 
 and so by degrees became tolerable company. 
 
 A. considerable part of the troublesome road 
 was thus deceived; at length the openings among 
 the trees grew larger, the air seemed thinner, it 
 lay with less oppression upon us, and we could 
 now and then discern tracks in it of a lighter gray- 
 ness, like thebreakings of day, short in duration, 
 much enlivening, and called in that country gleams 
 of amusement. Within a short while, these gleams 
 began to appear more frequent, and then brighter 
 and of a longer continuance; the sighs that hith¬ 
 erto filled the air with so much dolefulness, altered 
 to the sound of common breezes, and in general the 
 horrors of the island were abated. 
 
 “ When we had arrived at last at the ford by 
 winch we were to pass out, we met with those 
 tashionable mourners who had been ferried over 
 along with us, and, who being unwilling to go as 
 far as we had coasted by the shore to find the place 
 where they waited our coming; that by showing 
 themselves to the world only at the time when we 
 did, they might seem also to have been among 
 the troubles of the grotto. Here the waters that 
 roiled on the other side so deep and silent, were 
 much dried up, and it was an easier matter for us 
 to wade over. 
 
 “ The river being crossed, we were received upon 
 the further bank by our friends and acquaintance, 
 whom Comfort had brought out to congratulate our 
 appearance in the world again. Some of these 
 blamed us for staying so long away from them, 
 others advised us against all temptations of going 
 back again; every one was cautious not to renew 
 our trouble, by asking any particulars of the jour¬ 
 ney; and all concluded that, in a case of so much 
 melancholy and affliction, we could not have made 
 choice of a fitter companion than Patience. Here 
 Patience, appearing serene at her praises, delivered 
 us over to Comfort. Comfort smiled at his receiv¬ 
 ing the charge; immediately the sky purpled on 
 that side to which he turned, and double day at 
 once broke in upon me.” 
 
596 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 502.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1712. 
 
 Melius, pejus, prosit, obsit, nil vident, nisi quod lubet. 
 
 Ter. Heaut. act iv. sc. 1. 
 
 Better or worse, profitable or disadvantageous, they see noth¬ 
 ing but what they list. 
 
 When men read, they taste the matter with 
 which they are entertained, according as their own 
 respective studies and inclinations have prepared 
 them, and make their reflections accordingly. 
 Some, perusing Roman writers, would find in 
 them, whatever the subject of the discourses were, 
 parts which implied the grandeur of that people 
 in their warfare, or their politics. As for my part, 
 who am a mere Spectator, I drew this morning 
 conclusions of their eminence in what I think 
 great, to wit: in having worthy sentiments, from 
 the reading a comedy of Terence. The play was 
 the Self-Tormentor. It is from the beginning to the 
 end a perfect picture of human life, but I did not 
 observe in the whole one passage that could raise 
 a laugh. How well disposed must that people be 
 who could be entertained with satisfaction by so 
 sober and polite mirth ! In the first scene of the 
 comedy, when one of the old men accuses the 
 other of impertinence for interposing in his affairs, 
 he answers, “I am a man, and cannot help feeling 
 any sorrow that can arrive at man.”* It is said 
 this sentence was received with a universal ap¬ 
 plause. There cannot be a greater argument of 
 the general good understanding of a people, than 
 a sudden consent to give their approbation of a 
 sentiment which has no emotion in it. If it were 
 spoken with never so great skill in the actor, the 
 manner of uttering that sentence could have noth¬ 
 ing in it which could strike any but people of the 
 greatest humanity, nay people elegant and skillful 
 in observations upon it. It is possible he might 
 have laid his hand on his breast, and, with a win¬ 
 ning insinuation in his countenance, expressed to 
 his neighbor that he was a man who made his case 
 his own; yet I will engage a player in Covent- 
 garden might hit such an attitude a thousand 
 times before he would have been regarded. I have 
 heard that a minister of state in the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth had all manner of books and ballads 
 brought to him of what kind soever, and took 
 great notice how much they took with the people; 
 upon which he would, and certainly might, very 
 well judge of their present dispositions, and the 
 most proper way of applying them according to 
 his own purposes. What passes on the stage, and 
 the reception it meets with from the audience, is a 
 veryuseful instruction of this kind. According 
 to what you may observe there on our stage, you 
 see them often moved so directly against all com¬ 
 mon sense and humanity, that you would be apt 
 to pronounce us a nation of savages. It cannot 
 be called a mistake of what is pleasant, but the 
 very contrary to it is what most assuredly takes 
 with them. The other night an old woman carried 
 off with a pain in her side, with all the distortions 
 and anguish of countenance which is natural to 
 one in that condition, was laughed and clapped off 
 the stage. Terence’s comedy, which I am speaking 
 of, is indeed written as if he hoped to please none 
 but such as had as good a taste as himself. I could 
 not but reflect upon the natural description of the 
 innocent young woman made by the servant to his 
 master. ‘‘When I came to the house,” said he, 
 “ an old woman opened the door, and I followed 
 her in, because I could, by entering upon them 
 unawares, better observe what was your mistress’ 
 ordinary manner of spending her time, the only 
 
 * Homo sum, et nihil humanum a me alienum puto. 
 
 I am a man; and all calamities, 
 
 That touch humanity, come home to me. — Colman. 
 
 way of judging any one’s inclinations and genius. 
 
 I found her at her needle in a sort of second mourn¬ 
 ing, which she wore for an aunt she had lately 
 lost. She had nothing on but what showed she 
 dressed only for herself. Her hair hung negli¬ 
 gently about her shoulders. She had none of the 
 arts with which others used to set themselves off, 
 but had that negligence of person which is re¬ 
 markable in those who are careful of their minds. 
 Then she had a maid who was at work near her 
 that was a slattern, because her mistress was care¬ 
 less; which I take to be another argument of your 
 security in her; for the go-betweens of women of 
 intrigue are rewarded too well to be dirty. When 
 you were named, and I told her you desired to see 
 her, she threw down her work for joy, covered her 
 face, and decently hid her tears.” He must be a 
 very good actor, and draw attention rather from 
 his own character than the words of the author, 
 that could gain it among us for this speech, though 
 so full of nature and good sense. 
 
 The intolerable folly and confidence of players 
 putting in words of their own, does in a great 
 measure feed the absurd taste of the audience. 
 But however that is, it is ordinary for a cluster of 
 coxcombs to take up the house to themselves, and 
 equally insult both the actors and the company. 
 These savages, who want all manner of regard 
 and deference to the rest of mankind, come only to 
 show themselves to us, without any other purpose 
 than to let us know they despise us. 
 
 The gross of an audience is composed of two 
 sorts of people, those who know no pleasure but 
 of the body, and those who improve or command 
 corporeal pleasures, by the addition of fine senti¬ 
 ments of their mind. At present the intelligent 
 part of the company are wholly subdued by the 
 insurrections of those who know no satisfactions 
 but what they have in common with all other ani¬ 
 mals. 
 
 This is the reason that when a scene tending to 
 procreation is acted, you see the whole pit in such 
 a chuckle, and old lechers, with mouths open, stare 
 at the loose gesticulations on the stage with shame¬ 
 ful earnestness; when the justest pictures of human 
 life in its calm dignity, and the properest senti¬ 
 ments for the conduct of it, pass by like mere 
 narration, as conducing only to somewhat much 
 better which is to come after. I have seen the 
 whole house at some times in so proper a disposi¬ 
 tion, that indeed I have trembled for the boxes, 
 and feared tlie entertainment would end in the 
 representation of the rape of the Sabines. 
 
 I would not be understood in this talk to argue 
 that nothing is tolerable on the stage but. what has 
 an immediate tendency to the promotion of virtue. 
 On the contrary, I can allow, provided there is 
 nothing against the interests of virtue, and is not 
 offensive to good manners, that things of an indif¬ 
 ferent nature may be represented. For this reason 
 I have no exception to the well-drawn rusticities 
 in the Country Wake; and there is something so 
 miraculously pleasant in Dogget’s acting the awk¬ 
 ward triumph and comic sorrow of Hob in dif¬ 
 ferent circumstances, that I shall not be able to 
 stay away whenever it is acted. All that vexes me 
 is, that the gallantry of taking the cudgels for 
 Gloucestershire, with the pride of heart in tucking 
 himself up, and taking aim at his adversary, as 
 well as the other’s protestation in the humanity of 
 low romance, that he could not promise the ’squire 
 to break Hob’s head, but he would, if he could, do 
 it in love; then flourish and begin: I say what 
 vexes me is, that such excellent touches as these, 
 as well as the ’squire’s being out of all patience 
 at Hob’s success, and venturing himself into the 
 crowd, are circumstances hardly taken notice of, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 597 
 
 and the height of the jest is only in the very point 
 that heads are broken. I am confident were there 
 a scene written, wherein Penkethman should break 
 his leg by wrestling with Bullock, and Dicky come 
 in to set it, without one word said but what should 
 be according to the exact rules of surgery in mak¬ 
 ing this extension, and binding up the leg, the 
 whole house should be in a roar of applause at the 
 dissembled anguish of the patient, the help given 
 by him who threw him down, and the handy ad¬ 
 dress and arch looks of the surgeon. To enu¬ 
 merate the entrance of ghosts, the embattling of 
 armies, the noise of heroes in love, with a thou¬ 
 sand other enormities, would be to transgress the 
 bounds of this paper, for which reason it is possi¬ 
 ble they may have hereafter distinct discourses: 
 not forgetting any of the audience who shall set 
 up for actors, and interrupt the play on the stage; 
 and players who shall prefer the applause of fools, 
 to that of the reasonable part of the company.—T. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT TO SPECTATOR, NO. 502. 
 
 H. B. There are in the play of the Self-Tormen¬ 
 tor of Terence, which is allowed a most excellent 
 comedy, several incidents which would draw tears 
 from any man of sense, and not one which would 
 move his laughter.—Spec, in folio, No. 521. 
 
 This speculation, No. 502, is controverted in the 
 Guard, No. 59, by a writer under the fictitious 
 name of John Lizard; perhaps Dr. Edw. Young. 
 
 No. 503.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 1712. 
 
 —Delo omnes dehinc ex animo mulieres. 
 
 Ter. Eun. act. ii. gc. 3. 
 
 From henceforward I blot out of my thoughts all memory 
 of womankind. J 
 
 u Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You haye often mentioned with great vehe¬ 
 mence and indignation the misbehavior of people 
 at church but I am at present to talk to you on 
 that subject, and complain to you of one, whom at 
 the same time I know not what to accuse of, ex¬ 
 cept it be looking too well there, and diverting the 
 eyes of the congregation to that one object. How¬ 
 ever, I have this to say, that she might have 
 stayed at her own parish, and not come to perplex 
 those who are otherwise intent upon their duty. 
 
 “Last Sunday was sevennight I went into a 
 church not far from London-bridge; but I wish I 
 had been contented to go to my own parish, I am 
 sure it had been better for me ; I say I went to 
 church thither, and got into a pew very near the 
 pulpit. I had hardly been accommodated with a 
 seat, before there entered into the aisle a younc 
 hidy in the very bloom of youth and beauty, and 
 dressed in the most elegant manner imaginable. 
 Her form was such that it engaged the eyes of the 
 whole congregation in an instant, and mine amono- 
 the rest. Though we were all thus fixed upon 
 her, she was not in the least out of countenance, 
 or under the least disorder, though unattended by 
 any one, and not seeming to know particularly 
 where to place herself. However, she had not in 
 the least a confident aspect, but moved on with 
 the most graceful modesty, every one making way 
 until she came to a seat just over against that in 
 which I was placed. The deputy of the ward sat ’ 
 in that pew, and she stood opposite to him, and 
 it a glance into the seat, though she did not ap¬ 
 pear the least acquainted with the gentleman, 
 was let in, with a confusion that spoke much 
 idnuration at the novelty of the thing. The 
 service immediately began, and she composed 
 aerself for it with an air of so much goodness and ■ 
 
 sweetness, that the confession which she uttered, 
 so as to be heard where I sat, appeared an act of 
 humiliation more than she had occasion for. The 
 tiuth is, her beauty had something so innocent, 
 and yet so sublime, that we all gazed upon her 
 like a phantom. None of the pictures which we 
 behold of the best Italian painters have anything 
 like the spirit which appeared in her countenance, 
 at the different sentiments expressed in the several 
 parts of Divine service. That gratitude and joy 
 at a thanksgiving, that lowliness and sorrow at 
 the prayers for the sick and distressed, that tri¬ 
 umph at the passages which gave instances of the 
 Divine mercy, which appeared respectively in her 
 aspect, will be in my memory to my last hour. I 
 protest to you, Sir, she suspended the devotion of 
 every one dtound her ; and the ease she did every¬ 
 thing with soon dispersed the churlish dislike and 
 hesitation in approving what is excellent, too fre¬ 
 quent among us, to a general attention and enter¬ 
 tainment in observing her behavior. All the 
 while that we were gazing at her, she took notice 
 of no object about her, but had an art of seemino- 
 awkwardly attentive, whatever else her eyes were 
 accidentally thrown upon. One thing, indeed, 
 was particular, she stood the whole service, and 
 never kneeled or sat: I do not question but that 
 was to show herself with the greater advantage, 
 and set forth to better grace her hands and arms, 
 lifted up with the most ardent devotion ; and her 
 bosom, the fairest that ever was seen, bare to ob¬ 
 servation ; while she, you must think, knew no¬ 
 thing of the concern she gave others, any other 
 than as an example of devotion, that threw herself 
 out, without regard to dress or garment, all con- 
 trition, and loose of all worldly regards, in ecstasy 
 of ( devotion. Well; now the organ was to play 
 a voluntary, and she was so skillful in music, and 
 so touched with it, that she kept time not only 
 with some motion of her head, but also with a 
 different air in her countenance. When the music 
 was strong and bold, she looked exalted, but seri¬ 
 ous ; when lively and airy, she was smiling and 
 gracious ; when the notes were more soft and lan¬ 
 guishing, she was kind and full of pity. When 
 she had now made it visible to the whole congre¬ 
 gation, by her motion and ear, that she could 
 dance, and she wanted now only to inform us that 
 she could sing too ; when the psalm was given 
 out, her voice was distinguished above all the rest, 
 or rather people did not exert their own, in order 
 to hear her. Never was any heard so sweet and 
 so strong. The organist observed it, and he 
 thought fit to play to her only, and she swelled 
 every note, when she found she had thrown us all 
 out, and had the last verse to herself in such a 
 manner as the whole congregation was intent 
 upon her, in the same manner as you see in the 
 cathedrals they are on the person who sings alone 
 the anthem. Well; it came at last to the sermon, 
 arid our young lady would not lose her part in 
 that either; for she fixed her eye upon the preacher, 
 
 a ?T,f S I 16 Sa ^ an ything she approved, with one 
 of Charles Mather’s fine tablets she set down the 
 sentence, at once showing her fine hand, the gold 
 pen, her readiness in writing, and her judgment 
 in choosing what to write. To sum up what I 
 intend by this long and particular account, I mean 
 to appeal to you, whether it is reasonable that 
 such a creature as this shall come from a jaunty 
 part of the town, and give herself such violent 
 airs, to the disturbance of an innocent and inoffen¬ 
 sive congregation, with her sublimities. The fact, 
 
 I assure you, was as I have related : but I had 
 like to have forgot another very considerable par¬ 
 ticular. As soon as church was done, she imme¬ 
 diately stepped out of her pew, and fell into the 
 
598 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 finest pitty-patty air, forsooth, wonderfully out of 
 countenance, tossing her head up and down, as 
 she swam along the body of the church. I, with 
 several others of the inhabitants, followed her out, 
 and saw her hold up her fan to a hackney coach 
 at a distance, who immediately came up to her, 
 and she whipped into it with great nimbleness, 
 ulled the door with a bowing mien, as if she had 
 een used to a better glass. She said aloud, ‘ You 
 know where to go,’ and drove off. By this time 
 the best of the congregation was at the church- 
 door, and I could hear some say, ‘A very fine 
 lady ;’ others, ‘ I’ll warrant you, she is no better 
 than she should be ;’ and one very wise old lady 
 said, ‘she ought to have been taken up.’ Mr. 
 Spectator, I think this matter lies wholly before 
 you : for the offense does not come umfer any law, 
 though it is apparent this creature came among us 
 only to give herself airs, and enjoy her full swing 
 in being admired. I desire you will print this, 
 that she may be confined to her own parish ; for 
 I can assure you there is no attending anything 
 else in a place where she is a novelty. She has 
 been talked of among us ever since, under the 
 name of ‘ the phantom :’ but I would advise her 
 to come no more ; for there is so strong a party 
 made by the women against her, that she must 
 expect they will not be excelled a second time in 
 so outrageous a manner, without doing her some 
 insult. Young women, who assume after this 
 rate, and affect exposing themselves to view in 
 congregations at the other end of the town, are not 
 so mischievous, because they are rivaled by more 
 of the same ambition, who will not let the rest of 
 the company be particular; but in the name of 
 the whole congregation where I was, I desire you 
 to keep these agreeable disturbances out of the 
 city, where sobriety of manners is still preserved, 
 and all glaring and ostentatious behavior, even 
 in things laudable, discountenanced. I wish you 
 may never see the phantom, and am, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble Servant, 
 
 T. “Ralph Wondee.” 
 
 No. 504.] WEDNESDAY, OCT. 8, 1712. 
 
 Lepus tute es, et pulpamentum quseris. 
 
 Ter. Eun. act. iii. sc. 1. 
 
 You are a hare yourself, and want dainties, forsooth. 
 
 It is a great convenience to those who want wit 
 to furnish out a conversation, that there is some¬ 
 thing or other in all companies where it is wanted 
 substituted in its stead, which, according to their 
 taste, does the business as well. Of this nature is 
 the agreeable pastime in country halls of cross- 
 purposes, questions and commands, and the like. 
 A little superior to these are those who can play 
 at crambo, or cap verses. Then above them are 
 such as can make verses, that is, rhyme ; and 
 among those who have the Latin tongue, such as 
 used to make what they call golden verses. Com¬ 
 mend me also to those who have not brains enough 
 for any of these exercises, and yet do not give up 
 their pretensions to mirth. These can slap you on 
 the back unawares, laugh loud, ask you how you 
 do with a twang on your shoulders, say you are dull 
 to-day, and laugh a voluntary to put you in humor; 
 not to mention the laborious way among the minor 
 poets, of making things come into such and such 
 a shape, as that of an egg, a hand, an ax, or any¬ 
 thing that nobody had ever thought on before, for 
 that purpose, or which would have cost a great 
 deal of pains to accomplish, if they did. But all 
 these methods, though they are mechanical, and 
 may be arrived at with the smallest capacity, do 
 
 not serve an honest gentleman who wants wit for 
 his ordinary occasions ; therefore it is absolutely 
 necessary that the poor in imagination should have 
 something which may be serviceable to them at all 
 hours upon all common occurrences. That which 
 we call punning is therefore greatly affected by 
 men of small intellects. These men need not be 
 concerned with you for the whole sentence ; but 
 if they can say a quaint thing, or bring in a word 
 which sounds like any one word you have spoken 
 to them, they can turn the discourse, or distract 
 you so that you cannot go on, and by consequence, 
 if they cannot be as witty as you are, they can 
 hinder your being any wittier than they are. Thus, 
 if you talk of a candle, he “ can deal ” with you ; 
 and if you ask him to help you to some bread, a 
 punster should think himself very “ill-bred” if 
 he did not; and if he is not as “ well-bred” as your¬ 
 self, he hopes for “grains” of allowance. If you 
 do not understand that last fancy, you must recol¬ 
 lect that bread is made of grain ; and so they go 
 on forever, without possibility of being exhausted. 
 
 There are another kind of people of small facul¬ 
 ties, who supply want of wit with want of breed¬ 
 ing ; and because women are both by nature and 
 education more offended at anything which is im¬ 
 modest than we men are, these are ever harping 
 upon things they ought not to allude to, and deal 
 mightily in double meanings. Every one’s own 
 observation will suggest instances enough of this 
 kind without my mentioning any ; for your double 
 meaners are dispersed up and down through all 
 parts of the town or city where there are any to 
 offend, in order to set off themselves. These men 
 are mighty loud laughers, and held very pretty 
 gentlemen with the sillier and unbred part of wo¬ 
 mankind. But above all already mentioned, or 
 any who ever were, or ever can be in the world, 
 the happiest and surest to be pleasant, are a sort 
 of people whom we have not indeed lately heard 
 much of, and those are your “ biters.” 
 
 ‘A biter is one who tells you a thing you have 
 no reason to disbelieve in itself, and perhaps has 
 given you, before he bit you, no reason to disbe¬ 
 lieve it for his saying it; and if you give him 
 credit, laughs in your face, and triumphs that he 
 has deceived you. In a word, a biter is one 
 who thinks you a fool, because you do not think 
 him a knave. This description of him one may 
 insist upon to be a just one; for what else but a 
 degree of knavery is it, to depend upon deceit for 
 what you gain of another, be it in point of wit, or 
 interest, or anything else ? 
 
 This way of wit is called “ biting,” by a meta¬ 
 phor taken from beasts of prey, which devour 
 harmless and unarmed animals, and look upon 
 them as their food wherever they meet them. The 
 sharpers about town very ingeniously understood 
 themselves to be to the undesigning part of man¬ 
 kind what foxes are to lambs, and therefore used 
 the word biting, to express any exploit wherein 
 they had overreached any innocent and inadver¬ 
 tent man of his purse. These rascals, of late years, 
 have been the gallants of the town, and carried 
 it with a fashionable haughty air, to the discour¬ 
 agement of modesty, and all honest arts. Shallow 
 fops, who are governed by the eye, and admire 
 everything that struts in vogue, took up from the 
 sharpers the phrase of biting, and used it upon 
 all occasions, either to disown any nonsensical 
 stuff they should talk themselves, or evade the 
 force of what was reasonably said by others. 
 Thus, when one of these cunning creatures was 
 entered into a debate with you, whether it was 
 practicable in the present state of affairs to ac¬ 
 complish such a proposition, and you thought he 
 had let fall what destroyed his side of the question, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 599 
 
 as soon as you looked with an earnestness ready 
 to lay hold of it, he immediately cried, “Bite,” 
 and you were immediately to ackiiowledge all that 
 part was in jest. They carry this to all the extra¬ 
 vagance imaginable; and if one of these witlings 
 knows any particulars which may give authority 
 to what he says, he is still the more ingenious if 
 he imposes upon your credulity. I remember a 
 remarkable instance of this kind. There came up 
 a shrewd young fellow to a plain young man, his 
 countryman, and taking him aside with a grave 
 concerned countenance, goes on at this rate: “ I 
 see you here, and have you heard nothing out of 
 Yorkshire? You look so surprised you could not 
 have heard of it—and yet the particulars are such 
 that it cannot be false: I am sorry I am got into 
 it so far that I now must tell you; but I know not 
 but it may be for your service to know. On Tues¬ 
 day last, just after dinner—you know his manner 
 is to smoke—opening his box, your father fell 
 down dead in an apoplexy.” The youth showed 
 the filial sorrow which he ought—upon which the 
 witty man cried, “Bite; there was nothing in all 
 this.” 
 
 To put an end to this silly, pernicious, frivolous 
 way at once, I will give the reader one late instance 
 of a bite, which no biter for the future will ever 
 be able to equal, though I heartily wish him the 
 same occasion. It is a superstition with some 
 surgeons who beg the bodies of condemned male¬ 
 factors, to go to the jail, and bargain for the car¬ 
 cass with the criminal himself. A good honest 
 fellow did so last sessions, and was admitted to 
 the condemned men on the morning wherein they 
 died. The surgeon communicated his business, 
 and fell into discourse with a little fellow, who 
 refused twelve shillings, and insisted upon fifteen 
 for his body. The fellow who killed the officer 
 of Newgate, very forwardly, and like a man who 
 was willing to deal, told him, “Look you, Mr. 
 Surgeon, that little dry fellow, who has been half 
 starved all his life, and is now half dead with fear, 
 cannot answer your purpose. I have ever lived 
 high and freely, my veins are full, I have not 
 pined in imprisonment; you see my crest swells 
 to your knife; and after Jack Catch has done, upon 
 my honor you will find me as sound as ever a bul¬ 
 lock in any of the markets. Come, for twenty 
 shillings I am your man.” Says the surgeon, 
 “Done, there is a guinea.” This witty rogue took 
 the money, and as soon as he had it in his fist, 
 cries, “ Bite; I am to be hanged in chains.”—T. 
 
 No. 505.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1712. 
 
 Non habeo denique nauci Marsum augurem, 
 
 Non vicanos aruspices, non de circo astrologos, 
 
 Non Isiacos conjectores, non interpretes somnium, 
 
 Non enim sunt ii. aut scientia, aut arte divini, 
 
 Sed superstitiosi vates, impudentesque harioli, 
 
 Aut inertes, aut insani, aut quibus egestas imperat: 
 
 Qui sui quaestus causa fictas suscitant sententias: 
 
 Qui sibi semitam non sapiunt, alteri monstrant viam: 
 Quibus divitias pollicentur, ab iis drachmam petunt: 
 
 De divitiis deducant drachmam, reddant caetera. 
 
 Ennius. 
 
 Augurs and Soothsayers, astrologers, 
 
 Diviners, and interpreters of dreams, 
 
 I ne’er consult, and heartily despise: 
 
 Vain their pretense to more than human skill: 
 
 For gain, imaginary schemes they draw ; 
 
 Wand’rers themselves, they guide another’s steps: 
 
 And for poor sixpence promise countless wealth. 
 
 Let them, if they expect to be believed, 
 
 Deduct the sixpence, and bestow the rest. 
 
 Those who have maintained that men would be 
 more miserable than beasts, were their hopes con¬ 
 fined to this life only, among other considerations 
 take notice that the latter are only afflicted with 
 
 the anguisli of the present evil, whereas the former 
 are very often pained by the reflection on what is 
 passed, and the fear of what is to come. This fear 
 of any future difficulties or misfortunes is so nat¬ 
 ural to the mind, that were a man’s sorrows and 
 disquietudes summed up at the end of his life, it 
 would generally be found that he had suffered 
 more from the apprehension of such evils as never 
 happened to him, than from those evils which had 
 already befallen him. To this we may add, that 
 among those evils which befall us, there are many 
 which have been more painful to us in the pros¬ 
 pect, than by their actual pressure. 
 
 This natural impatience to look into futurity, 
 and to know what accidents may happen to us 
 hereafter, has given birth to many ridiculous arts 
 and inventions. Some found their prescience on 
 the lines of a man’s hand, others on the features of 
 his face; some on the signatures which nature has 
 impressed on his body, and others on his own 
 hand-writing : some read men’s fortunes in the 
 stars, as others have searched after them in the 
 entrails of beasts, or the flights of birds. Men of 
 the best sense have been touched more or less with 
 these groundless horrors and presages of futurity, 
 upon surveying the most indifferent works of na¬ 
 ture. Can anything be more surprising than to 
 consider Cicero,* who made the greatest figure at 
 the bar and in the senate of the Roman common¬ 
 wealth, and at the same time outshined all the 
 philosophers of antiquity in his library and in his 
 retirements, as busying himself in the college of 
 augurs, and observing with a religious attention 
 after what manner the chickens pecked the several 
 grains of corn which were thrown to them ? 
 
 Notwithstanding these follies are pretty well 
 worn out of the minds of the wise and learned in 
 the present age, multitudes of weak and ignorant 
 ersons are still slaves to them. There are num- 
 erless arts of prediction among the vulgar, which 
 are too trifling to enumerate; and infinite observa¬ 
 tions of days, numbers, voices, and figures, which 
 are regarded by them as portents and prodigies. 
 In short, everything prophesies to the supersti¬ 
 tious man; there is scarce a straw, or a rusty piece 
 of iron, that lies in his way by accident. 
 
 It is not to be conceived how many wizards, 
 gipseys, and cunning men, are dispersed through 
 all the counties and market-towns of Great Britain, 
 not to mention the fortune-tellers and astrologers, 
 who live very comfortably upon the curiosity of 
 several well-disposed persons in the cities of Lon¬ 
 don and Westminster. 
 
 Among the many pretended arts of divination, 
 there is none which so universally amuses as that 
 by dreams. I have indeed observed in a late spec¬ 
 ulation, that there have been sometimes, upon very 
 extraordinary occasions, supernatural revelations 
 made to certain persons by this means; but as it 
 is the chief business of this paper to root out pop¬ 
 ular errors, I must endeavor to expose the folly 
 and superstition of those persons, who, in the 
 common and ordinary course of life, lay any stress 
 upon things of so uncertain, shadowy, and chim¬ 
 erical a nature. This I cannot do more effectually 
 than by the following letter, which is dated from a 
 quarter of the town that has always been the hab¬ 
 itation of some prophetic Philomath: it having 
 been usual, time out of mind, for all such people 
 as have lost their wits, to resort to that place either 
 for their cure or for their instruction ; 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Moorfields, Oct 4, 1712. 
 
 “Having long considered whether there be any 
 
 * This censure of Cicero seems to be unfounded; for it is 
 said of him that he wondered how one augur could meet 
 another without laughing in his face. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 600 
 
 trade wanting in this great city, after having sur¬ 
 veyed very attentively all kinds of ranks and pro¬ 
 fessions, I do not find in any quarter of the town 
 an oneiro-critic, or, in plain English, an interpreter 
 of dreams. For want of so useful a person, there 
 are several good people who are very much puz¬ 
 zled in this particular, and dream a whole year 
 together without being ever the wiser for it. I 
 hope I am pretty well qualified for this office, hav¬ 
 ing studied by candlelight all the rules of art 
 which have been laid down upon this subject. 
 Mv great uncle by my wife’s side was a Scotch 
 highlander, and second-sighted. I have four fingers 
 and two thumbs upon one hand, and was born on 
 the longest night of the year. My Christian and 
 surname begin and end with the same letters. I 
 am lodged in Moorfields, in a house that for these 
 fifty years has been always tenanted by a conjurer. 
 
 “If you had been in company, so much as my¬ 
 self, with ordinary women of the town, you must 
 know that there are many of them who every day 
 in their lives, upon seeing or hearing of anything 
 that is unexpected, cry, £ My dream is out;’ and 
 cannot go to sleep in quiet the next night, until 
 something or other has happened which has ex¬ 
 pounded the visions of the preceding one. There 
 are others who are in very great pain for not being 
 able to recover the circumstances of a dream, that 
 made strong impressions upon them while it lasted. 
 In short, Sir, there are many whose waking 
 thoughts are wholly employed on their sleeping 
 ones. For the benefit, therefore, of this curious 
 and inquisitive part of my fellow-subjects, I shall 
 in the first place tell those persons what they 
 dreamed of, who fancy they never dream at all. 
 In the next place I shall make out any dream, 
 upon hearing a single circumstance of it; and, in 
 the last place, I shall expound to them the good 
 or bad fortune which such dreams portend. If 
 they do not presage good luck, I shall desire no¬ 
 thing for my pains; not questioning at the same 
 time, that those who consult me will be so reason¬ 
 able as to afford me a moderate share out of any 
 considerable estate, profit, or emolument, which I 
 shall thus discover to them. I interpret to the 
 poor for nothing, on condition that their names 
 may be inserted in public advertisements, to attest 
 the truth of such my interpretations. As for peo¬ 
 ple of quality, or others who are indisposed, and 
 do care to come in person, I can interpret their 
 dreams by seeing their water. I set aside one day 
 in the week for lovers; and interpret by the great 
 for any gentlewoman who is turned of sixty, after 
 the rate of half-a-crown per week, with the usual 
 allowances for good luck. I have several rooms 
 and apartments fitted up at reasonable rates, for 
 such as have not conveniences for dreaming at 
 their own houses. 
 
 “ Titus Trophonius. 
 
 O “N. B. I am not dumb.” 
 
 Ho. 506.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1712. 
 
 Candida perpetuo reside, Concordia, lecto, 
 
 Tamque pari semper sit Venus aqua jugo. 
 
 Diligat ilia senem quondam; sed et ilia marito, 
 
 Tunc quoque cum fuerit, non videatur anus. 
 
 Mart. 4 Epig. xiii. 7. 
 
 Perpetual harmony their bed attend, 
 
 And Venus still the well-match’d pair befriend! 
 
 May she, when time has sunk him into years, 
 
 Love her old man, and cherish his white hairs; 
 
 Nor he perceive her charms through age decay, 
 
 But think each happy sun his bridal day! 
 
 The following essay is written by the gentleman 
 to whom the world is obliged for those several ex¬ 
 
 cellent discourses which have been marked with 
 the letter X :— , 
 
 I have somewhere met with a fable that made 
 Wealth the father of Love. It is certain a mind 
 ought at least to be free from the apprehensions 
 of want and poverty, before it can fully attend to 
 all^he softnesses and endearments of this passion; 
 notwithstanding we see multitudes of married 
 people, who are utter strangers to this delightful 
 passion, amidst all the affluence of the most plen¬ 
 tiful fortunes. 
 
 It is not sufficient, to make a marriage happy, 
 that the humors of two people should be alike. I 
 could instance a hundred pair, who have not the 
 least sentiment of love remaining for one another, 
 yet are so alike in their humors, that if they were 
 not already married, the whole world would design 
 them for man and wife. 
 
 The spirit of love has something so extremely 
 fine in it, that it is very often disturbed and lost, 
 by some little accidents, which the careless and 
 unpolite never attend to, until it is gone past re¬ 
 covery. 
 
 Nothing has more contributed to banish it from 
 a married state, than too great a familiarity, and 
 laying aside the common rules of decency. Though 
 I could give instances of this in several particu¬ 
 lars, I shall only mention that of dress. The 
 beaux and belles about town, who dress purely to 
 catch one another, think there is no further occa¬ 
 sion for the bait, when their first design has suc¬ 
 ceeded. But beside the too common fault in point 
 of neatness, there are several others which I do 
 not remember to have seen touched upon, but in 
 one of our modern comedies,* where a French 
 woman offering to undress and dress herself be¬ 
 fore the lover of the play, and assuring his [her] 
 mistress that it was very usual in France, the lady 
 tells her that it is a secret in dress she never knew 
 before, and that she was so unpolished an English 
 woman, as to resolve never to learn even to dress 
 before her husband. 
 
 There is something so gross in the carriage of 
 some wives, that they lose their husbands’ hearts 
 for faults which, if a man has either good nature 
 or good breeding, he knows not how to tell them 
 of. I am afraid, indeed, the ladies are generally 
 most faulty in this particular, who, at their first 
 giving in to love, find the way so smooth and 
 pleasant, that they fancy it is scarce possible to be 
 tired in it. 
 
 There is so much nicety and discretion required 
 to keep love alive after marriage, and make con¬ 
 versation still new and agreeable after twenty or 
 thirty years, that I know nothing which seems 
 readily to promise it, but an earnest endeavor to 
 please on both sides, and superior good sense on 
 the part of the man. 
 
 By a man of sense, I mean one acquainted with 
 business and letters. 
 
 A woman very much settles her esteem for a 
 man, according to the figure he makes in the world, 
 and the character he bears among his own sex. 
 As learning is the chief advantage we have over 
 them, it is, methinks, as scandalous and inexcu¬ 
 sable for a man of fortune to be illiterate, as for a 
 woman not to know how to behave herself on the 
 most ordinary occasions. It is this which sets the 
 two sexes at the greatest distance : a woman is 
 vexed and surprised, to find nothing more in the 
 conversation of a man than in the common tattle 
 of her own sex. 
 
 Some small engagement at least in business, not 
 only sets a man’s talents in the fairest light, and 
 allots him a part to act in which a wife cannot 
 
 * The “Funeral,” or “ Grief A la-mode,” by Steele. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 well intermeddle, but gives frequent occasions for 
 those little absences, which, whatever seeming 
 uneasiness they may give, are some of the best 
 preservatives of love and desire. 
 
 The fair sex are so conscious to themselves, that 
 they have nothing in them which can deserve en¬ 
 tirely to engross the whole man, that they heartily 
 despise one, who, to use their own expressions, is 
 always hanging at their apron strings. 
 
 Laetitia is pretty, modest, tender, and has sense 
 enough; she married Erastus, who is in a post of 
 some business, and has a general taste in most parts 
 of polite learning. Laetitia, wherever she visits, has 
 the pleasure to hear of something which was hand¬ 
 somely said or done by Erastus. Erastus since 
 his marriage, is more gay in his dress than ever, 
 and in all companies is as complaisant to Laetitia 
 as to any other lady. I have seen him give her 
 her fan, when it has dropped, with all the gallantry 
 of a lover. When they take the air together, 
 Erastus tS continually improving her thoughts, 
 and with a turn of wit and spirit which is peculiar 
 to him, giving her an insight into things she had no 
 notions of before. Laetitia is transported at having 
 a new world thus opening to her, and hangs upon 
 the man that gives her such agreeable informations. 
 Erastus has carried this point still further, as he 
 makes her daily not only fond of him, but infi¬ 
 nitely more satisfied with herself. Erastus finds 
 a justness or beauty in whatever she says or ob¬ 
 serves that Laetitia herself was not aware of ; and 
 by his assistance she has discovered a hundred 
 good qualities and accomplishments in herself, 
 which she never before once dreamed of. Erastus, 
 with the most artful complaisance in the world, 
 by several remote hints, finds the means to make 
 her say or propose almost whatever he has a mind 
 to, which he always receives as her own discovery 
 and gives her all the reputation of it. 
 
 Erastus has a perfect taste in painting, and car¬ 
 ried Ltetitia with him the other day to see a col¬ 
 lection of pictures. I sometimes visit this happy 
 couple. As we were last week walking in the long 
 gallery before dinner, “I have lately laid out some 
 money in paintings,” says Erastus; “I bought 
 that Venus and Adonis purely upon Lastitia’s judg¬ 
 ment; it cost me threescore guineas, and I was this 
 morning offered a hundred for it.” I turned to¬ 
 ward Laetitia, and saw her cheeks glow with 
 pleasure, while at the same time she cast a look 
 upon Erastus, the most tender and affectionate I 
 ever beheld. 
 
 Flavilla married Tom Tawdry; she was taken 
 with his laced coat and rich sword-knot; she has 
 the mortification to see Tom despised by all the 
 worthy part of his own sex. Tom has nothing to 
 do after dinner, but to determine whether he will 
 are his nails at St. James’, White’s, or his own 
 ouse. He has said nothing to Flavilla since they 
 were married which she might not have heard as 
 well from her own woman. He however takes 
 great care to keep up the saucy ill-natured author¬ 
 ity of a husband. Whatever Flavilla happens to 
 assert, Tom immediately contradicts with an oath 
 by way of preface, and, “ My dear, I must tell you 
 you talk most confoundedly silly.” Flavilla had 
 a heart naturally as well disposed for all the ten¬ 
 derness of love as that of Laetitia; but as love 
 seldom continues long after esteem, it is difficult 
 to determine, at present, whether the unhappy 
 Flavilla hates or despises the person most whom 
 she is obliged to lead her whole life with.—X. 
 
 601 
 
 No. 507.] Saturday, October 11 , 1712 . 
 
 Defendit numerus, junctaeque umbone phalanges. 
 
 Juv. Sat. ii. 46. 
 
 Preserv’d from shame by numbers on our side. 
 
 There is something very sublime, though very 
 fanciful, in Plato’s description of the Supreme 
 Being; that “truth is his body, and light his 
 shadow.” According to this definition, there is 
 nothing so contradictory to his nature as error and 
 falsehood. The Platonists had so just a notion 
 of the Almighty’s aversion to every^iing which 
 is false and erroneous, that they looked upon truth 
 as no less necessary than virtue to qualify a hu¬ 
 man soul for the enjoyment of a separate state. 
 For this reason, as they recommended moral duties 
 to qualify and season the will for a future life, so 
 they prescribed several contemplations and sci¬ 
 ences to rectify the understanding. Thus, Plato 
 has called mathematical demonstrations the cathar¬ 
 tics or purgatives of the soul, as being the most 
 proper means to cleanse it from error, and to give 
 it a relish of truth; which is the natural food and 
 nourishment of the understanding, as virtue is the 
 perfection and happiness of the will. 
 
 There are many authors who have shown wherein 
 the malignity of a lie consists, and set forth in 
 proper colors the heinousness of the offense. I 
 shall here consider one particular kind of this 
 crime, which has not been so much spoken to; I 
 mean the abominable practice of party-lying. This 
 vice is so very predominant among us at present, 
 that a man is thought of no principles who does 
 not propagate a certain system of lies. The cof¬ 
 fee-houses are supported by them, the press is 
 choked with them, eminent authors live upon 
 them. Our bottle conversation is so infected with 
 them, that a party-lie is grown as fashionable an 
 entertainment as a lively catch or merry story. 
 The truth of it is, half the great talkers in the na¬ 
 tion would be struck dumb were this fountain of 
 discourse dried up. There is, however, one ad¬ 
 vantage resulting from this detestable practice; 
 the very appearances of truth are so little regarded, 
 that lies are at present discharged in the air, and 
 begin to hurt nobody. When we hear a party 
 story from a stranger, we consider w’hether he is a 
 whig or a tory that relates it, and immediately 
 conclude they are words of course, in which the 
 honest gentleman designs to recommed his zeal, 
 without any concern for his veracity. A man is 
 looked upon as bereft of common sense, that gives 
 credit to the relations of party-writers; nay, his 
 own friends shake their hpads at him, and consider 
 him in no other light than as an officious tool, or 
 a well meaning idiot. When it was formerly the 
 fashion to husband a lie, and trump it up in some 
 extraordinary emergency, it generally did execu¬ 
 tion, and was not a little serviceable to the faction 
 that made use of it; but at present every man is 
 upon his guard; the artifice has been too often 
 repeated to take effect. 
 
 I have frequently wondered to see men of pro¬ 
 bity, who would scorn to utter a falsehood for their 
 own particular advantage, give so readily into a 
 lie when it is become the voice of their faction, 
 notwithstanding they are thoroughly sensible of it 
 as such. How is it possible for those who are 
 men of honor in their persons, thus tp become no¬ 
 torious liars in their party? If we look into the 
 bottom of this matter, we may find, I think, three 
 reasons for it, and at the same time discover the 
 insufficiency of these reasons to justify so criminal 
 a practice. 
 
 In the first place, men are apt to think that the 
 guilt of a lie, and consequently the punishment, 
 may be very much diminished, if not wholly worn 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 602 
 
 out, by the multitudes of those who partake in it. 
 Though the weight of a falsehood would be too 
 heavy for one to bear, it grows light in their imag¬ 
 ination when it is shared among many. But in 
 this case a man very much deceives himself; guilt, 
 when it spreads through numbers, is not so prop¬ 
 erly divided as multiplied. Every one is criminal 
 in proportion to the offense which he commits, not 
 to the number of those who are his companions in 
 it. Both the crime and penalty lie as heavy upon 
 every individual of an offending multitude, as they 
 would upon any single person, had none shared 
 with him iif the offense. In a word, the division 
 of guilt is like that of matter; though it may be 
 separated into infinite portions, every portion shall 
 have the whole essence of matter in it, and consist 
 of as many parts as the whole did before it was 
 divided. 
 
 But in the second place, though multitudes, who 
 join in a lie, cannot exempt themselves from the 
 guilt, they may from the shame of it. The scan¬ 
 dal of a lie is in a manner lost and annihilated, 
 when diffused among several thousands; as a drop 
 of the blackest tincture wears away and vanishes, 
 when mixed and confused in a considerable body 
 of water; the blot is still in it, but is not able to 
 discover itself. This is certainly a very great mo¬ 
 tive to several party offenders, who avoid crimes, 
 not as they are prejudicial to their virtue, but to 
 their reputation. It is enough to show the weak¬ 
 ness of this reason, which palliates guilt without 
 removing it, that every man who is influenced by 
 it declares himself in effect an infamous hypo¬ 
 crite, prefers the appearance of virtue to its reality, 
 and is determined in his conduct neither by the 
 dictates of his own conscience, the suggestions of 
 true honor, nor the principles of religion. 
 
 The third and last great motive for men’s join¬ 
 ing in a popular falsehood, or, as I have hitherto 
 called it a party;lie, notwithstanding they are con¬ 
 vinced of it as such, is the doing good to a cause 
 which every party may be supposed to look upon 
 as the most meritorious. The unsoundness of this 
 principle has been so often exposed, and is so uni¬ 
 versally acknowledged, that a man must be an 
 utter stranger to the principles either of natural 
 religion or Christianity, who suffers himself to be 
 guided by it. If a man might promote the sup¬ 
 posed good of his country by the blackest calum¬ 
 nies and falsehoods, our nation abounds more in 
 patriots than any other of the Christian world. 
 When Pompey was desired not to sail in a tempest 
 that would hazard his life, “ It is necessary for 
 me,” says he, “ to sail, but it is not necessary for 
 me to live.” Every man should say to himself, 
 with the same spirit, “It is my duty to speak 
 truth, though it is not my duty to be in an office.” 
 One of the fathers has carried this point so high 
 as to declare he would not tell a lie, though lie 
 were sure to gain heaven by it. Plowever extrava¬ 
 gant such a protestation may appear, every one 
 will own that a man may say, very reasonably, he 
 would not tell a lie, if he were sure to gain hell 
 by it; or, if you have a mind to soften the expres¬ 
 sion, that he would not tell a lie to gain any tem¬ 
 poral reward by it, when he should run the hazard 
 of losing much more than it was possible for him 
 to gain. _ 0. 
 
 Ho. 508.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1712. 
 
 Omnes autem et habentur et dicuntur tyranni, qui potcstate 
 sunt perpetua, in ca civitatequae lifcertate usa est. 
 
 ♦ Corn. Nepos in Milt. c. 8. 
 
 For all those are accounted and denominated tyrants, who ex¬ 
 ercise a perpetual power in that state which was before free. ! 
 
 The following letters complain of what I have j 
 frequently observed with very much indignation; 
 
 therefore shall give them to the public in the words 
 with which my correspondents, who suffer under 
 the hardships mentioned in them, describe them: 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “In former ages all pretensions to dominion 
 have been supported and submitted to, either upon 
 account of inheritance, conquest, or election; and 
 all such persons, who have taken upon them any 
 sovereignty over their fellow-creatures upon any 
 other account, have been always called tyrants, 
 not so much because they were guilty of any par¬ 
 ticular barbarities, as because every attempt to 
 such a superiority was in its nature tyrannical. 
 But there is another sort of potentates, who may 
 with greater propriety be called tyrants than those 
 last mentioned, both as they assume a despotic do¬ 
 minion over those as free as themselves, and as 
 they support it by acts of notable oppression and 
 injustice; and these are the rulers in all clubs and 
 meetings. In other governments, the punishments 
 of some have been alleviated by the rewards of 
 others; but what makes the reign of these poten¬ 
 tates so particularly grievous is, that they are ex¬ 
 quisite in punishing their subjects at the same 
 time they have it not in their pow’er to reward them. 
 That the reader may the better comprehend the 
 nature of these monarchs, as w r ell as the miserable 
 state of those that are their vassals, I shall give 
 an account of the king of the company I am fallen 
 into, whom for his particular tyranny I shall call 
 Dionysius; as also of the seeds that sprung up to 
 this odd sort of empire. 
 
 “Upon all meetings at taverns, it is necessary 
 some one of the company should take it upon him 
 to get all things in such order and readiness as 
 may contribute as much as possible to the felicity 
 of the convention; such as hastening the fire, get¬ 
 ting a sufficient number of candles, tasting the 
 wine with a judicious smack, fixing the supper, 
 and being brisk for the dispatch of it. Know, 
 then, that Dionysius went through these offices 
 with an air that seemed to express a satisfaction 
 rather in serving the public than in gratify¬ 
 ing any particular inclination of his own. We 
 thought him a person of an exquisite palate, and 
 therefore by consent beseeched him to be always our 
 proveditor; which post, after he had handsomely 
 denied, he could do no otherwise than accept. At 
 first, he made no other use of his power than in 
 recommending such and such things to the com¬ 
 pany, ever allowing these points to be disputable; 
 insomuch that I have often carried the debate for 
 partridge, when his majesty has given intimation 
 of the high relish of duck, but at the same time 
 has cheerfully submitted, and devoured his part¬ 
 ridge with most gracious resignation. This sub¬ 
 mission on his side naturally produced the like 
 on ours; of which he in a little time made such 
 barbarous advantage, as in all those matters, which 
 before seemed indifferent to him, to issue out cer¬ 
 tain edicts as uncontrollable and unalterable as the 
 laws of the Medes and Persians. He is by turns 
 outrageous, peevish, forward, and jovial. He 
 thinks it our duty for the little offices, as proved¬ 
 itor, that in return all conversation is to be inter¬ 
 rupted or promoted by his inclination for or against 
 the present humor of the company. We feel, at 
 present, in the utmost extremity, the insolence of 
 office; however, I, being naturally warm, ventured 
 to oppose him in a dispute about a haunch of 
 venison. 1 was altogether for roasting, but Diony¬ 
 sius declared himself for boiling with so much 
 prowess and resolution, that the cook thought it 
 necessary to consult his own safety, rather than 
 the luxury of my proposition. With the same 
 authority that he orders what we shall eat and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 drink, lie also commands us where to do it; and 
 we change our taverns according as he suspects any 
 treasonable practices in the settling the bill by the 
 master, or sees any bold rebellion in point of 
 attendance by the waiters. Another reason for 
 changing the seat of empire, I conceive to be the 
 pride he takes in the promulgation t>f our slavery, 
 though we pay our club for our entertainments, 
 even m these palaces of our grand monarch. When 
 he has a mind to take the air, a party of us are 
 commanded out by way of life-guard, and we 
 march under as great restrictions as they do. If 
 we meet a neighboring king, we give or keep the 
 wav, according as we are outnumbered or not; 
 and if the train of each is equal in number, rather 
 than give battle, the superiority is soon adjusted 
 b y a desertion from one of them. 
 
 “Now the expulsion of these unjust rulers out 
 of all societies would gain a man as everlasting a 
 reputation as either of the Brutuses got from their 
 endeavors to extirpate tyranny from among the 
 Romans. I confess myself to be in a conspiracy 
 against the usurper of our club; and to show my 
 reading as well as my merciful disposition, shall 
 allow him until the ides of March to dethrone 
 himself. If he seems to affect empire until that 
 time, and does not gradually recede from the in¬ 
 cursions he has made upon our liberties, he shall 
 find a dinner dressed which he has no hand in, 
 and shall be treated with an order, magnificence 
 and luxury, as shall break his proud heart; at the 
 same time that he shall be convinced in his stom¬ 
 ach he was unfit far his post, and a more mild 
 and skillful prince receive the acclamations of 
 the people, and be set up in his room; but, as 
 Milton says, 
 
 •-These thoughts 
 
 Full counsel must mature. Peace is despair’d, 
 
 And who can think submission? War, then, war, 
 
 Open or understood, must be resolved. 
 
 I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your most obedient humble Servant.” 
 ‘Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a young woman at a gentleman’s seat in 
 die country, who is a particular friend of my 
 father’s, and come hither to pass away a month or 
 two with his daughters. I have been entertained 
 with the utmost civility by the whole family, and 
 nothing lias been omitted which can make my 
 stay easy and agreeable on the part of the family; 
 but there is a gentleman here, a visitant as I am, 
 whose behavior has given me great uneasiness. 
 When I first arrived here, he used me with the 
 utmost complaisance; but, forsooth, that was not 
 with regard to my sex; and since he has no de¬ 
 signs upon me, he does not know why he should 
 distinguish me from a man in things indifferent. 
 He is, you must know, one of those familiar cox¬ 
 combs, who have observed some well-bred men 
 with a good grace converse with women, and say 
 no fine things, but yet treat them with that sort 
 of respect which flows from the li^art and the un¬ 
 derstanding, but is exerted in no professions or 
 compliments. This puppy, to imitate this excel¬ 
 lence, or avoid the contrary fault of being trouble¬ 
 some in complaisance, takes upon him to try his 
 talent upon me, insomuch that he contradicts me 
 upon all occasions, and one day he told me I lied. 
 If I had stuck him with my bodkin, and behaved 
 myself like a man, since he will not treat me as a 
 woman, I had, I think, served him right. I wish, 
 Sir, you would please to give him some maxims 
 of behavior in these points, and resolve me if all 
 maids are not in point of conversation to be treated 
 by all bachelors as their mistresses? If not so, 
 are they not to be used as gently as their sisters ? 
 
 603 
 
 Is it sufferable that the fop of whom I complain 
 should say that he would rather have such-a-one 
 without a groat, than me with the Indies ? What 
 right has any man to make suppositions of things 
 not in his power, and then declare his will to the dis¬ 
 like of one that has never offended him? I assure 
 you these are things worthy your consideration, 
 and I hope we shall have your thoughts upon 
 them. 1 am, though a woman justly offended, 
 ready to forgive all this, because I have no remedy 
 but leaving very agreeable company sooner than I 
 desire. This also is a heinous aggravation of his 
 offense, that he is inflicting banishment upon me. 
 Your printing this letter may perhaps be an ad¬ 
 monition to reform him; as soon as it appears I 
 will write my name at the end of it, and lay it in 
 his way: the making which just reprimand, I 
 hope you will put in the power of, 
 
 “ Sir, your constant Reader, 
 
 T. “ and humble Servant.” 
 
 No. 509.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1712. 
 
 Hominis frugi et temperantis functus officium. 
 
 Ter. Heaut. act iii. sc. 3. 
 
 Discharging the part of a good economist. 
 
 The useful knowledge in the following letter 
 shall have a place in my paper, though there is 
 nothing in it which immediately regards the polite 
 or the learned world; I say immediately, for upon 
 reflection every man will find there is a remote 
 influence upon his own affairs, in the prosperity 
 or decay of the trading part of mankind. My 
 present correspondent, I believe, was never in 
 print before; but what he says well deserves a 
 general attention, though delivered in his own 
 homely maxims, and a kind of proverbial sim¬ 
 plicity; which sort of learning has raised more 
 estates, than ever were, or will be, from attention 
 to Virgil, Horace, Tully, Seneca, Plutarch, or any 
 of the rest, whom, I dare say, this worthy citizen 
 would hold to be indeed ingenious, but unprofita¬ 
 ble writers. But to the letter: 
 
 “ Mr. William Spectator. 
 
 “Sir, Broad-street, Oct. 10, 1712. 
 
 “ I accuse you of many discourses on the sub¬ 
 ject of money, which you have heretofore prom- 
 lse.d the public, but have not discharged yourself 
 thereof. But, forasmuch as you seemed to depend 
 upon advice from others what to do in that point, 
 have sat down to write you the needful upon that 
 subject. But, before I enter thereupon, I shall 
 take this opportunity to observe to you, that the 
 thriving frugal man shows it in every part of his 
 expense, dress, servants, and house; and I must 
 in the first place, complain to you, as Spectator, 
 that in these particulars there is at this time, 
 throughout the city of London, a lamentable 
 change from that simplicity of manners, which 
 is the true source of wealth and prosperity. I 
 just now said, the man of thrift shows regularity 
 in everything; but you may, perhaps, laugh that 
 I take notice of such a particular as I am going 
 to do, for an instance that this city is declining if 
 their ancient economy is not restored. The thing 
 which gives me this prospect, and so much offense, 
 is the neglect of the Royal Exchange; I mean the 
 edifice so called, and the walks appertaining there¬ 
 unto. The Royal Exchange is a fabric that well 
 deserves to be so called, as well to express that 
 our monarch’s highest glory and advantage con¬ 
 sists in being the patron of trade, as that it is 
 commodious for business, and an instance of the 
 graudeur both of prince and people. But, alas! 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 604 
 
 at present it hardly seems to be set apart for any 
 such use or purpose. Instead of the assembly of 
 honorable merchants, substantial tradesmen, and 
 knowing masters of ships: the mumpers, the halt, 
 the blind, and the lame; your venders of trash, 
 apples, plums; your ragamuffins, rakeshames, and 
 wenches; have jostled the greater number of the 
 former out of that place. Thus it is, especially 
 on the evening change; so that what with the din 
 of squallings, oaths, and cries of beggars, men of 
 the greatest consequence in our city absent them¬ 
 selves from the place. This particular, by the 
 way, is of evil consequence, for if the ’Change be 
 no place for men of the highest credit to frequent, 
 it will not be a disgrace for those of less abilities 
 to absent. I remember the time when rascally 
 company were kept out, and the unlucky boys 
 with toys and balls were whipped away by the 
 beadle. I have seen this done indeed of late, but 
 then it has been only to chase the lads from chuck, 
 that the beadle might seize their copper. 
 
 “I must repeat the abomination, that the wal¬ 
 nut-trade is carried on by old women within the 
 walks, which makes the place impassable by rea¬ 
 son of shells and trash. The benches around are 
 so filthy, that no one can sit down, yet the beadles 
 and officers have the impudence at Christmas to 
 ask for their box, though they deserve the strapado. 
 I do not think it impertinent to have mentioned 
 this, because it speaks a neglect in the domestic 
 care of the city; and the domestic is the truest 
 picture of a man everywhere else. 
 
 “But I designed to speak on the business of 
 money and advancement of gain. The man proper 
 for this, speaking in the general, is of a sedate, 
 lain, good understanding, not apt to go out of 
 is way, but so behaving himself at home, that 
 business may come to him. Sir William Turner, 
 that valuable citizen, has left behind him a most 
 excellent rule, and couched it in very few words, 
 suited to the meanest capacity. He would say, 
 ‘Keep your shop, and your shop will keep you.’* 
 It must be confessed, that if a man of a great genius 
 could add steadiness to his vivacities, or substi¬ 
 tute slower men of fidelity to transact the method¬ 
 ical part of his affairs, such a one would outstrip 
 the rest of the world: but business and trade are 
 not to be managed by the same heads which write 
 poetry, and make plans for the conduct of life in 
 general. So, though we are at this day beholden 
 to the late witty and inventive Duke of Bucking¬ 
 ham for the whole trade and manufacture of glass, 
 et I suppose there is no one will aver, that, were 
 is grace yet living, they would not rather deal 
 with my diligent friend and neighbor, Mr. Gum- 
 ley, for any goods to be prepared and delivered 
 on such a day, than he would with that illus¬ 
 trious mechanic above-mentioned. 
 
 “Ho, no, Mr. Spectator, you wits must not pre¬ 
 tend to be rich; and it is possible the reason may 
 be, in some measure, because you despise, or at 
 least you do not value it enough to let it take up 
 your chief attention; which the trader must do, 
 or. lose his credit, which is to him what honor, 
 reputation, fame, or glory, is to other sort of men. 
 
 “ I shall not speak to the point of cash itself, 
 until I see how you approve of these my maxims 
 in general; but I think a speculation upon ‘many 
 a little makes a mickle, a penny saved is a penny 
 got, penny wise and pound foolish, it is need that 
 makes the old wife trot,’ would be very useful to 
 the world; and, if you treated them with know¬ 
 ledge, would be useful to yourself, for it would 
 make demands for your paper among those who 
 
 have no notion of it at present. But of these 
 matters more hereafter. If you did this, as you 
 excel many writers of the present age for polite¬ 
 ness, so you would outgo the author of the true 
 strops of razors for use. 
 
 “I shall conclude this discourse with an. ex¬ 
 planation of a proverb, which by vulgar error is 
 taken and used when a man is reduced to an ex¬ 
 tremity, whereas the propriety of the maxim is to 
 use it when you would say there is plenty, but 
 you must make such a choice as not to hurt 
 another who is to come after you. 
 
 “Mr. Tobias Hobson, from whom wo have the 
 expression, was a very honorable man, for I shall 
 ever call the man so who gets an estate honestly., 
 Mr. Tobias Hobson was a carrier; and, being a 
 man of great abilities and invention, and one that 
 saw where there might good profit arise, though 
 the duller men overlooked it, this ingenious man 
 was the first in this island who let out hackney- 
 horses. He lived in Cambridge; and, observing 
 that the scholars rid hard, his manner was to 
 keep a large stable of horses, with boots, bridles, 
 and whips, to furnish the gentleman at once, with¬ 
 out going from college to college to borrow, as 
 they have done since the death of this worthy 
 man. I say, Mr. Hobson kept a stable of forty 
 good cattle always ready and fit for traveling; 
 but, when a man came for a horse, he was led into 
 the stable, where there was great choice; but he 
 obliged him to take the horse which stood next 
 to the stable-door; so that every customer was 
 alike well served according to his chance, and 
 every horse ridden with the same justice; from 
 whence it became a proverb, when what ought to 
 be your election was forced upon you, to say, 
 ‘Hobson’s choice.’ This memorable man stands 
 drawn in fresco at an inn (which he used) in 
 Bishopsgate-street, with a hundred-pound bag 
 under his arm, with this inscription upon the 
 said bag: 
 
 The fruitful mother of a hundred more. 
 
 “ Whatever tradesman will try the experiment, 
 and begin the day after you publish this my dis¬ 
 course to treat his customers all alike, and all 
 reasonably and honestly, I will insure him the 
 same success. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your loving Friend, 
 
 T. “Hezekiah Thrift.” 
 
 Ho. 510.J WEDHESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1712. 
 
 -Si sapis, 
 
 Neque, prasterquam quas ipse amor molestias 
 Habet addas; et illas quas habet, recte feras. 
 
 Ter. Eun. act i. sc. 1. 
 
 If you are wise, add not to the troubles which attend the 
 passion of love, and bear patiently those which are insep¬ 
 arable from it. 
 
 I was the other day driving in a hack through 
 Gerrard-street, when my eye was immediately 
 catched with the prettiest object imaginable—the 
 face of a very fair girl, between thirteen and four¬ 
 teen, fixed at the chin to a painted sash, and 
 made part of the landscape. It seemed admira¬ 
 bly done, and, upon throwing myself eagerly out 
 of the coach to look at it, it laughed, and flung 
 from the window. This amiable figure dwelt 
 upon me; and I was considering the vanity of the 
 girl, and her pleasant coquetry in acting a picture 
 until she was taken notice of, and raised the ad¬ 
 miration of her beholders. This little circum¬ 
 stance made me run into reflections upon the 
 force of beauty, and the wonderful influence the 
 female sex has upon the other part of the species. 
 
 *Alderman Thomas, a mercer, made this one of the mottoes 
 in his shop in Paternoster-Row. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 Our hearts are seized with their enchantments, and 
 there are few of us, but brutal men, who by that 
 hardness lose the chief pleasure in them, can resist 
 their insinuations, though never so much against 
 our interest and opinion. It is common with wo¬ 
 men to destroy the good effects a man’s following 
 his own way and inclination might have upon his 
 honor and fortune, by interposlug their power over 
 him in matters wherein they cannot influence him, 
 but to his loss and disparagement. I do not know 
 therefore a task so difficult in human life, as to be 
 proof against the importunities of a woman a man 
 loves. There is certainly no armor against tears, 
 sullen looks, or at best constrained familiarities, 
 in her whom you usually meet with transport and 
 alacrity. Sir Walter Raleigh was quoted in a let¬ 
 ter (of a very ingenious correspondent of mine) 
 upon this subject. That author, who had lived in 
 courts, camps, traveled through many countries, 
 and seen many men under several climates, and of 
 as various complexions, speaks of our impotence 
 to resist the wiles of women in very severe terms. 
 His words are as follow : 
 
 “What means did the devil find out, or what 
 instruments did his own subtilty present him, as 
 fittest and aptest to work his mischief by? Even 
 the unquiet vanity of the woman; so as by Adam’s 
 hearkening to the voice of his wife, contrary to 
 the express commandment of the living God, 
 mankind by that her incantation became the sub¬ 
 ject of labor, sorrow and death; the woman being 
 given to man for a comforter and companion, but 
 not for a counselor. It is also to be noted by 
 whom the woman was tempted : even by the most 
 ugly and unworthy of all beasts, into whom the 
 devil entered and persuaded. Secondly: What 
 was the motive of her disobedience? Even a de¬ 
 sire to know what was most unfitting her know¬ 
 ledge; an affection which has ever since remained 
 in all the posterity of her sex. Thirdly : What 
 was it that moved the man to yield to her persua¬ 
 sions? Even the same cause which hath moved 
 all men since to the like consent; namely, an un¬ 
 willingness to grieve her, or make her sad, lest 
 she should pine, and be overcome with sorrow. But 
 if Adam, in the state of perfection, and Solomon, 
 the son of David, God’s chosen servant, and him¬ 
 self a man endued with the greatest wisdom, 
 did both of them disobey their Creator by the per¬ 
 suasion, and for the love they bare to a woman, it 
 is not so wonderful as lamentable, that other men 
 in succeeding ages have been allured to so many 
 inconvenient and wicked practices by the persua¬ 
 sions of their wives, or other beloved darlings, 
 who cover over and shadow many malicious pur¬ 
 poses with a counterfeit passion of dissimulate 
 sorrow and unquietness.” 
 
 The motions of the minds of lovers are nowhere 
 so well described as in the works of skillful wri¬ 
 ters for the stage. The scene between Fulvia and 
 Curius, in the second act of Johnson’s Catiline, 
 is an excellent picture of the power of a lady over 
 her gallant. The wench plays with his affections: 
 and as a man, of all places in the world, wishes 
 to make a good figure with his mistress, upon her 
 upbraiding him with want of spirit, he alludes to 
 enterprises which he cannot reveal but with the 
 hazard of his life. When he is worked thus far, 
 with a little flattery of her opinion of his gallantry, 
 and desire to know more of it out of her overflow¬ 
 ing fondness to him, he brags to her until his life 
 is in her disposal. 
 
 When a man is thus liable to be vanquished by 
 the charms of her he loves, the safest way is to 
 determine what is proper to be done; but to avoid 
 all expostulation with her before he executes what 
 he has resolved. Women are ever too hard for us 
 
 CT AT OR. 605 
 
 upon a treaty; and one must consider how sense¬ 
 less a thing it is to argue with one whose looks 
 and gestures are more prevalent with you, than 
 your reason and arguments can be with her. It is 
 a most miserable slavery to submit to what you 
 disapprove, and give up a truth for no other rea¬ 
 son, but that you had not fortitude to support you 
 in asserting it. A man has enough to do to con¬ 
 quer his own unreasonable wishes and desires; 
 but he does that in vain, if he has those of another 
 to gratify. ’Let his pride be in his wife and fam¬ 
 ily, let him give them all the conveniences of life 
 in such a manner as if he were proud of them; but 
 let it be his own innocent pride, and not their ex¬ 
 orbitant desires, which are indulged by him. In 
 this case all the little arts imaginable are used to 
 soften a man’s heart, and raise his passion above 
 his understanding. But in all concessions of this 
 kind, a man should consider whether the present 
 he makes flows from his own love, or the impor¬ 
 tunity of his beloved. If from the latter, he is her 
 slave; if from the former, her friend. We laugh 
 it off, and do not weigh this subjection to women 
 with that seriousness which so important a circum¬ 
 stance deserves. Why was courage given man, 
 if his wife’s fears are to frustrate it ? When this 
 is once indulged, you are no longer her guardian 
 and protector, as you were designed by nature; 
 but, in compliance to her weaknesses, you have 
 disabled yourself from avoiding the misfortunes 
 into which they will lead you both, and you are 
 to see the hour in which you are to be reproached 
 by herself for that very complaisance to her. It 
 is indeed the most difficult mastery over ourselves 
 we can possibly attain, to resist the grief of her 
 who charms us; but let the heart ache, be the an¬ 
 guish never so quick and painful, it is what must 
 be suffered and passed through, if you think to 
 live like a gentleman or be conscious to yourself 
 that you are a man of honesty. The old argument, 
 that “you do not love me if you deny me this,” 
 which first was used to obtain a trifle, by habitual 
 success will oblige the unhappy man who gives 
 way to it to resign the cause even of his country 
 and his honor.—T. 
 
 Ho. 511.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 16, 1712. 
 
 Quis non inveniat turba quod amaret in ilia ? 
 
 Ovid, Art. Am. i. 175. 
 
 -Who could fail to find,- 
 
 In such a crowd a mistress to his mind ? 
 
 “Dear Spec., 
 
 “Finding that my last letter took, I do intend 
 to continue my epistolary correspondence with 
 thee, on those clear confounded creatures, women. 
 Thou knowest all the little learning I am master 
 of is upon that subject; I never looked in a book 
 but for their sakes. I have lately met with two 
 pure stories for a Spectator, which I am sure will 
 please mightily, if they pass through thy hands. 
 The first of them I found by chan«e in an English 
 book, called Herodotus, that lay in my friend Dap- 
 perwit’s window, as I visited him one morning. 
 It luckily opened in the place where I met the fol¬ 
 lowing account. He tells us that it was the man¬ 
 ner among the Persians to have several fairs in the 
 kingdom, at which all the young unmarried women 
 were annually exposed to sale. The men who 
 wanted wives came hither to provide themselves. 
 Every woman was given to the highest bidder, 
 and the money which she fetched laid aside for 
 the public use, to be employed as thou shalt hear 
 by-and-by. By this means, the richest people 
 had the choice of the market, and culled out the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 606 
 
 most extraordinary beauties. As soon as the fair 
 was thus picked, the refuse was to be distributed 
 among the poor, and among those who could 
 not go to the price of a beauty. Several of these 
 married the agreeables, without paying a farthing 
 for them, unless somebody chanced to think it 
 worth his while to bid for them, in which case the 
 best bidder was always the purchaser. But now 
 you must know, Spec., it happened in Persia, as it 
 does in our own country, that there were as many 
 ugly women as beauties or agreeables* so that by 
 consequence, after the magistrates had put off a 
 great many, there was still a great many that stuck 
 upon their hands. In order therefore to clear the 
 market, the money which the beauties had sold for 
 was disposed of among the ugly; so that a poor- 
 man, who could not atford to have a beauty for 
 his wife, was forced to take up with a fortune; 
 the greatest portion being always given to the 
 most deformed. To this the author adds, that 
 every poor man was forced to live kindly with 
 his wife, or, in case he repented of his bargain, 
 to return her portion with her to the next public 
 sale. 
 
 “What I would recommend to thee on this occa¬ 
 sion is, to establish such an imaginary fair in Great 
 Britain; thou couldst make it very pleasant by 
 matching women of quality with cobblers and car¬ 
 men, or describing titles and garters leading off 
 in great ceremony shopkeepers’ and farmers’ 
 daughters. Though, to tell thee the truth, I am 
 confoundedly afraid, that as the love of money 
 prevails in our island more than it did in Persia, 
 we should find that some of our greatest men 
 would choose out the portions, and rival one ano¬ 
 ther for the richest piece of deformity; and that, 
 on the contrary, the toasts and belles would be 
 bought up by extravagant heirs, gamesters, and 
 spendthrifts. Thou couldst make very pretty re¬ 
 flections upon this occasion in honor of the Per¬ 
 sian politicians, who took care, by such marriages, 
 to beautify the upper part of the species, and to 
 make the greatest persons in the government the 
 most graceful. But this I shall leave to thy judi¬ 
 cious pen. 
 
 “ I have another story to tell thee, which I like¬ 
 wise met with in a book. It seems the general of 
 the Tartars, after having laid siege to a strong 
 town in China, and taken it by storm, would set 
 to sale all the women that were found in it. Ac¬ 
 cordingly he put each of them into a sack, and, 
 after having thoroughly considered the value of 
 the woman who was inclosed, marked the price 
 that was demanded for her upon the sack. There 
 was a great confluence of chapmen, that resorted 
 from every part, with a design to purchase, which 
 they were to do ‘ unsight unseen.’ The book men¬ 
 tions a merchant in particular, who observed one 
 of the sacks to be marked pretty high, bargained 
 for it, and carried it off with him to his house. 
 As he was resting with it upon a halfway bridge, 
 he was resolved to take a survey of Ids purchase; 
 upon opening the sack, a little old woman popped 
 her head out of it; at which the adventurer was 
 in so great a rage, that he was going to shoot her 
 out into the river. The old lady, however, begged 
 him first of all to hear her story, by which he 
 learned that she was sister to a great mandarin, 
 who would infallibly make the fortune of his bro¬ 
 ther-in-law as soon as he should know to whose 
 lot she fell. Upon which the merchant again tied 
 her up in his sack, and carried her to his house, 
 where she proved an excellent wife, and procured 
 him all the riches from her brother that she had 
 /promised him. 
 
 > “ I fancy, if I was disposed to dream a second 
 time, I could make a tolerable vision upon this 
 
 plan. I would suppose all the unmarried women 
 in London and "Westminster brought to market in 
 sacks, with their respective prices on each sack. 
 The first sack that is sold is marked with five 
 thousand pounds. Upon the opening of it, I find 
 it filled with an admirable housewife, of an agree¬ 
 able countenance. The purchaser, upon hearing 
 her good qualities, pays down her price very cheer¬ 
 fully. The second I would open should be a five 
 hundred pound sack. The lady in it, to our sur¬ 
 prise, has the face and person of a toast. As we 
 are wondering how she came to be set at so low a 
 price, we hear that she would have been valued at 
 ten thousand pounds, but that the public had made 
 those abatements for her being a scold. I would 
 afterward find some beautiful, modest, and discreet 
 women, that should be the top of the market; and 
 perhaps discover half a dozen romps tied up to¬ 
 gether in the same sack, at one hundred pounds a 
 head. The prude and the coquette should be val¬ 
 ued at the same price, though the first should go 
 off the better of the two. I fancy thou wouldst 
 like such a vision, had I time to finish it; because, 
 to talk in thy own way, there is a moral in it. 
 Whatever thou mayest think of it, prithee do not 
 make any of thy queer apologies for this letter, as 
 thou didst for my last. The women love a gay 
 lively fellow, and are never angry at the railleries 
 of one who is their known admirer. I am always 
 bitter upon them, but well with them. 
 
 “ Thine, 
 
 0. “Honeycomb.” 
 
 No. 512.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1712. 
 
 Lectorem delectando, pariterque monendo. 
 
 Hors. Ars Poet, ver. 344. 
 
 Mixing together profit and delight. 
 
 There is nothing which we receive with so much 
 reluctance as advice. We look upon the man who 
 gives it us as offering an affront to our understand¬ 
 ing, and treating us like children or idiots. We 
 consider the instruction as an implicit censure, 
 and the zeal which any one shows for our good on 
 such an occasion as a piece of presumption or im¬ 
 pertinence. The truth of it is, the. person who 
 pretends to advise, does, in that particular, exer¬ 
 cise a superiority over us, and can have no other 
 reason for it, but that, in comparing us with him¬ 
 self, he thinks us defective either in our conduct 
 or our understanding. For these reasons, there is 
 nothing so difficult as the art of making advice 
 agreeable; and indeed all the writers, both ancient 
 and modern, have distinguished themselves among 
 one another, according to the perfection at which 
 they have arrived in this art. How many devices 
 have been made use of, to render this bitter portion 
 palatable ! Some convey their instructions to us 
 in the best chosen words, others in the most har¬ 
 monious numbers; some in points of wit, and 
 others in short proverbs. 
 
 But, among all the different ways of giving 
 counsel, I think the finest, and that which pleases 
 the most universally, is fable, in whatsoever shape 
 it appears. If we consider this way of instruct¬ 
 ing or giving advice, it excels all others, because 
 it is the least shocking, and the least subject to 
 those exceptions which I have before mentioned. 
 
 This will appear to us, if we reflect, in the first 
 place, that upon the reading of a fable, we are 
 made to believe we advise ourselves. We peruse 
 the author for the sake of the story, and consider 
 the precepts rather as our own conclusions than 
 his instructions. The moral insinuates itself 
 imperceptibly; we are taught by surprise, and 
 
THE SPE 
 
 become wiser and better unawares. In short, by this 
 method, a man is so far overreached as to think 
 he is directing himself, while he is following the 
 dictates of another, and consequently is not sen¬ 
 sible of that which is the most unpleasing circum¬ 
 stance in advice. 
 
 In the next place, if we look into human nature, 
 we shall find that the mind is never so much 
 pleased, as when she exerts herself in any action 
 that gives her an idea of her own perfections and 
 abilities. This natural pride and ambition of the 
 soul is very much gratified in the reading of a 
 fable; for, in writings of this kind, the reader 
 comes in for half of the performance; everything 
 appears to him like a discovery of his own; he is 
 busied all the while in applying characters and 
 circumstances, and is in this respect both a reader 
 and a composer. It is no wonder, therefore, that 
 on such occasions when the mind is thus pleased 
 with itself, and amused with its own discoveries, 
 that it is highly delighted with the writing which 
 is the occasion of it. For this reason the Absalom 
 and Achitophel* was one of the most popular 
 poems that ever appeared in English. The poetry 
 is indeed very fine; but had it been much finer, it 
 would not have so much pleased, without a plan 
 which gave the reader an opportunity of exerting 
 his own talents. 
 
 This oblique manner of giving advice is so inof¬ 
 fensive, that, if we look into ancient histories, we 
 find the wise men of old very often chose to give 
 counsel to their kings in fables. To omit many 
 •which will occur to everyone’s memory, there is a 
 pretty instance of this nature in a Turkish tale, 
 which I do not like the worse for that little oriental 
 extravagance which is mixed with it. 
 
 We are told that the Sultan Mahmoud, by his 
 perpetual wars abroad and his tyranny at home, 
 had filled his dominions with ruin and desolation, 
 and half unpeopled the Persian empire. The 
 Vizier to this great'sultan (whether a humorist or 
 an enthusiast, we are not informed) pretended to 
 have learned of a certain dervise to understand the 
 language of birds, so that there was not a bird that 
 could open his mouth but the vizier knew what it 
 was he said. As he was one evening with the 
 emperor, in their return from hunting, they saw a 
 couple of owls upon a tree that grew near an old 
 wall out of a heap of rubbish. “1 would fain 
 know,” says the sultan, “what those two owls are 
 saying to one another; listen to their discourse, 
 and give me an account of it.” The vizier ap¬ 
 proached the tree, pretending to be very attentive 
 to the two owls. Upon his return to the sultan, 
 “Sir,” says he, “I have heard part of their con¬ 
 versation, but dare not tell you what it is.” The 
 sultan would not be satisfied with such an answer, 
 but forced him to repeat word for word everything 
 the owls had said. “You must know, then,” said 
 the vizier, “ that one of these owls has a son, and 
 the other a daughter, between whom they are now 
 upon a treaty of marriage. The father of the son 
 said to the father of the daughter, in my hearing, 
 ‘Brother, I consent to this marriage, provided you 
 will settle upon your daughter fifty ruined villages 
 for her portion.’ To which the father of the 
 daughter replied, ‘ Instead of fifty, I will give her 
 five hundred, if you please. God grant a long life 
 to Sultan Mahmoud! While he reigns over us, 
 we shall never want ruined villages.’ ” 
 
 The story says the sultan was so touched with 
 
 * A memorable satire written by Dryden against the faction 
 which, by Lord Shaftesbury’s incitement, set the Duke of 
 Monmouth at their head. Of this poem, in which personal 
 satire is applied to the support of public principles, the sale 
 was so large, that it is said not to have been equaled, but bv 
 SachevereU’s trial. 3 
 
 CTATOR. 60 7 
 
 the fable, that he rebuilt the towns and villages 
 which had been destroyed, and from that time for 
 •ward consulted the good of his people. 
 
 To fill up my paper, I shall add a most ridicu¬ 
 lous piece of natural magic, which was taught by 
 no less a philosopher than Democritus, namely: 
 that if the blood ot certain birds, which he men¬ 
 tioned, were mixed together, it would produce a 
 serpent of such a -wonderful virtue, that whoever 
 did eat it should be skilled in the language of 
 birds, and understand everything they said to one 
 another. Whether the dervise above-mentioned 
 might not have eaten such a serpent, I shall leave 
 to the determination of the learned.—0. 
 
 No 513.1 SATURDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1712. 
 
 -Afflata est numine quando 
 
 Jam propiore Dei.— Virg. JSn. vi. 50. 
 
 When all the god came rushing on her soul.— Dryden. 
 
 The following letter comes to me from that ex¬ 
 cellent man in holy orders, whom I have mentioned 
 more than once as one of that society, who assists 
 me in my speculations. It is a thought in sick¬ 
 ness, and of a very serious nature, for which rea¬ 
 son I give it a place in the paper of this day: 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ The indisposition which has long hung upon 
 me is at last grown to such a head that it must 
 quickly make an end of me or of itself. You may 
 imagine, that while I am in this bad state of 
 health, there are none of your works which I read 
 with greater pleasure than your Saturday’s papers. 
 I should be very glad if I could furnish you with 
 any hints for that day’s entertainment. Were I 
 able to dress up several thoughts of a serious na¬ 
 ture, which have made great impressions on my 
 mind during a long fit of sickness, they might not 
 be an improper entertainment for that occasion. 
 
 “Among all the reflections which usually rise 
 in the mind of a sick man, who has time and in¬ 
 clination to consider his approaching end, there is 
 none more natural than that of his going to appear 
 naked and unbodied before Him who made him. 
 When a man considers, that as soon as the vital 
 union is dissolved, he shall see that Supreme Be¬ 
 ing whom he now contemplates at a distance, and 
 only in his works, or, to speak more philosophi¬ 
 cally, when, by some faculty in the soul, he shall 
 apprehend the Divine Being, and be more sensible 
 of his presence than we are now of the presence 
 of any object which the eye beholds, a man must 
 be lost in carelessness and stupidity, who is not 
 alarmed at such a thought. Dr. Sherlock, in his 
 excellent treatise upon Death, has represented, in 
 very strong and lively colors, the state of the soul 
 in its first separation from the body, with regard 
 to that invisible world which everywhere surrounds 
 us, though we are not able to discover it through 
 this grosser world of matter, which is accommo¬ 
 dated to our senses in this life. His words are as 
 follows: 
 
 “ ‘ That death, which is our leaving this world, 
 is nothing else but our putting off these bodies, 
 teaches us that it is only our union to these bodies 
 which intercepts the sight of the other world. The 
 other world is not at such a distance from us as 
 we may imagine; the throne of God indeed is at a 
 great remove from this earth, above the third heav¬ 
 ens, where he displays his glory to those blessed 
 spirits which encompass his throne; but as soon 
 as we step out of these bodies, we step into the 
 other world, which is not so properly another 
 world (for there is the same heaven and earth still) 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 608 
 
 as a new state of life. To live in these bodies is to 
 live in this world; to live out of them is to remove 
 into the next; for while our souls are confined to 
 these bodies, and can look only through these ma¬ 
 terial casements, nothing but what is material can 
 affect us; nay, nothing but what is so gross that it 
 can reflect light, and convey the shapes and colors 
 of things with it to the eye; so that, though within 
 this visible world there be a more glorious scene 
 of things than what appears to us, we perceive 
 nothing at all of it; for this vail of flesh parts the 
 visible and invisible world; but when we put off 
 these bodies there are new and surprising wonders 
 present themselves to our view; when these mate¬ 
 rial spectacles are taken off, the soul with its own 
 naked eye sees what was invisible before; and then 
 we are in the other world, when we can see it and 
 converse with it. Thus St. Paul tells us, that 
 “ when we are at home in the body, we are absent 
 from the Lord; but when we are absent from the 
 body, we are present with the Lord:” 2 Cor. v. 6. 
 8 . And methinks this is enough to cure us of our 
 fondness for these bodies, unless we think it more 
 desirable to be confined to a prison, and look 
 through a grate all our lives, which gives us but 
 a very narrow prospect, and that none of the best 
 neither, than to be set at liberty to view all the 
 glories of the world. What would we give now 
 for the least glimpse of that invisible world, which 
 the first step we take out of these bodies will pre¬ 
 sent us with ? There are such things “ as eye hath 
 not seen nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into 
 the heart of man to conceive.” Death opens our 
 eyes, enlarges our prospect, presents us with a 
 new and more glorious world, which we can never 
 see while we are shut up in flesh; which should 
 make us as willing to part with tins vail, as to 
 take the film off of our eyes, which hinders our 
 sight.’ 
 
 “As a thinking man cannot but be very much 
 affected with the idea of his appearing in the pres¬ 
 ence of that Being * whom none can see and live,’ 
 he must be much more affected when he considers 
 that this Being whom he appears before will ex¬ 
 amine all the actions of his past life, and reward 
 and punish him accordingly. I must confess that 
 I think there is no scheme of religion, beside that 
 of Christianity, which can possibly support the 
 most virtuous person under this thought. Let a 
 man’s innocence be what it will, let his virtues 
 rise to the highest pitch of perfection attainable 
 in this life, there will be still in him so many 
 secret sins, so many human frailties, so many of¬ 
 fenses of ignorance, passion, and prejudice, so 
 many unguarded words and thoughts, and, in short, 
 so many defects in his best actions, that, without 
 the advantages of such an expiation and atonement 
 as Christianity has revealed to us, it is impossible 
 that he should be cleared before his Sovereign 
 Judge, or that he should be able to 'stand in his 
 sight.’ Our holy religion suggests to us the only 
 means whereby our guilt may be taken away, and 
 our imperfect obedience accepted. 
 
 “It is this series of thought that I have endeav¬ 
 ored to express in the following hymn, which I 
 have composed during this my sickness: 
 
 I. 
 
 When, rising from the bed of death, 
 
 O’erwhelm’d with guilt and fear, 
 
 I see my Maker, face to face, 
 
 0 how shall I appear! 
 
 n. 
 
 If yet, while pardon may he found, 
 
 And mercy may be sought, 
 
 My heart with inward horror shrinks, 
 
 And trembles at the thought. 
 
 III. 
 
 When thou, 0 Lord, shalt stand disclos’d 
 In majesty severe, 
 
 And sit in judgment on my soul, 
 
 0 how shall I appear 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 But thou hast told the troubled mind 
 Who does her sins lament, 
 
 The timely tribute of her tears 
 Shall endless woe prevent. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then see the sorrows of my heart, 
 
 Ere yet it be too late; 
 
 And hear my Savior’s dying groans, 
 
 To give those sorrows weight. 
 
 VI. 
 
 For never shall my soul despair, 
 
 Her pardon to procure, 
 
 Who knows thine only Son has died 
 To make her pardon sure. 
 
 “ There is a noble hymn in French, which Mon¬ 
 sieur Bayle has celebrated for a very fine one, and 
 which the famous author of the Art of Speaking 
 calls an admirable one, that turns upon a thought 
 of the same nature. If I could have done it jus¬ 
 tice in English, I would have sent it you trans¬ 
 lated; it was written by Monsieur des Barreux, 
 who had been one of the greatest wits and liber¬ 
 tines in France, but in his last years was as 
 remarkable a penitent. 
 
 Grand Dieu, tes jugemens sont remplis d’equitfi, 
 
 Toujours tu prends plaisir a nous Gtre propice 
 Mais j’ai tant fait de mal, que jamais ta bont6 
 Ne me pardonnera, sans choquer ta justice. 
 
 Oui, mon Dieu, la grandeur de mon impiet6 
 Ne laisse a ton pouvoir que le choix du supplice: 
 
 Ton interet s’oppose ma a felicite, 
 
 Et ta clemence m6me attend que je perisse. 
 
 Contente ton desir, puis qu'il t’est glorieux; 
 
 Offense toi des pleurs qui coulent de mes yeux; 
 
 Tonne, frappe, il est terns, rens moi guerre pour guerre; 
 
 J’adore en perissant la raison qui t’aigrit. 
 
 Mais dessus quel endroit tombera ton tonnere, 
 
 Qui ne soit tout couvert du sang de Jesus Christ. 
 
 “If these thoughts may be serviceable to you, I 
 desire you would place them in a proper light, and 
 am ever, with great sincerity, 
 
 0. “ Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 No. 514.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1712. 
 
 -Me Parnassi deserta per ardua dulcis 
 
 Raptat amor: juvat ire jugis, qua nulla priorum 
 Castalium molli divertitur orbita clivo. 
 
 Virg. Georg, iii. 291. 
 
 But the commanding Muse my chariot guides, 
 
 Which o’er the dubious cliff securely rides: 
 
 And pleas’d I am no beaten road to take, 
 
 But first the way to new discov’ries make.—D ryden. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I came home a little later than usual the other 
 night; and, not finding myself inclined to sleep, I 
 took up Virgil to divert me until I should be more 
 disposed to rest. He is the author whom I always 
 choose on such occasions; no one writing in so 
 divine, so harmonious, nor so equal a strain, which 
 leaves the mind composed and softened into an 
 agreeable melancholy; the temper in which, of all 
 others, I choose to close the day. The passages I 
 turned to were those beautiful raptures in his 
 Georgies, where he professes himself entirely given 
 up to the Muses, and smit with the love of poetry, 
 passionately wishing to be transported to the cool 
 shades and retirements of the mountain Haemus. 
 I closed the book and went to bed. What I had 
 just before been reading made so strong an im¬ 
 pression on my mind, that fancy seemed almost to 
 fulfill to me the wish of Virgil, in presenting to me 
 the following vision: 
 
THE SPE 
 
 “ Methought I was on a sudden placed in the 
 plains of Boeotia, where at the end of the horizon 
 I saw the mountain Parnassus rising before me. 
 The prospect was of so large an extent, that I had 
 long wandered about to find a path which should 
 directly lead me to it, had I not seen at some dis¬ 
 tance a grove of trees, which, in a plain that had 
 nothing else remarkable enough in it to fix my 
 sight, immediately determined me to go thither. 
 When I arrived at it, I found it parted out into a 
 great number of walks and alleys, which often 
 widened into beautiful openings, as circles or 
 ovals, set round with yews, and cypresses, with 
 niches, grottoes, and caves, placed on the sides, 
 encompassed with ivy. There was no sound to 
 be heard in the whole place, but only that of a 
 gentle breeze passing over the leaves of the forest; 
 everything beside was buried in a profound silence. 
 I was captivated with the beauty and retirement 
 of the place, and never so much, before that hour, 
 was pleased with the enjoyment of myself. I in¬ 
 dulged the humor, and suffered myself to wander 
 without choice or design. At length, at the end 
 of a range of trees, I saw three figures seated on a 
 bank of moss, with a silent brook creeping at their 
 feet. I adored them as the tutelary divinities of 
 the place, and stood still to take a particular view 
 of each of them. The middlemost, whose name 
 was Solitude, sat with her arms across each other, 
 and seemed rather pensive, and wholly taken up 
 with her own thoughts, than anyways grieved or 
 displeased. The only companions which she ad¬ 
 mitted into that retirement were, the goddess 
 Silence, who sat on her right hand with her finger 
 on her mouth, and on her left Contemplation, 
 with her eyes fixed upon the heavens. Before her 
 lay a celestial globe, with several schemes of math¬ 
 ematical theorems. She prevented my speech 
 with the greatest affability in the world. ‘ Fear 
 not/ said she, ‘ I know your request before you 
 speak it; you would be led to the mountain of the 
 Muses; the only way to it lies through this place, 
 and no one is so often employed in conducting 
 persons thither as myself/ When she had thus 
 spoken, she rose from her seat, and I immediately 
 placed myself under her direction ; but while I 
 passed through the grove I could not help inquir¬ 
 ing of her who were the persons admitted into 
 that sweet retirement. ‘ Surely/ said I ‘ there 
 can nothing enter here but virtue and virtuous 
 thoughts; the whole wood seems designed for the 
 reception and reward of such persons as have 
 spent their lives according to the dictates of their 
 conscience, and the commands of the gods/ ‘ You 
 imagine right/ said she : ‘ assure yourself this 
 place was at first designed for no other : such it 
 continued to be in the reign of Saturn, when none 
 entered here but holy priests, deliverers of their 
 country from oppression and tyranny, who re¬ 
 posed themselves here after their labors, and those 
 whom the study and love of wisdom had fitted for 
 divine conversation. But now it is become no 
 less dangerous than it was before desirable: vice 
 has learned so to mimic virtue, that it often creeps 
 in hither under its disguise. See there : just be¬ 
 fore you, Revenge stalking by, habited in the robe 
 of Honor. Observe not far from him Ambition 
 standing alone; if you ask him his name, he will 
 tell you it is Emulation, or Glory. But the most fre¬ 
 quent intruder we have is Lust, who succeeds now 
 the deity to whom in better days this grove was en¬ 
 tirely devoted. Virtuous Love, with Hymen and 
 the Graces attending him, once reigned over this 
 happy place; a wdiole train of virtues waited on 
 him, and no dishonorable thought durst presume 
 for admittance. But now, how is the whole pros¬ 
 pect changed! and how seldom renewed by some 
 39 
 
 CTATOR, 0Q9 
 
 few who dare despise sordid wealth, and imagine 
 themselves fit companions for so charming: a di¬ 
 vinity/ 
 
 “ '1 he goddess had no sooner said thus, but we 
 were arrived at the utmost boundaries of the wood, 
 which lay contiguous to a plain that ended at the 
 foot of the mountain. Here I kept close to my 
 guide, being solicited by several phantoms, who 
 assured me they would show me a nearer way to 
 the mountain of the Muses. Among the rest, Van¬ 
 ity was extremely importunate, having deluded 
 infinite numbers, whom I saw wandering at the 
 foot of the hill. I turned away from this despic¬ 
 able tioop with disdain; and, addressing myself 
 to my guide, told her that, as I had some hopes I 
 should be able to reach up part of the ascent, so I 
 despaired of having strength enough to attain the 
 plain on the top. But, being informed by her 
 that it was impossible to stand upon the sides, 
 and that if I did not proceed onward, I should 
 irrevocably fall down to the lowest verge, I re¬ 
 solved to hazard any labor and hardship in the 
 attempt: so great a desire had I of enjoying the 
 satisfaction I hoped to meet with at the end of 
 my enterprise. 
 
 “ There were two paths, which led up by dif¬ 
 ferent ways to the summit of the mountain ; the 
 one was guarded by the genius which presides 
 over the moment of our births. He had it in 
 charge to examine the several pretensions of those 
 who desired to pass that way, but to admit none 
 excepting those only on whom Melpomene had 
 looked with a propitious eye at the hour of their 
 nativity. The other way was guarded by dili¬ 
 gence, to whom many of those persons applied 
 who had met with a denial the other way ; but he 
 was so tedious in granting their request, and in¬ 
 deed, after admittance the way was so very intri¬ 
 cate and laborious, that many, after they had made 
 some progress, chose rather to return back than 
 proceed, and very few persisted so long as to ar¬ 
 rive at the end they proposed. Beside these two 
 paths which at length severally led to the top of 
 the mountain, there was a third made up of these 
 two, which a little after the entrance joined in one. 
 This carried those happy few, whose good for¬ 
 tune it was to find it, directly to the throne of 
 Apollo. 1 do not know whether I should even 
 now have had the resolution to have demanded 
 entrance at either of these doors, had I not seen a 
 peasant-like man (followed by a numerous and 
 lovely train of youth of both sexes) insist upon 
 entrance for all whom he led up. He put me in 
 mind of the country-clown who is painted in the 
 map for leading prince Eugene over the Alps. He 
 had a bundle of papers in his hand; and produ¬ 
 cing several, which he said were given to him by 
 hands which he knew Apollo would allow as 
 passes; among which, methought I saw some of 
 my own writing; the whole assembly was admit¬ 
 ted, and gave by their presence a new beauty and 
 pleasure to these happy mansions. I found the 
 man did not pretend to enter himself, but served 
 as a kind of forester in the lawns, to direct pas¬ 
 sengers, who, by their own merit, or instructions 
 he procured for them, had virtue enough to travel 
 that way. I looked very attentively upon this 
 kind, homely benefactor ; and, forgive me, Mr. 
 Spectator, if I own to you I took him for yourself. 
 We were no sooner entered, but we were sprinkled 
 three times with the water of the fountain Aga¬ 
 nippe, which had power to deliver us from all 
 harms, but only envy, which reached even to the 
 end of our journey. We had not proceeded far in 
 the middle path, when we arrived at the summit 
 of the hill, where there immediately appeared to 
 us two figures, which extremely engaged my atten- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 610 
 
 tion : the one was a young nymph in the prime 
 of her youth and beauty ; she had wings on her 
 shoulders and feet, and was able to transport her¬ 
 self to the most distant regions in the smallest 
 space of time. She was continually varying her 
 dress, sometimes into the most natural and be¬ 
 coming habits in the world, and at others into the 
 most wild and freakish garb that can be imagined. 
 There stood by her a man full-aged and of great 
 gravity, who corrected her inconsistencies by show¬ 
 ing them in this* mirror, and still flung her 
 affected and unbecoming ornaments down the 
 mountain, which fell in the plain below, and were 
 gathered up and woref; with great satisfaction by 
 those that inhabited it. The name of the nymph 
 was Fancy, the daughter of Liberty, the most beau¬ 
 tiful of all the mountain nymphs : the other was 
 Judgment, the offspring of Time, and the only 
 child he acknowledged to be his. A youth, who 
 sat upon a throne just between them, was their 
 genuine offspring: his name was Wit, and his seat 
 was composed of the works of the most celebrated 
 authors. I could not but see with a secret joy, 
 that though the Greeks and Romans made the 
 majority, yet our own countrymen were the next 
 both in number and dignity. I was now at liberty 
 to take a full prospect of that delightful region. 
 I was inspired with new vigor and life, and saw 
 everything in nobler and more pleasing view than 
 before: I breathed a purer ether in a sky which was 
 a continued azure, gilded with perpetual sunshine. 
 The two summits of the mountain rose on each 
 side, and formed in the midst a most delicious 
 vale, the habitation of the Muses, and of such 
 as had composed works worthy of immortality. 
 Apollo was seated upon a throne of gold, and for 
 a canopy an aged laurel spread its boughs and its 
 shade over his head. His bow and quiver lay at 
 his feet. He held his harp in his hand, while the 
 Muses round about him celebrated with hymns his 
 victory over the serpent Python, and sometimes 
 sang in softer notes the loves of Leucothoe and 
 Daphnis. Homer, Virgil, and Milton, were seated 
 the next to them. Behind were a great number 
 of others; among whom I was surprised to see 
 some in the habit of Laplanders, who, notwith¬ 
 standing the uncouthness of their dress, had 
 lately obtained a place upon the mountain. I 
 saw Pindar walking all alone, no one daring to 
 accost him, until Cowley joined himself to him; 
 but growing weary of one who almost walked him 
 out of breath, he left him for Horace and Anac¬ 
 reon, with whom he seemed infinitely delighted. 
 
 “A little further I saw another group of figures: 
 I made up to them, and found it was Socrates 
 dictating to Xenophon, and the spirit of Plato; 
 but most of all, Musseus had the greatest audience 
 about him. 1 was at too great a distance to hear 
 what he said, or discover the faces of his hearers; 
 only I thought I now perceived Virgil, who had 
 joined them, and stood in a posture full of admi¬ 
 ration at the harmony of his words. 
 
 “ Lastly, at the very brink of the hill, I saw 
 Boccalini sending dispatches to the world below 
 of what happened upon Parnassus; but I perceived 
 he did it without leave of the Muses, and by 
 stealth, and was unwilling to have them revised 
 by Apollo. I could now, from this height and 
 serene sky, behold the infinite cares and anxieties 
 with which mortals below sought out their way 
 through the maze of life. I saw the path of Vir¬ 
 tue lay straight before them, while Interest, or 
 some malicious demon, still hurried them out of 
 the way. I was at once touched with pleasure at 
 my own happiness, and compassion at the sight 
 
 * “His.” f “Worn:” pret. for participle. 
 
 of their inextricable errors. Here the two contend 
 ing passions rose so high, that they were incon¬ 
 sistent with the sweet repose I enjoyed ; and 
 awaking with a sudden start, the only consolation 
 I could admit of for my loss, was the hopes that 
 this relation of my dream will not displease you." 
 
 T 
 
 No. 515.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1712. 
 
 Pudet me et miseret, qui harum mores contabat mihi, 
 
 Monuisse frustra- Ter. Heaut. act. ii. sc. 3. 
 
 I am ashamed and grieved, that I neglected his advice, who 
 gave me the character of these creatures. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am obliged to you for printing the account 
 I lately sent you of a coquette who disturbed a 
 sober congregation in the city of London. That 
 intelligence ended at her taking coach, and bid¬ 
 ding the driver go where he knew. I could not 
 leave her so, but dogged her, as hard as she 
 drove, to St. Paul’s churchyard, where there was 
 a stop of coaches, attending company coming out 
 of the cathedral. This gave me an opportunity 
 to hold up a crown to her coachman, who gave 
 me the signal that he would hurry on, and make 
 no haste, as you know the way is when they 
 favor a chase. By his many kind blunders, dri¬ 
 ving against other coaches, and slipping of his 
 tackle, I could keep up with him, and lodged my 
 fine lady in the parish of St. James. As I guessed, 
 when I first saw her at church, her business is to 
 win hearts, and throw them away, regarding no¬ 
 thing but the triumph. I have had the happiness, 
 by tracing her through all with whom I heard she 
 was acquainted, to find one who was intimate 
 with a friend of mine, and to be introduced to her 
 notice. I have made so good use of my time, as 
 to procure from that intimate of hers one of her 
 letters, which she wrote to her when in the country. 
 This epistle of her own may serve to alarm the 
 world against her in ordinary life, as mine, I hope, 
 did those who shall behold her at church. 1 he 
 letter was written last winter to the lady who gave 
 it me; and I doubt not but you will find it the 
 soul of a happy self-loving dame, that takes all 
 the admiration she can meet with, and returns 
 none of it in love to her admirers. 
 
 “Dear Jenny, 
 
 “ I am glad to find you are likely to be disposed 
 of in marriage so much to your approbation, as 
 you tell me. You say you are afraid only of me, 
 for I shall laugh at your spouse’s airs. I beg of 
 you not to fear it, for I am too nice a discerner to 
 laugh at any, but whom most other people think 
 fine - fellows; so that your dear may bring you 
 hither as soon as his horses are in case enough to 
 appear in town, and you be very safe against any 
 raillery you may apprehend from me; for I am 
 surrounded with coxcombs of my own making, 
 who are all ridiculous in a manner your good 
 man, I presume, cannot exert himself. As men 
 who cannot raise their fortunes, and are uneasy 
 under the incapacity of shining in courts, rail at 
 ambition; so do awkward and insipid women, 
 who cannot warm the hearts, and charm the eyes 
 of men, rail at affectation: but she that has the 
 joy of seeing a man’s heart leap into his eyes at 
 beholding her, is in no pain for the want of esteem 
 among the crew of that part of her own sex, who 
 have no spirit but that of envy, and no language 
 but that of malice. I do not in this, I hope, 
 express myself insensible of the merit of Leodacia, 
 who lowers her beauty to all but her husband, and 
 never spreads her charms but to gladden him who 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 has a right to them; I say, I do honor to those 
 who can be coquettes, and are not such; but I 
 despise all Avho would be so, and, in despair of 
 arriving at it themselves, hate and vilify all those 
 who can. But be that as it will, in answer to 
 your desire of knowing my history: one of my 
 chief present pleasures is in country-dances; and 
 in obedience to me, as well as the pleasure of 
 coming up to me with a good grace, showing 
 themselves in their address to others in my pres¬ 
 ence, and the like opportunities, they are all pro¬ 
 ficients that way: and I had the happiness of 
 being the other night where we made six couple, 
 and everv woman’s partner a professed lover of 
 mme. The wildest imagination cannot form to 
 itself on any occasion, higher delight than I ac¬ 
 knowledge myself to have been in all that even¬ 
 ing. I chose out of my admirers a set of men 
 who most love me, and gave them partners of such 
 of my own sex who most envied me. 
 
 “My way is, when any man who is my admirer 
 pretends to give himself airs of merit, as at this 
 time a certain gentleman you know did, to mortify 
 him by favoring in his presence the most insig¬ 
 nificant creature I can find. At this ball I was 
 led into the company by pretty Mr. Fanfly, who, 
 you know, is the most obsequious, well-shaped 
 well-bred woman’s man in town. I, at first en¬ 
 trance declared him my partner if he danced at 
 all; which put the whole assembly into a grin, as 
 forming no terrors from such a rival. But we had 
 not been long in the room before I overheard the 
 meritorious gentleman above-mentioned say with 
 an oath, * There is no raillery in the thing, she 
 certainly loves the puppy.’ My gentleman, when 
 we were dancing, took an occasion to be very soft 
 in his oglings upon a lady he danced with, and 
 whom he knew of all women I loved most to out¬ 
 shine. The contest began who should plague the 
 other most. I, who do not care a farthing for him, 
 had no hard task to outvex him. I made Fanfly, 
 with a very little encouragement, cut capers couple, 
 and then sink with all the air and tenderness im¬ 
 aginable. When he performed this, I observed 
 the gentleman you know of fall into the same 
 way, and mutate as well as he could the despised 
 Fanfly. I cannot well give you, who are so grave 
 a country lady, the idea of the joy we have when 
 we see a stubborn heart breaking, or a man of 
 sense turning fool for our sakes; but this hap¬ 
 pened to our friend, and I expect his attendance 
 whenever I go to church, to court, to the play, or 
 the park. 1 his is a sacrifice due to us women of 
 genius, who have the eloquence of beauty, an easy 
 mien. I mean by an easy mien, one which can be 
 on occasion easily affected; for I must tell you, 
 dear Jenny, I hold one maxim, which is an un¬ 
 common one, to wit, that pur greatest charms are 
 owing to affectation. It is to that our arms can 
 lodge so quietly just over our hips, and the fan 
 can play without any force or motion, but just 
 of the wiist. It is to affectation we owe the 
 pensive attention of Deidamia at a tragedy, the 
 scornful approbation of Dulciamara at a com¬ 
 edy, and the lowly aspect of Lanquicelsa at a 
 6 ermon. 
 
 “To tell you the plain truth, I know no pleasure 
 but in being admired, and have yet never failed 
 of attaining the approbation of the man whose 
 regard I had a mind to. You see all the men who 
 make a figure in the world (as wise a look as they 
 are pleased to put upon the matter) are moved by 
 the same vanity as I am. What is there in ambi¬ 
 tion, but to make other people’s wills depend 
 upon yours? This indeed is not to be aimed at 
 by one who has a genius no higher than to think 
 of being a very good housewife in a country gen- 
 
 611 
 
 [ tleman s family. The care of poultry and pio- g 
 are great enemies to the countenance; the vacant 
 look of a fine lady is not to be preserved, if she 
 admits anything to take up her thoughts but her 
 ov n dear person. But I interrupt you too long 
 loin our cares, and myself from my conquests. 
 
 I am, Madam, your most humble Servant/’ 
 
 “ Give me leave, Mr. Spectator, to add her 
 friends answer to this epistle, who is a very 
 discreet, ingenious Avoman.” J 
 
 “ Dear Gatty, 
 
 “ T tfk.® y° ur raillery in very good part, and am 
 obliged to you for the free air with which you 
 speak of your own gayeties. But this is but a 
 barren superficial pleasure; for, indeed, Gatty, we 
 are made for man; and in serious sadness I must 
 tell you, whether you yourself know it. or no, all 
 these gallantries tend to no other end but to be a 
 wife and a mother as fast as you can. 
 
 “I am, Madam, 
 
 “ Your most obedient Servant.” 
 
 Ho. 516.] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1712. 
 
 Immortale odium, et nuuquam sanabile vulnus- 
 Inde furor vulgo, quod numina vieinorum 
 Odit uterque locus; quum solos credit habendos 
 Esse deos, quos ipse colat- Juv. Sat. 15, 34. 
 
 -A grutch, time out of mind, begun 
 
 And mutually bequeath’d from sire to son; 
 
 Religious spite and pious spleen bred first ’ 
 
 The quarrel which so long the bigots nurs’d: 
 
 Each calls the other’s god a senseless stock: ' 
 
 His own divine.—T ate. 
 
 Of all the monstrous passions and opinions 
 which have crept into the world, there is none 
 so wonderful as that those who profess the com¬ 
 mon name of Christians, should pursue each 
 other with rancor and hatred for differences in 
 their Avay of following the example of their 
 bavior. It seems' so natural that all who pursue 
 the steps of any leader should form themselves 
 after his manners, that it is impossible to account 
 for effects so different from Avliat we might expect 
 from those who profess themselves followers of 
 the highest pattern of meekness and charity but 
 by ascribing such effects to the ambition an<l’cor¬ 
 ruption of those who are so audacious, with souls 
 full of fury, to serve at the altars of the God of 
 Peace. 
 
 The massacres to which the church of Rome 
 has animated the ordinary people, are dreadful 
 instances of the truth of this observation- and* 
 whoever reads the history of the Irish rebellion 
 and the cruelties which ensued thereupon, will be 
 sufficiently convinced to what rage poor ignorante 
 may be Avorkecl up by those who profess holiness 
 and become incendiaries, and, under the dis¬ 
 pensation of grace, promote evils abhorrent to 
 nature. 
 
 J he subject and catastrophe, which deserve so 
 well to be remarked by the Protestant Avorld, will, 
 
 I doubt not, be considered, by the reAmrend and’ 
 learned prelate that preaches to morrow before 
 many of the descendants of those who perished 
 on that lamentable day, in a manner suitable to 
 the occasion, and worthy his oAvn great virtue and 
 eloquence. 
 
 I shall not dwell upon it any further, but only 
 transcribe out of a little tract, called the Christian 
 Hero, published in 1701, what I find there in 
 honor of the renowned hero, William IT I, who 
 rescued that nation from a repetition of the same 
 disasters. His late majesty, of glorious memory, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 612 
 
 and the most Christian king, are considered at 
 the conclusion of that treatise as heads of the 
 Protestant and Roman Catholic world in the fol¬ 
 lowing manner: 
 
 “ There were not ever, before the entrance of 
 the Christian name into the world, men who have 
 maintained a more renowned carriage, than the 
 two great rivals who possess the full fame of the 
 present age, and will be the theme and examina¬ 
 tion of the future. They are exactly formed by 
 nature for those ends to which Heaven seems to 
 have sent them among us. Both animated with a 
 restless desire of glory, but pursue it by different 
 means, and with different motives. To one it 
 consists in an extensive, undisputed empire over 
 his subjects, to the other in their rational and vol¬ 
 untary obedience. One’s happiness is founded in 
 their want of power, the other’s in their want of 
 desire to oppose him. The one enjoys the summit 
 of fortune with the luxury of a Persian, the other 
 with the moderation of a Spartan. One is made 
 to oppress, the other to relieve the oppressed. 
 The one is satisfied with the pomp and osten¬ 
 tation of power to prefer and debase his inferiors; 
 the other delighted only with the cause and foun¬ 
 dation of it to cherish and protect them. To one 
 therefore religion is but a convenient disguise, to 
 the other a vigorous motive of action. 
 
 “ For, without such ties of real and solid honor, 
 there is no way of forming a monarch, but after 
 the Machiavelian scheme, by which a prince must 
 ever seem to have all virtues, but really to be 
 master of none; but is to be liberal, merciful, and 
 just, only as they serve his interests; while with 
 the noble art of hypocrisy, empire would be to be 
 extended, and new conquests be made by new 
 devices, by which prompt address his creatures 
 might insensibly give law in the business of life, 
 by leading men in the entertainment of it. 
 
 “ Thus, when words and show are apt to pass 
 for the substantial things they are only to express, 
 there would need no more to enslave a country 
 but to adorn a court; for while every man’s vanity 
 makes him believe himself capable of becoming 
 luxury, enjoyments are a ready bait for sufferings, 
 and the hopes of preferment invitations to servi¬ 
 tude; which slavery would be colored with all the 
 agreements, as they call it, imaginable. The no¬ 
 blest arts and artists, the finest pens and most 
 elegant minds, jointly employed to set it off with 
 the various embellishments of sumptuous enter¬ 
 tainments, charming assemblies, and polished 
 discourses, and those apostate abilities of men, 
 the adored monarch might profusely and skill¬ 
 fully encourage, while they flatter his virtue, and 
 gild his vice at so high a rate, that he, without 
 scorn of the one, or love of the other, would alter¬ 
 nately and occasionally use both; so that his 
 bounty should support him in his rapines, his 
 mercy in his cruelties. 
 
 “Nor is it to give things a more severe look 
 than is natural, to suppose such must be the con¬ 
 sequences of a prince’s having no other pursuit 
 than that of his own glory; for if we consider an 
 infant born into the world, and beholding itself 
 the mightiest thing in it, itself the present ad¬ 
 miration and future prospect of a fawning people, 
 who profess themselves great or mean, according 
 to the figure he is to make among them, what 
 fancy would not be debauched to believe they 
 were but what they professed themselves—his 
 mere creatures, and use them as such, by pur¬ 
 chasing with their lives a boundless renown, 
 which he, for want of * a more just prospect, 
 would place in the number of his slaves, and 
 the extent of his territories? Such undoubtedly 
 would be the tragical effects of a prince’s living 
 
 with no religion, which are not to be surpassed 
 but by his having a false one. 
 
 “If ambition were spirited with zeal, what 
 would follow, but that his people should be con¬ 
 verted into an army, whose swords can make right 
 in power, and solve controversy in belief? And 
 if men should be stiff-necked to the doctrine of 
 that visible church, let them be contented with an 
 oar and a chain, in the midst of stripes and an¬ 
 guish, to contemplate on Him whose yoke is easy 
 and whose burden is light. 
 
 “With a tyranny begun on his own subjects, 
 and indignation that others draw their breath in¬ 
 dependent of his frown or smile, why should he 
 not proceed to the seizure of the world ? And if 
 nothing but the thirst of sway were the motive of 
 his actions, why should treaties be other than 
 mere words, or solemn national compacts be any¬ 
 thing but a halt in the march of that army, who 
 are never to lay down their arms until all men 
 are reduced to the necessity of hanging their lives 
 on his wayward will; who might supinely, and at 
 leisure, expiate his own sins, by other men’s suf¬ 
 ferings, while he daily meditates new slaughter 
 and new conquests ? 
 
 “For mere man, when giddy with unbridled 
 power, is an insatiate idol, not to be appeased with 
 myriads offered to his pride, which may be puffed 
 up by the adulation of a base and prostrate world 
 into an opinion that he is something more than 
 human, by being something less; and alas! what 
 is there that mortal man will not believe of himself 
 when complimented with the attributes of God ? 
 He can then conceive thoughts of a power as om¬ 
 nipresent as his. But, should there be such a foe 
 of mankind now upon earth, have our sins so far 
 provoked Heaven, that we are left utterly naked to 
 his fury ? Is there no power, no leader, no genius, 
 that can conduct and animate us to our death, or 
 our defense? Yes; our great God never gave one 
 to reign by his permission, but he gave to another 
 also to reign by his grace. 
 
 “All the circumstances of the illustrious life of 
 our prince seem to have conspired to make him 
 the check and bridle of tyranny; for his mind has 
 been strengthened and confirmed by one continued 
 struggle, and Heaven has educated him by adver¬ 
 sity to a quick sense of the distresses and miseries 
 of mankind, which he was born to redress. In 
 just scorn of the trivial glories and light ostenta¬ 
 tions of power, that glorious instrument of Provi¬ 
 dence moves, like that, in a steady, calm, and silent 
 course, independent either of applause or calumny, 
 which renders him, if not in a political, yet in a 
 moral, a philosophic, and heroic, and a Christian 
 sense, an absolute monarch; who, satisfied with 
 this unchangeable, just and ample glory, must 
 needs turn all his regards from himself to the ser¬ 
 vice of others; for he begins his enterprises with 
 his own share in the success of them; for in¬ 
 tegrity bears in itself its reward, nor can that 
 which depends not on event ever know disappoint¬ 
 ment. 
 
 “With the undoubted character of a glorious 
 captain, and (what he much more values than the 
 most splendid titles) that of a sincere and honest 
 man, he is the hope and stay of Europe, a univer¬ 
 sal good; not to be engrossed by us only, for dis¬ 
 tant potentates implore his friendship, and injured 
 empires court his assistance. He rules the world, 
 not by an invasion of the people of the earth, but 
 the address of its princes; and, if that world 
 should be again roused from the repose which his 
 prevailing arms had given it, why should we not 
 hope that there is an Almighty, by whose influ¬ 
 ence the terrible enemy that thinks himself pre¬ 
 pared for battle, may find he is but ripe for destruc- 
 
613 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 tion ?—and that there may be in the womb of time 
 gieat incidents, which may make the catastrophe 
 of a prosperous life as unfortunate as the particular 
 scenes of it were successful ?—for there does not 
 want a skillful eye and resolute arm to observe and 
 grasp the occasion. A prince, who from— 
 
 -Fuit Ilium, et ingens 
 
 Gloria.” - Vmo. A!n. ii. 325. 
 
 Tioy is no more, and Ilium was a town.—D ryden 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 517.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 23,1712. 
 
 lieu pietas! heu prisca fides!- Virg. .En. vi. 878. 
 
 Mirror of ancient faith! 
 
 Undaunted worth! Inviolable truth .'—Dryden. 
 
 TV e last night received a piece of ill news at our 
 club, which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. 
 I question not but my readers themselves will be 
 troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no 
 longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead ! 
 He departed this life at his house in the country, 
 after a few weeks’ sickness. Sir Andrew Freeport 
 has a letter from one of his correspondents in those 
 parts, that informs him the old man caught a cold 
 at the county-sessions, as he was very warmly pro¬ 
 moting an address of his own penning, in which 
 he succeeded according to his wishes. But this 
 particular comes from a whig justice of peace, 
 who was always Sir Roger’s enemy and antagonist. 
 I have letters both from the chaplain and Captain 
 Sentry, which mention nothing of it, but are filled 
 with many particulars to the honor of the good old 
 man. I have likewise a letter from the butler, who 
 took so much care of me last summer when I was 
 at the knight’s house. As my friend the butler 
 mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several 
 circumstances the others have passed over in silence, 
 I shall give my reader a copy of his letter, without 
 any alteration or diminution. 
 
 “Honored Sir, 
 
 “Knowing that you was my old master’s good 
 friend, I could not forbear sending you the melan¬ 
 choly news of his death, which has afflicted the 
 whole country, as well as his poor servants, who 
 loved him, I may say, better than we did our lives. 
 
 I am afraid he caught his death the last county- 
 sessions, where he would go to see justice done to 
 a poor widow woman, and her fatherless children, 
 that had been wronged by a neighboring gentle¬ 
 man; for you know, Sir, my good master was 
 always the poor man’s friend. Upon his coming 
 home, the first complaint he made was, that he 
 had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to 
 touch a sirloin, which was served up according to 
 custom; and you know he used to take great de¬ 
 light in it. I rom that time forward lie grew worse 
 and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. 
 Indeed we were once in great hopes of his recov¬ 
 ery, upon a kind message that was sent him from 
 the widow lady whom he had made love to the 
 forty last years of his life; but this only proved a 
 lightning before death. He has bequeathed to this 
 lady, as a token of his love, a great<~pearl necklace, 
 and a couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, 
 which belonged to my good old lady his mother. He 
 has bequeathed the fine white gelding that he used 
 to ride a hunting upon to his chaplain, because he 
 thought he would be kind to him; and has left you 
 all his books. He has, moreover, bequeathed to 
 the chaplain a very pretty tenement with good 
 lands about it. It being a very cold day when he 
 made his will, he left for mourning to every man 
 in the parish a great frieze coat, and to every wo¬ 
 man a black riding-hood. It was a most moving 
 
 sight to see him take leave of his poor servants 
 commending us all for our fidelity, while we were 
 not able to speak a word for weeping. As we 
 most of us are grown gray-headed in our dear 
 master s service, he has left us pensions and lega¬ 
 cies, which we may live very comfortably upon the 
 remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a 
 great deal more in charity, which has not yet come 
 to iny knowledge; and it is peremptorily said in 
 the parish, that he has left money to build a steeple 
 o the church; for he was heard to say some time 
 ago, that, if he lived two years longer, Coverley 
 church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain 
 tells everybody that he made a very good end, and 
 never speaks of him without tears. He was buried, 
 according to his own directions, among the family 
 of the Coverleys on the left hand of his father Sir 
 Arthur. The coffin was carried by six of his ten- 
 cUits, and the pall held up by six of the quorum. 
 1 he whole parish followed the corpse with heavy 
 hearts, and in their mourning suits; the men in 
 nieze, and the women in riding-hoods. Captain 
 Sentry, my master’s nephew, has taken possession 
 ot the Hall-house, and the whole estate. When 
 my old master saw him a little before his death, 
 he shook him by the hand, and wished him joy of 
 the estate which was falling to him, desiring him 
 only to make a good use of it, and to pay the sev¬ 
 eral legacies, and the gifts of charity, which he 
 told him he had left as quit-rents upon the estate, 
 d he Captain truly seems a courteous man, though 
 lie says but little. He makes much of those whom 
 my master loved, and shows great kindness to the 
 old house-dog, that you know my poor master was 
 so fond of. It would have gone to your heart to 
 have heard the moans the dumb creature made on 
 the day of my master’s death. He has never en¬ 
 joyed himself since; no more has any of us. It 
 was the melancholiest day for the poor people that 
 ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all 
 from, & 
 
 “ Honored Sir, your most sorrowful Servant, 
 
 “Edward Biscuit. 
 
 “P. S. My master desired, some weeks before 
 he died, that a book, "which comes up to you by 
 the carrier, should be given to Sir Andrew Freeport 
 in his name.” 
 
