1^ /-/y4-e „»«Sff55a,. ^s%. /(ff6 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/eighteenthcentesOOdobsiala EIGHTEENTH CENTURY ESSAYS. With slower pen, men used to write, Of old, when " letters " were " polite " ; In Anna's, or in George's days. They could afford to turn a phrase, Or trim a straggling theme aright. They knew not steam ; electric light Not yet had dazed their calmer sight; — They meted out hoth blame and praise "With slower pen. More swiftly now the hours take flight ! What 's read at morn is dead at night ; Scant; space have we for Art's delays, Whose breathless thought so briefly stays, We may not work — ah ! would we might. With slower pen ! ?R EIGHTEENTH CENTURYDi, ~ mi ESSAYS. ^^^' SELECTED AND ANNOTATED BT AUSTIN DOBSON. Collecta revirescunt. BOSTON : WILLARD SMALL, 24 Frankun Street. 1888. Alfred Mudge & Son, Printers, 24 Franklin Street, Boston. TO MRS. RICHMOND THACKERAY RITCHIE. Madam, — Inputting the finishing Strokes to that famous Novel of the Eighteenth Century, which is one of the chief Glories of the Nine- teenth, the Author of Esmond did not neglect one needful and indeed indispensable Detail, the Dedication to an Illustrious Personage. So high a Precedent may not improperly be fol- lowed in Cases more obscure. Were Mr. Thack- eray still among us, the Homage of this Selec- tion of Eighteenth-Century Essays (had he been pleased to accept it) would have belonged of right to the literary Descendant of Addison and Fielding, of Goldsmith and Steele; and it would have been my Privilege to have found in it the Pretext for a Tribute (however trifling) to a great Writer whom I love and honor. But alas ! . . . nullum Saeva Caput Proserpina fugit : and Fate, that cannot kill a Noble Work, is absolute over him who gives it Birth. I am reminded, not the less, that there are still written, for our unthinking Moderns, Pages in which it is not difficult to trace some softer Relation to that pure and unaffected Pathos, that keen yet kindly Satire. I presume therefore to offer this Utile Volume to Mr. Thackeray'' s Daughter. I am. Madam, Your obedient Servant, AUSTIN DOBSON. CONTENTS. Introduction No. 1. Mr. Bickerstaff Visits a Friend " 2. Mr. Bickerstaff Visits a Friend (con tinned') 3. The Trumpet Club . 4. The Political Upholsterer . 5. Tom Folio 6. Ned Softly the Poet . 7. Kecollections of Childhood 8. Adventures of a Shilhng . 9. Frozen Voices .... 10. Stage Lions .... 11. Meditations in "Westminster Abbey 12. The Exercise of the Fan . 13. Will Wimble .... 14. Sir Roger de Coverley's Ancestors 15. Sir.Roger de Coverley Hare-Hunting 16. The Citizen's Journal 17. The Fine Lady's Journal . 18. Sir Roger de Coverley at the Play 19. A Day's Ramble in London 20. Dick Estcourt : In Memoriam . 21. Deatli of Sir Roger de Coverlev 22. The Tory Fox-Hunter 23. A Modern Conversation . 24. A Modern Conversation {continued') 25. The Squire in Orders 2Q. Country Congregations 27. Dick Minim the Critic 28. Dick Minim the Critic (continued) FASK 9 19 26 32 38 44 49 55 61 67 74 79 84 8!) 94 100 106 113 120 126 134 140 1<5 152 160 168 174 181 188 8 CONTENTS. PAGE No. 29. Art-Connoisseurs . 193 " 30. The Man in Blaclc . . 198 " 31. Beau Tibbs . 203 «' 32. Beau Tibbs at Home . . 205 " 33. Beau Tibbs at Vauxhall . . 214 " Si. A Country Dowager . . 221 Illustb >ATivK Notes . 228 INTRODUCTION. The Eighteenth-Century Essayists, even in the compact editions of Chalmers and Berguer, occupy some forty or fifty volumes. These, again, are only a part of those whose names are given in the laborious list compiled by Dr. Nathan Drake. To compress any representa- tive selection from such a mass of literature within the limits of the " Parchment Library" is clearly out of the question ; and it must there- fore be distinctly explained that we are here concerned only with a particular division of the subject. That grave and portentous produc- tion — the essay "critical," "metaphysical," " moral," which so impressed our forefathers, has become to us a little lengthy — a little weari- some. Much of it is old-fashioned; something is obsolete. With the march of time philosophy has taken fresh directions; a new apparatus criticus has displaced the old; and if we are didactic now, we are didactic with a difference. But the sketches of social life and character still retain their freshness, because the types are eternal. Le jour va passer ; mais Us badauds ne passeront pas I As the frivolous chatter of the Syracusan ladies in Theocritus is still to be heard at every Hyde-Park review, as the Cris- pinus and Suffenus of Horace and Catullus still haunt our clubs and streets, as the personages of Chaucer and Molifere and La Bruyfere and 10 INTBODUCTJON. Shakespeare still live and move in our midst, — so the " Will Wimbles " and " Ned Softlys," the "Beau Tibbs's " and the " Men in Black," are as familiar to us now as they were to the be- wigged and be-powdered readers of the " Spec- tator" and the "Citizen of the World." We laugh at them; but we sympathize with them too; and find them, on the whole, more endur- ingly diverting than dissertations on the *' Non- locality of Happiness " or the " Position of the Pineal Gland." In the conviction, therefore, that the majority of the graver essays have lost their interest for the general public, the present gathering is mainly confined to sketches of character and manners, and those chiefly of the humorous kind. The examples chosen will speak so ])lainly for themselves that any lenglhy intro- duction would only needlessly occupy space; but a few rapid indications with respect to the earlier collections and the succession of the leading writers, will not be superfluous. Set- ting aside for the moment the " Scandal Club " of Defoe's " Review," the Eighteenth-Century Essay proper may be said to begin with the "Tatler" by " Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq."— the first number of which is dated "Tuesday, April 12, 1709." In appearance it was a modest-look- ing sheet enough, and not entirely free from the imputations of " tobacco-paper " and " scurvy letter" cast upon it by an injured correspond- ent.* Its price was a penny; and it was issued three times a week. To the first and many sub- sequent papers was prefixed that well-worn " Quicquid ayunt homines " which has recently entered upon a new career of usefulness with Lord Beaconsfield's "Endymion"; and its "general purpose," as discovered in the " Pref- •"Tatler,"No.l61. INTBODUCTION. 11 ace ' to vol. i., was " to expose the false arts of life; to pull off the disguises of cunning, vanity, and affectation; and to recommend a general simplicity in our dress, our discourse, and our hehavior." Steele's first idea seems to have heen to corahine the latest news (for which his position as " Gazetteer " gave him exceptional facilities) with familiar sketches and dramatic and literary notes. But after eighty numbers had appeared, he was permanently joined by Addison, and the essay began to assume the definite form which it retained for a century, namely, that of a short paper, generally on one subject, and headed with a Greek or Latin motto. Then, in January, 1711, the "Tatler" came to an end. Its place was filled, in the following March, by the more famous " Specta- tor," which ran its course until December, 1712. After this, in 1713, came the " Guardian"; and in 1714 an eighth volume of the "Spectator" was issued by Addison alone. He was also the sole author of the " Freeholder," 1715, Avhich contains the admirable sketch of the " Tory Foxhunter." Steele, on his side, followed up the " Guardian " by the " Lover," the " Reader," and half a dozen abortive efforts; but his real successes, as well as those of Addison, were in the three great collections for which they worked together. Any comparison of these two masters of the Eighteenth-Century Essay is as futile as it will probably be perpetual. While people continue to pit Fielding against Smollett, and Thackeray against Dickens, there will always be a party for Addison and a party for Steele. The adherents of the former will draw conviction from Lord Macaulay's famous defiance in the "Edinburgh " apropos of Aikin's " Life "; those of the latter from that vigorous counterblast which (after 12 INTJiODUCTION. ten years' meditation) Mr. Forster sounded in the " Quarterly." But the real lovers of litera- ture will be content to enjoy the delightfully distinctive characteristics of both. For them Steele's frank and genial humor, his chivalrous attitude to women, and the engaging warmth and generosity of his nature, will retain their attraction, in spite of his literary inequalities and structural negligence; while the occasional coldness and restraint of Addison's manner will not prevent those who study his work from admiring his unfailing good taste, the archness of his wit, his charming sub-humorous gravity, and the perfect keeping of his character-painting. It is needless to particularize the examples here selected from these writers, for they are all masterpieces. About four fifths of the " Tatler," "Specta- tor," and " Guardian" was written by Addison and Steele alone. The work of their coadjutors was consequently limited in extent, and, as a rule, unimportant. Budgell, Addison's cousin, whose memoiy survives chiefly by his tragic end, and a malignant couplet of Pope, was one of the most regular. Once, working on Addi- son's lines, and aided, it may be, by Addison's refining pen, he made a respectable addition to the " Coverley " series, which is here reprinted; but we have not cared to preserve any further examples of his style. From Hughes, again, another frequent writer, and an amiable man, whose contributions were for the most part in the form of letters, nothing has been taken. Next, b)' the amount of his assistance, comes the Bishop of Cloyne and the author of "Tar- water" — the great and good Dr. Berkeley. Excellent as they are, however, his papers in the " Guardian " against Collins and the Free- thinkers do not come within our scheme. introduction: is Among the remaining " occasionals " were sev- eral " eminent hands." These, though they may have graced the board, did not add materi- ally to the feast. Pope, who has a couple of papers in the "Spectator" and eight in the "Guardian," is not at his best as an essayist. His satire on " Dedications,"* and his side- laugh at Bossu in the " Receipt to make an Epick Poem,"t are the happiest of his efforts. His well-known ironic parallel between the pastorals of Ambrose Philips and his own J is admirably ingenious; but, unfortunately, we have come to think the one as artificial as the other. The " City Shower "§ of Swift scarcely ranks as an essay at all, and his only remaining paper of importance is a letter on " Slang. "| This, like Pope's pieces, is too exclusively liter- ary for our purpose. Of Congreve, Gay, Tickell, Parnell, and the long list of obscurer writers, there is nothing that seems to merit the honors of revival. Between the " Guardian " of 1713 and the "Eambler" of 1750-2, there were a number of periodical essayists of varying merit. It is scarcely necessary to recall the names of these now forgotten "Intelligencers," "Moderators," " Remembrancers," and the like, the bulk of which were political. Eieldiug places one of them, the " Freethinker " of Philips, nearly