J'^y?^^^^,.^..^ 
 
 THE 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 IN SIX VOLS, 
 
 VOLUME THE SECOND, 
 
 N«- 107—218, 
 
 LONDON, 
 
 PRINTED BY AND FOR ANDREW WILSON, 
 
 CAMDEN TOWN, ST. PANCRAS. 
 
 1812.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 No. 
 
 107. Sir Roger's Conduct to his Servants Sietle. 
 
 108. Character of Will Wimble ^ddiion. 
 
 109. Sir Roger's Ancestors Steele. 
 
 110. On Ghosts and Apparitions Addistm. 
 
 HI. Immateriality of the Soul ■ 
 
 112. A Sunday in the Country— Sir Roger's Behaviour at 
 
 Church ■— 
 
 113. His Account of his Disappointment in Love Steele. 
 
 114. On the Shame and Fear of Poverty— Characters of 
 
 Laertes and 1ms ■ 
 
 115. Labour and Exercise Additcm. 
 
 116. A hunting Scene with Sir Roger BuJgell. 
 
 117. On Witchcraft— Stoiy of Moll White Additon. 
 
 118. Sir Roger's Reflections on the Widow— Love Scene Steele. 
 
 119. Rural Manners— Politeness Addison. 
 
 150. Instinct in Animals 
 
 121. The subject continued— Wisdom of Providence 
 
 122. A Visit with Sir Roger to the Country Assizes ■ . — 
 
 123. Education of Country Squires— Story of Eudoxus and ; 
 
 Leontine 
 
 124. Use and Difficulties of Periodical Papers . 
 
 125. Mischiefs of Party Spirit 
 
 126. The Subject continued — Sir Roger's Principles 
 
 127. Letter on the Hoop-petticoat 
 
 1'28. DiflFerence ofTemper in the Sexes— Female Levity 
 
 199. Fashions in Dress— How imitated in the Country 
 
 ISO. Interview of the Spectator and Sir Roger with a Gang of 
 
 Gypsies 
 
 31. Opinions entertained of the Spectator in the Country- 
 Letter from Will Honej'comb - 
 
 1 
 
 U4 /a'C 

 
 VI CONTENTS OF VOL.' II. 
 
 Vo. 
 ~ 132. Scene in a Stage Coach between a Quaker and an Officer. Steele, 
 
 133 . On Death— Reflections on t he Death of a Friend 
 
 134. Letter from a Splenetic cured— Letter and Petition on the 
 
 Exercise of the Fan 
 
 135. Blessing of being bom an Englishman— The English 
 
 Tongue • Jddisoiu 
 
 136. Letter from a Liar Steele. 
 
 137. Condition of Servants — Letters from Ralph Valet and 
 
 Patience Giddy — ■ — 
 
 133. Frivolous Disputants— Exercise of the Snuff-box - 
 
 139. The Love of Glorj'— Character of Peter the Great 
 
 140. Letters on Love, Wit, Drinking, Gaming, &c — _ 
 
 Letter from Parthenia Miss Shephard. 
 
 * 141. Improprieties on the Stage Steele, 
 
 Lanc?.shire Witches Hughes. 
 
 142- Love-letters to Andromache Steele. 
 
 143. Complaints of Sickness — a cheerful Temper -■ ■ ■ 
 
 144. Female Beauty— Characters of various Beauties ■■ 
 
 145. Letters on Wagerers, Whistlers, rude old Bachelor — 
 
 Male Dress . 
 
 146- Passages from Cicero and Burnet 
 
 147. On reading the Church-service — 
 
 148. On Impertinents —Whisperers— Letters to them 
 
 149. Letter from a Widow with two Lovers, and Answer 
 
 130. Inconveniencies of Poverty— Affectation of Slovenliness. . BiidgeU. 
 
 151. Character of a Man of Wit and Pleasure Steele. 
 
 152. Military Courage 
 
 153. Folly of wishing to be young ■' 
 
 154. Letter of Apologj' for a Man of Wit and Pleasure — -. 
 
 155- Impertinent Conversation to Women in Business ■ 
 
 156. Character of Women's Men ■■ 
 
 157- Improper Method of educating Youth ■ ■■« 
 
 158. Letters censuring the Spectator— On Women's Men— 
 
 Good-breeding — — 
 
 159. The Vision of Mirza Addison. 
 
 160. On great natural Geniuses — 
 
 161. Letter and Reflections on rustic Amusements Budgell. 
 
 162. On Inconstancy and Irresolution Addison. 
 
 163. Disappointment in Love— Letter from Leonora Miss Shephard, 
 
 Consolation Addison. 
 
 164. Story of Theodosius and Constantia ■ ■*
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. vii 
 
 No. 
 
 165. Introduction of French Plirases in the History of the 
 
 War— Specimenin a Letter Additon. 
 
 166. Durabilityof Writing— Anecdote of an atheistical Author ■ 
 
 167. Castle-building — Letter from a Castle-builder Steele. 
 
 168. Letter on the Severity of School-masters— On Imper- 
 
 tinents — Poachers 
 
 1 69. On Good-nature, as the Effect of Constitution Addison . 
 
 170. On Jealousy 
 
 171. Subject continued — Address to those who hare jealous 
 
 Husbands ■ 
 
 172. Talents honourable only as they are used Steele. 
 
 173. Account of a Grinning-match Mdison, 
 
 174. Dispute on the landed and trading Interest Steele 
 
 17i. Character of a Jezebel— Letter on Butts— on Fashions .. . Budgell. 
 
 176. On Hen-peckt Husbands Steele. 
 
 177. Good-nature, as a Moral Virtue Mditon* 
 
 178. Celinda's Letter on Female Jealousy Steele. 
 
 179. Various Dispositions of Readers— Account of a Whistling- 
 
 match— Yawning Addison. 
 
 180. Vanity of Lewis XlVth's Conquests Mr. H. Martyn. 
 
 181. Cmelty of Parents in the Affair of Marriage Addison. 
 
 182. Letters on Seduction, from the Seducer Steele. 
 
 183. On Fable— Fable of Pleasure and Pain Addison. 
 
 184. Account of a remarkable Sleeper 
 
 185. Zeal— various Kinds of Zealots ■ — — 
 
 186. On Infidelity 
 
 187. Letter on the Character of Jilts Steele. 
 
 188. The Love of Applause — — 
 
 189. Cruelty of Parents— Letter from a Father to his Son- 
 
 Duty to Parents Addison. 
 
 190. Letteron the unhappy Condition of Women of the Town. Steele. 
 
 191. On the Whims of Lottery-Adventures Addison. 
 
 ^92. Parenul Fondness and Expectations— Consolation on the 
 
 Death of a Parent Steele. 
 
 19s. Account of a great Man's Levee 
 
 194. Letters on an untoward Wife— Fickle Friend 
 
 195. On Temperance Addison, 
 
 196. On Easiness— a Love-case Steele. 
 
 197. Contcniious Conversation of Gentlemen of the Long 
 
 Robe— Advice on Disputes Budgell. 
 
 198. Character of the Salamanders— Story of a Castilian and 
 
 his Wife Addison,
 
 vui CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 No. 
 
 199. Letter on the mercenary Practices of Men in the choice 
 
 of Wives Steele. 
 
 800. Poetical Arithmetic— Rules for Population Mr. H. Martyn. 
 
 SOI. Devotion— Enthusiasm Atidiion. 
 
 002. Folly of the Pride of Birth or Fortune— Letters from Ser- 
 vants Steele. 
 
 203. On Seducers, and their illicit Progeny — Letter from a 
 
 natural Son Jddison, 
 
 ao4. Letters from Belinda to the Sothades— D. to his Coquette 
 
 Mistress— to a Husband Steele, 
 
 905. Description of a Female tPander — affected Method of 
 
 Psalm-singing— Erratum in the Paper on Drinking Addison. 
 
 S06. Modesty, Diffidence, Self-denial Steele. 
 
 207. Notions of the Heathens on Devotion Additon. 
 
 908. Depraved Taste on the Tlieatre— Letters on Vbiting— Se- 
 
 duction— from a Lover Steele. 
 
 909. Simonides's Satire on Women Addison. 
 
 910. Immortality of the Soul Hughes. 
 
 511. Transmigration of Souls— Letters on Simonides's Satire 
 
 on Women Addison, 
 
 913. Letter from a Hen-peckt Husband determined to be free SUele. 
 913. On habitual good Intentions Addison, 
 
 214. On Patrons and their Clients Steele. 
 
 215. Education— compared to Sculpture Addison. 
 
 216. Success of the Hen-peckt Husband determined to be free Steele. 
 
 917. Club of She-Romps — Letters on Indelicacy — ^from an old 
 
 Maid— a Bee Budgell. 
 
 918. Fame—Reputation— Credit Sttelt.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 
 
 No. 107.] Tuesday, July 3, 1711. 
 
 ^sopo ingentem statuam posuere Atiici, 
 
 Servumque coUocaniiit aettriia in basi, 
 
 Patere boaoris scueut iit cuucUs xi^m.—Phctdr. Ep. 1. C. 
 
 The Athenians erected a large statue to /Esop, and placed him, thoiigli 
 a sla^e, on a lasting pedestal ; to show, that the way to honour lies open 
 indifterenlly lo all. 
 
 THE reception, manner of attendance, undisturbed free- 
 dom and quiet, which I meet with here in the country, 
 has confirmed me in the opinion I always had, that the 
 general corruption of manners in servants is owing to the 
 conduct of masters. The aspect of every one in the family 
 carries so much satisfaction, that it appears he knows the 
 happy lot which has befallen him in being a member of 
 it. There is one particular which I have seldom seen but 
 at Sir Roger's; it is usual in all other places, that servants 
 fly from the parts of the house through which their master 
 is passing; on the contrary, here they industriously place 
 themselves in his way ; and it is on both sides, as it were, 
 understood as a visit, when the servants appear without 
 calling. This proceeds from the humane and equal tem- 
 per of the man of the house, who also perfectly well 
 knows how to enjoy a great estate, with such economy as 
 ever to be much beforehand. This makes his own mind 
 untroubled, and consequently unapt to vent peevish ex- 
 pressions, or give passionate or inconsistent orders to those 
 about him. Thus respect and love go together j and a 
 Vol. II. H
 
 2 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 107. 
 
 certain cheerfulness in performance of their duty is the 
 particular distinction of the lower part of this family. 
 When a servant is called before his master, he does not 
 come with an expectation to hear himself rated for some 
 trivial fault, threatened to be stripped, or used with any 
 other unbecoming language, which mean masters often 
 give to worthy servants; but it is often to know, what 
 road he took that he came so readily back according to 
 order; whether he passed by such a ground; if the old 
 man who rents it is in good health ; or whether he gave 
 sir Roger's luve to him, or the like.'t 
 
 A man who preserves a respect founded on his benevo- 
 lence to his dependents, lives rather like a prince than a 
 master in his family ; his orders are received as favours 
 rather than duties; and the distinction of approaching 
 him is part of the reward for executing what is com- 
 manded by him. 
 
 There is another circumstance in which my friend ex- 
 cels in his management, which i? the manner of rewarding 
 his servants. He has ever been of opinion, that giving his 
 cast clothes to be worn by valets has a very ill effect upon 
 little minds, and creates a silly sense of equality between 
 the parties, in persons affected only with outward things. 
 I have heard him often pleasant on this occasion, and 
 describe a young gentleman abusing his man in that coat, 
 ■vyhich a month or two before was the most pleasing dis- 
 tinction he was conscious of in himself. He would turn 
 his discourse still more pleasantly upon the bounties of 
 the ladies in this kind; and I have heard him say he 
 knew a fine woman, who distributed rewards and punish- 
 ments in giving becoming or unbecoming dresses to her 
 maids. 
 
 But my good friend is above these little instances of 
 good-will, in bestowing only trifles on his servants ; a good 
 servant to him is sure of having it in his choice very soon 
 of being no servant at all. As I before observed, he is so 
 good a husband, and knows so thoroughly that the skill 
 of the purse is the cardinal virtue of this life ; I say, he 
 knows so well that frugality is the support of generosity.
 
 No, 107.] THE SPECTATOR. 3 
 
 that he can often spare a large fine when a tenement falls, 
 and give that settlement to a good servant who has a 
 mind to go into the world, or make a stranger pay the fine 
 to that servant, for his more comfortable maintenance, if 
 he stays in his service. 
 
 A man of honour and generosity considers it would be 
 miserable to himself to have no will but that of another, 
 though it were of the best person breathing, and for that 
 reason goes on as fast as he is able to put his servants into 
 independent livelihoods. The greatest part of sir Roster's 
 estate is tenanted by persons who have served himself or 
 his ancestors. It was to me extremely pleasant to observe 
 the visitants from several parts to welcome his arrival 
 into the country: and all the difference that I could take 
 notice of between the late servants who came to see him». 
 and those who staid in the family, was that these latter 
 were looked upon as finer gentlemen and better courtiers. 
 
 This manumission and placing them in a way of liveli- 
 hood, I look upon as only what is due to a good servant; 
 which encouragement will make his successor be as dili- 
 gent, as humble, and as ready as he was. There is some- 
 thing wonderful in the narrowness of those minds, which 
 can be pleased, and be barren of bounty to those who 
 please them. 
 
 One might, on this occasion, recount the sense that 
 great persons in all ages have had of the merit of their 
 dependents, and the heroic services which men have done 
 their masters in the extremity of their fortunes, and 
 shown to their undone patrons, that fortune was all the 
 difference between them ; but as I design this my specu- 
 lation only as a gentle admonition to thankless masters, I 
 shall not go out of the occurrences of common life, but 
 assert it as a general observation, that I never saw, but 
 in Sir Roger's family, and one or two more, good servants 
 treated as they ought to be. Sir Roger's kindness extends 
 to their children's children, and this very morning he sent 
 his coachman's grandson to prentice. I shall conclude 
 this paper with an account of a picture in his gallery.
 
 4 THE SPECTATOR. '[No. 108. 
 
 where there are many which will deserve my future obser- 
 vation. 
 
 At the very upper end of this handsome structure I 
 saw the portraiture of two younsf men standing in a river; 
 the one naked, the other in a livery. The person sup- 
 ported seemed half dead, but still so much alive as to show 
 in his face exquisite joy and love towards the other. I 
 thou[rht the fainting figure resembled my friend Sir Roger ; 
 and looking at the butler who stood by me, for an ac- 
 count of it, he informed me that the person in the livery 
 was a servant of Sir Roger's, who stood on the shore while 
 his master was swimming, and observing him taken with 
 some sudden illness and sink under water, jumped in and 
 saved him. He told me Sir Roger took off the dress he 
 was ill as soon as he came home, and by a great bounty 
 at that time, followed by his favour ever since, had made 
 him master of that pretty seat which we saw at a distance 
 as ^ve came to this house. I remembered indeed Sir Roger 
 said, there lived a very worthy gentleman, to whom he 
 was highly obliged, without mentioning any thing further. 
 Upon my looking a little dissatisfied at some part of the 
 picture, my attendant informed me that it was against Sir 
 Roger's will, and at the earnest request of the gentleman 
 himself, that he was drawn in the habit in which he had 
 saved his master. R. 
 
 No. 108.] Wednesday, July 4, 1711. 
 
 Gratis anbelans, multa agendo nihil a?cns. 
 
 Ph(£dr. Fab. v. I. e.. 
 
 Out of breath to no purpose, and very busy about nothing. 
 
 As I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger 
 before his house, a country-fellow brought him a huge 
 fish, which, he told him, Mr. William Wimble* had 
 caught that very morning; and that he presented it, with 
 
 * Mi. Thomas Morecraft, a Torkshire gentleman.
 
 No. 108.] THE SPECTATOR.' f « 
 
 his service to him, and intended to come and dine with 
 him. At the same time he dehvered a letter, which my 
 friend read to me as soon as the messenger left him. 
 
 'SIR KOGER, 
 * I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the hest I 
 have caught this season. I intend to come and stay with 
 you a week, and see how the perch bite in the Black 
 river. I observed with some concern, the last time 1 saw 
 you upon the bowling-green, that your whip wanted a 
 iash to it ; I will bring half a dozen with me that I twisted 
 last week, which 1 hope will serve you all the time you 
 are in the country. I have not been out of the saddle 
 for six days last past, having been at Eton with Sir John's 
 eldest son. . He takes to his learning hugely. 
 * I am, Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 'WILL WIMBLE.' 
 
 This extraordinary letter, and message that accompanied 
 it, made me very curious to know the character and quality 
 of the gentleman who sent them ; which I found to be as 
 follows : — Will Wimble is younger brother to a baronet, 
 and descended of the ancient family of the Wimbles. He 
 is now between forty and fifty ; but being bred to no bu- 
 siness, and bom to no estate, he generally lives with his 
 elder brother as superintendant of his game. He hunts 
 a pack of dogs better than any man in the country, and 
 is very famous for finding out a hare. He is extremely 
 •well versed in all the little handicrafts of an idle man. 
 He makes a May-fly to a miracle ; and furnishes the 
 whole country with angle-rods. As he is a good-natured 
 officious fellow, and very much esteemed upon account 
 of his family, he is a welcome guest at every house, and 
 keeps up a good correspondence among all the gentlemen 
 about him. He carries a tulip root in his pocket from 
 one to another, or exchanges a puppy between a couple 
 of friends that live perhaps in the opposite sides of the 
 country. Will is a particular favourite of all the young 
 heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has 
 weaved, or a setting-dog that he has made himself. He 
 B2
 
 6 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 108. 
 
 now and then presents a pair of garters of bis own knitting 
 to their mothers or sisters ; and raises a great deal of mirth 
 among them, by inquiring as often as he meets them 
 ** how they wear 1" These gentleman-like manufactures 
 and obliging little buraours make Will the darling of the 
 countrj'. 
 
 Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, wben 
 he saw him make up to us with two or three hazle twigs 
 in his hand that he had cut in Sir Roger's woods, as he 
 came through them, in his way to the house. I was very 
 much pleased to obser>e on one side the hearty and sin- 
 cere welcome with which Sir Roger received him, and on 
 the other, the secret joy which his guest discovered at sight 
 of the good old knight. After the first salutes were over. 
 Will desired sir Roger to lend him one of his servants 
 to carry a set of shuttle-cocks he had with him in a little 
 box, to a lady that lived about a mile oflF, to whom it seems 
 he had promised such a present for above this half year. 
 Sir Roger's back was no sooner turned but honest Will 
 began to tell me of a large cock pheasant that he had 
 sprung in one of the neighbouring woods, with two or 
 three other adventures of the same nature. Odd and 
 uncommon characters are the game that I look for, and 
 most delight in ; for which reason I was as much pleased 
 with the novelty of the person that talked to me, as he 
 could be for his life with the springing of a pheasant, and 
 therefore listened to him with more than ordinary atten- 
 tion. 
 
 In the midst of this discourse the bell rung to dinner, 
 where the gentleman I have been speaking of had the 
 pleasure of seeing the huge jack, he had caught, served 
 up for the first dish in a most sumptuous manner. Upon 
 our sitting down to it he gave us a long account how he 
 had hooked it, played with it, foiled it, and at length 
 drew it out upon the bank, with several other particulars 
 that lasted all the first course. A dish of wild fowl that 
 came afterwards furnished conversation for the rest of the 
 dinner, which concluded with a late invention of Will's 
 for improving the quail-pipe.
 
 No. 108.] THE SPECTATOR. 7 
 
 Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, 1 was 
 secretly touched with compassion towards the honest gen- 
 tleman that had dined with us ; and could not but con- 
 sider with a great deal of concern, how so good an hearfc 
 and such busy hands were wholly employed in triHes; 
 that so much humanity should be so little beneficial to 
 others, and so much industry so little advantageous to 
 himself. The same temper of mind and application to 
 affairs might have recommended him to the public esteem, 
 and have raised his fortune in another station of life. 
 What good to his country or himself might not a trader 
 or a merchant have done with such useful though ordinary 
 qualifications } 
 
 Will Wimble's is the case of many a younger brother of 
 a great family, who had rather see their children starve 
 like gentlemen, than thrive in a trade or profession that 
 is beneath their quality. This humour fills several parts 
 of Europe with pride and beggary. It is the happiness of 
 a trading nation like ours, that the younger sons, though 
 incapable of any liberal art or profession, may be placed in 
 Buch a way of life, as may perhaps enable them to vie with 
 the best of their family. Accordingly we find several citi- 
 zens that were launched into the world with narrow for- 
 tunes, rising by an honest industry to greater estates than 
 those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable but 
 Will was formerly tried at divinity, law, or physic ; and 
 that finding his genius did not lie that way, his parents 
 gave him up at length to his own inventions. But cer- 
 tainly, however improper he might have been for studies 
 of a higher nature, he was perfectly well turned for the 
 occupations of trade and commerce. As I think this is a 
 point which cannot be too much inculcated, I shall desire 
 my reader to compare what I have here writteA with what 
 I have said in my twenty-first speculation. L.
 
 8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 10&. 
 
 No. 109.] Thursday, July 5, 1711. 
 
 Abnoimis sapiens Ho7: Lib. 2. Sat. ii. 3. 
 
 Of plain good souse, uututor'd in the schools. 
 
 I WAS this morning walking in the gallery, when Sir 
 Roger entered at the end opposite to me. and advancing 
 towards me, said he was glad to meet me among his rela- 
 tions the De Coverleys, and hoped I liked the conversation 
 of so much good company, who were as silent as myself. 
 I knew he alluded to the pictures, and as he is a gentle. 
 man who does not a little value himself upon his ancient 
 descent, I expected he would give me some account of 
 ^them. We were now arrived at the upper end of the 
 gallery, when the knight faced towards one of the pic- 
 tures, and as we stood before it, he entered into the mat- 
 ter, after his blimt way of saying things, as they occur 
 to his imagination, without regular introduction, or care 
 to preserve the appearance of chain of thought. 
 
 * It is,' said he, ' worth while to consider the force of 
 dress ; and how the persons of one eige differ from those of 
 another, merely by that only. One may observe also, that 
 the general f.shion of one age has been followed by one 
 particular set of people in another, and by them preserved 
 from one generation to another. Thus the vast jetting 
 coat and small bonnet, which was the habit in Henry the 
 Seventh's time, is kept on in the yeomen of the guard j 
 not without a good and politic view, because they look a 
 foot taller, and a foot and a half broader: besides, that 
 the cap leaves the face expanded, and consequently more 
 terrible, and fitter to stand at the entrance of palaces. 
 
 ' This predecessor of ours you see is dressed after this 
 manner, and his cheeks would be no larger than mine, 
 were he in a hat as I am. He was the last man that 
 won a prize in the Tilt-yard (which is now a common 
 street before Whitehall.) You see the broken lance that 
 lies there by his right foot. He shivered that lance of 
 his adversary all to pieces; and bearing himself, look you, 
 iiT, in this manner; at the same time be came within th^
 
 No. 109.] THE SPECTATOR.' 9 
 
 target of the gentleman who rode against him, and taking 
 him with incredible force before him on the pummel of 
 his saddle, he in that manner rid the tournament over, 
 with an air that showed he did it rather to perform the 
 rule of the lists, than expose his enemy ; however, it ap- 
 peared he knew how to make use of a victory, and with 
 a gentle trot he marched up to a gallery, where their 
 mistress sat, (for they were rivals) and let him down with 
 laudable courtesy and pardonable insolence, I do not 
 know but it might be exactly where the coffee-house is 
 
 HOW. 
 
 * You are to know this my ancestor was not only of a 
 military genius, but fit also for the arts of peace, for he 
 played on the base- viol as well as any gentleman at court; 
 you see where his viol hangs by his basket-hilt sword. 
 The action at the Tilt-yard you may be sure won the fair 
 lady, who was a maid of honour, and the greatest beauty 
 of her time ; here she stands the next picture. You see, 
 sir, my great great great grandmother has on the new- 
 fashioned petticoat, except that the modern is gathered 
 at the waist ; my grandmother appears as if she stood in a 
 large drum, whereas the ladies now walk as if they were 
 in a go-cart. For all this lady was bred at court, she be- 
 came an excellent country-wife, she brought ten children, 
 and when 1 show you the library, you shall see in her 
 own hand (allowing for the difference of the language) 
 the best receipt now in England both for an hasty-pud- 
 ding and a white-pot. 
 
 * If you please to fall back a little, because it is neces- 
 sary to look at the three next pictures at one view; these 
 are three sisters. She on the right hand who is so very 
 beautiful, died a maid; the next to her, still handsomer, 
 had the same fate, against her will; this homely thing in 
 the middle had both their portions added to her own, 
 and was stolen by a neighbouring gentleman, a man of 
 stratagem and resolution, for he poisoned three mastiffs 
 to come at her, and knocked down two deer-stealers in 
 carrying her off. Misfortunes happen in all families. Th« 
 theft of this romp, and so much money, was no great
 
 to THE SPECTATOR. [No. 109- 
 
 matter to our estate. But the next heir that possessed 
 it was this soft gentleman, whom you see there. Observe 
 the small buttons, the little boots, the laces, the slashes 
 about his clothes, and above all the posture he is drawn 
 in, (which to be sure was his own choosing) you see he 
 sits with one hand on a desk writing, and lookiu^ as it 
 were another way, like an easy writer, or a sonnetteer. 
 He was one of those that had too much wit to know how 
 to live in the world; he was a man of no justice, but great 
 good-manners ; he ruined every body that bad any thing 
 to do with him, but never said a rude thing in his life; 
 the most indolent person in the world ; he would sign a 
 deed that passed away half his estate with his gloves on, 
 but would not put on his hat before a lady if it were to 
 save his country. He is said to be the first that made love 
 by squeezing the hand. He left the estate with ten thousand 
 pounds debt upon it ; but however, by all hands I have 
 been informed that he was every way the finest gentleman 
 in the world. That debt lay heavy on our house for one 
 generation, but it was retrieved by a gift from that honest 
 man you see there, a citizen of our name, but nothing at 
 all akin to us. I know Sir Andrew Freeport has said be- 
 hind my back, that this man was descended from one of 
 the ten children of the maid of honour I showed you 
 above ; but it was never made out. We winked at the 
 thing indeed, because money was wanting at that time,' 
 
 Here I saw my friend a little embarrassed, and turned 
 my face to the next portraiture. 
 
 Sir Roger went on with his account of the gallery in 
 the following manner: * This man (pointing to him I 
 looked at) I take to be the honour of our house. Sir 
 Humphrey de Coverley ; he was in his dealings as punctual 
 as a tradesman, and as generous as a gentleman. He 
 would have thought himself as much undone by breaking 
 his word, as if it were to be followed by bankruptcy. He 
 served his country as knight of the shire to his dying 
 day. He found it no easy matter to maintain an integrity 
 in his words and actions, even in things that regarded the 
 offices which were incumbent upon him, in the care of
 
 No. 110.] THE SPECTATOR." 11 
 
 his own affairs and relations of lifC) and therefore dreaded 
 (though he had great talents) to go into employments of 
 state, where he must be exposed to the snares of ambition, 
 innocence of Ufe and great ability were the distinguishing 
 parts of his character ; the latter, he had often observed, 
 had led to the destruction of the former, and he used 
 frequently to lament that great and good had not the 
 same signification. He was an excellent husbandman, 
 but had resolved not to exceed such a degree of wealth ; 
 all above it he bestowed in secret bounties many years 
 after the sum he aimed at for his own use was attained. 
 Yet he did not slacken his industry, but to a decent old 
 age spent the Hfe and fortune which was superfluous to 
 himself, in the service of his friends and neighbours.' 
 
 Here we were called to dinner, and Sir Roger ended the 
 discourse of this gentleman, by teUing me, as we followed 
 the senant, that this his ancestor was a brave man, and 
 narrowly escaped being killed in the civil wars; ' For,* 
 said he, * he was sent out of the field upon a private 
 message, the day before the battle of Worcester.' The 
 whim of narrowly escaping by having been within a day 
 of danger, with other matters above-mentioned, mixed 
 with good sense, left me at a loss whether I was more 
 delighted with my friend's wisdom or simplicity. R. 
 
 No. 110.] Friday^ July 6, 1711. 
 
 Horror ubique aniraos, simul ipsa silentia terrcut. 
 
 rirs. -■En. ii. 156. 
 All thin^ are full of horror and affright, 
 And dreadful cv'n the silence of the nif^ht.—Drydcn. 
 
 At a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among the 
 ruins of an old abbey, there is a long walk of aged elms; 
 which are shot up so very high, that when one passes 
 under them, the rooks and crows that rest upon the tops 
 of them seem to be cawing in another region. I am very 
 much delighted with this sort of noise, which I consi<ler 
 as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who supplies
 
 12 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 110. 
 
 the wants of his whole creation, and who, in the beautiful 
 language of the Psalms,* feedeth the young ravens that 
 call upon him. I like this retirement the better, because 
 of an ill report it lies under of being haunted ; for which 
 reason (as I have been told in the family) no living crea- 
 ture ever walks in it besides the chaplain. My good 
 friend the butler desired me with a very grave face not 
 to venture myself in it after sun-set, for that one of the 
 footmen had been almost frighted out of his wits by a 
 spirit that appeared to him in the shape of a black Viorse 
 ■without a head; to which he added, that about a month 
 ago one of the maids coming home late that way with a 
 pail of milk upon her head, heard such a rustling among 
 the bushes that she let it fall. 
 
 I was taking a walk in this place last night between 
 the hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it one 
 of the most proper scenes in the world for a ghost to ap- 
 pear in. The ruins of the abbey are scattered up and 
 down on every side, and half covered with ivy and elder 
 bushes, the harbours of several solitary birds which seldom 
 make their appearance till the dusk of the evening. The 
 place was formerly a church-yard, and has still several 
 marks in it of graves and burying- places. There is such 
 an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that if you stamp 
 but a little louder than ordinary, you hear the sound re- 
 peated. At the same time the walk of elms, with the 
 croaking of the ravens which from time to time are heard 
 from the tops of them, looks exceeding solemn and vener- 
 able. These objects naturally raise seriousness and at- 
 tention ; and when night heightens the awfulness of the 
 place, and pours out her supernumerary horrors upon 
 every thing in it, I do not at all wonder that weak minds 
 fill it with spectres axid apparitions. 
 
 Mr. Locke, in his chapter of the Association of Ideas, 
 has very curious remarks to show how, by the prejudice 
 of education, one idea often introduces into the mind 
 a whole set that bear no resemblance to one another in 
 the nature of things. Among several examples of this 
 • Psal. cxhrii. 9.
 
 No. 110.] THE SPECTATOR. 13 
 
 kind, he produces the following instance. * The ideas of 
 goblins and sprites have really no more to do with dark- 
 ness than light : yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these 
 often on the mind of a child, and raise them there to- 
 gether, possibly he shall never be able to separate them 
 again so long as he lives ; but darkness shall ever after- 
 wards bring with it those frightful ideas, and they shall 
 be so joined, that he can no more bear the one than the 
 other.' 
 
 As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of 
 the evening conspired with so many other occasions of 
 terror, I observed a cow grazing not far from me, which 
 an imagination that was apt to startle might easily have 
 construed into a black horse without an head : and I dare 
 say the poor footman lost his wits upon some such trivial 
 occasion. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger has often told me with a great deal 
 of luirth, that at his first coming to his estate he found 
 three parts of his house altogether useless ; that the best 
 room in it had the reputation of being haunted, and by 
 that means was locked up; that noises had been heard in 
 his l(»ng gallery, so that he could not get a servant to 
 enter it after eight o'clock at night; that the door of one 
 of his chambers was nailed up, because there went a 
 story in the family that a butler had formerly hanged 
 himself in it; and that his mother, who lived to a great 
 age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which 
 either her husband, a son, or daughter had died. The 
 knight seeing his habitation reduced to so small a com- 
 pass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own house, 
 upon the death of his mother ordered all the apartments 
 to be flung open, ai»d exorcised by his chaplain, who lay 
 in every room one after another, and by that means dis- 
 sipated the fears which had so long reigned in the family. 
 
 I should not have been thus particular upon these ridi- 
 culuui horrors, did not I find them so very much prevail 
 in all parts of the country. At the same time 1 think a 
 person who is thus terrified with the imagination of ghosts 
 and spectres much more reasonable than one who, con- 
 
 Vol. II. C
 
 14 THE SPECTATOR.* [No. 110. 
 
 trary to the reports of all historians, sacred and profane, 
 ancient and modem, and to the traditions of all nations, 
 thinks the appearance of spirits fabulous and groundless. 
 Could not I give myself up to this general testimony of 
 mankind, I should to the relations of particular persons 
 who are now living, and whom I cannot distrust in other 
 matters of fact. I might here add, that not only the 
 historians, to whom we may join the poets, but likewise 
 the philosophers of antiquity, have favoured this opinion. 
 Lucretius himself, though by the course of his philosophy 
 he was obliged to maintain that the soul did not exist 
 separate from the body, makes no doubt of the reality 
 of apparitions, and that men have often appeared after 
 their death. This I think very remarkable: he was so 
 pressed with the matter of fact, which he could not have 
 the confidence to deny, that he was forced to account for 
 it by one of the most absurd unphilosophical notions that 
 was ever started. He tells us, that the surfaces of all 
 bodies are perpetually flying off from their respective bo- 
 dies, one after another ; and that these surfaces or thin 
 cases that included each other whilst they were joined in 
 the body like the coats of an onion, are sometimes seen 
 entire when they are separated from it ; by which means 
 we often behold the shapes and shadows of persons who 
 iire either dead or absent.* 
 
 I shall dismiss this paper with a story out of Josephus,f 
 not so much for the sake of the story itself as for the moral 
 reflections with which the author concludes it, and which 
 I shall here set down in his own words. * Glaphyra, the 
 daughter of king Archelaus, after the death of her two 
 first husbands (being married to a third, who was brother 
 To her first husband, and so passionately in love with her, 
 that he turned off his former wife to make room for this 
 marriage) had a very odd kind of dream. She fancied that 
 she saw her first husband coming towards her, and that 
 she embraced him with great tenderness ; when in the 
 midst of the pleasure which she expressed at the sight 
 
 • Lucret. iv. 34, &c. 
 
 t Antiquit. ./ud. lib, xvii. cap. 15. sect. 4, 5.
 
 No. 111.] THE SPECTATOR, 15 
 
 of him, he reproached her after the followino^ manner ; 
 " Glaphyra," says he, " thou hast made good the old say- 
 ing, that women are not to be trusted. Was not I the 
 husband of thy virginity? Have I not children by thee? 
 How couldst thou forget our loves so far as to enter into 
 a second marriage, and after that into a third, nay to 
 take for thy husband a man who has so shamelessly crept 
 into the bed of his brother ? However, for the sake of our 
 passed loves, I shall free thee from thy present reproach, 
 and make thee mine for ever." Glaphyra told this dream 
 to several women of her acquaintance, and died soon after. 
 I thought this story might not be impertinent in this place, 
 wherein I speak of those kings. Besides that the example 
 deserves to be taken notice of, as it contains a most cer- 
 tain proof of the immortality of the soul, and of Divine 
 Providence. If any man thinks these facts incredible, let 
 him enjoy his own opinion to himself, but let him not 
 endeavour to disturb the belief of others, who by instances 
 of this nature are excited to the study of virtut.' 
 
 L. 
 
 r-^-r^-r*** 
 
 No. 111.] Saturday, July 7, 1711. 
 
 —winter silvas academi quaererc verura. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 2. Ep. ii. 45. 
 
 To search for truth in academic groves. 
 
 The course of my last speculation led me insensibly into 
 a subject upon which I always meditate with great delight, 
 I mean the immortality of the soul. I was yesterday walk- 
 ing alone in one of my friend's woods, and lost myself in 
 it very agreeably, as I was running over in my mind the 
 several arjiuments that established this great point, which 
 is the basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing 
 hopes and secret joys that can arise in the heart of a 
 reasonable creature, 1 considered those several proofs 
 drawn ; 
 
 First, From the nature of the soul itself, and particularly 
 its immateriality, which though not absolutely necessary-
 
 16 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 111. 
 
 to the eternity of its duration, has, I think, been evinced 
 to almost a demonstration. 
 
 Secondly, From its passions and sentiments, as particu- 
 larly from its love of existence, its horror of annihilation, 
 and its hopes of immortality, with that secret satisfaction 
 which it finds in the practice of virtue, and that uneasi- 
 ness which follows in it upon the commission of vice. 
 
 Thirdly, From the nature of the Supreme Being, whose 
 justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned 
 in this great point. 
 
 But among these and other excellent arguments for the 
 immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the per- 
 petual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a 
 possibility of ever arriving at it: which is a hint that I do 
 i;ot remember to have seen opened and improved by others 
 who have written on this subject, though it seems to me to 
 carry a great weight with it. How can it enter into the 
 thoughts of man, that the soul, whioh is capable of such 
 immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements 
 to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon 
 as it is created? Are such abiljties made for no purpose? 
 A brute arrives at a point of perfection that he can never 
 pass: in a few years he has all the endowments be is capa- 
 ble of; and were he to live ten thousand more, would be 
 the same thing he is at present. Were a human soul thus 
 at a stand in her accomplishments, were her faculties to 
 be full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements, 
 I could imagine it might fall away insensibly, and drop at 
 once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a 
 thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of improve- 
 ments, and travelling on from perfection to perfection, 
 after having just looked abroad into the works of its 
 Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite good- 
 ness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting 
 out, and in the beginning of her inquiries? 
 
 A man, considered in his present state, seems only sent 
 into the world to propagate his kind. He provides himself 
 with a successor, and immediately quits bis post to make 
 toom for hira.
 
 No. 111.] THE SPECTATOR.' 1 7 
 
 ■Haeres 
 
 Hieredem alterius, velui unda supervenit undatn. 
 
 JJor. Lib. 2. Ep. ii. 175. 
 
 Heir crowds heir, as in a rolling flood 
 
 Wave urges wave. Creech. 
 
 He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down 
 to others. This is not surprising' to consider in animals, 
 tvhich are formed for our use, and can finish their business 
 in a short life. The silk-worm, after having spun her task, 
 lays her eggs and dies. But a man can never have taken 
 in his full measure of knowledge, has not time to subdue 
 his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to 
 the perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off the 
 stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious 
 creatures for so mean a purpose ? Can he delight in the 
 production of such abortive intelligences, such short-lived 
 reasonable beings .* Would he give us talents that are not 
 to be exerted ? Capacities that are never to be gratified ? 
 How can we find that wisdom, which shines through all 
 his works in the formation of man, without looking on 
 this world as only a nursery for the next, and believing 
 that the several generations of rational creatures, v.hich 
 rise up and disappear in such quick successions, are only 
 to receive their first rudiments of existence here, and af- 
 terwards to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, 
 where they may spread and flourish to all eternity. 
 
 There is not, in ray opinion, a more pleasing and triumph- 
 ant consideration in religion than this, of the perpetual 
 progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of 
 its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To look 
 upon the soul as going on from strength to strength ; to 
 consider that she is to shine for ever with new accessions 
 of glory, and brighten to all eternity; that she will be still 
 adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge; 
 carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that am- 
 bition which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must 
 be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation 
 for ever beautifying in his eyes, and drawing nearer to him 
 by greater degrees of resemblance, 
 C2
 
 18 THE SPECTATOR. [No. II?. 
 
 Methinks this single consideration, of the pro|:ress of a 
 finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish 
 all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. 
 That cherubim, which now appears as a God to a human 
 soul, knows very well that the period will come about in 
 eternity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as be 
 himself now is : nay when she shall look down upon that 
 degree of perfection, as much as she now falls short of it. 
 Jt is true the higher nature still advances, and by that 
 means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale 
 of being; but he knows that how high soever the station 
 is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior 
 nature will at length mount up to it, and shine forth in 
 the same degree of glory. 
 
 With what astonishment and veneration may we look 
 into our own souls, where there are such hidden stores 
 of virtue and knowledge, such inexhaiisted sources of per- 
 fection ? We know not yet what we shall be, nor will it 
 ever enter into the heart of man to conceive the glory that 
 will be always in reserve for him. The soul, considered 
 with its Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines 
 that may draw nearer to another for all eternity without 
 a possibility of touching it: and can there be a thought so 
 transporting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual 
 approaches to Him, who is not only the standard of per- 
 fection but of happiness ! L. 
 
 No. 112.] Monday, July 9, 1711. 
 
 *ASavaTou( fxev ■apwra 9foif, v6imi> if StaKenat, 
 T»mS Pglhag. 
 
 Fust, in obcfhence to tny country's lites, 
 "Worship Ih' immortal gods. 
 
 I AM always very well pleased with a countrj' Sunday, 
 and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a 
 human institution, it would be the best method that could 
 have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of 
 mankind. It is certain the country people would soon
 
 No. 112.1 THE SPECTATOR. 19 
 
 degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were 
 there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which 
 the whole village meet together with their best faces, and 
 in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another 
 upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to 
 them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme 
 Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, 
 not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of re- 
 ligion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in 
 their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities 
 as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. 
 A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the 
 churchyard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change, the whole 
 parish-politics being generally discussed in that place either 
 after sermon or before the bell rings. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, hat 
 beautified the inside of his church with several texts of 
 his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome 
 pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his 
 own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming 
 to his t^siatp he found his parishioners very irregular ; and 
 that in order to make them kneel and join in the re- 
 sponses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a com- 
 mon prayer-book: and at the same time employed an 
 itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for 
 that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the 
 Psalms ; upon which they now very much value themselves, 
 and indeed outdo most of the country churches that 1 have 
 ever heard. 
 
 As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he 
 keeps them in very good order, an() will suffer nobody to 
 sleep in it besides himself ; for if by chance he has been 
 surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out 
 of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees 
 any body else nodding, either wakes them himself, or 
 sends his servants to them. Several other of the old 
 knight's particularities break out upon these occasions. 
 Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the sing- 
 ing Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congrega-
 
 99 THE spectator; [No. 1 1 2. 
 
 tion have done with it ; sometimes when he is pleased with 
 the matter of his devotion, he pronounces ' Amen' three 
 or four times to the same prayer ; and sometimes stands up 
 when every body else is upon their knees, to count the con- 
 gregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. 
 
 I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old 
 friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John 
 Matthews to miud what he was about, and not disturb 
 the congregation. This John Matthews it seems is re- 
 markable for being an idle feUow, and at that time was 
 kicking his heels tor his diversion. This authority of the 
 knight, though exerted in that odd manner, which ac- 
 companies him in all circumstances of life, has a very 
 good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to 
 see any thing ridiculous in bis behaviour ; besides that the 
 general good sense and worthiness of his character make 
 bis friends observe these little singularities as foils that 
 rather set off than blemish his good qualities. 
 
 As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to 
 stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight 
 walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double 
 row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side: 
 and every now and then inquires how such a one's wife, or 
 mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at 
 church ; which is understood as a secret reprimand to the 
 person that is absent. 
 
 The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising 
 day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that 
 answers well, he has ordered a bible to be given him next 
 day for his encouragement ; and sometimes accompanies 
 it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has 
 likewi'^e added five pounds a year to the clerk's place ; and 
 that he may encourage the \oung fellows to make them- 
 selves perfect in the church-service, has promised upon 
 the death of the preserjt incumbent, who is very old, to 
 bestow it according to merit. 
 
 The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chap- 
 lain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the 
 mar« reoaarkable, because the very next village is famous
 
 No. 113.] THE SPECTATOR.' 21 
 
 for the differences and contentions that rise between the 
 parson and the 'squire, who live in a perpetual state of 
 war. The parson is always preaching at the 'squire ; and 
 the 'squire, to be revenged on the parson, never comes to 
 church. The 'squire has made all his tenants atheists and 
 tythe-stealers ; while the parson instructs them every Sun- 
 day in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them, in 
 almost every sermon, that he is a better man than his pa- 
 tron. In short, matters are come to such an extremity, 
 that the 'squire has not said his prayers either in public 
 or private this half year ; and that the parson threatens 
 him, if he does not roend his nianners, to pray for him in 
 the face of the whole congregation. 
 
 Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the coun- 
 try, are very fatal to the ordinary people ; who are so used 
 to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as mtich deference 
 to the understanding of a man of an estate, as of a man 
 of learning; and are very hardly brought to regard any 
 truth, how important soever it may be, that is preached 
 to them, when they know there are several men of five 
 hundred a year who do not believe it. L. 
 
 No. 113.] Tuesday, July 10, 1711. 
 
 Ilserent infixi p«ctore vuit<i«. yirg. X.n. ir. 4. 
 
 Her looks were deep impriutcd iu his heart. 
 
 In my first description of the company in which I pass 
 raost of my time, it may be remembered, that I mentioned 
 a great affliction which my friend Sir Roger had met with 
 in his youth; which was no less than a disappointment in 
 love. It happened this evening, that we fell into a very- 
 pleasing walk, at a distance from his house. As soon as 
 ■we came into it, * It is,' quoth the good old man, lookin* 
 round him with a smile, * very hard, that any part of my 
 land should be settled upon one who has used nie so ill as 
 the perverse widow did ; and yet I am sure I could not see 
 a sprig of any bough of this whole walk of trees, but I 
 should reflect upon her and her severity. She has ccr-
 
 22 THE SPECTATOR/ [No. 113. 
 
 tainly the finest band of any woman in the world. You 
 are to know, this was the place wherein I used to muse 
 upon her ; and by that custom I can never come into it, 
 but the same tender sentiments revive in my mind, as if 
 I had actually walked with that beautiful creature under 
 these shades. I have been fool enough to carve her name 
 on the bark of several of these trees ; so unhappy is the 
 condition of men in love, to attempt the removing of their 
 passion by the methods which serve only to imprint it 
 deeper. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman 
 in the world. 
 
 Here followed a profound silence ; and I was not dis- 
 pleased to observe my friend fallings so naturally into a 
 discourse, which I had ever before taken notice he indus- 
 triously avoided. — After a* very long pause, he entered 
 upon an account of this great circumstance in his life, 
 with an air which I thought raised my idea of him above 
 what I had ever had before; and gave me the picture of 
 that cheerful mind of his, before it received that stroke 
 which has ever since affected his words and actions. But 
 he went on as follows. 
 
 * I came to my estate in my twenty-second year, and 
 resolved to follow the steps of the most worthy of my an- 
 cestors who have inhabited this spot of earth before me, 
 in all the methods of hospitality and good neis:hbourhood, 
 for the sake of my fame; and in country sports and recre- 
 ations, for the sake of my health. In my twenty-third 
 year I was obliged to serve as sheriff of the county; and 
 in my servants, officers, and whole equipage, indulfied the 
 pleasure of a young man (who did not think ill of his own 
 person) in taking that public occasion of showing my figure 
 and behaviour to advantage. You may easily imagine to 
 yourself what appearance I made, who am pretty tall, rid 
 well, and was very well dressed, at the head of a whole 
 county, with music before me, a feather in my hat, and 
 my horse well bitted. I can assure you, I was not a little 
 pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from all the 
 balconies and windows as I rode to the hall where the as- 
 sizes were held. But when I came there, a beautiful crea-
 
 No. 113.T THE SPECTATOR. 23 
 
 ture, in a widow's habit, sat in court to hear the event of 
 a cause concerning her dower. This commanding crea- 
 ture (who was born for the destruction of all who behold 
 her) put on such a resignation in her countenance, and 
 bore the whispers of all around the court with such a pretty 
 uneasiness, 1 warrant you, and then recovered herself 
 from one eye to another, until she was perfectly confused 
 by meeting something so wistful in all she encountered, 
 that at last, with a murrain to her, she cast her bewitch- 
 ing eye upon me. I no sooner met it but I bowed like a 
 great surprised booby; and knowing her cause to be 
 the first which came on, I cried, like a captivated calf as 
 I was, *' Make way for the defendant's witnesses." Thi^ 
 sudden partiality made all the county immediately see 
 the sheriff also was become a slave to the fine widow. 
 During the time her cause was upon trial, she behaved 
 herself, I warrant you, with such a deep attention to her 
 business, took opportunities to have little billets handed to 
 her counsel, then would be in such a pretty confusion, 
 occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much 
 company, that not only 1 but the whole court was preju- 
 diced in her favour; and all that the next heir to laer 
 husband had to urge, was thought so groundless and fri- 
 volous, that when it came to her counsel to reply, there 
 was not half so much said as every one besides in the court 
 thought he could have urged to her advantage. You must 
 understand, sir, this perverse woman is one of those unac- 
 countable creatures that secretly rejoice in the admiration 
 of men, but indulge themselves in no farther consequences. 
 Hence it is that she has ever had a train of admirers, and 
 she removes from her slaves in town to those in the country, 
 according to the seasons of the year. She is a reading lady, 
 and far gone in the pleasures of friendship. She is always 
 accompanied by a confidant, who is witness to her daily 
 protestations against our sex, and consequently a bar to her 
 first steps towards love, upon the strength of her own 
 maxims and declarations. 
 
 * However, I must needs say, this accomplished mistress 
 of mine has distinguished me above the rest, and has been
 
 M THE SPECTATOR. [No. 113. 
 
 known to declare Sir Roger De Coverley was the tamest 
 and most humane of all the brutes in the country. I was 
 told she said so by one who thought he rallied me ; but 
 upon the strength of this slender encouragement of being 
 thought least detestable, I made new liveries, new-paired 
 my coach-horses, sent them all to town to be bitted, and 
 taught to throw their legs well, and move altogether, before 
 I pretended to cross the country, and wait upon her. As 
 soon as I thought my retinue suitable to the character of 
 my fortune and youth, I set out from hence to make my 
 addresses. The particular skill of this lady has ever beeu 
 to inflame your wishes, and yet command respect. To 
 make her mistress of this art, she has a greater share of 
 knowledge, wit, and good sense, than is usual even among 
 men of merit. Then she is beautiful beyond the race of 
 women. If you will not let her go on with a certain artifice 
 with her ey«s, and the skill of beauty, she will arm her- 
 self with her real charms, and strike you with admiration 
 instead of desire. It is certain that if you were to behold 
 the whole woman, there is that dignity in her jispect, that 
 composure in her motion, that complacency in her man- 
 ner, that if her form makes you hope, her merit makes 
 you fear. But then again, she is such a desperate scholar, 
 that no country gentleman can approach her vvithout being 
 a jest. As I was going to tell you, wbeu I came to her 
 house, I was admitted to her presence with great civility; 
 at the same time she placed herself to be rtrst seen by me 
 in such an attitude, as I think you call the posture of a 
 picture, that she discovered new charm<i, and I at last 
 came towards her with such an awe as made me speech- 
 less. This she no sooner observed but she made her ad- 
 vantage of it, and began a discourse to me concerning 
 love and honour, as they both are followed by pretenders, 
 and the real votaries to them. When she discussed these 
 points in a discourse, which 1 verily believe was as learued 
 as the best philosopher in Europe could possibly make, 
 she asked me whether she was so happy as to fall in with 
 my sentiments on these important particulars? Her con- 
 fidant sat by her, and upon my being in the last confusion
 
 No. 113.] THE SPECTATOR.' J5 
 
 and siknce, this maHcmus aid of her's turning to her, 
 says^ *' I am very glad to observe Sip Roger pauses upon 
 this subject, and seems resolved to deliver uU his senti- 
 ments upon the matter when he pleases to speak." They 
 both kept their countenances, and after I had sat half an 
 hour meditating how to behave before such profound 
 casuists, I rose up and took my leave. Chance has since 
 that time thrown me very often in her way, and she as often 
 has directed a discourse to me which 1 do not understand. 
 This barbarity has kept me ever at a distance from the 
 most beautiful object my eyes ever beheld. It is thus also 
 she deals with all mankind, and you must make love to 
 her, as you would conquer the sphinx, by posing her. But 
 were she like other women, and that there were any talk- 
 ing to her, how constant must the pleasure of that man 
 be, who could converse with a creature — But, after all, 
 you may be sure her heart is fixed on some one or other ; 
 and yet I have beca credibly informed ; but who can be- 
 lieve half that is said ! after she had done si)eaking to 
 me, she put her hand to her bosom, and adjusted her 
 tucker. Then she cast her eyes a little down, upon my 
 beholding her too earnestly. They say she sings excellently : 
 her voice in her ordinary speech has something in it inex- 
 pressibly sweet. You must know I dined with her at a 
 public table the day after I first saw her, and she helped 
 me to some tansy in the eye of all the gentlemen in the 
 country. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman 
 in the world. I can assure you, sir, were you to behold 
 her, you would be in the same condition ; for as her speech 
 is music, her form is angelic. But 1 find I grow irregular 
 nvhile I am talking of her; but indeed it would be stupi- 
 dity to be unconcerned at such perfection. Oh, the ex- 
 cellent creature ! she is as inimitable to all women, as she 
 is inaccessible to all men.* 
 
 I found my friend begin to rave, and insensibly led him 
 towards the house, that we might be joined by some other 
 company ; and am convinced that the widow is the secret 
 cause of all that inconsistency which appears in some parts 
 of my friend's discourse ; though he has so much contmaQd 
 
 Vol. 11. D
 
 26 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 1 14. 
 
 of himself as not directly to mention her, yet according 
 to that of Martial, which one knows not how to render 
 into English, Dujh tacet hanc loquitur, I shall end this 
 paper with that whole epigram, which represents with 
 much humour my honest friend's condition : 
 
 QuicqaiJ agit Rufus, nihil csf, nisi N'atvia Rufo, 
 
 Si gaudet, si Ikt, si tacet, hanc loquitur : 
 Coenat, propinat, poscit, neg^at, annuit, una est 
 
 Nsevia ; si non sit Naevia, mutus erit. 
 Scriberet hesterna patri ciim luce salutem, 
 
 Naevia lux, inquit, Naevia namen, ave. Epls. Ijdx. I. 1. 
 
 • Let Rufns weep, rejoice, sund, sit, or walk, 
 Sull he can nothing but of Naevia talk ; ~" 
 Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute, 
 ' Still he must speak ot" Nas\ia, or be mute. 
 
 He writ to his father, ending with this line, 
 I am, my lovely Ka;via, ever thine.' 
 
 R. 
 
 No. 114.] Wednesday, July 11, 1711. 
 
 Paupertatis pudor et fuga 
 
 Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. x:\iii. 24. 
 The dread of nothing more 
 
 Thau to be thought necessitous and poor.— Poo/y. 
 
 Economy in our affairs has the same effect upon our 
 fortunes which good breeding has upon our conversation. 
 There is a pretending behaviour in both cases, which in- 
 stead of making men esteemed, renders them both miser- 
 able and contemptible. We had yesterday, at Sir Roger's, 
 a set of country gentlemen who dined with him ; and after 
 dinner the glass was taken, by those who pleased, pretty 
 plentifully. Among others I observed a persou of a toler- 
 able good aspect, who seemed to be more greedy of liquor 
 than any of the company, and yet methought he did not 
 taste it with delight. As he grew warm, he was sus- 
 picious of every thing that was said, and as he advanced 
 towards being fuddled, his humour grew worse. At the 
 same time his bitterness seemed to be rather an inward 
 dissatisfaction in his own mind, than any dislike he had 
 taken to the company. Upon hearing his name, I knew
 
 No. 114.3 THE SPECTATOR. 27 
 
 bim to be a gentleman of a considerable fortune in this 
 county, but greatly in debt. What gives the unhappy 
 inan this peevishness of spirit is, that his estate is dipped, 
 and is eating out with usury; and yet he has not the heart 
 to sell any part of it. His proud stomach, at the cost of 
 restless nights, constant inquietudes, danger of affronts, 
 and a thousand nameless inconveniencies, preserves this 
 canker in his fortune, rather than it shall be said he is a 
 man of a fewer hundreds a year than he has been com- 
 monly reputed. Thus he endures the torment of poverty, 
 to avoid the name of being less rich. If you go to his 
 house, you see great plenty ; but served in a manner that 
 shows it is all unnatural, and that the master's mind is not 
 at home. There is a certain waste and carelessness in the 
 air of every thing, and the whole appears but a covered 
 indigence, a magnificent poverty. That neatness and cheer- 
 fulness which attends the table of him who lives within 
 compass, is wanting, and exchanged for a libertine way of 
 service in all about him. 
 
 This gentleman's conduct, though a very common way 
 of management, is as ridiculous as that officer's would be, 
 who had but few men under his command, and should 
 take the charge of an extent of country rather than of a 
 small pass. To pay for, personate, and keep in a man's 
 hands, a greater estate than he really has, is of all others 
 the most unpardonable vanity, and must in the end reduce 
 the man who is guilty of it to dishonour. Vet if we look 
 round us in any county of Great Britain, we shall see many 
 in this fatal error; if that may be called by so soft a name, 
 which proceeds from a false shame of appearing what they 
 really are, when the contrary behaviour would in a short 
 time advance them to the condition which they pretend to. 
 
 Laertes has fifteen hundred pounds a year, which is 
 mortgaged for six thousand pounds ; but it is impossible 
 to convince bim, that if he sold as much as would pay off 
 that debt, he would save four shillings in the pound,* 
 which he gives for the vanity of being the reputed master 
 of it. Yet if Laertes did this, he would perhaps be easier 
 • Viz. the land-tax.
 
 «8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 114. 
 
 ia his own fortune ; but then Irus, a fellow of yesterday, 
 who has but twelve hundred a year, would be his equal. 
 Rather than this shall be, Laertes goes on to bring well- 
 born beggars into the world, and every twelvemonth charges 
 his estate with at least one year's rent more by the birth 
 of a child. 
 
 Laertes and Irus are neighbours, whose way of living 
 are an abomination to each other. Irus is moved by the 
 fear of poverty, and Laertes by the shame of it. Though 
 the motive of action is of so near affinity in both, and may 
 be resolved into this, * that to each of them poverty is the 
 greatest of all evils,' yet are their manners very widely 
 different. Shame of poverty makes Laertes launch into 
 unnecessary equipage, vain expense, and lavish entertain- 
 ments. Fear of poverty makes Irus allow himself only 
 plain necessaries, appear without a servant, sell his owa 
 corn, attend his labourers, and be himself a labourer. 
 Shame of poverty makes Laertes go every day a step nearer 
 to it: and fear of poverty stirs up Irus to make every day 
 some further progress from it. 
 
 These different motives produce the excesses which men 
 are guilty of in the negligence of and provision for them- 
 selves. Usury, stock-jobbing, extortion, and oppression, 
 have their seed in the dread of want; and vanity, riot, 
 and prodigality, from the shame of it: but both these ex- 
 cesses are infinitely below the pursuit of a reasonable crea- 
 ture. After we have taken care to command so much 
 as is necessary for maintaining ourselves in the order of 
 men suitable to our character, the care of superfluities is 
 a vice no less extravagant, than the neglect of necessaries 
 would have been before. 
 
 Certain it is, that they are both out of nature, when she 
 is followed with reason and good sense. It is from this 
 reflection that 1 always read Mr. Cowley with the greatest 
 pleasure. His magnanimity is as much above that of other 
 considerable men, as his understanding; and it is a true 
 distinguishing spirit in the elegant author who published 
 fcis works, to dwell so much upon the temper of his miod 
 and the moderation of his desires. By this means he ren*-
 
 No. 114.] THE SPECTATOR/ 99 
 
 dered bis friend as amiable as famous. Tbat state of life 
 which bears the face of poverty with Mr. Cowley's great 
 vulgar,* is admirably described ; and it is no small satis- 
 faction to those of the same turn of desire, that he pro- 
 duces the authority of the wisest men of the hest age of 
 the world, to strengthen his opinion of the ordinary pur- 
 suits of mankind. 
 
 It would methinks be no ill maxim of life, if, accordinjj 
 to that ancestor of Sir Roger, whom I lately mentioned, 
 every man would point to himself what sum he would re- 
 solve not to exceed. He might by this means cheat him- 
 self into a tranquillity on this side of that expectation, or 
 convert what he should get above it to nobler uses than 
 his own pleasures or necessities. This temper of mind 
 would exempt a man from an ignorant envy of restless 
 men above him, and a more inexcusable contempt of happy 
 men below him. This would be sailing by some compass, 
 living with some design ; but to be eternally bewildered in 
 prospects of future gain, and putting on unnecessary ar- 
 mour against improbable blows of fortune, is a mechanic 
 being which has not good sense for its direction, but is 
 carried on by a sort of acquired instinct towards things 
 below our consideration, and unworthy our esteem. It 
 is possible that the tranquillity I now enjoy at Sir Roger's 
 may have created in me this way of thinking, which is so 
 abstracted from the common relish of the world : but as 
 I am now in a pleasing arbour, surrounded with a beauti- 
 ful landscape, I find no inclination so strong as to con- 
 tinue in these mansions, so remote from the ostentatious 
 scenes of life: and am at this present writing philosopher 
 enough to conclude with Mr. Cowley, — 
 
 If e'er ambition did my fancy cheat, 
 With any wish so mean as to be great ; 
 Continue, Heav'u, still from me to remove 
 The hnr.iblc blessings of that life I love. 
 
 T. 
 
 • Hence, ye profane, I hate ye all, 
 £oth the grtat vulgar and the small. 
 
 Cowley's Par, of Horace, I,ib. 3. Od. 1, ] 
 D 2
 
 30 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 115. 
 
 No. 115.] Thursday^ July 1£, 1711. 
 
 Ut sit mens sana in corpore sano. 
 
 Juv. Sat. X. 356. 
 
 Pray for a sound mind iu a sound body. 
 
 Bodily labour is of two kinds, either that which a man 
 submits to for his livelihood, or that which he undergoes 
 for his pleasure. The latter of them generally changes the 
 name of labour for that of exercise, but differs only from 
 ordinary labour as it rises from another motive. 
 
 A country life abounds in both these kinds of labour, 
 and for that reason gives a man a greater stock of health, 
 and consequently a more perfect enjoyment of himself, 
 than any other way of life. I consider the body as a sys- 
 tem of tubes and glands, or, to use a more rustic phrase, a 
 bundle of pipes and strainers, fitted to one another after 
 so wonderful a manner £is to make a proper engine for the 
 soul to work with. This description does not only com- 
 prehend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins, nerves, and 
 arteries, but every njuscle and every ligature, which is a 
 composition of fibres, that are so many imperceptible 
 tubes or pipes interwoven on all sides with invisible glands 
 or strainers. 
 
 This general idea of a human body, without considering 
 it in its niceties of anatomy, lets us see how absolutely 
 necessar}' labour is for the right preservation of it. There 
 must be frequent motions and agitations, to mix, digest, 
 and separate the juices contained in it, as well as to clear 
 and cleanse that infinitude of pipes and strainers of which 
 it is composed, and to give their solid parts a more firm 
 and lasting tone. Labour or exercise ferments the hu- 
 mours, casts them into their proper channels, throws off 
 redundancies, and helps nature in those secret distribu- 
 tions, without which the body cannot subsist in its vigour, 
 nor the soul act with cheerfulness. 
 
 I might here mention the effects which this has upon 
 all the faculties of the mind, by keeping the understanding 
 clear, the imagination uatroubledj and refining those, spirits
 
 No. 115.] THE SPECTATOR. 31 
 
 that are necessary for the proper exertion of our intel- 
 lectual faculties, during the present laws of union between 
 soul and body. It is to a neglect in this particular that we 
 must ascribe the spleen, which is so frequent in men of 
 studious and sedentary tempers, as well as the vapours to 
 which those of the other sex are so often subject. 
 
 Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our well- 
 being, nature would not have made the body so proper for 
 it, by giving such an activity to the limbs, and such a 
 pliancy to every part as necessarily produce those com- 
 pressions, extensions, contortions, dilatations, and all other 
 kinds of motions that are necessary for the preservation 
 of such a system of tubes and glands as has been before- 
 mentioned. And that we might not want inducements 
 to engage us in such an exercise of the body as is proper 
 for its welfare, it is so ordered that nothing valuable can 
 be produced without it. Not to mention riches and 
 honour, everj food and raiment are not to be come at with- 
 out the toil of the hands and sweat of the brows. Provi- 
 dence furnishes materials, but expects that we should 
 work them up ourselves. The earth must be laboured be- 
 fore it gives its increase, and when it is forced into its 
 several products, how many hands must they pass through 
 before they are fit for use ! Manufactures, trade, and agri- 
 culture, naturally employ more than nineteen parts of the 
 species in twenty ; and as for those who are not obliged to 
 labour, by the condition in which they are born, they are 
 more miserable than the rest of mankind, unless they in- 
 dulge themselves in that voluntary labour which goes by 
 the name of exercise. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable man in 
 business of this kind, and has hung several parts of his 
 house with the trophies of his former labours. The walls 
 of his great hall are covered with the horns of several kinds 
 of deer that he has killed in the chase, which he thinks 
 the most valuable furniture of his house, as they afford 
 him frequent topics of discourse, and show that he has not 
 been idle. At the lower end of the hall is a large otter's 
 skin stuffed with hay, which his mother ordered to be hung
 
 32 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 115. 
 
 up in that manner, and the knight looks upon with great 
 satisfaction, because it seems he was but nine years old 
 when his dog killed him. A little room adjoining to the 
 hall is a kind of arsenal filled with guns of several sizes 
 and inventions, with which the knight has made great 
 havock in the woods, and destroyed many thousands of 
 pheasants, partridges, and woodcocks. His stable doors 
 are patched with noses that belonged to foxes of the 
 knight's own hunting down. Sir Roger showed me one of 
 them that for distinction sake has a brass nail struck 
 through it, which cost him about fifteen hours' riding, 
 carried him through half a dozen counties, killed him a 
 brace of geldings, and lost above half his dogs. This the 
 knight looks upon as one of the greatest exploits of his 
 life. The perverse widow, whom 1 have given some ac- 
 count of, was the death of several foxes; for Sir Roger has 
 told me that in the course of his amours he patched the 
 western door of his stable. Whenever the widow was cruel, 
 the foxes were sure to pay for it. In proportion as his 
 passion for the widow abated, and old age came on, be 
 left off fox-hunting; but a hare is not yet safe that sits 
 ■within ten miles of his house. 
 
 There is no kind of exercise which f would so recom- 
 mend to my readers of both sexes as this of riding, as 
 there is none which so much conduces to health, and is 
 every way accommodated to the body, according to the 
 idea which I have given of it. Doctor Sydenham is very 
 lavish in its praises ; and if the English reader will see the 
 mechanical effects of it described at length, he may find 
 them in a book published not many years since under 
 the title of Medicina Gymnastica* For my own part, 
 when 1 am in town, for want of these opportunities, I ex- 
 ercise myself an hour every morning upon a dumb-bell that 
 is placed in a corner of my room, and it pleases me the 
 more because it does every thing I require of it in the 
 uaost profound silence. My landlady and her daughters 
 are so well acquainted with my hours of exercise, that 
 
 • By Fraucis FiUler, M. A.
 
 No. 116.] THE SPECTATOR. 3S 
 
 they never come into my room to disturb me whilst I am 
 ringing. 
 
 When I was some years younger than I am at present, 
 I used to employ myself in a more laborious diversion, which 
 I learned from a Latin treatise of exercises that is written 
 with a great deal of erudition : * it is there called the 
 CKiofxa-^iOLy or the fighting with a man's own shadow, and 
 consists in the brandishing of two short sticks grasped in 
 each hand, and loaded with plugs of lead at either end. 
 This opens the chest, pxercises the limbs, and gives a man 
 all the pleasure of boxing, without the blows. I could 
 wish that several learned men would lay out that time 
 ■which they employ in controversies and disputes about 
 nothing, in this method of fighting with their own shadows. 
 It might conduce very much to evaporate the spleen, which 
 makes them uneasy to the public as well as to themselves. 
 
 To conclude, — As 1 am a compound of soul and body, 
 I consider myself as obliged to a double scheme of duties ; 
 and think I have not fufilled the business of the day whea 
 1 do not thus employ the one in labour and exercise, as 
 well as the other in study and contemplation. L. 
 
 No. 116.] Fiiday, July 13, 1711. 
 
 -Vocat ingenti clamore Cithatron, 
 
 Taygelique canes n,rs- Gcorg. iii. 43. 
 
 The echoing hills and chiding bounds invite. 
 
 Those who have searched into human nature observe, 
 that nothing so much shows the nobleness of the soul, as 
 that its felicity consists in action. Every man has such 
 an active principle in him, that he will find out some- 
 thing to employ himself upon, in whatever place or state 
 of life be is posted. I have heard of a gentleman who was 
 under close confinement in the Bastile seven years ; during 
 which time he amused himself in scattering a few small 
 pins about his chamber, gathering them up again, and 
 
 • Ilieronymns Mercurialis's ceiebrated book, Artis Gymnastica apu4 
 Antiqjws, &c, Libri sex. Venet. 1569. 4tu.
 
 34 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 116. 
 
 placing them in different figures on the arm of a great 
 chair. He often told his friends afterwards, that unless 
 he had found out this piece of exercise, he verily believed 
 he should have lost his senses. 
 
 After what has been said, I need not inform my readers, 
 that Sir Roger, with whose character 1 hope they are at 
 present pretty well acquainted, has in his youth gone 
 through the whole course of those rural diversions which 
 the country abounds in ; and which seem to be extremely 
 well suited to that laborious industry a man may observe 
 here in a far greater degree than in towns and cities. I have 
 before hinted at some of my friend's exploits: he has iu 
 his youthful days taken forty coveys of partridges in a 
 season ; and tired many a salmon with a line consisting 
 but of a single hair. The constant thanks and good wishes 
 of the neighbourhood always attended him, on account 
 of his remarkable enmity towards foxes ; having destroyed 
 more of those vermin in one year, than it was thought the 
 whole country could have produced. Indeed the knight 
 does not scruple to own among his most intimate friends, 
 that in order to establish his reputation this way, he has 
 secretly sent for great numbers of them out of other 
 counties, which he used to turn loose about the country 
 by night, that he might the better signalize himself ia 
 their destruction the next day. His hunting horses were 
 the finest and best managed in all these parts. His 
 tenants are still full of the praises of a gray stone-horse 
 that unhappily staked himself several years since, and was 
 buried with great solemnity in the orchard. 
 
 Sir Roger, being at present too old for fox-hunting, to 
 keep himself in action, has disposed of his beagles and got 
 a pack of stop-hounds. What these want in speed, he en- 
 deavours to make amends for by the deepness of their 
 mouths and the variety of their notes, which are suited in 
 such manner to each other, that the whole cry makes up 
 a complete concert. He is so nice in this particular, that 
 a gentleman having made him a present of a very fine 
 hound the other day, the knight returned it by the servant 
 with a great many expressions of civility j but desired him
 
 No. 11 G.] THE SPECTATOR. 35 
 
 to tell his master, that the dog he had sent was indeed a 
 most excellent bass, but that at present he only wanted a 
 counter-tenor. Could I believe my friend had ever read 
 Shakspeare, I should certainly conclude he had taken the 
 hint from Theseus in the Midsummer Night's Dream: 
 
 * My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind. 
 So flu'd, so sanded ; and their heads are hung 
 With ears that sweep away the morning dew. 
 Crook-knee'd and dew-lapt like Thessalian bulls, 
 Slow in pursuit, but match'd in months like bells, 
 Each under each. A cry more tunable 
 Was never halloo'd to, nor cheer'd with horn.'* 
 
 Sir Roger is so keen at this sport, that he has been out 
 almost every day since I came down; and upon the chap- 
 lain's offering to lend me his easy pad, I was prevailed on 
 yesterday morning to make one of the company. J was 
 extremely pleased, as we rid along, to observe the general 
 benevolence of all the neighbourhood towards my friend. 
 The farmers' sons thought themselves happy if they could 
 open a gate for the good old knight as he passed by; 
 which he generally requited with a nod or a smile, and 
 a kind inquiry after their fathers or uncles. 
 
 After we had rid about a mile from honje, we came 
 upon a large heath, and the sportsmen began to beat. 
 They had done so for some time, when, as I wasatalittle 
 distance from the rest of the company, I saw a hare pop 
 out from a small furze-brake almost under my horse's feet.. 
 1 marked the way she took, which I endeavoured to make 
 the company sensible of by extending my arm ; but to no 
 purpose, till Sir Roger, who knows that none of my ex- 
 traordinary motions are insignificant, rode up to me, and 
 asked me if puss was gone that way.' Upon my answer- 
 ing Yes, he itnmediateiy called in the dogs, and put ti.em 
 upon the scent. As they were going otf, I heard one of 
 the country-fellows muttering to his companion, ' That 
 'twas a wonder they had not lost all their sport, for want 
 of the silent gentleman's crying, Stole away,' 
 
 This, with my aversion to leaping hedges, made me 
 • Act iv. Sc. 1.
 
 38 THE SPECTATOR. [No. llSv 
 
 withdraw to a rising ground, from whence I could have 
 the pleasure of the whole chase, without the fatigue of 
 keeping in with the hounds. The hare immediately threw 
 them above a mile behind her; but I was pleased to find, 
 that instead of running straight forwards, or in hunter's 
 language, ' flying the country,' as I was afraid she might 
 have done, she wheeled about, and described a sort of 
 circle round the hill where I had taken my station, ia 
 •uch a manner as gave me a very distinct view of the 
 sport. I could see her first yass by, and the dogs some 
 time afterwards unravelling the whole track she had 
 made, and following her through all her doubles. I was 
 at the same time delighted in observing that deference 
 which the rest of the pack paid to each particular hound, 
 according to the character he had acquired among them. 
 If they were at a fault, and an old hound of reputation 
 opened but once, he was immediately followed by the whole 
 cry; while a raw dog, or one who was a noted liar, might 
 have yelped his heart out, without being taken notice of. 
 The hare now, after having squatted two or three times, 
 and been put up again as often, came still nearer to the 
 place where she was at first started. The dogs pursued 
 her, and these were followed by the jolly knight, w ho rode 
 upon a white gelding, encompassed by his tenants and ser- 
 vants, and cheering his hounds with all the gayety of five- 
 and-twenty. One of the sportsmen rode up to me, and 
 told me, that he was sure the chase was almost at an end, 
 because the old dogs, which had hitherto lain behind, now 
 headed the pack. The fellow was in the right. Our hare 
 took a large field just under us, followed by the full cry 
 in view. I must confess the brightness of the weather, the 
 cheerfulness of every thing around me, the chiding of the 
 hounds, which was returned upon us in a double echo 
 from two neighbouring hills, with the hallooing of the 
 sportsmen, and the sounding of the horn, lifted my spirits 
 into almost lively pleasure, which I freely indulged, be- 
 cause I was sure it was innocent. If I was under any con- 
 cern, it was on the account of the poor hare, that was now 
 quite spent, and almost within the reach of her enemies ;
 
 No. 116.] THE SPECTATOR. »/ 
 
 vihen the huntsmen getting forward, threw down his pole 
 before the dogs. They were now within eight yards of that 
 game which they had been pursuing for almost as many 
 hours ; yet on the signal before-mentioned they all made 
 a sudden stand, and though they continued opening as 
 much as before, durst not once attempt to pass beyond 
 the pole. At the same time sir Roger rode forward, and 
 alighting, took up the hare in his arms ; which he sooa 
 after delivered up to one of his servants with an order, if 
 she could be kept alive, to let her go in his great orchard j 
 where it seems he has several of these prisoners of war, 
 who live together in a very comfortable captivity. I was 
 highly pleased to see the discipline of the pack, and the 
 good-nature of the knight, who could not find in his heart 
 to murder a creature that had given him so much diversion. 
 As we were returning home, I remembered that Mon- 
 sieur Paschal, in his most excellent discourse on the Misery 
 of Man, tells us, that all our endeavours after greatness 
 proceed from nothing but a desire of being surrounded by 
 a multitude of persons and affairs that may hinder us from 
 looking into ourselves, which is a view we cannot bear. 
 He afterwards goes oil to show that onr love of sports 
 comes from the same reason, and is particularly severe 
 upon hunting. * What,' says he, * unless it be to drowr\ 
 thought, can make them throw away so much time and 
 pains upon a silly animal, which they might buy cheaper 
 in the market .'* The foregoing reflection is certainly just* 
 when a man suffers his whole mind to be drawn into his 
 sports, and altogether loses himself in the woods; but 
 does not affect those who propose a far more laudable end 
 from this exercise, I mean the preservation of health, and 
 keeping all the organs of the soul in a condition to executa 
 her orders. Had that incomparable person, whom I last 
 quoted, been a little more indulgent to himself in this 
 point, the world might probably have enjoyed him much 
 longer ; whereas through too great an application to his 
 studies in his youth, he contracted that ill habit of body, 
 which, after a tedious sickness, carried him off in the 
 fortieth year of his agej and the whole history we have 
 Vol. II, E
 
 3t THE SPECTATOR. [No, 117. 
 
 of liis life tiil that time, is but one continued account of 
 the behaviour of a noble soul struggling under innume- 
 rable pains and distempers. 
 
 For my own part, I intend to bunt twice a week during 
 my stay with Sir Roger; and shall prescribe the moderate 
 use of this exercise to all my country friends, as the best 
 kind of physic for mending a bad constitution, and pre- 
 serving a good one. _ 
 
 I cannot do this better, than in the following lines out 
 of Mr. Drydeu : 
 
 * The fi»-st physicians by debauch were made ; 
 Excess bfgan, and Sloth sustains the trjde. 
 Ej' chase our loiig-liv'd fathers earii'd their food ; 
 Toil stnmg the nerves, and purify'd the blood ; 
 But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men, 
 Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten. 
 Better to hunt in fields for health unbought. 
 Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. 
 The wise for cure on exercise depend : 
 God never made bis work for man to mend.' 
 
 X. 
 
 No. 117.] Saturday, July 14, 1711. 
 
 Ipsi sibi somnia fingunt. Firg' Eel. viii. 108. 
 
 "With voluntary dreams they cheat their minds. 
 
 There are some opinions in which a man should stand 
 neuter, without engaging his assent to one side or the 
 other. Such a hovering faith as this, which refuses to 
 settle upon any determination, is absolutely necessary in 
 a mind that is careful to avoid errors and prepossessions. 
 When the arguments press equally on both sides in matters 
 that are indifferent to us, the safest method is to give up 
 ourselves to neither. 
 
 It is with this temper of mind that I consider the subject 
 of witchcraft. Wheu I hear the relations that are made 
 from all parts of the world, not only from Norway and 
 Lapland, front the East and West Indies, but from every 
 particular nation in Europe, I cannot forbear thinking 
 that there is such an intercourse and commerce with evil
 
 No. 117.] THE SPECTATOR. 3^ 
 
 spirits, as that which we express by the name of witch- 
 craft. But when I consider that the i^orant and credulous 
 parts of the world abound most in these relations, and that 
 the persons among us, who are supposed to engag'ie in such 
 an infernal commerce, are people of a weak understanding 
 and crazed imagination, and at the same time reflect upon 
 the many impostures and delusions of this nature that 
 have been detected in all ages, 1 endeavour to suspend my 
 belief till I hear more certain accounts than any whith 
 have yet come to my knowledge. In short, when I con- 
 sider the question, whether there are such persons in the 
 world as those we call witches, my mind is divided be- 
 tween the two opposite opinions, or rather (to speak my 
 thoughts freely) I believe in general that there is, and has 
 been such a thing as witchcraft; but at the same time caa 
 give no credit to any particular instance of it. 
 
 I am engaged in this speculation, by some occurrences 
 that I met with yesterday, which I shall give my reader 
 an account of at large. As I was walking with my friend 
 Sir Roger by the side of one of his woods, an old woman 
 applied herself to me for my charity. Her dress and figure 
 put me in mind of the following description in Otway : 
 
 * In a close lane as I pursu'd my journey, 
 I spy'd a wrinkled hag, with age grown double. 
 Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself. 
 Her eyes with scaldin:? rheum were gall'd and red ; 
 Cold p.dsy sliook her head ; her hands seem'd wilher'd ; 
 And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapt 
 The tatter'd remnant of an old striped lianging, 
 Which served to keep her carcase from the cold: 
 So there was nothing of a piece about her. 
 Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd 
 With ditf 'rent colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow. 
 And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness.' 
 
 As I was musing on this description, and comparing it 
 with the object before me, the knight told me, that this 
 very old woman had the reputation of a witch all over the 
 country, that her lips were observed to be always in motion, 
 and that there was not a switch about her house which her 
 neighbours did not believe had carried her several hun- 
 dreds of railes. If she chanced to stumble, they always
 
 40 THE spectator: [No. 117. 
 
 found sticks or straws that lay in the figure of a cross 
 laefore her. If she made any mistake at church, and cried 
 Amen in a wrong place, they never failed to conclude that 
 she was saying her prayers backwards. There was not a 
 maid in the parish that would take a pin of her, though 
 she should offer a bag of money with it. She goes by the 
 name of Moll White, and has made the country ring with 
 several imaginary exploits which are palmed upon her. If 
 the dairy-maid does not make her butter come so soon as 
 she would have it, Moll White is at the bottom of the 
 churn. Jf a horse sweats in the stable, Moll White has been 
 upon his back. If a hare makes an unexpected escape 
 from the hounds, the huntsman curses Moll Wl)ite. ' Nay/ 
 says Roger, * I have known the master of the pack, upon 
 Such an occasion, send one of his servants to see if Moll 
 White had been out that morning.* '* 
 
 This account raised my curiosity so far that I begged 
 my fx'iend Sir Roger to go with me into her hovel, which 
 stood in a solitary corner under the side of the wood. 
 Upon our first entering, Sir Roger winked to me, and 
 pointed at something that stood behind the door, which 
 upon looking that way, I found to be an old broom-staff. 
 At the same time he whispered me in the ear to take 
 notice of a tabby cat that sate in the chimney corner, 
 which, as the old knight told me, lay under as bad a re- 
 port as Moll White herself ; for besides that Moll is said 
 often to accompany her in the same shape, the cat is re- 
 ported to have spoken twice or thrice in her life, and to 
 have played several pranks above the capacity of an ordi- 
 nary cat. 
 
 I was secretly concerned to see human nature in so 
 much wretchedness and disgrace, but at the same time 
 could not forbear smiling to hear Sir Roger, who is a little 
 puzzled about the old woman, advising her as a justice of 
 peaceto avoid all communication with the devil, and never 
 to hurt any of her neighbours' cattle. We concluded our 
 visit with a bounty, which was very acceptable. 
 
 In our return home Sir Roger told me, that old Moll 
 had been often brought before him for making childreij
 
 No. 118.3 THE SPECTATOR. 4< 
 
 spit pins, and giving: maids the night-mare ; and tl»at the 
 country people would be tossing her into a pond and trying 
 experiments with her every day, if it was not for him and 
 his chaplain. 
 
 I have since found upon inquiry, that Sir Roger was 
 several times staggf^red with tlie reports that had been 
 brought hira concerning this old woman, and would fre- 
 quently hrive bound her over to the county sessions, had 
 not his chaplain with much ado persuaded him to the con- 
 trary. 
 
 I have been the more particular in this account, because 
 I hear there is scarce a village in England that has not a 
 Moll White in it. When an old wom.n begins to doat, 
 and grow chargeable to a parish, she is generally turned 
 into a witch, and fills the whole country with extravagant 
 fancies, imaginary distempers, and terrifying dreams. In 
 the mean time, the poor wretch that is the innocent oc- 
 casion of so many evils, begins to be frighted at herself, 
 and sometimes confesses secret commerces and familiarities 
 that her imagination forms in a delirious old age. This 
 frequently cuts off charity from the greatest objects of 
 compassion, and inspires people with a malevolence to- 
 wards those poor decrepit parts of our species, in whom 
 human nature is defaced by infirmity and dotage. L. 
 
 No. 118.] Monday, July 16, 1711. 
 
 Hsret lateri lethaJis arnndo. 
 
 rirg. JEn. iv. 73. 
 
 The fatal dart 
 
 Slicks in his side, and rauklcs in his heart, Dryden. 
 
 This agreeable seat is surrounded with so many pleasing 
 walks, which are struck out of a wood, in the midst of 
 which the house stands, that one can hardly ever be weary 
 of rambling from one labyrinth of delight to another. To 
 one used to live in a city, the charms of the country are 
 so exquisite, that the mind is lost in a certain transport 
 which raises us above ordinary life, and yet is not strong 
 enough to be inconsistent with tranquillity. This stat« of 
 E2
 
 42 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 118. 
 
 mind wa<? I in, ravished with the murmur of waters, the 
 whisper of breezes, the singin^? of birds; and whether I 
 looked up to the heavens, down on the earth, or turned to 
 the prospects around me, still struck with new sense of 
 pleasure ; when I found by the voice of my friend, who 
 walked by me, that we had insensibly strolled into the 
 grove sacred to the widow. * This woman,' says he, ' is of 
 all others the most unintelligible ; she either designs to 
 marry, or she does not. What is the most perplexing 
 of all is, that she does not either say to her lovers she has 
 any resolution against that condition of life in general, 
 or that she banishes them : but, conscious of her own 
 merit, she permits their addresses, without fear of any ill 
 consequence, or want of respect, from their rage or despair. 
 She has that in her aspect, against which it is impossible 
 to offend. A man whose thoughts are constantly bent 
 upon so agreeable an object, must be excused if the or- 
 dinary occurrences in conversation are below his attention. 
 I call her indeed perverse, hut alas ! why do I call her so? 
 Because her superior merit is such, that 1 cannot approach 
 her without awe, that my heart is checked by too much 
 esteem : I am angry that her charms are not more ac- 
 cessible, that I am more inclined to worship than salute 
 her. How often have J wished her unhappy, that I might 
 have an opportunity of serving her ? and how often trou- 
 bled in that very imagination, at giving her the pain of 
 being obhged ? Well, I have led a miserable life in secret 
 upon her account ; but fancy she would have condescended 
 to have some regard for me, if it had not been for that 
 watchful animal her confidant, 
 
 * Of all persons under the sun,' (continued he, calling 
 roe by my name) * be sure to set a mark upon confidants: 
 they are of all people the most impertinent. W'hat is 
 most pleasant to observe in them, is, that they assume to 
 themselves the merit of the persons whom they have in 
 their custody. Orestilla is a great fortune, and in won- 
 derful danger of surprises, therefore full of suspicions of 
 the least indifferent thing, particularly careful of new 
 acquaintance, and of growings too familiar with the old.
 
 No. 118.]; THE SPECTATOR. 4S 
 
 Themista, her favourite woman, is every whit as careful 
 of whom she speaks to, and what she says. Let the ward 
 be a beauty, her confidant shall treat you with an air of 
 distance; let her be a fortune, and she assumes the susr 
 picious behaviour of her friend and patroness. Thus it 
 is that very many of our unmarried women of distinction 
 are to all intents and purposes married, except the con- 
 sideration of ditferent sexes. They are directly under the 
 conduct of their whisperer; and think they are in a state 
 of freedom, while they can prate with one of these at- 
 tendants of all men in general, and still avoid the man 
 they most like. You do not see one heiress in a hundred 
 whose fate does not turn upon this circumstance of choos- 
 ing a confidant. Thus it is that the lady is addresaed 
 to, presented and flattered, only by proxy, in her woman. 
 
 In my case, how is it possible that ' Sir Roger was 
 
 proceeding in his harangue, when we heard the voice of 
 one speaking very importunately, and repeating these 
 words, * What, not one smile .'* We follovved the sound 
 till we came to a close thicket, on the other side of which 
 we saw a young woman sitting as it were in a personated 
 suUenness just over a transparent fountain. Opposite to 
 her stood Mr, William, Sir Roger's master of the game. 
 The knight whispered me, ' Hist ! these are lovers.' The 
 huntsman looking earnestly at the shadow of the young 
 maiden in the stream, 'Oh thou dear picture, if thou 
 couldst remain there in the absence of that fair creature 
 whom you represent in the water, how willingly could I 
 stand here satisfied for ever, without troubling my dear 
 Betty herself with any mention of her unfortunate Wil- 
 liam, whom she is angry with ! But alas ! when she pleases 
 
 to be gone, thou wilt also vanish Yet let me talk to 
 
 thee while thou dost stay. Tell my dearest Betty thou 
 dost not more depend upon her, than does her William : 
 her absence will make away with me as well as thee. If 
 she offers to remove thee ; I will jump into these waves 
 to lay hold on thee ; herself, her own dear person, I must 
 never embrace again.— Still do you hear me without one 
 smile— It is too much to bear.'— >He had no sooner spoks
 
 44 THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 118. 
 
 tbese words, but he made an oflFer of throwing himself into 
 the water; at which his mistress started up, and at the 
 next instant he jumped across the fountain, and met her 
 in an embrace. She, half recovering from her fright, 
 said in the most charming voice imaginable, and with a 
 tone of complaint, ' I thought how well you would drown 
 yourself. No, no, you will not drown yourself till you 
 have taken your leave of Susan Holiday.' The hunts- 
 man, with a tenderness that spoke the most passionate 
 love, and with his cheek close to hers, whispered the 
 softest vows of fidelity in her ear, and cried, * Do not, 
 jny dear, believe a word Kate Willow says ; she is spiteful, 
 and makes stories, because she loves to hear me talk to 
 herself for your sake.' — ' Look you there,' quoth Sir Roger, 
 * do you see there, all mischief comes from confidants ! 
 But let us not interrupt them ; the maid is honest, and 
 the man dares not be otherwise, for he knows I loved 
 her father: I will interpose in this matter, and hasten the 
 Tiedding. Kate Willow is a witty mischievous wench 
 in the neighbourhood, y/ho was a beauty ; and makes 
 me hope I shall see the perverse widow in her condition. 
 She was so flippant with her answers to all the honest fel- 
 lows that came near her, and so very vain of her beauty, 
 that she has valued herself upon her charms till they are 
 ceased. She therefore now makes it her business to pre- 
 vent other young women from being more discreet than 
 she was herself: however, the saucy thing said, the other 
 day, well enough, '* Sir Roger and I must make a match, 
 for we are both despised by those we loved." The hussy 
 has a great deal of power wherever she comes, and has 
 her share of cunning. 
 
 * However, when I reflect upon this woman, I do not 
 know whether in the main 1 am the worse for having 
 loved her J whenever she is recalled to my imagination 
 my youth returns, and I feel a forgotten warmth in my 
 veins. This afiiiction in my life has streaked all my con- 
 duct with a softness, of which I should otherwise have 
 been incapable. It is owing, perhaps, to this dear image 
 in my heart that I am apt to relent, that I easily forgive.
 
 No. 119.J tHESPECTATOR. 4S 
 
 and that many desirable things are ^own into my tem- 
 per, which I should not have arrived at by better motives 
 than the thought of being one day hers. I am pretty well 
 satisfied such a passion as I have had is never well cured ; 
 and between you and me, I am often apt to imagine it 
 has had some whimsical effect upon my brails : for I fre- 
 quently find, that in my most serious discourse I let fall 
 some comical familiarity of speech or odd phrase that 
 makes the company laugh. However, I cannot but allow 
 she is a most CKcellent woman. When she is in the 
 country, J warrant she does not run into dairies, but 
 reads upon the nature of plants : she has a glass bee-hive, 
 and comes into the garden out of books to see them work, 
 and observe the policies of their commonwealih. She un- 
 derstands every thing. I would give ten pounds to hear 
 her argue with my friend Sir Andrew Freeport about trade. 
 No, no, for all she looks so innocent as it were, take ray- 
 word for it she is no fool.* T. 
 
 r*^^**'*' 
 
 No. 119.] Tuesday, July 17, 1712. 
 
 Urbem quam dicuiit Romam, Meliboee, putavi 
 
 Stultui ego huic noslrae similem 
 
 Virg. Ed. i. 20. 
 The dty men call Rome, unskilful clown, 
 I thought resembled this our humble town. Warton. 
 
 The first and most obvious reflections which arise in a 
 man who changes the city for the country, are upon the 
 different manners of the people whom he meets with in 
 those two different scenes of life. By manners I do not 
 mean morals, but behaviour and good-breeding, as they 
 show themselves in the town and in the country. 
 
 And here, in the first plnce, 1 must observe a very great 
 revolution that has hapy)ened in this article of good-breed- 
 ing. Several obliging deferences, condescensions, and sub- 
 missions, with many outward forms and ceremonies that 
 accompany them, wt re first of all brought up among thn 
 politer part of mankind, who lived in courts and cities, 
 ^id distinguished themselves from the rustic part of the
 
 46 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 119. 
 
 species (who on all occasions acted bluntly and naturally) 
 by such a mutual complaisance and intercourse of civi- 
 lities. These forms of conversation by degrees multiplied 
 and grew troublesome ; the modish world found too great 
 a constraint in them, and have therefore thrown most of 
 them aside. Cotiversation, like the Romish religion, was 
 so encumbered with show and ceremony, that it stood in 
 need of a reformation to retrench its superfluities, and re- 
 store it to its natural good sense and beauty. At present 
 therefore an unconstrained carriage, and a certain open- 
 ness of behaviour, are the height of good-breeding. The 
 fashionable world is grown free and easy; our manners 
 sit more loose upon us. Nothing is so modish as an 
 agreeable negligence. In a word, good-breeding shows 
 itself most, where to an ordinary eye it appears the least. 
 
 If after this we look on the people of mode in the 
 country, we find in them the manners of the last age. 
 They have no sooner fetched themselves up to the fashions 
 of the polite world, but the town has dropped them, and 
 are nearer to the first state of nature than to those re- 
 finements which formerly reigned in the court, and still 
 prevail in the country. One may now know a man that 
 never conversed in the world, by his excess of good-breed- 
 ing. A polite country 'squire shall make you as many 
 bows in half an hour, as would serve a courtier for a week. 
 There is infinitely more to do about place and precedency 
 in a meeting of justices' wives, than in an assembly of 
 dutchesses. ^ ■• . 
 
 This rural politeness is very troublesome to a man of 
 my temper, who generally take the chair that is next 
 me, and walk first or last, in the front or in the rear, as 
 chance directs, I have known my friend Sir Roger's dinner 
 almost cold before the company could adjust the cere- 
 monial, and be prevailed upon to sit down ; and have 
 heartily pitied my old friend, when I have seen him forced 
 to pick and cull his guests, as they sat at the several parts 
 of his table, that he might drink their healths according 
 to their respective ranks and qualities. Honest Will 
 Wimble, who I should have thought had been altogether
 
 No. 119.3 THE SPECTATOR. 47 
 
 uninfected with ceremony, gives me abundance of trouble 
 ill this particular. Though he has been fishing all the 
 morning, he will not help himself at dinner until I am 
 served. When we are going »)ut of the hall, he runs be- 
 hind me; and last night, as we were walking in the fields, 
 stopped short at a stile until I came up to it, nnd upon 
 nay making signs to him to get over, told me with a 
 serious smile, that sure 1 believed they had no manners 
 in the country. 
 
 There has happened another revolution in the point of 
 good-breeding, wliich rtrlates to the conversation among 
 men of mode, and which I cannot but look upon as very 
 extraorJijiary. It was certainly one of the first distinc- 
 tions of a well-hred man to express ever>' thing that 
 had the most remote appearance of being obscene, in 
 modest terms and distant phrases; whilst the clown, who 
 had no such delicacy of conception and expression, clothed 
 his ideas in those plain homely terms that are the most 
 obvious and natural. This kind of good-manners was per- 
 haps carried to an excess, so as to make conversation too 
 stiff, formal, and precise : for which reason (as hypocrisy 
 in one age is generally succeeded by atheism in another) 
 conversation is in a great measure relapsed into the first 
 extreme ; so that at present several of our men of the town, 
 and i)articularly those who have been polished in France, 
 make use of the most coarse uncivilized words in our lan- 
 guage, and utter themselves often in such a manner as a 
 clown would blush to hear. 
 
 This infamous piece of good-breeding, which reigns 
 among the coxcombs of the town, has not yet made its 
 way into the country; and as it is impossible for such 
 an irrational way of conversation to last long among a 
 people that make any profession of religion, or show of 
 modesty, if the country' gentlemen get into it, they will 
 certainly be left in the lurch. Their good-breeding will 
 come too late to them, and they will be thought a parcel 
 of lewd clowns, while they fancy themselves talking to- 
 gether like men of wit and pleasure. 
 
 As the two points of good-breeding, which I have
 
 43 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 120. 
 
 hitherto insisted upon, regard behaviour and conversation, 
 there is a third which turns upon dress. In tliis too the 
 country are very much behind-hand. The rural beaus are 
 not yet got out of the fashion that took place at the time 
 of the revolution, but ride about the countrj' in red coats 
 and laced hats, while the women in many parts are still 
 tr}ing to outvie one another in the height of their bead- 
 dresses. 
 
 But a friend of mine, who is now upon the western 
 circuit, having promised to give me an account of the 
 several modes and fashions that prevail in the different 
 parts of the nation through which he passes, I shall defer 
 the enlarging upon this last topic till I have received a let- 
 ter from him, which 1 expect every post. L. 
 
 No. 120.] IVedjiesday, July 18, 1711. 
 
 Eqnidem credo, quia sit diviuitns illis 
 
 Iiigenium Flrg. Georg. i. 431. 
 
 I deem Uieir breasts inspir'd 
 
 \Vith a di\iue sagacity. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger is very often merry with me upon 
 my passing so much of my time among his poultry. He 
 has caught me twice or thrice looking after a bird's-nest, 
 and several times sitting an hour or two together near a 
 hen and chickens. He tells me he believes I am per- 
 sonally acquainted with every fowl about his house ; calls 
 such a particular cock my favourite; and frequently com- 
 plains that his ducks and geese have more of my company 
 than himself. 
 
 I must confess I am infinitely delighted with those 
 speculations of nature which are to be made in a country- 
 life ; and as my reading has very much lain among books 
 of natural histor>', I cannot forbear recollecting upon this 
 occasion the several remarks which I have met with ia 
 authors, and comparing them with what falls under my 
 own observation: the arguments fur Providence drawn
 
 No. 120.] THE SPECTATOR. 49 
 
 from the nataral history of animals being in my opinion 
 demonstrative. 
 
 The make of every kind of animal is different from 
 that of every other kind; and yet there is not the least 
 turn in the muscles or twist in the fibres of any one, 
 which does not render them more proper for that particu- 
 lar animal's way of life than any other cast or texture of 
 them would have been. 
 
 The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust and 
 hunger. The first is a perpetual call upon ihem to propa- 
 gate their kind; the latter to preserve themselves. 
 
 It is astonishing to consider the different degrees of 
 care that descend from the parent to the young, so far 
 as is absolutely necessary for the leaving a posterity. 
 Some creatures cast their eggs as chance directs them, 
 and think of them no farther ; as insects and several kinds 
 of fish. Others, of a nicer frame, find out proper beds 
 to deposit them in, and there leave them; as the serpent, 
 the crocodile, and ostrich : others hatch their eggs and 
 tend the birth, until it is able to shift for itself. 
 
 What can we call the principle which directs every dif- 
 ferent kind of bird to observe a particular plan in the 
 structure of its nest, and directs all the same species to 
 work after the same model ? It cannot be imitation; for 
 though you hatch a crow under a hen, and never let it 
 see any of the works of its own kind, the nest it makes 
 shall be the same, to the laying of a stick, with all the 
 other nests of the same species. It cannot be reason ; for 
 were animals endowed with it to as great a degree as 
 man, their buildings would be as different as ours, ac- 
 cording to the different conveniencies that they would 
 propose to themselves. 
 
 Is it not remarkable that the same temper of weather, 
 which raises this genial warmth in animals, should cover 
 the trees with leaves, and the fields with grass, for their 
 security and concealment, and produce such infinite 
 swarms of insects for the support and sustenance of their 
 respective broods.' 
 
 Is it not wonderful that the love of the parent should 
 Vol. II. F
 
 50 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 120, 
 
 be so violent while it lasts, and that it should last no longer 
 than is necessary for the preservation of the young ? 
 
 The violence of this natural love is exemplified by a 
 very barbarous experiment, which I shall quote at length, 
 as I find it in an excellent author, and hope my readers 
 will pardon the mentioning such an instance of cruelty, 
 because there is nothing can so effectually show the 
 strength of that principle in animals of which I am here 
 speaking. * A person who was well skilled in dissections 
 opened a bitch, and as she lay in the most exquisite tor- 
 tures, offered her one of her young puppies, which she 
 immediately fell a licking; and for the time seemed in- 
 sensible of her own pain. On the removal, she kept her 
 eyes fixed on it, and began a wailing sort of cry, which 
 seemed rather to proceed from the loss of her young one, 
 than the sense of her own torments.* 
 
 But notwithstanding this natural love in brutes is much 
 more violent and intense than in rational creatures. Provi- 
 dence has taken care that it should be no longer trouble- 
 some to the parent than it is useful to the young ; for 
 so soon as the wants of the latter cease, the mother with- 
 draws her fondness, and leaves them to provide for them- 
 selves ; and what is a very remarkable circumstance in 
 this part of instinct, we find that the love of the parent 
 may be lengthened out beyond its usual time, if the pre- 
 servation of the species requires it : as we may see in birds 
 that drive away their young as soon as they are able to 
 get their livelihood, but continue to feed them if they are 
 tied to the nest, or confined within a cage, or by any other 
 means appear to be out of a condition of supplying their 
 own necessities. 
 
 This natural love is not observed in aninials to ascend 
 from the young to the parent, which is not at all necessary 
 for the continuance ut' the species : nor indeed in reasonable 
 creatures does it rise in any proportion, as it spreads itself 
 downward; for in all family affection, we find protection 
 granted and favours bestowed, are greater motives to love 
 and tenderness, than safety, benefits, or life received. 
 
 One would wonder to bear sceptical men disputing for
 
 No. 120.] THE SPECTATOR. 51 
 
 the reason of animals, and telling us it is only our pride 
 and prejudices that will not allow them the use of that 
 faculty. 
 