 This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler’s 
 manner of writing it, gave us such an idea of our 
 good old friend, that upon the reading of it there 
 was not a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew, open¬ 
 ing the book, found it to be a collection of acts of 
 parliament. There was in particular the Act of 
 Uniformity, with some passages in it marked by 
 Sir Roger’s own hand. Sir Andrew found that 
 they related to two or three points which he had 
 disputed with Sir Roger, the last time he appeared 
 at the club. Sir Andrew, who would have been 
 merry at such an incident on another occasion, at 
 the sight of the old man’s hand-writing burst into 
 tears, and put the book into his pocket. Captain 
 Sentry informs me that the knight has left rings 
 and mourning for every one in the club.—0. 
 
 No. 518.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1712. 
 
 ——Miserum est aliorum incumbere fam;e, 
 
 Ne eollapsa ruant subductis tecta columnis. 
 
 Juv. Sat. viii. 76. 
 
 ’Tis poor relying on another’s fame, 
 
 For, take the pillars but away, and all 
 
 The superstructure must in ruins fall.—S tepney. 
 
 This being a day of business with me, I must 
 make the present entertainment like a treat at a 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 614 
 
 house-warming, out of such presents as have been 
 sent me by my guests. The first dish which I 
 serve up is a letter come fresh to my hand. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ It is with inexpressible sorrow that I hear of 
 the death of good Sir Roger, and do heartily con¬ 
 dole with you upon so melancholy an occasion. 
 
 I think you ought to have blackened the edges of 
 a paper which brought us so ill news, and to have 
 had it stamped likewise in black. It is expected 
 of you that you should write his epitaph, and if 
 possible, filfhis place in the club with as worthy 
 and diverting a member. I question not but you 
 will receive many recommendations from the public 
 of such as will appear candidates for that post. 
 
 “ Since I am talking of death, and have men¬ 
 tioned an epitaph, I must tell you, Sir, that I have 
 made discovery of a churchyard in which I believe 
 you might spend an afternoon with great pleasure 
 to yourself and to the public. It belongs to the 
 church of Stebon-Heatli, commonly called Step¬ 
 ney. Whether or no it be that the people of that 
 parish have, a particular genius for an epitaph, or 
 that there be some poet among them who under¬ 
 takes that work by the great, I cannot tell; but 
 there are more remarkable inscriptions in that 
 place than in any other I have met with; and I 
 may say, without vanity, that there is not a gen¬ 
 tleman in England better read in tombstones than 
 myself, my studies having lain very much in church¬ 
 yards. I shall beg leave to send you a couple of 
 epitaphs, for a sample of those I have just now 
 mentioned. They are written in a different man¬ 
 ner; the first being in a diffused and luxuriant, the 
 second in the close contracted style. The first has 
 much of the simple and pathetic; the second is 
 something light but nervous. The first is thus: 
 
 Here Thomas Sapper lies interr’d. Ah, why? 
 
 Born in New England, did in London die; 
 
 Was the third son of eight, begot upon 
 His mother Martha, hy his father John. 
 
 Much favor’d hy his prince he ’gan to be, 
 
 But nipt by death at the age of twenty-three. 
 
 Fatal to him was that we small-pox name, 
 
 By which his mother and two brethren came, 
 
 Also to breathe their last, nine years before, 
 
 And now have left their father to deplore 
 The loss of all his children, with his wife, 
 
 Who was the joy and comfort of his life. 
 
 “The second is as follows: 
 
 Here lives the body of Daniel Saul, 
 
 Spitalfield’s weaver, and that’s all. 
 
 “I will not dismiss you, while I am upon this 
 subject without sending a short epitaph which I 
 once met with, though I cannot possibly recollect 
 the place. The thought of it is serious, and in 
 my opinion the finest that I ever met with upon 
 this occasion. You know, Sir, it is usual, after 
 having told us the name of the person who lies 
 interred, to launch out into his praises. This epi¬ 
 taph takes a quite contrary turn, having been made 
 by the person himself some time before his death. 
 
 * Hie jacet R. C. in expectatione diei supremi. 
 Qnalis erat, dies iste indicabit.’ 
 
 ‘Here lieth R. C. in expectation of the last day. 
 What sort of a man he was that day will discover.’ 
 
 “I am, Sir,” etc. 
 
 The following letter is dated from Cambridge: 
 “Sir, 
 
 “Having lately read among your speculations 
 an essay upon physiognomy, I cannot but think 
 that, if you made a visit to this ancient university, 
 you might receive very considerable lights upon 
 that subject, there being scarce a young fellow in 
 it who does not give certain indications of his 
 particular humor and disposition, conformable to I 
 
 the rules of that art. In courts and cities every¬ 
 body lays a constraint upon his countenance, and 
 endeavors to look like the rest of the world; but 
 the youth of this place, having not yet formed 
 themselves by conversation, and the knowledge 
 of the world, give their limbs and features their 
 full play. 
 
 “As you have considered human nature in all 
 its lights, you must be extremely well apprised, 
 that there is a very close correspondence Detween 
 the outward and the inward man; that scarce the 
 least dawning, the least parturiency toward a 
 thought, can be stirring in the mind of man, with¬ 
 out producing a suitable revolution in his exteriors, 
 which will easily discover itself to an adept in the 
 theory of the phiz. Hence it is that the intrinsic 
 worth and merit of a son of Alma Mater is ordi¬ 
 narily calculated from the cast of his visage, the 
 contour of his person, the mechanism of his dress, 
 the disposition of his limbs, the manner of his 
 gait and air, with a number of circumstances of 
 equal consequence and information. The practi¬ 
 tioners in this art often make use of a gentleman’s 
 eyes to give them light into the posture of his 
 brains; take a handle from his nose to judge of the 
 size of his intellects; and interpret the overmuch 
 visibility and pertness of one year as an infallible 
 mark of reprobation, and a sign the owner of so 
 saucy a member fears neither God nor man. In 
 conformity to this scheme, a contracted brow, a 
 lumpish downcast look, a sober sedate pace, with 
 both hands dangling quiet and steady in lines ex¬ 
 actly parallel to each lateral pocket of the galli¬ 
 gaskins, is logic, metaphysics, and mathematics, 
 in perfection. So likewise the belles-lettres are 
 typified by a saunter in the gait, a fall of one wing 
 of the peruke backward, and insertion of one 
 hand in the fob, and a negligent swing of the 
 other, "with a pinch of right fine Barcelona between 
 finger and thumb, a due quantity of the same upon 
 the upper lip, and a noddle-case loaden with pul- 
 vil. Again, a grave, solemn, stalking pace is 
 heroic poetry, and politics; an unequal one, a genius 
 for the ode, and the modern ballad; and an open 
 breast; with an audacious display of the Holland 
 shirt, is construed a fatal tendency to the art mil¬ 
 itary. 
 
 “ I might be much larger upon these hints, but 
 I know whom I w r rite to. If you can graft any 
 speculation upon theito, or turn them to the ad¬ 
 vantage of the persons concerned in them, you will 
 do a work very becoming the British Spectator, 
 and oblige, 
 
 “Your very humble Servant, 
 
 “ Tom Tweer.” 
 
 No. 519.] SATURDAY, OCTOBER 25, 1712. 
 
 Inde hominum peeuduinque genus, yiteeque volantum. 
 
 Et qum marmoreo fert monstra sub eequore pontus. 
 
 Virg. Ain. vi. 728. 
 
 Hence men and beasts the breath of life obtain, 
 
 And birds of air, and monsters of the main.— Dryden. 
 
 Though there is a great deal of pleasure in con¬ 
 templating the material world, by which I mean. 
 > that system of bodies into which nature has so 
 curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, with 
 the several relations -which those bodies bear to 
 one another; there is still, methinks, something 
 more wonderful and surprising in contemplations 
 on the world of life, by w r hieh I mean all those 
 animals with which every part of the universe is 
 furnished. The material world is only the shell 
 of the universe; the world of life are its inhab¬ 
 itants. 
 
 If we consider those parts of the material world 
 
615 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 which lie the nearest to us, and are therefore subject 
 to our observations and inquiries, it is amazing to 
 consider the infinity of animals with which it is 
 stocked. Every part of matter is peopled; every 
 green leaf swarms with inhabitants. There is 
 scarce a single humor in the body of man, or of 
 any other animal, in which our glasses do not dis¬ 
 cover myriads of living creatures. The surface of 
 animals is also covered with other animals, which 
 are in the same manner the basis of other animals 
 that live upon it; nay, we find in the most solid 
 bodies, as m marble itself, innumerable cells and 
 cavities that are crowded with such imperceptible 
 inhabitants as are too little for the naked eye to 
 discover. On the other hand, if we look into the 
 more bulky parts of nature, w T e see the seas, lakes, 
 and rivers, teeming with numberless kinds of 
 living creatures. We find every mountain and 
 marsh, wilderness and wood, plentifully stocked 
 with birds and beasts; and every part of matter 
 affording proper necessaries and conveniences for 
 the livelihood of multitudes which inhabit it. 
 
 The author* of the Plurality of Worlds draws a 
 very good argument from this consideration for 
 the peopling of every planet; as indeed it seems 
 very probable, from the analogy of reason, that if 
 no part of matter which we are acquainted with, 
 lies waste and useless, those great bodies, which 
 are at such a distance from us, should not be 
 desert and unpeopled, but rather that they should 
 be furnished with beings adapted to their respec¬ 
 tive situations. 
 
 Existence is a blessing to those beings only 
 which are endowed with perception; and is in a 
 manner thrown away upon dead matter, any fur¬ 
 ther than as it is subservient to beings which are 
 conscious of their existence. Accordingly, we 
 find, from the bodies which lie under our observa¬ 
 tion, that matter is only made as the basis and 
 support of animals, and that there is no mors of 
 the one than what is necessary for the existence 
 of the other. 
 
 Infinite goodness is of so communicative a na¬ 
 ture, that it seems to delight in the conferring of 
 existence upon every degree of perceptive being. 
 As this is a speculation which I have often pur¬ 
 sued with great pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge 
 further upon it, by considering that part of the 
 scale of beings which comes within our know¬ 
 ledge. 
 
 There are some living creatures which are raised 
 but just above dead matter. To mention only 
 that species of shell-fish, which are formed in the 
 fashion of a cone, that grow to the surface of sev¬ 
 eral rocks, and immediately die upon their being 
 severed from the place where they grow. There 
 are many other creatures but one remove from 
 these, which have no other sense beside that of 
 feeling and taste. Others have still an additional 
 one of hearing; others of smell, and others of sight. 
 It is wonderful to observe by what a gradual pro¬ 
 gress the world of life advances through a prodi¬ 
 gious variety of species, before a creature is formed 
 that is complete in all its senses; and even among 
 these there is such a different degree of perfection 
 in the sense which one animal enjoys beyond what 
 appears in another, that though the sense in dif¬ 
 ferent animals be distinguished by the same com¬ 
 mon denomination, it seems almost of a different 
 nature. If after this we look into the several in¬ 
 ward perfections of cunning and sagacity, or what 
 we generally call instinct, we find them rising 
 after the same manner imperceptibly one above 
 another, and receiving additional improvements. 
 
 ! Fontenelle.—This book was published in 1686, and is 
 founded ou the chimerical Vortices of Descartes. 
 
 according to the species in which they are im¬ 
 planted. This progress in nature is so very grad¬ 
 ual, that the most perfect of an inferior species 
 comes very near to the most imperfect of that which 
 is immediately above it. 
 
 I he exuberant and overflowing goodness of the 
 Supreme Being, whose mercy extends to all his 
 works, is plainly seen, as I have before hinted, 
 from his having made so very little matter, at 
 least what falls within our knowledge, that does 
 not swarm with life. Nor is his goodness less 
 seen in the diversity, than in the multitude of 
 living creatures. Had he only made one species 
 of animals, none of the rest would have enjoyed 
 the happiness of existence : he has, therefore, spe¬ 
 cified in his creation every degree of life, every 
 capacity of being. The whole chasm in nature, 
 from a plant to a man, is filled up with divers 
 kinds of creatures, rising one over another, by 
 such a gentle and easy ascent, that the little trail 
 sitions and deviations from one species to another 
 are almost insensible. The intermediate space is 
 so well husbanded and managed, that there is 
 scarcely a degree of perception which does not ap¬ 
 pear in some one part of the world of life. Is the 
 goodness or the wisdom of the Divine Being more 
 manifested in this his proceeding? 
 
 There is a consequence, beside those I have 
 already mentioned, which seems very naturally 
 deducible from the foregoing considerations. If 
 the scale of being rises by such a regular progress 
 so high as man, we may, by a parity of reason, 
 suppose that it still proceeds gradually through 
 those beings which are of a superior nature to 
 him: since there is an infinitely greater space and 
 room for different degrees of perfection between 
 the Supreme Being and man, than between man 
 and the most despicable insect. This consequence 
 of so great a variety of beings which are superior 
 to us, from that variety which is inferior to us, is 
 made by Mr. Locke, in a passage which I shall 
 here set down, after having premised, that not¬ 
 withstanding there is such infinite room between 
 man and his Maker for the creative power to ex¬ 
 ert itself in, it is impossible that it should ever be 
 filled up, since there will be still an infinite gap or 
 distance between the highest created being and 
 the Power which produced him. 
 
 “ That there should be more species of intelli 
 gent creatures above us, than there are of sensible 
 and material below us, is probable to me froir 
 hence: that in all the visible corporeal world we 
 see no chasms, or no gaps. All quite down from 
 us the descent is by easy steps, and a continued 
 series of things, that in each remove differ very 
 little one from the other. There are fishes that 
 have wings, and are not strangers to the airy re¬ 
 gion; and there are some birds that are inhabitants 
 of the water, whose blood is cold as fishes, and 
 their flesh so like in taste, that the scrupulous are 
 allowed them on fish-days. There are animals so 
 near of kin both to birds and beasts, that they are 
 the middle between both. Amphibious animals 
 link the terrestrial and aquatic together. Seals 
 live at land and at sea, and porpoises have the 
 warm blood and entrails of a hog; not to mention 
 what is confidently reported of mermaids, or sea¬ 
 men, there are some brutes that seem to have as 
 much knowledge and reason as some that are 
 called men; and the animal and vegetable king- 
 ! doms are so nearly joined, that if you will take 
 j the lowest of one, and the highest of the other, 
 
 I there will scarce be perceived any great difference 
 : between them: and so on, until we come to the 
 j lowest and the most inorganical parts of matter, 
 
 ; we shall find everywhere that the several species 
 are linked together, and differ but in almost in- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 616 
 
 sensible degrees. And, when we consider the i 
 infinite power and wisdom of the Maker, we have I 
 reason to think that it is suitable to the magnifi¬ 
 cent harmony of the universe, and the great de¬ 
 sign and infinite goodness of the Architect, that 
 the species of creatures should also by gentle de¬ 
 grees ascend upward from us toward his infinite 
 perfection, as we see they gradually descend from 
 us downward : which if it be probable, we have 
 reason then to be persuaded that there are far 
 more species of creatures above us than there are 
 beneath; we being in degrees of perfection much 
 more remote from the infinite being of God, than 
 we are from the lowest state of being, and that 
 which approaches nearest to nothing. And yet 
 of all those distinct species we have no clear dis¬ 
 tinct ideas.” 
 
 In this system of being, there is no creature so 
 wonderful in its nature, and which so much de¬ 
 serves our particular attention, as man, who fills 
 up the middle space between the animal and intel¬ 
 lectual nature, the visible and invisible world, 
 and is that link in the chain of beings which has 
 been often termed the nexus utriusque mundi. So 
 that he who, in one respect, is associated with 
 angels and archangels, may look upon a Being 
 of infinite perfection as his father, and the highest 
 order of spirits as his brethren, may, in another 
 respect, say to corruption, “ Thou art my father ; 
 and to the worm, Thou art my mother and my 
 sister.”—0. 
 
 Ho. 520.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1712. 
 
 Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus 
 
 Tam chari capitis.—H or. 1 Od. xxiv. 1. 
 
 And who can grieve too much? What time shall end 
 
 Our mourning for so dear a friend ?—Creech. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The just value you have expressed for the 
 matrimonial state is the reason that I now venture 
 to write to you, without the fear of being ridicu¬ 
 lous : and confess to you that though it is three 
 months since I lost a very agreeable woman, who 
 was my wife, my sorrow is still fresh; and I am 
 often, in the midst of company, upon any circum¬ 
 stance that revives her memory, with a reflection 
 what she should say or do on such an occasion : 
 I say, upon any occurrence of that nature, which 
 I can give you a sense of, though I cannot express 
 it wholly, I am all over softness, and am obliged 
 to retire and give way to a few sighs and tears be¬ 
 fore I can be easy. I cannot but recommend the 
 subject of male widowhood to you, and beg you to 
 touch upon it by the first opportunity. To those 
 who have not lived like husbands during the lives 
 of their spouses, this would be a tasteless jumble 
 of words; but to such (of whom there are not a 
 few) who have enjoyed that state with the senti¬ 
 ments proper for it, you will have every line, 
 which hits the sorrow, attended with a tear of 
 pity and consolation; for I know not by what 
 goodness of Providence it is that every gush of 
 passion is a step toward the relief of it; and there 
 is a certain comfort in the very act of sorrowing, 
 which, I suppose, arises from a secret conscious¬ 
 ness in the mind, that the affliction it is under 
 flows from a virtuous cause. My concern is not 
 indeed so outrageous as at the first transport; for 
 I think it has subsided rather into a soberer state 
 of mind than any actual perturbation of spirit. 
 There might be rules formed for men’s behavior 
 on this great incident to bring them from that 
 misfortune into the condition I am at present; 
 which is, I think, that my sorrow has converted 
 
 all roughness of temper into meekness, good na¬ 
 ture, and complacency. But indeed, when in a 
 serious and lonely hour I present my departed 
 consort to my imagination, with that air of per¬ 
 suasion in her countenance when I have been in 
 passion, that sweet affability when I have been in 
 good-humor, that tender compassion when I have 
 had anything which gave me uneasiness; I con¬ 
 fess to you I am inconsolable, and my eyes gush 
 with grief, as if I had seen her but just then ex¬ 
 pire. In this condition I am broken in upon by 
 a charming young woman, my daughter, who is 
 the picture of what her mother was on her wed¬ 
 ding day. The good girl strives to comfort me; 
 but how shall I let you know that all the comfort 
 she gives me is to make my tears flow more easily ? 
 The child knows she quickens my sorrows, and 
 rejoices my heart at the same time. Oh, ye learned ! 
 tell me by what word to speak a motion of the 
 soul for which there is no name. When she kneels, 
 and bids me be comforted, she is my child : when 
 I take her in my arms, and bid her say no more, 
 she is my very wife, and is the very comforter I 
 lament the loss of. I banish her the room, and 
 weep aloud that I have lost her mother, and that 
 I have her. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, I wish it were possible for you 
 to have a sense of these pleasing perplexities; you 
 might communicate to the guilty part of mankind 
 that they are incapable of the happiness which is 
 in the very sorrows of the virtuous. 
 
 “ But pray spare me a little longer; give me leave 
 to tell you the manner of her death. She took leave 
 of all her family, and bore the vain application 
 of medicines with the greatest patience imagina¬ 
 ble. When the physician told her she must cer¬ 
 tainly die, she desired as well as she could that 
 all who were present, except myself, might depart 
 the room. She said she had nothing to say, for 
 she was resigned, and I knew all she knew that 
 concerned us in this world; but she desired to be 
 alone, that in the presence of God only she might, 
 without interruption, do her last duty to me, of 
 thanking me for all my kindness to her: adding, 
 that she hoped in my last moments I should feel 
 the same comfort for my goodness to her, as she 
 did in that she had acquitted herself with honor, 
 truth, and virtue to me. 
 
 “ I curb myself, and will not tell you that this 
 kindness cut my heart in twain, when I expected 
 an accusation for some passionate starts of mine, 
 in some parts of our time together, to say nothing 
 but thank me for the good, if there was any good 
 suitable to her own excellence! All that I had 
 ever said to her, all the circumstances of sorrow 
 and joy between us, crowded upon my mind in 
 the same instant: and when, immediately after, I 
 saw the pangs of death come upon that dear body 
 which I had often embraced with transport; when 
 I saw those cherishing eyes begin to be ghastly, 
 and their last struggle to be to fix themselves on 
 me, how did I lose all patience! She expired in 
 my arms, and in my distraction I thought I saw 
 her bosom still heave. There was certainly life yet 
 still left. I cried, she just now spoke to me. But, 
 alas! I grew giddy, and all things moved about 
 me, from the distemper of my own head; for the 
 best of women was breathless and gone forever. 
 
 “Now the doctrine I would, methinks, have you 
 raise from this account 1 have given you is, that 
 there is a certain equanimity in those who are good 
 and just, which runs into their very sorrow, and 
 disappoints the force of it. Though they must 
 pass through afflictions in common with all who 
 are in human nature, yet their conscious integrity 
 shall undermine their affliction; nay, that very 
 affliction shall add force to their integrity, from a 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 reflection of the use of virtue in the hour of afflic¬ 
 tion. I sat down with a design to put you upon 
 giving us rules how to overcome such griefs as 
 these, but I should rather advise you to teach men 
 to be capable of them. 
 
 “ men of letters have what you call the fine 
 taste in your apprehensions of what is properly 
 done or said. 1 here is something like this deeply 
 grafted in the soul of him who is honest and faith- 
 tul m all lus thoughts and actions. Everything 
 which is false, vicious, or unworthy, is despicable 
 to him, though all the world should approve it. 
 At the same time he has the most lively sensibility 
 in all enjoyments and sufferings which it is proper 
 for him to have where any duty of life is con¬ 
 cerned. 1 o want sorrow wnen you in decency 
 and truth should be afflicted, is, I should think, a 
 greater instance of a man’s being a blockhead 
 than not to know the beauty of any passage in 
 V irgil. Y ou have not yet observed, Mr. Spectator, 
 that the fine gentlemen of this age set up for hard¬ 
 ness of heart; and humanity has very little share 
 in their pretenses. He is a brave fellow who is 
 always ready to kill a man he hates, but he does 
 not stand in the same degree of esteem who la¬ 
 ments for the woman he loves. I should fancv 
 you might work up a thousand pretty thoughts, 
 by reflecting upon the persons most susceptible of 
 the sort of sorrow I have spoken of; and I dare 
 say you will find upon examination that they are 
 the Avisest and the bravest of mankind who are 
 most capable of it. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 Norwich, 7° Octobris, 1712. “p\ J” 
 
 617 
 
 Ho. 521.] TUESDAY, OCTOBER 28, 1712. 
 
 Vera redit facies, dissimulata perit.— P. Arc. 
 
 The real face returns, the counterfeit is lost. 
 
 4 Mr. Spectator, 
 
 •'I have been for many years loud in this asser¬ 
 tion, that there are very few that can see or hear; 
 I mean, that can report what they have seen or 
 heard; and this through incapacity or prejudice, 
 one of which disables almost every man who talks 
 t° you from representing things as he ought. For 
 which reason I am come to a resolution of believ¬ 
 ing nothing I hear; and I contemn the man given 
 to narration under the appellation of ‘a matter-of 
 fact man and, according to me, a matter-of-fact 
 man is one whose life and conversation is spent in 
 the report of what is not matter-of-fact. 
 
 “I remember when Prince Eugene was here 
 there was no knowing his height or figure, until 
 you, Mr. Spectator, gave the public satisfaction in 
 that matter. In relations, the force of the expres¬ 
 sion lies very often more in the look, the tone of 
 voice or the gesture, than the words themselves* 
 which, being repeated in any other manner by the 
 undiscermng, bear a very different interpretation 
 from their original meaning. I must confess I 
 formerly have turned this humor of mine to very 
 good account; for whenever I heard any narration 
 uttered with extraordinary vehemence, and ground¬ 
 ed upon considerable authority, I was always ready 
 to lay any wager that it was not so. Indeed I 
 never pretended to be so rash as to fix the matter 
 any particular way in opposition to theirs; but as 
 there are a hundred ways of anything happening 
 beside that it lias happened, I only controverted 
 its falling out in that one manner as they settled 
 it, and left it to the ninety-nine other ways, and 
 consequently had more probability of success. I 
 had arrived at a particular skill in warming a man 
 so far in his narration as to make him throw in a 
 
 little of the marvelous, and then, if he has much 
 fire, the next degree is the impossible. How this 
 is always the time for fixing the wager. But this 
 requires the nicest management, otherwise very 
 probably the dispute may arise to the old determi¬ 
 nation by battle. In these conceits I have been 
 very fortunate, and have won some wagers of those 
 who have professedly valued themselves upon in¬ 
 telligence, and have put themselves to great charge 
 and expense to be misinformed considerably sooner 
 than the rest of the world. J 
 
 “Having got a comfortable sum by this my op¬ 
 position to public report, I have broughf myself 
 now to so great a perfection in inattention, more 
 especially to party relations, that at the same time 
 I seem with greedy ears to devour up the discourse, 
 I certainly do not know one word of it, but pursue 
 my own course of thought, whether upon business 
 oi amusement,with much tranquillity; I say inat¬ 
 tention because a late act of parliament* has se¬ 
 cured all party liars from the penalty of a wao-er 
 and consequently made it unprofitable to attend to 
 them However, good breeding obliges a man to 
 maintain the figure of the keenest attention, the 
 true posture of which in a coffee-house I take to 
 consist in leaning over a table with the edge of 
 it pressing hard upon your stomach : for the more 
 pain the narration is received with, the more gra- 
 cious is your bending over; beside that the nar¬ 
 rator thinks you forget your pain by the pleasure 
 of hearing him. 
 
 “Fort Knock has occasioned several very per¬ 
 plexed and inelegant heats and animosities; and 
 there w as one the other day, in a coffee-house where 
 I was, that took upon him to clear that business 
 to me, for he said he was there. I knew him to 
 be that sort of man that had not strength of ca¬ 
 pacity to be informed of anything that depended 
 merely upon his being an eye-witness, and there¬ 
 fore was fully satisfied he could give me no infor- 
 mation for the very same reason he believed he 
 could, for he was there. However, I heard him 
 with the same greediness as Shakspeare describes 
 in the following lines: 
 
 I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus 
 ith open mouth, swallowing a tailor’s news. 
 
 I confess of late I have not been so much 
 amazed at the declaimers in coffee-houses as I for¬ 
 merly was, being satisfied that they expect to be 
 rewarded for their vociferations. Of these liars 
 here are two sorts: the genius of the first consists 
 in much impudence, and a strong memory; the 
 others have added to these qualifications a good 
 understanding and smooth language. These therp- 
 fore, have only certain heads, which they ’are as 
 eloquent upon as they can, and may be called 
 embellishers;’ the others repeat only what they 
 hear from others as literally as their parts or zeal 
 will permit, and are called ‘reciters.’ Here was a 
 fellow in town some years ago, who used to divert 
 himself by telling a lie at Charing-cross in the 
 morning at eight o’clock, and then following it 
 through all parts of the town until eight at night* 
 at which time he came to a club of his friends' 
 and diverted them with an account what censure 
 it had at "Will s in Co vent-garden, how dangerous 
 it was believed to be at Child’s, and what inference 
 they drew from it with relation to stocks at Jona¬ 
 than s. I have had the honor to travel with this 
 gentleman I speak of in search of one of his false¬ 
 hoods; and have been present when they have de¬ 
 scribed the very man they have spoken to, as him 
 who first reported it, tall or short, black or fair, a 
 
 . * Stat. 7 Anne, cap. 17.—By it all wagers laid upon a con¬ 
 tingency relating to the war with France were declared to be 
 void. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 618 
 
 gentleman or a ragamuffin, according as they liked 
 the intelligence. I have heard one of our inge¬ 
 nious writers of news say, that, when he has had 
 a customer come with an advertisement of an ap¬ 
 prentice or a wife run away, he has desired the 
 advertiser to compose himself a little before he 
 dictated the description of the offender: for when 
 a person is put into a public paper by a man who 
 is angry with him, the real description of such 
 person is hid in the deformity with which the 
 angry man describes him; therefore, this fellow 
 always made his customers describe him as he 
 would the day before he offended, or else he was 
 sure he would never find him out. These and 
 many other hints I could suggest to you for the elu¬ 
 cidation of all fictions; but I leave it to your own 
 sagacity to improve or neglect this speculation. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your most obedient, 
 
 T. “Humble Servant/’ 
 
 No. 522.] WEDNESDAY, OCT. 29, 1712. 
 
 -Adjuro nunquam earn me deserturum; 
 
 Non, si capiundos mihi sciam esse inimicos omnes homines. 
 Hanc mihi expetivi, contigit, conveniunt mores: valeant, 
 
 Qui inter nos discidium volunt: hanc, nisi mors, mi adimet 
 nemo. Tee. Adr. act. iv. sc. 2. 
 
 I swear never to forsake her; no, though I were sure to make 
 
 all men my enemies. Her I desired; her I have obtained; 
 
 our humors agree. Perish all those who would separate 
 
 us ! Death alone shall deprive me of her! . 
 
 I should esteem myself a very happy man if my 
 speculations could in the least contribute to the 
 rectifying the conduct of my readers in one of the 
 most important affairs of life, to wit, their choice 
 in marriage. This state is the foundation of com¬ 
 munity, and the chief band of society; and I do 
 not think I can be too frequent on subjects which 
 may give light to my unmarried readers in a par¬ 
 ticular which is so essential to their following 
 happiness or misery. A virtuous disposition, a 
 good understanding, an agreeable person, and an 
 easy fortune, are the things which should be chiefly 
 regarded on this occasion. Because my present 
 view is to direct a young lady, who I think is now 
 in doubt whom to take of many lovers, I shall 
 talk at this time to my female readers. The ad¬ 
 vantages, as I was going to say, of sense, beauty, 
 and riches, are what are certainly the chief motives 
 to a prudent young woman of fortune for changing 
 her condition; but, as she is to have her eye upon 
 each of these, she is to ask herself, whether the 
 man who has most of these recommendations in 
 the lump is not the most desirable. He that has 
 excellent talents, with a moderate estate, and an 
 agreeable person, is preferable to him who is only 
 rich, if it were only that good faculties may pur¬ 
 chase riches, but riches cannot purchase worthy 
 endowments. I do not mean that wit, and a ca¬ 
 pacity to entertain, is what should be highly val¬ 
 ued, except it is founded on good nature and hu¬ 
 manity. There are many ingenious men, whose 
 abilities do little else but make themselves and 
 those about them uneasy. Such are those who are 
 far gone in the pleasures of the town, who cannot 
 support life without quick sensations and gay re¬ 
 flections, and are strangers to tranquillity, to right 
 reason, and a calm motion of spirits, without 
 transport or dejection. These ingenious men, of 
 all men living, are most to be avoided by her who 
 would be happy in a husband. They are imme¬ 
 diately sated with possession, and must neces¬ 
 sarily fly to new acquisitions of beauty to pass 
 away the wiling moments and intervals of life; 
 for with them every hour is heavy that is not joy¬ 
 ful. But there is a sort of man of wit and sense, 
 
 that can reflect upon his own make, and that of his 
 partner, with eyes of reason and honor, and who 
 believes he offends against both these, if he does 
 not look upon the woman who chose him to be 
 under his protection in sickness and health with 
 the utmost gratitude, whether from that moment 
 she is shining or defective in person or mind; I 
 say there are those who think themselves bound 
 to supply with good nature the failings of those 
 who love them, and who always think those the 
 objects of love and pity who came to their arms 
 the objects of joy and admiration. 
 
 Of this latter sort is Lysander, a man of wit, 
 learning, sobriety, and good nature; of birth and 
 estate below no woman to accept; and of whom it 
 might be said, should he succeed in his present 
 wishes, his mistress raised his fortune, but not 
 that she made it. When a woman is deliberating 
 with herself whom she shall choose of many near 
 each other in other pretensions, certainly he of 
 best understanding is to be preferred. Life hangs 
 heavily in the repeated conversation of one who 
 has no imagination to be fired at the several occa¬ 
 sions and objects which come before him, or who 
 cannot strike out of his reflections new paths of 
 pleasing discourse. Honest Will Thrash and his 
 wife, though not married above four months, have 
 scarce had a word to say to each other this six 
 weeks; and one cannot form to one’s self a sillier 
 picture than these two creatures, in solemn pomp 
 and plenty, unable to enjoy their fortunes, and at 
 a full stop among a crowd of servants, to whose 
 taste of life they are beholden for the little satis¬ 
 factions by which they can be understood to be so 
 much as barely in being. The hours of the day, 
 the distinctions of noon and night, dinner and 
 supper, are the greatest notices they are capable of. 
 This is perhaps representing the life of a very 
 modest women, joined to a dull fellow, more insi¬ 
 pid than it really deserves; but I am sure it is not 
 to exalt the commerce with an ingenious compa¬ 
 nion too high, to say that every new accident or 
 object, which comes into such a gentleman’s way, 
 gives his wife new pleasures and satisfactions. 
 The approbation of his words and actions is a 
 continual new feast to her; nor can she enough 
 applaud her good fortune in having her life varied 
 every hour, her mind more improved, and her heart 
 more glad, from every circumstance which they 
 meet with. He will lay out his invention in 
 forming new pleasures and amusements, and make 
 the fortune she has brought him subservient to the 
 honor and reputation of her and hers. A man of 
 sense, who is thus obliged, is ever contriving the 
 happiness of her who did him so great a distinc¬ 
 tion; while the fool is ungrateful without vice, and 
 never returns a favor because he is not sensible of 
 it. I would, methinks, have so much to say for 
 myself, that, if I fell into the hands of him who 
 treated me ill, he should be sensible when he did 
 so. His conscience should be of my side, what¬ 
 ever became of his inclination. I do not know 
 but it is the insipid choice which has been made 
 by those who have the care of young women, that 
 the marriage state itself lias been liable to so much 
 ridicule. But a well-chosen love, moved by pas¬ 
 sion on both sides, and perfected by the generosity 
 of one party, must be adorned with so many hand¬ 
 some incidents on the other side, that every partic¬ 
 ular couple would be an example in many circum¬ 
 stances to all the rest of the species. I shall end 
 the chat upon this subject with a couple of letters; 
 one from a lover, who is very well acquainted with 
 the way of bargaining on these occasions; and the 
 other from his rival, who has a less estate, but 
 great gallantry of temper. As for my man of 
 prudence he makes love, as he says, as if he were 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 already a father, and, laying aside the passion, 
 conies to the reason of the thing. 
 
 “Madam, 
 
 “My counsel has perused the inventory of your 
 estate, and considered what estate you have, which 
 it seems is only yours, and to the male heirs of 
 your body; but, in default of such issue, to the 
 right heirs of your uncle Edward forever. Thus, 
 Madam, I am advised you cannot (the remainder 
 not being in you) dock the entail; by which means 
 my estate, which is fee simple, will come by the 
 settlement proposed to your children begotten by 
 me, whether they are males or females; but my 
 children begotten upon you w 7 ill not inherit your 
 lands, except I beget a son. Now, Madam, since 
 things are so, you are a woman of that prudence, 
 and understand the world so well, as not to expect 
 I should give you more than you can give me. 
 
 “I am. Madam (with great respect), 
 
 “ Your most obedient humble Servant, 
 
 “T. W.” 
 
 The other lover’s estate is less than this gentle¬ 
 man’s, but he expressed himself as follows: 
 
 “Madam, 
 
 “I have given in my estate to your counsel, and 
 desired my own lawyer to insist upon no terms 
 which your friends can propose for your certain 
 ease and advantage; for indeed I have no notion of 
 making difficulties of presenting you with what 
 cannot make me happy without you. 
 
 “I am, Madam, 
 
 “Your most devoted humble Servant, 
 
 “B. T.” 
 
 \ ou must know the relations have met upon 
 this; and the girl being mightily taken with the 
 latter epistle, she is laughed at, and uncle Edward 
 is to be dealt with to make her a suitable match to 
 the worthy gentleman who has told her he does 
 not care a farthing for her. All I hope for is, that 
 the fair lady will make use of the first light night 
 to show B. T. she understands a marriage is not 
 to be considered as a common bargain.—T, 
 
 No. 523.] THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30,1712. 
 
 ---Nunc augur Apollo, 
 
 Nunc LycicE sortes, nunc et Jove missus ab ipso 
 Interpres divum fert horrida jussa per auras. 
 
 Scilicet is superis labor -Virg. ^En. iv. 376. 
 
 Now Lycian lots, and now the Delian god, 
 
 Now Hermes is employed from Jove’s abode, 
 
 To warn him hence, as if the peaceful state 
 Of heavenly powers were touch’d with human fate! 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 I am always highly delighted with the discovery 
 of any rising genius among my countrymen. For 
 this reason, I have read over, with great pleasure, 
 the. late miscellany published by Mr. Pope, in 
 which there are many excellent compositions’ of 
 that ingenious gentleman. I have had a pleasure 
 of the same kind in perusing a poem that is just 
 published, On the Prospect of Peace;* and which, 
 I hope, will meet with such a reward from its pat¬ 
 rons as so noble a performance deserves. I was 
 particularly well pleased to find that the author 
 had not amused himself with fables out of the 
 pagan theology, and that when he hints at any¬ 
 thing of this nature he alludes to it only as to a 
 fable. 
 
 Many of our modern authors, whose learning 
 very often extends no further than Ovid’s Meta¬ 
 morphoses, do not know how to celebrate a great 
 
 i *By Mr. Thomas Tickell. 
 
 619 
 
 man, without mixing a parcel of school-boy tales 
 " ^ 1 recital of his actions. If you read a 
 poem on a fine woman among the authors of this 
 class, you shall see that it turns more upon Venus 
 oi Helen than on the party concerned. I have 
 known a copy of verses on a great hero highly 
 commended; but upon asking to hear some of the 
 beautiful passages, the admirer of it has repeated 
 i 111 ^ a s P eec h Apollo, or a description of 
 olypheme. At other times, when 1 have searched 
 lor the actions of a great man, who gave a subject 
 to the writer, I have been entertained with the ex¬ 
 ploits of a river-god, or have been forced to attend 
 a b ury in her mischievous progress, from one end 
 ot the poem to the other. When we are at school 
 it is necessary for us to be acquainted with the 
 system of pagan theology; and we may be allowed 
 to enliven a theme, or point an epigram, with a 
 heathen god; but when we would write a manly 
 panegyric 7 that should carry in it all the colors of 
 truth, nothing can be more ridiculous than to have 
 recourse to our Jupiters and Junos. 
 
 No thought is beautiful which is not just; and 
 no thought can be just which is not founded in 
 truth, or at least in that which passes for such. 
 
 In mock heroic poems the use of tlie heathen 
 mythology is not only excusable, but graceful, be¬ 
 cause it is the design of such compositions to 
 divert by adapting the fabulous machines of the 
 ancients to low subjects, and at the same time by 
 ridiculing such kinds of machinery in modern 
 writers. If any are of opinion that there is a 
 necessity of admitting these classical legends into 
 our serious compositions, in order to give them a 
 more poetical turn, I would recommend to their 
 consideration the pastorals of Mr. Phillips. One 
 would have thought it impossible for this kind of 
 poetry to have subsisted without fawns and satyrs, 
 wood-nymphs, and water-nymphs, with all the 
 tribe of ruial deities. But we see he has given, a 
 new life and a more natural beauty to this way of 
 writing, by substituting in the place of these anti¬ 
 quated fables the superstitious mythology which 
 prevails among the shepherds of our own country. 
 
 Virgil and Homer might compliment their he¬ 
 roes, by interweaving the actions of deities with 
 their achievements; but for a Christian author to 
 write in the pagan creed, to make Prince Eugene a 
 favorite of Mars, or to carry cff¥*-a correspondence 
 between Bellona and the Marshal de Villars, would ♦ 
 be down-right puerility, and unpardonable in a 
 poet that is past sixteen. It is want of sufficient 
 elevation in a genius to describe realities, and place 
 them in a shining light, that makes him have re¬ 
 course to such trifling antiquated fables; as a man 
 may write a fine description of Bacchus or Apollo, 
 that does not know how to draw the character of 
 any of his cotemporaries. 
 
 In order therefore to put a stop to this absurd 
 practice, I shall publish the following edict, by 
 virtue.of that spectatorial authority with which I 
 stand invested. 
 
 “Whereas the time of a general peace is, in all 
 appearance, drawing near, being informed that 
 there are several ingenious persons who intend to 
 show their talents on so happy an occasion; and 
 being willing, as much as in me lies, to prevent 
 that effusion of nonsense which we have, good 
 cause to apprehend; I do hereby strictly require 
 every person who shall write on this subject, to 
 remember that he is a Christian, and not to sacri¬ 
 fice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I 
 do expect of him in the first place to make his 
 own poem, without depending upon Phoebus for 
 any part of it, or calling out for aid upon any one 
 of the Muses by name. I do likewise positively 
 forbid the sending of Mercury with any particular 
 
620 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 message or dispatcli relating to the peace, and shall 
 by no means suffer Minerva to take upon her the 
 shape of any plenipotentiary concerned in this 
 great work. 1 do further declare, that I shall not 
 allow the Destinies to have had a hand in the 
 deaths of the several thousands who have been 
 slain in the late war, being of opinion that all 
 such deaths may be very well accounted for by the 
 Christian system of powder and ball. 1 do there¬ 
 fore strictly forbid the Fates to cut the thread of 
 man’s life upon any pretense whatsoever, unless 
 it be for the sake of the rhyme. And whereas I 
 have good reason to fear that Neptune will have a 
 great deal of business on his hands, in several 
 poems which we may now suppose are upon the 
 anvil, I do also prohibit his appearance, unless it 
 be done in metaphor, simile, or any very short 
 allusion; and that even here he be not permitted 
 to enter but with great caution and circumspection. 
 I desire that the same rule may be extended to his 
 whole fraternity of heathen gods; it being my de¬ 
 sign to condemn every poem to the flames in which 
 Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of au¬ 
 thority which does not belong to him; in short, I 
 expect that no pagan agent shall be introduced, or 
 any fact related, which a man cannot give credit 
 to with a good conscience. Provided always, that 
 nothing herein contained shall extend, or be con¬ 
 strued to extend, to several of the female poets in 
 this nation, who shall be still left in full possession 
 of their gods and goddesses, in the same manner 
 as if this paper had never been written.” 0. 
 
 No. 524.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1712. 
 
 Nos populo damus- Sen. 
 
 As the world leads, we follow. 
 
 "When I first of all took it into my head to write 
 dreams and visions, I determined to print nothing 
 of that nature which was not of my own inven¬ 
 tion. But several laborious dreamers have of late 
 communicated to me works of this nature, which, 
 for their reputations and mv own, I have hitherto 
 suppressed. Had I printed every one that came 
 to my hands, my book of speculations would have 
 been little else but a book of visions. Some of my 
 correspondents have indeed been so very modest 
 as to offer an excuse for their not being in a capa¬ 
 city to dream better. I have by me, for example, 
 the dream of a young gentleman not past fifteen; 
 I have likewise by me the dream of a person of qual¬ 
 ity, and another called The Lady’s Dream. In 
 these, and other pieces of the same nature, it is 
 supposed the usual allowances will be made to the 
 age, condition, and sex, of the dreamer. To pre¬ 
 vent this inundation of dreams, which daily flows 
 in upon me, I shall apply to all dreamers of dreams 
 the advice which Epictetus has couched after this 
 manner, in a very simple and concise precept. 
 “Never tell thy dreams,” says that philosopher; 
 “ for though thou thyself mayest take a pleasure 
 in telling thy dream, another will take no pleasure 
 in hearing it.” After this short preface, I must 
 do justice to two or three visions which I have 
 lately published, and which I have owned to have 
 been written by other hands. I shall add a dream 
 to these which comes to me from Scotland, by one 
 who declares himself of that country, and, for all 
 I know, may be second-sighted. There is, indeed, 
 something in it of the spirit of John Bunyan; but 
 at the same time a certain sublime which that au¬ 
 thor was never master of. I shall publish it, be¬ 
 cause I question not but it will fall in with the 
 taste of all my popular readers, and amuse the 
 imaginations of those who are more profound; de- 
 
 0TATOR. 
 
 daring, at the same time, that, this is the last 
 dream which I intend to publish this season. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I was last Sunday in the evening led into a 
 serious reflection on the reasonableness of virtue, 
 and great folly of vice, from an excellent sermon 
 I had heard that afternoon in my parish church. 
 Among other observations the preacher showed us, 
 that the temptations which the tempter proposed 
 were all on a supposition that we are either mad¬ 
 men or fools, or with an intention to render us 
 such; that in no other affair we would suffer our¬ 
 selves to be thus imposed upon, in a case so plainly 
 and clearly against our visible interest. His illus¬ 
 trations and arguments carried so much persua¬ 
 sion and conviction with them, that they remained 
 a considerable while fresh, and working in my 
 memory; until at last the mind, fatigued with 
 thought, gave way to the forcible oppressions of 
 slumber and sleep; while fancy, unwilling yet to 
 drop the subject, presented me with the following 
 vision: 
 
 “Methought I was just awoke out of a sleep 
 that I could never remember the beginning of; the 
 place where I found myself to be was a wide and 
 spacious plain, full of people that wandered up 
 and down through several beaten paths, whereof 
 some few were straight, and in direct lines, but 
 most of them winding and turning like a laby¬ 
 rinth; but yet it appeared to me afterward that 
 these last all met in one issue, so that many that 
 seemed to steer quite contrary courses, did at length 
 meet and face one another, to the no little amaze¬ 
 ment of many of them. 
 
 “In the midst of the plain there was a great 
 fountain; they called it the spring of Self-love: 
 out of it issued two rivulets to the eastward and 
 westward: the name of the first was Heavenly- 
 Wisdom; its water was wonderfully clear, but of 
 a yet more wonderful effect: the other’s name was 
 Worldly-Wisdom; its water was thick, and yet 
 far from being dormant or stagnating, for it was 
 in a continual violent agitation; which kept the 
 travelers, whom I shall mention by-and-by, from 
 being sensible of the foulness ana thickness of 
 the water; which had this effect, that it intoxi¬ 
 cated those who drank it, and made them mistake 
 every object that lay before them. Both nvulets 
 were parted near their springs into so many others, 
 as there were straight and crooked paths, which 
 they attended all along to their respective issues. 
 
 “ I observed from the several paths many now 
 and then diverting, to refresh and otherwise qualify 
 themselves for their journey, to the respective riv¬ 
 ulets that ran near them: they contracted a very 
 observable courage and steadiness in what they 
 were about by drinking these waters. At the end 
 of the perspective of every straight path, all which 
 did end in one issue and point, appeared a high 
 pillar, all of diamond, casting rays as bright as 
 those of the sun into the paths; which rays had 
 also certain sympathizing and alluring virtues in 
 them, so that whosoever had made some consider¬ 
 able progress in his journey onward toward the 
 pillar, by the repeated impressions of these rays 
 upon him, was wrought into an habitual inclina¬ 
 tion and conversion of his sight toward it, so that 
 it grew at last in a manner natural to him to look 
 and gaze upon it, whereby he was kept steady in 
 the straight paths, which alone led to that radiant 
 body, the beholding of which was now grown a 
 gratification to his nature. 
 
 “ At the issue of the crooked paths there was a 
 great black tower, out of the center of which 
 streamed a long succession of flames, which did 
 rise even above the clouds; it gave a very great 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 light to the whole plain, which dicl sometimes 
 outshine the light, and oppressed the beams, of 
 the adamantine pillar; though by the observation 
 I made afterward, it appeared that it was not from 
 any diminution of light, but that this lay in the 
 travelers, who would sometimes step out of the 
 straight paths, where they lost the full prospect 
 of the radiant pillar, and saw it but sideways: 
 but the great light from the black tower, which 
 was somewhat particularly scorching to them, 
 would generally light and hasten them to their 
 proper climate again. 
 
 “ Round about the black tower there were, me- 
 thought, many thousands of huge, misshapen, 
 ugly monsters; these had great nets, which they 
 were perpetually plying and casting toward the 
 crooked paths, and they would now and then 
 catch up those that were nearest to them; these 
 they took up straight, and whirled over the walls 
 into the flaming tower, and they were no more 
 seen nor heard of. 
 
 “ They would sometimes cast their nets toward 
 the right paths to catch the stragglers, whose eyes, 
 for want of frequent drinking at the brook that 
 ran by them, grew dim, whereby they lost their 
 way: these would sometimes very narrowly miss 
 being catched away, but I could not hear whether 
 any of these had ever been so unfortunate, that 
 had been before very hearty in the straight paths. 
 
 “ I considered all these strange sights with great 
 attention, until at last I was interrupted by a clus- ' 
 ter of the travelers in the crooked paths, who came 
 up to me, bid me go along with them, and pres¬ 
 ently fell to singing and dancing: they took me by 
 the hand, and so carried me away along with 
 them. After I had followed them a considerable 
 while, I perceived I had lost the black tower of 
 light, at which I greatly wondered; but as I looked 
 and gazed round about me, and saw nothing, I 
 began to fancy my first vision had been but a 
 dream, and there was no such thing in reality; 
 but then I considered that if I could fancy to see’ 
 what was not, I might as well have an illusion 
 wrought on me at present, and not see what was 
 really before me. I was very much confirmed in 
 this thought, by the effect I then just observed the 
 water of Worldly-Wisdom had upon me; for as I 
 had drank a little of it again, I felt a very sensi¬ 
 ble effect in my head: methought it distracted and 
 disordered all there; this made me stop of a sud¬ 
 den, suspecting some charm or enchantment. As 
 I was casting about within myself what I should 
 do, and whom to apply to in this case, I spied at 
 some distance off me a man beckoning, and making 
 signs to me to come over to him. I cried to him, 
 
 I did not know the way. He then called to me 
 audibly, to step at least out of the path I was in; 
 for if I stayed there any longer I was in danger 
 to be catched in a great net that was just hanging 
 over me, and'Yeady to catch me up; that he won- 
 dered I was so blind, or so distracted, as not to 
 see so imminent and visible a danger; assuring me, 
 that as soon as I was out of that way, he would 
 come to me to lead me into a more secure path. 
 This I did, and he brought me his palm full of 
 Jhe water of Heavenly-Wisdom, which was of 
 very great use to me, for my eyes were straight 
 cleared, and I saw the great black tower just be¬ 
 fore me: but the great net which I spied so near 
 me cast me in such a terror, that I ran back as far 
 as I could in one breath, without looking behind 
 me. Then my benefactor thus bespoke me: ‘ You 
 have made the wonderfulest escape in the world; 
 the water you used to drink is of a bewitching 
 nature, you would else have been mightily shocked 
 at the deformities and meanness of the place; for 
 beside the set of blind fools in whose company 
 
 621 
 
 you were, you may now behold many others who 
 are only bewitched after another no less dangerous 
 manner. Look a little that way, there goes a 
 crowd of' passengers; they have indeed so good a 
 head as not to suffer themselves to be blinded by 
 this bewitching water; the black tower is not van- 
 ished out of their sight, they see it whenever they 
 look up to it: but see how they go sideways, and 
 with their eyes downward, as if they were mad, 
 that they may thus rush into the net, without 
 being beforehand troubled at the thought of so 
 miserable a destruction. Their wills are so per¬ 
 verse and their hearts so fond of the pleasures of 
 the place, that rather than forego them they will 
 inn all hazards, and venture upon all the miseries 
 and woes before them. 
 
 “ ‘See there that other company; though they 
 should drink none of the bewitching water, yet 
 they take a course bewitching and deluding. See 
 how they choose the crookedest paths, whereby 
 they have often the black tower behind them, and 
 sometimes seethe radiant column sideways, which 
 gives them some weak glimpse of it! These fools 
 content themselves with that, not knowing whether 
 any other have any more of its influence and light 
 than themselves; this road is called that of Super¬ 
 stition, or Human Invention: they grossly over¬ 
 look that which the rules and laws of the place 
 prescribe to them, and contrive some other scheme, 
 and set of directions and prescriptions for them¬ 
 selves, which they hope will serve their turn.’ 
 He showed me many other kind of fools, which 
 put me quite out of humor with the place. At 
 last he carried me to the right paths, where I 
 found true and solid pleasure, which entertained 
 me all the way, until we came in closer sight of 
 the pillar, where the satisfaction increased to that 
 measure, that my faculties were not able to con¬ 
 tain it: in the straining of them I was violently 
 waked, not a little grieved at the vanishing of so 
 pleasing a dream. 
 
 “Glasgow, Sept. 29.” 
 
 No. 525.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1712. 
 
 That love alone, which virtue’s laws control, 
 Deserves reception in the human soul. 
 
 It is my custom to take frequent opportunities 
 of inquiring from time to time what success my 
 speculations meet with in the town. I am glad 
 to find, in particular, that my discourses on mar¬ 
 riage have been well received. A friend of mine 
 gives me to understand, from Doctors’ Commons, 
 that more licenses have been taken out there of 
 late than usual. I am likewise informed of several 
 pretty fellows, who have resolved to commence 
 heads of families by the first favorable opportu¬ 
 nity. One of them writes me word that he is ready 
 ;o enter into the bond of matrimony, provided I will 
 give it him under my hand (as I now do), that a 
 man may show his face in good company after he 
 is married, and that he need not be ashamed to 
 treat a woman with kindness who puts herself 
 into his power for life. 
 
 I have other letters on this subject, which say 
 that I am attempting to make a revolution in the 
 world of gallantry, and that the consequence of it 
 will be that a great deal of the sprightliest wit 
 and satire of the last age will be lost; that a bash¬ 
 ful fellow upon changing his condition, will be 
 no longer puzzled how to stand the raillery of his 
 facetious companions; that he need not own he 
 married only to plunder an heiress of her fortune, 
 nor pretend that he uses her ill, to avoid the 
 ridiculous name of a fond husband. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 622 
 
 Indeed, if I may speak my opinion of great 
 part of the writings which once prevailed among 
 us under the notion of humor, they are such as 
 would tempt one to think there had been an asso¬ 
 ciation among the wits of those times to rally 
 legitimacy out of our island. A state of wedlock 
 was the common mark of all the adventurers in a 
 farce or comedy, as well as the essayers in lam¬ 
 poon and satire, to shoot at; and nothing was a 
 more standing jest, in all clubs of fashionable 
 mirth and gay conversation. It was determined 
 among those airy critics, that the appellation of a 
 sober man should signify a spiritless fellow. And 
 I am apt to think it was about the same time that 
 good-nature, a word so peculiarly elegant in our 
 language, that some have affirmed it cannot well 
 be expressed in any other, came first to be ren¬ 
 dered suspicious, and in danger of being trans¬ 
 ferred from its original sense to so distant an idea 
 as that of folly. 
 
 I must confess it has been my ambition, in the 
 course of my writings, to restore, as well as I was 
 able, the proper ideas of things. And as I have 
 attempted this already on the subject of marriage 
 in several papers, I shall here add some further 
 observations which occur to me on the same head. 
 
 Nothing seems to be thought, by our fine gen¬ 
 tlemen, so indispensable an ornament in fashion¬ 
 able life, as love. “A knight-errant,” says Don 
 Quixote, “without a mistress, is like a tree with¬ 
 out leaves;” and a man of mode among us, who 
 has not some fair one to sigh for, might as well 
 pretend to appear dressed without his periwig. 
 We have lovers in prose innumerable. All our 
 pretenders to rhyme are professed inamoratos; 
 and there is scarce a poet, good or bad, to be 
 heard of, who has not some real or supposed Sac- 
 charissa to improve his vein. 
 
 If love be any refinement, conjugal love must 
 be certainly so in a much higher degree. There 
 is no comparison between the frivolous affectations 
 of attracting the eyes of women with whom you 
 are only captivated by way of amusement, and of 
 whom perhaps you know nothing more than their 
 features, and a regular and uniform endeavor to 
 make yourself valuable, both as a friend and lover, 
 to one whom you have chosen to be the companion 
 of your life. The first is a spring of a thousand 
 fopperies, silly artifices, falsehoods, and perhaps 
 barbarities, or at best rises no higher than to a 
 kind of dancing-school breeding, to give the per¬ 
 son a more sparkling air. The latter is the parent 
 of substantial virtues and agreeable qualities, and 
 cultivates the mind while it improves the behavior. 
 The passion of love to a mistress, even where it is 
 most sincere, resembles too much the flame of a 
 fever: that to a wife is like the vital heat. 
 
 I have often thought, if the letters written by 
 men of good-nature to their wives were to be com¬ 
 pared with those written by men of gallantry to 
 their mistresses, the. former, notwithstanding any 
 inequality of style, would appear to have the ad¬ 
 vantage. Friendship, tenderness, and constancy, 
 dressed in a simplicity of expression, recommend 
 themselves by a more native elegance, than pas¬ 
 sionate raptures, extravagant encomiums, and 
 slavish adoration. If -we were admitted to search 
 the cabinet of the beautiful Narcissa, among heaps 
 of epistles from several admirers, which are there 
 preserved with equal care, how few should we 
 find but would make any one sick in the reading, 
 except her who is flattered by them? But in how 
 different a style must the wise Benevolus, who 
 converses with that good sense and good-humor 
 among all his friends, write to a wife wdio is the 
 ■worthy object of his utmost affection ? Benevolus, 
 both in public and private, and all occasions of 
 
 life, appears to have every good quality and desir 
 able ornament. Abroad, he is reverenced and es¬ 
 teemed; at home, beloved and happy. The satis¬ 
 faction he enjoj's there settles into an habitual 
 complacency, which shines in his countenance, 
 enlivens his wit, and seasons his conversation. 
 Even those of his acquaintance, who have never 
 seen him in his retirement, are sharers in the hap- 
 iness of it; and it is very much owing to his 
 eing the best, and best beloved of husbands, that 
 he is the most steadfast of friends, and the most 
 agreeable of companions. 
 
 There is a sensible pleasure in contemplating 
 such beautiful instances of domestic life. The 
 happiness of the conjugal state appears heightened 
 to the highest degree it is capable of when we see 
 tv r o persons of accomplished minds not only united 
 in the same interests and affections, but in their 
 taste of the same improvements, pleasures, and 
 diversions. Pliny, one of the finest gentlemen 
 and politest writers of the age in which he lived, 
 has left us, in his letter to Hispulla, his wife’s 
 aunt, one of the most agreeable family pieces of 
 this kind I have ever met with. I shall end this 
 discourse with a translation of it; and I believe 
 the reader will be of my opinion, that conjugal 
 love is drawn in it with a delicacy which makes 
 it appear to be, as 1 have represented it, an orna¬ 
 ment as well as a virtue. 
 
 “ PLINY TO HISPULLA. 
 
 “ As I remember that great affection which was 
 between you and your excellent brother, and know 
 you love his daughter as your own, so as not only 
 to express the tenderness of the best of aunts, but 
 even to supply that of the best of fathers; I am 
 sure it Avill be a pleasure to you to hear that she 
 proves worthy of her father, worthy of you, and 
 of your and her ancestors. Her ingenuity is ad¬ 
 mirable; her frugality extraordinary. She loves 
 me, the surest pledge of her virtue; and adds to 
 this a wonderful disposition to learning, which 
 she has acquired from her affection to me. She 
 reads my writings, studies them, and even gets 
 them by heart. You would smile to see the con¬ 
 cern she is in when I have a cause to plead, and 
 the joy she shows when it is over. She finds 
 means to have the first news brought her of the 
 success I meet with in court, how I am heard, and 
 what decree is made. If I recite anything in pub¬ 
 lic, she cannot refrain from placing herself pri¬ 
 vately in some corner to hear, where with the 
 utmost delight, she feasts on my applauses. Some¬ 
 times she sings my verses, and accompanies them 
 with the lute, without any master except love, the 
 best of instructors. From these instances, I take 
 the most certain omens of our perpetual and in¬ 
 creasing happiness; since her affection is not 
 founded on my youth and person, which must 
 gradually decay, but she is in love with the im¬ 
 mortal part of me, my glory and reputation. Nor 
 indeed could less be expected from one who had 
 the happiness to receive her education from you, 
 who in your house was accustomed to everything 
 that was virtuous and decent, and even began to 
 love me by your recommendation. For, as you 
 had always the greatest respect for my mother, 
 you were pleased from my infancy to form me, to 
 commend me, and kindly to presage I should be 
 one day what my wife fancies I am. Accept, 
 therefore, our united thanks : mine, that you have 
 bestowed her on me ; and hers, that you have 
 given me to her, as a mutual grant of joy and 
 felicity.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 623 
 
 No. 526.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1712. 
 
 -Fortius utere loris.— Ovid. Met. ii. 127. 
 
 Keep a stiff reign.—A ddison. 
 
 I am very loth to come to extremities with the 
 young gentlemen mentioned in the following let¬ 
 ter, and do not care to chastise them with my own 
 hand, until I am forced by provocations too great 
 to be suffered without the absolute destruction of 
 my spectatorial dignity. The crimes of these 
 offenders aie placed under the observation of one 
 of my chief officers who is posted just at the en¬ 
 trance of the pass between London and Westmin¬ 
 ster. As 1 have great confidence in the capacity, 
 resolution, and integrity, of the person deputed by 
 me to give an account of enormities, I doubt not 
 but I shall soon have before me all proper notices 
 which are requisite for the amendment of man¬ 
 ners in public, and the instruction of each indi¬ 
 vidual of the human species in what is due from 
 him in respect to the whole body of mankind. 
 The present paper shall consist only of the above- 
 mentioned letter, and the copy of a deputation 
 which I have given to my trusty friend, Mr. John 
 Sly; wherein he is charged to notify to me all 
 that is necessary for my animadversion upon the 
 delinquents mentioned by my correspondent, as 
 well as all others described in the said deputation. 
 
 “TO THE SPECTATOR-GENERAL OF GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 “I grant it does look a little familiar, but I 
 must call you 
 
 “Dear Dumb, 
 
 “ Being got again to the further end of the Wi¬ 
 dow’s coffee-house, I shall from hence give you 
 some account of the behavior of our hackney- 
 coachman since my last. Those indefatigable gen¬ 
 tlemen, without the least design, I dare say, of 
 self-interest or advantage to themselves, do still 
 ply as volunteers day and night for the good of 
 their country. I will not trouble you with enu¬ 
 merating many particulars, but I must by no 
 means omit to inform you of an infant about six 
 foot* high, and between twenty and thirty years 
 of age, who was seen in the arms of a hackney- 
 coachman, driving by Will’s coffee-house in Co- 
 yent-Garden, between the hours of four and five 
 in the afternoon of that very day wherein you pub¬ 
 lished a memorial against them. This impudent 
 young cur, though he could not sit inf a coach¬ 
 box without holding, yet would he venture his 
 neck to bid defiance to your spectatorial authority, 
 or to anything you countenanced. Who he was I 
 kno^\ not, but I heard this relation this morning 
 from a gentleman who was an eye-witness of this 
 his impudence; and I was willing to take the first 
 opportunity to inform you of him, as holding it 
 extremely requisite that you should nip him in 
 the bud. But I am myself most concerned for my 
 fellow-templars, fellow-students, and fellow-labor¬ 
 ers in the law, I mean such of them as are digni¬ 
 fied and distinguished under the denomination of 
 hackney-coachmen. Such aspiring minds have 
 these ambitious young men, that they cannot en¬ 
 joy themselves out$ of a coach-box. It is, how- 
 evei, an unspeakable comfort to me that I can now 
 tell you that some of them are grown so bashful 
 as to study only in the night-time or in the coun¬ 
 try. The other night I spied one of our youn°- 
 gentlemen very diligent at his lucubrations in 
 Fleet street; and by the way, I should be under 
 some concern lest this hard student should one 
 time or other crack his brain with studying, but 
 that I am in hopes nature has taken care to fortify 
 
 him in proportion to the undertakings he was de¬ 
 signed for. Another of my fellow-templars on 
 T hursday last was getting up into his study at 
 tiie bottom of Gray’s-inn-lane, in order, I suppose 
 to contemplate in the fresh air. Now, Sir, my re¬ 
 quest is, that the great modesty of these two gen¬ 
 tlemen may be recorded as a pattern to the rest, 
 and if you would but give them two or three 
 touches with your own pen, though you might not 
 perhaps prevail with them to desist entirely from 
 their meditations, yet I doubt not but you would 
 at least preserve them from being public specta¬ 
 cles of folly in our streets. I say, two or three 
 touches with your own pen; for I have really ob- 
 served, Mr. Spec., that those Spectators which are 
 so prettily laced down the sides with little c’s, 
 how instructive soever they may be, do not carry 
 with them that authority as the others. I do 
 again, therefore, desire, that, for the sake of their 
 dear necks, you would bestow one penful of your 
 own ink upon them. I know you are loth to ex¬ 
 pose them; and it is, I must confess, a thousand 
 pities that any young gentleman, who is come of 
 honest persons, should be brought to public shame. 
 And indeed I should be glad to have them han- 
 died a little tenderly at the first; but if fair means 
 will not prevail, there is then no other way to re¬ 
 claim them but by making use of some wholesome 
 severities; and I think it is better that a dozen or 
 two of such good-for-nothing fellows should be 
 made examples of, than that the reputation of some 
 hundreds of as hopeful young gentlemen as my¬ 
 self should suffer through their folly. It is not, 
 however, for me to direct you what to do; but, in 
 short, if our coachmen will drive on this trade, 
 the very first of them that I do find meditating in 
 the street, I shall make bold to ‘take the number 
 of his chambers,’* together with a note of his 
 name, and dispatch them to you, that you may 
 chastise him at your own discretion. 
 
 “ I am, dear Spec., forever yours, 
 
 “ Moses Greenbag, 
 
 “Esq., if you please. 
 
 “P. S. Tom Hammercloth, one of our coach¬ 
 men, is now pleading at the bar at the other end 
 of the loom, but has a little too much vehemence, 
 and throws out his arms too much to take his au¬ 
 dience with a good grace.” 
 
 T° my loving and well-beloved John Sly, haberdasher 
 o f hats, and tobacconist, between the cities of Lon¬ 
 don and Westminster. 
 
 . Whereas frequent disorders, affronts, indigni¬ 
 ties, omissions, and trespasses, for which there are 
 no remedies by any form of law, but which ap¬ 
 parently disturb and disquiet the minds of men, 
 happen near the place of your residence; and that 
 you are, as well by your commodious situation, 
 as the good parts with whicli you are endowed, 
 properly qualified for the observation of the said* 
 offenses; I do hereby authorize and depute you, 
 from the hours of nine in the morning until four 
 in the afternoon, to keep a strict eye upon all 
 persons and things that are conveyed in coaches, 
 cat>ied in carts, or walk on foot from the city of 
 London to the city of Westminster, or from the 
 city of Westminster to the city of London, within 
 the said hours. You are, therefore not to depart 
 from your observatory at the end of Devereux- 
 court during the said space of each day, but to ob¬ 
 serve the behavior of all persons who are suddenly 
 transported from stamping on pebbles to sit at ease 
 in chariots, what notice they take of their foot ac¬ 
 quaintance, and send me the speediest advice, 
 
 * Feet, f Intended, it seems, for on. J See preceding note. 
 
 * An allusion to the usual and prudent precaution of ta¬ 
 king the number of a hackney-coach before entrance. 
 
024 THE SPE < 
 
 when they are guilty of overlooking, turning from, 
 or appearing grave and distant to, their old friends. 
 When man'and wife are in the same coach, you 
 are to see whether they appear pleased or tired 
 with each other, and whether they carry the due 
 mean in the eye of the world, between fondness 
 and coldness. You are carefully to behold all 
 such as shall have addition of honor or riches, 
 and report whether they preserve the countenance 
 they had before such addition. As to persons on 
 foot, you are to be attentive whether they are 
 pleased with their condition, and are dressed suit¬ 
 able to it; but especially to distinguish such as 
 appear discreet, by a low-heel shoe, with the de¬ 
 cent ornament of a leather garter ;* to write down 
 the names of such country gentlemen as, upon the 
 approach of peace, have left the hunting for the 
 military cock of the hat; of all who strut, make a 
 noise, and swear at the drivers of coaches to make 
 haste, w T hen they see it is impossible they should 
 pass; of all young gentlemen in coach-boxes, who 
 labor at a perfection in what they are sure to be 
 excelled by the meanest of the people. You are 
 to do all that in you lies that coaches and passen¬ 
 gers give way according to the course of business, 
 all the morning in term-time toward Westminster, 
 the rest of the year toward the Exchange. Upon 
 these directions, together with other secret articles 
 herein inclosed, you are to govern yourself, and 
 give advertisement thereof to me, at all conveni¬ 
 ent and spectatorial hours, when men of business 
 are to be seen. Hereof you are not to fail. Given 
 under my seal of office. 
 
 T. The Spectator. 
 
 Ho. 527.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1712. 
 
 Facile invenies et pejorem, et pejus moratam; 
 
 Meliorem Deque tu reperies, ncque sol videt. 
 
 Plautus in Stiolior. 
 
 You will easily find a worse woman; a better the sun never 
 shone upon. 
 
 I am so tender of my women-readers, that T can¬ 
 not defer the publication of anything which con¬ 
 cerns their happiness or quiet. The repose of a 
 married woman is consulted in the first of the 
 following letters, and the felicity of a maiden lady 
 in the second. I call it a felicity to have the ad¬ 
 dresses of an agreeable man. And I think I have 
 not anywhere seen a prettier application of a po¬ 
 etical story than that of his, in making the tale of 
 Cephalus and Procris the history picture of a fan 
 in so gallant a manner as he addresses it. But 
 see the letters :— 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ It is now almost three months since I was in 
 town about some business; and the hurry of it 
 being over, I took coach one afternoon, and drove 
 to see a relation, who married about six years ago 
 a wealthy citizen. I found her at home, but her 
 husband gone to the Exchange, and expected back 
 within an hour at the furthest. After the usual 
 salutations of kindness, and a hundred questions 
 about friends in the country, we sat down to piquet, 
 played two or three games, and drank tea. I 
 should have told you that this was my second 
 time of seeing her since her marriage; but before, 
 she lived at the same town where I went to school; 
 so that the plea of a relation, added to the inno¬ 
 
 * It has been said that there is an allusion here to a very 
 worthy gentleman of fortune, bred to the law, who had cham¬ 
 bers in Lincoln’s-inn. His name was Richard Warner, the 
 younger son of a banker, who, though he always wore leather 
 garters, in no other instance affected singularity. For a more 
 particular account of him, see Anecdotes of W. Bowyer, 4to, 
 p. 409. 
 
 IT ATOR. 
 
 cence of my youth, prevailed upon her good hu¬ 
 mor to indulge me in a freedom of conversation, 
 as often, and oftener, than the strict discipline of 
 the school would allow of. You may easily imag¬ 
 ine, after such an acquaintance, we might be ex¬ 
 ceeding merry without any offense, as in calling 
 to mind how many inventions I have been put to 
 in deluding the master; how many hands forged 
 for excuses, how many times been sick in perfect 
 health; for I was then never sick but at school, 
 and only then because out of her company. We 
 had wiled away three hours after this manner, 
 when I found it past five; and, not expecting her 
 husband w r ould return until late, rose up and told 
 her I should go early next morning for the coun¬ 
 try. She kindly answered she was afraid it would 
 be long before she saw me again; so I took my 
 leave, and parted. How, Sir, I had not been got 
 home a fortnight, when I received a letter from a 
 neighbor of theirs, that ever since that fatal after¬ 
 noon the lady had been most inhumanly treated, 
 and the husband publicly stormed that he was 
 made a member of too numerous a society. He 
 had, it seems, listened most of the time my cousin 
 and I were together. As jealous ears always hear 
 double, so he heard enough to make him mad; 
 and as jealous eyes always see through magnifying 
 glasses, so he was certain it could not be I whom 
 he had seen, a beardless stripling, but fancied he 
 saw a gay gentleman of the Temple, ten years 
 older than myself; and for that reason, I presume, 
 durst not come in, nor take any notice when I 
 went out. He is perpetually asking his wife if 
 she does not think the time long (as she said she 
 should) until she see her cousin again. Pray, Sir, 
 what can be done in this case ? I have written to 
 him to assure him I was at his house all that after¬ 
 noon expecting to see him. His answer is, it is 
 only a trick of hers, and that he neither can or 
 will believe me. The parting kiss I find mightily 
 nettles him; and confirms him in all his errors. 
 Ben Jonson, as I remember, makes a foreigner, in 
 one of his comedies, ‘ admire the desperate valor 
 of the bold English, who let out their wives to 
 all encounters.’ The general custom of salutation 
 should excuse the favor done me, or you should 
 lay down rules when such distinctions are to be 
 given or omitted. You cannot imagine, Sir, how 
 troubled I am for this unhappy lady’s misfortune, 
 and beg you would insert this letter, that the 
 husband may reflect upon this accident coolly. 
 It is no small matter, the ease of a virtuous wo¬ 
 man for her wdiole life. 1 know she wil] conform 
 to any regularities (though more strict than the 
 common rules of our country require) to which 
 his particular temper shall incline him to oblige 
 her. This accident puts me in mind how gener¬ 
 ously Pisistratus, the Athenian tyrant, behaved 
 himself on a like occasion, when he was instiga¬ 
 ted by his wife to put to death a young gentle¬ 
 man, because, being passionately fond of his 
 daughter, he had kissed her in public, as he met 
 her in the street. ‘What,’ said he, ‘shall we do 
 to those who are our enemies, if we do thus to 
 those who are our friends?’ I will not trouble 
 you much longer, but am exceedingly concerned 
 lest this accident may cause a virtuous lady to 
 lead a miserable life with a husband who has no 
 grounds for his jealousy but what I have faithfully 
 related, and ought to be reckoned none. It is to 
 be feared, too, if at last he sees his mistake, yet 
 people will be as slow and unwilling in disbeliev¬ 
 ing scandal, as they are quick and forward in be¬ 
 lieving it. I shall endeavor to enliven this plain 
 honest letter with Ovid’s relation about Cybele’s 
 image. The ship wherein it was aboard was 
 stranded at the mouth of the Tiber, and the men 
 
THE SPECTATOR, 
 
 were unable to move it, until Claudia, a virgin, but 
 suspected of unchastity, by a slight pull hauled 
 it in. The story is told in the fourth book of the 
 .Fasti: 
 
 625 
 
 ‘ Parent of Gods,’ began the weeping fair, 
 
 ‘Reward or punish, but ohl hear my prayer. 
 
 If lewdness e’er defil'd my virgin bloom, 
 
 From heaven with justice I receive my doom: 
 
 But if my honor yet has known no stain, 
 
 Thou, goddess, thou my innocence maintain: 
 
 Thou, whom the nicest rules of goodness sway’d 
 Vouchsafe to follow an unblemish’d maid.’ ’ 
 
 She spoke, and touch’d the chord with glad surprise, 
 (The truth was witness’d by ten thousand eyes) 
 
 The pitying goddess easily compli’d, 
 
 Follow’d in triumph, and adorn'd her guide : 
 
 While Claudia, blushing still for past disgrace, 
 
 March’d silent on, with a slow solemn pace: 
 
 Nor yet from some was all distrust remov’d 
 Though heaven such virtue by such wonders prov’d. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your very humble Servant, 
 
 “Philagnotes.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ 1 ou will oblige a languishinglover if you will 
 please to print the inclosed verses in your next 
 paper. If you remember the Metamorphoses, vou 
 know’ Procris, the fond wife of Cephalus is saiS to 
 have made her husband, who delighted in the 
 sports of the wood, a present of an unerring jav¬ 
 elin. In process of time he was so much in the 
 foiest, that his lady suspected he was pursuing 
 some nymph, under the pretense of following a 
 chase more innocent. Under this suspicion, she 
 hid herself among the trees, to observe his mo¬ 
 tions. While she lay concealed, her husband, 
 tired with the labor ot hunting, came within her 
 hearing. As he was fainting with heat, he cried 
 out, ‘ Aura veni !’ ‘Oh J charming air, approach !’ 
 
 “ Th e unfortunate wife, taking the word air to 
 be the name of a woman, began to move among 
 the bushes; and the husband, believing it a deer, 
 threw his javelin and killed her. This history’ 
 painted on a fan, which I presented to a lady, gave 
 occasion to my growing poetical. 
 
 ‘Come, gentle air!’ the Alolian shepherd said, 
 
 While Procris panted in the secret shade: 
 
 ‘ Come, gentle air,’ the fairer Delia cries, 
 
 While at her feet her swain expiring lies. 
 
 Lo! the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray, 
 
 Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play 
 In Delia’s hand this toy is fatal found, 
 
 Nor did that fabled dart more surely wound. 
 
 Both gifts destructive to the givers prove, 
 
 Alike both lovers full by those they love: 
 
 Yet guiltless, too, this bright destroyer lives, 
 
 At random wounds, nor knows the wounds she gives* 
 
 She views the story with attentive eyes, 
 
 And pities Procris, while her lover dies.” 
 
 No. 528.] WEDNESDAY, NOV. 5, 1712. 
 
 Dum potuit, solita gemitum virtute repressit. 
 
 Ovid, Met. ix. 165. 
 
 With wonted fortitude she bore the smart, 
 
 And not a groan confess’d her burning heart.— Gay. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 /‘I who now write to you am a woman loaded 
 with injuries, and the aggravation of my misfor¬ 
 tune is, that they are such which are overlooked by 
 the geneiality of mankind; and, though the most 
 afflicting imaginable, not regarded as such in the 
 general sense of the world. I have hid my vexa¬ 
 tion from all mankind; but having now taken pen, 
 ink, and paper, am resolved to unbosom myself to 
 you, and lay before you what grieves me and all 
 the sex. ^ ou have very often mentioned particu¬ 
 lar hardships done to this or that lady; but me- 
 thinks you have not, in any one speculation, 
 directly pointed at the partial freedom men take 
 40 
 
 the unreasonable confinement women are obliged 
 to, in the only circumstance in which we are ne¬ 
 cessarily to have a commerce with them, that of 
 love, 1 he case of celibacy is the great evil of our 
 nation; and the indulgence of the vicious conduct 
 of men in that state, with the ridicule to which 
 women are exposed, though never so virtuous, if 
 long unmarried, is the root of the greatest irregu¬ 
 larities of this nation. To show you, Sir, that 
 (though you never have given us the catalogue of 
 a lady’s library, as you promised) we read good 
 books of our own choosing, I shall insert on this 
 occasion a paragraph or two out of Echard’s Ro- 
 man History. In the 44th page of the second vol¬ 
 ume, the author observes that Augustus, upon his 
 return to Rome at the end of the war, received 
 complaints that too great a number of the young 
 men of quality were unmarried. The emperor 
 thereupon assembled the whole equestrian order* 
 and having separated the married from the single’ 
 did particular honors to the former; but he told the 
 latter that is to say, Mr. Spectator, he told the 
 bachelors that their lives and actions had been so 
 peculiar, that he knew not by what name to call 
 them, not by that of men, for they performed 
 nothing that vas manly; not by that of citizens, 
 for the city might perish notwithstanding their 
 care; nor by that of Romans, for they designed to 
 extirpate the Roman name. Then, proceeding to 
 show his tender care and hearty affection for his 
 people, he farther told them, that their course of 
 life was of such pernicious consequence to the 
 glory and grandeur of the Roman nation, that he 
 could not choose but tell them, that all other crimes 
 put together could not equalize theirs, for they 
 were guilty of murder in not suffering those to be 
 born which should proceed from them; of impiety, 
 in causing the names and honors of their ancestors 
 to cease; and of sacrilege, in destroying their kind 
 which pioceed from the immortal gods, and human 
 nature, the principal thing consecrated to them; 
 therefore, in this respect, they dissolved the gov¬ 
 ernment in disobeying its laws; betrayed their 
 country by making it barren and waste; nay, and 
 demolished their city, in depriving it of inhabit¬ 
 ants. And he was sensible that all this proceeded 
 not from any kind of virtue or abstinence, but 
 from a looseness and wantonness which ought 
 never to be encouraged in any civil government. 
 There are no particulars dwelt upon that lets us 
 into the conduct of these young worthies, whom 
 this great emperor treated with so much justice 
 and indignation; but any one who observes what 
 passes in this town may very well frame to him¬ 
 self a notion of their riots and debaucheries all 
 night, and their apparent preparations for them all 
 day. It is not to be doubted but these Romans 
 never passed any of their time innocently but when 
 they were asleep, and never slept but when they 
 were weary and heavy with excesses, and slept only 
 to prepare themselves for the repetition of them. 
 If you did your duty as a Spectator, you would 
 carefully examine into the number of births, mar- 
 liages, and buiials; and when you have deducted 
 out of your deaths all such as went out of the 
 world without marrying, then cast up the number 
 of both sexes born within such a term of years last 
 past; you might, from the single people departed, 
 make some useful inferences or guesses liow many 
 there are left unmarried, and raise some useful 
 scheme for the amendment of the age in that par¬ 
 ticular. I have not patience to proceed gravely on 
 this abominable libertinism; for I cannot but re¬ 
 flect, as I am writing to you, upon a certain las¬ 
 civious manner which all our young gentlemen 
 use in public, and examine our eyes with a petu- 
 lancy in their own which is a downright affront to 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 626 
 
 modesty. A disdainful look on such an occasion 
 is returned with a countenance rebuked but by 
 averting their eyes from the woman of honor and 
 decency, to some flippant creature who will, as the 
 phrase is, be kinder. I must set down things as 
 they come into my head, without standing upon 
 order. Ten thousand to one but the gay gentleman 
 who stared, at the same time is a housekeeper; for 
 you must know they have got into a humor of late 
 of being very regular in their sins; and a young 
 fellow shall keep his four maids and three footmen 
 with the greatest gravity imaginable. There are 
 no less than six of these venerable housekeepers 
 of my acquaintance. This humor among young 
 men of condition is imitated by all the world be¬ 
 low them, and a general dissolution* of manners 
 arises from this one source of libertinism, without 
 shame or reprehension in the male youth. It is 
 from this one fountain that so many beautiful 
 helpless young women are sacrificed and given up 
 to lewdness, shame, poverty and disease. It is to 
 this also that so many excellent young women, 
 who might be patterns of conjugal affection, and 
 parents of a worthy race, pine under unhappy 
 passions for such as have not attention enough 
 to observe, or virtue enough to prefer, them to their 
 common wenches. Now, Mr. Spectator, I must be 
 free to own to you, that I myself suffer a tasteless 
 insipid being, from a consideration I have for a 
 man who would not, as he has said in my hearing, 
 resign his liberty, as he calls it, for all the beauty 
 and wealth the whole sex is possessed of. Such 
 calamities as these would not happen, if it could 
 possibly be brought about, that by fining bachelors 
 as Papists convict, or the like, they were distin¬ 
 guished to their disadvantage from the rest of the 
 world, who fall in with the measures of civil soci¬ 
 ety. Lest you should think I speak this as being, 
 according to the senseless rude phrase, a malicious 
 old maid, I shall acquaint you I am a woman of 
 condition, not nowthree-and-twenty, and have had 
 proposals from at least ten different men, and the 
 greater number of them have upon the upshot re¬ 
 fused me. Something or other is always amiss 
 when the lover takes to some new wench. A set¬ 
 tlement is easily excepted against, and there is 
 very little recourse to avoid the vicious part of our 
 youth, but throwing one’s self away upon some 
 lifeless blockhead, who. though he is without vice, 
 is also without virtue. Now-a-days we must be 
 contented if we can get creatures which are not 
 bad; good are not to be expected. Mr. Spectator, 
 I sat near you the other day, and think I did not 
 displease your spectatorial eye-sight; which I 
 shall be a better judge of when I see whether you 
 take notice of these evils your own way, or print 
 this memorial dictated from the disdainful heavy 
 heart of, 
 
 “ Sir, your most obedient humble Servant, 
 
 T.- “ Rachel Welladay.” 
 
 No. 529.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1712. 
 
 Singula quaeque locum teneant sortita decenter. 
 
 ITor. Ars. Poet. 92. 
 
 Let everything have its due place.— Roscommon. 
 
 Upon the hearing of several late disputes con¬ 
 cerning rank and precedence, I could not forbear 
 amusing myself with some observations which I 
 have made upon the learned world, as to this great 
 particular. By the learned world I here mean at 
 large all those who are anyway concerned in works 
 
 of literature, whether in the writing, printing, or 
 repeating part. To begin with the writers. I have 
 observed that the author of a folio, in all compa¬ 
 nies and conversations, sets himself above the au¬ 
 thor of a quarto; the author of a quarto above the 
 author of an octavo; and so on, by a gradual de¬ 
 scent and subordination, to an author in twenty- 
 fours. This distinction is so well observed, that 
 in an assembly of the learned, I have seen a folio 
 writer place himself in an elbow-chair, when the 
 author of a duodecimo has, out of a just deference 
 to his superior quality, seated himself upon a 
 squab. In a word, authors are usually ranged in 
 company after the same manner as their works are 
 upon a shelf. 
 
 The most minute pocket author hath beneath 
 him the writers of all pamphlets, or works that 
 are only stitched. As for the pamphleteer, he takes 
 place of none but the authors of single sheets, and 
 of that fraternity who publish their labors on cer¬ 
 tain days, or on every day of the week. I do not 
 find that the precedency among the individuals in 
 this latter class of writers is yet settled. 
 
 For my own part, I have had so strict a regard 
 to the ceremonial which prevails in the learned 
 world, that I never presumed to take place of a 
 pamphleteer, until my daily papers were gathered 
 into those two first volumes which have already 
 appeared. After which, I naturally jumped over 
 the heads not only of the pamphleteers, but of 
 every octavo writer in Great Britain that had writ¬ 
 ten but one book. I am also informed by my 
 bookseller, that six octavos have at all times been 
 looked upon as an equivalent to a folio; which I 
 take notice of the rather, because I would not have 
 the learned world surprised if, after the publication 
 of half a dozen volumes, I take my place accord¬ 
 ingly. When my scattered forces are thus rallied, 
 and reduced into regular bodies, I flatter myself 
 that I shall make no despicable figure at the head 
 of them. 
 
 Whether these rules, which have been received 
 time out of mind in the commonwealth of letters, 
 were not originally established with an eye to our 
 paper manufacture, I shall leave to the discussion 
 of others; and shall only remark further in this 
 place, that all printers and booksellers take the 
 wall of one another according to the above-men¬ 
 tioned merits of the authors to whom they respec¬ 
 tively belong. 
 
 I come now to that point of precedency which is 
 settled among the three learned professions by the 
 wisdom of our laws. I need not here take notice 
 of the rank which is allotted to every doctor in 
 each of these professions, who are all of them, 
 though not so high as knights, yet a degree above 
 ’squires: this last order of men, being the illiter¬ 
 ate body of the nation, are consequently thrown 
 together into a class below the three learned pro¬ 
 fessions.* I mention this for the sake of several 
 rural ’squires, whose reading does not rise so high 
 as to The present State of England, and who are 
 often apt to usurp that precedency which by the 
 laws of their country is not due to them. Their 
 want of learning, which has planted them in this 
 station, may in some measure extenuate their mis¬ 
 demeanor; and our professors ought to pardon 
 them when they offend in this particular, consid¬ 
 ering that they are in a state of ignorance, or, as 
 we usually say, do not know their right hand from 
 their left. 
 
 There is another tribe of persons who are retain¬ 
 ers to the learned world, and who regulate them¬ 
 selves upon all occasions by several laws peculiar 
 
 * Dissoluteness, 
 
 * In some Universities, that of Dublin in particular, they 
 have doctors of music, who take rank after the doctors of the 
 three learned professions, and above esquires. 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 to their body; I mean the players or actors of botli 
 sexes. Among these it is a standing and uncon¬ 
 troverted principle, that a tragedian always takes 
 place of a comedian; and it is very well known 
 the meny drolls who make us laugh are always 
 placed at the lower end of the table, and in every 
 entertainment give way to the dignity of the bus- 
 inn. It is a stage maxim, “Once a king, and al 
 
 627 
 
 ways a king.” For this reason it wouldbe thought 
 absurd in Mr. Bullock, notwithstanding the 
 
 very 
 
 height and gracefulness of his person, to sit at the 
 right hand of a hero, though he were but five foot 
 
 Ti! i , • he P a ” ie distinction is observed among 
 the Indies of the theater. Queens and heroines 
 preserve their rank in private conversation, while 
 those who are waiting women and maids of honor 
 
 upon the stage, keep their distance also behind 
 the scenes. 
 
 I shall only add that, by a parity of reason, all 
 writers of tragedy look upon it as their due to be 
 seated, served, or saluted, before comic writers- 
 those who deal in tragi-comedy usually taking 
 their seats between the x authors of either side. 
 1 here has been a long* dispute for precedency be¬ 
 tween the tragic and heroic poets. Aristotle would 
 have the latter yield the pas to the former; but 
 Mr. Fry den, and many others, would never submit 
 to this decision. Burlesque writers pay the same 
 deference to the heroic, as comic writers to their 
 serious brothers in the drama. 
 
 By this short table of laws order is kept up, and 
 distinction preserved, in the wdiole republic of 
 
 No. 530.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1712. 
 
 Sic visum Veneri; cui placet imparos 
 Formas atque animos sub juga ahenea 
 Saevo mittere cum joco.— IIor. 1 Od. xxxiii. 10. 
 
 Thus Venus sports; the rich, the base, 
 
 Unlike in fortune and in face, 
 
 To disagreeing love provokes; 
 
 When cruelly jocose, 
 
 She ties the fatal noose, 
 
 And binds unequals to the brazen yokes. 
 
 Creech. 
 
 It is very usual for those who have been severe 
 upon marriage, in some part or other of their lives 
 to enter into the fraternity which they have ridi¬ 
 culed, and to see their raillery return upon their 
 own heads. I scarce ever knew a woman-hater 
 that did not, sooner or later, pay for it. Marriage 
 which is a blessing to another man, falls upon 
 such a one as a judgment. Mr. Congreve’s Old 
 Bachelor is set forth to us with much wit and hu¬ 
 mor, as an example of this kind. In short, those 
 who have most distinguished themselves by rail¬ 
 ing at the sex in general, very often make an hon¬ 
 orable amends, by choosing one of the most worth¬ 
 less persons of it for a companion and yokefellow. 
 Hymen takes his revenge in kind on those wdio 
 turn his mysteries into ridicule. 
 
 friend Will Honeycomb, who was so unmer¬ 
 cifully witty upon the women, in a couple of let¬ 
 ters which I lately communicated to the public 
 has given the ladies ample satisfaction by marry¬ 
 ing a farmer’s daughter; a piece of news which 
 came to qur club by the last post. The templar is 
 very positive that he has married a dairy-maid- 
 but Will in his letter to me on this occasion, sets 
 the best face upon the matter that he can, and 
 gives a more tolerable account of his spouse. I 
 must confess I suspected something more than 
 J, rd ] n i!7; when „ upon opening the letter I found 
 that Will was fallen off from his former gayetv 
 having changed “Dear Spec.,” which was Ins 
 
 usual salute at the beginning of the letter, into 
 My worthy Friend,” and subscribed himself, at the 
 
 latter end of it, at full length, William Honeycomb 
 In short the gay, the loud, the vain Will Honey- 
 coiijib, who had made love to every great fortune 
 that has appeared in town for about thirty years 
 ogi t lei, and boasted of favors from ladies whom 
 iie had never seen, is at length wedded to a plain 
 country girl. ^ 
 
 vni HiS le mi er gi T 0S us the P icture of a converted 
 s ? ber character of the husband is 
 i ^ ^ ,.^ be man cl" the town, and enlivened 
 
 Can ^ P hrascs ' whicb ba ve made 
 y fi lend \\ ill often thought very pretty company. 
 But let us hear what he says for himself: 
 
 “ My worthy Friend, 
 
 I question not but you, and the rest of my ac 
 quamtance, wonder that I, who have lived in the 
 smoke and ga lantries of the town for thirty years 
 ogether, should all on a sudden grow fond of a 
 country life Had not my dog of a steward run 
 f W as , be did, without making up his accounts, I 
 had still been immersed in sin and sea-coal. But 
 since my late forced visit to my estate, I am so 
 pleased with it, that I am resolved to live and die 
 upon it. I am every day abroad among my acres, 
 and can scarce forbear filling my letter with breezes 
 shades, flowers, meadows, and purling streams. 
 
 I he simplicity of manners, which I have heard 
 } on so.often speak of, and which appears here in 
 perfection, charms me wonderfully. As an in¬ 
 stance of it I must acquaint you, and by your 
 means the whole club, that I have lately married 
 one of my tenant’s daughters. She is born of 
 honest parents; and though she has no portion 
 she has a great deal of virtue. The natural sweet¬ 
 ness and innocence of her behavior, the freshness 
 of her complexion, the unaffected turn of her shape 
 and person, shot me through and through every 
 time that I saw her, and did more execution upon 
 me in grqgram than the greatest beauty in town 
 or court had ever done in brocade. In short, she 
 is such a one as promises me a good heir to my 
 estate: and if by her means I cannot leave to my 
 children what are falsely called the gifts of birth, 
 high titles, and alliances, I hope to convey to them 
 the more real and valuable gifts of birth—strong 
 bodies and healthy constitutions. As for your 
 fine women, I need not tell thee that I know them. 
 
 I have had my share in their graces; but no more 
 of that. It shall be my business hereafter to live 
 the life of an honest man, and to act as becomes 
 the master of a family. I question not but I shall 
 draw upon me the raillery of the town, and be 
 treated to the tune of, ‘ Marriage-hater Matched-’ 
 but I am prepared for it. I have been as witty 
 upon others in my time. To tell thee truly, I saw 
 such a tribe of fashionable young fluttering cox¬ 
 combs shot up, that I did not think my post of an 
 hoimne de ruelle any longer tenable. I felt a certain 
 stiffness m my limbs, which entirely destroyed 
 the jauntiness of air I was master of. Beside for 
 I may now confess my age to thee, I have been 
 eight-and-forty above these twelve years. Since 
 my retirement into the country will make a va¬ 
 cancy in the club, I could wish you would fill up 
 my place with my friend Tom Dapperwit. He 
 lias an infinite deal of fire, and knows tlie town. 
 Foi my own. part, as I have said before, I shall 
 endea\or to live hereafter suitable to a. man in my 
 station, as a prudent head of a family, a good 
 husband, a careful father (when it shall so hap¬ 
 pen), and as 
 
 “ Your most sincere Friend, 
 
 “and humble Servant, 
 
 “William Honeycomb.”’ 
 
628 THE SPE 
 
 No. 531.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1712. 
 
 Qui mare et terras, variisque mundurn 
 Temperat horis; 
 
 Unde nil majus generatur ipso; 
 
 Nec yiget quicquam simile, aut secundum. 
 
 Hon. 1 Od. xii. 15. 
 
 Who guides below, and rules above, 
 
 The great Disposer, and the mighty King: 
 
 Than he none greater, like him none 
 That can be, is, or was; 
 
 Supreme he singly fills the throne.— Creech. 
 
 Simonides being asked by Dionysius the tyrant 
 what God was, desired a day’s time to consider of 
 it before he made his reply. When the day was 
 expired he desired two days; and afterward, in¬ 
 stead of returning his answer, demanded still dou¬ 
 ble the time to consider of it. This great poet 
 and philosopher, the more he contemplated the 
 nature of the Deity, found that he waded but the 
 more out of his depth; and that he lost himself in 
 the thought, instead of finding an end to it. 
 
 If we consider the idea which wise men, by the 
 light of reason, have framed of the Divine Being, 
 it amounts to this; that he has in him all the per¬ 
 fection of a spiritual nature. And, since we have 
 no notion of any kind of spiritual perfection but 
 what we discover in our own souls, we join infini¬ 
 tude to each kind of these perfections, and what is 
 a faculty in a human soul becomes an attribute in 
 God. We exist in place and time; the Divine Be¬ 
 ing fills the immensity of space with his presence, 
 and inhabits eternity. We are possessed of a 
 little power and a little knowledge : The Divine 
 Being is almighty and omniscient. In short, by 
 adding infinity to any kind of perfection we enjoy, 
 and by joining all these different kinds of perfec¬ 
 tion in one being, we form our idea of the great 
 Sovereign of nature. 
 
 Though every one who thinks must have made 
 this observation, I shall produce Mr. Locke’s au¬ 
 thority to the same purpose, out of his Essay on 
 Human Understanding: “If we examine the idea 
 we have of the incomprehensible Supreme Being, 
 we shall find that we come by it the same way; 
 and that the complex ideas we have both of God 
 and separate spirits, are made up of the simple 
 ideas we receive from reflection; v. g., having, from 
 what we experience in ourselves, got the ideas of 
 existence and duration, of knowledge and power, 
 of pleasure and happiness, and of several other 
 qualities and powers which it is better to have 
 than to be without; when we would frame an idea 
 the most suitable we can to the Supreme Being, 
 we enlarge every ofie of these with our own idea 
 of infinity; and so putting them together make 
 our complex idea of God.” 
 
 It is not impossible that there may be many 
 kinds of spiritual perfection, beside those which 
 are lodged in a human soul; but it is impossible 
 that we should have ideas of any kinds of perfec¬ 
 tion, except those of which we have some small 
 rays and short imperfect strokes in ourselves. It 
 would therefore be a very high presumption to de¬ 
 termine whether the Supreme Being has not many 
 more attributes than those which enter into our 
 conceptions of him. This is certain, that if there 
 be any kind of spiritual perfection which is not 
 marked out in the human soul, it belongs in its 
 fullness to the divine nature. 
 
 Several eminent philosophers have imagined 
 that the soul, in her separate state, may have 
 new faculties springing up in her, which she is 
 not capable of exerting during her present union 
 with the body; and whether these faculties may 
 not correspond with other attributes in the divine 
 nature, and open to us hereafter new matter of 
 wonder and adoration, we are altogether ignorant. 
 
 HATOR. 
 
 This, as I have said before, we ought to acquiesce 
 in, that the Sovereign Being, the gre£t Author of 
 Nature, has in him all possible perfections, as 
 well in kind as in degree: to speak according to 
 our methods of conceiving, I shall only add under 
 this head, that when we have raised our notion of 
 this infinite Being as high as it is possible for the 
 mind of man to go, it will fall infinitely short of 
 what he really is. “ There is no end of his great¬ 
 ness.” The most exalted creature he has made is 
 only capable of adoring it; none but himself can 
 comprehend it. 
 
 The advice of the son of Siracli is very just and 
 sublime in this light. “ By his word all things 
 consist. We may speak much, and yet come 
 short: wherefore in sum he is all. How shall we 
 be able to magnify him ? for he is great above all 
 his works. The Lord is terrible and very great; 
 and marvelous is his power. When you glorify 
 the Lord, exalt him as much as you can: for even 
 yet will he far exceed. And when you exalt him, 
 put forth all your strength, and be not weary; for 
 you can never go far enough. Who hath seen 
 him, that he might tell us^ and who can magnify 
 him as he is ? There are yet hid greater things 
 than these be, for we have seen but a few of his 
 works.” 
 
 I have here only considered the Supreme Being 
 by the light of reason and philosophy. If we 
 would see him in all the wonders of his mercy, we 
 must have recourse to revelation, which represents 
 him to us not only as infinitely great and glorious, 
 but as infinitely good and just in his dispensa¬ 
 tions toward man. But as this is a theory which 
 falls under every one’s consideration, though in¬ 
 deed it can never be sufficiently considered, I 
 shall here only take notice of that habitual wor¬ 
 ship and veneration which we ought to pay to 
 this Almighty Being. We should often refresh 
 our minds with the thought of him, and annihi¬ 
 late ourselves before him, in the contemplation of 
 our own worthlessness, and of his transcendent 
 excellency and perfection. This would imprint 
 in our minds such a constant and uninterrupted 
 awe and veneration as that which I am here 
 recommending, and which is in reality a kind 
 of incessant prayer, and reasonable humiliation 
 of the soul before him who made it. 
 
 This would effectually kill in us all the little 
 seeds of pride, vanity, and self-conceit, which are 
 apt to shoot up in the minds of such whose 
 thoughts turn more on those comparative advan¬ 
 tages which they enjoy over some of their fellow- 
 creatures, than on that infinite distance which is 
 placed between them and the supreme model of 
 all perfection. It would likewise quicken our 
 desires and endeavors of uniting ourselves to him 
 by all the acts of religion and virtue. 
 
 Such an habitual homage to the Supreme Being 
 would, in a particular manner, banish from among 
 us that prevailing impiety of using his name on 
 the most trivial occasions. 
 
 I find the following passage in an excellent ser¬ 
 mon, preached at the funeral of a gentleman,* 
 who was an honor to his country, and a more 
 diligent as well as successful inquirer into the 
 works of nature than any other our nation has 
 ever produced. “ He had the profoundest venera¬ 
 tion for the great God of heaven and earth that I 
 have ever observed in any person. The very 
 name of God was never mentioned by him with¬ 
 out a pause and a visible stop in his discourse; in 
 which one that knew him most particularly above 
 twenty years, has told me that he was so exact, 
 
 * See Bishop Burnet’s sermon, preached at the funeral of 
 the Honorable Robert Boyle. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 that he does not remember to have observed him 
 once to fail in it.” 
 
 Every one knows the veneration which was paid 
 by the Jews to a name so great, wonderful, and 
 holy. They would not let it enter even into their 
 religious discourses. What can we then think of 
 those who make use ot so tremendous a name in 
 the ordinary expressions of their anger, mirth, 
 and most impertinent passions? of those who 
 admit it into the most familiar questions and 
 assertions, ludicrous phrases, and works of hu¬ 
 mor l not to mention those who violate it by 
 solemn perjuries! It would be an affront to 
 reason to endeavor to set forth the horror and 
 profaneness of such a practice. The very men¬ 
 tion of it exposes it sufficiently to those in whom 
 the light of nature, not to say religion, is not 
 utterly extinguished.—0. 
 
 No. 532.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1712. 
 
 -Fungor vice cotis, acutum 
 
 Reddere quaj ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi. 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 305. 
 
 I play the whetstone; useless, and unfit 
 To cut myself, I sharpen others’ wit.—C reech. 
 
 It is a very honest action to be studious to pro¬ 
 duce other men’s merit; and I make no scruple of 
 saying, I have as much of this temper as any man 
 in the world. It would not be a thing to be 
 bragged of, but that it is what any man may be 
 master of, who will take pains enough for it. 
 Much observation of the unworthiness in being 
 pained at the excellence of another, will bring 
 you to a scorn of yourself for that unwillingness; 
 and when you have got so far, you will find it a 
 greater pleasure than you ever before knew to be 
 zealous in promoting the fame and welfare of the 
 praiseworthy. I do not speak this as pretending 
 to be a mortified, self-denying man, but as one 
 who has turned his ambition into a right channel. 
 I claim to myself the merit of having extorted 
 excellent productions from a person of the greatest 
 abilities, who would not have let them appeared 
 by any other means;* to have animated a few 
 young gentlemen into worthy pursuits, who will 
 be a glory to our age; and at all times, and by all 
 possible means in my power, undermined the in¬ 
 terest of ignorance, vice, and folly, and attempted 
 to substitute in their stead learning, piety, and 
 ood sense. It is from this honest heart that I 
 nd myself honored as a gentleman-usher to the 
 arts and sciences. Mr. Tickell and Mr. Pope have, 
 it seems, this idea of me. The former has written 
 me an excellent paper of verses, in praise, for¬ 
 sooth, of myself; and the other inclosed for my 
 perusal an admirable poem,f which I hope will 
 shortly see the light. In the meantime I cannot 
 suppress any thought of his, but insert this senti¬ 
 ment about the dying words of Adrian. I will 
 not determine in the case he mentions; but have 
 thus much to say in favor of his argument, that 
 many of his own works, which I have seen, con¬ 
 vince me that very pretty and very sublime senti¬ 
 ments may be lodged in the same bosom without 
 diminution to its greatness. 
 
 “Me, Spectator, 
 
 “I was the other day in company with five or 
 six men of some learning; where, chancing to 
 mention the famous verses which the Emperor 
 Adrian spoke on his death-bed, they were all 
 agreed that it was a piece of gayety unworthy 
 
 * Addison. fThe Temple of Fame. 
 
 629 
 
 that prince in those circumstances. I could not 
 but dissent from this opinion. Methinks it was 
 by no means a gay but a very serious soliloquy to 
 Ins soul at the point of his departure; in which 
 sense I naturally took the verses at my first read¬ 
 ing them, when I was very young, and before I 
 knew what interpretation the world generally put 
 upon them. J r 
 
 Animula vagula, blandula, 
 
 Ilospes comesque corporis, 
 
 Qua; nunc abibis in loca? 
 
 I’allidula, rigida, nudula, 
 
 Nec (ut soles) dabis joca! 
 
 f m y soul; thou pleasing companion of 
 this body, thou fleeting thing that art now desert- 
 mg it, whither art thou flying ? to what unknown 
 legion ? Thou art all trembling, fearful, arid pen¬ 
 sive. Now what is become of thy former wit and 
 kumoi ? Thou slialt jest and be gay no more.’ 
 
 “ I confess I cannot apprehend where lies the 
 trifling in all this; it is the most natural and ob- 
 vious reflection imaginable to a dying man; and, 
 if we consider the emperor was a heathen, that 
 doubt concerning the future fate of his soul will 
 seem so far from being the effect of want of 
 thought, that it was scarce reasonable he should 
 think otherwise: not to mention that here is a 
 plain confession included of his belief in its im¬ 
 mortality. The diminutive epithets of vagula, 
 blandula, and the rest, appear not to me as ex¬ 
 pressions of levity, but rather of endearment and 
 concern: such as we find in Catullus, and the au¬ 
 thors of Hendecasyllabi after him, where they are 
 used to express the utmost love and tenderness 
 for their mistresses. If you think me right in my 
 notion of the last words of Adrian, be pleased to 
 insert this in the Spectator; if not, to suppress it. 
 
 “I am,” etc. 
 
 “To THE SUPPOSED AUTHOR OF THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ In courts licentious, and a shameless stage, 
 
 How long the war shall wit with virtue wage ? 
 
 Enchanted by this prostituted fair, 
 
 Our youth run headlong in the fatal snare; 
 
 In height of rapture clasp unheeded pains, 
 
 And suck pollution through their tingling veins. 
 
 “Thy spotless thoughts unshocked the priest may hear, 
 And the pure vestal in her bosom wear. 
 
 To conscious blushes and diminished pride 
 
 Thy glass betrays what treach’rous love would hide; 
 
 Nor harsh thy precepts, but, infus’d by stealth, 
 
 Please while they cure, and cheat us into health. 
 
 Thy works in Chloe’s toilet gain a part, 
 
 And with his tailor share the fopling’s heart: 
 
 Lash’d in thy satire the penurious cit 
 Laughs at himself, and finds no harm in wit; 
 
 From felon gamesters the raw ’squire is free, 
 
 And Britain owes her rescu’d oaks to thee* 
 
 His miss the frolic viscount f dreads to toast, 
 
 Or his third cure the shallow templar boast: 
 
 And the rash fool who scorn’d the beaten road, 
 
 Hares quake at thunder, and confess his God. 
 
 “The brainless stripling, who, expelled to town, 
 
 Damn’d the stiff college and pedantic gown, 
 
 Aw’d by the name is dumb, and thrice a week 
 Spells uncouth Latin, and pretends to Greek. 
 
 A saunt’ring tribe! such, born to wide estates, 
 
 With ‘yea’ and ‘no’ in senates hold debates: 
 
 At length despis’d, each to his fields retires, 
 
 First with the dogs, and king amidst the ’squires, 
 
 From pert to stupid sinks supinely down, 
 
 In youth a coxcomb, and in age a clown. 
 
 “ Such readers scorn’d, thou wing’st thy daring flight 
 Above the stars, and tread’st the fields of light; 
 
 Fame, heaven, and hell, are thy exalted theme, 
 
 And visions such as Jove himself might dream; 
 
 Man sunk to slav’ry, though to glory born; 
 
 Heaven’s pride, when upright; and deprav’d, his scorn. 
 
 * Mr. Tickell here alludes to Steele’s papers against the 
 sharpers, etc., in the Tatler, and particularly to a letter in 
 Tat. No. 73, signed Will Trusty, and written by Mr. John 
 Hughes. 
 
 f Viscount Bolingbroke. 
 
630 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ Such hints alone could British Virgil* lend, 
 
 And thou alone deserve from such a friend: 
 
 A debt so borrow’d is illustrious shame, 
 
 And fame when shar’d with him is double fame, 
 
 So flush’d with sweets, by beauty’s queen bestow’d, 
 
 With more than mortal charms iEneas glow’d: 
 
 Such gen’rous strifes Eugene and Marlbro’ try, 
 
 And, as in glory, so in friendship vie. 
 
 “ Permit these lines by thee to live—nor blame 
 A muse that pants and languishes for fame; 
 
 That fears to sink when humbler themes she sings, 
 
 Lost in the mass of mean forgotten things. 
 
 Receiv’d by thee, I prophesy my rhymes 
 The praise of virgins in succeeding times; 
 
 Mix’d with thy works, their life no bounds shall see, 
 
 But stand protected as inspir’d by thee. 
 
 “ So some weak shoot, which else would poorly rise, 
 Jove’s tree adopts, and lifts him to the skies; 
 
 Through the new pupil fost’ring juices flow, 
 
 Thrust forth the gems, and give the flowers to blow 
 Aloft, immortal reigns the plant unknown, 
 
 With borrow’d life, and vigor not his own.”f 
 
 “To the Spectator-General. 
 
 “Mr. John Sly humbly showeth, 
 
 “ That upon reading the deputation given to 
 the said Mr. John Sly, all persons passing by his 
 observatory, behaved themselves with the same 
 decorum as if your honor yourself had been 
 present. 
 
 “ That your said officer is preparing, according 
 to your honor’s secret instructions, hats for the 
 several kinds of heads that make figures in the 
 realms of Great Britain, with cocks significant of 
 their powers and faculties. 
 
 “ That your said officer has taken due notice of 
 your instructions and admonitions concerning the 
 internals of the head from the outward form of 
 the same. His hats for men of the faculties of law 
 and physic do but just turn up, to give a little life 
 to their sagacity; his military hats glare full in 
 the face; and he has prepared a familiar easy cock 
 for all good companions between the above-men¬ 
 tioned extremes. For this end he has consulted 
 the most learned of his acquaintance for the 
 true form and dimensions of the lepidum caput, 
 and made a hat fit for it. 
 
 “Your said officer does further represent, that 
 the young divines about town are many of them 
 got into the cock military, and desires your in¬ 
 structions therein. 
 
 “ That the town has been for several days very 
 well behaved, and further your said officer saith 
 not.” T. 
 
 Ho. 533.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1712. 
 
 Immo duas dabo, inquit ille, unum si parum est; 
 
 Et si duarum pamitebi, addenter duas.— Plaut. 
 
 Nay, says be, if one is too little, I will give you two; 
 
 And if two will not satisfy you, I will add two more. 
 
 “To the Spectator. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “You have often given us very excellent dis¬ 
 courses against that unnatural custom of parents, 
 in forcing their children to marry contrary to their 
 inclinations. My own case, without further pre¬ 
 face, I will lay before you, and leave you to judge 
 of it. My father and mother both being in de¬ 
 clining years, would fain see me, their eldest son, 
 as they call it, settled. I am as much for that as 
 they can be: but I must be settled, it seems, not 
 according to my own, but their, liking. Upon 
 this account I am teased every day, because I 
 have not yet fallen in love, in spite of nature, 
 
 with one of a neighboring gentleman’s daughters; 
 for, out of their abundant generosity, they give 
 me the choice of four. ‘Jack,’ begins my father, 
 ‘Mrs. Catharine is a fine woman.’—‘Yes, Sir, but 
 she is rather too old.’—‘ She will make the more 
 discreet manager, boy.’ Then my mother plays 
 her part. ‘Is not Mrs. Betty exceeding fair?’— 
 ‘Yes, Madam, but she is of no conversation; she 
 has no fire, no agreeable vivacity; she neither 
 speaks nor looks with spirit.’—‘True, son, but 
 for those very reasons she will be an easy, soft, 
 obliging, tractable creature.’—‘After all,’ cries an 
 old aunt (who belongs to the class of those who 
 read plays with spectacles on), ‘what think you, 
 nephew, of proper Mrs. Dorothy?’—‘What do I 
 think? why, I think she cannot be above six foot* 
 two inches high.’—‘Well, well, you may banter as 
 long as you please, but height of stature is com¬ 
 manding and majestic.’—‘ Come, come,’ says a 
 cousin of mine in the family, ‘I will fit him: 
 Fidelia is yet behind—pretty Miss Fiddy must 
 please you.’—‘Oh! your very humble servant, 
 dear coz, she is as much too young as her eldest 
 sister is too old.’—‘Is it so indeed,’ quoth she, 
 ‘good Mr. Pert? You who are but barely turned 
 of twenty-two, and Miss Fiddy in half a year’s 
 time will be in her teens, and she is capable of 
 learning anything. Then she will be so observ¬ 
 ant; she will cry perhaps now and then, but 
 never be angry.’ Thus they will think for me 
 in this matter, wherein I am more particularly 
 concerned than anybody else. If I name .any 
 woman in the world, one of these daughters has 
 certainly the same qualities. You see by these 
 few hints, Mr. Spectator, what a comfortable life 
 I lead. To be still more open and free with you, 
 I have been passionately fond of a young lady 
 (whom give me leave to call Miranda) now for 
 these three years. I have often urged the matter 
 home to my parents with all the submission of a 
 son, but the impatience of a lover. Pray, Sir, 
 think of three years; what inexpressible scenes of 
 inquietude, what variety of misery must I have 
 gone through in three long whole years! Miran¬ 
 da’s fortune is equal to those I have mentioned; 
 but her relations are not intimates with mine. Ah! 
 there’s the rub! Miranda’s person, wit, and hu¬ 
 mor, are what the nicest fancy could imagine; and, 
 though we know you to be so elegant a judge of 
 beauty, yet there is none among all your various 
 characters of fine women preferable to Miranda. 
 In a word, she is never guilty of doing anything 
 but one amiss (if she can be thought to do amiss 
 by me), in being as blind to my faults as she is to 
 her own perfections. 
 
 “ I am. Sir, - 
 
 “Your very humble obedient Servant, 
 
 “ Dustererastus.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “When you spent so much time as you did 
 lately in censuring the ambitious young gentlemen 
 who ride in triumph through town and country on 
 coach-boxes, I wished you had employed those 
 moments in consideration of what passes some¬ 
 times within-side of those vehicles. I am sure I 
 suffered sufficiently by the insolence and ill-breed¬ 
 ing of some persons who traveled lately with 
 me in a stage-coach out of Essex to London. I 
 am sure, when you have heard what I have to 
 say, you will think there are persons under the 
 character of gentlemen, that are fit to be nowhere 
 else but in the coach-box. Sir, I am a young wo¬ 
 man of a sober and religious education, and have 
 preserved that character; but on Monday was fort- 
 
 * A compliment to Addison, f By Mr. Thomas Tickell. 
 
 * Eeet. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 night it was my misfortune to come to London. I 
 was no sooner clapped in the coach, but, to my 
 great surprise, two persons in the habit of gentle¬ 
 men attacked me with such indecent discourse as 
 I cannot repeat to you, so you may conclude not 
 fit for me to hear. 1 had no relief but the hopes 
 of a speedy end of my short journey. Sir, form 
 to yourself what a persecution this must needs be 
 to a virtuous and chaste mind; and, in order to 
 your proper handling such a subject, fancy your 
 wife or daughter, if you had any, in such circum¬ 
 stances, and what treatment you would then think 
 due to such dragoons. One of them was called a 
 captain, and entertained us with nothing but filthy 
 stupid questions, or lewd songs, all the way. 
 Ready to burst with shame and indignation, I re¬ 
 pined that nature had not allowed us as easily to 
 shut our ears as our eyes. But was not this a kind 
 of rape ? Why should not every contributor to the 
 abuse of chastity suffer death ? I am sure these 
 shameless hell-hounds deserved it highly. Can 
 you exert yourself better than on such an occasion ? 
 If you do not do it effectually, I will read no more 
 of your papers. Has every impertinent fellow a 
 privilege to torment me, who pay my coach-hire 
 as well as he ? Sir, pray consider us in this re¬ 
 spect as the weakest sex, who have nothing to 
 defend ourselves; and I think it as gentleman-like 
 to challenge a woman to fight as to talk obscenely 
 in her company, especially when she has not power 
 to stir. Pray let me tell you a story which you 
 can make fit for public view. I knew a gentleman, 
 who having a very good opinion of the gentlemen 
 of the army, invited ten or twelve of them to sup 
 with him; and at the same time invited two or 
 three friends who were very severe against the 
 manners and morals of the gentlemen of that pro¬ 
 fession. It happened one of them brought two 
 captains of his regiment newly come into the army, 
 who at first onset engaged the company with very 
 lewd healths and suitable discourse. You may 
 easily imagine the confusion of the entertainer, 
 who finding some of his friends very uneasy, de¬ 
 sired to tell them the story of a great man, one 
 Mr. Locke (whom I find you frequently mention), 
 that having been invited to dine with the then 
 Lords Halifax, Anglesey, and Shaftesbury, immedi¬ 
 ately after dinner, instead of conversation, the 
 cards were called for, where the bad or good suc¬ 
 cess produced the usual passions of gaming. Mr. 
 Locke retiring to a window, and writing, my Lord 
 Anglesey desired to know what he was writing: 
 ‘Why, my lords,’ answered he, ‘I could not sleep 
 last night for the pleasure and improvement I ex¬ 
 pected from the conversation of the greatest men 
 of the age.’ This so sensibly stung them, that 
 they gladly compounded to throw their cards in 
 the fire, if he would his paper, and so a conversa¬ 
 tion ensued fit for such persons. This story 
 pressed so hard upon the young captains, together 
 with the concurrence of their superior officers, that 
 the young fellows left the company in confusion. 
 Sir, I know you hate long things; but if you like 
 it, you may contract it, or how you will; but I 
 think it has a moral in it. 
 
 “But, Sir,I am told you are a famous mechanic 
 as well as a looker-on, and therefore humbly pro¬ 
 pose you would invent some padlock, with full 
 power under your hand and seal, for all modest 
 persons, either men or women, to clap upon the 
 mouths of all such impertinent impudent fellows; 
 and I wish you would publish a proclamation that 
 no modest person, who has a value for her coun¬ 
 tenance, and consequently would not be put out 
 of it, presume to travel after such a day without 
 one of them in their pockets. I fancy a smart 
 Spectator upon this subject would serve for such a 
 
 631 
 
 padlock; and that public notice maybe given in 
 your paper Avhere they may be had, with directions, 
 price two-pence; and that part of the directions 
 may be, wiien any person presumes to be guilty 
 of the above-mentioned crime, the party aggrieved 
 may produce it to his face, "with a request to read 
 it to the company. He must be very much har¬ 
 dened that could outface that rebuke; and his 
 further punishment I leave you to prescribe. 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 T. “Penance Cruel.” 
 
 No. 534.] WEDNESDAY, NOY. 12, 1712. 
 
 Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in ilia. 
 
 Fortuna- Juv, Sat. viii. 73. 
 
 -We seldom find 
 
 Much sense with an exalted fortune join’d.—S tepney. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a young woman of nineteen, the only 
 daughter of very wealthy parents, and" have my 
 whole life been used with a tenderness which did 
 me no great service in my education. I have per¬ 
 haps an uncommon desire for knowledge of what 
 is suitable to my sex and quality; but as far as I 
 can remember, the whole dispute about me has 
 been-whether such a thing was proper for the child 
 to do, or not ? or whether such a food was the 
 more wholesome for the young lady to eat? This 
 was ill for my shape, that for my complexion, and 
 the other for my eyes. I am not extravagant when 
 I tell you I do not know that I have trod upon the 
 very earth ever since I was ten years old. A 
 coach or chair I am obliged to for all my motions 
 from one place to another ever since I can remem¬ 
 ber. All who had to do to instruct me, have ever 
 been bringing stories of the notable things I have 
 said, and the womanly manner of my behaving 
 myself upon such and such an occasion. This has 
 been my state until I came toward years of wo¬ 
 manhood; and ever since I grew toward the age 
 of fifteen I have been abused after another manner. 
 Now, forsooth, I am so killing, no one can safely 
 speak to me. Our house is frequented by men of 
 sense, and I love to ask questions when I fall into 
 such conversation; but I am cut short with some¬ 
 thing or other about my bright eyes. There is, 
 Sir, a language particular for talking to women in; 
 and none but those of the very first good-breeding 
 (who are very few, and who seldom come into my 
 way) can speak to us without regard to our sex. 
 Among the generality of those they call gentlemen, 
 it is impossible for me to speak upon any subject 
 whatsoever, without provoking somebody to say, 
 
 ‘ Oh! to be sure, fine Mrs. Such-a-one must be very 
 particularly acquainted with all that; all the world 
 would contribute to her entertainment and infor¬ 
 mation.’ Thus, Sir, I am so handsome that I 
 murder all who approach me; so wise that I want 
 no new notices; and so well-bred that I am treated 
 by all that know me like a fool, for no one will 
 answer as if I were their friend or companion. 
 Pray, Sir, be pleased to take the part of us beauties 
 and fortunes into your consideration, and do not 
 let us be thus flattered out of our senses. I have 
 got a hussy of a maid who is most craftily given 
 to this ill quality. I was at first diverted with a 
 certain absurdity the creature was guilty of in 
 everything she said. She is a country girl; and, 
 in the dialect of the shire she was born in, would 
 tell me that everybody reckoned her lady had the 
 purest red andw T hite in the world; then would tell 
 me I was the most like one Sisly Dobson in their 
 town, who made the miller make away with him¬ 
 self, and walked afterward in the corn-field where 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 632 
 
 they used to meet. With all this, this cunning 
 hussy can lay letters in my way, and put a billet 
 in my gloves, and then stand in it she knows noth¬ 
 ing of it. I do not know, from my birth to this 
 day, that I have been ever treated by any one as I 
 ought; and if it were not for a few books, which I 
 delight in, I should be at this hour a novice to all 
 common sense. Would it not be worth your while 
 to lay down rules for behavior in this case, and 
 tell people, that we fair ones expect honest plain 
 answers as well as other people ? Why must I, 
 good Sir, because I have a good air, a fine com¬ 
 plexion, and am in the bloom of my years, be 
 misled in all my actions; and have the notions of 
 good and ill confounded in my mind, for no other 
 offense, but because I have the advantages of 
 beauty and fortune ? Indeed, Sir, what with the 
 silly homage which is paid us by the sort of peo¬ 
 ple I have spoken of, and the utter negligence 
 which others have for us, the conversation of us 
 young women of condition is no other than what 
 must expose us to ignorance and vanity, if not 
 vice. All this is humbly submitted to your spec- 
 tatorial wisdom, by Sir, 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “Sharlot Wealthy.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Will’s Coffee-house. 
 
