CASSELL'S NATIONAL LIBRARY. 

ESSAYS AND TALES

BYJOSEPH ADDISON. 

CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_. 1888. 

Contents:

IntroductionPublic CreditHousehold SuperstitionsOpera LionsWomen and WivesThe Italian OperaLampoonsTrue and False HumourSa Ga Yean Qua Rash Tow's Impressions of LondonThe Vision of MarratonSix Papers on WitFriendshipChevy-Chase (Two Papers)A Dream of the PaintersSpare Time (Two Papers)CensureThe English LanguageThe Vision of MirzaGeniusTheodosius and ConstantiaGood NatureA Grinning MatchTrust in God

INTRODUCTION. 

The sixty-fourth volume of this Library contains those papers from the_Tatler_ which were especially associated with the imagined character ofISAAC BICKERSTAFF, who was the central figure in that series; and in thetwenty-ninth volume there is a similar collection of papers relating tothe Spectator Club and SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY, who was the central figurein Steele and Addison's _Spectator_. Those volumes contained, no doubt, some of the best Essays of Addison and Steele. But in the _Tatler_ and_Spectator_ are full armouries of the wit and wisdom of these twowriters, who summoned into life the army of the Essayists, and led it onto kindly war against the forces of Ill-temper and Ignorance. Envy, Hatred, Malice, and all their first cousins of the family ofUncharitableness, are captains under those two commanders-in-chief, andwe can little afford to dismiss from the field two of the stoutestcombatants against them. In this volume it is only Addison who speaks;and in another volume, presently to follow, there will be the voice ofSteele. 

The two friends differed in temperament and in many of the outward signsof character; but these two little books will very distinctly show howwholly they agreed as to essentials. For Addison, Literature had a charmof its own; he delighted in distinguishing the finer graces of goodstyle, and he drew from the truths of life the principles of taste inwriting. For Steele, Literature was the life itself; he loved a truebook for the soul he found in it. So he agreed with Addison in judgment. But the six papers on "Wit, " the two papers on "Chevy Chase, " containedin this volume; the eleven papers on "Imagination, " and the papers on"Paradise Lost, " which may be given in some future volume; were in a formof study for which Addison was far more apt than Steele. Thus as fellow-workers they gave a breadth to the character of _Tatler_ and _Spectator_that could have been produced by neither of them, singly. 

The reader of this volume will never suppose that the artist's pleasurein good art and in analysis of its constituents removes him from directenjoyment of the life about him; that he misses a real contact with allthe world gives that is worth his touch. Good art is but nature, studiedwith love trained to the most delicate perception; and the good criticismin which the spirit of an artist speaks is, like Addison's, calm, simple, and benign. Pope yearned to attack John Dennis, a rough critic of theday, who had attacked his "Essay on Criticism. " Addison had discourageda very small assault of words. When Dennis attacked Addison's "Cato, "Pope thought himself free to strike; but Addison took occasion toexpress, through Steele, a serious regret that he had done so. Truecriticism may be affected, as Addison's was, by some bias in the canonsof taste prevalent in the writer's time, but, as Addison's did in theChevy-Chase papers, it will dissent from prevalent misapplications ofthem, and it can never associate perception of the purest truth andbeauty with petty arrogance, nor will it so speak as to give pain. WhenWordsworth was remembering with love his mother's guidance of hischildhood, and wished to suggest that there were mothers less wise intheir ways, he was checked, he said, by the unwillingness to join thoughtof her "with any thought that looks at others' blame. " So Addison felttowards his mother Nature, in literature and in life. He attackednobody. With a light, kindly humour, that was never personal and nevercould give pain, he sought to soften the harsh lines of life, abate itsfollies, and inspire the temper that alone can overcome its wrongs. 

Politics, in which few then knew how to think calmly and recognise theworth of various opinion, Steele and Addison excluded from the pages ofthe _Spectator_. But the first paper in this volume is upon "PublicCredit, " and it did touch on the position of the country at a time whenthe shock of change caused by the Revolution of 1688-89, and also thestrain of foreign war, were being severely felt. 

H. M. 

PUBLIC CREDIT. 

 --_Quoi quisque fere studio devinctus adhaeret_ _Aut quibus i rebus multum sumus ante morati_ _Atque in quo ratione fuit contenta magis mens_, _In somnis cadem plerumque videmur obire_. 

 LUCR. , 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 greathall where the bank is kept, and was not a little pleased to see thedirectors, secretaries, and clerks, with all the other members of thatwealthy corporation, ranged in their several stations, according to theparts they act in that just and regular economy. This revived in mymemory the many discourses which I had both read and heard concerning thedecay of public credit, with the methods of restoring it; and which, inmy opinion, have always been defective, because they have always beenmade with an eye to separate interests and party principles. 

The thoughts of the day gave my mind employment for the whole night; sothat I fell insensibly into a kind of methodical dream, which disposedall my contemplations into a vision, or allegory, or what else the readershall please to call it. 

Methoughts I returned to the great hall, where I had been the morningbefore; but to my surprise, instead of the company that I left there, Isaw, towards the upper end of the hall, a beautiful virgin, seated on athrone of gold. Her name, as they told me, was Public Credit. Thewalls, instead of being adorned with pictures and maps, were hung withmany Acts of Parliament written in golden letters. At the upper end ofthe hall was the Magna Charta, with the Act of Uniformity on the righthand, and the Act of Toleration on the left. At the lower end of thehall was the Act of Settlement, which was placed full in the eye of thevirgin that sat upon the throne. Both the sides of the hall were coveredwith such Acts of Parliament as had been made for the establishment ofpublic funds. The lady seemed to set an unspeakable value upon theseseveral pieces of furniture, insomuch that she often refreshed her eyewith them, and often smiled with a secret pleasure as she looked uponthem; but, at the same time, showed a very particular uneasiness if shesaw anything approaching that might hurt them. She appeared, indeed, infinitely timorous in all her behaviour: and whether it was from thedelicacy of her constitution, or that she was troubled with vapours, as Iwas afterwards told by one who I found was none of her well-wishers, shechanged colour and startled at everything she heard. She was likewise, as I afterwards found, a greater valetudinarian than any I had ever metwith, even in her own sex, and subject to such momentary consumptions, that in the twinkling of an eye, she would fall away from the most floridcomplexion and the most healthful state of body, and wither into askeleton. Her recoveries were often as sudden as her decays, insomuchthat she would revive in a moment out of a wasting distemper, into ahabit of the highest health and vigour. 

I had very soon an opportunity of observing these quick turns and changesin her constitution. There sat at her feet a couple of secretaries, whoreceived every hour letters from all parts of the world, which the one orthe other of them was perpetually reading to her; and according to thenews she heard, to which she was exceedingly attentive, she changedcolour, and discovered many symptoms of health or sickness. 

Behind the throne was a prodigious heap of bags of money, which werepiled upon one another so high that they touched the ceiling. The flooron her right hand and on her left was covered with vast sums of gold thatrose up in pyramids on either side of her. But this I did not so muchwonder at, when I heard, upon inquiry, that she had the same virtue inher touch, which the poets tell us a Lydian king was formerly possessedof; and that she could convert whatever she pleased into that preciousmetal. 

After a little dizziness, and confused hurry of thought, which a manoften meets with in a dream, methoughts the hall was alarmed, the doorsflew open, and there entered half a dozen of the most hideous phantomsthat I had ever seen, even in a dream, before that time. They came intwo by two, though matched in the most dissociable manner, and mingledtogether in a kind of dance. It would be tedious to describe theirhabits and persons; for which reason I shall only inform my reader, thatthe first couple were Tyranny and Anarchy; the second were Bigotry andAtheism; the third, the Genius of a commonwealth and a young man of abouttwenty-two years of age, whose name I could not learn. He had a sword inhis right hand, which in the dance he often brandished at the Act ofSettlement; and a citizen, who stood by me, whispered in my ear, that hesaw a sponge in his left hand. The dance of so many jarring natures putme in mind of the sun, moon, and earth, in the _Rehearsal_, that dancedtogether for no other end but to eclipse one another. 

The reader will easily suppose, by what has been before said, that thelady on the throne would have been almost frighted to distraction, hadshe seen but any one of the spectres: what then must have been hercondition when she saw them all in a body? She fainted, and died away atthe sight. 

 _Et neque jam color est misto candore rubori_; _Nec vigor_, _et vires_, _et quae modo rise placebant_; _Nec corpus remanet_--. 

 OVID, _Met. Iii. _ 491. 

 --Her spirits faint, Her blooming cheeks assume a pallid teint, And scarce her form remains. 

There was as great a change in the hill of money-bags and the heaps ofmoney, the former shrinking and falling into so many empty bags, that Inow 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 thebags that were really filled with money, had been blown up with air, andcalled into my memory the bags full of wind, which Homer tells us hishero received as a present from AEolus. The great heaps of gold oneither side the throne now appeared to be only heaps of paper, or littlepiles of notched sticks, bound up together in bundles, like Bath faggots. 

Whilst I was lamenting this sudden desolation that had been made beforeme, the whole scene vanished. In the room of the frightful spectres, there now entered a second dance of apparitions, very agreeably matchedtogether, and made up of very amiable phantoms: the first pair wasLiberty with Monarchy at her right hand; the second was Moderationleading in Religion; and the third, a person whom I had never seen, withthe Genius of Great Britain. At the first entrance, the lady revived;the bags swelled to their former bulk; the piles of faggots and heaps ofpaper changed into pyramids of guineas: and, for my own part, I was sotransported with joy that I awaked, though I must confess I would fainhave fallen asleep again to have closed my vision, if I could have doneit. 

HOUSEHOLD SUPERSTITIONS. 

 _Somnia_, _terrores magicos_, _miracula_, _sagas_, _Nocturnos lemures_, _portentaque Thessala rides_?

 HOR. , _Ep. _ ii. 2, 208. 

 Visions and magic spells, can you despise, And laugh at witches, ghosts, and prodigies?

Going yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, I had the misfortune tofind his whole family very much dejected. Upon asking him the occasionof it, he told me that his wife had dreamt a very strange dream the nightbefore, which they were afraid portended some misfortune to themselves orto their children. At her coming into the room, I observed a settledmelancholy in her countenance, which I should have been troubled for, hadI not heard from whence it proceeded. We were no sooner sat down, but, after having looked upon me a little while, "My dear, " says she, turningto her husband, "you may now see the stranger that was in the candle lastnight. " Soon after this, as they began to talk of family affairs, alittle boy at the lower end of the table told her that he was to go intojoin-hand on Thursday. "Thursday!" says she. "No, child; if it pleaseGod, you shall not begin upon Childermas-day; tell your writing-masterthat Friday will be soon enough. " I was reflecting with myself on theoddness of her fancy, and wondering that anybody would establish it as arule, to lose a day in every week. In the midst of these my musings, shedesired me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my knife, which Idid in such a trepidation and hurry of obedience that I let it drop bythe way; at which she immediately startled, and said it fell towards her. Upon this I looked very blank; and observing the concern of the wholetable, began to consider myself, with some confusion, as a person thathad brought a disaster upon the family. The lady, however, recoveringherself after a little space, said to her husband with a sigh, "My dear, misfortunes never come single. " My friend, I found, acted but an underpart at his table; and, being a man of more good-nature thanunderstanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in with all the passionsand humours of his yoke-fellow. "Do not you remember, child, " says she, "that the pigeon-house fell the very afternoon that our careless wenchspilt the salt upon the table?"--"Yes, " says he, "my dear; and the nextpost brought us an account of the battle of Almanza. " The reader mayguess at the figure I made, after having done all this mischief. Idespatched my dinner as soon as I could, with my usual taciturnity; when, to my utter confusion, the lady seeing me quitting my knife and fork, andlaying them across one another upon my plate, desired me that I wouldhumour her so far as to take them out of that figure and place them sideby side. What the absurdity was which I had committed I did not know, but I suppose there was some traditionary superstition in it; andtherefore, in obedience to the lady of the house, I disposed of my knifeand fork in two parallel lines, which is the figure I shall always laythem 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 anaversion 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 unfortunateaspect: for which reason I took my leave immediately after dinner, andwithdrew to my own lodgings. Upon my return home, I fell into a profoundcontemplation on the evils that attend these superstitious follies ofmankind; how they subject us to imaginary afflictions, and additionalsorrows, that do not properly come within our lot. As if the naturalcalamities of life were not sufficient for it, we turn the mostindifferent circumstances into misfortunes, and suffer as much fromtrifling accidents as from real evils. I have known the shooting of astar spoil a night's rest; and have seen a man in love grow pale, andlose his appetite, upon the plucking of a merry-thought. A screech-owlat midnight has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers; nay, thevoice of a cricket hath struck more terror than the roaring of a lion. There is nothing so inconsiderable which may not appear dreadful to animagination that is filled with omens and prognostics: a rusty nail or acrooked pin shoot up into prodigies. 

I remember I was once in a mixed assembly that was full of noise andmirth, when on a sudden an old woman unluckily observed there werethirteen of us in company. This remark struck a panic terror intoseveral who were present, insomuch that one or two of the ladies weregoing to leave the room; but a friend of mine taking notice that one ofour female companions was big with child, affirmed there were fourteen inthe 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 foundthis expedient to break the omen, I question not but half the women inthe company would have fallen sick that very night. 

An old maid that is troubled with the vapours produces infinitedisturbances of this kind among her friends and neighbours. I know amaiden aunt of a great family, who is one of these antiquated Sibyls, that forebodes and prophesies from one end of the year to the other. Sheis always seeing apparitions and hearing death-watches; and was the otherday almost frighted out of her wits by the great house-dog that howled inthe stable, at a time when she lay ill of the toothache. Such anextravagant cast of mind engages multitudes of people not only inimpertinent terrors, but in supernumerary duties of life, and arises fromthat fear and ignorance which are natural to the soul of man. The horrorwith which we entertain the thoughts of death, or indeed of any futureevil, and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind withinnumerable apprehensions and suspicions, and consequently dispose it tothe observation of such groundless prodigies and predictions. For as itis the chief concern of wise men to retrench the evils of life by thereasonings of philosophy, it is the employment of fools to multiply themby the sentiments of superstition. 

For my own part, I should be very much troubled were I endowed with thisdivining quality, though it should inform me truly of everything that canbefall me. I would not anticipate the relish of any happiness, nor feelthe weight of any misery, before it actually arrives. 

I know but one way of fortifying my soul against these gloomy presagesand terrors of mind; and that is, by securing to myself the friendshipand protection of that Being who disposes of events and governs futurity. He sees, at one view, the whole thread of my existence, not only thatpart of it which I have already passed through, but that which runsforward into all the depths of eternity. When I lay me down to sleep, Irecommend myself to His care; when I awake, I give myself up to Hisdirection. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to Himfor help, and question not but He will either avert them, or turn them tomy advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the deathI am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it; because I am sure thathe knows them both, and that He will not fail to comfort and support meunder them. 

OPERA LIONS. 

 _Dic mihi_, _si fias tu leo_, _qualis eris_?

 MART. , xii. 93. 

 Were you a lion, how would you behave?

There is nothing that of late years has afforded matter of greateramusement to the town than Signior Nicolini's combat with a lion in theHaymarket, which has been very often exhibited to the generalsatisfaction of most of the nobility and gentry in the kingdom of GreatBritain. Upon the first rumour of this intended combat, it wasconfidently affirmed, and is still believed, by many in both galleries, that there would be a tame lion sent from the tower every opera night inorder to be killed by Hydaspes. This report, though altogethergroundless, so universally prevailed in the upper regions of theplayhouse, that some of the most refined politicians in those parts ofthe audience gave it out in whisper that the lion was a cousin-german ofthe tiger who made his appearance in King William's days, and that thestage would be supplied with lions at the public expense during the wholesession. Many likewise were the conjectures of the treatment which thislion was to meet with from the hands of Signior Nicolini: some supposedthat he was to subdue him in recitativo, as Orpheus used to serve thewild beasts in his time, and afterwards to knock him on the head; somefancied that the lion would not pretend to lay his paws upon the hero, byreason of the received opinion that a lion will not hurt a virgin:several who pretended to have seen the opera in Italy, had informed theirfriends that the lion was to act a part in High Dutch, and roar twice orthrice to a thorough bass before he fell at the feet of Hydaspes. Toclear up a matter that was so variously reported, I have made it mybusiness to examine whether this pretended lion is really the savage heappears to be, or only a counterfeit. 

But before I communicate my discoveries, I must acquaint the reader thatupon my walking behind the scenes last winter, as I was thinking onsomething else, I accidentally jostled against a monstrous animal thatextremely startled me, and, upon my nearer survey of it, appeared to be alion rampant. The lion, seeing me very much surprised, told me, in agentle voice, that I might come by him if I pleased; "for, " says he, "Ido not intend to hurt anybody. " I thanked him very kindly and passed byhim, and in a little time after saw him leap upon the stage and act hispart with very great applause. It has been observed by several that thelion has changed his manner of acting twice or thrice since his firstappearance, which will not seem strange when I acquaint my reader thatthe lion has been changed upon the audience three several times. Thefirst lion was a candle-snuffer, who, being a fellow of a testy, cholerictemper, overdid his part, and would not suffer himself to be killed soeasily as he ought to have done: besides, it was observed of him, that hegrew more surly every time he came out of the lion, and having droppedsome words in ordinary conversation, as if he had not fought his best, and 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 ofhis lion's skin, it was thought proper to discard him: and it is verilybelieved to this day, that, had he been brought upon the stage anothertime, he would certainly have done mischief. Besides, it was objectedagainst the first lion, that he reared himself so high upon his hinderpaws, and walked in so erect a posture, that he looked more like an oldman than a lion. 

The second lion was a tailor by trade, who belonged to the playhouse, andhad the character of a mild and peaceable man in his profession. If theformer was too furious, this was too sheepish for his part; inasmuchthat, after a short modest walk upon the stage, he would fall at thefirst touch of Hydaspes, without grappling with him, and giving him anopportunity of showing his variety of Italian trips. It is said, indeed, that he once gave him a rip in his flesh-colour doublet: but this wasonly to make work for himself in his private character of a tailor. Imust not omit that it was this second lion who treated me with so muchhumanity behind the scenes. 

The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, a country gentleman, whodoes it for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. Hesays very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he does not act for gain;that he indulges an innocent pleasure in it, and that it is better topass away an evening in this manner than in gaming and drinking: but atthe same time says, with a very agreeable raillery upon himself, that ifhis name should be known, the ill-natured world might call him "the assin the lion's skin. " This gentleman's temper is made out of such a happymixture of the mild and the choleric, that he outdoes both hispredecessors, and has drawn together greater audiences than have beenknown in the memory of man. 

I must not conclude my narrative without taking notice of a groundlessreport that has been raised to a gentleman's disadvantage, of whom I mustdeclare myself an admirer; namely, that Signior Nicolini and the lionhave been seen sitting peaceably by one another, and smoking a pipetogether behind the scenes; by which their common enemies would insinuatethat it is but a sham combat which they represent upon the stage: butupon inquiry I find, that if any such correspondence has passed betweenthem, it was not till the combat was over, when the lion was to be lookedupon as dead according to the received rules of the drama. Besides, thisis what is practised every day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is moreusual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have been tearing each otherto pieces in the court, embracing one another as soon as they are out ofit. 

I would not be thought in any part of this relation to reflect uponSignior Nicolini, who, in acting this part, only complies with thewretched taste of his audience: he knows very well that the lion has manymore admirers than himself; as they say of the famous equestrian statueon the Pont-Neuf at Paris, that more people go to see the horse than theking who sits upon it. On the contrary, it gives me a just indignationto see a person whose action gives new majesty to kings, resolution toheroes, and softness to lovers, thus sinking from the greatness of hisbehaviour, and degraded into the character of the London Prentice. Ihave often wished that our tragedians would copy after this great masterin action. Could they make the same use of their arms and legs, andinform their faces with as significant looks and passions, how gloriouswould an English tragedy appear with that action which is capable ofgiving a dignity to the forced thoughts, cold conceits, and unnaturalexpressions of an Italian opera! In the meantime, I have related thiscombat of the lion to show what are at present the reigningentertainments of the politer part of Great Britain. 

Audiences have often been reproached by writers for the coarseness oftheir taste; but our present grievance does not seem to be the want of agood taste, but of common sense. 

WOMEN AND WIVES. 

 _Parva leves capiunt animos_. --

 OVID, _Ars Am. _, i. 159. 

 Light minds are pleased with trifles. 

When I was in France, I used to gaze with great astonishment at thesplendid equipages, and party-coloured habits of that fantastic nation. Iwas one day in particular contemplating a lady that sat in a coachadorned with gilded Cupids, and finely painted with the Loves of Venusand Adonis. The coach was drawn by six milk-white horses, and loadenbehind with the same number of powdered footmen. Just before the ladywere a couple of beautiful pages, that were stuck among the harness, and, by their gay dresses and smiling features, looked like the elder brothersof the little boys that were carved and painted in every corner of thecoach. 

The lady was the unfortunate Cleanthe, who afterwards gave an occasion toa pretty melancholy novel. She had for several years received theaddresses of a gentleman, whom, after a long and intimate acquaintance, she forsook upon the account of this shining equipage, which had beenoffered to her by one of great riches but a crazy constitution. Thecircumstances in which I saw her were, it seems, the disguises only of abroken heart, and a kind of pageantry to cover distress, for in twomonths after, she was carried to her grave with the same pomp andmagnificence, being sent thither partly by the loss of one lover andpartly by the possession of another. 

I have often reflected with myself on this unaccountable humour inwomankind, of being smitten with everything that is showy andsuperficial; and on the numberless evils that befall the sex from thislight fantastical disposition. I myself remember a young lady that wasvery warmly solicited by a couple of importunate rivals, who, for severalmonths together, did all they could to recommend themselves, bycomplacency of behaviour and agreeableness of conversation. At length, when the competition was doubtful, and the lady undetermined in herchoice, one of the young lovers very luckily bethought himself of addinga supernumerary lace to his liveries, which had so good an effect that hemarried her the very week after. 

The usual conversation of ordinary women very much cherishes this naturalweakness of being taken with outside and appearance. Talk of anew-married couple, and you immediately hear whether they keep theircoach and six, or eat in plate. Mention the name of an absent lady, andit is ten to one but you learn something of her gown and petticoat. Aball is a great help to discourse, and a birthday furnishes conversationfor a twelvemonth after. A furbelow of precious stones, a hat buttonedwith a diamond, a brocade waistcoat or petticoat, are standing topics. Inshort, they consider only the drapery of the species, and never cast awaya thought on those ornaments of the mind that make persons illustrious inthemselves and useful to others. When women are thus perpetuallydazzling one another's imaginations, and filling their heads with nothingbut colours, it is no wonder that they are more attentive to thesuperficial parts of life than the solid and substantial blessings of it. A girl who has been trained up in this kind of conversation is in dangerof every embroidered coat that comes in her way. A pair of fringedgloves may be her ruin. In a word, lace and ribands, silver and goldgalloons, with the like glittering gewgaws, are so many lures to women ofweak minds or low educations, and, when artificially displayed, are ableto fetch down the most airy coquette from the wildest of her flights andrambles. 