 Reason shows itself in all occurrences of life ; whereas 
 the brute makes no discovery of such a talent, but in 
 what immediately regards his own preservation or the con- 
 tinuance of his species. Animals in their generation are 
 wiser than the sons of men ; but their wisdom is confined 
 to a few particulars, and lies in a very narrow compass. 
 Take a brute out of his instinct, and you find him wholly 
 deprived of understanding. To use an instance that conges 
 often under observation : 
 
 With what caution does the hen provide herself a nest 
 in places unfrequented, and free from noise and disturb- 
 ance ! When she has laid her eggs in such a manner that 
 she can cover them, what care does she take in turning 
 them frequently that all parts may partake of the vital 
 warmth! When she leaves them, to provide for her ne- 
 cessary sustenance, how punctually does she return before 
 they have time to cool, and become incapable of producing 
 an animal ! In the summer you see her giving herself 
 greater freedoms, and quitting her care for above two 
 hours together; but in winter, when the rigour of the 
 season would chill the principles of life, and destroy the 
 young one, she grows more assiduous in her attemlance, 
 and stays away but half the time. When the birth ap- 
 proaches, with how much nicety and attention does she 
 help the chick to break its prison ! not to take notice of 
 her covering it from the injuries of the weather, providing 
 it proper nourishment, and teaching it to help itself; nor 
 to mention her forsaking the nest, if after the usual time 
 of reckoning the young one does not make its appearance. 
 A chymical operation could not be followed with greater 
 art pr diligence than is seen in the hatching of a chick ; 
 though there are many other birds that show an infinitely 
 greater sagacity in all the foremeutioned particulars. 
 
 But at the same time the hen, that has all this seem- 
 ing ingenuity (which is indeed absolutely necessary for the 
 propagation of the species,) considered in other respects.
 
 53 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 12i: 
 
 is without the least glimmering of thought or common 
 sense. She mistakes a piece of chalk for an egg, and 
 sits upon it in the same manner. She is insensible of any 
 increase or diminution in che number of those she lays. 
 She does not distinguish between her own and those of an- 
 other species ; and when the birth appears of never so 
 different a bird, will cherish it for her own. In all these 
 circumstances, which do not carry an immediate regard 
 to the subsistence of herself or her species, she is a very 
 idiot. 
 
 There is not, in my opinion, any thing more mysterious 
 in nature than this instinct in animals, which thus rises 
 above reason, and falls iuBnitely short of it. It cannot 
 be accounted for by any properties in matter, and at the 
 same time works after so odd a manner, that one cannot 
 think it the faculty of an intellectual being. For my own 
 part, I look upon it as upon the principle of gravitation in 
 bodies, which is not to be explained by any known qualities 
 inherent in the bodies themselves, nor from the laws of 
 mechanism, but, according to the best notions of the 
 greatest philosophers, is an immediate impression from the 
 first mover, and the divine energy acting in the creatures. 
 
 L. . 
 
 Kg. 121.] Thursday, July 19, 1711 
 
 Jovis omnia plena. Virg. Eel. iii. 60. 
 
 All things are full of Jove. 
 
 As I was walking this morning in the great yard that 
 belongs to my friend's countiy-house, I was wonderfully 
 pleased to see the different workings of instinct in a hen 
 followed by a brood of ducks. The young, upon the sight 
 of a pond, immediitely ran into it; while the step-mother, 
 with all imaginable anxiety, hovered about the borders 
 of it, to call them out of an element that appeared to her 
 so dangerous and destructive. As the different principle 
 which acted in these different animals cannot be termed 
 reason, so when we call it instinct, we mean something
 
 No. 121.] THE SPECTATOR. 51 
 
 we have no knowledge of. To me, as I hinted in my last 
 paper, it seems the immediate direction of Providence, 
 and such an operation of the Supreme Being, as that which 
 determines all the portions of matter to their proper cen- 
 ters. A modern philosopher, quoted by Monsieur Bayle 
 in his learned Dissertation on the Souls of Brutes, de- 
 livers the same opinion, thoujjh iii a bolder form of words, 
 where he says, Deu.i est anima hrutnrum, — * God himself 
 is the soul of brutes.' Who can tell what to call that 
 seeming; sagacity in animals, which directs them to such 
 food as IS proper for them, and makes them naturally 
 avoid whatever is noxious or unwholesome? Tully has 
 observed that a lamb no sooner fnlls from its mother, but 
 immediately and of it« own accord it applies itself to the 
 teat. Dampier, in his Travels, tells us, that when seainea 
 are thrown upon any of the unknown coasts of America, 
 they never venture upon the fruit of any tree, how tempt- 
 ing soever it may appear, unless they observe that it is 
 marked with the pecking of birds; hut fall on without 
 any fear or apprehension where the birds have been befortt 
 them. 
 
 But notwithstanding animals have nothing like the use 
 of reason, we find in them all the lower parts of our na- 
 ture, the passions and senses, in their greatest strength 
 and perfection. And here it is worth our observation, 
 that all beasts and birds of prey are wonderfully subject to 
 anger, malice, revt-uge, and all the other violent passions 
 that njay animate them in search of their proper food ; 
 as those that are incapable of defending themselves, or an- 
 noying others, or whose safety lies chiefly in their flight 
 are suspicious, feartul, and apprehensive of every thing 
 they see or hear ; whilst others, that are of assistance and 
 use to man, have their natures softened with something 
 mild and tractable, and by that means are qualified for 
 a domestic life. In this case the passions generally cor- 
 respond with the make of the body. We do not find the 
 fury of a lion in so weak and defenceless an animal as a 
 lamb; nor the meekness of a lamb in a creature so 
 armed for battle and assault as the lioD. In the same 
 F 2
 
 54 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 121. 
 
 manner, we find that particular animals have a more or 
 less exquisite sharpness and sa^city in those particular 
 senses which most turn to their advantas:e, and in which 
 their safety and velfare is the most concerned. 
 
 Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms 
 with which nature has differently fortified the bodies of 
 several kind of animals, such as claws, hoofs, horns, teeth, 
 aud tusks, a tail, a sting, a trunk, or a proboscis. It is 
 likewise observed by naturalists, that it must be some 
 hidden principle, distinct f'-om what we call reason, which 
 instructs animals in the use of these their arms, and 
 teaches them to manage them to the best advantage; 
 because they naturally defend themselves with that part 
 in which their strength lies, before the weapon be formed 
 in it ; as is remarkable in lambs, which, though they are 
 bred withiti loors, and never saw the actions of their own 
 species, push at those who approach them with their 
 foreheads, before ♦he first budding of a horn appears. 
 
 I shall add to these general observations an instance, 
 which Mr. Locke ha» given us of Providence even in the 
 imperfections of a creature which seems the meanest 
 and the most despicable in the whole arvmal world, * We 
 may,' says he, * from the make of an oyster or cockle, 
 conclude, that it has not so many nor so quick senses as 
 a man, or several other animals; nor if it had, would 
 it, in that state and incapacity of transferring itself from 
 one place to another, be bettered by them. What good 
 would sight and hearing do to a creature, that cannot move 
 itself to or from the object, wherein at a distance it per- 
 ceives good or evil ? And would not quickness of sensation 
 be an inconvenience to an animal that must be still where 
 chance has once placed it, and there receive the afflux 
 of colder or warmer, clean or foul water, as it happens to 
 come to it ? 
 
 I shall add to this instance out of Mr. Locke another 
 out of the learned Dr. More, who cites it from Cardan, in 
 relation to another animal which Providence has left de- 
 fective, but at the same time has shown its wisdom in the 
 formation of that organ in which it seems chiefly to have
 
 No. 121.] THE SPECTATOR/ 55 
 
 failed. * What is more obvious and ordinary than a mole ? 
 and yet what more palpable argument of Providence 
 than she ? The members of her body are so exactly fitted 
 to her nature and manner of life: for her dwelling being 
 under ground, where nothing is to be seen, nature has 
 so obscurely fitted her with eyes, that naturalists can 
 scarce agree whether she have any sig^ht at all, or no. 
 But for amends, what she is capable of for her defence 
 and warning of danger, she has very eminently conferred 
 upon her; for she is exceeding quick of bearing. And then 
 her short tail and short legs, but broad fore-feet armed 
 with sharp claws ; we see by the event to what purpose 
 they are, she so swiftly working herself under ground, 
 and making her way so fast in the earth hs they that be- 
 hold it cannot but admire it. Her legs therefore are 
 short, that she need dig no more than will serve the mere 
 thickness of her body; and her fore-feet are broad, that 
 she may scoop away much earth at a time ; and little 
 or no tail she has, because she courses it not upon the 
 ground, like the rat or mouse, of whose kindred she is ; 
 but lives under the earth, and is fain to dig herself a 
 dwelling there. And she making her way through so 
 thick an element, which will not yield easily as the air 
 or the water, it had been dangerous to have drawn so 
 long a train behind her; for her enemy might fall upon 
 her rear, and fetch her out before she had completed or 
 got full possession of her works.* 
 
 1 cannot forbear mentioning Mr. Boyle's remark upon 
 this last creature, who I remember somewhere in his 
 works observes, that though the mole be nut totally blind 
 (as it is coiumouly thought) she has not sight enough to 
 distinguish particular objects. Her eye is said to have 
 but one humour in it, which is supposed to give her the 
 idea of light, but of nothing else, and is so formed that 
 this idea is probably painful to the animal. Whenever 
 she conies i;p into broad day she might be in danger of 
 bein'^ laken, unless she were thus affected by a light 
 striking upon her eye, and immediately warning her to 
 hurv herself in her proper element. More sight would be 
 useless to her, as none at all might be fatal.
 
 56 THE spectator; [No7121; 
 
 I have only instanced such animals as seem the most 
 imperfect works of nature; and if Providence shows itself 
 even in the blemishes of these creatures, how much more 
 does it discover itself in the sjeveri*.! endowments which 
 it has variously bestowed upon such creatures as are more 
 or less finished and completed, in their several faculties, 
 according to the condition of life in which they are 
 posted. 
 
 1 could wish our Royal Society would compile a body 
 of natural history, the best that could be g:athered to- 
 gether from books and observations. If the several writers 
 among them took each his particular species, and gave 
 us a distinct account of its original, birth, and education ; 
 its policies, hostilities, and alliances, with the frame and 
 texture of its inward and outward parts, and particularly 
 those that distinguish it from all other aniuials, with their 
 peculiar aptitudes for the state of being in which Provi- 
 dence has placed them, it would be one of the best ser- 
 vices their studies could do mankind, and not a little 
 redound to the glory of the all-wise Contriver. 
 
 It is true, such a natural history, after all the disqui- 
 sitions of the learned, would be infinitely short and de- 
 fective. Seas and deserts hide millions of animals from 
 our observation. Innumerable artifices and stratagems 
 are acted in the ' howling wilderness' and in the * great 
 deep,' that can never come to our knowledge. Besides 
 that there are infinitely more species of creatures which 
 are not to be seen without nor indeed with the help of 
 the finest glasses, than of such as are bulky enough for 
 the naked eye to take hold of. However, from the con- 
 sideration of such animals as lie within the compass of 
 our knowledge, we might easily form a conclusion of the 
 rest, that the same variety of wisdom and goodness runs 
 through the whole creation, and puts every creature in a 
 condition to provide for its safety and subsistence in its 
 proper station. 
 
 Tully has given us an admirable sketch of natural history 
 in his second book concerning the Nature of the Gods; 
 and that in a style so raised by metaphors and descrip- 
 tionS; that it UfU the subject sibove raillery sind ridicule.
 
 No. 122.3 THE SPECTATOR. sr 
 
 which frequently fall on such nice observations when they 
 pass through the hands of an ordinary writer. L. 
 
 No. 122.] Friday, Juhj 20, 17 li. 
 
 Comes jiicnndas in via pro vehiciilo cM.—Publ. Syr. Frag. 
 An agreeable companion upon the road is as good as a coach. 
 
 A man's first care should be to avoid the reproaches of 
 his own heart ; his next, to escape the censures of the 
 ■world. If the last interferes with the former, it ought 
 to be entirely neglected ; but otherwise there cannot be 
 a greater satisfaction to an honest mind, than to see those 
 approbations which it gives itself seconded by the ap- 
 plauses of the public. A man is more sure of his conduct, 
 ■when the verdict which he passes upon his own behaviour 
 is thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of all that 
 know him. 
 
 My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who is not 
 only at peace within himself, but beloved and esteemed 
 by all about him. He receives a suitable tribute for his 
 universal benevolence to mankind, in the returns of af- 
 fection and good-wili, which are paid him by every one 
 that lives within his neighbourhood, I lately met with 
 two or three odd instances of that general respect which 
 is shown to the good old kuight. He would needs carry 
 Will Wimble and myself with him to the county assizes. 
 As we were upon the road Will Wimble joined a couple 
 of plain men who rid before us, and conversed with them 
 for some time ; during which my friend Sir Roger ac- 
 quainted me with their characters. 
 
 * The first of them,' says he, * that has a spaniel by 
 his side, is a yeoman of about an hundred pounds a year, 
 ail honest man. He is just within the game-act, and 
 qualified to kill a h;<re or a pheasant. He knocks down 
 his dinner wirh his gun twice or thrice a week; and by 
 that means lives much cheaper than those who have not 
 so good an estate as himself. He would he a good neigh- 
 bour if he did not. destroy so many partridges, Jn shorty
 
 Sa THE SPECTATOR. [No. 122. 
 
 he is a very sensible man ; shoots flying ; and has been 
 several times foreman of the petty-jury. 
 
 * The other that rides along with him is Tom Touchy, 
 a fellow famous for ** taking the law " of every body. 
 Tliere is not one in the town where he hves that he has 
 not sued at a quarter sessions. The rogue had once the 
 impudence to go to law with the Widow. His head is 
 full of costs, damages, and ejectments. He plagued a 
 couple of honest gentlemen so long for a trespass in break- 
 ing one of his hedges, till he was forced to sell the ground 
 it enclosed to defray the charges of the prosecution ; his 
 father left him fourscore pounds a year: but he has cast 
 and been cast so often, that he is not now worth thirty. 
 I suppose he is going upon the old business of the willow- 
 tree.' 
 
 As Sir Roger was giving me this account of Tom Touchy, 
 Will Wimble and his two companions stopped short till 
 we came up to them. After having paid their respects to 
 Sir Roger, Will told him that Mr. Touchy and he must 
 appeal to him upon a dispute that arose between them. 
 Will it seems had been giving his fellow-traveller an 
 account of his angling one day in such a hole : when 
 Tom Touchy, instead of hearing out his story, told him 
 that Mr. Such-a-One, if he pleased, might * take the law 
 of him' for fisbijig in that part of the river. My friend 
 Sir Roger heard them both, upon a round trot ; and after 
 having paused some time told them, with the air of a 
 man who would not give his judgment rashly, that ' much 
 might be said on both sides.' They were neither of them 
 dissatisfied with the knight's determination, because nei- 
 ther of them found himself in the wrong by it. Upon 
 which we made the best of our way to the assizes. 
 
 The court was sat before Sir Roger came ; but not- 
 withstanding all the justices had taken their places upon 
 the bench, they made room for the old knight at the 
 head of them ; who for his reputation in the country took 
 occasion to whisper in the judge's ear, * that he was glad 
 his lordship had met with so much good weather in his 
 circuit.' I was listening to the proceeding of the courc
 
 No. 122.] THE SPECTATOR. 69 
 
 with much attention, and infinitely pleased with that great 
 appearance of solemnity which so properly accompanies 
 such a public administration of our laws; when after 
 about an hour's sitting, I observed, to my great surprise, 
 in the midst of a trial, that my friend Sir Roger was 
 getting up to speak. I was in some pain for him, until 
 I found he had acquitted himself of two or three sentences, 
 with a look of much business and great intrepidity. 
 
 Upon his first rising the court w£is hushed, and a general 
 whisper ran among the country people, that Sir Roger 
 * was up.' The speech he made was so little to the pur- 
 pose, that I shall not trouble my readers with an account 
 of it ; and I believe was not so much designed by the 
 knight himself to inform the court, as to give him a figure 
 in my eye, and keep up his credit in the country. 
 
 I was highly delighted when the court rose to see the 
 gentlemen of the country gathering about my old friend, 
 and striving who should compliment him most ; at the 
 same time that the ordinary people gazed upon him at a 
 distance, not a little admiring his courage that was not 
 afraid to speak to the judge. 
 
 In our return home we met with a very odd accident : 
 which I cannot forbear relating, because it shows how 
 desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him marks 
 of their esteem. When we were arrived upon the verge 
 of his estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves 
 and our horses. The man of the house had it seems, 
 been formerly a servant in the knight's family; and to do 
 honour to his old master, had some time since, unknown 
 to Sir Roger, put him up in a sign-post before the door; 
 so thkt the knight's head had hung out upon the road 
 about a week before he himself knew any thing of the 
 matter. As soon as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, 
 finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded wholly 
 from affection and good-will, he only told him that he had 
 made hira too high a compliment; and when the fellow 
 seen>ed to think that could hardly be, added with a more 
 decisive look, that it was too great an honour for any 
 man under a duke; but told him at the same time, that
 
 $6 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 123. 
 
 it might be altered with a very few touches, atid that he 
 himself would be at the charge of it. Accordingly they 
 got a painter by the knight's directions to add a pair of 
 whiskers to the face, and by a little aggravation of the 
 features to change it into the Saracen's Head. I should 
 not have known this story, had not the inn-keeper, upon 
 Sir Roger's alighting, told him in my hearing, that his 
 honour's head was brought back last night with the alte- 
 rations that he had ordered to be mad^n it. Upon this 
 my friend, with his usual cheerfulness, related the par- 
 ticulars above-mentioned, and ordered the head to be 
 brought into the room. I could not forbear discovering 
 greater expressions of mirth than ordinary upon the ap- 
 pearance of this monstrous face, under which, notwith- 
 standing it was made to frown and stare in a most ex- 
 traordinary manner, I could still discover a distant resem- 
 blance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me laugh, 
 desired me to tell him truly if I thought it possible for 
 people to know him in that disguise. I at first kept my 
 usual silence ; but upon the knight's conjuring me to tell 
 him whether it was not still more like himself than a 
 Saracen, I composed my countenance in the best manner 
 I could, and replied, that ' much might be said on both 
 sides.' 
 
 These sfeveral adventures, with the knight's behaviour 
 in them, gave me as pleasant a day as ever I met with in 
 any of my travels. ' L. 
 
 No. 123.] Saturday, July 21, 1711. 
 
 Doctrma sed vim promovet insitam, 
 Rcclique cnUus pectora roborant ; 
 
 f tcuiiquc defecore mores, 
 Dedecoiant bene nnla culpae.— i?ljr. Lib. 4. Od. iv. 33. 
 Yet the best b'ocKl by learning is refin'd. 
 
 And virtue arms the solid mind ; 
 
 Whilst vice will stain tiie noblest race. 
 
 And the p.iteriial stamp eSAce.—Oldisworth. 
 
 As I was yesterday taking the air with my friend Sir 
 Roger, we were met by a fresh-coloured ruddy young
 
 No. 123.] THE spectator; 61 
 
 man who rid by us full speed, with a couple of servant* 
 behind him. Upon my iiiquiiy who he was. Sir Roger 
 told me that he was a youn^ g;entleman of a considerable 
 estate, who had been educated by a tender mother that 
 lived not many miles from the place where v,e were. She 
 is a very g'CKjd lady, says my friend, but took so much 
 care of her son's health, that she has made him good for 
 nothing. She quickly found that reading was bad for his 
 eyes, and that writing made his head ache. He was let 
 loose auiong the woods as soon as he was able to ride 
 on horseback, or to carry a gun upon his shoulder. To 
 be brief, 1 found, by my friend's account of him, that he 
 had got a great stock of health, but nothing else; but 
 that if it were a man's business only to live, there would 
 not be a more accomplished young fellow in the whole 
 county. 
 
 The truth of' it is, since my residing in these parts 
 I have seen and heard innumerable instances of young 
 heirs and elder brothers, who, either from their own re- 
 flecting upon the estates they are born to, and therefore 
 thinking all other accomplishments unnecessary, or from 
 hearing these notions frequently inculcated to them by 
 the flattery of their servants and domestics, or from the 
 same foolish thought prevailing in those who have the 
 care of their education, are of no manner of use but to 
 keep up their families, and transmit their lands and houses 
 in a line to posterity. 
 
 This makes me often think on a story I have heard of 
 two friends, which 1 shall give my reader at large, under 
 feigned names. The moral of it may, I hope, be useful, 
 though there are some circumstances which make it 
 rather appear like a novel, than a true story. 
 
 Eudoxus and Leontine began the world with small 
 estates. They were both of them men of goml sense and 
 great virtue. They prosecuted their studies together in 
 their earlier years, and entered into such a friendship as 
 lasted to the end of their lives. Eudoxus, at bis first 
 setting out in the world, threw himself into a court, where 
 by his natural endowments and his acquired abilities h« 
 
 Vol. II. O
 
 62 THE SPECTATOR. ;[No. 123. 
 
 made his way from one post to another, until at length 
 he had raised a very considerable fortune. Leontine on 
 the contrary sought all opportunities of improving his 
 mind by study, conversation, and travel. He was not 
 only acquainted with all the sciences, but with the most 
 eminent professors of them throughout Europe. He knew 
 perfectly well the interests of its princes, with the customs 
 and fashions of their courts, and could scarce meet with 
 the name of an extraordinary person in the Gazette whom 
 he had not either talked to or seen. In short, he had so 
 well mixt and digested his knowledge of men and books, 
 that he made one of the most accomplished persons of 
 his age. During the whole course of his studies and 
 travels he kept up a punctual correspondence with Eu- 
 doxus, who often made himself acceptable to the princi- 
 pal men about court by the intelligence which he received 
 from Leontine. When they were both turned of forty (an 
 age in which according to Mr. Cowley, * there is no dally- 
 ing with life,') they determined, pursuant to the resolution 
 they had taken in the beginning of their lives, to retire, 
 and pass the remainder of their days in the country. In 
 order to this, they both of them married much about the 
 same time. Leontine, with his own and wife's fortune, 
 bought a farm of three hundred a year, which lay within 
 the neighbourhood of his friend Eudoxus, who had pur- 
 chased an estate of as many thousands. They were both 
 of them fathers about the same time, Eudoxus having a 
 son born to him, and Leontine a daughter; but to the un- 
 speakable grief of the latter, his young wife (in whom 
 all his happiness was wrapt up) died in a few days after 
 the birth of her daughter. His affliction would have been 
 insupportable, had not he been comforted by the daily 
 visits and conversations of his friend. As they were one 
 day talking together with their usual intimacy, Leontine, 
 considering how incapable he was of giving his daughter a 
 proper education in his own house, and Eudoxus reflecting 
 on the ordinary behaviour of a son who knows himself to 
 be the heir of a great estate, they both agreed upon an 
 exchange of children, namely, that the boy should be bred
 
 No. 1 23 .] THE SPECTATOR. 6S 
 
 up with Leontine as his son, and that the girl should live 
 with Eudoxus as his daughter, until they were each of 
 them arrived at years of discretion. The wife of Eudoxus, 
 knowing that her son could not be so advantageously 
 brought up as under the care of Leontine, and consider- 
 ing at the same time that he would be perpetually under 
 her own eye, was by degrees prevailed upon to fall in with 
 the project. She therefore took Leonilla, for that was 
 the name of the girl, and educated her as her own daughter. 
 The two friends on each side had wrought themselves to 
 such an habitual tenderness for the children who were 
 under their direction, that each of them had the real 
 passion of a father, where the title was but imaginary. 
 Florio, the name of the young heir that lived with Leon- 
 tine, though he had all the duty and affection imaginable 
 for his supposed parent, was taught to rejoice at the sight 
 of Eudoxus, who visited his friend very frequently, and 
 vtas dictated by his natural affection, as well as by the 
 rules of prudence, to make himself esteemed and beloved 
 by Florio. The boy was now old enough to know his sup- 
 posed father's circumstances, and that therefore he was to 
 make his way in the world by his own industry. This con- 
 sideration grew stronger in him every day, and produced 
 so good an effect, that he applied himself with more than 
 ordinary attention to the pursuit of every thing which 
 Leontine recommended to him. His natural abilities, 
 which were very good, assisted by the directions of so ex- 
 cellent a counsellor, enabled him to make a quicker pro- 
 gress than ordinary through all the i)arts of his education. 
 Before he was twenty years of age, having finished his 
 studies and exercises with great applause, he was removed 
 from the university to the inns of court, where there are 
 very few that make themselves considerable proficients in 
 the studies of the place, who know they shall arrive at 
 great estates without them. This was not Florio's case ; 
 he found that three hundred a year was but a poor estate 
 for Leontine and himself to live upon, so that he studied 
 without intermission till he gained a very good insight 
 into the constitution and laws of his country.
 
 C4 THE SPECTATOR,' [No. 123. 
 
 I should have told my reader, that whilst Florio lived at 
 the house of his foster-father, he was always an acceptable 
 guest in the family of Eudoxus, where he became ac- 
 quainted with Leonilla from her infancy. His acquaint- 
 ance with her by degrees grew into love, which in a mind 
 trained up in all the sentiments of honour and virtue be- 
 came a very uneasy passion. He despaired of gaining an 
 heiress of so great a fortune, and would rather have died 
 than attempted it by any indirect methods. Leonilla, who 
 ^vas a woman of the greatest beauty joined with the 
 greatest modesty, entertained at the same time a secret 
 passion for Florio, but conducted herself with so much 
 prudence, that she never gave him the least intimation 
 of it. Florio was now engaged in all those arts and im» 
 provements that are proper to raise a man's private for- 
 tune, and give him a figure in his country, but secretly 
 tormented with that passion which burns with the greatest 
 fury in a virtuous and noble heart, when he received a 
 sudden summons from Leontine, to repair to him in the 
 country the next day: for it seems Eudoxus was so filled 
 \vith the report of his son's reputation, that he could no 
 longer withhold making himself known to him. The 
 morning after his arrival at the house of his supposed 
 father, Leontine told him that Eudoxus had something of 
 great importance to communicate to him ; upon which the 
 good man embraced him, and wept. Florio was no sooner 
 arrived at the great house that stood in his neighbour- 
 hood, but Eudoxus took him by the hand, after the first 
 salutes were over, and conducted him into his closet. He 
 there opened to him the whole secret of his parentage 
 and education, concluding after this manner: *I have no 
 other way of acknowledging my gratitude to Leontine, 
 than by marrying you to his daughter. He shall not lose 
 the pleasure of being your father by the discovery I have 
 made to you. Leonilla too shall be still my daughter; her 
 fihal piety, though misplaced, has been so exemplary, that 
 it deserves the greatest reward I can confer upon it. You 
 sliall have the pleasure of seeing a great estate fall to you, 
 which you would have lost the relish of, had you knowa
 
 No. 124.] THE SPECTATOR. €S 
 
 yourself born to it. Continue only to deserve it in the 
 same manner you did before you were possessed of it, I 
 have left your mother in the next room. Her heart yearns 
 towards you. She is making the same discoveries to 
 Leonilla which I have made to yourself.' Florio was so 
 overwhelmed with this profusion of happiness, that he 
 was not able to make a reply, but threw himself down at 
 his father's feet, and amidst a flood of tears, kissed and 
 embraced his knees, asking* his blessing, and expressing in 
 dumb show those sentiments of love, duty, and gratitude 
 that were too big for utterance. To conclude, the happy 
 pair were married, and half Eudoxus's estate settled upon 
 them, Leontine and Eudoxus passed the remainder of 
 their lives together; and received in the dutiful and af- 
 fectionate behaviour of Florio and Leonilla the just recom- 
 pense, as well as the natural eflFects of that care which 
 they had bestowed upon them in their education. L. 
 
 No. 124.J Monday, July 23, 1711. 
 
 A great book is a great evil. 
 
 A MAN who publishes his works in a volume, has an infi.- 
 nite advantage over one who communicates his writings to 
 the world in loose tracts and single pieces. We do not 
 expect to meet with any thing in a bulky volume, till 
 after some heavy preamble, and several words of course, 
 to prepare the reader for what follows. Nay, authors 
 have established it as a kind of rule, that a man ought to 
 be dull sometimes; as the most severe reader makes allow- 
 ances for many rests and nodding-places in a voluminous 
 writer. This gave occasion to the famous Greek proverb 
 which I have chosen for my motto, that * A great book is 
 a great evil.* 
 
 On the contrary, those who publish their thoughts in 
 
 distinct sheets, and as it were by piece-meal, have non^i 
 
 of these advantages. We must immediately fall into our 
 
 subject, and treat every part of it in a lively manner, op 
 
 G2
 
 66 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 124. 
 
 our papers are thrown by as dull and insipid. Our matter 
 must lie close together, and either be wholly new in itself, 
 or in the turn it receives from our expressions. Were the 
 books of our best authors thus to be retailed to the public, 
 and every page submitted to the taste of forty or fifty 
 thousand readers, I am afraid we should complain of many 
 flat expressions, trivial observations, beaten topics, and 
 common thoughts, which go off very well in the lump. 
 At the same time, notwithstanding some papers may be 
 made up of broken hints and irregular sketches, it is often 
 expected that every sheet should be a kind of treatise, 
 and make out in thought what it wants in bulk : that a 
 point of humour should be worked up in all its parts ; 
 and a subject touched upon in its most essential articles, 
 without the repetitions, tautologies, and enlargements, 
 that are indulged to longer labours. The ordinary writers 
 of morality prescribe to their readers after the Galenic 
 way; their medicines are made up in large quantities. An 
 essay-writer must practise in the chymical method, and 
 give the virtue of a full draught in a few drops. Were all 
 books reduced thus to their quintessence, many a bulky 
 author would make his appearance in a penny paper. 
 There would be scarce such a thing in nature as a folio; 
 the works of an age would be contained on a few shelves ; 
 not to mention millions of volumes that would be utterly 
 annihilated. 
 
 I cannot think that the difficulty of furnishing out se- 
 parate papers of this nature, has hindered authors from 
 communicating their thoughts to the world after such a 
 manner: though I must confess I am amazed that the 
 press should be only made use of in this way by news- 
 writers, and the zealots of parties ; as if it were not more 
 advantageous to mankind, to be instructed in wisdom and 
 virtue, than in politics; and to be made good fathers, 
 husbands, and sons, than counsellors and statesmen. Had 
 the philosophers and great men of antiquity, who took so 
 much pains in order to instruct mankind, and leave the 
 world wiser and better than they found it; had they, I 
 say, been possessed of the art of printing, there is no ques-
 
 No. 124.] THE SPECTATOR. df 
 
 tion but they would have made such an advantage of it, 
 in dealing out their lectures to the public. Our common 
 prints would be of great use wtre they thus calculated to 
 diffuse good sense through the bulk of a people, to clear 
 up their understandings, animate their minds with virtue, 
 dissipate the sorrows of a heavy heart, or unbend the mind 
 from its more severe employments with innocent amuse- 
 ments. When knowledge, instead of being bound up in 
 books and kept in libraries and retirements, is thus ob- 
 truded upon the public; when it is canvassed in every 
 assembly and exposed upon every table, I cannot forbear 
 reflecting upon that passage in the Proverbs : * Wisdom 
 crieth without, she uttereth her voice in the streets : she 
 crieth in the chief place of concourse, in the openings of 
 the gates. In the city she uttereth her words, say i,g. 
 How long, ye simple ones, will ye love simplicity ? and he 
 scorners delight in their scorning ? and fools hate know- 
 ledge ?' 
 
 The many letters which come to me from persons of 
 the best sense in both sexes, (for I may pronounce their 
 characters from their way of writing) do not a little en- 
 courage me in the prosecution of this my undertaking: 
 besides that my bookseller tells me, the demand for these 
 my papers increases daily. It is at his instance that [I 
 shall continue my rural speculations to the end of this 
 month; several having made up separate sets of them, as 
 they have done before of those relating to wit, to operas, 
 to points of morality, or subjects of humour. 
 
 I am not at all mortified, when sometimes I see my 
 works thrown aside by men of no taste nor learning. 
 There is a kind of heaviness and ignorance that hangs 
 upon the minds of ordinary men, which is too thick for 
 knowledge to break through. Their souls are not to be 
 enlightened. 
 
 Nox atra cavl circumvolat iimbi a. Virg. 7E.U. ii. 360. 
 
 Black Jiight enwraps them in her gloomy shade. 
 
 To these I must apply the fable of the mole, that after 
 having consulted many occulists for the betterinj, of hil
 
 m THE SPECTATOR. [No. 125. 
 
 fright, was at last provided with a good pair of spectacles ; 
 but upon his endeavouring to make use of them, his 
 mother tald hira, very prudently, * That spectacles, though 
 they might help the eye of a man, could be of no use to 
 a mole.' It is not therefore for the benefit of moles that 
 I publish these my daily essays. 
 
 But besides such as are moles through ignorance, there 
 are others who are moles through en\'y. As it is said in the 
 Latin proverb, * That one man is a wolf to another;' so, 
 generally speaking, one author is a mole to another. It 
 is impossible for them to discover beauties in one another's 
 works ; they have eyes only for spots and blemishes : they 
 can indeed see the light, as it is said of the animals which 
 are their namesakes, but the idea of it is painful to them ; 
 they immediately shut their eyes upon it, and withdraw 
 themselves into a wilful obscurity. 1 have already caught 
 two or three of these dark undermining vermin, and intend 
 to make a string of them, in order to hang them up in 
 one of my papers, as an example to all such voluntary 
 EQoles. C. 
 
 No. 125.] Tuesday, July 24, irii. 
 
 Ne, pneri, ne tanta animis assaescite bella ; 
 Keu patria; validas in viscera vertite vires. 
 
 Firg, J£.a, vl. 832. 
 This thirst of kindred Wood, my sons, detest, 
 K^or turn your face against your country's breast .—Pry (fen. 
 
 My worthy friend Sir Roger, when we are talking of 
 the mahce of parties, very frequently tells us an accident 
 that happened to him when he was a school-boy, which 
 was at the time when the feuds ran high between the 
 Round-heads and Cavaliers. This worthy knight, being 
 then but a stripling, had occasion to inquire which was 
 the way to St. Anne's Lane ? upon which the person whom 
 he spoke to, instead of answering his question, called him 
 a young popish cur, and asked him who had made Anne 
 a saint? The boy, being in some confusion, inquired of 
 the next he met, wluch was the way to Anne's Laue ? but
 
 No. 125.] THE SPECTATOR. 69* 
 
 was called a prick-eared cur for his pains, and instead of 
 being shown the way, uas told that she had been a saint 
 before he was born, and would be one afier he was hanged. 
 * Upon this,' says Sir Roger, * I did not tliink fit to repeat 
 the former question, but going into every lane of the 
 neighbourhood, asked what they called the name of that 
 lane?' By which ingenious artifice he found out the 
 place he inquired after, without giving oflfence to any 
 party. Sir Roger generally closes this narrative with re- 
 flections on the mischief that parties do in the country; 
 how they spoil good neighbourhood, and make honest 
 gentlemen hate one another ; besides that they manifestly 
 tend to the prejudice of the land-tax, and the destruction 
 ^f the game. 
 
 There cannot a greater judgment befal a country than 
 such a dreadful spirit of division as rends a government 
 into two distinct people, and makes them greater strangers 
 and more averse to one another, than if they were actually 
 two different nations. The effects of such a division are 
 pernicious to the last degree, not only with regard to those 
 advantages which they give the common enemy, but to 
 those private evils which they produce in the heart of 
 jilmost ever}' particular person. This influfnce is very 
 fatal both to men's morals and their understandings; it 
 sinks the virtue of a nation, and not only so, but destroys 
 even common sense. 
 
 A furious party spirit, when it rages in its full violence, 
 exerts itself in civil war and bloodshed; and when it is 
 under its greatest restraints naturally breaks out in false* 
 hood, detraction, calumny, and a partial administration 
 of justice. In a word, it fills a nation with sjdeen and 
 rancour, and extinguishes all the seeds of good-nature, 
 compassion, and humanity. 
 
 Plutarch says, very finely, 'that a man should not allow 
 himself to hate even his enemies, because,' says he, * if you 
 indulge this passion in some occasions, it will rise of itself 
 in others; if you hate your enemies, you will contract such 
 ^ vicious habit of mind, as by degrees will break out upon 
 those who are your friends, or those who are indiiFertnt tp
 
 70 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 125. 
 
 you.' I might here observe how admirably this precept of 
 morality (which derives the mahgnity of hatred from the 
 passion itself, and not from its object) answers to that 
 great rule which was dictated to the world about an hun- 
 dred years before this philosopher wrote;* but instead of 
 that, I shall only take notice, with a real grief of heart, 
 that the minds of many good men among us appear soured 
 with party-principles, and alienated from one another in 
 such a manner, as seems to me altogether inconsistent 
 with the dictates either of reason or religion. Zeal for a 
 public cause is apt to breed passions in the hearts of 
 virtuous persons, to which the regard of their own private 
 interest would nevei have betrayed them. 
 
 If this party-spirit has so ill an eflfect on our morals, it 
 has likewise a very great one upon our judgments. We 
 often hear a poor insipid paper or pamphlet cried up, and 
 sometimes a noble piece depreciated, by those who are of a 
 different principle from the author. One who is actuated 
 by this spirit is almost under an incapacity of discerning 
 either real blemishes or beauties. A man of merit in 
 a different principle, is like an object seen in two different 
 mediums, that appears crooked or broken, however straight 
 and entire it may be in itself. For this reason there is 
 scarce a person of any figure in England, who does not 
 go by two contrary characters, as opposite to one another 
 as light and darkness. Knowledge and learning suffer in 
 a particular manner from this strange prejudice, which 
 at present prevails amongst all ranks and degrees in the 
 British nation. As men formerly became eminent in 
 learned societies by their parts and acquisitions, they now 
 distinguish themselves by the warmth and violence with 
 which they espouse their respective parties. Books are 
 valued upon the like considerations. An abusive scurrilous 
 style passes for satire, and a dull scheme of party notions 
 is called fine writing. 
 
 There is one piece of sophistry practised by both sides, 
 and that is the taking any scandalous story that has been 
 ever whispered or invented of a private man, for a known 
 • Viz. by Jesus Christ. See Luke vj. 27—32, &c.
 
 No. 125.3 THE SPECTATOR. 71 
 
 undoubted truth, and raising suitable speculations upon 
 it. Calumnies that have been never proved, or have been 
 often refuted, are the ordinary postulatums of these in- 
 famous scribblers, upon which they proceed as upon first 
 principles granted by all men, though in their hearts they 
 know they are false, or at best very doubtful. VVhea 
 they have laid these foundations of scurrility, it is no 
 wonder that their superstructure is every way answerable 
 to them. If this shameless practice of the present age en- 
 dures much longer, praise and reproach will cease to be 
 motives of action in good men. 
 
 There are certain periods of time in all government* 
 when this inhuman spirit prevails. Italy was long torn 
 in pieces by the Guelfes and Gibellines, and France by 
 those who were for and against the league: but it is verjF 
 unhappy for a man to be born in such a stormy and 
 tempestuous season. It is the restless ambition of artful 
 men that thus breaks a people into factions, and draws 
 several well-meaning persons to their interest by a specious 
 concern for their country. How many honest minds are 
 filled with uncharitable and barbarous notions, out of 
 their zeal for the public good.^ What cruelties and out- 
 rages would they not commit against men of an adverse 
 party, whom they would honour and esteem, if, instead 
 of considering them as they are represented, they knew 
 them as they are } Thus are persons of the greatest pro- 
 bity seduced into shameful errors and prejudices, are 
 made bad men even by that noblest of principles, the 
 * love of their country.' I cannot here forbear mentioning 
 the famous Spanish proverb, * If there were neither fools 
 nor knaves in the world, all people would be of one mind.* 
 
 For my own part I could heartily wish that all honest 
 men would enter into an association, for the support of 
 one another against the endeavours of those whom they 
 ought to look upon as their common enemies, whatsoever 
 side they may belong to. Were there such an honest body 
 of neutral forces, we should never see the worst of men 
 in great figures of life, because they are useful to a party ; 
 wor the best unregarded, because they are above prac-
 
 rt THE SPECTATOR. [No. 12^. 
 
 tising those methods which would be grateful to their 
 factioD. We should then single every cnminal out of the 
 herd, and hunt him down, however formidable and over- 
 grown he might appear : on the contrary, we should shelter 
 distressed innocence, and defend virtue, however beset 
 with contempt or ridicule, envy or defamation. In short, 
 we should not any longer regard our fellow-subjects as 
 Whigs or Tories, but should make the man of merit our 
 friend, and the villain our enemy. C. 
 
 No. 126.] Wednesday f July 25, 1711. 
 
 Tros Rutaliisve fuat, nnllo discrimine huheho. —Virg. TEn. x. 103. 
 Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me. Dryden. 
 
 In my yesterday's paper I proposed, that the honest 
 men of all parties should enter into a kind of association 
 for the defence of one another, and the confusion of their 
 common enemies. As it is designed this neutral body 
 should act with a regard to nothing but truth and equity, 
 and divest themselves of the little heats and prepossessions 
 that cleave to parties of all kinds, I ha>e prepared for them 
 the following form of an association, which may express 
 their intentions in the most plain and simple manner. 
 
 ' We whose names are hereunto subscribed do solemnly 
 declare, that we do in our consciences believe two and 
 two make four; and that we shall adjudge any man 
 whatsoever to be our enemy who endeavours to persuade 
 us to the contrary. We are likewise ready to maintain, 
 with the hazard of all that is near and dear to us, that 
 six is less than seven hi all times and all places: and that 
 ten will not be more three years hence than it is at pre- 
 sent. We do also firmly declare, that it is our resolution 
 as long as we live to call black black, and white white. And 
 we shall upon all occasions oppose such persons that upon 
 any day of the year shall call black white, or white black, 
 with the utmost peril of our lives and fortunes.' 
 
 Were there such a combination of honest men, who 
 without any regard to places would endeavour to extirpate
 
 No. 126.1 THE SPECTATOR. 73 
 
 all sUcTi furious zealots as vJould sacrifice one half of their 
 country to the passion and interest of the other; as also 
 such infamous hypocrites, that are for promoting' their 
 own advantage under colour of the public good; with all 
 the profligate immoral retainers to each side, that have 
 nothing to recommend them but an implicit submissioa 
 to their leaders ; we should soon see that furious party- 
 gpirit extinguished, which may in time expose us to the 
 derision and contempt of all the nations about us. 
 
 A member of this society that Mould thus carefully 
 employ himself in making room for merit, by throwing 
 down the worthless and depraved part of mankind from 
 those conspicuous stations of life to which they have been 
 sometimes advanced, and all this without any regard to 
 his private interest, would be no small benefactoj to his 
 country. 
 
 I remember to have read in Diodorus Siculus an ac- 
 count of a very active little animal, which I think he calls 
 the ichneumon, that makes it the whole business of his 
 life to break the eggs of the crocodile, which he is always 
 in search after. This instinct is the more remarkable, 
 because the ichneumon never feeds upon the eggs he has 
 broken, nor any other way finds his account in them. 
 Were it not for the incessant labours of this industrious 
 animal, .^gypt, says the historian, would be over-ruu 
 with crocodiles; for the iEg}ptians are so far from de- 
 stroying those pernicious creatures, that they worship 
 them as gods. 
 
 If we look into the behaviour of ordinary partisans, 
 we shall find them far from resembling this disinterested 
 animal; and rather acting after the example of the ".vild 
 Tartars, who are ambitious of destroying a man of the 
 mostextraordinary parts and accomplishments, as thinking 
 that upon his decease the same talents, whatever post 
 they qualified him for, enter of course into his destroyer. J 
 
 As in the whole train of my speculations, I have en- 
 deavoured as much as I am able to extinguish that per- 
 nicious spirit of passion and prejudice, which rages with 
 the same violence in all parties, I am still the more 
 
 Vol. II. H
 
 H THE SPECTATOR. p^o. 126. 
 
 desirous of doinj some good id this particular, because I 
 observe that the spirit of party reigns more in the country 
 than in the town. It here contracts a kind of brutality 
 and rustic fierceness, to which men of a politer conver- 
 sation are wholly strangers. It extends itself even to the 
 return of the bow and the hat; and at the same time 
 that the heads of parties preserve towards one another 
 an outward show of good breeding, and keep up a perpetual 
 intercourse of civilities, their tools that are dispersed in 
 these outlying parts will not so much as mingle together 
 at a cock-match. This humour fills the country with 
 several periodical meetings of Whig jockies and Tory fox- 
 hunters ; not to mention the innumerable curses, frowns, 
 and whispers it produces at a quarter-sessions. 
 
 I do not know whether 1 have observed in any of my 
 former papers, that my friends Sir Roger de Coverley and 
 Sir Andrew Freeport are of different principles, the first 
 of them inclined to the landed and the other to the 
 monied interest. This humour is so moderate in each of 
 them, that it proceeds no farther than to an agreeable 
 raillery, which very often diverts the rest of the club. 
 I find however that the knight is a much stronger Tory 
 in the countrj' than in town, which as he has told me in 
 my ear, is absolutely necessary for the keeping up his in- 
 terest. In all our journey from London to his house we 
 did not so much as bait at a Whig inn ; or if by chance 
 the coachman stopped at a wrong place, one of Sir Roger's 
 servants would ride up to his master full speed, and 
 whisper to him that the master of the house was against 
 such an one in the last election. This often betrayed us 
 into hard beds and bad cheer ; for we were not so inqui- 
 sitive about the inn as the inn-keeper; and provided our 
 landlord's principles were sound, did not take any notice 
 of the staleness of his provisions. This I found still the 
 more inconvenient, because the better the host was, the 
 worse generally were his accommodations; the fellow 
 knowing very well that those who were his friends would 
 take up with coarse diet and an hard lodging. For these 
 reasons, all the -while I was upon the road I dreaded
 
 No. 127.] THE SPECTATOR. fS 
 
 entering into an house of any one that Sir Roger had ap- 
 plauded for an honest man. 
 
 Since my stay at Sir Roger's in the country, I daily find 
 more instances of this narrow party humour. Being upon 
 the bowlincf-green at a neighbouring market-town the 
 t>ther day, (for that is the place where the gentlemen of 
 one side meet once a week) 1 observed a stranger among 
 them of a better presence and genteeler behaviour than 
 ordinary; but was much surprised, tbat notwithstanding 
 he was a very fair bettor, nobody would take him up. 
 But upon inquiry I found, that he was one who had given 
 a disagreeable vote in a former parliament, for which 
 reason there was not a man upon that bowling-green who 
 would have so much correspondence with him as to wia 
 his money of him. - 
 
 Among other instances of this nature, I must not omit 
 one which concerns myself. Will Wimble was the other 
 day relating several strange stories that he had picked 
 up, nobody knows where, of a certain great man ; and 
 upon my staring at him, as one that was surprised to 
 hear such things in the country, which had never been so 
 much as whispered in the town, Will stopped short in the 
 thread of his discourse, and after dinner asked my friend 
 Sir Roger in his ear if he was sure that I was not a fanatic. 
 
 It gives me a serious concern to see such a spirit of 
 dissention in the country; not only as it destroys \iitue 
 and common sense, and renders us in a manner barbarians 
 towards one another, but as it perpetuates our animosities, 
 widens our breaches, and transmits our present passions 
 and prejudices to our posterity. For my own part, I am 
 sometimes afraid that I discover the seeds of a civil war 
 in these our divisions ; and therefore cannot but bewail, 
 as in their first principles, the miseries and calamities of 
 our children. C. 
 
 No. 127.J Thursday^ July ^26, 1711. 
 
 Quantum est io rcbns inane ! Pers. Sat. i. I. 
 
 How mnch of emptiness we find in tilings! 
 
 It is our custom at Sir Roger's, upon the coming la
 
 76 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 127. 
 
 of the post, to sit about a pot of coffee, and hear the 
 old knight read Dyer's letter ; which he does with his 
 spectacles upon his nose, and in an audible voice, sniihng 
 very often at those little strokes of satire, which are so 
 frequent in the writings of that author. I afterwards 
 communicate to the knight such packets as I receive 
 under the quality of Spectator. The following letter 
 chancing to please him more than ordinary, 1 shall publish 
 it at his request. 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * You have diverted the town almost a whole month at 
 the expense of the country, it is now high time that you 
 should give the country their revenge. Since your with- 
 drawing from this place, the fair-sex are run into great 
 extravagancies. Their petticoats which began to heave 
 and swell before you left us, are now blown up into a 
 most enormous concave, and rise every day more and 
 more. In short, sir, since our women know themselves 
 to be out of the eye of the Spectator, they will be kept 
 within no compass. You praised them a little too soon, 
 for the modesty of their bead-dresses ; for as the humour 
 of a sick person is often driven out of one limb into an- 
 other, their superfluity of ornaments, instead of being 
 entirely banished, seems only fallen from their heads upon 
 their lower parts. What they have lost in height they 
 make up in hreadth, and, contrary to all rules of archi- 
 tecture, widen the foundations at the same time that they 
 shorten the superstructure. Were they, like Spanish 
 jennets, to impregnate by the wind, they could not have 
 thought on a more proper invention. But as we do not 
 yet hear any particular use in this petticoat, or that it 
 contains any thing more than what was supposed to be 
 in those of scantier make, we are wonderfully at a loss 
 about it. 
 
 * The women give out, in defence of these wide bot- 
 toms, that they are airy, and very proper for the season ; 
 tut this I look upon to be only a pretence, and a piece 
 of art, for it is well known we have not had a more mo- 
 derate summer these many years, so that it is certain the
 
 No. 127.] THE SPECTATOR. 77 
 
 heat they complain of cannot be in the weather. Besides, 
 I would fain ask these tender constitutioned ladies, why 
 they should require more cooling than their mothers before 
 them ? 
 
 * I find several speculative persons are of opinion that 
 our sex has of late years been very saucy, and that the 
 hoop-petticoat is made use of to keep us at a distance.' 
 It is most certain that a woman's honour cannot be better 
 intrenched than after this manner, in circle within circle, 
 amidst such a variety of out-works and lines of circum- 
 vallation. A female who is thus invested in whalebone, 
 is sufficiently secured against the approaches of an ill- 
 bred fellow, who might as well think of Sir George 
 Etherege's way of making '* Love in a Tub," as in the 
 midst of so many hoops. 
 
 * Among these various conjectures, there are men of 
 superstitious tempers, who look upon the hoop-petticoat 
 as a kind of prodigy. Some will have it that it portends 
 the downfal of the French king, and observe that the 
 farthingal appeared in England a little before the ruin of 
 the Spanish monarchy.* Others are of opinion that it 
 foretells battle and bloodshed, and believe it of the same 
 prognostication as the tail of a blazing star. For my 
 part, I am apt to think it is a sign that multitudes are 
 coming into the world rather than going out of it. 
 
 * The first time I saw a lady dres'^ed in one of these 
 petticoats, I could not forbear blaming her in my own 
 thoughts for walking abroad when she was * so near her 
 time,' but soon recovered myself out of my error, when 
 1 found all the modish part of the sex as * far gone as her- 
 self.' It is generally thought some crafty women have 
 thus betrayed their companions into hoops, that they 
 might make them accessary to their own concealments, 
 and by that means escape the censure of the world ; as 
 wary generals have sometimes dressed two or three dozen 
 of their friends in their own habit, that they might not 
 draw upon themselves any particular attacks from the 
 ^nemy. The strutting petticoat smooths all distinction!, 
 
 Viz. in J 55a. 
 
 H 2
 
 79 THE SPECTATOR. [No/ 1^7. 
 
 levels the mother with the daughter, and sets maids and 
 matrons, wives and widows, upon the same bottom. Jn 
 the mean while I cannot but be troubled to see so many 
 well-sliaped innocent virgins bloated up, and waddling up 
 and down hke big-bellied women. 
 
 * Should this fashion get among the ordinary people, 
 our public ways would be so crowded, that we should 
 want street- room. Several congregations of the best 
 fashion find themselves already very much straitened, and 
 if the mode increase, I wish it may not drive many or- 
 dinary women into meetings and conventicles. Should 
 our sex at the same time take it into their heads to wear 
 trunk breeches (as who knows what their indignation at 
 this female treatment may drive them to?) a man and 
 his wife would fill a whole pew. 
 
 ' You know, sir, it is recorded of Alexander the Great, 
 that in his Indian expedition he buried several suits of 
 armour, which by his directions were made much too big 
 for any of his soldiers, in order to give posterity an ex- 
 traordinary idea of him, and make them believe he had 
 commanded an army of giants. I am persuaded that if 
 one of the present petticoats happens to be hung up in 
 any repository of curiosities, it would lead into the same 
 error the generations that lie some removes from us; 
 unless we can believe our posterity will think so disre- 
 spectfully of their great grand-mothers, that they made 
 themselves monstrous to appear amiable. 
 
 'When I survey this new-fashioned rotunda in all its 
 parts, I cannot but think of the old philosopher, who after 
 having entered into an Egyptian temple, and looked 
 about for the idol of the place, at length discovered a 
 little black monkey inshrined in the midst of it, upon 
 which he could not forbear crying out, to the great scandal 
 of the worshippers, ** What a magnificent palace is here 
 for such a ridiculous inhabitant!" 
 
 * Though you have taken a resolution, in one of your 
 papers, to avoid descending to particularities of dress, I 
 believe you will not think it below you, on so extraordinary 
 an occasion, to unhoop the fair-sex, and cure this fashion-
 
 No. 128.] THE SPECTATOR/ ' 7^ 
 
 able tympany that is got among them. I am apt to think 
 the petticoat will shrink of its own accord at your first 
 coming to town ; at least a touch of your pen will make 
 it contract itself like the sensitive plant, and by that 
 means oblige several who are either terrified or astonished 
 at this portentous novelty, and among the rest, 
 
 C. * Your humble servant, &c.* 
 
 No. 128.] Friday, July 27, 1711. 
 
 — — Concordia discors. Lucan, Lib. i. 98. 
 
 — — — Harmonious discord. 
 Women in their nature are much more gay and joyous 
 than men ; whether it be that their blood is more re- 
 fined, their fibres more delicate, and their animal spirita 
 more light and volatile; or whether, as some have 
 imagined, there may not be a kind of sex in the very 
 soul, 1 shall not pretend to determine. As vivacity is 
 the gift of women, gravity is that of men. They should 
 each of them therefore keep a watch upon the parti- 
 cular bias which nature has fixed in their minds, that 
 it may not draw too much, and lead them out of the 
 paths of reason. This will certainly happen, if the one 
 in every word and action affects the character of being 
 rigid and severe, and the other of being brisk and airy* 
 Men should beware of being captivated by a kind of 
 savage philosophy, women by a thoughtless gallantry. 
 Where these precautions are not observed, the man often 
 degenerates into a cynic, the woman into a coquette ; the 
 man grows sullen and morose, the woman impertinent 
 and fantastical. 
 
 By what I have said, we may conclude men and women 
 were made as counterparts to one another, that the pains 
 and anxieties of the husband might be relieved by the 
 sprightliness and good-humour of the wife. When these 
 are rightly tempered, care and cheerfulness go hand iu 
 hand ; and the family, like a ship that is duly trimmedy 
 wants neither sail nor ballast.
 
 99 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 128. 
 
 Natural historians observe (for whilst I am in the 
 country 1 must fetch my allusions from thence) that only 
 the male birds have voices ; that their songs begjin a little 
 before breeding-time, and end a little after: that whilst 
 the hen is covering her eggs, the male generally takes his 
 stand upon a neighbouring bough within her hearing: and 
 by that means amuses and diverts her with his songs during 
 the whole time of her sitting. 
 
 This contract among birds lasts no longer than till a 
 brood of young ones arises from it ; so that in the feathered 
 kind, the cares and fatigues of the married state, if I 
 may so call it, lie principally upon the female. On the 
 contrary, as in our species the man and the woman are 
 joined together for life, and the main burden rests upon 
 the former, nature has given all the little arts of soothing 
 and blandishment to the female, that she may cheer and 
 animate her companion in a constant and assiduous ap- 
 plication to the making a provision for his family, and 
 the educating of their common children. This however 
 is not to be taken so strictly, as if the same duties were 
 not often reciprocal, and incumbent on both parties ; but 
 only to set forth what seems to have been the general 
 intention of nature, in the different inclinations and en- 
 dowments which are bestowed on the different sexes. 
 
 But whatever was the reason that man and woman 
 were made with this variety of temper, if we observe the 
 conduct of the fair-sex, we find that they choose rather 
 to associate themselves with a person who resembles them 
 in that light and volatile humour which is natural to 
 them, than to such as are qualified to moderate and 
 counterbalance it. It has been an old complaint, that the 
 coxcomb carries it with them before the man of sense. 
 When we see a fellow loud and talkative, full of insipid 
 life and laughter, we may venture to pronounce him a 
 female favourite. Noise and flutter are such accomplish- 
 Boents as they cannot withstand. To be short, the passion 
 of an ordinary woman for a man is nothing else but self- 
 Jove diverted upon another object. She would have the 
 lover a woman m every thiog but the sex. I do not know
 
 No. 128.] THE SPECTATOR. 81 
 
 a finer piece of satire on this part of womankind, than 
 those lines of Mr. Dryden. 
 
 Our thoughtless sex is cancht by outward form, 
 And empty nois-c ; and loves itself in man. 
 
 This is a source of infinite calamities to the sex, as it 
 frequently joins them to men, who in their own thoughts 
 are as fine creatures as themselves ; or if they chance to 
 be good- humoured, serve only to dissipate their fortunes, 
 inflame their follies, and aggravate their indiscretions. 
 
 The same female levity is no less fatal to them after 
 marriage than before. It represents to their imaginations 
 the faithful, prudent husband, as an honest, tractable, 
 and domestic animal ; and turns their thoughts upon the 
 fine gay gentleman that laughs, sings, and dresses so much 
 more agreeably. 
 
 As this irregular vivacity of temper leads astray the 
 hearts of ordinary women in the choice of their lovers 
 and the treatment of their husbands, it operates with the 
 same pernicious influence towards their chiJdren, who are 
 taught to accomplish themselves in all those sublime per- 
 fections that appear captivating in the eye of their mother. 
 She admires in her son what she loved in her gallant j and 
 by that means contributes all she can to perpetuate herself 
 in a worthless progeny. 
 
 The younger Faustina was a lively instance of this sort 
 of women. Notwithstanding she was married to'Marcus 
 Aurelius, one of the greatest, wisest, and best of the 
 Roman emperors, she thought a common gladiator much 
 the prettier gentleman ; and had taken such care to ac- 
 complish her son Commodus according to her own notions 
 of a fine man, that when he ascended the throne of his 
 father, he became the most foolish and abandoned tyrant 
 that was ever placed at the head of the Roman empire, 
 signalizing himself in nothing but the fighting of prizes, 
 and knocking out men's brains. As he had no taste of 
 true glory, we see him in several medals and statues, 
 which are still extant of him, equipped like a Hercules, 
 with a club and a lion's skin.
 
 H THE SPECTATOR. CXo. 129. 
 
 I have been led into this speculation by the characters 
 I have heard of a countr>' g^entleman and his lady, who 
 do not live many miles from Sir Roger. The wife is an 
 old coquette, that is always hankering after the diversions 
 of the town; the husband a morose rustic, that frowas 
 and frets at the name of it. The wife is over-run with 
 affectation, the husband sunk into brutality. The lady 
 cannot bear the noise of the larks and nightingales, hates 
 your tedious summer-days, and is sick at the sight of shady 
 woods and purling streams ; the husband wonders how 
 any one can be pleased with the fooleries of plays and 
 operas, and rails from morning to night at essenced fops 
 and tawdry courtiers. The children are educated in 
 these different notions of their parents. The sons follow 
 the father about his grounds, while the daughters read 
 volumes of love-letters and romances to their mother. 
 By this means it comes to pass, that the girls look upon 
 their father as a clow n, and the boys think their mother 
 no better than she should be. 
 
 How different are the lives of Aristus and Aspasia ! 
 The innocent vivacity of the one is tempered and composed 
 by the cheerful gravity of the other. The wife grows wise 
 by the discourses of the husband, and the husband good- 
 humoured by the conversations of the wife. Aristus would 
 not be so amiable were it not for his Aspasia, nor Aspasia 
 so much esteemed were it not for her Aristus. Their 
 virtues are blended in their children, and diffuse through 
 the whole family a perpetual spirit of benevolence, com- 
 placency, and satisfaction. C. 
 
 -»■■**■»■■»*** 4 
 
 No. 129.] Saturday, July 28, 1711. 
 
 Vcrtentem sose fnistra seetabcrc canthum, 
 Ciini roU posterior curi-as et in axe secundo. 
 
 Pers. Sat. v, 71. 
 Thon, like the himlmost chariot wheels, art curst 
 Still to be near, but ne'er lo be tJie fnst. Dryden. 
 
 " Great masters in painting never care for drawing 
 people in the fashion: as very well knowing: that the
 
 No. 129] THE SPECTATOR." 83 
 
 head-dress, or periwig, that now prevails, and gives a 
 grace to their portraitures at present, will make a very 
 odd figure, and perhaps look monstrous in the eyes of 
 posterity. For this reason they often represent an illus- 
 trious person in a Roman habit, or in some other dress 
 that never varies. I could wish, for the sake of my coun- 
 try friends, that there was such a kind of everlasting dra- 
 pery to be made use of by all who live at a certain distance 
 from the town, and that they would agree upon such 
 fashions as should never be liable to changes and innova- 
 tions. For want of this standing dress, a man who takes 
 a journey into the country is as much surprised as one who 
 walks in a gallery of old family pictures, and finds as 
 great a variety of garbs and habits in the persons he con- 
 verses with. Did they keep to one constant dress they 
 would sometimes be in the fashion, which they never are 
 as matters are managed at present. If instead of running 
 after the mode, they would continue fixed in one certain 
 habit, the mode would some time or other overtake them, 
 as a clock that stands still is sure to point right once in 
 twelve hours. In this case therefore I would advise them, 
 as a gentleman did his friend who was hunting about the 
 whole town after a rambling fellow — If you follow h'lrtk 
 you will never find him, but if you plant yourself at the 
 corner of any one street, I will engage it will not be long 
 before you see him. 
 
 I have already touched upon this subject in a specula- 
 tion which shows how cruelly the country are led astray 
 in following the town ; and equipped in a ridiculous habit, 
 when they fancy themselves in the height of the mode. 
 Since that speculation I have received a letter (which I 
 there hinted at) from a gentleman who is now in the 
 western, circuit, 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * Being a lawyer of the Middle-Temple, a Cornishman 
 
 by birth, I generally ride the wt'stern circuit* for my 
 
 health, and as I am not interrupted with clients, have 
 
 •ComifecUors gentrally go on the eiraiits tiiiougli tUcir nalivv c«#ftntie»»
 
 84 THE spectator; [No. 129: 
 
 leisure to make many observations that escape the notice 
 of my fellow-travellers. 
 
 * One of the most fashionable women I met with in all 
 the circuit was my landlady at Staines, where I chanced 
 to be on a holiday. Her commode w.-^s not half a foot 
 high, and her petticoat within some yards of a modish 
 circumference. In the same place I observed a young 
 fellow with a tolerable periwig, had it not been covered 
 with a bat that was shaped in the Ramilie-cock. As I 
 proceeded in my journey, I observed the petticoat gr6w 
 scantier and scantier, and about threescore miles from; 
 London was so very unfashionable, tbat a woman might 
 walk in it without any manner of inconvenience. 
 
 * Not far from Salisbury I took notice of a justice of 
 peace's lady, who was at least ten years behind-hand ia 
 her dress, but at the same time as fine as hands could 
 make her< She was flounced and furbelowed from head 
 to foot; every riband was wrinkled, and every part of 
 her garments in curl, so that she looked like one of those 
 animals which in the country we call a Friezeland hen. 
 
 * Not many miles beyond this place I was informed 
 that one of the last year's little muffs had by some means 
 or other straggled into those parts, and that all the wo- 
 men of fashion were cutting their old muffs in two, or 
 retrenching them, according to the little model which 
 was got among them. I cannot believe the report they 
 have there, that it was sent down franked by a parlia- 
 ment-man in a little packet; but probably by next winter 
 this fashion will be at the height in the country, when 
 it is quite out at London. 
 
 * The greatest beau at our next county sessions was 
 dressed in a most monstrous flaxen periwig, that was 
 made in King William's reign. The wearer of it goes, 
 it seems, in his own hair when he is at home, and lets his 
 wig lie in buckle for a whole half year, that he may put 
 it on upon occasion to meet the judges in it. 
 
 * I must not here omit an adventure which happened to 
 us in a country church upon the frontiers of Cornwall. 
 As we were in the midst of the service, a lady wha is the
 
 No. 129.] THE SPECTATOR. 8& 
 
 chief woman of the place, and had passed the winter at 
 London with her husband, entered the conj;^re§;ation in 
 a Utile head-dress, and a hooped petticoat. The people, 
 who were wonderfully startled at such a sight, all of them 
 rose up. Some stared at the prodigious bottom, and some 
 at the little top of this strange dress. In the mean time 
 the lady of the manor filled the area of the church, and 
 walked up to her pew with an unspeakable satisfaction, 
 amidst the whispers, conjectures, and astonishments of 
 the whole congregation. 
 
 * Upon our way from hence we saw a young fellow riding 
 towards us full gallop, with a bob wig and a black silken 
 bag tied to it. He stopt short at the coach, to ask us how 
 far the .judges were behind us. His stay was so ver}' short, 
 tb;<t we had only time to observe his new silk waistcoat, 
 which was unbuttoned in several places to let us see that 
 he had a clean shirt on, which was ruffled down to his 
 middle. 
 
 * From this place, during our progress through the most 
 western parts of the kingdom, we fancied ourselves in 
 King Charles the Second's reign, the people having made 
 very little variations in their dress since that time. The 
 smartest of the country 'squires appear still in the Mon- 
 mouth-cock, and when they go a wooing (whether they 
 have any post in the militia or not) they generally put on 
 a red coat. We were, indeed, very much surprised, at the 
 place we lay at last night, to meet with a gentleman that 
 had accoutred himself in a night-cap-wig, a coat with 
 long pockets and slit sleeves, and a pair of shoes with 
 high scollop tops ; but we soon found by his conversation 
 that he was a person who laughed at the ignorance and 
 rusticity of the country people, and was resolved to live 
 and die in the mode, 
 
 * Sir, if you think this account of my travels may be of 
 any advantage to the public, I will next year trouble you 
 with such occurrences as I shall meet with in other parts 
 of England. For I am informed there are greater curiosi- 
 ties in the northern circuit than in the western ; and 
 that a fashion makes its progress much slower into Cum- 
 
 VoL. II. I
 
 8S THE SPECTATOR. [No. 130. 
 
 berland than into Cornwall. I have heard in particular, 
 that the Steenkirk* arrived but two months ago at New- 
 castle, and that there are several commodes in those parts 
 which are worth taking a journey thither to see.' C, 
 
 No. 130.] Monday y July 30, 1711. 
 
 Serapcrquc recentes 
 
 CoDvectaie juvat praedas, et vivere rapto. 
 
 Virg. ]£.n. vii. 748. 
 A plandering race, still eager to invade. 
 On spoil they live, and make of theft a trade. 
 
 As I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my 
 friend Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance from us a 
 troop of gipsies. Upon the first discovery of them, my 
 friend was in some doubt whether he should not exert the 
 justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless vagrants ; 
 but not having his clerk with him, who is a necessary 
 counsellor on these occasions, and fearing that his poultry 
 might fare the worse for it, he let the thought drop ; but 
 at the same time gave me a particular account of the mis- 
 chiefs they do in the country, in stealing people's goods 
 and spoiling their servants. * If a stray piece of linen 
 hangs upon an hedge,' says Sir Roger, ' they are sure to 
 have it; if the hog loses his way in the fields, it is ten to 
 one but he becomes their prey: our geese cannot live in 
 peace for them ; if a man prosecutes them with severity, 
 his hen-roost is sure to pay for it. They generally straggle 
 into these parts about this time of the year ; and set the 
 heads of our servant-maids so agog for husbands, that 
 we CO not expect to have any business done as it should 
 be, whilst they are in the country. I have an honest 
 dairy-maid who crosses their hands with a piece of silver 
 every summer, and never fails being promised the hand- 
 
 • Tlie Steenkirk was a military cravat of black silk. This, as well as 
 tnany other ornaments of dres«, received its name from the o\crjoyed 
 Parisians after the battle of Steenkirk, fought Aug. 2d, l692; and the 
 English, with their accuiitomed complacency towards every, thing French* 
 adopted it, although its very name was intended to perpetuate the remem- 
 brance of their own sovereign's defeat.
 
 No. 130.] THE SPECTATOR. 8» ; 
 
 somest youtig fellow in the parish for her pains. Your 
 friend the butler has been fool enough to be seduced by 
 them ; and though he is sure to lose a knife, a fork, or 
 a spoon every time his fortune is told him, generally shuts 
 himself up in the pantry with an old gipsy for above half 
 an hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweethearts are the 
 things they live upon, which they bestow very plentifully 
 upon all those that apply themselves to them. You see 
 now and then some handsome young jades among them: 
 the sluts have very often white teeth and black eyes,' 
 
 Sir Roger observing that I listened with great attention 
 to his account of a people Avho were so entirely new to 
 me, told me, that, if I would, they should tell us our for- 
 tunes. As I was very well pleased with the knight's pro- 
 posal, we rid up and communicated our hands to them. 
 A Cassandra of the crew, after having examined my lines 
 very diligently, told me, that I loved a pretty maid in a 
 corner, that I was a good woman's man, with some other 
 particulars which J do not think proper to relate. My 
 friend Sir Roger alighted from his horse, and exposing 
 his palm to two or three that stood by him, they crumpled 
 it into all shapes, and diligently scanned every wrinkle 
 that could be made in it; when one of them, who was 
 older and more suu-burnt than the rest, told him, that 
 he had a widow in his line of life. Upon which the 
 knight cried, * Go, go, you are an idle baggage;* and at 
 the same time smiled upon me. The gipsy finding he 
 was not displeased in his heart, told him after a farther 
 inquiry into his hand, that his true-love was constant, and 
 that she should dream of him to-night. My old friend 
 cried Pish! and bid her go on. The gipsy told him that 
 he was a bachelor, but would not be so long; and that he 
 was dearer to somebody than he thought. The knight 
 still repeated, ' She was an idle baggage,' and bid her go 
 on. ' Ah, master,* says the gipsy, ' that roguish leer of 
 yours makes a pretty woman's heart ache; you have not 
 that simper about the mouth for nothing.' — The uncouth 
 gibberish with which all this was uttered, like the dark- 
 ness of an Oracle, made us the more attentive to it. Ta
 
 8d THE SPECTATOR. [No. 130, 
 
 be short, the knight left the money with her that he had 
 crossed her hand with, and got up eigain on his horse. 
 
 As we were riding away, Sir Roger told me, that he 
 knew several sensible people who believed these gipsies 
 now and then foretold very strange things ; and for half 
 an hour together appeared more jocund than ordinary. 
 In the height of his good-humour, meeting a common 
 beggar upon the road, who was no conjurer, as lie went 
 to relieve him he found his pocket was picked ; that being 
 a kind of palmistry at which this race of vermin are very 
 dextrous. 
 
 I might here entertain my reader with historical re- 
 marks on this idle profligate people, who infest all the 
 countries of Europe, and live in the midst of governments 
 in a kifid of commonwealth by themselves. But instead 
 of entering into observations of this nature, I shall fill 
 the remaining part of my paper with a story which is still 
 fresh in Holland, and was printed in one of our monthly 
 accounts about twenty years ago. ' As the trekschuyty or 
 hackney-boat, which carries passengers from Leyden to 
 Amsterdam, was putting off, a boy running aloug the side 
 of the canal desired to be taken in : which the master of 
 the boat refused, because the lad had not quite money 
 enough to pay the usual fare. An eminent merchant 
 being pleased with the looks of the boy, and secretly 
 touched with compassion towards him, paid the money 
 for him, and ordered him to be taken on board. Upon 
 talking with him afterwards, he found that he could speak 
 readily in three or four languages, and learned upon far- 
 ther examination that he had been stolen away when he 
 was a child by a gipsy, and had rambled ever since with 
 a gang of those strollers up and down several parts of 
 Europe. It happened that the merchant, whose heart 
 Seems to have inclined towards the boy by a secret kind 
 of instinct, had himself lost a child some years bpfore. 
 The parents, after a long search for him, gave him for 
 drowned in one of the canals witli which that country 
 abounds ; and the mother was so afflicted at the loss of a 
 iLne boy, who ^Yas her only son, that she died for grief
 
 No. 131.1 THE SPECTATOR. ' 99 
 
 of it. Upon laying together all particulars, and exa- 
 mining the several moles and marks by which the mother 
 used to describe the child when he was first missing, the 
 boy proved to be the son of the merchant, whose heart 
 Lad so unaccountably melted at the sight of him. The 
 lad was very well pleased to find a father who was so rich, 
 and likely to leave him a good estate : the father on the 
 Other hand was not a little delighted to see a son return 
 to him, whom he had given for lost, with such a strength 
 of constitution, sharpness of understanding, and skill in 
 languages.' Here the printed story leaves off; but if I 
 may give credit to reports, our linguist having received 
 such extraordinary rudiments towards a good education, 
 \^as afterwards trained up in every thing that becomes a 
 gentleman; wearing off by little and little all the vicious 
 babits and jractices that he had been used to in the course 
 of his peregrinations. Nay, it is said, that he has since 
 been employed in foreign courts upon national business, 
 with great rpputation to himself and honour to those who 
 sent him, and that he has visited several countries as a 
 public minister, in which he formerly wandered as a gipsy. 
 
 C. 
 
 No. 131.] Tuesday, July 31, 1711. 
 
 " Ipsae rnrsum concedite sylvae. f'jj-g. Ed. x. C3. 
 
 Once more, ye woods, adieu. 
 
 It is usual for a man who loves country sports to pre- 
 serve the game in his own grounds, and divert himself 
 upon those that belong to his neighbour. My friend Sir 
 Roger generally goes two or three miles from his house, 
 and gets into the frontiers of his estate, before he beats 
 about in search of a hnre or partridge, on purpose to spare 
 his own fields, where he is always sure of finding di- 
 version, when the worst comes to the worst. By this 
 means the breed about his house has time to increase and 
 multiply, besides that the sport is the more agreeable 
 where the game is the harder to come at, and where it 
 12
 
 90 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 131. 
 
 floes not lie so thick as to produce any perplexity or con- 
 fusion in the pursuit. For these reasons the country 
 gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys near his own home. 
 
 In the same manner I have made a month's excursion 
 out of the town, which is the ^reat field of game for 
 sportsmen of my species, to try my fortune in the country, 
 where I have started several subjects, and hunted thf;ni 
 down, with some pleasure to myself, and I hope to others. 
 I am here forced to use a great deal of dilis»^nce before 
 I can spring any thing to my mind, whereas in town, 
 whilst I am following one character, it is ten to one but 
 I am crossed in my way by another, and put up such a 
 variety of odd creatures in both sexes, that they foil the 
 scent of one another, and puzzle the chase. My greatest 
 difficulty in the country is to find sport, and in town to 
 choose it. In the mean time, as I have given a whole 
 month's rest to the cities of London and Westminster, I 
 promise myself abundance of new game upon my return 
 thither. 
 
 It is indeed high time for me to leave the country, since 
 I find the whole neighbourhood begin to grow very in- 
 quisitive after my name and character; my love of soli- 
 tude, taciturnity, and particular way of life, having raised 
 a great curiosity in all these parts. 
 
 The notions which have been framed of me are various, 
 some look upon me as very proud, some as very modest, 
 and some as very melancholy. ' Will Wimble, as my friend 
 the butler tells me, observing me very much alone, and 
 extremely silent when I am in company, is afraid I have 
 killed a man. The country people seem to suspect me 
 for a conjurer; and some of them hearing of the visit 
 which I made to Moll White, will needs have it that 
 Sir Roger has brought down a cunning man with him, to 
 cure the old woman, and free the country from her 
 charms. So that the character which I go under in part 
 of the neighbourhood, is what they here call a White 
 Witch. 
 
 A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off, and 
 ii not of Sir Roger's party, has it seems said twice or
 
 No. 131.] THE SPECTATOR.^ §T 
 
 thrice at his table, that he wishes Sir Roger does not 
 harbour a Jesuit in his house, and that he thinks the 
 gentlemen of the eountry would do very well to make me 
 give some accoutit of myself. 
 
 On the other side, some of Sir Roger's friends are 
 afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a designing 
 fellow ; and as they have heard that he converses very 
 promiscuously when he is in town, do not kiiow but he 
 has brought down with him some discarded Whig, that is 
 sullen, and say=; nothing because he is out of place. 
 
 Such is the variety of opinions which are here enter- 
 tained of me, so that I pass among some for a disaffected 
 person, and among others for a popish priest; among 
 some for a wizard, and among others for a murderer; and 
 all this for no other reason that I can imagine, but be- 
 cause I do not hoot, and halloo, and make a noise. It is 
 true, my friend Sir Roger tells them, — * That it is my 
 way,* and that I am only a philosopher; but this will 
 not satisfy tbem. They think there is more in me than 
 he discovers, and that I do not hold my tongue for 
 nothing. 
 
 For these and other reasons I shall set out for London 
 to-morrow, having found by experience that the country 
 is not a place for a person of my temper, who does not 
 love jollity, and what they call good neighbourhood. A. 
 man that is out of humour when an unexpected guest 
 breaks in upon him, and does not care for sacrificing an 
 afternoon to every chance-comer, that will be the master 
 of his own time, and the pursuer of his own inclinations, 
 makes but a very unsociable figure in this kind of life. 
 I shall therefore retire into the town, if I may make use 
 of that phrase, and get into the crowd again as fast as I 
 can, in order to be alone. I can there raise what specu- 
 lations 1 1 lease upon others without being observed myself, 
 and at the same time enjoy all the advantages of com- 
 pany, with all the privileges of solitude. In the mean 
 while, to finish the month, and conclude these my rural 
 speculations, I shall here insert a letter from my friend 
 Will Honeycomb, who has not lived a month for these
 
 92 THE SPECTATOR."^ C.Vo. 132. 
 
 forty years out of the smoke of London, and rallies me 
 after bis way upon my country life. 
 
 • DEAR SPEC, 
 * I suppose this letter will find thee picking of daisies, 
 or smelling to a lock of hay, or passing away thy time in 
 some innocent country' diversion of the like nature. I 
 have however orders from the club to suram(»n thee up to 
 town, being all of us cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able 
 to relish our company, after thy conversations with Moll 
 White, and Will Wimble. Pr'ythee do not send us any 
 more stories of a cock and a bull, nor frighten the town 
 with spirits and witches. Thy speculations begin to smell 
 confoundedly of woods and meadows. If thou dost not 
 come up quickly, we shall conclude that thou art in love 
 with one of Sir Roger's dairy-maids. Service to the 
 knight. Sir Andrew is grown the cock of the club since 
 he left us, and if he does not return quickly will make 
 every mother's son of us commonwealth's-men. 
 * Dear Spec, 
 
 / Thine eternally, 
 C. ♦ WILL HONEYCOMB/ 
 
 No. 132.] Wednesday f August 1, 1711. 
 
 Qui, aut tempus quid postulet non videt, aut plura loqnitor, ant se 
 ostentat, ant eorum qaibuscum est ratiouem non habet, is ineptus esse 
 dictor.— 3«/^. 
 
 That man may be called UTipertinent, who considers not the circum. 
 stances of time, or enrrosses the conversation, or makes himself the 8ub» 
 ject of his discoiuse, or pays no regard to the company he is in. 
 
 Having notified to my good friend Sir Roger that I 
 should set out for Lfmdon the next day, his horses were 
 ready at the appointed hour in the evening ; and, at- 
 tended by one of his grooms, I arrived at the county town 
 at twilight, in order to be ready for the stage-coach the 
 day following. As soon as we arrived at the inn, the 
 servant, who waited upon me, inquired of the chamber- 
 lain in my hearing what company he had for the coach ? 
 The fellow answered, ' Mrs, Betty Arable, the great for-
 
 No. 132.] THE SPECTATOR. S3 
 
 tune, and the widow her mother ; a recruiting officer, 
 (who took a place because they were to go) young 'Squire 
 Quickset, her cousin (that her naother wished her to be 
 married to) ; Ephraim the quaker, her guardian ; and a 
 gentleman that had studied himself dumb from Sir Roger 
 De Coverley's.* 1 observed by what he said of myself, 
 that according to his office he dealt much in intelligence ; 
 and doubted not but there was some foundation for his 
 reports of the rest of the company as well as for the whim- 
 sical account he gave of me. The next morning at day- 
 break we were all called ; and I who know my own 
 natural shyness, and endeavour to be as little liable to be 
 disputed with as possible, dressed immediately, that I 
 might make no one wait. The first preparation for our 
 setting out was, that the captain's half-pike was placed 
 near the coachman, and a drum behind the coach. Jn the 
 mean time the drummer, the captain's equipage, was very 
 loud, ' that none of the captain's things should be placed 
 so as to be spoiled; upon which his cloak-bag was fixed 
 in the seat of the coach : and the captain himself, accord- 
 ing to a frequent, though invidious behaviour of military 
 men, ordered his man to look sharp, that none but one 
 of the ladies should have tiie place he had taken fronting 
 the coach-box. 
 
 We were in some little time fixed in our seats, and 
 sat with that dislike which people not too good-natured 
 usually conceive of each other at first sight. The coach 
 jumbled us insensibly into some sort of familiarity : and 
 we had not moved above two miles, when the widow asked 
 the captain what success he had in his recruiting ? The 
 officer, with a frankness he believed very graceful, told 
 her, * that indeed he had but very little luck, and had 
 suffered much by desertion, therefore should be glad ta 
 end his warfare in the service of her or her fair daughter. 
 In a word,' continued he, ' I am a soldier, and to be plain 
 is my character : you see me, madam, youjig, sound, and 
 impudent 4 take me yourself, widow, or give me to her; 
 1 wdl be wholly at your disposal. 1 am a soldier of fortune, 
 fca I* — ^This was followed by a vain laugh of his own, and
 
 94 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 132. 
 
 a deep silence of all the rest of the company. I had no- 
 thing left for it but to fall fast asleep, which I did with 
 all speed. — * Come,' said he, * resolve upon it, we will 
 make a wedding at the next town : we will wake this 
 pleasant companion who is fallen asleep, to be the bride- 
 man ; and,' giving the quaker a clap on the knee, he 
 concluded, * This sly saint, who, I will warrant, under- 
 stands what is what as well as you or I, widow, shall 
 give the bride as father.' The quaker, who happened to 
 be a man of smartness, answered, * Friend, I take it in 
 good part that thou hast given ine the authority of a 
 father over this comely and virtuous child ; and I must 
 assure thee, that if I have the giving her, I shall not be- 
 stow her on thee. Thy mirth, friend, savoureth of folly: 
 thou art a person of a light mind, thy drum is a type of 
 thee, it soundeth because it ts empty. Verily, it is not 
 from thy fulness, but thy emptiness, that thou hast spoken 
 this day. Friend, friend, we have hired this coach in 
 partnership with thee, to carry us to the great city ; we 
 cannot go any other way. This worthy mother must 
 hear thee, if thou wilt needs utter thy follies ; we cannot 
 help it, friend, I say : if thou wilt, we must hear thee; 
 but if thou wert a man of understaniiiug, thou wouldst 
 not take advantage of thy courageous countenance to 
 abash us children of peace. — Thou art, thou savest, a 
 soldier ; give quarter to us, who cannot resist thee. Why 
 didst thou fleer at our friend, who feigned himself asleep ? 
 He said nothing; but how dost thou know what he con- 
 taineth ? If thou speakest improper things in the hear- 
 ing of this virtuous young virgin, consider it as an outrage 
 against a distressed person that cannot get from thee : 
 to speak indiscreetly what we are obhged to hear, by being 
 hasped up with thee in this public vehicle, is in some 
 degree assaulting on the high road.' 
 
 Here Ephraim paused, and the captain with a happy 
 and uncommon impudence (which can be convicted and 
 support itself at the same time), cries, ' Faith, friend, 
 I thank thee ; I should have been a little impertinent if 
 thou hadst not reprimanded me. Come, thou art, I see.
 
 No. 132.] THE SPECTATOR. 95 
 
 a smoky old fellow, and I will be very orderly the ensuing 
 part of my journey. I was going to give myself airs, but, 
 ladies, I beg pardon.* 
 
 The captain was so little out of humour, and our com- 
 pany was so far from being soured by this little ruffle, 
 that Ephraim and he took a particular delij;ht in being 
 agreeable to each other for the future ; and assumed 
 their different provinces in the conduct of the company. 
 Our reckonings, apartments, and accommodation, fell 
 under Ephraim ; and the captain looked to all disputes 
 upon the road, as the good behaviour of our coachman, 
 and the right we had of taking place, as going to London, 
 of all vehicles coming from thence. The occurrences 
 we met with were ordinary, and very little happened 
 which could entertain by the relation of them : but when 
 I considered the company we were in, I took it for no small 
 good-fortune, that the whole journey was not spent in 
 impertinencies, which to one part of us might be an en- 
 tertainment, to the other a suffering. What therefore 
 Ephraim said when we were almost arrived at London, 
 had to me an air not only of good understanding, but 
 good breeding. Upon the young lady's expressing her 
 satisfaction in the journey, and declaring how delightful 
 it had been to her, Ephraim declared himself as follows : 
 * There is no ordinary part of human life, which expresseth 
 so much a good mind, and a right inward man, as his 
 behaviour upon meeting with strangers, especially such as 
 may seem the most unsuitable companions to him : such 
 a man, when he falleth in the way with persons of sim- 
 plicity and innocence, however knowing he may be in the 
 ways of men, will not vaunt himself thereof, but will the 
 rather hide his superiority to them, that he may not be 
 painful unto them. My good friend,' continued he, turn- 
 ing to the officer, ' thee and I are to part by and by, and 
 peradventure we may never meet again : but be advised 
 by a ))lain man ; modes and apparel are but trifles to the 
 real man, therefore do not think such a man as thyself 
 terrible for thy garb, nor such a one as me contemptible 
 for mine. When two such as thee and 1 meet, with affec-
 
 96' THE SPECTATOR. [No. 133: 
 
 tions as v/e ought to have towards each other, thou shoultlst 
 rejoice to see my peaceable demeanor, and I should be glad 
 to see thy strength and ability to protect me in it.' T. 
 
 No. 133.] Thursday, August 2, 1711. 
 
 Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus 
 
 Taui chari capitis ? Hor. Lib. 1 . Od. xxiv. I. 
 
 Such was his worth, our loss is such. 
 We cannot love too well, or grieve too mach,—-Oldistrorth. 
 
 There is a sort of delight, which is alternately mixed 
 with terror and sorrow, in the contemplation of death. 
 The soul has its curiosity more than ordinarily awakened, 
 when it turns its thoughts upon the conduct of such who 
 have behaved themselves with an equal, a resigned, a 
 cheerful, a generous or heroic temper in that extremity. 
 We are affected with these respective manners of beha- 
 viour, as we secretly believe the part of the dying person 
 imitable by ourselves, or such as we imagine ourselves 
 more particularly capable of. Men of exalted minds 
 march before us like princes, and are, to the ordinary 
 race of. mankind, rather subjects for their admiration 
 than example. However, there are no ideas strike more 
 forcibly upon our imaginations, than those which are 
 raised from reflections upon the exits of great aud ex- 
 cellent men. Innocent men who have suffered as criminals, 
 though they were benefactors to human society, seem to 
 be persons of the highest distinction, among the vastly 
 greater number of human race, the dead. When the 
 iniquity of the times brought Socrates to his execution, 
 how great and wonderful is it to behold him, unsupp(»rted 
 by any thing but the testimony of bis own conscience 
 and conjectures of hereafter, receive the poison with an 
 air of mirth and good-humour, aud as if gouig on an agree- 
 able journey, bespeak some deity to make it foiiunate. 
 
 When Phocion's good actions had met with the like 
 reward from his country, and he was led to death with 
 many others of his friends, they bewailing their fate, he 
 walking composedly towards the place of execution, how
 
 No. 133.2 THE SPECTATOR. 9T 
 
 gracefully does he support his illustrious character to the 
 very last instant! One of the rabble spitting at him a=; 
 he passed, with his usual authority he called to know 
 if no one was ready to teach this fellow how to behave 
 himself. When a poor-spirited creature that died at the 
 same time for his crimes, bemoaned himself unmanfully, 
 he rebuked him with this question, * Is it no consolation 
 to such a man as thou art to die with Phocion ?' At the 
 instant when he was to die, they asked what commands 
 he had for his son ? he answered, ' To forget this injury 
 of the Athenians.' Niocles, his friend, under the same 
 sentence, desired he might drink the potion before him : 
 Phocion said, * Because he never had denied him any 
 thing, he would not even this, the most difficult request 
 he had ever made.' 
 
 These instances were very noble and great, and the re- 
 flections of those sublime spirits had made death to them 
 what it is really intended to be by the Author of nature, 
 a relief from a various being, ever subject to sorrows and 
 difficulties. 
 
 Epaminondas, the Theban general, having received \n 
 fight a mortal stab with a sword, which was left in his 
 body, lay in that posture till he had intelligence that his 
 troops had obtained the victory, and then permitted it 
 to be drawn out, at which instant he expressed himself 
 in this manner : ' This is not the end of my life, my fellow- 
 soldiers ; it is now your Epaminondas is born> who dies la 
 so much glory.* 
 
 It were an endless labour to collect the accounts, with 
 which all ages have filled the world, of noble and heroic 
 minds that have resigned this being, as if the termination 
 of life were but an ordinary occurrence of it. 
 
 This common-place way of thinking I fell iiito from 
 an awkward endeavour to throw oflF a real and fresh afflic- 
 tion, by turning over books in a melancholy mood; but 
 it is not easy to remove griefs which touch the heart, by 
 applying remedies which only entertain the imagination; 
 As therefore this paper is to consist of any thing which 
 concerns human life, I cannot help letting the present 
 
 Vol. II. K
 
 98 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 133. 
 
 subject regard what has been the last object of my eyes, 
 though an entertainment of sorrow. 
 
 I went this evening to visit a friend, with a design to 
 rally him, upon a story I had heard of his intending t<j 
 steal a marriage without the privity of us his intimate 
 friends and acquaintance. I came into his apartment 
 with that intimacy which I have done for very many 
 years, and walked directly into his bedchamber, where I 
 found my friend in the agonies of death. — What could 
 I do ? The innocent mirth in my thoughts struck upon 
 me like the most flagitious wickedness : I in vain called 
 upon him ; he was senseless, and too far spent to have 
 the least knowledge of my sorrow, or any pain in himself. 
 Give me leave then to transcribe my soliloquy, as I stood 
 by his mother, dumb with the weight of grief for a son 
 who was her honour and her comfort, and never till that 
 hour since his birth had been an occasion of a moment's 
 sorrow to her. 
 
 ' How surprising is this change ! From the possession 
 of vigorous life and strength, to be reduced in a few hours 
 to this fatal extremity! Those lips which look so pale 
 and livid, within these few days gave delight to all who 
 heard their utterance : it was the business, the purpose 
 of his being, next to obeying Him to whom he is gone, 
 to please and instruct, and that for no other end but to 
 please and instruct. Kindness was the motive of his ac- 
 tions, and with all the capacity requisite for making a 
 figure in a contentious world, moderation, good-nature, 
 affability, temperance, and chastity, were the arts of his 
 excellent life. — There as he lies in helpless agony, no wise 
 man who knew him so well as I, but would resign all 
 the world can bestow to be so near the end of such a life. 
 Why does my heart so little obey my reason as to lament 
 thee, thou excellent man ? — Heaven receive him or restore 
 him !— Thy beloved mother, thy obliged friends, thy help- 
 less servants, stand around thee without distinction. How 
 much wouldst thou, hadst thou thy senses, say to each 
 of us! 
 
 * But now that good heart bursts, and he is at rest —
 
 No. 134.] THE SPECTATOR.' 99 
 
 With that breath expired a soul who never indulged a 
 passion unfit for the place he is ^orie to. Where are now 
 thy plans of Justice, of truth, of honour? Of what use 
 the volumes thou hast collated, the arguments thou hast 
 invented, the examples thou hast followed ? Poor were 
 the expectations of the studious, the modest, and the 
 good, if the reward of their laboure wene only to be ex- 
 pected from man. No, my friend, thy intended pleadings, 
 thy intended good offices to thy friends, thy intended 
 services to thy country, are already performed (as to thy 
 concern in them) in his sight, before whom, the past, 
 present, and future appear at one view. While others 
 with thy talents were tormented with ambition, with vain- 
 glory, with envy, with emulation, how well didst thou tura 
 thy mind to its own improvement in things out of the 
 power of fortune ; in probity, in integrity, in the practice 
 and study of justice ! How silent thy passage, how private 
 thy journey, how glorious thy end! * Many have I known 
 more famous, some more knowing, not one so innocent.' , 
 
 R. 
 
 No. 134.] Friday, August 3, 1711. 
 
 ■ Opiferque per orbem 
 
 Dicor Ovid, ^fct. Lib. i. 521. : 
 
 And am the great physician call'd hcUw.—Drydcn. 
 
 During ray absence in the country, several packets 
 have been left for me, which were not forwarded to me, 
 because I was expected every day in town. The author 
 of the following letter, dated from Tower-hill, having 
 sometimes been entertained with some learned gentlemen 
 in plush doublets,* who have vended their wares from a 
 stage in that place, has pleasantly enough addressed to 
 me, as no less a sage in morality, than those are in physic. 
 To comply with his kind inclinvition to make my cures 
 famous, I shall give you his testimonial of my great abili- 
 ties at large in his own words. 
 
 • Quack-doctors.
 
 wo THE SPECTATOR. [No. 134. 
 
 •SIR, Tower-hill, July 5, I'll. 
 
 * Your saying the other day there is something won- 
 derful in the narrowness of those minds which can be 
 pleeised, and be barren of bounty to those who please 
 them, makes me in pain that I am not a man of power. 
 If I were, you should soon see how much 1 approve your 
 speculations. In the mean time, 1 beg leave to supply 
 that inability with the empty tribute of an honest mind, 
 by telling you plainly I love and thank you for your daily 
 refreshments. I constantly peruse your paper as I smoke 
 my morning's pipe (though I cannot forbear reading the 
 motto before I fill and light,) and really it gives a grate- 
 ful relish to every whiff; each paragraph is fraught either 
 with useful or delightful notions, and I never fail of being 
 highly diverted or improved. The variety of your subjects 
 .surprises me as much as a box of pictures did formerly, 
 in which there was only one face, that by pulling some 
 pieces of isinglass over it, was changed into a grave se- 
 nator or a Merry-Andrew, a patched lady or a nun, a beau 
 or a blackamoor, a prude or a coquette, a country 'squire 
 or a conjurer, with many other different representations 
 very entertaining (as you are) though still the same at 
 the bottom. This was a childish amusement, when I was 
 carried away with outward appearance, but you make a 
 deeper impression^ and affect the secret springs of the 
 mind ; you charm the fancy, sooth the passions, and in- 
 sensibly lead the reader to that sweetness of temper that 
 you so well describe ; you rouse generosity with that spirit, 
 and inculcate humanity with that ease, that he must be 
 miserably stupid that is not affected by you. I cannot say, 
 indeed, that you have put impertinence to silence, or 
 vanity out of countenance; but, methinks, you have bid 
 as fair for it, as any man that ever appeared upon a public 
 5tage ; and offer an infallible cure of vice and folly, for 
 the price of one penny. And since it is usual for those 
 who receive benefit by such famous operators, to publish 
 an advertisement, that others may reap the same advan- 
 tage, I think myself obliged to declare to all the world, 
 that having for a long time been splenetic, ill-natured,
 
 No. 134.] THE SPECTATOR. 101 
 
 froward, suspicious and unsociable, by the application of 
 your medicines, taken only with half an ounce of ri^bt 
 Virginia tobacco, for six successive mornings, I am be- 
 come open, obliging, officious, frank and hospitable. 
 ' I am, 
 * Vour humble servant and great admirer, 
 
 ' GEORGE TRUSTY.' 
 
 The careful father and humble petitioner hereafter- 
 mentioned, who are under difficulties about the just ma- 
 nagement of fans, will soon receive proper advertisements 
 relating to the professors in that behalf, with their places 
 of abode and methods of teaching. 
 
 'SIR, July 5, 1711. 
 
 * In your Spectator of June the 27th, you transcribe 
 a letter sent to you from a new sort of muster-master, 
 v/ho teaches ladies the whole exercise of the fan ; I have 
 a daughter just come to town, who though she has always 
 held a fan in her hand at proper times, yet she knows no 
 more how to use it according to true discipline, than an 
 awkward school-boy does to make use of his new sword, 
 I have sent for her on purpose to learn the exercise, she 
 being already very well accomplished in all other arts 
 which are necessary for a young lady to understand ; my 
 request is, that you will speak to your correspondent oa 
 my behalf, and in your next paper let me know what ha 
 expects, either by the month or the quarter, for teaching : 
 and where he keeps his place of rendezvous. 1 have a 
 son too, whom I would fain have taught to gallant faps, 
 and should be glad to know what the gentleman will have 
 for teaching them both, I finding fans for practice at my 
 own expense. This information will in the highest man* 
 Her oblige, * Sir, 
 
 * Your most humble servant, 
 
 'WILLIAM WISEACRE.* 1 
 
 * As soon as my son is perfect in this art (wlwch I hope 
 will be in a year's time, for the boy is pretty apt), 1 design 
 he shall learn to ride the great horse, (although he is not 
 
 K2
 
 105 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 135. 
 
 yet above twenty years old) if his mother, whose darling 
 he is, will venture him.' 
 
 ' To the Spectator, 
 'The humble Petition of BENJAMIN EASY, Gent, 
 Showeth, 
 
 * That it was your petitioner's misfortune to walk to 
 Hackney church last Sunday, where to his great amaze- 
 ment he met with a soldier of your own training', she furls 
 a fan, recovers a fan, and goes through the whole exercise 
 of it to admiration. This well-managed officer of your's 
 has, to my knowledge, been the ruin of above five young 
 gentlemen besides myself, and still goes on laying waste 
 wheresoever she comes, whereby the whole village is ia 
 great danger. Our humble request is therefore, that this 
 bold Amazon be ordered immediately to lay down her 
 arms, or that you would issue forth an order, that we who 
 have been thus injured may meet at the place of general 
 rendezvous, and there be taught to manage our snuff- 
 boxes in such a manner as we may be an equal match for 
 
 p' * And your petitioner shall ever pray, &c.' 
 
 No. 135.x Saturday, August 4, 1711. 
 
 Est brevitate opns, ut can-at sentcuti? 
 
 Ilor. Lib. 1. Sat. x. Q. 
 L€t brevity dispatch the rapid thought. 
 
 I HAVE somewhere read of an eminent person, who 
 used in his private offices of devotion to give thanks to 
 heaven that he was born a Frenchman : for my own part, 
 I look upon it as a peculiar blessing that I was born au 
 Englishman. Among many other reasons, I think myself 
 very happy in my country, as the language of it is won- 
 derfully adapted to a man who is sparing of his words, 
 and au enemy to loquacity. ^ 
 
 As I have frequently reflected on my good fortune m 
 this particular, I shall communicate to the public my spc-
 
 No. 135.1 THE SPECTATOR. 10» 
 
 culations upon the English Tongue, not doubting but they 
 will be acceptable to «ll my curious readers. 
 
 The English delight in silence more than any other 
 European nation, if the remarks which are made on 
 us by foreigners are true. Our discourse is not kept up 
 in conversation, but falls into more pauses and intcivals 
 than in our neighbouring countries; as it is observed, 
 that the matter uf our writings is thrown much closer 
 together, and lies in a narrower compass than is usual 
 in the works of foreign authors : for, to favour our natural 
 taciturnity, when we are obliged to utter our thoughts, we 
 do it in the shortest way we are able, and give as quick 
 a birth to our conceptions as possible. 
 
 This humour shows itself in several remarks that we 
 may make upon the English language. As first of all by 
 its abounding in monosyllables, which gives us an op- 
 portunity of delivering our thoughts in few soimds. This 
 indeed takes off from the elegance of our tongue, but at 
 the same time expresses our ideas in the readiest manner, 
 and consequently answers the first design of speech better 
 than the multitude of syllables, which make the words 
 of other languages more tunable and sonorous. The 
 sounds of our English words are commonly like those of 
 string music, short and transient, which rise and perish 
 upon a single touch ; those of other languages are like the 
 notes of wind instruments, sweet and swelling, and length-^ 
 ened out into variety of modulation. 
 
 In the next place we may observe, that where the 
 words are not monosyllables, we often make them so, 
 as much as lies in our power, by our rapidity of pronun- 
 ciation ; as it generally happens in most of our long words 
 which are derived from the Latin, where we contract the 
 length of the syllables that gives them a grave and solemn 
 air in their own language, to make them more proper for 
 dispatch, and more conformable to the genius of our 
 tongue. This we may find in a multitude of words, as 
 * liberty, conspiracy, theatre, orator,' &e. 
 
 The same natural aversion to loquacity has of late years 
 made a very considerable alteration in our language, by
 
 W4 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 135. 
 
 closing in one syllable the termination of our praeterper- 
 fect tense, as in these words, 'drown'd, walk'd, arriv'd,' 
 for * drowned, walked, arrived,' which has very much 
 disfigured the tongue, and turned a tenth part of our 
 smoothest words into so many clusters of consonants. 
 This is the more remarkable, because the want of vowels 
 in our language has been the general complaint of our 
 politest authors, who nevertheless are the men that have 
 made these retrenchments, and consequently very much 
 increased our former scarcity. 
 