on a level with " those great originals, the ' Tatlers' and ' Spectators ' " ; but the initial chapters to the different books of " Tom Jones " attract us more forcibly to the author's own " Champion," written in conjunction with the Ralph who "makes Night hideous" in the " Dunciad." Those utterances, however, which can with any * " Guardian," No. 4. t " Gnard5an,"No. 73. X " Guardian," No. 40. § " Tatler," No. 238. II " Tatler," No. 230. U mTB OD UCTION. certainty be attributed to Fielding, bear such obvious signs of haste that it is scarcely fair to oppose any of them to the more fiuished and leisurely efforts of Addison. Another of Field- ing's enterprises in the " Spectator " vein was the " Covent Garden Journal," 1752. This, besides a remarkable paper on the " Choice of Books," contains a masterly essay on " Profan- ity," * including a character sketch of the most vigorous kind, but the very ridelity of the pic- ture unfits it for a modern audience. Concurrently with the " Covent Garden Jour- nal " appeared the final volume of Johnson's " Rambler," a work upon the cardinal defect of which its author laid his finger when, in later life, he declared it to be " too wordy." Coming from the Archpriest of magniloquence, this is no light admission. He seems also to have been fully alive to its want of variety, and frequently regretted that his labors had not been occasion- ally relieved by some lighter pen, in which con- nection (according to Arthur Murphy) he was accustomed to quote sonorously his own fine lines to Cave: " Non uUa Musis pa^^a gratior, Quam quae sever is ludicra jungere Novit, fatigatamque nugis Utilibus recreate mentem." Lady Mary said in her smart way that the "Rambler" followed the "Spectator" as "a packhorse would do a hunter " ; but slow-paced and lumbering as it is, no one can fail to recog- nize the frequent majesty of the periods and the uniform vigor of the thought. In the twenty- nine papers which Johnson wrote for Hawkes- worth's " Adventurer," the " Rambler" style is maintained. In the "Idler," however, which * " Covent Garden Journal," Kos. 10 and 33. INTRODUCTION. 15 belongs to a later date, when its author's mind was unclouded, and he was comparatively free from the daily pressure of necessity, he adopts a simpler and less polysyllabic style. It is true that he still speaks of the changes of the ba- rometer as " the fallacious promises ... of the oraculous glasses " ; but his themes are less didactic, and, in an unwieldy fashion, almost playful. To select positively humorous exam- ples from his papers would, notwithstanding, be a difficult task. Compared with the somewhat similar productions of earlier essayists,* the oft-praised "Journey in a Stage-Coach" of the " Adventurer " is poor; but his large knowledge of literature and literary life gives point to the portrait of that inimitably commonplace critic " Dick Minim," though even here Addison has anticipated him with "Sir Timothy Tittle. "f " Dick Minim " appears to have suggested three letters from Reynolds, the first of which, on " Art-Connoisseurs," we have been tempted to reproduce. Neither Langton nor Thomas War- ton, both of whom gave some assistance in the " Idler," supplied anything of moi'e importance than this thoughtful, if not very satirical, paper by Sir Joshua. As already stated, Johnson was only a con- tributor to the " Adventurer," 1752, the editor and chief writer of which was Dr. Hawkesworth of " Cook's Voyages," who was aided by Bath- urst, the physician, and Joseph Warton, " Jack Hawkesworth," said Johnson, " is one of my imitators." His strength lay chiefly in the old- fashioned oriental tale, and his social efforts are not very remarkable. In the " Gradation from a Greenhorn to a Blood," % there is some useful costume; and there are ludicrous passages in * €. g., " Spectator," No. 132. t " Tatler," No. 165. t " Adventurer," No. 100. 16 INTRODUCTION. the " Distresses of an Author invited to read his Play," * where, by the way, the writer vindi- cates his claim to be reckoned a follower of " the great Lexicographer," by speaking of a chance addition to his wig as " the pendulous reproach to the honors of my head" ; but it woidd not be possible to admit these two papers, as well as some others in the "Adventurer," into any modern collection, without what, when they were \yritten, would have been styled " judicious castigation." For our present purpose, there- fore, we have borrowed nothing from Hawkes- worth and his colleagues. With the exception of Goldsmith's " Chinese Letters " in the " Public Ledger," the most note- worthy of the remaining Essayists are the " World," 1753-6, and the " Connoisseur," 1754-6. The editor of the former was Edward Moore, author of some once-popular " Fables for the Female Sex." With the assistance of Fielding's friend, Lyttelton, his list of contributors was swelled by a number of aristocratic amateurs, such as Chesterfield, Horace Walpole, Soame Jenyns, Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Hamilton Boyle, and the "World" became, par excellence, the Eighteenth-Century journal " written by gentlemen for gentlemen," — '' the bow of Ulysses (as one of the writers put it), in which it was the fashion for men of rank and genius to try their strength." The " Connoisseur," on the other hand, was mainly the work of two friends, George Colman and Bonnel Thornton, the Erckmanu-Chatrian of their age. Whether writing separately or together, their stj'le is un- distiuguishable. They had a few assistants, the most notable of whom were Cowperthe poet, and Churchill's friend, the unfortunate Robert Lloyd. From the " Connoisseur" and the " World" we have made one or two selections. • " Adventurer," No. 52. INTB OD UCTION. 17 On the " Citizen of the World," 1760-1, there is no need to enlarge. That charm of simplicity and grace, of kindliness and gentle humor, which we recognize as Goldsmith's special prop- erty, requires no fresh description. The remain- ing Essayists of any importance may be sum- marily dismissed. From the Edinburgh " Mir- ror," 1779-80, and its sequel the " Lounger," 1785-7, one paper only has been chosen. But there are others which show that Henry Mac- kenzie, the chief writer, is something more than the watery Sterne of the " Man of Feeling " and " Julia de Roubigne," and that he had gifts as a humorist and character-painter of no mean order. From the •' Observer " of Richard Cumberland, 1785-90, a large proportion of which is made up of papers on Greek Literature, we have taken nothing. A retrospect of the Eighteenth-Century Essay- ists subsequent to the " Tatler," "Spectator," and " Guardian," only serves to confirm the supremacy of Addison and Steele. Some of their successors approached them in serious writing; others carried the lighter kinds to con- siderable perfection; but none (Goldsmith alone excepted) really rivalled them in that happy mingling of the lively and severe, which Johnson envied but could not emulate. In native purity of tone, moreover, they were far in advance of their age, and were certainly not excelled by any of those who followed them. For this reason, no less than for their general superi- ority, their work preponderates in the present volume. It is only necessary to add, that as the condi- tions under which the essays first appeared make it easy to date them accurately, the chronological order has been adopted in preference to any more elaborate arrangement. With the excep- 2 18 INTBODUCTION. tion of some retrenchments specified in the notes, and the alteration or suppression of a word now and again, the text of the best edi- tions has been scrupulously followed. AUSTIN DOBSOK. Tatleb.] N"o. 1. [Steelk, MR. BICKEESTAFF VISITS A FRIEND. Interea dnlces pendent circum oscula nati : Casta pudicitiam servat domas. . . . Virg. There are several persons who have many pleasures and entertainments in their posses- sion which they do not enjoy. It is therefore a kind and good ofBce to acquaint them with their own happiness, and turn their attention to such instances of their good fortune which they are apt to overlook. Persons in the married state often want such a monitor, and pine away their days, by looking upon the same condition in anguish and murmur, which carries with it in the opinion of others a com- plication of all the pleasures of life, and a retreat from its inquietudes. I am led into this thought by a visit I made an old friend, who was formerly my school- fellow. He came to town last week with his family for the winter, and yesterday morning sent me word his wife expected me to dinner. I am as it were at home at that house, and every member of it knows me for their well- wisher. I cannot, indeed, express the pleas- ure it is, to be met by the children with so much joy as I am when I go thither : the boys and girls strive who shall come first, when they think it is I that am knocking at the 20 MR. BICKEBSTAFF door ; and that child which loses the race to me, runs back again to tell the father it is Mr. Bickerstafl. This day I was led in by a pretty girl, that we all thought must have forgot me, for the family has been out of town these two years. Her knowing me again was a mighty subject with us, and took up our discourse at the first entrance. After which, they began to rally me upon a thousand little stories they heard in the country about ray marriage to one of ray neighbor's daughters : upon which the gentleman, my friend, said, " Nay, if Mr. Bickerstaff marries a child of any of his old companions, I hope mine shall have the preference. There is Mrs. Mary is now sixteen, and would make him as fine a widow as the best of them : but I know him too well ; he is so enamoured with the very memory of those who flourished in our youth, that he will not so much as look upon the modern beauties. 1 remember, old gentle- man, how often you went home in a day to refresh your countenance and dress, when Teraminta reigned in your heart. As we came up in the coach, I repeated to my wife some of your verses on her." With such re- flections on little passages which happened long ago, we passed our time during a cheerful and elegant meal. After dinner, his lady left the room, as did also the children. As soon as we were alone, he took me by the hand — "Well, my good friend," says he, "I am heartily glad to see thee ; I was afraid you would never have seen all the company that VISITS A FBIEND. 