True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise; itarises, in the first place, from the enjoyment of one's self, and, in thenext, from the friendship and conversation of a few select companions; itloves shade and solitude, 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. Onthe contrary, false happiness loves to be in a crowd, and to draw theeyes of the world upon her. She does not receive any satisfaction fromthe applauses which she gives herself, but from the admiration she raisesin others. She flourishes in courts and palaces, theatres andassemblies, and has no existence but when she is looked upon. 

Aurelia, though a woman of great quality, delights in the privacy of acountry life, and passes away a great part of her time in her own walksand gardens. Her husband, who is her bosom friend and companion in hersolitudes, has been in love with her ever since he knew her. They bothabound with good sense, consummate virtue, and a mutual esteem; and are aperpetual entertainment to one another. Their family is under so regularan economy, in its hours of devotion and repast, employment anddiversion, that it looks like a little commonwealth within itself. Theyoften go into company, that they may return with the greater delight toone another; and sometimes live in town, not to enjoy it so properly asto grow weary of it, that they may renew in themselves the relish of acountry life. By this means they are happy in each other, beloved bytheir children, adored by their servants, and are become the envy, orrather the delight, of all that know them. 

How different to this is the life of Fulvia! She considers her husbandas her steward, and looks upon discretion and good housewifery as littledomestic virtues unbecoming a woman of quality. She thinks life lost inher own family, and fancies herself out of the world when she is not inthe ring, the playhouse, or the drawing-room. She lives in a perpetualmotion of body and restlessness of thought, and is never easy in any oneplace when she thinks there is more company in another. The missing ofan opera the first night would be more afflicting to her than the deathof a child. She pities all the valuable part of her own sex, and callsevery woman of a prudent, modest, retired life, a poor-spirited, unpolished creature. What a mortification would it be to Fulvia, if sheknew that her setting herself to view is but exposing herself, and thatshe grows contemptible by being conspicuous!

I cannot conclude my paper without observing that Virgil has very finelytouched upon this female passion for dress and show, in the character ofCamilla, who, though she seems to have shaken off all the otherweaknesses of her sex, is still described as a woman in this particular. The poet tells us, that after having made a great slaughter of the enemy, she unfortunately cast her eye on a Trojan, who wore an embroideredtunic, a beautiful coat of mail, with a mantle of the finest purple. "Agolden bow, " says he, "hung upon his shoulder; his garment was buckledwith a golden clasp, and his head covered with a helmet of the sameshining metal. " The Amazon immediately singled out this well-dressedwarrior, being seized with a woman's longing for the pretty trappingsthat he was adorned with:

 --_Totumque incauta per agmen_, _Faemineo praedae et spoliorum ardebat amore_. 

 _AEn. _, xi. 781. 

 --So greedy was she bent On golden spoils, and on her prey intent. 

 DRYDEN. 

This heedless pursuit after these glittering trifles, the poet, by a niceconcealed moral, represents to have been the destruction of his femalehero. 

THE ITALIAN OPERA. 

 --_Equitis quoque jam migravit ab aure voluptas_ _Omnis ad incertos oculos_, _et gaudia vana_. 

 HOR. , _Ep. _ ii. 1, 187. 

 But now our nobles too are fops and vain, Neglect the sense, but love the painted scene. 

 CREECH. 

It is my design in this paper to deliver down to posterity a faithfulaccount of the Italian opera, and of the gradual progress which it hasmade upon the English stage; for there is no question but ourgreat-grandchildren will be very curious to know the reason why theirforefathers used to sit together like an audience of foreigners in theirown country, and to hear whole plays acted before them in a tongue whichthey did not understand. 

_Arsinoe_ was the first opera that gave us a taste of Italian music. Thegreat success this opera met with produced some attempts of formingpieces upon Italian plans, which should give a more natural andreasonable entertainment than what can be met with in the elaboratetrifles of that nation. This alarmed the poetasters and fiddlers of thetown, who were used to deal in a more ordinary kind of ware; andtherefore laid down an established rule, which is received as such tothis day, "That nothing is capable of being well set to music that is notnonsense. "

This maxim was no sooner received, but we immediately fell to translatingthe Italian operas; and as there was no great danger of hurting the senseof those extraordinary pieces, our authors would often make words oftheir own which were entirely foreign to the meaning of the passages theypretended to translate; their chief care being to make the numbers of theEnglish verse answer to those of the Italian, that both of them might goto the same tune. Thus the famous swig in Camilla:

 "_Barbara si t' intendo_, " &c. 

 "Barbarous woman, yes, I know your meaning, "

which expresses the resentments of an angry lover, was translated intothat English lamentation, "Frail are a lover's hopes, " &c. 

And it was pleasant enough to see the most refined persons of the Britishnation dying away and languishing to notes that were filled with a spiritof rage and indignation. It happened also very frequently, where thesense was rightly translated, the necessary transposition of words, whichwere drawn out of the phrase of one tongue into that of another, made themusic appear very absurd in one tongue that was very natural in theother. I remember an Italian verse that ran thus, word for word:

 "And turned my rage into pity;"

which the English for rhyme's sake translated:

 "And into pity turned my rage. "

By this means the soft notes that were adapted to pity in the Italianfell upon the word rage in the English; and the angry sounds that wereturned to rage in the original, were made to express pity in thetranslation. It oftentimes happened, likewise, that the finest notes inthe air fell upon the most insignificant words in the sentence. I haveknown the word "and" pursued through the whole gamut; have beenentertained with many a melodious "the;" and have heard the mostbeautiful graces, quavers, and divisions bestowed upon "then, " "for, " and"from, " to the eternal honour of our English particles. 

The next step to our refinement was the introducing of Italian actorsinto our opera; who sang their parts in their own language, at the sametime that our countrymen performed theirs in our native tongue. The kingor hero of the play generally spoke in Italian, and his slaves answeredhim in English. The lover frequently made his court, and gained theheart of his princess, in a language which she did not understand. Onewould have thought it very difficult to have carried on dialogues afterthis manner without an interpreter between the persons that conversedtogether; but this was the state of the English stage for about threeyears. 

At length the audience grew tired of understanding half the opera; andtherefore, to ease themselves entirely of the fatigue of thinking, haveso ordered it at present, that the whole opera is performed in an unknowntongue. We no longer understand the language of our own stage; insomuchthat I have often been afraid, when I have seen our Italian performerschattering in the vehemence of action, that they have been calling usnames, and abusing us among themselves; but I hope, since we put such anentire confidence in them, they will not talk against us before ourfaces, though they may do it with the same safety as if it were behindour backs. In the meantime, I cannot forbear thinking how naturally anhistorian who writes two or three hundred years hence, and does not knowthe taste of his wise forefathers, will make the following reflection:"In the beginning of the eighteenth century, the Italian tongue was sowell understood in England, that operas were acted on the public stage inthat language. "

One scarce knows how to be serious in the confutation of an absurditythat shows itself at the first sight. It does not want any great measureof sense to see the ridicule of this monstrous practice; but what makesit the more astonishing, it is not the taste of the rabble, but ofpersons of the greatest politeness, which has established it. 

If the Italians have a genius for music above the English, the Englishhave a genius for other performances of a much higher nature, and capableof giving the mind a much nobler entertainment. Would one think it waspossible, at a time when an author lived that was able to write the_Phaedra and Hippolitus_, for a people to be so stupidly fond of theItalian opera, as scarce to give a third day's hearing to that admirabletragedy? Music is certainly a very agreeable entertainment: but if itwould take the entire possession of our ears; if it would make usincapable of hearing sense; if it would exclude arts that have a muchgreater tendency to the refinement of human nature; I must confess Iwould allow it no better quarter than Plato has done, who banishes it outof his commonwealth. 

At present our notions of music are so very uncertain, that we do notknow what it is we like; only, in general, we are transported withanything that is not English: so it be of a foreign growth, let it beItalian, French, or High Dutch, it is the same thing. In short, ourEnglish 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 topresent his plan for a new one; and, though it be but indifferently puttogether, it may furnish several hints that may be of use to a goodarchitect. I shall take the same liberty in a following paper of givingmy opinion upon the subject of music; which I shall lay down only in aproblematical manner, to be considered by those who are masters in theart. 

LAMPOONS. 

 _Saevit atrox Volscens_, _nec teli conspicit usquam_ _Auctorem_, _nec quo se ardens immittere possit_. 

 VIRG. , _AEn. _ ix. 420. 

 Fierce Volscens 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, ungenerous spirit than thegiving of secret stabs to a man's reputation. Lampoons and satires, thatare written with wit and spirit, are like poisoned darts, which not onlyinflict a wound, but make it incurable. For this reason I am very muchtroubled when I see the talents' of humour and ridicule in the possessionof an ill-natured man. There cannot be a greater gratification to abarbarous and inhuman wit, than to stir up sorrow in the heart of aprivate person, to raise uneasiness among near relations, and to exposewhole families to derision, at the same time that he remains unseen andundiscovered. If, besides the accomplishments of being witty and ill-natured, a man is vicious into the bargain, he is one of the mostmischievous creatures that can enter into a civil society. His satirewill then chiefly fall upon those who ought to be the most exempt fromit. Virtue, merit, and everything that is praiseworthy, will be made thesubject of ridicule and buffoonery. It is impossible to enumerate theevils which arise from these arrows that fly in the dark; and I know noother excuse that is or can be made for them, than that the wounds theygive are only imaginary, and produce nothing more than a secret shame orsorrow in the mind of the suffering person. It must indeed be confessedthat a lampoon or a satire do not carry in them robbery or murder; but atthe same time, how many are there that would not rather lose aconsiderable sum of money, or even life itself, than be set up as a markof infamy and derision? And in this case a man should consider that aninjury is not to be measured by the notions of him that gives, but of himthat receives it. 

Those who can put the best countenance upon the outrages of this naturewhich are offered them, are not without their secret anguish. I haveoften observed a passage in Socrates's behaviour at his death in a lightwherein none of the critics have considered it. That excellent manentertaining his friends a little before he drank the bowl of poison, with a discourse on the immortality of the soul, at his entering upon itsays that he does not believe any the most comic genius can censure himfor talking upon such a subject at such at a time. This passage, Ithink, evidently glances upon Aristophanes, who writ a comedy on purposeto ridicule the discourses of that divine philosopher. It has beenobserved by many writers that Socrates was so little moved at this pieceof buffoonery, that he was several times present at its being acted uponthe stage, and never expressed the least resentment of it. But, withsubmission, I think the remark I have here made shows us that thisunworthy treatment made an impression upon his mind, though he had beentoo wise to discover it. 

When Julius Caesar was lampooned by Catullus, he invited him to a supper, and treated him with such a generous civility, that he made the poet hisfriend ever after. Cardinal Mazarine gave the same kind of treatment tothe learned Quillet, who had reflected upon his eminence in a famousLatin poem. The cardinal sent for him, and, after some kindexpostulations upon what he had written, assured him of his esteem, anddismissed him with a promise of the next good abbey that should fall, which he accordingly conferred upon him in a few months after. This hadso good an effect upon the author, that he dedicated the second editionof his book to the cardinal, after having expunged the passages which hadgiven him offence. 

Sextus Quintus was not of so generous and forgiving a temper. Upon hisbeing made Pope, the statue of Pasquin was one night dressed in a verydirty shirt, with an excuse written under it, that he was forced to wearfoul linen because his laundress was made a princess. This was areflection upon the Pope's sister, who, before the promotion of herbrother, was in those mean circumstances that Pasquin represented her. Asthis pasquinade made a great noise in Rome, the Pope offered aconsiderable sum of money to any person that should discover the authorof it. The author, relying upon his holiness's generosity, as also onsome private overtures which he had received from him, made the discoveryhimself; upon which the Pope gave him the reward he had promised, but, atthe same time, to disable the satirist for the future, ordered his tongueto be cut out, and both his hands to be chopped off. Aretine is tootrite an instance. Every one knows that all the kings of Europe were histributaries. Nay, there is a letter of his extant, in which he makes hisboast that he had laid the Sophi of Persia under contribution. 

Though in the various examples which I have here drawn together, theseseveral great men behaved themselves very differently towards the wits ofthe age who had reproached them, they all of them plainly showed thatthey were very sensible of their reproaches, and consequently that theyreceived them as very great injuries. For my own part, I would nevertrust a man that I thought was capable of giving these secret wounds; andcannot but think that he would hurt the person, whose reputation he thusassaults, in his body or in his fortune, could he do it with the samesecurity. There is indeed something very barbarous and inhuman in theordinary scribblers of lampoons. An innocent young lady shall be exposedfor an unhappy feature; a father of a family turned to ridicule for somedomestic calamity; a wife be made uneasy all her life for amisinterpreted word or action; nay, a good, a temperate, and a just manshall be put out of countenance by the representation of those qualitiesthat should do him honour; so pernicious a thing is wit when it is nottempered with virtue and humanity. 

I have indeed heard of heedless, inconsiderate writers that, without anymalice, have sacrificed the reputation of their friends and acquaintanceto a certain levity of temper, and a silly ambition of distinguishingthemselves by a spirit of raillery and satire; as if it were notinfinitely more honourable to be a good-natured man than a wit. Wherethere is this little petulant humour in an author, he is often verymischievous without designing to be so. For which reason I always lay itdown as a rule that an indiscreet man is more hurtful than an ill-naturedone; for as the one will only attack his enemies, and those he wishes illto, the other injures indifferently both friends and foes. I cannotforbear, on this occasion, transcribing a fable out of Sir RogerL'Estrange, which accidentally lies before me. A company of waggish boyswere watching of frogs at the side of a pond, and still as any of themput up their heads, they would be pelting them down again with stones. "Children, " says one of the frogs, "you never consider that though thisbe play to you, 'tis death to us. "

As this week is in a manner set apart and dedicated to serious thoughts, I shall indulge myself in such speculations as may not be altogetherunsuitable to the season; and in the meantime, as the settling inourselves a charitable frame of mind is a work very proper for the time, I have in this paper endeavoured to expose that particular breach ofcharity which has been generally overlooked by divines, because they arebut few who can be guilty of it. 

TRUE AND FALSE HUMOUR. 

 --_Risu inepto res ineptior nulla est_. 

 CATULL. , _Carm. _ 39 _in Egnat_. 

 Nothing so foolish as the laugh of fools. 

Among all kinds of writing, there is none in which authors are more aptto miscarry than in works of humour, as there is none in which they aremore ambitious to excel. It is not an imagination that teems withmonsters, a head that is filled with extravagant conceptions, which iscapable of furnishing the world with diversions of this nature; and yet, if we look into the productions of several writers, who set up for men ofhumour, what wild, irregular fancies, what unnatural distortions ofthought do we meet with? If they speak nonsense, they believe they aretalking humour; and when they have drawn together a scheme of absurd, inconsistent ideas, they are not able to read it over to themselveswithout laughing. These poor gentlemen endeavour to gain themselves thereputation of wits and humorists, by such monstrous conceits as almostqualify them for Bedlam; not considering that humour should always lieunder the check of reason, and that it requires the direction of thenicest judgment, by so much the more as it indulges itself in the mostboundless freedoms. There is a kind of nature that is to be observed inthis sort of compositions, as well as in all other; and a certainregularity of thought which must discover the writer to be a man ofsense, at the same time that he appears altogether given up to caprice. For my part, when I read the delirious mirth of an unskilful author, Icannot be so barbarous as to divert myself with it, but am rather apt topity the man, than to laugh at anything he writes. 

The deceased Mr. Shadwell, who had himself a great deal of the talentwhich I am treating of, represents an empty rake, in one of his plays, asvery much surprised to hear one say that breaking of windows was nothumour; and I question not but several English readers will be as muchstartled to hear me affirm, that many of those raving, incoherent pieces, which are often spread among us, under odd chimerical titles, are ratherthe offsprings of a distempered brain than works of humour. 

It is, indeed, much easier to describe what is not humour than what is;and very difficult to define it otherwise than as Cowley has done wit, bynegatives. Were I to give my own notions of it, I would deliver themafter Plato's manner, in a kind of allegory, and, by supposing Humour tobe a person, deduce to him all his qualifications, according to thefollowing genealogy. Truth was the founder of the family, and the fatherof Good Sense. Good Sense was the father of Wit, who married a lady of acollateral line called Mirth, by whom he had issue Humour. Humourtherefore being the youngest of this illustrious family, and descendedfrom parents of such different dispositions, is very various and unequalin his temper; sometimes you see him putting on grave looks and a solemnhabit, sometimes airy in his behaviour and fantastic in his dress;insomuch that at different times he appears as serious as a judge, and asjocular as a merry-andrew. But, as he has a great deal of the mother inhis constitution, whatever mood he is in, he never fails to make hiscompany laugh. 

But since there is an impostor abroad, who takes upon him the name ofthis young gentleman, and would willingly pass for him in the world; tothe end that well-meaning persons may not be imposed upon by cheats, Iwould desire my readers, when they meet with this pretender, to look intohis parentage, and to examine him strictly, whether or no he be remotelyallied to Truth, and lineally descended from Good Sense; if not, they mayconclude him a counterfeit. They may likewise distinguish him by a loudand excessive laughter, in which he seldom gets his company to join withhim. For as True Humour generally looks serious while everybody laughsabout him, False Humour is always laughing whilst everybody about himlooks serious. I shall only add, if he has not in him a mixture of bothparents--that is, if he would pass for the offspring of Wit withoutMirth, or Mirth without Wit, you may conclude him to be altogetherspurious 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 calledPhrensy, who married one of the daughters of Folly, commonly known by thename of Laughter, on whom he begot that monstrous infant of which I havebeen here speaking. I shall set down at length the genealogical table ofFalse Humour, and, at the same time, place under it the genealogy of TrueHumour, that the reader may at one view behold their different pedigreesand relations:--

Falsehood. Nonsense. Phrensy. --Laughter. False Humour. 

Truth. Good Sense. Wit. --Mirth, Humour. 

I might extend the allegory, by mentioning several of the children ofFalse Humour, who are more in number than the sands of the sea, and mightin particular enumerate the many sons and daughters which he has begot inthis island. But as this would be a very invidious task, I shall onlyobserve in general that False Humour differs from the True as a monkeydoes from a man. 

First of all, he is exceedingly given to little apish tricks andbuffooneries. 

Secondly, he so much delights in mimicry, that it is all one to himwhether he exposes by it vice and folly, luxury and avarice; or, on thecontrary, virtue and wisdom, pain and poverty. 

Thirdly, he is wonderfully unlucky, insomuch that he will bite the handthat feeds him, and endeavour to ridicule both friends and foesindifferently. For, having but small talents, he must be merry where hecan, not where he should. 

Fourthly, Being entirely void of reason, he pursues no point either ofmorality or instruction, but is ludicrous only for the sake of being so. 

Fifthly, Being incapable of anything but mock representations, hisridicule is always personal, and aimed at the vicious man, or the writer;not at the vice, or at the writing. 

I have here only pointed at the whole species of false humorists; but, asone of my principal designs in this paper is to beat down that malignantspirit which discovers itself in the writings of the present age, I shallnot scruple, for the future, to single out any of the small wits thatinfest the world with such compositions as are ill-natured, immoral, andabsurd. This is the only exception which I shall make to the generalrule I have prescribed myself, of attacking multitudes; since everyhonest man ought to look upon himself as in a natural state of war withthe libeller and lampooner, and to annoy them wherever they fall in hisway. This is but retaliating upon them, and treating them as they treatothers. 

SA GA YEAN QUA RASH TOW'S IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON. 

 _Nunquam aliud natura_, _aliud sapientia dicit_. 

 JUV. , _Sat. _ xiv. 321. 

 Good taste and nature always speak the same. 

When the four Indian kings were in this country about a twelvemonth ago, I often mixed with the rabble, and followed them a whole day together, being wonderfully struck with the sight of everything that is new oruncommon. I have, since their departure, employed a friend to make manyinquiries of their landlord the upholsterer relating to their manners andconversation, as also concerning the remarks which they made in thiscountry; for next to the forming a right notion of such strangers, Ishould be desirous of learning what ideas they have conceived of us. 

The upholsterer finding my friend very inquisitive about these hislodgers, brought him sometime since a little bundle of papers, which heassured him were written by King Sa Ga Yean Qua Rash Tow, and, as hesupposes, left behind by some mistake. These papers are now translated, and contain abundance of very odd observations, which I find this littlefraternity of kings made during their stay in the Isle of Great Britain. I shall present my reader with a short specimen of them in this paper, and may perhaps communicate more to him hereafter. In the article ofLondon are the following words, which without doubt are meant of thechurch of St. Paul:--

"On the most rising part of the town there stands a huge house, bigenough to contain the whole nation of which I am the king. Our goodbrother E Tow O Koam, King of the Rivers, is of opinion it was made bythe hands of that great God to whom it is consecrated. The Kings ofGranajar and of the Six Nations believe that it was created with theearth, and produced on the same day with the sun and moon. But for myown part, by the best information that I could get of this matter, I amapt to think that this prodigious pile was fashioned into the shape itnow bears by several tools and instruments, of which they have awonderful variety in this country. It was probably at first a hugemisshapen rock that grew upon the top of the hill, which the natives ofthe country, after having cut into a kind of regular figure, bored andhollowed with incredible pains and industry, till they had wrought in itall those beautiful vaults and caverns into which it is divided at thisday. As soon as this rock was thus curiously scooped to their liking, aprodigious number of hands must have been employed in chipping theoutside of it, which is now as smooth as the surface of a pebble; and isin several places hewn out into pillars that stand like the trunks of somany trees bound about the top with garlands of leaves. It is probablethat when this great work was begun, which must have been many hundredyears ago, there was some religion among this people; for they give itthe name of a temple, and have a tradition that it was designed for mento pay their devotion in. And indeed, there are several reasons whichmake us think that the natives of this country had formerly among themsome sort of worship, for they set apart every seventh day as sacred; butupon my going into one of these holy houses on that day, I could notobserve any circumstance of devotion in their behaviour. There was, indeed, a man in black, who was mounted above the rest, and seemed toutter some thing with a great deal of vehemence; but as for thoseunderneath him, instead of paying their worship to the deity of theplace, they were most of them bowing and curtsying to one another, and aconsiderable number of them fast asleep. 

"The queen of the country appointed two men to attend us, that had enoughof our language to make themselves understood in some few particulars. But we soon perceived these two were great enemies to one another, anddid not always agree in the same story. We could make a shift to gatherout of one of them that this island was very much infested with amonstrous kind of animals, in the shape of men, called Whigs; and heoften 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 calleda Tory, that was as great a monster as the Whig, and would treat us asill for being foreigners. These two creatures, it seems, are born with asecret antipathy to one another, and engage when they meet as naturallyas the elephant and the rhinoceros. But as we saw none of either ofthese species, we are apt to think that our guides deceived us withmisrepresentations and fictions, and amused us with an account of suchmonsters as are not really in their country. 