 This reflection on the words that end in edf I have 
 heard in conversation from one of the greatest geniuses 
 this age has produced.* I think we may add to the fore- 
 going observation, the change which has happened in our 
 language, by the abbreviation of several words that are 
 terminated in eth, by substituting an s in the room of 
 the last syllable, as in * drowns, walks, arrives,' and in- 
 numerable other words, which in the pronunciation of 
 our forefathers were * drowneth, walketh, arriveth.' Tbis 
 has wonderfully multiplied a letter which was before too 
 frequent in the English tongue, and added to that hissing 
 in our language, which is taken so much notice of by 
 foreigners ; but at the same time humours our tacitur- 
 nity, and eases us of many superfluous syllables. 
 ^1 might here observe, that the same single letter on 
 many occasions does the office of a whole word, and re» 
 presents the * his' and ' her' of our forefathers. There is 
 no doubt but the ear of a foreigner, which is the best 
 judge in this case, would very much disapprove of such 
 innovations, which indeed we do ourselves in some mea- 
 sure, by retaining the old termination in writing, and in 
 all the solemn offices of our religion. 
 
 ■As in the instances I have given we have epitomized 
 many of our particular words to the detriment of our 
 tongue, so on other occasions we have drawn two words 
 into one, which has likewise very much untuned our 
 
 ^ This was probably Dean Swift, who has made the lamc observatioQ 
 hi his proposal for correcting, iniproviDgj aad aiccrCaloinif th« EngUch 
 ToDgue, &c.— See Swift's Work*.
 
 No. 135.1 THE SPECTATOR. 10« 
 
 language, 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, which has so miserably curtailed some of our 
 words, that in familiar writings and conversations they 
 often lose all but their first syllables, as in * mob. rep. 
 pos. incog.' and the like; and as all ridiculous words make 
 their first entry into a language by familiar phrases, I dare 
 not answer for these, that they will not iu time be looked 
 upon as a part of our tongue. VVe see some of oar poets 
 have been so indiscreet as to imitate Hudibras's doggrel 
 expressions in their serious compositions, by throwing out 
 the signs of our substantives, which are essential to the 
 English language. Nay, this humour of shortening our 
 language had once run so far, that some of our celebrated 
 authors, among whom we may reckon Sir Roger L'Est i ange 
 in particular, began to prune their words of all superfluous 
 letters, as they termed them, in order to adjust the spell- 
 ing to the pronunciation; which would have confounded 
 ail our etymologies, and have quite destroyed our tongue. 
 
 We may here likewise observe that our proper names 
 when familiarized in English, generally dwindle to mono- 
 syllables, whereas in other modern languages they receive 
 a softer turn on this occasion, by the addition of a new 
 syllable. — Nick in Italian is Nicolina; Jack in French Ja- 
 Mot; and so of the Test. 
 
 T^ere is another particular in our language which is a 
 great instance of our frugality of words, and that is, the 
 suppressing of several particles which must be produced 
 •in other tongues to make a sentence intelligible. This 
 often perplexes the best writers, when they find the rela- 
 tives ' whom, which,' or * they,' at their mercy, whether 
 they may have admission or not; and will never be decided 
 until we have something like an academy, that by the best 
 authorities and rules drawn from the analogy of languages 
 shall settle all controversies between grammar and idiom. 
 
 I have only considered our language as it shows the 
 genius and natural temper of the English, whicU is moo
 
 106 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 136. 
 
 dest, thoughtful, and sincere, and which, perhaps, may 
 recommend the people, though it has spoiled the tongue. 
 We might, perhaps, carry the same thought into other 
 languages, and deduce a great part of what is peculiar to 
 them from the genius of the people who speak them. It 
 is certain, the light talkative humour of the French has 
 not a little infected their tongue, which might be shown 
 by many instances; as the genius of the Italians, which is 
 so much addicted to music and ceremony, has moulded 
 all their words and phrases to those particular uses. The 
 stateliness aiid gravity of the Spaniards shows itself to 
 perfection in the solemnity of their language; and the 
 blunt honest humour of the Germans sounds better in the 
 roughness of the High-Dutch, than it would in a politer 
 tongue. C. 
 
 No. 136.] Mondaij, August 6, 1711. 
 
 ■ Pai this meudacior 
 
 Hon Lib. C. Ep. i. IIC. 
 A greater liar Parthi.i never bred. 
 
 AccoRDiNC to the request of this strange fellow, I shall 
 print the following letter : 
 
 ' MK. SPECTATOR, 
 * I shall without any manner of preface or apology ac- 
 quaint you, that I am, and ever have been from my youth 
 upward, one of the greatest liars this island has produced. 
 I have read all the moralists upon the subject, but could 
 never find any effect their discourses had upon me, but to 
 add to my misfortune by new thoughts and ideas, and 
 making me more ready in my language, and capable of 
 sometimes mixing seeming truths with my improbabilities. 
 With this strong passion towards falsehood in this kind, 
 there does not live an honester man, or a sincerer friend ; 
 but my imagination runs away with me, and whatever is 
 started, I have such a scene of adventures appears in an 
 instant before me, that I cannot help uttering them.
 
 No. 136.] THE SPECTATOR. tUf 
 
 though to my immediate confusion, I cannot but know 
 I am liable to be detected by the first man I meet. 
 
 ' Upon occasion of the mention of the battle of Pultowa,* 
 I could not forbear giving an account of a kinsman of 
 mine, a young merchant who was bred at Moscow, that 
 had too much mettle to attend books of entries and ac- 
 counts, when there was so active a scene in the country 
 where he resided, and followed the Czar as a volunteer. 
 This warm youth (lx)rn at the instant the thing was spoke 
 of) was the man who unhorsed the Swedish general, he 
 was the occasion that the Muscovites kept their fire in 
 so soldier-like a manner, and brought up those troops 
 which were covered from the enemy at the beginning of 
 the day ; besides this, he had at last the good fortune 
 to be the man who took Count Piper.f With all this fire 
 I knew my cousin to be the civilest creature in the world. 
 He never made any impertinent show of his valour, and 
 then he had an excellent genius for the world in every 
 other kind. I had letters from him (here I felt in my 
 pockets) that exactly spoke the Czar's character, which I 
 knew perfectly well; and I could not forbear concluding, 
 that I lay with his imperial majesty twice or thrice a week 
 all the while he lodged at Deptford.J What is worse thau 
 all this, it is impossible to speak to me, but you give me 
 some occasion of coming out with one lie or other, that 
 has neither wit, humour, prospect of interest, or any other 
 motive that I can think of in nature. The other day, when 
 one was commending an eminent and learned divine, what 
 occasion in the world had 1 to say, * Methinks he would 
 look more venerable if he were not so fair a man ?' I 
 remember the company smiled. I have seen the gentleman 
 since, and he is coal-black. I have intimations every day 
 in my life that nobody believes me, yet I am never the 
 better. I was saying something the other day to an old 
 
 • Fougbt July 8, 1709, between Cliarlcs XII. of Sweflen and Peter I. 
 *mperor of Rus'^ia ; wtierein Ciiaiics wns tiilircly dclVated, and coii», 
 pelicd to seek rcfnge in Tiukcy. 
 
 t Prime minister of Cbai les Xll. 
 
 tin the spring of the year 1698.
 
 109 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 135. 
 
 friend at Will's coffee-house, and he made no manner of 
 answer ; but told me that an acquaintance of Tully the 
 orator having two or three times together said to him, 
 without receiving any answer, *' that upon his honour he 
 was but that very month forty years of age ;" Tully an- 
 swered, " Surely you think me the most incredulous man 
 in the world, if I do not beliere what you have told me 
 every day these ten years." The mischief of it is, I find 
 myself wonderfully inclined to have been present at every 
 occurrence that is spoken of before me ; this has led me 
 into many inconveniencies, but indeed they have been the 
 fewer, because I am no ill-natured man, and never speak 
 things to any man's disadvantage, 1 never directly de- 
 fame, but I do what is as bad in the consequence, for I 
 have often made a man say such and such a lively expres- 
 sion, who was bom a mere elder brother. When one has 
 said in my hearing, " Such a one is no wiser than he 
 should be," I immediately have replied, *' Now 'faith, I 
 cannot see that, he said a very good thing to my lord Such- 
 a-One, upon such an occasion, and the like." Such aa 
 honest dolt as this has been watched in every expression 
 he uttered, upon my recommendation of him, and conse- 
 quently been subject to the more ridicule. I once endea- 
 voured to cure myself of this impertinent quality, and 
 resolved to hold my tongue for seven days together ; I did 
 80, but then 1 had so many winks and unnecessary distor- 
 tions of my face upon what any body else said, that I 
 found I only forebore the expression, and that I still lied 
 in my heart to every man I met with. You are to know 
 one thing (which I believe you will say is a pity, consider- 
 ing the use I should have made of it) I never travelled in 
 my life ; but I do not know whether I could have spoken of 
 any foreign country w ith more familiarity than I do at pre- 
 sent, in company who are strangers to me. I have cursed 
 the inns in Germany ; commended the brothels at Venice; 
 the freedom of conversation in France ; and though I 
 never was out of this dear town, and fifty miles about it, 
 have been three nights together dogged by bravoes, for aa 
 intrigue with a cardiaal's mistress at Rome.
 
 No. 136.] THE SPECTATOR. 109 
 
 * It were endless to give you particulars of this kind; 
 but I can assure you, Mr. Spectator, there are about 
 twenty or thirty of us in this town: I mean by this towa 
 the cities of London and Westminster ; I say there are in 
 town a sufficient number of us to make a society among 
 ourselves ; and since we cannot be believed any longer, I 
 beg of you to print this my letter, that we may meet 
 together, and be under such regulation as there may be 
 no occasion for belief or confidence among us. If you 
 think fit, we might be called **The Historians," for liar is 
 become a very harsh word. And that a member of the 
 society may not hereafter be ill received by the rest of 
 the world, I desire you would explain a little this sort uf 
 men, and not let us historians be ranked, as we are in the 
 imaginations of ordinary people, among common liars, 
 make-bates, impostors, and incendiaries. For your in- 
 struction herein, you are to know that an historian iu 
 conversation is only a person of so pregnant a fancy, that 
 he cannot be contented with ordinary occurrences. F 
 know a man of quality of our order, who is of the wron%- 
 side of forty-three, and has been of that age, accordin-^- 
 to TuUy's jest, for some years since, whose vein is upoa 
 the romantic. Give him the least occasion, and he wiH 
 tell you something so very particular that happened in 
 such a year, and in such company, where by the by was 
 present such a one, who was afterwards made such a thing. 
 Out of all these circumstances, in the best language in 
 the world, he will join together, with such probable inci- 
 dents, an account that shows a person of the deepest pe- 
 netration, the honestest mind, and withal something so 
 humble when he speaks of himself, that you would admire- 
 Dear sir, why should this be lying ! There is nothing so 
 instructive. He has withal the gravest aspect ; some- 
 thing so very venerable and great ! Another of these 
 historians is a young man whom we would take in, thougli 
 he extremely wants parts ; as people send children (before 
 they can learn any thing") to school, to keep them out of 
 barm's way. — He tells things which have nothing at all 
 u\ them, and can neither please nor displease, but merely 
 
 V91.. H. L
 
 110 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 137. 
 
 take up your time to no manner of purpose, no manner 
 of delight ; but he is good-natured, and does it because 
 be loves to be savitjg something to you, and entertain you. 
 
 * I could name you a soldier th.it hath done very great 
 things without slaughter; he is prodigiously dull and slow 
 of head, but what he can say is for ever false, so that we 
 must have him. 
 
 * Give me leave to tell you of one more, who is a lover ; 
 he is the most afflicted creature in the world, lest what 
 "happened between him and a great beauty should ever be 
 known. Yet again he comforts himself — *' Hang the 
 jade her woman. If money can keep the slut trusty J will 
 do it, though I mortgage every acre ; Anthony and Cleo- 
 pi*-ra for that ; all for love and the world well lost."* 
 
 * Then, sir, there is my little merchant, honest Indigo 
 of the 'Change, there is my man for loss and gain ; there 
 is tare and tret, there is King all round the globe ; he 
 has such a prodigious intelligence, he knows all the 
 French are doing, or what we intend or ought to intend, 
 and has it from such hands. — But, alas, whither am 1 run- 
 ning '. while I complain, while 1 remonstrate to you, even 
 all this is a lie, and there is not one such person of qua- 
 lity, lover, soldier or merchant, as 1 have now described 
 in the whole world, that I know of. But I will catch 
 myself once in my life, and in spite of nature speak one 
 truth, to wit, that 
 
 ™ * I am your humble servant, &c.* 
 
 Nt). 137.] Tuesday, August 7, 1711. 
 
 At hnec etiam scrvis semper libera fuernnt, timerent, gaadereni, do. 
 Icreat, suo potiua qiiani ;dterias ivbilrio.— TuU. Epiit. 
 
 Even slaves were ahvajs al liberty to fear, rejoii^e, and grievL-, at tlieir 
 own rattier tbau another's pleasure. 
 
 It is no small concern to me, that I firjd so many con>- 
 plaints from that part of mankind whose portion it is to 
 
 •This is au allusion to Dryden's pl.iy of All for Love, or The World 
 well Lost. It is geaeraUy considered the best dramatic produciioo of 
 that gr«at Viinn,
 
 No. 137.3 THE SPECTATOR. Ill 
 
 live in servitude, that those whom they depend upon will 
 not allow them to be even as happy as their condition will 
 adroit of. There are, as the'^e unhapi>y correspondents 
 inform me, masters who are offended at a cheerful counte- 
 nance, and think a servant is broke loose from them, if 
 be does not preserve the vitmost awe in their presence. 
 There is one who says, if he looks satisfied, his master 
 asks him, * What makes him so pert this morning?* if 
 a little sour, * Hark ye, sirrah, are not you paid your 
 wages ?' The poor creatures live in the most extreme 
 misery together; the master knows not how to preserve 
 respect, nor the servant how to give it. It seems this 
 person is of so sullen a nature, that he knows but little 
 satisfaction in the midst of a plentiful fortune, and se- 
 cretly frets to see any appearance of content in one that 
 lives upon the hundredth part of his income, while he is 
 unhappy in the possession of the whole. Uneasy persons, 
 who cannot possess their own minds, vent their spleen 
 upon all who depend upon them ; which, J think, is ex» 
 jiressed in a lively manner in the following letters. 
 
 • SIR, Angust 2, 17II. 
 
 ' I have read your Spectator of the third of the last 
 mouth, and wish I had the happiness of being preferred to 
 serve so good a master as Sir Roger. The character of my 
 master is the very reverse of that good and gentle knight's. 
 All his directions are given, and his mind revealed by way 
 of contraries : as when any thing is to be remembered, with 
 a peculiar cast of face he cries, '* Be sure to forget now." 
 If I am to make haste back, " Do not come these two 
 hours ; be sure to call by the way upon some of your 
 companions." 'i'hen another excellent way of his is, if be 
 sets me any thing to do, which he knows must necessarily 
 take up half a day, he calls ten times in a quarter of an 
 hour to know whether I have done yet. This is his 
 manner; and the same perverseness runs through all his 
 actions, according as the circumstances vuy. Besides all 
 this, he is so suspicious, that he submits himself to the 
 drudgery of a spy. He is as unhappy himself as he make*
 
 112 THE SPECTATOR. CNo. 137. 
 
 his servants : he is constantly watching us, and we differ 
 no more in pleasure and liberty than as a jailer and a pri- 
 soner. He lays traps for faults, and no sooner makes a 
 discovery, but falls into such language, as I am more 
 ashamed of for coming from him, than for being directed 
 to me. This, sir, is a short sketch of a master I have 
 served upwards of nine years ; and though I have never 
 wronged him, I confess my despair of pleasing him has 
 very much abated my endeavour to do it. If you will give 
 me leave to steal a sentence out of my master's Clarendon, 
 I shall tell you my case in a word, " Being used worse 
 than I deserved, I cared less to deserve well than 1 had 
 done." 
 
 * I am. Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 .' KALPH VALET. 
 
 * DEAR MR. SPECTER, 
 * I am the next thing to a lady's woman, and atn 
 under both my lady and her woman. I am so used by 
 them both, that I should be very glad to see them in the 
 Specter. My lady herself is of no mind in the world, and 
 for that reason her woman is of twenty minds in a mo- 
 ment. My lady is one that never knows what to do with 
 herself; she pulls on and puts off every thing she wears 
 twenty times before she resolves upon it for that day. I 
 stand at one end of the room, and reach things to her 
 woman. When my lady asks for a thing, I hear, and 
 have half brought it, when the woman meets me in the 
 middle of the room to receive it, and at that instant she 
 says, " No, she will not have it." Then I go back, and 
 her woman comes up to her, and by this time she will 
 have that, and two or three things more in an instant. 
 The woman and 1 run to each other ; I am loaded and 
 delivering the things to her, when my lady says she wants 
 none of all these things, and we are the dullest creatures 
 in the world, and she the unhappiest woman living, for 
 she sliall not be drest in any time. Thus we stand not 
 knowing what to do, when our good lady with all the 
 patience in the world tells us as plain as she can speak,
 
 No. 137.1 THE SPECTATOR. 113 
 
 that she will have temper because we have no manner of 
 understanding; and begins again to dress, and see if we 
 can find out of ourselves what we are to do. Vvlien she 
 is dressed she goes to dinner, and after she has disliked 
 every thing there, she calls for a coach, then commands 
 it in again, and then she will not go out at all, and then 
 will go too, and orders the chariot. Now, good Mr. Spec- 
 ter, I desire you would, in the behalf of all who serve 
 froward ladies, give out in your paper, that nothing can 
 be done without allowing time for it, and that one cannot 
 be back again with what one was sent for, if one is called 
 back before one can go a step for that they want. And 
 if you please, let thqm know that all mistresses are as 
 like as all servants. * I am your loving friend, 
 
 ' PATIENCE GIDDY.' 
 
 These are great calamities ; but I met the other day 
 in the Five-fields, towards Chelsea, a pleasanter tyrant 
 than either of the above represented. A fat fellow was 
 puffing on in his open waistcoat ; a boy of fourteen in 
 % livery, carrying after him his cloak, upper coat, hat, 
 wig, and sword. The poor lad was ready to sink with 
 the weight, and could not keep up with his master, who 
 turned back every half furlong, and wondered what made 
 the lazy young dog lag behind. 
 
 There is something very unaccountable, that people 
 cannot put themselves in the condition of the persons 
 below them, when they consider the commands they give. 
 But there is nothing more common, than to see a fellow 
 (who if he were reduced to it, would not be hired by any 
 man living) lament that he is troubled with the most 
 worthless dogs in nature. 
 
 It would, perhaps, be running too far out of common 
 life to urge, that he who is not master of himself and his 
 own passions, cannot be a proper master of another. 
 Equanimity in a man's own words and actions, will easily 
 diffuse itself through his whole family. Pamphilio has 
 the happiest household of any man 1 know, and that pro- 
 ceeds from the humane regard he has to them in their 
 L 2
 
 114 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 138. 
 
 private persons, as well as in respect that they are his 
 servants. If there be any occasion, wherein they may in 
 themselves be supposed to be unfit to attend their master's 
 concerns, by reason of any attention to their own, he is 
 so good as to place himself in their condition. I thought 
 it very becoming in him, when at dinner the other day, 
 he made an apology for want of more attendants. He 
 said, * One of my footmen is gone to the wedding of his 
 sister, and the other 1 do not expect to wait, because his 
 father died but two days ago.' T. 
 
 r*^.^^m^t~r~t>^^^.0, 
 
 No. 1S8.] Wednesday, August 8, 1711. 
 
 Utitur in re non dubia testibus non necessaiiis.— TuW, 
 He uses unnecessary proofs in an indisputable point. 
 
 One meets now and then with persons who are ex- 
 tremely learned and knotty in expounding clear cases. 
 Tully tells us of an author that spent some pages to prove 
 that generals could not perform the great enterprises 
 which have made them so illustrious, if they had not had 
 men. He asserted also, it seems, that a minister at 
 home, no more than a commander abroad, could do any 
 thing without other men were his instruments and as- 
 sistants. On this occasion he produces the example of 
 Themistocles, Pericles, Cyrus, and Alexander himself, 
 whom he denies to have been capable of effecting what 
 they did, except they had been followed by others. It is 
 pleasant enough to see such persons contend without op- 
 ponents, and triumph without victory. 
 
 The author above-mentioned by the orator is placed 
 for ever in a very ridiculous light, and we meet every 
 day in conversation such as deserve the same kind of re- 
 nown, for troubling those with whom they converse with 
 the like certainties. The persons that I have always 
 thought to deserve the highest admiration in this kind 
 are your ordinary story-tellers, who are most religiously 
 careful of keeping to the truth in every particular cir- 
 cumstance of a narration^ whether it concerns the main
 
 No. 138.] THE SPECTATOR. 115 
 
 end or not. A gentleman whom 1 had the honour to be 
 in company with the other day, upon some occasion that 
 he was pleased to take, said, he remembered a very pretty 
 repartee made by a very witty man in King Charles's 
 time upon the like occasion, ' I remember (said he upon 
 entering into the talej much about the time of Oates'a 
 plot, that a cousiu-german of mine and I were at the 
 Bear in Holborn. No, I am out, it was at the Cross- 
 keys; but Jack Thomson was there, for he was very great 
 with the gentleman who made the answer. But I am 
 sure it was spoken somewhere thereabouts, for we drank 
 a bottle in that neighbourhood every evening: but no 
 matter for all that, the thing is the same ; but — * 
 
 He was going on to settle the geography of the jest 
 when I left the room, wondering at this odd turn of head 
 which can play away its words, with uttering nothing to 
 the purpose, still observing its own impertineucies, and 
 yet preceding in them. I do not question but he informed 
 the rest of his audience, who had more patience than 
 I, of the birth and parentage, as well as the collateral 
 alliances of his family who made the repartee, and of bim 
 who provoked him to it. 
 
 It is no small misfortune to any who have a just value 
 for their time, when this quality of biing so vcy circum- 
 stantial, and careful to be exact, happens to show itself 
 in a man whose quality obliges them to attend his proofs, 
 that it is now day, and the liko. But tiiis is augmented 
 when the same genius gets into authoi ity, as it often docs. 
 Nay, I have known it more than once ascend the very 
 pulpit. One of this sort taking it in his head to be a 
 great admirer of Dr. Tillotson and Dr. Beveridge, never 
 failed of proving out of these great authors things which 
 no man living would have denied him upon his own single 
 authority. One day resolving to come to the point in 
 hand, he said, * according to that excellent divine,' I will 
 enter upon the matter, or in his words, in his fifteenth 
 sermon of the folio edition, page 160, — 
 
 ** 1 shall briefly ex]ilain the words, and then consider 
 the matter contained in them."
 
 H6 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 139. 
 
 This honest gentleman needed not, one would think, 
 strain his modesty so far as to alter his design of * entering 
 upon the matter,' to that of ' briefly explaining.' But so 
 it was, that he would not even be contented with that 
 authority, but added also the other divine to strengthen 
 his method, and told us, * with the pious and learned 
 Dr. Beveridge, page 4th of his ninth volume, ** I shall 
 endeavour to make it as plain as I can from the words 
 ivhich I have now read, wherein for that purpose we shall 
 consider——" This wiseacre was reckoned by the parish, 
 who did not understand him, a most excellent preacher ; 
 but that he read too much, and was so humble that he 
 did not trust enough to his own parts. 
 
 Next to these ingenious gentlemen, who argue for what 
 nobody can deny them, are to be ranked a sort of people 
 who do not indeed attempt to prove insignificant things, 
 Lut are ever labouring to raise arguments with you about 
 matters you will give up to them without the least con- 
 troversy. One of these people told a gentleman who said 
 he saw Mr. Such-a-One go this morning at nine of the 
 clock towards the Gravel-pits; *Sir, I must beg your 
 pardon for that, for though 1 am very loth to have any 
 dispute with you, yet, 1 must take the liberty to tell you, 
 it was nine when I saw him at St. James's.' When men 
 of this genius are pretty far gone in learning they will 
 put you to prove that snow is white, and when you are 
 upon that topic can say that there is really no such thing 
 as colour in nature ; in a word, they can turn what little 
 knowledge they have into a ready capacity of raising 
 doubts ; into a capacity of being always frivolous and 
 always unanswerable. It was of two disputants of this 
 impertinent and laborious kind that the cynic said, * One 
 of these fellows is milking a ram, and the other holds the 
 paii; 
 
 ADVETITTSEMENT. 
 
 ' The exercises of the snuff-box, according to the most 
 fashionable airs and motions, in opposition to the exercise 
 of the fan, will be taught with the best plain or perfumed
 
 No. 139.] THE SPECTATOR. 117 
 
 snuff, at Charles Lillie's, perfumer, at the corner of Beau 
 fort- buildings in the Strand, and attendance given for the 
 benefit of the young merchants about the Exchange for 
 two hours every day at noon, except Saturdays, at a toy- 
 shop near Garraway's coffee-house. There will be like- 
 wise taught the ceremony of the snuff-box, or rules for 
 offering snuff to a stranger, a friend, or a mistress, accord- 
 ing to the degrees of familiarity or distance ; with an ex- 
 planation of the careless, the scornful, the politic, and 
 the surly pinch, and the gestures proper to each of them. 
 * N. B. The undertaker does not question but in a short 
 time to have formed a body of regular snuff-boxes ready 
 to meet and make head against all the regiment of fans 
 which have been lately disciplined, and are now in motion. 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 139.] Thursday, August 9, 1711. 
 
 Vera gloria radices agit, atque etiam propagator; ficta omnia celeritcr, 
 tanquam lIoi>culi, decirliuit, uec simulutum potest quidqaain essp dintur- 
 niim. TiUL 
 
 True glory tatcs root, and even spreads: all false pretences, like 
 flowers, fall to tlie ground ; nor caa any counterfeit last long. 
 
 Of all the affections which attend human life, the love 
 of glory is the most ardent. According as this is cultivated 
 in princes, it produces the greatest good or the greatest 
 evil. Where sovereigns have it by impressions received, 
 from education only, it creates an ambitious rather than 
 a noble mind: where it is the natural bent of the prince's 
 inclination, it prompts him to the pursuit of things truly 
 glorious. The two greatest vnttu now in Europe (accord- 
 ing to the common acceptation of the word great) are 
 Lewis King of France, and Peter Emperor of Russia. As 
 it is certain that all lame does not arise from the practice 
 of virtue, it is, methinks, no unpleasing amusement to 
 examine the glory of these potentates, and distinguish 
 that which is empty, perishing, and frivolous, from what 
 is solid, lasting, and important, 
 
 Lewis of France had his infancy attended by crafty jai^d
 
 118 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 139. 
 
 r.'orldly men, who made extent of territory the most glo- 
 rious instance of power, and mistook the spreading- of 
 fame for the acquisition of honour. The young monarch's 
 heart was by such conversation easily deluded into a fond- 
 ness for vaiu-glory, and upon these unjust principles to 
 form or fall in with suitable projects of invasion, rapine, 
 murder, and all the guilts that attend war when it is 
 unjust. At the same time this tyranny was laid, sciences 
 and arts were encouraged in the most generous manner, 
 as if men of higher faculties were to be bribed to permit 
 the massacre of the rest of the world. Every superstruc- 
 ture which the court of France built upon their first de- 
 signs, which were in themselves vicious, was suitable to 
 its false foundation. The ostentation of riches, the vanity 
 of equipage, shame of poverty, and ignorance of modesty, 
 were the common arts of life : the generous love of one 
 woman was changed into gallantry for all the sex, and 
 friendships among men turned into commerces of in- 
 terest, or mere professions. * While these were the rules 
 of life, perjuries in the prince, and a general corruption 
 of manners in the subject, were the snares in which France 
 has entangled all her neighbours.' With such false colours 
 have the eyes of Lewis been inchanted, from the de- 
 bauchery of his early youth, to the superstition of his 
 present old age. Hence it is, that he has the patience to 
 have statues erected to his prowess, his valour, his for- 
 titude, and in the softnesses and luxury of a court to be 
 applauded for magnanimity and enterprise in military 
 achievements. 
 
 Peter Alexovitz of Russia, when he came to years of 
 manhood, though he found himself emperor of a vast and 
 numerous people, master of an endless territory, absolute 
 commander of the lives and fortunes of his subjects, in 
 the midst of this unbounded power and greatness, turned 
 his thoughts upon himself and people with sorrow. Sor- 
 did ignorance, and a brute manner of life, this generous 
 prince beheld and contemned, from the light of his own 
 genius. His judgment suggested this to him, and his 
 coura°^e prompted him to amend it. In order to tbiS| he
 
 No. 139.] THE SPECTATOR. 119 
 
 did not send to the nation from whence the rest of the 
 world has borrowed its politeness, but himself left his 
 diadem to learn the true way to glory and honour, and 
 application to useful arts, wherein to employ the laborious, 
 the simple, the honest part of his people. Mechanic 
 employments and operations were very justly the first ob- 
 jects of his fa\our and observation. With this glorious 
 intention he travelled into fprtign nations in an obscure 
 manner, above receiving little honours where he so- 
 journed, but prying into what was of more consequence, 
 their arts of peace and of war. By this means has this 
 great prince laid the foundation of a great and lasting^ 
 fame, by personal labour, personal knowledge, personal 
 valour. It would be injury to any of antiquity to name 
 them with him. Who, but himself, ever left a throne to 
 learn to sit in it with more grace .' Who ever thought him- 
 self mean in absolute power, till he had learned to use it? 
 
 If we consider this wonderful person, it is perplexity 
 to know where to begin his encomium. Others may, in 
 a metaphorical or philosophic sense, be said to command 
 themselves, but this emperor is also literally under his ov/n 
 command. How generous and how good was his entering 
 his own name as a private man in the army he raised, 
 that none in it might ex])ect to outrun the steps with 
 which he himself advanced ! By such measures this god- 
 like prince learned to conquer, learned to use his con- 
 quests. How terrible has he appeared in battle, how 
 gentle in victory ! Shall then the base arts of the French- 
 man be held polite, and the honest hibours of the Russian 
 barbarous ? No; barbarity is the ignorance of true honour, 
 or placing any thing instead of it. The unjust prince is 
 ignoble and barbarous, the good prince only renowned 
 and glorious. 
 
 Thou;;h men may impose upon themselves what they 
 please by their corrupt imaginations, truth will ever keep 
 its station ; and as glory is nothing else but the shadow 
 of virtue, it will certainly disappear at the departure of 
 virtue. But how carefully ought the true notions of it 
 to be preserved, and how industrious should we be to en-
 
 120 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 139. 
 
 courage any impulses towards it! The Westminster 
 school-boy that said the other day he could not sleep or 
 play for the colours in the hall,* ought to be free from 
 receiving a blow for ever. 
 
 But let us consider what is truly glorious according to 
 the author I have to-day quoted in the front of my paper. 
 
 The perfection of glory, says Tully, consists in these 
 three particulars : * That the people love us ; that they 
 have confidence in us; that being aflFected with a certain 
 admiration towards us, they think we deserve honour.* 
 This was spoken of greatness in a commonwealth. But 
 if one were to form a notion of consummate glory under 
 our constitution, one must add to the above-mentioned 
 felicities a certain necessary inexistence, and disrelish of 
 all the rest, without the prince's favour. He should, 
 methinks, have riches, power, honour, command, glory ; 
 but riches, power, honour, command, and glory, should 
 have no charms, but as accompanied with the affection 
 of his prince. He should, methinks, be popular because 
 a favourite, and a favourite because popular. Were it 
 not to make the character too imaginary, I would give 
 him sovereignty over some foreign territory', and make 
 him esteem that an empty addition without the kind re- 
 gards of his own prince. One may merely have an idea 
 of a man thus composed and circumstantiated, and if he 
 were so made for power without a capacity of giving jea- 
 lousy he would be also glorious without the possibility of 
 receiving disgrace. This humility and this importance 
 must make his glory immortal. 
 
 These thoughts are apt to draw me beyond the usual 
 length of this paper ; but if I could suppose such rhap- 
 sodies could outlive the common fate of ordinary things, 
 I would say these sketches and faint images of glory were 
 drawn in August 1711, when John Duke of Marlborough 
 made that memorable march wherfuu he took the Frencn 
 lines without bloodshed. T. 
 
 • The colours taken by the Dtike of Marfborongh at Blenheim, m 
 1704, were fixed up in WestniiDster-hali, after haviDg been carried in 
 processioa through llie caty.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. Kl 
 
 No. 140.] Fridai/y August 10, 1711. 
 
 • Animnm cnris none buCj nunc dividit ilhic. 
 
 Firi', JEa. iv, 285. 
 
 This way and that the aoxious mind is torn. 
 
 When I acquaint my reader, that I have many other 
 letters not yet acknowledged, I believe he will own, what 
 I have a mind he should believe, that I have no small 
 charge upon me, but am a person of some consequence ia 
 this world. I shall therefore employ the present hour only 
 in reading petitions in the order as follows. 
 
 • MR. SPECTATOR, 
 ' I have lost so much time already, that I desire, upon 
 the receipt hereof, you will sit down immediately and give 
 me your answer. And I would know of you whether a 
 pretender of mine really loves me. As well as I can I will 
 describe his manners. When he sees me he is always 
 talking of constancy, but vouchsafes to visit me but once 
 a fortnight, and then he is always in haste to be gone. 
 When 1 am sick, I hear he says he is mightily concerned, 
 but neither comes nor sends, because, as he tells his ac- 
 quaintaQce with a sigh, he does not care to let me know 
 all the power I have over him, and how impossible it is 
 for him to live without me. When he leaves the town 
 he writes once in six weeks, desires to hear from me, com- 
 plains of the torment of absence, speaks of flames, tor- 
 tures, languishings, and ecstasies. He has the cant of 
 an impatient lover, but keeps the pace of a lukewarm 
 one. You know I must not go faster than he does, and 
 to move at this rate is as tedious as counting a great 
 clock. But you are to know he is rich, and my mother 
 says, as he is slow he is sure; he will love me long if he 
 love me little: but I appeal to you whether he loves at aU« 
 * Your neglected humble servant, 
 
 'LYDIA NOVELL. 
 
 * All these fellows who have money are extremely saucy 
 and cold ; pray, sir, tell them of it.* 
 Vol. II. M
 
 133 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 140. 
 
 • MR. SPECTATOR, 
 ' I have been delighted with nothing more through the 
 •whole course of your writings than the substantial ac- 
 count you lately gave of wit, and I could wish you would 
 take some other opportunity to express further the cor- 
 rupt taste the age has run into; which I am chiefly apt 
 to attribute to the prevalency of a few popular authors, 
 whose merit in some respects has given a sanction to 
 their faults in others. Thus the imitators of Milton seem 
 to place all the excellency of that sort of writing either in 
 the uncouth or antique words, or something else which 
 was highly vicious, though pardonable in that great man. 
 The admirers of what we call point, or turn, look upon 
 it as the particular happiness to which Cowley, Ovid, and 
 others, owe their reputation, and therefore endeavour to 
 imitate them only in such instances. ; What is just, pro- 
 per, and natural, does not seem to be the question with 
 them, but by what means a quaint antithesis may be 
 brought about, how one word may be made to look two 
 ways, and what will be the consequence of a forced allu- 
 sion. Now though such authors appear to me to resemble 
 those who make themselves fine, instead of being well- 
 dressed, or graceful ; yet the mischief is, that these beau- 
 ties in them, which I call blemishes, are thought to pro- 
 ceed from luxuriance of fancy, and overflowing of good 
 sense. In one word, they have the character of being too 
 witty: but if you would acquaint the world they are not 
 witty at all, you would, among many others, oblige, 
 * Sir, 
 
 * Vour most benevolent reader, 
 
 •R.D.* 
 'SIR, 
 
 * lam a young woman, and reckoned pretty; therefore 
 you will pardon me that I trouble yon to decide a wager 
 between me and a cousin of mine, who is always con- 
 tradicting one because he understands Latin : pray, sir, is 
 Dimple spelt with a single or a double p.> 
 * I am, Sir, 
 * Your very humble servant,
 
 No. 140.] THE SPECTATOR. 12S 
 
 * Pray, sir, direct thus, " To the kind Querist," and 
 leave it at Mr. Lillie's, for I do not care to be known in 
 the thing at all. I am, sir, a^ain, your humble strvaut,' 
 
 * MK. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * I must needs tell you there are several of your papers 
 I do not much like. You are often so nice there is no 
 enduring you, and so learned there is no understanding 
 you. What have you to do with our petticoats ? 
 
 ' Your humble servant, 
 
 ' PARTHENOI'i:;.' 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * Last night, as I was walking in the Park, I met a 
 couple of friends. ** Pr'ythee, Jack," says one of them, 
 ** let us go drink a glass of wine, for I am fit for nothing 
 else." This put me upon reflecting on the many miscar- 
 riages which happen in conversations over wine, when 
 men go to the bottle to remove such humoars as it only 
 stirs up and awakens. This I could nut attribute more 
 to any thing than to the humour of putting company 
 upon others wliich men do not like themselves. Pray, 
 sir, declare in your papers, that he who is a troublesome 
 companion to himself, will not be an agreeable one to 
 others. Let people reason themselves into good-humour» 
 before they impose themselves upon their friends., Pray, 
 sir, be as eloquent as you can upon this subji'ct, and do 
 human life so much good, as to argue powerfully, that it 
 is not every one that can swallow who is fit to drink a 
 glass of wine. * Your most humble servant.' 
 
 'SIR, 
 
 * I this morning cast my eye upon your paper concern- 
 ing the expense of time. You are very obliging to the 
 women, especially those who are not young and past 
 gallantry, by touching so gently upon gaming : therefore 
 I hope you do not think it wrong to employ a little leisure 
 time in that diversion ; but I should be glad to hear you 
 say something upon the behaviour of some of the female 
 gamesters. 
 
 * I have observed ladies, who in all other respectt
 
 124 THE SPECTATOR. [No* 140. 
 
 are gentle, good-humoured, and the very pinks of good- 
 breeding: who as soon as the ombre-table is called for 
 and sit down to their business, are immediately transmi- 
 grated into the veriest wasps in nature. 
 
 * You must know I keep my temper, and win their 
 money ; but am out of countenance to take it, it makes 
 them so very uneasy. Be pleased, dear sir, to instruct 
 them to lose with a better grace, and you will oblige 
 
 * Yours, 
 
 ' RACHEL BASTO.» 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * Your kindness to Leonora, in one of your papers, has 
 given me encouragement to do myself the honour of 
 writing to you. The great regard you have so often ex- 
 pressed for the instruction and improvement of our sex 
 will, I hope, in your own opinion, sufficiently excuse me 
 from making any apology for the impertinence of this 
 letter. The gre^t desire I have to embellish my mind 
 with some of those graces which you say are so becoming, 
 and which you assert reading helps us to, has made me 
 unea<;y until 1 am put in a capacity of attaining thcra. 
 This, sir, I shall never think myself in, until you shall 
 be pleased to recommend some author or authors to my 
 perusal. 
 
 * I thought indeed, when I first cast my eye on Leo- 
 nora's letter, that I should have had no occasion for re- 
 questing it of you ; but, to my very great concern, 1 
 found on the perusal of that Spectator, I was entirely 
 disappointed, and am as much at a loss how to make use 
 of my time for that end as ever. Pray, sir, oblige me 
 at least with one scene, as you were pleased to entertain 
 Leonora v.ith your prologue. 1 write to you not only my 
 own sentiments, but also those of several others of my 
 acquaintance, who are as little pleased with the ordinary 
 reanuer of spending one's time as myself; and if a fervent 
 desire after knowledge, ar.d a great sense of our present 
 ignorance, may he thought a good presage and earnest of 
 improvement, you may look upon your time you shall 
 hestovr in answering this request not thrown away tq no
 
 No. 141.] THE SPECTATOR. 12S 
 
 purpose. And I cannot but add, that unless you have a 
 particular and more than ordinary regard for Leonora, I 
 have a better title to your favour than she: since I do not 
 content myself with tea-table reading of your papers, but 
 it is my entertainment very often when alone in my closet. 
 To show you I am capable of improvement, and hate 
 flattery, f acknowledge I do not like some of your pa- 
 pers ; but even there I am readier to call in question my 
 own shallow understanding than Mr. Spectator's profound 
 judgment. 
 
 * I am, Sir, your already (and in hopes of being 
 more your) obliged servant, 
 
 'PARTIIENIA.' 
 
 This last letter is written with so urgent and serious 
 an air, that I cannot but think it incumbent upon me 
 to comply with her commands, which I shall do very sud- 
 denly. T. 
 
 No. 141.] Saturday^ August 11, 1711. 
 
 1 Migravit ab aarc voluptas 
 
 Otnnis Uor. Lib. 1. Ep. ii. 187. 
 
 Taste, that eternal wanderer that flies 
 
 From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes.— P^pc . 
 
 In the present emptiness of the town, I have several ap- 
 plications from the lower part of the players, to admit 
 suffering to pass for acting. They in very obliging terms 
 desire me to let a fall on the ground, a stumble, or a 
 good slap on the back, be reckoned a jest. These gam- 
 bols I shall tolerate for a season, because I hope the evil 
 cannot continue longer than until the people of condition 
 and taste return to town. The method some time ago, 
 was to entertain that part of the audience, who have no 
 faculty above eye-si^ht, with rope-dancers and tumblers; 
 which was a way discreet enough, because it prevented 
 confusion, and distinguished such as could show all the 
 postures which the body is capable of, from those who 
 were to represent all the passions to which the mind is 
 M 2
 
 12S THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 141. 
 
 subject. But though this was prudently settled, corporeal 
 and intellectual actors ought to be kept at a still wider 
 distance than to appear on the same stage at all : for 
 which reason I must propose some methods for the im- 
 provemciit of the bear-garden by dismissing all bodily 
 actors to that quarter. 
 
 In cases of fcreater moment, where men appear in 
 public, the consequence and importance of the thing can 
 bear them out. And though a pleader or preacher is 
 hoarse or awkward, the weight of their matter commands 
 respect and attention ; but in theatrical speaking, if the 
 performer is not exactly proper and graceful, he is utterly 
 ridiculous. In cases where there is little else expected, 
 but the pleasure of the ears and eyes, the least diminu- 
 tion of that pleasure is the highest offence. In acting, 
 barely to perform the part is not commendable, but to 
 be the least out is contemptible. To avoid these difficul- 
 ties and delicacies, I am informed, that while I was out 
 of town, the actors have flown into the air, and played 
 such pranks, and run such hazards, that none biA the 
 servants of the fire-office, tilers, and masons, could have 
 been able to perform the like.* The author of the fol- 
 lowing letter, it seems, has been of the audience at one of 
 these entertainments, and has accordingly complained to 
 me upon it; but I think he has been to the utmost degree 
 severe against what is exceptionable in the play he men- 
 tions, without dwelling so much as he might have done 
 on the author's most excellent talent of humour. The 
 pleasant pictures he has drawn of life should have beeii 
 more kindly mentioned, at the same time that he banishes 
 his witches, who are too dull devils to be attacked with 
 so much warmth. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * Upon a report that Moll White had followed you to 
 town, and was to act a part in the Lancashire Witches, I 
 "Went last week to see that play. It was my fortune to sit 
 
 • AUnding to Shadwell's comtdy of the Lancashire Witchei, which 
 bein? considered a party play, had a good run at this time. It was act- 
 vei tised for the very Dight in which this Kamber is dated.
 
 No H1.1 THE SPECTATOR. 157 
 
 next »o a country justice of the peace, a neighbour ("as he 
 said) i>f Sir Roger**, who pretendec' to show her to us in 
 one of th'i dances. There wa5 witchcraft enough in the 
 entertainment almost to incline roe to believe him ; Ben 
 Jooson was almost lamed ; youn j BuIIofkf narrowly saved 
 his nei k ; the audierice was astonished, and an old acquain- 
 tan^'e uf mme, a person of worth, whom I would have bowed 
 to :n the pit, at two yards distance did not know me. 
 * * If you were what the country people repi.'rted yon, 
 a white witch, I fould have wished you had been there to 
 have exorcised that rabble of hr.)omsticks, with which we 
 were haunted for above three hours. I could have allowed 
 them to set Clod in the tree, to hav»- scared the sports- 
 men, pl.'i^ued the justicf, and employed honest Teague 
 with his holy water. This was the proper use of them in 
 comedy, it the author had stopped here; but I cannot 
 conceive what relation the sacrifice of the black Iamb, and 
 the ceremonies of their worship to the devil,f have to the 
 business of mirth and humour. 
 
 * The genrlemnn who writ this play, and has drawn 
 some characters in it very justly, appears to have been 
 miiletl in his witchcraft by an unwary following- the in- 
 imitable Shakspeare, The incantations in Macbeth ha\e 
 a solemnity admirably adapted to the occasion i)f that 
 tragedy, and fill the mind with a suitable horror; besides 
 that the witches are a part of the story itself, as we find 
 it very particularly related in Hectur Boetius, from whom 
 he seems to have taken it. This therefore is a proper 
 machine, where the business is dark, horrid, and bloody ; 
 but is extremely foreign from the affair of comedy. Sub- 
 jects of thjs kind, which are in themselves disagreeable, 
 can at no time become entertaining, but by passiny 
 through an imagination like Shakspeare's to form them} 
 for which reason Mr. Dryden would not allow even Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher capable of imitating him. 
 
 '♦ But Shakspeare's magic could not copied bi- : 
 Within Uut circle none durat walk but he." 
 
 • The names of two actors then upon the stage. 
 
 ♦ Different iucidents in the play of the Lancashire Witches.
 
 128 THE SPECTATOR. [No. Ul. 
 
 ' I should not, however, have troubled you with these 
 remarks, if there were not something else in this comedy, 
 which wants to be exorcised more than the witches : I 
 mean the freedom of some passages, which I should have 
 overJooked, if I had not observed that those jests can 
 raise the loudest mirth, though they are painful to right 
 sense, and an outrage upon modesty. 
 
 * We must attribute such liberties to the taste of that 
 age: but indeed by such representations a poet sacrifices 
 the best part of bis audience to the worst ; and, as one 
 would think, neglects the boxes, to write to the orange- 
 wenches. 
 
 * I must not conclude till I have taken notice of the 
 moral with which this comedy ends. The two young 
 ladies having given a notable example of out-witting those 
 who had a right in the disposal of them, and marrjing 
 without consent of parents, one of the injured parties, 
 who is easily reconciled, winds up all with this remark, , 
 
 -Design whate'er we will, 
 
 ITiere is a fate which over-rules us still." • 
 
 * We are to suppose that the gallants are men of merit, 
 but if they had been rakes the excuse might have served^ 
 as well. Hans Carvel's wife was of the same principle, 
 but has expressed it with a delicacy which shows she is 
 not serious in her excuse, but in a sort of humonrouf 
 philosophy turns off the thought of her guilt, and says, 
 
 " That if weak women go astray. 
 
 Their stars are more in fault than they." 
 
 ^* This no doubt is a full reparation, and dismisses the 
 audience with very edifying impressions. 
 
 * These things fall under a province you have partly 
 pursued already, and therefore demands your animadver- 
 sion, for the regulating so noble an entertainment as that 
 of the stage. It were to be wished, that all who write 
 for it hereafter would raise their genius, by the ambition 
 of pleasing people «>f the best understanding ; and leave 
 others who show nothing of the human species but risi- 
 
 • Th« conciudiug distich of Shadwell's play.
 
 No. 142J THE SPECTATOR. 129 
 
 bility, to seek their diversion at the bear-garden, or some 
 other privileged place, where reason and good-manneri 
 have no right to disturb thejn. 
 August 8, 1711. ' I am, &c.* 
 
 T. 
 
 No, 142.] Monday, August 13, 1711. 
 
 Irrapta teuel copula Hor. Lib. 1. Od. xiii. IS. 
 
 Whom love's unbroken bond unites. 
 
 The following letters being genuine, and the images of 
 a worthy passion, I am willing to give the old lady's admo- 
 nition to myself, and the representation of her own hap- 
 piness, a place in my writings. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, Angiist 9, 1711. 
 
 * I am now in the sixty, seventh year of my age, and 
 read you with approbation ; but methinks you do not 
 strike at the root of the greatest evil in life, v.hich is 
 the false notion of gallantry in love. It is, and has long 
 been, upon a very ill foot ; but I who have been a wif« 
 forty years, and was bred up in a way that hais made me 
 ever since very happy, see through the folly of it. In a 
 word, sir, when I was a young woman, all who avoided 
 the vices of the age were very carefully educated, and all 
 fantastical objects were turned out of our sight. The 
 tapesti^-hangings, with the great and venerable simpli- 
 city of the scripture stories, had better i-ffects than no\T 
 the loves of Venus and Adonis, or Bacchus and Ariadne, 
 in your fine present prints. The gentleman I am married 
 to made love to me in rapture, but it was the rapture of 
 a Christian and a man of honour, not a romantic hero 
 or a whining coxcomb. This put our life upon a right 
 basis. To give you an idea of our regard one to another, 
 I enclose to you several of his lettirs, writ forty years 
 ago, whdi my lover; and one writ the other day, after sci 
 many years cohabitation. 
 
 * Your servant, 
 
 • ANDROMACHE.*
 
 130 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 142. 
 
 " MADA!\I, August 7, I671. 
 
 " If my vigilance, and ten thousand wishes for vour 
 welfare and repose, could have any force, you last night 
 slept in security, and had every good angel in your at- 
 tendance. To have my thoughts ever fixed on you, to 
 live in constant fear of every accident to which human 
 life is liable, and to send up my hourly prayers to avert 
 them from you ; I say, madam, thus to think, and thus 
 to suffer, is what I do for her who is in pain at my ap- 
 proach, and calls all my tender sorrow impertinence. You 
 are now before my eyes, my eyes that are ready to flow 
 with tenderness, but cannot give relief to my gushing 
 heart, that dictates what I am now saying, and yearns to 
 tell you all its achings. How art thou, oh ray soul, stolen 
 from thyself I how is all my attention broken ! my books 
 are blank paper, and my friends intruders. I have no 
 hope of quiet but from your pity. To grant it would 
 make more for your triumph. To give pain is the tyranny, 
 to make happy the true empire of beauty. If you would 
 consider aright, you would find an agreeable change in 
 dismissing the attendance of a slave, to receive the com- 
 plaisance of a companion. I bear the former in hopes of 
 the latter condition. As I live in chains without mur- 
 muring at the j)Ower which inflicts them, so I could enjoy 
 freedom without forgetting the mercy that gave it. 
 " I am, Madam, 
 *' Your most devoted most obedient servant."* 
 
 ' Though I made him no declarations in his favour, you 
 see he had hopes of me when he writ this in the month 
 following. 
 
 " MADAM, September 3, l6ri. 
 
 ^ " Before the light this morning dawned upon the earth 
 I awaked, and lay in expectation of its return, not that 
 it could give any new sense of joy to me, but as I hoped it 
 
 • This :\n<] ihe following letter* ia this Namber are all genuine, having ' 
 beeu written by Sir Richard Steele to Miss Scurlock, afterwards Lady 
 Steele.— See Steele's LetteiK, Vol. I.
 
 No. 142.] THE SPECTATOR/ 131 
 
 would bless you with its cheerful face, after a quiet which 
 I wished you last night. If my prayers are heard, the day 
 appeared with all the influence of a merciful Creator 
 upon your person and actions. Let others, my lovely 
 charmer, talk of a blind being that disposes their hearts, 
 I contemn their low images of love. I have not a thought 
 which relates to you, that I cannot with confidence be- 
 seech the All-seeing Power to bless me in. May he direct 
 you in all your steps, and reward your innocence, your 
 sanctity of manners, your prudent youth, and becoming 
 piety, with the continuance of his grace and protection. 
 This is an unusual language to ladies ; but you have a 
 mind elevated above the giddy notions of a sex insnared 
 by flattery and misled by a false and short adoration into 
 a solid and long contempt. Beauty, my fairest creature, 
 palls in the possession, but I love also your mind : your 
 soul is as dear to me as my own ; and if the advantages 
 of a liberal education, some knowledge, and as much 
 contempt of the world, joined with the endeavours to- 
 wards a life of strict virtue and religion, can qualify me 
 to raise new ideas in a breast so well disposed as your's 
 IS, our days will pass away with joy ; and old age, instead 
 of introducing melancholy prospects of decay, give us 
 hope of eternal youth in a better life. 1 have but few 
 minutes from the duty of my employment to write in, 
 and without time to read over what 1 have writ, there- 
 fore beseech you to pardon the first hints of my mind, 
 which I have expressed in so little order. 
 
 *' I am, dearest creature, 
 ** Your most obedient most devoted servant." 
 
 " The two next were written after the day for our mar- 
 riage was fixed. 
 
 " MADAM, SojilcinlKT i5, JOTI. 
 
 ** It is the hardest thing in the world to be in love, 
 and yet attend business. As for me, all that speak to nie 
 find me out, and 1 must lock myself up, or other peoplo 
 will do it for me. A gentleman asked me this morning, 
 * What news from Holland,' and I answered, * She i»
 
 13S THE spectator; [No. 142. 
 
 exquisitely handsome.' Another desired to know when I 
 bad been last at Windsor, I replied, * She designs to go 
 with me. Pr'ythee, allow me at least to kiss your hand 
 before the appointed day, that my mind may be in some 
 composure. Methinks I could write a volume to you, 
 but all the language on earth would fall in saying how 
 much, and with what disinterested passion, 
 
 ** 1 am ever your's." ' 
 
 Sept. 30, 1 07 1, 
 " DEAR CREATURE, Seven iii the inoruing. 
 
 " Next to the influence of heaven, I am to thank you 
 that I see the returning day with pleasure. To pass my 
 evenings in so sweet a conversation, and have the esteem 
 of a woman of your merit, has in it a particularity of 
 happiness no more to be expressed than returned. But I 
 am, my lovely creature, contented to be on the obliged 
 side, and to employ all my days in new endeavours to con- 
 vince you and all the world of the sense I have of your 
 condescension in choosing, 
 
 " Madam, your most faithful, 
 
 ** most obedient humble servant." 
 
 * He was, when he writ the following letter, as agree- 
 able and pleasant a man as any in England. 
 
 " aiADAM, October 20, I67I. 
 
 ** 1 beg pardon that my paper is not finer, but I am 
 forced to write from a coffee-house where I am attending 
 about business. There is a dirty crowd of busy faces all 
 around me talking of money, while all my ambition, all 
 my wealth, is love: love, which animates my heart, 
 sweetens my humour, enlarges my soul, and affects every 
 action of my life. It is to my lovely charmer I owe 
 that many noble ideas are continually affixed to my 
 words and actions : it is the natural effect of that gene- 
 rous passion to create in the admirers some similitude 
 of the object admired ; thus, my dear, am I every day 
 to improve from so sweet a companion. Look up, my 
 fair one, to that heaven which made thee such, and join
 
 No, 143.] THE SPECTATOR. IS3 
 
 with me to implore its influence on our tender innocent 
 hours, and beseech the author of love to bless the rites 
 he has ordained, and mingle with our happiness a just 
 sense of our transient condition, and a resignation to his 
 will, which only can regulate our minds to a steady endea- 
 vour to please him and each other. 
 
 ** I am, for ever, your faithful servant." 
 
 ' I will not trouble you with more letters at this time, 
 but if you saw the poor withered hand which sends you 
 these minutes, I am sure you will smile to think that 
 there is one who is so gallant as to speak of it still as 
 so welcome a present, after forty years possession of the 
 woman whom he writes to. 
 
 " MAUAM, June 23, 171I. 
 
 * I heartily beg youp pardon for my omission to write 
 yesterday. It was no failure of my tender regard for 
 you ; but having been very much perplexed in my thoughts 
 on the subject of my last, made me determine to suspend 
 speaking of it until I came myself. But my lovely crea- 
 ture, know it is not in the power of age, or misfortune, 
 or any other accident which hangs over human life, to 
 take from me the pleasing esteem I have for you, or the 
 memory of the bright figure you appeared in, when you 
 gave your hand and heart to, 
 
 " Madam, your most grateful husband, 
 
 T. " and obedient servant." ' 
 
 No. 14j.] Tuesday, August 14, 1711. 
 
 Nba est vWere, sed valere, vita. Martial, Epig. Ixx. 0. 
 For life is only life, wlien blest with bealth. 
 
 It is an unreasonable thing some men expect of their 
 acquaintance. They are ever complaining that they are 
 out of order, or displeased, or they know not how, and are 
 so far from letting that be a reason fur retiring to their 
 own homes, that they make it their argument for coming 
 into company. What has any bodv tu do with actuunt* 
 
 Vol. II. N
 
 134 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 143. 
 
 of a man's being indisposed but his physician? If a man 
 laments in company, where the rest are in humour 
 enough to enjoy themselves, he should not take it ill if a 
 servant is ordered to present him with a porringer of 
 caudle or posset-drink, by way of admonition that he go 
 home to bed. That part of life which we ordinarily 
 understand by the word conversation, is an indulgence 
 to the sociable part of our make ; and should incline us 
 to bring our proportion of good-will or good-humour 
 among the friends we meet with, and not to trouble them 
 with relations which must of necessity oblige them to a 
 real or feigned affliction. Cares, distresses, diseases, un- 
 easinesses, and dislikes of our own, are by no means to 
 be obtruded upon our friends. If we would consider how 
 little of this vicissitude of motion and rest, which we call 
 life, is spent with satisfaction, we should be more tender 
 of our friends, than to bring them little sorrows which do 
 not belong to them. There is no real life but cheerful 
 life ; therefore valetudinarians should be sworn, before 
 they enter into company, not to say a word of themselves 
 until the meeting breaks up. It is not here pretended, 
 that we should be always sitting with chaplets of flowers 
 round our heads, or be crowned with roses in order to 
 make our entertainment agreeable to us ; but if (es it is 
 usually observed) they who resolve to be merry, seldom 
 are so ; it will be much more unlikely for us to be well- 
 pleased, if they are admitted who are always complaining 
 they are sad. Whatever we do, we should keep up the 
 cheerfulness of our spirits, and never let them sink below 
 an inclination at least to be well-pleased. Ihe way to 
 this, is to keep our bodies in exercise, our minds at ease. 
 That insipid state wherein neither are in vigour, is not 
 to be accounted any part of our portion of being. When 
 we are in the satisfaction of some innocent pleasure, or 
 pursuit of some laudable design, we are in the possession 
 of life, of human life. Fortune will give us disappoint- 
 ments enough, and nature is attended with infirmities 
 enough, without our addii»g to the unhappy side of our 
 account by our spleen or ill-humour. Poor Cottilus,
 
 No. 143.] THE SPECTATOR. 135 
 
 amon^ so many real evils, a chronical distemper and a 
 narrow fortune, is never heard to complain. That equal 
 spirit of his, which any man may have, that, like him, 
 will conquer pride, vanity, and alfectation, and follow 
 nature, is not to he broken, because it has no points 
 to contend for. To be anxious for nothing hut what 
 nature demands as necessary, if it is not the way to an 
 estate, is the way to what men aim at by getting au 
 estate. This temper will preserve health in the body, as 
 well as tranquillity in the mind. Cottilus sees the world 
 in a hurry, with the same scorn that a sober person sees 
 a man drunk. Had he been contented with what he 
 ought to have been, how could, says he, such a one have 
 met with such a disappointment? If another had valued 
 hia mistress for what he ought to have loved her, he had 
 not been in her power. If her virtue had had a part of 
 his passion, her levity had been his cure; she could not 
 then have been false and amiable at the same time. 
 
 Since we cannot promise ourselves constant health, let 
 us endeavour at such a ten) per as may be our best sup- 
 port in the decay of it. Uranius has arrived at that 
 composure of soul, and wrought himself up to such a 
 neglect of every thing with which the generality of man- 
 kind is inchanted, that nothing but acute pains can give 
 bim disturbance, and against those too he will tell his in- 
 timate friends he has a secret which gives him present 
 ease. Uranius is so thoroughly persuaded of another 
 life, and endeavours so sincerely to secure an interest in 
 it, that he looks upon pain but as a quickening of his pace 
 to a home, where he shall be better provided for than in 
 his present apartment. Instead of the melancholy views 
 which others are apt to give themselves, he will tell you 
 that he has forgot he is mortal, nor will he think of him- 
 self as such. He thinks at the time of his birth he enter<?d 
 into an eternal being; and the short article of death he 
 will not allow an interruption of life; since that moment 
 is not of half the duration as is his ordinary sleep. Thus 
 is his being one uniform and consistent series of cheerful
 
 136 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 143. 
 
 diversions and moderate cares, without fear or hope of 
 futurity. Health to him is more than pleasure to another 
 man, and sickness less affecting to him than indisposition 
 is to others. 
 
 I must confess, if one does not regard life after this 
 manner, none but idiots can pass it away with any toler- 
 able patience. Take a fine lady who is of a delicate frame, 
 and you may observe, from the hour she rises, a certain 
 weariness of all that passes about her. I know more than 
 one who is much too nice to be quite alive. They are sick 
 of such strange frightful people that they meet ; one is so 
 awkward, and another so disagreeable, that it looks like 
 a penance to breathe the same air with them. You see 
 this is so very true, that a great part of ceremony and 
 good-breeding among the ladies turns upon their uneasi- 
 ness ; and I will undertake, if the how-d'ye-servants of 
 our women were to make a weekly bill of sickness, as the 
 parish-clerks do of mortality, you would not find, in an 
 account of seven days, one in thirty that was not down- 
 right sick or indisposed, or but a very little better than 
 she was, and so forth. 
 
 It is certain that to enjoy life and health as a constant 
 feast, we should not think pleasure necessary, but if pos- 
 sible, to arrive at an equality of mind. It is as mean to 
 be overjoyed upon occasions of good fortune, as to be 
 dejected in circumstances of distress. Laughter in one 
 condition is as unmanly as weeping in the other. We 
 should not form our minds to expect transport on every 
 occasion, but know how to make it enjoyment to be out 
 of pain. Ambition, envj', vagrant desire, or impertinent 
 mirth, will take up our minds, without we can possess our- 
 selves in that sobriety of heart which is above all plea- 
 sures, and can be felt much better than described. But 
 the ready way, I believe, to the right enjoyment of life, 
 is by a prospect towards another, to have but a very mean 
 opinion of it. A great author of our time* has set this 
 
 • Dr. Thomas Biirnct, Master of the Charter-house, author of "Tel- 
 larii sacra Tlieoria."
 
 No. 144.3 THE SPECTATOR. 1»7 
 
 in an excellent light, when with a philosophic pity of 
 human life, he spoke of it in his Theory of the Earth in 
 the following manner : 
 
 ' For what is this life hut a circulation of little mean 
 actions ? We lie down and rise again, dress and undress, 
 feed and wax hungry, work or play, and are weary, and 
 then we lie down again, and the circle returns. We spend 
 the day in trifles, and when the night comes we throw 
 ourselves into the hed of folly, amongst dreams, and 
 broken thoughts, and wild imaginations. Our reason lies 
 asleep by us, and we are for the time as arrant brutes as 
 those that sleep in the stalls, or in the field. Are not the 
 capacities of man higher than these ? And ought not his 
 ambition and expectations to be greater ? Let us be ad- 
 venturers for another world. It is at least a fair and 
 noble chance ; and there is nothing in this worth our 
 thoughts or our passions. If we should be disappointed, 
 we are still no worse than the rest of our fellow-mortals; 
 and if we succeed in our expectations, we are eternally 
 happy.' T. 
 
 No. 144.] Wednesday^ August 15, 1711. 
 
 Nftria qoAm elegans formarum Spectator sicm. 
 
 Ter. Eun. Act. iii. Sc. 5. 
 
 You shall see how nice a judge of beaaty I am. 
 
 Beauty has been the delight and torment of the world 
 ever since it .began. The philosophers have felt its influ- 
 ence so sensibly, that almost every one of them has left 
 us some saying or other, which intimated that he too 
 well knew the power of it. One* has told us, that a 
 graceful person is a more powerful recommendation than 
 the best letter that can be writ in our favour. Another -f* 
 desires the possessor of it to consider it as a mere gift of 
 nature, and not any perfection of his own. A third X <^alls 
 it* a short-lived tyranny;' a fourth§ a 'silent fra\ul,' 
 because it imposes upon us without the help of language { 
 
 * AristotJkB. t PUto, J Socrate*. ( Theophranuv 
 
 N2
 
 138 THE SPECTATOR. [No, 144. 
 
 but I think Carneades spoke as much like a philosopher 
 as any of them, though more like a lover, when he calls 
 it * royalty without force.' It is not indeed to be denied, 
 but there is somethina^ irresistible in a beauteous form ; 
 the most severe will not pretend, that they do not feel an 
 immediate prepossession in favour of the handsome. No 
 one denies them the privilege of being first heard, and 
 being regarded before others in matters of ordinary con- 
 sideration. At the same time the handsome should 
 consider that it is a possession, as it were, foreign to 
 them. No one can give it himself or preserve it when 
 they have it. " Yet so it is, that people can bear any qua- 
 lity in the world better than beauty. It is the consola- 
 tion of all who are naturally too much aflFected with the 
 force of it, that a little attention, if a man can attend 
 with judgment, will cure them. Handsome people usually 
 are so fantastically pleased with themselves, that if they 
 do not kill at first sight, as the phrzise is, a second inter- 
 view disarms them of all their power. But I shall make 
 this paper rather a warning-piece to give notice where 
 the danger is, than to propose instructions how to avoid 
 it when you have fallen in the way of it. Handsome men 
 shall be the subject of another chapter, the women shall 
 take up the present discourse. 
 
 Amarv'llis, who has been in town but one winter, is 
 extremely improved with the arts of good-breeding, with- 
 out leaving nature. She has not lost the native simplicity 
 of her aspect, to substitute that patience of being stared 
 at, which is the usual triumph and distinction of a town 
 lady. In public assemblies you meet her careless eye di- 
 verting itself with the objects around her, insensible that 
 she herself is one of the brightest in the place. 
 
 Dulcissa is of quite another make, she is almost a 
 beauty by nature, but more than one by art. If it were 
 possible for her to let her fan or any limb about her rest, 
 she would do some part of the execution she meditates; 
 but though she designs herself a prey, she will not stay to 
 be taken. No p.iinter can give you words for the difFer- 
 «iit aspects of Dalcissa in half a momeut, wherever she
 
 No. 144.] THE SPECTATOR.' m 
 
 appears: so little does she accomplish what she takes so 
 much pains for, to be gay and careless. 
 
 Merab is attended with all the charms of woman and 
 accomplishments of man. It is not to be doubted but she 
 has a great deal of wit, if she were not such a beauty; 
 and she would have more beauty had she not so much 
 wit. Affectation prevents her excellencies from walking 
 together. If she has a mind to speak such a thing, it 
 must be done with such an air of her body; and if she 
 has an inclination to look very careless, there is such a 
 smart thing to be said at the same time, that the design 
 of being admired destroys itself. Thus the unhappy 
 Merab, though a wit and beauty, is allowed to be neither, 
 because she will always be both. 
 
 Albacinda has the skill as well as power of pleasing. 
 Her form is majestic, hut her aspect humble. Ail good 
 men should beware of the destroyer. She will speak to 
 you like your sister, until she has you sure ; but is the 
 most vexatious of tyrants when you are so. Her fami- 
 liarity of behaviour, her indifferent questions, and general 
 conversation, make the silly part of her votaries full of 
 hopes, while the wise fly from her power. She well knows 
 she is too beautiful and too witty to be indifferent to 
 any who converse with her, and therefore knows she does 
 not lessen herself by familiarity, but gains occasions of 
 admiration by seeming ignorance of her perfections. 
 
 Eudosia adds to the height of her stature a nobility 
 of spirit which still distinguishes her above the rest of her 
 sex. Beauty in others is lovely, in others agreeable, in 
 others attractive; but in Eudosia it is commanding. Love 
 towards Eudosia is a sentiment like the love of glory. 
 The lovers of other women are softened into fondness, 
 the admirers of Eudosia exalted into ambition. 
 
 Eucratia presents herself to the imagination with a 
 more kindly pleasure, and as she is woman, her praise is 
 wholly feminine. If we were to form an image of dig- 
 nity in a man, we should give him wisdom and valour, 
 as being essential to the character of manhood. In like 
 manner, if you describe a right woman in a laudabl«
 
 !40 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 144. 
 
 sense, she should have gentle softness, tender fear, and 
 all those parts of Ufe which distinguish her from the other 
 sex ; with some subordination to it, but such an inferi- 
 ority that makes her still more lovely. Eucratia is that 
 creature, she is all over woman, kindness is all her art, 
 and beauty all her arms. Her look, her voice, her ges- 
 ture, and whole behaviour, is truly feminine. A goodness 
 mixed with fear gives a tincture to all her behaviour. 
 It would be savage to offend her, and cruelty to use art 
 to gain her. Others are beautiful, but, Eucratia, thou 
 art beauty ! 
 
 Omniamante is 'made for deceit, she has an aspect as 
 innocent as the famed Lucrece, but a mind as wild as the 
 more famed Cleopatra. Her face speaks a vestal, but hec 
 heart a Messalina. Who that beheld Omniamante's neg- 
 ligent unobserving air, would believe that she hid under 
 that regardless manner the witty prostitute, the rapaci- 
 ous wench, the prodigal courtesan ? She can, when she 
 pleases, adorn those eyes with tears like an infant that is 
 chid ; she can cast down that pretty face in confusion, 
 while you rage with jealousy, and storm at her perfidious- 
 ness; she can wipe her eyes, tremble and look frighted, 
 until you think yourself a brute for your rage, own your- 
 self an offender, beg pardon, and make her new presents. 
 
 But I go too far in reporting only the dangers in be- 
 holding the beauteous, which I design for the instruc- 
 tion of the fair as well as their beholders ; and shall end 
 this rhapsody with mentioning what I thought was well 
 enough said of an ancient sage* to a beautiful youth, 
 whom he saw admiring his own figure in brass. What, 
 said the philosopher, could that image of yours say for 
 itself if it could speak .* It might say, (answered the 
 youth) * that it is very beautiful.' — * And are not you 
 ashamed,' replied the cynic, * to value yourself upon that 
 only of which a piece of brass is capable?' T. 
 
 • Antisthene*, the fouuder of the sect of Cyuic philosophera.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 141 
 
 No. 145.] Thxirsda:j, August 16, 1711. 
 
 Stultitiam patiuntur opes Uor. Lib. 1. Ep.; xviii. 2Si. 
 
 Their folly jJcads the privilege of wealUi. 
 
 If the following enormities are not amended upon the 
 first mentioning, I desire farther notice from my corres- 
 pondents. 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR. 
 * I am obliged to you for your discourse the other day 
 upon frivolous disputants, who with great warmth and 
 enunieratiua of many circumstances and authorities, un- 
 dertake to prove matters which nobody living denies. 
 You cannot employ yourself more uselully than in adjust- 
 ing the laws of disputation in coftVe-huuses and accidental 
 companies, as well as in more formal debates. Among 
 many other things which your own experience must 
 suggest to you, it will be very obliging if you please to 
 take notice of wagerers. 1 will not here repeat what Hu- 
 dibras says of such disputants, which is so true, that it is 
 almost proverbial; but shall only acquaint you with a 
 set of young fellows of the iims of court, whose fathers 
 have provided for them so plentifully, that they need noc 
 be very anxious to get law into their heads for the service 
 of their country at the bar; but are of those who are 
 sent (as the phrase of parents is) to the Temple to knovsr 
 how ' to keep their own.' One of these gentlemen is very 
 loud and captious at a coffee-house which I frequent, and 
 being in his nature troubled with a humour of contra- 
 diction, though withal excessively ignorant, he has found 
 a way to indulge this temper, go on in idleness and igno- 
 rance, and yet still give himself the air of a very learned 
 and knowing man, by the strength of his pocket. The 
 misfortune of the thing is, I have, as it happens some- 
 times, a greater stock of learning than of money. The 
 gentleman I am speaking of takes advantage of the nar- 
 rowness of my circumstances in suoh a manner, that he 
 has read all that I can pretend to, and runs me down 
 with such a positive air, and with such powerful argij^-
 
 142 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 145. 
 
 ments, that from a very learned person I am thought a 
 mere pretender. Not long ago I was relating that I had 
 read such a passage in Tacitus, up starts my young gen- 
 tleman in a full company, and pulling out his purse of- 
 fered to lay me ten guineas, to be staked immediately in 
 that gentleman's hands (pointing to one smoking at an- 
 other table) that 1 was utterly mistaken. I was dumb 
 for want of ten guineas ; he went on unmercifully to 
 triumph over my ignorance how to take him up, and told 
 the whole room he had read Tacitus twenty times over, 
 and such a remarkable incident as that could not escape 
 him. He has at this time three considerable wagers de- 
 pending between him and some of his companions, who 
 are rich enough to hold an argument with him. He has 
 five guineas upon questions in geography, two that the 
 Isle of Wight is a peninsula, and three guineas to one 
 that the world is round. We have a gentleman comes to 
 our coffee-house, who deals mightily in antique scandal ; 
 my disputant has laid him twenty pieces upon a point of 
 history, to wit, that Caesar never lay with Cato's sister, as 
 is scandalously reported by some people. 
 
 * There are several of this sort of fellows in town, who 
 wager themselves into statesmen, historians, geographers, 
 mathematicians, and every other art, when the persons 
 with whom they talk have not wealth equal to their learn- 
 ing. I beg of you to prevent, in these youngsters, this 
 com.pendious way to wisdom, which costs other people so 
 much time and pains ; and you will oblige 
 
 * Your humble servant/ 
 
 Coffee-house near the Temple, 
 • MR. SPECTATOR, Aug. 12, 1711. 
 
 ' Here is a young gentleman that sings opera tunes or 
 whistles in a full house. Pray let him know that he has 
 no right to act here as if he were in an empty room. Be 
 pleased to divide the spaces of a public room, and certify 
 whistlers, singers, and common orators, that are beard 
 farther than their portion of the room comes to, that 
 the law is open, and that there is an equity which will
 
 No. 145.] THE SPECTATOR. 14* 
 
 lieveus from such as interrupt us in our lawful discourse, 
 as much as against such who stop us on the road. 1 take 
 these persons, Mr. Spectator, to be such trespassers a» 
 the officer in your stage-coach, and am of the same senti- 
 ment with counsellor Ephraim. It is true the young man 
 is rich, and, as the vulgar say, needs not care for any 
 body ; but sure that is no authority for him to go whistle 
 where he pleases. 
 
 * 1 am, Sir, your most humble servant. 
 
 * P. S. I have chambers in the Temple, and here are 
 students that learn upon the hautboy : pray desire the 
 benchers, that all lawyers who are proficients in wind- 
 music may lodge to the Thames.' 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * We are a company of young women who pass our 
 time very much together, and obliged by the mercenary 
 humour of the men to be as mercenarily inclined as they 
 are. There visits among us an old bachelor whom each 
 of us has a mind to. The fellow is rich, and knows he 
 may have any of us, therefore is particular to none, but 
 excessively ill-bred. His pleasantry consists in romping, 
 he snatches kisses by surprise, puts his hands in our necks, 
 tears our fans, robs us of ribands, forces letters out of 
 our hands, looks into any of our papers, and a thousand 
 other rudenesses. Now what I will desire of you is, to 
 acquaint him, by printing this, that if he does not marry 
 one of us very suddenly, we have all agreed, the next time 
 he pretends to be merry, to affront him, and use him like 
 a clown as he is. In the name of the sisterhood I take 
 my leave of you, and am, as they all are, 
 
 * Your constant reader and well-wisher.* j 
 
 • MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * I and several others of your female readers have con- 
 formed ourselves to your rules, even to our very dress. 
 There is not one of us but has reduced our outward petti- 
 coat to its antient sizeable circumference, though indeed 
 we retain still a quilted one underneath j which mak»s
 
 HH THE SPECTATOR. [No. 146, 
 
 us not altogether unconformable to the fashion ; but it 
 is on condition Mr. Spectator extends not his censure too 
 far. But we find you men secretly approve our practice, 
 by imitating our pvFaniidical form. The skirt of your 
 fashionable coats forms as large a circumference as our 
 petticoats ; as these are set out with whalebone, so are 
 those with wire, to increase and sustain the bunch of 
 fold that hangs down on each side ; and the hat, I per- 
 ceive is decreased in just proportion to our head-dresses. 
 We make a regular figure, but 1 defy your mathematics 
 to give name to the form you appear in. Your architec- 
 ture is mere gothic, and betrays a worse genius than ours ; 
 therefore if you are partial to your own sex, I shall be 
 less than I am now, 
 T. * Your humble servaat.* 
 
 No. 146.] Friday, August 17, 1711. 
 
 Nemo vir magcns sine aliqno afflatii divino unqaam fuit. TulJ. 
 
 No man was ever great without some degree of inspiration. 
 
 We know the highest pleasure our minds are capable 
 of enjoying with composure, when we read sublime 
 thoughts communicated to us by men of great genius, 
 and eloquence. Such is the entertainment we meet with 
 in the philosophic parts of Cicero's writings. Truth and 
 good sense have there so charming a dress, that they could 
 hardly be more agreeably represented with the addition 
 of poetica.1 fiction, and the power of numbers. This an- 
 cient author, and a modern one, have fallen into my 
 hands within these few days ; and the impressions they 
 have left upon me have at the present quite spoiled me 
 for a merry fellow. The modern is that admirable writer 
 the author of The Theory of the Earth. The subjects 
 with which I have lately been entertained in them both 
 bear a near affinity ; they are upon enquiries into here- 
 after, and the thoughts of the latter seem to me to be 
 raised above those of the former, in proportion to his ad- 
 T<uitage6 of scripture and revdatiofi» If I had a mind t»
 
 No. 146.] THE SPECTATOR. 145 
 
 it, I could not at present talk of any thing else ; there- 
 fore 1 shall translate a passage in the one, and transcribe 
 a paragraph out of the other, for the speculation of this 
 day. Cicero tells us,* that Plato reports Socrates, upon 
 receiving his sentence, to have spoken to his judges in the 
 following manner: 
 
 * I have great hopes, O my judges, that it is infiuitely 
 to my advantage that I am sent to death : for it must of 
 necessity be, that one of these two things must be the 
 consequence. Death must take away all these senses, 
 or convey me to another life. If all sense is to be taken 
 away, and death is no more than that profound sleep 
 without dreams, in which we are sometioies buried, oh, 
 heavens ! how desirable it is to die I How many days da 
 we know m life preferable to such a state .' But if it be 
 true that death is but a passage to places which they who 
 lived before us do now inhabit, how much still happier is 
 it to go from those who call themselves judges to appear 
 before those who really are such ; before Minos, Rhada- 
 manthus, ^iiacus, and Triptolemus, and to meet men who 
 have lived with justice and truth ? Is this, do you think, 
 no happy journey ? Do you think it nothing to speak with 
 Orpheus, Musaeus, Homer, and Hesiod ? I would, indeed, 
 suffer many deaths to enjoy these things. With what 
 particular deHght should I talk to Palamedes, Ajax, and 
 others, who like me have suffered by the iniquity of their 
 judges. I should examine the wisdom of that great prince, 
 who carried such mighty forces against Troy; and argue 
 with Ulysses and Sisyphus upon difficult points, as I have 
 in conversation here, without being in danger of being 
 condemned. But let nut those among you who have 
 pronounced me an innocent man be afraid of death. No 
 harm can arrive at a good man, whether dead or living ; 
 his affairs are always under the direction of the gods ; 
 nor will I believe the fate which is allotted to rae myself 
 this day to have arrived by chance ; nor have I aught to 
 say either against my judi^es or accusers, but that they 
 
 thought they did me an injury. But I detain you too 
 
 • luKulau, Quiesti }i. fib. I. 
 
 Vol. Ih O
 
 146 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 146. 
 
 long, it is time that I retire to death, and you to your 
 affairs of life ; which of us has the better is known to the 
 f ods, but to no mortal man.' 
 
 jThe divine Socrates is here represented in a figure 
 worthy his great wisdom and philosophy, worthy the 
 greatest mere man that ever breathed. But the modern 
 discourse is written upon a subject no less than the disso- 
 lution of nature itself. Oh how glorious is the old age 
 of that great man, who has spent his time in such con- 
 templations as has made this being, what only it should 
 be, an education for heaven ! He has, according to the 
 lights of reason and revelation, Avhich seemed to him 
 clearest, traced the steps of Omnipotence. He has with 
 a celestial ambition, as far as it is consistent with humility 
 and devotion, examined the ways of Providence, from the 
 creation to the dissolution of the visible world. How 
 pleasing must have been the speculation, to observe Nature 
 and Providence move together, the physical and moral 
 world march the same pace : to observe paradise and 
 eternal spring the seat of innocence, troubled seasons 
 and angry skies the portion of wickedness and vice. When 
 this admirable author has reviewed all that has past, or 
 is to come, which relates to the habitable world, and run 
 through the whole fa<;e of it, how could a guardian angel, 
 that had attended it through all its courses or changes, 
 speak more emphatically at the end of his charge, than 
 does our author when he makes, as it were, a funeral 
 oration over this globe, looking to the point where it once 
 stood ? 
 
 * Let us only, if you please, to take leave ot this sub- 
 ject, reflect upon this occasion on the vanity and transient 
 glory of this habitable world. How by the force of one 
 clement breaking loose upon the rest, all the varieties of 
 nature, all the works of art, all the labours of men are 
 reduced to nothing. All that we admired and adored 
 before as great and magnificent, is obliterated or vanished ; 
 and another form and face of things, plain, simple, and 
 every where the same, overspreads the whole earth. Where 
 are now the great empires of the world, and their great
 
 No. 147.] THE SPECTATOR. 147 
 
 imperial cities ? their pillars, trophies, and monuments of 
 glory? show me where they stood, read the inscription, 
 tell me the victor's name. What remains, what impres- 
 sions, what difference, or distinction, do you see in this 
 mass of fire? Rome itself, eternal Rome, the great city, 
 the empress of the world, whose domination and super- 
 stition, ancient and modern, make a great part of the 
 history of this earth, what is become of her now ? She laid 
 her foundations deep, and her palaces were strong and 
 sumptuous. " She glorified herself, and lived deliciously, 
 and said in her heart, I sit a queen, and shall see no sor- 
 row :" But her hour is come, she is wiped away from the 
 face of the earth, and buried in everlasting oblivion. But 
 it is not cities only, and works of men's hands, but the 
 everlasting hills, the mountains and rocks of the earth 
 are melted as wax before the sun, and ** their place is 
 no where found." Here stood the Alps, the load of the 
 earth, that covered many countries, and reached their 
 arms from the ocean to the Black Sea ; this huge mass 
 of stone is softened and dissolved as a tender cloud into 
 rain. Here stood the African mountains, and Atlas with 
 his top above the clouds; there was frozen Caucasus, 
 and Taurus, and Imaus, and the mountains of Asia ; and 
 yonder towards the north, stood the Riphasan hills clothed 
 in ice and snow. All these are vanished, dropt away as 
 the snow upon their heads. " Great and marvellous are 
 thy works, just and true are thy ways, thou King of 
 saints! Hallelujah."' • T. 
 
 >»#^»»»y<^#»»^»»^^^^y^»»^.^^■»^■»^^»^>#■^^^»^^^■>■»■»>^^^^^^*^» 
 
 No. 147.] . Saturdai/f August 18, in\. 
 
 Pronuncuuio eit vocis, et vullQs et gestae moderatio cum vcnasfate.— 7VW. 
 
 Good delivery is a graceful maiia2«ment of the voice, countenance, 
 and gesture. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * The well reading of the Common-Prayer is of so 
 great importance, and so much neglected, that I take the 
 • Burnetfs ITieory of the Earth, 1684, fol. Book III. Ch. IS. r^ HO. 1".
 
 148 THE SPECTATOR. No. 147. 
 
 liberty to offer to your consideration some particulars oa 
 that subject. And what more worthy your observation 
 than this } A thing so public, and of so high consequence. 
 It is indeed wonderful, that the frequent exercise of ic 
 should not make the performers of that duty more expert 
 in it. This inability, as I conceive, proceeds from the 
 little care that is taken of their reading, while boys and 
 at school, where, when they are got into Latin, they are 
 looked upon as above English, the reading of which is 
 iwhoUy neglected, or at least read to very little purpose, 
 without any due observations made to them of the proper 
 accent and manner of reading; by this means they have 
 acquired such ill habits as will not easily be removed. 
 The only way that I know of to remedy this, is to propose 
 some person of great ability that way as a pattern for 
 them ; example being most effectual to convince the 
 learned, as well as instruct the ignorant. 
 
 ' You must know, sir, I have been a constant fre- 
 quenter of the service of the church of England for above 
 these four years last past, and until Sunday was seven- 
 night never discovered, to so great a degree, the excel- 
 lency of the Common-Prayer. When, being at Saint 
 James's Garliek-Hill church,* I heard the service read so 
 distinctly, so emphatically, and so fervently, that it was 
 next to an impossibility to be unattentive. My eyes and 
 my thoughts could not wander as usual, but were con- 
 fined to my prayers. I then considered I addressed my- 
 self to the Almighty, and not to a beautiful face. And 
 when I reflected on my former performances of that duty, 
 I found I had run it over as a matter of form, in com- 
 parison to the manner in which I then discharged it, 
 Aly mind was really affected, and fervent wishes accom- 
 panied my words. The Confession was read with such 
 a resigned humility, the Absolution with such a comfort- 
 able authority, the Thanksgivings with such a religious 
 joy, as made me feel those affections of the mind in a 
 manner I never did before. To remedy therefore the 
 
 * The rector of thi5 parish A that time was Mr. Philip Stubbs, afttr. 
 wards arcbdeacou of St. Alban!s.
 
 No. 147.] THE SPECTATOR/ 14f 
 
 grievance above complained of, I humbly propose, that 
 this excellent reader, upon the next and every annual 
 assembly of the clergy of Siou-college, and all other con- 
 ventions, shouljd read prayers before them. For then 
 those that are afraid of stretching their mouths, and 
 spoiling their soft voices, will learn to read with clear- 
 ness, loudness, and strength. Others that affect a rakish 
 negligent air, by folding their arms and lolling on their 
 books, will be taught a decent behaviour, and comely 
 erection of body. Those that read so fast, as if impatient 
 of their work, may learn to speak deliberately. There 
 is another sort of persons whom I call Pindaric readers, 
 as being confined tp no ?et measure; these pronounce 
 five or six words with great deliberation, and the five or 
 six subsequent ones with as great celerity : the first part 
 of a sentence with a very exalted voice, and the latter 
 part with a submissive one: sometimes again with one 
 sort of a tone, and immediately after with a very different 
 one. These gentlemen will learu of my admired reader 
 an evenness of voice and delivery, and all who are innocent 
 of these affectations, but read with such an indifferency 
 as if they did not understand the language, may then be 
 informed of the art of reading movingly and fervently, 
 how to place the emphasis, and give the proper accent 
 to each word, and how to vary the voice according to the 
 nature of the sentence. There js certainly a very great 
 difference between the reading a prayer and a Gazette, 
 which I beg of you to inform a set of readers, who affect, 
 forsooth, a certain gentleman-like familiarity of tone, and 
 meud the language as they go on, crying, instead of * par- 
 douoth and absolveth,' pardons and absolves. These are 
 often pretty classical scholars, and would think it an un- 
 pardonable sin to read Virgil or Martial with so little 
 taste as they do divine service. 
 
 * This indifferency seems to me to rise from the endea- 
 vour of avoiding the imputation of cant, and the false 
 notion of it. It will be proper therefore to trace the 
 original and signification of this^ word. ' Cant ' is, by 
 gome people, derived from one Andrew Cant, who, they 
 02
 
 150 THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 147. 
 
 say, was a presbyterian minister in some illiterate part of 
 Scotland, who by exercise and use had obtained the 
 faculty, alias gift, of talking in the pulpit in such a dialect, 
 that it is said he was understood by none but his own 
 congregation, and not by all of them. Since master Cant's 
 time, it has been understood in a larger sense, and signifies 
 all sudden exclamations, whinings, unusual tones, and in 
 fine all praying and preaching, like the unlearned of the 
 Presbyterians. But I hope a proper elevation of voice, 
 a due emphasis and accent, are not to come within this 
 description. So that our readers may still be as unlike 
 the Presbyterians as they please. The dissenters (I mean 
 such as I have heard) do indeed elevate their voices, but 
 it is with sudden jumps from the lower to the higher part 
 of them ; and that with so little sense or skill, that their 
 elevation and cadence is bawling and muttering. They 
 make use of an emphasis, but so improperly, that it is 
 often placed on some very insignificant particle, as upon 
 * if or * and.' Now if these improprieties have so great 
 an effect on the people, as we see they have, how great 
 an influence would the service of our church, containing 
 the best prayers that ever were composed, and that in 
 terms most affecting, most humble, and most expressive 
 of our wants and dependence on the object of our worship, 
 disposed in most proper order, and void of all confusion ; 
 what influence, I say, would these prayers have, were 
 they delivered with a due emphasis, and apposite rising 
 and variation of voice, the sentence concluded with a 
 gentle cadence, and, in a word, with such an accent and 
 turn of speech as is peculiar to prayer .' 
 
 * As the matter of worship is now managed, in dissent- 
 ing congregations, you find insignificant words and phrases 
 raised by a lively vehemence ; in our own churches, the 
 most exalted sense depreciated, by a dispassionate indo- 
 lence. I remember to have heard Doctor S- ■ ■ c * say 
 >in his pulpit, of the Common-Prayer, that, at least, it was 
 as perfect as any thing of human institution. If the 
 gentlemen who err in this kind would please to recollect 
 * Probably Dr. Smalrwlge.,
 
 No. 148.] THE SPECTATOR. 151 
 
 the many pleasantries they have read upon those who 
 recite good things with an ill grace, they would go on to 
 think that what in that case is only ridiculous, in them- 
 selves is impious. But leaving this to their own reflec- 
 tions, I shall conclude this trouble with what Ccesar said 
 upon the irregularity of tone in one who read before 
 bira, " Do you read or sing } If you sing, you sing very 
 ill."-f* * Your most humble servant.' 
 
 No. 148.] Monday, August 20, 1711. 
 
 - Exenipta juvat spinis 6 pluribus una. 
 
 Hi>r. Lib. 2. Ep. ii. 81?. 
 Better one thorn pluck'd out, than all remain. 
 
 'My correspondents assure me that the enormities which 
 they lately complained of, and I published an account 
 of, are so far from being amended, that new evils arise 
 every day to interrupt their conversation, in contempt of 
 my reproofs. My friend who writes from the coffee-house 
 near the Temple, informs me that the gentleman who 
 constantly sings a voluntary in spite of the whole com- 
 pany, was more musical than ordinary after reading my 
 paper ; and has not been contented with that, but has 
 danced up to the glass in the middle of the room, and 
 practised minuet-steps to his own humming. The incor- 
 rigible creature has gone still farther, and in the opea 
 coffee-house, with one hand extended as leading a lady in 
 it, he has danced both French and country-dances, and 
 admonished his supposed partner by smiles and nods to 
 hold up her head and fall back, according to the respec- 
 tive facings and evolutions of the dance. Before this 
 gentleman began this his exercise, he was pleased to clear 
 his throat by coughing and spitting a full half hour; and 
 as soon as he struck up, he appealed to an attorney's 
 clerk in the room, whether he hit as he ought, * Since 
 you from death have saved me ?' and then asked the 
 young f«llow (pointing to a chancery-bill under bia arm)
 
 !»' THE SPECTATOR. [No. 148. 
 
 whether that was an opera-score he carried or not? 
 Without staying for an answer, he fell into the exercise 
 above-meDtioned, and practised his airs to the full house 
 who were turned upon him, without the least shame or 
 repentance for his former transgressions. 
 
 I am to the last degree at a loss what to do with this 
 young fellow, except 1 declare him an outlaw, and pro- 
 nounce it penal for any one to speak to him in the said 
 house which he frequents, and direct that he be obliged 
 to drink his tea and coflFee without sugar, and not receive 
 from any person whatsoever any thing above mere neces- 
 saries. 
 
 4s we in England are a sober people, and generally in- 
 clined rather to a certain bashfulness of behaviour in 
 public, it is amazing whence some fellows come whom 
 one meets w ith in this town ; they do not at all seem to 
 be the growth of our island ; the pert, the talkative, all 
 such as have no sense of the observation of others, are 
 certainly of foreign extraction. As for my part, I am 
 as much surprised when I see a talkative Englishman, as 
 I should be to see the Indian pine growing on one of our 
 quickset hedges. Where these creatures get sun enough, 
 to make them such lively animals and dull men, is above 
 my philosophy. 
 
 There are another kind of impertinents which a man is 
 perplexed with in mixed company, and those are your 
 loud speakers. These treat mankind as if we were all 
 deaf ; they do not express but declare themselves. Many 
 of these are guilty of this outrage out of vanity, because 
 they think all they say is well ; or that they have their 
 own persons in such veneration, that they believe nothing 
 which concerns them can be insignificant to any body else. 
 For these people's sake, I have often lamented that we 
 cannot close our ears with as much ease as we can our 
 eyes. It is very uneasy that we must necessarily be under 
 persecution. Next to these bawlers, is a troublesome 
 creature who conies with the air of your friend and your 
 intimate, and that is your whisperer. There is one of 
 ibem at a coffee-house which I myself frequent, who
 
 No. 148.J THE SPECTATOR. I5S 
 
 observing me to be a man pretty well made for secrets, 
 gets by me, and with a whisper tells me things which 
 all the town knows. It is no very hard matter to guess 
 at the source of this impertinence, which is nothing else 
 but a method or mechanic art of being wise. You never 
 see any frequent in it, whom you can suppose to have 
 any thing in the world to do. These persons are worse 
 than bawlers, as much as a secret enemy is more dan- 
 gerous than a declared one. I wish this my coffee-house 
 friend would take this for an intimation, that I have not 
 heard one word he hcis told me for these several years ; 
 whereas he now thinks me the most trusty repository of 
 his secrets. The whisperers have a pleasant way of e(jding 
 the close conversation, with saying aloud, * Do not you 
 think so ?' Then whisper again, and then aloud, * But you 
 know that person :' then whisper again. The thing would 
 be well enough, if they whispered to keep the folly of what 
 they say among friends ; but, alas, they do it to preserve 
 the importance of their thoughts. I am sure I could 
 name you more than one person whom no man living 
 ever heard talk upon any subject in nature, or ever saw 
 in his whole life with a book in his hand, that, I know 
 not how, can whisper something like knowledge of what 
 has and does pass in the world ; which you would think 
 he learned from some familiar spirit that did not think 
 him worthy to receive the whole story. But in truth 
 whisperers deal only in half accounts of what they en- 
 tertain you with. A great help to their discourse is, 
 * That the town says, and people begin to talk very freely, 
 and they had it from persons too considerable to be 
 named, what they will tell you wheU things are riper.' 
 My friend has winked upon me any day since I came to 
 town last, and has communicated to me as a secret, that 
 he designed in a very short time to tell me a secret; but 
 I shall know what he means, he now assures me, in less 
 than a fortnight's time. 
 
 But 1 must not omit the dearer part of mankind, I 
 mean the ladies, to take up a whole paper upon grievances 
 which concfern the men only; but shall humbly proposej
 
 154 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 148. 
 
 that we change fools for au experimcDt only. A certain 
 set of ladies complain they are frequently perplexed with 
 a visitant, who affects to be wiser than they are ; which 
 character he hopes to preserve by an obstinate gravity, 
 and great guard against discovering his opinion upon any 
 occasion whatsoever. A painful silence has hitherto gained 
 him no farther advantage, than that as he might, if he 
 had behaved himself with freedom, been excepted against, 
 but as to this and that particular, he now offends in the 
 whole. To relieve these ladies, ray good friends and cor- 
 respondents, 1 shall exchange my dancing outlaw for their 
 dumb visitant, and assign the silent gentleman all the 
 haunts of the dancer ; in order to which, I have sent them 
 by the penny-post the following letters for their conduct 
 in their new conversations. 
 
 'SIR, 
 
 * I have, you may be sure, heard of your irregularities 
 without regard to my observations upon you ; but shall 
 not treat you with so much rigour as you deserve. If you 
 will give yourself the trouble to repair to the place men- 
 tioned in the postscript to this letter at seven this evening, 
 you will be conducted into a spacious room well-lighted, 
 where there are ladies and music. You will see a young 
 lady laughing next the window to the street ; you may 
 take her out, for she loves you as well as she does any 
 man, though she never saw you before. She never thought 
 in her life, any more than yourself. She will not be sur- 
 prised when you accost her, nor concerned when you leave 
 her. Hasten from a place where you are laughed at, 
 to one where you will be admired. You are of no con- 
 sequence, therefore go where you will be welcome for 
 being so. ,* Your humble servant.' , 
 
 'SIR, 
 
 * The ladies whom you visit, think a wise man the 
 most impertinent creature living, therefore you cannot be 
 offended that they are displeased with you. Why will you 
 take pains to appear wise, where you would not be the 
 more esteemed for being really so ? Come to us ; forget
 
 No. 149.] THE SPECTATOR.' 1S5 
 
 the gi^glers ; let your inclination go along with you 
 whether you speak or are silent ; and let all such women 
 as are in a clan or sisterhood go their own way ; ther« 
 is no room for you in that company who are of the com- 
 mon taste of the sex. 
 
 * For women born to be rontroll'd 
 Stoop to the forward and llie bold ; 
 Aflect the liaiighty and ilie proud. 
 The gay, tiie frolic, and the loud.' * f 
 
 No. J 49.] Tuesday, August 21, 1711. 
 
 Ctii in manu sit quern esse dementem vclit, 
 
 Qiiem sapere, qiieni sanari, qiieiit in morbiim injici. 
 
 Quern coutr^ aiuari, queai accersiri, quens expeti. 
 
 CiVcU. apiid TutC 
 Wlio has it in her powV to make men mad, 
 Or wise, or sick, or well : and who ean choose 
 The object of her appetite at pleasure. 
 
 The following letter, and my answer, shall take up the 
 present speculation. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I ara the young widow of a country gentleman, who 
 has left me entire mistress of a large fortune, which he 
 agreed to as an equivalent for the difference in our years. 
 In these circumstances it is not extraordinary to have a 
 crowd of admirers; which I have abridged in my own 
 thoughts, and reduced to a couple of candidates only, 
 both young, and neither of them disagreeable in their per- 
 sons: according to the common way of computing, in one 
 the estate more than deserves my fortune, in the other 
 my fortune more than deserves the estate. When I con- 
 sider the first, I own I am so far a woman I cannot avoid 
 being delighted with the thoughts of living great; but 
 then he seems to receive such a degree of courage from 
 the knowledge of what he has, he looks as if he was going 
 to confer an obligation on me ; and the readiness he accost* 
 me with, makes me jealous 1 am only hearing a repetition 
 • Waller.
 
 156 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 149. 
 
 of the same things he has said to a hundred women before. 
 When I consider the other, I see myself approached with 
 so much modesty and respect, and such a doubt of him- 
 self, as betrays, methinks, an affection within, and a be- 
 lief at the same time that he himself would be the only 
 gainer by my consent. What an unexceptionable husband 
 could I make out of both ! but since that is impossible, 
 I beg to be concluded by your opinion. It is absolutely 
 in your power to dispose of 
 
 - Your^most obedient servant, 
 
 ' SYLVIA.' 
 
 • MADAM, 
 
 * You do me great honour in your application to me 
 on this important occasion; I shall therefore talk to you 
 with the tenderness of a father, in gratitude for your 
 giving me the authority of one. You do not seem to 
 make any great distinction between these gentlemen as to 
 their persons ; the whole question lies upon their circum- 
 stances and behaviour. If the one is less respectful be- 
 cause he is rich, and the other more obsequious because 
 he is not so, they are in that point moved by the same 
 principle, the consideration of fortune, and you must 
 place them in each other's circumstances before you can 
 judge of their inclination. To avoid confusion in dis- 
 cussing this point, I will call the richer man Strephon, 
 and the other Florio. If you believe Florio with Strephon'a 
 estate would behave himself as he does now, Florio is cer- 
 tainly your matj ; but if you think Strephon, were he in 
 Fiorio's condition, would be as obsequious as Florio is 
 now, you ought for your own sake to choose Strephon ; 
 for where the men are equal, there is no doubt riches 
 ought to be a reason for preference. After this manner, 
 my dear child, I would have you abstract them from 
 their circumstances ; for you are to take it for granted, 
 that he who is very humble only because he is poor, is 
 the verj' same man in nature, with him who is haughty 
 because he is rich. 
 
 * When -Nou have gone thus far, as to cunsider the
 
 No. 149.] THE SPECTATOR. IWf 
 
 figure they make towards you ; you will please, my dear, 
 next to consider the appearance you make towards them. 
 If they are men of discerninj^, they can observe the mo- 
 tives of your heart: and Florio can see when he is disre- 
 garded only upon account of fortune, which makes you 
 to him a mercenary creature ; and you are still the same 
 thing to Strephon, in taking him for his wealth only: 
 you are therefore to consider whether you had rather 
 oblige, than receive an obligation. 
 
 * The marriage life is always an insipid, a vexatious, 
 or a happy condition. The first is, when two people of 
 no genius or taste for themselves meet together, upon 
 such a settlement as has been thought reasonable by 
 parents and conveyances from an exact valuation of the 
 land and cash of both parties. In this case the young 
 lady's person is no more regarded, thajj the house and 
 improvements in purchase of an estate: but she goes 
 with her fortune, rather than her fortune with her. These 
 hiake up the crowd or vulgar of the rich, and fill up the 
 lumber of human race, without beneficence towards those 
 below them, or respect towards those above them ; and 
 lead a despicable, independent, and useless lil'e, without 
 sense of the laws of kindness, good-nature, mutual offices, 
 and the elegant satisfactions which flow from reason and 
 virtue. 
 