 “ Pray, Sir, it will serve to fill up a paper if you 
 put in this: which is only to ask, whether that 
 copy of verses which is a paraphrase of Isaiah, in 
 one of your speculations, is not written by Mr. 
 Pope? Then you get on another line, by putting 
 in, with proper distances, as at the end of a letter. 
 “I am. Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “Abraham Dapperwit.” 
 
 “Mr. Dapperwit, 
 
 “I am glad to get another line forward, by say¬ 
 ing that excellent piece is Mr. Pope’s; and so, 
 with proper distances, 
 
 “I am. Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 “The Spectator.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I was a wealthy grocer in the city, and as for¬ 
 tunate as diligent; but I was a single man, and 
 you know there are women. One in particular 
 came to my shop, who I wished might, but was 
 afraid never would, make a grocer’s wife. I 
 thought, however, to take an effectual way of 
 courting, and sold to her at less price than I 
 bought, that I might buy at less price than I sold. 
 She, you may be sure, often came and helped me 
 to many customers at the same rate, fancying I was 
 obliged to her. You must needs think this was 
 a good living trade, and my riches must be vastly 
 i mproved. In fine, I was nigh being declared bank¬ 
 rupt, when I declared myself her lover, and she 
 herself married. I was just in a condition to sup¬ 
 port myself and am now in hopes of growing rich 
 by losing my customers. 
 
 “Yours, 
 
 “Jeremy Comfit.” 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am in the condition of the idol you was once 
 pleased to mention, and barkeeper of a coffee¬ 
 house. I believe it is needless to tell you the op¬ 
 portunities I must give, and the importunities I 
 suffer. But there is one gentleman who besieges 
 me as close as the French did Bouchain. His 
 gravity makes him work cautious, and his regular 
 approaches denote a good engineer. You need 
 not doubt of his oratory, as he is a lawyer; and 
 especially since he has had so little use of it at 
 Westminster, lie may spare the more for me. 
 
 PWhat then can weak woman do? I am willing 
 to surrender, but he would have it at discretion, 
 and I with discretion. In the meantime, while 
 we parley, our several interests are neglected. As 
 his siege grows stronger, my tea grows weaker: 
 and while he pleads at my bar, none come to him 
 for counsel but in forma pauperis. Dear Mr. Spec¬ 
 tator, advise him not to insist upon hard articles, 
 nor by his irregular desires ‘contradict the well- 
 meaning lines of his countenance. If we were 
 agreed, we might settle to something, as soon as we 
 could determine where we should get most by the 
 law—at the coffee-house or at Westminster. 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Lucinda Parley.” 
 
 A Minute from Mr. John Sly. 
 
 “ The world is pretty regular for about forty rod 
 east and ten west of the observatory of the said 
 Mr. Sly; but he is credibly informed, that when 
 they are got beyond the pass into the Strand, or 
 those who move city-ward are got within Temple- 
 bar, they are just as they were before. It is there¬ 
 fore humbly proposed, that moving sentries may 
 be appointed all the busy hours of the day be¬ 
 tween the Exchange and Westminster, and report 
 what passes to your honor, or your subordinate 
 officers, from time to time.” 
 
 Ordered, 
 
 That Mr. Sly name the said officers, provided he 
 will answer for their principles and morals.—T. 
 
 Ho. 535.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1712. 
 
 Spem longam reseces.- Hor. 1 Od. xi. 7. 
 
 Cut short Tain hope. 
 
 My four-hundred-and-seventy-first speculation 
 turned upon the subject of hope in general. I de¬ 
 sign this paper as a speculation upon that vain 
 and foolish hope, which is misemployed on tem¬ 
 poral objects, and produces many sorrows and ca¬ 
 lamities in human life. 
 
 It is a precept several times inculcated by Ho¬ 
 race, that we should not entertain a hope of any¬ 
 thing in life which lies at a great distance from us. 
 The shortness and uncertainty of our time here 
 make such a kind of hope unreasonable and ab¬ 
 surd. The grave lies unseen between us and the 
 object which we reach after. Where one man lives 
 to enjoy the good he has in view, ten thousand are 
 cut off in the pursuit of it. 
 
 It happens likewise unluckily, that one hope no 
 sooner dies in us but another rises up in its stead. 
 We are apt to fancy that we shall be happy and 
 satisfied if we possess ourselves of such and such 
 particular enjoyments; but either by reason of 
 their emptiness, or the natural inquietude of the 
 mind, we have no sooner gained one point, but we 
 extend our hopes to another. We still find new 
 inviting scenes and landscapes lying behind those 
 which at a distance terminated our view. 
 
 The natural consequences of such reflections are 
 these : that we should take care not to let our hopes 
 run out into too great a length; that we should 
 sufficiently weigh the objects of our hope, whether 
 they be such as we may reasonably expect from 
 them what we propose in their fruition, and whether 
 they are such as we are pretty sure of attaining, 
 in case our life extend itself so far. If we hope 
 for things which are at too great a distance from 
 us, it is possible that we may be intercepted by 
 death in our progress toward them. If we hope 
 for things of which we have not thoroughly con¬ 
 sidered the value of, our disappointment will be 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 greater than our pleasure in the fruition of them. 
 If we hope for what we are not likely to possess, 
 we act and think in vain, and make life a greater 
 dream and shadow than it really is. 
 
 Many of the miseries and misfortunes of life 
 proceed from our want of consideration, in one or 
 all of these particulars. They are the rocks on 
 which the sanguine tribe of lovers split, and on 
 which the bankrupt, the politician, the alchemist, 
 and projector, are cast away in every age. Men 
 ot warm imaginations and towering thoughts are 
 apt to overlook the goods of fortune which are 
 near them, for something that glitters in the sight 
 at a distance; to neglect solid and substantial 
 happiness, for what is showy and superficial; and 
 to contemn that good which lies within their reach, 
 for that which they are not capable of attaining. 
 Hope calculates its schemes for a long and durable 
 life; presses forward to imaginary points of bliss; 
 grasps at impossibilities; and consequently very 
 often ensnares men into beggary, ruin, and dis¬ 
 honor. 
 
 What I have here said may serve as a model to 
 an Arabian fable, which I find translated into 
 French by Monsieur Galland. The fable has in 
 it such a wild but natural simplicity that I ques¬ 
 tion not but my reader will be as much pleased 
 with it as 1 have been, and that he will consider 
 himself, if he reflects on the several amusements 
 of hope which have sometimes passed in his mind, 
 as a near relation to the Persian glassman. 
 
 Alnaschar, says the fable, was a very idle fellow 
 that never would set his hand to any business du¬ 
 ring his father’s life. When his father died, he 
 left him to the value of a hundred drachmas in 
 Persian, money. Alnaschar, in order to make the 
 best of it, laid it out in glasses, bottles, and the 
 finest earthenware. These he piled up in a large 
 open basket, and, having made choice of a very 
 little shop, placed the basket at his feet; and leaned 
 his back upon the wall in expectation of custo¬ 
 mers. As he sat in this posture, w T ith his eyes 
 upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing train 
 of thought, and was overheard by one of his 
 neighbors, as he talked to himself in the following 
 manner : “This basket,” says he, “cost me at the 
 wholesale merchant’s a hundred drachmas, which 
 is all I have in the world. I shall quickly make 
 two hundred of it by selling it in retail. These 
 two hundred drachmas will in a very little while 
 rise to four hundred, which of course will amount 
 in time to four thousand. Four thousand drachmas 
 cannot fail of making eight thousand. As soon 
 as by this means I am master of ten thousand, I 
 will lay aside my trade of a glassman, and turn 
 jeweler. I shall then deal in diamonds, pearls, 
 and all sorts of rich stones. When 1 have got to¬ 
 gether as much wealth as I well can desire, I will 
 make a purchase of the finest house I can find, 
 with lands, slaves, eunuchs, and horses. I shall 
 then begin to enjoy myself, and make a noise in 
 the world. I will not however stop there, but 
 still continue my traffic, until I have got together 
 a hundred thousand drachmas. When I have 
 thus made myself master of a hundred thousand 
 drachmas, I shall naturally set myself on the foot 
 of a prince, and will demand the grand vizier’s 
 daughter in marriage, after having represented to 
 that minister the information which I have received 
 of the beauty, w r it, discretion, and other high 
 qualities which his daughter possesses. I will let 
 him know, at the same time, that it is my intention 
 to make him a present of a thousand pieces of gold 
 on our marriage night. As soon as I have mar¬ 
 ried the grand vizier’s daughter, I will buy her 
 ten black eunuchs, the youngest and the best that 
 can be got for money. I must afterward make 
 
 633 
 
 my father-in-law a visit, with a great train and 
 equipage. And when I am placed at his right 
 hand, which he will do of course, if it be only to 
 honor his daughter, I will give him the thousand 
 pieces of gold which I promised him; and after- 
 v ard, to his great surprise will present him another 
 purse of the same value, with some short speech: 
 as, ‘Sir, you see I am a man of my word: I al¬ 
 ways give more than I promise.” 
 
 When I have brought the princess to my house, 
 I shall take particular care to breed in her a due 
 respect for me before I give the reins to love and 
 dalliance. 1 o this end, I shall confine her to her 
 own apartment, make a short visit, and talk but 
 little to her. Her women will represent to me, 
 that she is inconsolable by reason of my unkind¬ 
 ness, and beg me with tears to caress her, and let 
 her sit down by me; but I shall still remain inex¬ 
 orable, and will turn my back upon her all the 
 first night. Her mother will then come and bring 
 her daughter to me, as I am seated upon my sofa, 
 d he daughter, with tears in her eyes, will fling 
 herself at my feet, and beg of me to receive her 
 into my favor. Then will I, to imprint in her a 
 thorough veneration for my person, draw up my 
 legs and spurn her from me with my foot, in such 
 a manner that she shall fall down several paces 
 from the sofa.” 
 
 Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chi¬ 
 merical vision, and could not forbear acting with 
 his foot what he had in his thoughts; so that un¬ 
 luckily striking his basket of brittle ware, which 
 was the foundation of all his grandeur, he kicked 
 his glasses to a great distance from him into the 
 street, and broke them into a thousand pieces. 
 
 Ho. 536.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 1712. 
 
 0 verae Phrygian, ncque enim Phryges !—Yirg. ^En. ix. 617. 
 
 0! less than women in the shapes of men.—D ryden. 
 
 As I was the other day standing in my book¬ 
 seller’s shop, a pretty young thing about eigh¬ 
 teen years of age stepped out of her coach, and 
 brushing by me, beckoned the man of the shop 
 to the further end of his counter, where she whis¬ 
 pered something to him, with an attentive look, 
 and at the same time presented him a letter: 
 after which, pressing the end of her fan upon his 
 hand, she delivered the remaining part of her mes¬ 
 sage, and withdrew. I observed, in the midst of 
 her discourse, that she flushed and cast an eye 
 upon me over her shoulder, having been informed 
 by my bookseller that I was the man of the short 
 face whom she had so often read of. Upon her 
 passing by me, the pretty blooming creature smiled 
 in my face, and dropped me a courtsey. She scarce 
 gave me time to return her salute, before she quitted 
 the shop with an easy skuttle, and stepped again 
 into her coach, giving the footman directions to 
 drive where they were bid. Upon her departure 
 my bookseller gave me a letter superscribed “To 
 the ingenious Spectator,” which the young lady 
 had desired him to deliver into my own hands, and 
 to tell me that the speedy publication of it would 
 not only oblige herself, but a whole tea-table of my 
 friends. I opened it therefore with a resolution 
 to publish it, whatever it should contain, and am 
 sure if any of my male readers will be so severely 
 critical as not to like it, they would have been as 
 well pleased with it as myself, had they seen the 
 face of the pretty scribe. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, London, Nov., 1712. 
 
 “You are always ready to receive any useful 
 hint or proposal, and such, I believe, you will 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 634 
 
 think one that may put you in a way to employ 
 the most idle part of the kingdom: I mean that 
 part of mankind who are known by the name of 
 the women’s men, or beaux, etc. Mr. Spectator, 
 you are sensible these pretty gentlemen are not 
 made for manly employments, and for want of 
 business are often as much in the vapors as the 
 ladies. Now what I propose is this, that since 
 knitting is again in fashion, which has been found 
 a very pretty amusement, that you will recommend 
 it to these gentlemen as something that may make 
 them useful to the ladies they admire. And since 
 it is not inconsistent with any game, or other di¬ 
 version, for it may be done in the playhouse, in 
 their coaches, at the tea-table, and in short in all 
 places where they come for the sake of the ladies 
 (except at church; be pleased to forbid it there, to 
 prevent mistakes), it will be easily complied with. 
 It is, beside, an employment that allows, as we 
 see by the fair sex, of many graces, which will 
 make the beaux more readily come into it: it shows 
 a white hand and a diamond ring to great advant¬ 
 age; it leaves the eyes at full liberty to be employed 
 as before, as also the thoughts and the tongue. In 
 short, it seems in every respect so proper, that it 
 is needless to urge it further, by speaking of the 
 satisfaction these male knitters will find, when 
 they see their work mixed up in a fringe, and worn 
 by the fair lady for whom and with whom it was 
 done. Truly, Mr. Spectator, I cannot but be 
 pleased I have hit upon something that these gen¬ 
 tlemen are capable of; for it is sad so considerable 
 a part of the kingdom (I mean for numbers) should 
 be of no manner of use. I shall not trouble you 
 further at this time, but only to say, that I am 
 always your reader, and generally your admirer. 
 
 “ C. B. 
 
 “ P. S. The sooner these fine gentlemen are set 
 to work the better; there being at this time several 
 fine fringes that stay only for more hands.” 
 
 I shall in the next place present my reader with 
 the description of a set of men who are common 
 enough in the world, though I do not remember 
 that I have yet taken notice of them, as they are 
 drawn in the following letter: 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Since you have lately, to so good purpose en¬ 
 larged upon conjugal love, it is to be hoped you 
 will discourage every practice that rather proceeds 
 from a regard to interest than to happiness. Now 
 you cannot but observe, that most of our fine 
 young ladies readily fall in with the direction of 
 the graver sort, to retain in their service by some 
 small encouragement as great a number as they 
 can of supernumerary and insignificant fellows, 
 which they use like whiffiers, and commonly call 
 ‘shoeing horns.’ These are never designed to 
 know the length of the foot, but only, when a 
 good offer comes, to whet and spur him up to the 
 point. Nay, it is the opinion of that grave lady, 
 Madam Matchwell, that it is absolutely convenient 
 for every prudent family to have several of these 
 implements about the house to clap on as occasion 
 serves; and that every spark ought to produce a 
 certificate of his being a shoeing horn before he be 
 admitted as a shoe. A certain lady whom I could 
 name, if it was necessary, has at present more 
 shoeing horns of all sizes, countries, and colors, 
 in her service, than ever she had new shoes in her 
 life. I have known a woman make use of a shoe¬ 
 ing horn for several years, and, finding him un¬ 
 successful in that function, convert him at length 
 into a shoe. I am mistaken if your friend, Mr. 
 William Honeycomb, was not a cast shoeing horn 
 before his late marriage. As for myself, I must 
 
 frankly declare to you, that I have been an errant 
 shoeing horn for above these twenty years. I 
 served my first mistress in that capacity above five 
 of the number, before she was shod. I confess, 
 though she had many who made their applications 
 to her, I always thought myself the best shoe in 
 her shop; and it was not until a month before her 
 marriage that I discovered what I was. 
 
 This had like to have broke my heart, and raised 
 such suspicions in me, that I told the next I made 
 love to, upon receiving some unkind usage from 
 her, that I began to look upon myself as no more 
 than her shoeing horn. Upon which, my dear, 
 w r lio was a coquette in her nature, told me I was 
 hypochondriacal, and that I might as well look 
 upon myself to be an egg, or a pipkin. But in a 
 very short time after she gave me to know that I 
 was not mistaken in myself. It would be tedious 
 to you to recount the life of an unfortunate shoe¬ 
 ing horn, or I might entertain you with a very long 
 and melancholy relation of my sufferings. Upon 
 the whole, I think Sir, it would very well become 
 a man in your post, to determine in what cases a 
 woman may be allowed with honor to make use 
 of a shoeing horn, as also to declare, whether a 
 maid on this side five-and-twenty, or a widow who 
 has not been three years in that state, may be 
 granted such a privilege, with other difficulties 
 which will naturally occur to you upon that sub¬ 
 ject. “ I am, Sir, 
 
 “ With the most profound veneration, 
 
 0. “Yours,” etc. 
 
 No 537.1 SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1712. 
 
 For we are his offspring.—Acts xvii. 28. 
 
 “ To the Spectator. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “It has been usual to remind persons of rank, 
 on great occasions in life, of their race and quality, 
 and to what expectations they were born; that by 
 considering what is worthy of them, they may be 
 withdrawn from mean pursuits, and encouraged to 
 laudable undertakings. This is turning nobility 
 into a principle of virtue, and making it productive 
 of merit, as it is understood to have been originally 
 a reward of it. 
 
 “It is for the like reason, I imagine, that you 
 have in some of your speculations asserted to your 
 readers the dignity of human nature. But you 
 cannot be insensible that this is a controverted 
 doctrine; there are authors who consider human 
 nature in a very different view, and books of 
 maxims have been written to show the falsity of 
 all human virtues.* The reflections which are 
 made on the subject usually take some tincture 
 from the tempers and characters of those that make 
 them. Politicians can resolve the most shining 
 actions among men into artifice and design; others, 
 who are soured by discontent, repulses, or ill-usage, 
 are apt to mistake their spleen for philosophy; 
 men of profligate lives, and such as find themselves 
 incapable of rising to any distinction among their 
 fellow-creatures, are for pulling down all appear¬ 
 ances of merit which seem to upbraid them; and 
 satirists describe nothing but deformity. 'From all 
 these hands, we have such draughts of mankind 
 as are represented in those burlesque pictures 
 which the Italians call caricaturas; where the art 
 consists in preserving, amidst distorted proportions 
 
 * An allusion to the following book, Reflections et Maximes 
 Morales cle M. le Due de la Kochefoucault,.—Mad. L’Enclos 
 says of him, that he had no more belief in virtues than he had 
 in ghosts. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 and aggravated features, some distinguishing like¬ 
 ness ot the person, but in sucli a manner as to 
 transform the most agreeable beauty into the most 
 odious monster. 
 
 “ It is very disingenuous to level the best of man¬ 
 kind with the worst, and for the faults of particu¬ 
 lars to degrade the whole species. Such methods 
 tend not only to remove a man’s good opinion of 
 others, but to destroy that reverence for himself, 
 which is a great guard of innocence, and a spring 
 of virtue. 
 
 “It is true, indeed, that there are surprising 
 mixtures of beauty and deformity, of wisdom ana 
 folly, virtue and vice, in the human make; such a 
 disparity is found among numbers of the same 
 kind; and every individual in some instances, or 
 at some times, is so unequal to himself, that man 
 seems to be the most wavering and inconsistent 
 beiug in the whole creation. So that the question 
 in morality concerning the dignity of our nature 
 may at first sight appear like some difficult ques¬ 
 tions in natural philosophy, in which the argu¬ 
 ments on both sides seem to be of equal strength. 
 But, as I began with considering this point as it 
 relates to action, I shall here borrow an admirable 
 reflection from Monsieur Pascal, which I think sets 
 it in its proper light. 
 
 ‘“It is of dangerous consequence/ says he, ‘to 
 represent to man how near he is to the level of 
 beasts, without showing him at the same time his 
 greatness. It is likewise dangerous to let him see 
 his greatness 'without his meanness. It is more 
 dangerous yet to leave him ignorant of either; but 
 very beneficial that he should be made sensible of 
 both.’ Whatever imperfections we may have in 
 our nature, it is the business of religion and virtue 
 to rectify them, as far as is consistent with our 
 present state. In the meantime, it is no small 
 encouragement to generous minds to consider, that 
 we shall put them all off with our mortality. That 
 sublime manner of salutation with which the 
 Jews approach their kings, 
 
 0 king, live forever! 
 
 may be addressed to the lowest and most despised 
 mortal among us, under all the infirmities and 
 distresses with which we see him surrounded. 
 And whoever believes in the immortality of the 
 soul, will not need a better argument for the dig¬ 
 nity of his nature, nor a stronger incitement to 
 actions suitable to it. 
 
 “I am naturally led by this reflection to a sub¬ 
 ject I have already touched upon in a former letter, 
 and cannot without pleasure call to mind the 
 thoughts of Cicero to this purpose, in the close of 
 his book concerning old age. Every one who is 
 acquainted with his writings will remember, that 
 the elder Cato is introduced in that discourse as 
 the speaker, and Scipio and Laslius as his auditors. 
 This venerable person is represented looking for¬ 
 ward as it were from the verge of extreme old age 
 into a future state, and rising into a contemplation 
 on the unperishable part of his nature, and its ex¬ 
 istence after death. I shall collect part of his dis¬ 
 course. And as you have formerly offered some 
 arguments for the soul’s immortality, agreeable 
 both to reason and the Christian doctrine, 1 believe 
 your readers will not be displeased to see how the 
 same great truth shines in the pomp of Roman 
 eloquence. 
 
 < “‘This,’ says Cato, ‘is my firm persuasion, that 
 since the human soul exerts itself with so great 
 activity; since it has sucli a remembrance of the 
 past, such a concern for the future; since it is en¬ 
 riched with so many arts, sciences, and discoveries; 
 it is impossible but the Being which contains all 
 these must be immortal.’ 
 
 635 
 
 “The elder Cyrus, just before his death, is rep¬ 
 resented by Xenophon speaking after this manner: 
 ‘ Think not, my dearest children, that when I de¬ 
 part from you I shall be no more; but remember, 
 that my soul, even while I lived among you, was 
 invisible to you; yet by my actions you were sen¬ 
 sible it existed in this body. Believe it therefore 
 existing still, though it be still unseen. How 
 quickly would the honors of illustrious men perish 
 after death, if their souls performed nothing to 
 preserve their fame! For my own part, I never 
 could think that the soul while in a mortal body 
 lives, but when departed out of it, it dies; or that 
 its consciousness is lost when it is discharged out 
 of an unconscious habitation. But when it is 
 freed from all corporeal alliance, then it truly ex¬ 
 ists. Further, since the human frame is broken by 
 death, tell us what becomes of its parts ? It is 
 visible whither the materials of other beings are 
 translated, namely: to the source from whence 
 they had their birth. The soul alone, neither pre¬ 
 sent nor departed, is the object of our eyes.’ 
 
 “Thus Cyrus. But to proceed: ‘Ho one shall 
 persuade me, Scipio, that your worthy father, or 
 your grandfathers Paulus and Africanus, or Afri- 
 canus his father or uncle, or many other excellent 
 men whom I need not name, performed so many 
 actions to be remembered by posterity, with be¬ 
 ing sensible that futurity was their right. And, 
 if I may be allowed an old man’s privilege to 
 speak of myself, do you think I would have en¬ 
 dured the fatigue of so many wearisome days and 
 nights, both at home and abroad, if I imagined 
 that the same boundary which is set to my life 
 must terminate my glory? Were it not more de¬ 
 sirable to have worn out my days in ease and 
 tranquillity, free from labor, and without emula¬ 
 tion? But, I know not how, my soul has always 
 raised itself, and looked forward on futurity, in 
 this view and expectation, that when it shall de¬ 
 part out of life it shall then live forever; and if 
 this were not true, that the mind is immortal, the 
 souls of the most worthy would not, above all 
 others, have the strongest impulse to glory. 
 
 “ ‘ What beside this is the cause that the wisest 
 men die with the greatest equanimity, the ignorant 
 with the greatest concern ? Does it not seem that 
 tl\ose minds which have the most extensive views 
 foresee they are removing to a happier condition, 
 which those of a narrow sight do not perceive ? I, 
 for my part, am transported with the hope of see¬ 
 ing your ancestors, whom I have honored and 
 loved; and am earnestly desirous of meeting not 
 only those excellent persons whom I have known, 
 but those, too, of whom I have heard and read, 
 and of whom I myself have written; nor would I 
 be detained from so pleasing a journey. 0 happy 
 day, when I shall escape from this crowd, this 
 heap of pollution, and be admitted to that divine 
 assembly of exalted spirits! when I shall go not 
 only to those great persons I have named, but to 
 my Cato, my son, than whom a better man was 
 never born, and whose funeral rites I myself per¬ 
 formed, whereas he ought rather to have attended 
 mine. Yet has not his soul deserted me, but, 
 seeming to cast back a look on me, is gone before 
 to those habitations to which it was sensible I 
 should follow him. And though I might appear 
 to have borne my loss with courage, I was not un¬ 
 affected with it; but I comforted myself in the 
 assurance, that it would not be long before we 
 should meet again, and be divorced no more.’ 
 
 “I am. Sir,” etc. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 636 
 
 No. 538.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1712. 
 
 -- Ultra 
 
 Fincm tendere opus.- Hoe. 2 Sat. i. 1. 
 
 To launch beyond all bounds. 
 
 Surprise is not so much the life of stories, that 
 every one aims at it who endeavors to please by 
 telling them. Smooth delivery, an elegant choice 
 of words, and a sweet arrangement, are all beauti- 
 fying graces, but not the particulars in this point 
 of conversation which either long command the 
 attention, or strike with the violence of a sudden 
 passion, or occasion the burst of laughter which 
 accompanies humor. I have sometimes fancied 
 that the mind is in this case like a traveler who 
 sees a fine seat in haste; he acknowledges the 
 delightfulness of a walk set with regularity, but 
 would be uneasy if he were obliged to pace it over, 
 when the first view had let him into all its beau¬ 
 ties from one end to the other. 
 
 However, a knowledge of the success which 
 stories will have when they are attended with a 
 turn of surprise, as it has happily made the char¬ 
 acters of some, so has it also been the ruin of the 
 characters of others. There is a set of men who 
 outrage truth, instead of affecting us with a man¬ 
 ner in telling it; who overleap the line of proba¬ 
 bility, that they may be seen to move out of the 
 common road; and endeavor only to make their 
 hearers stare by imposing upon them with a kind 
 of nonsense against the philosophy of nature, or 
 such a heap of wonders told upon their own 
 knowledge, as it is not likely one man should have 
 ever met with. 
 
 I have been led to this observation by a company 
 into which I fell accidentally. The subject of an¬ 
 tipathies was a proper field wherein such false 
 surprises might expatiate, and there were those 
 present who appeared very fond to show it in its 
 full extent of traditional history. Some of them, 
 in a learned manner, offered to our consideration 
 the miraculous powers which the effluviums of 
 cheese have over bodies whose pores are disposed 
 to receive them in a noxious manner; others gave 
 an account of such who could indeed bear the sight 
 of cheese, but not the taste; for which they brought 
 a reason from the milk of their nurses. Others 
 again discoursed, without endeavoring at reasons, 
 concerning an unconquerable aversion which some 
 stomachs have against a joint of meat when it is 
 whole, and the eager inclination they have for it 
 when, by its being cut up, the shape which had 
 affected them is altered. From hence they passed 
 to eels, then to parsnips, and so from one aversion 
 to another, until we had worked up ourselves to 
 such a pitch of complaisance, that when the din¬ 
 ner w r as to come in we inquired the name of every 
 dish, and hoped it would be no offense to any 
 company, before it was admitted. When we had 
 sat down, this civility among us turned the dis¬ 
 course from eatables to other sorts of aversions; 
 and the eternal cat, which plagues every conversa¬ 
 tion of this nature, began then to engross the sub¬ 
 ject. One had sweated at the sight of it, another 
 had smelled it out as it lay concealed in a very 
 distant cupboard; and he who crowned the whole 
 set of these stories, reckoned up the number of 
 times in which it had occasioned him to swoon 
 away. “At last/’ says he, “that you may all be 
 satisfied of my invincible aversion to a cat, I shall 
 give an unanswerable instance. As I was going 
 through a street of London, where I had never 
 been until then, I felt a general damp and faintness 
 all over me, which I could not tell how to account 
 for, Until I chanced to cast my eyes upward, and 
 found that I was passing under a sign post on 
 which the picture of a cat was hung.” 
 
 The extravagance of this turn in the way of sur¬ 
 prise gave a stop to the talk we had been carrying 
 on. Some were silent because they doubted, ana 
 others, because they were conquered in their own 
 way; so that the gentleman had an opportunity 
 to press the belief of it upon us, and let us see 
 that he was rather exposing himself than ridicul¬ 
 ing others. « 
 
 I must freely own that I did not all this while 
 disbelieve everything that was said; but yet I 
 thought some in the company had been endeav¬ 
 oring who should pitch the bar furthest; that it 
 had for some been a measuring cast, and at last 
 my friend of the cat and sign-post had thrown be¬ 
 yond them all. 
 
 I then considered the manner in which this 
 story had been received, and the possibility that 
 it might have passed for a jest upon others, if he 
 had not labored against himself. From hence, 
 thought I, there are two ways which the well-bred 
 world generally takes to correct such a practice, 
 when they do not think fit to contradict it flatly. 
 
 The first of these is a general silence, which I 
 would not advise any one to interpret in his own 
 behalf. It is often the effect of prudence in avoid¬ 
 ing a quarrel, when they see another drive so fast 
 that there is no stopping him without being run 
 against; and but very seldom the effect of weak¬ 
 ness in believing suddenly. The generality of 
 mankind are not so grossly ignorant, as some 
 overbearing spirits would persuade themselves; 
 and if the authority of a character or a caution 
 against danger makes us suppress our opinions, 
 yet neither of these are of force enough to sup¬ 
 press our thoughts of them. If a man who has 
 endeavored to amuse his company with improba¬ 
 bilities could but look into their minds, he would 
 find that they imagine he lightly esteems of their 
 sense when he thinks to impose upon them, and 
 that he is less esteemed by them in his attempt in 
 doing so. His endeavor to glory at their expense 
 becomes a ground of quarrel, and the scorn and 
 indifference with which they entertain it begins 
 the immediate punishment: and indeed (if we 
 should even go no further) silence, or a negligent 
 indifference, has a deeper way of wounding than 
 opposition, because opposition proceeds from an 
 anger that has a sort of generous sentiment for the 
 adversary mingling along with it, while it shows 
 that there is some esteem in your mind for him: 
 in short, that you think him worth wdiile to con¬ 
 test with. But silence, or negligent indifference, 
 proceeds from anger, mixed with a scorn that 
 shows another that he is thought by you too con¬ 
 temptible to be regarded. 
 
 The other method which the world has taken 
 for correcting this practice of false surprise, is to 
 overshoot such talkers in their own bow, or to 
 raise the story with further degrees of impossi¬ 
 bility, and set up for a voucher to them in such a 
 manner as must let them see they stand detected. 
 Thus I have heard a discourse was once managed 
 upon the effects of fear. One of the company had 
 given an account how it had turned his friend's 
 hair gray in a night, while the terrors of a ship¬ 
 wreck encompassed him. Another, taking the 
 hint from hence, began upon his own knowledge 
 to enlarge his instances of the like nature to such 
 a number, that it was not probable he could evei 
 have met with them : and as he still grounded 
 these upon different causes for the sake of variety, 
 it might seem at last, from his share of the con¬ 
 versation, almost impossible that any one who can 
 feel the passion of fear should all his life escape so 
 common an effect of it. By this time some of the 
 company grew negligent, or desirous to contradict 
 him : but one rebuked the rest with an appearance 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 of severity, and, with the known old story in his 
 head, assured them they need not scruple to be¬ 
 lieve that the fear of anything can make a man’s 
 hair gray, since he knew one whose periwig had 
 suffered so by it. Thus he stopped the talk, and 
 made them easy. Tlius is the same method taken 
 to bring us to shame, which we fondly take to in¬ 
 crease our character. It is indeed a kind of mim¬ 
 icry, by which another puts on our air of conver¬ 
 sation to show us to ourselves. He seems to look 
 ridiculous before, that you may remember how 
 near a resemblance you bear to him, or that you 
 may know he will not lie under the imputation of 
 believing you. Then it is that you are struck 
 dumb immediately with a conscientious shame for 
 what you have been saying. Then it is that you 
 are inwardly grieved at the sentiments which you 
 cannot but perceive others entertain concerning 
 r ou. In short, you are against yourself; the 
 augh of the company runs against you; the cen¬ 
 suring world is obliged to you for that triumph 
 which you have allowed them at your own expense; 
 and truth, which you have injured, has a near way 
 of being revenged on you, when by the bare repe¬ 
 tition of your story you become a frequent diver¬ 
 sion for the public. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “The other day, walking in Pancras church¬ 
 yard, I thought of your paper wherein you men¬ 
 tion epitaphs, and am of opinion this has a thought 
 in it worth being communicated to your readers : 
 
 Here innocence and beauty lies, whose breath 
 Was snatch’d by early, not untimely, death. 
 
 Hence she did go, just as she did begin 
 Sorrow to know, before she knew to sin. 
 
 Death, that does sin and sorrow thus prevent, 
 
 Is the next blessing to a life well spent. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, your Servant.” 
 
 No. 539.] TUESDAY, NOVEMBER, 18, 1712. 
 
 Ileteroclita sunto. —Qua: Genus. 
 
 Be they heteroclites. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I am a young widow of a good fortune and 
 family, and just come to town ; where I find I 
 have clusters of pretty fellows come already to 
 visit me, some dying with hopes, others with 
 fears, though they never saw me. Now, what I 
 would beg of you would be to know whether I 
 may venture to use these pert fellows with the 
 same, freedom as I did my country acquaintance. 
 I desire your leave to use them as to me shall seem 
 meet, without imputation of a jilt: for since I 
 make declaration that not one of them shall have 
 me, I think I ought to be allowed the liberty of 
 insulting those who have the vanity to believe it 
 is in their power to make me break that resolu¬ 
 tion. There are schools for learning to use foils, 
 frequented by those who never design to fight; 
 and this useless way of aiming at the heart, with¬ 
 out design to -wound it on either side, is the play 
 with which I am resolved to divert myself. The 
 man who pretends to win, I shall use like him 
 who comes into a fencing-school to pick a quarrel. 
 I hope upon this foundation you will give me the 
 free use of the natural and artificial force of my 
 eyes, looks, and gestures. As for verbal promises, 
 I will make none, but shall have no mercy on the 
 conceited interpreters of glances and motions. I 
 am particularly skilled in the downcast eye, and 
 the recovery into a sudden full aspect and away 
 again, as you may have -seen sometimes practiced 
 by us country beauties beyond all that you have 
 observed in courts and cities. Add to this Sir, that 
 
 637 
 
 I have a ruddy, heedless look, which covers arti¬ 
 fice the best of anything. Though I can dance 
 very well, I affect a tottering untaught way of 
 walking, by which I appear an easy prey : and 
 never exert my instructed charms, until I find I 
 have engaged a pursuer. Be pleased, Sir, to print 
 tins letter, which will certainly begin the chase of 
 a rich widow. The many foldings, escapes, re¬ 
 turns, and doublings, which I make, I shall from 
 time to time communicate to you, for the better 
 instruction of all females, who set up, like me, for 
 reducing the present exorbitant power and inso¬ 
 lence of man. 
 
 “I am, Sir, 
 
 “Your faithful Correspondent, 
 
 “Relicta Lovely.” 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I depend upon your professed respect for vir¬ 
 tuous love for your immediately answering the 
 design of this letter; which is no other than to lay 
 before the world the severity of certain parents, 
 who desire to suspend the marriage of -a discreet 
 young woman of eighteen three years longer, for 
 no other leason but that of her being too young to 
 enter into that state. As to the consideration of 
 riches, my circumstances are such, that I cannot 
 be suspected to make my addresses to her on 
 such low motives as avarice or ambition. If ever 
 innocence, wit, and beauty, united their utmost 
 .charms, they have in her. I wish you would ex¬ 
 patiate a little on this subject, and admonish her 
 parents that it may be from the very imperfection 
 of human nature itself, and not any personal frail¬ 
 ty of her or me, that our inclinations, baffled at 
 piesent, may alter; and while we are arguing with 
 ourselves to put off the enjoyment of our present 
 passions, our affections may change their objects 
 in the operation. It is a very delicate subject to 
 talk upon; but if it were but hinted, I am in hopes 
 it would give the parties concerned some reflec¬ 
 tion that, might expedite our happiness. There 
 is a possibility, and I hope I may say it without 
 imputation of immodesty to her I love with the 
 highest honor: I say there is a possibility this de¬ 
 lay may be as painful to her as it is to me; if it be 
 as much, it must be more, by reason of the severe 
 rules the sex are under, in being denied even the 
 relief of complaint. If you oblige me in this, and 
 I succeed, I promise you a place at my wedding, 
 and a treatment suitable to your spectatorial dig 
 nity. 
 
 “Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “ Eustace.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “I yesterday heard a young gentleman, that 
 looked as if he was just come to the gown and a 
 scarf, upon evil speaking: which subject, you 
 know Archbishop Tillotson has so nobly handled 
 in a sermon in his folio. As soon as ever he had 
 named his text, and had opened a little the drift 
 of his discourse, I was in great hopes he had been 
 one of Sir Roger’s chaplains. I have conceived 
 so great an idea of the charming discourse above, 
 that I should have thought one part of my Sab¬ 
 bath very well spent in hearing a repetition of it. 
 But, alas! Mr. Spectator, this reverend divine 
 gave us his grace’s sermon, and yet I do not know 
 how; even I, that I am sure have read it at least 
 twenty times, could not tell what to make of it, 
 and was at a loss sometimes to guess what the 
 man aimed at. He was so just, indeed, as to give 
 us all the heads and the subdivisions of the ser¬ 
 mon, and further I think there was not one beau¬ 
 tiful thought in it but what we had. But then, Sir, 
 this gentleman made so many pretty additions; and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 G38 
 
 he could never give us a paragraph of the sermon, 
 but he introduced it with something which, me- 
 thought, looked more like a design to show his 
 own ingenuity, than to instruct the people. In 
 short, he added and curtailed in such a manner, 
 that he vexed me ; insomuch that I could not for 
 bear thinking (what I confess I ought not to have 
 thought of in so holy a place), that this young 
 spark was as justly blamable as Bullock or Pen- 
 kethman, when they mend a noble play of Shak- 
 speare or Jonson. Pray, Sir, take this into your 
 consideration ; and, if we must be entertained 
 with the works of any of those great men, desire 
 these gentlemen to give them us as they find them, 
 that so when we read them to our families at home, 
 they may the better remember that they have heard 
 them at church. 
 
 “ Sir, your humble Servant.” 
 
 No. 540.] WEDNESDAY, NOY. 19, 1712. 
 
 -Non deficit alter.— Yirg. iEn. vi. 143. 
 
 A second is not wanting. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ There is no part of your writings which I 
 have in more esteem than your criticism upon 
 Milton. It is an honorable and candid endeavor 
 to set the works of our noble writers in the grace¬ 
 ful light which they deserve. You will lose much 
 of my kind inclination toward you, if you do not 
 attempt the encomium of Spenser also, or at least 
 indulge my passion for that charming author so 
 far as to print the loose hints I now give you on 
 that subject. 
 
 “ Spenser’s general plan is the representation of 
 six virtues—holiness, temperance, chastity friend¬ 
 ship, justice, and courtesy—in six legends by six 
 personages, these personages are supposed, under 
 proper allegories suitable to their respective char¬ 
 acters, to do all that is necessary for the full man¬ 
 ifestation of the respective virtues which they are 
 to exert. 
 
 “ These one might undertake to show under the 
 several heads are admirably drawn; no images 
 improper, and most surprisingly beautiful. The 
 Redcross Knight runs through the whole steps of 
 the Christian life; G-uyon does all that temperance 
 can possibly require; Britomartis (a woman) ob¬ 
 serves the true rules of unaffected chastity; Arthe- 
 gal is in every respect of life strictly and wisely 
 just; Calidore is rightly courteous. 
 
 “In short, in Fairyland, where knights-errant 
 have a full scope to range, and to do even what 
 Ariostos or Orlandos could not do in the world 
 withoutbreaking into credibility, Spenser’s knights 
 have, under those six heads, a full and truly poet¬ 
 ical system of Christian, public, and low life. 
 
 “ His legend of friendship is more diffuse, and 
 yet even there the allegory is finely drawn, only 
 the heads various: one knight could not there sup¬ 
 port all the parts. 
 
 “ To do honor to his country, Prince Arthur is 
 a universal hero; in holiness, temperance, chas¬ 
 tity, and justice, superexcellent. For the same 
 reason, and to compliment Queen Elizabeth, Glo- 
 riana, queen of fairies, whose court was the asy¬ 
 lum of the oppressed, represents that glorious 
 queen. At her commands all these knights set 
 forth, and only at hers the Redcross Knight de¬ 
 stroys the dragon, Guy on overturns the Bower of 
 Bliss, Arthegal (i. e. Justice) beats down Geryoneo 
 (i. e. Philip II, king of Spain) to rescue Beige 
 (i. e. Holland), and he beats the Grantorto (the 
 same Philip in another light) to restore Irena (i. e. 
 Peace to Europe). 
 
 “ Chastity being the first female virtue, Brito 
 martis is a Briton; her part is fine, though it re¬ 
 quires explication. His stjle is very poetical; no 
 puns, affectations of wit, forced antitheses, or any 
 of that low tribe. • 
 
 “ His old words are all true English, and num¬ 
 bers exquisite; and since of words there is the 
 multa renascentur, since they are all proper, such 
 a poem should not (any more than Milton’s) con¬ 
 sist all of it of common ordinary words. See in¬ 
 stances of descriptions. 
 
 Causeless jealousy in Britomartis, v. 6, 14, in its 
 restlessness. 
 
 Like as a wayward child, whose sounder sleep 
 Is broken with some fearful dream’s affright, 
 
 With froward will doth set himself to weep, 
 
 Ne can be still’d for all his nurse’s might, 
 
 But kicks and squalls, and shrieks for fell despite; 
 
 Now scratching her, and her loose locks misusing, 
 
 Now seeking darkness, and now seeking light; 
 
 Then craving suck, and then the suck refusing: 
 
 Such was this lady’s fit in her love’s fond accusing. 
 
 Curiosity occasioned by jealousy, upon occasion of her 
 lover's absence. Ibid. Stan, 8, 9. 
 
 Then as she look’d long, at last she spy’d 
 One coming toward her with hasty speed: 
 
 Well ween’d she then, ere him she plain descry’d, 
 
 That it was one sent from her love indeed: 
 
 Whereat her heart was fill’d with hope and dread, 
 
 Ne would she stay till he in place could come, 
 
 But ran to meet him forth to know his tiding’s somme: 
 
 Even in the door him meeting, she begun. 
 
 ‘And where is he, thy lord, and how far hence? 
 
 Declare at once; and hath he lost or won ? ’ 
 
 Care and his house are described thus, iv. 6, 33—35. 
 
 Not far away, nor meet for any guest, 
 
 They spy’d a little cottage, like some poor man’s nest. 
 
 34. 
 
 There entering in, they found the good man's self, 
 
 Full busily unto his work ybent, 
 
 Who was so weel a wretched wearish elf, 
 
 With hollow eyes and rawbone cheeks far spent, 
 
 As if he had in prison long been pent. 
 
 Full black and griesly did his face appear, 
 
 Besmear’d with smoke that near his eye-sight blent, 
 With rugged beard, and hoary shaggy heare, 
 
 The which he never wont to comb, or comely sheer. 
 
 35. 
 
 Rude was his garment, and to rags all rent; 
 
 No better had he, ne for better car’d: 
 
 Ilis blistered hands among the cinders brent, 
 
 And fingers filthy with long nails prepared, 
 
 Right fit to rend the food on which he fared. 
 
 Ilis name was Care; a blacksmith by his trade, 
 
 That neither day nor night from working spared, 
 
 But to small purpose iron wedges made: 
 
 These be unquiet thoughts that careful minds invade. 
 
 “ Homer’s epithets were much admired by an¬ 
 tiquity: see what great justness and variety there 
 are in these epithets of the trees in the forest, 
 where _ the Redcross Knight lost Truth. B. i, 
 Cant, i, Stan. 8, 9. 
 
 The sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall, 
 
 The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry, 
 
 The builder-oak, sole king of forests all, 
 
 The aspine good for staves, the cypress funeral. 
 
 9. 
 
 The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors, 
 
 And poets sage: the fir that weepeth still, 
 
 The willow worn of forlorn paramours, 
 
 The yew obedient to the bender’s will, 
 
 The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill: 
 
 The myrrlie sweet, bleeding in the bitter wound, 
 
 The war-like beech, the ash, for nothing ill, 
 
 The fruitful olive, and the plantane round, 
 
 The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound. 
 
 “I shall trouble you no more, but desire you to 
 let me conclude with these verses, though I think 
 they have already been quoted by you. They 
 are directions to young ladies oppressed with 
 calumny, vi. 6, 14. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Tlio best (said he) that I can you advise 
 Is to avoid the occasion of the ill: 
 
 For when the cause whence evil doth arise 
 Removed is, the effect surceaseth still. 
 
 Abstain from pleasure and restrain your will 
 Subdue desire and bridle loose delight 
 Use scanted diet and forbear your fill 
 Shun secrecy, and talk in open sight;’ 
 
 So shall you soon repair your present evil plight.” 
 
 639 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 541.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1712. 
 
 Format enim natura prius nos intus ad omnem 
 Fortunarum habitum: juvat, aut impcllit ad iram, 
 
 Aut ad humum, mserore gravi deducit, et angit: 
 
 Fost effert animi motus interprete lingua. 
 
 ing to the various touches which raise them, form 
 lemselves into an acute or grave, quick or slow, 
 oud or soft, tone. These, too, may be subdivided 
 into various kinds of tones, as the gentle, the 
 roug i the contracted, the diffuse, the continued, 
 ic intermitted, the broken, abrupt, winding, soft- 
 ’ j 11 " e .levated. Every one of these may be em- 
 p oyed with art and judgment; and all supply the 
 
 variet &S C ° ° rS ^ le P a ^ n ter, with an expressive 
 
 Anger exerts its peculiar voice in an acute, 
 raised, and hurrying sound. The passionate char- 
 ac er ot King Lear, as it is admirably drawn by 
 
 lakspeare abounds with the strongest instances 
 ot this kind. 
 
 IIor. Ars Poet. v. 108. 
 
 For nature forms and softens us within, 
 
 And writes our fortune’s changes in our face: 
 
 Pleasure enchants, impetuous rage transports, 
 
 And grief dejects, and wrings the tortur'd soul: 
 
 And these are all interpreted by speech.— Roscommon. 
 
 My friend the Templar, whom I have so often 
 mentioned in these writings, having determined 
 to lay aside his poetical studies, in order to a 
 closer pursuit of the law, has put together, as a 
 larewell essay, some thoughts concerning pronun¬ 
 ciation and action, which he has given me leave 
 to communicate to the public. They are chiefly 
 collected from his favorite author, Cicero, who is 
 known to have been an intimate friend of Roscius 
 the actor, and a good judge of dramatic perform¬ 
 ances, as well as the most eloquent pleader of the 
 time in which he lived. 
 
 Cicero concludes his celebrated books De Ora- 
 tore with some precepts for pronunciation and 
 action, without which part he affirms that the 
 best orator in the world can never succeed: and 
 an indifferent one, who is master of this, shall gain 
 much greater applause. “What could make a 
 stronger impression/’ says he, “than those ex¬ 
 clamations of Gracchus? Whither shall I turn? 
 Wretch that I am! to what place betake myself ? 
 fehall I go to the Capitol ? Alas! it is overflowed 
 with my brother’s blood. Or shall I return to my 
 house ? let there I behold my mother plunged 
 in misery, weeping and despairing!” These 
 breaks and turns of passion, it seems, were so 
 enforced by the eyes, voice, and gesture, of the 
 speaker, that his very enemies could not refrain 
 from tears. “I insist,” says Tully, “upon this 
 the rathei because our orators, who are as it were 
 actois of the truth itself, have quitted this manner 
 of speaking; and the players, who are but the 
 imitators of truth, have taken it up.” 
 
 I shall therefore pursue the hint he has here 
 given me, and for the service of the British stage 
 I shall copy some of the rules which this great 
 Roman master has laid down; yet without con¬ 
 fining myself wholly to his thoughts or words: 
 and to adapt this essay the more to the purpose 
 ioi which I intend it, instead of the examples he 
 has inserted in this discourse out of the ancient 
 tragedies, I shall make use of parallel passages 
 out of the most celebrated of our own. 
 
 The design of art is to assist action as much as 
 possible in the representation of nature; for the 
 appearance of reality is that which moves us in 
 all representations, and these have always the 
 greater force the nearer they approach to nature 
 and the less they show of imitation. 
 
 Nature herself has assigned to every motion of 
 soul its peculiar cast of the countenance, tone of 
 voice, and manner of gesture through the whole 
 person; all the features of the face and tones of 
 the voice answer, like strings upon musical in¬ 
 struments, to the impressions made on them by 
 the mind. 1 hus the sounds of the voice, accord¬ 
 
 ---DeathI confusion! 
 
 Fiery! what quality?—why Gloster! Gloster! 
 
 Id speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife; 
 
 Are they informed of this? my breath and blood! 
 
 Fiery! the fiery duke!--etc. 
 
 Sorrow and complaint demand a voice quite 
 different; flexible, slow, interrupted, and modu¬ 
 lated in a mournful tone: as in that pathetic 
 soliloquy of Cardinal Wolsey on his fall: 
 
 Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness! 
 
 This is the state of man!-to-day he puts forth 
 
 The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, 
 
 And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; 
 
 Ihe third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
 
 And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
 His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, 
 
 And then he falls as I do. 
 
 We have likewise a fine example of this in the 
 whole part of Andromache in the Distrest Mother, 
 particularly in these lines— 
 
 I’ll go, and in the anguish of my heart 
 
 Weep o’er my child-If he must die, my life 
 
 Is wrapt in his, I shall not long survive. 
 
 ’Tis for his sake that I have suffer’d life, 
 
 Groan’d in captivity, and outliv’d Hector. 
 
 Yes, my Astyanax, we’ll go together! 
 
 Together to the realms of night we’ll go : 
 
 There to thy ravish’d eyes thy sire I’ll show, 
 
 And point him out among the shades below. 
 
 Fear expresses itself in a low, hesitating, and 
 cioject sound. If tlie reader considers tlie follow- 
 ing speech of Lady Macbeth, while her husband 
 is about the murder of Duncan and his grooms, he 
 will imagine her even affrighted with the sound 
 of her own voice while she is speaking it: 
 
 Alas! I am afraid they have awak’d, 
 
 And ’tis not done: th’ attempt, and not the deed, 
 Confounds us—Hark!—I laid the daggers ready, 
 
 He could not miss them. Had he not resembled 
 My father as he slept, I had done it. 
 
 Courage assumes a louder tone, as in that speech 
 of Don Sebastian: 
 
 Here satiate all your fury; 
 
 Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me; 
 
 I have a soul that like an ample shield 
 Can take in all, and verge enough for more. 
 
 Pleasure dissolves into a luxurious, mild, ten¬ 
 der, and joyous modulation; as in the following 
 lines in Caius Marius: 
 
 Lavinia! 0 there’s music in the name, 
 
 That softening me to infant tenderness, 
 
 Makes my heart spring like the first leap of life. 
 
 And perplexity is different from all these; grave 
 but not bemoaning, with an earnest, uniform sound 
 of voice; as in that celebrated speech of Hamlet 
 
 To be, or not to be!-that is the question : 
 
 Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; 
 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
 
 And by opposing end them ? To die, to sleep; 
 
 No more; and by a sleep to say we end 
 The heart-ache, and a thousand natural shocks 
 That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation 
 
 Devoutly to be wish’d! To die, to sleep!- 
 
 To sleep; perchance to dream! Ay, there’s the rub; 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 640 
 
 For, in that sleep of death, what-dreams may come, 
 
 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
 
 Must give us pause-There’s the respect 
 
 That makes calamity of so long life; 
 
 For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 
 
 TIT oppressor’s wrongs, the proud man’s contumely, 
 
 The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay, 
 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
 
 When he himself might his quietus make 
 With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, 
 
 To groan and sweat under a weary life, 
 
 But that the dread of something after death, 
 
 The undiscover’d country, from whose bourne 
 No traveler returns, puzzles the will, 
 
 And makes us rather bear those ills we have 
 Than fly to others that we know not of. 
 
 As all these varieties of voice are to be directed 
 by the sense, so the action is to be directed by the 
 voice, and with a beautiful propriety, as it were, 
 to enforce it. The arm, which by a strong figure 
 Tully calls the orator’s weapon, is to be sometimes 
 raised and extended; and the hand, by its motion, 
 sometimes to lead, and sometimes to follow, the 
 words as they are uttered. The stamping of the 
 foot, too, has its proper expression in contention, 
 anger, or absolute command. But the face is the 
 epitome of the whole man, and the eyes are as it 
 were the epitome of the face; for which reason, he 
 says, the best judges among the Romans were not 
 extremely pleased even with Roscius himself in 
 his mask. No part of the body, beside the face, 
 is capable of as many changes as there are differ¬ 
 ent emotions in the mind, and of expressing them 
 all by those changes. Nor is this to be done with¬ 
 out the freedom of the eyes; therefore Theophras¬ 
 tus called one, who barely rehearsed his speech 
 with his eyes fixed, an “ absent actor.” 
 
 As the countenance admits of so great variety, 
 it requires also great judgment to govern it. Not 
 that the form of the face is to be shifted on every 
 occasion, lest it turn to farce and buffoonery; but it 
 is certain that the eyes have a wonderful power 
 of marking the emotions of the mind; sometimes 
 by a steadfast look, sometimes by a careless one— 
 now by a sudden regard, then by a joyful spark¬ 
 ling, as the sense of the words is diversified; for 
 action is, as it were, the speech of the features and 
 limbs, and must therefore conform itself always to 
 the sentiments of the soul. And it may be ob¬ 
 served, that in all which relates to the gesture there 
 is a wonderful force implanted by nature; since 
 the vulgar, the unskillful, and even the most bar¬ 
 barous, are chiefly affected by this. None are 
 moved by the sound of words but those who un¬ 
 derstand the language; and the sense of many 
 things is lost upon men of a dull apprehension; 
 but action is a kind of universal tongue; all men 
 are subject to the same passions, and consequently 
 know the same marks of them in others, by which 
 they themselves express them. 
 
 Perhaps some of my readers may be of opinion 
 that the hints I have here made use of out of Cicero 
 are somewhat too refined for the players on our 
 theater; in answer to which I venture to lay it 
 down as a maxim, that without good sense no one 
 can be a good player, and that he is very unfit to 
 personate the dignity of a Roman hero who can¬ 
 not enter into the rules for pronunciation and ges¬ 
 ture delivered by a Roman orator. 
 
 There is another thing which my author does 
 not think too minute to insist on, though it is 
 purely mechanical; and that is the right pitching 
 of the voice. Oil this occasion he tells the story 
 of Gracchus, who employed a servant with a little 
 ivory pipe to stand behind him, and give him the 
 right pitch, as often as he wandered too far from 
 the proper modulation. “ Every voice,” says 
 Tully, “has its peculiar medium and compass, 
 and the sweetness of speech consists in leading it 
 
 | through all the variety of tones naturally, and 
 j without touching any extreme. Therefore,” says 
 he, “leave the pipe at home, but carry the sense 
 of this custom with you.” 
 
 No. 542.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 1712. 
 
 Et sibi prseferri se gaudet- Ovid, Met. ii. 430. 
 
 -He heard, 
 
 Well pleas’d, himself before himself preferr’d.— Addison. 
 
 "When I have been present in assemblies, where 
 my paper has been talked of, I have been very 
 well pleased to hear those who would detract from 
 the author of it observe, that the letters which 
 are sent to the Spectator are as good, if not better, 
 than any of his works. Upon this occasion many 
 letters of mirth are usually mentioned, which some 
 think the Spectator wrote to himself, and which 
 others commend because they fancy he received 
 them from his correspondents. Such are those 
 from the valetudinarian; the inspector of the sign¬ 
 posts; the master of the fan exercise; with that 
 of the hooped petticoat; that of Nicholas Hart 
 the annual sleeper; that from Sir John Envil; that 
 upon the London Cries; with multitudes of the 
 same nature. As I love nothing more than to 
 mortify the ill-natured, that I may do it effectually, 
 I must acquaint them they have very often praised 
 me when they did not design it, and that they 
 have approved my writings when they thought 
 they had derogated from them. I have heard sev¬ 
 eral of these unhappy gentlemen proving, by un¬ 
 deniable arguments, that I was not able to pen a 
 letter which I had written the day before. Nay, I 
 have heard some of them throwing out ambiguous 
 expressions, and giving the company reason to 
 suspect that they themselves did me the honor to 
 send me such and such a particular epistle, which 
 happened to be talked of with the esteem or ap¬ 
 probation of those who were present. These rigid 
 critics are so afraid of allowing me anything which 
 does not belong to me, that they will not be posi¬ 
 tive whether the lion, the wild boar, and the flower¬ 
 pots in the play-house, did not actually write 
 those letters which came to me in their names. I 
 must therefore inform these gentlemen, that I often 
 choose this way of casting my thoughts into a 
 letter, for the following reasons; First, out of the 
 policy of those who try their jest upon another, 
 before they own it themselves. Secondly, because 
 I would extort a little praise from such who will 
 never applaud anything whose author is known 
 and certain. Thirdly, because it gave me an op¬ 
 portunity of introducing a great variety of char¬ 
 acters into my work, which could not have been 
 done had I always wu'itten in the person of the 
 Spectator. Fourthly, because the dignity specta- 
 torial would have suffered had I published as from 
 myself those several ludicrous compositions which 
 I have ascribed to fictitious names and characters. 
 And lastly, because they often serve to bring in 
 more naturally such additional reflections as have 
 been placed at the end of them. 
 
 There are others who have likewise done me a 
 very particular honor, though undesignedly. These 
 are sucli who will needs have it that I have trans¬ 
 lated or borrowed many of my thoughts out of 
 books which are written in other languages. I 
 have heard of a person, who is more famous for 
 his library than his learning, that has asserted this 
 more than once in his private conversation.* Were 
 
 * The person here alluded to was most probably Mr. Tho¬ 
 mas Kawlison, ridiculed by Addison under the name of Tom 
 Folio, in the Tatler, No. 158. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 it true, I am sure he could not speak it from his own 
 knowledge; but, had he read the books which he 
 has collected, he would find his accusation to be 
 wholly groundless. Those who are truly learned 
 will acquit me in this point, in which I have been 
 so far from offending, tliat I have been scrupulous, 
 perhaps to a fault, in quoting the authors of sev¬ 
 eral passages which I might have made my own. 
 But, as this assertion is in reality an encomium on 
 what I have published, I ought rather to glory in 
 it than endeavor to confute it. 
 
 Some are so very willing to alienate from me 
 that small reputation which might accrue to me 
 from any of these my speculations, that they at¬ 
 tribute some of the best of them to those imaginary 
 manuscripts with which I have introduced them. 
 There are others, I must confess, whose objections 
 have given me a greater concern, as they seem to 
 reflect, under this head, rather on my morality 
 than on my invention. These are they who say 
 an author is guilty of falsehood, when he talks to 
 the public of manuscripts which he never saw, or 
 describes scenes of action or discourse in which he 
 was never engaged. But these gentlemen would 
 do well to consider, there is not a fable or parable, 
 which ever was made use of, that is not liable to 
 this exception; since nothing, according to this 
 notion, can be related innocently, which was not 
 once matter of fact. Beside, I think the most or¬ 
 dinary reader may be able to discover, by my way 
 of writing, what I deliver in these occurrences as 
 truth, and what as fiction. 
 
 Since I am unawares engaged in answering the 
 several objections which have been made against 
 these my works, I must take notice that there are 
 some who affirm a paper of this nature should 
 always turn upon diverting subjects, and others 
 who find fault with every one of them that hath 
 not an immediate tendency to the advancement 
 of religion or learning. I shall leave these gen¬ 
 tlemen to dispute it among themselves; since I see 
 one half my conduct patronized by each side. 
 Were I serious on an improper subject, or trifling 
 in a serious one, I should deservedly draw upon 
 me the censure of my readers; or, were I conscious 
 of anything in my writings that is not innocent at 
 least, or that the greatest part of them were not 
 sincerely designed to discountenance vice and igno¬ 
 rance, and support the interest of truth, wisdom, 
 and virtue, I should be more severe upon myself 
 than the public is disposed to be. In the mean¬ 
 while I desire my reader to consider every partic¬ 
 ular paper or discourse as a distinct tract by itself, 
 and independent of everything that goes before or 
 after it. 
 
 I shall end this paper with the following letter, 
 which was really sent me, as some others have 
 been which I have published, and for which I must 
 own myself indebted to their respective writers; 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I was this morning in a company of your well- 
 wishers, when we read over, with great satisfac¬ 
 tion, Tully’s observation on action adapted to the 
 British theater; though, by the way, we were very 
 iorry to find that you have disposed of another 
 member of your club. Poor Sir Roger is dead, 
 and the worthy clergyman dying; Captain Sentry 
 has taken possession of a good estate; Will Hon¬ 
 eycomb has married a farmer's daughter; and the 
 Templar withdraws himself into the business of 
 his own profession. What will all this end in ? 
 We are afraid it portends no good to the public. 
 Unless you very speedily fix the day for the elec¬ 
 tion of new members, we are under apprehensions 
 of losing the British Spectator. I hear of a party 
 of ladies who intend to address you on this sub- 
 41 
 
 641 
 
 ject; and question not, if you do not give us the 
 slip very suddenly, that you will receive addresses 
 from all parts of the kingdom to continue so use- 
 iul a work. Pray deliver us out of this perplexity; 
 and, among the multitude of your readers, you 
 will particularly oblige 
 
 “Your most sincere Friend and Servant, 
 
 O* “Philo-Spec.” 
 
 No. 543.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1712. 
 
 -— Facies non omnibus una, 
 
 Nec diversa tamen- Ovid, Met. ii. 12. 
 
 Similar, though not the same.- 
 
 Those who were skillful in anatomy, among the 
 ancients, concluded, from the outward and inward 
 make of a human body, that it was the work of a 
 Being transcendently wise and powerful. As the 
 world grew more enlightened in this art, their 
 discoveries gave them fresh opportunities of ad¬ 
 miring the conduct of Providence in the formation 
 of a human body. Galen was converted by his 
 dissections, and could not but own a Supreme Be¬ 
 ing upon a survey of this his handy-work. There 
 were, indeed, many parts, of which the old anato¬ 
 mists did not know the certain use; but, as they 
 saw that most of these which they examined were 
 adapted with admirable art to their several func¬ 
 tions, they did not question but those, whose use 
 they could not determine, were contrived with the 
 same wisdom for respective ends and purposes. 
 Since the circulation of the blood has been found 
 out, and many other great discoveries have been 
 made by our modern anatomists, we see new won¬ 
 ders in the human frame, and discern several im¬ 
 portant uses for those parts, which uses the ancients 
 knew nothing of. In short, the body of man is 
 such a subject as stands the utmost test of exam¬ 
 ination. though it appears formed with the nicest 
 wisdom, upon the most superficial survey of it, it 
 still mends upon the search, and produces our sur¬ 
 prise and amazement in proportion as we pry into 
 it. What I have here said of a human body may 
 be applied to the body of every animal which has 
 been the subject of anatomical observations. 
 
 The body of an animal is an object adequate to 
 our senses. It is a particular system of Provi¬ 
 dence that lies in a narrow compass. The eye is 
 able to command it, and by successive inquiries 
 can search into all its parts. Could the body of the 
 whole earth, or indeed the whole universe, be thus 
 submitted to the examination of our senses, were 
 it not too big and disproportioned for our inquiries, 
 too unwieldy for the management of the eye and 
 hand, there is no question but it would appear to 
 us as curious and well contrived a frame as that 
 of a human body. We should see the same con¬ 
 catenation and subserviency, the same necessity 
 and usefulness, the same beauty and harmony, in 
 all and eveiy of its parts, as what we discover 
 in the body of every single animal. 
 
 The more extended our reason is, and the more 
 able to grapple with immense objects, the greater 
 still are those discoveries which it makes of wis¬ 
 dom and providence in the works of the creation. 
 A Sir Isaac Newton, who stands up as the miracle 
 of the present age, can look through a whole plan¬ 
 etary system; consider it in its weight, number, 
 and measure; and draw from it as many demon¬ 
 strations of infinite power and wisdom, as a more 
 confined understanding is able to deduce from the 
 system of a human body. 
 
 But to return to our speculations on anatomy, I 
 shall here consider the fabric and texture of the 
 bodies of animals in one particular view; which, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 642 
 
 in my opinion, shows the hand of a thinking and 
 all-wise Being in their formation, with the evidence 
 of a thousand demonstrations. I think we may 
 lay this down as an incontested principle, that 
 chance never acts in a perpetual uniformity and 
 consistency with itself. If one should always fling 
 the same number with ten thousand dice, or see 
 every throw just five times less, or five times more 
 in number, than the throw which immediately 
 preceded it, who would not imagine there is some 
 invisible power which directs the cast ? This is 
 the proceeding which we find in the operations of 
 nature. Every kind of animal is diversified by 
 different magnitudes, each of which give rise to a 
 different species. Let a man trace the dog or lion 
 kind, and he will observe how many of the works 
 of nature are published, if I may use the expres¬ 
 sion, in a variety of editions. If we look into the 
 reptile world, or into those different kinds of ani¬ 
 mals that fill the element of water, we meet with the 
 same repetitions among several species, that differ 
 very little from one another, but in size and bulk. 
 You find the same creature that is drawn at large 
 copied out in several proportions and ending in 
 miniature. It would be tedious to produce in¬ 
 stances of this regular conduct in Providence, as 
 it would be superfluous to those who are versed 
 in the natural history of animals. The magnifi¬ 
 cent harmony of the universe is such, that we may 
 observe innumerable divisions running upon the 
 same ground. I might also extend this specula¬ 
 tion to the dead parts of nature, in which we may 
 find matter disposed into many similar systems, 
 as well in our survey of stars and planets, as of 
 stones, vegetables, and'other sublunary parts of the 
 creation. In a word. Providence has shown the 
 richness of its goodness and wisdom, not only in 
 the production of many original species, but in the 
 multiplicity of descants* which it has made on 
 every original species in particular. 
 
 But to pursue this thought still further. Every 
 living creature considered in itself has many very 
 complicated parts that are exact copies of some 
 other parts which it possesses, and which are 
 complicated in the same manner. One eye would 
 have been sufficient for the subsistence and preser¬ 
 vation of an animal; but in order to better his 
 condition we see another placed with a mathemat¬ 
 ical exactness in the same most advantageous sit¬ 
 uation, and in every particular of the same size 
 and texture. Is it possible for chance to be thus 
 delicate and uniform in her operations ? Should 
 a million of dice turn up twice together the same 
 number, the wonder would be nothing in compari¬ 
 son with this. But when we see this similitude 
 and resemblance in the arm, the hand, the fingers; 
 when we see one half of the body entirely corre¬ 
 spond with the other in all those minute strokes, 
 without which a man might have very well sub¬ 
 sisted; nay, when we often see a single part re¬ 
 peated a hundred times in the same body notwith¬ 
 standing it consists of the most intricate weaving 
 of numberless fibers, and these parts differing 
 still in magnitude, as the convenience of their par¬ 
 ticular situation requires; sure a man must have 
 a strange cast of understanding, who does not dis¬ 
 cover the finger of God in so wonderful a work. 
 These duplicates in those parts of the body, with¬ 
 out which a man might have very well subsisted, 
 though not so w 7 ell as with them, are a plain de¬ 
 monstration of an all-wise Contriver, as those 
 more numerous copyings which are found among 
 the vessels of the same body, are evident demon¬ 
 strations that they could not be the work of chance. 
 
 * Meant perhaps for “ descents,” i. e., progress downward.— 
 Johnson. 
 
 This argument receives additional strength, if we 
 apply it to every animal and insect within our 
 knowledge, as well as to those numberless living 
 creatures that are objects too minute for a human 
 eye: and if we consider how the several species 
 in this whole world of life resemble one ano¬ 
 ther in very many particulars, so far as is con¬ 
 venient for their respective states of existence, it 
 is much more probable that a hundred millions of 
 dice should be casually thrown a hundred mil¬ 
 lions of times in the same number, than that the 
 body of any single animal should be produced by 
 the fortuitous concourse of matter. And that the 
 like chance should arise in innumerable instan¬ 
 ces, requires a degree of credulity that is not un¬ 
 der the direction of common sense. We may 
 carry this consideration yet further, if we reflect 
 on the two sexes in every living species, with 
 their resemblances to each other, ana those par¬ 
 ticular distinctions that were necessary for the 
 keeping up of this great world of life. 
 
 There are many more demonstrations of a Su¬ 
 preme Being, and of his transcendent wisdom, 
 power, and goodness, in the formation of the body 
 of a living creature, for which I refer my reader 
 to other writings, particularly to the sixth book 
 of the poem entitled Creation,* where the anato¬ 
 my of the human body is described with great 
 perspicuity and elegance. I have been particular 
 on the thought which runs through this specula¬ 
 tion, because I have not seen it enlarged upon by 
 others.—0. 
 
 Ho. 544.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1712. 
 
 Nunquam ita quisquam bene subducta ratione ad vitam fuit, 
 Quin res, setas, usus semper aliquid apportet novi, 
 
 Aliquid moneat: ut ilia, qua3 te scire credas, nescias; 
 
 Et, quae tibi putaris prima, in experiendo ut repudies. 
 
 Ter. Adelph. act y. sc. 4. 
 
 No man was ever so completely skilled in the conduct of life, 
 as not to receive new information from age and experience; 
 insomuch that we find ourselves really ignorant of what we 
 thought we understood, and see cause to reject what we fan¬ 
 cied our truest interest. 
 
 There are, I think, sentiments in the following 
 letter from my friend Captain Sentry, which dis¬ 
 cover a rational and equal frame of mind, as well 
 prepared for an advantageous as an unfortunate 
 change of condition :— 
 
 “ Coverley-hall, Nov. 15, 
 
 “Sir, Worcestershire. 
 
 “I am come to the succession of the estate of 
 my honored kinsman, Sir Roger de Coverley; and 
 I assure you I find it no easy task to keep up the 
 figure of master of the fortune which was so hand¬ 
 somely enjoyed by that honest, plain man. I can¬ 
 not (with respect to the great obligations I have, 
 be it spoken) reflect upon his character, but I am 
 confirmed in the truth which I have, I think, 
 heard spoken at the club; to wit, that a man of a 
 warm and well-disposed heart, with a very small 
 capacity, is highly superior in human society to 
 him who with the greatest talents, is cold and 
 languid in his affections. But alas! why do 1 
 make a difficulty in speaking of my worthy ances¬ 
 tor’s failings ? His little absurdities and incapa¬ 
 city for the conversation of the politest men are 
 dead with him, and his greater qualities are even 
 now useful to him. I know not whether by naming 
 those disabilities I do not enhance his merit, since 
 he has left behind him a reputation in his coun¬ 
 try, which would be worth the pains of the wisest 
 
 * Creation. A poem by Sir Packard Blackmore. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 man’s whole life to arrive at. By the way, I must 
 observe to you, that many of your readers have 
 mistook that passage in your writings, wherein 
 Sir Roger is reported to have inquired into the 
 pri' ate character of the jmung woman at the tav¬ 
 ern. I know you mentioned that circumstance 
 as an instance of the simplicity and innocence 
 of his mind, which made him imagine it a very 
 easy thing to reclaim one of those criminals, and 
 not as an inclination in him to be guilty with her. 
 The less discerning of your readers cannot enter 
 into that delicacy of description in the character : 
 but indeed my chief business at this time is to 
 represent to. you my present state of mind, and 
 the satisfaction I promise to myself in the posses¬ 
 sion of my new fortune. I have continued all Sir 
 Roger’s servants, except such as it was a relief to 
 dismiss into little beings within my manor. Those 
 who are in a list of the good knight’s own hand 
 to be taken care of by me, I have quartered upon 
 such as have taken uew leases of me, and added 
 so many advantages during the lives of the per¬ 
 sons so quartered, that it is the interest of those 
 whom they are joined with to cherish and befriend 
 them upon all occasions. I find a considerable 
 sum of ready money, which I am laying out among 
 my dependents at the common 'interest, but with 
 a design to lend it according to their merit, rather 
 than according to their ability. I shall lay a tax 
 upon such as I have highly obliged, to become 
 security to me for such of their own poor youth, 
 whether male or female, as want help toward get¬ 
 ting into some being in the world. I hope I shall 
 be able to manage my affairs so as to improve my 
 fortune every year by doing acts of kindness. I 
 will lend my money to the use of none but indi¬ 
 gent men, secured by such as have ceased to be 
 indigent by the favor of my family or myself. 
 What makes this the more practicable is, that if 
 they will do any one good with my money, they are 
 welcome to it upon their own security : and I 
 make no exception against it, because the persons 
 who enter into the obligations do it for their own 
 family. I have laid out four thousand pounds 
 this way, and it is not to be imagined what a 
 crowd of people are obliged by it. In cases where 
 Sir Roger has recommended, I have lent money 
 to put out children, with a clause which makes 
 void the obligation in case the infant dies before 
 he is out of his apprenticeship; by which means 
 the kindred and masters are extremely careful of 
 breeding him to industry, that he may repay it 
 himself by his labor in three years’ journey-work 
 after his time is out, for the use of his securities. 
 Opportunities of this kind are all that have occur- 
 ea since I came to my estate: but I assure you I 
 will preserve a constant disposition'to catch at all 
 the occasions I can to promote the good and hap¬ 
 piness of my neighborhood. 
 
 “ But give me leave to lay before you a little 
 establishment which has grown out of my past 
 life, that I doubt not will administer great satis¬ 
 faction to me in that part of it, whatever that is, 
 which is to come. 
 
 “ There is a prejudice in favor of the way of 
 life to which a man has been educated, which I 
 know not whether it would not be faulty to over¬ 
 come. It is like a partiality to the interest of one’s 
 own country before that of any other nation. It 
 is from a habit of thinking, grown upon me from 
 my youth spent in arms, that I have ever held 
 gentlemen, who have preserved modesty, good-na¬ 
 ture, justice and humanity, in a soldier’s life, to 
 be the most valuable and worthy persons of the ■ 
 human race. To pass through imminent dangers, ! 
 suffer painful watchings, frightful alarms, and 
 laborious marches, for the greater part of a man’s 
 
 otator. 643 
 
 time, and pass the rest in sobriety conformable to 
 the rules of the most virtuous civil life, is a merit 
 too great to deserve the treatment it usually meets 
 with among the other part of the world. But I 
 assure you, Sir, were there not very many who 
 ha\e this worth, we could never have seen the 
 glorious events which we have in our days. I 
 need not say more to illustrate the character of a 
 soldier than to tell you he is the very contrary to 
 him you observe loud, saucy, and overbearing, in 
 a led coat about town. But I was going to tell 
 you that, in honor of the profession of arms, I 
 ha\ e set apart a certain sum of money for a table for 
 such gentlemen as have served their country in 
 the army, and w r ill please from time to time to so¬ 
 il 011 ! 11 all, or any part of the year, at Coverley. 
 Such of them as will do me that honor shall find 
 horses, servants, and all things necessary for 
 their accommodation and enjoyment of all the 
 conveniences of life in a pleasant various country. 
 If Colonel Camperfelt* be in town, and his abili¬ 
 ties are not employed another way in the service, 
 there is no man would be more welcome here. 
 That gentleman’s thorough knowdedge in his pro¬ 
 fession, together with the simplicity of his man¬ 
 ners and goodness of his heart" would induce oth¬ 
 ers like him to honor my abode; and I should be 
 glad my acquaintance would take themselves to 
 be invited or not, as their characters have an af¬ 
 finity to his. 
 
 “ I would have all my friends know that they 
 need not fear (though I am become a country gen¬ 
 tleman) I will trespass against their temperance 
 and sobriety. Ho, Sir, I shall retain so much of 
 the good s.entiments for the conduct of life, which 
 we cultivated in each other at our club, as to con¬ 
 temn all inordinate pleasures, but particularly 
 remember, with our beloved Tully, that the delight 
 in food consists in desire, not satiety. They who 
 most passionately pursue pleasure seldomest ar¬ 
 rive at it. How I am waiting to a philosopher I 
 cannot forbear mentioning the satisfaction I took 
 in the passage I read yesterday in the same Tully. 
 A nobleman of Athens made a compliment to Plato 
 the morning after he had supped at his house: 
 ‘Your entertainments do not only please when 
 you give them, but also the day after.’ 
 
 “ I am, my worthy Friend, 
 
 “Your most obedient humble Servant, 
 
 T. “William Sentry.” 
 
 Ho. 545.] TUESDAY, HOVEMBER 25, 1712. 
 
 Quin potius pacem aeternam pactosque hymen seos 
 Exercemus-1 Vmc. iEn. iv. 99. 
 
 Let us in bonds of lasting peace unite, 
 
 And celebrate the hymeneal rite. 
 
 I cannot but think the following letter from the 
 Emperor of China to the Pope of Rome, proposing 
 a coalition of the Chinese and Roman churches, 
 will be acceptable to the curious. I must confess, 
 I myself being of opinion that the Emperor has as 
 much authority to be interpreter to him he pre¬ 
 tends to expound, as the Pope has to be vicar of 
 the sacred person he takes upon him to represent, 
 I was not a little pleased w T ith their treaty of alli¬ 
 ance. What progress the negotiation between his 
 majesty of Rome and his holiness of China makes 
 (as we daily writers say upon subjects where we 
 are at a loss) time will let us know. In. the mean 
 
 * Colonel Camperfelt. Spect. in folio. A fine compliment 
 to the father of the l#te worthy Admiral Kempenfelt, who 
 was drowned in the Royal George at Spithead, Aug. 29, 1782. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 644 
 
 time, since they agree in the fundamentals of power 
 and authority, and differ only in matters of faith, 
 we may expect the matter will go on without 
 difficulty. 
 
 Copia di lettera del re della China al Papa, inter- 
 
 pretata dal padre segretario dell’ India della 
 
 compagna di Giesu. 
 
 “ A voi benedetto sopra i benedetti P. P. et impera- 
 
 dore grande de pontijicie pastore Xmo, dispensatore 
 
 del oglio de ire d’ Europa, Clemente XI. 
 
 “II favorito amico di Dio Gionata 7°, potentis- 
 simo sopra tutti i potentissimi della terra, altissi- 
 mo s6pra tutti gl’ altissimi sotto il sole e la luna 
 che sede nella sede di smeraldo della China s6pra 
 cento scalini d’ oro, ad interpretare la lingua di 
 Dio a tutti i descendenti fedeli d’ Abramo, chi da 
 la vita e la morte a cento quindici regni, ed a cento 
 settante isole, scrive con la penna dello struzzo 
 vergine, e man da salute ed accresimento di vec- 
 ehiezza. 
 
 “ Essendo arrivato il tempo in cui il fiore della 
 reale nostra gioventu deve maturare i frutti della 
 nostra vecchiezza, e confortare con quell’ i desid- 
 erii dei populi nostri divoti, e propagare il seme 
 di quella pianta che deve proteggerli, habbiamo 
 stabillito d’ accompagnarci con una vergine eccelsa 
 ed amorosa allattata alia mamella della leonessa 
 forte e dell’ agnella mansueta. Percio essendoci 
 stato figurato sempre il vostro populo Europeo 
 Romano per paese di donne invitte, e forte, e caste; 
 allongiamo la nostra mano potente, a stringere una 
 di loro, e questa sark una vostra nipote, o nipote 
 di qualche altro gran sacerdote Latino, che sia 
 guardata dall’ occhio dritto di Dio, sarir seminata 
 in lei 1’ autorita di Sarra, la fedelta d’ Esther, e la 
 sapienza di Abba; la vogliamo con 1’ occhio della 
 colomba che guarda il cielo, e la terra, e con la 
 bocca della conchiglia che si pasce della ruggiada 
 del matino. La sua eta non passi ducento corsi 
 della luna, la sua statura sia alta quanto la spicca 
 dritta del grano verde, e la sua grossezza quanto 
 un manipolo di grano secco. Noi lamandaremmo 
 a vestire per li nostri mandatici ambasciadori, e 
 chi la coriduranno a noi, e noi incontraremmo alia 
 riva del fiume grande facendola salire su nostro 
 cocchio. Ella potra adorare appresso di noi il 
 suo Dio, con venti quattro altre vergini a sua ellez- 
 zione e potra cantare con loro, come la tottora alia 
 primavera. 
 
 “ Sodisfando 0 padre e amico nostro questa 
 nostra brama, sarete caggione di unire in perpetua 
 amicitia cotesti vostri regni d’ Europa al nostro 
 dominante imperio, e si abbracciranno le vostri 
 leggi come 1’ edera abbraccia la pianta; e noi med- 
 esemi spargeremo del nostro seme reale in coteste 
 provinci, riscaldando i letti di vostri principi con 
 il fuoco amoroso delle nostre amazoni, d’ alcune 
 idelle quali i nostri mandatici ambasciadori vi 
 jporteranno le somiglianze dipinte. 
 
 “Vi confirmiamo di tenere in pace le due buone 
 religiose famiglie delli missionarii gli’ figlioli d’ 
 Ignazio, e li bianchi e neri figlioli di Dominico, il 
 ^eui consiglio degl’ uni e degl’ altri ci serve di 
 scorta nel nostro regimento e di lume ad interpre¬ 
 tare le divine legge, come appuncto fadume 1’ oglio 
 che si getta in mare. 
 
 “In tanto alzandoci dal nostro trono per abbrac- 
 ciarvi, vi dichiariamo nostro congiunto e confeder¬ 
 ate, ed ordiniarao che questo foglio sia segnato 
 col nostro segno imperial della nostra citta, capo 
 del mondo, il quinto giorno della terza lunatione 
 T anno quarto del nostro imperio. 
 
 “ Sigillo £ un sole nella cui faccia 6 anche quella 
 della luna ed intorno tra i raggi vi sono traposte 
 .alcune spade. 
 
 “ Dico il traduttore che secondo il ceremonial di 
 questo lettere e recedentissimo specialmente fessere 
 scritto con la penna della struzzo-vergine con la 
 quella non soglionsi scrivere quei re che le pregiere 
 a Dio e scrivendo a qualche altro principe del 
 mondo, la maggior finezza che usino, e scnvergli 
 con la penna del pavone.” 
 
 A letter from the Emperor of China to the Pope, 
 interpreted by a father Jesuit, secretary of the 
 Indies. 
 
 “ To you blessed above the blessed, great emperor of 
 bishops and pastor of Christians, dispenser of the 
 oil of the kings of Europe, Clement XI. 
 
 “ The favorite friend of God, Gionetta the VHth, 
 the most powerful above the most powerful of the 
 earth, highest above the highest under the sun and 
 moon, who sits on a throne of emerald of China 
 above one hundred steps of gold, to interpret the 
 language of God to the faithful, and who gives 
 life and death to one hundred and fifteen king¬ 
 doms, and one hundred and seventy islands; he 
 writes with the quill of a virgin ostrich, and sends 
 health and increase of old age. 
 
 “ Being arrived at the time of our age, in which 
 the flower of our royal youth ought to ripen into 
 fruit toward old age, to comfort therewith the de¬ 
 sire of our devoted people, and to propagate the 
 seed of that plant which must protect them : we 
 have determined to accompany ourselves with a 
 high amorous virgin, suckled at the breast of a 
 wild lioness, and a meek lamb; and, imagining 
 with ourselves that your European Roman people 
 is the father of many unconquerable and chaste 
 ladies, we stretch out our powerful arm to embrace 
 one of them, and she shall be one of your nieces, 
 or the niece of some other great Latin priest, the 
 darling of God’s right eye. Let the authority of 
 Sarah be sown in her, the fidelity of Esther, and 
 the wisdom of Abba. We would have her eye 
 like that of a dove, which may look upon heaven 
 and earth, with the mouth of a shell-fish to feed 
 upon the dew of the morning; her age must not 
 exceed two hundred courses of the moon; let her 
 stature be equal to that of an ear of green corn, 
 and her girth a handful. 
 
 “We will send our mandarines ambassadors to 
 clothe her, and to conduct her to us, and we will 
 meet her on the bank of the great river, making 
 her to leap up into our chariot. She may with us 
 worship her own God, together with twenty-four 
 virgins of her own choosing; and she may sing 
 with them as the turtle in the spring. 
 
 “You, 0 father and friend, complying with this 
 our desire, may be an occasion of uniting in per¬ 
 petual friendship our high empire with your Eu¬ 
 ropean kingdoms, and we may embrace your laws 
 as the ivy embraces the tree; and we ourselves 
 may scatter our royal blood into your provinces, 
 warming the chief of your princes with the amor¬ 
 ous fire of our amazons, the resembling pictures 
 of some of which our said mandarines ambassa¬ 
 dors shall convey to you. 
 
 _ “ We exhort you to keep in peace two good reli¬ 
 gious families of missionaries, the black sons of 
 Ignatius, and the white and black sons of Domin- 
 icus; that the counsel, both of the one and the 
 other, may serve as a guide to us in our govern¬ 
 ment, and a light to interpret the divine law, as 
 the oil cast into the sea produces light. 
 
 “ To conclude, we rising up in our throne to 
 embrace you, we declare you our ally and confed¬ 
 erate; and have ordered this leaf to be sealed with 
 our imperial signet, in our royal city the head of 
 the world, the eighth day of the third lunation, 
 and the fourth year of our reign.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Letters from Rome say, the whole conversation 
 both among gentlemen and ladies has turned upon 
 uie subject of this epistle, ever since it arrived. 
 The Jesuit who translated it says, it loses much 
 of the majesty of the original in the Italian. It 
 seems there was an offer of the same nature made 
 
 v^rTT t rT cessor °f the present Emperor to Lewis 
 XIII, of France; but no lady of that court would 
 take the voyage, that sex not being at that time 
 so much used in politic negotiations. The man¬ 
 ner of treating the Pope is, according to the Chi¬ 
 nese ceremonial, very respectful, for the Emperor 
 writes to him with the quill of a virgin ostrich, 
 which was never used before but in writing prayers. 
 Instructions are preparing for the lady who shall 
 have so much zeal as to undertake this pilgrimage 
 and be an empress for the sake of her religion. 
 The principal of the Indian missionaries has given 
 m a list of the reigning sins in China, in order to 
 prepare the indulgences necessary to this lady and 
 her retinue, in advancing the interests of the Ro¬ 
 man Catholic religion in those kingdoms. 
 
 “To THE SPECTATOR-GrENERAL. 
 
 “ May it please your honor, 
 
 I have of late seen French hats of a prodigious 
 magnitude pass by my observatory. 
 
 “John Sly,” 
 
 645 
 
 No. 546.] WEDNESDAY, NOV. 26, 1712. 
 
 Omnia patefacienda ut ne quid omnino, quod venditor norit 
 emptor ignoret.— Tull. ’ 
 
 Everything should be fairly told, that the buyer may not be 
 ignorant of anything which the seller knows. 
 
 It gives me very great scandal to observe 
 wherever I go, how much skill, in buying all man¬ 
 ner of goods, there is necessary to defend yourself 
 from being cheated in whatever you see exposed 
 to sale. My reading makes such a strong impres¬ 
 sion upon me, that I should think myself a cheat 
 in my way, if I should translate anything from 
 another tongue, and not acknowledge it to my 
 readers. I understood from common report, that 
 Mr. Cibber was introducing a French play upon 
 our stage, and thought myself concerned to let 
 the town know what was his, and what was for¬ 
 eign* When I came to the rehearsal, I found the 
 house so partial to one of their own fraternity, that 
 they gave everything which was said such grace, 
 emphasis, and force, in their action, that it was no 
 easy matter to make any judgment of the perform¬ 
 ance. Mrs. Oldfield, who, it seems, is the heroic 
 daughter, had so just a conception of her part, 
 that her action made what she spoke appear de¬ 
 cent, just and noble. The passions of terror and 
 compassion they made me believe were very art¬ 
 fully raised, and the whole conduct of the play 
 artful and surprising. We authors do not much 
 relish the endeavors of players in this kind, but 
 have the same disdain as physicians and lawyers 
 have when attorneys and apothecaries give advice 
 Cibber himself took the liberty to tell me, that he 
 expected I would do him justice, and allow the 
 play well prepared for his spectators, whatever it 
 was for his readers. He adaed very many partic¬ 
 ulars not incurious concerning the manner of 
 taking an audience, and laying wait not only for 
 their superficial applause, but also for insinuating 
 into their affections and passions, by the artful 
 management of the look, voice, and gesture, of 
 the speaker. I could not but consent that The 
 Heroic Daughter appeared in the rehearsal a mov¬ 
 ing entertainment wrought out of a great and ex¬ 
 emplary virtue. 
 
 The advantages of action, show, and dress, on 
 these occasions, are allowable, because the merit 
 consists in being capable of imposing upon us to 
 our advantage and entertainment. All that I was 
 going to say about the honesty of an author in the 
 sale of his ware was, that he ought to own all that 
 he had borrowed from others, and lay in a clear 
 light all that he gives his spectators for their mo- 
 ney, with an account of the first manufacturers. 
 J^ut 1 intended to give the lecture of this day upon 
 the common and prostituted behavior of traders 
 in ordinary commerce. The philosopher made it 
 a rule of trade, that your profit ought to be the 
 common profit; and it is unjust to make any step 
 toward gam, wherein the gain of even those to 
 whom you sell is not also consulted. A man 
 may deceive himself if he thinks fit, but he is no 
 better than a cheat who sells anything without 
 telling the exceptions against it, as well as what 
 is to be said to its advantage. The scandalous 
 abuse of language and hardening of conscience, 
 which may be observed every day in going from 
 one place to another, is what makes a whole city 
 to an unprejudiced eye a den of thieves. It was 
 no small pleasure to me for this reason to remark, 
 as I passed by Cornhill, that the shop of that 
 worthy, honest, though lately unfortunate citizen, 
 Mr. John Morton, so well known in the linen 
 trade, is fitting up anew. Since a man has been 
 in a distressed condition, it ought to be a great 
 satisfaction to have passed through it in such a 
 manner as not to have lost the friendship of those 
 who suffered with him, but to receive an honorable 
 acknowledgment of his honesty from those very 
 persons to whom the law had consigned his estate. 
 
 The misfortune of this citizen is like to prove 
 of a very general advantage to those who shall 
 deal with him hereafter; for the stock with which 
 he now sets up being the loan of his friends, he 
 cannot expose that to the hazard of giving credit, 
 but enteis into a ready-money trade, by which 
 means he will both buy and sell the best and 
 cheapest. He imposes upon himself a rule of 
 affixing the value of each piece he sells, to the 
 P*®?? Rself; so that the most ignorant servant or 
 child will be as good a buyer at his shop as the 
 most skillful in the trade. For all which, you 
 have all his hopes and fortune for your security. 
 To encourage dealing after this way, there is not 
 only the avoiding the most infamous guilt in ordi¬ 
 nary bartering; but this observation, that he who 
 buys with ready money saves as much to his fcm- 
 ily as the state exacts out of his land for the secu¬ 
 rity and service of his country; that is to say, in 
 plain English, sixteen will do as much as twenty 
 shillings. J 
 
 * “ Ximena,” or, “The Heroic Daughter;” a tragedy taken 
 from the “ Cid ” of Racine, by C. Cibber. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “My heart is so swelled with grateful sentiments 
 on account of some favors which I have lately re¬ 
 ceived, that I must beg leave to give them utter¬ 
 ance among the crowd of other anonymous cor¬ 
 respondents; and writing, I hope, will be as great 
 a relief to my forced silence, as it is to your natu¬ 
 ral taciturnity. My generous benefactor will not 
 suffer me to speak to him in any terms of acknow- 
 ledgment, but ever treats me as if he had the 
 greatest obligations, and uses me with a distinc¬ 
 tion that is not to be expected from one so much 
 my superior in fortune, years, and understanding. 
 He insinuates, as if I had a certain right to his 
 favors from some merit, which his particular in¬ 
 dulgence to me has discovered; but that is only a 
 beautiful artifice to lessen the pain an honest mind 
 feels in receiving obligations when there is no 
 probability of returning them. 
 
 “A gift is doubled when accompanied with such 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 646 
 
 a delicacy of address; but what to me gives it an 
 inexpressible value, is its coming from the man I 
 most esteem in the world. It pleases me indeed, 
 as it is an advantage and addition to my fortune; 
 but when I consider it as an instance of that good 
 man’s friendship, it overjoys, it transports me; I 
 look on it with a lover’s eye, and no longer regard 
 the gift, but the hand that gave it. For my friend¬ 
 ship is so entirely void of any gainful views, that 
 it often gives me pain to think it should have been 
 chargeable to him; and I cannot at some melan¬ 
 choly hours help doing his generosity the injury 
 of fearing it should cool on this account, and that 
 the last favor might be a sort of legacy of a de¬ 
 parting friendship. 
 
 “I confess these fears seem very groundless and 
 unjust, but you must forgive them to the appre¬ 
 hension of one possessed of a great treasure, who 
 is frighted at the most distant shadow of danger. 
 
 “Since I have thus far opened my heart to you, 
 I will not conceal the secret satisfaction I feel 
 there, of knowing the goodness of my friend will 
 not be unrewarded. I am pleased with thinking 
 the providence of the Almighty hath sufficient 
 blessings in store for him, and will certainly dis¬ 
 charge the debt, though I am not made the happy 
 instrument of doing it. 
 
 “ However, nothing in my power shall be want¬ 
 ing to show my gratitude; I will make it the busi¬ 
 ness of my life to thank him; and shall esteem 
 (next to him) those my best friends, who give me 
 the greatest assistance in this good work. Print¬ 
 ing this letter would be some little instance of my 
 gratitude; and your favor herein will very much 
 oblige, “Your most humble Servant, etc. 
 “Nov. 24. "W. C.” 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 547.] THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 1712. 
 
 Si vulnus tibi, monstrata radice vel lierba, 
 
 Non fieret levius, fugeres radice vel herba 
 Proficiente nihil curarier.— Hor. 2 Ep.ii 149. 
 
 Suppose you had a wound, and one that show’d, 
 
 An herb, which you appli’d,but found no good; 
 
 Would you be fond of this, increase your pain, 
 
 And use the fruitless remedy again?—C reech. 
 
 It is very difficult to praise a man without put¬ 
 ting him out of countenance. My following cor¬ 
 respondent has found out this uncommon art, and, 
 together with his friends, has celebrated some of 
 my speculations after such a concealed but divert¬ 
 ing manner, that if any of my readers think I 
 am to blame in publishing my own commenda¬ 
 tions, they will allow I should have deserved their 
 censure as much, had I suppressed the humor in 
 which they are conveyed to me. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ I am often in a private assembly of wits of both 
 sexes, where we generally descant upon your spec¬ 
 ulations, or upon the subjects on which you have 
 treated. We were last Tuesday talking of those 
 two volumes which you have lately published. 
 Some were commending one of your papers, and 
 some another; and there was scarce a single person 
 in the company that had not a favorite speculation. 
 Upon this a man of wit and learning told us, he 
 thought it would not be amiss if we paid the Spec¬ 
 tator the same compliment that is often made in 
 our public prints to Sir William Read, Dr. Grant, 
 Mr. Moor the apothecary, and other eminent phy¬ 
 sicians, where it is usual for the patients to publish 
 the cures which have been made upon them, and 
 the several distempers under which they labored. 
 The proposal took; and the lady where we visited 
 having the two last volumes in large paper inter¬ 
 
 leaved for her j>wn private use, ordered them to be 
 brought down, and laid in the window, whither 
 every one in the company retired, and wrote down 
 a particular advertisement in the style and phrase 
 of the like ingenious compositions which we fre¬ 
 quently meet with at the end of our newspapers. 
 When we had finished our work, we read them 
 with'a great deal of mirth at the fire-side, and 
 agreed, nemine contradicente, to get them transcribed 
 and sent to the Spectator. The gentleman who 
 made the proposal entered the following advertise¬ 
 ment before the title-page, after which the rest 
 succeeded in order: 
 
 “ Remedium efjicax et universum; or an effectual 
 remedy adapted to all capacities; showing how 
 any person may cure himself of ill-nature, pride, 
 party spleen, or any other distempter incident to 
 the human system, with an easy way to know 
 when the infection is upon him. This panacea is 
 as innocent as bread, agreeable to the taste, and 
 requires no confinement. It has not its equal in 
 the universe, as abundance of the nobility and 
 gentry throughout the kingdom have experienced. 
 
 “N. B. No family ought to be without it.” 
 
 Over the two Spectators on Jealousy, being the two 
 Jirst in the third volume. Nos. 170,171. 
 
 “I, William Crazy, aged threescore-and-seven, 
 having been for several years afflicted with uneasy 
 doubts, fears, and vapors, occasioned by the youtn 
 and beauty of Mary my wife, aged twenty-five, do 
 hereby, for the benefit of the public, give notice, 
 that 1 have found great relief from the two follow¬ 
 ing doses, having taken them two mornings to¬ 
 gether with a dish of chocolate. Witness my 
 hand,” etc. 
 
 For the Benefit of the Poor, 
 
 “ In charity to such as are troubled with the 
 disease of levee-hunting, and are forced to seek 
 their bread every morning at the chamber-doors of 
 great men, I, A. B., do testify, that for many years 
 ast I labored under this fashionable distemper, 
 ut was cured of it by a remedy which I bought 
 of Mrs. Baldwin, contained in a half sheet of paper, 
 marked No. 193, where any one may be provided 
 with the same remedy at the price of a single 
 penny. 
 
 “An infallible cure for hypochondriac melan¬ 
 choly, Nos. 173, 184, 191, 203, 209, 221, 233, 235, 
 239, 245, 247, 251. 
 
 “Probatum est. “Charles Easy.” 
 
 “I, Christopher Query, having been troubled 
 with a certain distemper in my tongue, which 
 showed itself in impertinent and superfluous in¬ 
 terrogatories, have not asked one unnecessary ques¬ 
 tion since my perusal of the prescription marked 
 No. 228. 
 
 “ The Britannic Beautifier;* being an essay on 
 modesty, No. 231, which gives such a delightful 
 blushing color to the cheeks of those that are 
 white or pale, that it is not to be distinguished 
 from a natural fine complexion, nor perceived to 
 be artificial by the nearest friend, is nothing of 
 paint, or in the least hurtful. It renders the face 
 delightfully handsome; is not subject to be rubbed 
 off, and cannot be paralleled by either wash, pow¬ 
 der, cosmetic, etc. It is certainly the best beautifier 
 in the world. “ Martha Glowworm.” 
 
 “I, Samuel Self, of the parish of St. James, 
 having a constitution which naturally abounds 
 with acids, made use of a paper of directions 
 marked No. 177, recommending a healthful exercise 
 
 * Translated from the advertisement of the Red Bavarian 
 Liquor. Spect. in folio, No. 545. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 called good-nature, and have found it a most ex¬ 
 cellent sweetener of the blood.” 
 
 “Whereas I, Elizabeth Rainbow, was troubled 
 with that distemper in my head, which about a 
 year ago was pretty epidemical among the ladies, 
 and discovered itself in the color of their hoods; 
 having made use of the doctor’s cephalic tincture, 
 which he exhibited to the public in one of his last 
 year’s papers, I recovered in a very few days.” 
 
 “I, George Gloom, having for a long time been 
 troubled with the spleen, and being advised by my 
 friends to put myself into a course of Steele, did 
 for that end make use of remedies conveyed to me 
 several mornings, in short letters, from the hands 
 of the invisible doctor. They were marked at the 
 bottom Nathaniel Henroost, Alice Threadneedle, 
 Rebecca Nettletop, Tom Loveless, Mary Meanwell, 
 Thomas Smo^ky, Anthony Freeman, Tom Meg- 
 got, Rustick Sprightly, etc., which have had so 
 good an effect upon me, that I now find myself 
 cheerful, lightsome, and easy; and therefore do 
 recommend them to all such as labor under the 
 same distemper.” 
 
 Not having room to insert all the advertisements 
 which were sent me, I have only picked out some 
 few from the third volume, reserving the fourth for 
 another opportunity.—0. 
 
 No. 548.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 1712. 
 
 -Vitiis nemo sine nascitur; optimus ille 
 
 Qui minimis urgetur.—H or. 1 Sat. iii. 68. 
 
 There’s none but has some fault, and he’s the best, 
 
 Most virtuous he, that’s spotted with the least.— Creech. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, Nov. 27, 1712. 
 
 “I have read this day’s paper with a great deal 
 of pleasure, and could send you an account of sev¬ 
 eral elixirs and antidotes in your third volume, 
 which your correspondents have not taken notice 
 of in their advertisements; and at the same time 
 must own to you, that I have seldom seen a shop 
 furnished with such a variety of medicaments, and 
 in which there are fewer soporifics. The several 
 vehicles you have invented for conveying your 
 unacceptable truths to us, are what I most partic¬ 
 ularly admire, as I am afraid they are secrets 
 which will die with you. I do not find that any 
 of your critical essays are taken notice of in this 
 paper, notwithstanding I look upon them to be 
 excellent cleansers of the brain, and could venture 
 to superscribe them with an advertisement which I 
 have lately seen in one of our newspapers, wherein 
 there is an account given of a sovereign remedy 
 for restoring the taste to all such persons whose 
 palates have been vitiated by distempers, unwhole¬ 
 some food, or any the like occasions. But to let 
 fall the allusion, notwithstanding your criticisms, 
 and particularly the candor which you have dis¬ 
 covered in them, are not the least taking part of 
 your works, I find your opinion concerning poeti¬ 
 cal justice, as it is expressed in the first part of 
 your fortieth Spectator, is controverted by some 
 eminent critics; and as you seem, to our grief of 
 heart, to be winding up your bottoms, I hoped you 
 would have enlarged a little upon that subject. It 
 is indeed but a single paragraph in your works, 
 and I believe those who have read it with the same 
 attention I have done, will think there is nothing 
 to be objected against it. I have however drawn 
 up some additional arguments to strengthen the 
 opinion which you have there delivered, having 
 endeavored to go to the bottom of that matter, 
 which you may either publish or suppress as you 
 think fit. 
 
 (347 
 
 “ Horace, in my motto, says, that all men are 
 vicious, and that they differ from one another only 
 as they are more or less so. Boileau has given the 
 same account of our wisdom, as Horace has of our 
 virtue. 
 
 Tous les homines sont fous, et inalgre tous leurs soins. 
 
 Ne difforente entre eux, que du plus et du moins. 
 
 ‘ All men,’ says he, ‘are fools, and, in spite of their 
 endeavors to the contrary, differ from one another 
 only as they are more or less so.’ 
 
 “ Two or three of the old Greek poets have given 
 the same turn to a sentence which describes the 
 happiness of man in this life: 
 
 ‘ That man is most happy who is the least miserable.’ 
 
 It will not perhaps be unentertaining to the polite 
 reader to observe how these three beautiful sen¬ 
 tences are formed upon different subjects by the 
 same way of thinking; but I shall return to the 
 first of them. 
 
 “Our goodness being of a comparative and not 
 an absolute nature, there is none who in strictness 
 can be called a virtuous man. Every one has in 
 him a natural alloy, though one may be fuller of 
 dross than another; for this reason I cannot think 
 it right to introduce a perfect or a faultless man 
 upon the stage; not only because such a character 
 is improper to move compassion, but because there 
 is no such thing in nature. This might probably 
 be one reason why the Spectator in one of his 
 papers took notice of that late invented term called 
 poetical justice, and the wrong notions into which 
 it has led some tragic writers. The most perfect 
 man has vices enough to draw down punishments 
 upon his head, and, to justify Providence in re¬ 
 gard to any miseries that may befall him. For 
 this reason, I cannot think but that the instruction 
 and moral are much finer, where a man who is 
 virtuous in the main of his character falls into 
 distress, and sinks under the blows of fortune at 
 the end of a tragedy, than when he is represented 
 as happy and triumphant. Such an example cor¬ 
 rects the insolence of human nature, softens the 
 mind of the beholder with sentiments of pity and 
 compassion, comforts him under his own private 
 affliction, and teaches him not to judge of men’s 
 virtues by their successes. I cannot think of one 
 real hero in all antiquity so far raised above hu¬ 
 man infirmities, that he might not be very natu¬ 
 rally represented in a tragedy as plunged in mis¬ 
 fortunes and calamities. The poet may still find 
 out some prevailing passion or indiscretion in his 
 character, and show it in such a manner, as will 
 sufficiently acquit the gods of any injustice in his 
 sufferings. For, as Horace observes in my text, 
 the best man is faulty, though not in so great a de¬ 
 gree as those whom we generally call vicious men. 
 
 “If such a strict poetical justice as some gen¬ 
 tlemen insist upon were to be observed in this art, 
 there is no manner of reason why it should not 
 extend to heroic poetry as well as tragedy. But 
 we find it so little observed in Homer, that his 
 Achilles is placed in the greatest point of glory 
 and success, though his character is morally vi¬ 
 cious, and only poetically good, if I may use the 
 phrase of our modern critics. The JEneid is filled 
 with innocent, unhappy persons. Nisus and Eu- 
 ryalus, Lausus and Pallas, come all to unfortunate 
 ends. The poet takes notice in particular, that, 
 in the sacking of Troy, Ripheus fell, who was the 
 most just man among the Trojans. 
 
 —-—Cadit et Ripheus justissimus unus, 
 
 Qui fuit in Teucris, et servantissimus £equi: 
 
 Diis aliter visum est- xEn. ii, 427. 
 
 And that Pantheus could neither be preserved by 
 his transcendent piety, nor by the holy fillets of 
 Apollo, whose priest he was. 
 
648 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 -Nec te tua plurima, Pantheu, 
 
 Labentem pietas, nec Apollinis infula texit. 
 
 Ibid. t. 129. 
 
 I might here mention the practice of ancient tragic 
 poets, both Greek and Latin; but as this particu¬ 
 lar is touched upon in the paper above-mentioned, 
 I shall pass it over in silence. I could produce 
 passages out of Aristotle in favor of my opinion; 
 and if in one place he says that an absolutely vir¬ 
 tuous man should not be represented as unhappy, 
 this does not justify any one who shall think fit 
 to bring in an absolutely virtuous man upon the 
 stage. Those who are acquainted with that au¬ 
 thor’s way of writing know very well that, to take 
 the whole extent of his subject into his divisions 
 of it, he often makes use of such cases as are 
 imaginary, and not reducible to practice. He 
 himself declares that such tragedies as ended 
 unhappily bore away.the prize in theatrical con¬ 
 tentions, from those which ended happily; and 
 for the fortieth speculation, which I am now con¬ 
 sidering, as it has given reasons why these are 
 more apt to please an audience, so it only proves 
 that these are generally preferable to the other, 
 though at the same time it affirms that many ex¬ 
 cellent tragedies have and may be written in both 
 kinds. 
 
 “ I shall conclude with observing, that though 
 the Spectator above-mentioned is so far against 
 the rule of poetical justice, as to affirm that good 
 men may meet with an unhappy catastrophe in 
 tragedy, it does not say that ill men may go off 
 unpunished. The reason for this distinction is 
 very plain, namely, because the best of men are 
 vicious enough to justify Providence for any mis¬ 
 fortunes and afflictions which may befall them, 
 but there are many men so criminal that they can 
 have no claim or pretense to happiness. The best 
 of men may deserve punishment, but the worst of 
 men cannot deserve happiness.” 
 
 Ho. 549.] SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1712. 
 
 Quamvis digressu veteris confusus amici, 
 
 Laudo tamen.—Juv. Sat. iii. 1. 
 
 Tho’ griev’d at the departure of my friend, 
 
 His purpose of retiring I commend. 
 
 I believe most people begin the world with a 
 resolution to withdraw from it into a serious kind 
 of solitude or retirement when they have made 
 themselves easy in it. Our unhappiness is, that 
 we find out some excuse or other for deferring 
 such our good resolutions until our intended re¬ 
 treat is cut off by death. But among all kinds of 
 people there are none who are so hard to part 
 with the world as those who are grown old in the 
 heaping up of riches. Their minds are so warped 
 with their constant attention to gain, that it is 
 very difficult for them to give their souls another 
 bent, and convert them toward those objects, which 
 though they are proper for every stage of life, are 
 so more especially for the last. Horace describes 
 an old usurer as so charmed with the pleasure of 
 a country life, that in order to make a purchase he 
 called in all his money; but what was the event 
 of it? Why, in a very few days after he put it 
 out again. I am engaged in this series of thought 
 by a discourse which I had last week with my 
 worthy friend Sir Andrew Freeport, a man of so 
 much natural eloquence, good sense, and probity 
 of mind, that I always hear him with particular 
 pleasure. As we were sitting together, being the 
 sole remaining members of our club. Sir Andrew 
 gave me an account of the many busy scenes of 
 life in which he had been engaged, and at the 
 same time reckoned up to me abundance of those 
 
 lucky hits, which at another time he would have 
 called pieces of good fortune; but in the temper 
 of mind he was then, he termed them mercies, 
 favors of Providence, and blessings upon an 
 honest industry. “Now,” says he, “you must 
 know, my good friend, I am so used to consider 
 myself as creditor and debtor, that I often state 
 my accounts after the same manner with regard to 
 heaven and my own soul. In this case, when I 
 look upon the debtor side, I find such innumera¬ 
 ble articles, that I want arithmetic to cast them 
 up; but when I look upon the creditor side, I find 
 little more than blank paper. Now, though I am 
 very well satisfied that it is not in my power to 
 balance accounts with my Maker, I am resolved 
 however to turn all my future endeavors that way. 
 You must not therefore be surprised, my friend, 
 if you hear that I am betaking myself to a more 
 thoughtful kind of life, and if 1 meet you no more 
 in this place.” 
 
 I could not but approve so good a resolution, 
 notwithstanding the loss I shall suffer by it. Sir 
 Andrew has since explained himself to me more 
 at large in the following letter, which has just 
 come to my hands: 
 
 “ Good Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Notwithstanding my friends at the club have 
 always rallied me, when I have talked of retiring 
 from business, and repeated to me one of my own 
 sayings, that ‘ a merchant has never enough until 
 he has got a little more;’ I can now inform you, 
 that there is one in the world who thinks he has 
 enough, and is determined to pass the remainder 
 of his life in the enjoyment of what he has. You 
 know me so well, that I need not tell you I mean, 
 by the enjoyment of my possessions, the making 
 of them useful to the public. As the greatest part 
 of my estate has been hitherto of an unsteady and 
 volatile nature, either tost upon seas or fluctu¬ 
 ating in funds, it is now fixed and settled in sub¬ 
 stantial acres and tenements. I have removed it 
 from the uncertainty of stocks, winds, and waves, 
 and disposed of it in a considerable purchase. 
 This will give me great opportunity of being 
 charitable in my way, that is, in setting my poor 
 neighbors to work, and giving them a comfortable 
 subsistence out of their own industry. My gar¬ 
 dens, my fish-ponds, my arable and pasture- 
 grounds, shall be my several hospitals, or rather 
 work-houses, in which I propose to maintain a 
 great many indigent persons, who are now starv¬ 
 ing in my neighborhood. I have got a fine spread 
 of improvable lands, and in my own thoughts 
 am already plowing up some of them, fencing 
 others; planting woods, and draining marshes. 
 In fine, as I have my share in the surface of this 
 island, I am resolved to make it as beautiful a 
 spot as any in her majesty’s dominions; at least 
 there is not an inch of it which shall not be culti¬ 
 vated to the best advantage, and do its utmost for 
 its owner. As in my mercantile employment I so 
 disposed of my affairs, that, from whatever corner 
 of the compass the wind blew, it was bringing 
 home one or other of my ships; I hope as a hus¬ 
 bandman to contrive it so, that not a shower of 
 rain or a glimpse of sunshine shall fall upon my 
 estate without bettering some part of it, and con¬ 
 tributing to the products of the season. You 
 know it has been hitherto my opinion of life, 
 that it is thrown away when it is not some way 
 useful to others. But when I am riding out by 
 myself, in the fresh air on the open heath that 
 lies by my house, I find several other thoughts 
 growing up in me. I am now of opinion, that a 
 man of my age may find business enough on him¬ 
 self, by setting his mind in order, preparing it for 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 another world, and reconciling it to the thoughts 
 of death. I must therefore acquaint you, that be¬ 
 side those usual methods of charity, of which I 
 have before spoken, I am at this very instant find¬ 
 ing out a convenient place where I may build an 
 almshouse, which I intend to endow very hand¬ 
 somely for a dozen superannuated husbandmen. 
 It will be a great pleasure to me to say my prayers 
 twice a day with men of my own .years* who all 
 of them, as well as myself, may have their thoughts 
 taken up how they shall die, rather than how they 
 shall live. I remember an excellent saying that I 
 learned at school, Finis coronat opus. You know 
 best whether it be in Virgil or in Horace; it is my 
 business to apply it. If your affairs will permit 
 you to take the country air with me sometimes, 
 jou shall find an apartment fitted up for you, and 
 shall be every day entertained with beef or mutton 
 of my own feeding; fish out of my own ponds; 
 and fruit out of my own gardens. You shall have 
 free egress and regress about my house, without 
 having any questions asked you; and, in a word, 
 such a hearty welcome as you may expect from 
 “ \ our most sincere Friend 
 
 “and humble Servant, 
 
 “Andrew Freeport.” 
 
 The club of which I am a member being en¬ 
 tirely dispersed, I shall consult my reader next 
 week upon a project relating to the institution of 
 a new one.—0. 
 
 No. 550.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1712. 
 
 Quid dignurn tanto feret hie promissor hiatu ? 
 
 Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 138. 
 
 In what will all this ostentation end?—R oscommon. 
 
 Since the late dissolution of the club, whereof 
 I have often declared myself a member, there are 
 very many persons who, by letters, petitions, and 
 recommendations, put up for the next election. 
 At the same time I must complain, that several 
 indirect and underhand practices have been made 
 use of upon this occasion. A certain country gen¬ 
 tleman began to tap upon the first information he 
 received of Sir Roger’s death; when he sent me 
 up word that if I would get him chosen in the 
 place of the deceased, he would present me with 
 a barrel of the best October I had ever tasted in 
 my life. The ladies are in great pain to know 
 whom I intend to elect in the room of Will Honey¬ 
 comb. Some of them indeed are of opinion that 
 Mr. Honeycomb did not take sufficient care of 
 their interests in the club, and are therefore de¬ 
 sirous of having in it hereafter a representative of 
 their own sex. A citizen who subscribes himself 
 Y. Z., tells me that he has one-and-twenty shares 
 in the African company, and offers to bribe me 
 with the odd one in case he may succeed Sir An¬ 
 drew Freeport, which he thinks would raise the 
 credit of that fund. I have several letters dated 
 from Jenny Mann’s, by gentlemen who are can¬ 
 didates for Captain Sentry’s place; and as many 
 from a coffee-house in Paul’s churchyard of such 
 who would fill up the vacancy occasioned by the 
 death of my worthy friend the clergyman, whom 
 I can never mention but with a particular respect. 
 
 ; Having maturely weighed these several par¬ 
 ticulars, with the many remonstrances that have 
 been made to me on this subject, and considering 
 how invidious an office I shall take upon me if I 
 make the whole election depend upon my single 
 voice, and being unwilling to expose myself°to 
 those clamors, which on such an occasion will not 
 fail to be raised against me for partiality, injustice, 
 
 649 
 
 c J’ rru P tion ’ and other qualities, which my nature 
 abhors, I have formed to myself the project of a 
 club as follows: 
 
 I have thoughts of issuing out writs to all and 
 every of the clubs that are established in the cities 
 or London and Westminster, requiring them to 
 choose out of their respective bodies a person of 
 the greatest merit, and to return his name to me 
 before Lady-day, at which time I intend to sit 
 upon business. 
 
 By this means, I may have reason to hope, that 
 the club over which I shall preside will be the 
 very flower and quintessence of all other clubs. 
 1 have communicated this my project to none but 
 a particular friend of mine, whom I have cele¬ 
 brated twice or thrice for his happiness in that 
 kind of wflt which is commonly known by the 
 name of a pun. The only objection he makes to 
 it is, that I shall raise up enemies to myself if I 
 act with so regal an air, and that my detractors, 
 instead of giving me the usual title of Spectator, 
 will be apt to call me the King of Clubs. 
 
 But to proceed on my intended project; it is 
 very well known that I at first set forth in this 
 work with the character of a silent man; and I 
 think I have so well preserved my taciturnity, 
 that I do not remember to have violated it with 
 three sentences in the space of almost two years. 
 As a monosyllable is my delight, I have made 
 very few excursions, in the conversations which I 
 have related, beyond a Yes or a No. By this 
 means, my readers have lost many good things 
 which I have had in my heart, though I did not 
 care for uttering them. 
 
 Now in order to diversify my character, and to 
 show the world how well I can talk if I have a 
 mind, I have thoughts of being very loquacious 
 in the club which I have now under consideration. 
 But that I may proceed the more regularly in this 
 affair, I design, upon the first meeting of the said 
 club, to have my mouth opened in form; intend¬ 
 ing to regulate myself in this particular by a cer¬ 
 tain ritual which I have by me, that contains all 
 the ceremonies which are practiced at the opening 
 of the mouth of a cardinal. I have likewise ex¬ 
 amined the forms which were used of old by 
 Pythagoras, when any of his scholars, after an 
 apprenticeship of silence, was made free of his 
 speech. In the meantime, as I have of late found 
 my name in foreign gazettes upon less occasions, 
 
 I question not but in their next articles from 
 Great Britain they will inform the world, that 
 the “Spectator’s mouth is to be opened on the 
 twenty-fifth of March next.” I may perhaps pub¬ 
 lish a very useful paper at that time of the pro¬ 
 ceedings in that solemnity, and of the persons 
 who shall assist at it. But of this more hereafter. 
 0 . 
 
 No. 551.] TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1712. 
 
 Sic honor et nomen divinis vatibus atque 
 
 Carminibus venit- Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 400. 
 
 So ancient is the pedigree of verse, 
 
 And so divine a poet’s function.—R oscommon. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 When men of worthy and excelling geniuses 
 have obliged the world with beautiful and instruc¬ 
 tive writings, it is in the nature of gratitude that 
 praise should be returned them, as one proper 
 consequent reward of their performances. Nor 
 has mankind ever been so degenerately sunk but 
 they have made this return, and even when they 
 have not been wrought up by the generous en¬ 
 deavor so as to receive the advantages designed by 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 C50 
 
 it. This praise, which arises first in the mouth 
 of particular persons, spreads and lasts according 
 to the merit of authors ; and when it thus meets 
 with a full success changes its denomination and 
 is called fame. They who have happily arrived 
 at this, are, even while they live, inflamed by the 
 acknowledgments of others, and spurred on to new 
 undertakings for the benefit of mankind, notwith¬ 
 standing the detraction which some abject tempers 
 would cast upon them : but when they decease, 
 their characters being free from the shadow which 
 envy laid them under, begin to shine out with the 
 greater splendor; their spirits survive in their 
 works ; they are admitted into the highest com¬ 
 panies, and they continue pleasing and instructing 
 posterity from age to age. Some of the best gain 
 a character by being able to show that they are 
 no strangers to them: and others obtain a new 
 warmth to labor for the happiness and ease of 
 mankind, from 'a reflection upon those honors 
 which are paid to their memories. 
 
 “ The thought of this took me up as I turned 
 over those epigrams which are the remains of sev¬ 
 eral of the wits of Greece, and perceived many 
 dedicated to the fame of those who had excelled in 
 beautiful poetic performances. Wherefore, in pur¬ 
 suance to my thought; I concluded to do some¬ 
 thing along with them to bring their praises into 
 a new light and language, for the encouragement 
 of those whose modest tempers may be deterred 
 by the fear of envy or detraction from fair attempts, 
 to which their parts might render them equal. You 
 will perceive them, as they follow, to be conceived 
 in the form of epitaphs, a sort of writing which 
 is wholly set apart for a short-pointed method 
 of praise. 
 
 ON ORPHEUS, WRITTEN BY ANTIPATER. 
 