"These particulars we made a shift to pick out from the discourse of ourinterpreters, which we put together as well as we could, being able tounderstand but here and there a word of what they said, and afterwardsmaking up the meaning of it among ourselves. The men of the country arevery cunning and ingenious in handicraft works, but withal so very idle, that we often saw young, lusty, raw-boned fellows carried up and down thestreets in little covered rooms by a couple of porters, who were hiredfor that service. Their dress is likewise very barbarous, for theyalmost strangle themselves about the neck, and bind their bodies withmany ligatures, that we are apt to think are the occasion of severaldistempers among them, which our country is entirely free from. Insteadof those beautiful feathers with which we adorn our heads, they often buyup a monstrous bush of hair, which covers their heads, and falls down ina large fleece below the middle of their backs, with which they walk upand down the streets, and are as proud of it as if it was of their owngrowth. 

"We were invited to one of their public diversions, where we hoped tohave seen the great men of their country running down a stag, or pitchinga bar, that we might have discovered who were the persons of the greatestabilities among them; but instead of that, they conveyed us into a hugeroom lighted up with abundance of candles, where this lazy people satstill above three hours to see several feats of ingenuity performed byothers, who it seems were paid for it. 

"As for the women of the country, not being able to talk with them, wecould only make our remarks upon them at a distance. They let the hairof their heads grow to a great length; but as the men make a great showwith heads of hair that are none of their own, the women, who they sayhave very fine heads of hair, tie it up in a knot, and cover it frombeing seen. The women look like angels, and would be more beautiful thanthe sun, were it not for little black spots that are apt to break out intheir faces, and sometimes rise in very odd figures. I have observedthat those little blemishes wear off very soon; but when they disappearin 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 whichwas upon the chin in the morning. "

The author then proceeds to show the absurdity of breeches andpetticoats, with many other curious observations, which I shall reservefor another occasion: I cannot, however, conclude this paper withouttaking notice that amidst these wild remarks there now and then appearssomething very reasonable. I cannot likewise forbear observing, that weare all guilty in some measure of the same narrow way of thinking whichwe meet with in this abstract of the Indian journal, when we fancy thecustoms, dresses, and manners of other countries are ridiculous andextravagant if they do not resemble those of our own. 

THE VISION OF MARRATON. 

 _Felices errore suo_. --

 LUCAN i. 454. 

 Happy in their mistake. 

The Americans believe that all creatures have souls, not only men andwomen, but brutes, vegetables, nay, even the most inanimate things, asstocks and stones. They believe the same of all works of art, as ofknives, boats, looking-glasses; and that, as any of these things perish, their souls go into another world, which is inhabited by the ghosts ofmen and women. For this reason they always place by the corpse of theirdead friend a bow and arrows, that he may make use of the souls of themin the other world, as he did of their wooden bodies in this. How absurdsoever such an opinion as this may appear, our European philosophers havemaintained several notions altogether as improbable. Some of Plato'sfollowers, in particular, when they talk of the world of ideas, entertainus with substances and beings no less extravagant and chimerical. ManyAristotelians have likewise spoken as unintelligibly of their substantialforms. I shall only instance Albertus Magnus, who, in his dissertationupon the loadstone, observing that fire will destroy its magneticvirtues, tells us that he took particular notice of one as it lay glowingamidst a heap of burning coals, and that he perceived a certain bluevapour to arise from it, which he believed might be the substantial formthat is, in our West Indian phrase, the soul of the loadstone. 

There is a tradition among the Americans that one of their countrymendescended in a vision to the great repository of souls, or, as we call ithere, to the other world; and that upon his return he gave his friends adistinct account of everything he saw among those regions of the dead. Afriend of mine, whom I have formerly mentioned, prevailed upon one of theinterpreters of the Indian kings to inquire of them, if possible, whattradition they have among them of this matter: which, as well as he couldlearn by those many questions which he asked them at several times, wasin substance as follows:

The visionary, whose name was Marraton, after having travelled for a longspace under a hollow mountain, arrived at length on the confines of thisworld of spirits, but could not enter it by reason of a thick forest, made up of bushes, brambles, and pointed thorns, so perplexed andinterwoven with one another that it was impossible to find a passagethrough it. Whilst he was looking about for some track or pathway thatmight be worn in any part of it, he saw a huge lion couched under theside of it, who kept his eye upon him in the same posture as when hewatches for his prey. The Indian immediately started back, whilst thelion rose with a spring, and leaped towards him. Being wholly destituteof all other weapons, he stooped down to take up a huge stone in hishand, but, to his infinite surprise, grasped nothing, and found thesupposed stone to be only the apparition of one. If he was disappointedon this side, he was as much pleased on the other, when he found thelion, 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 of his impotent enemy, but he marched up to thewood, and, after having surveyed it for some time, endeavoured to pressinto one part of it that was a little thinner than the rest, when, againto his great surprise, he found the bushes made no resistance, but thathe walked through briars and brambles with the same ease as through theopen air, and, in short, that the whole wood was nothing else but a woodof shades. He immediately concluded that this huge thicket of thorns andbrakes was designed as a kind of fence or quickset hedge to the ghosts itinclosed, and that probably their soft substances might be torn by thesesubtile points and prickles, which were too weak to make any impressionsin flesh and blood. With this thought he resolved to travel through thisintricate wood, when by degrees he felt a gale of perfumes breathing uponhim, that grew stronger and sweeter in proportion as he advanced. He hadnot proceeded much further, when he observed the thorns and briers toend, and give place to a thousand beautiful green trees, covered withblossoms of the finest scents and colours, that formed a wilderness ofsweets, and were a kind of lining to those ragged scenes which he hadbefore passed through. As he was coming out of this delightful part ofthe wood, and entering upon the plains it enclosed, he saw severalhorsemen rushing by him, and a little while after heard the cry of a packof 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 fullstretch after the souls of about a hundred beagles, that were huntingdown the ghost of a hare, which ran away before them with an unspeakableswiftness. As the man on the milk-white steed came by him, he lookedupon him very attentively, and found him to be the young princeNicharagua, who died about half a year before, and, by reason of hisgreat virtues, was at that time lamented over all the western parts ofAmerica. 

He had no sooner got out of the wood but he was entertained with such alandscape of flowery plains, green meadows, running streams, sunny hills, and shady vales as were not to be represented by his own expressions, nor, as he said, by the conceptions of others. This happy region waspeopled with innumerable swarms of spirits, who applied themselves toexercises and diversions, according as their fancies led them. Some ofthem were tossing the figure of a quoit; others were pitching the shadowof a bar; others were breaking the apparition of a horse; and multitudesemploying themselves upon ingenious handicrafts with the souls ofdeparted utensils, for that is the name which in the Indian language theygive their tools when they are burnt or broken. As he travelled throughthis delightful scene he was very often tempted to pluck the flowers thatrose everywhere about him in the greatest variety and profusion, havingnever seen several of them in his own country: but he quickly found, thatthough they were 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 goodfisherman himself, stood upon the banks of it some time to look upon anangler that had taken a great many shapes of fishes, which lay flouncingup and down by him. 

I should have told my reader that this Indian had been formerly marriedto one of the greatest beauties of his country, by whom he had severalchildren. This couple were so famous for their love and constancy to oneanother that the Indians to this day, when they give a married man joy ofhis wife, wish that they may live together like Marraton and Yaratilda. Marraton had not stood long by the fisherman when he saw the shadow ofhis beloved Yaratilda, who had for some time fixed her eye upon himbefore he discovered her. Her arms were stretched out towards him;floods of tears ran down her eyes; her looks, her hands, her voice calledhim over to her, and, at the same time, seemed to tell him that the riverwas unpassable. Who can describe the passion made up of joy, sorrow, love, desire, astonishment that rose in the Indian upon the sight of hisdear Yaratilda? He could express it by nothing but his tears, which ranlike a river down his cheeks as he looked upon her. He had not stood inthis 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 thebottom of it till he arose on the other side. At his approach Yaratildaflew into his arms, whilst Marraton wished himself disencumbered of thatbody which kept her from his embraces. After many questions andendearments on both sides, she conducted him to a bower, which she haddressed with her own hands with all the ornaments that could be met within those blooming regions. She had made it gay beyond imagination, andwas every day adding something new to it. As Marraton stood astonishedat the unspeakable beauty of her habitation, and ravished with thefragrancy that came from every part of it, Yaratilda told him that shewas preparing this bower for his reception, as well knowing that hispiety to his God, and his faithful dealing towards men, would certainlybring him to that happy place whenever his life should be at an end. Shethen brought two of her children to him, who died some years before, andresided with her in the same delightful bower, advising him to breed upthose others which were still with him in such a manner that they mighthereafter all of them meet together in this happy place. 

The tradition tells us further that he had afterwards a sight of thosedismal habitations which are the portion of ill men after death; andmentions several molten seas of gold, in which were plunged the souls ofbarbarous Europeans, who put to the sword so many thousands of poorIndians for the sake of that precious metal. But having already touchedupon the chief points of this tradition, and exceeded the measure of mypaper, I shall not give any further account of it. 

SIX PAPERS ON WIT. 

First Paper. 

 _Ut pictura poesis erit_--

 HOR. , _Ars Poet. _ 361. 

 Poems like pictures are. 

Nothing is so much admired, and so little understood, as wit. No authorthat I know of has written professedly upon it. As for those who makeany mention of it, they only treat on the subject as it has accidentallyfallen in their way, and that too in little short reflections, or ingeneral declamatory flourishes, without entering into the bottom of thematter. I hope, therefore, I shall perform an acceptable work to mycountrymen if I treat at large upon this subject; which I shall endeavourto do in a manner suitable to it, that I may not incur the censure whicha famous critic bestows upon one who had written a treatise upon "thesublime, " in a low grovelling style. I intend to lay aside a whole weekfor this undertaking, that the scheme of my thoughts may not be brokenand interrupted; and I dare promise myself, if my readers will give me aweek's attention, that this great city will be very much changed for thebetter by next Saturday night. I shall endeavour to make what I sayintelligible to ordinary capacities; but if my readers meet with anypaper that in some parts of it may be a little out of their reach, Iwould not have them discouraged, for they may assure themselves the nextshall be much clearer. 

As the great and only end of these my speculations is to banish vice andignorance out of the territories of Great Britain, I shall endeavour, asmuch as possible, to establish among us a taste of polite writing. It iswith this view that I have endeavoured to set my readers right in severalpoints relating to operas and tragedies, and shall, from time to time, impart my notions of comedy, as I think they may tend to its refinementand perfection. I find by my bookseller, that these papers of criticism, with that upon humour, have met with a more kind reception than indeed Icould have hoped for from such subjects; for which reason I shall enterupon my present undertaking with greater cheerfulness. 

In this, and one or two following papers, I shall trace out the historyof false wit, and distinguish the several kinds of it as they haveprevailed in different ages of the world. This I think the morenecessary at present, because I observed there were attempts on foot lastwinter to revive some of those antiquated modes of wit that have beenlong exploded out of the commonwealth of letters. There were severalsatires and panegyrics handed about in an acrostic, by which means someof the most arrant undisputed blockheads about the town began toentertain ambitious thoughts, and to set up for polite authors. I shalltherefore describe at length those many arts of false wit, in which awriter does not show himself a man of a beautiful genius, but of greatindustry. 

The first species of false wit which I have met with is very venerablefor its antiquity, and has produced several pieces which have lived verynear as long as the "Iliad" itself: I mean, those short poems printedamong the minor Greek poets, which resemble the figure of an egg, a pairof wings, an axe, a shepherd's pipe, and an altar. 

As for the first, it is a little oval poem, and may not improperly becalled a scholar's egg. I would endeavour to hatch it, or, in moreintelligible language, to translate it into English, did not I find theinterpretation of it very difficult; for the author seems to have beenmore intent upon the figure of his poem than upon the sense of it. 

The pair of wings consists of twelve verses, or rather feathers, everyverse decreasing gradually in its measure according to its situation inthe wing. 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 oflove, who is always painted with wings. 

The axe, methinks, would have been a good figure for a lampoon, had theedge of it consisted of the most satirical parts of the work; but as itis in the original, I take it to have been nothing else but the poesy ofan axe which was consecrated to Minerva, and was thought to be the samethat Epeus made use of in the building of the Trojan horse; which is ahint I shall leave to the consideration of the critics. I am apt tothink that the poesy was written originally upon the axe, like thosewhich our modern cutlers inscribe upon their knives; and that, therefore, the poesy still remains in its ancient shape, though the axe itself islost. 

The shepherd's pipe may be said to be full of music, for it is composedof nine different kinds of verses, which by their several lengthsresemble the nine stops of the old musical instrument, that is likewisethe subject of the poem. 

The altar is inscribed with the epitaph of Troilus the son of Hecuba;which, by the way, makes me believe that these false pieces of wit aremuch more ancient than the authors to whom they are generally ascribed;at least, I will never be persuaded that so fine a writer as Theocrituscould have been the author of any such simple works. 

It was impossible for a man to succeed in these performances who was nota kind of painter, or at least a designer. He was first of all to drawthe outline of the subject which he intended to write upon, andafterwards conform the description to the figure of his subject. Thepoetry was to contract or dilate itself according to the mould in whichit was cast. In a word, the verses were to be cramped or extended to thedimensions of the frame that was prepared for them; and to undergo thefate of those persons whom the tyrant Procrustes used to lodge in hisiron bed: if they were too short, he stretched them on a rack; and ifthey were too long, chopped off a part of their legs, till they fittedthe couch which he had prepared for them. 

Mr. Dryden hints at this obsolete kind of wit in one of the followingverses in his "Mac Flecknoe;" which an English reader cannot understand, who does not know that there are those little poems above mentioned inthe 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 amnot mistaken, in the translation of Du Bartas. I do not remember anyother kind of work among the moderns which more resembles theperformances I have mentioned than that famous picture of King Charlesthe First, which has the whole Book of Psalms written in the lines of theface, and, the hair of the head. When I was last at Oxford I perused oneof the whiskers, and was reading the other, but could not go so far in itas I would have done, by reason of the impatience of my friends andfellow-travellers, who all of them pressed to see such a piece ofcuriosity. I have since heard, that there is now an eminentwriting-master in town, who has transcribed all the Old Testament in afull-bottomed periwig: and if the fashion should introduce the thick kindof wigs which were in vogue some few years ago, he promises to add two orthree supernumerary locks that should contain all the Apocrypha. Hedesigned this wig originally for King William, having disposed of the twoBooks of Kings in the two forks of the foretop; but that glorious monarchdying before the wig was finished, there is a space left in it for theface 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 wouldimitate their brethren among the ancients in those ingenious devices. Ihave communicated this thought to a young poetical lover of myacquaintance, who intends to present his mistress with a copy of versesmade in the shape of her fan; and, if he tells me true, has alreadyfinished the three first sticks of it. He has likewise promised me toget the measure of his mistress's marriage finger with a design to make aposy in the fashion of a ring, which shall exactly fit it. It is so veryeasy to enlarge upon a good hint, that I do not question but my ingeniousreaders will apply what I have said to many other particulars; and thatwe shall see the town filled in a very little time with poetical tippets, handkerchiefs, snuff-boxes, and the like female ornaments. I shalltherefore conclude with a word of advice to those admirable Englishauthors who call themselves Pindaric writers, that they would applythemselves to this kind of wit without loss of time, as being providedbetter than any other poets with verses of all sizes and dimensions. 

Second Paper. 

 _Operose nihil aguat_. 

 SENECA. 

 Busy about nothing. 

There is nothing more certain than that every man would be a wit if hecould; and notwithstanding pedants of pretended depth and solidity areapt to decry the writings of a polite author, as flash and froth, theyall of them show, upon occasion, that they would spare no pains to arriveat the character of those whom they seem to despise. For this reason weoften find them endeavouring at works of fancy, which cost them infinitepangs in the production. The truth of it is, a man had better be agalley-slave than a wit, were one to gain that title by those elaboratetrifles which have been the inventions of such authors as were oftenmasters 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 shallproduce are the lipogrammatists or letter-droppers of antiquity, thatwould take an exception, without any reason, against some particularletter in the alphabet, so as not to admit it once into a whole poem. OneTryphiodorus 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 his firstbook, which was called Alpha, as _lucus a non lucendo_, because there wasnot an Alpha in it. His second book was inscribed Beta for the samereason. In short, the poet excluded the whole four-and-twenty letters intheir turns, and showed them, one after another, that he could do hisbusiness without them. 

It must have been very pleasant to have seen this poet avoiding thereprobate letter, as much as another would a false quantity, and makinghis escape from it through the several Greek dialects, when he waspressed with it in any particular syllable. For the most apt and elegantword in the whole language was rejected, like a diamond with a flaw init, if it appeared blemished with a wrong letter. I shall only observeupon this head, that if the work I have here mentioned had been nowextant, the "Odyssey" of Tryphiodorus, in all probability, would havebeen oftener quoted by our learned pedants than the "Odyssey" of Homer. What a perpetual fund would it have been of obsolete words and phrases, unusual barbarisms and rusticities, absurd spellings and complicateddialects! I make no question but that it would have been looked upon asone of the most valuable treasuries of the Greek tongue. 

I find likewise among the ancients that ingenious kind of conceit whichthe moderns distinguish by the name of a rebus, that does not sink aletter, but a whole word, by substituting a picture in its place. WhenCaesar was one of the masters of the Roman mint, he placed the figure ofan elephant upon the reverse of the public money; the word Caesarsignifying an elephant in the Punic language. This was artificiallycontrived by Caesar, because it was not lawful for a private man to stamphis own figure upon the coin of the commonwealth. Cicero, who was socalled from the founder of his family, that was marked on the nose with alittle wen like a vetch, which is _Cicer_ in Latin, instead of MarcusTullius Cicero, ordered the words Marcus Tullius, with a figure of avetch at the end of them, to be inscribed on a public monument. This wasdone probably to show that he was neither ashamed of his name nor family, notwithstanding the envy of his competitors had often reproached him withboth. In the same manner we read of a famous building that was marked inseveral parts of it with the figures of a frog and a lizard; those wordsin Greek having been the names of the architects, who by the laws oftheir country were never permitted to inscribe their own names upon theirworks. For the same reason it is thought that the forelock of the horse, in the antique equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius, represents at adistance the shape of an owl, to intimate the country of the statuary, who, in all probability, was an Athenian. This kind of wit was very muchin vogue among our own countrymen about an age or two ago, who did notpractise it for any oblique reason, as the ancients above-mentioned, butpurely for the sake of being witty. Among innumerable instances that maybe given of this nature, I shall produce the device of one Mr. Newberry, as I find it mentioned by our learned Camden in his Remains. Mr. Newberry, to represent his name by a picture, hung up at his door thesign of a yew-tree, that has several berries upon it, and in the midst ofthem a great golden N hung upon a bough of the tree, which by the help ofa little false spelling made up the word Newberry. 

I shall conclude this topic with a rebus, which has been lately hewn outin freestone, and erected over two of the portals of Blenheim House, being the figure of a monstrous lion tearing to pieces a little cock. Forthe better understanding of which device I must acquaint my Englishreader that a cock has the misfortune to be called in Latin by the sameword that signifies a Frenchman, as a lion is the emblem of the Englishnation. Such a device in so noble a pile of building looks like a pun inan heroic poem; and I am very sorry the truly ingenious architect wouldsuffer the statuary to blemish his excellent plan with so poor a conceit. But I hope what I have said will gain quarter for the cock, and deliverhim out of the lion's paw. 

I find likewise in ancient times the conceit of making an echo talksensibly, and give rational answers. If this could be excusable in anywriter, it would be in Ovid where he introduces the Echo as a nymph, before she was worn away into nothing but a voice. The learned Erasmus, though a man of wit and genius, has composed a dialogue upon this sillykind of device, and made use of an Echo, who seems to have been a veryextraordinary linguist, for she answers the person she talks with inLatin, Greek, and Hebrew, according as she found the syllables which shewas to repeat in any of those learned languages. Hudibras, in ridiculeof this false kind of wit, has described Bruin bewailing the loss of hisbear to the solitary Echo, who is of great use to the poet in severaldistiches, as she does not only repeat after him, but helps out hisverse, and furnishes him with rhymes:--

 He raged, and kept as heavy a coil as Stout Hercules for loss of Hylas; Forcing the valleys to repeat The accents of his sad regret; He beat his breast, and tore his hair, For loss of his dear crony bear: That Echo from the hollow ground His doleful wailings did resound 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, "O 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 rattled, and this head So often in thy quarrel bled? Nor did I ever winch or grudge it, For thy dear sake. " Quoth she, _Mum budget_. Think'st thou 'twill not be laid i' th' dish, Thou turn'dst 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 hadst no thought of me, Nor what I have endured for thee, Yet shame and honour might prevail To keep thee thus from turning tail: For who would grudge to spend his blood in His honour's cause?" Quoth she, _A pudding_. 

 _Part_ I. , _Cant. _ 3, 183. 

Third Paper. 

 _Hoc est quod palles_? _Cur quis non prandeat_, _hoc est_?

 PERS. , _Sat. _ iii. 85. 

 Is it for this you gain those meagre looks, And sacrifice your dinner to your books?

Several kinds of false wit that vanished in the refined ages of theworld, discovered themselves again in the times of monkish ignorance. 

As the monks were the masters of all that little learning which was thenextant, and had their whole lives entirely disengaged from business, itis no wonder that several of them, who wanted genius for higherperformances, employed many hours in the composition of such tricks inwriting as required much time and little capacity. I have seen half the"AEneid" turned into Latin rhymes by one of the _beaux esprits_ of thatdark age: who says, in his preface to it, that the "AEneid" wantednothing but the sweets of rhyme to make it the most perfect work in itskind. I have likewise seen a hymn in hexameters to the Virgin Mary, which filled a whole book, though it consisted but of the eight followingwords:--

 _Tot tibi sunt_, _Virgo_, _dotes_, _quot sidera coelo_. 

 Thou hast as many virtues, O Virgin, as there are stars in heaven. 

The poet rang the changes upon these eight several words, and by thatmeans made his verses almost as numerous as the virtues and stars whichthey celebrated. It is no wonder that men who had so much time upontheir hands did not only restore all the antiquated pieces of false wit, but enriched the world with inventions of their own. It is to this agethat we owe the production of anagrams, which is nothing else but atransmutation of one word into another, or the turning of the same set ofletters into different words; which may change night into day, or blackinto white, if chance, who is the goddess that presides over these sortsof composition, shall so direct. I remember a witty author, in allusionto this kind of writing, calls his rival, who, it seems, was distorted, and had his limbs set in places that did not properly belong to them, "the anagram of a man. "

When the anagrammatist takes a name to work upon, he considers it atfirst as a mine not broken up, which will not show the treasure itcontains till he shall have spent many hours in the search of it; for itis his business to find out one word that conceals itself in another, andto examine the letters in all the variety of stations in which they canpossibly be ranged. I have heard of a gentleman who, when this kind ofwit was in fashion, endeavoured to gain his mistress's heart by it. Shewas one of the finest women of her age, and known by the name of the LadyMary Boon. The lover not being able to make anything of Mary, by certainliberties indulged to this kind of writing converted it into Moll; andafter having shut himself up for half a year, with indefatigable industryproduced an anagram. Upon the presenting it to his mistress, who was alittle vexed in her heart to see herself degraded into Moll Boon, shetold him, to his infinite surprise, that he had mistaken her surname, forthat it was not Boon, but Bohun. 