 * The vexatious life arises from a conjunction of two 
 people of quick taste and resentment, put together for 
 reasons well known to their friends, in which especial care 
 is taken to avoid (what they think the chief of evils) 
 poverty, and ensure to them riches, with every evil be- 
 sides. These good people live in a constant constraint 
 before company, and too great familiarity alone. When 
 they are within observation they fret at each other's car- 
 riage and behaviour; when alone they revile each other's 
 person and conduct. In company they are in a purgatory, 
 when only together in a hell. 
 
 * The happy marriage is, where two persons meet and 
 voluntarily make choice of each other, without principally 
 regarding or neglecting the circumstances of fortune or 
 
 Vol. II. P
 
 1S8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 149. 
 
 beauty. These may still love in spite of adversity or 
 sickness: the former we may in some measure defend 
 ourselves from, the other is the portion of our very make. 
 When you have a true notion of this sort of passion, your 
 humour of living great will vanish out of your imagination, 
 and you will find love has nothing to do with state. Soli- 
 tude, with the person beloved, has a pleasure, even in a 
 woman's mind, beyond show or pomp. You are therefore 
 to consider which of your lovers will like you best un- 
 dressed, which will bear with you most when out of humour ; 
 and your way to this is to ask of yourself, which of them 
 you value most for his own sake ? and by that judge 
 which gives the greater instances of his valuing you for 
 yourself only. 
 
 * After you have expressed some sense of the humble 
 approach of Florio, and a little disdain at Strephon's as- 
 surance in his address, you cry out, *' What an unexcep- 
 tionable husband could I make out of both !" It would 
 therefore, methinks, be a good way to determine your- 
 self. Take him in whom what you like is not trans- 
 ferable to another ; for if you choose otherwise, there is 
 no hopes your husband will ever have what you liked in 
 his rival; but intrinsic qualities in one man may very 
 probably purchase every thing that is adventitious in an- 
 other. In plainer terms : he whom you take for his per- 
 sonal perfections will sooner arrive at the gifts of fortune, 
 than he whom you take for the sake of his fortune attain 
 to personal perfections. If Strephon is not as accomplished 
 and agreeable as Florio, marriage to you will never make 
 him 60 : but marriage to you may make Florio as rich as 
 Strephon. Therefore to make a sure purchase, employ 
 fortune upon certainties, but do not sacrifice certainties 
 to fortune. 
 
 * I am, vour most obedient, humble servant' 
 T.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 159 
 
 No. 150.] Wednesday, August 22, 171 1 . 
 
 Nil habet iiifelix paupcrtas duriiis in se, 
 
 Quam qu£»(l ridiculos homines facit 
 
 Juv. Sat. iii. IM. 
 Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool. 
 And wit in rags is turn'd to ridicule. D)-yd€n. 
 
 As I was walking in my chamber the mornings before I 
 went last into the country, I heard the hawkers with 
 great vehemence crying about a paper, entitled, The 
 Ninety-nine Plagues of an Empty Purse. I had indeed 
 some time before observed, that the orators of Grub-street 
 had dealt veiy much in plagues. They have already pub- 
 lished in the same month, The Plagues of Matrimony, 
 The Plagues of a Single Life, The Nineteen Plagues of a 
 Chambermaid, The Plagues of a Coachman, The Plagues 
 of a Footman, and The Plague of Plagues. The success 
 these several plagues met with, probably gave occasion 
 to the abovementioned poem on an empty purse. However 
 that be, the same noise so frequently repeated under my 
 window, drew me insensibly to think on some of those in- 
 conveniencies and mortifications which usually attend on 
 poverty, and, in short, gave birth to the present specula- 
 tion: for after my fancy had run over the most obvious 
 and common calamities which men of mean fortunes are 
 liable to, it descended to those little insults and contempts, 
 which though they may seem to dwindle into nothing when 
 a man offers to describe them, are perhaps in themselves 
 more cutting and insupportable than the former. Juvenal 
 with a great deal of humour and reason tells us, that 
 nothing bore harder upon a poor man in his time than 
 the continual ridicule which his habit and dress afforded 
 to the beaux of Rome : 
 
 Quid, qu6d materiam praebet causasqne joconim 
 Omnibus hie idem ; si fccda et ecissa lacerna. 
 Si toga sordidula est, et rnpta calceus alter 
 PcUe patet, vel si conswto vuluere crassum 
 Atqiie recens linum ostendit non una cicatrix. 
 
 Juv. Sat. ill. 147» 
 Add that the rich have still a gibe in store, 
 i And will be monstrous witty on Uie poor;
 
 160 THE SPECTATOR. CNo. ISO. 
 
 For the torn surtout and the tatter'd vest. 
 
 The wretch anrt all his w;irdrobe are a jest ; 
 
 The greasy gown sully'd wiih often turning, 
 
 Gives a good hint to say the man's in mouruing; 
 
 Or if the shoe be ript, or patch is put. 
 
 He's wounded, see the plaster on his foot. Dryden. 
 
 It is on this occasion that he afterwards adds the reflec- 
 tion which I have chosen for my motto. 
 
 Want is the scorn of ev'ry wealthy fool, 
 
 And wit in rags is inru'd to ridicule. Dryden. 
 
 It must be confessed that few things make a man ap- 
 pear more despicable, or more prejudice his hearers against 
 what he is gohig to offer, than an awkward or pitiful 
 dress ; insomuch that I fancy, had Tully himself pro- 
 nounced one of his orations with a blanket about his 
 shoulders, more people would have laughed at his dress 
 than have admired his eloquence. This last reflection 
 made me wonder at a set of men, who without being 
 subjected to it by the unkindness of their fortunes, are 
 contented to draw upon themselves the ridicule of the 
 world in this particular. I mean such as take it uito their 
 heads, that the first regular step to be a wit is to com- 
 mence a sloven. It is certain nothing has so much de- 
 based that, which must have been otherwise so great a 
 character ; and I know not how to account for it, unless 
 it may possibly be in complaisance to those narrow minds 
 who can have no notion of the same persons possessing 
 different accomplishments ; or that it is a sort of sacrifice 
 which some men are contented to make to calumny, by 
 allowing it to fasten on one part of their character, while 
 they are endeavouring to establish another. 
 
 Yet however unaccountable this foolish custom is, I am 
 afraid it could plead a long prescription; and probably 
 gave too much occasion for the vulgar definition still re- 
 maining among us of an heathen philosopher. 
 
 I have seen the speech of a TerrcE-jilius, spoken in 
 King Charles the Second's reign ; in which he describes 
 two very eminent men, who were perhaps the greatest 
 scholars of their agej and after having mentioned the
 
 No.! 50.]' THE SPECTATOR. 101 
 
 entire friendship between them, concludes, that * they 
 had but one mind, one purse, one chamber, and one hat'. 
 The men of business were also infected with a sort of 
 singularity little better than this. I have heard my 
 father say, that a broad-brimmed hat, short hair, and un- 
 folded handkerchief, were in his time absolutely necessary 
 to denote a * notable man;' and that he had known two 
 or three, who aspired to the character of * very notable/ 
 wear shoe-strings with great success. 
 
 To the honour of our present age it must be allowed, 
 that some of our greatest geniuses for wit and business 
 have almost entirely broke the neck of these absurdities. 
 
 Victor, after having dispatched the most important 
 affairs of the commonwealth, has appeared at an assembly, 
 where ail the ladies have declared him the genteelest man 
 in the company; and in Atticus, though every way one 
 of the greatest geniuses the age has produced, one sees 
 nothing particular in his dress or carriage to denote his 
 pretensions to wit and learning : so that at present a man 
 may venture to cock up his hat, and wear a fashionable 
 wig, without being taken for a rake or a fool. 
 
 The medium between a fop and a sloven is what a 
 man of sense would endeavour to keep; yet I remember 
 Mr. Osborn advises his son to appear in his habit rather 
 above than below his fortune ; and tells him that he will 
 find an handsome suit of clothes always procures some 
 additional respect.* I have indeed myself observed that 
 my banker ever bows lowest to me when I wear my full- 
 bottomed wig ; and writes me * Mr.' or * Esq.* according 
 as he sees me dressed. 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with an adventure which I 
 was myself an eye-witness of very lately. 
 
 I happened the other day to call in at a celebrated coffee- 
 house near the Temple. I had not been there long when 
 there came in an elderly man very meanly dressed, and 
 sat down by me; he had a thread-bare loose coat on, 
 which it was plain he wore to keep himself warm, and 
 not to favour his under suit, which seemed to have been 
 
 • Advice to a Son, by Francis Osborn, Esq. Part I. sec. 23. 
 P3
 
 162 THE SPECTATOR, [No. 150. 
 
 at least its contemporary: his short wi«f and hat were 
 both answerable to tlie rest of his apparel. He was no 
 sooner seated than he called for a dish of tea; but as 
 several gentlemen in the room wanted other things, the 
 boys of tht house did not think themselves at leisure to 
 mind him. I could observe the old fellow was very un- 
 easy at the affront, and at his being obliged to repeat bis 
 commands several times to no purpose; until at last one 
 of the lads presented him with some stale tea in a broken 
 dish, accompanied with a plate of brown sugar; which 
 so raised his indignation, that after several obliging ap- 
 pellations of dog and rascal, he asked him aloud before 
 the whole company, * Why he must be used with less 
 respect than that fop there ?' pointing to a well-dressed 
 young gentleman who was drinking tea at the opposite 
 table. The boy of the house replied with a good deal of 
 pertness, * that his master had two sorts of customers, 
 and that the gentleman at the other table had given him 
 many a sixpence for wiping his shoes.* By this time the 
 young Templar, who found his honour concerned in the 
 dispute, and that the eyes of the whole coffee-house were 
 upon him, had thrown aside a paper he had in his hand, 
 and was coming towards us, while we at the table made 
 what haste we could to get away from the impending 
 quarrel, but were all of us surprised to see him as he ap- 
 proached nearer put on an air of deference and respect. 
 To whom the old man said, * Hark you, sirrah, I will 
 ])ay off your extravagant bills once more, but will take 
 effectual care for the future, that your prodigality shall 
 not spirit up a parcel of rascals to insult your father.* 
 
 Though 1 by no means approve either the impudence 
 of the servants or the extravagance of the son, 1 cannot 
 but think the old gentleman was in some measure justly 
 served for walking in masquerade, I mean appearing in 
 a dress so much beneath bis quality and estate. X.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. i6i 
 
 Ko. 151.] Thursdmjy August 23, 1711. 
 
 Maximas virtutes jacere omncs neccsse est yolopUte domiiiante. 
 
 Tidl. de Fin. 
 Where pleasure prevails, all the greatest virtues will lose their power. 
 
 I KNOW no one character that gives reason a greater 
 shock, at the same time that it presents a good ridiculous 
 image to the imagination, than that of a man of wit and 
 pleasure about the town. This description of a roan of 
 fashion, spoken by some with a mixture of scorn and 
 ridicule, by others with great gravity as a laudable dis- 
 tinction, is ill every body's mouth that spends any time 
 in conversation. My friend Will Honeycomb has this 
 expression very frequently; and I never could understand 
 by the story which follows, upon his mention of such a 
 one, but that his inan of wit and pleasure was either a 
 drunkard, too old for wenching, or a young lewd fellow 
 with some liveliness, who would converse with you, re- 
 ceive kind offices of you, and at the same time debauch 
 your sister, or lie with your wife. According to his des- 
 cription, a man of wit, when he could have wenches for 
 crowns a-piece which he liked quite as well, would be so 
 extravagant as to bribe servants, make false friendships, 
 fight relations : I say, according to him, plain and simple 
 vice was too little for a man of wit and pleasure; but he 
 jvould leave an easy and accessible wickedness, to come 
 at the same thing with only the addition of certain false- 
 hood and possible murder. Will thinks the town grown 
 very dull, in that we do not hear so much as we used to 
 do of those coxcombs, whom (without observing it) he 
 describes as the most infamous rogues in nature, with re- 
 lation to friendship, love, or conversation. 
 
 When pleasure is made the chief pursuit of life, it will 
 necessarily follow that such monsters as these will arise 
 from a constant application to such blandishments as 
 naturally root out the force of reason and reflection, and 
 substitute in their place a general impatience of thought, 
 and a constant pruriency of inordinate desire.
 
 lU THE spectator: [No. ml 
 
 Pleasure, when it is a man's chief purpose, disappoints 
 itself; and the constant application to it palls the farulty 
 of enjoying it, though it leaves the sense of our inability 
 for that we wish, with a disrelish of every thing else. 
 Thus the intermediate seasons of the man of pleasure are 
 more heavy than one would impose upon the vilest cri- 
 minal. Take him when he is awaked too soon after a de- 
 bauch, or disappointed in following a worthless woman 
 without truth, and there is no man living whose being 
 is such a weight or vexation as his is. He is an utter 
 stranger to the pleasing reflections in the evening of a 
 well-spent day, or the gladness of heart or quickness of 
 spirit in the morning after profound sleep or indolent 
 slumbers. He is not to be at ease any longer than he 
 can keep reason and good sense without his curtains; 
 otherwise he will be haunted with the reflection, that he 
 could not believe such a one the woman that upon trial 
 he found her. What has he got by his conquest, but to 
 think meanly of her for whom a day or two before he had 
 the highest honour? And of himself for perhaps wronging 
 the man whom of all men living he himself would least 
 willingly have injured.^ 
 
 Pleasure seizes the whole man who addicts himself to 
 it, and will not give him leisure for any good office in life 
 which contradicts the gayety of the present hour. You 
 may indeed observe in people of pleasure a certain com- 
 placency and absence of all severity, which the habit of a 
 loose unconcerned life gives them ; but tell the man of 
 pleasure your secret wants, cares, or sorrows, and you 
 will find that he has given up the delicacy of bis passions 
 to the cravings of his appetites. He little knows the per- 
 fect joy he loses, for the disappointing gratifications which 
 he pursues. He looks at Pleasure as she aftproaches, and 
 comes to him with the recommendati<m of warm wishes, 
 gay looks, and graceful motion ; but he does not observe 
 how she leaves his presence with disorder, impotence, 
 down-cast shame, and conscious imperfection. She makes 
 cmr youth inglorious, our age shameful. 
 
 Will Honeycomb gives ut twenty intimations in an
 
 Ko. 151.] THE SPECTATOR. 165 
 
 evening- of several hags whose bloom was given up to his 
 arms; and would raise a value to himself for having had, 
 as the phrase is, * veiy good women.' Will's good women 
 are the comfort of his heart, and support him, I warrant, 
 by the memoiy of past interviews with persons of their 
 condition. No, there is not in the world an occasion 
 wherein vice makes so fantastical a figure, as at the 
 meeting of two old people who have been partners in un- 
 warrantable pleasure. To tell a toothless old lady that 
 she once had a good set, or a defunct wencher that he 
 once was the admired thing of the town, are satires in- 
 stead of applauses; but on the other side, consider the 
 old age of those who have passed their days in labour, in- 
 dustry, and virtue, their decays make them but appear 
 the more venerable, and the imperfections of their bodies 
 are beheld as a misfortune to human society that their 
 make is so little durable. 
 
 But to return more directly to my man of wit and 
 pleasure. In all orders of men, wherever this is the chief 
 character, the person who wears it is a negligent friend, 
 father, and husband, and entails poverty on his unhappy 
 descendants. Mortgages, diseases, and settlements, are 
 the legacies a man of wit and pleasure leaves to his family. 
 All the poor rogues that make such lamentable speeches 
 after every sessions at Tyburn, were, in their way, men of 
 wit and pleasure before they fell into the adventures 
 which brought them thither. 
 
 Irresolution and procrastination in all a man's affairs, 
 are the natural effects of being addicted to pleasure. Dis- 
 honour to the gentleman and bankruptcy to the trader, 
 are the portion of either whose chief purpose of life is 
 delight. The chief cause that this pursuit has been in all 
 ages received with so much quarter from the soberer part 
 of mankind, has been that some men of great talents 
 have sacrificed themselves to it. The shining qualities of 
 such people have given a beauty to whatever they were 
 engaged in, and a mixture of wit has recommended mad- 
 ness. For let any man who knows what it is to have 
 passed much time in a aeries of jollity, mirth, wit, or hu-
 
 \6B THE SPECTATOR. [No. 152, 
 
 morous entertainments, look back at what he was all that 
 while a doing, and he will find that he has been at one 
 instant sharp to some man he is sorry to have offended, 
 impertinent to some one it was cruelty to treat with such 
 freedom, ungracefully noisy at such a time, unskilfully 
 open at such a time, unmercifully calumnious at such a 
 time; and from the whole course of his applauded satis- 
 factions, unable in the end to recollect 'any circumstance 
 which can add to the enjoyment of his own mind alone, 
 or which he would put his character upon, with other 
 men. Thus it is with those who are best made for becom- 
 ing pleasures ; but bow monstrous is it in the generaUty 
 of mankind who pretend this way, without genius or in- 
 clination towards it! The scene then is wild to an ex- 
 travagance: this is, as if fools should mimic madmen. 
 Pleasure of this kind is the intemperate meals and loud 
 Jollities of the common rate of country' gentlemen, whose 
 practice and way of enjoyment is to put an end as fast as 
 they can to that little particle of reason they have when 
 they are sober. These men of wit and pleasure dispatch 
 their senses as fast as possible by drinking until they can- 
 not taste, smoking until they cannot see, and roaring 
 until thev cannot hear. T. 
 
 Ko. 152.] Friday^ August 24 1711. 
 
 0"n vs( ipv70\ujv ycvtt), roir\Se km uvS^Z-y.-^Hom. .11. vi. 146. 
 Like leaves on trees the race of man is foaad.—Pope. 
 
 There is no sort of people whose conversation is so 
 pleasant as that of military men, who derive their courage 
 and magnanimity from thought and reflection. The many 
 adventures which attend their way of life makes their 
 conversation so full of incidents, and gives them so frank 
 an air in speaking of what they have been witnesses of, 
 that no company can be more amiable than that of men 
 of sense who are soldiers. There is a certain irregular 
 way in their narrations or discourse, which has something
 
 No. 1 52.] ! THE SPECl'ATOR. 167 
 
 more warm and pleasing than we meet among men u ho 
 are used to adjust and methodise their thoughts. 
 
 I was this evening walking in the fields with my friend 
 Captain Sentry, and I could not, from the many relations 
 which I drew him into of what passed when he was in the 
 service, forbear expressing my wonder, that the ' fear of 
 death,' which we, the rest of mankind, arm ourselves 
 against with so much contemplation, reason, and philo- 
 sophy, should appear so little in camps, that common 
 men march into open breaches, meet opposite battalions, 
 not only without reluctance but with alacrity. My friend 
 answered what I said in the following maimer : * What 
 you wonder at may very naturally be the subject of ad- 
 miration to all who are not conversant in camps; but 
 when a man has spent some time in that way of life, he 
 observes a certain mechanic courage which the ordinary 
 race of men become masters of from acting always in a 
 crowd. They see indeed many drop, but then they see 
 many more alive; they observe themselves escape very 
 narrowly, and they do not know why they should not 
 again. Besides which general way of loose thinking, they 
 usually spend the other part of their time in pleasures 
 upon which their minds are so entirely bent, that short 
 labours or dangers are but a cheap purchase of jollity, 
 triumph, victory, fresh quarters, new scenes, and uncom- 
 mon adventures. Such are the thoughts of the executive 
 part of an army, and indeed of the gross of mankind lu 
 general ; but none of these men of mechanical courage 
 have ever made any great figure in the profession of arms. 
 Those who are formed for command, are such as have 
 reasoned themselves out of a consideration of greater 
 good than length of days, into such a negligence of their 
 being, as to make it their first position, that it is one day 
 to be resigned; and since it is, in the prosecution of 
 worthy actions and service of mankind, they can put it 
 to habitual hazard. The event of our designs, say they, 
 as it relates to others, is uncertain ; but as it relates to 
 ourselves it must be prosperous, while we are m the 
 pursuit of our duty, and within the terms upon which
 
 168 THE SPECTATOR, INo. 15^ 
 
 Providence has ensured our happiness, whether we die or 
 live. All that nature has prescribed must be good ; and 
 as death is natural to us, it is absurdity to fear it. Fear 
 loses its purpose when we are sure it cannot preserve us, 
 and we should draw resolution to meet it from the impos- 
 sibility to escape it. Without a resignation to the neces- 
 sity of dying, there can be no capacity in man to attempt 
 any thing that is glorious: but when they have once 
 attained to that perifection, the pleasures of a life spent 
 in martial adventures are as great as any of which the 
 human mind is capable. The force of reason gives a 
 certain beauty, mixed with the conscience of well-doing 
 and thirst of glory, to all which before was terrible and 
 ghastly to the imagination. Add to this, that the fellow- 
 ship of danger, the common good of mankind, the general 
 cause, and the manifest virtue you may observe in so many 
 men, who made no figure until that day, are so many 
 incentives to destroy the little consideration of their own 
 persons. Such are the heroic part of soldiers who are 
 qualified for leaders. As to the rest, whom I before spoke 
 of, I know not how it is, but they arrive at a certain habit 
 of being void of thought, insomuch that on occasion of 
 the most imminent danger they are still in the same 
 indifference. Nay, I remember an instance of a gay 
 Frenchman,* who was led on in battle by a superior 
 officer, (whose conduct it was his custom to speak of 
 always with contempt and raillery) and in the beginning^ 
 of the action received a wound he was sensible was mor- 
 tal; his reflection on this occasion was, *' I wish I could 
 live another hour, to see how this blundering coxcomb 
 will get clear of this business." 
 
 * 1 remember two young fellows who rid in the same 
 squadron of a troop of horse, who were ever together; 
 they ate, they drank, they intrigued ; in a word, all their 
 passions and affections seemed to tend the same way, and 
 they appeared serviceable to each other in them. We 
 were in the dusk of the evening to march over a river, 
 
 • The Chevalier de Flourillcs, a lieuteuant-jfeneral uuder the Pdnct of 
 Cond^, at the battle of Senelf, ia 1674.
 
 No. 152 J THE SPECTATOR. 169 
 
 and the troop these gentlemen belonged to were to be 
 transported in a ferrj-boat, as fast as they could. One 
 of the friends was now in the boat, while the other was 
 drawn up with others by the water-side, waiting the return 
 of the boat. A disorder happened in the passage by an 
 unruly horse ; and a gentleman who had the rein of his 
 horse negligently under his arm, was forced into the water 
 by his horse's jumping over. The friend on the shore 
 cried out, ** Who is that is drowned, trow?" He was 
 immediately answered, ** Your friend, Harry Thompson." 
 He very gravely replied, " Ay, he had a mad horse." This 
 short epitaph from such a familiar, without more words, 
 gave me, at that time under twenty, a very moderate 
 opinion of the friendship of companions. Thus is affection 
 and every other motive of life in the generality rooted out 
 by the present busy scene about them : they lament no 
 man whose capacity can be supplied by another; and 
 where men converse without delicacy, the next man you 
 meet will serve as well as he whom you have lived with 
 half your life. To such the devastation of countries, the 
 misery of inhabitants, the cries of the pillaged, and the 
 silent sorrow of the great unfortunate, are ordinary ob- 
 jects ; their minds are bent upon the little gratifications 
 of their own senses and appetites, forgetful of compassion, 
 insensible of glory, avoiding only shame; their whole 
 hearts taken up with the trivial hope of meeting and 
 being merry. These a-re the people who make up the 
 gross of the soldiery. But the fine gentleman in that 
 band of men is such a one as I have now in my eye, who 
 is foremost in all danger to which he is ordered. His 
 officers are his friends and companions, as they are men 
 of honour and gentlemen ; the private men his brethren, 
 as they are of his species. He is beloved of all that be« 
 hold him. They wish him in danger as he views their 
 ranks, that they may have occasions to save him at their 
 own hazard. Mutual love is the order of the files where 
 he commands; every man afraid for himself and his neigh- 
 bour, not lest their commander should punish them, but 
 lest he should be offended. Such is his regiment wh» 
 Vol. II. Q
 
 170 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 153. 
 
 Knows mankind, and feels their distresses so far as to 
 prevent them. Just in distributing what is their due, he 
 would thinic himself below their tailor to wear a snip of 
 their clothes in lace upon his own ; and below the most 
 rapacious agent, should he enjoy a farthing above his own 
 pay. Go on, brave man, immortal glor}' is thy fortune, 
 and immortal happiness thy reward.' T. 
 
 No. 153.] Saturday, August 25, 1711. 
 
 Ilabet natura ut aliarum omnium rerura sic vivendi modiim ; senectus 
 aatem peractio aetatis est tanquam fabulae. Cujus defatiQ;;itinnc[ii fiigcre 
 debemus, praesertim adjunctl satietate. Tull. de Henect. 
 
 Life, as well as all other things, hath its bojinds assigned by nature ; 
 aud its conclusion, like the last act of a play, is old age ; tho fatigue of 
 which we ought to shun, especially when our appetites are fully satiificd. 
 
 Of all the impertinent wishes which we hear expressed 
 in conversation, there is not one more unwortliy a gen- 
 tleman or a man of liberal education, than that of wishing 
 one's self younger. I have observed this wish is usually 
 made upon sight of some object which gives the idea of a 
 past action, that it is no dishonour to us that we cannot 
 now repeat ; or else on what was in itself shameful when 
 we performed it. It is a certain sign of a foolish or a 
 dissolute mind if we want our youth again only for the 
 strength of bones and sinews which we once were masters 
 of. It is (as my author has it) as absurd in an old man 
 tb wish for the strength of a youth, as it would be in a 
 young man to wish for the strength of a bull or a horse. 
 These wishes are both etjually out of nature, which should 
 direct in all things that are not contradictory to justice, 
 law, and reason. But though every old man has been 
 young, and every young one hopes to be old, there seems 
 to be a most unnatural misunderstanding between those 
 two stages of life. This unhappy want of commerce 
 arises from the insolent arrogance or exultation in youth, 
 and the irrational despondence or self-pity in age. A 
 young man whose passion and ambition is to be good and 
 wise, and an old one who has no inclination to be lewd
 
 No. 153.] THE SPECTATOR. 171 
 
 or debauched, are quite unconcerned in this speculation ; 
 but the cocking young fellow who treads upon the toes of 
 his elders, and the old fool who envies the saucy pride he 
 sees in him, are the objects of our present contempt and 
 derision. Contempt and derision are harsh words; but 
 in what manner can one give advice to a youth in the 
 pursuit and possession of sensual pleasures, or afford pity 
 to an old man in the impotence and desire of enjoying 
 them ? Whxin young men in public places betray in their 
 deportment an abandoned resigitation to their appetites, 
 they give to sober minds a prospect of a despicable age, 
 which, if not interrupted by death in the midst of their 
 follies, must certainly come. When an old man bewails 
 the loss of such gratifications which are passed, he dis- 
 covers a monstrous inclination to that which it is not in the 
 course of Providence to recall. The state of an old man, 
 who is dissatisfied merely for his being such, is the most 
 out of all measures of reason and good sense of any being 
 we have any account of from the highest angel to the 
 lowest worm. How miserable is the contemplation to 
 consider a libidinous old man (while all created beings, 
 besides himself and devils, are following the order of Pro- 
 videncej fretting at the course of things, and being almost 
 the sole malecontent in the creation. But let us a little 
 reflect upon what he has lost by the number of years. 
 The passions which he had in youth are not to be obeyed 
 as they were then, but reason is more powerful now with- 
 out the disturbance of them. An old gentleman the 
 other day in discourse with a friend of his (reflecting 
 upon some adventures they had in youth together) cried 
 out, * Oh, Jack, those were happy days !' — ' That is true, 
 replied his friend, * but methinks we go about our busi- 
 ness more quietly than we did then. One would think 
 it should be no small satisfaction to have gone so far in 
 our journey that the heat of the day is over with us. 
 When life itself is a fever, as it is in licentious youth, 
 the pleasures of it are no other than the dreams of a 
 man in that distemper ; and it is as absurd to wish the 
 return of that season of life, as for a man in health to be
 
 172 THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 153. 
 
 sorry for the loss of gilded palaces, fairy walks, and flowery 
 pastures, with which he remembers he was entertained in 
 the troubled slumbers of a fit of sickness. 
 
 As to all the rational and worthy pleasures of our 
 bein^, the conscience of a good fame, the contemplation 
 of another life, the respect and commerce of honest men, 
 our capacities for such enjoyments are enlarged by years. 
 While health endures, the latter part of life, in the eye 
 of reason, is certainly the more eligible. The memory of 
 a well-spent youth gives a peaceable, unmixed, and ele- 
 gant pleasure to the mind ; and to such who are so unfor- 
 tunate as not to be able to look back on youth with 
 satisfaction, they may give themselves no little consola- 
 tion that they are under no temptation to repeat their 
 follies, and that they at present despise them. It was 
 prettily said, * He that would be long an old man, must 
 begin early to be one :' It is too late to resign a thing 
 after a man is robbed of it ; therefore it is necessary that 
 before the arrival of age we bid adieu to the pursuits of 
 youth, otherwise sensual habits will live in our imagina- 
 tions, when our limbs cannot be subservient to them. 
 The poor fellow who lost his arm last siege, will tell you, 
 he feels the fingers that are buried in Flanders ache every 
 cold morning at Chelsea. 
 
 The fond humour of appearing in the gay and fashion* 
 able world, and being applauded for trivial excellencies, 
 is what makes youth have age in contempt, and makes 
 age resign with so ill a grace the qualifications of youth: 
 but this in both sexes is inverting all things, and turning 
 the natural course of our minds, which should build their 
 approbations and dislikes upon what nature and reason 
 dictate, into chimera and confusion. 
 
 Age in a virtuous person, of either sex, carries in it an 
 authority which makes it preferable to all the pleasures 
 of youth. If to be saluted, attended, and consulted with 
 deference, are instances of pleasure, they are such as never 
 fail a virtuous old age. In the enumeration of the imper- 
 fections and advantages of the younger and later years of 
 ttian, they are so near in their condition, that, methinks.
 
 No. 154] THE SPECTATOR. 173 
 
 it should be incredible we see so little commerce of kind- 
 ness between them. If we consider youth and age with 
 TuUy, regarding the affinity to death, youth has many 
 more chances to be near it than age ; what youth can say 
 more than an old man, * He shall live until night ?' 
 Youth catches distempers more easily, its sickness is more 
 violent, and its recovery more doubtful. The youth in- 
 deed hopes for many more days, so cannot the old man. 
 The youth's hopes are ill grounded ; for what is more 
 foolish than to place any confidence upon an uncertainty? 
 But the old man has not room so much as to hope ; he is 
 still happier than the youth, he has already enjoyed what 
 the other does but hope for. One wishes lo live long, the 
 other has lived long. But alas, is there any thing in 
 human life, the duration of which can be called long ? 
 There is nothing which must end, to be valued for its 
 continuance. If hours, days, months and years pass 
 away, it is no matter what hour, what day, what month, 
 or what year we die. The applause of a good actor is due 
 to him at whatever scene of the play he makes his exit. 
 It is thus in the life of a man of sense, a short life is suffi- 
 cient to manifest himself a man of honour and virtue; 
 when he ceases to be such he has lived too long, and 
 while he is such, it is of no consequence to him how lonj 
 be shall be so, provided he is so to his hfe's end. T. 
 
 ►^--^s** .*.*>*>r^v/-< 
 
 No. 154.] Monday f August 27, 1711. 
 
 Nemo repeats full tarpissimos ■ Juv. Sat ii. 83. 
 
 No man e'er reach'd the heights of vice at first,— Ta^e. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * You are frequent in the mention of matters which 
 concern the feminine world, and take upon you to be 
 very severe against men upon all those occasions : but all 
 this while I am afraid you have been very little conversant 
 with women, or you would know the generality of tbera 
 ar« not so angry as you imagine at the general vices 
 .Q2
 
 174 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 154. 
 
 among us. I am apt to believe (begging your pardon) 
 that you are still vvbat I myself was once, a queer modest 
 fellow y and therefore, for your information, shall give 
 you a short account of myself, and the reasons why I was 
 forced to wench, drink, play, and do every thing which 
 are necessary to the character of a man of wit and plea- 
 sure, to be well with the ladies. 
 
 * You are to know then that I was bred a gentleman, 
 and had the finishing part of my education under a man 
 of great probity, wit, and learning, in one of our univer- 
 sities. I will not deny but this made my behaviour and 
 mien bear in it a figure of thought rather than action ; 
 and a man of a quite contrary character, who never 
 thought in his life, rallied me one day upon it, and said, 
 * he beheved I was still a virgin.' There was a young lady 
 of virtue present, and 1 was not displeased to favour the 
 insinuation ; but it had a quite contrary effect from what 
 7 expected. I was ever after treated with great coldness 
 both by that lady and all the rest of my acquaintance. 
 In 3 very little time I never came into a room but I could 
 hear a whisper, * Here comes the maid.' A girl of humour 
 would on some occasion say, * Why, how do you know- 
 more than any of us ?' An expression of that kind was 
 generally followed by a loud laugh. In a word, for no 
 other fault in the world than that they really thought me 
 as innocent as themselves, I became of no consequence 
 among them, and was received always upon the foot of 
 a jest. This made so strong an impression upon me, that 
 I resolved to be as agreeable as the best of the men who 
 laughed at me; but 1 observed it was nonsense for me to 
 be impudent at first among those who knew me. My 
 character for modesty was so notorious wherever I had 
 hitherto appeared, that 1 resolved to show my new face 
 in new quarters of the world. My first step I chose with 
 judgment ; for I went to Astrop,* and came down among 
 a crowd of academics, at one dash, the impudentest fellow 
 they had ever seen in their lives. Flushed with this 
 success; 1 made love and was happy. Upon this conquest 
 * AUTOfi WellE in Osfoidsbire.
 
 Nou 154.] THE SPECTATOR. J7» 
 
 I thought it would be unlike a gentleman to stay long 
 with my mistress, and crossed the country to Bury.* 1 
 could give you a very good account of myself at that place 
 also. At these two ended my first summer of gallantry. 
 The winter following, you would wonder at it, but I re- 
 lapsed into modesty upon coming among people of figure 
 in London, yet not so much but that the ladies who had 
 formerly laughed at me, said, * Bless us ! how wonderfully 
 that gentleman is improved !' Some familiarities about 
 the playhouses towards the end of the ensuing winter, 
 made me conceive new hopes of adventures. And in- 
 stead of returning the next summer to Astrop or Bury, 
 1 thought myself qualified to go to E}»som, and followed 
 a young woman, whose relations were jealous of my place 
 in her favour, to Scarborough. I carried my point, and 
 in my third year aspired to go to Tun bridge, and in the 
 autumn of the same year made my appearance at Bath. 
 I was now got into the way of talk proper for ladies, and 
 was run into a vast acquaintance among them, which I 
 always improved to the best advantage. In all this course 
 of time, and some years following, I found a sober modest 
 man was always looked upon by both sexes as a precise 
 unfashioned fellow of no life or spirit. It was ordinary 
 for a man who had been drunk in good company, or 
 passed a night with a wench, to speak of it next day 
 before women for whom he had the greatest respect. 
 He was reproved, perhaps, with a blow of the fan, or with 
 an * oh fy !' but the angry lady still preserved an apparent 
 approbation in her countenance. He was called a strange 
 wicked fellow, a sad wretch; he shrugs his shoulders, 
 swears, receives another blow, swears again he did not 
 know he swore, and all was well. You might often see 
 men game in the presence of women, and throw at once 
 for more than they were worth, to recommend themselves 
 as men of spirit. I found by long experience that the 
 loosest principles and most abandoned behaviour, carried 
 all before them in pretensions to women of fortune. 
 The encouragement given to people of this stamp mad^ 
 • Bury-tair. A place of fashionable resort.
 
 ! 76 THE spectator; [No. 1 54. 
 
 me soon throw off the remaining impressions of a sober 
 education. In the above-mentioned places, as well as in 
 town, I always kept company with those who lived most 
 at large ; and in the process of time I was a pretty rake 
 among the men, and a very pretty fellow among the 
 women. I must confess, I had some melancholy hours 
 upon the account of the narrowness of my fortune, but 
 my conscience at the same time gave me the comfort 
 that I had qualified myself for marrying a fortune. 
 
 * When i had lived in this manner for some time, and 
 became thus accomplished, I was now in the twenty- 
 seventh year of my age, and about the forty-seventh of 
 my constitution, my health and estate wasting very fast ; 
 when I happened to fall into the company of a very pretty 
 young lady in her own disposal. I entertained the com- 
 pany, as we men of gallantry generally do, with the many 
 haps and disasters, watchings under windows, escapes from 
 jealous husbands, and several other perils. The young 
 thing was wonderfully charmed with one that knew the 
 world so well, and talked so fine ; with Desderaona, all 
 her lover said affected her; * It was strange, it was won- 
 drous strange.* In a word, I saw the impression I had 
 made upon her, and with a very little application the 
 pretty thing has married me. There is so much charm 
 in her innocence and beauty, that I do now as much 
 detest the course I have been in for many years, as I ever 
 did before I entered into it. 
 
 * What I intend, Mr. Spectator, by writing all this to 
 you, is that you would, before you go any further with 
 your panegyrics on the fair-sex, give them some lectures 
 upon their silly approbations. It is that I am weary of 
 vice, and that it was not my natural way, that I am now 
 so far recovered as not to bring this believing dear creature 
 to contempt and poverty for her generosity to me. At the 
 same time tell the youth of good education of our sex, 
 that they take too little care of improving themselves in 
 little things. A good air at entering into a room, a pro- 
 per audacity in expressing himself with gayety and grace- 
 fulness, would make a young gentleman of virtue and
 
 No. 155.] THE SPECTATOR. 177 
 
 sense capable of discountenancing the shallow impudent 
 rogues, that shine among the women. 
 
 ' Mr. Spectator, I do not doubt but you are a very saga- 
 cious j»erson, but you are so great with Tully of late, that 
 I fear you will contemn these things as matters of no 
 consequence: but believe me, sir, they are of the highest 
 importance to human life ; and if you can do any thing 
 towards opening fair eyes, you will lay an obligation upon 
 all your contemporaries, who are fathers, husbands, or 
 brothers to females. 
 
 * Your most aflfectionate humble servant, 
 
 'SIMON HONEYCOMB/ 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 135.] Tuesday, August 28, 1711. 
 
 lis Dugse scria duount 
 
 In mala Hor. Art Poet. ▼. 451. 
 
 '.These things, Mrhich now seem frivolons and slight. 
 Will prove of serious couseqnence. Roscommon. 
 
 1 HAVE more than once taken notice of an indecent 
 license taken in discourse, wherein the conversation on 
 one part is involuntary, and the efFe(;t of some necessary 
 circumstance. This happens in travelling together in the 
 same hired coach, sitting near each other in any public 
 assembly, or the like. I have, upon making observations 
 of this sort, received innumerable messages from that 
 part of the fair-sex whose lot in life it is to be of any trade 
 or public way of life. They are all, to a woman, urgent 
 with me to lay before the world the unhappy circum- 
 stances they are under, from the unreasonable liberty 
 which is taken in their presence, to talk on what subject 
 it is thought fit by every coxcomb who wants understand- 
 ing or breeding. One or two of these complaints I shall 
 set down. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I keep a coffee-house, and am one of those whom you 
 have thought fit to mention as an idol some time ago.
 
 178 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 155. 
 
 I suffered a good deal of raillery upon that occasion ; but 
 shall heartily forgive you, who are the cause of it, if you 
 will do me Justice in another point. What I ask of you, 
 is, to acquaint my customers (who are otherwise very good 
 ones) that I am unavoidably hasped in my bar, and can- 
 not help hearing the improper discourses they are pleased 
 to entertain me with. They strive who shall say the most 
 immodest things in my hearing. At the same time half 
 a dozen of them loll at the bar staring just in my face, 
 ready to interpret my looks and gestures according to their 
 own imaginations. In this passive condition I know not 
 where to cast my eyes, place my hands, or what to employ 
 myself in. But this confusion is to be a jest, and I hear 
 them say in the end, with an insipid air of mirth and 
 subtlety, *' Let her alone, she knows as well as we, for all 
 she looks so." Good Mr. Spectator, persuade gentlemen 
 that it is out of ail decency. Say it is possible a woman 
 may be modest and yet keep a public-house. Be pleased 
 to argue, that in truth the affront is the more unpar- 
 donable because I am obliged to suffer it, and caimot fly 
 from it. I do assure you, sir, the cheerfulness of life 
 which would arise from the honest gain I have, is utterly 
 lost to me, from the endless, flat, impertinent pleasantries 
 which I hear from morning to night. In a word, it is too 
 much for me to bear ; and I desire you to acquaint them, 
 that I will keep pen and ink at the bar, and write down 
 all they say to me, and send it to you for the press. It is 
 possible when they see how empty what they speak, with- 
 out the advantage of an impudent countenance and ges- 
 ture, will appear, they may come to some sense of them- 
 selves, and the insults they are guilty of towards me. 
 ' 1 am. Sir, 
 * Your most humble servant, 
 
 • THE IDOL.' 
 
 'This representation is so just, that it is hard to speak 
 of it without an indignation which perhaps would appear 
 too elevated to such as can be guilty of this inhuman 
 treatment, where they see they affroot a modest, plain,
 
 No. 155.] THE SPECTATOR. 179 
 
 and ingenuous behaviour. This correspondent is not the 
 only sufferer in this kind, for I have long letters both from 
 the Royal and New-Exchange on the same subject. They 
 tell me that a young fop cannot buy a pair of gloves, but 
 he is at the same time straining for some ingenious 
 ribaldry to say to the young woman who helps them on. 
 It is no small addition to the calamity, that the rogues 
 buy as hard as the plainset and modestest customers they 
 have; besides which, they loll upon their counters half aii 
 hour longer than they need, to drive away other cus- 
 tomers, who are to share their impertinencies with the 
 milliner, or go to another shop. Letters from 'Change- 
 alley are full of the same evil; and the girls tell me, 
 except I can chase some eminent merchants from their 
 shops, they shall in a short time fail. It is very unac- 
 countable, that men can have so little deference to all 
 mankind who pass by them, as to bear being seen toying 
 by twos and threes at a time, with no other purpose but 
 to appear gay enough to keep up a light conversation of 
 common-place jests, to the injurjof her whose credit is 
 certainly hurt by it, though their own may be strong 
 enough to bear it. When we come to have exact accounts 
 of these conversations, it is not to be doubled hut that 
 their discourses will raise the usual style of buying and 
 selling. Instead of the plain downright lying, and asking; 
 and bidding so unequally to what they will really give and 
 take, we may hope to have from these fine folks an ex- 
 change of compliments. There must certainly be a great 
 deal of pleasant difference between the commerce of lovers, 
 and that of all other dealers, who are, in a kind, adver- 
 saries. A sealed bond, or a bank-note, would be a pretty 
 gallantry to convey unseen into the hands of one whom a 
 director is charmed with ; otherwise the city-loiterers ars 
 still more unreasonable than those at the other end of the 
 town. At the New-Exchange they are eloquent for want 
 of cash, but in the city they ought with cash to supply 
 their want of eloquence. 
 
 If one might be serious on this prevailing folly, one 
 might oUerve, that it is a melancholy thing, when the
 
 180 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 155. 
 
 world is mercenary even to the buying and selling our 
 Very persons ; that young women, though they have never 
 so great attractions from nature, are never the nearer 
 being happily disposed of in marriage; I say, it is very 
 hard under this necessity, it shall not be possible for them 
 to go into a way of trade for their maintenance, but their 
 ▼ery excellencies and personal perfections shall be a dis- 
 advantage to them, and subject them to be treated as if 
 they stood there to sell their persons to prostitution. 
 There cannot be a more melancholy circumstance to one 
 iivho has made any observation in the world, than one of 
 those erring creatures exposed to bankruptcy. When 
 that happens, none of those toying fools will do any more 
 than any other man they meet, to preserve her from in- 
 famy, insult, and distemper. A woman is naturally more 
 helpless than the other sex ; and a man of honour and sense 
 should have this in his view in all manner of commerce 
 ■with her. Were this well weighed, inconsideration, ri- 
 baldry, and nonsense, would not be more natural to 
 entertain women with than men; and it would be as 
 much impertinence to go into a shop of one of these young 
 women without buying, as into that of any other trader. 
 I shall end this speculation, with a letter I have received 
 from a pretty milliner Lq the city. 
 
 ♦ SIR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I have read your account of beauties, and was not a 
 little surprised to find no character of myself in it. 1 do 
 assure you I have little else to do but to give audience, as 
 I am such. Here are merchants of no small consideration, 
 who call in as certainly as they go to 'Change, to say 
 something of my roguish eye. And here is one who 
 Baakes me once or twice a week tumble over all my goods, 
 and then owns it was only a gallantry to see me act with 
 these pretty hands ; then lays out three-pence in a little 
 riband for his wristbands, and thinks he is a man of great 
 vivacity. There is an ugly thing not far off rae, whose 
 shop is frequented only by people of business, that is all 
 day long as busy as possible. Must I that am a beauty
 
 No. 156.] iTHE SPECTATOR. 181 
 
 be treated with for nothing but my beauty .* Be pleased 
 to assign rates to my kind glances, or make all pay who 
 come to see me, or I shall be undone by my admirers for 
 want of customers. Albacinda, Eudosia, and all the rest, 
 would be used just as we are, if they were in our con- 
 dition ; therefore pray consider the distress of us, the 
 lower order of beauties, and I shall be 
 T. * Your obliged humble servant.* 
 
 No. 156.] Wednesday, August 29, 1711. 
 Scd tu simul obligAsli 
 
 Perfidum votis caput, euitescis 
 
 Pulchrior multo Hor. Lib. 2. Od. 
 
 When once thou hast broke some tender vow, 
 All perjiir'd, dost more charniinjj grow ? 
 
 I DO not think any thing could make a pleasanter en» 
 tertainment, than the history of the reigning favouritei 
 among the women from time to time about this town. 
 In such an account we ought to have a faithful confession 
 of each lady for what she liked such and such a man, and 
 he ought to tell us by what particular action or dress he 
 believed he should be most successful. As for my part, 
 I have ahvays made as easy a judgment when a maa 
 dresses .for the ladies, as when he«is equipped for hunting 
 or coursing. The woman's man is a person in his air andL 
 behaviour quite different from the rest of our species. His 
 garb is more loose and negligent, his manner more soft 
 and indolent; that is to say, in both these cases there ii 
 an apparent endeavour to appear unconcerned and care- 
 less. In catching birds the fowlers have a method of 
 imitating their voices, to bring them to the snare; and 
 your women's men have always a similitude of the crea- 
 ture they hope to betray, in their own conversation. A 
 woman's man is very knowing in all that passes from one 
 family to another, has pretty little officiousnesses, is not 
 at a loss what is good for a cold, and it is not amiss if he 
 has a bottle of spirits in his pocket in case of any sudden 
 indisposition. 
 
 Vol. U. R
 
 J82 THE SPECTATOR. LXo. 155. 
 
 Curiosity having been my prevailiBg; passion, and indeed 
 the sole entertainment of my life, I have sometimes made 
 it my business to examine the course of intrigues as uell 
 as the manners and accomplishments of such as have 
 been most successful that way. In all my observation, 
 I never knew a man of good understanding a general 
 favourite ; some singularity in his behaviour, some whim 
 in his way of life, and what would have made him ridicu- 
 lous among the men, has recommended him to the other 
 sex. I should he very sorry to offend a people so fortu- 
 nate as these of whom I am si.>e.-\king; but let anyone 
 look over the old beaux, and he will find the man of suc- 
 cess was remarkable for quarrelling impertinently for their 
 sakes, for dressing unlike the rest of tlie world, or passing 
 his days in an insipid ;.ssiduity about tlie fair-sex to gain 
 the figure he made amongst them. Add to this, that he 
 must have the reputation of being well with other women, 
 to please any one woman of gallantry; for you are to 
 know, that there is a mighty ambition among the light 
 part of the sex to gain slaves from the dominion of others. 
 My friend Will Honeycomb says it was a common bite 
 with him, to lay suspicions that he was favoured by a 
 lady's enemy, that is, some rival beauty, to be well with 
 herself. A little spite is natural to a great beauty: and 
 it is ordinary to snap up a disagreeable fellow lest another 
 should have him. That impudent toad Bareface fares well 
 among all the ladies he converses with, for no other reason 
 in the world but that he has the skill to keep them from 
 explanation with one another. Did they know there is 
 not one who likes him in her heart, each would declare 
 her scorn of him the next moment; but he is well re- 
 ceived by them because it is the fishion, and opposition 
 to each other brings them insensibly into an imitation of 
 each other. What adds to him the greatest grace is, that 
 tiie pleasant thief, as they call him, is the most incon- 
 stant creature living, has a wonderful deal of wit and 
 humour, and never wants something to say; besides all 
 which, he has a most spiteful dangerous tongue if you 
 should provoke him.
 
 No. 156.J THE SPECTATOR. 133 
 
 To make a woman's man, he must not be a man of 
 sense, or a fool; the business js to entertain, and it is much 
 better to have a faculty of arguine;, than a cajiacity of 
 judging right. But the pleasantest of all the women's 
 equipage are your regular visitants ; these are volunteers 
 in their service, without hopes of pay or preferment. It 
 is enough that they can lead out from a public place, that 
 they are admitted on a public day, and can be allowed to 
 pass away part of that heavy load, their time, in the 
 company of the fair. But commend me above all others 
 to those who are known for jijur miners of ladies ; these 
 are the choicest spirits which our age produces. We 
 have several of these irresistible gentlemen among us when 
 the company is in town. These fellows are accomplished 
 with the knowledge of the ordinary occurrences about 
 court and town, have that sort of good-breeding which 
 is exclusive of all morality, and consists only in being 
 publickly decent, privately dissolute. 
 
 It is wonderful how far a fond opinion of herself can 
 carry a woman, to make iier have the least regard to a 
 professed known woman's man ; but as scarce one of all 
 the women who are in the tour of gallaritries ever hears 
 any thing of what is the common sense of sober minds, 
 but are entertained with a continual round of flatteries, 
 they cannot be mistresses of themselves enough to make 
 arguments for their own conduct from the behaviour of 
 these men to others. It is so far otherwise, that a generril 
 fame for falsehood in this kind, is a recommendation ; 
 and the coxcomb, loaded with the favours of many others, 
 is received like a victor that disdains his trophies, to be 
 a victim to the present charmer. 
 
 If you see a man more full of gesture than ordinary 
 in a public assembly, if loud upon no occasion, if neg- 
 ligent of the company around liiio, and yec hying wait 
 for destroying by that negligence, you may take it for 
 granted that he has ruined many a fair one. The woman's 
 man expresses himself wholly in that motion which we 
 call strutting. An elevated chest, a pinched hat, a mea- 
 surable step, and a sly surveying eye, are the marks of
 
 184 ;THE spectator. [No. 157. 
 
 him. Now and then you see a gentleman with all these 
 accomplishments ; but, alas, any one of them is enough 
 to undo thousands : when a gentleman with such perfec- 
 tions adds to it suitable learning, there should be public 
 warning of his residence in town, that we may remove 
 our wives and daughters. It happens sometimes that such 
 a fine man has read all the miscellany poems, a few of 
 our comedies, and has the translation of Ovid's Epistles 
 by heart. * Oh if it were possible that such a one could 
 be as true as he is charming ! But that is too much, the 
 •women will share such a dear false man: a little gallantry 
 to hear him talk one would indulge one's self in, let him 
 reckon the sticks of one's fan, say something of the Cu- 
 pids in it; and then call one so many soft names which 
 a man of his learning has at his fingers'-ends. There sure 
 is some excuse for frailty, when attacked by such force 
 against a weak woman.* Such is the soliloquy of many a 
 lady one might name, at the sight of one of those who 
 makes it no iniquity to go on from day to day in the sin 
 of woman-slaughter. 
 
 It is certain that people are got into a way of affecta- 
 tion, with a manner of overlooking the most solid virtues, 
 and admiring the most trivial excellencies. The woman is 
 so far from expecting to be contemned for being a very 
 injudicious silly animal, that while she can preserve her 
 features and her mien, she knows she is still the object 
 of desire; and there is a sort of secret ambition, from 
 reading frivolous books, and keeping as frivolous company, 
 each side to be amiable in perfection, and arrive at the 
 characters of the Dear Deceiver and the Perjured Fair, j 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 157.] Thursday, August 30, 1711. 
 
 Genius, natale comes qui temperat aslrum, 
 
 Natnrae Deiis humanae, inortalis in unum- 
 
 quodque caput ■ Uor. Lib. 2. Ep. ii. 187. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 That directing pow'r. 
 
 Who forms the genius in the natal )iour :
 
 No. 157.] THE SPECTATOR. 185 
 
 Tliat God of nature, who, witlun us still, 
 
 Inclines oar aciioii, not coii.tr.iius our will.— Pop?. 
 
 I AM very rauch at a loss to express by any word that 
 occurs to me in our language that which is understood by 
 indoles in Latin, The natural disposition to any particular 
 art, science, profession, or trade, is very much to be con- 
 sulted in the care of youth, and studied by men for their 
 own conduc* when they form to themselves any scheme 
 of life. It is wonderfully hard indeed for a man to judge 
 of his own capacity impartially. That may look great to 
 me which may appear little to another; and I may be 
 carried by fondness towards myself so far, as to attempt 
 things too high for my talents and accomplishments. But 
 it is not methinks so very difficult a matter to make a 
 judgment of the abilities of others, especially of those who 
 are in their infancy. My common-place book directs me 
 on this occasion to mention the dawning of greatness in 
 Alexander, who being asked in his youth to contend for a 
 prize in the Olympic games, answered he would, if he 
 had kings to run against him. Cassius, who was one of 
 the conspirators against Caesar, gave as great a proof of 
 his temper, when in his childhood he struck a play-fellow, 
 the son of Sylla, for saying his father was master of the 
 Roman people. Scipio is reported to have answered (whea 
 some flatterers at supper were asking him what the Ro- 
 mans should do for a general after his death) ' Take 
 Marius.' Marius was then a very boy, and had given no 
 instances of his valour; but it was visible to Scipio from 
 the manners of the youth, that he had a soul formed for 
 the attempt and execution of great undertakings. 1 must 
 confess I have very often with much sorrow bewailed the 
 misfortune of the children of Great Britain, when I con- 
 sider the ignorance and uudiscerning of the generality of 
 schoolmasters. The boasted liberty we talk of is but a 
 mean reward for the long servitude, the many heart- aches 
 and terrors, to which our childhood is exposed in going 
 through a grammar-school. Many of these stupid tyrants 
 exercise their cruelty without any manner of distinction 
 of the capacities of children, or the intention of parents 
 R3
 
 186 THE'SPECTATOR, [No. 15^. 
 
 in their behalf. There are many excellent tempers which 
 are worthy to be nourished and cultivated with all pos- 
 sible diligence and care, that were never designed to be 
 acquainted with Aristotle, TuUy, or Virgil; and there are 
 as many who have capacities for understanding every word 
 those great persons have writ, and yet were not born to 
 have any reHsh of their writings. For want of this com- 
 mon and obvious discerning in those who have the care 
 of youth, we have so many hundred unaccountable crea- 
 tures every age whipped up into great scholars, that are 
 for ever near a right understanding, and will never arrive 
 at it. These are the scandal of letters, and these are 
 generally the men who are to teach others. The sense 
 of shame and honour is enough to keep the world itself in 
 order without corporal punishment, much more to train 
 the minds of uncorrupted and innocent children. It 
 happens, I doubt not, more than once in a year, that 
 a lad is chastised for a blockhead, when it is a good ap- 
 prehension that makes him incapable of knowing what 
 his teacher means. A brisk imagination very often may 
 suggest an error, which a lad could not have fallen into, 
 if he had been as heavy in conjecturing as his master in 
 explaining. But there is no mercy even towards a wrong 
 interpretation of his meaning, the sufferings of the scho- 
 lar's body are to rectify the mistakes of his mind. 
 
 I am confident that no boy, who will not be allured to 
 letters without blows, will ever be brought to any thing 
 with them. A great or good mind must necessarily be 
 the worse for such indignities; and it is a sad change, 
 to lose of its virtue for the improvement of its knowledge. 
 No one who has gone through what they call a great 
 school, but must remember to oave seen children of ex- 
 cellent and ingenuous natures (as has afterwards appeared 
 in their manhood) ; I say no man has passed through this 
 way of education, but must have seen an ingenuous crea- 
 ture expiring with shame, with pale looks, beseeching 
 sorrow, and silent tears, throw up its honest eyes, and 
 knee on its tender knees to an inexorable blockhead, to 
 be forgiven the false quantity of a word in making a
 
 No. 157.1 THE SPECTATOR. 187 
 
 Latin verse. The child is punished, and the next day he 
 commits a like crime, and so a third with the same con- 
 sequence. I would fain ask any reasonable rnan, whether 
 this lad, in the sim^ilicity of his native innocence, full 
 of shame, and capable of any impression from that g;race 
 of soul, was not fitter for any purpose in this life, than 
 after th^t spark of virtue is extinguished in him, though 
 he is able to write twenty verses in an evening? 
 
 Seneca says, after his exalted way of talking, * As the 
 immortal gods never learnt any virtue, though they are 
 endued with all that is good ; so there are some men 
 who have so natural a propensity to what they should fol- 
 low, that they learn it almost as soon as they hear it.' 
 
 Plants and vegetables are cultivated into the production 
 of finer fruits than they would yield without that care; 
 and yet we cannot entertain hopes of producing a tender 
 conscious spirit into acts of virtue, without the same 
 methods as are used to cut timber, or give new shape to 
 a piece of stone. 
 
 It is wholly to this dreadful practice that we may at- 
 tribute a certain hardiness and ferocity which some men, 
 though liberally educated, carry about them in all their 
 behaviour. To be bred like a gentleman, and punished 
 like a malefactor, must, as we see it does, produce that 
 illiberal sauciness which we see sometimes in men of 
 letters. 
 
 The Spartan boy who suflFered the fox (which he had 
 stolen ajid hid under his coat) to eat into his bowels, I 
 dare say had not half the wit or petulance which wo learn 
 at great schools among us : but the glorious sense of 
 honour, or rather fear of shame, which he demonstrated 
 in that action, was worth all the learning in the world 
 without it. 
 
 It is methinks a very melancholy consideration, that a 
 little negligence can spoil us, but great Industry is neces- 
 sary to improve us ; the most excellent natures are soon 
 depreciated, but evil tempers are long before they ,'«re ex- 
 alted into good habits. To help this by punishments, is 
 the same thing as killing a roan to cure him of a dia-
 
 188 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 157. 
 
 temper ; when be comes to suffer punishment in that one 
 circumstance, he is brought below the existence of a ra- 
 tioual creature, and is in the state of a brute that moves 
 only by the admonition of stripes. But since this custom 
 of educating by the lash is suffered by the gentry of Great 
 Britain, I would prevail only that honest hea\7 lads may 
 be dismissed from slavery sooner than they are at pre- 
 sent, and not whipped on to their fourteenth or fifteenth 
 year, whether they expect any progress from them or not. 
 Let the child's capacity be forthwith examined, and he 
 sent to some mechanic way of life, without respect to his 
 birth, if nature designed him for nothing higher : let him 
 go before he has innocently suffered, and is debased into 
 a dereliction of mind for being what it is no guilt to be, 
 a plain man. I would not here be supposed to have said, 
 that our learned men of either robe who have been whip- 
 ped at school, are not still men of noble and liberal minds ; 
 but I am sure they had been much more so than they are, 
 had they never suffered that infamy. 
 
 But though there is so little care, as I have observed, 
 taken, or observation made of the natural strain of men, 
 it is no small comfort to me, as a Spectator, that there 
 is any right value set upon the bona indoles of other ani- 
 mals: as appears by the following advertisement handed 
 about the county of Lincoln, and subscribed by Enos 
 Thomzis, a person whom I have not the honour to know, 
 but suppose to be profoundly learned in horse-flesh : 
 
 * A chesnut horse called Caesar, bred by James Darcy, 
 esquire, at Sedbury, near Richmond, in the county of 
 York; his grandam was his old royal mare, and got by 
 Blunderbuss, which was got by Hemsly-Turk, and he got 
 by Mr. Courant's Arabian, which got Mr. Minshul's Jews- 
 Trump. Mr. CaBsar sold him to a nobleman (coming 
 rive years old, when he had but one sweat) for three hun- 
 dred guineas. A guinea a leap asd trial, and a shilling 
 
 the man. 
 
 'ENOS THOMAS.' 
 
 T.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. Iflf 
 
 No. 158.] Fridaijf August 31, 1711. 
 
 Nos hacc novimiis esse nihil. Martial, xiii. 2. 
 
 We know these things to be mere trifles. 
 
 Out of a firm regard to impartiality, I print these 
 letters, let them make for me or not. 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I have observed through the whole course of your 
 rhapsodies (as you once very well called them) you are 
 very industrious to overthrow all that many of your supe- 
 riors, who have gone before you, have made their rule of 
 writing. I am now between fifty and sixty, and had the 
 honour to be well with the first men of t£iste and gal- 
 lantry in the joyous reign of Charles the Second. We 
 then had, I humbly ])resume, as good understandings 
 among us as any now can pretend to. As for yourself, 
 Mr. Spectator, you seem with the utmost arrogance to 
 undermine the very fundamentals upon which we con- 
 ducted ourselves. It is monstrous to set up for a man of 
 wit, and yet deny that honour in a woman is any thing; 
 else but peevishness, that inclination is * not'* the best 
 rule of life, or virtue and vice any thing else but health 
 and disease. We had no more to do but to put a lady ia 
 a good humour, and all we could wish followed of course. 
 Then, again, your Tully, and your discourses of another 
 life, are the very bane of mirth and good-humour. Pr'ythee 
 do not value thyself on thy reason at that exorbitant rate, 
 and the dignity of human nature ; take my word for it, 
 a setting-dog has as good reason as any man in England. 
 Had you (as by your diurnals one would think you do) set 
 up for being in vogue in town, you should have fallen in 
 with the bent of passion and appetite ; your songs had 
 then been in every pretty mouth in England, and your 
 little distichs had been the maxims of the fair and the 
 witty to walk by : but, alas, sir, what can you hope for, 
 from entertaining people with what must, needs make 
 
 • Spect. in folio. In the 8vo. edition of I712, ' not • was left out.
 
 IdO THE SPECTATOR. [No. 158. 
 
 them like tlvemselves worse than they did before they 
 read you ? Had you made it your business to describe 
 Corinna charming, though inconstant, to find something 
 in human nature itself to make Zoilus excuse himself for 
 being fond of her ; and to make every man in good com- 
 merce with his own reflections, you had done something 
 worthy our applause ; but indeed, sir, we shall not com- 
 mend you for disapproving us. I have a great deal more 
 to say to you, but 1 shall sum it all up in this one remark. 
 In short, sir, you do not write like a gentleman. 
 * I am, Sir, 
 
 'Your most humble servant.'. 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * The other day we were several of us at a tea-table, 
 and according to custom and your own advice had the 
 Spectator read among us. It was that paper wherein 
 you are pleased to treat with great freedom that character 
 which you call a woman's man. We gave up all the 
 kinds you have mentioned, except those who, you say, 
 are our constant visitants. I weis upon the occasion com- 
 missioned by the company to write to you and tell you, 
 ** that we shall not part with the men we have at pre- 
 sent, until the men of sense think fit to relieve them, and 
 give us their company in their stead." You cannot imagine 
 but that we love to hear reason and good sense better 
 than the ribaldry we are at present entertained with, but 
 we must have company, and among us very inconsider- 
 able is better than none at all. We are made for the 
 cements of society, and came into the world to create 
 relations amongst mankind ; and solitude is an unnatural 
 being to us. If the men of good understanding would 
 forget a little of their severity, they would find their ac- 
 count in it : and their wisdom would have a pleasure in 
 it, to which they are now strangers. It is natural among 
 us when men have a true relish of our company and our 
 value, to say every thing with a better grace: and there 
 is without designing it something ornamental in what 
 men utter before women, which is lost or neglected in
 
 No. 158.] THE SPECTATOR. Ijl 
 
 conversations of men only. Give me leave to tell you, 
 sir, it would do you no great harm if you yourself came a 
 little more into our conij)ai)y : it would certainly cure you 
 of a certain positive and determining manner in which you 
 talk sometimes. In hopes of your amendment, 
 
 ' I am, Sir, your gentle reader.' 
 ' Ma. SPECTATOR. 
 * Your professed regard to the fair-sex, may perhaps 
 make them value your admonitions when they will not 
 those of other men. I desire you, sir, to repeat some 
 lectures upon subjects which you have now and then in 
 a cursory manner only just touched. I would have a 
 Spectator wholly writ upon ^ood- breeding; and after you 
 have asserted that time and place are to be very much 
 considered in all our actictis, it will be proper to dwell 
 upon behaviour at church. On Sunday last a grave and 
 reverend man preached at our church. There was some- 
 thing particular in his accent, but without any manner 
 of affectation. This particularity a set of gigglers thou2;ht 
 the most necessary thing to be taken notice of in his 
 whole discourse, and made it an occasi.on of mirth during 
 the whole time of sermon. You should see one of them 
 ready to burst behind a fan, another pointing to a com- 
 panion in another seat, and a third with an arch com- 
 posure, as if she would if possible stifle her laughter. 
 There were many gentlemen who looked at them stead- 
 fastly, but this they took for ogling and admiring them. 
 There was one of the merrry ones in particular, that found 
 out but just then that she had but five fingers, for she 
 fell a reckoning the pretty pieces of ivory over and over 
 again, to find herself employment and not laugh out. 
 Would it not be expedient, Mr. Spectator, that the churcn- 
 warden should hold up his wand on the<;e occasions, and 
 keep the decency of the place as a magi.ti t\te does the 
 peace m a tumult elsewhere ?' 
 
 * Mil. SPECIATOR, 
 ' I am a woman's man, and read with a very fine laJy 
 jour paper, wherein you fall upon us whom yuu envy:
 
 m (THE SPECTATOR. [No. 159. 
 
 what do you think I did ? You must know she was dress- 
 ing-, ami 1 read the Spectator to her, and she laughed at 
 the places where she thought I was touched ; 1 threw 
 away your moral, and taking up her girdle, cried out, 
 
 ' Give me but wLat this riband bound. 
 Take all the rest the sun goes round.'* 
 
 * She smiled, sir, and said you were a pedant; so say of 
 me what you please, read Seneca, and quote him against 
 me if you think fit. ' I am. Sir, 
 
 T. * Your humble servant.' 
 
 No. 159. Saturday, September 1, 1711. 
 
 Omnem, qua; nunc obducta tuenU 
 
 ]Mortales hebetat visiis tibi, et hnmida circAm 
 
 Caligat, nubem eripjam yirg. S.n. ii. 604- 
 
 The cloud, which, intercepting the clear light. 
 Hangs o'lt thy cye», and blunts thy mortal sight, 
 I will renwve 
 
 When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several oriental 
 manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I 
 met with one entitled, The Visions of Mirza, which I have 
 read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the 
 public when I have no other entertainment for them; 
 and shall begin with the first vision, which I have trans- 
 lated word for word as follows : 
 
 * On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the 
 custom of my forefathers I always keep holy, after having 
 washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, 
 1 ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the 
 rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here 
 airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into 
 a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; 
 and passing from one thought to another, " Surely," said 
 I, " man is but a shadow, anil life a dream." Whilst 
 I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of 
 a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one 
 
 • Waller'* verses on a lady*! girdla.
 
 No. 159.] THE SPECTATOR. 193 
 
 in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instru- 
 ment in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it 
 to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it 
 was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes 
 that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether dif- 
 ferent from any thing I had ever heard. They put me in 
 mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed 
 souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to 
 wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify 
 them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart 
 melted away in secret raptures, 
 
 * I had been often told that the rock before me was the 
 haunt of 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. When he 
 had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which 
 he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I 
 looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, 
 and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach 
 the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence 
 which is due to a superior nature ; and as my heart was 
 entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, 
 I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon 
 me with a look of compassion and affability that fami- 
 liarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all 
 the fears and apprehensions with which 1 approached 
 him. He hfted me from the ground, and taking me by 
 the hand, " Mirza," said he, " 1 have heard thee in thy 
 soliloquies; follow me." 
 
 * He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, 
 and placing me on the top of it, *' Cast thy eyes eastward," 
 said he, '* and tell me what thou seest." — *' 1 see," said I, 
 ** a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling 
 through it." — '' The valley that thou seest," said he, " is 
 the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest, 
 is part of the great tide of eternity." *' What is the rea- 
 son," said I, " that the tide I see rises out of a thick 
 mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at 
 the other?"—** What thou seest," said he, " is that por- 
 
 Vol.11. " S
 
 194 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 159. 
 
 tion of eternity which is called time, measured out by 
 the sut), and reaching from the beginning of the world 
 to its consunamation." — " Examine now," said he, "this 
 sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and 
 tell me what thou discoverest in it." — " I see a bridge," 
 said I, ** standing in the midst of the tide." — " The bridge 
 thou seest," said he, ** is human life, consider it atten- 
 tively." Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that 
 it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with 
 several broken arches, which added to those that were 
 entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I 
 was counting the arches, the genius told me that this 
 bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches : but that 
 a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in 
 the ruinous condition I now beheld it. " But tell me far- 
 ther," said he, '* what thou discoverest on it," — " I see 
 multitudes of people passing over it," said I, " and a 
 black cloud hanging on each end of it." As I looked 
 more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping 
 through the bridge into the great tide that flowed under- 
 neath it ; and upon farther examination, perceived there 
 ' were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the 
 bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but 
 they fell through them into the tide, and immediately 
 disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick 
 at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people 
 no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell 
 into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but 
 multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the 
 arches that were entire. 
 
 * There were indeed some persons, but their number 
 was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march 
 on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, 
 being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. 
 
 * I j)a5sed some time in the contemplation of this won- 
 derful structure, and the great variety of objects which it 
 presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy 
 to se.' several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of 
 mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood
 
 No. 159.] THE SPECTATOR. I95 
 
 by them to save themselves. Some were looking: up to- 
 wards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst 
 of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes 
 were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered 
 in their eyes and danced before them ; but often when 
 they thought themselves within the reach of them, their 
 footing failed and down they sunk. In this confusion of 
 objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, 
 and others with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the 
 bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did 
 not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have 
 escaped had they not been thus forced upon them. 
 
 * The genius seeing me indulge myself on this melan- 
 choly prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. 
 ** Take thine eyes off the bridge," said be, " and tell me if 
 thou yet seest any thing thou dost not comprehend." 
 Upon looking up, " What mean," said I, ** those great 
 flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the 
 bridge, and settling upon it from time to time.' I see 
 vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many 
 other feathered creatures several little winged boys, that 
 perch in great numbers upon the middle arches."— 
 ** These," said the genius, " are Envy, Avarice, Super- 
 stition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions 
 that infest human life." 
 
 * I here fetched a deep sigh, " Alas," said I, " man 
 was made in vain! bow is he given away to misery and 
 mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!" 
 The genius being moved with compassion towards me, bid 
 roe quit so uncomfortable a prospect. " Look no more," 
 said he, '* on man in the first stage of his existence, in his 
 setting out for eternity ; but cast thine eye on that thick 
 mist into which the tide beare the several generations of 
 mortals that fall into it. I directed my sight as I was 
 ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened 
 it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the 
 mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) 
 I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading 
 forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of
 
 ipe THE SPECTATOR. [No. 159. 
 
 adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing 
 it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one 
 half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it: 
 but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with 
 innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and 
 flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining 
 seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed 
 in glorious habits with garlands upon their heads, passing 
 among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or 
 resting on beds of floweis; and could hear a confused 
 harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, 
 and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the 
 discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings 
 of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats ; 
 hut the genius told me there was no passage to them, ex- 
 cept through the gates of death that I saw opening every 
 moment upon the bridge. *' The islands," said he, 
 ** that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which 
 the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou 
 canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea- 
 shore ; there are myriads of islands behind those which 
 thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or 
 even thine imagination can extend itself. , These are the 
 mansions of good men after death, who according to the 
 degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are 
 distributed among these several islands, which abound 
 with pleasures of diflFerent kinds and degrees, suitable 
 to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled 
 in them ; every island is a Paradise accommodated to its 
 respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habita- 
 tions worth contending for ? Does life appear miserable, 
 that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward ? 
 Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy 
 an existence? Think not man was made in vain, wht> 
 has such an eternity reserved for him." I gazed with in- 
 expressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, 
 said I, ''Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that 
 lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on 
 the other side of the rpck of adamant." The genius
 
 No. 160.1 THE SPECTATOR. 197 
 
 making me no answer, I turned me about to address my- 
 self to him a second time, but 1 found that he had left 
 me; I then turned ag^ain to the vision which I had been 
 so long contemplating: but, instead of the rolling tide, 
 the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing 
 but the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, 
 and camels, grazing upon the sides of it. 
 
 The End of the first Vision of Mirza, 
 
 c. 
 
 No. 160.] Monday, September 3, 171i. 
 
 Cui mens divinior, atque os 
 
 Magna sonaturum, des nominis hujns honorem. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. iv. 43. 
 On him confer the Poet'» sacred name, 
 Whose lofty voice declares the heav'nly flame. 
 
 ^ There is no character more frequently given to a 
 writer, than that of being a genius. I have heard many 
 a little sonnetteer called a fine genius. There is not an 
 heroic scribbler in the nation, that has not his admirers 
 who think hira a great genius ; and as for your smat- 
 terers in tragedy, there is scarce a man among them who 
 is not cried up by one or other for a prodigious genius. 
 
 My design in this paper is to consider what is properly 
 a great genius, and to throw some thoughts together oa 
 so uncommon a subject. 
 
 Among great geniuses those few draw the admiration 
 of all the world upon them, and stand up as the prodigies 
 of mankind, who by the mere strength of natural parts, 
 and without any assistance of art or learning, have pro- 
 duced works that were the delight of their own times, and 
 the wonder of posterity. There appears something nobly 
 wild and extravagant in these great natural geniuses that 
 is infinitely more beautiful than all the turn and polishing 
 of what the French call a bel esprit, by which they would 
 express a genius refined by conversation, reflection, and 
 the reading of the most polite authors. The greatest 
 genius which runs through the arts and sciences, takes 
 S2
 
 198 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 160. 
 
 a kind of tincture from thera, and falls unavoidably into 
 imitation. 
 
 Many of these great natural g'eniuses that were never 
 disciplined and broken by rules of art, are to be found 
 among the ancients, and in partlc-Uar among tho=e of the 
 more eastern parts of the world. Humer ha? innumerable 
 flights that Virgil was not able to reach, and in the Old 
 Testament we find several passages more elevated and 
 sublime than any in Homer. At the same time that we 
 allow a greater and more daring genius to the ancients, 
 we must own that the greatest of them verj- much failed 
 in, or, if you will, that they were much above the nicety 
 and correctness of the moderns. In their similitudes and 
 allusions, provided there was a likeness, they did not much 
 trouble themselves about the decency of the comparison: 
 thus Solomon resembles the nose of his beloved to the 
 tower of Lebanon which looketh towards Damascus ; as 
 the coming of a thief in the night, is a similitude of the 
 same kind in the New Testament. It would be endless 
 to make collections of this nature ; Homer illustrates 
 one of his heroes encompassed vvith the en'^my, by an ass 
 in a field of corn that has his sides belaboured by all the 
 boys of the village without stirring a foot for it ; and an- 
 other of them tossing to and fro in his bed and burning 
 with resentment, to a piece of flesh broiled on the coals. 
 This particular failure in the ancients, opens a large field 
 of raillery to the little wits, who can laugh at an inde- 
 cency, but not relish the sublime in these sorts of writings. 
 The present emperor of Persia, conformable to this eastern 
 way of thinking, amidst a great many pompous titles, de- 
 nominates himself ' the sun of glory,' and ' the nutmeg 
 of delight.' In short, to cut off all cavilling against the 
 ancients, and particularly those of the warmer climates, 
 who had most heat and life in their imaginations, we are 
 to consider that the rule of observing what the French 
 call the bienseance in an allusion, has been found out of 
 later years, and in the colder regions of the world ; where 
 we would make some amends for our want of force and 
 spirit, by a scrupulous nicety and exactness in our com-
 
 No. 160.] THE SPECTATOR. igo 
 
 positions. Our countryman Shakspeare was a remarkable 
 instance of this first kind of great geniuses. 
 
 I cannot quit this head without observing that Pindar 
 was a great genius of the first ciass, who was hurried 
 on by a natural fire and impetuosity to vast conceptions 
 of things and noble sallies of imagination. At the same 
 time, can any thing be more ridiculous than for men of 
 a sober and moderate fancy to imitate this poet's way of 
 writing in those monstrous compositions which go among 
 us under the name of Pindarics? When I see people 
 copying works, which, as Horace has represented them, 
 are singular in their kind, and inimituble ; when 1 see 
 men following irregularities by rule, and by the little 
 tricks of art straining after the most unbounded flights 
 of nature, I cannot but apply to them that passage ia 
 Terence : 
 
 Tnccrta hacc si tu postules 
 
 Ratione certa lacert', tiihilo plus at;.is, 
 
 Qudxn si des operatn, nC cuiu ratione insauias. 
 
 Eun. Act. 1. Sc. I. 
 You may as well pretend to be mad and in your senses at the same 
 time, as to think of reducing these uncertain things to any certainty by 
 reason. 
 
 In short, a modern Pindaric writer compared with 
 Pindar, is like a sister among the Camisars*^ compared with 
 
 • A particular account of these people, and the strange fortune of their 
 leader, is to be loi:nfi in Vo'taire's " Sidclc de Louis XIV." A few of 
 them mafie their a i pear 3 nee in this country in the year 1707, of whom 
 Smollett ^ives rb*- foliowin? account:— 
 
 «' ITiree CHiiisars, or protes'auls, from the Cevennois, having made 
 their cscapo, I'd reriaiied lo ■Lo.n.ion, acquired about this lime the appel. 
 Iati>n of r>cnch prr.phets, from their enthusiastic gesticulations, effusions, 
 and con vilsjona and even formed a sect of their countrymen. The French 
 refugees, scauiilized it their behaviour, and authorised by the bishop of 
 Lon'lou, as sujieiior ot the Frcncli congregations, resolved to inquire into 
 the mission of these pr'i ii..i. ■i prophets, whose names were, Elias Marion, 
 .lohn C'avalier, and Diuand £age. They were declared impostors and 
 count rfeils. Notvvit'.istan ling this decision, wtiicli was confir.ued by 
 thi: bjshops, thej contini;°fl theit assen)blies i« Soho, under the coun- 
 ten.-mc!' of Sjr Richard Bulkeley and Jolm Lary. They reviled the nu- 
 niittrs of the cti^blished cliiirch : they den(/unced judgments agninst the 
 city of Loudon, and the whole British nation ; and published their pre- 
 dictions romptised of unintelligible jargon. Then tUey were prosecuted 
 at the expense of tfac French churches, as disturbers of the public peace
 
 l:oo THE SPECTATOR. ' [No. 16o; 
 
 Virgil's Sibyl : there is the distortion, grimace, and out- 
 ward figure, but nothing of that divine impulse which 
 raises the mind above itself, and makes the sounds more 
 than human. 
 
 There is another kind of great geniuses which I shall 
 place in a second class, not as I think them inferior to 
 the first, but only for distinction's sake, as they are of a 
 different kind. This second class of great geniuses are 
 those that have foraaed themselves by rules, and sub- 
 mitted the greatness of their natural talents to the cor- 
 rections and restraints of art. Such among the Greeks 
 were Plato and Aristotle ; among the Romans Virgil and 
 TuUy ; among the English, Milton and Sir Francis Bacon. 
 
 The genius in both these classes of authors may be 
 equally great, but shows itself after a different manner. 
 In the first it is like a rich soil in a happy climate, that 
 produces a whole wilderness of noble plants rising in a 
 thousand beautiful landscapes, withtjut any certain order 
 or regularity. In the other it is the same rich soil under 
 the same happy climate, that has been laid out in walks 
 and parterres, and cut into shape and beauty by the 
 skill of the gardener. 
 
 The great danger in these latter kind of geniuses is, 
 lest they cramp their own abilities too much by imitation, 
 and form themselves altogether upon models, without 
 giving the full play to their own natural parts. An imi- 
 tatioti of the best authors is not to compare with a good 
 original ; and, I believe, we may observe that very few 
 writers make an extraordinary figure in the world, who 
 have not something in their way of thinking ur expressing 
 themselves, that is peculiar to them, and entirely their 
 own. 
 
 It is odd to consider what great geniuses are sometimes 
 thrown away upon trifles. 
 
 ' I once saw a shepherd,' says a famous Italian author, 
 
 nnd f;i!5e proplut*. They were sentenced to paj- a fine of twenty mark* 
 e.icli, aiid stand twice on a scaffold, with papers oti their breasts, flenotiog 
 their oSeiice: a sentence which was execntcd accordingly at Charing- 
 Cro» and tiie Royal Rxchan^e,
 
 No. 161. J THE SPECTATOR. 201 
 
 * who used to divert himself iu his sohtudes with tossing 
 up eggs and catching them again without breaking them : 
 in which he had arrived to so great a degree of perfec- 
 tion, that he would keep up four at a time for several 
 minutes together playing in the air, and falling into his 
 hands by turns. I think,' says the author, *I never saw 
 a greater severity than in this man's face ; for by his won- 
 derful perseverance and application, he had contracted the 
 seriousness and gravity of a privy-counsellor; and I could 
 not but reflect with myself, that the same assiduity and 
 attention, had they been rightly applied, might have made 
 him a greater mathematician than Archimedes.' C. 
 
 No. 161.] Tuesday, September 4, 1711. 
 
 Ipse dies agitat festos : Fususqne per herbanj. 
 Ignis ubi in medio et socii cratera coronant, 
 Te libans, Lenaee, vocat : pecoi isqnc magistiis 
 Velocis jaculi certamiua ponk in ulmo, 
 Corporaque acresti nudat praedura palsstri. 
 Ilanc olira vttcres vitani colii6rc Sabiiii, 
 Hanc Reiniis et frater. Sic fortis Elruria crevit. 
 Scilicet et rerura facta est pulcherrima Roma. 
 
 Firg. Georg. ii. 5CT, 
 
 Himself, in rustic pomp, on lioly^lays, "i 
 
 To ruril powers a just oblation pays ; [• 
 
 And on the green his careless limbs displays. j 
 
 The heanh is in the midst : iJie herdsmen, round 
 
 'ITie cheerful fire, provoke his health in goblt^ts crown'd. 
 
 He calls on Bacchus, and propoimils the prize ; '\ 
 
 The groom his fellow-grooni at bnts defies, > 
 
 And bends his bow, and Irvels with his eyes : J 
 
 Or stript for wrestling, smears his limbs with oil, 
 
 And watchf'8 with a trip his foe to foil. 
 
 Such was the life the frugal Sabiiies led ; 
 
 So Remus and his brother king were bred ; 
 
 from whom th' austere Etrurian virtue rose ; 
 
 And this rude life our homely fathers chose ; 
 
 Old Rome from such a race dcriv'd her birth, 
 
 The seat of empire, and the conquer'd cixnh.—Dryden. 
 
 I AM glad that my late going into the country has in- 
 creased the number of my correspondents, one of whom 
 sends me the following letter :
 
 ««• THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 16K 
 
 'SIR, 
 
 * Though you are pleased to retire from us so soon into 
 the city, I hope you will not think the affairs of the country 
 altogether unworthy of your inspection for the future. I 
 had the honour of seeing your short face at Sir Roger de 
 Coverley's, and have ever since thought your person and 
 writings both extraordinary. Had you staid there a few 
 days longer, you would have seen a country wake, which 
 you know in most parts of England is the eve-feast of the 
 dedication of our churches. 1 was last week at one of 
 these assemblies, which was held in a neighbouring parish ; 
 where I found their green covered with a promiscuous 
 multitude of all ages and both sexes, who esteem one 
 another more or less the following part of the year, ac- 
 cording as they distinguish themselves at this time. The 
 whole company were in their holyday clothes, and divided 
 into several parties, all of them endeavouring to show 
 themselves in those exercises wherein they excelled, and 
 to gain the approbation of the lookers on. 
 
 * I found a ring of cudgel-players, who were breaking 
 one another's heads in order to make some impression 
 on their mistresses' hearts. I obser\'ed a lusty young 
 fellow, who had the misfortune of a broken pate; but 
 what considerably added to the anguish of the wound, 
 was his overhearing an old man, who shook his head and 
 said, " That he questioned now if Black Kate would 
 marry him these three years." I was diverted from a 
 farther observation of these combatants by a foot-ball 
 match, which was on the other side of the green ; where 
 Tom Short behaved himself so well, that most people 
 seemed to agree, ** it was impossible that he should re- 
 main a bachelor until the next wake." Having played 
 many a match myself, I could have looked longer on 
 this sport, had I not observed a county girl, who was 
 posted on an eminence at some distance from me, and 
 was making so many odd grimaces, and writhing and dis- 
 torting her whole body in so strange a manner, as made 
 me very desirous to know the meaning of it. Upon my 
 coming up to her, I found that she was overlooking £^
 
 No. 161.] THE SPECT.^TOR. 203 
 
 ring of wrestlers, and that her sweetheart, a person of 
 small stature, was contending with a huge brawny fellow, 
 who twirled him about, and shook the little man so vio- 
 lently, that by a secret sympathy of hearts it produced 
 all those agitations in the person of bis mistress, who I 
 dare say, like Caelia in Shakspeare on the same occasion, 
 could have wished herself " invisible to catch the strong 
 fellow by the leg."* The 'squire of the parish treats the 
 whole company every year with a hogshead of ale ; and 
 proposes a beaver hat as a recompense to him who gives 
 most falls. This has raised such a spirit of emulation in 
 the youth of the place, that some of them have rendered 
 themselves very expert at this exercise; and I was often 
 surprised to see a fellow's heels fly up, by a trip which 
 was given him so smartly that I could scarce discern it. 
 I found that the old wrestlers seldom entered the ring 
 until some one was grown formidable by having thrown 
 two or three of his opponents ; but kept themselves as 
 it were in a reserved body to defend the hat, which is 
 always hung up by the person who gets it in one of the 
 most conspicuous parts of the house, and looked upon 
 by the whole family as something redounding much more 
 to their honour than a coat of arms. There was a fellow 
 who was so busy in regulating all the ceremonies, and 
 seemed to carry such an air of importance in his looks, 
 that I could not help inquiring who he was, and was im- 
 mediately answered, '* That he did not value himself upon 
 nothing, for that he and his ancestors had won so many 
 hats, that his parlour looked like a haberdasher's shop." 
 However, this thirst of glory in them all was the reason 
 that no one man stood " lord of the ring" for above three 
 falls while I was among them. 
 
 * The young maids, who were not lookers-on at these 
 exercises, were themselves engaged in some diversion; 
 and upon my asking a farmer's son of my own parish 
 what he was gazing at with so much attention, he told 
 me, ** That he was seeing Betty Welch," whom I knew 
 to be his sweetheart, " pitch a bar." 
 
 • As You Like It, Act i. Sc. 6.
 
 204 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 161. 
 
 * In short, I found the men endeavoured to show the 
 women they were no cowards, and that the whole com- 
 pany strived to recommend themselves to each other by 
 making it appear that they were all in a perfect state of 
 health, and fit to undergo any fatigues of bodily labour. 
 
 * Your judgment upon this method of love and gal- 
 lantry, as it is at present practised among us in the coun- 
 tiy, will very much oblige, - > < ^. 
 
 '' Your's, &c.* 
 
 If I would here put on the scholar and politician, I 
 might inform my readers how these bodily exercises or 
 games were formerly encouraged in all the common- 
 wealths of Greece ; from whence the Romans afterwards 
 borrowed their pentathlunij which was composed of run- 
 ning, wrestling, leaping, throwing, and boxing, though 
 the prizes were generally nothing but a crown of cypress 
 or parsley, hats not being in fashion in those days : that 
 there is an old statute, which obliges every man in Eng- 
 land, having such an estate, to keep and exercise the 
 long-bow; by which means our ancestors excelled all 
 other nations in the use of that weapon, and we had all 
 the real advantages, without the inconvenience of a stand- 
 ing army : and that 1 once met with a book of projects, 
 JH which the author considering to what noble ends that 
 spirit of emulation, which so remarkably shows itself 
 among our common people in these wakes, might be di- 
 rected, proposes that, for the improvement of all our han- 
 dicraft trades, there should be annual prizes set up for 
 such persons as were most excellent in their several arts. 
 But laying aside all these political considerations, which 
 might tempt me to pass the limits of my paper, I confess 
 the greatest benefit and convenience that I can observe 
 in these countrj' festivals, is the bringing young people 
 together, and giving them an opportunity of showing 
 themselves in the most advantageous light. A couutiy 
 fellow that throws his rival upon his back, has generally 
 as good success with their common mistress; as nothing 
 is more usual than for a nimble-footed wench to get a
 
 No. 161.'] THE SPECTATOR. 308 
 
 husband at the same time that she wins a smock. Love 
 and marriages are the natural effects of these anniversary 
 assemblies. I must therefore very much approve the 
 method by which my correspondent tells me each sex en« 
 deavours to recommend itself to the other, since nothing 
 seems more likely to promise a healthy offspring', or a 
 happy cohabitation. And I believe I may assure my 
 country friend, that there has been many a court lady 
 who would be contented to exchange her crazy young 
 husband for Tom Short, and several men of quality who 
 would have parted with a tender yolce-fellow for Black 
 Kate. 
 
 1 am the more pleased with having love made the 
 principal end and design of these meetings, as it seems 
 to be most agreeable to the intent for which they were 
 at first instituted, as we are informed by the learned 
 Dr. Kennet,* with whose words I shall conclude my present 
 paper. 
 
 ' These wakes, (says he), were in imitation of the an- 
 cient uyxwai, or love-feasts ; and were first established in 
 England by Pope Gregory the Great, who in an epistle 
 to Melitus the abbot, gave order that they should be 
 kept in sheds or arbories made up with the branches and 
 boughs of trees round the church.' 
 
 He adds, * that this laudable custom of wakes prevailed 
 for many ages, until the nice puritans began to exclaim 
 against it as a remnant of popery; and by degrees the 
 precise humour grew so popular, that at an Exeter as- 
 sizes the Lord Chief Baron Walter made an order for the 
 suppression of all wakes; but on Bisliop Laud's complain- 
 ing of this innovating humour, the king commanded the 
 order to be reversed.' X. 
 
 , • Pniochia! Anliqniliei, 4to. iCilj, p. CiO, JH. 
 
 Vol. n.
 
 206 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 162. 
 
 No. IQ-i.] IVednesdaijy Septanber 5, 1711. 
 
 Scrvctnr ad iinnm, 
 
 Oii.tlis ab incepto processetu, et sibi constet. 
 
 Hon Ars Poet. v. 126. 
 Keep one consistent plan from end to end. 
 
 Nothing that is not a real crime makes a man appear 
 so contemptible and little in the eyes of the world as in- 
 constancy, especially when it regards relio;ion or party. 
 In either of these cases, though a man perhaps does but 
 his duty in changing his side, he not only makes himself 
 hated by those he left, but is seldom heartily esteemed 
 by those he comes over to. 
 
 In these great articles of life, therefore, a man's con- 
 viction ought to be very strong, and if possible so well 
 timed, that worldly advantages may seem to have no 
 share in it, or mankind will be ill-natured enough to 
 think he does not change sides out of principle, but either 
 out of levity of temper, or prospects of interest. Converts 
 and reuegadoes of all kinds should take particular care to 
 let the world see they act upon honourable motives ; or, 
 whatever approbations they may receive from themselves, 
 and applauses from those they converse with, they may 
 be very well assured that they are the scorn of all good 
 men, and the public marks of infamy and derision. 
 
 Irresolution on the schemes of life which oflfer them- 
 selves to our choice, and inconstancy in pursuing them, 
 are the greatest and most universal causes of all our dis- 
 quiet and unhappiness. When ambition pulls one way, 
 interest another, inclination a third, and perhaps reason 
 contrarj' to all, a man is likely to pass his time but ill 
 who has so many different parties to please. When the 
 mind hovers among such a variety of allurements, one 
 had better settle on a way of life that is not the very best 
 we might have chosen, than grow old without determin- 
 ing our choice, and go out of the world as the greatest 
 part of mankind do, before we have resolved how to live 
 in it. There is but one method of setting ourselves at 
 rest in this paiticular, and that is by adhering stead-
 
 No. 162.] THE SPECTATOR. 207 
 
 fastly to one great end as the chief and ultimate aim of 
 all our pursuits. If we are firmly resolved to live up to 
 the dictates of reason, without any regard to wealth, re- 
 putation, or the like considerations, any more than as 
 they fall in with our principal design, we may go through 
 life with steadiness and pleasure ; but if we act by several 
 broken views, and will not only be virtuous, but wealthy, 
 popular, and every thing that has a value set upon it by 
 the world, we shall live and die in misery and repentance. 
 
 One would take more than ordinary care to guard one'$ 
 self against this particular imperfection, because it is that 
 which our nature very strongly inclines us to ; for if we 
 examine ourselves thoroughly, we shall find that we are 
 the most changeable beings in the universe. In respect 
 of our understanding, we often embrace and reject the 
 very same opinions; whereas beings above and beneath 
 us have probably no opinions at all, or at least no waver- 
 ing and uncertainties in those they have. Our superiors 
 are guided by intuition, and our inferiors by instinct. In 
 respect of our wills, we fall into crimes and recover out 
 of them, are amiable or odious in the eyes of our great 
 Judge, and pass our whole life in offending and asking 
 pardon. On the contrary, the beings underneath us are 
 not capable of sinning, nor those above us of repenting. 
 The one is out of the possibilities of duty, and the other 
 fixed in an eternal course of sin, or an eternal course of 
 virtue. 
 
 There is scarce a state of life, or stage in it, which does 
 not produce changes and revolutions in the mind of man. 
 Our schemes of thought in infancy are lost in those of 
 youth ; these too take a different turn in manhood, until 
 old age often leads us back into our former infancy. A 
 new title or an unexpected success throws us out of our- 
 selves, and in a manner destroys our identity. A cloudy 
 day, or a little sun-shine, have as great an influence on 
 many constitutions, as the most real blessing or misfor- 
 tunes. A dream varies our being, and changes our con- 
 dition while it lasts; and every passion, not to mention 
 health and sickness, and the greater alterations in body
 
 208 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 162. 
 
 and mind, makes us appear almost different creatures. If 
 a man is so disting;uished among other beings by this 
 infirmity, what can we think of such as make themselves 
 remarkable for it even among iheir own species ? It is a 
 very trifling character to be one of the most variable 
 beings of the most variable kind, especially if we consider 
 that he who is the great standard of perfection has in him 
 no shadow of change, but * is the same yesterday, to-day, 
 and for ever.' 
 
 As this mutability of temper and inconsistency with 
 ourselves is the greatest weakness of human nature, so it 
 makes the person who is remarkable for it in a very par- 
 ticular manner more ridiculous than any other infirmity 
 whatsoever, as it sets him in a greater variety of foolish 
 lights, and distinguishes him from himself by an opposi- 
 tion of party-coloured characters. The most humorous 
 character in Horace is founded upon this unevenness of 
 temper and irregularity of conduct: 
 
 • Sardus habebat 
 
 Ille Tigellias hoc ; Caesar, qui cogere posset. 
 
 Si peteret per amicitiam patris, atque suam, non ' 
 
 Quidquam proficeret ; si coUibuisset, ab ovo 
 
 Usque ad mala citaret, lb Bacche, niod6 summi 
 
 Voce, mod6 hie, resonat quze chordis quatuor ima. 
 
 l^il asquale homini fuit illi ; saepe velut qui 
 
 Currebat fugiens hostem ; perssepe velut qui 
 
 Junonis sacra ferret ; habebat saspe ducentos, 
 
 Saspe decern servos ; Morl6 reges atque tetrarchas. 
 
 Omnia magna loqnens; modb, sit iiiihi mensa tripes, et 
 
 Concha salis puri, et toga, quae defendeve frigus, 
 
 Qnamvis crassa, queat. Decies ccntena dedisses 
 
 Huic parco paucis contento, quinque diebus 
 
 nil erat in loculis. Noctcs vigilabat ad ipsum 
 
 Maii^ : diem totum Btertebat. Nil fuit imqnam 
 
 Sic impar sibi Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. jii. 
 
 Instead of translating this passage in Horace, I shall 
 entertain my English reader with the description of a 
 parallel character, that is wonderfully well finished by 
 Sir. Dryden, and raised upon the same foundation: , 
 
 In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: 
 
 A man so various, that he ?f;em'(t to be 
 
 :?ot one, bMl al! manlcind's epitome, • _
 
 No. 163.] THE SPECTATOR.' 209 
 
 Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong ; 
 Was every thing by start*, and nothing long ; 
 But, in the course of one revolving moon. 
 Was chemist, fiddler, stittesman, and buffoon : 
 Then all for women, painting, rhyming, diiiiking, 
 Besides ten Uiousand frcak» tliat dy'd in thinking. 
 Blest madman, who could every hour employ. 
 With something new to wish, or to enjoy !* 
 
 c. 
 
 No. 163.] Thursday y September 6, 1711. 
 
 Si quid ego adjncro, curamve levasso 
 
 Quae nunc tc coquit, et versat sub pectore fixa, 
 
 Ecquid eiit pretii? Enn. apiid Tullium. 
 
 Say, will you thank me if I bring you rest, 
 
 And ease the torture of your troubled breast? 
 
 Inquiries after happiness, and rules for attaining it, 
 are not so necessarj' and useful to mankind as the arts of 
 consolation, and supporting one's self under affliction. 
 The utmost we can hope for in this world is contentment; 
 if we aim at anything higher, we shall meet with nothing 
 but grief and disappointment. A man should direct all 
 his studies and endeavours at making himself easy now, 
 and happy hereafter. 
 
 The truth of it is, if all the happiness that is dispersed 
 through the whole race of mankind in this world were 
 drawn together, and put into the possession of any single 
 man, it would not make a very happy being. Though on 
 the contrary, if the miseries of the whole species were 
 fixed in a single person, they would make a very miser- 
 able one. 
 
 I am engaged in this subject by the following letter, 
 which, though subscribed by a fictitious name, I have 
 reason to believe is not imaginary. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I am one of your disciples, and endeavour to lire up 
 to your rules, which I hope will incliue you to pity my 
 
 • " Absalom and Ahitliophcl." It is perhaps unnecessary to observe, that 
 Uie character of Ziuiri is tliat of George Villierj, duke of Buclungtam, 
 author of th« " Keh«aisal." 
 
 T2
 
 SIO THE SPECTATOR. No. 163. 
 
 condition. I shall open it to you in a very few words. 
 About three years since, a gentleman, whom, I aui sure, 
 you yourself would have approved, made his addresses to 
 me. He had everj' thing to recommend him but an estate, 
 50 that it\y friends, who all of them applauded his person, 
 would not for the sake of both of us favour his passion. 
 For my own part, I resigned myself up entirely to the 
 direction of those who knew the world much better than 
 myself, but still lived in hopes that some juncture or other 
 would make me happy in the man, whom, in my heart, 
 I preferred to all the world; being determined if I could 
 not have him, to have nobody else. About three months 
 ago I received a letter from him, acquainting me, that 
 by the death of an uncle be had a considerable estate left 
 him, which he said was welcome to him upon no other 
 account, but as he hoped it would remove all difficulties 
 that lay in the way to our mutual happiness. You may 
 well suppose, sir, with how much joy I received this letter, 
 which was followed by several others filled with those 
 expressions of love and joy, which I verily believe nobody 
 felt more sincerely, nor knew better liow to describe thaa 
 the gentleuian I am speaking of. But, sir, how shall I 
 be able to tell it you ! By the last week's post I received 
 a letter from an intimate friend of this unhappy gentle- 
 man, acquainting me, that as he had just settled his af- 
 fairs, and was preparing for his journey, he fell sick of a 
 fever and died. It is impossible to express to you the dis- 
 tress I am in upon this occasion. I can only have re- 
 course to my devotions : and to the reading of good books 
 for my consolation ; and as I always take a particular 
 delight in those frequent advices and admonitions which 
 you give the public, it would be a very great piece of 
 charity in you to lend me your assistance in this conjunc- 
 ture. If after the reading cf this letter you find yourself 
 in a humour, rather to rally and ridicule, than to comfort 
 me, I desire you would throw it into the fire, and think 
 no more of it; but if you are touched with my misfor- 
 tuae, which is greater than I know bow to bear, your
 
 No. 163.] THE SPECTATOR. 211 
 
 counsels may very much support, and will inRnitely 
 oblige, the afflicted 
 
 ' LEONORA.' 
 
 A disappointment in love is more hard to get over than 
 any other; the passion itself so softens and subdues the 
 heart, that it disables it from struggling or bearing up 
 against the woes and distresses which befal it. The mind 
 meets with other misfortunes in her whole strength ; she 
 stands collected within herself, and sustains the shock with 
 all the force which is natural to her; but a heart in love 
 has its foundation sapped, and immediately sinks under 
 the weight of accidents that are disagreeable to its fa- 
 vourite passion. 
 