21 dined with you to-day again. Do not you think the good woman of the house a little altered, since you followed her from the playhouse, to find out who she was for me?'' I perceived a tear fall down his cheek as he spoke, which moved me not a little. But to turn the dis- course, said I, " She is not, indeed, quite that creature she was when she returned me the letter I carried from you ; and told me she~ hoped, as I was a gentleman, I would be employed no more to trouble her, who had never of- fended me ; but would be so much the gentle- man's friend as to dissuade him from a pursuit which he could never succeed in. You may remember, I thought her in earnest, and you were forced to employ your cousin "Will, who made his sister get acquainted with her for you. You cannot expect her to be forever fif- teen." — " Fifteen ! " replied my good friend. " Ah ! you little understand, you that have lived a bachelor, how great, how exquisite a pleasure there is in being really beloved ! It is impos- sible that the most beauteous face in nature should raise in me such plasing ideas, as when I look upon that excellent woman. That fading in her countenance is chiefly caused by her watching with me in my fever. This was followed by a fit of sickness, which had like to have carried her off last winter. I tell you sincerely, I have so miny obliga- tions to her, that I cannot with any sort of moderation think of her present state of health. But as to what you say of fifteen, she gives me every day pleasures beyond 22 MB. BICKERSTAFF what I ever knew in the possession of her beauty, when I was in the vigor of youth. Every moment of her life brings me fresh instances of her complacency to ray inclina- tions, and her prudence in regard to my fortune. Her face is to me much more beau- tiful than when I first saw it ; there is no decay in any feature which I cannot trace from the very instant it was occasioned by some anxious concern for my welfare and interests. Thus at the same time, methinks, the love I conceived towards her, for what she was, is heightened by my gratitude for what she is. The love of a wife is as much above the idle passion commonly called by that name, as the loud laughter of buffoons is inferior to the elegant mirth of gentlemen. Oh ! she is an inestimable jewel. In her examination of her household affairs, she shews a certain fearfulness to find a fault, which makes her servants obey her like chil- dren ; and the meanest we have has an ingen- uous shame for an offence, not always to be seen in children in other families. I speak freely to you, my old friend ; ever since her sickness, things that gave me the quickest joy before, turn now to a certain anxiety. As the children play in the next room, 1 know the poor things by their steps, and am considering what they must do, should they lose their mother in their tender years. The pleasure I used to take in telling ray boy stories of the battles, and asking my gii'l questions about the disposal of her baby, and the go->sipiug of it, VISITS A FBIEND, 23 is turned into inward reflection and melan- choly." He would have gone on in this tender way, when the good lady entered, and with an in- expressible sweetness in her countenance told us she had been searching her closet for some- thing very good, to treat such an old friend as I was. Her husband's eyes sparkled with pleasure at the cheerfulness of her counte- nance ; and I saw all his fears vanish in an in- stant. The lady observing something in our looks which shewed we had been more serious than ordinary, and seeing her husband rec^ ive her with great concern under a forced cheer- fulness, immediately guessed at what we had been talking of ; and applying herself to me, said with a smile, ''Mr. Bickerstaff, do not believe a word of what he tells you, I shall still live to have you for my second, as I have often prom sed you, unless he takes more care of himself than he has done since his coming to town. You must know, he tells me, that he finds London is a much more healthy place than the country ; for he sees several of his old acquaintance and school-f ellaws are here young fellows with fair full-bottomed periwigs. I could scarce keep him this morning from going out open- breasted." My friend, who is al- ways extremely delighted with her agreeable humor, made her sit down with us. She did it with that easiness which is peculiar to women of sense ; and to keep up the good- humor she had brought in with her, turned her raillery upon me : " Mr. Bickerstaff, you 24 MB. BICKERSTAFF remember you followed me one night from the playhouse ; supposing you should carry me thither to-morrow night, and lead me into the fronL-box." This put us into a long field of discourse about the beauties, who were mothers to the present, and shined in the boxes twenty years ago. I told her I was glad she had transferred so many of her charms, and I did not question but her eldest daughter was within half a year of being a toast. We were pleasing ourselves with this fan- tastical preferment of the J'oung lady, when on a sudden we were alarmed with the noise of a drum, and immediately entered my little god- son to give me a point of war. His mother, between laughing and chiding, would have put him out of tlie room ; but I would not part with him so. I found, upon conversation with him, though he was a little noisy in his mirth, that the child had excellent parts, and was a great master of all the learning on the other side eight years old. I perceived him a very great historian in ^sop's Fables : but he frankly declared to me his mind, that he did not de- light in that learning, because he did not be- lieve they were true ; for which reason I found he had very much turned his studies for about a twelvemonth past, into the lives and adven- tures of Don Belianis of Greece, Guy of War- wick, the Seven Champions, and other histo- rians of that age. I could not but observe the satisfaction the fathei* took in the forwardness of his son ; and that these diversions might turn to some profit, I found the boy had made VISITS A FBIEND. 25 remarks, which might bo of service to him dur- ing the course of his whole life. He would tell you the mismanagements of John Hickathrift, find fault with the passionate temper in Be^as of Southampton, and love Saint George for being the champion of England ; and by this means, had his thoughts insensibly moulded into the notions of discretion, virtue, and honor. I was extolling his accomplishments, when the mother told me, that the little girl who led me in this morning was in her way a better scholar than he : " Betty," says she, " deals chiefly in fairies and sprites ; and sometimes in a winter night, will terrify the maids with her accounts, till they are afraid to go up to bed." I sat with them till it was very late, some- times in merry, sometimes in serious discourse with this particular pleasure, which gives the only true relish to all conversation, a sense that ever}' one of us liked each other. I went home, considering the different conditions of a married life and that of a bachelor ; and I must confess it struck me with a secret con- cern, to reflect, that whenever I go off, I shall leave no traces behind me. In this pensive mood I returned to my family ; that is to say, to my maid, my dog, and my cat, who only can be the better or worse for what happens to me. Nov. 17, 1709. Tatleb.J No. S. [Stbelb. MR. BICKERSTArr YISITS A TEIEND. (Continved.) Ut in vita, sic in studiis, pulcherrimum et huraanissimum ex- istimo, severitatein coniitatemquo miscere, ne ilia in tristitiani, lisec in petulantiam procedat. — flin. I WAS walking about my chamber this morn- ing in a very gay humor, when I saw a coach stop at my door, and a youth about fifteen alighting out of it, whom I perceived to be the eldest son of my bosom friend, that I gave some account of in my paper of the sev- enteenth of the last month. 1 felt a sensible pleasure rising in me at the sight of him, my acquaintance having begun with his father when he was just such a stripling, and about that very age. When he came up to me, he took me by the hand, and burst out in tears. I was extremely moved, and immediately said, "Child, how does your father do?" He began to reply, "My mother " but could not go on for weeping. I went down with him into the coach, and gathered out of him, that his mother was then dying, and that while the holy man was doing his last offices to her, he had taicen that time to come and call me to his father who (he said) would cer- tainly break his heart if I did not go and com- fort him. The child's discretion in coming to me of his own head, an! the tenderness he ME. BICKEBSTAFF VISITS A FRIEND. 27 shewed for his parents, would have quite over- powered me, had I not resolve r these twenty years ; and upon all occasions winked upon his nephew to mind what passed. This may suffice to give the world a taste of our innocent conversation, which we spun out until about ten of the clock, when my maid came with a lanthorn to light me home. I could not but reflect with myself, as I was going out, upon the talkative humor of old men, and the little figure which that part of life makes in one who cannot employ his natural propensity in discourses which would make him venerable. I must own, it makes me very melancholy in company, when 1 hear a young man begin a story ; and have often observed, that one of a quarter of an hour long in a man of five-and-twenty gathers cir- cumstances every time he tells it, until it grows into a long Canterbury tale of two hours by that time he is threescore. The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old age is, to lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge and observa- tions, as may make us useful and agreeable in our declining years. The mind of man in a THE TBUMPET CLUB. 87 long life will become a magazine of wisdom or folly, and will consequently discharge itself in something impertinent or improving. For which reason, as there is nothing more ridicu- lous than an old trifling storj'-teller, so there is nothing more venerable, than one who has turned his experience to the entertainment and advantage of mankind. In short, we, who are in the last stage of life, and are apt to indulge ourselves in talk, ought to consider, if what we speak be worth being heard, and endeavor to make our dis- course like that of Nestor, which Homer com- pares to the flowing of honey for its sweetness. I am afraid I shall be thought guilty of this excess I am speaking of, when I cannot con- clude without observing, that Milton certainly thought of this passage in Homer, when in his description of an eloquent spirit, he says, " His tongue dropped manna." Feb. 11, 1710. Tatlkb.] TTo. 4. [Addison. THE POLITICAL UPIOLSTERER. . . . aliena negotia curat, EzcussuB propriiB. nor. There lived some years since within my neighborhood a very grave person, an Uphol- sterer, who seemed a man of more than ordi- nary application to business. He was a very earlj' riser, and was often abrond two or three hours before any of his neighbors. He had a particular carefulness in the knitting of his brows, and a kind of impatience in all his motions, that plainh' discovered he was al- waj's intent on matters of importance. Upon my enquiry into his life and conversation, I found him to be the greatest newsmonger in our quarter ; that he rose before day to read the Postman ; and that he would take two or three turns to the other end of the town before his neighbors were up, to see if there were any Dutch mails come in. He had a wife and several children ; but was much more inquisitive to know what passed in Poland than in his own family, and was in greater pain and anxiety of mind for King Augustus's welfare than that of his nearest relations. He looked extremely thin in a dearth of news, and never enjoyed himself in a westerly wind. This indefatigable kind of THE POLITICAL UPHOLSTEBER. 