 --_Ibi omnis_ _Effusus labor_. --

The lover was thunder-struck with his misfortune, insomuch that in alittle time after he lost his senses, which, indeed, had been very muchimpaired 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 impossible to decide whether the inventor of the one or theother were the greater blockhead. The simple acrostic is nothing but thename or title of a person, or thing, made out of the initial letters ofseveral verses, and by that means written, after the manner of theChinese, in a perpendicular line. But besides these there are compoundacrostics, when the principal letters stand two or three deep. I haveseen some of them where the verses have not only been edged by a name ateach extremity, but have had the same name running down like a seamthrough the middle of the poem. 

There is another near relation of the anagrams and acrostics, which iscommonly called a chronogram. This kind of wit appears very often onmany modern medals, especially those of Germany, when they represent inthe inscription the year in which they were coined. Thus we see on amedal of Gustavus Adolphus time following words, CHRISTVS DUX ERGOTRIVMPHVS. If you take the pains to pick the figures out of the severalwords, and range them in their proper order, you will find they amount toMDCXVVVII, or 1627, the year in which the medal was stamped: for as someof the letters distinguish themselves from the rest, and overtop theirfellows, they are to be considered in a double capacity, both as lettersand as figures. Your laborious German wits will turn over a wholedictionary for one of these ingenious devices. A man would think theywere searching after an apt classical term, but instead of that they arelooking 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 inthem for the thought, as for the year of the Lord. 

The _bouts-rimes_ were the favourites of the French nation for a wholeage 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 anotherhand, and given to a poet, who was to make a poem to the rhymes in thesame order that they were placed upon the list: the more uncommon therhymes were, the more extraordinary was the genius of the poet that couldaccommodate his verses to them. I do not know any greater instance ofthe decay of wit and learning among the French, which generally followsthe declension of empire, than the endeavouring to restore this foolishkind of wit. If the reader will be at trouble to see examples of it, lethim look into the new _Mercure Gallant_, where the author every monthgives a list of rhymes to be filled up by the ingenious, in order to becommunicated to the public in the _Mercure_ for the succeeding month. That for the month of November last, which now lies before me, is asfollows:--

 Lauriers Guerriers Musette Lisette Caesars Etendars Houlette Folette

One would be amazed to see so learned a man as Menage talking seriouslyon this kind of trifle in the following passage:--

"Monsieur de la Chambre has told me that he never knew what he was goingto write when he took his pen into his hand; but that one sentence alwaysproduced another. For my own part, I never knew what I should write nextwhen I was making verses. In the first place I got all my rhymestogether, and was afterwards perhaps three or four months in filling themup. I one day showed Monsieur Gombaud a composition of this nature, inwhich, among others, I had made use of the four following rhymes, Amaryllis, Phyllis, Maine, Arne; desiring him to give me his opinion ofit. He told me immediately that my verses were good for nothing. Andupon my asking his reason, he said, because the rhymes are too common, and for that reason easy to be put into verse. 'Marry, ' says I, 'if itbe so, I am very well rewarded for all the pains I have been at!' But byMonsieur Gombaud's leave, notwithstanding the severity of the criticism, the verses were good. " (_Vide_ "Menagiana. ") Thus far the learnedMenage, whom I have translated word for word. 

The first occasion of these _bouts-rimes_ made them in some mannerexcusable, as they were tasks which the French ladies used to impose ontheir lovers. But when a grave author, like him above-mentioned, taskedhimself, could there be anything more ridiculous? Or would not one beapt to believe that the author played booty, and did not make his list ofrhymes till he had finished his poem?

I shall only add that this piece of false wit has been finely ridiculedby 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 usedin doggrel poetry, and generally applauded by ignorant readers. If thethought of the couplet in such compositions is good, the rhyme addslittle to it; and if bad, it will not be in the power of the rhyme torecommend it. I am afraid that great numbers of those who admire theincomparable "Hudibras, " do it more on account of these doggrel rhymesthan of the parts that really deserve admiration. I am sure I have heardthe

 Pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, Was beat with fist, instead of a stick (Canto I, II), and--

 There was an ancient philosopher Who had read Alexander Ross over

 (_Part_ I. , _Canto_ 2, 1), more frequently quoted than the finest pieces of wit in the whole poem. 

Fourth Paper. 

 _Non equidem hoc studeo bullatis ut mihi nugis_ _Pagina turgescat_, _dare pondus idonea fumo_. 

 PERS. , _Sat. _ v. 19. 

 'Tis 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 thepractice of all ages as that which consists in a jingle of words, and iscomprehended under the general name of punning. It is indeed impossibleto kill a weed which the soil has a natural disposition to produce. Theseeds of punning are in the minds of all men, and though they may besubdued by reason, reflection, and good sense, they will be very apt toshoot up in the greatest genius that is not broken and cultivated by therules of art. Imitation is natural to us, and when it does not raise themind to poetry, painting, music, or other more noble arts, it oftenbreaks out in puns and quibbles. 

Aristotle, in the eleventh chapter of his book of rhetoric, describes twoor three kinds of puns, which he calls paragrams, among the beauties ofgood writing, and produces instances of them out of some of the greatestauthors in the Greek tongue. Cicero has sprinkled several of his workswith puns, and, in his book where he lays down the rules of oratory, quotes abundance of sayings as pieces of wit, which also, uponexamination, prove arrant puns. But the age in which the pun chieflyflourished was in the reign of King James the First. That learnedmonarch was himself a tolerable punster, and made very few bishops orPrivy Councillors that had not some time or other signalised themselvesby a clinch, or a conundrum. It was, therefore, in this age that the punappeared with pomp and dignity. It had been before admitted into merryspeeches and ludicrous compositions, but was now delivered with greatgravity from the pulpit, or pronounced in the most solemn manner at thecouncil-table. The greatest authors, in their most serious works, madefrequent use of puns. The sermons of Bishop Andrews, and the tragediesof Shakespeare, are full of them. The sinner was punned into repentanceby the former; as in the latter, nothing is more usual than to see a heroweeping and quibbling for a dozen lines together. 

I must add to these great authorities, which seem to have given a kind ofsanction to this piece of false wit, that all the writers of rhetorichave treated of punning with very great respect, and divided the severalkinds of it into hard names, that are reckoned among the figures ofspeech, and recommended as ornaments in discourse. I remember a countryschoolmaster of my acquaintance told me once, that he had been in companywith a gentleman whom he looked upon to be the greatest paragrammatistamong the moderns. Upon inquiry, I found my learned friend had dinedthat day with Mr. Swan, the famous punster; and desiring him to give mesome account of Mr. Swan's conversation, he told me that he generallytalked in the _Paranomasia_, that he sometimes gave in to 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 formerlyvery much infested with puns; but whether or not this might arise fromthe fens and marshes in which it was situated, and which are now drained, I must leave to the determination of more skilful naturalists. 

After this short history of punning, one would wonder how it should be soentirely banished out of the learned world as it is at present, especially since it had found a place in the writings of the most ancientpolite authors. To account for this we must consider that the first raceof authors, who were the great heroes in writing, were destitute of allrules and arts of criticism; and for that reason, though they excel laterwriters in greatness of genius, they fall short of them in accuracy andcorrectness. The moderns cannot reach their beauties, but can avoidtheir imperfections. When the world was furnished with these authors ofthe first eminence, there grew up another set of writers, who gainedthemselves a reputation by the remarks which they made on the works ofthose who preceded them. It was one of the employments of thesesecondary authors to distinguish the several kinds of wit by terms ofart, and to consider them as more or less perfect, according as they werefounded in truth. It is no wonder, therefore, that even such authors asIsocrates, Plato, and Cicero, should have such little blemishes as arenot to be met with in authors of a much inferior character, who havewritten since those several blemishes were discovered. I do not findthat there was a proper separation made between puns and true wit by anyof the ancient authors, except Quintilian and Longinus. But when thisdistinction was once settled, it was very natural for all men of sense toagree in it. As for the revival of this false wit, it happened about thetime of the revival of letters; but as soon as it was once detected, itimmediately vanished and disappeared. At the same time there is noquestion but, as it has sunk in one age and rose in another, it willagain recover itself in some distant period of time, as pedantry andignorance shall prevail upon wit and sense. And, to speak the truth, Ido very much apprehend, by some of the last winter's productions, whichhad their sets of admirers, that our posterity will in a few yearsdegenerate into a race of punsters: at least, a man may be very excusablefor any apprehensions of this kind, that has seen acrostics handed aboutthe town with great secresy and applause; to which I must also add alittle epigram called the "Witches' Prayer, " that fell into verse when itwas read either backward or forward, excepting only that it cursed oneway, and blessed the other. When one sees there are actually suchpainstakers among our British wits, who can tell what it may end in? Ifwe must lash one another, let it be with the manly strokes of wit andsatire: for I am of the old philosopher's opinion, that, if I must sufferfrom one or the other, I would rather it should be from the paw of a lionthan from the hoof of an ass. I do not speak this out of any spirit ofparty. There is a most crying dulness on both sides. I have seen Toryacrostics and Whig anagrams, and do not quarrel with either of thembecause they are Whigs or Tories, but because they are anagrams andacrostics. 

But to return to punning. Having pursued the history of a pun, from itsoriginal to its downfall, I shall here define it to be a conceit arisingfrom the use of two words that agree in the sound, but differ in thesense. The only way, therefore, to try a piece of wit is to translate itinto a different language. If it bears the test, you may pronounce ittrue; but if it vanishes in the experiment, you may conclude it to havebeen a pun. In short, one may say of a pun, as the countryman describedhis nightingale, that it is "_vox et praeterea nihil_"--"a sound, andnothing but a sound. " On the contrary, one may represent true wit by thedescription which Aristaenetus makes of a fine woman:--"When she isdressed she is beautiful: when she is undressed she is beautiful;" or, asMercerus has translated it more emphatically, _Induitur_, _formosa est_:_exuitur_, _ipsa forma est_. 

Fifth Paper. 

 _Scribendi recte sapere est et principium_, _et fons_. 

 HOR. , _Ars Poet. _ 309. 

 Sound judgment is the ground of writing well. --ROSCOMMON. 

Mr. Locke has an admirable reflection upon the difference of wit andjudgment, whereby he endeavours to show the reason why they are notalways the talents of the same person. His words are as follow:--"Andhence, perhaps, may be given some reason of that common observation, 'That men who have a great deal of wit, and prompt memories, have notalways the clearest judgment or deepest reason. ' For wit lying most inthe assemblage of ideas, and putting those together with quickness andvariety wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity, thereby tomake up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy: judgment, on the contrary, lies quite on the other side, in separating carefullyone from another, ideas wherein can be found the least difference, thereby to avoid being misled by similitude, and by affinity to take onething for another. This is a way of proceeding quite contrary tometaphor and allusion, wherein, for the most part, lies thatentertainment and pleasantry of wit which strikes so lively on the fancy, and is therefore so acceptable to all people. "

This is, I think, the best and most philosophical account that I haveever met with of wit, which generally, though not always, consists insuch a resemblance and congruity of ideas as this author mentions. Ishall only add to it, by way of explanation, that every resemblance ofideas is not that which we call wit, unless it be such an one that givesdelight and surprise to the reader. These two properties seem essentialto wit, more particularly the last of them. In order, therefore, thatthe resemblance in the ideas be wit, it is necessary that the ideasshould not lie too near one another in the nature of things; for, wherethe likeness is obvious, it gives no surprise. To compare one man'ssinging to that of another, or to represent the whiteness of any objectby that of milk and snow, or the variety of its colours by those of therainbow, cannot be called wit, unless, besides this obvious resemblance, there be some further congruity discovered in the two ideas that iscapable of giving the reader some surprise. Thus, when a poet tells usthe bosom of his mistress is as white as snow, there is no wit in thecomparison; but when he adds, with a sigh, it is as cold too, it thengrows into wit. Every reader's memory may supply him with innumerableinstances of the same nature. For this reason, the similitudes in heroicpoets, who endeavour rather to fill the mind with great conceptions thanto divert it with such as are new and surprising, have seldom anything inthem that can be called wit. Mr. Locke's account of wit, with this shortexplanation, comprehends most of the species of wit, as metaphors, similitudes, allegories, enigmas, mottoes, parables, fables, dreams, visions, dramatic writings, burlesque, and all the methods of allusion:as there are many other pieces of wit, how remote soever they may appearat first sight from the foregoing description, which upon examinationwill be found to agree with it. 

As true wit generally consists in this resemblance and congruity ofideas, false wit chiefly consists in the resemblance and congruitysometimes of single letters, as in anagrams, chronograms, lipograms, andacrostics; sometimes of syllables, as in echoes and doggrel rhymes;sometimes of words, as in puns and quibbles; and sometimes of wholesentences or poems, cast into the figures of eggs, axes, or altars; nay, some carry the notion of wit so far as to ascribe it even to externalmimicry, and to look upon a man as an ingenious person that can resemblethe tone, posture, or face of another. 

As true wit consists in the resemblance of ideas, and false wit in theresemblance of words, according to the foregoing instances, there isanother kind of wit which consists partly in the resemblance of ideas andpartly in the resemblance of words, which for distinction sake I shallcall mixed wit. This kind of wit is that which abounds in Cowley morethan in any author that ever wrote. Mr. Waller has likewise a great dealof it. Mr. Dryden is very sparing in it. Milton had a genius much aboveit. Spenser is in the same class with Milton. The Italians, even intheir epic poetry, are full of it. Monsieur Boileau, who formed himselfupon the ancient poets, has everywhere rejected it with scorn. If welook after mixed wit among the Greek writers, we shall find it nowherebut in the epigrammatists. There are indeed some strokes of it in thelittle poem ascribed to Musaeus, which by that as well as many othermarks betrays itself to be a modern composition. If we look into theLatin writers we find none of this mixed wit in Virgil, Lucretius, orCatullus; very little in Horace, but a great deal of it in Ovid, andscarce anything else in Martial. 

Out of the innumerable branches of mixed wit, I shall choose one instancewhich may be met with in all the writers of this class. The passion oflove in its nature has been thought to resemble fire, for which reasonthe words "fire" and "flame" are made use of to signify love. The wittypoets, therefore, have taken an advantage, from the doubtful meaning ofthe word "fire, " to make an infinite number of witticisms. Cowleyobserving the cold regard of his mistress's eyes, and at the same timethe power of producing love in him, considers them as burning-glassesmade of ice; and, finding himself able to live in the greatestextremities of love, concludes the torrid zone to be habitable. When hismistress has read his letter written in juice of lemon, by holding it tothe fire, he desires her to read it over a second time by love's flames. When she weeps, he wishes it were inward heat that distilled those dropsfrom the limbec. When she is absent, he is beyond eighty, that is, thirty degrees nearer the pole than when she is with him. His ambitiouslove is a fire that naturally mounts upwards; his happy love is the beamsof heaven, and his unhappy love flames of hell. When it does not let himsleep, it is a flame that sends up no smoke; when it is opposed bycounsel and advice, it is a fire that rages the more by the winds blowingupon it. Upon the dying of a tree, in which he had cut his loves, heobserves that his written flames had burnt up and withered the tree. Whenhe resolves to give over his passion, he tells us that one burnt like himfor ever dreads the fire. His heart is an AEtna, that, instead ofVulcan's shop, encloses Cupid's forge in it. His endeavouring to drownhis love in wine is throwing oil upon the fire. He would insinuate tohis mistress that the fire of love, like that of the sun, which producesso many living creatures, should not only warm, but beget. Love inanother place cooks Pleasure at his fire. Sometimes the poet's heart isfrozen in every breast, and sometimes scorched in every eye. Sometimeshe is drowned in tears and burnt in love, like a ship set on fire in themiddle of the sea. 

The reader may observe in every one of these instances that the poetmixes 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 readerwith those seeming resemblances or contradictions that make up all thewit in this kind of writing. Mixed wit, therefore, is a composition ofpun and true wit, and is more or less perfect as the resemblance lies inthe ideas or in the words. Its foundations are laid partly in falsehoodand partly in truth; reason puts in her claim for one half of it, andextravagance for the other. The only province, therefore, for this kindof wit is epigram, or those little occasional poems that in their ownnature are nothing else but a tissue of epigrams. I cannot conclude thishead of mixed wit without owning that the admirable poet, out of whom Ihave taken the examples of it, had as much true wit as any author thatever wrote; and indeed all other talents of an extraordinary genius. 

It may be expected, since I am upon this subject, that I should takenotice of Mr. Dryden's definition of wit, which, with all the deferencethat is due to the judgment of so great a man, is not so properly adefinition 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 thisbe a true definition of wit, I am apt to think that Euclid was thegreatest wit that ever set pen to paper. It is certain there never was agreater propriety of words and thoughts adapted to the subject than whatthat author has made use of in his Elements. I shall only appeal to myreader if this definition agrees with any notion he has of wit. If it bea true one, I am sure Mr. Dryden was not only a better poet, but agreater wit than Mr. Cowley, and Virgil a much more facetious man thaneither Ovid or Martial. 

Bouhours, whom I look upon to be the most penetrating of all the Frenchcritics, has taken pains to show that it is impossible for any thought tobe beautiful which is not just, and has not its foundation in the natureof things; that the basis of all wit is truth; and that no thought can bevaluable of which good sense is not the groundwork. Boileau hasendeavoured to inculcate the same notion in several parts of hiswritings, both in prose and verse. This is that natural way of writing, that beautiful simplicity which we so much admire in the compositions ofthe ancients, and which nobody deviates from but those who want strengthof genius to make a thought shine in its own natural beauties. Poets whowant this strength of genius to give that majestic simplicity to nature, which we so much admire in the works of the ancients, are forced to huntafter foreign ornaments, and not to let any piece of wit of what kindsoever escape them. I look upon these writers as Goths in poetry, who, like those in architecture, not being able to come up to the beautifulsimplicity of the old Greeks and Romans, have endeavoured to supply itsplace with all the extravagancies of an irregular fancy. Mr. Drydenmakes a very handsome observation on Ovid's writing a letter from Dido toAEneas, in the following words: "Ovid, " says he, speaking of Virgil'sfiction of Dido and AEneas, "takes it up after him, even in the same age, and makes an ancient heroine of Virgil's new-created Dido; dictates aletter for her just before her death to the ungrateful fugitive, and, very unluckily for himself, is for measuring a sword with a man so muchsuperior in force to him on the same subject. I think I may be judge ofthis, because I have translated both. The famous author of 'The Art ofLove' has nothing of his own; he borrows all from a greater master in hisown profession, and, which is worse, improves nothing which he finds. Nature fails him; and, being forced to his old shift, he has recourse towitticism. This passes indeed with his soft admirers, and gives him thepreference to Virgil in their esteem. "

Were not I supported by so great an authority as that of Mr. Dryden, Ishould not venture to observe that the taste of most of our Englishpoets, as well as readers, is extremely Gothic. He quotes MonsieurSegrais for a threefold distinction of the readers of poetry; in thefirst of which he comprehends the rabble of readers, whom he does nottreat as such with regard to their quality, but to their numbers and thecoarseness of their taste. His words are as follows: "Segrais hasdistinguished the readers of poetry, according to their capacity ofjudging, into three classes. " [He might have said the same of writerstoo if he had pleased. ] "In the lowest form he places those whom hecalls Les Petits Esprits, such things as our upper-gallery audience in aplayhouse, who like nothing but the husk and rind of wit, and prefer aquibble, a conceit, an epigram, before solid sense and elegantexpression. These are mob readers. If Virgil and Martial stood forParliament-men, we know already who would carry it. But though they madethe greatest appearance in the field, and cried the loudest, the best ofit is they are but a sort of French Huguenots, or Dutch boors, broughtover in herds, but not naturalised: who have not lands of two pounds perannum in Parnassus, and therefore are not privileged to poll. Theirauthors are of the same level, fit to represent them on a mountebank'sstage, or to be masters of the ceremonies in a bear-garden; yet these arethey who have the most admirers. But it often happens, to theirmortification, that as their readers improve their stock of sense, asthey may by reading better books, and by conversation with men ofjudgment, they soon forsake them. "

I must not dismiss this subject without observing that, as Mr. Locke, inthe passage above-mentioned, has discovered the most fruitful source ofwit, so there is another of a quite contrary nature to it, which doeslikewise branch itself into several kinds. For not only the resemblance, but the opposition of ideas does very often produce wit, as I could showin several little points, turns, and antitheses that I may possiblyenlarge upon in some future speculation. 

Sixth Paper. 

 _Humano capiti cervicem pictor equinam_ _Jungere si velit_, _et varias inducere plumas_, _Undique collatis membris_, _ut turpiter atrum_ _Desinat in piscem mulier formosa superne_; _Spectatum admissi risum teneatis_, _amici_? _Credite_, _Pisones_, _isti tabulae_, _fore librum_ _Persimilem_, _cujus_, _velut aegri somnia_, _vanae_ _Fingentur species_. 

 HOR. , _Ars Poet. _ 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 in whichit has been long employed. The thoughts will be rising of themselvesfrom time to time, though we give them no encouragement: as the tossingsand fluctuations of the sea continue several hours after the winds arelaid. 

It is to this that I impute my last night's dream or vision, which formedinto one continued allegory the several schemes of wit, whether false, mixed, or true, that have been the subject of my late papers. 

Methought I was transported into a country that was filled with prodigiesand enchantments, governed by the goddess of Falsehood, and entitled theRegion of False Wit. There was nothing in the fields, the woods, and therivers, 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, wildbears, and mermaids, that lived among the waters; at the same time thatdolphins and several kinds of fish played upon the banks, or took theirpastime in the meadows. The birds had many of them golden beaks, andhuman voices. The flowers perfumed the air with smells of incense, ambergris, and pulvillios; and were so interwoven with one another, thatthey grew up in pieces of embroidery. The winds were filled with sighsand messages of distant lovers. As I was walking to and fro in thisenchanted wilderness, I could not forbear breaking out into soliloquiesupon the several wonders which lay before me, when, to my great surprise, I found there were artificial echoes in every walk, that, by repetitionsof certain words which I spoke, agreed with me or contradicted me ineverything I said. In the midst of my conversation with these invisiblecompanions, I discovered in the centre of a very dark grove a monstrousfabric built after the Gothic manner, and covered with innumerabledevices in that barbarous kind of sculpture. I immediately went up toit, and found it to be a kind of heathen temple consecrated to the god ofDulness. Upon my entrance I saw the deity of the place, dressed in thehabit of a monk, with a book in one hand and a rattle in the other. Uponhis right hand was Industry, with a lamp burning before her; and on hisleft, Caprice, with a monkey sitting on her shoulder. Before his feetthere stood an altar of a very odd make, which, as I afterwards found, was shaped in that manner to comply with the inscription that surroundedit. Upon the altar there lay several offerings of axes, wings, and eggs, cut in paper, and inscribed with verses. The temple was filled withvotaries, who applied themselves to different diversions, as theirfancies directed them. In one part of it I saw a regiment of anagrams, who were continually in motion, turning to the right or to the left, facing about, doubling their ranks, shifting their stations, and throwingthemselves into all the figures and counter-marches of the mostchangeable and perplexed exercise. 