 No longer, Orpheus, shall thy sacred strains 
 Lead stones, and trees, and beasts along the plains: 
 
 No longer soothe the boisterous winds to sleep, 
 
 Or still the billows of the raging deep, 
 
 Eor thou art gone. The Muses mourn thy fall 
 In solemn strains, thy mother most of all. 
 
 Ye mortals, idly for your sons ye moan, 
 
 If thus a goddess could not save her own. 
 
 “Observe here, that if we take the fable for 
 granted, as it was believed to be in that age when 
 the epigram was written, the turn appears to have 
 piety to the gods, and a resigning spirit in its ap¬ 
 plication. But if we consider the point with 
 respect to our present knowledge, it will be less 
 esteemed; though the author himself, because he 
 believed it, may still be more valued than any one 
 who should now write with a point of the same 
 nature. 
 
 ON HOMER, BY ALPHEUS OF MYTILENE. 
 
 Still in our ears Andromache complains, 
 
 And still in sight the fate of Troy remains: 
 
 Still Ajax fights, still Hector’s dragg’d along: 
 
 Such strange enchantment dwells in Homer’s song; 
 Whose birth could more than one poor realm adorn, 
 
 For all the world is proud that he was horn. 
 
 “ The thought in the first part of this is natural, 
 and depending upon poesy; in the latter part it 
 looks as if it would aim at the history of seven 
 towns contending for the honor of Homer’s birth¬ 
 place ; but when you expect to meet with that 
 common story the poet slides by, and raises the 
 whole world for a kind of arbiter, which is to end 
 the contention among its several parts. 
 
 ON ANACREON, BY ANTIPATER. 
 
 This tomb be thine, Anacreon! All around 
 Let ivy wreathe, let flow’rets deck the ground; 
 
 And from its earth, enrich’d by such a prize, 
 
 Let wells of milk and streams of wine arise: 
 
 So will thine ashes yet a pleasure know, 
 
 If any pleasure reach the shades below. 
 
 “ The poet here written upon is an easy, gay 
 author, and he who writes upon him has filled his 
 own head with the character of his subject. He 
 seems to love his theme so much that he thinks 
 of nothing but pleasing him as if he were still 
 alive, by entering into his libertine spirit; so that 
 the humor is easy and gay, resembling Anacreon 
 in its air, raised by such images, and pointed with 
 such a turn as, he might have used. I give it a 
 place here because the author may have designed 
 it for his honor ; and I take an opportunity from 
 it to advise others, that when they would praise 
 they cautiously avoid every looser qualification, 
 and fix only where there is a real foundation in 
 merit. 
 
 ON EURIPIDES, BY ION. 
 
 Divine Euripides, this tomb we see,' 
 
 So fair, is not a monument for thee, 
 
 So much as thou for it, since all will own 
 Thy name and lasting praise adorn the stone. 
 
 “ The thought here is fine, but its fault is, that 
 it is general, that it may belong to any great man, 
 because it points out no particular character. It 
 would be better if, when we light upon such a turn, 
 we join it with something that circumscribes and 
 bounds it to the qualities of our subject. He who 
 gives his praise in gross, will often appear either 
 to have been a stranger to those he writes upon, or 
 not to have found anything in them which is 
 praiseworthy. 
 
 ON SOPHOCLES, BY SIMONIDES. 
 
 Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade 
 Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid, 
 
 Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine 
 With blushing roses and the clustering vine. 
 
 Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung, 
 
 Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung, 
 
 Whose soul, exalted like a God of wit, 
 
 Among the Muses and the Graces writ: 
 
 “ This epigram I have opened more than any of 
 the former: the thought toward the latter end 
 seemed closer couched, so as to require an expli¬ 
 cation. I fancied the poet aimed at the picture 
 which is generally made of Apollo and the Muses, 
 he sitting with his harp in the middle, and they 
 around him. This looked beautiful to my thought; 
 and because the image arose before me out of the 
 words of the original as I was reading it, I ven¬ 
 tured to explain them so. 
 
 ON MENANDER, THE AUTHOR UNNAMED. 
 
 The very bees, 0 sweet Menander, hung 
 To taste the Muses’ spring upon thy tongue, 
 
 The very Graces made the scenes you writ 
 Their happy point of fine expression hit. 
 
 Thus still you live, you make your Athens shine, 
 
 And raise its glory to the skies in thine. 
 
 “This epigram has a respect to the character of 
 its subject; for Menander wrote remarkably with a 
 justness and purity of language. It has also told 
 the country he was born in, without either a set or a 
 hidden manner, while it twists together the glory 
 of the poet and his nation, so as to make the na¬ 
 tion depend upon his for an increase of its own. 
 
 “I will offer no more instances at present to 
 show, that they who deserve praise have it re¬ 
 turned them from different ages; let these which 
 have been laid down show men that envy will not 
 always prevail. And to the end that writers may 
 more successfully enliven the endeavors of one 
 another, let them consider, in some such manner 
 as I have attempted, what may be the justest 
 spirit and art of praise. It is indeed very hard to 
 come up to it. Our praise is trifling when it de¬ 
 pends upon fable: it is false when it depends 
 upon wrong qualification's; it means nothing when 
 it is general; it is extremely difficult tc hit when 
 
651 
 
 THE SPEi 
 
 wo propose to raise characters high, while we 
 keep to them justly. I shall end this with tran¬ 
 scribing that excellent epitaph of Mr. Cowley, 
 wherein, with a kind of grave and philosophic 
 humor, he very beautifully speaks of himself 
 (withdrawn from the "world and dead to all the 
 interests of it) as of a man really deceased. At 
 the same time it is an instruction how to leave the 
 public with a good grace. 
 
 EPITAPHIUM YIVI AUTHOlilS. 
 
 Hie, 0 viator, sub lare parvulo 
 Couleius hie est conditus, hie jacet 
 Defunctus humani laboris 
 Sorte, supervacuaque vita, 
 
 Non indecora pauperie nitens, 
 
 Et non inerti nobilis otio, 
 
 Yanoque dilectis popello 
 Divitiis animosus hostis. 
 
 Possis ut ilium dicere mortuum, 
 
 En terra jam nunc quantula sufficit! 
 
 Exempta sit curis, viator, 
 
 • Terra sit ilia levis, precare. 
 
 [i Hie sparge flores, sparge breves rosas, 
 
 Nam vita gaudet mortua floribus, 
 
 Herbisque odoratis corona 
 Vatis adhuc cinerem calentem. 
 
 THE LIVING AUTHOR’S EPITAPH. 
 
 From life’s superfluous cares enlarg’d, 
 
 His debt of human toil discharg’d, 
 
 Here Cowley lies, beneath this shed, 
 
 To ev’ry worldly interest dead: 
 
 > With decent poverty content; 
 
 * His hours of ease not idly spent; 
 
 To fortune’s goods a foe profess’d, 
 
 ; And hating wealth, by all caress’d. 
 
 ’Tis sure, he’s dead; for lo 1 how small 
 A spot of earth is now his all! 
 
 0! wish that earth may lightly lay, 
 
 And ev’ry care be far away! 
 
 Bring flow’rs, the short-liv’d roses bring, 
 
 To life deceas’d fit offering! 
 
 And sweets around the poet strow, 
 
 While yet with life his ashes glow.” 
 
 The publication of these criticisms having pro¬ 
 cured me the following letter from a very ingeni¬ 
 ous gentleman, I cannot forbear inserting it in the 
 volume,* though it did not come soon enough to 
 have a place in any of my single papers. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Having read over in your paper, No. 551, some 
 of the epigrams made by the Grecian wits, in com¬ 
 mendation of their celebrated poets, I could not 
 forbear sending you another, out of the same col¬ 
 lection; which I take to be as great a compliment 
 to Homer as any that has yet been paid him. 
 
 Who first transcribed the famous Trojan war, 
 
 And wise Ulysses’ acts, 0 Jove, make known, 
 
 For since ’tis certain thine those poems are, 
 
 No more let Homer boast they are his own. 
 
 “ If y°u think it worthy of a place in your spec¬ 
 ulations, for aught I know (by that means) it may 
 in time be printed as often in English as it has 
 already been in Greek. 
 
 “I am (like the rest of the world), 
 
 “ Sir, your great Admirer, 
 
 “4th Dec. “ q. 
 
 The reader may observe that the beauty of this 
 epigram is different from that of any in the fore¬ 
 going. _ An irony is looked upon as the finest 
 palliative of praise; and very often conveys the 
 noblest panegyric under the appearance of satire. 
 Homer is here seemingly accused and treated as a 
 plagiary; but what is drawn up in the form of an 
 accusation is certainly, as my correspondent ob¬ 
 serves, the greatest compliment that could have 
 been paid to that divine poet. 
 
 * The translation of Cowley’s epitaph, and all that follows, 
 except the concluding letter signed Pliilonicus, was not printed 
 in the Spect. in folio, but added in the 8vo edition of 1712. 
 
 tator. 
 
 “ Dear Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a gentleman of pretty good fortune, and 
 of a. temper impatient of anything which I think 
 an injury. However, I always quarreled accord¬ 
 ing to law, and instead of attacking my adversary 
 by the dangerous method of sword and pistol, I 
 made my assaults by that more secure one of writ 
 or warrant.. I cannot help telling you, that either 
 by justice of my causes or the superiority of 
 my counsel, I have been generally successful; 
 and to my great satisafetion I can say it, that by 
 three actions of slander, and half-a-dozen tres¬ 
 passes, I have for several years enjoyed a perfect 
 tranquillity^in my reputation and estate: by these 
 means, also, I have been made known to the judges; 
 the sergeants of our circuit are my intimate friends; 
 and the ornamental counsel pay a very profound 
 respect to one who has made so great a figure in 
 the law. Affairs of consequence having brought 
 me to town, I had the curiositv the other day to 
 visit Westminster-hall; and, having placed myself 
 in one of the courts, expected to be most agreeably 
 enteitained. After the court and counsel were 
 with due ceremony seated, up stands a learned 
 gentleman and began, When this matter was last 
 “ stirred” before your Lordships; the next hum¬ 
 bly moved to “ quash ” an indictment; another 
 complained that his adversary had “ snapped ” a 
 judgment; the next informed the court that his 
 client was stripped of his possession ; another 
 begged leave to acquaint his lordship they had 
 been “saddled” with costs. At last up got a 
 grave sergeant, and told us his client had been 
 “hung up” a whole term by a writ of error. At 
 this I could bear it no longer, but came hither, 
 and resolved to apply myself to your honor to in¬ 
 terpose with these gentlemen, that they would 
 leave ofPsuch low and unnatural expressions : for 
 surely though the lawyers subscribe to hideous 
 French and false Latin, yet they should let their 
 clients have a little decent and proper English for 
 their money. What man that has a value for a 
 good name would like to have it said in a public 
 court, that Mr. Such-a-one was stript, saddled, or 
 hung-up ? This being what has escaped your 
 spectatorial observation, be pleased to correct such 
 an illiberal cant among professed speakers, and 
 you will infinitely oblige, 
 
 “Your humble Servant, 
 
 “ Philonicus.”* 
 
 “Joe’s Coffee-house, Nov. 28.” 
 
 No. 552.] WEDNESDAY, DECEMBEK 3, 1712. 
 
 Qui praegravat artes 
 
 Infra se positas, extinctus amabitur idem.—H or. 2 Ep. i. 13. 
 
 For those are hated that excel the rest, 
 
 Although, when dead, they are belov’d and blest.—C reecii 
 
 As I was tumbling about the town the other day 
 in a hackney-coach, and delighting myself with 
 busy scenes in the shops on each side of me, it 
 came into my head, with no small remorse, that I 
 had not been frequent enough in the mention and 
 recommendation of the industrious part of man¬ 
 kind. It very naturally upon this occasion touched 
 my conscience in particular, that I had not acquit¬ 
 ted myself to my friend Mr. Peter Motteux. That 
 industrious man of trade, and formerly brother of 
 the quill, has dedicated to me a poem upon tea. 
 It would injure him, as a man of business, if I 
 did not let the world know that the author of so 
 good verses wrote them before he was concerned in 
 
 * No. 551 is not lettered in the Spect. in folio, nor has it any 
 signature in the 8vo or 12mo editions of 1712. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 652 
 
 traffic. In order to expiate my negligence toward 
 him, I immediately resolved to make him a visit. 
 I found his spacious warehouses filled and adorned 
 with tea, China, and India-ware. I could observe 
 a beautiful ordonnance of the whole; and such 
 different and considerable branches of trade car¬ 
 ried on in the same house, I exulted in seeing dis¬ 
 posed by a poetical head. In one place were 
 exposed to view silks of various shades and colors, 
 rich brocades, and the wealthiest product of foreign 
 looms. Here you might see the finest laces held 
 up by the fairest hands; and there, examined by 
 the beauteous eyes of the buyers, the most delicate 
 cambrics, muslins, and linens. I could not but 
 congratulate my friend on the humble, but I hope 
 beneficial, use he had made of his talents, and 
 wished I could be a patron to his trade, as he had 
 been pleased to make me of his poetry. The hon¬ 
 est man has, I know, that modest desire of gain 
 which is peculiar to those who understand better 
 things than riches; and I dare say he would be 
 contented with much less than what is called 
 wealth in that quarter of the town which he in¬ 
 habits, and will oblige all his customers with de¬ 
 mands agreeable to the moderation of his desires. 
 
 Among other omissions of which I have been 
 also guilty, with relation to men of industry of a 
 superior order, I must acknowledge my silence to¬ 
 ward a proposal frequently inclosed to me by Mr. 
 Renatus Harris, organ-builder. The ambition of 
 this artificer is to erect an organ in St. Paul’s ca¬ 
 thedral, over the west door, at the entrance into the 
 body of the church, which in art and magnificence 
 shall transcend any work of that kind ever before 
 invented. The proposal in perspicuous language 
 sets forth the honor and advantage such a perform¬ 
 ance would be to the British name, as well as that 
 it would apply the power of sounds in a manner 
 more amazingly forcible than pei’haps has yet been 
 known, and I am sure to an end much more worthy. 
 Had the vast sums which have been laid out upon 
 operas without skill or conduct, and to no other 
 purpose but to suspend or vitiate our understand¬ 
 ings, been disposed this way, we should now per¬ 
 haps have had an engine so formed as to strike the 
 minds of half a people at once in a place of wor¬ 
 ship, with a forgetfulness of present care and 
 calamity, and a hope of endless rapture, joy, and 
 hallelujah hereafter. 
 
 When I am doing this justice, I am not to forget 
 the best mechanic of my acquaintance, that useful 
 servant to sciences and knowledge, Mr. John Row- 
 ley; but I think I lay a great obligation on the 
 public, by acquainting them with his proposals 
 for a pair of new globes. After this preamble, he 
 promises in the said proposals that, 
 
 IN THE CELESTIAL GLOBE, 
 
 “ Care shall be taken that the fixed stars be 
 placed according to their true longitude and lati¬ 
 tude, from the many and correct observations of 
 Hevelius, Cassini, Mr. Flamstead, reg. astronomer; 
 Dr. Halley, Savilian professor in geometry in Oxon; 
 and from whatever else can be procured to render 
 the globe more exact, instructive, and useful. 
 
 “That all the constellations be drawn in a curi¬ 
 ous, new, and particular manner; each star in so 
 just, distinct, and conspicuous a proportion, that 
 its true magnitude may be readily known by bare 
 inspection, according to the different light and 
 sizes of the stars. That the track or way of such 
 comets as have been well observed, but not hitherto 
 expressed in any globe, be carefully delineated in 
 this.” 
 
 IN THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE, 
 
 “ That by reason the descriptions formerly made, 
 both in the English and Dutch great globes, are 
 
 erroneous, Asia, Africa, and America, be drawn in 
 a manner wholly new; by which means it is to be 
 noted that the undertakers will be obliged to alter 
 the latitude of some places in ten degrees, the lon¬ 
 gitude of others in twenty degrees; beside which 
 great and necessary alterations, there be many re¬ 
 markable countries, cities, towns, rivers, and lakes, 
 omitted in other globes, inserted here according to 
 the best discoveries made by our late navigators. 
 Lastly, that the course of the trade-winds, the 
 monsoons, and other winds periodically shifting 
 between the tropics, be visibly expressed. 
 
 “Now, in regard that this undertaking is of so 
 universal use, as the advancement of the most ne¬ 
 cessary parts of the mathematics, as well as tend¬ 
 ing to the honor of the British nation, and that the 
 charge of carrying it on is very expensive, it is 
 desired that all gentlemen who are willing to pro¬ 
 mote so great a work will be pleased to subscribe 
 on the following conditions: 
 
 “I. The undertakers engage to furnish each 
 subscriber with a celestial and terrestrial globe, 
 each of thirty inches diameter, in all respects curi¬ 
 ously adorned, the stars gilded, the capital cities 
 plainly distinguished, the frames, meridians, hori¬ 
 zons, hour circles, and indexes, so exactly finished 
 up, and accurately divided, that a pair of these 
 globes will really appear, in the judgment of any 
 disinterested and intelligent person, worth fifteen 
 pounds more than will be demanded for them by 
 the undertakers. 
 
 “II. Whosoever will be pleased to subscribe 
 and pay twenty-five pounds in the manner follow¬ 
 ing for a pair of the globes, either for their own 
 use, or to present them to any college in the uni¬ 
 versities, or any public library or schools, shall 
 have his coat of arms, name, title, seat, or place of 
 residence, etc., inserted in some convenient place 
 of the globe. 
 
 “III. That every subscriber do at first pay down 
 the sum of ten pounds, and fifteen pounds more 
 upon the delivery of each pair of globes perfectly 
 fitted up. And that the said globes be delivered 
 within twelve months after the number of thirty 
 subscribers'be completed; and that the subscribers 
 be served with globes in the order in which they 
 subscribed. 
 
 “IV. That a pair of these globes shall not here¬ 
 after be sold to any person but the subscribers 
 under thirty pounds. 
 
 “V. That, if there be not thirty subscribers 
 within four months after the first of December, 
 1712, the money paid shall be returned on demand 
 by Mr. John Warner, goldsmith, near Temple-bar, 
 who shall receive and pay the same according to 
 the above-mentioned articles.”—T. 
 
 No. 553.] THURSDAY, DECEMBER 4,1712. 
 
 Nec lusisse pudet, sed non incidere ludum. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. xiv. 35. 
 
 Once to be wild is no such foul disgrace, 
 
 But ’tis so still to run the frantic race.— Creech. 
 
 The project which I published on Monday last 
 has brought me in several packets of letters. 
 Among the rest, I have received one from a certain 
 projector, wherein, after having represented, that 
 in all probability the solemnity of opening my 
 mouth will draw together a great confluence of 
 beholders, he proposes to me the hiring of Station- 
 ers’-hall for the more convenient exhibition of that 
 public ceremony. He undertakes to be at the 
 charge of it himself, provided he may have the 
 erecting of galleries on every side, and the letting 
 of them out upon that occasion. I have a letter 
 
THE SPE 
 
 also from a bookseller, petitioning me in a very 
 humble manner that lie may have the printing of 
 the speech which I shall make to the assembly 
 upon the first opening of my mouth. I am in¬ 
 formed from all parts that there are great canvass¬ 
 ings in the several clubs about town, upon the 
 choosing of a proper person to sit with me on 
 those arduous aliairs to which I have summoned 
 them. Three clubs have already proceeded to 
 election, whereof one has made a double return. 
 If I find that my enemies shall take advantage of 
 mv silence to begin hostilities upon me, or if any 
 other exigency of affairs may so require, since I 
 see elections in so great a forwardness, we may 
 possibly meet before the day appointed; or, if mat¬ 
 ters go on to my satisfaction, I may perhaps put 
 off the meeting to a further day; but of this public 
 notice shall be given. 
 
 In the meantime, I must confess that I am not 
 a little gratified and obliged by that concern which 
 appears in this great city upon my present design 
 of laying down this paper. It is likewise with 
 much satisfaction that I find some of the most 
 outlying parts of the kingdom alarmed upon this 
 occasion, having received letters to expostulate 
 with me about it from several of my readers of the 
 romotest boroughs of Great Britain." Among these 
 I am very well pleased with a letter dated at Ber¬ 
 wick-upon-Tweed, wherein my correspondent com- 
 paies the office, which I have for some time 
 executed in these realms, to the weeding of a 
 great garden; “ which,” says he, “it is not suffi¬ 
 cient to weed once for all, and afterward to give 
 over, but that the work must be continued daily, 
 or the same spots of ground which are cleared for 
 a while will in a little time be overrun as much as 
 ever. Another gentleman lays before me several 
 enormities that are already sprouting, and which 
 he believes will discover themselves in their 
 full growth immediately after my disappearance. 
 “There is no doubt,” says he, “but the ladies’ 
 heads will shoot up as soon as they know they 
 are no longer under the Spectator’s eye; and I 
 have already seen such monstrous broad-brimmed 
 hats under the arms of foreigners, that I question 
 not but they will overshadow the island within 
 a month or two after the dropping of your paper.” 
 But, among all the letters which are come to my 
 hands, there is none so handsomely written as the 
 following one, which I am the more pleased with 
 as it is sent me from gentlemen who belong to a 
 body which I shall always honor, and where (I 
 cannot speak it without a secret pride) my specu¬ 
 lations have met with a very kind reception. It 
 is usual for poets, upon the publishing of their 
 works, to print before them such copies of verses 
 as have been made in their praise. !N T ot that you 
 must imagine they are pleased with their own 
 commendation, but because the elegant composi¬ 
 tions of their friends should not be lost. I must 
 make the same apology for the publication of the 
 ensuing letter, in which I have suppressed no part 
 of those praises that are given my speculations 
 with too lavish and good-natured a hand; though 
 my correspondents can witness for me, that at 
 other times I have generally blotted out those 
 parts in the letters which I have received from 
 them. n 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “In spite of your invincible silence you have 
 found out the method of being the most agreeable 
 companion in the world; that kind of conversation 
 which you hold with the town has the good for¬ 
 tune of being always pleasing to the men of taste 
 and leisure, and never offensive to those of hurry 
 
 3T ATOR. 653 
 
 and business. You are never heard but at what 
 Horace calls dextro tempore, and have the happiness 
 to observe the politic rule which the same dis¬ 
 cerning author gave his friend, when he enjoined 
 him to deliver his book to Augustus: 
 
 Si validus, si laetus erit, si denique poscet.—1 Ep. xiii. 3. 
 
 ——-When vexing cares are fled, 
 
 VV hen well, when merry, when he asks to read.— Creech. 
 
 You never begin to talk but when people are desi¬ 
 rous to hear you; and I defy any one to be out of 
 humor until you leave off. But I am led unawares 
 into reflections foreign to the original design of 
 this epistle; which was to let you know, that some 
 unieigned admirers of your inimitable papers, who 
 could, without any flattery, greet you with the 
 salutation used to the eastern monarchs, viz: ‘0 
 Spec., live forever,’ have lately been under' the 
 same apprehensions with Mr. Philo-Spec.; that the 
 haste you have made to dispatch your best friends 
 portends no long duration to your own short vis¬ 
 age. We could not, indeed, find any just grounds 
 tor complaint in the method you took to dissolve 
 that venerable body ; no, the world was not worthy 
 ot your divine. Will Honeycomb could not, with 
 any reputation, live single any longer. It was high 
 time for the Templar to turn himself to Coke; and 
 Sir Roger’s dying was the wisest thing he ever did 
 in his life. It was, however, matter of great grief 
 to us, to think that we were in danger of losing 
 so elegant and valuable an entertainment. And 
 we could not, without sorrow, reflect that we were 
 likely to have nothing to interrupt our sips in the 
 morning, and to suspend our coffee in mid-air, be¬ 
 tween our lips and right ear, but the ordinary trash 
 of newspapers. We resolved, therefore, not to part 
 with you so. But since, to make use of your own 
 allusion, the cherries began now to crowd the 
 market, and their season was almost over, we con¬ 
 sulted our future enjoyments, and endeavored to 
 make the exquisite pleasure that delicious fruit 
 gave oui taste as lasting as we could, and by dry¬ 
 ing them, protract their stay beyond its natural 
 date. We own that thus they have not a flavor 
 equal to their juicy bloom; but yet, under this dis¬ 
 advantage, they pique the palate, and become a 
 salver better than any other fruit at its first ap¬ 
 peal ance. To speak plain, there are a number of 
 us who have begun your works afresh, and meet 
 two nights in the week in order to give you a re¬ 
 hearing. We never come together without drink- 
 
 ) tmr health, and as seldom part without general 
 expressions of thanks to you for our night’s im - 
 piovement. This we conceive to be a more useful 
 institution than any other club whatever, not ex¬ 
 cepting even that of Ugly Faces. We have one 
 manifest advantage over that renowned Society, 
 with respect to Mr. Spectator’s company. For 
 though they may brag that you sometimes make 
 your personal appearance among them, it is impos¬ 
 sible they should ever get a word from you, whereas 
 you are with us the reverse of what Phaedria w r ould 
 have his mistress be in his rival’s company, ‘ pre¬ 
 sent in your absence.’ We make you talk as much 
 and as long as we please; and, let me tell you, 
 you seldom hold your tongue for the whole even- 
 ing. I promise myself you will look with an eye 
 of favor upon a meeting which owes its original 
 to a mutual emulation among its members, who 
 shall show the most profound respect for your 
 paper; not but we have a very great value for your 
 person; and I dare say you can nowhere find four 
 more sincere Admirers, and humble Servants, than 
 
 “T. F. G. S. J. T. E. F.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 654 
 
 No. 554.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1712. 
 
 -Tentanda via est, qua me quoque possirn 
 
 Tollere liumo, vietorque virum volitare per ora. 
 
 Virg. Georg, iii. 9. 
 
 New ways I must attempt, my groveling name 
 
 To raise aloft, and wing my flight to fame.—D ryden. 
 
 I am obliged for the following essay, as well for 
 that which lays down rules out of r I ully for pro¬ 
 nunciation and action, to the ingenious author of 
 a poem just published, entitled An Ode to the 
 Creator of the World, occasioned by the Fragments 
 of Orpheus. 
 
 “ It is a remark, made as I remember by a cele¬ 
 brated French author, that no man ever pushed his 
 capacity as far as it was able to extend. I shall 
 not inquire whether this assertion be strictly true. 
 It may suffice to say, that men of the greatest ap¬ 
 plication and acquirements can look back upon 
 many vacant spaces, and neglected parts of time, 
 which have slipped away from them unemployed; 
 and there is hardly any one considering person in 
 the world but is apt to fancy with himself, at some 
 time or other, that if his life were to begin again 
 he could fill it up better. 
 
 “ The mind is most provoked to cast on itself 
 this ingenious reproach, when the examples of 
 such men are presented to it as have far outshot 
 the generality of their species in learning, arts, or 
 any valuable improvements. 
 
 “ One of the most extensive and unproved geni¬ 
 uses we have had any instance of in our own na¬ 
 tion, or in any other, was that of Sir Francis Bacon, 
 Lord Yerulam. This great man, by an extraordi¬ 
 nary force of nature, compass of thought, and in¬ 
 defatigable study, had amassed to himself such 
 stores of knowledge as we cannot look upon with¬ 
 out amazement. His capacity seemed to have 
 grasped all that was revealed in books before his 
 time; and, not satisfied with that, he began to 
 strike out new tracts of science, too many to be 
 traveled over by any one man in the compass of 
 the longest life. These, therefore, he could only 
 mark down, like imperfect coastings in maps, on 
 supposed points of land, to be further discovered 
 and ascertained by the industry of after ages, who 
 should proceed upon his notices or conjectures. 
 
 “ The excellent Mr. Boyle was the person who 
 seems to have been designed by nature to succeed 
 to the labors and inquiries of that extraordinary 
 genius I have just mentioned. By innumerable 
 experiments, he in a great measure filled up those 
 plans and outlines of science, which his predeces¬ 
 sor had sketched out. His life was spent in the 
 pursuit of nature through a great variety of forms 
 and changes, and- in the most rational as well as 
 devout adoration of its divine Author. 
 
 “ It would be impossible to name many persons 
 who have extended their capacities so far as these 
 two, in the studies they pursued; but my learned 
 readers on this occasion Avill naturally turn their 
 thoughts to a third,* who is yet living, and is 
 likewise the glory of our own nation. The im¬ 
 provements which others had made in natural and 
 mathematical knowledge has so vastly increased 
 in his hands, as to afford at once a wonderful in¬ 
 stance how great the capacity is of a human soul, 
 and how inexhaustible the subject of its inquiries; 
 so true is that remark in holy writ, that ‘ though 
 a wise man seek to find out the works of God 
 from the beginning to the end, yet shall he not be 
 able to do it/ 
 
 “ I cannot help mentioning here one character 
 more of a different kind indeed from these, yet 
 such a one as may serve to show the wonderful 
 force of nature and of application, and is the most 
 
 singular instance of a universal genius I have 
 ever met with. The person I mean is Leonardo 
 de Vinci, an Italian painter, descended from a 
 noble family in Tuscany, about the beginning of 
 the sixteenth* century. In his profession of his¬ 
 tory painting he was so great a master, that some 
 have affirmed he excelled all who went before him. 
 It is certain that he raised the envy of Michael 
 Angelo, who was his cotemporary, and that from 
 the study of his works Raphael himself learned 
 his best manner of designing. He was a master 
 too in sculpture and architecture, and skillful in 
 anatomy, mathematics, and mechanics. The aque¬ 
 duct from the river Adda to Milan is mentioned 
 as a work of his contrivance. He had learned 
 several languages, and was acquainted with the 
 studies of history, philosophy, poetry, and music. 
 Though it is not necessary to my present purpose, 
 
 I cannot but take notice, that all who have written 
 of him mention likewise his perfection of body. 
 The instances of his strength are almost incredi¬ 
 ble. He is described to have been of a well formed 
 person, and a master of all genteel exercises. 
 And, lastly, we are told that his moral qualities 
 were agreeable to his natural and intellectual en¬ 
 dowments, and that he was of an honest and gen¬ 
 erous mind, adorned with great sweetness of man¬ 
 ners. I might break off the account of him here, 
 but I imagine it will be an entertainment to the 
 curiosity of my readers, to find so remarkable, a 
 character distinguished by as remarkable a cir¬ 
 cumstance at his death. The fame of his works 
 having gained him a universal esteem, he was in¬ 
 vited to the court of France, where, after some 
 time, he fell sick; and Francis the First coming 
 to see him, he raised himself in his bed to acknow¬ 
 ledge the honor which was done him by that visit. 
 The king embraced him, and Leonardo, fainting 
 in the same instant, expired in the arms of that 
 great monarch. 
 
 “It is impossible to attend to such instances as 
 these without being raised into a contemplation 
 on the wonderful nature of a human mind, which 
 is capable of such progressions in knowledge, and 
 can contain such a variety of ideas without per¬ 
 plexity or confusion. How reasonable is it from 
 hence to infer its divine original ! And while we 
 find unthinking matter endued with a natural 
 power to last forever, unless annihilated by Om¬ 
 nipotence, how absurd would it be to imagine 
 that a being so much superior to it should not 
 have the same privilege ! 
 
 “ At the same time it is very surprising, when 
 we remove our thoughts from such instances as I 
 have mentioned, to consider those we so frequently 
 meet with in the accounts of barbarous nations 
 among the Indians; where we find numbers of 
 people who scarce show the first glimmerings of 
 reason, and seem to have few ideas above those 
 of sense and appetite. These, methinks, appear 
 like large wilds, or vast uncultivated tracts of hu¬ 
 man nature: and, when we compare them with 
 men of the most exalted characters in arts and 
 learning, we find it difficult to believe that they 
 are creatures of the same species. 
 
 “ Some are of opinion that the souls of men are 
 all naturally equal, and that the great disparity 
 we so often observe arises from the different organ¬ 
 ization or structure of the bodies to which they 
 are united. But, whatever constitutes this first 
 disparity, the next great difference which we find 
 between men in their several acquirements is 
 owing to accidental differences in their education, 
 fortunes, or course of life. The soul is a kind of 
 rough diamond, which requires art, labor, and 
 
 * He was born in 1445, and died in 1520. 
 
 * Sir Isaac Newton. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 time, to polish it. For want of which many a 
 pood natural genius is lost, or lies unfashioned, 
 like a jewel in the mine. 
 
 “ One of the strongest incitements to excel in 
 such arts and accomplishments as are in the high¬ 
 est esteem among men, is the natural passion which 
 the mind of man has for glory; which, though it 
 may be faulty in the excess of it, ought by no 
 means to be discouraged. Perhaps some moralists 
 are too severe in beating down this principle, 
 which seems to be a spring implanted by nature 
 to give motion to all the latent powers of the soul, 
 and is always observed to exert itself with the 
 greatest force in the most generous dispositions. 
 The men whose characters have shone the brightest 
 among the ancient Romans, appear to have been 
 strongly animated by this passion. Cicero, whose 
 learning and services to his country are so well 
 known, was inflamed by it to an extravagant de¬ 
 gree, and warmly presses Lucceius, who was com¬ 
 posing a history of those times, to be very par¬ 
 ticular and zeaious in relating the story of his 
 consulship; and to execute it speedily, that he 
 might have the pleasure of enjoying in his life¬ 
 time some part of the honor which he foresaw 
 would be paid to his memory. This was the am¬ 
 bition of a great mind; but he is faulty in the de- 
 ree of it, and cannot refrain from soliciting the 
 istorian upon this occasion to neglect the strict 
 laws of history, and, in praising him, even to ex¬ 
 ceed the bounds of truth. The younger Pliny 
 appears to have had the same passion for fame, 
 but accompanied with greater chasteness and mo¬ 
 desty. His ingenious manner of owning it to a 
 friend, who had prompted him to undertake some 
 great work, is exquisitely beautiful, and raises him 
 to a certain grandeur above the imputation of van¬ 
 ity. ‘I must confess/ says he, ‘that nothing em¬ 
 ploys my thoughts more than the desire I have of 
 perpetuating my name; which, in my opinion, is a 
 design worthy of a man, at least of such a one, 
 who, being conscious of no guilt, is not afraid to 
 be remembered by posterity.’ 
 
 “ I think I ought not to conclude without inter¬ 
 esting all my readers in the subject of this dis¬ 
 course; I shall, therefore, lay it down as a maxim, 
 that though all are not capable of shining in learn¬ 
 ing or the politer arts, yet every one is capable of 
 excelling in something. The soul has in this re¬ 
 spect a certain vegetative power which cannot lie 
 wholly idle. If it is not laid out and cultivated 
 into a regular and beautiful garden, it will of itself 
 shoot up in weeds or flowers of a wilder growth.” 
 
 No. 555.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1712. 
 
 Respue quod non es- Pers. Sat. iv. 51. 
 
 Lay the fictitious character aside. 
 
 All the members of the imaginary society, which 
 were described in my first papers, having disap¬ 
 eared one after another, it is high time for the 
 pectator himself to go off the stage. But now I 
 am to take my leave, I am under much greater 
 anxiety than I have known for the work of any 
 day since I undertook this province. It is much 
 more difficult to converse with the world in a real 
 than a personated character. That might pass 
 for humor in the Spectator, which would look like 
 arrogance in a writer who sets his name to his 
 work. The fictitious person might condemn those 
 who disapproved him, and extol his own perform¬ 
 ances without giving offense. He might assume 
 a mock authority, without being looked upon as 
 vain and conceited. The praises or censures of 
 
 655 
 
 himself fall only upon the creature of his imagin¬ 
 ation; and, if any one finds fault with him, S the 
 author may reply with the philosopher of old, 
 “Thou dost but beat the case of Anaxarchus.” 
 When I speak in my own private sentiments, I 
 cannot but address myself to my readers in a 
 more submissive manner, and with a just gratitude 
 for the kind reception which they have given to 
 these daily papers, which have been published for 
 almost the space of two years last past. 
 
 I hope the apology I have made, as to the 
 license allowable to a feigned character may ex- 
 cuse anything which has been said in these dis¬ 
 courses of the Spectator and his works; but the 
 imputation of the grossest vanity would still dwell 
 upon me if I did not give some account by what 
 means I was enabled to keep up the spirit of so 
 long and approved a performance. All the papers 
 marked with a 0, an L, an I, or an 0, that is to 
 say, all the papers which I have distinguished by 
 any letter in the name of the muse Clio, were 
 given me by the gentleman of whose assistance 
 I formally boasted in the preface and concluding 
 leaf of my Tatlers.* I am indeed much more 
 proud of his long-continued friendship, than I 
 should be of the fame of being thought the au¬ 
 thor of any writings which he himself is capable 
 of producing. I remember when I finished The 
 Tender Husband, I told him there was nothing I 
 so ardently wished, as that we might some time 
 or other publish a work, written by us both, which 
 should bear the name of The Monument, in mem¬ 
 ory of our friendship. I heartily wish what I 
 have done here were as honorary to that sacred 
 name, as learning, wit, and humanity, render those 
 pieces which I have taught the reader how to dis¬ 
 tinguish for his. When the play above-mentioned 
 was last acted, there were so many applauded 
 strokes in it which I had from the same hand, 
 that I thought very meanly of myself that I have 
 never publicly acknowledged them. After I have 
 put other friends upon importuning him to pub¬ 
 lish dramatic as well as other writings he has by 
 him, I shall end what I think I am obliged to say 
 on this head, by giving my reader this hint for 
 the better judging of my productions—that the 
 best comment upon them would be an account 
 when the patron to The Tender Husband was in 
 England or abroad. 
 
 The reader will also find some papers which are 
 marked with the letter X, for which he is obliged 
 to the ingenious gentleman who diverted the town 
 with the epilogue to The Distressed Mother. I 
 might have owned these several papers with the 
 free consent of these gentlemen, who did not write 
 them with a design of being known for the au¬ 
 thors. But, as a candid and sincere behavior 
 ought to be preferred to all other considerations, 
 
 I would not let my heart reproach me with a con¬ 
 sciousness of having acquired a praise which is 
 not my right. 
 
 The other assistances which I have had have 
 been conveyed by letter, sometimes by whole 
 papers, and other times by short hints from un¬ 
 known hands. I have not been able to trace 
 favors of this kind with any certainty, but to 
 the following names, which I place in the order 
 wherein ! received the obligation, though the first 
 I am going to name can hardly be mentioned in a 
 list wherein he would not deserve the precedence. 
 The persons to whom I am to make these acknow¬ 
 ledgments are, Mr. Henry Martyn, Mr. Pope, Mr. 
 Hughes, Mr. Carey of New-College in Oxford, 
 Mr. Tickell of Queen’s in the same university, 
 Mr. Parnell and Mr. Eusden of Trinity in Cam* 
 
 * Addison. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 656 
 
 bridge. Thus, to speak in the language of my 
 late friend, Sir Andrew Freeport, I have balanced 
 my accounts with all my creditors for wit and 
 learning. But as these excellent performances 
 would not have seen the light without the means 
 of this paper, I may still arrogate to myself 
 the merit of their being communicated to the 
 public. 
 
 I have nothing more to add, but having swelled 
 this work to five hundred and fifty-five papers, thev 
 will be disposed into seven volumes, four of which 
 are already published, and the three others in the 
 press. It will not be demanded of me why I now 
 leave off, though I must own myself obliged to 
 give an account to the town of my time hereafter; 
 since I retire when their partiality to me is so 
 reat, that an edition of the former volumes of 
 pectators of above nine thousand each book, is 
 already sold off, and the tax on each half-sheet 
 has brought into the stamp-office, one week with 
 another, above 20 1. a-week arising from the single 
 paper, notwithstanding it at first reduced it to less 
 than half the number that was usually printed 
 before the tax was laid. 
 
 I humbly beseech the continuance of this in¬ 
 clination to favor what I may hereafter produce, 
 and hope I have in many occurrences of my life 
 tasted so deeply of pain and sorrow, that I am 
 proof against much more prosperous circum¬ 
 stances than any advantages to which my own 
 industry can possibly exalt me. 
 
 I am, my good-natured Reader, 
 
 Your most obedient, 
 
 Most obliged humble Servant, 
 
 Richard Steele. 
 
 Vos valete et plaudite. Ter. 
 
 The following letter regards an ingenious set of 
 gentlemen, who have done me the honor to make 
 me one of their society: 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Dec. 4, 1712. 
 
 “ The academy of painting, lately established 
 in London, having done you and themselves the 
 honor to choose you one of their directors; that 
 noble and lively art, which before was entitled to 
 your regard as a Spectator, has an additional 
 claim to you, and you seem to be under a double 
 obligation to take some care of her interests. 
 
 “ The honor of our country is also concerned in 
 the matter I am going to lay before you. We 
 (and perhaps other nations as well as we) have a 
 national false humility as well as a national vain¬ 
 glory; and, though we boast ourselves to excel 
 all the world in things wherein we are outdone 
 abroad, in other things we attribute to others a 
 superiority which we ourselves possess. This is 
 what is done, particularly in the art of portrait or 
 face-painting. 
 
 “Painting is an art of avast extent, too great 
 by much for any mortal man to be in full posses¬ 
 sion of in all its parts; it is enough if any one 
 succeed in painting faces, history, battles, land¬ 
 scapes, sea-pieces, fruit, flowers, or drolls, etc. 
 Hay, no man ever was excellent in all the 
 branches (though many in number) of these sev¬ 
 eral arts, for a distinct part I take upon me to 
 call every one of those several kinds of painting. 
 
 “And as one man may be a good landscape- 
 painter, but unable to paint a face or a history 
 tolerably well, and so of the rest; one nation may 
 excel in some kinds of painting, and other kinds 
 may thrive better in other climates. 
 
 “Italy may have the preference of all other na¬ 
 tions for history-painting; Holland for drolls, and 
 a neat, finished manner of working; France for 
 gay, janty, fluttering pictures; and England for 
 
 portraits: but to give the honor of every one of 
 these kinds of painting to any one of those na¬ 
 tions on account of their excellence in any of these 
 parts of it, is like adjudging the prize of heroic, 
 dramatic, lyric, or burlesque poetry, to him who 
 has done well in any one of them. 
 
 “Where there are the greatest geniuses, and 
 most helps and encouragements, it is reasonable 
 to suppose an art will arrive to the greatest per¬ 
 fection: by this rule let us consider our own coun¬ 
 try with respect to face-painting. Ho nation in 
 the world delights so much in having their own, 
 or friends’, or relations’ pictures; whether from 
 their national good-nature, or having a love to 
 painting, and not being encouraged in that great 
 article of religious pictures, which the purity of 
 our worship refuses the free use of, or from wliat- 
 ever other cause. Our helps are not inferior to 
 those of any other people, but rather they are 
 greater; for what the antique statues and bas- 
 reliefs which Italy enjoys are to the history- 
 painters, the beautiful and noble faces with which 
 England is confessed to abound are to face-paint¬ 
 ers; and, beside, we have the greatest number of 
 the works of the best masters, in that kind, of 
 any people, not without a competent number of 
 those of the most excellent in every other part of 
 painting. And for encouragement, the wealth and 
 generosity of the English nation affords that in 
 such a degree as artists have no reason to com¬ 
 plain. 
 
 “And accordingly, in fact, face-painting is no¬ 
 where so well performed as in England: I know 
 not whether it has lain in your way to observe it, 
 but I have, and pretend to be a tolerable judge. 
 I have seen what is done abroad; and can assure 
 you that the honor of that branch of painting is 
 justly due to us. I appeal to the judicious ob¬ 
 servers for the truth of what I assert. If foreigners 
 have oftentimes, or even for the most part, excelled 
 our natives, it ought to be imputed to the advan¬ 
 tages they hare met with here, joined to their own 
 ingenuity and industry; nor has any one nation 
 distinguished themselves so as to raise an argu¬ 
 ment in favor of their country: but it is to be ob¬ 
 served that neither French nor Italians, nor any 
 one of either nation, notwithstanding all our 
 prejudices in their favor, have, or ever had, for 
 any considerable time, any character among us as 
 face-painters. 
 
 “ This honor is due to our own country, and 
 has been so for near an age: so that, instead of 
 going to Italy, or elsewhere, one that designs for 
 portrait-painting, ought to study in England. 
 Hither such should come from Holland, France, 
 Italy, Germany, etc., as he that intends to prac¬ 
 tice any other kinds of painting should go to 
 those parts where it is in the greatest perfection. 
 It is said the blessed virgin descended from heaven 
 to sit to St. Luke. I dare venture to affirm that, 
 if she should desire another Madonna to be painted 
 by the life, she would come to England; and am 
 of opinion that our present president. Sir Godfrey 
 Kneller, from his improvement since he arrived in 
 this kingdom, would perform that office better 
 than any foreigner living. 
 
 “ I am, with all possible respect, 
 
 “ Sir, your most humble and 
 
 “ most obedient Servant,” etc. 
 
 ***The ingenious letter signed The Weather- 
 Glass, with several others, were received, but came 
 too late. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 It had not come to my knowledge, when I left 
 off the Spectator, that I owe several excellent 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 sentiments and agreeable pieces in this work 
 to Mr. Ince, of Gray’s Inn.* 
 
 “ R. Steele.” 
 
 No. 556.] FRIDAY, JUNE 18, 1714. 
 
 Qualis ubi in lucem coluber, mala gramina pastus, 
 
 Frig id a sub terra tumidum quem bruma tegebat, 
 
 Nunc positis novus exuviis, nitidusque juventa, 
 
 Lubrica convolvit sublato pectore terga 
 Arduus ad solem, et linguis rnicat ore trisulcis. 
 
 Virg. Ain. ii. 471. 
 
 So shines, renew’d in youth, the crested snake, 
 
 Who slept the winter in a thorny brake; 
 
 And, casting off his slough when spring returns, 
 
 Now looks aloft, and with new glory burns: 
 
 Restor’d with pois’nous herbs, his ardent sides 
 Reflect the sun, and rais’d on spires he rides; 
 
 High o’er the grass hissing he rolls along, 
 
 And braudishes by fits his forky tongue.— Dryden. 
 
 Upon laying down the office of Spectator, I ac¬ 
 quainted the world with my design of electing a 
 new club, and of opening my mouth in it after a 
 most solemn manner. Both the election and the 
 ceremony are now past; but not finding it so easy, 
 as I at first imagined, to break through a fifty 
 years’ silence, I would not venture into the world 
 under the character of a man who pretends to 
 talk like other people, until I had arrived at a 
 full freedom of speech. 
 
 I shall reserve for another time the history of 
 such club or clubs of which I am now a talkative 
 but unworthy member; and shall here give an ac¬ 
 count of this surprising change which has been 
 produced in me, and which I look upon to be as 
 remarkable an accident as any recorded in history, 
 since that which happened to the son of Croesus, 
 after having been many years as much tongue- 
 tied as myself. 
 
 Upon the first opening of my mouth I made a 
 speech, consisting of about half a dozen well- 
 turned periods; but grew so very hoarse upon it, 
 that for three days together, instead of finding the 
 use of my tongue, I was afraid that I had quite 
 lost it. Beside, the unusual extension of my mus¬ 
 cles on this occasion made my face ache on both 
 sides, to such a degree that nothing but an in- 
 , vincible resolution and perseverance could have 
 prevented me from falling back to my monosyl¬ 
 lables. 
 
 I afterward made several essays toward speak¬ 
 ing; and that I might not be startled at my own 
 voice, which has happened to me more than once, 
 I used to read aloud in my chamber, and have 
 often stood in the middle of the street to call 
 a coach, where I knew there was none within 
 hearing. 
 
 When I was thus grown pretty well acquainted 
 with my own voice, I laid hold of all opportuni¬ 
 ties to exert it. Not caring however to speak 
 much by myself, and to draw upon me the whole 
 attention of those I conversed with, I used for 
 some time to walk every morning in the Mall, 
 and talk in chorus with a parcel of Frenchmen. 
 I found my modesty greatly relieved by the com¬ 
 municative temper of this nation, who are so very 
 sociable as to think they are never better com¬ 
 pany than when they are all opening at the same 
 time. 
 
 I then fancied I might receive great benefit from 
 female conversation, and that I should have a con¬ 
 venience of talking with the greater freedom when 
 I was not under any impediment of thinking; I 
 therefore threw myself into an assembly of ladies, 
 
 *This was the conclusion of the seventh volume of the 
 Spectator, as originally published. The intermediate time 
 was filled up by our authors with the Guardian. 
 
 42 
 
 657 
 
 but could not for my life get in a word among 
 them; and found that if I did not change my com¬ 
 pany 1 was in danger of being reduced to my 
 primitive taciturnity. 
 
 The coffee-houses have ever since been my chief 
 places of resort, where I have made the greatest 
 improvements; in order to which I have taken a 
 particular care never to be of the same opinion 
 with the man I conversed with. I was a tory at 
 Button’s, and a whig at Child’s, a friend to the 
 Englishman, or an advocate for the Examiner, as 
 it best served my turn; some fancy me a great en¬ 
 emy to the French king, though in reality I only 
 make use of him for a help to discourse. In short, 
 I wrangle and dispute for exercise; and have car¬ 
 ried this point so far, that I was once like to have 
 been run through the body for making a little too 
 free with my betters. * 
 
 In a word, I am quite another man to what I 
 was. 
 
 -—Nil fuit unquam 
 
 Tam dispar sibi.—- Hor. 1 Sat. iii. 18. 
 
 Nothing was ever so unlike itself. 
 
 My old acquaintance scarce knew me, nay, I 
 was asked the other day by a Jew at Jonathan’s, 
 whether I was not related to a dumb gentleman, 
 who used to come to that coffee-house? But I 
 think I never was better pleased in my life than 
 about a week ago, when, as I was battling it across 
 the table with a young Templar, his companion 
 gave him a pull by the sleeve, begging him to 
 come away, for that the old prig would talk him 
 to death. 
 
 Being now a very good proficient in discourse, 
 I shall appear in the world with this addition to 
 my character, that my countrymen may reap the 
 fruits of my newdy-acquired loquacity. 
 
 Those who have been present at public disputes 
 in the university know that it is usual to maintain 
 heresies for argument’s sake. I have heard a man 
 a most impudent Socinian for half an hour, who 
 has been an orthodox divine all his life after. I 
 have taken the same method to accomplish myself 
 in the gift of utterance, having talked above a 
 twelvemonth, not so much for the benefit of my 
 hearers, as of myself. But, since I have now 
 gained the faculty I have been so long endeavoring 
 after, I intend to make a right use of it, and shall 
 think myself obliged for the future to speak always 
 in truth and sincerity of heart. While a man is 
 learning to fence, he practices both on friend and 
 foe; but when he is a master in the art, he never 
 exerts it but on what bethinks the right side. 
 
 That this last allusion may not give my reader 
 a wrong idea of my design in this paper, I must 
 here inform him, that the author of it is of no fac¬ 
 tion; that he is a friend to no interests but those 
 of truth and virtue; nor a foe to any but those of 
 vice and folly. Though I make more noise in the 
 world than I used to do, I am still resolved to act 
 in it as an indifferent spectator. It is not my am¬ 
 bition to increase the number either of whigs or 
 tories, but of wise and good men; and I could 
 heartily wish there were not faults common to both 
 parties, which afford me sufficient matter to work 
 upon, without descending to those which are pecu¬ 
 liar to either. 
 
 If in a multitude of counselors th&re is safety, 
 we ought to think ourselves the securest nation m 
 the world. Most of our garrets are inhabited by 
 statesmen, who watch over the liberties of their 
 country, and make a shift to keep themselves from 
 starving by taking into their care the properties of 
 their fellow-subject. 
 
 As these politicians of both sides have already 
 worked the nation into a most unnatural ferment, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 658 
 
 I shall be so far from endeavoring to raise it to a 
 greater height, that, on the contrary, it shall be the 
 chief tendency of my papers to inspire my coun¬ 
 trymen with a mutual good-will ana benevolence. 
 Whatever faults either party may be guilty of, 
 they are rather inflamed than cured by those re¬ 
 proaches which they cast upon one another. The 
 most likely method of rectifying any man’s con¬ 
 duct is by recommending to him the principles of 
 truth and honor, religion and virtue; and so long 
 as he acts with an eye to these principles, whatever 
 party he is of, he cannot fail of being a good Eng¬ 
 lishman, and a lover of his country. 
 
 As for the persons concerned in this work, the 
 names of all of them, or at least of such as desire 
 it, shall be published hereafter; until which time 
 I must entreat the courteous reader to suspend his 
 curiosity, and rather to consider what is written 
 than who they are that write it. 
 
 Having thus adjusted all necessary preliminaries 
 with my reader, 1 shall not trouble him with any 
 more prefatory discourses, but proceed in my old 
 method, and entertain him with speculations on 
 every useful subject that falls in my way. 
 
 No. 557.] MONDAY, JUNE 21, 1714. 
 
 Quippe domum timet ambiguam, Tyriosque bilingues. 
 
 ViEG.iEn. i. 665. 
 
 He fears the ambiguous race, and Tyrians double-tongued. 
 
 “There is nothing,” says Plato, “so delightful 
 as the hearing or the speaking of truth.” For this 
 reason there is no conversation so agreeable as that 
 of the man of integrity, who hears without any 
 intention to betray, and speaks without any inten¬ 
 tion to deceive. 
 
 Among all the accounts which are given of Cato, 
 I do not remember one that more redounds to his 
 honor than the following passage related by Plu¬ 
 tarch. As an advocate was pleading the cause of 
 his client before one of the praetors, he could only 
 produce a single witness in a point where the law 
 required the testimony of two persons; upon which 
 the advocate insisted on the integrity of that per¬ 
 son whom he had produced; but the praetor told 
 him, that where the law required two witnesses he 
 would not accept of one, though it were Cato him¬ 
 self. Such a speech from a person who sat at the 
 head of a court of justice, while Cato was still liv¬ 
 ing, shows us, more than a thousand examples, 
 the high reputation this man had gained among 
 his cotemporaries upon the account of his sin¬ 
 cerity. 
 
 When such an inflexible integrity is a little soft¬ 
 ened and qualified by the rules of conversation and 
 good-breeding, there is not a more shining virtue 
 in the whole catalogue of social duties. A man, 
 however, ought to take great care not to polish 
 himself out of his veracity, nor to refine his be¬ 
 havior to the prejudice of his virtue. 
 
 This subject is exquisitely treated in the most 
 elegant sermon of the great British preacher.* I 
 shall beg leave to transcribe out of it two or three 
 sentences as a proper introduction to a very curi¬ 
 ous letter, which I shall make the chief entertain¬ 
 ment of this speculation. 
 
 “ The old English plainness and sincerity, that 
 generous integrity of nature, and honesty of dis¬ 
 position, which always argues true greatness of 
 mind, and is usually accompanied with undaunted 
 courage and resolution, is in a great measure lost 
 among us. 
 
 “ The dialect of conversation is now-a-days so 
 
 swelled with vanity and compliment, and so sur¬ 
 feited (as I may say) of expressions of kindness 
 and respect, that if a man that lived an age or two 
 ago should return into the world again, he would 
 really want a dictionary to help him to understand 
 his own language, and to know the true intrinsic 
 value of the phrase in fashion; and would hardly 
 at first believe at what a low rate the highest strains 
 and expressions of kindness imaginable do com¬ 
 monly pass in current payment; and when he 
 should come to understand it, it would be a great 
 while before he could bring himself with a good 
 countenance, and a good conscience, to converse 
 with men upon equal terms and in their own way.” 
 
 I have by me a letter which I look upon as a 
 great curiosity, and which may serve as an exem¬ 
 plification to the foregoing passage, cited out of 
 this most excellent prelate. It is said to have been 
 written in King Charles the Second’s reign by the 
 ambassador of Bantam,* a little after his arrival 
 in England. 
 
 “ Master, 
 
 “ The people where I now am have tongues fur¬ 
 ther from their hearts than from London to Bantam, 
 and thou knowest the inhabitants of one of these 
 places do not know what is done in the other. 
 They call thee and thy subjects barbarians, be¬ 
 cause we speak what we mean; and account them¬ 
 selves a civilized people, because they speak one 
 thing and mean another; truth they call barbarity, 
 and falsehood politeness. Upon my first landing, 
 one, who was sent by the king of this place to 
 meet me, told me that he was extremely sorry for 
 the storm I had met with just before my arrival. 
 I was troubled to hear him grieve and afflict him¬ 
 self on my account; but in less than a quarter of 
 an hour he smiled, and was as merry as if nothing 
 had happened. Another who came with him told 
 me, by my interpreter, he should be glad to do me 
 any service that lay in his power. Upon which I 
 desired him to carry one of my portmanteaus for 
 me; but, instead of serving me according to his 
 promise, he laughed, and bid another do it. I 
 lodged the first week at the hoi>se of one who de¬ 
 sired me to think myself at home, and to consider 
 his house as my own. Accordingly I the next 
 morning began to knock down one of the walls of 
 it, in order to let in the fresh air, and had packed 
 up some of the household goods, of which I in¬ 
 tended to have made thee a present; but the false 
 varlet no sooner saw me falling to work, but he 
 sent word to desire me to give over, for that he 
 would have no such doings in his house. I had 
 not being long in this nation, before I was told by 
 one, for whom I had asked a certain favor from 
 the chief of the king’s servants, whom they here 
 call the lord-treasurer, that I had eternally obliged 
 him. I was so surprised at his gratitude, that I 
 could not forbear saying, ‘What service is there 
 which one man can do for another, that can 
 oblige him to all eternity ?’ However, I only asked 
 him, for my reward, that he would lend me his 
 eldest daughter during my stay in this country; 
 but I quickly found that he was as treacherous as 
 the rest of his countrymen. 
 
 “At my first going to court, one of the grea) 
 men almost put me out of countenance, by askinj 
 ten thousand pardons of me for only treading by 
 accident upon my toe. They call this kind of lie 
 a compliment; for, when they are civil to a great 
 man, they tell him untruths, for which thou wouldst 
 order any of thy officers of state to receive a hun¬ 
 dred blows upon his foot. I do not know how I 
 shall negotiate anything with this people, since 
 
 * In 16S2. 
 
 * Archbishop Tillotson, vol. ii, sermon i, p. 7, edit, in folio. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 there is no little credit to be given to them. When 
 I go to see the king’s scribe, I am generally told 
 that he is not at home, though perhaps I saw him 
 
 f o into his house almost the very moment before. 
 
 hou wouldst fancy that the whole nation are 
 physicians, for the nrst question they always ask 
 me is, how I do; I have this question put to me 
 above a hundred times a-day, nay, they are not only 
 thus inquisitive after my health, but wish it in a 
 more solemn manner, with a full glass in their 
 hands, every time I sit with them at table, though 
 at the same time they would persuade me to drink 
 their liquors in such quantities as I have found by 
 experience will make me sick. They often pre¬ 
 tend to pray for thy health also in the same man¬ 
 ner; but I have more reason to expect it from the 
 goodness of thy constitution than the sincerity of 
 their wishes. May thy slave escape in safety from 
 this double-tongued race of men, and live to lay 
 himself once more at thy feet in the royal city of 
 Bantam!” 
 
 No. 558.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 23, 1714. 
 
 Qui fit, Maecenas, ut nemo, quam sibi sortem 
 Seu ratio dederit, seu fors objecerit, ilia 
 Contentus vivat: laudet diversa sequentes ? 
 
 0 fbrtunati mercatores, gravis annis 
 
 Miles ait, multo jam fractus membra labore! * 
 
 Contra mercator, navem jactantibus austris, 
 
 Militia est-portior. Quidenim? concurritur; boras 
 Momento cita mors venit, aut victoria laeta. 
 
 Agricolam laudat jures legumque peritus, 
 
 Sub galli cantum consultor ubi ostia pulsat. 
 
 Ille, datis vadibus, qui rure extractus in urbem est, 
 Solos felices viventes clamat in urbe. 
 
 Caetera de genere hoc (adeo sunt multa) loquacem 
 Delassare valent Fabium. Ne te morer, audi 
 Quo rem deducam. Si quis Deus, en ego, dicat, 
 
 Jam faciam quod vultis; eris tu, qui modo miles, 
 Mercator; tu consultus modo rusticus. Hinc vos, 
 
 Vos hinc mutatis discedite partibus. Eja, 
 
 Quid statist Nolint. Atqui licet esse beatis. 
 
 Hor. 1. sat. i. 1. 
 
 Whence is’t, Maecenas, that so few approve 
 The state they’re plac’d in, and incline to rove; 
 
 Whether against their will by fate impos’d, 
 
 Or by consent and prudent choice espous’d ? 
 
 Happy the merchant! the old soldier cries, 
 
 Broke with fatigues and warlike enterprise. 
 
 The merchant, when the dreaded hurricane 
 Tosses his wealthy cargo on the main, 
 
 Applauds the wars and toils of a campaign; 
 
 There an engagement soon decides your doom, 
 
 Bravely to die, or come victorious home. 
 
 The lawyer vows the farmer’s life is best, 
 
 When at the dawn the clients break his rest. 
 
 The farmer, having put in bail t’ appear, 
 
 And forc’d to town, cries they are happiest there; 
 
 With thousands more of this inconstant race, 
 
 Would tire e’en Fabius to relate each case. 
 
 Not to detain you longer, pray attend, 
 
 The issue of all this: Should Jove descend, 
 
 And grant to every man his rash demand, 
 
 To run his lengths with a neglectful hand; 
 
 First, grant the harass’d warrior a release, 
 
 Bid him to trade, and try the faithless seas, 
 
 To purchase treasure and declining ease: 
 
 Next, call the pleader from his learned strife, 
 
 To the calm blessings of a country life; 
 
 And with these separate demands dismiss 
 Each suppliant to enjoy the promis’d bliss: 
 
 Don’t you believe they’d run? Not one will move, 
 Though proffer’d to be happy from above.— Horneck. 
 
 It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all 
 the misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public 
 stock, in order to be equally distributed among the 
 whole species, those who now think themselves 
 the most unhappy would prefer the share they are 
 already possessed of before that which would fall 
 to them by such a division. Horace has carried 
 this thought a great deal further in the motto of 
 my paper, which implies, that the hardships or 
 misfortunes we lie under are more easy to us than 
 
 659 
 
 those of any other person would be, in case we 
 could change conditions with him. 
 
 As I was ruminating upon these two remarks, 
 and seated in my elbow-chair, I insensibly fell 
 asleep; when on a sudden methought there was a 
 proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal 
 should bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw 
 them together in a heap. There was a large plain 
 appointed for this purpose. I took my stand in 
 the center of it, and saw with a great deal of pleas¬ 
 ure the whole human species marching one after 
 another, and throwing down their several loads, 
 which immediately grew up into a prodigious 
 mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. 
 
 There was a certain lady of a thin airy shape, 
 who was very active in this solemnity. She carried 
 a magnifying glass in one of her hands, and was 
 clothed in a loose flowing robe, embroidered with 
 several figures of fiends and specters, that discov¬ 
 ered themselves in a thousand chimerical shapes 
 as her garment hovered in the wind. There was 
 something wild and distracted in her looks. Her 
 name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the 
 appointed place, after having very officiously as¬ 
 sisted him in making up his pack, and laying it 
 upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me 
 to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their 
 respective burdens, and to consider that prodigious 
 bulk of human calamities which lay before me. 
 
 There were, however, several persons who gave 
 me great diversion upon this occasion. I observed 
 one bringing in a fardel very carefully concealed 
 under an old embroidered cloak, which, upon his 
 throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be Pov¬ 
 erty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw 
 down his luggage, which, upon examining, I found 
 to be his wife. 
 
 There were multitudes of lovers saddled with 
 very whimsical burdens composed of darts and 
 flames ; but, what was very odd, though they 
 sighed as if their hearts would break under these 
 bundles of calamities, they could not persuade 
 themselves to cast them into the heap, when they 
 came up to it; but after a few faint efforts, shook 
 their heads, and marched away as heavy laden as 
 they came. I saw multitudes of old women throw 
 down their wrinkles, and several young ones who 
 stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were 
 very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty 
 teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see 
 the greatest part of the mountain made up of bo¬ 
 dily deformities. Observing one advancing to¬ 
 ward the heap with a larger cargo than ordinary 
 upon his back, I found upon his near approach 
 that it was only a natural hump, which he dis¬ 
 posed of with great joy of heart among this collec¬ 
 tion of human miseries. There were likewise 
 distempers of all sorts; though I could not but ob¬ 
 serve, that there were many more imaginary than 
 real. One little packet I could not but take no¬ 
 tice of, which was a complication of all the dis¬ 
 eases incident to human nature, and was in the 
 hand of a great many fine people ; this was called 
 the spleen. But what most of all surprised me, 
 was a remark I made, that there was not a single 
 vice or folly thrown into the whole heap; at 
 which I was very much astonished, having con¬ 
 cluded within myself, that every one would take 
 this opportunity of getting rid of his passions, 
 prejudices and frailties. 
 
 1 took notice in particular of a very profligate 
 fellow, who I did not question came laden with 
 his crimes ; but upon searching into his bundle I 
 found that instead of throwing his guilt from him, 
 he had only laid down his memory. He was fol¬ 
 lowed by another worthless rogue, who flung 
 away his modesty instead of his ignorance. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 C60 
 
 When the whole race of mankind had thus cast 
 their burdens, the phantom which had been so 
 busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle Spectator 
 of what passed, approached toward me. I grew 
 uneasy at her presence, when of a sudden she held 
 her magnifying-glass full before my eyes. I no 
 sooner saw my face in it, but was startled at the 
 shortness of it, which now appeared to me in its 
 utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of 
 the features made me very much out of humor with 
 my own countenance, upon which I threw it from 
 me like a mask. It happened very luckily that 
 one who stood by me had just before thrown down 
 his visage, which it seems was too long for him. 
 It was indeed extended to a most shameful length ; 
 I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, 
 as long as my whole face. We had both of us an 
 opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the 
 contributions being now brought in, every man 
 was at liberty to exchange his misfortunes for 
 those of another person. But as there arose many 
 new incidents in the sequel of my vision, I shall 
 reserve them for the subject of my next paper. 
 
 No. 559.] FRIDAY, JUNE 25, 1714. 
 
 Quid causae est. merito quin illis Jupiter ambas 
 Iratus buccas inflot, neque se fore posthac 
 Tam facilem dicat, votis ut prcebeat aurem? 
 
 Hor. 1. Sat. i. 20. 
 
 Were it not just that Jove, provok’d to heat, 
 
 Should drive these triflcrs from the hallow’d seat, 
 
 And unrelenting stand when they entreat?— IIorneck. 
 
 In my last paper I gave my reader a sight of 
 that mountain of miseries which was made up of 
 those several calamities that afflict the minds of 
 men. I saw with unspeakable pleasure the whole 
 species thus delivered from its sorrows; though at 
 the same time, as we stood round the heap, and 
 surveyed the several materials of which it was 
 composed, there was scarcely a mortal in this vast 
 multitude, who did not discover what he thought 
 pleasures and blessings of life, and wondered how 
 the owners of them ever came to look upon them 
 as burdens and grievances. 
 
 As we were regarding very attentively this con¬ 
 fusion of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter 
 issued out a second proclamation, that every one 
 was now at liberty to exchange his affliction, and 
 to return to his habitation with any such other 
 bundle as should be delivered to him. 
 
 Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir her¬ 
 self, and, parcelihg out the whole heap with in¬ 
 credible activity, recommended to every one his 
 particular packet. The hurry and confusion at 
 this time was not to be expressed. Some observa¬ 
 tions which I made upon the occasion I shall com¬ 
 municate to the public. A venerable, gray-headed 
 man, who had laid down the colic, and who I 
 found wanted an heir to his estate, snatched up an 
 undutiful son that had been thrown into the heap 
 by his angry father. The graceless youth, in 
 less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old 
 gentleman by the beard, and had liked to have 
 knocked his brains out; so that meeting the true 
 father, who came toward him with a fit of the 
 gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and 
 give him back his colic; but they were incapable 
 either of them to recede from the choice they had 
 made. A poor galley-slave who had thrown down 
 his chains, took up the gout in their stead, but 
 made such wry faces, that one might easily per¬ 
 ceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It 
 was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges 
 vhat were made, for sickness against poverty, hun¬ 
 
 ger against want of appetite, and care against 
 pain. 
 
 The female world were very busy among them¬ 
 selves in bartering for features; one was trucking 
 a lock of gray hairs for a carbuncle, another was 
 making over a short waist for a pair of round 
 shoulders, and a third cheapening a bad face for 
 a lost reputation : but on all these occasions there 
 was not one of them who did not think the new 
 blemish, as soon as she had got it into her pos¬ 
 session, much more disagreeable than the old one. 
 
 I made the same observation on every other mis¬ 
 fortune or calamity which every one in the assem¬ 
 bly brought upon himself in lieu of what he had 
 parted with: wdiether it be that all the evils 
 which befall us are in some measure suited and 
 proportioned to our strength, or that every evil 
 becomes more supportable by our being accustom¬ 
 ed to it, I shall not, determine. 
 
 I could not from my heart forbear pitying the 
 poor humpbacked gentleman mentioned in the 
 former paper, who went off a very well-shaped 
 person with a stone in his bladder ; nor the fine 
 gentleman who had struck up this bargain with 
 him, that limped through a whole assembly’ of 
 ladies, who used to admire him, with a pair of 
 shoulders peeping over his head. 
 
 I must not omit my own particular adventure. 
 My friend with a long visage had no sooner taken 
 upon him my short face,- but he made such a gro¬ 
 tesque figure in it, that as I looked upon him I 
 could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch 
 that I put my own face out of countenance. The 
 poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, 
 that I found he was ashamed of what he had done; 
 on the other side, I found that I myself had no 
 great reason to triumph, for as I went to touch my 
 forehead, I missed the place, and clapped my fin¬ 
 ger upon my upper lip. Beside, as my nose was 
 exceeding prominent, I gave it two or three un¬ 
 lucky knocks as I was playing my hand about my 
 face, and aiming at some other part of it. I saw 
 two other gentlemen by me who were in the same 
 ridiculous circumstances. These had made a fool¬ 
 ish swop between a couple of thick bandy legs 
 and two trapsticks that had no calves to them. 
 One of these looked like a man walking upon 
 stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his 
 ordinary height, that his head turned round with 
 it; while the other made such awkward circles, as 
 he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how 
 to move forward upon his new supporters. Ob¬ 
 serving him to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I 
 stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I 
 would lay him a bottle of wine that he did not 
 march up to it on a line that I drew from him ,in 
 a quarter of an hour. 
 
 The heap was at last distributed among the two 
 sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as they 
 wandered up and down under the pressure of 
 their several burdens. The whole plain was filled 
 with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamen¬ 
 tations. Jupiter at length taking compassion on 
 the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to 
 lay down their loads, with a design to give every 
 one his own again. They discharged themselves 
 with a great deal of pleasure: after which, the 
 phantom who had led them into such gross delu¬ 
 sions was commanded to disappear. There was 
 sent in her stead a goddess of a quite different 
 figure ; her . motions were steady and composed, 
 and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every 
 now and then cast her eyes toward heaven, and 
 fixed them upon Jupiter : her name was Patience. 
 She had no sooner placed herself by the Mount of 
 Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, 
 the whole heap sunk to such a degree, that it did 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 not appear a third part so big as it was before. 
 She afterward returned every man his own proper 
 calamity, and 'teaching him how to bear it in the 
 most commodious manner, he marched off with it 
 contentedly, being very well pleased that he had 
 not been left to his own choice as to the kind of 
 evils which fell to his lot. 
 
 Beside the several pieces of morality to be 
 drawn out of this vision, 1 learnt from it never to 
 repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy the hap¬ 
 piness of another, since it is impossible for any 
 maR f° a right judgment of his neighbor’s 
 sufferings ; for which reason also I have deter¬ 
 mined never to think too lightly of another’s com¬ 
 plaints, but. to regard the sorrows of my fellow- 
 ci eatures with sentiments of humanity and com¬ 
 passion. 
 
 061 
 
 No. 560.] MONDAY, JUNE, 28, 1714. 
 
 -Vorba intermissa retentat.— Ovid, Met. i. 747. 
 
 Ho tries his tongue, his silence softly breaks.— Bryden. 
 
 Every one has heard of the famous conjurer 
 who, according to the opinion o£, the vulgar, has 
 studied himself dumb; for which reason, as it is 
 believed, he delivers out his oracles in writing. Be 
 that as it will, the blind Teresias was not more 
 famous in Greece than this dumb artist has been 
 for some years past in the cities of London and 
 Westminster. Thus much for the profound gen¬ 
 tleman who honors me with the following epistle : 
 
 “Dear Mr. Prate-a-pace, June 23, 1714. 
 
 1 am a member of a female society who call 
 ourselves the Chit-chat Club, and am ordered by 
 the whole sisterhood to congratulate you upon the 
 use of your tongue. We have all of us a mighty 
 mind to hear you talk; and if you will take your 
 place among us for an evening, we have unani¬ 
 mously agreed to allow you one minute in ten, 
 without interruption. 
 
 “I am. Sir, your humble Servant, S. T." 
 
 m ^ ou .?? a y us at my Lady Betty 
 
 Clack s, who will leave orders with her porter, 
 that if an elderly gentleman, with a short face, 
 inquires for her, he shall be admitted, and no 
 questions asked.” 
 
 As this particular paper shall consist wholly of 
 what I have received from my correspondents, I 
 shall fall up the remaining part of it with other 
 congratulatory letters of the same nature. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 'From my Cell, June 24, 1714. 
 
 “Being informed that you have lately got the 
 use of your tongue, I have some thoughts of fol¬ 
 lowing your example, that I may be a fortune¬ 
 teller properly speaking. I am grown weary of my 
 taciturnity, and having served mv country many 
 years under the title of the * dumb" doctor,’ I shall 
 now prophesy by word of mouth, and (as Mr. Lee 
 says of the magpie, who you know was a great 
 . fortune-teller among the ancients) chatter futurity. 
 I have hitherto chosen to receive questions and 
 return answers in writing, that I might avoid the 
 tediousness and trouble of debates, my querists 
 being generally of a humor to think that they have 
 never predictions enough for their money. In 
 short, Sir, my case has been something like that 
 of those discreet animals the monkeys, who, as 
 the Indians tell us, can speak if they would, but 
 purposely avoid it, that they may not be made to 
 work. I have hitherto gained a livelihood by 
 holding my tongue, but shall now open my mouth 
 in order to fill it. If I appear a little word-bound 
 in my first solutions and responses, I hope it will 
 not be imputed to any want of foresight, but to 
 the long disuse of speech. I doubt not by this in¬ 
 vention to have all my former customers over 
 again, for if I have promised any of them lovers 
 or husbands, riches or good-luck, it is my design 
 to confirm to them, viva voce, what I have already 
 given them under my hand. If you will honor 
 me with a visit, I will compliment you with the 
 first opening of my mouth: and if you please, 
 you may inake an entertaining dialogue out of the 
 conversation of two dumb men. Excuse this 
 trouble, worthy sir, from one who has been a Iona- 
 time 5 
 
 " Your silent Admirer, 
 
 “ Cornelius Agrippa.” 
 
 ^ IR > Oxford, June 25, 1714. 
 
 “We are here wonderfully pleased with the 
 opening of your mouth, and very frequently open 
 ours m approbation of your design; especially 
 since we find you are resolved to preserve your 
 taciturnity as to all party matters. We do not 
 question but you are as great an orator as Sir Hu- 
 dibras, of whom the poet sweetly sings, 
 
 -He could not ope 
 
 I have received the following letter, or rather 
 billet-doux, from a pert young baggage, who con- 
 giatulates with me upon the same occasion :— 
 
 Ilis mouth, but out there flew a trope. 
 
 If you will send us down the half dozen well- 
 turned periods that produced such dismal effects 
 in your muscles, we will deposit them near an old 
 manuscript of Tully’s orations, among the archives 
 ot the university; for we all agree with you, that 
 there is not a, more remarkable accident "recorded 
 in history, since that which happened to the son 
 of Croesus; nay, I believe you might have gone 
 higher, and have added Balaam’s ass. We are 
 impatient to see more of your productions- and 
 expect what words will next fall from you with 
 as much attention as those who were set to watch 
 the speaking head which Friar Bacon formerly 
 erected in this place. J 
 
 “We are, worthy Sir, 
 
 “Your most humble Servants, 
 
 “B. R. T. D.,” etc. 
 “Honest Spec., Middle Temple, June 24. 
 
 “ I am very glad to hear that thou beginnest to 
 prate; and find, by thy yesterday’s vision, thou 
 art so used to it that thou canst not forbear talking 
 in thy sleep. Let me only advise thee to speak 
 like other men; for I am afraid thou wilt be very 
 queer if thou dost not intend to use the phrases 
 in fashion, as thou callest them in thy second pa¬ 
 per. Hast thou a mind to pass for a Bantamite, 
 or to make us all quakers ? 1 do assure thee, dear 
 Spec., I am not polished out of my veracity, when 
 I subscribe myself 
 
 “ Thy constant Admirer, and humble Servant, 
 
 “Frank Townly.” 
 
 No. 561.] WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30, 1714. 
 
 -Paulatim abolere Sichaeum 
 
 Incipit, et vivo tentat praavertere amove 
 Jampridem resides animos desuetaque corda. 
 
 Virg. iEn. i. 724. 
 
 -But he 
 
 Works in the pliant bosom of the fair, 
 
 And moulds her heart anew, and blots her former care. 
 The dead is to the living love resign’d, 
 
 And all iEneas enters in her mind.— Dryden. 
 
 'Sir, 
 
 “ I am a tall, broad-shouldered, impudent, black’ 
 fellow, and, as I thought, every way qualified for 
 
G62 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 a rich widow; but after having tried my fortune 
 for abve three years together, I have not been able 
 to "et one single relict in the mind. My first at¬ 
 tacks were generally successful, but always bioke 
 off as soon as they came to the word settlement. 
 Though I have not improved my fortune this way, 
 
 I have my experience, and have learnt several se¬ 
 crets which may be of use to those unhappy gen¬ 
 tlemen, who are commonly distinguished by the 
 name of widow-hunters, and who do not know 
 that this tribe of women are, generally speaking, 
 as much upon the catch as themselves. I shall 
 here communicate to you the mysteries of a certain 
 female cabal of this order, who call themselves 
 the Widow Club. This club consists of nine ex¬ 
 perienced dames, who take their places once a 
 week round a large oval table. 
 
 “I. Mrs. President is a person who has disposed 
 of six husbands, and is now determined to take a 
 seventh; being of opinion that there is as much 
 virtue in the touch of a seventh husband as of a 
 seventh son. Her comrades are as follows : 
 
 “ II. Mrs. Snap, who has four jointures, by four 
 different bedfellows, of four different shires. . She 
 is at present upon the point of marriage with a 
 Middlesex man, and is said to have an ambition 
 of extending her possessions through all the coun¬ 
 ties in England on this side the Trent. 
 
 “ III. Mrs. Medlar, who, after two husbands and 
 a gallant, is now wedded to an old gentleman of 
 sixty. Upon her making her report to the club 
 after a week’s cohabitation, she is still allowed to 
 sit as a widow, and accordingly takes her place at 
 the board. 
 
 “ IV. The widow Quick, married within a fort¬ 
 night after the death of her last husband. Her 
 weeds have served her thrice, and are still as good 
 as new. 
 
 “V. Lady Catharine Swallow. She was a 
 widow at eighteen, and has since buried a second 
 husband and two coachmen. 
 
 “VI. The Lady Waddle. She was married m 
 the 15th year of her age to Sir Simon Waddle, 
 knight, aged threescore and twelve, by whom she 
 had twins nine months after his decease. In the 
 55th year of her age she was married to James 
 Spindle, Esq., a youth of one-and-twenty, who did 
 not outlive the honeymoon. 
 
 “VII. Deborah Conquest. The case of this 
 lady is somewhat particular. She is the relict of 
 Sir Sampson Conquest, some time justice of the 
 quorum. Sir Sampson was seven feet high, and 
 two feet in breadth from the tip of one shoulder 
 to the other. He had married three wives, who 
 all of them died in childbed. This terrified the 
 whole sex, who none of them durst venture on Sir 
 Sampson. At length Mrs. Deborah undertook 
 him, and gave so good an account of him, that in 
 three years’ time she very fairly laid him out, and 
 measured his length upon the ground. This ex¬ 
 ploit has gained her so great a reputation in the 
 club, that they have added Sir Sampson’s three 
 victories to hers, and given her the merit of a 
 fourth widowhood; and she takes her place ac¬ 
 cordingly. 
 
 “VIII. The widow Wildfire, relict of Mr. John 
 Wildfire, fox-hunter, who broke his neck over a 
 six-bar gate. She took his death so much at heart 
 that it was thought it would have put an end to 
 her life, had she not diverted her sorrows bjr re¬ 
 ceiving the addresses of a gentleman in the neigh¬ 
 borhood, who made love to her in the second 
 month of her widowhood. This gentleman was 
 discarded in a fortnight for the sake of a young 
 Templar, who had the possession of her for six 
 weeks after, till he was beaten out by a broken 
 officer, who likewise gave up his place to a gen¬ 
 
 tleman at court. The courtier was as shortlived 
 a favorite as his predecessors, but had the pleasure 
 to see himself succeeded by a long series of lovers, 
 who followed the widow Wildfire to the 37th year 
 of her age, at which time there ensued a cessation 
 of ten years, when John Felt, haberdasher, took 
 it in his head to be in love with her, and it is 
 thought will very suddenly carry her off. 
 
 “IX. The last is pretty Mrs. Runnet, who broke 
 her first husband’s heart before she was sixteen, at 
 which time she was entered of the club, but soon 
 after left it upon account of a second, whom she 
 made so quick a dispatch of, that she returned to 
 her seat in less than a twelvemonth. This young 
 matron is looked upon as the most rising member 
 of the society, and will probably be in the presi¬ 
 dent’s chair before she dies. _ 
 
 “ These ladies, upon their first institution, re¬ 
 solved to give the pictures of their deceased hus¬ 
 bands to the club-room; but two of them bringing 
 in their dead at full length, they covered all the 
 walls. Upon which they came to a second reso¬ 
 lution, that every matron should give her own 
 picture, and set it round with her husbands in 
 miniature. 
 
 “ As they have most of them the misfortune to 
 be troubled with the colic, they have a noble 
 cellar of cordials and strong waters. When they 
 grow maudlin, they are very apt to commemorate 
 their former partners with a tear. But ask them 
 which of their husbands they condole, they are 
 not able to tell you, and discover plainly that they 
 do not weep so much for the loss of a husband as 
 for the want of one. 
 
 “ The principal rule by which the whole society 
 are to govern themselves is this, to cry up the 
 pleasures of a single life upon all occasions, in 
 order to deter the rest of their sex from mar¬ 
 riage, and engross the whole male world to them¬ 
 selves. 
 
 “ They are obliged, when any one makes love to 
 a member of the society, to communicate his name, 
 at which time the whole assembly sit upon his 
 reputation, person, fortune, and good-humor; and 
 if they find him qualified for a sister of the club, 
 they lay their heads together how to make him 
 sure. By this means, they are acquainted with 
 all the widow-hunters about town, w T ho often afford 
 them great diversion. There is an honest Irish 
 gentleman, it seems, who knows nothing of this 
 society, but at different times has made love to 
 the whole club. 
 
 “ Their conversation often turns upon their for¬ 
 mer husbands, and it is very diverting to hear 
 them relate their several arts and stratagems with 
 which they amused the jealous, pacified the cho¬ 
 leric, or wheedled the good-natured man, till at 
 last, to use the club-phrase, ‘ they sent him out of 
 the house with his heels foremost.’ 
 
 “The politics which are most cultivated by this 
 society of She-Machiavels, relate chiefly to these 
 two points, how to treat a lover, and how to man¬ 
 age a husband. As for the first set of artifices, 
 they are too numerous to come within the compass 
 of your paper, and shall therefore.be reserved for 
 a second letter. 
 
 “ The management of a husband is. built upoD 
 the following doctrines, which are universally as¬ 
 sented to by the whole club : Not to give him his 
 head at first. Not to allow him too great free¬ 
 doms and familiarities. Not to be treated by him 
 like a raw girl, but as a woman that knows the 
 world. Not to lessen anything of her former 
 figure. To celebrate the generosity, or any other 
 virtue of a deceased husband, which she would 
 recommend to his successor. To turn away all 
 his old friends and servants, that she may have 
 
THE SPECTATOR 
 
 663 
 
 the dear man to herself. To make him disinherit 
 the undutiful children of any former wife. Never 
 to be thoroughly convinced of his affection, until 
 he has made over to her all his goods and chattels. 
 
 ‘ After so long a letter, I am, 
 
 “ Without more ceremony, 
 
 “ Your humble Servant,” etc. 
 
 No. 562.] FRIDAY, JULY 2,1714. 
 
 -Praesens, absens ut sies.—T er. Eun. act 1. sc. 2. 
 
 Be present as if absent. 
 
 “It is a hard and nice subject for a man to speak 
 of himself,” says Cowley; “ it grates his own heart 
 to say anything of disparagement, and the reader’s 
 ears to hear anything of praise from him.” Let 
 the tenor of his discourse be what it will upon 
 this subject, it generally proceeds from vanity. 
 An ostentatious man will rather relate a blunder 
 or an absurdity he has committed, than be debarred 
 from talking of his own dear person. 
 
 Some very great writers have been guilty of this 
 fault. It is observed of Tully in particular, that 
 his works run very much in the first person, and 
 that he takes all occasions of doing himself jus¬ 
 tice. “Does he think,” says Brutus, “that his 
 consulship deserves more applause than my put¬ 
 ting Caesar to death, because I am not perpetually 
 talking of the ides of March, as he is of the nones 
 of December ? ” I need not acquaint mv learned 
 reader, that in the ides of March Brutus destroyed 
 Caesar, and that Cicero quashed the conspiracy of 
 Catiline in the calends of December. How shock¬ 
 ing soever this great man’s talking of himself 
 might have been to his cotemporaries, I must 
 confess I am never better pleased than when he is 
 on this subject. Such openings of the heart give 
 a man a thorough insight into his personal char¬ 
 acter, and illustrate several passages in the history 
 of his life: beside that, there is some little plea¬ 
 sure in discovering the infirmity of a great man, 
 and seeing how the opinion he has of himself 
 agrees with what the world entertains of him. 
 
 “ The gentlemen of Port Royal, who were more 
 eminent for their learning and humility than any 
 other in France, banished the way of speaking in 
 the first person out of all their works, as arising 
 from vainglory and self-conceit. To show their 
 particular aversion to it, they branded this form 
 of writing with the name of an egotism; a figure 
 not to be found among the ancient rhetoricians. 
 
 The most violent egotism which I have met with 
 in the course of my reading, is that of Cardinal 
 Wolsey, Ego et rex meus, “I and my king;” as 
 perhaps the most eminent egotist that ever ap¬ 
 peared in the world was Montaigne, the author of 
 the celebrated Essays. This lively old Gascon 
 has woven all his bodily infirmities into his works; 
 and, after having spoken of the faults or virtues 
 of any other man, immediately publishes to the 
 world how it stands with himself in that particu¬ 
 lar. Had he kept his own counsel, he might have 
 passed for a much better man, though perhaps he 
 would not have been so diverting an author. The 
 title of an Essay promises perhaps a discourse upon 
 Virgil, or Julius Cmsar; but, when you look into 
 it, you are sure to meet with more upon Monsieur 
 Montaigne than of either of them. The younger 
 Scaliger, who seems to have been no great friend 
 to this author, after having acquainted the world 
 that his father sold herrings, adds these words : 
 La grande fadaise de Montaigne, qui a ecrit qu’il 
 
 aimoit mieux le vin blanc - Que diable a ton a 
 
 faire de sgavoir ce qu’il aime? “For my part,” 
 
 says Montaigne, “ I am a great lover of your white 
 wines.”—“What the devil signifies it to the pub¬ 
 lic,” says Scaliger, “whether he is a lover of white 
 wines or of red wines ? ” 
 
 I cannot here forbear mentioning a tribe of ego¬ 
 tists, for whom I always had a mortal aversion—I 
 mean the authors of memoirs, who are never men¬ 
 tioned in any works but their own, and who raise all 
 their productions out of this single figure of speech. 
 
 Most of our modern prefaces savor very strongly 
 of the egotism. Every insignificant author fancies 
 it of importance to the world to know that he 
 wrote his book in the country, that he did it to 
 oass away some of his idle hours, that it was 
 Dublished at the importunity of friends, or that 
 lis natural temper, studies, or conversations, di¬ 
 rected him to the choice of his subject. 
 
 -Id populus curat scilicet. 
 
 Such informations cannot but be highly gratifying 
 to the reader. 
 
 In the works of humor especially, w T hen a man 
 writes under a fictitious personage, the talking of 
 one’s self may give some diversion to the public; 
 but I would advise every other writer never to 
 speak of himself, unless there be something very 
 considerable in his character; though I am sensible 
 this rule will be of little use in the world, because 
 there is no man who fancies his thoughts worth 
 publishing that does not look upon himself as a 
 considerable person. 
 
 I shall close this paper with a remark upon such 
 as are egotists in conversation; these are generally 
 the vain or shallow part of mankind, people being 
 naturally full of themselves when they have noth¬ 
 ing else in them. There is one kina of egotists 
 which is very common in the world, though I do 
 not remember that any writer has taken notice of 
 them; I mean those empty conceited fellows who 
 repeat, as sayings of their own or some of their 
 particular friends, several jests which were made 
 before they were born, and which every one who 
 has conversed in the world has heard a hundred 
 times over. A forward young fellow of my ac¬ 
 quaintance was very guilty of this absurdity; he 
 would be always laying a new scene for some old 
 piece of wit, and telling us, that, as he and Jack 
 Such-a-one were together, one or t’other of them 
 had such a conceit on such an occasion; upon 
 which he would laugh very heartily, and wonder 
 the company did not join with him. When his 
 mirth was over, I have often reprehended him out 
 of Terence, Tuumne, obsecro te, hoc dictum erat ? 
 vetus credidi. But finding him still incorrigible, 
 and having a kindness for the young coxcomb, 
 who was otherwise a good-natured fellow, I re¬ 
 commended to his perusal the Oxford and Cam¬ 
 bridge jests, with several little pieces of pleasantry 
 of the same nature. Upon the reading of them he 
 was under no small confusion to find that all his 
 jokes had passed through several editions, and that 
 what he thought was a new conceit, and had ap¬ 
 propriated to liis own use, had appeared in print 
 before he or his ingenious friends were ever heard 
 of. This had so good an effect upon him, that he 
 is content at present to pass for a man of plaiu 
 sense in his ordinary conversation, and is never 
 facetious but when he knows his company. 
 
 No. 563.] MONDAY, JULY 5, 1714. 
 
 -Magni nominis umbra.— Lucan, i. 135. 
 
 The shadow of a mighty name. 
 
 I shall entertain my reader with two very curi¬ 
 ous letters. The first of them comes from a chi- 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 664 
 
 merical person, who I believe never wrote to any¬ 
 body before. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “l am descended from the ancient family of the 
 Blanks, a name well known to all men of business. 
 It is always read in those little white spaces of 
 writing which want to be filled up, and which for 
 that reason are called blank spaces, as of right s 
 appertaining to our family; for I consider myself 
 as the lord of a manor, who lays his claim to all 
 wastes or spots of ground that are unappropriated. 
 
 I am a near kinsman to John a Styles and John a 
 Nokes; and they, I am told, came in with the Con¬ 
 queror. I am mentioned oftener in both houses 
 of Parliament than any other person in Great Bri¬ 
 tain. My name is written, or, more properly 
 speaking, not written, thus: I am one that 
 
 can turn my hand to everything, and appear under 
 any shape whatever. I can make myself man, 
 woman, or child. I am sometimes metamorphosed 
 into a year of our Lord, a day of the month, or an 
 hour of the day. I very often represent a sum of 
 money, and am generally the first subsidy that is 
 granted to the crown. I have now and then sup¬ 
 plied the place of several thousands of land-sold¬ 
 iers, and have as frequently been employed in the 
 sea-service. 
 
 “Now, Sir, my complaint is this, that I am only 
 made use of to serve a turn, being always discarded 
 as soon as a proper person is found out to fill up 
 my place. 
 
 “If you have ever been in the playhouse before 
 the curtain rises, you see most of the front-boxes 
 filled with men of my family, who forthwith turn 
 out and resign their stations upon the appearance 
 of those for whom they are retained. 
 
 “ But the most illustrious .branch of the Blanks 
 are those who are planted in high posts, till such 
 time as persons of greater consequence can be 
 found out to supply them. One of these Blanks 
 is equally qualified for all offices; he can serve in 
 time of need for a soldier, a politician, a lawyer, 
 or what you please. I have known in my time 
 many a brother Blank, that has been born under a 
 lucky planet, heap up great riches, and swell into 
 a man of figure and importance, before the gran¬ 
 dees of his party could agree among themselves 
 which of them should step into his place. Nay, I 
 have known a Blank continue so long in one of 
 these vacant posts (for such it is to be reckoned all 
 the time a Blank is in it), that he has grown too 
 formidable and dangerous to be removed. 
 
 “ But to return to myself. Since I am so very 
 commodious a person, and so very necessary in all 
 well-regulated governments, I desire you will take 
 my case into consideration, that I may be no longer 
 made a tool of, and only employed to stop a gap. 
 Such usage, without a pun, makes me look very 
 blank. For all which reasons I humbly recom¬ 
 mend myself to your protection, and am 
 “Your most obedient Servant, 
 
 “Blank.” 
 
 “ P. S. I herewith send you a paper drawn up 
 by a country attorney, employed by two gentlemen, 
 whose names he was not acquainted with, and who 
 did not think fit to let him into the secret which 
 they were transacting. I heard him call it f a 
 blank instrument,’ and read it after the following 
 manner. You may see by this single instance of 
 what use I am to the busy world: 
 
 “I, T. Blank, Esquire, of Blank town, in the 
 county of Blank, do own myself indebted in the 
 sum of Blank, to Goodman Blank, for the service 
 he did me in procuring for me the goods following; 
 Blank: and I do hereby promise the said Blank to 
 
 pay unto him the said sum of Blank, on the Blank 
 day of the month of Blank next ensuing, under 
 the penalty and forfeiture of Blank.” 
 
 I shall take time to consider the case of this my 
 imaginary correspondent, and in the meanwhile 
 shall present my reader with a letter which seems 
 to come from a person that is made up of flesh and 
 blood. 
 
 “Good Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am married to a very honest gentleman that 
 is exceedingly good-natured, and at the same time 
 very choleric. There is no standing before him 
 when he is in a passion; but as soon as it is over 
 he is the best-liumored creature in the world. 
 When he is angry, he breaks all my china-ware 
 that chances to lie in his way, and the next morn¬ 
 ing sends me in twice as much as he broke the day 
 before. I may positively say that he has broke 
 me a child’s fortune since we were first married to¬ 
 gether. 
 
 “ As soon as he begins to fret, down goes every¬ 
 thing that is within reach of his cane. I once 
 prevailed upon him never to carry a stick in his 
 hand, but this saved me nothing; for upon seeing 
 me do something that did not please him, he kicked 
 down a great jar that cost him above ten pounds 
 but the week before. I then laid the fragments 
 together in a heap, and gave him his cane again, 
 desiring him, that if he chanced to be in anger, he 
 would spend his passion upon the china that was 
 broke to his hand; but the very next day, upon 
 my giving a wrong message to one of the servants, 
 he flew into such a rage, that he swept down a 
 dozen tea-dishes, which, to my misfortune, stood 
 very convenient for a sideblow. 
 
 “I then removed all my china into a room which 
 he never frequents; but I got nothing by this nei¬ 
 ther, for my looking-glasses immediately went to 
 rack. 
 
 “In short, Sir, whenever he is in a passion, he 
 is angry at everything that is brittle: and if on 
 such occasions he has nothing to vent his rage 
 upon, I do not know whether my bones would be 
 in safety. Let me beg of you, Sir, to let me know 
 whether there be any cure for his unaccountable 
 distemper; or if not, that you will be pleased to 
 publish this letter. For my husband having a great 
 veneration for your writings, will by that means 
 know you do not approve of his conduct. 
 
 “ I am, your most humble Servant,” etc. 
 
 No. 564.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 7, 1714. 
 
 -Adsit 
 
 Regula, peccatis qua3 poenas irroget asquas 
 No scutica dignum horribili sectere flagello. 
 
 Hor. 1 Sat. iii. 117. 
 
 Let rules be fixed that may our rage contain, 
 
 And punisb faults with a proportion’d pain; 
 
 And do not flay him who deserves alone 
 A whipping for the fault that he hath done.— Creech. 
 
 It is the work of a philosopher to be every day 
 subduing his passions, and laying aside his pre¬ 
 judices. I endeavor at least to look upon men and 
 their actions only as an impartial Spectator, with¬ 
 out any regard to them as they happen to advance 
 or cross my own private interest. But while I am 
 thus employed myself, I cannot help observing 
 how those about me suffer themselves to be blinded 
 by prejudice and inclination, how readily they 
 pronounce on every man’s character, which they 
 can give in two words, and make him either good 
 for nothing, or qualified for everything. On tho 
 contrary, those who search thoroughly into human 
 nature will find it much more difficult to determine 
 
THE SPE 
 
 the value of their fellow-creatures, and that men’s 
 characters are not thus to be given in general 
 words. There is indeed no such thing as a person 
 entirely good or bad; virtue and vice are blended 
 and mixed together, in a greater or less propor¬ 
 tion, in every one; and if you would search for 
 some particular good quality in its most eminent 
 degree of perfection, you will often find it in a 
 mind where it is darkened and eclipsed by a hun¬ 
 dred other irregular passions. 
 
 Men have either no character at all, says a cele¬ 
 brated author, or it is that of being inconsistent 
 with themselves. They find it easier to join ex¬ 
 tremities than to be uniform and of apiece. This 
 is finely illustrated in Xenophon’s Life of Cyrus 
 the Great. That author tells us, that Cyrus liav- 
 ing taken a most beautiful lady named Panthea, 
 the wife of Abradatas, committed her to the cus¬ 
 tody of Araspas, a young Persian nobleman, who 
 had a little before maintained in discourse that a 
 mind truly virtuous was incapable of entertaining 
 an unlawful passion. The young gentleman had 
 not long been in the possession of his fair captive, 
 when a complaint was made to Cyrus, that he not 
 only solicited the lady Panthea to receive him in 
 the room of her absent husband, but that, finding 
 his entreaties had no effect, he was preparing to 
 make use of force. Cyrus, who loved the young 
 man, immediately sent for him, and in a gentle 
 manner representing to him his fault, and put¬ 
 ting him in mind of his former assertion, the un- 
 happy youth, confounded with a quick sense of 
 his guilt and shame, burst out into aflood of tears, 
 and spoke as follows: 
 
 “ 0 Cyrus, I am convinced that I have two souls. 
 Love has taught me this piece of philosophy. If 
 I had but one soul, it could not at the same time 
 pant after virtue and vice, wish and abhor at the 
 same thing. It is certain therefore we have two 
 souls; when the good soul rules I undertake noble 
 and virtuous actions; but when the bad soul pre¬ 
 dominates I am forced to do evil. All I can say 
 at present is, that I find my good soul, encouraged 
 by your presence, has got the better of my bad.” 
 
 I know not whether my readers will allow of 
 this piece of philosophy ; but if they will not, they 
 must confess we meet with as different passions in 
 one and the same soul as can be supposed in two. 
 We can hardly read the life of a great man who 
 lived in former ages, or converse with any who is 
 eminent among our cotemporaries, that is not an 
 instance of what I am saying. 
 
 But as I have hitherto only argued against the 
 partiality and injustice of giving our judgment 
 upon men in gross, who are such a composition of 
 virtues and vices, of good and evil, I might carry 
 this reflection still further, and make it extend to 
 most of their actions. If on the one hand, we 
 fairly weighed every circumstance, we should fre- 
 uently find them obliged to do that action we at 
 rst sight condemn, in order to avoid another we 
 should have been much more displeased with. If, 
 on the other hand, w r e nicely examined such actions 
 as appear most dazzling to the eye, we should find 
 most of them either deficient and lame in several 
 parts, produced by a bad ambition, or directed to 
 an ill end. The very same action may sometimes 
 be so oddly circumstanced, that it is difficult to 
 determine whether it ought to be rewarded or pun¬ 
 ished. Those who compiled the laws of England 
 were so sensible of this, that they have laid it 
 down as one of their first maxims, “It is better 
 suffering a mischief than an inconvenience;” which 
 is as much as to say in other words, that, since no 
 law can take in or provide for all cases, it is better 
 private men should have some injustice done them 
 than that a public grievance should not be redressed. 
 
 CTATOR. 665 
 
 This is usually pleaded in defense of all those 
 hardships which fall on particular persons in par¬ 
 ticular occasions, which could not be foreseen 
 when a law was made. To remedy this, how¬ 
 ever, as much as possible, the court of chancery 
 was erected, which frequently mitigates and breaks 
 the teeth of the common law, in cases of men’s 
 properties, while in criminal cases there is a power 
 of pardoning still lodged in the crown. 
 
 . Notwithstanding this, it is perhaps impossible 
 in a large government to distribute rewards and 
 punishments strictly proportioned to the merits 
 of every action. The Spartan commonwealth was 
 indeed wonderfully exact in this particular; and I 
 do not remember in all my reading to Jiave met 
 with so nice an example of justice as that recorded 
 by Plutarch, with which 1 shall close my paper 
 for this day. 
 
 The city of Sparta, being unexpectedly attacked 
 by a powerful army of Thebans, was in very great 
 danger of falling into the hands of their enemies. 
 The citizens suddenly gathering themselves into 
 a body, fought with a resolution equal to the ne¬ 
 cessity of their affairs, yet no one so remarkably 
 distinguished himself on this occasion, to the 
 amazement of both armies, as Isidas, the son of 
 Phcebidas, who was at that time in the bloom of 
 his youth, and very remarkable for the comeliness 
 of his person. He was coming out of the bath 
 when the alarm was given, so that he had not 
 time to put on his clothes, much less his armor; 
 however, transported with a desire to serve his 
 country in so great an exigency, snatched up a 
 spear in one hand and a sword in the other, he 
 flung himself into the thickest ranks of his ene¬ 
 mies. Nothing could withstand his fury; in what 
 part soever he fought he put the enemies to flight 
 without receiving a single wound. Whether, says 
 Plutarch, he was the particular care of some god, 
 who rewarded his valor that day with an extraor¬ 
 dinary protection, or that his enemies, struck with 
 the unusualness of his dress, and beauty of his 
 shape, supposed him something more than man, I 
 shall not determine. 
 
 The gallantry of this action was judged so great 
 by the Spartans, that the ephori, or chief magis¬ 
 trates, decreed he should be presented with a gar¬ 
 land, but, as soon as they had done so, fined him 
 a thousand drachmas for going out to the battle 
 unarmed. 
 
 No. 565.] FRIDAY, JULY 9, 1714. 
 
 -■-Deum namque ire per omnes 
 
 Terrasque, tractusque maris, coelumque profundum. 
 
 ViRGf. Georg, iv. 221. 
 
 For God the whole created mass inspires, 
 
 Through heaven and earth, and ocean’s depths: he throws 
 His influence round, and kindles as he goes.— Dryden. 
 
 I was yesterday about sunset walking in the 
 open fields, until the night insensibly fell upon 
 me. I at first amused myself with all the richness 
 and variety of colors which appeared in the west¬ 
 ern parts of heaven; in proportion as they faded 
 away and went out, several stars and planets ap¬ 
 peared one after another, until the whole firma¬ 
 ment was in a glow. The. blueness of the ether 
 was exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the 
 season of the year, and by the rays of all those 
 luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy 
 appeared in its most beautiful white. To com¬ 
 plete the scene, the full moon rose at length in 
 that clouded majesty which Milton takes notice 
 of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, 
 which was more finely shaded and disposed among 
 softer lights than that which the sun had before 
 discovered to us. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 666 
 
 As I was surveying the moon walking in her 
 brightness, and taking her progress among the 
 constellations, a thought rose in me which I be¬ 
 lieve very often perplexes and disturbs men of 
 serious and contemplative natures. David him¬ 
 self fell into it in that reflection, “ When I con¬ 
 sider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the 
 moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; 
 what is man, that thou art mindful of him? and 
 the son of man, that thou regardest him?” In 
 the same manner when I considered that infinite 
 host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, 
 of suns which were then shining upon me, with 
 those innumerable sets of planets or worlds which 
 were moving round their respective suns; when 
 I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another 
 heaven of suns and worlds rising still above this 
 which we discovered, and these still enlightened 
 by a superior firmament of luminaries, which are 
 planted at so great a distance, that they may ap¬ 
 pear to the inhabitants of the former as the stars 
 do to us; in short, while I pursued this thought, 
 I could not but reflect on that little, insignificant 
 figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity 
 of God’s works. 
 
 Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the 
 creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that 
 move about him, utterly extinguished and annihi¬ 
 lated, they would not be missed more than a grain 
 of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they pos¬ 
 sess is so exceedingly little in comparison of the 
 whole, that it would scarce make a blank in the 
 creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to 
 an eye that could take in the whole compass of 
 nature, and pass from one end of the creation to 
 the other; as it is possible there may be such a 
 sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which 
 are at present more exalted than ourselves. We 
 see many stars by the help of glasses, which we 
 do not discover with our naked eyes; and the 
 finer our telescopes are, the more still are our dis¬ 
 coveries. Huygenius carries this thought so far, 
 that he does not think it impossible there may be 
 stars whose light is not yet traveled down to us, 
 since their first creation. There is no question 
 but the universe has certain bounds set to it: but 
 when we consider that it is the work of an infi¬ 
 nite power, prompted by infinite goodness, with 
 an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our 
 imagination set any bounds to it? 
 
 To return, therefore, to my first thought. I 
 could not but look upon myself with secret hor¬ 
 ror, as a being that was not worth the smallest 
 regard of One who had so great a work under his 
 care and superintendency. I was afraid of being 
 overlooked amidst the immensity of nature, and 
 lost among that infinite variety of creatures, which 
 in all probability swarm through all these im¬ 
 measurable regions of matter. 
 
 In order to recover myself from this mortifying 
 thought, I considered that it took its rise from 
 those narrow conceptions which we are apt to en¬ 
 tertain of the Divine nature. We ourselves can¬ 
 not attend to many different objects at the same 
 time. If we are careful to inspect some things, 
 we must of course neglect others. This imper¬ 
 fection, which we observe in ourselves, is an im¬ 
 perfection that cleaves in some degree to creatures 
 of the highest capacities, as they are creatures, 
 that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The 
 presence of every created being is confined to a 
 certain measure of space, and consequently his 
 observation is stinted to a certain number of ob¬ 
 jects. The sphere in which we move, and act, 
 and understand, is a wider circumference to one 
 creature than another, according as we rise one 
 above another in the scale of existence. But the 
 
 widest of these our spheres has its circumference. 
 When, therefore, we reflect on the Divine nature, 
 we are so used and accustomed to this imperfec¬ 
 tion in ourselves, that we cannot forbear in some 
 measure ascribing it to Him in whom there is no 
 shadow of imperfection. Our reason indeed as¬ 
 sures us that liis attributes are infinite; but the 
 poorness of our conceptions is such, that it can¬ 
 not forbear setting bounds to everything it con¬ 
 templates, until our reason comes again to our 
 succor, and throws down all those little prejudices 
 which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the 
 mind of man. 
 
 We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melan¬ 
 choly thought, of our being overlooked by our 
 Maker in the multiplicity of his works, and the 
 infinity of those objects among which he seems to 
 be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the 
 first place, that he is omnipresent; and, in the 
 second, that he is omniscient. 
 
 If we consider him in his omnipresence, his 
 being passes through, actuates, and supports, the 
 whole frame of nature. His creation, and every 
 art of it, is full of him. There is nothing he 
 as made that is either so distant, so little, or so 
 inconsiderable, which he does not essentially in¬ 
 habit. His substance is within the substance of 
 every being, whether material, or immaterial, and 
 as intimately present to it as that being is to 
 itself. It would be an imperfection in him were 
 he able to remove out of one place into another, 
 or to withdraw himself from anything he has 
 created, or from any part of that space which is 
 diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, 
 to speak of him, in the language of the old philoso¬ 
 pher, he is a Being whose center is everywhere, 
 and his circumference nowhere. 
 
 In the second place, he is omniscient as well as 
 omnipresent. His omniscience indeed necessarily 
 and naturally flows from his omnipresence; he 
 cannot but be conscious of every motion that 
 arises in the whole material world, which he thus 
 essentially pervades, and of every thought that is 
 stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of 
 which he is thus intimately united. Several mor¬ 
 alists have considered the creation as the temple 
 of God, which he has built with his own hands, 
 and which is filled with his presence. Others 
 have considered infinite space as the receptacle, 
 or rather the habitation, of the Almighty; but the 
 noblest and most exalted w r ay of considering this 
 infinite space is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who 
 calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes 
 and men have their sensoriola, or little senso- 
 riums, by which they apprehend the presence and 
 perceive the actions of a few objects that lie con¬ 
 tiguous to them. Their knowledge and observa¬ 
 tion turn within a very narrow circle. But as 
 God Almighty cannot but perceive and know 
 everything in which he resides, infinite space 
 gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it 
 were, an organ to omniscience. 
 
 Were the soul separate from the body, and with 
 one glaftce of thought should start beyond the 
 bounds of the creation, should it for millions of 
 years continue its progress through infinite space 
 with the same activity, it would still find itself 
 within the embrace of its Creator, and encom¬ 
 passed round with the immensity of the God¬ 
 head. While we are in the body he is not less 
 present with us because he is concealed from us. 
 “0 that I knew where I might find him!” says 
 Job. “Behold I go forward, but he is not there/ 
 and backward, but I cannot perceive him: on the 
 left hand where he does work, but I cannot be¬ 
 hold him: he hideth himself on the right hand 
 that I cannot see him.” In short, reason as well 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 as revelation assures us, that he cannot be absent 
 from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us. 
 
 In this consideration of God Almighty’s omni¬ 
 presence and omniscience every uncomfortable 
 thought vanishes. He cannot but regard every¬ 
 thing that has being, especially such of his crea¬ 
 tures who fear they are not regarded by him. He 
 is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety 
 of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble 
 them on this occasion; for, as it is impossible he 
 should overlook any of his creatures, so we may 
 be confident that he regards, with an eye of 
 mercy, those who endeavor to recommend them¬ 
 selves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility 
 of heart think themselves unworthy that he should 
 be mindful of them. 
 
 Ho. 566.] MONDAY, JULY 12, 1714. 
 
 Militia} species amor est.— Ovid, Ars Am. ii. 233. 
 
 Love is a kind of warfare. 
 
 As my correspondents begin to grow pretty nu¬ 
 merous,* I think myself obliged to take some no¬ 
 tice of them, and shall therefore make this paper 
 a miscellany of letters. I have since my re-as¬ 
 suming the office of Spectator, received abundance 
 of epistles from gentlemen of the blade, who I 
 find have been so used to action that they know 
 not how to lie still. They seem generally to be 
 of opinion that the fair at home ought to reward 
 them for their services abroad, and that, until the 
 cause of their country calls them again into the 
 field, they have a sort of right to quarter them¬ 
 selves upon the ladies. In order to favor their 
 approaches, I am desired by some to enlarge upon 
 the accomplishments of their profession, and by 
 others to give them my advice in the carrying on 
 their attacks. But let us hear what the gentle¬ 
 men say for themselves: 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Though it may look somewhat perverse amidst 
 the arts of peace to talk too much of war, it is but 
 gratitude to pay the last office to its manes, since 
 even peace itself is, in some measure, obliged to 
 it for its being. 
 
 “You have, in your former papers, always 
 recommended the accomplished to the favor of 
 the fair; and I hope you will allow me to repre¬ 
 sent some part of a military life not altogether 
 unnecessary to the forming a gentleman. I need 
 not tell you that in France, whose fashions we 
 have been formerly so fond of, almost every one 
 derives his pretenses to merit from the sword; 
 and that a man has scarce the face to make his 
 court to a lady, without some credentials from 
 the service to recommend him. As the profession 
 is very ancient, we have reason to think some of 
 the greatest men among the old Romans derived 
 many of their virtues from it, their commanders 
 being frequently in other respects some of the 
 most shining characters of the age. 
 
 “ The army not only gives a man opportunities 
 of exercising these two great virtues, patience and 
 courage, but often produces them in minds where 
 they had scarce any footing before. I must add, 
 that it is one of the best schools in the world to 
 receive a general notion of mankind in, and a cer¬ 
 tain freedom of behavior, which is not so easily 
 acquired in any other place. At the same time, I 
 must own that some military airs are pretty extra¬ 
 ordinary, and that a man who goes into the army 
 a coxcomb will come out of it a sort of public 
 nuisance: but a man of sense, or one who before 
 
 667 
 
 had not been sufficiently used to a mixed con¬ 
 versation, generally takes the true turn. The 
 court has in all ages been allowed to be the stand¬ 
 ard of good breeding; and I believe there is not a 
 juster observation in Monsieur Rochefoucault, 
 than that “ a man who has been bred up wholly 
 to business can never get the air of a courtier at 
 court, but will immediately catch it in the camp.” 
 The reason of this most certainly is, that the very 
 essence of good-breeding and politeness consists 
 in several niceties, which are so minute that they 
 escape his observation, and he falls short of the 
 original he would copy after; but when he sees the 
 same things charged and aggravated to a fault, he 
 no sooner endeavors to come up to the pattern 
 which is set before him, than, though he stops 
 somewhat short of that, he naturally rests where 
 in reality he ought. I was, two or three days ago, 
 mightily pleased with the observation of a humor¬ 
 ous gentleman upon one of his friends, who was 
 in other respects every way an accomplished per¬ 
 son, that he wanted nothing but a dash of the cox¬ 
 comb in him, by which he understood a little of 
 that alertness and unconcern in the common ac¬ 
 tions of life, which is usually so visible among 
 gentlemen of the army, and which a campaign or 
 two would infallibly have given him. 
 
 “You will easily guess, Sir, by this my pane¬ 
 gyric upon a military education, that I am myself 
 a soldier; and indeed I am so. I remember, with¬ 
 in three years after I had been in the army, I was 
 ordered into the country a recruiting. I had very 
 particular success in this part of the service, and 
 was over and above assured, at my going away, 
 that I might have taken a young lady, who was 
 the most considerable fortune in the country, along 
 with me. I preferred the pursuit of fame at that 
 time to all other considerations; and though I was 
 not absolutely bent on a wooden leg, resolved at 
 least to get a scar or two for the good of Europe. 
 I have at present as much as I desire of this sort 
 of honor; and if you could recommend me effectu¬ 
 ally, should be well enough contented to pass the 
 remainder of my days in the arms of some dear 
 kind creature, and upon a pretty estate in the 
 country. This, as I take it, would be following 
 the example of Lucius Cincinnatus, the old Ro¬ 
 man dictator, who at the end of a war, left the 
 camp to follow the plow. I am, Sir, with all 
 imaginable respect, 
 
 “Your most obedient, humble Servant, 
 
 “ Will Warley.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I am a half-pay officer, and am at present with 
 a friend in the country. Here is a rich widow in 
 the neighborhood, who has made fools of all the 
 fox-hunters within fifty miles of her. She de¬ 
 clares she intends to marry, but has not yet been 
 asked by the man she could like. She usually 
 admits her humble admirers to an audience or two; 
 but after she has once given them denial, will 
 never see them more. I am assured by a female 
 relation that I shall have fair play at her; but as 
 my whole success depends on my first approaches, 
 I desire your advice, whether I had best storm, 
 
 or proceed by way of sap. 
 
 “I am, Sir, yours, etc. 
 
 “P. S. I had forgot to tell you that I have 
 already carried one of her outworks, that is, se¬ 
 cured her maid.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I have assisted in several sieges in the Low 
 Countries, and being still willing to employ my 
 talents as a soldier and engineer, lay down this 
 morning at seven o’clock before the door ot an 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 668 
 
 obstinate female, who had for some time refused me j 
 admittance. I made a lodgment in an outer par¬ 
 lor about twelve : the enemy retired to her bed- j 
 chamber, yet I still pursued, and about two o’clock 
 this afternoon she thought fit to capitulate. Her 
 demands are indeed somewhat high, in relation to 
 the settlement of her fortune. But, being in pos¬ 
 session of the house, I intend to insist upon carte 
 blanche, and am in hopes, by keeping off all other 
 pretenders for the space of twenty-four hours, to 
 starve her into a compliance. I beg your speedy 
 advice, and am, 
 
 “ Sir, yours, 
 
 “ Peter Push. 
 
 “ From my camp in Red-lion-square, Saturday, 
 four in the afternoon.” 
 
 No. 567.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 14, 1714. 
 
 -Inceptus clamor frustratur hiantes 
 
 Virg. 2En. vi 493. 
 
 -The weak voice deceives their gasping throats. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 I have received private advice from some of my 
 correspondents, that if I would give my paper a 
 general run, I should take care to season it with 
 scandal. I have indeed observed of late, that few 
 writings sell which are not filled with great names 
 and illustrious titles. The reader generally casts 
 his eye upon a new book, and if he finds several 
 letters separated from one another by a dash, he 
 buys it up and peruses it with great satisfaction. 
 An M and an h, a T and an r,* with a short line 
 between them, has sold many an insipid pamphlet. 
 Nay, I have known a whole edition go off by vir¬ 
 tue of two or three well-written Sfcs. 
 
 A sprinkling of the words “faction, Frenchman, 
 papist, plunderer,” and the like significant terms, 
 m an italic character, have also a very good effect 
 upon the eye of the purchaser ; not to mention 
 “ scribbler, liar, rogue, rascal, knave, and villain,” 
 without which it is impossible to carry on a mod¬ 
 ern controversy. 
 
 Our party writers are so sensible of the secret vir¬ 
 tue of an inuendo to recommend their productions, 
 
 that of late they never mention the Q-n or 
 
 P-1 at length, though they speak of them with 
 
 honor, and with that deference which is due to 
 them from every private person. It gives a secret 
 satisfaction to a peruser of these mysterious works, 
 that he is able to decipher them without help, and, 
 by the strength of his own natural parts, to fill up 
 a blank space, or make out a word that has only 
 the first or last letter to it. 
 
 Some of our authors indeed, when they would 
 be more satirical than ordinary, omit only the 
 vowels of a great man’s name, and fall most un¬ 
 mercifully on all the consonants. This way of 
 writing was first of all introduced by T—m 
 Br—wn,f of facetious memory, who, after having 
 gutted a proper name of all its intermediate vowels, 
 used to plant it in his works, and make as free 
 with it as he pleased, without any danger of the 
 statute. 
 
 That I may imitate these celebrated authors, 
 and publish a paper which shall be more taking 
 than ordinary, 1 have here drawn up a very curi¬ 
 ous libel, in which a reader of penetration will 
 find a great deal of concealed satire, and if he be 
 acquainted with the present posture of atfairs, will 
 easily discover the meaning of it. 
 
 * M and h mean Marlborough, and T and r mean Treasurer, 
 t Tom Brown. 
 
 “If there are four persons in the nation who en¬ 
 deavor to bring all things into confusion, and ruin 
 their native country, I think every honest Engl-sh- 
 m-n ought to be upon his guard. That there are 
 such, every one will agree with me who hears 
 me name***with his first friend and favorite*** 
 not to mention***nor***. These people may cry 
 ch-rch, ch-rch, as long as they please; but to 
 make use of a homely proverb, ‘ the proof of the 
 pdd-ing is in the eating.’—This I am sure of, 
 that if a certain prince should concur with a cer¬ 
 tain prelate (and we have Monsieur Z-n’s word 
 
 for it), our posterity would be in a sweet p-ckle. 
 Must the British nation suffer, forsooth, because 
 my lady Q-p-t-s has been disobliged? Or is it 
 reasonable that our English fleet, which used to 
 be the terror of the ocean, should lie wind-bound 
 for the sake of a-? I love to speak out, and de¬ 
 
 clare my mind clearly, when I am talking for the 
 good of my country. I will not make my court to 
 
 an ill man, though he were a B-y or a T-1. 
 
 Nay, I would not stick to call so wretched a poli¬ 
 tician a traitor, an enemy to his country, and a 
 Bl-nd-rb-ss,” etc., etc. 
 
 The remaining part of this political treatise, 
 which is written after the manner of the most cele¬ 
 brated authors in Great Britain, I may communi¬ 
 cate to the public at a more convenient season. 
 In the meanwhile I shall leave this with my curi¬ 
 ous reader, as some ingenious writers do their 
 enigmas: and if any sagacious person can fairly 
 unriddle it, I will print his explanation, and, if he 
 pleases, acquaint the world with his name. 
 
 I hope this short essay will convince my read¬ 
 ers it is not for want of abilities that I avoid state 
 tracts, and that, if I would apply my mind to it, 
 I might in a little time be as great a master of the 
 political scratch as any the most eminent writer 
 of the age. I shall only add, that in order to out¬ 
 shine all the most modern race of syncopists, and 
 thoroughly to content my English readers, I in¬ 
 tend shortly to publish a Spectator that shall not 
 have a single vowel in it. 
 
 No. 568.] FRIDAY, JULY 16, 1714. 
 
 -Cum recitas, incipit esse tuus.— Mart. Epig. i. 39. 
 
 Reciting makes it thine. 
 