 In afflictions men generally draw their consolations out 
 of books of morality, which indeed are of great use to 
 fortify and strengthen the mind against the impressions 
 of sorrow. Monsieur St. Evremont, who does not approve 
 of this method, recommends authors who are apt to stir 
 up mirth in the mind of the readers, and fancies Don 
 Quixote can give more relief to a heavy heart than Plu- 
 tarch or Seneca, as it is much easier to divert grief than 
 to conquer it. This doubtless may have its effects on 
 some tempers. I should rather have recourse to authors 
 of a quite contrary kind, that give us instances of cala- 
 mities and misfortunes, and show human nature in its 
 greatest distresses. 
 
 If the afflictions we groan under be very heavy, we shall 
 find some consolation in the society of as great sufferers 
 as ourselves, especially when we find our companions men 
 of virtue and merit. If our afflictions are light, we shall 
 be comforted by the comparison we make between our- 
 ficlves and our fellow-sufferers. A loss at sea, a, fit of 
 sickness, or the death of a friend, are such trifles, when 
 we consider whole kingdoms laid in ashes, families put to 
 the sword, wretches shut up in dungeons, and the like 
 calamities of mankind, that we are out of countenance 
 for our own weakness, if we sink under such little strokes 
 of fortune. 
 
 Jjct the disconsolate Leonora consider, that at the very
 
 212 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 164. 
 
 time in which she languishes for the loss of her deceased 
 lover, there are persons in several parts of the world just 
 perishing in a shipwreck ; others crying out for mercy in 
 the terrors of a death-bed repentance ; others lying under 
 the tortures of an infamous execution, or the like dread- 
 ful calamities; and she will find her sorrows vanish at 
 the appearance of those which are so much greater and 
 more astonishing. 
 
 I would further propose to the consideration of my af- 
 flicted disciple, that possibly what she now looks upon as 
 the greatest misfortune, is not really such in itself. For 
 my own part, I question not but our souls in a separate 
 state will look back on their lives in quite another view, 
 than what they had of them in the body ; and that what 
 they now consider as misfortunes and disappointments, 
 will very often appear to have been escapes and blessings. 
 
 The mind that hath any cast towards devotion, naturally 
 flies to it in its afflictions. 
 
 When I was in France I heard a very remarkable story 
 of two lovers, which I shall relate at length in my to- 
 morrow's paper, not only because the circumstances of it 
 are extraordinary, but because it may serve as an illus- 
 tration to all that can be said on this last head, and show 
 the power of religion in abating that particular anguish 
 which seems to lie so heavy on Leonora. The story was 
 told me by a priest, as 1 travelled with him in a stage- 
 coach. I shall give it my reader as well as I can remem- 
 ber, in his own words, after having premised, that if con- 
 solations may be drawn from a wrong religion and a 
 misguided devotion, they cannot but flow much more 
 naturally from those which are founded upon reason and 
 established in good sense. L. 
 
 No. 164.] Friday, September 7, 1711. 
 
 IIU, Qiiis cl me, inquit, miseram, et te perdidit, Orpben? 
 Jamciufi vale : ieror ingenti circumdata nocte, 
 Invalidasqiie tibi tendeus, hcu ! Don tua, pabuas. ■ - 
 
 .♦ yirS' Gcorg. iv. 494.
 
 No. 164.] .THE SPECTATOR. 213 
 
 TheH thus the brirte : What fury seia'd on thee, 
 
 Unhappy man! to lose thyself and me? 
 
 And now faiewel ! involv'd in shades of night. 
 
 For ever 1 am ravisii'u ttom thy sight : 
 
 In vain 1 rfdeli my feeble hands to join 
 
 In sweet embraces, ah ! no longer tliine. Dryden, 
 
 CoNSTANTiA was a woman of extraordinary wit and 
 beauty, but very unhappy in a father, who having arrived 
 at great riches by his own industry, tooI< deliiiht in no- 
 thing hat his nioney. Theodosius* was the youngr-r son of 
 a decayed family, of great parts and learning, improved 
 by a genteel and virtuous education. When he was in the 
 twentieth year of his age he became acquainted with 
 Constantia, who had not then passed her iifteenth. As 
 he lived but a few miles distant from her father's house, 
 he had frequent opportunities of seeing her; and by the 
 advantages of a good person and a pleasing conversation, 
 made such an impression on her heart as it was impossible 
 for time to efface. He was himself no less smitten with 
 Constantia. A long acquaintance made them still dis- 
 cover new heauties in each o^^hor, and by degrees raised 
 in them that mutual passion which had an influence on 
 their following lives. It UTifortunately happened, that ia 
 the midst of this intercourse of love and friendship be- 
 tween Theodosius and Constantia, there broke out an irre- 
 parable quarrel between their parents, the one valuing 
 himself too much upon his birth, and the other upon his 
 possessions. The father of Constantia was so incensed at 
 the father of Theodosius, that he contracted an unreason- 
 able aversion towards his son, insomuch that he forbade 
 him his house, and charged his daughter upon her duty, 
 never to see him more. In the mean time, to break off 
 all communication between the two lovers, who he knew 
 entertained secret hopes of some favourable opportunity 
 that should bring them together, he found out a young 
 gentleman of a good fortune and an agreeable person, 
 whom he pitched upon as a husband for his daughter. 
 He soon concerted this affair so well, that he told Con- 
 stantia it was his design to marry her to such a gentle- 
 * Dr. Langborae'8 Theodosius and Coostaatia ia iounded upon tbu paper.
 
 214 'THE SPECTATOR. LNo. 164. 
 
 roan, and that her wedding should be celebrated on such 
 a day. Constantia, who was overawed with the authority 
 of her father, and unable to object any thing against so 
 advantageous a match, received the proposal with a pro- 
 found silence, which her father commended in her, as 
 the most decent manner of a virgin's giving her consent 
 to an overture of that kind. The noise of this intended 
 marriage soon reached Theodosius, who after a long tu- 
 mult of passions, which naturally rise in a lover's heart on 
 such an occasion, writ the following letter to Constantia. 
 
 * The thought of my Constantia, which for some years 
 has been ray only happiness, is now become a greater tor- 
 ment to me than I am able to bear. Must I then live to 
 see you another's ? The streams, the fields and meadows, 
 w here 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 even- 
 ing, who fainted at the reading of it; and the next 
 morning she was much more alarmed by two or three 
 messengers, that came to her father's house, one after 
 another, to inquire if they had heard any thing of Theo- 
 dosius, who it seems had left his chamber about mid- 
 night, and could no where be found. The deep melan- 
 choly which had hung upon his mind some time before, 
 made them apprehend the worst that could befal him. 
 Constantia, who knew that nothing but the report of her 
 marriage could have driven him to such extremities, was 
 not to be comforted. She now accused herself of having 
 so tamely given an ear to the proposal of a husband, and 
 looked upon the new lover eis the murderer of Theodosius. 
 In short, she resolved to suffer the utmost effects of her 
 father's displeasure, rather than comply with a marrieige 
 which appeared to her so full of guilt and horror. The 
 father seeing himself entirely rid of Theodosius, and likely 
 to keep a considerable portion in his family, was not very
 
 No. 164.] THE SPECTATOR. 215 
 
 much concenied at the obstinate refusal of his daughter ; 
 and did not find it very diffiuclt to excuse himself upon 
 that account to his intended son-in-law, who had all along: 
 regarded this alliance rather as a marriage of convenience 
 than of love. Constantia had now no relief but in her 
 devotions and exercises of religion, to which her afflictions 
 had so entirely subjected her mind, that after some years 
 had abated the violence of her sorrows, and settled her 
 thoughts in a kind of tranquillity, she resolved to pass the 
 remainder of her days in a convent. Her father was not 
 displeased with a resolution, which would save money in 
 his family, and readily complied with his daughter's inten- 
 tions. Accordingly in the twenty- fifth year of her age, 
 while her beauty was yet in all its height and bloom he 
 carried her to a neighbouring city, in order to look out 
 a sisterhood of nuns among whom to place his daughter. 
 There was in this place a father of a convent who was 
 verj' much renowned for his piety and exemplary life ; and 
 as it is usual in the Romish church for those who are 
 under any great affliction, or trouble of mind, to apply 
 themselves to the most eminent confessors for pardon and 
 consolation, our beautiful votary took the opportunity of 
 confessing herself to this celebrated father. 
 
 We must now return to Theodosius, who the very 
 morning that the above-mentioned enquiries had been 
 made after him, arrived at a religious house in the city 
 where now Constantia resided; and desiring that secresy 
 and concealment of the fathers of the convent, which is 
 very usual upon any extraordinary occasion, he made 
 himself one of the order, with a private vow never to 
 enquire after Constantia ; whom he looked upon as given 
 away to his rival upon the day on which, according to 
 common fame, their marriage was to have been solem- 
 nized. Having in his youth made a good progress in 
 learning, that he might dedicate himself more entirely to 
 religion, he entered into holy orders, and in a few years 
 became renowned for his sanctity of life, and those pious 
 sentiments which he inspired into all who conversed with 
 him. It was this holv man to vvhom Constantia had
 
 21S THE SPECTATOR. [No. 164. 
 
 determined to apply herself in confession, tbough neither 
 she nor any other, besides the prior of the convent, knew 
 any thin^ of his name or family. The gay, the amiable 
 Theodosius had now taken upon him the name of Father 
 Francis, and was so far concealed in a long beard, a shaven 
 head, and a religious habit, that it was impossible to dis- 
 cover the man of the world in the venerable conventual. 
 As he was one morning shut up in his confessional, 
 Con^tantia kneeling by him opened the state of her soul 
 to him; and after having given him the history of a life 
 full of innocence, she burst out into tears, and entered 
 upon that part of her story in which he himself had so 
 great a share. ' My behaviour,' says she, ' has 1 fear been 
 the death of a man who had no other fault but that of 
 loving me too much. Heaven only knows how dear he 
 was to me whilst he lived, and how bitter the reraem- 
 ijrance of him has been to me since his death.' She here 
 paused, and lifted up her eyes that streamed with tears 
 towards the father ; who was so moved with the sense of 
 her sorrows, that he could only command his voice, which 
 was broke with sighs and sobbings, so far as to bid her 
 proceed. She followed his directions, and in a flood of 
 tears poured out her heart before him. The father could 
 not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that in the agonies 
 of his grief the seat shook under him. Constantia, who 
 thought the good man was thus moved by his compassion 
 towards her, and by the horror of her guilt, proceeded 
 with the utmost contrition to acquaint him with that vow 
 of virginity in which she was going to engage herself, as 
 the proper atonement for her sins, and the only sacrifice 
 she could make to the memory of Theodosius. The 
 father, who by this time had pretty well composed him- 
 self, burst out again in tears upon hearing that name to 
 which he had been so long disused, and upon receiving 
 this instance of unparalleled fiileiity from one whom he 
 thought had several years since given herself up to the 
 possession of another. Amidst the interruptions of his 
 sorrow, seeing his penitent overwhelmed with grief, he 
 was only able to bid her from time to time be comforted —
 
 No. 164.] THE SPECTATOR.' 217 
 
 to tell her that her sins were forgiven her^that her guilt 
 was not so great as she apprehended — that she should not 
 suffer herself to be afllicted above measure. After which 
 he recovered himself enough to give her the absolution in 
 form ; directing her at the same time to repair to him 
 again the next day, that he might encourage her in the 
 pious resolutions she had taken, and give her suitable ex- 
 hortations for her behaviour irj it. Constantia retired, 
 and the next morning renewed her applications. Theo- 
 dosius having manned his soul with proper thoughts and 
 reflections, exerted himself on this occasion in the best 
 manner he could to animate his penitent in the course of 
 life she was entering upon, and wear out of her mind 
 those groundless fears and apprehensions which had taken 
 possession of it; conchiding with a promise to her, that 
 he would from time to time continue his admonitions 
 when she should have taken upon her the holy veil. ' The 
 rules of our respective orders,' says he, ' will not permit 
 that I should see you, but you may assure yourself not 
 only of having a place in mypra3ers, but of receiving cucl* 
 frequent instructions as I can convey to you by letters. 
 Go on cheerfully in the glorious course you have under- 
 taken, and you will quickly find such a peace and satis- 
 faction in your mind, which it is not in the power of the 
 world to give.' 
 
 Constantia's heart was so elevated with the discourse of 
 father Francis, that the very next day she entered upon 
 her vow. As soon as the solemnities of her reception were 
 over, she retired, as it is usual, with the abbess into her 
 own apartment. 
 
 The abbess had been informed the night before of all 
 that had passed between her noviciate and father Francis: 
 from whom she now delivered to her 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 
 
 Vol. II. U
 
 Sl« THE SPECTATOR. [No. 164. 
 
 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 hand-writing agreed with the 
 contents of the letter : and upon reflecting on the voice 
 of the person, the behaviour, and above all the extreme 
 sorrow of the father during her confession, she discovered 
 Theodosius in every particular. After having wept with 
 tears of joy, * It is enough,' says she, * Theodosius is 
 still iji being : I shall live with comfort and die in peace.* 
 
 The letters which the father sent her afterwards are 
 yet extant in the nunnery where she resided; and are 
 often read to the young religious, in order to inspire 
 them with good resolutions and sentiments of virtue. It 
 so happened, that after Constantia had lived about ten 
 years in the cloister, a violent fever broke out in the place, 
 ■which swept away great multitudes, and among others 
 Theodosius. Upon his death-bed he sent his benediction 
 in a very moving manner to Constantia, who at that time 
 was so far gone iu the same fatal distemper, that she lay 
 delirious. Upon the interval which generally precedes 
 death in sicknesses of this nature, the abbess, finding that 
 the physicians had given her over, told her that Theo- 
 dosius was just gone before her, and that he had sent 
 her his benediction in his last moments. Constantia re- 
 ceived it with pleasure. * And now,' says she, ' if I do 
 rot ask any thing improper, let me be buried by Theo- 
 dosius. My vow reaches no farther than the grave ; what 
 
 I ask is, I hope, no violation of it.' She died soon after, 
 
 and was interred according to her request. 
 
 Their tombs are still to be seen> with a short Latin in- 
 scription over them to the following purpose: 
 
 * Here lie the bodies of father Francis and sister G)n- 
 staDce. They were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths 
 they were not divided.* C.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. tt9 
 
 No. 163.] Saturday, September 8, 1711. 
 
 Si fortd neccsse eit, 
 
 Fingeie cinctutis non txauctita Ccthegis, 
 Contiuget : dabilurque liceutia sunipta pudenter. 
 
 Har. Ars Poet. v. 48. 
 
 If you would unheard-of things express,. 
 
 Invent new words; we can indulge a muse, 
 Until the license rise to an abuse Creech. 
 
 I HAVE often wished that as in our constitution there 
 are several persons whose business it is to watch over our 
 laws, our liberties, and commerce, certain men might be 
 set apart as superintendants of our language, to hinder 
 any words of a foreign coin from passing among us ; and 
 in particular to prohibit any French phrases from becom- 
 ing current in this kingdom, when those of our own stamp 
 are altogether as valuable. The present war has so adul- 
 terated our tongue with strange words, that it would be 
 impossible for one of our great grandfathers to know what 
 his posterity have been doing, were he to read their ex- 
 ploits in a modern newspaper. Our warriors are very 
 industrious in propagating the French language, at the 
 same time that they are so gloriously successful in beating 
 down their power. Our soldiers are men of strong heads 
 for action, and perform stich feats as they are not able tt* 
 express. They want words in their own tongue to tell us 
 what it is they achieve, and therefore send us over ac- 
 counts of their performances in a jargon of phrases, which 
 they learn among their conquered enemies. They ought 
 however to be provided with secretaries, and assisted by 
 our foreign ministers, to tell their story for them in plain 
 English, aiul to let us know in our mother-tongue what 
 it is our brave countrymen are about. The French would 
 indeed be in the right to publish the news of the present 
 war in English phrases, and make their campaigns unin- 
 telligible. Their people might flatter themselves that 
 things are not so bad as they really are, were they thus 
 palliated with foreign terms, and thrown into shades and 
 obscurity j but the JBnglish cannot be too clear in their
 
 220 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 165. 
 
 narrative of those actions, >vhich have raised their country 
 to a higher pitch of glory than it ever yet arrived at, and 
 which will be still the more admired the better they are 
 explained. 
 
 For my part, by that time a siege is carried on two or 
 three days, I am altogether lost and bewildered in it, and 
 meet with so many inexplicable difficulties, that I scarce 
 know which side has the better of it, until I am informed 
 by the tower-guns that the place is surrendered. I do 
 indeed make some allowances for this part of the war, 
 fortifications having been foreign inventions and upon that 
 account abounding in foreign terms. But when we have 
 won battles which may be described in our own lan- 
 guage, why are our papers filled with so many unintel- 
 ligible exploits, and the French obliged to lend us a part 
 of their tongue before we can know how they are con- 
 quered ? They must be made accessary to their own dis- 
 grace, as the Britons were formerly so artificially wrought 
 in the curtain of the Roman theatre, that they seemed 
 to draw it up in order to give the spectators an opportu- 
 nity of seeing their own defeat celebrated upon the stage: 
 for so Mr. Dryden has translated that verse in Virgil : 
 
 Purpurea intexti toUunt aulaea Britanni. Georg, iii. 25. 
 
 ■Which interwoven Britons seem to raise. 
 
 And show the triumph that their shame displays. 
 
 The histories of all our former wars are transmitted to 
 
 us in our vernacular idiom, to use the phrase of a great 
 
 modern critic* I do not find in any of our chronicles, 
 
 that Edward the Third ever reconnoitred the enemy, 
 
 ^u i r , though he 9ft«« discovered the posture of the French, 
 
 A* /<v>-' 'J^and as often vanquished them in battle. The Black Prince 
 
 passed many a river vvithout the help of pontoons, and 
 
 filled a ditch with faggots as successfully as the generals 
 
 of our times do it with fascines. Our commanders lose 
 
 half their praise, and our people half their joy, by means 
 
 of those hard words and dark expressions in which our 
 
 uewspapers do so much abound. I have seen many ^ 
 
 • Dr. Richard Beujlej',
 
 No. 165.] THE spectator; 221 
 
 prudent citizen, after having read every article, enquire 
 of his next neighbour what news the mail had brought. 
 
 I remember, in that remarkable year when our country 
 was deUvered from the greatest fears and apprehensions, 
 and raised to the greatest height of gladness it had ever 
 felt since it was a nation, I mean the year of Blenheim, 
 I had the copy of a letter sent me out of the country, 
 which was written from a young gentleman in the army 
 to his father, a man of a good estate and plain sense. As 
 the letter was very modishly chequered with this modern 
 military eloquence, I shall present ipy readey with a copy 
 of it. 
 
 •SIR, 
 ' Upon the junction of the French and Bavarian armies 
 they took post behind a great morass which they thought 
 impracticable. Our general the next day sent a party of 
 horse to " reconnoitre" them from a little " hauteur," at 
 about a quarter of an hour's distance from the army, who 
 returned again to the camp unobserved through several 
 *' defiles," in one of which they met with a party of 
 French that had been ** marauding," and made them all 
 prisoners at discretion. The day after a drum arrived at 
 our camp, with a message which he would communicate 
 to none but the general ; he was followed by a trumpet, 
 who they say behaved himself very saucily, with a message 
 from the Duke of Bavaria. The next morning our army 
 being divided into two *' corps," made a movement to- 
 wards the enemy. You will hear in the public prints how 
 we treated them, with the other circumstances of that 
 glorious day. I had the good fortune to be in that regi- 
 ment that pushed the " gens d'armes." Several French 
 battalions, which some say were a " corps de reserve," 
 made a show of resistance; but it only proved a " gas- 
 conade," for upon our preparing to fill up a little " foss^," 
 in order to attack them, they beat the '* cliamade," and 
 sent us a " carte blanche.' Their " commandant," with 
 a great many other general officers, and troops witliout 
 number, are made prisoners of war, and will, I believe, 
 U2
 
 282 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 166. 
 
 give you a visit in England, the " cartel" not being yet 
 settled. Not questioning but these particulars will be very 
 welcome to you, I congratulate you upon them, and am 
 your most dutiful son, &c.' 
 
 The father of the young gentleman upon the perusal 
 of the letter found it contained great news, but could not 
 guess what it was. He immediately communicated it to 
 the curate of the parish, who upon the reading of it, being 
 vexed to see any thing he could not understand, fell into 
 a kind of a passion, and told him, that his son had sent 
 him a letter that was neither fish, flesh, nor good red- 
 herring. * I wish,' says he, * the captain may be *' compos 
 mentis," he talks of a saucy trumpet, and a drum that 
 carries messages; then who is this '* carte blanche?" He 
 must either banter us, or he is out of his senses.' The 
 father, who always looked upon the curate as a learned 
 man, began to fret inwardly at his son's usage, and pro- 
 ducing a letter which he had written to him about three 
 posts before, * You see here,' says he, * when he writes for 
 money he knows how to speak intelligibly enough ; there 
 is no man in England can express himself clearer, when 
 he wants a new furniture for his horse.' In short, the old 
 man was so puzzled upon the point, that it might have 
 fared ill with his son, had he not seen all the prints about 
 three days after filled with the same terms of art, and that 
 Charles only writ like other men. L. 
 
 No. 166.] Monday y September 10, 1711. 
 
 ■ ■ Quod nee Jovis ira, ncc ignis. 
 
 Nee poterit feriiun, ncc edax abolere vetustas. 
 
 Ovid. Met. xv. 8T1. 
 
 which nor dreads the rage 
 
 Of tempests, fire, or war, or wastin); age.— TVelsted. 
 
 Aristotle tells us that the world is a copy or transcript 
 of those ideas which are in the mind of the first Being, 
 and that those ideas which are in the mind of man, are 
 a transcript of the world. To this we may add, that words
 
 No. 166.] THE SPECTATOR. ' 9SS 
 
 are the transcript of those ideas which are in the mind of 
 man, and that writing or printing are the transcript of 
 words. 
 
 As the Supreme Being has expressed, and as it were 
 printed his ideas in the creation, men express their ideas 
 in books, which by this great invention of these latter 
 ages may last as long as the sun and moon, and perish 
 only in the general wreck of nature. Thus Cowley in his 
 poem on the Resurrection, mentioning the destruction of 
 the universe, has those admirable lines : 
 
 Now all the wide extended sky, 
 
 And all th' harmonious worlds on hijjh. 
 
 And Virgil's sacred work shall die. 
 
 There is no other method of fixing those thoughts which 
 arise and disappear in the mind of man, and transmitting 
 them to the last periods of time ; no other method of giving 
 a permanency to our ideas, and preserving the knowleilt;-e 
 of any particular person, when his body is mixed with the 
 common mass of matter, and his soul retired into the 
 world of spirits. Books are the legacies that a great 
 genius leaves to mankind, which are delivered down fron* 
 generation to generation, as presents to the posterity of 
 those who are yet unburn. 
 
 All other arts of perpetuating our ideas continue hut a 
 short time. Statues can last but a few thousands of 
 years, edifices fewer, and colours still fewer than edifices. 
 Michael Angelo, Fontana, and Raphael, will hereafter be 
 what Phidias, Vitruvius, and Apelles are at present ; the 
 names of great statuaries, architects, and painters, w hose 
 works are lost. The several arts are expressed in moul- 
 dering materials. Nature sinks under them and is not 
 able to support the ideas which are imprest upon it. 
 
 The circumstance which gives authors an advantage 
 above all the great masters, is this, that they can mul- 
 tiply their originals : or rather can make copies of their 
 works, to what number they please, which shall be as 
 valuable as the originals themselves. This gives a great 
 author lomething like a prospect of eternity, but at t\m
 
 224 THE SPECTATOR, [So. 166. 
 
 same time deprives him of those other advantages which 
 artists meet with. The artist finds greater returns in 
 profit, as the author in fame. What an inestimable price 
 would a Virgil or a Homer, a Cicero or an Aristole bear, 
 were their works like a statue, a building, or a picture, 
 to be confined only in one place, and made the property 
 of a single person ! 
 
 If writings are thus durable, and may pass from age to 
 age throughout the whole course of time, how careful 
 should an author be of committing any thing to print 
 that may corrupt posterity, and poison the minds of men 
 with vice and error! Writers of great talents, who em- 
 ploy their parts in propagating immorality, and seasoning 
 vicious sentiments with wit and humour are to be looked 
 upon as the pests of society, and the enemies of man- 
 kind. They leave books behind them (as it is said of 
 those who die in distempers which breed an ill-will to- 
 wards their own species) to scatter infection and destroy 
 their posterity. They act the counterparts of a Confucius 
 ov a Socrates ; and seem to have been sent into the world 
 to deprave human nature, and sink it into the condition 
 of brutality. 
 
 I have seen some Roman-catholic authors who tell us, 
 that vicious writers continue in purgatory so long as the 
 influence of their writings continues upon posterity; * for 
 purgatory,' say they, * is nothing else but a cleansing us of 
 our sins, which cannot be said to be done away, so long 
 as they continue to operate, and corrupt mankind. The 
 vicious author,' say they, * sins after death, and so long as 
 he continues to sin, so long must he expect to be pu- 
 nished.' Though the Roman-catholic notion of purgatory 
 be indeed very ridiculous, one cannot but think that if 
 the soul after death has any knowledge of what passes in 
 this world, that of an immoral writer would receive much 
 more regret from the sense of corrupting, than satisfac- 
 tion from the thought of pleasing his surviving admirers. 
 
 To take off from the severity of this speculation, I shall 
 conclude this paper with a story of ao atheistical autboFj
 
 No. 166.] ;THE SPECTATOR/ S35 
 
 who at a time when he lay dangerously sick, and had de- 
 sired the assistance of a neighbouring curate, confessed to 
 him with great contrition, that nothing sat more heavy 
 at his heart than the sense of his having seduced the age 
 by his writings, and that their evil influence was likely 
 to continue even after his death. The curate upon far- 
 ther examination finding tiie penitent in the utmost ago- 
 nies of despair, and being himself a man of learning, told 
 him, that he hoped his case was not so desperate as he 
 apprehended, since he found that he was so very sensible 
 of his fault, and so sincerely repented of it. The penitent 
 still urged the evil tendency of his book to subvert all 
 religion, and the little ground of hope there could be for 
 one whose writings would continue to do mischief when 
 his body was laid in ashes. The curate, finding no other 
 way of comforting him, told him that he did well in being 
 afflicted for the evil design with which he published his 
 book ; but that he ought to be very thankful that there 
 was no danger of its doing any hurt: that his cause was 
 so very bad, and his arguments so weak, that he did not 
 apprehend any ill effects of it: in short, that he might 
 rest satisfied his book could do no more mischief after 
 his death, than it had done whilst he was hving. To 
 which he added, for his farther satisfaction, that he did 
 not believe any besides his particular friends and ac- 
 quaintance had ever been at the pains of reading it, or 
 that any body after his death would ever enquire after 
 it. The dying man had still so much the frailty of au 
 author in him, as to be cut to the heart with these con- 
 solations; and, without answering the good man, asked 
 his friends about him (with a peevishness that is natural 
 to a sick person) where they had picked up such a block- 
 head ? And whether they thought him a proper person 
 to attend one in his condition ? The curate finding that 
 the author did not expect to be dealt with as a real and 
 sincere penitent, but as a penitent of importance, after 
 a short admonition withdrew ; not questioning but he 
 should be again sent for if the sickness grew desperate. 
 The author however recovered^ and has since written two
 
 .526 THE SPECTATOR. [No. ICT. 
 
 or three other tracts with the same spirit, and very 
 luckily for his poor soul, with the same success.* C. 
 
 No. 167.] Tuesday^ Septembei' 11, 1711. 
 
 Fuit haod ignobilU Argil, 
 
 Qui se credebrtt miros audiie tragcedos. 
 In vacuo laetus sessor plaujorque theatro ; 
 Catera qui vita servaret miinia recto 
 More ; bouus s<ui6 viciaus, nmabilis liospea : 
 Comis in uxorem ; posset qni ignoscere servis, 
 Et signo laeso non insanire lagenae ; 
 Posset qui nipem et puteum vitare patentem. 
 Hie ubi cognatorum opibus curisque refectus, 
 Expulit elleboro morbum bilenique meraco, 
 Et redit ad sese : Pol me occidistis, amici, 
 Non servistis, ait ; cui sic extorta voluptas, 
 Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 2. £p. 11. Ifie. 
 
 IMITATED. 
 
 There liv'd in Primo Georgii (they record) 
 
 A worthy member, no small fool, a lord ; 
 
 Who, though the house was up, deliglited sate. 
 
 Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate : 
 
 In all but this, a man of sober life. 
 
 Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife ; 
 
 Kot quite a madman, thougli a pasty fell. 
 
 And much too wise to walk into a well. 
 
 Him the datnn'd doctor and his friends immur'd ; 
 
 They bled, Lhey cupp'd, they purg'd, in short, they cor'd ; 
 
 Whereat the gentleman began to stare 
 
 • My friends !' he cry'd, ' pox take ye for yonr care ! 
 
 That from a patriot of distingnisb'd note. 
 
 Have bled and parg'd me to a simple vote.'— Pope. 
 
 The unhappy force of an imagination unaided by the 
 check of reason and judgment, was the subject of a for- 
 mer speculation. My reader may remember that he has 
 seen in one of my papers a complaint of an unfortunate 
 gentleman, who was unable to contain himself (when any 
 ordinary matter was laid before him) from adding a few 
 circumstances to ehliven plain narrative. That corre- 
 spondent was a person of too warm a complexion to be 
 
 • This was probably Mr. John Toland, author of the life of Milton, 
 whose deistical writings had exposed him to the repeated attacks of the 
 Xaticr. There appears to b« auoihw bk)w aimed at him in No. 234.
 
 No. 167.] THE SPECTATOR. 02f 
 
 satisfied with things merely as they stood in nature, and 
 therefore formed incidents which should have happened 
 to have pleased him in the story. The same ungoverned 
 fancy which pushed that correspondent on, in spite of 
 himself, to relate public and notorious falsehoods, makes 
 the author of the following letter do the same in private ; 
 one is a prating, the other a silent, liar. 
 
 There is little pursued in the errors of either of these 
 worthies, but mere present amusement: but the folly of 
 him who lets his fancy place him in distant scenes un- 
 troubled and uninterrupted, is very much preferable to 
 that of him who is ever forcing a belief, and defending his 
 untruths with new inventions. But I shall hasten to let 
 this liar in soliloquy, who calls himself a castle-builder, 
 describe himself with the same unreservedness as formerly 
 appeared in my correspondent above-mentioned. If a man 
 were to be serious on this subject, he might give very 
 grave admonitions to those who are following any thing 
 in this life, on which they think to place their hearts, and 
 tell them that they are really castle-builders. Fame, 
 glory, wealth, honour, have in the prospect pleasing illu- 
 sions ; but they who come to possess any of them will 
 find they are ingredients towards happiness, to be re« 
 garded only in the second place : and that when they arc 
 valued in the first degree they are as disappointing as 
 any of the ^baotpms in the following letter. 
 
 * MR. SPECrArOR, September 6, 1711. 
 
 * I am a fellow of a very odd frame of mind, as you will 
 find by the sequel ; and think myself fool enough to de- 
 serve a place in your paper. I am unhappily far gone in 
 building, and am one of that species of men who are pro- 
 perly denominated castle-builders, who scorn to be be- 
 holden to the earth for a foundation, or dig in the bowels 
 of it for materials ; but erect their structures in the most 
 unstable of elements, the air ; fancy alone laying the line, 
 marking the extent, and shaping the model. It would be 
 difficult to enumerate what august palaces and stately 
 porticos baY« grown umder my forming imaginatioQ^ or
 
 228 THE SPECTATOR. fNo. 167. 
 
 what verdant meadows and shady groves have started into 
 being by the powerful feat of a warm fancy. A castle- 
 builder is even just what he pleases, and as such I have 
 grasped imaginary sceptres, and delivered uncontrollable 
 edicts, from a throne to which coniiuered nations yielded 
 obeisance. 1 have made I know not how many inroads 
 into France, and ravaged the very heart of that kingdom ; 
 I have dined in the Louvre, and drank champaign at Ver- 
 sailles ; and I would have you take notice, I am not only 
 able to vam'iuish a people already * cowed* and accus- 
 tomed to flight, but I could, Almanzor-like,* drive the 
 British general from the field, were I less a protestant, or 
 had ever been affronted by the confederates. There is no 
 art or profession, whose most celebrated masters I have 
 not eclipsed. Wherever I have afforded my salutary pres- 
 ence, fevers have ceased to burn and agues to shake the 
 human fabric. When an eloquent fit has been upon me, 
 an apt gesture and proper cadence has animated each 
 sentence, and gazing crowds have found their passions 
 worked up into rage, or soothed into a calm, I am short, 
 and not very well made; yet upon sight of a fine woman, 
 I have stretched into proper statue, and killed with a 
 good air and mien. These are the gay phantoms that 
 dance before my waking eyes, and compose my day-dreams. 
 I should be the most contented happy man alive, were the 
 chimerical happiness which springs from the paintings of 
 fancy less fleeting and transitory. But alas ! it is with 
 grief of mind I tell you, the least breath of wind has 
 often demolished my magnificent edifices, swept away my 
 groves, and left no more trace of them than if they had 
 never been. My exchequer has sunk and vanished by a 
 rap on my door, the salutation of a friend has cost me a 
 whole continent, and in the same moment I have been 
 pulled by the sleeve, my crown has fallen from my head. 
 The ill consequence of these reveries is inconceivably 
 great, seeing the loss of imaginary possessions makes im- 
 pressions of real woe. Besides, bad economy is visible and 
 apparent in builders of invisible mansions. My tenants' 
 • Alniaiizor is a furious character in Dryden'i Couquest of Granada.
 
 No. 168.] THE SPECTATOR. 229 
 
 advertisements of ruins and dilapidations often cast a 
 damp on my spirits, even in the instant when the sun, in 
 all its splendour, gilds my eastern palaces. Add to this 
 the pensive drudgery in building, and constant grasping 
 aerial trowels, distracts and shatters the mind, and the 
 fond builder of Babels is often cursed with an incoherent 
 diversity and confusion of thoughts. I do not know to 
 whom I can more properly apply myself for relief from 
 this fantastical evil, than to yourself; whom I earnestly 
 implore to accommodate me with a method bow to settle 
 my head and cool my brain-pan. A dissertation on castle- 
 building may not only be serviceable to myself, but alt 
 architects, who display their skill in the thin element. 
 Such a favour would oblige me to make my next soliloquy 
 Dot contain the praises of my dear self, but of the Spec- 
 tator, who shall, by complying with this, make me 
 * His obliged humble servant, 
 jji|.^ ' VITRUVIUS.' 
 
 No. 168.] Wednesday, September 12, 1711. 
 
 — — — Pectus praeccptis format amicis. 
 
 Hot. Lib. C. Ep. i. JCS. 
 
 Forms the soft bosom witli the gentlest ^rt.— Pope. 
 
 It would be arrogance to neglect the application of my 
 correspondents so far, as not sometimes to insert theic 
 animadversions upon my paper ; that of this day shall be 
 therefore wholly composed of the hints which they have 
 sent me. 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * I send you this to congratulate your late choice of a 
 subject, for treating on which you desene public thanks^ 
 I mean that on those licensed tyrants the school-masters. 
 If you can disarm them of their rods, you will certainly 
 have your old age reverenced by all the young gentlemen 
 of Great Britain who are now between seven and seven- 
 teen years. You may boast that the incomparably wise 
 
 Vol. II. X
 
 KO THE SPECTATOR, iNo. 168. 
 
 Quintilian and you are of one mind in this particular, 
 *' Si cui est (says he) mens tarn illiberalis ut objurgatione 
 non co7rigatur, is etiam ad plagas, ut pessima quceque 
 mancipia, durabiiur ;" i. e. " If any child be of so disin- 
 genuous a nature, as not to stand corrected by reproof, 
 he, like the very worst of slaves, will be hardened even 
 against blows themselves." And afterwards, *' Pudet di> 
 cere in quce probra nefandi homines isto c^dendi Jure 
 abutantur." i.e. " I blush to say how shamefully those 
 wicked men abuse the power of correction." 
 
 * I was bred myself, sir, in a very great school,* of 
 which the master was a Welshman, but certainly de- 
 scended from a Spanish family, as plainly appeared from 
 his temper as well as his name.f I leave you to judge 
 what sort of a school- master a Welshman ingrafted on a 
 Spaniard would make. So very dreadful had he made 
 himself to me, that although it is above twenty years 
 since I felt his heavy hand, yet still once a month at least 
 I dream of him, so strong an impression did he make oa 
 my mind. It is a sign he has fully terrified me waking, 
 who still continues to haunt me sleeping. 
 
 * And yet I may say without vanity, that the business 
 of the school was what I did without great difficulty; 
 and I was not remarkably unlucky; and yet such was the 
 master's severity, that once a month, or oftener, I suf- 
 fered as much as would have satisfied the law of the land 
 for a petty larceny. 
 
 ' Many a white and tender hand, which the fond mo- 
 ther bad passionately kissed a thousand and a thousand 
 times, have I seen whipped until it was covered with 
 blood ; perhaps for smiling, or for going a yard and a 
 half out of a gate, or for writing an o for an a, or an a 
 for an o. These were our great faults ! Many a brave and 
 noble spirit has been there broken; others have run from 
 thence and were never heard of afterwards. It is a worthy 
 attempt to undertake the cause of distressed youth ; and 
 
 • Eton. 
 
 t Dr. Charles Roderick, master of Eton-scbool, and afters ards pro- 
 Y©st of KingVcoUfge, Cambridge.
 
 No. 168.] ' THE SPECTATOR, 2Sl 
 
 it is a noble piece of knight-errantry to enter the list 
 against so many armed pedagogues. It is pity but we had 
 a set of men, polite in their behaviour and method of 
 teaching, who should be put into a condition of being 
 above flattering or fearing the parents of those they in- 
 struct. We might then possibly see leaniing become a 
 pleasure, and children delighting themselves iu that 
 which they now abhor for coming upon such hard terms 
 to them. What would be still a greater happiness arising 
 from the care of such instructors, would be, that we 
 should have no more pedants, nor any bred to learning 
 who had not genius for it. I am, with the utmost sin- 
 cerity, 
 
 *Sir, 
 * Your most affectionate humble sen'ant.* 
 
 ' Richmond, 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, Sept. 5, 1711. 
 
 * I am a boy of fourteen years of age, and have for 
 this last year been under the tuition of a doctor of divi- 
 nity, who has taken the school of this place under his 
 care.* From the gentleman's great tenderness to me and 
 friendship to my father, I am very happy in learning my 
 book with pleasure. We never leave off our diversion* 
 any farther than to salute him at hours of play when he 
 pleases to look on. It is impossible for any of us to love 
 our own parents better than we do him. He never gives 
 any of us a harsh word, and we think it the greatest pu- 
 nishment in the world when he will not speak to any of 
 us. My brother and I are both together inditing this 
 letter. He is a year older than I am, but is now ready 
 to break his heart that the doctor has not taken any no- 
 tice of him these three days. If you please to print this 
 be will see it, and we hope, taking it for my brother's 
 earnest desire to be restored to his favour, he will again 
 smile upon him. Your most obedient servant, 
 
 ' T. s.' 
 
 • This was Dr. Nicholas Brady, who assisted Tate in the new ver'ion 
 of the Psalms ; he died rector of Rictunoud and Clapham, in Surrey, U 
 17C6.
 
 f3f THE SPECTATOR. CNo. 168. 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * You have represented several sorts of irapertinents 
 singly, I wish you would now proceed and describe some 
 of them in sets. It often happens in public assemblies, 
 that a party who came thither together, or whose im per- 
 tinencies are of an equal pitch, act in concert, and are 
 so full of themselves as to give disturbance to all that 
 are about them. Sometimes you have a set of whisperers 
 who lay their heads together in order to sacrifice every 
 body within their observation ; sometimes a set of lausjhers 
 that keep up an insipid mirth in their own corner, and by 
 their noise and gestures show they have no respect for the 
 rest of the company. You frequently meet with these sets 
 at the opera, the play, the water-works,* and other pub- 
 lic meetings, where their whole business is to draw off 
 the attention of the spectators from the entertainment, 
 and to fix it upon themselves; and it is to be observed 
 that the impertinence is ever loudest, when the set hap- 
 pens to be made up of three or four females who have 
 got what you call a woman's man among them. 
 
 ' I am at a loss to know from whom people of fortune 
 should learn this behaviour, unless it be from the foot- 
 men who keep their places at a new play, and are often 
 seen passing away their time in sets at all-fours in the 
 face of a full house, and with a perfect disregard to the 
 people of quality sitting on each side of them. 
 
 * For preserving therefore the decency of public assem> 
 blies, methinks it would be but reasonable that those 
 who disturb others should pay at least a double price for 
 their places; or rather women of birth and distinction 
 should be informed, that a levity of behaviour in the eyes 
 of people of understanding degrades them below their 
 meanest attendants; and gentlemen should know that a 
 fine coat is a livery, when the person who wears it dis- 
 covers no higher sense than that of a footman. 
 
 * I am, Sir, your most humble servant.' 
 
 • The Water-theatre, a favourite amusement of those times, was invented 
 by one Mr. Wihstanlcy, and exhibited at the lower end of Piccadilly ; it 
 consisted of sea-^ods, goddesses, &.c. playing and spouting out water, and 
 tire mingled with water ; performed every evening between five and six.
 
 No. 169.] THE SPECTATOR. S33 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, Bedfordshire, ScpM.lTU. 
 
 * I am one of those whom every body calls a poacher, 
 and sometimes go out to course with a brace of grey- 
 bounds, a mastiff, and a spaniel or two; and when I am 
 weary with coursing, and have killed hares enough, go to 
 an alehouse to refresh myself. I beg the favour of you 
 (as you set up for a reformer) to send us word how many 
 dogs you vrill allow us to go with, how many full pots of 
 ale to drink, and how many hares to kill in a day, and 
 you will do a great piece of service to all the sportsmen. 
 Be quick then, for the time of coursing is come on. 
 * Yours, iu haste, 
 
 ' ISAAC HEDGEDITCII.' 
 
 No. 169,] Thursday, September 13, 1711. 
 
 Sic vita erat : facilii omiies perferre ac pati : 
 Cum quibus erat cunque una, his sese dedere, 
 Eorum obsequi studiis : adversus nemiiii ; 
 ly^uuquam prasponeiis se aliis; Ita facillimd 
 
 Sine invidi^ invenias laadem 
 
 Ttr. Aiidr. Act. i. Sc. I 
 
 His manner of life was this ; to bear witfi every body's Iiumoiirs; to 
 comply with the inclinations and pursuits of those he conversed with ; 
 to contraflict nobody ; never to assume a superiority over others. Tliifi 
 is the ready way to gain applause, without exciting envy. 
 
 Man is subject to innumerable pains and sorrows by 
 the very condition of humanity, and yet, as if nature had 
 not sown evils enough in life, we are continually adding* 
 grief to grief, and aggravating the common calamity by 
 our cruel treatment of one another. Every man's natural 
 weight of afflictions is still made more heavy by the envy, 
 malice, treachery, or injustice of his neighbour. At the 
 same time that the storm beats upon the whole species, 
 we are falling foul upon one another. 
 
 Half the misery of human life might be extinguished, 
 would men alleviate the general curse they lie under, by 
 mutual offices of compassion, benevolence, and humanity. 
 There is nothing therefore which we ought more to en- 
 courage in ourselves and others, than that disposition of 
 X2
 
 234 THE SPECTATOR. [No. I69. 
 
 mind which in our language goes under the title of g-ood- 
 nature, and which I shall choose for the suhject of this 
 day's speculation. 
 
 Good-nature is more agreeable in conversation thaa 
 
 wit, and gives a certain air to the countenance which is 
 
 more amiable than beauty. It shows virtue in the fairest 
 
 light, takes off in some measure from the deformity of 
 
 . vice, and makes even folly and impertinence supportable. 
 
 There is no society or conversation to be kept up in 
 the world without good-nature, or something which must 
 bear its appearance, and supply its place. For this reason 
 mankind have been forced to invent a kind of artificial 
 humanity, which is what we express by the word good- 
 breeding. For if we examine thoroughly the idea of what 
 we call so, we shall find it to be nothing else but an imi- 
 tation and mimickry of good-nature, or in other terms, 
 aflfability, complaisance, and easiness of temper reduced 
 into an art. 
 
 These exterior shows and appearances of humanity ren- 
 der a man wonderfully popular and beloved, when they 
 are founded upon a real good-nature ; but without it are 
 like hypocrisy in religion, or a bare form of holiness, 
 which, when it is discovered, makes a man more detest- 
 able than professed impiety. 
 
 Good-nature is generally born with us ; health, pros- 
 perity, and kind treatment 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 of itself. It is 
 one of the blessings of a happy constitution, which edu- 
 cation may improve but not produce. 
 
 Xenophon in the life of his imaginary prince, whom he 
 describes as a pattern for real ones, is always celebrating 
 the philanthropy or good- nature of his hero, which he 
 tells us he brought into the world with him, and gives 
 many remarkable instances of it in his childhood, as well 
 as in all the several parts of his life.* Nay, on his death- 
 bed, he describes him as being pleased, that while his 
 
 • Xenoph. De Cyri lustit. lib. viii. cap. vii. sect. 3. edit. J. A. Em. 8vc>. 
 torn. i. p. doO.
 
 No. 169.3 THE SPECTATOR. JSS 
 
 soul returned to him who made it, his body should in- 
 corporate with the great mother of all thin^, and by that 
 mekns become beneficial to mankind. For which reason, 
 he gives his sons a positive order not to enshrine it in 
 gold or silver, but to lay it in the earth as soon as the 
 life was gone out of it. 
 
 An instance of such an overflowing of humanity, such 
 an exuberant love to mankind, could not have entered 
 into the imagination of a writer, who had not a soul filled 
 with great ideas, and a general benevolence to mankind. 
 
 Jin that celebrated passage of Sallust, where Caesar and 
 Cato are placed in such beautiful, but opposite lights ;* 
 Caesar's character is chiefly made up of good-nature, a* 
 it showed itself in all its forms towards his friends or his 
 enemies, his servants or dependents, the guilty or the dis- 
 tressed. As for Cato's character, it is rather awful than 
 amiable. Justice seems most agreeable to the nature of 
 God, and mercy to that of man. A being who has no- 
 thing to pardon in himself, may reward every man ac- 
 cording to his works ; but he whose very best actions 
 must be seen with grains of allowance, cannot be too 
 mild, moderate, and forgiving. For this reason, among 
 all the monstrous characters in human nature, there is 
 none so odious, nor indeed so exquisitely ridiculous, as 
 that of a rigid severe temper in a worthless man. 
 
 This part of good-nature however, which consists in 
 tlie pardoning and overlooking of faults, is to be exer- 
 cised only in doing ourselves justice, and that too in the 
 ordinary commerce and occurrences of life; for in the 
 public administrations of justice, mercy to one may bt 
 cruelty to others. 
 
 It is grown almost into a maxim, that good-natured 
 men are not always men of the most wit. This observa- 
 tion, in my opinion, has no foundation in nature. The 
 greatest wits I have conversed with are men eminent for 
 their humanity. I take therefore this remark to have 
 been occasioned by two reasons. First, because ill-nature 
 amoug ordinary observers passes for wit. A spiteful say- 
 • Sallast. Bell. Caiil. c. lir.
 
 236 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 170. 
 
 ing gratifies so many little passions in those who hear it, 
 that it generally meets with a good reception. The 1 nxgh 
 rises upon it, and the naan who utters it is looked upon as 
 a shrewd satirist. This may be one reason, why a great 
 many pleasant companions appear so surprisingly dull, 
 when they have endeavoured to be merry in print; the 
 public being more just than private clubs or assemblies, 
 in distinguishing between what is wit, and what is ill- 
 nature. 
 
 Another reason why the good-natured man may some- 
 times bring his wit in question, is, perhaps, because he 
 is apt to be moved with compassion for those misfortunes 
 or infirmities, which another would turn into ridicule, 
 and by that means gain the reputation of a wit. The 
 ill-natured man, though but of equal farts, gives himself 
 a larger field to expatiate in ; he exposes those faihngs in 
 human nature which the other would cast a veil over, 
 laughs at vices which the other either excuses or ronceals, 
 gives utterance to reflections which the other stifles, falls 
 indifferently upon friends or enemies, exposes the person 
 who has obliged him, and, in short, sticks at nothing 
 that may establish his character of a wit. it is no wonder 
 therefore he succeeds in it better than the man of huma- 
 nity, as a person who makes use of iiidirect methods is 
 more hkely to grow rich than the fair trader. L. 
 
 No. 170.] Friday f September 14, 1711. 
 
 In amore h.-^c omnia in^int vitia : injurix, 
 
 Sospiciones, inimicitia?, inriaciae, 
 
 Bellum, r«i rursiiiu Ter. Eun. Act. 1. Sc. 1. 
 
 In love are all these ills : snspicions. quarrels, 
 
 Wrongs, reconcilements, war, and pt:<tcc apain.— Co/;na«. 
 
 Upon looking over the letters of my female corres- 
 pondents, I find several from women complaining of jea- 
 lous husbands, and at the same time protesting their own 
 innocence; and desiring my advice on this occasion. I 
 shall therefore take this subject into my consideration ; 
 and tha more williogiy, because I 6nd that the Marquis
 
 No. 170.] THE SPECTATOR. S3t 
 
 of Halifax, who, in his Advice to a Daughter, has in- 
 structed a wife how to behave herself towards a false, an 
 intemperate, a choleric, a sullen, a covetous, or a silly 
 husband, has not spoken one word of a jealous husband. 
 
 * Jealousy is that pain which a man feels from the 
 apprehension that he is not equally beloved by the person 
 whom he entirely loves.' Now because our inward passions 
 and inclinations can never make themselves visible, it is 
 impossible for a jealous man to be thoroughly cured of 
 bis suspicions. His thoughts hang at best in a state of 
 doubtfulness and uncertainty; and are never capable of 
 receiving any satisfaction on the advantageous side; so 
 that his inquiries are most successful when they discover 
 nothing. His pleasure arises from his disappointments,' 
 and his life is spent in pursuit of a secret that destroys 
 his happiness, if he chance to find it. 
 
 An ardent lore is always a strong ingredient in this 
 passion ; for the same affection which stirs up the jealous 
 man's desires, and gives the party beloved so beautiful 
 a figure in his imagination, makes him believe she kindles 
 the same passion in others, and appears as amiable to 
 all beholders. And as jealousy thus arises from an extra- 
 ordinary love, it is of so delicate a nature, that it scorns 
 to take up with any thing less than an equal return of 
 love. Not the warmest expressions of affection, the softest 
 and most tender hypocrisy, are able to give any satisfac- 
 tion, where we are not persuaded that the affection is real, 
 and the satisfaction mutual. For the jealous man wishes 
 himself a kind of deity to the person he loves. He would 
 be the only pleasure of her senses, the employment of 
 her thoughts ; and is angry at every thing she admires, 
 or takes delight in, besides himself. 
 
 Phaedra's request to his mistress, upon his leaving her 
 for three days, is inimitably beautiful and natural : 
 
 Cum miliie isto prxsens, absens nt sies: 
 
 Dies ncctesque me ames: me desideres: 
 
 Me somnies : me expectes : fie me cogites : 
 
 Me sperts: me te oblectes: meciim tota sis: 
 
 Mens fac sis postrem6 auimui, quando ego sum tnnc. 
 
 Tii: Eun. Act. i. Sc. C.
 
 2»8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 170. 
 
 Be with yon soldier present, as if absent: 
 
 All night and day love me ; still long tor me : 
 
 Dream, ponder still ' ou' nie : wish, hope for me : 
 
 Delight in me; be all in all with me ; 
 
 Give your whole heart, for mine's all your's, to me.~Cotfnan. 
 
 The jealous man's disease is of so maglignant a nature, 
 that it converts all it takes into its own iwurishment. 
 A cool behaviour sets Lira on the rack, and is interpreted 
 as an instance of aversion or indifference ; a fond one 
 raises his suspicions, and looks too much like dissimula- 
 tion and artifice. If the person he loves be cheerful, her 
 thoughts must be employed on another; and if sad, she 
 is certainly thinking on himself. In short, there is no 
 vFord or gesture so insignificant, but it gives him new 
 hints, feeds his suspicions, and furnishes him with fresh 
 matters of discovery : so that if we consider the effects 
 of his passion, one would rather think it proceeded frona 
 an inveterate hatred, than an excessive love ; for certainly 
 none can meet with more disquietude and uneasiness than 
 ^ suspected wife, if we except the jealous husband. 
 
 But the great unhappiness of this passion is, that it 
 naturally tends to alienate the affection which it is so 
 solicitous to ingross; and that for these two reasons, 
 because it lays too great a constraint on the words and 
 actions of the suspected person, and at the same time 
 ■shows you have no honourable opinion of herj both of 
 which are strong motives to aversion. 
 
 Nor is this the worst effect of jealousy ; for it often 
 draws after it a more fatal train of consequences, and 
 makes the person 3'ou suspect guilty of the very crimes 
 you are so much afraid of. It is very natural for such 
 who are treated ill and upbraided falsely, to find out an 
 intimate friend that will hear their complaints, condole 
 their sufferings, and endeavour to sooth and assuage their 
 secret resentments. Besides, jealousy puts a woman often 
 in mind of an ill thing that she would not otherwise per- 
 haps have thought of, and fills her imagination with such 
 an unlucky idea, as in time grows famihar, excites desire, 
 and loses all the shame and horror which might at first
 
 No. 170.] THE SPECTATOR. «f 
 
 attend it. Nor is it a wonder if she who suffers wroni^-- 
 fully in a man's opinion of her, and has therefore noth- 
 ing to forfeit in his esteem, resolves to give him reason 
 for his suspicions, and to enjoy the pleasure of the crime, 
 since she must undergo the ignominy. Such probably 
 were the considerations that directed the wise man in his 
 advice to husbands : * Be not jealous over the wife of thy 
 bosom, and teach her not an evil lesson against thyself.* *• 
 • And here, among the other torments which this passion 
 produces, we may usually observe that none are greater 
 mourners than jealous men, when the person who pro- 
 voked their jealousy is taken from them. Then it is that 
 their love breaks out furiously, and throws off all the 
 mixtures of suspicion which choked and smothered it be- 
 fore. The beautiful parts of the character rise upper- 
 most in the jealous husband's memory, and upbraid him 
 with the ill usage of so divine a creature as was once in 
 his possession ; whilst all the little imperfections, that 
 were before so uneasy to him, wear off from his remem- 
 brance, and show themselves no more. 
 
 We may see by what has been said, that jealousy takes 
 the deepest root in men of amorous dispositions ; and of 
 these we find three kinds who are most over-run with it. 
 
 The first are those who are conscious to themselves of 
 any infirmity, whether it be weakness, old age, deformity, 
 ignorance, or the like. These men are so well acquainted 
 with the unamiable part of themselves, that they have not 
 the confidence to think they are really beloved ; and are 
 so distrustful of their own merits, that all fondness towards 
 them puts them out of (.-ountenance, and looks like a jest 
 upon their peisons. They grow suspicious on their first 
 looking in a glass, and are stung with jealousy at the sight 
 of a wrinkle. A handsome fellow immediately alarms 
 them, and every thing that looks young, or gay, turns 
 their thoughts upon their wives. 
 
 A second sort of men, who are most liable to this pas- 
 sion, are those of cunning, wary, and distrustful tempers. 
 It is a fault very justly found in histories composed by 
 • Ec«kBi(isticuj, ix. 1.
 
 S40 THE SPECTATOR/ {No. 170.' 
 
 politicians, that they leave nothing to chance or humour, 
 but are still for deriving every action from some plot or 
 contrivance, for drawing up a perpetual scheme of causes 
 and events, and preserving a constant correspondence 
 between the camp and the council-table. And thus it 
 happens in the affairs of love with men of too refined a 
 thought. They put a construction on a look, and find 
 out a design in a smile ; they give new senses and signifi- 
 cations to words and actions; and are ever tormenting 
 themselves with fancies of their own raising. Tiiey gene- 
 rally act in a disguise themselves, and therefore mistake 
 all outward shows and appearances for hypocrisy in others; 
 6o that I believe no men see less of the truth and rezility 
 of things, than these great refiners upon incidents, who 
 are so wonderfully subtile and overwise in their concep- 
 tions. 
 
 Now what these men fancy they know of women by 
 reflection, your lewd and vicious men believe they have 
 learned by experience. They have seen the poor husband 
 so misled by tricks and artifices, and in the midst of his 
 inquiries so lost and bewildered in a crooked intrigue, 
 that they still suspect an under-plot in every female 
 action ; and especially where they see any resemblance 
 in the behaviour of two persons, are apt to fancy it pro- 
 ceeds from the same design in both. These men therefore 
 bear hard upon the suspected party, pursue her close 
 through all her turnings and windings, and are too well 
 acqudnted with the chase, to be flung off by any false 
 steps, or doubles. Besides, their acquaintance and con- 
 versation has lain wholly among the vicious part of wo- 
 man-kind, and therefore it is no wonder they censure all 
 alike, and look upon the whole sex as a species of impos- 
 tors. But if, notwithstanding their private experience, 
 they can get over these prejudices, and entertain a favour- 
 able oi)inion of some women ; yet their own loose desires 
 will stir up new suspicions from another side, and make 
 them believe all men subject to the same inclinations 
 with themselves. 
 
 Whether these or other motives are most predominant.
 
 No. 171.] THE SPECTATOR, Ml 
 
 vre leafn from the mudern histories of America, as well 
 as from our own experience in this part of the world, that 
 jealousy is no northern passion, but rages most in those 
 nations that lie nearest the influence of the sun. It is 
 a misfortune for a woman to be born between the tropics ; 
 for there lie the hottest regions of jealousy, which as you 
 come northward cools all along with the climate, till you 
 scarce meet with any thing like it in the polar circle. Our 
 own nation is very temperately situated in this respect ; 
 and if we meet with some few disordered with the violence 
 of this passion, they are not the proper growth of our 
 ceuntry, but are many degrees nearer the sun in their 
 constitutions than in their climate. 
 
 After this frightful account of jealousy, and the persons 
 who are most subject to it, it will be but fair to show by 
 what means the passion may be best allayed, and those 
 who are possessed with it set at ease. Other faults, indeed, 
 are not under the wife's jurisdiction, and should, if possible, 
 escape her observation ; but jealousy calls upon her par- 
 ticularly for its cure, and deserves all her art and appli- 
 cation in the attempt. Besides, she has this for her en- 
 couragement, that her endeavours will be always pleasing, 
 and that she will still find the affection of her husband 
 rising towards her in proportion as his doubts and suspi- 
 cions vanish; for, as we have seen all along, there is so 
 great a mixture of love and jealousy as is well worth the 
 separating. But this shall be the subject of another 
 paper. L. 
 
 No. 171.] Saturday, September 15, 1713. 
 
 Credula res amor est • Ovid. Mot. vii. 8C6. 
 
 Love is a credulous passion. 
 
 Having in my yesterday's paper discovered the nature 
 of jealousy, and pointed out the persons who are most 
 subject to it, 1 must here apply myself to my fair corres- 
 pondents, who desire to live well with a jealous husband, 
 and to ease his mind of its unjust suspicions. 
 
 Vol. IL Y
 
 242' THE SPECTATOR. ' [No. 171. 
 
 The first rule I shall propose to be observed 13, that 
 you never seem to dislike in another what the jealous 
 man is himself guilty of, or to admire any thing in which 
 he himself does not excel, A jealous man is very quick 
 in his applications ; he knows how to find a double edge 
 in an invective, and to draw a satire on himself out of 
 a panegyric on another. He does not trouble himself tx> 
 consider the person, but to direct the character; and is 
 secretly pleased or confounded, as he finds more or less of 
 himself in it. The commendation of any thing in an- 
 other stirs up his jealousy, as it shows you have a value 
 for others besides himself; but the commendation of that, 
 which he himself wants, inflames him more, as it shows 
 that in some respects you prefer others before him. Jea- 
 lousy is admirably described in this view by Horace in 
 his ode to Lydia : 
 
 Quum tu, Lydia, Tdephi 
 
 Cervicem roseam, et cerca Telephi 
 Laiidas bracliia, vae ineum 
 
 Fervens difficili bile tumet jccur ; 
 Tunc nee mens mihi. nee color 
 
 Ccrtd scde manet ; humor et in genas 
 Furtim labitur, ar^jnens 
 
 Quam lentis penilus macerer ignibus. 
 
 Lib, 1, Od. xiii. 1. 
 
 ■\Vhen Telephus his youthful charms. 
 His rosy neck and winding arms, 
 ^Vith endless rai)ture you recite. 
 And in the pleasing name delight ; 
 My heart, inflamed by jealous heats, 
 With numberless resentments beats ; 
 From my pale cheek the colour flies. 
 And all the man witiiin me dies ; 
 By turns my hidden grief appears 
 In rising sighs and f;illing tears, 
 'iliat show too well the warm desires, 
 I'lie silent, slow, consuming fires, 
 Which on my inmost vitals prey, 
 And melt my very soul away. 
 
 The jealous man is not indeed angry if you dislike an- 
 other ; but if you find those faults which are to be found 
 in his own character, you discover not only your dislike of 
 another, but of himself. In short, he is so desirous of
 
 No. 171.] THE SPECTATOR. Ml 
 
 ingrossing all your love, that he is grieved at the want of 
 any charm, which he believes has power to raise it: and 
 if he finds by your censures on others, that he is not so 
 agreeable in your opinion as he might be, he naturally 
 .concludes you could love him better if he had other 
 qualifications, and that by consequence your affection 
 does not rise so high as he thinks it ought. If therefore 
 his temper be grave or sullen, you must not be too much 
 pleased with a jest, or transported with any thing that is 
 gay or diverting. If his beauty be none of the liest, you 
 must be a professed admirer of prudence, or any other 
 quality he is master of, or at least vain enough to think 
 he is. 
 
 In the next place, you must be sure to be free and 
 open in your conversation with him, and to let in light 
 upon your actions, to unravel all your designs, and dis- 
 cover every secret, however trifling or indifferent. A jea- 
 lous husband has a particular aversion to winks and whis- 
 pers, and if he does not see to the bottom of every thing, 
 will be sure to go beyond it in his fears and suspicions. 
 He will always expect to be your chief confidant, and 
 where he finds himself kept out of a secret, will believe 
 there is more in it than there should be. And here it is 
 of gieat concern, that you ])reserve the character of your 
 sincerity uniform and of a piece ; for if he once finds a 
 false gloss put upon any single action, he quickly suspects 
 all the rest: his working imagination immediately takes 
 a false hint, and runs off with it into several remote 
 consequences, till he has proved very ingenious in working 
 out his own misery. 
 
 If both these methods fail, the best way will be to let 
 him see you are much cast down and afflicted for the ill 
 opinion he entertains of you, and the disquietudes he 
 himself suffers for your sake. There are many who take 
 a kind of barbarous pleasure in the jealousy of those who 
 love them, that insult over an aching heart, and triumph 
 in their charms which are able to excite so much unea- 
 siness :
 
 §U THE SPECTATOR. [No. 171. 
 
 Ardeat ipsa licet, tormentis gaodet amantii. 
 
 Juv. Sat. Ti. S08. 
 
 Though eqnal pains her peace of mind destroy, 
 A lover's torments give her spiteful joy. 
 
 But these often carry the humour so far, till their aflFected 
 coldness and indifference quite kills all the fondness of 
 a lover, and are then sure to meet in their turn with all 
 the contempt and scorn that is due to so insolent a be- 
 haviour. On the contrary, it is very probable a melan- 
 choly, dejected carriage, the usual effects of injured 
 innocence, may soften the jealous husband into pity, 
 make him sensible of the wrong he does you, and work 
 out of his mind all those fears and suspicions that make 
 you both unhappy. At least it will have this good effect, 
 that he will keep his jealousy to himself, and repine in 
 private, either because he is sensible it is a weakness, 
 and will therefore hide it from your knowledge, or because 
 he will be apt to fear some ill effect it may produce in 
 cooling your love towards him, or diverting it to another. 
 
 There is still another secret that can never fail, if you 
 can once get it believed, and which is often practised by 
 women of greater cunning than virtue. This is to change 
 sides for a while with the jealous man, and to turn his 
 own passion upon himself; to take some occasion of grow- 
 ing jealous of him, and to follow the example he himself 
 hath set you. This counterfeit jealousy will bring him a 
 great deal of pleasure, if he thinks it real; for he knows 
 experimentally how much love goes along with this pas- 
 sion, and will besides feel something like the satisfaction 
 of revenge, in seeing you undergo all his own tortures. 
 But this, indeed, is an artifice so difficult, and at the same 
 time so disingenuous, that it ought never to be put in 
 practice but by such as have skill enough to cover the 
 deceit, and innocence to render it excusable. 
 
 I shall conclude this essay with the story of Herod and 
 Mariamne, as I have collected it out of Josephus ;* which 
 
 •Antiquities of ihe Jeivs, book xv. chap. 3. sect. 5,6, 9; chap. f. 
 sect. l,2,&c.
 
 No. 171.] THE spectator; 24S 
 
 may serve almost as an example to whatever can be said 
 on this subject. . 
 
 Mariamne had all the charms that beauty, birth, wit, 
 and youth could a^ve a woman, and Herod all the love that 
 such charms are able to raise in a warm and amorous 
 disposition. In the midst of this his fondness focMariamne 
 he put her brother to death, as he did her father not 
 many years after. Tbe barbarity of the action was re- 
 presented to Mark Antony, who immediately summoned 
 Herod into Egypt, to answer for the crime that was there 
 laid to his charge. Herod, attributed the summons to 
 Antony's desire of Mariamne, whom therefore before his 
 departure, he gave into the custody of his uncle Joseph, 
 with private orders to put her to death, if any such vio- 
 lence was offered to himself. This Joseph was much 
 delighted with Mariamne's conversation, and endeavoured, 
 with all his art and rhetoric, to set out the excess of 
 Herod's passion for her; but when he still found her 
 cold and incredulous, he inconsiderately told her, as a 
 certain instance of her lord's affection, the private ordere 
 he had left behind him, which plainly showed, according 
 to Joseph's interpretation, that he could neither live nor 
 die without her. This barbarous instance of a wild unrea- 
 sonable passion quite put out, for a time, those little re- 
 mains of affection she still had for her lord. Her thoughts 
 were so wholly taken up with the cruelty of his orders, 
 that she could not consider the kindness that produced 
 them, and therefore represented him in her imagination^ 
 rather under the frightful idea of a murderer than a lover. 
 
 Herod was at length acquitted and dismissed by Mark 
 Antony, when his soul was all in flames for his Mariamne ; 
 but before their meeting, he was not a little alarmed at 
 the report he had heard of his uncle's conversation and 
 familiarity with her in his absence. This therefore was 
 the first discourse he entertained her with, in which she 
 found it no easy matter to quiet his suspicions. But at 
 last he appeared so well satisfied of her innocence, that 
 from reproaches and wranglings he fell to tears and em- 
 braces. Both of them wept very tenderly at their recon-
 
 246 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 171. 
 
 ciliation, and Herod poured out his whole soul to her in 
 tlie warmest jtiotestations of love and constancy ; when 
 amidst all his sighs and languishings she asked him, Whe- 
 ther the private orders he left with his uncle Joseph were 
 an instance of such an inflamed affection ? The jealous 
 king was immediately roused at so unexpected a question, 
 and concluded his uncle must have been too familiar with 
 her, before he would have discovered such a secret. In 
 short, he put his uncle to death, and very difficultly pre- 
 vailed upon himself to spare Mariamne. 
 
 After this he was forced on a second journey into Egypt, 
 when he committed his lady to the care of Sohemus, with 
 the same private orders be had before given his uncle, if 
 any mischief befel himself. In the meanwhile Mariamne 
 so won upon Sohemus by her presents and obliging con- 
 versation, that she drew all the secret from him, with 
 which Herod had intrusted him ; so that after bis return, 
 when he flew to her with all the transports of joy and 
 love, she received him coldly with sighs and tears, and 
 all the marks of indifference and aversion. This recep- 
 tion so stirred up his indignation, that he had certainly 
 slain her with his own hands, had not he feared he him- 
 self should have become the greatest sufferer by it. It 
 was not long after this, when he had another violent 
 return of love upon him : Mariamne was therefore sent 
 for to him, whom he endeavoured to soften and reconcile 
 with all possible conjugal caresses and endearments ; but 
 £he declined his embraces, and answered all his fondness 
 with bitter invectives for the death of her father, and her 
 brother. This behaviour so incensed Herod, that he very 
 hardly refrained from striking her; when in the heat of 
 their quarrel there came in a witness suborned by some 
 of Mariamne's enemies, who accused her to the king of a 
 design to poison him. Herod was now prepared to hear 
 any thing in her prejudice, and immediately ordered her 
 servant to be stretched upon the rack ; who in the extre- 
 mity of his torture confest, that his mistress's aversion to 
 the king arose from something Sohemus had told her; 
 but as for any desi^i of poisoning, be utterly disowned
 
 No. 173.]' THE SPECTATOR. 94^ 
 
 the least knowledge of it. This confession quickly proved 
 fatal to Sohemus, who now lay under the same suspicions 
 and sentence that Joseph had before him, on the like 
 occasion. Nor would Herod rest here; but accused her 
 with great vehemence of a desijjn upon his life, and, by 
 his authority with the judj^es, had her publickly con- 
 demned and executed. Herod soon after her death grew 
 melancholy and dejected, retiring from the public admi- 
 nistration of affairs into a solitary forest, and there aban- 
 doning himself to all the black considerations, which 
 naturally arise from a passion made up of love, remorse, 
 pity, and despair. He used to rave for his Mariamne, 
 and to call upon her in his distracted fits ; and in all 
 probability would soon have followed her, had not his 
 thoughts been seasonably called off from so sad an object 
 by public storms, which at that time very nearly threatened 
 him. L. 
 
 No. 172.] Monday, September i7, 1711. 
 
 Kon soliim scientia, quae est rcmota .^jnstitia, callitlitas jiotiiis qiiAm 
 sapientia e«t appcllanda ; veriun ctiatii animns paratns ad periculiim, si 
 8n& ciipiditate, non utilitatc cominuni, impeUitur ^udacia potiCis nomen 
 habeat, quam fortitudiijis Plato apud Tall. 
 
 As knowledge, without justice, ought to be called cnnning;, rather than 
 wisdom ; so a mind preparerl to n»cel danger, if excited by its owa 
 eagerness, and not the public good, deserves tlie name of andacity, 
 ratlicr than that of fortitude. 
 
 There can be no greater injury to human society than 
 that good talents among men should be held honourable 
 to those who are endowed with them without any regard 
 how they are applied. The gifts of nature and accom- 
 plishments of art are valuable but as they are exerted in 
 the interests of virtue, or governed by the rules of honour. 
 We ought to abstract our minds from the observation of 
 any excellence in those we converse with, till we have 
 taken some notice, or received some good information of 
 the disposition of their miuds ; otherwise the beauty of
 
 i48 THE spectator: [No. 172. 
 
 their persons, or the charms of their wit, may make us 
 fond of those whona our reason and judgment will tell us 
 we oug'ht to abhor. 
 
 When we suffer ourselves to be thus carried away by 
 mere beauty, or mere wit, Omniamante, with all her vice, 
 will bear away as much of our good-will as the most in- 
 nocent virgin, or discreet matron ; and there cannot be a 
 more abject slavery in this world, than to dote upon what 
 we think we ought to condemn. Yet this must be our 
 condition in all the parts of life, if we suffer ourselves to 
 approve any thing but what tends to the promotion of 
 what is good and honourable. If we would take true 
 pains with ourselves to consider all things by the light of 
 reason and justice, though a man were in the height of 
 youth and amorous inclinations, he would look upon a 
 coquette with the same contempt, or indifference, as he 
 would upon a coxcomb. The wanton carriage in a woman 
 would disappoint her of the admiration which she aims 
 at ; and the vain dress or discourse of a man would des- 
 troy the comeliness of his shape, or goodness of his un- 
 derstanding. I say the goodness of his understanding, for 
 it is no less common to see men of sense commence cox- 
 combs, than beautiful women become immodest. When 
 this happens in either, the favour we are naturally in- 
 clined to give to the good qualities they have from nature 
 should abate in proportion. But however just it is to 
 measure the value of men by the application of their 
 talents, and not by the eminence of those qualities ab- 
 stracted from their use: I say, however just such a way 
 of judging is, in all ages as well as this, the contrary has 
 prevailed upon the generality of mankind. How many 
 lewd devices have been preserved from one age to an- 
 other, which had perished as soon as they were made, if 
 painters and sculptors had been esteemed as much for the 
 purpose, as the execution of their designs? Modest and 
 well governed imaginations have by this means lost the 
 representation of ten thousand charming portraiture*, 
 imed with images of innate truth, generous aeal, cou-
 
 No. 172.1 THE SPECTATOR. M| 
 
 rageous faith, and tender humanity; instead of which, 
 satyrs, furies, and monsters, are recommended by those 
 arts tp a shameful eternity. 
 
 The unjust application of laudable talents is tolerated 
 in the general opinion of men, not only in such cases as 
 are here mentioned, but also in matters which concern 
 ordinary life. If a lawyer were to be esteemed only as 
 he uses his parts in contending for justice, and were 
 immediately despicable when he appeared in a cause which 
 he could nc^ but know was an unjust one, how honoura- 
 ble would his character be ? And how honourable is it in 
 such among us, who follow the profession no otherwise, 
 than as labouring to protect the injured, to subdue the 
 oppressor, to imprison the careless debtor, and do right 
 to the painful artificer ? But many of this excellent 
 character are overlooked by the greater number; who 
 affect covering a weak place in a client's title, diverting 
 the course of an inquiry, or finding a skilful refuge to 
 palliate a falsehood: yet it is still called eloquence in the 
 latter, though thus unjustly employed: but resolution in 
 an assassin is according to reason quite as laudable, as 
 knowledge and wisdom exercised in the defence of an ill 
 cause. 
 
 Were the intention steadfastly considered, as the mea- 
 sure of approbation, all falsehood would soon be out of 
 countenance: and an address in imposing upon mankind, 
 would be as contemptible in one stale of life as another. 
 A couple of courtiers making professions of esteem, would 
 make the same figure after breach of promise, as two 
 knights of the post convicted of perjury. But conver- 
 sation is fallen so low in point of morality, that, as they 
 say in a bargain, ' Let the buyer look to it ;* so in friend- 
 ship he is the man in danger who is most apt to believe. 
 He is the more likely to suffer in the commerce, who be- 
 gins with the obligation of being the more ready to enter 
 into it. 
 
 But those men only are truly great, who place their 
 ambition rather in acquiring to themselves the conscience 
 of worthy enterprises, than in the prospect of glory which 
 attends them. These exalted spirits would rather b«
 
 $50 THE SPECTATOR/ [No. 173. 
 
 secretly the authors of events which are serviceable to 
 mankind, than, without being such, to have the public 
 fame of it. Where therefore an eminent merit is robbed 
 by artifice or detraction, it does but increase by such en- 
 deavours of its enemies. The impotent pains which are 
 taken to sully it, or diffuse it among a crowd to the injury 
 of a single person, will naturally produce the contrary 
 effect ; the fire will blaze out, and burn up all that attempt 
 to smother what they cannot extinguish. 
 
 There is but one thing necessary to keep the possession 
 of true glory, which is, to hear the opposers of it with 
 patience, and preserve the virtue by which it was ac- 
 quired. When a man is thoroughly persuaded that he 
 ought neither to admire, wish for, or pursue any thing 
 but what is exactly his duty, it is not in the power of 
 seasons, persons, or accidents, to diminish his value. He 
 only is a great man who can neglect the applause of the 
 multitude, and enjoy himself independent of its favour. 
 This is indeed an arduous task : but it should comfort a 
 glorious spirit that it is the highest step to which human 
 nature can arrive. Triumph, applause, acclamation, are 
 dear to the mind of man; but it is still a more exquisite 
 delight to say to yourself, you have done well, than to hear 
 the whole human race pronounce you glorious, except you 
 yourself can join with them in your own reflections. A 
 mind thus equal and uniform, may be deserted by little 
 fashionable admirers and followers, but will ever be had 
 in reverence by souls like itself. The branches of the 
 oak endure all the seasons of the year, though its leaves 
 fall off in autumn ; and these too will be restored with 
 the returning spring. T. 
 
 No. 173.] Tuesday, September 18, 1711. 
 
 Kemove fera monstra, tu%que 
 
 Saxificos vultus, qtiaecunque ea, toUe Medusse. 
 
 Ovid, Met. v. 216. 
 Hence with those monstrons features, and, O ! spare 
 Thitl Gorgon's look, and petrifj ing stare. P. 
 
 In a late paper I mentioned the project of an ingenious 
 author for the erecting of several handicraft prizes to be
 
 No. 173.] THE SPFXTATOR. 25t 
 
 contended for by our British artisans, and the influence 
 they might have towards the improvement of our several 
 manufactures, I have since that been very much sur- 
 prised by the following advertisement, which 1 find in the 
 Post- Boy of the 11th instant, and again repeated in the 
 Post-Boy of the loth. 
 
 * 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/. the winning horse t() 
 be sold for 10/. 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 15th at the Swan in 
 Colesbill, before six in the evening. Also a plate of less 
 value to be run for by asses. The same day a gold ring 
 to be grinned for by men.' 
 
 The first of these diversions that is to be exhibited by 
 the 10/. race-horses, may probably have its use; but the 
 two last, in which the asses and men are concerned, seem 
 to me altogether extraordinary and unaccountable. Why 
 they should keep running asses at Colesbill, or how mak- 
 ing mouths turn to account in Warwickshire, more than 
 in any other parts of England, I cannot comprehend. I 
 have looked over all the Olympic games, and do not find 
 any thing in them like an ass-race, or a match at griniiing. 
 However it be, I am informed that several asses are now 
 kept in body-clothes, and sweated every morning upon 
 the heath ; and that all the country-fellows within ten 
 miles of the Swan, grin an hour or two in their glasses 
 every morning, in order to qualify themselves for the 9th 
 of October. The prize which is proposed to be grinned 
 for, has raised such an ambition among the common 
 people of out-grinning one another, that many very dis- 
 cerning persons are afraid it should spoil most of the 
 faces in the county ; and that a Warwickshire man will 
 be known by his grin, as Roman-catholics imagine a 
 Kentish man is by his tail. The ;;old ring^, which is mad«
 
 252 THE SPECTATOR. CNo. 173. 
 
 the prize of deformity, is just the reverse of the gulden 
 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 frightfuU'st grinner 
 Be the winner. 
 
 In the meanwhile I would advise a Dutch painter to be 
 present at this great controversy of faces, in order to 
 make a collection of the most remarkable grins that shall 
 be there exhibited. 
 
 I roust not here omit an account which I lately re- 
 ceived of one of these grinning-matches from a gentleman, 
 who, upon reading the above-mentioned advertisement, 
 entertained a coffee-house with the following narrative: 
 Upon the taking of Namure, amidst other public re- 
 joicings made on that occasion, there was a gold ring 
 given by a whig justice of peace, to be grinned for. The 
 iirst competitor that entered the lists, was a black swar- 
 thy Frenchman, who accidentally passed that way, and 
 being a man naturally of a withered look, and hard fea- 
 tures, promised himself good success. He was placed 
 upon a table in the great point of view, aad looking 
 upon the company like Milton's Death, 
 
 * Grinn'd horribly a gtastty smile ' 
 
 His muscles were so drawn together on each side of his 
 face, that he showed twenty teeth at a grin, and put the 
 country in some pain, lest a foreigner should carry away 
 the honour of the day ; but upon a farther trial they found 
 he was master only of the merry grin. 
 
 The next that mounted the table was a malecontent in 
 those days, and a great master in the whole art of grin- 
 Ziing, but particularly excelled in the angry grin. He did 
 his part so well, that he is said to have made half a dozen 
 M'omen miscarry'; but the justice being apprized by one 
 who stood near him, that the fellow who grinned in his 
 face was a Jacobite, and being unwilling that a disaffected
 
 No. 178.] THE SPECTATOR. 255 
 
 person should win the gold ring, and be looked upon as 
 the best grinner in the country, he ordered the oaths to 
 be tendered unto him upon his quitting the table, which 
 the grinner refusing, he was set aside as an unqualified 
 person. There were several other grotesque figures, that 
 presented themselves, which it would be too tedious to 
 describe. I must not however omit a ploughman, who 
 lived in the farther part of the country, and being very 
 lucky in a pair of long lantern-jaws, wrung his face into 
 such an hideous grimace, that every feature of it ap- 
 peared under a different distortion. The whole company 
 stood astonished at such a complicated grin, and were 
 ready to assign the prize to him, had it not been proved 
 by one of his antagonists, that he had practised with 
 verjuice for some days before, and had a crab found upon 
 him at the very time of grinning; upon which the best 
 judges of grinning declared it as their opinion, that he 
 was not to be looked up)on as a fair grinner, and there- 
 fore ordered him to be set aside as a cheat. 
 
 The prize it seems at length fell upon a cobbler, Giles 
 Gorgon by name, who produced several new grins of his 
 own invention, having been used to cut faces for many 
 years together over his last. At the very first grin he 
 cast every human feature out of his countenance, at the 
 second he became the face of a spout, at the third a 
 baboon, at the fourth a head of a bass-viol, and at the 
 fifth a pair of nut-crackers. The whole assembly won- 
 dered at his accomplishments, and bestowed the ring on 
 him unanimously; but, what he esteemed more than all 
 the rest, a country wench, whom he had wooed in vain for 
 above five years before, was so charmed with his grins, 
 and the applauses which he received on all sides, that she 
 married him the week following, and to this day wear* 
 the prize upon 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 the conclusion. I would nevertheleis 
 leave to the consideration of those who are the patrons 
 of this monstrous trial of skill, whether or no they are 
 
 Vol, II. l
 
 254 1 HE SPECTATOR. [No. 174. 
 
 not guilty, in some measure, of an affront to their spe- 
 cies, in treating after this manner the * human face 
 divine,' and turning that part of us, which has so great an 
 image impressed upon it, into the image of a monkey; 
 whether the raising such silly competitions among the 
 ignorant, proposing prizes for such useless accomplish- 
 ments, filling the common people's heads with such sense- 
 less ambitions, and inspiring them with such absurd ideas 
 of superiority and pre-eminence, has not in it something 
 immoral as well as ridiculous. L. 
 
 No. 174.] Wednesday, September 19, 1711. 
 
 Ilaec memixii et victum frustra contendere Thyrsin. 
 
 Virg. Eel. vii. Gg. 
 The whole debate in mcm'iy 1 retain, 
 When Thyrsis argued \^armly, but io vain. — P. 
 
 There is scarce any thing more common than ani- 
 mosities between parties that cannot subsist but by their 
 agreement: this was well represented in the sedition of 
 the members of the human body in the old Roman fable.* 
 It is often the case of lesser confederate states against 
 a superior power, which are hardly held together, though 
 their unanimity is necessary for their common safety; 
 and this is always the case of the landed and trading in- 
 terests of Great Britain : the trader is fed by the product 
 of the land, and the landed man cannot be clothed but 
 by the skill of the trader : and yet those interests are 
 ever jarring. 
 
 We had last winter an instance of this at our club, in 
 Sir Roger de Coverley and Sir Andrew Freeport, between 
 whom there is generally a constant, though friendly, op- 
 position of opinions. It happened that one of the com- 
 pany, in an historical discourse, was observing, that 
 Carthaginian faith was a proverbial phrase to intimate 
 breach of leagues. Sir Roger said it could hardly be 
 otherwise: that the Carthaginians were the greatest 
 trader* in the world; and as gain is the chief end of such 
 • Livii Ilisl. Dec. I. Lib. ii. cap. ii.
 
 No. 174.] THE SPECTATOR. 255 
 
 a people, they never pursue any other : the means to it are 
 never regarded : they will, if it comes easily, get money 
 honestly ; but if not, they will not scruple to attain it by 
 fraud, or cozenage : and indeed, what is the whole busi- 
 ness of the trader's account, but to overreach him who 
 trusts to his memory? But were not that so, what can 
 there great and noble be expected from him whose at- 
 tention is ever fixed upon balancing his books, and watch- 
 ing over his expenses? And at best, let frugality and 
 parsimony be the virtues of the merchant, how much is 
 Iiis punctual dealing below a gentleman's charity to the 
 poor, or hospitality among his neighbours ? 
 
 Captain Sentry observed Sir Andrew very diligent in 
 hearing Sir Roger, and had a mind to turn the di^c(jurse, 
 by taking notice in general, from the highest to the low- 
 t;st parts of human society, there was a secret, though 
 unjust, way among men, of indulging the seeds of ill- 
 nature and envy, by comparing their own state of life to 
 that of another, and grudging the approach of their 
 neighbour to their own happiness ; and on the other side, 
 he, who is the less at his ease, repines at the other, who 
 he thinks has unjustly the advantage over him. Thus 
 the civil and military lists look upon each other with 
 much ill-nature ; the soldier repines at the courtier's 
 power, and the courtier rallies the soldier's honour ; or, 
 to come to lower instances, the private men in the horse 
 and foot of an army, the carmen and coachmen in the 
 city streets, mutually look upon each other with ill-will, 
 *vhen they are in competition for quarters, or the way in 
 their respective motions. 
 
 * It is very well, good captain,' interrupted Sir Andrew: 
 
 * you may attempt to turn the discourse if you think fit; 
 but I must however have a word or two with Sir Roger, 
 who, I see, thinks he has paid me off, and been very 
 severe upon the merchant. I shall not,' continued he, 
 
 * at this time remind Sir Roger of the great and noble 
 monuments of charity and public spirit, which have been 
 erected by merchants since the reformation, but at pre- 
 sent content myself with what he allows us, parsimony
 
 556 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 174. 
 
 and frugality. If it were consistent with the quality of so 
 ancient a baronet as Sir Roger, to keep an account, or 
 measure things by the most infallible way, that of num- 
 bers, he would prefer our parsimony to his hospitality. If 
 to drink so many hogsheads is to be hospitable, we do 
 not contend for the fame of that virtue ; but it would be 
 worth while to consider, whether so many artificers at 
 work ten days together by my appointment, or so many 
 peasants made merry on Sir Roger's charge, are the men 
 more obliged ? 1 believe the families of the artificers will 
 thank me more than the household of the peasants shall 
 Sir Roger. Sir Roger gives to his men, but I place mine 
 above the necessity or obligation of my bounty. I am in 
 very little pain for the Roman proverb upon the Cartha- 
 ginian traders ; the Romans were their professed enemies : 
 I am only sorry no Carthaginian histories have come to 
 our hands : we might have been taught perhaps by them 
 some proverbs against the Roman generosity, in fighting 
 for, and bestowing other people's goods. But since Sir 
 Roger has taken occasion from an old proverb, to be out 
 of humour with merchants, it should be no offence to 
 offer one not quite so old in their defence. When a man 
 happens to break in Holland, they say of him that " he 
 has not kept true accounts." This phrase, perhaps 
 among us, would appear a soft or humorous way of speak- 
 ing, but with that exact nation it bears the highest re- 
 proach. For a man to be mistaken in the calculation of 
 his expense, in his ability to answer future demands, or 
 to be impertinently sanguine in putting his credit to too 
 great adventure, are all instances of as much infamy, as 
 with gayer nations to be failing in courage, or common 
 honesty. 
 
 * Numbers are so much the measure of every thing that 
 is valuable, that it is not possible to demonstrate the suc- 
 cess of any action, or the prudence of any undertaking, 
 without them. I say this in answer to what Sir Roger is 
 pleased to say, " that little that is truly noble can be 
 expected from one who is ever poring on his cash-book, 
 Of balancing his accounts." When 1 have my returns
 
 No. 174.3 THE SPECTATOR.' 25f 
 
 from abroad, I can tell to a shilling, by the help of num- 
 bers, the profit or loss by my adventure ; but I ought 
 also to be able to show that I had reason for making it, 
 either from my own experience, or that of other people, 
 or from a reasonable presumption that ray returns will 
 be sufficient to answer my expense and hazard ; and this 
 is never to be done without the skill of numbers. For 
 instance, if I am to trade to Turkey, 1 ought beforehand 
 to know the demand of our manufactures there, as well 
 as of their silks in England, and the customary prices 
 that are given for both in each country. I ought to have 
 a clear knowledge of these matters beforehand, that I 
 may presume upon sufficient returns to answer the charge 
 of the cargo I have fitted out, the freight and assurance 
 out and home, the customs to the queen, and the in- 
 terest of my own money, and besides all these expenses 
 a reasonable profit to myself. Now what is there of 
 scandal in this skill ? What has the merchant done, that 
 he should be so little in the good graces of Sir Roger? 
 He throws down no man's inclosures, and tramples upon 
 no man's corn; he takes nothing from the industrious 
 labourer ; he pays the poor man for his work ; he com- 
 municates his profit with mankind; by the preparation of 
 his cargo, and the manufacture of his returns, he fur- 
 nishes employment and subsistence to greater numbers 
 than the richest nobleman; and even the nobleman is 
 obliged to him for finding out foreign markets for the 
 produce of his estate, and for making a great addition to 
 his rents ; and yet it is certain that none of all these things 
 could be done by him without the exercise of his skill in 
 numbers. 
 
 * This is the economy of the merchant; and the con- 
 duct of the gentleman must be the same, unless by scorn- 
 ing to be the steward, he resolves the steward shall be 
 the gentleman. The gentleman, no more than the mer- 
 chant, is able, without the help of numbers, to account 
 for the success of any action, or the prudence of any 
 adventure. If, for instance, the chase is his whole ad- 
 venture, his only returns must be the stag's horns in the 
 Z2
 
 258 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 175. 
 
 great hall, and the fox's nose upon the stable- door. With* 
 out doubt Sir Roger knows the full value of these returns; 
 and if beforehand he had computed the charges of the 
 chase, a gentleman of his discretion would certainly have 
 hanged up all his dogs : he would never have brought 
 back so many fine horses to the kennel ; he would never 
 have gone so often, like a blast, over fields of corn. If 
 such too had been the conduct of all his ancestors, he 
 might truly have boasted at this day, that the antiquity 
 of his family had never been sullied by a trade; a mer- 
 chant had never been permitted with his whole estate to 
 purchase a room for his picture in the gallery of the 
 Coverley's, or to claim his descent from the maid of ho- 
 nour. But it is very happy for Sir Roger that the mer- 
 chant paid so dear for his ambition. It is the misfortune 
 of many other gentlemen to turn out of the seats of their 
 ancestors, to make way for such new masters as have 
 been more exact in their accounts than themselves ; and 
 certainly he deserves the estate a great deal better who 
 has got it by his industry, than he who has lost it by his 
 negligence.' T. 
 
 No. 175.] Thursday, September 20, 1711, 
 
 Proximus a teclii ignis defenditur aegre. Z 
 
 Ovid. Rem. Am. v. 625. 
 To save yoar house from neighb'ring fire is hard.— Ta^^. 
 
 I SHALL this day entertain my readers with two or 
 three letters I have received from my correspondents: 
 the first discovers to me a species of females which have 
 hitherto escaped my notice, and is as follows : 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I am a young gentleman of a competent fortune, and 
 a sufficient taste of leaniing, to spend five or six hours 
 eveiy day very agreeably among my books. That I might 
 have nothing to divert me from my studies, and to avoid 
 the noises of coaches and chairmen, I have taken lodgings 
 in a very narrow street not far from Whitehall ; but it is
 
 No. 175.] THE SPECTATOR. 259 
 
 roy misfortune to be so posted, that my lodgings are 
 directly opposite to those of a Jezebel. You are to know, 
 sir, that a Jezebel (so called by the neighbourhood from 
 displaying her pernicious charms at her window) appears 
 constantly dressed at her sash, and has a thousand little 
 tricks and fooleries to attract the eyes of al) the idle 
 young fellows in the neighbourhood. I have seen more 
 than six persons at once from their several windows ol> 
 serving the Jezebel I am now complaining of. I at first 
 looked on her myself with the highest contempt, could 
 divert myself with her airs for half an hour, and after- 
 wards take up my Plutarch with great tranquillity of 
 mind ; but was a little vexed to find that in less than a 
 month she had considerably stolen upon my time, so that 
 I resolved to look at her no more. But the Jezebel, who, 
 as I suppose, might think it a diminution to her honour, 
 to have the number of her gazers lesscntul, resolved not 
 to part with me so, and began to play so many new tricks 
 at her window, that it was impossible for me to forbear 
 observing her. I verily believe she put herself to the ex- 
 pense of a new wax baby on purpose to plague me ; she 
 used to dandle and play with this figure as impertinently 
 as if it had been a r>al child : sometimes she would let 
 fall a glove or a pin cushion in the street, and shut or 
 open her casement three or four times in a minute. 
 When I had almost weaned myself from this, she came 
 in shift-sleeves, and dressed at the window. J had no 
 way left but to let down my curtains, which I submitted 
 to, though it considerably darkened my room, and was 
 pleased to think that I had at last got the better of her; 
 but was surprised the next morning to hear her talking 
 out of her window quite across the street vvith another 
 vvoman that lodges over me. I am since informed that 
 she made her a visit, and got acquainted with her within 
 three hours after the fall of my window-curtains. 
 
 * Sir, I am plagued every moment in the day, one way 
 or other in niy own chambers ; and the Jezebel has the 
 satisfaction to know, that though I am not looking at 
 her, 1 am listeniDgf to her impertinent dialogues, that pass
 
 560 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 175. 
 
 over my head. 1 would immediately change my lodgings 
 but that I think it might look like a plain confession that 
 I am conquered ; and besides this, I am told that most 
 quarters of the town are infested with these creatures. 
 If they are so, I am sure it is such an abuse, as a lover of 
 learning and silence ought to take notice of. 
 
 * I am, Sir, yours, &c.* 
 
 I am afraid, by some lines in this letter, that ray young 
 student is touched with a distemper which he hardly 
 seems to dream of, and is too far gone in it to receive 
 advice. However, I shall animadvert in due time on the 
 abuse which he mentions, having myself observed a nest 
 of Jezebels near the Temple, who make it their diversion 
 to draw up the eyes of young Templars, that at the same 
 time they may see them stumble in an unlucky gutter 
 which runs under the window. 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 ' I have lately read the conclusion of your forty-seventh 
 speculation upon butts with great pleasure, and have ever 
 since been thoroughly persuaded that one of those gen- 
 tlemen is extremely necessary to enliven conversation. 
 I had an entertainment last week upon the water for a 
 lady to whom I make my addresses, with several of our 
 friends of both sexes. To divert the company in general, 
 and to show my mistress in particular my genius for rail- 
 lery, I took one of the most celebrated butts in town 
 along with me. It is with the utmost shame and con- 
 fusion that I must acquaint you with the sequel of my 
 adventure. As soon as we were got into the boat, I played 
 a sentence or two at my butt which I thought very smart, 
 when my ill genius, who I verily believe inspired him 
 purely for my destruction, suggested to him such a re- 
 ply, as got all the laughter on his side. I was dashed at 
 so unexpected a turn ; which the butt perceiving, resolved 
 not to let me recover myself, and pursuing his victory, 
 rallied and tossed me in a most unmerciful and barbarous 
 manner until we came to Chelsea. I had some small 
 success while we were eating cheese-cakes j but coming^
 
 No. 175.] THE SPECTATOR/ 2C1 
 
 home, he renewed his attacks with his former ffood-for- 
 tune, and equal diversioil to the whole company. In 
 short, sir, I must ingenuously own that I never wcis so 
 handled in all my life ; and, to complete my misfortune, 
 I am since told that the butt, flushed with his late vic- 
 tory, has made a visit or two to the dear object of my 
 wishes, so that I am at once in danger of losing all my 
 pretensions to wit, and my mistress into the bargain. 
 This, sir, is a true account of my present troubles, which 
 you are the more obliged to assist me in, as you were 
 yourself in a great measure the cause of them, by recom- 
 mending to us an instrument, and not instructing us at 
 the same time how to play upon it. 
 
 * 1 have been thinking whether it might not be highly 
 convenient, that all butts should wear an inscription af- 
 fixed to some part of their bodies, sliowing on which side 
 they are to be come at, and that if any of them are persons 
 of unequal tempers, there should be some method taken 
 to inform the world at what time it is safe to attack 
 them, and when you had best let them alone. But, sub- 
 mitting these matters to your more serious consideration, 
 
 * I am, Sir, yours, &c.' 
 
 I have, indeed, seen and heard of several young gen- 
 tlemen under the same misfortune with my present cor- 
 respondent. The best rule I can lay down for them to 
 avoid the like calamities for the future, is thoroughly to 
 consider, not only ** Whether their companions are weak,'* 
 but " Whether themselves are wits." 
 
 The following letter comes to me from Exeter, and 
 being credibly informed that what it contains is matter 
 of fact, 1 shall give it my reader as it was sent to me : 
 
 ' Mn. SPECTATOR, Exeter, Sept. 7; 
 
 * You were pleased in a late speculation to take notice 
 of the inconvenience we lie under in the country, in nut 
 being able to keep pace with the fashion. But there is 
 another misfortune which we are subject to, and is no 
 less grievous than the former, which has hitherto escaped
 
 262 THE SPECTATOR. [No 175. 
 
 your observation. I mean the having things palmed upon 
 us for London fashions, which were never once heard of 
 there. 
 
 * A lady of this place had some time since a box of the 
 newest ribands sent down by the coach. Whether it was 
 her own malicious invention, or the wantonness of a Lon- 
 don milliner, I am not able to inform you; but among the 
 rest, there was one cherry-coloured riband, consisting of 
 about half a dozen yards, made up in the figure of a small 
 head-dress. The aforesaid lady had the assurance to affirm 
 amidst a circle of female inquisitors, who were present at 
 the opening of the box, that this was the newest fashion 
 worn at court. Accordingly the next Sunday, we had se- 
 veral females, who came to church with their heads dressed 
 wholly in ribands, and looked like so many victims ready 
 to be sacrificed. This is still a reigning mode among us. 
 At the same time we have a set of gentlemen who take 
 the liberty to appear in all public places without any but- 
 tons to their coats, which they supply with several little 
 silver hasps, though our freshest advices from London 
 make no mention of any such fashion ; and we are some- 
 thing shy of affording matter to the button-makers for a 
 second petition. 
 
 * What I would humbly propose to the public is, that 
 there may be a society erected in London, to consist of 
 the most skilful persons of both sexes, for the inspection 
 of modes and fashions; and that hereafter no person or 
 persons shall presume to appear singularly habited in any 
 part of the country, without a testimonial from the afore- 
 said society, that their dress is answerable to the mode at 
 LK)ndon. By this means, sir, we shall know a little where- 
 about we are. 
 
 * If you could bring this matter to bear you would very 
 much oblige great numbers of your country friends, and 
 among the rest, 
 
 * Your very humble servant. 
 
 X. 
 
 JACK MODISH.'
 
 THE SPECTATOR. SC3 
 
 No. 176.] Friday, September 21, 1711. 
 
 Parvula, pumilio, x*?''""^ /^'<»> to'a meram sal. 
 
 Lucr. iv. 1155. 
 A little, pretty, witty, charming she ! 
 
 There are in the following letter, matters, which I, 
 a bachelor, cannot be supposed to be acquainted with : 
 therefore shall not pretend to explain upon it until far- 
 ther consideration, but leave the author of the epistle to 
 express his condition his own way. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR j 
 * I do not deny but you appear in many of your papers 
 to understand human life pretty well ; but there are very 
 many things which you cannot possibly have a true no- 
 tion of, in a single life; these are such as respect the 
 married state; otherwise I cannot account for your having 
 overlooked a very good sort of people, which are com- 
 monly called in scorn ** the Hen-peckt." You are to un- 
 derstand that I am one of those innocent mortals who 
 suffer derision under that word, for being governed by 
 the best of wives. It would be worth your consideration 
 to enter into the nature of affection itself, and tell us ac- 
 cirding to your philosophy, why it is that our dears 
 should do what they will with us, shall be froward, ill- 
 natured, assuming, sometimes whine, at others rail, then 
 swoon away, then come to life, have the use of speech 
 to the greatest fluency imaginable, and then sink away 
 again, and all because they fear we do not love them 
 enough ; that is, the poor things love us so heartily, that 
 they cannot think it possible we should be able to love 
 them in so great a degree, which makes them take on 
 so. T say, sir, a true good-natured man, whom rakes and 
 libertines call hen-peckt, shall fall into all these different 
 moods with his dear life, and at the same time see they 
 are wholly put on ; and yet not be hard-heartf d enough 
 to tell the dear good creature that she is an hypocrite. 
 
 This sort of good men is very frequent in the populous 
 and wealthy city of London, and is the true hen-peckt
 
 264 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 176. 
 
 man. The kind creature cannot break through his kind- 
 nesses so far as to come to an explanation with the tender 
 soul, and therefore goes on to comfort her when nothing 
 ails her, to appease her when she is not angry, and to 
 give her his cash when he knows she does not want it : 
 rather than be uneasy for a whole month, which is com- 
 puted by heard-hearted men the space of time which a 
 froward woman takes to come to herself, if you have cou- 
 rage to stand out. 
 
 * There are indeed several other species of the hen- 
 peckt, and in my opinion they are certainly the best sub- 
 jects the queen has; and for that reason I take it to be 
 your duty to keep us above contempt. 
 