39 life wns the ruin of his shop ; for about the time that his favorite prince left the crown of Poland, he broke and disappeared. This man and his affairs had been long out of ray mind, till about three days ago, as I was walking in St. James's Park, I heard some- body at a distance hemming after me : and who should it be but my old neighbor the Upholsterer? I saw he was reduced to ex- treme poverty, by certain shabby superfluities in his dress : for notwithstanding that it was a very sultry day for the time of the year, he wore a loose great-coat and a muff, with a long campaign wig out of curl ; to which he had added the ornament of a pair of black garters buckled under the knee. Upon his coming up to me, I was going to enquire into his present circumstances ; but was prevented by his ask- ing me, with a whisper, Whether the last letters brought any accounts that one might rely upon from Bender? I told him, None that I heard of ; and asked him whether he had jet married his eldest daughter ? He told me, No. "But pray," says he, "tell me sincerelj', what are your thoughts of the King of Sweden ? " For though his wife and chil- dren were starving, I found his chief concern at present was for this great monarch. I told him, that I looked upon him as one of the first heroes of the age. " But pray," says he, " do you think there is anything in the story of his wound?" And finding me surprised at the question — "Nay," says he, " I only propose it to you." I answered, that I thought there 40 THE POLITICAL UPHOLSTEBEB. was no reason to doubt of it. " But why in the heel," says he, " more than any other part of the body?" — "Because," said I, "the bullet chanced to light there." This extraordinary dialogue was no sooner ended, but he began to launch out into a long dissertation upon the affairs of the North ; and after having spent some time on them, he told me he was in great perplexity how to reconcile the Supplement with the English Post, and had been just now examining what the other papers say upon the same subject, "The Daily Courant," says he, "has these words: ' We have advices from very good hands, that a certain prince has some matters of great im- portance under consideration.' This is very mysterious ; but the Post-boy leaves us more in the dark, for he tells us ' That there are private intimations of measures taken by a certain prince, which time will bring to light.' Now the Postman," says he, " who uses to be very clear, refers to the same news in these words : ' The late conduct of a certain prince affords great matter of speculation.' This certain prince," says the Upholsterer, " whom they are all so cautious of naming, I take to be ." Upon which, though there was nobody near us, he whispered something in my ear, which I did not hear, or tliink worth my while to make him repeat. We were now got to the upper end of the mall, where were three or four very odd fel- lows sitting together upon the bench. These I found were all of them politicians, who used THE POLITICAL UPHOLSTEBER. 41 to sun themselves in that place every day about dinner-time. Observing them to be curiosities in their kind, and my friend's ac- quaintance, I sat down among them. The chief poliiician of the bench was a great asserter of paradoxes. He told us, with a seeming concern. That by some news he had lately read from Muscovy, it appeared to him that there was a storm gathering- in the Black Sea, which might in time do hurt to the naval forces of this nation. To this he added, That for his part, he could not wish to see the Turk driven out of Europe, which he believed could not but be prejudicial to our woollen manufac- ture. He then told us, that he looked upon those extraordinary revolutions which had lately happened in those parts of the world, to have risen chiefly from two persons who were not much talked of ; "And those," says he, " are Prince Menzikoflf, and the Duchess of Mii'andola." He backed his assertions with so many broken hints, and such a show of depth and wisdom, that we gave ourselves up to his opinions. The discourse at length fell upon a point which seldom escapes a knot of true-born Englishmen, Whether, in case of a religious war, the Protestants would not be too strong for the Papists ? This we unanimously deter- mined on the Protestant side. One who sat on my right hand, and, as I found by his dis- course, had been in the West Indies, assured us that it would be a very easy matter for the Protestants to beat the Pope at sea ; and 42 THE POLITICAL UPHOLSTEBEB. added, that whenever such a war does break out, it must turn to tlie good of the Leeward Islands. Upon this, one who sat at the end of the bench, and as I afterwai'ds found, was the geographer of the company', said, that in case the Papists should drive the Protestants from these parts of Europe, when the worst came to the worst, it would be impossible to beat them out of Norway and Greenland, pro- vided the Northern crowns hold together, and the Czar of Muscovy stand neuter. He further told us, for our comfort, that there were vast tracts of land about the Pole, inhabited neither by Protestants nor Papists, and of greater extent than all the Roman Catholic dominions in Europe. When we had fully discussed this point, my friend the Upholsterer began to exert himself upon the present negotiations of peace ; in which he deposed princes, settled the bounds of kingdoms, and balanced the power of Europe, with great justice and impartiality. I at length took my leave of the company, and was going away ; but had not gone thirty yards, before the Upholsterer hemmed again after me. Upon his advancing towards me, with a whisper, I expected to hear some secret piece of news, which he had not thought fit to communicate to the bench ; but instead of that, he desired me in my ear to lend him half a crown. In compassion to so needy a states- man, and to dissipate the confusion I found he was in, I told him, if he pleased. I would give him five shillings, to receive five pounds of THE POLITICAL UPHOLSTERER. 43 him when the Great Tui-k was driven out of Constantinople ; which he very readily ac- cepted, but not before he had laid down to me the impossibility of such an event, as the affairs of Europe now stand. This paper I design for the particular bene- fit of those worthy citizens who live more in a coffee-house than in their shops, and whose thoughts are so taken up with the affairs of the Allies, that they forget their customers. April 6, 1710. Tatleb.] N^o. 5. [Addisok. TOM POLIO. Faciunt nse intelligendo, ut nihil intelligant. Ter. Tom Folio is a broker in learning, employed to get together good editions, and stock the libraries of great men. There is not a sale of books begins till Tom Folio is seen at the door. There is not an auction where his name is not heard, and that too in the very nick of time, in the critical moment, before the last decisive stroke of the hammer. There is not a sub- scription goes forward, in which Tom is not privy to the first rough draught of the propo- sals ; nor a catalogue printed, that doth not come to him wet from the press. He is an universal scholar, so far as the title-page of all authors, knows the manuscripts in which, they were discovered, the editions through which they have passed, with the praises or censures which they have received from the several members of the learned world. He has a greater esteem for Aldus and Elzevir, than for Virgil and Horace. If you talk of Herodotus, he breaks out into a panegyric upon Harry Stephens. He thinks he gives you an account of an author when he tells you the subject he treats of, the name of the editor, and the year in which it was printed. Or if TOM FOLIO. 45 you draw him into further particulars, he cries up the goodness of the paper, extols the dili- gence of the corrector, and is transported with the beauty of the letter. This he looks upon to be sound learning and substantial criticism. As for those who talk of the fineness of style, and the justness of thought, or describe the brightness of any particular passages ; nay, though they themselves write in the genius and spirit of the author they admire, Tom looks upon them as men of superficial learning, and flashy parts. I had yesterday morning a visit from this learned idiot (for that is the light in which I consider every pedant) ; when I discovered in him some little touches of the coxcomb, which I had not before observed. Being very full of the figure which he makes in the republic of letters, and wonderfully satisfied with his great stock of knowledge, he gave me broad intima- tions, that he did not believe in all points as his forefathers had done. He then communi- cated to me a thought of a certain author upon a passage of Virgil's account of the dead, which 1 made the subject of a late paper. This thought hath taken very much among men of Tom's pitch and understanding, though universally exploded by all that know how to construe Virgil, or liave any reUsh of an- tiquity. Not to trouble my reader with it, I found upon the whole, that Tom did not be- lieve a future state of rewards and punish- ments, because ^ueas, at his leaving the em- pire of the dead, passed thi'ough the Gate of 46 TOM FOLIO. Ivory, and not through that of Horn. Know- ing that Tom had not sense enough to give up an opinion which he had once received, that he might avoid wrangUng, I told him, that Virgil possibly had his oversights as well as another author. "Ah! Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, "you would have another opinion of him, if you would read him in Daniel Heinsius's edi- tion. I have perused him myself several times in that edition," continued he; "and after the strictest and most malicious examination, could find but two faults in him ; one of them is in the ^neids, where there are two commas instead of a parenthesis ; and another in the third Georgic, where you may find a semicolon turned upside down." — "Perhaps," said I, " these were not Virgil's faults, but those of the transcriber," — " I do not design it." says Tom, " as a reflection on Virgil : on the con- trary, I know that all the manuscripts reclaim against such a punctuation. Oh ! Mr. Bicker- staff," says he, " what would a man give to see one simile of Virgil writ in his own hand !" I asked him which was the simile he meant ; but was answered, " Any simile in Virgil." He then told me all the secret history in the conunonwealth of learning ; of modern pieces that had the names of ancient authors an- nexed to them ; of all the books that were now writing or printing in the several parts of Europe ; of many amendments which are made, and not yet published ; and a thousand other particulars, which I would not have my memory burdened with for a Vatican. TOM FOLIO. 