 I was yesterday in a coffee-house not far from 
 the Royal Exchange, where I observed three per¬ 
 sons in close conference over a pipe of tobacco; 
 upon which, having filled one for my own use, I 
 lighted it at the little wax candle that stood before 
 them; and, after having thrown in two or three 
 whiffs among them, sat down and made one of 
 the company. I need not tell my reader that 
 lighting a man’s pipe at the same candle is looked 
 upon among brother smokers as an overture to 
 conversation and friendship. As we here laid our 
 heads together in a very amicable manner, being 
 intrenched under a cloud of our own raising, I 
 took up the last Spectator, and casting my eye 
 over it, “The Spectator,” says I, “is very witty 
 to-day upon which a lusty lethargic old gentle¬ 
 man, who sat at the upper end of the table, having 
 gradually blown out of his mouth a great deal of 
 smoke, which he had been collecting for some 
 time before, “Ay,” says he, “more witty than 
 wise, I am afraid.” His neighbor, who sat at his 
 right hand, immediately colored, and, being an 
 angry politician, laid down his pipe with so much 
 wrath that he broke it in the middle, and by that 
 means furnished me with a tobacco-stopper. I 
 took it up very sedately, and, looking him full in 
 the face, made use of it from time to time all the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 while lie was speaking : “ This fellow,” says he, 
 “cannot for his life keep out of politics. Do you 
 see how he abuses four great men here ?” I fixed 
 my eye very attentively on the paper, and asked 
 him if he meant those who were represented by 
 Asterisks. “ Asterisks,” says he, “ do you call 
 them '! they are all of them stars—he might as 
 well have put garters to them. Then pray do but 
 mind the two or three next lines. Cli-rch and 
 p-dd-ng in the same sentence! Our clergy are 
 
 very much beholden to him!” Upon this the 
 
 third gentleman, who was of a mild disposition, 
 and, as I found, a whig in his heart, desired him 
 not to be too severe upon the Spectator neither ; 
 “for,” says he, “ you find he is very cautious of 
 giving offense, and has therefore put two dashes 
 into his pudding.”—“A fig for his dash,” says 
 the angry politician ; “ in his next sentence he 
 gives a plain inuendo that our posterity will be in 
 a sweet p-ckle. What does the fool mean by his 
 ickle ? Why does he not write it at length, if 
 e means honestly ?”—“ I have read over the 
 whole sentence,” says I ; “but I look upon the 
 parenthesis in the belly of it to be the most dan¬ 
 gerous part, and as full of insinuations as it can 
 hold. But who,” says I, “is my Lady Q-p-t-s ?” 
 “ Ay, answer that if you can. Sir,” says the furious 
 statesman to the poor whig that sat over against 
 him. But without giving him time to reply, “ I 
 do assure you,” says he, “ were I my Lady Q-p-t-s, 
 I would sue him for scandalmn magnatum. What 
 is the world come to ? Must everybody be al¬ 
 lowed to”-? He had by this time filled a new 
 
 pipe, and applying it to his lips, when we expected 
 the last word of his sentence, put us off with a 
 whiff of tobacco ; which he redoubled with so 
 much rage and trepidation, that he almost stifled 
 the whole company. After a short pause, I owned 
 that I thought the Spectator had gone too far in 
 writing so many letters of my Lady Q-p-t-s’ name; 
 “but, however,” says I, “he has made a little 
 amends for it in his next sentence, where he leaves 
 blank space without so much as a consonant to di¬ 
 rect us. I mean,” says I, “after those words, ‘the 
 fleetthat used to be the terror of the ocean, should 
 
 be wind-bound for the sake of a-;’ after which 
 
 ensues a chasm, that, in my opinion, looks modest 
 enough.”—“Sir,” says my antagonist, “you may 
 easily know his meaning by his gaping : I sup- 
 ose he designs his chasm, as you call it, for a 
 ole to creep out at, but I believe it will hardly 
 serve his turn. Who can endure to see the great 
 officers of state, the B—y’s and T—t’s treated after 
 so scurrilous a manner —“ I can’t for my life,” 
 says I, “imagine who they are the Spectator 
 means.”—“No!” says he : “Your humble servant, 
 Sir!” Upon which he flung himself back in his 
 chair after a contemptuous manner, and smiled 
 upon the old lethargic gentleman on his left hand, 
 who I found was his great admirer. The whig 
 however had begun to conceive a good-will to¬ 
 ward me, and, seeing my pipe out, very gener¬ 
 ously offered me the use of his box; but I de¬ 
 clined it with great civility, being obliged to meet 
 a friend about that time in another quarter of the 
 citv. 
 
 %J 
 
 At my leaving the coffee-house, I could not for¬ 
 bear reflecting with myself upon that gross tribe 
 of fools who may be termed the over-wise, and 
 upon the difficulty of writing anything in this 
 censorious age which a weak head may not con¬ 
 strue into private satire and personal reflection. 
 
 A man who has a good nose at an inuendo 
 smells treason and sedition in the most innocent 
 words that can be put together, and never sees a 
 vice or folly stigmatized but finds out one or other 
 of his acquaintance pointed at by the writer. I 
 
 619 
 
 remember an empty pragmatical fellow in the 
 country, who, upon reading over “The Whole 
 Duty of Man,” had written the names of several 
 persons in the village at the side of every sin 
 which is mentioned by that excellent author; so 
 that he had converted one of the best books in the 
 world into a libel against the ’squire, church¬ 
 wardens, overseers of the poor, and all the most 
 considerable persons in the parish. This book, 
 with these extraordinary marginal notes, fell acci¬ 
 dentally into the hands of one who had never seen 
 it before; upon which there arose a current report 
 that somebody had written a book against the 
 ’squire and the whole parish. The minister of 
 the place, having at that time a controversy with 
 some of his congregation upon the account of his 
 tithes, was under some suspicion of being the 
 author, until the good man set his people right, by 
 showing them that the satirical passages might be 
 applied to several others of two or three neighbor¬ 
 ing villages, and that the book was written against 
 all the sinners in England. 
 
 No. 569.] MONDAY, JULY 19, 1814. 
 
 Reges dicuntur multis urgere culullis, 
 
 Et torquere mero, quem perspexisse laborent, 
 
 An sit amicitia dignus.- IIor. Ars Poet. ver. 434. 
 
 Wise were the kings who never chose a friend 
 
 Till with full cups they had unmask’d his soul, 
 
 And seen the bottom of his deepest thoughts.—R oscommon. 
 
 No vices are so incurable as those which men 
 are apt to glory in. One would wonder how 
 drunkenness should have the good luck to be of 
 this number. Anacharsis, being invited to a 
 match of drinking at Corinth, demanded the prize 
 very humorously, because he was drunk before 
 any of the rest of the company; “for,” says he, 
 “when we run a race, he who arrives at the goal 
 first is entitled to the reward ;” on the contrary, in 
 this thirsty generation, the honor falls upon him 
 who carries off the greatest quantity of liquor, and 
 knocks down the rest of the company. I was the 
 other day with honest Will Funnel, the West 
 Saxon, who was reckoning up how much liquor had 
 passed through him in the last twenty years of his 
 life, which, according to his computation, amount¬ 
 ed to twenty-three hogsheads of October, four tons 
 of port, half a kilderkin of small beer, nineteen 
 barrels of cider, and three glasses of champagne; 
 beside which he had assisted at four hundred 
 bowls of punch, not to mention sips, drams, and 
 whets without number. I question not but every 
 reader’s memory will suggest to him several ambi¬ 
 tious young men who are as vain in this particular 
 as Will Funnel, and can boast of as glorious ex¬ 
 ploits. 
 
 Our modern philosophers observe, that there is 
 a general decay of moisture in the globe of the 
 earth. This they chiefly ascribe to the growth of 
 vegetables, which incorporate into their own sub¬ 
 stance many fluid bodies that never return again 
 to their former nature; but with submission, they 
 ought to throw into their own account those innu¬ 
 merable rational beings which fetch their nourish¬ 
 ment chiefly out of liquids; especially when we 
 consider that men, compared with their fellow- 
 creatures, drink much more than comes to their 
 share. 
 
 But, however highly this tribe of people may 
 think of themselves, a drunken man is a greater 
 monster than any that is to be found among all the 
 creatures which God has made; as indeed there is 
 no character which appears more despicable and 
 deformed, in the eyes of all reasonable persons, 
 than that of a drunkard. Bonosus, one of our own 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 670 
 
 countrymen, who was addicted to this vice, having 
 set up "for a share in the Roman empire, and being 
 defeated in a great battle, hanged himself. When 
 he was seen by the army in this melancholy situ¬ 
 ation, notwithstanding he had behaved himself 
 very bravely, the common jest was, that the thing 
 they saw hanging upon the tree before them was 
 not a man, but a bottle. 
 
 This vice has very fatal effects on the mind, the 
 body, and fortune, of the person who is devoted 
 to it. 
 
 In regard to the mind, it first of all discovers 
 every flaw in it. The sober man, by the strength 
 of reason, may keep under and subdue every vice 
 or folly to which he is most inclined; but wine 
 makes every latent seed sprout up in the soul, and 
 show itself; it gives fury to the passions, and force 
 to those objects which are apt to produce them. 
 When a young fellow complained to an old philo¬ 
 sopher that his wife was not handsome, “ Put less 
 water in your wine,” says the philosopher, “and 
 you will quickly make her so.” Wine heightens 
 indifference into love, love into jealousy, and jeal¬ 
 ousy into madness. It often turns the good-natured 
 man into an idiot, and the choleric into an assas¬ 
 sin. It gives bitterness to resentment, it makes 
 vanity insupportable, and displays every little spot 
 of the soul in its utmost deformity. 
 
 Nor does this vice only betray the hidden faults 
 of a man, and show them in the most odious colors, 
 but often occasions faults to which he is not natu¬ 
 rally subject. There is more of turn than of truth 
 in a saying of Seneca, that drunkenness does not 
 produce but discover faults. Common experience 
 teaches us the contrary. Wine throws a man out 
 of himself, and infuses qualities into the mind 
 which she is a stranger to in her sober moments. 
 The person you converse with after the third bot¬ 
 tle, is not the same man who at first sat down at 
 table with you. Upon this maxim is founded one 
 of the prettiest sayings I ever met with, which is 
 ascribed to Publius Syrus, “ Qui, ebrium ludijicat, 
 ladit absentem.” “ He who jests upon the man 
 that is drunk, injures the absent.” 
 
 Thus does drunkenness act in direct contradic¬ 
 tion to reason, whose business it is to clear the 
 mind of every vice which is crept into it, and to 
 guard it against all the approaches of any that en¬ 
 deavors to make its entrance. But beside these ill 
 effects which this vice produces in the person who 
 is actually under its dominion, it has also a bad 
 influence on the mind even in its sober moments, 
 as it insensibly weakens the understanding,. im¬ 
 pairs the memory, and makes those faults habitual 
 which are produced by frequent excesses. 
 
 I should now proceed to show the ill effects 
 which this vice has on the bodies and fortunes of 
 men; but these I shall reserve for the subject of 
 some future paper. 
 
 No. 570.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 21, 1714. 
 
 --Nugseque canons.— Hor. Ars Poet, ver. 322. 
 
 Chiming trifles.—R oscommon. 
 
 There is scarcely a man living who is not ac¬ 
 tuated by ambition. When this principle meets 
 with an honest mind and great abilities, it does 
 infinite service to the world; on the contrary, when 
 a man only thinks of distinguishing himself with¬ 
 out being thus qualified for it, he becomes a very 
 pernicious or a very ridiculous creature. I shall 
 here confine myself to that petty kind of ambi¬ 
 tion, by which some men grow eminent for odd 
 accomplishments and trivial performances. How 
 many are there whose whole reputation depends 
 
 upon a pun or a quibble? You may often see an 
 artist in the streets gain a circle of admirers by 
 carrying a long pole upon his chin or forehead in 
 a perpendicular posture. Ambition has taught 
 some to write with their feet, and others to walk 
 upon their hands. Some tumble into fama, others 
 grow immortal by throwing themselves through a 
 hoop. 
 
 Caetera de genere hoc (adeo sunt multa), loquaccm 
 
 Delassare valent Fabium.- Hor. 1 Sat. i. 13. 
 
 With thousands more of this ambitious race 
 
 Would tire ev’n Fabius to relate each case.— Horneck. 
 
 I am led into this train of thought by an ad¬ 
 venture I lately met with. 
 
 I was the other day at a tavern, where the mas¬ 
 ter of the house* accommodating us himself with 
 everything we wanted, I accidentally fell into a 
 discourse with him; and talking of a certain great 
 man, who shall be nameless, he told me that he 
 had sometimes the honor to treat him with a 
 whistle; adding (By the way of parenthesis), “ for 
 you must know, gentlemen, that I whistle the best 
 of any man in Europe.” This naturally put me 
 upon desiring him to give us a sample of his art; 
 upon which he called for a case-knife, and applying 
 the edge of it to his mouth, converted it into a 
 musical instrument, and entertained me with an 
 Italian solo. Upon laying down the knife, he took 
 a pair of clean tobacco-pipes; and after having slid 
 the small end of them over the table in a most me¬ 
 lodious trill, he fetched a tune out of them, whist¬ 
 ling to them at the same time in concert. In short, 
 the tobacco-pipes became musical pipes in the 
 hands of our virtuoso, who confessed to me, in¬ 
 genuously, he had broken such quantities of them, 
 that he had almost broke himself before he had 
 brought this piece of music to any tolerable per¬ 
 fection. I then told him I would bring a company 
 of friends to dine with him the next week, as an 
 encouragement to his ingenuity; upon which he 
 thanked me, saying that he would provide himself 
 with a new frying-pan against that day. I re¬ 
 plied, that it was no matter; rqast and boiled 
 would serve our turn. He smiled at my simpli¬ 
 city, and told me that it was his design to give us 
 a tune upon it. As I was surprised at such a pro¬ 
 mise, he sent for an old frying-pan, and grating it 
 upon the board, whistled to it in such a melodious 
 manner, that you could scarcely distinguish it 
 from a bass-viol. He then took his seat with usat 
 the table, and hearing my friend that was with 
 me hum over a tune to himself, he told me if he 
 would sing out, he would accompany his voice 
 with a tobacco-pipe As my friend has an agreea¬ 
 ble bass, he chose rather to sing to the frying-pan, 
 and indeed between them they made a most extra¬ 
 ordinary concert. Finding our landlord so great 
 a proficient in kitchen music, I asked him if he 
 was master of the tongs and key. He told me that 
 he had laid it down some years since as a little 
 unfashionable; but that, if I pleased, he would 
 give me a lesson upon the gridiron. He then in¬ 
 formed me, that he had added two bars to the grid¬ 
 iron, in order to give it a greater compass of sound; 
 and I perceived he was as well pleased with the 
 invention, as Sappho could have been upon adding 
 two strings to the lute. To be short, I found that 
 his whole kitchen was furnished with musical in¬ 
 struments; and could not but look upon this artist 
 as a kind of burlesque musician. 
 
 He afterward, of his own accord, fell into the 
 imitation of several singing-birds.. My friend and 
 I toasted our mistresses to the nightingale, when 
 
 * This man’s name was Daintry. He was in the trained 
 bands and commonly known by the name of Captain Daintry. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 all of a sudden we were surprised with the music 
 of the thrush. He next proceeded to the sky-lark, 
 mounting up by a proper scale of notes, and after¬ 
 ward tailing to the ground with a very easy and 
 regular descent. He then contracted his whistle 
 to the voice of several birds of the smallest size. 
 As he is a man of a larger bulk and higher stature 
 than ordinary, you would fancy him a giant when 
 you looked upon him, and a tom-tit when you shut 
 your eyes. I must not omit acquainting my reader 
 that this accomplished person was formerly the 
 master of a toy-shop near Temple-bar; and that 
 the famous Charles Mathers was bred up under 
 him. I am told that the misfortunes which he has 
 met with in the world are chiefly owing to his 
 great application to his music; and therefore can¬ 
 not but recommend him to my readers as one who 
 deserves their favor, and may afford them great 
 diversion over a bottle of wine, which he sells at 
 the Queen’s Arms, near the end of the little piazza 
 in Covent-gardeu. 
 
 Ho. 571.] FRIDAY, JULY 23, 1714. 
 
 -Coelum quid quaerimus ultra ?—Luc. 
 
 What seek we beyond heaven ? 
 
 As the work I have engaged in will not only 
 consist of papers of humor and learning, but of 
 several essays moral and divine, I shall publish 
 the following one which is founded on a former 
 Spectator, and sent me by a particular friend, 
 not questioning but it will please such of my 
 readers as think it no disparagement to their un¬ 
 derstandings to give way sometimes to a serious 
 thought. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 " In your paper of Friday the ninth instant, you 
 had occasion to consider the ubiquity of the God¬ 
 head, and at the same time to show, that, as he is 
 present to everything, he cannot but be attentive 
 to everything, and privy to all the modes and parts 
 of its existence; or, in other words, that his om¬ 
 niscience and omnipresence are co-existent, and 
 run together through the whole infinitude of space. 
 3 his consideration might furnish us with many 
 incentives to devotion, and motives to morality; 
 but, as this subject has been handled by several 
 excellent writers, I shall consider it in a light 
 wherein I have not seen it placed by others. 
 
 “ First, How disconsolate is the condition of an 
 intellectual being, who is thus present with his 
 Maker, but at the same time receives no extraor¬ 
 dinary benefit or advantage from this his pres¬ 
 ence ! 
 
 “ Secondly, How deplorable is the condition of 
 an intellectual being, who feels no other effects 
 from this his presence, but such as proceed from 
 divine wrath and indignation! 
 
 “ Thirdly, How happy is the condition of that 
 intellectual being, who is sensible of his Maker’s 
 presence, from the secret effects of his mercy and 
 loving-kindness! 
 
 “First, How disconsolate is the condition of an 
 intellectual being, who is thus present with his 
 Maker, but at the same time receives no extraordi¬ 
 nary benefit or advantage from this his presence ! 
 Every particle of matter is actuated by this Al¬ 
 mighty Being which passes through it. The hea¬ 
 vens and the earth, the stars and planets, move 
 and gravitate by virtue of this great principle 
 within them. All the dead parts of nature are 
 invigorated by the presence of their Creator, and 
 made capable of exerting their respective qualities. 
 The several instincts, in the brute creation, do 
 
 G71 
 
 likewise operate and work toward the several ends 
 which are agreeable to them by the divine energy. 
 Man only, who does not co-operate with this Holy 
 Spirit, and is inattentive to his presence, receives 
 none of those advantages from it, which are per¬ 
 fective of his nature, and necessary to his well¬ 
 being. The Divinity is with him, and in him, and 
 everywhere about him, but of no advantage to him. 
 It is the same thing to a man without religion, as 
 if there were no God in the world. It is indeed 
 impossible for an Infinite Being to remove himself 
 from any of his creatures; but though he cannot 
 withdraw his essence from us, which would argue 
 an imperfection in him, he can withdraw from us 
 all the joys and consolations of it. His presence 
 may perhaps be necessary to support us in our ex¬ 
 istence; _ but he may leave this our existence to 
 itself, with regard to its happiness or misery. For 
 in this sense he may cast us away from his pres¬ 
 ence, and take his Holy Spirit from us. This sin¬ 
 gle consideration one would think sufficient to 
 make us open our hearts to all those infusions of 
 joy and gladness which are so near at hand, and 
 ready to be poured in upon us; especially when 
 we consider, secondly, the deplorable condition of 
 an intellectual being, who feels no other effects 
 from his Maker’s presence, but such as proceed 
 from divine wrath and indignation. 
 
 “We may assure ourselves that the great Author 
 of nature will not always be as one who is indif¬ 
 ferent to any of his creatures. Those who will not 
 feel him in his love, will be sure at length to feel 
 him in his displeasure. And how dreadful is the 
 condition of that creature, who is only sensible of 
 the being of his Creator by what he suffers from 
 him ! He is as essentially present in hell as in 
 heaven; but the inhabitants of the former behold 
 him only in his wrath, and shrink within the flames 
 to conceal themselves from him. It is not in the 
 power of imagination to conceive the fearful effects 
 of Omnipotence incensed. 
 
 “ But I shall only consider the wretchedness of 
 an intellectual being, who in this life lies under the 
 displeasure of Him, that at all times and in all 
 places is intimately united with him. He is able 
 to disquiet the soul, and vex it in all its faculties. 
 He can hinder any of the greatest comforts of life 
 from refreshing us, and give an edge to every one 
 of its slightest calamities. Who then can bear the 
 thought of being an outcast from his presence, that 
 is, from the comforts of it, or of feeling it only in 
 its terrors ? ^ How pathetic is that expostulation of 
 Job, when for the trial of his patience he was made 
 to look upon himself in this deplorable condition! 
 ‘Why hast thou set me as a mark against thee, so 
 that I am become a burden to myself?’ But thirdly, 
 how happy is the condition of that intellectual 
 being, who is sensible of his Maker’s presence 
 from the secret effects of his mercy and loving¬ 
 kindness! 
 
 “ The blessed in heaven behold him face to face, 
 that is, are as sensible of his presence as we are 
 of the presence of any person whom we look upon 
 with our eyes. There is, doubtless, a faculty in 
 spirits by which they apprehend one another as 
 our senses do material objects; and there is no 
 question but our souls, when they are disembod¬ 
 ied, or placed in glorified bodies, will by this fac¬ 
 ulty, in whatever part of space they reside, be 
 always sensible of the Divine presence. We, who 
 have this vail of flesh standing between us and the 
 world of spirits, must be content to know that the 
 Spirit of God is present with us, by the effects 
 which he produces in us. Our outward senses are 
 too gross to comprehend him; we may, however, 
 taste and see how gracious he is, by his influence 
 upon our minds, by those virtuous thoughts which 
 
G72 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 he awakens in us, by those secret comforts and re¬ 
 freshments which he conveys into our souls, and 
 bv those ravishing joys and inward satisfactions 
 which are perpetually springing up and diffusing 
 themselves among all the thoughts of good men. 
 He is lodged in our very essence, and is as a soul 
 within the soul to irradiate its understanding, rec¬ 
 tify its will, purify its passions, and enliven all 
 the powers of man. How happy therefore is an 
 intellectual being, who, by prayer and meditation, 
 by virtue and good works, opens this communica¬ 
 tion between God and his own soul! Though the 
 whole creation frowns upon him, and all nature 
 looks black about him, he has his light and sup¬ 
 port within him, that are able to cheer his mind, 
 and bear him up in the midst of all those horrors 
 which encompass him. He knows that his helper 
 is at hand, and is always nearer to him than any¬ 
 thing else can be, which is capable of annoying 
 or terrifying him. In the midst of calumny or 
 contempt he attends to that Being who whispers 
 better things to his soul, whom he looks upon as 
 his defender, his glory, and the lifter-up of his 
 head. In his deepest solitude and retirement he 
 knows that he is in company with the greatest of 
 beings; and perceives within himself such real 
 sensations of his presence, as are more delightful 
 than anything that can be met with in the conver¬ 
 sation of his creatures. Even in the hour of death 
 he considers the pains of his dissolution to be 
 nothing else but the breaking down of that parti¬ 
 tion, which stands betwixt his soul and the sight 
 of that Being who is always present with him, 
 and is about to manifest itself to him in fullness of 
 joy. 
 
 “ If he would be thus happy, and thus sensible 
 of our Maker’s presence, from the secret effects of 
 his mercy and goodness, we must keep such a 
 watch over all our thoughts, that, in the language 
 of the Scripture, his soul may have pleasure in 
 us. We must take care , not to grieve liis Holy 
 Spirit, and endeavor to make the meditations of 
 our hearts always acceptable in his sight, that he 
 may delight thus to reside and dwell in us. The 
 light of nature could direct Seneca to this doctrine, 
 in a very remarkable passage among his epistles: 
 ‘ Sacer inest in nobis spiritus bonorum malorumque 
 custos, et observator, et quemadmodurn nos ilium trac- 
 tamus, ita et ille nos .’ ‘ There is a holy spirit re¬ 
 
 siding in us, who watches and observes both good 
 and evil men, and will treat us after the same man¬ 
 ner that we treat him.’ But I shall conclude this 
 discourse with those more emphatical words in 
 divine revelation. ‘If a man love me he will 
 keep my word; and my Father will love him, and 
 we will come unto him, and make our abode with 
 him.’ ” 
 
 Ho. 572.] MONDAY, JUNE 26, 1714. 
 
 -Quod medicoruxn est, 
 
 Promittunt medici- 
 
 Hon. 1. Ep. ii. 115. 
 
 Physicians only boast the healing art. 
 
 I am the more pleased with those my papers, 
 since I find they have encouraged several men of 
 learning and wit to become my correspondents : 
 I yesterday received the following essay against 
 quacks, which I shall here communicate to my 
 leaders for the good of the public, begging the 
 writer’s pardon for those additions and retrench¬ 
 ments which I have made in it. 
 
 “The desire of life is so natural and strong a 
 passion, that I have long since ceased to wonder 
 at the great encouragement which the practice of 
 physic finds among us. Well-constitutioned gov¬ 
 
 ernments have always made the profession of a 
 physician both honorable and advantageous. Ho¬ 
 mer’s Macliaon and Virgil’s lapis were men of 
 renown, heroes in war, and made at least as much 
 havoc among their enemies as among their friends. 
 Those who have little or no faith in the abilities 
 of a quack will apply themselves to him, either 
 because he is willing to sell health at a reasonable 
 profit, or because the patient, like a drowning man, 
 catches at every twig, and hopes for relief from 
 the most ignorant, when the most able physicians 
 give him none. Though impudence and many 
 words are as necessary to these itinerary Galens, 
 as a laced hat to a merry-andrew, yet they would 
 turn very little to the advantage of the owner, if 
 there were not some inward disposition in the sick 
 man to favor the pretensions of the mountebank. 
 Love of life in the one, and of money in the other, 
 creates a good correspondence between them. 
 
 “There is scarcely a city in Great Britain but 
 has one of this tribe who takes it into his protec¬ 
 tion, and on the market-day harangues the good 
 people of the place with aphorisms and receipts. 
 You may depend upon it he comes not there for 
 his own private interest, but out of a particular 
 affection to the town. I remember one of these 
 public-spirited artists at Hammersmith, who told 
 his audience, that he had been born and bred there, 
 and that, having a special regard for the place of 
 his nativity, he was determined to make a present 
 of five shillings to as many as would accept of it. 
 The whole crowd stood agape, and ready to take 
 the doctor at his word; when putting his hand into 
 a long bag, as every one was expecting his crown- 
 piece, he drew out a handful of little packets, each 
 of which he informed the spectators was constantly 
 sold at five shillings and six-pence, but that he 
 would bate the odd five shillings to every inhabit¬ 
 ant of that place: the whole assembly immediately- 
 closed with this generous offer, and took off all 
 his physic, after the doctor had made them vouch 
 for one another, that there were no foreigners 
 among them, but that they were all Hammersmith 
 men. . 
 
 “There is another branch of pretenders to this 
 art, who, without either horse or pickle-herring, lie 
 snug in a garret, and send down notice to the 
 world of their extraordinary parts and abilities by 
 printed bills and advertisements. These seem, to 
 have derived their custom from an eastern nation 
 which Herodotus speaks of, among whom it was a 
 law, that whenever any cure was performed, both 
 the method of the cure, and an account of the dis¬ 
 temper, should be fixed in some public place; but, 
 as customs will corrupt, these our moderns provide 
 themselves of persons to attest the cure before they 
 publish or make an experiment of the prescription. 
 I have heard of a porter, who serves as a knight 
 of the post under one of these operators, and 
 though he was never sick in his life, has been cured 
 of all the diseases in the dispensary. These are 
 the men whose sagacity has invented elixirs of all 
 sorts, pills, and lozenges, and take it as an affront 
 if you come to them before you are given over by 
 everybody else. Their medicines are infallible, 
 and never fail of success—that is, of enriching 
 the doctor, and setting the patient effectually at 
 rest. 
 
 “I lately dropped into a coffee-house at West¬ 
 minster, where I found the room hung round with 
 ornaments of this nature. There were elixirs, 
 tinctures, the Anodyne Fotus, English pills, elec¬ 
 tuaries, and in short more remedies than I believe 
 there are diseases. At the sight of so many in¬ 
 ventions, I could not but imagine myself in a kind 
 of arsenal or magazine where store of arms was 
 reposited against any sudden invasion. Should 
 
673 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 you be attacked by the enemy sideways, here was 
 an infallible piece of defensive armor to cure the 
 pleurisy; should a distemper beat up your head¬ 
 quarters, here you might purchase an impenetrable 
 helmet, or, in the language of the artist, a cephalic 
 tincture; if your main body be assaulted, here are 
 various kinds of armor in cases of various onsets. 
 I began to congratulate the present age upon the 
 happiness men might reasonably hope for in life, 
 when death was thus in a manner defeated, and 
 when pain itself would be of so short a duration, 
 that it would just serve to enhance the value of 
 pleasure. While I was in these thoughts, I un¬ 
 luckily called to mind a story of an ingenious 
 gentleman of the last age, who lying violently af¬ 
 flicted with the gout, a. person came and offered 
 his services to cure him by a method which he 
 assured him was infallible; the servant who re¬ 
 ceived the message carried it up to his master, who 
 inquiring whether the person came on foot or in a 
 chariot, and being informed that he was on foot; 
 'Go/ says he, ‘send the knave about his business; 
 was his method as infallible as he pretends, he 
 would long before now have been in his coach and 
 six.’ In like manner, I concluded that had all 
 these advertisers arrived to that skill they pretend 
 to, they would have had no need for so many years 
 successively to publish to the world the place of 
 their abode and the virtues of their medicines. 
 One of these gentlemen indeed pretends to an 
 effectual cure for leanness; what effects it may 
 have upon those who have tried it, I cannot tell; 
 but I am credibly informed that the call for it has 
 been so great, that it has effectually cured the doc¬ 
 tor himself of the distemper. Could each of them 
 produce so good an instance of the success of his 
 medicines, they might soon persuade the world 
 into an opinion of them. 
 
 “ I observe that most of the bills agree in one 
 expression, viz: that 'with God’s blessing’ they 
 perform such and such cures; this expression is 
 certainly very proper and emphatical, for that is 
 all they have for it. And if ever a cure is per¬ 
 formed on a patient where they are concerned, 
 they can claim no greater share in it than Virgil’s 
 lapis in the curing of ./Eneas; he tried his skill, 
 was very assiduous about the wound; and indeed 
 was the only visible means that relieved the hero; 
 but the poet assures us it was the particular assist¬ 
 ance of a deity that speeded the operation. An 
 English reader may see the whole story in Mr. 
 Dry den’s translation: 
 
 Ihe steel, but scarcely touch’d with tender hands, 
 
 .uotcs up and follows of its own accord; 
 
 And health and vigor are at once restored, 
 lapis first perceiv’d the closing wound! 
 
 And first the footsteps of a god he found: 
 
 Arms, arms!” he cries: “the sword and shield prepare. 
 And send the willing chief, renew’d, to war. 
 inis is no mortal work, no cure of mine, 
 
 Is or art’s effect, but done by hands divine.” 
 
 Virg. iEn. lib. xii. 391, etc. 
 
 No. 573.] WEDNESDAY, JULY 28, 1714. 
 
 -Castigata remordent.—Juv. Sat. ii. 35. 
 
 Chastised, the accusation they retort. 
 
 My paper on the club of widows has brought 
 me in several letters and among the rest, a long 
 one from Mrs. President, as follows :■— 
 
 Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood, 
 
 And heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd. 
 
 The fam’d physician tucks his robes around, 
 
 With ready hands, and hastens to the wound. 
 
 With gentle touches he performs his part, 
 
 This way and that, soliciting the dart, 
 
 And exercises all his heavenly art. 
 
 All soft’ning simples, known of sov’reign use, 
 
 He presses out, and pours their noble juice: 
 
 These first infus’d to lenify the pain, 
 
 He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain. 
 
 Then to the patron of his art he pray’d; 
 
 The patron of his art refused his aid. 
 
 But now the goddess mother, mov’d with grief, 
 
 And pierc’d with pity, hastens her relief. 
 
 A branch of healing dittany she brought, 
 
 ' Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought: 
 
 Rough is the stem, which woolly leaves surround; 
 
 The leaves with flowers, the flowers with purple crown’d; 
 Well known to wounded goats: a sure relief 
 To draw the pointed steel and ease the grief. 
 
 This Venus brings, in clouds involved: and brews 
 Th’ extracted liquor with ambrosiap dews, 
 
 And od’rous panacea: unseen she stands, 
 
 Temp’ring the mixture with her heav’nly hands; 
 
 Apd pours it in a bowl already crown’d 
 
 With juice of med’cinal herbs, prepared to bathe the wound. 
 
 The leech, unknowing of superior art, 
 
 Which aids the cure, with this foments the part. 
 
 And in a moment ceas'd the raging smart. 
 
 Stanch’d is the blood, and in the bottom stands 
 
 43 
 
 "Smart Sir, 
 
 .“You are pleased to be very merry, as you ima¬ 
 gine, with us widows: and you seem to ground 
 your satire on our receiving consolation so soon 
 after the death of our dears, and the number we 
 are pleased to admit for companions; but you 
 never reflect what husbands we have buried, and 
 how short a sorrow the loss of them was capable 
 of occasioning. For my own part, Mrs. President, 
 as you call me, my first husband I was married to 
 at fourteen by my uncle and guardian (as I after¬ 
 ward discovered) by way of sale, for the third 
 part ot my fortune. This fellow looked upon me 
 as a mere child he might breed up after his own 
 fancy; if he kissed my chambermaid before my 
 face, I was supposed so ignorant how could I 
 think there was any hurt in it ? When he came 
 home roaring drunk at five in the morning, it was 
 the custom of all men that live in the world. I 
 was not to see a penny of money, for, poor thing, 
 how could I manage it? He took a handsome 
 cousin of his into the house (as he said) to be my 
 housekeeper, and to govern my servants; for how 
 should I know how to rule a family ? While she 
 had what money she pleased, which was but rea¬ 
 sonable for the trouble she was at for my good, I 
 was not to be so censorious as to dislike familiarity 
 and kindness between near relations. I was too 
 gieat a coward to contend, but not so ignorant a 
 child to be thus imposed upon. I resented this 
 contempt as I ought to do, and as most poor, pas¬ 
 sive, blinded wives do, until it pleased Heaven to 
 take away my tyrant, who left me free possession 
 of my own land, and a large jointure. My youth 
 and money brought me many lovers, and" several 
 endeavored to establish an interest in my heart, 
 while my husband was in his last sickness : the 
 Honorable Edward Waitfort was one of the first 
 who addressed me, advised to it by a cousin of 
 his that was my intimate friend, and knew to a 
 penny what I was worth. Mr. Waitfort is a very 
 agreeable man, and everybody would like him as 
 well as he does himself, if they did not plainly see 
 that his esteem and love is all taken up, and hv 
 Such an object as it is impossible to get the better 
 of; I mean himself. He made no doubt of marry¬ 
 ing me within four or five months, and began to 
 proceed with such an assured easy air, that piqued 
 my pride not to banish him; quite contrary, out 
 of pure malice, I heard his first declaration with 
 so much innocent surprise, and blushed so pret¬ 
 tily, I perceived it touched his very heart, and he 
 thought me the best-natured, silly, poor tiling on 
 earth. When a man has such a notion of a wo¬ 
 man, he loves her better than he thinks he does. 
 
 I was overjoyed to be thus reVenged on him for 
 designing on my fortune; and finding it was in 
 my power to make his heart ache, I resolved to 
 complete my conquest, and entertained several 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 other pretenders. The first impression of my un¬ 
 designing innocence was so strong in his head, he 
 attributed all my followers to the inevitable force 
 of my charms: and, from several blushes and side 
 glances, concluded himself the favorite; and when 
 1 used him like a dog for my diversion, he thought 
 it was all prudence and fear ; and pitied the 
 violence I did my own inclinations to comply with 
 my friends, when I married Sir Nicholas Fribble 
 of sixty years of age. You know, Sir, the case 
 of Mrs. Medlar. I hope you would not have had 
 me cry out my eyes for such a husband. I shed 
 tears enough for my widowhood a week after my 
 marriage: and when he was put in his grave, reck¬ 
 oning he had been two years dead, and myself a 
 widow of that standing, I married three weeks 
 afterward John Sturdy, Esq., his next heir. 1 had 
 indeed some thoughts of taking Mr. Waitfort, but 
 I found he could stay; and beside, he thought it 
 indecent to ask me to marry again until my year 
 was out; so, privately resolving him for my fourth, 
 
 I took Mr. Sturdy for the present. Would you 
 believe it, Sir, Mr. Sturdy was just five-and-twenty, 
 about six feet high, and the stoutest fox-hunter in 
 the country, and I believe I wished ten thousand 
 times for my old Fribble again; he was following 
 his dogs all the day, and all the night keeping 
 them up at table with him and his companions; 
 however, I think myself obliged to them for lead¬ 
 ing him a chase that broke his neck. Mr. Waitfort 
 began his addresses anew; and I verily believe I 
 had married him now, but there was a young offi¬ 
 cer in the guards that had debauched two or three 
 of my acquaintance, and I could not forbear being 
 a little vain of his courtship. Mr. Waitfort heard 
 of it, and read me such an insolent lecture upon 
 the conduct of women, I married the officer that 
 very day, out of pure spite to him. Half an hour 
 after I was married I received a penitential letter 
 from the Honorable Mr. Edward Waitfort, in which 
 he begged pardon for his passion, as proceeding 
 from the violence of his love. I triumphed when 
 I i*ead it, and could not help, out of the pride of 
 my heart, showing it to my new spouse; and we 
 were very merry together upon it. Alas ! my 
 mirth lasted a short time; my young husband was 
 very much in debt when I married him, and his 
 first action afterward was to set up a gilt chariot 
 and six in fine trappings before and behind. I 
 had married so hastily, 1 had not the prudence to 
 reserve my estate in my own hands; my ready 
 money was lost in two nights at the Groom-por¬ 
 ter’s; and my diamond necklace, which was stole 
 I did not know how, I met in the street upon Jenny 
 Wheedle’s neck. My plate vanished piece by 
 piece : and I had been reduced to downright pew¬ 
 ter, if my officer had not been deliciously killed 
 in a duel, by a fellow that had cheated him of 
 five hundred pounds, and afterward, at his own 
 request, satisfied him and me too, by running him 
 through the body. Mr. Waitfort was still in love, 
 and told me so again; and, to prevent all fear of 
 ill usage, he desired me to reserve everything in 
 my own hands; but now my acquaintance began 
 to wish me joy of his constancy, my charms were 
 declining, and I could not resist the delight I took 
 in showing the young flirts about town it was yet 
 in my power to give pain to a man of sense; this,- 
 and some private hopes he would hang himself, 
 and what a glory it would be for me, and how I 
 should be envied, made me accept of being third 
 wife to my Lord Friday. I proposed, from my 
 rank and his estate, to live in all the joys of pride; 
 but how was I mistaken ! he was neither extrava¬ 
 gant, nor ill-natured, nor debauched. I suffered, 
 however, more with him than with all my others. 
 He was splenetic. I was forced to sit whole days 
 
 hearkening to his imaginary ails ; it was impossi¬ 
 ble to tell what would please him; what he liked 
 when the sun shined made him sick when it rained; 
 he had no distemper, but lived in constant fear of 
 them all; my good genius dictated to me to bring 
 him acquainted with Dr. Gruel: from that day he 
 was always contented, because he had names for 
 all his complaints; the good doctor furnished him 
 with reasons for all his pains, and prescriptions 
 for every fancy that troubled him; in hot weather 
 he lived upon juleps, and let blood to prevent fe¬ 
 vers; when it grew cloudy he generally appre¬ 
 hended a consumption; to shorten the history of 
 this wretched part of my life, he ruined a good 
 constitution by endeavoring to mend it; and took 
 several medicines, which ended in taking the 
 grand remedy, which cured both him and me of 
 all our uneasiness. After his death I did not ex¬ 
 pect to hear any more of Mr. Waitfort. I knew 
 he had renounced me to all his friends, and been 
 very witty upon my choice, which he affected to 
 talk of with great indifferency. I gave over think¬ 
 ing of him, being told that he was engaged with a 
 pretty woman and a great fortune; it vexed me a 
 little, but not enough to make me neglect the ad¬ 
 vice of my cousin Wishwell, that came to see me 
 the day my lord went into the country with Rus¬ 
 sell; she told me experimentally, nothing put an 
 unfaithful lover and a dear husband so soon put 
 of one’s head as a new one, and at the same time 
 proposed to me a kinsman of hers. ‘You under¬ 
 stand enough of the world/ said she, ‘to know 
 money is the most valuable consideration: he is 
 very rich, and I am sure he cannot live long; he 
 has a cough that must cany him off soon.’ I knew 
 afterward she had given the selfsame character of 
 me to him; but, however, I was so much persua¬ 
 ded by her, I hastened on the match for fear he 
 should die before the time came; he had the same 
 fears, and was so pressing, I married him in a 
 fortnight, resolving to keep it private a fortnight 
 longer. During this fortnight Mr. Waitfort came 
 to make me a visit; he told me he had waited on me 
 sooner, but had that respect for me, he would not 
 interrupt me in the first day of my affliction for 
 my dear lord; that as soon as he heard I was at 
 liberty to make another choice, he had broke off a 
 match very advantageous for his fortune, just upon 
 the point of conclusion, and was forty times more 
 in love with me than ever. I never received more 
 pleasure in my life than from this declaration; but 
 I composed my face to a grave air, and said the 
 news of his engagement had touched me to the 
 heart, that in a rash jealous fit I had married a 
 man I never could have thought on, if I had not 
 lost all hopes of him. Good-natured Mr. Waitfort 
 had liked to have dropped down dead at hearing 
 this, but went from me with such an air as plainly 
 showed me he had laid all the blame upon himself, 
 and hated those friends that had advised him to 
 the fatal application;.he seemed as much touched 
 by my misfortune as his own, for he had not 
 the least doubt I was still passionately in love 
 with him. The truth of the story is, my ne_w 
 husband gave me reason to repent I had not staid 
 for him; he had married me for my money, and 
 I soon found he loved money to distraction; there 
 was nothing he would not do to get it; nothing 
 he would not suffer to preserve it; the smallest 
 expense kept him awake whole nights; and when 
 he paid a bill, it was with as many sighs, and 
 after as many delays, as a man that endures the 
 loss of a limb. I heard nothing but reproofs for 
 extravagancy, whatever I did. I saw very well 
 that he would have starved me, but for losing my 
 jointures; and he suffered agonies between the 
 grief of seeing me have so good a stomach, and 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 the fear that if he had made me fast, it might 
 prejudice my health. I did not doubt he would 
 have broken my heart, if I did not break his, 
 which was allowable by the law of self-defense. 
 The way was very easy. I resolved to spend as 
 much money as I could; and, before he was aware 
 of the stroke, appeared before him in a two thou¬ 
 sand pound diamond necklace: he said nothing, 
 but went quietly to his chamber, and, as it is 
 thought, composed himself with a dose of opium. 
 I behaved myself so well upon the occasion, that 
 to this day I believe he died of an apoplexy. Mr. 
 Waitfort was resolved not to be too late this time, 
 and I heard from him in two days. I am almost 
 out of my weeds at this present writing, and very 
 doubtful whether I will marry him or no. I do not 
 think of a seventh for the ridiculous reason you 
 mention, but out of pure morality that I think so 
 much constancy should be rewarded, though I 
 may not do it after all, perhaps. I do not believe 
 all the unreasonable malice of mankind can give 
 a pretense why I should have been constant to the 
 memory of any of the deceased, or have spent 
 much time in grieving for an insolent, insignifi¬ 
 cant, negligent, extravagant, splenetic, or covetous 
 husband;'—my first insulted me, my second was 
 nothing to me, my third disgusted me, the fourth 
 would have ruined me, the fifth tormented me, 
 and the sixth would have starved me. If the 
 other ladies you name would thus give in their 
 husbands’ pictures at length, you would see they 
 have had as little reason as myself to lose their 
 hours in weeping aud wailing.” 
 
 675 
 
 a man s 
 
 Ho. 574.] FRIDAY, JULY 30, 1714. 
 
 Non possidentem multa vocaveris 
 Itecte beatum. Rectius occupat 
 Nomen beati, qui Deorum 
 Muneribus sapienter uti. 
 
 Duramque callet pauperiem pati. 
 
 Hor. 4 Od. ix. 45. 
 
 Believe not those that lands possess, 
 
 And shining heaps of useless ore, 
 
 The only lords of happiness; 
 
 But rather those that know 
 For what kind fates bestow, 
 
 And have the heart to use the store, 
 
 That have the generous skill to bear 
 The hated weight of poverty. —Creech. 
 
 I was once engaged in discourse with a Rosi- 
 crucian about “the great secret.” As this kind 
 of men (I mean those of them who are not pro¬ 
 fessed cheats) are overrun with enthusiasm and 
 philosophy, it was very amusing to hear this reli¬ 
 gious adept descanting on his pretended discovery. 
 He talked of the secret as of a spirit which lived 
 within an emerald, and converted everything that 
 was near it to the highest perfection it is capable 
 of. “It gives a luster,” says he, “to the sun, and 
 water to the diamond. It irradiates every metal, 
 and enriches lead with all the properties of gold! 
 It heightens smoke into flame, flame into light, 
 and light into glory.” He further added, “ that a 
 single ray of it dissipates pain, and care, and 
 melancholy, from the person on whom it falls. 
 In short,” says he, “its presence naturally changes 
 every place into a kind of heaven.” After he had 
 gone on for some time in this unintelligible cant, 
 I found that he jumbled natural and moral ideas 
 together in the same discourse, and that his great 
 secret was nothing else but content. 
 
 This virtue does indeed produce, in some mea¬ 
 sure, all those effects which the alchemist usually 
 ascribes to what he calls the philosopher’s stone; 
 and if it does not bring riches, it does the same 
 thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it 
 cannot remove the disquietudes arising out of 
 
 mind, body, or fortune, it makes him 
 easy under them. It has indeed a kindly influ¬ 
 ence on the soul of man, in respect of every bping 
 to whom he " stands related. It extinguishes all 
 murmur, repining, and ingratitude, toward that 
 Being who has allotted him his part to act in this 
 world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and 
 every tendency to corruption, with regard to the 
 community wherein he is placed. It gives sweet¬ 
 ness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity 
 to all his thoughts. 
 
 Among the many methods which might be 
 made use of for the acquiring of this virtue, I shall 
 only mention the two following. First of all, a 
 man should always consider how much he has 
 more than he wants: and secondly, how much 
 more unhappy he might be than he really is. 
 
 First of all, a man should always consider how 
 much he has more than he wants. I am wonder¬ 
 fully pleased with the reply which Aristippus 
 made to one who condoled him upon the loss of 
 a farm: “Why,” said he, “I have three farms 
 still, and you have but one; so that I ought rather 
 to be afflicted for you than you for me.” On the 
 contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider 
 what they have lost than what they possess; and to 
 fix their eyes upon those who are richer than them¬ 
 selves, rather than on those who are under greater 
 difficulties. . All the real pleasures and conve¬ 
 niences of life lie in a narrow compass; but it is 
 the humor of mankind to be always looking for¬ 
 ward and straining after one who has got the 
 start of them in wealth and honor. For this rea¬ 
 son, as there are none can be properly called rich 
 who have not more than they want, there are few 
 rich men in any of the politer nations, but among 
 the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes 
 within their fortunes, and have more wealth than 
 they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher 
 rank live in a kind of splendid poverty, and are 
 perpetually wanting, because, instead of acquies¬ 
 cing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavor 
 to outvie one another in shadows and appearances. 
 Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a great 
 deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over 
 their heads, and, by contracting their desires, enjoy 
 all that secret satisfaction which others are always 
 in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase 
 after imaginary pleasures cannot be sufficiently 
 exposed, as it is the great source of those evils 
 which generally undo a nation. Let a man’s 
 estate be what it will, he is a poor man if he 
 does not live within it, and naturally sets himself 
 to sale to any one that can give him his price. 
 When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who 
 had left him a good estate, was offered a great sum 
 of money by the King of Lydia, he thanked him 
 for his kindness, but told him he had already 
 more by half than he knew what to do with. In. 
 short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury 
 to poverty; or, to give the thought a more agree¬ 
 able turn, “ Content is natural wealth,” says 
 Socrates; to which I shall add, “Luxury is arti¬ 
 ficial poverty.” I shall therefore recommend to* 
 the consideration of those who are always aiming 
 after superfluous and imaginary enjoyments, and 
 will not be at the trouble of contracting their de¬ 
 sires, an excellent saying of Bion, the philoso¬ 
 pher; namely, that “no man has so much care as 
 lie who endeavors after the most happiness.” 
 
 In the second place, every one ought to reflect 
 how much more unhappy he might be than he 
 really is. The former consideration took in all 
 those who are sufficiently provided with the 
 
 means to make themselves easy; this regards 
 
 - J r O- 
 
 such as actually lie under some pressure or mis¬ 
 fortune. These may receive great elevation from > 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 676 
 
 such a comparison as the unhappy person may 
 make between himself and others, or between the 
 misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfor¬ 
 tunes which might have befallen him. 
 
 I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, 
 upon breaking his leg by a fall from the main¬ 
 mast, told the standers-by, it was a great mercy 
 that it was not his neck. To which, since I am 
 got into quotations, give me leave to add the say¬ 
 ing of an old philosopher, who, after haying in¬ 
 vited some of his friends to dine with him, was 
 ruffled by his wife, that came into the room in a 
 passion, and threw down the table that stood 
 before them:, “Every one,” says he, “has his 
 calamity, and he is a happy man that has no 
 greater than this.” We find an instance to the 
 same purpose in the Life of Doctor Hammond, 
 written by Bishop Fell. As this good man was 
 troubled with a complication of distempers, when 
 he had the gout upon him he used to thank God 
 that it was not the stone; and when he had the 
 stone, that he had not both these distempers on 
 him at the same time. 
 
 I cannot conclude this essay, without observing 
 that there was never any system beside that of 
 Christianity which could effectually produce in 
 the mind of man the virtue I have hitherto been 
 speaking of. In order to make us content with 
 our present condition, many of the ancient phi¬ 
 losophers tell us that our discontent only hurts 
 ourselves, without being able to make any altera¬ 
 tion in our circumstances; others, that whatever 
 evil befalls us is derived to us by fatal_ necessity, 
 to which the gods themselves are subject; while 
 others very gravely tell the man who is miserable, 
 that it is necessary he should be so to keep up the 
 harmony of the universe, and that the scheme of 
 Providence would be troubled and perverted were 
 he otherwise. These, and the like considerations, 
 rather silence than satisfy a man. They may 
 show him that his discontent is unreasonable, but 
 are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They 
 rather give despair than consolation. In a word, 
 a man might reply to one of these comforters, as 
 Augustus did to his friend who advised him not 
 to grieve for the death of a person whom he loved, 
 because his grief could not fetch him again: “It 
 is for that very reason,” said the emperor, “that I 
 grieve.” 
 
 On the contrary, religion bears a more tender 
 regard to human nature. It prescribes to every 
 miserable man the mfeans of bettering his condi¬ 
 tion; nay, it shows him that the bearing of his 
 afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in 
 the removal of them; it makes him easy here, 
 because it can make him happy hereafter. 
 
 Upon the whole, a contented mind is the great¬ 
 est blessing a man can enjoy in this world; and if 
 in the present life his happiness arises from the 
 subduing of his desires, it will arise in the next 
 from the gratification of them. 
 
 No. 575.] MONDAY, AUGUST 2, 1714. 
 
 -Nec morti esse locum- 
 
 Yirg. Georg, iv. 223. 
 
 No room is left for death.—D rtden. 
 
 A lewd young fellow seeing an aged hermit go 
 by him barefoot, “ Father,” says lie, “ you are in 
 a very miserable condition if there is not another 
 world.”—“ True, son,” said the hermit, “but what 
 is thy condition if there is ? ”* Man is a creature 
 
 designed for two different states of being, or 
 rather for two different lives. His first life is 
 short and transient; his second permanent and 
 lasting. The question we are all concerned in 
 is this, in which of these two lives it is our chief 
 interest to make ourselves happy? Or, in other 
 words, whether we should endeavor to secure to 
 ourselves the pleasures and gratifications of a life 
 which is uncertain and precarious, and at its ut¬ 
 most length of a very inconsiderable duration: or 
 to secure to ourselves the pleasures of a life which 
 is fixed and settled, and will never end ? Every 
 man upon the first hearing of this question, knows 
 very well which side of it he ought to close with. 
 But however right we are in theory, it is plain 
 that in practice we adhere to the wrong side of 
 the question. We make provisions for this life 
 as though it were never to have an end, and for 
 the other life as though it were never to have a 
 beginning. 
 
 Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a 
 stranger to human nature, accidentally alight 
 upon the earth, and take a survey of its inhab¬ 
 itants, what would his notions of us be? Would 
 not he think that we were a species of beings 
 made for quite different ends and purposes than 
 what we really are? Must not he imagine that 
 we were placed in this world to get riches and 
 honors? Would not he think that it was our 
 duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title? 
 Nay, would not he believe we were forbidden 
 poverty by threats of eternal punishment, and en¬ 
 joined to pursue our pleasures under pain of dam¬ 
 nation ? He would certainly imagine that we were 
 influenced by a scheme of duties quite opposite to 
 those which are indeed prescribed to us. And 
 truly, according to such an imagination, he must 
 conclude that we are a species of the most obe¬ 
 dient creatures in the universe; that we are con¬ 
 stant to our duty ; and that we keep a steady eye 
 on the end for which we were sent hither. 
 
 But how great would be his astonishment when 
 he learned that we were beings not designed to 
 exist in this world above threescore and ten years, 
 and that the greatest part of this busy species fall 
 short even of that age? How would he be lost in 
 horror and admiration, when he should know that 
 this set of creatures, who lay out all their en¬ 
 deavors for this life, which scarce deserves the 
 name of existence—when, I say, he should know 
 that this set of creatures are to exist to all eter¬ 
 nity in another life, for which they make no 
 preparations? Nothing can be a greater disgrace 
 to reason, than that men, who are persuaded of 
 these two different states of being, should be per¬ 
 petually employed in providing for a life of three¬ 
 score and ten years, and neglecting to make pro¬ 
 vision for that, which after many myriads of years 
 will be still new, and still beginning; especially 
 when we consider that our endeavors for making 
 ourselves great, or rich, or honorable, or whatever 
 else we place our happiness in, may after all prove 
 unsuccessful: whereas, if we constantly and sin¬ 
 cerely endeavor to make ourselves happy in the 
 other life, we are sure that our endeavors will suc¬ 
 ceed, and that we shall not be disappointed of 
 our hope. 
 
 The following question is started by one of the 
 schoolmen: Supposing the whole body of the earth 
 were a great ball or mass of the finest sand, and 
 that a single grain or particle of this sand should 
 be annihilated every thousand years: supposing 
 then that you had it in your choice to be happy 
 all the while this prodigious mass of sand was 
 consuming by this slow method, until there was 
 not a grain of it left, on condition you were to 
 be miserable forever after? Or, supposing that 
 
 * The indicative for the potential mood. 
 
677 
 
 THE SPE 
 
 you might be happy forever after on condition 
 that you would be miserable until the whole mass 
 of sand were thus annihilated at the rate of one 
 sand in a thousand years :—which of these two 
 cases would you make your choice ? 
 
 It must be confessed in this case, so many thou¬ 
 sands of years are to the imagination as a kind 
 of eternity, though in reality they do not bear so 
 great a proportion to that duration which is to 
 follow them as a unit does to the greatest number 
 which you can put together in figures, or as one 
 of those sands to the supposed heap. Reason 
 therefore tells us, without any manner of hesita¬ 
 tion, which would be the better part in this choice. 
 However, as I have before intimated, our reason 
 might in such case be so overset by the imagina¬ 
 tion, as to dispose some persons to sink under 
 the consideration of the great length of the first 
 part of this duration, and of the great distance of 
 that second duration which is to succeed it. The 
 mind, I say, might give itself up to that happi¬ 
 ness which is at hand, considering that it is so 
 veiy near, and that it would last so very long. 
 But when the choice we actually have before us is 
 this, whether we will choose to be happy for the 
 space of only threescore and ten, nay, perhaps of 
 only twenty or ten years, I might say of only a 
 day or an hour, and miserable to all eternity ; or, 
 on the contrary, miserable for this short term of 
 years, and happy for a whole eternity: what 
 words are sufficient to express that folly and want 
 of consideration which m such a case makes a 
 wrong choice ? 
 
 I here put the case even at the worst, by sup¬ 
 posing. what seldom happens, that a course of vir¬ 
 tue makes us miserable in this life : but if we sup¬ 
 pose, as it generally happens, that virtue would 
 make us more happy even in this life than a con¬ 
 trary course of vice, how can we sufficiently ad¬ 
 mire the stupidity or madness of those persons 
 who are capable of making so absurd a choice? 
 
 Every wise man, therefore, will consider this 
 life only as it may conduce to the happiness of 
 the other, and cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of 
 a few years to those of an eternity. 
 
 No. 576.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 4, 1714. 
 
 Nitor in adversum: nec me, qui caetera, vincit 
 Impetus; et rapido contrarius evehor orbi. 
 
 Ovid, Met. ii. 72. 
 
 I steer against their motions, nor am I 
 
 Borne back by all the current of the sky.—A ddison. 
 
 I remember a young man of very lively parts, 
 and of a sprightly turn in conversation, who had 
 only one fault, which was an inordinate desire of 
 appearing fashionable. This ran him into many 
 amours, and consequently into many distempers. 
 He never went to bed until two o’clock in the 
 morning, because he would not be a queer fellow ; 
 and was every now and then knocked down by 
 a constable to signalize his vivacity. He was ini¬ 
 tiated into half a dozen clubs before he was one- 
 and-twenty; and so improved in them his natural 
 gayety of temper, that you might frequently trace 
 him to his lodgings by a range of broken windows, 
 and other the like monuments of wit and gallan¬ 
 try. To be short, after having fully established 
 his reputation of being a very agreeable rake, he 
 died of old age at five-and-twenty. 
 
 There is indeed nothing which betrays a man 
 into so many errors and inconveniences as the de¬ 
 sire of not appearing singular ; for which reason 
 it is very necessary to form a right idea of singu¬ 
 larity, that we may know when it is laudable, and 
 
 3TAT0R. 
 
 when it is vicious. In the first place, eveiy man 
 of sense will agree with me, that singularity is 
 laudable when, in contradiction to a multitude, it 
 adheres to the dictates of conscience, morality, and 
 honor. In these cases we ought to consider that 
 it is not custom, but duty, which is the rule of ac¬ 
 tion ; and that we should be only so far sociable, 
 as we are reasonable creatures. Truth is never¬ 
 theless so far not being attended to : and it is the 
 nature of actions, not the number of actors, by 
 which we ought to regulate our behavior. Singu¬ 
 larity in concerns of this kind is to be looked 
 upon as heroic bravery, in which a man leaves 
 the species only as he soars above it. What greater 
 instance can there be of a weak and pusillanimous 
 temper, than for a man to pass his whole life in 
 opposition to his own sentiments ? or not dare to 
 be what he thinks he ought to be ? 
 
 Singularity, therefore, is only vicious when it 
 makes men act contrary to reason, or when it puts 
 them upon distinguishing themselves by trifles. 
 As for the first of these, who are singular in any¬ 
 thing that is irreligious, immoral, or dishonorable, 
 I believe every one will easily give them up. I 
 shall therefore speak of those only who are re¬ 
 markable for their singularity in things of no im¬ 
 portance ; as in dress, behavior, conversation, and 
 all the little intercourses of life. In these cases 
 there, is a certain deference due to custom ; and 
 notwithstanding there may be a color of reason to 
 deviate from the multitude in some particulars, a 
 man ought to sacrifice his private inclinations and 
 opinions to the practice of the public. It must be 
 confessed that good sense often makes a humorist ; 
 but then it unqualifies him from being of any mo¬ 
 ment in the world, and renders him ridiculous to 
 persons of a much inferior understanding. 
 
 I have heard of a gentleman in the north of 
 England, who was a remarkable instance of this 
 foolish singularity. He had laid it down as a rule 
 within himself, to act in the most indifferent parts 
 of life according to the most abstracted notions of 
 reason and good sense, without any regard to 
 fashion or example. This humor broke out at 
 first in many little oddnesses : he had never any 
 stated hours for his dinner, supper, or sleep ; be¬ 
 cause, said he, we ought to attend the calls of na¬ 
 ture, and not set our appetites to our meals, but 
 bring our meals to our appetites. In his conver¬ 
 sation with country gentlemen he would not make 
 use of a phrase that was not strictly true : he 
 never told any of them that he was his humble 
 servant, but that he was his well-wisher; and' 
 would rather be thought a malcontent than drink 
 the king’s health when he was not dry. He would 
 thrust his head out of his chamber-window every 
 morning, and after having gaped for fresh air 
 about half an hour, repeat fifty verses as loud as 
 he could bawl them, for the benefit of his lungs : 
 to which end he generally took them out of Ho¬ 
 mer—the Greek tongue, especially in that author, 
 being more deep and sonorous, and more condu¬ 
 cive to expectoration than any other. He had 
 many other particularities, for which he gave 
 sound and philosophical reasons. As this humor 
 still grew upon him, he chose to wear a turban in¬ 
 stead of a periwig; concluding very justly that a 
 bandage of clean linen about his head was much 
 more wholesome, as well as cleanly, than the caul 
 of a whig, which is soiled by frequent perspira¬ 
 tions. He afterward judiciously observed, that 
 the many ligatures in our English dress must nat¬ 
 urally check the circulation of the blood; for which 
 reason he made his breeches and his doublet of 
 one continued piece of cloth, after the manner of 
 the hussars. In short, by following the pure dic¬ 
 tates of reason, he at length departed so much 
 
X THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 678 
 
 from the rest of his countrymen, and indeed from 
 his whole species, that his friends would have 
 clapped him into Bedlam, and have begged his 
 estate: but the judge being informed that he did 
 no harm, contented himself with issuing out a 
 commission of lunacy against him, and putting 
 his estate into the hands of proper guardians. 
 
 The fate of this philosopher puts me in mind of 
 a remark in Monsieur Fontenelle’s “Dialogues of 
 the Dead.” “ The ambitious and the covetous,” 
 says he “ are madmen to all intents and purposes 
 as much as those who are shut up in dark rooms ; 
 but they have the good luck to have numbers on 
 their side ; whereas the frenzy of one who is given 
 up for a lunatic is a frenzy hors d’oeuvre that is, 
 in other words, something which is singular in its 
 kind, and does not fall in with the madness of a 
 multitude. 
 
 The subject of this essay was occasioned by a 
 letter which I received not long since, and which, 
 for want of room at present, I shall insert in my 
 next paper. 
 
 Ho. 577.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 6, 1714. 
 
 -Hoc tolerabile, si non 
 
 Et furore incipias- Juv. Sat, vi. 613. 
 
 This might he borne with, if you did not rave. 
 
 The letter mentioned in my last paper is as 
 follows: — 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “You have so lately decried that custom, too 
 much in use among most people, of making them¬ 
 selves the subjects of their writings and conversa¬ 
 tion, that I had some difficulty to persuade myself 
 to give you this trouble, until I had considered 
 that though I should speak in the first person, yet 
 I could not be justly charged with vanity, since I 
 shall not add my name: as also, because what I 
 shall write will not, to say the best, redound to 
 my praise, but is only designed to remove a pre¬ 
 judice conceived against me, as I hope, with very 
 little foundation. My short history is this :— 
 
 “ I have lived for some years last past altogether 
 in London, until about a month ago, an acquaint¬ 
 ance of mine, for whom I have done some small 
 services in town, invited me to pass part of the 
 summer with him at his house in the country. I 
 accepted his invitation, and found a very hearty 
 welcome. My friend, an honest plain man, not 
 being qualified to pass away his time without the 
 reliefs of business, has grafted the farmer upon 
 the gentleman, and brought himself to submit 
 even to the servile parts of that employment, such 
 as inspecting his plow and the like. This ne¬ 
 cessarily takes up some of his hours every day ; 
 and, as I have no relish for such diversions, I 
 used at these times to retire either to my chamber 
 or a shady walk near the house, and entertain my¬ 
 self with some agreeable author. How, you must 
 know, Mr. Spectator, that when I read, especially 
 if it be poetry, it is very usual with me, when I 
 meet with any passage or expression which strikes 
 me much, to pronounce it aloud, with that tone of 
 the voice which I think agreeable to the senti¬ 
 ments there expressed ; and to this I generally 
 add some mhtion or action of the body. It was 
 not long before I was observed by some of the 
 family in one of these heroic fits, who thereupon 
 received impressions very much to my disadvan¬ 
 tage. This, however, I did not soon discover, nor 
 should have done probably, had it not been for 
 the following accident. I had one day shut my¬ 
 self up in my chamber, and was very deeply en¬ 
 
 gaged in the second book of Milton’s Paradise 
 Lost. I walked to and fro with the book in my 
 hand; and, to speak the truth, I fear I made no 
 little noise; when, presently coming to the fol¬ 
 lowing lines :— 
 
 -On a sudden open fly, 
 
 With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, 
 
 Th’ infernal doors, and on their hinges grate 
 Harsh thunder, etc. 
 
 I in great transport threw open the door of my 
 chamber, and found the greatest part of the family 
 standing on the outside in a very great consterna¬ 
 tion. I was in no less confusion, and begged par¬ 
 don for having disturbed them ; addressing my¬ 
 self particularly to comfort one of the children who 
 received an unlucky fall in this action, while he 
 was too intently surveying my meditations through 
 the keyhole. To be short, after this adventure I 
 easily observed that great part of the family^espe- 
 cially the women and children, looked upon me 
 with some apprehensions of fear ; and my friend 
 himself, though he still continued his civilities to 
 me, did not seem altogether easy: I took notice 
 that the butler was never after this accident or¬ 
 dered to leave the bottle upon the table after din¬ 
 ner. Add to this, that I frequently overheard the 
 servants mention me by the name of * the crazed 
 gentleman, the gentleman a little touched, the mad 
 Londoner,’ and the like. This made me think it 
 high time for me to shift my quarters, which I re¬ 
 solved to do the first handsome opportunity ; and 
 was confirmed in this resolution by a young lady 
 in the neighborhood who frequently visited us, 
 and who one day, after having heard all the fine 
 things I was able to say , was pleased with a scorn¬ 
 ful smile to bid me ‘go to sleep.’ 
 
 “ The first minute I got to my lodgings in town, 
 I set pen to paper to desire your opinion, whether, 
 upon the evidence before you, I am mad or not. I 
 can bring certificates that I behave myself soberly 
 before company, and I hope there is at least some 
 merit in withdrawing to be mad. Look you, Sir, 
 I am contented to be esteemed a little touched as 
 they phrase it, but should be sorry to be madder 
 than my neighbors ; therefore, pray let me be as 
 much in my senses as you can afford. I know I 
 could bring yourself as an instance of a man who 
 has confessed talking to himself; but yours is a 
 particular case, and cannot justify me, who have 
 not kept silence any part of my life. What if I 
 should own myself in love? You know lovers 
 
 are always allowed the comfort of soliloquy- 
 
 But I will say no more upon this subject, because 
 I have long since observed the ready way to be 
 thought mad is to contend that you are not so ; 
 as we generally conclude that man drunk who 
 takes pains to be thought sober. I will therefore 
 leave myself to your determination ; but am the 
 more desirous to be thought in my senses, that 
 it may be no discredit to you when I assure you 
 that I have always been very much 
 
 “Your Admirer. 
 
 “ P. S. If I must be mad, I desire the young 
 lady may believe it is for her.” 
 
 “ The humble Petition of John a NoJces and 
 John a Styles, 
 
 “ Showetli, 
 
 “ That your petitioners have had causes de¬ 
 pending in Westminster-hall above five hundred 
 years, and that we despair of ever seeing them 
 brought to an issue ; that your petitioners have 
 not been involved in these lawsuits out of any 
 litigious temper of their own, but by the instiga¬ 
 tion of contentious persons ; that the young laAV- 
 yers in our inns of court are continually setting 
 
THE STECTATOR. 
 
 us together by the ears, and think they do us no 
 hurt, because they plead for us without a fee; that 
 many of the gentlemen of the robe have no other 
 clients in the world beside us two; that when 
 they have nothing else to do, they make us plain¬ 
 tiffs and defendants, though they were never re¬ 
 tained by either of us; that they traduce, con¬ 
 demn, or acquit us, without any manner of regard 
 to our reputations and good names in the world. 
 Your petitioners, therefore, being thereunto en¬ 
 couraged by the favorable reception which you 
 lately gave to our kinsman Blank, do humbly 
 pray that you will put an end to the controversies 
 which have been so long depending between us 
 your said petitioners, and that our enmity may 
 not endure from generation to generation; it being 
 our resolution to live hereafter as it becometh men 
 of peaceable dispositions. 
 
 “And your petitioners, as in duty bound, shall 
 ever pray,” etc. 
 
 Ho. 578.] MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 1714. 
 
 -Eque feris humana in corpora transit. 
 
 Inque feras noster.- Ovid, Met. xv. 167. 
 
 -Th’ unbodied spirit flies— 
 
 And lodges where it lights in man or beast. — Deyden. 
 
 There has been very great reason, on several 
 accounts, for the learned world to endeavor at set¬ 
 tling what it was that might be said to compose 
 personal identity. 
 
 ' Mr. Locke, after having premised that the word 
 erson properly signifies a thinking intelligent 
 eing that has reason and reflection, and can con¬ 
 sider itself as itself, concludes, that it is conscious¬ 
 ness alone, and not an identity of substance, which 
 makes this personal identity of sameness. “ Had 
 I the same consciousness,” says that author, “ that 
 I saw the ark and Noah’s flood, as that I saw an 
 overflowing of the Thames last winter; or as that 
 I now write; I could no more doubt that I who 
 write this now, that saw the Thames overflow last 
 winter, and that viewed the flood at the general 
 deluge, was the same self, place that self in what 
 substance you please, than that I who write this 
 am the same myself now while I write, whether I 
 consist of all the same substance, material or im¬ 
 material, or no, that I was yesterday; for as to this 
 point of being the same self, it matters not whether 
 this present self be made up of the same or other 
 substances.” 
 
 I was mightily pleased with a story in some 
 measure applicable to this piece of philosophy, 
 which I read the other day in the Persian Tales, 
 as they are lately very well translated by Mr. Phil¬ 
 lips; and with an abridgment whereof I shall here 
 present my readers. 
 
 I shall only premise that these stories are writ¬ 
 ten after the eastern manner, but somewhat more 
 correct. 
 
 “Fadlallali, a prince of great virtue, succeeded 
 his father Bin Ortoc in the kingdom of Mousel. 
 He reigned over his faithful subjects for some time, 
 and lived in great happiness with his beauteous 
 consort Queen Zemroude, when there appeared at 
 his court a young dervise of so lively and entertain¬ 
 ing a turn of wit, as won upon the affections of 
 every one he conversed with. His reputation grew 
 so fast every day, that it at last raised a curiosity 
 in the prince himself to see and talk with him. 
 He did so; and, far from finding that common fame 
 had flattered him, he was soon convinced that 
 everything he had heard of him fell short of the 
 truth 
 
 “ Fadlallah immediately lost all manner of relish 
 
 679 
 
 for the conversation of other men; and, as he was 
 every day more and more satisfied of the abilities 
 of this stranger, offered him the first posts in his 
 kingdom. The young dervise, after having thanked 
 him with a very singular modesty, desired to be 
 excused, as having made a vow never to accept of 
 any employment, and preferring a free and inde¬ 
 pendent state of life to all other conditions. 
 
 “ The king was infinitely charmed with so great 
 an example of moderation; and though he could 
 not get him to engage in a life of business, made 
 him however his chief companion and first fa¬ 
 vorite. 
 
 “As they were one day hunting together and 
 happened to be separated from the rest of the com¬ 
 pany, the dervise entertained Fadlallah with an 
 account of his travels and adventures. After hav¬ 
 ing related to him several curiosities which he had 
 seen in the Indies, ‘It was in this place,’ says he, 
 ‘ that I contracted an acquaintance with an old 
 brachman, who was skilled in the most hidden 
 powers of nature; he died within my arms, and 
 with his parting breath communicated to me one 
 of the most valuable of his secrets, on condition I 
 should never reveal it to any man.’ The king im¬ 
 mediately, reflecting on his young favorite’s hav¬ 
 ing refused the late offers of greatness he had 
 made him, told him he presumed it was the power 
 of making gold. ‘No, Sir,’ says the dervise, ‘it 
 is somewhat more wonderful than that; it is the 
 power of reanimating a dead body, by flinging 
 my own soul into it.’, 
 
 “While he was yet speaking, a doe came bound¬ 
 ing by them, and the king, who had his bow ready, 
 shot her through the heart; telling the dervise, that 
 a fair opportunity now offered for him to show his 
 art. The young man immediately left his own 
 body breathless on the ground, while at the same 
 instant that of the doe was reanimated. She came 
 to the king, fawned upon him, and, after having- 
 played several wanton tricks fell again upon the 
 grass; at the same instant the body of the dervise 
 recovered its life. The king was infinitely pleased 
 at so uncommon an operation, and conjured his 
 friend by everything that was sacred to communi¬ 
 cate it to him. The dervise at first made some 
 scruple of violating his promise to the dying 
 brachman; but told him at last that he found he 
 could conceal nothing from so excellent a prince; 
 after having obliged him therefore by an oath to 
 secrecy, he taught him to repeat two cabalistic 
 words, in pronouncing of which the whole secret 
 consisted. The king, impatient to try the experi¬ 
 ment, immediately repeated them as he had been 
 taught, and in an instant found himself in the 
 body of the doe. He had but little time to con¬ 
 template himself in this new being; for the treach¬ 
 erous dervise, shooting his own soul into the royal 
 corpse, and bending the prince’s own bow against 
 him, had laid him dead on the spot, had not the 
 king, who perceived his intent, fled swiftly to the 
 woods. 
 
 “ The dervise, now triumphant in his villany, 
 returned to Mousel, and filled the throne and bed 
 of the unhappy Fadlallah. 
 
 “ The first thing he took care of, in order to se¬ 
 cure himself in the possession of his new-acquired 
 kingdom, was to issue out a proclamation, order¬ 
 ing his subjects to destroy all the deer in the realm. 
 The king had perished among the rest, had he not 
 avoided his pursuers by reanimating the body of 
 a nightingale, which he saw lie dead at the foot of 
 a tree. In this new shape he winged his way in 
 safety to the palace; where, perching on a tree 
 which stood near his queen’s apartment, he filled 
 the whole place with so many melodious and mel¬ 
 ancholy notes as drew her to the window. He had 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 030 
 
 the mortification to see that, instead of being 
 pitied, he only moved the mirth of his princess, 
 and of a young female slave 'who was with her. 
 He continued however to serenade her every morn¬ 
 ing, until at last the queen, charmed with liis har¬ 
 mony, sent for the bird-catchers, and ordered them 
 to employ their utmost skill to put that little 
 creature into her possession. The king, pleased 
 with an opportunity of being once more near his 
 beloved consort, easily suffered himself to be taken; 
 and when he was presented to her, though he 
 showed a fearfulness to be touched by any of the 
 other ladies, flew of his own accord and hid him¬ 
 self in the queen’s bosom. Zemroude was highly 
 pleased at the unexpected fondness of her new 
 favorite, and ordered him to be kept in an open 
 cage in her own apartment. He had there an op¬ 
 portunity of making his court to her every morn¬ 
 ing, by a thousand little actions, which his shape 
 allowed him. The queen passed away whole hours 
 every day in hearing and playing with him. Fad- 
 lallah could even have thought himself happy in 
 this state of life, had he not frequently endured 
 the inexpressible torment of seeing the dervise 
 enter the apartment and caress his queen even in 
 his presence. 
 
 “The usurper, amidst his toying with the prin¬ 
 cess, would often endeavor to ingratiate himself 
 with her nightingale : and while the enraged Fad- 
 lallah pecked at him with his bill, beat his wings, 
 and showed all the marks of an impotent rage, it 
 only afforded his rival and the queen new matter 
 for their diversion. 
 
 “Zemroude was likewise fond of a little lapdog 
 which she kept in her apartment, and which one 
 night happened to die. 
 
 “The king immediately found himself inclined 
 to quit the shape of a nightingale, and enliven 
 this new body. He did so, and the next morning 
 Zemroude saw her favorite bird lie dead in the 
 cage. It is impossible to express her grief on this 
 occasion; and when she called to mind all its 
 little actions, which even appeared to have some¬ 
 what in them like reason, she was inconsolable 
 for her loss. 
 
 “ Her women immediately sent for the dervise 
 to come and comfort her; who, after having in vain 
 represented to her the weakness of being grieved 
 at such an accident, touched at last by her repeated 
 complaints, ‘Well, Madam,’ says he, ‘I will exert 
 the utmost of my art to please you. Your night¬ 
 ingale shall again revive every morning, and sere¬ 
 nade you as before.’ The queen beheld him with 
 a look which easily showed she did not believe 
 him, when, laying himself down on a sofa, he 
 shot his soul into the nightingale, and Zemroude 
 was amazed to see her bird revive. 
 
 “ The king, who was a spectator of all that 
 passed, lying under the shape of a lapdog in one 
 corner of the room, immediately recovered his own 
 body, and, running to the cage, with the utmost 
 indignation, twisted off the neck of the false 
 nightingale. 
 
 “Zemroude was more than ever amazed and 
 concerned at this second accident, until the king, 
 entreating her to hear him, related to her his whole 
 adventure. 
 
 “ The body of the dervise which was found dead 
 in the wood, and his edict for killing all the deer, 
 left her no room to doubt the truth of it; but the 
 story adds, that out of an extreme delicacy, pecu¬ 
 liar to the oriental ladies, she was so highly 
 afflicted at the innocent adultery in which she had 
 for some time lived with the dervise, that no argu¬ 
 ments, even from Fadlallah himself, could compose 
 her mind. She shortly after died with grief, beg¬ 
 ging his pardon with her latest breath for what 
 
 the most rigid justice could not have interpreted 
 as a crime. 
 
 “ The king was so afflicted with her death, that 
 he left his kingdom to one of his nearest relations, 
 and passed the rest of his days in solitude and 
 retirement.” 
 
 No. 579.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 11,1714. 
 
 -Odora canum vis.—Vmo. 2En. iv. 132. 
 
 Sagacious hounds, 
 
 In the reign of King Charles the First, the Com¬ 
 pany of Stationers, into whose hands the printing 
 of the Bible is committed by patent, made a very 
 remarkable erratum or blunder in one of their edi¬ 
 tions : for instead of “ Thou shalt not commit 
 adultery,” they printed off several thousands of 
 copies with, “Thou shalt commit adultery.” 
 Archbishop Laud, to punish this negligence, laid 
 a considerable fine upon that company in the star- 
 chamber. 
 
 By the practice of the world, which prevails in 
 this degenerate age, I am afraid that very many 
 young profligates of both sexes are possessed of 
 this spurious edition of the Bible, and observe the 
 commandment according to that faulty reading. 
 
 Adulterers in the first ages of the Church were 
 excommunicated forever, and unqualified all their 
 lives from bearing a part in Christian assemblies, 
 notwithstanding they might seek it with tears, 
 and all the appearances of the most unfeigned re¬ 
 pentance. 
 
 I might here mention some ancient laws among 
 the heathens, which punished this crime with 
 death; and others of the same kind, which are 
 now in force among several governments that have 
 embraced the reformed religion. But, because a 
 subject of this nature may be too serious for my 
 ordinary readers, who are very apt to throw by 
 my papers when they are not enlivened with some¬ 
 thing that is diverting or uncommon, I shall here 
 publish the contents of a little manuscript lately 
 fallen into my hands, and which pretends to great 
 antiquity; though by reason of some modem 
 phrases, and other particulars in it, I can by no 
 means allow it to be genuine, but rather the pro¬ 
 duction of a modern sophist. 
 
 It is well known by the learned, that there was 
 a temple upon mount JEtna dedicated to Vulcan, 
 which was guarded by dogs of so exquisite a smell, 
 say the historians, that they could discern whether 
 the persons who came thither were chaste or oth¬ 
 erwise. They used to meet and fawn upon such 
 as were chaste, caressing them as the friends of 
 their master Vulcan; but flew at those who were 
 polluted, and never ceased barking at them till 
 they had driven them from the temple. 
 
 My manuscript gives the following account of 
 these dogs, and was probably designed as a com¬ 
 ment upon this story :— 
 
 “ These dogs were given to Vulcan by his sister 
 Diana, the goddess of hunting and of chastity, 
 having bred them out of some of her hounds, in 
 which she had observed this natural instinct and 
 sagacity. It was thought she did it in spite to 
 Venus, who, upon her return home, always found 
 her husband in a good or bad humor, according 
 to the reception which she met with from his dogs. 
 They lived in the temple several years, but were 
 such snappish curs, that they frightened away most 
 of the votaries. The women of Sicily made a 
 solemn deputation to the priest, by which they 
 acquainted him, that they would not come up to 
 the temple with their annual offerings unless he 
 muzzled his mastiffs; and at last compromised the 
 matter with him, that the offering should always 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 be brought by a chorus of young girls, who were 
 none of them above seven years old. It was won¬ 
 derful, says the author, to see how different the 
 treatment was which the dogs gave to these little 
 misses, from that which they had shown to their 
 mothers. It is said that the prince of Syracuse, 
 having married a young lady, and being naturally 
 of a jealous temper, made such an interest with the 
 
 f iriests of this temple, that he procured a whelp 
 rom them of this famous breed. The young 
 puppy was very troublesome to the fair lady at 
 first, insomuch that she solicited her husband to 
 send him away; but the good man cut her short 
 with the old Sicilian proverb, “Love me, love my 
 dog;’ from which time she lived very peaceably 
 with both of them. The ladies of Syracuse were 
 very much annoyed with him, and several of very 
 good reputation refused to come to court until he 
 was discarded. There were indeed some of them 
 that defied his sagacity; but it was observed, 
 though he did not actually bite them, he would 
 growl at them most confoundedly. To return to 
 the dogs of the temple; after they had lived here 
 in great repute for several years, it so happened, 
 that as one of the priests, who had been making a 
 charitable visit to a widow who lived on the pro¬ 
 montory of Lilybeum, returned home pretty late 
 in the evening, the dogs flew at him with so much 
 fury, that they would have worried him if his 
 brethren had not come to his assistance; upon 
 which, says my author, the dogs were all of them 
 hanged, as having lost their original instinct.” 
 
 I cannot conclude this paper without wishing 
 that we had some of this breed of dogs in Great 
 Britain, which would certainly do justice, I should 
 say honor, to the ladies of our country, and show 
 the world the difference between pagan women 
 and those who are instructed in sounder princi¬ 
 ples of virtue and religion. 
 
 Ho. 580.J FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 1714. 
 
 -Si verbis audacia detur, 
 
 Haud timeam magni dixisse palatia coeli. 
 
 Ovid, Met. i. 175. 
 
 This place, the brightest mansion of the sky, 
 
 I’ll call the palace ot the Deity.— Dryden. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I considered in my two last letters that awful 
 and tremendous subject, the ubiquity or omnipre¬ 
 sence of the Divine Being. I have shown that he 
 is equally present in all places throughout the 
 whole extent of infinite space. This doctrine is 
 so agreeable to reason, that we meet with it in the 
 writings of the enlightened heathens, as I might 
 show at large, were it not already done by other 
 hands. But though the Deity be thus essentially 
 present through all the immensity of space, there is 
 one part of it in which he discovers himself in a 
 most transcendent and visible glory ; this is that 
 place which is marked out in Scripture under the 
 different appellations of ‘paradise, the third heaven, 
 the throne of God, and the habitation of his glory.’ 
 It is here where the glorified body of our Savior 
 resides, and where all the celestial hierarchies, and 
 the innumerable hosts of angels, are represented 
 as perpetually surrounding the seat of God with 
 hallelujahs and hymns of praise. This is that 
 presence of God which some of the divines call his 
 glorious, and others his majestic presence. He is 
 indeed as essentially present in all other places as 
 in this ; but it is here where He resides in a sensi¬ 
 ble magnificence, and in the midst of all those 
 splendors which can affect the imagination of 
 created beings. 
 
 681 
 
 “It is very remarkable that this opinion of God 
 Almighty’s presence in heaven, whether discover¬ 
 ed by the light of nature, or by a general tradition 
 from our first parents, prevails among all the 
 nations of the world, whatsoever different notions 
 they entertain of the Godhead. If you look into 
 Homer, that is, the most ancient of the Greek 
 writers, you see the supreme power seated in the 
 heavens, and encompassed with inferior deities, 
 among whom the Muses are represented as sing¬ 
 ing incessantly about his throne. Who does not 
 here see thy main strokes and outlines of this 
 great truth we are speaking of? The same doc¬ 
 trine is shadowed out in many other heathen 
 authors, though at the same time, like several 
 other revealed truths, dashed and adulterated 
 with a mixture of fables and human inventions.— 
 But to pass over the notions of the Greeks and 
 Romans, those more enlightened parts of the 
 pagan world, we find there is scarce a people 
 among the late discovered nations who are not 
 trained up in an opinion that heaven is the habi¬ 
 tation of the divinity whom they worship. 
 
 “As in Solomon’s temple there was the Sanctum 
 Sanctorum, in which a visible glory appeared 
 among the figures of the cherubim, and into which 
 none but the high-priest himself was permitted to 
 enter, after having made an atonement for the sins 
 of the people: so if we consider the whole crea¬ 
 tion as one great temple, there is in it this Holy 
 of Holies, into which the High-priest of our sal¬ 
 vation entered, and took his place among angels 
 and archangels, after having made a propitiation 
 for the sins of mankind. 
 
 “With how much skill must the throne of God 
 be erected! With what glorious designs is that 
 habitation beautified, which is contrived and built 
 by Him who inspired Hiram with wisdom! How 
 great must be the majesty of that place, where the 
 whole art of creation has been employed, and 
 where God has chosen to show himself in the 
 most magnificent manner? What must be the 
 architecture of infinite power under the direction 
 of infinite wisdom ? A spirit cannot but be trans¬ 
 ported after an ineffable manner, with the sight of 
 those objects, which were made to affect him by 
 that Being who knows the inward frame of a soul, 
 and how to please and ravish it in all its most 
 secret powers and faculties. It is to this majestic 
 presence of God we may apply those beautiful ex¬ 
 pressions in holy writ: ‘Behold even to the moon, 
 and it shineth not: yea the stars are not pure in 
 his sight.’ The light of the sun, and all the 
 glories of the world in which we live, are but as 
 weak and sickly glimmerings, or rather darkness 
 itself, in comparison of those splendors which en¬ 
 compass the throne of God. 
 
 “As the glory of this place is transcendent be¬ 
 yond imagination, so probably is the extent of it. 
 There is light behind light, and glory within glory. 
 How far that space may reach, in which' God thus 
 appears in perfect majesty, we cannot possibly 
 conceive. Though it is not infinite, it may be in¬ 
 definite; and, though not immeasurable in itself, 
 it may be so with regard to any created eye or 
 imagination. If he has made these lower regions 
 of matter so inconceivably wide and magnificent 
 for the habitation'of mortal and perishable beings, 
 how great may we suppose the courts of his house 
 to be, where he makes his residence in a more 
 especial manner, and displays himself in the full¬ 
 ness of his glory, among an innumerable com¬ 
 pany of angels and spirits of just men made per¬ 
 fect ? 
 
 “ This is certain, that our imaginations cannot 
 be raised too high when we think on a place where 
 omnipotence and omniscience have so signally 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 682 
 
 exerted themselves, because that they are able to 
 produce a scene infinitely more great and glorious 
 than what we are able to imagine. It is not im¬ 
 possible but at the consummation of all things 
 these outward apartments of nature, which are now 
 suited to those beings who inhabit them, may be 
 taken in and added to that glorious place of which 
 I am here speaking, and by that means made a 
 proper habitation for beings who are exempt from 
 mortality, and cleared of their imperfections : for 
 so the Scripture seems to intimate when it speaks 
 of ‘new heavens and of a new earth, wherein 
 dwelleth righteousness.’ 
 
 “I have only considered this glorious place 
 with regard to the sight and imagination ; though 
 it is highly probable that our other senses may 
 here likewise enjoy their highest gratifications. 
 There is nothing which more ravishes and trans¬ 
 ports the soul than harmony; and we have great 
 reason to believe, from the description of this 
 place in Holy Scripture, that this is one of the 
 entertainments of it. And if the soul of man can 
 be so wonderfully affected with those strains of 
 music which human art is capable of producing, 
 how much more will it be raised and elevated by 
 those in which is exerted the whole power of 
 harmony! The senses are faculties of the human 
 soul, though they cannot be employed, during this 
 our vital union, without proper instruments in the 
 body. Why, therefore, should we exclude the 
 satisfaction of these faculties, which we find by 
 experience are inlets of great pleasure to the soul, 
 from among those entertainments which are to 
 make up our happiness hereafter ? Why should 
 we suppose that our hearing and seeing will not 
 be gratified with those objects which are most 
 agreeable to them, and which they cannot meet 
 with in these lower regions of nature: objects, 
 ‘ which neither eye hath seen, nor ear heard, nor 
 can it enter into the heart of man to conceive ? I 
 knew a man in Christ (says St. Paul, speaking of 
 himself) above fourteen years ago (whether in the 
 body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I 
 cannot tell; God knoweth), such a one caught up 
 to the third heaven. And I knew such a man 
 (whether in the body or out of the body, I can¬ 
 not tell, God knoweth), how that he was caught 
 up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, 
 which it is not possible for man to utter.’ By 
 this is meant, that what he heard is so infinitely 
 different from anything which he had heard in 
 this world, that it was impossible to express it in 
 such words as might convey a notion of it to his 
 hearers. 
 
 “ It is very natural for us to take delight in in¬ 
 quiries concerning any foreign country, where we 
 are sometime or other to make our abode; and as 
 we. all hope to be admitted into this glorious place, 
 it is both a laudable and useful curiosity to get 
 what informations we can of it, while we make 
 use of revelatiofi for our guide. When these ever¬ 
 lasting doors shall be opened to us, we may be 
 sure that the pleasures and beauties of this place 
 will infinitely transcend our present hopes and 
 expectations, and that the glorious appearance of 
 the throne of God will rise infinitely beyond what¬ 
 ever we are able to conceive of it. IVe might here 
 entertain ourselves with many other speculations on 
 this subject, from those several hints which we find 
 of it in the holy scriptures; as, whether there may 
 not be different mansions and apartments of glory 
 to beings of different natures; whether, as they 
 excel one another in perfection, they are not ad¬ 
 mitted nearer to the throne of the Almighty, and 
 enjoy greater manifestations of his ^presence; 
 whether there are not solemn times and occasions, 
 when all the multitude of heaven celebrate the 
 
 presence of their Maker in more extraordinary 
 forms of praise and adoration; as Adam, though 
 he had continued in a state of innocence, would, 
 in the opinion of our divines, have kept holy the 
 Sabbath-day in a more particular manner than any 
 other of the seven. These, and the like specula¬ 
 tions, we may very innocently indulge, so long as 
 we make use of them to inspire us with a desire 
 of becoming inhabitants of this delightful place. 
 
 “I have in this, and in two foregoing letters, 
 treated on the most serious subject that can em¬ 
 ploy the mind of man—the omnipresence of the 
 Deity; a subject which, if possible, should never 
 depart from our meditations. We have considered 
 the Divine Being, as he inhabits infinitude, as he 
 dwells among his works, as he is present to the 
 mind of man, and as he discovers himself in a 
 more glorious manner among the regions of the 
 blest. Such a consideration should be kept awake 
 in us at all times, and in all places, and possess 
 our minds with a perpetual awe and reverence. 
 It should be interwoven with all our thoughts and 
 perceptions, and become one with the conscious¬ 
 ness of our own being. It is not to be reflected 
 on in the coldness of philosophy, but ought to 
 sink us into the lowest prostration before Him 
 who is so astonishingly wonderful and holy.” 
 
 Ho. 581.] MONDAY, AUGUST 16, 1714. 
 
 Sunt bona, sunt quasdam mediocria, sunt mala plura, 
 
 Quae legis- Mart. Epig. i. 17. 
 
 Some good, more bad, some neither one nor t’other. 
 
 I am at present sitting with a heap of letters be¬ 
 fore me, which I have received under the charac¬ 
 ter of Spectator. I have complaints from lovers, 
 schemes from projectors, scandal from ladies, con¬ 
 gratulations, compliments, and advice, in abun¬ 
 dance. 
 
 I have not been thus long an author, to be in¬ 
 sensible of the natural fondness every person must 
 have for their own productions ; and I begin to 
 think I have treated my correspondents a little too 
 uncivilly in stringing them all together on a file, 
 and letting them lie so long unregarded. I shall 
 therefore, for the future, think myself at least 
 obliged to take some notice of such letters as I re¬ 
 ceive, and may possibly do it at the end of every 
 month. 
 
 In the meantime I intend my present paper as a 
 short answer to most of those which have been 
 already sent me. 
 
 The public, however, are not to expect I should 
 let them into all my secrets; and, though I appear 
 abstruse to most people, it is sufficient if I am 
 understood by my particular correspondents. 
 
 My well-wisher. Van Nath, is very arch, but 
 not quite enough so to appear in print. 
 
 Philadelphus will, in a little time, see his query 
 fully answered by a treatise which is now in the 
 press. 
 
 It was very improper at that time to comply 
 with Mr. G. V J 
 
 Miss Kitty must excuse me. 
 
 The gentleman who sent me a copy of verses 
 on his mistress’s dancing, is, I believe, too 
 thoroughly in love to compose correctly. 
 
 I have too great a respect for both the universi¬ 
 ties, to praise one at the expense of the other. 
 
 Tom Nimble is a very honest fellow, and I de¬ 
 sire him to present my humble service to his 
 cousin Fill Bumper. 
 
 I am obliged for the letter upon prejudice. 
 
 I may in due time^animadvert on the case of 
 Grace Grumble. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 The petition of P. S. granted. 
 
 That of Sarah Loveit refused. 
 
 The papers of A. S. are returned. 
 
 I thank Aristippus for his kind invitation. 
 
 My friend at Woodstock is a bold man to under¬ 
 take for all within ten miles of him. 
 
 I am afraid the entertainment of Tom Turnover 
 will hardly be relished by the good cities of Lon¬ 
 don and Westminster. 
 
 I must consider further of it, before I indulge 
 W. F. in those freedoms he takes with the ladies’ 
 stockings. 
 
 I am obliged to the ingenious gentleman who 
 sent me an ode on the subject of a late Spectator, 
 and shall take particular notice of his last letter. 
 
 When the lady who wrote me a letter dated July 
 the 20tli, in relation to some passages in a Lover, 
 will be more particular in her directions, I shall be 
 so in my answer. 
 
 The poor gentleman who fancies my writings 
 could reclaim a husband, who can abuse such a 
 wife as he describes, has, I am afraid, too great an 
 opinion of my skill. 
 
 Philanthropos is, I dare say, a very well-mean¬ 
 ing man, but is a little too prolix in liis composi¬ 
 tions. 
 
 Constantius himself must be the best judge in 
 the affair he mentions. 
 
 The letter dated from Lincoln is received. 
 
 Arethusa and her friend may hear further from me. 
 
 Celia is a little too hasty. 
 
 Harriet is a good girl, but must not courtesy to 
 folks she does not know. 
 
 I must ingenuously confess my friend Samson 
 Benstaff has quite puzzled me, and written me a 
 long letter which I cannot comprehend one word of. 
 
 Collidan must also explain what he means by 
 his “drigelling.” 
 
 I think it beneath my spectatorial dignity to 
 concern myself in the affair of the boiled dump- 
 ling. 
 
 I shall consult some literati on the project sent 
 me for the discovery of the longitude. 
 
 I know not how to conclude this paper better 
 than by inserting a couple of letters which are 
 really genuine, and which I look upon to be two 
 of the smartest pieces I have .received from my 
 correspondents of either sex: 
 
 “Brother Spec., 
 
 “While you are surveying every object that falls 
 in your way, I am wholly taken up with one. 
 Had that sage who demanded what beauty was, 
 lived to see the dear angel I love, he would not 
 have asked such a question. Had another seen her, 
 he would himself have loved the person in whom 
 Heaven has made virtue visible; and, were you 
 yourself to be in her company, you could never, 
 with all your loquacity, say enough of her good- 
 humor and sense. I send you the outlines of a 
 picture, which I can no more finish, than I can 
 sufficiently admire the dear original. I am, your 
 most affectionate Brother, 
 
 “ Constantio Spec.” 
 
 “ Good Mr. Pert, 
 
 “I will allow you nothing until you resolve me 
 the following question. Pray what is the reason 
 that, while you only talk now upon Wednesdays, 
 Fridays, and Mondays, you pretend to be a greater 
 tatler than when you spoke every day, as you for¬ 
 merly used to do ? If this be your plunging out 
 of your taciturnity, pray let the length of your 
 speeches compensate for the scarceness of them. 
 I am, good Mr. Pert, “Your Admirer, 
 
 “ If you will be long enough for me, 
 
 “Amanda Lovelength.” 
 
 CTATOR. 683 
 
 No. 582.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 18, 1714. 
 
 -Tenet insanabile multos 
 
 Scribendi cacoethes- Juv. Sat vii. 51. 
 
 The curse of writing is an endless itch.—C h. Dryden. 
 
 There is a certain distemper, which is mentioned 
 neither by Galen nor Hippocrates, nor to be met 
 with in tne London Dispensary. Juvenal, in the 
 motto of my paper, terms it a cacoethes; which is 
 a hard word for a disease called in plain English, 
 “the itch of writing.” This cacoethes is as epi¬ 
 demical as the small-pox, there being very few who 
 are not seized with it some time or other in their 
 lives. There is, however, this difference in these 
 two distempers, that the first, after having indis¬ 
 posed you for a time, never returns again; whereas 
 this I am speaking of, when it is once got into'the 
 blood, seldom comes out of it. The British nation 
 is very much afflicted with this malady, and though 
 very many remedies have been applied to persons 
 infected with it, few of them have ever proved 
 successful. Some have been cauterized with sat¬ 
 ires and lampoons, but have received little or no 
 benefit from them; others have had their heads 
 fastened for an hour together between a cleft board, 
 which is made use of as a cure for the disease 
 when it appears in its greatest malignity* There 
 is, jndeed, one kind of this malady which has 
 been sometimes removed, like the biting of the 
 tarantula, with the sound of a musical instrument, 
 which is commonly known by the name of a cat¬ 
 call. But if you have a patient of this kind under 
 your care, you may assure yourself there is no 
 other way of recovering him effectually, but by 
 forbidding him the use of pen, ink, and paper. 
 
 But, to drop the allegory before I have tried it 
 out, there is no species of scribblers more offen¬ 
 sive, and more incurable, than your periodical 
 writers, whose words return upon the public on 
 certain days, and at stated times. We have not 
 the consolation in the perusal of these authors 
 wfflich we find at the reading of all others, namely: 
 that we are sure, if we have but patience, we may 
 come to the end of their labors. I have often ad¬ 
 mired a humorous saying of Diogenes, who read¬ 
 ing a dull author to several of his friends, when 
 every one began to be tired, finding that he was 
 almost come to a blank leaf at the end of it, he 
 cried, “ Courage, lads, I see land.” On the con¬ 
 trary, our progress through that kind of writers I 
 am now speaking of is never at an end. One day 
 makes work for another—we do not know when to 
 promise ourselves rest. 
 
 It is a melancholy thing to consider that the art 
 of printing, which might be the greatest blessing 
 to mankind, should prove detrimental to us, ana 
 that it should be made use of to scatter prejudice 
 and ignorance, through a people, instead of con¬ 
 veying to them truth and knowledge. 
 
 I was lately reading a very whimsical treatise, 
 entitled William Ramsey’s Vindication of Astro¬ 
 logy. This profound author, among many mysti¬ 
 cal passages, has the following one: “ The absence 
 of the sun is not the cause of night, forasmuch as 
 his light is so great that it may illuminate the earth 
 all over at once, as clear as broad day; but there 
 are tenebrificous and dark stars, by whose influ¬ 
 ence night is brought on, and which do ray out 
 darkness and obscurity upon the earth as the sun 
 does light.” 
 
 I consider writers in the same view this sage 
 astrologer does the heavenly bodies. Some of 
 them are stars that scatter light as others do dark¬ 
 ness. I could mention several authors who are 
 tenebrificous stars of the first magnitude, and 
 
 * Put in the pillory. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 684 
 
 point out a knot of gentlemen, who have been dull 
 in concert, and may be looked upon as a dark 
 constellation. The nation has been a great while 
 benighted with several of these antiluminaries. I 
 suffered them to ray out their darkness as long as 
 I was able to endure it, till at length I came to a 
 resolution of rising upon them, and hope in a 
 little time to drive them quite out of the British 
 hemisphere. 
 
 No. 583.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 20, 1714. 
 
 Ipse thymum pinosque ferens de montibus altis, 
 
 Tecta serat late circum, cui talia curee; 
 
 Ipse abore manum duro terat; ipse feraces 
 Figat humo plantas, et amicos irriget imbres. 
 
 Vxeg. Georg, iv. 112. 
 
 With his own hand the guardian of the bees 
 For slips of pines may search the mountain trees, 
 
 And with wild thyme and sav’ry plant the plain, 
 
 Till his hard horny fingers ache with pain; 
 
 And deck with fruitful trees the fields around, 
 
 And with refreshing waters drench the ground.— Dryden. 
 
 Every station of life has duties which are proper 
 to it. Those who are determined by choice to any 
 particular kind of business, are indeed more happy 
 than those who are determined by necessity; but 
 both are under an equal obligation of fixing on 
 employments, which may be either useful to them¬ 
 selves, or beneficial to others; no one of the sons 
 of Adam ought to think himself exempt from that 
 labor and industry which were denounced to our 
 first parent, and in him to all his posterity. Those 
 to whom birth or fortune may seem to make such 
 an application unnecessary, ought to find out some 
 calling or profession for themselves, that they may 
 not lie as a burden on the species, and be the only 
 useless parts of creation. 
 
 Many of our country gentlemen in their busy 
 hours apply themselves wholly to the chase, or to 
 some other diversion which they find in the fields 
 and woods. This gave occasion to one of our 
 most eminent English writers to represent every 
 one of them as lying under a kind of curse pro¬ 
 nounced to them in the words of Goliah, “ I will 
 give thee to the fowls of the air and to the beasts 
 of the field.” 
 
 Though exercises of this kind, when indulged 
 with moderation, may have a good influence both 
 on the mind and body, the country affords many 
 other amusements of a more noble kind. 
 
 Among these I know none more delightful in 
 itself, and beneficial to the public, than that of 
 planting. I could mention a nobleman whose for¬ 
 tune has placed him in several parts of England, 
 and who has always left these visible marks be¬ 
 hind him, which show he has been there; he never 
 hired a house in his life, without leaving all about 
 it the seeds of wealth, and bestowing legacies on 
 the posterity of the owner. Had all the gentlemen 
 of England made the same improvements upon 
 their estates, our whole country would have been 
 at this time as one great garden. Nor ought such 
 an employment to be looked upon as too inglorious 
 for men of the highest rank. There have been 
 heroes in this art, as well as in others. We are 
 told in particular of Cyrus the Great, that he planted 
 all the Lesser Asia. There is indeed something 
 truly magnificent in this kind of amusement; it 
 gives a nobler air to several parts of nature; it 
 fills the earth with a variety of beautiful scenes, 
 and has something in it like creation. For this 
 reason, the pleasure of one who plants is something 
 like that of a poet, who, as Aristotle observes, is 
 more delighted with his productions than any other 
 writer or artist whatsoever. 
 
 Plantations have one advantage in them which 
 is not to be found in most other works, as they 
 give a pleasure of a more lasting date, and contin¬ 
 ually improve in the eye of the planter. When 
 you have finished a building, or any other under¬ 
 taking of the like nature, it immediately decays 
 upon your hands; you see it brought to its utmost 
 point of perfection, and from that time hastening 
 to its ruin. On the contrary, when you have fin¬ 
 ished your plantations, they are still arriving at 
 greater degrees of perfection as long as you live, 
 and appear more delightful in eveiy succeeding 
 year than they did in the foregoing. 
 
 But I do not only recommend this art to men of 
 estates as a pleasing amusement, but as it is a kind 
 of virtuous employment, and may therefore be in¬ 
 culcated by moral motives; particularly from the 
 love which we ought to have for our country, and 
 the regard which we ought to bear to our posterity. 
 As for the first, I need only mention what is fre¬ 
 quently observed by others, that the’increase of 
 forest trees does by no means bear a proportion to 
 the destruction of them, insomuch that in a few 
 ages the nation may be at a loss to supply itself 
 with timber sufficient for the fleets of England. I 
 know when a man talks of posterity in matters of 
 this nature, he is looked upon with an eye of ridi¬ 
 cule by the cunning and selfish part of mankind. 
 Most people are of the humor of an old fellow of 
 a college, who, when he was pressed by the society 
 to come into something that might redound to the 
 good of their successors, grew very peevish: “We 
 are always doing,” says he, “ something for pos¬ 
 terity, but I would fain see posterity do something 
 for us.” 
 
 But I think men are inexcusable, who fail in a 
 duty of this nature, since it is so easily discharged. 
 When a man considers that the putting of a few 
 twigs into the ground is doing good to one who 
 will make his appearance in the world about fifty 
 years hence, or that he is perhaps making one of 
 his own descendants easy or rich, by so inconsid¬ 
 erable an expense, if he finds himself averse to it, 
 he must conclude that he has a poor and base 
 heart, void of all generous principles and love to 
 mankind. 
 
 There is one consideration which may very much 
 enforce what I have here said. Many honest 
 minds, that are naturally disposed to do good in 
 the world, and become beneficial to mankind, 
 complain within themselves that they have not tal¬ 
 ents for it. This, therefore, is a good office, which 
 is suited to the meanest capacities, and which may 
 be performed by multitudes, who have not abilities 
 sufficient to deserve well of their country, and to 
 recommend themselves to their posterity, by any 
 other method. It is the phrase of a friend of mine, 
 when any useful country neighbor dies, that “you 
 may trace him;” which I look upon as a good 
 funeral oration, at the death of an honest husband¬ 
 man, who hath left the impressions of his industry 
 behind him in the place where he has lived. 
 
 Upon the foregoing considerations, I can scarcely 
 forbear representing the subject of this paper as a 
 kind of moral virtue; which, as I have already 
 shown, recommends itself likewise by the pleasure 
 that attends it. It must be confessed that this is 
 none of those turbulent pleasures which are apt to 
 gratify a man in the heats of youth; but, if it be 
 not so tumultuous, it is more lasting. Nothing 
 can be more delightful than to entertain ourselves 
 with prospects of our own making, and to walk 
 under those shades which our own industry has 
 raised. Amusements of this nature compose the 
 mind, and lay at rest all those passions which are 
 uneasy to the soul of man, beside that they natu¬ 
 rally engender good thoughts, and dispose us to 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 laudable contemplations. Many of the old pliilo- I 
 sophers passed away the greatest parts of their 
 lives among their gardens. Epicurus himself could J 
 not think sensual pleasure attainable in any other 
 scene. Every reader, who is acquainted with Ho¬ 
 mer, Virgil, and Horace, the greatest geniuses of 
 all antiquity, knows veiy well with how much 
 rapture tney have spoken on this subject; and that 
 Virgil in particular has written a whole book on 
 the art of planting. 
 
 This art seems to have been more especially 
 adapted to the nature of man in his primeval 
 state, when he had life enough to see his produc¬ 
 tions flourish in their utmost beauty, and grad¬ 
 ually decay with him. One who lived before the 
 flood might have seen a wood of the tallest oaks 
 in the acorn. But I only mention this particular 
 in order to introduce, in my next paper, a history 
 which I have found among the accounts of China, 
 and which may be looked upon as an antediluvian 
 novel. 
 
 Ho. 584.] MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 1714. 
 
 Hie gelidi foates, liie mollia prata, Lycori: 
 
 Ilic nemus, hie toto tecum consumerer awo. 
 
 Yirg. Eel. x. 42. 
 
 Come see what pleasures in our plains abound; 
 
 The woods, the fountains, and the fiow’ry ground; 
 
 Here I could live, and love, and die with only you. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 Hilpa was one of the hundred and fifty daugh¬ 
 ters of Zilpah, of the race of Cohu, by whom 
 some of the learned think is meant Cain. She 
 was exceedingly beautiful, and, when she was but 
 a girl of threescore and ten years of age, received 
 the addresses of several who made love to her. 
 Among these were two brothers, Harpath and 
 Shalum. Harpath, being the first born, was mas¬ 
 ter of that fruitful region which lies at the foot of 
 Mount Tirzah, in the southern parts of China. 
 Shalum (which is to say the planter, in the Chi¬ 
 nese language) possessed all the neighboring hills, 
 and that great range of mountains which goes 
 under the name of Tirzah. Harpath was of a 
 haughty, contemptuous spirit; Shalum was of a 
 gentle disposition, beloved both by God and man. 
 
 It is said that among the antediluvian women, 
 the daughters of Cohu had their minds wholly 
 set upon riches; for which reason the beautiful 
 Hilpa preferred Harpath to Shalum, because of 
 his numerous flocks and herds, that covered all 
 the low country which runs along the foot of 
 Mount Tirzah, and is watered by several fount¬ 
 ains and streams breaking out of the sides of that 
 mountain. 
 
 Harpath made so quick a dispatch of his court¬ 
 ship, that he married Hilpa in the hundredth year 
 of her age; and, being of an insolent temper, 
 laughed to scorn his brother Shalum for having 
 pretended to the beautiful Hilpa, when he was 
 master of nothing but a long chain of rocks and 
 mountains. This so much provoked Shalum, that 
 he is said to have cursed his brother in the bitter¬ 
 ness of his heart, and to have prayed that one of 
 his mountains might fall upon his head if ever he 
 came within the shadow of it. 
 
 From this time forward Harpath would never 
 venture out of the valleys, but came to an un¬ 
 timely end in the two hundred and fiftieth year 
 of his age, being drowned in a river as he at¬ 
 tempted to cross it. This river is called to this 
 day, from his name who perished in it, the river 
 Harpath; and, what is very remarkable, issues out 
 of one of those mountains which Shalum wished 
 might fall upon his brother, when he cursed him 
 in the bitterness of his heart. 
 
 685 
 
 Hilpa was in the hundred and sixtieth year of 
 her age at the death of her husband, having 
 brought him but fifty children before he was 
 snatched away, as has been already related. 
 Many of the hntediluvians made love to the 
 young widow; though no one was thought so 
 likely to succeed in her affections as her first 
 lover Shalum, who renewed his court to her about 
 ten years after the death of Harpath; for it was 
 not thought decent in those days that a widow 
 should be seen by a man within ten years after 
 the decease of her husband. 
 
 Shalum falling into a deep melancholy, and re¬ 
 solving to take away that objection which had 
 been raised against him when he made his first 
 addresses to Hilpa, began, immediately after her 
 marriage with Harpath, to plant all that mount¬ 
 ainous region which fell to his lot in the division 
 of this country. He knew how to adapt every 
 plant to its proper soil, and is thought to have in¬ 
 herited many traditional secrets of that art from 
 the first man. This employment turned at length 
 to his profit as well as to his amusement: his 
 mountains were in a few years shaded with young 
 trees, that gradually shot up into groves, woods, 
 and forests, intermixed with walks and lawns, 
 and gardens; insomuch that the whole region, 
 from a naked and desolate prospect, began now 
 to look like a second paradise. The pleasantness 
 of the place, and the agreeable disposition of 
 Shalum, who was reckoned one of the mildest 
 and wisest of all who lived before the flood, drew 
 into it multitudes of people, who were perpetually 
 employed in the sinking of wells, the digging of 
 trenches, and the hollowing of trees, for the better 
 distribution of water through every part of this 
 spacious plantation. 
 
 The habitations of Shalum looked every year 
 more beautiful in the eyes of Hilpa, who, after the 
 space of seventy autumns, was wonderfully pleased 
 with the distant prospect of Shalum’s hills, which 
 w r ere then covered with innumerable tufts of trees, 
 and gloomy scenes, that gave a magnificence to 
 the place, and converted it into one of the finest 
 landscapes the eye of man could behold. 
 
 The Chinese record a letter which Shalum is 
 said to have written to Hilpa in the eleventh year 
 of her widowhood. I shall here translate it, with¬ 
 out departing from that noble simplicity of senti 
 ments and plainness of manners which appear in 
 the original. 
 
 Shalum was at this time one hundred and eighty 
 years old, and Hilpa one hundred and seventy. 
 
 “ Shalum, Master of Mount Tirzah, to Hilpa, 
 Mistress of the Valleys. 
 
 “In the 788th year of the creation. 
 
 “What have I not suffered, 0 thou daughter of 
 Zilpah, since thou gavest thyself away in marriage 
 to my rival ? I grew weary of the light of the sun, 
 and have been ever since covering myself with 
 woods and forests. These threescore and ten 
 years have I bewailed the loss of thee on the 
 top of Mount Tirzah, and soothed my melan¬ 
 choly among a thousand gloomy shades of my 
 own raising. My dwellings are at present as the 
 garden of God: every part of them is filled with 
 fruits, and flowers, and fountains. The whole 
 mountain is perfumed for thy reception. Come 
 up into it, 0 my beloved, and let us people this 
 spot of the new world with a beautiful race of 
 mortals; let us multiply exceedingly among these 
 delightful shades, and fill every quarter of them 
 with sons and daughters. Remember, 0 thou 
 daughter of Zilpah, that the age of man is but a 
 thousand years; that beauty is the admiration but 
 of a few centuries. It flourishes as a mountain 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 686 
 
 oak, or as a cedar on the top of Tirzah, which in 
 three or four hundred years will fade away, and 
 never be thought of by posterity, unless a young 
 wood springs from its roots. Think.well on this, 
 and remember thy neighbor in the mountains.” 
 
 Having here inserted this letter, which I look 
 upon as the only antediluvian billet-doux now ex¬ 
 tant, I shall in my next paper give the answer to 
 it, and the sequel of this story. 
 
 Ho. 585.] WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1714. 
 
 Ipsi leetit.ia voces ad sidera j actant 
 Intonsi montes: ipsae jam carmina rapes, 
 
 Ipsa sonant arbusta- Virg. Eel. v. 68. 
 
 The mountain-tops unshorn, the rocks rejoice; 
 
 The lowly shrubs partake of human voice.—D ryden. 
 
 THE SEQUEL OF THE STORY OF SHALUM AND HILPA. 
 
 The letter inserted in my last had so good an 
 effect upon Hilpa, that she answered it in less 
 than twelve months after the following manner: 
 
 “Hilpa, Mistress of the Valleys, to Shalum, 
 Master of Mount Tirzah. 
 
 “In the 7S9th year of the creation. 
 
 “ What have I to do with thee, 0 Shalum ? 
 Thou praisest Hilpa’s beauty, but art thou not 
 secretly enamored with the verdure of her mea¬ 
 dows? Art thou not more affected with the pros¬ 
 pect of'her green valleys than thou wouldst be 
 with the sight of her person? The lowings of 
 my herds and the bleating of my flocks make 
 a pleasant echo in thy mountains, and sound 
 sweetly in thy ears. What though I am de¬ 
 lighted with the wavings of thy forests, and 
 those breezes of perfumes which flow from the 
 top of Tirzah, are these like the riches of the 
 valley ? 
 
 “1 know thee, 0 Shalum; thou art more wise 
 and happy than any of the sons of men. Thy 
 dwellings are among the cedars: thou searchest 
 out the diversity of soils: thou understandest the 
 influences of the stars, and markest the change of 
 seasons. Can a woman appear lovely in the eyes 
 of such a one? Disquiet me not, O Shalum; let 
 me alone, that I may enjoy those goodly posses¬ 
 sions which are fallen to my lot. Win me not by 
 thy enticing words. May thy trees increase and 
 multiply; mayest thou add wood to wood, and 
 shade to shade; but tempt not Hilpa to destroy 
 thy solitude, and make thy retirement populous.” 
 
 The Chinese say that a little time afterward she 
 accepted of a treat in one of the neighboring hills, 
 to which Shalum had invited her. This treat 
 lasted for two years, and is said to have cost 
 Shalum five hundred antelopes, two thousand os¬ 
 triches, and a thousand tuns of milk; but what 
 most, of all recommended it, was that variety of 
 delicious fruits and potherbs, in which no person 
 then living could any way equal Shalum. 
 
 He treated her in the bower which he had 
 planted amidst the wood of nightingales. The 
 wood was made up of such fruit-trees and plants 
 as are most agreeable to the several kinds of sink¬ 
 ing birds; so that it had drawn into it all the 
 music of the country, and was filled from one end 
 of the year to the other with the most agreeable 
 concert in season. 
 
 He showed her every day some beautiful and 
 surprising scene in this new region of wood¬ 
 lands; and, as by this means he had all the op¬ 
 portunities he could wish for of opening his mind 
 to her, he succeeded so well, that upon her de¬ 
 parture she made him a kind of a promise, and 
 
 gave him her word to return to him a positive 
 answer in less than fifty years. 
 
 She had not been long among her own people 
 in the valleys, when she received new overtures, 
 and at the same time a most splendid visit from 
 Mislipach, who was a mighty man of old, and 
 had built a great city, which he called after his 
 own name. Every house was made for at least 
 a thousand years, nay, there were some that were 
 leased out for three lives; so that the quantity of 
 stone and timber consumed in this building is 
 scarce to be imagined by those who live in the 
 present age of the world. This great man enter¬ 
 tained her with the voice of musical instruments 
 which had been lately invented, and danced be¬ 
 fore her to the sound of the timbrel. He also pre¬ 
 sented her with several domestic utensils wrought 
 in brass and iron, which had been newly found 
 out for the conveniency of life. In the mean¬ 
 time Shalum grew vesy uneasy with himself, and 
 was sorely displeased at Hilpa for the reception 
 which she had given to Mishpach, insomuch that 
 he never wrote to her or spoke of her during a 
 whole revolution of Saturn; but finding that this 
 intercourse went no further than a visit, he again 
 renewed his addresses to her; who, during his long 
 silence, is said very often to have cast a wishing 
 eye upon Mount Tirzah. 
 
 Her mind continued wavering about twenty 
 years longer between Shalum and Mishpach; for 
 though her inclinations favored the former, her 
 interest pleaded very powerfully for the other. 
 While her heart was in this unsettled condition, 
 the following accident happened, which deter¬ 
 mined her choice. A high tower of wood that 
 stood in the city of Mishpach having caught fire 
 by a flash of lightning, in a few days reduced the 
 whole town to ashes. Mishpach resolved to re¬ 
 build the place, whatever it should cost him; and, 
 having already destroyed all the timber of the 
 country, he was forced to have recourse to Shalum, 
 whose forests were now two hundred years old. 
 He purchased these woods with so many herds of 
 cattle and flocks of sheep, and with such a vast 
 extent of fields and pastures, that Shalum was 
 now grown more wealthy than Mishpach; and 
 therefore appeared so charming in the eyes of 
 Zilpah’s daughter, that she no longer refused him 
 in marriage. On the day on which he brought 
 her up into the mountains he raised a most pro¬ 
 digious pile of cedar, and of every sweet-smelling 
 wood, which reached about three hundred cubits 
 in height: he also cast into the pile bundles of 
 myrrh and sheaves of spikenard, enriching it 
 with every spicy shrub, and making it fat with 
 the gums of his plantations. This was the burnt- 
 offering which Shalum offered in the day of his 
 espousals; the smoke of it ascended up to heaven, 
 and filled the whole country with incense and 
 perfume. 
 
 No. 586.] FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 1714. 
 
 —Qum in vita usurpant homines, cogitant, curant, vident, 
 quaeque agunt vigilantes, agitantque, ea cuique in somno 
 accidunt.—Cic. de Div. 
 
 The things which employ men’s waking thoughts and actions 
 recur to their imaginations in sleep. 
 
 By the last post I received the following letter, 
 which is built upon a thought that is new, and 
 very well carried on; for which reasons I shall 
 give it to the public without alteration, addition, 
 or amendment: 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “It was a good piece of advice which Pythag¬ 
 oras gave to his scholars—that every night before 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 they slept they should examine what they had 
 been doing that day, and so discover what actions 
 were worthy of pursuit to morrow, and what little 
 vices were to be prevented from slipping unawares 
 into a habit. If I might second the philosopher’s 
 advice, it should be mine, that in a morning before 
 my scholar rose he should consider what he had 
 been about that night, and with the same strictness 
 as if the condition he has believed himself to be 
 in was real. Such a scrutiny into the actions of his 
 fancy must be of considerable advantage ; for this 
 reason, because the circumstances which a man 
 imagines himself in during sleep are generally 
 such as entirely favor his inclinations, good or 
 bad, and give him imaginary opportunities of pur¬ 
 suing them to the utmost: so that his temper will 
 lie fairly open to his view, while he considers how 
 it is moved when free from those constraints which 
 the accidents of real life put it under. Dreams are 
 certainly the result of our waking thoughts, and 
 our daily hopes and fears are what give the mind 
 such nimble relishes of pleasure, and such severe 
 touches of pain, in its midnight rambles. A man 
 that murders his enemy, or deserts his friend, in a 
 dream, had need to guard his temper against re¬ 
 venge and ingratitude, and take heed that he be 
 not tempted to do a vile tiling in the pursuit of 
 false, or the neglect of true honor. For my part, 
 I seldom receive a benefit, but in a night or two’s 
 time I make most noble returns for it; which, 
 though my benefactor is not a whit the better for, 
 yet it pleases me to think that it was from a prin¬ 
 ciple of gratitude in me that my mind was suscep¬ 
 tible of such generous transport while I thought 
 myself repaying the kindness of my friend: and 
 I have often been ready to beg pardon, instead of 
 returning an injury, after considering that when 
 the offender was in my power I had carried my 
 resentments much too far. 
 