 * I do not know whether I make myself understood in 
 the representation of a hen-peckt life, but I shall take 
 leave to give you an account of myself, and my own 
 spouse. You are to know that I am reckoned no fool, 
 have on several occasions been tried whether I will take 
 ill-usage, and the event has been to my advantage ^ and 
 yet there is not such a slave in Turkey as I am to my 
 dear. She has a good share of wit, and is what you call a 
 very pretty agreeable woman. I perfectly doat on her, 
 and my affection to her gives me all the anxieties ima- 
 ginable but that of jealousy. My being thus confident 
 of her, I take, as much as I can judge of my heart, to be 
 the reason, that whatever she does, though it be never 
 so much against ray inclination, there is still left some- 
 thing in her manner that is amiable. She will sometimes 
 look at nie with an assumed grandeur, and pretend to 
 resent that I have not had respect enough for her opinion 
 in such an instance in company. I cannot but smile at 
 the pretty an^jer she is in, and then she pretends she is 
 used like a child. In a word, our great debate is, which 
 has the superiority in point of understanding. She is 
 eternally forming an argument of debate; to which I 
 very indolently answer, " Thou art mighty pretty." To 
 this she answers, ** All the world but you think I have as 
 much sense as yourself." I repeat to her, " Indeed you 
 are pretty." Upon this there is no patience ; she will
 
 No. 176.] THE SPfiCTATOR. 365 
 
 throw down any thing about her, stamp, and pull off her 
 head-clothes. " Fy, my dear," say I, *' how can a woman 
 of your sense fall into such an intemferate rage?" This 
 is an argument that never fails. ** Indeed, my dear," 
 says she, *' you make me mad sometimes, so you do, 
 with the silly way you have of treating me like a pretty 
 idiot." Well, what have I got by putting her into good 
 humour.* Nothing, but that I must convince her of my 
 good opinion by my practice ; and then I am to give her 
 possession of my little ready money, and, for a day and 
 a half following, dislike all she dislikes, and extol every 
 thing she approves. I am so exquisitely fond of this dar- 
 ling, that I seldom see any of my friends, am uneasy in 
 all companies until I see her again: and when I come 
 home she is in the dumps, because she says she is sure I 
 came so soon only because 1 think her handsome. I dare 
 not upon this occasion laugh ; but though I am one of 
 the warmest churchmen in the kingdom, I am forced to 
 rail at the times, because she is a violent Whig. Upon 
 this we talk politics so long, that she is convinced I kiss 
 her for her wisdom. It is a common practice with me to 
 ask her some question concerning the constitution, which 
 she answers me in general out of Harrington's Oceana. 
 Then I commend her strange memory, and her arm is 
 immediately locked in mine. While I keep her in this 
 temper she plays before me, sometimes dancing in the 
 midst of the room, sometimes striking an air at her 
 spinnet, varying her posture and her charms in sucb a 
 manner that I am in continual pleasure. She will play 
 the fool if I allow her to be wise ! but if she suspects I 
 like her for her trifling, she immediately grows grave. 
 
 * These are the toils in which 1 am taken, and I carry 
 off my servitude as well as most men ; but my application 
 to you is in behalf of the hen-peckt in general, and I 
 desire a dissertation from you in defence of us. You have, 
 as I am informed, very good authorities in our favour, 
 and hope you will not omit the mention of the renowned 
 Socrates, and his philosophic resignation to his wife Xan- 
 tippe. This would be a very good office to the world in 
 
 Vol. II. A a
 
 J66 THE SPECTATOR. LNo. 177. 
 
 geueral, for the hen-peckt are powerful in their quality 
 and numbers, not only in cities, but in courts ; in the 
 latter they are ever the most obsequious, in the former 
 the most wealthy of all men. When you have considered 
 wedlock thoroughly, you ought to enter into the suburbs 
 of matrimony, and give us an account of the thraldom of 
 kind keepers, and irresolute lovers; the keepers who can- 
 not quit their fair ones, though they see their approach- 
 ing ruin : the lovers who dare not marry, though they 
 know they never shall be happy without the mistresses 
 whom they cannot purchase on other terms. 
 
 * What will be a greater embellishment to your dis- 
 course will be, that you may find instances of the haughty, 
 the proud, the frolic, the stubborn, who are each of them 
 in secret downright slaves to their wives, or mistresses. 
 I must beg of you in the last place to dwell upon this, 
 that the wise and valiant in all ages have been hen-peckt ; 
 and that the sturdy tempers who are not slaves to affec- 
 tion, owe that exemption to their being inthralled by 
 ambition, avarice, or some meaner passion. I have ten 
 thousand thousand things more to say, but my wife sees 
 me writing, and will, according to custom, be consulted, 
 if I do not seal this immediately, 
 * Vour's, 
 
 'Y ' NATHANIEL HENROOST.' 
 
 No. 177.] Saturday, September 2^y 1711. 
 
 • Quis enim bonus, aat face dignns 
 
 Arcani, qualem Cereris vult esse sacerclos, 
 
 IJlla atiena sibi cicdat mala? JUV. Sat. xv. 140. 
 
 Who can all sense of others' ills escape, 
 
 Is but a brutCj at best, in human shape. l^ate. 
 
 In one of my last week's papers I treated of good-na- 
 ture, as it is the effect of constitution ; I shall now speak 
 of it as a moral virtue. The first may make a man easy 
 in himself and agreeable to others, but implies no merit 
 in him that is possessed of it. A man is no more to be 
 praised upon this account, than because he has a regular
 
 No. 177.] THE SPECTATOR. 267 
 
 pulse, or a good digestion. This good-nature however 
 in the constitution, which Mr. Dryden somewhere calls a 
 * milkiness of blood,* is an admirable ground-work for 
 the other. In order therefore, to try our good-nature, 
 whether it arises from the body or the mind, whether it 
 be founded in the animal or rational part of our nature; 
 in a word, whether it be such as is entitled to any other 
 reward, besides that secret satisfaction and contentment 
 of mind which is essential to it, and the kind reception it 
 procures us in the world, we must examine it by the fol- 
 lowing rules : 
 
 First, whether it acts with steadiness and uniformity in 
 sickness and in health, in prosperity and in adversity ; if 
 otherwise, it is to be looked upon as nothing else but an 
 irradiation of the mind from some new supply of spirits, 
 or a more kindly circulation of the blood. Sir Francis 
 Bacon mentions a cunning solicitor, who would never ask 
 a favour of a great man before dinner ; but took care to 
 prefer his petition at a time when the party petitioned 
 had his mind free from care, and his appetites in good 
 humour. Such a transient temporary good-nature as 
 this, is not that philanthropy, that love of mankind, 
 which deserves the title of a moral virtue. 
 
 The next way of a man's bringing his good nature to 
 the test is, to consider whether it operates according to 
 the rules of reason and duty : for, if notwithstanding its 
 general benevolence to mankind, it makes no distinction 
 between its objects, if it exerts itself promiscuously to- 
 wards the deserving and undeserving, if it relieves alike 
 the idle and the indigent, if it gives itself up to th« first 
 petitioner, and lights upon any one rather by accident 
 than choice, it may pass for an amiable instinct, but must 
 not assume the name of a moral virtue. 
 
 The third trial of good-nature will be the examining 
 .ourselves, whether or no we are able to exert it to our 
 own disadvantage, and employ it on proper objects, not- 
 withstanding any little pain, want, or inconvenience, 
 which may arise to ourselves from it. In a word, whether 
 we are willing to risk any part of our fortune, our repu..
 
 26» THE SPECTATOR. [No. 177. 
 
 tation, or health, or ease, for the benefit of mankind. 
 Among all these expressions of good-nature, I shall single 
 out that which goes under the general name of charity, 
 as it consists in relieving the indigent ; that being a trial 
 of this kind which offers itself to us almost at all times, 
 and in every place. 
 
 I should propose it as a rule, to every one who is pro- 
 vided with any competency of fortune more than suf- 
 ficient 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 the whole, for the use of those whom, in the passage 
 hereafter mentioned, he has described as his own repre- 
 sentatives upon earth. At the same time we should ma- 
 nage our charity with such prudence and caution, that 
 we may not hurt our own friends or relations, whilst we 
 are doing good to those who are strangers to us. 
 
 This may possibly be explained better by an example 
 than by a rule. 
 
 Eugenius is a man of an universal good-nature, and 
 generous beyond the extent of his fortune ; but withal 
 so prudent, in the economy of his affairs, that what goes 
 out in charity is made up by good management. Euge- 
 nius has what the world calls two hundred pounds a year; 
 but never values himself above nine-score, as not think- 
 ing he has a right to the tenth part, which he always 
 appropriates to charitable uses. To this sum he fre- 
 quently makes other voluntary additions, insomuch that 
 in a good year, for such he accounts those in which he 
 has been able to make greater bounties than ordinary, 
 he has given above twice that sum to the sickly and in* 
 digent. Eugemus prescribes to himself many particular 
 days of fasting and abstinence, in order to increase his 
 private bank of charity, and sets aside what would be 
 the current expenses of those times for the use of the 
 poor. He often goes a- foot where his business calls him, 
 and at the end of his walk has given a shilling, which in 
 his ordinaty methods of expense would have gone for coach- 
 hire, to the first necessitous person that has fallen in his
 
 No. 177.]' THE SPECTATOR. 80» 
 
 way. I have known him, when he has been goin^ to a 
 play or an opera, divert the money which was designed 
 for that purpose, upon an object of charity whom he has 
 met with in the street ; and afterwards pass his evening 
 in a coflfee-house, or at a friend's fire-side, with much 
 greater satisfaction to himself, than he could have received 
 from the most exquisite entertainments of the theatre. 
 By these means he is generous without impoverishing 
 himself, and enjoys his estate by making it the property 
 of others. 
 
 There are few men so cramped in their private affairs, 
 who may not be charitable after this manner, without 
 any disadvantage to themselves, or prejudice to their 
 families. It is but sometimes sacrificing a diversion or 
 convenience to the poor, and turning the usual course 
 of our expenses into a better channel. This is, I think, 
 not only the most prudent and convenient, but the most 
 meritorious piece of charity, which we can put in practice. 
 By this method, we in some measure share the necessities 
 of the poor at the same time that we relieve them, and 
 make ourselves not only their patrons, but their fellow- 
 sutferers. 
 
 Sir Thomas Brown, in the last part of his Religio Medici, 
 in which he describes his chanty in several heroic in- 
 stances, and with a noble heat of sentiment, mentions 
 that verse in the proverbs of Solomon, ' He that giveth 
 to the poor, lendeth to the Lord:'* "There is more 
 rhetoric in that one sentence, says he, than in a library 
 of sermons; and indeed, if those sentences were under- 
 stood by the reader, with the same emphasis as they are 
 delivered by the author, we needed not those volumes of 
 instructions, but might be honest by an epitome." f 
 
 This passage in scripture is, indeed, wonderfully per- 
 suasive ; but I think the same thought is carried much 
 farther in the New Testament, where our Saviour tells us 
 in a most pathetic manner, that he shall hereafter regard 
 
 • Prov. xix. 17. 
 
 t Brown's Rd. JlecUci, Part II. Sect. 13. f. 1659. p. 2. 
 
 A a2
 
 no ' THE SPECTATOR. \No. Hi', 
 
 the clothing of the naked, the feeding of the hungry, and 
 the visiting of the impri?oned, as offices done to himself, 
 and reward them accordingly.* Pursuant to those pas- 
 sage? in holy serif -are, I have somewhere met with the 
 epitaph of a charitable man, which has very much pleased 
 me. I cannot recollect the words, but the sense of it is 
 to this purpose: What I spent I lost; what 1 ;-ossessed is 
 left to others ; what I gave away remains with me.f 
 
 Since I am thus insensibly engaged in sacred writ, I 
 camiot forbear making an extract of several passa?;es which 
 I have always read with great delight in che book of Job. 
 It is the account which that holy man gives of bis beha- 
 viour in the days ot his prosperity, and if considered cnly 
 as a human composition, is a finer picture of a charitable 
 and good-natured man than is to be met with in any 
 other author. 
 
 * Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days 
 when God preserved me : When nis candle shined upon 
 my head, and when by his light I walked thr>uyh dark- 
 ness: When the Almighty was yet with me; when my 
 children were about me: When I washed my steps with 
 butter, and the rock poured ont rivers of oil. 
 
 * When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and 
 when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me. Because 
 I deUvered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and 
 him that had none to help him. The blessing of him 
 that was ready to perish came upon me, and I caused the 
 widow's heart to sing for joy. I was eves to the blind, 
 and feet was I to the lame : I was a father to the poor, 
 and the cause which I knew not I searched out. Did 
 
 • Matt. XXV. 31. et seqq. 
 ■ t The epitaph alluded to is (or was) ia St. George's Church at Doncaster 
 in Yorkshire, and runs in old English thus : 
 
 How now, who is heare 1 That I spent, that I had : 
 
 1 Robin of Doncasfere Tliat I gave, thai I have :.' 
 
 And Margai et my feare That I left, that I lost. 
 
 A. D. 1579. 
 
 ^Oth Robertus Byrks, who in this m orld did reign threescore yean 
 
 and fevcD, and yet lived not one.
 
 No. 178.] THE SPECTATOR. 271 
 
 not I weep for him that was in trouble ? Was not my soul 
 grieved for the poor? Let me be weighed in an even 
 balance, that God may know mine integrity. If I did de- 
 spise the cause of my man-servant or of my maid-servant 
 when they contended with me; what then shall 1 do 
 when God riseth up? and when he visiteth, what shall 
 I answer him ? Did not he that made me in the womb, 
 make him? and did not one fashion us in the womb? 
 If I have withheld the poor from their desire, or have 
 caused the eyes of the widow to fail : Or have eaten my 
 morsel myself alone, and the fatherless hath not eaten 
 thereof: If I have seen any perish for want of clothiiig', 
 or any poor without covering: If his loins have not blessed 
 me, and if he were not warmed with the fleece of njy sheep ? 
 If I have lifted up my hand against the fatherless, when I 
 saw my help in the gate ; then let mine arm fall from ray 
 shoulder-blade, and mine arm be broken from the bone. 
 If I have rejoiced at the destruction of him that hated 
 me, or lifted up myself when evil found him : (Neither 
 have I suffered my mouth to sin, by wishing a curse to 
 his soul.) The stranger did not lodge in the street; but 
 I opened my doors to the traveller. If my land cry 
 against nie, or that the furrows likewise therefore com- 
 plain: If I have eaten the fruits thereof without money, 
 or have caused the owners thereof to lose their life ; let 
 thistles grow instead of wheat, and cockle instead of 
 barley.'* L. 
 
 No. 178.] Monday, September 24, 1711. 
 
 Comis in iixorem Hor. lib. 2. Ep. ii. 13i. 
 
 Civil to his wife. Pope. 
 
 I CANNOT defer taking notice of this letter. 
 
 ♦ MR. SPECTATOR, 
 I am but too good a judge of your paper of the 15th 
 instant, which is a master-piece; 1 mean that of jealousy: 
 • Job xxix. 2, &c. XXX. 25, &c. xxxi. 6, &c. passim.
 
 273 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 178. 
 
 but I think it unworthy of you to speak of that torture 
 in the breast of a man, and not to mention also the pangs 
 of it in the heart of a woman. You have very judiciously, 
 and with the greatest penetration imaginable, considered 
 it as woman is the creature of whom the diffidence is 
 raised: but not a wurd of a man, who is so unmerciful 
 as to move jealousy in his wife, and not care whether 
 she is so or not. It is possible you may not believe there 
 are such tyrants in the world ; but alas, I can tell you 
 of a man who is ever out of humour in his wife's com- 
 pany, and the pleasantest man in the world every where 
 else ; the greatest sloven at home when he appears to 
 none but his family, and most exactly well dressed in all 
 other places. Alas, sir, is it of course, that to deliver 
 one's self wholly into a man's power without possibility 
 of appeal to any other jurisdiction but his own reflec- 
 tions, is so little an obligation to a gentleman, that he 
 can be offended and fall ii:to a rage, because my heart 
 swells tears into my eyes when I see him in a cloudy 
 mood ? I pretend to no succour, and hope for no relief 
 hut from himself; and yet he that has sense and justice 
 in every thing else, never reflects, that to come home 
 only to sleep otf an intemperance, and spend all the 
 time he is there as if it were a punishment, cannot but 
 give the anguish of a jealous luind. He always leaves his 
 home as if he were going to court, and returns as if he 
 were entering a jail. J could add to this, that from his 
 company and his usual discourse, he does not scruple 
 being thought an abandoned man, as to his morals. Your 
 own imagination will say enough to you concerning the 
 condition of me his wafe ; and I wish you would be so 
 good as to represent to hira, for he is not ill-natured, and 
 reads you much, that the moment I hear the door shut 
 after him, I throw myself ujion my b^^d, and drown the 
 child he is so fond of with my tears, and often fr^^hten 
 it with my cries; that I curse my being; that I run to 
 my glass all over bathed in sorrows, and help the utter- 
 ance of my inward anguish by beholding the gush of my 
 own calamities as my tears fall from my eyes. This looki
 
 No. 178.] THE SPECTATOR. 37S 
 
 like an imagined picture to tell you, but indeed this is 
 one of my pastimes. Hitherto I have only told you the 
 general temper of my mind, but how shall I give you an 
 account of the distraction of it? Could you but con- 
 ceive how cruel I am one moment in my resentment, and 
 at the ensuing minute, when I place him in the condition 
 my anger would bring him to, how compassionate; it 
 would give you some notion how miserable I am, and 
 how little I deserve it. When I remonstrate with the 
 greatest gentleness that is possible agakist unhandsome 
 appearances, and that married persons are under par- 
 ticular rules; when he is in the best humour to receive 
 this, I am answered only : That I expose my own repu- 
 tation and sense if I appear jealous. I wish, good sir, 
 you would take this into serious consideration, and ad- 
 monish husbands and wives, what terms they ought to 
 keep towards each other. Your thoughts on this import- 
 ant subject will have the greatest reward, that which 
 descends on such as feel the sorrows of the afflicted. 
 Give me leave to subscribe myself, 
 
 ' Your unfortunate humble servant, 
 
 ♦ C£L1N DA. 
 
 I had it in my thoughts, before I received the letter of 
 this lady, to consider this dn adful passion in the mind of 
 a woman ; and the smart she seems to feel does not abate 
 the inclination I had to recommend to husbands a more 
 regular behaviour, than to give the most exquisite of tor- 
 ments to those who love them, nay whose torments would 
 be abated if they did not love them. 
 
 It is wonderful to observe how little is made of this in- 
 expressible injury, and how easily men get into a habit 
 of being least agreeable, where they are most obliged to 
 be so. But this subject deserves a distinct speculation, 
 and 1 shall observe for a day or two the behaviour of two 
 or three happy pairs I am acquainted with, before I pre- 
 tend to make a system of conjugal morality. I design in 
 the first place to go a few miles out of town, and there 
 I know where to meet one who practises all the parts of
 
 274 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 179. 
 
 a fine gentleman in the duty of an husband. When he 
 was a bachelor much business made him particularly 
 negligent in his habit; but now there is no young lover 
 living so exact in the care of his person. One who 
 asked, Why he was so long washing his mouth, and so 
 delicate iu the choice and wearing of his linen? was 
 answered, * Because there is a woman of merit obhged to 
 receive me kindly, and I think it incumbent upon me 
 to make her inclination go along with her duty.* 
 
 If a man would give himself leave to think, he would 
 not be so unreasonable as to expect debaucher}' and in- 
 nocence could live in commerce together; or hope that 
 flesh and blood is capable of so strict an allegiance, as 
 that a fine woman must go on to improve herself till 
 she is as good and impassive as an angel, only to preserve 
 fidelity to a brute and a satyr. The lady who desires me 
 for her sake to end one of my papers with the following 
 letter, I am persuaded, thinks such a perseverance very 
 impracticable. 
 
 ' HUSBAND, 
 
 * Stay more at home. I know where you visited at 
 seven of the clock on Thursday evening. The colonel, 
 whom you charged me to see no more, is in town. 
 
 'p MARTHA HOUSEWIFE.' 
 
 No. 179.] Tuesday, September 25, 1711. 
 
 Centuriae seniorum agitant expcrtia frugis : 
 Celsi prsEtereunt austera poemata Khamnes. 
 Omne tulit punctnm qni miscuit utile duici, 
 Ltctorem delectando, pariterque monendo. 
 
 Bar. Ars Poet. v. 341. 
 Old age is only fond of moral truth, 
 Lectures too grave disgust aspiring youth ; 
 But he who blends instruction with delight, 
 Wius every reader, nor in v;iin shall write.— P. 
 
 I MAY cast my readers under two general divisions, the 
 mercurial and the saturnine. The first are the gay part 
 of my disciples, who require speculations of wit and
 
 No. 179.] THE SPECTATOR. 275 
 
 humour : the others are those of a more solemn and sober 
 turn, who find no pleasure but in papers of morality and 
 sound sense. The former call every thing that is serious, 
 stupid; the latter look upon every thing as rm|)ertinent 
 that is ludicrous. Were 1 always grave, one half of my 
 readers would fall off from me: were I always merry, 
 1 should lose the other. I make it therefore my endea- 
 vour to find out entertainments of both kinds, and by 
 that means, perhaps, consult the good of both, more than 
 I should do, did I always write to the particular taste of 
 either. As they neither of them know what I proceed 
 upon, the sprightly reader, who takes up my paper in order 
 to be diverted, very often finds himself engaged unawares 
 in a serious and profitable course of thinking ; ;is on the 
 contrary, the thoughtful man, who perhaps may hope to 
 find something solid, and full of deep reflection, is very 
 often insensibly betrayed into a fit of mirth. In a word, 
 the reader sits down to my entertainment without know- 
 ing his bill of fare, and has therefore at least the pleasure 
 of hoping there may be a dish to his palate. 
 
 J must confess, were I left to myself, I should rather 
 aim at instructing than diverting ; but if we will be useful 
 to the world, we must take it as we find it. Authors of 
 professed severity discourage the looser part of mankind 
 from having any thing to do with their writings. A man 
 must have virtue in him, before he will enter upon the 
 reading of a Seneca or an Epictetus. The very title of a 
 moral treatise has something in it aiistere and shocking 
 to the careless and inconsiderate. 
 
 For this reason several unthinking persons fall in my 
 •way, who would give no attention to lectures delivered 
 with a religious seriousness or a philosophic gravity. They 
 are ensnared into sentiments of wisdom and virtue when 
 they do not think of it; and if by that means they arrive 
 only at such a degree of consideration as may dispose 
 them to listen to more studied and elaborate discourses, 
 I shall not think my speculations useless. I might like- 
 wise observe, that the gloominess in which sometimes the 
 minds of the best men are involved, very often stands iu
 
 $75 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 179. 
 
 need of such little incitements to mirth and laughter, as 
 are apt to disperse melancholy, and put our faculties in 
 good humour. To which some will add, that the British 
 climate, more than any other, makes entertainments of 
 this nature in a manner necessary. 
 
 If what I have here said does not recommend, it will at 
 least excuse, the variety of my speculations. I would not 
 willingly laugh but in order to instruct, or if I sometimes 
 fail in this point, when my mirth ceases to be instructive, 
 it shall never cease to be innocent. A scrupulous con- 
 duct in this particular, has, perhaps, more merit in it 
 than the generality of readers imagine ; did they know 
 how many thoughts occur in a point of humour, which 
 a discreet author in modesty suppresses ; how many 
 strokes of raillery present themselves, which could not 
 fail to please the ordinary taste of mankind, but are stifled 
 in their birth by reason of some remote tendency which 
 they carry in them to corrupt the minds of those who 
 read them ; did they know how many glances of ill-nature 
 are industriously avoided for fear of doing injury to the 
 reputation of another, they would be apt to think kindly 
 of those writers who endeavoupto make themselves divert- 
 ing, without being immoral. One may apply to these 
 authors that passage in Waller : 
 
 Poets lose lialf the praise tliey would have got, 
 Were it but Isnown what they diicreetlj blot. 
 
 As nething is more easy than to be a wit with all the 
 above-mentioned liberties, it requires some genius and in- 
 vention to appear such without them. 
 
 What I have here said is not only in regard to the 
 public, but with an eye to my particular correspondent, 
 who has sent me the following letter, which I have cas- 
 trated in some places upon these considerations : 
 
 'SIR, 
 Having lately seen your discourse upon a match cf 
 grinning, I caimot forbear giving you an account of a 
 whistling match, which, with many others, I was enter- 
 tained with about three vears since at the Bath. The
 
 No. 179.] THE SPECTATOR. 277 
 
 prize was a guinea, to be conferred upon the ablest whistler, 
 that is, on him who could whistle clearest, and go through 
 his tune without laughing, to which at the same time he 
 was provoked by the antick postures of a merry-aiidrew, 
 who was to stand upon the stage and play his tricks in the 
 eye of the performer. There were three competitors for 
 the guinea. The first was a ploughman of a very pro- 
 mising aspect ; his features were steady, and his muscles 
 composed in so inflexible a stupidity, that upon his first 
 appearance every one gave the guinea for lost. The 
 pickled herring Ipowever found the way to shake him; 
 for upon bis whisrling a country jig, this unlucky wag 
 danced to it with such variety of distortions and grimaces, 
 that the countryman could not forbear smiling upon him, 
 and by that means spoiled his whistle, and lost the prize. 
 
 * The next that mounted the stage was an under-citizen 
 of the Bath, a person remaikable among the inferior 
 people of that place for his great wisdom, and his broad 
 band. He contracted his mouth with much gravity, and, 
 that he might dispose his mind to be more serious than 
 ordinary, began the tune of The Children in the Wood. 
 He went through part of it with good success, when on a 
 sudden the wit at his elbow, who had appeared wonderfully 
 grave and attentive for some time, gave him a touch upon 
 the left shoulder, and stared him in the face with so be- 
 witching a grin, that the whistler relaxed his fibres into 
 a kind of simper, and at length burst out into an open 
 laugh. The third who entered the lists was a footman, 
 who in defiance of the merry-andrew and all his arts, 
 whistled a Scotch tune, and an Italian sonata, with so 
 settled a countenance that he bore away the prize, to 
 the great admiration of some hundreds of persons, who, 
 as well as myself were present at this trial of skill. Now, 
 sir, I humbly conceive, whatever yon have di'tennined of 
 the grinners, the whistlers ought to be encouraged, not 
 only as their art is practised without distortion, but as it 
 improves country music, promotes gravity, and teaches 
 ordinary people to keep their countenances, if they see 
 any thing ridiculous in their betters j besides that it 
 
 Vol. II. B b
 
 L'78 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 180. 
 
 seems an entertainment very particularly aJapted to the 
 Bath, as it is usual for a rider to whistle to his hors« 
 when he would make his water pass. 
 
 * I am, Sir, &c. 
 
 * POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 ' After having dispatched these two important points 
 of ginning and whistling, I hope you will oblige the world 
 with some reflections upon yawning, as I have seen it 
 practised on a twelfth-night among other Christmas gam- 
 bols at the house of a very worthy gentleman, who always 
 entertains his tenants at that time of the year. They 
 yawn for a Cheshire cheese, and begin about midnight, 
 when the whole company is disposed to be drowsy. He 
 that yawns widest, and at the same time so naturally as 
 to produce the most yawns among the spectators, carries 
 home the cheese. If you handle this subject as you ought, 
 I question not but your paper will set half the kingdom a 
 yawning, though I dare promise you it will never make 
 any body fall asleep.* L. 
 
 No. 180.] Wednesday, September 26, 1711. 
 
 Delirant reges, plectuntur Achivi. 
 
 Hot: Lib. 1. F.p. ii. U. 
 
 The monarch's foll.v makes the people rue.— P. 
 
 The following letter has so much weight and good sense, 
 that I cannot forbear inserting it, though it relates to a 
 hardened sinner, whom I have very little hopes of re- 
 forming, viz. Lewis XIV. of France. 
 
 ♦ MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * Amidst the variety of subjects of which you have 
 treated, I could wish it had fallen in your way, to expose 
 the vanity of conquests. This thought would naturally 
 lead one to the French king, who has been generally es- 
 teemed the greatest conqueror of our age, till her ma- 
 jesty's armies had torn from him so many of his countries, 
 and deprived him of the fruit of all his former victories.
 
 No. 180.] THE SPECTATOR. 279 
 
 For my own part, if I were to draw his picture, I should 
 be for taking him no lower than to the peace of Ryswick, 
 just at the end of his triumphs, and before his reverse of 
 fortune: and even then I should not forbear thinking his 
 ambition had been vain, and unprofitable to himself and 
 his people. 
 
 * As for himself, it is certain he can have gained no- 
 thing by his conquests, if they have not rendered him 
 master of more subjects, more riches, or greater power. 
 What I shall be able to offer upon these heads, I resolve 
 to submit to your consideration. 
 
 * To begin then with his increase of subjects. From the 
 time he came of age, and has been a manager for himself, 
 all the people he had acquired were such only as he had 
 reduced by his wars, and were left in his possession by the 
 peace; he had conquered not above one-third part of 
 Flanders, and consequently no more than one-third part 
 of the inhabitants of that province. 
 
 * About one hundred years ago the houses in that coun- 
 try were all numbered, and by a just computation the in- 
 habitants of all sorts could not then exceed 750,000 soul.s. 
 And if any man will consider the desolation by almost 
 perpetual wars, the numerous armies that have lived al- 
 most ever since at discretion upon the people, and how 
 much of their commerce has been removed for more 
 security to other places, he will have little reason to 
 imagine that their numbers have since increased; and 
 therefore with one-third part of that province that prince 
 can have gained no more than one-third part of the in- 
 habitants, or 250,000 new subjects, even though it should 
 be supposed they were all contented to live still in their 
 native country, and transfer their allegiance to a new 
 master. 
 
 * The fertility of this province, its convenient situation 
 for trade and commerce, its capacity for furnishing em- 
 ployment and subsistence to great numbers, and the vast 
 armies that have been maintained here, make it credible 
 that the remaining two-thirds of Flanders are equal to all 
 his other conquests; and consequently by all, he cannot
 
 280 THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 180. 
 
 have gained more than 750,000 new subjects, men, women 
 and children, especially if a deduction shall be made of 
 such as have retired from the conqueror, to live under 
 their old masters. 
 
 ,* It is time now to set his loss against his profit, and 
 to show for the new subjects he had acquired, how many 
 old ones he had lost in the acquisition. I think that in 
 his wars he has seldom brought less into the field in all 
 places than 200,000 fighting men, besides what have been 
 left in garrisons ; and I think the common computation 
 is, that of an army, at the end of a campaign, without 
 sieges or battles, scarce four-fifths can be mustered of 
 those that came into the field at the beginning of the 
 year. His wars at several times, until the last peace, have 
 held about 20 years ; and if 40,000 yearly lost, or a fifth 
 part of his armies, are to be multiplied. by 20, he cannot 
 have lost less than 800,000 of his old subjects, and all 
 able-bodied men ; a greater number than the new subjects 
 he had acquired. 
 
 * But this loss is not all. Providence seems to have 
 equally divided the whole mass of mankind into different 
 sexes, that every woman may have her husband, and that 
 both may equally contribute to the continuance of the 
 species. It follows then, that for all the men that have 
 been lost, as many women must have lived single, and it 
 were but charity to believe, they have not done all the 
 service they were capable of doing in tbeir generation. 
 In so long a course of years great part of them must 
 have died, and all the rest must go off at last, without 
 leaving any representatives behind. By this account he 
 must have lost not only 80i),000 subjects, but double that 
 number, and all the increase that was reasonably to be 
 expected from it. 
 
 ' It is said in the last war there was a famine in his king- 
 dom, which swept away two millions of his people. This 
 is hardly credible. If the loss was only of one fifth part 
 of that sum, it was very great. But it is no wonder there 
 should be famine, where so much of the people's sub- 
 stance is taken away for the king's use, that they have not
 
 No. 180.] THE SPECTATOR." 281 
 
 sufficient left to provide against accidents ; where so many 
 of the men are taken from the plough to serve the king 
 in his wars, and a great part of the tillage is left to the 
 weaker hands of so many women and children. What 
 ever was the loss, it must undoubtedly be placed to the 
 account of his ambition. 
 
 ' And so must also the destruction or banishment of 
 3 or 400,000 of his reformed subjects ; he rould have no 
 other reasons fbr valuing those lives so very cheap but 
 only to recommend himself to the bigotry of the Spanish 
 nation. 
 
 * How should there be industry in a country where all 
 property is precarious ? What subject will sow his land, 
 that his prince may reap the whole harvest? Parsimony 
 and frugality must be strangers to such a people; for will 
 any man save to-day, what he has reason to fear will be 
 taken from him to-morrow ? And where is the encourage- 
 ment for marrying? Will any man think of raising chil- 
 dren, without any assurance of clothing for their backs, 
 or so much as food for their bellies? And thus by his fatal 
 ambition, he must have lessened the number of his sub- 
 jects, not only by slaughter and destruction ; but by pre- 
 venting their very births, be has done as much as was 
 possible towards destroying posterity itself. 
 
 * Is this then the great, the invincible Lewis? This the 
 immortal man, the tout puissant^ or the almighty, as his 
 flatterers have called him ? Is this the man that is so 
 celebrated for his conquests? For every subject he has 
 acquired, has he not lost three that were his inheritance? 
 Are not his troops fewer, and those neither sp well fed, 
 jclothed, or paid, as they were formerly, though he has 
 
 now so much greater cause to exert himself? And what 
 can be the reason of all this, but that bis revenue is a 
 great deal less, his subjects are either poorer, or not so 
 many to be plundered by constant taxes for his use? 
 
 * It is well for hira he had found out a way to steal a 
 kingdom j * if he had gone on conquering as he did be- 
 fore, his ruin had been long since finished. This brioj* 
 
 • The kiDBdom of Spain, seized by Lonil XIV. ia I'OJ,
 
 282 THE SPECTATOR. '(No. 181. 
 
 to my mind a saying of King Pyrrhus, after he had a 
 second time beat the Romans in a pitched battle, and was 
 ■ complimented by his generals; "Yes," says he, *' such 
 another victory and 1 am quite undone." And since I have 
 mentioned Pyrrhus, I will end with a very good, though 
 Icnown, story of this ambitious madman. When be had 
 shown the utmost fondness for his expedition against the 
 Romans, Cyneas, his chief minister, asked him what he 
 proposed to himself by this war ? ** Why," says Pj'rrhus, 
 " to conquer the Romans, and reduce all Italy to my 
 obedience." — " What then ?" says Cyneas. " To pass over 
 into Sicily," says Pyrrhus, *' and then all the Sicilians 
 must be our subjects." — " And what does your majesty 
 intend next ?" " Why truly," says the king, **to conquer 
 Carthage, and make myself master of all Africa." — "And 
 what, sir/' says the minister, " is to be the end of all your 
 expeditious?" ** Why tben," says the king, " for the rest 
 of our lives we will sit down to good wine." — " How, sir," 
 replied Cyneas, *' to better than we have now before us ? 
 Have we not already as much as we can drink ?" 
 
 * Riot and excess are not the becoming characters of 
 princes ; but if Pyrrhus and Lewis had debauched like 
 Vitellius, they had been less hurtful to their people. 
 ' Your humble servant, 
 
 j> ' PHILARITHMUS.' 
 
 No. 181.] Jhursdmj, September 27, 1711. 
 
 Hi* lacrymb vitam damns, et miserescimus ultr6. 
 
 Virg, jEo. ii. 145. 
 
 Mov'd by tbese tears, we pity and protect. 
 
 I AM more pleased with a letter that is filled with touches 
 of nature than of wit. The following one is of this knid : 
 
 ♦SIR, 
 * Among all the distresses which happen in families, I 
 do uot remember that you have touched upon the mar-
 
 No. 181.] THE SPECTATOR. 983 
 
 riage of children without the consent of their parents. 
 I am one of these unfortunate persons. I was about fifteen 
 when I took the hberty to choose for myself; and have 
 ever since languished under the displeasure of an inexor- 
 able father, who, though he sees me happy in the best of 
 husbands, and blessed with very fine children, can never 
 be prevailed upon to forgive me. He was so kind to me 
 before this unhappy accident, that indeed it makes my 
 breach of duty, in some measure, inexcusable ; and at 
 the same time creates in me such a tenderness towards 
 him, that I love him above all things, and would die to be 
 reconciled to him. I have thrown myself at his feet, and 
 besought him with tears to pardon me ; but he always 
 pushes me away, and spurns me from him. I have written 
 several letters to him, but he will neither open nor recei%'e 
 them. About two years ago I sent my little boy to him, 
 dressed in a new apparel ; but the child returned to me 
 crying, because he said his grandfather would not see him, 
 and had ordered him to be put out of his house. My 
 mother is won over to my side, but dares not mention 
 me to my father, for fear of provoking him. About a 
 month ago he lay sick upon his bed, and in great danger 
 of his life : I was pierced to the heart at the news, and 
 could not forbear going to inquire after his health. My 
 mother took this opportunity of speaking in my behalf: 
 she told him, with abundance of tears, that I was come 
 to see him, that I could not speak to her for weeping, 
 and that I should certainly break my heart if he refused 
 at that time to give me his blessing, and be reconciled to 
 me. He was so far from relenting towards me, that he 
 bid her speak no more of me, unless she had a mind to 
 disturb him in his last moments ; for, sir, you must know 
 that he has the reputation of an honest and religious man 
 which makes my misfortune so much the greater. God 
 be thanked he is since recovered : but his severe usage 
 has given me such a blow, that I shall soon sink under 
 it, unless I may be relieved by any impresssions which the 
 reading of this in your paper may make upon him. 
 
 ' 1 am. &c/
 
 284 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 181. 
 
 Of all hardnesses of heart there is none so inexcusable 
 as that of parents towards their children. An obstinate, 
 inflexible, unforgiving temper is odious upon all occasions ; 
 but here it is unnatural. The love, tenderness, and com- 
 passion, which are apt to arise in us towards those who 
 depend upon us, is that by which the whole world of life 
 is upheld. The Supreme Being, by the transcendent ex- 
 cellency and goodness of his nature, extends his mercy 
 towards all his works; and because his creatures have 
 not such a spontaneous benevolence, and compassion to- 
 wards those who are under their care and protection, he 
 has implanted in them an instinct, that supplies the place 
 of this inherent goodness. I have illustrated this kind 
 of instinct in former papers, and have shown how it runs 
 through all the species of brute creatures, as indeed the 
 whole animal creation subsists by it. 
 
 This instinct in man is more general and uncircum- 
 scribed than in brutes, as being enlarged by the dictates 
 of reason and duty. For if we consider ourselves atten- 
 tively, we shall find that we are not only inclined to love 
 those who descend from us, but that we bear a kind of 
 cTTopy^y or natural affection, to every thing which relies 
 upon us for its good and preservation. Dependence is 
 a perpetual call upon humanity, and a greater incitement 
 to tenderness and pity, than any other motive whatsoever. 
 
 The man, therefore, who, notwithstanding any passion 
 or resentment, can overcome this powerful instinct, and 
 extinguish natural affection, debases his mind even below 
 brutality, frustrates, as much as in him lies, the great 
 design of Providence, and strikes out of his nature one 
 of the most divine principles that is planted in it. 
 
 Among innumerable arguments which might be brought 
 against such an unreasonable proceeding, I shall only in- 
 sist on one. We make it the condition of our forgiveness 
 that we forgive others. In our verj- prayers we desire no 
 more than to be treated by this kind of retaliation. The 
 case therefore before us seems to be what they call a 
 * case in point ;' the relation between the child and father, 
 being what comes nearest to that between a creature and
 
 No. 181.1 THE SPECTATOR. 28i 
 
 its Creator. If the father is inexorable to the chiiil nho 
 has ofFeuded, let the offence be of never so hi^h a nature, 
 how will he address himself to the Supreme Beiujf, under 
 the tender appellation of a Father, and desire of him iuch 
 a forgiveness as he himself refuses to grant ? 
 
 To this I might add many other reUgious, as well as 
 many prudential considerations ; but if the last mentioned 
 motive does not prevail, I despair of succeeding by any 
 other, and shall therefore conclude my paper with a very 
 remarkable story, which is recorded in an old chronicle 
 published by Freher, among the writers of the Germaa 
 history. 
 
 Eginhart, who was secretary to Charles the Great, be- 
 came exceeding popular by his behaviour iu that post. 
 His great abilities gained him the favour of his master, 
 and the esteem of tlie whole court. Imma, the daughter 
 of the emperor, was so pleased with his person and con- 
 versation, that she fell in love with him. As she was one 
 of the greatest beauties of the age, Eginhart answered 
 her with a more than equal return of passion. I'hey 
 stifled their flames for some time, under apprehension of 
 the fatal consequences that might ensue. Eginhart at 
 length resolved to hazard all, rather than live deprived 
 of one whom his heart was so much set upon, conveyed 
 himself one night into the princess's apartment, and 
 knocking gently at the door, was admitted as a person 
 who had something to communicate to her from the em- 
 peror. He was with her in private most part of the night ; 
 but upon hi<i preparing to go away about break of day, 
 he observed that there had fallen a great snow during his 
 stay with the princess. This very much perplexed him, 
 lest the prints of his feet in the snow might make dis- 
 coveries to the king, who often used to visit his daughter 
 in the morning. He acquainted the princess Irama with 
 his fears ; who, after some consultations upon the matter, 
 prevailed upon him to let her carry him through the snow 
 upon her own shoulders. It happened, that the emperor 
 not being able to sleep, was at that time up and walking 
 in his chamber, when upon looking through the window
 
 286 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 182. 
 
 he perceived his daughter tottering under her burden, 
 and carrj'ing his first minister across the snow ; which 
 she had no sooner done, but she returned again with the 
 utmost speed to her own apartment. The emperor was 
 extremely troubled and astonished at this accident ; but 
 resolved to speak nothing of it until a proper opportunity. 
 In the mean time, Eginhart knowing that what he had 
 done could not be long a secret, determined to retire from 
 court; and in order to it begged the emperor that he 
 would be pleased to dismiss him, pretending a kind of 
 discontent at his not having been rewarded for his long 
 services. The emperor would not give a direct answer 
 to his petition, but told him he would think of it, and 
 appointed a certain day when he would let him know his 
 pleasure. He then called together the most faithful of 
 his counsellors, and acquainting them with his secretary's 
 crime, asked them their advice in so delicate an affair. 
 The most of them gave their opinion, that the person 
 could not be too severely punished, who had thus dis- 
 honoured his master. Upon the whole debate, the em- 
 peror declared it was his opinion, that Egin hart's punish- 
 ment would rather increase than diminish the shame of 
 his family, and that therefore he thought it tlie most ad- 
 viseable to wear out the memory of the fact, by marrying 
 him to his daughter. Accordingly, Eginhart was called 
 in, and acquainted by the emperor, that he should no 
 longer have any pretence of complaining his services were 
 not rewarded, for that the princess Imma should be given 
 him in marriage, with a dower suitable to her quality; 
 which was soon after performed accordingly. L. 
 
 No. 182.] Friday, September 28, 1711. 
 
 Plus aloes quam mellis r^abet Juv. Sat. vi. 180. 
 
 The bitter overbalances the sweet. 
 
 As all parts of human life come under my observation, 
 my reader must not make uncharitable inferences from 
 my speaking knowingly of that sort of crime which is at
 
 Ko. 182.] THE SPECTATOR. 287 
 
 present treated of. He will, I hope, suppose I know it 
 only from the letters of correspondents, two of which you 
 shall have as follow : 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * It is wonderful to me that among the many enormities 
 which you have treated of, you have not mentioned that 
 of wenching, and particularly the ensnaring part. I mean 
 that it is a thing very fit for your pen, to expose the vil- 
 lauy of the practice of deluding women. You are to know, 
 sir, that I myself am a woman who have been one of the 
 unhappy that have fallen into this misfortune, and that 
 by the insinuation of a very worthless fellow, who served 
 others in the same manner, both before my ruin, and 
 since that time. I had, as soon as the rascal left me, 
 so much indignation and resolution, as not to go upon 
 the town, as the phrase is, but took to work for my living 
 in an obscure place, out of the knowledge of all with 
 whom I was before acquainted. 
 
 * It is the ordinary practice and business of life, with a 
 set of idle fellows about this town, to write letters, send 
 messages, and form appointments with little raw unthink- 
 ing girls, and leave them after possession of them, without 
 any mercy, to shame, infamy, poverty, and disease. Were 
 you to read the nauseous impertinencies which are written 
 on these occzisions, and to see the silly creatures sighing 
 over them, it could not but be matter of mirth as well as 
 pity. A little 'prentice girl of mine has been for some 
 time applied to by an Irish fellow, who dresses very fine, 
 and struts in a laced coat, and is the admiration of seam- 
 stresses, who are under age in town. Ever since I have 
 had some knowledge of the matter, I have debarred my 
 'prentice from pen, ink, and paper. But the other day 
 he bespoke some cravats of me: 1 went out of the shop, 
 and left his mistress to put them up into a band-box in 
 order to be sent to him when his man called. When I 
 came into the shop again, I took occasion to send her 
 away, and found in the bottom of the box written these 
 words, " Why would you ruin a harmless creature that
 
 588 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 182. 
 
 loves you ? " then in the lid, " There is no resisting 
 Strephon :" I searched a little farther, and found in the 
 rim of the box, " At eleven o'clock at night come in a 
 hackney-coach at the end of our street." Tiiis was enough 
 to alarm me ; I sent away the things, and took my mea- 
 sures accordingly. An hour or two before the appointed 
 time I examined my young lady, and found her trunk 
 stuffed with impertinent letters and an old scroll of parch- 
 ment in Latin, which her lover had sent her as a settle- 
 ment of fifty pounds a year. Among other things, there 
 was also the best lace I had in my shop to make him 
 a present for cravats. I was verj' glad of this last cir- 
 cumstance, because 1 could very conscientiously swear 
 agaiiist him that he had enticed my servant away, and 
 was her accomplice in robbing me: I procured a warrant 
 against him accordingly. Every thing was now prepared, 
 and the tender hour of love approaching, I who had acted 
 for myself in my youth the same senseless part, knew 
 how to manage accordingly; therefore, after having locked 
 up my maid, and not being so much unlike her in height 
 and shape, as in a huddled way not to pass for her, I de- 
 livered the bundle designed to be carried off, to her lover's 
 man, who came with the signal to receive them. Thus 
 I followed after to the coach, where when I saw his mas- 
 ter take them in, I cried out, Thieves ! Thieves ! and the 
 constable with his attendants seized my expecting lover. 
 1 kept myself unobserved until I saw the crowd sufficiently 
 increased, and then appeared to declare the goods to be 
 mine ; and had the satisfaction to see my man of mode 
 put into the round-house, with the stolen wares by him, 
 to be produced in evidence against him the next morning. 
 This matter is notoriously known to be fact ; and I have 
 been contented to save my 'prentice, and take a year's 
 rent of this mortified lover, not to appear farther in the 
 matter. This weis some penance ; but, sir, is this enough 
 for a villany of much more pernicious consequence than 
 the trifles for which he was to have been indicted ? Should 
 rot you, and all men of any parts or honour, put things 
 upon so right a foot^ as that such a rascal should not
 
 No. 182.] THE SPECTATOR. 28D 
 
 laugh at the imputation of what he was really g^uilty, 
 and dread being accused of that for which he was arrested? 
 
 * In a word, sir, it is in the j)()wer of you, and such as 
 I hope you are, to make it as infamous to rob a poor 
 creature of her honour as her clothes. I leave this to 
 your consideration, only take leave (which I cannot do 
 without sighing) to remark to you, that if this had been 
 the sense of mankind thirty years ago, I should have 
 avoided a life spent in poverty and shame. 
 
 * I am. Sir, 
 
 * Your most humble servant, 
 
 ' ALICE TllF.EADI^EEDLE. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, Ronnd-house, Sept. 9. 
 
 * I am a man of pleasure about town, but by the stu- 
 pidity of a dull rogue of a justice of peace, and an in- 
 solent constable, upon the oath of an old harridan, am 
 imprisoned here for theft, when I designed only forni- 
 cation. The midnight magistrate, as he conveyed me 
 along, had you in his mouth, and said, This would make 
 a pure story for the Spectator. I hope, sir, you won't 
 pretend to wit, and take the part of dull rogues of business. 
 The world is so altered of late years, that there was not 
 a man who would knock down a watchman in my behalf; 
 but I was carried oflf with as much triumph as if I had 
 been a pick-pocket. At this rate, there is an end of all 
 the wit and humour in the world. The time was Avhen. 
 all the honest whoremasters in the neighbourhood would 
 have rose against the cuckolds in my rescue. If fornica- 
 tion is to be scandalous, half the fine things that have 
 been writ by most of the wits of the last age may be burned 
 by the common hangman. Harkee, Mr. Spec, do not be 
 queer; after having done some things pretty well, don't 
 begin to write at that rate that no gentleman can read 
 thee. Be true to love, and burji your Seneca. You do 
 not expect me to write my name from hence, but 
 
 ' I am, 
 T. * Your unknown humble, &c.' 
 
 Vol, II, C c
 
 290 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 183. 
 
 No. 183.] Saturday f September 29, 1711. 
 
 *'liixtv '^eCitec vtoKKbc Xtyejv Ir^ixoictv lfxo7a, 
 
 "15<xfv 5' tvT' i^shm/xev, aXjiflia /ui/Sijtrowflai. Hesiod. 
 
 Sometimes fair truth in fiction we disguise ; 
 Sometimes present her naked to men's eyes. 
 
 Fables were the first pieces of wit that made their ap- 
 pearance in the world, and have been still hig-hly valued 
 not only in times of the greatest simplicity, but among 
 the most polite ages of mankind. Jotham's fable of the 
 trees * is the oldest that is extant, and as beautiful as 
 any which have been made since that time. Nathan's 
 fable of the poor man and his lamb f is likewise more 
 ancient than any that is extant, besides the above-men- 
 tioned, and had so good an efFectj as to convey instruction 
 to the ear of a king without offending it, and to bring 
 the man after God's own heart to a right sense of his guilt 
 and his duty. We find JE^o^ in the most distant ages of 
 Greece; and if we look into the very beginning of the 
 commonwealth of Rome,J we see a mutiny among the 
 common people appeased by a fable of the belly and the 
 limbs, which was indeed very proper to gain the atten- 
 tion of an incensed rabble, at a time when perhaps they 
 would have torn to pieces any man who had preached the 
 same doctrine to them in an open and direct manner. As 
 fables took their birth in the very infancy of learning, 
 they never flourished more than when learning was at 
 its greatest height. To justify this assertion, I shall put 
 my reader in mind of Horace, the greatest wit and critic 
 in the Augustan age ; and of Boileau, the most correct 
 poet among the modems ; not to mention La Fontaine, 
 who by this way of writing is come more into vogue than 
 any other author of our times. 
 
 The fables I have here mentioned are raised altogether 
 upon brutes and vegetable?, with some of our own species 
 niixt among them, when the moral hath so required. But 
 besides this kind of fable, there is another in which the 
 
 • Judges ix. 8—15, t 2 Sam. xii. 1—4. 
 
 ; Liv. Hist. lib. ii. sect, yi, &c. Florus, lib. i. c. £J.
 
 No. 183.] THE SPECTATOR. 5M 
 
 actors are passions, virtues, vices, and other imaginary 
 persons of the like nature. Some of the ancient critics 
 will have it, that the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer are 
 fables of this nature ; and that the several names of gods 
 and heroes are nothing else but the affections of the miud 
 in a visible shape and charactnr. Thus they tell us, that 
 Achilles, in the first Iliad, represents an^er, or the iras- 
 cible part of human nature ; that upon dr.iwjng his sword 
 against his superior in a full assembly, Pallas is only an- 
 other name for reason, which chcv-ks and advises him 
 upon that occasion; and at her first appearance timches 
 him upon the head, that part of the man being iodked 
 upon as the seat of reason. And thus of the rest of the 
 poem. As for the Odyssey, I think it is plain that Hiuace 
 considered it as one of these allegorical fables, by the 
 moral which he has given us of several parts of it. The 
 greatest Italian wits have applied themselves to the uriting 
 of this latter kind of fables. Spenser's Fair> -Queen is 
 one continued series of them from the beginning to the 
 end of that admirable work. If we look uito the finest 
 prose-authors of antiquity, such as Cicero, Plato, Xeno- 
 phon, and many others, we shall find that this was like- 
 wise their favourite kind of fable. I shall only farther 
 observe upon it, that the first of this sort that made any 
 considerable figure in the world, was that of Hercules 
 meeting with Pleasure and Virtue ; which was invented 
 by Prodicus, who lived before Socrates, and in the first 
 dawnings of philosophy. He used to travel through Greece 
 by virtue of this fable, which procured him a kuid recep- 
 tion in all the market towns, where he never failed telling 
 it as soon as he had gathered an audience about him. 
 
 After this short preface, which I have made up of such 
 materials as my memory does at present suggest to me 
 before I present roy reader with a fable of this kind, which 
 I design as the entertainment of the present paper, I must 
 in a few words open the occasion of it. In the account 
 which Plato gives us of the conversation and behaviour 
 of Socrates, the morning he was to die, he tells the fol- 
 lowing circumstance ;
 
 -292 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 183. 
 
 When Socrates his fetters were knocked oflF (as was 
 usual to be done ou the day that the condemned person 
 •was to be executed) being seated in the midst of his dis- 
 ciples, and laying one of his legs over the other, in a very 
 unconcerned posture, he began to rub it where it had been 
 galled by the iron ; and whether it was to show the in- 
 difference with which he entertained the thoughts of his 
 approaching death, or (after his usual maoner) to take 
 every occasion of philosophizing upon some useful sub- 
 ject, he observed the pleasure of that sensation which 
 now arose in those very parts of his leg, that just before 
 had been so much pained by the fetter. Upon this he 
 reflected on the nature of pleasure and pain in general, 
 and how constantly they succeed one another. To this 
 be added, that if a man of good genius for a fable were to 
 represent the nature of pleasure and pain in that way 
 of writing, he would probably join them together after 
 such a manner, that it would be impossible for the one to 
 come into any place without being followed by the other. 
 It is possible, that if Plato had thought it proper at 
 such a time to describe Socrates launching out into a 
 discourse which was not of a piece with the business of the 
 day, he would have enlarged upon this hint, and have 
 drawn it out into some beautiful allegory or fable. But 
 since he has not done it, I shall attempt to write one 
 myself in the spirit of that divine author. 
 
 * There were two families which from the beg;fnning 
 of the world were as oi)posite to each other as light and 
 darkness. Tlie one of them lived in heaven, and the other 
 in hell. The youngest descendant of the first family was 
 Pleasure, who was the daughter of Happiness, who was 
 the child of Virtue, who was the offspring of the gods. 
 These, as I said before, had their habitation in heaven. 
 The youngest of the opposite family was Pain, who wais 
 the son of Misery, who was the child of Vice, who was 
 the offspring of the Furies. The habitation of this race of 
 beings was in hell. 
 
 ' The middle station of nature between these two oppo- 
 site extremes was the earth, which was inhabited by
 
 No. 183.] THE SPECTATOR. 293 
 
 creatures of a middle kind, neither so virtuous as the 
 one, nor so vicious as the other, but partaking of the 
 good and bad quahties of these two opposite families. 
 Jupiter considering that the species, commonly called man, 
 ivas too virtuous to be miserable, and too vicious to be 
 happy; that he might make a distinction between the 
 good and the bad, ordered the two youngest of the above- 
 mentioned families. Pleasure, who was the daughter of 
 Happiness, and Pain who was the son of Misery, to meet 
 one another upon this part of nature which lay in the 
 half-way between them, having promised to settle it upon 
 them both, provided they could agree upon the division of 
 it, so as to share mankind between them. 
 
 * Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new 
 habitation, but they immediately agreed upon this point, 
 that Pleasure should take possession of the virtuous, and 
 Pain of the vicious part of that species which was given 
 up to them. But upon examining to which of them any 
 individual they met with belonged, they found each of 
 them had a right to him; for that, contrary to what they 
 had seen in their old places of residence, there w^as no 
 person so vicious who had not some good in him, nor 
 any person so virtuous who had not in him some evil. The 
 truth of it is, they generally found upon search, that in 
 the most vicious man Pleasure might lay claim to an 
 hundredth part, and that in the most virtuous man Pain 
 might come in for at least two-thirds. This they saw 
 would occasion endless disputes between them, unless they 
 could come to some accommodation. To this end there 
 was a marriage proposed between them, and at length 
 concluded. By this means it is that we find Pleasure and 
 Fain are such constant yoke-fellows, and that they either 
 make their visits together, or are never far asunder. If 
 Pain comes into a heart he is quickly followed by Pleasure; 
 and if Pleasure enters, you may be sure Pain is not far off, 
 
 * But notwithstanding this marriage was very convenient 
 for the two parties, it did not seem to answer the intention 
 of Jupiter in sending them among mankind. To remedy 
 therefore this inconvenience, it was stipulated between 
 
 Cc 2
 
 294 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 184. 
 
 them by article, and confirmed by the consent of each 
 family, that notwithstanding they here possessed the spe- 
 cies indiflFerently ; upon the death of every single person, 
 if he was found to have in hira a certain proportion of evil, 
 he should be dispatched into the infernal regions by a 
 passport from Pain, there to dwell with Misery, Vice, and 
 the Furies. Or on the contrary, if he had in him a certain 
 proportion of good, he should be dispatched into heaven 
 by a passport from Pleaisure, there to dwell with Happi- 
 ness, Virtue, and the Gods.' L. 
 
 No. 184.] Monday^ October 1, 1711. 
 
 •— Opere in longo fes est obrepere somnum. 
 
 Hor.ArsPoet. v. 360. 
 Who labours long, may be allowed sleep. 
 
 When a man has discovered a new vein of humour, it 
 often carries him much farther than he expected from it. 
 My correspondents take the hint I give them, and pursue 
 it into speculations which I never thought of at my first 
 starting it. This has been the fate of my paper on the 
 match of grinning, which has already produced a second 
 paper on parallel subjects, and brought me the following 
 letter by the last post. 1 shall not premise any thing 
 to it farther, than that it is built on matter of fact, and 
 is as follows : 
 
 'SIR, 
 * You have already obliged the world with a discourse 
 upon grinning, and have since proceeded to whistling, 
 from whence you at length came to yawning; from this, 
 I think, you may make a very natural transition to sleep- 
 ing. I therefore recommend to you for the subject of a 
 paper the following advertisement, which about two 
 months ago was given into every body's hands, and may 
 be seen with some additions in the Daily Courant of Au- 
 gust the ninth. 
 
 ** Nicholas Hart, who slept last year in Saint Bartho-
 
 No. 184.1 THE SPECTATOR. 295 
 
 lomew's hospital, intends to sleep this year at the Cock 
 and Bottle in Little-Britain." 
 
 * Having since enquired into the matter of fact, I find 
 that the above-mentioned Nicholas Hart is every year 
 seized with a periodical fit of sleeping', which begins upon 
 the fifth of August, and ends on the eleventh of the same 
 month : That 
 
 On the first of that month be grew dull ; 
 On the second, appeared drowsy ; 
 On the third, fell a yawning; 
 On the fourth, began to nod; 
 On the fifth, dropped asleep ; 
 On the sixth, was heard to snore ; 
 On the seventh, turned himself in his bed ; 
 On the eighth, recovered his former posture ; 
 On the ninth, fell a stretching ; 
 On the tenth about midnight, awaked ; 
 On the eleventh in the morning, called for a little 
 small beer. 
 
 * This account I have extracted out of the journal of 
 this sleeping worthy, as it has been faithfully kept by a 
 gentleman of Lincoln's-inn, who hzis undertaken to be his 
 historiographer. I have sent it to you, not only as it re- 
 presents the actions of Nicholas Hart, but as it seems a 
 very natural picture of the life of many an honest English 
 gentleman, whose whole history very often consists of yawn- 
 ing, nodding, stretching, turning, sleeping, driuking, and 
 the like extraordinary particulars. I do not question, 
 sir, that, if you pleased, you could put out an advertise- 
 ment not unlike the ahovementioned, of several men of 
 figure; that Mr. John Such-a-one, gentleman, or Thom£is 
 Such-a-one, esquire, who slept in the country last summer, 
 intends to sleep in town this winter. The worst of it is, 
 that the drowsy part of our species is chiefly made up of 
 very honest gentlemen, who live quietly among their 
 neighbours, without ever disturbing the public peace. 
 They are drones without stings, I could heartily wisb«
 
 296 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 184. 
 
 that several turbulent, restless, ambitious spirits, would 
 for awliile change places with these good men, and enter 
 themselves into Nicholas Hart's fraternity. Could one 
 but lay asleep a few busy heads which 1 could name, from 
 the first of November next to the first of May ensuing,* 
 I question not but' it would verj' much redound to the 
 quiet of particular persons, as well as to the benefit of the 
 public. 
 
 * But to return to Nicholas Hart : I believe, sir, you will 
 think it a very extraordinary circumstance for a man to 
 g^ain his livelihood by sleeping, and that rest should pro- 
 cure a man sustenance as well as industry; yet so it is, 
 that Nicholas got last \ear emugh to support himself for 
 a twelveniDnth. I am likewise informed that he has this 
 year had a very comfortable nap. The poets value them- 
 selves ver}' much for slee])iug on Parnassus, but I never 
 heard they got a groat by it. On the contrary, our friend 
 Nicholas gets more by sleeping than he could by working, 
 and may be more properly said, than ever Homer was, to 
 have had golden dreams. Juvenal indeed mentions a 
 drowsy husband who raised an estate by snoring, but then 
 he is represented to have slept what the common people 
 call a dog's sleep ; or if his sleep was real, his wife was 
 awake, and about her business. Your pen, which loves 
 to moralize upon all subjects, may raise something, me- 
 thiuks, on this circumstance also, and point out to us 
 those sets of men, who, instead of growing rich by an 
 honest industry, recommend themselves to the favours of 
 the great, by making themselves agreeable companions 
 in the participations of luxury and pleasure. 
 
 ' 1 must further acquaint you, sir, that one of the most 
 eminent pens in Grub-street is now employed in writing 
 the dream of this miraculous sleeper, which I hear will 
 be of a more than ordinary length, as it must contain all 
 the particulars that are supposed to have passed in his 
 imagination during so long a sleep. He is said to have 
 gone already through three days and three nights of it, 
 
 * At ttiat time the scsiiou of pai-liament usually continued from Novem- 
 b$r till i\L»}'.
 
 No. 185.] THE SPECTATOR. 29? 
 
 and to have comprised in them the most remarkable pas- 
 sages of the four first empires of the world. If he can 
 keep free from party strokes, his work may be of use; but 
 this I nmch doubt, having been informed by one of his 
 friends and confidants, that he has spoken some things of 
 Nimrod with too great freedom. 
 
 L. * I am ever, Sir, &c.' 
 
 No. 185.] Tuesday, October 2, 1711. 
 
 Tantaene aiiimis coclesiibus irae T Virg. ^n. i. 15, 
 
 And dwells such fary in celestial breasts? 
 
 There is nothing in which men more deceive them- 
 selves than in what the world calls zeal. There are so 
 many passions which hide themselves under it, and so 
 many mischiefs arising from it, that some have gone so 
 far a« to say it would have been for the benefit of mankind 
 if it had never been reckoned in the catalogue of virtues. 
 It is certain, where it is once laudable and prudential, it 
 is an hundred times criminal and erroneous; nor can it 
 be otherwise, if we consider that it operates with equal 
 violence in all religions, however opposite they may be to 
 one another, and in all the subdivisions of each religion 
 in particular. 
 
 We are told by some of the Jewish rabbins, that the 
 first murder was occasioned by a religious controversy ; 
 and if we had the whole history of zeal from the days of 
 Cain to our own times, we should see it filled with so 
 many scenes of slaughter and bloodshed, as would make 
 a wise man very careful how he suffers himself to be ac- 
 tuated by such a principle, when it only regards matters 
 of opinion and speculation. 
 
 I would have every zealous man examine his heart 
 thoroughly, and, I believe, he will often find, that what 
 he calls a zeal for his religion, is either pride, interest, 
 or ill-nature. A man, who differs from another in opinion, 
 sets himself above him in his own judgment, and in several 
 particulars pretends to be the wiser person. This is 4
 
 298 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 185. 
 
 great provocation to the proud man, and gives a very 
 keen edge to what he calls his zeal. And that this is the 
 case very often, we may observe from the behaviour of 
 some of the most zealous for orthodoxy, who have often 
 great friendships and intimacies with vicious immoral 
 men, provided they do but agree with them in the same 
 scheme of belief. The reason is, because the vicious be- 
 liever gives the precedency to the virtuous man, and allows 
 the good Christian to be the worthier person, at the same 
 time that he cannot come up to his perfections. This we 
 find exemplified in that trite passage which we see quoted 
 in almost every system of ethics, though upon another 
 occasion : 
 
 Video meliora proboquc, 
 
 Dcteriora sequor Ovid. Met. vii. 20. 
 
 1 see the right, and I approve it too ; 
 
 Condemn the wrong, ami yet tlie wrong pnrsae.— Taie.'- 
 
 On the contrary, it is certain, if our zeal were true and 
 genuine, we should be much more angry with a sinner 
 than a heretic ; since there are several cases which may 
 excuse the latter before his great Judge, but none which 
 can excuse the former. 
 
 Interest is likewise a great inflamer, and sets a man on 
 persecution under the colour of zeal. For this reason we 
 find none are so forward to promote the true worship by 
 fire and sword, as those who find their present account in 
 it. But I shall extend the word interest to a larger mean- 
 ing than what is generally given it, as it relates to our 
 spiritual safety and welfare, as well as to our temporal. 
 A man is glad to gain numbers on his side, as they se^^'e 
 to strengthen him in his private opinions. Every proselyte 
 is like a new argument for the establishment of his faith. 
 It makes him believe that his principles carry conviction 
 with them, and are the more likely to be true when he 
 finds they are conformable to the reason of others, as well 
 as to his own. And that this temper of mind deludes a 
 man very often into an opinion of his zeal, may appear 
 from the common behaviour of the atheist, who main- 
 tains and spreads his opinions with as much heat as those
 
 No. 185.] THE SPECTATOR. 2.^9 
 
 who believe they do it only out of a passion for God's 
 glory. 
 
 Ill-nature is another dreadful imitator of zeal. Mauy 
 a good man may have a natural rancour and malice in 
 his heart, which has been in some measure quelled and 
 subdued by religion ; but if it finds any pretence of break- 
 ing out, which does not seem to him inconsistent with 
 the duties of a Christian, it throws off all restraint, and 
 rages in its full fury. Zeal is, therefore, a great ease to 
 a malicious man, by making him believe he does God ser- 
 vice, whilst he is gratifying the bent of a perverse re- 
 vengeful temper. For this reason we find that most of 
 the massacres and devastations which have been in the 
 world, have taken their rise from a furious pretended zeal. 
 
 I love to see a man zealous in a good matter, and espe- 
 cially when his zeal shows itself for advancing morality, 
 and promoting the happiness of mankind. But when 1 
 find the instruments he works with are racks and gibbets, 
 galleys and dungeons : when he imprisons men's persons, 
 confiscates their estates, ruins their families, and burns 
 the body to save the soul, I cannot stick to pronounce 
 of such a one, that (whatever he may think of his faith 
 and religion) his faith >s vain, and his religion unprofitable. 
 
 After having treated of these false zealots in religion, I 
 cannot forbear mentioning a monstrous species of men, 
 who one would not think had any existence' in nature, 
 were they not to be met with in ordinary conversation, 
 I mean the zealots in atheism. One would fancy that 
 these men, though they fall short, in every other respect, 
 of those who make a profession of religion, would at least 
 outshine them in this particular, and be exempt from 
 that single fault which seems to grow out of tbe imprudeiic 
 fervours of religion. But so it is, that infidelity is propa- 
 gated with as much fierceness and contention, wrath and 
 indignation, as if the safety of mankind depended upon 
 it. There is something so ridiculous and perverse in 
 this kind of zealots, that one does not know how to set 
 them out in their proper colours. They are a sort of 
 gamesters who are eternally upon the fret, though they
 
 300 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 185. 
 
 play for nothing. They are perpetually teazing their 
 friends to come over to them, though at the same time 
 they allow that neither of them shall get any thing by 
 the bargain. In short, the zeal of spreading atheism is, 
 if possible, more absurd than atheism itself. 
 
 Since I have mentioned this uaccountable zeal which 
 appears in atheists and infidels, I must farther observe, 
 that they are likewise in a most particular manner pos- 
 sessed with the spirit of bigotry. They are wedded to opi- 
 nions, fall of contradiction and impossibility, and at the 
 same time look upon the smallest difficulty in an article 
 of faith as a sufficient reason for rejecting it. Notions 
 that fall in with the common reason of mankind, that 
 are conformable to the sense of all ages, and all nations, 
 not to mention their tendency for promoting the happi- 
 ness of societies, or of particular persons, are exploded as 
 errors and prejudices ; and schemes erected in their stead 
 that are altogether monstrous and irrational, and require 
 the most extravagant credulity to embrace them. I would 
 fain ask one of these bigotted infidels, supposing all the 
 great points of atheism, as the casual or eternal formation 
 of the world, the materiality of a thinking substance, the 
 mortality of the soul, the fortuitous organization of the 
 body, the motions and gravitation of matter, with the like 
 particulars, were laid together and formed into a kind of 
 creed, according to the opinions of the most celebrated 
 atheists ; I say, supposing such a creed as this were formed, 
 and imposed upon any one people in the world, whether 
 it would not require an infinitely greater measure of faith, 
 than any set of articles which they so violently oppose. 
 Let me therefore advise this generation of wranglers, for 
 their own and for the public good, to act at least so con- 
 sistently with themselves, as not to burn with zeal for 
 irreligion, and with bigotry for nonsense. C.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 301 
 
 No. 186.] Wednesday, Octobers, 1711. 
 
 Calum ipsnm pctimiis stultitia 
 
 Hor. Lib. 3. Od. i. 3C. 
 High Heaven itself our impioin rage assails.— P. 
 
 Upon my return to my lodging's last night, 1 found a 
 letter from my worthy friend the clergyman, whom I have 
 given some account of in my former papers. He tells 
 me in it that he was particularly pleased vvith the latter 
 part of my yesterday's speculation ; and at the same time 
 inclosed the following essay, which he desires me to pub- 
 lish as the sequel of that discourse. It consists partly of 
 uncommon reflections, and partly of such as have been 
 already used, but now set in a stronger light. — 
 
 * A believer may be excused by the most hardened 
 atheist for endeavouring to make him a convert, because 
 he does it with an eye to both their interests. The atheist 
 is inexcusable who tries to gain over a believer, because 
 he does not propose the doing himself or the believer, 
 any good by such a conversion. 
 
 * The prospect of a future state is the secret comfort 
 and refreshment of my soul ; it is that which makes na- 
 ture look gay about me; it doubles all my pleasures, and 
 supports me under all my afflictions, I can look at disap- 
 pointments and misfortunes, pain and sickness, death it- 
 self, and what is worse than death, the loss of those who 
 are dearest to me, with indiflFerence, so long as I keep in 
 view the pleasures of eternity, and the state of being in 
 •which there will be no fears nor apprehensions, pains nor 
 sorrows, sickness nor separation. Why will any man be 
 so impertinently officious as to tell me all this is only 
 fancy and delusion } Is there any merit in being the mes- 
 senger of ill news ? If it is a dream, let me enjoy it, since 
 it makes me both the happier and better man. 
 
 ' I must confess I do not know how to trust a man who 
 believes neither heaven nor hell, or in other words, a 
 future state of rewards and punishments. Not only na- 
 tural self-love, but reason directs us to promote our own 
 interests above all things. It can never be for the interest 
 
 Vol. II. D d
 
 302 THE SPECTATOR. [No. IBff: 
 
 of a believer to do me a mischief, because he is sure upon 
 the balance of accounts to find himself a loser by it. On 
 the contran,', if he considers his own welfare in his be- 
 haviour towards me, it will lead him to do me all the 
 good be can, and at the same time restrain him from 
 doing raa any injury. An unbeliever does not act Uke a 
 reasonable creature, if he favours me contrary to his 
 present interest, or does not distress me when it turns to 
 his present advantage. Honour and good-nature may 
 indeed tie up his hands ; but as these would be very much 
 strengthened by reason and principle, so without them 
 they are only instincts, or wavering unsettled notions, 
 which rest on no foundation. 
 
 * Infidelity has been attacked with so good success of 
 late years, that it is driven out of all its out-works. The 
 atheist has not found his post tenable, and is therefore 
 retired into deism, and a disbelief of revealed religion only. 
 But the truth of it is, the greatest number of this set of 
 men are those who, for want of a virtuous education, or 
 examining the grounds of religion, know so very little of 
 the matter in question, that their infidelity is but another 
 term for their ignorance. 
 
 * As folly and inconsiderateness are the foundations of 
 infidelity, the great pillars and supports of it are either a 
 vanity of appearing wiser than the rest of mankind, or 
 an ostentation of courage in despising the terrors of an- 
 other world, which have so great an influence on what 
 they call weaker minds ; or an aversion to a belief that 
 must cut them off from many of those pleasures they pro- 
 pose to themselves, and fill them with remorse for many 
 of those they have already tasted. 
 
 'The great received articles of the Christian religion 
 have been so clearly proved, from the authority of that 
 divine revelation in which they are delivered, that it is 
 impossible for those who have ears to hear, and eyes to 
 see, not to be convinced of them. But were it possible 
 for any thing in the Christian faith to be erroneous, I 
 can find no ill consequences in adhering to it. The great 
 points of the incarnation and sufferings of our Saviour
 
 No. 186.] THE SPECTATOR. 303 
 
 produce naturally such habits of virtue in the mind of 
 man, that, I say, supposing it were possible for us to be 
 mistaken in them, the infidel himself must at least allow 
 that no other system of religion could so effectually con- 
 tribute to the heightening of morality. They give us 
 great ideas of the dignity of human nature, and of the 
 love which the Supreme Being bears to his creatures, and 
 consequently engage us in the highest acts of duty to- 
 wards our Creator, our neighbour and ourselves. How 
 many noble arguments has St. Paul raised from the chief 
 articles of our religion, for the advancing of morality in 
 its three great branches ! — To give a single example in 
 each kind. What can be a stronger motive to a firm 
 trust and reliance on the mercies of our Maker, than the 
 giving his Son to suffer for us ? What can make us love 
 and esteem even the most inconsiderable of mankind 
 more than the thought that Christ died for him ? Or 
 what dispose us to set a stricter guard upon the purity of 
 our own hearts, than our being members of Christ, and a 
 part of the society of which that immaculate person is the 
 head ? But these are only a specimen of those admirable 
 enforcements of morality, which the apostle has drawn 
 from the history of our blessed Saviour. 
 
 If our modern infidels considered these matters with 
 that candour and seriousness which they deserve, we 
 should not see them act with such a spirit of bitterness, 
 arrogance, and malice. They would not be raising such 
 insignificant cavils, doubts, and scruples, as may be started 
 against eveiy thing that is not capable of mathematical 
 demonstration ; in order to unsettle the mind of the 
 ignorant, disturb the public peace, subvert morality, and 
 throw all things into confusion and disorder, if none of 
 these reflections can have any ir.Ruenco on them, there is 
 one that perhaps may, because it is adapted to their vanity, 
 by which they seem to be guided much more than their 
 reason. I would therefore have them consider, that the 
 wisest and best of men in all ages of the world, have 
 been those who lived up to the religion of their country, 
 y/heix they saw nothing in it opposite to morality, and to
 
 804 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 187. 
 
 the best lights they had of the divine nature. Pjthagoras's 
 first rule directs us to worship the gods " as it is ordained 
 by law," for that is the most natural interpretation of the 
 precept. Socrates, who was the most renowned among 
 the heathens both for wisdom and virtue, in his last mo- 
 ments desires his friends to offer a cock to /Esculapius: 
 doubtless out of a submissive deference to the established 
 worship of his country. Xenophon tells us, that his prince 
 (whom he sets forth as a pattern of perfection) when he 
 found his death approaching, oflFered sacrifices on the 
 mountains to the Persian Jupiter, and the Sun, " accord- 
 ing to the custom of the Persians ;" for those are the 
 words of the historian.* Nay, the Epicureans and atomi- 
 cal philosophers showed a very remarkable modesty in 
 this particular ; for though the being of a God was entirely 
 repugnant to their schemes of natural philosophy, they 
 contented themselves with the denial of a providence, as- 
 serting at the same time the existence of gods in general; 
 because they would not shock the common belief of man- 
 kind, and the religion of their country.' L. 
 
 No. 187.] Thursday, Odobei'4, 1711. 
 
 Miseri quibus 
 
 Inlentata nitcs Ilor. Lib. 1. Od. v. IC. 
 
 Ah wretched they I whom Pynha's smile 
 And uususpccted arts beguile! Duncombe. 
 
 IThe intelligence given by this correspondent is so im- 
 portant and useful, in order to avoid the persons be speaks 
 of, that I shall insert his letter at length. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTAl'DR, 
 * I do not know that you have ever touched upon a 
 certain species of women, whom we ordinarily call jilts. 
 You cannot possibly go upon a more useful work, than 
 the consideration of these dangerous animals. The coquette 
 is indeed one degree towards the jilt ; but the heart of 
 the former is bent upon admiring herself, and giving false 
 • Xenoph. Cyropsd. Lib. 8. p. 500. Ed. Hutcliiiis. 17-17. 8vo.
 
 No. 187.] THE SPECTATOR. 305 
 
 hopes to her lovers ; but the latter is not contented to 
 be extremely an3iable, but she must add to that advantage 
 a certain dehght in being a torment to others. Thus 
 when her lover is in the full expectation of success, the 
 jilt shall meet him with a sudden indiflference, and ad- 
 miration in her face at his being surprised that he is re- 
 ceived like a stranger, and a cast of her head another 
 way with a pleasant scorn of the fellow's insolence. It is 
 very probable the lover goes home utterly astonished and 
 dejected, sits down to his 'scrutoire, sends her word in the 
 most abject terms that he knows not what he has done, 
 that all which was desirable in this life is so suddenly 
 vanished from him, that the charmer of his soul should 
 withdraw the vital heat from the heart which pants for 
 her. He continues a mournful absence for some time, 
 pining in secret, and out of humour with all things which 
 he meets with. At length he takes a resolution to try 
 his fate, and explain with her resolutely upon her unac- 
 countable carriage. He walks up to her apartment, with 
 a thousand inquietudes and doubts in what manner he 
 shall meet the first cast of her eye ; when upon his first 
 appearance she flies towards him, wonders where he has 
 been, accuses him of his absence, and treats hini with a 
 familiarity as surprising as her former coldness. This 
 good correspondence continues until the lady observes the 
 lover grows happy in it, and then she interrupts it with 
 some new inconsistency of behaviour. For (as I just now 
 said) the happiness of a jilt consists only in the power of 
 making others uneasy. But such is the folly of this sect 
 of women, that they carry on this pretty skittish beha- 
 viour, until they have no charms left to render it sup- 
 portable. Corinna, that used to torment all who conversed 
 with her with false glances, and little heedless unguarded 
 motions, that were to betray some inclination towards 
 the man she would insnare, finds at present all she at- 
 tempts that way unregarded ; and is obliged to indulge 
 the jilt in her constitution, by liying artificial plots, 
 writing perplexing letters from unknown hands, and mak- 
 ing all the young fellows in love with her until they find 
 D d2
 
 «0S THE SPECTATOR. [No. 187. 
 
 out who she is. Thus, as before she gave torment by dis- 
 guising her inclination, she now is obliged to do it by 
 hiding her person. 
 
 ' As for my own part, Mr. Spectator, it has been my 
 unhappy fate to be jilted from my youth upward ; and 
 as my taste has been very much towards intripue and 
 having intelligence with women of wit, ray whole life 
 has passed away in a series of impositions. I shall, for 
 the benefit of the present race of young men, give some 
 account of ray loves. I know not whether you have ever 
 heard of the famous girl about town called Kitty. This 
 creature (for I must take shame upon myself) was my 
 mistress in the days when keeping was in fashion, Kitty, 
 under the appearance of being wild, thoughtless, and irre- 
 gular in all her words and actions, concealed the most 
 accomplished jilt of her time. Her negligence had to 
 me a charm in it like that of chastity, and want of de- 
 sires seemed as great a merit, as the conquest of them. 
 The air she gave herself was that of a romping girl, and 
 whenever I talked to her vvith any turn of fondness, she 
 would immediately snatch off my periwig, try it upon her- 
 self in the glass, clap her arms a-kimbow, draw ray sword, 
 and make passes on the wall, take off my cravat, and seize 
 it to make some other use of the lace, or run into some 
 other unaccountable rompishness, until the time I had 
 appointed (o pass away with her was over. I went from 
 her full of pleasure at the reflectiofi that I had the keep- 
 ing of so much beauty in a woman, who as she was too 
 heedless to please me, was also too unattentive to form 
 a design to wrong me. Long did I divert every hour 
 that hung h^-avy upon m^ in the company of this creature, 
 whom I looked upon as neither guilty nor innocent, but 
 could laugh at myself for my unaccountable pleasure in 
 an expense upon her, until in the end it appeared my 
 pretty insensible wms with child by my footman. 
 
 * This accident roused me into a disdain against all 
 libertine women, unoer what appearance soever they hid 
 their insincerity, and 1 resolved after that time to converse 
 With none but those who lived within the rules of^decency
 
 No. 187.] THE SPECTATOR. 307 
 
 and honour. To this end I formed myself into a more 
 regular turn of behaviour, and began to make visits, fre- 
 quent assemblies, and lead out ladies from the theatres, 
 with all the other insignificant duties which the professed 
 servants of the fair place themselves in constant readiness 
 to perform. In a very little time, (having a plentiful for* 
 tune,) fathers and mothers began to regard me as a good 
 match, and I found easy admittance into the best families 
 in town to observe their daughters ; but I, who was born 
 to follow the fair to no purpose, have by the force of my 
 ill stars made my application to three jilts successively. 
 
 * Hyaena is one of those who form themselves into a 
 melancholy and indolent air, and endeavour to gain ad- 
 mirers from their inattention to all around them. Hyaena 
 can loll in her coach, with something so fixed in her coun- 
 tenance, that it is impossible to conceive her meditation 
 is employed only on her dress and her charms in that 
 posture. If it were not too coarse a simile, I should say, 
 Hyaena, in the figure she affects to appear in, is a spider 
 in the midst of a cobweb, that is sure to destroy every fly 
 that approaches it. The net Hysena throws is so fine, 
 that you are taken in it before you can observe any part 
 of her work. I attempted her for a long and weary season, 
 but I found her passion went no farther than to be ad- 
 mired ; and she is of that unreasonable temper, as not to 
 value the inconstancy of her lovers, provided she can 
 boast she once had their addresses. 
 
 * Biblis was the second I aimed at, and her vanity lay 
 in purchasing the adorers of others, and not in rejoicing 
 in their love itself. Biblis is no man's mistress, but every 
 woman's rival. As soon as I f^und this, I fell in love with 
 Chloe, who is my present pleasure and torment. I have 
 writ to her, danced with her, and fought for her, and 
 have been her man in the sight and expectation of the 
 whole town these three years, and thought myself near 
 the end of ray wishes ; when the other day she called me 
 into her closet, and told me, with a very grave face, that 
 she was a woman of honour, and scorned to deceive a man 
 who loved her with so much sincerity as she saw I did,
 
 308 THE SPECTATOR, ' [No 188. 
 
 and therefore she must inform me that she was by nature 
 the most inconstant creature breathina;, and begged of 
 me not to marry her : If I insisted upon it, I should ; 
 but that she was lately fallen in love with another. What 
 to do or say I know not, but desire you to inform me, and 
 you will infinitely obhge, Sir, 
 
 * Your humble servant, 
 
 ' CHARLES YELijOW: 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Mr. Sly, haberdasher of hats, at the comer of Devereux- 
 court, in the Strand, ejives notice, that he has prepared 
 very neat hats, rubbers, and brushes for the use of young 
 tradesmen in the last year of their apprenticeship, at rea- 
 sonable rates. T. 
 
 No. 188.] Friday^ October 5, 1711. 
 
 Lstus sum laudari a tc laudato \iTO.—TtUl. 
 It gives me pleasure to be praised by you, whom all men praise. 
 
 He is a very unhappy man who sets his heart upon 
 being admired by the multitude, or affects a general and 
 undistinguishing applause among men. What pious men 
 call the testimony of a good conscience, should be the 
 measure of our ambition in this kir)d ; that is to say, a 
 man of spirit should contemn the praise of the ignorant, 
 and like being applauded for nothing but what he knows 
 in his own heart he deserves. Besides which, the cha- 
 racter of the person who commends you is to be consi- 
 dered, before you set a value upon his esteem. The praise 
 of an ignorant man is only good-will, and you should re- 
 ceive his kindness as he is a good neighbour in society, 
 and not as a good judge of viiur actions in point of fame 
 and reputation. The satirist said very well of popular 
 praise and acclamations, ' Give the tinkers and cobblers 
 their presents again, and learn to live of yourself.'* 
 
 • Tollat sua munera cerdo : 
 
 Tecum habita. Pers. Sat. iv. 51.
 
 No. 188.] THE SPECTATOR. 309 
 
 I c is an argument of a loose and ungoverned mind to be 
 affected with the promiscuous approbation of the gene- 
 rality of mankind; and a man of virtue should be too 
 delicate for so coarse an appetite of fame. Men of honour 
 should endeavour only to please the worthy, and the man 
 of merit should desire to be tried only by his peers. I 
 thought it a noble sentiment which J heard yesterday 
 uttered in conversation : * I know,' said a gentleman, 
 * a way to be greater than any man. If he has worth 
 in him, I can rejoice in his superiority to me ; and that 
 satisfaction is a greater act of the soul in me, than any in 
 him which can possibly appear to me.' This thought could 
 not proceed but from a candid and generous spirit ; and 
 the approbation of such minds is what may be esteemed 
 true praise: for with the common race of men there is 
 nothing commendable but what they themselves may hope 
 to be partakers of, and arrive at ; but the motive truly 
 glorious is, when the mind is set rather to do things laud- 
 able, than to purchase reputation. Where there is that 
 sincerity as the foundation of a good name, the kind 
 opinion of virtuous men will be an unsought, but a ne- 
 cessary consequence. . The Lacedaemonians, though a 
 plain people, and no pretenders to politeness, had a cer- 
 tain delicacy in their sense of glory, and sacrificed to the 
 Muses when they entered upon any great enterprise. 
 They would have the commemoration of tlieir actions be 
 transmitted by the purest and most untainted memorial- 
 ists. The din which attends victories and public triumphs, 
 is by far less eligible than the recital of the actions of 
 great men by honest and wise historians. It is a frivolous 
 pleasure to be the admiration of gaping crowds ; but to 
 have the approbation of a good man in the cool reflec- 
 tions of his closet, is a gratification worthy an heroic 
 spirit. The applause of the crowd makes the head giddy, 
 but thie attestation of a reasonable man makes the heart 
 glad. 
 
 What makes the love of popular or general praise still 
 more ridiculous, is, that it is usually given for circum- 
 stances which are foreign to the persons admired. Thus
 
 310 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 188. 
 
 they are the ordinary attendants on power and riches, 
 which may be taken out of one man's hands, and put 
 into another's. The application only, and not the posses- 
 sion, makes those outward things honourable. The vulgar 
 and men of sense agree in admiring men for having what 
 they themselves would rather be possessed of; the wise 
 man applauds him whom he thinks most virtuous, the rest 
 of the world him who is most wealthy. 
 
 When a man is in this way of thinking, I do not know 
 what can occur to one more monstrous, than to see per- 
 sons of ingenuity address their services and performances 
 to men no way addicted to liberal arts. In these cases, 
 the praise on one hand, and the patronage on the other, 
 are equally the objects of ridicule. Dedications to igno- 
 rant men are as absurd as any of the speeches of Bull- 
 finch in the Droll. Such an address one is apt to translate 
 into other words; and when the different parties are 
 thoroughly considered, the panegyric generally implies 
 no more than if the author should say to the patron ; * My 
 very good lord, you and I can never understand one an- 
 other; therefore I humbly desire we may be intimate 
 friends for the future.* 
 
 The rich may as well ask to borrow of the poor, as 
 the man of virtue or merit hope for addition to his cha- 
 racter from any but such as himself. He that commends 
 another, engages so much of his own reputation as he 
 gives to that person commended ; and he that has nothing 
 laudable in himself is not of ability to he such a surety. 
 The wise Phocion was so sensible how dangerous it was 
 to be touched with what the multitude approved, that 
 upon a general acclamation made when he was making 
 an oration, he turned to an it\telligent friend who stood 
 near bim, and asked in a surprised manner. What slip 
 have I made ?' 
 
 I shall conclude this paper with a billet which has fallen 
 into my hands, and was written to a lady from a gentle- 
 man whom she had highly commended. The author of it 
 had formerly been her lover. When all possibility of com- 
 merce between them on the subject of love was cut off,
 
 No. 189.] THE SPECTATOR.^ 311 
 
 she spoke so handsomely of him, as to give occasion for 
 this letter. 
 
 * MADAM, 
 * i should be insensible to a stupidity, if I could for- 
 bear making you my acknowledgments for your late 
 mention of me with so much applause. It is, I think, 
 your fate to give me new sentiments : as you formerly in- 
 spired me with the true sense of love, so do you now 
 with the true sense of glory. As desire had the least 
 part in the passion I heretofore professed towards you, so 
 has vanity no share in the glory to which you have now 
 raised me. Innocence, knowledge, beauty, virtue, sin- 
 cerity, and discretion, are the constant ornaments of her 
 wbo has said this of me. Fame is a babbler, but I have 
 arrived at the highest glory in this world, the commenda- 
 tion of the most deserving person in it.' T. 
 
 No. 189.] Saturday, October 6, 1711. 
 
 Patriae pietatis imago. yirg. Ma. x. 
 
 An image of paternal tcndcroess. 
 
 TuE following letter being written to my bookseller, 
 upon a subject of which 1 treated some time since, I shall; 
 publish it in this paper, together with the letter that wa* 
 inclosed in it. 
 
 ' MR. BUCKLEY, 
 ' Mr. Spectator having of late descanted upon the cruelty 
 of parents to their children, 1 have been induced (at the 
 request of several of Mr. Spectator's admirers) to inclose 
 this letter, which I assure you is the original from a father 
 to his own son, notwithstanding the Jatter gave but little 
 or no provocation. It would be wonderfully obliging to 
 the world, if Mr. Spectator would give his opinion of it 
 in some of his speculations, and particularly to (Mr. Buck- 
 
 ^*y^» ' Your humble servant.'
 
 312' THE SPECTATOR. [No. 189. 
 
 'SIRRAH! 
 
 * You are a saucy audacious rascal, and both fool and 
 mad, and I care not a farthing whether you comply or 
 no; that does not raze out my impressions of your ink" 
 soleuce, going about railing at me, and the next day to 
 solicit my favour. These are inconsistencies, such as dis- 
 cover thy reason depraved. To be brief, I never desire to 
 see your face; and, sirrah, if you go to the workhouse, 
 it is no disgrace to me for you to be supported there; 
 and if you starve in the streets, I'll never give any thing 
 underhand in your behalf. If I have any more of your 
 scribbling nonsense, I'll break your head the first time 
 I set sight on you. You are a stubborn beast ; is this 
 your gratitude for my giving you money } You rogue, 
 I'll better your judgment, and give you a greater sense 
 of your duty to (I regret to say) your father, &c. 
 
 * P. S. It's prudence in you to keep out of my sight ; 
 for to reproach me, that Might overcomes Right, on the 
 outside of your letter, I shall give you a great knock on 
 the skull for it.' 
 
 Was there ever such an image of paternal tenderness ! 
 It was usual among some of the Greeks to make their 
 slaves drink to excess, and then expose them to their 
 children, who by that means conceived an early aversion 
 to a vice which makes men appear so monstrous and irra- 
 tional. I have exposed this picture of an unnatural father 
 with the same intention, that its deformity may deter 
 others from its resemblance. If the reader has a mind to 
 see a father of the same stamp represented in the most ex- 
 quisite strokes of humour, he may meet with it in one of 
 the finest comedies that ever appeared upon the English 
 stage: I mean the part of Sir Sampson in Love for Love. 
 
 I must not however engage myself blindly on the side 
 of the son, to whom the fond letter above-written was 
 directed. His father calls him a ' saucy and audacious 
 rascal' in the first line, and 1 am afraid upon examina- 
 tion he will prove but an ungracious youth, ' To go about 
 railing;' at his father, and to find no other place but ' the
 
 No. 189.] THE SPECTATOR. 813 
 
 outside of his letter' to tell him * that might overcomes 
 ri^ht'— if it does not discover * his reason to be depraved,' 
 and * that he is either fool or mad,' as the choleric old 
 gentleman tells him, we may at least allow that the father 
 will do very well in endeavouring to * better his judgment, 
 and give him a greater sense of his duty.' But whether 
 this may be brought about by ' breaking his head,* or 
 * giving him a great knock on the skull,' ought, I think, 
 to be well considered. Upon the whole, I wish the father 
 has not met with his match, and that he may not be as 
 equally paired with a son, as the mother in Virgil ; 
 
 Ciudelis tu qiioque mater : 
 
 Cnidelis inntcr raagis, an puer impiobus ille? 
 Improbus ille puer, crudelis tu quoque mater. 
 
 Eci. viii, 48. 
 
 O barbarous mother, thirsting to destroy ! 
 
 Wore cruel was the mother or the boy ? 
 
 Both, botli alike delighted to destroy, 
 
 Th' unnatural mother, and the ruthless boy.— Warton. 
 
 Or like the crow and her e^^ in the Greek proverb : 
 
 KotxS Kopctno; xoxsv uihv. 
 Bad the crow, bad the egg. 
 
 I must here take notice of a letter which I have re- 
 ceived from an unknown correspondent upon the subject 
 of my paper, upon which the foregoing letter is likewise 
 founded. The writer of it seems very much concerned 
 lest that paper shoulckseem to give encouragement to the 
 disobedience of children towards their parents ; but if 
 the writer of it will take the pains to read it over again 
 attentively, I dare say his apprehensions will vanish. Par- 
 don and reconciliation are all the penitent daughter re- 
 quests, and all that 1 contend for in her behalf; and in 
 this case I may use the saying of an eminent wit, who, 
 upon some great men's pressing him to forgive his daughter 
 who had n)arried against his consent, told them he could 
 refuse nothing to their instances, but that he would have 
 tliem remember there was difference between giving zuicl 
 forgiving. 
 
 Vol. II. E e
 
 314 THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 189. 
 
 I must confess, in all controversies between parents 
 and their children, I am naturally prejudiced in favour of 
 the former. The obligations on that side can never be 
 acquitted, and I think it is one of the greatest reflections 
 upon human nature, that paternal instinct should be a 
 stronger motive to love than filial gratitude ; that the 
 receiving of favours should be a less inducement to good- 
 will, tenderness, and commiseration, than the conferring 
 of them ; and that the taking care of any person shouM 
 endear the child or dependant more to the parent or be- 
 nefactor, than the parent or benefactor to the child or 
 dependant ; yet so it happens, that for one cruel parent 
 we meet with a thousand undutiful children. This is, 
 indeed, wonderfully contrived (as 1 have formerly observed) 
 for the support of every' living species; but at the same 
 time that it shows the wisdom of the Creator, it discovers 
 the imperfection and degeneracy of the creature. 
 
 The obedience of children to their parents is the basis 
 of all government, and set forth as the measure of that 
 obedience which we owe to those whom Providence hath 
 placed over us. 
 
 It is father Le Compte, if I am not mistaken, who tells 
 us how want of duty in this particular is punished among 
 the Chinese, insomuch that if a son should be known to 
 kill, or so much as to strike his father, not only the cri- 
 minal, but his whole family would be rooted out, nay the 
 inhabitants of the place where he lived would be put to 
 the sword, nay, the place itself would be razed to the 
 ground, and its foundations sown with salt. For, say they, 
 there must have been an utter depravation of manners 
 in that clan or society of people who could have bred up 
 among them so horrid an oifender. To this I shall add 
 a passage out of the first book of Herodotus. That his- 
 torian, in his account of the Persian customs and religion, 
 tells us, it is their opinion that no man ever killed bis 
 father, or that it is possible such a crime should be in 
 nature; but that if any thing like it should ever happen, 
 they conclude that the reputed son must have been ille- 
 gitimate, supposititious, or begotten in adultery. Their
 
 No. 190.3 THE SPECTATOR. '815 
 
 opinion in this particular shows sufficiently what a notion 
 they must have had of undutifuhiess in general. 
 
 L. 
 
 No. 190.] Monday^ October 8, 1711. 
 
 Servitus crescit nova liar. Lib. 2. Od. viii. 13» 
 
 A slavery to former times unknown. 
 
 Since I made some reflections upon the general negli- 
 gence used in the case of regard towards women, or in 
 other words, since I talked of wenching, 1 have had epistles 
 upon that suhject, which I shall, for the present enter- 
 tainment, insert as they lie before me. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * As your speculations are not conBned to any part of 
 human life, but concern the wicked as well as the good, 
 I must desire your favourable acceptance of what I, a poor 
 strolling girl about town, have to say to you. I was told 
 by a Roman-catholic gentleman who picked me up last 
 week, and who, I hope, is absolved for what passed be- 
 tween us ; I say I was told by such a person, who endea- 
 voured to convert me to his own religion, that in countries 
 where popery prevails, besides the advantage of licensed 
 stews, there ar^^ large endowments given for the Incurabili, 
 I think he called them, such as are past all remedy, and 
 are allowed such maintenance and support as to keep 
 them without farther care until they expire. This manner 
 of treating poor sinners has, methinks, great humanity in 
 it ; and as you are a person who pretend to carry your re- 
 flections upon all subjects whatever that occur to you, 
 with candour, and act above the sense of what misinter- 
 pretation you may meet with, I beg the favour of you 
 to lay before all the world the unhappy condition of us 
 poor vagrants, who are really in the way of labour instead 
 of idleness. There are crowds of us whose manner of 
 livelihood has long ceased to be pleasing to us ; and whp 
 would willingly lead a new life, if the rigour of the vir-
 
 316 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 190. 
 
 tuous did not for ever expel us from coming into the 
 world again. As it now happens, to the eternal infamy 
 of the male sex, falsehood among you is not reproachful, 
 but credulity in woman is infamous. 
 
 * Give me leave, sir, to give you my history. You are 
 to know that I am a daughter of a man of a good re- 
 putation, tenant to a man of quality. The heir of this 
 great house took it in his head to cast a favourable eye 
 upon me, and succeeded. I do not pretend to say he 
 promised me marriage : I was not a creature silly enough 
 to be taken by so foolish a story: but he ran away with 
 me up to this town, and introduced me to a grave matron, 
 with whom I boarded for a day or two with great gravity, 
 and was not a little pleased with the change of my con- 
 dition, from that of a country life to the finest company, 
 as I believed, in the whole world. My humble servant 
 made me understand that I should always be kept in the 
 plentiful condition I then enjoyed ; when after a very 
 great fondness towards me, he one day took his leave of 
 me for four or five days. In the evening of the same day 
 my good landlady came to me, and observing me very 
 pensive, began to comfort me, and with a smile told me 
 I must see the world. When I was deaf to all she could 
 say to divert me, she began to tell me with a very frank air 
 that I must be treated as I ought, and not take these 
 squeamish humours upon me, for my friend had left me 
 to the town ; and, as their phrase is, she expected I would 
 see company, or I must be treated like what I had brought 
 myself to. Tliis put me into a fit of crying: and I im- 
 mediately, in a true sense of my condition, threw myself 
 on the floor deploring my fate, calling upon all that was 
 good and sacred to succour me. While I was in all this 
 agony, I observed a decrepit old fellow come into the 
 room, and looking with a sense of pleasure in his face 
 at all my vehemence and transport. In a pause of my 
 distresses I heard him say to the shameless old woman 
 who stood by me, ** She is certainly a new face, or else 
 she acts it rarely." With that the gentlewoman, who 
 was making her market of me, in all the turns of my
 
 No. 190.] THE SPECTATOR. ' SIf 
 
 person, the heaves of my passion, and the suitable change 
 of my posture, took occEision to commend my neck, my 
 shape, my eyes, my limbs. All this was accompanied 
 with such speeches as you may have heard horse- coursers 
 make in the sale of nags, when they are warranted for 
 their soundness. Vou understand by this time that I was 
 left in a brothel, and exposed to the next bidder who could 
 purchase me of my patroness. This is so much the work 
 of hell : the pleasure in the possession of us wenches 
 abates in proportion to the degrees we go beyond the 
 bounds of innocence; and no man is gratified, if there is 
 nothing left for him to debauch. Well, sir, my first man, 
 when I came upon the town, was Sir Jeoffry Foible, 
 who was extremely lavish to me of his money, and took 
 such a fancy to me that he would have carried me off, if 
 my patroness would have taken any reasonable terms for 
 me ; but as he was old, his covetousness was his strongest 
 passion, and poor I was soon left exposed to be the com- 
 mon refuse of all the rakes and debauchees in town. I 
 cannot tell whether you will do me justice or no; till I 
 see whether you print this or not ; otherwise, as I now 
 live with Sal,* I could give you a very just account of 
 who and who is together in this town. You perhaps 
 won't believe it ; but I know of one who pretends to be 
 a very good protestant, who lies with a Roman-catholic: 
 but more of this hereafter, as you please me. There 
 do come to our house the greatest politicians of the age ; 
 and Sal is more shrewd than any body thinks. No body 
 can believe that such wise men could go to bawdy-houses 
 out of idle purposes. I have heard them often talk of 
 Augustus Caesar, who had intrigues with the wives of 
 senators, not out of wantonness but stratagem. 
 