47 At length, being fully persuaded that I thoroughly admired him, and looked upon him as a prodigy of learning, he took his leave. I know several of Tom's class who are professed admirers of Tasso, without understanding a word of Italian ; and one in particular, that carries a Pastor Fido in his pocket, in which I am sure he is acquainted with no other beauty but the clearness of the character. There is another kind of pedant, who with all Tom Folio's impertinences, hath greater superstructures and embellishments of Greek and Latin ; and is still more insupportable than the other, in the same degree as he is more learned. Of this kind very often are editors, commentators, interpreters, scholiasts, and critics; and, in short, all men of deep learn- ing without common sense. These persons set a greater value on themselves for hav- ing found out the meaning of a passage in Greek, than upon the author for having written it ; nay, will allow the passage it- self not to have any beauty in it, at the same time that they would be considered as the greatest men of the age, for having in- terpreted it. They will look with contempt on the most beautiful poems that have been com- posed by any of their contemporaries ; but will lock themselves up in their studies for a twelvemonth together, to correct, publish, and expound such trifles of antiquity as a modern author would be contemned for. Men of the strictest morals, severest lives, and the gravest professions, will write volumes upon an idle 48 TOM FOLIO. sonnet, that is originally in Greek or Latin ; give editions of the most immoral authors ; and spin out whole pages upon the various readings of a lewd expression. All that can be said in excuse for them is, That their works sufficiently shew they have no taste of their authors ; and tliat what they do in this kind is out of their great learning, and not out of any levity or lasciviousness of temper. A pedant of this nature is wonderfully well described in six lines of Boileau, with which I shall conclude his character : XJn pedant enyvr^ de sa vaine science, Tout herisse de Grec, tout bouffi d'arrogance, Et qui de mille auteurs retenus mot par mot, Dans sa tete entassez n'a souvent fait qu'un sot, Oroit qu'iui livre fait tout, et que sans Aristote La raison ne voit goutte, et le boa sens radote. April 13, 1710. Tatler.] No. Q. [Addison. NED SOFTLY THE POET. Idem inficeto est inficetior rure, Simul poemata attigit; neque idem uaquam jlSque est beatus, ac poeina quum scribit: Tarn gaudct iu ee, tamqiie se ipse miratiir. Nimirum idem oranes lalliraur; neque est quisquam Quem non in aliqua re videre Suffenuni Possis. . . . Catul. I YESTERDAY Came hither about two hours before the company generally make their ap- pearance, with a design to read over all the newspapers ; but upon my sitting down, I was accosted by Ned Softly, who saw me from a corner in the other end of the room, where I found he had been writing something. " Mr. Bickerstaft'," says he, " I observe by a late paper of yours, that you and I are just of a humor ; for you must know, of all imperti- nences, there is nothing which I so much hate as news. I never read a gazette in my life ; and never trouble my head about our armies, whether they win or lose ; or in what part of the world they I'e encamped." Without giv- ing me time to reply, he drew a paper of verses out of his pocket, telling me, That he had something which would entertain me more agreeably ; and that he would desire my judg- ment upon every line, for that we had time enough before us until the company came in. 4 50 NED SOFTLY THE POET. Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a great admirer of easy lines. Waller is his favorite ; and as that admirable writer has the best and worst verses of any among our great English poets, Ned Softly has got all the bad ones without book ; which he repeats upon occasion, to shew his reading, and g irnish his conversation. Ned is indeed a true English reader, incapable of relishing the great and masterly strokes of this art ; but wonderfully pleased with the little Gothic ornaments of epigrammatical conceits, turns, points, and quibbles, which are so frequent in the most admired of our English poets, and practised by those who want genius and strength to represent, after the manner of the ancients, simplicity in its natural beauty and perfection. Finding myself unavoidably engaged in such a conversation, I was resolved to turn my pain into a pleasure, and to divert myself as well as I could with so very odd a fellow. " You must understand," says Ned, "that the son- net I am going to read to you was written upon a lady who shewed me some verses of her own making, and is, perhaps, the best poet of our age. But you shall hear it." Upon which he began to read as follows : TO MIBA, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS. "When dress' d in laurel wreaths you shine, And tuue your soft melodious notes, You seem a sister of the Nine, Or Phoebas' self in petticoats. WSD SOFTLY THE POET. 61 I fancy, when your song you sing (Your song you sing with so much art), Your pen was pluck 'a from Cupid's wing; For, ah ! it wounds me lilce his dart. " Why," says I, " this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of salt : every verse hath something in it that piques ; and then the Dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram (for so 1 think your critics call it) as ever entered into the thought of a poet." — "Dear Mr. Bicker- staff," says he, shaking me by the hand, " everybody knows you to be a judge of these things ; and to tell you truly, I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry three several times, before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have shewn you. But you shall hear it again, and pray observe every line of it, for not one of them shall pass with- out your approbation. "When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine. "This is," says he, " when you have your garland on ; when you are writing verses." To which I replied, " I know your meaning : A metaphor!" — "The same," said he, and went on. And tune your soft melodious notes. "Pray observe the gliding of that verse; there is scarce a consonant in it : I took care to make it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion of it." — " Truly," said I, " I think 52 NED SOFTLY THE POET. it as good as the former." — " I am very glad to hear you say so," says he ; " but mind the next: You seem a sister of the Nine. " That is," says he, " you seem a sister of the Muses ; for, if you look into ancient authors, you will find it was then* opiuion, that there were nine of them." — " I remember it very well," said I: " but pray proceed." Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. "Phoebus," says he, "was the god of po- etry. These little instances, Mr. Bickerstafif, shew a gentleman's reading. Then to take off from the air of learning, which Phoebus and the Muses have given to this first stanza, you may observe how it falls, all of a sudden, into the familiar — ' in petticoats.' " Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. *' Let us now," says I, " enter upon the second stanza ; I find the first line is still a continuation of the metaphor. I fancy, when your song you sing." "It is very right," saj's he ; " but pray observe the turn of words in those two lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still a doubt upon me whether, in the second line it should be, ' Your soug you sing,' or, ' You sing your song.' You shall hear them both : — or, NED SOFTLY THE POET. 53 I fancy, when your song you sing (Your song you sing with so much art) ; I fnncy when your song you sing (You sing your song with so much art)." " Truly," said I, "the turn is so natural either way, that you have made me almost giddy with it." — " Dear sir," said he, grasping me by t!.e hand, "you have a great deal of pa- tience ; but pray what do you think of the next verse ? — Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing." " Think ! " says I ; "I think you have made Cupid look like a little goose." — " That was my meaning," says he : "I think the ridicule is well enough hit off. But we come now to the last, which sums up the whole matter. For, ah ! it wounds me like his dart. " Pray how do you like that ah f doth it not make a pretty figure in that place? Ah I — it looks as if he felt the dart, and cried out at being pricked with it. For, ah ! it wounds me like his dart. " My friend, Dick Easy," continued he, " assured me he would rather have written that ah ! than to have been the author of the jfEneid. He indeed objected, that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines, and like a dart in the other. But as to that — " " Oh ! as to that," says I, " it is but supposing 54 NED SOFTLY THE POET. Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his quills and darts will be the same thing." He was going to embrace me for the hint ; but half a dozen critics coming into the room, whose faces he did not like, he conveyed the sonnet into his pocket, and whispered me in the ear, he would shew it me again as soon as his man had written it over fair. Apeil 25, 1710. Tatleb.] - KTo. 7. [Stebli. EECOLLECTIONS Of CHILDHOOD. . . . Pies, ni fallor, adest, quem semper acerbum, Semper honoratum, sic dii voluistis, nabebo. Virff. There are those among mankind, who can enjoy no relish of their being, except the world is made acquainted with all that relates to them, and think everything lost that passes unobserved ; but others find a solid delight in stealing by the crowd, and modelling their life after such a manner, as is as much above the approbation as the practice of the vulgar. Life being too short to give instances great enough of true friendship or good-will, some sages have thought it pious to preserve a cer- tain reverence for the Manes of their deceased ftiends ; and have withdrawn themselves from tlie rest of the world at certain seasons, to commemorate in their own thoughts such of their acquaintance who have gone before them out of this life ; and indeed, when we are advanced in years, there is not a more pleas- ing entertainment, than to recollect in a gloomy moment the many we h:ive parted with, that have been dear and agreeable to us, and to cast a melancholy thought or two after those, with whom, perhaps, we have indulged ourselves in whole nights of mirth and jollity. 56 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. With such inclinations in my heart I went to my closet yesterday in the evening, and resolved to be sorrowful ; upon which occa- sion I could not but look with disdain upon myself, that though all the reasons -which I had to lament the loss of many of my friends are now as forcible as at. the moment of their departure, yet did not my heart swell with the same sorrow which I felt at the time ; but I could, without tears, reflect upon many pleas- ing adventures I have had with some, who have long been blended with common earth. Though it is by the benefit of Nature that length of time thus blots out the violence of afflictions ; yet with tempers too much given to pleasure, it is almost necessary to revive the old places of grief in our memory ; and ponder step by step on past life, to lead the mind into that sobriety of thought which poises the heart, and makes it beat with due time, without being quickened with desire, or retarded with despair, from its proper and equal motion. When we wind up a clock that is out of order, to make it go well for the future, we do not immediately set the hand to the present instant, but we make it strike the round of all its hours, before it can recover the regularity of its time. Such, thought I, shall be my method this evening ; and since it is thit day of the year which I dedicate to the memory of such in another life as I much delighted in when living, an hour or two shall be sacred to sorrow and their memory, while I run over all the melancholy circumstances of RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 57 this kind which have occurred to me in my whole life. v The first sense of sorrow I ever knew was upon the death