 “ I think it has been observed, in the course of 
 your papers, how much one’s happiness or misery 
 may depend upon the imagination: of which truth 
 those strange workings of fancy in sleep are no 
 inconsiderable instances; so that not only the ad¬ 
 vantage a man has of making discoveries of him¬ 
 self, but a regard to his own'ease or disquiet, may 
 induce him to accept of my advice. Such as are 
 willing to comply with it, I shall put into a way 
 of doing it with pleasure, by observing only one 
 maxim which I shall give them, viz: ‘ To go to 
 bed with a mind entirely free from passion, and a 
 body clear of the least intemperance.’ 
 
 “ They, indeed, who can sink into sleep with 
 their thoughts less calm or innocent than they 
 should be, do but plunge themselves into scenes 
 of guilt and misery; or they who are willing to 
 purchase any midnight disquietudes for the satis¬ 
 faction of a full meal, or a skin full of wine; these 
 I have nothing to say to, as not knowing how to 
 invite them to reflections full of shame and hor¬ 
 ror; but those that will observe this rule, I promise 
 them they shall awake into health and cheerful¬ 
 ness, and be capable of recounting with delight 
 those glorious moments, wherein the mind has 
 been indulging itself in such luxury of thought, 
 such noble hurry of imagination. Suppose a 
 man’s going supperless to bed should introduce 
 him to the table of some great prince or other, 
 where he shall be entertained with the noblest 
 marks of honor and plenty, and do so much busi¬ 
 ness after, that he shall rise with as good a stomach 
 to his breakfast as if he had fasted all night long: 
 or suppose he should see his dearest friends remain 
 all night in great distresses, which he should in¬ 
 stantly have disengaged them from, could he have 
 been content to have gone to bed without the other 
 bottle; believe me, these effects of fancy are no 
 
 687 
 
 contemptible consequences of commanding or in¬ 
 dulging one’s appetite. 
 
 “ I forbear recommending my advice upon many 
 other accounts, until I hear how you and your 
 readers relish what I have already said; among 
 whom, if there be any that may pretend it is use¬ 
 less to them, because they never dream at all, there 
 may be others perhaps who do little else all day 
 long. Were every one as sensible as I am what 
 happens to him in his sleep, it would be no dis¬ 
 pute whether we pass so considerable a portion of 
 our time in the condition of stocks and stones, or 
 whether the soul were not perpetually at work 
 upon the principle of thought. However, it is an 
 honest endeavor of mine to persuade my country¬ 
 men to reap some advantage from so many unre¬ 
 garded hours, and as such you will encourage it. 
 
 “ I shall conclude with giving you a sketch or 
 two of my way of proceeding. 
 
 “ If I have any business of consequence to do to¬ 
 morrow, I am scarce dropped asleep to-night but I 
 am in the midst of it; and when awake, I consider 
 the whole procession of the affair, and get the ad¬ 
 vantage of the next day’s experience before the sun 
 has risen upon it. 
 
 “ There is scarcely a great post but what I have 
 some time or other been in; but my behavior while 
 I was master of a college pleases me so well, that 
 whenever there is a province of that nature vacant, 
 I intend to step in as soon as I can. 
 
 “ I have done many things that would not pass 
 examination, when I have had the art of flying or 
 being invisible; for which reason I am glad I am 
 not possessed of those extraordinary qualities. 
 
 “ Lastly, Mr. Spectator, I have been a great cor¬ 
 respondent of yours, and have read many of my 
 letters in your paper which I never wrote to you. 
 If you have a mind I should really be so, I have 
 got a parcel of visions and other miscellanies in 
 my noctuary, which I shall send you to enrich 
 your paper with on proper occasions'! 
 
 “ I am, etc., 
 
 “John Shadow.” 
 
 No. 587.] MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 1714. 
 
 Intus et in cute novi— Pers., Sat. iii, BO. 
 
 I know thee to thy bottom: from within 
 
 Thy shallow center to the utmost skin.— Dryden. 
 
 Though the author of the following vision is 
 unknown to me, I am apt to think it may be the 
 work of that ingenious gentleman, who promised 
 me, in the last paper, some extracts out of his 
 noctuary. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ I was the other day reading the life of Maho¬ 
 met. Among many other extravagances, I find it 
 recorded of that impostor, that in the fourth year 
 of his age, the angel Gabriel caught him up while 
 he was among his playfellows; and, carrying him 
 aside, cut open his breast, plucked out his heart, 
 and wrung out of it that black drop of blood, in 
 which, say the Turkish divines, is contained the 
 forties peccati, so that he was free from sin ever 
 after. I immediately said to myself, Though this 
 story be a fiction, a very good moral may be drawn 
 | from it, would every man but apply it to himself, 
 and endeavor to squeeze out of his heart whatever 
 sins or ill qualities he find in it. 
 
 “ While my mind was wholly taken up with 
 this contemplation, I insensibly fell into a most 
 pleasing slumber, when methought two porters 
 entered my chamber, carrying a large chest be¬ 
 tween them. After having set it down in the 
 I middle of the room they departed. I immediately 
 endeavored to open what was sent me, when a 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 688 
 
 shape, like that in which we paint our angels, 
 appeared before me, and forbade me. ‘ Inclosed/ 
 said he, ‘ are the hearts of several of your friends 
 and acquaintance; but, before you can be qualified 
 to see and animadvert on the failings of others, 
 you must be pure yourselfwhereupon he drew 
 out his incision knife, cut me open, took out my 
 heart, and began to squeeze it. I was in a great 
 confusion to see how many things, which I had 
 always cherished as virtues, issued out of my 
 heart on this occasion. In short, after it had been 
 thoroughly squeezed, it looked like an empty 
 bladder; when the phantom, breathing a fresh 
 particle of divine air into it, restored it safe to its 
 former repositoiy; and, having sewed me up, we 
 began to examine the chest. 
 
 “ The hearts were all inclosed in transparent 
 vials, and preserved in a liquor which looked like 
 spirits of wine. The first which I cast my eye 
 upon I was afraid would have broke the glass 
 which contained it. It shot up and down, with 
 incredible swiftness, through the liquor in which 
 it swam, and very frequently bounced against the 
 side of the vial. The fomes, or spot in the middle 
 of it, was not large, but of a red, fiery color, and 
 seemed to be the cause of these violent agitations. 
 ‘ That/ says my instructor,. ‘ is the heart of Tom 
 Dreadnaught, who behaved himself well in the 
 late wars, but has for these ten years last past been 
 aiming at some post of honor to no purpose. He 
 is lately retired.into the country, where, quite 
 choked up with spleen and choler, he rails at bet¬ 
 ter men than himself, and will be forever uneasy, 
 because it is impossible he should think his merits 
 sufficiently rewarded/ The next heart that I ex¬ 
 amined was remarkable for its smallness; it lay 
 still at the bottom of the vial, and I could hardly 
 erceive that it beat at all. The fomes was quite 
 lack, and had almost diffused itself over the 
 whole heart. ‘ This/ says my interpreter, ‘ is the 
 heart of Dick Gloomy, who never thirsted after 
 anything but money. Notwithstanding all his 
 endeavors, he is still poor. This has flung him 
 into a most deplorable state of melancholy and 
 despair. He is a composition of envy and idle¬ 
 ness : hates mankind, but gives them their revenge 
 by being more uneasy to himself than to any one 
 else/ 
 
 “ The vial I looked upon next contained a large 
 fair heart which beat very strongly. The fomes or 
 spot in it was exceedingly small; but I could not 
 help observing, that which way soever I turned 
 the vial, it always appeared uppermost, and in the 
 strongest point of light. ‘ The heart you are ex¬ 
 amining/ says my companion, ‘belongs to Will 
 Worthy. He has, indeed, a most noble soul, and 
 is possessed of a thousand good qualities. The 
 speck which you discover is vanity/ 
 
 “! Here/ says the angel, ‘ is the heart of Free- 
 love, your intimate friend/—‘ Freelove and 1/ said 
 I, ‘ are at present very cold to one another, and 
 I do not care for looking on the heart of a man 
 which I fear is overcast with rancor/ My teacher 
 commanded me to look upon it: I did so, and to 
 my unspeakable surprise, found that a small swell¬ 
 ing spot, which I at first took to be ill-will toward 
 me, was only passion ; and that upon my nearer 
 inspection it wholly disappeared; upon which the 
 phantom told me Freelove was one of the best 
 natured men alive. 
 
 “ 1 This,’ says my teacher, is a female heart of 
 your acquaintance.’ I found the fomes in it of the 
 largest size, and of a hundred different colors, 
 which were still varying every moment. Upon 
 my asking to whom it belonged, I was informed 
 that it was the heart of Coquetilla. 
 
 ‘ I set it down, and drew out another in which 
 
 I took the fomes at first sight to be veiy small, but 
 was amazed to find that, as I looked steadfastly 
 upon it, it grew still larger. It was the heart of 
 Melissa, a noted prude, who lives the next door 
 to me. 
 
 “ ‘ I show you this/ says the phantom, ‘because 
 it is indeed a rarity, and you have the happiness 
 to know the person to whom it belongs.’ He then 
 put into my hands a large ciystal glass, that in¬ 
 closed a heart, in which, though I examined it 
 with the utmost nicety, I could not perceive any 
 blemish. I made no scruple to affirm that it must 
 be the heart of Seraphina; and was glad, but 
 not surprised, to find that it was so. ‘ She is 
 indeed,’ continued my guide, ‘the ornament as 
 well as the envy of her sex.’ At these last words 
 he pointed to the hearts of .several of her female 
 acquaintance which lay in different vials, and had 
 very large spots in them, all of a deep blue. ‘You 
 are not to wonder/ says he, ‘ that you see no spot 
 in a heart, whose innocence has been proof against 
 all the corruptions of a depraved age. If it has 
 any blemish, it is too small to be discovered by 
 human eyes.’ 
 
 “ I laid it down, and took up the hearts of other 
 females, in all of which the fomes ran in several 
 veins, which were twisted together, and made a 
 very perplexed figure. I asked the meaning of it, 
 and was told it represented deceit. 
 
 “ I should have been glad to have examined the 
 hearts of several of my acquaintance, whom I knew 
 to be particularly addicted to drinking, gaming, 
 intriguing, etc., but my interpreter told me I must 
 let that alone until another opportunity, and flung 
 down the cover of the chest with so much violence 
 as immediately awoke me.” 
 
 No. 588.J WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 1 , 1714. 
 
 Dicitis, omnis in imbecillitate est et gratia, et caritas. 
 
 Cicero. 
 
 You pretend that all kindness and benevolence is 
 founded in weakness. 
 
 Man may be considered in two views, as a rea¬ 
 sonable and as a sociable being; capable of be¬ 
 coming himself either happy or miserable, and of 
 contributing to the happiness or misery of his fel¬ 
 low-creatures. Suitably to this double capacity, 
 the Contriver of human nature hath wisely fur¬ 
 nished it with two principles of action, self-love 
 and benevolence; designed, one of them to render 
 man wakeful to his own personal interest, the 
 other to dispose him for giving his utmost assist¬ 
 ance to all engaged in the same pursuit. This is 
 such an account of our frame, so agreeable to rea¬ 
 son, so much for the honor of our Maker, and the 
 credit of our species, that it may appear somewhat 
 unaccountable what should induce men to repre¬ 
 sent human nature as they do under characters of 
 disadvantage; or having drawn it with a little and 
 sordid aspect, what pleasure they can possibly 
 take in such a picture. Do they reflect that it is 
 their own, and, if we will believe themselves, is 
 not more odious than the original? One of the 
 first that talked in this lofty strain of our nature 
 was Epicurus, Beneficence, would his followers 
 say, is all founded in weakness; and, whatever be 
 pretended, the kindness that passeth between men 
 and men is by every man directed to himself. 
 This, it must be confessed, is of a piece with the 
 rest of that hopeful philosophy, which, having 
 patched man up out of the four elements, attributes 
 his being to chance, and derives all his actions 
 from an unintelligible declination of atoms. And 
 for these glorious discoveries the poet is beyond 
 measure transported in the praises of his hero, as 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 \f bo must needs be something more than man, 
 only for an endeavor to prove "that man is in no¬ 
 thing superior to beasts. In this school was Mr. 
 Hobbes instructed to speak after the same manner, 
 it he did not rather draw his knowledge from an 
 observation of his own temper; for he somewhere 
 unluckily lays down this as a rule, that from the 
 similitudes of thoughts and passions of one man 
 to the thoughts and passions of another, whoso¬ 
 ever looks into himselt and considers what he doth 
 when he thinks, hopes, fears, etc., and upon what 
 grounds, he shall hereby read and know what are 
 the thoughts and passions of all other men upon the 
 like occasion. Now we will allow Mr. Hoobes to 
 know best how he was inclined ; but in earnest, I 
 should be heartily out of conceit with myself if I 
 thought myself of this unamiable temper as he af¬ 
 firms, and should have as little kindness for myself 
 as for anybody in the world. Hitherto I always 
 imagined that kind and benevolent propensions 
 were the original growth of the heart of man; and, 
 however checked and overtopped by counter-incli¬ 
 nations that have since sprung up within us, have 
 still some force in the worst of tempers, and acon- 
 ' siderable influence on the best. And methinks it 
 is a fair step toward the proof of this, that the 
 most beneficent of all beings is he who hath an 
 absolute fullness of perfection in himself, who 
 gave existence to the universe, and so cannot be 
 supposed to want that which he communicated, 
 without diminishing from the plenitude of his 
 own power and happiness. The philosophers be¬ 
 fore-mentioned have indeed done all that in them 
 lay to invalidate this argument; for, placing the 
 gods in a state of the most elevated blessedness, 
 they describe them as selfish as we poor miserable 
 mortals can be, and shut them out from all concern 
 for mankind, upon the score of their having no 
 need of us. But if He that sitteth in the heavens 
 wants not us, we stand in continual need of him; 
 and, surely, next to the survey of the immense 
 treasures of his own mind, the most exalted plea¬ 
 sure he receives is from beholding millions of 
 creatures, lately drawn out of the gulf of non¬ 
 existence, rejoicing in the various degrees of being 
 and happiness imparted to them. And as this is 
 the true, the glorious character of the Deity, so in 
 forming a reasonable creature he would not, if 
 possible, suffer his image tojDass out of his hands 
 unadorned with a resemblance of himself in this 
 most lovely part of his nature. For what com¬ 
 placency could a mind, whose love is as unbound¬ 
 ed as his knowledge, have in a work so unlike 
 himself; a creature that should be capable of 
 knowing and conversing with a vast circle of 
 objects, and love none but himself? What pro- 
 ortion would there be between the head and the 
 eart of such a creature, its affections, and its 
 understanding? Or could a society of such crea¬ 
 tures, with no other bottom but self-love on which 
 to maintain a commerce, ever flourish? Reason, 
 it is certain, would oblige every man to pursue the 
 general happiness as the means to procure and 
 establish his own; and yet, if beside this conside¬ 
 ration, there were not a natural instinct, prompt¬ 
 ing men to desire the welfare and satisfaction of 
 others, self-love, in defiance of the admonitions of 
 reason, would quickly run all things into a state 
 of war and confusion. As nearly interested as the 
 soul is in the fate of the body, our provident Crea¬ 
 tor saw it necessary, by the constant returns of 
 hunger and thirst, those importunate appetites, 
 to put it in mind of its charge: kuowing that if 
 we should eat and drink no oftener than cold ab¬ 
 stracted speculation should put us upon these ex¬ 
 ercises, and then leave it to reason to prescribe the 
 quantity, we should soon refine ourselves out of 
 44 
 
 689 
 
 this bodily life. And, indeed, it is obvious to re¬ 
 mark, that we follow nothing heartily, unless 
 carried to it by inclinations which anticipate our 
 reason, and, like a bias, draw the mind strongly 
 toward it. In order, therefore, to establish a per¬ 
 petual intercourse of benefits among mankind, 
 their Maker would not fail to give them this 
 generous prepossession of benevolence, if, as I 
 have said, it were possible. And from whence can 
 we go about to argue its impossibility? Is it in¬ 
 consistent with self-love? Are their motions con¬ 
 trary? No more than the diurnal rotation of the 
 earth is opposed to its annual; or its motion round 
 its own center, which might be improved as an 
 illustration of self-love, to that which whirls it 
 about the common center of the world, answering 
 to universal benevolence. Is the force of self-love 
 abated, or its interest prejudiced, by benevolence? 
 So far from it, that benevolence, though a distinct 
 principle, is extremely serviceable to self-love, 
 and then doth most service when it is least de¬ 
 signed. 
 
 But to descend from reason to matter of fact; the 
 pity which arises on sight of persons in dis¬ 
 tress, and the satisfaction of mind which is the 
 consequence of having removed them into a hap¬ 
 pier state, are instead of a thousand arguments to 
 prove such a thing as a disinterested benevolence. 
 Did pity proceed from a reflection we make upon 
 our liableness to the same ill accidents we see 
 befall others, it were nothing to the present purpose; 
 but this is assigning an artificial cause of a 
 natural passion, and can by no means be admitted' 
 as a tolerable account of it, because children and 
 persons most thoughtless about their own condi¬ 
 tion, and incapable of entering into the prospects 
 of futurity, feel the most violent touches of com-- 
 passion. And then, as to that charming delight 
 which immediately follows the giving joy to an¬ 
 other, or relieving his sorrow, and is, when the 
 objects are numerous, and the kindness of import¬ 
 ance really inexpressible, what can this be owing 
 to but a consciousnes of a man’s having done 
 something praiseworthy, and expressive of a great 
 soul ? Whereas, if in all this he only sacrificed 
 to vanity and self-love, as there would be nothing 
 brave in actions that make the most shining ap¬ 
 pearance, so nature would not have rewarded them 
 with this divine pleasure; nor could the commen¬ 
 dations, which a person receives for benefits done 
 upon selfish views, be at all more satisfactory 
 than when he is applauded for what he doth with¬ 
 out design; because in both cases the ends of self- 
 love are equally answered. The conscience of 
 approving one’s self a benefactor to mankind is 
 the noblest recompense for being so; doubtless it 
 is, and the most interested cannot propose any¬ 
 thing so much to their own advantage; notwith¬ 
 standing which, the inclination is nevertheless 
 unselfish. The pleasure which attends the grati¬ 
 fication of our hunger and thirst is not the cause 
 of these appetites; they are previous to any such 
 prospect; and so likewise is the desire of doing 
 good; with this difference, that, being seated in 
 the intellectual part, this last, though antecedent 
 to reason, may yet be improved and regulated by 
 it; and, I will add, is no otherwise a virtue than as 
 it is so. Thus have I contended for the dignity 
 of that nature I have the honor to partake of: and, 
 after all the evidence produced, think I have a 
 right to conclude, against the motto of this paper, 
 that there is such a thing as generosity in the 
 world. Though, if I were under a mistake in 
 this, I should say as Cicero in relation to the im¬ 
 mortality of the soul, I willingly err, and should 
 believe it,very much for the interest of mankind 
 to lie under the same delusion. For the contrary 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 690 
 
 notion naturally tends to dispirit the mind, and 
 sinks it into a meanness fatal to the godlike zeal 
 of doing good : as, on the other hand, it teaches 
 people to be ungrateful, by possessing them with 
 a persuasion concerning their benefactors, that 
 they have no regard to them in the benefits they 
 bestow. Now he that banishes gratitude from 
 among men, by so doing, stops up the stream of 
 beneficence: for though in conferring kindnesses a 
 truly generous man doth not aim at a return, yet 
 he looks to the qualities of the person obliged; 
 ajnd as nothing renders a person more unworthy 
 of a benefit than his being without all resentment 
 of it, he will not be extremely forward to oblige 
 such a man. 
 
 No. 589.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 3,1714. 
 
 Persequitur scelus ille suum: labefactaque tandem 
 Ictibus innumeris, adductaque funibus arbor 
 Corruit- Ovid, Met. viii. 774. 
 
 The impious ax he plies, loud strokes resound, 
 
 Till dragg’d with ropes, and fell’d with many a wound, 
 The loosen’d tree comes rushing to the ground. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ I am so great an admirer of trees, that the spot 
 of ground I have chosen to build a small seat 
 upon in the country is almost in the midst of a 
 large wood. I was obliged, much against my will, 
 to cut down several trees, that I might have any 
 such thing as a walk in my gardens; but then I 
 have taken care to leave the space between every 
 walk as much wood as I found it. The moment 
 you turn either to the right or left you are in a 
 forest, where nature presents you with a much 
 more beautiful scene than could have been raised 
 by art. 
 
 “Instead of tulips or carnations I can show 
 you oaks in my gardens of four hundred years’ 
 standing, and a knot of elms that might shelter a 
 troop of horse from the rain. 
 
 “ It is not without the utmost indignation, that 
 I observe several prodigal young heirs in the 
 neighborhood felling down the most glorious 
 monuments of their ancestors’ industry, and ruin¬ 
 ing, in a day, the product of ages. 
 
 “ I am mightily pleased with your discourse 
 upon planting, which put me upon looking into 
 my books, to give you some account of the vene¬ 
 ration the ancients had for trees. There is an old 
 tradition that Abraham planted a cypress, a pine, 
 and a cedar; and that these three incorporated into 
 one tree, which was cut down for the building of 
 the temple of Solomon. 
 
 “Isidorus, who lived in the reign of Constan- 
 tius, assures us, that he saw, even in his time, 
 that famous oak in the plains of Mamre, under 
 which Abraham is reported to have dwelt; and 
 adds, that the people looked upon it with a great 
 veneration, and preserved it as a sacred tree. 
 
 “ The heathens still went further, and regarded 
 it as the highest piece of sacrilege to injure certain 
 trees which they took to be protected by some 
 deity. The story of Erisictlion, the grove of 
 Dodona, and that at Delphi, are all instances of 
 this kind. 
 
 “If we consider the machine in Virgil, so much 
 blamed by several critics, in this light, we shall 
 hardly think it too violent. 
 
 “./Eneas, when he built his fleet in order to sail 
 for Italy, was obliged to cut down a grove on 
 mount Ida, which however he durst not do until 
 he had obtained leave from Cybele, to whom it was 
 dedicated. The goddess could not but think her¬ 
 self obliged to protect the ships, which were made 
 of consecrated timber, after a very extraordinary 
 
 manner, and therefore desired Jupiter, that they 
 might not be obnoxious to the power of waves or 
 winds. Jupiter would not grant this, but promis¬ 
 ed her that as many as came safe to Italy should 
 be transformed into goddesses of the sea; which 
 the poet tells us was accordingly executed. 
 
 And now at length the number’d hours were come 
 Prefix’d by Fate’s irrevocable doom, 
 
 When the great mother of the gods was free 
 To save her ships, and finish Jove’s decree. 
 
 First, from the quarter of the morn there sprung 
 A light that sing’d the heavens, and shot along: 
 
 Then from a cloud, fring’d round with golden fires, 
 Were timbrels heard, and Berecynthian choirs: 
 
 And last a voice, with more than mortal sounds, 
 
 Both hosts in arms opposed with equal horror wounds. 
 
 ‘ 0 Trojan race, your needless aid forbear: 
 
 And know my ships are my peculiar care. 
 
 With greater ease the bold Rutulian may 
 With hissing brands attempt to burn the sea, 
 
 Than singe my sacred pines. But you, my charge, 
 Loos’d from your crooked anchors, launched at large, 
 Exalted each a nymph; forsake the sand, 
 
 And swim the seas, at Cybele’s command.’ 
 
 No sooner had the goddess ceased to speak, 
 
 When lo, th’ obedient ships their hawsers break! 
 
 And strange to tell, like dolphins in the main, 
 
 They plunge their prows, and dive and spring again: 
 As many beauteous maids the billows sweep, 
 
 As rode before tall vessels on the deep. 
 
 Dbyden’s Tib. 
 
 “ The common opinion concerning the nymphs, 
 whom the ancients called Hamadryads, is more to 
 the honor of trees than anything yet mentioned. 
 It was thought the fate of these nymphs had so 
 near a dependence on some trees, more especially 
 oaks, that they lived and died together. For this 
 reason they were extremely grateful to such per¬ 
 sons who preserved those trees with which their 
 being subsisted. Apollonius tells us a very re¬ 
 markable story to this purpose, with which I shall 
 conclude my letter. 
 
 “ A certain man, called Rhaecus, observing an 
 old oak ready to fall, and being moved with a 
 sort of compassion toward the tree, ordered his 
 servants to pour in fresh earth at the roots of it, 
 and set it upright. The Hamadryad, or nymph, 
 who must necessarily have perished with the tree, 
 appeared to him the next day, and, after having 
 returned him her thanks, told him she was ready 
 to grant whatever he should ask. As she was 
 extremely beautiful, Rhaecus desired he might be 
 entertained as her lover. The Hamadryad, not 
 much displeased with the request, promised to 
 give him a meeting, but commanded him for some 
 days to abstain from the embraces of all other 
 women, adding, that she would send a bee to him, 
 to let him know when he was to be happy. Rhae¬ 
 cus was, it seems, too much addicted to gaming, 
 and happened to be in a run of ill-luck when the 
 faithful bee came buzzing about him; so that, in¬ 
 stead of minding his kind invitation, he had like 
 to have killed him for his pains. The Hamadryad 
 was so provoked at her own disappointment, and 
 the ill usage of her messenger, that she deprived 
 Rhaecus of the use of his limbs. However, says 
 the story, he was not so much a cripple, but he 
 made shift to cut down the tree, and consequently 
 to fell his mistress.” 
 
 No. 590.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1714. 
 
 -Assiduo labuntur tempora motu, 
 
 Non secus ac flumen. Neque enim consistere flumen, 
 Nec levis hora potest:sed ut unda impellitur unda, 
 Urgeturque prior venienti, urgetque priorem; 
 
 Tempora sic fugiunt pariter, pariterque sequuntur: 
 
 Et nova sunt semper. Num quod fuit ante, relictum est. 
 Fitque, quod haud fuerat: momentaque cuncta novantur 
 
 Ovid, Met. xv. 179. 
 
 E’en times are in perpetual flux, and run, 
 
 Like rivers from their fountains, rolling on. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 For time, no more than streams, is at a stay; 
 
 The flying hour is ever on her way: 
 
 And as the fountains still supply their store, 
 
 The wave behind impels the wave before; 
 
 Thus in successive course the minutes run, 
 
 And urge their predecessor minutes on, 
 
 Still moving, ever new; for former things 
 Are laid aside, like abdicated kings; 
 
 And every moment alters what is done, 
 
 And innovates some act, till then unknown.—D ryden. 
 
 The following discourse comes from the same hand 
 with the Essays on Infinitude. 
 
 “We consider infinite space as an expansion 
 without a circumference : we consider eternity, or 
 infinite duration, as a line that has neither a be¬ 
 ginning nor an end. In our speculations of infi¬ 
 nite space, we consider that particular place in 
 which we exist as a kind of center to the whole 
 expansion. In our speculations of eternity, we 
 consider the time which is present to us as the 
 middle, which divides the whole line into two 
 equal parts. For this reason many witty authors 
 compare the.present time to an isthmus, or narrow 
 neck of land, that rises in the midst of an ocean, 
 immeasurably diffused on either side of it. 
 
 “Philosophy, and indeed common sense, natural¬ 
 ly throws eternity under two divisions, which we 
 may call in English that eternity which is past, 
 and that eternity which is to come. The learned 
 terms of JEternitas a parte ante, and JEternitas a 
 parte post, may be more amusing to the reader, but 
 can have no other idea affixed to them than what 
 is conveyed to us by those words, an eternity that 
 is past and an eternity that is to come. Each of 
 these eternities is bounded at the one extreme; or, 
 in other words, the former has an end, and the 
 latter a beginning. 
 
 “ Let us first of all consider that eternity which 
 is past, reserving that which is to come for the 
 subject of another paper. The nature of this eter¬ 
 nity is utterly inconceivable by the mind of man : 
 our reason demonstrates to us that it has been, but 
 at the same time can frame no idea of it, but what 
 is big with absurdity and contradiction. We can 
 have no other conception of any duration which is 
 past, than that all of it was once present; and 
 whatever was once present is at some certain dis¬ 
 tance from us, and whatever is at any certain dis¬ 
 tance from us, be the distance never so remote, can¬ 
 not be eternity. The very notion of any duration 
 being past, implies that it was once present, for the 
 idea of being once present is actually included in 
 the idea of its being past. This, therefore, is a depth 
 not to be sounded by human understanding. We 
 are sure that there has been an eternity, and yet 
 contradict ourselves when we measure this eternity 
 by any notion which we can frame of it. 
 
 “If we go to the bottom of this matter, we shall 
 find that the difficulties we meet with in our con¬ 
 ceptions of eternity proceed from this single reason, 
 that we can have no other idea of any kind of du¬ 
 ration than that by which we ourselves, and all 
 other created beings, do exist; which is, a succes¬ 
 sive duration made up of past, present, and to 
 come. There is nothing which exists after this 
 manner, all the parts of whose existence were not 
 once actually present, and consequently may be 
 reached by a certain number of years applied to it. 
 We may ascend as high as we please, and employ 
 our being to that eternity which is to come, in 
 adding millions of years to millions of years, and 
 we can never come up to any fountain-head of 
 duration, to any beginning into eternity: but at 
 the same time we are sure that whatever was once 
 present does lie within the reach of numbers, 
 though perhaps we can never be able to put 
 enough* of them together for that purpose. We 
 
 691 
 
 | may as well say, that anything may be actually 
 present in any part of infinite space, which does 
 not lie at a certain distance from us, as that any 
 part of infinite duration was once actually present, 
 and does not also lie at some determined distance 
 from us. The distance in both cases may be im¬ 
 measurable and indefinite as to our faculties, but 
 our reason tells us that it cannot be so in itself. 
 Here, therefore, is that difficulty which human 
 understanding is not capable of surmounting. We 
 are sure that something must have existed from 
 eternity, and are at the same time unable to con¬ 
 ceive, that anything which exists, according to 
 our notion of existence, can have existed from 
 eternity. 
 
 “ It is hard for a reader, who has not rolled this 
 thought in his own mind, to follow in such an 
 abstracted speculation; but I have been the longer 
 on it because I think it is a demonstrative argu¬ 
 ment of the being and eternity of God; and, 
 though there are many other demonstrations which 
 lead us to this great truth, I do not think we ought 
 to lay aside any proofs in this matter, which the 
 light of reason has suggested to us, especially 
 when it is such a one as has been urged by men 
 famous for their penetration and force of under¬ 
 standing, and which appears altogether conclusive 
 to those who will be at the pains to examine it. 
 
 “Having thus considered that eternity which is 
 past, according to the best idea we can frame of it, 
 I shall now draw up those several articles on this 
 subject, which are dictated to us by the light of 
 reason, and which may be looked upon as the 
 creed of a philosopher in this great point. 
 
 “First, It is certain that no being could have 
 made itself; for if so, it must have acted before it 
 was, which is a contradiction. 
 
 “Secondly, That therefore some being must 
 have existed from all eternity. 
 
 “ Thirdly, That whatever exists after the man¬ 
 ner of created beings, or according to any notions 
 which we have of existence, could not have ex¬ 
 isted from eternity. 
 
 “Fourthly, That this eternal Being must there- 
 fol'e be the great Author of nature, ‘ the Ancient 
 of Days,’ who, being at infinite distance in his 
 perfections from all finite and created beings, ex¬ 
 ists in a quite different manner from them, and 
 in a manner of which they can have no idea. 
 
 “I know that several of the schoolmen, who 
 would not be thought ignorant of anything, have 
 pretended to explain the manner of God’s exist- 
 tence, by telling us that he comprehends infinite 
 duration in every moment: that eternity is with 
 him a punctum stans, a fixed point; or, which is as 
 good sense, an infinite instant; that nothing with 
 reference to his existence is either past or to come: 
 to which the ingenious Mr. Cowley alludes in his 
 description of heaven : 
 
 Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, 
 
 But an eternal now does always last. 
 
 “For my own part, I look upon these proposi¬ 
 tions as words that have no ideas annexed to them; 
 and think men had better own their ignorance 
 than advance doctrines by which they mean no¬ 
 thing, and which, indeed, are self-contradictory. 
 We cannot be too modest in our disquisitions 
 when we meditate on Him, who is environed with 
 so much glory and perfection, who is the source 
 of being, the fountain of all that existence which 
 we and his whole creation derive from him. Let 
 us, therefore, with the utmost humility acknow¬ 
 ledge, that as some being must necessarily have 
 existed from eternity, so this being does exist 
 after an incomprehensible manner, since it is im¬ 
 possible for a being to have existed from eternity 
 
 * Enow. The singular number is here used for the plural. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 G92 
 
 after our manner or notions of existence. Reve¬ 
 lation confirms these natural dictates of reason in 
 the accounts which it gives us of the divine exist¬ 
 ence, where it tells us, that he is the same yester¬ 
 day, to-day, and forever; that he is the Alpha and 
 Omega, the beginning and the ending; that a thou¬ 
 sand years are with him as one day, and one day 
 as a thousand years: by which, and the like ex¬ 
 pressions, we are taught that his existence with re¬ 
 lation to time or duration is infinitely different from 
 the existence of any of his creatures, and conse¬ 
 quently that it is impossible for us to frame any 
 adequate conceptions of it. 
 
 “ In the first revelation which he makes of his 
 own being, he entitles himself, “I Am that I Am;’ 
 and when Moses desires to know what name he 
 shall give him in his embassy to Pharaoh, he bids 
 him say, that ‘I Am hath sent you.’ Our great 
 Creator, by this revelation of himself, does 'in a 
 manner exclude everything else from a real exist¬ 
 ence, and distinguishes himself from his creatures 
 as the only being which truly and really exists. 
 The ancient Platonic notion, which was drawn 
 from speculations of eternity, wonderfully agrees 
 with this revelation which God has made of him¬ 
 self. There is nothing, say they, which in reality 
 exists, whose existence, as we call it, is pieced up 
 of past, present, and to come. Such a flitting and 
 successive existence, is rather a shadow of exist¬ 
 ence, and something which is like it, than exist¬ 
 ence itself. He only properly exists whose exist¬ 
 ence is entirely present; that is, in other words, 
 who exists in the most perfect manner, and in 
 such a manner as we have no idea of. 
 
 “I shall conclude this speculation with one use¬ 
 ful inference. How can we sufficiently prostrate 
 ourselves and fall down before our Maker, when 
 we consider that ineffable goodness and wisdom 
 which contrived this existence for finite natures ? 
 What must be the overflowings of that good-will, 
 which prompted our Creator to adapt existence to 
 beings in whom it is not necessary; especially 
 when we consider that he himself was before in 
 the complete possession of existence and of hap¬ 
 piness, and in the full enjoyment of eternity. 
 What man can think of himself as called out and 
 separated from nothing, of his being made a con¬ 
 scious, a reasonable, and a happy creature; in 
 short, of being taken in as a sharer of existence, 
 and a kind of partner in eternity, without being 
 swallowed up in wonder, in praise, in adoration! 
 It is indeed a thought too big for the mind of man, 
 and rather to be entertained in the secrecy of de¬ 
 votion, and in the silence of the soul, than to be 
 expressed by words. The supreme Being has not 
 given us powers or faculties sufficient to extol and 
 magnify such unutterable goodness. 
 
 “It is however some comfort to us, that we 
 shall be always doing what we shall never be able 
 to do; and that a work which cannot be finished, 
 will however be the work of eternity.” 
 
 Ho. 591.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 8, 1714. 
 
 -Tenerorum lusor amorum, 
 
 Ovid, Trist. 3 El. li. 73. 
 
 Love the soft subject of his sportive Muse. 
 
 I have just received a letter from a gentleman, 
 who tells me he has observed, with no small con¬ 
 cern, that my papers have of late been very barren 
 in relation to love : a subject which, when agreea¬ 
 bly handled, can scarcely fail of being well re¬ 
 ceived by both sexes. 
 
 If my invention, therefore, should be almost 
 .exhausted on this head, he offers to serve under 
 
 me in the quality of a love-casuist; for which 
 place he conceives himself to be thoroughly qual¬ 
 ified, having made this passion his principal study, 
 and observed it in all its different shapes and ap¬ 
 pearances from the fifteenth to the forty-fifth year 
 of his age. 
 
 He assures me with an air of confidence, which 
 I hope proceeds from his real abilities, that he 
 does not doubt of giving judgment to the satisfac¬ 
 tion of the parties concerned on the most nice and 
 intricate cases W'hich can happen in an amour: as, 
 
 How great the contraction of the fingers must 
 be before it amounts to a squeeze by the hand. 
 
 What can be properly termed an absolute denial 
 from a maid, and what from a widow. 
 
 What advances a lover may presume to make, 
 after having received a pat upon his shoulder from 
 his mistress’s fan. 
 
 Whether a lady, at the first interview, may allow 
 a humble servant to kiss her hand. 
 
 How far it may be permitted to caress the maid, 
 in order to succeed with the mistress. 
 
 What constructions a man may put upon a smile, 
 and in what cases a frown goes for nothing. 
 
 On what occasion a sheepish look may do ser¬ 
 vice, etc. 
 
 As a further proof of his skill, he also sent me 
 several maxims in love, which he assures me are 
 the result of a long and profound reflection, some 
 of which I think myself obliged to communicate 
 to the public, not remembering to have seen them 
 before in any author : 
 
 “ There are more calamities in the world arising 
 from love than from hatred. 
 
 “ Love is the daughter of Idleness, but the mo¬ 
 ther of Disquietude. 
 
 “ Men of grave natures, says Sir Francis Bacon, 
 are the most constant; for the same reason men 
 should be more constant than women. 
 
 “ The gay part of mankind is most amorous, 
 the serious most loving. 
 
 “A coquette often loses her reputation while she 
 preserves her virtue. 
 
 “ A prude often preserves her reputation when 
 she has lost her virtue. 
 
 “Love refines a man’s behavior, but makes a 
 woman’s ridiculous. 
 
 “ Love is generally accompanied with good-will 
 in the young, interest in the middle-aged, and a 
 passion too gross to name in the old. 
 
 “ The endeavors to revive a decaying passion 
 generally extinguish the remains of it. 
 
 “ A woman who from being a slattern becomes 
 overneat, or from being overneat becomes a slat¬ 
 tern, is most certainly in love.” 
 
 I shall make use of this gentleman’s skill as I 
 see occasion; and since I am got upon the subject 
 of love, shall conclude this paper with a copy of 
 verses which were lately sent me by an unknown 
 hand, as I look upon them to be above the ordi¬ 
 nary run of sonneteers. 
 
 The author tells me they were written in one of 
 his despairing fits; and I find entertains some hope 
 that his mistress may pity such a passion as he 
 has described, before she knows that she is herself 
 Corinna: 
 
 Conceal, fond man, conceal the mighty smart, 
 
 Nor tell Corinna she has fir’d thy heart. 
 
 In rain wouldst thou complain, in yain pretend 
 To ask a pity which she must not lend. 
 
 She’s too much thy superior to comply, 
 
 And too, too fair to let thy passion die. 
 
 Languish in secret, and with dumb surprise 
 Drink the resistless glances of her eyes. 
 
 At awful distance entertain thy grief, 
 
 Be still in pain hut never ask relief. 
 
 Ne’er tempt her scorn of thy consuming state 
 Be any way undone, but fly her hate. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Thou must submit to see thy charmer bless 
 Some happier youth that shall admire her less; 
 Who in that lovely form, that heavenly mind, 
 
 Shall miss ten thousand beauties thou couldst find: 
 Who with low fancy shall approach her charms, 
 While half enjoy’d she sinks into his arms. 
 
 She knows not, must not know, thy noble fire, 
 Whom she and whom the Muses do inspire; 
 
 Her image only shall thy breast employ, 
 
 And fill thy captive soul with shades of joy; 
 
 Direct thy dreams by night, thy thoughts by day, 
 And never, never from thy bosom stray.* 
 
 No. 592.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 1714. 
 
 -Studium sine divite vena.— Hor. Ars Poet. ver. 409 
 
 Art without a vein.—R oscommon. 
 
 I look upon tlie playhouse as a world within 
 itself. They have lately furnished the middle re¬ 
 gion of it with a new set of meteors, in order to 
 give the sublime to many modern tragedies. I was 
 there last winter at the first rehearsal of the new 
 thunder,! which is much more deep and sonorous 
 than any hitherto made use of. They have a Sal- 
 moneus behind the scenes who plays it off with 
 great success. Their lightnings are made to flash 
 more briskly than heretofore; their clouds are also 
 better furbelowed, and more voluminous; not to 
 mention a violent storm locked up in a great chest, 
 that is designed for the Tempest. They are also 
 provided with above a dozen showers of snow, 
 which, as I am informed, are the plays of many 
 unsuccessful poets artificially cut and shredded 
 for that use. Mr. Rymer’s Edgar is to fall in snow 
 at the next acting of King Lear, in order to height¬ 
 en, or rather to alleviate, the distress of that un¬ 
 fortunate prince; and to serve by way of decoration 
 to a piece which that great critic has written 
 against. 
 
 I do not indeed wonder that the actors should 
 be such professed enemies to those among our na¬ 
 tion who are commonly known by the name of 
 critics, since it is a rule among these gentlemen to 
 fall upon a play, not because it is ill written, but 
 because it takes. Several of them lay it down as 
 a maxim, that whatever dramatic performance has 
 a long run, must of necessity be good for nothing; 
 as though the first precept in poetry were “not to 
 please/' Whether this rule holds good or not, I 
 shall leave to the determination of those who are 
 better judges than myself; if it does, I am sure it 
 tends very much to the honor of those gentlemen 
 who have established it; few of their pieces having 
 been disgraced by a run of three days, and most 
 of them being so exquisitely written, that the 
 town would never give them more than one night's 
 hearing. 
 
 I have a great esteem for a true critic, such as 
 Aristotle and Longinus among the Greeks; Horace 
 and Quintilian among the Romans; Boileau and 
 Dacier among the French. But it is our misfortune 
 that some, who set up for professed critics among 
 us, are so stupid, that they do not know how to 
 put ten words together with elegance or commcfn 
 propriety; and withal so illiterate, that they have 
 no taste of the learned languages, and therefore 
 criticise upon old authors only at second-hand. 
 They judge of them by what others have written, 
 and not by any notions they have of the authors 
 themselves. The words unity, action, sentiment, 
 and diction, pronounced with an air of authority, 
 give them a figure among unlearned readers, who 
 
 *The author of these verses was Gilbert, the second brother 
 of Eustace Budgell, Esq. 
 
 f Apparently an allusion to Mr. Dennis’ new and improved 
 method of making thunder; at whom several oblique strokes 
 in this paper seemed to have been aimed. 
 
 693 
 
 are apt to believe they are very deep because they are 
 unintelligible. The ancient critics are full of the 
 praises of their cotemporaries; they discover beau¬ 
 ties which escaped the observation of the vulgar, 
 and very often find out reasons for palliating and 
 excusing such little slips and oversights as were 
 committed in the writings of eminent authors. On 
 the contrary, most of the smatterers in criticism, 
 who appear among us, make it their business to 
 vilify and depreciate every new production that 
 gains applause, to decry imaginary blemishes, and 
 to prove, by far-fetched arguments, that what pass 
 for beauties in any celebrated piece are faults and 
 errors. In short, the writings of these critics, 
 compared with those of the ancients, are like the 
 works of the sophists compared with those of the 
 old philosophers. 
 
 Envy and cavil are the natural fruits of laziness 
 and ignorance; which was probably the reason, 
 that in the heathen mythology, Momus is said to 
 be the son of Nox and Sonmus, of darkness and 
 sleep. Idle men, who have not been at the pains 
 to accomplish or distinguish themselves, are very 
 apt to detract from others; as ignorant men are 
 very subject to decry those beauties in a celebrated 
 work which they have not eyes to discover. Many 
 of our sons of Momus, who dignify themselves by 
 the name of critics, are the genuine descendants 
 of these two illustrious ancestors. They are often 
 led into those numerous absurdities in which they 
 daily instruct the people, by not considering that, 
 first, there is sometimes a greater judgment shown 
 in deviating from the rules of art than in adhering to 
 them; and, secondly, that there is more beauty in 
 the works of a great genius, who is ignorant of 
 all the rules of art, than in the works of a little 
 genius, who not only knows but scrupulously ob¬ 
 serves them. 
 
 First, We may often take notice of men who are 
 perfectly acquainted with all the rules of good 
 writing, and notwithstanding choose to depart 
 from them on extraordinary occasions. I could 
 give, instances out of all the tragic writers of an¬ 
 tiquity who have shown their judgment in this 
 particular; and purposedly receded from an estab¬ 
 lished rule of the drama, when it has made way 
 for a much higher beauty than the observation of 
 such a rule would have been. Those who have 
 surveyed the noblest pieces of architecture and 
 statuary, both ancient and modern, know very well 
 that there are frequent deviations from art in the 
 works of the greatest masters, which have pro¬ 
 duced a much nobler effect than a more accurate 
 and exact way of proceeding could have done. 
 This often arises from what the Italians call the 
 gusto grande in these arts, which is what we call 
 the sublime in writing. 
 
 In the next place, our critics do not seem sensi¬ 
 ble that there is more beauty in the works of a 
 great genius, who is ignorant of the rules of art, 
 than in those of a little genius, who knows and 
 observes them. It is of these men of genius that 
 Terence speaks, in opposition to the little artificial 
 cavilers of his time: 
 
 Quorum asmulari exoptat negligentiam 
 
 Potius, quam istorum obscuram diligentiam. 
 
 "Whose negligence he would rather imitate than these 
 men’s obscure diligence. 
 
 A critic may have the same consolation in the ill 
 success of his play as Dr. South tells us a physi¬ 
 cian has at the death of a patient, that he was 
 killed secundumartem. Our inimitable Shakspeare 
 is a stumbling-block to the whole tribe of these 
 rigid critics. Who would not rather read one of 
 his plays, where there is not a single rule of the 
 stage observed, than any production of a modern 
 critic, where there is not one of them violated! 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 694 
 
 Shakspeare was indeed born with all the seeds of 
 poetry, and may be compared to the stone in 
 Pyrrhus’ ring, which as Pliny tells us, had the 
 figure of Apollo and the nine Muses in the veins 
 of it, produced by the spontaneous hand of nature, 
 without any help from art. 
 
 Ho. 593.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1714. 
 
 Quale, per incertam lunam, sub luce maligna, 
 
 Est iter iu sylvis- Virg. iEn. vi. 270. 
 
 Thus wander travelers in woods by night, 
 
 By the moon's doubtful and malignant light.— Dryden. 
 
 My dreaming correspondent, Mr. Shadow, has 
 sent me a second letter, with several curious obser¬ 
 vations on dreams in general, and the method to 
 render sleep improving; an extract of his letter will 
 not, I presume, be disagreeable to my readers. 
 
 “Since we have so little time to spare, that none 
 of it may be lost, 1 see no reason why we should 
 neglect to examine those imaginary scenes y?e are 
 
 f (resented with in sleep, only because they have 
 ess reality in them than our waking meditations. 
 A traveler would bring his judgment in question, 
 who should despise the directions of his map for 
 want of real roads in it, because here stands a dot 
 instead of a town, or a cipher instead of a city; 
 and it must be a long day’s journey to travel 
 through two or three inches. Fancy in dreams 
 give us much such another landscape of life as that 
 does of countries; and though its appearances 
 may seem strangely jumbled together, we may 
 often observe such traces and footsteps of noble 
 thoughts, as, if carefully pursued, might lead us 
 into a proper path of action. There is so much 
 rapture and ecstasy in our fancied bliss, and some¬ 
 thing so dismal and shocking in our fancied mis¬ 
 ery, that, though the inactivity of the body has 
 given occasion for calling sleep the image of dfeath, 
 the briskness of the fancy affords us a strong in¬ 
 timation of something within us that can never 
 die. 
 
 “I have wondered that Alexander the Great, 
 who came into the world sufficiently dreamed of 
 by his parents, and had himself a tolerable knack 
 at dreaming, should often say that sleep was one 
 thing which made him sensible he was mortal. 
 I, who have not such fields of action in the day¬ 
 time to divert my attention from this matter, plainly 
 perceive that in those operations of the mind, 
 while the body is at rest, there is a certain vastness 
 of conception very suitable to the capacity, and 
 demonstrative of the force of that divine part in 
 our composition which will last forever. Neither 
 do I much doubt but, had we a true account of the 
 wonders the hero last mentioned performed in his 
 sleep, his conquering this little globe would hardly 
 be worth mentioning. I may affirm, without van¬ 
 ity, that, when I compare several actions in Quin¬ 
 tus Curtius with some others in my own noctuary, 
 I appear the greater hero of the two.” 
 
 I shall close this subject with observing, that 
 while we are awake we are at liberty to fix our 
 thoughts on what we please, but in sleep we have 
 not the command of them. The ideas which strike 
 the fancy arise in us without our choice, either 
 from the occurrences of the day past, the temper 
 we lie down in, or it may be the direction of some 
 superior being. 
 
 It is certain the imagination may be so differ¬ 
 ently affected in sleep, that our actions of the day 
 might be either rewarded or punished with a little 
 age of happiness or misery. St. Austin was of 
 opinion that, if in Paradise there was the same 
 
 vicissitude of sleeping and waking as in the pres¬ 
 ent world, the dreams of its inhabitants would be 
 very happy. 
 
 And so far at present our dreams are in power, 
 that they are generally conformable to our waking 
 thoughts, so that it is not impossible to convey 
 ourselves to a concert of music, the conversation 
 of distant friends, or any other entertainment 
 which has been before lodged in the mind. 
 
 My readers, by applying these hints, will find 
 the necessity of making a good day of it, if they 
 heartily wish themselves a good night. 
 
 I have considered Marcia’s prayer, and Lucius’s 
 account of Cato, in this light: 
 
 Marc. 0 ye immortal powers that guard the just, 
 
 Watch round his couch, and soften his repose, 
 
 Banish his sorrows, and becalm his soul 
 With easy dreams; remember all his virtues, 
 
 And show mankind that goodness is your care. 
 
 Luc. Sweet are the slumbers of the virtuous man! 
 
 0 Marcia, I have seen thy godlike father; 
 
 Some power invisible supports his soul, 
 
 And bears it up in all its wonted greatness. 
 
 A kind refreshing sleep is fallen upon him; 
 
 I saw him stretch’d at ease, his fancy lost 
 
 In pleasing dreams; as I drew near his couch 
 
 lie smil’d, and cried, Caesar, thou canst not hurt me! 
 
 Mr. Shadow acquaints me in a postscript, that 
 he has no manner of title to the vision which suc¬ 
 ceeded his first letter; but adds, that, as the gen¬ 
 tleman who wrote it dreams very sensibly, he shall 
 be glad to meet him some night or other, under the 
 great elm-tree, by which Yirgil has given us a fine 
 metaphorical image of sleep, in order to turn over 
 a few of the leaves together, and oblige the public 
 with an account of the dreams that lie under them. 
 
 No. 594.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 15, 1714. 
 
 -Absentem qui rodit amicum, 
 
 Qui non defendit, alio culpante; solutos 
 Qui captat risus hominum, famamque dicacis 
 Fingere qui non visa potest; commissa tacere 
 Qui nequit; hie niger est; hunc tu, Romane, caveto. 
 
 IIor. 1 Sat. iv. 81. 
 
 He that shall rail against his absent friends, 
 
 Or hears them scandaliz’d, and not defends; 
 
 Sports with their fame, and speaks whate’er he can, 
 
 And only to be thought a witty man; 
 
 Tells tales, and brings his friends in disesteem; 
 
 That man’s a knave;—be sure beware of him.—C reech. 
 
 Were all the vexations of life put together, we 
 should find that a great part of them proceed from 
 those calumnies and reproaches which we spread 
 abroad concerning one another. 
 
 There is scarce a man living, who is not, in 
 some degree, guilty of this offense; though at the 
 same time, however we treat one another, it must 
 be confessed, that we all consent in speaking ill 
 of the persons who are notorious for this practice. 
 It generally takes its rise either from an ill-will to 
 mankind, a private inclination to make ourselves 
 esteemed, an ostentation of wit, and vanity of be¬ 
 ing thought in the secrets of the world; or from 
 a desire of gratifying any of these dispositions of 
 mind in those persons with whom we converse. 
 
 The publisher of scandal is more or less odious 
 to mankind, and criminal in himself, as he is in¬ 
 fluenced by any one or more of the foregoing mo¬ 
 tives. But, whatever may be the occasion of 
 spreading these false reports, he ought to consider 
 that the effect of them is equally prejudicial and 
 pernicious to the person at whom they are aimed. 
 The injury is the same, though the principle from 
 whence it proceeds may be different. 
 
 As every one looks upon himself with too much 
 indulgence when he passes a judgment on his own 
 thoughts or actions, and as very few would be 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 thought guilty of this abominable proceeding, 
 which is so universally practiced, and at the same 
 time so universally blamed, I shall lay down three 
 rules, by which I would have a man examine and 
 searcli into his own heart, before he stands acquit¬ 
 ted to himself of that evil disposition of mind 
 which I am here mentioning. 
 
 First of all, Let him consider whether he does 
 not take delight in hearing the faults of others. 
 
 Secondly, Whether he is not too apt to believe 
 such little blackening accounts, and more inclined 
 to be credulous on the uncharitable than on the 
 good-natured side. 
 
 Thirdly, Whether he is not ready to spread and 
 propagate such reports as tend to tne disreputation 
 of another. 
 
 These are the several steps by which this vice 
 proceeds and grows up into slander and defama¬ 
 tion. 
 
 In the first place, a man who takes delight in 
 hearing the faults of others, shows sufficiently that 
 he has a true relish of scandal, and consequently 
 the seeds of this vice, within him. If his mind 
 is gratified with hearing the reproaches which are 
 cast on others, he will find the same pleasure in 
 relating them, and be the more apt to ao it, as he 
 will naturally imagine every one he converses with 
 is delighted in the same manner with himself. A 
 man should endeavor, therefore, to wear out of his 
 mind this criminal curiosity, which is perpetually 
 heightened and inflamed by listening to such 
 stories as tend to the disreputation of others. 
 
 In the second place, a man should consult his 
 own heart whether he be not apt to believe such 
 little blackening accounts, and more inclined to be 
 credulous on the uncharitable than on the good- 
 natured side. 
 
 Such a credulity is very vicious in itself, and 
 generally arises from a man’s consciousness of his 
 own secret corruptions. It is a pretty saying of 
 Thales, “Falsehood is just as far distant from 
 truth as the ears are from the eyes.”* By which 
 he would intimate, that a wise man should not 
 easily give credit to the reports of actions which 
 he has not seen. I shall, under this head, men¬ 
 tion two or three remarkable rules to be observed 
 by the members of the celebrated Abby de la 
 Trappe, as they are published in a little French 
 book.f 
 
 The fathers are there ordered never to give an 
 ear to any accounts of base or criminal actions; to 
 turn off all such discourse if possible; but, in case 
 they hear anything of this nature, so well attested 
 that they cannot disbelieve it, they are then to 
 suppose that the criminal action may have pro¬ 
 ceeded from a good intention in him who is guilty 
 of it. This is, perhaps, carrying charity to an ex¬ 
 travagance; but it is certainly much more laudable 
 than to suppose, as the ill-natured part of the 
 world does, that indifferent and even good actions 
 proceed from bad principles and wrong intentions. 
 
 In the third place, a man should examine 
 his heart, wliether he does not find in it a secret 
 inclination to propagate such reports as tend to the 
 disreputation of another. 
 
 When the disease of the mind, which I have 
 hitherto been speaking of, arises to this degree of 
 malignity, it discovers itself in its worst symp¬ 
 tom, and is in danger of becoming incurable. I 
 need not, therefore, insist upon the guilt in this 
 last particular, which every one cannot but disap¬ 
 prove, who is not void of humanity, or even com¬ 
 
 * St biei Serm. 61. 
 
 f Felibien, Description del’Abbaye de la Trappe, Paris, 1671: 
 reprinted in 1682. It is a letter of M. Felibien to the Duchess 
 of Liancourt. 
 
 695 
 
 mon discretion. I shall only add, that whatever 
 pleasure any man may take in spreading whispers 
 of this nature, he will find an infinitely greater 
 satisfaction in conquering the temptation he is 
 under, by letting the secret die within his own 
 breast. 
 
 No. 595.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 1714. 
 
 -Non ut placidis coeant immitia, non ut 
 
 Serpentes avibus geminentur, tigribus agni. 
 
 Hoe. Ars Poet. ver. 12. 
 
 -Nature, and the common laws of sense, 
 
 Forbid to reconcile antipathies; 
 
 Or make a snake engender with a dove, 
 
 And hungry tigers court the tender lambs.— Roscommon. 
 
 If ordinary authors would condescend to write 
 as they think, they would at least be allowed the 
 praise of being intelligible. But they really take 
 pains to be ridiculous; and, by the studied orna¬ 
 ments of style, perfectly disguise the little sense 
 they aim at. There is a grievance of this sort in 
 the commonwealth of letters, which I have for 
 sometime resolved to redress, and accordingly I 
 have set this day apart for justice. What I mean 
 is the mixture of inconsistent metaphors, which is 
 a fault but too often found in learned writers, but 
 in all the unlearned without exception. 
 
 In order to set this matter in a clear light to 
 every reader, I shall in the first place observe, that 
 a metaphor is a simile in one word, w T hich serves 
 to convey the thoughts of the mind under resem¬ 
 blances and images which affect the senses. There 
 is not anything in the world which may not be 
 compared to several things, if considered in sev¬ 
 eral distinct lights; or, in other words, the same 
 thing may be expressed by different metaphors. 
 But the mischief is, that an unskillful author shall 
 run these metaphors so absurdly into one another, 
 that there shall be no simile, no agreeable picture, 
 no apt resemblance; but confusion, obscurity, and 
 noise. Thus I have known a hero compared to a 
 thunderbolt, a lion, and the sea; all and each of 
 them proper metaphors for impetuosity, courage, 
 or force. But by bad management it hath so hap- 
 ened, that the thunderbolt hath overflowed its 
 anks, the lion hath been darted through the skies, 
 and the billows have rolled out of the Libyan 
 desert. 
 
 The absurdity in this instance is obvious. And 
 yet every time that clashing metaphors are put 
 together, this fault is committed more or less. It 
 hath already been said, that metaphors are images 
 of things which affect the senses. An image, 
 therefore, taken from what acts upon the sight, 
 cannot, without violence, be applied to the hear¬ 
 ing; and so of the rest. It is no less an impro¬ 
 priety to make any being in nature or art to do 
 things in its metaphorical state, which it could not 
 do in its original. I shall illustrate what I have 
 said by an instance which I have read more than 
 once in controversial writers. “ The heavy lashes,” 
 saith a celebrated author, “ that have dropped from 
 your pen,” etc. I suppose this gentleman having 
 frequently heard of “gall dropping from a pen, 
 and being lashed in a satire,” he was resolved to 
 have them both at any rate, and so uttered this 
 complete piece of nonsense. It will most effectu¬ 
 ally discover the absurdity of these monstrous 
 unions, if we will suppose these metaphors or im¬ 
 ages actually painted. Imagine then a hand hold¬ 
 ing a pen, and several lashes of whipcord falling 
 from it, and you have the true representation ot 
 this sort of eloquence. I believe, by this very 
 rule, a reader may be able to judge of the union of 
 all metaphors watsoever, and determine which are 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 696 
 
 homogeneous, and which are heterogeneous; or to 
 speak more plainly, which are consistent and 
 which inconsistent. 
 
 There is yet one evil more which I must take, 
 notice of, and that is the running of metaphors 
 into tedious allegories; which, though an error on 
 the better hand, causes confusion as much as the 
 other. This becomes abominable, when the luster 
 of one word leads a writer out of his road, and 
 makes him wander from his subject for a page to¬ 
 gether. I remember a young fellow of this turn, 
 who, having said by chance that his mistress had 
 a world of charms, thereupon took occasion to 
 consider her as one possessed of frigid and torrid 
 zones, and pursued her from the one pole to the 
 other. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with a letter written 
 in that enormous style, which I hope my reader 
 hath by this time set his heart against. The epistle 
 hath heretofore received great applause; but after 
 what hath been said, let any man commend it if 
 he dare. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “ After the many heavy lashes that have fallen 
 from your pen, you may justly expect in return all 
 the load that my ink can lay upon your shoulders. 
 You have quartered all the foul language upon me 
 that could have raked out of the air of Billings¬ 
 gate, without knowing who I am, or whether I de¬ 
 served to be cupped and scarified at this rate. I 
 tell you once for all, turn your eyes where you 
 please, you shall never smell me out. Do you 
 think that the panics, which you sow about "the 
 parish, will ever build a monument to your glory? 
 Ho, Sir, you may fight these battles as long as you 
 will; but when yon come to balance the account, 
 you will find that you have been fishing in troub¬ 
 led waters, and that an ignis fatuus hath bewildered 
 you, and that indeed you have built upon a sandy 
 foundation, and brought your hogs to a fair market. 
 
 “ I am, Sir, yours,” etc. 
 
 Ho. 596.] MOHDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1714. 
 
 Molle meurn levibus cor est violabile telis. 
 
 Ovid, Ep.xv. 79. 
 
 Cupid’s light darts my tender bosom move.— Pope. 
 
 The case of my correspondent, who sends me 
 the following letter, has somewhat in it so very 
 whimsical, that I know not how to entertain my 
 readers better than by laying it before them: 
 
 “Sir, Middle Temple, Sept. 18 . 
 
 “I am fully convinced that there is not upon 
 earth a more impertinent creature than an impor¬ 
 tunate lover. We are daily complaining of the 
 severity of our fate to people who are wholly un¬ 
 concerned in it; and hourly improving a passion, 
 which we would persuade the world is the torment 
 of our lives, notwithstanding this reflection. Sir, 
 1 cannot forbear acquainting you with my own 
 case. You must know then, Sir, that, even from 
 my childhood, the most prevailing inclination I 
 could perceive in myself was a strong desire to be 
 in favor with the fair sex. I am at present in the 
 one-and-twentieth year of my age; and should 
 have made choice of a she bedfellow many years 
 since, had not my father, who has a pretty good 
 estate of his own getting, and passes in the world 
 for a prudent man, been pleased to lay it down as 
 a maxim, that nothing spoils a young fellow’s for¬ 
 tune so soon as marrying early; and that no man 
 ought to think of wedlock until six-and-twenty. 
 Knowing his sentiments upon this head, I thought 
 
 it in vain to apply myself to women of condition 
 who expect settlements; so that all my amours 
 have hitherto been with ladies who had no for¬ 
 tunes; but I know not how to give you so good an 
 idea of me, as by laying before you the history of 
 my life. 
 
 “ I can very well remember, that at my school¬ 
 mistress’s, whenever we broke up, I was always for 
 joining myself with the miss who lay-in, and was 
 constantly one of the first to make a party in the 
 play of Husband and Wife. This passion for be¬ 
 ing well with the females still increased as I ad¬ 
 vanced in years. At the dancing-school I con¬ 
 tracted so many quarrels by struggling with my 
 fellow-scholars for the partner I liked best, that 
 upon a ball-night, before our mothers made their 
 appearance, I was usually up to the nose in blood. 
 My father, like a discreet man, soon removed me 
 from this stage of softness to a school of discipline, 
 where I learnt Latin and Greek. I underwent sev¬ 
 eral severities in this place, until it was thought 
 convenient to send me to the university; though, 
 to confess the truth, I should not have arrived so 
 early at that seat of learning, but from the discov¬ 
 ery of an intrigue between me and my master’s 
 housekeeper; upon whom I had employed my 
 rhetoric so effectually, that, though she was a very 
 elderly lady, I had almost brought her to consent 
 to marry me. Upon my arrival at Oxford, I found 
 logic so dry, that instead of giving attention to the 
 dead, I soon fell to addressing the living. My first 
 amour was with a pretty girl whom I shall call 
 Parthenope; her mother sold ale by the town-wall. 
 Being often caught there by the proctor, I was 
 forced at last, that my mistress’s reputation might 
 receive no blemish, to confess my addresses were 
 honorable. Upon this I was immediately sent 
 home; but Parthenope soon after marrying a shoe¬ 
 maker, I was again suffered to return. My next 
 affair was with my tailor’s daughter, who deserted 
 me for the sake of a young barber. Upon my 
 complaining to one of my particular friends of 
 this misfortune, the cruel wag made a mere jest 
 of my calamity, and asked me with a smile, where 
 the needle should turn but to the pole ?* After this 
 I was deeply in love with a milliner, and at last 
 with my bed-maker; upon which I was sent away, 
 or, in the university phrase, rusticated forever. 
 
 “Upon my coming home, I settled to my studies 
 so heartily, and contracted so great a reservedness 
 by being kept from the company I most affected, 
 that my father thought he might venture me at 
 the Temple. 
 
 “Within a week after my arrival, I began to 
 shine again, and became enamored with a mighty 
 pretty creature, who had everything but money to 
 recommend her. Having frequent opportunities 
 of uttering all the soft things which a heart formed 
 for love could inspire me with, I soon gained her 
 consent to treat of marriage; but unfortunately for 
 us all, in the absence of my charmer I usually 
 talked the same language to her eldest sister, who 
 is also very pretty. How I assure you, Mr. Spec¬ 
 tator, this aid not proceed from any real affection I 
 had conceived for her ; but, being a perfect stran¬ 
 ger to the conversation of men, and strongly ad¬ 
 dicted to associate with the women, I knew no 
 other language but that of love. I should, how¬ 
 ever be very much obliged to you if you could free 
 me from the perplexity I am at present in. I have 
 sent word to my old gentleman in the country that 
 I am desperately in love with the younger sister ; 
 and her father, who knew no better, poor man, ac¬ 
 quainted him by the same post, that I had for 
 some time made my addresses to the elder. Upon 
 
 * The common sign of a barber’s shop. 
 
\ 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 697 
 
 this, old Testy sends me up word, that he has 
 heard so much of my exploits, that he intends im¬ 
 mediately to order me to the South-sea. Sir, I 
 have occasionally talked so much of dying, that I 
 beffin to think there is not much in it; and if the 
 old ’squire persists in his design, I do hereby 
 give him notice that I am providing myself with 
 proper instruments for the destruction of despair¬ 
 ing lovers : let him therefore look to it, and con¬ 
 sider that by his obstinacy he may himself lose 
 the son of his strength, the world a hopeful lawyer, 
 my mistress a passionate lover, and you, Mr. 
 Spectator, 
 
 “Your constant Admirer, 
 
 “Jeremy Lovemore.” 
 
 Ho. 597.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 22, 1714. 
 
 -Mens sine pondere ludit.— Petr. 
 
 The mind uncumber’d plays. 
 
 Since I received my friend Shadow’s letter, sev¬ 
 eral of my correspondents have been pleased to 
 send me an account how they have been employed 
 in sleep, and v hat notable adventures they have 
 been engaged in during that moonshine in the 
 brain. I shall lay before my readers an abridg¬ 
 ment of some few of their extravagances, in hopes 
 that they will in time accustom themselves to 
 dream a little more to the purpose. 
 
 One, who styles himself Gladio, complains 
 heavily that his fair oue charges him with incon¬ 
 stancy, and does not use him with half the kind¬ 
 ness which the sincerity of his passion may de¬ 
 mand; the said Gladio having by valor and strata¬ 
 gem put to death tyrants, enchanters, monsters, 
 knights, etc., without number, and exposed him¬ 
 self to all manner of dangers for her sake and 
 safety. He desires in his postscript to know 
 whether, from a constant success in them, he may 
 not promise himself to succeed in her esteem at 
 last. 
 
 Another, who is very prolix in his narrative, 
 wiites me word, that having sent a venture beyond 
 sea, he took occasion one night to fancy himself 
 gone along with it, and grown on a sudden the 
 richest man in all the Indies. Having been there 
 about a year or two, a gust of wind, that forced 
 open his casement, blew him over to his native 
 country again, where awaking at six o’clock, and 
 the change of the air not agreeing with him, he 
 turned to his left side in order to a second voyage; 
 but ere he could get on shipboard, was unfortu¬ 
 nately apprehended for stealing a horse, tried and 
 condemned for the fact, and in a fair way of beino- 
 executed, if somebody stepping hastily into his 
 chamber, had not brought him a reprieve. This 
 fellow, too, wants Mr. Shadow’s advice; who, I 
 dare say, would bid him be content to rise after 
 his first nap, and learn to be satisfied as soon as 
 nature is. 
 
 I he next is a public-spirited gentleman, who 
 tells me, that on the second of September, at night, 
 the whole city was on fire, and would certainly 
 have been reduced to ashes again by this time, if 
 he had not flown over it with the Hew River on 
 his back, and happily extinguished the flames be¬ 
 fore they had prevailed too far. He would be in¬ 
 formed whether he has not a right to petition the 
 lord mayor and aldermen for a reward. 
 
 A letter, dated September the 9th, acquaints me, 
 that the writer, being resolved to try his fortune, 
 had fasted all that day; and, that he might be 
 sure of dreaming upon something at night, pro¬ 
 cured a handsome slice of bride-cake, which he 
 placed very conveniently under his pillow. In 
 
 the morning his memory happened to fail him, 
 and he could recollect nothing but an odd fancy 
 that he had eaten his cake : which being found 
 upon search reduced to a few crumbs, he is re¬ 
 solved to remember more of his dreams another 
 time, believing from this that there may possibly 
 be somewhat of truth in them. 
 
 I have received numerous complaints from sev¬ 
 eral delicious dreamers, desiring me to invent 
 some method of silencing those noisy slaves whose 
 occupations lead them to take their early rounds 
 about the city in a morning, doing a deal of mis¬ 
 chief, and working a strange confusion in the 
 affairs of its inhabitants. Several monarchs have 
 done me the the honor to acquaint me how often 
 they have been shook from their respective thrones 
 by the rattling of a coach or the rumbling of a 
 wheelbarrow. And many private gentlemen, I 
 find, have been bawled out of vast estates by fel¬ 
 lows not worth three-pence. A fair lady was just 
 on the point of being married to a young, hand¬ 
 some, rich, ingenious nobleman, when an imper¬ 
 tinent tinker passing by forbid the bans ; and a 
 hopeful youth, who had been newly advanced to 
 great honor and preferment, was forced by a 
 neighboring cobbler to resign all for an old song. 
 It has been represented to me that those inconsid¬ 
 erable rascals do nothing but go about dissolving 
 of marriages, and spoiling of fortunes, impover¬ 
 ishing rich, and ruining great people, interrupting 
 beauties in the midst of their conquests, and gen¬ 
 erals in the course of their victories. A boister¬ 
 ous peripatetic hardly goes through a street with¬ 
 out waking half a dozen kings and princes, to 
 open their shops or clean shoes, frequently trans¬ 
 forming scepters into paring-shovels, and pro¬ 
 clamations into bills. I have by me a letter from 
 a young statesman, who in five or six hours came 
 to be emperor of Europe, after which he made war 
 upon the Great Turk, routed him horse arid foot, 
 and was crowned lord of the universe in Constan¬ 
 tinople: the conclusion of all his successes is, that 
 on the 12th instant, about seven in the morning, 
 his imperial majesty was deposed by a chimney¬ 
 sweeper. 
 
 .On the other hand, I have epistolary testimo¬ 
 nies of gratitude from many miserable people, 
 who owe to this clamorous tribe frequent deliver¬ 
 ances from great misfortunes. A small-coalman,* 
 by waking one of these distressed gentlemen, 
 saved him from ten years’ imprisonment. An 
 honest watchman, bidding a loud good-morrow to 
 another, freed him from the malice of many potent 
 enemies, and brought all their designs against 
 him to nothing. A certain valetudinarian con¬ 
 fesses he has often been cured of a sore throat by 
 the hoarseness of a carman, and relieved from a fit 
 of the gout by the sound of old shoes. A noisy 
 puppy, that plagued a sober gentleman all night 
 long with his impertinence, was silenced by a cin¬ 
 der-wench with a word speaking. 
 
 Instead, therefore, of suppressing this order of 
 mortals, I would propose it to my readers to make 
 the best advantage of their morning salutations. 
 A famous Macedonian prince, for fear of forgetting 
 himself in the midst of his good fortune, had a 
 youth to wait on him every morning, and bid him 
 remember that he was a man. A citizen who is 
 waked by one of these criers, may regard him as a 
 kind of remembrancer, come to admonish him 
 that it is time to return to the circumstances he 
 has overlooked all the night time, to leave off fan¬ 
 cying himself what he is not, and prepare to act 
 suitably to the condition he is really placed in. 
 
 * Sir John Hawkins’s Hist, of Music, vol. v. p. 70. The 
 name of this famous musical man was Thomas Britton. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 698 
 
 People may dream on as long as they please, but 
 I shall take no notice of any imaginary adven¬ 
 tures that do not happen while the sun is on this 
 side the horizon. For which reason I stifle Fri- 
 tilla’s dream at church last Sunday, who, while 
 the rest of the audience were enjoying the benefit 
 of an excellent discourse, was losing her money 
 and jewels to a gentleman at play, until after a 
 strange run of ill-luck she was reduced to pawn 
 three lovely, pretty children for her last stake. 
 When she had thrown them away, her companion 
 went off, discovering himself by his usual tokens, 
 a cloven foot and a strong smell of brimstone, 
 which last proved only a bottle of spirits, which a 
 good old lady applied to her nose, to put her in a 
 condition of hearing the preacher’s third head con¬ 
 cerning time. 
 
 If a man has no mind to pass abruptly from his 
 imagined to his real circumstances, he may em¬ 
 ploy himself awhile in that new kind of observa¬ 
 tion which my oneirocritical correspondent has 
 directed him to make of himself. Pursuing the im¬ 
 agination through all its extravagances, whether 
 in sleeping or waking, is no improper method of 
 correcting and bringing it to act in subordinacy 
 to reason, so as to be delighted only with such 
 objects as will affect it with pleasure when it is 
 never so cold and sedate. 
 
 Ho. 598.] FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1714. 
 
 Jamne igitur laudas, quod de sapientibus alter 
 Ridebat, quoties a limine moverat unum 
 Protuleratque pedem: flebat contrarius alter? 
 
 Juv, Sat. x. 28. 
 
 Will ye not now the pair of sages praise, 
 
 Who the same end pursu’d by several ways ? 
 
 One pitied’, one condemn’d, the woeful times; 
 
 One laugh’d at follies, one lamented crimes.— Drtden. 
 
 Mankind may be divided into the merry and the 
 serious, who both of them make a very good figure 
 in the species, so long as they keep their respec¬ 
 tive humors from degenerating into the neighbor¬ 
 ing extreme ; there being a natural tendency in 
 the one to a melancholy moroseness, and in the 
 other to a fantastic levity. 
 
 The merry part of the world are very amiable, 
 while they diffuse a cheerfulness through conver¬ 
 sation at proper seasons and on proper occasions; 
 but, on the contrary, a great grievance to society 
 when they infect every discourse with insipid 
 mirth, and turn into ridicule such subjects as are 
 not suited to it. For though laughter is looked 
 upon by the philosopher as the property of reason, 
 the excess of it has been always considered as the 
 mark of folly. 
 
 On the other side, seriousness has its beauty 
 while it is attended with cheerfulness and human¬ 
 ity, and does not come in unseasonably to pall the 
 good-humor of those with whom we converse. 
 
 These two sets of men, notwithstanding that 
 each of them shine in their respective characters, 
 are apt to bear a natural aversion and antipathy 
 to one another. 
 
 What is more usual than to hear men of serious 
 tempers, and austere morals, enlarging upon the 
 vanities and follies of the young and gay part of 
 the species, while they look with a kind of horror 
 upon such pomps and diversions as are innocent 
 in themselves, and only culpable when they draw 
 the mind too much ? 
 
 I could not but smile upon reading a passage 
 in the account which Mr. Baxter gives of his own 
 life, wherein he represents it as a great blessing 
 that in his youth he very narrowly escaped getting 
 a place at court. 
 
 It must indeed be confessed that levity of tem¬ 
 per takes a man off his guard, and opens a pass 
 to his soul for any temptation that assaults it. It 
 favors all the approaches of vice, and weakens all 
 the resistance of virtue; for which reason a re¬ 
 nowned statesman in Queen Elizabeth’s days, 
 after having retired from court and public busi¬ 
 ness, in order to give himself up to the duties of 
 religion, when any of his old friends used to visit 
 him, had still this word of advice in his mouth, 
 “ Be serious.” 
 
 An eminent Italian author of this cast of mind, 
 speaking of the great advantage of a serious and 
 composed temper, wishes very gravely, that for 
 the benefit of mankind he had Trophonius’s cave 
 in his possession; w r hich, says he, would con¬ 
 tribute more to the reformation of manners than 
 all the workhouses and bridewells in Europe. 
 
 We have a very particular description of this 
 cave in Pausanias, who tells us that it was made 
 in the form of a huge oven, and had many particu¬ 
 lar circumstances, which disposed the person who 
 was in it to be more pensive and thoughtful than 
 ordinary; insomuch, that no man was ever ob¬ 
 served to laugh all his life after, who had once 
 made his entry into this cave. It was usual in 
 those times, when any one carried a more than or¬ 
 dinary gloominess in his features, to tell him that 
 he looked like one just come out of Trophonius’s 
 cave. 
 
 On the other hand, writers of a more merry com¬ 
 plexion have been no less severe on the opposite 
 party; and have had one advantage above them, 
 that they have attacked them with more turns of 
 wit and humor. 
 
 After all, if a man’s temper were at his own dis¬ 
 posal, I think he would not choose to be of either 
 of these parties; since the most perfect character 
 is that which is formed out of both of them. A 
 man would neither choose to be a hermit or a buf¬ 
 foon ; human nature is not so miserable, as that we 
 should be always melancholy; nor so happy, as 
 that we should be always merry. In a word, a 
 man should not live as if there was no God in the 
 world, nor, at the same time, as if there were no 
 men in it. 
 
 No. 599.] MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 1714. 
 
 -TJbique 
 
 Luctus, ubique paA r or. —Virg. xEn. ii. 369. 
 
 All parts resound with tumults, plaints, and fears. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 It has been my custom, as I grow old, to allow 
 myself in some little indulgences, which I never 
 took in my youth. Among others is that of an 
 afternoon’s nap, which I fell into in the fifty-fifth 
 year of my age, and have continued for the three 
 last years past. By this means, I enjoy a double 
 morning, and rise twice a day fresh to my specu¬ 
 lations. It happens very luckily for me, that some 
 of my dreams have proved instructive to my coun¬ 
 trymen, so that I may be said to sleep, as well as 
 to wake, for the good of the public. I was yester¬ 
 day meditating on the account with which I have 
 already entertained my readers concerning the cave 
 of Trophonius. I was no sooner fallen into my 
 usual slumber, but I dreamed that this cave was 
 put into my possession, and that I gave public 
 notice of its virtue, inviting every one to it who 
 had a mind to be a serious man for the remaining 
 part of his life. Great multitudes immediately 
 resorted to me. The first who made the experiment 
 was a merry-andrew, who was put into my hands 
 by a neighboring justice of the peace, in order to 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 reclaim him from that profligate kind of life. Poor 
 pickle-herring had not taken above one turn in it, 
 when he came out of the cave, like a hermit from 
 his cell, with a penitential look and a most rueful 
 countenance. 1 then put in a young laughing fop, 
 and watching for his return, asked him, with a 
 smile,how he liked the place? He replied, “Pri¬ 
 thee, friend, be not impertinent;” and stalked by 
 me as grave as a judge. A citizen then desired 
 me to give free ingress and egress to his wife, who 
 was dressed in the gayest-colored ribbons I had 
 ever seen. She went in with a flirt of her fan and 
 a smirking countenance, but came out with the se¬ 
 verity of a vestal; and throwing from her several 
 female gewgaws, told me with a sigh, that she re¬ 
 solved to go into deep mourning, and to wear black 
 all the rest of her life. As I had many coquettes 
 recommended to me by their parents, their hus¬ 
 bands, and their lovers, I let them in all at once, 
 desiring them to divert themselves together as well 
 as they could. Upon their emerging again into 
 day-light, you would have fancied my cave to have 
 been a nunnery, and that you had seen a solemn 
 procession of the religious marching out, one behind 
 another, in the most profound silence and the most 
 exemplary decency. As I was very much delighted 
 with so edifying a sight, there came toward me a 
 great company of males and females, laughing, 
 singing, and dancing, in such a manner, that I 
 could hear them a great while before I saw them. 
 Upon my asking their leader what brought them 
 thither? they told me all at once that they were 
 French Protestants lately arrived in Great Britain; 
 and that, finding themselves of too gay a humor 
 for my country, they applied themselves to me in 
 order to compose them for British conversation. I 
 told them that, to oblige them, I would soon spoil 
 their mirth; upon which, I admitted a whole shoal 
 of them, who, after having taken a survey of the 
 place, came out in very good order, and with looks 
 entirely English. I afterward put in a Dutch¬ 
 man, who had a great fancy to see the kelder, as he 
 called it; but I could not observe that it had made 
 any manner of alteration in him. 
 
 A comedian, who had gained great reputation in 
 parts of humor, told me that he had a mighty 
 mind to act Alexander the Great, and fancied that 
 he should succeed very well in it, if he could 
 strike two or three laughing features out of his 
 face. He tried the experiment, but contracted so 
 very solid a look by it, that I am afraid he will 
 be fit for no part hereafter but a Timon of Athens, 
 or a mute in The Funeral. 
 
 I then clapped up an empty fantastic citizen, in 
 order to qualify him for an alderman. He was 
 succeeded by a young rake of the Middle Temple, 
 who was brought to me by his grandmother; but, 
 to her great sorrow and surprise, he came out a 
 Quaker. Seeing myself surrounded with a body 
 of Freethinkers and scoffers at religion, who were 
 making themselves merry at the sober looks and 
 thoughtful brows of those who had been in the 
 cave, I thurst them all in, one after another, and 
 locked the door upon them. Upon my opening it, 
 they all looked as if they had been frightened out 
 of their wits, and were marching away with ropes 
 in their hands to a wood that was within sight of 
 the place. I found they were not able to bear 
 themselves in their first serious thoughts; but, 
 knowing these would quickly bring them to a bet¬ 
 ter frame of mind, I gave them into theyiustody 
 of their friends until that happy change was 
 wrought in them. 
 
 The last that was brought to me was a young 
 woman, who at the first sight of my short face fell 
 into an immoderate fit of laughter, and was forced 
 to hold her sides all the while her mother was 
 
 699 
 
 speaking to me. Upon this, I interrupted the 
 old lady, and taking the daughter by the hand, 
 “Madam,” said I, “be pleased to retire into my 
 closet, while your mother tells me your case.” I 
 then put her into the mouth of the cave; when the 
 mother, after having begged pardon for the girl’s 
 rudeness, told me that she often treated her father 
 and the gravest of her relations in the same man¬ 
 ner; that she would sit giggling and laughing with 
 her companions from one end of a tragedy to the 
 other; nay, that she would sometimes burst out in 
 the middle of a sermon, and set the whole congre¬ 
 gation a-staring at her. The mother was going 
 on, when the young lady came out of the cave to 
 us with a composed countenance and a low court- 
 sey. She was a girl of such exuberant mirth, that 
 her visit to Trophonius only reduced her to a more 
 than ordinary decency of behavior, and made a 
 very pretty prude of her. After having performed 
 innumerable cures, I looked about me with great 
 satisfaction, and saw all my patients walking by 
 themselves in a very pensive and musing posture, 
 so that the whole place seemed covered with philo¬ 
 sophers. I was at length resolved to go into the 
 cave myself, and see what it was that had pro¬ 
 duced such wonderful effects upon the company; 
 but as I was stooping at the entrance, the door 
 being something low, I gave such a nod in my 
 chair that I awoke. After having recovered 
 myself from my first startle, I was very well 
 pleased at the accident which had befallen me, as 
 not knowing but a little stay in the place might 
 have spoiled my Spectators. 
 
 Ho. 600.] WEDNESDAY, SEPT. 29, 1714. 
 
 -Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt. 
 
 Vma. iEn. vi. 641. 
 
 Stars of their own, and their own suns they know. 
 
 Drxden. 
 
 I have always taken a particular pleasure in ex¬ 
 amining the opinions which men of different re¬ 
 ligions, different ages, and different countries, 
 have entertained concerning the immortality of the 
 soul, and the state of happiness which they pro¬ 
 mise themselves in another world. For whatever 
 prejudices and errors human nature lies under, we 
 find that either reason, or tradition from our first 
 parents, has discovered to all people something in 
 these great points which bears analogy to truth, 
 and to the doctrines opened to us by divine reve¬ 
 lation. I was lately discoursing on this subject 
 with a learned person who has been very much 
 conversant among the inhabitants of the more 
 western parts of Africa.* Upon his conversing 
 with several in that country, he tells me that their 
 notion of heaven or of a future state of happiness 
 is this, that everything we there wish for, will im¬ 
 mediately present itself to us. We find, say they, 
 our souls are of such a nature that they require 
 variety, and are not capable of being always de¬ 
 lighted with the same objects. The Supreme Be¬ 
 ing, therefore, in compliance with this taste of 
 happiness which he has planted in the soul of man, 
 will raise up from time to time, say they, every 
 gratification which it is in the humor to be pleased 
 with. If we wish to be in groves or bowers, 
 among running streams or falls of water, we shall 
 immediately find ourselves in the midst of such a 
 
 * The person alluded to here was probably Dean Lancelot 
 Addison, “diutinis per Europam Africamque peregrinationi- 
 bus, rerum peritia spectabilis.” This amiable clergyman, the 
 father of the author of this paper, published An Account of 
 West Barbary, etc. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 700 
 
 scene as we desire. If we would be entertained 
 with music and the melody of sounds, the concert 
 rises upon our wish, and the whole region about 
 us is filled with harmony. In short, every desire 
 will be followed by fruition; and whatever a man’s 
 inclination directs him to will be present with 
 him. Nor is it material whether the Supreme 
 Power creates in conformity to our wishes, or 
 whether he only produces such a change in our 
 imagination as makes us believe ourselves conver¬ 
 sant among those scenes which delight us. Our 
 happiness will be the same, whether it proceed 
 from external objects, or from the impressions of 
 the Deity upon our own private fancies. This is 
 the account which I have received from my learned 
 friend. Notwithstanding this system of belief be 
 in general very chimerical and visionary, there is 
 something sublime in its manner of considering 
 the influence of a Divine Being on a human soul. 
 It has also, like most other opinions of the heathen 
 world upon these important points; it has, I say, 
 its foundation in truth, as it supposes the souls of 
 good men after this life to be in a state of perfect 
 happiness; that in this state there will be no bar¬ 
 ren hopes nor fruitless wishes, and that we shall 
 enjoy everything we can desire. But the particu¬ 
 lar circumstance which I am most pleased with in 
 this scheme, and which arises from a just reflection 
 upon human nature, is that variety of pleasures 
 which it supposes the souls of good men will 
 be possessed of in another world. This I think 
 highly probable, from the dictates both of reason 
 and revelation. The soul consists of many facul¬ 
 ties, as the understanding, and the will, with all 
 the senses both outward and inward: or, to speak 
 more philosophically, the soul can exert herself in 
 many different ways of action. She can under¬ 
 stand, will, imagine, see, and hear; love, and dis¬ 
 course, and apply herself to many other the like 
 exercises of different kinds and natures; but what 
 is more to be considered, the soul is capable of re¬ 
 ceiving a most exquisite pleasure and satisfaction 
 from the exercise of any of these its powers, when 
 they are gratified with their proper • objects; she 
 can be entirely happy by the satisfaction of the 
 memory, the sight, the hearing, or any other mode 
 of perception. Every faculty is as a distinct taste 
 in the mind, and hath objects accommodated to its 
 proper relish. Doctor Tillotson somewhere says, 
 that he will not presume to determine in what con¬ 
 sists the happiness of the blessed, because God 
 Almighty is capable of making the soul happy by 
 ten thousand different ways. Beside those several 
 avenues to pleasure which the soul is endowed 
 with in this life, it is not impossible, according to 
 the opinions of many eminent divines, but there 
 may be new faculties in the souls of good men 
 made perfect, as well as new senses in their glori¬ 
 fied bodies. This we are sure of, that there will 
 be new objects offered to all those faculties which 
 are essential to us. 
 
 We are likewise to take notice that every par¬ 
 ticular faculty is capable of being employed on a 
 very great variety of objects. The understanding, 
 for example, may be happy in the contemplation 
 of moral, natural, mathematical, and other kinds 
 of truth. The memory, likewise, may turn itself 
 to an infinite multitude of objects, especially when 
 the soul shall have passed through the space of 
 many millions of years, and shall reflect with 
 pleasure on the days of eternity. Every other 
 faculty may be considered in the same extent. 
 
 We cannot question but that the happiness of a 
 soul will be adequate to its nature; and that it is 
 not endowed with any faculties which are to lie 
 useless and unemployed. The happiness is to be 
 the happiness of the whole man; and we may 
 
 easily conceive to ourselves the happiness of the 
 soul while any one of its faculties is in the fruition 
 of its chief good. The happiness may be of a 
 more exalted nature in proportion as the faculty 
 employed is so; but, as the whole soul acts in the 
 exertion of any of its particular powers, the whole 
 soul is happy in the pleasure which arises from 
 any of its particular acts. For, notwithstanding, 
 as has been before hinted, and as it has been 
 taken notice of by one of the greatest modern 
 philosophers,* we divide the soul into several 
 powers and faculties, there is no such division 
 in the soul itself, since it is the whole soul that 
 remembers, understands, wills, or imagines. Our 
 manner of considering the memory, understand¬ 
 ing, will, imagination, and the like faculties, is 
 for the better enabling us to express ourselves in 
 such abstracted subjects of speculation, not that 
 there is any such division in the soul itself. 
 
 Seeing, then, that the soul has many different 
 faculties; or, in other words, many different ways 
 of acting; that it can be intensely pleased or 
 made happy by all these different faculties, or 
 ways of acting; that it may be endowed with 
 several latent faculties, which it is not at present 
 in a condition to exert; that we cannot believe 
 the soul is endowed with any faculty which is of 
 no use to it; that, whenever any one of these facul¬ 
 ties is transcendently pleased, the soul is in a 
 state of happiness; and, in the last place, consid¬ 
 ering that the happiness of another world is to be 
 the happiness of the whole man, who can question 
 but that there is an infinite variety in those pleas¬ 
 ures we are speaking of? and that this fullness of 
 joy will be made up of all those pleasures which 
 the nature of the soul is capable of receiving? 
 
 We shall be the more confirmed in this doctrine, 
 if we observe the nature of variety with regard to 
 the mind of man. The soul does not care to be 
 always in the same bent. The faculties relieve 
 one another by turns, and receive an additional 
 pleasure from the novelty of those objects about 
 which they are conversant. 
 
 Revelation likewise very much confirms this 
 notion, under the different views which it gives 
 us of our future happiness. In the description 
 of the throne of God it represents to us all those 
 objects which are able to gratify the senses and 
 imagination: in very many places it intimates to 
 us all the happiness which the understanding can 
 possibly receive in that state, where all things 
 shall be revealed to us, and we shall know even 
 as we are known; the raptures of devotion, of 
 divine love, the pleasure of conversing with our 
 blessed Savior, with an innumerable host of an¬ 
 gels, and with the spirits of just men made per¬ 
 fect, are likewise revealed to us in several parts 
 of the holy writings. There are also mentioned 
 those hierarchies or governments in which the 
 blessed shall be ranged one above another, and in 
 which we may be sure a great part of our happi¬ 
 ness will likewise consist; for it will not be there 
 as in this world, where every one is aiming at 
 power and superiority; but, on the contrary, every 
 one will find that station the most proper for him 
 in which he is placed, and will probably think 
 that he could not have been so happy in any other 
 station. These, and many other particulars, are 
 marked in divine revelation, as the several ingre¬ 
 dients of our happiness in heaven, which all imply 
 such a variety of joys, and such a gratification of 
 the soul in all its different faculties, as I have 
 been here mentioning. 
 
 Some of the Rabbins tell us, that the cherubim 
 are a set of angels who know most, and the 
 
 * Locke. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 seraphim a set of angels who love most. Whether 
 this distinction be not altogether imaginary, I 
 shall not here examine; but it is highly probable 
 that, among the spirits of good men, there may 
 be some who will be more pleased with the em¬ 
 ployment of one faculty than of another; and this 
 perhaps according to those innocent and virtuous 
 habits or inclinations which have here taken the 
 deepest root. 
 
 I might here apply this consideration to the 
 spirits of wicked men, with relation to the pain 
 which they shall suffer in every one of their facul¬ 
 ties, and the respective miseries which shall be 
 appropriated to each faculty in particular. But, 
 leaving this to the reflection of my readers, I 
 shall conclude with observing how we ought to 
 be thankful to our great Creator, and rejoice in 
 the being which he has bestowed upon us, for 
 having made the soul susceptible of pleasure by 
 so many different ways. We see by what a va¬ 
 riety of passages joy and gladness may enter into 
 the thoughts of man; how wonderfully a human 
 spirit is framed, to imbibe its proper satisfactions, 
 and taste the goodness of its Creator. We may 
 therefore look into ourselves with rapture and 
 amazement, and cannot sufficiently express our 
 gratitude to Him who has encompassed us with 
 such a profusion of blessings, and opened in us 
 so many capacities of enjoying them. 
 
 There cannot be a stronger argument that God 
 has designed us for a state of future happiness, 
 and for that heaven which he has revealed to us, 
 than that he has thus naturally qualified the soul 
 for it, and made it a being capable of receiving so 
 much bliss. He would never have made such 
 faculties in vain, and have endowed us with pow¬ 
 ers that were not to be exerted on such objects as 
 are suited to them. It is very manifest, by the 
 inward frame and constitution of our minds, that 
 he has adapted them to an infinite variety of 
 pleasures and gratifications which are not to be 
 met with in this life. We should, therefore, at all 
 times, take care that we do not disappoint this 
 his gracious purpose and intention toward us, and 
 make those faculties, which he formed as so many 
 qualifications for happiness and rewards, to be 
 the instruments of pain and punishment. 
 
 _ 
 
 No. 601.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 1, 1714. 
 
 Man is naturally a beneficent creature. 
 
 The following essay comes from a hand which 
 has entertained my readers once before: 
 
 “Notwithstanding a narrow contracted temper 
 be that which obtains most in the world, we must 
 not therefore conclude this to be the genuine 
 characteristic of mankind; because there are some 
 who delight in nothing so much as in doing good, 
 and receive more of their happiness at second¬ 
 hand, or by rebound from others, than by direct 
 and immediate sensation. Now, though these 
 heroic souls are but few, and to appearance so 
 far advanced above the groveling multitude, as 
 if they were of another order of beings, yet in 
 reality their nature is the same; moved by the 
 same springs, and endowed with all the same 
 essential qualities, only cleared, refined, and cul¬ 
 tivated. Water is the same fluid body in winter 
 and in summer; when it stands stiffened in ice as 
 when it flows along in gentle streams, gladdening 
 a thousand fields in its progress. It is a property 
 of the heart of man to be diffusive: its kind wishes 
 spread abroad over the face of the creation; and 
 if there be those, as we may observe too many of 
 
 701 
 
 them, who are all wrapped up in their own dear 
 selves, without any visible concern for their spe¬ 
 cies, let us suppose that their good-nature is 
 frozen, and, by the prevailing force of some con¬ 
 trary quality, restrained in its operations. I shall 
 therefore endeavor to assign some of the principal 
 checks upon this generous propension of the hu¬ 
 man soul, which w T ill enable us to judge whether, 
 and by what method, this most useful principle 
 may be unfettered, and restored to its native free¬ 
 dom of exercise. 
 
 “The first and leading cause is an unhappy 
 complexion of body. The heathens, ignorant of 
 the true source of moral evil, generally charged it 
 on the obliquity of matter, wdiich being eternal 
 and independent, was incapable of change in any 
 of its properties, even by the Almighty Mincl, 
 who, when he came to fashion it into a world of 
 beings, must take it as he found it. This notion, 
 as most others of theirs, is a composition of truth 
 and error. That matter is eternal—that from the 
 first union of a soul to it, it perverted its inclina¬ 
 tions—and that the ill influence it hath upon the 
 mind is not to be corrected by God himself, are all 
 very great errors, occasioned by a truth as evident 
 that the capacities and dispositions of the soul 
 depend, to a great degree, on the bodily temper. 
 As there are some fools, others are knaves, by 
 constitution; and particularly it may be said of 
 many, that they are born with an illiberal cast of 
 mind; the matter that composes them is tenacious 
 as birdlime; and a kind of cramp draws their hands 
 and their hearts together, that they never care to 
 open them, unless to grasp at more. It is a melan¬ 
 choly lot this; but attended with one advantage 
 above theirs, to whom it would be as painful to 
 forbear good offices as it is to these men to per¬ 
 form them: that whereas persons naturally benefi¬ 
 cent often mistake instinct for virtue, by reason of 
 the difficulty of distinguishing when one rules 
 them and when the other, men of the opposite 
 character may be more certain of the motive that 
 predominates in every action. If they cannot 
 confer a benefit with that ease and frankness 
 which are necessary to give it a grace in the eye 
 of the world, in requital, .the real merit of what 
 they do is enhanced by the opposition they sur¬ 
 mount in doing it. The strength of their virtue 
 is seen in rising against the weight of nature; and 
 every time they have the resolution to discharge 
 their duty, they make a sacrifice of inclination to 
 conscience, which is always too grateful to let its 
 followers go without suitable marks of its appro¬ 
 bation. Perhaps the entire cure of this ill quality 
 is no more possible than of some distempers that 
 descend by inheritance. However, a great deal 
 may be done by a course of beneficence obsti¬ 
 nately persisted in; this, if anything, being a 
 likely way of establishing a moral habit, which 
 shall be somewhat of a counterpoise to the force 
 of mechanism. Only it must be remembered that 
 we do not intermit, upon any pretense whatsoever, 
 the custom of doing good, in regard, if there be 
 the least cessation, nature will watch the oppor¬ 
 tunity to return, and in a short time to recover the 
 ground it was so long in quitting: for there is this 
 difference between mental habits and such as have 
 their foundation in the body, that these last are in 
 their nature more forcible and violent, and, to 
 gain upon us, need only not to be opposed 
 whereas the former must be continually rein¬ 
 forced with fresh supplies, or they will languish 
 and die away. And this suggests the reason 
 why good habits in general require longer time 
 for their settlement than bad, and yet are sooner 
 displaced: the reason is, that vicious habits, as 
 drunkenness for instance, produce a change in the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 702 
 
 body, which the others not doing, must be main¬ 
 tained the same way they are acquired, by the 
 mere dint of industiy, resolution, and vigilance. 
 
 “Another thing which suspends the operations 
 of benevolence, is the love of the world; proceed¬ 
 ing from a false notion men have taken up, that 
 an abundance of the w r orld is an essential ingre¬ 
 dient in the happiness of life. Worldly things 
 are of such a quality as to lessen upon dividing, 
 so that the more partners there are, the less must 
 fall to every man’s private share. The conse¬ 
 quence of this is, that they look upon one another 
 with an evil eye, each imagining all the rest to be 
 embarked in an interest that cannot take place 
 but to his prejudice. Hence are those eager com¬ 
 petitions for wealth or power; hence one man’s 
 success becomes another’s disappointment; and, 
 like pretenders to the same mistress, they can sel¬ 
 dom have common charity for their rivals. Not 
 that they are naturally disposed to quarrel and 
 fall out; but it is natural for a man to prefer him¬ 
 self to all others, and to secure his own interest 
 first. If that which men esteem their happiness 
 were, like the light, the same sufficient and un¬ 
 confined good, whether ten thousand enjoy the 
 benefit of it or but one, we should see men’s 
 good-will and kind endeavors would be as uni¬ 
 versal. 
 
 Homo qui erranti comiter monstrat viam 
 
 Quasi lumen de suo lumine accendat, facit, 
 
 Nihilominus ipsi luceat, cum illi accenderit. 
 
 To direct a wanderer in the right way, is to light another 
 man’s candle by one’s own, which loses none of its light by 
 what the other gains. 
 
 “But, unluckily, mankind agree in making 
 choice of objects which inevitably engage them 
 in perpetual differences. Learn, therefore, like a 
 wise man, the true estimate of things. Desire 
 not more of the w T orld than is necessary to accom¬ 
 modate you in passing through it; look upon 
 everything beyond, not as useless only, but bur¬ 
 densome. Place not your quiet in things which 
 you cannot have wffthout putting others beside 
 them, and thereby making them your enemies; 
 and which, when attained, will give you more 
 trouble to keep than satisfaction in the enjoy¬ 
 ment. Virtue is a good of a nobler kind: it 
 grows by communication; and so little resembles 
 earthly riches, that the more hands it is lodged in, 
 the greater is every man’s particular stock. So, 
 by propagating and mingling their fires, not only 
 all the lights of a branch together cast a more ex¬ 
 tensive brightness, but each single light burns 
 with a stronger flame. And lastly, take this 
 along with you, that if wealth be an instrument 
 of pleasure, the greatest pleasure it can put into 
 your power is that of doing good. It is worth 
 considering that the organs of sense act within a 
 narrow compass, and the appetites will soon say 
 they have enough. Which of the two therefore 
 is the happier man—he w T ho, confining all his re¬ 
 gard to the gratification of his own appetites, is 
 capable but of short fits of pleasure—or the man 
 who, reckoning himself a sharer in the satisfac¬ 
 tions of others, especially those which come to 
 them by his means, enlarges the sphere of his 
 happiness? 
 
 “ The last enemy to benevolence I shall men¬ 
 tion is uneasiness of any kind. A guilty or a 
 discontented mind, a mind ruffled by ill-fortune, 
 disconcerted by its own passions, soured by neg¬ 
 lect, or fretting at disappointments, hath not lei¬ 
 sure to attend to the necessity or reasonableness 
 of a kindness desired, nor a taste for those pleas¬ 
 ures which wait on beneficence, which demand a 
 calm and unpolluted heart to relish them. The 
 most miserable of all beings is the most envious; 
 
 as, on the other hand, the most communicative is 
 the happiest. And if you are in search of the 
 seat of perfect love and friendship, you will not 
 find it until you come to the region of the blessed, 
 where happiness, like a refreshing stream, flows 
 from heart to heart in an endless circulation, and 
 is preserved sweet and untainted by the motion. 
 It is old advice, if you have a favor to request of 
 any one, to observe the softest times of address, 
 when the soul, in a flash of good-humor, takes a 
 pleasure to show itself pleased. Persons conscious 
 of their own integrity, satisfied with themselves 
 and their condition, and full of confidence in a 
 Supreme Being, and the hope of immortality, sur¬ 
 vey all about them with a flow of good-will: as 
 trees which like their soil, they shoot out in ex¬ 
 pressions of kindness, and bend beneath their 
 own precious load, to the hand of the gatherer. 
 Now if the mind be not thus easy, it is an infal¬ 
 lible sign that it is not in its natural state: place 
 the mind in its right posture, it will immediately 
 discover its innate propensity to beneficence.” 
 
 No. 602.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1714. 
 
 Facit hoc illos hyacinthos.—Jcv. Sat. vi. 110. 
 
 This makes them hyacinths. 
 
 The following letter comes from a gentleman 
 who, I find, is very diligent in making his obser¬ 
 vations, which I think too material not to be com¬ 
 municated to the public:— 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “ In order to execute the office of love-casuist to 
 Great Britain, with which I take myself to be in¬ 
 vested by your paper of September 8,1 shall make 
 some further observations upon the two sexes in 
 general, beginning with that which always ought 
 to have the upper hand. After having observed, 
 with much curiosity, the accomplishments which 
 are apt to captivate female hearts, I find that there 
 is no person so irresistible as one who is a man of 
 importance, provided it be in matters of no con¬ 
 sequence. One who makes himself talked of, 
 though it be for the particular cock of his hat, or 
 for prating aloud in the boxes at a play, is in the 
 fair way of being a favorite. I have known a 
 young fellow make his fortune by knocking down 
 a constable; and may venture to say, though it 
 may seem a paradox, that many a fair one has 
 died by a duel in which both the combatants have 
 survived. 
 
 “About three winters ago I took notice of a 
 young lady at the theater, who conceived a pas¬ 
 sion for a notorious rake that headed a party of cat¬ 
 calls : and am credibly informed that the emperor 
 of the Mohocks married a rich widow within three 
 weeks after having rendered himself formidable in 
 the cities of London and Westminster. Scouring 
 and breaking of windows have done frequent exe¬ 
 cution upon the sex. But there is no set of these 
 male charmers who make their way more success¬ 
 fully than those who have gained themselves a 
 name for intrigue, and have ruined the greatest 
 number of reputations. There is a strange curi¬ 
 osity in the female w r orld to be acquainted with 
 the dear man who has been loved by others, and 
 to know what it is that makes him so agreeable. 
 His reputation does more than half his business. 
 Every one, that is ambitious of being a woman of 
 fashion, looks out for opportunities of being in his 
 company; so that, to use the old proverb, ‘When 
 his name is up he may lie a-bed.’ 
 
 “ I was very sensible of the great advantage of 
 being a man of importance upon these occasions 
 
703 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 on the day of the king’s entry, when I was seated 
 in a balcony behind a cluster of very pretty coun¬ 
 try ladies, who had one of these showy gentlemen 
 in the midst of them. The first trick I caught 
 him at was bowing to several persons of quality 
 whom he did not know; nay, he had the impu¬ 
 dence to hem at a blue garter who had a finer 
 equipage than ordinary; and seemed a little con¬ 
 cerned at the impertinent huzzas of the mob that 
 hindered his friend from taking notice of him. 
 There was, indeed, one who pulled off his hat to 
 him; and, upon the ladies asking who it was, he 
 told them it was a foreign minister that he had 
 been very merry with the night before; whereas, 
 in truth, it was the city common hunt. 
 
 “ He was never at a loss when he was asked any 
 person’s name, though he seldom knew any one 
 under a peer. He found dukes and earls among 
 the aldermen, very good-natured fellows among 
 the privy-counselors, with two or three agreeable 
 old rakes among the bishops and judges. 
 
 “ In short, I collected from his whole discourse 
 that he was acquainted with everybody and knew 
 nobody. At the same time, I am mistaken if he 
 did not that day make more advances in the affec¬ 
 tions of his mistress, who sat near him, than he 
 could have done in half-a-vear’s courtship. 
 
 “ Ovid has finely touched this method of making 
 love, which I shall here give my reader in Mr. 
 Dryden’s translation: 
 
 “ Page the eleventh. 
 
 Thus love in theaters did first improve, 
 
 And theaters are still the scenes of love: 
 
 Nor shun the chariots, and the courser’s race; 
 
 The Circus is no inconvenient place, 
 
 No need is there of talking on the hand, 
 
 Nor nods, nor signs, which lovers understand; 
 
 But boldly next the fair your seat provide, 
 
 Close as you can to hers, and side by side: 
 
 Pleas’d or unpleas’d, no matter, crowding sit, 
 
 For so the laws of public shows permit. 
 
 Then find occasion to begin discourse, 
 
 Inquire whose chariot this, and whose that horse 
 To whatsoever side she is inclin’d, 
 
 Suit all your inclinations to her mind: 
 
 Like what she likes, from thence your court begin, 
 And whom she favors wish that he may win. 
 
 “Again, page the sixteenth. 
 
 0 when will come the day, by heaven design’d, 
 When thou, the best and fairest of mankind, 
 
 Drawn by white horses shalt in triumph ride, 
 
 With conquer’d slaves attending on thy side, 
 
 Slaves that no longer can be safe in flight ? 
 
 0 glorious object! 0 surprising sight! 
 
 0 day of public joy too good to end in night. 
 
 On such a day, if thou and next to thee 
 Some beauty sits, the spectacle to see; 
 
 If she inquire the names of conquer’d kings, 
 
 Of mountains, rivers, and their hidden springs: 
 Answer to all thou know’st; and, if need be, 
 
 Of things unknown seem to speak knowingly: 
 
 This is Euphrates, crowned with reeds: and there 
 Plows the swift Tigris, with his seargreen hair. 
 Invent new names of things unknown before; 
 
 Call this Armenia, that the Caspian shore; 
 
 Call this a Mede, and that a Parthian youth, 
 
 Talk probably: no matter for the truth. 
 
 Ho. 603.] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1714. 
 
 Ducite ab urbe domum, mea carmina, ducite Daphnim. 
 
 Yirg. Eel. viii, 68. 
 
 -Restore, my charms, 
 
 My lingering Daphnis to my longing arms.— Dryden. 
 
 The following copy of verses comes from one of 
 my correspondents, and has something in it so ori¬ 
 ginal, that I do not much doubt but it will divert 
 my readers :—* 
 
 * The Phoebe of this admired pastoral was Joanna, the 
 daughter of the very learned Dr. Richard Bentley, archdeacon 
 and prebendary of Ely, regius professor and master of Trinity 
 College, Cambridge, who died in 1742. She was afterward 
 
 I. 
 
 My time, 0 ye Muses, was happily spent, 
 
 When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; 
 
 Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast; 
 
 Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest; 
 
 But now she is gone, and has left me behind; 
 
 What a marvelous change on a sudden I find! 
 
 When things were as fine as could possibly be, 
 
 I thought ’twas the spring; but, alas! it was she. 
 
 n. 
 
 With such a companion, to tend a few sheep, 
 
 To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep, 
 
 I was so good-humor’d, so cheerful and gay, 
 
 My heart was as light as a feather all day; 
 
 But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, 
 
 So strangely uneasy, as never was known. 
 
 My fair-one is gone, and my joys are all drown’d, 
 
 And my heart—I am sure, it weighs more than a pound. 
 
 m. 
 
 The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, 
 
 And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; 
 
 Thou know’st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 
 
 ’Twas pleasure to look at, ’twas music to hear: 
 
 But now she is absent I walk by its side, 
 
 And still as it murmurs do nothing but chide. 
 
 Must you be so cheerful while I go in pain? 
 
 Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. 
 
 IY. 
 
 When my lambkins around me would oftentimes play, 
 And when Phoebe and I were as joyful as they, 
 
 How pleasant their sporting, how happy the time, 
 When spring, love, and beauty were all in their prime. 
 But now in their frolics when by me they pass, 
 
 I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass: 
 
 Be still, then I cry; for it makes me quite mad, 
 
 To see you so merry while I am so sad. 
 
 Y. 
 
 My dog I was ever well pleased to see 
 Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; 
 
 And Phoebe was pleased, too, and to my dog said, 
 
 Come hither, poor fellow; and patted his head. 
 
 But now, when he’s fawning, I with a sour look 
 Cry, Sirrah! and give him a blow with my crook: 
 
 And I’ll give him another; for why should not Tray 
 Be as dull as his master; when Phoebe’s away ? 
 
 YI. 
 
 When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen! 
 How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! 
 
 What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, 
 
 The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! 
 
 But now she has left me, though all are still there, 
 They none of them now so delightful appear: 
 
 ’Twas naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, 
 
 Made so many beautiful prospects arise. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Sweet music went with us both all the wood thro’, 
 
 The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; 
 
 Winds over us whisper’d, flocks by us did bleat, 
 
 And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet, 
 
 But now she is absent, though still they sing on, 
 
 The woods are but lonely, the melody’s gone : 
 
 Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, 
 
 Gave everything else its agreeable sound. 
 
 Yin. 
 
 Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue 
 And where is the violet’s beautiful blue? 
 
 Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? 
 
 That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? 
 
 Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you dress’d 
 And made yourselves fine for; a place on her breast; 
 You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, 
 
 To be pluck’d by her hand, on her bosom to die. 
 
 IX. 
 
 How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe return! 
 
 While amidst the soft zephyr’s cool breezes I burn! 
 Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, 
 
 I could breathe on his wings, and ’twould melt down the lead. 
 Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, 
 
 And rest so much longer for’t when she is here. 
 
 Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay, 
 
 Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. 
 
 X. 
 
 Will no pitying power that hears me complain, 
 
 Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? 
 
 married to Dr. Dennison Cumberland, Bishop of Clonfert in 
 Killaloe in Ireland, and grandson of Dr. Richard Cumberland. 
 Bishop of Peterborough. 
 
f * 
 
 704 \ THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 To be cur’d, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove, 
 But what swain is so silly to live without love? 
 
 No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return, 
 
 For ne’er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. 
 
 Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair! 
 Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair. 
 
 No. 604.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1714. 
 
 Tu ne quaesieris (scire nefas) quern mihi, quern tibi, 
 Finem Dii dederint, Leuconoe; nec Babylonios 
 Tentaris numeros- Hor. Od. xi, 1. 
 
 Ah, do not strive too much to know, 
 
 • My dear Leuconoe, 
 
 What the kind Gods design to do 
 With me and thee.— Creech. 
 
 The desire of knowing future events is one of 
 the strongest inclinations in the mind of man. 
 Indeed, an ability of foreseeing probable accidents 
 is what, in the language of men, is called wisdom 
 and prudence; but, not satisfied with the light that 
 reason holds out, mankind has endeavored to 
 penetrate more compendiously into futurity. Ma¬ 
 gic, oracles, omens, lucky hours, and the various 
 arts of superstition, owe their rise to this powerful 
 cause. As this principle is founded in self-love, 
 every man is sure to be solicitous in the first place 
 about his own fortune, the course of his life, and 
 the time and manner of his death. 
 
 If we consider that we are free-agents, we shall 
 discover the absurdity of such inquiries. One of 
 our actions, which we might have performed or 
 neglected, is the cause of another that succeeds it, 
 and so the whole chain of life is linked together. 
 Pain, poverty, or infamy, are the natural product 
 of vicious and imprudent acts, as the contrary 
 blessings are of good ones; so that we cannot sup¬ 
 pose our lot to be determined without impiety. A 
 great enhancement of pleasure arises from its being 
 unexpected; and pain is doubled by being fore¬ 
 seen. Upon all these, and several other accounts, 
 we ought to rest satisfied in this portion bestowed 
 on us; to adore the hand that hath fitted every¬ 
 thing to our nature, and hath not more displayed 
 his goodness in our knowledge than in our igno¬ 
 rance. 
 
 It is not unworthy observation, that supersti¬ 
 tious inquiries into future events prevail more or 
 less, in proportion to the improvement of liberal 
 arts and useful knowledge in the several parts of 
 the world. Accordingly we find, that magical in¬ 
 cantations remain in Lapland; in the more remote 
 parts of Scotland they have their second sight; 
 and several of our own countrymen see abundance 
 of fairies. In Asia this credulity is strong; and the 
 greatest part of refined learning there consists in 
 the knowledge of amulets, talismans, occult num¬ 
 bers, and the like. 
 
 When I was at Grand Cairo I fell into the ac¬ 
 quaintance of a good-natured mussulman, who 
 promised me many good offices which he designed 
 to do me when he became the prime-minister, which 
 was a fortune bestowed on his imagination by a 
 doctor very deep in the curious sciences. At his 
 repeated solicitations I went to learn my destiny 
 of this wonderful sage. For a small sum I had 
 his promise, but was required to wait in a dark 
 apartment until he had run through the prepara¬ 
 tory ceremonies. Having a strong propensity, 
 even then, to dreaming, I took a nap upon the 
 sofa where I was placed, and had the following 
 vision, the particulars whereof I picked up the 
 other day among my papers. 
 
 I found myself in an unbounded plain, where 
 methought the whole world, in several habits and 
 with different tongues, was assembled. The mul¬ 
 titude glided swiftly along, and I found in myself a 
 
 strong inclination to mingle in the train. My eyes 
 quickly singled out some of the splendid figures. 
 Several in rich caftans and glittering turbans 
 bustled through the throng, and trampled over the 
 bodies of those they threw down; until to my 
 great surprise, I found that the great pace they 
 went only hastened them to a scaffold or a bow¬ 
 string. Many beautiful damsels on the other side 
 moved forward with great gayety; some danced until 
 they fell all along; and others painted their faces 
 until they lost their noses. A tribe of creatures 
 with busy looks falling into a fit of laughter at 
 the misfortunes of the unhappy ladies, I turned 
 my eyes upon them. They were each of them 
 filling his pockets with gold and jewels, and when 
 there was no room left for more, these wretches, 
 looking round with fear and horror, pined away 
 before my face with famine and discontent. 
 
 This prospect of human misery struck me dumb 
 for some miles. Then it was that, to disburden 
 my mind, I took pen and ink, and did everything 
 that has since happened under my office of Spec¬ 
 tator. While I was employing myself for the 
 good of mankind, I was surprised to meet with 
 very unsuitable returns from my fellow-creatures. 
 Never was poor author so beset with pamphleteers, 
 who sometimes marched directly against me, but 
 oftener shot at me from strong bulwarks, or rose 
 up suddenly in ambush. They were of all charac¬ 
 ters and capacities; some with ensigns of dignity, 
 and others in liveries;* but what most surprised 
 me was to see two or three in black gowns among 
 my enemies. It was no small trouble to me, 
 sometimes to have a man come up to me with an 
 angry face, and reproach me for having lampooned 
 him when I had never seen or heard of him in my 
 life. With the ladies it was otherwise; many be¬ 
 came my enemies for not being particularly pointed 
 out: as there were others who resented the satire 
 which they imagined I had directed against them. 
 My great comfort was in the company of half a 
 dozen friends, who I found since were the club 
 which I have so often mentioned in my papers. 
 I laughed often at Sir Roger in my sleep, and was 
 the more diverted with Will Honeycomb’s gallant¬ 
 ries (when we afterward became acquainted), 
 because I had foreseen his marriage with a farmer’s 
 daughter. The regret which rose in my mind 
 upon the death of my companions, my anxieties 
 for the public, and the many calamities still fleet¬ 
 ing before my eyes, made me repent my curiosity; 
 when the magician entered the room, and awaken¬ 
 ed me by telling me (when it was too late) that 
 he was just going to begin. 
 
 N. B. I have only delivered the prophesy of 
 that part of my life which is past, it being incon¬ 
 venient to divulge the second part until a more 
 proper opportunity. 
 
 No. 605.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 11, 1714. 
 
 Exuerint sylvestrem animum; cultuque frequenti, 
 
 In quascunque voces artes, haud tarda sequentur. 
 
 Yirg. Georg, ii. 51. 
 
 -They change their savage mind, 
 
 Their wildness lose, and, quitting nature’s part, 
 
 Obey the rules and discipline of art.— Drtden. 
 
 Having perused the following letter, and find¬ 
 ing it to run upon the subject of love, I referred it 
 to the learned casuist, whom I have retained in 
 my service for speculations of that kind. He re¬ 
 turned it to me the next morning with his report 
 
 * The hirelings and black gowns employed by the admi¬ 
 nistration in the last year of the Queen’s reign, Dr. Swift, 
 Prior, Atterbury, Dr. Friend, Dr. King, Mr. Oldsworth, Mrs 
 D. Manley, and the writers of the Examiner, etc. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 705 
 
 annexed to it, with both of which I shall here pre¬ 
 sent my reader:— 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Finding that you have entertained a useful 
 
 F erson in your service in quality of love-casuist, 
 apply mvself* to you, under a very great diffi¬ 
 culty, that hath for some months perplexed me. I 
 have a couple of humble servants, one of which I 
 have no aversion to : the other I think of very 
 kindly. The first hath the reputation of a man 
 of good sense, and is one of those people that 
 your sex are apt to value. My spark is reckoned 
 a coxcomb among the men, but is a favorite of the 
 ladies. If I marry the man of worth as they call 
 him, I shall oblige my parents, and improve my 
 fortune: but with my dear beau I promise myself 
 happiness, although not a jointure. Now I would 
 ask you, whether I should consent to lead my life 
 with a man that I have only no objection to, or 
 with him against whom all objections to me 
 appear frivolous. I am determined to follow the 
 casuist’s advice, and I dare say he will not put 
 me upon so serious a thing as matrimony contrary 
 to my inclinations. 
 
 “I am, etc. ‘ “Fanny Fickle. 
 
 “P. S. I forgot to tell you that the pretty gen¬ 
 tleman is the most complaisant creature in the 
 world, and is always of my mind; but the other, 
 forsooth, fancies he hath as much wit as myself, 
 slights my lapdog, and hath the insolence to con¬ 
 tradict me when he thinks I am not in the right. 
 About half an hour ago he maintained to my face 
 that a patch always implies a pimple.” 
 