 * It is a thousand pities you should be so severely vir- 
 tuous as I fear you are ; otherwise after one visit or two, 
 you would soon understand that we women of the town 
 are not such useless correspondents as you may imagine : 
 you have undoubtedly heard that it was a courtesan wh» 
 
 • A celebrated courtesan and procurecs at that time npon the town. 
 
 Ee2
 
 318 THE SPECTATOR. [No. I91. 
 
 discovered Catiline's conspiracy. If you print this I'll 
 tell you more ; and am, in the mean time, 
 'Sir, 
 * Your most humble servant, 
 
 ' REBECCA NETTLETOP. 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I am an idle young woman that would work for my 
 livelihood, but that I am kept in such a manner as I 
 cannot stir out. My tyrant is an old jealous fellow, who 
 allows me nothing to appear in. I have but one shoe and 
 one slipper; no head-dress, and no upper petticoat. As 
 you set up for a reformer, I desire you would take me out 
 of this wicked way and keep me yourself. 
 
 « EVE AFTERDAY.' 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 ' I am to complain to you of a set of impertinent cox- 
 combs, who visit the apartments of us women of the town, 
 only, as they call it, to see the world. I must confess to 
 you, this to men of delicacy might have an effect to cure 
 them ; but as they are stupid, noisy, and drunken fellows, 
 it tends only to make vice in themselves, as they think, 
 pleasant and humorous, and at the same time nauseous 
 in us. I shall, sir, hereafter from time to time give you 
 the names of these wretches who pretend to enter our 
 houses merely as Spectators. These men think it wit to 
 use us ill : pray tell them, however worthy we are of such 
 treatment, it is unworthy them to be guilty of it towards 
 us. Pray, sir, take notice of this, and pity the oppressed: 
 I wish we could add to it, the innocent.* T. 
 
 No. 191.] Tuesday, October 9, 1711. 
 
 B>^v cvflfov. Horn. II. ii. 6. 
 
 Deluding vision of tlie night. Pope. 
 
 Some ludicrous schoolmen have put the case, that if an 
 ass were placed between two bundles of hay, which af- 
 fected his seases equally on each side, and tempted him 
 in the very same degree, whether it would be possible
 
 No. 191] THE SPECTATOR/ 319 
 
 for him to eat of either. They generally determine this 
 question to the disadvantage of the ass, who they say 
 would starve in the midst of plenty, as not having a 
 single grain of free-will, to determine him more to the 
 one than to the other. The bundle of hay on either side 
 striking his sight and smell in the same proportion, would 
 keep him in perpetual suspense, like the two magnets, 
 which travellers have told us, are placed one of them in 
 the roof, and the other in the floor of Mahomet's burying- 
 place at Mecca, and by that means, say they, pull the 
 impostor's iron cuflin with such an equal attraction, that 
 it hangs in the air between both of them. As for the 
 ass's behaviour in such nice circumstances, whether he 
 would starve sooner thau violate his neutrality to the two 
 bundles of hay. I shall not presume to determine ; but 
 only take notice of the conduct of our own species in 
 the same perplexity. When a man has a mind to venture 
 his money in a lottery, every figure of it appears equally 
 alluring, and as likely to succeed as any of its fellows. 
 They all of them have the same pretensions to good-luck, 
 stand upon the same foot of competition, and no manner 
 of reason can be given why a man should prefer one to 
 the other before the lottery is drawn, in this case there- 
 fore caprice very often acts in the place of reason, and 
 forms to itself some groundless imaginary motive, where 
 real and substantial ones are wanting. I know a well- 
 meaning man that is very well pleased to risk his good- 
 fortune upon the number 1711, because it is the year 
 of our Lord. I am acquainted with a tacker that would 
 give a good deal for the number 134.* On the contrary, 
 I have been told of a certain zealous dissenter, who being 
 a great enemy to popery, and believing that bad men are 
 the most fortunate in this world, will lay two to one on 
 the number 666 against any other number, because, says 
 
 • In 1704 a bill was brought into the House of Commons againrt occa- 
 sional coDfonnity ; and in order to make it pass the lords, from whom 
 macb opposition was expected, it was proposed to tack it to a money-bill. 
 This was violently opposed ; and atier a warm discussion, it was put to 
 the vote, when 134 were for tackinij ; but 250 being against it, the motioi* 
 w«s overrttled, and the hill committed uuclogged.
 
 320 THE spectator; [No. 191. 
 
 he, it is the number of the beast.* Several would prefer 
 the number 12,000 before any other, as it is the number 
 of the pounds in the great prize. In short, some are 
 pleased to find their own age in their number ; some that 
 have got a number which makes a pretty appearance in 
 the cyphers ; and others, because it is the same number 
 that succeeded in the last lottery. Each of these, upon 
 no other grounds, thinks he stands fairest for the great 
 lot, and that he is possessed of what may not be impro- 
 perly called ' the golden number.'. 
 
 These principles of election are the pastimes and extra- 
 vagancies of human reason, which is of so busy a nature, 
 that it will be exerting itself in the meanest trifles, and 
 working even when it wants materials. The wisest of 
 men are sometimes acted f by such unaccountable mo- 
 tives, as the life of the fool and the superstitious is guided 
 by nothing else. 
 
 I am surprised that none of the fortune-tellers, or, as 
 the French call them, the Diseurs de bonne Avanture, 
 who publish their bills in every quarter of the town, have 
 turned our lotteries to their advantage. Did any of them 
 set up for a caster of fortunate figures, what might he not 
 get by his pretended discoveries and predictions ? 
 
 I remember among the advertisements in the Post-Boy 
 of September the 27tb, I was surprised to see the follow- 
 ing one : 
 
 * This is to give notice, that ten shillings over and 
 above the market-price, will be given for the ticket in 
 the 1,500,0001. lottery, No. 132, by Nath. Cliff, at the 
 Bible and Three Crowns in Cheapside.' 
 
 This advertisement has given great matter of specu- 
 lation to coffee-house theorists. Mr. Cliff's principles and 
 conversation have been canvassed upon this occasion, and 
 various conjectures made why he should thus set his heart 
 upon No. 132. I have examined all the powers in those 
 numbers, broken them into fractions, extracted the square 
 • See RcvektionSj ch. xiU. 18. t Actuated.
 
 No. 19lJ THE SPECTATOR. 321 
 
 and cube root, divided and multiplied them all ways, but 
 could not arrive at the secret until about three days a^o, 
 when 1 received the following letter from an unknown, 
 hand ; by which I find that Mr. Nath. Cliff is only the 
 agent, and not the principal in this advertisement. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * 1 am the person that lately advertised I would give 
 ten shillings more than the current price for the ticket 
 No. 132 in the lottery now drawing; which is a secret 
 which I have communicated to some friends, who rally 
 me incessantly upon that account. You must know I 
 have but one ticket, for which reason, and a certain dream 
 1 have lately had more than once, I was resolved it should 
 be the number I most approved. I am so positive I have 
 pitched upon the great lot, that I could almost lay all I 
 am worth of it. My visions are so frequent and strong 
 upon this occasion, that I have not only possessed the lot, 
 but disposed of the money which in all probability it will 
 sell for. This morning in particular, I set up an equipage 
 which I look upon to be the gayest in the town; the 
 liveries are very rich, but not gaudy. I should be very 
 glad to see a speculation or two upon lottery subjects, in 
 which you would oblige all people concerned, and in par- 
 
 ' ' * Vour most humble servant, 
 
 ' GEORGE GOSLING. 
 
 '' P. S. Dear Spec, if I get the 12,000 pound, I'll make 
 thee a handsome present.' 
 
 After having wished my correspondent good luck, and 
 thanked him for his intended kindness, I shall for this 
 time dismiss the subject of the lottery, and only observe, 
 that the greatest part of mankind are in some degree 
 guilty of my friend Gosling's extravagance. We are apt 
 to rely upon future prospects, and become really expensive 
 while we are only rich in possibility. We live up to our 
 expectations, not to our possessions, and make a figure 
 proportionable to what we may be, not what we are. We
 
 323 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 192. 
 
 outrun our present income, as not doubting to disburse* 
 ourselves out of the profits of some future place, project, 
 or reversion that we have in view. It is through this 
 temper of mind, which is so common among us, that we 
 see tradesmen break, who have met with no misfortunes 
 in their business ; and men of estates reduced to poverty, 
 who have never suffered from losses or repairs, tenants, 
 taxes, or Uw-suits. In short, it is this foolish sanguine 
 temper, this depending upon contingent futurities, that 
 occasions romantic generosity, chimerical grandeur, sense- 
 less ostentation, and generally ends in beggary and ruin. 
 The man who will live above his present circumstances, 
 is in great danger of living in a little time much beneath 
 them; or, as the Italian proverb runs, * The man who 
 lives by hope, will die by hunger.* 
 
 It should be an indispensable rule in life, to contract 
 our desires to our present condition, and, whatever may 
 be our expectations, to live within the compass of what 
 we actually possess. It will be time enough to enjoy an 
 estate when it comes into our hands; but if we antici- 
 pate our good fortune we shall lose the pleasure of it 
 when it arrives, and may possibly never possess what we 
 have so foolishly counted upon. L. 
 
 No. 192.] JVednesdarj, October 10, 1711. 
 Uno ore omnes omnia 
 
 Bona dicere, et laudare furtuuas meas, 
 Qui gnatum habciein tali ingenio praeditnm. 
 
 Ter. Andr. Act. i. sc. !• 
 
 All Ihe world 
 
 Willi one accord said all good things, and prais'd 
 My happy fortunes, who pt>ssess a sou 
 
 So good, so liberally disposed. 
 
 Colman. 
 
 I STOOD the other day, and beheld a father sitting in 
 
 the middle of a room with a large family Of children about 
 
 him ; and methought 1 could observe in his countenance 
 
 diflferent motions of dehght, as he turned his eye towards 
 
 i, c. reimburse.
 
 No. 192.] THE SPECTATOR. 323^ 
 
 the one and the other of them. The man is a person 
 moderate in his designs for their preferment and welfare: 
 and as he has an easy fortune, he is not solicitous to make 
 a great one. His eldest son is a child of a very towardly 
 disposition, and as much as the father loves him, I dare say 
 he will never be a knave to improve his fortune. I do 
 not know any man who has a juster relish of life than 
 the person I am speaking of, or keeps a better guard 
 against the terrors of want, or the hopes of gain. It is 
 usual in a crowd of children, for the parent to name out 
 of his own flock all the great officers of the kingdom. 
 There is something so very surprising in the parts of a 
 child of a man's own, that there is nothing too great to 
 be expected from his endowments. I know a good woman 
 who has but three sons, and there is, she says, nothing she 
 expects with more certainty, than that she shall see one 
 of them a bishop, the other a judge, and the third a court- 
 physician. The humour is, that any thing which can 
 happen to any man's child, is expected by every man for 
 his own. But my friend, whom I was going to speak of, 
 does not flatter himself with such vain expectations, but 
 has his eye more upon the virtue and disposition of his 
 children, than their advancement or wealth. Good habits 
 are what will certainly improve a man's fortune and repu- 
 tation ; but, on the other side, affluence of fortune will 
 not as probably produce good affections of the mind. 
 
 It is very natural for a man of a kind disposition, to 
 amuse himself with the promises his imagination makes 
 to him of the future condition of his children, and to re- 
 present to himself the figure they shall bear in the world 
 after he has left it. When his prospects of this kind arc 
 agreeable, his fondness gives as it were a longer date to 
 hrs own life ; and the survivorship of a worthy man in 
 his son, is a pleasure scarce inferior to the hopes of the 
 continuance of his own life. That man is happy who 
 can believe of his son, that he will escape the follies 
 and indiscretions of which he himself was guilty, and 
 pursue and improve every thing that was valuable in him. 
 The continuance of his virtue is much more to be re- 
 garded thc\u that of his life ; but it is the most lainent-
 
 324 THE SPECTATOR. [No. I92. 
 
 able of all reflections, to think that the heir of a man's 
 fortune is such a one as will be a stranger to his friends, 
 alienated from the same interests, and a promoter of 
 every thing which he himself disapproved. An estate in 
 possession of such a successor to a good man, is worse than 
 laid waste ; and the family, of which he is the head, is in 
 a more deplorable condition than that of being extinct. 
 
 When I visit the agreeable seat of my honoured friend 
 Ruricola, and walk from room to room revolving many 
 pleasing occurrences, and the expressions of many just 
 sentiments I have heard him utter, and see the booby his 
 heir in pain while he is doing the honours of his house 
 to the friend of his father, the heaviness it gives one is not 
 to be expressed. Want of genius is not to be imputed to 
 any man, but want of humanity is a man's own fault. The 
 son of Ruricola (whose hfe was one continued series of 
 worthy actions, and gentleman-like inclinations) is the 
 companion of drunken clowns, and knows no sense of 
 praise but in the flattery he receives from his own ser- 
 vants ; his pleasures are mean and inordinate, his language 
 base and filthy, his behaviour rough and absurd. Is this 
 creature to be accounted the successor of a man of virtue, 
 wit, and breeding? At the same time that I have this 
 melancholy prospect at the house where 1 miss my old 
 friend, I can go to a gentleman's not far off it, where he 
 has a daughter who is the picture both of his body and 
 mind, but both improved with the beauty and modesty 
 peculiar to her sex. It is she who supplies the loss of her 
 father to the world ; she, without his name or fortune, is 
 a truer memorial of him, than her brother who succeeds 
 him in both. Such an offspring as the eldest son of my 
 friend perpetuates his father in the same manner as the 
 appearance of his ghost would : it is indeed Ruricola, 
 but it is Ruricola grown frightful. 
 
 I know not to what to attribute the brutal turn which 
 this young man has taken, except it may be to a certain 
 severity and distance which his father used towards him, 
 and might, perhaps, have occasioned a dislike to those 
 modes of life, which were not made amiable to him by 
 £reedoia aud affability.
 
 No. 192.] THE SPECTATOR.' '»fl 
 
 We may promise ourselves that no such excrescence 
 will appear in the family of the Cornelii, where the father 
 lives with his sons like their eldest brother, and the sons 
 converse with him as if they did it for no other reason but 
 that he is the wisest man of their acquaintance. As the 
 Cornelii* are eminent traders, their good correspondence 
 with each other is useful to all that know them as well 
 as to themselves : and their friendship, good-will, and 
 kind offices, are disposed of jointly as well as their for- 
 tune, so that no one ever obliged one of them, who had 
 not the obligation multiplied in returns from them all. 
 
 It is the most beautiful object the eyes of man can. 
 behold to see a man of worth and his son live in an 
 entire unreserved correspondence. The mutual kindness 
 and affection between them, give an inexpressible satis- 
 faction to all who know them. It is a sublime pleasure 
 which increases by the participation. It is as sacred as 
 friendship, as pleasurable as love, and as joyful as reli- 
 gion. This state of mind does not only dissipate sorrow, 
 which would be extreme without it, but enlarges pleasure* 
 which would otherwise be contemptible. The most indif- 
 ferent thing has its force and beauty when it is spoke by 
 a kind father, and an insignificant trifle has its weight 
 when offered by a dutiful child. I know not how to ex- 
 press it, but I think I may call it a * transplanted self- 
 love.' All the enjoyments and sufferings which a man 
 meets with are regarded only as they concern him in the 
 relation he has to another. A man's very honour receives 
 a new value to him, when he thinks that when he is in 
 his grave, it will be had in remembrance that such an 
 action was done by such an one's father. Such consider- 
 ations sweeten the old man's evening, and his soliloquy 
 delights him when he can say to himself, No man caii 
 tell my child, his father was either unmerciful, or unjust. 
 
 • The allusion is supposed to be to the ftmily of the Eyles's, who 
 were merchants of distinction. Francis Eyies, the father, created a baionet 
 by George I., was a director of the East-lndi.! Company, and au alder- 
 man of London. His tlde.st «on, Sir .lohn Eylcs, bart. was lord mayor 
 in 1757 ; and another of his sons. Sir Joseph £ylf i, Imight, sheriff •(' 
 JLondon io 17W. 
 
 Vol. I J. F F
 
 325 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 193. 
 
 My son shall meet many a man who shall say to him, 
 ' 1 was obli2:ed to thy father ; and be my child a friend to 
 bis child for ever.' 
 
 It is nut in the power of all men to leave illustrious 
 names or great fortunes to their posterity, but they can 
 very much conduce to their havintj industry, probitv, 
 valour, and justice. It is in every nip.n's power to leave 
 his son the honour of descending from a virtuous man, 
 and add the blessings of heaven to whatever he leaves 
 liim. I shall end this rhapsody with a letter to an excel- 
 lent young man of my acquaintance, who has lately lost 
 a worthy father. 
 
 • DEAR SIR, 
 * I know no part of life more impertinent than the 
 office of administering consolation : I will not enter into 
 it, for I cannot but applaud your grief. The virtuous 
 principles you had from that excellent man, whom you 
 have lost, have wrought in yon as they ought, to make 
 a youth of three and twenty incapable of comfort upon 
 coming into possession of a great fortune. I doubt not 
 but you will honour his memory by a modest enjoyment 
 of his estate ; and scorn to triumph over his grave, by 
 employing in riot, excess, and debauchery, what he pur- 
 chased with so much industry, prudence, and wisdom. 
 This is the true way to show the sense you have of your 
 loss, and to take away the distress of others upon the 
 occasion. You cannot recal your father by your grief, 
 but you may revive him to his friends by your conduct.* 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 193.J Thursday, October 11, 1711. 
 
 Tngentem fori bus domus alta superbw 
 
 Man^ salutautnni totis vomit aedibus undam. 
 
 Firs. Georg. Li. 461- 
 ITis lordship's palace view, whose portals proud 
 Each inoriiing vomit forth a cringiug crowd. IVarton, &c. 
 
 Whe.n we look round us, and behold the strange 
 rariety of faces and persons which fill the streets with
 
 No. 193.] THE SPECTATOR. 827 
 
 business and hurry, it is no unpleasant amusement to make 
 guesses at their different pursuits, and judge by their 
 countenances what it is that so anxiously engages their 
 present attention. Of all this busy crowd, there are none 
 who would give a man inclined to such inquiries better 
 diversion for his thoughts, than those whom we call good 
 courtiers, and such as are assiduous at the levies of great 
 men. These worthies are got into a habit of being servile 
 with an air, and enjoy a certain vanity in being known 
 for understanding how the world passe?. In the pleasure 
 of this they can rise early, go abroad sleek and well- 
 dressed, with no other hope or purpose, but to make a 
 bow to a man in court favour, and be thought, by some 
 insignificant smile of his, not a little engaged in his in- 
 terests and fortunes, it is wondrous, that a man can get 
 over the natural existence and possession of his own mind 
 so far as to take delight either in paying or receiving 
 Buch cold and repeated civilities. But what maintains 
 the humour is, that outward show is what most men 
 pursue, rather than real happiness. Thus both the idol, 
 and idolater, equally impose upon themselves in pleasing 
 their imaginations this way. But as there are very many 
 of her majesty's good subjects who are extrenjely uneasy 
 at their own seats in the country, where all from the 
 skies to the centre of the earth is their own, and have 
 a mighty longing to shine in courts, or to be partners in 
 the power of the world ; I say, for the benefit of these, 
 and others who hanker after being in the whisper with 
 great men, and vexing their neighbours with the changes 
 they would be capable of making in the appearance at a 
 country sessions, it would not methinks be amiss to give 
 an account of that market for preferment, a great man's 
 levde. 
 
 For aught I know, this commerce between the mighty 
 and their slaves, very justly represented, might do so much 
 good, as to incline the great to regard business rather than 
 ostentation ; and make the little know the use of their 
 time too well to spend it in vain applications and addresses. 
 Tiie fatuous doctor in Moorfields, who gained so much
 
 2fe THE SPECTATOR. [No. 193. 
 
 Teputation for his horary predictions, is said to have had 
 in his parlour different ropes to httle bells which hung in 
 the room above stairs, where the doctor thought fit to be 
 oraculous. If a girl had been deceived by her lover, one 
 bell was pulled; and if a peasant had lost a cow, the 
 servant rung another. This method was kept in respect 
 to all other passions and concerns, and the skilful waiter 
 below sifted the inquirer, and gave the doctor notice 
 accordingly. The lev^e of a great man is laid after the 
 same manner, and twenty whispers, false alarms, and 
 private intimations, pass backward and forward from the 
 porter, the valet, and the patron himself, before the gaping 
 crew, who are to pay their court, are gathered together. 
 When the scene is ready, the doors fly open and discover 
 his lordship. 
 
 There are several ways of making this first appearance. 
 You may be either half-dressed, and washing yourself, 
 ■which is indeed the most stately ; but this way of opening 
 is peculiar to military men, in whom there is something 
 graceful in exposing themselves naked; but the politi- 
 cians, or civil officers, have usually affected to be more 
 reserved, and preserve a certain chastity of deportment. 
 Whether it be hieroglyphical or not, this difference in the 
 military and civil list, I will not say; but have ever un- 
 derstood the fact to be, that the close minister is buttoned 
 up, and the brave officer open-breasted on these occasions. 
 
 However that is, I humbly conceive the business of a 
 lev^e is to receive the acknowledgments of a multitude, 
 that a man is wise, bounteous, valiant, and powerful. 
 When the first shot of eyes is made, it is wonderful to 
 observe how much submission the patron's modesty can 
 bear, and how much servitude the client's spirit can de- 
 scend to. In the vast multiplicity of business, and the 
 crowd about him, my lord's parts are usually so great, 
 that, to the astonishment of the whole assembly, he has 
 something to say to every man there, and that so suitable 
 to his capacity as any man may j<udge that it is not with- 
 out talents that men can arrive at great employments. 
 I have known a great man ask a flag-officer which way
 
 Mo. 193.1 THE SPECTATOR. S^ 
 
 was the wind; a commander of horse the present price 
 of oats, and a stock-jobber, at what discount such a 
 fund was, with as much ease as if he had been bred to 
 each of those several ways of life. Now this is extremely 
 obliging-; for at the same time that the patron informs 
 himself of matters, he gives the person of whom he in- 
 quires an opportunity to exert himself. What adds to 
 the pomp of those interviews is, that it is performed with 
 the greatest silence and order imaginable. The patron 
 is usually in the midst of the room, and some humble 
 person gives him a whisper, which his lordship answers 
 aloud, * It is well. Yes, I am of your opinion. Pray in- 
 form yourself further, you may be sure of my part in it.' 
 This happy man is dismissed, and my lord can turn him- 
 self to a business of a quite different nature, and off-hand 
 gives as good an answer as any great man is obliged to. 
 For the chief point is to keep in generals, and if there be 
 any thing offered that is particular, to be in haste. 
 
 But we are now in the height of the affair, and my lord's 
 creatures have all had their whispers round to keep up 
 the farce of the thing, and the dumb-show is become 
 more general. He casts his eye to that corner, and there 
 to Mr, Such-a-one; to the other, * And when did you 
 come to town?' And perhaps just before he nods to 
 another ; and enters with him, * But, sir, I am glad to see 
 you, now I think of it.' Each of those are happy for the 
 next four-and-twenty hours; and those who bow in ranks 
 undistinguished, and by dozens at a time, think they have 
 very good prospects if they may hope to arrive at such 
 notices half a year hence. 
 
 The satirist says, there is seldom common sense in high 
 fortune ;* and one would think, to behold a lev^e, that 
 the great were not only infatuated with their station, but 
 also that they believed all below were seized too ; else 
 bow is it possible they could think of imposing upon 
 themselves and others in such a degree, as to set up a 
 Iev£e for any thing but a direct farce ? But such is the 
 
 • tlarus enim fcrmi sensiis connuunis in ilia 
 Fortuna Jut, viii. 73. 
 
 Ff2
 
 33d THE SPECTATOR. [No. 194, 
 
 weakness of our nature, that when men are a little ex- 
 alted in their condition, they immediately conceive they 
 have additional senses, and their capacities enlarged not 
 only above other men, but above human comprehension 
 itself. Thus it is ordinary to see a great man attend one 
 listening, bow to one at a distance, and to call to a third 
 at the same instant. A girl in new ribands is not more 
 taken with herself, nor does she betray more apparent 
 coquetries, than even a wise man in such a circumstance 
 of courtship. I do not know any thing that I ever 
 thought so very distasteful as the affectation which is re- 
 corded of Caesar; to wit, that he would dictate to three 
 several writers at the same time. This was an ambition 
 below the greatness and candour of his mind. He indeed 
 (if any man had pretensions to greater faculties than any 
 ether mortal) was the person ; but such a way of acting 
 is childish, and inconsistent with the manner of our being. 
 It appears from the very nature of things, that there 
 cannot be any thing effectually dispatched in the distrac- 
 tion of a public lev^e ; but the whole seems to be a con- 
 spiracy of a set of servile slaves, to give up their owo 
 liberty to take away their patron's understanding. 
 
 T. 
 
 No. 194,] Friday, October 12, 1711. 
 
 . Difficili bile tamet jecar. 
 
 Ifffr. Lib.l. Od.xiii.4. 
 
 With jealous paugs my bosom swells. 
 
 The present paper shall consist of two letters which 
 observe upon faults that are easily cured both in love and 
 friendship. In the latter, as far as it merely regards con- 
 versation, the person who neglects visiting an agreeable 
 friend is punished in the very transgression ; for a good 
 companion is not found in every room we go into. But the 
 case of love is of a more delicate nature, and the anxiety 
 is inexpressible, if every little instance of kindness is 
 not reciprocal. There are things in this sort of commerce
 
 No. 194.] THE SPECTATOR. asir 
 
 •which there are not words to express, and a man may 
 not possibly know how to represent what yet may tear 
 his heart into ten thousand tortures. To be {jrave to a 
 man's mirth, nnattentive to his discourse, or to interrupt 
 either with something that argues a disinclination to be 
 entertained by him, has in it something so disagreeable, 
 that the utmost steps which may be made in farther 
 enmity cannot give greater torment. The gay Corinna, 
 who sets up for an indifference and becoming heedless- 
 ness, gives her husband all the torment imaginable out of 
 mere indolence, with this peculiar vanity, that she is to 
 look as gay as a maid in the character of a wife. It is 
 no matter what is the reason of a man's grief, if it be 
 heavy as it is. Her unhappy man is convinced that she 
 means him no dishonour, but pines to death because she 
 will not have so much deference to him as to avoid the 
 appearances of it. The author of the following letter is 
 perplexed with an injury that is in a degree yet less cri- 
 minal, and yet the source of the utmost unhappiness. 
 
 ' MR, SPFXTATOR, 
 * I have read your papers which relate to jealousy, and 
 desire your advice in my case, which you will say is not 
 common. I have a wife, of whose virtue I am not in the 
 least doubtful; yet 1 cannot be satisfied she loves me, 
 which gives me as great uneasiness as being faulty the 
 other way would do. I know not whether I am not yet 
 more miserable than in that case, for she keeps possession 
 of my heart, without the return of her's. I would desire 
 your observations upon that temper in some women, who 
 will not condescend to convince their husbands of their 
 innocence or their love, but are wholly negligent of what 
 reflections the poor men make upon their conduct (so 
 they caimot call it criminal), when at the same time 
 a little tenderness of behaviour, or regard to show an 
 inclination to please them, would make them entirely at 
 ease. Do not such women deserve all the misinterpre- 
 tation which they neglect to avoid .' Or are they not in 
 the actual practice of guilt, who care not whether they
 
 3Si8 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 194. 
 
 are thought guilty or not ? If my wife does the most ordi- 
 nary thing, as visiting her sister, or taking the air with 
 her mother, it is always carried with the air of a secret. 
 Then she will sometimes tell a thing of no consequence, 
 as if it was only want of memory made her conceal it be- 
 fore ; and this only to dally with my anxiety. I have 
 complained to her of this behaviour in the gentlest terms 
 imaginable, and beseeched her not to use him, who desired 
 only to live with her like an indulgent friend, as the most 
 morose and unsociable husband in the world. It is no 
 easy matter to describe our circumstance, but it is miser- 
 able with this aggravation, that it might be easily mended, 
 and yet no remedy endeavoured. She reads you, and 
 there is a phrase or two in this letter which she will 
 know came from me. If we enter into an explanation 
 which may tend to our future quiet by your means, you 
 shall have our joint thanks; in the mean time I am (as 
 much as I can in this ambiguous condition be any thing), 
 *Sir, 
 
 ' Your humble servant.* 
 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * Give me leave to make you a present of a character 
 not yet described in your papers, which is that of a man 
 who treats his friend with the same odd variety which a 
 fantastical female tyrant practises towards her lover. I 
 have for some time had a friendship with one of those 
 mercurial persons. The rogue I know loves me, yet takes 
 advantage of my fondness for him to use me as he pleases. 
 We are by turns the best friends and the greatest strangers 
 imag;inable. Sometimes you would thnik us inseparable ; 
 at other times he avoids me for a long time, yet neither 
 he nor I know why. When we meet next by chance, he 
 is amazed he has not seen me, is impatient for an ap- 
 pointment the same evening; and when I expect he 
 would have kept it, I have known him slip away to an- 
 other place ; where he has sat reading the news, when 
 there i5 no post ; smoking his pipe, which he seldom cares 
 for ; and staring about him in company with whom he has 
 had nothing to do, a$ if he wondered how he came there.
 
 No. 195.] THE SPECTATOR. 333 
 
 \* That I may state my case to you the more fully, i 
 shall transcribe some short minutes I have taken of hira 
 in my almanack since last spring; for you must know 
 there are certain seasons of the year, according to which, 
 I will not say our friendship, but the enjoyment of it rises 
 or fails. In March and April he was as various as the 
 weather; in May and part of June I found him thespright- 
 liest best-humoured fellow in the world ; in the dog-days 
 he was much upon the indolent ; in September very agree- 
 able but very busy ; and since the glass fell last to change- 
 able, he has made three appointments with me, and broke 
 them every one. However, I have good hopes of him this 
 winter, especially if you will lend me your assistance to 
 reform him, which will be a great ease and pleasure to, 
 *Sir, 
 / Your most bumble servant.* 
 
 October 9, 171 1. 
 T. 
 
 '■■r'^*-*****- *■■*■* »^.t 
 
 No. 195.] Saturday^ October 13, 1711. 
 
 N^Tisi, oiS' "tffacriv ovu) oXiov ijfMffv iravrof. 
 
 lies. Oper. & Dier. I. i. 49. 
 
 Fools not to know that half exceecls the whole, 
 Hovr blest the sparing meal and temperate bowl, 
 
 Thbre is a story in the Arabian Nights Tales of a kin* 
 who had long languished under an ill habit of body, and 
 had taken abundance of remedies to no purpose. At 
 length, says the fable, a physician cured him by the fol- 
 lowing method : He took an hollow ball of wood, and 
 filled it with several drugs; after which he closed it up 
 so artificially that nothing appeared. He likewise took 
 a mall, and after having hollowed the handle and that 
 part which strikes the ball, he inclosed in them several 
 drugs after the same manner as in the ball itself. He 
 then ordered the sultan, who was his patient, to exercise 
 himself early in the morning with these rightly prepared 
 instruments, till such time as he should sweat 3 when, a<
 
 334 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 195. 
 
 the story goes, the virtue of the medicaments perspiring 
 through the wood, had so good an influence on the sul- 
 tan's constitution, that they cured him of an indisposition 
 which all the compositions he had taken inwardly had not 
 been able to remove. This eastern allegory is finely con- 
 trived to show us how beneficial bodily labour is to health, 
 and that exercise is the most effectual physic. 1 have 
 described in my hundred and fifteenth paper, from the 
 general structure and mechanism of an human body, how 
 absolutely necessary exercise is for its preservation: I shall 
 in this place recommend another great preservative of 
 health, which in many cases produces the same effects as 
 exercise, and may in some measure supply its place, where 
 opportunities of exercise are wanting. The preservative 
 1 am speaking of is temperance, which has those parti- 
 cular advantages above all other means of health, that 
 it may be practised by all ranks and conditions, at any 
 season, or in any place. It is a kind of regimen into 
 which every man may put himself, without interruption 
 to business, expense of money, or loss of time. If exercise 
 throws off all superfluities, temperance prevents them; if 
 exercise clears the vessels, temperance neither satiates 
 nor overstrains them; if exercise raises proper ferments 
 in the humours, and promotes the circulation of the blood, 
 temperance gives nature her full play, and enables her to 
 exert herself in all her force and vigour; if exercise dis- 
 sipates a growing distemper, temperance starves it. ^' 
 Physic, for the most part, is nothing else but the sub- 
 stitute of exercise and temperance. Medicines are indeed 
 absolutely necessary in acute distempers, that cannot wait 
 the slow operations of these two great instruments of 
 health ; but did men live in an habitual course of exercise 
 and tero})erance, there would be but little occasion for 
 them. Accordingly we find that those parts of the world 
 are the most healthy, where they subsist by the chace ; 
 and that men lived longest when their lives were employed 
 in hunting, and when they had little food besides what 
 they caught. Blistering, cupping, bleeding, are seldom 
 ef use but to the idle and intemperate ; as all those in-
 
 No. 195.] THE SPECTATOR. 335 
 
 ward applications which are so much in practice among- 
 us, are for the most part nothing^ else but expedients to 
 make luxury consistent with health. The apothecary is 
 perpetually employed in countermining the cook and the 
 vintner. It is said of Diogenes, that meeting a young 
 man who was going to a feast, he took him up in the 
 street and carried him home to his friends, as one who 
 was running into imminent danger, had not he prevented 
 him.* What would that philosopher have said, had he 
 been present at the gluttony of a modern meal ? Would 
 not he have thought the master of a family mad, and 
 have begged his servants to tie down his hands, had he 
 seen him devour fowl, fish, and flesh ; swallow oil and 
 vinegar, wines and spices ; throw down sallads of twenty 
 different herbs, sauces of an hundred ingredients, confec- 
 tions and fruits of numberless sweets and flavours? What 
 unnatural motions and counter-ferments must such a 
 medley of intemperance produce in the body ? For my 
 part, when 1 behold a fashionable table set out in all its 
 magnificence, I fancy that I see gouts and dropsies, fevers 
 and lethargies, with other innumerable distempers lying 
 in ambuscade among the dishes. 
 
 Nature delights in the most plain and simple diet. 
 Every animal, but man, keeps to one dish. Herbs are 
 the food of this species, fish of that, and flesh of a third. 
 Man falls upon every thing that comes in his way; not the 
 smallest fruit or excrescence of the earth, scarce a berry 
 or a mushroom can escape him. 
 
 It is impossible to lay down any determinate rule for 
 temperance, because what is luxury in one may be tem- 
 perance in another; but there are few that have lived any 
 time in the world, who are not judges of their own con- 
 stitutions, so far as to know what kinds and what propor- 
 tions of food do best agree with them. Were I to con- 
 sider my readers as my patients, and to prescribe such a. 
 kind of temperance as is accommodated to all persons, 
 and such as is particularly suitable to our climate and 
 way of living, I would copy the following rules of a very 
 • Dioc. Laert. VilaE Philosoph. lib, vi. cap. 2. n. d.
 
 83G THE SPECTATOR. [No. 195. 
 
 eminent physician. ' Make your whole repast out of one 
 dish. If you indulge in a second, avoid drinking any 
 thing strong until you have finished your meal ; at the 
 same time abstain from all sauces, or at least such as are 
 not the most plain and simple.' A man could not be well 
 guilty of gluttony, if he stuck to these few obvious and 
 easy rules. In the first case there would be no variety of 
 tastes to solicit his palate, and occasion excess ; nor in 
 the second, any artificial provocatives to relieve satiety, 
 and create a false appetite. Were I to prescribe a rule for 
 drinking, it should be formed upon a saying tfuoted by 
 Sir William Temple ; * The first glass for myself, the 
 second for my friends, the third for good-humour, and the 
 fourth for mine enemies.* But because it is impossible 
 for one who lives in the world to diet himself always in so 
 philosophical a manner, I think every man should have 
 his days of abstinence, according as his constitution will 
 permit. These are great reliefs to nature as they qualify 
 her for struggling with hunger and thirst, whenever any 
 distemper or duty of life may put her upon such difficul- 
 ties ; and at the same time give her an opportunity of 
 extricating herself from her oppressions, and recovering 
 the several tones and springs of her distended vessels. 
 Besides that, abstinence well-timed, often kills a sickness 
 in embrjo, and destroys the first seeds of an indisposition. 
 It is observed by two or three ancient authors,* that 
 Socrates, notwithstanding he lived in Athens during that 
 great plague, which has made so much noise through all 
 ages, and has been celebrated at different times by such 
 eminent hands ; I say, notwithstanding that he lived in 
 the time of this devouring pestilence, he never caught the 
 least infection, which those writers unanimously ascribe to 
 that uninterrupted temperance which he always observed. 
 And here I cannot but mention an observation which 
 I have often made, upon reading the lives of the philo- 
 sophers, and comparing them with any series of kings or 
 great men of the same number. If we consider these 
 
 • Diogenes Laertius in Vit. Socratis.— Eli«n in Var. His. lib. 13. cap. ZT, 
 Ac
 
 No. 195.] THE SPECTATOR. 3*7 
 
 ancient sages, a great part of whose philosophy consisted 
 in a temperate and abstemious course of life, one would 
 think the life of a philosopher and the life of a man were 
 of two different dates. For we find that the generality 
 of these wise men Avere nearer an hundred than sixty years 
 of age, at the time of their respective deaths. But the 
 most remarkable instance of the efficacy of temperance 
 towards the procuring of long life, is what wc meet with 
 in a little book published by Lewis Cornaro the t^ene- 
 tian ; which I the rather mention, because it is of un- 
 doubted credit, as the late Venetian ambassador, who 
 was of the same family, attested more than once in con- 
 versation, when be resided in England. Cornaro, who 
 was the author of the little treatise I am mentioning, 
 ■was of an infirm constitution, until about forty, when by 
 obstinately persisting in an exact course of temperance, 
 iie recovered a perfect state of health ;* insomuch that 
 at fourscore he published his book, which has been 
 translated into English under the title of Sure and Cer- 
 tain Methods of Attaining a Long and Healthy Life. He 
 lived to give a third or fourth edition of it ; and after 
 having passed his hundredth year, died without pain or 
 agony, and like one who falls asleep. The treatise 1 men- 
 tion has been taken notice of by several eminent authors, 
 and is written with such a spirit of cheerfulness, religion 
 and good sense, as are the natural concomitants of tem- 
 perance and sobriety. The mixture of the old man in it 
 is rather a recommendation than a discredit to it. 
 
 Having designed this paper as the sequel to that upon 
 exercise, I have not here considered temperance as it is 
 a moral virtue, which I shall make the subject of a future 
 speculation, but only as it is the means of health. L. 
 
 • Lewis Cornaro was born In 1467- I» liis yonth he lived very freely ; 
 which brought him into a bad state of health, upon wliicli lie fonned the 
 resolution of confining hitnself to t^velve ounces of food and fourteen of 
 wine daily ; by which means, and exercise, lie not only recovered hi* 
 hoalih, but acquired a vinoroue coostitutiou. He died at Ridua ia 12G5. 
 
 Vol. II. G o
 
 338 THE SPECTATOR. iNo. 195. 
 
 No. 196.] Monday f October 15, 1711. 
 
 £jt Ulubris, animus si te noa deficit asquns. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. xi. 30. 
 True happiness is to no place confin'd, 
 But still is foimd in a contented mind. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * There is a particular fault which I have observed in 
 most of the moralists in all ages, and that is, that they 
 are always professing themselves, and teaching others, to 
 be happy. This state is not to be arrived at in this life, 
 therefore I would recommend to you to talk in an hum- 
 bler strain than your predecessors have done, and instead 
 of presuming to be happy, instruct us only to be easy. 
 The thoughts of him who would be discreet, and aim at 
 practicable things, should turn upon allaying our pain, 
 rather than promoting our joy. Great inquietude is to be 
 avoided, but great felicity is not to be attained. The 
 great lesson is equanimity, a regularity of spirit, which 
 is a little above cheerfulness and below mirth. Cheerful- 
 ness is always to be supported if a man is out of pain, 
 but mirth to a prudent man should always be accidental. 
 It should naturally arise out of the occasion, and the oc- 
 casion seldom be laid for it ; for those tempers who want 
 mirth to be pleased, are like the constitutions which flag 
 without the use of brandy. Therefore, I say, let your 
 precept be, * Be easy.' That mind is dissolute and un- 
 goveriied, which must be hurried out of itself by loud 
 laughter or sensual pleasure, or else be wholly unactive, 
 
 * There are a couple of old fellows of my acquaintance 
 who meet every day and smoke a pipe, and by their mu- 
 tual love to each other, though they have been men of 
 business and bustle in the worki, enjoy a greater tran- 
 quillity than either could have worked himself into by any 
 chapter of Seneca. Indolence of body and mind, when 
 we aim at no more, is very frequently enjoyed ; but the 
 very inquiry after happiness has something restless in it, 
 which a man who lives in a series of temperate meals, 
 friendly conversations, and easy slumbers, gives himself no
 
 No. 196.] THE SPECTATOR." 339 
 
 trouble about. While men of refinement are talking of 
 tranquillity, he possesses it. 
 
 ' What 1 would by these broken expressions recommeud 
 to you, Mr. Spectator, is, that you would speak of the way 
 of life which plain men may pursue, to fill up the spaces 
 of time with satisfaction. It is a lamentable circum- 
 stance, that wisdom, or, as you call it, philosophy, should 
 furnish ideas only for the learned ; and that a man must 
 be a philosopher to know how to pass away his time agree- 
 ably. It would therefore be worth your pains to place in 
 a handsome light the relations and affinities among men, 
 which render their conversation with each other so grate- 
 ful, that the highest talents give but an impotent plea- 
 sure in comparison with them. You may find descriptions 
 and discourses which will render the fire-side of an honest 
 artificer as entertaining as your own club is to you. Good- 
 nature has an endless source of pleasures in it ; and the 
 representation of domestic life filled with its natural gra- 
 tifications, instead of the necessary vexations which are 
 generally insisted upon in the writings of the witty, will 
 be a very good office to society. 
 
 * The vicissitudes of labour and rest in the lower part 
 of mankind, make their being pass away with that sort of 
 relish which we express by the word comfort ; and should 
 be treated of by you, who are a spectator, as well as such 
 subjects which appear indeed more speculative, but are 
 less instructive. In a word, sir, I would have you turn 
 your thoughts to the advantage of such as want you most ; 
 and show that simplicity, innocence, industry, and tem- 
 perance, are arts which lead to tranquillity, as much as 
 learning, wisdom, knowledge, and contemplation. 
 
 * I am, Sir, 
 * Your most humble servant, 
 
 ' T. B. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, Ilackaey, Oct. I'J. 
 
 * I am the young woman whom you did so much justice 
 to some time ago, in acknowledging that 1 am perfect 
 mistress of the fan, and use it with the utmost knowledge
 
 340 THE SPECTATOR. fNo. 196. 
 
 and dexterity. Indeed the world, as malicious as it is, 
 will allow, that from a hurry of laughter I recollect my- 
 self the most suddenly, make a curtsey, and let fall my 
 hands before me, closing my fan at the same instant, 
 the best of any woman in England. I am not a little de- 
 lighted that I have had your notice and approbation ; and 
 however other young women may rally me out of envy, I 
 triumph in it, and demand a place in your friendship. 
 You must therefore permit me to lay before you the pre- 
 sent state of my mind. I was reading your Spectator 
 of the 9th instant, and thought the circumstance of the 
 ass divided between the two bundles of hay which equally 
 affected his senses, was a lively representation of my 
 present condition, for you are to know that I am ex- 
 tremely enamoured with two young gentlemen who at 
 this time pretend to me. One must hide nothing when 
 one is asking advice, therefore I will own to you that 
 I am very amorous, and very covetous. My lover WiU is 
 very rich, and my lover Tom very handsome. I can 
 have either of them when I please ; but when I debate 
 the question in my own mind, I cannot take Tom for 
 fear of losing Will's estate, nor enter upon Will's estate, 
 and bid adieu to Tom's person. I am verj' young, and 
 yet no one in the world, dear sir, has the main chance 
 more in her head than myself. Tom is the gayest, the 
 blithest creature ! He dances well, is very civil and divert- 
 ing at all hours and seasons. Oh ! he is the joy of my 
 eyes ! But then again Will is so very rich and careful of 
 the main. How many pretty dresses does Tom appear 
 in to charm me ! But then it immediately occurs to me 
 that a man of his circumstances is so much the poorer. 
 Upon the whole, I have at last examined both these de- 
 sires of love and avarice, and upon strictly weighing the 
 matter, I begin to think 1 shall be covetous longer than 
 fond ; therefore if you have nothing to say to the con- 
 trary, I shftU take Will. Alas, poor Tom ! 
 
 * Your humble servant, 
 <r, '.£LDDY U)YE,l£SS:.
 
 THE SPECTATOR. 141 
 
 No, t97.] Tuesday f October 16, 1711. 
 
 Alter rtzatur fJe lana 6«;pe capriiia, 
 Fropugnat nugis arniatus : scilicet, ut non 
 Sic mihi prima fides ; et, ver^ quod placet, ut 
 Acriter datreni ? Pretium aetas altera sordet. 
 Auibigitiir quid enim! Castor sciat, an Uocilii plus, 
 Brandusium Nuraicl meliiis via ducat, an Appi. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. xviu. 15. 
 
 On trifles some are earnestly absurd ; 
 
 You'll think the world depends on every word. 
 
 What ! is not every mortal free to speak ? 
 
 I'll give my reasons, though I break ray neck ! 
 
 And what's the question ? if it sliines, or rains; 
 
 Whether 'tis twelve, or fifteen miles to Staines. Pitt. 
 
 Every age a man passes through, and way of life he 
 engages in, has some particular vice or imperfection na- 
 turally cleaving to it, which it will require his nicest care 
 to avoid. The several weaknesses to which youth, old 
 age, and manhood are exposed, have long since been set 
 down by many both of the poets and philosophers; but I 
 do not remember to have met with any author who has 
 treated of those ill-habits men are subject to, not so much 
 by reason of their different ages and tempers, as the par- 
 ticular professions or business in which they were edu- 
 cated and brought up. 
 
 I am the more surprised to find this subject so little 
 touched on, since what I am here speaking of is so ap- 
 parent, as not to escape the most vulgar observation. 
 The business men are chiefly conversant in, does not only 
 give a certain cast or turn to their minds, but is very often 
 apparent in their outward behaviour, and some of the 
 most indifferent actions of their lives. It is this air dif- 
 fusing itself over the whole man, which helps ns to find 
 out a person at his first appearance ; so that the most 
 careless observer fancies he can scarce be mistaken in the 
 carriage of a seaman, or the gait of a tailor. 
 
 The liberal arts, though they may possibly have less 
 effect on our external mien and behaviour, make so deep 
 an impression on the mind, as is very apt to bend it wholly 
 one way. 
 
 G G 3
 
 342 THE SPECTATOR. [No. I97. 
 
 The mathematician will take little less than demon- 
 stration in the most common discourse, and the schoolman 
 is as great a friend to definition and syllogisms. The 
 physician and divine are often heard to dictate in private 
 companies with the same authority which they exercise 
 over their patients and disciples; while the lawyer is put- 
 ting cases and raising matter for disputation, out of every 
 thing that occurs. 
 
 I may possibly some time or other animadvert more at 
 large on the particular fault each profession is most in- 
 fected with; but shall at present wholly apply myself to 
 the cure of what I last mentioned, namely, that spirit of 
 strife and contention in the conversations of gentlemen 
 of the long robe. 
 
 This is the more ordinary, because these gentlemen 
 regarding argument as their own proper province, and 
 very often making ready nioney of it, think it unsafe to 
 yield before company. They are showing in common talk 
 how zealously they could defend a cause in court, and 
 therefore frequently forget to keep that temper which is 
 absolutely requisite to render conversation pleasant and 
 instructive. 
 
 Captain Sentry pushes this matter so far, that I have 
 heard him say, * he has known but few pleaders that were 
 tolerable company.' 
 
 The captain, who is a man of good sense, but dry con- 
 versation, was last night giving me an account of a dis- 
 course, in which he had lately been engaged with a young 
 wrangler in the law. ' I was giving ray opinion,' says 
 the captain, ' without apprehending any debate that might 
 arise from it, of a general's behaviour in a battle that 
 was fought some years before either the Templar or myself 
 were born. The young lawyer immediately took me up, 
 and by reasoning above a quarter of an hour upon a sub- 
 ject which I saw he understood nothing of, endeavoured 
 to show me that my opinions were ill-grounded. * Upon 
 which,' says the captain, * to avoid any farther contests, 
 I told him, that truly I had not considered those several 
 arguments which he had brought^ against me, and that
 
 No. 19^] THE SPECTATOR. S4S 
 
 there might be a great deal in them.' — * Ay, but,' says 
 my antagonist, who would not let me escape so, * there 
 are several things to be urged in favour of your opinion, 
 which you have omitted;' and thereupon bei^n to shine 
 on the other side of the question. ' Upon this,' says the 
 captain, ' I came over to my first sentiments, and entirely 
 acquiesced in his reasons for my so doing. Upon which 
 the Templar again recovered his former posture, and con- 
 futed both himself and me a third time. In short,' says 
 my friend, ' I found he was resolved to keep me at sword's 
 length, and never let me close with him ; so that I had 
 nothing left but to hold my tongue, and give my anta- 
 gonist free leave to sraile ai his victory, who I found, like 
 Hudibras, could still change sides, and still confute.' * 
 
 For my own part, I have ever regarded our inns of court 
 as nurseries of statesmen and law-givers, which makes me 
 often frequent that part of the town with great pleasure. 
 
 Upon my calling in lately at one of the most noted 
 Temple coffee-houses, I found the whole room, which was 
 full of young students, divided into several parties, each 
 of which was deeply engaged in some controversy. The 
 management of the late ministry was attacked and de- 
 fended with great vigour; and several preliminaries to the 
 peace were proposed by some, and rejected by others ; the 
 demolishing of Dunkirk was so eagerly insisted on, and 
 go warmly controverted, as had like to have produced a 
 challenge. In short, I observed that the desire of victory, 
 wh'itted with the little prejudices of party and interest, 
 generally carried the argument to such a height, as made 
 the disputants insensibly conceive an aversion towards 
 each other, and part with the highest dissatisfaction on 
 both sides. 
 
 The managing an argument handsomely being so nice 
 a point, and what I have seen so very few excel in, I shall 
 here set down a few rules on that head, which, among 
 other things, I gave in writing to a young kinsman of 
 mine, who had made so great a pro6ciency in the law 
 
 .• Fart i. «uit. 1. ver, 69, 70.
 
 344 THE SPECTATOR. [No. I9T^ 
 
 that be began to plead in company, upon every subject 
 that was started. 
 
 Havins^ the entire manuscript by me, I may perhaps, 
 from time to time, publish such parts of it as I shall think 
 requisite for the instruction of the British youth. What 
 regards my present purpose is as follows : 
 
 Avoid disputes as much as possible. In order to appear 
 easy and well-bred in conversation, you may assure your- 
 self that it requires more wit, as well as more good hu- 
 mour, to improve than to contradict the notions of an- 
 other: but if you are at any time obliged to enter on an 
 argument, give your reasons with the utmost coolness 
 and modesty, two things which scarce ever fail of makings 
 an impression on the hearers. Besides, if you are neither 
 dogmatical, nor show either by your actions or words, 
 that you are full of yourself, all will the more heartily 
 rejoice at your victory. Nay, should you be pinched in 
 your argument yon may make your retreat with a very 
 good grace. You were never positive, and are now glad 
 to be better informed. This has made some approve the 
 Socratical way of reasoning, where, while you scarce affirm 
 any thing, you can hardly be caught in an absurdity; 
 and though possibly you are endeavouring to bring over 
 another to your opinion, which is firmly fixed, you seem 
 only to desire information from him. 
 
 In order to keep that temper which is so difficult, and 
 yet so necessary to preserve, you may please to consider, 
 that nothing can be more unjust or ridiculous, than to be 
 angry with another because be is not of your opinion. 
 The interests, education, and means by which men attain 
 their knowledge, are so very different, that it is impos- 
 sible they should all think alike ; and he has at least as 
 much reason to be angry with you, as you with him. 
 Sometimes to keep yourself cool, it may be of service to 
 ask yourself fairly, what might have been your opinion, 
 bad you all the biasses of education and interest your 
 adversary may possibly have? But if you contend for 
 the honour of victory alone, you may lay down this as 
 Sin infallible maxim, that you cannot make a more false
 
 No. 197.] THE SPECTATOR. 348 
 
 step, or give your antagonists a greater advantage over 
 you, than by falling into a passion. 
 
 When an argument is over, how many weighty reasons 
 does a man recollect, which his heat and violence made 
 him utterly forget.' 
 
 It is yet more absurd to be angry with a man because 
 he does not apprehend the force of your reasons, or gives 
 weak ones of his own. If you argue for reputation, this 
 makes your victory the easier; he is certainly in all re- 
 spects an object of your pity, rather than anger ; and if 
 he cannot comprehend what you do, you ought to thank 
 nature for her favours, who has given you so much the 
 clearer understanding. 
 
 You may please to add this consideration, that among 
 your equals no one values your anger, which only preys 
 upon its master ; and perhaps you may find it not very 
 consistent either with prudence or your ease, to punish 
 yourself whenever you meet with a fool or a knave. 
 
 Lastly, If you propose to yourself the true end of ar- 
 gument, which is information, it may be a seasonable 
 check to your passion ; for if you search purely after truth, 
 it will be almost indifferent to you where you find it. I 
 cannot in this place omit an observation which I have 
 often made, namely. That nothing procures a man more 
 esteem and less envy from the whole company, than if 
 he chooses the part of moderator, without engaging 
 directly on either side in a dispute. This gives him the 
 character of impartial, furnishes him with an opportunity 
 of sifting things to the bottom, showing his judgment, aud 
 of sometimes making handsome compliments to each of 
 the contending parties. 
 
 I shall close this subject with giving you one caution. 
 When you have gained a victory, do not push it too far; 
 it is sufficient to let the company and your adversary see 
 it is in your power, but that you are too generous to 
 dake use of it. X.
 
 346 THE SPECTATOR. [No. I98. 
 
 No. 198.] Wednesday J October 17, 1711. 
 
 CervJE luporum praeda rapaciam, 
 Sectamat- ultrd, qaos opimas 
 Fallere et effugere est triumphas. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 4. Od. iv. 50. 
 
 We, like ♦ weak hiods,' the brinded wolf provoke, 
 
 Aud when retreat is victory 
 Rusli on, thoagh sure to die. Oldtisworth. 
 
 There is a species of women, whom I shall distinguish 
 Toy the name of salamanders. Now a salamander is a kind 
 of heroine in chastity, that treads upon fire, and lives in 
 the midst of flames without being hurt. A salamander 
 knows no distinction of sex in those she converses with, 
 grows familiar with a stranger at first sight, and is not 
 so narrow-spirited as to observe whether the person she 
 talks to be in breeches or petticoats. She admits a male 
 visitant to her bed-side, plays with him a whole afternoon 
 at picquet, walks with him two or three hours by moon- 
 light, and is extremely scandalized at the unreasonable- 
 ness of a husband, or the severity of a parent, that would 
 debar the sex from such innocent libertie-;. Vour sala- 
 mander is therefore a perpetual declaimer a2;ainst jea- 
 lousy, an admirer of the French good-breeding, and a 
 great stickler for freedom in conversation. In short, the 
 salamander lives in an invincible state of simplicity and 
 innocence. Her constitution is preserved in a kind of 
 natural frost. She wonders what people mean by temp- 
 tations, and defies mankind to do their worst. Her 
 chastity is engaged in a constant ordeal, or fier\- trial: 
 like good Queen Enmia, the pretty innocent walks blind- 
 fold among burning ploughshares, without being scorched 
 or singed by them. 
 
 It is not therefore for the use of the salamander, whe- 
 ther in a married or a single state of life, that I design 
 the following paper; but for such females only as are 
 made of flesh and blood and find themselves subject to 
 human frailties. 
 
 As for this part of the fair-sex who are not of the sala-
 
 No. 198.] THE SPECTATOR.' 34T 
 
 mander kind, I would most earnestly advise them to ob- 
 serve a quite different conduct in their behaviour; and 
 to avoid as much as possible what religion calls temptations, 
 and the world opportunities. Did they but know how 
 many thousands of their sex have been gradually be- 
 trayed from innocent freedoms to ruin and infamy ; and 
 how many millions of ours have begun with flatteries, 
 protestations, and endearments, but ended with reproaches, 
 perjury, and perfidiousness ; they would shun like death 
 the very first approaches of one that might lead them into 
 inextricable labyrinths of guilt and misery. I must so far 
 give up the cause of the male world, as to exhort the 
 female sex in the language of Charaont in the Orphan; , 
 
 Trust not to man, we are by nature false, 
 Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and unconstaiit ; 
 "When a man talks of love with caution trust him ; 
 But if he swears, he'll certainly deceive thee. 
 
 I might very much enlarge upon this subject, but shall 
 eonclude it with a story which I lately heard from one of 
 our Spanish officers,* and which may show the danger a 
 woman mcurs by too great familiarities with a male com- 
 panion. 
 
 An inhabitant of the kingdom of Castile, being a man 
 of more than ordinary prudence, and of a grave composed 
 behaviour, determined about the fiftieth year of his age to 
 enter upon wedlock. In order to make himself easy in it, 
 he cast his eye upon a young woman who had nothing to 
 recommend her but her beauty and her education, her 
 parents having been reduced to great poverty by the wars 
 which for some years have laid that whole country waste. 
 The Castilian having made his addressee to her and mar- 
 ried her, they lived together in perfect happiness for some 
 time ; when at length the husband's affairs made it ne- 
 cessary for him to take a voyage to the kingdom of Naples, 
 where a great part of his estate lay. The wife loved him 
 too tenderly to be left behind him. They had not been a 
 shipboard above a day, when they unluckily fell into the 
 
 • Viz. one of the English officers who hnd been employed in the war itt 
 Spain.
 
 348 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 198. 
 
 hands of an Algerine pirate, who carried the whole com- 
 pany on shore, and made them slaves. The Castilian and 
 his wife had the comfort to be under the same master; 
 "who seeing how dearly they loved one another, and gasped 
 after their liberty, demanded a most exorbitant price for 
 their ransom. The Castilian, though he would rather 
 have died in slavery himself, than have paid such a sum 
 as he found would go near to ruin him, was so moved with 
 compassion towards his wife, that he sent repeated orders 
 to his friend in Spain, (who happened to be his next re- 
 lation) to sell his estate, and transmit the money to him. 
 His friend hoping that the terms of his ransom might be 
 made more reasonable, and unwilling to sell an estate 
 which he himself had some prospect of inheriting, formed 
 so many delays, that three whole years passed away with- 
 out anything being done for the setting them at liberty. 
 There happened to live a French renegado, in the same 
 place where the Castilian and his wife were kept prisoners. 
 As this fellow had in him all the vivacity of his nation, 
 he often entertained the captives with accounts of his own 
 adventures ; to which he sometimes added a song or a 
 dance, or some other piece of mirth, to divert them dur- 
 ing their confinement. His acquaintance with the man- 
 ners of the Algerines enabled him likewise to do themi 
 several good offices. The Castilian, as he was one day in 
 conversation with this renegado, discovered to him the 
 negligence and treachery of his correspondent in Castile, 
 and at the same time asked his advice how he should 
 behave himself in that exigency ; he further told the rene- 
 gado, that he fuund it would be impossible for him to 
 raise the money, unless he himself might go over to dis- 
 pose of his estate. The renegado, after having represented 
 to him that his Algerine master would never consent to his 
 release upon such a pretence, at length contrived a me- 
 thod for the Castilian to make his escape in the habit of a 
 seaman. 'Jhe Castilian succeeded in his attempt; and 
 having sold his estate, being afraid lest the money should 
 miscarry by the way, and determining to perish with it 
 rather than lose one who was much dearer to him than
 
 No. 198.] THE SPECTATOR. 349 
 
 his life, he returned himself in a little vessel that was 
 going to Algiers. It it impossible to describe the joy ha 
 felt upon this occasion, when he considered that he should 
 soon see the wife whom he so much loved, and endear him- 
 self more to her, by this uncommon piece of generosity. 
 
 The renegado, during the husband's absence, so insi- 
 nuated himself into the good graces of his young wife, 
 and so turned her head with stories of gallantry, that 
 she quickly thought him the finest gentleman she had 
 ever conversed with. To be brief, her mind was quite 
 alienated from the honest Castilian, whom she was taught 
 to look upon as a formal old fellow unworthy the posses-, 
 sion of so charming a creature. She had been instructed 
 by the renegado how to manage herself upon his arrival ; 
 so that she received him with an appearance of the utmost 
 love and gratitude, and at length persuaded him to trust 
 their common friend the renegado with the money he had 
 brought over for their ransom ; as not questioning hut 
 he would beat down the terms of it, and negociate the 
 affair more to their advantage than they themselves could 
 do. The good man admired her prudence, and followed 
 her advice. 1 wish I could conceal the sequel of this 
 story, but since I cannot, I shall dispatch it in as few 
 words as possible. The Castilian haviug slept longer than 
 ordinary the next morning, upon his awaking found his 
 wife had left him. He immediately arose and inquired 
 after her, but was told that she was seen with the re- 
 negado about break of day. In a word, her lover having 
 got all things ready for their departure, they soon made 
 their escape out of the territories of Algiers, carried away 
 the money, and left the Castilian in captivity ; who partly 
 through the cruel treatment of the incensed Algerine liis 
 master, and partly through the unkind usage of his un- 
 faithful wife, died some few mouths after. L. 
 
 Vol. II. H m
 
 350 THE SPFXTATOR. [No. 199. 
 
 No. 199.] Thursday, October 18, 171 1. 
 
 Scriberc jussit amor. Olid. Ep. iv. 10. 
 
 Love bade mc write. 
 
 The following letters are written with such an air of 
 sincerity that I cannot deny the inserting of them. . 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * Though you are everywhere in your writings a friend 
 to women, I do not remember that you have directly 
 considered the mercenary practice of men in the choice 
 of wives. If you would please to employ your thoughts 
 upon that subject, you would easily conceive the miserable 
 condition many of us are in, who not only from the laws 
 of custom and modesty are restrained from making any 
 advances towards our wishes, but are also, from the cir- 
 cumstance of fortune, out of all hopes of being addressed 
 to by those whom we love. Under all these disadvantages 
 I am obliged to apply myself to you, and hope I shall 
 prevail with you to print in your very next paper the fol- 
 lowing letter, which is a declaration of passion to one who 
 has made some faint addresses to me for some time. I be- 
 lieve he ardently loves me, but the inequality of my for- 
 tune makes him think he cannot answer it to the world, 
 if he pursues his designs by way of marriage ; and I be- 
 lieve, as he does not want discernment, he discovered me 
 looking at him the other day unawares, in such a manner 
 as has raised his hopes of gaining me on terms the men 
 call easier. But my heart was very full on this occasion^ 
 and if you know what love and honour are, you will par- 
 don me that I use no farther arguments with you, but 
 hasten to my letter to him, whom I call Oroondates ;• 
 because if I do not succeed, it shall look like romance; 
 and if 1 am regarded, you shall receive a pair of gloves 
 at my wedding, sent to you under the name of Statira/ 
 
 • A celebrated name in Mndemoiselle Scudery's French romance o4 
 The Grand Cyrus, Ike.
 
 No. 199.] THE SPECTATOR.'; 351 
 
 ' To Oroondates, 
 'SIR, 
 
 * After very much perplexity in myself, and revolving 
 bow to acquaint you with my own sentiments, and ex- 
 postulate with you concerning yours, 1 have chosen this 
 way, by which means I can be at once revealed to you, 
 or if you please, lie concealed. If I do not within a few 
 days find the effect which I hope from this, the whole 
 aflfair shall be buried in oblivion. But alas ! what am I 
 going to do, when I am about to tell you that I love you } 
 But after I have done so, I am to assure you, that with 
 all the passion which ever entered a tender heart, I know 
 I can banish you from my sight for ever, when I am con- 
 vinced that you have no inclinations towards me but to 
 my dishonour. But alas I sir, why should you sacrifice 
 the real and essential happiness of life to the opinion of a 
 world, that moves upon no other foundation but professed 
 error and prejudice ? You all can observe that riches 
 alone do not make you happy, and yet give up every thing 
 else when it stands in competition with riches. Since the 
 world is so bad, that religion is left to us silly women, 
 >nd you men act generally upon principles of profit and 
 pleasure, 1 will talk to you without ai^uing from any 
 thing but what may be most to your advantage, as a man 
 of the world. And I will lay before you the state of the 
 case, supposing that you had it in your power to make me 
 your mistress or your wife, and hope to convince you that 
 the latter is more for your interest, and will contribute 
 more to your pleasure. 
 
 * We will suppose then the scene was laid, and you 
 were now in expectation of the approaching evening 
 wherein I was to meet you, and be carried to what con- 
 venient corner of the town you thought fit, to consum- 
 mate all which your wanton imagination has promised to 
 you in the possession of one who is in the bloom of youth, 
 and in the reputation of innocence. You would soon have 
 enough of me, as I am sprightly, young, gay, and airy. 
 When fancy is sated, and finds all the promises it made 
 itself false, where is now the innocence which charmed
 
 352 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 199. 
 
 you? The first hour you are alone, you will find that the 
 pleasure of a debauchee is only that of a destroyer. He 
 blasts all the fruit he tastes; and where the brute has 
 been devouring, there is nothing left worthy the relish 
 of the man. Reason resumes her place after imagination 
 is cloyed ; and I am with the utmost distress and confu- 
 sion to behold myself the cause of ianeasy reflections to 
 you, to be visited by stealth, and dwell for the future with 
 two companions (the most unfit for each other in the 
 world) solitude and guilt. 1 will not insist upon the 
 shameful obscurity we should pass our time in, nor run 
 over the little short snatches of fresh air, and free com- 
 merce, which all people must be satisfied with, whose ac- 
 tions will not bear examination, but leave them to your 
 reflections, who have seen enough of that life, of which I 
 have but a mere idea. 
 
 * On the other hand, if you can be so good and gene- 
 rous as to make me your wife, you may promise yourself 
 all the obedience and tenderness with which gratitude can 
 inspire a virtuous woman. Whatever gratifications you 
 may promise yourself from an agreeable person, whatever 
 compliances from an easy temper, whatever consolations 
 from a sincere friendship, you may expect as the due o£ 
 your generosity. What a present in your ill view you 
 promise yourself from me, will be followed with distaste 
 and satiety ; but the transports of a virtuous love are the 
 least part of its happiness. The raptures of innocent pas- 
 sion are but like lightning to the day, they rather in- 
 terrupt than advance the pleasure of it. How happy then 
 is that life to be, where the highest pleasures of sense are 
 but the lowest parts of its felicity ? 
 
 * Now I am to repeat to you the unnatural request of 
 taking me in direct terms. I know there stands between 
 me and that happiness, the haughty daughter of a man 
 who can give you suitably to your fortune. But if you 
 weigh the attendance and behaviour of her who comes 
 to you in partnership of your fortune, and expects an 
 equivalent, with that of her who enters your bouse as 
 iMQOured and oblij-ed by that permission, whom of the
 
 No. 200.3 THE SPECTATOR. 3» 
 
 two will you choose? You, perhaps, will think fit to 
 spend a day abroad in the common entertainments of 
 men of sense and fortune; she will think herself ill used 
 in that absence, and contrive at home au expense pro- 
 ])ortioned to the appearance which you make in the world. 
 She is IP. all things to have a regard to the fortune which 
 she brought you, I to the fortune to which you intro- 
 duce me. The commerce between you two will eternally 
 have the air of a bargain, between us of a friendship: joy 
 will ever enter into the room with you, and kind wishes 
 attend my benefactor when he leaves it. Ask yourself, 
 how would you be ])leased to enjoy for ever the pleasure 
 of having laid an immediate obligation on a grateful 
 mind ? Such will be your case with me. In the other 
 marriage you will live in a constant comparison of bene- 
 fits, and never know the happiness of conferring or re- 
 ceiving any. 
 
 * It may be you will, after all, act rather in the pruden- 
 tial way, according to the sense of the ordinary world. 
 I know not what I think or say, when that melancholy 
 reflection comes upon me; but shall only add more, that 
 it is in your power to make me your grateful wife, but 
 never your abandoned mistress.' T. 
 
 No. 200.] Friday, October 19, 1711. 
 
 Vincit amor patri<e Virg. X.n. vi. 823. 
 
 The noblest motive is the public good. 
 
 The ambition of princes is many times as hurtful to 
 themselves as to their people. This cannot be doubted of 
 such as prove unfortunate in their wars, but it is often 
 true too of those who are celebrate*! for their successes* 
 If a severe view were to be taken of their conduct, if th« 
 profit and loss by their wars could be justly,balanced, it 
 "would be rarely found that the conquest is sufficient to 
 repay the cost. 
 
 As I was the other day looking over the letters of my 
 ccrrfispondents, I took this hint from that of PhiUy 
 Hu2
 
 354 THE SPECTATOR/ [No. 200. 
 
 rithmus ; which has turned my present thoughts upon 
 political arithmetic, an art of greater use than enter- 
 tainment. My friend has offered an Essay towards proving 
 that Louis XIV. with all his acquisitions is not master of 
 more people than at the beginning of his wars, nay, that 
 for every subject he had acquired, he had lost three that 
 were his inheritance. If Philarithmus is not mistaken in 
 his calculations, Louis must have been impoverished by 
 his ambition. 
 
 The prince for the public good has a sovereign pro" 
 perty in every private person's estate ; and consequently 
 his riches must increase or decrease in proportion to the 
 number and riches of his subjects. For example; if sword 
 or pestilence should destroy all the people of this me- 
 tropolis, (God forbid there should be room for such a 
 supposition! but if this should be the case) the queen 
 must needs lose a great part of her revenue, or, at least, 
 ■what is charged upon the city, must increase the burden 
 upon the rest of her subjects. Perhaps the inhabitants 
 here are not above a tenth part of the whole; yet as they 
 are better fed, and clothed, and lodged, than her other 
 subjects, the customs and excises upon their consump- 
 tion, the imposts upon their houses, and other taxes, do 
 very probably make a fifth part of the whole revenue of 
 the crown. But this is not all; the consumption of the 
 city takes off a great part of the fruits of the whole 
 island ; and as it pays such a proportion of the rent or 
 yearly value of the lands in the countrj, so it is the cause 
 of paying such a proportion of taxes upon those lands. 
 The loss then of such a people must needs be sensible 
 to the prince, and visible to the whole kingdom. 
 
 On the other hand, if it should please God to drop from 
 heaven a new people equal in number and riches to the 
 city, I should be ready to think their excises, customs, 
 and house-rent, would raise as great a revenue to the 
 crown as would be lost in the former case. And as the 
 consumption of this new body would be a new market for 
 the fruits of the country, all the lands, especially those 
 nao&t adjacent, would rise in their yearly value, and pay
 
 No. 200.1 THE SPECTATOR. 355 
 
 greater yearly taxes to the public. The gain' in this case 
 would be as sensible as the former loss. 
 
 Whatsoever is assessed ui)Oi) the general, is levied upon 
 individuals. It were worth the while then to consider 
 what is paid by, or by means of, the meanest subjects, 
 in order to compute the value of every subject to the 
 prince. 
 
 For my own part, I should believe that seven-eighths of 
 the people are without property in themselves, or the 
 heads of their families, and forced to work for their daily 
 bread; and that of this sort there are seven millions in 
 the whole island of Great Britain ; and yet one would 
 imagine that seven-eighths of the whole people should 
 consume at least three-fourths of the whole fruits of the 
 country. If this is the case, the subjects without pro- 
 perty pay three-fourths of the rents, and consequently 
 enable the landed men to pay three-fourths of their taxes. 
 Now if so great a part of the land-tax were to be di- 
 vided by seven millions, it would amount to more than 
 three shillings to every head. And thus as the poor are 
 the cause, without which the rich could not pay this tax, 
 even the poorest subject is, upon this account, worth 
 three shillings yearly to the prince. 
 
 Again; one would imagine the consumption of seven- 
 eighths of the whole people should pay two-thirds of all 
 the customs and excises. And if this sum too should be 
 divided by seven millions, viz. the number of poor peo- 
 ple, it would amount to more than seven shillings to every 
 head : and therefore with this and the former sum every 
 poor subject, without property, except of his limbs or 
 labour, is worth at least ten shillings yearly to the sove- 
 reign. So much then the queen loses with every one of 
 her old, and gains with every one of her new subjects. 
 
 When I was got into this way of thinking, I presently 
 grew conceited of the argument, and was just preparing 
 to write a letter of advice to a member of parliament, 
 for opening the freedom of our towns and trades, for tak- 
 ing away all manner of distinctions between the natives 
 and foreigners, for repealing our laws of parish settle-
 
 355" THE SPECTATOR. [No. 200. 
 
 ments, and removing every other obstacle to the increase 
 of the people. But as soon as 1 had recollected with what 
 inioiitable eloquence my fellow-labourers had exag^gerated 
 the mischiefs of selling the birth-right of Britons for a 
 shilling,* of spoiling the pure British blood with foreign 
 mixtures, of introducing a confusion of languages and 
 religions, and of letting in strangers to eat the bread out 
 of the mouths of our own people, I became so humble as 
 to let my project fall to the ground, and leave my country 
 to increase by the ordinary way of generation. 
 
 As I have always at heart the public good so I am ever 
 contriving schemes to promote it; and I think I may 
 without vanity pretend to have contrived some as wise as 
 any of the castle-builders. I had no sooner given up 
 my former project, but my head was presently full of 
 draining fens and marshes, banking out the sea, and join- 
 ing new lands to my country; for since it is thought 
 impracticable to increase the people to the land, I fell 
 immediately to consider how much would be gained to 
 the prince by increasing the land to the people. 
 
 If the same omnipotent Power which made the world, 
 should at this time raise out of the ocean, and join to 
 Great Britain, an equal extent of land, with equal build- 
 ings, corn, cattle, and other conveniencies and necessaries 
 of life, but no men, women, nor children, I should hardly 
 believe this would add either to the riches of the people, 
 or revenue of the prince ; for since the present buildings 
 are sufficient for all the inhabitants, if any of them should 
 forsake the old to inhabit the new part of the island, the 
 increase of house-rent in this would be attended with 
 at least an equal decrease of it in the other. Besides, we 
 have such a sufficiency of corn and cattle, that we give 
 bounties to our neighbours to take what exceeds of the 
 former off our hands, and we will not suffer any of the 
 latter to be imported upon us by our fellow-subjects; 
 and for the remaining product of the country, 'tis al- 
 
 • This is an ironical allusion to some of the popular arguments which 
 were urged in the year 1708, against a bill for the Daturaiization of foreigo 
 pr«t«fUBt«.
 
 No. 200.] THE SPECTATOR. 35f 
 
 ready equal to all our markets. But if all these things 
 should be doubled to the same buyers, the owners must 
 be glad with lialf their preseht prices, the landlords with 
 half their present rents : and tlius by so great an en- 
 largement of the country, the rents in the whole would 
 not increase, nor the taxes to the public. 
 
 On the contrary, I should believe they would be very 
 much diminished; for as the land is only valuable for its 
 fruits, and these are all perishable, and for the most part 
 must either be used within the year, or perish without use, 
 the owners will get rid of them at any rate, rather than 
 they should waste in their possession: so that it is pro- 
 bable the annual production of those perishable things, 
 even of the tenth part of them, beyond all possibility of 
 use, will reduce one half of their value. It seems to be 
 for this reason that our neighbour merchants who ingross 
 4II the spices, and know how great a quantity is equal to 
 the demand, destroy all that exceeds it. It were natural 
 then to think that the annual production of twice as 
 much as can be used, must reduce all to an eighth part 
 of their present prices; and thus this extended island 
 would not exceed one-fourth part of its f>resent value, or 
 pay more than one-fourth part of the present tax. 
 
 It is generally observed, that in countries of the great- 
 est plenty there is the poorest living ; like the school- 
 man's ass in one of my speculations, the people almost 
 starve between two meals. The truth is, the poor, which 
 are the bulk of a nation, work only that they may live; 
 and if with two days* labour they can get a wretched 
 subsistence, they will hardly be brought to work the 
 other four. But then with the wages of two days they 
 can neither pay such prices for their provisions, nor such 
 excises to the govenment. 
 
 That paradox therefore in old Hesiod, ctKeov t^ixio-v aravro/, 
 or, * half is more than the whole,' is very applicable to the 
 present case; since nothing is more true in political 
 arithmetic, than that the same people with half the coun- 
 try is more valuable than with the whole. I begin to 
 think there was nothing absurd in Sir W. Petty, when h#
 
 358 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 201. 
 
 fancied if ail the highlands of Scotland, and the whole 
 kingdom of Ireland were sunk in the ocean, so that the 
 people were all saved and brought into the lowlands of 
 Great Britain ; nay, though they were to be reimbursed 
 the value of their estates by the body of the people, yet 
 both the sovereign and the subjects in general would be 
 enriched by the very loss. 
 
 If the people only make the riches, the father of ten 
 children is a greater benefactor to his country, than he 
 ■who heis added to it 10,000 acres of land, and no people. 
 It is certain Lewis has joined vast tracts of land to his do- 
 minions : but if Philarithmus says true, that he is not 
 now master of so many subjects as before ; we may then 
 account for his not being able to bring such mighty 
 armies into the field, and for their being neither so well 
 fed, nor clothed, nor paid as formerly. The reason is 
 plain — Lewis must needs have been impoverished not 
 only by bis loss of subjects, but by his acquisition of 
 lands.- ■ T. 
 
 No. 201.] Saturday, October 20, 1711. 
 
 Rdigentem esse, oportet, reliposom nefas. 
 
 Incerti Autoris apvd Aut. Gell. 
 A man should be religions, not saperstitjons. 
 
 It is of the last importance to season the passions of 
 a child with devotion, which seldom dies in a mind that 
 has received an early tincture of it. Though it may seem 
 extinguished for a while by the cares of the world, the 
 heart of youth, or the allurements of vice, it generally 
 breaks out and discovers itself again as soon as discretion, 
 consideration, age, or misfortunes have brought the man 
 to himself. The fire may be covered and overlaid, but 
 cannot be entirely quenched and smothered. 
 
 A state of temperance, sobriety, and justice, without 
 devotion, is a cold, lifeless, insipid condition of virtue; 
 and is rather to be styled philosophy than religion. De- 
 votion opens the mind to great conceptions, and fills it
 
 No. 201.] THE SPECTATOR. S59 
 
 with more sublime ideas than any that are to be met with 
 in the most exalted science ; and at the same time warms 
 and agitates the soul more than sensual pleasure. 
 
 It has been observed by some writers, that man is more 
 distinguished from the animal world by devotion than 
 by reason, as several brute creatures discover in their 
 actions something like a faint glimmering of reason, though 
 they betray in no single circumstance of their behaviour 
 any thing that bears the least affinity to devotion. It is 
 certain, the propensity of the mind to religious worship, 
 the natural tendency of the soul to fly to some superior 
 being for succour in dangers and distresses, the gratitude 
 to an invisible superintendent which arises in us upon re- 
 ceiving any extraordinary and unexpected good fortune, 
 the acts of love and admiration with which the thoughts 
 of men are so wonderfully transported in meditating upoa 
 the divine perfections, and the universal concurrence of 
 all the nations under heaven in the great article of adora- 
 tion, plainly show that devotion or religious worship must 
 be the effect of tradition from some first founder of man- 
 kind, or that it is conformable to the natural light of 
 reason, or that it proceeds from an instinct implanted in 
 the soul itself. For my part, I look upon all these to be 
 the concurrent causes: but whichever of them shall be 
 assigned as the principle of divine worship, it manifestly 
 points to a Supreme Being as the first author of it. 
 
 I may take some other opportunity of considering those 
 particular forms and methods of devotion which are taught 
 us by Christianity ; but shall here observe into what errorf 
 even this divine principle may sometimes lead us, when 
 it is not moderated by that right reason which was giveu 
 us as the guide of all our actions. 
 
 The two great errors into which a mistaken devotion 
 may betray us, are enthusiasm and superstition. 
 
 There is not a more melancholy object than a ma#i 
 who has his head turned with a religious enthusiasm. A 
 person that is crazed, though with pride or malice, is a 
 sight very mortifying to human nature; but when the dis- 
 temper arises from any indiscreet fervours of devotiDii', or
 
 3G0 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 201. 
 
 too intense an application of the mind to its mistaken 
 duties, it deserves our compassion iu a more particular 
 manner. We may however learn this lesson from it, that 
 since de\ctioa itself (which one would be apt to think 
 could not be too warm) may disorder the mind, unless its 
 heats are tempered with caution and prudence, we should 
 be particularly careful to keep our reason as cool as pos- 
 sible, and to guard ourselves in all parts of life against the 
 influence of passion, imagination, and constitution. 
 
 Devotion, when it does not lie under the check of rea- 
 son, is very apt to dea;enerate into enthusiasm. When iha 
 mind finds herself very much inflamed with her devotions, 
 she is too much inclined to think they are not of her own 
 kindli)ig, but blown up by something divine within her. 
 If she indulges this thought too far, and humours the 
 growing passion, she at last flings herself into imaginary 
 raptures and ecstasies ; and when once she fancies her- 
 self under the influence of a divine impulse, it is no wonder 
 if she slights human ordinances, and refuses to comply 
 with any established form of religion, as thinking herself 
 directed by a much superior guide. 
 
 As enthusiasm is a kind of excess in devotion, super- 
 stition is the excess, not only of devotion, but of religion 
 in general, according to an old heathen saying, quoted by 
 Aulus Gellius,* ' Religentem esse opoitet, religiosum 
 nefas;' 'A man should be religious, not superstitious.' 
 For as the author tells us, Nigidius observed upon this 
 passage, that the Latin words which terminate in osus 
 generally imply vicious characters, and the having of any 
 quahty to an excess. 
 
 An enthusiast in religion is like an obstinate clown, a 
 superstitious man like an insipid courtier. Enthusiasm 
 has something in it of madness, superstition of folly. Most 
 of the sects that fall short of the church of England have 
 in them strong tinctures of enthusiasm, as the Roman- 
 catholic religion is one huge overgrown body of childish 
 and idle superstitions. 
 
 The Roman-catholic church seems indeed irrecoverably 
 • Noctei Atticje, lib. jv. cap. 9.
 
 No. 201.] THE SPECTATOR^ ,'361 
 
 lost in this particular. If an absurd dress or behaviour 
 be introduced in the world, it will soon be found out and 
 discarded. On the contrary, a habit or ceremony, though 
 never so ridiculous, which has taken sanctuary in the 
 church, sticks in it for ever. A Gothic bishop, perhaps, 
 thought it proper to repeat such a form in such particular 
 shoes or slippers ; another fancied it would be very decent 
 if such a part of public devotions were performed with a 
 mitre on his head, and a crosier in his hand. To this a 
 brother Vandal, as wise as the others, adds an antic dress, 
 which he conceived would allude very aptly to such and 
 such mysteries, till by degrees the whole office has dege- 
 nerated into an empty show. 
 
 Their successors see the vanity and inconvenience of 
 these ceremonies ; but instead of reforming, perhaps add 
 others, which they think more significant, and w hich take 
 possession in the same manner, and are never to be driven 
 out after they have been once admitted. I have seen 
 the pope officiate at Saint Peter's, where, for two hours 
 together, he was busied in putting on or off his different 
 accoutrements, according to the different parts he was to 
 act in them. 
 
 Nothing is so glorious in the eyes of mankind, and or- 
 namental to human nature, setting aside the infinite ad- 
 vantages which arise from it, as a strong, steady, mas- 
 culine piety; but enthusiasm and superstition are the 
 weaknesses of human reason, that expose us to the scorn 
 and derision of infidels, and sink us even below the beasts 
 that perish. 
 
 Idolatry may be looked upon as another error arising 
 from mistaken devotion: but because reflections on that 
 subject would be of no use to an English reader, I shall 
 not enlarge upon it, L. 
 
 Vol. II. I 1
 
 362 THE SPEtTATbR. [No. 205. 
 
 No. 202.] Monday, October 22, 1711. 
 
 Sa;pe decern vitiis instructior, odit et horret. 
 
 Ilor. Lib. 1. Ep. xviii. Cj.- 
 Though ten times worse themselves, you'll tVeqaeiit view 
 Those ^^ho with keenest rage will ccnsnre you. — P. 
 
 The other day as I passed along the street, I saw » 
 sturdy 'prentice-boy disputing with a hackney-coachman j 
 and in an instant, upon some word of provocation, throw 
 off his hat and periwig, clench his fisr, and strike the 
 fellow a slap on the face ; at the saitie time calling him 
 rascal, and telling him he was a gentleman's son. The 
 young gentleman was, it seems, bound to a blacksmith ; 
 and the debate arose about payment for some work done 
 about a coach, near which they fought. His master, 
 during the combat, was full of his boy's praises ; and as 
 he called to him to play with his hand and foot, and throw 
 in his head, he made all us who stood round him of his 
 party, by declaring the boy had very good friends, and he 
 could trust him with untold gold. As I am generally in 
 the theory of mankind, I could not but make my reflec- 
 tions upon the sudden popularity which was raised about 
 the lad; and perhaps with my friend Tacitus, fell into 
 observations upon it, which were too great for the occa- 
 sion : or ascribed this general favour to causes which had 
 nothing to do towards it. But the young blacksmith's 
 being a gentleman was, methought, what created him 
 good-will from his present equality with the mob about 
 him. Add to this, that he was not so much a gentleman, 
 as not, at the same time that he called himself such, to 
 use as rough methods for his defence as his antagonist. 
 The advantage of his having good friends, as his master 
 expressed it, was not lazily urged ; but he showed himself 
 superior to the coachman in the personal qualities of cou- 
 rage and activity, to confirm that of his being well allied, 
 before his birth was of any service to him. 
 
 If one might moralize from this silly story, a man would 
 say, that whatever advantages of fortune, birth, or any 
 other good, people possess above the rest of the world,
 
 No. 202.] THE SPECTATOR. 363 
 
 they should show collateral eminencies besides those dis- 
 tinctions; or those distinctions will avail only to keep up 
 common decencies and ceremonies, and not to preserve a 
 real place of favour or esteem in the opinion and common 
 sense of their fellow-creatures. 
 
 The folly of people's procedure, in imagining that no- 
 thing more is necessary than property and superior cir- 
 cumstances to support them in distinction, appears in no 
 way so much as in the domestic part of life. It is ordi- 
 narj' to feed their humours into unnatural excrescences, 
 if I may so speak, and make their whole being a wayward 
 and uneasy condition, for want of the obvious reflection, 
 that all parts of human life is a commerce. It is not only 
 paying wages, and giving commands, that constitutes a 
 master of a family; but prudence, equal behaviour, with 
 readiness to protect and cherish them, is what entitles a 
 man to that character in their very hearts and sentiments. 
 It is }>leasant enough to observe, that men expect from 
 their dependents, froai tlieir sole motive of fear, all the 
 good effects which a liberal education, and affluent for- 
 tune, and every other advantage, cannot produce in them- 
 selves. A man will have his servant just, diligent, sober, 
 and chaste, for no other reasons but the terror of losing 
 his master's favour ; when all the laws divine and human 
 cannot keep him whom he serves within bounds, with re- 
 lation to any one of those virtues. But both in great and 
 ordinary affairs, all superiority, which is not founded on 
 merit and virtue, is supported only by artifice and stra- 
 tagem. Thus you see flatterers are the agents in fa- 
 milies of humourists, and those who govern themselves 
 by any thing but reason. Makebates, distant relations, 
 poor kinsmen, and indigent followers, are the fry which 
 support the economy of an humoursome rich man. He is 
 eternally whispered with intelligence of who are true or 
 false to him in matters of no comfequence, and he main- 
 tains twenty friends to defend him against the insinuations 
 of one who would perhaps cheat him of an old coat. 
 , I shall not enter into farther speculation upon this subject
 
 364 THE spectator; i[No. 202. 
 
 at present, but think the following letters and petition 
 are made up of proper sentiments on this occasion. 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * I am a servant to an old lady who is governed by 
 one she calls her friend ; who is so familiar an one, that 
 she takes upon her to advise her without being called to 
 it, and makes her uneasy with all about her. Pray, sir, 
 be pleased to give us some remarks upon voluntary coun- 
 tellors ; and \ct these people know that to give any body 
 advice, is to say to that person, " I am your betters." 
 Pray, sir, as near as you can, describe that eternal flirt 
 and disturber of families, Mrs. Taperty, who is always 
 visiting, and putting people in a way as they call it. If 
 you can make her stay at home one evening, you will 
 be a general benefactor to all the ladies' women in town, 
 
 and particularly to , ,, , . „ . , 
 
 "^ Your loving friend, 
 
 ' SUSAX CIVIL.' 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * I am a footman, and live with one of those men, each 
 of whom is said to be one of the best-humoured men in 
 the world, but that he is passionate. Pray be pleased to 
 inform them, that he who is passionate, and takes no 
 care to command his hastiness, does more injury to his 
 friends and servants in cne half hour, than whole years 
 can atone for. This master of mine, who is the best man 
 alive in common fame, disobliges somebody every day he 
 lives ; and strikes me for the next thing I do, because he 
 is out of humour at it. If these gentlemen knew that they 
 do all the mischief that is ever done in conversation, they 
 would reform ; and I who have been a Spectator of gen- 
 tlemen at dinner for many years, have seen that indis- 
 cretion does ten times more mischief than ill-nature. But 
 >t)u will represent this better than 
 
 * Your abused bumble servant, 
 
 • THOMAS SilOKY.' . 
 , * To the Spectator. 
 
 ' Tlie humble Petition of JOHN STEWARD, ROBERT BUTLER, 
 HAIIRY COOK, aud ABIGAIL CHAMBERS, in behalf of them-
 
 No. 203.J 'THE SPECTATOR/ 36$ 
 
 selves and their relations belonging to and dispersed in the several 
 services of most of the great families ^vi^hin the cities of London and 
 Westminster ; 
 
 * Showeth, 
 
 * That in many of the families in which your petitionera 
 live and are employed, the several heads of them are 
 \vholly unacquainted with what is business, and are very 
 little judfjes when they are well or ill used by us your said 
 petitioner?. 
 
 * That for want of such skill in their own affairs, and 
 by indulgence of their own laziness and pride, they con- 
 tinually keep about them certain mischievous animals 
 called spies, 
 
 * That whenever a spy is entertained, the peace of that 
 house is from that moment banished. 
 
 * That spies never give an account of good services, 
 but represent our mirth and freedom by the words, wan- 
 tonness and disorder. 
 
 * That in all families where there are spies, there is a 
 general jealousy and misunderstanding. 
 
 ' That the masters and mistresses of such bouses live 
 in continual suspicion of their ingenuous and true ser- 
 vants, and are given up to the management of those who 
 are false and perfidious. 
 
 * That such masters and mistresses who entertain spies, 
 are no longer more than cyphers in their own families; 
 and that we your petitioners are with great disdain obliged 
 to pay all our respect, and expect all our maintenance 
 from such spies. 
 
 / Your petitioners therefore most humbly pray, that you 
 would represent the premises to all persons of con- 
 dition; and your petitioners, as in duty bound, shall 
 for ever pray, &c.' T. 
 
 No. 203.] Tuesday, October '23, 1711. 
 
 Phoebe pater, si das hujiis mihi nominis nsum 
 Nee falsa Ciymcne culp^n sub imagine celat; 
 Pigaora da, genitor Ovid. Met. ii. S8.
 
 366 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 203. 
 
 Illustrious parcHt! if I yet may claim 
 The name of son, O rescue me from shame ; 
 My mother's truth contirm ; all doubt remove 
 By tender pledges of a father's love. 
 
 There is a loose tribe of men whom I have not yet 
 taken notice of, that ramble into all the corners of this 
 great city, in order to seduce such unfortunate females 
 as fall into their walks. These abandoned profligates raise 
 up issue in every quarter of the town and very often, for 
 a valuable consideration, father it upon the churchwarden. 
 By this means there are several married men who have 
 a little family in most of the parishes of London and 
 Westminster, and several bachelors who are undone by a 
 charge of children. 
 
 When a man once gives himself this liberty of preying 
 at large, and living upon the common, he finds so much 
 game in a populous city, that it is surprising to consider 
 the numbers which he sometimes propagates. We see 
 many a young fellow who is scarce of age, that could lay 
 his claim to the jus trium liberorunty or the privileges 
 which were granted by the Roman laws, to all such as 
 were fathers of three children. Nay, I have heard a rake, 
 who was not quite five and twenty, declare himself the 
 father of a seventh son, and very prudently determine to 
 breed him up a physician. In short, the town is full of 
 these young patriarchs, not to mention several battered 
 beaus, who like heedless spendthrifts that squander away 
 their estates before they are masters of them, have raised 
 up their whole stock of children before marriage. 
 
 I must not here omit the particular whim of an im» 
 pudent libertine, that had a little smattering of heraldry} 
 and observing how the genealogies of great families were 
 often drawn up in the shape of trees, had taken a fancy 
 to dispose of his own illegitimate issue in a figure of the 
 same kind : 
 
 Nee longum tempiis et ingcns' 
 
 Exiit ad ccelum ramis felicibus arbos, 
 Miraturque oovas frondes, ct uon sua pom.i. 
 
 Virg. Georg. ii. 80,
 
 No. 203.] THE SPECTATOR. 367 
 
 And in short space the laden bongtis arise. 
 
 With happy fniii advancing to the skies: 
 
 'JTie mother plant admires the leaves unknown 
 
 Of alien trees, and apples not her own. Dryden. 
 
 The trunk of the tree was marked with his own name, 
 Will Maple. Out of the side of it grew a large barren 
 branch, inscribed Mary Maple, the name of his unhappy 
 wife. The head was adorned with five husje boughs. On 
 the bottom of the first was written in capital characters 
 Kate Cole, who branched out into three sprigs, viz. Wil- 
 liam, Richard, and Rebecca. Sal Twiford gave birth to 
 another bough that shot up into Sarah, Tom, \Vill, and 
 Frank. The third arm of -the tree had only a single in- 
 fant on it, with a space left for a second ; th% parent from 
 whom it sprung being near her time when the author 
 took this ingenious device into his head. The two other 
 great boughs were very plentifully loaden with fruit of 
 the same kind; besides which there were many orna- 
 mental branches that did not bear. In short, a more 
 flourishing tree never came out of the herald's oflBce. 
 
 What makes this generatitm of vermin so very prolific, 
 is the indefatigable diligence with which they apply them- 
 selves to their business. A man does not undergo more 
 watchings and fatigues in a campaign, than in the course 
 of a vicious amour. As it is said of some men, that they 
 make their business their pleasure, these sons of darkness 
 may be said to make their pleasure their business. They 
 might conquer their corrupt inclinations with half the 
 pains they are at in gratifying them. 
 
 Nor is the invention of these men less to be admired 
 than their industry and vigilance. There is a fragment 
 of Apollodorus the comic poet (who was contemporary 
 with Menander) which is full of humour, as follows : 
 * Thou mayest shut up thy doors,* says he, ' with bars and 
 bolts. It will be impossible for the blacksmith to make 
 them so fast, but a cat and a whore-master will find a 
 way through them.' In a word, there is no head so full 
 of stratagems as that of a libidinous man. 
 
 Were I to propose a puDishment for this infamous race
 
 368 THE SPECTATOR. [No. S03. 
 
 of propagators, it should be to send them, after the second 
 or third offence, into our American colonies, in order to 
 people those parts of her majesty's dominions where Ihere 
 is a want of inhabitants, and in the phrase of Diogenes, to 
 * plant men.' Some countries punish this crime with 
 death ; but 1 think such a banishment would be sufficient, 
 and might turn this generative faculty to the advantage 
 of the public. 
 
 In the mean time, until these gentlemen may he thus 
 disposed of, I would earnestly exhort them to take care 
 of those unfortunate creatures whom they have brought 
 into the world by these indirect methods, and to give their 
 spurious children such an education as may render them 
 more virtuous than their parents. This is the best atone- 
 ment they can make for their own crimes, and indeed the 
 only method that is left them to repair their past mis- 
 carriages. 
 
 I would likewise desire them to consider, whether they 
 are not bound in common hiioianity, as well as by all 
 the obligations of religion and nature, to make some pro- 
 vision for those whom they have not only given life to, 
 Lut entailed upon them, though very unreasonably, a de- 
 gree of shame and disgrace. And here I cannot but take 
 notice of those depraved notions which prevail among us, 
 and which must have taken rise from our natural inclina- 
 tion to favour a vies to which we are so very prone, 
 namely, that bastardy and cuckoldom should be looked 
 upon as reproaches; and that the ignominy which is only 
 due to lewdness and falsehood, should fall in so unreason- 
 able a manner upon the persons who are innocent. 
 
 I have been insensibly drawn into this discourse by 
 the following letter, which is drawn up with such a spirit 
 of sincerity, that I question not but the writer of it has 
 represented his case in a true and genuine light. 
 ' siR, 
 
 * I am one of those people who by the general opinion 
 of the world are counted both infamous and unhappy. 
 
 * My father is a very eminent man in this kingdom, 
 and one who bears considerable offices in it. I am hie
 
 No. 20.3.] THE SPECTATOR. 369 
 
 son, but my misfortune is. That I dare not call him 
 father, nor he without shame own me as his issue, I being 
 illegitimate, and therefore deprived of that endearing ten- 
 derness and unparalleled satisfaction which a good man 
 finds in the love and conversation of a parent. Neither 
 have I the opportunities to render him the duties of a 
 son, he having always carried himself at so vast a dis- 
 tance, and with such superiority towards me, that by 
 long use I have contracted a timorousness when before 
 him, which hinders me from declaring my own necessities, 
 and giving him to understand the inconveniencies I un- 
 dergo. 
 
 * It is my misfortune to have been neither bred a scho- 
 lar, a soldier, nor to any kind of business, which renders 
 me entirely incapable of making provision for myself 
 without his assistance; and this creates a continual un- 
 easiness in my mind, fearing I shall in time want bread ; 
 my father, if I may so call him, giving me but very faint 
 assurances of doing any thing for me. 
 
 * I have hitherto lived somewhat like a gentleman, and 
 it would be very hard for me to labour for my living. I 
 am in continual anxiety for my future fortune, and under 
 a great unhappiness in losing the sweet conversation and 
 friendly advice of my parents ; so that I cannot look upon 
 myself otherwise than as a monster, strangely sprung up 
 in nature, which every one is ashamed to own. 
 
 * I am thought to be a man of some natural parts, and 
 by the continual reading what you have offered the world, 
 become an admirer thereof, which has drawn me to make 
 this confession ; at the same time hoping, if any thing 
 herein shall touch you with a sense of pity, you would 
 then allow me the favour of your opinion thereupon ; as 
 also what part I, being unlawfully born, may claim of the 
 man's affection who begot me, and how far in your opi- 
 nion I am to be thought his son, or he acknowledged as 
 my father. Vour sentiments and advice herein will be 
 a great consolation and satisfaction to, 
 
 * Sir, your admirer, &c. 
 
 C. - 'W.B.
 
 370 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 204. 
 
 No. 204.] Wednesday, October 24, 1711. 
 
 Urit grata protervitas, 
 Et vultus uimiiim iubricus aspici. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 1. Od. xix. 7. 
 
 Her face too dazzling for the sight. 
 Her winning coyness fires my soul, 
 1 feel a strange delight. 
 
 I AM not at all displeased that I am become the courier 
 of love, aiwl that the distressed in that passion convey 
 their complaints to each other by my means. The fol- 
 lowing letters have lately come to ray hands, and shall 
 have their place with great willingness. As to the reader's 
 entertainment, he will, I hope, forgive the inserting such 
 particulars as to him may perhaps seem frivolous, but are 
 to the persons who wrote them of the highest consequence, 
 I shall not trouble you with the prefaces, comphments, 
 and apologies made to me before each epistle when it 
 was desired to be inserted ; but in general they tell me, 
 that the persons to whom they are addressed have inti- 
 mations, by phrases and illusions in them, from whence 
 they came. 
 
 * To the Sothades, 
 
 * The word, by which I address you, gives you, who 
 understand Portuguese,* a lively image of the tender 
 regard I have for you. The Spectator's late letter from 
 
 • The following is Mr. Chalmers's excellent detioition of the meaning 
 of this significant word : — 
 
 " The Portuguese word Saudades (here inaccurately written Sothades) 
 signifies, the most refined, most tender and ardent desires for something 
 absent, accompanied with a solicitude and anxious regard, which caimot 
 be expressed by one word in any other language. * Saudade,' say the 
 dictit)naries, ' significa, Finissimo sentimiento del bienamente, com 
 deseo de posseerlo.'—Uence the word Saudades comprehends every 
 good wish : and Muitas Saudades is the highest wish and compliment that 
 can be paid to another. So if a person is observed to be melancholy, and 
 is asked ' What ails him ?' if he answers, Teuho Saudades ; it is understood 
 to inean, ' 1 am under the most refined torment for the absence of njy 
 love ; or from being absent from my country,' &c."
 