of my father, at which time I was not quite five years of age ; but was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than pos- sessed with a real understanding why nobody was willing to play with me. I remember I went into ihe room where his body lay, and my mother sat weeping alone ])y it. I had my battledoor in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling Papa ; for, I know not how, I had some slight idea that he was locked up there. My mother catched me in her arms, and, transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she was before in, she almost smothered me in her embrace ; and told me in a flood of tears, Papa could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they were going to put him underground, where he could never come to us again. She was a very beau- tiful woman, of a noble spirit, and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness of her transport; which, methought, struck me with an instinct of sorrow, that befo: e I was sensible of what it was to grieve, seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of my heart ever since. The mind in infancy is, methinks, like the body in embryo ; and receives impressions so forcible, that they are as hard to be removed by reason, as any mark, with which a child is born, is to be taken away by any future application. Hence it is, that good- nature in me is no merit ; but having been so 68 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. frequently overwhelmed with her tears before I knew the cause of any affliction, or could draw defences from my own judgment, I im- bibed commiseration, remorse, and an unmanly gentleness of mind, which has since ensnared me into ten thousand calamities ; and from whence I can reap no advantage, except it be, that, in such a humor as I am now in, I can the better indulge myself in the softnesses of humanity, and enjoy that sweet anxiety that arises from the memory of past afflictions. We, that are very old, are better able to remember things which befell us in our distant youth, than the passages of later dax-s. For this reason it is, that the companions of my strong and vigorous years present themselves more immediately to me in this office of sor- row. Untimely and unhappy deaths are what we are most apt to lament ; so little are we able to make it indifferent when a thing hap- pens, though we know it must happen. Thus we groan under life, and bewail those who are relieved from it. Every object that returns to our imagination raises different passions, according to the circumstance of their depart- ure. Who can have lived in an arm}-, and in a serious hour reflect upon the many gay and agreeable men that might long have flourished in the arts of peace, and not join with the im- precations of the fatherless and widow on the tyrant to whose ambition they fell sacrifices ? But gallant men, who are cut off by the sword, move rather our veneration than our pity ; and we gather relief enough from their own con- BECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 69 tempt of death, to make it no evil, which was approached with so much cheerfulness, and attended with so much honor. But when we turn our thoughts from the great parts of life on such occasions, and instead of lamenting those who stood ready to give death to those from whom they had the fortuue to receive it ; I say, when we let our thoughts wander f lom such noble obJ3cts, and consider the havoc which is made among the tender and the inno- cent, pity enters with an unmixed softness, and possesses all our souls at once. Here (were there words to express such sentiments with proper tenderness) I should record the beaut}', innocence, and untimely death, of the first object my eyes ever beheld with love. The beauteous virgin ! How igno- rantly did she charm, how carelessly excel ! O Deatli, thou hast right to the bold, to the ambitious, to the high, and to the haughty ; but why this cruelty to the humble, to the meek, to the undiscerning, to the thoughtless? Nor age, nor business, nor distress, can erase the dear image from my imagination. In the same week, I saw her dressed for a ball, and in a shroud. How ill did the habit of Death become the pretty trifler ! I still behold the smiling earth A large train of disasters were coming on to my memory, when my ser- vant knocked at my closet door, and interrupted me with a letter, attended with a hamper of wine, of the same sort with that which is to be put to sale on Thursday next, at Garraway's Coflfee-house. Upon the receipt of it, I sent GO RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. for three of my friends. We are so intimate, that we can be company in whatever state of mind we meet, and can entertain each other without expecting always to rejoice. The wine we found to be generous and warming, but with such an heat as moved us ratlier to be cheerful than frolicsome. It revived the spirits, without firing the blood. We com- mended it until two of the clock this morning ; and having to-day met a little before dinner, we found, that though we drank two bottles a man, we had much more reason to recollect than forget what had passed the night before. June 6, 1710. Tatlbb.] N"o. 8. [Addisow. ADYENTUEES OF A SHILLING. Per varies casus, per tot discrlmiQa rernm, TendlmuB. . . . Vlrg. I WAS last night visited by a friend of mine who has an inexhaustible fund of discourse, and never fails to entertain his company with a variety of thoughts and hints that are alto- gether new and uncommon. Whether it were in complaisance to my way of living, or his real opinion, he advanced the following paradox. That it required much greater talents to fill up and become a retired life, than a life of business. Upon this occasion he rallied very agreeably the busy men of the age, who only valued themselves for being in motion, and passing through a series of trifling and insig- nificant actions. In the heat of his discourse, seeing a piece of money lying on my table — " I defy." says he, "any of these active per- sons to produce half the adventures that this twelvepenny-piece has been engaged in, were it possible for him to give us an account of his life." My friend's talk made so odd an impression upon my mind, that soon after I was abed I fell insensibly into a most unaccountable revery, that had neither moral nor design in 62 ADVENTUBES OF A SHILLINa. it, and cannot be so properly called a dream as a delirium. Methought that the Shilling that lay upon the table reared itself upon its edge, and turn- ing the face towards me, opened its mouth, and in a soft silver sound gave me the fol- lowing account of his life and adventures : " I was born," says he, " on the side of a mountain, near a little village of Peru, and made a voyage to England in an ingot, under the convoy of Sir Francis Drake. I was, soon after my arrival, taken out of my Indian habit, refined, naturalized, and put into the Biitish mode, with the face of Queen Elizabeth on one side, and the arms of the country on the other. Being thus equipped, I found in me a wonderful inclination to ramble, and visit all parts of the new world into which I was brought. The people very much favored my natural disposition, and shifted me so fast from hand to h.md, that before I was five years old, I had travelled into almost every corner of the nation. But in the beginning of my sixth year, to my unspeakable grief, I fell into the hands of a miserable old fellow, who clapped me into an iron chest, where I found five hundred more of my own quality, who lay under the same confinement. The only relief we had, was to be taken out and counted over ill the frtsh air every morning and evening. After an imprisonment of several years, we heard somebody knocking at our chest, and breaking it open with an hammer. This we found was the old man's heir, who, as his ADVENTURES OF A SHILLING. 63 father lay a-dying, was so good as to come to our release : he separated us that very day. What was the fate of my companions I know not : as for myself, I was sent to the apothe- cary's shop for a pint of sack. The apoth. cary gave me to an herb woman, the herb woman to a butcJaer, the butcher to a brewer, and the brewer to his wife, who made a present of me to a Non-conformist preacher. After this manner I made my way merrily through the world ; for, as I told you before, we Nhillings love nothing so much as travelling. I some- times fetched in a shoulder of mutton, some- times a play-book, jind often had the satis- faction to treat a Templar at a twelvepenny ordinary, or carry him with three friends to Westminster Hall. " In the midst of this pleasant progress, which I made from place to place, I was arrested by a superstitious old woman, who shut me up in a greasy purse, in pursuance of a foolish saying, that while she kept a Queen Elizabeth's Shilling about her, she should never be with- out money. I continued here a close prisoner for many months, until atlast I was exchanged for eight-and-forty farthings. " I thus rambled from pocket to pocket until the beginning of the civil wars, when, to my shame be it spoken, I was employed in raising soldiers against the king ; for being of a very tempting breadth, a sorjeant made use of me to inveigle country fellows, and list them in the service of the parliament. " As soon as he had made one man sure, 64 ADVENTURES OF A SHILLING. his way was to oblige him to take a Shilling of a more homely figure, and then practise the same trick upon another. Thus I continued doing great mischief to the Crown, until my officer chancing one morning to walk abroad earlier than ordinary, sacrificed me to his pleasures, and made use of me to seduce a milkmaid. This wench bent me, and gave me to her sweetheart, apphing more properly than she intended the usual form of — ' To my love and from my love.' This ungener- ous gallant marrying her within few daj'S after, pawned me for a dram of brandy ; and drinking me out next day, I was beaten flat with an hammer, and again set a-running. *' After many adventures, which it would be tedious to relate, I was sent to a young spend- thrift, in company with the will of his deceased father. The young fellow, who, I found, was very extravagant, gave great demonstrations of joy at the receiving the will ; but opening it, he found himself disinherited, and cut off from the possession of a fair estate by virtue of my being made a present to him. This put him into such a passion, that after having taken me in his hand, and cursed me, he squirred me away from him as far as he could fling me. I chanced to light in an unfre- quented place under a dead wall, where I lay undiscovered and useless, during the usurpa- tion of Oliver Cromwell. *' About a year after the king's return, a poor cavalier that was walking there about dinner- time, fortunately cast his eye upon me, and, ADVENTUBES OF A SHILLING. 