 As I look upon it to be my duty rather to side 
 with the parents than the daughter, I shall pro¬ 
 pose some considerations to my gentle querist, 
 which may incline her to comply with those under 
 whose directions she is; and at the same time con¬ 
 vince her that it is not impossible but she may, in 
 time, have a true affection for him who is at pre¬ 
 sent indifferent to her; or, to use the old family 
 maxim, that, “ if she marries first, love will come 
 after.” 
 
 The only objection that she seems to insinuate 
 against the gentleman proposed to her, is his want 
 of complaisance, which I perceive, she is very 
 willing to return. Now I can discover from this 
 very circumstance, that she and her lover, what¬ 
 ever they may think of it, are very good friends 
 in their hearts. It is difficult to determine whether 
 love delights more in giving pleasure or pain. 
 Let Miss Fickle ask her own heart, if she doth 
 not take a secret pride in making this man of good 
 sense look very silly. Hath she ever been better 
 pleased than when her behavior hath made her 
 lover ready to hang himself; or doth she ever re¬ 
 joice more than when she thinks she hath driven 
 him to the very brink of a purling stream ? Let 
 her consider, at the same time, that it is not im¬ 
 possible but her lover may have discovered her 
 tricks, and hath a mind to give her as good as she 
 brings. I remember a handsome young baggage 
 that treated a hopeful Greek of my acquaintance, 
 just come from Oxford, as if he had been a barba¬ 
 rian. The first week after she had fixed him she 
 took a pinch of snuff out of his rival’s box, and 
 apparently touched the enemy’s little finger. She 
 became a professed enemy to the arts and sciences, 
 and scarce ever wrote a letter to him without will¬ 
 fully misspelling his name. The young scholar, 
 to be even with her, railed at coquettes as soon as 
 he had got the word; and did not want parts to 
 turn into ridicule her men of wit and pleasure of 
 the town. After having irritated one another for 
 the space of five months, she made an assignation 
 with him fourscore miles from London. But as 
 45 
 
 he was very well acquainted with her pranks, he 
 took a journey the quite contrary way. Accord¬ 
 ingly they met, quarreled, and in a few days 
 were married. Their former hostilities are now 
 the subject of their mirth, being content at pre¬ 
 sent with that part of love only which bestows 
 pleasure. 
 
 Women who have been married some time, not 
 having it in their heads to draw after them a 
 numerous train of followers, find their satisfaction 
 in the possession of one man’s heart. I know 
 very well that ladies in their bloom desire to 
 be excused in this particular. But, when time 
 hath worn out their natural vanity and taught 
 them discretion, their fondness settles on its 
 proper object. And it is probably for this reason 
 that among husbands, you will find more that are 
 fond of women beyond their prime than of those 
 who are actually in the insolence of beauty. My 
 reader will apply the same observation to the 
 other sex. 
 
 I need not insist upon the necessity of their 
 pursuing one common interest, and their united 
 care for their children; but shall only observe, by 
 the way, that married persons are both more warm 
 in their love and more hearty in their hatred than 
 any others whatsoever. Mutual favors and obliga¬ 
 tions, which may be supposed to be greater here 
 than in any other state, naturally beget an intense 
 affection in generous minds. As, on the contrary, 
 persons who have bestowed such favors have a 
 particular bitterness in their resentments, when 
 they think themselves ill-treated by those of whom 
 they have deserved so much. 
 
 Beside, Miss Fickle may consider, that as there 
 are often many faults concealed before marriage, 
 so there are sometimes many virtues unobserved. 
 
 To this we may add, the great efficacy of custom 
 and constant conversation to produce a mutual 
 friendship and benevolence in two persons. It is 
 a nice reflection which I have heard a friend of 
 mine make, that you may be sure a woman loves 
 a man when she uses his expressions, tells his 
 stories, or imitates his manner. This gives a secret 
 delight; for imitation is a kind of artless flattery, 
 and mightily favors the powerful principle of 
 self-love. It is certain that married persons who 
 are possessed with a mutual esteem, not only 
 catch the air and way of talk from one another, 
 but fall into the same traces of thinking and liking. 
 Nay, some have carried the remark so far as to 
 assert that the features of man and wife grow, in 
 time, to resemble one another. Let my fair cor¬ 
 respondent therefore consider, that the gentleman 
 recommended will have a good deal of her own 
 face in two or three years; which she must not ex¬ 
 pect from the beau, who is too full of his dear self 
 to copy after another. And I dare appeal to her 
 own judgment, if that person will not be the hand¬ 
 somest that is the most like herself. 
 
 We have a remarkable instance to our present 
 purpose in the history of King Edgar, which I 
 shall here relate, and leave it with my fair corres¬ 
 pondent to be applied to herself. 
 
 This great monarch, who is so famous in Bri¬ 
 tish story, fell in love, as he made his progress 
 through his kingdom, with a certain duke’s daugh¬ 
 ter, who lived near Winchester, and was the most 
 celebrated beauty of the age. His importunities 
 and the violence of his passion were so great, that 
 the mother of the young lady promised him to 
 bring her daughter to his bed the next night, 
 though in her heart she abhorred so infamous an 
 office. It was no sooner dark than she conveyed 
 into his room a young maid of no disagreeable 
 figure, who was one of her attendants, anu did not 
 I want address to improve the opportunity for the 
 
706 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 advancement of her fortune. She made so good 
 use of her time, that when she offered to rise a 
 little before day, the king could by no means think 
 of parting with her; so that finding Wself under 
 a necessity of discovering who she was, she did 
 it in so handsome a manner, that his majesty was 
 exceedingly gracious to her, and took her ever 
 after under his protection: insomuch, that our 
 chronicles tell us he carried her along with him, 
 made her his first minister of state, and continued 
 true to her alone, until his marriage with the beau¬ 
 tiful Elfrida. 
 
 No. 606.J WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1714. 
 
 -Longum cantu solata laborem 
 
 Arguto conjux percurrit pectine telas. 
 
 Vibg. Georg, i. 293. 
 
 -Meantime at home 
 
 The good wife singing plies the various loom. 
 
 tl Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I have a couple of nieces under my direction, 
 who so often run gadding abroad, that I do not 
 know where to have them. Their dress, their tea, 
 and their visits, take up all their time, and they 
 go to bed as tired with doing nothing as I am 
 after quilting a whole under-petticoat. The only 
 time they are not idle is while they read your 
 Spectators : which being dedicated to the interests 
 of virtue, I desire you to recommend the long-neg¬ 
 lected art of needlework. Those hours which in 
 this age are thrown away in dress, play, visits, 
 and the like, were employed, in my time, in wri¬ 
 ting out receipts, or working beds, chairs, and 
 hangings for the family. For my part, I have 
 plied my needle these fifty years, and by my good¬ 
 will would never have it out of my hand. It grieves 
 my heart to see a couple of proud, idle flirts sip¬ 
 ping their tea, for a whole afternoon, in a room 
 hung round with the industry of their great-grand¬ 
 mother. Pray, Sir, take the laudable mystery of 
 embroidery into your serious consideration, and, 
 as you have a great deal of the virtue of the last 
 age in you, continue your endeavors to reform the 
 present. 
 
 “ I am,” etc. 
 
 In obedience to the commands of my venerable 
 correspondent, I have duly weighed this important 
 subject, and promise myself from the arguments 
 here laid down, that all the fine ladies of England 
 will be ready, as soon as their mourning is over,* 
 to appear covered with the work of their own 
 hands. 
 
 What a delightful entertainment must it be to 
 the fair sex, whom their native modesty, and the 
 tenderness of men toward them, exempt from pub¬ 
 lic business, to pass their hours in imitating fruits 
 and flowers, and transplanting all the beauties of 
 nature into their own dress, or raising a new crea¬ 
 tion in their closets and apartments ! How pleas¬ 
 ing is the amusement of walking among the shades 
 and groves planted by themselves, in surveying 
 heroes slain by their needle, or little Cupids which 
 ^ qT ^ ave brought into the world without pain ! 
 
 This is, methinks, the most proper way wherein 
 a lady can show a fine genius; and I cannot for¬ 
 bear wishing that several writers of that sex had 
 chosen to apply themselves rather to tapestry than 
 rhyme. our pastoral poetesses may vent their 
 fancy in rural landscapes, and place despairing 
 shepherds under silken willows, or drown them 
 in a stream of mohair. The heroic writers may 
 work up battles as successfully, and inflame them 
 with gold, or stain them with crimson. Even 
 
 * Public mourning on the death of Queen Anne. 
 
 those who have only a turn to a song, or an epi¬ 
 gram, may put many valuable stitches into a 
 purse, and crowd a thousand graces into a pair 
 of garters. 
 
 If I may, without breach of good manners, im¬ 
 agine that any pretty creature is void of genius, 
 and would perform her part herem but very awk¬ 
 wardly, I must nevertheless insist upon her work- 
 ing, if it be only to keep her out of harm’s way. 
 
 Another argument for busying good women in 
 works of fancy is, because it takes them off from 
 scandal, the usual attendant of tea-tables, and all 
 other inactive scenes of life. While they are form¬ 
 ing their birds and beasts, their neighbors will be 
 allowed to be the fathers of their own children; 
 and whig and tory will be but seldom mentioned 
 where the great dispute is, whether blue or red is 
 the more proper color. How much greater glory 
 would Sophronia do the general, if she would 
 choose rather to work the battle of Blenheim in 
 tapestiy, than signalize herself with so much ve¬ 
 hemence against those who are Frenchmen in their 
 hearts. 
 
 A third reason that I shall mention, is the profit 
 that is brought to the family where these pretty 
 arts are encouraged. It is manifest that this way 
 of life not only keeps fair ladies from running out 
 into expenses, but is at the same time an actual 
 improvement. How memorable would that matron 
 be, who shall have it subscribed upon her monu¬ 
 ment, “ that she wrought out the whole Bible in 
 tapestry, and died in a good old age, after having 
 covered three hundred yards of wall in the man¬ 
 sion-house !” 
 
 The premises being considered, I humbly sub¬ 
 mit the following proposals to all mothers in 
 Great Britain :•— 
 
 I. That no young virgin whatsoever be allowed 
 to receive the addresses of her first lover, but in a 
 suit of her own embroidering. 
 
 II. That before every fresh humble servant, she 
 be obliged to appear with a new stomacher at the 
 least. 
 
 III. That no one be actually married until she 
 hath the child-bed pillows, etc., ready stitched, as 
 likewise the mantle for the boy quite finished. 
 
 These laws, if I mistake not, would effectually 
 restore the decayed art of needlework, and make 
 the virgins of Great Britain exceedingly nimble¬ 
 fingered in their business. 
 
 There is a memorable custom of the Grecian 
 ladies in this particular preserved in Homer, 
 which I hope will have a very good effect with 
 my countrywomen. A widow, in ancient times, 
 could not, without indecency, receive a second 
 husband, until she had woven a shroud for her 
 deceased lord, or the next of kin to him. Accord- 
 ingly, the chaste Penelope, having as she thought, 
 lost Ulysses at sea, she employed her time in pre¬ 
 paring a winding-sheet for Laertes, the father of 
 her husband. The story of her web being very 
 famous, and yet not sufficiently known in its sev¬ 
 eral circumstances, I shall give it to my reader, as 
 Homer makes one of her wooers relate it: 
 
 Sweet hope she gave to every youth apart, 
 
 With well-taught looks, and a deceitful heart: 
 
 A web she wove of many a slender twine, 
 
 Of curious texture, and perplex’d design; 
 
 “ My youths,” she cried, “ my lord hut newly dead, 
 Forbear awhile to court my widow’d bed, 
 
 Till I have woven, as solemn yows require, 
 
 This web, a shroud for poor Ulysses’ sire, 
 
 His limbs, when fate the hero’s soul demands, 
 
 Shall claim this labor of his daughter’s hands, 
 
 Lest all the dames of Greece my name despise, 
 
 While the great king without a covering lies.” 
 
 Thus she. Nor did my friends mistrust the guile, 
 
 All day she sped the long, laborious toil: 
 
 But when the burning lamps supplied the sun, 
 
THE SPE 
 
 Each night unravel’d what the day begun. 
 
 Three livelong summers did the fraud prevail; 
 
 The fourth her maidens told th’ amazing tale. 
 
 These eyes beheld, as close I took my stand, 
 
 The backward labors of her faithless hand: 
 
 Till, watch’d at length, and press’d on every side, 
 
 Her task she ended, and commenced a bride. 
 
 Ho. 607.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1714. 
 
 Dicite Io Paean, et Io bis dicite Pasan: 
 
 Dccidit in casses preeda petita meos. 
 
 Ovid, Ars Amor. i. 1. 
 
 Now Io Paean sing, now wreaths prepare, 
 
 And with repeated Ios fill the air; 
 
 The prey is fallen in my successful toils.— Anon. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ Having in your paper of Monday last publish¬ 
 ed my report on the case of Mrs. Fanny Fickle, 
 wherein 1 have taken notice that love comes after 
 marriage; I hope your readers are satisfied of this 
 truth, that as love generally produces matrimony, 
 so it often happens that matrimony produces love. 
 
 “ It perhaps requires more virtues to make a 
 good husband or wife than what go to the finish¬ 
 ing any the most shining character whatsoever. 
 
 “ Discretion seems absolutely necessary ; and 
 accordingly we find that the best husbands have 
 been most famous for their wisdom. Homer, who 
 hath drawn a perfect pattern of a prudent man, to 
 make it the more complete, hath celebrated him 
 for the just returns of fidelity and truth to his Pen¬ 
 elope; insomuch that he refused the caresses of a 
 goddess for her sake; and, to use the expression of 
 the best of Pagan authors, ‘ Vetulam suarn pratulit 
 immortalitati,’ his old woman was dearer to him 
 (jhan immortality. 
 
 “ Virtue is the next necessary qualification for 
 this domestic character, as it naturally produces 
 constancy and mutual esteem. Thus Brutus and 
 Portia were more remarkable for virtue and affec¬ 
 tion than any others of the age in which they 
 lived. 
 
 “ Good-nature is a third necessary ingredient in 
 the marriage state, without which it would inevita¬ 
 bly sour upon a thousand occasions. When great¬ 
 ness of mind is joined with this amiable quality, it 
 attracts the admiration and esteem of all who behold 
 it. Thus Caesar, not more remarkable for his for¬ 
 tune and valor than for his humanity, stole into 
 the hearts of the Roman people, when, breaking 
 through the custom, he pronounced an oration at 
 the funeral of his first and best-loved wife. 
 
 “ Good-nature is insufficient, unless it be steady 
 and uniform, and accompanied with an evenness of 
 temper, which is above all things to be preserved 
 in this friendship contracted for life. A man must 
 be easy within himself before he can be so to his 
 other self. Socrates and Marcus Aurelius are in¬ 
 stances of men, who by the strength of philoso¬ 
 phy, having entirely composed their minds, and 
 subdued their passions, are celebrated for good 
 husbands; notwithstanding the first was yoked 
 with Xantippe, and the other with Faustina. If 
 the wedded pair would but habituate themselves 
 for the first year to bear with one another’s faults, 
 the difficulty would be pretty well conquered. 
 This mutual sweetness of temper and complacency 
 was finely recommended in the nuptial ceremo¬ 
 nies among the heathens, who, when they sacrificed 
 to Juno at that solemnity, always tore out the 
 
 f all from the entrails of the victim, and cast it 
 ehind the altar. 
 
 “ I shall conclude this letter with a passage out 
 of Dr. Plot’s Natural History of Staffordshire, not 
 only as it will serve to fill up your present paper, 
 but, if I find myself in the humor, may give rise 
 
 CTATOR. 707 
 
 to another; I having by me an old register be¬ 
 longing to the place here under-mentioned. 
 
 “ Sir Philip de Somervile held the manors of 
 Whichenovre, Scirescot, Ridware, Netherton, and 
 Cowlee, all in the county of Stafford, of the earls 
 of Lancaster, by this memorable service : The said 
 Sir Philip shall find, maintain, and sustain, one 
 bacon-flitch, hanging in his hall at Whichenovre 
 ready arrayed all times of the year but in Lent, to 
 be given to every man, or woman married, after 
 the day and the year of their marriage be past, in 
 form following :—* 
 
 “ Whensoever that any oue such before named 
 will come to inquire for the bacon, in their own 
 person, they shall come to the bailiff, or to the 
 porter, of the lordship of Whiehenovre, and shall 
 say to them in the manner as ensueth :— 
 
 “ 1 Bailiff, or porter, I doo you to know, that I 
 am come for myself to demand one bacon-flyke 
 hanging in the hall of the lord of Whichenovre, 
 after the form thereunto belonging.’ 
 
 “ After which relation, the bailiff or porter shall 
 assign a day to him, upon promise by his faith to 
 return, and with him to bring twain of his neigh¬ 
 bors. And in the meantime, the said bailiff shall 
 take with him twain of the freeholders, of the 
 lordship of Whichenovre, and they three shall go 
 to the manor of Rudlow, belonging to Robert 
 Knightleye, and there shall summon the aforesaid 
 Knightleye, or his bailiff, commanding him to be 
 ready at Whichenovre the day appointed, at prime 
 of day, with his carriage, that is to say, a horse 
 and a saddle, a sack and a pryke, for to convey 
 the said bacon and corn a journey out of the county 
 of Stafford, at his costages. And then the said 
 bailiff shall, with the said freeholders, summon 
 all the tenants of the said manor, to be ready at 
 the day appointed at Whichenovre, for to do and 
 perform the services which they owe to the bacon. 
 And at the day assigned, all such as owe services 
 to the bacon shall be ready at the gate of the manor 
 of Whichenovre, from the sun-rising to noon, at¬ 
 tending and waiting for the coming of him who 
 fetcheth the bacon. And when he is come, there 
 shall be delivered to him and his fellows, chape- 
 lets, and to all those which shall be there, to do 
 their services due to the bacon. And they shall 
 lead the said demandant with trumps and tabors, 
 and other manner of minstrelsy, to the liall-door, 
 where he shall find the lord of Whichenovre, or 
 his steward, ready to deliver the bacon in this 
 manner:— 
 
 “ He shall inquire of him which demandeth the 
 bacon, if he have brought twain of his neighbors, 
 with him; which must answer ‘ they be here- 
 ready.’ And then the steward shall cause these 
 two neighbors to swear, if the said demandant be 
 a wedded man, or have been a man wedded, and 
 if since his marriage one year and a day be past;, 
 and if he be a freeman or a villein.f And if his 
 said neighbors make oath that he hath for him all 
 these three points rehearsed, then shall the bacon 
 be taken down and brought to the hall-door, and 
 shall there be laid upon one half-quarter of wheat,. 
 and upon one other of rye. And he that demand¬ 
 eth the bacon shall kneel upon his knee, and shall 
 hold his right hand upon a book, which book shall 
 be laid upon the bacon and the corn, and shall 
 make oath in this manner :— 
 
 “‘Here ye. Sir Philip de Somervile, lord of 
 Whichenovre, mayntener and gyver of this ba- 
 conne; that I, A. sithe I wedded B. my wife, and 
 
 * There was an institution of the same kind at Dunmow in 
 Essex. 
 
 f i. e. According to the acceptation of the word, at the date 
 of this institution, “ a freeman or a servant.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 708 
 
 sithe I had hyr in my kepying, and at my wylle 
 by a year and a day after our marriage, 1 would 
 not have cliaunged for none other; farer ne fowler; 
 richer ne pourer; ne for none other descended of 
 greater lynage: slepying ne waking, at noo time. 
 And if the seyd B. were sole, and 1 sole, I would 
 take her to be my wyfe before all the wymen of 
 the worlde, of what condiciones soever they be, 
 good or evylle; as help me God and his seyntes, 
 aud this flesh and all fleshes.’ 
 
 “ And his neighbors shall make oath, that they 
 trust verily he hath said truly. And if it be found 
 by his neighbors before named, that he be a free¬ 
 man, there shall be delivered to him half-a-quarter 
 of wheat and a cheese; and if he be a villein, he 
 shall have a quarter of rye without cheese. And 
 then shall Knightleye, the lord of Rudlow, be 
 called for to carry all these things tofore rehearsed; 
 and the said corn shall be laid on one horse, and 
 the bacon above it: and he to whom the bacon 
 appertaineth shall ascend upon his horse, and 
 shall take the cheese before him if he have a horse. 
 And if he have none, the lord of Whichenovre 
 shall cause him to have one horse and saddle, to 
 such time as he be passed his lordship ; and so 
 shall they depart the manor of Whichenovre with 
 the corn and the bacon, tofore him that hath won 
 it, with trumpets, taborets, and other manner of 
 minstrelsy. And all the free tenants of Which¬ 
 enovre shall conduct him to be passed the lord- 
 ship of Whichenovre. And then shall they all 
 return except him to whom appertaineth to make 
 the carriage and journey without the county of 
 Stafford, at the costs of his lord of Whichenovre.” 
 
 No. 608.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 18, 1714. 
 
 -Perjuria ridet amantum.— Ovid. Ars Amor. i. 633. 
 
 -Forgiving with a smile 
 
 The perjuries that easy maids beguile.— Dryden. 
 
 “Me. Spectator, 
 
 “ According to my promise, I herewith transmit 
 to you a list of several persons, who from time to 
 time demanded the flitch of bacon of Sir Philip de 
 Somerville, and his descendants; as it is preserved 
 in an ancient manuscript, under the title of ‘ The 
 Register of Whichenovre-hall, and of the bacon- 
 flitch there maintained.’ 
 
 “ In the beginning of this record, is recited the 
 law or institution in form, as it is already printed 
 in your last paper : to which are added two by¬ 
 laws, as a comment upon the general law, the sub¬ 
 stance whereof is, that the wife shall take the 
 same oath as the husband, mutatis mutandis; and 
 that the judges shall, as they think meet, interro¬ 
 gate or cross-examine the witnesses. After this 
 proceeds the register in manner following :— 
 
 “ ‘ Aubry de Falstaff, son of Sir John Falstaff, 
 kt. with dame Maude his wife, were the first that 
 demanded the bacon, he having bribed twain of 
 his father’s companions to swear falsely in his 
 behoof, whereby he gained the flitch; but he and 
 his said wife falling immediately into a dispute 
 how the said bacon should be dressed, it was by 
 order of the judges, taken from him and hung up 
 again in the hall. 
 
 “ ‘Alison, the wife of Stephen Freckle, brought 
 her said husband along with her, and set forth 
 the good conditions and behavior of her consort, 
 adding withal, that she doubted not but he was 
 ready to attest the like of her, his wife; where¬ 
 upon he, the said Stephen, shaking his head, she 
 turned short upon him, and gave him a box on 
 the ear. 
 
 “‘Philip de Waverland, having laid his hand 
 upon the book, when the clause, “were I sole 
 and she sole,” was rehearsed, found a secret com¬ 
 punction rising in his mind, and stole it off again. 
 
 “Richard de Loveless, who was a courtier, and 
 a very well-bred man, being observed to hesitate 
 at the word “after our marriage,” was thereupon 
 required to explain himself. He replied, by talk¬ 
 ing very largely of his exact complaisance while 
 he was a lover; and alleged that he had not in 
 the least disobliged his wife for a year and a day 
 before marriage, which he hoped was the same 
 thing. 
 
 “ ‘ Rejected. 
 
 “‘Joceline Jolly, Esq., making it appear, by 
 unquestionable testimony, that he and liis wife 
 had preserved full and entire affection for the 
 space of the first month, commonly called the 
 honeymoon, he had, in consideration thereof, one 
 rasher bestowed upon him.’ 
 
 “After this, says the record, many years passed 
 over before any demandant appeared at Whiche¬ 
 novre-hall; insomuch that one would have thought 
 that the whole country were turned Jews, so little 
 was their affection to the flitch of bacon. 
 
 “ The next couple enrolled had liked to have 
 carried it, if one of the witnesses had not deposed, 
 that dining on a Sunday with the demandant, 
 whose wife had sat below the Squire’s lady at 
 church, she the said wife dropped some expres¬ 
 sions, as if she thought her husband deserved to 
 be knighted; to which he returned a passionate 
 pish! The judges taking the premises into con¬ 
 sideration, declared the aforesaid behavior to im¬ 
 ply an unwarrantable ambition in the wife, and 
 anger in the husband. 
 
 “It is recorded as a sufficient disqualification 
 of a certain wife that, speaking of her husband, 
 she said ‘ God forgive him.’ 
 
 “ It is likewise remarkable, that a couple were 
 rejected upon the deposition of one of their neigh¬ 
 bors, that the lady had once told her husband, 
 that ‘it was her duty to obey;’ to which he re¬ 
 plied, ‘0, my dear; you are never in the wrong!’ 
 
 “ The violent passion of one lady for her lap- 
 dog: the turning away of the old housemaid by 
 another: a tavern bill torn by the wife, and a 
 tailor’s by the husband; a quarrel about the 
 kissing crust; spoiling of dinners, and coming in 
 late of nights, are so many several articles which 
 occasioned the reprobation of some scores of de¬ 
 mandants, whose names are recorded in the afore¬ 
 said register. 
 
 “Without enumerating other particular persons, 
 I shall content myself with observing that the 
 sentence pronounced against one Gervase Poacher 
 is, that ‘he might have had bacon to his eggs, if 
 he had not heretofore scolded his wife when they 
 were over-boiled.’ And the deposition against 
 Dorothy Dolittle runs in these words, ‘that she 
 had so far usurped the dominion of the coal fire 
 (the stirring whereof her husband claimed to 
 himself) that by her good-will she never would 
 suffer the poker out of her hand.’ 
 
 “I find but two couples in this first century 
 that were successful: the first was a sea-captain 
 and his wife, who since the day of their marriage 
 had not seen one another until the day of the 
 claim. The second was an honest pair in the 
 neighborhood; the husband was a man of plain 
 good sense, and a peaceable temper; the woman 
 was dumb.” 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 709 
 
 No. 609.] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20, 1714. 
 
 -Fcrrago libelli.—Juv. Sat. i. 86. 
 
 The miscellaneous subjects of my book. 
 
 ‘Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I have for some time desired to appear in 
 your paper, and have therefore chosen a day* to 
 steal into the Spectator, when I take it for granted 
 you will not have many spare minutes for specu¬ 
 lations of your own. As I was the other day 
 walking with an honest country gentleman, he 
 very often was expressing his astonishment to see 
 the town so mightily crowded with doctors of 
 divinity; upon which I told him he was very 
 much mistaken if he took all those gentlemen he 
 saw in scarfs to be persons of that dignity; for 
 that a young divine, after his first degree in the 
 university, usually comes hither only to show 
 himself; and on that occasion, is apt to think he 
 is but half equipped with a gown and cassock for 
 his public appearance, if he hath not the addi¬ 
 tional ornament of a scarf of the first magnitude 
 to entitle him to the appellation of Doctor from 
 his landlady and the boy at Child’s. Now since 
 I know' that this piece of garniture is looked upon 
 as a mark of vanity or affectation, as it is made 
 use of among some of the little spruce adven¬ 
 turers of the town, I should be glad if you would 
 ive it a place among those extravagances you 
 ave justly exposed in several of your papers, 
 being very well assured that the main body of the 
 clergy, both in the country and the universities, 
 who are almost to a man untainted with it, would 
 oe very well pleased to see this venerable foppery 
 well exposed. When my patron did me the honor 
 to take me into his family (for I must own myself 
 of this order), he was pleased to say he took me 
 as a friend and companion: and whether he looked 
 upon the scarf like the lace and shoulder-knot of 
 a footman, as a badge of servitude and depend¬ 
 ence, I do not know, but he was so kind as to 
 leave my wearing of it to my own discretion; and, 
 not having any just title to it from my degrees, I 
 am content to be without the ornament. The 
 privileges of our nobility to keep a certain num¬ 
 ber of chaplains are undisputed, though perhaps 
 not one in ten of those reverend gentlemen have any 
 relation to the noble families their scarfs belong 
 to: the right generally of creating all chaplains, 
 except the domestic (where there is one), being 
 nothing more than the perquisite of a steward’s 
 place, who, if he happens to outlive any consider¬ 
 able number of his noble masters, shall probably 
 at one and the same time have fifty chaplains, all 
 in their proper accouterments, of his ow r n crea¬ 
 tion; though perhaps there hath been neither 
 grace nor prayer said in the family since the 
 introduction of the first coronet. 
 
 “ I am,” etc. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I wish you would write a philosophical paper 
 about natural antipathies, with a word or two con- i 
 cerning the strength of the imagination. I can 
 give you a list, upon the first notice, of a rational 
 china cup, of an egg that walks upon two legs, 
 and a quart-pot that sings like a nightingale. 
 There is in my neighborhood a very pretty prat¬ 
 tling shoulder of veal, that squalls out at the 
 sight of a knife. Then, as for natural antipa¬ 
 thies, I know a general officer who was never 
 conquered but by a smothered rabbit; and a wife 
 that domineers over her husband by the help of a 
 breast of mutton. A story that relates to myself 
 
 * The 20th of October, 1714, was the day of the coronation 
 of King George I. 
 
 on this subject may be thought not unentertaining, 
 especially when I assure you that it is literally 
 true. I had long made love to a lady, in the pos¬ 
 session of whom I am now the happiest of man¬ 
 kind, whose hand I should have gained with 
 much difficulty without the assistance of a cat. 
 You must know then that my most dangerous 
 rival had so strong au aversion to this species, 
 that he infallibly swooned away at the sight of 
 that harmless creature. My friend Mrs. Lucy, her 
 maid, having a greater respect for me and my 
 purse than she had for my rival, always took care 
 to pin the tail of a cat under the gown of her mis¬ 
 tress, whenever she knew of his coming; which 
 had such an effect, that every time he entered the 
 room, he looked more like one of the figures in 
 Mrs. Salmon’s wax-work* than a desirable lover. 
 In short, he grew sick of her company: which the 
 young lady taking notice of (who no more knew 
 why than he did), she sent me a challenge to meet 
 her in Lincoln’s-inn-chapel, which I joyfully ac¬ 
 cepted ; and have, among other pleasures, the 
 satisfaction of being praised by her for my strata¬ 
 gem. “I am, etc. 
 
 “From the Hoop. “ Tom Nimble.” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The virgins of Great Britain are very much 
 obliged to you for putting them upon such tedious 
 drudgeries in needlework as were fit only for the 
 Hilpas and the Nilpas that lived before the Flood. 
 Here is a stir indeed with your histories in em¬ 
 broidery, your groves with shades of silk and 
 streams of mohair! I would have you to know, 
 that I hope to kill a hundred lovers before the 
 best housewife in England can stitch out a battle; 
 and do not fear but to provide boys and girls 
 much faster than your disciples can embroider 
 them. I love birds and beasts as well as you, 
 but am content to fancy them when they are 
 really made. What do you think of gilt leather 
 for furniture ? There is your pretty hangings for 
 a chamber !f and, what is more, our own country 
 is the only place in Europe where work of that 
 kind is tolerably done. Without minding your 
 musty lessons, I am this minute going to Paul’s 
 church-yard to bespeak a screen and a set of hang¬ 
 ings; and am resolved to encourage the manufac¬ 
 ture of my country. * “Yours, 
 
 “ Cleora.” 
 
 No. 610.] FRIDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1714. 
 
 Sic cum transierint mei 
 Nullo cum strepitu dies, 
 
 Plebeius moriar senex: 
 
 Illi mors gravis incubat, 
 
 Qui notus nimis omnibus, 
 
 Ignotus moritur sibi.— Seneca. 
 
 Thus, when my fleeting days, at last, 
 
 Unheeded, silently, are past, 
 
 Calmly I shall resign my breath, 
 
 In life unknown, forgot in death: 
 
 While he, o’ertaken unprepar'd, 
 
 Finds death an evil to be fear’d, 
 
 Who dies, to others too much known, 
 
 A stranger to himself alone. 
 
 I have often wondered that the Jews should 
 contrive such a worthless greatness for the Deliv- 
 ! erer whom they expected, as to dress him up in 
 external pomp and pageantry, and represent him 
 to their imagination as making havoc among his 
 creatures, and actuated with the poor ambition of 
 
 * Opposite the same place, near Temple-Bar, there was, till 
 very lately, an exhibition of wax-work by a person of the 
 same name. 
 
 f There was about this time a celebrated manufactory of 
 tapestry at Chelsea. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 710 
 
 a Caesar or an Alexander. How much more illus¬ 
 trious doth he appear in his real character, when 
 considered as the author of universal benevolence 
 among men, as refining our passions, exalting our 
 nature, giving us vast ideas of immortality, and 
 teaching us a contempt of that little showy gran¬ 
 deur wherein the Jews made the glory of their 
 Messiah to consist! 
 
 “Nothing,” says Longinus, “can be great, the 
 contempt of which is great.” The possession of 
 wealth and riches cannot give a man a title to 
 greatness because it is looked upon as a greatness 
 of mind to contemn these gifts of fortune, and to 
 be above the desire of them. I have therefore 
 been inclined to think that there are greater men 
 who lie concealed among the species, than those 
 who come out and draw upon themselves the eyes 
 and admiration of mankind. Virgil would never 
 have been heard of, had not his domestic misfor¬ 
 tunes driven him out of his obscurity, and brought 
 him to Rome. 
 
 If we suppose that there are spirits, or angels, 
 who look into the ways of men, as it is highly 
 probable there are, both from reason and revela¬ 
 tion, how different are the notions which they en¬ 
 tertain of us, from those which we are apt to form 
 of one another! Were they to give us in their 
 catalogue of such worthies as are now living, 
 how different would it be from that which any 
 of our own species would draw up! 
 
 We are dazzled with the splendor of titles, the 
 ostentation of learning, the noise of victories; 
 they, on the contrary, see the philosopher in the 
 cottage, who possesses his soul in patience and 
 thankfulness, under the pressure of what little 
 minds call poverty and distress. They do not 
 look for great men at the head of armies, or 
 among the pomps of a court, but often find them 
 out in shades and solitudes, in the private walks 
 and by-paths of life. The evening’s walk of a 
 wise man is more illustrious in their sight than 
 the march of a general at the head of a hundred 
 thousand men. A contemplation on God’s works; 
 a voluntary act of justice to our own detriment; a 
 generous concern for the good of mankind; tears 
 that are shed in silence for the misery of others; 
 a private desire or resentment broken and sub¬ 
 dued; in short, an unfeigned exercise of humility, 
 or any other virtue, are such actions as are glo¬ 
 rious in their sight, and denominate men great 
 and reputable. The most famous among us are 
 often looked upon with pity, with contempt, or 
 with indignation; while those who are most ob¬ 
 scure among their own species are regarded with 
 love, with approbation, and esteem. 
 
 The moral of the present speculation amounts 
 to this: that we should not be led away by the 
 censures and applauses of men, but consider the 
 figure that every person will make at that time 
 when “Wisdom shall be justified of her chil¬ 
 dren,” and nothing pass for great or illustrious 
 which is not an ornament and perfection to hu¬ 
 man nature. 
 
 The story of Gyges, the rich Lydian monarch, 
 is a memorable instance to our present purpose. 
 The oracle, being asked by Gyges, who was the 
 happiest man, replied, Aglaus. Gyges, who ex¬ 
 pected to have heard himself named on this occa¬ 
 sion, was much surprised, and very curious to 
 know who this Aglaus should be. After much 
 inquiry, he was found to be an obscure country¬ 
 man, who employed all his time in cultivating a 
 garden, and a few acres of land about his house. 
 
 Cowley’s agreeable relation of this story shall 
 close this day’s speculation. 
 
 Thus Aglaus (a man unknown to men, 
 
 But the gods knew, and therefore lov'd him then), 
 
 Thus liv’d obscurely then without a name, 
 
 Aglaus, now consign’d t’ eternal fame. 
 
 Bor Gyges, the rich king, wicked and great, 
 Presum’d at wise Apollo’s Delphic seat, 
 
 Presum’d to ask, 0 thou the whole world’s eye, 
 Seest thou a man that happier is than I ? 
 
 The god, who scorn’d to flatter man, replied, 
 Aglaus happier is. But Gyges cried, 
 
 In a proud rage, Who can that Aglaus he ? 
 
 We’ve heard as yet of no such king as he. 
 
 And true it was, through the whole earth around, 
 No king of such a name was to be found. 
 
 Is some old hero of that name alive, 
 
 Who his high race does from the gods derive ? 
 
 Is it some mighty gen’ral that has done 
 Wonders in fight, and godlike honors won? 
 
 Is it some man of endless wealth? said he, 
 
 None, none of these. Who can this Aglaus be? 
 After long search, and vain inquiries past, 
 
 In an obscure Arcadian vale at last 
 (Th’ Arcadian life has always shady been), 
 
 Near Sopho’s town, which he but once had seen, 
 This Aglaus, who monarchs’ envy drew, 
 
 Whose happiness the gods stood witness to, 
 
 This mighty Aglaus, was lab’ring found, 
 
 With his own hands, in his own little ground. 
 
 So, gracious God, if it may lawful be 
 Among those foolish gods to mention thee, 
 
 So let me act, on such a private stage, 
 
 The last dull scenes of my declining age; 
 
 After long toils and voyages in vain, 
 
 This quiet port let my tost vessel gain; 
 
 Of heavenly rest this earnest to me lend, 
 
 Let my life sleep, and learn to love her end. 
 
 No. 611.] MONDAY, OCTOBER 25,1714. 
 
 Perfide! sed duris genuit te cautibus horrens 
 Caucasus, Hyrcanaeque admorunt ubera tigres. 
 
 Yirg. JEn. iv. 366. 
 
 Perfidious man 1 thy parent was a rock, 
 
 And fierce Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck. 
 
 I am -willing to postpone everything, to do any 
 the least service for the deserving and unfortunate. 
 Accordingly I have caused the following letter to 
 be inserted in my paper the moment that it came 
 to my hands, without altering one tittle in an ac¬ 
 count which the lady relates so handsomely her¬ 
 self : 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I flatter myself you will not only pity, but, if 
 possible, redress a misfortune myself and several 
 others of my sex lie under. I hope you will not 
 be offended, nor think I mean by this to justify 
 my own imprudent conduct, or expect you shoula. 
 No: I am sensible how severely, in some of your 
 former papers, you have reproved persons guilty 
 of the like mismanagements. I was scarce six¬ 
 teen, and I may say without vanity, handsome, 
 when courted by a false perjured man; who, upon 
 romise of marriage, rendered me the most un- 
 appy of women. After he had deluded me from 
 my parents, who were people of very good fashion, 
 in less than three months he left me. My parents 
 would not see nor hear from me; and, had it not 
 been for a servant who had lived in our family, I 
 must certainly have perished for want of bread. 
 However, it pleased Providence, in a very short 
 time, to alter my miserable condition. A gentle¬ 
 man saw me, liked me, and married me. My par¬ 
 ents were reconciled; and I might be as happy in 
 the change of my condition, as I was before mis¬ 
 erable, but for some things, that you shall know, 
 which are insupportable to me; and I am sure you 
 have so much honor and compassion as to let those 
 persons know, in some of your papers, how much 
 they are in the wrong. I have been married near 
 five years, and do not know that in all that time I 
 ever went abroad without my husband’s leave and 
 approbation. I am obliged, through the importu¬ 
 nities of several of my relations, to go abroad 
 oftener than suits my temper. Then it is I labor 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 under insupportable agonies. That man, or rather i 
 monster, haunts every place I go to. Base villain ! 
 by reason I will not admit his nauseous wicked ; 
 visits and appointments, he strives all the ways 
 he can to ruin ihe. He left me destitute of friend 
 or money, nor ever thought me worth inquiring 
 after, until he unfortunately happened to see me in 
 a front box sparkling with jewels. Then his pas¬ 
 sion returned. Then the hypocrite pretended to be 
 a penitent. Then he practiced all those arts that 
 helped before to undo me. I am not to be deceived 
 a second time by him. I hate and abhor his odious 
 passion; and as he plainly perceives it, either out of 
 spite or diversion he makes it his business to expose 
 me. I never fail seeing him in all public company, 
 where he is always most industriously spiteful. 
 He hath, in short, told all his acquaintance of our 
 unhappy affair; they tell theirs; so that it is no 
 secret among his companions, which are numerous. 
 They to whom he tells it, think they have a title 
 to be very familiar. If they bow to me, and I out 
 of good manners return it, then I am pestered with 
 freedoms that are no ways agreeable to myself or 
 company. If I turn my eyes from them, or seem 
 displeased, they sour upon it, and whisper the 
 next person; he his next; until I have at last the 
 eyes of the whole company upon me. Nay, they 
 report abominable falsehoods, under that mistaken 
 notion, “ She that will grant favors to one man will 
 to a hundred.” I beg you will let those who are 
 guilty know how ungenerous this way of proceed¬ 
 ing is. I am sure he will know himself the person 
 aimed at, and perhaps put a stop to the insolence 
 of others. Cursed is the fate of unhappy women! 
 that men may boast and glory in those things that 
 we 1 must think of with shame and horror! You 
 have the art of making such odious customs ap¬ 
 pear detestable. For my sake, and, I am sure, for 
 the sake of several others who dare not own it, 
 but, like me, lie under the same misfortunes, make 
 it as infamous for a man to boast of favors, or ex¬ 
 pose our sex, as it is to take the lie or a box on the 
 ear, and not resent it. 
 
 “Your constant Reader and Admirer, 
 
 “Lesbia. 
 
 “ P. S. I am the more impatient under this mis¬ 
 fortune, having received fresh provocation, last 
 Wednesday, in the Abbey.” 
 
 I entirely agree with the amiable and unfortu¬ 
 nate Lesbia, that an insult upon a woman in her 
 circumstances is as infamous in a man, as a tame 
 behavior when the lie or a buffet is given; which 
 truth I shall beg leave of her to illustrate by the 
 following observation. ' 
 
 It is a mark of cowardice passively to forbear 
 resenting an affront, the resenting of which would 
 lead a man into danger; it is no less a sign of 
 cowardice to affront a creature that hath not power 
 to avenge itself. Whatever name, therefore, this 
 ungenerous man may bestow on the helpless lady 
 he hath injured, I shall not scruple to give him, 
 in return for it, the appellation of coward. 
 
 A man that can so far descend from his dignity 
 as to strike a lady, can never recover his reputation 
 with either sex, because no provocation is thought 
 strong enough to justify such treatment from the 
 powerful toward the weak. In the circumstances 
 m which poor Lesbia is situated, she can appeal 
 to no man whatsoever to avenge an insult more 
 grievous than a blow. If she could open her 
 mouth, the base man knows that a husband, a 
 brother, a generous friend, would die to see her 
 righted. 
 
 A generous mind, however enraged against an 
 enemy, feels its resentments sink and vanish away 
 when the object of its wrath falls into its power. 
 
 711 
 
 An estranged friend, filled with jealousy and dis¬ 
 content toward a bosom acquaintance, is apt to 
 overflow with tenderness and remorse, when a crea¬ 
 ture that was once dear to him undergoes any mis¬ 
 fortune. What name then shall we give to his in¬ 
 gratitude, who (forgetting the favors he solicited 
 with eagerness, and received with rapture) can 
 insult the miseries that he himself caused, and 
 make sport with the pain to which he owes his 
 greatest pleasure ? There is but one being in the 
 creation whose province it is to practice upon the 
 imbecilities of frail creatures, and triumph in the 
 woes which his own artifices brought about; and 
 we well know those who follow his example will 
 receive his reward. 
 
 Leaving my fair correspondent to the direction 
 of her own wisdom and modesty; and her enemy, 
 and his mean accomplices, to the compunction of 
 their own hearts; I shall conclude this paper with 
 a memorable instance of revenge, taken by a Span¬ 
 ish lady upon her guilty lover, which may serve 
 to show what violent effects are wrought by the 
 most tender passion, when soured into hatred; and 
 may deter the young and unwary from unlawful 
 love. The story, however romantic it mayr appear, 
 I have heard affirmed for a truth. 
 
 Not many years ago an English gentleman, who, 
 in a rencounter by night in the streets of Madrid, 
 had the misfortune to kill his man, fled into a 
 church-porch for sanctuary. Leaning against the 
 door, he was surprised to find it open, and a glim¬ 
 mering light in the church. He had the courage 
 to advance toward the light; but was terribly 
 startled at the sight of a woman in white, who as¬ 
 cended from a grave with a bloody knife in her 
 hand. The phantom marched up to him, and asked 
 him what he did there. He told her the truth 
 without reserve, believing that he had met with a 
 ghost; upon which she spoke to him in the fol¬ 
 lowing manner: “Stranger, thou art in my power; 
 I am a murderer as thou art. Know then that I 
 am a nun of a noble family. A base perjured man 
 undid me, and boasted of it. I soon had him dis¬ 
 patched; but not content with the murder, I have 
 bribed the sexton to let me enter his grave, and 
 have now plucked out his false heart from his 
 body; and thus I use a traitor’s heart.” At these 
 words she tore it in pieces and trampled it under 
 her feet. 
 
 No. 612.] WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1714. 
 
 Murranum hie, atavos et avorum antiqua sonantem 
 Nomina, per regesque actum genus omne Latinos, 
 Prascipitem scopulo atque ingentis turbine saxi 
 
 Excutit, effunditque solo- VlRG. ^En. xii. 529. 
 
 Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs 
 From a long royal race of Latian kings, 
 
 Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown, 
 
 Crush’d with the weight of an unwieldy stone.— Dryden. 
 
 It is highly laudable to pay respect to men who 
 are descended from worthy ancestors, not only out 
 of gratitude to those who have done good to man¬ 
 kind, but as it is an encouragement to others to 
 follow their example. But this is an honor to be 
 received, not demanded, by the descendants ol 
 great men; and they who are apt to remind us of 
 their ancestors only put us upon making compari¬ 
 sons to their own disadvantage. There is some 
 pretense for boasting of wit, beauty, strength, or 
 wealth, because the communication of them may 
 give pleasure or profit to others; but we can have 
 no merit, nor ought we to claim any respect, be¬ 
 cause our fathers acted well whether we would 
 or no. 
 
 The following letter ridicules the folly 1 have 
 mentioned, in a new, and I think, not disagreeable 
 light: 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 712 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “Were the genealogy of every family preserved, 
 there would probably be no man valued or des- 
 ised on account of his birth. There is scarce a 
 eggar in the streets, who would not find himself 
 lineally descended from some great man; nor anv 
 one ot the highest title, who would not discover 
 several base and indigent persons among his an¬ 
 cestors. It would be a pleasant entertainment to 
 see one pedigree of men appear together, under the 
 same characters they bore when they acted their 
 lespective parts among the living. Suppose, there¬ 
 fore, a gentleman, full of his illustrious family, 
 should, in the same manner as Virgil makes iEneas 
 look over his descendants, see the whole line of 
 his progenitors pass in review before his eyes— 
 with how many varying passions would he be¬ 
 hold shepherds and soldiers, statesmen and artifi¬ 
 cers, princes and beggars, walk in the procession 
 of five thousand years! How would his heart 
 sink or flutter at the several sports of fortune, in a 
 scene so diversified with rags and purple, handi¬ 
 craft tools and scepters, ensigns of dignity and 
 emblems of disgrace! And how would his fears 
 and apprehensions, his transports and mortifica¬ 
 tions, succeed one another, as the line of his ge¬ 
 nealogy appeared bright or obscure! 
 
 “In most of the pedigrees hung up in old man¬ 
 sion-houses, you are sure to find the first in the 
 catalogue a great statesman, or a soldier with an 
 honorable commission. The honest artificer that 
 begot him, and all his frugal ancestors before him, 
 are torn off from the top of the register; and you 
 are not left to imagine that the noble founder of 
 the family ever had a father. Were we to trace 
 many boasted lines further backward, we should 
 lose them in a mob of tradesmen, or a crowd of 
 rustics, without hope of seeing them emerge again; 
 not unlike the old Appian way, which, after liav- 
 mg run many miles in length, loses itself in a boo-. 
 
 I lately made a visit to an old country gen¬ 
 tleman, who is very far gone in this sort of family- 
 madness. I found him in his study perusino- an 
 old register of his family, which he had just then 
 discovered as it was branched out in the form of a 
 tree, upon a skin of parchment. Having the honor 
 to have some of his blood in my veins, he permit¬ 
 ted me to cast my eye over the boughs of this 
 veneiable plant; and asked my advice in the re¬ 
 forming of some of the superfluous branches. 
 
 “We passed slightly over three or four of our 
 immediate forefathers, whom he knew by tradition 
 but were soon stopped by an alderman of London' 
 who I perceived made my kinsman’s heart go pit- 
 a-pat. His confusion increased when he found the 
 alderman’s father to be a grazier; but he recovered 
 hisAright upon seeing justice of the quorum at the 
 end ot his titles. Things went on pretty well 
 as we threw our eyes frequently over the tree 
 v lien unfortunately he perceived a merchant-tailor 
 perched on a bough, who was said greatly to have 
 increased the estate; he was just going to cut him 
 oft it he had not seen gent, after the name of his 
 son; who was recorded to have mortgaged one of 
 the manors his honest father had purchased. A 
 weaver, who was burnt for his religion in the 
 reign of Queen Mary, was pruned away without 
 mercy; as was likewise a yeoman who died of a 
 •fall from his own cart. But great was our triumph 
 m one of the blood who was beheaded for high- 
 treason; which, nevertheless, was not a little al¬ 
 layed by another of our ancestors who was hanged 
 for stealing sheep. The expectations of my o-ood 
 cousin were wonderfully raised by a match into 
 the family of a knight; but unfortunately for us 
 this branch proved barren; on the other hand 
 Margery the milk-maid, being twined round a 
 
 bough, it flourished out, into so many shoots, and 
 bent with so much fruit, that the old gentleman 
 was quite out of countenance. To comfort me un¬ 
 der this disgrace, he singled out a branch ten 
 times more fruitful than the other, which he told 
 me he valued more than any in the tree, and bade 
 me be of good comfort. This enormous bough 
 was a graft out of a Welsh heiress, with so many 
 Aps upon it that it might have made a little grove 
 by itself. From the trunk of the pedigree, which 
 was chiefly composed of laborers and shepherds, 
 arose a huge sprout of farmers; this was branched 
 out into yeomen, and ended in a sheriff of the 
 county, who was knighted for his good service to 
 the crown in bringing up an address. Several of 
 the names that seemed to disparage the family, 
 being looked upon as mistakes, were lopped off 
 as rotten or withered; as, on the contrary, no small 
 number appearing without any titles, my cousin, 
 to supply tiie defects of the manuscript, added esq. 
 at the end of each of them. 
 
 This tree, so pruned, dressed, and cultivated, 
 was, within a few days, transplanted into a large 
 sheet of vellum, and placed in the great hall, 
 where it attracts the veneration of his tenants 
 every Sunday morning, while they wait until his 
 worship is ready to go to church; wondering that 
 a man who had so many fathers before him should 
 not be made a knight; or at least a justice of the 
 peace.” 
 
 Ho. 613.J FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1714. 
 
 -Studiis florentem ignobilis oti. 
 
 Virg. Georg, iv. 564. 
 
 Affecting studies of less noisy praise.— Dryden. 
 
 It is leckoned a piece of ill-breeding for one 
 man to engross the whole talk to himself. For 
 this leason; since 1 keep three visiting-days in the 
 week, I am content now and then to let my friends 
 put in a word. There are several advantages 
 hereby accruing both to my readers and myself. 
 As first, young and modest writers have an oppor¬ 
 tunity of getting into print; again, the town en¬ 
 joys the pleasure of variety; and posterity will see 
 the humor of the present age, by the help of these 
 little lights into private and domestic life. The 
 benefits I receive from thence are such as these: 
 I gam more time for future speculations; pick up 
 hints which I improve for the public good; <n V e 
 advice; redress grievances; and by leaving com¬ 
 modious spaces between the several letters that I 
 print, furnish out a Spectator, with little labor and 
 great ostentation. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “I was mightily pleased with your speculation 
 ol Inday. 1 our sentiments are noble, and the 
 whole worked up in such a manner as cannot but 
 strike upon every reader. But give me leave to 
 make this remark; that while you write so pa¬ 
 thetically on contentment and a retired life, you 
 soothe the passion of melancholy, and depress the 
 mmd from actions truly glorious. Titles and hon¬ 
 ors are the reward of virtue; we therefore ought to 
 be affected with them; and though light minds are 
 too much puffed up with exterior pomp, yet I can¬ 
 not see why it is not as truly philosophical to ad¬ 
 mire the glowing ruby, or the sparkling green of 
 an emerald, as the fainter and less permanent 
 beauties of a rose or a myrtle. If there are men 
 ol extraordinary capacities who lie concealed from 
 the world, I should impute it to them as a blot in 
 their character, did I not believe it owing to the 
 meanness of their fortune rather than their spirit. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 713 
 
 Cowley, who tells the story of Aglaus with so 
 much pleasure, was no stranger to courts, nor in¬ 
 sensible of praise. 
 
 M hat shall I do to be forever known, 
 And make the age to come my own ? 
 
 was the result of a laudable ambition. It was 
 not until after frequent disappointments that he 
 termed himself the melancholy Cowley; and he 
 praised solitude when he despaired of shining in 
 a court. I he soul of man is an active principle. 
 He, therefore, who withdraws himself from the 
 scene before he has played his part, ought to be 
 hissed off the stage, and cannot be deemed virtu¬ 
 ous, because he refuses to answer his end. I must 
 own I am fired with an honest ambition to imi¬ 
 tate every illustrious example. The battles of 
 Blenheim and Ramilies have more than once 
 made me wish myself a soldier. And, when I 
 have seen those actions so nobly celebrated by 
 oui poets, I have secretly aspired to be one of 
 that distinguished class. But in vain I wish, in 
 vain I pant with the desire of action. I am chained 
 down in obscurity, and the only pleasure I can 
 take is in seeing so many brighter geniuses join 
 their friendly lights to add to the splendor of the 
 throne. Farewell, then, dear Spec., and believe 
 me to be with great emulation, and no envy, 
 
 “ Your professed Admirer, 
 
 “Will Hopeless.” 
 
 “Middle Temple, Oct. 16, 1714 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 . “ Though you formerly made eloquence the sub¬ 
 ject of one or more of your papers, I do not re¬ 
 member that you ever considered it as possessed 
 by a set of people, who are so far from making 
 Quintilian’s rules their practice, that, I dare say 
 for them, they never heard of such an author, and 
 yet are no less masters of it than Tully or De¬ 
 mosthenes among the ancients, or whom you 
 please among the moderns. ( The persons I am 
 speaking of are our common " beggars about this 
 town; and, that what I say is true, I appeal to 
 any man who has a heart one degree softer than a 
 stone ) As for my part, who do not pretend to 
 more humanity than my neighbors, I have often¬ 
 times gone from my chambers with money in my 
 pocket, and returned to them not only pennyless, 
 but destitute of a farthing, without bestowing of 
 it any other way than on these seeming objects of 
 pity. In short, I have seen more eloquence in a 
 look ftom one of these despicable creatures than 
 in the eye of the fairest she I ever saw, yet no one 
 is a greater admirer of that sex than myself. 
 What I have to desire of you is, to lay down "some 
 directions in order to guard against these powerful 
 orators, or else I know nothing to the contrary but 
 I must myself be forced to leave the profession of 
 the law, and endeavor to get the qualifications 
 necessary to that more profitable one of beggino-. 
 But, in whichsoever of these two capacities I shine’ 
 I shall always desire to be your constant reader, 
 and ever will be 
 
 “ Your most humble Servant, 
 
 “J. B.” 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “Upon reading a Spectator last week, where 
 Mrs. Fanny Fickle submitted, the choice of a lover 
 for life to your decisive determination, and imag¬ 
 ining I.might claim the favor of your advice in 
 an affair of the like, but much more difficult na¬ 
 ture, I called for pen and ink,,in order to draw the 
 characters of seven humble servants, whom I have 
 equally encouraged for some time. But alas! 
 while I was reflecting on the agreeable subject^ 
 
 and contriving an advantageous description of the 
 dear person 1 was most inclined to favor, I hap¬ 
 pened. to look into my glass. The sight of the 
 small-pox, out of which 1 am just recovered, tor¬ 
 mented me at once with the loss of my captivating 
 arts and my captives. The confusion 1 was in, 
 on this unhappy, unseasonable discovery, is in¬ 
 expressible. Believe me. Sir, I was so taken up 
 with the thoughts of your fair correspondent’s 
 case, and so intent on my own design, that I fan¬ 
 cied myself as triumphant in my conquests as 
 ever. 
 
 “ Now, Sir, finding I was incapacitated to amuse 
 myself on that pleasing subject, I resolved to ap¬ 
 ply myself to you or your casuistical agent, for 
 advice in my present circumstances. I am sen¬ 
 sible the tincture of my skin, and the regularity 
 of my features, Which the malice of my late ill¬ 
 ness lias altered, are irrecoverable; yet do not de¬ 
 spair but that loss, by your assistance, may in 
 some measure be reparable, if you will please to 
 propose a way for the recovery of one only of my 
 fugitives. j j 
 
 One of them is in a more particular manner 
 beholden to me than the rest; he, for some private 
 reasons, being desirous to be a lover incognito, 
 always addressed me with billet-doux, which I 
 was so careful of in my sickness that I secured 
 the key of my love-magazine under my head, and, 
 hearing a noise of opening a lock in my chamber, 
 endangered my life by getting out of bed, to pre¬ 
 vent, if it had been attempted, the discovery of 
 that amour. 
 
 “ I have formerly made use of all those artifices 
 which our sex daily practice over yours, to draw, 
 as it were undesignedly, the eyes of a whole con¬ 
 gregation to my pew ; I have taken a pride in the 
 number of admirers at my afternoon levee; but am 
 now quite another creature. I think, could I re¬ 
 gain the attractive influence I once had, if I had a 
 legion of suitors I should never be ambitious of 
 entertaining more than one. I have almost con- ' 
 ti acted an antipathy to the trifling discourses of 
 impertinent lovers; though I must needs own I 
 have thought it very odd of late to hear gentle¬ 
 men, instead of their usual complaisances fall into 
 disputes before me of politics, or else weary me 
 with the tedious repetition of how thankful I 
 ought to be, and satisfied with my recovery out 
 of so dangerous a distemper; this, though I am 
 sensible of the blessing, yet I cannot but 
 dislike, because such advice from them rather 
 seems to insult than comfort me, and reminds me 
 too much of what I was: which melancholy con¬ 
 sideration I cannot yet perfectly surmount, but 
 hope your sentiments on this head will make it 
 supportable. 
 
 “ To show you what a value I have for your dic¬ 
 tates, these are to certify the persons concerned, 
 that unless one of them returns to his colors, if I 
 may so call them now, before the winter is over, I 
 w ill voluntarily confine myself to a retirement, 
 where I will punish them all with my needle. I 
 will be revenged on them, by deciphering them on 
 a carpet, humbly begging admittance, t myself 
 scornfully refusing it. If you disapprove of this, 
 as savoring too much of malice, be pleased to ac¬ 
 quaint me with a draught you like better, and it 
 shall be faithfully performed by the unfortunate 
 
 “ Monimia.” 
 
714 the spectator. 
 
 Ho. 614.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 1714. 
 
 Si mihi non animo fixum immotumque sederet 
 Ne cui me vinclo vellem sociare jugali, 
 
 Postquam primus amor deceptam morte fefellit; 
 
 Si non pertaesum thalami taedaeque fuisset, 
 
 Huic uni forsan potui succumbere culpae. 
 
 Vibq. iEn. iv. 15. 
 
 -Were I not resolv’d against the yoke 
 
 Of hapless marriage; never to be curs’d 
 With second love, so fatal was the first, 
 
 To this one error I might yield again.—D ryden. 
 
 The following account hath been transmitted 
 to me by the love-casuist:— 
 
 “Me. Spectator, 
 
 “ Having in some former papers taken care of 
 the two states of virginity and marriage, and being 
 willing that all people should be served in their 
 turn, I this day drew out my drawer of widows, 
 where I met with several cases, to each whereof 
 I have returned satisfactory answers by the post. 
 The cases are as follows : 
 
 “ Q. Whether Amoret be bound by a promise of 
 marriage to Philander, made during her husband’s 
 life ? 
 
 “ Q. Whether Sempronia, having faithfully 
 given a promise to two several persons during the 
 last sickness of her husband, is not thereby left at 
 liberty to choose which of them she pleases, or to 
 reject them both for the sake of a new lover ? 
 
 “ Cleora asks me, whether she be obliged to con¬ 
 tinue single according to a vow made to her hus¬ 
 band at the time of his presenting her with a dia¬ 
 mond necklace; she being informed by a very 
 pretty young fellow of a good conscience, that 
 such vows are in their nature sinful ? 
 
 “ Another inquires, whether she hath not the 
 right of widowhood, to dispose of herself to a 
 gentleman of great merit, who presses very hard; 
 her husband being irrecoverably gone in a con¬ 
 sumption ? 
 
 “ An unreasonable creature hath the confidence 
 to ask, whether it be proper for her to marry a 
 man who is younger than her eldest son ? 
 
 “A scrupulous well-spoken matron, who gives 
 me a great many good words, only doubts, whether 
 she is not obliged in conscience to shut up her two 
 marriageable daughters, until such time as she 
 hath comfortably disposed of herself? 
 
 “ Sophronia, who seems by her phrase and spell¬ 
 ing to be a person of condition, sets forth, that 
 whereas she hath a great estate, and is but a wo¬ 
 man, she desires to be informed, whether she 
 would not do prudently to marry Camillus, a very 
 idle, tall young fellow, who hath no fortune of his 
 own, and consequently hath nothing else to do 
 but to manage hers ?” 
 
 Before I speak of widows, I cannot but observe 
 one thing, which I do not know how to account 
 for; a widow is always more sought after than an 
 old maid of the same age. It is common enough 
 among ordinary people, for a stale virgin to set up 
 a shop in a place where she is not known; where 
 the large thumb-ring, supposed to be given her by 
 her husband, quickly recommends her to some 
 wealthy neighbor, who takes a liking to the jolly 
 widow, that would have overlooked the venerable 
 spinster. 
 
 The truth of it is, if we look into this set of wo¬ 
 men, we find, according to the different characters 
 or circumstances wherein they are left, that wid¬ 
 ows may be divided into those who raise love and 
 those who raise compassion. 
 
 But, not to ramble from this subject, there are 
 two things in which consists chiefly the glory of 
 the widow—the love of her deceased husband, and 
 the care of her children; to which may be added 
 
 a third, arising out of the former, such a prudent 
 conduct as may do honor to both. 
 
 A widow possessed of all these three qualities 
 makes not only a virtuous but a sublime character. 
 
 There is something so great and so generous in 
 this state of life, when it is accompanied with all 
 its virtues, that it is the subject of one of the finest 
 among our modern tragedies in the person of An¬ 
 dromache, and hath met with a universal and de¬ 
 served applause, when introduced upon our Eng¬ 
 lish stage by Mr. Phillips. 
 
 The most memorable widow in history is Queen 
 Artemisia, who not only erected the famous mau¬ 
 soleum, but drank up the ashes of her dead lord; 
 thereby inclosing them in a nobler monument than 
 that which she had built, though deservedly es¬ 
 teemed one of the wonders of architecture. 
 
 This last lady seems to have had a better title 
 to a second husband than any I have read of, since 
 not one dust of her first was remaining. Our 
 modern heroines might think a husband a very 
 bitter draught, and would have good reason to 
 complain, if they might not accept of a second 
 partner until they had taken such a troublesome 
 method of losing the memory of the first. 
 
 I shall add to these illustrious examples out of 
 ancient story, a remarkable instance of the deli¬ 
 cacy of our ancestors in relation to the state of 
 widowhood, as I find it recorded in Cowell’s In- 
 tepreter.* “At East and West Enborne, in the 
 county of Burks, if a customary tenant die, the 
 widow shall have what the law calls her free- 
 bench in all his copyhold lands, dum sola et casta 
 fuerit, that is, while she lives single and chaste; but 
 if she commit incontinency she forfeits her estate; 
 yet if she will come into the court riding backward 
 upon a black ram, with his tail in her hand, and 
 say the words following, the steward is bound by 
 the custom to readmit her to her freebench: 
 
 “ ‘ Here I am, 
 
 Riding upon a black ram, 
 
 Like a whore as I am; * 
 
 And for my crincum crancum 
 Have lost my bincurn bancum; 
 
 And for my tail’s game 
 Have done this worldly shame; 
 
 Therefore I pray you, Mr. Steward, let me have my 
 land again.’ ” 
 
 The like custom there is in the manor of Torre 
 in Devonshire, and other parts of the West. 
 
 It is not impossible but I may in a little time 
 present you with a register of Berkshire ladies, 
 and other western dames, who rode publicly upon 
 this occasion; and I hope the town will be enter¬ 
 tained with a cavalcade of widows. 
 
 No. 615.] WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 3,1714. 
 
 -Qui Deorum 
 
 Muneribus sapienter uti, 
 
 Duramque callet pauperiem pati, 
 
 Pejusque letho flagitium timet; 
 
 Non ille pro caris amicis 
 
 Aut patria timidus perire.— Hor. 4 Od. ix. 47. 
 Who spend their treasure freely, as ’twas giv’n 
 By the large bounty of indulgent Heav’n; 
 
 Who in a fix’d unalterable state 
 Smile at the doubtful tide of fate, 
 
 And scorn alike her friendship and her hate; 
 
 Who poison less than falsehood fear, 
 
 Loath to purchase life so dear; 
 
 But kindly for their friend embrace cold death, 
 
 And seal their country’s love with their departing breath. 
 
 Stepney. 
 
 It must be owned that fear is a very powerful 
 passion, since it is esteemed one of the greatest of 
 
 * No record of this kind is to be found in the edition of 
 Cowell’s Interpreter of 1637, 4to. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 715 
 
 virtues to subdue it. It being implanted in us for 
 our preservation, it is no wonder that it sticks close 
 to us as long as we have anything we are willing 
 to preserve. But as life, and all its enjoyments, 
 would be scarce worth the keeping if we were un¬ 
 der a perpetual dread of losing them, it is the 
 business of religion and philosophy to free us from 
 all unnecessary anxieties, and direct our fear to its 
 proper object. 
 
 If we consider the painfulness of this passion, 
 and the violent effects it produces, we shall see 
 how dangerous it is to give way to it upon slight 
 occasions. Some have frightened themselves into 
 madness, others have given up their lives to these 
 apprehensions. The story of a man who grew 
 gray in the space of one night’s anxiety is very 
 Famous. 
 
 01 nox quam longa es, quae facit una senem! 
 
 A tedious night indeed, that makes a young man old. 
 
 These apprehensions, if they proceed from a 
 consciousness of guilt, are the sad warnings of 
 reason; and may excite our pity, but admit of no 
 remedy. When the hand of the Almighty is vis¬ 
 ibly lifted against the impious, the heart of mortal 
 man cannot withstand him. We have this passion 
 sublimely represented in the punishment of the 
 Egyptians, tormented with the plague of darkness, 
 in the apocryphal book of Wisdom, ascribed to 
 Solomon. 
 
 “For when unrighteous men thought to oppress 
 the holy nation; they being shut up in their 
 houses, the prisoners of darkness, and fettered 
 with the bonds of a long night, lay there exiled 
 from the eternal Providence. For while they sup¬ 
 posed to lie hid in their secret sins, they were scat¬ 
 tered under a dark vail of forgetfulness, being 
 horribly astonished and troubled with strange ap¬ 
 paritions. For wickedness, condemned by her 
 own witness, is very timorous, and, being op¬ 
 pressed with conscience, always forecasteth griev¬ 
 ous things. For fear is nothing else but a betray¬ 
 ing of the succors which reason offereth. For the 
 whole world shined with clear light, and none 
 were hindered in their labor. Over them only was 
 spread a heavy night, an image of that darkness 
 which should afterward receive them; but yet were 
 they unto themselves more grievous than the dark¬ 
 ness.”* 
 
 To fear so justly grounded no remedy can be 
 proposed; but a man (who hath no great guilt 
 Hanging upon his mind, who walks in the plain 
 path of justice and integrity, and yet, either by 
 natural complexion, or confirmed prejudices, or 
 neglect of serious reflection, suffers himself to be 
 moved by this abject and unmanly passion) would 
 do well to consider that there is nothing which 
 deserves his fear, but that beneficent Being who is 
 his friend, his protector, his father. Were this 
 one thought strongly fixed in the mind, what ca¬ 
 lamity would be dreadful ? What load can infamy 
 lay upon us when we are sure of the approbation 
 of him who will repay the disgrace of a moment 
 with the glory of eternity? What sharpness is 
 there in pain and diseases, when they only hasten 
 us on to the pleasures that will never fade ? What 
 sting is in death, when we are assured that it is 
 only the beginning of life ? A man who lives so 
 as not to fear to die, is inconsistent with himself 
 if he delivers himself up to any incidental anxiety. 
 
 The intrepidity of a just good man is so nobly 
 set forth by Horace, that it cannot be too often 
 repeated: 
 
 The man resolv’d and steady to his trust, 
 
 Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just, 
 
 May the rude rabble’s insolence despise, 
 
 Their senseless clamors and tumultuous cries, 
 
 The tyrant’s fierceness he beguiles, 
 
 And the stern brow and the harsh voice defies, 
 
 And with superior greatness smiles. 
 
 Not the rough whirlwind, that deforms 
 Adria’s black gulf, and vexes it with storms, 
 
 The stubborn virtue of his soul can move; 
 
 Not the red arm of angry Jove, 
 
 That flings the thunder from the sky, 
 
 And gives it rage to roar, and strength to fly. 
 
 Should the whole frame of nature round him break, 
 
 In ruin and confusion hurl’d, 
 
 He, unconcem’d, would hear the mighty crack, 
 
 And stand secure amid a falling world. 
 
 The vanity of fear may be yet further illustrated 
 if we reflect. 
 
 First, What we fear may not come to pass. No 
 human scheme can be so accurately projected but 
 some little circumstance intervening may spoil it. 
 He who directs the heart of man at his pleasure, 
 and understands the thoughts long before, may, 
 by ten thousand accidents, or an immediate change 
 in the inclinations of men, disconcert the most 
 subtile project, and turn it to the benefit of his own 
 servants. 
 
 In the next place we should consider, though 
 the evil we imagine should come to pass, it may 
 be much more supportable than it appeared to 
 be. As there is no prosperous state of life with¬ 
 out its calamities, so there is no adversity without 
 its benefits. Ask the great and powerful, if they 
 do not feel the pangs of envy and ambition. In¬ 
 quire of the poor and needy, if they have not 
 tasted the sweets of quiet and contentment. Even 
 under the pains of body, the infidelity of friends, 
 or the misconstructions put upon our laudable ac¬ 
 tions; our minds, when for some time accustomed 
 to these pressures, are sensible of secret flowings 
 of comfort, the present reward of a pious resigna¬ 
 tion. The evils of this life appear like rocks and 
 precipices, rugged and barren at a distance; but at 
 our nearer approach we find little fruitful spots, 
 and refreshing springs, mixed with the harshness 
 and deformities of nature. 
 
 In the last place we may comfort ourselves with 
 this consideration, that, as the thing feared may 
 not reach us, so we may not reach what we fear. 
 Our lives may not extend to that dreadful point 
 which we have in view. He who knows all our 
 failings, and will not suffer us to be tempted be¬ 
 yond our strength, is often pleased, in his tender 
 severity, to separate the soul from its body and 
 miseries together. 
 
 If we look forward to him for help, we shall 
 never be in danger of falling down those precipices 
 which our imagination is apt to create. Like those 
 who walk upon a line, if we keep our eye fixed 
 upon one point, we may step forward securely; 
 whereas an imprudent or cowardly glance on either 
 side will infallibly destroy us. 
 
 No. 616.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1714. 
 
 Qui bellus homo est, Cotta, pusillus homo est. 
 
 Mart. Epig. i. 10. 
 
 A pretty fellow is but half a man. 
 
 Cicero hath observed that a jest is never uttered 
 with a better grace than when it is accompanied 
 with a serious countenance. When a pleasant 
 thought plays in the features before it discovers 
 itself in words, it raises too great an expectation, 
 and loses the advantage of giving surprise. Wit 
 and humor are no less poorly recommended by a 
 levity of phrase, and that kind of language which 
 may be distinguished by the name of Cant. Rid¬ 
 icule is never more strong than when it is con¬ 
 cealed in gravity. True humor lies in the thought, 
 
 * Wisd. xvii, passim. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 716 
 
 and arises from the representation of images in odd 
 circumstances and uncommon lights. A pleasant 
 thought strikes us by the force of its natural 
 beauty; and the mirth of it is generally rather 
 palled than heightened by that ridiculous phrase¬ 
 ology which is so much in fashion among the pre¬ 
 tenders to humor and pleasantry. This tribe of 
 men are like our mountebanks; they make a man 
 a wit by putting him in a fantastic habit. 
 
 Our little burlesque authors, who are the delight 
 of ordinary readers, generally abound in these 
 pert phrases, which have in them more vivacity 
 than wit. 
 
 I lately saw an instance of this kind of writing, 
 which gave me so lively an idea of it, that I could 
 not forbear begging a copy of the letter from the 
 gentleman who showed it to me. It is written by 
 a country wit, upon the occasion of the rejoicings 
 on the day of the king’s coronation. 
 
 “Past two o’clock, and a frosty morning. 
 
 “ Dear Jack, 
 
 “I have just left the right worshipful and his 
 myrmidons about a sneaker of five gallons. The 
 whole magistracy was pretty well disguised before 
 I gave them the slip. Our friend the alderman 
 was half-seas over before the bonfire was out. We 
 had with us the attorney, and two or three other 
 bright fellows. The doctor plays least in sight. 
 
 “ At nine o’clock in the evening we set fire to 
 the whore of Babylon. The devil acted his part 
 to a miracle. He has made his fortune by it. We 
 equipped the young dog with a tester apiece. 
 Honest old Brown of England was very drunk, 
 and showed his loyalty to the tune of a hundred 
 rockets. The mob drank the king’s health, on 
 their marrow-bones, in mother Day’s double. They 
 whipped us half a dozen hogsheads. Poor Tom 
 Tyler had liked to have been demolished with the 
 end of a skyrocket, that fell upon the bridge of his 
 nose as he was drinking the king’s health, and 
 spoiled his tip. The mob were very loyal till 
 about midnight, when they grew a little mutinous 
 for more liquor. They had like to have dumb¬ 
 founded the justice; and his clerk came to his 
 assistance, and took them all down in black and 
 white. 
 
 “ When I had been huzzaed out of my seven 
 senses, I made a visit to the women, who were 
 guzzling very comfortably. Mrs. Mayoress clip¬ 
 ped the king’s English. Clack was the word. 
 
 “I forgot to tell thee that every one of the posse 
 had his hat cocked with a distich; the senators 
 sent us down a cargo of ribbon and meter for the 
 occasion. 
 
 “ Sir Richard, to show his zeal for the Protest¬ 
 ant religion, is at the expense of a tar-barrel and 
 a ball. I peeped into the knight’s great hall, and 
 saw a pretty bevy of spinsters. My dear relict 
 was among them, and ambled in a country dance 
 as well as any of them. 
 
 “ May all his majesty’s liege subjects love him 
 as well as his good people of this his ancient 
 borough! Adieu! ” 
 
 Ho. 617.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1714. 
 
 Torva Mimalloneis implerunt cornua bombis, 
 
 Et raptum vitulo caput ablatura superbo 
 Bassaris, et lyncem Manas flexura corymbis, 
 
 Evion ingeminat: reparabilis adsonat Echo. 
 
 Per. Sat. i. 99. 
 
 Their crooked horns the Mimallonian crew 
 With blasts inspir’d; and Bassaris, who slew 
 The scornful calf, with sword advanced on high, 
 
 Made from his neck his haughty head to fly. 
 
 And Maenas, when, with ivy-bridles bound, 
 
 She led the spotted lynx, then Evion rang around, 
 
 Evion from woods and floods repeating Echo’s sound. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 There are two extremes in the style of humor, 
 one of which consists in the use of that little pert 
 phraseology which I took notice of in my last 
 paper; the other in the affectation of strained and 
 pompous expressions, fetched from the learned 
 languages. The first savors too much of the 
 town; the other of the college. 
 
 As nothing illustrates better than example, I 
 shall here present my reader with a letter of pe¬ 
 dantic humor, which was written by a young gen¬ 
 tleman of the university to his friend, on the same 
 occasion, and from the same place, as the lively 
 epistle published in my last Spectator. 
 
 “ Dear Chum,* 
 
 “ It is now the third watch of the night, the 
 greatest part of which I have spent round a capa¬ 
 cious bowl of china, filled with the choicest pro¬ 
 ducts of both the Indies. I was placed at a 
 quadrangular table, diametrically opposite to the 
 mace-bearer. The visage of that venerable herald 
 was, according to custom, most gloriously illu¬ 
 minated on this joyful occasion. The mayor and 
 aldermen, those pillars of our constitution, began 
 to totter; and if any one at the board could have 
 so far articulated, as to have demanded intelligi¬ 
 bly a reinforcement of liquor, the whole assembly 
 had been by this time extended under the table. 
 
 “ The celebration of this night’s solemnity was 
 opened by the obstreperous joy of drummers, who, 
 with their parchment thunder, gave a signal for 
 the appearance of the mob under their several 
 classes and denominations. They were quickly 
 joined by the melodious clank of marrowbones 
 and cleavers, while a chorus of bells filled up the 
 concert. A pyramid of stack-fagots cheered the 
 hearts of the populace with the promise of a blaze; 
 the guns had no sooner uttered the prologue, but 
 the heavens were brightened with artificial me¬ 
 teors and stars of our own making; and all the 
 High-street lighted up from one end to another 
 with a galaxy of candles. We collected a largess 
 for the multitude, who tippled eleemosynary until 
 they grew exceeding vociferous. There was a 
 pasteboard pontiff, with a little swarthy demon 
 at his elbow, who, by his diabolical whispers and 
 insinuations, tempted his holiness into the fire, 
 and then left him to shift for himself. The mo¬ 
 bile were very sarcastic with their clubs, and gave 
 the old gentleman several thumps upon his triple 
 head-piece.f Tom Tyler’s phiz is something dam¬ 
 aged by the fall of a rocket, which hath almost 
 spoiled the gnomon of his countenance. The 
 mirth of the commons grew so very outrageous, 
 that it found work for our friend of the quorum, 
 who, by the help of his amanuensis, took down 
 all their names and their crimes, with a design to 
 produce his manuscript at the next quarter ses¬ 
 sions,” etc. etc. 
 
 I shall subjoin to the foregoing piece of a letter 
 the following copy of verses translated from an 
 Italian poet, who was the Cleveland of his age, 
 and had multitudes of admirers. The subject is 
 an accident that happened under the reign of 
 Pope Leo, when a firelock, that had been pre¬ 
 pared upon the castle of St. Angelo, began to 
 play before its time, being kindled by a flash 
 of lightning. The author hath written his poem 
 in the same kind of style as that I have al¬ 
 ready exemplified in prose. Every line in it is 
 
 * A cant word for a chamber-companion and bed-fellow at 
 college. 
 
 fThe pope’s tiara, or triple miter. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 717 
 
 a riddle, and the reader must he forced to con¬ 
 sider it twice or thrice, before he will know that 
 the Cynic’s tenement is a tub, and Bacchus’s cast- 
 coat a hogshead, etc. 
 
 *’Twas night, and heaven, a Cyclops all the clay, 
 
 An Argus now, did countless eyes display; 
 
 In every window Rome her joy declares, 
 
 All bright and studded with terrestrial stars. 
 
 A blazing chain of lights her roofs entwines, 
 
 And round her neck the mingled luster shines: 
 
 The Cynic's rolling tenement conspires 
 With Bacchus his cast-coat to feed the fires. 
 
 The pile, still big with undiscover’d shows, 
 
 The Tuscan pile, did last its freight disclose; 
 
 Where the proud tops of Rome’s new Etna rise, 
 Whence giants sally, and invade the skies. 
 
 While now the multitude expect the time, 
 
 Afid their tir’d eyes the lofty mountain climb, 
 
 A thousand iron mouths their voices try, 
 
 And thunder out a dreadful harmony: 
 
 In treble notes the small artillery plays, 
 
 The deep-mouthed cannon bellows in the bass, 
 
 The lab'ring pile now heaves, and, having given 
 Proofs of its travail, sighs in flames to heaven. 
 
 The clouds envelop’d heav’n from human sight, 
 Quench’d ev’ry star, and put out ev’ry light; 
 
 Now real thunder grumbles in the skies, 
 
 And in disdainful murmurs Rome defies: 
 
 Nor doth its answer’d challenge Rome decline; 
 
 But, while both parties in full concert join, 
 
 While heav’n and earth in rival peals resound, 
 
 The doubtful cracks the hearer’s sense confound; 
 Whether the claps of thunderbolts they hear, 
 
 Or else the burst of cannon wounds their ear; 
 
 Whether clouds rag’d by struggling metals rent, 
 
 Or struggling clouds in Roman metals pent: 
 
 But, 0 my Muse, the whole adventure tell, 
 
 As ev’ry accident in order fell. 
 
 Tall groves of trees the Hadrian tower surround, 
 Fictitious trees with paper garlands crown’d. 
 
 These know no spring, but when their bodies sprout 
 In fire, and shoot their gilded blossoms out; 
 
 When blazing leaves appear above their head, 
 
 And into branching flames their bodies spread. 
 
 While real thunder splits the firmament, 
 
 And heav’n’s whole roof in one vast cleft is rent, 
 
 The three-forked tongue amidst the rupture lolls, 
 
 Then drops, and on the airy turret falls. 
 
 The trees now kindle, and the garland burns, 
 
 And thousand thunderbolts for one returns: 
 
 Brigades of burning arches upward fly, 
 
 Bright spears and shining spearmen mount on high, 
 Flash in the clouds, and glitter in the sky. 
 
 A seven-fold shield of spheres doth hcav’n defend, 
 
 And back again the blunted weapons send; 
 Unwillingly they fall, and dropping down. 
 
 Pour out their souls, their sulph’rous souls, and groan. 
 
 With joy, great Sir, we view’d this pompous show, 
 While Heav’n, that sat spectator still till now, 
 
 Itself turn’d actor, proud to pleasure you: 
 
 And so ’tis fit, when Leo’s fires appear, 
 
 That Heav’n. itself should turn an engineer, 
 
 That Heav’n itself should all its wonders show, 
 
 And orbs above consent with orbs below. 
 
 No. 618.] WEDNESDAY, NOV. 10, 1714. 
 
 -Neque enim concludere versum 
 
 Dixeris esse satis; neque si quis scribat, uti nos 
 Sermoni propiora, putes hunc esse poetam. 
 
 Hor. 1 Sat. iv. 40. 
 
 ’Tis not enough the measur’d feet to close: 
 
 Nor will you give a poet’s name to those 
 Whose humble verse, like mine, approaches prose. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “You having, in your two last Spectators, 
 given the town a couple of remarkable letters 
 in very different styles, I take this opportunity to 
 
 * This copy of verses is a translation from the Latin in 
 Strada’s Prolusiones Academicse, etc., and an imitation origi¬ 
 nally of the style and manner of Camillo Querno, surnamed 
 the Arch-poet. His character and his writings were equally 
 singular; .he was poet and buffoon to Leo X, and the common 
 butt of that facetious pontiff and his courtiers. See Stradae 
 Prolusiones, Oxon 1745, p. 244; and Bayle’s Dictionary, art. 
 Leo X. 
 
 offer to you some remarks upon the epistolary 
 way of writing in verse. This is a species of 
 poetry by itself; and has not so much as been 
 hinted at in any of the Arts of Poetry that have 
 ever fallen into ray hands, neither has it in any 
 age, or any nation, been so much cultivated as 
 the other several kinds of poesy. A man of 
 genius may, if he pleases, write letters in verse 
 upon all manner of subjects that are capable of 
 being embellished with wit and language, and 
 may render them new and agreeable by giving 
 the proper turn to them. But, in speaking at 
 present of epistolary poetry, I would be under¬ 
 stood to mean only such writings in this kind as 
 have been in use among the ancients, and have 
 been copied from them by some moderns. These 
 may be reduced into two classes: in the one I 
 shall range love-letters, letters of friendship, and 
 letters upon mournful occasions: in the other I 
 shall place such epistles in verse as may properly 
 be called familiar, critical, and moral; to which 
 may be added letters of mirth and humor. Ovid 
 for the first, and Horace for the latter, are the best 
 originals we have left. 
 
 “He that is ambitious of succeeding in the 
 Ovidian way, should first examine his heart well, 
 and feel whether his passions (especially those of 
 the gentler kind) play easy; since it is not his 
 wit, but the delicacy and tenderness of his senti¬ 
 ments, that will affect his readers. His versifica¬ 
 tion likewise should be soft, and all his numbers 
 flowing and querulous. 
 
 “ The qualifications requisite for writing epis¬ 
 tles, after the model given us by Horace, are of a 
 quite different nature. He that would excel in 
 this kind must have a good fund of strong mas¬ 
 culine sense: to this there must be joined a thor¬ 
 ough knowledge of mankind, together with an 
 insight into the business and the prevailing hu¬ 
 mors of the age. Our author must have his mind 
 well-seasoned with the finest precepts of morality, 
 and be filled with nice reflections upon the bright 
 and the dark sides of human life; he must be a 
 master of refined raillery, and understand the 
 delicacies as well as the absurdities of conversa¬ 
 tion. He must have a lively turn of wit, with an 
 easy and concise manner of expression; every¬ 
 thing he says must be in a free and disengaged 
 manner. He must be guilty of nothing that be¬ 
 trays the air of a recluse, but appear a man of the 
 world throughout. His illustrations, his compari¬ 
 sons, and the greatest parts of his images, must 
 be drawn from common life. Strokes of satire 
 and criticism, as well as panegyric, judiciously 
 thrown in (and as it were by-the-bye), give a 
 wonderful life and ornament to compositions of 
 this kind. But let our poet, while he writes 
 epistles, though never so familiar, still remember 
 that he writes in verse, and must for that reason 
 have a more than ordinary care not to fall into 
 prose, and a vulgar diction, excepting where the 
 nature and humor of the thing do necessarily re¬ 
 quire it. In this point Horace has been thought 
 by some critics to be sometimes careless, as well 
 as too negligent of his versification; of which he 
 seems to have been sensible himself. 
 
 “ All I have to add is, that both these manners 
 of writing may be made as entertaining, in their 
 way, as any other species of poetry, if undertaken 
 by persons duly qualified; and the latter sort may 
 be managed so as to become in a peculiar manner 
 instructive. “ I am,” etc. 
 
 I shall add an observation or two to the remarks 
 of my ingenious correspondent; and, in the first 
 place, take notice, that subjects of the most sub¬ 
 lime nature are often treated in the epistolary way 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 718 
 
 with advantage, as in the famous epistle of Horace | 
 to Augustus. The poet surprises us with his pomp, 
 and seems rather betrayed into his subject than to 
 have aimed at it by design. He appears, like tlxe 
 visit of a king incognito, with a mixture of fa¬ 
 miliarity and grandeur. In works of this kind, 
 when the dignity of the subject hurries the poet 
 into descriptions and sentiments seemingly un¬ 
 premeditated, by a sort of inspiration, it is usual 
 for him to recollect himself, and fall back grace¬ 
 fully into the natural style of a letter. 
 
 I might here mention an epistolary poem, just 
 published by Mr. Eusden, on the king’s accession 
 to the throne; wherein, among many other noble 
 and beautiful strokes of poetry, his reader may 
 see this rule very happily observed. 
 
 Ho. 619.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1714. 
 
 -dura 
 
 Exerce imperia, et ramos compesce fiuentes. 
 
 Virg. Georg, ii. 369. 
 
 -Exert a rigorous sway. 
 
 And lop the too luxuriant boughs away. 
 
 I have often thought that if the several letters 
 which are written to me under the character of 
 the Spectator, and which I have not made use of, 
 were published in a volume, they would not be 
 an unentertaining collection. The variety of the 
 subjects, styles, sentiments, and informations, 
 ■which are transmitted to me, would lead a very 
 curious, or very idle, reader, insensibly along 
 through a great many pages. I know some au¬ 
 thors who would pick up a secret history out of 
 such materials, and make a bookseller an aider- 
 man by the copy. I shall therefore carefully pre¬ 
 serve the original papers in a room set apart for 
 that purpose, to the end that they may be of 
 service to posterity; but shall at present content 
 myself with owning the receipt of several letters, 
 lately come to my hands, the authors whereof are 
 impatient for an answer. 
 
 Clarissa, whose letter is dated from Cornhill, 
 desires to be eased in some scruples relating to the 
 skill of astrologers. Referred to the dumb man 
 for an answer. 
 
 J. C. who proposes a love case, as he calls it, to 
 the love casuist, is hereby desired to speak of it to 
 the minister of the parish; it being a case of con¬ 
 science. 
 
 The poor young lady, whose letter is dated Oc¬ 
 tober 26, who complains of a harsh guardian and 
 an unkind brother, can only have my good wishes, 
 unless she pleases to be more particular. 
 
 The petition of a certain gentleman, whose name 
 I have forgot, famous for renewing the curls of 
 decayed periwigs, is referred to the censor of small 
 wares. 
 
 The remonstrance of T. C. against the profana¬ 
 tion of the Sabbath by barbers, shoe-cleaners, etc., 
 had better be offered to the society of reformers. 
 
 A learned and laborious treatise upon the art of 
 fencing, returned to the author. 
 
 To the gentleman of Oxford, who desires me to 
 insert a copy of Latin verses, which were denied 
 a place in the university books. Answer: Non- 
 umque prematur in annum. 
 
 To my learned correspondent who writes against 
 Masters’ gowns, and poke sleeves, with a word in 
 defense of large scarfs. Answer: I resolve not to 
 raise animosities among the clergy. 
 
 To the lady who writes with rage against one 
 of her own sex, upon the account of party warmth. 
 Answer: Is not the lady she writes against reck¬ 
 oned handsome ? 
 
 I desire Tom Truelove (who sends me a sonnet 
 upon his mistress, with a desire to print it imme¬ 
 diately) to consider that it is long since I was in 
 love. 
 
 I shall answer a very profound letter from my 
 old friend the upholsterer, who is still inquisitive 
 whether the king of Sweden be living or dead, 
 by whispering him in the ear, that I believe he is 
 alive. 
 
 Let Mr. Dappenvit consider, What is that long 
 story of the cuckoldom to me ? 
 
 At the earnest desire of Monimia’s lover, who 
 declares himself very penitent, he i9 recorded in 
 my paper by the name of the faithful Castalio. 
 
 The petition of Charles Cocksure, which the 
 petitioner styles “very reasonable,” rejected. 
 
 The memorial of Philander, which he desires 
 may be dispatched out of hand, postponed. 
 
 I desire S. R. not to repeat the expression “un¬ 
 der the sun,” so often in his next letter. 
 
 The letter of P. S., who desires either to have 
 it printed entire, or committed to the flames; not 
 to be printed entire. 
 
 Ho. 620.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1714. 
 
 Hie vir, hie est, tibi quem promitti saepius audis. 
 
 Verg. ^n. vi. 791. 
 
 Behold the promis’d chief! 
 
 Having lately presented my reader with a copy 
 of verses full of the false sublime, I shall here 
 communicate to him an excellent specimen of the 
 true; though it hath not been yet published, the 
 judicious reader will readily discern it to be the 
 work of a master; and if he hath read that noble 
 poem on the prospect of peace, he will not be at a 
 loss to guess at the author: 
 
 THE ROYAL PROGRESS. 
 
 When Brunswick first appeared, each honest heart, 
 Intent on verse, disdained the rules of art; 
 
 Eor him the songsters, in unmeasur’d odes 
 Debas’d Alcides, and dethron’d the gods. 
 
 In golden chains the kings of India led, 
 
 Or rent the turban from the sultan’s head. 
 
 One, in old fables, and the pagan’s strain, 
 
 With nymphs and tritons, wafts him o’er the main; 
 Another draws fierce Lucifer in arms, 
 
 And fills the infernal region with alarms; 
 
 A third awakes some druid to foretell 
 Each future triumph from his dreary cell. 
 
 Exploded fancies! that in vain deceive, 
 
 While the mind nauseates what she can’t believe. 
 
 My Muse th’ expected hero shall pursue 
 From clime to clime, and keep him still in view; 
 
 His shining march describe in faithful lays, 
 
 Content to paint him, nor presume to praise; 
 
 Their charms, if charms they have, the truth supplies, 
 And from the theme unlabor’d beauties rise. 
 
 t 
 
 By longing nations fbr the throne design’d, 
 
 And call’d to guard the rights of human kind; 
 
 With secret grief his godlike soul repines, 
 
 And Britain’s crown with joyless luster shines, 
 
 While pray’rs and tears his destin’d progress stay, 
 
 And crowds of mourners choke their sovereign’s way, 
 Not so he march’d when hostile squadrons stood 
 In scenes of death, and fir’d his generous blood; 
 
 When his hot courser paw’d th’ Hungarian plain, 
 
 And adverse legions stood the shock in vain. 
 
 His frontiers pass’d, the Belgian bounds he views, 
 
 And cross the level fields his march pursues; 
 
 Here pleas’d the land of freedom to survey, 
 
 He greatly scorns the thirst of boundless sway. 
 
 O’er the thin soil, with silent joy, he spies 
 Transplanted woods and borrow’d verdure rise; 
 
 Where ev’ry meadow won with toil and blood 
 From haughty tyrants and the raging flood, 
 
 With fruits and flowers the careful hind supplies, 
 
 And clothes the marshes in a rich disguise. 
 
 Such wealth for frugal hands doth Heav’n decree, 
 
 And such thy gifts, celestial Liberty! 
 
 Through stately towns, and many a fertile plain, 
 
 The pomp advances to the neighboring main, 
 
719 
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Whole nations crowd around with joyful cries, 
 
 And view the hero with insatiate eyes. 
 
 In Haga’s towers he waits till eastern gales 
 Propitious rise to swell the British sails. 
 
 Hither the fame of England’s monarch brings 
 The vows and friendships of the neighb’ring kings; 
 Mature in wisdom, his extensive mind 
 Takes in the blended interest of mankind, 
 
 The world’s, great patriot. Calm thy anxious breast; 
 Secure in him, 0 Europe, take thy rest; 
 
 Henceforth thy kingdom shall remain confin’d 
 By rocks or streams, the mounds which Heav’n design’d 
 The Alps their new-made monarch shall restrain, 
 
 Nor shall thy hills, Pyrene, rise in vain. 
 
 But see, to Britain’s isle the squadrons stand, 
 
 And leave the sinking towers and less’ning land. 
 
 The royal bark bounds o’er the floating plain, 
 
 Breaks through the billows, and divides the main. 
 
 0 er the vast deep, great monarch, dart thine eyes, 
 
 A wat’ry prospect bounded by the skies ; 
 
 Ten thousand vessels, from ten thousand shores, 
 
 Bring gums and gold, and either India’s stores; 
 
 Behold the tributes hast’ning to thy throne, 
 
 And see the wide horizon all thy own. 
 
 Still is.it thine; tho’ now the cheerful crew 
 Hail Albion’s cliffs jtist whitening to the view. 
 
 Before the wind with swelling sails they ride, 
 
 Till Thames receives them in his opening tide. 
 
 The monarch hears the thund’ring peals around, 
 
 From trembling woods and echoing hills rebound: 
 
 Nor misses yet, amid the deaf’ning train, 
 
 The roarings of the hoarse resounding main. 
 
 As in the flood he sails, from either side 
 He views his kingdom in its rural pride; 
 
 A various scene the wide-spread landscape yields 
 O’er rich inclosures and luxuriant fields; 
 
 A lowing herd each fertile pasture fills, 
 
 And distant flocks stray o’er a thousand hills. 
 
 Fair Greenwich hid in woods, with new delight, 
 
 (Shade above shade) now rises to the sight: 
 
 His woods ordain’d to visit every shore, 
 
 And guard the island which they grac’d before. 
 
 The sun now rolling down the western way, 
 
 A blaze of fires renews the fading day; 
 
 Unnumber’d barks the regal barge enfold, 
 
 Bright’ning the twilight with its beamy gold; 
 
 Less thick the finny shoals, a countless fry, 
 
 Before the whale or kingly dolphin fly; 
 
 In one vast shout he seeks the crowded strand, 
 
 And in a peal of thunder gains the land. 
 
 Welcome, great stranger! to our longing eyes, 
 
 Oh! king desired, adopted Albion cries, 
 lor thee the East breath’d out a prosp’rous breeze 
 Bright were the suns, and gently swell’d the seas,’ 
 
 Thy presence did each doubtfhl heart compose, 
 
 And factions wondered that they once were foes. 
 
 That joyful day they lost each hostile name, 
 
 The same their aspect, and their voice the same. 
 
 So two fair twins, whose features were design’d 
 At one soft moment in the mother’s mind, 
 
 Show each the other with reflected grace, 
 
 And the same beauties bloom in either face! 
 
 The puzzled strangers which is which inquire; 
 
 Delusion grateful to the smiling sire. 
 
 From that* fair hill, where hoary sages boast 
 To name the stars, and count the heavenly host. 
 
 By the next dawn doth great Augusta rise, 
 
 Proud town! the noblest scene beneath the skies. 
 
 O’er Thames her thousand spires their luster shed, 
 
 And a vast navy hides his ample bed- 
 
 A floating forest! From the distant strand 
 A line of golden cars strikes o’er the land; 
 
 Britannia’s peers in pomp and rich arry, 
 
 Before their king, triumphant lead the way. 
 
 Far as the eye can reach, the gaudy train, 
 
 A bright procession, shines along the plain. 
 
 So haply thro’ the heav’n’s wide pathless ways 
 A comet draws a long-extended blaze; 
 
 From east to west burns through th’ ethereal frame 
 And half heav’n’s convex glitters with the flame. ’ 
 
 Now to the regal towers securely brought, 
 
 He plans Britannia’s glories in his thought, 
 
 Resumes the delegated power he gave, 
 
 Rewards the faithful, and restores the brave. 
 
 Whom shall the muse from out the shining throng 
 
 Select, to heighten and adorn her song ? 
 
 Tlieo, Halifax. To thy capacious mind, 
 
 0 man approv’d, is Britain’s wealth consign’d. 
 
 Her coin (while Nassau fought) debas’d and rude, 
 By thee in beauty and in truth renew’d, 
 
 An arduous work! again thy charge we see, 
 
 And thy own care once more returns to thee. 
 
 0! forni’d.in every scene to awe and please, 
 
 Mix wit with pomp, and dignity with ease, 
 
 Tho’ called to shine aloft, thou wilt not scorn 
 To smile on arts thyself did once adorn; 
 
 For this thy name succeeding time shall praise, 
 And envy less thy garter than thy bays. 
 
 The muse, if fir’d with thy enliv’ning beams, 
 Perhaps shall aim at more exalted themes, 
 
 Record our monarch in a nobler strain, 
 
 And sing the op’ning wonders of his reign; 
 
 Bright Carolina’s heavenly beauties trace, 
 
 Her valiant consort, and his blooming race. 
 
 A train of kings their fruitful love supplies, 
 
 A glorious scene to Albion’s ravish’d eyes; 
 
 Who sees by Brunswick’s hand her scepter sway’d, 
 And through his line from age to age convey’d. 
 
 No. 621.] WEDNESDAY, NOV. 17, 1714. 
 
 -—Postquam se lumine puro 
 
 Implevit, stellasque vagas miratur, et astra 
 Fixa polis, vidit quanta sub nocte jaceret 
 Nostra dies, risitque sui ludibria— Lucan, ix. 11. 
 
 Now to the blest abode, with wonder fill ’d, 
 
 The sun and moving planets he beheld; 
 
 Then, looking down on the sun’s feeble ray, 
 
 Survey’d our dusky, faint, imperfect day, 
 
 And under what a cloud of night we lay. —Rowe. 
 
 . The following letter having in it some observa¬ 
 tions out of the common road, I shall make it the 
 entertainment of this day; 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The common topics against the pride of man, 
 which are labored by florid and declamatory wri¬ 
 ters, are taken from the baseness of his original, 
 the imperfections of his nature, or the short dura¬ 
 tion of those goods in which he makes his boast. 
 Though it be true that we can have nothing in us 
 that ought to raise our vanity, yet a consciousness 
 of our own merit may be sometimes laudable. The 
 folly therefore lies here: we are apt to pride 
 ourselves in worthless, or, perhaps, shameful 
 things; and on the other hand count that disgrace¬ 
 ful which is our truest glory. 
 
 “Hence it is, that the lovers of praise take 
 wrong measures to attain it. Would a vain man 
 consult his own heart, he would find that if others 
 knew his weaknesses as well as he himself doth, 
 he could not have the impudence to expect the 
 public esteem. Pride therefore flows from want 
 of reflection and ignorance of ourselves. Know¬ 
 ledge and humility come upon us together. 
 
 “ The proper way to make an estimate of our¬ 
 selves, is to consider seriously what it is we value 
 or despise in others. A man who boasts of the 
 goods of fortune, a gay dress, or a new title, is 
 generally the mark of ridicule. We ought there¬ 
 fore not to admire in ourselves what we are so 
 ready to laugh at in other men. 
 
 “Much less can we with reason pride ourselves 
 in those things, which at some time of our life we 
 ; shall certainly despise. And yet, if we will give 
 j ourselves the trouble of looking backward and 
 I forward on the several changes which we have 
 ! already undergone, and hereafter must try, we 
 ! shall find that the greater degrees of our know- 
 j ledge and wisdom serve only to show us our own 
 , imperfections. 
 
 | “ As we rise from childhood to youth, we look 
 
 i with contempt on the toys and trifles which our 
 hearts have hitherto been set upon. When we ad¬ 
 vance to manhood, we are held wise, in propor- 
 ; tion to our shame and regret for the rashness and 
 
 * Flamstead-kouse. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 720 
 
 extravagance of youth. Old age fills us with mor¬ 
 tifying reflections upon a life misspent in the pur¬ 
 suit of anxious wealth, or uncertain honor. Agree¬ 
 able to this gradation of thought in this life, it 
 may be reasonably supposed that, in a future state, 
 the wisdom, the experience, and the maxims of old 
 age, will be looked upon by a separate spirit in 
 much the same light as an ancient man now sees 
 the little follies and toyings of infants. The 
 pomps, the honors, the policies, and arts of mortal 
 men, will be thought as trifling as hobby-horses, 
 mock battles, or any other sports that now em¬ 
 ploy all the cunning, and strength, and ambition 
 of rational beings, from four years old to nine or 
 ten. 
 
 “ If the notion of a gradual rise in beings from 
 the meanest to the Most High be not a vain imag¬ 
 ination, it is not improbable that an angel looks 
 down upon a man as a man doth upon a creature 
 which approaches the nearest to the rational na¬ 
 ture. By the same rule, if I may indulge my 
 fancy in this particular, a superior brute looks 
 with a kind of pride on one of an inferior species. 
 If they could reflect, we might imagine, from the 
 gestures of some of them, that they think them¬ 
 selves the sovereigns of the world, and that all 
 things were made for them. Such a thought would 
 not be more absurd in brute creatures than one 
 which men are apt to entertain, namely, that all 
 the stars in the firmament were created only to 
 please their eyes and amuse their imaginations. 
 Mr. Dryden, in his fable of the Cock and the Fox, 
 makes a speech for his hero, the cock, which is a 
 pretty instance for this purpose. 
 
 Then turning, said to Partlet, ‘ See, my dear, 
 
 How lavish nature hath adorn’d the year; 
 
 How the pale primrose and the violet spring, 
 
 And birds essay their throats, disus’d to sing; 
 
 All these are ours, and I with pleasure see 
 Man strutting on two legs, and aping me.’ 
 
 “What'I would observe from the whole is this, 
 that we ought to value ourselves upon those things 
 only which superior beings think valuable, since 
 that is the only way for us not to sink in our own 
 esteem hereafter.” 
 
 No. 622.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1714. 
 
 -Fallentis semita vitae. —IIor. 1. Ep. xviii. 103. 
 
 •-A safe private quiet, which betrays 
 
 Itself to ease, and cheats away the days.— Pooley. 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “In a former speculation you have observed, 
 that true greatness does not consist in that pomp 
 and noise wherein the generality of mankind are 
 apt to place it. You have there taken notice that 
 virtue in obscurity often appears more illustrious 
 in the eye of superior beings, than all that passes 
 for grandeur and magnificence among men. 
 
 “ When we look back upon the history of those 
 who have borne the part of kings, statesmen, or 
 commanders, they appear to us stripped of those 
 outside ornaments that dazzle their cotemporaries; 
 and we regard their persons as great or little in 
 proportion to the eminence of their virtues or 
 vices. The wise sayings, generous sentiments, or 
 disinterested conduct of a philosopher under mean 
 circumstances of life, set him higher in our esteem 
 than the mighty potentates of the earth, when we 
 view them both through the long prospect of many 
 ages. Were the memoirs of an obscure man, who 
 lived up to the dignity of his nature, and accord¬ 
 ing to the rules of virtue, to be laid before us, we 
 should find nothing in such a character which 
 might not set him on a level with men of the high¬ 
 
 est stations. The following extract out of the pri ¬ 
 vate papers of an honest country gentleman will 
 set this matter in a clear light. Your reader will, 
 perhaps, conceive a greater idea of him from these 
 actions done in secret, and without a witness, than 
 of those which have drawn upon them the admira¬ 
 tion of multitudes. 
 
 MEMOIRS. 
 
 “ In my twenty-second year I found a violent 
 affection for my cousin Charles’s wife growing 
 upon me, wherein I was in danger of succeeding, 
 if I had not upon that account begun my travels 
 into foreign countries. 
 
 “ A little after my return into England, at a pri¬ 
 vate meeting with my uncle Francis, I refused the 
 offer of his estate, and prevailed upon him not to 
 disinherit his son Ned. 
 
 “ Mem. Never to tell this to Ned, lest he should 
 think hardly of his deceased father: though he 
 continues to speak ill of me for that very reason. 
 
 “ Prevented a scandalous lawsuit betwixt my 
 nephew Harry and his mother, by allowing her 
 underhand, out of my own pocket, so much money 
 yearly as the dispute was about. 
 
 “ Procured a benefice for a young divine, who 
 is sister’s son to the good man who was my tutor, 
 and hath been dead twenty years. 
 
 “Gave ten pounds to poor Mrs.-, my friend 
 
 H-’s widow. 
 
 “ Mem. To retrench one dish at my table, until 
 I have fetched it up again. 
 
 “ Mem. To repair my house and finish my gar¬ 
 dens, in order to employ poor people after harvest¬ 
 time. 
 
 “ Ordered John to let out goodman D-’s 
 
 sheep that were pounded, by night; but not to let 
 his fellow-servants know it. 
 
 “ Prevailed upon M. T. Esq., not to take the 
 law of the farmer’s son for shooting a partridge, 
 and to give him his gun again. 
 
 “ Paid the apothecary for curing an old woman 
 that confessed herself a witch. 
 
 “ Gave away my favorite dog, for biting a beg- 
 gar. 
 
 “ Made the minister of the parish and a whig 
 justice of one mind, by putting them upon ex¬ 
 plaining their notions to one another. 
 
 “Mem. To turn off Peter for shooting a doe 
 while she was eating acorns out of his hand. 
 
 “ When my neighbor John, who hath often in¬ 
 jured me, comes to make his request to-morrow : 
 
 “Mem. I have forgiven him. 
 
 “Laid up my chariot, and sold my horses, to 
 relieve the poor in a scarcity of corn. 
 
 “ In the same year remitted to my tenants a fifth 
 part of their rents. 
 
 “ As I was airing to-day, I fell into a thought 
 that warmed my heart, and shall, I hope, be the 
 better for it as long as I live. 
 
 “ Mem. To charge my son in private to erect no 
 monument for me; but not to put this in my last 
 will.” 
 
 No. 623.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1714. 
 
 Sod mihi Yel tellus optem prius ima dehiscat; 
 
 Yel pater omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras, 
 Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam, 
 
 Ante, pudor, quam te violem, aut tua jura resolvam. 
 Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores 
 Abstulit; Die habeat secum, servetque sepulcro. 
 
 Yirg. iEn. iv. 24. 
 
 But first let yawning earth a passage rend, 
 
 And let me thro’ the dark abyss descend: 
 
 First let avenging Jove, with flames from high, 
 
 Drive down this body to the nether sky, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 Condemn’d with ghosts in endless night to lie; 
 
 Before 1 break the plighted faith I gave; 
 
 No: he who had my vows shall ever have; 
 
 For whom I lov’d on earth, I worship in the grave. 
 
 Drtdkn. 
 
 I am obliged to my friend, the love-casuist, for 
 the following curious piece of antiquity, which I 
 shall communicate to the public in his own words : 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ You may remember that I lately transmitted 
 to you an account of an ancient custom in the 
 manors of East and West Enborne, in the county 
 of Berks, and elsewhere. ‘ If a customary tenant 
 die, the widow shall have what the law calls her 
 free bench, in all his copyhold lands, dum sola et 
 casta fuerit, that is, while she lives single and 
 chaste; but if she commit incontinency she forfeits 
 her estate; yet if she will come into the court riding 
 backward upon a black ram, with his tail in her 
 hand, and say the words following, the steward 
 is bound by the custom to readmit her to her free- 
 bench:— 
 
 “ ‘ Here I am, 
 
 Riding upon a black ram, 
 
 Like a whore as I am; 
 
 And for my crincum, crancum 
 Have lost my bincum bancum; 
 
 And for my tail’s game 
 Have done this worldly shame; 
 
 Therefore I pray you, Mr. Steward, let me have my 
 land again.’ 
 
 “ After having informed you that my Lord Coke 
 observes, that this is the most frail and slippery 
 tenure of any in England, I shall tell you, since 
 the writing that letter, I have, according to my 
 promise, been of great pains in searching out the 
 records of the black ram; and have at last met 
 with the proceedings of the court-baron, held in 
 that behalf, for the space of a whole day. The 
 record saith, that a strict inquisition having been 
 made into the right of the tenants to their several 
 estates, by a crafty old steward, he found that 
 many of the lands of the manor were, by default 
 of the several widows, forfeited to the lord, and 
 accordingly would have entered on the premises; 
 upon whicn the good women demanded the ‘bene¬ 
 fit of the ram. 5 The steward, after having pe¬ 
 rused their several pleas, adjourned the court to 
 Barnaby bright,* that they might have day enough 
 before them. 
 
 “ The court being set, and filled with a great 
 concourse of people, who came from all parts to 
 see the solemnity : the first who entered was the 
 widow Frontly, who had made her appearance in 
 the last year’s cavalcade. The register observes 
 that finding it an easy pad-ram, and foreseeing she 
 might have further occasion for it, she purchased 
 it of the steward. 
 
 “ Mrs. Sarah Dainty, relict of Mr. John Dainty, 
 who was the greatest prude of the parish, came 
 next in the procession. She at first made some 
 difficulty of taking the tail in her hand; and was 
 observed, in pronouncing the form of penance, to 
 soften the two most emphatical words into clincum 
 clancum; but the steward took care to make her 
 speak plain English before he would let her have 
 her land again. 
 
 “ The third widow that was brought to this 
 'worldly shame, being mounted upon a vicious 
 ram, had the misfortune to be thrown by him : 
 upon which she hoped to be excused from going 
 through the rest of the ceremony; but the steward 
 being well versed in the law, observed very wisely 
 upon this occasion, that the breaking of a rope 
 does not hinder the execution of the criminal. 
 
 * Then the eleventh, now the twenty-second of June, being 
 one of the longest days in the year. 
 
 46 
 
 721 
 
 “ The fourth lady upon record, was the widow 
 Ogle, a famous coquette, who had kept half-a-score 
 young fellows off and on for the space of two 
 years : but having been more kind to her carter 
 John, she was introduced with the huzzas of all 
 her lovers about her. 
 
 “ Mrs. Sable appearing in her weeds, which were 
 very new and fresh, and of the same color with 
 her whimsical palfrey, made a very decent figure 
 in the solemnity. 
 
 “ Another, who had been summoned to make 
 her appearance, was excused by the steward, as 
 well knowing in his heart that the good ’squire 
 himself had qualified her for the ram. 
 
 “Mrs. Quick, having nothing to object against 
 the indictment, pleaded her belly. But it was re¬ 
 membered that she made the same excuse the year 
 before. Upon which the steward observed, that 
 she might so contrive it, as never to do the service 
 of the manor. 
 
 “ The widow Fidget being cited into court, in¬ 
 sisted that she had done no more since the death 
 of her husband than what she used to do in his 
 lifetime; and withal desired Mr. Steward to con¬ 
 sider his own wife’s case if he should chance to 
 die before her. 
 
 “ The next in order, was a dowager of a very 
 corpulent make, who would have been excused as 
 not finding any ram that was able to carry her; 
 upon which the steward commuted her punish¬ 
 ment, and ordered her to make her entry upon a 
 black ox. 
 
 “ The widow Maskwell, a woman who had long 
 lived with a most unblemished character, having 
 turned off her old chambermaid in a pet, was by 
 that revengeful creature brought in upon the black 
 ram nine times the same day. 
 
 “ Several widows of the neighborhood, being 
 brought upon their trial, they showed that they 
 did not hold of the manor, and were discharged 
 accordingly. 
 
 “ A pretty young creature who closed the pro¬ 
 cession, came ambling in, with so bewitching an 
 air, that the steward was observed to cast a sheep’s 
 eye upon her, and married her within a month 
 after the death of his wife. 
 
 “ N. B. Mrs. Touchwood appeared according to 
 summons, but had nothing laid to her charge ; 
 having lived irreproachably since the decease of 
 her husband, who left her a widow in the sixty- 
 ninth year of her age. 
 
 “ I am, Sir,” etc. 
 
 No. 624.] WEDNESDAY, NOY. 24, 1714. 
 
 Audire, atque togam jubeo componere, quisquis 
 Ambitione mala, aut argenti pallet amove; 
 
 Quisquis luxuria-Hon. 2 Sat. iii. 77. 
 
 Sit still, and hear, these whom proud thoughts do swell, 
 Those that look pale by loving coin too well; 
 
 Whom luxury corrupts.— Creech. 
 
 Mankind is divided into two parts, the busy and 
 the idle. The busy world may be divided into 
 the virtuous and the vicious. The vicious again 
 into the covetous, the ambitious, and the sensual. 
 The idle part of mankind are in a state inferior to 
 any one of these. All the other are engaged in 
 the pursuit of happiness, though often misplaced, 
 and are therefore more likely to be attentive to 
 such means as shall be proposed to them for that 
 end. The idle, who are neither wise for this 
 world nor the next are emphatically called by 
 Doctor Tillotson, “fools at large.” They propose 
 to themselves no end, but run adrift with every 
 wind. Advice, therefore, would be but thrown 
 away upon them, since they would scarce take the 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 722 
 
 pains to read it. I shall not fatigue any of this 
 worthless tribe with a long harangue ; but will 
 leave them with this short saying of Plato, that 
 “ labor is preferable to idleness, as brightness to 
 rust.” 
 
 The pursuits of the active part of mankind are 
 either in the paths of religion and virtue; or, on 
 the other hand, in the roads to wealth, honors, or 
 pleasure. I shall, therefore, compare the pursuits 
 of avarice, ambition, and sensual delight, with 
 their opposite virtues; and shall consider which 
 of these principles engages men in a course of the 
 greatest labor, suffering, and assiduity. Most men 
 in their cool reasonings are willing to allow that 
 a course of virtue will in the end be rewarded the 
 most amply; but represent the way to it as rugged 
 and narrow. If, therefore, it can be made appear, 
 that men struggle through as many troubles to be 
 miserable, as they do to be happy, my readers 
 may, perhaps, be persuaded to be good when they 
 find they shall lose nothing by it. 
 
 First, for avarice. The miser is more indus¬ 
 trious than the saint: the pains of getting, the 
 fears of losing, and the inability of enjoying his 
 wealth, have been the mark of satire in all ages. 
 Were his repentance upon his neglect of a good 
 bargain, his sorrow for being overreached, his 
 hope of improving a sum, and his fear of falling 
 into want, directed to their proper objects, they 
 would make so many different Christian graces 
 and virtues. He may apply to himself a great 
 part of St. Paul’s catalogue of sufferings. “In 
 journeyings often; in perils of waters, in perils 
 of robbers, in perils among false brethren. In 
 weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in 
 hunger and thirst, in fastings often.” At how 
 much less expense might he “ lay up to himself 
 treasures in heaven !” Or, if I may in this place 
 be allowed to add the saying of a great philoso¬ 
 pher, he may “provide such possessions as fear 
 neither arms, nor men, nor Jove himself.” 
 
 In the second place, if we look upon the toils of 
 ambition in the same light as we have considered 
 those of avarice, we shall readily own that far less 
 trouble is requisite to gain lasting glory than the 
 power and reputation of a few years; or, in other 
 words, we may with more ease deserve honor than 
 obtain it. The ambitious man should remember 
 Cardinal Wolsey’s complaint, “Had I served God 
 with the same application wherewith I served my 
 king, he would not have forsaken me in my old 
 age.” The cardinal here softens his ambition by 
 the specious pretense of “serving his king;” 
 whereas his words, in the proper construction, 
 imply, that, if instead of being acted* by ambi¬ 
 tion, he had been acted* by religion, he should 
 have now felt the comforts of it, when the whole 
 world turned its back upon him. 
 
 Thirdly, let us compare the pains of the sensual 
 with those of the virtuous, and see which are 
 heavier in the balance. It may seem strange, at 
 the first view, that the men of pleasure should be 
 advised to change their course, because they lead 
 a painful life. Yet when we see them so active 
 and vigilant in quest of delight; under so many 
 disquiets, and the sport of such various passions; 
 let them answer, as they can, if the pains they un¬ 
 dergo do not outweigh their enjoyments. The in¬ 
 fidelities on the one part between the two sexes, 
 and the caprices on the other, the debasement of 
 reason, the pangs of expectation, the disappoint¬ 
 ments in possession, the stings of remorse, the 
 vanities and vexations attending even the most 
 refined delights that make up this business of 
 life, render it so silly and uncomfortable, that no 
 
 man is thought wise until he hath got over it, oi 
 happy, but in proportion as he hath cleared him¬ 
 self from it. 
 
 The sum of all is this. Man is made an active 
 being. Whether he walks in the paths of virtue 
 or vice, he is sure to meet with many difficulties 
 to prove his patience and excite his industiy. 
 The same if not greater labor is required in the 
 service of vice and folly as of virtue and wisdom; 
 and he hath this easy choice left him, whether, 
 with the strength he is master of, he will purchase 
 happiness or repentance. 
 
 No. 625.] FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 26,1714. 
 
 -Amores 
 
 De tenero meditatur ungui.— Hor. 3 Od. vi. 23. 
 
 Love, from her tender years, her thoughts employ’d. 
 
 The love-casuist hath referred to me the follow¬ 
 ing letter of queries, with his answers to each 
 question, for my approbation. I have accord¬ 
 ingly considered the several matters therein con¬ 
 tained, and hereby confirm and ratify his answers, 
 and require the gentle querist to conform herself 
 thereunto. 
 
 “Sir, 
 
 “I was thirteen the 9th of November last, and 
 must now begin to think of settling myself in the 
 world: and so I would humbly beg your advice, 
 what must I do with Mr. Fondle, who makes his 
 addresses to me. He is a very pretty man, and 
 hath the blackest eyes and whitest teeth you ever 
 saw. Though he is but a younger brother, he 
 dresses like a man of quality, and nobody comes 
 into a room like him. I know he hath refused 
 great offers, and if he cannot marry me he will 
 never have anybody else. But my father hath 
 forbid him the house, because he sent me a copy 
 of verses; for he is one of the greatest wits in 
 town. My eldest sister, who with her good-will 
 would call me miss as long as I live, must be 
 married before me, they say. She tells them that 
 Mr. Fondle makes a fool of me, and will spoil the 
 child, as she calls me, like a confident thing as 
 she is. In short, I am resolved to marry Mr 
 Fondle, if it be but to spite her. But because I 
 would do nothing that is imprudent, I beg of you 
 to give me your answers to some questions I will 
 write down, and desire you to get them printed 
 in the Spectator, and I do not doubt but you will 
 give such advice as, I am sure, I shall follow: 
 
 “ When Mr. Fondle looks upon me for half an 
 hour together, and calls me angel, is he not in 
 love?” 
 
 Answer. No. 
 
 “ May not I be certain he will be a kind hus¬ 
 band, that has promised me half my portion in 
 pin-money, and to keep me a coach and six in the 
 bargain ?”—No. 
 
 “ Whether I, who have been acquainted with 
 him this whole year almost, am not a better judge 
 of his merit, than my father and mother, who 
 never heard him talk but at table ?”—No. 
 
 “Whether I am not old enough to choose for 
 myself?”—No. 
 
 “ Whether it would not have been rude in me 
 to refuse a lock of his hair?”—No. 
 
 “ Should not I be a very barbarous creature, if I 
 did not pity a man that is always sighing for my 
 sake?”—No. 
 
 “Whether you would not advise me to run 
 away with the poor man?”—No. 
 
 “ Whether you do not think, that if I will not 
 have him, he will not drown himself?”—No. 
 
 * Actuated. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 “ What shall I say to him the next time he asks 
 me if I will marry him?”—No. 
 