 No. 204.] THE SPECTATOR. 371 
 
 Statira gave me the hint to use the same metliod of ex- 
 plaining myself to you. I am not affronted at the design 
 your late behaviour discovered you had in your addresses 
 to me ; but I impute it to the degeneracy of the age, 
 rather than your particular fault. As I aim at nothing 
 more than being yours, I am willing to be a stranger to 
 your name, your fortune, or any figure which your wife 
 might expect to make in the world, provided my com- 
 merce with you is not to be a guilty one. 1 resign gay 
 dress, the pleasures of visits, equipage, plays, balls, and 
 operas, for that one satisfaction of having you for ever 
 mine, I am willing you shall industriously conceal the 
 only cause of triumph which I can know in this life. I 
 wish only to have it my duty, as well as my inclination, 
 to study your happiness. If this has not the effect this 
 letter seems to aim at, you are to understand that I had 
 a mind to be rid of you, and took the readiest way to pall 
 you with an offer of what you would never desist pursuing 
 while you receive ill usage. Be a true man j be my slave 
 while you doubt me, and neglect me when you think I 
 love you. I defy you to find out what is your present 
 circumstance with me : but I know while I can keep 
 this suspense, 
 
 * I am your admired, 
 
 ' BELINDA.' 
 
 ' MADAM, 
 * It is a strange state of mind a man is in, when the 
 very imperfections of a woman he loves turn into excel- 
 lencies and advantages. I do assure you, I am very 
 much afraid of venturing upon you. I now like you in 
 spite of my reason, and think it an ill circumstance to 
 owe one's happiness to nothing but infatuation. I can 
 eee you ogle all the young fellows who look at you, and 
 observe your eye wander after new conquests every mo- 
 ment you are in a public place ; and yet there is such a 
 beauty in all your looks and gestures, that I cannot but 
 admire you in the very act of endeavouring to gain the 
 hearts of others. My condition is the same with that of 
 the lover in the Way of the World. I have studied your
 
 372 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 204. 
 
 faults so long:, that they are become as familiar to me, 
 and I like them as well as I do my own. Look to it, 
 madam, and consider whether you think this gay beha- 
 viour will appear to me as amiable when an husband, as 
 It does now to me a lover. Things are so far advanced, 
 that we must proceed ; and I hope you w ill lay to heart, 
 that it will be becoming in me to appear still your lover, 
 but not in you to be still my mistress. Gayety in the 
 matrimonial life is graceful in one sex, but exceptionable 
 in the other. As you improve these little hints, you will 
 ascertain the happiness or uneasiness of, 
 
 * Madair,, yoixr most obedient, 
 
 * most humble servant, 
 
 • i . D. 
 
 'SIK, 
 
 ' When I sat at the window, and you at the other eiwl 
 of the room by my cousin, I saw you catch me looking at 
 you. Since you have the secret at last, which I am sura 
 you should never have known but by inadvertency, what 
 ray eyes said was true. But it is too soon to confirm it 
 with my hand, therefore shall not subscribe my name. 
 
 'SIH, 
 ' There were other gentlemen nearer, and I know no 
 Eecessity you were under to take up that flippant crea- 
 ture's fan last night; but you shall never touch a stick 
 of mine more, that's pos, . PHILLIS.' 
 
 * To Colonel R s m Spain. 
 
 * Before this can reach the best of husbands and the 
 fondest lover, those tender names will be of no more con- 
 cern to me. The indisposition in which you, to obey the 
 dictates of your honour and duty, left me, has increased 
 upon me ; and I am acquainted by my physicians I cannot 
 live a week longer. At this time my spirits fail me ; and 
 it is the ardent love I have for you that carries me beyond 
 my strength, and enables me to tell you, the most painful 
 thing in the prospect of death is, that 1 must part with 
 you. But let it be a comfort to you, that I have no guilt
 
 No. 204.] THE SPECTATOR. 373 
 
 hangs upon me, no unrepented folly that retards me ; but 
 I pass away my last hours iu reflection upon the happiness 
 we have lived in together, and in sorrow that it is so soon 
 to have an end. This is a frailty which I hope is so far 
 from criminal, that methinks there is a kind of piety in 
 being so unwilling to be separated from a state which is 
 the institution of heaven, and in which we have lived 
 according to its laws. As we know no more of the next 
 life, but that it will be an happy one to the good, and 
 miserable to the wicked, why may we not please our- 
 selves at least to alleviate the difficulty of resigning this 
 being, in imagining that we shall have a sense of what 
 passes below, and may possibly be employed in guiding 
 the steps of those with whom we walked with innocence 
 when mortal? Why may not I hope to go on in my usual 
 work, and, though unknown to you, be assistant in all 
 the conflicts of your mind ? Give me leave to say to you, 
 
 best of men, that I cannot figure to myself a greater 
 happiness than in such an employment. To be present 
 at all the adventures to which human life is exposed, to 
 administer slumber to thy eyelids in the agonies of a 
 fever, to cover thy beloved face in the day of battle, to go 
 with thee a guardian angel incapable of wound or pain, 
 where I have longed to attend thee when a weak, a fearful 
 woman: these, my dear, are the thoughts with which I 
 warm my poor languid heart. But, indeed, I am not 
 capable under my present weakness of bearing the strong- 
 agonies of mind I fall into, when I form to myself the grief 
 you will be in, upon your first hearing of my departure. 
 
 1 will not dwell upon this, because your kind and gener- 
 ous heart will be but the more afflicted, the more the 
 person for whom you lament offers yoa consolation. My 
 last breath will, if I am myself, expire in a prayer for you. 
 I shall never see thy face again. Farewell for ever. 
 
 T. 
 
 Vol. II. K k
 
 374 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 205. 
 
 No. 203.] Thursday, October 25, 1711. 
 
 Decipimur specie recti Hor. Ars Poet. v. 25* 
 
 Deluded by a seeming excellence. Roscommon, 
 
 When I meet with any vicious character that is not 
 generally known, in order to prevent its doing mischief, 
 I draw it at length, and set it up as a scarecrow ; by which 
 means I do not only make an example of the person to 
 whom it belongs, but give warning to all her majesty's 
 subjects, that they may not suffer by it. Thus, to change 
 the illusion, I have marked out several of the shoals and 
 quicksands of life, and am continually employed in dis- 
 covering those which are still concealed, in order to keep 
 the ignorant and unwary from running upon them. It 
 is with this intention that I publish the following letter, 
 which brings to light some secrets of this nature. 
 
 ' JIR. SPECTATOR, 
 * There are none of your speculations which I read over 
 with greater delight, than those which are designed for 
 the improvement of our sex. You have endeavoured ta 
 correct our unreasonable fears and superstitions, in your 
 seventh and twelfth papers ; our fancy for equipage, in 
 your fifteenth ; our love of puppet-shows, in your thirty- 
 first; our notions of beauty, in your thirty-third; our 
 inclination for romances, in your thirty-seventh ; our pas- 
 sion for French fopperies, in your forty-fifth; our man- 
 hood and party-zeal, in your fifty-seventh ; our abuse of 
 dancing, in your sixty-sixth and sixty-seventh ; our levity, 
 in your hundred and twenty-eighth ; our love of coxcombs, 
 in your hundred and fifty-fourth, and hundred and fifty- 
 seventh ; our tyranny over the hen-peckt, in your hun- 
 dred and seventy- sixth. You have described the Pict, 
 rn your forty-first ; the Idol, in your seventy-third ; the 
 Demurrer, in your eighty-ninth ; the Salamander, in your 
 hundred and ninety-eighth. You have likewise taken 
 to pieces our dress, and represented to us the extravagan- 
 cies we are often guilty of in that particular. You hare
 
 No. 205.]' THE SPECTATOR. 375 
 
 fallen upon our patches, in your fiftieth and eighty-first; 
 our commodes, in your ninety-eighth ; our fans, in your 
 hundred and second ; our riding-habits, in your hundred 
 and fourth ; our hoop- petticoats, in your hundred and 
 twenty-seventh ; besides a great many little blemisheswhich 
 you have touched upon in your several other papers, and 
 in those many letters that are scattered up and down 
 your works. At the same time we must own that the 
 compliments you pay our sex are innumerable, and that 
 those very faults which you represent in us, are neither 
 black in themselves, nor, as you own, universal among 
 4iS. But, sir, it is plain that these your discourses are 
 calculated for none but the fashionable part of woman- 
 kind, and for the use of those who are rather indiscreet 
 than vicious. ^But, sir, there is a sort of prostitutes in 
 the lower part of our sex, who are a scandal to us, and 
 very well deserve to fall under your censure. I know it 
 would debeise your paper too much to enter into the 
 behaviour of these female libertines ; bui, as your remarks 
 on some part of it would be a doing of justice to several 
 women of virtue and honour, whose reputations suffer by 
 it, I hope you will not think it improper to give the 
 public some accounts of this nature. You must know, 
 sir, 1 am provoked to write you this letter, by the beha- 
 viour of an infamous woman, who, having passed her 
 youth in a most shameless state of prostitution, is now 
 one of those who gain their livelihood by seducing others 
 that are younger than themselves, and by establishing a 
 criminal commerce between the two sexes. Among several 
 of her artifices to get money, she frequently persuades a 
 vain young fellow, that such a woman of quality, or such 
 a celebrated toast, entertains a secret passion for him, and 
 wants nothing but an opportunity of revealing it. Nay, 
 she has gone so far as to write letters in the name of a 
 woman of figure, to borrow money of one of these foolish 
 Rqderigo's, which she has afterwards appropriated to her 
 own use. In the mean time, the person who has lent 
 the money, has thought a lady under obligations to him, 
 who scarce knew his name j and wondered at her ingra-
 
 376 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 205. 
 
 titude when he has been with her, that she has not owned 
 the favour, though at the same time be was too much a 
 man of honour to put her in mind of it. 
 
 * When this abandoned baggage meets with a man who 
 has vanity enough to give credit to relations of this na- 
 ture, she turns him to very good account by repeating 
 praises that were never uttered, and delivering messages 
 that were never sent. As the house of this shameless 
 creature is frequented by several foreigners, I have heard 
 of another artifice, out of which she often raises money. 
 The foreigner sighs after some British beauty, whom he 
 only knows by fame ; upon which she promises, if he can 
 be secret, to procure him a meeting. The stranger, ra- 
 vished at his good fortune, gives her a present, and in a 
 little time is introduced to some imaginary title ; for you 
 must know that this cunning purveyor has her represent- 
 atives upon this occasion, of some of the finest ladies in 
 the kingdom. By this means, as I am informed, it is usual 
 enough to meet with a German count in foreign countries, 
 that shall make his boasts of favours he has received from 
 women of the highest ranks, and the most unblemished 
 characters. Now, sir, what safety is there for a woman's 
 reputation, when a lady may be thus prostituted as it 
 were by proxy, and be reputed an unchaste woman ; as 
 the Hero in the ninth book of Dryden's Virgil is looked 
 tipon as a coward, because the phantom which appeared in 
 his likeness ran away from Turnus ? You may depend 
 upon what 1 relate to you to be matter of fact, and the 
 practice of more than one of these female panders. If you 
 print this letter, I may give you some farther accounts of 
 this vicious race of women. Your humble servant, 
 
 ♦BELVIDERA. 
 
 I shall add two other letters on different subjects tp 
 fill up my paper. 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I am a country clergyman, and hope you will lend 
 me your assistance in ridiciding some little indecencies 
 which caonot so properly be exposed from the pulpit.
 
 No. 205.] THE SPECTATOR. 37f 
 
 * A widow lady, who straggled this summer from Lon- 
 don into my parish for the benefit of the air, as she says, 
 appears every Sunday at church with many fashionable 
 extravagancies, to the great astonishment of my congre- 
 g-ation. 
 
 * But what gives us the most offence is her theatrical 
 manner of singing the Psalms. She introduces above fifty 
 Italian airs into the hundredth psalm; and whilst we 
 begin " All people" in the old solemn tune of our fore- 
 fathnrs, she in a quite different key runs divisions on the 
 vowels, and ad(»riis them with the graces of Nicolini : if 
 she meets wiili " eke" or " aye," which are frequent in 
 the metre of Hopkins and Sternhold, we are certain to 
 hear her quavering them half a minute after us, to sumo 
 spiightly airs of the opera. 
 
 * i am very far from bri ng an enemy to church music ; but 
 fear this abuse of ir niay make my parish ridiculous, who 
 already look on the singing psalms as an entertainment, 
 and not part of their devotion : besides, I am apprehen- 
 sive that the infection may spread; for 'Squire Squeekum, 
 who by his voice seems (if 1 may use the expression) to 
 be cut out for an Italian singer, was last Sunday practising 
 the same airs. 
 
 ' I know the lady's principles, and that she will plead 
 the toleration, which (as she fancies) allows her non-con- 
 formity in this particular ; but I beg of you to acquaint 
 her, that singing the Psalms in a different tune from the 
 rest of the congregation is a sort of schism not tolerated 
 by that act. ' I am, sir, 
 
 * Your very humble servant, 
 
 • R. s.' 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 In your paper upon temperance, you prescribe to us 
 a rule of drinking, out of Sir William Temple, in the fol- 
 lowing words: " The first glass for myself, the second for 
 my friends, the third for good-humour, and the fourth for 
 mine enemies." Now, sir, you must know, that I have 
 read this your Spectator, in a club whereof I am a mem- 
 ber ; when our president told us there was certainly aa 
 Kk3
 
 378 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 206. 
 
 error in the print, and that the word glass should be 
 bottle; and therefore has ordered me to inform you of 
 this mistake, and to desire you to publish the following 
 erratum: — In the paper of Saturday, October 13. col. 3. 
 line 11, for ** glass," read " bottle." 
 * Yours, 
 T * ROBIN GOODFELLOW.' 
 
 No. 206.] Fnday, October 26, 1711. 
 
 Quanto quisqae sibi plura negaverit, 
 
 A DJis plura feret Hor. Lib. 3. Od. xi. 21. 
 
 They that do much themselves deny, 
 
 Receive more blessings from the sky.— Creech. 
 
 There is a call upon mankind to value and esteem 
 those who set a moderate price upon their own merit; 
 and self-denial is frequently attended with unexpected 
 blessings, which in the end abundantly recompense such 
 losses as the modest seem to suffer in the ordinary occur- 
 rences of life. The curious tell us, a determination in our 
 favour or to our disadvantage is made upon our first ap- 
 pearance, even before they know any thing of our charac- 
 ters, but from the intimations men gather from our aspect. 
 A man, they say, wears the picture of his mind in his 
 countenance; and one man's eyes are spectacles to his, 
 who looks at him to read his heart. But though that 
 way of raising an opinion of those we behold in public is 
 very fallacious, certain it is, that those, who by their words 
 and actions take as much upon themselves, as they can 
 but barely demand in the strict scrutiny of their deserts, 
 will find their account lessen every day. A modest man 
 preserves his character, as a frugal man does his fortune; 
 if either of them live to the height of either, one will find 
 losses, the other errors, which he has not stock by him to 
 make up. It were therefore a just rule, to keep your 
 desires, your words, and actions, within the regard you 
 observe your friends have for you ; and never, if it were 
 in a man's power, to take as much as he possibly might, 
 aitber in preferment or reputation. My walks have lately
 
 No. 206.] THE SPECTATOR. $7$ 
 
 been among the mercantile part of the world; and one 
 gets phrases naturally from those with whom one con- 
 verses. I say then, he that in his air, his treatment of 
 others, or an habitual arrogance to himself, gives himself 
 credit for the least article of more wit, wisdom, goodness, 
 or valour, than he can possibly produce if he is called 
 upon, will find the world break in upon him, and con- 
 sider him as one who has cheated them of all the esteem 
 they had before allowed him. This brings a commission 
 of bankruptcy upon him ; and he that might have gone 
 on to his life's end in a prosperous way, by aiming at 
 more than he should, is no longer proprietor of what he 
 really had before, but his pretensions fare as all things 
 do, which are torn instead of being divided. 
 
 There is no one living would deny Cinna the applause 
 of an agreeable and facetious wit; or could possibly pre- 
 tend that there is not something inimitably unforced and 
 diverting in his manner of delivering all his sentiments 
 in his conversation, if he were able to conceal the strong 
 desire of applause which he betrays in every syllable he 
 utters. But they who converse with him, see that all 
 the civilities they could do to him, or the kind things they 
 could say to him, would fall short of what he expects; 
 and therefore, instead of showing him the esteem they 
 have for his merit, their reflections turn only upon that 
 they observe he has of it himself. 
 
 If you go among the women, and behold Gloriana trip 
 into a room with that theatrical ostentation of her charms, 
 Mirtilla with that soft regularity in her motion, Chloe 
 with such an indifferent familiarity, Corinna with such 
 a fond approach, and Roxana with such a demand of re- 
 spect in the great gravity of her entrance ; you find all 
 the sex, who understand themselves and act naturally, 
 wait only for their absence, to tell you that all these 
 ladies would impose themselves upon you ; and each of 
 them carry in their behaviour a consciousness of so much 
 more than they should pretend to, that they lose what 
 would otherwise be given them. 
 
 I remember the last time I saw Macbeth, I was won-
 
 880 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 206. 
 
 derfiiUy taken with the skill of the poet, in making the 
 murderer form fears to himself from the moderation of 
 the prince whose life he was goin? to take away. He says 
 of the king: * He bore his faculties so mt-ekly ;' ana justly 
 inferred from thence, that all divine and buman uower 
 would join to avenge his death, who iiad made such an 
 abstinent use of dominion. All that is in a man's power 
 to do to advance his own pomp and glory, and forbears, 
 is so much laid up against the day of distress; and pity 
 will always be his portion in adversity, who acted with 
 gentleness in prosperity. 
 
 The great officer who foregoes the advantages he might 
 take to himself, and renounces all prudential regards to 
 his own person in danger, has so far the merit of a volun- 
 teer; and all his honours and glories are unenvied, lor 
 sharing the common fate with the same frankness as they 
 do, who have no such endearing circumstances to part 
 with. But if there were no such considerations as the 
 good effect which self-denial has upon the sense of other 
 men towards us, it is of all qualities the most desirable 
 for the agreeable disposition in which it places our own 
 minds. I cannot tell what better to say of it, than that 
 it is the very contrary of ambition ; and that modesty 
 allays all those passions and inquietudes to which that 
 vie*; exposes us. He that is moderate in his wishes from 
 reason and choice, and not resigned from sourne«:s, dis- 
 taste, or disappointment, doubles all the pleasures of his 
 life. The air, the season, a sun-shiny day, or a fair pro- 
 spect, are instances of happiness, and that which h«j enjoys 
 in common with all the world, (by his exemption from the 
 enchantments by which all the world are bewitched > are 
 to him uncommon benefits and new acquisirjons. Health 
 is not eaten up with care, nor pleasure interrupted by 
 envy. It is not to him of any consequence what this man 
 is famed for, or for vkhat the other is preferred. He 
 knows there is in suob a place an uninterrupted walk ; 
 he can meet in such a company an agreeable conversa- 
 tion. He has no emulation, he is no man's rival, but every 
 Bans well-wisher; can look at a prosperous man, with a
 
 No. 207.] THE SPECTATOR. 381 
 
 pleasure in reflecting that he hopes he is as happy as 
 himself: and has his mind and his fortune (as far as pru- 
 dence will allow) open to the unhappy and to the stranger. 
 Lucceius has learning, wit, humour, eloquence, but no 
 ambitious prospects to pursue with these advantages ; 
 therefore to the ordinary world he is perhaps thought to 
 want spirit, but known among his friends to have a mind 
 of the most consummate greatness. He wants no man's 
 admiration, is in no need of pomp. His clothes please 
 him if they are fashionable an<l warm ; his companions 
 are agreeable if they are civil and well-natured. There 
 is with him no occasion for superfluity at meals, for jollity 
 in company ; in a word, for any thing extraordinary to ad- 
 minister delight to him. Want of prejudice, and com- 
 inaiid of appetite, are the companions which make his 
 journey of life so easy, that he in all places meets with 
 more wit, more good cheer, and more good humour, than 
 is necessary to make him enjoy himself with pleasure and 
 satisfaction. T. 
 
 No. 207.] Saturday, October 27, 1711. 
 
 OmoibuA in terris, qus sunt a. Gadibus usqne 
 Aiirorain et Gangeni, paiici difiiioscere possunt 
 "Vera bona, atqiie illis mnltiim diversa, remote 
 
 Erroris nebuli Juv. Sat. x. L 
 
 Look ronnfi the habitable world, how few 
 Know their own good, or, knowing it, pursue t 
 How rarely reason guides the stubborn clioice, 
 Prompts the fond wish, or lifts the suppliant voice ? 
 
 Dryden, Johnson, S^c, 
 
 In my last Saturday's paper I laid down some thoughts 
 upon devotion in general, and shall here show what were 
 the notions of the most refined heathens on this subject, 
 as they are represented in Plato's dialogue upon prayer, 
 entitled Alcibiades the Second, which doubtless gave oc- 
 casion to Juvenal's tenth satire, and to the second satire 
 of Persiusi as the last of these authors has almost trans- 
 cribed the pieceding dialogue entitled Alcibiades the First, 
 in his fourth satire.
 
 S8S THE SPECTATOR. [No. 20r. 
 
 The speakers in this dialogue upon prayer, are Socrates 
 and Alcibiades ; and the substance of it (when drawn 
 together out of the intricacies and digressions) as follows: 
 
 Socrates meeting his pupil Alcibiades, as he was going 
 to his devotions, and observing his eyes to be fixed upon 
 the earth with great seriousness and attention, tells him, 
 that he had reason to be thoughtful on that occasion, since 
 it was possible for a man to bring down evils upon himself 
 by his own prayers, and that those things which the gods 
 send him in answer to his petitions, might turn to bis 
 destruction. This, says he, may not only happen when a 
 man prays for what he knows is mischievous in its owa 
 nature, as Oedipus implored the gods to sow dissention 
 between his sons ; but when he prays for what he believes 
 would be for his good, and against what he believes would 
 be to his detriment. This the philosopher shows must 
 necessarily happen among us, since most men are blinded 
 with ignorance, prejudice, or passion, which hinder them 
 from seeing such things as are really beneficial to them. 
 For an instance, he asks Alcibiades, whether he would not 
 be thoroughly pleased and satisfied if that god, to whom 
 he was going to address himself, should promise to make 
 him the sovereign of the whole earth ? Alcibiades an- 
 swers, that he should, doubtless, look upon such a promise 
 as the greatest favour that could be bestowed upon him. 
 Socrates then asks him, if after receiving this great favour 
 he would be contented to lose his life ? Or if he would 
 receive it, though he was sure he should make an ill use 
 of it ? To both which questions Alcibiades answers in the 
 negative. Socrates then shows him, from the examples 
 of others, how these might very probably be the effects 
 of such a blessing. He then adds, that other reputed 
 pieces of good-fortune, as that of having a son, or pro- 
 curing the highest post in a government, are subject to 
 the like fatal consequences ; which nevertheless, says he, 
 men ardently desire, and would not fail to pray for, if 
 they thought their prayers might be effectual for the 
 obtaining of them. 
 
 Having established this great point, that, all the most
 
 No. 207.] THE SPECTATOR. 38J 
 
 apparent blessins^s in this life are obnoxious to siich dread- 
 ful consequences, and that no man knows what in its 
 event would prove to him a blessing or a curse, he teaches 
 Alcibiades after what manner he ought to pray. 
 
 In the first place, he recommends to him, as the model 
 of his devotions, a short prayer which a Greek poet com- 
 posed for the use of his friends, in the following words : 
 * O Jupiter, give us those things which are good for us, 
 whether they are such things as we pray for, or such 
 things as we do not pray for: and remove from us those 
 things which are hurtful, though they are such things as 
 we pray for.' 
 
 In the second place, that his disciple may ask such 
 things as are expedient for him, he shows him, that it is 
 absolutely necessary to apply himself to the study of true 
 wisdom, and to the knowledge of that which is his chief 
 good, and the most suitable to the excellency of his nature. 
 
 In the third and last place, he informs him, that the 
 best methods he could make use of to draw down blessings 
 upon himself, and to render his prayers acceptable, would 
 be to live in a constant practice of his duty towards the 
 gods, and towards men. Under this head he very much 
 recommends a form of prayer the Lacedemonians make 
 use of, in which they petition the gods, ' to give them all 
 good things so long as they were virtuous.' Under this 
 head likewise he gives a very remarkable account of an 
 oracle to the following purpose ; 
 
 When the Athenians in the war with the Lacedemo- 
 nians received many defeats both by sea and land, they 
 sent a message to the oracle of Jupiter Ammon, to ask 
 the rsason why they who erected so many temples to the 
 gods, and adorned them with such costly offerings'; why 
 they who had instituted so many festivals, and accom- 
 panied them with such pomps and ceremonies; in short, 
 why they who had slain so many hecatombs at their altars, 
 should be less successful than the Lacedemonians, who 
 fell so short of them in these particulars? To this, savs 
 he, the oracle made the following reply: * I am better 
 pleased with the prayers of the Lacedemonians than with
 
 384 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 207. 
 
 all the oblations of the Greeks.' As this prayer implied 
 and encouraged virtue in those who made it; tlie philo- 
 sopher proceeds to show how the most vicious man might 
 be devout, so far as victims could make him, but that his 
 offerings were regarded by the gods as bribes, and his 
 petitions as blasphemies. He likewise quotes on this 
 occasion two verses out of Homer,* in which the poet 
 says, * that the scent of the Trojan sacrifices were car- 
 ried up to heaven by the winds; but that it was not ac- 
 ceptable to the gods, who were displeased with Priam and 
 all his people.' 
 
 The conclusion of this dialogue is very remarkable. 
 Socrates having deterred Alcibiades from the prayers and 
 sacrifice which he was going to offer, by setting forth the 
 above mentioned difficulties of performing that duty as 
 he ought, adds these words, * We must therefore wait 
 until such time as we may learn how we ought to behave 
 ourselves towards the gods, and towards men.' — * But when 
 will that time come,' says Alcibiades, * and who is it that 
 will instruct us? for I would fain see this mau, whoever 
 he is.' — ' It is one,' says Socrates, ' who takes care of 
 you ; but as Homer tells us, that Minerva removed the 
 mist from Diomede's eyes that he might plainly discover 
 both gods and raen,f so the darkness that hangs upon 
 your mind must be removed before you are able to discern 
 what is good and what is evil/ — * Let him remove from 
 my mind,* says Alcibiades, ' the darkness and what else 
 he pleases, I am determined to refuse notbijjg he shall 
 order me, whoever he is, so that I may become the better 
 man by it.' The remaining part of this dialogue is very 
 obscure: there is something in it that u'.mld nmke us 
 think Socrates hinted at himself, when he spoke of this 
 divine teacher who was to conie into the world, did not 
 he own that he himself was in this respect as much at a 
 loss, and in as great di<:tress as the rest of mankind. 
 
 Some learned men look upon this conclusion as a pre- 
 diction of our Saviour, or at least that Sycrates, like the 
 
 • Iliad \ui, 584, &c. t IbiiJ. v. 127.
 
 No. 207.] THE spectator; 385 
 
 high priest,* prophesied unknowingly, and pointed at that 
 Divine Teacher who was to come into the world some ages 
 after him. However that may be, we find tbat this great 
 philosopher saw by the light cf reason, that it was suita- 
 ble to the goodness of the divine nature, to send a person 
 into the world who should instruct mankind in the duties 
 of religion, and, in particular, teach them how to pray. 
 
 Whoever reads this abstract of Plato's discourse on 
 prayer, will, I believe, naturally make this reflection. 
 That the great founder of our religion, as well by his 
 own example, as in the form of prayer which he taught 
 his disciples, did not only keep up to those rules which 
 the light of nature had suggested to this great philosopher, 
 but instructed bis disciples in the whole extent of this 
 duty, as well as of all others. He directed them to the 
 proper object of adoration, and taught them, accordiiig 
 to the third rule above-mentioned, to apply themselves to 
 him in their closets, without show or ostentation, and 
 to worship him in spirit and in truth.' As the Lace- 
 demonians in their form of prayer implored the gods in 
 general to give them all good things so long as they were 
 , virtuous, we ask in particular * that our offences may be 
 forgiven, as we forgive those of others.' If we look into 
 the second rule which Socrates has prescribed, namely, 
 that we should apply ourselves to the knowledge of such 
 things as are best for us, this too is explained at large in 
 the doctrines of the gospel, where we are taught in several 
 instances to regard those things as curses, which appear 
 as blessings in the eye of the world ; and, on the contrary, 
 to esteem those things as blessings, which to the genera- 
 lity of mankind appear as curses. Thus in the form which 
 is prescribed to us, we only pray for that happiness which 
 is our chief good, and the great end of our existence, 
 when we petition the Supreme Being for the coming of 
 his kingdom, being solicitous for no other temporal bless- 
 ings but our daily sustenance. On the other side, we 
 pray against nothing but sin, and against evil in general, 
 leaving it with Omniscience to determine what is really 
 • Caiapbai^ John xi. iQ, 
 
 Vol. U. L l
 
 386 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 208. 
 
 such. If we look into the first of Socrates his rules of 
 prayer, in which he recommends the above-mentioned 
 form of the ancient poet, we find that form not only 
 comprehended, but very much improved in the petition, 
 wherein we pray to the Supreme Being that- his will may 
 be done : which is of the same farce with that form which 
 our Saviour used, when he prayed against the most pain- 
 ful and most ignominious of deaths, ' Nevertheless not my 
 will, but thine be done.' This comprehensive petition is 
 the most humble, as well as the most prudent, that can be 
 offered up from the creature to his Creator, as it sup- 
 poses the Supreme Being wills nothing but what is for 
 our good, and that he knows better than ourselves what 
 is so. L. 
 
 No.' £08.] Monday, October 29, 1711. 
 
 Veniunt spectentnr ut ipsac. 
 
 Olid. Ars Ain. Lib. 1. og. 
 
 To be themselves a specUcle they come. 
 
 I HAVE several letters of people of good sense, who 
 lament the depravity or poverty of taste the town is fallen 
 into with relation to plays and public spectacles. A lady 
 in particular observes, that there is such a levity in the 
 minds of her own sex, that they seldom attend to any thing 
 but impertinences. It is indeed prodigious to observe how 
 little notice is taken of the most exalted parts of the best 
 tragedies in Shakspeare ; nay, it is not only visible that 
 sensuality has devoured all greatness of soul, but the 
 under-passion (as I may so call it) of a noble spirit, Pi-ty, 
 seems to be a stranger to the generality of an audience. 
 The minds of men are indeed very differently disposed; 
 and the reliefs from care and attention are of one sort in 
 a great spirit, and of another in an ordinary one. The 
 man of a great heart, and a serious complexion, is more 
 pleased with instances of generosity and pity, than the 
 light and ludicrous spirit can possibly be with the highest 
 strains of mirth and laughter. It is therefore a melan-
 
 No. 208.] THE SPECTATOR. 38r 
 
 choly prospect when we see a numerous assembly lost to 
 all serious entertainments, and such incidents as should 
 move one sort of concern, excite in them a quite contrary 
 one. In the tragedy of Macbeth, the other night, when 
 the lady who is conscious of the crime of murdering the 
 king seems utterly astonished at the news, and makes an 
 exclamation at it, instead of the indignation which is 
 natural to the occasion, that expression is received with 
 a loud laugh. They were as merry when a criminal was 
 stabbed. It is certainly an occasion of rejoicing \>hen the 
 wicked are seized in their designs; but I think it is not 
 such a triumph as is exerted by laughter. 
 
 You may generally observe, that the appetites are sooner 
 moved than the passions. A sly expression which alludes 
 to bawdry, puts a whole row into a pleasing smirk ; when 
 a good sentence, that describes an inward sentiment of 
 the soul, is received with the greatest coldness and indif- 
 ference. A correspondent of mine, upon this subject, has 
 divided the female part of the audience, and accounts for 
 their prepossessions against this reasonable delight in the 
 following manner : * The prude,' says he, * as she acts al- 
 ways in contradiction, so she is gravely sullen at a comedy, 
 and extravagantly gay at a tragedy. The coquette is so 
 much taken up with throwing her eyes around the audi- 
 ence, and considering the effect of them, that she cannot 
 be expected to observe the actors but as they are her 
 rivals, and take off the observation of the men from her- 
 self. Besides these species of women, there are the ex- 
 amples, or the first of the mode. These are to be sup- 
 posed too well acquainted with what the actor was going 
 to say to be moved at it. After these one might mention 
 a certain flippant set of females >\ho are mimics, and are 
 wonderfully diverted with the conduct of all the people 
 around them, and are spectators only of the auclience. 
 But what is of all the roost to be lamented, is the loss 
 of a party whom it would be worth preserving in their 
 right senses upon all occasions, and these are those whom 
 we may indifferently call the innocent, or the unaffected. 
 You may sometimes see one of these sensibly touched with
 
 3«8 THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 208. 
 
 a .well-wrought incident ; but then she is immediately so 
 impertinently observed by the men, and frowned at by 
 some insensible superior of her own sex, that she is 
 ashamed, and loses the enjoyment of the most laudable 
 concern, pity. Thus the whole audience is afraid of let- 
 ting fall a tear, and shun as a weakness the best and 
 worthiest part of our sense. 
 
 •SIR, 
 
 * As you are one that doth not only pretend to reform, 
 but affect it amongst people of any sense; makes me (who 
 am one of the greatest of your admirers) give you this 
 trouble to desire you will settle the method of us females 
 knowing when one another is in town : for they have now 
 got a trick of never sending to their acquaintance when 
 they first come; and if one does not visit them within 
 the week which they stay at home, it is a mortal quarrel. 
 Now, dear Mr. Spec, either command them to put it in 
 the advertisement of your paper, which is generally read 
 by our sex, or else order them to breathe their saucy 
 footman (who are good for nothing else) by sending them 
 to tell all their acquaintance. If you think to print this, 
 pray put it into a better style as to the spelling part. The 
 town is now filling every day, and it cannot be deferred, 
 because people take advantage of one another by this 
 means, and break oflF acquaintance, and are rude. There- 
 fore pray put this in your paper as soon as you can pos- 
 sibly, to prevent any future miscarriages of this nature. 
 I am, as I ever shall be, dear Spec, 
 
 * Your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 ' MARY MEAN WELL. 
 
 * Pray settle what is to be a proper notification of a 
 person's being in town, and how that diflfers according to 
 people's quality.' 
 
 ' MR. SPECTATOR, October SO. 
 
 * I have been out of town, so did not meet with your 
 paper, dated September the 28th, wherein you, to my 
 heart's desire, expose that cursed vice of insnaring poor
 
 No. 209.] THE SPECTATOR.' 39» 
 
 young girls, and drawing them from their friends. I as- 
 sure you without flattery it has saved a 'prentice of mine 
 from ruin ; and in token of gratitude, as well as for the 
 benefit of my family, I have put it in a frame and glass, 
 and hung it behind my counter. I shall take care to 
 make my young ones read it every morning, to fortify 
 them against such pernicious rascals. I know not whe- 
 ther what you writ was matter of fact, or your own in- 
 vention ; but this I will take ray oath on, the first part 
 is so exactly like what happened to my 'prentice, that had 
 I read your paper then, I should have taken your method 
 to ha,ve secured a villain. Go on and prosper. 
 
 * Your most obliged humble servant.* 
 
 * MR. SPKCTATOR, 
 * Without raillery, I desire you to insert this word for 
 word in your next, as you value a lover's prayers. You 
 aee it is an hue and cry after a stray heart (with the 
 marks and blemishes underwritten) ; which whoever shall 
 bring to you, shall receive satisfaction. Let me beg of 
 you not to fail, as you remember the passion you had for 
 her to whom you lately ended a paper: 
 
 " Noble, generous, great and good. 
 But never to be understood ; 
 Fickle as the wind, still changing, 
 After every female ranging, j 
 Pantiut;, trembling, sighing, dying. 
 But addicted much to lying : 
 When the Sjrren songs repeats. 
 Equal measures still it beats ; 
 Whoe'er shall wear it, it will smart her, 
 Y^ And whoe'er takes it, takes a tartar." ' 
 
 No. 209.] Tuesday, October 30, 1711. 
 
 Tuyauxo; ouSt X^n^' syne >.iv^itca 
 
 '£0-d>^ ei'iuwiyoy, oujc piftov Kax>i(. SUmoMtt, 
 
 Of earthly goods, the best is a good wife ; 
 A bad, the bitterest curse of human life. 
 
 There are no authors I am more pleased with than 
 ibo&e who show human nature in « variety of views, and
 
 390 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 209. 
 
 describe the several ages of the world in their different 
 manners. A reader cannot be more rationally entertained, 
 than by comparing the virtues and vices of his own times 
 •with those which prevailed in the times of his forefathers ; 
 and drawing a parallel in his mind between his own pri- 
 vate character, and that of other persons, whether of his 
 own age, or of the ages that went before him. The con- 
 templation of mankind under these changeable colours is 
 apt to shame us out of any particular vice, or animate 
 us to any particular virtue; to make us pleased or dis- 
 pleased with ourselves in the most proper points, and to 
 clear our minds of prejudice and prepossession, and rectify 
 that narrowness of temper which inclines us to think 
 amiss of those who differ from us. 
 
 If we look into the manners of the most remote ages 
 of the world, we discover human nature in her simplicity; 
 and the more we come downward towards our ov.n times, 
 may observe her hiding herself in artifices and refine- 
 ments, polished insensibly out of her original plainness, 
 and at length entirely lost under form and ceremony, and 
 (what we call) good-breeding. Read the accounts of men 
 and women as they are given us by the most ancient 
 writers, both sacred and profane, and you would think 
 you were reading the histary of another species. 
 
 Among the writers of antiquity, there are none who 
 instruct us more openly in the nianners of their respective 
 times in which they lived, than those who have employed 
 themselves in satire, under what dress soever it may ap- 
 pear ; as there are no other authors whose province it is 
 to enter so directly into the ways of men, and set their 
 miscarriages in so strong a light. 
 
 Simonides, a poet famous in his generation, is, T think, 
 author of the oldest satire that is now extant; and, as 
 some say, of the first that was ever written. This poet 
 flourished about four hundred years after the siege of 
 Troy; and shows, by his way of writing, the simplicity, or 
 rather coarseness, of the age in which he lived. 1 have 
 taken, notice, in my hundred and sixty-first speculation, 
 5 hat the ruje of observing what the French call the Bien'
 
 No. 209.] THE SPECTATOR. 591 
 
 seance in an illusion, has been found out of latter years ; 
 and that the ancients, provided there was a likeness in 
 their similitudes, did not much trouble themselves about 
 the decency of the comparison. The satire or iambics of 
 Simonides, with which I shall entertain my readers in the 
 present paper, are a remarkable instance of what I for- 
 merly advanced. The subject of this satire is woman. He 
 describes the sex in their several characters, which he 
 derives to them from a fanciful supposition raised upon 
 the doctrine of pre-existence. He tells us that the gods 
 formed the souls of women out of those seeds and prin- 
 ciples which compose several kinds of animals and ele- 
 ments ; and that their good or bad dispositions arise in 
 them according as such and such seeds and principles pre- 
 dominate in their constitutions. 1 have translated the 
 author very faithfully, and if not word for word (which 
 our language would not bear) at least so as to comprehend 
 every one of his sentiments, without adding any thing of 
 my own. I have already apologized for this author's want 
 of delicacy, and must further premise, that the following 
 satire affects only some of the lower part of the sex, and 
 not those who have been refined by a polite education, 
 which was not so common in the age of this poet. 
 
 * In the beginning God made the souls of womankind 
 out of different materials, and in a separate state from 
 their bodies. 
 
 * The souls of one kind of women were formed out of 
 those ingredients which compose a swine. A woman of 
 this make is a slut in her house and a glutton at her 
 table. She is uncleanly in her person, a slattern in her 
 dress, and her family is no better than a dunghill. 
 
 * A second sort of female soul was formed out of the 
 same materials that enter into the composition of a fox. 
 Such a one is what we call a notable discerning woman, 
 who has an insight into every thing whether it be good or 
 bad. In this species of females there are some virtuous 
 and some vicious. 
 
 * A third kind of women were made up of canine par-
 
 3»« THE SPECTATOR. [No. 209. 
 
 tides. These are what we commonly call scolds; who 
 imitate the animals out of which they were taken, that 
 are always busy and barking, that snarl at every one who 
 comes in their way, and live in perpetual clamour. 
 
 * The fourth kind of women were made out of the earth. 
 These are your slu^ards, who pass away their time in in- 
 dolence and ignorance, hover over the fire a whole winter, 
 and apply themselves with alacrity to no kind of business 
 but eating. 
 
 * The fifth species of females were made out of the sea. 
 These are women of variable uneven tempers, sometimes 
 all storm and tempest, sometimes all calm and sun-shine. 
 The stranger who sees one of these in her smiles and 
 smoothness, would cry her up for a miracle of good-hu- 
 mour ; but on a sudden her looks and words are changed j 
 she is nothing but fury and outrage, noise and hurricane. 
 
 * The sixth species were made up of the ingredients 
 which compose an ass, or a beaist of burden. These are 
 naturally exceeding slothful, but upon the husband's ex- 
 erting his authority, will live upon hard fare, and do 
 every thing to please him. They are however far from 
 being averse to venereal pleasure, and seldom refuse a 
 male companion. ^ 
 
 * The cat furnished materials for a seventh species of 
 women, who are of a melancholy, froward, unamiable 
 nature, and so repugnant to the offers of love, that they 
 fly in the face of their husband when he approaches them 
 with conjugal endearments. This species of women are 
 likewise subject to little thefts, cheats, and pilferings. 
 
 * The mare with a flowing mane, which was never 
 broke to any servile toil and labour, composed an eighth 
 species of women. These are they who have little regard 
 for their husbands, who pass away their time in dressing, 
 bathing, and perfuming ; who throw their hair into the 
 nicest curls, and trick it up with the fairest flowers and 
 garlands. A woman of this species is a very pretty thing 
 for a stranger to look upon, but very detrimental to the 
 owner, unless it be a king or a prince who takes a fanc^ 
 po SHch 9 toy.
 
 No. 209] THE SPECTATOR.' 39» 
 
 * The ninth species of females were taken out of the 
 ape. These are such as are both ugly and ill-natured, 
 who have nothing beautiful in themselves, and endeavour 
 to detract from or ridicule every thing which appears so 
 in others. 
 
 * The tenth and last species of women were made out 
 of the bee ; and happy is the man who gets such an one 
 for his wife. She is altogether faultless and unblameable. 
 Her family flourishes and improves by her good manage- 
 ment. She loves her husband, and is beloved by him. 
 She brings him a race of beautiful and virtuous children. 
 She distinguishes herself among her sex. She is sur- 
 rounded with graces. She never sits among the loose 
 tribe of women, nor passes away her time with them in 
 wanton discourses. She is full of virtue and prudence, 
 and is the best wife that Jupiter can bestow on man.' 
 
 I shall conclude these iambics with the motto of this 
 paper, which is a fragment of the same author : ' A maa 
 cannot possess any thing that is better than a good wo- 
 man, nor any thing that is worse than a bad one.' 
 
 As the poet has shown a great penetration in this 
 diversity of female characters, he has avoided the fault 
 which Juvenal and Monsieur Boileau are guilty of, the 
 former in his sixth, and the other in his last satire, where 
 they have endeavoured to expose the sex in general, with- 
 out doing justice to the valuable part of it. Such level- 
 ling satires are of no use to the world ; and for this reason 
 I have often wondered how the french author above- 
 mentioned, who was a man of exquisite judgment, and 
 & lover of virtue, could think human nature a proper sub- 
 ject for satire in another of his celebrated pieces, which 
 is called The Satire upon Man. What vice or frailty 
 can a discourse correct, which censures the whole species 
 alike, and endeavours to show by some superficial strokes 
 of wit, that brutes are the most excellent creatures of the 
 two ? A satire should expose nothing but what is corrigi- 
 ble, and make a due discrimination between those who 
 ate, and those who are not the proper objects of it. 
 
 U
 
 394 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 210. 
 
 No. 210.] Wednesday, Octobei- 31, 1711. 
 
 ^Nescio quomodo inhasiet in meiitibus quasi sseciiloruni qiioddam an- 
 giirium futiirorum ; icique in maxiniis ingeniis altissimisque aniinis et 
 existit maxime, et apparet tacillime. Cic. Tusc. Quast. 
 
 There is, I know not how, in minds a certain presage, as it were, of 
 a future existence; and this takes the deepest root, and is most dis- 
 covei-able in the gieatest geniuses and most exalted souls. 
 
 * SIR, * To the Spectator. 
 
 * I AM fully persuaded that one of the best springs of 
 generous and worthy actions, is the having generous and 
 worthy thoughts of ourselves. Whoever has a mean opi- 
 nion of the dignity of his nature, will act in no higher 
 a rank than he has allotted himself in his own estima- 
 tion. If he considers his being as circumscribed by the 
 uncertain term of a few years, his designs will be con- 
 tracted into the same narrow span he imagines is to 
 bound his existence. How can he exalt his thoughts to 
 any thing great and noble, who only believes that, after 
 a short turn on the stage of this world, he is to sink 
 into oblivion, and to lose his consciousness for ever? 
 
 * For this reason I am of op'uion, that so useful and 
 elevated a contemplation as that of the soul's immor- 
 tality cannot be resumed too often. There is not a more 
 improving exercise to the human mind, than to be fre- 
 quently reviewing its own great privileges and endow- 
 ments ; nor a more effectual means to awaken in us an 
 ambition raised above low objects and little pursuits, than 
 to value ourselves as heirs of eternity. 
 
 * It is a very great satisfaction to consider the best 
 and wisest of mankind in all nations and ages, asserting 
 as with one voice this their birthright, and to find it 
 ratified by an express revelation. At the same time if 
 ■we turn our thoughts inward upon ourselves, we may 
 meet with a kind of secret sense concurring with the 
 proofs of our own immortality. 
 
 * You have, in my opinion, raised a good presumptive 
 argument from the increasing appetite the mind has to 
 knowledge, and to the extending its own faculties, which
 
 No. 210.] THE SPECTATOR. 39t> 
 
 cannot be accomplished, as the more restrained perfection 
 of lower creatures may, in the limits of a short life. 
 I think another prol)able conjecture may be raised from 
 our appetite to duration itself, and from a reflection on 
 our progress through the several stages of it. " We are 
 complaining," as you observed in a former speculation, 
 ** of the shortness of life, and yet are perpetually hur- 
 rying over the parts of it, to arrive at certain little set- 
 tlements or imaginary points of rest, which are dispersed 
 up and down in it." 
 
 ' Now let us consider what happens to us ■when we 
 arrive at these imaginary points of rest. Do we stop our 
 motion and sit down satisfied in the settlement we have 
 ^^ained ? or are we not removing the boundary, and mark- 
 ing out new points of rest, to which we press forward 
 with the like eagerness, and which cease to be such as 
 fast as we attain them .' Our case is like that of a tra- 
 veller upon the Alps, who should fancy that the top of 
 the next hill must end his journey, because it terminates 
 his prospect ; but he no sooner arrives at it, than he sees 
 new ground and other hills beyond it, and continues to 
 travel on as before. 
 
 This is so plainly every man's condition in life, that 
 there is no one who has observed any thing, but may 
 observe, that as fast as his time wears away, his appetite 
 to something future remains. The use therefore I would 
 make of it is, that since Nature (as some love to express 
 it) does nothing in vain, or, to speak properly, since the 
 Author of our being has })lanted no wandering passion 
 in it, no desire which has not its object, futurity is th<; 
 proper oljject of the passion so constantly exercised about 
 it; and this restlessness in the present, this assigning 
 ourselves over to farther stages of duration, this succes- 
 sive grasping at somewhat still to come, appears to me 
 (whatever it may to others) as a kind of instinct or na- 
 tural symptom which the mind of man has of its own 
 immortality. 
 
 ' 1 take it at the same time for granted, that the im- 
 mortality of the soul is sufficiently established by other
 
 396 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 210. 
 
 arguments : and if so, this appetite, which otherwise 
 i)?ould be very unaccountable and absurd, seems very rea- 
 sonable, and adds strength to the conclusion. But I am 
 amazed when I consider there are creatures capable of 
 thought, who in spite of every argument, can form to 
 themselves a sullen satisfaction in thinking otherwise. 
 There is something so pitifully mean in the inverted am- 
 bition of that man who can hope for annihilation, and 
 please himself to think that his whole fabric shall one 
 day crumble into dust, and mix with the mass of inani- 
 mate beings, that it equally deserves our admiration and 
 pity. The mystery of such men's unbelief is not hard tO' 
 be penetrated} and indeed amounts to nothing more than 
 a sordid hope that they shall not be immortal, because 
 they dare not be so. - > 
 
 * This brings me back to my first observation, and 
 gives me occasion to say further, that as worthy actions 
 spring from worthy thoughts, so worthy thoughts are 
 likewise the consequence of worthy actions. But the 
 wretch who has degraded himself below the character of 
 immortality, is very willing to resign his pretensions to 
 it, and to substitute in its room a dark negative happiness 
 in the extinction of his being. 
 
 * The admirable Shakspeare has given us a strong image 
 of the unsupported condition of such a person in bis last 
 minutes, in the second part of King Henry the Sixth, 
 where Cardinal Beaufort, who had been concerned in the 
 murder of the good Duke Humphrey, is represented on 
 his death-bed. After some short confused speeches, which 
 show an imagination disturbed with guilt, just as he is 
 expiring, King Henry, standing by him full of compas- 
 sion, says, 
 
 *' Lord Cardinal! if thon thiiik'st on heaven's bliss, 
 Hold up thy hand, make signal of that hope ! — > 
 He dies, and makes no sign!" = — 
 
 * The despair which is here shown, without a word or 
 action on the part of a dying person, is beyond what 
 could be painted by the most forcible expressions what-
 
 No. 211.] THE SPECTATOR. 397 
 
 * I shall not pursue this thought farther, but only add^ 
 that as annihilation is not to be had with a wish, so it is 
 the most abject thing in the world to wish it. What are 
 honour, fame, wealth, or power, when compared with 
 the generous expectation of a being without end, and a 
 happiness adequate to that being? 
 
 * I shall trouble you no farther ; bat with a certain 
 gravity which these thoughts have given me, I reflect 
 upon some things people say of you, (as they will of men 
 who distinguish themselves) which I hope are not true, 
 and wish you as good a man as you are an author. 
 
 *,I am. Sir, 
 ' Your most obedient humble servant, 
 J ' T. D.' 
 
 No. 211.] Thursday, November 1, 1711. 
 
 Fictis meminerit nos jocari fabulis. Phtedr. Lib. 1. Prol, 
 
 Let it be remembered that we sport iti fabled stories. 
 
 Having lately translated the fragment of an old poet, 
 which describes womankind under several characters, and 
 supposes them to have drawn their different manners and 
 dispositions from those animals and elements out of which 
 he tells us they were compounded ; I had some thoughts 
 cf giving the sex their revenge, by laying together in 
 another paper the many vicious characters which prevail 
 in the male world, and showing the different ingredients 
 that go to the making up of such different humours and 
 constitutions. Horace has a thought which is something 
 akin to this, when in order to excuse himself to his mis- 
 tress, for an invective which he had written against her, 
 and to account for that unreasonable fury with which the 
 heart of man is often transported, he tells us that, when 
 Prometheus made his man of clay, in the kneading up 
 of the heart, he seasoned it with some furious particles of 
 the lion. But upon turning this plan to and fro in my 
 thoughts, I observed so many unaccountable humours in 
 man, that I did not know out of what animals to fetch 
 
 Vol. U. M m
 
 398 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 211* 
 
 thenr. Male souls are diversified with so many characters, 
 that the world has not variety of materials sufficient ta 
 furnish out their different tempers and inclinations. The 
 creation, with all its animals and elements, would not be 
 large enough to supply their several extravagancies. 
 
 Jnstead therefore of pursuing the thought of Simonides, 
 I shall observe, that as he has exposed the vicious part 
 of women from the doctrine of pre-existence, some of 
 the ancient philosophers have in a manner satirized the 
 vicious part of the human species in general, from a no- 
 tion of the soul's post-existence, if I may so call it ; and 
 that as Simonides describes brutes entering into the com- 
 position of women, others have represented human souls 
 as entering into brutes. This is commonly termed the 
 doctrine of transmigration, which supposes that human 
 souls, upon their leaving the body, become the souls of 
 such kinds of brutes as they most resemble in their man- 
 ners ; or to give an account of it as Mr. Dry den has de- 
 scribed in his translation of Pythagoras's speech in the 
 fifteenth book of Ovid, where that philosopher dissuades 
 his bearers from eating flesh: 
 
 Thus all things are bnt altci-'d, nothing dies, 
 And here and tJiere th' unbodied spirit flics : 
 By time, or force, or sickness disposscss'd. 
 And lodges where it lightsj in bird or beast ; 
 Or hiuils without till ready limb? it find. 
 And actuates those according to their kind ; 
 From tenement to tenement is toss'd, 
 The soul is still the same, tbe figure only lost. 
 
 Then let not piety be put to flight. 
 To please the taste of glutton appetite ; 
 Bnt suffer inmate souls secure to dwell. 
 Lest from their seats your parents you expel ; 
 With rapid hunger feed upon your kind, 
 Or from a beast dislodge a brother's mind, 
 
 Plato, in the vision of Erus the Armenian, which I may 
 possibly make the subject of a future speculation, records 
 some beautiful transmigrations ; as that the soul of Or- 
 pheus, who was musical, melancholy, and a woman-hater, 
 entered into a swan; the soul of Ajax, which was all 
 -wrath and fierceness, into a lion ; the soul of Agamem-
 
 No. 211.] THE SPECTATOR. 399 
 
 lion, that was rapacious and imperial, into an eagle ; and 
 the soul of Thersites, who was a mimic and a buffoon, 
 into a monkey. 
 
 Mr. Congreve, in a prologue to one of his comedies, has 
 touched upon this doctrine with great humour: 
 
 Thus Aristotle's soul of ok; that was, 
 May now be damu'd to animate an ass ; 
 Or in this very house, for aught we know. 
 Is doing painful penance in souie beau. 
 
 I shall fill tip this paper with some letters which my 
 last Tuesday's speculation has produced. My following 
 correspondents will show, what I there observed, that the 
 speculation of that day atFects only the lower part of the 
 
 sex. 
 
 ' From my house in tlie Slrand, 
 
 * MR. SPECTATOn, Oct.SD, iril. 
 
 ' Upon reading your Tuesday's paper, I find by several 
 symptoms in my constitution that I am a bee. My shop, 
 or, if you please to call it so, my cell, is in that great hive 
 of females which goes by the name of the New Exchange ; 
 where I am daily employed in gathering together a little 
 stock of gain from the finest flowers about the town, 
 I mean the ladies and the beaux. I have a numerous 
 swarm of children, to whom I give the best education I 
 am able. But, sir, it is my misfortune to be married to 
 a drone, who lives upon what I get, without bringing any 
 thing into the common stock. Now, sir, as on the one 
 hand I take care not to behave myself towards him like 
 a wasp, so likewise I would not have him look upon me 
 as an bumble-bee ; for which reason I do all I can to put 
 him upon laying up provisions for a bad day, and fre- 
 quently represent to him the fatal effects his sloth and 
 negligence may bring upon us in our old age. I must 
 beg that you will join with me in your good advice upon 
 thjs occasion, and you will for ever oblige 
 
 * Your humble servant, 
 
 ' MELISSA.' 
 
 ♦ SIR, Piccadilly, Oct. 31, 1711. 
 
 * I am joined in wedlock for my sins to one of those 
 fillies who are described iu the old poet with that bard
 
 400 THE SPECTATOR. fNo.211. 
 
 name you gave us the other day. She has a flowing 
 mane, and a skin as soft as silk. But, sir, she passes 
 half her life at her glass, and almost ruins me in ribands. 
 For my own part, I am a plain handicraft man, and in 
 danger of breaking by her laziness and expensiveness. 
 Pray, master, tell me in your next paper, whether I may 
 not expect of her so much drudgery as to take care of 
 her family, and curry her hide in case of refusal. 
 * Your loving friend, 
 
 *BARNABY BRITTLE.' 
 
 * M R . SPECTATO R, Cheapside, Oct. 30. 
 
 ,* I am mightily pleased with the humour of the cat; 
 be so kind as to enlarge upon that subject. 
 ' Yours till death, 
 
 ' JOSIAH IlENPECK. 
 
 * P. S. You must know I am married to a grimalkin.* 
 
 ' SIR, Wapping, October 31, 1711. " 
 
 * Ever since your Spectator of Tuesday last came into 
 our family, my husband is pleased to call me his Oceana, 
 because the foolish old poet that you have translated says, 
 that the souls of some women are made of sea-water. 
 This it seems has encouraged my sauce-box to be witty 
 upon me. When I am angry, he cries, *' Pr'ythee, my 
 dear, be calm ;" when I chide one of my servants, 
 *' Pr'ythee, child, do not bluster." He had the impu- 
 dence about an hour ago to tell me, that he was a sea- 
 faring man, and must expect to divide his life between 
 storm and sunshine. When I bestir myself with any 
 spirit in my family, it is " high sea" in his house; and 
 when 1 sit still without doing any thing, his affairs for- 
 sooth are ** windbound." When I ask him whether it 
 rains, he makes answer, " It is no matter, so that it be 
 fair weather within doors." In short, sir, I cannot speak 
 my mind freely to him, but I either swell or rage, or do 
 something that is not fit for a civil woman to hear. Pray, 
 Mr. Spectator, since you are so sharp upon other women, 
 let us know what materials your wife is made of, if you 
 Slave one. I suppose you would make us a parcel of poor-
 
 No. 212.] THE SPECTATOR. 401 
 
 spirited tame insipid creatures ; but, sir, I would have you 
 to know, we have as good passions in us as yourself, and 
 that a woman was never designed to he a milk-sop. 
 
 T • MARTHA TEMPEST.' 
 
 '■T't^***'****-*^ 
 
 No. 212.] FiHday, November 2, 1711. 
 
 Erjpe turpi 
 
 Colla jugo, liber, liber sum, die age 
 
 Ilor. Lib. 2. Sat. vii. QC. 
 
 Loose thy neck from this ignoble chain, 
 
 JiaA boldly say tlion'rt free. Creech. 
 
 • MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I NEVER look upon my dear wife, but I think of the 
 happiness Sir Roger de Coverley enjoys, in having such a 
 friend as you to expose in proper colours the cruelty and 
 perverseness of his mistress. I have very often wished 
 you visited in our family, and were acquainted with my 
 spouse J she would afford you, for some months at least, 
 matter enough for one Spectator a week. Since we are 
 not so happy as to be of your acquaintance, give me leave 
 to represent to you our present circumstances as well as 
 I can in writing. You are to know then that I am not of 
 a very different constitution from Nathaniel Henroost, 
 whom you have lately recorded in your speculations ; and 
 have a wife who makes a more tyrannical use of the 
 knowledge of my easy temper than that lady ever pre- 
 tended to. We had not been a month married, when she 
 found in me a certain pain to give offence, and an indo- 
 lence that made me bear little inconveniencies rather than 
 dispute about them. From this observation it soon came 
 to pass, that if I offered to go abroad, she would get 
 between me and the door, kiss me, and say she could not 
 part with me; then down again I sat. In a day or two 
 after this first pleasant step towards confining me, she 
 declared to me, that I was all the world to her, and she 
 thought she ought to be all the world to me. " If," said 
 &be« '* m^ dear loves me as much as I love bioij he will 
 Mm 2
 
 402 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 2U. 
 
 never be tifcd of my company." This declaration was fol- 
 lowed by my being denied to all my acquaintance ; and 
 it very soon came to that pass, that to give an answer 
 at the door, before my face, the servants would ask her 
 whether I was within or not ; and she would answer no, 
 with great fondness, and tell me 1 was a good dear. I will 
 not enumerate more little circumstances to give you a 
 livelier sense of my condition; but tell you in general, 
 that from such steps as these at first, I now live the life 
 of a prisoner of state ; my letters are opened, and I have 
 not the use of pen, ink, and paper, but in her presence. 
 I never go abroad, except she sometimes takes me with 
 her in her coach to take the air, if it may be called so, 
 when we drive, as we generally do, with the glasses up. 
 I have overheard my servants lament my condition, but 
 they dare not bring me messages without her knowledge, 
 because they doubt my resolution to stand by them. In 
 the midst of this insipid way of life, an old acquaintance 
 of mine, Tom Meggot, who is a favourite with her, and 
 allowed to visit me in her company because he sings 
 prettily, has roused me to rebel, and conveyed his intel- 
 ligence to me in the following manner: My wife is a great 
 pretender to music, and very ignorant of it ; but far gone 
 in the Italian taste. Tom goes to Armstrong, the famous 
 fine writer of music, and desires him to put this sentence 
 of Tully in the scale of an Italian air, and write it out for 
 my spouse from him. Jn ille mihi liber cui mulier im- 
 perat ? Cui leges imponit, preescribit, jubet, vetat quod 
 videtur ? Qui nihil imperanti negare, nihil rtctisare 
 audet ? Poscit ? dandum est. Fbcat ? veniendum. Ejicit ? 
 aheundum. Minitatur ? extimescendum. ** Does he live 
 like a gentleman who is commanded by a woman ? He 
 to whom she gives law, grants and denies what she 
 pleases? who can neither deny her any thing she asks, 
 or refuse to do any thing she commands?" 
 
 * To be short, my wife was extremely pleased with it ; 
 said the Italian was the only language for music; and 
 admired how wonderfully tender the sentiment was, and 
 how pretty the accent is of that language ; with the rest
 
 No, 213.] THE SPECTATOR. 403 
 
 that is said by rote on that occasion. Mr. Meggot is sent 
 for to sing this air, which he performs with mighty ap- 
 plause ; and my wife is in ecstasy on the occasion, and 
 glad to find, by my being so much pleased, that 1 was at 
 last come into the notion of the Italian; " for," said she, 
 ** it grows upon one when one once comes to know a 
 little of the language; and pray, Mr. Meggot, sing again 
 those notes, Nihil imperanti ntgare, nihil recusare.'* 
 You may believe I was not a little delighted with my 
 friend Tom's expedient to alarm me, and in obedience to 
 his summons I give all this story thus at large; and 1 am 
 resolved when this appears in the Spectator, to declare 
 for myself. The manner of the insurrection 1 contrive by 
 your means, which shall be no other than that Tom 
 Meggot who is at our tea-table every morning, shall read 
 it to us ; and if my dear can take the hint, and say not 
 one word, but let this be the beginning of a new life 
 without farther explanation, it is very well ; for as soon 
 as the Spectator is read out, I shall, without more ado, 
 call for the coach, name the hour when 1 shall be at 
 home, if I come at all; if I do not, they may go to din- 
 ner. If my spouse only swells and says nothing, Tom 
 and I go out together, and all is well, as I said before ; 
 but if she begins to command or expostulate, you shall in 
 my next to you receive a full account of her resistance 
 and submission, for submit the dear thing must to, 
 *Sir, 
 * Your most obedient humble servant, 
 
 ' ANTIlOiNY FREEMAN. 
 
 * P. S. I hope I need not tell you that I desire this may 
 be in your very next.* T. 
 
 No. 213.] Saturday y November 3j 1711. 
 
 Mens sibi conscia recti. Firg. I£a. i. 608, 
 
 A good intention. 
 
 It is the great art and secret of Christianity, if I may 
 use that phrase, to manage our actions to the best advan- 
 tage, and direct them in such a manner that every thing
 
 404 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 213. 
 
 ive do may turn to account at that great day, when every 
 thing we have done will be set before us. 
 
 In order to give this consideration its full weight, we 
 may cast all our actions under the division of such as are 
 in themselves either good, evil, or indifferent. Jf we 
 divide our intentions after the same manner, and con- 
 sider them with regard to our actions, we may discover 
 that great art and secret of religion which I have here 
 mentioned. 
 
 A good intention joined to a good action, gives it its 
 proper force and efficacy ; joined to an evil action, ex- 
 ]tenuates its malignity, and in some cases may take it 
 wholly away; and joined to an indifferent action, turns 
 it to a virtue, and makes it meritorious as far as human 
 actions can be so. 
 
 In the next place, to consider in the same manner the 
 influence of an evil intention upon our actions. An evil 
 intention perverts the best of actions, and makes them 
 in reality, what the fathers with a witty kind of zeal have 
 iermed the virtues of the heathen world, so many shining 
 sins. It destroys the innocence of an indifferent action, 
 and gives an evil action all possible blackness and horror, 
 or, in the emphatical language of sacred writ, makes ' sin 
 exceeding sinful.* 
 
 If, in the last place, we consider the nature of an in- 
 different intention, we shall find that it destroys the 
 merit of a good action ; abates, but never takes away the 
 malignity of an evil action; and leaves an indifferent ac- 
 tion in its natural state of indifference. 
 
 It is therefore of unspeakable advantage to possess our 
 minds with an habitual good intention, and to aim aU 
 our thoughts, words, and actions at some laudable end, 
 whether it be the glory of our Maker, the good of man- 
 kind, or the benefit of our own souls. 
 
 This is a sort of thrift or good husbandry in moral life, 
 which does not throw away any single action, but makes 
 every one go as far as it can. It multipUes the means of 
 salvation, increases the number of our virtues, and di- 
 aninishes that of our vices.
 
 No. 213] THE SPECTATOR. 40» 
 
 iThere is something very devout, though not solid, in 
 Acosta's answer to Limb'jrch, who objects to him the mul- 
 tiplicity of ceremonies in the Jewish religion, as washings, 
 dresses, meats, purgations, and the like. The reply which 
 the Jew makes upon this occasion is, to tke best of my 
 remembrance, as follows: 'There are not duties enough,* 
 says he, * in the essential parts of the law for a zealous 
 and active obedience. Time, place, and person are re- 
 quisite, before you have an opportunity of putting a 
 moral virtue into practice. We have therefore,* says 
 he, * enlarged the sphere of our duty, and made many 
 things, which are in themselves indifferent, a part of our 
 religion, that we may have more occasions of showing 
 our love to God, and in all the circumstances of life be 
 doing something to please him.* 
 
 Monsieur St. Evremond has endeavoured to palliate the 
 superstitions of the Roman-catholic religion with the same 
 kind of apology, where he pretends to consider the dif- 
 ferent spirits of the Papists and the Calvinists, as to the 
 great points wherein they disagree. He tells us, that the 
 former are actuated by love, and the other by fear; and 
 that in their expressions of duty and devotion towards the 
 Supreme Being, the former seem particularly careful to 
 do every thing which may possibly please him, and the 
 other to abstain from every thing which may possibly dis- 
 please him. 
 
 But notwithstanding this plausible reason with which 
 both the Jew and the Roman-catholic would excuse their 
 respective superstitions, it is certain there is something 
 in them very pernicious to mankind, and destructive to 
 religion; because the injunction of superfluous ceremo- 
 Bies makes such actions duties, as were before indifferent, 
 and by that means renders religion more burdensome and 
 difficult than it is in its own nature, betrays many into 
 sins of omission which they could not otherwise be guilty 
 of, and fixes the minds of the vulgar to the shadowy, un- 
 essential points, instead of the more weighty and more 
 important matters of the law. 
 
 This zealous and active obedience however takes place
 
 406 THE SPECTATORi [No. 213. 
 
 in the great point we are recommending j for, if, instead 
 of prescribing to ourselves indifferent actions as duties, we 
 apply a good intention to all our most indiflferent actions, 
 we make our very existence one continued act of obe- 
 dience, we turn our diversions and amusements to our 
 eternal advantage, and are pleasing Him, whom we are 
 ipade to please, in all the circumstances and occurrences 
 of life. 
 
 It is this excellent frame of mind, this holy officious- 
 ness, (if I may be allowed to call it such) which is re- 
 commended to us by the apostle in that uncommon pre- 
 cept wherein he directs us to propose to ourselves the 
 glory of our Creator in all our most indifferent actions, 
 
 * whether we eat or drink, or whatsoever we do.'* 
 
 A person therefore who is possessed with such an ha- 
 bitual good intention, as that which I have been here 
 speaking of, enters upon no single circumstance of life, 
 without considering it as well-pleasing to the great Author 
 of his being, conformable to the dictates of reason, suit- 
 able to human nature in general, or to that particular 
 station in which Providence has placed him. He lives in 
 a perpetual sense of the Divine Presence, regards himself 
 as acting, in the whole course of his existence, under the 
 observation and inspection of that Being, who is privy to 
 all his motions and all his thoughts, who knows his 
 
 * down-sitting and his up-rising, who is about his path, 
 and about his bed, and spieth out all his ways/f In a 
 word, he remembers that the eye of his Judge is always 
 upon him, and in every action he reflects that lie is doing 
 what is commanded or allowed by Him who will here- 
 after either reward or punish it. This was the character 
 of those holy men of old, who in that beautiful phrase 
 of scripture are said to have * walked with God. 'J 
 
 When I employ myself upon a paper of morality, I ge- 
 nerally consider how I may recommend the particular 
 virtue which I treat of, by the precepts or examples of 
 the ancient heathens; by that means, if possible, to 
 phame those who have greater advantages of knowing 
 • 1 (;or. X. 31. t Psal. cxxxix. 2, 3. J Gen. t. 22. vi. g.
 
 No. 2i4.J THE SPECTATOR. 407 
 
 their duty, and therefore greater obligations to perform 
 it, into a better course of life : besides that, many among 
 us are unreasonably disposed to give a fairer hearing to 
 a Pagan philosopher than to a Christian writer. 
 
 I shall therefore produce an instance of this excellent 
 frame of mind in a speech of Socrates, which is quoted by 
 Erasmus. This great philosopher on the day of his exe- 
 cution, a little before the draught of poison was brought 
 to him, entertaining his friends with a discourse on the 
 immortality of the soul, has these words : ' Whether or 
 no God will approve of my actions, I know not; but this 
 I am sure of, that I have at all times made it my endea- 
 vour to please him, and I have a good hope that this my 
 endeavour will be accepted by him.' We find in these 
 words of that great man the habitual good intention 
 which I would here inculcate, and with which that divine 
 philosopher always acted. I shall only add, that Erasmus, 
 who was an unbigotted Roman-catholic, was so much 
 transported with this passage of Socrates, that he could 
 scarce forbear looking upon him as a saint, and desiring 
 him to pray for him ; or as that ingenious and learned 
 writer has expressed himself in a much more lively man- 
 ner; ' When I reflect on such a speech pronounced by 
 such a person, I can scarce forbear crying out, ** Sancts 
 SocruteSy ora pro nobis ;" O holy Socrates, pray fur us.' 
 
 L. 
 
 No. 214.] Monday, November 5, 1711. 
 
 Pericnint tempora lougi 
 
 Servitii Juv. Sat. iii. 124. 
 
 A long dependance in an hour is lost. Dryden. 
 
 I DID sometime ago lay before the world the unhappy 
 condition of the trading part of mankind who suffer by 
 want of punctuality in the dealings of persons above them ; 
 but there is a set of men who are much more the objects 
 of compassion than even those, and these are the de- 
 pendants on great men, whom they are pleased to take 
 under their protection as such a» are to share in their
 
 408 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 214. 
 
 friendship and favour. These indeed, as well from the 
 homstge that is accepted from them, as the hopes which 
 are given to them, are become a sort of creditors ; and 
 these debts, being debts of honour, ought, according to 
 the accustomed maxim, to be first discharged. 
 
 When I speak of dependants, I would not be under- 
 stood to mean those who are worthless in themselves, or 
 who, without any call, will press into the company of 
 their betters. Nor, when 1 speak of patrons, do I mean 
 those who either have it not in their power, or hare no 
 obligation to ass\st their friends ; but I speak of such 
 leagues where there is power and obligation on the one 
 part and merit and expectation on the other. 
 
 The division of patron and client, may, I believe, in- 
 clude a third of our nation : the want of merit and real 
 worth in the client, will strike out about ninety-nine in 
 % hundred of these ; and the want of ability in patrons, 
 as many of that kind. But however, I must beg leave to 
 say, that he who will take up another's time and fortune 
 in his service, though he has no prospect of rewarding his 
 merit towards him, is as unjust in his dealings as he who 
 takes up goods of a tradesman without intention or abi- 
 lity to pay him. Of the few of the class which I think fit 
 to consider, there are not two in ten who succeed, inso- 
 much that I know a man of good sense who put his son 
 to a blacksmith, though an offer was made him of his 
 being received as a page to a man of quality. There are 
 not more cripples come out of the wars than there are 
 from those great services ; some through discontent lose 
 their speech, some their memories, others their senses, or 
 their lives ; and I seldom see a man thoroughly discon- 
 tented, but I conclude he has had the favour of some 
 jreat man. I have known of such as have been for 
 twenty years together within a month of a good employ- 
 ment, but never arrived at the happiness of being pos- 
 sessed of any thing. 
 
 There is nothing more ordinary, than that a man who 
 has got into a considerable station, shall immediately alter 
 bis manner of treating all his friends, and from that
 
 No. 214.] THE SPECTATOR. 405 
 
 momPTit he is to deal with you as if he were your Fate. 
 You are no longer to be consulted, even in matters which 
 concern yourself; but your patron is of a species above 
 you, and a free communication with you is not to be ex- 
 pected. This perhaps may be your condition all the while 
 he bears office, and when that is at an end, you are as 
 intimate as ever you were, and he will take it very ill if 
 you keep the distance he prescribed you towards him in 
 bis grandeur. One would think this should be a behaviour 
 a man could fall into with the worst grace imaginable; 
 but they who know the world have seen it more than 
 once. I have often, with secret pity, heard the same man 
 who has professed his abhorrence against all kind of pas- 
 sive behaviour, lose minutes, hours, days, and years, in 
 a fruitless attendance on one who had no inclination to 
 befriend him. It is very much to be regretted, that the 
 great have one particular privilege above the rest of the 
 world, of being slow in receiving impressions of kindness, 
 and quick in taking offence. The elevation above the rest 
 of mankind, except in very great minds, makes men so 
 giddy, that they do not see after the same manner they 
 did before. Thus they despise their old friends, and strive 
 to extend their interest to new pretenders. By this means 
 it often happens, that when you come to know how you 
 lost such an employment, you will find the man who got 
 it never dreamed of it; but, forsooth, he was to be sur- 
 prised into it, or perhaps solicited to receive it. Upon 
 such occasions as these a man may perhaps grow out of 
 humour. If you are so, all mankind will fall in with the 
 patron, and you are an humourist and untractable if you 
 are capable of being sour at a disappointment : but it is 
 the same thing whether you do or do not resent ill osage, 
 you will be used after the same manner; as some good 
 mothers will be sure to whip their children till they cry, 
 and then whip them for crying. 
 
 There are but two ways of doing any thing with great 
 people, and those are by making yourself either consider- 
 able or agreeable. The former is not to be attained but 
 by finding a way to live without them, or concealing that 
 
 Vol. II. N n
 
 410 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 214. 
 
 you want them ; the latter is only by falling into their 
 taste and pleasures. This is of all the employments in 
 the world the most servile, except it happens to be of your 
 own natural humour. For to be agreeable to another, 
 especially if he be above you, is not to be possessed of 
 such qualities and accomplishments as should render you 
 agreeable in yourself, but such as make you agreeable in 
 respect to him. An imitation of his faults, or a com- 
 pliance, if not subservience to his vices, must be the mea- 
 sure of your conduct. 
 
 When it comes to that, the unnatural state a man lives 
 in, when his patron pleases, is ended ; and his guilt and 
 complaisance are objected to him, though the man who 
 rejects him for his vices was not only his partner but se- 
 ducer. Thus the client (like a young woman who has 
 given up the innocence which made her charming) has 
 not only lost his time, but also the virtue which could 
 render him capable of resenting the injury which is done 
 him. 
 
 It would be endless to recount the tricks of turning you 
 off from themselves to persons who have less power to 
 serve you ; the art of being sorry for such an unaccount- 
 able accident in your behavioi^r, that such a one (who, 
 perhaps, has never heard of you) opposes your advance- 
 ment ; and if you have any thing more than ordinary in 
 you, you are flattered with a whisper, that it is no wonder 
 people are so slow in doing for a man of your talents, and 
 the like. 
 
 After all this treatment, I must still add the plcasantest 
 insolence of all, which I have once or twice seen ; to wit, 
 that when a silly rogue has thrown away one part in three 
 of his life in unprofitable attendance, it is taken wonder- 
 fully ill that he withdraws, and is resolved to employ the 
 rest for himself. 
 
 When we consider these things, and reflect upon so 
 many honest natures (which one, who makes observation 
 of what passes, may have seen) that have miscarried by 
 such sort of applications, it is too melancholy a scene to 
 dwell upon; therefore I shall take another opportunity to
 
 No. 215.] THE SPECTATOR. 411 
 
 discourse of good patrons, and distinguish such as have 
 done their duty to those who have depended upon them, 
 and were not able to act without their favour. Worthy 
 patrons are like Plato's Guardian Angels, who are always 
 doing good to their wards; but negligent patrons are like 
 Epicurus's gods, that lie lolling on the clouds, and instead 
 of blessings, pour down storms and tempests on the heads 
 of those that are offering incense to thera. T. 
 
 No. 215.] Tuesday, November 6, 1711. 
 
 lugeiiu.vs di'licisse fidcliter artes 
 
 Emollk mores, uec sinit esse teios. 
 
 Ovid. F,p. ix. Lib. 2. de Ponto, v. 47. 
 Ingenuous arts, where they an entrance find, 
 Sotlen the manners, and subdue tbc mind. 
 
 I CONSIDER a human soul without education like mar- 
 ble in the quarry, which shows none of its inherent beau- 
 ties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the colours, 
 makes the surface shine, and discovers every ornamental 
 cloud, spot, and vein that runs through the body of it. 
 Education, after the same manner, when it works upon 
 a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and 
 perfection, which without such helps arc never able to 
 make their ajipearance. 
 
 If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion 
 so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance 
 to illustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has 
 brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when 
 he tells us that a statue lies hid in a block of marble ; and 
 that the art of the statuary only clears away the super- 
 fluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in 
 the stone, the sculptor only fin<ls it. What sculpture is 
 to a block of marble, education is to a human soul. The 
 philosopher, the saijit, or the hero, the wise, the good, or 
 the great man, very often lie hid and concealed in a ple- 
 beian, which a proper education might have disinterred, 
 and have brought to light. I am, therefore, much de- 
 lighted with reading the accounts of savage nations, and
 
 412 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 215. 
 
 wit\i contemplating those virtues which are wild and un- 
 cultJvAted; to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, 
 resolution in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in 
 suUenness and despair. 
 
 Men's passions operate variously, and appear in diflFerent 
 kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rec- 
 tified and swayed by reason. When one hears of negroes, 
 who upon the death of their masters, or upon changing 
 their service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it 
 frequently happens in our American plantations, who can 
 forbear admiring their fidelity, though it expresses itself 
 in so dreadful a manner ? What might not that savage 
 greatness of soul which appears in these poor wretches on 
 many occasions, be raised to, were it rightly cultivated ? 
 And what colour of excuse can there be for the contempt 
 with which we treat this part of our species ? that wc 
 should not put them upon the common foot of humanity; 
 that we should only set an insignificant fine upon the man 
 who murders them ; nay, that we should as much as in 
 us lies, cut them off from the prospects of happiness in 
 another world as well as in this, and deny them that 
 which we look upon as the proper means for attaining it ? 
 
 Since 1 am engaged on this subject, I cannot forbeaj 
 mentioning a story which I have lately heard, and which 
 is so well attested, that I have no manner of reason to sus- 
 pect the truth of it. I may call it a kind of wild tragedy 
 that passed about twelve years ago at St. Christopher's, 
 one of our British Leeward islands. The negroes who 
 were the persons concerned in it, were all of them the 
 slaves of a gentleman who is now in England. 
 
 This gentleman, among bis negroes, had a young wo- 
 man, who was looked upon as a most extraordinary beauty 
 by those of her own complexion. He had at the same 
 time two young fellows, who were likewise negroes and 
 slaves, remarkable for the comeliness of their persons, and 
 for the friendship which they bore to one another. It un- 
 fortunately happened that both of them fell in love with 
 the female negro above-mentioned, who would have been 
 very glad to have taken either of them for her husband.
 
 No. 215.] THE SPECTATOR. 41S 
 
 provided they could agree between themselres which should 
 be the man. But they were both so passionately in love 
 with her, that neither of them could think of giving her 
 up to his rival ; and at the same time were so true to 
 one another, that neither of them would think of gaining 
 her without his friend's consent. The torments of these 
 two lovers were the discourse of the family to which they 
 belonged, who could not forbear observing the strange 
 complication of passions which perplexed the hearts of 
 the poor negroes, that often dropped expressions of the 
 uneasiness they underwent, and how impossible it was 
 for either of them ever to be happy. 
 
 After a long struggle between love and friendship, truth 
 and jealousy, they one day took a walk together into a 
 wood, carrying their mistress along with them -. where, 
 after abundance of lamentations, they stabbed her to the 
 heart, of which she immediately died. A slave who was 
 at his work not far from the place where this astonishing 
 piece of cruelty was committed, hearing the shrieks of the 
 dying person, ran to see what was the occasion of them. 
 He there discovered the woman lying dead upon the 
 grouud, with the two negroes on each side of her, kissing 
 the dead corpse, weeping over it, and heating their breasts 
 in the utmost agonies of grief and despair. He imme- 
 diately ran to the English family with the news of what 
 he had seen ; who upon coming to the place saw the wo- 
 man dead, and the two negroes expiring by her with 
 wounds they had given themselves. 
 
 We see in this amazing instance of barbarity, what 
 strange disorders are bred in the minds of those men 
 whose passions are not regulated by virtue, and disciplined 
 by reason. Though the action which I have recited is in 
 itself full of guilt and horror, it proceeded from a temper 
 of mind which might have produced very noble fruits, had 
 it been informed and guided by a suitable education. 
 
 It is therefore an unspeakable blessing to be born in 
 
 those parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge 
 
 flourish ; though it must be confessed, there are, even in 
 
 these parts, several poor uninstructed persons, who are 
 
 N N 2
 
 414 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 216, 
 
 but little above the inhabitants of those nations of which 
 I have been here speaking ; as those who have had the 
 advantages of a more liberal education rise above one an- 
 other by several different degrees of perfection. For, to 
 return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it 
 sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough- 
 hewn, and but just sketched into an human figure; some- 
 times we see the man appearing distinctly in all his limbs 
 and features, sometimes we find the figure wrought up to 
 a great elegancy, but seldom meet with any to which the 
 hand of a Phidias or Praxiteles could not give several nice 
 touches and finishings. 
 
 Discourses of morality, and reflections upon human na- 
 ture, are the best means we can make use of to improve 
 our minds, and gain a true knowledge of ourselves, and 
 consequently to recover our souls out of the vice, igno- 
 rance, and prejudice, which naturally cleave te them. 
 I have all along professed myself in this paper a promoter 
 of these great ends ; and I flatter myself that I do from 
 day to day contribute something to the polishing of men's 
 minds: at least my design is laudable, whatever the exe- 
 cution may be. I roust confess I am not a little encou- 
 raged in it by many letters which I receive from unknown 
 hands, in approbation of my endeavours ; and must take 
 this opportunity of returning my thanks to those who 
 write them, and excusing myself for not inserting several 
 of them in my papers, which I am sensible would be a very 
 great ornament to them. Should I publish the praises 
 which are so well penned, they would do honour to the 
 persons who write them, but my publishing of them would, 
 I fear, be a sufficient instance to the world that I did not 
 deserve them. C. 
 
 No. 216.] Wednesday^ November 7, 1711. 
 
 Siquidem herein possis, nil pi ins, neqiic fortius: 
 
 Ve; urn si incipies, neqne ptrfit ics navittr, 
 
 Atqne, iibi pati non poteris, ciim nemo expetet, 
 
 Infecti pace, ultrd ad earn venies, indic.ms 
 
 Tc aniare, et ferrc non posse : actum est, ilicet, 
 
 Perlsli: eludet, ubi le victum senserit.— TVr. Eim. Act i. Sc. 1.
 
 No. 216J THE SPECTATOR. '415 
 
 O brave! oh excfllent! it" you maintain it! 
 
 But if you try, and caii'i ro through x^itli spiiit 
 
 And fiiifling you can't bear it, uninvited, 
 
 Your peace unmade, all of your own accord. 
 
 You come and swear you love, aiul can't eodure it. 
 
 Good night! all's over! ruin'd ! and undone! 
 
 She'll jilt you, when slie st-es you in her power.— Co/;na«. 
 
 * To Mr. Spectator. 
 * SIR,' 
 
 * This 's to inform you, that Mr. Freeman had no 
 sooner taken coach, but his lady was taken with a terrible 
 fit of the vapours, which it is feared will make her mis- 
 carry, if not endanger her life ; therefore, dear sir, if you 
 know of any receipt that is good against this fashionable 
 reigning distemper, be pleased to communicate it for the 
 good of the public, and you will oblige 
 
 * Yours, 
 
 ' A. NOEWILL.' 
 
 *MU. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * The uproar was so great'as soon as I had read the 
 Spectator concerning Mrs. Freeman, that after many re- 
 volutions in her temper, of raging, swooning, railing, 
 fainting, pitying herself, and reviling her husband, upon 
 an accidental coming in of a neighbouring lady (who says 
 she has writ to you also) she had nothing left for it but to 
 fall into a fit. I had the honour to read the paper to her, 
 and have a pretty good command of countenance and 
 temper on such occasions; and soon found my historical 
 name to be Tom Meggot in your writings, but concealed 
 myself until I saw how it affected Mrs. Freeman. She 
 looked frequently at her husband, as often at me; and 
 she did not tremble as she filled tea, until she came to 
 the circumstance of Armstrong's writing out a piece of 
 Tully for an opera tune. Then she burst out, she was 
 exposed, she was deceived, she was wrenged and abnsed. 
 The tea-cup was thrown in the fire; and without taking 
 vengeance on her spouse, she said to me, that 1 was a 
 pretending coxcomb, a meddler that knew not what it 
 was to interpose in so nice an affair as between a man and 
 his wife. To which Mr. Freeman : *' Madam, were I les*
 
 416 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 216. 
 
 foud of you than I am, I should not have taken this way 
 of writing to the Spectator to inform a woman, whom 
 God and nature has placed under my direction, with what 
 I request of her j but since you are so indiscreet as not 
 to take the hint which I gave you in that paper, I must 
 tell you, madam, in so many words, that you have for 
 a long and tedious space of time acted a part unsuitable 
 to the sense you ought to have of the subordination in 
 which you are placed. And 1 must acquaint you once 
 for all, that the fellow without— *' Ha, Tom ! " — (Here the 
 footman entered and answered, *' Madam") "Sirrah, don't 
 you know my voice? Look upon me when I speak to 
 you." — *' I say, madam, this fellow here is to know of me 
 myself, whether I am at leisure to see company or not. 
 I am from this hour master of this house; and my busi- 
 ness in it, and every where else, is to behave myself in 
 such a manner, as it shall be hereafter an honour to you 
 to bear my name ; and your pride that you are the de- 
 light, the darling, and ornament of a man of honour, 
 useful and esteemed by his friends; and I no longer one 
 that has buried some merit in the world, in compliance 
 to a froward humour which has grown upon an agreeable 
 woman by his indulgence." Mr. Freeman ended this with 
 a tenderness in his aspect, and a downcast eye, which 
 showed he was extremely moved jit the anguish he saw 
 her in; for she sat swelling with passion, and her eyes 
 firmly fixed on the fire ; when I, fearing he would lose all 
 again, took upon me to provoke her out of that amiable 
 sorrow she was in, to fall upon me ; upon which I said 
 very seasonably for my friend, that indeed Mr. Freeman 
 was Ijecome the common talk of the town ; and that no- 
 thing was so much a jest, as when it was said in com- 
 pany Mr. Freeman has promised to come to such a place. 
 Upon which the good lady turned her softness into down- 
 right rage, and threw the scalding tea-kettle upon your 
 humble servant, flew into the middle of the room, and 
 cried out she was the unfortunatest of all women. Others 
 kept family dissatisfactions for hours of privacy and re- 
 tirement. No apology vf as to be made to her, no expe-
 
 No. 216.] THE SPECTATOR. 4r7 
 
 dient to be found, no previous manner of breaking what 
 was amiss in her ; but all the world was to be acquainted 
 with her errors, without the least admonition. Mr. Free- 
 man was going to make a softening speech, but 1 inter- 
 posed : " Look you, madam, I have nothing to say to this 
 matter, but you ought to consider you are now past a 
 chicken: this humour, which was well enough in a girl, 
 is insufferable in one of your motherly character." With 
 that she lost all patience, and flew directly at her hus- 
 band's periwig. I got her in my arms, and defended my 
 friend ; he making signs at the same time that it was too 
 much ; I beckoning, nodding, and frowning over her 
 shoulder, that he was lost if he did not persist. In this 
 mamier she flew round and round the room in a moment, 
 until the lady I spoke of above and servants entered ; 
 upon which she fell on a couch as breathless. I still kept 
 up my friend: but he, with a very silly air, bid them 
 bring the coach to the door, and we went off: I being 
 forced to bid the coachman drive on. We were no sooner 
 come to my lodgings, but all his wife's relations came to 
 inquire after him ; and Mrs. Freeman's mother writ a 
 note, wherein she thought never to have seen this day, 
 and so forth. 
 
 * In a word, sir, I am afraid we are upon a thing we 
 have not talents for; and I can observe already, my 
 friend looks upon me rather as a man that knows a 
 weakness of him that he is ashamed of, than one who 
 has rescued him from slavery. Mr. Spectator, I am but 
 a young fellow, and if Mr. Freeman submits, I shall be 
 looked upon as an incendiary, and never get a w ife as long 
 as I breathe. He has indeed sent word home he shall lie 
 at Hampstead to-night; but I believe fear of the first 
 onset after this rupture has too great a place in this reso- 
 lution. Mrs. Freeman has a very pretty sister; suppose 
 I delivered him up, and articled with the mother for hf.T 
 for bringing him home. If he has not courage to stand 
 it Cyou are a great casuist), is it such an ill thing to 
 bring myself oflf as well as I can? What makes me doubt 
 my man is, that I find he thinks it reasonable tu expos-
 
 418 THE SPECTATOR.' [No. 217. 
 
 tulate at least with her; and Captain Sentry will tell you, 
 if you let your orders be disputed, you are no longer a 
 commander. I wish you could advise me how to get clear 
 of this business handsomely. 
 
 * Yours, 
 T. ' TOM MEGGOT.* 
 
 No. 217.] Thursday, November 8, 1711. 
 
 Tunc fcemina simplex. 
 
 Et pariter toto rep€titar clamor ab antro.—Juv, Sat. vi. 320. 
 Then unrestrain'd by rules of deceflcy, 
 Th' assembled females raise a general cry, 
 
 I SHALL entertain my reader to-day with some letters 
 from my correspondents. The first of them is the de- 
 scription of a club, whether real or imaginary I cannot 
 determine; but am apt to fancy, that the writer of it, 
 whoever she is, has formed a kind of nocturnal orgie out 
 of her own fancy. Whether this be so or not, her letter 
 may conduce to the amendment of that kind of persons 
 who are represented in it, and whose characters are fre- 
 quent enough in the world. 
 
 MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * In some of your first papers you were pleased to give 
 the public a very diverting account of several clubs and 
 nocturnal assemblies; but I am a member of a society 
 which has wholly escaped your notice, I mean a club of 
 She-Romps. We take each a hackney-coach, and meet 
 once a week in a large upper-chamber, which we hire by 
 the year for that purpose ; our landlord and his family 
 who are quiet people, constantly contriving to be abroad 
 on our club-night. We are no sooner come together, than 
 we throw oflf all that modesty and reservedness with 
 which our sex are obliged to disguise themselves in pub- 
 lic places. 1 am not able to express the pleasure we enjoy 
 from ten at night till four in the morning, in being as 
 rude as you men can be for your lives. As our play runs 
 high, the room is immediately filled with broken fans,
 
 No. 217.] THE SPECTATOR. 419 
 
 torn petticoats, lappets, or head-dresses, flounces, fur- 
 belows, garters, and working-aprons. I had forgot to tell 
 you at first, that besides the coaches we come in our- 
 selves, there is one which stands always empty to carry 
 off our dead men, for so we call all those fragments and 
 tatters with which the room is strewed, and which we 
 pack up together in bundles and put into the aforesaid 
 coach. It is no small diversion for us to meet the next 
 night at some member's chamber, where every one is to 
 pick out what belonged to her from this confused bundle 
 of silks, stuffs, laces, and ribands. I have hitherto given 
 you an account of our diversion on ordinary club-nights ; 
 but must acquaint you further, that once a mouth we 
 demolish a prude, that is, we get some queer formal crea- 
 ture in among us, and unrig her in an instant. Our last 
 month's prude was so armed and fortified in whalebone 
 and buckram, that we had much ado to come at her; but 
 you would have died with laughing to have seen how tlw 
 sober awkward thing looked when she was forced out of 
 her intrenchments. In short, sir, it is impossible to give 
 you a true notion of our sport, unless you would come 
 one night amongst us ; and though it be directly against 
 the rules of our society to admit a male visitant, we re- 
 pose so much confidence in your silence and taciturnity, 
 that it was agreed by the whole club, at our last meeting, 
 to give you entrance for one night as a spectator. 
 ' I am your humble servant, 
 
 ♦ KITTY TERMAGANT. 
 
 * P. S. We shall demolish a prude next Thursday.* 
 
 Though I thank Kitty for her kind oflfer, I do not at 
 present find in myself any inclination to venture my per- 
 son with her and her romping companions. I should re- 
 gard myself as a second Clodius intruding on the myste- 
 rious rites of the Bona Dea, and should apprehend being 
 demolished as much as the prude. 
 
 The following letter comes from a gentleman, whose 
 taste I find is much too delicate to endure the letifit
 
 420 THE SPECTATOR. [No.2ir. 
 
 advance towards romping, 1 may perhaps hereafter im- 
 prove upon the hint be has given me, and make it the 
 subject of a whole Spectator; in the mean time take it 
 as it follows in his own worils;— * 
 
 • MR. SPECTATOR, 
 
 * It is my misfortune to be in love with a young crea- 
 ture who is daily committing faults, which though they 
 give me the utmost uneasiness, I know not how to re- 
 prove her for, or even acquaint her with. She is pretty, 
 dresses well, is rich, and good-humoured; but either 
 wholly neglects, or has no notion of that which polite 
 people have agreed to distinguish by the name of delicacy. 
 After our return from a walk the other day, she threw 
 herself into an elbow-chair, and professed before a large 
 company, that she was all over in a sweat. She told me 
 this afternoon that her stomach ached ; and was com- 
 plaining yesterday at dinner of something that stuck in 
 her teeth. I treated her with a basket of fruit last sum- 
 mer, which she eat so very greedily, as almost made me 
 resolve never to see her more. In short, sir, I begin to 
 tremble whenever I see her about to speak or move. As 
 she does not want sense, if she takes these hints I am 
 happy ; if not, I am more than afraid, that these things 
 which shock me even in the behaviour of a mistress, will 
 appear insupportable in that of a wife, 
 
 ' J am. Sir, 
 
 * Yours, &c.' 
 
 My next letter comes from a correspondent whom I 
 cannot but very much value, upon the account which she 
 gives of herself. 
 
 •MR.SPECTATOn, 
 
 * I am happily arrived at a state of tranquillity, which 
 few people envy, I mean that of an old maid ; therefore 
 being wholly unconcerned in all that medley of follies 
 which our sex is apt to contract from their silly fondness 
 of years, I read your railleries on us without provocation. 
 I can say with Hamlet,
 
 No. 218.] THE SPECTATOR. 4?I 
 
 " Man (1eli?hfs not me, 
 
 I*'or woraau neitlier." 
 
 'Therefore, dear sir, as you never spare your own sex, 
 do not be afraid of reproving what is ridiculous in ours, 
 and you will oblige at least one woman, who is 
 * Your humble servant, 
 
 ' SUSANNAH FROST.' 
 'MR. SPECTATOR, 
 * I am wife to a clergyman, and cannot help thinking 
 that in your tenth or tithe character of womankind you 
 meant myself, therefore I have no quarrel against you 
 for the other nine characters. 
 
 * Your humble servant, 
 X. 'A. B.' 
 
 No. 218.] Friday, November 9,1711. 
 
 Quid de quoque viro, et cui dicas, saepe caveto. 
 
 Hor. Lib. 1. Ep. xvilt. 63. 
 
 Have a care 
 
 Of whom you talk, to whom, and what, and where.— Pooify. 
 
 1 HAPPENED the other day, as my way is, to stroll into 
 a little coffee-house beyond Aldgate; and as I sat there, 
 two or three very plain sensible men were talking of the 
 Spectator. One said, he had that morning drawn the 
 great benefit ticket; another wished he had; but a third 
 shaked his head and said. It was pity that the writer of 
 that paper was such a sort of man, that it was no great 
 matter whether he had or no. He is, it seems, said the 
 good man, the most extravagant creature in the world ; 
 has run through vast sums, and yet been in continual 
 want : a man, for all he talks so well of economy, unfit 
 for any of the offices of life by reason of his profuseness. 
 It would be an unhappy thing to be his wife, his child, or 
 his friend ; and yet he talks as well of those duties of life 
 as any one. Much reflection has brought me to so easy 
 a contempt for every thing which is false, that this heavy 
 accusation gave me no manner of uneasiness ; but at the 
 same time it threw me into deep thought upon the subject 
 
 Vol. II. O o
 
 4S2 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 218. 
 
 of fame in general ; and I could not but pity such as were 
 so weak, as to value what the common people say out of 
 their own talkative temper to the advantage or diminu- 
 tion of those whom they mention, without being moved 
 either by mEdice or good-will. It will be too long to ex- 
 patiate upon the sense all mankind have of fame, and 
 the inexpressible pleasure which there is in the appro- 
 bation of worthy men, to all who are capable of worthy 
 actions; but roethinks one may divide the general word 
 fame, into three different species, as it regards the dif- 
 ferent orders of mankind who have any thing to do with 
 it. Fame therefore may be divided into glory, which 
 respects the hero ; reputation, which is preserved by every 
 gentleman ; and credit, which must be supported by every 
 tradesman. These possessions in fame are dearer than 
 life to those characters of men, or rather are the life of 
 these characters. Glory, while the hero pursues great and 
 noble enterprises, is impregnable ; and all the assailants 
 of his renown do but show their pain and impatience of 
 its brightness, without throwing the least shade upon it. 
 If the foundation of an high name be virtue and service, 
 all that is offered against it is but rumour, which is too 
 short-lived to stand up in competition with glorj-, which 
 is everlasting. 
 
 Reputation, which the portion of every man who would 
 live with the elegant and knowing part of mankind, is as 
 stable as glory, if it be as well founded ; and the common 
 cause of human society is thought concerned when we 
 hear a man of good behaviour calumniated. Besides whicb| 
 according to a prevailmg custom amongst us, every man 
 has his defence in his own arm : and reproach is soon 
 checked, put out of countenance, and overtaken by dis- 
 grace. 
 
 The most unhappy of all men, and the most exposed to 
 the malignity and wantonness of the common voice, is the 
 trader. Credit is undone in whispers. The tradesman's 
 wound is received from one whu is more private and more 
 cruel than the ruffian with the lantern and dagger. The 
 manner of repeating a man's name^ — As; * Mr. Cash,
 
 No. 218.] THE SPECTATOR. 423 
 
 Ob ! do you leave your money at his shop ? Why, do you 
 know Mr. Searoom? He is indeed a general merchant.' 
 1 say, 1 have seen, from the iteration ot a m-in's name, 
 hiduig one thought of him, and explaming what you hide, 
 by saj'iug something to his advantage when you speak, a 
 merchant hurt in his credit; and him who, every day he 
 lived, hteraliy added to the valut- ol his native country, 
 undone by oue who was only a burden and a blemish to 
 it. Since every body who knows t[je world is sensible of 
 this great evil, how careful ought a man to be in his lan- 
 guage of a merchant ? It may possibly be in the power of 
 a very shallow creature to laj the ruin of the best family 
 in the most opulent city ; and the more so, the more 
 highly he deserves of his country ; that is to say, the far- 
 ther he places his wealth out ot his hands, to draw home 
 that of another climate. 
 
 In this case an ill word may change plenty into want, 
 and by a rash sentence a free and generoua fortune may 
 in a few days be reduced to beggary. How little does 
 a giddy prater imagine, that an idle phrase to the dis- 
 favour of a merchant, may be as pernicious in the con- 
 sequence, as the forgery of a deed to bar an iiiiieritance 
 would be to a gentleman? Land stands where it did 
 before a gentleman was calumniated, and the state of a 
 great action is just as it was before calumny was ofTered 
 to diminish it, and there is time, place, and occasion ex- 
 pected to unravel all that is contrived against those cha- 
 racters ; but the trader who is ready only for probable 
 demands upon him, can have no armour against the in- 
 quisitive, the malicious, and the envious, who are pre- 
 pared to fill the cry to his dishonour. Fire and sword 
 are slow engines of destruction, in comparison of the bab- 
 bler in the case of the merchant. 
 
 For this reason I thought it an imitable piece of 
 humanity of a gentleman of my acquaintance, who had 
 great variety of affairs, and used to talk with warmth 
 enough against gentlemen by whom he thought himself 
 ill dealt with; that he would never let any thing be urged 
 against a merchant (with whom he had any difference)
 
 424 THE SPECTATOR. [No. 218. 
 
 except in a court of justice. He used to say, that to speak 
 ill of a merchant, was to be^in his suit with judgment 
 and execution. One cannot, I think, say more on this 
 occasion, than to repeat, that the merit of the merchant 
 is above that of all other subjects ; for while he is un- 
 touched in his credit, his hand-writing is a more portable 
 coin for the service of his fellow-citizens, and his word 
 the gold of Opbir to the country wherein he resides, 
 T. 
 
 END OP THE SECOND VOLUME.- 
 
 Stereotyped and priuted by and for A. Wilson, 
 CamdcQ Town, St. r»ncraj.
 
 V 
 
 9
 
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