65 to the great joy of us both, carried me to a cook's shop, where he dined upon me, and drank the king's health. When I came again into the world, I found that I had been hap- pier in my retirement than I thought, having probably by that means escaped wearing a monstrous pair of breeches. " Being now of great credit and antiquity, I was rather looked upon as a medal than an or- dinary coin ; for which reason a gamester laid hold of me and converted me to a counter, having got together some dozens of us for that use. We led a melancholy life in liis posses- sion, being busy at those hours wherein cur- rent coin is at rest, and pai taking the fate of our master ; being in a few moments valued at a crown, a pound or a sixpence, according to the situation in which the fortune of the cards placed us. I had at length the good luck to see my master break, by which means I was again sent abroad under my primitive denomi- tion of a Shilling. " I shall pass over man}' other accidents of Jess moment, and hasten to that fatal catas- trophe when I fell into the hands of an artist, who conveyed me under ground, and with an unmerciful pair of shears, cut off my titles, clipped my brims, retrenched my shape, rubbed me to ^ inmost ring ; and in short, so spoiled and pillaged me, that he did not leave me worth a groat. You may think what a confusion I was in to see myself thus curtailed and disfigured. I should have been ashamed to have shewn my head, had not all my old ac- 6 66 ADVENTUBES OF A SMILLING. quaintance been reduced to the same shameful figure, excepting some few that were punched through the belly. In the midst of this gen- eral calamity, when evirybod}' thought our mis- fortune irretrievable, and our case desperate, ■we were thrown into the furnace together, and (as it often happens with cities rising out of a fire) appeared with greater beaut}^ and lustre than we could ever boast of before. What has happened to me since this change of sex which you now see, I shall take some other opportunity to relate. In the mean time I shall only repeat two adventures ; as being very extraordinary, and neither of them having ever happened to me above once in my life. The first was, my being in a poet's pocket, who was so taken with the brightness and novelty of my appearance, that it gave occasion to the finest burlesque poem in the British language, intituled from me, ' The Splendid Shilling.' The second adventure, which I must not omit, happened to me in the year one thousand seven hundred and three, when I was given away in charity to a blind man ; but indeed this was by a mistake, the person who gave me having heedlessly thrown me into the hat among a pennyworth of farthings." Nov. 11, 1710. Tatleb.] No, Q. [ABDisoa. FEOZEN YOICES. Splendide mendax. . . . ITor. There are no books which I more delight in than in Travels, especially those that describe remote countries, and give the writer an opportunity of shewing his parts without incurring any danger of being examined or contradicted. Among all the authors of this kind, our renowned countryman, Sir John Mandeville, has distinguished himself by the copiousness of his invention, and greatness of his genius. The second to Sir John I take to have been Fei-dinand Mendez Pinto, a person of infinite adventure, and unbounded imagina- tion. One reads the voyages of these two great wits with as much astonishment as the Travels of Ulysses in Homer, or of the Red- Cross Knight in Spenser. All is enchanted ground and fairy land. I have got into my hand, by great chance, several manuscripts of these two eminent authors, which are filled with greater wonders than any of those they have communicated to the public ; and indeed, were they not so well attested, would appear altogether improbable. I am apt to think the ingenious authors did not publish them with the rest of their works, 68 FBOZEN VOICES. lest they should pass for fictions and fables : a caution not unnecessary, when the reputa- tion of their veracity was not yet established in the world. But as this reason has now no further weight, I shall make the public a pres- ent of these curious pieces at such times as I shall find myself unprovided with other sub- jects. The present paper I intend to fill with an extract of Sir John's Journal, in which that learned and worthy knight gives an account of the freezing and thawing of several short speeches, which he made in the territories of Nova Zembla. I need not inform my reader, that the author of Hudibras alludes to this strange quality in that cold climate, when, speaking of abstracted notions clothed in a visible shape, he adds that apt simile — Like words congeal'd in northern air. Not to keep my reader any longer in sus- pense, the relation, put into modern language, is as follows : "We were separated by a storm in the lati- tude of 73°, iusomuch that only the ship which I was in, with a Dutch and French ves- sel, got safe into a creek of Nova Zembla. We landed in order to refit our vessels, and store ourselves with provisions. The crew of each vessel made themselves a cabin of turf and wood, at some distance from each other, to fence themselves against the inclemencies of the weather, which was severe beyond imagination. We soon observed, that in talk- FROZEN VOICES. 69 ing to one another we lost several of our words, and could not hear one another at above two yards' distance, and that too when we sat very near the fire. After much per- plexity, I found that our words froze in the air, before they could reach the ears of the persons to whom they were spoken. I was soon confirmed in the conjecture, when, upon the increase of the cold, the whole company grew dumb, or rather deaf ; for every man was sensible, as we afterwards found, that he spoke as well as ever ; but the sounds no sooner took air, than they were condensed and lost. It was now a miserable spectacle to see us nodding and gapiug at one another, every man talking, and no man heard. One might observe a seaman, that could hail a ship at a league's distance, beckoning with his hands, straining his lungs, and tearing his throat ; but all in vain. . . . Nee vox, nee verba, sequuntur. " We continued here three weeks in this dis- mal plight. At length, upon a turn of wind, the air about us began to thaw. Our cabin was immediately filled with a dry clattering sound, which I afterwards found to be the crackling of consonants that broke above our heads, and were often mixed with a gentle hissing, which I imputed to the letter S, that occurs so frequently in the English tongue. I soon after felt a breeze of whispers rushing by my ear ; for those being of a soft and gentle substance, immediately liquefied in 70 FBOZEN VOICES. the warm wind that blew across our cabin. These were soon followed by syllables and short words, and at length by entire sen- tences, that melted sooner or later as they were more or less congealed ; so that we now heard everything that had been spoken during the whole three weeks that we had been site7it, if I may use that expression. It was now very early in the morning, and yet to my sur- prise, I heard somebody say, ' Sir John, it is midnight and time for the ship's crew to go to bed.' This I knew to be the pilot's voice, and upon recollecting mjself, I concluded that he had spoken these words to me some days before, though I could not hear them until the present thaw. My reader will easily imagine how the whole crew was amazed to hear every man talking and see no man open his mouth. In the midst of this great sur- prise we were all in, we heaj-d a volley of oaths and curses, lasting for a long while, and uttered in a very hoarse voice, which I knew belonged to the boatswain, who was a very choleric fellow, and had taken his oppor: unity of cursing and swearing at me when he thought I could not hear him ; for I had sev- eral times given him the strappado on that account, as I did not fail to repeat it for these his pious soliloquies, when I got him on ship- board. " I must not omit the names of several beauties in "Wapping, which were heard every now and then, in the midst of a long sigh that accompanied them ; as ' Dear Kate ! ' ' Pretty FBOZEN VOICES. 71 Mrs. Peggy ! ' ' "When shall I see my Sue again ? ' This betrayed several amours which had been concealed until that time, and fur- nished us with a great deal of mirth in our return to England. " When this confusion of voices was pretty well over, though I was afraid to offer at speaking, as fearing I should not he heard, I proposed a visit to the Dutch cabin, which lay about a mile further up into the country. My crew were extremely rejoiced to find they had again recovered their hearing ; though every man uttei*ed his voice with the same appre- hensions that I had done — Et timide verba intermissa retentat. " At about half a mile's distance from our cabin, we heard the groanings of a bear, which at first startled us ; but upon inquiry, we were informed by some of our company that he was dead, and now lay in salt, having been killed upon that very spot about a fort- night before, in the time of the frost. Not far from the same place, we were likewise entertained with some posthumous snarls and barkings of a fox. "We at length arrived at the little Dutch settlement; and upon entering the room, found it filled with sighs that smelt of brandy, and several other unsavory sounds, that were altogether inarticulate, ily valet, who was an Irishman, fell into so great a rage at what he heard, %\iQX he drew his sword ; but not knowing where to lay the blame, he put it up 72 FROZEN VOICES. again. We were stunned with these con- fused noises, but did not hear a single word until about half an hour after; which I ascribed to the harsh and obdurate sounds of that language, which wanted more time than ours to melt and become audible. " After having here met with a very hearty welcome, we went to the cabin of the French, who, to make amends for their three weeks' silence, were talking and disputing with greater rapidity and confusion than ever I heard in an assembly even of that nation. Their language, as I found, upon the first giv- ing of the weather, fell asunder and dissolved. I was here convinced of an error, into which I had before fallen ; for I fancied that, for the freezing of the sound, it was necessary for it to be wrapped up and, as it were, preserved in breath : but I found my mistake, when I heard the sound of a kit playing a minuet over our heads. I asked the occasion of it ; upon which one of the company told me, it would play there above a week longer, if the thaw continued ; ' for,' says he, ' finding our- selves bereft of speech, we prevailed upon one of the company, who had this musical instrument about him, to play to us from morning to night ; all which time we employed in dancing, in order to dissipate our chagrin, et tuer le temps.' " Here Sir John gives very good philosoph- ical reasons why the kit could not be heard during the frost ; bat as they are sometliing prolix, I pass them over in silence, and shall FROZEN VOICES. 