Not far from these was the body of acrostics, made up of verydisproportioned persons. It was disposed into three columns, theofficers 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 rowsof very proper men; but the common soldiers, who filled up the spacesbetween the officers, were such dwarfs, cripples, and scarecrows, thatone could hardly look upon them without laughing. There were behind theacrostics two or three files of chronograms, which differed only from theformer as their officers were equipped, like the figure of Time, with anhour-glass in one hand, and a scythe in the other, and took their postspromiscuously among the private men whom they commanded. 

In the body of the temple, and before the very face of the deity, methought I saw the phantom of Tryphiodorus, the lipogrammatist, engagedin a ball with four-and-twenty persons, who pursued him by turns throughall the intricacies and labyrinths of a country dance, without being ableto overtake him. 

Observing several to be very busy at the western end of the temple, Iinquired into what they were doing, and found there was in that quarterthe great magazine of rebuses. These were several things of the mostdifferent natures tied up in bundles, and thrown upon one another inheaps like fagots. You might behold an anchor, a night-rail, and a hobby-horse bound up together. One of the workmen, seeing me very muchsurprised, told me there was an infinite deal of wit in several of thosebundles, and that he would explain them to me if I pleased; I thanked himfor his civility, but told him I was in very great haste at that time. AsI was going out of the temple, I observed in one corner of it a clusterof men and women laughing very heartily, and diverting themselves at agame of crambo. I heard several double rhymes as I passed by them, whichraised a great deal of mirth. 

Not far from these was another set of merry people engaged at adiversion, in which the whole jest was to mistake one person for another. To give occasion for these ludicrous mistakes, they were divided intopairs, every pair being covered from head to foot with the same kind ofdress, though perhaps there was not the least resemblance in their faces. By this means an old man was sometimes mistaken for a boy, a woman for aman, and a blackamoor for an European, which very often produced greatpeals of laughter. These I guessed to be a party of puns. But beingvery desirous to get out of this world of magic, which had almost turnedmy brain, I left the temple and crossed over the fields that lay about itwith all the speed I could make. I was not gone far before I heard thesound of trumpets and alarms, which seemed to proclaim the march of anenemy: and, as I afterwards found, was in reality what I apprehended it. There appeared at a great distance a very shining light, and in the midstof it a person of a most beautiful aspect; her name was Truth. On herright hand there marched a male deity, who bore several quivers on hisshoulders, and grasped several arrows in his hand; his name was Wit. Theapproach of these two enemies filled all the territories of False Witwith an unspeakable consternation, insomuch that the goddess of thoseregions appeared in person upon her frontiers, with the several inferiordeities and the different bodies of forces which I had before seen in thetemple, who were now drawn up in array, and prepared to give their foes awarm reception. As the march of the enemy was very slow, it gave time tothe several inhabitants who bordered upon the regions of Falsehood todraw their forces into a body, with a design to stand upon their guard asneuters, 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 the species of MixedWit, who made a very odd appearance when they were mustered together inan army. There were men whose bodies were stuck full of darts, and womenwhose eyes were burning-glasses; men that had hearts of fire, and womenthat had breasts of snow. It would be endless to describe severalmonsters of the like nature that composed this great army, whichimmediately fell asunder, and divided itself into two parts, the one halfthrowing themselves behind the banners of Truth, and the others behindthose of Falsehood. 

The goddess of Falsehood was of a gigantic stature, and advanced somepaces before the front of the army; but as the dazzling light whichflowed from Truth began to shine upon her, she faded insensibly; insomuchthat in a little space she looked rather like a huge phantom than a realsubstance. At length, as the goddess of Truth approached still nearer toher, she fell away entirely, and vanished amidst the brightness of herpresence; so that there did not remain the least trace or impression ofher figure in the place where she had been seen. 

As at the rising of the sun the constellations grow thin, and the starsgo out one after another, till the whole hemisphere is extinguished; suchwas the vanishing of the goddess, and not only of the goddess herself, but of the whole army that attended her, which sympathised with theirleader, and shrunk into nothing, in proportion as the goddessdisappeared. At the same time the whole temple sunk, the fish betookthemselves to the streams, and the wild beasts to the woods, thefountains recovered their murmurs, the birds their voices, the treestheir leaves, the flowers their scents, and the whole face of nature itstrue and genuine appearance. Though I still continued asleep, I fanciedmyself, as it were, awakened out of a dream, when I saw this region ofprodigies restored to woods and rivers, fields and meadows. 

Upon the removal of that wild scene of wonders, which had very muchdisturbed my imagination, I took a full survey of the persons of Wit andTruth; for indeed it was impossible to look upon the first without seeingthe other at the same time. There was behind them a strong compact bodyof figures. The genius of Heroic Poetry appeared with a sword in herhand, and a laurel on her head. Tragedy was crowned with cypress, andcovered with robes dipped in blood. Satire had smiles in her look, anda dagger under her garment. Rhetoric was known by her thunderbolt, andComedy by her mask. After several other figures, Epigram marched up inthe rear, who had been posted there at the beginning of the expedition, that he might not revolt to the enemy, whom he was suspected to favour inhis heart. I was very much awed and delighted with the appearance of thegod of Wit; there was something so amiable, and yet so piercing in hislooks, as inspired me at once with love and terror. As I was gazing onhim, to my unspeakable joy, he took a quiver of arrows from his shoulder, in order to make me a present of it; but as I was reaching out my hand toreceive it of him, I knocked it against a chair, and by that meansawaked. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

 _Nos duo turba sumus_. 

 OVID, _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 indiscourse; but instead of this, we find that conversation is never somuch straitened and confined as in numerous assemblies. When a multitudemeet together upon any subject of discourse, their debates are taken upchiefly with forms and general positions; nay, if we come into a morecontracted assembly of men and women, the talk generally runs upon theweather, fashions, news, and the like public topics. In proportion asconversation gets into clubs and knots of friends, it descends intoparticulars, and grows more free and communicative: but the most open, instructive, and unreserved discourse is that which passes between twopersons who are familiar and intimate friends. On these occasions, a mangives a loose to every passion and every thought that is uppermost, discovers his most retired opinions of persons and things, tries thebeauty and strength of his sentiments, and exposes his whole soul to theexamination of his friend. 

Tully was the first who observed that friendship improves happiness andabates misery, by the doubling of our joy and dividing of our grief; athought in which he hath been followed by all the essayists uponfriendship that have written since his time. Sir Francis Bacon hasfinely described other advantages, or, as he calls them, fruits offriendship; and, indeed, there is no subject of morality which has beenbetter handled and more exhausted than this. Among the several finethings which have been spoken of it, I shall beg leave to quote some outof a very ancient author, whose book would be regarded by our modern witsas one of the most shining tracts of morality that is extant, if itappeared under the name of a Confucius, or of any celebrated Grecianphilosopher; I mean the little apocryphal treatise entitled The Wisdom ofthe Son of Sirach. How finely has he described the art of making friendsby an obliging and affable behaviour; and laid down that precept, which alate excellent author has delivered as his own, That we should have manywell-wishers, but few friends. "Sweet language will multiply friends;and a fair-speaking tongue will increase kind greetings. Be in peacewith many, nevertheless have but one counsellor of a thousand. " Withwhat prudence does he caution us in the choice of our friends! And withwhat strokes of nature, I could almost say of humour, has he describedthe behaviour of a treacherous and self-interested friend! "If thouwouldest 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 theday of thy trouble. And there is a friend who, being turned to enmityand strife, will discover thy reproach. " Again, "Some friend is acompanion at the table, and will not continue in the day of thyaffliction: but in thy prosperity he will be as thyself, and will be boldover thy servants. If thou be brought low, he will be against thee, andhide himself from thy face. " What can be more strong and pointed thanthe following verse?--"Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take heedof thy friends. " In the next words he particularises one of those fruitsof friendship which is described at length by the two famous authorsabove-mentioned, and falls into a general eulogium of friendship, whichis very just as well as very sublime. "A faithful friend is a strongdefence; and he that hath found such an one hath found a treasure. Nothing doth countervail a faithful friend, and his excellency isunvaluable. A faithful friend is the medicine of life; and they thatfear the Lord shall find him. Whose feareth the Lord shall direct hisfriendship aright; for as he is, so shall his neighbour, that is hisfriend, be also. " I do not remember to have met with any saying that haspleased me more than that of a friend's being the medicine of life, toexpress the efficacy of friendship in healing the pains and anguish whichnaturally cleave to our existence in this world; and am wonderfullypleased with the turn in the last sentence, that a virtuous man shall asa blessing meet with a friend who is as virtuous as himself. There isanother saying in the same author, which would have been very muchadmired in a heathen writer: "Forsake not an old friend, for the new isnot comparable to him: a new friend is as new wine; when it is old thoushalt drink it with pleasure. " With what strength of allusion and forceof thought has he described the breaches and violations offriendship!--"Whoso casteth a stone at the birds, frayeth them away; andhe that upbraideth his friend, breaketh friendship. Though thou drawesta sword at a friend, yet despair not, for there may be a returning tofavour. If thou hast opened thy mouth against thy friend, fear not, forthere may be a reconciliation: except for upbraiding, or pride, ordisclosing of secrets, or a treacherous wound; for, for these thingsevery friend will depart. " We may observe in this, and several otherprecepts in this author, those little familiar instances andillustrations which are so much admired in the moral writings of Horaceand Epictetus. There are very beautiful instances of this nature in thefollowing passages, which are likewise written upon the same subject:"Whose discovereth secrets, loseth his credit, and shall never find afriend to his mind. Love thy friend, and be faithful unto him; but ifthou bewrayeth his secrets, follow no more after him: for as a man hathdestroyed his enemy, so hast thou lost the love of thy friend; as onethat letteth a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou let thy friend go, and shall not get him again: follow after him no more, for he is too faroff; he is as a roe escaped out of the snare. As for a wound it may bebound up, and after reviling there may be reconciliation; but he thatbewrayeth secrets, is without hope. "

Among the several qualifications of a good friend, this wise man has veryjustly singled out constancy and faithfulness as the principal: to these, others have added virtue, knowledge, discretion, equality in age andfortune, and, as Cicero calls it, _Morum comitas_, "a pleasantness oftemper. " If I were to give my opinion upon such an exhausted subject, Ishould join to these other qualifications a certain equability orevenness of behaviour. A man often contracts a friendship with one whomperhaps he does not find out till after a year's conversation; when on asudden some latent ill-humour breaks out upon him, which he neverdiscovered or suspected at his first entering into an intimacy with him. There are several persons who in some certain periods of their lives areinexpressibly agreeable, and in others as odious and detestable. Martialhas given us a very pretty picture of one of this species, in thefollowing epigram:

 _Difficilis_, _facilis_, _jucundus_, _acerbus es idem_, _Nec tecum possum vivere_, _nec sine te_. 

 _Ep. _ xii. 47. 

 In all thy humours, whether grave or mellow, Thou'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee. 

It is very unlucky for a man to be entangled in a friendship with onewho, by these changes and vicissitudes of humour, is sometimes amiableand sometimes odious: and as most men are at some times in admirableframe and disposition of mind, it should be one of the greatest tasks ofwisdom to keep ourselves well when we are so, and never to go out of thatwhich is the agreeable part of our character. 

CHEVY-CHASE. 

Part One. 

 _Interdum vulgus rectum videt_. 

 HOR. , _Ep. _ ii. 1, 63. 

Sometimes the vulgar see and judge aright. When I travelled I took aparticular delight in hearing the songs and fables that are come fromfather to son, and are most in vogue among the common people of thecountries through which I passed; for it is impossible that anythingshould be universally tasted and approved by a multitude, though they areonly the rabble of a nation, which hath not in it some peculiar aptnessto please and gratify the mind of man. Human nature is the same in allreasonable creatures; and whatever falls in with it will meet withadmirers amongst readers of all qualities and conditions. Moliere, as weare told by Monsieur Boileau, used to read all his comedies to an oldwoman who was his housekeeper as she sat with him at her work by thechimney-corner, and could foretell the success of his play in the theatrefrom the reception it met at his fireside; for he tells us the audiencealways followed the old woman, and never failed to laugh in the sameplace. 

I know nothing which more shows the essential and inherent perfection ofsimplicity of thought, above that which I call the Gothic manner inwriting, than this, that the first pleases all kinds of palates, and thelatter only such as have formed to themselves a wrong artificial tasteupon little fanciful authors and writers of epigram. Homer, Virgil, orMilton, so far as the language of their poems is understood, will pleasea reader of plain common sense, who would neither relish nor comprehendan epigram of Martial, or a poem of Cowley; so, on the contrary, anordinary song or ballad that is the delight of the common people cannotfail to please all such readers as are not unqualified for theentertainment by their affectation of ignorance; and the reason is plain, because the same paintings of nature which recommend it to the mostordinary reader will appear beautiful to the most refined. 

The old song of "Chevy-Chase" is the favourite ballad of the commonpeople of England, and Ben Jonson used to say he had rather have been theauthor of it than of all his works. Sir Philip Sidney, in his discourseof Poetry, speaks of it in the following words: "I never heard the oldsong of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart more moved than witha trumpet; and yet it is sung by some blind crowder with no rougher voicethan rude style, which being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb ofthat uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence ofPindar?" For my own part, I am so professed an admirer of thisantiquated song, that I shall give my reader a critique upon it withoutany further apology for so doing. 

The greatest modern critics have laid it down as a rule that an heroicpoem should be founded upon some important precept of morality adapted tothe constitution of the country in which the poet writes. Homer andVirgil have formed their plans in this view. As Greece was a collectionof many governments, who suffered very much among themselves, and gavethe Persian emperor, who was their common enemy, many advantages overthem by their mutual jealousies and animosities, Homer, in order toestablish among them an union which was so necessary for their safety, grounds his poem upon the discords of the several Grecian princes whowere engaged in a confederacy against an Asiatic prince, and the severaladvantages which the enemy gained by such discords. At the time the poemwe are now treating of was written, the dissensions of the barons, whowere then so many petty princes, ran very high, whether they quarrelledamong themselves or with their neighbours, and produced unspeakablecalamities to the country. The poet, to deter men from such unnaturalcontentions, describes a bloody battle and dreadful scene of death, occasioned by the mutual feuds which reigned in the families of anEnglish and Scotch nobleman. That he designed this for the instructionof his poem we may learn from his four last lines, in which, after theexample of the modern tragedians, he draws from it a precept for thebenefit of his readers:

 God save the king, and bless the land In plenty, joy, and peace; And grant henceforth that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease. 

The next point observed by the greatest heroic poets hath been tocelebrate persons and actions which do honour to their country: thusVirgil's hero was the founder of Rome; Homer's a prince of Greece; andfor this reason Valerius Flaccus and Statius, who were both Romans, mightbe justly derided for having chosen the expedition of the Golden Fleeceand 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, butraises the reputation of it by several beautiful incidents. The Englishare the first who take the field and the last who quit it. The Englishbring only fifteen hundred to the battle, the Scotch two thousand. TheEnglish keep the field with fifty-three, the Scotch retire with fifty-five; all the rest on each side being slain in battle. But the mostremarkable circumstance of this kind is the different manner in which theScotch and English kings receive the news of this fight, and of the greatmen's deaths who 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. 

 "O 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, " said our king, "Sith 'twill no better be, I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he. 

 "Yet shall not Scot nor 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 performed 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, &c. 

At the same time that our poet shows a laudable partiality to hiscountrymen, he represents the Scots after a manner not unbecoming so boldand brave a people:

 Earl Douglas on a milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of the company, Whose armour shone like gold. 

His sentiments and actions are every way suitable to a hero. "One of ustwo, " says he, "must die: I am an earl as well as yourself, so that youcan have no pretence for refusing the combat; however, " says he, "it ispity, and indeed would be a sin, that so many innocent men should perishfor our sakes: rather let you and I end our quarrel in single fight:"

 "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 offence to kill Any of these our harmless men, For they have done no ill. 

 "Let thou and I the battle try, And set our men aside. " "Accurst be he, " Lord Percy said, "By whom this is deny'd. "

When these brave men had distinguished themselves in the battle and insingle combat with each other, in the midst of a generous parley, full ofheroic sentiments, the Scotch earl falls, and with his dying wordsencourages his men to revenge his death, representing to them, as themost 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, "Fight 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 cheerfulword for companions and fellow-soldiers. A passage in the eleventh bookof Virgil's "AEneid" is very much to be admired, where Camilla, in herlast agonies, instead of weeping over the wound she had received, as onemight have expected from a warrior of her sex, considers only, like thehero of whom we are now speaking, how the battle should be continuedafter her death:

 _Tum sic exspirans_, &c. 

VIRG. , _AEn. _ xi. 820. 

 A gath'ring mist o'erclouds her cheerful eyes; And from her cheeks the rosy colour 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; Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve: Farewell. "

 DRYDEN. 

Turnus did not die in so heroic a manner, though our poet seems to havehad his eye upon Turnus's speech in the last verse:

 Lord Percy sees my fall. 

 --_Vicisti_, _et victum tendere palmas_ _Ausonii videre_. 

 VIRG. , _AEn. _ xii. 936. 

 The Latin chiefs have seen me beg my life. 

 DRYDEN. 

Earl Percy's lamentation over his enemy is generous, beautiful, andpassionate. I must only caution the reader not to let the simplicity ofthe style, which one may well pardon in so old a poet, prejudice himagainst 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. 

 "O Christ! my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure a more renowned knight Mischance did never take. "

That beautiful line, "Taking the dead man by the hand, " will put thereader in mind of AEneas's behaviour towards Lausus, whom he himself hadslain 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_, _dextramqne tetendit_. 

 VIRG. , _AEn. _ x. 821. 

 The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead; He grieved, he wept, then grasped his hand and said, "Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid To worth so great?"

 DRYDEN. 

I shall take another opportunity to consider the other parts of this oldsong. 

Part Two. 

 --_Pendent opera interrupta_. 

 VIRG. , _AEn. _ iv. 88. 

 The works unfinished and neglected lie. 

In my last Monday's paper I gave some general instances of thosebeautiful strokes which please the reader in the old song of"Chevy-Chase;" I shall here, according to my promise, be more particular, and show that the sentiments in that ballad are extremely natural andpoetical, and full of the majestic simplicity which we admire in thegreatest of the ancient poets: for which reason I shall quote severalpassages of it, in which the thought is altogether the same with what wemeet in several passages of the "AEneid;" not that I would infer fromthence that the poet, whoever he was, proposed to himself any imitationof those passages, but that he was directed to them in general by thesame kind of poetical genius, and by the same copyings after nature. 

Had this old song been filled with epigrammatical turns and points ofwit, it might perhaps have pleased the wrong taste of some readers; butit would never have become the delight of the common people, nor havewarmed the heart of Sir Philip Sidney like the sound of a trumpet; it isonly nature that can have this effect, and please those tastes which arethe most unprejudiced, or the most refined. I must, however, beg leaveto dissent from so great an authority as that of Sir Philip Sidney, inthe judgment which he has passed as to the rude style and evil apparel ofthis antiquated song; for there are several parts in it where not onlythe thought but the language is majestic, and the numbers sonorous; atleast the apparel is much more gorgeous than many of the poets made useof in Queen Elizabeth's time, as the reader will see in several of thefollowing quotations. 

What can be greater than either the thought or the expression in thatstanza, 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 bringupon posterity, not only on those who were born immediately after thebattle, and lost their fathers in it, but on those also who perished infuture battles which took their rise from this quarrel of the two earls, is wonderfully beautiful and conformable to the way of thinking among theancient poets. 

 _Audiet pugnas vitio parentum_. _ Rara juventus_. 

 HOR. , _Od. _ i. 2, 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 resemble more the majesticsimplicity of the ancients, than the following stanzas?--

 The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer's 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. 

 --_Vocat ingenti clamore Cithaeron_, _Taygetique canes_, _domitrixque Epidaurus equorum_: _Et vox assensu memorum ingeminata remugit_. 

 VIRG. , _Georg. _ iii. 43. 

 Cithaeron loudly calls me to my way: Thy hounds, Taygetus, open, and pursue their prey: High Epidaurus urges on my speed, Famed 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 armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears, All marching in our sight. 

 All men of pleasant Tividale, Fast by the river Tweed, &c. 

The country of the Scotch warrior, described in these two last verses, has a fine romantic situation, and affords a couple of smooth words forverse. If the reader compares the foregoing six lines of the song withthe following Latin verses, he will see how much they are written in thespirit of Virgil:

 _Adversi campo apparent_: _hastasque reductis_ _Protendunt longe dextris_, _et spicula vibrant_:-- _Quique altum Praeneste viri_, _quique arva Gabinae_ _Junonis_, _gelidumque Anienem_, _et roscida rivis_ _Hernica saxa colunt_:--_qui rosea rura Velini_; _Qui Tetricae horrentes rupes_, _montemq ue Severum_, _Casperiamque colunt_, _porulosque et flumen Himellae_: _Qui Tyberim Fabarimque bibunt_. 

 _AEn. _ xi. 605, vii. 682, 712. 

 Advancing in a line they couch their spears-- --Praeneste sends a chosen band, With those who plough Saturnia's Gabine land: Besides the succours which cold Anien yields: The rocks of Hernicus--besides a band That followed from Velinum'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, Rode foremost of the company, Whose armour shone like gold. 

 _Turnus_, _ut antevolans tardum praecesserat agmen_, &c. _Vidisti_, _quo Turnus equo_, _quibus ibat in armis_ _Aurcus_--

_AEn. _ 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 closed full fast on ev'ry side, No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. 

 With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow. 

AEneas was wounded after the same manner by an unknown hand in the midstof a parley. 

 _Has inter voces_, _media inter talia verba_, _Ecce viro stridens alis allapsa sagitta est_, _Incertum qua pulsa manu_--

 _AEn. _ xii. 318. 

 Thus, while he spake, unmindful of defence, 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 morebeautiful than the four following stanzas, which have a great force andspirit in them, and are filled with very natural circumstances. Thethought in the third stanza was never touched by any other poet, and issuch a one as would have shone in Homer or in Virgil:

 So thus did both these nobles die, Whose courage none could stain; An English archer then perceived 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 rung the ev'ning bell The battle scarce was done. 

One may observe, likewise, that in the catalogue of the slain, the authorhas followed the example of the greatest ancient poets, not only ingiving a long list of the dead, but by diversifying it with littlecharacters 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 Ratcliff 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 thedescription; for this reason I do not mention this part of the poem butto show the natural cast of thought which appears in it, as the two lastverses look almost like a translation of Virgil. 

 --_Cadit et Ripheus justissimus unus_ _Qui fuit in Teucris et servantissimus aequi_. _Diis aliter visum_. 

 _AEn. _ ii. 426. 

 Then Ripheus fell in the unequal fight, Just of his word, observant of the right: Heav'n thought not so. 

 DRYDEN. 

In the catalogue of the English who fell, Witherington's behaviour is inthe same manner particularised very artfully, as the reader is preparedfor it by that account which is given of him in the beginning of thebattle; though I am satisfied your little buffoon readers, who have seenthat passage ridiculed in "Hudibras, " will not be able to take the beautyof it: for which reason I dare not so much as quote it. 