 The following letter requires neither introduc¬ 
 tion nor answer: 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ I wonder that, in the present situation of 
 affairs, you can take pleasure in writing anything 
 but news; for, in a word, who minds anything 
 else ? The pleasure of increasing in knowledge, 
 and learning something new every hour of life, is 
 the noblest entertainment of a rational creature. 
 I have a very good ear for a secret, and am 
 naturally of a communicative temper; by which 
 paeans 1 am capable of doing you great services 
 in this way. In order to make myself useful, I 
 am early in the antechamber, where I thrust my 
 head into the thick of the press, and catch the 
 news at the opening of the door, while it is warm. 
 Sometimes I stand by the beef-eaters, and take 
 the buzz as it passes by me. At other times I lay 
 my ear close to the wall, and suck in many a val¬ 
 uable whisper, as it runs in a straight line from 
 corner to corner. When I am weary with stand- 
 ing, I repair to one of the neighboring coffee¬ 
 houses, where I sit sometimes for a whole day, 
 and have the news as it comes from court fresh 
 and fresh. In short. Sir, I spare no pains to know 
 how the world goes. A piece of news loses its 
 flavor when it hath been an hour in the air. I 
 love, if I may so speak, to have it fresh from the 
 tree; and to convey it to my friends before it is 
 faded. Accordingly my expenses in coach-hire 
 make no small article: which you may believe, 
 when I assure you, that I post away from coffee¬ 
 house to coffee-house, and forestall the Evening- 
 post by two hours. There is a certain gentleman, 
 who hath given me the slip twice or thrice, and 
 hath been beforehand with me at Child’s. But I 
 have played him a trick. I have purchased a pair 
 of the best coach-horses I could buy for money, and 
 now let him outstrip me if he can. Once more, 
 Mr. Spectator, let me advise you to deal in news. 
 You may depend upon my assistance. But I 
 must break off abruptly, for I have twenty letters 
 to write. “ Yours, in haste, 
 
 “ Thos. Quidnunc.” 
 
 No. 626.] MONDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1714. 
 
 Dulcique animos novitate tenebo.— Ovid, Met. 1.1. 
 
 -With sweet novelty your taste I’ll please.— Eusden. 
 
 < I have seen a little work of a learned man, con¬ 
 sisting of extemporary speculations, which owed 
 their birth to the most trifling occurrences of life. 
 His usual method was to write down any sudden 
 start of thought which arose in his mind upon 
 the sight of an odd gesticulation in a man, any 
 whimsical mimicry of reason in a beast, or what¬ 
 ever appeared remarkable in any object of the 
 visible creation. He was able to moralize upon 
 a snuff-box, would flourish eloquently upon a 
 tucker or a pair of ruffles, and draw practical 
 inferences from a full-bottomed periwig. This I 
 thought fit to mention, by way of excuse for my 
 ingenious correspondent, who hath introduced the 
 following letter by an image which I beg leave to 
 tell him is too ridiculous in so serious and noble 
 a speculation. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “When I have seen young puss playing her 
 wanton gambols, and with a thousand antic 
 shapes express her own gayety at the same time 
 
 723 
 
 that she moved mine, 'while the old grannum 
 hath sat by with a most exemplary gravity, un¬ 
 moved at all that passed, it hath made me reflect 
 what should be the occasion of humors so oppo¬ 
 site in two creatures, between whom there was no 
 visible difference but that of age; and I have been 
 able to resolve it into nothing else but the force 
 of novelty. 
 
 “In every species of creatures, those who have 
 been least time in the world appear best pleased 
 with their condition: for, beside that, to a new 
 comer, the world hath a freshness on it that strikes 
 the sense after a most agreeable manner. Being 
 itself, unattended with any great variety of enjoy¬ 
 ments, excites a sensation of pleasure; but, as age 
 advances, everything seems to wither, the senses 
 are disgusted with their old entertainments, and 
 existence turns flat and insipid. We may see 
 this exemplified in mankind. The child, let him 
 be free from pain, and gratified in his change of 
 toys, is diverted with the smallest trifle. Nothing 
 disturbs the mirth of the boy but a little punish¬ 
 ment or confinement. The youth must have more 
 violent pleasures to employ his time. The man 
 loves the hurry of an active life, devoted to the 
 pursuits of wealth or ambition. And lastly, old 
 age, having lost its capacity for these avocations, 
 becomes its own insupportable burden. This va¬ 
 riety may in part be accounted for by the vivacity 
 and decay of the faculties; but I believe is chiefly 
 owing to this, that the longer we have been in 
 possession of being, the less sensible is the gust 
 we have of it; and the more it requires of adven¬ 
 titious amusements to relieve us from the satiety 
 and weariness it brings along w T ith it. 
 
 “ And as novelty is of a very powerful, so is it 
 of a most extensive influence. Moralists have 
 long since observed it to be the source of admira¬ 
 tion, which lessens in proportion to our familiarity 
 with objects, and upon a thorough acquaintance 
 is utterly extinguished. But I think it hath not 
 been so commonly remarked, that all the other 
 passions depend considerably on the same cir¬ 
 cumstance. What is it but novelty that awakens 
 desire, enhances delight, kindles anger, provokes 
 envy, inspires horror ? To this cause we must 
 ascribe it, that love languishes with fruition, and 
 friendship itself is recommended by intervals of 
 absence: hence monsters, by use, are beheld with¬ 
 out loathing, and the most enchanting beauty 
 without rapture. That emotion of the spirits, in 
 which passion consists, is usually the effect of 
 surprise, and, as long as it continues, heightens 
 the agreeable or disagreeable qualities of its ob¬ 
 ject; but as this emotion ceases (and it ceases 
 with the novelty) things appear in another light, 
 and affect us even less than might be expected 
 from their proper energy, for having moved us 
 too much before. 
 
 “It may not be a useless inquiry how far the 
 love of novelty is the unavoidable growth of na¬ 
 ture, and in what respects it is peculiarly adapted 
 to the present state. To me it seems impossible 
 that a reasonable creature should rest absolutely 
 satisfied in any acquisitions whatever, without en¬ 
 deavoring farther; for, after its highest improve¬ 
 ments, the mind hath an idea of an infinity of 
 things still behind worth knowing, to the know¬ 
 ledge of which therefore it cannot be indifferent; 
 as by climbing up a hill in the midst of a wild 
 plain a man hath his prospect enlarged, and, to¬ 
 gether with that, the bounds of his desires. Upon 
 this account, I cannot think he detracts from the 
 state of the blessed who conceives them to be per¬ 
 petually employed in fresh searches into nature, 
 and to eternity advancing into the fathomless 
 depths of the divine perfections. In this thought, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 724 
 
 there is nothing but what does honor to these glo¬ 
 rified spirits; provided still it be remembered that 
 their desire of more proceeds not from their dis¬ 
 relishing what they possess; and the pleasure of a 
 new enjoyment is not with them measured by its 
 novelty (which is a thing merely foreign and. ac¬ 
 cidental), but by its real intrinsic value. After 
 an acquaintance of many thousand years with the 
 works of God, the beauty and magnificence of the 
 creation fills them with the same pleasing wonder 
 and profound awe which Adam felt himself seized 
 with as he first opened his eyes upon this glorious 
 scene. Truth captivates with unborrowed charms, 
 and whatever hath once given satisfaction will 
 always do it. In all which they have manifestly 
 the advantage of us, who are so much governed 
 by sickly and changeable appetites, that we can 
 with the greatest coldness behold the stupendous 
 displays of Omnipotence, and be in transports at 
 the puny essays of human skill; throw aside 
 speculations of the sublimest nature and vastest 
 importance into some obscure corner of the mind, 
 to make room for new notions of no consequence 
 at all: are even tired of health, because not en¬ 
 livened with alternate pain; and prefer the first 
 reading of an indifferent author to the second or 
 third perusal of one whose merit and reputation 
 are established. 
 
 “Our being thus formed serves many useful pur- 
 
 { >oses in the present state. It contributes not a 
 ittle to the advancement of learning; for, as Cicero 
 takes notice, that which makes men willing to un¬ 
 dergo the fatigues of philosophical disquisitions, 
 is not so much the greatness of objects as their nov¬ 
 elty. It is not enough that there is field and game 
 for the chase, and that the understanding is prompt¬ 
 ed with a restless thirst of knowledge, effectually 
 to rouse the soul sunk into a state of sloth and in¬ 
 dolence; it is also'necessary that there be an uncom¬ 
 mon pleasure annexed to the first appearance of 
 truth in the mind. This pleasure being exquisite 
 for the time it lasts, but transient, it hereby comes 
 to pass that the mind grows into an indifference to 
 its former notions, and passes on after new dis¬ 
 coveries, in hope of repeating the delight. It is 
 with knowledge as with wealth, the pleasure of 
 which lies more in making endless additions than 
 in taking a review of our old store. There are 
 some inconveniences that follow this temper, if 
 not guarded against, particularly this, that, through 
 a too great eagerness of something new, we are 
 many times impatient of staying long enough upon 
 a question that requires some time to resolve it; or, 
 which is worse, persuade ourselves that we are 
 masters of the subject before we are so, only to be 
 at the liberty of going upon a fresh scent; in Mr. 
 Locke’s words, ‘ We see a little, presume a great 
 deal, and so jump to the conclusion.’ 
 
 “A further advantage of our inclination for nov¬ 
 elty, as at present circumstantiated, is, that it an¬ 
 nihilates all the boasted distinctions among man¬ 
 kind. Look not up with envy to those above thee! 
 Sounding titles, stately buildings, fine gardens, 
 gilded chariots, rich equipages, what are they? 
 They dazzle every one but the possessor; to him 
 that is accustomed to them they are cheap and 
 regardless things; they supply him not with 
 brighter images or more sublime satisfactions, 
 than the plain man may have whose small estate 
 will just enable him to support the charge of a 
 simple unincumbered life. He enters heedless into 
 his rooms of state, as you or I do under our poor 
 sheds. The poor paintings and costly furniture 
 are lost on him; he sees them not; as how can it 
 be otherwise, when by custom a fabric infinitely 
 more grand and finished, that of the universe, 
 stands unobserved by the inhabitants, and the 
 
 everlasting lamps of heaven are lighted up in vain, 
 for any notice that mortals take of them! Thanks 
 to indulgent nature, which not only placed her 
 children originally upon a level, but still, by the 
 strength of this principle, in a great measure, pre¬ 
 serves it, in spite of all the care of man to intro¬ 
 duce artificial distinctions. 
 
 “ To add no more—is not this fondness for nov¬ 
 elty, which makes us out of conceit with all we 
 already have, a convincing proof of a future state! 
 Either man was made in vain, or this is not the 
 only world he was made for; for there cannot be a 
 greater instance of vanity than that to which man 
 is liable, to be deluded from the cradle to the grave 
 with fleeting shadows of happiness. His pleas¬ 
 ures, and those not considerable neither, die in 
 the possession, and fresh enjoyments do not rise 
 fast enough to fill up half his life with satisfac¬ 
 tion. When I see persons sick of themselves any 
 longer than they are called away by something 
 that is of force to chain down the present thought; 
 when I see them hurry from country to town, 
 and then from the town back again into the coun¬ 
 try, continually shifting postures, and placing 
 life in all the different lights they can think of: 
 ‘Surely,’ say I to myself, ‘life is vain, and the 
 man beyond expression stupid or prejudiced, who 
 from the vanity of life cannot gather that he is 
 designed for immortality.’ ” 
 
 No. 627.] WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 1714. 
 
 Tantum inter densas umbrosa cacumina, fagos 
 
 Assidue veniebat; ibi hasc incondita solus 
 
 Montibus et sylvis studio jactabat inani.— Virg. Ecl.ii.3. 
 
 He underneath the beechen shade, alone, 
 
 Thus to the woods and mountains made his moan. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 The following account which came to my hands 
 some time ago, may be no disagreeable entertain¬ 
 ment to such of my readers as have tender hearts 
 and nothing to do: 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “A friend of mine died of a fever last week, 
 which he caught by walking too late in a dewy 
 evening among his reapers. I must inform you that 
 his greatest pleasure was in husbandry and garden¬ 
 ing. He had some humors which seemed incon¬ 
 sistent with that good sense he was otherwise mas¬ 
 ter of. His uneasiness in the company of women 
 was very remarkable in a man of such perfect good¬ 
 breeding; and his avoiding one particular walk in 
 his garden, where he had used to pass the greatest 
 part of his time, raised abundance of idle conject¬ 
 ures in the village where he lived. Upon looking 
 over his papers we found out the reason, which he 
 never intimated to his nearest friends. He was, 
 it seems, a passionate lover in his youth, of which 
 a large parcel of letters he left behind him are a 
 witness. I send you a copy of the last he ever 
 wrote upon that subject, by which you find that he 
 concealed the true name of his mistress under that 
 of Zelinda: ■ 
 
 “ ‘ A long month’s absence would be insupport¬ 
 able to me, if the business I am employed in were 
 not for the service of my Zelinda, and of such a 
 nature as to place her every moment in my mind. I 
 have furnished the house exactly according to your 
 fancy, or, if you please, my own; for I have long 
 since learned to like nothing but what you do. 
 The apartment designed for your use is so exact a 
 copy of that which you live in, that I often think 
 myself in your house when I step into it, but sigh 
 when I find it without its proper inhabitant. You 
 will have the most delicious prospect from your 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 closet window that England affords; I am sure I 
 should think it so, if the landscape that shows 
 such variety did not at the same time suggest to 
 me the greatness of the space that lies between us. 
 
 “ ‘ The gardens are laid out very beautifully; I 
 have dressed up every hedge in woodbines, sprink¬ 
 led bowers and arbors in every corner and made a 
 little paradise round me; yet I am still like the first 
 man in his solitude, but half blessed without a 
 partner in my happiness. I have directed one walk 
 to be made for two persons, where I promise ten 
 thousand satisfactions to myself in your conversa¬ 
 tion. I already take my evening’s turn in it, and 
 have worn a path upon the edge of this little alley, 
 while I soothed myself with the thought of your 
 walking by my side. I have held many imaginary 
 discourses with you in this retirement; and when 
 I have been weary have sat down with you in the 
 midst of a row of jessamines. The many expres¬ 
 sions of joy and rapture I use in these silent con¬ 
 versations have made me for some time the talk 
 of the parish; but a neighboring young fellow, 
 who makes love to the farmer’s daughter, hath 
 found me out, and made my cas^ known to the 
 whole neighborhood. 
 
 “ ‘In planting of the fruit-trees I have not for¬ 
 got the peach you are so fond of. I have made a 
 walk of elms along the river side, and intend to 
 sow all the place about it with cowslips, which I 
 hope you will like as well as that I have heard 
 you talk of by your father’s house in the country. 
 
 “‘ Oh! Zelinda, what a scheme of delight have I 
 drawn up in my imagination! What day dreams 
 do I indulge myself in! When will the six weeks 
 be at an end, that lie between me and my promised 
 happiness ! 
 
 “‘How could you break olf so abruptly in your 
 last, and tell me you must go and dress for the 
 play ? If you loved as I do, you would find no 
 more company in a crowd than I have in my soli¬ 
 tude. I am,’ etc. 
 
 “Oil the back of the letter is written, in the 
 hand of the deceased, the following piece of his¬ 
 tory: 
 
 ‘“Mem. Having waited a whole week for an 
 answer to this letter, I hurried to town, where I 
 found the perfidious creature married to my rival. 
 I will bear it as becomes a man, and endeavor to 
 find out happiness for myself in that retirement 
 which I had prepared in vain for a false, ungrate¬ 
 ful woman.’ “ I am,” etc. 
 
 Ho. 628.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 3, 1714. 
 
 Labitur et labetur in omne volubilis sevum. 
 
 Hor. 1 Ep. ii. 43. 
 
 It rolls, and rolls, and will forever roll. 
 
 “ Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ There are none of your speculations which 
 please me more than those upon infinitude and 
 eternity. You have already considered that part 
 of eternity which is past, and I wish you would 
 give us your thoughts upon that which is to come. 
 
 “Your readers will perhaps receive greater plea¬ 
 sure from this view of eternity than the former, 
 since we have every one of us a concern in that 
 which is to come; whereas a speculation on that 
 which is past is rather curious than useful. 
 
 “ Beside, we can easily conceive it possible for 
 successive duration never to have an end; though, 
 as you have justly observed, that eternity which 
 never had a beginning is altogether incomprehen¬ 
 sible; that is, we can conceive an eternal duration 
 which may be, though we cannot an eternal dura¬ 
 tion which hath been; or, if I may use the philo- 
 
 725 
 
 sophical terms, we may apprehend a potential 
 though not an actual eternity. 
 
 “This notion of a future eternity, which is na¬ 
 tural to the mind of man, is an unanswerable ar¬ 
 gument that he is a being designed for it; espe¬ 
 cially if we consider that he is capable of being 
 virtuous or vicious here; that he hath faculties 
 improvable to all eternity; and, by a proper or 
 wrong employment of them may be happy or mis- 
 ef&ble throughout that infinite duration. Our idea 
 indeed of this eternity is not of an adequate or 
 fixed nature, but is perpetually growing and en¬ 
 larging itself toward the object, which is too big 
 for human comprehension. As we are now in the 
 beginnings of existence, so shall we always appear 
 to ourselves as if we were forever entering upon it. 
 After a million or two of centuries, some consid¬ 
 erable things already past, may slip out of our 
 memory, which, if it be not strengthened in a 
 wonderful manner, may possibly forget that ever 
 there was a sun or planets; and yet, notwithstand¬ 
 ing the long race that we shall then have run, we 
 shall still imagine ourselves just starting from the 
 goal, and find no proportion between that space 
 which we know had a beginning, and what we are 
 sure will never have an end. 
 
 “ But I shall leave this subject to your manage¬ 
 ment, and question not but you will throw it into 
 such lights as shall at once improve and entertain 
 your reader. 
 
 “I have, inclosed, sent you a translation* of the 
 speech of Cato on this occasion, which hath acci¬ 
 dentally fallen into my hands, and which, for con¬ 
 ciseness, purity, and elegance of phrase, cannot be 
 sufficiently admired. 
 
 ACT V.—SCENE I. 
 
 Cato solus, etc. 
 
 Sic, sic se habere rem necesse prorsus est, 
 
 Ratione vincis, do lubens manus, Plato. 
 
 Quid enim dedisset, quae dedit frustra nihil, 
 
 iEternitatis insitam cupidinem 
 
 Natura ? Quorsum hsec dulcis expectatio: 
 
 Viteeque non explenda melioris sitis? 
 
 Quid vult sibi aliud iste redeundi in nihil 
 Horror, sub imis quemque agens praecordiis? 
 
 Cur territa in se refugit anima, cur tremit 
 Attonita, quoties, morte ne pereat, timet? 
 
 Particula nempe est cuique nascenti indita 
 Divinior; quae corpus incolens agit; 
 
 Hominique succinit, tua est seternitas, 
 iEternitas! 0 lubricum nimis aspici, 
 
 Mixtumque dulci gaudium formidine! 
 
 Quae demigrabitur aliahinc in corpora? 
 
 Quae terra mox incognita? Quis orbis novus 
 Manet incolendus ? Quanta erit mutatio ? 
 
 Haec intuenti spatia mihi quaqua patent 
 Immensa; sed caliginosa nox premit; 
 
 Nec luce clara vult videri singula. 
 
 Figendus hie pes; certa sunt haec hactenus; 
 
 Si quod gubernet numen humanum genus, 
 
 (At, quod gubernet, esse clamant omnia) 
 
 Virtute non gaudere certe non potest: 
 
 Nec esse non beata, qua gaudet, potest. 
 
 Sed qua beata sede ? Quove in tempore ? 
 
 Hsec quanta quanta terra, tota est Csesaris. 
 
 Quid dubius hseret animus usque adeo ? Brevi 
 Hie nodum his omnem expediet. Arma en induor. 
 
 [Ensi manum admovens 
 
 In utramque partem facta; quaeque vim inferant, 
 
 Et quse propulsent! Dextera intentat necem; 
 
 Vitam sinistra: vulnus hsec dabit manus; 
 
 Altera medelam vulneris: hie ad exitum 
 Deducet, ictu simplici; hsec vetant mori. 
 
 Secura ridet anima mucronis minas, 
 
 Ensesque strictos, interire nescia. 
 
 Extinguet set as sidera diuturnior: 
 iEtate languens ipse sol obscurus 
 Emittet orbi consenescenti jubar: 
 
 Natura et ipsa sentient quondam vices 
 iEtatis; annis ipsa defleiat gravis: 
 
 At tibi juventus, at tibi immortalitas: 
 
 Tibi parta divum est vita. Periment mutuis 
 Elementa sese et interibunt ictibus. 
 
 *This translation was by Mr., afterward Dr. Bland, once 
 schoolmaster, then provost of Eaton, and dean of Durham. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 726 
 
 Tu permanebis sola semper Integra, 
 
 Tu cuncta rerum quassa, cuncta naufraga, 
 
 Jam portu in ipso tuta, contemplabere, 
 
 Compage rupta, corruent in se invicem, 
 
 Orbesque fractis ingerentur orbibus; 
 
 Illassa tu sedebis extra fragmina. 
 
 ACT V.—SCENE I. 
 
 Cato alone, etc. 
 
 It must be so-Plato, thou reason’st well- 
 
 Else -w hence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 
 This longing after immortality; 
 
 Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
 
 Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 
 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; 
 
 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
 
 Through what variety of untried being, 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? 
 
 The wide, th’ unbounded prospect lies before me, 
 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
 
 Here will I hold. If there’s a Power above us, 
 
 (And that there is all nature cries aloud 
 Through all her works,) he must delight in virtue; 
 
 And that which he delights in must be happy. 
 
 But when, or where ?-This world was made for Caesar 
 
 I’m weary of conjectures—This must end them. 
 
 Laying his hand on his sword. 
 Thus am I doubly arm'd; my death and life, 
 
 My bane and antidote are both before me. 
 
 This in a moment brings me to an end; 
 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 
 The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point, 
 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; 
 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 
 Unhurt amid the war of elements, 
 
 The wreck of matter, and th# crush of worlds. 
 
 Ho. 629.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1714. 
 
 -Experiar quid concedatur in illos, 
 
 Quorum Flaminia tegitur cinis, atque Latina. 
 
 Juv. Sat. i. 170. 
 
 -Since none the living dare implead, 
 
 Arraign them in the persons of the dead.— Dryden. 
 
 Next to the people who want a place, there are 
 none to be pitied more than those who are solicited 
 for one. A plain answer with a denial in it is 
 looked upon as pride, and a civil answer as a 
 promise. 
 
 Nothing is more ridiculous than the pretensions 
 of people upon these occasions. Everything a 
 man hath suffered, while his enemies were in 
 play, was certainly brought about by the malice 
 of the opposite party. A bad cause would not 
 have been lost, if such a one had not been upon 
 the bench ; nor a profligate youth disinherited, 
 if he had not got drunk every night by toasting an 
 ousted ministry. I remember a tory, who having 
 been fined in a court of justice for a prank that de¬ 
 served the pillory, desired upon the merit of it to 
 be made a justice of the peace when his friends 
 came into power ; and never shall forget a whig 
 criminal, who, upon being indicted for a rape, 
 told his friends, “ You see what a man suffers for 
 sticking to his principles.” 
 
 The truth of it is, the sufferings of a man in a 
 party are of a very doubtful nature. When they 
 are such as have promoted a good cause, and fallen 
 upon a man undeservedly, they have a right to 
 be heard and recompensed beyond any other pre¬ 
 tensions.. But when they rise out of rashness or 
 indiscretion, and the pursuit of such measures as 
 have lather ruined than promoted the interest they 
 aim at, which hath always been the case of many 
 great sufferers, they only serve to recommend them 
 to the children of violence or folly. 
 
 I have by me a bundle of memorials presented 
 by several cavaliers upon the restoration of King 
 
 Charles II, which may serve as so many instan¬ 
 ces to our present purpose. 
 
 Among several persons and pretensions recorded 
 by my author, he mentions one of a very great 
 estate, who, for having roasted an ox whole, and 
 distributed a hogshead upon King Charles’s birth¬ 
 day, desired to be provided for as his majesty in 
 his great wisdom snail think fit. 
 
 Another put in to be Prince Henry’s governor, 
 for having dared to drink his health in the worst 
 of times. 
 
 A third petitioned for a colonel’s commission, 
 for having cursed Oliver Cromwell, the day before 
 his death, on a public bowling-green. 
 
 But the most whimsical petition I have met 
 with, is that of B. B., Esq., who desired the honor 
 of knighthood for having cuckolded Sir T. W., a 
 notorious roundhead. 
 
 There is likewise the petition of one who, hav¬ 
 ing let his beard grow from the martyrdom of 
 King Charles I, until the restoration of King 
 Charles II, desired in consideration thereof to be 
 made a privy-counselor. 
 
 I must not omit a memorial setting forth that 
 the memorialist had, with great dispatch, carried 
 a letter from a certain lord to a certain lord, where¬ 
 in, as it afterward appeared, measures were con¬ 
 certed for the restoration, and without which he 
 verily believes that happy revolution had never 
 been effected; who thereupon humbly prays to be 
 made postmaster-general. 
 
 A certain gentleman, who seems to write with 
 a great deal of spirit, and uses the words, “ gal¬ 
 lantry,” and “ gentleman-like” very often in his 
 petition, begs that (in consideration of his having 
 worn his hat for ten years past in the loyal cava¬ 
 lier-cock, to his great danger and detriment) he 
 may be made a captain of the guards. 
 
 I shall close my account of this collection of 
 memorials with the copy of one petition at length, 
 which I recommend to my reader as a very valua¬ 
 ble piece. 
 
 “ The Petition of E. H., Esq. 
 
 “Humbly showeth, 
 
 “ That your petitioner’s father’s brother’s uncle. 
 Colonel W. H., lost the third finger of his left 
 hand at Edgehill fight. 
 
 “ That your petitioner, notwithstanding the 
 smallness of his fortune (he being the younger 
 brother), always kept hospitality, and drank con¬ 
 fusion to the roundheads in half a score bumpers 
 every Sunday in the year, as several honest gen¬ 
 tlemen (whose names are underwritten) are ready 
 to testify. 
 
 “ That your petitioner is remarkable in his 
 country, for having dared to treat Sir P. P. a 
 cursed sequestrator, and three members of the as¬ 
 sembly of divines, with brawn and minced pies 
 upon New-year’s-day. 
 
 __ “ That your said humble petitioner hath been 
 five times imprisoned in five several county-jails, 
 for having been a ring-leader in five different riots 
 into which his zeal for the royal cause hurried 
 him, when men of greater estates had not the 
 courage to rise. 
 
 “That he the said E. H., hath had six duels 
 and four-ana-twenty boxing matches in defense 
 of his majesty’s title; and that he received such a 
 blow upon the head at a bonfire in Stratford-upon- 
 Avon, as he hath been never the better for tv om 
 that day to this. 
 
 “ That your petitioner hath been so far from im¬ 
 proving his. fortune, in the late damnable times, 
 that he verily believes, and hath good reason to 
 imagine, that if he had been master of an estate 
 he had infallibly been plundered and sequestered. 
 
THE SPE 
 
 “ Your petitioner, in considefation of his said 
 merits and sufferings, humbly requests that he 
 may have the place of receiver of the taxes, collec¬ 
 tor of the customs, clerk of the peace, deputy lieu¬ 
 tenant, or whatsoever else he shall be thought 
 qualified for. And your petitioner shall ever 
 pray,” etc. 
 
 No. 630.] WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1714. 
 
 Favete linguis- IIor. 3 Od, i. 2. 
 
 With mute attention wait. 
 
 Having no spare time to write anything of my 
 own, or to correct what is sent me by others, I 
 have thought fit to publish the following letters : 
 
 “Oxford, Nov. 22. 
 
 “ Sir, 
 
 “If you would be so kind to me, as to suspend 
 that satisfaction which the learned world must re¬ 
 ceive in reading one of your speculatious, by pub¬ 
 lishing this endeavor, you will very much oblige 
 and improve one, who has the boldness to hope 
 that he may be admitted into the number of your 
 correspondents. 
 
 “ I nave often wondered to hear men of good 
 sense and good-nature profess a dislike to music, 
 when at the same time they do not scruple to own 
 that it has the most agreeable and improving in¬ 
 fluences over their minds; it seems to me an un¬ 
 happy contradiction, that those persons should 
 have an indifference for an art which raises in 
 them such a variety of sublime pleasures. 
 
 “ However, though some few, by their own or 
 the unreasonable prejudices of others, may be led 
 into a distaste of those musical societies which 
 are erected merely for entertainment, yet sure I 
 may venture to say, that no one can have the least 
 reason for disaffection to that solemn kind of mel¬ 
 ody which consists of the praises of our Creator. 
 
 “You have, I presume, already prevented me 
 in an argument upon this occasion, which some 
 divines have successfully advanced upon a much 
 greater, that musical sacrifice and adoration has 
 claimed a place in the laws and customs of the 
 most different nations, as the Grecians and Ro¬ 
 mans of the profane, the Jews and Christians of 
 the sacred world, did as unanimously agree in 
 this as they disagreed in all other parts of their 
 economy. 
 
 “ I know there are not wanting some who are 
 of opinion that the pompous kind of music which 
 is in use in foreign churches is the most excellent, 
 as it most affects our senses. But I am swayed 
 by my judgment to the modesty which is observed 
 in the musical part of our devotions.. Methinks 
 there is something very laudable in the custom of 
 a voluntary before the first lesson : by this we are 
 supposed to be prepared for the admission of those 
 divine truths which we are shortly to receive. 
 We are then to cast all worldly regards from off 
 our hearts, all tumults within are then becalmed, 
 and there should be nothing near the soul but 
 peace and tranquillity. So that in this short office 
 of praise the man is raised above himself, and is 
 almost lost already amid the joys of futurity. 
 
 “ I have heard some nice observers frequently 
 commend the policy of our church in this partic¬ 
 ular, that it leads us on by such easy and regular 
 methods that we are perfectly deceived into piety. 
 When the spirits begin to languish (as they too 
 often do with a constant series of petitions) she 
 takes care to allow them a pious respite, and re¬ 
 lieves them with the raptures of an anthem. Nor 
 can we doubt that the sublimest poetry, softened 
 in the most moving strains of music, can never 
 
 CTATOR. 727 
 
 I fail of humbling or exalting the soul to any pitch 
 | of devotion. Who can hear the terrors of the 
 Lord of Hosts described in the most expressive 
 melody without being awed into a veneration ? 
 Or who can hear the kind and endearing attributes 
 of a merciful Father, and not be softened into love 
 toward him ? 
 
 “ As the rising and sinking of the passions, the 
 casting soft or noble hints into the soul, is the nat¬ 
 ural privilege of music in general, so more par¬ 
 ticularly of that kind which is employed at the 
 altar. Those impressions which it leaves upon 
 the spirits are more deep and lasting, as the 
 grounds from which it receives its authority are 
 founded more upon reason. It diffuses a calm¬ 
 ness all around us, it makes us drop all those vain 
 or immodest thoughts which would be a hin- 
 derance to us in the performance of that great duty 
 of thanksgiving* which, as we are informed by 
 our Almighty Benefactor, is the most acceptable 
 return which can be made for those infinite stores 
 of blessings which he daily condescends to pour 
 down upon his creatures. When we make use of 
 this pathetical method of addressing ourselves to 
 him, we can scarce contain from raptures ! The 
 heart is warmed with a sublimity of goodness ! 
 We are all piety and all love ! 
 
 “ How do the blessed spirits rejoice and wonder 
 to behold unthinking man prostrating his soul to 
 his dread Sovereign in such a warmth of piety as 
 they themselves might not be ashamed of! 
 
 “I shall close these reflections with a passage 
 taken out of the third book of Milton’s Paradise 
 Lost, where those harmonious beings are thus 
 nobly described:— 
 
 “ Then crown’d again, their golden harps they took, 
 Harps ever tun’d, that, glitt’ring by their side, 
 
 Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet 
 Of charming symphony they introduce 
 The sacred song, and waken raptures high: 
 
 No one exempt, no voice hut well could join 
 Melodious part—such concord is in heaven!” 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, 
 
 “ The town cannot be unacquainted that in 
 divers parts of it there are vociferous sets of men 
 who are called rattling clubs : but what shocks 
 me most is, they have now the front to invade the 
 church, and institute these societies there, as a clan 
 of them have in late times done, to such a degree 
 of insolence, as has given the partition where they 
 reside, in a church near one of the city gates, the 
 denomination of the rattling pew. These gay fel¬ 
 lows, from humble lay professions, set up for crit¬ 
 ics, without any tincture of letters or reading, and 
 have the vanity to think they can lay hold of some¬ 
 thing from the parson which may be formed into 
 ridicule. 
 
 “It is needless to observe that the gentlemen, 
 who every Sunday have the hard province of in¬ 
 structing these wretches in a way they are in no 
 present disposition to take, have a fixed charac¬ 
 ter for learning and eloquence, not to be tainted 
 by the weak efforts of this contemptible part of 
 their audiences. Whether the pulpit is taken by 
 these gentlemen, or any strangers, their friends, 
 the way of the club is this; if any sentiments are 
 delivered too sublime for their conception; if any 
 uncommon topic is entered on, or one in use, new 
 modified with the finest judgment and dexteri¬ 
 ty ; or any controverted point be never so ele¬ 
 gantly handled; in short, whatever surpasses the 
 narrow limits of their theology, or is not suited to 
 
 * A proclamation issued the day before this paper was pub¬ 
 lished for a thanksgiving for King George’s accession, to be ob¬ 
 served January 20. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 728 
 
 their taste, they are all immediately upon the 
 watch, fixing their eyes upon each other with as 
 much warmth as our gladiators of Hockley-in-the- 
 Hole, and waiting, like them, for a hit; if one 
 touches, all take fire, and their noddles instant¬ 
 ly meet in the center of the pew: then, as by 
 beat of drum, with exact discipline, they rear up 
 into a full length of stature, and, with odd looks 
 and gesticulations, confer together in so loud and 
 clamorous a manner, continued to the close of the 
 discourse, and during the after-psalm, as is not to 
 be silenced but by the bells. Nor does this suffice 
 them without aiming to propagate their noise 
 through all the church, by signals given to the ad¬ 
 joining seats, where others designed for this fra¬ 
 ternity a o sometimes placed upon trial to receive 
 them. 
 
 “ The foi^ ^ell as rudeness of this practice 
 is in nothing ^ : conspicuous than this, that all 
 
 that follows in tm sermon is lost; for, whenever 
 our sparks take alarm, they blaze out and grow 
 so tumultuous that no after explanation can avail, 
 it being impossible for themselves or any near 
 them to give an account thereof. If anything 
 really novel is advanced, how averse soever it may 
 be to their way of thinking, to say nothing of 
 duty, men of less levity than these would be led 
 by a natural curiosity to hear the whole. 
 
 “ Laughter, where things sacred are transacted, 
 is far less pardonable than whining at a conven¬ 
 ticle; the last has at least a semblance of grace, 
 and where an affection is unseen may possibly im¬ 
 print wholesome lessons on the sincere; but the 
 first has no excuse, breaking through all the rules 
 of order and decency, and manifesting a remiss¬ 
 ness of mind in those important matters which re¬ 
 quire the strictest composure and steadiness of 
 thought; a proof of the greatest folly in the world. 
 
 “I shall not here enter upon the veneration due 
 to the sanctity of the place, the reverence owing 
 to the minister, or the respect that so great an as¬ 
 sembly as a whole parish may justly claim. I shall 
 only tell them, that, as the Spanish cobbler, to 
 reclaim a profligate son, bid him have some regard 
 to the dignity of his family, so they as gentlemen 
 (for we citizens assume to be such one day in a 
 week) are bound for the future to repent of, and 
 abstain from, the gross abuses here mentioned, 
 whereof they have been guilty in contempt of 
 heaven and earth, and contrary to the laws in this 
 case made and provided. 
 
 “I am, Sir, your very humble Servant, 
 
 “R. M.” 
 
 No. 631.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10, 1714. 
 
 Simplex munditiis- Hor. 1 Od. v. 5. 
 
 Elegant by cleanliness- 
 
 I had occasion to go a few miles out of town, 
 some days since, in a stage coach, where I had for 
 my fellow travelers a dirty beau, and a pretty 
 young quaker woman. Having no inclination to 
 talk much at that time, I placed myself backward, 
 with a design to survey them, and pick a specula¬ 
 tion out of my two companions. Their different 
 figures were sufficient of themselves to draw my 
 attention. The gentleman was dressed in a suit, 
 the ground whereof had been black, as I perceived 
 from some few spaces that had escaped the powder, 
 which was incorporated with the greatest part of 
 his coat; his periwig, which cost no small sum, 
 was after so slovenly a manner cast over his shoul¬ 
 ders, that it seemed not to have been combed since 
 the year 1712; his linen, which was not much con¬ 
 cealed, was daubed with plain Spanish from the 
 
 chin to the lowest button; and the diamond upon 
 his finger (which naturally dreaded the water) put 
 me in mind how it sparkled among the rubbish of 
 the mine where it was first discovered. On the 
 other hand, the pretty quaker appeared in all the 
 elegance of cleanliness. Not a speck was to be 
 found upon her. A clear, clean, oval face, just 
 edged about with little thin plaits of the purest 
 cambric, received great advantages from the shade 
 of her black hood; as did the whiteness of her 
 arms from that sober-colored stuff in which she 
 had clothed herself. The plainness of her dress 
 was very well suited to the simplicity of her 
 phrases; all which, put together, though they 
 could not give me a great opinion of her religion, 
 they did of her innocence. 
 
 This adventure occasioned my throwing together 
 a few hints upon cleanliness, which I shall con¬ 
 sider as one of the half virtues, as Aristotle calls 
 them, and shall recommend it under the three fol¬ 
 lowing heads: as it is a mark of politeness; as it 
 produces love; and as it bears analogy to purity 
 of mind. 
 
 First, It is a mark of politeness. It is univer¬ 
 sally agreed upon, that no one unadorned with 
 this virtue can go into company without giving a 
 manifest offense. The easier or higher any one’s 
 fortune is this duty rises proportionably. The 
 different nations of the world are as much distin¬ 
 guished by their cleanliness as by their arts and 
 sciences. The more any country is civilized, the 
 more they consult this part of politeness. We need 
 but compare our ideas of a female Hottentot and 
 an English beauty to be satisfied of the truth of 
 what hath been advanced. 
 
 In the next place, cleanliness may be said to be 
 the foster-mother of love. Beauty indeed most 
 commonly produces that passion in the mind) but 
 cleanliness preserves it. An indifferent face and 
 person, kept in perpetual neatness, hath won many 
 a heart from a pretty slattern. Age itself is not 
 unamiable, while it is preserved clean and unsul¬ 
 lied; like a piece of metal constantly kept smooth 
 and bright, we look upon it with more pleasure 
 than on a vessel that is cankered with rust. 
 
 I might observe further, that as cleanliness ren¬ 
 ders us agreeable to others, so it makes us easy to 
 ourselves; that it is an excellent preservative of 
 health; and that several vices, destructive both to 
 mind and body, are inconsistent with the habit of 
 it. But these reflections I shall leave to the leisure 
 of my readers, and shall observe, in the tjiird 
 place, that it bears a great analogy with purity of 
 mind, and naturally inspires refined sentiments 
 and passions. 
 
 We find from experience that through the prev¬ 
 alence of custom, the most vicious actions lose 
 their horror by being made familiar to us. On the 
 contrary, those who live in the neighborhood of 
 good examples, fly from the first appearances of 
 what is shocking. It fares with us much after the 
 same manner as to our ideas. Our senses, which 
 are the inlets to all the images conveyed to the 
 mind, can only transmit the impression of such 
 things as usually surround them. So that pure 
 and unsullied thoughts are naturally suggested to 
 the mind, by those objects that perpetually encom¬ 
 pass us when fhey are beautiful and elegant in 
 their kind. 
 
 “In the East, where the warmth of the climate 
 makes cleanliness more immediately necessary 
 than in colder countries, it is made one part of 
 their religion; the Jewish law, and the Mahometan 
 which in some things copies after it, is filled with 
 bathings, purifications, and other rites of the like 
 nature. Though there is the above-named con¬ 
 venient reason to be assigned for these ceremonies, 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 the chief intention undoubtedly was to typify in¬ 
 ward purity and cleanliness of heart by those out¬ 
 ward washings. We read several injunctions of 
 this kind in the Book of Deuteronomy, which con¬ 
 firm this truth; and which are but ill accounted 
 for by saying, as some do, that they were only insti¬ 
 tuted for convenience in the desert, which other¬ 
 wise could not have been habitable for so many 
 years. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with a story which I 
 have somewhere read in an account of Mahometan 
 superstitions. 
 
 A dervise of great sanctity one morning had the 
 misfortune as he took up a crystal cup, which was 
 consecrated to the prophet, to let it mil upon the 
 ground, and dash it in pieces. His son coming in 
 some time after, he stretched out his hands to bless 
 him, as his manner was every morning; but the 
 outh going out stumbled over the threshold and 
 roke his arm. As the old man wondered at these 
 events, a caravan passed by in its way from Mecca; 
 the dervise approached it to beg a blessing; but as 
 he stroked one of the holy camels, he received a 
 kick from the beast that sorely bruised him. His 
 sorrow and amazement increased upon him until 
 he recollected that, through hurry and inadvert¬ 
 ency, he had that morning come abroad without 
 washing his hands. 
 
 No. 632.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1714. 
 
 -Explebo numerum, reddarque tenebris. 
 
 Virg. iEn. vi. 545. 
 
 -the number I’ll complete, 
 
 Then to obscurity, well pleas’d, retreat. 
 
 The love of symmetry and order, which is 
 natural to the mind of man, betrays him some¬ 
 times into very whimsical fancies. “ This noble 
 principle,” says a French author, “lovesto amuse 
 itself on the most trifling occasions. You may 
 see a profound philosopher,” says he, “walk for 
 an hour together in his chamber, and industriously 
 treading, at eveiy step, upon every other board in 
 the flooring.” Every reader will recollect several 
 instances of this nature without my assistance. I 
 think it was Gregorio Leti, who had published as 
 many books as he was years old;* which was a 
 rule he had'laid down and punctually observed 
 to the year of his death. It was, perhaps, a thought 
 of the like nature which determined Homer him¬ 
 self to divide each of his poems into as many 
 books as there are letters in the Greek alphabet. 
 Herodotus has in the same manner adapted his 
 books to the number of the Muses, for which rea¬ 
 son many a learned man hath wished that there 
 had boen more than nine of that sisterhood. 
 
 Several epic poets have religiously followed 
 Virgil as to the number of his books; and even 
 Milton is thought by many to have changed the 
 number of his books from ten to twelve for no 
 other reason; as Cowley tells us it was his design, 
 had he finished his Davideis, to have also imitated 
 the iEneid in this particular. I believe every 
 one will agree with me that a perfection of this 
 nature hath no foundation in reason; and, with due 
 respect to these great names, may be looked upon 
 as something whimsical. 
 
 I mention these great examples in defense of my 
 bookseller, who occasioned this eighth volume of 
 
 * This voluminous writer boasted that he had been the au¬ 
 thor of a book and the father of a child for twenty years suc¬ 
 cessively. Swift counted the number of steps he had made 
 from London to Chelsea. And it is said and demonstrated in 
 the Parentalia, that Bishop Wren walked round the earth 
 while a prisoner in the Tower of London. 
 
 729 
 
 Spectators, because, as he said, he thought seven 
 a very odd number. On the other side several 
 grave reasons were urged on this important sub¬ 
 ject; as, in particular, that seven was the precise 
 number of the wise men, and that the most beau¬ 
 tiful constellation in the heavens was composed 
 of seven stars. This he allowed to be true, but 
 still insisted that seven was an odd number; sug¬ 
 gesting at the same time that, if he were provided 
 with a sufficient stock of leading papers, he should 
 find friends ready enough to carry on the work. 
 Having by this means got his vessel launched and 
 set afloat, he hath committed the steerage of it, from 
 time to time, to such as he thought capable of con¬ 
 ducting it. 
 
 The close of this volume, which the town may 
 now expect in a little time, may possibly ascribe 
 each sheet to its proper author. 
 
 It were no hard task to continue this paper a 
 considerable time longer by the help of large con¬ 
 tributions sent from unknown hands. 
 
 I cannot give the town a better opinion of the 
 Spectator’s correspondents than by publishing the 
 following letter, with' a very fine copy of verses 
 upon a subject perfectly new: 
 
 “Mr. Spectator, Dublin, Nov. 30, 1714. 
 
 “ You lately recommended to your female readers 
 the good old custom of their grandmothers, who 
 used to lay out a great part of their time in nee¬ 
 dlework. I entirely agree with you in your senti¬ 
 ments, and think it would not be of less advantage 
 to themselves and their posterity, than to the rep¬ 
 utation of many of their good neighbors, if they 
 passed many of those hours in this innocent enter¬ 
 tainment which are lost at the tea-table. I would, 
 however, humbly offer to your consideration the 
 case of the poetical ladies; who, though they may 
 be willing to take any advice given them by the 
 Spectator, yet cannot so easily quit their pen and 
 ink as you may imagine. Pray allow them, at 
 least now and then, to indulge themselves in other 
 amusements of fancy when they are tired with 
 stooping to their tapestry. There is a very par¬ 
 ticular kind of work, which of late several ladies 
 here in our kingdom are very fond of, which seems 
 very well adapted to a poetical genius; it is the 
 making of grottoes. I know a lady who has a very 
 beautiful one, composed by herself; nor is there 
 one shell in it not stuck up by her own hands. 
 I here send you a poem to the fair architect, which 
 I would not offer to herself, until I knew whether 
 this method of a lady’s passing her time were 
 approved of by the British Spectator; which, with 
 the poem, I submit to your censure, who am, 
 
 “ Your constant Reader 
 
 “ and humble Servant, 
 
 “A. B.” 
 
 TO MRS.-, ON HER GROTTO. 
 
 A grotto so complete, with such design, 
 
 What hands, Calypso, could have form’d but thine ? 
 
 Each chequer’d pebble, and each shining shell, 
 
 So well proportion’d and dispos’d so well, 
 
 Surprising luster from thy thought receive, 
 
 Assuming beauties more than nature gave. 
 
 To her their various shapes and glossy hue, 
 
 Their glorious symmetry they owe to you. 
 
 Not fam’d Amphion’s lute, whose powerful call 
 Made willing stones dance to the Theban wall, 
 
 In more harmonious ranks could make them fall. 
 
 Not evening cloud a brighter arch can show, 
 
 Nor richer colors paint the heavenly bow. 
 
 Where can unpolish’d nature boast a place 
 In all her mossy cells exact as this ? 
 
 At the gay parti-color’d scene we start, 
 
 For chance too regular, too rude for art. 
 
 Charm’d with the sight, my ravish’d breast is fir’d 
 With hints like those which ancient bards inspir’d; 
 
 All the feign’d tales by superstition told, 
 
 All the bright train of fabled nymphs of old. 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 730 
 
 Th’ enthusiastic Muse believes are true, 
 
 Thinks the spot sacred, and its genius you; 
 
 Lost in wild raptures would she fain disclose 
 How by degrees the pleasing wonder rose; 
 Industrious in a faithful verse to trace 
 The various beauties of the lovely place, 
 
 And, while she keeps the glowing work in view, 
 Through every maze thy artful hand pursue. 
 
 0, were I equal to the bold design, 
 
 Or could I boast such happy art as thine, 
 
 That could rude shells in such sweet order place, 
 Give common objects such uncommon grace; 
 Like them, my well chose words in every line 
 As sweetly temper’d should as sweetly shine. 
 
 So just a fancy should my numbers warm, 
 
 Like the gay piece should the description charm. 
 Then with superior strength my voice I’d raise, 
 The echoing grotto should approve my lays, 
 Pleas’d to reflect the well-sung founder’s praise. 
 
 No. 633.] WEDNESDAY, DEC. 15, 1714. 
 
 Omnia profecto, cum se a coelestibus rebus referet ad hu- 
 manas excelsius magnificentiusque et dicet et sentiet. 
 
 Cicero. 
 
 The contemplation of celestial things will make a man both 
 speak and think more sublimely and magnificently when 
 he descends to human affairs. 
 
 The following discourse is printed as it came to 
 my hands, without variation: 
 
 “ Cambridge, Dec. 12. 
 
 . “ was a very common inquiry among the an¬ 
 cients why the number of excellent orators, under 
 all the encouragements the most flourishing states 
 could give them, fell so far short of the number 
 of those who excelled in all other sciences. A 
 friend of mine used merrily to apply to this case 
 an observation of Herodotus, who says that the 
 most useful animals are the most fruitful in their 
 generation; whereas the species of those beasts 
 that are fierce and mischievous to mankind are 
 but scarcely continued. The historian instances 
 a hare, which always either breeds or brings forth; 
 and a lioness which brings forth but once, and 
 then loses all power of conception. But leaving 
 my friend to his mirth, I am of opinion that in 
 these latter agds we have greater cause of com¬ 
 plaint than the ancients had. And since that 
 solemn festival is approaching,* which calls for 
 all the power of oratory, and which affords as 
 noble a subject for the pulpit as any revelation 
 has taught us, the design of this paper shall be to 
 show, that our moderns have greater advantages 
 toward true and solid eloquence, than any which 
 the celebrated speakers of antiquity enjoyed. 
 
 “ The first great and substantial difference is, 
 that their common-places, in which almost the 
 whole force of amplification consists, were drawn 
 from the profit or honesty of the action, as they 
 regarded only this present state of duration. But 
 Christianity, as it exalts morality to a greater per¬ 
 fection, as it brings the consideration of another 
 life into the question, as it proposes rewards and 
 punishments of a higher nature and a longer con¬ 
 tinuance, is more adapted to affect the minds of 
 the audience, naturally inclined to pursue what it 
 imagines its greatest interest and concern. If 
 Pericles, as historians report, could shake the 
 firmest resolutions of his hearers, and set the 
 passions of all Greece in a ferment, when the 
 present welfare of his country, or the fear of hos¬ 
 tile invasions, was the subject; what may be ex¬ 
 pected irom that orator who warns his audience 
 against those evils which have no remedy, when 
 once undergone, either from prudence or’time? 
 As much greater as the evils in a future state are 
 
 * Christmas. 
 
 than these at present, so much are the motives to 
 persuasion under Christianity greater than those 
 which mere moral considerations could supply us 
 with. But what I now mention relates only to 
 the power of moving the affections. There is an¬ 
 other part of eloquence which is indeed its mas¬ 
 terpiece : I mean the marvelous, or sublime. In 
 this the Christian orator has the advantage beyond 
 contradiction. Our ideas are so infinitely enlarged . 
 by revelation, the eye of reason has so ^ide a 
 prospect into eternity, the notions of a Deity are 
 so worthy and refined, and the accounts we have y 
 of a state of happiness or misery so clear and evi¬ 
 dent, that the contemplation of such objects will 
 give our discourse a noble vigor, an invincible 
 force, beyond the power of any human considera- 
 tion. Tully requires in his perfect orator some 
 skill in the nature of heavenly bodies; because, 
 says he, his mind will become more extensive and 
 unconfined; and when he descends to treat of 
 human affairs he will both think and write in a 
 more exalted and magnificent manner. For the 
 same reason that excellent master would have 
 recommended the study of those great and glo¬ 
 rious mysteries which revelation has discovered 
 to us; to which the noblest parts of this system 
 of the world are as much inferior as the creature 
 is less excellent than its Creator. The wisest and 
 most knowing among the heathens had very poor 
 and imperfect notions of a future state. They 
 had indeed some uncertain hopes, either received 
 by tradition, or gathered by reason, that the exist¬ 
 ence of virtuous men would not be determined by 
 the separation of soul and body; but they either 
 disbelieved a future state of punishment and 
 misery; or, upon the same account that Apelles 
 painted Antigonus with one side only toward the 
 spectator, that the loss of his eye might not cast a 
 blemish upon the whole piece; so these repre¬ 
 sented the condition of man in its fairest view, 
 and endeavored to conceal what they thought Was 
 a deformity to human nature. I have often ob¬ 
 served, that whenever the above-mentioned orator 
 in his philosophical discourses is led by his argu¬ 
 ment to the mention of immortality, he seems like 
 one awaked out of sleep ; roused and alarmed 
 with the dignity of the subject, he stretches his 
 imagination to conceive something uncommon, 
 and, with the greatness of his thoughts, casts, as 
 it were, a glory round the sentence. Uncertain 
 and unsettled as he was, he seems fired with the 
 contemplation of it. And nothing but such a glo¬ 
 rious prospect could have forced so great a lover 
 of truth as he was to declare his resolution never 
 to part with his persuasion of immortality, though 
 it should be proved to be an erroneous one. But 
 had he lived to see all that Christianity has 
 brought to light, how would he have lavished 
 out all the force of eloquence in those noblest 
 contemplations which human nature is capable 
 of, the resurrection, and the judgment that fol¬ 
 lows it! How had his breast glowed with pleas¬ 
 ure, when the whole compass of futurity lay open 
 and exposed to his view! How would his imagin¬ 
 ation have hurried him on in the pursuit of the 
 mysteries of the incarnation ! How would he have 
 entered, with the force of lightning, into the affec¬ 
 tions of his hearers, and fixed their attention in 
 spite of all the opposition of corrupt nature, upon 
 those glorious themes which his eloquence hath 
 painted in such lively and lasting colors ! 
 
 “ This advantage Christians have; and it was 
 with no small pleasure I lately met with a frag¬ 
 ment of Longinus, which is preserved, as a testi¬ 
 mony of that critic’s judgment, at the beginning 
 of a manuscript of the New Testament in the 
 Vatican library. After that author has numbered 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 731 
 
 up the most celebrated orators amone; the Gre¬ 
 cians, he says, ‘add to these Paul of Tarsus, the 
 
 f jatron of an opinion not yet fully proved.’ As a 
 leathen he condemns the Christian religion; and, 
 as an impartial critic, he judges in favor of the 
 promoter and preacher of it. To me it seems that 
 the latter part of his judgment adds great weight 
 to his opinion of St. Paul’s abilities, since, under 
 all the prejudice of opinions directly opposite, he 
 is constrained to acknowledge the merit of that 
 apostle. And, no doubt, such as Longinus de¬ 
 scribes St. Paul, such he appeared to the inhabit¬ 
 ants of those countries which he visited and 
 blessed with those doctrines he was divinely 
 commissioned to preach. Sacred story gives us, 
 in one circumstance, a convincing proof of his 
 eloquence, when the men of Lystra called him 
 Mercury, ‘ because he was the chief speaker,’ and 
 would have paid divine worship to him, as to the 
 god w T ho invented and presided over eloquence. 
 This one account of our apostle sets his character, 
 considered as an orator only, above all the cele¬ 
 brated relations of the skill and influence of De¬ 
 mosthenes and his cotemporaries. Their power 
 in speaking was admired, but still it was thought 
 human; their eloquence warmed and ravished the 
 hearers, but still it was thought the voice of man, ! 
 not the voice of God. What advantage then had 
 St. Paul above those of Greece or Rome ? I con¬ 
 fess I can ascribe this excellence to nothing but 
 the power of the doctrines he delivered, which 
 may have still the same influence on the hearers, 
 which have still the power, when preached by a 
 skillful orator, to make us break out in the same 
 expressions as the disciples who met our Savior 
 in their way to Emmaus made use of: ‘Did not 
 our hearts burn within us when he talked to us 
 by the way, and while he opened to us the Scrip¬ 
 tures?’ I may be thought bold in my judgment 
 by some, but I must affirm that no one orator has 
 left us so visible marks and footsteps of his elo- 
 uence as our apostle. It may perhaps be won- 
 ered at, that, in his reasonings upon idolatry at 
 Athens, where eloquence was born and flourished, 
 he confines himself to strict argument only; but 
 my reader may remember, what many authors of 
 the best credit have assured us, that all attempts 
 upon the affections, and strokes of oratory, were 
 expressly forbidden by the laws of that country 
 in courts of judicature. His want of eloquence 
 therefore here was the effect of his exact conform¬ 
 ity to the laws; but his discourse on the resur¬ 
 rection to the Corinthians, his harangue before 
 Agrippa upon his own conversion, and the neces¬ 
 sity of that of others, are truly great, and may 
 serve as full examples to those excellent rules for 
 the sublime, which the best of critics has left us. 
 The sum of all this discourse is, that our clergy 
 have no further to look for an example of the per¬ 
 fection they may arrive at, than to St. Paul’s 
 harangues; that when he, under the want of sev¬ 
 eral advantages of nature, as he himself tells us, 
 was heard, admired, and made a standard to suc¬ 
 ceeding ages, by the best judges of a different 
 persuasion in religion; I say, our clergy may 
 learn, that however instructive their sermons are, 
 they are capable of receiving a great addition: 
 which St. Paul has given them a noble example 
 of, and the Christian religion has furnished them 
 with certain means of attaining to.” 
 
 No. 634.] FRIDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1714. 
 
 The fewer our wants, the nearer we resemble the gods. 
 
 It was the common boast of the heathen philoso¬ 
 phers, that by the efficacy of their several doctrines, 
 
 they made human nature resemble the divine. 
 How much mistaken soever they might be in the 
 several means they proposed for this end, it must 
 be owned that the design was great and glorious. 
 The finest works of invention and imagination 
 are of very little weight when put in the balance 
 with what refines and exalts the rational mind. 
 Longinus excuses Homer very handsomely, when 
 he says the poet made his gods like men, that he 
 might make his men appear like the gods. But 
 it must be allowed that several of the ancient 
 philosophers acted as Cicero wishes Homer had 
 done: they endeavored rather to make men like 
 gods than gods like men. 
 
 According to this general maxim in philosophy, 
 some of them have endeavored to place men in 
 such a state of pleasure, or indolence at least, as 
 they vainly imagined the happiness of the Su¬ 
 preme Being to consist in. On the other hand, 
 the most virtuous sect of philosophers have created 
 a chimerical wise man whom they made exempt 
 from passion and pain, and thought it enough to 
 pronounce him all-sufficient. 
 
 This last character, when divested of the glare 
 of human philosophy that surrounds it, signifies 
 no more than that a good and wise man should so 
 arm himself with patience as not to yield tamely 
 to the violence of passion and pain; that he should 
 learn so to suppress and contract his desires as to 
 have few wants; and that he should cherish so 
 many virtues in his soul as to have a perpetual 
 • source of pleasure in himself. 
 
 The Christian religion requires that, after having 
 framed the best idea we are able of the divine na¬ 
 ture, it should be our next care to conform our¬ 
 selves to it as far as our imperfections will permit. 
 I might mention several passages in the sacred 
 writings on this head, to which I might add 
 many maxims and wise sayings of moral authors 
 among the Greeks and Romans. 
 
 I shall only instance a remarkable passage, to 
 this purpose, out of Julian’s Caesars. The em¬ 
 peror having represented all the Roman emperors, 
 with Alexander the Great, as passing in review 
 before the gods, and striving for the superiority, 
 lets them all drop, excepting Alexander, Julius 
 Caesar, Augustus Caesar, Trajan, Marcus Aurelius, 
 and Constantine. Each of these great heroes of 
 antiquity lays in his claim for the upper place; 
 and, in order to it, sets forth his actions after the 
 most advantageous manner. But the gods, in¬ 
 stead of being dazzled with the luster of their 
 actions, inquire by Mercury into the proper mo¬ 
 tive and governing principle that influenced them 
 throughout the whole series of their lives and ex¬ 
 ploits. Alexander tells them that his aim was to 
 conquer; Julius Caesar, that his was to gain the 
 highest post in his country; Augustus, to govern 
 well; Trajan, that his was the same as that of 
 Alexander, namely, to conquer. The question, at 
 length, was put to Marcus Aurelius, who replied, 
 with great modesty that it had always been his 
 care to imitate the gods. This conduct seems to 
 have gained him the most votes and best place 
 in the assembly. Marcus Aurelius being after¬ 
 ward asked to explain himself, declares that, by 
 imitating the gods, he endeavored to imitate them 
 in the use of his understanding, and of all other 
 faculties; and in particular, that it was always his 
 study to have as few wants as possible in himself, 
 and to do all the good he could to others. 
 
 Among the many methods by which revealed 
 religion has advanced morality, this is one, that 
 it has given us a more just and perfect idea of 
 that Being whom every reasonable creature ought 
 to imitate. The young man, in a heathen com¬ 
 edy, might justify his lewdness by the example 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 732 
 
 of Jupiter; as, indeed, there was scarce any crime 
 that might not be countenanced by those notions 
 of the deity, which prevailed among the common 
 people in the heathen world. Revealed religion 
 sets forth a proper object for imitation in that Be¬ 
 ing who is the pattern, as well as the source, of all 
 spiritual perfection. 
 
 While we remain in this life we are subject to 
 innumerable temptations, which, if listened to, 
 will make us deviate from reason and goodness, 
 the only things wherein we can imitate the Supreme 
 Being. In the next life we meet with nothing to 
 excite our inclinations that doth not deserve them. 
 I shall therefore dismiss my reader with this 
 maxim, viz: “Our happiness in this world pro¬ 
 ceeds from the suppression of our desires, but in 
 the next world from the gratification of them.” 
 
 Ho. 635.] MONDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1714. 
 
 Sentio te sedem hominum ac domum contemplari; quae si tibi 
 parva (ut est) ita videtur, haee coelestia semper spectato; 
 ilia humana contemnito.— Cicero Somn. Scip. 
 
 I perceive you contemplate the seat and habitation of men; 
 which if it appears as little to you as it really is, fix your 
 eyes perpetually upon heavenly objects, and despise earthly. 
 
 The following essay comes from the ingenious 
 author of the letter upon novelty, printed in a late 
 Spectator; the notions are drawn from the Platonic 
 way of thinking; but as they contribute to raise 
 the mind, and may inspire noble sentiments of 
 our own future grandeur and happiness, I think it 
 well deserves to be presented to the public: 
 
 “If the universe be the creature of an intelligent 
 mind, this mind could have no immediate regard 
 to himself in producing it. He needed not to make 
 trial of his omnipotence to be informed what effects 
 were within its reach; the world, as existing in his 
 eternal idea, was then as beautiful as now it is 
 drawn forth into being; and in the immense abyss 
 of his essence are contained far brighter scenes than 
 will be ever set forth to view; it being impossible 
 that the great author of nature should bound his 
 own power by giving existence to a system of 
 creatures so perfect that he cannot improve upon 
 it by any other exertions of his almighty will. 
 Between finite and infinite there is an unmeasur¬ 
 able interval not to be filled up in endless ages; for 
 which reason the most excellent of all God’s works 
 must be equally short of what his power is able 
 to produce as the most imperfect, and may be ex¬ 
 ceeded with the same ease. 
 
 “ This thought hath made some imagine (what 
 it must be confessed is not impossible), that the 
 unfathomed space is ever teeming with new births, 
 the younger still inheriting a greater perfection 
 than the elder. But, as this doth not fall within 
 my present view, I shall content myself with tak¬ 
 ing notice that the consideration now mentioned 
 proves undeniably, that the ideal worlds in the 
 divine understanding yield a prospect incompara¬ 
 bly more ample, various, and delightful, than any 
 created world can do; and that therefore, as it is 
 not to be supposed that God should make a world 
 merely of inanimate matter, however diversified, 
 or inhabited only by creatures of no higher an 
 order than brutes, so the end for which he designed 
 his reasonable offspring is the contemplation of 
 his works, the enjoyment of himself, and in both 
 to be happy; having, to this purpose, endowed 
 them with corresponding faculties and desires. 
 He can have no greater pleasure from a bare re¬ 
 view of his works than from the survey of his own 
 ideas; but we may be assured that he is well 
 pleased in the satisfaction derived to beings capa-. 
 ble of it, and for whose entertainment he hath 
 
 erected this immense theater. Is not this more 
 than an intimation of our immortality? Man, who, 
 when considered as on his probation for a happy 
 existence hereafter, is the most remarkable instance 
 of divine wisdom; if we cut him off from all rela¬ 
 tion to eternity, is the most wonderful and unac¬ 
 countable composition in the whole creation. He 
 hath capacities to lodge a much greater variety 
 of knowledge than he will be ever master of, and 
 an unsatisfied curiosity to tread the secret paths 
 of nature and providence; but with this, his or¬ 
 gans, in their present structure, are rather fitted to 
 serve the necessities of a vile body, than to minis¬ 
 ter to his understanding; and from the little spot 
 to which he is chained, he can frame but wander¬ 
 ing guesses concerning the innumerable worlds 
 of light that encompass him; which, though in 
 themselves of a prodigious bigness, do but just 
 glimmer in the remote spaces of the heavens; and 
 when, with a great deal of time and pains, he hath 
 labored a little way up the steep ascent of truth, 
 and beholds with pity the groveling multitude 
 beneath, in a moment his foot slides, and he tum¬ 
 bles down headlong into the grave. 
 
 “Thinking on this, I am obliged to believe, in 
 justice to the Creator of the world, that there is 
 another state when man shall be better situated for 
 contemplation, or rather have it in his power to 
 remove from object to object, and from world to 
 world; and be accommodated with senses and other 
 helps, for making the quickest and most amazing 
 discoveries. How doth such a genius as Sir Isaac 
 Newton, from amid the darkness that involves hu¬ 
 man understanding, break forth and appear like 
 one of another species! The vast machine we in¬ 
 habit lies open to him; he seems not unacquainted 
 with the general laws that govern it; and while 
 with the transport of a philosopher he beholds 
 and admires the glorious work, he is capable of 
 paying at once a more devout and more rational 
 homage to his Maker. But, alas! how narrow is 
 the prospect even of such a mind! And how ob¬ 
 scure to the compass that is taken in by the ken 
 of an angel, or of a soul but newly escaped from 
 its imprisonment in the body! For my part, I 
 freely indulge my soul in the confidence of its 
 future grandeur; it pleases me to think that I, who 
 know so small a portion of the works of the Crea¬ 
 tor, and with slow and painful steps creep up and 
 down on the surface of this globe, shall ere long 
 shoot away with the swiftness of imagination, 
 trace out the hidden springs of nature’s opera¬ 
 tions, be able to keep pace with the heavenly bod¬ 
 ies in the rapidity of their career, be a spectator 
 of the long chain of events in the natural and 
 moral worlds, visit the several apartments of crea¬ 
 tion, know how they are furnished and how in¬ 
 habited, comprehend the order, and measure the 
 magnitudes and distance of those orbs, which to 
 us seem disposed without any regular design, and 
 set all in the same circle; observe the dependence 
 of the parts of each system, and (if our minds are 
 big enough to grasp tne theory) of the several sys¬ 
 tems upon one another, from whence results the 
 harmony of the universe. In eternity a great deal 
 may be done of this kind. I find it of use to 
 cherish this generous ambition; for beside the se¬ 
 cret refreshment it diffuses through my soul, it 
 engages me in an endeavor to improve my facul¬ 
 ties, as well as to exercise them conformably to the 
 rank I now hold among reasonable beings, and the 
 hope I have of being once advanced to a more ex¬ 
 alted station. 
 
 “ The other, and that the ultimate end of man, 
 is the enjoyment of God, beyond which he cannot 
 form a wish. Dim at best are the conceptions we 
 have of the Supreme Being, who, as it were, keeps 
 
THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 his creatures in suspense, neither discovering nor 
 hiding himself; by which means, the libertine hath 
 a handle to dispute his existence, while the most 
 are content to speak him fair, but in their hearts 
 prefer every trifling satisfaction to the favor of 
 their Maker, and ridicule the good man for the 
 singularity of his choice. Will there not a time 
 come when the Freethinker shall see his impious 
 schemes overturned, and be made a convert to the 
 truths he hates? when deluded mortals shall be 
 convinced of the folly of their pursuits; and the 
 few wise who followed the guidance of Heaven, 
 and, scorning the blandishments of sense, and the 
 sordid bribery of the world, aspired to a celestial 
 abode, shall stand possessed of their utmost wish in 
 the vision of the Creator? Here the mind heaves 
 a thought now and then toward him, and hath 
 some transient glances of his presence; when, in 
 the instant it thinks itself to have the fastest hold, 
 the object eludes its expectations, and it falls back 
 tired and baffled to the ground. Doubtless, there 
 is some more perfect way of conversing with heav¬ 
 enly beings. Are not spirits capable of mutual 
 intelligence, unless immersed in bodies, or by 
 their intervention? Must superior natures depend 
 on inferior for the main privileges of sociable beings, 
 that of conversing with and knowing each other ? 
 What would they have done had matter never been 
 created ? I suppose, not have lived in eternal sol¬ 
 
 733 
 
 itude. As incorporeal substances are of a nobler 
 order, so be sure their manner of intercourse is 
 answerably more expedite and intimate. This 
 method of communication we call intellectual vis¬ 
 ion, as somewhat analogous to the sense of seeing, 
 which is the medium of our acquaintance with 
 this visible world. And in some such way can 
 God make himself the object of immediate intui¬ 
 tion to the blessed; and as he can, it is not in£ 
 probable that he will, always condescending, in 
 the circumstances of doing it, to the weakness and 
 proportion of finite minds. His works but faintly 
 reflect the image of his perfections; it is a second¬ 
 hand knowledge; to have a just idea of him it 
 may be necessaiy that we see him as he is. But 
 what is that ? It is something that never entered 
 into the heart of man to conceive; yet, what we 
 can easily conceive, will be a fountain of unspeak¬ 
 able, of everlasting rapture. All created glories 
 will fade and die away in his presence. Perhaps 
 it will be my happiness to compare the world with 
 the fair exemplar of it in the Divine mind; per¬ 
 haps, to view the original plan of those wise de¬ 
 signs that have been executing in a long succession 
 of ages. Thus employed in finding out his works, 
 and contemplating their Author, how shall I fall 
 prostrate and adoring, my body swallowed up in 
 the immensity of matter, my mind in the infini¬ 
 tude of his perfections 1” 
 
 I , 
 
1 
 
 INDEX 
 
 NO. 
 
 Absence of mind. 77 
 
 Absent Lovers. 245 
 
 Absurd Claims of Reward. 629 
 
 Absurdities of the Opera-dresses. 29 
 
 exemplified in Letters 
 
 from the Performers of Beasts. 22 
 
 Account of a Free-thinker. 234 
 
 a great Man’s Levee. 193 
 
 a Grinning-match. 173 
 
 an Atheistical Book.389 
 
 a Remarkable Sleeper. 184 
 
 a Trunkmaker in the Theater.235 
 
 a Whistling-match. 179 
 
 Sappho. 223 
 
 the Custom of Enborne. 623 
 
 the Death of Madame de Villacerfe 368 
 
 the Everlasting Club. 72 
 
 the Hebdomadal Club. 43 
 
 v \ the Marriage of Will Honeycomb. 530 
 
 ' the Mohock Club. 324 
 
 the new Sect of Loungers. 54 
 
 the Spectator opening his Mouth.. .556 
 
 the Sweaters. 332 
 
 the various Clubs. 9 
 
 the Ugly Club. 17 
 
 the Widow’s Club. 561 
 
 A cheerful Temper. 143 
 
 Address to those who have jealous Husbands. 171 
 Admission of the Spectator into the Ugly Club 32 
 
 Adrian’s Verses.532 
 
 Advantages from Christianity. 633 
 
 of an air of Importance in making 
 
 Love. 602 
 
 of being so easily pleased.454 
 
 of Content.’.574 
 
 of Levity over grave Behavior in 
 
 Young Ladies. 492 
 
 of seeking the Protection of the 
 
 Supreme Being.571 
 
 of the Sexes associating.433 
 
 of the Spectator’s Taciturnity... 4 
 
 Adventure of M. Pontignan. 90 
 
 Adventures of a Servant. 96 
 
 of Sir Roger de Coverley with a 
 
 Woman of the Town.410 
 
 Advice on disputes.197 
 
 to Gloriana respecting the studied Ad¬ 
 dresses of Strephon and Damon.... 423 
 
 to Ladies on Marriage.522 
 
 to the Trading-world. 443 
 
 Affectation of Business. 284 
 
 of Negligence.284 
 
 of Slovenliness. 150 
 
 Affected method of Psalm-singing.205 
 
 Allegory of several Schemes of Wit. 63 
 
 Ambition hurtful to the Hopes of Futurity... 257 
 
 Amours of Cynthia and Flavia.398 
 
 of Escalus, an old beau.318 
 
 Anecdote of an Atheistical Author. 166 
 
 of a Portuguese Minister of Pope 
 
 Leo X.. ..497 
 
 Ann Boleyn’s Letter.397 
 
 Answers to various Correspondents. 619 
 
 Applause of Men not to be regarded. 610 
 
 April-day Jest.432 
 
 Art of being agreeable in Company.386 
 
 of improving Beauty. 33 
 
 Arts of Courtship'..400 
 
 of Procuresses.266 
 
 Ballad of the Children in the Wood. 85 
 
 Beauties of the Evening.425 
 
 Behavior of a Beau at a Theater.240 
 
 Benefit of extensive Commerce. 69 
 
 Benevolent Disposition.230 
 
 Bill of Mortality of Lovers. 377 
 
 Bishop of St. Asaph’s Preface to his Ser¬ 
 mons.384 
 
 Blessing of Being born an Englishman. 135 
 
 Books for a Lady’s Library. 92 
 
 Bruyere’s Character of an Absent Man. 77 
 
 Care of the Female Sex. 4 
 
 Case of Love.254 
 
 Castle-building.167 
 
 Catalogue of a Lady’s Library. 37 
 
 Causes of Longing in Women. 326 
 
 of unhappiness in the Married-state.. 479 
 
 which obstruct Benevolence. 601 
 
 Caution to the Fair Sex.400 
 
 in Writing.262 
 
 Celinda’s Letter on Female Jealousy.178 
 
 Censure of a Passage in the Funeral. 51 
 
 Character of Acasto.386 
 
 of Arietta. 11 
 
 of the Coffee-houses.. 49 
 
 of a Devotee.354 
 
 of Emilia. 302 
 
 of English Oratory. 407 
 
 of the Idols. 73 
 
 oflrus.264 
 
 of Jezebel. 175 
 
 of Leonora. 37 
 
 of a Man of Wit and Pleasure.151 
 
 of Manilius.467 
 
 of Peter the Great. 139 
 
 of Polycarpus.280 
 
 of Prince Eugene.340 
 
 of the Salamanders. 198 
 
 of Sempronia, a Match-maker.437 
 
 of a Shoeing-horn. 536 
 
 of a Templar in Love.485 
 
 of William the Third. 516 
 
 of Will Wimple. 108 
 
 of Women’s Men.156 
 
 Characteristics of Taste. 409 / 
 
 ( 735 ) 
 
736 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 NO. 
 
 Characters of Callisthenes, Acetus, and Minu- 
 
 tius. 422 
 
 of Erastus, Laetitia, Tawdry, and 
 
 Flavilla. 506 
 
 of Harry Jersett and Yarilas.100 
 
 of Laertes and Irus. 114 
 
 of Laetitia and Daphne. 33 
 
 of Sir Fopling Flutter, Dorimant 
 
 and Harriet. 65 
 
 of Tom Puzzle and Will Dry.476 
 
 of various Beauties. 144 
 
 of Vocifer and Ignotus. 75 
 
 Charity schools. 294 
 
 Cheerfulness preferable to Mirth. 381 
 
 Childish Impertinence. 45 
 
 Church Music recommended.630 
 
 Cibber’s Heroic Daughter. 546 
 
 Claim of Cambridge to the Origin of the Ugly 
 
 Club. 78 
 
 Clarinda’s Journal of a Week.323 
 
 Club of Lovers established at Oxford. 30 
 
 of the Parish Clerks. 372 
 
 of She-romps. 217 
 
 Coffee-house Conversation.568 
 
 Coming late to Dinner.-.448 
 
 Commendations of the Spectator.553 
 
 Commission to Mr. John Sly. 526 
 
 Comparative Advantages of Public and Private 
 
 Education. 313 
 
 Complaint against a Coxcomb.508 
 
 of Starers......250 
 
 of Thomas Kimbow. 24 
 
 Complaints of Rachel Welladay against the 
 
 Young Men of the Age.528 
 
 of Sickness.100. 143 
 
 Complexions. 286 
 
 Complimentary Letter to the Spectator.461 
 
 Compliments. 103 
 
 Condition of Servants. 137 
 
 Conduct of the Lions at the Opera. 13 
 
 Connection between Prudence and Good For¬ 
 tune. 293 
 
 Consolation. 163 
 
 on the Death of a parent.192 
 
 and Intrepidity in Death.349 
 
 offered to a Beauty destroyed by 
 
 the Small-pox.306 
 
 Contemplation of the Character of our Saviour 356 
 Contentious Conversations of Gentlemen of 
 
 the Long Robe.197 
 
 Conversation with the Fair Sex.300 
 
 Coquettish Milk-maid.!.380 
 
 Correspondence between Amoret, a Jilt, and 
 
 Philander. 401 
 
 of Gabriel Bullock and Mrs. 
 
 M. Clark.328 
 
 Country Breeding.240 
 
 Dances. 67 
 
 Court of Inquisition on Maids and Bachelors. 203 
 
 Credit. 218 
 
 Criticism.300, 470 
 
 on Paradise Lost, 267, 273,279, 285, 291, 
 297, 303, 309, 315, 321, 327, 333, 339, 
 345, 354, 357, 363, 369. 
 
 Criticisms.592 
 
 on the Spectator..542 
 
 Critique on the Ballad of Chevy Chase.70, 74 
 
 Cruelty of a French Captain.350 
 
 of Parents.189 
 
 of Parents in the Affair of Marriage.. 181 
 
 Cure for a bad Husband.252 
 
 Cures performed by the Spectator.547 
 
 Custom of telling Stories of Ghosts to Children 12 
 
 D. to his Coquette Mistress. 204 
 
 NO. 
 
 Dancing. 67, 296 
 
 recommended.307 
 
 Dangerous influence of the Month of May.... 365 
 
 Dangers of Dancing. 67 
 
 of the Month of May escaped.395 
 
 Dapperwit’s Question. 534 
 
 Death and Character of Dick Estcourt. 468A v 
 
 of Sir Roger de Coverley.517 ^ 
 
 Decency of Behavior.104 
 
 Decorating Churches with Evergreens.282 
 
 Defense and Happiness of a Married Life.... 500 
 of the Spectator’s Censure of Public 
 
 Vices.286 
 
 Degeneracy of the Stage. 446 
 
 Demurrage. 89 
 
 Depraved Taste on the Theater. 208 
 
 Description of Male Jilts.288 
 
 of a Tavern Tyrant. 508 
 
 Devotion.201 
 
 Difference between True and false Wit. 62' 
 
 of Temper in the Sexes. 128 
 
 Different Characters in a Tour through the 
 
 Metropolis. 454 
 
 Classes of Female Orators. 247 
 
 Difficult Case in Love resolved.605 
 
 Diffidence. 206 
 
 Disadvantages of Ambition.... 256 
 
 Disappointment in Love. 163 
 
 Disci'etion and Cunning.225 
 
 Dispute on the Landed and Trading Interest. 174 
 
 Dissection of a Beau’s Head. 275 
 
 of a Coquette’s Heart.281 
 
 Dissertation on Beards.331 
 
 Distresses of a very Amorous Gentleman..... 596 
 Divinity, Law, and Physic, overburdened with 
 
 Practitioners. 21 
 
 Division of Mankind into Classes.624 
 
 Dramatic Improvements. 592 
 
 Murders. 44 
 
 Dream of a Picture-gallery. 83 
 
 Dreams of various Correspondents. 597 
 
 Dueling. 99 
 
 Dumb Conjurer. 474 
 
 Durability of Writing. 166 
 
 Duty of being Usefully Employed.583 
 
 of communicating Knowledge : Objec¬ 
 tions answered. 379 
 
 to Parents.189 
 
 Education compared to Sculpture.215 
 
 of Country ’Squires.123 
 
 Effects of Avarice and Luxury upon Employ¬ 
 ments. 55 
 
 Eloquence of Beggars.613 
 
 Embroidery recommended to the Ladies. 606 
 
 Encoring in the Theaters. 314 
 
 Endeavors of Mankind to get rid of their Bur¬ 
 dens, (a Dream).558, 559 
 
 English Tongue, The.135 
 
 Tragedy.39, 42 
 
 Enlargement of the mind in a Future State... 635 
 
 Enthusiasm. 201 
 
 Ephesian Matron, The. 11 
 
 Epicure Mammon’s Letter on Eating.344 
 
 Epigram on the Spectator.....488 
 
 Epitaph in Pancras-churchyard.538 
 
 Equestrian Lady.485 
 
 Erratum in the Paper on Drinking. 205 
 
 Errors in the Common Modes. 66 
 
 Essay on Dreams. 487 
 
 on Friendship. 385 
 
 on Wit. 58 - ' 
 
 Essays on the Pleasures of the Imagination 411-421 
 
 Eubulus. 49 
 
 Excess of Anxiety about Health. 25 
 
INDEX. 
 
 737 
 
 Exercise of the Fan. 102 
 
 of the Snuff-box. 138 
 
 Exhibition of Pictures. 67 
 
 Extract from Tillotson’s Sermons. 352 
 
 Extracts on Sincerity. 103 
 
 Fable of a Drop in the Ocean.293 
 
 of Pleasure and pain. 183 
 
 False Delicacy.286 
 
 Hopes. 282 
 
 Wit and Humor. 35 
 
 Wit and Mechanic Poetry. 220 
 
 Fame... 218 
 
 difficult to be obtained. * 255 
 
 Farewell Paper and Acknowledgments of As¬ 
 sistance. 555 
 
 Fashions in Dress, how imitated in the Country 129 
 
 Fate of Writings. 85 
 
 Female Beauty. 144 
 
 Dress.435 
 
 Education. 314 
 
 Equestrians.435 
 
 Head-dress.265 
 
 Levity. 128 
 
 Oratory..... 252 
 
 Pander described.205 
 
 Party-spirit discovered by Patches... 81 
 
 Reaaing. 95 
 
 Fickle Friend. 194 
 
 Filial Piety of Fidelia.449 
 
 Flitch of Bacon, The. 607 
 
 Folly of Demurrage. 89 
 
 of destroying Wood. 589 
 
 of the Pride of Birth or Fortune. 202 
 
 of Wishing to be Young. 153 
 
 Fragment of Sappho. 229 
 
 Fragments from Caesar. 374 
 
 French Fashions. 45 
 
 Frivolous Disputants.... 138 
 
 Genealogy of Humor. 35 
 
 Good Breeding. 158 
 
 Manners.296 
 
 Nature, as a Moral Virtue. 177 
 
 Natured Lies.234 
 
 Gospel-gossip. 46 
 
 Grateful Letter on Heroic Virtue. 240 
 
 Grotto Work.. . .. 632 
 
 Happiness of Dependence upon the Supreme 
 
 Being. 441 
 
 Heathen Fables on Prayers. 391 
 
 Hints to a Lover. 326 
 
 History of Amanda. 375 
 
 of Cat-calls. 361 
 
 of False Wit. 58,59 
 
 of a Female Republic. 434 
 
 of the Italian Opera. 18 
 
 of the Lover’s Leap.233 
 
 of a Male Republic.433 
 
 of Phillis and Brunetta. 80 
 
 of Will Honeycomb’s Amours. 359 
 
 Hobbe’s Theory of Laughter.... 52 
 
 Hood’s. 272 
 
 Humorous Way of sorting Companies—for 
 
 Mirth—for Useful Purposes. 371 
 
 {Hunting Scene with Sir Roger. 116 
 
 Hypocrisy, Various Kinds of.399 
 
 Idea of a Fine Gentleman. 75 
 
 Ill Consequence of the Peace. 45 
 
 Ill-naturea Satire. 23 
 
 Immateriality of the Soul. Ill 
 
 Immortality of the Soul. 210 
 
 Impertinence of Shopping.336 
 
 47 
 
 Impertinent Acquaintance. 24 
 
 Impertinent Conversation to Women in Busi¬ 
 ness. 155 
 
 Importers. 430 
 
 Improper Behavior in Church.!. 630 
 
 Freedoms of Married People. 430 
 
 Method of Educating Youth. 157 
 
 Improprieties on the Stage. 141 
 
 Impudence—The Starers. 20 
 
 Impudent Behavior of People in the Streets.. 354 
 
 Inconsistencies in Love-thoughts. 366 
 
 of Men of Talent with respect 
 
 to Economy. 222 
 
 Inconstancy of Friendship. 300 
 
 Inconveniences of Poverty. 150 
 
 Increase of Beggars. 430 
 
 Indelicacies in Plays. 51 
 
 Indelicate Conversation. 300 
 
 Infirmary for Ill-humored People—Memorials 
 
 presented. 429 
 
 Influence of Custom—Moral deducted from it 447 
 
 Inkle and Yarico. n 
 
 Inquisitive Disposition.... 228 
 
 Interview of the Spectator and Sir Roger 
 
 with a Gang of Gipsies.. 130 
 
 Introduction of French Phrases in the History 
 
 of the War—Specimen in a Letter.165 
 
 Journal of a Citizen. 317 
 
 Italian Recitative. 29 
 
 King Latinus. 53 
 
 Labor and Exercise. 115 
 
 Ladies’Head-dress. 98 
 
 Lady-love. 304 
 
 Lampoons. 16 
 
 Lancashire Witches. 141 
 
 Laughter and Ridicule. 249 
 
 Lawyer’s Club. 372 
 
 Lee. 32 
 
 Letter on the Absence of Lovers—Remedies 
 
 proposed. 241 
 
 from the Academy of Painting. 555 
 
 by the Ambassador of Bantam. 557 
 
 of Apology for a Man of Wit and Plea¬ 
 sure. 154 
 
 from an Author turned Dealer.288 
 
 from a Bankrupt, and Answer.456 
 
 on Bashfulness. 231 
 
 from a Beauty. 87 
 
 from a Beauty destroyed by the Small-pox 306 
 
 from Belinda to the Shades.204 
 
 on Bowing and Courtseying at Church 460 
 
 on Butts—on Fashions. 175 
 
 from Captain Sentry on the Character 
 of Sir Roger de Coverley, and on his 
 
 own Situation. 544 
 
 from a Castle-builder. 167 
 
 on Cat-calls. 361 
 
 Censuring the Spectator. 158 
 
 on the Character of Jilts. 187 
 
 from Charles Lillie. 16 
 
 to Chloe from her Lover, with an Ac¬ 
 count of his Dreams. 301 
 
 to a Clergyman. 27 
 
 in Commendation of Powell, the Pup¬ 
 pet-showman. . 1 .372 
 
 Complaining of Country Manners and 
 
 Conversation. 474 
 
 Complaining of a Merry Prologue to a 
 
 Deep Tragedy. 338 
 
 from a Coquette—from B. D. on Formal 
 
 Devotion. 79 
 
 from a Coquette to a New-married Lady, 
 and Answer. 254 
 
738 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 NO 
 
 Letter from a Countryman to his Mistress.... 324 
 
 on the Cries of London.251 
 
 on Cruel Husbands.236 
 
 on Dancing. 334 
 
 on the Decay of the Club.542 
 
 in Defense of Merry Epilogues.341 
 
 on Demonstrations of Grief. 95 
 
 on Detraction. 348 
 
 on the Effects of the Love of Money.. 450 
 from the Emperor of China to the Pope 545 
 
 on the Eye. 252 
 
 on Fashionable Education. 66 
 
 from a Father to his Son. 189 
 
 on Female Equestrians. 104 
 
 on Fortune Hunters.. 326 
 
 on Fortune Stealers. 311 
 
 on Gardening. 477 
 
 on the General Notion we have of the 
 Fair Sex. 298 
 
 from a Hen-pecked Husband, deter¬ 
 
 mined to be Free.212 
 
 on Hen-pecked Keepers. 486 
 
 on the Hoop Petticoat. 127 
 
 from Horace to Claudius Nero.493 
 
 to a Husband.204 
 
 from a Husband likely to be ruined by 
 
 his Wife’s Accomplishments.328 
 
 from an Idler. 320 
 
 on Idols. 87 
 
 on a Jealous Husband. 527 
 
 on Impertinents....»». 168 
 
 on improper Behavior at Church.236 
 
 from a Lady insulted by her Seducer— 
 
 Reflections on the Subject.. 611 
 
 from a Languishing Lover. 527 
 
 on Law Phrases. 551 
 
 from Leonora.. 163 
 
 from a Lion...136 
 
 from a Lover. 208 
 
 on the Lover’s Leap. 227 
 
 from Mary Tuesday. 24 
 
 on the Mercenary Practice of Men in 
 
 the Choice of Wives. 199 
 
 on the Merits of Spenser. 540 
 
 from a monkey. 343 
 
 on Naked Shoulders...437 
 
 from a natural Son. 203 
 
 from a New-married Couple. 364 
 
 from Octavia, complaining of the ingra¬ 
 titude of her Husband. 322 
 
 from Oxford Correspondents. 553 
 
 from the Parish-clerk on Evergreens... 284 
 
 from Parthenia. 140 
 
 from a Person supposed to be Crazed.. 577 
 and Petition on the Exercise of the Fan 134 
 
 of Pliny to Hispulla. 525 
 
 on Poachers. 168 
 
 on Poetical Justice. 548 
 
 from a Poor and Proud Jezebel.392 
 
 on the Prayers of Clergymen before 
 
 Sermon. 312 
 
 from the President of the Club of 
 
 Widows. 573 
 
 from a Prude. 364 
 
 on Punning.396 
 
 and Reflections on Modesty. 484 
 
 and Reflections on Rustic Amusements 161 
 
 on Seduction. 208 
 
 on the Severity of Schoolmasters.168 
 
 from a Silent Lover. . 304 
 
 from Sir Andrew Freeport—His Re¬ 
 tiring. 549 
 
 from Sir John Envil, married to a Wo¬ 
 man of Quality. 299 
 
 from Mr. Sly on Hats. 532 
 
 
 NO. 
 
 Letter from Sophia in Love with a Short Face 290 
 
 from a Splenetic cured. 134 
 
 from one Steele. 274 
 
 on the Theater—On a Musical Scheme 258 
 
 from Three Thrifty Ladies.332 
 
 on Traveling. 364 
 
 from a "Valetudinarian. 25 
 
 from the Ugly Club. 52 
 
 on Visiting. 208 
 
 on the Unhappy Condition of Women 
 
 of the Town. 190 
 
 on an Untoward Wife. 194 
 
 from a Widow with two Lovers, and 
 
 Answer. 149 
 
 from Will Honeycomb. i... 131 
 
 on Women’s Men. 158 
 
 on Women taking Snuff. 344 
 
 on young Templars turning Hackney- 
 
 coachmen ..498 
 
 to Zelinda from her Lover—his Death! 627 
 on Affectation of Ignorance from a 
 
 Poetical Lover.473 
 
 on Ambition—from a lady marked by 
 
 the Small-pox. 613 
 
 from a Blank—complaining of a Cho¬ 
 leric Gentleman. 563 
 
 from Cleanthes on a Mischief-making 
 Old Maid—from E. G. on Kissing... 272 
 in Commendation of Brooke and Hel- 
 lier’s Wine—from a Scholar in Love 362 
 on the Conduct of gay and foppish Fa¬ 
 thers—on Swinging. 496 
 
 from a Country Gentleman to Phara- 
 
 mond—from a Lawyer’s Clerk.480 
 
 on Delicacy in the Censure of Vices— 
 from an affected Lady—a Kept-mis¬ 
 tress—a Quaker.276 
 
 from Dorinda, complaining of the 
 Spectator’s partiality—from a man 
 
 of Fashion. 319 
 
 from the Dumb Doctor—from a Pert 
 Baggage—on the Author’s recovering 
 
 his Speech... 560 
 
 on Education. 337,353 
 
 on Education—from the Husband of a 
 
 Scold—on Money. 455 
 
 on the Education of Youth. 330 
 
 from an English Singer at Venice—on 
 
 Rudeness. 443 
 
 on Epitaphs.518 
 
 v y from Estcourt—from Sir Roger.264 
 
 on Female Education. 52 
 
 on a Generous Benefactor.546 
 
 on Greek Mottoes—the use of the "Win¬ 
 dow—soliciting Advice—Lampoons. 296 
 from Hecatissa—from an old Beau.... 48 
 
 from Henpecked Husbands — from a 
 
 Woman married to a Cot-quean.482 
 
 on Idleness—from a Lover.316 
 
 to Impertinents and Whisperers.148 
 
 on improper Behavior m a Stage¬ 
 coach— Story of a Lottery-ticket— 
 from the Guardian of Two Nieces... 242 
 on the improper Dress of young Cler¬ 
 gymen — on Antipathies — against 
 
 Embroidery. 609 
 
 on indelicacy—from an Old Maid— 
 
 from A. B.217 
 
 on innocent Diversions—from a Tro¬ 
 jan. 245 
 
 on the Joys and Satisfactions of Pri- 
 
 vateLife.. 406 
 
 from the Lion—from an Under-sexton 
 on the Masquerade. 14 
 
 on Love, Wit, Drinking, Gaming, etc.. 140 
 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Letter from a Lover, and Answer—from John 
 
 Trott on his Courtship.314 
 
 from a Lover and Young-Lady.381 
 
 on Masquerades. 8 
 
 on Military Life by various Soldiers.. 566 
 from an Old Bachelor—from Lovers.. 260 
 on Parents forcing the Inclinations of 
 their Children—on Rudeness and 
 
 Impudence. 533 
 
 on a Partnership between a Goose and 
 a Watcliman—from a Schoolmistress 
 
 on Dancing.376 
 
 from the Playhouse, on the Dismission 
 of Inanimate Performers. 36 
 
 on Pulling the Nose—on Choice in 
 Marriage—from a Heedless Gazer— 
 on Floods—an Oxford Toast—on 
 
 Patching. 268 
 
 from Ralph Valet and Patience Giddy 137 
 on the relative Duties of Parents and 
 Children—between a mother and 
 
 Son...263 
 
 requesting Advice in a Case of Love— 
 on improper Behavior at Church... 380 
 
 Richard and Sabina Rentfree.431 
 
 on Seduction, from the Seducer.182 
 
 from Servants.202 
 
 from a Shopkeeper on his Wife’s Greek 278 
 
 on Simonides’ Satire on Women.211 
 
 from a Spoiled rich Beauty—from a 
 
 Grocer in Love—from an Idol.534 
 
 from Sylvia, complaining of an Unnat¬ 
 ural Mother—from a Married Man 
 in Love with his Ward—concern¬ 
 ing a Profligate Lover.402 
 
 From Tom Trippet—complaining of a 
 Greek Quotation—soliciting a Peep 
 at Sir Roger—from a Showman.... 271 
 from a Town Coquette to her friend, 
 
 and Answer. 515 
 
 from various Lovers—on Tale-bearers 310 
 on Wagerers, Whistlers, rude Old Ba¬ 
 chelor.. 
 
 Life preparatory to the Happiness of Eternity 575 
 List of Persons who demanded the Flitch of 
 
 Bacon.608 
 
 Love... 
 
 Love-letter of James to Betty... [ 71 
 
 Love Letters to Andromache. 142 
 
 Love of Applause, The.... 188 
 
 of Defamation, The.427 
 
 of Glory, The.. 
 
 of Latin among the Common People.... 221 
 
 and Marriage. 261 
 
 Scene.. 
 
 Lovers. 89 
 
 Loves of Honoria and Flavia. 91 
 
 Male Dress. 
 
 Manners of Servants.!!!!.*!” 
 
 Maxims of Thrift. ..... 
 
 Means of strengthening Faith. 
 
 Mediocrity of Fortune, to be preferred....... 
 
 Meditation on Animal Life. 
 
 on Death, a Hymn. 
 
 on the Frame of the Human Body, 
 on the Wonders of the Deep, with 
 
 a Hymn. 
 
 Memoirs of an Honest Country Gentleman.... 
 
 of the Private Life of Pharamond... 
 
 Messiah, The, a Sacred Eclogue. 
 
 Method of Political Writers affecting Secrecy 
 
 —Specimen. 
 
 Methods to aggrandize the persons in Tragedy 
 
 145 
 
 88 
 
 509 
 
 465 
 
 464 
 
 519 
 
 513 
 
 543 
 
 489 
 
 622 
 
 76 
 
 378 
 
 567 
 
 739 
 
 Military Courage. 152 
 
 Minute from Mr. Sly. 534 
 
 Misapplication of Nature’s Gifts. 404 
 
 Mischief of Board Wages. 88 
 
 of Mothers not Nursing their Chil¬ 
 dren.246 
 
 , of Part T S P irit .125,126 
 
 Mischiefs of Party-rage in the Female Sex... 57 
 
 Misery of being in Debt. 82 
 
 Miseries of Debt and Bankruptcy..' 456 
 
 of Prostitution. 266 
 
 Mixed Wit.j 62 
 
 Mixture of the Sexes in one Person. 435 
 
 Modesty.206 
 
 Monkey recommended for the Opera.28 
 
 Motives to Cheerfulness.387 
 
 Musical Plan. 278 
 
 Negligence of Parents. 431 
 
 News-writers and Readers—Specimen of a 
 
 , Newspaper. 452 
 
 Note from Mr. Sly.. 545 
 
 Notions of the Heathens on Devotion.207 
 
 Ogling. 46 
 
 On the Abuse of Metaphors. 595 
 
 Abuses at the Royal Exchange. 509 
 
 the Absurdities of the Modern Opera. 5 
 
 the Advantages of Dancing.466 
 
 Adultery—Dogs which guarded the Tem¬ 
 ple of Yulcan. 579 
 
 Affectation—Yanity. 38 
 
 Aiming at perfection. 634 
 
 the Art of bestowing Favors.292 
 
 the Art of growing Rich. 283 
 
 asking Advice in Affairs of Love.1.. 475 
 
 Atheists in general. 389 
 
 attributing our Neighbor’s Misfortunes to 
 
 Judgment. 483 
 
 Beauties. 87 
 
 the Beauty and Loveliness of Virtue.243 
 
 Beneficence, with Examples.248 
 
 Benevolence. 601 
 
 Benevolence in official Situations.469 
 
 Bestowing Favors on the Deserving. 497 
 
 the better Regulating of Matches.308 
 
 Bills of Mortality.... 289 
 
 the Breach of Promises. 448 
 
 Calumny. 594 
 
 a Chambermaid’s perquisites.366 
 
 the Characters in the Scornful Lady.270 
 
 the Civil Constitution of Great Britain.... 287 
 
 Cleanliness. 631 
 
 a Clergyman Spoiling one of Tillotson’s 
 
 Sermons. 539 
 
 the Collusion of Gladiators. 449 
 
 Compassion. 397 
 
 Conjurers and Revealers of Dreams. 505 
 
 Conversation. 557 
 
 Dancing. 334 
 
 Death. 133 
 
 the Death of a Beloved Wife.520 
 
 Defamatory Publications.451 
 
 Delay in Marriage. 539 
 
 a Desire of knowing Future Events.604 
 
 the Desire of Pleasing. 280 
 
 Detraction among Bad Poets.253 
 
 the Dignity of Human Nature.537 
 
 Dishonest Dealing.546 
 
 Dreams—how to be improved.593 
 
 Drunkenness ... 569 
 
 Early Wickedness.352 
 
 Easiness—a Love Case. 196 
 
 the Education of Children.307 
 
 Egotism.562 
 
740 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 NO. 
 
 On Envy. 19 
 
 Epistolary Poetry.618 
 
 Eternity.590, 628 
 
 Extravagance in Story-telling. 538 
 
 the Eyes. 250 
 
 Fable. 183 
 
 Fear. 615 
 
 Female Apes.244 
 
 the frank Acknowledgment of Faults. 382 
 
 Friendship..... 68 
 
 Ghosts and Apparitions.110 
 
 giving Advice. 512 
 
 giving False Characters of Servants.493 
 
 the Glories of Heaven.580 
 
 Good-humor—the Country Infirmary.424 
 
 Good-nature, as the Effect of Constitution. 169 
 
 Great Natural Geniuses. 160 
 
 Habitual Good Intentions. 213 
 
 Henpecked Husbands.176 
 
 the Historians. 308 
 
 the Idea of the Supreme Being.531 
 
 Jealousy.170, 171 
 
 Impertinents—Whisperers. 148 
 
 Improper Pride.*. 621 
 
 y the Improvement of Genius.554 
 
 the Improvement of Sacred Music.405 
 
 Inconstancy and irresolution. 132 
 
 Infidelity. 186 
 
 the Irresistible Power of Beauty.510 
 
 the Itch of Writing.582 
 
 the little Art of making Interest with Men 
 
 in Power. 394 
 
 Living in a Particular Way. 264 
 
 Looking-glasses.325 
 
 the Love of Flattery—Translation from 
 
 Aristoenetus. 238 
 
 the Love of Praise.467 
 
 making a just Estimate of the Characters 
 
 of Mankind.564 
 
 Marriage.525 
 
 Marriage—Excessive Fondness. 490 
 
 a Merry and Serious Cast of Temper.598 
 
 Method in Writing and Conversation.476 
 
 Modesty and Assurance.373 
 
 the Mohocks—Manifesto of the Emperor.. 347 
 the Nature of Man—of the Supreme being 565 
 
 the New Stamp.445 
 
 Novelty. 626 
 
 the Number, Dispersion, and Religion of 
 
 the Jews.495 
 
 an Obsequious Behavior. 386 
 
 Oratory. 633 
 
 Outward Civilities. 259 
 
 Party Lies.507 
 
 a Passionate Temper—the Angry Booksel¬ 
 ler and Calm Customer. 438 
 
 Patrons and their Clients. 214 
 
 Persecution.516 
 
 Personal Identity. 578 
 
 Petty Ambition.570 
 
 Physiognomy. 86 
 
 Pin-money, Reflections on that Custom... 295 
 
 Pious Gratitude.453 
 
 Planting.583, 589 
 
 Pleasant Fellows.462 
 
 the Power of insignificant Objects. 485 r 
 
 Prejudice and Emulation—a Sulky Wife.. 432 
 the Price and Success of the Spectator.... 488 
 
 the Pride of Genealogy. 612 
 
 Pronunciation and Action.541 
 
 the Proper Method of Repelling Calumny 390 
 
 the Proper Use of Time.374 
 
 Propriety in Genteel Dress. 360 
 
 Public Mournings. 64 
 
 Quack Advertisements.444 
 
 NO. 
 
 On Quacks.572 
 
 Raillery.422 
 
 Raphael’s Cartoons.226, 244 
 
 Reading the Church-service. 147 
 
 Religious Faith and Practice.459 
 
 Religious Hope. 471 
 
 Religious Melancholy. 494 
 
 Reluctance to leave the World.549 
 
 Seducers. 274 
 
 Seducers and their Illicit Progeny.203 
 
 Self-love and Benevolence. 588 
 
 the Shame and Fear of Poverty.114 
 
 Singularity — the Dread and Affectation 
 
 of it. 576 
 
 Sorrow.312 
 
 the Spectator opening his Mouth.553 
 
 the Stage.370 
 
 Strained and Pompous Phrases—Specimen 617 
 the Study of Human Nature—the Passions 408 
 the Taste of a Roman and English Theat¬ 
 rical Audience. 502 
 
 Temperance. 195 
 
 Templars turning Hackney-coachmen.... 526 
 
 True and False Modesty. 358 
 
 True Liberality. 346 
 
 Vain Hopes. 535 
 
 Visions. 524 
 
 the Unaccommodating Disposition of Old 
 
 Men. 336 
 
 the Uncertainty and Absurdity of Public 
 
 Reports. 521 
 
 Vulgar Phrases—Specimen. 616 
 
 Want of Charity in the Wealthy.294 
 
 Waste of Time. 317 
 
 the Ways of Providence.237 
 
 the Whims of Lottery Adventurers.191 
 
 Witchcraft.117 
 
 Opinions on the Dispute between Count Rech- 
 
 teren and M. Mesnager.481 
 
 Opinions entertained of the Spectator in the 
 
 Country.131 
 
 Otway. 39 
 
 Paradise of Fools, a Vision.460 
 
 Parental Fondness and Expectation. 192 
 
 Passage from Milton.325 
 
 Passages from Cicero and Burnet. 146 
 
 Passion for Fame and Praise. 73 
 
 Patience, an Allegory.501 
 
 Peeper, A... 53 
 
 Petition of Anthony Title-page—of Barth.... 304 
 of John a Nokes and Tom a Styles.. 577 
 from the Readers of the Spectator.... 310 
 
 of Who and Which. 78 
 
 Pharamond and Eucrate on Duels. 97 
 
 Phoebe, a Poem. 603 
 
 Plan of an Academy.230 
 
 Pleasant Character of Charles the Second.... 462 
 
 Poem on Pious Gratitude.453 
 
 Poetical Version of Solomon’s Song, Chapter 
 
 Second.388 
 
 Poetry too often mixed with Mythology— 
 
 Edict on that Subject.523 
 
 Political Arithmetic. 200 
 
 Politics. 16 
 
 Pope’s Essay on Criticism. 253v' 
 
 Popular Superstitions. 7 
 
 Power of Bearing Calamities. 312 
 
 of Numbers..■».... 632 
 
 Preference of Wit and Sense to Honesty and 
 
 Virtue. 6 
 
 Private Life of Pharamond. 84 
 
 Marriage. 278 
 
 Proceedings "of the Infirmary for Ill-humored 
 People. 440 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Procuresses. 274 
 
 Project of the New French Political Academy 305 
 
 of a New Opera. 31 
 
 of an Office for the Regulation of Signs 28 
 Proper Ingredients of Festivity and Mirth... 358 
 
 Methods of employing Time.93, 94 
 
 Proposal for a New Club. 550 
 
 for a Newspaper of Whispers. 457 
 
 for a Repository of Fashions.478 
 
 that the Rich Sick should assist the 
 
 Poor in the Loss of Sight. 472 
 
 Public Credit, a Vision. 3 
 
 Punishment of a Voluptuous Man after Death 9( 
 
 Pursuit of Knowledge. 94 
 
 Pursuits of Avarice, Ambition, etc. 624 
 
 Qualification of a Poet. 314 
 
 Qualities necessary to make Marriage Happy 607 
 
 Quality. 219 
 
 *7 Quarrel between Will Trap and Stint.448 
 
 Questions and Cases of Love.591 
 
 in Love solved by the Love Casuist 625 
 
 on Widows answered by the Love 
 Casuist.. 614 
 
 O 
 
 Ralph Wondee’s Account of the Phantom at 
 
 Church. 503 
 
 Recommendations of Industrious Trades¬ 
 men —Matteux—Harris —Rowley—Propo¬ 
 sals for New Globes. 552 
 
 Reflections on Courage without Humanity... 350 
 
 on the Death of a Friend.133 
 
 on the Delights of Spring. 393 
 
 on Errors in Marriage. 506 
 
 on Modesty. 231 
 
 in Westminster-abbey.. 26 
 
 Rejection of an Aged Lover. 220 
 
 Remarks on Dullness. 43 
 
 on the English by the Indian kings 50 
 on Fortune-stealers—on Widows... 311 
 and Letters on French Fashions.... 277 
 
 Remedy for Loud Talkers. 228 
 
 Remonstrance of That, The. 80 
 
 Reputation...218 
 
 Resolutions to quit the World. 27 
 
 Retailers of Old Jokes... ’ 562 
 
 Rosicrucius’s Sepulcher. 379 
 
 Rules for Population. 200 
 
 of Precedency among Authors and 
 
 Actors.529 
 
 Rural Manners—Politeness. 119 
 
 Sale of Unmarried Women. 511 
 
 Salutation at Church.259 
 
 Salutations. 220 
 
 Sappho’s Hymn to Venus..* 223 
 
 Scandal.* 16 
 
 Scene in a Stage-coach between a Quaker and 
 
 an Officer. 132 
 
 Self-denial. 206 
 
 Signature Letters. 221 
 
 Simonides’ Satire on Women. 209 
 
 Simplicity of Character.* 245 
 
 Sir Andrew Freeport’s Opinion of Beggars.. 232 
 
 \ Sir Roger de Coverley at the Theater. 335 
 
 .. Sir Roger de Coverley’s Visit to Spring Gar- 
 
 dens. 383 
 
 Sir Roger’s Account of his Disappointment in 
 
 L °ve. 113 
 
 Ancestors. 109 
 
 Behavior at Church. 112 
 
 , Conduct to his Servants. 107 
 
 \ Principles. 126 
 
 Reflections on the Widow. 118 
 
 Specimen of the Familiar. 473 
 
 741 
 
 NO 
 
 Specimen of a History of the Reign of Anne I 101 
 
 Various Readings. 470 
 
 Spectator’s Account of Himself, The. 1 
 
 Club, The—Sir Roger 
 de Coverley—the Tem¬ 
 plar—Sir Andrew Free¬ 
 port—Captain Sentry 
 —Will Honeycomb— 
 
 the Clergyman. 2lV* 
 
 Letter to the Ugly Club, The. 48 
 
 Paper of Hints dropped, The. 46 
 
 Success, The; announces his Criti- 
 
 4 cism on Milton.262 
 
 Visit to Sir R. de Coverley’s Coun¬ 
 try-seat, The—the Knight’s Do¬ 
 mestic Establishment. 106 V 
 
 Speculations of Coffee-house Politicians on 
 
 the Death of the King of France. 403 
 
 Spleen, The.’ 53 
 
 St. Bride’s Charity-school.*. ' * 380 
 
 Stage Tricks to excite Pity. 44 
 
 Story of Alnaschar. 535 
 
 of Basilius Valentine and his Son.!!!! 426 
 
 of a Castilian and his Wife.. 198 
 
 of Cleanthe—On Happiness, exempli¬ 
 fied in Aurelia—Fulvia. 15 
 
 of a Dervise. 289 
 
 of Eudoxus and Leontine. !..! 123 
 
 of Fadlallah.. 
 
 of Gyges.. . 610 
 
 . 584, 585 
 
 of Hortensius and Sylvana. 342 
 
 of Moll White. 117 \,X 
 
 of Rhynsault and Sapphira.!! 481 
 
 of Spinamont. 84 
 
 Strolling Players. 48 
 
 Substitutes for Conversation. !!*.!!!! 504 
 
 Success of the Hen-pecked Husband. 216 
 
 of the Spectator. 445 
 
 of the Spectators. 525 
 
 of the Spectators with various Classes 
 of Readers, represented by the Club 34 V 
 Sunday in the Country, A. fi2 
 
 Talents Honorable only as they are Used... 
 The Author’s Address to his Correspondents— 
 
 Thesis proposed. 
 
 Answer to his Correspondents.. 
 Interview with a Lady—her Let¬ 
 ter on Proper Employment for 
 
 Beaux . 
 
 Success in producing Merito¬ 
 rious Writings. 
 
 The Best Bred Men..... 
 
 Cave of Trophonius, a Dream. 
 
 Chief Point of Honor in Men and Women 
 Intentions of a Widow respecting her 
 
 Suitors. 
 
 Manner of Courts—The Spy and the Car¬ 
 dinal . 
 
 Royal Progress, a Poem. 
 
 Whole Duty of Man turned into a Libel.. 
 
 Theory of the Passion of Laughter. 
 
 Tradesman Married to a Woman of Quality.. 
 
 Tragedy of the Distressed Mother. 
 
 and Tragi-comedy. 
 
 Transformation of Fidelia into a Looking- 
 
 glass . 
 
 Translation of Cato’s Soliloquy. 
 
 of a Chapter in Canticles. 
 
 of Greek Epigrams. 
 
 of a Lapland Love-song. 
 
 of a Lapland Song. 
 
 Transmigration of Souls. 211, 
 
 Trick of Biting. 
 
 172 
 
 442 
 
 581 
 
 536 
 
 532 
 
 53 
 
 599 
 
 99 
 
 539 
 
 439 
 
 620 
 
 568 
 
 47 
 
 308 
 
 290 
 
 40 
 
 392 
 
 628 
 
 410 
 
 551 
 
 366 
 
 406 
 
 343 
 
 504 
 
742 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 NO. 
 
 Vanity of Honors and Titles. 291 
 
 of Human Wishes. 391 
 
 of Lewis the Fourteenth’s Conquests 180 
 Various Advantages of the Spectator—Paper— 
 
 Printing. 367 
 
 Articles of Dress. 16 
 
 Dispositions of Readers. 179 
 
 Opinions of Future Happiness.600 
 
 Subjects proposed for Speculation.... 428 
 
 ways of Managing a Debate. 239 
 
 Verses on a Grotto. 632 
 
 to the Spectator.532 
 
 Version of the 114th Psalm...461 
 
 Vicissitudes of Night and Day, a Drama.... 425 
 
 Virtue of an Orange Girl. 380 
 
 Vision of Hearts.587 
 
 of Marraton. 56 
 
 of Mirza. 159 
 
 of Mount Parnassus.514 
 
 Visions of Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom.. 524 
 
 Visit to the Bear-garden.436 
 
 v to the Royal Exchange. 69 
 
 \A from Sir Roger—his Opinions.269 
 
 \ >\ with Sir Roger de Coverley to Westmin- 
 
 ster-abbey. 329 
 
 with Sir Roger to the Country Assizes.. 122 
 
 Uncertainty of Fame. 101 
 
 Undutifulness of Nephews. 402 
 
 NO. 
 
 Universality of Ambition—its Wrong Direc¬ 
 tions. 224 
 
 University Physiognomy. 518 
 
 Use and Difficulties of Periodical Papers.... 124 
 
 of Dreams. 586 
 
 to be Made of Enemies. 355 
 
 of Mottoes.221 
 
 of Proper Gestures. 407 
 
 of Similes.455 
 
 Uses of Ambition.255 
 
 of the Spectator. 10 
 
 Weight of Wisdom, and Riches—a Vision... 463 
 Will Honeycomb’s Account of the Siege of 
 
 Hersberg, and his Dream 499 
 Knowledge of the World— 
 
 Various kinds of Pedants 105 
 Notions of Female Head- / 
 
 dress. 265 
 
 Proposal of a Fair for Mar- . / 
 
 riage. 511 v 
 
 Wisdom of Providence. 121 
 
 Wit of the Monkish Ages—in Modern Times 60, 61 
 Women called Piets—no Faith to be kept with 
 them. 41 
 
 Yawning ...179 
 
 Zeal—V arious Kinds of Zealots. 185 
 
 A TABLE OF THE CONTRIBUTORS TO “THE SPECTATOR.”—635 PAPERS. 
 
 Contributors. Entire Papers. 
 
 Addison. 274 
 
 Steele...240 
 
 Budgell.. 37 
 
 Hughes. 11 ...., 
 
 Grove. 4 
 
 Pope. 2 ..... 
 
 Parnell... 2 
 
 Pearce. 2 
 
 Mart yn. 2 
 
 Byrom. 2 
 
 Letters and J^arts of Papers. 
 
 13 
 
 Swift., 
 
 Brome. 
 
 Francham. 
 Dunlop .... 
 Hardwicke 
 Fleetwood. 
 Tickell.... 
 Philips. 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 582 carried forward. 
 
 2 
 
 2 
 
 19 
 
 Contributors. Entire Papers. 
 Brought forward 582 
 Eusden ..... 
 
 Henley, John. . 
 
 Shepheard, Miss... . 
 
 Perry, Mrs.. . 
 
 Heywood. . 
 
 Watts.. .. 
 
 Weaver.......... . 
 
 Parker. . 
 
 Golding. . 
 
 Harper. . 
 
 Motteux. . 
 
 Budgell, Gilbert..' ...... 
 
 Bland.. . 
 
 Ince 
 
 Carey 
 
 Anonymous. 53 
 
 Letters and Parts of Papers. 
 
 19 
 
 . 2 
 
 .. 2 
 
 .. 2 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 .. 1 
 
 Total 83 
 
 635 
 
 35 
 
 i 
 
Applegate <& Co's New Publications. 
 
 APPLEGATE & CO. 
 
 BOOKSELLERS, 
 
 PUBLISHERS OF STANDARD WORKS, 
 
 STATIONERS,'& BLANK-BOOK MANUFACTURERS, 
 
 C I NC I N N ATI. 
 
 “ A good book is the best friend; the same to-day and forever.” 
 
 Applegate & C©. 5 in addition to a large and varied assortment of School, Classical, 
 Theological and Miscellaneous Boohs, which they have constantly on hand, publish a 
 series of * r ol uable Standard Works, suitable for the family circle, as well as public 
 libraries. 
 
 At this time, when the press teems so abundantly with ephemeral literature, the 
 thinking mind experiences a need of more substantial aliment; of something which 
 shall at the same time furnish not only enjoyment for the present, but for after thought; 
 something on which the mind shall delight to ponder in its communings with itself; 
 something, from the perusal of which one can arise a wiser, if not a better man; and 
 among their publications, they flatter themselves such books will be found. It is their 
 aim to select such works, the intrinsic worth of which will cause them to be sought 
 
 o 
 
 after by enlightened and discriminating minds, and as worthy of gracing the shelves 
 of their libraries. 
 
 Among their publications may be found the following, to which they would respect¬ 
 fully invite attention. To these it is their intention to add the best works of the 
 Standard Historical and other authors, and they trust that their selections will be 
 such as to entitle them to a liberal share of the patronage of the book-buying public. 
 
 2 
 
 ROLLINGS ANCIENT HISTORY; 2 vols, royal 8vo, sheep — spring hack. 
 
 Illustrated with Maps and Portraits. The Ancient History of the Carthaginians, 
 Assyrians, Babylonians, Medes, Persians, Grecians, and Macedonians, including a 
 History of the Arts and Sciences of the Ancients; with a Life of the Author. 
 
 This invaluable work has ever maintained the first rank of Standard Ancient History. This 
 edition is in a very handsome Library Style, and at a price that will enable all to enrich their 
 libraries with it. 
 
Applegate <& Coi’s New Publications . 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS OF THOS. DICK, LL. D.; 2 vols, royal 8vo, sheep- 
 
 spring back, marbled edges# Illustrated with numerous Engravings and a Por¬ 
 trait of the Author; comprising the following eleven works:— 
 
 An Essay on the Improvement op Society—The Philosophy of a Future State 
 —The Philosophy of Religion—The Mental Illumination and Moral Im- 
 
 PROVEMENT OF MANKIND-An ESSAY ON THE SlN AND EVILS OF COVETOUSNESS_ 
 
 The Christian Philosopher; or Science and Religion—Celestial Scenery— 
 Sidereal Heavens, Planets, &c.—The Practical Astronomer—The Solar 
 System ; its Wonders—The Atmosphere and Atmospherical Phenomena, &c. 
 
 The works of Dr. Dick are so well known and appreciated, (being such as should be in the 
 possession of every family and made the daily study of its members, old and young;, that the attempt 
 to praise them would be like gilding fine gold. 
 
 It has been the endeavor of the publishers to get up this edition in a style worthy of their merit; 
 and they flatter themselves that they have succeeded in so doing, as to paper, typography, and binding 
 of the work, neither of which can be surpassed at the East or West. 
 
 THE COMPLETE WORKS OF JOSEPHUS ; 1 vol., royal 8vo. The Writings 
 
 of Josephus are among the most valuable publications. On account of their con¬ 
 nection with sacred events, they are particularly interesting, not only to the ordinary 
 reader of the Bible, but also to the student of History. 
 
 No family, or reader of History, should be without the Works of Josephus. In the publication 
 of this edition, it has been our design so to combine cheapness and durability, as to bring it within 
 the reach of every family. 
 
 MACAULAY’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND; royal 8vo, library edition# The 
 
 History of England, from the accession of James II. By Thomas Babington 
 Macaulay. 2 vols, library edition. 
 
 No history in the English language has ever before been sought after and read with greater avidity 
 than the History of England by Macaulay, the first of living authors. It is indispensable for any 
 one who wishes to possess a reputation for ordinary intelligence, to be in a degree familiar with Old 
 England s tumultuous, and we may say, glorious history! The distinguished reputation of Macaulay 
 in the world of letters renders any commendation of his works unnecessary. There are many 
 reasons that render the present work one of peculiar interest to the American reader; not the least 
 
 of which is the manner in which Penn, Washington, and others associated with the early history of 
 our Continent, are spoken of. 
 
 CHRISTIANITY, as exemplified in the Conduct of its Sincere Professors. 
 
 By Rev. Wm. Secker. 1 vol., 12 mo. 
 
 We would recommend this book to the attention of Christians generally, as one replete with sterling 
 thought, and an admirable help to self-examination, being full of illustrations, and well calculated to 
 assist Christians in “ Redeeming the time,” and maturing their graces. 
 
 THE YOUNG LADIES’ COMPANION. 1 vol., 12mo. 
 
 “ This work is designed to occupy an important place in the Christian education of young ladies, 
 is a ompanion, alike for the study, the boudoir , and the closet. The refinement and delicacy with 
 w ich it touches on those minute details of female manners, so essential to the character of 
 woman; its judicious suggestions upon the intellectual and practical parts of education; and, 
 altogether, its healthy religious tone, commend it to those who desire to see in the hands of the 
 young temales of our country a work at once attractive and instructive.” 
 
 LYONS’S ENGLISH GRAMMAR. 
 
 This is a neat School Grammar, tastefully arranged, and admirably adapted to the convenience of 
 both teacher and pupil The science is forcibly illustrated by a great variety of examples and 
 exercises, and the style is easy, flowing, and perspicuous. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 '