73 only observe, thtit the honorable author seems by his quotations to have been well versea in the ancient poets, which perhaps raised his fancy above the ordinary pitch of historians, and very much contributed to the embellish- ment of his writings. Nov, 23, 1710. Spectator.] No. lO. [Addisok. STAGE IIONS. Dicmibi, si fueris tu leo, qnalis eris? Mart. There is nothing that of late years has afforded matter of greater amusement to the town than Signior Nieolini's combat with a Lion in the Haymarket, which has been very often exhibited to the general satisfaction of most of the nobility and gentry in the king- dom of Great Britain. Upon the first rumor of this intended combat, it was confidently affirmed, and is still believed by many in both galleries, that there would be a tame lion sent from the Tower every opera night, in order to be killed by Hydaspes, This report, though altogether groundless, so universally prevailed in the upper regions of the playhouse, that some of the most refined politicians in those parts of the audience gave it out in whisper, that the Lion was a cousin -gei'man of the Tiger who made his appearance in King William's days, and that the stage would be supplied with lions at the public expense during the whole session. Many likewise were the con- jectures of the treatment which this Lion was to meet with from the hands of Signior Nico- lini : some supposed that he was to subdue him in recitativo, as Orpheus used to serve the wild beasts in his time, and afterwards to knock STAGE LIONS. 75 him on the head ; some fancied that the Lion would not pretend to lay his paws upon the hero, by reason of the received opinion, that a Lion will not hurt a Virgin. Several, who pretended to have seen the opera in Italy, had informed their friends, that the Lion was to act a part in High-Dutch, and roar twice or thrice to a thorough-bass, before he fell at the feet of Hydaspes. To clear up a matter that was so variously reported, I have made it my business to examine whether this pretended Lion is really the savage he appears to be, or only a counterfeit. But before I communicate my discoveries, I must acquaint the reader, that upon my walking behind the scenes last winter, as I was think- ing on something else, I accidentally justled against a monstrous animal that extremely startled me, and, upon ray nearer survey of it, appeared to be a Lion-Rampant. The Lion, seeing me very much surprised, told me, in a gentle voice, that I might come by him if I pleased — "For," says he, "I do not intend to hurt anybody." I thanked him very kindly, and passed by him ; and m a little time after saw him leap upon the stage, and act his part with very great applause. It has been observed by several, that the Lion has changed his man- ner of acting twice or thrice since liis first ap- pearance ; which will not seem strange, when I acquaint ray reader that the Lion has been changed upon the audience three several times. The first Lion was a Candle-snuffer, who being a fellow of a testy, choleric temper, overdid 76 STAGE LIONS. his part, and would not suffer himself to be killed so easily as he ought to have done ; besides, it was observed of him, that he grew more surly every time he came out of the Lion ; and having dropt some words in ordinary con- versation, as if he had not fought his best, and that he suffered himself to be thrown upon his back in the scuffle, and that he would wrestle with Mr. Nicolini for what he pleased, out of his Lion's skin, it was thought proper to discard him ; and it is verily believed, to this day, that had he been brought upon the stage another time, he would certainly have done mischief. Besides, it was objected against the first Lion, that he reared himself so high upon his hinder paws, and walked in so erect a posture, that he looked more like an old Man than a Lion. The second Lion was a Tailor by trade, who belonged to the playhouse, and liad the char- acter of a mild and peaceable man in his pro- fession. If the former was too furious, this was too sheepish, for his part ; insomuch that, after a short modest walk upon the stage, he would fall at the first touch of Hydaspes, with- out grappling with him, and giving him an op- portunity of s'.ewing his variety of Italian trips : it is said indeed, that he once gave him a rip in his flesh-colored doublet ; but this was only to make work for himself, in his private character of a Tailor. I must not omit that it was this second Lion who treated me with so much humanity behind the scenes. The acting Lion at present is, as I am in- STAGE LIONS. 77 formed, a Country Gentleman, who does it for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. He says very handsomely iu his own excuse, that he does not act for gain ; that he indulges an innocent pleasure in it ; and that it is better to pass away an evening in t'.iis manner, than in gaming and drinking ; but at the same time says, with a very agree- able raillery upon himself, that if his name should be known, the ill-natured world might call him the Ass in the Lion's skin. This gen- tleman's temper is made of such a happy mix-, ture of the mild and the choleric, that he outdoes both his predecessors, and has drawn together greater audiences than have been known in the memory of man. I must not conclude my narrative, without taking notice of a groundless report that h is been raised, to a gentleman's disadvantage, of whom I must declare myself an admirer ; namely, that Signior Nicolini and the Lion have been sitting peaceably by one another, and smoking a pipe together, behind the scenes ; by which their common enemies would insinuate, it is but a sham combat which they represent upon the stage ; but upon enquiry I find, that if any such correspondence has passed between them, it was not till the com- bat was over, when the Lion was to be looked upon as dead, according to the received rules of the Drama. Besides this is what is prac- tised every day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is more usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have been tearing each other to 78 STAGE LIONS. pieces in the court, embracing one another as soon as they are out of it. I would not be thought, in any part of this relation, to reflect upon Signior Nicolini, who in acting this part only complies with the wretched taste of his audience ; he knows very well, that the Lion has many more admirers than him-elf ; as they say of the famous eques- trian statue on the Pont-Neuf at Paris, that more people go to see the horse, than the king who sits upon it. On the contrar}', it gives me a just indignation to see a person whose action gives new majesty to kings, res- olution to heroes, and softness to lovers, thus sinking from the greatness of his behavior, and degraded into the character of the Lon- don 'Prentice. I have often wished, that our tragedians would copy after this great master in action. Could they make the same use of their arms and legs, and inform their faces with as significant looks and passions, how glorious would an English tragedy appear with that action, which is capable (>f giving a dig- nity to the forced thoughts, cold conceits, and unnatur d expressions of an Italian opera ! In the mean time, I have related this combat of the Lion, to shew what are at present the reigning entertainments of the politer part of Great Britain. Audiences have often been reproached by writers for the coarseness of their taste ; but our present grievance does not seem to be the want of a good taste, but of common sense. Mabch 15, 1711. Spectator. J "No. XI- [Addisoh. MEDITATIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. Pallida mors cequo pulsat pede paup'erum tabernas Hegumque turres. O beate Sesti, Vitse Biimma brevis spem nos vetat inchoare longam. Jam te premet iiox, fabulieque manes, Et domus oxilis I'lutonia. . . . Bbr. ■ "When I am in a serious humor, I very oftea walk by myself in Westminster A])bey ; where tlie gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are npt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather, thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the church-yard, the clois- tei s, and the church, amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions. that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing e'se of the buried per- son, but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another : the whole history of his life being comprehended in those two circum- stances, that jire common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these registers of exist- ence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons ; who had left no other memorial of them, but that they were born and that they died. They put me in mind of several persons mentioned in the 80 MEDITATIONS IN battles of heroic poems, who have sounding names given them, for no other reason but that they may be killed, and are celebrated for nothing but being knoclced on the head. TKuivKOv re, MeSdira t«, &ept gentlemen could have no good Burgun- dies and Champagnes, for the sake of some increase of the revenue, the manufacture of glass bottles, and such sort of stuff. Sir George confirmed the same, adding, that it was sea dalous; and the whole company agreed, that the new parliament would cer- tainly repeal so absurd an act the very first session ; but if they did not, they hoped they would receive instructions lo that purpose from their constituents. '-To be sure," said the colonel, " what a rout tliey made about the repeal of the Jew Bill, for which nobod}' cared one farthing! But, by the way," continued he, " I think everybody his done eating, jtud therefore had not we better liave the dinner taken away, and the wine set upon the table?" A MODERN COyVERSATIOX. 165 To this the company gave an unanimous "Aye! " While this was doing, I asked my friend, with seeming seriousness, whether no part of the dinner was to be served up regain, when the wine should be sej; upon the t-.ible. He seemed surprised at my question, and asked me if I was hungry. To which I an- swered, " No " ; but asked him, in my turn, if he was dry. To which he also answered, " No." — " Then, pray," replied I, '• why not as well eat without being hungry, as drink without being dry?" M}' friend was so stunned with this, that he attempted no reply, but stared at me with as much astonishment as he would have done at my groat ancestor Adam in his primitive state of nature. The cloth was now taken away, and the bottles, glasses, and dish-clouts put upon the table ; when Will Sitfast, who I found was a perpetual to ist-maker, toolc the chair, of course, as the man of application to business. He began the king's health in a bumper, which circulated in the same manner, not wiihout some nice examinations of the chairman as. to day-light. The bottfe standing by me, 1 was called upon by the chairman ; who added, that though a water-drinker, he hoped I wou'd not refuse that health in wine. I begged to be excused, and told him, that I never drank his Majesty's health at all, though no one of his subjects wished it more heartily than I did. -That hitherto it had not appeared to me, that there could be the least relation between the wine I drank and the king's state of health ; 1G6 A MODEBN CONVERSATIOX. and that, till I was convinced that impairing my own health would improve his Majesty's, I was resolved to preserve the use of my faculties and my limbs,- to employ both in his service, if he could ever have occasion for them. I had foreseen the consequences of this refusal ; and though my friend had answered for my principles, I easily discovered an air of suspicion in the countenmces of t!ie company ; and I overhead the colonel whisper to Lord Feeb'e, " This author is a very old dog." My friend was ashamed of me ; but, how- ever, to help me off as well as he could, he said to me aloud, " Mr. Fitz-Adam, this is one of those singularities which j'ou have con- tracted by living so much alone." From this moment the company gave me up to my