 Then stept a gallant 'squire forth, Witherington 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. "

We meet with the same heroic sentiment in Virgil:

 _Non pudet_, _O Rutuli_, _cunctis pro talibus unam_ _Objectare animam_? _numerone an viribus aequi_ _Non sumus_?

 _AEn. _ xii. 229

 For shame, Rutilians, can you hear the sight Of one exposed for all, in single fight? Can we before the face of heav'n confess Our courage colder, or our numbers less?

 DRYDEN. 

What can be more natural, or more moving, than the circumstances in whichhe describes the behaviour of those women who had lost their husbands onthis 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 thesubject, are always simple, and sometimes exquisitely noble; that thelanguage is often very sounding, and that the whole is written with atrue poetical spirit. 

If this song had been written in the Gothic manner which is the delightof all our little wits, whether writers or readers, it would not have hitthe taste of so many ages, and have pleased the readers of all ranks andconditions. I shall only beg pardon for such a profusion of Latinquotations; which I should not have made use of, but that I feared my ownjudgment would have looked too singular on such a subject, had not Isupported it by the practice and authority of Virgil. 

A DREAM OF THE PAINTERS. 

 --_Animum pictura pascit inani_. 

 VIRG. , _AEn. _ i. 464. 

 And with the shadowy picture feeds his mind. 

When the weather hinders me from taking my diversions without-doors, Ifrequently make a little party, with two or three select friends, tovisit anything curious that may be seen under cover. My principalentertainments of this nature are pictures, insomuch that when I havefound the weather set in to be very bad, I have taken a whole day'sjourney 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 earthswims in rain, and all nature wears a lowering countenance, I withdrawmyself from these uncomfortable scenes, into the visionary worlds of art;where I meet with shining landscapes, gilded triumphs, beautiful faces, and all those other objects that fill the mind with gay ideas, anddisperse that gloominess which is apt to hang upon it in those darkdisconsolate seasons. 

I was some weeks ago in a course of these diversions, which had takensuch an entire possession of my imagination that they formed in it ashort morning's dream, which I shall communicate to my reader, rather asthe first sketch and outlines of a vision, than as a finished piece. 

I dreamt that I was admitted into a long, spacious gallery, which had oneside covered with pieces of all the famous painters who are now living, and the other with the works of the greatest masters that are dead. 

On the side of the living, I saw several persons busy in drawing, colouring, and designing. On the side of the dead painters, I could notdiscover more than one person at work, who was exceeding slow in hismotions, and wonderfully nice in his touches. 

I was resolved to examine the several artists that stood before me, andaccordingly applied myself to the side of the living. The first Iobserved at work in this part of the gallery was Vanity, with his hairtied behind him in a riband, and dressed like a Frenchman. All the faceshe drew were very remarkable for their smiles, and a certain smirking airwhich he bestowed indifferently on every age and degree of either sex. The _toujours gai_ appeared even in his judges, bishops, and PrivyCouncillors. In a word, all his men were _petits maitres_, and all hiswomen _coquettes_. The drapery of his figures was extremely well suitedto his faces, and was made up of all the glaring colours that could bemixed together; every part of the dress was in a flutter, and endeavouredto distinguish itself above the rest. 

On the left hand of Vanity stood a laborious workman, who I found was hishumble admirer, and copied after him. He was dressed like a German, andhad a very hard name that sounded something like Stupidity. 

The third artist that I looked over was Fantasque, dressed like aVenetian scaramouch. He had an excellent hand at chimera, and dealt verymuch in distortions and grimaces. He would sometimes affright himselfwith the phantoms that flowed from his pencil. In short, the mostelaborate of his pieces was at best but a terrifying dream: and one couldsay nothing more of his finest figures than that they were agreeablemonsters. 

The fourth person I examined was very remarkable 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, fadedsooner than in the person after whom it was drawn. He made so much hasteto despatch his business that he neither gave himself time to clean hispencils nor mix his colours. The name of this expeditious workman wasAvarice. 

Not far from this artist I saw another of a quite different nature, whowas dressed in the habit of a Dutchman, and known by the name ofIndustry. His figures were wonderfully laboured. If he drew theportraiture of a man, he did not omit a single hair in his face; if thefigure 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, thatseemed to show themselves by the candles which were lighted up in severalparts of them; and were so inflamed by the sunshine which accidentallyfell upon them, that at first sight I could scarce forbear crying out"Fire!"

The five foregoing artists were the most considerable on this side thegallery; there were indeed several others whom I had not time to lookinto. One of them, however, I could not forbear observing, who was verybusy in retouching the finest pieces, though he produced no originals ofhis own. His pencil aggravated every feature that was beforeovercharged, loaded every defect, and poisoned every colour it touched. Though this workman did so much mischief on the side of the living, henever turned his eye towards that of the dead. His name was Envy. 

Having taken a cursory view of one side of the gallery, I turned myselfto that which was filled by the works of those great masters that weredead; when immediately I fancied myself standing before a multitude ofspectators, and thousands of eyes looking upon me at once: for all beforeme appeared so like men and women, that I almost forgot they werepictures. Raphael's pictures stood in one row, Titian's in another, Guido Rheni's in a third. One part of the wall was peopled by HannabalCarrache, another by Correggio, and another by Rubens. To be short, there was not a great master among the dead who had not contributed tothe embellishment of this side of the gallery. The persons that owedtheir being to these several masters appeared all of them to be real andalive, and differed among one another only in the variety of theirshapes, complexions, and clothes; so that they looked like differentnations of the same species. 

Observing an old man, who was the same person I before mentioned, as theonly artist that was at work on this side of the gallery, creeping up anddown from one picture to another, and retouching all the fine pieces thatstood before me, I could not but be very attentive to all his motions. Ifound his pencil was so very light that it worked imperceptibly, andafter a thousand touches scarce produced any visible effect in thepicture on which he was employed. However, as he busied himselfincessantly, and repeated touch after touch without rest or intermission, he wore off insensibly every little disagreeable gloss that hung upon afigure. He also added such a beautiful brown to the shades, andmellowness to the colours, that he made every picture appear more perfectthan when it came fresh from the master's pencil. I could not forbearlooking upon the face of this ancient workman, and immediately by thelong lock of hair upon his forehead, discovered him to be Time. 

Whether it were because the thread of my dream was at an end I cannottell, but, upon my taking a survey of this imaginary old man, my sleepleft me. 

SPARE TIME. 

Part One. 

 --_Spatio brevi_ _Spem longam reseces_: _dum loquimur_, _fugerit invida_ _AEtas_: _carpe diem_, _quam minimum credula postero_. 

 HOR. , _Od. _ i. 11, 6. 

 Thy lengthen'd hope with prudence bound, Proportion'd to the flying hour: While thus we talk in careless ease, Our envious minutes wing their flight; Then swift 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 yethave much more than we know what to do with. Our lives, says he, arespent 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 ourdays are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them. Thatnoble philosopher described our inconsistency with ourselves in thisparticular, by all those various turns of expression and thoughts whichare peculiar to his writings. 

I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent with itself in a pointthat bears some affinity to the former. Though we seem grieved at theshortness of life in general, we are wishing every period of it at anend. The minor longs to be of age, then to be a man of business, then tomake up an estate, then to arrive at honours, then to retire. Thus, although the whole of life is allowed by every one to be short, theseveral divisions of it appear long and tedious. We are for lengtheningour span in general, but would fain contract the parts of which it iscomposed. The usurer would be very well satisfied to have all the timeannihilated that lies between the present moment and next quarter-day. The politician would be contented to lose three years in his life, couldhe place things in the posture which he fancies they will stand in aftersuch a revolution of time. The lover would be glad to strike out of hisexistence all the moments that are to pass away before the happy meeting. Thus, as fast as our time runs, we should be very glad, in most part ofour lives, that it ran much faster than it does. Several hours of theday hang upon our hands, nay, we wish away whole years; and travelthrough time as through a country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those severallittle settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dispersed up anddown in it. 

If we divide the life of most men into twenty parts, we shall find thatat least nineteen of them are mere gaps and chasms, which are neitherfilled with pleasure nor business. I do not, however, include in thiscalculation the life of those men who are in a perpetual hurry ofaffairs, but of those only who are not always engaged in scenes ofaction; and I hope I shall not do an unacceptable piece of service tothese persons, if I point out to them certain methods for the filling uptheir empty spaces of life. The methods I shall propose to them are asfollow. 

The first is the exercise of virtue, in the most general acceptation ofthe word. That particular scheme which comprehends the social virtuesmay give employment to the most industrious temper, and find a man inbusiness more than the most active station of life. To advise theignorant, relieve the needy, comfort the afflicted, are duties that fallin our way almost every day of our lives. A man has frequentopportunities of mitigating the fierceness of a party; of doing justiceto the character of a deserving man; of softening the envious, quietingthe angry, and rectifying the prejudiced; which are all of thememployments suited to a reasonable nature, and bring great satisfactionto the person who can busy himself in them with discretion. 

There is another kind of virtue that may find employment for thoseretired hours in which we are altogether left to ourselves, and destituteof company and conversation; I mean that intercourse and communicationwhich every reasonable creature ought to maintain with the great Authorof his being. The man who lives under an habitual sense of the Divinepresence, keeps up a perpetual cheerfulness of temper, and enjoys everymoment the satisfaction of thinking himself in company with his dearestand best of friends. The time never lies heavy upon him: it isimpossible for him to be alone. His thoughts and passions are the mostbusied at such hours when those of other men are the most inactive. Heno sooner steps out of the world but his heart burns with devotion, swells with hope, and triumphs in the consciousness of that Presencewhich everywhere surrounds him; or, on the contrary, pours out its fears, its sorrows, its apprehensions, to the great Supporter of its existence. 

I have here only considered the necessity of a man's being virtuous, thathe may have something to do; but if we consider further that the exerciseof virtue is not only an amusement for the time it lasts, but that itsinfluence extends to those parts of our existence which lie beyond thegrave, and that our whole eternity is to take its colour from those hourswhich we here employ in virtue or in vice, the argument redoubles upon usfor putting in practice this method of passing away our time. 

When a man has but a little stock to improve, and has opportunities ofturning it all to good account, what shall we think of him if he suffersnineteen parts of it to lie dead, and perhaps employs even the twentiethto his ruin or disadvantage? But, because the mind cannot be always inits fervours, nor strained up to a pitch of virtue, it is necessary tofind 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 isbelow reasonable creatures to be altogether conversant in such diversionsas are merely innocent, and have nothing else to recommend them but thatthere is no hurt in them. Whether any kind of gaming has even thus muchto say for itself, I shall not determine; but I think it is verywonderful to see persons of the best sense passing away a dozen hourstogether in shuffling and dividing a pack of cards, with no otherconversation but what is made up of a few game phrases, and no otherideas but those of black or red spots ranged together in differentfigures. Would not a man laugh to hear any one of this speciescomplaining that life is short?

The stage might be made a perpetual source of the most noble and usefulentertainments, were it under proper regulations. 

But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably as in the conversation ofa well-chosen friend. There is indeed no blessing of life that is anyway comparable to the enjoyment of a discreet and virtuous friend. Iteases and unloads the mind, clears and improves the understanding, engenders thoughts and knowledge, animates virtue and good resolutions, soothes and allays the passions, and finds employment for most of thevacant hours of life. 

Next to such an intimacy with a particular person, one would endeavourafter a more general conversation with such as are able to entertain andimprove those with whom they converse, which are qualifications thatseldom go asunder. 

There are many other useful amusements of life which one would endeavourto multiply, that one might on all occasions have recourse to somethingrather than suffer the mind to lie idle, or run adrift with any passionthat chances to rise in it. 

A man that has a taste of music, painting, or architecture, is like onethat has another sense, when compared with such as have no relish ofthose arts. The florist, the planter, the gardener, the husbandman, whenthey are only as accomplishments to the man of fortune, are great reliefsto a country life, and many ways useful to those who are possessed ofthem. 

But of all the diversions of life, there is none so proper to fill up itsempty spaces as the reading of useful and entertaining authors. But thisI shall only touch upon, because it in some measure interferes with thethird method, which I shall propose in another paper, for the employmentof our dead, inactive hours, and which I shall only mention in general tobe the pursuit of knowledge. 

Part Two. 

 --_Hoc est_ _Vivere bis_, _vita posse priore frui_. 

 MART. , _Ep. _ x. 23. 

 The present joys of life we doubly taste, By looking back with pleasure to the past. 

The last method which I proposed in my Saturday's paper, for filing upthose empty spaces of life which are so tedious and burthensome to idlepeople, is the employing ourselves in the pursuit of knowledge. Iremember Mr. Boyle, speaking of a certain mineral, tells us that a manmay consume his whole life in the study of it without arriving at theknowledge of all its qualities. The truth of it is, there is not asingle science, or any branch of it, that might not furnish a man withbusiness for life, though it were much longer than it is. 

I shall not here engage on those beaten subjects of the usefulness ofknowledge, nor of the pleasure and perfection it gives the mind, nor onthe methods of attaining it, nor recommend any particular branch of it;all which have been the topics of many other writers; but shall indulgemyself 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 andtedious, and shall here endeavour to show how those parts of life whichare exercised in study, reading, and the pursuits of knowledge, are long, but not tedious, and by that means discover a method of lengthening ourlives, and at the same time of turning all the parts of them to ouradvantage. 

Mr. Locke observes, "That we get the idea of time or duration, byreflecting on that train of ideas which succeed one another in our minds:that, for this reason, when we sleep soundly without dreaming, we have noperception of time, or the length of it whilst we sleep; and that themoment wherein we leave off to think, till the moment we begin to thinkagain, seems to have no distance. " To which the author adds, "and so Idoubt not but it would be to a waking man, if it were possible for him tokeep only one idea in his mind, without variation and the succession ofothers; and we see that one who fixes his thoughts very intently on onething, so as to take but little notice of the succession of ideas thatpass in his mind whilst he is taken up with that earnest contemplation, lets slip out of his account a good part of that duration, and thinksthat time shorter than it is. "

We might carry this thought further, and consider a man as on one side, shortening his time by thinking on nothing, or but a few things; so, onthe other, as lengthening it, by employing his thoughts on many subjects, or by entertaining a quick and constant succession of ideas. Accordingly, Monsieur Malebranche, in his "Inquiry after Truth, " which was publishedseveral years before Mr. Locke's Essay on "Human Understanding, " tellsus, "that it is possible some creatures may think half an hour as long aswe do a thousand years; or look upon that space of duration which we calla minute, as an hour, a week, a month, or a whole age. "

This notion of Monsieur Malebranche is capable of some little explanationfrom what I have quoted out of Mr. Locke; for if our notion of time isproduced by our reflecting on the succession of ideas in our mind, andthis succession may be infinitely accelerated or retarded, it will followthat different beings may have different notions of the same parts ofduration, according as their ideas, which we suppose are equally distinctin each of them, follow one another in a greater or less degree ofrapidity. 

There is a famous passage in the Alcoran, which looks as if Mahomet hadbeen possessed of the notion we are now speaking of. It is there saidthat the Angel Gabriel took Mahomet out of his bed one morning to givehim 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 ninetythousand conferences with God, was brought back again to his bed. Allthis, says the Alcoran, was transacted in so small a space of time, thatMahomet at his return found his bed still warm, and took up an earthenpitcher, which was thrown down at the very instant that the Angel Gabrielcarried him away, before the water was all spilt. 

There is a very pretty story in the Turkish Tales, which relates to thispassage of that famous impostor, and bears some affinity to the subjectwe are now upon. A sultan of Egypt, who was an infidel, used to laugh atthis circumstance in Mahomet's life, as what was altogether impossibleand absurd: but conversing one day with a great doctor in the law, whohad the gift of working miracles, the doctor told him he would quicklyconvince him of the truth of this passage in the history of Mahomet, ifhe would consent to do what he should desire of him. Upon this thesultan was directed to place himself by a huge tub of water, which he didaccordingly; and as he stood by the tub amidst a circle of his great men, the holy man bade him plunge his head into the water and draw it upagain. The king accordingly thrust his head into the water, and at thesame time found himself at the foot of a mountain on the sea-shore. Theking immediately began to rage against his doctor for this piece oftreachery and witchcraft; but at length, knowing it was in vain to beangry, he set himself to think on proper methods for getting a livelihoodin this strange country. Accordingly he applied himself to some peoplewhom he saw at work in a neighbouring wood: these people conducted him toa town that stood at a little distance from the wood, where, after someadventures, he married a woman of great beauty and fortune. He livedwith this woman so long that he had by her seven sons and sevendaughters. He was afterwards reduced to great want, and forced to thinkof plying in the streets as a porter for his livelihood. One day as hewas walking alone by the sea-side, being seized with many melancholyreflections upon his former and his present state of life, which hadraised a fit of devotion in him, he threw off his clothes with a designto wash himself, according to the custom of the Mahometans, before hesaid his prayers. 

After his first plunge into the sea, he no sooner raised his head abovethe water but he found himself standing by the side of the tub, with thegreat men of his court about him, and the holy man at his side. Heimmediately upbraided his teacher for having sent him on such a course ofadventures, and betrayed him into so long a state of misery andservitude; but was wonderfully surprised when he heard that the state hetalked of was only a dream and delusion; that he had not stirred from theplace where he then stood; and that he had only dipped his head into thewater, and immediately taken it out again. 

The Mahometan doctor took this occasion of instructing the sultan thatnothing was impossible with God; and that He, with whom a thousand yearsare but as one day, can, if He pleases, make a single day--nay, a singlemoment--appear to any of His creatures as a thousand years. 

I shall leave my reader to compare these Eastern fables with the notionsof those two great philosophers whom I have quoted in this paper; andshall only, by way of application, desire him to consider how we mayextend life beyond its natural dimensions, by applying ourselvesdiligently to the pursuit of knowledge. 

The hours of a wise man are lengthened by his ideas, as those of a foolare by his passions. The time of the one is long, because he does notknow what to do with it; so is that of the other, because hedistinguishes every moment of it with useful or amusing thoughts; or, inother words, because the one is always wishing it away, and the otheralways enjoying it. 

How different is the view of past life, in the man who is grown old inknowledge and wisdom, from that of him who is grown old in ignorance andfolly! The latter is like the owner of a barren country, that fills hiseye with the prospect of naked hills and plains, which produce nothingeither profitable or ornamental; the other beholds a beautiful andspacious landscape divided into delightful gardens, green meadows, fruitful fields, and can scarce cast his eye on a single spot of hispossessions that is not covered with some beautiful plant or flower. 

CENSURE. 

 _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_. 

HOR. , _Epist. _ ii. 1, 5. 

 MITATED. 

 Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame, And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name, After a life of generous toils endured, The Gaul subdued, or property secured, Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm'd, Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd; Closed 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 thepublic for being eminent. " It is a folly for an eminent man to think ofescaping it, and a weakness to be affected with it. All the illustriouspersons of antiquity, and indeed of every age in the world, have passedthrough this fiery persecution. There is no defence against reproach butobscurity; it is a kind of concomitant to greatness, as satires andinvectives were an essential part of a Roman triumph. 

If men of eminence are exposed to censure on one hand, they are as muchliable to flattery on the other. If they receive reproaches which arenot 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 indifferenteye, but always considered as a friend or an enemy. For this reasonpersons in great stations have seldom their true characters drawn tillseveral years after their deaths. Their personal friendships andenmities must cease, and the parties they were engaged in be at an end, before their faults or their virtues can have justice done them. Whenwriters have the least opportunity of knowing the truth, they are in thebest disposition to tell it. 

It is therefore the privilege of posterity to adjust the characters ofillustrious persons, and to set matters right between those antagonistswho by their rivalry for greatness divided a whole age into factions. Wecan now allow Caesar to be a great man, without derogating from Pompey;and celebrate the virtues of Cato, without detracting from those ofCaesar. Every one that has been long dead has a due proportion of praiseallotted him, in which, whilst he lived, his friends were too profuse, and his enemies too sparing. 

According to Sir Isaac Newton's calculations, the last comet that madeits appearance, in 1680, imbibed so much heat by its approaches to thesun, that it would have been two thousand times hotter than red-hot iron, had it been a globe of that metal; and that supposing it as big as theearth, and at the same distance from the sun, it would be fifty thousandyears in cooling, before it recovered its natural temper. In the likemanner, if an Englishman considers the great ferment into which ourpolitical world is thrown at present, and how intensely it is heated inall its parts, he cannot suppose that it will cool again in less thanthree hundred years. In such a tract of time it is possible that theheats of the present age may be extinguished, and our several classes ofgreat men represented under their proper characters. Some eminenthistorian may then probably arise that will not write _recentibus odiis_, as Tacitus expresses it, with the passions and prejudices of acontemporary author, but make an impartial distribution of fame among thegreat men of the present age. 

I cannot forbear entertaining myself very often with the idea of such animaginary historian describing the reign of Anne the First, andintroducing it with a preface to his reader, that he is now entering uponthe most shining part of the English story. The great rivals in famewill be then distinguished according to their respective merits, andshine in their proper points of light. Such an one, says the historian, though variously represented by the writers of his own age, appears tohave been a man of more than ordinary abilities, great application, anduncommon integrity: nor was such an one, though of an opposite party andinterest, inferior to him in any of these respects. The severalantagonists who now endeavour to depreciate one another, and arecelebrated or traduced by different parties, will then have the same bodyof admirers, and appear illustrious in the opinion of the whole Britishnation. The deserving man, who can now recommend himself to the esteemof but half his countrymen, will then receive the approbations andapplauses of a whole age. 

Among the several persons that flourish in this glorious reign, there isno question but such a future historian, as the person of whom I amspeaking, will make mention of the men of genius and learning who havenow any figure in the British nation. For my own part, I often flattermyself with the honourable mention which will then be made of me; andhave drawn up a paragraph in my own imagination, that I fancy will not bealtogether unlike what will be found in some page or other of thisimaginary historian. 

It was under this reign, says he, that the _Spectator_ published thoselittle diurnal essays which are still extant. We know very little of thename or person of this author, except only that he was a man of a veryshort face, extremely addicted to silence, and so great a lover ofknowledge, that he made a voyage to Grand Cairo for no other reason butto take the measure of a pyramid. His chief friend was one Sir Roger DeCoverley, a whimsical country knight, and a Templar, whose name he hasnot transmitted to us. He lived as a lodger at the house of awidow-woman, and was a great humorist in all parts of his life. This isall we can affirm with any certainty of his person and character. As forhis speculations, notwithstanding the several obsolete words and obscurephrases of the age in which he lived, we still understand enough of themto see the diversions and characters of the English nation in his time:not but that we are to make allowance for the mirth and humour of theauthor, who has doubtless strained many representations of things beyondthe truth. For if we interpret his words in their literal meaning, wemust suppose that women of the first quality used to pass away wholemornings at a puppet-show; that they attested their principles by theirpatches; that an audience would sit out an evening to hear a dramaticalperformance written in a language which they did not understand; thatchairs and flower-pots were introduced as actors upon the British stage;that a promiscuous assembly of men and women were allowed to meet atmidnight in masks within the verge of the Court; with manyimprobabilities of the like nature. We must therefore, in these and thelike cases, suppose that these remote hints and allusions aimed at somecertain follies which were then in vogue, and which at present we havenot any notion of. We may guess by several passages in the speculations, that there were writers who endeavoured to detract from the works of thisauthor; but as nothing of this nature is come down to us, we cannot guessat any objections that could be made to his paper. If we consider hisstyle with that indulgence which we must show to old English writers, orif we look into the variety of his subjects, with those several criticaldissertations, moral reflections, * * * * *

The following part of the paragraph is so much to my advantage, andbeyond anything I can pretend to, that I hope my reader will excuse mefor not inserting it. 

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 

 _Est brevitate opus_, _ut currat sententia_, HOR. , _Sat. _ i. 10, 9. 

 Let brevity despatch the rapid thought. 

I have somewhere read of an eminent person who used in his privateoffices of devotion to give thanks to Heaven that he was born aFrenchman: for my own part I look upon it as a peculiar blessing that Iwas born an Englishman. Among many other reasons, I think myself veryhappy in my country, as the language of it is wonderfully adapted to aman who is sparing of his words, and an enemy to loquacity. 

As I have frequently reflected on my good fortune in this particular, Ishall communicate to the public my speculations upon 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, ifthe remarks which are made on us by foreigners are true. Our discourseis not kept up in conversation, but falls into more pauses and intervalsthan in our neighbouring countries; as it is observed that the matter ofour writings is thrown much closer together, and lies in a narrowercompass, than is usual in the works of foreign authors; for, to favourour natural taciturnity, when we are obliged to utter our thoughts we doit in the shortest way we are able, and give as quick a birth to ourconceptions as possible. 

This humour shows itself in several remarks that we may make upon theEnglish language. As, first of all, by its abounding in monosyllables, which gives us an opportunity of delivering our thoughts in few sounds. This indeed takes off from the elegance of our tongue, but at the sametime expresses our ideas in the readiest manner, and consequently answersthe first design of speech better than the multitude of syllables whichmake the words of other languages more tuneable and sonorous. The soundsof our English words are commonly like those of string music, short andtransient, which rise and perish upon a single touch; those of otherlanguages are like the notes of wind instruments, sweet and swelling, andlengthened out into variety of modulation. 

In the next place we may observe that, where the words are notmonosyllables, we often make them so, as much as lies in our power, byour rapidity of pronunciation; as it generally happens in most of ourlong words which are derived from the Latin, where we contract the lengthof the syllables, that gives them a grave and solemn air in their ownlanguage, to make them more proper for despatch, and more conformable tothe genius of our tongue. This we may find in a multitude of words, as"liberty, " "conspiracy, " "theatre, " "orator, " &c. 

The same natural aversion to loquacity has of late years made a veryconsiderable alteration in our language, by closing in one syllable thetermination of our preterperfect tense, as in the words "drown'd, ""walk'd, " "arriv'd, " for "drowned, " "walked, " "arrived, " which has verymuch disfigured the tongue, and turned a tenth part of our smoothestwords into so many clusters of consonants. This is the more remarkablebecause the want of vowels in our language has been the general complaintof our politest authors, who nevertheless are the men that have madethese retrenchments, and consequently very much increased our formerscarcity. 

This reflection on the words that end in "ed" I have heard inconversation from one of the greatest geniuses this age has produced. Ithink we may add to the foregoing observation, the change which hashappened in our language by the abbreviation of several words that areterminated in "eth, " by substituting an "s" in the room of the lastsyllable, as in "drowns, " "walks, " "arrives, " and innumerable otherwords, which in the pronunciation of our forefathers were "drowneth, ""walketh, " "arriveth. " This has wonderfully multiplied a letter whichwas before too frequent in the English tongue, and added to that hissingin our language which is taken so much notice of by foreigners, but atthe same time humours our taciturnity, and eases us of many superfluoussyllables. 

I might here observe that the same single letter on many occasions doesthe office of a whole word, and represents the "his" and "her" of ourforefathers. There is no doubt but the ear of a foreigner, which is thebest judge in this case, would very much disapprove of such innovations, which indeed we do ourselves in some measure, by retaining the oldtermination in writing, and in all the solemn offices of our religion. 

As, in the instances I have given, we have epitomised many of ourparticular words to the detriment of our tongue, so on other occasions wehave drawn two words into one, which has likewise very much untuned ourlanguage, and clogged it with consonants, as "mayn't, " "can't, " "shan't, ""won't, " and the like, for "may not, " "can not, " "shall not, " "will not, "&c. 

It is perhaps this humour of speaking no more than we needs must whichhas so miserably curtailed some of our words, that in familiar writingsand conversations they often lose all but their first syllables, as in"mob. , " "rep. , " "pos. , " "incog. , " and the like; and as all ridiculouswords make their first entry into a language by familiar phrases, I darenot answer for these that they will not in time be looked upon as a partof our tongue. We see some of our poets have been so indiscreet as toimitate Hudibras's doggrel expressions in their serious compositions, bythrowing out the signs of our substantives which are essential to theEnglish language. Nay, this humour of shortening our language had oncerun so far, that some of our celebrated authors, among whom we may reckonSir Roger L'Estrange in particular, began to prune their words of allsuperfluous letters, as they termed them, in order to adjust the spellingto the pronunciation; which would have confounded all our etymologies, and have quite destroyed our tongue. 

We may here likewise observe that our proper names, when familiarised inEnglish, generally dwindle to monosyllables, whereas in other modernlanguages they receive a softer turn on this occasion, by the addition ofa new syllable. --Nick, in Italian, is Nicolini; Jack, in French, Janot;and so of the rest. 

There is another particular in our language which is a great instance ofour frugality in words, and that is the suppressing of several particleswhich must be produced in other tongues to make a sentence intelligible. This often perplexes the best writers, when they find the relatives"whom, " "which, " or "they, " at their mercy, whether they may haveadmission or not; and will never be decided till we have something likean academy, that by the best authorities, and rules drawn from theanalogy of languages, shall settle all controversies between grammar andidiom. 

I have only considered our language as it shows the genius and naturaltemper of the English, which is modest, thoughtful, and sincere, andwhich, perhaps, may recommend the people, though it has spoiled thetongue. We might, perhaps, carry the same thought into other languages, and deduce a great part of what is peculiar to them from the genius ofthe people who speak them. It is certain the light talkative humour ofthe French has not a little infected their tongue, which might be shownby many instances; as the genius of the Italians, which is so muchaddicted to music and ceremony, has moulded all their words and phrasesto those particular uses. The stateliness and gravity of the Spaniardsshows itself to perfection in the solemnity of their language; and theblunt, honest humour of the Germans sounds better in the roughness of theHigh-Dutch than it would in a politer tongue. 

THE VISION OF MIRZA. 

 --_Omnem_, _quae nunc obducta tuenti_ _Mortales hebetat visus tibi_, _et humida circum_ _Caligat_, _nubem eripiam_. 

 VIRG. , _AEn. _ 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 "TheVisions of Mirza, " which I have read over with great pleasure. I intendto give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them; andshall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word for wordas follows:

"On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of myforefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offeredup my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order topass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airingmyself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplationon the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, 'Surely, ' said I, 'man is but a shadow, and life a dream. ' Whilst I wasthus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not farfrom me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with amusical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it tohis lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceedingsweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressiblymelodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. Theyput me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departedsouls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out theimpressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures ofthat happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. 

"I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius, and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. Whenhe had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, totaste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like oneastonished, he beckoned to me, and, by the waving of his hand, directedme to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverencewhich is due to a superior nature; and, as my heart was entirely subduedby 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 thatfamiliarised him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fearsand apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from theground, and, taking me by the hand, 'Mirza, ' said he, 'I have heard theein thy soliloquies; follow me. '

"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me onthe top of it, 'Cast thy eyes eastward, ' said he, 'and tell me what thouseest. ' 'I see, ' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of waterrolling through it. ' 'The valley that thou seest, ' said he, 'is the Valeof Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the greattide of Eternity. ' 'What is the reason, ' said I, 'that the tide I seerises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thickmist at the other?' 'What thou seest, ' said he, 'is that portion ofEternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching fromthe beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now, ' said he, 'this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me whatthou discoverest in it. ' 'I see a bridge, ' said I, 'standing in themidst of the tide. ' 'The bridge thou seest, ' said he, 'is Human Life;consider it attentively. ' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I foundthat it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with severalbroken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the numberabout a hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me thatthis bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a greatflood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition Inow beheld it. 'But tell me further, ' said he, 'what thou discoverest onit. ' 'I see multitudes of people passing over it, ' said I, 'and a blackcloud hanging on each end of it. ' As I looked more attentively, I sawseveral of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tidethat flowed underneath it; and, upon further examination, perceived therewere innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which thepassengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thickat the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner brokethrough the cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinnertowards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards theend of the arches that were entire. 

"There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, thatcontinued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell throughone after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 

"I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, andthe great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filledwith a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midstof mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them tosave themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in athoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fellout of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles thatglittered in their eyes and danced before them; but often when theythought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed anddown they sunk. In this confusion of objects, I observed some withscimitars in their hands, who ran to and fro from the bridge, thrustingseveral persons on trapdoors which did not seem to lie in their way, andwhich they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them. 

"The genius, seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy prospect, toldme I had dwelt long enough upon it. 'Take thine eyes off the bridge, 'said he, 'and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost notcomprehend. ' Upon looking up, 'What mean, ' said I, 'those great flightsof birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settlingupon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches. ' 'These, ' said thegenius, 'are Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the likecares and passions that infest human life. '

"I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas, ' said I, 'man was made in vain! howis he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowedup in death!' The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bademe quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 'Look no more, ' said he, 'on man inthe first stage of his existence, in his setting out for Eternity; butcast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the severalgenerations of mortals that fall into it. ' I directed my sight as I wasordered, and, whether or no the good genius strengthened it with anysupernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before toothick for the eye to penetrate, I saw the valley opening at the furtherend, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock ofadamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equalparts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I coulddiscover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean plantedwith innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers, andinterwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. Icould see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon theirheads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, orresting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused harmony of singingbirds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladnessgrew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for thewings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but thegenius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates ofdeath that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. 'The islands, 'said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before thee, amid with which thewhole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, aremore in number than the sands on the sea-shore: there are myriads ofislands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further thanthine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are themansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kindsof virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among those severalislands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled inthem: every island is a paradise accommodated to its respectiveinhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for?Does life appear miserable that gives thee opportunities of earning sucha reward? Is death to be feared that will convey thee to so happy anexistence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an Eternityreserved for him. ' I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happyislands. At length, said I, 'Show me now, I beseech thee, the secretsthat lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the otherside of the rock of adamant. ' The genius making me no answer, I turnedabout to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he hadleft me; I then turned again to the vision which I had been so longcontemplating: but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, andthe happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it. "

GENIUS. 

 --_Cui mens divinior_, _atque os_ _Magna sonaturum des nominis hujus honorem_. 

 HOR. , _Sat. _ i. 4, 43. 

 On him confer the poet's sacred name, Whose lofty voice declares the heavenly flame. 

There is no character more frequently given to a writer than that ofbeing a genius. I have heard many a little sonneteer called a finegenius. There is not a heroic scribbler in the nation that has not hisadmirers who think him a great genius; and as for your smatterers intragedy, there is scarce a man among them who is not cried up by one orother for a prodigious genius. 

My design in this paper is to consider what is properly a great genius, and to throw some thoughts together on so uncommon a subject. 

Among great geniuses those few draw the admiration of all the world uponthem, and stand up as the prodigies of mankind, who, by the mere strengthof natural parts, and without any assistance of art or learning, haveproduced works that were the delight of their own times and the wonder ofposterity. There appears something nobly wild and extravagant in thesegreat natural geniuses, that is infinitely more beautiful than all turnand polishing of what the French call a _bel esprit_, by which they wouldexpress a genius refined by conversation, reflection, and the reading ofthe most polite authors. The greatest genius which runs through the artsand sciences takes a kind of tincture from them and falls unavoidablyinto imitation. 

Many of these great natural geniuses, that were never disciplined andbroken by rules of art, are to be found among the ancients, and inparticular among those of the more Eastern parts of the world. Homer hasinnumerable flights that Virgil was not able to reach, and in the OldTestament we find several passages more elevated and sublime than any inHomer. At the same time that we allow a greater and more daring geniusto the ancients, we must own that the greatest of them very much failedin, or, if you will, that they were much above the nicety and correctnessof the moderns. In their similitudes and allusions, provided there was alikeness, they did not much trouble themselves about the decency of thecomparison: thus Solomon resembles the nose of his beloved to the towerof Lebanon which looketh towards Damascus, as the coming of a thief inthe night is a similitude of the same kind in the New Testament. Itwould be endless to make collections of this nature. Homer illustratesone of his heroes encompassed with the enemy, by an ass in a field ofcorn that has his sides belaboured by all the boys of the village withoutstirring a foot for it; and another of them tossing to and fro in hisbed, and burning with resentment, to a piece of flesh broiled on thecoals. This particular failure in the ancients opens a large field ofraillery to the little wits, who can laugh at an indecency, but notrelish the sublime in these sorts of writings. The present Emperor ofPersia, conformable to this Eastern way of thinking, amidst a great manypompous titles, denominates himself "the sun of glory" and "the nutmeg ofdelight. " In short, to cut off all cavilling against the ancients, andparticularly those of the warmer climates, who had most heat and life intheir imaginations, we are to consider that the rule of observing whatthe French call the _bienseance_ in an allusion has been found out oflater years, and in the colder regions of the world, where we could makesome amends for our want of force and spirit by a scrupulous nicety andexactness in our compositions. Our countryman Shakespeare was aremarkable instance of this first kind of great geniuses. 

I cannot quit this head without observing that Pindar was a great geniusof the first class, who was hurried on by a natural fire and impetuosityto vast conceptions of things and noble sallies of imagination. At thesame time can anything be more ridiculous than for men of a sober andmoderate fancy to imitate this poet's way of writing in those monstrouscompositions which go among us under the name of Pindarics? When I seepeople copying works which, as Horace has represented them, are singularin their kind, and inimitable; when I see men following irregularities byrule, and by the little tricks of art straining after the most unboundedflights 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_. 

 _Eun. _, Act I. , Sc. 1, I. 16. 

You may as well pretend to be mad and in your senses at the same time, asto think of reducing these uncertain things to any certainty by reason. 

In short, a modern Pindaric writer compared with Pindar is like a sisteramong the Camisars compared with Virgil's Sibyl; there is the distortion, grimace, and outward figure, but nothing of that divine impulse whichraises the mind above itself, and makes the sounds more than human. 

There is another kind of great geniuses which I shall place in a secondclass, not as I think them inferior to the first, but only fordistinction's sake, as they are of a different kind. This second classof great geniuses are those that have formed themselves by rules, andsubmitted the greatness of their natural talents to the corrections andrestraints of art. Such among the Greeks were Plato and Aristotle; amongthe Romans, Virgil and Tully; among the English, Milton and Sir FrancisBacon. 

The genius in both these classes of authors may be equally great, butshows itself after a different manner. In the first it is like a richsoil in a happy climate, that produces a whole wilderness of noble plantsrising in a thousand beautiful landscapes without any certain order orregularity; in the other it is the same rich soil, under the same happyclimate, that has been laid out in walks and parterres, and cut intoshape and beauty by the skill of the gardener. 

The great danger in these latter kind of geniuses is lest they cramptheir own abilities too much by imitation, and form themselves altogetherupon models, without giving the full play to their own natural parts. Animitation of the best authors is not to compare with a good original; andI believe we may observe that very few writers make an extraordinaryfigure in the world who have not something in their way of thinking orexpressing themselves, that is peculiar to them, and entirely their own. 

It is odd to consider what great geniuses are sometimes thrown away upontrifles. 

"I once saw a shepherd, " says a famous Italian author, "who used todivert himself in his solitudes with tossing up eggs and catching themagain without breaking them; in which he had arrived to so great a degreeof perfection that he would keep up four at a time for several minutestogether playing in the air, and falling into his hand by turns. Ithink, " says the author, "I never saw a greater severity than in thisman's face, for by his wonderful perseverance and application he hadcontracted the seriousness and gravity of a privy councillor, and I couldnot but reflect with myself that the same assiduity and attention, hadthey been rightly applied, 'might' have made a greater mathematician thanArchimedes. "

THEODOSIUS AND CONSTANTIA. 

 _Illa_; _Quis et me_, _inquit_, _miseram et te perdidit_, _Orpheu_?-- _Jamque vale_: _feror ingenti circumdata nocte_, _Invalidasque tibi tendens_, _heu_! _non tua_, _palmas_. 

 VIRG. , _Georg. _, iv. 494. 

 Then thus the bride: "What fury seiz'd on thee, Unhappy man! to lose thyself and me?-- And now farewell! involv'd in shades of night, For ever I am ravish'd from thy sight: In vain I reach my feeble hands, to join In sweet embraces--ah! no longer thine!"

 DRYDEN. 

Constantia was a woman of extraordinary wit and beauty, but very unhappyin a father who, having arrived at great riches by his own industry, tookdelight in nothing but his money. Theodosius was the younger son of adecayed family, of great parts and learning, improved by a genteel andvirtuous education. When he was in the twentieth year of his age hebecame acquainted with Constantia, who had not then passed her fifteenth. As he lived but a few miles distant from her father's house, he hadfrequent opportunities of seeing her; and, by the advantages of a goodperson and a pleasing conversation, made such an impression in her heartas it was impossible for time to efface. He was himself no less smittenwith Constantia. A long acquaintance made them still discover newbeauties in each other, and by degrees raised in them that mutual passionwhich had an influence on their following lives. It unfortunatelyhappened that, in the midst of this intercourse of love and friendshipbetween Theodosius and Constantia, there broke out an irreparable quarrelbetween their parents; the one valuing himself too much upon his birth, and the other upon his possessions. The father of Constantia was soincensed at the father of Theodosius, that he contracted an unreasonableaversion towards his son, insomuch that he forbade him his house, andcharged his daughter upon her duty never to see him more. In themeantime, to break off all communication between the two lovers, who heknew entertained secret hopes of some favourable opportunity that shouldbring them together, he found out a young gentleman of a good fortune andan 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 hisdesign to marry her to such a gentleman, and that her wedding should becelebrated on such a day. Constantia, who was overawed with theauthority of her father, and unable to object anything against soadvantageous a match, received the proposal with a profound silence, which her father commended in her, as the most decent manner of avirgin's giving her consent to an overture of that kind. The noise ofthis intended marriage soon reached Theodosius, who, after a long tumultof passions which naturally rise in a lover's heart on such an occasion, 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 atthe reading of it; and the next morning she was much more alarmed by twoor three messengers that came to her father's house, one after another, to inquire if they had heard anything of Theodosius, who, it seems, hadleft his chamber about midnight, and could nowhere be found. The deepmelancholy which had hung upon his mind some time before made themapprehend the worst that could befall him. Constantia, who knew thatnothing but the report of her marriage could have driven him to suchextremities, was not to be comforted. She now accused herself for havingso tamely given an ear to the proposal of a husband, and looked upon thenew lover as the murderer of Theodosius. In short, she resolved tosuffer the utmost effects of her father's displeasure rather than complywith a marriage which appeared to her so full of guilt and horror. Thefather, seeing himself entirely rid of Theodosius, and likely to keep aconsiderable portion in his family, was not very much concerned at theobstinate refusal of his daughter, and did not find it very difficult toexcuse himself upon that account to his intended son-in-law, who had allalong regarded this alliance rather as a marriage of convenience than oflove. Constantia had now no relief but in her devotions and exercises ofreligion, to which her affections had so entirely subjected her mind, that after some years had abated the violence of her sorrows, and settledher thoughts in a kind of tranquillity, she resolved to pass theremainder of her days in a convent. Her father was not displeased with aresolution which would save money in his family, and readily compliedwith his daughter's intentions. Accordingly, in the twenty-fifth year ofher age, while her beauty was yet in all its height and bloom, he carriedher to a neighbouring city, in order to look out a sisterhood of nunsamong whom to place his daughter. There was in this place a father of aconvent who was very much renowned for his piety and exemplary life: andas it is usual in the Romish Church for those who are under any greataffliction, or trouble of mind, to apply themselves to the most eminentconfessors for pardon and consolation, our beautiful votary took theopportunity of confessing herself to this celebrated father. 

We must now return to Theodosius, who, the very morning that the above-mentioned inquiries had been made after him, arrived at a religious housein the city where now Constantia resided; and desiring that secrecy andconcealment of the fathers of the convent, which is very usual upon anyextraordinary occasion, he made himself one of the order, with a privatevow never to inquire after Constantia; whom he looked upon as given awayto his rival upon the day on which, according to common fame, theirmarriage was to have been solemnised. Having in his youth made a goodprogress in learning, that he might dedicate himself more entirely toreligion, he entered into holy orders, and in a few years became renownedfor his sanctity of life, and those pious sentiments which he inspiredinto all who conversed with him. It was this holy man to whom Constantiahad determined to apply herself in confession, though neither she nor anyother, besides the prior of the convent, knew anything of his name orfamily. The gay, the amiable Theodosius had now taken upon him the nameof Father Francis, and was so far concealed in a long beard, a shavenhead, and a religious habit, that it was impossible to discover the manof the world in the venerable conventual. 

As he was one morning shut up in his confessional, Constantia kneeling byhim opened the state of her soul to him; and after having given him thehistory of a life full of innocence, she burst out into tears, andentered upon that part of her story in which he himself had so great ashare. "My behaviour, " says she, "has, I fear, been the death of a manwho had no other fault but that of loving me too much. Heaven only knowshow dear he was to me whilst he lived, and how bitter the remembrance ofhim has been to me since his death. " She here paused, and lifted up hereyes that streamed with tears towards the father, who was so moved withthe sense of her sorrows that he could only command his voice, which wasbroken with sighs and sobbings, so far as to bid her proceed. Shefollowed his directions, and in a flood of tears poured out her heartbefore him. The father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that, in the agonies of his grief, the seat shook under him. Constantia, whothought the good man was thus moved by his compassion towards her, and bythe horror of her guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition to acquainthim 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 couldmake to the memory of Theodosius. The father, who by this time hadpretty well composed himself, burst out again in tears upon hearing thatname to which he had been so long disused, and upon receiving thisinstance of an unparalleled fidelity from one who he thought had severalyears since given herself up to the possession of another. Amidst theinterruptions of his sorrow, seeing his penitent overwhelmed with grief, he was only able to bid her from time to time be comforted--to tell herthat her sins were forgiven her--that her guilt was not so great as sheapprehended--that she should not suffer herself to be afflicted abovemeasure. After which he recovered himself enough to give her theabsolution in form: directing her at the same time to repair to him againthe next day, that he might encourage her in the pious resolution she hadtaken, and give her suitable exhortations for her behaviour in it. Constantia retired, and the next morning renewed her applications. Theodosius, having manned his soul with proper thoughts and reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in the best manner he could to animatehis penitent in the course of life she was entering upon, and wear out ofher mind those groundless fears and apprehensions which had takenpossession of it; concluding with a promise to her, that he would fromtime to time continue his admonitions when she should have taken upon herthe holy veil. "The rules of our respective orders, " says he, "will notpermit that I should see you; but you may assure yourself not only ofhaving a place in my prayers, but of receiving such frequent instructionsas I can convey to you by letters. Go on cheerfully in the gloriouscourse you have undertaken, and you will quickly find such a peace andsatisfaction in your mind which it is not in the power of the world togive. "

Constantia's heart was so elevated within the discourse of FatherFrancis, that the very next day she entered upon her vow. As soon as thesolemnities of her reception were over, she retired, as it is usual, withthe abbess into her own apartment. 

The abbess had been informed the night before of all that had passedbetween her novitiate and father Francis: from whom she now delivered toher the following letter:--

 "As the first-fruits of those joys and consolations which you may expect from the life you are now engaged in, I must acquaint you that Theodosius, whose death sits so heavy upon your thoughts, is still alive; and that the father to whom you have confessed yourself was once that Theodosius whom you so much lament. The love which we have had for 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 according 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 handwriting agreed with the contents of theletter; and, upon reflecting on the voice of the person, the behaviour, and above all the extreme sorrow of the father during her confession, shediscovered Theodosius in every particular. After having wept with tearsof joy, "It is enough, " says she; "Theodosius is still in being: I shalllive with comfort and die in peace. "

The letters which the father sent her afterwards are yet extant in thenunnery where she resided; and are often read to the young religious, inorder to inspire them with good resolutions and sentiments of virtue. Itso happened that after Constantia had lived about ten years in thecloister, a violent fever broke out in the place, which swept away greatmultitudes, and among others Theodosius. Upon his death-bed he sent hisbenediction in a very moving manner to Constantia, who at that time washerself so far gone in the same fatal distemper that she lay delirious. Upon the interval which generally precedes death in sickness of thisnature, the abbess, finding that the physicians had given her over, toldher that Theodosius had just gone before her, and that he had sent herhis benediction in his last moments. Constantia received it withpleasure. "And now, " says she, "if I do not ask anything improper, letme be buried by Theodosius. My vow reaches no further than the grave;what I ask is, I hope, no violation of it. " She died soon after, and wasinterred according to her request. 

The tombs are still to be seen, with a short Latin inscription over themto the following purpose:--

 "Here lie the bodies of Father Francis and Sister Constance. They were lovely in their lives, and in their death they were not divided. "

GOOD NATURE. 

Part One. 

 _Sic vita erat_: _facile omnes perferre ac pati_: _Cum quibus erat cunque una_, _his sese dedere_, _Eorum obsequi studiis_: _advorsus nemini_; _Nunquam praeponens se aliis_. _Ita facillime_ _Sine invidia invenias laudem_. --

 TER. , _Andr. _, Act i. _se. _ 1. 

 His manner of life was this: to bear with everybody's humours; to comply with the inclinations and pursuits of those he conversed with; to contradict nobody; never to assume a superiority over others. This is the ready way to gain applause without exciting envy. 

Man is subject to innumerable pains and sorrows by the very condition ofhumanity, and yet, as if Nature had not sown evils enough in life, we arecontinually adding grief to grief, and aggravating the common calamity byour cruel treatment of one another. Every man's natural weight ofaffliction is still made more heavy by the envy, malice, treachery, orinjustice of his neighbour. At the same time that the storm beats on thewhole species, we are falling foul upon one another. 

Half the misery of human life might be extinguished, would men alleviatethe general curse they lie under, by mutual offices of compassion, benevolence, and humanity. There is nothing, therefore, which we oughtmore to encourage in ourselves and others, than that disposition of mindwhich in our language goes under the title of good nature, and which Ishall choose for the subject of this day's speculation. 

Good-nature is more agreeable in conversation than wit, and gives acertain air to the countenance which is more amiable than beauty. Itshows virtue in the fairest light, takes off in some measure from thedeformity of vice, and makes even folly and impertinence supportable. 

There is no society or conversation to be kept up in the world withoutgood nature, or something which must bear its appearance, and supply itsplace. For this reason, mankind have been forced to invent a kind ofartificial 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 findit to be nothing else but an imitation and mimicry of good nature, or, inother terms, affability, complaisance, and easiness of temper, reducedinto an art. These exterior shows and appearances of humanity render aman wonderfully popular and beloved, when they are founded upon a realgood nature; but, without it, are like hypocrisy in religion, or a bareform of holiness, which, when it is discovered, makes a man moredetestable than professed impiety. 

Good-nature is generally born with us: health, prosperity, and kindtreatment from the world, are great cherishers of it where they find it;but nothing is capable of forcing it up, where it does not grow ofitself. It is one of the blessings of a happy constitution, whicheducation may improve, but not produce. 

Xenophon, in the life of his imaginary prince whom he describes as apattern for real ones, is always celebrating the philanthropy and goodnature 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 inall the several parts of his life. Nay, on his death-bed, he describeshim 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 bythat means become beneficial to mankind. For which reason, he gives hissons a positive order not to enshrine it in gold or silver, but to lay itin the earth as soon as the life was gone out of it. 

An instance of such an overflowing of humanity, such an exuberant love tomankind, could not have entered into the imagination of a writer who hadnot a soul filled with great ideas, and a general benevolence to mankind. 

In that celebrated passage of Sallust, where Caesar and Cato are placedin such beautiful but opposite lights, Caesar's character is chiefly madeup of good nature, as it showed itself in all its forms towards hisfriends or his enemies, his servants or dependents, the guilty or thedistressed. As for Cato's character, it is rather awful than amiable. Justice seems most agreeable to the nature of God, and mercy to that ofman. A Being who has nothing to pardon in Himself, may reward every manaccording to his works; but he whose very best actions must be seen withgrains of allowance, cannot be too mild, moderate, and forgiving. Forthis reason, among all the monstrous characters in human nature, there isnone so odious, nor indeed so exquisitely ridiculous, as that of a rigid, severe temper in a worthless man. 

This part of good nature however, which consists in the pardoning andoverlooking of faults, is to be exercised only in doing ourselvesjustice, and that too in the ordinary commerce and occurrences of life;for, in the public administrations of justice, mercy to one may becruelty to others. 

It is grown almost into a maxim, that good-natured men are not always menof the most wit. This observation, in my opinion, has no foundation innature. The greatest wits I have conversed with are men eminent fortheir humanity. I take, therefore, this remark to have been occasionedby two reasons. First, because ill-nature among ordinary observerspasses for wit. A spiteful saying gratifies so many little passions inthose who hear it, that it generally meets with a good reception. Thelaugh rises upon it, and the man who utters it is looked upon as a shrewdsatirist. This may be one reason why a great many pleasant companionsappear so surprisingly dull when they have endeavoured to be merry inprint; the public being more just than private clubs or assemblies, indistinguishing between what is wit and what is ill-nature. 

Another reason why the good-natured man may sometimes bring his wit inquestion is perhaps because he is apt to be moved with compassion forthose 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 aveil over, laughs at vices which the other either excuses or conceals, gives utterance to reflections which the other stifles, fallsindifferently upon friends or enemies, exposes the person who has obligedhim, and, in short, sticks at nothing that may establish his character asa wit. It is no wonder, therefore, he succeeds in it better than the manof humanity, as a person who makes use of indirect methods is more likelyto grow rich than the fair trader. 

Part Two. 

 --_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. 

 TATE. 

In one of my last week's papers, I treated of good-nature as it is theeffect of constitution; I shall now speak of it as it is a moral virtue. The first may make a man easy in himself and agreeable to others, butimplies no merit in him that is possessed of it. A man is no more to bepraised upon this account, than because he has a regular pulse or a gooddigestion. This good nature, however, in the constitution, which Mr. Dryden somewhere calls "a milkiness of blood, " is an admirable groundworkfor the other. In order, therefore, to try our good-nature, whether itarises from the body or the mind, whether it be founded in the animal orrational part of our nature; in a word, whether it be such as is entitledto any other reward besides that secret satisfaction and contentment ofmind which is essential to it, and the kind reception it procures us inthe world, we must examine it by the following rules:

First, whether it acts with steadiness and uniformity in sickness and inhealth, in prosperity and in adversity; if otherwise, it is to be lookedupon as nothing else but an irradiation of the mind from some new supplyof spirits, or a more kindly circulation of the blood. Sir Francis Baconmentions a cunning solicitor, who would never ask a favour of a great manbefore dinner; but took care to prefer his petition at a time when theparty petitioned had his mind free from care, and his appetites in goodhumour. Such a transient temporary good-nature as this, is not thatphilanthropy, that love of mankind, which deserves the title of a moralvirtue. 

The next way of a man's bringing his good-nature to the test is toconsider whether it operates according to the rules of reason and duty:for if, notwithstanding its general benevolence to mankind, it makes nodistinction between its objects; if it exerts itself promiscuouslytowards the deserving and the undeserving; if it relieves alike the idleand the indigent; if it gives itself up to the first petitioner, andlights upon any one rather by accident than choice--it may pass for anamiable instinct, but must not assume the name of a moral virtue. 

The third trial of good-nature will be the examining ourselves whether orno we are able to exert it to our own disadvantage, and employ it onproper objects, notwithstanding any little pain, want, or inconvenience, which may arise to ourselves from it: in a word, whether we are willingto risk any part of our fortune, our reputation, our health or ease, forthe benefit of mankind. Among all these expressions of good nature, Ishall single out that which goes under the general name of charity, as itconsists in relieving the indigent: that being a trial of this kind whichoffers 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 anycompetency 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 offering to Him who has a right to thewhole, for the use of those whom, in the passage hereafter mentioned, Hehas described as His own representatives upon earth. At the same time, we should manage our charity with such prudence and caution, that we maynot hurt our own friends or relations whilst we are doing good to thosewho are strangers to us. 

This may possibly be explained better by an example than by a rule. 

Eugenius is a man of a universal good nature, and generous beyond theextent of his fortune; but withal so prudent in the economy of hisaffairs, that what goes out in charity is made up by good management. Eugenius has what the world calls two hundred pounds a year; but nevervalues himself above nine-score, as not thinking he has a right to thetenth part, which he always appropriates to charitable uses. To this sumhe frequently makes other voluntary additions, insomuch, that in a goodyear--for such he accounts those in which he has been able to makegreater bounties than ordinary--he has given above twice that sum to thesickly and indigent. Eugenius prescribes to himself many particular daysof fasting and abstinence, in order to increase his private bank ofcharity, and sets aside what would be the current expenses of those timesfor the use of the poor. He often goes afoot where his business callshim, and at the end of his walk has given a shilling, which in hisordinary methods of expense would have gone for coach-hire, to the firstnecessitous person that has fallen in his way. I have known him, when hehas been going to a play or an opera, divert the money which was designedfor that purpose upon an object of charity whom he has met with in thestreet; and afterwards pass his evening in a coffee-house, or at afriend's fireside, with much greater satisfaction to himself than hecould have received from the most exquisite entertainments of thetheatre. 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 becharitable after this manner, without any disadvantage to themselves, orprejudice to their families. It is but sometimes sacrificing a diversionor convenience to the poor, and turning the usual course of our expensesinto a better channel. This is, I think, not only the most prudent andconvenient, but the most meritorious piece of charity which we can put inpractice. By this method, we in some measure share the necessities ofthe poor at the same time that we relieve them, and make ourselves notonly their patrons, but their fellow-sufferers. 

Sir Thomas Brown, in the last part of his "Religio Medici, " in which hedescribes his charity in several heroic instances, and with a noble heatof sentiments, mentions that verse in the Proverbs of Solomon: "He thatgiveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord. " There is more rhetoric in thatone sentence, says he, than in a library of sermons; and indeed, if thosesentences were understood by the reader with the same emphasis as theyare delivered by the author, we needed not those volumes of instructions, but might be honest by an epitome. 

This passage of Scripture is, indeed, wonderfully persuasive; but I thinkthe same thought is carried much further in the New Testament, where ourSaviour tells us, in a most pathetic manner, that he shall hereafterregard the clothing of the naked, the feeding of the hungry, and thevisiting of the imprisoned, as offices done to Himself, and reward themaccordingly. Pursuant to those passages in Holy Scripture, I havesomewhere met with the epitaph of a charitable man, which has very muchpleased me. I cannot recollect the words, but the sense of it is to thispurpose: What I spent I lost; what I possessed is left to others; what Igave away remains with me. 

Since I am thus insensibly engaged in Sacred Writ, I cannot forbearmaking an extract of several passages which I have always read with greatdelight in the book of Job. It is the account which that holy man givesof his behaviour in the days of his prosperity; and, if considered onlyas a human composition, is a finer picture of a charitable andgood-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 walkedthrough darkness: When the Almighty was yet with me; when my childrenwere about me: When I washed my steps with butter, and the rock poured meout rivers of oil. 

"When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, itgave witness to me. Because I delivered the poor that cried, and thefatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him thatwas ready to perish came upon me, and I caused the widow's heart to singfor joy. I was eyes to the blind; and feet was I to the lame; I was afather to the poor, and the cause which I knew not I searched out. Didnot I weep for him that was in trouble? Was not my soul grieved for thepoor? Let me be weighed in an even balance, that God may know mineintegrity. If I did despise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid-servant when they contended with me: What then shall I do when God risethup? and when he visiteth, what shall I answer him? Did not he that mademe in the womb, make him? and did not one fashion us in the womb? If Ihave withheld the poor from their desire, or have caused the eyes of thewidow to fail; Or have eaten my morsel myself alone, and the fatherlesshath 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 hewere not warmed with the fleece of my sheep; If I have lifted my handagainst the fatherless, when I saw my help in the gate: Then let mine armfall from my shoulder-blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone. If I[have] rejoiced at the destruction of him that hated me, or lifted upmyself when evil found him: Neither have I suffered my mouth to sin, bywishing a curse to his soul. The stranger did not lodge in the street;but I opened my doors to the traveller. If my land cry against me, orthat the furrows likewise thereof complain: If I have eaten the fruitsthereof without money, or have caused the owners thereof to lose theirlife: Let thistles grow instead of wheat, and cockle instead of barley. "

A GRINNING MATCH. 

 --_Remove fera monstra_, _tuaeque_ _Saxificos vultus_, _quaecunque ea_, _tolle Medusae_. 

 OVID, _Met. _ v. 216. 

 Hence with those monstrous features, and, O! spare That Gorgon's look, and petrifying stare. 

 POPE. 

In a late paper, I mentioned the project of an ingenious author for theerecting of several handicraft prizes to be contended for by our Britishartisans, and the influence they might have towards the improvement ofour several manufactures. I have since that been very much surprised bythe following advertisement, which I find in the _Post-boy_ of the 11thinstant, and again repeated in the _Post-boy_ of the 15th:--

 "On the 9th of October next will be run for upon Coleshill-heath, in Warwickshire, a plate of six guineas value, three heats, by any horse, mare, or gelding that hath not won above the value of 5 pounds, the winning horse to be sold for 10 pounds, to carry 10 stone weight, if 14 hands high; if above or under, to carry or be allowed weight for inches, and to be entered Friday, the 5th, at the Swan in Coleshill, before six in the evening. Also, a plate of less value to be run for by asses. The same day a gold ring to be grinn'd for by men. "

The first of these diversions that is to be exhibited by the 10 poundsrace-horses, may probably have its use; but the two last, in which theasses and men are concerned, seem to me altogether extraordinary andunaccountable. Why they should keep running asses at Coleshill, or howmaking mouths turns to account in Warwickshire, more than in any otherparts of England, I cannot comprehend. I have looked over all theOlympic games, and do not find anything in them like an ass-race, or amatch at grinning. However it be, I am informed that several asses arenow kept in body-clothes, and sweated every morning upon the heath: andthat all the country-fellows within ten miles of the Swan grin an hour ortwo in their glasses every morning, in order to qualify themselves forthe 9th of October. The prize which is proposed to be grinned for hasraised such an ambition among the common people of out-grinning oneanother, that many very discerning persons are afraid it should spoilmost of the faces in the county; and that a Warwickshire man will beknown by his grin, as Roman Catholics imagine a Kentish man is by histail. The gold ring which is made the prize of deformity, is just thereverse of the golden apple that was formerly made the prize of beauty, and should carry for its poesy the old motto inverted:

 _Detur tetriori_. 

Or, to accommodate it to the capacity of the combatants, The frightfull'st grinner Be the winner. 

In the meanwhile I would advise a Dutch painter to be present at thisgreat controversy of faces, in order to make a collection of the mostremarkable grins that shall be there exhibited. 

I must not here omit an account which I lately received of one of thesegrinning matches from a gentleman, who, upon reading the above-mentionedadvertisement, entertained a coffee-house with the followingnarrative:--Upon the taking of Namur, amidst other public rejoicings madeon that occasion, there was a gold ring given by a Whig justice of peaceto be grinned for. The first competitor that entered the lists was ablack, swarthy Frenchman, who accidentally passed that way, and being aman naturally of a withered look and hard features, promised himself goodsuccess. He was placed upon a table in the great point of view, and, looking upon the company like Milton's Death, Grinned horribly a ghastly smile. 

His muscles were so drawn together on each side of his face that heshowed twenty teeth at a grin, and put the country in some pain lest aforeigner should carry away the honour of the day; but upon a furthertrial they found he was master only of the merry grin. 

The next that mounted the table was a malcontent in those days, and agreat master in the whole art of grinning, but particularly excelled inthe angry grin. He did his part so well that he is said to have madehalf a dozen women miscarry; but the justice being apprised by one whostood near him that the fellow who grinned in his face was a Jacobite, and being unwilling that a disaffected person should win the gold ring, and be looked upon as the best grinner in the county, he ordered theoaths to be tendered unto him upon his quitting the table, which thegrinner refusing, he was set aside as an unqualified person. There wereseveral other grotesque figures that presented themselves, which it wouldbe too tedious to describe. I must not, however, omit a ploughman, wholived in the further part of the county, and being very lucky in a pairof long lantern jaws, wrung his face into such a hideous grimace thatevery feature of it appeared under a different distortion. The wholecompany stood astonished at such a complicated grin, and were ready toassign the prize to him, had it not been proved by one of his antagoniststhat he had practised with verjuice for some days before, and had a crabfound upon him at the very time of grinning; upon which the best judgesof grinning declared it as their opinion that he was not to be lookedupon as a fair grinner, and therefore ordered him to be set aside as acheat. 

The prize, it seems, fell at length upon a cobbler, Giles Gorgon by name, who produced several new grins of his own invention, having been used tocut faces for many years together over his last. At the very first grinhe cast every human feature out of his countenance; at the second hebecame the face of spout; at the third a baboon; at the fourth the headof a bass-viol; and at the fifth a pair of nut-crackers. The wholeassembly wondered at his accomplishments, and bestowed the ring on himunanimously; but what he esteemed more than all the rest, a countrywench, whom he had wooed in vain for above five years before, was socharmed 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 prizeupon her finger, the cobbler having made use of it as his wedding ring. 

This paper might perhaps seem very impertinent if it grew serious in theconclusion. I would, nevertheless, leave it to the consideration ofthose who are the patrons of this monstrous trial of skill, whether or nothey are not guilty, in some measure, of an affront to their species intreating after this manner the "human face divine, " and turning that partof us, which has so great an image impressed upon it, into the image of amonkey; whether the raising such silly competitions among the ignorant, proposing prizes for such useless accomplishments, filling the commonpeople's heads with such senseless ambitions, and inspiring them withsuch absurd ideas of superiority and pre-eminence, has not in itsomething immoral as well as ridiculous. 

TRUST IN GOD. 

 _Si fractus illabatur orbis_, _Impavidum ferient ruinae_. 

 --HOR. , Car. Iii. 3, 7. 

 Should the whole frame of nature round him break, In ruin and confusion hurled, He, unconcerned, would hear the mighty crack, And stand secure amidst a falling world. 

 ANON. 

Man, considered in himself, is a very helpless and a very wretched being. He is subject every moment to the greatest calamities and misfortunes. Heis beset with dangers on all sides, and may become unhappy by numberlesscasualties which he could not foresee, nor have prevented had he foreseenthem. 

It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so many accidents, that weare under the care of One who directs contingencies, and has in His handsthe management of everything that is capable of annoying or offending us;who knows the assistance we stand in need of, and is always ready tobestow it on those who ask it of Him. 

The natural homage which such a creature bears to so infinitely wise andgood a Being is a firm reliance on Him for the blessings and conveniencesof life, and an habitual trust in Him for deliverance out of all suchdangers and difficulties as may befall us. 

The man who always lives in this disposition of mind has not the samedark and melancholy views of human nature as he who considers himselfabstractedly from this relation to the Supreme Being. At the same timethat he reflects upon his own weakness and imperfection he comfortshimself with the contemplation of those Divine attributes which areemployed for his safety and his welfare. He finds his want of foresightmade up by the Omniscience of Him who is his support. He is not sensibleof his own want of strengths when he knows that his helper is almighty. In short, the person who has a firm trust on the Supreme Being ispowerful in His power, wise by His wisdom, happy by His happiness. Hereaps the benefit of every Divine attribute, and loses his owninsufficiency in the fulness of infinite perfection. 

To make our lives more easy to us, we are commanded to put our trust inHim, who is thus able to relieve and succour us; the Divine goodnesshaving made such reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should have beenmiserable had it been forbidden us. 

Among several motives which might be made use of to recommend this dutyto us, I shall only take notice of these that follow. 

The first and strongest is, that we are promised He will not fail thosewho put their trust in Him. 

But without considering the supernatural blessing which accompanies thisduty, we may observe that it has a natural tendency to its own reward, or, in other words, that this firm trust and confidence in the greatDisposer of all things contributes very much to the getting clear of anyaffliction, or to the bearing it manfully. A person who believes he hashis succour at hand, and that he acts in the sight of his friend, oftenexerts himself beyond his abilities, and does wonders that are not to bematched by one who is not animated with such a confidence of success. Icould produce instances from history of generals who, out of a beliefthat they were under the protection of some invisible assistant, did notonly encourage their soldiers to do their utmost, but have actedthemselves beyond what they would have done had they not been inspired bysuch a belief. I might in the same manner show how such a trust in theassistance of an Almighty Being naturally produces patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions of the mind that alleviate thosecalamities which we are not able to remove. 

The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to the mind of manin 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 itis just entering on another state of existence, to converse with scenes, and objects, and companions, that are altogether new--what can supporther under such tremblings of thought, such fear, such anxiety, suchapprehensions, but the casting of all her cares upon Him who first gaveher being, who has conducted her through one stage of it, and will bealways with her, to guide and comfort her in her progress througheternity?

David has very beautifully represented this steady reliance on GodAlmighty in his twenty-third Psalm, which is a kind of pastoral hymn, andfilled with those allusions which are usual in that kind of writing. Asthe poetry is very exquisite, I shall present my reader with thefollowing 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 noonday 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 fear no ill, For thou, O Lord, art with me still; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

 IV. 

 Though in a bare and rugged way, Through devious, lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my pains beguile: The barren wilderness shall smile With sudden greens and herbage crowned, And streams shall murmur all around.